4 U UW%tM«W«d ^^ww>i>»*f*il InJHfij '3 .4i4»«-«i •.«»«M( t^fWN ■MM i-rt-4*^»H4VY*Vnn !»52fet2jn:l-4*^ ■4f»f>| M >»1<«l»H '-fWWWw r '^ r -' i UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES sJ '- '!iMiy?i .y>-^?r^:. mi^^ ^■3^K^-^ ■•'^^^<^ / X LibRL THE GIFT OF MAY TREAT MORRISON IN MEMORY OF ALEXANDER F MORRISON imsn HC€RACllRe e eiRe I c ^ J JUSTIN MCCARTHY, M.P. Editor-in-Chief of Irish Literature Photogravure after a photograph from liff IRISR Ut€RACUR€ JUSM nXMM MR EDITOR IN CHIEF MAURICE F.EGAN.LL J). DOUGLAS HYDE.LLD. LADY GREGORY JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE.LL.D. ASSOCIATE EDITORS CHARLES WELSH MANAGING EDITOR VOL. I. 3 i i deboweR'Elliott company CHICAGO J i ^ J J . J J J J J ^j J _ J J ' "^ i '... 'J '.;> l'\ '.", '>'''' ' ' ' . ' ' ' \ ' J ' ,' ' > ' > ^ t , 1 i' , JJJJ J 1 COPYKIGBT, 1004, BT JOBM D. MORHIS «fe COMPANT • t • • < • * 4 ft tt Wft* CO > 0^ EDITORIAL BOARD AND ADVISORY COMMITTEE V THE IIOX. JUSTTX McCarthy, M.P., Editor-in-Chief Maurice FRA^x'Is Egax, LL.D., of the Catliolic University, Washington Lady Gregory Stanuish O'Grady t). j. o'donoghub • Prof. F. N. lioHiNsox, of Har- vard University W. P. Ryan Douglas Hyde, LL.D. James Jeffrey IIoche, LL.D., Editor The Pilot G. W.Russell ("A. E.") Stephen Gwynn Prof. W. P. Trent, of Columbia University Prof. IL S. Pancoast John E. Redmond, M.P. Charles Welsh, Managing Editor Author of 'The Life of John Newbery ' (Goldsmith's friend and publisher). SPECIAL ARTICLES and THEIR WRITERS Irish Literature Justin McCarthy ]\IoDERx Irish Poetry .... William Butler Yeats Early Irish Literature . . . Douglas Hyde, LL.D. Ireland's Influence on Euro- pean Literature Dr. George Sigersoii Irish Novels Maurice Francis Egan, LL.D. Irish Fairy and Folk Tales . . Charles Welsh The Irish School of Oratory . J. F. Taylor, K.C. The Sunniness of Irish Life . . Michael MacDonagh Irish Wit and Humor . . . . D. J. O'Donoghue Thk Irish Literary Theater . . Stephen Gwynn A Glance at Ireland's History . Charles Welsh Street Songs and Ballads and Anonymous Verse BIOGRAPHIES and LITERARY APPRECIATIONS BY George W. Russell (" A. E.") W. P. Ryan Charles Welsh Douglas Hyde, LL.D. T. W. ROLLESTON G. Barnett Smith II. C. BUNNER G. A. Greene W. B. Yeats S. J. Richardson Standish O'Grady d. j. o'doxoghue Austin Dobson Dr. G. SiGERSON N. P. Willis Lionel Johnson O 'IRISH LITERATURE.' *■ Irish Literature ^ is intended to give to the read' inj>' world a comprehensive if only a rapid glance at the whole development of literary art in prose and poetry from the opening of Ireland's history. I may say at once that when I use the words " opening of Ireland's history " I do not intend to convey the idea that the survey is limited to that period of Ireland's story which is recognized as com- ing within the domain of what we call authenticated his- torical narrative. The real history of most countries, probably of all countries, could be but little understood or appreciated, could indeed hardly be proved to have its claim to authenticity, if we did not take into account the teachings of myth and of legend. This is especially to be borne in mind when we are dealing with the story of Ire- land. Only by giving full attention to the legends and the poems, the memory of which has been preserved for us from days long before the period when the idea of au- thentic history had come into men's minds, can we under- stand the character and the temperament of the Irish race. The Gaelic populations have ever been deeply absorbed in legendary fancies and mythical creations, and only through the study of such prehistoric literature can we understand the true national character of these peoples. The mythical heroes which a race creates for itself, the aspirations which it embodies and illustrates, the senti- ments which it immortalizes in story and in ballad, will help us to understand the real character of the race better than it could be expounded to us by any collection of the best authenticated statistics. We could not really knov.- the history of Greece without the Homeric poems, and we cannot understand the history of Ireland without study- ing the legends and poems which have preserved for (>ur time the aspirations and the ideals of prehistoric Erin. According to the accepted belief of prehistoric days, Ire- land was occupied or colonized in the early past first by an invasion, or perhaps it might better be called a settlement, from the Far East, and afterward bv an adventurous visi- tation from the shores of Greece. vii viii IRISH LITERATURE. One of the names given to the Irish people as it developed from this later settlement carries with it and must ever tarry the proclamation of its Greek origin. There is in- deed in the early literature of Ireland much that still illus- trates that Hellenic character. It may therefore be fairly assumed that the Phenicians first and the Greeks after- Avard left their impress on the development of the Irish race. Nothing imi)resses a stranger in Ireland who takes any interest in studying the Irish people more often and more deeply than the manner in which poetic and prehis- toric legend finds a home in the Irish mind. The sentiment of nationality is also a pervading characteristic of Irish lit- erature from prehistoric times down to the present day. The idea of Ireland is metaphorically embodied in the con- ception of a mythical goddess and queen, to whom all succeeding generations of Irishmen give a heartfelt, even when half unconscious, reverence. In his marvelous poem ' Dark Kosaleen,' James Clarence Maugan, the centenary of whose birth was celebrated in Ireland in 1903, has made this conception seem like an embodied reality. To the or- dinary matter-of-fact person this feeling of devotion to the national idea may sometimes appear like mere sentimen- tality. But even the most matter-of-fact person would have to acknowledge, if he looked into the question at all, that this idea, sentimental or not, has lived and never shows signs of decay through all the changes, all the con- quests, and all the foreign settlements which have come upon Ireland in the centuries of which we can trace the authentic history. No conqueror ever made more resolute attempts to sup- press and to extirpate this national sentiment than have been made by the Normans, by the Anglo-Saxons, and by the English niasters who have held possession of Ireland since the birth of Christianity. There never was a time when the Irish language ceased to be the vernacular of daily life among the Irish peasantry in many i)arts of the (irccn Island. As with the (ireeks so with the Irish: there was always a vein of bright huiiioi' animating the native literature, even when the general tone of that literature was naturally most disi)osed to melancholy and even to tragedy. \\ lien, under the dominiini of English-speaking rulers, the Gaelic language ceased altogether to be the IRLSH LITERATURE. ix exponent of Irish literature, the same blended strains of humor and of pathos distiuj^uished Irish poetry and Irish fiction from the poetry and the romance of the Anglo- Saxon race. Every effort was made at one time by the English conquerors to stamp out the use of the Gaelic tongue, Imt no efforts and no power could change the mold of the Irish mind. We know that in some mem- orable instances captive Ireland, like captive Greece, conquered her conquerors, and that the victor accepted and welcomed the sway of the vanquished. The race of the Geraldiues came to be described as more Irish than the Irish themselves, and down to very modern days were identified with Ireland's struggle for the recovery of her national independence. So much of course could not be said for that great English poet Edmund Spenser, who lived so long in Ireland that some of the finest passages in his poems seemed to have caught their inspiration from the scenery and the atmosphere of that noble river on whose banks he mused so much, that " Avondhu which of the Englishmen is called Blackwater." There came a time, as must naturally have been ex- pected, when Irishmen ambitious of success in literature sought a more favorable field for their work by settling in the English metropolis. Irishmen became successful in English literature, art, politics, and science, and were able to hold their own in any competition. This Avas not, however, the greatest period of English literature. Dur- ing the Elizabethan age, the age of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, and Massinger, the great change was taking place in Ireland which doomed the native tongue to temporary silence and the genius of Ire- land to a time of eclipse while the English language was still only growing into use in Ireland. When we come to that great era of English letters represented by the Queen Anne period, and from that onward, we can find Irishmen holding their own in the language of the Anglo-Saxon against the best of the Anglo-Saxons themselves. The plays and poems of Goldsmith, the dramas of Sheridan, cannot be said to have had any rivals in the England of their time, and have certainly had no rivals in later days. Sheridan was one of the greatest parliamentary orators who ever delighted the House of Commons. The great Sir X IRISH LITERATURE. Robert Peel declared that Edmund Burke \vas the most eloquent of the orators and the most profound of the philo- sophical politicians of the modern Avorld. Durinj;- all this period there was little or nothing of proclaimed nationality in the literature which Irishmen contributed to the history of English letters. The public Irishmen addressed was, first of all, an English public, and it had to be supplied with literature appealing to the taste and to the experiences of English readers. Yet even during that time there was always strong evidence of nationality in the work done by these Irishmen. It is impossible not to see that the fervor of Irish feeling and the vividness of Irish imagination counted for much in the best speeches of Burke and Sheridan, and may be felt in some of the finest passages contained in liurke's ' French Kevolution.' Swift never, to my thinking, developed in his own ways of thought and feeling any of the genuine characteristics of Ireland's national temperament. But it is certain that until long after Svv'ift's time Ireland's literary work was still passing through that curious period of development when by the unavoidable conditions of the era it had to address itself in a foreign tongue to a foreign audience. The fact upon which I desire to dwell is that even through this era the national genius and spirit of Ireland showed itself distinct and vital, and never became wholly absorbed into the moods and methods of Anglo- Saxon literature. As the years went on there began to grow up more and njore in Ireland the tendency toward a genuine revival of the Irish national sentiment and toward the restoration of a national literature. In Ireland there arose a race of men who no longer thought of writing merely for the Eng- lish public, but who were inspired by tlie conviction that there was still in tlieir native country a welcome to be found for an Irish national literature. There was at that time no deliberate purpose for the restoration of the Irish national language, such as we can see giving ample proof of its existence in our own days; but tliere was very dis- tinct and pal])able evidence that a new generation had already come up which was to have an Irish literature of its own. It can be shown as a matter of fact that the up- rising of this new spirit of vitality in Ireland's literary de- IRISH LITERATURE. xi velopment was due, in great measure, to that very scheme of English statesmanship which was introduced and car- ried into effect for the purpose of extinguishing Ireland's nationality altogether. That scheme was, 1 need hardly say, the Act of Union which deprived Ireland of her na- tional Parliament with the object of blending the legisla- tures of Great Britain and the so-called sister island into one common Parliament and one common system of law, and thus extinguishing the national spirit of Ireland. One of the immediate results of the Act of Union and the suppression of the Irish National Parliament was to bring about a sharp and sudden reaction against the grow- ing tendency to make Irish literature merelj^ a part of the literature of England. From that time, it may be said with literal accuracy, there came into existence the first school of reallj' able Irish authors who, although writing in the English language, made their work distinctively and thoroughly Irish. Such novelists as Banim, Carleton, Gerald Griffin, and others were as inherently Irish as if they had written in the old language of the Gaelic race. I do not mean merely that the scenes and personages they described were Irish, but I desire to emphasize the fact that the feelings, the imagination, the way of looking at subjects, and the very atmosphere of the novels breathed the Irish nature as fully as a harp breathes the national music of Ireland. Take even the novels of Lady Morgan, with all their flippancy, their cheap cynicism, their highly colored pictures of fashionable life in Dublin, their lack of any elevated purpose whatever — even these novels were, in their faults as well as in whatever merits they possess, unquestionably Irish. There are descriptions in some of Lady Morgan's novels which give us the scenery and the peasant life of Ireland with a realism and at the same time a national inspiration which no stranger trying to describe a foreign country could ever have accomplished. Poor Ladv Morgan — she had indeed manv deficiencies and many positive defects; but after all it may be allowed that she would compare not disadvantageously with some Eng- lish women wlio have written novels that are the rage among large masses of novel-readers in the England of our own times. I am not disposed to enter here into any study of Lady Morgan's literary productions. My only object in xii JIUSH LITERATURE. writiii«r of hor is to show that oven she who worked under the worst intiuences of the system of alien rule in Ireland, and who certainly could not be supposed to have written her novels in order to win the favor of the Irish, could not escape from the iutlueuce of the new era, and was com- pelled to write in the spirit and the style of the national revival. ]\Iy own conviction is that the most interesting, the most characteristic, and for my present purpose the most in- structive of all Irish novels is ' The Collegians,' by Gerald (Jrillin. This story is a literary masterpiece, and is well entitled to take its place with some of the best of Sir Wal- ter Scott's immortal rouumces. Its story, its most striking characters, its scenery are illumined by the very light of genius; its pathos is as deep and true as its humor is rich, racy, and genuine; it contains some original balhuls which seem as if they ought to be sung in Irish; and its pictures of the Irish peasantry stand out like the living and breath- ing embodiments of the people they illustrate. Let me add that I do not know of any other Irish novelist who has tlie happy faculty of reproducing with perfect accuracy the dilTerent dialects of Ireland's four provinces and never making a Connaught nmn or woman talk (juite like a na- tive of Leinster or of Munster. I am afraid too many readers get their ideas concerning ' The Collegians ' chiefly from Dion Boucicault's clever and, for stage pur- poses, most effective adaptation of the novel under the title of ' The (Jolleen Bawn.' The more exquisite qualities of the novel seem to vanish in the process of theatrical pres- entation, and the marvelous beauties of Gerald Griffin's prose style, as well as the finer and more subtle touches of cliaracter, are not reproduced for the benefit of the specta- tors in the stalls, boxes, or galleries of tlie theater. After tlie days of (Jerald Griffin's liuest work came Charles Lever, with his broad, bright, comic humor, his rattling descriptions of the drolleries and the contrasts of Irish life among the landlord and the peasant class alike. I do not desire to sav a word of disparagement where books like 'Charles O'Malley,' 'Jack llinton,' and 'The Dodd Family Abroad' are concerned. They have served their excellent pi]r[)ose, have given much amusement and like- wise some telling instruction, and they are likely to find IRISH LITERATURE. xiii readers for a lone: time vet to come. But there has often come into my mind a distinct panj;' of mortifi(Ml national and literary pride at the thought that probably the great majority of English-speaking readers who accept these books as typical Irish novels know notliing whatever of that real masterpiece of Irish romance, ' The Collegians,' unless what they learn from the successful drama of Dion Boucicault. However that may be, what I have esi)ecial]y desired to explain in these latter pages is that the litera- ture of Ireland broke away at a certain period altogether from its companionship with the literature of England, and asserted itself, consciously or unconsciously, as the genuine product of the Irish soil, claiming, on that ac- count, the especial recognition of the Irish people. There now arose a new movement in the national prog- ress of Ireland. That movement showed itself in organized shape under the leadership of Daniel O'Connell. O'Con- nell claimed first of all the legislative repeal of the Act of Union and the restoration of the Irish National Parlia- ment, but he asserted also the right and the duty of Irish- men to maintain their distinct nationality in literature and art as well as in political systems. I do not invite my readers into any consideration of the political effects of O'ConnelFs movement, but I wish to call their attention to the fact that it gave impulse and opportunity for the opening of a new chapter in the story of Irish national lit- erature. The Young Ireland Party rose into existence to protest against what it believed to be the too passive and too dilatory policy of O'Connell, and to arouse the country into a more earnest, vigorous, and concentrated expression of nationality. Then came that brilliant chapter in Irish literature illustrated by such poets as Thomas Davis, James Clarence Mangan, Richard Dalton Williams (who was known as "Shamrock"); such prose writers as Charles Gavan Duff}^, John Mitchel, Devin Reilly; and such orators as Thomas Francis Meagher and Kichard O'Gorman. Most of those men had to pay for their con- duct of the National movement the penalty which was habitual in earlier days, and were either sentenced by Eng- lisli law to expatriation or else compelled to seek in a foreign country that career which was made impossible for them in their own. Charles Gavan DuiTv found a Iiome and xiv IRI^H LITERATURE. success in Australia; Thomas Francis Meagber fought for the cause of the North in the American civil war and led his Irish Brigade on the heights of Fredericksburg; and Kicbard O'Gorman made his way to influence and posi- tion in New York. Fr(jm that time up to the present the national spirit of Ireland has asserted itself steadily in the literature of the country, although some of its most gifted exponents, like John Boyle O'Keilly, had still to seek for success and to find it in the United States. But with the rise of that literary moyement which began with the days of "Young Ireland " there passed away altogether the period when Irish poetry and prose were content to regard themselves as the minor auxiliaries of English letters. The Irish men and women who now write histories, essays, romances, or poems are, as a class, proud of their nationality and pro- claim it to the world. The object of this li])rary of 'Irish Literature' is to give to the readers of all countries what I may describe as an illustrated catalogue of Ireland's literary contributions to mankind's Intellectual stores. The readers of these vol- umes can trace the history of Ireland's mental growth from the dim and distant days of myth and legend down to the opening of the present century. From the poetic legend wliicb tells ' The Three Sorrowful Tales of Erin ' and that which tells the fate of the cliildren of Lir, down to the poems and romances of our own time, this library may well help the intelligent reader to appreciate the spirit of Irish nationality and to follow the course of Ire- land's literary stream from the dim regions of the prehis- toric day to the broad and broadening civilization of the present. I desire especially to call the attention of readers to the fact that throughout that long course of Irisli litera- ture it has always retained in its brightest creations the same distinct and general character of Irish nationality. I think any one studying these volumes will see that even during the adverse and ungenial times when Irishmen seemed to accept the condition of disparagement under which they wrote, and to bo (|uite willing to accept a place as contributors to England's literature, the characteristics of the Irish nature still found clear, although, it may be, quite unconscious, expression in their romances, dramas, and poems. IRISH LITERATURE. xv The same story has to be told of Scotland and even of Wales; but neither Scotland nor A\'ales was ever subjected to the same ]oui>- and constant pressure for the extinction of its nationality which strove for centuries against the utterance of Ireland's genuine voice. Scotland was always able to hold her own against the domination of England, just as when she consented to merge her Parliament into tliat of Britain slie was able to maintain her own system of laws, her own creed, and her own national institutions. No such pertinacity of effort on the part of the ruling power was ever made to suppress the language of Wales as that which was employed, even up to comparatively modern times, for the suppression of the language of Ire- land. Yet the reader of these volumes vvill easily he able to see for himself that the true spirit of the Irish Celt found its full expression Avith equal clearness, vrhether it breathed througli the hereditary language of the Irish people or through the Anglo-Saxon tongue which that peo- ple was compelled to adopt. The literature of Ireland remains from the first to the last distinctivelv Irish. The study of this historical and ethnological truth may well give to the reader a new and peculiar interest while he is reading these volumes. But I must not be supposed to suggest that this constitutes the chief interest in the works of Irishmen and Irishwomen which are brought together in this collection. The fact to which I have invited atten- tion is one of great literary and historical value, but the array of literary work we present to the world in this library offers its best claim to the world's attention by its own inherent artistic worth. We are presenting to our readers in these volumes a collection of prose and poetrj^ that cannot but be regarded as in itself a cabinet of literary treasures. The world has no finer specimens of prose and poetry, of romance and drama, than some of the best of those which the genius of Ireland can claim as its own. When we come somewhat below the level of that highest order, it will still be found that Ireland can show an average of successful and popular literature equal to that of any other country. The great wonder-flowers of liter- ature are rare indeed in all countries, and Ireland has had some wonder-flowers which miglit well charm the most highly cultivated readers. When we come to the literary xvi IRISH LITERATURE. jiarileus uot claim iiij;* to exhibit those marvelous products, we shall liud that the tlower-betls of Iielaud's literature may fearlessly invite comparisoii ^^■ith the average growth of any other literature, 1 have spoken of the great nu)vement which is lately coming into such activity and winning already so much practical success in Ireland for the revival of the Gaelic language and its literature. Every sincere lover of literature must surely hope that this movement is destined to complete success, and that the Irishmen of the coming years may grow up with the knowledge of that language in which their ancestors once spoke, wrote, and sang, as well as of that Anglo-Saxon tongue which alread}' bids fair to become the leading lan- guage of civilization. But in the meanwhile it is beyond (juestion that Ireland has created a brilliant and undying literature of her own in the English language and there can be no more conclusive evidence of tliis than will be found in the library of ' Irish Literature.' %rc^i^Zz!if /h "UU^Z/ 1^^^ LlUr: UJr lill u]( ON THE OLD SOD From the painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Arts, New York " The Irish Farmer in Contemplation," by William McGrath. This famous picture of a familiar Irish scene, painted by an Irishman, is a conspicuous and favorite object in our national collection. ' FOREWORD. Professor John Tyndall, an Irishman, was the first to show the world " the scientific use of the imagination." He shared with Professor Huxley the honor of being the most luminous exponent of abstruse scientific proposi- tions that the >\orld has ever seen. Powerful and vivid imagination, both mystic and scientific, is the character- istic and dominant element in Irish literature. Even literary experts are hardly aware how many of the bright particular stars which stud the firmament of Eng- lish literature are Irishmen. Ireland has produced men of mark and distinction in all departments of public life: some of the greatest administrators, some of the greatest soldiers, and, last but not least, some of the greatest authors, poets, dramatists, and orators that have used the English language as a medium. Furthermore, Ire- land is at last figuring before the world as " a nation once again," as the poet Davis so fervently sang. Her na- tionality and her national spirit have been recognized during the last twenty years as they never were since the dajH when Ireland was the " island of saints and scholars,'' the land of intellectual light and leading in Europe; when it was, to quote Dr. Johnson, '' the School of the West, the quiet habitation of sanctity and literature." hsidj Gregor}^, in a letter addressed to the writer, while this work was going through the press, speaking of the good progress that is being made in Ireland toward the building up of the character of the country, says : '' Its dignity has suffered from persistent caricature, and too often b}' the hands of its own children. I am not a poli- tician, but I often say, if we are not working for Home Rule, we are preparing for it. Ireland is looked upon with far more respect by thinkers than it was ten years ago, and I feel sure that your Anthology will do good work in this direction." The world has never yet fully recognized the fact that Ireland has produced a literature of her own, fitted to take rank with that of any other jiation, and this lit- erature is far too important a contribution to the sum of human knowledge and delight to be obscured under a for- xvii xviii FOREWORD. eigu name. Because it has been so obscured is oue reason why Ireland has not been looked upon by thinkers with the respect wliicli slie deserves; but this condition of tilings will, it is hoped, be forever removed by the publication of this work. ]iefore Irishmen were forced to express themselves in Euiiiish tliey had a literature of which the wealth and the ^\on(ler have been revealed in these later years by Dr. AMiitley .Stokes, Standish Hayes 0'(irady, Dr. Kuno Meyer. Eugene O'Curry, John O'Donovan, Miss Eleanor Hull, Lady Gregory, Dr. Douglas Hyde, M. de Jubainville, and Professors Zummer and Wundlich, and others too numerous to mention. The rich field of ancient Celtic lite- raUire lias been explored by them, and many of its treasures in translation will be found scattered through Volumes I. to IX. of this librarv. But more than this. In Ireland's progress toward becoming " a nation once again," her peo- ple have sought to make their native language a vehicle of literary expression once more — with what success our tenth volume shows. After all, however, the great l)ulk of Irish literature consists of the contributions of Irishmen and Irislnvoraen to English literature. For the first time they are given their due in this library, and Irish people themselves will be astonished to find how the Irishmen and Irishwomen who have written in tlie English language, and have never been credited with their v.ork as Irish, but have ever been classified under an alien name, have preserved an indi- vidualitj', a unity, a distinctive characteristic, a national spirit, and a racial flavor, which entitle their work to a place apart. The continuity of the Irish genius in its literature for nearly two thousand years is very clearly sliown in these volumes. The ricli, full, and elaborate vocabulary of the Irishmen who have written and spoken in English for the last two centuries or so had its taproots in the Gaelic of a far-off past. This will at once be seen ])y reading the adjec- tive-laden ' Descrii)tion of the Sea,' taken from ' The Battle of :Maglj Lear.a,' translated from the ancient Gaelic by Eugene O'Curry — almost Homeric in its form and Ti- tanic in its forceful phrasing, — and comparing it with the best of Irisli-English prose and verse, or even with the FOREV/ORD. xix literary efforts of any modern Irishmen. The same power of glowing description, the same profusion of cumulative adjectival phrase, the same simple yet ])old and powerful imagery, the same rhythmic sense, will be found to under- lie them all. The nationality of Ireland expressed in her literature is the noblest monument she has reared, and to exhibit this monument to the world in all its beauty is one of the ob- jects of this work. The Irish is the most readable liter- ature in the world; it is entertaining, amusing, bright, sunny, poetical, tasteful, and it is written with an ease and a fluency wliicli haA^e been the salt that has seasoned the whole body of English literature. This library contains in ten volumes representative selections from the works of Irish writers, ancient and modern, in prose and in verse. It gives examples of all tliat is best, brightest, most attractive, amusing, readable, and interesting in their work; and, while its contents have received the approval of the highest and most fastidious literary critics, it is, first and foremost, a library of en- tertaining and instructive reading. Few people can afford to have the works of the three hundred and fifty Irish authors represented in this col- lection. Few, indeed, could select the one hundred great- est Irish books from a catalogue. The Editors have selected from the works of nearly three hundred and fifty authors, and this library is a guide, philosopher, and friend to conduct the reader through the wide fields of Irish literary lore. From the vast storehouses of Irish literature they have extracted the choicest of its treasures, and have brought them within the reach of all — the mythology, legends, fables, folk lore, poetry, essays, oratory, history, annals, science, memoirs, anecdotes, fiction, travel, drama, wit and humor, and pathos of the Irish race are all represented. This library, tlierefore, focuses the whole intellectuality of the Irish people. It not only presents a view of the lit- erary history of Ireland, but it gives also a series of his- toric pictures of the social developineut of the people, for literature is the mirror in which the life and movements of historic periods are reflected. From the story of ' The Hospitality of Cuanna's House/ XX FOREWORD. translated by Connellaii, in which we have a picture of s(u ial manners and customs nearly two thousaud years ago, down to the stories of the life of the present day, Irish literature is full of pictures, some bright and some dark, of the way in which the j)eople of Ireland have lived and k>ved and fought and prayed for twenty centuries. This librarv will be found an inexhaustible source of inspiration to old and young alike, an influence in forming taste, in molding character, and in perpetuating all the best qualities associated with the name of Irishmen; fur- thermore, it will be a valued acquisition in every English- speaking home, for the qualities of the Irish are those "which have made the chief glories of English literature. It gives every household a share in the treasures with which the genius of the Irish race has enriched mankind. While this work brings together a representative selec- tion of all that is best in Irish literature (and by " Irish literature " we mean the literature which is written by Irish men and women), it does not appeal to the Irish alone. Among the greatest novelists, dramatists, orators, poets, and scientists of the world. Irishmen are to be found, always vivacious, always lively, always bright, and always attractive; therefore this library presents such a body of representative reading as has never before been put together. It is distinctly national in flavor, quality, aufi character; it is entertaining at every i^oint; it appeals t«» hniiianity on every side; there are no acres of dryasdust in ' Iiiisii LiTKRATUUE.' Open any one of these volumes where you will, at any page, and there will be found some- thing which, whether it amuses or instructs, will be sure to possess in the most eminent degree the great