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 (,t>v'. V^'-'^*'" :i -
 
 THE LIFE OF 
 
 WILLIAM CARLETON
 
 Frotttiiftece — Vol. I. 
 
 WHJ.IAM CAKLEION 
 
 (Age 46) 
 From the Portrait by Charles Grey, R.H.A.
 
 THE LIFE OF WILLIAM 
 CARLETON : BEING 
 
 HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND LET- 
 TERS; AND AN ACCOUNT OF HIS 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS, FROM THE 
 POINT AT WHICH THE AUTOBIO- 
 GRAPHY BREAKS OFF, BY DAVID J. 
 O'DONOGHUE. With an Introdtiction by 
 MRS. CASHEL HOEY 
 
 I 
 
 N TWO VOLUMES. WITH TWO PORTRAITS 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ]30WNEY & CO., 12, York Street, Covent 
 Garden, London. 1S96
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PKINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., 
 
 ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELt ROAD, E.C. 
 
 ^
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 ix 
 
 Preface .... 
 
 Introduction - . . . xvii 
 
 Bibliography of William Carleton's Writings . . Ivii 
 
 PART THE FIRST.— AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birthplace — McManus's misleading picture — Parentage — The 
 legends of the elder Carleton — Mrs. Carleton's songs — 
 Catholic tolerance — Removal from Prillisk — Carleton goes 
 to school — The hedge schoolmaster — State of education . i 
 
 CHAPTER II, 
 
 Mrs. Dumont's school — Jack Stuart's barn — Carleton falls in 
 love — Expulsion from school — Findramore — Pat Frayne's 
 academy at Skelgy — Pat's anecdotes — Sam Nelson's joke 
 — Pat's mode of correction — How to obtain provisions — 
 The egg trick 13 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Carleton is intended for the priesthood — Popularity of political 
 plays — Catholics and Protestants — Performance of '" The 
 Battle of Aughrim " — A panic — Orangeism — The yeo- 
 manry — A nocturnal visit — Removal to Nurchasy — Tul- 
 navert school 24 
 
 CHAPTER I\^ 
 
 The altars — No chapels — Removal to Springtown — Shoes and 
 stockings not expected — Robbing an orchard — Springs 
 and man-traps — Carleton is caught — A whimsical magis- 
 trate — A dangerous exploit ...... 36 
 
 836333
 
 vi Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fondness for nature — Another love affair — Blighted affection 
 —Anne Duffy marries— A brutal master— Retaliation — 
 The superstitions of the elder Carleton — His death . . 49 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A candidate for the priesthood— Pat McArdle's scheme — 
 Carleton takes the road as a poor scholar — His adven- 
 tures—Curious dream— Its result — Pat Fray ne's depar- 
 ture — Studying the classics 65 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Tom Jones" — "Amoranda" — Keenan's classical school — 
 The "infare" at Cargah— The Ribbonmen— Carleton 
 made a Ribbonman — P2xtent of the organization — The 
 oath of the society — The grip 74 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The party fight — Orange and Ribbon funerals — Athletic sports 
 — Runaway marriages — Lough Derg — The pilgrimage — 
 Walking on water — Change of religion — The female pil- 
 grims — Nell McCallum 87 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Break-up of the family — A trial of strength — The miller of 
 Clogher — His death — Michael Carleton advises his brother 
 to work — A great leap- — Carleton apprenticed to a stone- 
 cutter — Buckramback the dancing master — Mickey 
 McRory the fiddler — Stone-cutting abandoned — Happens 
 on " Gil Bias "—Its effect 108 
 
 V ■ 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 </ij^\ 
 
 Leaves his family at last — Father McArdle — Wildgoose 
 Lodge — Fate of Paddy Devaun— The wayside gibbets — 
 Journeyings in Louth — Becomes a private tutor — SirHar- 
 court Lees' dogs — Carleton makes verse — Gaynor and 
 Talbot the pipers —The dance . . . . . .126 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Edinburgh Review on Carleton — Throws up tutorship — 
 A ride in a hearse— Dundalk—Drogheda — A shirt as 
 security — Unexpected wealth— Ardee — The mathematics 148
 
 Contents. vii 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fitzgerald, of Fane Valley — Carleton as a story-teller — Navan 
 — How to wash a shirt — Visit to Clongowes and Alaynooth 
 — A bully chastised — Rev. Paul O'Brien— Judy Byrne- 
 Big Magee — Celbridge — Becomes a hedge schoolmaster 
 — On the road to Dublin i68 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Dublin — Dirty Lane — The mountebanks — The beggars at 
 
 home— " William Carleton, Ladies' Shoemaker " . .189 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Shooting the moon " — McDonagh, the literary tailor — The 
 tailor's flitting — The designing widow — Carleton tastes 
 wine — A generous gift — The widow's little bill — The cir- 
 culating library — A new rig-out — Miscellaneous reading — 
 A prediction 200 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 In search of a religion — A strange figure — Mrs. Ridge's 
 " uncle " — Removal to the Coombe — Return of McDonagh 
 — Weyman and Lablache — Love of the drama— The 
 nondescript, and his brother — Marsh's library — A glimpse 
 of Maturin 214 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Love re-asserts itself— Mortimer and Samuel O'SuUivan — 
 Matrimonial notions — Transformation of the nondescript 
 — James Digges La Touche — Appointed to a clerkship — 
 High treason against the Sunday School Society — 
 Marriage — Thomas Parnell — Ambition to enter T.C.D. — 
 Notice to quit — Re-instatement 229 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Essay-writing — Literary vanity — Thomas Parnell victorious — 
 Loses situation — The siege — Before the magistrate — Rev. 
 Mr. Wilson — Carleton becomes a father— Rev. Henry 
 Newland 245
 
 viii Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Gough's "Arithmetic" — MuUingar — A contributor to W^sf- 
 meath Guardian — A remarkable veteran — The 93rd regi- 
 ment—Wellington Guernsey — The military riot . . 262 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Clothing the naked — Sir Boyle Roche's bird— Rev. Dr. Robin- 
 son — The Rochforts — Election humours — Carleton 
 arrested for debt — MuUingar Gaol— The suspended priest 
 —The popular idea about him — Dublin again — Carlow 
 school — Kilkenny coal 275
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Nearly thirty years have run their course since the 
 death of Carleton, yet no attempt has hitherto been 
 made to write his life. The lack of a biography of so 
 remarkable a writer leaves an obvious gap in Irish liter- 
 ary history. Lever, Lover, Griffin, Banim, Miss Edge- 
 worth, and Lady Morgan have each had their biographer 
 or biographers. Carleton has either been overlooked, or 
 the difficulty of presenting him to the world as he lived, 
 acted, and was, has proved too great for the memoir 
 writers of the intervening period. The difficulties in- 
 volved in such a task were not such as could have been 
 offered to any one dealing with the other novelists 
 named. These difficulties were, however, growing fewer 
 and less formidable with every year that passed, and 
 the discovery of the unpublished account of Carleton's 
 early life, now printed for the first time, helps to smooth 
 the way of the biographer. The initial obstacle was 
 the deficiency of material, and a hardly less serious one 
 was the delicacy of dealing with the matter which was 
 ultimately collected. Carleton had earned the reputa- 
 tion of being in every sense a "queer fish"; he had 
 been accused of obvious and consistent insincerity; and 
 charges of mercenary motives and of reckless partisan- 
 ship were so often brought against him, with other more 
 or less absurd accusations, that it is not surprising 
 that the biographer has hitherto left him alone. That
 
 X Preface. 
 
 he has been too hardly judged, the present work^ it is 
 hoped, will make evident. It is, however, proven that 
 he was somewhat reckless and inconsistent, and his 
 more inexcusable actions cannot be condoned or ex- 
 plained satisfactorily. It would be manifestly impos- 
 sible to conceal his patent defects, and equally so to 
 explain them away or applaud them — the only way 
 out of the difficulty is to tell the story of his life, from 
 the moment at which his own version breaks off, with 
 impartiality, and, where it is possible, with the truest 
 sympathy. That story reveals a great genius, an un- 
 disciplined temperament ; a man of many moods and 
 faults, but lovable withal ; a man of whom his country- 
 men will always be justly proud, although he vexed 
 them sorely. Carleton gave offence to every class of 
 Irishmen in one or other of his books, and all that 
 can be done by way of extenuation or excuse is to ex- 
 plain the incidents which seem to have occasioned his 
 conduct. Only a few pages have hitherto been devoted 
 to Carleton's very interesting and instructive career ; 
 and it is only by treating of it more fully that the real 
 character of the man can be properly elucidated. The 
 puzzled reader of many of Carleton's stories will wonder 
 why the writer changes his ground so often. Only a full 
 biography will tell him this. Carleton's position differs 
 entirely from that of the other Irish novelists previously 
 referred to, inasmuch as his intention was not to amuse, 
 but to inform and to reform. He took up the problem 
 of Irish life and Irish character with the desire of 
 solving it ; he treated of Irish manners both in the in- 
 terest of his own people and in that of the outsider who 
 was ignorant of Ireland and Irish social habits ; in order 
 to point out the vices and errors of the race to the former,
 
 Preface. xi 
 
 and their virtues and sufferin5;s to the latter. He accom- 
 pHshed his mission most successfully, as everybody 
 admits, but his earlier good offices were somewhat 
 spoiled by his failure in later life to discern the impor- 
 tant difference between a faithful record of the scenes 
 he had witnessed, and an expression of partisan and 
 bigoted opinion, a tirade upon the political and religious 
 upheavals of the time. 
 
 When, nearly six years ago, the present writer first 
 conceived the idea of writing a biography of Carleton, 
 the material was scanty and scattered, and there seemed 
 no prospect of obtaining information upon that side of 
 his life which was hidden from the outer world, and 
 which promised to be the more interesting. The idea 
 was abandoned for lack of the right material, and 
 it was only when I learned of the whereabouts of 
 Carleton's daughters and of the fact of their possessing 
 the MS. of the novelist's unfinished Autobiography and 
 some valuable correspondence, that I recurred to the 
 pleasing task. An examination of the material placed 
 at my disposal showed that it would be impossible to 
 make a hero of Carleton, and proved the necessity of 
 placing before the world the determining facts and cir- 
 cumstances (as it were) which made perfectly clear 
 the extent of Carleton's great services to literature and 
 to Ireland, no less than the disservice he had done 
 himself. This book, or rather the portion of it for 
 which I am now responsible, is consequently neither 
 an eulogy nor an apology. It is not desirable, in the 
 interest either of Carleton or his readers, to pass over 
 his literary mistakes in silence. Carleton's fame would 
 be rendered all the brighter by the suppression of some 
 of his worthless writings, and readers ought to be i i-
 
 xil Preface. 
 
 formed that those inferior productions still in circulation 
 are not only dull, but positively offensive. 
 
 It is unfortunate that the store of reminiscence con- 
 cerning Carleton is so limited. He was not great enough 
 to his contemporaries, notwithstanding all his genius, to 
 lead them to invent or to preserve stories about him. 
 Some of those who remember him most vividly, did not 
 know him in his best period, and accordingly do not speak 
 with enthusiasm of his manner or presence. Dr. Kells 
 Ingram, a keen admirer of his works, expresses the 
 view of others as well as his own when he admits that 
 Carleton did not come up to his expectations : " I cannot 
 recall anything particularly interesting or characteristic 
 that he said. I cannot say that I felt drawn towards 
 him personally. ... In his conversation I was struck 
 by his vigorous good sense, but not by any evidence of 
 imaginative force.'^ 
 
 Sympathy in a biographer is an important point, an 
 essential one indeed, but that sympathy should be dis- 
 criminative. Complete sympathy with Carleton is im- 
 possible ; the present writer claims only that he has 
 related the incidents of his life without prejudice, and 
 with such palliation of his tergiversation as he could 
 find. Carleton's life would have to remain unwritten 
 if unvarying and unstinted praise of its subject were to 
 be its essential feature. The criticism passed in this 
 book upon Carleton's less estimable writings is based 
 upon a long acquaintance with them. Almost ever}'- 
 thing he published has been read and re-read for the 
 purposes of this biography. Wherever praise could be 
 honestly given it has been most freely expressed. 
 
 Some matters of interest in connection with Carleton's 
 life cannot be left out of consideration here. One of
 
 Preface. xiii 
 
 these is the origin of the name Carleton. Some sapient 
 critics who have a more or less contemptuous opinion 
 of Celtic qualities, are fond of dwelling upon the fact 
 that many notable persons, claimed as Irish, were really 
 of English extraction, their all-sufficing reason being 
 that the names of such persons are clearly English 
 in appearance. Anyone with any knowledge of the 
 changes of surnames which have been so numerous 
 and remarkable throughout all Ireland are well aware 
 that a fallacy lies at the foundation of this belief. Pro- 
 bably some of the superficial critics of things Irish 
 imagine that Carleton is a case in point of the 
 superiority of English intellect. The name certainly 
 looks English, and decidedly it is English. But the 
 family of Carleton never had a drop of English blood 
 in its composition. It is known that the English 
 tongue was a foreign one to all the members of that 
 family prior to this century, and that their name was 
 originally Carolan or O'Carolan, as was that of all the 
 northern Carletons. The new name came into use when 
 the English language first began to be adopted. Dr. 
 John O'Donovan, the best authority as to the origin 
 and meaning of Gaelic names, thus refers to Carleton in 
 his interesting papers in the Irish Penny Journal (1841) 
 on the subject of Irish surnames : '^ Our own William 
 Carleton, the depictor of the manners, customs and 
 superstitions of the Irish, is of the old Milesian race of 
 the O'Carolans, the ancient chiefs of Clandermot, in the 
 present county of Londonderry." Carleton was well 
 aware, as a speaker of Irish, of the original name of 
 his family, and often mentioned it to his friends. The 
 Very Rev. Canon O'Connor (author of " Lough Derg 
 and its Pilgrimages," an interesting and learned little
 
 xiv Preface. 
 
 book) gives, among other matters of interest, the follow- 
 ing particulars of Carleton's family in a letter to the 
 present writer. Having resided for many years in the 
 parishes of Clogher and Errigal Truagh, he was in an 
 excellent position for obtaining hitherto unknown in- 
 formation about the Carletons. 
 
 James, father of William Carleton, came with his 
 brother Jack from the parish of Termon. James's uncle, 
 also named Carleton, was a priest in Termon. Jack died 
 in Kilnahushogue, parish of Clogher^ to which they had 
 removed. James married a woman named Mary Kelly 
 of Kilnahushogue, According to Canon O'Connor's 
 informant, they had four sons and four daughters, 
 Michael, James, Jack and William, Rose, Mary, Peggy 
 and Sally. 
 
 Mary was married to a man named McCusker, who 
 lived in Pound Brae, Clogher, and afterwards went to 
 America. 
 
 Rose married Miles McNamara, of Ballyscally, parish 
 of Clogher, and died there. 
 
 Peggy w^as married to Bernard McGirr, near Kilna- 
 hushogue — Sally to Roger McGoggy (or Hackett) of 
 Tulnavert, also in the ancient parish of Clogher. A 
 daughter of theirs was married to John Hagan. 
 
 Michael Carleton lived in Pound Brae, Clogher, for 
 eleven or twelve years, and married Sarah Mellon, whose 
 mother, named Donnelly, was from Melthagy. Bishop 
 Donnelly's great grandfather was her uncle. The 
 Donnellys were notably a smart family, who came in 
 the time of the " Plantation " from Castlecaulfield, near 
 Dungannon. They were the owners of that estate 
 which before the confiscation was called Ballydonnelly 
 estate. A townland called Ballydonnelly is there yet.
 
 Preface. xv 
 
 Jack Carleton was married to a McKenna from Tonagh. 
 James was never married. William's father was a 
 hackler, and held a farm of land first in Kilnahushogue, 
 and next removed to Towney, where he held a farm 
 under the McCreas. William Carleton's education 
 was finished with Father Campbell, P.P. of Errigal 
 Truagh, who lived where Mr. James K. Anketell's 
 house now is. While with Father Campbell, Carleton 
 lodged in the neighbourhood with a friend.' Father 
 Campbell had a dispute with Bishop Murphy, in con- 
 sequence of which the latter would not advance any of 
 his students to the Church. 
 
 The foregoing contains the gist of Canon O'Connoll's 
 valuable communication, which supplements in some 
 measure Carleton's own account of his family and 
 career, and is worth preserving." 
 
 Carleton, it will be seen in his own narrative and 
 what follows, was a true peasant all his life. Many of 
 his faults may be traced to his lack of proper education, 
 to the absenqe of real training, and to the Celtic tem- 
 perament which he was unable to control. Acutely 
 sensitive to contempt, neglect, indifference and attack, 
 whether real or imaginary, he did what many others of 
 his class and race are apt to do, brooded over the 
 wrong done to him, and vowed revenge. When he was 
 most thoroughly soured and disillusioned, and full of 
 
 ' McCarron. 
 
 ° Considerable confusion is sometimes caused between the 
 novelist, William Carleton, and Will Carleton, the American poet, 
 author of ''Farm Ballads," who may or may not be of Irish 
 origin. Quite a respectable number of people are convinced that 
 the two are one person. There was another William Carleton, a 
 poet and dramatist, and an Irishman, who committed suicide in 
 New Yf r" c on August 19th, 1885, aged about 48. It is not known 
 whether he was connected in any way with the author of " Traits 
 and Stories."
 
 xvi Preface. 
 
 scorn and opprobrium for the public, he was capable of 
 brimming affection for his family, to whom he clung 
 with all the more tenacity. He failed to understand, it 
 must be admitted, that when he was less than just to 
 his countrymen, and they let him know their resentment, 
 they were after all Irishmen, and subject to the same 
 influences and feelings as himself. His Life, as it is for 
 the first time completely revealed, is chiefly a record of 
 struggle and disappointment, and the gloom which 
 pervades it is not uncharacteristic of Carleton in his 
 stories. But for the valuable assistance rendered by 
 Carleton's daughters, notably by Miss Jane Carleton, 
 that Life could not have been written at all, and special 
 thanks are due to the following, who have helped with 
 letters, reminiscences or suggestions : Sir Charles Gavan 
 Duffy, Mr. W. J. Fitzpatrick, the eminent biographer ; 
 Dr. T. C. S. Corry, of Belfast ; Mr. John McKibbin ; 
 Mr. R. A. Peddie, of London ; Mr. David Comyn, 
 former editor of The Gaelic Journal, whose kindness is 
 as inexhaustible as his knowledge ; the Rt. Rev. W. P. 
 Walsh, Bishop of Ossory ; Mr. T. D. Sullivan, M.P.; 
 Mr. W. F. Wakeman ; Mr. Edmund FitzPatrick ; Mr. 
 J. R. O'Flanagan ; Mr, Martin MacDermott, one of 
 the {^'^ survivors of the early Nation poets ; Mr. 
 George Bainton, of Coventry ; and last, but not least, 
 to Mrs. Cashel Hoey. 
 
 D. J. O'DONOGHUE.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The writing of his Autobiography was the last literary 
 task undertaken by William Carleton. He did not live 
 to complete the work ; the literary epoch of his career 
 had not indeed been reached when his pen was laid 
 aside for ever ; so that the marvellous human document 
 which the world owes to the energy and zeal of Mr. D. 
 J. O'Donoghue in the cause of the national literature of 
 Ireland, does not give us a glimpse of Carleton the 
 revealer, the portrayer, the domestic annalist of the 
 Irish peasant of his period. But it does present to us a 
 type of that peasant, of such surpassing interest and 
 rarity that the volume which tells the story of the great 
 Irish novelist's early life rivals his own most poignant 
 pictures of poverty, and of struggle on the verge of the 
 precipice of desperation. 
 
 A partial parallel might be drawn between Rousseau 
 and Carleton in the startling candour and " the deep 
 veined humanity " of their respective self-revehtion ; but 
 it would be of a superficial kind, and indeed misleading, 
 for no two minds and natures were ever more unlike 
 than those of the Swiss philosopher and the Irish 
 novelist. It is in the absence of viauvaisehonte that they 
 have a point in common ; in the faculty of enchaining 
 the attention^ and in the supreme egotism which leads 
 each to base his appreciations of his fellow men solely 
 upon the measure of recognition of his own merits 
 and needs obtained from them. Beyond this resem- 
 blance I know of no other suggested by the fir~t 
 chapters of Carleton's life- story; no narrative so direct, 
 
 VOL. T. b
 
 xviii Introduction. 
 
 so simple of form yet so exuberant ; for everything, 
 howev^er small as an incident, is on a big scale of 
 representation. The imagination of the writer was 
 evidently set to work again, in retrospect, exactly as it 
 had fulfilled its functions at the actual time of occurrence, 
 and it reproduced the sentiments and sensations of the 
 past with all their fervour, or pain, or acuteness. The 
 very first mental characteristic of Carleton which strikes 
 us is that he habitually "saw men as trees walking.'^ 
 This tendency of his temperament, confirmed by the 
 deficiencies of his education, has an attractive side, for it 
 implies enthusiasm, and the highest endowments lacking 
 this must fail to command complete sympathy. 
 
 Had the Carleton of literature and fame found no 
 chronicler, had his works, with their own history (one of 
 odd, irregular emergence from neglect which sometimes 
 neared the point of oblivion), received no side-light 
 illumination, the readers of to-day, made acquainted only 
 with the Carleton of his wonderful first period, would 
 have suffered grievous loss. 
 
 No fragmentary record by himself of a man's ex- 
 perience was ever more calculated to whet curiosity 
 than is the autobiographical volume, with its gusts of 
 feeling, its curiously quick and shrewd judgments, its 
 simple ignorance of men and things on certain lines, 
 its fine intensity, its frank, unapologetic vanity, its 
 Rembrandt-like handling in the actualities it portrays 
 of the shadow that had so little shine. Its unashamed 
 narration of the details of his youthful poverty, in 
 other hands might have shocked and wearied the 
 ordinary well-to-do reader who does not like that sort 
 of thing ; but, handled in Carleton's broad manner, and 
 with his humour, its fulness of emotion, its wail of 
 complaint, that affects one as the desperate finality of 
 a child's grief might do, and is sometimes equally un- 
 reasonable, are alike fascinating and piteous. There 
 is indeed a great deal of the child, a big sort of child, 
 in Carleton's Carleton, and it remains almost to the end 
 in Mr. O'Donoghue's.
 
 Introduction. xix 
 
 Between the men and women of his own time, and 
 those of ours, lies an interval of close on thirty years, 
 during which nothing was made known of the man to the 
 .general public, and his contemporaries, with few excep- 
 tions, had followed him to the Silent Land. With the 
 revived interest in Irish literature, which is largely 
 owine to the influence and exertions of Carleton's ever- 
 faithful friend Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, K.C.M.G., has 
 come the re-tricking of the beams of the great Irish 
 novelist's fame, and the reader of his works may now see 
 Carleton as he was during that early period, when he did 
 indeed make verses, but the mere notion that he was 
 to be a novelist had not dawned upon him ; and after- 
 wards, during the whole of the prolonged literary career 
 that has been traced out by Mr. O'Donoghue, under 
 difficulties as portentous and disheartening as ever a 
 biographer has encountered and overcome. Consider- 
 insf the scantiness and the scattered condition of the 
 materials which Carleton's surviving daughters had it in 
 their power to place in the hands or to suggest to the 
 research of his biographer, and that it is evident Carleton 
 wrote his own instalment of the work without any of 
 the ordinary aids to memory in the way of notes 
 or dates, just letting the fresh current run as it would 
 from his over-brimming brain — it is only possible to re- 
 gard Mr. O'Donoghue's work as a tour de force, and 
 but due to him to anticipate here the general recognition 
 of his ability, zeal, and fidelity. For he leaves nothing 
 that can be known untold, from the moment when at 
 the point where Carleton dropped it, he " takes up the 
 wondrous tale " of the heaven-born genius, who saw the 
 light one hundred and one years ago, in the tovvnland 
 of Prillisk, Parish of Clogher, County of Tyrone. 
 
 For the right understanding of the whole of his 
 character and his life, and for the full appraisement of 
 his works, it is necessary always to bear in mind Carle- 
 ton's peasant origin and all that it meant and com- 
 prised in the Ireland of his time, not only for the mere 
 marvel of what the man achieved, but b-^cause, while 
 
 b 2
 
 XX Introduction. 
 
 he glorified his origin by interpreting his people to the 
 world, he retained its salient characteristics and its 
 distinctive limitations. This fact, while it was of 
 disadvantage to him in the conduct of affairs, and the 
 contacts of life, was of incalculable value to his work, 
 and furnishes the true explanation of his pre-eminence 
 over other national novelists whose endowments and 
 sympathy equalled, while their skill and culture 
 surpassed his own. Those writers studied and loved 
 the Irish peasantry ; they recognized to the full the 
 curious and subtle characteristics, both moral and 
 mental, which are almost incomprehensible by people 
 of other races, and are incommunicable by writers 
 or poets of any other nationality. They knew the 
 poverty of the peasant, his actual ignorance, but also 
 his intelligence and his humour, his intense affections, 
 his easily-roused passions ; his strength, his weaknesses, 
 his virtues, and his besetting sins. But all these they 
 knew from ihe outside, although standing very near it is 
 true. They saw them from the portrait-painter's stand- 
 point, and presentments of the Irish peasantry which 
 have received the homage of the world, have been 
 given us by these novelists, who would be, perhaps, 
 more correctly styled the romance-writers of Ireland, 
 although the distinction is to be felt rather than 
 defined. But Carleton wrote from the inside; he 
 was the voice of his people, their kinsman, their 
 seer, their soothsayer, their plaint-bearer, " the prose 
 Burns of Ireland," their fellow and intimate. His early 
 aspiration towards knowledge was no contradiction of 
 this ; such aspiration was common enough among the 
 people of Carleton's time, when the state of education 
 among them was indeed deplorable, as his graphic 
 narrative represents it ; but the old folk-lore and 
 historic legend still lingered somehow in the atmosphere, 
 the " story-teller " was yet a welcomed wanderer about 
 the countryside, the last strains of the blind bard 
 Carolan had not quite died out; and the schoolmaster 
 taught Latin after a fashion to the boys who attended
 
 Introduction. xxi 
 
 his class in a barn, and contributed a couple of sods per 
 head to the frugal fire that smouldered on the earthen 
 floor. His father, a peasant-farmer whose large family 
 kept him always poor even for his position, was a 
 remarkable person, and the fine nature and exceptional 
 qualities of his mother produced so early and indelible 
 an impression upon his imagination, while the love of 
 her was so deeply rooted in his heart and in his memory, 
 that it inspired him with a pure, lofty ideal of 
 women, filled his soul with compassion for their sorrows 
 and anger at their wrongs, and guided his fancy 
 and his pen to a portrayal which has no rival in Irish 
 fiction, and no equal in any other. Even Gerald 
 Grififin has not come up to the level of Connor 
 O'Donovan's mother, the wife of Fardorougha the miser, 
 and we know that it was his own ""mother who filled 
 Carleton's mind's eye^liile he depicted that sublime 
 yet quite real, simple, and humble peasant-woman. 
 
 It is worth while to remark briefly upon Carleton's 
 description of his parents, because, taken in conjunction 
 with his strong affection for both, and his intense grief 
 at the death of his father, the failure of their example 
 to influence his religious life is a curious fact. In 
 the autobiographical preface to the illustrated edition 
 of "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry" (1842), 
 Carleton gives an eloquent and touching description of 
 his father, whose stainless integrity of principle, and 
 unaffected piety, won respect from all classes for the 
 "very humble man," and whose powers of memory are 
 described as marvellous. " My father would repeat/' 
 says the writer, " nearly the whole of the Old and New 
 Testaments by heart, and was besides a living index to 
 almost every chapter and verse in them." In every 
 observance of the Catholic religion the elder Carleton 
 was not only exact but jealous ; his sobriety was almost 
 ascetic, and that his nature was deeply spiritual his life 
 of constant prayer testified. His son expatiates upon 
 his virtues, and tells us that his stainless and in- 
 offensive life, the sweetness of his temper, and the
 
 xxii lA-TRODUCTION. 
 
 Strength and tenderness of his affections, were facts 
 known " to the whole parish." (Carleton constantly uses 
 that characteristic Irish term of localization.) As we 
 shall see presently, he acknowledges with pride his own 
 indebtedness to the treasure stored in his father's 
 memory ; but with the main feature of his character,, 
 the mainspring of his life, the son had no sympathy ;. 
 these did not even touch his poetic fancy, or the 
 sensibility that a fair landscape, or a sweet song could 
 quickly rouse. His father's piety was " senseless and 
 superstitious" to him. His perpetual prayer, " even on 
 his way to Mass on Sunday, when one would imagine 
 he could have got enough of it," on his way home, and 
 when he retired in the evening to the little dark parlour, 
 touched no fibre of the son, although he says exultantly : 
 " My father's charity was far beyond his means, for he had 
 the kindest and most generous of hearts ; indeed no 
 man ever sympathized in a more Christian spirit with 
 human misery." In relation to this good man's death 
 after weeks of terrible suffering, Carleton records that the 
 priest who attended his deathbed declared he had never 
 witnessed one so edifying, and he adds, with the true 
 and abiding Irish peasant's pride in such a finale : — 
 " His remains were attended to the graveyard in Clogher 
 by the largest funeral concourse remembered in the 
 parish." Carleton's mother was as profoundly pious as 
 she was highly- gifted ; but neither did she impress her 
 son even so far as to make him understand the tenets 
 of the Catholic faith. That he was uninstructed in 
 these is for the first time revealed by his Autobiography, 
 and had this fact been known during his lifetime, much 
 of the offence and scandal that attached to some of his 
 writings, and to certain points of his conduct, would 
 have been obviated by its recognition. It came to be 
 said, long after the period at which his Autobiography 
 ends, that " Carleton was a Catholic when it suited him, 
 and a Protestant when it suited him better." But the 
 truth is he never was a convinced Catholic at all. 
 The Irish peasantry live in the aura and environment
 
 Introduction. xxiii 
 
 of their faith as in the common air, and, generally 
 speaking, would as soon set about analyzing the one 
 as the other. No doubt a good deal of particular 
 ignorance was prevalent, but it was not likely to occur 
 to Carleton's parents that their son was an example 
 of this_, and yet so ignorant was he, and did he remain 
 to the end of his life, that in this, the last product of 
 his pen in old age, we find the following passage, a 
 propos of his own christening and the fact that one of 
 his godmothers, Miss Jane Barnet, was a Protestant. 
 
 " Now, considering the strict notions entertained by 
 members of the Church of Rome, especially respecting 
 exclusive salvation, in which they are of course firm 
 believers, I think it was a great stretch of liberality on 
 the part of my family to allow a Protestant female to 
 stand godmother for me. There was a remedy for this, 
 hovv^ever. Whenever, as in the case of Jane Barnet, 
 such an honour — for such it is considered — as that 
 of standing for a Catholic child is conferred upon a 
 Protestant, whether man or woman, there are always 
 two godmothers, or two godfathers, as the case may 
 be — that is, a Catholic and a Protestant — and of course 
 it is the Catholic who is looked upon as the real 
 sponsor. God help us ! What liberal-minded man can 
 avoid smiling at this ? '' 
 
 None, assuredly, but the smile will be provoked by 
 Carleton's simple betrayal that he knew nothing, firstly 
 of the doctrine of the Catholic Church on the point of 
 " exclusive salvation " (he is indeed a type of " invincible 
 ignorance" in his own person), and, secondly, of the 
 meaning of sponsorship. It would have been rather 
 hard on Miss Jane Barnet to have to see that little 
 " Billy " was taken to Mass, and taught his Paler and 
 Ave, and it stood to common sense that the godmother 
 of the child's own baptismal creed ivas the responsible 
 or working sponsor. The force of the honorary dis- 
 tinction is not very clear, unless indeed it partook of 
 the fairy-godmother nature, and meant the local 
 equivalent of a silver mug. The foregoing illustration
 
 xxiv Introduction. 
 
 of Carleton's attitude of mind towards the Catholic 
 faith — from which his own people held him an 
 '' apostate," and Irish Protestantism held him a 
 " convert " — may seem trivial and inconsequent, but it is 
 not so when regarded as typical of Carleton at each 
 point of his contact with the religious " question." This 
 was raging, with all the vigour and virulence that it 
 retained long after his death, when the curtain of 
 obscurity was raised, and the young giant, physical 
 and intellectual, was seen among the dramatis personce 
 of the human comedy, in a small part at first. It is 
 equally impossible to ignore, to minimize, or to praise 
 his action; the only course that is open to his country- 
 men — and his readers of another .race and other creeds 
 may be respectfully urged also to adopt that course in 
 fairness to a great memory — is to excuse it on the plea 
 that he himself furnishes over and over again, with an 
 almost comic unconsciousness, and to believe that 
 he held his ultimate opinions, for better-ascertained 
 reasons than those he assigned for his relinquish- 
 ment of the Catholic faith. The latter, v/herever 
 we come across them, either stated or implied, are 
 ignorant, futile, petulant, and personal, and it is at 
 once a proof and an illustration of the imperfection 
 of the education Carleton had striven for so eagerly, 
 and of the want of mental and moral discipline that 
 made itself disastrously felt throughout his career, that 
 he could not be made to understand the reasonableness 
 of the resentment which his unfounded assertions and in- 
 temperate attacks aroused in his countrymen, and which 
 he in his turn fiercely resented. He was extraordinarily 
 sensitive to personal criticism, eagerly susceptible o'f 
 praise, not always discriminative of its origin or its 
 worth, so keenly alive to neglect or want of sympathy 
 that he blamed the whole Irish public for his misfor^ 
 tunes— that these were heavy is willingly admitted, 
 but he lent a helping hand to their manufacture 
 —yet could he not be persuaded that coarse ridicule 
 and gross misrepresentation of persons and things
 
 Introduction. xxv 
 
 sacred to them were legitimate causes of offence to his 
 own countrymen, and especially to his own class. 
 Neither could he be made to recognize that the tribute 
 of appreciation and admiration of his genius, paid 
 ungrudgingly by those organs of opinion which were 
 bound to expose and resent such a course of action, 
 was an example of pure and unprejudiced criticism 
 well worthy of note for more than its literary value. 
 
 Passing from this subject, which Mr. O'Donoghue has 
 been obliged to treat in the biographical volume, with 
 the hope that an explanation, which has not been 
 available until now^ may find acceptance, we resume the 
 tracing of the influence on Carleton's mind in his child- 
 hood, of the gifts and qualities of his parents, and on the 
 form in which his genius developed itself. His native 
 place was, he tells us, '^ a spot rife with old tales, 
 traditions, customs, and superstitions," so that in his 
 early youth they met him in every direction. Of these 
 his father's memory was a storehouse, " a rich one, of 
 all that the social antiquary, the man of letters, the poet 
 or the musician would consider valuable. He spoke 
 the Irish and English languages with equal fluency. 
 With all kinds of charms, old ranns (runes?) or poems, 
 old prophecies, tales of pilgrimages and miracles, re- 
 velations from ghosts and fairies, he was thoroughly 
 acquainted." Carleton asserts, and cites Petrie, 
 O'Donovan, Betham, and Ferguson as witnesses to the 
 strong impression left upon his mind by his father's 
 narratives, that hardly any single legend, tradition or 
 usage, afterwards brought under his notice "by the 
 antiquary, the scholar or the humble scaiiachte," was 
 new to himself " or unheard before in some similar or 
 cognate dress." What a provision for the future of the 
 writer who to the other novelists, is what Michael 
 -\ngelo is to the other sculptors, and like him, finds 
 his figures in the stone and lets them out ! He 
 comments in his frank manner on the additional 
 advantage of his hearing these legends, traditions, and 
 usages as often in the Irish language as in the English,
 
 XX vi Introduction. 
 
 " a circumstance," he remarks, '^ which enabled me in my 
 writings to transfer the genius, the idiomatic pecu- 
 harity and conversational spirit of the one language 
 into the other, precisely as the people themselves do in 
 their dialogues, whenever the heart or imagination 
 happens to be moved by the darker or better passions." 
 How perfectly is this felt in his works, in the sudden 
 rush of emotion, of endearment, of beautiful metaphor, 
 of homely association, of threat or malediction, of 
 vengeance, or of prayer, when something that cannot be 
 defined, but is felt in our nerves, is poured hotly 
 into the English speech, and the fusion makes a heart 
 of fire ! 
 
 Carleton's mother, Mary Kelly, " possessed," says 
 her son, "the sweetest and most exquisite of human 
 voices." In all his writings there is nothing more 
 beautiful than his description of her singing the old 
 sacred songs and airs of Ireland, and the effect produced 
 by her "raising the keen," or Irish "wail above the 
 dead." Carleton, the youngest of fourteen children, 
 did not hear her voice in the time of its full and fresh 
 melody, but he says : " I heard enough from her blessed 
 lips to set my heart to an almost painful perception of 
 the spirit that steeps these fine old songs in a tenderness 
 which no other music possesses." She did not like to 
 sing the Irish airs to English words. " I remember," 
 says Carleton, "on one occasion when she was asked 
 to sing the English version of that touching melody 
 'The Red- Haired Man's Wife,' she replied, ' I will sing 
 it for you, but the English words and the air are like a 
 man and his wife quarrelling — ^/^e Irish melts into the tune, 
 but the E7iglish doesn't T — an expression scarcely less 
 remarkable for its beauty than its truth. She spoke 
 the words in Irish." Such were the influences that en- 
 veloped the sensitive boy ; and in his early childhood, 
 by the removal of the family from flat and uninterest- 
 ing Prillisk to picturesque Tonagh (Towny), another 
 influence was brought to bear upon him with marked 
 and enduring effect. " Here," says Carleton, in a quaint
 
 Introduction. xxvii 
 
 phrase, " I enjoyed much happiness from the striking 
 character of the scenery." And then we have a vision of 
 the child making strange little journeys to different 
 parts of the more distant neighbourhood to see places 
 he had heard tell of, to the serious discomfiture of his 
 family by these " dreamy excursions." In connection 
 with this reminiscence Carleton writes one of the saddest 
 sentences of his autobiography, a sentence in which the 
 whole man is revealed : " I may well say dreamy, for 
 they now appear to me like dim and far-off visions, 
 which, although full of ideal beauty, bring the tears to my 
 eyes when I am alone — but that is because I was happy 
 then for the first and only time." Episodes and even 
 periods in his own record, and in that of his biographer, 
 seem to refute this statement ; yet it must have been 
 deliberately made ; but if we trace and consider them, 
 these only amount to intervals of youthful high spirits, 
 temporary elation, legitimate thrills of triumph, extra- 
 vagant expectation, gratified vanity, occasional remis- 
 sion of the pecuniary care that mercilessly beset him, 
 and domestic emotions of the joyous order. Of solid 
 happiness we find so little in Carleton's life that we are 
 forced to accept his own view, or review, of it in the 
 fragment of autobiography whose first word is " Alas ! " 
 and its last word '' death.'^ 
 
 Very early began Carleton's longing and chase after 
 education, for it amounted to that. The condition of 
 Ireland at this period, in respect of education, was a fre- 
 quent theme of his comment and reprobation so soon as 
 he had it in his power to utter the indignation that 
 possessed him in his youth. "Education," he says, 
 "here was utterly neglected by the successive adminis- 
 trations of the day ; the unfortunate people had no schools 
 to which they could send their children. It was this con- 
 dition of education in the North which occasioned so 
 many poor scholars to be sent to the South, especially to 
 Kerry.-"^ In the neighbourhood of the Carletons there was 
 no means of instruction : he got one day's teaching in his 
 seventh year under circumstances which he relates with
 
 xxviii Introduction. 
 
 gravity so admirable that one does not know whether he 
 means to be comic — but comic he certainly is. " It was 
 while wc lived in Towny," he says, " that I was first sent 
 to school. 1 could not have been more than six or seven 
 years of age, and I had never seen a letter of the alpha- 
 bet. The reader may judge of the surprise of my family, 
 when they found on my return that I had not only 
 learned the alphabet, both large letters and small, but 
 had actually got as far as b-a-g — bag. The master was 
 the celebrated Pat Frayne, a Connaught man who had 
 been a ' poor scholar ' in his youth, but who afterwards 
 sat for the picture of the redoubtable Mat Kavanagh in 
 my sketch of 'The Hedge School.' That (i.e. the 
 spelling-lesson) was my first effort at literature, and my 
 last for some years wiih Pat. It was his first day of 
 opening the school, and also his last in Towny. He had 
 only three scholars, my brother John, a boy named Sam 
 Nelson, and myself; this disheartened him— he left the 
 neighbourhood and did not reappear for four or five 
 years." How delightful is the story of Carleton's second 
 experience of "school," at the " ladies' seminary " held in 
 a barn—" one of the largest barns in the parish, if not 
 the very largest" — (Carleton's qualifying phrases in the 
 contrary sense, a marked feature of his style in all his 
 works, abound in the autobiography)— by an Irish lady, 
 the widow of a distinguished Frenchman, a victim of 
 the Revolution, who had returned to her own country 
 in utter poverty, with her daughter Mary Anne. What 
 apicture is suggested by this lady, teaching the little 
 girls of Towny in the imposing barn, to which " Billy" 
 was specially admitted because Mrs. Dumont had been 
 struck by the extraordinary attention with which the boy 
 listened to the conversations between his father and 
 herself. Her grateful pupil writes of her more than 
 sixty _ years afterwards : " A female so dignified and 
 lofty in her manners I have never since looked upon. 
 In fact she had the bearing of an empress; and never 
 did Mrs. Siddons, in the queenliest and grandest of her 
 characters, surpass her in the dignity and stage effect of
 
 Introduction. xxix 
 
 her deportment." And why not ? Was she not a rela- 
 tion of the celebrated Maguires of Fermanagh, ''half 
 her blood that of the Maguire, and the other that of 
 the O'Neil '" ? The pet pupil might have done great 
 things had he not fallen in love with Mary Anne, and 
 deserted the " elements " for the more pressing occupa- 
 tion of "perpetually kissing'^ her. About the middle 
 of the week, after a good half-dozen kisses, administered 
 with the accuracy of a Mark Tapley, he formally pro- 
 posed marriage to Mary Anne " in the face of the whole 
 school in screams and convulsions of laughter." The lady 
 ofthe^r^?;/(^rtzy was equal to the occasion : although even 
 her dignity was overset, she saved the child's pride. 
 " So you want Mary Anne to marry you ? " she said, 
 taking him by the hand. " Yes, ma'am." " Well, then, 
 she must marry you — but listen, Billy — go home now — 
 speak to your father and mother, and get their consent. ' 
 Billy went home on the wings of love, " in the exultant 
 expectation of an immediate marriage" — -he did not 
 return. No schoolmaster, however, came to the neigh- 
 bourhood, and Mrs. Uumont removed to another barn at 
 a greater distance. Billy got over his first love, and was 
 again sent to Mrs. Dumont, and then comes a trait of 
 character which one bears in mind throughout the whole 
 narrative of Carleton's life, for it reveals the root of un- 
 reasonableness that was in him. He went to the school 
 in the new barn, but he refused to say his lesson. " I 
 saw," he writes, "that everyone who went was prepared, 
 and had some knowledge of what was expected from 
 them, but I felt conscious of knowing nothing." Neither 
 force nor persuasion prevailed, and Carleton's "educa- 
 tional course," which had extended at intervals to a 
 week, exclusive of Sunday, came to an end for two or 
 three years. The boy must, however, have contrived to 
 learn something in that time, for when he and his 
 brother John — distinguished afterwards by his aversion 
 to the classics, as William was by his dislike of science — • 
 were sent to Findramore school, there is no expression 
 of hesitation or misgiving in Carleton's record of the
 
 XXX Introduction. 
 
 circumstance. O'Beirne, the teacher of the Findramore 
 school, was a competent person, and it was undoubtedly 
 a misfortune for Carlcton that he was removed from his 
 .tuition and placed under that of Pat Frayne (of one day 
 memory), who had returned to the immediate neighbour- 
 hood of the Carletons, and was actually flourishing. A 
 schoolhouse — no less— had been built for him ; that is 
 to say, a sod house had been scooped out of the bank on 
 the roadside, and he had more than a hundred scholars, 
 of both sexes. What material the boy stored up uncon- 
 sciously during his year's schooling at Pat Frayne's all 
 his readers may discern in his " Traits and Stories of 
 the Irish Peasantry," with now the addition of his 
 graphic personal experience of the state of education 
 and society in the North in his boyhood. 
 
 There came a brief interruption to his attendance at 
 Frayne's school, and about this there is something 
 comical and significant. A classical school was opened 
 in the district, and Carleton's father " had taken it into 
 his head," as he expresses it with his customary care- 
 lessness, "to make one of his sons a priest." He tried 
 John first, but John would not have anything to do 
 with the classics, sulked and refused to go to school. 
 Sensibly advised by Frayne, who probably knew the 
 lad better than his father did, the elder Carleton gave 
 way, and " Billy " was selected for the honour — which 
 was then the prime ambition of the Irish peasant. 
 But, when the younger brother was prepared to go, and 
 " nicely smoothed up by a new suit of clothes,^' it was 
 found that the classical master had vanished ! Wander- 
 ing stars were they in those days, and long had Carle- 
 ton to wait for a fixed one. He ciid not like arithmetic, 
 he found mathematics absolutely impossible — the terms 
 were always perfectly unintelligible to him — there was 
 little for him to learn ; but this was the period in which 
 his intelligence woke fully up. His narrative bristles 
 with impressions, with a somewhat fierce humour, with 
 scorn of the religious factions which disturbed even the 
 sod-house school ; he describes the political plays, and
 
 Introduction. xxxi 
 
 how he got hold of the books,' and had " The Battle of 
 Aughrim " off by heart. This play, and " The Siege of 
 Londonderry," were acted in barns and waste houses 
 night after night. It was the era of strolling players, 
 and amateurs had a good chance of "tips" from time 
 to time ; but Carleton says nothing of any such having 
 come in the way of the Towny dramatic corps. It is 
 certain that he had never seen acting, when he gives 
 the following surprising account of himself, at ten years 
 old, and seems to take himself entirely for granted on 
 the occasion, although he is ready enough with self- 
 praise at other times. " I became stage director and 
 prompter both to the Catholic and Protestant amateurs. 
 In the mornings and in the evenings such of them — not 
 a few on both side? — as could not read, spent hours 
 with me in attempting to make themselves perfect in 
 their parts. It is astonishing what force and impetus 
 such an enthusiastic desire to learn and recollect 
 bestows upon the memory. The quickness and ac- 
 curacy with which they prepared themselves was 
 extraordinary.'' It is pleasant to dwell in imagination 
 upon the boy's life just at this time. He was 
 evidently a leader among the boys of his humble 
 school, was actively engaged in hunting through the 
 neighbours' houses for books of any description,, and 
 occasionally " happened upon " an odd volume of a 
 novel, with entrancing results, and dwelt, his soul full 
 of unvoiced poetry and love of nature, in the security of 
 the poor home that was elevated by the integrity and 
 piety of his father, and glorified by romance and music. 
 We have not much space for consideration of Carle- 
 ton as ''■ a strange boy with a good deal of natural 
 poetry in him," who steeped his soul in delight with the 
 melody of the birds in the hazel glen behind his dwell- 
 ing (the family had left Towny), and would go to bed 
 two hours before his usual time every fine evening for 
 the purpose of listening to a valiant blackbird that sat 
 and sang in a beautiful thorn-tree with unfailing regu- 
 ' School boo\s of the period l--scarcely judicious.
 
 xxxii Introduction. 
 
 larity. He had at last been sent to a school where the 
 classics were taught, walked there and back every 
 day, a distance of eight miles, and had got so far as 
 Ovid's " Metamorphoses " ; he was now fifteen, had 
 begun to think a good deal about his personal appear- 
 ance and his " new suit," and had turned the first page of 
 a love story which no reader of the Autobiography will 
 peruse without a thrilling sense of its innocent beauty. 
 
 " — His one unequalled pure romance," 
 
 to which no doubt we owe many of the unrivalled love 
 passages of Carleton's novels, and especially the three 
 years^ silent adoration of the daughter of the Bodagh 
 Buie by the miser's son, preceded by but a short time 
 the event which proved to be the turning point of 
 Carleton's life, i.e. the loss of his father. "My father," 
 says the son, touchingly, "seemed to bring (take ?) the 
 good luck of the family with him." Up to this time, 
 although we know that the Carletons were humble 
 people, the grim spectre of poverty has not been raised 
 to haunt the gifted lad, as indeed it continued to 
 haunt the famous self-made man, in various guises, 
 all his life ; but its tread came hard upon the great 
 funeral. After this, we have quite another Carleton, 
 who is, however, just the same in unreasonableness, im- 
 pulse, and sentiment. We have the whole story of the 
 separation from his mother and his brothers and sisters, 
 when he started on his journey to Munster as a candi- 
 date for the priesthood, in his fine tale " The Poor 
 Scholar," and whoever they may be that have not 
 cried and laughed over that moving history are hereby 
 admonished to repair their error without delay ; but the 
 narrative of the Autobiography is even more irresistible. 
 The simplicity, the perfect pathos, the unreserve, 
 the matter-of-course intensity of feeling in the 
 picture of the lad's revived grief for his father, of 
 his pressing the dead man's clothes to his heart, kissing 
 them, and " relapsing into a state of distraction," and 
 of his sisters, when at last he had fallen asleep, sewing
 
 Introduction. xxxiii 
 
 five notes for a pound each in the cuff of the left sleeve 
 of his coat, and placing thirty shillings in his trousers 
 pocket for use on his journey, are only to be felt. And 
 the comic gravity of the last touch ! " They also gave 
 me a needle and thread, and a penknife, that I might be 
 able to unrip my sleeve when I wanted a pound and sew 
 it up without the knowledge of anyone." But was 
 there ever anything in the world to equal the result of 
 the expedition, or the mode of Carleton's narration, after 
 a description of the first stages of his journey — which 
 might perhaps be written by_JDefoe if he had known 
 Ireland, but by no other except himself — of how, " in 
 Grehan's little inn," in the town of Granard, he had a 
 dream of being pursued by a mad bull that, in his own 
 words, " returned him to his family " ? Could anything 
 match the few lines in which he tells, without the least 
 notion that there is a trace of unreason in the action, 
 what he proceeded to do? " In the morning I dressed 
 myself," he says, " breakfasted with the family, assumed 
 my equipments for the resumption of my journey, as 
 they thought, but the moment I got outside the door, I 
 turned to the right about, and started for home with a 
 great heart. The dream of the mad bull, aided by other 
 motives still more natural and strong, accomplished the 
 fact of my restoration to my family." Could that " with 
 a great heart,'" applied to the renunciation of a project 
 that had originated with himself, and presented the only 
 means of continuing the classical education which was 
 his most ardent desire, be surpassed ? 
 - Carleton then had two }ears' schooling at Pat 
 Frayne's (who subsequently bettered himself and went 
 away for good), while the spectre of poverty drew nearer. 
 All the novel reading lie could accomplish, visits to 
 relations, and frequcntation of the markets, fairs, and 
 in/aros,' at which Carleton, being a famous athlete, cut a 
 
 * The "harecling" Iiomo of a newly-married bride to the home 
 of her husband. So doth West answer unto East, and there is no 
 new thing. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 xxxiV Introduction. 
 
 great figure; his enrolment, while still a schoolboy, in a 
 Ribbon society ; ' his experience of faction fighting and 
 " religious " disturbance?, with the scenes at Orange and 
 Ribbon funerals respectively ; are not all these reflected 
 in " Valentine McClutchy " and " Rody the Rover" re- 
 spectively, and all the other objects, subjects, types, and 
 incidents that filled his life in the "Traits and Stories " ? 
 All that time he pursued his study of the classics, which 
 he read as novels, looking to the story only, through 
 the influence of his imagination, rather than that of 
 his judgment, and finding an ever-growing charm in 
 them. 
 
 Let us contemplate the young man for a moment as 
 he was, physically and mentally, when once more 
 "education seemed to fly from him" on the de- 
 parture of Keenan, his latest schoolmaster, who 
 gave up his school in Carleton's neighbourhood and 
 returned to Dundalk. It is the last look at him — quite 
 satisfactory in certain respects — which we shall have. 
 He is over six feet in height, powerfully built, a 
 champion athlete, a proficient in all the sports of the 
 country, the hero of many recorded feats of strength 
 and daring, good-looking, with an extraordinarily lofty 
 forehead and steep head — already the likeness to Sir 
 Walter Scott, of which he was afterwards so proud, 
 existed. He had, on his own declaration, "never read 
 a page of history in his life." I do not know whether any 
 evidence exists that he ever read one in after life, but he 
 had devoured all the fiction and all the poetry he could 
 lay his hands on. To judge by his own arbitrary treat- 
 ment on occasion of the parts of speech, he was not a 
 pn found grammarian, but a trifling difference about the 
 use of pronouns would hardly part any one of sense and 
 taste Irom Carkton — and redundancy was in the manner 
 of the time when he began to write. He hated science, 
 with the hatred of sheer prejudice, for he knew nothing 
 
 ' His resolute opposition to Ribbonism and Orangeism, "those 
 two accursed systems," ranks high among his Hterary achieve- 
 ments, and may fairly cover many of his oticnces.
 
 Introduction. xxxv 
 
 about it : we have no evidence for or aj^ainst him in the 
 matter of belles lettres ; of languages he knew three, 
 Irish, Engh"sh and Latin, the two latter thoroughly and 
 equally. He had been taught by Keenan, a priest out 
 of work, after a fashion no.v long out of use, and of 
 which we have known only one other example. Keenan 
 made Latin the language of the school, made his pupils 
 write it extensively, and kept them constantly trans- 
 lating passages from the best English authors into the 
 old Roman, and his, Keenan's, advanced pupils in their 
 conversation with each otlier, whether in school or out 
 of school, generally spoke in Latin. " When I lefc 
 school," says Carleton, " I could have spoken or written 
 Latin as fluently as English." He was very popular, 
 especially with women, and as he dressed in black he was 
 looked upon as a " young priest," although he was re- 
 nowned as a dancer, and delighted in exhibiting his skill 
 in the art on the occasions which offered themselve-j 
 abundantly, for it might be said then, as it has been said 
 since of the Irish people, by one of themselves : "Sure, 
 av we are poor, at laist we're pleasant.'' Before we 
 had this marvellous presentment of Carleton from 
 his own hand, we might have found him in the sketch 
 of Denis O'Shaughnessy going 1o iVTaynooth, but we are 
 better pleased that he should fill the canvas as he does 
 here, in this pleasant time, which would have been much 
 more so, were it not for the shadows of the future ; for 
 the gifted young man had no prospects^ and no money. 
 Notwithstanding the melancholy tone of the pro- 
 logue to the Autobiography, and the fact that it was 
 begun when the writer was an old man who had 
 suffered much tribulation and had always abounded in 
 self-pity, it is evident from the portion which relates to his 
 personal exploits and popularity, long before he had 
 any self-revelation of his genius, that " a good time ' 
 was not only an actual experience of his but a frequent 
 one. He had a liking for the phrase "a literary man," 
 and frequently applies it to himself; but the most 
 extraordinary thing about him, judging from his Auto- 
 
 C 2
 
 xxxvi Introduction. 
 
 biography, is his absolutely non-literary chiracter. He 
 admits that his athletic feats were a greater joy to him 
 than his achievements with the pen, and the strange 
 statement, made so long after, has an air of serious truth. 
 The story of his pilgrimage to Lough Derg (on 
 which he founded *' The Lough Derg Pilgrim" — "one of 
 the most extraordinary productions that ever appeared 
 in any literature," he complacently observes) is followed 
 by that of the surrender of the farm in consequence of 
 James Carleton having become an invalid and "taken 
 to horseradish tea." How his mother went with her two 
 sons to reside with a married daughter is related, forty 
 years later, with exuberant glee. " We did not go 
 empty-handed," says Carleton ; " We had twelve sacks 
 of oats, which we brought to Clogher Mill, where we 
 got it kiln-dried and ground, and it was upon that oc- 
 casion I performed one of those athletic feats for which 
 I was then so famous, not only throughout my own, 
 but the adjoining parishes .... Let not the reader 
 tax me with vanity. I am recording the humble 
 events of my early life, and I can solemnly assert that 
 I derive more gratification from the limited fame which 
 I enjoyed in consequence of my local celebrity for those 
 youthful exploits, than ever I did from that which I 
 won by my success in literature. This I think every 
 rational reader will understand." Then comes a 
 Homeric contest with a rival athlete, the miller of 
 Clogher, and the record of a portion of Carleton's 
 history which is, we believe, unparalleled in frankness, 
 spontaneous humour, and total absence of self-respect. 
 There is something splendidly comical in his recital of 
 his doughty deeds with heel and toe, and " shut fist,'' 
 his entirely idle life, his wandering about from the 
 house of one kinsman to another, and in the indigna- 
 tion with which this healthy young athlete, now in 
 his twenty-first year (" Which," he sagely observes, 
 " I think is the greatest and most remarkable for 
 youthful exploits"), regards his eldest brother's question : 
 " Why dcn't you learn a trade ? " All the Carleton of
 
 Introduction. xxxvii 
 
 the later time is in the passage in which he records this 
 scandalous aggression on the part of Michael. " He 
 was perpetually abusing me for my idleness, v/hich he 
 attributed to me as a crime, although he knew right 
 well that it was the result of circumstances over which 
 I had no control, and besides, he knew that I read the 
 classics several hours a day." Very consoling, that, to a 
 peasant, not of genius, who had been earning his own 
 livelihood for many years ! " So far as I was concerned," 
 he proceeds, " the tongue of Timon of Athens was eulogy 
 compared to his. I had been living with him, much to 
 my vexation, for a couple of months." The impulse 
 which led him, at a moment of desperation, probably 
 lashed by Michael's tongue, to force " Lanty Doain, the 
 celebrated stone-cutter," who was also his "warm 
 admirer," to receive him as an apprentice, because the 
 honest man knew a little bit of Latin, and was therefore 
 placed out of the category of common stone-cutters, 
 tofjether with the reaction from what he calls the 
 " desperate resolution," do certainly convey the im- 
 pression that, in the expressive native phrase, he 
 had "a slate off." Where shall we find a parallel for 
 the following: "After I had left him (Lanty), I felt as 
 if I had accomplished my own ruin and utterly destroyed 
 my hopes for life " (two pages before he has described 
 himself as without any). " For the first time a new and 
 indignant feeling took possession of me — I became mis- 
 anthropical, I detested the world. Everything went 
 against me and my family. The latter, among whom 
 of course I was forced to include myself, were almost 
 beggars,' and nothing for me, in the shape of any 
 opening in the future, offered itself except the hard, 
 shapeless granite — the chisel and the mallet." Needless 
 to say, he never shaped the ends of any granite, nor did 
 he ever handle the chisel or the mallet. He merely 
 went on a visit to an uncle of his, " and an affectionate 
 man he was," in a place where there was a dancing 
 school, which he diligently attended with his cousins 
 * With exceptions, as presently appears.
 
 xxxviii Introduction. 
 
 for several weeks. The dancing master, " Buckranni- 
 back," and the bHnd fiddler, Mickey McRory, described 
 as one of the richest 'humorists that ever lived, and 
 whom, Carleton tells us, he rescued from obscurity 
 in a volume of sketches called "Tales and Stories 
 of the Irish Peasantry," (not "Traits and Stories," 
 which is " a different work altogether — in fact, my 
 greatest"), are among his imperishable portraits. His 
 sketch of Mickey made the fiddler's fortune, "He died, 
 aged about ninety,^' Carleton remarks; adding charac- 
 teristically, "and it is said had an immense funeral." 
 Nothing in this unequalled production beats for comic- 
 ality the sentences in which Carleton closes the Lanty 
 Doain incident " I mentioned this arrangement to my 
 uncle's family " (well-to-do 'people in the linen trade), 
 " who received it with indignation and scorn, and who 
 never ceased until they actually shamed me out of it. I 
 consequently broke my engagement with honest Lanty, a 
 fact which gratified him, as his consent to it was only 
 gained by my threatening otherwise to enlist." 
 
 The "family" does not appear to have proposed to 
 provide for the genius unattached as an alternative to 
 ihe stone-cutting business, and the visit being concluded, 
 the pupil of Buckranriback (who was very proud of him) 
 returned " very reluctantly indeed " to his brother's 
 house, where he was received as he had accurately fore- 
 seen ; that is to say, he was turned out. His sister took 
 him in ; things went tolerably for a month, then again 
 comes the serio-comic in full force in Carleton's ex- 
 traordinary narrative of his quarrel with Hacket; his 
 " just indignation " at being asked whether he was not 
 ashamed to be a burthen on his friends by a " fellow " who 
 actually carried about pound notes (presumably earned) 
 with him, indignation so deep that he could scarcely pre- 
 vent himself from trampling the ungrateful rascal under 
 his feet, and his reflection upon this reminiscence forty 
 years later : " I often regretted since that I had not done 
 It." The " ingratitude " of the rascal is gravely explained 
 by the statement that Carleton had induced his sister
 
 Introduction. xxxix 
 
 " to give a preference as a suitor for her affections " to 
 Racket — this, considering the relative ages of Mrs. 
 Hacket and her brother, is ahnost sublime. The die 
 was cast by this quarrel Carleton had got hold, a fevv 
 days previously, of a work which "filled him with such a 
 charm as it would be hopeless to do justice to by de- 
 scription " — no other than "Gil Bias" — -and was fired by it 
 with a wild desire for adventures. Here was an oppor- 
 tunity to prove himself of the number to whom they 
 come ! He walked straight away from his mean-souled 
 brother-in-law, who refused to part with one of the 
 pound-notes, and, "friendless, moneyless, and alone — but 
 not without hope, for he had " Gil Bias," started off on 
 the wide world." Here ends the first part of a story to 
 which we might apply a good half of Polonius' epithets ; 
 and begins the second part, with a series of experiences, 
 privations, and degradations, which, if he does not 
 exaggerate them, make the reader of the story wonder 
 Carleton did not go mad much more thoroughly than 
 " north- northwest." 
 
 In the recklessness of his recital ; in its headlong 
 condemnation of everybody whom he does not like, and 
 emphatic laudation of everybody whom he does like ; 
 in its revelation of his lack of judgment, self-restraint, 
 and common sense ; in its simple exhibition of vanity 
 and a certain helplessness and readiness to blame every- 
 one except himself for failure and misfortune, Carleton's 
 subsequent record is, I imagine, unique. Its intense 
 human interest it would be difficult to exaggerate ; but 
 it is also painful reading in parts, for the wish to fit 
 character to genius is natural, and in Carleton's case thii 
 cannot be done. But, that the finer fibre of the man 
 resisted the sufferings of that period is cause for wonder 
 and admiration. He has written grander things; he 
 has set stronger passions in fiercer conflict upon the 
 stage of Irish life ; he has sounded deeper depths of 
 tragedy ; and, of his suj^reme capacity, that of dcalinj^ 
 with the humorous life of the peasant, his Auto- 
 biography gives us but faint glimpses ; yet will this last
 
 xl Introduction. 
 
 utterance of Carleton arouse interest stronger than any 
 of the creations of his great brain command in this era of 
 curiosity concerning the individual lives ofsuchmenand 
 women as emerge in any way from the throng, and stand 
 even a little apart for its contemplation. The worl I's 
 liking of to-day for what is taille, sur le vif, will be 
 fully satisfied with this poignant actuality yet an- 
 cient history ; this story of less than half a life that 
 comes to us as plainly as though the man had spoken 
 it into a phonograph thirty years ago. It is worthy of 
 remark that very little of the degrading life he narrates 
 as his own experience finds its way into his books. 
 Gloomy and tragic some of them are, but the instinct of 
 his genius made him keep out, or at least keep down, 
 details that would have made fiction sordid, while they 
 touch reality with the terrible. Carleton does not drag 
 the readers of his novels into beggars' cellars, or put his 
 heroes into beds where the landlady waits outside 
 for the hero's shirt in payment of the night's lodging ; 
 but we go through the first experience in his own 
 company, and share with him the raging humiliation of 
 the second. What touches of beauty there are in the 
 writing ! What wonderful, subtle reminiscence in the 
 old man's mind, of little traits of character, single 
 phrases even ; and what vivid, vigorous revival of all his 
 passionate railing against fate and circumstances. The 
 old servant in the wretched lodging where the land- 
 lady sequestered his shirt, says to him : " God help and 
 pity you, poor young man ; it is a cruel thing to see 
 one like you brought to this. I suppose you're on the 
 world!' Carleton's comment, "I wondered where she 
 got the term," is curious ; it shows that the instinct of 
 the writer was stirring in him. The old woman's 
 subsequent remark was not so poetical, but he 
 appreciated it perhaps even more keenly: "She'll fiz 
 for this, anyhow, exclaimed the kind-hearled creature, 
 and that she may, I pray God this night ! " And 
 then he adds, " I don't think I ever enjoyed a sounder 
 night's rest during my life." Iinpayablel the exact
 
 Introduction. xli 
 
 thing cannot be said in English. It is impossible to 
 avoid recognizing that Carleton studied his "Gil Bias" 
 with practical utility — (he says he took the book for a 
 genuine history, and believed it all, but we draw the 
 line of our own credulity there) — for he employed some 
 of its methods successfully. He had formally aban- 
 doned the Catholic Faith, but his Protestantism was 
 without prejudice. He failed to get employment as a 
 teacher from a clerical schoolmaster to whom a Protes- 
 tant bishop recommended him, but who treated him 
 with such contumely that Carleton says : " I protest to 
 Heaven that such an ill-bred and contemptible clerical 
 prig I never met. For his haughty and insulting manner 
 to me he deserved to get his nose pulled, and he owed 
 it to his black coat that he did not," He visited the 
 Jesuit College of Clongowes, on a similar errand, and 
 there, although the reverend fathers did not require his 
 services, they gave him "a solitary meal," and placed a 
 paper with fifteen shillings in it beside his plate. He 
 visited priests and parsons with impartial alacrity, and 
 was so fortunate as to find at least one excellent friend 
 among the latter. Fie got employment as a tutor, and 
 lost it; as a schoolmaster, and gave it up. He was con- 
 stantly sinking and coming to the surface again, and 
 all the time his powers of invention — these, it must be 
 confessed, he tried in other senses than that of the 
 iniprovisatore of Irish tales and legends — were growing. 
 And so we come in this wonderful story to Carleton in 
 I^ublin, with a i&w pupils, some patrons (lay and clerical) 
 of importance, an intention — never carried out — of enter- 
 ing Trinity College, the promise of a post under the 
 Sunday School Society, and — a love affair.^ He is 
 very careful to explain that the image of Anne Duffy, 
 to whom, be it remembered, he had never spoken, and 
 who had been happily married for several years, was 
 and must always remain, paramount in his heart; never- 
 
 ' " Ever since I became a lover,'' says Carleton, " I gave up, 
 like a true Irishman, all notions of collegiate distinction." Is not 
 this a rather wide generalization ?
 
 x!ii Introduction. 
 
 theless he wants to marry Miss Jane Anderson, aged 
 eighteen, in a violent hurry, and declines to be in- 
 fluenced by a remark made by the young lady's aunt. 
 "I think, William," said she, "it would be time enough 
 for you to think of marrying a wife when you feel 
 yourself able to support one." He got the post; the 
 history of his connection with the Sunday School 
 Society, which he treats with easy contempt, is marvel- 
 lously funny ; he married the lady, he lost the situation, 
 and entered upon a period of poverty nearly as acute as 
 the earliest. Carleton did not like his mother-in-law, 
 and tells us why, with incredible naivete. " She possessed 
 that degree of northern sharpness," he says, " both of 
 feeling and observation, which is to be found no- 
 where in Ireland outside Ulster. Now I detest this ; 
 it is a blot upon my native province, and the conse- 
 quence was that she and I never pulled well together." 
 Mrs. Anderson maintained her daughter, but declined to 
 support her son-in-law; and Carleton's description of 
 his going to the house one day to see his wife, finding no 
 one to speak to him, and discovering that mother and 
 child were doing well — the " gratifying event " not 
 having been communicated to him — is very comical : 
 yet so pathetic is his solemn joy over the infant " sent 
 to me," he observes later, " at a time when 1 had not 
 ten shillings in my pocket," that one cannot quite 
 laugh or altogether cry over it, and so rather chokes. 
 And is there not a suggestion of an Irish Micawber in 
 the reinvoked sentiments of the penniless father, out of 
 work, and welcoming on sufferance the " young seraph " ? 
 " I looked upon the world," he says, " as if I had been 
 under the influence of a dream- — a happy dream ; but 
 on reflecting that I now stood for the first time in a new 
 character, that of a father, and that this was but the 
 beginning of fresh responsibilities, w^hich every year 
 would call upon me to meet, I felt divided between a 
 feeling of happiness and care : care was perhaps pre- 
 dominant, because, young as I was, I had been taught 
 such lessons as few had ever been forced to learn."
 
 iNTilODUCTIOX. xliii 
 
 There were severe trials in store for the young- couple ; 
 for Carlcton did not keep the poorly-paid schoolmaster's 
 posts that he got, and the " seraph " (as she remained 
 in her father's eyes all her life) had a successor. 
 " After all," he saj's, " there have been dramatic in- 
 cidents in my life." Imprisonment for debt at 
 MuUingar was one of these ; of course the event could 
 not be prosaic in Carleton's case. He was released by 
 his friend Captain Hill, the inspector of the prison, who 
 paid his debt — and the story of his sojourn there is a 
 literary curiosity. The Autobiography breaks off sud- 
 denly, M'ith a deplorable description of the p'ight in 
 which the Carletons found themselves, when, through 
 the influence of a friend, Carleton had been appointed 
 teacher to a large school in Carlow, but sent to live in 
 so insanitary a place that he writes, " I found to live 
 there was only another word for death." So ends this 
 extraordinary work, which, as we have already seen, 
 begins with " Alas ! " 
 
 Mr. O'Donoghue's Carleton did not try schoolmaster- 
 ship any more. With the opening of the biographical 
 volume begins his career of authorship, and about that 
 beginning there is a tinge of the ludicrous. Whether 
 we consider Carleton as he was in his own record, or as 
 his biographer depicts him in the after time, it is difficuk 
 to contemplate him with gravity in the character of an 
 interesting convert from Romanism, a pet of the then 
 influential clique whose names are now unknown to a'l 
 but those who remember the sayings and doings of 
 Dublin in the prime of the Evangelical Party- — (quite 
 ins gnificant in a serious study of the religious aspects 
 of the present) — and making his appearance as "a 
 literary man," b}' a series of papers on the Superstitions 
 of the Irish people, in The Christian Examiner, a 
 magazine owned and edited by the Rev. C?esar Otway, 
 a clerical personage of the period. It is best to pass 
 lightly over this time ; his personal friends did so, and 
 they were in a better position than we are to measure 
 the steepness of the stile over which Otway^s subsidies
 
 xliv Introduction. 
 
 helped the penniless young husband and father. His 
 writings in prose and verse demonstrated so forcibly 
 his intimate knowledge of the Irish peasantry, and the 
 cast of his mind in the same form with theirs, that he 
 soon became known and accepted as the social ex- 
 ponent of his own people. It was in 1828 that his 
 literary life began ; for eight years ensuing that life 
 though laborious was also desultory ; and it was not 
 until 1836 that his first novel, " Jane Sinclair, or the 
 Fawn of Spring Vale,''' appeared in book form, reprinted 
 from the Dublin University Magazine. ''This cannot," 
 says his biographer, " be classed with his completely 
 successful works, although many readers have wept 
 over the fate of the lovers. It is a story of middle- 
 class life, and Carleton was not happy in his illustrations 
 of that class of society of which he really knew little." ' 
 
 His friends were discouraging; they held him unsur- 
 passed as a delineator of character, as indeed his " Tales " 
 and his " Traits and Stories " had proved him to be, but 
 they did not btlieve in his power of construction and 
 development. Carleton, on the other hand, " believed 
 himself capable of writing fiction in any and every 
 style." Happily for the world and for the renown of 
 Irish literature, he had the courage of his convictions. 
 In 1 837, the opening chapters of " Fardorougha the Miser, 
 or the Convicts of Lisnamona," gave assurance of a 
 novelist who has been correctly described by the 
 
 ^ Probably not any of Caleton's countrymen will dissent from 
 this judgment ; but it may be interesting to the general reader to 
 know that the two great English novelists of Carleton's time, 
 Dickens and Thackeray, admired "Jane Sinclair" more than any of 
 his works. The present writer has seen the expression of Dickens's 
 opinion in his own handwriting, and had the privilege of discuss- 
 ing that novel as compared with " Willy Reilly " with the author 
 of '•' Vanity Fair." To be sure, neither of these illustrious writers 
 knew anything of the character of the Irish peasantry — Thackeray's 
 '"Irish Sketch Book'' notwithstanding. There are no peasants in 
 " Barry Lyndon," and there is no evidence in the works of Dickens 
 that he was more than aware of the existence of Ireland. " The 
 Watertoast Association of United Sympathizers," in " Martin 
 Chuzzlewit," is the only alhision to that island which we can recall.
 
 Introduction. xlv 
 
 biographer of Samuel Lover as "the greatest genius 
 in his own sphere Ireland has produced" ; and for many 
 years that great, unfortunate, superbly endowed, always 
 undisciplined man, wrote novel after novel of Irish 
 life, combining minuteness and completeness of reality 
 with loftiness of sentiment and imagination, know- 
 ledge, humour, and a fine intensity of the emotions, 
 in greater abundance and perfection than we find 
 in the works of any of his fellows. The gifts that 
 were divided among the other purely Irish novelists 
 were concentrated in him. He did not invariably use 
 them with the best discretion ; the others frequently set 
 their jewels more fittingly ; he was wanting in fine taste, 
 a quality which would indeed have been preternatural 
 in one of his origin and early experience ; but he 
 surpasses his fellows by the stature of Saul. 
 
 It is very tempting to linger over a masterpiece. In 
 "Fardorougha" we have Carleton at his very best, and we 
 seize at once his most striking characteristic. Every- 
 body in the book lives ; their speech is vocal; the terrible 
 tread of the tragedy is in our ears. The fateful obsession 
 of the wretched miser, with the clutch of the accursed 
 gold upon his heart, which still swells against that 
 clutch, heaved up by love for his victim, his only 
 child ; the exquisite purity of soul, and the sublime sell- 
 lessness of the Bodagh's daughter ; the uniform, simple 
 saintliness, the lofty maternal .love and conscience 
 of Connor's mother, raising the peasant woman to a 
 Greek grandeur with a finer inspiration ; the unsealing 
 of the fount of tears, the innermost acquaintance with 
 grief; all these hold us in a strong grasp. And the 
 gloomy force of the scenes of crime and retribution ; the 
 cunning of the typical villain, Flanagan ; the horror of 
 his dragging to his death on the scaflold, so powerfully 
 wrought to the truth of the occasion that we no more 
 pity the cowardly wretch than we pity Denis the hang- 
 man in " Barnaby Rudge " — a conception which comes next 
 to Flanagan, but with a considerable space between — 
 where shall we match these ! It has been objected to
 
 xlvi Introduction. 
 
 Carleton that he overdoes the emotional passages. But 
 is that so, regard being had to the people whom he por- 
 trays ? Certainly not, if we consider his own experience, 
 and read his own letters ; for do we not find his mother 
 fainting in his arms when the young aspirant to the 
 priesthood turns back on his way to Maynooth, warned 
 by a dream of a mad bull, and his daughter fainting in 
 his arms on the distinguished novelist's return from a 
 three weeks' visit — of an entiiely successful and jubilant 
 character — to London ? " ' Tis sixty years since," though, 
 and ways and manners are changed, even in Ireland. 
 
 Steam and emigration have made the Irish people 
 familiar with parting as well as poverty, since the 
 Miser's day, and the most beautiful passage in the whole 
 of Carleton's writings — the old man's farewell to his 
 wife, spoken beside her grave, in " The Emigrants of 
 Ahadarra " — will fail to impress the reader who now 
 comes upon it for the first time, with its fulness of pa- 
 tience, pathos, eloquence, suffering, and piety, unless he 
 keeps the passage of time well in his mind, with the full 
 hopelessness of that parting from home. 
 
 "Fardorougha" has been described as the most pathetic 
 tale in the English language, but is "pathetic" the 
 exact word .'' Does it fill the measure of the effect that 
 the tragedy of avarice produces ? It is interesting to 
 note the diverse treatment of that vice, which he held 
 in the deepest abhorrence, by Carleton. Fardorougha 
 the mistr is allowed to evoke pity, as for a creature in 
 the grip ot an enemy ; but Skinadre, the usurer in " The 
 Black Prophet," a work which for sheer strength and 
 gloom is of Cyclopean magnitude, is given over to our 
 mortal hate. For the vice there, in all its cunning crue'it}', 
 hypocrisy, and malignity, clutches no victim, but boasts 
 a proficient, for whom no doom can be too dark, and 
 human compassion has no charter. 
 
 Of all Carleton's numerous critics, Thomas Davis in 
 TJls. Nation,^ Dr. Murray in The Edinburgh Review, and 
 
 ' II fell to Carleton's lot to pronounce the panegyric of that great
 
 Introduction. xlvii 
 
 Lady Wilde, in a letter which Mr. O'Donoghue has 
 happily procured, have understood, felt, and appreciated 
 his genius most truly and thoroughly. The care and 
 completeness with which Carleton's biographer has done 
 his work are especially remarkable in the selections 
 from contemporary current criticism, and the vast monu- 
 ment which he has raised to the novelist in the form of a 
 Bibliography. Readers of the " Life" who know nothing 
 of Carleton's works — and notwithstanding the revival of 
 Irish literature, many such there must be — will do we 1 
 to look first at the Bibliography, in order that they may 
 be able to realize the full meaning and appeal of the 
 story which Mr. O'Donoghue has to tell. The long 
 series of novels extending from " Fardorougha" — dwelt 
 on here chiefly because it was the actual test by which 
 Carleton proved himself to be his own equal in a second 
 field, having won that of story and sketch writing'— to 
 " Willy Reilly," for which his biographer claims the 
 palm of popularity on the evidence of figures, represents 
 only the most important portion of his life's work, as 
 considered with a view to its permanence. It would be 
 difficult to find a more remarkable document, or one 
 associated with facts more surprising and sad. The 
 biographical volume gives us the careful history of 
 each of its chief items — whatdoes this amazing catalogue 
 represent as the ac'ual result to the author? That 
 the answer may liave its full force, it must be borne in 
 mind that here was no case of merit long unrecognized, 
 of a slow creeping out of obscurity, and a painful pro- 
 cess of knocking into people's heads the fact that a 
 writer worth reading was claiming notice by his country- 
 Irishman and poet afterwards, and the fervour and eloquence of 
 the tribute, with its burning heart of praise, and voice of lamenta- 
 tion, is a typical example of Carleton when his best feelin^^s 
 animated his pen. 
 
 ' Tr.e Atkaucuvi^ instituting the obvious and inevitable compari- 
 son between Carleton's Mi-er and Balzac'^ Pcre (irandet, gave the 
 former ihc preference, as possessing greater strength and deeper 
 reality.
 
 >lviii Introduction. 
 
 men and the world at large. Carleton attracted notice 
 from the first efforts of his pen, and obtained celebrity 
 with most unusual rapidity. He had every Irish 
 periodical of the day open to him very soon after his 
 first appearance in The Christian Exa^nincr ; his "Traits 
 and Stories" were speedily translated into German, and 
 became famous in America ; he was sought by English 
 editors and publishers ; he drank of the wine of success 
 in one sort of vintage if ever a man did. At a period 
 when Dublin was bright, in intellect at all events, and 
 rich in poets, scholars, enthusiasts, and cultured journal- 
 ists ; and a period of " men of parts,^' as the old phrase, 
 which we shall hardly improve upon, has it, Carleton came 
 to his fulness of fame. In the beautiful words of Charles 
 Gavan Dufiy, "an Irish peasant lifted a head like Slieve 
 Donard over his contemporaries.''^ 
 
 The answer to the question put above, is this: the 
 winner of so much fame, the producer of so prodigious 
 a tale of literature, did not earn a sufficient income to 
 maintain his family in comfort, even according to the 
 much more modest standard of his time, and was fre- 
 quently reduced to very real poverty indeed. The 
 surprise with which readers of to-day will receive Mr. 
 O'Donoghue's account of the prices paid to Carleton by 
 the various publishers of his famous works, the terms 
 on which he wrote for periodicals of high standing, the 
 sums he obtained for copyrights of books that have 
 gone into innumerable editions, and are still being 
 reprinted, would be tempered with incredulity were 
 it not for the accuracy of his information. We sus- 
 pect, indeed, that Carleton knew a good deal less 
 about his own affairs than Mr. O'Donoghue has come 
 to learn in what must have been a trying department 
 of his task. The story he tells must not be anticipated 
 here, but it may be said that with such wretched pay, 
 and such loosely-made and ill-kept bargains, and all this 
 acerbated by the peculiar characteristics of Carleton, 
 the practical-minded reader of his Life will not be un- 
 likely to think the great novelist would have been a
 
 Introduction. xllx 
 
 liappler man had he remained a small schoolmaster. 
 We should have been unwittingly poorer by the worth 
 of many argfosies, but he might not have begun his 
 Autobiography with " Alas ! " That he believed him- 
 self to have been exceptionally ill-treated is plain, but 
 in some instances — that of T/ie Dublin Unzversitv 
 Maga::ine, for example — there must have been a uni- 
 form scale of payment, such as made it worth the 
 while of Carleton's collaborators, men who were not 
 wholly dependent on the pen, to contribute to its pages 
 "Carleton's struggles against poverty were incessant 
 and severe," says his biographer, not far from the close 
 of his record, and the words come like an echo from the 
 story of his youth, with a most pitiful effect. He was a 
 bad subject for poverty. Is a man of genius, unless he 
 be also a saint, ever a good subject for poverty ? It 
 takes an eminently reasonable, level, well-balanced mind, a 
 temper either naturally faultless or absolutely governed, 
 and a calm, practical temperament, rarely allied with 
 intellectual gifts of the order and degree of Carleton's, 
 to perform that " daily task " which is familiarly de- 
 scribed as cutting one's coat according to one's cloth, 
 especially when the cloth is scanty and must furnish 
 forth many coats. Carleton's mind, temper, and tem- 
 perament were not of these kinds, and he had a large 
 family entirely dependent upon his earnings. He has 
 been harshly handled for his constant complaining and 
 harping upon his pecuniary troubles, charged with want 
 of self-respect, and blamed for the non-exhibition of 
 qualities which he did not possess. Is it quite fair to 
 expect from the marvellous peasant the reticent dignity 
 of the gentleman who has been bred in the precejjts 
 and practice of " good form," and from the mosf 
 emotional, self-pitying, impulsive of men, and a con- 
 stitutional uttcrcr of big words, the nice balance of 
 responsibilities, and the even distribution of blame ? It 
 was, of course, not only unreasonable but downright 
 ridiculous that Carleton should hold his countrymen at 
 large responsible for his poverty, and rail at them in 
 VOL. I. ' d
 
 1 Introduction. 
 
 good set terms on that account ; but he could not see 
 this. The "fame'^ of which he writes so frankly (but 
 could not really value, his biographer tells us, while his 
 family were left to suffer distress) was the gift of the 
 people, though of his earning ; no doubt he thought 
 they ought to give him money too. We nowhere find 
 him saying this precisely, but what else do his upbraid- 
 ings imply ? His position was a very hard one ; he 
 could not believe that there was any approach to justice 
 in it, or any mingling of his own fault. As a matter of 
 fact, the hand-worker with a certainty that places him 
 above want is better off than the brain- worker whose 
 uncertainty keeps him below competence ; and it looks 
 as though Carleton was one of those readily-condemned 
 bad managers of money who never have enough money 
 to be managed at all. The constant and patient efforts 
 of his steadfast friends to lighten his burthens encourage 
 this view of the case. Carleton was a trying person in 
 many ways, and only a strong feeling that his great gifts 
 and his hard work were inadequately rewarded in the 
 material sense, could have enabled the practical men 
 whose education had gone so much farther than that 
 for which he had striven so hard, to bear with him, 
 notwithstanding his lovable qualities. He could not 
 be moderate, he could not be just, where his personal 
 feelings were concerned. With him everything was 
 "AH, or nothing;" no question in which he, Carleton, 
 was concerned could have two sides. We find a passage 
 in a letter written by Charles Gavan Duffy, on some 
 occasion when Carleton's unreasonableness had been 
 more obstreperous than usual, which must be borrowed 
 from Mr. O'Donoghue's pages, although the anticipa- 
 tion requires apology, because it combines judgment 
 and vindication after an exquisite fashion, and gives us 
 the key to much of the puzzling contrariety of Carleton's 
 character and career. *'In a gust of passion " (writes 
 the friend — who to the end never was other) "you are 
 one of the most unjust of men, and shut your eyes to 
 everything but your wrath. That is one side of the
 
 Introduction. li 
 
 account, but only one. No friend was ever firmer in 
 adversity, not swayed a hair's breadth by fear, favour or 
 worldliness — utterly ignoring all the small, shabby 
 motives that influence common men ; impregnable 
 against all things but the tempestuous fury of your 
 own passion" — a difficult person for his friends, 
 and surely not an easy one for his publishers. Yet, 
 when the story of his relations with some of the latter 
 is all told, and those among its readers who know 
 enough of the trade side of literature in the present day 
 to contrast their own experience of the dealings in the 
 market of buyers with sellers, have followed the narra- 
 tion with the painful interest which it must especially 
 have for them — for some among them compunctious 
 visitings too, for remembered grumblings — will any 
 find it in their hearts to pass harsh judgment on Carle- 
 ton ? They who knew him best in his closing years, 
 like those who had known him best at the dawn of his 
 grand and lustrous, though storm -swept and cloud- 
 flecked day, found it not in their hearts to do so. 
 
 The defects of his own qualities were made very 
 visible to the persons with whom he had business re- 
 lations, and he had no toleration for the defects of theirs. 
 His one-sided notions of a bargain, his unpunctuality, 
 his irregular ways (for although he did a tremendous 
 amount of work, he always put it off as long as possible, 
 generally did it in a hurry, and sometimes — if an Irishism 
 may be permitted — not at all) ; his eager acceptance of 
 offers from editors and publishers, and in several instances 
 his utter disregard of his promises in connection with 
 them ; the impossibility to him of keeping the personal 
 element out of his business transactions ; the practically 
 limited nature of his education — for it included neither 
 savoir /aire nor savoir vivrc — all these are writ large 
 upon the now open book of his history. His biographer 
 is animated by the natural desire to fit genius to ideal 
 character (without which for its breath a biography 
 might have the same sort of attraction as a gazet- 
 teer), but he has nowhere unduly yielded to it. It 
 
 d 2
 
 Hi Introduction. 
 
 cannot be said of Carleton's genius that it " was not 
 called upon to supply the cloak of charity," and Mr. 
 O'Donoghue demands of it no such service. But he 
 shows us the height and the splendour of that genius ; 
 he traces the marvel of it all along the way ; he 
 appraises its influence ; he sums up its achievements ; 
 he shows that it has left an inheritance to the ages in 
 the true portraiture of a terminated period and a vanished 
 people, in immortal scenes and types. He proves that 
 to the products of that genius, the writers, and the poets, 
 and the artists of the future must resort, in a good 
 company of others, indeed, but still with Carleton at the 
 head of them, if they would make true history, and real 
 lyrics, and live pictures of the people who dwelled in 
 the vales and on " the holy hills of Ireland,'' in the 
 beginning and the middle of the century that is closing 
 on a transformation of the world. 
 
 And shall this generation, who now are to make 
 acquaintance with the man who has hitherto lived for 
 it only in his works, be less indulgent to him than those 
 among whom he lived ? The Young Irelanders, whose 
 aspirations he was perfectly incapable of sharing, forgave 
 him even his apostacy! The touch of freedom of 
 thought, the spirit of private judgment, was abroad 
 in the air. After all, he was " our own " Carleton, 
 and we — the "we" of those dear, dead days — were all 
 proud of him. And so shall the readers of his "Life" 
 in the Old World and the New be proud of him now, and 
 those who come after them, for all that he was so very 
 human, and be much drawn to him inasmuch as he 
 certainly did not 'scape whipping ! 
 
 Carleton's Boanerges vein in his censure of aught he 
 disliked or disapproved, and his unstinted ascription of 
 supreme excellence to such persons, objects and 
 actions as pleased him, deprive his literary criticism of 
 value, but make it amusing in itself and also interest- 
 ing as an illustration of the man. Mr. O'Donoghue's 
 selection of illustrative examples in this sense is remark- 
 ably fortunate, and among the scanty material available
 
 Introduction. ^ liii 
 
 after the lapse of thirty years, he has found a treasure in 
 the letters which give us to view Carleton in his home life. 
 When the reader feels the charm of those letters, the 
 rich and ready humour, the quaint simplicity too, the 
 internal evidence of entire and intimate confidence 
 between the father, the mother, and the children, the 
 ardent affectionateness, the touching solicitude about 
 the sacred trifles of home, at tht (to us) little distance 
 of London from Dublin, while the writer is "seeing life " 
 in the centre of its activity for the first time ; the sly 
 domestic jokes and reminders, the constant demand for 
 letters, and more letters, from hischildren, and the wonder- 
 ful fire and light of thehearth and home that glow in those 
 he sends them — let him deepen his sense of all this, and 
 solemnize it too, by bearing in mind that in the writer's 
 home care dwelt constantly, but had no power to mar love, 
 or even to chill those outward and visible signs of that 
 divine gift and grace which make life sweet, anywhere 
 and anyhow. Unenviable would be the superior 
 person who should read with a sneer the wanderer's 
 account of his return, with his laurels — not much in the 
 way of " sheaves ^^ — and his idolized daughter's swoon 
 from joy. Carleton's love of home and family was a 
 strong and constant passion, and no writer has ever 
 depicted the same as it exists among the Irish peasantry 
 as he has done. It is that passion that gives their 
 terrible power to his scenes of wrong and oppression, of 
 misery and desolation, of revenge and crime. Another 
 of the gentle and gracious gifts which came in aid of 
 the rugged grandeur of Carleton's intellect, has given 
 him his supreme claim to the admiration, regard, and 
 gratitude of his countrywomen, of all conditions and 
 in every clime, and not alone to theirs, but also to 
 those sentiments in the breast of every Irishman worthy 
 of the name. Carleton is the interpreter to the world 
 of Irish womanhood — to him the purest, the loveliest, 
 the most sacred of ideals and realities. Nowhere, in 
 no books that ever have been written, are the women 
 whom Cailcton has made to live and move amid "the
 
 liv Introduction. 
 
 changing scenes of life," equalled, in all that constitutes 
 the moral beauty and sanctity of Woman. It is true that 
 he has also depicted wicked women, engaged in criminal 
 designs, defaced by evil passions, capable of evil deeds ; 
 but an unvirtuous woman, it would seem, among his 
 own country-folk, was unthinkable to this grand-souled 
 peasant. There are grave faults of taste in his works, 
 some coarseness of other kinds ; but the p.ire heart, and 
 the lofty reverence for virtue, which were the best 
 blessings that came to him from the humble home of 
 his childhood, never departed from Carleton. And, 
 therefore, mingling with their pride in his genius, and 
 their gladness in the revival of his fame which this gift 
 of his life-history to the world should awake in the 
 countrywomen of Carleton, there ought to be a great 
 tenderness for his memory, as for that of one to whom 
 hereditary gratitude is due; for he raised a lofty 
 standard for Irish women, and below it, please God, 
 they will never fall. 
 
 Some time before Carleton set to work on the 
 Autobiography, which was not to be finished, but after 
 he had had it in contemplation for a long period, he 
 addressed to Dr. Corry of Belfast a letter which is 
 perhaps the most valuable, as it is the most pathetic, of 
 all his biographer's collection. He had been unable to 
 do any work for two years, owing to ill-health, and was 
 threatened with blindness when he wrote as follows : — 
 
 " The only work I now propose to write is my life. I wish, if 
 possible, to accomplish this before my sight leaves me, although I 
 fear that I shall be obliged to dictate the greater part of it. It will 
 certainly be an important work, and will contain the general 
 history of Irish literature, including everything connected with it — 
 its origin, its progress, its decline, and its natural and progressive 
 exiension." 
 
 "The fine scope and comprehensiveness of his 
 project,^' says Mr. O'Donoghue, " make it a doubly 
 sensible mi.sfortune to his countr\' that only the intro- 
 ductory portion of that strange and moving history was 
 written " How wonderful the brain must have been
 
 Introduction. Iv 
 
 that planned it under such conditions, and produced, 
 under worse, the first volume of this work ! And then 
 he proceeds : — 
 
 '■ The only three names which Ireland can point to with pride are 
 Griffin's, Banim's, and — do not accuse me of vanity when I say 
 — my own. Banim and Griffin are gone, and I wdl soon follow 
 them — ultimus Roinanoriim, and after that will come a lull, an 
 obscurity of perhaps half a century, when anew condition of civil 
 society and a new phase of manners and habits among the people 
 — for this is a tyansitioii state — may introduce new fields and new 
 tastes for other writers, for in this manner the cycles of literature 
 and taste appear, hold their day, displace each other, and make 
 room for others." 
 
 His prophecy has proved true. We have had the 
 long lull, the big spell of obscurity, the dreary blank 
 years in Irish literature. Surely the time must be 
 nearly up, and the promise, after the prophecy, almost 
 due! There is a stirring and a sound in the air: the 
 revived interest in the old authors, the kindly welcome 
 j^iven to the new, are signs of the foretold renascence of 
 Irish literature. It will be a proud day for Ireland 
 v/hen among her sons she shall count one fit to wear 
 the long- time folded mantle of William Carleton, 
 
 Frances Casiiel Hoey.
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY OF WILLIAM CARLETON'S 
 
 WRITINGS. 
 
 The following is as full a bibliography of Carleton's 
 writings as I have been able to compile, the periodi- 
 cals in which they first appeared being specified in 
 every case. It does not give a complete idea of 
 the popularity of some of his books, for it is im- 
 possible to trace the number of editions and reprints 
 which have appeared of such works as the "Traits 
 and Stories," or "Valentine McClutchy," and the 
 smaller volumes written for the "Library of Ireland." 
 Moreover, the American reprints of Carleton's books 
 have been very numerous, and no account is taken 
 of them here, from the difficulty of fixing their dates. 
 There are two publications attributed to Carleton which 
 are not included in this Bibliography. I have never been 
 able to meet with a copy of either. One is " The 
 Freeholders of Derrygola," which the Rev. Dr. Wallace 
 Taylor, rector of Emyvale, Co. Monaghan, tells me is 
 believed in the Carleton country to be the earliest thing 
 he ever wrote. The other is " The Natural History of the 
 Hawk Tribe," which the A theticBum reviewed about 1847 
 as a (then recent) production by Carleton, and dismisses 
 in a few words as of no particular merit. No particulars 
 are given, and the work is not mentioned in any other
 
 Iviii BiBLIOGRArilY OF CARLETON'S WRITINGS. 
 
 place ; nor do the surviving daughters of Carleton 
 ever remember having heard of such a pubHcation. 
 With these exceptions, and the contributions to the 
 WestvieatJi Guardian, everything really written by him 
 is probably noted. 
 
 1828. 
 
 The Pilgrimage to Lough Derg. " Christian Examiner." 
 The Broken Oath. " Christian Examiner." 
 Father Butler. " Christian Examiner." 
 Poems. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 1829. 
 
 The Station. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 The Death of a Devotee. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 Dick Magrath. " Family Magazine." 
 
 Father Butler — The Lough Derg Pilgrim, (i vol , Dub., i2mo.) 
 
 1830. 
 
 The Brothers. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 The Priest's Funeral. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 Lachlin Murray and the Blessed Candle. "Christian Examiner." 
 
 The Lianhan Shee. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 1830-31. 
 
 Alley Sheridan, or the Runaway Marriage. " National Magazine." 
 Landlord and Tenant. '' National Magazine." 
 Condy Cullen and the Gauger. " National Magazine." 
 Sir Turlough, or the Churchyard Bride. " National Magazine." 
 Laying a Ghost. "National Magazine.'' 
 v^ie Donagh, or the Horse-stealers. " National Magazine." 
 
 1830. 
 
 Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. (First series, 2 vols , 
 with illustrations by W. H. Brooke, Dub., 8vo.) The contents 
 were: — Ned McKeown ; Three Tasks; Shari^^adh's Wed- 
 ding ; Larry McFariand's Wake ; The Battle of the Factions ; 
 The Party Fight and Funeral ; The'^edge School ; The 
 Station; The Midnight Mass; TheVCfonagh ; Phil Puree! 
 the Pig-driver ; and the Lianhan Shee. 
 
 J '^^'• 
 
 Denn s O'Shaughnessy going to Maynooth. " Christian Examiner." 
 
 History of a Chimney Sweep. -Christian E.xaminer.'' 
 
 Thi Materialist. " Christian Examiner."
 
 Bibliography of Carleton's Writings, lix 
 
 / iS33- 
 
 Neal IV^lone. " Dublin University Review and Quarterly." 
 The Dream of a Broken Heart. " Dublin University Review and 
 ^ Quarterly." ^oA '' 
 
 ^<lie Dead Boxer. " Dublin University Magazine." \^.40 //'j3'3 Vd-G* 
 Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantr}^ (Second series, 3 vols., 
 Dub., 8vo.) Containing— The Geography of an Irish Oath ; 
 Dennis O'Sh^ghnessy going to Maynooth ; The Pooq^ 
 Scholar ; Phelim O'Toole's Courtship ; Tubber Derg, or 
 the Red Well ; Wild Goos^Lodge ; and NeaVlVlalone. 
 
 iB34. 
 VOia Dhu, or the Dark Day. " Dublin University Magazine." 
 Tales of Ireland (i vol., Dub., 8vo., with illustrations by Brooke), 
 containing the following stories : — The Death of a Devotee ; 
 The Priest's Funeral ; Lachlin Murray and the Blessed 
 Candle ; Neal Malone ; The Dream of a Broken Pleart ; 
 The Illicit Distiller ; and The Brothers. 
 
 1836. 
 
 V^tlne Sinclair, or the Fawn of Springvale. " Dublin University 
 Magazine." 
 
 1837- 
 Traits and Stories, German translation. (3 vols., Leipzig, 8vo.) 
 
 1837-38- 
 .^^^Fardorougha the Miser, or the Convicts of Lisnamona " Dublin 
 University Magazine." 
 
 1838. 
 
 Rickard the Rake, in three Snatches. "Dublin University 
 
 Magazine." 
 I'arney Brady's Goose, or Dark Doings at Slathbeg. " Dubhn 
 
 University Magazine.'' 
 The Rev. Blackthorn McFlail. (?) " Dublin University Magazine." 
 
 1839. 
 Fardorougha. (i vol.. Dub.. 8vo,) 
 Father Butler — the Lough Derg Pilgrim, (i vol., sec. ed , Dub., 
 
 8vo.) 
 T he Three Wishes. " Dublin University Magazine." 
 
 1840. 
 
 The Irish Fiddler. " Irish Penny Journal."' 
 
 The Country Dancing Master. "Irish Penny Journal." 
 
 Bob Penlland, or the Gauger Outwitted. " Irish Penny Journal."
 
 ]\ BlBLICGRAniY OF CARLETON'S WRITINGS. 
 
 'I'he Irish Matchmaker. " Irish Penny Journal."' 
 Ir.sh Superstitions— Ghosts and Fairies— The Rival Kempers. 
 " Irish Penny Journal." 
 
 1840-41. 
 
 The Irish Midwife, otherwise called " Rose Moan," and latterly 
 "Dandy Kehoe's Christening." "Irish Penny Journal" 
 (illustrated by MacManus). 
 
 Irish Superstitions— Ghosts and Fairies. " Iiish Penny Journal." 
 
 The Foster Brothe--. "Irish Penny Journal." 
 
 The Irish Shanahus— Tom Grassiey. "Irish Penny Journal" 
 
 (illustrated by MacManus). 
 The Castle of Aughentain, or a Legend of the Brown Goat. 
 
 " Irish Penny Journal." 
 The Irish Prophecy man. " Irish Penny Journal." 
 'Ihe Misfortunes of Barney Branagan. "Dublin University 
 
 Magazine." 
 ^he Fawn of Springvale, or Jane Sinclair, and other tales — 
 
 including Lha Dhu, The Dead Boxer, and The Clarionet. 
 
 (2 vols., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 1842-43- 
 Traits and Stories. (In numbers, with illustrations by Phiz, 
 Wrightson, Gibson, Lee, Franklin, MacManus, Harvey, and 
 Gilbert afterwards published in 2 vols , London and Dublin, 
 Svo.) 
 
 1843. 
 
 Articles in " Nation '' on Banim and Lever. 
 
 1845. 
 N^alentine McClutchy, the Irish Agent, or Chronicles of the Castle 
 Cumber Property. (3 vols., l3ub. 8vo., with plates by Phiz.) 
 Rody the Rover, or the Ribbonman. (i vol., Dublin, i2mo.) 
 Parra Sastha, or the History of Paddy Go-Easy and his wife 
 
 Nancy, (i vol.. Dub., i2mo.) 
 Tales and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, (i vol.. Dub., Svo., with 
 illustrations by Phiz.) Contains, besides the stories in the 
 "Irish Penny Journal," the following: The Fate of Frank 
 McKenna ; A Legend of Knockmany ; Talbot and Gaynor, 
 the Irish Pipers ; Moll Roe's Marriage, or the Pudding- 
 Bewitched ; The Three Wishes ; Condy Cullen, or the Excise- 
 man Defeated; The Irish Rake ; A Record of the Heart, 
 or the Parent's Trial ; and Stories of Second-sight and 
 Apparitions. 
 Lfs Chroniques de Chateau Cumber — French version of \'alentine 
 McClutchy. " L'Univers '
 
 Bibliography of Carleton's Writings. Ixi 
 
 1846. 
 
 v^Valentine McClutchy, etc , with the Solemn Aspirations of 
 ^ Solomon McSlime, the Religious Attorney, (i vol., Dub.,8vo.) 
 ^-^^rdorougha the Miser. (Another edition, i vol., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 ^T he Black Prophet, a tale of the Famine. " Dublin University 
 Magazine." 
 
 1847. 
 
 O'Sullivan's Love, a Legend of Edenmore. "Dublin University 
 
 Magazine." 
 An Irish Election in the Times of the Forties. " Dublin University 
 
 Magazine." 
 Life and Labours of a Catholic Curate. (?) "Duffy's Irish Catholic 
 
 Magazine." 
 Art Maguire, or the Broken Pledge, (i vol., Dublin, i2mo.) 
 The Emigrants of Ahadarra. (i vol., Belfast and London, 8vo.) 
 v^he Black Prophet, (i vol., Belfast, 8\o.) 
 
 1848. 
 Oahe Evil Eye. A portion only, in '' Irish Tribune." 
 
 1849. 
 
 N^^e Sinclair, or the Fawn of Springvale ; and The Dark Day. 
 
 (Another edition, London, i2mo.) 
 "^he Tithe Proctor, (i vol., Belfast, 8vo.) 
 
 Tales and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. (Another edition, i vol., 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 1850. 
 
 Black and all Black. " Illustrated London News." 
 The Clarionet, The Dead Boxer, and Barney Branagan. (i vol., 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 vWilly Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. " Independent "' 
 newspaper, London. 
 
 1851. 
 
 Tales and Stories of the Irish Peas'antry. (Another edition, i vol., 
 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 The Squanders of Castle Squander. " Illustrated London News.' 
 
 1852. 
 
 Red Hall, or the Baronet's Daughter. (3 vols., London, 8vo.) 
 The Squanders of Castle Sc|uander. (2 vols., London, 8vo.) 
 '1 he Fair of Emyvale. " Illustrated London Magazine.' 
 
 1853. 
 Master and Scholar. " Illustrated London Magazine." 
 The Silver Acre. '* Illustrated London Magazine."
 
 Ixii Bibliography of Carleton's Writings. 
 
 Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. (Another ed., illustrated 
 by •' Phiz," London, 5 vols ) 
 
 vJWilly Reilly and his dear Co'.leen Bawn. (Much amplified, 3 vols., 
 
 London, 8vo ) 
 Willy Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. (Second revised 
 
 edition, i vol., Dublin and Enniskillen, 8vo.) 
 Tsedat me Vitee (poem). " Nation." 
 Fair Gurtha, or the Hungry Grass. "Dublin University 
 
 Magazine." 
 The King's Thief. " Commercial Journal," Dublin. 
 
 1857. 
 ^il'y Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. (Another edition, i vol , 
 
 Dublin, 8vo ) 
 The Emigrants, (i vol., London, 8vo.) 
 yjihe Black Baronet, or Chronicles of Ballytrain. (This is " Red 
 Hall" under another name, and somewhat levised — i vol., 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 ^Fardorougha. (Another edition, i vol., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 Alley Sheridan, or the Runaway Marriage, and other stories. 
 (Reprinted from the "JNational Magazine" of 1830, i vol., 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 Peter Nipple, the Noggin Weaver. " Nation." 
 
 1858. 
 \Jphe Black Baronet. (Another edition, i vol., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 1859. 
 VYalentine McClutchy. (Another edition, i vol., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 i860. 
 
 Tales and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, (Another edition, i vol., 
 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 V^he Evil Eye, or the Black Spectre, (x vol., Dublin, 8vo., with 
 
 illustrations by Fitzpatrick.) 
 The Man with the Black Eye. " Duffy's Hibernian Magazine." 
 The Rapparee. "Duffy's Hibernian Magazine.'' 
 Utrum Horum ? or the Vengeance of Shaun Roe na Soggarth. 
 
 " Dublin University Magazine." 
 
 1861. 
 
 The Double Prophecy, or Trials of the Heart. " Duffy's Hibernian 
 
 Magazine." 
 Romans Irlandais. French translation, by L. De Wailly, of 
 
 three tales from Traits and Sto:ies. (i vol., Paris, 8vo.)
 
 Bibliography of Carleton's Writings. Ixiii 
 
 The Miller of Mohill. " Illustrated Dublin Journal '' (with illustra- 
 tions by Fitzpatrick). 
 
 1862. 
 
 Redmond Count O'Hanlon.the Irish Rapparee. (i vol., Dublin, 8-. o.) 
 This is The Rapparee, reprinted from "Duffy's Hibernian 
 Magazine." 
 The Silver Acre, and other tales, (i vol., London, 8vo.) 
 The Double Prophecy, or Trials of the Heart. (2 vols., Dublin, 
 8vo.) 
 
 1863. 
 
 he Evil Eve, or the Black Spectre. (.Another edition, i vol., 
 Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 1864. 
 
 Traits and Stories. (Fifth complete illustrated edition, 2 vols. 
 London, 8vo.) 
 
 1865. 
 
 L'CEil Mauvais, ou le Spectre Noir. (" The Evil Eye," m French, 
 I vol., Paris, 8vo.) 
 
 1868. 
 
 The Weird Woman of Tavniemore, or Milking the TetViers, a tale 
 of witchcraft. " Shamrock '' (illustrated by Edw. Shiel). 
 
 1869. 
 The Romance of Instinct. " Shamrock." 
 
 1870. 
 
 The Red-Haired Man's Wife. " Carlow College Magazine." 
 The Fair of E my vale — The Master and Scholar, (i vol., 
 London, 8vo.) 
 
 1873- 
 
 The Squanders of Castle Squander. (Another edition, i vol., 
 London, 8vo.) 
 
 1876. 
 Traits and Stories, (nth complete edition, i vol., London, Svo.) 
 
 1878. 
 
 vWilly Reilly and his dear Colleen Bawn. (Fortieth edition, i vol., 
 Dublin, Svo.)
 
 Ixiv Bibliography of Carleton's Writings. 
 
 1881. 
 
 Traits and Stories. (Another edition, i vol., London, 8vo.) 
 
 1889. 
 The Red-Haired Man's Wife, (i vol., Dublin, 8vo.) 
 
 1895. 
 
 X/Fardororgha the Miser ("Irish Novelist's Library" — another 
 edition, with portrait), i vol., London, 8vo. 
 
 Unpublished Novel — Anne Cosgrave, or Chronicles of Silver 
 Bum.
 
 LIFE OF WILLIAM CARLETON. 
 
 PART THE FIRST.— AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Birthplace— McManus's mislealing picture — Parentage— The 
 legends of the elder Carleton — Mrs. Carleton's son^s— 
 Catholic to'erance— Removal from Prillisk— Carleton goes to 
 school— The hedge schoolmaster — State of education. 
 
 Alas ! it is a melancholy task which I propose to 
 execute — the narrative of such a continued and 
 unbroken series of struggle, difficulty, suffering and 
 sorrow as has seldom fallen to the lot of a literary man. 
 Indeed, there was something peculiarly calamitous in 
 my fate, because it was to a disaster, which would 
 have ruined the hopes and prospects of any other man, 
 that I owe my fame. This the reader will understand 
 in the due course of time. Goldsmith says that 
 poverty is the nurse of genius — but Goldsmith, much 
 and enthusiastically as I admire him, has said in this 
 case what every man of experience feels to be untrue. 
 The metaphor, indeed, is a poetical one, but he would 
 have come nearer the truth had he said that poverty 
 is the slave-driver who, with whip in hand, scourges 
 the slave into the performance of tasks which 
 otherwise he would never have thought of attempt- 
 ing. I think he would have spoken more truly had 
 he said that poverty, in general, is rather the meed 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 or reward than the nurse of genius ; he says as much of 
 poetry. This, however, is a question upon which men 
 will differ, and on that account I will at once dismiss 
 it. All I have to say is, that in the events which I 
 am about to detail, especially those of my later life, 
 the reader may expect nothing but the strictest and 
 most conscientious truth. This truth, in some instances, 
 will cause many who are now alive to rest uncomfortably 
 in their beds, and as its expression is the only retribu- 
 tion which I can now exact for all the unknown 
 distress and sorrow which their dishonesty has caused 
 me and my family to suffer, I consider it a solemn duty 
 to literature and literary men not to conceal it. To do 
 so would be to connive at their guilt. 
 
 With these introductory observations I commence 
 
 ,«"iy narrative. 
 
 I was born on Shrove Tuesday, the 20th of 
 February, 1794, in the townland of Prillisk, in the 
 Parish of Clogher, County Tyrone. Prillisk is dis- 
 tant about three quarters of a mile from the town, or 
 as it was formerly termed, the City of Clogher. It is 
 only a half town, having but one row of streets, and 
 contains not more I think than from two hundred and 
 fifty to three hundred inhabitants. Small and insignifi- 
 
 .cant-looking, however, as it seems, it is the ecclesiastical 
 metropolis of the diocese to which it gives its name. 
 Before the Union it returned a Member to the Irish 
 Parliament, and one of the last that sat for it was the 
 late Sir Jonah Barrington.^ It is, or rather was, the 
 residence of the Bishops of Clogher, and the palace, 
 
 • Author of " The Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation," " Personal 
 Sketches of his own Times," etc., who died at Versailles on April 
 8th, 1834.
 
 Clogher and Prillisk. 3 
 
 which they occupied for about a month or six weeks 
 every year, is a very fine building, to which a beautiful 
 demesne and an extensive deer-park are attached. The 
 diocese of Clogher is one of those which have been 
 struck out of the list, and very properly, for to my own 
 knowledge its wealthy bishops were always absentees. 
 The people were of opinion that it was worth between 
 thirteen and fourteen thousand a year. The name of 
 Clogher is, I believe, of Druidical origin, — the word 
 Clogh-air or or signifying a " golden stone." The tra- 
 dition is, that in far gone times it was a city of great 
 extent. The cathedral is a plain building, with a large 
 graveyard, as usual, attached to it. In this the bodies 
 of mostly every individual in the parish, no matter 
 of what the sect or creed, are buried. There 
 is, or was, an upright rude-looking stone in it^ 
 marked with characters which, it is said, no one has 
 ever yet been able to decipher. Whether they are 
 Ogham or not I cannot say, as I never happened to 
 have seen them. The only other public building it 
 contains is a Quarter Sessions Courthouse, near which 
 is a pair of stocks, an ornament which was not in 
 existence until after I had left the parish. 
 
 Prillisk is a small, flat, uninteresting townland with 
 very few inhabitants, and all poor. The humble house 
 in which I was born has not had one stone upon another 
 for at least forty years. Notwithstanding this, that 
 clever artist, Henry McManus ' — who was sent about 
 twenty-five years ago by Messrs. Curry and Orr to 
 
 ' Henry McManus, R.H.A., was one of the illustrators of the 
 1842 edition of the •' Traits and Stories.'' He was a Monaghan 
 man, who was afterwards master of the Art Schools held in 
 Somerset House, London. He died in 1S7S. A couple of his 
 drawings are in the South Kensington collection. 
 
 H 2
 
 4 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 make sketches of the scenery described in my works — 
 took the Hberty of giving, from his own imagination, as 
 vile-looking a hovel as ever sheltered a human being ; 
 and this he calls " Carleton's Birthplace." Now I trust 
 I am not animated by any unbecoming pride respecting 
 my origin. I have publicly stated that, like that of far 
 greater men, it was beyond doubt humble, but then it 
 was unquestionably respectable. As for Prillisk, I 
 barely recollect our residence in it, but I remember the 
 cottage in which I was born. It was a long, low house 
 with a kitchen as you enter, and two other rooms, one 
 at each side of it. That is all I recall about it, with the 
 exception of a circumstance which will be generally 
 admitted to be a most extraordinary effect of memory, 
 I remember being carried in my mother's arms to a 
 wedding, or a feast of some kind — because the image 
 that remains is a set of tables covered with food placed 
 one after another, at which a large number of men and 
 women, young and old, sat enjoying themselves. I 
 suppose the depth of the impression was occasioned by 
 the novelty of what I saw. 
 
 I was the youngest of fourteen children — seven sons 
 and seven daughters — and I was born no less than five 
 years after my next eldest brother, John. Six of my 
 brothers and sisters had died before I ever saw the 
 light. The fact of such an unusual period of time having 
 elapsed between my birth and that of my brother John, 
 gave rise to many odd conjectures. Some said it was 
 a proof that I was destined for something great and 
 extraordinary. Others, on the contrary, shook their 
 heads, and expressed a fear that it might be the 
 oiher way. They admitted it was very remarkable, 
 certainly, but as Shrove Tuesday was my birthday, and
 
 Predictions. 5 
 
 as Shrove Tuesday was the commencement of Lent, a 
 period of penance, fasting, and mortification, they feared 
 that it foreboded a life of suffering and privation ; *'or 
 who knows but the boy might become a saint, and 
 instruct them in the application of those severe self- 
 chastisements necessary to subdue sin." In fact, super- 
 stition was at work, and in the spirit of prophecy 
 shadowed forth my future fate. I can add nothing 
 to what I have said of my father and mother, in the 
 autobiographical preface to the large post octavo 
 illustrated edition of " Traits and Stories of the Irish 
 Peasantry," published by the houses of Curry and Orr 
 about thirty years ago.^ From that I select the follow- 
 ing description of each : — - 
 
 " My father, indeed, was a very humble man, but in 
 consequence of his unaffected piety and stainless in- 
 tegrit}' of principle, he was held in high esteem by 
 all who knew him, no matter what their rank might be. 
 When the state of education in Ireland during his youth 
 and that of my mother is considered, it will not be a 
 matter of surprise that what education they did receive 
 was very limited. It would be difficult, however, if not 
 impossible, to find two persons in their lowly station 
 so highly and singularly gifted. My father possessed 
 a memory not merely great or surprising, but absolutely 
 astonishing. He would repeat nearly the whole of the 
 Old and New Testaments by heart, and was besides 
 a living index to almost every chapter and verse 
 in them. In all other respects, too, his memory was 
 amazing. My native place was a spot rife with 
 
 * This work appeared in numbers in 1842, was afterwards 
 republi-^hed in two volumes m 1843-44, and has been rep:inted 
 several times.
 
 6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 old legends, tales, traditions, customs and super- 
 stitions, so that in my early youth, even beyond the 
 walls of my own humble roof, they met me in every 
 direction. It was at home, however, and from my 
 father's lips in particular, that they were perpetually 
 sounding in my ears. In fact, his memory was a perfect 
 storehouse, and a rich one, of all that the social 
 antiquary, the man of letters, the poet, or the musician 
 would consider valuable. As a narrator of old tales, 
 legends, and historical anecdotes he was unrivalled, and 
 his stock of them inexhaustible. He spoke the Irish 
 and English languages with equal fluency. With all 
 kinds of charms, old ranns, or poems, old prophecies, 
 religious superstitions, tales of pilgrims, miracles and 
 pilgrimages, anecdotes of blessed priests and friars, 
 revelations from ghosts and fairies, he was thoroughly 
 acquainted. And so strongly were all these impressed 
 upon my mind by frequent repetition on his part, that 
 I have hardly ever since heard, during a tolerably 
 enlarged intercourse with Irish society, both educated 
 and uneducated — with the antiquary, the scholar, or 
 the humble seanachie, — any single tradition, legend, or 
 usage, that, so far as I can at present recollect, was 
 perfectly new to me or unheard before in some similar 
 or cognate dress. This is certainly saying much, but I 
 believe I may assert with confidence that I could pro- 
 duce, in attestation of its truth, the names of Petrie, 
 Sir William Betham, Ferguson, and O'Donovan, the 
 most distinguished antiquaries, both of social usages 
 and otherwise, that ever Ireland produced. What 
 rendered this, however, of such peculiar advantage to 
 me as a literary man was, that I heard them as often, 
 if not oftener, in the Irish language as in the English ;
 
 Mary Kelly. 7 
 
 a circumstance which enabled me in my writings to 
 transfer the genius, the idiomatic peculiarity and con- 
 versational spirit of the one language into the other, 
 precisely as the people themselves do in their dialogues, 
 whenever the heart or imagination happens to be moved 
 by the darker or better passions. 
 
 Having thus stated faithfully without either addition 
 or diminution a portion, and a portion only, of what I 
 owe to one parent, I cannot overlook the debt of 
 gratitude which is due to the memory of the other. 
 
 My mother, whose maiden name was Kelly — Mary 
 Kelly — possessed the sweetest and most exquisite of 
 human voices. In her early life, I have often been told 
 by those who had heard her sing, that any previous in- 
 timation of her presence at a wake, dance, or other festive 
 occasion, was sure to attract crowds of persons, many from 
 a distance of several miles, in order to hear from her lips 
 the touching old airs of the country. No sooner was it 
 known that she would attend any such meeting, than 
 the news spread through the neighbourhood like wild- 
 fire, and the people flocked from all parts to hear her^ 
 just as the fashionable world do now when the name 
 of some eminent songstress is announced in the papers 
 — with this difference, that upon such occasions, the 
 voice of the one falls only upon the cultivated ear,, 
 whilst that of the other falls deeply upon the untutored 
 heart. She was not so well acquainted with the English 
 tongue as my father, although she spoke it with suffi- 
 cient ease for all the purposes of life ; and for this reason 
 among others she generally gave the old Irish versions 
 of the songs in question rather than the English ones. 
 This, however, as I said, was not her sole motive. In 
 the first place, she had several old songs which, at that
 
 8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 time — and I believe, too, I may say at this — had never 
 been translated ; and I very much fear that some 
 valuable ones, both as to words and airs, have perished 
 with her. Thus it is, that many rich relics of both 
 music and poetry have been lost to us for ever. Her 
 family, however, had all been imbued with a poetical 
 spirit, and some of her immediate ancestors composed 
 in the Irish tongue several fine old songs and airs, just 
 as Carolan did — that is, some in praise of a patron or 
 a friend, and others to celebrate rustic beauties who 
 had been long sleeping in the dust. For this reason, 
 she had many old compositions that were peculiar to 
 her family, which I am afraid could not now be pro- 
 cured at all, and are consequently lost. I think her 
 uncle, and I believe her grandfather, who were long 
 dead before my time, were the authors of several Irish 
 poems and songs, because I know that some of them 
 she sang and others she only recited. 
 
 Independently of this, she had a prejudice against 
 singing the Irish airs to English words ; an old custom 
 of the country was thereby invaded, and an association 
 disturbed which habit had rendered dear to her. I re- 
 member on one occasion when she was asked to sing 
 the English version of that touching melody, " The 
 Red-haired Man's Wife," she replied, " I will sing it for 
 you, but the English words and the air are like a 
 man and his wife quarrelling — the Irish melts into the 
 tune but the English doesn't " — an expression scarcely 
 less remarkable for its beauty than its truth. She spoke 
 the words in Irish. 
 
 This gift of singing, with such sweetness and power, 
 the old sacred songs and airs of Ireland, was not the 
 only one for which she was remarkable. Perhaps there
 
 Mary Kelly's " Keen." 9 
 
 never lived a human being capable of giving the Irish 
 cry or keeji with such exquisite effect, or of pouring into 
 its wild notes a spirit of such irresistible pathos and 
 sorrow. I have often been present when she has " raised 
 the keen " — as it is called — over the corpse of some 
 relative or neighbour, and my readers may judge of the 
 melancholy charm which accompanied this expression 
 of her sympathy, when I assure them, that the general 
 clamour of violent grief was gradually diminished by 
 admiration, until it became ultimately hushed, and no 
 voice was heard but her own wailing, in sorrowful but 
 solitary beauty. This pause, it is true, was never long, 
 for however great might be the admiration which sb.e 
 excited, the hearts of those who heard her soon melted, 
 and mere strangers were forced to confess her influence, 
 by the tears which she caused them to shed for those 
 whose deaths could in no way have affected them. I 
 am the youngest, as I said, of fourteen children, and of 
 course could never have heard her until age and the 
 struggles of life had robbed her voice of its sweetness. I 
 heard enough, however, from her blessed lips to set my 
 heart to an almost painful perception of the spirit 
 that steeps these fine old songs in a tenderness which 
 no other music possesses. Many a time of a winter 
 night, when seated at her spinning wheel singing the 
 "Trougha,''' or"Shuil Agra," or some other old "song of 
 sorrow," have I, then little more than a child, gone over 
 to her, and with a broken voice and eyes charged with 
 tears, whispered : " Mother dear, don't sing that song — 
 it makes me sorrowful." She then usually stopped, and 
 sang some other which I liked better, because it affected 
 
 '' The Green Woods of Truagh " is the name this air is 
 known by.
 
 10 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 me less. At this day I am in possession of Irish airs 
 which none of our best antiquaries in Irish music have 
 ever heard, except through me, and of which neither 
 they nor I myself know the names. 
 
 Such, gentle reader, were my humble parents, under 
 whose untaught but natural genius, setting all other 
 advantages aside, it is not to be wondered at that my 
 heart should have been so completely moulded into that 
 spirit and those feelings which characterize my country 
 and her children. 
 
 I cannot here overlook a circumstance, as I have been 
 told it, connected with my baptism, which is not un- 
 common in Ireland, and is indicative of a very liberal 
 feeling upon the part of its Catholic population. One of 
 my godmothers was a Miss Jane Barnet, daughter of a 
 respectable Presbyterian farmer, who lived about four 
 or five hundred yards from us. Now, considering the 
 strict notions entertained by members of the Church of 
 Rome, especially respecting exclusive salvation, in which 
 they are of course firm believers,^ I think it was a 
 great stretch of liberality on the part of my family to 
 allow a non-Catholic female of any class to stand god- 
 mother for me. There was a remedy for this, however. 
 Whenever, as in the case of Jane Barnet, such an honour 
 — for such it is considered — as that of standing for a 
 Catholic child is conferred upon a Protestant, whether 
 man or woman, there are always two godmothers or two 
 godfathers, as the case may be — that is, a Catholic and 
 a Protestant — and of course it is the Catholic who is 
 looked upon as the real sponsor. God help us ! What 
 liberal-minded man can avoid smiling at this? 
 
 ' The belief in exclusive salvation is not peculiar to the Catholic 
 Church, as this passage might imply.
 
 TOWNEY. I I 
 
 How long we had lived in Prillisk before my birth I 
 know not ; but I know we did not live long there after- 
 wards. We removed to a small village about a mile 
 beyond, in a southern direction, the name of which is 
 Tonagh, or as it is usually called, Towney. Here we 
 remained for several years, and here, young as I 
 was, I enjoyed much happiness from the striking 
 character of the scenery. Indeed, ever since I re- 
 member I was a most enthusiastic admirer of the 
 beauties of landscape, and have made, I might almost 
 say during my childhood, strange little excursions to 
 different parts of the more distant neighbourhood 
 for the purpose of seeing places which I had heard 
 people praise as being pretty. Many an alarm have I 
 inflicted on my family by those dreamy excursions. I 
 may well say dreamy, for they now appear to me like 
 dim and far-ofif visions, which althouj;h full of ideal 
 beauty, not unfrequently bring the tears to my eyes 
 when I am alone — but that is because I was happy then 
 for the first and only time. 
 
 It was while we lived in Towney that I was first sent 
 to school. I remember the occasion well. I could not 
 have been more than six or seven years of age, and 
 until that day I had never seen a letter of the alphabet. 
 The reader may judge of the surprise of my family^ 
 when they found on my return that I had not only 
 learned the alphabet, both large letters and small, but 
 had actually got as far as b-a-g — bag. The master was 
 the celebrated Pat Fraj-ne, a Connaught man who had 
 been a '^poor scholar" in his youth, but who afterwards 
 sat for the picture of the redoubtable Mat Kavanagh in 
 my sketch of" The Hedge School." That ' was my first 
 
 i.e. the spelling lesson.
 
 12 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 effort at literature, and my last for some years with Pat. 
 It was his first day of opening the school, and also his 
 last in Towney. He had only three scholars, my brother 
 John, a boy named Sam Nelson, and myself; this dis- 
 heartened him — he left the neighbourhood, and did not 
 reappear for four or five years. 
 
 Ireland about this period was in a most sad and piti- 
 able state in consequence of a dearth of schoolmasters. 
 Education was utterly disregarded by the successive ad- 
 ministrations of the day ; the unfortunate people, conse- 
 quently, had no schools to which they could send their 
 children. It was this condition of education in the 
 north which occasioned so many poor scholars to be sent 
 to the south, especially to Kerry. 
 
 Our neighbourhood was now in a most deplorable 
 state with respect to education, or rather the want of it. 
 In the wealthy and extensive property of Aughentain, 
 and the rich townlands adjoining it on all sides, there 
 were farmers, mjany, indeed most of them, the descend- 
 ants of the settlers of James's time, who were worth 
 thousands of pounds. Some of them died with eight, or 
 ten, or twelve safely locked up in their strong boxes, 
 instead of placing them out at interest and allowing them 
 to fructify. These men had daughters, some of them 
 fine young women, yet they never thought of sending 
 them to boarding schools, or procuring governesses 
 for them, although they could well afford it.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Mrs. Uumont's school— Jack Stuart's barn — Carleton falls in love 
 ^Expu'sion from school— Findramore — Pat Frayne's academy 
 at Skelgy — Pat's anecdotes— Sam Ne'son's joke — Pat's m-^de 
 of correction— How to obain provisions — The egg trick 
 
 About a year after Pat Frayne had left Towney, a 
 lady's school was opened in the next townland to us, 
 called Kark. The mistress of this school and her 
 daughter Mary Anne were two remarkable persons. The 
 old lady's name was Dumont, or Mrs. Dumow as she 
 was called — and certainly a true Irish lady she might 
 be termed. She was a tall, aged woman, always 
 dressed in black ; and a female so dignified and 
 lofty in her manners I have never since looked upon. 
 In fact, she had the bearing of an empress ; and never 
 did Mrs. Siddons, in the queenliest and grandest of 
 her characters, surpass her in tlie dignity and stage 
 effect of her deportment. Not that there was a single 
 syllable or motion or tone of stage effect either in her 
 voice or manner — both were natural and peculiar to her 
 birth and educaion. She had spent a good deal of her 
 time in France, where she was married to a distinguished 
 Frenchman named Dumont, who unfortunately perished 
 in the Revolution, having lost all his property, and 
 leaving his wife and daughter to return to Ireland 
 absolute beggars. A prouder woman prob ibly never
 
 14 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 lived, but every one knew that there was none of that 
 high spirit affected. Nor was this surprising. One 
 half her blood was that of the Maguire, and the other 
 that of the O'Neil ; a rare amalgamation in Irish veins. 
 Although proud, she was very popular, and was abso- 
 lutely worshipped by the lower classes of the Catholics. 
 Everyone respected her. The wealthiest Protestant 
 or Presbyterian would most respectfully raise his hat to 
 her, whilst priest and parson treated her as if she 
 were the lady of the land. 
 
 Here now is what will strike my readers with sur- 
 prise, especially at the barbarous ignorance and 
 penurious spirit of those wealthy descendants of James 
 the First's planters. To this lady — for a lady she 
 was — the education of their daughters had been en- 
 trusted, and though numerous and wealthy, they never 
 once thought of building her a residence or a school- 
 house. So far from that, her only place for giving in- 
 struction was a barn, and that only during the summer 
 months — and indeed she was scarcely two seasons in the 
 same barn. She and her daughter went from house to 
 house among her wealthy benefactors, and such was 
 the generous hospitality she received at their hands, that 
 I admit neither of them had much reason to regret 
 a want of residence for their own comfort ; still they 
 were unsettled, and often regretted the want of a home. 
 One peculiarity of Mrs. Dumont's I must mention — 
 but whether it was compatible with the dignified habits 
 of a lady in those days I cannot say — she was an in- 
 veterate snuff-taker. The conversation between herself 
 and her daughter was held in French, except while 
 residing with their friends, in whose presence they were 
 seldom known to speak that language. Her maiden name
 
 Mrs. Dumont. 15 
 
 was Maguire ; she was a relation of the celebrated 
 Maguires of Fermanagh. 
 
 When Pat Frayne left Towney there was no other 
 male school in the neighbourhood to which I could be 
 sent. In the adjoining townland of Kark, however, in 
 a barn — of which I shall have more to say hereafter — 
 Mrs. Dumont kept her school, attended by the young 
 ladies to whom I have already alluded. Their ages 
 ranged from five to eighteen, and some of them 
 were extremely beautiful. Now Mrs. Dumont was in 
 the habit of calling during after working-hours at my 
 father's house, and as the reader is already aware, from 
 the character which I have given of him, he was the 
 only man in his station of life capable of holding any- 
 thing like an interesting conversation with her : on 
 this account she ultimately became a regular evening 
 visitor. I was generally present, and it so happened 
 that whilst my father was entertaining her with some 
 old Irish tale or legend, she began to notice the extra- 
 ordinary attention with which I listened to their con- 
 versation. This directed her attention to me, and 
 after some inquiries about my disposition and intel- 
 lect, she desired my father to send me to her school, 
 which she then kept in our neighbour Jack Stuart's 
 barn. 
 
 I must give a description of that barn, which, as 
 Jack Stuart was an extensive farmer, was a very large 
 one. A road leading up to Aughentain went past it, or 
 rather past the cowhouse or byre, as it is there called, 
 and the stables. There was a twist in the road, and a 
 slight fall towards it on the ground out of which the 
 site for the building, which, consisted of the office houses, 
 was scooped. In fact, the barn was a loft over the cow-
 
 i6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 house and stable, and the door of it on a level with the 
 hay yard, which was about thirty feet above the road 
 that passed. It was one of the largest barns in the 
 p;irish, if not the very largest. Jack Stuart had 
 two interesting and handsome daughters, of whose 
 dramatic tendencies I shall have something to say 
 by-and-by. 
 
 It was considered a great honour that I should be 
 admitted to the ladies' seminary held in this barn. Such 
 in the meantime was the fact, Mrs. Dumont, however, 
 received young gentlemen below a certain age as well as 
 young ladies. In this school I was a pupil for about a 
 weekj and might have been there much longer had I not 
 fallen in love with Mary Anne, whom, instead of looking 
 to my a-b-ab's, I kept perpetually kissing. She had paid 
 me great attention, and told me by way of kindness and 
 encouragement that I was her own pet scholar, and that 
 she would always teach me herself In fact I got so 
 fond of her that I had strong notions of marriage, and 
 after havinij kissed her half-a-dozen times — the whole 
 school in screams and convulsions of laughter — I openly 
 asked her would she marry me. The very dignity of 
 Mrs. Dumont was overcome; she laughed heartily, and 
 taking me by the hand, said, — 
 
 " So you want Mary Anne to marry you ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Well, then, she must marry you — but listen, Billy — 
 go home now— speak to your father and mother, and 
 get their consent." 
 
 I immediately started for home, in the exultant 
 expectation of an immediate marriage, when, induced to 
 look back by the sounds of laughter that I heard behind 
 me, I saw the whole school at the door enjoying the
 
 Young Love. 17 
 
 delight with which I looked forward to this visionary 
 but delightful project. I don't think I was six years of 
 age at the time. 
 
 Mrs. Duniont never corrected any of her pupils. She 
 remonstrated once — twice — a third time — and if her re- 
 monstrances failed she immediately sent the delinquents 
 home, and refused to keep them in her school. This was 
 her well-known custom, and it had an excellent result, be- 
 cause it was considered such a disgrace to be turned off, 
 that no corporal punishment could have had so much 
 effect in subduing the impracticable disposition of her 
 pupils. It was making the sense of shame and dis- 
 grace the principle of punishment. 
 
 I don't recollect what happened for a considerable time 
 after that. I only remember that in the course of the 
 same evening Mrs. Dumont called at my father's house, 
 and that there was much laughter, which I have often 
 felt since was at the expense of my anxiety to get 
 married to Mary Anne Dumont. 
 
 At some time about this period a conversation 
 took place between my mother and me which clings 
 to my memory. We were in the house by our- 
 selves, and the reason why I put the question which 
 I am about to mention was this : I was taught to say 
 my prayers, and made to say them every night. At 
 first I said them in Irish, but I don't know why I 
 preferred the English version, yet such was the case. 
 I had often heard the name of God mentioned — 
 sometimes as an encouragement to good, sometimes as 
 a word of terror against evil and sin. Young as I was, 
 I had been thinking who God was — and wondered why 
 we could never see Him. 
 
 " Mother," said I to her, " who is God ? " 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 1 8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 She looked at me with surprise, and repHed, " He is 
 the Maker of Heaven and Earth." 
 
 " Has anyone seen Him ? " 
 
 "Oh, no ; — nobody sees Him till after they die." 
 
 "Then I hope I'll never see Him. Where does He 
 live?" 
 
 " In Heaven." 
 
 " Where is Heaven ? " 
 
 " Up in the sky." 
 
 "And does God walk in the sky ?" 
 
 " Yes,— He does." 
 
 " And how does it happen that when He walks in the 
 sky He doesn't fall when He has nothing to keep Him 
 up?" 
 
 " My dear, you must wait till you get more know- 
 ledge.^' 
 
 In the meantime no schoolmaster came to the 
 neighbourhood, and Mrs. Dumont had removed from 
 Jack Stuart's barn to another about three-quarters of 
 a mile farther off — the proprietor of which was also 
 named Stuart — a cousin of Jack's, but a much wealthier 
 man. It was thought both by my father and Mrs. 
 Dumont that I might be safely sent to this school, as 
 my marriage mania and my fondness for Mary Anne 
 had long since passed away. I accordingly went — but 
 when asked to say my lessons I refused to do so. I saw 
 that everyone who went was prepared, and had some 
 knowledge of what was expected from them, but I felt 
 conscious of knowing nothing. No force or entreaty 
 could induce me to go up, and after having made several 
 vain attempts to overcome my repugnance, Mrs. Dumont 
 was called in to Mr. Stuart's dinner. When she had 
 been about an hour absent, a little girl somewhat older
 
 A Catastrophe. 19 
 
 than I began to turn me into ridicule about my refusal 
 to learn my lessons — high words ensued between us ; 
 from words we proceeded to blows — and in the very 
 middle of our regular stand-up fight, who should enter 
 but the mistress. After inquiring into the cause of the 
 quarrel, and hearing the details, she turned us both off — I 
 first by myself, lest if we were sent away together we 
 might renew the quarrel outside. 
 
 This closed my educational course for two years 
 more, or three, when I and my next brother John 
 were sent to Findramore school, then kept by another 
 Connaught man, named O'Beirne, a most excellent 
 teacher, and probably one of the best book-keepers of 
 that day in the north. Several respectable young fel- 
 lows used to come from long distances to be ins'ructed 
 by him in the art of keeping accounts. At this school 
 my brother and I remained for some time, and well do 
 I remember a challenge that was sent to us by the boys 
 of a neighbouring Protestant school — called the Blue 
 School — in the town of Clogher. The day was Saturday,, 
 and each had his little cudgel — big in courage, and 
 prepared for the affra\'. The masters, however, on each 
 side had got tidings of the projected battle, and. 
 prevented it. 
 