qualities of vivid imagination and readability. Of the authors whose names appear in ' Irish Litera- tire' one hundred and twenty are living to-day, or are of the last twenty-live years. This indicates how fully the new movement is represented. Here will be found the work of Jane Barlow, Stojjford Brooke, Shan Bullock, Eg<*rton Castle, John Eglinton, A. P. (Jlraves, Lady Greg- ory, Ste[»h«*n (Iwynu, lOleanor Hull, Dr. Douglas IIyiitler Yeats, and Sir Horace I'lunkett. To mention these names is sullu-ieut to show that tliis Avork properly represents the <»reat modern revival in Irish intellectual life — in its literature and art, and the drama, as well as the great changes in the social, moral, and commercial conditions which have been going on for the past twenty-five years. One of the most valuable features in ' Irish Literature ' is a series of special articles written by men who are the best qualified to deal with the subject assigned to each of them. These special articles constitute a complete philo- sophical survey of the whole field and embody the latest knowledge on the subject of the origin, development, and growth of the national literature of Ireland. Mr. Justin McCarthy's article introductory takes the reader by the hand, as it were, and genially describes to him the flowery paths along which he may wander in the pages of ' Irish Literature.' Mr. William Butler Yeats, the accomplished orator and poet, who has left such a good impression on the hearts of all Irish-American people, deals with Modern Irish Poetry. No living writer is better qualified to write on such a theme, for his work is the latest and most fragrant flo>Aer that has bloomed in the garden of Irish literature. Dr. Douglas Hyde, President of the Gaelic League, the world-famous Irish scholar, poet, and actor, the greatest living authority on the subject, discourses upon 'Earl.y Irish Literature,' while an article by Dr. George Siger- son on ' Ireland's Influence on European Literature' will be a revelation to thousands who have never considered Irish literature to have had a life apart from that of the English nation. Mr. Maurice Francis Egan, professor of English liter- ature in the Catholic University at Washington, D. C, contributes a valuable analytical and historical essay on the subject of ' Irish Novels,' and a paper by the late John F. Taylor of the Irish bar, one of the greatest orators of his day and generation, gives an interesting and valuable appreciation of Irish orators and oratory. Mr. Michael McDonagh, the Irish journalist, wlio prob- xxii FOmJWORD. ably is more familiar with Irish character than any other livinii- writer, has contributed an essay on ' The Sunniness of Irish Life,' and Mr. D. J. O'Donoghue, the famous author-]ml>lisher of Dublin, has written on the inexhaust- ible subject of Irish wit and humor. There is also an article giviui;- a glance at Irish his- tory, and anotlier describing the origin, classification, and distribution of the Fairy and Folk tales of Ireland, by the present writer. The Street Songs and Ballads and anonymous verse of Ireland are a feature of her literature which cannot be overlooked; it is but natural that the land which was the land of song for centuries should have countless unnamed and forgotten songsters. Though the names of the writers are forgotten, the songs have lived on the lips of the people, many of them coming down from considerable antiquity. The songs and ballads of the ancient Irish were full of love for country' and for nature, and when it became treason to love their country, the songsters personified her in allegorical names, such as " The Shan Van Vocht,'* " The Cool in," and numerous others. ^^'e have given, as a preface to a very large and represen- tative selection of the Street Songs and Ballads, a special article which describes the vast area of subjects over which they ranged, their general ([ualities and characteristics, and also some hint of the manner of men and women who \\ rote and who sang them. As a final word on the latest pliase of the intellectual revival in Ireland, Mr. Stephen Gwynn contributes a spe- cial article on the subject of the Irish Literary Theater. Tlie tenth volume contains brief biographies of ancient (^'eltic authors, translations from whose works appear in tiie previous nine volumes undci- the names of the transla- tors. It also contains, pi'intcd in tlie (Jaelic characters on the left-hand pages, a number of folk tales; ranns (Irish sayings or proverbs) ; several ancient and modern Irish songs of the people; the play by Dr. Douglas Hyde entitled * Th(* Twisting of th(^ Ko])e,' in which he has acted the lead- ing character befon* many Trisli aupears in the library, vie\\s of places and objects in the country, and of such scenery and incidents as may help to elucidate the articles. In the transliteration of the Irish words, place names, etc., we have followed the orthography of the author quoted, without attemi)ting to present them in uniform manner all the wav through. Authors differ in this mat- ter, and had we attempted to employ a uniform method throughout the work, we should have given an unfamiliar look to many words and phrases which have become classic by reason of long usage. In the form of fotjtnotes we have given translations of tlie Irish words and jihrases the first time they occur, and all these will be found arranged ali)habetically at the end of the Index, the scoi)e of which is fully set forth in the tcnlh volume. We have not, however, included the fa- miliar Irish worrls and phrases that are to be found in ail ordinary dictionary. I'erhaps the earliest decision in a question of copyright FOREWORD. XXV of which we have any record occurs in the Irish annals. St. Columkille once borrowed from St. Finnen his copy of the Psalms, and secretly made a copy for his own use before returning it. The owner heard of this and claimed both original and copy. The borrower, however, refused to return the copy which he had made, and they agreed to refer the matter to Dermot, the King of Ireland. He, after hearing both sides, gave his decision thus: — "To every cow belongeth her little offspring-cow ; so to every book belongeth its littlo offspring-book ; the book thou bast copied without permission, O Columba, I award to Finnan." Nothing herein that is copyrighted has been copied with- out the permission of the owner, and thanks are due to the publisiiers who have kindly granted permission to use extracts from copyrighted works (which are protected by the official notification on the page Avhere the extract ap- pears) ; to the various members of the Editorial Board and our Advisory Committee, who have co-operated in the work with enthusiastic fervor, placing all their store of knowledge of matters Irish at our disposal ; to Mr. John D. Crimmins of New York; to Mr. Francis O'Neill of Chicago; to Messrs. Ford of The Iri^ih World; to Mr. Charles Johnston, President of the Irish Literary So- ciety of New York ; to Mr. Joseph I. C. Clarke of The New York Herald; to Mr. T. E. Lonergan of The York World; to Professor J. Brander Matthews of Columbia University; to Professor W. P. Trent of Columbia University; to Professor F. N. Robinson of Harvard; to Mr. H. S. Pan- coast; to Mr. H. S. Krans; to Mr. D. J. O'Donoghue of Dublin; to Mr. George Pvussell ("A. E.") ; to Mr. W. P. Ryan of London — for much helpful advice and sug- gestion, and to Mr. S. J. Richardson of The Gael, who has placed at our disposal the treasures of his ' Encyclopedia Hibernica ' and materials for illustration, and has allowed free use of the material in the columns of his magazine. CONTENTS OF VOLUME T-. Irish Literature. — JuMln McCarthy Foreword. — Charles ^^elsh " A. E." See Russell, G. W. Alexander, Cecil Frances The Burial of Moses There is a green hill far a The Siege of Derry Alexander, Willlvm . Inscription Very Far Away Burial at Sea, fr. Hero ' way <■ r\ The Death of Allingham, William Lovely Mary Donnelly Abbey Asaroe . Across the Sea . Four ducks on a pond The Lover and Birds Among the Heather The Ban-Shee . The Fairies The Leprecaun, or Fairy Slioeni A Dream . The Ruined Chapel Ar:mstrong, Edmund John The Blind Student Adieu From Fionnuala Pilgrims akei •lU Arctic PAfSB vii xvii 1 1 3 3 8 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 15 16 17 18 20 21 oo 24 24 25 25 26 XXVll xxviii CONTEXTS. PAGE Atkinson, Sarah 28 Women in Ireland in Penal Days . . .28 AzARiAS, Brother. See Mullaney, Patrick Francis. Dall, Sir Robert Stawell The Distances of the Stars, fr. ' The Starry Heavens ' A\Iiat the Stars are Made Of, fr. ' The Starry Heavens ' Danim, John An Adventure in Slievenamon, fr. ' The Peep o' Day ' Soj^garth Aroon Aileen ....... He said that he was not our brother Banim, ^Michael The English Academy, fr. ' Father Connell.' Lynch l^aw on Vinegar Hill, fr, * The Croppy ' The Stolen Sheep Barlow, Jane An Eviction, fr. ^ Herself ' in ' Irish Idvlls.' The Murphys' Supper .... 36 3G 41 U 46 56 57 58 59 60 76 85 98 98 103 Misther Denis's Return, fr. ' Th' Quid Master' 114 The Flittin^r of the Fairies, fr. 'The End of Elfintown '....... 116 Barrett, Eaton Stannard 119 ]\Iodern Medievalism 119 Montraorenci and Cherubina, fr. ' The Heroine' 123 Barrinoton, Sir Jonah 126 Pulpit, Bar, and Parliamentary Eloquence, fr. ' Personal Sketches '.'.... 127 The Seven Baronets, fr. ' Personal Sketches ' .129 Irish r; en try and their Retainers, fr. ' Personal Sketches' 138 The 1' ire-Eaters, fr. ' Personal Sketches' . . 141 CONTEXTS. xxix Barky, :Miciiael Joseph rr The Sword 'f~> The Massacre at Drojiheda .... 150 . 151 . 156 fr. 'The New An- . 150 . 105 The French Revolution Barry, William Francis . A Meeting of Anarchists tigoue ' . Bell, Robert PAGE . 140 . 140 Gloucester Lodge, fr. ' The Life of Canning ' . 105 Berkeley, Bishop 173 True Pleaures 174 A Glimpse of his Country-FIouse Near New- port, fr. ' Alciphron, or the Minute Philoso- pher '........ 175 View from Honeyman's Hill, fr. ' Alciphron, or the Minute Philosopher ' . . . . 170 Extracts from ' The Querist ' . . . . 177 On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America ....... ISO Bickerstaff, Isaac 182 Mr. Mawworm, fr, ' The Hypocrite ' . . . 182 There was a jolly miller once, fr, ' Love in a Village ' ....... 185 Two Songs, fr. ' Thomas and Sally, or the Sail- or's Return ' . . . . . .180 What are outward forms? .... 187 Hope .... ... 187 Blake, Mary Elizabeth 180 The Dawning o' the Year 180 The First Steps 100 Blessington, Countess of 102 Journal of a Lady of Fashion , . , . 103 Found Out, fr, ' Confessions of an Elderly Gen- tleman ' '. .200 The Princess Talleyrand as a Critic, fr. ' The Idler in France'' 212 XXX cox TENTS. Blundell, Mus. (M. E. Fuancis) 111 ISt. l»at rick's Ward Father Lalur is Promoted, fr. ' Miss Erin Bodkin, Matthias M'Donnkll . The Lord Lieutenant's Adventure, fr. ' 1 Puneh ' oteen BouciCAULT, Dion Ladv Gay fc?panker, fr. ' London Assurance ISong Boyd, Thomas To the Leanan Sidhe .... Boyle, John, Eaul of Cork ►Swift as a Pamphleteer . Boyle, "Willlvm The Cow-Charmer, fr. ' A Kish of Brogues Philandering ..... Brenan, Joseph Come to me, dearest Brigid. See Katherine M. Murphy. Brooke, Charlotte Ode on his Ship, fr. the Irish of Manriee Fitz- gerald Brooke, Henry A Gentleman Gone to Death, fr. ' The Earl of Essex ' Brooke, Stopeord Augustus Frederick A\'il]iam IJoliertson, fr. ' Life and Let- ters of !•'. \y. Kobertson ' The Earth and Man .... A Moment ...... Desert is Life . Brother Azarl\s. See :Mullaney, Patrick Francis. Brougil\m, John Ned Geraghty's Luck .... PAGE 215 215 225 232 232 252 252 257 258 258 260 260 264 264 277 278 278 280 280 284 285 288 291 291 299 300 300 301 301 CONTENTS. XXXI Browne, Frances The Story of Childe Cliaritv AVliat hath Time taken? . Browne, John Ross . The History of my Horse Saladin, fr. ' Yusef ' Bryce, James . . „ . National Characteristics as Mohling Pul)lic Opinion, fr, the 'American Commonwealth' The Position of Women in the United States, fr. the ' American Commonwealth ' England and Ireland, fr, Irish History ' Buckley, William Inniscarra Tw o Centuries of Buggy, Kevin T. The Saxon Shilling Bullock, Shan F. The Rival Swains Burke, Edmund . On American Taxation On Conciliation witli America Letter to a Noble Lord ..... Impeachment of Warren Hastings Chatham and Towns-hend . . . . The Duties of a Representative Some Wise and Witty Sayings of Burke . Burke, Thomas N A Nation's History, fr. a Lecture on the ' His- tory of Ireland ' National Music, fr. a Lecture on ' The National Music of Ireland ' Burton, Richard Francis The Preternatural in Fiction, fr. ' The Book of a Thousand Niglits and a Night ' A Journey in Disguise, fr. ' Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El ^ledinah ' . . . I M ' ' '- , PAGE 313 311 321 323 323 330 331 343 340 351 351 358 358 3(10 3G0 3G9 373 37G 379 383 391 394 396 398 398 400 403 404 408 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS IN VOLUME L p\r,K JUSTIN McCarthy, M. P Frontispiece Editor-In-Chief of Irish Literature. Photogravure from a portrait from life. ON THE OLD SOD xvii " The Irish Farmer in Contemplation," by William Mc- Grath. From the painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art, New York. This famous picture of a familiar Irish scene, painted by an Irishman, is a conspicuous and favorite object in our national collection. LONDONDERRY tv' From a photograph. The walls of Derry — tlie maiden city, its fine Gothic cathe- dral, and the Doric column erected to the inemorj' of the Rev. G. Walker are full of interest. The tower is of great antiquity and has often suffered the effects of war, notably when it was fruitlessly bosieged by King James from Dec, 1688, to Aug., 1689. This picture shows — " . . . . the water runnins: from the green hills of Tyrone. Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river." — Mrs. Alexander. JOHN BANIM 44 From an old engraving. JANE BARLOW 98 From a photograph taken in 1904 by J. F. Geoghegan of Dublin. DROGHEDA 150 From a photograph. This famous old town stands on both sides of the i-iver Boyne. It has been the scene of many wars and niucli bloodshed. The story of the awful massacre under Cromwell is vividly told by Father Denis Murphy in Volume VI. of ' Irish Literature.' THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON 192 From the painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence. DION BOUCICAULT 252 In tho character of " Daddy O'Dowd" in his play of that name. From a i;)hotogrnph. XXX HI XXXIV ZTST 07'' ILLUSTJiATIOXS. PAGK THE WONDERFUL CHAIR 314 From a drawing after the paintinp:by Mrs. Seymour Lucas, which told the " Story of Childe Charity." THE RIGHT HON. JAMES BRYCE 330 From a photograph by J. Caswell Smith in London, taken in 18i)l for the Alpine Club. EDMUND BURKE 369 From an engraving by S. Freedman of Dublin. BURKE'S STATUE IN TPIE COURTYARD OF TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN 397 From a photograph. At eitlier side of tlie ])riii(ui);il entrance to Trinity College, Dublin, are the statues of Burke and Goldsmith, both by John Uenry Foley. o • f » • > IRISH LITERATURE. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. (1818—1895.) Mrs. Alexander was born in Dublin in 1818 and died in 1895. She was the daughter of Major John Humphreys. She came early under the religious influence of Dr. Hook, the Dean of Chichester, and subsequently of John Keble, who edited her ' Hymns for Little Children.' In 1850 she married Wilh'am Alexander, the protestant Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of all Ireland, who after her death collected and edited her poetical works. As a writer of hymns and religious verse she has enjoyed a wide reputation, and she has written some vigorous poetry on secular subjects. Her poem on ' The Siege of Derry ' is a fine example of her mastery of language and of rhythm. Gounod remarked that the words ' There is a green hill far away ' were so harmonious and rhythmic that they seemed to set them- selves to music. When her ' Burial of Moses ' appeared, anony- mously, in 1856, in the Dublin University Magazine, Tennyson declai-ed it to be one of the few poems by a living author that he would care to have written. Her poems have been published with an introduction by her husband under the title ' Poems of the late Mrs. Alexander.' THE BURIAL OF MOSES. By Nebo's lonely mountain, on this side Jordan's wave, In a vale, in the land of Moab, there lies a lonely grave ; And no man knows that sepulchre, and no man saw it e'er ; For the angels of God upturned the sod, and laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral that ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the trampling, or saw the train go forth — Noiselessly, as the Daylight comes back when Night is done. And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek grows into the great sun 1 2 77?/.s'/7 I/iTERATlRE. Noiselessly, as the S})riiifj-tiiiie her crown of verdure weaves, And j'.il the .trees tui aU Jli.e lulls open their lliousand leaves; So. without Hotiiurof music, or voice of tlioni that wept. Silently down from the mountain's crown, the great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, on gray Beth-Peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie, looked on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking still shuns that hallowed spot. For beast and bird have seen and heard that which man knoweth not ! But when the Warrior dieth, his comrades in the war. With arms reversed and muffled drum, follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, they tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed, while peals the minute-gun. Amid the noblest of the land we lay the Sage to rest, And give the Bard an honored place, with costly marble drest, — In the great minster transept, where lights like glories fall, And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings, along the emblazoned wall. This was Iho truest warrior that ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet that ever breathed a word; And never eartli's i)hilosoj)her traced with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage as he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor, — the hill-side for a pall? To lie in state, \\liile angels wait, with stars for taj)ers tall? And the dark rock-j)ines, like tossing jilumes, over his bier to wave! And God's own hand, in that lonely land, to lay him in the grave ! In that strange grave without a name, — whence his uncolTined day Shall break again, O wondrous thought! before the judgment day, And stand, with glory wrapt around, on the hills he never trod, And sj)eak of the strife that won our life, with the incarnate Son of God. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 3 O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, and teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of j>race, ways that we cannot tell; He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep of him he loved so well. THERE IS A GREEN HILL. There is a green hill far away, Without a city wall. Where the dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us all. W^e may not know, we cannot tell What pains He had to bear, But we believe it was for us He hung and suffered there. He died that we might be forgiven. He died to make us good, That we might go at last to heaven, Saved by His precious blood. There was no other good enough To pay the jjrice of sin ; He only could unlock the gate Of heaven and let us in. O dearly, dearly has He loved. And we must love Him too. And trust in His redeeming blood. And trv His works to do. THE SIEGE OF DERRY. O my daughter! lead me forth to the bastion on the north, Let me see the water running from the green hills of Tyrone, Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river. And the silver trout lie hidden in the pools that I have known. 4 IRISH LITERATURE. Tlioi-e I wooed voiir iiiothei-, dear I in llio days that are so near To the old man who lies dying in this sore-teleaguered place : For time's long years may sever, but love that liveth ever Calls back the early rapture — lights again the angel face. Ah, well! she lieth still on our wall-engirdled hill. Our own Cathedral holds her till God shall call His dead; And till* I'salter's swell and wailing, and the cannon's loud assailing And the preacher's voice and blessing, pass unheeded o'er her head. 'T was the Lord who gave the word when His people drew the sword For the freedom of the present, for the future that awaits. O child! thou must remember that bleak day in December When the 'Prentice-Uoys of Derry rose up and shut the gates. There was tumult in the street, and a rush of many feet — There was discord in the Council, and Lundv turned to flv, For the man had no assurance of Ulstermen's endurance, Nor the strength of him who trusteth in the arm of God Most High. These limbs, that now are weak, were strong then, and thy cheek Held roses that were red as any rose in June — That now are wan, my daughter! as the light on the Foyle water When all the sea and all the land are white beneath the moon. Then the foemen gathered fast — we could see them marching j)ast — The Irish from his barren hills, the Frenchman from his wars, With their banners bravely beaming, and to our eyes their seeming Was fearful as a locust band, and countless as the stars. And they bound us with a cord from the harbor to the ford, And they raked us with their cannon, and sallying was hot; But our trust was still unshaken, though (yulmore fort was taken. And they wrote our men a letter, and they sent it in a shot. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 5 They were soft words that they spoke, how we need not fear their yoke. And they pleaded by our homesteads, and by our children small, And our women fair and tender; but we answered: "No surrender ! " And we called on God Almighty, and we went to man the wall. There was wrath in the French camp; we could hear their captain's stamp. And Rosen, with his hand on his crossed hilt, swore That little town of Derry, not a league from Culmore ferry, Should lie a heaj) of ashes on the Foyle's green shore. Like a falcon on her perch, our fair Cathedral Church Above the tide-vext river looks eastward from the bay — Dear namesake of Saint Columb, and each morning, sweet and solemn. The bells, through all the tumult, have called us in to pray. Our leader speaks the prayer — the captains all are there — His deep voice never falters, though his look be sad and grave On the women's pallid faces, and the soldiers in their places, And the stones above our brothers that lie buried in the nave. They are closing round us still by the river; on the hill You can see the white pavilions round the standard of their chief ; But the Lord is up in heaven, though the chances are uneven, Though the boom is in the river whence we looked for our relief. And the faint hope dies away at the close of each long day, As we see the eyes grow lusterless, the pulses beating low ; As we see our children languish. Was ever martyr's anguish. At the stake or in the dungeon, like this anguish that we know? With the foemen's closing line, while the English make no sign. And the daily less'ning ration, and the fall of stagg'ring feet, 6 IRISH LITERATURE. And the wailing low and fearful, and the women, stern and tearful. Si)eaking bravely to their husbands and their lovers in the street. There was trouble in the air when we met this day for prayer, And the joyous July morning was heavy in our eyes; Our arms were by the altar as we sang aloud the Psalter, And listened in the pauses for the enemy's surprise. " Praise the Lord God in the height, for the glory of His might ! " It ran along the arches and it went out to the town : " In His strength He hath arisen, He hath loosed the souls in ]»rison. The wronged one He hath righted, and raised the fallen-down." And the preacher's voice was bold as he rose up then and told Of the triumi)li of the righteous, of the patience of the saints, And the hope of God's assistance, and the greatness of resist- ance. Of the trust that never wearies and the heart that never faints. Where the river joins the brine, canst thou see the ships in line? And the plenty of our craving just beyond the cruel boom? Through the dark mist of the firing canst thou see the masts as})iring. Dost thou think of one who loves thee on that ship amidst the gloom? She was weary, she was wan, but she climbed the rampart on, And she looked along the water where the good ships lay afar : "Oh! I see on either border their cannon ranged in order And the boom across the river, and the waiting men-of-war. '• There 's death in ovovy hand that holds a lighted brand, liul the gallant little Mountjoy comes bravely to the front. Now, God of I'.attles, hear us! J^et that good ship draw near us. Ah! the brands are at the touch-holes — will she bear the cannon's brunt? Y^in:^n'/!ociMOJ ^omarn sdi tunuh -Joiq eiflT .q85t ,:taf':30A oJ ,88.^ LONDONDERRY From a photograph The walls of Derry — the maiden city — its fine Gothic cathedral, and the Doric column erected to the memory of the Rev. G. Walker, are full of interest. The tower is of great antiquity and has often suffered the effects of war; notably when it was fruitlessly besieged by King James from December, 1688, to August, 1689. This pict- ure shows: "... the water running from the green hills of Tyrone, Where the woods of Mountjoy quiver above the changeful river." — Mrs. Alexander, CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 7 "She makes a forward dash. Hark I hark! (he thunder-crash! O father, they have caught her — she is lying on the shore. Another crash like thunder — will it tear her ribs asunder? No, no I llie shot has freed her — she is floating on once more. " She pushes her white sail through the bullets' leaden hail — Now blessings on her captain and on her seamen bold! — Crash ! crash ! the boom is broken ; 1 can see my true love's token — A lily in his bonnet, a lily all of gold, " She sails up to the town, like a queen in a white gown ; Red golden are her lilies, true gold are all her men. Now the Phoenix follows after — I can hear the women's laughter, And the shouting of the soldiers, till the echoes ring again." She has glided from the wall, on her lover's breast to fall. As the white bird of the ocean drops down into the wave; And the bells are madly ringing, and a hundred voices singing, And the old man on the bastion has joined the triumph stave : " Sing ye praises through the land ; the Lord with His right hand. With His mighty arm hath gotten Himself the victory now. He hath scattered their forces, both the riders and thedr horses. There is none that tighteth for us, O God! but only Thou." WILLTAM ALEXANDER. (1824 ) William Alexander was born at Derry in 1824, and educated at Tunbridge and Oxford, wbere he received the degrees of D.D. and D.C.L. In 1850 he married Miss Cecil Frances Humphreys, who was destined to succeed in winning distinction for her new name. After holding cures at Upper Falum and at Strabane he became, in 1867, Bishop of Deiuy and Raphoe, Archbishop of Armagh in 1896, and in 1897 was called to the Primacy of all Ireland. He has pub- lished ' The Death of Jacob,' 1858; 'Specimens, Poetical and Crit- ical,' 1867; 'Lyrics of Life and Liglit' (by W. A. and others), 1878; 'St. Augustine's Holiday,' 1886. Although it was as a poet that he first became known in the intellectual world, the life and duties of a churchman were his first occupation. The very titles of his prose works testify to this — as, for example, ' The Witness of the Psalms to Christ,' ' Leading Ideas of the Gospels,' ' Redux Crucis,' and others. For a long time his poems were not collected in accessible form. The first volume in wliich his poetic Avritings were bound together took the shape of 'Specimens,' published in obedience to the de- mands of a special occasion. In 1853 he wi'ote the ode in honor of the then Lord Derby's installation, and in 1860 gained the prize for a sacred poem, ' The Waters of IBabylon.' In 1867 he was a candi- date for the professorship of poetry in Oxford; he was defeated by Sir F. H. Doyle after a close contest. Dr. Alexander is eminent as a pulpit orator; and there are few preachers of his church "who have such power of poetic imagery and graceful expression. He is a frequent contributor to ecclesiastic literature. His cultivated imagination, his feeling for the glory of Nature, his rich but never overloaded rhetoric, and the occasional strains of a wistful pathos which reveal a sensitive human spirit — all these qualities make his contribution to Irish literature one of high worth and distinction. INSCRIPTION ON THE STATUE ERECTED TO CAPTAIN BOYD IN ST. PATKICK's CATHEDRAL, DUBLIN. Oh! in the quiet haven, safe for aye, If lost to us in i)ort one stormy dny, I'ornc with a juiblic jjoinp by just decree, Heroic sailor! from that fatal sea, A city vowH this marble unto thee. 8 WILLIAM ALEXANDER. And here, in this calm place, where never din Of earth's great waterfioods sliall enter in, AVhere to our human hearts two thoughts are given- One Christ's self-sacrifice, the other Heaven — Here it is meet for grief and love to grave The rhrist-taught bravery that died to save, The life not lost, but found beneath the wave. VERY FAR AWxVY. One touch there is of magic white, Surpassing southern mountain's snow That to far sails the dying light Lends, where the dark ships onward go Upon the golden highway broad That leads up to the isles of God. One touch of light more magic yet, Of rarer snow 'neath moon or star, Where, with her graceful sails all set. Some happy vessel seen afar, As if in an enchanted sleep Steers o'er the tremulous stretching deep. O ship ! O sail ! far must ye be Ere gleams like that upon ye light. O'er golden spaces of the sea, From mysteries of the lucent night, Such touch comes never to the boat Wherein across the waves we float. O gleams, more magic and divine. Life's whitest sail ye still refuse, And flying on before us shine Upon some distant bark ye choosCo By night or day, across the spray, That sail is very far away. 10 IRISH LITERATURE. BURIAL AT SEA. Lines from ' The Death of an Arctic Hero.' How shnll we biirv liiiii? Wliei-e shall we leave the old man lying? With music in the distance dying — dying, Among the arches of the Abbey grand and dim, There if we might, we would bury him; And comrades of the sea sliould bear the pall; And the great organ should let rise and fall The requiem of Mozart, the Dead March in Saul — Then, silence all I And yet far grander will we bury him. Strike the ship-bell slowly — slowly — slowly! Sailors! trail the colors half-mast high; Leave him in the face of God most holy, Underneath the vault of Arctic sky. Let the long, long darkness wrap him round, By the long sunlight be his forehead crowned. Ff>r cathedral panes ablaze with stories. For the tajicrs in the nave and choir, Give him lights auroral — give him glories Mingled of the rose and of the fire. Let the wild winds, like chief mourners, walk. Let the stars burn o'er his catafahpie. Hush I for the breeze, and the white fog's swathing sweep, I cannot hear the simple service read; Was it "earth to earth," the captain said, ()v " we commit his body to the deep, Till seas give up their dead" ? WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. (1824—1889.) William Allingham was born in 1824, at Ballyshannon, County Donegal, a place of primitive and kindly folk — in a country of haunting loveliness which is often referred to in his poems. He was educated at his native place, and at the age of fourteen became a clerk in the bank, of which his father was manager. In this employment he passed seven years, during which his chief delight was in reading and in acquiring a knowledge of foreign literature. He then found employment in the Customs Office, and after two years' preliminary training at Belfast he returned to Ballyshannon as Principal Officer. In 1847 he visited London, and the rest of his life was largely spent in England, where he held various government appointments. He retired from the service in 1870, and became sub-editor, under Mr. Froude, of Frasei^'s Magazine^ succeeding him in 1874. Some years before, he had been granted a pension for his literary services. In the same year (1874) he man-ied. He died at Hampstead in 1889. Allingham was a faii'ly prolific writer, in both verse and prose : his first volume appeared in 1850, and there is a posthumous edition of his works in six volinnes. No Life of him has been written, but the ' Letters of Dante GabrielRossettito William Allingham,' edited and annotated by Dr. Birkbeck Hill, Avith a valuable introduction, record the chief facts of his life and literary friendships. Allingham's principal volumes are : ' Poems,' ' Day and Night Songs,' 'The Music Master, &c.' (containing Rossetti's illustration of 'The Maids of Elfinmere,' which moved Burne- Jones to become a painter), 'Fifty Modern Poems,' ' Laurence Bloomfield in Ireland,' ' A Modern Poem,' 'With Songs, Ballads, and Stories,* ' Evil May- Day,' 'Ashby Manor,' 'A Play,' ' Flower Pieces,' ' Life and Phan- tasy,' ' Blackberries .' Mr. Lionel Johnson in 'A Treasury of Irish Poetry' says: "His lyric voice of singular sweetness, his Muse of passionate or pensive meditation, his poetic consecration of common things, his mingled aloofness and homeliness, assure him a secure place among the poets of his land and the Irish voices which never will fall silent. And though ' the Irish cause ' receives from him but little direct en- couragement or help, let it be remembered that Allingham wrote this great and treasurable truth : " ' We 're one at heart, if you be Ireland's friend, Tliough leagues asunder our opinions tend : There are but two great parties in the end.' " We chiefly remember him as a poet whose aerial, ^olian melo- dies steal into the heart — a poet of twilight and the evening star, and the sigh of the wind over the hills and the waters of an Ireland 11 12 IRISH LITERATURE. that broods and dreams. His music haunts the ear with its perfect simpht-it y of art and the cunning of its quiet cadences. Song upon song makes no mention, direct or indirect, of Ireland ; yet an Irish atmosphere and temperament are to be felt iu almost all." LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. Oh, lovely ^lary Donnelly, it 's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you 1 'd hardly see the rest. Be what it nuiy the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they blooiu before me still. rier eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, IIow clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a show'r. Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its pow'r. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. Her chin is neat and pert, and smooth, just like a china cup, Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; It 's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; T^>ut Mary kei)t the belt of love, and O but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete. The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised. But blessed his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised. And evermore I 'm whistling or lilting what jou sung. Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; But you 've as many sweethearts as you 'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you 're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I 'm cast down. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 13 If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty brij^lit. And you to be his lady, I 'd own it was but right. O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! O might we live together in a cottage mean and small ; With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only v\'all ! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty 's my distress. It 's far too beauteous to be mine, but I '11 never wish it less. The proudest i)lace would fit your face, and I am poor and low ; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! ABBEY ASAKOE. Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down ; The carven stones lie scattered in briars and nettle-bed; The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide. Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The bore-tree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe. It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall, — Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it ; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done. Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below ; But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe. There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge ; He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain ridge ; He turned his back on Sheegus Hill, and viewed with misty sight The abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white; Under a weary weight of years he bowed upon his staff, Perusing in the present time the former's epitui)h ; For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe, This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe. 14 IRISH LITERATURE. From DeiTv to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnoll broad was theirs; Spearmen aud plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers ; ^Vith chanting always in the house which they had builded high To God and to Saint Bernard, — whereto they came to die. At worst, no workhouse grave for him I the ruins of his race Shall i-est among the ruined stones of this their saintly place. The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe. ACROSS THE SEA. I walked in the lonesome evening, And who so sad as I, When I saw the young men and maidens Merrily passing by. To thee, my love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee! While the rij)i)les fold upon sands of gold And I look across the sea. I stretch out my hands; who will clasp them? I call, — thou repliest no word: O why should heart-longing be weaker Than the waving wings of a bird! To thee, my love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee! For the tide's at rest from east to west, And I look across the sea. There 's joy in the hopeful morning. There 's peace in the parting day, There 's sorrow with every lover Whose true-love is far away, To thee, my love, to thee — So fain would I come to thee! And the water's so bright in a still moonlight, As I look across the sea. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 15 FOUR DUCKS ON A POND. Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond, A blue sky of ^spring, White clouds on the wing: What a little thing To remember for years, To remember with tears ! THE LOVER AND BIRDS. Within a budding grove, In April's ear sang every bird his best. But not a song to pleasure my unrest, Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love; Some spake, methought. with pity, some as if in jest. To every word. Of every bird, I listened or replied as it behove. Screamed Chaffinch, "Sweet, sweet, sweet! Pretty lovey, come and meet me here ! " "' Chaffinch," quoth I, " be dumb awhile, in fear Thy darling prove no better than a cheat And never come, or fly, when wintry days appear." Yet from a twig. With voice so big, The little fowl his utterance did repeat. Then I, " The man forlorn, Hears earth send up a foolish noise aloft," " And what '11 he do? W^hat '11 he do? " scoffed The Blackbird, standing in an ancient thorn. Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft, With cackling laugh. Whom, I, being half Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn. Worse mocked the Thrush, " Die ! die ! Oh, could he do it? Could he do it? Nay! Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!" (went his lav) "Take heed! take heed!" then, "Why? Why?' Why? Why? Why? 16 IRISH LITERATURE. See-See now ! oo-ee now I (he drawled) " Back ! Back '. Back ! K-r-r run away ! " Oh, Thrush, be still, Or at tliy will Seek some less sad interpreter than I ! "Air! air I blue air and white I Whither I (lee. whither, O whither, O whither T flee!" (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea) '• Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright Whither I see, whither 1 see! Deeper, deeper, deeper, whither 1 see, see, see ! " " Gay Lark," T said, " The song that 's bred In happy nest may well to heaven take flight!" " There 's something, something sad, I half remember," piped a broken strain ; Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin, sing again. " Spring 's opening cheerily, cheerily ! be we glad ! " Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad. Till now, grown meek, With wetted cheek. Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had. AMONG THE HEATHER. One morning, walking out. I o'ertook a modest colleen. When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest leaves were falling. " Is our road perchance the same? Might we travel on to- gether?" " Oh, I keep the mountainside," she replied, " among the heather." " Your mountain air is sweet when the days are long and Hunnv, When the grass grows round the rocks, and the whin-bloom smflls like honey; But thf winter 's coming fast with its foggy, snowy weather. And you 'II find it bleak and chill on your hill among the heather." WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 17 She praised her mountaiu home, and I '11 praise it too with reason, For where Molly is there 's sunshine and flowers at every season. Be the moorland black or white, does it signify a feather? Now I know the way by heart, every part among the heather. The sun goes down in haste, and the night falls thick and stormy. Yet I 'd travel twenty miles for the welcome that 's before me ; Singing " Hi for Eskydun ! " in the teeth of wind and weather, Love '11 warm me as I go through the snow among the heather. THE BANSHEE. A BALLAD OF ANCIENT EEIN. " Heard'st thou over the Fortress vrild geese flying and crying? Was it a gray wolf's howl? wind in the forest sighing? Wail from the sea as of wreck? Hast heard it. Comrade?" " Not so. Here, all 's still as the grave, above, around, and below. " The Warriors lie in battalion, spear and shield beside them, Tranquil, whatever lot in the coming fray shall betide them. See, where he rests, the Glory of Erin, our Kingly Youth ! Closed his lion's eyes, and in sleep a smile on his mouth." " The cry, the dreadful cry ! I know it — ^louder and nearer, Circling our Dun — tJw Banshee! — my heart is frozen to hear her! Saw you not in the darkness a spectral glimmer of white Flitting away? — I saw it! — evil her message to-night. " Constant, but never welcome, she, to the line of our Chief; Bodeful, baleful, fateful, voice of terror and grief. Dimly burneth the lamp — hush! again that horrible cry! — If a thousand lives could save thee, Tierna, thou shouldest not die." " Now! what whisper ye, Clansmen? I wake. Be your words of me? Wherefore gaze on each other? I too have heard the Ban-shee. 18 IRISH LITERATURE. Death is her message: but ye, be silent. Death comes to no man Sweet as to him who in lighting ciushes liis country's foeman. " Streak of dawn in the sky — morning of battle. The Stranger Camps on our salt-sea strand below, and recks not his danger. Victory I — that was my dream : one that shall fill men's ears In story and song of harp after a thousand years. *' Give me my helmet and sword. Whale-tusk, gold-wrought, I clutch thee ! Blade, Flesh-Biter, fail me not this time! Yea, when I touch thee. Shivers of joy run through me. Sing aloud as I swing thee! (Hut of enemies' blood, meseemeth, to-day shall bring thee. '' Sound the horn I Behold, the Sun is beginning to rise. ^^'hoso seeth him set, ours is the victor's prize, ^Vhen the foam along the sand shall no longer be white but red — Spoils and a mighty feast for the Living, a earn for the Dead." THE FAIRIES. A child's song. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap. And white owl's feather! Down along the rocky shore Some make their home — They live on crispy j)ancake8 Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of th(^ black mountain-lake. With frogs for their watchdogs, All night awake. WILLfA.]J ALLINGHAM. 19 Higli oil the liill-lop The old Kiiifi; sits; He is now so old and gray, He 's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Cohiiubkill he ci-osses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights, To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again. Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back. Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep. But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of tlag-leaves, Watching till she wake. By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare. They have planted thorn-trees. For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite. He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men. Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! 20 IRISH LITERATURE. THE LEPRECAUN, OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER. A RHYME FOR CHILDREN. Little cowboy, what liave you heard. Up on the lonely rath's green mound? Only the idaintive vel low -bird Singing in sultry fields around? Chary, chary, chary, chee-e! Only the grasshopper and the bee? " Tip-taj), ri})-rap, Tick-a-tack-too ! Scarlet leather sewn together, This will make a shoe. Left, right, pull it tight, Summer days are warm; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm I" Lay your ear close to the hill : Do you not catch the tiny clamor, Busy click of an elfin hammer, Voice of the I^X)recaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade? He 's a sjian And a quarter in height: Get him in sight, hold liim fast, And you're a made Man ! You watch your cattle the summer day, Suj) on jtotatoes, sleej) in the hay; How should you like to roll in your carriage And look for a duchess's daughter in marriage? Seize the shoemaker, so you may! " Big boots a-hunting, Sandals in the hall, "White for a \vedding-feast, And pink for a ball : This way, that ^yay, So we make a shoe. Getting rich every stitch, Tick-tack-too!"'' Nine-and-niuety treasure crocks, This keen miser-fairy hath, Hid in mountain, wood, and rocks, WILLIAM ALLTNGHAM. 21 Ruin -And ronnd-tower, cave and rath, And where the cormorants build; From timeH of old Guarded by him; Each of them filled Full to the brim With gold ! I cauf^ht him at work one day myself, In the castle-ditch where the foxglove grows; A wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf, Spectacles stuck on the top of his nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron, shoe in his lap; " Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too ! A grig stepped upon my cap, Away the moth tiew. Buskins for a fairy prince. Brogues for his son, Pay me well, pay me well. When the job's done." The rogue was mine beyond a doubt, I stared at him; he stared at me! "■ Servant, sir ! " " Humph ! " said he. And pulled a snufp-box out. He took a long pinch, looked better pleased. The queer little Leprecaun; Ofifered the box with a whimsical grace, — Pouf ! he flung the dust in my face, — And, while I sneezed. Was gone! A DREAM. I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight; All the Dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two. On t"hey passed, and on they passed ; Townsfellows all, from first to last; Born in the moonlight of the lane. Quenched in the heavy shadow again. IHLSH LITERATURE. Schoolmates, marching as when we phiyed At sohlioi-is once— but now more staid; Those were the strangest sight to me ^^'ho were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea. Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too; Some that I loved, and gasj)ed to speak to; Some but a day in their churchyard bed; Some that I had not known were dead. A long, long crowd — where each seemed lonely, Yet of them all there was one, one only, Raised a head or looked my way. She lingered a moment, — she might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face! Ah: Mother dear! might I only place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek were jirest! On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men ; Many long-forgot, but remembered then. And first there came a bitter laughter; A sound of tears the moment after; And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if 1 mav. THE RUINED CHAPEL. By the shore, a plot of ground CIij)S a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound, ^^'here Day and Night and Day go by, And bring no touch of human sound. Washing of the lonely seas. Shaking of the guardian trees, Piping of the salted brooze; J>ay and Night and Day go by. To the endless tune of these. WILLIAM ALLING1IA.U. 23 Or when, as winds and waters keep A luisli more dead tlian any sleep, Still morns to stiller evenings creep. And Day and Night and Day go by; Here the silence is most deep. The empty rnins, lapsed again Into Nature's wide domain. Sow themselves with seed and grain As Da^- and Night and Day go by; And hoard June's sun and April's rain. Here fresh funeral tears were shed; Now the graves are also dead ; And suckers from the ash-tree spread, While Day and Night and Day go by And stars move calml.y overhead. EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG. (1841—1865.) Edmunt) John Arjistrong was the elder brother of G. F. Savage- Armstrong (g.r.). He Avas born in Dubhn, July 23, 1841. Asa child he showed great intellectual power, and he began to write poetry while still a boy. He conimcnccd his career at Trinity College in ISnO with a series of brilliant successes; but in the spring of 1860 he ruptured a blood-vessel and was obliged to go to the Channel Islands. His health being restored, ho made a long tour in France with his brother in 18G2, during which he collected the material for ' The Prisoner of ^Mount Saint Michael,' a poem which was highly praised, both for the treatment of the story and for the remarkable ease and power of the blank verse. In the same year he returned to Dublin and recommenced his university studies. In 1864 he was awarded the gold medal for composition by the Historical Society, and elected President of the Philosophical Society. In the winter of 1864, though apparently of strong ]ihysique and a great lover of out- door life, he was attacked bj'- consumption, and died Feb. 24, 1865. A selection from his poems was published in the autimm of 1865, as a memorial, by the Historical and Philosophical Societies and several eminent friends; it was well received by the press and warmly praised by distinguished writers of the day. He Avas also the author of ' Ovoca, an Idyllic Poem,' and other poetical works, a second edition of which, with his ' Life and Letters ' and ' Essays and Sketches,' was published in London in 1877. There can be little doubt that Armstrong might have attained to high poetic ex- cellence. He had a briglit fancy, a keen sensibility, and a fine character which endeared him to many. THE BLIND STUDENT. On Euripides' plays we debated, In College, one chill winter night; A student rose uj), while we Avaited For more intellectual light. As he stood, j)ale and anxious, before us, Three Avords, like a soft summer Avind, Went past us and through us and o'er us — A whisper 1oa\ -breathed : "He is blind!" And ill many a face there Avas i»ity, In many an ey(* there A\'e]e tears; For his woi-ds Avere not buoyant or Avitty, As fitted his fresh summer years. 24 EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG. 25 And lie spoke once or twice, as none other Could speak, of a woman's pure ways — He remembered the face of his mother Ere darkness had blighted his days. ADIEU. I hear a distant clarion blare, The smoldering battle flames anew; A noise of onset shakes the air — Dear woods and quiet vales, adieu ! Weird crag, where I was wont to gaze On the far sea's aerial hue, Below a veil of glimmering haze At morning's breezy prime — adieu! Clear runnel, bubbling under boughs Of odorous lime and darkling yew, Where I have lain on banks of flowers And dreamed the livelong noon — adieu! And, ah ! ye lights and shades that ray Those orbs of brightest summer blue, That haunted me by night and day For happy moons — adieu! adieu! FROM FIONNUALA. With heaving breast the fair-haired Eileen sang The mystic, sweet, low-voweled Celtic rhyme Of Fionnuala and her phantom lover, Who wooed her in the fairy days of yore Beneath the sighing pines that gloom the waves Of Luggala and warbling Anamoe — And how he whispered softly vows of love. While the pale moonbeam glimmered down and lit The cataract's flashing foam, and elves and fays Played o'er the dewy harebells, wheeling round The dappled foxglove in a flickering maze Of faint aerial flame; and the wild si)rites 20 IRISH LITERATURE. Of tlio roujj:h storm wore bound in charmdd sleep — And how the lovely i)liantom lowl.v knelt, And i)leaded with such sweet-tongued eloquence, Such heavenly radiance on his lips and eyes, That Fionnuala, blushing, all in tears. Breaking the sacred spell that held her soul, Fell on his bosom and confessed her love — And how the demon changed, and flashed upon her In all his hideous beauty, and she sank In fearful slumbers, and, awaking, found Her form borne upward in the yielding air; And, floating o'er a dark blue lake, beheld The reflex of a swan, Mhite as the clouds That fringe the noonday sun, and heard a voice, As from a far world, shivering through the air : " Thou shalt resume thy maiden form once more When yon great Temples, piled upon the hills With rugged slabs and pillars, shall be whelmed In ruin, and their builders' names forgot!" — And how she knew her })hantom lover spoke, And how she floated over lake and fell A hundred years, and sighed her mournful plaint Day after day, till the first mass-bell pealed Its silvery laughter amid Erin's hills. And a young vvarrior found her, with the dew Of morning on her maiden lips, asleep In the green woods of warbling Anamoe, And wooed and won her for his blushing bride. I'lLGRIMS. Wild blows the tempest on their brows . . . Lit by the dying sunset's fire; While round the biave ship's keel and o'er the bows The thundering billows break. And, as a lyre Struck by a maniac writhes with storms of sound, Wherein the moan of some low melody Is crushed in that tumultuous ,'igonv That swee]»s and whirls ai-ound; So, in the roar and hiss of the vexed sea. And 'mid thf tinfiping of the tiittered sails, The thousand voices of the ruthless gales Arc blended with the sigh of murmured prayer, The long low jihiint of sorrow and of care — EDMUND JOHX ARMSTRONG. 27 The sound of prayer upon the storm-blown sea, The sound of prayer amid the thunder's roll, 'Mid the howl of the tempest, the j)ale-flashing gleam Of the waters that coil o'er the decks black and riven, While hither and thither through chink and through seam The foam of the green leaping billows is driven. A moment their forms are aglow in the flash Of the red, lurid bolt; then the vibrating crash Of the echoing thunder above and below Shakes the folds of the darkness; they reel to and fro From the crest to the trough of the flickering wave, Where the waters are curved like the crags of a cave That drip with red brine in the vapors of gold From the doors of the sunrise in hurricane rolled. The sea-birds are screaming, The lightning is gleaming. The billows are whirling voluminously; Like snakes in fierce battle They twist and they fold, Amid the loud rattle Of ocean and sky. While the terrible bell of the thunder is tolled And the fiends of the storm ride by; Till the buffeting blast Is hushed to a whisper at hast ; And the sun in his splendor and majesty Looks down on the deep's aerial blue ; And the soft low cry of the white seamew, And the plash of the ripple around the keel, Like a girl's rich laughter, lightly steal O'er those true hearts by troubles riven ; And a song of praise goes ujj to Heaven. SARAH ATKINSON. (1823—1893.) Mrs. Atkinson, a most prolific contributor to periodical literature and the author of at least one book which has made a distinctive mark, was born Oct. 13, 182.3. in the town of Athlone, where she re- ceived her early education. From the age of fifteen it was continued at Dublin. At school she began that system of diligent note-taking which remained with her through life, and which helped her to the extraordinary accuracy and completeness of detail which marked her later work. She married Dr. George Atkinson in her twenty- fifth year ; and in a life devoted to good Avorksshe found time for a good deal of writing. With perfect womanly sweetness, she had a masculine force and clearness of intellect. She would have made an ideal historian, for she had the broadest and most impartial of minds, a keen vision, a strong, clear, noble style, and an infinite capacity for taking pains. The preface to her ' Life of Mary Aikenhead,' dealing with the penal days in Ireland, packed full as it is with out-of-the-way infor- mation most lucidly stated, excited the warm admiration of the late Mr. Lecky. Indeed, her mind was in many respects of the same encyclopaedic character as that of this great historian. WOMEN IN IRELAND IN PENAL DAYS. From ' Mary Aikenhead, Her Life, Her Work, and Her Friends.' Hardly necessary is it to remark tliat the liome life of the people was their dearest refuge — their impregnable stronghold. Not that iniquitous legislation had over- looked this sanctuary of divine faith and domestic virtue. The penal laws, as A\e have seen, sought to make the fourth commandment a dead letter by encouraging disobedience to parental authority, and rewarding rebellion with priv- ilege and wealth. The Code supplemented this attempt to set childien against their parents, by endeavoring to dis- turb the relations between lnisl)and and wife; for, if the wife of a Catholic declared herself a Protestant, the law enabled her to compel her husband to give her a separate maiiitf'iKinr-e, and to transfer to her the custody and guar- diansliip of all their children; and, as if to bring injury and insult to a climax, every Catholic was by act of Par- 28 SARAH ATKINSON. 29 liament deprived of the power of settling a jointure on his Catholic wife or charging his lands with any provision for his daughters. Disruption of the strong and tender bond that held the Irish household as a Christian family was not to be effected by royal proclamation or Parlia- mentary decree: nevertheless, the legislation that aimed at depriving the naturally dependent members of the fam- ily of manly protection and necessary provision was felt as a biting insult and an inhuman tyranny. In Irish households, high and low, the women through- out those troubled times kept well up to the Christian standard, cherishing the domestic virtues, accepting with patience their own share of suffering, defying the tempta- tions held out by the enemies of the faith, refusing to barter the souls of the young, in the midst of calamity keeping the eternal reward in view, and daily exercising works of charity and zeal. As far as circumstances would allow, the people in their domestic life followed the tradi- tional standard of their ancestors and preserved the cus- toms of immemorial days. Women, from the earliest times, have ever been held in great respect in Ireland. The Brehon law, by which the inhabitants of the territories outside the Pale were gov- erned from long before St. Patrick's time, to the reign of James I., and according to whose provisions the people in manj' parts of the country continued, up to a compara- tively recent period, to arrange their affairs and settle their disputes, secured to women the rights of property, and provided for their rational independence in a far more effectual way than was contemplated by other codes. In social life the spirit of the Brehon law was embodied, and transmitted to succeeding generations, in the customs and manners of the people. One cannot read the annals of Ireland without observing how important was the position occupied by women in Erin. All, according to their de- gree, were expected to fill a part, both influential and hon- orable, in the constitution of the clan. A considerable share of the internal administration of the principality was intrusted to the wife of the chieftain or provincial king. The duties of hospitality — onerous and constant, and precis(;ly defined by the Brehon law — were exercised by her. To her was intrusted the care of the poor and 30 IRISH LITERATURE. suffering. She was expected to be an encourager of learn- ing, ami a friend to the ollamhs or professors, a benefactor to the chnrches, and a generous helper of the religious orders. While the chieftain was out fighting or taking preys from his enemies, the chieftain's wife kept everything in order in the little kingdom, and held herself ready, at a moment's notice, to protect her people from robbers or de- fend her castle from invaders. The mother of Hugh ()'X(m'11 is described by the annalists as " a woman who was tlie pillar of support and maintenance of the indigent and the mighty, of tlie \n)vts and exiled, of widows and or- phans, of the clergy and men of science, of the poor and the needy; a woman who was the head of council and ad- vice to the gentlemen and chiefs of the province of Conor ^lacNessa; a demure, wonmnly, devout, charitable, meek, benignant woman, with pure piety and the love of God and her neighbors." In the obituary notice of a certain great lady, the annalist tells us how she was " a nurse of all guests and strangers, and of all the learned men in Ireland"; of another we read that she was "the most distinguished woman in Munster in her time, in fame, hospitality, good sense, and piety." The old writers, in summing up the noble qualities of an Irish chieftain's wife, do not omit to mention that she was distinguished by her checking of plunder, her hatred of injustice, by her tran- quil mind and her serene countenance. We get the portrait of a woman of this stamp, and a pic- ture of the manners of the fifteenth century in Ireland, in the account of Margaret, the daughter of the king of Ely, and wife of Calvagh O'Carroll. Tliis lady was accustomed to give a great feast twice in the year, bestowing " meate and moneyes, with all other manner of gifts," on all who assembh'd on tliese occasions. The guests took their ])laces according as tlieir names were entered in a roll kept for that purpose, while the chieftain and his wife devoted themselves entirely to their guests. Margaret " clad in (loath of gold, her deerest friends about her, her clergy and judges too; Talvagli liinisclf being on horseback, by the church's outward si(h*, to the end that all things might b(^ done orderly, and each one served successively." On one of those days of festivity Margaret gave two chalices SARAH ATKINSON. 31 of gold as offerinj^s on the jiltar to God Almighty, and " she also caused to nurse or foster two young orphans." She was distinguished among the women of her time for preparing highways and erecting bridges and churches, and doing " all manner of things protitable to serve God and her soule." Her days were shortened by a fatal can- cer; and the annalist concludes his notice with a beautiful prayer and a pathetic malediction. " God's blessing," he exclaims, '' the blessing of all saints, and every other bless- ing from Jerusalem to Inis Gluair, be on her going to heaven, and blessed be he that will reade and heare this, for blessing her soule. Cursed be that sore in her breast that killed Margrett." And should one of these fair women, who acted well her part in the chieftain's household, renounce " all worldly vanityes and terrestrial glorious pomps " and betake her- self to " an austere, devoute life " in a monastery, the chronicler fails not to speed thither the blessings of guests and strangers, poor and rich, and poet-philosophers of Ire- land, which he prays " may be on her in that life." In recording the erection of churches and the foundation of monasteries, the old historians constantlv note that it is a joint work of the chief and his wife. Sometimes, indeed, the wife seems to have been sole founder; and we are led to infer that she had at her disposal certain revenues, whether the property of the head of the clan or the pro- ceeds of her own dowry. We read that the wife of Stephen Lynch Fitz-Dominick, while her husband was beyond the seas in Spain, began, in the year 1500, to build a convent on an eminence over the sea at Galway. Church and steeple were finished be- fore his return, and on entering the bay he was much sur- prised to behold so stately a building on the heights. Having learned on his landing that the edifice had been erected by his own wife in honor of St. Augustine, he knelt down on the seashore and returned thanks to Heaven for inspiring her with that pious resolution. Subsequently he took part in the good work, finislied the monastery, and endowed it with rents and several lands. Another case in point may be noted in the story of the building of the famous Franciscan monastery of Donegal. If the women of Erin took their full share of the bur- 32 IRISn LITERATURE. dens and responsibilities of life in those by£2;one stirring times, they were not for that excluded from participation in the pleasures of life, and in the advantages of whatever culture was then attainable. Uke their husbands, they were fond of traveling abroad, and made pilgrimages to St. James of Compostella; to Rome, "the capital of the Christians"; and even to more distant shrines. But it does not appear to have been customary for the chief and the chief tainess to leave home together: the one or the other should stay to receive strangers, entertain guests, and carry on the government of the principality. In days when certain important professions, such as those of Bre- hon, poet, and historian, were hereditary in certain fam- ilies, the women of those families received an education fitting them to take a part in the avocations of their male relatives. Thus, among the Brehons, who were the law- yers of the clans, there were women eminent as judges or expounders of the laws; and in the learned families there were women historians and i^oets. The learned men of Erin, it is evident, enjoyed the sympathy and appreciation of the daughters of the land, and were not ungrateful for the encouragement and hospitality they received. They inscribed the names of their lady friends on the tracts com- piled for their use or at their desire. One of the very ancient Gaelic manuscripts still in existence is a tract entitled ^History of the Illustrious Women of Erin'; another valuable relic of the olden times is inscribed. * Lives of the Mothers of the Irish Saints.' It is interesting to learn what impression the women of Ireland at a later period — the middle of the seventeenth century* — made on strangers from the classic land of Italy. The Rev. C. P. Meehan has enriched the fifth edition of his * Rise and Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries, and Memoirs of the Hierarchy,' with the original account of the journey from Kennmre to Kilkenny of Rinucini, Archbishop of Fermo, who was sent to this country as Papal nuncio in 1045. ^lassari, Dean of Fermo, accom- I)anied the nuncio as secretary, and wrote the narrative which is given in the appendix to the work just cited. The dean speaks more than once with genuine delight of the e]ej;ant hospitality with which the distinguished visitors were entertained by the lords and ladies of Munster, and SARAH ATKINSON. 