 I believe my brother and I remained more than a . 
 year at this school, and would have remained much 
 longer had not the redoubtable Pat Frayne (Mat 
 Kavanagh) opened another school in the townland of 
 Skelgy^ quite convenient to us. A schoolhouse was 
 built for him — a sod house scooped out of the bank on 
 the roadside — and in the course of a month it was filled 
 with upwards of a hundred scholars, most of them 
 males, but a good number females. Pat was a droll 
 
 C 2
 
 20 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 fellow, possessed of some low humour, but quite capri- 
 cious in the administration of punishment. There was 
 also an originality about him in this respect which was 
 certainly very extraordinar)-. He himself was fond of 
 f la}ing mischievous tricks upon some of the larger 
 ^scholars, who frequently retaliated upon him, and paid 
 him back with his own coin. Every winter's day each 
 brought two sods of turf for the fire, which was kept 
 burning in the centre of the school : there was a 
 hole in the roof that discharged the functions of a 
 chimney. Around this fire, especially during cold and 
 severe weather, the boys were entitled to sit in a circle 
 by turns. The enjo)'ment of this right occasioned a 
 ;great deal of squabbling. The seats about the fire were 
 , round stones. I remember we had one scholar, named 
 Sam Nelson, son of a most respectable man who livtd 
 within ten yards of our house. Sam was about eighteen 
 years of age, a fine strapping young fellow, possessed of 
 •a great deal of dry humour. In consequence of his 
 age and respectability he usually sat at the fire beside 
 the master, who used to indulge in a variety of 
 anecdotes for Sam's entertainment. Sam, on the other 
 hand, returned anecdote for anecdote, or in other words, 
 lie for lie. Now the master had small and extremely 
 well-made feet, and wore the neatest possible shoes^ 
 jnade by the renowned Paddy Mellon. Whilst sitting 
 beside him at the fire, Sam did no literary business 
 -whatever, but generally kept fiddling with a short bit of 
 stick with which he seemed to amuse himself, as it 
 were, by beating now the knuckles of one hand and then 
 ■those of the other. Let us conceive Pat in the act of 
 relating some egregious lie, for he was as great a liar as 
 jSam, when, after a start, and the pause of a moment, he
 
 Sam Nelson, 21 
 
 bounces to his feet, and finds a live coal burning in 
 through his shoe and sticking to his very skin. This 
 was Sam's ingenuity, who had laid the coal against his 
 foot during the conversation by the aid of the stick. 
 The trick was well understood by the whole school, who 
 enjoyed it richly ; indeed, so much so that screams 
 of laughter burst out in several directions among the 
 scholars, Pat, on looking round to ascertain the persons 
 of those who amused themselves at his expense, found 
 every face solemnly attentive upon the business in 
 hand, and, consequently, though conscious that the 
 matter was enjoyed by the whole school, found it 
 impossible to fix upon any individual for punishment. 
 He sat in a malignant state of meditation for some 
 time, after which he arranged the boys upon their 
 stone seats around the walls of the school, and de- 
 sired them to remain at their peril without change in 
 that particular position. He then went out, and after 
 some time returned with a large furze-bush in his hand, 
 and, commencing at the right hand side of the door, 
 swept it round against their naked shins until he 
 had completed the circuit, afterwards returning in the 
 contrary direction, ending where he had begun. Thus 
 did he make himself certain that none of those who 
 enjoyed Sam Nelson's'practical joke had escaped him. 
 
 1 need not assure my readers that he contrived to get 
 more butter from his pupils than five families like his 
 could consume. Indeed, it was well known that his 
 wife Nancy sold a great deal of butter in Clogher 
 market, although it was equally well known that they 
 had no cow. I am now painting the state of education 
 and society in the north when I was a boy. 
 
 I remember one occasion, in Easter u-eek. The day
 
 22 Life of William Cajileton. 
 
 was that previous to our discharge for the usual holiday. 
 The weather was fine, — in fact, it might have been 
 mistaken for summer. Shortly before " dismiss" Pat 
 addressed his scholars, 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said he, "I wish to show you 
 something to-morrow that will astonish you. There 
 are here about one hundred of you ; you see that 
 beautiful green field to the left of the door. It belongs 
 to Tom McCrea, an excellent man, whose religious 
 creed can be only guessed at, considering the reply 
 which he gives to those — whether priest, parson or 
 Presbyterian minister — who inquire after it ; that reply 
 is well known. In other words, and to render the 
 matter more plain, he politely desires them to go to 
 hell and look for it. It is certainly very decisive, but 
 more than this has never been got out of him. He is 
 entitled to credit, however, for telling truth. Novv, 
 to-morrow let each of you bring me an egg — one will 
 be sufficient, but in the meantime I have no objection 
 against two. When you bring them, I will then go to 
 that field, belonging to that pious and religious man, 
 Tom McCrea — who they say is worth ten thousand 
 pounds. I will bring the eggs there, and placing every 
 egg upon a spot of ground which I will consecrate by 
 the repetition of that most charitable of all documents, 
 the Athanasian Creed, I will cause every egg to rise with 
 the lightness of a soap bubble into the air, and it will 
 in this manner disappear for ever.'" 
 
 The next morning, which, if I may be allowed the 
 blunder, was the eve of the holidays, the number of eggs 
 which appeared was absolutely incredible. Instead of 
 one egg or two, no boy came with less than half-a- 
 dozen. In fact no egg merchant ever had such a stock.
 
 Pat Frayne's Miracle. 23 
 
 When the eggs were all placed in the field, and the 
 boys all assembled, gaping with expectation and wonder, 
 Pat took up an egg, and after repeating some unintelli- 
 gible jargon, threw it up into the air, when as a matter 
 of course it fell and was broken to pieces. Pat then 
 declared that one of the stars was out of joint, and that 
 he must defer the com^jletion of the miracle until 
 another day, of which he would give us all due notice. 
 In the meantime, we saw the now famous Ned Mc- 
 Keown waiting with an ass cart upon the road to Kark. 
 Ned at that time, as I have stated in a note upon him in 
 my " Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," had been 
 reduced to the condition of an egg merchant. The 
 trade was then new — and Ned purchased eggs in 
 Clogher, Augher, Fivemiletown, Ballygawly, and other 
 neighbouring towns, which he sold for exportation 
 either in Armagh or Newry. No doubt the miracle 
 was completed to Frayne's entire satisfaction as soon as 
 we had disappeared from the field.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Carleton is intended for the priesthood — Popularity of political 
 plays — Catholics and Protestants — Performance of '' The 
 Battle of Aughrim" — A panic — Orangeism —The yeomanry — 
 A nocturnal visit — Removal to Nurchasy — Tulnavert school. 
 
 I CANNOT distinctly remember how long I remained 
 with Pat. My brother John made a first-rate arith- 
 metician ; but Pat never could succeed in that direction 
 with me. I had no genius for science, nor was I ever able 
 to work out a proposition of Euclid during my life. 
 The terms were perfectly unintelligible to me. The only 
 thing then remarkable about me was my distinction in 
 the spelling lessons. These lessons ahva} s closed the 
 business of the school, and all the boys capable of spell- 
 ing were put into the class. Each boy put down a pin, 
 which the master placed in the spelling book, and then 
 they all took their places — forming a circle that almost 
 went round the whole school. The head of the class 
 was called King — the second Queen — and the third 
 Prince. In that class I held the first place, nor do I 
 recollect that I was ever dethroned. I went home every 
 day with the coat sleeve of my left arm shining with 
 the signals of my triumph from my shoulder to my wrist. 
 About this time a classical school was opened in the 
 upper part of Aughentain, and as my father, in accord- 
 ance with the humble ambition which then prevailed and 
 still prevails among persons of his class, had taken it
 
 Catholic and Protestant. 25 
 
 into his head to make one of his sons a priest, he sent 
 my brother John to that school, with a hope that he 
 might Hve to see him "with robes upon him." John, 
 however, had an aversion to the classics as unconquer- 
 able as mine to science. He sulked, and refused to go 
 to school, and by the advice of Pat Frayne my father 
 gave the matter up. I was then pitched upon for the 
 priesthood, but when I was prepared to go, and nicely 
 smoothed up by a new suit of clothes, it was found that 
 the classical master had vanished. 
 
 Here, then, was another obstruction to my advance in 
 education. Still, I returned to Pat Frayne, with whom 
 I accomplished little good. I did not at all relish 
 arithmetic, and I consequently made but little progress 
 in it. I was principally engaged in hunting through 
 the neighbours' houses for books of some or any 
 
 description to read. Sometimes I happened upon an 
 
 odd volume of a novel, and literally felt entranced 
 by the perusal of it. 
 
 At this period, when I v/as about nine years of age, 
 an extraordinary exhibition of political enthusiasm was 
 made by the Protestant and Catholic young men in this 
 remote district of the north — principally among the 
 Protestants. If I had not been myself an eye-witness 
 of the movement and a participator in it, I really would 
 have imagined that the whole progress of the principle 
 by which the people were actuated was an idle dream. 
 Such, however, it was not, and no man ought to be a 
 better judge of its reality than myself — because, young 
 as I was, I became an active and a prominent character 1 
 in it. It is unnecessary to say that for some years after 
 the Rebellion of '98 a bitter political resentment sub- 
 sisted between Protestants and Catholics. Well do I 
 
 J
 
 26 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 remember it. The party fights at that time were fre- 
 quent and in many instances fatal. This, indeed, was 
 the period which I selected for my " Party Fight and 
 Funeral." ' In this instance the political rancour became 
 dramatic. The plays of " The Siege of Londonderry," 
 and " The Battle of Aughrini " ^ were acted in barns and 
 waste houses night after night, and were attended by 
 multitudes, both Catholic and Protestant. " The Battle 
 of Aughrim," however, was the favourite, and the acting 
 play. I heard that " The Siege of Londonderry " had 
 been also acted, but I never saw it. This feeling of 
 political enthusiasm directed my attention to the plays, 
 which in their printed shape were school-books at the 
 time. In fact I had " The Battle of Aughrim " off by 
 heart, from beginning to ending. This came to be 
 known, and the consequence was that, though not more 
 than ten years of age, I became stage director and 
 prompter both to the Catholic and Protestant amateurs. 
 In the mornings and in the evenings such of them — and 
 there were not a (ew on both sides — as could not read, 
 spent hours with me in attempting to make them- 
 selves perfect in their parts. It is astonishing, how- 
 ever, what force and impetus such an enthusiastic desire 
 to learn and recollect bestows upon the memory. I 
 had here an opportunity of witnessing this, for the 
 quickness and accuracy with which they prepared them- 
 selves was astonishing. 
 
 1 In "Traits and Stories." 
 
 ^ The first-named play was written by Colonel John Mitchel- 
 burne, governor of Derry during the sie^e, and was first printed 
 in 1705. The other play was by Robert Ashton, and was first 
 printed in 1756. It was much more popular than Mitchelburne's 
 piece, and is still read by the peasantry.
 
 " The Battle of Aughrim." 27 
 
 The play selected for action on this occasion was, of 
 course, '" The Battle of Aughrim," and the theatre 
 the identical barn belonging to Jack Stuart which I 
 have already described. The crowds that flocked to it, 
 both Catholics and Protestants, would, if admitted, have 
 overcrowded the largest theatre in Europe. One 
 element of their great curiosity, independently of the 
 political feeling, was simply the novelty of seeing a play. 
 On the right hand side of the lofted floor which con- 
 stituted the barn, and under which, as I have said, were 
 the cowhouse and stable, was a range of chairs and 
 forms for the audience to sit upon ; on the left was a 
 range of sacks filled with barley, the heaviest grain that 
 grows ; on these the other portion of the spectators 
 were placed. It was summer, and the heat was suffocat- 
 ing. I was on the left side, standing behind those who 
 sat upon the sacks, and with my feet upon them. In 
 order to keep myself at ease and steady, I held by a 
 wattle in the roof above me, and in that position 
 enjoyed the play. When it had reached the scene in 
 which the ghost makes its appearance, or rather a little 
 before it, I felt something like a descent of that part of 
 the floor on which the sacks had been stretched. In 
 about a quarter of a minute there was another 
 descent of the sacks, and I shouted out " the floor 
 is going to fall.^' Such, however, was the attention 
 of the audience, that my warning had no effect. The 
 ghost came forward, when a tremendous crash took 
 place, and the last thing I saw was his heels in the 
 air, as he and that portion of the audience with 
 whom I stood, sacks and all, went down together. 
 Fortunately, there was a large beam which ran 
 longitudinally through the barn — by which I mean from
 
 28 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 end to end. The barn was an old one, and its timbers^ 
 as was found afterwards, quite decayed with age. The 
 weight of the sacks, and the crowded audience on the 
 left hand side, was more than the rotten rafters could 
 bear, and the consequence was that one half the barn 
 floor with its weighty burthen was precipitated into the 
 cowhouse and stable. I dropped down upon those 
 who fell, and scrambled over their heads towards those 
 who were on the safe side, by whom I was pulled up 
 without having received any injury. 
 
 In this case the force of instinct was exhibited in a 
 remarkable manner. The animals beneath the loft 
 must have heard the sharp jerking noise of the rafters 
 as they gave symptoms of being about to fall, because 
 it was found that they had broken the ropes which 
 held them, and taken shelter under that part of the 
 loft which did not fall. I saw them there with my 
 own eyes, as did every other person, and I need not de- 
 scribe the wonder it occasioned. As it was, scarcely 
 any injury resulted from the descent of the loft, if I 
 except that which was sustained by the ghost, who had 
 his arm broken. 
 
 These senseless exhibitions inflamed political feeling 
 very much. In the town of Augher, this stupid play 
 was acted by Catholics and Protestants, each party of 
 course sustaining their own principles. The conse- 
 quence was, that when they came to the conflict with 
 which the play is made to close, armed as they were 
 on both sides with real swords, political and religious 
 resentment could not be restrained, and they would 
 have hacked each other's souls out had not the audience 
 interfered and prevented them. As it was, some of 
 them were severely if not dangerously wounded. 
 
 During the period of which I now write, the country
 
 Orange Ascendancy. 29 
 
 was in a state sufficient, in the mind of every 
 liberal and thinking man, to fling back disgrace and 
 infamy upon the successive administrations which per- 
 mitted it. This was the period of Protestant, or rather 
 of Orange^ ascendancy. There were at that time regular 
 corps of yeomen, who were drilled and exercised on the 
 usual stated occasions. There were also corps of cavalry 
 who were subjected to the same discipline. Now 
 all this was right and proper, and I remember when a 
 review day was looked forward to as we used to look 
 for Christmas or Easter. On those occasions there 
 were thousands of spectators, and it would have been 
 well if matters had ended there. Every yeoman with 
 his red coat on was an Orangeman. Every cavalry- 
 man m.ounted upon his own horse and dressed in blue 
 was an Orangeman ; and to do both foot and cavalry 
 justice, I do not think that a finer body of men could 
 be found in Europe. Roman Catholics were not 
 admitted into either service. I think I may say that I 
 knew almost every yeoman in the parish, but I never 
 knew of a Roman Catholic to be admitted into either 
 force, with one exception — his name was William Kelly, 
 a cousin of my own. 
 
 Merciful God ! In what a frightful condition was the 
 country at that time. I speak now of the North of 
 Ireland. It was then, indeed, the seat of Orange ascen- 
 dancy and irresponsible power. To find a justice of the 
 peace not an Orangeman would have been an impossi- 
 bility. The grand jury room was little less than an 
 Orange lodge. There was then no law against an 
 Orangeman, and no law for a Papist. I am now 
 writing not only that which is well known to be 
 historical truth, but that which I have witnessed with 
 my own eyes.
 
 30 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 These yeomen were in the habit — especially when 
 primed with whisky^ or on their way from an Orange 
 lodge — of putting on their uniform, getting their guns 
 and bayonets, and going out at night to pay domiciliary 
 visits to Catholic families under the pretence of search- 
 ing for firearms ; and it is painful to reflect upon, or 
 even to recollect, the violence and outrage with which 
 these illegal excursions were conducted. Take an 
 instance. 
 
 I have mentioned Sam Nelson as one of Pat Frayne's 
 scholars, and of course the schoolfellow of myself and 
 my brother; and I have said, I think, that his father's 
 house was next to ours — in fact it was not ten yards 
 from us ; in truth we were in daily intercourse of the 
 most neighbourly and friendly character. We were 
 perpetually in each other's houses, lending and 
 borrowing, and discharging all those duties towards 
 each other which constitute friendly neighbourhood. 
 Sam Nelson was what is termed a humorous or droll 
 kind of good-natured "slob," and evidently fond of me 
 and my brother. On one occasion he made us a present 
 of a little tin gun or cannon about four or five inches in 
 length, of which we were naturally very proud. Before 
 I proceed farther in this reminiscence I think it 
 necessary to say that my father was one of the quietest 
 and most highly respected men in the parish, consider- 
 ing his position in life. Neither he nor any of his 
 family were ever known to give utterance to an offensive 
 word. They took no part whatsoever in politics, neither 
 did they ever engage in those senseless party or faction 
 fights which were so disgraceful to the country, or 
 give expression to any political opinion that could be 
 construed into offence. Having made these observations, 
 I now proceed with my reminiscence.
 
 An Orange Outrage. 31 
 
 One night, about two or three- o'clock, in the middle 
 of winter, a violent bellowing took place at our door, 
 and loud voices were heard outside. My father got up, 
 alarmed, and asked who was there. 
 
 " Open the door, you rebellious old dog, or we will 
 smash it in." 
 
 " Give me time to get on my clothes," replied my 
 father. 
 
 "Not a minute, you old rebel ; you want to hide your 
 arms — open or we smash the door," and the door was 
 struck violently with the butts of guns. My father, 
 having hurried on his small clothes and lit a candle, 
 opened the door, when in an instant the house was filled 
 with armed yeomen in their uniform. 
 
 " Come, you traitorous old scoundrel, deliver up your 
 d d rebelly gun." 
 
 " My good friends," replied my father, " I have no 
 gun." 
 
 " It's a lie, you rebel, it's well known you have a gun. 
 Produce it, or I put the contents of this through you." 
 And as he spoke the man cocked and deliberately aimed 
 the gun at my father. (I forgot to state that the men 
 appeared with screwed bayonets.) When my mother 
 saw my father covered by the ruffian's gun, she placed 
 herself with a shawl about her between them, and 
 corroborated what my father said, that we had no gun. 
 She was called a liar ; it was notorious we had a gun. 
 In the meantime, some others of them began to institute 
 a search. Two of them went into my sister's bedroom, 
 a third man holding the candle. 
 
 " Who is this ? " said one scoundrel. 
 
 " It's my daughter," replied my mother, trembling and 
 in tears. 
 
 " Well," he returned, " let her get up until we have a
 
 32 Life of William Carle tun. 
 
 lock at her ; it's likely she has the gun in the bed ; at all 
 events we'll rouse her a bit — " and as he spoke, he put 
 the point of the bayonet to her side, which he pressed 
 until she screamed with pain. At this moment his 
 companion pulled him back with something of indignant 
 violence, exclaiming ; — 
 
 " D n your soul, }-ou cowardly scoundrel, why do 
 
 you do that ? " 
 
 At this moment my mother, with the ready recollec- 
 tion and presence of mind of her sex, exclaimed : — 
 
 " I think it likely that all this trouble has come from 
 
 the little tin gun that Sam Nelson gave the children — 
 
 here it is," she proceeded — " here is the only gun that 
 
 ever was under this roof. If it's treason to keep that, 
 
 we are rebels ^' — and as she spoke she handed them 
 
 the gun. They looked at it, and after some ruffianly 
 
 grumbling they retired. My sister was slightly wounded 
 
 in the side. My readers will be surprised to learn that 
 
 one of Sam Nelson's brothers was among this scoundrelly 
 
 gang, and never once interfered in our behalf. No man 
 
 knew better than he did that my father had no gun. No 
 
 man knew better than he that this midnight and drunken 
 
 visit was a mere pretence, deliberately founded upon the 
 
 history of the tin gun which his brother Sam had given 
 
 to me and my brother John. My readers may form an 
 
 opinion of the state of society, when they hear that 
 
 there was not an individual present that night in this 
 
 gross and lawless outrage with whom we were not 
 
 acquainted, nor a man among them who did not know 
 
 everyone of us intimately. 
 
 Such was the outrageous and licentious conduct of 
 the Orangemen of that day, and of many a day long 
 before and afterwards. As a public writer, guided by a
 
 A Move. 2,5 
 
 sense of truth and justice, I could not allow such a 
 system as that which Orangeism then was to remain 
 without exposure, and I did not. It is to that mid- 
 night visit that they owe " Valentine McClutchy." 
 Little they dreamt that there was a boy present, not 
 more than ten years of age, who would live to punish 
 them with a terrible but truthful retaliation. 
 
 Soon after this event my father began to think of 
 leaving Towney. A farm of eighteen acres was vacant 
 in a townland called Nurchasy, about two miles towards 
 the south. Hugh Traynor, a very respectable man, 
 although an extensive and notorious private distiller, was 
 the under-landlord, or middleman. From him my father 
 took the farm, and we removed to it without loss 
 of time. I will never forget that removal. All our 
 furniture had been taken to the new place, which I 
 had not yet seen, and every member of our family had 
 gone with it,! alone excepted. In fact my father did 
 not wish me to come until everything should be settled, 
 and I accordingly remained with a married sister of 
 mine, who also lived in Towney, until my father should 
 call in the evening to bring me home. This he did, but 
 not until after night, and many a time since have I 
 thanked God that he did not. The season was summer, 
 and such an exquisitely beautiful night I have never 
 recollected since. 
 
 The moon was in the full, and the sky so perfectly- 
 clear and cloudless as to present the idea of nothing but 
 that blue void which is so full of poetry and beauty. 
 My father, for what purpose I know not, unless it was to 
 give me a surprise, brought me to the farm by a way 
 quite circuitous, but a way which to me was beautiful 
 beyond the power of language to express. It was the 
 
 vol- I, u
 
 34 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 first time I experienced the delight of travelling through 
 new and beautiful scenery by moonlight. 
 
 Nurchasy to me was paradise. The view from it 
 of Fardress Glen, so beautifully wooded, and of Far- 
 dress grazing-fields, so green and extensive, together 
 with the effect of those small circular groves, 
 peculiar to some portions of the north, absolutely 
 enchanted .me. Nothing, in fact, could surpass my 
 happiness. I frequently dreamt of the scenery about 
 me, although I had it before my eyes every day in the 
 week. It was while we were in Nurchasy, which was 
 not more than half a mile from Findramore, that a 
 classical school was opened in the townland of Tulnavert, 
 the property of John Birney, now of Oakley Park, in the 
 county of Down. Like most Irish schools, it also was 
 held in a barn, which belonged to Tom Hall and his 
 brothers, three wealthy old bachelors, who have long 
 disappeared. The man who taught this school was an 
 individual who should have been kept closely confined in 
 a lunatic asylum during his life. He had been one of 
 the earliest students of Maynooth on its first establish- 
 ment ; there he remained until he became insane — a 
 calamity which necessarily caused his removal. The 
 slavish, ill-tempered scoundrel never raised his hand to a 
 Protestant boy, no matter how insolent or provoking his 
 conduct, but if one of his own creed only broke a straw 
 he would chastise him most severely. It was he who 
 sat for the heartless tyrant in " The Poor Scholar." By 
 the way, talking of a poor scholar, we had an unfortu- 
 nate wretch of that description in our school at Tulnavert. 
 His name was John Quin, and indeed I may add that 
 he was the scapegoat of the school. It was not he, how- 
 ever who sat for the character of the poor scholar whom
 
 DoMiNiCK Donnelly. 35 
 
 I have made the hero in my tale of that name. There 
 was a man in our Parish called Dominick Donnelly, who 
 was and had been for many years the ]\Iass-server to the 
 successive Catholic clergymen who came to the parish, 
 I believe in my soul the man could not read, but it was 
 not at all extraordinary during my early life to meet 
 persons capable of serving Mass, that is, acting as clerk, 
 who did not know a letter in the alphabet. The 
 memory of some men is perfectly astonishing. When 
 you think, however, of a totally illiterate man giving the 
 Latin responses to the priest during Mass, I will give 
 you leave to entertain some doubts as to the purity of 
 his latinity. This Dominick Donnelly had a son named 
 James, who felt that early ambition to enter the priest- 
 hood which is so common to the sons of the peasantry, 
 as well as among their fathers. Poor fellows ! Under the 
 peculiar circumstances in which they were placed — tram- 
 pled upon by a vile and brutal ascendancy, struggling 
 with poverty, and a sense not only of neglect, but of bitter 
 enmity against them — it is not to be wondered at that 
 they should feel anxious to gratify the only ambition 
 left them. Be this as it may, young Donnelly, supported 
 and encouraged in his laudable resolution by his father 
 and family, and aided by a public collection made for 
 him, at what was then termed " The Three Altars,^' by his 
 friends — or in other words, by every Catholic in the 
 parish — was enabled to start for Munster on his pious 
 journey, and from Munster he never returned until he 
 was able, according to the proverbial phrase of all such 
 young missionaries, to make his appearance both as a 
 priest and a gentleman. 
 
 D 2
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The altars — No chapels — Removal to Springtown — Shoes and 
 stockings not expected — Robbing an orchard — Springs and 
 man-traps — Carleton is caught — A whimsical magistrate — A 
 dangerous exploit. 
 
 In order that the reader may understand what is meant 
 by " The Three Altars," he must know that a Roman 
 Catholic chapel was a rare thing in those days. During 
 the existence of the penal laws, the notion of building 
 such a thing as a chapel for Catholic worship, would 
 have consigned those who could dream of, much less 
 attempt such a project^ either to transportation or death. 
 Within my own memory, there was nothing in existence 
 for the Catholics for the worship of God except the 
 mere altar, covered with a little open roof to protect 
 the priest from rain, which it was incapable of doing. 
 The altar was about two feet in depth, and the open 
 shed which covered it not more than three, so that 
 when the wind or rain or snow blew from a particular 
 direction the officiating clergyman had nothing to 
 cover him or to protect him from the elements. In 
 my early life, three such " altars " were the only sub- 
 stitutes for chapels in my native parish, which is one of 
 the largest in the diocese. There was always a little 
 plot of green sward allowed to be annexed to the altar,
 
 DoMiNicK Donnelly, 37 
 
 on which the congregation could kneel ; an J as these 
 plots and little altars were always on the roadside, they 
 presented something very strange and enigmatical to 
 such as did not understand their meaning, for the 
 following reason. During the winter months and 
 wet weather in general, those of both sexes who 
 attended worship were obliged to bring with them 
 small trusses of either hay or straw on which to 
 kneel, as neither man nor woman could kneel on a 
 wet sward, through which the moist yellow clay was 
 oozing, without soiling or disfiguring their dress, or 
 catching cold from the damp. Indeed, I must say that 
 during the winter months the worship of God was in 
 one sense a very trying ceremony. These small trusses 
 were always left on the place of worship, lying within 
 a foot of each other, and as I said, presented an 
 unintelligible sight to any person ignorant of the 
 custom. The places of Roman Catholic worship, there- 
 fore, were very properly called altars, as it would have 
 been impossible to apply any other term. It was at 
 such altars, of course, that the collections on behalf of 
 poor scholars about to proceed for education to Munster 
 were made. In Dominick Donnelly's son was seen 
 the hero of my " Poor Scholar." He paid one visit 
 home as an ordained priest, where he remained for 
 about a month : during this period he gave a 
 detailed but melancholy account of all he had suffered 
 whilst working out his great design. These details his 
 father and brother often mentioned to me, and they 
 harmonize pretty closely with the incidents related 
 in the tale. The Catholic bishop of the diocese in 
 which he had received his education, took him under 
 his protection, and ultimately gave liim an. appointment
 
 38 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 as curate. To that curacy he returned, but soon lost 
 his health — from the fact, probably, of having suffered 
 too much in his early struggles. He died within a year, 
 in the odour of sanctity, and passed away with all his 
 virtues, like a beautiful vision rarely seen even amongst 
 those who strive for a noble purpose. 
 
 Charles McGoldrick did not remain more than three 
 years in Tulnavert. Whether he was a good scholar 
 is more than I can say. I had only got as 
 far as Ovid's " Metamorphoses," Justin, and the first 
 chapter of John in the Greek Testament, when all his 
 Protestant scholars left him. A Presbyterian clergyman 
 named Wiley opened a classical school in the town of 
 Augher, not more th-an a mile from Clogher, and to 
 him they transferred their allegiance. McGoldrick then 
 disappeared, and I heard no more of him. 
 
 In the meantime, my father, who did not seem gifted 
 with what phrenologists term inhabitiveness, took a 
 dislike to Nurchasy, but I must admit in his justifica- 
 tion, for a very excellent reason. He paid his rent 
 punctually to the middleman and poteen distiller, but 
 the latter did not at all pay his rent punctually to the 
 head landlord. One of my brothers discovered acci- 
 dentally, and as a friendly scout, that the head landlord 
 was about to come down upon the property for the 
 rent. My father, therefore, having heard that there 
 was a farm of twenty-two acres to be let in a townland 
 called Springtown, took it. McGoldrick, although I 
 have dismissed him, was still teaching in Tulnavert at 
 that time. The proprietor of Springtown was also a 
 middleman, and lived a couple of miles up beside a 
 river that was one of the contributories to the northern
 
 Another Move. 39 
 
 Blackvvater. He lived on the very edge of the Slebeen 
 Mountains, which divide the counties of Monaghan and 
 Tyrone. He had an illicit stillhouse near a little stream 
 that ran to it from the river, and this he let at a rent 
 to such as required a structure of the kind, and indeed 
 I must say he was seldom without a tenant. I never Y\ 
 liked Springtown much. With one exception the 
 scenery was dull and common-place. The exception 1 , 
 speak of was a wild but pretty glen which stretched 
 behind our house, and through which ran a mountain 
 stream that was known about a mile further inland as 
 the Mullin Burn. 
 
 Our departure from Nurchasy pressed very heavily 
 on my heart. I was drowned in tears during the whole 
 day of the flitting. This, however, was little compared 
 to what I felt subsequently, because on the day of our 
 departure from Nurchasy I had not seen Springtown 
 nor had an opportunity to contrast it and Nurchasy 
 with each other. The contrast indeed was fearfully 
 against Springtown. The latter place removed me 
 from the classical school of Tulnavert, not more than a 
 mile and a quarter from Nurchasy, to a distance of four 
 miles from it. I had altogether a journey of eight 
 miles to perform on my way to and from school. 
 
 How strange and primitive were the habits of those 
 days, and how amazingly have they changed for the 
 better since ! During the summer months, for instance, 
 scarcely a boy at the school ever wore shoes and stock- 
 ings. The sons of men who were worth thousands 
 used to go barefooted and barelegged, and after the 
 winter had passed a^vay and the warmth of spring 
 returned, our anxiety to throw off the shoes and stock-
 
 40 Life of William Carlkton 
 
 ings was incredible. We cours'd in mad gambols 
 through the green fields in a wild exultation of spirits 
 which nothing could surpass. 
 
 When about fifteen, I began to be famous for activity, 
 speed of foot, and intrepidity. I felt an ambition for 
 performing difficult and dangerous enterprises. When 
 I lived in Towney, and was about nine years of age, half 
 a dozen lads considerably older than myself had set their 
 hearts on robbing Jack Stuart's orchard. This orchard 
 uas not enclosed — a very rare thing — but stood in a 
 field behind his house and ckise to his garden. These 
 young cowards, influenced by a report that he had 
 -•-pring-guns and man-traps about the foot of every tree, 
 were afraid to venture on the robbery themselves. 
 After attempting to procure some thoughtless boy to 
 effect their object, they succeeded in pre\'ailing upon 
 me to make the attempt. Though little more than a 
 child, I was celebrated throughout the neighbourhood 
 for climbing trees, walls, and other elevations. Indeed 
 I have often wondered since that I did not break my 
 neck or some of my limbs. Fortunatel}-, however, no 
 accident of the kind ever occurred, a circumstance 
 which only increased my foolish and adventurous 
 courage. These lads procured the coat of a full grown 
 man, in which the)' encased me, and after the proper 
 directions I went to execute their purpose. They told 
 me to go round the garden, and then by turning to the 
 left, I would come among the trees of the orchard. 
 This I did, with the tail of the coat trailing after me, 
 and succeeded not only in climbing the most promising 
 tree, but in the course of a few minutes had the large 
 pockets of the coat filled. At this moment Jack
 
 Orchard-Robbing. 41 
 
 Stuart walked past the end of his dwelling-house ; by 
 this movement, had he looked towards the orchard, 
 I must necessarily have been discovered. Without a 
 moment's hesitation, I immediately sprang from the 
 tree, and on alighting, felt something sharp cut the big 
 toe of my right foot between the ball that adjoins it 
 and the toe itst^lf. The alarm and terror prevented me 
 from feeling the pain which I otherwise would have 
 felt, but when I got to Towney and gave the lads the 
 apples, the blood was pouring very copiously out of 
 the wound, and the pain became excessive. This 
 accident was so serious that it produced an investigation 
 into the matter by several of the neighbours. I was 
 forced to describe th-e circumstances just as they had 
 happened between the lads and me ; and the con- 
 sequence was that they were caught and brought into 
 Jimmy McCrea's stable, where McCrea himself horse- 
 vvhipped every one of them within an inch of his life. 
 The affair^ however, soon began to assume a graver and 
 more alarming character. I allude, not to my wound, 
 v.-hich, however, kept me for upwards of a fortnight in 
 the house — but to the conduct of Jack Stuart, which, 
 upon investigation, was such as deserved little less than 
 transportation for life. His paltry orchard consisted 
 only of about half-a-dozen apple-trees. On that very 
 evening — nay, in less than an hour, eight or ten of the 
 neighbours, among whom was my father, proceeded to 
 the orchard in question, and upon examining the 
 locality, they discovered upwards of two dozen pieces 
 of sheet iron, sharp and polished like lancets, set in the 
 ground, each one of them calculated to penetrate the 
 sole of a shoe if the weight of the body came upon it.
 
 42 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 It is true they were neither man-traps nor spring-guns, 
 but a very dangerous sort of instrument notwithstanding. 
 They were known by the name of " snakes." Every 
 person possessed of orchards or fruit-trees of any kind 
 was at hberty to use them upon the very necessary and 
 reasonable condition that he should keep up due adver- 
 tisements in order that the public might be aware of 
 the danger. The indignation against Jack was both 
 excessive and general. He never overcame the break- 
 ing down of his barn, or the shame of the trans- 
 action I have just related. He sold his property and 
 went to America within a year afterwards, to join 
 his brother, who had been there during the preceding 
 quarter of a century, and where, it was said, he became 
 immensely rich. 
 
 Whether " snakes " were generally used in the north 
 I cannot say, but I certainly know that man-traps and 
 spring-guns were resorted to in my native parish. 
 Painted advertisements upon boards, where the letters 
 were as large and legible as those on a common sign- 
 post, were placed on the boundary of the forbidden 
 premises, so that in this instance due notice was given, 
 and the public placed upon their guard. These man-traps 
 and spring-guns were put up by the late Sir William 
 Richardson, of Augher Castle^ one of the most popular 
 men ever known in the county. If he was popular, 
 however, he was equally whimsical, indeed so much so 
 that his ludicrous whims contributed very much to his 
 popularity. If two men, for instance, had a quarrel, and 
 that one of them summoned the other before him as a 
 magistrate, if he saw that they were well matched in age 
 personal strength, and vigour, his method of administer-
 
 Sir William Richardson. 43 
 
 ing justice was to furnish each of them with a cudgel, 
 conduct them to the backyard of the Castle, and 
 propose to them at once to decide the quarrel between 
 them. This, to fighting people such as the Irish are, 
 made them worship him. If two neighbours had a 
 dispute one of them would say to the other : — 
 
 " Come, you scoundrel, are you willing to go before 
 Sir William ? " 
 
 " Never say it again," was generally the reply.' 
 
 This original method of distributing justice, how- 
 ever, was so generally resorted to, that by degrees the 
 private disputes became so numerous that they demanded 
 ten times more time than Sir William could bestow 
 upon them, especially as he was then growing old. He 
 accordingly had it announced that in future he would 
 cease to act as a magistrate. In fact, there was such 
 laxity in moral law, and every other kind of law, at the 
 time of which I write, that many circumstances took 
 place which, although strictly true, will not be entitled 
 to credibility ; this I presume is one of them. 
 
 I must return now to the man-traps. Sir William 
 had taken it into his head that the cattle of the neigh- 
 bouring farmers were in the habit of trespassing upon 
 his property — whereas, if the truth must be told, 
 the offence was the other way. The result proved 
 this. One morning a cow of his own was found 
 to have broken her foreleg by a man-trap, while 
 passing through a gap in a ditch, which divided 
 the property of his friend and next neighbour, the 
 
 ' Carleton has introduced the character of this magistrate, and 
 some of the scenes in which he took part, into " Valentine 
 McClutchy."
 
 44 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 priest of the parish^ from his own. This occurrence 
 abolished the spring-guns and man-traps, and indeed 
 it was time it should. 
 
 Soon after our family removed to Springtown, I 
 began to feel the uncomfortable length of road I had 
 to traverse on my way to school and home again ; so 
 did a schoolfellow^ of mine named James Nealy, and one 
 or two others who lived near me. By keeping the open 
 road the distance was, as I have said, and as I thought 
 then, not less than four miles ; but on the last visit I 
 paid my native parish, I went over the ground again, 
 from mere curiosity, and I am now of opinion that the 
 distance cannot be less than five. During the short 
 winter months I was obliged to start at daybreik, and 
 it was generally quite dark when I reached home. 
 Acccrdingly we began to calculate on the advantage of 
 making a short cut across the country, which would 
 have saved us a mile and a half or two miles. The 
 only objection to this was a river — one of the tribu- 
 taries to the Blackwater — which we had to cross, and 
 as there was then no bridge (there is an excellent one 
 now), we could not cross it during flood or wet weather 
 in general. In summer we passed over a weir that 
 changed a portion of the current of the river into the 
 " race" which supplied Clogher Mills. In summer, then, 
 we went along this weir, when the water was low, with as 
 much ease and safety as we walked on the common 
 roadj but in winter, and especially when the river was 
 in flood, the weir was impassable. 
 
 I remember — and good cause have I to do so, for to 
 this day I can never think of my madness without a 
 shudder — I say I remember one Saturday (in July, I
 
 A Rash Expedient. 45 
 
 think), when we were detained in school upwards of an 
 hour and a half by an incessant downpouring of rain. 
 On Saturday, which was our repetition day, we always 
 got leave at one o'clock. At all events, when it ceased 
 raining we started for home. There were about ten of 
 us going the same way — never reflecting that, after 
 such a deluge, the river must be a deep and powerful 
 current whilst following its obstructed course over the 
 weir. Judge of our consternation, then, when we found 
 that it was up in high flood, and the torrent furious 
 across the weir. This weir, like every other, was 
 backed by about five yards of large stones, packed 
 together to a depth of at least three yards ; its length 
 across was about twelve or thirteen. The stones that 
 broke the current of the river and drove a portion of its 
 water into the artificial mill-race, were built with a slope 
 until they came down on a level with the natural bed 
 of the river itself This description can be understood, 
 I fear, only by those who know what a weir is, and why 
 it is constructed. 
 
 At all events, when we arrived there, the river 
 was foaming and roaring in its white rage over the 
 weir and down its side into its natural and original 
 channel, from which the weir had forced a portion of it 
 into the mill-race. There we stood, sadly disappointed 
 by this terrific obstruction. To attempt to cross the weir 
 would seem to be not only madness, but death. Our only 
 resource, apparently, was to retrace our path for a con- 
 siderable distance ; when a thought struck me for which 
 I have never since been able to account. I resolved to 
 cross the weir ; and as soon as the resolution was made, 
 I deliberately entered the stream that went over it,
 
 4^ Life of William Carleton. 
 
 grasping the edge of it, which was of firm square stone, 
 and began to work myself across, by moving my 
 fingers along slowly, inch by inch. Had I raised 
 a hand from the ledge, or lost hold of it, I was lost 
 — dashed to pieces on the rough upstanding stones, 
 against which I would have been beaten into a shapeless 
 mass. My progress, of course, was slow, for the rushing 
 water was nearly up to my mouth, and the reader is to 
 recollect that my motion was sideways, and that I was 
 lying against the current of the river and the stones of 
 the weir. At that time, and at that school, we wore 
 satchels, as a soldier wears his knapsack. I was not 
 many minutes at this frightful and most perilous attempt, 
 when I found the water that rushed over the weir much 
 deeper and stronger than I had imagined. My clothes 
 and satchel, and my very body, were all under the 
 violent and rushing stream, and, in fact, I was told after- 
 wards that there was no part of me visible but my head. 
 In this way I sidled slowly across, until I reached the 
 middle of the weir, the torrent up within an inch of my 
 mouth. At this place there was a slight depression 
 of about a yard in length, and here indeed was the 
 locus periculi — the hopeless place of danger. What I 
 felt at this spot, as the water was rising gradually to 
 my very mouth, I cannot now recollect, although 
 I have often tried. It was more like a dream than 
 a reality. I had no distinct thought of anything 
 not even of danger. When in the very midst and 
 lowest part of this depression, I felt that the waters 
 were up to my under lip ; and had they risen an inch 
 higher, I must have been carried off and smashed to 
 pieces. Presently, I found that my under lip was more
 
 Crossing the Weir. 47 
 
 than an inch above the current. This fact at once gave 
 me courage and strength. I moved across somewhat 
 more quickly, and found as I advanced that the waters 
 were shallower and their impetuosity was less. In 
 the course of ten or twelve minutes I found my- 
 self upon dry land, dripping with water. On looking 
 at my schoolfellows, I perceived that some of them 
 had been called up to a cottage upon the face of an 
 elevation about a couple of hundred yards above them^ 
 inhabited by a man named Tom Booth. During my 
 performance of this insane act there was no one within 
 the cottage but his wife Molly and a little girl. Poor 
 Mrs. Booth was unable to bear what she conceived to 
 be the certainty of my death — the certain result, as she 
 imagined, of such an unaccountable attempt. When I 
 was in the very centre of the depression — in the moment 
 of greatest danger, my body invisible, and, as she 
 supposed, at last swept away by the flood — she fell into 
 a deep swoon, and the little girl, alarmed at her con- 
 dition, called up the boys to her assistance. This 
 accounted for the presence of some of them at the 
 cabin ; but of what had happened there at that time I 
 knew nothing. 
 
 At all events I was now safe, and the cheers and 
 acclamations of my affectionate schoolfellows were 
 loud and long. After bidding them good-bye, I imme- 
 diately swam across the mill-race which was formed 
 by the weir ; the water, though deep, was slow and 
 therefore safe. 
 
 On my way home I began to reflect upon the folly 
 of which I had been guilty, and consider the account I 
 should give of my condition to the family at home. To
 
 43 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 tell them the risk I so wantonly and madly ran, would, 
 I knew, get me, what I well deserved, a good scourging, 
 I accordingly told them a lie ; that I fell into Clogher 
 Karry — the name of the river at that place — and 
 was nearly drowned. The last portion of the state- 
 ment consoled me, because I felt that it was very near 
 the truth.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Fondness for nature — Another love affair — Blighted affection — 
 Anne Duffy marries— A brutal master— Retaliation— The 
 superstitions of the e'der Carleton — His death. 
 
 I WAS certainly a strange boy, with a good deal, I 
 take it, of natural poetry in me. There was a beauti- 
 ful hazel glen, as I have said, behind our house in 
 Springtown. This glen was alive with blackbirds and 
 thrushes, and upon a fine, calm summer evening was 
 vocal in a hundred places with their melody. There 
 was one beautiful thorn-tree, at the foot of a steep piece 
 of ground which stretched from the back of our house 
 to the edge of the glen ; on this a particular blackbird 
 sat and sang as regularly as the evening comes. With 
 the music of this bird I was so intensely delighted, that 
 I used to go to bed every fine evening two hours before 
 my usual time, for the express purpose of listening to 
 the music. There was a back window in the bedroom 
 where I slept ; this I opened, and there I lay until I 
 fell asleep with the melody in my ears. 
 
 At this time I fell in love with a bouncing young 
 wench, the daughter of a tailor called Cormick McElroy 
 — father to one of my favourite tailors, Billy Cormick. 
 Although anything but alluring, she made advances, 
 which I could not understand, I suppose because they 
 were utterly unintelligible to anyone. She was three 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 or four years older than I was, but I am bound in truth 
 to say— although I suppose I should blush to admit it 
 — that she never made an advance that did not occasion 
 her a good drubbing at the hands of the young swain 
 she loved. They say that there are some animals who 
 love you better the more you beat them, and I am 
 of opinion that this young virago was one of them. 
 I never saw anything in the shape of woman whom I 
 detested so much. 
 
 This reminiscence is a prelude to the greatest love 
 event of my life. I was still going to school at 
 Tulnavert, advancing in the classics, and had got as 
 far as Ovid's " Metamorphoses," which charmed me 
 more than any book I had then ever read ; in fact, I 
 cannot describe the extraordinary delight with which I 
 perused it. The sense of task work was lost, because 
 I did it con aniore. I had often read of love, but 
 I never, for a moment, dreamt of what it meant. 
 'Tis true, when I was at school with Mrs. Dumont, 
 I felt that I would prefer one little girl to all the 
 rest, but that was not love, only a mere childish 
 predilection. 
 
 The time was now approaching, however, when I 
 was to feel the exquisite charm of '^ first love 'Mn all 
 its power. The " festivals " were then expected and 
 enjoyed with spirit and zest which have long passed 
 away. Preparations were then made for Christmas and 
 Easter of which we now know little or nothing. Easter 
 was within ten days of us, and I felt the more 
 anxious for its arrival because I had got a full suit of 
 new clothes, by far the most respectable I had ever 
 worn. I felt that I was quite a young gentleman ; 
 and as I was then fifteen years of age, I began to
 
 Young Love in Earnest. 51 
 
 have vague notions of something that I did not well 
 understand. In the " Forth," ^ which was our place of 
 worship, I felt somehow exceedingly anxious to show 
 myself off on the next Sunday, which was Easter 
 Day. The " Forth," in which there was one of the 
 " altars " that I have already described, was a circular 
 green about one hundred yards in diameter. It was 
 surrounded by a grassy ditch, apparently as ancient as 
 the " Forth " itself. On this ditch were verdant seats ; 
 and upon these seats, to the right hand as you 
 turned up towards the altar, sat the young men, 
 opposite to whom on the other sat the young women- 
 They were thus separated, and never, under any 
 circumstances, joined or spoke to each other until after 
 they had left the " Forth." Notwithstanding this devo- 
 tional sense of decorum, I am bound to say that the 
 eyes on each side were not idle, and that many a long 
 and loving look passed between the youngsters of both 
 sexes. 
 
 At length, the Easter Sunday came, and a glorious one 
 it was. I went abroad in my new suit for the first time 
 in public, and certainly, if the spectators did not enter- 
 tain a favourable opinion of my whole appearance, I 
 know one who did. Until the priest came, the men 
 chatted to each other, and so did the women ; but the 
 moment he entered the "Forth," all the congregation 
 assumed the best places they could, and dropped on 
 their knees, prepared to join the devotions of the day. 
 
 There was at that time a vocal choir of young men 
 and women in the parish, who, in virtue of their office 
 where obliged to kneel around the altar, where they 
 
 ' " Forth" is properly /(?r/' — that is, a ruth, or earthen rampart . 
 
 E 2
 
 52 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 sang some very beautiful music. Among the females 
 was one tall, elegant, and lady-like girl, whose 
 voice was perfectly entrancing. Her name was 
 Anne Duffy, daughter of George Duffy, the miller 
 of Augher Mill. She knelt that Sunday, and, in fact, 
 every Sunday, on the left hand side of the priest, next 
 the altar ; while I, more by accident than anything 
 else, placed myself in the same position on the other 
 side, so that we were right opposite to each other. 
 Whether it was the opportunity of having her before 
 rme, or her beauty, I cannot decide — probably it 
 was both together — but I said no prayers that 
 day. My eyes were never off her — they were 
 rivetted on her. I felt a new sensation, one of the 
 most novel and overwhelming delight. After Mass 
 1 followed her as far as the cross roads at Ned 
 McKeown's. Ned's was a corner house, with two 
 doors of entrance — one to the kitchen, and the other 
 into a small grocery shop, kept by a man named 
 Billy Fulton. It was a great convenience to the 
 neighbourhood, especially to those who lived in the 
 mountain districts, or what was termed the " Mountain 
 Bar." Before Mass, a great number of both sexes, 
 but principally men, lingered about these cross roads, 
 engaged in chat upon the usual topics of the day: 
 the most important, and that in which they felt the 
 deepest interest, was the progress of the Peninsular 
 War. Bonaparte was their favourite, and their hopes 
 were not only that he would subdue England, but 
 ultimately become monarch of Ireland. From what 
 source they derived the incredible variety of personal 
 anecdotes respecting him it is impossible to conjecture. 
 One of the most remarkable, and which was narrated
 
 Anne Duffy. 53 
 
 and heard with the most sincere beh'ef in its truth, was 
 the fact of his being invulnerable. It mattered nothing 
 whether he went into the thickest part of the battle or 
 not, the bullets hopped harmlessly off him like hail- 
 stones from a window. 
 
 Now Anne Duffy's father was a great politician, and 
 sometimes spent half an hour at the cross roads, both 
 before and^i^fter Mass, and Anne herself occasionally- 
 stopped a short time there, but very rarely. At all 
 events I saw her there again, and our looks met. She 
 appeared to be amused by my attention, which she 
 seemed to receive agreeably, and with pleasure. 
 Well, I went home a changed man — of fifteen years 
 of age — wrapped up from the world and all external 
 nature ; the general powers of my mind concentrated 
 into one thought, and fixed upon one image, Anne 
 Duffy. 
 
 There has been much controversy upon the subject of 
 love at first sight. I, however, am a proof of its truth. 
 The appearance of the sun in the firmament is not 
 more true. I went home elated, entranced — like a man 
 who had discovered a rich but hidden treasure. My 
 existence became important. I had an interest in life — 
 I was no longer a cipher. I had something to live for. 
 I felt myself a portion of society and the world. How 
 I spent the remainder of the day I scarcely remember, 
 especially as to association with my companions on 
 this festive occasion. All I know is, that Anne Duffy 
 was never for a single moment out of my head, and 
 when I was asleep that night she appeared as distinctly 
 before me as she did during the day ; but with this 
 difference, that her beauty was more exquisitely angelic 
 and ideal, and seemed to bear a diviner stamp.
 
 54 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 For nearly five years after this my passion for her 
 increased with my age, although I thought when I first 
 fell in love with her that nothing could have added a 
 deeper power to it. For upwards of four years I knelt 
 opposite her at the altar ; for upwards of four years my 
 eyes were never off her, and for upwards of four years 
 I never once, while at Mass, offered up a single prayer 
 to heaven. 0^, 
 
 As I grew up, she seemed to feel a deeper interest in 
 me. The language of her eyes could not be misunder- 
 stood. Through the medium of that language, I felt 
 that our hearts were intimately acquainted, precisely as 
 if they had held many a loving and ecstatic communion. 
 During the period of this extraordinary passion, I in- 
 dulged in solitude a thousand times, in order to brood 
 over the image of her whom I loved. On returning home 
 from Mass of a summer Sunda}-, I uniformly withdrew 
 to the bottom of the glen behind our house, and there 
 surrendered myself to the entrancing influence of what 
 I felt. There in the solitude of that glen I felt a charm 
 added to my existence which cannot be described. I 
 knew — I felt — that she loved me. This habit of mine 
 was so well known by my family that, when dinner was 
 ready and they found that I was absent, they knew per- 
 fectly well where to call for me. After the first six 
 months I could not rest satisfied with parting from her 
 at the " Forth " ; so, for three years and a half, I 
 walked after her, and never turned back until I left 
 her at the town of Augher, at the turn which led by a 
 side street to her father's mill ; and this during the 
 severity of winter and the heat of summer. 
 
 Now this I am describing was my silent — my inner 
 life; but the reader is not to imagine that it prevented 
 
 ( ,
 
 Young Love in Excels is. 55 
 
 me from entering into the sports and diversions of the 
 day. I devoted myself to athletic exercises until I was strjii^M-^- 
 without a rival — until, in fact, I had a local fame which 
 spread far beyond the limits of my native parish. I 
 was resolved to make myself talked of — to be distin- 
 guished by my excellence in these feats — and the 
 ambition which I then felt owed its origin to my love 
 for Anne Duffy. I remember well that when nineteen 
 years of age, my appearance in fair or market caused 
 crowds to follow the young fellow who stood unrivalled 
 at every athletic sport which could be named. This 
 fact is well known and remembered by some of the oldest 
 inhabitants of my native parish to the present day. 
 
 The reader will consider it strange that during this 
 long period of devoted and enthusiastic attachment) 
 I never spoke to Anne or declared my passion. 
 It is, however, a fact, that during the period I allude 
 to, a single syllable of spoken language never passed 
 between us. This, however, is easily accounted for. 
 My father died in the early course of my passion, and 
 the family began to feel with some bitterness the conse- 
 quences of decline. Had I spoken to Anne, and gained 
 her consent to marry me, I had no means of support- 
 ing her, and I could not bear the terrible idea of brine- 
 ing her to distress and poverty, both of which she must 
 have endured had she become my wife. 
 
 I was sitting before our kitchen fire one evening (in 
 autumn, I think), thinking of her as usual, when my 
 eldest brother came in, and after having taken a seat, 
 communicated the following intelligence. 
 
 " Did j'ou hear the news ?'' said he. 
 
 " No," replied my mother, " what is it ?" 
 
 " Why, that the miller's daughter" — by this appella-
 
 $6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 tion she was generally known, and not by her Christian 
 name — " the miller's daughter was married this morning 
 to M. M., of Ballyscally.'^ 
 
 The sensation I felt was as if something had paralyzed 
 my brain or my heart. I was instantly seized with a 
 violent dizziness, and an utter prostration of bodily 
 strength ; an indescribable confusion seized upon me — 
 thought for a moment abandoned me — and I laboured 
 under the impression that some terrible calamity had 
 befallen me. So long as she remained unmarried, I 
 still entertained a vague and almost hopeless hope that 
 some event might occur which, by one of the extra- 
 ordinary turnings of life, might put it in our power to 
 marry. Even this faint hope was gone — my doom was 
 irrevocably sealed, and the drapery of death hung 
 between her and me. I rose from my chair with 
 difficulty — I staggered out, and went into the barn, 
 where I wept bitterly. My life had now lost its charm, 
 and nothing but a cold cheerless gloom lay upon it and 
 my hopes. During three or four months this miserable 
 state of feeling lasted. I was, however, in the heyday of 
 youth — ^just in that period of existence when sorrow 
 seldom lasts long. The sensation gradually wore away, 
 and after a lengthened interval I recovered my usual 
 spirits. A short but interesting anecdote will now 
 close this extraordinary history of my first love. I think 
 it was in the year 1847 that I resolved to pay a visit to 
 my native place. When I left it, many years before, it 
 was with a fixed resolution never to write a letter home, 
 or to return to my friends, unless I had achieved some 
 distinction which might reflect honour upon my name. 
 Fortunately I was able to accomplish this strange 
 determination; and what is, after all, not strange, I do 
 
 k
 
 After Long Years. 57 
 
 assure my readers that Anne Duffy, though the wife of 
 another, was a strong stimulus to my pursuit of fame, 
 and in the early period of my literary life a power- 
 ful element in my arribition. She would hear of the 
 distinction I had acquired, she would probably even 
 read of the honourable position I had reached, by 
 universal consent, in the literature of my country. 
 
 On paying this visit to the City of the Stone of Gold, 
 I went first to Lisburn, where my friend John Birney, 
 the solicitor^ resided. With him I stayed for a few 
 days, when we started for Clogher, his native town ; 
 and it was rather singular that the very inn we stopped 
 at had been during my boyhood the residence of his 
 father, who was a most respectable magistrate, and a 
 man deservedly loved by the people of all creeds 
 and classes. It was to John Birney that I dedicated the 
 first series of my " Traits and Stories of the Irish 
 Peasantry." He had a good property about Clogher^ 
 and on this occasion, as he was going there to collect 
 his rents, we went together. I stayed at the nn, which 
 had formerly been his father's house, and so did he. 
 One day, after I had been about a week there, I 
 received an invitation to breakfast with a gentleman 
 who lived in a pretty, secluded spot, formerly called 
 " The Grange," but changed by its present proprietor 
 into " Ashfield," if I remember correctly. After break- 
 last, he proposed — or I proposed, I forget which — to 
 take a walk up to what once was Ballyscally, but 
 which was now a scene of perfect desolation. Out of 
 seventy or eighty comfortable cottages the gentleman in 
 question had not left one standing. Every unfortunate 
 tenant had been evicted, driven out, to find a shelter 
 for himself where he could. Ballyscally had, I think.
 
 58 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 been the property of the See of Clogher, but how it 
 came into this person's possession I know not. Upon 
 second thoughts, it must have been I who proposed the 
 walk in that direction, and for this reason : there was but 
 one house left standing in Ballyscally — certainly the best 
 that ever was in the town — but that house, as I knew 
 for many a long year, was the residence of the 
 husband of Anne Duffy.' We went up by Ballyscally, 
 which had consisted of houses scattered over the top 
 and side of an elevated hill, that commanded a distant 
 view of a beautiful country to an extent of not less than 
 fifty miles. The long depression of the land before you 
 to the west and north under the hill constitutes that por- 
 tion of the county known in ancient Irish history as the 
 " Valley of the Black Pig." My companion brought me 
 up to see an obelisk which he was building, on the top 
 of a much higher hill than Ballyscally. It was nearly 
 finished, but we reached the top with some difficulty, 
 and after all saw very little more than we could see 
 from its base. Like many other similar and useless 
 
 structures it was called " B 's Folly." 
 
 As we returned, I proposed that we should pay a visit 
 to her husband's house, then, as I said, the only one in 
 all Ballyscally. Up to this moment, she and I had never 
 exchanged a word. What she might have expressed, 
 had she known I was on my way to visit her, I do not 
 know, but, notwithstanding every attempt to keep cool, 
 I felt my heart palpitate as it had not done for years. 
 We shook hands, and had some commonplace conver- 
 sation, when after a few minutes her husband came in ; 
 and as he and I had known each ether long before his 
 
 ' It was old style in the North of Ireland to speak of the house 
 as the man's only.
 
 A Retarded Declaration. 59 
 
 marriage, we also shook hands as old acquaintances. 
 After a little I looked at her, and then turning to 
 him, — 
 
 " Michael," said I, " there stands the only woman J 
 ever loved beyond the power of language to express. 
 She had my first affection, and I loved her beyond any 
 woman that ever breathed, and strange to say, until this 
 occasion we never exchanged a syllable." 
 
 " Well," she replied, " I can say on my part— and I g^^^ 
 am not ashamed to say it — that I never loved man as I ^ - , 
 loved you ; but there was one thing clear, that it wasn't 
 our fate ever to become man and wife. Had you ij,,^^, 
 married me it's not likely the world would have ever 
 heard of you. As it is, I am very happily married, and 
 lead a happy life with as good and as kind a husband 
 as ever lived." 
 
 Michael laughed, and appeared rather pleased and 
 gratified than otherwise. We then shook hands again, 
 I took my leave, and that was my first and last interview 
 with her whose image made the pleasure of my whole 
 youth for nearly five years. 
 
 While we were in Springtown, McGoldrick, the classical 
 teacher, left the country. Wiley, the Presbyterian clergy- 
 man, was a Trinity College man, I think, and had the re- 
 putation of being an excellent scholar. He was a dwarf, 
 and I was told by one of his scholars, John Trimble, who 
 had been an old schoolfellow of my own with McGold- 
 rick, and afterwards resided as Doctor Trimble at Castle 
 Bellingham, that in or out of hell he was matchless for 
 the most savage brutality. His instrument of punish- 
 ment was a cudgel, with which he belaboured the boys, 
 when deficient in their lessons, so inhumanly that he 
 often knocked them down, and not unfrcqucntly cut
 
 6o Life of William Carleton. 
 
 them to the skull. Trimble was one of the bravest and 
 most courageous boys I ever met, and, besides, the most 
 generous and honourable. He was at this time about 
 nineteen, and I know not where a finer or handsomer 
 young fellow of his age could be found. Upon one 
 occasion Wiley struck him a severe blow with his 
 cudgel, a fact which gratified the recipient of the blow 
 very much. It was the first time he had dared to strike 
 him, for Trimble was of a highly respectable and 
 wealthy family. John, however, having received the 
 degrading blow, caught the cudgel, twisted it out 
 of the wretch's hand, and immediately began the 
 praiseworthy act of retributive justice. I said that 
 Wiley was a dwarf, but he was one of the most power- 
 ful dwarfs I ever saw in my life. He had a head the 
 size of a mess-pot, and a neck like a bull, while his 
 arms were powerful and of an immense length. 
 Altogether, the eye could not rest on a more scowling 
 and ferocious-looking animal. On this misshapen 
 carcase did generous John Trimble set to work, and 
 with such spirit and vigour, that Master Wiley was the 
 subject of a sick bed for more than a fortnight after- 
 wards. When he got up, he threatened a prosecution ; 
 but his case was too bad for that. Every scholar he 
 had withdrew from him, and he also left the neighbour- 
 hood, after a residence of only a few months. I think it 
 was my father's intention to have sent me to him, had 
 he not been deterred by the reputation of his unnatural 
 cruelty. 
 
 I was once more without a classical school to go to. 
 Education seemed to fly from me. I was extremely 
 anxious to acquire classical knowledge, and what to do 
 with me my father and family knew not. It was at this 
 
 i
 
 A Sad Christmas Day, 6i 
 
 period that my father caught the malady of which he 
 died. He went to dine with our sister Mary, whose 
 husband lived in the next townland to us — that of Kil- 
 rudden. The day was Christmas Day, and they had a 
 fine turkey. My father met my sister and her husband 
 at the " Forth " already described, and went home with 
 them to dinner. I remember the day well. The early 
 part of it was dry and rather agreeable ; at all events it 
 gave no presage of the severity that followed. The 
 most awful downpouring of rain I ever witnessed 
 set in when they were about half way ; they were 
 drenched to the very skin, and my father was obliged 
 to sit the whole day in his wet clothes. My brother- 
 in-law pressed him to take some spirits, but he had 
 made a vow upwards of thirty years before against 
 every kind of drink, except at a wedding or christening, 
 and consequently refused to take that which might have 
 saved his life. In m.any things he was a strange man. 
 In matters of religion I never knew any individual who 
 resembled him, or I should rather say who approached 
 him, in what I must term a senseless and superstitious 
 kind of piety. That he was a man of the most 
 stainless and inoffensive life — of the sweetest temper and 
 the strongest and tenderest affections — were facts known 
 to the whole parish. He was perpetually praying ; in 
 fact his beads were scarcely ever out of his hands, either 
 by night or day. He prayed, with his head in his hands, 
 even on his way to Mass on Sunday, when one would 
 imagine he could have got enough of it ; he prayed on 
 his way home again. He prayed on his way to fair or 
 market, and he prayed on his way home again also. His 
 charity, too, was far beyond his means, for he had the 
 kindest and most generous of hearts ; indeed no man
 
 62 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 ever sympathized in a more Christian spirit with human 
 misery. His fear of ghosts was ludicrous ; and many a 
 time my honest mother, who was utterly insensible to 
 any feeling of the kind, used to laugh at him for this 
 absurd weakness. 
 
 I will give one illustration of his fear of ghosts. He 
 was in the habit of going during the winter nights — 
 indeed during every night in the year, whether winter or 
 summer — up to the parlour to pray. This was not 
 common prayer ; it was penance of the severest kind 
 got from certain specimens from Butler's " Lives of the 
 Saints," a favourite book of his. When going to pray he 
 always brought a round rod, about as thick as the upper 
 endof a horsewhip, on which he knelt, perhaps foracouple 
 of hours, repeating rosaries and prayers to no end. One 
 winter's night he was so engaged, when I noticed a fox- 
 terrier we had, called Trig, go into the room where he 
 was engaged in prayer. Trig returned almost imme- 
 diately, and soon after him my father, beads in hand, 
 and with a pale face. 
 
 " Mary,^' said he to my mother, " I have something 
 strange to tell you." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked my mother. 
 
 " Why," said he, " while I was at my prayers this 
 moment, I felt a cold and deathlike hand laid upon 
 mine ; what could it mean ? '^ 
 
 " How can I tell .? " replied my mother. 
 
 " It was as cold as ice," he proceeded, " and just 
 touched the hand I had the beads in — isn't it very 
 strange ? " 
 
 " Why, it is rather strange," returned my mother ; " I 
 can make nothing of it." 
 
 " I know what it means now," replied my simple father.
 
 An Evil Spirit. 6^ 
 
 " it was a temptation to turn my mind from the prayers 
 I was saying. I think it was an evil spirit. Get me 
 the jug that has the holy water in it, and I will go and 
 commence my prayers again." 
 
 He accordingly got the holy water, and went once 
 more into the dark room, and resumed his devotions. 
 He had not been three minutes there, however, when 
 Trig, the dog, urged by what motive I know not, went 
 into the room after him, and almost immediately re- 
 turned again, instantly followed by my father, now 
 in a state of terror which language could scarcely 
 describe. 
 
 " I declare to my God," said he, " the evil spirit 
 touched my hand again." 
 
 " Why," said my mother, " hadn't you the holy 
 water ? " 
 
 " I had,'' he replied, " and sprinkled it all about the 
 room, and especially the spot I was kneeling on ; but in 
 spite of all, a hand as cold as death or ice touched 
 mine." 
 
 "Go back/' said my mother, "and take a candle with 
 you." 
 
 This he did, and in a few minutes the dog once more 
 followed him, and placed his nose upon his hand as 
 before. This development of the mystery satisfied 
 him and set all right ; but, had he not thus discovered 
 it, he would have laboured under the impression that 
 there had been something supernatural in the matter. 
 
 On returning home that night from my sister's, my 
 father complained of being unwell, and the next day was 
 only able to go about a little. On the second day he was 
 worse, and on the third took to his bed, from which he 
 never rose. He was ill for six weeks, and died after a
 
 64 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 long series of terrible sufferings — but as a Christian. 
 The priest who administered to him those rites of the 
 Church peculiar to the hour of death declared that during 
 the whole course of his long life, he never witnessed so 
 edifying a deathbed. His remains were attended to the 
 graveyard in Clogher by the largest funeral concourse 
 remembered in the parish.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A candidate for the priesthood — Pat McArdle's scheme— Carleton 
 takes the road as a poor scholar — His adventures — Curious 
 dream — Its result — Pat Frayne's departure — Studying the 
 classics. 
 
 As for me, who was my father's favourite, I was in a 
 state of indescribable sorrow for months. The 'marriage 
 of Anne Duffy and his death were the two bitterest 
 calamities of my early life. 
 