33 specially dwells on the reception they received from Lady Muskerry, whose husband was then from liome, either with the army of the Confederates, or in Dublin discussing Lord Ormonde's peace. " The women," he says, " are exceed- ingly beautiful, and heighten tlieir attractions by their matchless modesty and piety. Tliey converse freely with every one, and are devoid of suspicion and jealousy. Their style of dress differs from ours, and rather resembles the French; all wear cloaks with long fringes; they have also a hood sewn to the cloak, and they go abroad without any covering for the head; some wearing- a kerchief, as the Greek women do, which, being gracefully arranged, adds, if possible, to their native comeliness." ^ There may seem to have been but little relation between the position of a chieftainess in ancient times and that of the mistress of an Irish Catholic household in the eigh- teenth century; and yet, even during the penal days, the spirit of the earlier time survived, the old ideal was not supplanted by anything less worthy. The houses of the re- duced gentry were still the center of a generous hospitality, and charity was dispensed from the gentleman's door with a liberality wholly incommensurate with the revenues of a fallen estate. The careful mother, who could not grace her home with the presence of the learned, sent forth her sons to encounter the risks of a perilous voyage and the dangers of foreign travel, that so they might escape the dreaded doom of ignorance; she lent her best efforts to the fostering of that magnanimous loyalty so requisite for the preservation of the ancient faith. The mother's lessons proved a stay and conscience to her sons when, in after-life, temptations rudely pressed uj^on them. The mother's ex- 1 Tlie Dean of Fermo does equal justice to the men of Ireland, who are, he says, "good-looking, incredibly strong, fleet runners, equal to any hardsliip, and indescribably patient. They are given to arms ; and tliose who apply themselves to learning become liighly distinguished in every domain of science." Of the people in general he speaks in high terms. " I have not words," he continues, "to describe to you the kindness and politeness which we experienced at the liands of this Irish people, whose devotion to the Holy See is beyond all praise, and I assure you that I was often moved to tears when I saw them, wholly forgetful of self, kneeling in the very mire in order to kiss tlie nuncio's robe and hands as if they were holy relics. At almost every stage of our journey, the nuncio was escorted by strong squadrons of horse to protect him from the enemy. We are in Ireland ! we are in Ireland ! praise to God." 34 IRISH LITERATURE. ample taught hor daughters how to uuite a virile courage with womanly modesty ami grace. Nor was it among the higher classes alone that these charaeteristics remained distinctly marked during: the days of the nation's trial; they were noticeable in the farmer's cottage and the peasant's hut. The poor man's wife did not turn the weary and the hungry from her door; she received the poor scholar with a motherly welcome; ^ she accustomed her children to think nothing of a run of two or three miles to the hedge-school. I>y precept and by example she taught them fidelity to the faith, love for the old land, reverence for God's ministers, and respect for learning. The high moral tone pervading the social life of the humbler classes in Ireland was at once the cause and consequence of the important position which the women maintained at the domestic hearth, and of the beneficial sway which they exercised among their neighbors of the same degree. The circumstances of the time were favorable to the growth of this intiuence. As a rule the women did not work in the fields: their occupations were of an indoor character ; and the habits of the people, both men and wo- men, were domestic. The latter half of the eighteenth cen- tury being happily free from such famines which had laid waste the country during the previous two hundred years, and were fated to reappear at a later period, there was plenty of food for the people. The statf of life — the potato — was then in its prime, as to quality and quantity. Each little holding produced a crop sufiticient for the support of a numerous family, with a large surplus for the poultry that crowded round tlu^ door, and the pigs, which even the l)Oorest cotter reared; while a paddock was reserved from tillage as pasture for the high-boned native cow, which formed an important item of the live stock. In the 1 In Ireland it is a custom, immemorially established, for those petty schfx^lmasters wlio teach in chapels, or temporary hnia, freely to instruct Hurh poor boys as come from remote places, and are unabh; to pay. The poor scholar, while he remains at the school, goes home, night and night about, witli his scliool-feilovvs, whose parents tliat can afford it occasion- ally supply him with a few old clothes, as well as food and lodging. Tliis ai)i>fars to be a faint emanation of the ancient custom in Ireland, so cele- brat<'fl Viy historians, of supplying, at the national expense, all foreign students with meat, drink, clothes, lodging, books, etc. SARAH ATKINSON. 35 farmers' families linen and woolen stiifFs were spun, woven, Icnitted, bleached, and dyed, and made into wear- ing; apparel by the women. A spinnini;- wheel was as neces- sary a part of the fnrnitnre as a pot for cookinij,' the stira- bout. Public-lionses were few and far between, facilities for locomotion were not abundant, and the men did not range to anv oreat distance from home. Their amusement was to sit by the fire in the v/inter evenings, or smoke their pipes at the door in summer, lis- tening to the story-teller or the singer, while their wives and daughters knitted or spun : all, young and old, being ready to break out into a dance the moment a piper or fiddler appeared on the scene. Perhaps the greatest testi- mony borne to the genuine worth of the poor Irish Cath- olics was that afforded by the custom which prevailed among the Protestant and respectable classes, of sending their children to be nursed or fostered by the peasantry. Sons and heirs destined to fill prominent and honorable posts, and daughters born to grace luxurious homes, were in all trust committed to the care of peasant women, and grew from tender infancy to hardy childhood in the moun- tain cabins, sharing the homely fare and joining in the simple sports of their foster brothers and sisters. One thing was certain : the nurse's fidelity and affection could be implicitly relied on, and the gentleman's child would have no vice to unlearn when transferred from the peas- ant's guardianship to the protection of the parental roof. SIR ROBERT STAWELL BALL. (1840 ) Robert Stavtell Ball. LL.D., F.R.S.. was born in Dublin, .Tulvl, 1840. IIt> is the son of Robert Ball, LL. D. , of Dublin (the well-known naturalist). He married in 1863 Frances Elizabeth, the daughter of W. E. Steele, the director of the Science and Art Museum, Dub- lin. He Avas educated at Abbott's Grange, Chester ; and at Trinit}^ College, Dublin. He is an Honorary M.A. of Cambridge, 1892, and an LL.D. of Dublin. He was Royal Astronomer of Ireland from 1874 to 1892, and Scientific Adviser to the Commissioners of Irish Lights from 1884. He has been President of the Royal Astronomi- cal Society, President of the ]\Iathematical Association, and Presi- dent of the Royal Zoological Society of Ireland. His title was created in 1886. He was Lowndean Professor of Astronomy and Geometry at Cambridge. He is a Fellow of King's College, Cam- bridge, and he has been Director of the Cambridge Observatory since 1892. Sir Robert's publications are : ' The Theory of Screws ' ; many memoirs on mathematical, astronomical, and physical subjects ; and the following works on Astronomy : ' The Story of the Heavens,' 1885 ; ' Starland,' 1889; ' In Starry Realms,' ' In the Higli Heavens,' ' Time and Tide,' 1889 ; ' Atlas of Astronomy,' 1892 ; ' The Story of the Sun.' 1893; ' Great Astronomers,' 1895; 'The Earth's Begin- ning,' 1901. His lectures on scientific subjects are much appi*eciated, and he is well known on the lecture platform in this country. He has a pleasing manner and a very happy method of presenting abstruse matters to popular audiences. THE DISTANCES OF THE STARS. From 'The Starry Heavens.' Now about the distanoes of the stars. I shall not make the attempt to explain fully how astronomers make such measurements, but I will i^ive von some notion of how it is done. W'e make the two observations from two opposite points on the earth's orbit, which are therefore at a dis- tance of 186,000,000 miles. Ima<(ine that on Midsummer Day, when standing on the earth here, I measured with a piece of card the angle between the star and the sun. Six '6{i y SIR ROBERT STAWELL BALL. 37 months later on, on Midwinter Day, when the earth is at the opposite point of its orbit, I again measure the angle between the same star and the sun, and we can now deter- mine the star's distance by making a triangle. I draw a line a foot long, and we will take this foot to represent 1S(>,000,000 mih's, the distance between the two stations; then placing the cards at the corners, I rule the two sides and compk'te the triangle, and the star must be at the re- maining corner; then 1 measure the sides of the triangle, and how many feet they contain, and recollecting that each foot corresponds to 180, 000,000 miles, we discover the dis- tance of the star. If the stars were comparatively near us, the process Avould be a very simple one; but, unfor- tnuatelv, the stars are so extremelv far off that this tri- angle, even A\itli a base of only one foot, must have its sides nianj- miles long. Indeed, astronomers will tell you that there is no more delicate or troublesome work in the whole of their science than that of discovering the distance of a star. In all such measurements Ave take the distance from the earth to the sun as a conveniently long measuring-rod, whereby to express the results. The nearest stars are still hundreds of thousands of times as far off as the sun. Let us ponder for a little on the vastness of these distances. We shall first express them in miles. Taking the sun's dis- tance to be 93,000,000 miles, then the distance of the near- est fixed star is about twenty millions of millions of miles — that is to say, Ave express this by putting doAvn a 2 first, and then Avriting thirteen ciphers after it. It is, no doubt, easy to speak of such figures, but it is a A^ery different mat- ter Avhen Ave endeaA'or to imagine the awful magnitude Avhich such a number indicates. I must try to give some illustrations Avhich Avill enable you to form a notion of it. At first I was going to ask you to try and count this num- ber, but Avhen I found it would require at least 300,000 years, counting day and night Avithout stopping, before the task Avas over, it became necessary to adopt some other method. When on a visit in Lancashire I Avas once kindly per- mitted to Adsit a cotton mill, and I learned that the cotton yarn there produced in a single day Avould be long enough to wind round this earth tAventy-seveu times at the equator. dil^^^Qr^ 38 IKIiSU LITERATURE. It npi>oai's that the total production of cotton yarn each (lav in all the mills touether would be on the average about 155,0(10, ()()() miles. In fact, if they would only spin about one-tifth more, we could assert that Great Britain pro- duced enough cotton yarn every day to sti*etch from the earth to the sun and back ai^ainl It is not hard to find from these fiack again. AVe said that a meteor travels one liundred times as swiftly as a rille bullet; but even this great speed seems almost nothing when compared with the speed of light, whi<'h is 10,000 times as great. Sup])Ose some brilliant outbreak of liglit were; to take place in a distant star — an oiitbi'cak which would l)e of such intensity that the flash from it wctuld extend far and wide throughout th€ uni- verse. The light would start forth on its voyage with ter- rific speed. Any neigld)oi-ing star whicli was at a distance of h'ss than 1S5,000 mih.'S wonbl, f>f course, see the flash within a second after it had been jirodnced. More distant bodies would receive the intimation after intervals of time pro7>ortioned to tlieir distances. Thus, if a body were 1,000,000 miles away, the light would reach it in from five SIR ROBERT ST AW ELL BALL. 89 to six seconds, while over a distance as great as that whicli separates the eartli from the sun the news wouhl be car- ripear, not as the great England we know, but as a country covered by dense forests, and inhabited by painted savages, who waged incessant war with wild beasts that roamed through the island. The geological problems that now puzzle us would be cjuickly solved could we only go far enough into space and bad we only powerful enough telescopes. We should then be able to view our earth through the successive epochs of jiast geological time; we should be actually able to see those great animals whose fossil remains are treasured in our museums, tramping about ovj'r the earth's surface, splashing across its swamps, or swimming with broad iiippers through its oceans. In- ;Sf/A* ROBERT ST AW ELL BALL. 41 deed, if we could view onr own earth reflected from iiiirrorK in the stars, we mij^ht still see INloses crossinj^ the Ked Sea, or Adam and Eve being expelled from Eden. WHAT THE STARS ARE MADE OF. From ' The Starry Heavens,' Here is a piece of stone. If I wanted to know what it was composed of, I should ask a chemist to tell me. He would take it into his laboratory, and first crush it into powder, and then, with his test tubes, and with the liquids which his bottles contain, and his weighing scales, and other apparatus, he would tell all about it; there is so much of this, and so much of that, and plenty of this, and none at all of that. But now, suppose you ask this chemist to tell you what the sun is made of, or one of the stars. Of course, you have not a sample of it to give him; how, then, can he possibly find out anything about it? Well, he can tell you something, and this is the wonderful dis- covery that I want to explain to you. We now put down the gas and I kindle a brilliant red light. Perhaps some of those whom I see before me have occasionally ven- tured on the somewhat dangerous practice of making fireworks. If there is any boy here who has ever con- structed sky-rockets and put the little balls into the top which are to burn with such vivid colors when the explosion takes i^lace, he will know that the substance which tinged tliat fire red must have been strontium. He will recog- nize it by the color; because strontium gives a red light Avhich nothing else will give. Here are some of these light- ning papers, as they are called; they are very pretty and ver3' harmless ; and these, too, give brilliant red flashes as I throw them. The red tint, has, no doubt, been produced by strontium also. You see we recognized the substance simply by the color of the light it produced when burning. There are, in nature, a number of simple bodies called elements. Every one of these, when ignited under suitable conditions, emits a light which belongs to it alone, and by 42 li^lSH LITERATURE. ^vlli(•h it can be distins^iiislied from every other substance. 3hniy of tlie materials will yield light Avhich will recjuire to be studied bv much more elaborate artifices than those which have suthced for us. But you will see that the method affords a means of finding out the actual sub- stances present in the sun or in the stars. There is a prac- tical difficulty in the fact that each of the heavenly bodies contains a number of diiierent elements; so that in the light it sends us the hues arisin^g from distinct substances are blended into one beam. The first thing to be done is to get some way of splitting up a beam of light, so as to dis- cover the components of which it is made. You might have a skein of silks of different hues tangled together, and this would be like the sunbeam as we receive it in its unsorted condition. IIow shall we untangle the light from th-e sun or a star? I will show you by a simple experiment. ITere is a beam from the electric light; beautifully white and bright, is it not? It looks so pure and simple, but yet that l)eam is composed of all sorts of colors mingled to- gether, in such proportions as to form white light. I take a wedge-shaped piece of glass called a prism, and when I introduce it into the course of the beam, you see the trans- formation that has taken place. Instead of the white light you have now all the colors of the rainbow — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. These colors are very beautiful, but they are transient, for the moment we take away the prism they all unite again to form white light. You see what the prism has done ; it has bent all the light in passing through it; but it is more effective in bending the l)lue than the red, and consequently the blue is carried away much farther than the red. Such is the way in which we Ktudy the composition of a heavenly body. We take a beam of its light, we pass it through a prism, and imme- diately it is separated into its components; then we com- pare what we find with the lights given by the different elements, and thus we are enabled to discover the sub- stances which exist in the distant object whose light we have examined. 1 do not mean to say that the method is a simple one; all I am endeavoring to show is a general out- line of the way in which we have discovered the materials jjrescnt in the stars. The instrument that is employed for this purpose is called tlie spectroscope. And perhaps you SIR ROBERT STAWELL BALL. 43 may rciiHMiilM'i' lliat iiainc by iliesc lines, which I have heard from an astronomical friend : " Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Now wc find out what you are, When unto the midnight sky We the spectroscope apply." I am sure it will interest everybody to know that the elements which the stars contain are not altoi>,('ther differ- ent from those of which the earth is made. It is true there may be siibstam-es in the stars of which we know nothing here; but it is certain that many of the most common ele- ments on the earth are present in the most distant bodies. I shall only mention one, the metal iron. That useful sub- stance has l)eeu found in some of the stars which lie at almost incalculable distances from the earth. JOHN BANIM. (1798—1844.) John Baxdi, "a bright-hoartcd, truc-souled Irishman," is chiefly known through the powerful ' Tales by the O'Hara Family,' which he wrote in conjunction with his elder brother Michael. He was born in Kilkenny, April 3, 1798. His father was a farmer and trader, who gave his sons a good education. Instances of John's precocity are numerous : when only ten years old he had written a romance and some poetry. His progress at school was rapid, and at thirteen he was sufficiently advanced to enter the college of his native town. Hero his decided talent as a sketcher and painter tirst developed itself, and when his father gave him a choice of professions he determined to become an artist. In 1814 he went to Dublin, and there entered tiie Royai Academy, to study art. After two years he returned to Kilkenny and began life as a teacher of drawing. At the same time his early taste for literature manifested itself in his frequent contributions of poems and sketches to the local period- icals. His life was a checkered one. His first serious trouble was the death of a young lady (one of his pupils) to whom he was engaged. This blow affected his mind so deeply that his health was perma- nently injured, and he passed some years in anaijnless and hopeless manner nearly akin to despair. At length, by the advice of his friends, he resolved to try change of both scene and employment, and in 1820 he removed to Dublin and relinquished his profession of art for that of literature. At this time his contributions to periodical literature were very numerous, and so continued through- out his whole career. Were it now possible to identify these, many of them would pi'obably add little to his fame as an author, since they were for the most part written hurriedly as a means of gain- ing a living. But among the sketches a few on theatrical topics, written over the signature of "A Traveler," appeared in a Lime- rick journal, and were remarked as particularly clever. In 1821 he published ' The Celt's Paradise,' a poem now almost forgotten ; but at the time it gained recognition of the talents of the young author, and the friendship of Shell and other literary men. Banim now attempted dramatic composition, and the tragedy ' Turgesius ' was written and offered in succession to the managers of Covent Garden and Drury Lane theaters, but was rejected l)y both. Not deterred by this failui-e, the author once more compos(;d a tragedy, ' Damon and Pythias,' which through the reconnnendation of his friend Shell was produced at Covent Garden, London, in 1821, and met with a receijtion which amply consoled him for his former disappointment. 44 '*?«^,^' JOHN BANIM From an old engrating JOE^ BANIM. 45 In the summer of 1S22 Banim revisited his home in Kilkenny, and during his stay he and his brother Michael planned and com- menced writing the first series of the ' O'Hara Tales.' He married Miss Ellen Ruth, and subsequently removed to London, where he continued to reside for several years. Here he resumed his neces- sary labor as a periodical writer. In April of the following year the first series of the celebrated ' O'llara Tales ' was published, and commanded immediate success. ' John Doe, or the Peep o' Day ' and ' The Fetches ' were John Banim's sole work in this first series. His next work, ' The Boyne Water,' a political novel, the scenes of which are laid in the time of William of Orange and James II., depicts the siege of Limerick and other stirring events of that troubled period. The second series of the ' Tales' appeared in 182G, and included 'The Nowlans,' which was severely handled by the critics. In 1828 ' The Anglo-Irish ' was published. It was different in character from the ' Tales,' and was not so well received. In 1829 the concluding series of the ' Tales ' appeared, commencing with ' The Disowned,' the work of John Banim, and ending in 1842 with ' Father Connell,' the work of Michael. John's healtli now began to decline rapidly, and the death of a child and the illness of his wife pressed heavily upon his mind. In 1829, by the advice of numerous friends, he went to France for change of scene, but still continued his contributions to the journals, and wrote besides sevei-al small pieces for the English opera-house. In 1835 he returned home, but his health never rallied, and on Aug. 13, 1844, he breathed his last, aged forty-six years. A provision was made for his widow ; his daughter died a few years after her father. The ' O'Hara Tales ' were a joint production in so far that they were published together, and one brother passed his work to the other for suggestions and criticism. Those written by John Banim were 'John Doe, or the Peep o' Day,' ' The Fetches,' 'The Smug- gler,' 'Peter of the Castle,' 'The Nowlans,' 'The Last Baron of Crana,' and 'Disowned.' We quote from Chamber's 'Cyclopaedia of English Literature ' the following estimate of Banim's powers as a novelist : — " He seemed to luiite the truth and circumstantiality of Crabbe with the dark and gloomy power of Godwin ; and in knowledge he was superior even to Miss Edgeworth or Lady Mor- gan. The force of the passions and the effects of crime, turbulence, and misery have rarely been painted with such overmastering energy, or w^rought into narratives of more sustained and harrow- ing interest. The probability of his incidents was not much at- tended to by the author, and he indulged largely in scenes of hor- ror and violence — in murders, abductions, pursuits, and escapes ; but the whole was related with such spirit, raciness, and truth of costume and coloring, that the reader had neither time nor inclina- tion to note defects." " W^here his songs are at all tolerable," says Mr. D. J. O'Dono- ghue, ' ' they are full of fire and feeling, and written with quite a natural simplicity and strength. . . . His chief fault is his general disregard of metrical laws." 46 IRISH LITERATURE. AN ADVENTURE IN SLIEVENAMON. From ' The Peep o' Day.' [Lieutenant Howard, pursuins: some persons over the mountain, lost Ills way, and in springing across a chasm alighted on soft turf, which gave way and precipitated him through the roof of an illicit manufactory of spirits, presided over by Jack Mullins.] The first perception of noward's restored senses brought him the iutelliucnee of his beins; in the midst of an almost insutt'erable atmosphere, oppressive as it was strange and uinisnal. He breatlu'd witli dinicultv, and coughed and sneezed liimsidf verv nearly back aiiain into the state of un- consciousness out of which, it would seem, coughing and sneezing had just roused him ; for he gained his senses while performing such operations as are understood by these words, When a reasonable pause occurred and that rcth^tion had time to come into play, Howard wondered \\hether he was alive or dead, and whether or no he felt l)ain. Due consideration having ensued, he was able to as- sure himself that, so far as he could judge, he lived, and without much pain of any kind into the bargain. Next he tried to stir himself, but here he was unsuccessful. Some unseen i)Ower paralyzed liis legs and arms, feet and hands. \Ut lay, it was evident, u])on his back, and the surface he pressed seemed soft and genial enough. While in this position he looked straight upward. The stars, and a patch of deep blue sky, twinkled and smiled u]»on him through a hole in a low squalid roof overhead. This was a help, lie remembered having fallen in through the slo])e of the hill, and, as an aperture must have been the consequence or the cause of his descent, he ventured to argue accordingly. lie had intruded, it would rather s(MMii, upon the private concerns of some person or persons, wlio, from motives unknown to him, chose to reside in a subterraneous retreat among the very sublimities of Slieve- nanion. Here the strange scent again filled his nostrils with overpowering elYect. There was some part of it he thought he could or ouglit to recollect having before ex- j»eri<'iiced, and he snilTed once or twice with the hope of iiccomiug satisfied. Hut a fresh, and, In? conceived, a dif- ferent effluvium thereupon rushed up into his head, and JOHN BANIM. 47 down his throat, and he had ajj;aiu to sneeze and cough his way into a better comprehension. When Howard was in this second effort successful, he observed tliat lie dwelt not in absolute darkness. A pande- monium kind of li, you bloodhound, stop I " screamed Tack'em. *' Happy death to iiie, what would you be about? Don't you know there 's wiser heads than yours settlinj^ that mat- ter? Isn't it in the hands of Father O'Clery by this time? An' who G;ave vou leave to take the law into your own hands?" ^ "Bother," said ^Mullins, "who'll suffer most by lettin' ill 111 t!;o? Who bud myself, that <;ets the little bit I ate, an' the dhrop T taste, by showiu' you all how to manage the still through the counthry? An' wouldn't it be betther to do two things at once, an' get him to kiss the Buke fur all I ax him?" " You don't understand it," rejoined Tack'em, " you were never born to understand it. You can do notliin' but jmll your trigger or keep the stone in your sleeve. Let better people's business alone, I say, and wait awhile." Mullins, looking as if, despite previous arrangements, he considered himself called on, in consequence of a lucky ac- cident, to settle matters his own way, slowly resumed: " Then I '11 tell you how it '11 be. Let the Sassenach kneel down iu liis straw, an' do you kneel at his side, plase your reverence, an' give him a betther preparation nor his mother, poor lady, ever thought he 'd get. Just say six Patterin'-Aavees, an' let no one be talking. Sure we '11 give him a little time to think of it." " ^Murderous dog!" exclaimed Howard, with the tremu- lous energy of a despairing man ; " recollect what you are about to do. If I fall in this manner there's not a pit or nook of your barren hills shall serve to screen you from the conse(|uencesI Nor is there a man who now hears me, yet refuses to interfere, but shall become an accessory, ef|ually guilty and punishal»le with yourself, if indeed you dare proceed to an extremity I " " Don't be talkin'," said ^lullins, "bud kneel down." " 1 '11 give V01I mv «-iii'se on iiiv two bended knees if vou toucli a hair of his head I " Tack'em cried, with as mucli energy us his muddled brain Avould allow. " And then see * Thonomon duoul, thy soul to the devil. J077iY BANIM. 55 how you '11 look, going about on a short leg, and j^our elbow scratching your ear, and your sliins making war on each other, while all the world is at peace." " An' don't you be talkiu', ayther," resumed INFullins, who seemed pertinacious in his objection to the prolonged sound of the human voice; " bud kneel by his side an' Ijear what he has to tell you first. An' then say your Patterin'- Aavees." Evidently in fear for himself Tack'em at last obej'ed. The other men, with the old hag and tlie girl, gathered round, and Howard also mechanically knelt. He was barel}^ conscious, and no more, of the plunging gallop in which he hastened into eternity. He grew, despite of all his resolutions to die bravely, pale as a sheet; cold perspira- tion rushed down his face; his jaw dropped, and his eyes fixed. Strange notions of strange sounds filled his ears and brain. The roaring of the turf lire, predomiuantly heard in the dead silence, he confusedly construed into the break of angry waters about his head; and the muttering voice of Tack'em as he rehearsed his prayers echoed like the growl of advancing thunder. The last prayer was said — Mullins was extending his arm — when a stone descended from the aperture under which he stood, and at the same time Flinn's well-known voice exclaimed from the roof: " Take that, an' bloody end to you, for a meddling, niur- therin' rap ! " Mullins fell senseless. " Bounce up, a-vich; you 're safe! " said Tack'em, while, kneeling himself, he clasped his hands, and continued, as if finishing a private prayer that had previously engaged him — " in secula scculoriun — Amen! — Jump, I say — jump! — festns dies hominis! — ri.jp sum apud me! — jump!" but Howard did not rise till after he had returned ardent thanks for his deliverance; and he was still on his knees when Flinn rushed down the ladder, crying out : " Tun- dher-un-ouns ! — it 's the greatest shame ever came on the counthry! — a burnin' shame! Och ! captain, ^-vourneen,^ are you safe an' sound every inch o' you? And they were goin' to trate you in that manner? Are you in a whole skin? " he continued, raising Howard and taking his hand. " Quite safe, tliank you, only a little frightened," said Howard, with a reassured though faint smile. 1 A-vourneen, my beloved. 56 IRIfiH UTERATURE. SOGGARTH AROON.i Am I the slave they say, ^ogyarth uroonf Since you did show the way, ^oi](loor, ^oggarth aroon ? Who, on the marriage day, Hoggarlh aroon. Made the ])oor cal)in gay, Hoggarth aroon? And did J)oth laugh and siu^, Making our hearts to ring, At the ]»oor christening, *Soggn rt h a roon ? Who, as friend only met, boggart h aroon, Never did (lout me yet, ^ogga rt h aroon ? And when my heart was dim Gave, wliiie his eve did brim, NV'hat I should give to him, ^og garth aroon? ^Soggarth aroon, "Priest, dear." JO /72V BANIM, 57 Och, you and only you, Soggarfh aroon! And for this 1 was true to you, Hog garth aroon: In love they '11 never shake, When for Old Ireland's sake We a true part did take, Boy garth aroon! AILEEN. 