 As they say in the country, my father seemed to take 
 the good luck of the family with him. We were soon 
 on the decline, and I felt exceedingly anxious to acquire 
 classical knowledge in order to prepare myself for life. 
 The prospect before me was dark and dismal. After 
 much reflection upon my ultimate fate in the world, 
 and feeling how incapable I was from want of education 
 to discharge any respectable duty in it, I proposed to 
 my family that I should go to Munster as a poor 
 scholar. In fact, with respect to education, there was 
 no other opening for me. I was the more inclined to 
 this as a nephew of our own parish priest, the Rev. 
 Edward McArdle, had come to the same resolution. 
 Mr. Mc Ardle had two nephews, one of them a namesake 
 of his own (Edward), who had attended McGoldrick's 
 school at Tulnavcrt so long as it was there. That 
 nephew was then a student at Maynooth. His brother 
 now assured his uncle that he was resolved to enter the 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 ,t- 
 
 66 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 Church, but as his (the priest's) housekeeper, his sister- 
 in-law, a Mrs. Buckley, would not suffer his uncle to 
 keep him in his house, he said he was resolved to go 
 to Munster to prepare himself, as so many others did. 
 The name of this candidate for church honours was Pat 
 McArdle, and if Mrs. Buckley, who was the most incar- 
 nate devil that ever existed in the shape of woman, had 
 never done anything worse than keeping this drunken 
 scoundrel out of the priest's house, she would have had | 
 
 very little to answer for. As it was, he got a sum of 
 fifty pounds from his reverend but unsuspecting uncle 
 to enable him to work out his object, with a promise of 
 still further support whenever he should require it. It 
 was now the month of May, and my relatives were 
 preparing my humble and unpretending outfit. I got 
 a new suit of clothes and four shirts, with as many 
 classical books as could be procured. Pat Mc/\rdleand 
 I were to go together, and all my family, with the 
 exception of one brother, were delighted that a lad so 
 young and utterly inexperienced as I was should have 
 the advantage of his society on the journey. I know 
 that I myself was delighted, and derived great courage 
 from the anticipation. My brother James, however, 
 did not at all relish this notion of having Master 
 Pat as my companion on the way ; because he was 
 better acquainted with his character than we were. 
 The truth is, he was a scheming scoundrel, seldom 
 sober, and, as my brother supposed very correctly (as 
 the event proved), had not the slightest notion of going 
 to Munster as a poor scholar. 
 
 "The thing is ridiculous," said my brother ; "a fellow 
 past thirty years of age, better dressed in his suit of 
 black than his uncle the priest himself, to think of going 
 
 I'
 
 Pat McArdle. 67 
 
 up to Munster as a poor scholar ! He has no more 
 notion of it than I have." 
 
 At all events he called at our house the evening 
 before we were to start, in order to arrange that I 
 should meet him, the next morning, in the town of 
 Aughnacloy, at a friend's place, whose address he 
 gave us. He brought me a Latin testimonial of 
 character, written by his uncle, who had given my 
 brother an English one before. This, however, he 
 said was more authentic, and a certain evidence that 
 it could not be written by anyone but a priest. He 
 was a very smooth gentleman, extremely plausible in 
 his manners, easy and insinuating, and altogether 
 well qualified to get through the world. He asked 
 me if we had any other testimonials to my character 
 than those of his uncle, to which my brother replied 
 that I had a letter from the Rev. James Garland, 
 the Catholic curate of the adjoining parish of Errigle 
 Truagh, to a young man then closing his studies as a 
 poor scholar in Munster, with whose address he was 
 acquainted. This young man's relations, who were 
 rather wealthy, lived a little off the mail-coach northern 
 road that ran between Aughnacloy and PZmyvale. Their 
 name was Murray. Master Pat seemed very much 
 satisfied with this, and expressed his hope that we might 
 yet live to see each other bishops. 
 
 " What money do you intend to give him ? " said he, 
 addressing my brother. " You ought not to stint him 
 in that respect." 
 
 "That's a subject we have not made up our minds 
 on," replied my brother, " but we'll think of it. You 
 know," said he, " we are not rich." 
 
 " Well," replied Pat, " place whatever sum you intend 
 
 F 2
 
 68 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 to allow him in my hands. I am able to manage it 
 better than the poor inexperienced boy is. I'll be his 
 banker, and pay it out to him as long as it lasts, seeing 
 in the meantime that he is not imposed on." 
 
 " You are very kind," replied my brother, "and when 
 we are able to see how much we can afford him, we'll 
 have more talk about it." 
 
 " But then we start to-morrow, you know," said the 
 other. 
 
 " Well/' replied my brother, " but you know that I go 
 with him as far as Aughnacloy, where we are to meet, 
 and then we can settle it." 
 
 Master Pat, however, did not go to Munster, because 
 he had no such intention. His object was to get fifty 
 pounds from his pious but simple uncle, and having 
 accomplished this, he disappeared, and left me to pursue 
 my journey alone. Had my brother been fool enough 
 to allow him to become my banker, there is no earthly 
 doubt that my bank would have failed. I never saw 
 him afterwards. 
 
 In my tale of " The Poor Scholar" I have represented 
 my father as a living man, whereas he had been dead 
 for about a year before. The love I bore him was a 
 rare affection even from a son to a father. I was his 
 idol, not merely the child of his affection, but of his 
 worship. The evening McArdle left us was, as the 
 reader knows, the last I was to spend at home until my 
 return from Munster. What I am now about to relate 
 is very singular, but quite true. On that night all my 
 sorrow — ail my grief rather — for my father revived with 
 as much vehemence and power as I first felt on the 
 occasion of his death. I got his clothes — I pressed 
 them to my heart, I kissed them, and lapsed altogether 
 
 n
 
 A Start in Life. 6g 
 
 into such a state of distraction, as revived the grief 
 which all those around me had felt at his death. 
 At length I was overcome by the excess of what I felt, 
 and when urged to go to bed I did so, when I fell fast 
 asleep. The scene, however, where I have described my 
 mother as gently kissing me while I was asleep^ and 
 crying over me in a low voice, is perfectly true, as I 
 learned afterwards from my sister. 
 
 When morning came we had an early breakfast, of 
 which I could partake but slightly, and that after having 
 been forced to it by my mother. Before I awoke in the 
 morning they had, by my brother James's advice, sewed 
 five pound notes in the cuff of the left sleeve of my 
 coat, and placed thirty shillings in silver in one of the 
 pockets of my trousers, for immediate use as I pro- 
 ceeded on my journey. They also gave me a needle 
 and thread, and a penknife, that I might be able to 
 rip my sleeve when I wanted a pound, and sew it up 
 again without the knowledge of anyone. 
 
 I have described the separation, exactly as it hap- 
 pened, in the tale of " The Poor Scholar'^ itself, leaving 
 my father out, so that it would be impossible to give it 
 here without repeating myself. I have also described 
 the journey as far as the town of Granard, together 
 with my accidental meeting with Lenehan, the 
 benevolent farmer, and the motherly kindness of his 
 equally Christian and benevolent wife. My outfit was 
 simple enough, but a portion of it very significant of the 
 object of my journey. My satchel consisted of a piece 
 of greybeard linen, made after the manner of a soldier's 
 knapsack, and worn in the same fashion. At a first 
 glance, everyone could see that it was filled principally 
 with books, whose shapes were quite visible through it,
 
 70 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 and the consequence was that my object as a young 
 traveller was known at a glance. I never stayed in 
 the towns as I went along, but always at the small 
 roadside iims, where I was treated with kindness 
 to which I really could scarcely render justice by 
 description. 
 
 I need not say that during this journey I had a heavy 
 heart and a sorrowful one. I was leaving all those 
 who were dear to me, probably never to see them again. 
 I was going to a strange country, to mingle with a 
 people among whom I had not a single friend. In fact, 
 I was very much to be pitied, and the only thing which 
 sustained me and checked my grief was the novelty of 
 the scenery as I went along. Many a jaunt I got in 
 empty post-chaises as I advanced — and many a time 
 was my satchel carried for me by some kind fellow 
 traveller who happened to be going my way. 
 
 At length I reached the town of Granard, where I 
 stopped at a small inn kept by a man nam.ed Grehan. 
 Here I was treated with the usual kindness. Indeed, 
 during this youthful pilgrimage such was the respect 
 held for those who appeared to be anxious to acquire 
 education, that, with one exception alone, I was not per- 
 mitted to pay a farthing for either bed or board in the 
 roadside houses of entertainment where I stopped. 
 Two of these were kept by Protestants, who were 
 equally generous. The one man who made me pay was 
 a Catholic, and so far as I could see was what is called a 
 voteen^ because while I was at my supper he advised me 
 very seriously not to go to bed without saying my 
 prayers. He also asked me several questions about my 
 
 ^ Voteen means devotee, but is usually applied only to foolish or 
 hypocritical devotees.
 
 Absit Omen ! ' 71 
 
 family, and whether I went regularly to confession ; 
 but notwithstanding the interest he felt in my soul, I 
 had to pay thirteen pence after breakfast in the morn- 
 ing ; that was three pence for my bed, five pence for my 
 supper of excellent flummery and new milk the pre- 
 ceding night, and five more for my breakfast that 
 morning. God knows it was cheap enough, but still he 
 was the only man who charged me anything. 
 
 In Grehan's little inn I slept very soundly, but still 
 I had a dream that sent me back to my family. I 
 dreamt that I was pursued by a mad bull, and over- 
 taken. The bull was about to gore me, when I awoke in 
 a perspiration of terror. In the morning I dressed my- 
 self, breakfasted with the family, assumed my equip- 
 ments for the resumption of my journey, as they thought ; 
 but the moment I got outside the door, I turned to the 
 right-about, and started for home with a great heart. 
 The dream of the mad bull, aided by other motives still 
 more natural and strong, accomplished the fact of my 
 restoration to my family. 
 
 This turned out to be a most agreeable event to all 
 parties. During my short absence from home, my 
 mother and the other members of my family were 
 nearly in despair, and charged themselves with a verj' 
 deep degree of guilt and heartlessness for having allowed 
 me, then so young and ignorant of the world, to under- 
 take such a journey. In fact, the house was a scene of 
 grief and weeping ; my mother was nearly distracted, 
 and there was an intention of sending one of my 
 brothers after me for the purpose of tracing me out and 
 bringing me home. At first, it is true, the notion of 
 going to Munster originated with myself. My ambi- 
 tion to acquire learning, however, was not so strong as
 
 72 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 my domestic affection. On the morning of my return I 
 felt as if I could tread upon air, especially as I diminished 
 the distance between me and Springtown. My object 
 was to give them a surprise at home, because, to say 
 the truth, I suspected the remorse they felt. Most 
 fortunately, no one saw me until I entered the house — 
 when my dear mother uttered an exclamation which it 
 would be difficult to describe, and rushing to me with a 
 tottering step, fainted in my arms. The tumult which 
 ensued in the family was one of delight and joy. That 
 day was indeed a happy da}'. The neighbours, having 
 heard of my return, were equally delighted ; many of 
 them had spoken in very severe terms to my relations for 
 having allowed me to go at such an age. This return 
 home, under different circumstances, to be sure, is 
 described at the close of " The Poor Scholar." 
 
 Here was I again for upwards of two years left 
 without the means of acquiring classical knowledge. 
 My old friend Pat Frayne, however, had been permitted 11 
 
 by kind-hearted Andy Morrow, who was our neighbour, 
 to open a school in the house in wKich he himself and 
 all his ancestors had been born. Pat was charged no 
 rent, but got a cow's grass, and ground for as many 
 potatoes as he could plant free. This was by way of 
 compensation for keeping the house inhabited ; it 
 would otherwise have fallen into ruin. I now returned 
 to enjoy Pat's instructions, but as I had no relish for 
 arithmetic or science in any shape, I spent an un- 
 pleasant time with him, and felt myself degraded when 
 sitting among a parcel of bare-legged monkeys whom I 
 looked upon with contempt. Still I forced myself to 
 my business, and got a tolerably good notion of Gough's 
 Arithmetic. Even here, however, Pat was attended by
 
 Pat Frayne's Luck. 73 
 
 his usual luck, as well as myself. I thought it would 
 be no harm if I learned book-keeping to qualify myself 
 for a clerk in some shopkeeper's or merchant's office. I 
 was consequently about to procure a copy of Jackson's 
 " Book-keeping," had not a law case between Andy Mor- 
 row's niece, Miss Kitty, and our next neighbour, Robin 
 Young, a wealthy and substantial farmer, intervened. 
 Miss Kitty was entitled by her grandfather's will, or 
 her father's (I am not certain which), to one half of the 
 townland of Kilrudden, which Andy Morrow at the 
 time, and for some years before, had held as an occupier, 
 but in trust for her. Young proposed for her, was ac- 
 cepted and went to reside in the house then occupied by 
 Pat Frayne, who on that occasion finally left the coun- 
 try, and returned to his native Connaught, where, it 
 seems, he had a wealthy but childless brother who in- ■ 
 vited him and his family home. 
 
 Again I was without means of acquiring that know- 
 ledge on which my heart was set — knowledge of the 
 classics. I had gone before this beyond the Fourth Book 
 of Virgil, and if ever a schoolboy was affected almost to 
 tears, I was by the death of Dido. Even when a school- 
 boy, I did not read the classics as they are usually read 
 by learners. I read them as novels — I looked to the V-^ 
 story — the narrative — not to the grammatical or other 
 difficulties.' The field was new to me, and consequently 
 possessed a singular cliarm for me. The truth is, I read iJ 
 the classics through the influence of my imagination, 
 rather than of my judgment. 
 
 ' In this, Carleton resembled Pope.
 
 i\ 
 
 ■*ii 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "Tom Jones" — " Amoranda " — Keenan's classical school— The 
 " infare " at Carg.ah — The Ribbonmen — Carleton made a 
 Ribbonman — Extent of the organization — The oath of the 
 society — The grip. 
 
 While at Tulnavert school, I formed one of those 
 schoolboy friendships, which are so common among lads 
 such as we were, for a young class-fellow called William ^ 
 
 Short. He asked me to go home and spend a few 
 nights with him, an invitation which I gladly accepted. 
 His father lived in a wild mountainous district and 
 possessed a large tract of rough mountain ground. 
 When I went there I felt astonished at the undoubted 
 evidences of his wealth. While on this visit I saw 
 for the first time an odd volume of " Tom Jones " ; but 
 I have not the slightest intention of describing the 
 wonder and the feeling with which I read it. No pen 
 could do justice to that. It was the second volume ; of 
 course the story was incomplete, and, as a natural con- 
 sequence, I felt something amounting to agony at the 
 disappointment — not knowing what the dcnouemetit was. 
 It was a little before this that I met the first thing in 
 the shape of a novel that ever came into my hands. It 
 was published as a pamphlet, but how I came by it I 
 don't recollect. The name was " Amoranda, or the 
 Reformed Coquette." She, Amoranda, was a young 
 lady of great fortune and surpassing beauty, and
 
 Amoranda. 75 
 
 better still for herself, she was the sole mistress of 
 that fortune, responsible to none. Of course, she 
 was surrounded by hundreds of admirers, all suitors 
 for the hand of a lady at once so beautiful and 
 so wealthy. She acted the thorough coquette — en- 
 couraged them all, but accepted none. At length one 
 lover made his appearance, a gentleman very superior 
 to her other worshippers, and to him she seemed to 
 give something like a preference ; but when he made 
 his proposals she told him that if she were capable of 
 deciding for herself it would be in his favour. In the 
 meantime she preferred her present life ; it was better, 
 she thought, to have many worshippers than one. Life 
 with a husband must be an insipid thing, and besides, 
 she preferred being admired to being loved. The 
 disappointed gallant took his farewell, and left her to 
 enjoy the admiration which was so grateful to her 
 vanity. Still she could not banish the image of the 
 last visitor from her memory, and she began to feel 
 something like regret that she did not give him at least 
 a longer trial ; however, it was now too late. It seemed 
 that he was so deeply affected by her rejection of his 
 suit, that he went to the Continent with the intention of 
 spending the remainder of his life there. This informa- 
 tion she had in a letter from himself, and she was deeply 
 affected by it. In the course of a few months after- 
 wards, during the season of autumn, a carriage was 
 passing the public road, which was quite convenient to 
 her magnificent residence ; the horses, it seems, took 
 fright at something, the carriage was overturned, and an 
 old gentleman of a very dignified and venerable appear- 
 ance was so severely injured, that it was found necessary 
 to ask Amoranda if she could give him shelter during
 
 76 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 the illness which was occasioned by the injuries he had 
 received. Amoranda, coquette as she was, possessed 
 a generous and humane heart. She sent her own 
 carriage for him, and he was received by her with a most 
 hospitable welcome. The story then goes on to their con- 
 versation during her guest's recovery, and after he became 
 able to walk with her through the beautiful grounds 
 attached to the castle. The venerable sage gained her 
 confidence ; she was not at heart a coquette, but she 
 despised men, and took delight in encouraging them in 
 order to secure their punishment by afterwards re- 
 jecting them. She said it was her great property that 
 brought the majority of them about her — that she never 
 loved but one, who unfortunately had gone to the Con- 
 tinent, and she was never likely to see him again. A 
 few days afterwards his wig became disarranged, by 
 some accident, in her presence, and an artificial nose 
 displaced, and there he stood before her — the only man 
 whom she had ever loved ! 
 
 We were drowning flax the day I read this, the first 
 novel that had ever come into my hands, and I was 
 lying among the green beets as they were tumbled out 
 of the slide car on which they were drawn to the flax- 
 pond. Such was the delight with v/hich I read, and 
 such my disappointment that there was no more of it, 
 that I actually shed tears. 
 
 I now began to look out for books of fiction and 
 entertainment. It is true I had read all those cheap 
 amusing little works which were at that time the only 
 reading books in the common schools, from '* The 
 Arabian Nights " downwards. Need I say with what 
 an enthusiastic delight I read them — but they only 
 stimulated the taste for fiction by which I was then
 
 Novel-Hunting. tj 
 
 absorbed. I had now little on my hands to do as a 
 student, but so anxious was I for this sort of amuse- 
 ment, that I went throughout the greater part of the 
 parish hunting for books of entertainment. 
 
 Although the state of education was, at the period of 
 which I write, very low, and knowledge scanty among 
 the people, yet it is surprising what a number of books, 
 pamphlets and odd volumes, many of these works of 
 fiction, I found among them. If yoM examined the 
 number of Catholic families in the parish, you would 
 find that one half of them could not read ; yet several of 
 these utterly illiterate persons had many of the works 
 I have alluded to, most carefully laid up, under the hope 
 that some young relation might be able to read them. 
 I remember two, by which I was much struck — 
 " The Life of Edward, Lord Herbert," and " Defoe's 
 History of the Devil." 
 
 After having ransacked almost all the old cupboards 
 and boxes in the parish, I accidentally heard of a 
 relative of mine who, I was told, was curate of a place 
 called Glennon, in the parish of Donagh, county 
 Monaghan. What was most agreeable to me, and 
 least expected, was that he kept a classical school. 
 On making further inquiry among my family, and 
 having consulted my uncle — brother to my father 
 — I discovered that Mr. Keenan (for such was his 
 name) and I were second cousins. This information 
 afforded me great satisfaction. I accordingly went to a 
 family named McCarron, who held a fine farm in the 
 townland of Derrygola, in the adjoining parish of 
 Truagh. The wife of Patrick McCarron was my 
 mother's niece. Here I stayed for a few days, and 
 then proceeded to the house of a man named Traynor,
 
 7^ Life of William Carleton. 
 
 with whom I understood my cousin Keenan lodged. 
 Traynor's house was immediately beside the chapel, 
 and a comfortable one it was. Fortunately I found my || 
 
 reverend cousin at home, and on making myself known 
 to him I was very kindly received. His family and ours 
 lived at least thirty miles from each other, so that 
 except in blood relationship we were utter strangers. 
 I gave him a history of my past life and education, and 
 mentioned the declining circumstances of the family, 
 expressing deep regret that I had not had an oppor- 
 tunity of completing my classical education. The man 
 saw at once the object of my visit, and asked me could 
 I not attend his school. 
 
 " If I had a house of my own," said he, " I could with 
 pleasure afford you a place of residence^ but as it is I 
 am only a lodger here." 
 
 I told him that I had relations in the neighbouring 
 parish of Truagh, about five miles distant, with whom 
 I could live. 
 
 ''Well, in that case," he replied, "the sooner you 
 come the better ; whatever I can do for you I will feel 
 very happy in doing. I only hope," he added, smiling, 
 " that you are not a better scholar than myself. Before 
 you go, you must take a drop of dram," and in a 
 couple of minutes I got a bumper of as good poteen as 
 ever ran through the eye of a still, as the phrase is. 
 I went to Keenan in the year 1814 and remained with 
 him until the year 18 16. I lived at Derrygola for 
 some time with my relations the McCarrons, who 
 were wealthy people, and most affectionate to me. 
 ,^My residence with them was the most delightful 
 period of my youth. Keenan, as I said, was only the 
 curate of the parish of Donagh. Glasslough was next
 
 Keenan's School. 79 
 
 town to his residence, that is to say, about three- 
 quarters of a mile from it. The parish priest of 
 Donagh was the Rev. Mr. McMullan. The parish was 
 not a large one, and Keenan's salary was so small that 
 he was unable to live without the assistance he derived 
 from the profits of his school. He collected oats 
 besides from the parishioners, both Catholic and Pro- 
 testant, and indeed I may affirm with truth that he was 
 treated with more liberality by the latter class than by 
 the former. The Protestants, however, could well 
 afford to be liberal, as they were by far the more 
 wealthy. 
 
 While I was with Keenan a brother of his re- 
 turned from the Peninsular War, accompanied by a 
 Portuguese wife. T remember bringing a common low- 
 wheeled car for them, covered with a feather bed and 
 quilt, to the '^Westenra Arms" in Monaghan, where 
 they stopped the night before. Paddy Traynor, with 
 whom Keenan lodged, contrived to make room for them 
 in his house. Here, however, they did not remain long. 
 Keenan's brother had either saved money in the army 
 or got it with his wife : be this as it may, he was 
 able to open the largest grocery and liquor establish- 
 ment that ever was seen in Glasslough. 
 
 There were then at Keenan's school three individuals 
 whom I will mention. Two of these were full-grown 
 young men. One of them was Mr. Peter McPhillips, 
 who afterwards kept the " Westenra Arms Hotel " in 
 Monaghan for many years ; the others were Frank 
 McGough and John McNally. When Keenan's 
 brother opened the grocery establishment in Glass- 
 lough, his brother the priest went to reside with him. 
 and honest Peter McPhillips, one of tlie full-grown
 
 8o Life of William Carle ton, 
 
 pupils just mentioned, and than whom a man of more 
 sterling integrity never lived, gave up all notions of the 
 priesthood, and went to conduct the Peninsular hero's 
 establishment as a grocer. In the meantime I had 
 removed during the winter from McCarron's of Derry- 
 gola to Traynor's, with whom Keenan had lodged. 
 From Traynor's I went for some months to the house 
 of a man named Moynagh, whose residence was in 
 Donagh, that being the name of the town from which 
 the parish itself is named. 
 
 Of course it must not be supposed that I neglected to 
 visit my mother and family during this period of absence. 
 So far from that, I went home, I think, at least once a 
 month, if not oftener. These visits sometimes lasted 
 three or four days, and I not unfrequently went to 
 Clogher market on these occasions — feeling naturally 
 anxious to see and meet many of my young friends, who 
 were also as anxious to see me. I may add here for 
 once that there never was in that part of the country a 
 young fellow more popular or better beloved by persons 
 of all creeds and classes — by the Protestants as well as 
 by the Catholics. On such occasions, however, my 
 associates were generally of my own religion. During 
 those reunions I was struck with one fact, for which I 
 could not by any means account. These young fellows, 
 and others, frequently looked with a very mysterious 
 kind of inquiry into my face, and occasionally asked 
 me what age I was. I generally replied, " I'm in 
 my nineteenth year," upon which the expression 
 of their faces became lengthened and indicative 
 of disappointment. This puzzled me very much : 
 I could not by any train of reasoning understand 
 it. I now return to a particular visit I made
 
 A Dance. 8i 
 
 to see my mother and other relations at Springtown. 
 The day was Saturday, and the month either June or 
 July, when, having started for home from Glasslough, 
 a distance of at least sixteen miles across the country, 
 which to me was nothing, I had arrived at the town- 
 land next to Springtown, named Cargah, immediately 
 above which was a very prett}' smooth eminence ending 
 in a flat greensward. On this table-land I found there 
 was a dance, in which was engaged a number of young 
 men and women, with nearly every one of whom I was 
 acquainted. It was not, I soon found, an ordinary 
 dance, but what they call in the north an infare, or the 
 haling home of a newly-married bride to the house of 
 her husband, of which she is to be the future mistress- 
 At these infares, there was generally such a dance as 
 I found on the table on Cargah Hill, animated to a 
 greater sense of enjoyment by plenty of excellent 
 poteen whisky. Here I danced with the bride, whom I 
 looked upon for the first time, and several other girls 
 with whom I was intimately acquainted. Even at this 
 time I was celebrated as a dancer. After my last dance '^/7c<s, 
 was concluded, I stood to observe the progress of the 
 general amusement, when I observed the young fel- 
 lows getting together into knots and looking at me 
 as if I had been the subject of their conversation- 
 Before this period the bridegroom had forced me 
 to lake two glasses of the poteen, which, as I 
 was not in the habit of drinking anything in the 
 shape of spirits, had got a very little into my head. 
 They offered me a third glass, which I refused, lest my 
 mother might observe the signs of drink upon me. 
 After some time, about half a dozen of them were 
 led behind a dry green ditch by a red-haired fellow 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 named Hugh Roe McCahy, who lived in the townland 
 of Cloghleim, not half a mile distant. He was one of 
 those important individuals who make themselves 
 active and prominent among their fellows, attend 
 dances and wakes, are seldom absent in fair or 
 market from a fight, and, I may add, lose no oppor- 
 tunity of giving rise to one when everything else fails 
 them. 
 
 "William,"' said he, "aren't you ashamed to be 
 ignorant of what is going on about you over the whole 
 country ? " He had a prayer-book, or what is called a 
 manual, a book of Roman Catholic devotion, in his hand 
 as he spoke — a fact which greatly puzzled me, as I was 
 perfectly aware that he could not read. I had once 
 before this, while book-hunting throughout the 
 neighbourhood, called upon him and found in his house 
 an odd volume of Catholic theology in Latin. The 
 fellow was rapid in his language as well as in his 
 personal motions. 
 
 " Why," said I, " what is going on in the country ? " 
 " I will tell you," he replied ; " but first take this 
 manual in your hand, and repeat after me what I will 
 
 say." 
 
 He then went over the oath of Ribbonism, which 
 he had got by heart, until he concluded it ; after this 
 he made me kiss the book. 
 
 " Now," said he, " you're z//— you're a Ribbonman ; 
 all you want is the words and signs — and here they 
 
 are." 
 
 He then communicated them to me, and, although 
 but a schoolboy, I went home a Ribbonman. 
 
 Here was a new view of life opened to me, and that 
 with such dexterous rapidity, that I found myself made
 
 A Ribbon Society. 83 
 
 a member of a secret and illegal society by this adroit 
 scoundrel, before I had time to pause or reflect upon 
 the consequences. In like manner were hundreds* 
 nay thousands, of unreflecting youths seduced into this 
 senseless but most mischievous system. 
 
 I now discovered that the whole Catholic population, 
 with the exception of the aged heads of families, was 
 affiliated to Ribbonism. In fact it was not only 
 almost impossible, but dangerous, to avoid being 
 involved in the system. If a young man happened to 
 possess the sense and spirit to resist the Ribbonmen's 
 importunities to join them, he would probably be way- 
 laid and beaten by persons of whom he knew nothing. 
 
 The following is the Ribbon oath, a curiosity in its 
 way : — 
 
 " I, A. B., with the sign of the Cross do declare and 
 promise, in the name and through the assistance of the 
 13lessed Trinity, that I will keep inviolate all secrets of 
 this Fraternal Society from all but those whom I know 
 to be regular members of the same, and bound by the 
 same solemn oath and fraternal ties : — 
 
 " 1st. I declare and profess, without any compulsion, 
 allegiance to his present Majesty, George the Third, 
 King of Great Britain and Ireland. 
 
 " 2nd. That I will be true to the principles of this 
 Society, dedicated to St. Patrick, the Holy Patron of 
 Ireland, in all things lawful and not otherwise. 
 
 "3rd. That I will duly and regularly attend on the 
 shortest possible notice, at any hour, whether by night 
 or by day, to perform, witliout fail or inquiry, such 
 commands as my superior or superiors may lay upon 
 me, under whatever penalty he or they may inflict for 
 neglecting the same. 
 
 G 2
 
 &4 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " 4th. I will not deliberately or willingly provoke, 
 challenge or strike any of my brothers, knowing him 
 to be such. If he or they should be ill spoken of, ill- 
 used, or otherwise treated unjustly, I will, according to 
 circumstances and the best of my judgment, espouse his 
 cause, give him the earliest information^ and aid him 
 with my friendship when in distress as a Ribbonman. 
 
 " 5th. I also declare and promise, that I will not 
 admit or propose a Protestant or heretic of any descrip- 
 tion as a member of our Fraternal Society, knowing 
 him to be such. 
 
 " 6th. That, whether in fair or market, in town or 
 country, I will always give the preference in dealing to 
 those who are attached to our national cause, and that 
 I will not deal with a Protestant or heretic — but above 
 all with an Orangeman — so long as I can deal with one 
 of my own faith upon equal terms. 
 
 " 7th. That I will not withdraw myself from this 
 Society without stating my reasons for the same, and 
 giving due notice to m\' superior or superiors ; and 
 that I will not without permission join any other society 
 of different principles or denominations, under penalty of 
 God's judgment, and whatever penalty may be inflicted 
 on me — not including in these the Masonic Institution, 
 Trade Societies, or the profession of soldier or sailor. 
 
 " 8th. That I will always aid a brother in distress or 
 danger by my person, purse, and counsel so far as in 
 me lies ; and that I will not refuse to subscribe money, 
 according to my means, for the general or particular 
 purposes of this our Fraternal Society. 
 
 " 9th. That I will not, under the penalty inflicted by 
 my superiors, give evidence in an}' Court of Law or 
 Justice against a brother, when prosecuted by an 
 
 i
 
 The Ribbon Oath. 85 
 
 Orangeman or heretic ; and that I will aid him in his 
 defence by any means in my power. 
 
 " loth. That when forced to take refuge from the 
 law in the house of a brother or of any person friendly 
 to our national cause^ I will not have any improper 
 intercourse or foul freedom with his sister, daughter, 
 wife or cousin, and thus give cause of scandal to our 
 Society. 
 
 " Having made the above solemn declaration and 
 promise of my own free will and accord, I swear true 
 and real allegiance to the cause of Ireland only, and 
 no longer to be true as a subject nor to bear allegiance 
 to George the Third, King of Great Britain and Ireland ; 
 and I now pray that God may assist me in my 
 endeavours to fulfil the same; that He may protect me 
 and prosper our Society, and grant us to live and die 
 in a state of grace ! — Amen." 
 
 I may as well give what were then the " Words ' 
 and the " Grip," as I am on this subject. The words 
 were as follows : — " W/iat age are zve in ? " Answer. 
 ''Theendofthefiftk." '' Whafs the hotcr? " Answer. 
 " Very near the right one." "■ Isnt it come yet?" 
 Answer. " The hoiir is come, but not tJieman'^ " When 
 will he come ? " Answer. " He is within sight!' 
 
 The grip was, when shaking hands, to press the point 
 of the thumb on the second joint of the forefinger, and 
 if the person with whom you shook hands was a brother, 
 he was to press upon the middle joint of your little 
 finger. Such were the words and grip of Ribbonism 
 about the year 1814. 
 
 The reader will observe that there was a vagueness 
 and a want of object in this ridiculous oath which gave 
 conclusive evidence that it must have proceeded from a
 
 4- 
 
 86 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 very ignorant source. I subsequently made inquiries 
 into its origin, but could never ascertain the name of 
 any man possessed of the sh'ghtest claim to respecta- 
 bility in connection with it. It originated with, and 
 was confined to, the very lowest dregs of the people. 
 That some scheming vagabonds must have been at the 
 head of it, or the bottom of it, is evident enough. 
 Money was subscribed for fictitious objects, but where 
 it went to no one could tell. In the county Louth 
 it was set going by an Orangeman called Gubby 
 (evidently an assumed name), and I think it was 
 afterwards discovered that he was a native of 
 Middleton, in that part of the county Tyrone which 
 projects into the county of Armagh. This discovery, 
 however, was made too late — for he had left the 
 country. 
 
 I am not a friend to any of these secret societies, 
 because they were nothing but curses to the country. 
 The Orange system is a curse to the country, and will 
 be so as long as it exists. It is now comparatively 
 harmless, but at the period of which I write it was in 
 the very height of its ascendancy, and seemed to live 
 only as if its great object were to trample upon 
 " Popery." The trutli, however, is, if there can be an 
 apology for Ribbonism, that it was nothing more nor 
 less than a reactive principle against Orangeism, oi 
 whose outrages it was the result. In my works I have 
 depicted both systems to the marrow, without either 
 favour or affection, as the phrase has it. I never enter- 
 tained any ill feeling against the people on either side; 
 it is their accursed systems which I detest.^ 
 
 st/ ^ Carleton has described Orangeism in his " Valentine Mc- 
 ■ ' Clutchy," and Ribborism in " Rody the Rover."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The party fight — Orange and Ribbon funerals — Athletic sports — 
 Runaway marriages— Lough Derg — The pilgrimage— Walking 
 on water — Change of leligion — The female pilgrims — Nell 
 McCallum. 
 
 Having shown the reader how I was made a Ribbon- 
 man, and stated that it was actually impossible to live 
 safely in the country without joining the society, I 
 must add a few words more upon the subject before I 
 dismiss it for the present. I have said that the evening 
 on which I had the honour of being admitted as a 
 member of the society was that of Saturday, and as I 
 made my visit home on this occasion but a short one, I 
 resolved to be present in my class on the following 
 Monday morning. I accordingly made my appearance 
 there at the proper hour. On that day I made a 
 discovery which surprised me not a little. Frank 
 McGough and John McNally — both have been dead 
 for more than half a century — and m3^self were walking 
 in the chapel yard, while Keenan had gone to meet 
 some person on business at his lodgings imm.ediately at 
 hand. I don't recollect what the topic of our discourse 
 was, but I remember that McGough, looking me severely 
 in the face, said, — 
 
 " William, are you a good historian ? " 
 
 " The worst in the world," I replied, " I never read a 
 line of history in my life."
 
 
 88 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " You don't know, then, what age we are in ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I do," I returned, " in the end of the fifth." 
 
 " Well, as to time — what's the hour ? " 
 
 " Very near the right one.'^ 
 
 '• Isn't it come yet ? " 
 
 " The hour is come, but not the man." 
 
 " When will he come ? " 
 
 " He is within sight." 
 
 We then shook hands and gave the grip, and McNally, 
 who was also a member, joined us. The reader may thus 
 judge of the hold which Ribbonism had upon the lower 
 classes of society, when it wrought its way into the 
 schools. This, however, he will not wonder at, when 
 he is told that there was scarcely a Lodge schoolmaster 
 in Ireland who did not " hold articles," or in other words, 
 who was not master of a Ribbon Lodge. 
 
 Keenan's brother was soon after this period attacked 
 with a liver complaint, and in the course of a few months 
 died, leaving whatever property he possessed to his Portu- 
 guese widow, a sweet, lively little woman, who soon after- 
 wards became the wife of Peter McPhillips, with whom 
 she removed to Monaghan, where, as I have said, he kept 
 " The Westenra Arms." It is due to Peter to say that he 
 never was connected with Ribbonism. He possessed too 
 much sense and judgment to associate himself with a 
 system so vague, unintelligible and nonsensical ; not 
 that he was acquainted with its absurdity, or the mis- 
 chiefs and murders to which in many cases it ultimately 
 led. 
 
 Now that I am on this subject, I cannot forbear to 
 mention an event connected with, and resulting from, the 
 combined influence of these two accursed systems — 
 Orangeism and Ribbonism. In point of time, it
 
 Ribbon MEN and Orangemen. 89 
 
 occurred at least four or five years previous to the 
 occasion on which I was seduced into Ribbonism. 
 There is in my "Traits and Stories of the Irish 
 Peasantry," a full and historical detail of it, under the 
 name of "The Party Fight and Funeral." In other 
 words, it was the greatest battle that ever took place in 
 the North of Ireland between the two parties. The 
 reader need not expect me to describe it here, because I 
 have done it at full length elsewhere. It occurred in the 
 Lammas fair of Clogher, and never since that terrible 
 day was the town of Clogher crowded with such vast 
 numbers of people. 
 
 Such a fight, or I should rather say battle — for so 
 in fact it was — did not take place in a state of civil 
 society— if I can say so — within the last century in 
 this country. The preparations for it were being 
 made secretly for two or three months previous to 
 its occurrence, and however it came to light, it so 
 happened that each party became cognizant of the 
 designs of the other. This conflict, of which I 
 was an eye-witness — on my way home from school, 
 being then about fourteen years of age — was such . 
 as never had a parallel. The reader may form an 1 
 idea of the bitterness and ferocity with which it was 
 fought on both sides, when he is informed that the I 
 Orangemen on the one side, and the Ribbonmen on the 
 other, had called in aid from the surrounding counties of 
 JMonaghan, Cavan, Fermanagh and Derry, and if I mis- 
 take not, also from Louth. In numbers the belligerents 
 could not have been less than from three to four 
 thousand men. The fair day on which it occurred 
 is known simply as " The Day of the Great 
 Fight."
 
 i 
 
 90 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 There was a man named "Jerry Boccagh/'i or " Hop 
 and Go Constant," for he was frequently called both, 
 who fell the first victim to this violent feeling of party 
 spirit. He had got arms on seeing his friends, the 
 Orangemen, likely to be defeated, and had the hardihood 
 to follow with charged bayonet a few Ribbonmen, whom 
 he attempted to intercept as they fled from a large 
 number of their enemies, who had got them separated 
 from their comrades. Boccagh ran across a field adjoin- 
 ing the town in order to get before them on the road, 
 and was in the act of climbing a ditch, when one of them, 
 who carried a spade shaft, struck him a blow on the 
 head which put an end to his existence. 
 
 The person who killed this man escaped to America, 
 where he got himself naturalized, and when the British 
 Government claimed him, he pleaded his privilege as 
 an American citizen, and was not given up. Boccagh 
 was a very violent Orangeman and a most offensive one. 
 
 On the part of the Ribbonmen, a man named 
 Hacket or McGaughy, who lived not half a mile 
 from our house, performed a very extraordinary ex- 
 ploit on that remarkable day. He got his skull broken 
 by a blow inflicted with the butt of a gun, and yet he 
 walked home afterwards, a distance of two miles — but 
 the next morning I saw him in bed as insensible as a log. 
 Sir William Richardson and other magistrates were at 
 his house, accompanied by a Surgeon Shone, who tre- 
 panned his head with very equivocal success, for 
 although he recovered so far as to be able to walk about, 
 he never got beyond idiocy, and died in about three 
 months afterwards. He sat for the picture of Dennis 
 Kelly in "The Party Fight and Funeral." 
 
 ^ Boccagh means a cripple, and is mostly used in reference to 3. 
 
 imposters or malingerers. '
 
 Faction Funerals. 91 
 
 In those days there were such things as Ribbon 
 funerals and Orange funerals. For instance, it some- 
 times happened that when a Ribbonman was mur- 
 dered — Racket's case was considered a murder — the 
 Ribbonmen attended his funeral in a body, every man 
 wearing a red silk ribbon indicative of the murder 
 that had been committed. This, however, occurred 
 only occasionally, and in cases where party spirit ran 
 high and bitter. I do not think there has been an in- 
 stance in my native parish within the last thirty-five 
 or forty years. 
 
 I now return to my own position. So far as educa- -/,' 
 tion was concerned, it seemed to fly from me. Keenan 
 closed his school at Glasslough, and opened one upon a 
 much larger scale at Dundalk. He now ceased to act 
 officially as a priest, and disencumbered himself of all 
 parochial duties, even as a curate. As a classical teacher 
 he possessed one good habit which cannot be too often 
 imitated. He made Latin the language of the school, 
 with those boys, at least, who were sufficiently advanced 
 for that purpose. He also made us write extensively 
 in Latin, and kept us constantly translating passages 
 from the best English authors into the old Roman. In 
 fact, when I left school, I could have spoken or written 
 Latin as fluently as English. His advanced pupils in 
 their conversation with each other, whether in school or 
 out of school, generally spoke in Latin. Of course, when 
 he removed to Dundalk, I returned home to my family, 
 although I thought Keenan would have brought me to 
 Dundalk along with him. He was, however, at this 
 time in straitened circumstances. His brother, if he had 
 money, left him none ; all his property went to the 
 widow, who, however, was childless until after her second
 
 92 Life of Williaai Carleton. 
 
 marriage. Peter McPhillips married her, or rather she 
 married Peter, who received with her all the property 
 her husband had left her. 
 
 Here was I once more at large — without a single 
 object or prospect in life. My brother John had mar- 
 ried and left us ; so that the family was reduced to 
 four — viz., my mother, my brother James, my sister 
 Sarah, and myself. My sister had proposals for 
 marriage from two young men, who were each ex- 
 tremely anxious to be successful. Beyond the respect 
 due to their characters, she entertained scarcely 
 any other feeling, with the exception of a slight pre- 
 dilection for one of them. She and I differed in our 
 opinion of them, but not much. I made one of them 
 my choice, and she ultimately married him, with the 
 consent of us all. He immediately took her home, so 
 that we were reduced to three — or rather four — my 
 mother, my brother, myself, and a servant maid. 
 
 At this time I indulged in the practice of every 
 athletic exercise that could be named ; yet at this 
 time, strange as it may appear to the reader, I 
 devoted at least six hours out of the twenty-four to 
 self-instruction. In fact my time was regularly divided 
 between study and amusement. Writing Latin was a 
 great amusement of mine. I imitated the flowing and 
 redundant style of lines as well, at all events, as I could ; 
 but that which baffled me most, and tried my powers of 
 imitation severely, was my attempt to imitate the curt> 
 condensed style of Sallust. After several efforts at 
 imitating the Latin historian, I ultimately gave him up. 
 
 Notwithstanding this habit of study, no wake missed 
 me, no dance missed me. I was perpetually leaping, 
 and throwing the stone and the sledge. No football
 
 Common Dances and Balls. 93 
 
 match was without me. I have gone five miles to wakes 
 and dances. We had not only what were known as 
 common dances in those days, but we had what were 
 politely called balls. Tihe difference between a ball 
 and a common dance was this. At the ball we had 
 whisky : every gentleman subscribed a tenpenny bit, 
 and when a sufficient sum was obtained, the whisky 
 was purchased, and the subscribers each brought his 
 sweetheart, his sister, or some female friend or relative. 
 It is unnecessary to say that the ladies paid nothing. 
 There was then, indeed, great simplicity of manners, 
 and a number of those old, hereditary virtues which 
 had their origin in the purity and want of guile 
 which consecrated domestic life. During all my 
 association with these pastimes and harmless amuse- 
 ments, I never knew a single instance of a female coming 
 to shame or loss of character. That many runaway 
 marriages resulted from them, is a well-known fact ; but, 
 at the period of which I write, more than one half the 
 marriages of the parish were runaway marriages. There 
 was neither scandal nor impropriety connected with 
 them. All this is very easily explained. Let the 
 readers suppose a young man and a young woman 
 to have conducted a love affair, or as it is called in 
 the country, a " courting match." Perhaps they have 
 been so engaged for a year — perhaps for two — per- 
 haps for four, and perhaps for seven ; I have known 
 several whose duration went to seven. Perhaps — and 
 it is usually the case when the term of courtship 
 is prolonged — the state of their circumstances does 
 not justify them in undertaking the serious respon- 
 sibilities of domestic life ; but be this as it may, it 
 not unfrequently happens that courtships last seven
 
 94 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 years and more in the case of cautiou? and prudent 
 persons, who have the sense to look before them, and 
 to apply to their own circumstances what the result 
 of an improvident marriage must be. These^ however, 
 are exceptions ; in good truth the general rule is a 
 hundred to one the other way. There is not a country 
 in Europe where so many rash and unreflecting marriages 
 are made as in Ireland ; the habit has been the curse of 
 the country. The youngsters manage their " runaways " 
 in the following manner ; they first determine upon 
 " running away," which is only another phrase for 
 getting married : the lover selects thehouseof some rela- 
 tion or friend of his own, and after having given notice 
 to that friend or relation of his intention, and having 
 gained his assent, he informs the friend of the night 
 when he and his sweetheart will come to their house as a 
 " running away couple ; " and in order that they may 
 not be without the means of celebrating the event with 
 a due convivial spirit, he generally places a gallon of un- 
 christened whisky in their hands. The night of their 
 arrival at the house of that friend or relation is of course 
 a jolly one. On the next morning the friend or relation 
 goes to their respective families and discusses the fact 
 of their "runaway." The girl is then brought home 
 to her family and remains there until the marriage 
 takes place. 
 
 Now I have two observations to make on this, or 
 rather two facts to state in connection with it ; the one 
 is, that no human being ever heard of a runaway taking 
 place except at night ; the other is, that if the families 
 of the young couple cannot, or will not, come to terms — 
 as in the case of social factions sometimes happens — 
 and that the marriage is absolutely broken off, no
 
 " Runaways." 95 
 
 Irishman living would ever think of marrying the 
 girl afterwards. This fact to her is a verdict of 
 celibacy for life, and yet she is received in society like 
 any other young female of her class. The reader may 
 ask why this is so, especially if " runaways " are not 
 considered improper ; the reply consists in the following 
 fact : it sometimes happens — but I am proud to say 
 very rarely indeed — that in cases where, after the 
 ^'runaway" the match has been hopelessly set aside, 
 the lapse of time has brought a fact to light which 
 accounts for the single blessedness to which the female 
 in a "runaway," where the parties are at enmity and 
 refuse their consent, is uniformly doomed. I have 
 explained all these national usages at full length in my 
 tale of " Shane Fadh's Wedding." ' 
 
 During this time, between my studies and amuse- 
 ments I had a very pleasant life, with the exception of 
 some uncomfortable glances at the future. I now 
 bethought me of opening a classical school, but 
 upon looking closely through the neighbourhood, or 
 rather the whole parish, I could find only three pupils 
 upon whom I could reckon as certain to attend. I 
 consequently gave all hopes of a school to the winds. 
 1 took a fancy for strolling through the country in quest 
 of adventures, and on these occasions I uniformly 
 assumed a studious aspect — always had some classical 
 or other book in my hand, and walked with a mock 
 heroic gait, which, had the people been gifted with 
 common sense, would have made me ridiculous. I was, 
 however, excessively fond of histrionics, and strutted 
 
 ' See also Carleton's "Alley Sheridan, or the Runaway 
 Marriage, and other Stories," republished in 1857 by Philip 
 Dixon Hardy, from 'J he A ational Magazine of 1830.
 
 96 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 about uttering such sesquipedalian and stilted nonsense 
 as was never heard. This, especially among the 
 females, made me very popular. The fact of my 
 entering into conversation with them was considered an 
 honour, of which they felt duly proud, and of which 
 they did not fail to boast in a spirit of triumph. I 
 was at this time dressed in black, and looked upon by 
 the public as the young priest, for such is the term 
 bestowed upon every candidate for the office. This 
 character I sustained with a lofty dignity which would 
 have thrown a penetrating man of common sense into 
 convulsions of laughter. My style was as fine a speci- 
 men of the preposterous and pedantic as ever was 
 spoken. I gave the girls pompous specimens of my 
 wonderful and profound learning, by repeating for their 
 edification quotations from Greek and Latin, which I 
 translated for them into wrong meanings, indicating a 
 slight but rather significant appreciation on my part of 
 their comeliness and beauty. During this queer and 
 comic period of my life, I was considered one of the 
 finest and best made young men in the parish. I was 
 then in the very bloom of youth — six feet high — with, 
 it was said, a rather handsome and intelligent set of 
 features — my early fame at all athletic exercises was 
 still unrivalled, and, in fact, I was looked upon as a 
 kind of local phenomenon in my way. Those who 
 have read the sketch of " Denis O'Shaughnessey going 
 to Maynooth " will understand this. To me it was a 
 pleasant time, and would have been much more so, were 
 it not for the shadows of the future. 
 
 I have already mentioned the extraordinary piety of 
 my father. During my early youth he has frequently, 
 during the winter evenings, amused me and the other
 
 Lough Derg. 97 
 
 members of our family by superstitious anecdotes 
 connected with the far-famed purgatory of St. Patrick 
 called Lough Derg, or the Red Lake, situated in the 
 county of Donegal, within three miles of the next little 
 town of Pettigo.' Midsummer had set in, and now that 
 I had nothing to do, and as it was that season of the 
 year when the lower classes of the Irish make their 
 stations to Lough Derg, I bethought me of the 
 miraculous anecdotes which I had so frequently 
 heard from my father. A warm imagination in- 
 flamed my curiosity so powerfully, that I resolved to 
 make a station to that far-famed scene of penitential 
 devotion. I expressed my intention of doing this 
 to my mother and brother ; they were delighted at 
 the pious spirit which had prompted such a holy re- 
 solution. I accordingly prepared to go — but in con- 
 sequence of a suggestion from my mother, I laid 
 aside my best clothes, and put on a black suit, 
 which I had cast off, indeed without much necessity, 
 for at this time I was as proud of my person as a 
 peacock, and paid great attention to my dress and 
 appearance. 
 
 Nothing but Lough Derg was now in my head, and 
 my resolution was fixed upon this pious journey. A 
 circumstance mentioned by my father had fastened 
 strongly on my mind ; this was a historical fact 
 which had occurred not many years before the 
 period of which I write. Lough Derg is in the 
 centre of a lake in the wild and gloomy mountains 
 
 ' Calderon, the Spanish dramatist, wrote a play on the leg^ends 
 of this place, entitled, " El Purgatorio de San Patricio," which has 
 been admirably translated by Denis f'lorencc McCarthy. The 
 traditions concerning Lough Derg were known all over Eiurope in 
 mediaeval times. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 of Donegal, and can only be approached by a 
 boat. The property in which it lies belongs to the 
 Leslies of Glasslough. They had leased the ferry of 
 the island to certain persons, who had contracted to pay 
 them two hundred a year, I think it was in the year 
 1796, that a boat filled with "pilgrims," as they are 
 called, was lost, on its way across to the lake, owing to 
 the drunkenness of the boatmen. My father's anecdote, 
 or rather legend, went on to state that there was a 
 holy priest in the boat who, when it sank with its 
 freight, deliberately walked over on the waters of the 
 lake until he reached the island in perfect safety. I 
 recollect observing to my father when he told me this 
 legend, — 
 
 " It is strange that if he had the power of walking 
 upon the water, he had not the power of saving the boat 
 and all that were in it." 
 
 He paused and looked at me, but said nothing. 
 
 The account of my visit to this purgatory under the 
 title of " The Lough Derg Pilgrim " constituted my 
 debut in Irish literature.* I had in my early life a strong 
 disinclination to enter a boat, and on this occasion my 
 reluctance was increased by the recollection of the 
 disaster on the lake. I will now quote a passage 
 from the original account of my pilgrimage, which will 
 exhibit the state of mind in which I made it. 
 
 ^' I very well remember that the first sly attempt I 
 
 ever made at a miracle was in reference to Lough Derg; 
 
 I tried it by way of preparing for my pilgrimage. I 
 
 had heard that a boat had been lost there about the 
 
 ' This sketch was the first composition of Carleton's printed, 
 in The Christian Examiner. It is included in some editions of 
 the " Traits and Stories," and was somewhat modified by 
 Carleton at a later time.
 
 " The Lough Derg Ph-Grlm." 99 
 
 year 1796/ and that a certain holy priest who was in 
 her as a passenger had walked very calmly across the 
 lake to the island after the boat and the rest of the 
 passengers in her had all gone to the bottom. Now I 
 had from my childhood a particular prejudice against 
 sailing in a boat, although Dick Davery, a satirical and 
 heathenish old bachelor who never went to Mass, used 
 often to tell me with a grin (which I was never able rightly 
 to understand) that I might have no prejudice against 
 sailing, 'because,' he would say, 'you may take my 
 word for it you'll never die by drowning.' At all events, 
 I thought that should any such untoward event occur to 
 me, it would be pleasant to imitate the priest ; but that 
 it would be infinitely more agreeable to make the first 
 experiment in a marl-pit on ray father's farm than on the 
 lake. Accordingly, after three days' fasting, and praying 
 forthe power of not sinking in water, I slipped very quietly 
 down to the pit, and after reconnoitring the premises, 
 to be sure that there was no looker-on, I approached 
 the brink. At this moment my heart beat high with 
 emotion ; my soul was wrought up to an enthusiastic 
 pitch of faith, and my whole spirit absorbed in feelings 
 where hope, doubt, gleams of uncertainty, visions of 
 future eminence, twitches of fear, reflections on my ex- 
 pertness in swimming, on the success of the water- 
 walking priest aforementioned, and on the depth of the 
 pond, had each insisted on an equal share of attention. 
 At the edge of the pit grew large water-lilies, with their 
 leaves spread over the surface ; it is singular to reflect 
 upon what slight and ridiculous circumstances the mind 
 will seize when wound up in this manner to a pitch of 
 superstitious absurdity. I am really ashamed even 
 ' This accident occurred in 1795. 
 H 2
 
 loo Life of William Carleton. 
 
 while writing this, of the confidence I put for a moment 
 in a treacherous water-Hly, as its leaf lay spread so 
 smoothly and broadly over the surface of the pond, as 
 if to lure my foot to the experiment. • However, after 
 having stimulated myself by a fresh pater and ave, I 
 advanced — my eyes turned up enthusiastically to heaven, 
 my hands resolutely clenched, my teeth locked together, 
 my nerves set, and my whole soul strong in confidence — I 
 advanced, I say, and lest I might give myself time to cool 
 from this divine glow, I made a tremendous stride, plant- 
 ing my right foot exactly in the middle of the treacherous 
 water-lily leaf, and the next moment was up to my neck 
 in water. Here was devotion cooled. Happily I was able 
 to bottom the pool, or could swim right well, if necessary, 
 so I had not much difficulty in getting out. So soon as I 
 found myself on the bank, I waited not to make reflec- 
 tions, but, with a rueful face, setoff full speed for my own 
 home, which was not far distant ; the water all the while 
 whizzing out of my clothes by the rapidity of the motion^ 
 as it does from a water-spaniel after a swim. It is strange 
 to think what influence vanity has over our principles and 
 passions in the weakest and strongest moments of both. 
 I was not remarkable for secrecy at that open, ingenuous 
 period of my life ; yet did I not now take especial care 
 to invest either this attempt at the miraculous or its con- 
 comitant failure with anything like narrative. My act 
 of devotion had a bad effect on my lungs, for it gave 
 me a cough that was intolerable, and I never felt 
 the infirmities of humanity more than in this ludicrous 
 attempt to get beyond them. This happened a month 
 before I started for Lough Derg.'^ ' 
 
 ' This differs slightly from the original or earliest version of the 
 pilgrimage.
 
 "The Lough Derg Pilgrim." ioi 
 
 My " Lough Derg Pilgrim " is probably one of the 
 most extraordinar}- productions that ever appeared in 
 any literature. It resembles a coloured photograph 
 more than anything else. There is not a fact or 
 incident, or a single penal step of duty — and God knovv^s 
 there is many a penal step to be taken there — which is 
 not detailed with the minuteness of the strictest truth 
 and authenticity. There is not even an exaggeration 
 of any kind in my account of it. The course of duty 
 during the three days which constitute the term of each 
 individual pilgrimage is such as no man, with flesh and 
 blood capable of suffering, and gifted with a good 
 memory, could readily forget. The Hon. Charles 
 Gavan Duffy, now in Australia^ made a pilgrimage there, 
 long subsequent to mine, and he assured me that the 
 truth and extraordinary accuracy of my description of it 
 surprised him more than anything he had ever read. 
 
 It was that pilgrimage and the reflections occasioned 
 by it, added to a riper knowledge and a maturer judg- ^^^ 
 ment, that detached me from the Roman Catholic 
 Church, many of whose doctrines, when I became a 
 thinking man, I could not force my judgment to believe. 
 Still, although I conscientiously left the church, neither 
 my heart nor my affections were ever estranged from 
 the Catholic people, or even from their priesthood. 
 One of the warmest friends and most enthusiastic 
 admirers I ever had was the late Dr. McNally, the 
 Catholic bishop of my native diocese of Clogher. So is 
 the present Catholic bishop of Kerry, a man for whom 
 I entertain the most sincere and affectionate esteem. 
 Dr. Murray, professor of divinity in Maynooth College — 
 probably the first theologian of his day and in his church, 
 and author of the far-famed standard work De Ecclesia 
 
 our
 
 102 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 Christi^ I have the honour also to number among 
 my CathoHc friends and admirers. With these I could 
 mention many others^ all of whom, like those already 
 named, know that I was educated for the Catholic 
 priesthood. 
 
 The day at length arrived when I was to start on my 
 pilgrimage to Lough Derg. It was not any conviction 
 of penitence for sins that I had committed, nor even 
 from any strong impression of religious duty — for of 
 religion at that early period of my life I knew nothing — 
 it was not, in fact, from any one motive which a pious 
 Christian could urge — nor from any penance imposed 
 on me by the priest at confession for any sins I may 
 have committed — that I undertook this pilgrimage. 
 Not at all. The feeling which urged me was a strong 
 poetical sense of novelty. My father^s narratives and 
 legends in connection with Lough Derg would have had 
 comparatively little effect, or at least but a commonplace 
 one, upon a commonplace mind ; but, as I have said, 
 the poetry of my youth, excited by a strong curiosity, 
 or rather exciting a strong curiosity, absolutely forced 
 me to see this remarkable place famous in the history of 
 the Irish Catholic Church for so many centuries. 
 
 I started early in the morning, and set out on my 
 way without a single thought of anything but my 
 anxiety to look upon the far-famed Lough Derg, and to 
 understand in my own person, and by my own experi- 
 ence, what the performance of a station then meant. 
 This piece of knowledge I certainly acquired to my 
 
 ^ Dr. Patrick A. Murray, the Maynooth professor, was a Mona- 
 ghan man, and was born in iSii. Besides his great theological 
 works, which are held in high esteem, he wrote admirable criti- 
 cism and poetry. He died in 1882.
 
 "The Lough Derg Pilgrim." 103 
 
 cost — I performed the station most exactly and literally, 
 and I solemnly protest that the punishment of the tread- 
 mill would be mere amusement compared to it. 
 
 As I have already remarked, owing to a suggestion 
 of my mother, I had not my best clothes on. The 
 whole affair, from beginning to ending, was to be peniten- 
 tial. I did not wear even my best shoes, nor any stock- 
 ings. In former times this station had to be performed 
 without shoe or stocking, but, I suppose in consequence 
 of a subsequent relaxation of discipline, the wearing 
 of shoes was now allowed. After having advanced 
 ten or twelve miles, I overtook two women, whose 
 description I will quote from my original sketch in 
 " The Lough Derg Pilgrim." 
 
 " The iirst that I suspected to be fellow-pilgrims were 
 two women whom I overtook upon my way. They 
 were dressed in grey cloaks, striped red and blue 
 petticoats, drugget or linsey-wolsey gowns that came 
 within about three inches of their ankles. Each had a 
 small white bag slung at her back, which contained the 
 scanty provisions for the journey, and the oaten cakes, 
 crisped and hard-baked, for the pilgrimage at the lake. 
 The hoods of these cloaks fell down their backs, and 
 each dame had a spotted kerchief pinned round her 
 dowd cap at the chin, whilst the remainder of it fell 
 down the shoulders over the cloak. Each had also a 
 staff in her hand, which she held in a manner peculiar 
 to a travelling woman, that is — with her hand round 
 the upper end of it — her right thumb extended across 
 its head, and her arm, from the elbow down, parallel 
 with the horizon. The form of each, owing to the want 
 of that spinal strength and vigour which characterizes 
 the erect gait of man, was bent a little forward, and this,
 
 104 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 joined to the idea produced by the nature of their 
 journey, gave to them something of an ardent and 
 devout character, such as the mind and eye would 
 seek for in a pilgrim. I saw them at some distance 
 before me, and knew by the staves and white bags 
 behind them that they were bound for Lough Derg. I 
 accordingly stretched out a little that I might overtake 
 them ; for in consequence of the absorbing nature of my 
 own reflections, my journey had so far been a solitary 
 one, and I felt that society would relieve me. I was 
 not a little surprised^ however, on finding that as soon 
 as I topped one height of the road, I was sure to find 
 my two old ladies a competent distance before me in 
 the hollow — most of the northern roads are of this 
 nature — and that when I got to the bottom, I was as 
 sure to perceive their heads topping the next hill, and 
 then gradually sinking out of my sight. I was surprised 
 at this, and perhaps a little nettled, that a fresh active 
 young fellow should not have sufficient mettle readily to 
 overtake two old women. I did stretch out, therefore, 
 with some vigour, yet it was not till after a chase of two 
 miles that I found myself abreast of them." 
 
 This journey excited in me a strange and rapid 
 variety of sensations. One of the females, who was 
 spokeswoman, on ascertaining that I was for the 
 " Island," and seeing that I was dressed in black, 
 supposed or rather pretended to suppose, that I was a 
 priest — a mistake in which my vanity allowed her to 
 persist. As we advanced, we either overtook, or were 
 overtaken by, others whom we recognized at once by 
 their garb and outfit as destined for Lough Derg. 
 
 As we approached Pettigo there was actually a little 
 crowd of us. The lodgings in which the general class
 
 " The Lough Derg Pilgrim.-" 105 
 
 of pilgrims stop go by the name of " Dry Lodgings " — 
 that is to say, lodgings in which the proprietors do not 
 keep or sell liquors. It is not my intention to dwell 
 here upon the penitential character of this station. It 
 is enough to say that I performed it to my cost — not in 
 purse, but in suffering. Two slight meals of oaten 
 bread and lukewarm water, or, as they call it^ " wine," 
 is the liberal allowance for three days ; that is to say, 
 you have two single meals for two days, or one meal 
 each day, and are obliged to abstain altogether from 
 food during the third. 
 
 While I was there, my two female fellow-travellers 
 kept their eyes upon me closely. They and I left the 
 island in the same boat, for they appeared to feel that 
 as we had come to it together, it was right that we 
 should go home together, so far as our several destina- 
 tions permitted. On reaching Pettigo, where I was 
 resolved to take a sound sleep, the spokeswoman pro- 
 posed that we should proceed about eight or ten miles 
 further, to a very respectable lodging-house where we 
 could find every comfort and convenience. I permitted 
 myself to be guided by her, and when we arrived there 
 it was late in the evening. For the first and last time 
 during my life, I experienced the fierce and united 
 attacks of hunger and sleep. At all events, after a 
 hasty meal I went to bed, and certainly never during 
 my life did I sleep so soundly. I forgot to inform the 
 reader that during the journey to the island, and not 
 long after our first meeting each other, there came on a 
 shower, and to my surprise the elder of the two women 
 pulled out of her pocket a hare-skin cap, and clapped it 
 upon her head to protect it from the rain. I observed 
 before that she also had on a man's frieze jacket under
 
 ic6 
 
 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 V 
 
 her cloak, a fact for which I could not account. I now 
 give a short quotation concerning this woman, for she 
 was a notorious character, and as I learned afterwards, 
 remarkable for frequently changing her dress, in order 
 to prevent herself, as much as possible, from being 
 known as one of the most thievish shulers that ever 
 appeared in the north of Ireland. As an author, I took 
 a fancy for describing her, and she figures in more than 
 one of my works. On her appearance in my sketch of 
 " The Lough Derg Pilgrim," she was at once recognized 
 by the whole northern public. I now quote an account 
 of our separation : — 
 
 " I did not wake the next morning till ten o'clock, 
 when I found the sun shining full into the room. I ac- 
 cordingly dressed myself partially — I say partially, for I 
 was rather surprised to find an unexpected chasm in my 
 wardrobe ; neither my hat, coat, nor w^aistcoat being 
 forthcoming. But I immediately made myself easy by 
 supposing that my kind companion had brought them 
 down to be brushed ; yet I relapsed into something 
 more than surprise, when I saw my fellow-traveller's 
 redoubtable jacket lying on a chair, and her hare-skin 
 cap on the top of it. My misgivings were now any- 
 thing but weak ; nor was I at ail improved either in 
 my religion or philosophy when, on calling up the land- 
 lady, I heard that my two companions had set out that 
 morning at four o'clock. I then inquired about my 
 clothes, but all to no purpose ; the poor landlady knew 
 nothing about them, but she told me that the old one 
 brushed them before she went away, saying that they 
 were ready for me to put on whenever I wanted them. 
 The landlady desired me to try if I had my purse, and 
 I found that the kind creature had certainly spared ii,
 
 Nell McCallum. 107 
 
 but showed little mercy to what it contained, which was 
 one pound in paper and a few shillings in silver ; the 
 latter alone she left me." 
 
 Now I appeal to my readers whether this does not 
 look very like fiction, and I daresay it will be con- 
 sidered as such. There is not, however, one syllable of 
 fiction in it. I v^^as, at the time I made this pilgrimage, 
 one of the most easily imposed on and most credulous 
 young fellows that ever existed. This woman was 
 notorious throughout m.ost of Ulster. Her name was Nell 
 McCallum, and as I discovered afterwards, she had been 
 one of those well-known characters who were engaged 
 in carrying illegitimate children up to the Foundling 
 Hospital in Dublin. Along with the peculiar accom- 
 plishments for which it seems she was remarkable, 
 she had the reputation of being a perfect female 
 Proteus. I heard afterwards, that at the time she sent 
 me home shorn, she lived with a daughter of hers 
 near Armagh. She was subsequently prosecuted for 
 robbing a carman^ and transported.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Breakup of the family— A trial of strength— The miller of Clogher 
 — His death— Michael Carleton advises his brother to work — 
 A great leap— Carleton appenticed to a stonecutter — Buckram- 
 back the dancin;^ master — Mickey McRory the fiddler— Stone- 
 cutting abandoned — Happens on " Gil Bias '' — Its effect. 
 
 Having thus paid the due penalty of all my trans- 
 gressions in a double sense^ I was once more engaged 
 in study and the enjoyment of athletic exercises. The 
 circumstances of our family were now rapidly on the 
 decline. My brother James became an invalid, and 
 took to drinking horseradish tea. Indeed, for some 
 years past, he never imagined himself well, and per- 
 sisted in drinking an extraordinary variety of herbal 
 drugs, all of his own decoction. The poor fellow 
 was the most confirmed hypochondriac I ever met. 
 Without assistance he was unable to manage the farm, 
 and the consequence was that we were obliged to 
 give it up ; this we did, having surrendered the furni- 
 ture of the house to the landlord. All we took out 
 of it was one cow and that year's crop of oats ; this 
 was simply what we could justly claim after having 
 settled with our landlord. 
 
 Here now was the family dissolved for ever. My 
 mother, my brother and I went to reside with my sister 
 Sarah. We did not, however, go empty-handed. We
 
 An Athletic Feat. 109 
 
 had twelve sacks of oats, which we brought to Clogher 
 Mill, where we got it kiln-dried and ground, and 
 upon that occasion I performed one of those athletic 
 feats for which I was then famous, not only through- 
 out my own, but the adjoining parishes. This will be 
 the last feat but one which I shall be under the 
 necessity of mentioning. Let not the reader blame me 
 or tax me with vanity. I am recording the humble 
 events of my early life, and I can truthfully assert that 
 I derive more gratification from the limited fame which 
 I enjoyed in consequence of my local celebrity for 
 those youthful exploits than ever I did from that 
 won by my success in literature. This I think every 
 rational reader will understand. The name of the 
 miller of Clogher, with whom I was acquainted since 
 my boyhood — not a very long period at the moment I 
 am writing of — was Frank Farrell. He was, without 
 exception, not only the most powerful, but the most 
 powerful-looking, man I ever saw walk upon two feet. 
 If he had possessed courage and spirit equal to his size 
 and strength, no man could have had any chance with 
 him in a pugilistic contest. The largest man and the 
 most powerful pugilist I ever saw was the English 
 champion, Ben Caunt, whom I went expressly to see 
 when in London during the year 1850. Compared, 
 however, with Frank Farrell, he was a man of almost 
 commonplace size. It was well known that Farrell 
 was not a man of courage ; the tremendous strength 
 he possessed slept in him. He was kind, good-natured, 
 heavy, quiet, placid, inert and sluggish ; and would 
 as soon have thought of throwing himself from the 
 steeple of Clogher Cathedral — where, by the way, he 
 came by his death — as of entering into a quarrel.
 
 no Life of William Carleton. 
 
 or fighting with any man. He was, however, remark- 
 able for one solitary exploit which no other individual 
 in the parish could perform. The old mill of Clogher, 
 that of which I am writing — a new one has been 
 erected since — was an aged building, white with 
 mealy cobwebs, and absolutely, if one were to judge 
 from the symptoms of its decay, tottering to its 
 fall. It was found necessary to put a large beam, 
 fastened in some manner to the shaking side walls 
 across it, in order to keep them in their position. 
 With this beam Frank Farrell's solitary but as yet un- 
 rivalled feat was connected. 
 
 My brother James and I were one day in the mill 
 while our corn, which we had taken with us from 
 Springtown farm, was in process of being ground. 
 Frank and about a dozen others were talking while 
 we were attending to the sacks, which were receiv- 
 ing the meal as it came out of the millage. At 
 length Frank entered into conversation with us, and 
 began to compliment me upon my athletic exploits. 
 My brother and I looked at each other, for we felt 
 conscious of what was coming. There was a smile of 
 triumph on Frank's good-humoured face, as he looked 
 at the beam in question — which I could have wished 
 anywhere else. 
 
 " Come here," said he. " Do you see that beam ? " 
 
 " I do," I replied. 
 
 "Well," he proceeded, " Tm told that nobody has 
 any chance with you in throwing the shoulder-stone. 
 Do you think now that you could throw a half hundred- 
 weight over that beam ? " 
 
 " No," I replied, " but I am told that you can ; yet I 
 can scarcely believe it."
 
 Frank Farrell's Feat. hi 
 
 " Will you try it ? " said he. 
 
 " Not," I returned, " till you set me the example. I 
 will not believe it till I see it." 
 
 He got the half hundredweight, stripped off his 
 coat, stood in the proper position, and heaved the 
 half hundredweight up to the beam. It lit on the 
 beam, where it appeared for a few seconds uncertain 
 whether it would fall back or tumble to the other side. 
 It did tumble to the other side, and he seemed satisfied. 
 I protested this was a failure,and so did everyone present. 
 Frank was more successful at the next attempt, the half 
 hundred went over without touching the beam, but had 
 very little to spare. The feat, however, was accom- 
 plished. 
 
 " Now," said he, " follow my example." 
 
 I felt my blood rise — a combative and energetic spirit 
 surged upon me. I haven't been beaten, thought I, 
 during either this season or the last ; and if I am beaten 
 now I can afford it. Those present felt a kind, gratify- 
 ing sympathy for me, and in that spirit kindly dissuaded 
 me from the attempt. So far as I was concerned, this 
 only made matters worse; pointing out difficulties was y-m>Z 
 
 never the way to deter me from them ; and I at once 
 expressed my intention of making the attempt. My 
 brother also did everything to dissuade me, but while 
 discussing the matter I observed that the mill was 
 becoming filled with people, who flocked in to witness 
 the result. When I expressed my intention to make 
 the trial, a young man named Dickey communicated 
 my resolution to the inhabitants of the village, not ten 
 yards off, and they made their appearance in numbers 
 to witness what was about to take place. I need 
 not disguise the fact ; I was fond of that kind of 
 
 r^
 
 112 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 fame, as who that is successful at athletic sports 
 is not ? The presence of those people gratified me, 
 and gave me both courage and resolution — I almost 
 think I may add strength. I stripped ; I seized the 
 half hundredweight, I swung it before me with both 
 hands, and then letting it come down with its own 
 impetus until it raised itself behind me, I took it on 
 the back swing as it rose towards my shoulder, and 
 by this piece of skill I hurled it to the beam at least 
 fifteen or twenty pounds less than its actual weight. 
 This was a discovery of my own, of which I had 
 been in possession for more than a year, and it should 
 be explained by action rather than by description. In 
 the twinkling of an eye, the feat was accomplished — the 
 weight went clearly over the beam without touching 
 it, and from that moment Frank Farrell's pride in the 
 performance of his remarkable feat was brought low. 
 Except myself, no other man in the parish was 
 ever able to accomplish it, although hundreds made 
 the attempt. Old Billy Dickey, who kept the public- 
 house in Miltown, and of whom I shall have something 
 to say again, brought Frank Farrell, my brother and 
 myself to his establishment, and treated us to some of 
 as good poteen as ever was drunk. In the course of a 
 couple of days my exploit was known to the whole 
 parish, and added largely to my fame. 
 
 Poor Frank's end was a melancholy one, as I have 
 stated, I think, in "The Battle of the Factions." In my 
 day most millers were carpenters ; Frank was no 
 exception to this rule, and had the reputation of being 
 an excellent artisan. In the cathedral of Clogher there 
 is a set of bells, one, the largest, being, it is said, 
 a ton in weight. Frank was engaged in his capacity
 
 Frank Farrell's Death. 113 
 
 of carpenter to adjust something in connection either 
 with the bells or the belfry. While so engaged, he 
 took it into his head to try whether he could lift 
 the great bell, and made due preparation for this 
 tremendous effort by placing a thick board across the 
 mouth of the bell, under which he stood and actually 
 raised it about six inches. The result was fatal to him ; 
 he had severely injured his spine, and in the course of 
 three months the bell was rung over his coffin. 
 
 I now led a very desultory life. I had no fixed resi- 
 dence, no abiding shelter — no home. I passed from 
 one relative to another, and was often asked by my 
 wealthy neighbours to go and spend a week or a month 
 with them. Many of them expected me to read and 
 translate Latin or Greek for them, but this anxiety to 
 hear the learned languages was almost uniformly con- 
 fined to those who themselves could not read, and were 
 of course totally illiterate. Such is human nature; we 
 always value that which we don't possess more than do 
 those who possess it. In this way I paid many a 
 pleasant visit to friends and acquaintances throughout 
 the parish — if those visits could be called pleasant which 
 were paid by a homeless young man, who had not an 
 object in life towards which he could look with the 
 least hope. 
 
 I was now in my twenty- first year, one, I think, 
 the greatest and most remarkable for youthful exploits. 
 My eldest brother Michael lived in a townland named 
 Aughenclash, not five minutes' walk from the residence 
 of my sister Sarah, or Sally as we always called her. 
 This eldest brother of mine and I never could, and 
 never did, pull well together. He was perpetually 
 abusing me for my idleness, which he attributed to me 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
 o'^ I (/ 1 I).,
 
 114 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 as a crime, although he knew right well — no man better 
 — that it was the result of circumstances over which I 
 had no control^ and besides, he knew that I read the 
 classics several hours a day. So far as I was con- 
 cerned, the tongue of Tirnon of Athens was eulogy 
 compared to his ; there was a low, gnawing, bitter, 
 sneering spirit in it which was never laid so long as I was 
 in his house. I had been living with him, much to my 
 vexation, for a couple of months. 
 
 " Why don't you go and learn a trade ? " said he to me 
 one evening after he had come in from his work in the 
 fields. " Look at Lanty Doain,^ the stone-cutter, see how 
 comfortable and wealthy he is. It wasn't spending his 
 time on going about the country, attending wakes and 
 fairs and dances, throwing the stone and leaping ; sure 
 I'm told you are going to leap Clogher Karry — no less. 
 I believe you got one wet jacket there already, and that 
 ought to be enough for you ; but I suppose you wish to 
 get another." 
 
 Now this requires the following explanation. The 
 river at which the scene of my crossing the weir 
 occurred is there called the Karry ; and the reason why 
 I thought of leaping it is easily told. About a quarter 
 of a mile above that spot was a portion of the same river 
 which ran through the meadows of a man called David 
 Aikins. The reader recollects my mention of a young 
 fellow named Edward McArdle — nephew to our parish 
 priest of the same name. This McArdle, a small^ 
 tight, active little fellow, beautifully and symmetri- 
 cally made, was one of the celebrated leapers ever 
 known in that part of the country until my appear- 
 ance. He had leaped a celebrated leap across that 
 portion of the river which ran through Aikins' 
 
 ^ Duane?
 
 McArdle's Leap. 115 
 
 meadows. This leap a son of Old David Aikins', 
 named Charley, had shown me a few days before. 
 I need scarcely say that I cleared it with the greatest 
 ease. Charley then told me that McArdle had ex- 
 pressed an intention of leaping the Karry, but added 
 that on looking at it he had given up the notion — 
 stating as his opinion that the Karry could not be done 
 by any man. He and I then went to the Karry and 
 looked at it. 
 
 "He was right/' said Charley; "no man could do that." 
 
 I looked at it again — and again — and again. It was 
 a dead level, there was not the difference of an inch, 
 I think, between the height of the banks on either side. 
 Well, I looked and paused — and calculated — went to 
 the brink — walked back to take a view of it from 
 the starting point of the run which I would have taken, 
 and then said, — 
 
 " Charley, I will leap it ; if I fail I can only get a wet 
 coat as I got at the weir, but the weir was no failure, 
 and neither will this, or I am much mistaken." 
 
 " I w'ould not recommend you to try it," said he. " I 
 don't think any man could do it. If anyone could, 
 though, it would surely be yourself. Well," he added, 
 with a smile, " if you had failed in crossing the weir 
 3'ou'd have been dashed to pieces — but if you come 
 short here, all you can get will be a wet jacket." 
 
 "Well, Charley," said I, "tell the boysof the neighbour- 
 hood that on Fridayevening next I will try it at all ev^ents 
 — and if I fail it will only be, as you say, a wet jacket." 
 
 It was with reference to this intention that my eldest 
 brother spoke, when he alluded with such a bitter sneer 
 to my intention of trying the leap, for -it was now very 
 well known throughout the neighbourhood. This 
 dialogue between Charley Aikins and me occurred 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 upon Wednesday, and on the following day a circum- 
 stance took place which was very near settling me in 
 obscurity for the remainder of my life. I was then 
 living, as I said, with my eldest brother, who certainly 
 made my life miserable. Not that the poor fellow 
 was devoid of brotherly affection towards me — on the 
 contrary, not one of my relations entertained higher or 
 more sanguine hopes of my success. These hopes, 
 however, were in his view altogether disappointed, 
 and he saw nothing for me except a trade or to 
 till the earth as a common labourer. Indeed, to tell 
 the truth, I was much of the same opinion. Lanty 
 Doain, the celebrated stone-cutter, I knew intimately, 
 and I felt that it would be an agreeable thing to 
 learn that trade from a man who was not only my 
 friend, but a warm admirer. I accordingly went to 
 his house the next day, without consulting anyone, 
 and he agreed, but with great reluctance, that I 
 should go to him as an apprentice. He would not 
 have consented to this arrangement had I not assured 
 him, that if he declined it, I would enlist before twenty- 
 four hours. Lanty knew a little of classics, and was 
 very proud of what he knew. On that occasion he got 
 down a Justin and translated a portion, of which I only 
 recollect the words because I thought I had discovered 
 the Latin term for Lord Lieutenant for the first time — 
 prcsfectus ipsius — the Lord Lieutenant — prepositus mediis 
 — over the Medes ; and so on. This bit of Latin told 
 in his favour, and placed him out of the category of 
 common stone-cutters. I accordingly went home with 
 a fixed but somewhat desperate resolution to learn 
 his trade. This was the day before the leap, but I said 
 nothing about having apprenticed myself to Lanty
 
 Depression. 117 
 
 Doain, even to my brother. After I had left Lanty, I 
 felt as if I had accompHshed my own ruin and utterly 
 destroyed my hopes for life. For the first time a new 
 and indignant feeling took possession of me — a feeling 
 that burned bitterly and hotly into my heart. I 
 became misanthropical. I detested the world. Every- 
 thing went against me and my family. The latter^ 
 among whom, of course, I was forced to include myself, 
 were almost beggars, and nothing for me, in the shape 
 of any opening in the future, offered itself except the 
 hard shapeless granite — the chisel and the mallet. 
 I could almost have pitched myself down a precipice. 
 
 At length Friday evening came, and accompanied by 
 Charley Aikins and about a dozen others, I went to 
 Clogher Karr\', the scene of the approaching feat — 
 or failure. Judge of my surprise, when, on our arrival 
 there, we found about sixty or seventy persons awaiting 
 us. The reader must perceive that the resolu- 
 tion I had come to with Lanty Doain the day before, 
 and the depressing train of thought — if not absolute 
 despair — under which I laboured, were badly qualified 
 to raise my spirits or prepare me for the exploit 
 I came to perform. After again looking at the leap, 
 with anything but that enthusiastic confidence which 
 I ought to have felt, I appeared cast down, in- 
 different, and in low spirits. This was observed, 
 and spoken of in side whispers, and I heard one 
 of them saying, " He's hovering." I felt at the moment 
 that the last speaker uttered the truth. My heart was 
 down, and never in my life did such an unaccountable 
 sense of depression sink me. There I stood before 
 them, a fine well-dressed young fellow, in my twenty- 
 first year; an individual from whom great things
 
 ii8 
 
 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 were expected — yet what would I be in a week? A 
 working-man, no better than one of themselves, with a 
 paper cap on my head and a coarse apron before me. 
 The persons assembled, seeing that there was something 
 wrong with me and that my whole bearing evinced 
 marks of hesitation, asked me would I try the leap. I 
 immediately stripped off my coat and waistcoat, my 
 shirt and stockings, and went to the spot from which 
 I had intended to take my run. This was a little 
 blackthorn bush, not two feet high — that blackthorn 
 bush is there to this day. At the moment I felt in my 
 soul that the spirit of cowardice was upon me and within 
 me. With this impression I took my run from the 
 little blackthorn, towards the part of the bank from 
 which I was to spring. I ran — and as I approached 
 the edge my pace became gradually slow, and I con- 
 cluded the run with a walk that would have done 
 credit to a philosopher. This I repeated half a dozen 
 times under such a sense of shame as I need not attempt 
 to describe. 
 
 It fortunately happened that Billy Dickey, who 
 kept the public-house down at Miltown, was one of 
 the spectators ; in fact, the ground we stood on was 
 his own. 
 
 " Billy," said I, " I am in low spirits ; run down — you 
 won't be ten minutes — and bring me up a naggin of 
 whisky." 
 
 "I will," replied honest Billy, "and lose no time 
 about it." 
 
 Billy returned in about twenty minutes with half a 
 pint, instead of a naggin. I took the bottle and went 
 up to Tom Booth's, already mentioned, whose cottage 
 was not more than a hundred yards above us, on the
 
 " Carleton's Leap." 119 
 
 side of the elevation. I took the bottle — Molly- 
 supplied me with a teacup, and a drinking-glass 
 without a bottom. Into this cup I poured a glass of 
 the whisky, to which I added the proper quantity of 
 water. I drank it, and sat awhile ; after this I took 
 another, and sat about ten minutes more. I felt the re- 
 action begin — it proceeded— my spirits became light 
 and were rising rapidly to elevation. I joined the 
 crowd below, I ran about, I gambolled^ and in fact 
 seemed almost frantic. 
 
 *' Now," said I, " stand aside— I feel that I shall do 
 it ; " and in order to leave nothing calculated to assist 
 me undone, I tied my pocket handkerchief about my 
 waist. I went again to the little blackthorn — I felt as 
 if I could tread on air — I took my run — I flew to it and 
 in the twinkling of an eye was on the other side safely 
 and triumphantly. I then went down the river until I 
 came to the steps that were in the mill-race, below the 
 weir. These I crossed, came up along the weir, and 
 joined the spectators. 
 
 The cheers were loud and long, and the honest com- 
 pliments paid to me most gratifying. I had achieved,^ /.^;;>/ -...s^ 
 my greatest feat — I had done that which has never 
 been done from that day to this, although many per- 
 sons, confident in their own success at leaping, came 
 to the place with an intention of following my 
 example, but after looking at it they shook their heads, 
 and very calmly returned home. This I have been told 
 many times. It is called ''Carletoii'sLeaf until this day 
 
 I suppose the reader will not regret that the account 
 of this last exploit closes my exhibition in those youth- 
 ful exercises during my residence in the north, and, I 
 may add, for ever.
 
 120 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 I was to have commenced my apprenticeship at the 
 stone-cutting business on the week but one following. I 
 thought, hovv^ever, that I would pay a visit to an uncle 
 of mine who lived in a townland called Skelgy ; he was 
 my father's brother^ and an affectionate man he was. 
 His family consisted of four sons and two daughters. 
 The sons were not of large stature, but were regular 
 dandies in dress. They were engaged in the linen trade, 
 and used to produce the best specimens of linen cloth 
 that ever went to Fintona market — for Untona was the 
 great linen market town of Tyrone. Their sisters were 
 lively, handsome girls, and equally fond of dress. We 
 had not seen each other for at least a year, and they 
 consequently felt very glad of my visit. 
 
 At that time there was a dancing school in the townland 
 of Kilnahushogue, quite beside them. It was attended 
 only in the evening, a regulation v/hich was a great con- 
 venience to the young folks in the country, who could 
 not afford to give midday attendance. The pupils were 
 numerous, and it fortunately happened that the school 
 was kept in a large empty house, otherwise there would 
 not have been half room for such a crowd of pupils. 
 My cousins, both male and female, all attended this 
 school, at which every one was obliged to appear in 
 their best dress. My cousins insisted that I should 
 accompany them every evening and take lessons. 
 Now as to jigs, reels, and hornpipes, I could have 
 beaten the master himself all to nothing. I de- 
 scribed the man, his school and some of his scholars, 
 many years ago in Gunn and Cameron's Irish Penny 
 Journal^ ^ but the description has appeared since in a 
 
 ^ Gunn and Cameron's was a Scotch firm which started The Irish 
 Penny Journal in 1840. They also pubhshed other periodicals,
 
 BUCKRAMBACK. 121 ^^^ 
 
 volurns of my short sketches called " Tales and Stories 
 of the Irish Peasantry "—not "Traits and Stories of the 
 Irish Peasantry," which is a different work altogether — 
 in fact, my greatest. As the man's character was an 
 extraordinary one, even to notoriety, I will give it here 
 as I wrote it upwards of thirty years ago. 
 
 " Buckramback was a dapper, tight little fellow with 
 a rich Tipperary brogue, crossed by a lofty strain of 
 illegitimate English which he picked up whilst abroad 
 in the army. His habiliments sat as tight upon him as 
 he could readily wear them, and were all of the shabby 
 genteel class. His crimped black coat was a closely worn 
 second-hand, and his crimped face quite as much of the 
 second-hand as his coat. I think I see his little pumps 
 — little white stockings — his coaxed drab breeches^his 
 hat, smart in its cock, but brushed to a polish and stand- 
 ing upon three hairs, together with his tight, question- 
 ably coloured gloves — all before me. Certainly he was 
 the jauntiest little cock living — quite a blood, too, 
 ready to fight any man, and a great defender of the fair 
 sex, whom he never addressed except in that high-flown, 
 bombastic style so agreeable to most of them, called by 
 their flatterers the complimentary, and by their friends 
 the fulsome. He was, in fact, a public man and alive to 
 everything. You met him at every fair, where he had 
 only time to give you a wink as he passed, being just 
 then engaged in a very particular affair ; but he would 
 tell you again. 
 
 " At cock-fights he was a very busy personage, and an 
 angry better from half-a-crown downwards. At races 
 he was a knowing fellow ; always shook hands with the 
 
 and will be referred to more specifically in the second volume of 
 this work. The " Tales and Stories "appeared in 1845. 
 
 ^J««,vv
 
 122 
 
 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 winning jockey, and then looked pompously about, that 
 folks might see he was hand and glove with people of 
 importance." 
 
 Buckramback had been a drummer in the army 
 for somxC time, but it appears he possessed no relish 
 whatever for a military life, as his abandonment of it, 
 without even the usual form of a discharge or furlough, 
 together with a back that had become cartilaginous from 
 frequent flogging, could abundantly testify. It was as 
 well known that he had been a rebel in " Ninety-Eight," 
 as that he had been flogged so often that in the end he 
 became insensible to the infliction. It was also said 
 that on the last occasion of his punishment, which, if 
 report were correct, was the twelfth time, he requested to 
 be brought to Lord Cornwallis, before whom, it is added, 
 he danced a hornpipe in contempt of all efforts to subdue 
 him. Lord Cornwallis, said rumour, was on this occa- 
 sion so much amused by the drollery of the exhibition 
 and the indomitable spirit of the little fellow, that he 
 gave him a letter of approbation, and on asking what 
 name he was to insert, the answer, given with a heroic 
 sense of triumph, was, '' Buckramback." " Buckramback " 
 was, considering everything, a good dancing master ; 
 he taught quadrilles, waltzes, and other fashion- 
 able dances, unknown among the peasantry until his 
 day. 
 
 Mickey McRory on this occasion was his fiddler — quite 
 as extraordinary a man as the other, if not more so. 
 Mickey was blind, but one of the richest humorists that 
 ever lived ; he was also the best country performer on 
 the violin I ever heard, and possessed of the greatest 
 variety of Irish music. " Shane Fadh's Wedding " in 
 " The Traits and Stories " was suggested by the wedding
 
 Mickey McRory. 123 
 
 of my brother John, which was the largest I ever 
 witnessed. Mickey McRory was the fiddler, and in 
 consequence of my intimate knowledge of him, 
 ever almost since my childhood^ I rescued him from 
 obscurity in Gunn and Cameron's admirable Journal 
 where there is a very truthful and graphic account 
 of him, under his real name, " Mickey McRory, 
 the Irish fiddler."' He was the best representative 
 of his class that ever lived. About six months ago, 
 I was much surprised by reading an account of his 
 death in a northern newspaper. The notice was headed, 
 " Death of a Public Character." It appears he had re- 
 tired many years ago to a farm which was managed 
 by his brother; and there he enjoyed the close of a 
 long and harmless life in comfort and independence. My 
 sketch of him made his fortune. After its appearance, 
 he was unable to attend to one-tenth of the claims 
 that were made upon him. He was a strictly sober man, 
 though surrounded during his life with almost irresistible 
 temptations. The article on his death alluded to the 
 fact of my having selected him as the model of his class. 
 He died aged about ninety, and, it is said, had an 
 imm.ense funeral. 
 
 I have already mentioned the arrangement between 
 Lanty Doain and me, and given the reader to under- 
 stand the pain and the distracted state of feeling which 
 it cost me. I mentioned this arrrangement to my 
 uncle's family ; they received it with indignation and 
 scorn, and never ceased until they actually shamed 
 me out of it. I consequently broke my engagement 
 with honest Lanty, a fact which gratified him, as his 
 consent had been only gained by my threatening 
 otherwise to enlist.
 
 124 
 
 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 When I left my uncle's, I knew not where to go. 
 My eldest brother happened to meet Lanty Doain at 
 mass, who informed him of my apprenticeship. I was 
 to live and board with Lanty and to remove to his place 
 on the following Monday, or in other words, the very 
 next day. The very next day came — week after week 
 came— but the 'prentice lad did not make his ap- 
 pearance. The 'prentice lad, in fact, was practising 
 quadrilles and waltzes under little " Buckramback," 
 who felt very proud of him as a pupil. 
 
 When the visit to my uncle's was concluded, I re- 
 turned very reluctantly to my brother's, conscious 
 of the reception I was to meet. It was brief, but 
 decisive. He kindly suggested to me to open a dancing 
 school and earn money — he saw nothing else for me — 
 but as to making his house a home whenever it suited 
 my own convenience, he thanked God there was an end 
 to that — a meal of his food I should never eat, nor 
 ever sleep a night under his roof. 
 
 I was prepared for this, and I walked about for some 
 time v/ith a hope of being able to think upon something 
 — some plan or project with which I could associate 
 even the slightest hope. At length I went down to 
 my brother-in-law, Roger Racket's, a walk of only four 
 or five minutes. He was at this time building a new 
 house, and was indeed altogether in good circumstances. 
 I found no one at home but my sister, — and I knew the 
 full extent of her affection for me — of that brother of 
 whom she was so proud. 
 
 " Sally," said I, " I know not what to do — nor where 
 to go. I have now no home — no friend — I am a burthen 
 upon everyone.'^ 
 
 I was overcome by the contemplation of my situation,
 
 "Gil Blas." 125 
 
 and for a long time I wept bitterly. She also was 
 deeply affected, as was evident by the tears she shed 
 over the melancholy circumstances of the case, but she 
 had little in her power to offer by way of consolation. 
 Still, she attempted to soothe me as well as she could. 
 With her I remained about a month, but during that 
 time I could perceive without difficulty that her 
 husband felt my residence in his house a grievance. 
 This was the man to whom I had induced my sister to 
 give the preference as a suitor for her affections, and, 
 of course, he owed to me his success in obtaining 
 her as his wife, a fact with which the ungrateful 
 scoundrel was well acquainted. 
 
 Upon what incidents apparently of little moment 
 do some of the most important events of our lives 
 turn ! It was while residing here that I acciden- 
 tally got a perusal of a work v/hich filled me with 
 a charm it would be hopeless to do justice to by 
 description. The work I allude to was " Gil Bias." I 
 did not then even know that it was fiction, but took it 
 for granted that all the adventures were true. The 
 effect it had on me in my unsettled and uncertain 
 position in life — to fill my imagination with such a 
 romantic love of adventure, as made me wish my- 
 self a thousand times the hero of some that mielit 
 resemble those. I got the perusal of the book from 
 a pedlar, who carried books about for sale, with a 
 variety of other goods. I had finished it only a 
 few days before the occurrence of the event which I 
 am now about to relate. 
 
 1'.
 
 ^ 
 
 ,y 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Leaves his family at last— Father McArdle— Wildgoose Lodge — 
 Fate of Paddy Devaun — The wayside gibbets— Journeyings 
 in Louth — Becomes a private tutor — Sir Harcourt Lees' dogs 
 — Carleton makes verse — Gaynor and Talbot the pipers — 
 The dance. 
 
 I HAD been residing with my brother-in-law for about 
 a month, when I strolled out one day to the house 
 he had built. The thatcher was on the roofj for the 
 house was nearly finished, and when I joined honest 
 Roger, we had a few words of conversation upon 
 some trifle or other, when he said — adopting the 
 style of language of my own brother, — 
 
 " Do you not feel ashamed to lead the idle life you 
 do ? Do you not feel ashamed to be a burthen in this 
 manner upon your friends ? You've now come to the 
 age of a full-grown man, and how can you expect to lead 
 such an idle life at the expense of others ; and why 
 don't you take a spade and work ? Many a better 
 young fellow than you has a spade in his hand." 
 
 Now I knew that Roger had a good deal of money at 
 this time ; I knew, too, that he always carried notes 
 about him, for such was his habit ; he would not, in 
 fact trust them out of his own pocket. 
 
 The indignation I felt was so deep, and, I may add, 
 so just, that I could scarcely prevent myself from
 
 Beginning the World. 127 
 
 trampling the ungrateful rascal under my feet— and 
 I often regretted since that I had not done it. I 
 restrained myself, however, and simply said : — 
 
 " Roger, will you give me a pound, and I will be no 
 longer a burthen uponjc"?^ or anyone else in this parish. 
 Give me a pound." 
 
 "No," he replied, "nor a shilling — nor a penny." 
 
 At this moment I had not a coin in my pocket — but 
 I looked at him and said, " You may hear from me yet." 
 
 From that spot I started with a bitter and indignant 
 heart, without one moment's preparation, friendless, 
 moneyless and alone — but not without hope, for I had 
 read " Gil Bias." The hour of my departure was 
 about eleven o'clock, and I never slackened my pace 
 till I had gone a distance of more than twenty- 
 five miles — some miles, indeed, beyond the town of 
 Castleblayney. The purport of that day's journey, 
 however, was not absolutely a vague one. On the 
 road, somewhere near Castleblayney, a widow from the 
 townland next to my sister's, called Lisbarry, kept, I 
 had heard, a carman's inn for many years. I had 
 also been told that there was a distant relationship 
 between our family and hers. I knew, besides, that a 
 niece of hers, with whom I was well acquainted, had 
 been for a couple of years residing with her, and I 
 resolved to call and make myself known to het aunt 
 through this young woman. I did so — and nothing 
 could be more affectionate or hospitable than their 
 reception. Every attention was paid to me, and the 
 kindest inquiries were made after all my relations and 
 her own. I communicated all the information I could 
 on these subjects, and the night passed very agreeably 
 until the hour of rest arrived.
 
 128 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " Now," said she to me, "you don't know the honour 
 I am about to do you — you are not to sleep in this 
 house to-night, in the first place. '^ 
 
 I thought that was rather a strange way of doing me 
 honour. 
 
 "Where then am I to sleep?" I asked. 
 
 " Quite at hand," she replied. " Did you not observe 
 the pretty building in what appears to be our garden — 
 indeed, what was our garden ? " 
 
 I said I had observed it, and felt rather surprised at 
 what it could be. 
 
 " Well," said she, " that's Lord Blayney's shooting 
 lodge, and you'll have the honour of sleeping in his bed 
 this night," and so I had, and right soundly I slept in it. 
 
 The next morning, when breakfast was over, she 
 asked me after a short pause where I was going; I 
 replied " that I did not know." 
 
 "You don't know!" she exclaimed. "My good 
 young man, what do you mean?" 
 
 " Why," replied I, " that I am going upon the world." 
 
 " Upon the world ! " she exclaimed again. " But why 
 leave your family ? " 
 
 " I have no family,'^ I replied. 
 
 "Oh, don't say that," she replied, "you have 
 brothers and sisters, who will keep you until something 
 turns up. Indeed, my poor boy, you must go back to 
 them." 
 
 " Nothing on the face of God's earth will induce me 
 to go back to them. I have no right to expect that 
 they should support an idler like me — besides, if I did, 
 they would not do it. No, let what may happen, I won't 
 go back, I'll try what the world's made of." 
 
 " The world ! — and how can you meet a strange
 
 A Welcome Gift. 129 
 
 world that knows nothing about }'ou ? Did they give 
 you any money when you were leaving them ? " 
 
 " No," I replied ; " I asked my brother-in-law and hs 
 refused." 
 
 And have you no money ?" 
 
 " Not a penny." 
 
 " God be about us ! " she exclaimed ; " I don't under- 
 stand this — but at all events I can't let you out of my 
 hands with empty pockets." 
 
 She proceeded at once to a mahogany chest of 
 drawers, which she opened, and taking out twenty-four 
 tenpenny bits — as they were called — amounting to one 
 pound, she bade me put them in one of my pockets. I 
 obeyed her readily. 
 
 I now considered my journey of the day before as one 
 of favourable omen, indicative of my future success in 
 life; and with a light heart I resumed my travels. The 
 reader knows something of my old schoolfellow, Edward 
 McArdle. He was now the priest of the parish of 
 Killaney, in the county of Louth, and lodged in a 
 farmer's house at a distance of about three miles from 
 the town of Carrickmacross, and about two or one and 
 a half from the celebrated Wildgoose Lodge, the scene - 
 of the dreadful tragedy which had occurred the preceding 
 year. Of this tragedy I had never heard a syllable, 
 although the account of it in the papers must have gone 
 over all the dominions of George the Third — in whose 
 reign it took place — if not over Europe itself. This 
 ignorance of mine is not at all surprising, when I in- 
 form the reader that during my whole life, until the 
 moment of my arrival at McArdle's lodgings, I had 
 never seen but three newspapers in my native parish,, 
 nor ever as much as had one of them in my hand. The 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I ^,o Life of William Carleton. 
 
 
 
 priest received me kindly — but as he was Out at 
 ' station " every day in the week except Saturday, I 
 boarded with the family. 
 
 I had now nothing to do ; the poor priest had not a- 
 book in his possession, with the exception of the missal 
 — so that I had nothing even to read ; I accordingly 
 strolled out every day — it was autumn and the weather 
 glorious — and amused myself by traversing the country, 
 which was pretty well intersected b}^ excellent roads. 
 One day I went on, guided by the turnings of the way, 
 until I reached a cross road in a small village, where I 
 perceived a number of soldiers, standing and chatting 
 to each other, and passing their time as best they could. 
 I looked on before me when I had reached this queer 
 little place, and perceived something like a tar sack 
 dangling from a high beam of wood, or rather from the 
 arm which projected from it. There was a slight but 
 agreeable breeze, the sack kept gently swinging back- 
 ward and forward in obedience to the wind, and I 
 could perceive long ropes of slime shining in the light, 
 and dangling from the bottom. 
 
 I was very much astonished, and could form no 
 conjecture as to the nature of this spectacle ; so, with 
 a view of ascertaining what it was, I applied to the 
 soldiers who were near me. 
 
 " Pray," said I, " what is the nature or meaning of 
 that object which I see up the road there ? " 
 
 " Why," said one of them, the sergeant, " is it possible 
 you don't know ? " 
 
 " I certainly do not," I replied, " nor can I guess what 
 it means." 
 
 '• Well, sir," said he, " that object is a gibbet — and 
 -what )0u she swinging from it in the pitched sack is
 
 WiLDGOosE Lodge. 131 
 
 the body of a murderer named Devaun ; Paddy Devaun 
 swings there — and it's just where he ought to swing." 
 
 He then gave me for the first time a brief outline of 
 the inhuman and hellish tragedy of Wildgoose Lodge. 
 The effect upon me was the most painful I ever 
 felt from any narrative. It clung to me until I went 
 to bed that night — it clung to me through my sleep 
 with such vivid horror that sleep was anything but a 
 relief to me. When Mr. McArdle came home that 
 evening, he gave me in reply to my inquiry an account 
 of the whole tragedy, and pointed out Wildgoose 
 Lodge, which was visible from the garden of the house 
 in which he lodged. Little either he or I dreamt at 
 that period that I should, at no very distant day, make 
 that frightful tragedy the subject of one of the most 
 powerful descriptions that ever came from my pen.^ I 
 was so completely absorbed by the interest it excited, that 
 I went to the very low elevation on which the house stood, 
 and observed the scenery about it. The house had been 
 rebuilt and was inhabited by a decent and very civil 
 family, named Cassidy, if my memory does not fail me. 
 As those who may read this autobiography may not 
 have read my tale of " Wildgoose Lodge," if tale it can 
 be called, I will give them a short sketch of the facts 
 with which I was made perfectly acquainted during 
 my residence in the parish of Killaney, where the 
 awful tragedy was enacted. Like many another black 
 national crime, this one resulted from Ribbonism. The 
 members of that accursed Ribbon Society, instead of con-v 
 fining themselves to those objects for which it seems to 
 
 ' The episode of " Wildgoose Lodge " in tlie " Traits and Stories " 
 is certainly, one of the most terriljle narratives ever penned b. 
 Carlcton. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 have been originally designed — a union of Irishmen 
 against their Protestant enemies, and the penal enact- 
 ments which oppressed them at the time — departed from 
 their original object, and employed its murderous 
 machinery not against its open and common enemy, but 
 in the following up of private and personal feuds, and 
 enmities amongst themselves. The name of the family 
 who lived in Wildgoose Lodge before the midnight 
 burning was Lynch. They were a very moral and pious 
 family, peaceful and industrious. Ribbonism was preva- 
 lent at that time, but they deliberately and firmly kept 
 themselves aloof from it. They were frequently solicited 
 to join, but declined. At length, they received a 
 nocturnal visit ; their door was smashed in, and the 
 house was filled with ruffians, who beat and maltreated 
 them with such brutality, that one of them recovered 
 from the injuries he had received with great difficulty. 
 
 At length, when the Lynches recovered, they took 
 proceedings against the leaders in this inhuman act 
 of violence, whom they knew perfectly well. They 
 prosecuted these men at the Dundalk Assizes, and had 
 two of them transported. Revenge among the Ribbon- 
 men was now the predominant feeling. I have 
 said in several parts of my illustrations of Irish life, 
 that the hedge schoolmasters were almost always 
 what is called " article bearers " — in other words, that 
 each of them was the master of a Ribbon Lodge. In 
 this case it was so ; the man named Devaun, who 
 projected and conducted this slaughter, was the parish 
 schoolmaster, and the parish clerk, who taught his 
 school in the very chapel itself. He was the man who 
 served mass every Sunday in the year, and was the last 
 individual on whom suspicion could be supposed to rest.
 
 WiLDGOOSE LODGF. 133 
 
 While I resided in the county of Louth, so near the 
 scene of the outrage, I had an opportunity of learning, 
 as every man had, that the incidents connected with 
 it were as well known to the public as if that public 
 had been present at them. There were many 
 assembled upon that fatal night who knew not the 
 object of the meeting until they had arrived at the 
 very spot. Afterwards, when the trials took place, and 
 the Government prosecutions had closed, and when 
 there was no apprehension of legal proceedings against 
 any others than those who had been convicted, 
 several whom Devaun had summoned without dis- 
 closing to them the frightful object in view, actually 
 admitted that they had been present, and had no 
 hesitation in giving full details of the deeds which 
 were done. To this fact, added to another which 
 I will mention, I owe the accuracy with which I have 
 detailed the proceedings. These were, however, known 
 through the public papers which reported the trial. A 
 copy of these papers I got afterwards from the Rev. 
 Dr. Stuart, rector of Lough Swilly. 
 
 The meeting on that woeful night was summoned by 
 Devaun, who made the chapel — the House of God — the 
 scene in which the blind and wretched dupes were 
 sworn to execute, without hesitation or inquiry, that 
 which at a proper time should be made known to them. 
 Whisky had been subscribed for, and the greater 
 number of them had been primed with it. On the very 
 altar of God, every preparation for the projected crime 
 was made ; on the very altar of God, the ignorant 
 dupes were sworn to perpetrate what, with the exception 
 of those who were in the secret, they knew nothing of 
 
 I said that while I resided with the Rev. Edward
 
 134 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 McArdle I amused myself by walking about during the 
 day — sometimes a distance of ten, twelve, or sixteen 
 miles from McArdle's lodgings. On these occasions, 
 I found that the greater part of the county of 
 Louth was studded with gibbets. Sometimes two 
 bodies, or rather two tar sacks, might be seen hanging 
 after the manner of Devaun. On more than one 
 occasion I have seen four. The gibbets were set up 
 near the residences of those v/ho had been convicted of 
 the crime. During that autumn, fruit in the county of 
 Louth was avoided, as something which could not be 
 eaten. This I knew to be a fact, because I was an 
 eye-witness of it. There were in all tventy-four 
 dead bodies swinging from gibbets in different direc- 
 tions throughout the county of Louth. The autumn 
 was an unusually hot one; the flesh of the suspended 
 felons became putrid, and fell down in decomposed 
 masses to the bottom of the sacks; the pitch which 
 covered the sacks was melted by the strong heat 
 of the sun, and the morbid mass which fell to the 
 bottom of the sacks oozed out, and fell, as I have stated 
 in Devaun's case, in slimy ropes, at the sight of which 
 I was told, many women fainted. Every sack was 
 literally covered with flies, which having enjoyed their 
 feast, passed away in millions upon millions throughout 
 the country. Devaun, in accordance with the general 
 principle which prevailed in this distribution of justice, 
 the object of which was to make the consequences of 
 the crime fall with a deeper impression on the public, as 
 a warning and example to others — Devaun, we say, was 
 gibbeted within a couple of hundred yards of his own 
 mother's door ; and such was the view she took of the 
 fate which fell upon her son, that on going out of her
 
 A*- 
 
 County Louth. 135 
 
 own door, which commanded a view of the gibbet, she 
 uniformly exclaimed, " God be merciful to the soul of 
 my poor marthyr." It was quite clear that the affec- 
 tion of the mother prevented her from assenting 
 to the belief that her son could be guilty of such a 
 crime. 
 
 Whilst on this visit to my friend McArdle, I took 
 journeys of considerable length through the county of 
 Louth. It is not a county remarkable for beauty of 
 scenery — although there are some striking exceptions 
 to this observation. During these explorations of the 
 country, the reader will be amused to hear that I was also 
 in quest of employment. For instance, on passing the 
 house of a gentleman, I made it a point to inquire his 
 name, whether he was married or not, and if married, 
 what family he had ; were his children young or old^ 
 boys or girls ; were the boys at school^ or had they a. 
 private tutor, to conduct their education at home. I was 
 perpetually thinking of "Gil Bias," but hitherto I met 
 with no adventure likely to be beneficial to my hopes 
 or prospects. I got into an anxious mood, and felt 
 deeply dejected because I knew that I could not abuse 
 the hospitality of my friend, or reside much longer with 
 him. 
 
 One day I went out as usual to traverse the county. 
 I had thoughts of going towards Corcreagh, the village 
 where Paddy Devaun's body was hanging. I had, how- 
 ever, been there several times before, and now resolved 
 to take some other course. I accordingly followed a 
 road which led right on before me — a road that was new 
 to me — and I had proceeded about half a mile, when 
 I came to a field of wheat, where there were half 
 a dozen men reaping. I looked about me, and noticed
 
 \ 
 
 136 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 a respectable- looking house, on the other side of a flow 
 bog, about a quarter of a mile distant. The reapers 
 were at the very edge of the road, with nothing between 
 us but a low, dry, grassy ditch, over which I stepped, 
 and entered into conversation with thern. 
 
 " Who lives," I asked, " in that house with the back 
 of it towards us ? " 
 
 " Mr. Pierce Murphy," replied a fine young fellow. 
 " What family has he ? " I inquired. 
 " Sir," said the other, " he has a small family of chil- 
 dren, but his wife is very anxious about their schooling. 
 They had a tutoress teaching them, but it seems she 
 and the mistress couldn't agree, so she left them, and 
 they now want someone to teach the young folk. If 
 you're a tutor, sir, they'd be likely to engage you. I 
 think you had better try.'' 
 
 He pointed out a patch that went through the flow 
 bog, and I accordingly directed my steps to Lowtown, 
 the residence. of Mr. Pierce Murphy. On reaching the 
 house and knocking, I was told that the master was in 
 Dundalk market, and that the mistress was out in the 
 ifield with the men who were reaping. I asked to be 
 shown to the field, and a servant-maid brought me to 
 the gate which led into it, where she left me. On pre- 
 senting myself, I told Mrs. Murphy that I had just 
 learned she wanted a tutor for her children. She said 
 she did, and asked me what education had I received — I 
 told her I had received a classical education. Had I 
 ever discharged the duties of private tutor before ? No, 
 I never had. Was I a native of that part of the coun- 
 try ? No, I was from Clogher, in the county Tyrone 
 Had I testimonials ? No, I had no testimonials. 
 Under these circumstaixes it was unnecessary to say
 
 Employed at Last. 137 
 
 more about it ; she could not think of engaging a 
 stranger without testimonials. Where did I reside ? I 
 told her I was on a visit to Mr. McArdle, the parish 
 priest, whose guest I then was. She brightened at once 
 and told me she would write to Mr. McArdle, who of 
 course would recommend me, as I was his friend. I 
 was to call the next day but one, and she would gave me 
 an answer. 
 
 We then separated upon very good terms, and after 
 traversing the country for miles, I returned home, 
 anxious to communicate the good tidings to my old 
 schoolfellow. In short, I removed to Lowtown on the 
 Saturday evening following, and on the next Monday 
 morning sat down in a private room, set apart for the 
 purpose, to instruct the children of Mr. Pierce Murphy. 
 On seeing my charge assembled, I felt anything but an 
 accession to my importance. My pupils, with one ex- 
 ception, were female children, the eldest not eleven — 
 her sister about nine, and a brother about seven. A very 
 strong disposition to laugh seized me, and were it not 
 for the generous liberality of my salary, which was 
 twelve guineas a year, I should scarcely have known 
 ho Y to act. 
 
 My relative Kecnan was now the master of a large 
 school at Dundalk, and I thought it better to remain 
 where I was for a while, until I should consider what was 
 best to be done — for to continue there for any length 
 of time was out of the question. Murphy's house, 
 though a two-storey one, was inconveniently small. It 
 consisted of a small parlour, which also discharged 
 the duty of a drawing-room, and behind it was 
 a small closet, containing a bed only for a single 
 man. In this bed Murphy slept ; his wife, having
 
 138 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 the charge of the younger children, lay near them up- 
 stairs. Mrs. Murphy was rather a fine woman, with a 
 face which would have been a good one, were it not for 
 the ludicrous expression of lofty and pompous con- 
 sequence which was stamped upon it. She was, how- 
 ever, of a respectable, though I believe reduced family, 
 and was educated in a nunnery in Drogheda. Her 
 face when in a state of anger was anything but pre- 
 possessing. Still she was what they call "a fine 
 animal." As for her worthy husband Pierce, thougli 
 not exactly a vulgar man in his speech — that is 
 to say, he had no " brogue " — yet was he the most 
 overbearing and most brutally tempered man I ever 
 met — in fact, a low-minded, ignorant ruffian. From 
 morning till night his voice was never heard about the 
 place or in the fields, except in a loud tone of abuse, 
 directed to someone or other, and occasioned by nobody 
 knew what or whom. There was a thatched house at- 
 tached to the slated one, and a long passage passed 
 from the parlour to the kitchen, which was large, 
 and, if I may use the expression, wealthy. There 
 were three female servants, independently of a young 
 lady, a niece of Mrs. Murphy's, who lived with her, 
 and superintended the washing. " God help her ! 
 I often ejaculated — for the business she went through 
 was nothing short of slavery — and most inhuman 
 slavery. 
 
 Murphy was a very large farmer — the yard attached 
 to his house was one of the largest I ever saw connected 
 with any farmer's establishment ; his hog yard, too, was 
 upon a tremendous scale ; the number and size of his 
 stock gave indications of immense wealth. In fact, 
 it was his farm and stock which I described as 
 
 )>
 
 Murphy. 139 
 
 belonging to Bodagh Buie O'Brien in "■ The Miser " ; 
 but beyond this, there is no resemblance between either 
 the men or their residences. Murphy was a ruddy- 
 faced, stout man, dressed in a loose black coat ; but 
 still in such trim, with his soiled shoes and crumpled 
 hat, that nobody could ever mistake the hard-working 
 farmer, any more than from his loud, impetuous voice, 
 they could the vulgar, overbearing ruffian, lie was 
 detested by the poor and labouring classes of the 
 surrounding neighbourhood — but as he gave much 
 employment, they took care not to exhibit this 
 sentiment in their conduct. I led a melancholy life 
 here, without any society, without a single book to read 
 — in fact, without any earthly object on which I could 
 fix my attention. I did not sleep in the dwelling- 
 house, but in a small hut or room in a long line of 
 similar ones, containing but one bed and one chair, 
 adjoining the kitchen, and opening into the yard. 
 There was no fire or fireplace, and all I can say is that 
 the bed was a good one. The number of barn-door 
 fowl and poultry about the yard surpassed anything I 
 ever witnessed. No day ever passed, so long as I was 
 there, that we had not a goose, turkey, pair of ducks, or 
 a couple of fat fowl for dinner. 
 
 Murphy became almost insane if any trespass was 
 committed upon his property. He seemed like a mad- 
 man during these paroxysms. If a strange dog, for 
 instance, came into his farmyard, led there by in- 
 stinct peculiar on certain occasions to those animals, 
 he would deliberately take down his gun and shoot him 
 on the spot, even when he knew him to belong to some 
 neighbour. This made him exceedingly unpopular, as 
 it was but natural it should.
 
 I40 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 I will now mention an anecdote in connection with 
 this unfeeling habit of shooting his neighbours' dogs, 
 which I feel certain will not be disagreeable to the 
 reader. One of his next neighbours was the late well- 
 known Sir Harcourt Lees/ who was the Protestant 
 rector of the parish, and lived in a very fine rectory 
 house, together with the glebe lands attached to it, 
 known as Essexford. Sir Harcourt was one of the 
 greatest sportsmen of the day, and kept a pack of 
 hounds, with whom I have often seen him. He also 
 kept pointers, setters, spaniels, retrievers and every other 
 variety of sporting dog which a wealthy man, devoted 
 to the sports of the field, might be supposed to keep. 
 One rather dim moonlight night, about half an hour after 
 dark, there came into Murphy's farmyard a beautiful 
 setter belonging to Sir Harcourt Lees ; there happened 
 to be there one of his own dogs, a very fine pointer, 
 also. Murphy had two or three fowling-pieces, and 
 always kept one of them charged for safety of the 
 house and premises ; it was discharged and recharged 
 every night. I was standing in the yard, at the door 
 of my own comfortable dormitory, when Pierce came 
 out, and having discovered that the dog was Sir 
 Harcourt's, ran into the house and bringing out the gun, 
 stood at a distance of about twenty yards and fired. 
 One of the poor animals fell, and Murphy addressing 
 me, said : — 
 
 " Go and bring over that dog. I will have him 
 buried." 
 
 " I will do no such thing," I replied ; " 1 shall 
 
 The Rev. Sir Harcourt Lees was one of the most notable 
 opponents of ' Popery" in Ireland during the early years of the 
 century. He published many lucubrations on the subject, and was 
 the cause of a host of polemical writings. The student of Macaulay 
 may remember his allusions to him.
 
 A Very Stray Shot. 141 
 
 have nothing to do with your dogs or any man's 
 dogs." 
 
 " Won't you ? " said he ; '•' well, never mind — I won't 
 forget this." 
 
 " I don't care whether }-ou do or not," I replied. 
 
 " Here, Teal Harte/' he shouted to one of his servant- 
 men, "come here." 
 
 " What is it, sir ? " inquired Toal. 
 
 "Go over there," said he, "and bring me that setter 
 of Sir Harcourt Lees'. You and Tom Reynolds must 
 bury him." 
 
 Honest Toal — and an honest fellow he was — went 
 across the yard, and returned bearing the offender be- 
 tween his two hands. Murphy looked closely at him, 
 and starting with an oath, exclaimed, — 
 
 "Why G d your soul, you scoundrel, this is 
 
 not Sir Harcourt's dog — but my own." 
 
 " And G d your own soul," replied Toal, with 
 
 spirit, " whose fault was that } And why do you swear 
 at me for your own mistake ? " 
 
 " Go and bury her,'-* said his master, recharging his 
 gun, " go and bury her." 
 
 " I'll be d d if I do," replied Toal, — who was pro- 
 bably one of the most powerful young men in the 
 whole county of Louth, and a terrific opponent either 
 with fist or cudgel — " It wasn't to bury your dogs I 
 hired with you — and you ought to be ashamed of your- 
 self for attempting to shoot the dog of any respectable 
 gentleman — especially as you know you were fined for 
 it once before." 
 
 Murphy, having recharged his gun, went over with a 
 stealthy step, with a hope of getting another shot at 
 Sir Harcourt's setter, but returned disrippointed — the 
 dog had disappeared.
 
 142 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 "Now," said Toal to me, after Murphy had gone in, 
 "by all that's beautiful, I'm as glad of this as a pound 
 note in my pocket. You don't know how this over- 
 bearing scoundrel makes himself offensive to the 
 respectable gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Neither 
 sick nor poor likes a bone in his body, and it is because 
 he knows this that he strives to offend them in every 
 way he can." 
 
 As winter came in, I found the long evenings hang 
 very heavily on my hands. I accordingly went up 
 pretty frequently to the cross roads of Corcreagh, where 
 there was a respectable public-house or tavern kept by 
 a bachelor named Peter Byrne and his three brothers. 
 They were wealthy and respectable, and very well 
 educated. Peter himself had a really great natural 
 talent for painting. Some of his water-colour pro- 
 ductions were astonishing. He was altogether a very 
 intellectual man, had read much and possessed a 
 surprising memory. Many a conversation we had to- 
 gether, and he was perhaps the first man who ever made 
 a guess at my future fame. I had amused myself by 
 writing poetry during my leisure hours while at 
 Murphy's, and I ventured to show him from time to 
 time some specimens of it which surprised him beyond 
 belief. 
 
 Here I met a very rare character, who usually spent a 
 month in this hospitable establishment. He was a blind 
 piper, whose name was Gaynor, and his pipes, to look at 
 them, did not appear to be worth half-a-crown — they 
 were so small and contemptible-looking. When he began 
 to play, however, every sound ceased, every tongue was 
 hushed^ every ear open, and every spirit rapt and borne 
 away by the incredible and unparalleled charm of his
 
 Gaynor the Piper. 143 
 
 melody. He reminds me of what I have since read of 
 Carolan ; his habits were not at all those of a common 
 piper. He was perfectly conscious of his own genius, 
 and would under no condition play for a common 
 dance. He went about with his pipes, as Carolan did 
 with his harp, not to perform for the vulgar sports of the 
 common people, but for the respectable classes, from the 
 lower gentry down to the wealthy gentleman farmer, 
 with whom he resided a week, a fortnight, or perhaps a 
 month, and so sincerely was he respected and so highly 
 was his music appreciated, that a visit from him was 
 considered an honour. 
 
 Many a long year afterwards, I gave him and another 
 piper named Talbot a place in Gunn and Cameron's 
 Journal.^ Talbot was a prodigy, not merely as a per- 
 former, but as a mechanic. He, too, was blind, but no 
 gentleman dressed better. He played upon what were 
 called " the grand pipes," and such was his mechanical 
 skill that he made his own pipes ; these for elegance 
 and gorgeousness of ornamentation surpassed any- 
 thing of the kind on which the eye could rest. He was 
 also an organ-tuner, and made an exquisite harp, for 
 which he got a large price. He had also the honour of 
 performing before royalty. 
 
 Murphy's children were amiable little creatures, and 
 by no means deficient in intellect. Their mother's 
 pride, however, was strongly offensive to any young 
 fellow of feeling. Although educated, as she said she 
 was, in a nunnery, she was as deficient in all the results 
 of education as any woman I had ever met." She could 
 talk upon no subject but the nunnery, the everlasting 
 
 ' This sketch is reprinted in "Tales and Stories," 1845. 
 
 " Usually, Carleton's treatment of women is very chivalrous. It
 
 144 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 nunner}', and all the anecdotes connected with it and its 
 internal machinery. To anyone of mind or intellect, 
 her conversation, apeing the polish of a high-born lady, 
 was an insufferable exhibition. I dreaded to meet her ; 
 the more so as she looked upon it as a high gratifica- 
 tion to make me the recipient of her egregious vanity. 
 In consequence of this, I spent most of my evenings out, 
 amusing myself as best I could. Murphy was a sober 
 man. He took one tumbler of punch after dinner 
 every day ; but although I sat at the same table with 
 him, from the first day I entered his house until that 
 on which I left it, he never once asked me to join him 
 in his festivities. 
 
 He had a great many cottages upon his property, in 
 which those who worked on his immense farm resided. 
 In one of these cottages lived a man named Cassidy, 
 a labourer. His brother being a professional piper, 
 was entered at almost all the dances in that and the 
 
 o o 
 
 neighbouring parishes. He played very well, had the 
 use of his sight, and was a droll but civil fellow. It 
 was Toal Harte who mentioned him, and as he knew 
 that time during these winter evenings was rather a 
 burden to me, he asked me to go over and hear Cassidy 
 play whenever he happened to be at home. It was not 
 every evening, he said, that he was to be found at home, 
 but whenever he was, the youngsters of the neighbour- 
 hood flocked to the house, where they had a dance. 
 Lonely as I was, this was a relief to me. I accord- 
 ingly went there, accompanied by Toal, and the 
 humble little family felt highly honoured by my pre- 
 
 is one of the best features of his works. The portrait of Mrs. 
 Murphy bears some resemblance to Mrs. Burke in " The Emigrants 
 of Ahadarra."
 
 At Toal Harte's. 145 
 
 sence. I know not how it happened, but a very favour-^ 
 able and popular character of me went abroad. It was 
 said that I was of a high old family, that my predecessors 
 had been very great people, and that neither Pierce 
 Murphy nor his proud piece of a wife were fit to wipe my 
 shoes, that there was no end to my learning — it was 
 very well known that I knew the seven languages — and 
 that a Protestant lady, with a great estate, had fallen in 
 love with me, and offered to marry me if I would only 
 change my religion and take up hers, which I refused to 
 do. Such is the Celtic imagination. 
 
 I was very glad to go to hear the bagpipes along 
 with honest Toal Harte. Several evenings I went and 
 sat looking at the young folks dancing, with a good 
 deal of dignified gravity, that is to say, the gravity of a 
 young gentleman whose high blood and descent had 
 raised him far above the amusement of the lower class. 
 In the meantime, notwithstanding all this dignified 
 dissimulation, I was dying for an opportunity of showing 
 them what I could do under the influence of the pipes, 
 and for this reason : I knew that if there was any one 
 exercise more than another for which in my native 
 parish I was celebrated, it was that of dancing. In fact 
 my friend, the late Dr. Petrie, who was appointed 
 editor of a work upon the social antiquities of Ireland, 
 engaged me to describe the incredible variety of dances 
 peculiar to the country. I gave him a history of them, 
 but the work failed Tor want of funds.' In real jig or 
 hornpipe I was unapproachable. At length, conscious 
 as I was of my powers, and urged forward by an un- 
 
 This must refer to Petrie's work on Ancient Irish Music, of 
 which one volume and a portion of a second were published by the 
 " Society for the Publication of the Ancient Me'odics of Ireland." 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 equivocal impulse of vanity, I could restrain myself 
 no longer. I arose, looked around me, and asked one 
 of the handsomest girls present to dance with me. She 
 accepted the invitation as an honour, and as we stood 
 up, I, in accordance with the usual form, asked her 
 what tune she preferred, to which the accustomed reply 
 was, — 
 
 " Sir, your will is m\' pleasure." 
 
 I then asked the piper to play up " Jig Polthogue," 
 one of the liveliest and most popular of Irish jigs. 
 Need I say that they were thunderstruck — "the young 
 gentleman," " masther of the seven languages ! " " well 
 — well — isn't he a wondher ? " I heard whispered quite 
 distinctly. I was determined, however, not to stop 
 there. I had danced my jig — I was now resolved to 
 dance my reel — and I accordingly took out the same 
 proud and blushing girl, and after the accustomed form^ 
 we danced " Miss McLeod's Reel." More wonder — mors 
 amazement — and what I felt most agreeable of all, more 
 admiration — of the young gentleman who was master 
 of the seven languages. Now, thought I to myself, I 
 will give them a surprise for which they are scarcely 
 prepared — I will dance a hornpipe in a style which 
 Uiey have seldom seen. I accordingly expressed my 
 intention of doing so. Everyone knows it is a single 
 dance, in other words, it is danced without a partner. 
 After having stated my intention, the piper asked 
 nie, — - 
 
 " What will I play, sir ? " 
 
 "The College Hornpipe," I replied, and I accordingly 
 set to work ; and I may observe here, that when a mere 
 youth, I was in the habit of practising hornpipes in our 
 own barn, and that during the course of this practice I
 
 A Complete Triumph. 147 
 
 invented several hornpipe steps wiiich I never saw 
 surpassed, and which of course were peculiar to myself. 
 These three performances were crowned by what 
 followed. I had about me in silver the price of a quart 
 of whisky, and as I knew from Toal Harte that there 
 was a small shebeen house not a quarter of a mile off 
 I sent for a bottle, and the night ended very agreeably. 
 As a mark of respect to me, upwards of a dozen of the 
 young men present accompanied Toal Harte and me 
 home, although the distance was not more than a 
 quarter of a mile. 
 
 L 2
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Edinburgh Revieru on Carle'on — Throws up tutorship — A 
 ride in a hearse — Dundalk — Drogheda -A shirt as security — 
 Unexpected wealth — Ardee — The mathematics. 
 
 The reader sees — and must have long seen — that there 
 never was any man of letters who had an oppor- 
 \r tunity of knowing and describing the manners of the 
 \ Sfl'^ \ Irish people so thoroughly as I had. I was one 
 ^' of themselves, and mingled in all those sports and 
 
 ^ ' ''^' /,MiV'pastimes in which their characters are most clearly 
 Ayoi^^^ , ^^^j*-Vdeveloped. Talking simply of the peasantry, there is 
 ,c^^' i> scarcely a phase of their life with which I was not 
 ' J i&^ -^ intimate. That, however, is not so much in iticlf, 
 ^ because many have had the same advantages, but 
 
 not only a cultivated intellect, but strong imagina- 
 tion, and extraordinary powers of what I may term 
 jinconscious observation, existed in my case. I take no 
 pride from these, because they were the gifts of God. 
 My memory, too, although generally good, was then in 
 its greatest power ; it was always a memory of associa- 
 tion. For instance, in writing a description of Irish 
 manners, or of anything else connected with my own 
 past experience, if I were able to remember any one 
 particular fact or place, everything connected with it or 
 calculated to place it distinctly before me, rushed from 
 a thousand sources upon my memory. With » the
 
 The Edinburgh Revif.w. 149 
 
 natural habits of my life, arising as they did from 
 my position, accompanied as they were by the gifts 
 which God had bestowed upon me, is it surprising that I 
 I have painted the Irish people with such truthfulness ?/ 
 In my early life I was unconsciously learning the 
 important lesson which experience with all its various 
 advantages taught me. I could no more forget it than 
 I could forget my own name. The EdinbiirgJi Review^ 
 felt and expressed this so far back as October, 1852. In 
 that number, it utters the following verdict, and coming 
 as it does from one of the severest and most fastidious 
 critical journals in Europe, as well as the most able, I 
 think I am justified, without being charged with un- 
 becoming vanity, in feeling proud of such a verdict : — 
 
 " It is amongst the peasantry that Mr. Carleton is truly^ 
 at home. He tries other characters — rarely, however — 
 and not unsuccessfully ; but the Irish peasant is his 
 strong point ; here he is unrivalled, and writes like one 
 who had nothing to look out for, to collect by study — 
 to select — to mould — who merely utters what comes 
 spontaneously into his thoughts, from which the language 
 and the sentiments flow as easily and naturally as 
 articulate sounds from the human lips, or music from 
 the skylark. Those who have in early life dwelt among 
 the peasantry, and since forgotten that period in other 
 and busier scenes of existence, meet again in the pages 
 of Carleton the living personages of long past days, like 
 friends returned from a distant land after an absence 
 of many years. 
 
 "The primary and essential value of Mr. Carleton's 
 works upon Irish peasant life and character," it proceeds, 
 "unquestionably consists in this — that they are true, 
 and so true to nature; but it is enhanced by a circum-
 
 150 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 stance recently recorded and lamented by Lord Cock- 
 burn in reference to Scotland. The living originals are 
 disappearing; some of them have already disappeared. 
 In Ireland, since our author's youth, changes rapid and 
 deep have taken place, which, according to diversity ot 
 prejudice, and the other causes that generate diversity 
 of opinion, will be referred to different sources, and 
 brought to illustrate different political and social 
 theories. It is in his pages, and in his alone, that future 
 generations must look for the truest and fullest pictures 
 of those who will ere long have passed away from 
 that troubled land — from the records of history, and 
 from the memory of m.an for ever. That field'' adds 
 the Edinburgh Revieiv, alluding to Irish literature, " in 
 zvhich he stands witJioiit an equal among the living cr 
 the dead." ' 
 
 I have already said that I did not feci comfortable in 
 Murphy's house. I had nothing that could enable me 
 to fill up my time with the exception of some attempts 
 at poetry. In writing poetry, however, the mind must 
 be more or less at ease. I was young, and my mind 
 — but above all my imagination — was active. In fact, 
 the adventures of Gil Bias were seldom out of my head. 
 It is true I looked upon the incident to which I owed 
 my present situation as something of an adventure, but 
 then it was an adventure so contemptible and beggarly 
 in its character and results, that it rather disgusted me 
 than otherwise. Still, I thought the world was wide, 
 and had room enough for higher and better chances, 
 and I came to the conclusion that it was not by leading 
 the life I was so unprofitably passing, that I could have 
 
 ' Dr. P. A. Murray, the Maynooth professor already referred to, 
 was the author of the article in the Edi/iburgh Revietv quoted here.
 
 Co.wvAV, THE GaU(;er. T51 
 
 any opportunity of affording myself the advantages of 
 such chances. 
 
 I received my first quarter's salary (three guineas) 
 and went without loss of time to the town of Carrick- 
 macross, where I expended the money in the pur- 
 chase of some additions to my wardrobe. I came 
 home with only three or four tenpenny bits in my 
 pocket, and sat down to the sickening task which daily 
 devolved upon me. On the evening of my return from 
 making my purchases, I went up to Corcreagh, to pass 
 away an hour or two as best I might. I there met a 
 man named Conway, a ganger whom, as an intimate 
 friend of Keenan's, I had met and known at Glass- 
 lough. He was stationed there, and a very scheming 
 vagabond he was. It was said he never paid any- 
 one ; as a barefaced sponge, I never saw him equalled. 
 This ganger — Peter Byrne — a suspended priest named 
 Finnigan (who had been curate in my native parish for 
 years, and who was besides a native of the neighbouring 
 town of Carrickmacross) — the sergeant of the military 
 detachment then stationed at Corcreagh, named Pierce 
 Butler, and myself were taking refreshments — I at the 
 solicitation of Byrne, the proprietor of the house. The 
 county of Louth was at that time under martial law, 
 and the unfortunate priest, whose suspension had 
 been caused by an Dver- zealous devotion to the 
 glass, was at that moment in custody for being out 
 at illegal hours. He was made a prisoner the night 
 before, having been found about two o'clock riding he 
 knew not whither, and was brought to Corcreagh. Peter 
 Bjrne, in order to prevent him from being sent to 
 the guardhouse like a common offender, asked Mr. 
 Jiutler, the sergeant, to allow him the privilege of
 
 152 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 stopping in his house, which was granted. The matter, 
 however, did not end here. I became the poor in- 
 offensive priest's advocate with Butler, who was a good 
 Catholic, and not at all disposed to severity, especially 
 towards a priest of his own religion. Father Finnigan, 
 therefore, slept in Carrickmacross that night a free 
 man. 
 
 When the reckoning came to be settled in the 
 course of the evening, Conway, the worthy gauger, 
 said, — 
 
 " My dear Mr. Carleton, will you have the goodness 
 to settle my share of the reckoning until I see you to- 
 morrow ? — I haven't a cross in my possession at this 
 moment." 
 
 I complied at once, because I did not know the man, 
 and went home penniless to Pierce Murphy's. As I was 
 at the tavern door about to start, Byrne whispered to 
 me, — 
 
 " Why the devil did you pay that schemer's reckoning ? 
 — you may go whistle for it now." 
 
 All I can say here is, that I was naturally generous, 
 not at all inclined to suspicion, and had little experience 
 at the time. I was now sick of Murphy and his place, 
 indeed so much so, that I resolved to leave at once. 
 As I had gone nearly a month into a new quarter, I 
 asked him to pay me the trifle that was coming to me. 
 
 "What," he replied, "you are not ashamed to break 
 your engagement, then ? " 
 
 " I am ashamed to hold such a situation,'^ said L 
 " 1 am only wasting my time with you, Mr. Murphy. 
 I must consult my own interests, and look for some- 
 thing suitable to the education I have received. I'll 
 thank you to pay me the trifle that is due to me."
 
 A Rough Farewell. 153 
 
 "Not a penny," he replied, "to any dishonest 
 scoundrel who breaks his engagement — unless the 
 amount of it might assist him to the gallows." 
 
 '' Do you call me a dishonest scoundrel ? " Tasked. 
 
 " I do," said he ; " you're breaking your engage- 
 ment." 
 
 There was a little green plot that led to the hall door, 
 and was separated from the farmyard by a wall: on this 
 green plot were we standing, within about three yards 
 of the door, when, in the twinkling of an eye, there was 
 only one individual there in an erect attitude. After 
 Murphy's last words I instantly knocked him down, and 
 turning my steps towards Corcreagh, called upon my 
 kind friend Byrne. He and two of his brothers had 
 gone to Dundalk market, but I was resolved to remain 
 there until he should return. I was not much acquainted 
 with the young man whom I found at home. The 
 truth is, he was only on a visit with his brothers. He 
 was by trade a saddler, and had merely come from 
 Dublin to see his relatives. 
 
 My object now was to go to Dundalk and consult with 
 my relative Keenan as to what I should do. My expec- 
 tations were that he would give me an appointment as 
 usher in his' school. Still I waited at Corcreagh until 
 Peter Byrne should return ; but hour succeeded hour, and 
 no Peter came. I felt then that I was once more enter- 
 ing upon life, and I wondered on what new adventure I 
 should stumble next. At length it grew late— indeed, 
 so late that to walk to Dundalk that night and arrive at 
 Keenan's establishment in anything like decent time, 
 would, I felt, be out of the question. At this moment a 
 hearse and four horses stopped at the door of the tavern, 
 and the driver vvent in to have some refreshment. After
 
 CJb^ ' 
 
 154 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 some conversation, he gave us to understand that he had 
 conveyed a corpse to a graveyard at a long distance, the 
 name of which I did not hear. When asked where he 
 was bound for, he replied, " for Dundalk " — and that 
 moment young Byrne, taking me aside, said, — 
 
 " Here now is the very thing you want — this 
 hearse — " 
 
 " But I beg your pardon," I replied, " it is just the 
 very thing I dent want, and I hope I shall be able to 
 say so for many a long year." 
 