'T is not for love of gold I go, 'T is not for love of fame ; Though fortune should her smile bestow, And I may win a name, Aileen ; And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame. That they may deck another brow, And biess another name, Aileen ; And bless another name. For this, but this, I go: for this I lose thy love awhile. And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young faithful smile, Aileen ; Of thy young faithful smile. And I go to brave a world T hate. And woo it o'er and o'er, And temi)t a wave and try a fate, Upon a stranger shore, Aileen ; Upon a stranger shore. Oh, when the bays are all my own, T know a heart will care. Oh, Avhen the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, Aileen ; T know a brow shall wear. 5S IRliropriate for the marble ring, aud the pe<>top ring? In " liide and seek/' where could the appointed seeker find such a retreat as the old stone sentry-box — the boys called it an old confessional — in which to (urn away his head and eyes, until the other urchins should have concealed them- selves among some of the fantastic recesses around them? And where could leap-frog be played so v/ell as under the old archways? — and if a sudden sliower came on, how con- veniently they alTorded shelter from it! To such of the boys as had <()urage for the undertaking, what ]>laces above ground, ay, or underground, so lit for enacting " tlie ghost," as were the pandemonium retreats of the black chambers of the third archway? Was there ever so luxurious a seat for a tired boy to cast himself upon, fanning his scarleted face with his hat, as that offered to him by the bench in the larger (piadrangle, canopied overhead l)y its two umbrageous sycamores, one at its either end? Or, if a poor boy happened to play too much, and too long, and were summoned up to his task, witliout having conned a single word of it, Avhat crumbling old walls under the sun could com])are with those at the opposite side of the square, for sujiplyiug in perfection a weed called — locally at least— " Peniterry," to which the suddenly terrified idler might run in his need, grasping it hard and threateningly, and repeating the following " words of power ": " Peniterry, peniterry, that grows by the wall, Save me from a whipping, or I pull you roots and all" ? And there was a third sycamore, in a corner belonging to a tlirush, who from year to year l)uilt her nest, and brought forth lier young in it, and she was the best-fed thrush in the A\orld. ITer nest lay almost on a level with one of the schoolroom windows — you could nearly touch her, by stretching out your arm from it — and outside this window projected a broken slate, constantly ke])t tilled v.ith various kinds of ])rovisions, for her and her family. Her husband seemed to grow lazy under these circumstances. lie would scarce ever leave home in quest of food, and, indeed, do little else than y)erch upon the very topmost bough over her head, and whistle to her all day long. As for herself, she seemefl, out of her trustiness in Iier IK tie purveyors, to MICHAEL BAXIM. 63 live in a deli^litful state of happy quietude. Not a bit startled was she, or even put out, by all their whoopings and uproar in the 3'ard below. Nay, she seemed to take a matronly interest in their studies too; for the boys of the liead class, during school-hours, could plainly see her sit- ting on her eggs, while the}- sat to their books or slates, and they would fancy that her little, round, diamonded eye us(mT to be watching them. AWdl. The old house confronting you, as you entered the first quadrangle from the street, and the rear of which looked into the second quadrangle, was the old school- house. Passing its sharply arched doorway of stone, you entered a hall, floored with old black oak, and ascended a spiral staircase of black oak, coiling round an upright of black oak, and stepped into the schoolroom, floored with black oak, and divided by a thick partition of black oak from the master's bedchamber; in fact, all the partitions, all the doors, all the stairs, all the ceiling-beams — and ponderous things they were — downstairs, and upstairs, through the interior of the crude old edifice, were all, all old black oak, old black oak, nearly as hard as flint, and seemingly rough from the hatchet, too; and the same was the case in the interiors of the other inhabitable portions of the concatenation of ancient buildings. Through the partition separating his bedchamber from the schoolroom the head of the seminary had bored a good many holes, nearly an inch in diameter, some straight- forward, some slantingly, to enable himself to peer into every corner of the study, before entering it each morning; and this is to be kept in mind. At either end of the long apartment was a large square window, framed with stone, and, indeed, stone also in its principal divisions. Over- head ran the enormous beams of old oak, and in the spaces between them were monotonous flights, all in a row, and e(iuall3^ distant from each other, of monotonous angels, in stucco — the usual children's heads, with goose wings shoot- ing from under their ears; and sometimes one or two of these angels became fallen angels, flapping down on clipped wings either upon the middle of the floor, or else upon tlfC boys' heads, as they sat to their desks, and confusing them, and their books, and slates witli fragments of stucco and mortar, rotten laths, and rusty nails. 64 IRfSH LITERATURE. In a kind of recess, on tlie side of the schoolroom oppo- site to the boys' double desks, was an old table, flanked by a form, to which, at certain hours of the da}', sat some half- (h)7.en young girls, from six to ten years, who came up from the quaint old parlor below, under the care of the master's ilaughter, who therein superintended their education in in- ferior matters, to be occasionally delivered into his hands for more excelling insd'uction. The principal of this celebrated seminary wrote himself down in full, and in a precise, round hand, James Charles I>uchmahon; and his establishment as " the English Acad- emy "; — ])rincipal we have called him — despotic monarch, we should have called him; for he never had had more tlian one assistant, and the head of that one he broke before tliev had been manv weeks together. And never were absolute monarchy, and deep searching scrutiny, more distinctly stamped and carved on any coun- tenance, than upon that of James Charles Buchnmhon, master of the l']ngiish Academy. And that countenance was long and of a soiled sallow color; and the puckering of his brows and eyelids awful; and the unblinking steadiness of his bluish gray eyes insufferable; and the c()ld-l»looded resoluteness of his marbly lips unrelaxable. At the time we speak of him, James Charles Buchmahon might have l)een between fifty and sixty, but he wore well. lie was tall, with a good figure and remarka})ly well-turned Jindjs, " and he had the gift to know it," for in order not to hide a point of the beauty of those limbs from the world, lie always arrayed them in very tight-fitting pantaloons, which reached down to his ankles. His coat and waist- coat were invariably black. A vei-y small white muslin cravat, and a frill sticking out (juite straight from his breast, occupied the space from his chin to his waist. And James Charles Buchmahon's hat was of cream-color beaver, high crowned, and broad brimmed: and he even carried either a formidable walking-stick of stout oak, or else a substitute for it made of five or six peeled switches, cunningly twisted together, and at one end loaded with lead. . . . Sometimes even the redoubtable James Charles Buch- malion, master of the English Academy, used to indulge in a .social glass after dinner — nay, after supper, too, with a MICHAEL BANIM. 65 few select friends; and the following!: day was sure to re- main longer than was his wont, in his bedchamber. By some means or other, tlie youuj;- j;entlemen of his seminary were scarcely ever ignorant of the recurrences of such evenings; and consequently, for an hour or so, upon the mornings that succeeded them, the schoolroom of the English Academy used to be very unusually relaxed in dis- cipline. It was, indeed, rather a venturesome thing, even with the temptation mentioned, to utter a loud breath, or for a moment vacate a seat, when, as will be remembered, the young students were divided from the awful bedroom by an oak plank, solely; to say nothing of the spy-holes which James Charles Buchmahon had bored through the old partition. It is evident, however, to the meanest capacity — and even George Booth quite understood the matter — that if the spy-holes were good for the master's espioiuiage upon the boys, they were just as good for the cspionnagc of the boys upon the master — and, indeed, they were as often used one way as the other. Almost every morning in the year, reconnoitering parties were appointed from the first and second classes, who, with the help of those spy-holes, and their own eyes, telegraphed through the school the most minute proceeding of James Charles, from the instant he gave the first stir in his bed, until he laid his hand on the door-handle, to pass out to begin his duties for the day; and it need not be added, that upon the especial occasions of stolen enjoyment alluded to, our young acquaintances were most particularly watchful. It is, then, one of these half-holiday mornings before breakfast. The school abounds with fun and gambol, Neddy Fennell being one of the greatest, if not the very greatest truant among all his compeers. James Charles has been sleeping later than ever was known before; and his subjects, believ- ing that he must have been very drunk indeed the previous night, happily conjecture that he may not waken time enough for the morning lessons — nay, nor for the afternoon lessons — nay, that under Providence he may never waken at all. But a change soon occurred in Neddy Fennell's sportive idling. Mention has been made of some very dirty fellows in 5 60 IRISH LITERATURE. the Eiiiilish Ac-ademy. They were in their own way jocose fellows, too, particularly upon this memorable morniuo()(l hit whenever he couhl, and taking all their heavy piuiishnieut like a Trojan. But he could not fail having the worst of it. Ilis lips and nose were bruised, and spouted with blood; his left eye became unwillingly half shut up, and he staggered often, and was clean knocked down at last. A little scream came from the girls' table, and at the same moment one of the dirty fellows said, " The master is coming out," " Wait till I see," said Neddy, " and if he is not, I '11 come back to you." He ran round the long desk, and was just applying his eye — his only available one — to one of the spy-holes, when, 3'e gods! — another eye, a well-known, large, gray, bluish eye, a cold, shiny, white and blue delft eye, was in the act of doing the same thing at the other side of the auger- hole. Neddy's first impulse was, of course, to start back in terror; but the next instant, he stuck his own eye as closely as ever he could, into the opening, shrewdly judging that such a proceeding was the only one which could hinder his opponent from noting and ascertaining his personal iden- tity. And now it became a real trial of skill and endur- ance between the two eyes ; but, oh ! the horrors of the ordeal that Neddy had to endure! Sometimes, the large grayish blue eye would withdraw itself about the fourth part of an inch, from its own side of the partition, as if to admit light enough into the orifice, to enable it to mark the rival orb, and connect it with its owner; and then, the cold, freezy scintillations which shot from it curdled his very blood ! Sometimes it would adhere as closely to its end of the hole, as did Neddy's at the other end ; and then all was darkness to Neddy's vision — but he thought the fringes of the two eyelids touched ! and his trembling limbs scarce supported him. He winked, and blinked, and so did the antagonist organ, and then he became assured that the opposing eyelashes absolutely intertangled, and felt as if his own optic w^as to be drawn out of his head. Mental delusion almost possessed him. The cold, grayish blue eye seemed to become self-irradiated, and to swell into the compass of a shining crown-piece, while it darted into his rays of excruciating light. G8 IRISH LITERATURE. Still, however, lie eave up the contest, and with- drew towards his bedroom door; upon which Neddy hastened to his place at his desk, but not before he had ascertained by a glance across tlie room, that the dirty fellows, havinii' likhed the fortune-book from his pocket duriuj; his late trepidation, were in the act of introducin<»- it to the notice of the little dames, who sat to the old table in the recess. In fact, the alarm that had been given by one of the dirty fellows, that *' the master was coming," was but a ruse to send Neddy to the S])y-hole, in order to enable himself the more easily to recover his precious property*; and this was now evident, from the two friends being seen, without the least apprehension of the approach of that said master, endeavoring, in high glee, to impart a portion of (heir own nastiness to the pui-e little hearts and minds be- fore them. Neddy had scarcely resumed his seat when .lames Charles entered the schoolroom, and Neddy's eyes, or rather eye, fastened on his book. Almost at the same mo- ment, the little voice — Neddv knew it well — which had before uttered a little scream, broke into a sudden fit of crying. Neddy again glanced at the girls' table. The efore liim. He sat down to his desk, put on his spectacles, and ristine positions MICHAEL BANIM. 73 on the earth. Down, therefore ! Down again on all-fours — I command your retransformation ! " he waved the eat slowly around liis head ; " abandon the hearing of humanity and once more move along ^^■ith ])rone visages and snouts, delving into your native mire and filth." The swine, as James Charles now called them, evidently did not comprehend this long harangue, and only glared at him with pallid visages. " Did you not hear me, unclean brutes? " " Yes, sir," they gas])ed. " Obey, then ! " — a hissing of whipcord came round their ears and then its crash descended on their bare heads. They shouted, clapped their hands to their smarting cra- niums, and jumped aside. The cat next applied her claws to the backs of those hands; and there was a still louder yell, and a wider jump aside. " We don't know what you want us to do, sir ! " they screamed out. But James Charles Buchmahon soon made them know; and again they were on their hands and knees. " Grunt now, ye swine — manifest your nature a little further. Grunt ! " he again elevated the cat. They earnestly assured him they could not grunt. " Can't? I will soon show all the young gentlemen here that I have not mistaken your nature or qualities — come, grunt, I say ! " and the cat was scratching wherever she could insert a claw. " Ugh, ugh — ugh, ugh — oh-ah ! " they at last grunted and shouted together. " Did I not judge aright, gentlemen of the English Academy — hark, how plainly they can speak their original language — walk forward, now, swine — but still, still on your four legs — do you hear? and grunt as ye go, that all human beings mav avoid vou." Round and round the schoolroom he made them crawl, Avhile, perforce, they still imitated the discordant sounds of the animals they personified. In vain did they attempt to escape under desks or forms. With a smart cane, which he had now substituted for the cat, their merciless driver soon hunted them out again to the middle of the floor; and if they ceased their motion, for one instant, or refused to grunt, down came the cane on them. 74 IRISH LITERATURE. At last, ijroAving tired of his occupation, James Charles halted, aiui allowed them to do the same. •' 80 lar, swiue,'' he said, " you have been only enforced to resume your proper natures, and display 3^our proper attributes. Eeal punishment for your crimes you have not yet received. Punishment first, for your unnameable crimes at yonder table, and all your proceedings connected therewith; i>unishment, secondly, for your cowardly swin- ish crime of attackinii; toj2,etliei' one little boy; one little human creature, certainly inferior to you in mere brute streniith — and rending and disliguring the comely human features that Providence had blessed him with. I am still vour debtor, I admit. But please God, I shall not long be so." Only waiting to imbibe a fresh pinch of snuff, as a kind of ]ii(inant stimulus to his already perfect good will for the task before him, James Charles then belabored the two dirty rascals, from the nape of the neck to the termination of the back-bone — allowing them, at last, to go halting and roaring to their i)laces, only because his arm was no longer able to hit them hard enough. Again returning to his desk, he again called out, " Mas- ter Edmund Fennell — " speaking still very loudly, though the boy was within a very few inches of him. Neddy arose willingly enough. " I, the more readily, and the more easily, have been in- duced to remit the punishment due to your offense, sir, of repelling even by one single ungentlemanlike blow, the attack made, no matter how brutally, upon you, because your late re-entrance into the English Academy, after a long {iljsence from it, since your good father's death — " Xeddy burst out crying — " may have caused you to forget that I require from the youth of my establishment, not the tiiiltulence of prize-fighters, but the habits of young g(;n- tlemen. Sir, there shall be no boxing-matches in the ICnglisli Aca(h'my. If there be cause of (juai'rel, it must be im mediately referred to me, and justice shall be dealt to both parties. Go now, Master Edmund Fennell, and return your n^spectful thanks to Miss IJelen M'Neary, to whr)se generous interference you stand chielly indebted on this important occasion; go, sir — if indeed the young lady MICHAEL BAMM. 75 can bear to regard, even for an instant, the present very ungentleniaulike state of your features." Neddy was instantly hastening, as fast as he could walk, his arms wide open, to obey this reasonable and pleasant reijuest. " Stop, sir," roared James Charles Buchmahon. This unexpected countermand sounded like a gun-shot in Ned- dy's ears, and he certainly did stop. " Pray, sir, in what seminary did you acquire that un- couth and l)ruiu-like method of paying your respects to a you]ig lady? Retire some distance back, and make an obeisance to Miss M'Neary; thus, sir; look at me, sir, if you please." Ned looked accordinglv, and beheld James Charles Buch- mahou advance his finger and thumb to the brim of his cream-colored beaver, keeping his elbow turned out, and his arm well rounded as he did so; and then he beheld him solemnly raise the beaver from his bald, gray head, sway it downward gradually and gracefully, and bend his body, until his head came on a line with his hips; and James Charles, during all this process, smiled and sim- pered his very best, and at last said in a fascinating tone — " Miss Helen M'Neary, I return you my most sincere and respectful acknowledgments." — " Now, sir ! " And James Charles again stood very straight, and holding his head very high, proud of the perfection of his politeness, while his e^e took a short circuit round the schoolroom to notice the universal admiration which his dignified grace- fulness must have called forth. Neddy Fennell contrived to turn his face from the observation of his preceptor, while he performed the task prescribed to him; and then gave — repeating every syllable he had heard — so correct an im- itation, in tone, manner, and action of James Charles Buch- mahon, that the row of 3'oung ladies before him, and all the boys around him, were nearly suffocated with the at- tempt they made to suppress their laughter. " That will do, sir: you may now retire to your place," added James Charles. 76 IRISH LITERATURE. LYNCH LAW ON VINEGAR HILL. From 'The Croppy.' Aftor the "Teat mass of the insurgents abandoned their position on Vinegar Hill to advance upon Wexford (which, as we have seen, \vas 3'ielded to them without a struggle) a considerable number, attached to their cause, still re- mained on the rocky eminence, ostensibly as a garrison to guard the coufiuered town below, but really to shun the chance of open lighting, or else to gratify a malignant nature. AVe might indeed say that all who acted upon either of the motives mentioned were influenced by both. For it is generally true that the bravest man is the least cruel, the coward most so. That he who hesitates not to expose himself in a fair field, will yet hesitate to take life treacherously, coolly, or at a disproportioned advantage over his opponent. AVhile the boastful craven, who shrinks from following in his footsteps, glories to shoAV a common zeal in the same cause by imbruing his hands in the blood of the already conquered, of the Aveak, or of the defenseless. Apart from the new recruits that continued to come in to the popular place of rendezvous, the majority of the exe- cutioners and butchers of Vinegar Hill were, according to the accounts of living chroniclers on both sides of the ques- tion, individuals of this last kind. Amongst them, indeed, were some who, if peculiar onti-ages had not temporarily roused their revenge to a maddening thirst for blood, would never have brutalized themselves and shamed the nature they bore by participation in such deeds as were done upon the breezy summit of that fatal hill. But these were out- numbered by their brethren of a dilferent character; men, demons rather, to be found in all communities, whose natnral disi)osition was murderous, and who, but for the coward fear of retributive justice, wonld spill blood upon tlic \('vy hearthstone of household peace. Alas for our boasted nature when such beings share it! At the head of the main force all the principal or more resjK-ctablc leaders had necessarily taken their departure from '' the camp." The so-called leadc^rs who remained in nominal command over th(; sknlking mob we have de- MICHAEL BANIM. 77 scribed were themselves scarce raised above the scum and dregs who, for a recognized simihirity of character rather than for any merit, chose them as their " capt'ns." And by these men were conducted or despatched, during the t>revious night and day, different bands in different direc- tions, to seize on provisions, to drive in cattle and sheep, and to lead captive to the rendezvous all whom they might deem enemies to the cause of what was now pompously styled — poor, brave little Peter Eooney's heart jumping at the sound — " The Wexford Army of Liberty." Accordingly sheep, cows, oxen, and Orangemen, or sup- posed Orangemen, had, previous to Sir William Judkin's approach to the hill, been abundantly provided for the satiety of the only two cravings felt by their ferocious captors. Such of the former as could not immediately be devoured were suffered to ramble among the rocks and patches of parched grass on the side of the eminence until hunger again called for a meal ; such of the latter as, from whim or fatigue, were not summarily despatched, were thrust into a prison — a singular one — until revenge or murder again roared for its victims. On the summit of the height stood a roofless, round building, originally intended for a windmill but never perfected, because, perhaps, in the middle of the projector's work it became tardily evident to him that the river at his feet supplied a better impetus for grinding corn than was to be gained from the fitful l)reeze after mounting up the side of the steep hill. In Ireland such buildings rarely occur, inasmuch as in almost every district the river or the rill invites the erection of the more diligent water-wheel. Indeed we have heard that the half-finished pile in question was the first thought of an English settler, accustomed to such structures in his own country, and subsequently aban- doned for the reasons already mentioned. But at the time of our story this roofless round tower, about seven paces in diameter and perhaps twenty-five feet in height, was appropriated to a use very different from that for which it had been planned. It served, in fact, as a temporary prison for the unfortunate persons captured by the marauding garrison of Vinegar Hill. Many were the victims thrust through its narrow doorway to meet a horrid death on the pikes of the savages abroad. 7S IRISH LITERATURE. Never before or since, in Ireland, did the summer sun dart tiereer rays than, as if in sympathy with the passions and acts it witnessed, dnriiiu- the hot strni^gle of civil war in the year 1798. As Sir William Judkin spurred his jaded smokinir horse towards the eminence beast and rider were faint with heat and toil. His ln>rse, although stretching every muscle at the goad of his bloody spur, could but creep with distended nostril and bursting eye against the steep and rock-encumbered acclivity. lin])atieut of the animal's tardy progress, Sir ^^'illiam siu-nig, with an imprecation, from his back, and pushed ujfward; drenclied indeed in ])erspiration at every step, yet with a constancy and a nerve scarce to be ac- counted for, unless that his heated brain gave him such stimulus as imparts incredible strength to the maniac. He gained a view of the old windmill tower. T'poii its top was hoisicil a rude tUig of sun-faded green, on which, in clumsy white letters, had been inscribed " Liberty or Death." Had the breeze been brisk enough to float the banner to its full e.xtent such wci-e the v.ords that would have met the eye. I'ut the summer breeze had fled the summit of Vinegar Hill, leaving that baleful flag to droop over the scene be- neath it, until within its heavy folds the word "Liberty" became hidden, and " Death " alone was visible. His banner it might indeed well aj)pear to be — drooping, in ajtpropriate listlessness, as it flaunted the name of the destroyer above the havoc he had made. For, just below llic liase of the tower the rocks and t!ie l)urned grass were reildened, and lifeh'ss bodies, frightfully gashed, lay here and there, some fully to be seen, others partly concealed by the stunted furze and shrubs. Sir William still toiled upward. In different places along the hill-side, and even at some distance beyond its foot, were gi'()U])S of men, women, and childi'CMi, — some re- jiosing after fatigue, others seated round blazing fires of w«>od and furze. The slaughtered carcasses of sheep and cows often lay in close neighborhood with the mortal re- mains of tlieir enemies. And the houseless Croppy, when nec<'ssit;ile(j by hunger, hacked a j)iece fi-oiTi th<' plundered animal he had killed, held it on his ]>ike-liead before the blaze, and when thus inartificially cooked, either stretched Lis rude si»it, still holding the morsel on its point, to some MICHAEL BANIM. 79 membor of his family, or vorar-ionsly flovourod it himself. Eveu here, aiiioiii!;st these houseless and friendless people — none, we would add, of the ferocious garrison of the wind- mill prison, but rather some poor wanderers from a burned cabin, recently come in — even amonj>st these, surrounded by sights of horror, and stifling their hunger in this almost savage manner, national characteristics wei-e not beaten down. The laugh was frequent as the cook made some droll remark upon the novelty of his occupation or the ex- cellence of the fare, the words deriving half their import from his tone and manner as he perhaps said — " Well ! it 's nate mate, considerin' Orange sheep;" — or "By gonnies! Orange is the Croppy's friend, an' who '11 deny it? " — hold- ing the broiled flesh high on his pike : — " Sure it 's no other than a friend 'ud feed fat sheep for a bod^^; — open your mouths an' shet your eyes. Now boys an' girls — the big- gest mouth 'ill have this undher the teeth, I 'm thinkin'." And they gaped and laughed loud, as, with a grave face, the examiner went round to decide on the comparative width of each yawning cavern. There were carousing groups too, sending illicit whisky or other more legal liquor from hand to hand; and the beverage did not fail of its enlivening effect. x4.nd leaders appeared, with green ribbons or perhaps a military sash around their persons, or epaulettes on their shoulders, torn from officers they had slain. These were busy inspecting different bands of insurgents as they practiced their pike exercise, now driving forward the weapon at a given ob- ject, now darting it over their shoulders as if to meet a foe from behind, now adroitl}^ grasping it at either end with both hands, and bringing into play the elastic staff, as with great dexterity they whirled it round their persons to keep off an attack in front. Through all arose loud vocifera- tions, each directing the other, according as he arrived, or fancied he had arrived, at greater proficiency than his neighbor. Sir William's attention was at length riveted upon the particular throng who, variously occupied, surrounded the narrow entrance to the old tower. With furious action and accents the clamorous crowd here hustled together, and a first glance told that their present occupation brought into energy all the ferociousness of their nature. so fRTSin LITERATURE. Some of them who were on horseback waved tlieir arms, and endeavored to raise their voices over the din of those around, who, however, vociferated too ardently to listen to their words. While all looked on at the slaughter com- mitted by a line of pikemen drawn up before the tower, whose weapons were but freed from one victim to be plunged into another, it was not merely a shout of triumph but the more deadly yell of glutted vengeance or malignity, whith, drowning the cry of agony that preceded it, burst with little intermission from all. Two sentinels armed with muskets guarded the low and narrow entrances to the temporary prison, and grimly did tiiey scowl on the crowded captives pent up within its walls. Another man, gaunt and robust in stature, having a horseman's sword buckled awkwardly at his hip, a green ribbon tied round his foxy felt hat, the crimson sash of a slain militia officer knotted round his loins, two large pis- tols thrust into it, and a formidable pike in his hand, rushed from time to time into the tower, dragged forth some poor victiui, and j)ut him to a short examination. Then, unless something were urged in favor of the destined sufferer sufficient to snatch him from the frightful fate nund)ers had already met, he flung him to his executioners. And this man, so furious, so savage, and so remorseless, was Shawn-a-(iow. Arnie(l also witli a musket, and stationed between the line of pikemen and the door of the tower in order that he might be the first agent of vengeance, stood the ill-favored scoundi-el we have mentioned in a former chapter — the iiiuiderous Murtoch Kane, late a " stable-bo}^ " at the inn of Eniiiscortiiy. As he leveled at his victim, proud of the jHivilege of anticipating his brother-executioners, the ruf- fian's brow ever curled into the murderer's scowl. The hasty interrogatories proposed to each cringing cap- tive by Shawn-a-Gow midway between the tower and the pikemen had exclusive reference to the religious creed of ih(; party. The acknowledgment of Protestantism, deemed synonymous with Orangeism, at once proclaimed, or rather was assumed as proclaiming, a deadly enemy, meriting in- stant vengeance. Yet in this the rabble insurgents of Vine- gar rnil artod with a curious inconsistency. Many Protes- tants iifbl fomraand in tlje main force of which they called MICHAEL BANIM. 81 themselves adherents; nay, the individual selected by unan- imous choice as " commander-in-chief " was of the estab- lished religion of the state. But why pause to point out any departure from principle in the persons of such men as are before us? Were their deeds to be justly visited on the more courageous as well as more numerous bodies of the insurgents, "we might indeed occupy ourselves with the (|uestiou. Panting and nearly fainting, Sir William Judkin gained the tower, and ere he could address a question to those around, stood still to recover his breath. Two prisoners were dragged forth by the relentless Shawn-a-Gow. " Are you a Christian? " he demanded, glaring into the face of one trembling wretch as he grasped him by the collar. "• I am. Jack Delouchery," he was answered. " Are you a right Christian? " " I am a Protestant." " Ay — the Orange." " No, not an Orangeman." " Now, hould silence, you dog I every mother's son o' ye is Orange to the backbone. Is there any one here to say a word for this Orangeman? " There was an instant's silence, during which the pale terror-stricken man gazed beseechingly upon every dark and ominous face around him. But the cry " Pay him his reckonin' " soon sealed the victim's doom. With a fierce bellow, the words, " Ay, we '11 weed the land o' ye — we '11 have only one way ; we '11 do to every murtherer o' ye what ye 'd do to us! " — was the furious sentence of the smith as he pitched him forward. Murtoch Kane shot, and a dozen pikes did the rest. The smith seized the second man. One of the lookers-on started forward, claimed him as a friend, and told some true or feigned story of his interference previous to the insurrection between Orange outrage and its victims. He was flung to his patron by Shawn-a-Gow with the careless- ness of one who presided over life and death ; the same sav- age action tossing the all but dead man into life which had hurled the previous sufferer into eternity'. Sir William Judkin, as the smith again strode to the door of the prison, came forward, with the question ready 6 82 INL'^H LITERATURE. to burst from his chapped aud parched lips, when the man Avhdse name he woiihl liave mentioned, already in the gripe of Shawn, was drau^ed forth into view. Tile haronet stei)])ed back, his manner changed from its fiery imju'tuosity. He now felt no impulse to bound upon a ])rev »'S(ai)irig from his hands. In the Gow's iron grasp, anil in the midst of a concourse of sworn enemies, the de- voted Talbot stood closely secured. Either to indulge the new sensation of revenge at last gratified, or compose him- self to a purpose that required system in its execution, Sir ^Villiam stood motionless, darting from beneath his black brows arrowy ghriues upon his rival, his breathing, which recently liad been tlie pant of anxiety, altered into the long- drawn respiration of resolve. Captain Talbot appeared despoiled of his military jacket, his helmet, his sash, and all the other tempting appendages of warlike uniform, wliich long ago had been distributed amongst the rabble commanders of " the camp." No man can naturally meet death with a smile: it is affectation even in the hero that assumes it; it is bravado on other lips to hide a quailing heart. And Captain Talbot, whatever might have been the strength and the secrets of his heart, as he instinctively shrank from the rude arm of Shawn-a- Crow, was pale and trembling, aud his glance was that of dread. Iloju'less of mercy, he spoke no word, used no remon- strance; it was unavailing. Before him bristled the red ]>ikes of his ruthless executioners; behind him stood Mur- toch Kane, cocking his musket. The gras]) that dragged him along told at once the determination and the strength of the infui-iated giant. " There 's a dozen o' ve, I'm sure!" sneered Shawn: " I '11 stand out to si)ake for Sir Thomas Hartley's hang- man." The tone of bitter, savage mockery in which he sj)oke grated at Talbot's ear, as, first grinning into his prisoner's face, he glanced in fierce triumph over the crowd. "A good pitch to him, Capt'n Delouchery," cried one of the execiilioiiers; "don't keep us waitin'; we're dhry and hnngi-v foi- him.'' A general muiiiiur of execi-ation fol- lowed, and an impatient shout at the delay of vengeance. " My undeserved death will be avenged, murderers as MICHAEL BAXIM. 83 you are," cried the pallid Captaiu Talbot, in accents dis- tinct tlirouj^h desperation. Shawu-a-(io\v held him at arm's-length, and with an ex- pression of mixed ferocity and anmzement again stared into his face. "An' you're callin' us murtherers, are you?" he said, after a moment's pause — " I>oys, bould Croppy boys, d' ye hear him? Tell me, ar'n't you the man that stood by the gallows' foot, wid the candle in 3'our hand, waitin' till the last gasp was sent out o' the lij»s o' him who often opened his door to you, and often sat atin' and dhriukin' wid you, under his own roof? Ar'n't you, Talbot, that man? " No answer came from the accused. " You don't say No to me. Ay ! becase you can't ! Yet you call murtherers on us. Are you here, Pat Murphy? " he roared. " I 'm here," replied the man who had before raised the first cry for instant yengeance. " Do 3'ou know anything good this caller of names done to you? " " It was him an' his yeomen hung the only born l)rother o' me." "D'ye hear that, you, murtherer? D'ye hear that, an' haye you the bouldness in you to spake to us? — I '11 tell you, you Orange sl-iJjhcaJi! we '11 keep you up for the last. A3', by the sowl o' my son ! we '11 keep you for the yery last, till you 're half dead wid the fear, an' till we '11 haye time to pay you in the way I 'd glory to see, or — Come here, Murphy! Come out here — stand close — you ought to be first. Take your time wid him I Keep him feeling it as long as a poor Croppy 'ud feel the rope, when they let him down only to pull him up again. The man stepped forward as he was ordered. Shawn-a- Gow swung the struggling Captain Talbot around. With his instinctiye ayoidance of a terrible death the prisoner grasped with the disengaged hand the brawny arm that held him, and, being a young man of strength, clung to it in desperation — in desperation without hope. But al- though he was 3'oung and strong and desperate, he opposed the sinew of a Hercules. The smith, with his single arm, dashed him backwards and forwards, until maddened by Talbot's continued clinging and his agile recoyery of his 84 IRISH LITERATURE. le.c;s, at every toss Sliawu's mouth foamed. He seized in Ills liitliei'to iDaotive hand the grasping arms of the strug- gh-r, and tore them from their hold. " Now, Murphy ! " he l)elhn\-ed, as ^lurpliy couched his pike, and pushed down his hat and knit his brows to darkness. Shawn-a-CiOw's right side was turned to the executioner, his black distorted face to the weapon upon which he should cast his victim ; he stood tirndy on his divided legs, in the attitude that enabltnl him to exert all liis strength in the toss he contem- jdatt'd; — wlicn Sir William Judkin, hitherto held back by a wish perhaps to allow all vicissitudes of suffering to visit his detested rival, sternly stepped between the writhing- man and his fate. " Stoj), Delouchery ! " he said, in a deep impressive voice. Before the smith could express his astonishment or rage at the interrui)tion, — '' Stop,'' he said again, in higher ac- cents; " this villain " — scowling as he used the term of con- tempt — " this villain must be given into my hands — / must kill him ! " — he hissed in a whisper close at Shawn's ear — '' / must kill him myself! " " Whv so? " growled the smith. " lie is the murderer of my father-in-law, Sir Thomas Hartley." " People here has just as good a right to him," answered Shawu-a-Gow surlily, much vexed at the interruption he had ex])erienced, and scarce able to stay his hand from its impulse. " Here 's Pat Murphy. He hung the only born brother of him: Murphj' must have a pike through Talbot. / had one through Whaley I " " And lie shall. But, Delouchery, listen farther. Talbot has forced off my wife — has her concealed from me — Sir Thomas Hartley's daughter. After murdering the father he would destroy the child — and that child my wife. Be- fore he dies I must force him to confess where she is to be found. And then, Murphy and I for it between us." " I '11 soon force out of him, for you, where the wife is." " No, Delouchery, he Avill tell nothing here." " An' where will you bring him to make him tell? " " Only to yonder fiehl at tiie bottom of the hill." Tiie smith paused, and seemed resolving the proposition in all its points. He cast his eyes around. " Molloney, MICHAEL BANIM. 85 come here — Farrell, come here," he said. Two men ad- vanced from the interior of the prison. " Where 's the rope that tied the Orangemen that come into the camp from Buncdody? " " It 's to the good for another job, capt'n." Without fnrtlier explanation he forced Captain Talbot backward into the prison, reapi)eared with him, his hands tied behind his back, and gave the end of the ro])e into Sir William Judkin's hand. Then he called jNlnrphy aside, and, in a whisper of few words, directed him to accompany " Curnel Judkin," and give him a helping hand, or watch him close, as the case might seem to demand. Then turn- ing to the baronet, " There he 's for you now : have a care an' do the business well," he said. THE STOLEN SHEEP. AN IRISH SKETCH. The faults of the lower orders of the Irish are sufficiently well known; perhaps their virtues have not been propor- tionately observed or recorded for observation. At all events, it is but justice to them, and it cannot conflict with any established policy, or do any one harm to exhibit them in a favorable light to their British fellow-subjects, as often as strict truth will permit. In this view the following story is written — the following facts, indeed ; for we have a newspaper report before us, which shall be very slightly departed from while we make our copy of it. The Irish plague, called typhus fever, raged in its ter- rors. In almost every third cabin there was a corpse daily. In every one, without an exception, there was what had made the corpse — hunger. It need not be added that there was poverty too. The poor could not bury their dead. From mixed motives of self-protection, terror, and benevo- lence, those in easier circumstances exerted themselves to administer relief, in different ways. Money was subscribed (then came England's munificeut donation — God prosper her for it!) wholesome food, or food as wholesome as a S() Jl^JiSll LITERATURE. hiu\ Reason pormitted, was i)rovi(lo(l ; and men of rospecta- Inlity, bracinij: thoir niiiuls to avert tlie daniici- that threat- (MU'd tlicniselves by boldly facin*;- it, entered the infected house, where death reigned almost alone, and took meas- ures to eleanse and i)ui*ify the close-cribbed air and the rou.i!;h bare walls. Before proceediuii' to our story, let us be i)ermitted to mention some i>eneral marks of Irish vir- tue, which, under those circumstances, we personally no- ticiMl. In ])overty, in abject misei'y, and at a short and fearful notice, the ])oor nuni died like a Christian. He i»ave vent to none of the poor man's complaints or invectives against the rich nuui who had nei^iected him, or who he miiiht have supposed had done so till it was too late. Ex- cei)t for a lilance — and, doubtless, a little inward panjj; while he lilanced — at the starvinji; and perhaps infected wife, or cliild, or old parent as helpless as the child — he blessed God and died. The appearance of a comforter at his wretched bedside, even when he knew comfort to be use- less, made his heart i^rateful and his spasmed lips eloquent in thanks. In cases of in(h*scribable misery — some mem- bers of his family lyini;- lifeless before his eyes, or else some dyins — stretched upon damp and unclean straw on an earthen floor, without cordial for his lips, or potatoes to point out to a crying infant — often we have heard him whisper (o himself (and to another who heard him) : " The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord." Such men need not always make bad neigh- bors. In the early progress of the fevei-, before the more af- fluent roused themselves to avert its career, let us cross tin; threshold of an individual peasant. Ilis young wife lies dead; his second child is dying at her side; he has just sunk into the corner himself, under the first stun of disease, long resisted. The only persons of his family who have escai)ed contagion, and are likely to escape it, are his old f;iflier, who sits weej)ing feebly upon the hob, and his first- born, a boy of thi*ee or four years, who, standing between the old man's knees, cries also for food. AVe visit the young peasant's abode some time after. He has not suidc under " the sickness." He is fast regaining his sti-ength, even without ])ro])er nourishment; he can fTffp oTif-of-doors, and sit in the sun. Uut in the expres- MICHAEL JiAyiM. 87 sion of his sallow and emaciated face there is no joy for his escape from (he ,i;rave, as he sits there alone silent and brooding. His father and his surviving' child are still hnn- j>ry — more hungry, indeed, and more helpless than ever; for the neighbors who had relieved the family with a potato and a mug of sour milk are now stricken down themselves, and want assistance to a much greater extent than they can give it. " I wish Mr. Evans was in the place," cogitated Michaul Carroll, '' a body could spake forn'ent him, and not spake for notliin', for all that he's an Englishman; and I don't like the thoughts o' goin' up to the house to the steward's face; it wouldn't turn kind to a bodj^ May be he 'd soon come home to us, the masther himself." Another fortnight elapsed. MichauFs hope proved vain. Mr. Evans was still in London; though a regular resident on a small Irish estate, since it had come into his posses- sion, business unfortunately — and he would have said so himself — now kept him an unusually long time absent. Thus disappointed, Michaul overcame his repugnance to appear before the " hard " steward. He only asked for work, however. There was none to be had. He turned his slow and still feeble feet into the adjacent town. It was market-day, and he took up his place among a crowd of other claimants for agricultural employment, shoulder- ing a spade, as did each of his companions. ^lany farmers came to the well known " stannin," and hired men at his right and at his left, but no one addressed Michaul. Once or twice, indeed, touched perhaps by his sidelong looks of beseeching misery, a farmer stopped a moment before him, and glanced over his figure; but his worn and almost shak- ing limbs giving little promise of present vigor in the work- ing field, worldlj' prudence soon conquered the humane feeling which started up towards him in the nmn's heart, and, with a choking in his throat, poor Michaul saw the arbiter of his fate pass on. He walked homeward without having broken his fast that day. "Bud, miisJia/ what's the harm o' that?" he said to himself, " only here 's the ould father, an' her pet boy, the weenock,^ without a pyatee either. Well, asthore,^ if they can't have the pyatees, they must have betther food, * Miisha. expression of surprise. ~ Weenocli. a weakling. ^ Asthuve, ray treasure. SS IRISH LITERATURE. that 's all ; ay — " ho niiittered, clenching- his hands, at his side, and imprecating fearfully in Irish — " an' so they nuist." He left his house again, and walked a good way to beg a few potatoes. He did not come back quite empty-handed. His fatlier and his child had a meal. He ate but a few himsidf, and when he was about to lie down in his corner for tlie night lie said to the old man, across the room, '* Don't be a crying to-night, father, you and the child there ; but sleep well, and ye '11 have the good break'ast afore ye in the mornin'. " " The good break'ast, ma hoa- chal/^ a then, an' where '11 id come from?" "A body promised it to me, father." " Avich! Michaul, an' sure it 's fun you 're makin' of us, now, at any rate; but the good- night, a chorra,' an' my blessin' on your head, Micliaul; an' if we keep trust in the good God, an' ax His blessin', too, mornin' an' evening', gettin' up an lyin' down, He'll be a friend to us at last ; that was always an' ever my word to you, poor boy, since you was at the years o' your wceuock, now fast asleep at my side; and it's my word to you now, ma houchal, an' you won't forget id; an' there 's one sayin' the same to you, out o' heaven, this night — herself, an' her little angel in glory by the hand, 3Iicl);ni], a voiirneen/' Having tlius spoken in the fervent and rather exagger- ated, though every-day, words of pious allusion of the Irish poor man, <>1<1 Carroll soon dropped asleep, with his arms round his little grandson, both overcome by an unusually abundant meal. In the middle of the night he was awak- ened by a stealthy noise. AVithout moving, he cast his eyes rounular observance of the duties of his relij;ion. Was he now about to turn into another path? to bring shame on his father in his old age? to put a stain on their family and their name? " the name that a rogue or a bowld woman never bore," continued old Carroll, in- dulging in some of the pride and egotism for which an Irish peasant is, under his circumstances, remarkable. And then came the thought of the personal peril incurred by ^lichaul; and his agitation, increased by the feebleness of age, nearly overpowered him. He was sitting on the floor, shivering like one in an ague fit, when he heard steps outside the house. He lis- tened, and they ceased; but the familiar noise of an old barn-door creaking on its crazy hinges came on his ear. It was now da^^-dawn. He dressed himself, stole out cau- tiously, peeped into the barn through a chink of the door, and ail he had feared met full confirmation. There, indeed, sat Michaul, busily and earnestly engaged, with a frowning brow and a haggard face, in quartering the animal he had stolen from Mr. Evans' field. The sight sickened the father; the blood on his sou's hands and all. He was barely able to keep himself from falling. A fear, if not a dislike, of the unhappy culprit also came upon him. His unconscious impulse was to re-enter their cabin unperceived, without speaking a word; he suc- ceeded in doing so; and then he fastened the door again, and undressed, and resumed his place beside his innocent grandson. About an hour afterwards, Michaul came in cautiously through the still open window, and also undressed and re- clined on his straw, after glancing towards his father's bed, who pretended to be asleep. At the usual time for arising, old Oarroll saw him suddenly jump u]) ond prepare to go abroad. He spoke to him, leaning on his elbow: on IRISH LITERATURE. " And what Iiolhj ' is ou you, ma houchal? " " GoiD.2; for tlio u;ood breaU'ast I pioiuisi'd you, father dear." "An' who's the jiood Christhin '11 give id to us, :Michaul? " " Oh, you '11 know that soon, father; now, a i^ood-bye " — he hur- ried to the door. "A <;()od-l>ye, then, Miehaul; bud tell me, what's that ou your hand?" "No — nothin'," stam- mered Mieiiaul, ehauiiiuu, color, as he hastily examined the hand himself; " nolliiu' is on it; what could there be?" (uor was there, for he had very carefully removed all evi- dence of uuilt from his ]>ersou, aud the father's question was asked ujion lirounds distinct from anythin.c: he then saw). "Well, arich, an' sure I didn't say auythinjj: was on it wronp:, or anything to make you look so quare, an' spake so sthrauge to your father, this moruin' ; only I '11 ax you, Michaul, over agin, who has took such a sudd'n likiu' to us, to send us the good break'ast? an' answer me sthraight, ^lichaul, what is id to be that you call it so good? " " The good mate, father " — he was again passing the threshold. " Stop I '' cried his father, " stop, an' turn foment me. ilate? — the good umte? Wlmt ud bring mate into our ])oor house, Michaul? Tell me, 1 bid you again an' again, wlio is to give id to you? " " Why, as I said afore, father, a body that " " A body that thieved id, ^Michaul Carroll I " added the old man, as his son hesitated, walking close up to the culprit; "a body that thieved id, an' no other body. Don't think to blind me, Michaul. I am ould, to be sure, but sense enough is left in me to look round among the neighbors, in my own mind, an' know that none of 'em that has the will has the power to send us the mate for our break'ast in an honest wav. An' I don't sav out- liglit tluit you had the same thought wid me when you ( oiiscuted to take it from a thief; I don't mean to say that you 'd go to turn a thief's recaiver at this hour o' your life, an' afther growin' up from a l)oy to a man without bringin' a s7)ot o' shame on yourself, oi- on your iceenod:, or on one (»f us. No, I won't say that. Your heart was scalded, MicluMil, an' your mind was darkened, for a start; an' the thought o' gettin' comfort for the ould father, an' for the little son, made you consent in a hurry, widout lookin' well afore you, or widout lookin' up to your good God." "Father, father, let me alone I don't sjjake them words * What hollg is on yon ? What are you about ? MICHAEL BANIM. 01 to mo," interrupted ^Micbaul, sittiii*:; on a stool, and spread- in<;- his large and bard hands over his face. " Well, thin, an' I won't, avich; I won't; nothing to trouble you, sure; I didn't mean it — only this, a vournecn, don't bring a mouthful o' the bad, unlucky victuals into this cabin; the pyatees, the wild berries o' the bush, the wild roots o' tlie arth, will be sweeter to us, ^Nlichuul; the hunger itself will be sweeter; an' when we give (Jod thanks afther our poor meal, or afther no meal at all, our hearts will be lighter and our hopes for to-morrow sthronger, avich, ma chrec, than if we faisted on the fat o' the land, but c(mldn't ax a blessing on our faist." " Well, thin, I won't either, father — I won't ; an' sure you have your way now. I '11 only go out a little while from you to beg, or else, as you say, to root down in the ground, with my nails, like a baste brute, for our break'ast." " My rourncen you are, Michaul, an' my blessin' on your head ; yes, to be sure, avich, beg, an' I '11 beg wid you; sorrow a shame is in that — no, but a good deed, Michaul, when it 's done to keep us honest. So come, we 'II go among the Christhins together ; onl^^, before we go, Michaul, my own dear son, tell me — tell one thing." " What, father? " Michaul began to suspect. " Never be afraid to tell me, Michaul Carroll, ma hoiichal, I won't — I can't be angry wid you now. You are sorry, an' your Father in heaven forgives you, and so do I. But you know, avich, there would be danger in quittin' the place widout hidin' every scrap of anything that could tell on us." " Tell on us! what can tell on us? " demanded Michaul ; " what 's in the place to tell on us? " " Nothiu' in the cabin, I know, Michaul; but—" "But what, father?" "Have you left nothin' in the way out there? " whispered the old man, pointing towards the barn. " Out there? Where? What? What do you mean at all, now, father? Sure you know it 's your own self has kept me from as much as laying a hand on it." " Ay, to-day moruin' ; bud you laid a hand on it last night, avich, an' so — " ^^ Curp an daouV.-'^ imprecated Michaul, "this is too bad at any rate; no, I didn't — last night — let me alone, I bid you, father." " Come back again, Michaul," commanded old Carroll, as the son once more hurried to the door, and his words were instantly obeyed. Michaul, after a glance abroad, and a 1 Curp an duoul, Body to the devil. n2 IRFS^H LITERATURE. start, which the ohl inau did not notice, paced to the middle of the floor, haniiinu; his head, and saying in a h^w voice: " Uiishth, now, father, it's time." "No, Michaul, I will not hiishth, an' it's not time; come out with me to the barn." " lliislith I " repeated Michaul, whispering sharply; he had glanced sideways to tlie scjuare patch of strong morning sunlight on the ground of the cabin, defined there by the shape of the open door, and saw it intruded upon by the shadow of a man's bust leaning forward in an earnest j)osture. " Is it in your mind to go back into your sin, Michaul, an' tell me you were not in the barn at daybreak the mornin'? '' asked his father, still unconscious of a reason for silence. " Arrah, hushth, old man!" Michaul made a hasty sign towards the door, but was disregarded. " I saw you in id," pursued old Carroll, sternly, " ay, and at your work in id too." " AVhat 's that you *re sayin, ould Peery Carroll? " denmnded a Avell-known voice. " Enough to hang his son! " whispered Michaul to his father, as Mr. Evans' land steward, followed by his herdsman and two policemen, entered the cabin. In a few minutes afterwards the policemen had in charge the dismembered carcass of the sheep, dug up out of the floor of the barn, and were escorting Michaul, handcuffed, to the county jail, in the vicinitv of the next town. Thev could find no trace of the animal's skin, though the}^ sought attentively for it; this seemed to disappoint them and the steward a good deal. From the moment that they entered the cabin till their departure, old Carroll did not speak a word. A^'ithout knowing it, as it seemed, he sat down on his straw bed, and remained staring stupidly around him, or at one or another (»f his visitors. When Michaul was about to leave his wretched abode, he paced quickly towards his father, and holding out his ironed hands, and turning his cheek for a kiss, said, smiling miseral)ly: "Cod be wid 3'ou, father, dear." Still the old man was silent, and the prisoner and all his attendants passed out on the road. But it was then the agony of old Carroll assumed a distinctness. Uttering a fearful cry, he snatch(Hl up his still sleeping grandson, ran with the l)oy in his arms till he overtook Michaul; and, kneeling down Ix'fore him in the dust, said : " I ax pardon o' you, arich; won't you tell me 1 have id afore you go? an' here, I 've brought little Pintry for you to kiss; you forgot MICHAEL BANIM. 93 him, a vonrnecn." " No, father, I didn't," answered Mi- chaul, as he stooped to kiss the child; "an' get up, father, get up; my hands are not my own, or T wouldn't let you do that afore your son. Get up, there 's nothiu' for you to throuble yourself about; that is, I mean, I have uothin' to forgive you; no, but everything to be thankful for, an' to love you for; you were always an' ever the good father to me; an' — " The many strong and bitter feelings, which till now he had almost perfectly kept in, found full vent, and poor Michaul could not go on. The parting from his father, however, so different from what it had promised to be, comforted him. The old man held him in his arms, and wept on his neck. They were separated with difficult}''. Peery Carroll, sitting on the roadside after he lost sight of the prisoner, and holding his screaming grandson on his knees, thought the cup of his trials was full. By his im- prudence he had fixed the proof of guilt on his own child ; that reflection was enough for him, and he could indulge in it only generally. But he was yet to conceive distinctly in what dilemma he had involved himself, as well as Michaul. The policemen came back to compel his appear- ance before the magistrate; then, when the little child had been disposed of in a neighboring cabin, he understood, to his consternation and horror, that he was to be the chief witness against the sheep stealer. Mr. Evans' steward knew well the meaning of the words he had overheard him say in the cabin, and that if compelled to swear all he was aware of, no doubt would exist of the criminality of Mi- chaul, in the eyes of a jury. " 'T is a sthrange thing to ax a father to do," muttered Peery, more than once, as he pro- ceeded to the magistrate's, " it 's a very sthrange thing." The magistrate proved to be a humane man. Notwith- standing the zeal of the steward and the policemen, he com- mitted Michaul for trial, without continuing to press the hesitating and bewildered old Peery into any detailed evi- dence; his nature seemed to rise against the task, and he said to the steward : " I have enough of facts for making out a committal ; if you think the father will be necessary on the trial, subpana him." The steward objected that Peery would abscond, and demanded to have him bound over to prosecute, on two 04 IRL'^H LITERATURE. sureties, solvent and respectable. The magistrate as- sented; Peer}' could name no bail; and consequently be also was inanlied to prison, tlionuh prohibited from hold- ing tlie k'ast intercourse with Micluuil. The assizes soon came on. ]Michaul was arraigned; and, during his plea of "Not guilty," his father appeared, un- seen by him, in the jailer's custody, at the back of the dock, or rather in an inner dock. The trial excited a keen and painful introcession pass over the hill on a still wet morning, when the rain rustled all along the road, and tlie gray mist curtains Avere clos(d,y drawn. None of the cliildcr have hly r(.H]iie.sted them to '' lioiild their fool's gab," appendiuii; \ai-ioiis epithets which it is not necessary to reproduce. Whereupon Magj^ie expressed her opinion that he was " a big brute," and " as bittlier as sut"; while Judy that even- ing saved a ]>i(M'e of salt herring for Biddy from her own not too ])lenliful supper, on the grounds of her being af- liicted with such an " onnatural l)aste " of a brother. But all that day Joe carried about with him a haunting dread which lay like a cold hand upon his heart. As for Biddy, her pronounced invalidism did not make much ditTerence in the sum total of her felicity or infe- licity, she having been so long accustomed to feel weak and ill tliat the cessation of her wearisome working-days fully counterbalanced any increase of physical suffering for the present entailed by the progress of her disease, while, be- ing aware that tlie neighbors always talked about wakes and '• Ijuryings " upon the slightest hiymptom of indisposi- tion, she was shrewd enough to pay little lieed to their pre- dictions of her approaching demise. She generally had nearly enough to eat, and a scrap of fire in the grate when the weather was very cold, for Joe's income was decidedly above the average in his trade, as he seemed to have an instinct — peT-haj)s inherited, since his fatlier had picked cockles before hira — which guided him unerringly to pro- lific mud-patches, and he now sometimes brought home Biddy's basket half full in addition to his own. Yet, not- withstanding her cfnii]>aratively affluent circumstances, Biddy was not unmolested hy visitants from that tribe of unsatisfied desires which thrust themselves, by hook or by crook, into almost every lot, under widely varying shapes infleed, but always preserving the tril)al characteristic of keeping in sight and out of reach. There is a kind of i-onnd, tlat flour cake, often to be seen in bakers' windows of the humk'ler sort, with smooth upper and under crusts, between which the softer d(mgli, riclily yellowed with a])undant soda and strongly flavored but- terine. seems to bulge out in its exuberance, like the pulp of an over-rix)ened fruit. Thej^e cakes are about five inches JANE BARLOW. 107 in diameter and one inch in thickness, and they cost three- half i)ence apiece, so that they are rather an expensive form of bakement. Yet it happened that durinji; a short period of Biddy's childhood they liad been a luxury which she enjoyed witli comparative frequency, the family being acquainted with a baker in a small way, who was accus- tomed to pay for pints of cockles in kind, often with an unsaleable stale cake of the above description, to a share of which l>iddy, in her capacity of youngest, and rather spoiled, child, generally attained; (Joe never did). It was now many a year since a violent difference of opinion about a bad fourpenny bit had terminated all amicable relations between Peter O'Eourke and the Murphy fam- ily; but liiddy retained a fond recollection of those no longer fortlicoiiiing dainties, and v»'ith her failing health tlicre had gro'.xii upon her an ever stronger craving to taste of them again. This craving had of late been augmented bv the circumstances that a good-natured ne'er-do-weel neigh- bor had one evening shared such a cake with her, and since then she had often talked of the '' iligant tay " she had had on that occasion, confidently avowing her belief, that if vShe could always get the like she would soon be " as sthroug as iver she was in her born days." Joe Murphy listened silently to these remarks, which Biddy made out of sheer querulousness, having no ulterior motive or expectation, and the longer he listened the more intensely he wished that he could get his sister what she wanted. But the thing seemed to be altogether impossi- ble. Three-halfpence was more than he could afford — that is to say, more than he had — to spend on one of Biddy's meals, exclusive of the indispensable cup of tay, and he knew besides that a single cake would not satisfy her, as her appetite was very inconveniently large. How were the necessary pennies to be acquired? The plan of foregoing his own supper would not answer. This he knew by ex- perience, for v.hen one morning during her stay in hospital he had gone without his breakfast to huy her some orange-'^, he had felt so " rael quare " all the day that his cockle- picking had fared but badly, and he had brought home his basket only half-filled. So the oranges could not be bought after all, and Biddy had said that she supposed he had gone off on the spree and spent his money drinking 108 IRISH LITERATURE. boranse l»er bjuk was turnod. Joe was not a man of much resource, and several weeks went by before his brain excohted weather-proof railway-car- riaj^e with the loni; hour and more of toilsome plodding throuj^h darkness, cold, and wet which his new resolve now destined for him. Still, that resolve continued to hold good. Before the brilliant anticipation of how Biddy would smack her lips over her supper that night — for I must admit the alienating fact that she was prone to this inarticulate mode of expressing her satisfaction with her bill of fare — all his forecastiugs of personal discomfort melted into insignificance, as thin clouds melt in their pas- sage across the crystal disk of the full moon. Nor was that brightness extinguished, albeit somewhat dimmed, by the denser texture of the most serious foreboding which he entertained in connection with his impending lonely tramp. This was the reflection that he would have to traverse a certain tree-shadowed bit of road a mile beyond Ballyhoy, which is commonh^ reported to be " walked " after nightfall by a headless ghost, and is consequently in evil repute among less abnornmlly constituted foot-passen- gers. Joe was a firm believer in this gruesome specter, le- gends of which he had heard from his earliest days; and now, as he made his wav towards the station amid the deepening dusk, he felt keenly that the presence of a hu- man fellow-traveler would immensely diminish the terrors of his approach to its ill-omened haunts. With a fond hope, therefore, of securing such a companion, he took oc- casion to remark several times in a loud tone of voice, meant for the information of the company at large, " I 'm not for the thrain to-night — I 'm goin' to thramp it.