 " You don't understand me," said he, laughing 
 "What I mean is that I'll get this man to give you a 
 seat as a passenger in the hearse to Dundalk. Bring 
 him in and order him a glass or two of whisky, and 
 I shall act as if the treat was yours." 
 
 My sense of the ludicrous, if anything ludicrous can 
 be associated with a hearse, overcame me. I laughed 
 as heartily as he did. I treated the driver to a couple 
 of glasses of whisky, or rather Byrne did so in my 
 name, entered the hearse, shook hands with Byrne, 
 and off we started. Of one fact I could take my oath 
 — that since the first hearse trailed its slow length 
 along, no vehicle of the kind ever went at such 
 a pace until then. A funeral pace, indeed ! Why it 
 ought to have appeared, so far as speed was concerned, 
 among the chariot races of the Romans. 
 
 At this particular period of time, it so happened 
 that Keenan, who had to my own knowledge been pub- 
 licly prayed for in every chapel throughout the country, 
 was in a most doubtful state of health, his complaint 
 being a chronic one of the liver. I gave the driver of 
 the hearse directions where to stop — my directions 
 being confined to the mere mention of Kcenan's
 
 A Sympathetic Hearse- Driver. 155 
 
 name, and stating that he kept a large classical school 
 somewhere in Dundalk, This was before we entered 
 the town, but the moment I mentioned Keenan's name, 
 the man told me to be easy, he knew the house right 
 well, as who did not. " I will leave you," said he^ " at 
 the very door ; I know it well — and I'm afeard, poor 
 gentleman, that he'Jl soon come my way." He accord- 
 ingly stopped at the door, and as it was very clear 
 moonlight, he descended and let me out of the hearse. 
 
 Now of all men living or dead, who should be standing 
 at his own drawing-room window, looking into the 
 street, but my invalid cousin, the Rev. John Keenan ! 
 An old schoolfellow of mine, whom I forgot to mention 
 before, by name Bernard McKenna, was his first classical 
 assistant, and had been his pupil when he kept his 
 school in Glasslough. When I discovered this, which 
 I did that evening, I gave up all hopes of an appoint- 
 ment as usher, McKenna was a young fellow who had 
 read most assiduously — in fact, whose eyes were never 
 off his books by night or by day. I don't think I ever 
 met a better classical scholar ; neither Keenan himself 
 nor I were fit to be named in the same day with him. 
 In the course of that evening, Keenan sent for me from 
 his private room, where he received me with a face 
 indicative of anything but kindness. 
 
 '•' I saw your arrival here this evening," he said ; "you 
 came like a bird of evil omen to pay your visit to me. 
 I suppose you thought there was something significant 
 and prophetic of my state of health in the vehicle )-ou 
 pitched upon to perform your journey." 
 
 I explained the circumstances to him in a very few 
 words, but I could perceive that he took a super- 
 stitious view of it.
 
 156 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 '•' William," said he to me, in a serious, but not 
 very friendly voice — " it so happens that at this 
 moment I don't want any assistant in my school. If 
 there had been a vacancy indeed, it would have been 
 better for you — as it is, I do not see what I can do for 
 you." 
 
 " You know, sir," said I, " that as matters now stand, I 
 can do nothing for myself I know not to what point 
 of the compass I can turn. I cannot return to my 
 native place, because there I have no home." 
 
 " I think," he replied, " you will have to work. 
 There's Owen Traynor, who was with us in Glennon and 
 Glasslough — he is now working on his father's farm like 
 any other of his brothers. You too, I fear, will have to 
 take to the spade and reaping-hook." 
 
 " Not/' said I, " while I can get a shilling a day — 
 eighteen pounds five a year. I will walk over the 
 country, mile for mile, from one end of it to the other, 
 before I degrade myself to the condition of a day 
 labourer." 
 
 " Many a better man has," said he. " Go home — go 
 home — and if you should ever visit me again it must 
 not b2 in a hearse." 
 
 I left him, and I need scarcely say that our parting 
 was rather cold. I felt that from whatever cause he 
 acted, his reception of me was a very heartless one, 
 and considering the loneliness and dereliction in which I 
 was placed, in a strange town, without a single friend, it 
 was such — considering, too, our close affinity — as proved 
 that he was not the man I had taken him to be. Under 
 the circumstances, his conduct to me was, I consider, 
 cruel and un-Christian. 
 
 After leaving him, I inquired for Bernard McKenna,
 
 Derelict. 157 
 
 his chief usher, but could not see him. There was a 
 lodging-house within a door or two of Keenan's where 
 I slept that night, and as the proprietors had taken 
 it for granted that I was likely to be a permanent 
 lodger, they did not trouble me for payment. I now 
 bethought myself of what I should do, but could 
 shape out no distinct or definitive object whatsoever. 
 I strolled a good deal through the town, and went 
 to see a large salt-pan where they made salt from 
 sea-water. I asked m\-self where I should g-o ; 
 but could find no reply. I had not a coin from his 
 Majesty's mint in my possession, yet, at this very 
 moment, I said to myself, " I will start for Dublin." 
 I accordingly got upon the Dublin road, by which I 
 mean the road that led to Dublin by Droghec'a. In 
 this mood of mind, and with this resolution, I started 
 for the metropoli?, without having tasted food that 
 day. 
 
 Ignorance of life confers great moral fortitude. I 
 advanced on my journey towards Drogheda with my 
 mind balanced between apprehension and romance 
 Should I, like Gil Bias, have an adventure ? When 
 was I likely to procure my dinner .'' This last con- 
 jecture beL;an to give me some trouble, because I was 
 getting hungry. Still I proceeded, mending my pace, 
 from an apprehension lest I might be obliged to enter 
 Drogheda after night — a possibility which I dreaded 
 very much. 
 
 At length, I perceived by the number of cars and 
 carts that met me, as well as by the unsteady and 
 staggering appearance of many foot passengers, that I 
 was getting near the town. The next question was, 
 where should I stop .' I was a perfect stranger in the
 
 158 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 place. At length, I recollected that there was residing 
 in it a clergyman from my native parish, who had been 
 appointed one of the curates at Drogheda. His name 
 was Maginn, I think, but be this as it may, he had a 
 brother a professor of theology in Maynooth College.^ 
 I had no difficulty in finding out his residence, but alas ! 
 only to experience a most woeful disappointment. He 
 was from home — had gone on a visit to his friends in 
 the north, or, in other words, he was then with his 
 relations in my own native parish. 
 
 When the servant maid told me this, I asked her if 
 she could direct me to any house where I could stop 
 for the night. She immediately pointed out what 
 she called an eating and lodging house, where she said 
 I could get a dinner and bed if I wished. She said it 
 was kept by a widow who was remarkable for kindness 
 and charity. As she uttered these words she gave a 
 short " hem " or cough, the meaning of which I did not 
 at that time understand. I proceeded to the house, 
 which was and is on the left-hand side as you come 
 from Dundalk. I think the season was Lent, for as I 
 entered, I saw nothing on the tables but fish. Con- 
 scious of my ignorance in the ways of life, I sat for some 
 time to watch how matters went on, and I perceived 
 that there was no great mystery in it. The men came 
 in, ordered their dinner, and having finished their meal, 
 paid for it at once ; others, however, sent out by the 
 servant for either whisky or porter to the next public ■ 
 house, but in that case it was necessary the money 
 for the drink should be forthcoming. I did not venture 
 
 '&>• 
 
 Probably the Rev. Edward Maginn who afterwards became 
 Bishop of Derry, and whose biography was wiitten by Thomas 
 D'Arcy McGee.
 
 A Termagant Landlady. 159 
 
 on this ; I only asked the waitress, who was a woman 
 advanced in years, if I could have a bed there that 
 night ; and she replied in the afifirmative. " Then," said I, 
 "I shall sleep here to-night." She looked at me rather 
 with kindness I thought, and said, — 
 
 " Won't you have anything to drink, sir ? We don't 
 keep it ourselves, but there's as good whisky next 
 door as ever was tasted/' 
 
 I replied that I didn't drink, but that as I felt fatigued 
 I would go early to bed. I accordingly amused myself 
 with the conversation of the guests, and occasionally 
 reflected upon what the result of this adventure might 
 be. One thing, however, sadly disheartened me ; it 
 was clear that of all the termagants in or out of 
 hell, the landlady was the greatest. She had such a 
 thin, unfeeling mouth, such sharp, piercing eyes — 
 actually emitting fire — as if she was in a perpetual 
 state of fury, which was the fact — that I felt anything 
 but at ease. In temper she resembled Pierce Murphy 
 as much as one human being ever resembled another. 
 Many of the guests entered into conversation with me, 
 several invited me to partake of their drink, and others 
 asked me to accompany them to some more respectable 
 establishment, where we could sit and chat without 
 being deafened by such a vociferous din as went on 
 around us. To these persons I apologized with all due 
 civility and kept my seat. 
 
 At length the house began to thin, as they say ; one 
 by one the guests disappeared, and when the time of 
 rest arrived, I asked to be shown to my bedroom. 
 
 "Come here, young man," said the landlady; "the 
 usage of this house is, that when a stranger wants a bed 
 he must pay for it and his dinner here at the bar. I'll
 
 i^c Life of William Carleton. 
 
 thank you to pay now, and the woman will show you 
 your bedroom." 
 
 Said I, " You must wait till morning — I have no 
 money about me, but I shall receive some from a friend 
 pretty early." 
 
 "Very well," she replied, "but in the meantime I 
 must take care of myself. Biddy, go up, and after he 
 goes to bed, bring me down his shirt. I see he's a 
 swindler," she added, " although no one would suspect 
 as much by looking at him. I have met some of his 
 kidney before, though — smooth water runs deep." 
 
 The old woman brought me upstairs, and showed me 
 into a small room with a single bed in it. The poor 
 creature was deeply affected, and expressed herself with 
 a generous sympathy that went to my heart. 
 
 " God help and pity you, poor young man," she ex- 
 claimed ; " it's a cruel thing to see one like you brought 
 to this. I suppose you're on the zvorldy 
 
 I wondered where she got the term, and I felt that it 
 was never applied with more melancholy truth. 
 
 " I wish to God," she continued^ " that I had the 
 money about me, because if I had you wouldn't be long 
 without it ; but don't let down your heart, dear — if I 
 haven't it now, it'll go hard or I'll make it out in the 
 mornin'. So strip yourself,^' said she. " I'll stand out- 
 side the door for a minute — then go to bed, and throw 
 your shirt over upon a chair or anywhere. She'll fiz 
 for this, anyhow/' exclaimed the kind-hearted creature, 
 "and that she may, I pray God this night, the black- 
 guard skinflint." 
 
 I don't think I ever enjoyed a sounder night's rest 
 during my life. When I awoke the next morning, all 
 the incidents of the preceding day and night rushed
 
 In Pawn. i6i 
 
 back rapidly to my mind. As the reader knows, I had 
 looked upon my first adventure with contempt, as 
 being sadly deficient in dignity ; compared with my 
 present, however, it was worthy of a prince. Here 
 was I, a miserable devil, in the hands of an ill- 
 tongued shrew, who, so far from feeling sympathy 
 or humanity, absolutely left me without a shirt to my 
 back. How was I to live? Where was I to go ? 
 Could I proceed to Dublin, to the great metro- 
 polis, in this state ? Was I to starve in a Christian 
 country ? Still, I would not despair. Who could tell 
 but I might find a friend somewhere ? There were 
 worse cases in " Gil Bias." There was no risk of my life 
 here, and in any event, I must only endeavour to pluck 
 up as much courage as I could. 
 
 I accordingly dressed myself, but resolved, before I left 
 the house, to appeal in the case of the shirt to the land- 
 lady. I did so, but I will not inflict upon the reader the 
 torrent of abuse she poured upon me. The pith of it was 
 — that I ought to feel deeply thankful to her that, instead 
 of paying herself with my shirt for the victuals she was 
 obliged to hand out honest money for,she did not have me 
 taken up and punished for swindling. This startled and 
 alarmed me, because I felt that in one sense she was not 
 far from the truth. If it were not swindling, it looked 
 as like it as anything ever did. She added that if I did 
 not leave the house immediately, she would send for the 
 police. 
 
 Here was I now, at large again, and in a strange town, 
 where I knew not an individual. I was, as I had been 
 the day before, not only without my breakfast, but 
 without the means to purchase it. What was to be 
 done ? I knew not. In the meantime, I was beginning 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 62 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 to lose a great deal of my relish, not only for the adven- 
 tures of Gil Bias — whom I cursed in my heart — but for 
 my own, which certainly were at strong variance with 
 romance. I recollected, however, that I had one article 
 about me which might possibly be disposable, and I 
 resolved to try it. This was my pocket-handkerchief, 
 which was nearly new and had been handed to me, 
 washed, a couple of days before, at Pierce Murphy's 
 house. I accordingly went dovv^n to the river, and got on 
 board a ship which was lying there, and having entered 
 into conversation with the sailors, who appeared to be 
 all Drogheda men, I succeeded in selling the handker- 
 chief for two shillings. 
 
 Short as my stay had been in Dundalk, I became 
 slightly acquainted with one or two of Keenan's oldest 
 pupils, who had heard, through Bernard McKenna, 1 
 suppose, that he and I were cousins, and that I was 
 looking for some employment as a teacher. One of 
 these, a very gentlemanly young fellow, asked me would 
 I teach a school. I told him I would be very glad to 
 do so if I could get one to teach ; upon this he informed 
 me that a Catholic gentleman, Fitzgerald, of Fane 
 Valley, had built a schoolhouse for the children of his 
 tenantry, and that he would soon require a master. I 
 paid no attention at the time, and the matter for the 
 moment went out of my head. I had now two 
 shillings, however, but my romance and love of 
 adventure were altogether gone, at least for the pre- 
 sent. It is wonderful what strength there is in two 
 shillings. I felt full of courage, and said to myself, " I 
 will not go to Dublin, but I will return and offer myself 
 for this school of Mr. Fitzgerald's. Fm tired of adven- 
 tures."
 
 Giving " The Sign." 163 
 
 A slight turn was now to take place in the tide of my 
 affairs. From being penniless, without a shirt to my 
 back or a breakfast in my stomach, I was soon to be- 
 come master of eight-and-sixpence. See what it is to 
 be made master of an important political secret, if I may 
 call it so ! I bethought me of the fact that I was a 
 Ribbonman, and had never once reflected that the 
 circumstance might be valuable to me. I resolved 
 therefore to try it with the sailors, who seemed beyond 
 doubt to sympathize with me. This I saw by their 
 conduct, inasmuch as it was not because any of them 
 wanted such a handkerchief that they purchased mine, 
 it was because they saw I had no money. There was 
 among them a young fellow who had appeared anxious 
 about the sale of my handkerchief, which, by the way, was 
 purchased by subscription, and to him I resolved to give 
 the sign ; this I did by tapping the point of my nose 
 twice with the top of my middle finger. I found four of 
 the men in the ships were initiated, but as the vessels were 
 loaded with grain, which had been imported from England 
 as seed, I found many there who were not sailors, but 
 labourers engaged to remove the oats to the adjoining 
 granaries. To be brief, I left them with the vast sum 
 of eight-and-sixpence in my pocket, which was about to 
 be reduced by two shillings — the price of my pocket- 
 handkerchief, which I asked to re-purchase. The sailors 
 would not, however, listen to such a proposal. The hand- 
 kerchief was immediately returned to me, we cordially 
 shook hands, and I left them. 
 
 I then returned to that portion of the county of 
 Louth with which I was best acquainted, having first 
 secured my " inner garment " from the landlady of the 
 eating-house. I had scarcely entered, when the poor 
 
 M 2
 
 V 
 
 > 
 
 164 LiPE OF William Carleton. 
 
 woman who acted as waitress, gave me a sign to follow 
 her to the back door, and this I had no sooner done 
 than she placed three-and-ninepence in my hand. 
 
 " Now," said she, " you can pay her, and get your 
 breakfast besides/' Of course I declined her money, 
 assuring her that I was provided. 
 
 Much of the happiness we enjoy is comparative. I 
 was now in possession of the eight-and- sixpence, and 
 felt it scarcely possible I could ever want. 
 
 I returned from Drogheda to Louth by another road, 
 simply for the sake of variety. I do not think that 
 any man living was ever so fond of the novelty of 
 scenery as I was. I could stand and look upon it for 
 hours. On one thing, however, I was resolved, and that 
 was to practise the utmost frugality in using the money 
 now in my possession. Notwithstanding this resolution, 
 however, I felt a slight touch of the recent romance 
 quietly stealing upon me. Surely my visit to the ships 
 was rather an agreeable adventure, and I might meet 
 others more so. I commenced my frugality and 
 simplicity of food before I left Drogheda that very day ; 
 the first thing I did being to purchase a couple of coarse 
 rolls, went to a dairy, got a halfpenny-worth of fresh 
 butter-milk, and made my breakfast ; a habit which I 
 practised for years both before I came to Dublin and 
 after. 
 
 The first town I stopped at after leaving Drogheda 
 was Ardee. I took lodgings for the night in the house 
 of a jolly fellow, who had been for several years a sailor, 
 but had returned to Ardee — which was his native 
 place — where he married a good-looking woman, who 
 possessed not only their present establishment, but 
 some other little property, in the shape of small tene-
 
 A Terfectly Happy Man. 165 
 
 ments in the town. The proprietor of this house, which 
 was not only a lodging-house, but a public-house, 
 seemed to me one of the most perfectly happy men I 
 had ever seen. He was constantly singing, and, so far 
 as my ears informed me, perpetually the same song — 
 its burthen was, — 
 
 "And the Ardee dog sent round the grog, 
 And pushed about the jorum.'' 
 
 He appeared to be in a state of the most absolute 
 enjoyment, his countenance lit up with an expression 
 of infinite delight, his clear blue eyes smiling, and 
 every feature of his face animated with the sense of 
 almost ineffable pleasure. He was never sober, nor 
 was he ever drunk, but maintained, as he used to say 
 himself, "the goolden mane" between them. I was 
 often at his house afterwards, and upon these occa- 
 sions I became well acquainted with his character. 
 His name was Peter Murray, but no man was a 
 iavourite of his who did not call him "the Ardee 
 dog." 
 
 God help us ! How many admirable and original 
 characters are there in life of whom the world neither 
 has nor knows anything — men whom to examine would 
 present a profound and interesting study to him who 
 wishes to become thoroughly acquainted with human 
 nature. They pass away, however, like the phantoms 
 of a dream, and leave no memory or impression behind 
 them. Qui caveat sano vate ! 
 
 P>om Ardee I returned once more towards Dundalk, 
 
 but as I was now becoming acquainted with the manners 
 
 and habits of the people, I became very fond of them 
 
 and Legan to like living among them. For instance, 
 
 there was a man who kept a public-house, and a most
 
 1 66 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 respectable one, on the road between Dundalk and 
 Drogheda — I had crossed the country and once more 
 come out upon that road — and on going along towards 
 Dundalk, I went in to get a glass of porter, feeling 
 rather thirsty after the walk. The proprietor of the 
 house was there — a rare case, because he was a land- 
 surveyor of much business and but seldom at home. 
 His house was not far from Fane Valley — the residence 
 of Mr. Fitzgerald — one of the most beautiful of valleys, 
 and almost the only one in Louth. We soon became 
 quite intimate and even confidential. He was a man 
 of fame, and told me that he had corresponded for years, 
 in the mathematical department, with one of those 
 small publications which went among the lower classes 
 at that time — sometimes called The Ladys Almanack, 
 and sometimes The Ladys Magazifie — all of which I 
 had seen hundreds of times. 
 
 These little annuals were a singular feature in our 
 literature at that period. They consisted, firstly, of all 
 the matter which constitutes an almanack upon a 
 small scale. After this, they were filled with riddles 
 of every description, rebuses, enigmas, conundrums, 
 charades, and every difficulty of the kind, such as I see 
 our present literature has degraded itself by resuming. 
 There was, however, one department in those little 
 almanacks which, I am sorry to say, our later periodi- 
 cals have not. I allude to the mathematical. The 
 little works I speak of contained several mathematical 
 problems of surprising ingenuity and great difficulty, 
 and were the means of developing many a mathema- 
 tical genius that never could otherwise have been dis- 
 covered. The questions in all the departments were 
 inserted one year and answered the next — it could
 
 Professor MacCullagh. 167 
 
 not well be otherwise in an annual publication. My 
 dear friend, the late Professor McCullagh of Trinity 
 College, to whom I dedicated my " Miser," told me that 
 he first discovered his genius for science by answering 
 these mathematical queries. At the age of twelve^ 
 years he was able to answer every one of them.^ 
 
 On hearing the name of the surveyor — it was Moran 
 — I remembered it distinctly. I could therefore enter- 
 tain little doubt of his being a first-rate mathematician. 
 Up to that day he was a correspondent to The Lady's 
 Almanack, and I have little doubt but he owed much 
 of his practice to that very fact. 
 
 ^ James McCullagh was a Tyrone man, and one of the most 
 remarkable mathematicians of his day. Some of his problems and 
 theories are wonderful. He took his own life, before he was 
 thirty, his mind having given way from over-work in his pursuit of 
 mathematical science.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Fitzgerald, of Fane Valley— Carleton as a story-teller — Navan— 
 How to wash a shirt — Visit to Clongowes and Maynooth— A 
 bully chastised— Rev. Paul O'Brien — Judy Byrne — Big Magee 
 — Celbridge — Becomes a hedge schoolmaster — On the road to 
 Dubhn. 
 
 When I alluded to my intention of seeking the 
 mastership of the Fane Valley school, Moran's eye 
 brightened, and he caught at it at once, 
 
 " I'll tell you what you must do," said he ; " in the 
 first place make this house your home, as long as it 
 may suit your own convenience. Go abroad about Fane 
 Valley and make inquiries ; ascertain everything you 
 can ; and then we will know how to act." 
 
 I did this, but could ascertain very little, and that 
 was not satisfactory. I thought Mr. Fitzgerald's 
 steward might, from his situation, know something about 
 it, and it was from him that I gained the only infor- 
 mation I received that was worth anything. " The 
 master," he said, " who was engaged was then in some 
 society in Dublin, where they train masters to teach 
 schools." I did not understand this, and I considered 
 it a poor proof of qualification for such an office, that 
 it was found necessary to teach any master his duties, 
 I had never heard of the Kildare Street Society at 
 the time, and I suppose it must have been to that he 
 alluded. The honest steward, however, gave me the
 
 Fitzgerald, of Fane Valley. i6j 
 
 best advice he could ; it was to make application to 
 Mr. Fitzgerald himself/ who knew the truth, he said, 
 and from him I could learn it. On inquiring the best 
 hour to see him, he said after breakfast^ or about eleven 
 o'clock. 
 
 This was the information I gained, and it was an}- 
 thing but promising. Mr. Moran, the surveyor, on 
 hearing this information, agreed with the steward that 
 I should call upon Mr. Fitzgerald himself, state my 
 qualifications, and offer myself for the situation. The 
 next morningri was at Mr. Fitzgerald's hall- door at the 
 hour suggested to me by the steward ; when it was 
 opened, I was asked my business, and of course said 
 I wished to see Mr. Fitzgerald. He came up with a 
 pen in his hand, and a more interesting or gentle- 
 manly man I seldom saw. On stating the object of my 
 calling on him, and on hearing that I was a classical 
 scholar, he told me, with a smile, that he should regret 
 seeing a young man so well educated teaching a school 
 like his. I should look for something better, but, under 
 any circumstances, he was sorry to inform me that 
 he had already engaged a master, so that even although 
 disposed to give me the appointment, he could not do 
 so without a violation of his word, and the engagement 
 he had entered into. To this I had nothing to say, so 
 I respectfully raised my hat and took my leave. 
 
 This interview closed my expectations in that 
 direction, and I felt that there was no earthly 
 hope for me. Keenan's conduct to me filled my 
 heart with a sense of strong indignation, and I 
 began in fact to regret that I had ever opened a 
 
 ' Father of Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, F.S.A., author of innumer- 
 able books, who was born at Fane Valley in 1834.
 
 170 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 classical book in my life. Why was such a fate at- 
 tached to me ? Every young man I met or spoke to, 
 had a home, a comfortable residence, and friends who 
 felt an interest in him ; while I^ without any fault of 
 mine_, was left homeless, houseless, friendless. Nobody 
 could dream of what I privately felt at the contempla- 
 tion of my position, and above all of futurity, which was 
 black and lowering before me, without a single gleam 
 on which either the eye or heart could rest. Oh, the 
 bitter tears I have shed in secret, when no eye but that 
 of God Himself was a witness ! 
 
 I now resolved to go to Dundalk and see Keenan 
 again. A week had elapsed since my interview with 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, and during this period I was the guest 
 of Mr. Moran, or rather of his family, because he 
 was engaged in his profession several miles from 
 home. 
 
 At length I started for Dundalk, but, on reaching the 
 town, I changed my mind and declined seeing Keenan. 
 On arriving there, I sent for Bernard McKenna, who told 
 me that my cousin's mind was occupied by some 
 prejudice against me ; and he thought Keenan felt 
 as if I had disgraced him by the incident of the 
 hearse. Keenan was a very weak-minded man, and to 
 my own knowledge, notwithstanding his education, a 
 good deal tinged with superstition. He was, besides, 
 getting worse in health, and his temper had become 
 snappish and disagreeable to everyone that approached 
 him. Still I thought McKenna might have misrepre- 
 sented him, or exaggerated his state of mind, from an 
 apprehension lest he might remove him and take me, 
 a near relative, in his place. I accordingly wrote him 
 a k\v lines, asking him finally whether he could give me
 
 An Interval. 171 
 
 any employment in his school or not. To this I 
 received a reply, in three or four lines, stating that he 
 had no employment he could offer me, and recommend- 
 ing me, as before, to take up a spade and work — or 
 perhaps I might get employment as a hearse-driver with 
 some undertaker. I knew very well what he meant as 
 hearse-driver, but was utterly ignorant of what he 
 wished to express by the word " undertaker/' which I 
 had never before heard. 
 
 A thought now struck me, originating in a combina- 
 tion of despair and listlessness. The apathy I felt 
 preserved me from utter despair, and the despair, 
 fortunately for myself, took the shape of apathy. 
 
 To be brief, I made acquaintances, visited this family 
 and that without invitation, and was received with as 
 much kindness and cordiality as if a deputation 
 had waited on me to go. This not only reconciled 
 me to such a life, but made the time the most 
 agreeable I had yet spent. The neighbouring families 
 began almost to quarrel as to which of them should 
 receive me. The only equivalent I could bestow 
 was the narrative of the old classical legends, which 
 I transmogrified and changed into an incredible 
 variety of shapes. I would have given them Irish 
 legends, and sometimes did, but then the Irish legends 
 did not show the " larnin'." 
 
 I made one discovery, while leading this extra- 
 ordinary kind of life, and that was the power of my 
 own invention. It did not indeed strike me very 
 forcibly then, but since that time I have reflected on it 
 with something like wonder. Finding that it would not 
 do to go over the same ground so often, I took to 
 inventing original narratives, and was surprised at the
 
 172 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 facility with which I succeeded. This new discovery- 
 was as great an amusement to myself as it was 
 to my audience. I used to compose these fictions in 
 the course of the day, while walking about, and 
 recite them at the fireside in the evening. I was 
 beginning to enjoy a certain degree of local 
 fame, which constituted me a treasure to whatever 
 neighbourhood I stopped in. The number of people 
 who came to hear me in the evening was surprising, as 
 were the distances they came from. In fact I became 
 a regular improvisatorc, and was the subject of many a 
 wondering conversation among the people. I had lost 
 all hope in life, and took it for granted that I was then 
 in the highest position which I should ever reach. I 
 had no motive of action, and avoided looking into the 
 distance before me — a distance which to me was a 
 perfect blank. 
 
 In this state of mind I was walking one day 
 near Mr. Taaffe's, of Smarmore Castle, and turned 
 accidentally into a house on the roadside, which 
 proved to be a school. The master and I entered 
 into conversation ; he learned from me that I was 
 vtry anxious to procure some kind of decent employ- 
 ment. This information I gave him, unaccompanied 
 by any feeling whatever — as a mere matter of course 
 ■ — but to him it suggested an idea which trans- 
 ferred the scene of my operations from Louth to 
 Meath. 
 
 "I'll tell you what I'd advise you to do," said he ; 
 " go to the town of Navan — there is a celebrated 
 Catholic boarding-school there, and it's not unlikely 
 that you might on application get employment as an 
 usher." The suggestion excited very little hope, but
 
 Gaynor. 173 
 
 still I felt anxious for a change of scene — I would try a 
 town. Anything would be better than the monotony 
 of the life I led. The season was summer, and I 
 started, immediately after my conversation with Mr. 
 Hart the schoolmaster, for the pretty town of Navan. 
 I took a lodging in the house of a man named Sheridan, 
 who kept a regular lodging-house for travelling pedlars 
 — delft men — in fact, for everyone of the multifarious 
 class to which I allude. It was there I became ac- 
 quainted with a learned tailor named Gaynor, who, 
 although no classical scholar, was one of the most 
 naturally eloquent men I ever met. This tailor had 
 great influence, and v/as looked up to as a prodigy, and 
 indeed it was well for me that he possessed this in- 
 fluence, because he took me under his patronage and 
 protection. He was also very pious, one of the 
 most sincerely religious men I ever met. He t ok 
 a singular fancy to me, or rather, I should say that 
 he devoted himself to, and identified himself with, 
 my interests. His table was my table during a great 
 portion of the time I was in Navan, and that was 
 about three months. He enabled me besides to set 
 to rights some little matters in my wardrobe, and 
 never permitted me to be without a iew shillings iii 
 my pocket. 
 
 And now that I have mentioned my wardrobe, 
 the reader may take it for granted that one 
 of the greatest sources of my anxiety was to keep 
 it, or to contir.ue it, as decent as became a young 
 man whom the peoj Ic looked upon with sincere 
 respect. And this reminds me of a circumstance 
 which occurred about a month before I started for 
 Navan. I was living at that time in the house of
 
 174 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 a farmer — a comfortable one he was, and as kind as 
 comfortable. There was a small lake, a very small one, 
 not more than two hundred yards from his house ; 
 there lived also beside him another family — his cottar's 
 — consisting of an aunt, a niece, and a nephew, a very 
 intelligent young fellow with whom it was a pleasure to 
 converse. I only allude to them for the purpose of 
 stating that it was in their house I first met Miss 
 Edgeworth's inimitable " Castle Rackrent," The 
 scenery around this farmer's house was sweet, but plain, 
 if I may say so. The family were making their turf in 
 a small bog that was on their own property, and not 
 very far from their house. One day — I think it was 
 the hottest day I ever remember — I perceived that they 
 were all out engaged in the turf-cutting, both males 
 and females. The day before, in walking some distance 
 through the adjoining fields, I discovered a small but 
 clear stream running through a most secluded and 
 lonely spot, about half a mile from any residence 
 of man. A thought then struck me which I kept to 
 myself until the next day — that of the turf-cutting. 
 What I am now relating has reference to a certain 
 portion of my wardrobe. On finding that the family 
 were all from home — engaged at the turf-cutting 
 — I began to rummage through the kitchen, and 
 kept searching about until I discovered a large piece 
 of soap. This I covered with a burdock-leaf, and 
 having placed it in my pocket, I sought the clear and 
 lonely stream I have mentioned. At the spot I 
 selected for the task I proposed, there was on one side 
 a banky eminence of more than twenty feet. I crossed 
 the stream, ascended the eminence, and, on glancing 
 round, could not discern the presence of a human
 
 An Impromptu Laundry. 175 
 
 creature, I went down again to the edge of the 
 streann, deliberately stripped myself of my coat and 
 waistcoat, and after looking around once more in 
 every direction — very like a thief or some villain 
 about to commit a crime — I denuded myself of 
 my small clothes, and in an instant stood as a very 
 stout and athletic representative of the prize-ring, 
 concerning which, by the way, I shall have more to 
 say in connection with my own prospects as I go along. 
 In plain terms I took my shirt, my only shirt, off, I 
 put it into the river, took it out again, and having 
 lightly wrung the water out of it, I soaped it thoroughly. 
 I had previously taken off my shoes and stockings, 
 so that I stood in the little stream. I will not go 
 through the whole process, or detail the number of 
 washings and wringings which took place, but at 
 length the task was over. After having wrung 
 the shirt until no drop of water made its appearance, 
 I stretched it out to its natural dimensions, and 
 then spread it on the dry sward, under one of the 
 most scorching suns I ever remember. It dried much 
 sooner than I had expected, so when I thought it 
 safe to put it on, I stretched it out again, and folded 
 up the collar, which I hammered with my hands in 
 imitation of what the washerwomen do before they 
 lay the smoothing-iron to their linen. 
 
 Nothing in the shape of good luck remained with 
 me. By Gaynor's advice I wrote to the pious and 
 amiable Bishop of Meath, the Right Rev. Doctor 
 Plunket, soliciting an appointment through him to a 
 situation in Navan School. He very kindly sent my 
 letter to the Rev. Dr. O'Reilly, who was the master of the 
 establishment, and who to my own knowledge received
 
 176 Life OF William Carleton. 
 
 it ; but he, to my own knowledge also, sent not a single 
 line in reply, although my address was in the letter. I 
 met him afterwards, and thought it only justice to myself 
 tomake the necessary inquiries about the matter, and I 
 protest to Heaven that such an ill-bred and contemptible 
 clerical prig I never met. For his haughty and insulting 
 manner tome he deserved to get his nose pulled, and he 
 owed it to his black coat that he did not. I question if 
 I ever felt such indignation — yet such is life : whoever 
 is, or has been, jostled through it as I was, will meet 
 many such characters — men who take pleasure in 
 exhibiting the wanton insolence of a low disposition 
 and a narrow mind towards those who are struggling 
 through the difficulties of the world, while they them- 
 selves are contemptibly slavish and obsequious to 
 anyone who stands a single step above them in 
 society. 
 
 I have said how Gaynor the tailor befriended me 
 at Navan, but unfortunately he was obliged to remove 
 for a brief period, upon a matter of business, I think, to 
 the town of Mullingar, where he had resided before he 
 came to Navan. Here was I left friendless again, 
 with my prospects in life as dark as usual. Where 
 to go I knew not ; but, as in the case of my pil- 
 grimage to Lough Derg, the reader is aware that 1 
 went to visit that far-famed locality more from curiosity 
 than devotion, so the idea of a visit to Maynooth seized 
 upon me, a visit to the town in which the great college 
 was to be seen with my own living eyes. I think I was 
 more anxious to see that college than I had been to 
 see Lough Derg itself. I consulted nobody. Indeed, 
 in making my resolutions in life I seldom or very rarely 
 consulted anyone. I think 1 spent no less than a couple
 
 Clongowes. 177 
 
 of days on my journey to Maynooth. I don't even re- 
 collect the way or ways by which I reached the place. All 
 I know is that I approached it by the little town of Kil- 
 cock, and there I stopped for about a week before going 
 farther. I forget the name of the man in whose small 
 but comfortable lodging-house I put up. His son 
 became quite attached to me, and as I was at that 
 candid period of my life anything but close or secretive, 
 he soon became as well acquainted with my history as 
 if he had been my companion step by step through the 
 short period of my eccentric and original wanderings. 
 
 Clongowes, the seat of the Jesuits' college, is net 
 many miles from Kilcock. I think it was these learned 
 and reverend fathers who changed the original name of 
 it, which was Castle Browne, to Clongowes.* My land- 
 lord's son advised me to pay a visit to this now 
 celebrated establishment, which I did, having slept the 
 preceding night in the miserable village of Clane. I 
 sent in a letter written at the very top of my skill — 
 but nothing came of it. The fathers had no vacancy 
 of any kind which they could offer me During our 
 interview there were six or seven of them present. 
 and as the room was large, they whispered together oc- 
 casionally in corners. I was treated to a solitary dinner, 
 and when I had finished it, one of the clergymen came 
 in, and laid down something wrapped in a small paper 
 parcel and wished me every success in life. When he 
 went away, I examined the parcel, and found there was 
 fifteen shillings in it. This I was very glad to get, 
 for at that moment my pockets were all but empty. 
 
 ' Carleton is guilty of an error here. The hou e was called Castle 
 Browne, having belonged to a well-known Catholic family, the 
 Wogan Brownes, but the place was never anything but Clongowes. 
 
 VOL I. ]S
 
 178 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 When I returned to Kilcock, where I slept that night, 
 I resolved to visit Maynooth the next day, and never was 
 a man so thoroughly disappointed on walking througli 
 that beggarly-looking and contemptible village, for 
 indeed it is not worthy the name of town. Of course, 
 I stopped in a lodging-house. It was kept by a car- 
 penter, whose name I forget, and to whom I gave an 
 excellent drubbing for his inhuman brutality to his 
 children. From a father to his own offspring, his 
 conduct stood alone, not only in originality, but in 
 a cruelty that was revolting to witness as practised 
 upon any child. At the period of which I now 
 write, the present Duke of Leinster — who had been 
 then recently married — was building a grand saloon, 
 or at least making some large and important addi- 
 tion to his castle, under the management of Mr. 
 Carolin, the celebrated builder. His eldest son, whom 
 I knew long afterwards as the Alderman, was then 
 conducting the works for his father. Now the house 
 where I lodged in Maynooth was filled with the workmen 
 whom Carolin was obliged to bring from Dublin to 
 Maynooth, in order to fill his contract. I mention this, 
 because most of these men were present at the 
 comical incident I am about to relate — the day was 
 Sunday, and they were all at home. The anti- 
 natural cruelty of this heartless savage — a cruelty which 
 would have deserved a very severe visitation from the 
 cat-o'-nine-tails — consisted in this : he corrected his 
 children for offences which very few other parents 
 would have visited with punishment at all ; the 
 poor things naturally wept bitterly ; on seeing this, 
 he got a large switch, and, taking the child, placed 
 it standing before him to hear the command, the
 
 An Irish Squeers. 179 
 
 habitual command, which he insisted on its complying 
 with : — 
 
 " Come now, sir, commence a loud laugh this minute, 
 or if you don't — do you see that switch ? " And he 
 shook it over the trembling creature's head. 
 
 This was expecting from nature more than nature 
 could either afford or accomplish, and on the child's 
 failing, he applied the scourge again, attended by a 
 similar command to laugh. Thus the diabolical 
 ruffian proceeded, until the poor child became an object 
 of the greatest compassion. My own impression was 
 that the little fellow, overcome not only in consequence 
 of what he had suffered, but by the damnable task 
 imposed upon him, was about to become insensible — 
 perhaps to die. I accordingly went over and seizing 
 the scourge v.'hich his father held in his hand, I 
 attempted to wrest it from him. 
 
 *' You accursed scoundrel," said I, " are you about to 
 murder your own child ? — let go the scourge." 
 
 " Do you call me a scoundrel ? " he replied ; " take 
 that," and as he spoke, he aimed a very violent blow 
 at me, which I parried. The fellow was a stout-lool<ing 
 ruffian, and evidently took it for granted that he had the 
 result of the battle in his own hands. I was at that time 
 in the very strength and energy of youth, and felt the 
 villain's cruelty as a powerful motive for determined 
 action. The battle commenced, but as some persons, 
 more peacefully disposed than others, attempted to 
 put us asunder, I called upon the other b}'standers 
 to prevent any interference between us, to which 
 they replied, with one voice, that they would suffer 
 nothing of the kind ; the fight must go on. I am not 
 about to act the part of a reporter here. It is enough 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o Life of William Carleton. 
 
 to say that in the course of twenty minutes I had made 
 the fellow so helpless that he could not stand ; his eyes 
 were bunged up and his face was frightfully disfigured. 
 In fact he was in the same state to which he had often 
 reduced his own 'children. 
 
 "Now/' said I, ''you admit that you are a beaten 
 man, do you not? " 
 
 He made no reply. "Listen to me," said I; "if you 
 don't instantly reply and admit it, by all that's sacred 
 I'll stave you to pieces. Are you not a beaten 
 man ? " 
 
 "Well," he replied, " I am, and d — n you for it." 
 
 "Never mind that," said I, "no bad language — be a 
 Christian — but, in the meantime, don't you feel rather 
 comfortable and easy? Come — be merry— and enjoy 
 yourself. Give a good laugh now — a regular mirthful 
 cackle — for, mark, me, *you have no other means of 
 escaping a second^thrashing. Be quick." 
 
 The scoundrel could not even make the attempt. I 
 accordingly seized him by the neck, and kicked him out 
 into the street, leaving him to amuse himself as best he 
 could. 
 
 " Now," said he, when he felt himself at large, " you 
 immediately leave my house — for another hour you 
 shan't be under my roof." 
 
 " I have no notion of anything of the kind," said I ; 
 *' under no other roof in Maynooth will I sleep but 
 yours," 
 
 "If you go, Mr. Carleton," said one of Carolin's respect- 
 able tradesmen, " a single man of us won't stay in his 
 house;" and it so happened that I lodged nowhere else, 
 so long as I remained in Maynooth. They say that a 
 good action does not always bring its own reward, but
 
 A Beaten Bully. i8i 
 
 although there may be some instances to that effect^ 
 the general rule to the contrary is ten thousand to 
 one. During my wandering life I had before that 
 period won little faint glimpses of local fame — upon a 
 very small scale. Here, however, it shot up with a 
 brilliancy that filled Maynooth from one end to the 
 other. I was looked at and admired, and even many 
 hats were raised to me, in a spirit not only of respect 
 but gratitude. I could scarcely understand all this, 
 nor why a private skirmish should have such an 
 effect upon so many. This mystery, however, was 
 soon explained to me, for in the course of the ensuing 
 week I discovered that my customer was the bully of 
 the town, and an insolent tyrant over weaker men 
 than himself. 
 
 I had not yet had any communication with the 
 colleee — what communication could a nameless wan- 
 derer like me expect with such an establishment ? 
 Still, I was very anxious to see it, both inside and out 
 — I wished to go through the grounds, for instance, in 
 order to ascertain if there was anything in the pros- 
 pect better than I had already caught a glimpse of. 
 The Professor of Irish at that time was the Rev. Paul 
 O'Brien,' to whom I wrote a note, asking him for per- 
 mission to see the place. He answered me very kindly 
 and went with me himself through the grounds. He 
 was a droll man, a humorist, and full of anec- 
 dotes that the dullest intellect could not resist. I 
 mentioned in a preceding portion of this biograph)-, 
 that when I was at school with the fellow named 
 McGoldrick, there was a poor scholar there from some 
 
 ' Author of an Irish grammar (1809).
 
 i82 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 place near Enniskillen named John Quin — and a poor 
 scholar he was in every sense. I saw him at the gate, 
 and he trembled as if he would sink into the earth from 
 an apprehension that I might mention that fact, and 
 consequently lower him in the estimation of his fellow- 
 students. Altogether my opinion of those young 
 gentlemen was just then rather low, though with a good 
 many exceptions. The curriculum of their educational 
 course was, however, very limited, but that may pos- 
 sibly have resulted from the state and condition of the 
 Catholic Church in Ireland at that time, and its unde- 
 fined relation to Government. Greek was not then indis- 
 pensable, as it is now. In my work upon Ireland, called 
 the " Squanders of Castle Squander,'^ ' I have given their 
 curriculum, or the course of their education in the year 
 1848, at full length, showing that it is both liberal and 
 extensive. 
 
 The most original character I met at Maynooth was 
 Judy Byrne, who was fruit-woman to the college. I 
 think she was a woman by mistake, and indeed her 
 whole life seemed to be a proof of that fact. She was a 
 virago of immense size, wore a man's short outside coat 
 over her female apparel, and a man's hat. She had very 
 comfortable lodgings about the centre of the town as 
 you go to the college ; her rooms were stored with an 
 incredible abundance of the finest fruit, the fragrance 
 of which was delicious. The freedom of her language 
 went, in cool, brazen assurance, beyond anything ever 
 heard from a woman^s lips, whilst at the same time it 
 
 ' It will be observed that Carleton does not call this book a novel. 
 He is wise in describing it as a " work upon Ireland." It has less 
 merit than almost anything he wrote. It is not a novel, as it professes 
 to be, but a pamphlet.
 
 Judy Byrne. 183 
 
 was irresistible in drollery. She had been during the 
 year of the rebellion what she herself termed — and 
 boasted of — a United Irishman. She never addressed 
 the professors by any other appellation than their sur- 
 name. For instance, if she met the Professor of Irish, 
 she did not sa}^ " I hope your Reverence is well to- 
 day.'" Instead of that it was, — 
 
 "Well, O'Brien, how did you sleep last night .^ — no 
 headache this morning — eh ? " 
 
 It was the same with the present Duke of Leinster, 
 whom she used to approach with — " Well, Fitzgerald, 
 how long are you married now ? You look rather pale 
 upon it — no matter — here " — extending her hand — " give 
 us a tip of your scratcher ; but ^'-—whisper — " don't set 
 Kildare on fire." 
 
 There was also another curiosity then in the college, 
 for whose presence I could not account. This was the 
 celebrated Irish giant, Big Magee, a man — a colossus — 
 who had been exhibited all over the world. I knew 
 him well, because he was the son of a man and woman, 
 both under the middle size, in my native parish of 
 Clogher, whose residence was not more than three 
 miles from my father's. He was a most ingenious 
 man, and his constant occupation was the invention 
 of clocks and watches, of original and strange con- 
 struction. He told me he was brought to Maynooth 
 to regulate the clocks, but be this as it may, he 
 was a fixture there for some years. At the time 
 I saw him at Maynooth he told me that he had 
 all but discovered " perpetual motion." He was 
 the largest object in the shape of man and the 
 most symmetrically made I ever saw. 
 
 There was a thin, lively man two or three doors from
 
 1 84 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 where I lodged named McDonough — a comic little 
 fellow, but sharp and intelligent. He had been a pedlar, 
 and had carried about soft goods throughout the country. 
 He used to supply the students with handkerchiefs, and 
 was sometimes employed by them to act as their agent 
 in town, whenever they stood in need of anything 
 connected with their v/ardrobe. This man became ac- 
 quainted with a female of his own profession, whom he 
 married by appointment in the town of Maynooth, 
 where he immediately took a house and set up in the 
 soft goods business. McDonough was a hospitable soul, 
 and felt an exceedingly friendly interest in me. One 
 cause of his respect for me was the drubbing I gave the 
 ruffianly carpenter who treated his own children with 
 such unnatural barbarity. He was perpetually on the 
 look-out for something that might suit my interest, and 
 so indeed was every respectable inhabitant of IMaynooth. 
 At length he heard of something likely to offer very 
 soon in the town of Celbridge, within a couple of miles 
 of Maynooth, where there is probably the most mag- 
 nificent private residence^that of the Connolly's — in all 
 her Majesty's dominions. I went to Celbridge in quest 
 of employment, and took lodgings in an old house which 
 was then nearly in ruins, although it must have been, 
 once upon a time, the finest house in the town. Here I 
 was engaged by the wife of a gauger to teach two little 
 girls spelling and reading and writing. The husband, 
 whose name I am not sure of, was seldom at home, 
 but when he did come, it was easy to see that he 
 troubled himself about no earthly business whatsoever. 
 He was, however, a perfect gentleman, and of a 
 gentlemanly family. By the way, I think his name 
 was Flood, and that he claimed descent from the
 
 Kind Friends. 1S5 
 
 celebrated Henry Flood, the great contemporary of 
 Grattan. 
 
 In Celbridge there was a man named Gallaher, who 
 kept a very large school, and whose house was every even- 
 ing the rendezvous of almost every person in the town 
 capable of entering into decent conversation. One of 
 his pupils was son to the man who kept the hotel in the 
 town. He (the pupil) afterwards became one of the pro- 
 prietors and contributors to the Satirist newspaper, and 
 subsequently went to London, where I saw him in the 
 year 1850. He was then a resident in the Temple and 
 the proprietor of a newspaper in which appeared a brief 
 history of my novel of " Willy Reilly." ' A 
 
 It was at Celbridge that, for the first time since I left 
 home, I lost my health — or rather was attacked with 
 some complaint that confined me for three weeks to my 
 bed. During all this time Mrs. Flood acted as a mother 
 to me. Every morning her servant-maid came with 
 my breakfast, and in the course of the day with a great 
 variety of delicacies suitable for an invalid. At length 
 I recovered, and on my recovery I found that Mr. Flood 
 had been promoted to a higher appointment ; this of 
 course occasioned him to remove to a diff'erent localit}-- 
 Mrs. Flood, before the family went, enclosed me twice 
 the amount of the salary due to me. She was one 
 of the most amiable and truly pious women I ever 
 met. 
 
 Little McDonough called upon me at Celbridge, and 
 
 ' This was John Shechan, "the Irish Whisky-Drinker," who 
 ' was, however, one of the proprietors of the Cojiict, not the 
 Satirist. He came from Celbridge originally, as Carleton states, 
 and was a frequent contributor to Bentleys ATiscellany, Temple 
 Bar, etc. He edited "The Bentley Ballads," 1869, and died in 
 1882.
 
 1 86 Life of WilliAxM Carleton. 
 
 told me he thought that something had turned up at last. 
 I asked him what it was^ and added that I was quite 
 indifferent on the subject. I felt a fixed presentiment, 
 I saidj that nothing worth my acceptance would ever 
 offer, and indeed I am not surprised, after all my 
 disappointments, that I was unable to resist such an 
 impression. I was, however, utterly without experi- 
 ence, and altogether devoid of that common sense 
 which prompts so many, not only to calculate upon 
 their chances of life, but upon the best means of work- 
 ing them out. The truth is, I was to a great extent 
 the victim of a romantic imagination. McDonough 
 brought me home with him, and sent over the way for 
 a man named Madden, a saddler, whose words were to 
 become the oracle of my good fortune. There was, in 
 fact, and this was the important revelation, an excellent 
 opening for a school in a place only about three miles 
 off — called Newcastle, in the county of Dublin, and not 
 more than a mile and a half from Hazel-Hatch upon 
 the canal. Madden had some friends there to whom 
 he recommended me, and after due exertion I got a 
 promise of about a dozen or two wretched boys and 
 girls, and the gift of an uninhabited hut — one of the 
 worst that ever covered a human head. In due time 
 the establishment was opened, and I, William Carleton, 
 became the master of a hedge school. Yes, a hedge 
 school — so it must be called, for so it was.^ But when 
 I bethought me of the hedge schools in which I had 
 
 ' In connection with hedge schools, John O'Hagan's Hnes will 
 occur to many Irishmen : — 
 
 " Crouching 'neath the sheltering hedge, or stretched on mountain 
 fern, 
 The master and his pupils vi\&\.^ feloniously to learn ! "
 
 A Hedge School. 187 
 
 myself been educated, of the multitude assembled, 
 of the din arising from the voices of the comic crew 
 around, I felt like a hermit in a wilderness/ 
 
 Fortunately, there were three or four families in the 
 neighbourhood who sent their sons to me, and so far 
 relieved me from the miserable monotony in which I 
 must have passed my time, among eighteen or twenty 
 half-naked brats, to most of whom I was teaching their 
 alphabet. Of course, like every other hedge school- 
 master_, I lived among those farmers, who treated me 
 with singular respect. 
 
 The thing, however, was a dead failure : had I been 
 left to depend for my mere subsistence upon the profits 
 of my school, I should have starved. Its income would 
 not have clothed me — and I consequently began to 
 experience once m.ore those droopings of the heart to 
 which I had been so often subjected. 
 
 At this time, I was on the eve of a change, such 
 as few individuals ever underwent. The reader, from 
 what I have written, may naturally take it for granted 
 that, looking at the subject from whatever point human 
 existence in a free country may present, it was impos- 
 sible that any change could be for the worse. Before I 
 go farther, however, let not the reader suppose that 
 up to the present moment in my narrative, I have 
 detailed every incident in my life. From some of 
 those incidents any man of feeling would shrink with 
 
 ' The allusion to a hermit in the wilderness reminds one irre- 
 sistibly of the mediaeval Irish story, one of the most humorous ever 
 conceived, of the three hermits, who, sick of the clamour of the 
 world, sought peace in the desert. At the end of a year, one 
 remarked, "It's a fine life we're having here!" After another 
 year a second hermit replied, " It is." After a third year had 
 elapsed, the last hermit broke in with — " If I can't get peace here, 
 I'll go back to the world."
 
 1 88 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 shame, and a bitterness of recollection that often almost 
 drove me into a blasphemous ingratitude for the curse 
 of my very existence. I have gone through scenes 
 which, if related, would strip my narrative or my suffer- 
 ing of all claims to the dignity of ordinary experience. 
 I am speaking now of the past — of all that occurred 
 until I arrived at and left Newcastle. 
 
 The reader will now understand the mood of my 
 mind when I found that I could not live in Newcastle. 
 Young as I was, I began to contrast my own fate in 
 life with that of almost every individual I met. A 
 moral gloom appeared to supervene, not only upon the 
 life I led, but upon the general workings of society. 
 My object was to ascertain the causes of things as 
 they appeared to me ; but this I could not do. I 
 had no opportunity of making myself acquainted with 
 those works which treat of the moral government of 
 life. I had read nothing but a few odd novels and 
 some classics, and was in every way badly qualified to 
 analyze the progress of the world as it went on. 
 Thinking and reasoning had almost come to a stand- 
 still with me. I looked back to my youthful life as a 
 dream — although I was scarcely out of youth at the 
 time. What was I to do now? I had tried everything 
 — I felt that I was progressing downwards. Was there 
 a peculiar fate attached to me .? It looked like it — and 
 if so, why ? I examined my past life strictly. I com- 
 pared it with the rules of duty and the aberrations from 
 it to be found in our prayer-books, and I could not 
 charge myself with any crime capable of exciting 
 either sorrow or remorse.
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Dublin— Dirty Lane — The mountebanks — The beggars at home — 
 " William Carleton, Ladies' Shoemaker." 
 
 The last thing I remember about Newcastle is receiv- 
 ingf from the farmers, whose sons I was teaching, the 
 amount of the last quarter's payment. It came season- 
 ably. My shoes were all but gone, and I lost no time 
 in going to Maynooth, where I left my measure with a 
 shoemaker, and in a few days had a new pair with which 
 I started on my journey to Dublin — in order to seek 
 my fortune there. 
 
 After having paid for my shoes, I started for 
 the great city with two-and-ninepence in my 
 pocket. Now one would naturally imagine that after 
 the severe and almost hopeless experience which my 
 intercourse with life had already given me, it would 
 have been little short of insanity for any young 
 fellow in my position and circumstances to take such a 
 step. I myself can only account for it by the feeling — 
 derived from " Gil Bias " — which urged me on to ascer- 
 tain the developments of life, and that with a hope, 
 that after struggles and adventures, I might, like \ 
 him, come to a calm and safe harbour at last. I J 
 walked my way into Dublin, and arrived there in the 
 evening by the great southern road that leads into 
 James's Street. I had sense enough to know that with
 
 I90 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 the purse I possessed, I could not think of penetrating 
 into the city beyond the suburbs ; I consequently turned 
 to my left hand, and went down a street which led I 
 knew not where. I looked into the windows of the 
 houses as I proceeded — they were all houses of business 
 — and at length came to one which, from its unpretend- 
 ing appearance, I thought would suit my limited 
 circumstances. There was a bill up — A bed to let — and 
 I accordingly went in and^hired the bed for that night 
 only. I had taken a penny roll and a glass of porter 
 before I went in. The roll I got at a baker's, and the 
 tumbler of porter in a public-house. I slept soundly 
 enough, and awoke the next morning refreshed. 
 When I made my appearance, which was not until 
 near nine o'clock, I was asked by the woman of the 
 house if I would have breakfast. I thought of the 
 capital in my pocket, and felt that I could not afford to 
 take one of her breakfasts — which would have cost me 
 perhaps tenpence or a shilling. I said I came to see 
 a friend, and that it was likely I should breakfast 
 and dine with him so long as I stayed in town. I 
 accordingly went out, and had my roll, as was usual 
 with me. My residence here was but short. I after- 
 wards discovered that the name of the street in which 
 I lodged was ominous. It was then called Dirty Lane, 
 but its name has since been changed to Bridge- 
 foot Street. The number of the house was forty-eight 
 — a number on which I perpetually stumbled during my 
 adventures in Dublin, 
 
 In the course of the next day I began to look, as was 
 but natural, at the proprietors of the house. The land- 
 lord seemed to be a simple man, not, so far as I could 
 judge, a native of Dublin. His wife was an interesting.
 
 Queer Company. 191 
 
 handsome young woman, but it seemed to me that 
 they could not have been very long married. At 
 least, there was a mystery in their conduct to each 
 other, altogether different from what I had observed 
 in married life. On my leaving there the first 
 morning, I walked abroad and breakfasted ; and, after 
 going from street to street, I returned in the course 
 of the day several times as if to rest myself. On 
 these occasions I saw that three persons — young men 
 — were extremely familiar with my landlady — jested 
 with her, called her by her Christian name of Mary, and 
 made her get them a dinner of rasher and eggs, which, 
 however, they prepared and cooked themselves. I also 
 saw that she was sewing some small dresses that 
 resembled those intended for children's dolls. They 
 left in the eveninp- and took these things with them. 
 Altogether I could understand neither their conduct nor 
 their laughter and grimaces, any more than their unac- 
 countable familiarity with the handsome mistress. 
 
 About seven o'clock, the owner of the house 
 asked me to go out and have a walk with him, tell- 
 ing me that he would bring me to a place of aniuse- 
 ment which would cost us nothing. Of course I felt 
 very glad to pass the time as agreeably as I could, and I 
 consequently accompanied him. I knew not at that 
 time the streets through which he brought me, although 
 I found them out soon afterwards. We went up Capel 
 Street, and then passed through Mary Street and Henry 
 Street, until we arrived at Moore Street, where, on the 
 right-hand side as you turn up towards the butcher's 
 market, we stopped in a large room where the show 
 of "Punch and Judy" was about to be exhibited. 
 He brought mc forward, and wc took our seats among
 
 192 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 a good many others, awaiting the lifting of the little 
 curtain. At length it rose, and we enjoyed the play 
 together, with a great variety of legerdemain tricks, all 
 of which were perfectly new to me, and some of which 
 threw me into convulsions of laughter. The reader 
 however, may judge of my surprise, when I found that 
 the three fellows who had helped themselves that day to 
 their liberal dinner of rashers and eggs, were the proprie- 
 tors and actors in the establishment. On our way home, 
 her husband told me that these worthy professionals were 
 his wife's brothers, and that she had been an actress in 
 their drama, until he took her from among them and 
 married her. They were against the marriage, he said^ 
 and refused to allow it unless they were remunerated in 
 the sum of fifty pounds as compensation for the loss of 
 her services. Had I known as much of life then as I 
 know now, I might have seen at once that she was not 
 their sister. I think that both her object and theirs was 
 to fleece the fool — for indeed he appeared to be a simple 
 though good-natured booby, altogether guided by her. 
 I stopped with them three nights and two days, strolling 
 through a strange city with, I may say, empty pockets. 
 I knew not a single individual within the compass 
 of the Circular Road. The three brothers were there 
 every day, and dined and drank at her husband's expense. 
 They did not appear to relish me, but they frequently 
 asked me if I would " stand " something after having 
 been made free of their entertainments. This I would 
 have complied with willingly, were it not that, as 
 my readers are aware, I had sound reasons to the 
 contrary. I had that evening parted with my last coin 
 for my roll and glass of porter, and consequently was in 
 a position which to me had nothing novel in it. In this
 
 A Churl Indeed. 193 
 
 man's house they went to bed very late, never before 
 eleven or twelve ; but on that evening I observed some- 
 thing strange and wilfully disagreeable in their manner 
 towards me. The husband went to his paltry counter 
 after a hint from the wife, and pulling open a drawer, 
 handled some loose halfpence, and asked me if I could 
 oblige him with one and eightpence till to-morrow 
 morning. One and eightpence was two ten-penny bits. 
 T told him I could not ; he then asked me for ten 
 pence ; but received the same reply. My impression 
 is, that they must have searched my pockets in the 
 course of the night, and discovered my miserable want 
 of cash. He then asked me " had I no money ? " and I 
 was obliged to acknowledge that painful fact, but I told 
 him that I was to get money the next day. It was 
 about twelve o'clock, if not later, and he told me he 
 felt sorry that he could not allow me to sleep there that 
 night. I said I did not want to occupy a bed, but I 
 hoped he would allow me to sit at the fireside till morn- 
 ing : at this proposal the wife gave a knowing giggle, 
 as if she thoroughly understood some meaning which 
 might be drawn from my words — probably an intention 
 of robbing the house while they were asleep. 
 
 " Do you want," said I, " to turn me out at this hour of 
 the night in a strange city, and without a single farthing 
 in my pocket ? I owe you nothing, but if you will allow 
 me to stop to-night, I will call to-morrow and pay 
 you. You know I could get no bed at this hour, 
 especially as I have no money." 
 
 The man put threepence into my hand, and desiring 
 me to follow him, went to the door of a cellar exactly over 
 the way ; at this he kicked, and on its being opened, 
 told me I might pass the night there. 
 
 VOL. L O
 
 194 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " I am putting you into very respectable company," 
 said he, " so be sure and conduct yourself like a gentle- 
 man." 
 
 The cellar was very spacious : I should think 
 that the entrance into Dante's Inferno was paradise 
 compared with it. I know and have known Dublin 
 now for about half a century, better probably than 
 any other man in it. I have lived in the Liberty 
 and in every close and outlet in the City of the 
 Panniers,' driven by poverty to the most wretched of 
 its localities, and I must confess that the scene which 
 burst upon me that night stands beyond anything 
 the highest flight of my imagination could have con- 
 ceived without my having an opportunity of seeing it. 
 Burns must have witnessed something of the sort, or he 
 could never have written the most graphic and animated 
 of all his productions — "The Jolly Beggars." 
 
 The inhabitants of Dublin, and even strangers, are in 
 the habit of listening to the importunities of those irre- 
 claimable beggars whom no law can keep from the 
 streets, of ballad-singers, strolling fiddlers, pipers, flute- 
 players, and the very considerable variety of that class 
 which even now, when we have to pay poor-rates, con- 
 tinue to infest our thoroughfares. What must not the 
 city have been, however, before the enactment of poor- 
 laws ? Why, at that period, there existed in Dublin two 
 distinct worlds, each as ignorant of the other — at least, 
 in a particular point of view, and during certain portions 
 of the day — as if they did not inhabit the same country. 
 I have heard many a man of sense and intellect ask> 
 
 Carleton has mistaken cliath for cliabh in the \vo"d Ath-chath 
 (Dublin) which signifies "The Ford of Hurdles." C7/aM signifies 
 a basket or pannier.
 
 The Beggars' Cellar. 195 
 
 before the establishment of poor-laws, where the vast 
 crowds of paupers passed the night ; I never heard 
 the question satisfactorily answered. On that night, 
 however^ I found a solution of it, and ever since it has 
 been no mystery to me. 
 
 When I got down to the cellar, and looked about me, 
 I was struck, but only for an instant, by the blazing fire 
 which glowed in the grate. My eyes then ran over the 
 scene about me, but how to describe it is the difficulty. 
 It resembled nothing I ever saw either before or 
 since. The inmates were mostly in bed, both men 
 and women, but still a good number of them were 
 up, and indulging in liquors of every description, from 
 strong whisky downwards. The beds were mostly 
 what are called " shakedowns " — that is, simple straw, 
 sometimes with a rag of sheet, and sometimes with none. 
 There were there the lame, the blind, the dumb, and all 
 who suffered from actual and natural infirmity; but in 
 addition to these, there was every variety of impostor 
 about me — most of them stripped of their mechanical 
 accessories of deceit, but by no means all. If not seen, 
 the character of those assembled and their conduct 
 could not possibly be believed. This was half a century 
 ago,' when Dublin was swarming with beggars and 
 street impostors of every possible description. This, I 
 understood afterwards, was one of the cellars to which 
 these persons resorted at night, and there they flung off 
 all the restraints imposed on them during the course of 
 the day. I learned afterwards that there were upwards 
 of two dozen such nightly haunts in the suburban 
 parts of the city. Crutches, wooden legs, artificial 
 cancers, scrofulous necks, artificial wens, sore legSj and a 
 
 ' That is, about 1818. 
 O 2
 
 196 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 vast variety of similar complaints, were hung up upon 
 the walls of the cellars, and made me reflect upon 
 the degree of perverted talent and ingenuity that 
 must have been necessary to sustain such a mighty 
 mass of imposture. Had the same amount of intellect, 
 thought 1, been devoted to the exercise of honest 
 and virtuous industry, how much advantage in the 
 shape of energy and example might not society have 
 derived from it. The songs and the gestures were 
 infamous, but if one thing puzzled me more than 
 another, it was the fluency and originality of black- 
 guardism as expressed in language. In fact these 
 people possessed an indecent slang, which consti- 
 tuted a kind of language known only to themselves, 
 and was never spoken except at such orgies as I am 
 describing. Several offered me seats, and were very 
 respectful ; I ut I preferred standing, at least for a time, 
 that I might have a better view of them. While I 
 was in this position a couple of young vagabonds — 
 pickpockets, of course — came and stood beside me. 
 Instinct told me their tobject, but as I knew the 
 amount in my purse — one penny — I felt little appre- 
 hension of having my pockets picked. On entering 
 the cellar, I had to pay twopence for my bed, so that I 
 had just one penny left. 
 
 How the night passed I need not say. Of course I 
 never closed my eyes ; but so soon as the first glimpse 
 of anything like light appeared, I left the place, and 
 went out on my solitary rambles through the city. 
 
 The reader need not expect that I could, even if so 
 disposed, give anything like a detailed account of what 
 I suffered in Dublin, while an obscure stranger. It is a 
 task through which my memory could not carry me —
 
 A Morning Walk. 197 
 
 and, what is more, a task from which my heart revolts. 
 Here was I now, with just one penny in my pocket. 
 There was not a single shop open — I had not closed 
 my eyes the preceding night. I knew not where to go, 
 or on what hand to turn. At all events, I turned 
 to my left, and walked up the street into that 
 from which I had turned into Dirty Lane on my 
 entrance into town, I turned to my left again and 
 went on towards town, until I found myself in Castle 
 Street. Going down Castle Street, I accidentally looked 
 at the shops upon my left, and to my surprise, and — 
 need I deny it ? — to my hope, I saw over the door of 
 one of them the name — William Carleton, Ladies' 
 Shoemaker. I marked the street, and took its name 
 strongly into my memory. 
 
 I can scarcely remember my travels during that 
 morning — scarcely } why, I cannot remember them at 
 all. All I know is, that I bought a roll, and break- 
 fasted upon it, After breakfast, with reverence be it 
 spoken, I kept walking about — found myself in some of 
 the squares, at which, in spite of my miserable and 
 most pitiable position, I could not help wondering. 
 Nothing in the city astonished me so much as the 
 Bank of Ireland and the College. The reader, however, 
 must perceive that I was in a bad frame of mind for 
 admiring anything. Still, the force of novelty is very 
 strong, and I now feel, and have often felt since, how 
 much I was indebted to it upon that occasion. 
 
 In this manner I kept wandering about, without 
 an object which could be defined, until probably 
 about twelve o'clock, when, with more difficulty than 
 I apprehended, I contrived, by frequent inquiries, to 
 make my way back to Castle Street. The day was
 
 ic,8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 finCj and I walked up and down it two or three times, 
 and glanced once or twice through the windows. At 
 length I went into the shoemaker's shop, and behind the 
 counter saw one of the handsomest and mostgentlemanly 
 looking men I ever looked upon. That was my impres- 
 sion then, and it is my impression now after half a 
 century. I approached the counter, and asked if he 
 was Mr. Carleton. He replied in the affirmative, and 
 asked me what was my business with him. I paused 
 — I felt the frightful state of destitution in which 
 I stood — I knew not where to find the language 
 I required — I attempted to speak, but could not, and 
 burst into tears. Mr. Carleton appeared surprised, and 
 relieved me from much embarrassment by asking the 
 cause of my agitation, upon which I told him I would 
 prefer mentioning it privately, and he accordingly 
 called me over to the other side of the shop, where no 
 one could hear us. I scarcely remember now what 
 my language or the tale it expressed actually was. All 
 I recollect is, that he went to a clerk on the opposite 
 side of the shop and said, " Give this young man five 
 shillings." 
 