^' But Joe's temper and conversational powers were not of a quality calculated to make the charms of his society an incentive to disagreeable exertion, and nobody showed au}' disposition to imiiate his frugal example. So he tried the effect of a more particular announcement, and said to his nearest neighbor, " Look-a, Dan, I 'm going to thramp it no IRISH LITERATURE. to-iiijiht." l>ut Dan only ii;mnted in reply, and Joe per- ceived that he mnst make up his mind to a solitary journey. It was not without considerable heart-sinkiiii!; that he saw his comrades turn nj) the hill to the station, renmrk- iuij;: amoui;- themselves, '* what an ould nay<;nr Joe Alurphy was, and he wid a couple o' quarts more cockles in his baskit than any of thim had "; while he went on to face the certain ills of piercin<»- northwester and the possible perils of a spectral encounter. These last, however, remained l)urely imaiiinary, and he experienced nothin^j: worse than bodily disconifort. The bitter blasts hurtle- rebutf ; the intermittent rain came down in drenching- dashes, so that as he drew near his goal the yellow glare of the lamps was reflected in swimming Hags and dancing puddles; but chilled and dripping though he was, he felt himself to be a ])roud and hai)i)y ni'in a« he entered the dirty little baker's shop which he had seen with his mind's eye all the afternoon. His own keen hun- ger made the smell of the newly baked bread seem very delicious, and as he carefully stowed away two delicately browned, plumply swelling c;dces in a corner of his nov/ emptied l)asket — for he had paid a preliminary visit to a lishmonger — he grinned in a diabolically hideous, satyr- like fashion over the thought of Biddy's delighted surprise. lie then betook himself farther down the lane to a still huml)ler establishment, where he and others of his trade were in the ha])it of procui-ing the materials for their even- ing meal. Here he was pleased to find that ]Mrs. Kelly, the j)roprietrix, had reserved for him what is known as a "scrap supper," this being considered an especially profit- able investment of twopence for any one who does not ob- ject to a sliglitly heterogeneous combination of ingredients. To-night the l)ig tin bowi, tlie use of whicii was inclinled in the i)argain, contained one layer of cold pease-pudding, and another of cabbage, which, as Mrs. Kelly was careful to point out, liad enjoyed th.e ])rivilege of being boiled in company with a piece of bacon; also some odds and ends of sausage and sheep's liver, and half a fried herring, the whole compound being moistened witii a greasy l>i'otli of undefinefl antecey luck il f^o chanced she'd run under the lee O' Point Bertra.gh or Ii'ish Lonane; an' 'twas liker tlie cra- tliurs ud b(^ r'rossin' yonder the open, wid never a shelter, but waves far an' wide Kowlin' one on the other till ye 'd seem at tlse feet of a mad mountainside. An' tlie Ijest we could hojie v/ax they 'd seen that the weather 'd be turnin' out rpiaie. An' might, happen, ha' settled they wouldn't come over, but bide where they weic Yet, liegorrah ! 'twould be the quare weather entirely, as some of us said. That 'nd put Misther Denis off aught that he'd fairly tuk into ills Iicnd. Tliin Tim Duigan sez : " .\rrah. lads, v/hist! aflher sailin' thro' oce;ins o' say Don't ff'II uir he's naught better to do th.'in get dhro\vneueritone, "are you wet?" "Wet?" exclaimed the fair uidcnown, wriniiing: a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; •* O ye gods, wet I " ]\Iargueritone felt the justice, the gen- tleness of the reproof, and turned the subject, by recom- mending a glass of spirits. " Spirit of my sainted sh-e." The stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she si'cnis in distress, we will leave her there awhile, lest we should betra}' an ignorance of the world in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people. On the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed by the angry Atlantic, stood a moated and tur- rcted structure called II Tastello di (Jrimgothico. As the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of its late lord, Ilenriques de Violenci, lights and figures were, po7' consequence^ observed in it at midnight. Be- sides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for several years, and qitchjue fois, he paced the picture-gal iery with a hurried step. These circum- stances cond)ii!('d, there could be no doubt of his having committed murder. . . . CHAPTER II. "Oh!" — Milton. "Ah!" — Pope. One evening, the Baroness de Violenci, having^ sprained her leg in the conijiosition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to Lady I'euthesilea liouge's rout. While she was Bitting alone at a plate of prawns, the footman entered EATON 8TANNARIJ BARRETT. 121 witli a basket, which had just been left for lier. " Lay it down, Jolin," said she, touching; his foreliead with her fork. The jiay-liearted youn"- feHow did as he was desired and capered out of the room. Judiie of her astonishment when she found, on openinj;- it, a little cherub of a baby sleepinj*- within. An oaken cross, with "Hysterica" in- scribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark, like a bruised <;()oseberry, added interest to its elbow. As she and her lord had never had cliildren, she determined, sur Ic champ, on adoptin<> the pretty Hysterica. Fifteen years did this worthy woman dedicate to the progress of her little charge ; and in that time taught her every mortal accomplishment. Her sigh, particularl}^, was esteemed the softest in Europe. But the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it In a word, the good old Baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body. " O what a fall was there, my countrymen ! " But it is now time to describe our heroine. As Milton tells us that Eve w^as "more lovely than Pandora" (an imaginary lady who never existed but in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the Timinitilidi, whom no man ever saw; and in her voice, the music of the splieres, which no man ever heard. Perhaps her face w^as not perfect; but it was more — it was interesting — it was oval. Her eyes were of the real, original old blue; and her lashes of the best silk. You forgot the thickness of her lips in the casket of pearls Avhich they enshrined; and the roses of York and Lancaster were united in her cheek. A nose of the Grecian order surmounted the whole. Such was Hysterica. But, alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. For one night, when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a sudden, " Oh, horrid horrible, and horridest horror! " the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. While she was preparing, in much terror and astonishment, to accompany \-2-2 IRISH LITERATURE. it with lior voice, four lueu in masks riisluMl from among some tombs and bore her to a carriage, which instantly drove oH" with the whole i)arty. In vain she sought to st>f(en lisem by swoons, tears, and a sim})le little ballad; they sat counting murders and not minding her. As the blinds of the carriage were closed the whole Avay, we waive a ilescription of tlie country v.hicli they traversed. Besides, the ]>rosi)ect within th.e carriage will occupy tlie reader eiioui'h ; for in one of the villains Ilvsterica discovered — i\)unt Stillettol She fainted. On the second da.y tlie carriage stop})ed at an old castle, and she was conveyed in- to a tapestried apartment — in which rusty daggers, mol- dcring bones, and ragged palls la.y scattered in all the pro- fusion of feudal plenty — where the delicate cj'eature fell ill of an inverted eyelash, caused by continual w'eep- lUg. CHAPTER III. *' Sure such a day as this was never seen! " — Thomas TJiumb. " The day, th' important day ( " — Addison. " giorno felloe! " — Italian. The morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered into the world with a blue slcy, and the ringing of bells. Maidens, united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity to the union of con- genial minds. On the left of Ihc viHage ai-e souic ])lanta- tions of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog- kennel " With venerable grandeur marks the scene," while everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and minute daisies. In a word, "All nature wears one universal grin." The procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in white drajx'ry. Ten signs of the Zodiac, woi-ked in spangles, sparided round its edge, but EATON STANNARD BARRETT. 123 Virgo was omitted at lier desirCj and the bridegroom pro- posed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! Slie lield a pot of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small ligIit(Hl torch, emblematical of Hymen. . . . The marriage ceremony passed off with great spirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue. MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA. From ' The Heroine.' This morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armor, entered. Oh ! ye conscious blushes; it was my Montmorenci ! A plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet and neither spear nor shield were wanting. " I come," cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, " I come in the ancient armor of my family to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life," " My lord," said I, " rise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate the honor that Montmorenci confers." He bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history. " All was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveler inconvenienced. In the province of Languedoc stood the Gothic castle of ^Montmorenci. Before it ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits, exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapors rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed througli the l)lue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that sv/ept downward to their base. ' My lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?' whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. ' If they an't,' said Bernardo, 'by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against 124 IRISH LITERATURE. this confounded north-wind.' ' The wind is east-south- east,' said Ugo. At this moment the bell of Moutmorenei Castle tolled one. The sound vibrated throuj^h the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honor to address you. Much alarmed, I started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of tlowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and buttertlies hj Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when I l)eheld my chamber tilled with banditti 1 Snatching my falchion, I flew to the armory for my coat of mail; the bravos rushed after me, but I fought and dressed and dressed and fought, till I had jierfectly completed my unpleasing toilet. I then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen j^ears of age. " ' Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye, Than twenty of their swords ' To describe the horror of the contest that followed were beyond the pen of an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail, " ' And whistled as they -went for want of thought.' At h'ugth I murdered my way down to my little skiff, embarked in it, and arrived at this island. As I first touched foot on its chalky beach, ' Hail ! happy land,' cried I, ' liail, thrice iiaill' 'There is no hail here, sir,' said a chibl running l)y. . . . Nine days and nights I wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast; the turf my coucli, and the sky my cano])y." " Ah I " interrupted I, " how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jon(|uils and butterflies I" " p]xtremely," said he, "for during sixteen long yeais I had not a roof over my head — I w;is an itinerant beggar! One snmnier's day, tlie cattle lay panting un(b*r the broad umbrage, the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendor, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawl»erries; when lo! a form, fiexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and EATON STANNARD BARRETT. 125 unclulatir.<>' witli tlic si^lis of a dying vestal, flitted inaiidi- bly by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. What a di- vinity! she was fr(»sli as the Anadyomene of Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxiteles, or the Helen of Zeuxis, Her eyes dipt in heaven's own hue " " Sir," said I, " you need not mind her eyes; I dare say they were blue enouiih. But pray, who was this immortal doll of yours? " '' Who? " cried he, " why, who but — shall I speak it? who but — the Lady Oherubina de WillougiidyI ! I" "I!" "You!" "Ah! :\[ontmorenci ! " "Ah! Cherubina! I followed you with cautious steps," continued he, '' till I traced you into your — you had a garden, had you not? " " Yes." " Into your garden. I thought ten thousand flowerets would liave leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. But the age of gallantry is past, that of mer- chants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished for ever! . . . But wherefore," cried he, starting from his seat, " wherefore talk of the past? Oh ! let me tell you of the present and of the future. Oh ! let me tell you how dearly, how deeply, how devotedly I love you!" "Love me!" cried I, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. " My Lord, this is so — really now, so — " " Pardon this abrupt avowal of iiij unhappy passion," said he, flinging himself at my feet; "fain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek ; but, oh ! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty? " I remained silent, and, with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never looked so lovely. ..." I declare," said I, " I would say any- thing on earth to relieve you — only tell me what." " Angel of light! " exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beam- ing on me a smile that might liquefy marble. " Have I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the divine words, ' she loves me? ' " " I am thine and thou art mine," murmured I, while the room swam before me. SIR JONAH BARRINGTON. (1760—1834.) JoxAH Barrington was born in 17(50, educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and in 1788 was called to the bar ; two years later he was returned as nienil)t'r for Tuam. He opposed Grattan and Curran, and was made a King's Counsel and rewarded by the Government in 1793 by a sinecure office in the Custom House, worth £1,000 ($5,000) a year. In 1798 he lost his seat, hut in the next year was returned for Banagher. He voted against the Union, and yet with strange in- consistency he acted as Goverinnent procurer for bribing at least one member to vote in favor of the Union. In 1803 he stood for the city of Dublin in the Imperial Parliament, but was defeated, although he had the support of Grattan, Curran, Ponsonby, and Plunket. Later he was made judge in the Admiralty Court, and knighted. In 1809 he published, in five parts, the first volume of the * Historic Memoirs of Iniland.' After this lie lived in France for some time, compelled thereto both by political and by financial considerations of a not altogether creilitable kind. The manner of his going is thus described by W. J. Fitzpatrick, in 'The Sham Squire' : •' He had pledged his family plate for a considerable sum to Mr. John Stevenson, pawnbroker and member of the Common Council. ' My dear fellow,' said the knight condescendingly, as he dropped in one day to that person's private closet, ' I *m in a d 1 of a hobble. I asked, quite im- promptu, the Lord-Lieutenant, Chancellor, and judges to dine with me, forgetting how awkwardly I was situated, and, by Jo^•e I tliey 've written to say they '11 come. Of course I could not entertain them without the plate. I shall require it for that evening only, but it must be on one condition, that you come yourself to the dinner and represent the Corporation. Bring the plate with you, and take it back at niglit.' Tlie pawnbroker was dazzled ; although not usurJlj^ given to nepotism, he wilHngly embraced the proposal. During dinner and after it he (Sir Jonah) plied his uncle with wine. The pawnljrcjker had a bad head for potation, though a good one for valuation. He fell asleep and under the table almost sinudta- neously, and when he awoke to a full consciousness Sir Jonah, ac- companied by the plate, was on his way to Boulogne, never again to visit his native land." In 1827 he published two volumes of ' Personal Sketches of His Own Times.' In 1830, by an address from both Houses of Parlia- ment, he was removed from the bench, in consequence of misappro- priation of fjublic money. In 1833 appeared the tliird volume of * Personal Sketches,' and in tlie same year tlie completion of his ' Hi-storic Memoirs.' This book was subsequently reproduced in a cheaper form as ' The Rise and Fall of tlie Irish Nation.' His works are chiefly valuable for their vivid pictuies of the social and pf>liti- cal conditicjns of his time — but they are not always to be relied uixju liH to matters of fact. He died in 1831. 12G ,^/7? JONAH BARRJXGTON. 127 PULPIT, BAR, AND PARLIAMENTARY ELOQUENCE. From ' Personal Sketches of His Own Times.' The preucliing of one minister rendered me extremely fastidious respecting elo(iuence from the pulpit. This individual was Dean Kirwan (now no more), wlio pronounced the most impressive orations I ever heard from the mend)ers of my profession at any era. It is true he spoke for effect, and therefore directed his flow of elo- quence according to its apparent influence. I have listened to this man actually with astonishment. He was a gen- tleman by birth, had been educated as a Roman Catholic priest, and officiated some time in Ireland in that capacity, but afterwards conformed to the Protestant church, and was received ad einidem. His extraordinary powers soon brought him into notice, and he was promoted by Lord Westmoreland to a living; afterward became a dean, and would, most probably, have been a bishop ; but he had an intractable turn of mind, entirely repugnant to the usual means of acquiring high preferment. It was much to be lamented, that the independence of principle and action Avhich he certainly possessed was not accompanied by any reputation for philanthropic qualities. His justl}^ high opinion of himself seemed (unjustly) to overwhelm every other consideration. Dr. Kirwan's figure, and particularly his countenance, were not prepossessing; there was an air of discontent in his looks, and a sharpness in his features, which, in the aggregate, amounted to something not distant from repul- sion. His manner of preaching was of the French school : he was vehement for a while, and then, becoming (or af- fecting to become) exhausted, he held his handkerchief to his face : a dead silence ensued — he had skill to perceive the precise moment to recommence — another blaze of declama- tion burst upon the congregation, and another fit of exhaustion was succeeded by another pause. The men began to wonder at his elo(]uence, the women grew nervous at his denunciations. His tact rivaled his talent, and at the conclusion of one of his finest sentences, a " celestial exhaustion," as I heard a lady call it, not un- 12S IRISH LITERATURE. fiviiiieutly torminatod his discourse^ — in j;eneral, abruptly. If the subject Avas charity, every purse was hiid hirgely under contribntion. In the chnrcli of Saint Peter's, where lie preached an annual chai'ity sermon, the usual collection, which had been under £-00 (.*1,000) Avas raised by the Dean to £1,100 (|5,500), I knew a gentleman myself, who threw both his purse and watch into the plate! Yet the oratory of this celebrated preacher would have answered in no othei- profession than his own, and served to conii)Iete my idea of the true distinction between pulpit, bar, and parliamentary eloquence. Kirwan in the pulpit, Curran at the bar, and Sheridan in the senate, were the three most effective orators I ever recollect, in their re- spective departments. Kirwan's talents seemed to me to be limited entirely to elocution. I had much intercourse with him at the house of ^Ir. llely, of Tooke's Court. AVhile residing in Dublin, I met him at a variety of places, and my overwrought ex- pectations, in fact, were a good deal disappointed. I lis style of address had nothing engaging in it; nothing either dignified or graceful. In his conversation there was neither sameness nor variety, ignorance nor information; and yet, somehow or other, he avoided insipidity. His amour jnrjpre was the most prominent of his superficial qualities; and a bold, manly independence of mind and feeling, the most obvious of his deeper ones. I ])elieve he was a good man, if he could not be termed a very amiable one; and learned, although niggardly in communicating what he knew. I have remarked thus at large upon Dean Kirwan, be- cause he was by far the most eloquent and effective })ul])it orator I ever heard, and because I never met an^^ man whose character I felt myself more at a loss accurately to pronounce upon. It has been said that his sermons were adroitly extracted from jiassages in the celebrated dis- courses of Saurin, the Iluguenot, Avho preached at The Hague (grand fatln'r to the late Attorney-rjeneral of Ire- land ). It may be so; and in that case all I can say is, that Kirwjin was a mf)st judicious selector, and that I doubt if the elo(|ucnt writer made a hundredth part of the im- pression of liis (']o<|uent plagiarist. I should myself be the plagiarist of a hundred writers, SIR JONAH BARRIXGTON. 129 if T attempted to descant n])oii tlie parliamentary eloquence of {Sheridan. It only S(*ems necessary to refer to Lis speech on Mr. Hastings' trial; at least, that is sufficient to de- cide me as to his immense superiority over all his rivals in splendid declamation. Many great men have their in- dividual points of superiority, and I am sure that Sheridan could not have preached, nor Kirwan have pleaded. Cur- ran could have done both, Grattan neither: but, in lan- guage calculated to rouse a nation, Grattan, while young, far exceeded either of them. I have often met Sheridan, but never knew him inti- mately. He was my senior, and my superior. While he was in high repute, I was at laborious duties; while he was eclipsing everybody in fame in one country, I was laboring hard to gain any in another. He professed whiggism : I did not understand it, and I have met very few patriots who appear to have acted even on their definition thereof. THE SEVEN BARONETS. From ' Personal Sketches of His Own Times.' Among those Parliamentary gentlemen frequently to be found in the coffee-room of the House, were certain bar- onets of very singular character, who, until some division called them to vote, passed the intermediate time in high conviviality. Sir John Stuart Hamilton, a man of small fortune and large stature, possessing a most liberal appe- tite for both solids and fluids — much wit, more humor, and indefatigable cheerfulness — might be regarded as their leader. Sir Richard Musgrave, who (except on the abstract topics of politics, religion, martial law, his wife, the Pope, the Pretender, the Jesuits, Napper Tandy, and the whip- ping-post) was generally in his senses, formed, during these intervals, a very entertaining addition to the com- pany. Sir Edward Newnham, member for Dublin County, af- forded a whimsical variety of the affectation of early and exclusive transatlantic intelligence. By repeatedly writ- 9 130 IRISH LITERATURE. iu«r U'Urrs of i-oiiiiratiilat ion, ho had at lc'iii;tli extorted a ivi)lv IVoiii (li'iR'ial \\'asliiiiiitoii, which he exliibited upon evei-y oc-casion, i;iviii<;- it to be understood, Iw sii^niticant nods, that he knew vastly more than he thouered or suggested anything to him while he was speaking in public, without a moment's reflection he al- most always involuntarily repeated the suggestion litera- tim. SIR JONAH BARRISGTON. 131 Sir Frederick was once iiiakinj; a loiiu- sj^eecli in tlie Irish Parliament, landinf^j the transcendent merits of the Wexford mai;istracy, on a motion for extending; the crim- inal jurisdiction in that county, to keep down the dis- affected. As he was closing a most turgid oration, by declaring that " the said magistracy ought to receive some signal mark of the Lord-Lieutenant's favor," John Egan, who was rather mellow, and sitting behind him, jocularly whispered, "• and be whipped at the cart's tail." " And be whipped at the cart's tail I" repeated Sir Frederick un- consciously, amid peals of the most uncontrollable laugh- ter. Sir eTohn Blacquiere flew at higher game than the other baronets, though he occasionally fell into the trammels of Sir John Hamilton. Sir John Blacquiere was a little deaf of one ear, for which circumstance he gave a very sin- gular reason. His seat, when secretary, was the outside one on the Treasury-bench, next to a gangway ; and he said that so many members used to come perpetually to whis- per to him, and the buzz of importunity was so heavy and continuous, that before one claimant's words had got out of his ear, the demand of another forced its way in, till the ear-drum, being overcharged, absolutely burst ! — which, he said, turned out conveniently enough, as he was then obliged to stuff the organ tight, and tell every gentleman that his physician had directed him not to use that at all, and the other as little as possible ! Sir John Stuart Hamilton plaj^ed him one day, in the corridor of the House of Commons, a trick which was a source of great entertainment to all parties. Joseph Hughes, a country farmer and neighbor of Sir John Stuart Hamilton, who knew nothing of great men, and (in com- mon with many remote farmers of that period) had very seldom been in Dublin, was hard pressed to raise some money to pay the fine on a renewal of a bishop's lease — his only property. He came directly to Sir John, who, I believe, had himself drunk the farmer's spring prett^^ dry, while he could get anything out of it. As they were stand- ing together in one of the corridors of the Parliament House, Sir John Blacquiere stopped to say something to his brother baronet; his star, which he frequently wore on 132 IRL^n LITERATURE. ratliei- shabbv iduIs, stnuk the iarmer's eye, who had lu'ver seeu siu'h a thiug- before; and coupling it with the ver}- bhuk visage of the wearer, and his peculiar appear- ance altogether, our rustic was induced humbly to ask Sir John Hamilton, '' who that man was with a silver sign on his coat? " '• Don't you know him? '' cried Sir John; " why, that is a famous Jew monej'-broker." '• ^lay be, please your honor, he could do my little busi- ness for me," responded the honest farmer. " Trial 's all ! " said Sir John. " I '11 pay well," observed Joseph. " That *s precisely what he likes," replied the baronet. " Pra}-, Sir John," continued the farmer, " what 's those words on his sign? " (alluding to the motto on the star). '' Oh," answered the other, " they are Latin, ' Tria juncta ■in lino/ " " And may I crave the English thereof? " asked the unsuspecting countryman. " Three in a bond," said Sir John. "Then I can match him!" exclaimed Hughes. "You'll be hard set," cried the malicious barOnet; " however, you nmy try." Hughes then approaching Blacquiere, who had removed but a very small space, told him with great civility and a significant nod, that he had a little matter to mention, which he tiusted would be agreeable to both parties. Blac- (jiiiere drew him aside and desired him to |)roceed. "To come to the point then at once," said Hughes, " the money is not to say a great deal, and I can give you three in a bond — myself and two good men as any in Cavan, along with me. 1 ]i()])e tliat will answer you. Three in a bond! safe good men." Sir John, who wanted a sn]>ply himself, had the day be- fore sent to a person who had advertised the lending of money; and on hearing the above language (taking for granted that it resulted from his own application), he civ- illy assured Hughes that a bond would be of no use to him ! good bills might l)e negotiated, or securities turned into cash, though at a loss, but Jjonds would not answer at all. " I fliiidv I can get another mau, and that's one more than your sign requires," said Hughes. ^SIR J OX AH HARRINGTON. 133 " I tell yon," ropoated Sir John, " bonds will not answer atall, sir!— bills, bills!" " Then it 's fitter," retorted the incensed farmer, " for you to be after putting your sir/ti there in your pocket, than wearing it to deceive Christians, you usurer! you Jew, you ! " Nobody could be more amused at this denouement than Blacquiere himself, who told everybody he knew of " Hamilton's trick upon the countryman." Sir Richard Musgrave, although he understood drawing the long how as well as most people, never patronized it in any other individual. Sir John Hamilton did not spare the exercise of this accomplisliment in telling a story, one day, in the presence of Sir Richard, who declared his in- credulity rather abruptly, as indeed was his constant man- ner. Sir John was much nettled at the mode in which the other dissented, more particularly as there were some strangers present. He asseverated the truth on his icord: Sir Richard, however, repeating his disbelief, Sir eTohn Hamilton furiously exclaimed, " you say you don't believe my word? " " I can't believe it," replied Sir Richard. " Well, then," said Sir John, " if you won't believe my icord! I '11 give it you under my hand," clenching at the same moment his great fist. The witticism raised a general laugh, in which the par- ties themselves joined, and in a moment all was good humor. But the company condemned both the offenders — Sir John for teUinf/ a lie, and Sir Richard for 7iot Relieving it — to the payment of two bottles of hock, each. Whoever the following story may be fathered on, Sir John Hamilton was certainly its parent. The Duke of Rutland, at one of his levees, being at a loss (as probably most kings, princes, and viceroys occasionally are) for something to say to every person he was bound in etiquette to notice, remarked to Sir John Hamilton that there was "a prospect of an excellent crop; the timely rain," ob- served the Duke, " will bring everything above ground." " God forbid, your Excellency! " exclaimed the courtier. His Excellency stared, while Sir John continued, sighing heavily, as he spoke; "Yes, God forbid! for I have got three wives under." 131 IRISH LITERATURE. At Olio of those hw^^v couvivial parties which distin- oyl(' was perfectly w<'ll bred in all his habits; had been appointcrl gentleman-usher at the Irish court, and executed the dnties of that ollice to the dav of his death, with the utmost satisfaction to himself, as well as to every one in SIR JONAH BARRIXGTON. 135 connettion with him. He was married to the ehlest dau<»h- ter of Sir John Cave, Bart.; and liis lady, who was a **^ has hleii," prematurely injured Sir Boyle's capacity (it was said) by forcing him to read Gibbon's ' Rise and Fall of the Ronum Empire,' whereat he was so cruelly puzzled without being in the least amused, that in his cui)s he often stigmatized the great historian as a low fellow, who ought to have been kicked out of company wherever he was, for turning people's thoughts away from their praj^ers and their politics to what the devil himself could make neither head nor tail of. His perpetually bragging that Sir John Cave had given him his eldent daughter, afforded Curran an opportunity of replying, " Ay, Sir Boyle, and depend on it, if he had an older one still he would have given her to you." Sir Boyle thought it best to receive the repartee as a compliment, lest it should come to her ladyship's ears, who, for several 3'ears back, had prohibited Sir Boyle from all allusions to chronology. The baronet had certainly one great advantage over ail other bull and blunder makers : he seldom launched a blun- der from which some fine aphorism or maxim might not be easily extracted. When a debate arose in the Irish House of Commons on the vote of a grant which was recommended by Sir John Parnell, Chancellor of the Exchequer, as one not likely to be felt burdensome for many years to come — it was observed in reply, that the House had no just right to load posterity with a weighty debt for what could in no degree operate to their advantage. Sir Boyle, eager to defend the measure of Government, immediately rose, and in a very few words, put forward the most unanswerable argument which human ingenuity could possibly devise. " What, Mr. Speaker I " said he, "• and so we are to beggar ourselves for fear of vexing posterity ! Now, I would ask the honorable gentleman, and stiU more honorable House, why we should put ourselves out of our way to do anything for posterity; for what has posterity done for usf '^ Sir Boyle, hearing the roar of laughter, which of course followed this sensible blunder, but not being conscious that lie had said anything out of the way, was rather puzzled, and conceived that the House had misunderstood him. He 136 IRISH LITERATURE. therefore bejii^ed leave to exphuD, as he apprehended that p'litleineu had entirely mistakeu his words: he assured the House that " bj posterity, he did not at all mean oiir ances- tors, but those who were to come ininirdiatelij after them." V\^m\ hearinii this explanation, it was impossible to do any serious business for half an hour. Sir Boyle Koche was induced by Government to fijiht as hard as possible for the Union; so he did, and I really be- lieve famied, by decrees, that he was right. On one occa- sion, a jieneral titter arose at his florid picture of the hap- I»iuess which must i>roceed from this event. " Gentlemen," said Sir Boyle, " may titther, and titther, and titther, and may think it a bad measure; but their heads at present are hot, and will so remain till they grow cool again; and so they can't decide right now; but when the daij of jmhjment comes, then honorable gentlemen will be satisfied at this most excellent union. Sir, there is no Levitical degrees be- tween nations, and on this occasion I can see neither sin nor shame in marrying our own sister.'