 The value of money and almost of everything is 
 comparative ; and I do not think that, from that day 
 until this, I ever felt in its full force the consciousness 
 of what wealth meant. I actually considered myself 
 a wealthy man, and made up my mind under any 
 circumstances never to despair. 
 
 I now bethought me of the schools, both classical 
 and English, and looked upon them as the only source 
 of anything like success. 
 
 Talking of the schools of Dublin at that time, 
 my readers will feel surprised at a fact which I shall
 
 Schools in Dublin. 199 
 
 now mention. Only that I am personally aware of 
 this fact, and conscious of placing nothing before the 
 public but the truth, I could scarcely command 
 sufficient courage to make the following statement. I 
 have reason to feel convinced, then, that half a century 
 ago there were nearly as many " hedge schools " in 
 Dublin as there were of all other classes put to- 
 gether. In other words, that nearly one-half were 
 hedge schools, taught in private rooms by men, who 
 were unworthy to be compared for a moment with the 
 great body of the country hedge schoolmasters of Ireland. 
 They were for the most part, if not illiterate, excessively 
 and barbarously ignorant. Nay more, I knew one in- 
 stance in which the master actually went round with his 
 scholars, as they used to do in the country, and as I 
 myself did at Newcastle. At this time, Dublin was by 
 no means sufficiently supplied with schools of respecta- 
 bility for the better classes ; and for this reason, the 
 hedge schools were crowded, not merely by the poorer 
 children, but by many of the better orders. Education, 
 not only in Dublin, but throughout all Ireland was 
 in a state of shameful and national neglect.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Shooting the moon "— McDonagh, the literary tailor— The tailor's 
 flittin.? — The designing widow — ^Carleton tastes wine — A 
 generous gift^The widow's little bill — The circulating library 
 — A new rig-out — Miscellaneous reading — A predict on. 
 
 As for me, how I lived I scarcely know — the changes 
 in my state of life and circumstances were so rapid 
 and often so unexpected that no memory could recall 
 them. I need not say that I was frequently driven, 
 by sheer necessity, to run away from my lodgings, or 
 that I was sometimes traced to those in which I 
 took refuge, and their discovery generally occasioned 
 another removal. I remember taking lodgings in the 
 house of a man named William Ridge, a mail-coach 
 guard on one of the northern coaches. He lived in No. 
 4, Moore Street ; and there I met a fellow-lodger named 
 McDonagh, a tailor and a man of letters. He was per- 
 petually writing his life ; but as he wrote a vile hand, and 
 was anything but distinguished for spelling, he engaged 
 me to go to the country with him on Sundays — for- 
 tunately for me it was summer — where, having seated 
 ourselves in some quiet green field, he produced half a 
 quire of paper, with a pen and ink, and began to 
 dictate his life and adventures, whilst I acted as his 
 amanuensis. I will venture to say that no literary tailor 
 ever felt himself so happy in an amanuensis. He was
 
 A Literary Tailor. 201 
 
 a little, thin fellow, with intensely black hair, black 
 whiskers and black lively eyes — not at all ill-looking ; 
 on the contrary, there was a slight tinge of the 
 gentleman in his appearance and manner. The sad 
 deficiency (simply a want of education) under which 
 the poor fellow laboured was one for which he was 
 not responsible. The great foible of his character, 
 however, was a wish to be looked upon as a man of 
 genius, who had by some unaccountable decree of Provi- 
 dence been placed in a wrong position in life. There 
 is no vanity so incurable as that which arises from the 
 mistake made by a weak mind, when it supposes that 
 it is possessed of intellect. This man had surprising^ 
 fluency of language — spoke very correctly, and had an 
 excellent accent, as thousands of empty blockheads like 
 him have had before his day and since. Putting all these 
 things together, he took it into his head to consider him- 
 self not merely a man of intellect, but a man of genius. 
 I have just said that he was fortunate in having such 
 an amanuensis, but I must say that the amanuensis 
 was still more fortunate under the patronage of this 
 man of genius. On the first Sunday I perceived 
 that the fluency of language which he possessed in 
 conversation, utterly abandoned him in dictation. He 
 paused — he hesitated — he stumbled ; he wanted a 
 particular word here — another there — until he became 
 confused and almost incapable of proceeding. Here 
 he felt the value of his amanuensis. The language 
 in which he was deficient was as free to me as the 
 stream of a summer river, I found the word which he 
 wanted — I saw the drift of what he was about to say 
 — I shaped it in my own language — I proceeded — I 
 gained confidence by degrees. He ceased to be the
 
 202 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 dictator. I made him give me the simple facts, which 
 I imbued with an easy spirit of fiction — adding, im- 
 proving, and ultimately inventing with such success, 
 that the poor tailor, when I read over a portion of what 
 I had written, would fly into ecstacies, snap his fingers 
 and dance about like a madman. 
 
 After our first day's work was concluded, he said to 
 me on our way home : — 
 
 "Now, did you imagine me capable of such things ? 
 Tell me the truth ? " 
 
 I looked at him, to ascertain whether his vanity had 
 led him so far as to suppose that my work was his oivn. 
 
 I replied, " Many a man does not know the extent of 
 his own genius until he tries it." 
 
 "Yes," said he, "yes — that's truth— but listen. So 
 long as you and I reside in the same house you must live 
 at my expense. I have thirty shillings a week with Mr. 
 Short, a master tailor in Coghill's Court, off Dame Street, 
 and I will not lake your services for nothing ; besides — 
 I speak now for your own sake — the thing M'ill improve 
 you. You'll find it a great advantage to understand 
 what genius means." 
 
 "Yes/' said I, "but I could not think of accepting the 
 kind proposal you make as to my support." 
 
 " Oh, but you must," said he. " I have credit with 
 Mrs. Ridge — I have been lodging off and on for years 
 with her. When you get something in the shape of 
 employment, you can set all right." 
 
 Such indeed were my circumstances at the moment, 
 that I felt no very strong objection to this proposal. 
 
 In this way we lived for about six weeks together, 
 devoting every Sunday to his biography, which was a 
 mere record of the same facts and incidents repeated
 
 Two Bolters. 203 
 
 ad iyifinitum. In the meantime, I owed Mrs. Ridge 
 a month's lodging, for which she carved me pretty 
 sharply. This gave me very little trouble, because 
 I took it for granted that my man of genius would 
 come to my assistance for such a trifle, without 
 the slightest hesitation. I never was more mistaken 
 in my life, although when I asked him to take 
 me out of my little difficulty he replied, " Most 
 certainly — on the day after to-morrow I will 
 settle it." 
 
 Mrs. Ridge and I, however, were somewhat surprised 
 on finding that the man of genius did not return that 
 night — nor the next — nor yet the next. In fact he 
 had bolted, upwards of three pounds in her debt ; 
 and as a portion of that was incurred for my support, ^ 
 she very naturally turned to me for it. I, as was 
 only natural, seeing my circumstances, took example 
 by the man of genius, and bolted also. 
 
 My next change was to Mary's Lane, where I found 
 lodgings with a Mrs. Carson, a widow. There were 
 five or six of us — two printers from Enniskillen, who 
 were at work with a Mr. Smith, a printer of Mary 
 Street, who was then printing some classical school- 
 book. Mrs. Carson was extremely kind — indeed so 
 much so that I could not understand it. Of course 
 none of her lodgers boarded with her. She cooked 
 their breakfasts only — for they always dined out — 
 and sometimes made their own tea for them in the 
 evening ; for this she charged them a small percentage. 
 She herself seldom breakfasted until all her lodgers 
 had gone out to their employment for the day. I 
 rarely went out until they had all gone, and upon 
 some occasions she became exceedingly kind and
 
 204 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 complacent. I had had very little experience of 
 women, and none at all of widows, at that period of 
 my life. There is, however, an instinctive feeling in 
 these matters between the sexes — especially in some 
 minds — that guides us to a true conclusion. One day, 
 as I was going out, she asked me to breakfast with her 
 the next morning. 
 
 "You know," said she, "I don't breakfast until all 
 my lodgers go out — so," she added, smiling rather 
 significantly, "you know we will have this place to 
 ourselves ; but you musn't take advantage of that, and 
 make love to me." Then, after throwing out this 
 hint, she rapidly turned to the same subject in a 
 different form, " Oh, no," she proceeded, '^ you mustn't 
 make love to me while I'm in tJiis house and in this 
 street. I'm about to remove either to Mary Street or 
 Henry Street. I have made about a hundred and forty 
 pounds, and my intention is to furnish a house, and 
 (with some assistance from my brother) to open a 
 boarding establishment. They tell me it's coining, and 
 nothing else. Now good-bye, but see, remember you're 
 to breakfast with me to-morrow." 
 
 The sagacious and calculating widow was between 
 thirty-five and forty, although she looked younger. 
 Before a week passed after this conversation, I 
 found myself almost at home. Every attention was 
 paid to me. My word was law. Every wish of mine 
 was anticipated, and I found myself a free guest at her 
 table. This state of things did not pass unobserved by 
 my fellow-lodgers, who quizzed me about it to no end. 
 In the meantime, as week succeeded week, and 
 she was working heaven and earth to lure me to a 
 declaration, I happened one day to meet a person who
 
 A Day Late. 205 
 
 must have known something about my object in life, 
 although I cannot now remember who he was. He told 
 me there was a classical school in French Street, and 
 that its proprietor, a Protestant clergyman^ wanted 
 a classical assistant. I immediately returned to my 
 lodgings, where I sat down, and with much care and 
 pains, addressed to him an application for the appoint- 
 ment in the best Latin I could muster. I then called 
 at the school, sent in my letter, and left word with the 
 servant that I would call the next day. j 
 
 I must observe here, that if ever a man was born to __ 
 what is called ill-luck, I was, and to this day am, that 
 man. At cards, for instance, I might play for a whole 
 night, and not win more than a couple or three 
 games at the most, although there was not a man 
 living who understood the game better. This has 
 been always my luck in any game that depended on 
 chance. 
 
 I called next day to see the proprietor of the 
 school in French Street, sent in my name, and was 
 shown into the parlour. Here I had not remained 
 long, when the clergyman came in, and shook me 
 warmly and cordially by the hand. This reception 
 gave me courage and hope, both however but of short 
 duration. 
 
 " I deeply regret, Mr. Carleton," said he, "that you 
 did not make an earlier application. On the very day 
 before I received your letter, I engaged a gentleman 
 who commenced his duties this morning ; a fact," he 
 added, " which I almost regret, for your letter is one 
 which I will venture to say neither he nor I could 
 write." 
 
 He then entered into that kind of conversation with
 
 2o6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 me, and made those kind inquiries, which betoken both 
 a friendly and a generous heart. I gave him an outline 
 of my adventures and exertions in quest of employ- 
 ment, and a brief history of my repeated failures, and 
 then took up my hat from a back table, which stood 
 in a little recess in a shadowy part of the room. He 
 seized my hat, and said, " Don't be in a hurry — sit down 
 a few minutes, I wish to ask you a few more questions," 
 — and when he said this, he went outside the parlour 
 door into the hall, where he remained five or six 
 minutes, holding my hat as if unconscious that 
 he had it in his hand. On his return, he re- 
 placed it on the little table, rang the bell and 
 ordered in refreshments, which consisted of wine, 
 cold meat, and other things, of which we both partook. 
 - Now this was the first occasion on which I had ever 
 tasted zvine. I again got up and went to the hall 
 door on my way out — we shook hands most cordially, 
 and just as I was about to bid him farewell, he said, 
 "Be careful of your hat, and when you next take it 
 off — look into it. God bless you. Call on me from time 
 
 to time." 
 
 I was struck by the language he used about 
 my hat, immediately took it off, and found three 
 pound notes in the bottom of it. This act of pure 
 and elevated charity had a most extraordinary 
 effect upon me — it not only affected my moral 
 feelings, but my reason. It sustained and supported 
 me, and filled my mind with a fresh sense of 
 hope, such as I had not felt for many a month 
 
 before. 
 
 I was now a wealthy man, and every one knows that 
 wealth creates independence. I could not close my eyes
 
 A Crafty Widow. 207 
 
 to the widow's object, and I felt a very uncomfortable 
 sense of degradation at the notion of being tied to such 
 a woman. Accordingly on my return home — that is 
 to say, to Mary's Lane — I asked her to let me know 
 the amount of my bill. She started, and looked 
 at me, in a state of confusion that she could not 
 conceal. 
 
 " Surely you are not going," she said j " I did every- 
 thincr in my power to make you comfortable — did'nt 
 I?"" 
 
 " Indeed I feel that, Mrs. Carson, and I shall never 
 forget your kindness." 
 
 " But where are you going to ? " she asked, " and why 
 do you leave the place '> " 
 
 " I am going to fill an appointment," I replied, " which 
 I have just got in the city of Cork. I must start by the 
 Cork mail to-night." 
 
 " And you wish, of course, to settle," said she. " All 
 right ! I will produce the bill in a few minutes. Just 
 sit down until I come back." 
 
 At this moment Mr. Gartland_, my countryman/ one 
 of the printers I have referred to, chanced to come in, 
 and I told him that I was going. 
 " Have you quarrelled .'' " said he. 
 " No/' I replied ; " she is only gone to get my bill." 
 " I see," said he ; " but listen — she lured you in to live 
 with her under the hope that you would marry her ; but 
 this is an old trick of hers. Now that she finds you are 
 going she will bring you in a bill that will astonish 
 you. 
 
 " What am I to do, then ? " I asked. 
 
 ' That is, from his part of the country.
 
 2o8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " Ask her/' he replied, " if she knows a friend of yours, 
 a printer that you knew in Birmingham, The man is 
 her husband, and left her, not without good reason. 
 She produced him a young daughter about five months 
 after their marriage, although that marriage took place 
 when they had been only six weeks known to each 
 other. She knows,^' he added, " or rather, she suspects, 
 that I am acquainted with the fact — and for that reason 
 I shall remain in the room until the bill is settled." 
 
 Mrs. Carson was but a few minutes absent, and when 
 she did return, the bill she produced was monstrous. 
 Her countenance was as black as night — she trembled 
 with the combined influence of disappointment and 
 indignation. On looking at the bill I was certainly 
 thunderstruck. Every meal which, in point of fact, 
 she had forced upon me under the pretence of hos- 
 pitality and kindness, was down to day and date — 
 and at unconscionable terms. 
 
 I handed the bill to Gartland, who, on looking at it, 
 brought her into another room, and after about twenty 
 minutes, returned by himself, stating that she was 
 satisfied to receive thirty shillings, instead of four 
 pounds twelve, the original amount. 
 
 On that very day, I happened to be walking along 
 Francis Street, and when accidentally on my way towards 
 the Coombe, I observed a bill for lodgings in the window 
 of a house on the left-hand side. I went in to make 
 the usual inquiries, and to my surprise and delight, found 
 myself in a circulating library. I immediately took the 
 bed that was to be let, and paid the amount of the first 
 week (two shillings) in advance, making it a condition 
 that I should be free of the library. To this there was 
 no objection. As usual, and the better to account
 
 A Fortunate Encounter. 209 
 
 for the want of a trunk, I told the landlady that I 
 would only lodge with her, but that I boarded in the 
 house of a friend who had no bed to spare. 
 
 In the meantime, an astonishing incident occurred 
 to me. I was still in possession of nearly thirty 
 shillings. My wardrobe wanted repair. I need 
 scarcely assure the reader that ever since my 
 arrival in Dublin, I had always resorted to the 
 second-hand market. Now the great second-hand 
 clothes-market — the Monmouth Street of Dublin — 
 is Plunket Street, which reaches from Francis Street 
 nearly to Patrick Street. Little Mary Street, to 
 which I had just bidden farewell, was another such 
 market, and as it was there that I ] always dealt, I 
 found myself in Plunket Street for the first time. I was 
 walking along slowly, examining everything of the kind 
 I wanted, when a man, bare-headed, and evidently the 
 proprietor of one of the shops, approached me, and 
 holding out his hand, said, " Good God ! William 
 Carleton, is this you ? " I looked at him, and in an 
 instant recognized a brother of one of the most popular 
 characters I ever drew — "the poor scholar." If a spirit 
 from the other world had stood before me, I could 
 not have felt more astonished. On my making inquiry 
 as to his presence there, Donnelly told me that the late 
 proprietor of the establishment had been a relative of 
 Mr. McArdle, the parish priest of Clogher,who had given 
 him a letter to him. On the strength of that letter, he 
 had trained Donnelly as. a salesman until he under- 
 stood the business, after which he died, having first seen 
 him married to his daughter. There never lived a more 
 generous or a more affectionate man than Donnelly. Me 
 insisted on rigging me out from top to toe, gratuitously. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 ■u^ 
 
 210 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 i//.Cr'-'t<i.f7-t "^ I was now, at least in my own opinion, a very 
 l^rh/t'r/ comfortable young fellow. I had a good cheap bed 
 
 in a snug back room off the parlour, with a whole 
 circulating library for my amusement. It would 
 be useless to attempt anything like a description 
 of my enjoyment. I think I could not have read 
 less than from twelve to sixteen hours a day. I 
 have read from many a circulating library since, 
 but from any approaching this one In character, 
 never. The best and most perfect I ever knew was 
 that kept by Mr. Gerald Tyrrell, In a corner house that 
 opened into Lower Abbey Street and Lower Sackville 
 Street. Mr. Tyrrell is still alive, and one of the Dalkey 
 Commissioners, but what became of his library I know 
 not. The woman who kept the Francis Street 
 establishment was a widow, a Mrs. Richardson, but 
 never upon any occasion did I see her look Into a 
 book. Whether it was she herself who collected and 
 arranged the library, I cannot say. I only hope, for 
 the honour of her sex, it was not ; because such a mass 
 of obscenity and profligacy was (out of Holywell 
 Street, the Jewish establishment In London) never put 
 together. How booksellers were found to publish the 
 books it Is difficult to say, or how they escaped prosecu- 
 tion. There was not a book In the whole library but 
 Mrs. Richardson was acquainted with its character, a 
 fact which she never denied. 
 
 One of them, for Instance, was the " History of Mrs. 
 Leeson " — or in other words, the history of the infamous 
 Peg Plunkett, who figured during the viceroyalty of 
 Lord Manners, and of whom the anecdote of" Manners, 
 you dogs," is yet told. " The History of the Chevalier de 
 Faublas " was also there, and another revolting abomlna-
 
 Infamous Books. 211 
 
 tion under the nickname of Aristotle. Tliere was also 
 among them a book which, as a repertory of the 
 antique scandal of the fashionable demireps of that day, 
 would be apt to fetch a good price even now. It 
 was called the " Irish Female Jockey Club." Only 
 the initials of the names of the characters were given, 
 but so well had they been known to several of the 
 readers, that the names were found pencilled in full on 
 the margins. How so much private scandal was got 
 together, and whether by one or many contributors, 
 it is impossible to say. All I can add is, that the 
 minuteness of the details, and the acquaintance with the 
 localities exhibited by the author or authors, proved 
 those sketches to contain a vast deal of truth — a 
 fact which probably accounted for their escape 
 from prosecution. The curiosity of a young man, 
 added to the fact that they came in my way by 
 accident, must plead my excuse for reading them. 
 Independently of this, the very best of us have a 
 taste for scandal. I dined frequently with my friend 
 Donnelly, the "poor scholar's" brother, in Plunket 
 Street ; but, unfortunately, he was carried off by fever 
 in three months after we had resumed our acquaintance 
 in Dublin. 
 
 I was now a well-dressed man, and I can assure the 
 reader that a smooth outside, in such a world as this, 
 where outsidcs are so much looked to, is a strong letter 
 of recommendation to a stranger who has little else 
 to recommend him. What good was my intellect to 
 me when in shabby apparel ? What person could 
 discover it in a man with a seedy coat upon his back, 
 when that man was a stranger? We .ought not to 
 expect impossibilities. I myself at that time was 
 
 V 2
 
 212 Life of William Carleton 
 
 '''\ not conscious of the possession of intellect — although 
 I must confess that there lurked about me, as I 
 have said elsewhere, a vague impression that I was 
 not an ordinary man. This impression prevented me 
 from writing home to my friends, and acted as a 
 justification of the resolution I had come to, of 
 never either writing them a line or returning to my 
 native place, unless I could do so with honour 
 and credit to myself. There were also two other 
 motives ; to one of these I have already alluded — 
 I mean Ann Duffy. I wished to distinguish myself in 
 order that she might hear of my distinction ; at 
 the other the reader may probably smile. As I am 
 on the subject, I shall mention it here, lest I might 
 altogether forget it. 
 
 My eldest married sister, Mary, lived (about the 
 period when I, having been set apart for the Churchy 
 commenced my Latin) in the townland of a place 
 called Ballagh, remarkable for the beauty of its lough. 
 It was during the Easter holidays, and I was on a visit 
 with her. At that time it was not unusual for a small 
 encampment of the Scotch gipsies to pass over to the 
 north of Ireland, and indeed I am not surprised at it, 
 considering the extraordinary curiosity, not to say 
 enthusiasm, with which they were received by the people. 
 The men were all tinkers, and the women thieves and 
 fortune-tellers — but in their case the thief was always 
 sunk in the fortune-teller. 
 
 Now one of these gipsies called on my sister while 
 I was with her, and having been desired to take a 
 seat, she did so, and looking at me, said, turning to 
 my sister, " Do you wish to have this boy's fortune 
 told ? "
 
 Fortune-Telling. 213 
 
 " I do," replied poor, unsuspecting Mary ; " I would 
 be very glad to have his fortune told." 
 
 " Well," said the other, extending her open hand, 
 " cross my palm ; we can't tell truth unless we receive 
 money." 
 
 This condition was pretty generally known, and the 
 people were prepared for it. My sister accordingly gave 
 her a tenpenny bit ; upon which she produced a pack 
 of cards from her pocket, shuffled them repeatedly, 
 and placing them before me, desired me to cut them 
 deeply, as she would .have the more information 
 to disclose as to my future fortune. She was cunning 
 enough to draw from my sister, without seeming to 
 have any purpose, all the information she could gain 
 respecting my prospects in life, and so learned that 
 I was intended for the priesthood. The sallow old 
 pythoness lost little time in revealing the oracle of my 
 destiny ; I remember the words as distinctly as if I. had 
 heard them only yesterday. ^ f^^t'cMa 
 
 " He will never be a priest,^' said she, " he will love 
 the girls too well ; but when he grows up, he will go to 
 Dublin, and become a great man." 
 
 This prediction I never forgot, nor was it without 
 influence in urging me into the city.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 In search of a relig-ion— A strange figure — Mrs. Ridge's "uncle" 
 —Removal to' the Coombe— Return of McDonagh— Weyman 
 and Lablache— Love of the drama — The nondescript, and his 
 brother — Marsh's library— A glimpse of Maturin. 
 
 While lodging in the library I did not forget my 
 business ; by this I mean that I was always on the 
 look-out for something in the shape of employment. 
 About this time, too, I began to think a good 
 deal upon the subject of religion. I occasionally 
 went, at first out of curiosity, sometimes to one 
 church and sometimes to another ; and I was much 
 struck and often very deeply impressed by what I 
 had both seen and heard. I did not, however, con- 
 fine my Sunday visits merely to the churches of the 
 Establishment. I often went to the Presbyterian 
 places of worship also, but I did not relish them 
 so well. Even the Methodists did not escape me. In 
 point of fact, I was resolved to look through them all. 
 If I do not examine and compare, thought I, how can 
 I form an opinion as to their relative merits ? One 
 doctrine of the Catholic Church I had sent to the 
 winds long before that period. I allude to exclusive 
 salvation. Neither logic nor reasoning was required 
 to enable me to discard it. Common feeling — the 
 plain principle of simple humanity — was sufficient. 
 This, indeed, was the doctrine which first taught me
 
 Mr. Kane. 215 
 
 to feel the justice of thinking for myself; and from 
 that moment I felt that I could not much longer 
 hold the doctrines of a Catholic. This course of 
 thought was not suggested to me by a human being, 
 and to confess the truths I was a Protestant at least 
 twelve months before the change was known to a 
 human being. 
 
 A circumstance now occurred which, I may say> 
 shaped the destiny of my future life. I was one 
 day as usual going among the schools — with the old 
 object in view, the seeking of employment. I knew 
 that, without exertion, employment was out of my 
 reach. I was passing through Peter Street, going 
 towards Bride Street, when on a hall door I saw a 
 brass label on which was engraved in large and legible 
 letters — 
 
 Mr. Kane's Classical Academy. 
 
 "Here goes," thought I, "once more— and I sup- 
 pose with the same success," as I knocked. When 
 the door was opened, I asked to see Mr. Kane, 
 and vv^as shown into the parlour. In less than a 
 minute a gentleman dressed in black entered. But 
 before I proceed a step farther I must describe him. 
 He was probably near sixty — a large roundish 'kind of 
 man, and about five feet ten in height. His black 
 costume did not resemble those which I was in 
 the habit of seeing everywhere I went. He wore a 
 black coat, a black waistcoat, black knee-breeches 
 and black stockings, in fact, he was black from top 
 to toe. During all • my life I never saw any human 
 being so awkward and ungraceful : but what was this 
 when compared to his face? His complexion was
 
 2i6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 of a dull, dreary red, and his cheeks hung about his 
 face as if they would actually drop off. His eyes 
 at a first glance were large and apparently meaning- 
 less, and as for his legs, they would have made the 
 fortune of a chair-man,' whilst his fists would have 
 done credit to Tom Cribb the pugilist. This is but a 
 faint sketch of him, indeed it might cause any friend 
 of his, should one chance to see it, to set me down as 
 a corrupt rascal, and who had allowed myself to be 
 bribed into giving him a most agreeable and interesting 
 appearance. 
 
 Well, he came into the room — entered into conver- 
 sation with me — talked with such a spirit of kindness 
 and courtesy, and, as I proceeded to allude to my 
 object, with such thoughtfulness and consideration ; his 
 language, too, was so easy — combining in itself the 
 spirit, not only of the gentleman but of the Christian — 
 that I felt an actual charm pervade my heart, and I 
 could almost have thrown my arms about him, and 
 pressed him like a father to my breast. He reminded 
 me of those dissolving views, in which some object 
 painful to look upon, passes away, we know not how, 
 and ere we are aware, something in the strongest con- 
 trast, and at the same time exquisitely beautiful, takes 
 its place. 
 
 After our conversation had nearly closed, and I was 
 about to take my leave of one of the most fascinating men 
 I ever met, — " By the way," said he, "a thought strikes 
 me. A friend of mine is master of a very large English 
 school on the Coombe, and I remember that when 
 
 * The men who carried the sedan-chairs in the last century 
 were mostly Irishmen, and we:e chosen for their size and 
 strength.
 
 Mr. Fox. 217 
 
 last I saw him, he asked me if I could recom- 
 mend a classical tutor for his son. This conversation 
 occurred only a few days ago. I could think of no 
 one at the time ; but I will give you his address, 
 and when you call on him, say that it was I who sent 
 you." 
 
 I got the necessary address, and lost no time 
 in calling on Mr. Fox^ the gentleman in question. 
 I found him a plain, agreeable man, remarkable for 
 common sense, and a benignant spirit. We came 
 to terms at once, and before I left the house 
 it was arranged that I should commence my duty 
 as tutor to his son the next morning. Thus was 
 the ice first broken, after many an unsuccessful 
 and depressing experiment — that often made my 
 heart sick and almost indignant against Providence 
 itself. 
 
 In the meantime, Mrs. Richardson became trouble- 
 some, peevish, and altogether sickening. I could not 
 help observing from time to time, that her temper, 
 from being fretful, was passing to a very opposite 
 condition. She frequently became musical, and some- 
 times a regular attitudinizer, accompanying the atti- 
 tudes by winkings and other motions^ which to me 
 were perfectly unintelligible. At length, I asked 
 the servant to give me an explanation of her 
 conduct. 
 
 " Poor woman/' said she ; " they don't last very long • 
 she takes them only by fits and starts ; but at all events 
 you'll soon have to leave us — at least for about a 
 month." 
 
 " Why so ? " I asked. 
 
 " Can you keep a secret ?" she inquired.
 
 2i8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " Why not," I replied, " if it be necessary ? " 
 " Well," said she, " listen : there's a wealthy married 
 gentleman from Limerick who comes to Dublin four 
 times every year. He lodges in her rooms upstairs — 
 for you know she owns the whole house. This gentle- 
 man brings a lady with him, wherever he gets her, and 
 they stop — that is they sleep — upstairs while he's in 
 town. When this gentleman comes, you must leave 
 the place until he takes his departure. So now make 
 money of that." 
 
 Every word the woman uttered was verified. In the 
 course of a fortnight afterwards, I got notice to travel, 
 and so brief was the notice, that I was not allowed to 
 sleep in the house that night, although it was late in the 
 evening when I learned that I must move. Altogether, 
 I felt very indifferent in the matter, for I was tired of 
 the old wretchj and her periodical fats of maudlin 
 indulgence. I accordingly went over to Moore Street, 
 and slept that night at No. 4, Mrs. Ridge's old lodgings 
 The next morning I got up and dressed myself — all 
 except my coat and boots ; neither of these were forth- 
 coming ; and on my making inquiries, she very coolly told 
 me that she lent them to an uncle of hers in the next 
 street. When I left her as a lodger I did not imagine 
 that she would consider me her debtor, because 
 McDonagh, the literary tailor, had, in my own hearing, 
 told her that until further notice both my board and 
 lodging should be at his expense ; and with this assu- 
 rance she seemed perfectly satisfied. Upon his subse- 
 quent disappearance, without settling either for himself 
 or me, I thought I saw at a glimpse the value of 
 his hospitality, and the sincerity of his friendship. At 
 least, such was my opinion then. On going that night
 
 Sharp Practice. 219 
 
 to Mrs. Ridge's, I had enough small change to pay 
 for my bed and breakfast next morning, so that I 
 entertained no apprehension of the step she took. 
 She assured me very solemnly, as I have said, that my 
 coat and shoes were with her relative — that she had just 
 got upon them the amount I owed her, and that 
 I might take whatever course I deemed best under 
 the circumstances. I paused, and felt sadly at a 
 loss. In fact I had no friend, and could think of 
 nobody. 
 
 " Why don't you write," said she, " to the gentleman 
 whose son you are teaching ? " 
 
 I seized upon this hint, but became alarmed lest such an 
 unusual application might deprive me of my only tuition. 
 Still, turn it over as I might, it was my only chance ; 
 and having got Mrs. Ridge to furnish me with pen and 
 paper, I gave her a note to the mother of my pupil, who, 
 from all that I could observe of her, was a very amiable 
 and kind-hearted woman. In due time she and 
 Mrs. Ridge made their appearance; and in less than ten 
 minutes I was on my way to the Coombe under the 
 friendly guidance of Mrs. Fox, the kindest and most 
 motherly woman that ever existed. Mrs. Ridge had 
 not pledged my clothes. 
 
 " Now," said she, on our way home — ^' there is 
 a nice room and a spare bed in our house that are 
 not used by anyone. You had better occupy them ; 
 they are l)ing there empty, and, in truth, will 
 be better for occupation. You will oblige us by 
 accepting them ; and they will cost you nothing — at 
 all events until you get rich, which I hope will be 
 soon." 
 
 I was not then in a strait waistcoat, and as a
 
 220 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 natural consequence, received this kind offer with a 
 deep sense of gratitude. I slept at Mrs. Fox's that night, 
 and did not take my departure for, I think, two years 
 afterwards. McDonagh, the literary tailor— or, in other 
 words, the man of genius — and 1 were fated to meet 
 again. I saw him one day on Ormond Quay, when he 
 explained his abrupt and somewhat mysterious dis- 
 appearance. If the poor fellow told truth — and I 
 think he did — there was no blame to be attached to 
 him. He had received a letter from some part of Con- 
 naught, stating that his mother was dying, and that, 
 finding herself near the close of her life, she begged 
 him for God's sake to go to her— to let her see him i^ 
 only once before she died. It seems the poor fellow 
 scrambled up all the money he could, and arrived just 
 in time to gratify her last wish. I believe all this to 
 have been strictly true, because when he returned to 
 town, he once more resumed his position with Shorti 
 the master tailor of Coghill's Court. On that very 
 occasion, he told me that Short wanted a person to 
 instruct his children, a son and a daughter, and he said 
 that if he had known my address he would have 
 acquainted me with the fact before. 
 
 "Just come with me now," said he, "and we'll call 
 upon him." 
 ,/^ We did so, and I begin to teach Short's 
 (^r1^ children the next evening. For this I had a guinea a 
 month, and in the course of about half a year was one 
 of the best dressed young fellows in Dublin. By this 
 I mean that I was as becomingly and respectably 
 dressed as any man could be — certainly without 
 dandyism or vain and empty nonsense. They say that 
 one good thing seldom comes without another to keep 
 it as it were, in countenance.
 
 A Kind Family. 221 
 
 I return to my journey home with the mother of 
 my first Dublin pupil. My bed was aired, and com- 
 fortably made. I slept soundly, and next morning 
 had a message to come down to breakfast. I did 
 so. I was also asked to dine, and under the impres- 
 sion that such invitations would be rare, I accepted 
 that also — and from that day forth, during two 
 years and upwards, I lodged, breakfasted, and dined 
 with that most affectionate family. If I breathed 
 the notion of removing, they became indignant ; 
 but, indeed, in the course of a very short time 
 removal was the farthest thing possible from my 
 mind. 
 
 The Fox family consisted of the father and 
 mother of my pupil — one of the best and sweetest 
 tempered boys that ever lived — two maiden aunts, 
 a niece, by name Jane Anderson — and her sister 
 Margaret, who was much younger. Old Mr. Fox 
 was a most delightful companion ; had seen a 
 great deal of the world, and was a personal friend 
 of Grattan. He had a magnificent bass voice, and 
 was one of the celebrated choir of Christ Church, 
 at the head of which was the immortal David 
 Weyman — then considered the most powerful bass in 
 the world, and author of the best work upon 
 choral and cathedral music that we possess.' I 
 heard him in Christ Church, but could scarcely 
 believe that musical thunder so deep and terrible 
 could proceed out of human lips. Such was my 
 opinion until I heard that prodigy Lablache," to 
 
 ' Weyman was vicar-choral of St. Patrick's. His " Mclodia 
 Sacra'' was edited by Dr. Smith, and appeared in"6 vols in 1844. 
 Weyman died in August, 1822. 
 
 " Lablache, though born in Italy, had an Irish mother.
 
 222 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 whose paralyzing peal Weyman's thunder was but 
 a squeak. Lablache was six feet six in height, 
 and more than corpulent in proportion. Such 
 was his weight that, as he approached the foot- 
 lights, the very floor of the theatre shook, and so 
 powerful was the vibration of his voice, that any 
 side curtains that happened to be down were shaken by 
 his tones. I feel that I have travelled a little out of 
 my way here — but to return. 
 
 The evenings I spent in conversation with Mr. Fox 
 were delightful. He was full of anecdote connected with 
 Grattan and Flood, and all the other eminent men in 
 the Irish Parliament. 
 
 There is nothing more valuable in life than respect- 
 able connection. Before long I became acquainted 
 with a Mr. Gallaher, who was also a musical man, 
 and the possessor of a magnificent bass voice. He 
 had had a conversation with a Mr. Eustace, who 
 kept a very respectable school at No. 2, Lower 
 Buckingham Street, of which I was the subject. 
 Gallaher's father and Mr. Fox were not only neigh- 
 bours, but warm and sincere friends, and it was 
 through their intimacy that I and Mr. Gallaher's son 
 became connected. The son at that time held a hieh 
 situation in La Touche's celebrated bank in Castle 
 Street. The result of Gallaher's conversation with Mr. 
 Eustace was an intimation to me, through Mr. Gallaher, 
 that Mr. Eustace wanted a classical assistant ; and the 
 second result was, that I called upon him and was 
 engaged, at the very fair salary of thirty-five pounds 
 a year. Now my readers must admit that this cer- 
 tainly was advancing in the world. In looking back 
 over this portion of my life, I cannot forget my extra-
 
 Getting on. 223 
 
 ordinary delight in witnessing theatrical entertain- 
 ments. I might now be considered wealthy ; but 
 even before this, when I was struggling with penury 
 itself, I have often spent almost my last shilling on the 
 upper gallery — both in Crow Street and Hawkins 
 Street* No man ever enjoyed theatrical representa- 
 tions with greater enthusiasm. This, however, is not 
 at all surprising, because that was precisely the 
 period when the Dublin theatre was in its glory. 
 We had from time to time the Siddonses, Kean 
 the elder, Miss O'Neil, Young, Macready, and 
 several other celebrities. I could now afford to 
 attend the theatre, and a very regular attendant 
 I was. 
 
 One morning, we were sitting in Mr. Fox's parlour 
 after breakfast, when a gentlemanly-looking man, 
 whose presence had been expected, entered the room, 
 accompanied by one of the most extraordinary 
 nondescripts I ever beheld. That the person who 
 accompanied or introduced him was a gentleman 
 there could be no doubt. He was calm, collected, 
 and intelligent, if not intellectual in every feature ; 
 but, in addition to this, there was an expression of 
 kindness and affection, especially when he looked at 
 the nondescript, which evinced the strong interest he 
 felt in him. Nor was this interest lessened by a 
 smile of good nature which played over his coun- 
 tenance, and which it evidently cost him an effort to 
 keep within the bounds of laughter. The question now 
 
 1 Neither of these houses is now in existence. The Theatre 
 Royal was in Hawkins Street. Two histories of its vicissitudes 
 have been published, one by an anonymous writer, and one by 
 R. M. Levey and J. O'Rorke.
 
 224 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 is, how shall I attempt to describe the nondescript ? 
 Surely, if I fail, the reader will not blame me. Let 
 him, imagine, then, a man about one or two and 
 twenty, with pale, sandy hair, dressed in an outside 
 frieze coat not worth half a crown, worn almost 
 out of all decency ; a waistcoat with but one button, 
 old corduroy breeches, open at the knees, stockings, 
 with the heels out, gartered under the knees, clouted 
 brogues white with dust, his coarse shirt unbuttoned 
 at the neck, and free from the restraint of a 
 handkerchief. On entering the room and sitting 
 down, he placed his caubeen, the crown of which 
 had fallen in, upon the floor beside him. His 
 hands, which were crusted with black, mouldy dust, 
 he stretched gracefully along his thighs, until his 
 fingers bent over his knees as if to keep the joints 
 steady. His face was, without exception, the most 
 blank and sheepish I ever saw ; the eyes, a dull 
 grey, were looking steadily on to the floor before 
 him, unless when spoken to, and then he would give 
 an awkward, timid, side glance^ like a man conscious 
 of having been detected in guilty and hopeless of 
 pardon. 
 
 The reader will perceive, or ought, by this time, that 
 business was fast increasing on me — when he learns 
 that this young gentleman was coming to be placed 
 under my tuition and Mr. Fox's — under mine for 
 classics^ and Mr. Fox's for English. His history was 
 that»['of many, whose families have been brought to 
 desolation and ruin, with the exception probably of a 
 single member, who has been rescued from the common 
 fate by the [benevolence of wealthy friends. Such was 
 the fact here. The two individuals before us were
 
 Brothers. 225 
 
 brothers, one of them having been a lieutenant in the 
 Peninsular War, and the other, the unfortunate nonde- 
 script, one of those individuals who attend a turf-boat 
 on the canal. The reader will now understand why I 
 was able to give the description of his dress with such 
 accuracy. His brother having arranged the terms for 
 his board and education, with Mr. Fox and me, brought 
 him out upon a wardrobe expedition, and returned with 
 him, walking more like a piece of machinery than any- 
 thing else, in a new suit of clothes. In the course of the 
 same evening some additional baggage in the shape of 
 a trunk was brought home by a porter. 
 
 The two were strangely separated ; while the elder 
 brother was engaged in helping to seal the fate and' 
 fortune of Napoleon at Waterloo, the other, as I have 
 said, was attached to a turf-boat on one of the canals. 
 He had never opened a book, but I believe in my soul 
 that such a progress, in the teeth of so much stupidity, 
 was never made by mortal man. That progress 
 was one of the most striking proofs of what incessant 
 work and unswerving perseverance will do, that ever 
 was witnessed. The family I refer to had wealthy and 
 powerful friends ; one of these was the late Mrs, La 
 Touche of Delgany. She purchased a commission for the 
 elder brother, provided him with a handsome outfit, 
 and sent him to join Wellington and seek his fortune. 
 He returned, however, without a fortune, but as the 
 young man possessed good sense, and a consider- 
 able affection for his brother and sisters, he commenced 
 such a course of classics as enabled him to enter 
 college, and take a degree. At the very time he 
 produced his brother as a claimant for education, he 
 himself held the situation of private tutor in a Wexford 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 family, which had certain historical associations even 
 now well known. 
 
 During the time of the younger brother's residence 
 with Mr. Fox, the late James Digges La Touche was 
 secretary to the Sunday School Society for Ireland, an 
 institution which, at that time, when education was 
 •scarce, conferred most important advantages upon the 
 -country. We were preparing him for an appointment 
 there, and we did so with the greater goodwill and satis- 
 faction as we knew he would get it the moment he 
 had a chance for it. There were no competitive 
 examinations in those days — personal influence did all 
 — and in preparing for it the young fellow rendered us 
 every assistance. At all events, in due time the ex- 
 pected vacancy in the Sunday School Society occurred, 
 and in due time he applied for it and got it. 
 
 Everything now went smoothly with me. I was 
 ..attending Mr. Eustace's school in Lower Buckingham 
 . Street as a classical assistant. I was also attending 
 Short the tailor's children every evening in Coghill's 
 Court — and I was attending Armstrong, the turf-boat 
 man, and Mr. Fox's son, without the slightest incon- 
 venience with respect to time. 
 
 At this period I became acquainted with a gentleman 
 named William Sisson, who, in consequence of some 
 ■ dreadful accident, lost the greater portion of one leg and 
 thigh; but so adm.irably was this replaced, that to an 
 ^ordinary eye he looked like a man afflicted only with 
 slight lameness. He was deputy librarian of Marsh's 
 almost unknown library in St. Patrick's Close. This 
 was the first public library I had ever seen, and I 
 wondered at the time how such an incredible number 
 of books could be read, or, which comes to much about
 
 Maturin. 227 
 
 the same thing, how a sufficient number of men of 
 letters could be found to read them. I read there for 
 two seasons, and during all that time I never saw so 
 many as half-a-dozen availing themselves of that noble 
 institution. Of the two whom I met there, one is still 
 living — Dr. Travers, lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence, 
 I think, in Trinity College — and the other was the late 
 Rev. Thomas Shore. 
 
 Maturin had not only been a reader there, but wrote 
 the greater portion of several of his novels on a small 
 plain deal desk, which he removed from place to place 
 according as it suited his privacy or convenience. And 
 now that I have mentioned Maturin, the fact reminds 
 me of a visit I paid him a little before the period of 
 which I am writing. I had read several of his novels 
 in Mrs. Richardson's library, his tragedy of " Bertram " 
 included, and as I knew he lived in York Street, 
 I resolved, under some pretext or other, to pay him 
 a visit, that I might satisfy myself as to what a man 
 of genius could be like. I accordingly called at his 
 house — which was on the left-hand side as you go from 
 Aungier Street to the Green ' — and was admitted. At 
 that time I had read so little of the habits or the 
 personal appearance of men of genius, that I knew not 
 what inference to draw from his. He was dressed in 
 a very slovenly manner — a loose cravat about the neck 
 — was in slippers — and had on a brown outside coat 
 much too wide and lar^e for him. Altogether he 
 appeared to be an irreclaim.able sloven. After motion- 
 ing me to a seat, and allowing me a reasonable space to 
 explain the cause of my visit, he asked me was there 
 anything in which he could oblige me. I replied that 
 
 ' Stephen's Green. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 I was anxious to enter Trinity College, but that I did 
 not feel myself in a position to do so, 
 
 " In other words," said he, " you are not able to pay 
 the fees. In that case, then, I would recommend you to 
 read for a sizarship/' 
 
 " But then I might fail," said I. 
 
 " Then," he replied, " you have only to try it again — 
 or, hold ! " said he, " I think you could be got in as a 
 non-demurrent pensioner." 
 
 Of course we had more conversation than I am now 
 detailing, during which he would become abstracted, as 
 it were, for a moment, and raise his open hand as if he 
 were about to sa}', " Hush ! I have an image ! " 
 
 After having left him, I would, had I possessed the 
 experience which I do now, have pronounced him to be 
 as vain a creature as ever lived. He was a thin man, 
 not ill-looking, with good eyes, and when wrapped up 
 in the brown overcoat resembled a man to whom 
 some person, larger in size than himself — seeing that 
 his wardrobe was at a low ebb — had generously 
 thrown a half-worn suit, until something better might 
 happen.^ 
 
 ^ Maturin's works, notwithstanding the high opinion of Scott 
 and Byron, are ahnost entirely forgotten. His " Mehnoth, the 
 Wanderer," has been most often reprinted. It is a powerful, but 
 gloomy story. His tragedies were no less popular than his 
 novels.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Love re-asserts itself — Mortimer and Samuel O'Suliivan — Matri- 
 monial notions— Transformation of the nondescript — Jamei 
 Digges La Touche — Appointed to a clerkship— High treason 
 against the Sunday School Society — Marriage— Thomas 
 Parnell -Ambition to enter T.C.D.— Notice to quit — Re- 
 instatement. 
 
 I NOW found that I was progressing as favourably as 
 could be expected, as the phrase of the sick-room has 
 it ; but at the same time, a new element took possession 
 of me — although the reader will probably condemn me 
 for associating it with anything like novelty, inasmuch as 
 I may appear to be merely going over the same ground 
 which I travelled with the miller's daughter for my 
 lodestar. In other words I was once more in love, 
 and with as pretty a girl as Ann Duffy ; and that was 
 Jane Anderson, my present wife. 
 
 My readers, I repeat, may say that they can 
 discover nothing novel in a second love, and yet I 
 can as.sure them with truth, that the two passions as 
 they existed in me, had scarcely any resemblance to 
 each other. In the first instance, I fell in love with 
 Ann Duffy when I was a mere boy, not fifteen years of 
 age. Ann Duffy I loved at a distance — we never 
 spoke during the course of my love— and although she 
 possessed a healthy bond-fide existence, yet to me 
 she was nothing but the ideal spirit of beauty. The
 
 230 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 power of the imagination illustrates the feeling of lo\ c 
 in a young heart, especially under circumstances 
 similar to those of Ann Duffy and me, and throws an 
 ethereal charm over first love — a charm that can never 
 be felt during any subsequent engagement of the heart, 
 however powerful or intense. That love is the only 
 one which re-opens to us for the first time the 
 gates of that paradise from which the whole human 
 race has been so long expelled. That I admit the full 
 force of the charm I allude to in my first love is only 
 a truthful record of what I felt, but my love for 
 Jane Anderson, although it had less poetry in it, 
 yet had more of that reality which is sanctioned by 
 the heart rather than the imagination. In Ann Duffy's 
 case my love was a first impression, and first impres- 
 sions, under circumstances similar to ours, can never 
 be removed. 
 
 The notion of entering college had been of late 
 beginning to set strong within me. Who knows but 
 that the distinction of which I sometimes had dim 
 dreams might be yet realized ? Who knows but that 
 I might yet become the Gil Bias of Ireland ? It 
 is, indeed, extraordinary to think how a love of fame 
 often lurks, almost unknown, in the human heart, like 
 the first indistinct emotions of love. 
 
 The school kept by Mr. Fox was one of Erasmus 
 Smith's, and with the exception of the classical 
 schools on that magnificent establishment, was one 
 of the highest and most valuable. I don't think it 
 brought him in less than three hundred a year. This 
 school was in the parish of St. Catherine's, in the 
 Coombe. The Protestant clergyman of the parish was 
 the Rev. William Whitelaw, who had succeeded as
 
 The O'Sullivans. 231 
 
 rector his brother/ one of the authors of " Whitelaw 
 and Walsh's History of Dublin." He was one of the 
 most amiable men I ever knew^ and in virtue of his 
 official duty as visitor to the school, I had frequent 
 opportunities of meeting- him. He was the first Protes- 
 tant clergyman I ever dined with in Dublin. The Rev. 
 Samuel O'Sullivan — then a resident master in college 
 — was his curate, and brother to Mortimer O'Sullivan^ 
 rector of Killyman, in the diocese of Dromore.^ I have 
 heard many eloquent men, but a more eloquent man 
 than Mortimer I never heard. 
 
 I now began to read for college, and took Mr, 
 Armstrong-, my pupil, into the course. I had also pre- 
 pared him in book-keeping, which I studied for the 
 occasion, and had put him through the three " sets •"' 
 when the vacancy in the office of the Sunday School 
 Society, for which both he and we were looking out, 
 actually took place. As Mrs. La Touche of Delgany 
 was his friend and patroness, I need scarcely 
 add that he was immediately appointed. He still, 
 however, continued to board at Mr. Fox's. I have 
 stated that something I felt no difficulty in bear- 
 ing, from my past experience, began to act as 
 an obstruction to those literary distinctions which 
 
 ' The Rev. James Whitelaw was born in Co. Leitrim about 1749,, 
 and died February 4th, 1813. The " History of Dublin" referred 
 to is still valuable, though Dr. J. T. Gilbert's work has super- 
 seped it. 
 
 ''■ These two brothers were born in the South of Ireland, and 
 were originally Catholics. They wrote many books, which were 
 extravagantly praised by their Protestant friends. They were very 
 able men, and Mortimer will be chiefly remembered as the cause 
 of Moore's " Travels of an Irish gentleman in search of a religion," 
 to which Mortimer replied by a " (iuidc to an Irish gentleman in 
 search of a religion." Moore makes delicious fun of him in his 
 " Fudge " poems.
 
 232 Life of V/illiam Carleton. 
 
 I felt awaited me in college. In other words, Cupid 
 interfered both with literature and ambition. I never 
 was a man who looked far before me — what man of 
 impulse ever does ! I consequently made several 
 attempts to gain a place in the heart of Miss Jane 
 Anderson, but as I was obliged to feel, with only 
 indifferent success. I could not get her to understand 
 me. I now feel that I was, without exception, the 
 most ridiculous blockhead that ever lived. I kept 
 hinting, and insinuating, and shaping small oracles, 
 which no human being could understand, and that with 
 a face that seemed better adapted for a death-bed 
 repentance than for a lover disclosing the tender 
 passion. It mattered not ; although slow, I was sure — 
 yet I scarcely have to thank myself for the security. I 
 also threw out hints to the lady's aunt, who received 
 them with more good humour than I relished, because 
 the matter was above all others one on which a man 
 would decline being laughed at. At length, the aunt 
 uttered one serious sentence, which brought me to 
 ■j-eflection. 
 
 " I think, William," said she, " it would be time 
 enough for you to think of marrying a wife when you 
 feel yourself able to support one." 
 
 This was a home-thrust which no armour could 
 resist, and I felt it for the time like a death-blow. 
 Three months now went on, and I was neither better 
 nor worse. Armstrong, although he had got the 
 appointment, still, like a sensible fellow, remained 
 under my tuition in the classics, because it was his 
 brother's object that he should enter college, a design 
 -yvhich was ultimately accomplished. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that I lay upon my oars here,
 
 Armstrong's Case. 233 
 
 especially as the prospect of the wife remained in the 
 background as an incentive to action. Ever since I 
 became a lover, I gave up like a true Irishman all 
 notion of collegiate distinction. 
 
 I have mentioned the fact that a Mr. Gallaher held 
 an advanced situation in La Touche's bank. He was 
 not only an eminent accountant, but a first-rate 
 musician. For instance, he was engaged as singing 
 master to Santry Charter School, where he attended 
 three times a week ; for this he was well paid. The 
 Government money was liberal in those days, without 
 much inquir}' as to its application, or rather the object 
 of its application. 
 
 Armstrong's case was a proof to me of a principle 
 which has not been much understood. It is this, that we 
 are not to form an opinion of minds upon which neglect 
 and poverty have operated in early life, from their 
 first exhibitions under instruction. Let us consider the 
 mind of the individual like the body of a sick man 
 recovering after illness — it is weak, and can do very 
 little of itself until strengthened by medicine, and 
 such nutrition as is suitable to its condition. By 
 following judicious regimen, it gradually advances from 
 weakness into strength, and exhibits, in the course of 
 the treatment applied to it, the principle which not 
 only developed its cure but established its natural 
 strength. My pupil, who, when first placed under me, 
 scarcely knew his right hand from his left, began to feel 
 and exhibit an activity of intellect which surprised me. 
 In simpler words, his mind, his intellect, grew strong 
 under cultivation. Nobody could now imagine from 
 his language, his conduct, and his whole manner, that 
 he was the mere block which I had seen him on his first
 
 234 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 appearance. He knew he was of a respectable family, 
 and on mingling with respectable persons in society, he 
 gained self-confidence and a very becoming spirit of 
 independence. He was not, however, a man capable 
 of warm attachments — or I think of much gratitude 
 — but at all events, it was arranged between us that 
 whenever a vacancy in the Sunday School Society 
 should occur, he would let me know. Months, however, 
 went on, with no prospect of a vacancy, and still I 
 was making every effort to advance myself — though 
 without much prospect of success. The only thing 
 in my favour that occurred in the meantime, was 
 an additional tuition procured for me by Gallaher. 
 He had a sister, a widow, and I was engaged to 
 educate her children, who attended me at Mr. Fox's 
 house. 
 
 At length, I received intelligence through my pupil 
 that there was a vacancy in the Sunday School Office, 
 and I lost no time in setting to work. I immediately 
 waited upon Gallaher, who mentioned the matter to the 
 secretary, James Digges La Touche. That gentleman 
 told him that I ought to lose no time in sending in my 
 papers, adding that of course it was the first step I 
 ought to take. Matters went on quietly for about a 
 week, when Gallaher brought me a communication — 
 I took for granted it v/as from the secretary himself — 
 that it would be a proper step for me to visit him 
 some morning at his residence. Sans Soud, beyond 
 Donnybrook. I accordingly paid an early visit, and on 
 reaching the house was shown into a very fine library, 
 in which there were some first-rate editions of the 
 classics. A splendid edition of the Delphin was then, 
 I think, in course of publication in Paris. He found
 
 An Important Day. 235 
 
 me looking into one of the volumes, and observed, " Oh, 
 you are a classical scholar, Mr. Carleton ? " 
 
 I said I knew something about classics, that they had 
 constituted my favourite study, and that I had still 
 some notion of entering Trinity College, but that I had 
 many points to consider before I could come to a 
 determination on the subject. 
 
 He very kindly asked me to breakfast, but on my 
 assuring him that I had breakfasted before I left home, 
 he desired me to amuse myself among the books, 
 adding that after breakfast he would give me a seat into 
 town in his gig. 
 
 I cannot describe what I felt ; my heart was in a 
 tumult. I could read nothing — I could think of 
 nothing but the one event. On that day the committee 
 was to sit — on that day my fate was to be decided. 
 That day, indeed, I felt to be an important one to me. 
 I had already consulted Miss Anderson's aunt as to our 
 marriage, and she said that, provided I got the appoint- 
 ment I was seeking, she on her part would offer no 
 opposition. The reader may now form some notion 
 of what I felt at such a crisis. Hope, however, was 
 paramount, although Mr. La Touche never opened his 
 lips upon the subject of my appointment. Surely, 
 if he had not intended to advocate my claim he 
 would not have sent for me, neither v.'ould he have so 
 publicly identified himself with me as to give me a seat 
 into town in his gig. On going home I knew not 
 how to pass the time. It was effrly when I got there, 
 and the first thing I found was a note, without any 
 signature, directing me to call on James Ferrier, Esq., 
 Christ Church Place. 
 
 After I had waited a few minutes, Mr. Ferrier
 
 230 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 came in, entered into conversation with me very briefly 
 upon the duties of the situation, and stated that he was 
 then on his way to join the committee, to whom he 
 would make a favourable report. I thought there could 
 be very little doubt in the matter after the incidents of 
 that morning, and it is unnecessary to say that I went 
 home fully confident of my success. I knew that when 
 Armstrong would return from the office, I was certain 
 to hear the truth, and hear it I did, through a note from 
 the amiable Mr. Boyd, the under secretary to the society, 
 by which I was informed that my appointment had that 
 day been made, at an opening salary of sixty pounds a 
 year — the hour of morning attendance nine o'clock, the 
 departure at evening five. 
 
 Here was I now living in a family, where neither bed, 
 board, nor washing cost me sixpence, with a salary of 
 sixty pounds a year. It is true I lost my appointment 
 with Eustace, the teacher — but I retained the others, 
 which, although small, were not at all to be overlooked 
 by a young fellow plunging into life. The only 
 objection against me, on my ascertaining the duties of 
 the office, was the fact that I did not write a good hand. 
 This, however, by care and assiduity, and the greatest 
 possible attention to the subject, I gradually overcame 
 with such success that I was complimented by Mr. La 
 Touche himself, who said that the improvement was 
 extraordinary. 
 
 The notion of entering college now once more 
 leturned to my mind. I thought it a hardship that 1 
 should be nailed to a counter, as it were, for the 
 remainder of my life, whereas, by entering college, 
 I might gain a profession, and become a more 
 important member of society. In the meantime,
 
 INlARRIAGE. 237 
 
 as my chief object in gainin.^ the recent appointment was 
 to secure as my wife the girl to whom I was so deeply and 
 devotedly attached, I lost no time in bringing about the 
 important event in which my whole happiness con- 
 sisted. I know not whether the generality of men feel 
 the force of that happiness with such power, and fulness, 
 and enthusiastic tenderness as I did. I told my wife, 
 I remember, that I then kncvv what the honeymoon 
 meantj but I added that it must be painful, especially 
 to thinking men, to reflect that there was nothing 
 sweeter than honey. 
 
 I have often thought that man's life is divided or 
 separated into a series of small epics ; not epics that 
 are closed by happiness, however, but by pain. Here 
 was I now, according to the usual sense and meaning of 
 the epic, left after a life of awful struggles and heart- 
 breaking trials, in a state of perfect happiness. My 
 wife and I lived with our friends, as contented a young" 
 couple, and as free from care, as ever existed. It was 
 never proposed to us to remove to another residence, 
 now that we had means of supporting ourselves. Arm- 
 strong and I were in the same office — both went there 
 together, and both returned home together, and indeed 
 we felt ourselves extremely comfortable. There is, 
 however, a providence in everything if it could be only 
 seen. Had I, for instance, entered college, it is impossible 
 to say what the result might have been ; had I still re- 
 mained, fagging away as a clerk in a Sunday School 
 Society, upon a small and limited salary, I might have 
 been there still, but who ever would have heard of my 
 name .-' Would that name ever have been honoured by 
 its association with the literature of my country — or by 
 the important accessions which I have made to that
 
 23 S Life of William Carleton. 
 
 literature ? Under any circumstances, I thought it was 
 no harm to resume my classics, a step which I was 
 urged to take from the following circumstances. My 
 predecessor in the office had also taken up the notion 
 as to entering college — a notion which he ultimately 
 carried out, and left the society at the very 
 moment, it was urged against him, when he had 
 become thoroughly conversant with its business. 
 Another before him, again, was removed because it was 
 ascertained that he too was preparing himself for 
 college — although he offered to pledge himself most 
 solemnly that he would never enter college, or leave the 
 society, so long as they were satisfied with his services 
 and his efficiency in the discharge of his dut}'. 
 And now my intention of entering college came to 
 the ears of one member of the committee — Thomas 
 Parnell, brother of the late Sir Henry Parnell, 
 County of Wicklow. He said the clerks were 
 making the society a mere stepping stone to promote 
 their own interests in life, and that the moment their 
 services became valuable to the society, they left 
 it. Now the fact is, the matter was not worth contest. 
 The business of the society was so plain, simple and 
 uniform, that a boy of twelve or fourteen years, after a 
 little practice, could discharge the most difficult duties 
 of it. Thomas Parnell, however, was very difficult 
 to be satisfied with anything that did not depeiid 
 upon some original suggestion of his own. He 
 walked through these religious societies, like a perturbed 
 spirit, making every office unhappy into which he 
 entered. 
 
 He was a tall, heavy-faced man, with a lounging 
 gait, who seemed not to know how to dispose of his
 
 Thomas Parnell. 239 
 
 time ; and I know that every clerk in the Sunday 
 School Office stood in the relation of a slave to him, 
 except myself. For instance, he would glide in 
 just about five o'clock, the hour appointed for the 
 close of our business — take a seat upon one of the 
 stools, and remain there probably for an hour and 
 a half. I need scarcely add, that while he kept his 
 position on the stool, not a clerk would leave his desk. 
 This occurred repeatedly, in fact, it was a habit of his, 
 because the Sunday School was his pet society. 
 
 At this precise time, it had got abroad that I was 
 preparing for college, and the truth is, I was reading 
 hard. The significance of this observation will be 
 shortly seen. One evening, Parnell came in at the 
 hour of five, as before, and we all turned round to our 
 desks as if to resume business. He sat there in solemn 
 silence for at least three-quarters of an hour, when, 
 fretted and irritated by conduct so inconsiderate and 
 unfeeling, I deliberately settled my papers — locked my 
 desk — took down my hat, and making him a respectful 
 bow, took my way home. The very next evening, the 
 same scene was repeated, but on this occasion, when 
 the clock struck five, he said, — 
 
 " Carleton, as your time appears to be so valuable to 
 you, you may go home." 
 
 " I never go home, sir," I replied, '' until the hour for 
 closing comes — and I am not aware that we are 
 expected to slay beyond that hour. Nine in the morn- 
 ing and five in the evening were the hours named in our 
 instructions." I accordingly bowed to him most respect- 
 fully as before, and took my departure. Armstrong, 
 who, as the reader knows, lived in the house with me, 
 did not reach home for an hour or upwards after me ;
 
 2 40 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 he, with the rest, did not possess spirit to act with in- 
 dependence. I will not forget the observation he made 
 to me, at his solitary dinner after his return from the 
 office. 
 
 " Take my word for it," said he, " you ought to lose 
 as little time as possible in looking out for another 
 situation. Your doom is sealed with us — and that's the 
 opinion of the whole office." 
 
 I could not take such a severe view of the matter 
 as that, because at the time, I did not know the man, 
 but still I had my apprehensions. 
 
 It was about the third or fourth day after that, or 
 perhaps a week, when one of the committee, by name 
 Vicars Boyle, father or brother to the present most 
 respectable banker of College Green, Alexander Boyle, 
 came into the office, and after chatting awhile with 
 Mr. Boyd, our able under secretary, lounged round 
 and came over to me. I felt flattered by this atten- 
 tion, and looked upon it as a distinction in its way. 
 He entered into conversation with me — told me he had 
 heard that I was a good classical scholar, and asked me if 
 it were true that I was preparing myself to enter college. 
 I replied that a good deal of that depended upon circum- 
 stances over which I had no control— but that nothins: 
 would gratify me more than to take college honours. 
 
 " You would, in other words, have no objection to 
 become a Fellow," he added, smiling. I have often felt 
 since that this notion of entering college after my 
 marriage was wild and chimerical.' 
 
 ' The Fellows are of course precluded from marrying. Late last 
 century a great scandal arose in Dublin through charges made by 
 Theophilus Swift, a satirist, to the effect that the Fellows were 
 evading the rule. The end of it was that Swift and a Fellow were 
 imprisoned for libelling one another.
 
 Dismissed. 241 
 
 About a month now elapsed, during which time we 
 never saw Tom Parnell's heavy face. I was getting on 
 very agreeably — I felt the world no trouble to me. My 
 wife had prevailed on me to give up all notions of college 
 distinctions — a sacrifice I would have made for none 
 but herself — for still — still — still the idea of distinction 
 kept moving before me in the distance, and luring 
 me on to something, indeed vague and indefinite, 
 but possessing such an interest for me as I cannot 
 describe. In the meantime, I was as happy as any 
 young man in my position of life could wish to 
 be. 
 
 One day, about a month or six weeks after the visit 
 of Mr. Boyle to me — it was the day on which our 
 committee met every week — the business had been con- 
 cluded — when a Mr. Johnston, who generally attended 
 the committee — there was some name for his office which 
 I forget — came up with the committee book under his 
 arm and said to me, with an honest depth of feeling 
 which could not be misunderstood : — 
 
 " Mr. Carleton, I am deeply distressed by the intelli- 
 gence I am forced to communicate to you — I wish from 
 my soul it had devolved on anyone else." 
 
 My friend Armstrong sat at the desk, on the left-hand 
 side next to mine, and the moment Johnston spoke, 
 the warning, or prophecy, which he had uttered on 
 the evening alluded to, flashed upon me. We looked 
 at each other, and he shook his head in a spirit of 
 despondency which I felt to be too just. Johnston 
 proceeded : — 
 
 "The committee," said he, " no longer require your 
 services, Mr. Carleton, and you are no longer a clerk in 
 this office.'^ 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 "But, Mr. Johnston," said I, "this requires an expla- 
 nation. Why am I removed from my situation, without 
 any charge having been preferred against me } Have I 
 exhibited either incapacity or neglect ? Have I done 
 anything to entitle me to such treatment ? You who 
 manage the proceedings-book ought to know." 
 
 ** It is not my business," said he, " to pass any opinion 
 upon the proceedings of the committee — I am merely 
 their registrar. I do not think myself bound to do 
 more than record these proceedings, aiid that you know 
 is my duty.'" 
 
 " Well," I replied, " there is one thing clear, that I 
 must have been guilty of some act or acts which bring 
 me under their censure." 
 
 "This much I will say," replied kind-hearted Mr. 
 Johnston, "that there is no charge of incapacity 
 brought against you." 
 
 " Well," I replied^ taking up my hat^ " my only remedy 
 now is to see Mr. La Touche, by whose influence I was 
 appointed." 
 
 " Do not go as yet," said he, " I am going — you know 
 that on every committee day, when he does not attend, 
 I brine him over the book that contains the register of 
 ■the proceedings." 
 
 I felt he was right, and I felt besides that he was 
 sincerely my friend. 
 
 I need not enter into the details of this affair, for 
 although it was a matter of the deepest importance to 
 me at the time, it may not be so to the reader. It is 
 enough to say, that when I waited on Mr. La Touche 
 on that same day, subsequent to Mr. Johnston's official 
 visit, he said with a firm and indignant eye : — 
 
 " Mr. Carleton, we will not discuss this matter here —
 
 Reinstatement. 243 
 
 my office is not the place for it — only mark me — return 
 to your duty^ 
 
 " But how can I do so," I replied, " after having been 
 dismissed ? " 
 
 " It is shameful,^' he proceeded, forgetting himself in 
 the genuine indignation of the moment ; " your only fault 
 is, that you were preparing yourself to enter Trinity 
 College and qualify yourself for a higher, and probably a 
 more distinguished, position in life than could be found 
 by a young man of intellect in our office. I remember 
 that on the morning you were out with me at Sans Souci, 
 you expressed a wish to enter college, so that, at all 
 events, you treated us candidly since the very com- 
 mencement. Now," said he, " return to your usual 
 duties in the office, and say that you do so by my 
 authority." 
 
 Mr. La Touche, in consequence of the pressure of 
 public duty upon him as a banker, found it impossible 
 to attend every meeting of the Sunday School committee. 
 On the next occasion however, he made it a point to be 
 present, and at that meeting I was re-appointed to my 
 situation. Mr. Boyd, the assistant-secretary, who still 
 holds that situation in the society, cannot forget the 
 circumstances I am relating. 
 
 No man ever felt the sense of triumph with a more 
 exultant spirit than I did on this occasion. I looked 
 upon that triumph as ultimate. I may as well, however, 
 relate here the grounds on which I was removed from 
 my clerkship, although I think the reader may very 
 readily anticipate them. 
 
 Two clerks, my predecessors in the same society, had 
 availed themselves of their appointments in it to enter 
 college. It seems they were very able men, and of 
 
 R 2
 
 244- Lii^'E OF William Carleton. 
 
 course succeeded in gaining high honours during their 
 college course — they then left the society, and fresh, 
 untrained hands, forsooth, were called in to struggle 
 through the intricacies of the business that was placed 
 before them. Parnell, the fat spectre of the societies, 
 was the moving spirit against these respectable and 
 talented men, as he was against me. There is nothing 
 more simple than the business of these societies — as I 
 have already stated. Parnell wished to make it appear 
 that my preparations for college were made furtively, 
 and without the knowledge of the society. At the 
 meeting of the committee which restored me to my 
 situation, Mr. La Touche, who attended expressly on 
 my account, contradicted the intention imputed to me 
 of preparing for college in an underhand manner — so did 
 honest Vicars Boyle, who, after this very serious charge 
 against me by Tom Parnell, had been desired by Mr. 
 La Touche to speak to me on the subject^ and to 
 observe if he could perceive any reluctance on my 
 part to disclose my intentions on that point.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Essay-writing— Literal-}^ vanity — Thomas Parnell victorious — Loses 
 situation — The siege— Before the magistrate — Rev. Mr, Wilson 
 — Carleton becomes a father — Rev. Henry Newland. 
 
 After having given up all notion of entering college, 
 I took, in the evenings during my leisure hours, to the 
 amusement of writing short essays upon different 
 subjects, after the manner of Addison in "The 
 Spectator." The rapidity with which I wrote these 
 astonished myself; but as my judgment was far from 
 being matured at the time, how could I, a poor obscure 
 creature, ever dream that such productions were worth 
 notice ! Still, I brought some of them to William 
 Sisson of Marsh's library, and he actually appeared to 
 be thunderstruck by them. I had several essays upon 
 different subjects — some serious and some humorous — 
 all of these I left with him, because, being ignorant 
 of everything connected with literature at the time, I 
 really knew not what to do with them. 
 
 No man living ever felt a warmer interest in m\' 
 fortunes than William Sisson. He had obliged Arch- 
 bishop Magee in matters connected with the library, and 
 made his Grace a very warm friend of his. I have said 
 that he had, in consequence of a dreadful accident, lost 
 almost the whole thigh and leg on one side. The 
 medical gentleman who performed the terrible operation 
 necessary to the safety of his life was the late Surgeon
 
 246 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 Kirby, of Harcourt Street. The latter was one of the 
 most able and intellectual men I ever met. He was 
 possessed of the highest and most accomplished literary 
 tastes. 
 
 When I had been about six months in the Sunday 
 School Society office, the sedentary life (from nine 
 a.m. till five p.m.) brought on a complaint for the treat- 
 ment of which Kirby was celebrated. In fact he was 
 the Butcher or the Colles of his day.' 
 
 He also had read my essays, and expressed such an 
 opinion of them, that he advised me to bring out a 
 weekly periodical like " The Spectator," stating that he 
 would subscribe one hundred pounds to it, and also 
 see what he could do aniong his friends. All this was 
 very flattering, but I had not courage to undertake it. 
 It would indeed be strange if I had. 
 
 I believe I may appeal to all those who know me 
 upon the subject of vanity. I do not think it ever has 
 been said, or ever will be said, that I am a vain man, 
 remarkable for literary assumption and self-conceit. So 
 far from this, I may state that my friends have brought 
 charges of the very opposite description against me, for 
 instance, that I seemed to undervalue myself, and that 
 I did not assert the position to which my talents had 
 elevated me. There is a good deal of truth in the 
 latter charge. Beyond the fact of having secured fame, 
 I seldom gave myself any further trouble about the 
 matter. I introduce these observations here to meet 
 any charge of vanity which may be brought against me 
 for the statement I am now about to make, especially 
 
 Two celebrated Irish surgeons in the early part of the century, 
 Abraham Colles ("1773-1843) beinsr the better known.
 
 The "Skeleton" Again. 247 
 
 when that statement has personal reference to myself, 
 At that period, then, of which I write (a.d. eighteen 
 hundred and twenty), I think after I had written 
 a good number of essays, both serious and comical, 
 which had been privately circulated among literary 
 people by my friends, most of whom, if not literary 
 themselves, were persons of taste and education, a 
 small undercurrent of that kind of reputation which 
 goes about in a private way was attached to my 
 name. I was often spoken of as " that clever young 
 fellow Carleton, who wrote Jeremy Baddleback," for 
 such was the name of a humorous essay I had written, 
 my first effort at representing a character. 
 
 I was now nearly six months married, almost the 
 same period of time in my situation, and not at all 
 in a capacity to enter into speculations which would 
 require money, and which, besides, were so uncertain 
 in their results. My wife, besides, was beginning 
 to appear " as ladies wish to be who love their 
 lords." 
 
 Thus was I comfortable enough ; and I was satisfied 
 also that my salary was a rising one. Gallaher, 
 I have stated, was in .the habit of going twice a 
 week to teach music to the children of Santry 
 Charter School. He always, it seemed, went there 
 in a hack car, for which he paid nothing, being 
 allowed the expenses ; but be this as it may, he 
 happened to call at my office about four o'clock 
 one day, and asked me to accompany him. At this 
 time I had never seen Santry — or a Charter School — 
 and I said to Mr. Johnston, " Mr. Gallaher, a very par- 
 ticular friend of mine, wishes to give me a drive to 
 Santr\- — it's something before the closing of the office, I
 
 248 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 know — but the truth is I have nothing here to do, and 
 I would wish very much to go." 
 
 Of course he consented at once, and I was on my 
 way downstairs, when whom should I meet coming up 
 but the " skeleton " of all the religious offices, Thomas 
 Farnell. He gave me a peculiar and inquisitive look, 
 but passed on. Gallaher and I spent a very agreeable 
 evening at Santry, and although we had music and supper, 
 we reached home at an early hour. The master of the 
 school was a serious and evidently a religious man, but 
 there was nothing about him that was not kind and 
 hospitable. Gallaher lived in Cork Street, and I in the 
 Coombe, within fifty yards of the entrance to Cork 
 Street. We were at home about ten o'clock. 
 
 My position in life, notwithstanding my essays, 
 seemed now to be fixed. Parnell had tried his strength 
 and was beaten. In spite of all his influence, I held my 
 situation, and was master of my desk in the office. Two 
 or three v/eeks, however, went on, and nothing happened 
 worthy of observation, until one day that the committee 
 had closed their weekly meeting, when the registrar, 
 Mr. Johnston, came up as usual from the committee- 
 room below stairs, and said : — 
 
 " Mr. Carleton, I am sorry to bring you bad news a 
 second time ; you have this day been removed from the 
 situation you have held here." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Johnston, I thought this matter had been 
 definitely settled. What is the charge now ? " 
 
 " The same as before," he replied, " with the addition 
 that you are in the habit of leaving the office at 
 irregular hours, and not returning until it is closed." 
 
 I felt at once that this lying charge had its origin in 
 my visit to Santry — because I knew that from the first
 
 Out-Manceuvred. 249 
 
 day I entered the office as a clerk, until that moment^ 
 no similar case on my part had ever occurred. If it 
 were an offence, it was my first and only one. 
 
 " Well," said I, " this case is as clear, so far as I am 
 concerned, as the other was. I must only state it 
 once more to Mr. La Touche." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said he, " that such a step 
 is now not within your power. Mr. La Touche left 
 home on Friday last for France or Italy, and is not 
 expected to return for two months. The committee/* 
 he added, " have voted you an additional quarter's 
 salary." 
 
 I felt hopeless indeed, and on looking at him I saw 
 at a glance how deeply the poor fellow entered into ali 
 my feelings. The door of the next room, which be- 
 longed to one of the other societies, was open, and 
 Johnston went over and looked in ; he beckoned to me 
 to join him, as there was no one in the room. 
 
 " What I am about to say, my dear Carleton, I 
 mention in the strictest confidence. There was a very 
 angry scene about you awhile ago — James Feriier was 
 strongly against the step that has been taken ; so were 
 most of them, and Parnell would have failed, had he 
 not threatened at once, not only to resign, but altogether 
 to withdraw himself from the society. This, you know, 
 would be a serious loss to us, inasmuch as, one way 
 with another, he is worth upwards of a thousand per 
 annum to us. His word in the religious world carries 
 everything with it — especially with a certain class of 
 religious people." 
 
 I had nothing for it, therefore, but to submit ; this I 
 was forced to do, and with a very bad grace I did it. 
 That day was quarter day, in other words, the day 011
 
 250 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 which we received our salary and all the consolation 
 I had was, that instead of fifteen pounds I received 
 thirty. 
 
 I began now to reconsider my relation to Providence. 
 
 Why were my hopes, when they seemed firm 
 and permanent, perpetually dashed from my grasp ? 
 Was I worse than other men ? I was not con- 
 scious of any crime ; I felt that I was naturally 
 benevolent, and disposed to serve my fellow-creatures 
 so far as I could. Why then did ill-fortune and human 
 enmity in the shape of my evil genius, Tom Parnell, 
 thus dog my heels. Even Tom Parnell himself was not 
 without his enemies, but he stood beyond their reach. 
 His harsh conduct to me on this occasion actually crept 
 abroad, within certain limits, to the disadvantage 
 of his character. 
 
 Here was I again, once more upon the world, with 
 blank prospects. What was I to do ? On what hand 
 to turn ? Mrs. Carleton's uncle had lost his health, 
 and with his health his temper. He was peevish and 
 snappish, and unmanageable by either reason or 
 feeling. On hearing of Parnell's first attempt to 
 remove me from the Sunday School Society, and 
 also of its failure, he felt quite at ease, especially as he 
 had James Digges La Touche on his side. On the 
 second occasion, however, when he found that Parnell 
 had carried his point, he became rather uneasy ; but at 
 this time he was ill. Taking his whole character in 
 at a glance, he was a man guided by results, not by 
 truth. He took me to task, therefore, upon the 
 subject of my second dismissal, and argued from that 
 fact a justification of the first. It was in vain that I 
 placed clearly before him the circumstances connected
 
 A Crisis. 251 
 
 with both facts — in vain that I adduced the receipt of a 
 quarter's salary, as a kind of admitted compensation 
 for the injustice which was done me. 
 
 " I am very glad," said he, " that they have given it 
 to you — you must leave this house — I am unable to 
 support you any longer." 
 
 "You have supported me much longer than most men 
 would, " I replied, " and I am deeply thankful to you 
 for it ; but did you ever witness an act on my part with 
 which you could find fault ? Has not my conduct 
 been that of a correct, moral, and sober man ever since 
 we met — ever since I came under your roof ? " 
 
 "Begone," said he, "you shall not remain here 
 another night." 
 
 "I don't intend it," I replied. ''Jane, my dear, get 
 your things — I will go for a car — and when I return 
 with it we can go." 
 
 I accordingly went for a car to take away our 
 baggage, but judge of my surprise, when, on returning 
 with it, I found my wife locked up in what we used 
 to call our own room. There she was under lock and 
 key, and a strong protest on the part of her uncle that 
 he would not permit her to accompany me. I was 
 about to break open the door, but her aunt whispered 
 me not to feel any uneasiness ; that the moment this 
 exhibition of temper disappeared, as it soon would, his 
 natural disposition would return, and all would be well. 
 She entreated me to leave the matter in her hands, and 
 I did so. 
 
 " Call," said she, " at your usual hour — nine or ten 
 to-night — and you will find everything quiet and 
 peaceable." My wife whispered me to the same effect 
 through the door, and I left them without any apprc-
 
 252 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 hension. On returning that night, you may judge, 
 kind reader, of what I felt on discovering that I was 
 locked out, and, unless by scaling the wall, could 
 not by any possibility make my entrance. The house 
 was a long, large, two-storey house, in the centre 
 of a court, in which was a garden and three large grass- 
 covered platforms. I scaled the wall that led into the 
 back entrance, and knocked at the back door, but found 
 that exclusion was the order of the night. I knew that 
 the window of our own room, if played upon by gravel, 
 would enable me to communicate with my wife — but in 
 one thing I was mistaken, A bed had been made up 
 for her in the room where her aunt and uncle slept, 
 yet although that had a window opening backwards, I 
 could not approach it, because there was a wall between 
 me and the other portion of the back court. I knocked, 
 indeed, at the kitchen door, which opened into that 
 part of the backyard where I stood, but could receive 
 no reply. I shouted and called, but to no purpose. 
 I bethought me of how I was to get out of the 
 yard, over the wall of which I came in assisted by two 
 men passing, who had helped me up. I had not long 
 to wait, however, for in an instant old Fox, accompanied 
 by half-a-dozen watchmen, bolted into the backyard 
 and pounced upon me. I simply knocked them 
 down as fast as they approached me ; I did more — I 
 rushed into the passage that led to the hall — then 
 upstairs to our room, which I found locked — then into 
 my wife's uncle's sleeping-room, from whence I brought 
 my weeping wife, with her arms about my neck 
 kissing me most affectionately, and entreating me 
 to take her with me. I was in the upper gallery 
 when about a dozen watchmen came rushing up the
 
 A Family Quarrel. 253 
 
 stairs to arrest me. I immediately placed my wife 
 in the same room from which I had taken her, and 
 turned upon them in such a state of frenzy as 
 I had never before experienced. To make a long 
 story short, I beat them. They were not able to 
 achieve the landing by the staircase, and they had 
 no other means of reaching me. They then sent for 
 ■firearms, but Mrs. Fox whispered a word or two into 
 my ear, which rendered me as meek as a lamb. 
 i had forgotten my wife's condition, and what the 
 result 1 of further noise or outrage might possibly be, 
 and I accordingly surrendered myself, and was 
 brought away to the watch-house, where I remained for 
 the rest of the night. The next morning, when I was 
 brought before the magistrate, I discovered that he 
 was a gentleman whom I had met at dinner at the 
 house of the Rev. William Whitelaw, the rector of the 
 parish. 
 
 The magistrate's office, or, in other words, the police- 
 court, was then somewhere off James's Street. Old Fox, 
 who was at that time near eighty, was punctual in his 
 attendance, and so was his amicable wife, who came 
 for the purpose of establishing goodwill between us. 
 FoXj however, was a man who never could restrain his 
 temper, unless he was allowed to carry everything his 
 own way. When the case came on, he was called 
 upon to speak, but never was there such a failure — in 
 fact^ his charge was nonsense, and a complete mass 
 of contradiction, without either force or effect. When 
 the magistrate, whose name I cannot now recall, 
 asked me what reply I had to make, Mrs. Fox, in a few 
 calm words, made the matter quite plain by simply 
 giving the facts as they occurred. She stated that ever
 
 2 54 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 since our marriage, and before it, I had lived with 
 them, that they had allowed us a room to ourselves, 
 where we slept, and that, in every other respect, we 
 were members of the family, and boarded at their 
 table. Also, that it had not been my wish to return to 
 their house that night, but she had extorted a promise 
 from me to do so, as she hoped every angry feeling 
 would pass away in the course of the day, and that all 
 would be peace as usual. 
 
 I simply corroborated what she said in a very few 
 words — but in all my life I don't think I ever heard 
 so severe, so terrible a rebuke, as old Fox received 
 from the magistrate. I will not repeat it here. 
 The respectable old man has long gone to a better 
 world than this, and many a time afterwards did he 
 express the deepest sorrow for his conduct on that 
 memorable occasion. 
 
 I have been somewhat particular about this scene, 
 because that last night was a memorable one to my wife 
 and me. We took our departure from the Coombe the 
 next day ; my wife went to reside with her mother, and 
 I took lodgings in an eating-house almost opposite to her. 
 
 I have mentioned William Sisson as one of the 
 kindest friends I ever had. As the acting librarian of 
 Marsh's library, he was in the habit of coming into 
 contact with a great number of reading and literary 
 men, with all of whom he was very anxious to make me 
 acquainted. One of these, a quiet, unassuming clergy- 
 man, but a first-rate scholar, was a resident master 
 in college, curate of St. Andrew's, secretary to the 
 Association for Discountenancing Vice— which had an 
 office at Mr. Watson's, the religious bookseller in Capel 
 Street.
 
 Doctor Wilson's Advice. 255 
 
 Sisson had shown him some of the prose sketches I 
 have referred to ; with these he was so much struck, that 
 he asked Sisson to introduce me to him. He was 
 curate, as I have said, of St. Andrew's parish, and after 
 service every Sunday he took a cup of coftee in the 
 house of Mr. Hamill, the parish schoolmaster, whose 
 residence is on your left-hand side as you approach the 
 church on the way to Cork Street. I accordingly called 
 on him one Sunday after service, and was shown into 
 the little room above stairs, which was always set apart 
 for him while taking his coffee. Here I found him, and 
 presented my note of introduction from Sisson. My 
 reception was extremely kind ; a second cup and saucer 
 was produced, and from that day forward I occasionally 
 dropped in at coffee time, and paid him a visit, which 
 was a very pleasant one to me. 
 
 At this time the Protestant clergymen throughout 
 Ireland depended almost altogether upon the Asso- 
 ciation for Discountenancing Vice for the supply of 
 schoolmasters. This was generally known, and the 
 consequence was, that those men who were anxious for 
 such situations, either in Dublin or the country, had 
 their names registered upon a " teachers' list," for unless 
 the teacher was sanctioned by the society, he had no 
 chance of being appointed to the school. 
 
 I need not say, or rather, the reader shall soon learn, 
 what a fortunate thinij it was for me that I made 
 the acquaintance of Dr. Wilson. He told me at once, 
 openly and without cither wavering or hesitating, that 
 I ought to make literature my profession. That might 
 be true, and it certainly made somewhat more clear the 
 dim and distant stars of future distinction which, from 
 time to time, I saw in the darkness before me.
 
 256 Life of William Carlp:ton. 
 
 In the meantime, I had no employment. My mother- 
 in-law, though a respectable, was not a wealthy woman. 
 That she was affectionate there could be no doubt, but 
 that she was narrow-minded and ignorant on many 
 points of ordinary life there could be as little. Her 
 daughter — my wife — had now been some months with 
 her, and no mother since the creation of woman ever 
 loved a daughter with more affection than she loved 
 her — still, she could not understand why a young fellow 
 going about in the dress of a gentleman, should not be 
 able to support his wife. At the very time I write of, 
 she had a small sum in the funds which had been left 
 her by a cousin in the north. The whole family came 
 from Belfast to Dublin, where they settled. 
 
 My mother-in-law possessed that sort of northern 
 sharpness, both of feeling and observation, which is to 
 be found nowhere in Ireland outside Ulster. Now I 
 detest this ; it is a blot upon my native province, and 
 tlie consequence was, that she and I never pulled well 
 together. My wife was living with her, and I was living 
 upon a scale of frugality in point of food — in fact, in 
 point of everything — that pressed upon my diminishing 
 purse, in spite of my self-denial, with a sense of exhaus- 
 tion which made my heart sink. During this time, I 
 lived upon rolls and milk, never tasting either meat, 
 spirits, or malt drink in any shape, and only anxious to 
 extend the little money I had as far as it could go. 
 
 This day, on which I am proceeding with the humble 
 records of my life, is the third of November: on this 
 day, in the first year of our marriage, while my wife 
 was lying in a bed off one of the upper rooms, was she 
 delivered of our daughter Mary Anne — our first-born 
 The day was Sunday, and although the gratifying event
 
 The First-born. 237 
 
 had taktn place, there was not a single soul visible 
 from whom I could ask a question. The absence of my 
 wife occasioned me to feel some suspicions, because 1 
 knew that during the last week her confinement was 
 daily expected. I went quietly upstairs, and on enter- 
 ing my wife's bedroom, I found her lying with a smile 
 of triumph on her face, and our first-born lying on her 
 left arm soundly asleep. 
 
 Don't imagine that I am about to describe the novelty 
 of the sensations which filled my heart. I saw, it is 
 true, the sweet, innocent, and unconscious features of 
 the little angel, and looked upon them until my heart 
 softened, and expanded, and melted, and during this 
 examinalion the eyes of my wife were fixed upon me 
 with an expression of perfect happiness. After a few 
 moments I wiped the tears from my eyes, and stooped — 
 
 " Ah," said the mother, "you are going to kiss her; 
 there, she is awake." 
 
 " No, Jane/' I replied, " you are mistaken — it is not 
 she I am about to kiss " — and I pressed my lips to hers 
 again and again, until her emotions warned me to con- 
 sider the very delicate state of her health. Having 
 composed her, I took the first-born up in my arms, and 
 if the young seraph had any reason to complain of the 
 want of kissings and huggings the fault was not mine. 
 In short, the fact of her birth had altogether placed me 
 in a new state of feeling. I looked upon the world as if 
 I had been under the influence of a dream — a happy 
 dream — but on reflecting that I now stood for the 
 first time in a new character, that of a father, and 
 that this was but the beginning of a fresh responsi- 
 bility, which every year would call upon me to meet, 
 I felt divided between a feeling of happiness and care: 
 
 VOL. T. S
 
 258 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 care was perhaps predominant, because, young as I 
 was, I had been taught such lessons as few had ever 
 been forced to learn. 
 
 The reader will perceive that fate — a fatality — ever 
 attended upon me, and that no glimpse of happiness or 
 good fortune ever fell in my way, without an accom- 
 paniment of something that was calculated to check 
 any feeling of enjoyment that might accompany the 
 good fortune. 
 
 I\Iy first-born child was sent to me at a time when I 
 had not ten shillings in my pocket. How was I now 
 to live ? Again was I to search life for that which I 
 was never destined to obtain — anything in the shape of 
 permanent employment. I must consult my friends. 
 My friends ! Why, after all, I had no friends, with the 
 exception of William Sisson. On stating the position 
 in which I stood, he asked me to go and live with him, 
 until something could be done. He lodged at the time 
 with a Mrs. Taylor, who kepi a combined female 
 boarding school and female day school. Sisson 
 had a good deal of property in Sandymount, and 
 was landlord of the very house which Mrs. Taylor 
 occupied. He had a drawing-room and two bed- 
 rooms. 
 
 My object was now of course the old one — to get 
 employment — and, on consulting Sisson, I told him 
 that I was perfectly sick of Dublin. 
 
 " I wish," said I, " that I could get a school under 
 some of these societies in the country, where I could 
 live retired from the tumults and disappointments of 
 life. I have no ambition now." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, " you have and must ; you are 
 not conscious of the powers of your own intellect.^'
 
 A Modest Ambition. 259 
 
 " Well," I replied, " let me get quietly to the country 
 — and when removed from the cares of life, perhaps I 
 may have a better opportunity, in quiet and solitude, to 
 call upon whatever intellectual powers I possess — but 
 at present my most anxious wish is to conduct a school 
 in the country — a school with such a salary as I can live 
 upon. That, at present, is the height and extent of my 
 ambition." 
 
 " Well," said he, " my poor fellow, there is something 
 in that. Your mind, when relieved of embarrassments, 
 might gain new strength, and there is little doubt but 
 that relief from difficulties and care would give your 
 intellect that full play which is, I think, all that it 
 requires. A school in the country is the very thing you 
 want — and in this you are very fortunate. Go to our 
 friend Wilson." 
 
 Life is a scene of network. One friend becomes a 
 link between one and another, and in this manner our 
 interests become gradually intermingled in the great 
 web of existence. I called upon Mr. Wilson, expressed 
 the same sentiments to him which I had communicated 
 to Sisson, He, however, was a deeper thinker and an 
 older man than Sisson. After hearing me express the 
 sickness of heart which my struggles in Dublin had 
 occasioned me to suffer, he said, — 
 
 " In one sense I cannot blame you, but there is 
 another view of- the subject which I for one cannot 
 overlook. As sure as I live you possess talents which 
 will yet distinguish you, but only on that chance or 
 condition of life which may force you to reside in 
 the city. Go to the country — settle down into the 
 character of a common schoolmaster — and every hope 
 worthy of cherishing in your life is lost." 
 
 s 2
 
 26o Life of William Carleton. 
 
 " But," I replied, " if I possess the talents which you 
 are kind enough to attribute to me — may not the 
 leisure and quiet of a country life enable me, as I told 
 Mr. Sisson, to ascertain whether they exist or not. 
 I repeat that I am sick of Dublin life, and I shall never 
 rest until I find myself in a position to leave it." 
 
 "Well," said he, "upon this subject I perceive you 
 are immiovable. I am constantly written to, in con- 
 sequence of my position here, to find masters for such 
 country schools as you seek. Call on me from time to 
 time — say once a week — and, meanwhile, leave me your 
 address." 
 
 " Write to Sisson," said I, " Marsh's Library ; I am 
 there almost every day." 
 
 In about ten days afterwards, Sisson handed me a 
 note which he had received from Wilson. The contents 
 of it were as gratifying as they were unexpected. 
 There was a situation vacant in his own office, and of 
 course he felt very anxious that I should not lose a 
 moment in applying for it. I did so, and although 
 there were only three candidates, yet I had not a 
 chance. Everything depended on the handwriting, 
 and on that occasion I became so disturbed and 
 nervous that my writing, when contrasted with that 
 of my competitors, rendered it impossible I should 
 succeed. 
 
 Mr. Wilson was very sorry for this. " See what 
 it is," said he, whe« I called to know the result, " to 
 write a good hand — it is the handwriting that is 
 chiefly wanted here. Don't go," he added, " I have 
 received a letter from the Rev. Mr. Newland, curate 
 of MuUingar. There is a master wanted there — I 
 know he is a man you would like — and who would like
 
 Mr. Newland. 261 
 
 you. He possesses literary tastes and has lately written 
 a very able pamphlet on the Church, which he has 
 dedicated to Dr. Elrington, son of the late provost. 
 The latter, unless he takes a wealthy college living, will 
 be likely to succeed his father in the provostship. Mr. 
 Newland's father, Abraham Newland, is the master of 
 the celebrated school in Aungier Street, and he himself 
 is an accomplished scholar." ' 
 
 ^ He became Dean of Fe:ns in 1842, and died about 1862.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Cough's " Arithmetic " — Mullingar — A contributor to WestmeatJi 
 Guardian — A remarkable veteran — The 93rd regiment — 
 WeUington Guernsey— The miUtary riot. 
 
 This was precisely the man I wanted. It was at once 
 agreed upon that Mr. Wilson should write to Newland, 
 and in the course of a few days I had a letter from that 
 gentleman, requesting me to call upon his father in 
 Aungier Street, in order that I should submit myself 
 for an examination as to my qualifications. I accord- 
 ingly did so, and had a very fortunate escape from 
 rejection, inasmuch as old Abraham, though utterly 
 ignorant of classics, considered himself one of the 
 sharpest arithmeticians of his day, a notion, however, 
 which wanted corroboration. I had not been long 
 in the parlour, when a back door opened, and in came 
 a man about sixty, wearing a loose, grey surtout, 
 a slate in one hand, and a Gough ' in the other — 
 exactly in his school costume. He certainly did not 
 overwhelm me with compliments, but treated me much 
 like a servant, who was seeking for some domestic 
 appointment in the family. He handed me the slate 
 and cutter, and, pointing to a chair, requested me by a 
 bow to take a seat. 
 
 ' Cough's " Arithmetic " was largely used in Ireland.
 
 Cough's " Arithmetic." 263 
 
 " I suppose, Mr. Carleton/' said he, " you are a good 
 arithmetician ? " 
 
 *' Well, Mr. Newland, I do know something about it, 
 and that is all I wish to say. Pray whose arithmetic 
 do you teach ? " 
 
 " Gough's," he replied. 
 
 " Gough's," I exclaimed, with astonishment. " Surely 
 it is not possible that you are teaching the system of a 
 man who for years has proved himself to be ignorant 
 of the doctrine of proportion ! I thought I should 
 have found Thompson here, not Gough — but indeed, 
 Mr. Newland, I did expect to have met you with Homer 
 or Virgil in your hand, and not with such a schoolboy's 
 book as Gough's ' Arithmetic' " 
 
 " Oh, then, you are a classical scholar, Mr. Carle- 
 ton ? " 
 
 "Yes," I replied, assuming an air of offended 
 dignity. " I believe it is admitted that I am a classical 
 scholar, sir." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Carleton," said he, '^ I beg a thousand 
 pardons. I shall write to my son by this day's post, 
 and you may rest assured that my letter to him will 
 close the transaction precisely as you yourself could 
 wish it." 
 
 I did not go to Mullingar for some days afterwards, 
 but Mr. Newland had learned through his father that 
 I was a classical scholar, and the father, with whom I 
 was a favourite, eagerly besought his son to overlook 
 that fact, for it was his opinion that, notwithstanding 
 my knowledge of classics, I might make a very good 
 English teacher. 
 
 The son, who possessed a great deal of natural 
 humour, enclosed me a copy of this paragraph from his
 
 264 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 father's letter, at which we had many a hearty, good- 
 natured laugh afterwards. 
 
 I need not deny, from a principle of false modesty, 
 that I believe my kind and warm-hearted friend, 
 Henry Newland, looked upon my letter as far 
 above the average expected in those days from a 
 man who was only a candidate for a parish school. 
 The couple of letters he wrote to me, immediately 
 before my journey to Mullingar, were such as 
 might be supposed to pass from one gentleman to 
 another. As a proof of this, he requested to know by 
 what conveyance, and day, and hour I should reach 
 Mullingar, that he might be able to meet me on my 
 arrival, I took a fancy to travel by the canal from a 
 mere feeling of novelty. 
 
 On our arrival there, he met us at the canal station 
 house, then kept by a man past ninety, of whom, before 
 1 leave Mullingar, I shall have a few words to say. It 
 was out of the question that Mrs. Carleton could dine 
 with strangers that day, especially with our first-born in 
 her arms — but it was obvious to me at a glance, that New- 
 land had expected and made provision for this. He had 
 already provided lodgings for us in the house of a 
 broken-down, but respectable merchant named Atkins, 
 andhad also his own privatecar to convey us, either to our 
 new lodgings or his own house — which was the rectory 
 — to dine. After leaving Mrs. Carleton at our lodgings, 
 he insisted that I should dine with him. I could not 
 refuse such marked civility, and 1 accordingly ac- 
 companied him to the parsonage where he lived. 
 The Rev. Mr. Robinson, the rector, lived with his 
 son a couple of miles from town, and Mr. Newland in 
 his absence occupied the rectory. Mr. Newland had
 
 At Mullingar. 265 
 
 some gentlemen from Tullamore at dinner that day, and 
 altogether we spent a very pleasant evening. 
 
 When I went down to Mullingar, there was no school 
 house, and on this account Mr. Newland, with his usual 
 good sense and foresight, secured a large room in the 
 house we lodged in — a circumstance which added very 
 much to the convenience of both myself and my wife. 
 We now set to work. The next day but one, our school 
 opened to about sixteen or eighteen of the most wretched- 
 looking creatures— boys and girls — I ever laid my eyes 
 upon. " And this," thought I bitterly, " is, after all my 
 struggles and hopes, what I have come to." It was a 
 melancholy position, and when I went down stairs to 
 our private rooms — a sitting-room and a bedroom — 
 and expressed myself more fully to my wife, she acted 
 nobly, both in language and bearing. 
 
 " Surely," she said, " it is not on tJiis day — the very 
 first — that }'ou ought to express an opinion, or to form 
 one either, of your situation. Surely you must wait 
 until you see how matters will turn out. We have food 
 to eat, and the shelter of a house over us, and how 
 many are there in the world who have neither one nor 
 the other." 
 
 " But it is a sad thing, Jane, to be pushed to such a 
 comparison as that. I am not sure that we have much 
 bread to eat, for my purse is very low." 
 
 The poor woman — woman ! why, she was not nine- 
 teen at the time — the poor child, I should rather say 
 — was about to make some reply, when a girl, who 
 was sent to us by Mr. Atkins, the landlord, to do 
 whatever rough-and-ready jobs we required, until 
 a regular servant should be engaged — ran upstairs 
 saying there was a message from Mrs. Kidd for us.
 
 c 
 
 266 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 We were certainly at a loss — who was Mrs. Kidd ? 
 What could the message be ? 
 
 "Well," said I, " I have the use of my limbs and of 
 my tongue, and I shall soon knoiv." I went down 
 stairs to the hall, and found a stout young fellow stand- 
 ing there, with an immense plucked turkey in one hand, 
 and a ham corresponding in both size and weight in the 
 other. 
 
 " There's some potatoes here, too, sir," he said, " in 
 this sack — but if you will show me where I'm to fetch 
 them to, I will bring them down." 
 
 There could not have been less than four or five stone 
 of potatoes, but the varlet was stout, and in a few minutes 
 I found my empty garrison provisioned for upwards of 
 a week at least. I asked who Mrs. Kidd was, and got 
 a reply to the effect that she owned the " Westmeath 
 Guardian." I would have felt completely in the dark 
 here, had I not learned, the very day before, that there 
 was a newspaper of that name published in the town. I 
 afterwards knew the proprietor of it very intimately, 
 as well as his admirable wife, who, sul? sileiitio, had the 
 credit of being the editor. I wrote a good many 
 articles for the Westjueath Guardian while I was there 
 — so did Mr. Newland. One of mine was on Goldsmith, 
 and I wish I had it now. 
 
 My wife's remonstrance with me, on the day we opened 
 our establishment, was the first intimation I ever had 
 of the excellent good sense and capacity for business 
 which she possessed. As I have said, she was not 
 nineteen — and had never endured the struggles or trials 
 of life so as to teach her what severe experience meant, 
 yet she spoke with the spirit and feeling of a woman who 
 had spent half a life among thfe conflicts of the world.
 
 Hospitable Friends, 267 
 
 Of course I called upon Mrs. Kidd to thank her for 
 the valuable, and I might have added suitable, presents 
 which she so kindly sent us. I then saw her and her 
 worthy husband for the first time. They asked us to 
 dine with them on the next Sunday, and in such a 
 kind and hospitable spirit, that it was impossible to 
 refuse. Little Harry Wilton, too, the proprietor and 
 conductor of the excellent hotel there, was equally kind 
 and equally hospitable. Indeed, I don't think I ever 
 had my foot in so generous and hospitable a town. 
 The number of presents I received, both in eatables 
 and drinkables, was incredible, and there was nobody 
 to make use of them but myself and my wife, and 
 our servant girl. There was a wealthy family named 
 Troy, whose children attended the school, but upon 
 what basis the said family calculated the powers of ours 
 in wasting food I know not. All I can say is, that 
 scarcely a week passed, during which we did not re- 
 ceive from them more presents, in fowl and eggs alone^ 
 than three households like ours could consume. 
 
 When I had been in Mullingar for about two months, 
 my wife began to lose her health. A second daughter 
 was born to us, and as the school increased far beyond 
 expectation, she was quite unable to meet with proper 
 effect the weighty duties of her portion of it. The 
 number of pupils had increased so much beyond 
 all calculation, that we were obliged to take a waste 
 house, which had the character of being haunted, 
 and whose only recommendation was its spaciousness, 
 for it was damp and foetid. I never felt such a 
 detestable and abhorrent change as it occasioned, 
 and the only circumstance that reconciled me to it 
 was the fact that an admirable new schoolhouse.
 
 268 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 together with a handsome residence for the master 
 and mistress, were at the time in a considerable 
 state of advancement between the canal and the 
 town. I am reminded here, especially by my allusion 
 to the canal, of an anecdote which I promised the 
 reader some time back. It is a strange one, almost 
 comically so, if we dare indulge in mirth upon such an 
 occasion, especially after reading the Old Testament. 
 There was a servant of the Canal companj^, who 
 had lived in the station house, if my memory serves 
 me, since the first opening of the canal at Mullingar. 
 1 have seen the man hundreds of times, and I must 
 say, that during a long intercourse with life, I have 
 never seen such another. To me, who even then did 
 not know myself, or what my anxiety to discover charac- 
 ter meant, or how to account for the Impression which 
 its exhibition made upon me, this man was a study. In 
 many senses he was a remarkable man — first as to his 
 age. He was, at the time I knew him, in his ninety- 
 fourth year, a fact for which he could produce the most 
 satisfactory proof; and he was never known to taste 
 anything stronger than milk or v/ater. In fact, he 
 belonged altogether to a bygone generation. During 
 his ninety-four years, he was never known to wear a 
 cravat about his neck, or a pin in the collar of his 
 shirt. That shirt, winter and summer, lay open — 
 so did his whole breast, which, together with the neck, 
 presented one of the most healthy scarlets I ever 
 witnessed. I have said that he never tasted anything 
 stronger than water ; to this I may add, that during 
 the term of his patriarchal life, he had never suf- 
 fered one day's illness. There was not a wrinkle in 
 his face, or a white hair in his head. His eye was as the
 
 A Patriarch. 269 
 
 eye of nineteen or twenty, his voice free and firm, as 
 though it belonged to the same date. In stature he was 
 about the middle size — without bend or stoop— and yet, 
 strange as it may appear, you could not avoid, on looking 
 at him, the consciousness that he was one of the oldest 
 men you had ever seen. There was, besides, a peculi- 
 arity of expression in his face which rendered it utterly 
 impossible that you could mistake him for another. 
 Now this man of ninety-four took it into his head, 
 while I was in Mullingar, to marry. It is true he had 
 the reputation of having some money — a fact of which 
 there was no doubt — but be that as it may, his little 
 station house had an air of comfort in it that you could 
 rarely see about Mullingar, which was then — whatever 
 it may be now — one of the most slovenly towns in the 
 three kingdoms. Yes, he took it into his head to 
 marry, and he did marry a girl, who was well known 
 to be only in her nineteenth year. She was a sweet, 
 modest-looking girl, remarkable for quiet, good sense; 
 nobody could look upon her without a feeling of instant 
 and well-deserved respect. 
 
 JMany observations were made upon this strange 
 marriage, which I will not report here. It is enough to 
 say that the newly-married couple appeared quite con- 
 tented and happy, until, in the course of six months or 
 so, people began to talk again. vSo they talked, and so 
 time passed until, at the expiration of nine months, 
 the midwife presented the worthy station-master with 
 a fine young son — his own born image. The fact 
 created a sensation. For six weeks after the event, the 
 house was visited every day — presents were brought 
 both to husband and wife. Even ladies in their 
 carriages went to see them — and I myself, after
 
 2/0 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 having had this singular history ringing in my ears for 
 at least a fortnight, went also to pay them a visit. I 
 did so. Never have I seen one human creature such 
 a living image of another, as the young son was of 
 the old father. The resemblance was astonishing, 
 and the more so when we consider their relative ages 
 — the one an infant of only a few months and the 
 other close upon a century. 
 
 While I was at Mullingar, the Ninety-Third Scotch 
 Regiment was stationed in the barracks, which are a 
 little more than a quarter of a mile out of the town. 
 What was the cause of the quarrel I know not, but 
 the townsfolk and the kilts carried on an irreerular 
 warfare that ended in one of the most dreadful 
 scenes I ever witnessed. The Ninety-Third had a 
 library, which, indeed, might truly and^without metaphor 
 be called a circulating one. It was kept by one 
 of the sergeants, who had two sons'at my school, and 
 who obliged me from time to time by the loan of any 
 books I may have taken a fancy for. I had also the two 
 sons of Quartermaster Guernsey, as kind and as hospit 
 able a man as ever lived. His wife, too, was not only a 
 perfect lady, but a woman of genius. She was a first- 
 rate amateur artist, and had a painting of the decollation 
 of John the Baptist, for which she was offered two 
 hundred guineas ; but she preferred, she said, to leave it 
 as an heirloom to her family. She was also a first-rate 
 musician. Many a pleasant evening I spent with them, 
 and little did I imagine then that the stupid and sickly boy 
 who was under my instructions, should become almost 
 an " Admirable Crichton " afterwards — but so it was. 
 Quartermaster Guernsey's two sons were named respec- 
 tively Wellington and Forbes — Wellington being the
 
 Wellington Forbes. 271 
 
 elder. When with me he was dull, heavy, and 
 apparently possessed of the greatest disrelish for 
 education. This, however, was easily accounted for — 
 the poor boy had a tendency to blood to the head 
 and did not appear likely to live twelve months. 
 He was subject to such bleedings at the nose 
 as I never witnessed in any boy of his age. I have 
 known them to last in my school upwards of an hour 
 and a half — in fact, until we were obliged to send for 
 Doctor Middleton, who lived next door, by whose skill 
 and attention we were enabled to send him home. 
 This strange boy afterwards recovered his health, but not 
 while with me, and became the inheritor of his mother's 
 manifold talent. He distinguished himself as a com- 
 poser of music, and went to the Crimean war, where 
 his distinction was more eminent. After his return, I 
 think he obtained a liberal pension as a reward for some 
 military discovery he had made.^ The reader sees now 
 that I was in the habit of going up very frequently, during 
 the summer evenings, to the Mullingar barracks— a 
 very fortunate circumstance for myself as the event 
 proved. 
 
 One thing impressed itself deeply upon the whole 
 town and neighbourhood — the soldiers of the Ninety- 
 Third were repeatedly waylaid, and brutally beaten, 
 on their way both to and from the barracks," but 
 principally on their way home at night. These 
 attacks, too, were conducted with such secrecy and 
 skill, that the soldiers found it impossible to trace 
 
 ' Wellington Guernsey was born in Mullingar on June 8th, 1817, 
 and died in London on November 13th, 1885. He composed much 
 music, and the words of many songs, besides arranging Irish 
 melodies. His most popular air is " I'll hang my harp on a willow 
 tree.'
 
 2/2 Life of William Carletox. 
 
 the authors of them. One soldier was killed at the 
 canal watering-place, and not the slightest mark could 
 be traced of the murderer or the murderers. The 
 inquest upon the body of the soldier was attended with 
 such a spirit of triumph and derision on the part of the 
 people, as was calculated to try both the temper and 
 the patience of the Ninety-Third to the very uttermost 
 extent. At all events, matters seemed to subside for a 
 little ; the season was autumn, and it was not unusual 
 to see the soldiers going in groups of four or five, to 
 the outlets of the surrounding neighbourhood, to enjoy 
 a stroll, from which it was afterwards recollected they 
 never returned until after dusk. One evening, about a 
 week after these excursions had ceased, the great body 
 of the Ninety-Third Regiment rushed from the gates of 
 the barracks, in a state of fury and violence which 
 could not be understood. Every man was armed with 
 a heavy cudgel cut in the neighbouring woods of 
 Knockdrin, and calculated to effect terrible mischief 
 in the hands of such stalwart and enraged men. 
 On leaving the barracks, they took their way directly 
 to the town, where they divided themselves into two 
 parties, each in a state of ungovernable fury and 
 vengeance. At first, and before the Highlandmcn 
 were seen, the inhabitants of the distant parts of the 
 town, impressed by the noise and tumult, took it into 
 their heads that it was a rising of Ribbonmen, who 
 were about to burn the town. They were soon unde- 
 ceived, however — for in a short time, such a scene pre- 
 sented itself as had never been witnessed in a state of 
 civil society. The Scotchmen committed such slaughter 
 right and left, as they went along, as could under no 
 circumstances be understood. Every civilian they met
 
 A Riot at AIullingar. 273 
 
 was knocked down, and for the most part thrashed into 
 insensibility by these furious men, with their huge and 
 heavy cudgels. The streets of Mullingar were strewn 
 with what were apparently dead bodies. Windows were 
 smashed to atoms — those who ran to the doors to 
 ascertain the cause of the outrage were either knocked 
 senseless inside, or dragged outside and smashed down 
 without mercy. William Kidd, the proprietor of the 
 Westvieath Guardian, was standing, or rather leaning, 
 across the half door of his office, when he received two 
 or three blows of a cudgel on the naked head, which 
 confined him to his bed for upwards of a fortnight,, 
 and, indeed, occasioned some serious apprehension 
 for his life. 
 
 Startled by the noise, I ran down to my own hall 
 door, outside of which I had no sooner taken my 
 place, than three powerful fellows, who were coming 
 down the centre of the street, started across with the 
 purpose of beating me down. This they would have 
 done, were it not for a voice which shouted out to them 
 — " Hauld your hauns — that gentleman disna belang 
 to them " — and the words were scarcely uttered, when 
 the librarian from the barracks was at my side, just in 
 time to protect me from their violence. 
 
 " For God's sake go in, Mr. Carleton," said he, '"' and 
 you may thank God that I happened to be passing at 
 the time — only as you hope for mercy don't mention 
 my name." 
 
 I lost no time in bolting in, and took very good care 
 that I did not make my appearance uatil after the 
 soldiers had returned to their barracks. 
 
 The punishment these men inflicted on the people 
 was dreadful; they made no distinction — innocent and 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 guilty were treated with equal ferocity — and, indeed, for 
 nearly three weeks afterwards the town of Mullingar 
 was more like a hospital than anything else, A 
 strong complaint was transmitted to the War Office ; 
 an investigation was held, and the decision come to 
 resembled the good sense of a man who cuts off his 
 nose to vex his face. The sentence from the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief was, that the town of Mullingar should 
 no longer be a military station for his Majesty's 
 troops. 
 
 A beggarly staff of veterans merely was left to take 
 care of the barracks. Sir John Buchan and his whole 
 regiment were ordered to some other station, and the 
 market of Mullingar presented a mere skeleton of 
 what it used to be. The inhabitants of the town held 
 a banquet of triumph on the occasion, a fact which 
 caused a great deal of drollery among those who were 
 indifferent to either party. The notion of the sapient 
 ■citizens congratulating themselves on having deprived 
 the town of an important source of income was, for a 
 long time, a standing joke against them.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Clothing the naked — Sir Boyle Roche's bird— Rev. Dr. Robinson 
 — The Rochforts — Election humours — Car!eton arrested for 
 debt— MuUingar Gaol — The suspended priest — The popular 
 idea about them — Dub in again — Carlow school — Kilkenny 
 coal. 
 
 This is a strange world ; at least I have found it so. 
 During my residence at Mullingar, I received a visit 
 from a friend, who had been to see some of his 
 relatives in Tullamore, named Pierce, I think. He 
 was a clever, romantic, unsettled kind of man, but at 
 the same time generous even to folly. Upon the day 
 he arrived, I was about to purchase the materials for a 
 suit of clothes, as I never wished to appear shabby. 
 Upon looking at him, I observed with regret that the 
 poor fellows though unquestionably with the appearance 
 of a gentleman, stood seriously in need of a reno- 
 vated wardrobe. I asked him the cause of this, and 
 his reply was evidently a very true one. 
 
 " Well," said I, " I am going to buy a suit of clothes 
 for myself; but for that I am laying down ready 
 money — come with me, and if the shopkeeper gives me 
 credit, I will rig you out as well as myself — I might 
 pas?," said I, " but you stand rather much in need of a 
 change, Andrew." 
 
 The proprietor of the establishment felt great pleasu; e 
 
 T 2
 
 2/6 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 in obliging me, and I desired him to send the materials 
 up to Mr. Lee, the principal tailor in town. 
 
 It was just at this time that I received a message 
 from Mr. Newland, requesting to see me. He had 
 finished a pamphlet — an ! an able one it was — upon 
 the state of the Established Church in Ireland. That 
 period, and indeed every period, was always pervaded 
 by private theological strife, and this was con- 
 ducted with a bitterness which was utterly unaccount- 
 able. The Established Church at that time resembled 
 Parliament. It had its two parties, one, we will 
 suppose, representing the government side, and the 
 other the opposition. When I look back upon their 
 by-battles now, I feel surprised at the earnestness and 
 bitterness with which they fought and contested un- 
 important trifles. Mr. Newland did me the honour of 
 reading a page or two of the pamphlet in question — 
 the pamphlet, indeed, which made him Dean of Ferns 
 — until at length he came to one sentence — which was 
 as follows : — 
 
 "We are attacked not only from without, but also 
 from within." 
 
 " Surely you will change that,'^ I observed. 
 
 "Why should I change it .-' '^ he asked. 
 
 " Excuse me," said I simply, " because — with every 
 respect for you — it is not common sense." 
 
 " How do you prove that ? " said he. 
 
 " Why," said I, " because to make it so, like Sir Boyle 
 Roche's bird, you must be in two places at a time. 
 You say that you are attacked from without — now 
 you know that if you are attacked from without you 
 inust be within. Then you say we are attacked not 
 only from without, but from within — now, don't you
 
 Mr. Newland's Pamphlet. 277 
 
 see that you cannot be attacked from within, unless you 
 are without? Why," said I, " you have left yourself no 
 loais standi, you must be hovering in the air — although 
 I question if even that position would justify the 
 figurative expression in question." It is very strange 
 but I could not succeed in changing his opinion on the 
 subject.' 
 
 " The reason why I have sent for you," he said, " is to 
 say, that on next Sunday I preach my farewell sermon 
 to my flock— I am leaving the parish and going to the 
 county of Wexford." 
 
 Newland's departure fell very heavily upon me. I 
 generally spent a couple of evenings every week with 
 him, and I told him, at our separation, that it was not 
 my intention to remain in the parish after the change. 
 On the Sunday he preached his farewell sermon there 
 were very few dry eyes in the church ; mine at least 
 were wet. 
 
 I have as yet had but little occasion to speak about 
 the rector of the parish, the Rev. Dr. Robinson. He 
 was a remarkable old man, much stricken in years, and 
 much more in the most pitiable distress and embarrass- 
 ment. After Mr. Newland had gone, he and I were 
 thrown more together, as a matter of necessity, than 
 we had been. I have said that when the school be- 
 came too large for the room which Mr. Newland had 
 taken at Mr. Atkins' — who was a retired tanner — the 
 duty of taking an appropriate house was thrown upon 
 me. This circumstance, as matters turned out after- 
 wards, left me responsible for the rent. I took the 
 house, and although I stated candidly that I took it for 
 the purpose of converting it partly into a parish school 
 ^ Tliis is not wonderful.
 
 2/8 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 and partly into a residence for myself^ yet that seemed a 
 matter of indifference to the proprietor, who, I suppose, 
 considered me a sufficiently safe mark for the rent. 
 
 I never met in my life a more perfect old gentleman 
 than Mr. Robinson. For some years past he had not 
 resided at the rectory. He was past all official and 
 parochial labour, and lived with his son a couple of 
 miles from Mullingar, a little to the left of the beauti- 
 ful lake of Belvidere. His history was a peculiar one, 
 indeed, and contained a great deal of what I may term 
 practical romance. A fine property to the south, T 
 think, of Mullingar, belonged to two wealthy brothers 
 named Rochfort, who stood high among the gentry of 
 the country — one of them being Lord Belvidere. The 
 houses of the brothers had been built very near 
 to each other, but as almost every one knows 
 how often family feuds and implacable resentments 
 which have their source in the adjustment of property, 
 the reader need not feel surprised when I assure 
 him that these two brothers looked upon each other 
 with a feeling worthy of having its origin in hell 
 Itself. As a proof of this, I shall relate a short anec- 
 dote not very creditable to the old Irish gentry of the 
 country. The house of one of these brothers was 
 right opposite to that of the other ; the view from it 
 was delightful, and this was too mucti of a good 
 thing for one brother to enjoy, especially as the 
 other could put a curtain over the prospect, and shut 
 out the view, either of the landscape or the house. 
 He accordingly built a wall of sufficient height and 
 length for his purpose, and deprived his worthy rela- 
 tive of one of the finest landscapes in the county of 
 Westmeath. He, moreover, put his action upon an
 
 Brotherly Love. 279 
 
 even disgraceful footing; " he could not bear to look 
 upon the very house in which his brother lived." 
 
 In the good old times the county of Westmeath was 
 never represented except by a Rochfort. The candi- 
 dates' speeches on the hustings were a proverb, both for 
 their shortness and good sense. They were generally 
 drunk when they came to address the electors, but as the 
 speech was not only a proverbial, but a hereditary mani- 
 festation of the eloquence of the Irish hustings of that 
 day, it became such a delightful treat to the electors 
 that they insisted on hearing it word for word, as it had 
 descended to them from their predecessors, and woe be- 
 tide the man who, guided by common sense and a 
 liberal education, attempted to transgress the original 
 form. The predecessor to the man whom we are about 
 to introduce, upon the occurrence of a general election, 
 having received a better education than any preceding 
 member of the family, and having also improved his 
 mind and experience by travel, attempted^ on presenting 
 himself, to address them as a gentleman ought ; the 
 scene became tumultuous — he was hissed off — they 
 would not hear him. His friends got about him, and 
 said he had made a cursed mistake, and that if he did 
 not set himself right at once, they would vote for his 
 opponent, because they would regard him as having 
 abandoned the principles of his family. On making his 
 second appearance under better instructions, he addressed 
 them as follows : — "D — n your souls, you affectionate 
 blackguards, am'n't I here before you with devil a 
 political feeling about me but the gout, bad luck to it." 
 He was returned by a large majority. 
 
 The Rev. Mr, Robinson was agent to the last of the 
 Rochforts who had been member for the county of
 
 28o Life of William Carleton. 
 
 Westmeath, and the history of their friendship would 
 have made a good subject for a novel. They were 
 in Trinity College together, but were unacquainted, 
 until the incident which I am about to relate 
 occurred. Rochfort had a quarrel with a powerful 
 }-oung fellow, who, availing himself of his physical 
 strength, though in his own rooms, gave Rochfort, who 
 was slight and by no means a match for him, a very 
 severe beating. At this moment, and when RQchfort 
 had been placed in quite a helpless state on a sofa, 
 Robinson came in, and having learned, from some 
 other students present, the unmanly conduct of Robin- 
 son's opponent, instantly charged the latter with his 
 cowardice, and on receiving insolent language from the 
 bully, he set to work and left him l}'ing incapable of 
 raising hand or foot. Robinson and Rochfort, although 
 both resident students of college, had never before met ; 
 but the events of that day made them friends for life. 
 When Rochfort came into his fine estate, his agent had 
 just died ; but as he had never forgotten the interests of 
 his friend, he not only made him his agent, but 
 bestowed upon him the living of Mullingar, of which he 
 was the lay patron. 
 
 Now comes a sequel to the story. 
 
 For many a long year, Mr. Robinson was the 
 agent to the Rochfort property ; and for many a 
 long year did he get together such a sum of money 
 as would have made him and his independent. 
 He devoted himself to other means of increasing his 
 fortune, but they were honest and legitimate means — 
 through the public funds. Still, the friendship between 
 the agent and the landlord held firm. Such, however, is 
 life — Rochfort, who was a profligate in expenditure,
 
 ROCHFORT AND ROBINSON. 28 1 
 
 took Steps to acquire money without either the con- 
 sent or knowledge of his agent. His motive, however, 
 was honourable. This was repeated time after time, 
 until it became impossible to conceal the fact from 
 Mr. Robinson any longer. The latter was a poor man 
 when he became agent to the property of Mr. Rochfort ; 
 gradually, and by slow degrees, he became a man of 
 considerable wealth. Rochfort was now in a wretched 
 plighj — in fact, on the point of ruin. Legal proceed- 
 ings were taken against him, and on what hand was 
 he to turn ? We need not say — his guardian angel, 
 or rather he who would have been his guardian angel 
 if he could — was with him. He owed the property 
 he possessed to the kind and grateful spirit of his 
 friend and benefactor — could he now desert him in his 
 day of trouble ? 
 
 Alas, there was more than one day of trouble ; 
 many a day of trouble came, and in no instance did 
 ever the noble-minded agent abandon his friend^ until, 
 after a series of struggling years, they found themselves 
 both beggars. \ 
 
 Don't let the reader dare to doubt this ; it is no / ^ 
 fiction. I give their names ; any man doubting it might / 
 as well doubt the fact that Nelson's Pillar stands beside -V 
 
 the Dublin Post Office. ' ^ y 
 
 While Mr. Newland was at Mullingar he always ' 
 
 paid me my salary. After his departure, I had no one 
 to look to, except Mr. Robinson. He came in every 
 day, as I have said, to transact business — with a class 
 of persons on whom no one could look without feeling 
 that they were creditors. He carried a large green bag 
 filled with bank notes, and a second filled with silver. I 
 had been now close upon two years at Mullingar, but
 
 282 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 I had got tired of the house I was living in. My wife, 
 too, was losing her health, and I felt annoyed about my 
 responsibility for the rent, as well as by a note or two 
 I had received from the shopkeeper to whom I 
 owed the price of a coat for the friend to whom I have 
 referred. With great difficulty, I continued to get the 
 rent paid, but the state of my own health, and that of 
 my wife and infant children, satisfied me that a longer 
 residence in that damp, cold house, filled with draughts 
 as it was, would have been death to us. My chief 
 object now was to get out of MuUingar altogether. I 
 ac:ordingly wrote to my friend Mr, Wilson^ of Capel 
 Street, requesting him to find for me, if possible, a 
 situation which would afford me and my family more 
 personal comfort. I received a letter from him stating 
 that he had put my name down, and that he would ac- 
 quaint me with the first comfortable thing that offered. 
 I now lived a quiet but rather a dissatisfied life — I 
 could not at all admire the scenery about MuUingar- 
 Newland was gone, and Robinson I only saw about 
 money matters. I had among my scholars two sons of 
 a Mr. Murray, who had purchased the MuUingar Hotel 
 from Harry Wilton, and except my instructions to them, 
 I detested the duties of the school altogether. In fact I 
 was sick of both MuUingar and it, and came to the 
 resolution of giving Mr. Robinson notice that I was 
 about to resign my situation. When I went to the 
 parsonage, where for an hour or two he transacted his 
 daily business, and knocked, the door was not opened 
 as usual, and on looking through the parlour window, 1 
 noticed the servant maid peeping out : on seeing me 
 she came and opened the door, with a great deal of 
 caution.
 
 Ruffianly Bailiffs. 283 
 
 " What is the matter ? " I asked. 
 
 " There's bailiffs about the place, sir/' she replied, 
 
 "Well," said I, "I won't see him now — but I will 
 write to him." 
 
 This was in summer, and in the course of the evening 
 I was lounging in the house of a man named Barber, 
 a watchmaker, in whose shop some of the most respect- 
 able citizens were in the habit of meeting and chatting 
 in the evenings. After a tolerably long and pleasant 
 conversation, I turned down the street on my way 
 home, when, without either preface or apology, I was 
 arrested by two bailiff's, who immediately marched me, or 
 were about to march me, down to the gaol. They would 
 not even allow me to go home and inform my wife of 
 what had happened ; and when I attempted to do so, 
 they laid violent hands upon me, one of them giving 
 me a punch on the shoulder which was considered by 
 everyone who saw it as a most unjustifiable assault. 
 I could not restrain my fury at such wanton brutality, 
 and as a very natural consequence, I knocked them 
 both down. Barber, a most powerful man, came out, 
 and prevailed on me to go quietly with the bailiffs, 
 and indeed it was well for them that he did, or they 
 would have received severe punishment at the hands 
 of the assembled crowd, by whom they were de- 
 tested, as two of the most consummate ruffians that 
 ever disgraced even their profession. One of them 
 I got dismissed through John Charles Lyons, the 
 magistrate of Ladistown, brother-in- law to the late Mr 
 Tuite of Sonna. 
 
 After all, I must say that there was a good deal of 
 dramatic incident in my life. I was conducted to the 
 gaol, the governor of which was a gentleman
 
 284 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 named Fulding. Barber and some others of the 
 more respectable neighbours accompanied me. Now 
 it so happened that Fulding's children were my private 
 pupils ; by this I mean, that although they came to 
 my school as a public and free one, yet their educa- 
 tion was liberally paid for by their father. 
 
 On entering the prison, I asked to see Fulding, 
 and in the course of a few minutes he presented 
 himself. He appeared to be greatly affected by 
 what had happened, and after dismissing the bailiffs 
 he brought me into his private room, and having ordered 
 some brandy and water, and learned the simple facts, 
 he said, " Don't be uneasy — you know that as far as I 
 can make you comfortable I will do so. It's nothing — 
 you will be out in a few days. Ah," said he, " what is 
 your case? A soap bubble"— whisper — "do you know 
 whom I have in safe custody .? " From what I had seen 
 that day at the rectory, and also from what I had heard 
 on other occasions, I at once suspected the truth. I 
 merely bowed my head and pointed significantly to 
 the rectory. 
 
 "Right,'^ said he, "'and I am sorry for it; there is 
 not a man in the parish, Catholic or Protestant, who 
 will not feel as we do." 
 
 As that was my first visit to a gaol, I felt anxious of 
 course to be placed as they say upon the debtor's side, 
 because I had read enough about gaols to know what 
 that distinction meant. 
 
 "Debtor's side — God bless your soul," said he," there is 
 no such thing here. We manage that in the best way we 
 can, and a difficult affair it is. At this moment I have 
 only one room in which, if you wish to avoid the criminals, 
 I can put you. One of the occupants is a droll, vulgar,
 
 r> ^ 
 
 Gaol! 28^ 
 
 farmer who is very wealthy, and yet he's a debtor. 
 The other is a man who is in for a crime against the 
 state — in fact, a state prisoner. You see I am anxious 
 to do you honour.'^ 
 
 " But as to our friend," I said, " I hope you will make 
 him comfortable." 
 
 " He lodges with myself," said he, "and to-morrow, if 
 you are in here so long, you'll dine with us." He then 
 brought me to my appointed place, and having shaken 
 hands with me at the door, left mc. 
 
 On entering I found two men sitting there, one of 
 whom I instantly recognized. He was a degraded 
 priest, or what is termed a " couple-beggar." 
 
 Among the Catholic clergy — who are probably, 
 without exception, considering the natural re- 
 straints under which they labour, the most moral \ 
 class of men on God's earth — it is sometimes, but """^ 
 indeed rarely, necessary that the judicial hand of 
 episcopal authority should punish them. When a 
 Catholic priest falls, he himself appears to feel that his 
 fall is hopeless, like that of Lucifer — " never to rise 
 again.^' When the duties required from the individual 
 are of a high, pure and lofty character, and that the 
 position, in a spiritual and moral sense, is also elevated, 
 the fall is then terrible. It is more — it is a dark and 
 maddening descent, which fills the fallen man with 
 utter recklessness of all shame and decency, if not of 
 salvation itself. Indeed, I may say that the degrada- 
 tion to which such men sink, and the open hardi- 
 hood with which they set public opinion at defiance, 
 is the strongest proof of the inward tortures which 
 they suffer. In the great majority of cases, the 
 melancholy cause of their fall is an excessive in-
 
 285 LiFK OF William Carleton. 
 
 dulgence in liquor, and it unfortunately happens too 
 often that, notwithstanding their degradation by their 
 bishop, the compassion of the affectionate people for 
 them is a strong temptation after their fall. The 
 belief of the lower classes is, that after havins- once 
 received full ordination, neither bishop, primate, nor 
 Pope himself, can deprive a priest of his of the 
 spiritual authority. The only length to which ecclesi- 
 astical power is supposed to be capable of going is to 
 deprive him of the official authority of exercising it. 
 As to anything else, the people say that he possesses 
 the full right of conferring the sacraments. After 
 all, I am inclined to think that the people are right, 
 even in a theological view — " Tii es Sacerdos in 
 etermim secundum ordinetn Melchisedech." "Thou art 
 a priest for ever, according to the Order of Melchise- 
 dech." 
 
 On entering the room allotted to me, I found this 
 man was to be one of my companions, a circumstance for 
 which I felt very much obliged to my friend Fulding. 
 In truth, he and I might almost have been termed 
 acquaintances. We had met repeatedly in the streets 
 of Mullingar, through which he was in the habit of totter- 
 ing in a state of the most helpless intoxication. He 
 would sometimes seize me by the hand and address 
 me in Latin. His crime was the marriage of a Pro- 
 testant and Catholic, and as it was a case in which there 
 was property concerned, he had been prosecuted upon 
 a statute dug up from the penal laws ; while it became 
 perfectly well understood afterwards that the poor fellow 
 knew no more about the property involved than I did. 
 
 At all events, between him and Bob Gansey the 
 farmer, I was exceedingly amused. He was the most
 
 A Fellow-Prisoner. 2^7 
 
 harmless creature I ever met, and what was morej had a 
 touch of the gentleman about him, and a considerable 
 sense of humour, being also a good classical scholar. 
 There is one thing about the Roman Catholic people 
 of Ireland for which they deserve the highest honour, 
 namely, the affection and respect with which they 
 treat their priesthood. No man, living or dead, ever 
 had a better opportunity of witnessing this than I had. 
 They will treat a suspended priest with as much respect 
 as if he never had been suspended. They do so because 
 they know that on a future occasion, by amendment of 
 life, he may have the suspension removed ; a circum- 
 stance which occasionally occurs. I'his man's life was a 
 peculiar one. He was not three days in Mullingar 
 gaol, when the fact became known, not only throughout 
 the neighbourhood, but the whole parish — and the 
 adjoining ones. No one could believe the number of 
 clandestine marriages he performed, unless, like me, 
 they had been in the same prison with him. Fulding 
 had strict orders to prevent his having access to liquor, 
 but he might as well have attempted to deprive him of 
 air. Independently of this, however, no marriage party 
 — however small — ever came to him without brineine 
 whisky. That was a condition, independently of 
 the fees, which varied according to the circumstances 
 of the bride and bridegroom. The prison yard was 
 never without two or three of his messengers — they 
 were generally slips of girls from ten to fourteen. 
 Altogether he was treated with great indulgence, and 
 in spite of his degraded state he occasionally exhibited 
 manifestations of melancholy — especially in the morning 
 — which no man with a feeling heart could look upon 
 without compassion.
 
 288 Life of William Carleton. 
 
 I was detained in this prison longer than I expected. 
 Poor Mr. Robinson was also an object of compassion 
 although under a different view, and in a different 
 position, and I myself had the consolation to hear from 
 my wife that an execution had been put into my house, 
 and that not the value of sixpence was left under my roof. 
 Newland was gone — Mr. Robinson could do nothing — 
 and I could do nothing. The only friend I had outside 
 was a Captain Hill, who, in addition to some other public 
 employments, was an inspector of prisons, or at least of 
 Mullingar prison. He called on me one day, and asked 
 to know the amount of the debt for which I was in ; 
 and on the evening but one afterwards, he called again 
 and produced a receipt from my creditor. My wife 
 and our two infants had been taken iijto the house of a 
 kind-hearted neighbour, named Moffat, whose son, a fine 
 boy, had been at school with me. He and Mrs. Moffat 
 treated her and them with every possible kindness and 
 attention. We started for Dublin by the canal the next 
 day, and arrived safely in town. Mrs. Carleton, in 
 compliance with her mother's wish, stayed with her, 
 and I with my old friend her uncle on the Coombe. 
 
 Our stay in Dublin was not a long one. In the 
 course of three weeks, through the exertions of Mr. 
 Wilson, my ever kind friend, I was appointed to a 
 school in Carlow, similar to that which I had left in 
 Mullingar. The rector was the Rev. George Vernon ; 
 his curate was the Rev. Mr. Jameson, who kept a 
 classical boarding school. I am not sure to this 
 moment whether it was a diocesan establishment or 
 not, but this I do know, that the attendance was both 
 numerous and respectable. Mr. Vernon was a nephew 
 of the late Sir Charles Vernon, who had been master of
 
 The Carlow School. 289 
 
 the ceremonies in Dublin Castle. In kindness and 
 personal respect for me he was a second edition of 
 dear Newland. Carlow school was a very large one. 
 I was engaged to teach only the boys— the female 
 school having been conducted by a Mrs. Adams, The 
 " apartments " into which I and my wife were put, con- 
 sisted of one small room about fourteen feet by ten, 
 and the coals allowed us were of that vile and unhealthy 
 description to be found in some of the coal-mines 
 which lie between the counties of Carlow and Kilkenny. 
 One fourth of them was sulphur, and every morning we 
 could perceive the cream of that sulphur, so white and 
 thick under the door, that we have often scraped it up 
 with a knife in quantities as large as a pigeon's egg. In 
 fact the place was not habitable ; not only we ourselves, 
 but our children, became ill, and I found that to live 
 there was only another word for death. 
 
 [Here ends Carleton's autobiography. His manuscript embraces 
 only the period indicated in his own narrative, in which it will be 
 seen that he has minutely traced each step of his early career, and 
 has graphically described his privations and disappointments. A 
 few incidents, however, he has left untouched. It is known, for 
 example, that he once seriously thought of enlisting in the army, 
 and with that view wrote a letter in Latin to the commander of a 
 regiment in whose vicinity he happened to find himself, explaining 
 his forlorn situation, and asking to be allowed to join. The officer, 
 surprised and touched, wrote a kindly letter in reply, dissuading 
 the future novelist from entering the ranks, and enclosing a sum of 
 money to help him on his wanderings. It is also said that Carle- 
 ton, in the course of his recurrent quests for employment, on one 
 occasion entered the shop of a bird-stuffer and asked for work. 
 The tradesman, doubting the capacity of the raw countryman, 
 asked him what he usually stuffed birds with. " Potatoes and 
 meal," was the innocent reply. Carleton did not secure the position 
 in that bird-stuffer's establishment.] 
 
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