^ He was a determined enemy to the French Revolution, and seldom rose in the House for several years without vol- unteering some abuse of it. "Mr. Speaker," said he, in a mood of tliis kind, "if we once permitted the villanous French masons to meddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they would never stop, nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones tumbling ated for the ]nir]>ose of being answered. It might be considered a sufiicient excuse, that these stories refer to events long past; that they are amusing, and the more so as being matter of fact (neither romance nor exaggeration), and so various that no two of them are at all similar. But a much better reason can be given; namely, that th(>re is no other species of detail or anecdote which so clearly brings in illustration before a reader's eye the character, genius, and the uuinners of a country as tliat which exemplities the distinguishing propensities of its population for successive ages. jNIucIi knowledge will necessarily be gained by possessing such a series of anec- dotes, and then going on to trace the decline of such pro- pensities to the progress of civilization in that class of society where they had been prevalent. As to the objection founded on the rank or profession of the parties concerned, it is only necessary to subjoin the following sJiort abstract from a long list of official duelists ^\•ilo have ligured in my time, and some of them be- fore my eyes. The number of grave personages who ap- pear to have adopted the national taste (though in most instances it was undoubtedly before their elevation to the bench that they signalized themselves in single combat), removes from me all iin])utations of ])it(hing upon and ex- posing any unusual frailty; and I think I may challenge any country in Europe to sliow such an assemblage of gallant jiitlicial and official antagonists at fire and sword as is exhibited even in the following list. The Lord Chancellor of Ireland, Earl Clare, fought the Master of the Kolls, Curran. The Chief Justice K. R., Lord Clonmell, fought Lord Tyrawly (a Privy Councilor), Lord Llandaff, and two others. The judge of the county of Dublin, Egan, fought the Master of tlic Ifolls, IJogcM- Ran-ct, and three others. The Chanr of the Iv\(li('(|U('r, the Kiglit Honorable Isaac Covry, fought the Kight Honorable Henry Crattan, a I'rivy Councilor, and another. »Sf/7? JONAH HARRINCxTON. 143 A Baron of the Exchequer, liaron Medge, fought his brother-in-law and two others. The Chief Justice C P., Lord Norbury, fought Fire- eater Fitzgerald and two other gentlemen, and frightened Napper Tandy and several besides: one hit only. The Judge of the Prerogative Court, Doctor Duigenan, fought one barrister and frightened another on the ground. X. B. The latter case is a curious one. The chief counsel to the Revenue, Henry Deane Grady, fought Counselor O'Mahon, Counselor Campbell, and others; all hits. The Master of the Rolls fought Lord Buckingham, the Chief Secretary, etc. The Provost of the University of Dublin, the Right Ilon- orable Hely Hutchinson, fought Mr. Doyle, master in chancery (they went to the plains of Minden to fight), and some others. The Chief Justice C. P., Patterson, fought three country gentlemen, one of them with swords, another with guns, and wounded all of them. The Right Honorable George Ogle, a Privy Councilor, fought Barney Coyle, a distiller, because he was a papist. They fired eight shots and no hit; but the second broke his own arm. Thomas Wallace, K. C, fought Mr. O'Gorman, the Cath- olic secretary. Counselor O'Connell fought the Orange chieftain; fatal to the champion of Protestant ascendency. The collector of the customs of Dublin, the Honorable Francis Hitchinson, fought the Right Honorable Lord Mountmorris. The reader of this dignified list (which, as I have said, is only an abridgment) will surely see no great indecorum in an admiralty judge having now and then exchanged broadsides, more especially as they did not militate against the law of nations. However, it must be owned that there were occasionally very peaceful and forgiving instances among the barristers. I saw a very brave king's counsel, ]Mr. Curran, horse- whipped most severeh^ in the public street, by a \evy sav- age nobleman. Lord Clanmorris; and another barrister was said to have had his eye saluted by a moist messenger 144 IRISH LITERATURE. from a ,2:ontloman's lip (^Mr. ^May's) in the body of the Ilonso of Coininons. Yet both tliose little hicirilifirs were arrauj^ed very aiiiieably, in a private manner, and without the aid of any deadly weapon whatsoever, I suppose for variety's sake. But the people of Dublin used to observe, that a judiiinent eame upon Counselor O'Callaj^han for hnvini; kei)t Mr. Cni'ran qu'wt in tlie horsewhippini;- affair, inasniuih as his own brains were literally scattered about the uround by an attorney very soon after he had turned pacitieator. In my time, the number of killed and wounded among the bar was very considerable. The other learned profes- sions suffered much less. It is, in fact, incredible what a singular passion the Irish gentlemen (though in general excellent-tempered fel- lows) formerly had for fighting each other and immedi- ately making friends again. A duel was indeed consid- ered a necessary piece of a young man's education, but by no means a ground for future animosity with his opponent. One of the most humane men existing, an intimate friend of mine, and at present a prominent public charac- ter, but who (as the expression then was) had frequently played both " hilt to hilt " and " muzzle to muzzle," was heard endeavoring to keep a little son of his quiet, who was crying for something: "Come, now, do be a good boy I Come, now,'' said m^' friend, " don't cry, and I '11 give you a case of nice little pistols to-morrow. Come, now, don't cry, and we '11 sJioot them all in the morning I " " Yes ! yes I we'll shoot them all in the morning!" responded the child, drying his little eyes and delighted at the notion. I have heard the late Sir Charles Ormsby, who affected to be a wit, thougli at best but a humorist and (joiirmand, liken the story of my friend and his son to a butcher at Nenagh, who in like manner wanted to keep his son from cry- ing, and effectually stop])ed his tears by saying: "Come, now, be a good boy — don't cry, and you shall kill a lamh to- morrow I Now won't you be good? " " Oh I yes, yes," said the child sobbing; " father, is the lamb ready? " Within my recollection, this national propensity for fighting and slaughtering was nearly universal, originat- ing in the spirit and habits of former times. T^^hen men bad a glowing ambition to excel in all manner of SIR JONAH BARRINGTON. 145 feats and exercises, they naturally conceived that man- slauj;hter, in an honest way (that is, not knowing which would be slaughtered), was the most chivalrous and gentle- manly of all their accom])lishments; and this idea gave rise to an assiduous cultivation of the arts of combat, and dic- tated the wisest laws for carrying them into execution with regularity and honor. About the year 1777, the fire-eaters were in great repute in Ireland. No young fellow could finish his education till he had exchanged shots with some of his acquaintances. The first two questions always asked as to a young man's respectability and qualifications, particularly Avhen he pro- posed for a lady-wife, were : " What family is he of? " " Did he ever blaze? " Tipperary and Gal way were the ablest schools of the dueling science. Galway was most scientific at the sword: Tipperary most practical and prized at the pistol : Mayo not amiss at either : Roscommon and Sligo had many pro- fessors and a high reputation in the leaden branch of the pastime. When I was at the university. Jemmy Keogh, Buck English, Cosey Harrison, Crowe Ryan, Reddy Long, Amby Bodkin, Squire Falton, Squire Blake, Amby Fitzgerald, and a few others were supposed to understand the points of honor better than any men in Ireland, and were con- stantly referred to. In the north, the Fallows and the Fentons were the first hands at it ; and most counties could have then boasted their regular point-of-honor men. The present Chief Jus- tice of the Common Pleas was supposed to have understood the thing as well as any gentleman in Ireland. In truth, these oracles were in general gentlemen of good connections and most respectable families, otherwise nobody would fight or consult them. Every family then had a case of hereditary pistols, which descended as an heirloom, together with a long, silver- hilted sword, for the use of their posterity. Our family pistols, denominated pelters, were brass (I believe my sec- ond brother has them still). The barrels were very long, and point-hlankers. They were included in the armory of our ancient castle of Ballynakill in the reign of Elizabeth (the stocks, locks, and hair-triggers were, however, mod- 10 14G IRL^^n LITERATURE. erii), and had descended from father to son fi-om that ju'riod; one of them was named "Sweet Li])s," the other " The Darlinji." The family rapier was called " Skiver the I'nllet '■ by my grand-uncle, Captain Wheeler Barrington, who had fonuht with it repeatedly, and run through dif- ferent i)arts of their persons several Scots officers, who had challenged him all at once for some national reflec- tion. It was a very long, uarrow-bladed, straight cut-and- thrust, as sharp as a razor, with a silver hilt and a guard of butt' leather inside it. I kept this rapier as a curiosity for some time; but it was stolen during my absence at Temple. I knew Jemnn' Keogh extremely well. He was consid- ered in the main a peacemaker, for he did not like to see anybody fight but himself; and it was universally admitted that he never killed any man who did not well deserve it. lie was a plausible, although black-looking fellow, with renuirkably thick, long eyebrows, closing with a tuft over his nose. He unfortunately killed a cripple in the Pha'nix Park, which accident did him great mischief. He was a land-agent to Bourke of Glinsk, to whom he always offi- ciated as second. At length, so many quarrels arose without sufficient!}' di()uift((l j)]'ovocation, and so many things were considered (juarrels of course, which were not quarrels at all, that the principal fire-eaters of the south saw clearly disrepute was likely to be thrown on both the science and its professors, and thought it full time to interfere and arrange nmtters ujioii a proper, steady, rational, and moderate footing; and to regulate the time, jjlace, and other circumstances of dueling, so as to govern all Ireland on one principle — thus establishing a uniform, national code of the lex pufj- nnudi; ])roving, as Hugo Clrotius did, that it was for the benefit of nil belligerents io adopt the same code and reg- ulations. In furtherance of this object, a l)ranch society had been formed in Dublin, termed the "Knights of Tara," which met once a month at the theater, Chapel Street, gave pre- miums for fencing, and jiroceeded in the most laudably syste?natic mniiner. The airiount of admission money was laid out on silver cuy)s, and given 1o the best fencers as prizes, at quarterly exhibitions of pujiils and amateurs. SIR JONAH BARRIXOTOX. 147 Fenciu*; willi the snuill-sword is ccrtuinly a most J)eau- tiful and noble exercise; its accjnii'einent confers a fine, bold, and manly carria«»e, a dij^nifled mien, a firm step, and graceful motion. But, alas! its practicers are now sup- l)lanted by contemptible *ironps of sinirkinji,- (juadi-illers with unweaponed belts, stuffed breasts, and strangled loins! — a set of squeakin<2j dandies, whose sex may be read- ily mistaken, or, I should say, is of no consequence. The theater of the Knii^hts of Tara, on these occasions, was always overflowing. The combatants were dressed in close cambric jackets, o-arnished with ribands, each wear- ing the favorite color of his fair one; bunches of ribands also dangled at their knees, and roses adorned their mo- rocco slippers, which had buff soles to prevent noise in their lunges. No masks or visors were used as in these more timorous times; on the contrary, every feature was uncovered, and its inflections all visible. The ladies ap- peared in full morning dresses, each handing his foil to her champion for the day, and their presence animated the singular exhibition. From the stage-boxes the prizes were likewise handed to the conquerors by the fair ones, accom- panied each with a wreath of laurel, and a smile then more valued than a hundred victories ! The tips of the foils were blackened, and therefore instantly betrayed the hits on the cambric jacket, and proclaimed without doubt the success- ful combatant. xVU was decorum, gallantry, spirit, and good temper. The Knights of Tara also held a select committee to decide on all actual questions of honor referred to them : to reconcile differences, if possible; if not, to adjust the terms and continuance of single combat. Doubtful points were solved generally on the peaceable side, provided wo- men were not insulted or defamed ; but when that was the case, the knights were obdurate and blood must be seen. They were constituted by ballot, something in the manner of the Jockey Club, but without the possibility of being dishonorable, or the opportunity of cheating each other. This most agreeable and useful association did not last above two or three years. I cannot tell why it broke up : I rather think, however, the original fire-eaters thought it frivolous, or did not like their own ascendency to be rivaled. It was said that they threatened direct hostil- 14S IRISH LITERATURE. ities against the kuights; and I am the more disposed to believe this, because, soon after, a comprehensive code of the laws and points of honor was issued by the southern tire-eaters, with directions that it should be strictly ob- served by gentlemen throughout the kingdom, and kept in their pistol-cases, that ignorance might never be pleaded. This code was not circulated in print, but very numerous written copies were sent to the different county clubs, etc. ;My father got one for his sons, and I transcribed most (I believe not all) of it into some blank leaves. These rules brought the whole business of dueling into a focus, and have been much acted upon down to the present day. They called them in Galway " the thirty-six command- ments." MJ^BAEL JOSEPH BAKKY. (1817-1889.) Michael Joseph Barry was born in Cork in 1817. He Avrote much for The Nation, chiefly in vcr.se over the si;^natures of " B.," " B. J.," " Beta," and " Brutus." He won the prize of £100 ($500) offered by the Repeal Association in 1843 for the best essay on Repeal. The ' Kishoge Papers ' appeared in the Dublin University Magazine an- onymously and were republished in one volume tinder the pseu- donym of " Bouillon de Gargon." He was editor of the Cork Southern Reporter for some years from 1848 and published also the following books : ' A Waterloo Com- memoration,' 'Lays of the War,' 'Six Songs of Beranger,' ' Hein- rich and Lenore.' He also edited the 'Songs of Ireland,' and wrote some other works, chiefly legal. He recanted his early opinions toward the end of his life and became a police magistrate in Dublin. He died Jan. 23, 1889. THE SWORD. What rights the brave? The sword I What frees the slave? The sword! What cleaves in twain The despot's chain, And makes his gyves and dungeons vain? The sword! CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever! Guard of the free, We '11 cherish thee. And keep thee bright for ever I What checks the knave? The sword! What smites to save? The sword ! What wreaks the wrong Unpunished long, At last, upon the guilty strong? The sword! 149 i * • mo IRISH LITERATURE. CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never, etc. What shelters Right? The sword! What makes it might? The sword ! What strikes the crown Of tyrants down. And answers with its Hash their frown? The sword ! CHORUS. Then cease thy proud task never, etc Still be thou true. Good sword! We '11 die or do, Good sword! Leap forth to light If tvrants smite. And trust our arms to wield thee right, Good sword! CHORUS. Yes! cease thy proud task never While rests a link to sever! CJuard of the free. We'll clierish thee, And keep thee bright for ever! TnE MASSACRE AT DROGHEDA. The}' knr'lt around the cross divine. The iiiiiti'on and the maid; They bowed before redem})tion's sign, And foT-vcntly tlicy j)ra3'ed — Three hundicd fnir ;iii(l liclidfss ones. Whose ciinie w;is tills nlone— Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons Had battled for their own. arfJ io aabia riJod no abr. oJ bio ei;oinBiil io bns 21BW yn; labnt/ 9iO£2?.crn luf 'oV ni ^rlqiul/" m^ DROGHEDA From a photograph This famous old town stands on both sides of the rivtr Boyne. It has been the scene of many wars and of much bloodshed. The story ot the awful massacre under Cromwell is vividly told by Father Denis Murphy in Vol. VI. of Irish Litkrature. MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. 151 Had battled bravely, but in vain — The Saxon won tlie figlit, And Irish corpses strewed the j)lain Where Valor slept with Right. And now that man of demon guilt To fated Wexford flew — The red blood reeking on his hilt Of hearts to Erin true! He found them there — the young, the old, The maiden, and the wife; Their guardians brave in death were cold, Who dared for tliein the strife. They prayed for mercy — God on high ! Before thy cross they prayed, And ruthless Cromwell bade them die To glut the Saxon blade! Three hundred fell — the stifled prayer Was quenched in women's blood; Nor youth nor age could move to spare From slaughter's crimson flood. But nations keep a stern account Of deeds that tyrants do ! And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount, And Heaven avenge it too! THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. Mr. Editor, My mother being a Blackpool woman. I wish to give you the first news of what happened between Louis Philippe and her Grayshus Majesty. I was behind a curtain listenin' to the dialogue on Friday evening. " My dear Vic, ses he, I 'm mighty sick, ses he. For I 've cut my stick, ses he. Tarnation quick, ses he. From the divil's breeze, ses he. At the Tooleyrees, ses he; For the blackguards made, ses he, A barricade, ses he. 152 IRISH LITERATURE. They 'ro up to the trade, sos be, Aud 1 was afraid, ses lie, And greatly in dread, ses he, I 'd lose my head, ses he ; And if I lost that, ses lie, 1 'd have no place for my hat, ses he. "Stop awhile, ses she; Take off your tile, ses she. You 're come a peg down, ses she. By the loss of your crown, ses she. "Mille j)ardon, ses he. For keepiu' it on, ses he; But my head isn't right, ses he, Since I took to Hight, ses he; For the way was long, ses he. And I 'm not over sthrong, ses he. " Indeed, my ould buck, ses she. You look mighty shuck, ses she. "You may say I am, ses he; I 'm not worth a damn, ses he, Till I get a dhram, ses be. And a cut of mate, ses be; For I 'm dead bate, ses be. I 'm as cowld as ice, ses he. " Never say it twice, ses she ; I Ml get you a slice, ses she, Of something nice, ses she; And we '11 make up a bed, ses she, In the room overhead, ses she. "I like a matbrass, ses be. Or a pallyass, ses be; But in my present j)ass, ses he. Anything of the kind, ses be, I shouldn't much mind, ses be." MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. 153 Here a grand waither dhressed all in goold brought in the ateables. Her INfajesty helped Looey to some cowld ham, which he tucked in as if he hadn't tasted a bit since he left the Tooleyrees. By degrees he lost his appetite and found his tongue; but he didn't like talking while the waither was there, so he touched her Majesty, and ses he in an under- tone — " Bid that flunkey go, ses he, And 1 '11 let you know, ses he, About my overthrow, ses he." So the Queen made a sign with her hand, and the flunkey tuck himself off with a very bad grace, as if he 'd have liked to be listening. When the door was shut Looey went on — " 'T was that Guizot, ses he — That chap you knew, ses he, When we were at Eu, ses he, At our interview, ses he. " Is that thrue ? ses she. I thought he and you, ses she, Were always as thick, ses she, As— " Don't say pickpockets, Vic, ses he. Indeed, we wor friends, ses he, And had the same ends, ses he. Always in view, ses he; But we little knew, ses he, That a Paris mob, ses he, Would spoil our job, ses he. They 're the divil's lads, ses he— What you call Rads, ses he; But your Rads sing small, ses he, Before powdher and ball, ses he. While mine don't care a jot, ses he, For round or grape shot, ses he. Well, those chaps of mine, ses he. They wanted to dine, ses he, 154 IRISH LITERATURE. And io raise up a storm, ses he, About jxottinp; reform, ses he; Which isn't the tiling, ses he, For a citizen king, ses he, Or a well-ordered state, ses he, To tolerate, ses he. So says 1 to Guizot, ses he, We must sthrike a blow, ses he. Ses Guizot, You 're right, ses he, For they'll never light, ses he; They *re sure to be kilt, ses he, By them forts you built, ses he, And the throo]»s is thrue, ses he. And they'll stand Io vou, ses he. Then ses I to Guizot, ses he. Proclaim the bancjuo, ses he. And let them chaps know, ses he. That Keform 's no go, ses he. But bad luck to our haste, ses he, For stoppin' the faste, ses he. For the peojile riz, ses he. And that 's how it is, ses he. That you find me here, ses he. At this time of year, ses he. Hard uj) for a bed, ses he. To rest njv head, ses he. "Did you save your tin? ses she. "Did 1? (with a grin), ses he. Faix, it 's I that did, ses he. For I had it hid, ses he. Lest a storm should burst, ses he, To be fit for the worst, ses he." TTore Looey stopi)ed, and little Lord Johnny, who had been ytcepin' in at the door, walked into the room, just as the (iueen. who had caught sight of him, jiut up her finger for him to come in. Looey rose up to meet him. " Are you there, ses he. My little I'remier? ses he. Gad! you're lookin' ill, ses he. MICHAEL J08EPII BARRY. 155 " Troth, 1 am, King Pliil, ses he. Would jou cash a bill, ses he, For a couple of mi lie? ses he. I 've no tiu in the till, ses he. " Good night, ses Phil, ses he. I 've a cowld in my head, ses he, And I '11 go to bed, ses he." And he walked out of the room in a great hurry, leaving Lord Johnny in a great foosther, and indeed her Majesty didn't look over well pleased; but there the matter ended. P.S. — You '11 hear that Looey wasn't in London at all, but you may thrust to the thruth of the above. Yours to command, THE BOY JONES. This appeared in the Cork Southern Reporter. There was a boy Jones, who had been found concealed in Buckingham Palace, not with criminal intent but from curiosity. When Louis Philippe fled from France in 1848 nothing was heard of him for some days. While all the world was wondering, Barry wrote this squib. WILLIAM FRANCIS BARRY. (1849 ) William Francis Barry, D.D., Catholic priest, theologian, and novelist, was born April 21, 1849. He received his education at Oscott College near Birmingham and in the English College at Rome. He is aB.D. and D.I), of the Gregorian University, Rome; Avas seventh in honors at his matriculation at London University, and is a scholar of the English College de Urbe. He was ordained in St. John Lateran, Rome; studied under Cardinals Franzelin and Tarquini and the famous Perrone. He was present during the Vatican Council and taking of Rome, in 1870. He was Vice-President and professor of philosophy at Birmingham Theological College, 1873-77; professor of divinity at Oscott College, 1877-80; on mission in Wolverhampton in 1882, and Avas appointed to Dorchester, 1883. He delivered addresses in America in 1893, and lectured at the Royal Institution and in many parts of England. In 1897 he gave a centenary address on Burke, in London and Dublin. He has published more than seventy essays in periodicals : ' The New Antigone,' 1887; ' The Place of Dreams,' 1894; ' The Two Stan- dards,' 1898; 'ArdenMassiter,' 1900; ' The Wizard's Knot,' 1901— romantic novels; 'The Papal Monarchy,' 1902. He is an accom- phshed linguist, being acquainted with the French, German, Italian, Spanish, Greek, and Latin languages and literatures. A MEETING OF ANAKCHISTS. From ' The New Antigone.* It was the larpje, bare committee-room, which we remem- ber, in the decayed house at Denzil Lane, where Hippolyta and Ivor lield their first conversation. The passage was not lighted, and Ivor, leading Rupert in the dark, had to knock twice ere he gained admission. A species of warder, wearing a red sash across his breast, stood inside, jealously guanling the entrance. On opening he recognized the engraver, drew back, and seenuMl uncertain whether he slioubl be allowed to pass. But at the sight of Rupert closely following on the heels of his friend the warder put out his hand, laying it rather heavily on the artist's shoul- der, and said in a quick, rough undertone, "What do you want here? " Rupert stood j)erfectly still. Ivor, just look- ing at the doorkeeper, said two or three words and held out 156 WILLIAM FRANCIS BARRY. 157 a scrap of paper. Tlie effect was instantaneous. The grim warder drew aside; Kupert passed in; and tlie two friends, making their way up the room, seated tliemselves, by Ivor's choice, where they could see all that was going forward and keep an eye on the door. Rupert, somewhat roused from his lethargy, looked round and thought he had never been in such a place be- fore. The scene resembled a night-school rather than a Socialist meeting. The great windows at either end were closed with wooden shutters and iron bars; three jets of gas hanging from the plastered ceiling threw a crude light on the benches occupied by some thirty or forty men, who seemed, by their dress and general appearance, to belong to the steadier sort of mechanics. There was a tribune, or master's pulpit, at the upper end away from the door, which was at present empty. Near it was the table, cov- ered with green baize, at which Hippolyta had seated her- self while Ivor uttered his thoughts to her the first morning they met. But Rupert did not know that Hippolyta had ever been in the room. He felt almost as much surprise here as at the Duke of Adullam's. He had expected a larger meeting, and not this kind of people. In his mind there went with Socialism something squalid, frowsy, un- kempt, and forlorn. But these men seemed to be in re- ceipt of wages enabling them to dress decently; they had an educated look ; and many of them were turning over the journals or reading written documents. Among them were evidently a certain number of foreigners. They all looked up on the entrance of Ivor Mardol. Seeing Rupert, they looked inquiringly at one another; and a second offi- cer, in red sash like the doorkeeper, came up and asked him who he was. Rupert pointed to Ivor; again the scrap of paper was shown, again the magic working followed. The men bent over their journals and documents. There was apparently no business going on, or it had not begun. In the midst of the silence a slight young man went from his place at the side of the hall into the pulpit, carrying with him a bundle of papers. The rest laid down what they were reading, and threw themselves into listening atti- tudes. The secretary, if such he was, began to run over what seemed an interminable list of meetings, resolutions, and subscriptions — a recital which, tedious though it 158 TRTSH IJTERATURE. ])n)ve(l to Rupert, had clearly a deep interest for the as- si'iiil)ly, Ivor himself appearing to follow it point by point, ^lore than once the reader was interrupted, now by low earnest murmurs of approbation, and now by marks of the reverse. A bvstander would have said that in this commit- tee of anarchists the old sections of the Revolution had re- newed themselves. Rut the artist, weary of these mo- notonous proceedings, and attending but little to the hum of conversation, which by degrees grew louder, could hardly have told when the secretary ended, or what shape of man took his place in the pulpit. He did not suppose Colonel A'alence would haunt assend)lies of this species; and Ivor's friend apparently was yet to arrive. From such stupor, consequent partly on the illness he was feeling, Rupert awakened at the sound of Ivor's voice, lie opened his eyes and looked about. His friend had arisen in his place, and the s])eaker in the pulpit had come to a pause. The rest were dead silent. " Ay," said Ivor, with a fine ring of scorn in his accents, " things are going the way I foretold. But they shall not without one more protest from me. After that, you may do with me as you like. I suppose there must be martyrs of the new (lospel as there were of the old. You," he con- tinued, facing the man in the pulpit, " are preaching as- sassination. You tell us it is an article in the creed of an- archy. And I tell you, here, not for the first time, that it is no article in the creed of humanity." " Sit down, can't you?" shouted one of the men across the room ; " your turn '11 come by and by. Why can't you let the man speak? " " By all means," said Ivor. " It is out of order, I sup- pose, to protest that our society is not a company of assas- sins." And he sat down, flushed and excited. Rupert pressed his hand. The other took up his interrupted speech; and the artist for the first time heard a sermon, in well-chosen language and with apposite illustrations, on the text of dynamite. A stern gospel, which the fanatic standing before them clearly believed in. He was a thoughtful, mild-looking man, young, well educated, and fluent in address, a for- f-igiicr, or of foreign descent. lie was much applauded, though not by all ; and he knew when to leave off. The im- WILLIA3I FRANCIS BARRY. 159 prossion made was deep and solemn, like; that which a Hi<^h Calvinist might have produced in his epoch by proclaiming that hardly any one present would be saved, and by adding that the more of them were lost the greater would be God's glory. As soon as he turned to come down from the pulpit, Ivor stood up again. Voices cried, " To the front, to the front"; but he did not stir. The noise died away. Look- ing very steadily at the brethren who crowded nearer to him, he said, " I doubt that I belong to 3'ou, and I will not go into your tribune." There was a strong murmur of disapproval, which seemed to loosen his tongue. " How should I belong to you," he cried, " when you will take warning neither by the Revolution nor by the Govern- ments, when you are mad enough to dream of creating a new world by the methods which have ruined the old? You disown your greatest teachers. You — I say you — are restoring absolute government, the Council of Ten, the Inquisition, and the Committee of Public Safety. You, as much as any king, or priest, or aristocrat, stand in the way of progress." There was a great outcry. " Proof, proof," exclaimed some ; " renegade," " reactionary," " traitor," came hurled from the lips of others, while Ivor stood unmoved amid the commotion he had excited. He smiled disdainfully, and lifted his hand to command silence, but for a time it seemed as if the meeting would break up in confusion. There were two or three, however, bent on restoring order and hearing what he had to say. The tumult grew less, and Ivor, as soon as he could make himself audible, exclaimed, " Do you want proof? It is waiting for you. I will prove my- self no renegade by showing who is. I say that this lodge was founded on our faith in humanitv. Its creed, when I joined it, condemned regicide, assassination, and private war. It would have condemned dynamite, had that hellish weapon been invented. I say again that I am a son of the Revolution, which has made freedom possible and will make it a universal fact, if we and the like of us do not throw it back a thousand years. What are my proofs? you ask. They are illustrious and decisive parallels ; they are the principles on which alone a scientific and progres- sive reconstruction of society can be attempted. Do you 160 IRISH LITERATURE. believe that Voltaire or (loetbe would have eountenanced re2 IRISH LITERATURE. out clear through the room, drawing every eye towards the speaker, who had come in whih' Ivor was replying to the interruptions of his opponents. Ue was a tall man, wrai)]H'd in a cloak witli wliich until now he had covered ins face wliere he sat by the door. At the sound of his voice Ivor gave a start. Ivupert, looking that way, saw the man rise from his seat and press towards the tribune. He let his cloak fall, and from that moment the artist's eyes were riveted on his pale and haughty countenance. Again, as at the beginning of Ivor's speech, there was complete si- lence, and the men present looked at one another in expec- tation of something unusual. Ivo"r, standing up while the stranger passed, made no attempt to resume. The stillness became intense. " You are debating a question to-night," said the stranger, as he looked at them from the tribune he had mounted, " on which the future of the world hangs. Let me help you to solve it. All the lodges in Euro])e have been debating it too, since a certain afternoon when the tele- graph brought news from Petersburg. The French Revo- lution has become cosmopolitan; the nations are on the march, and they must have their '93. Anarchy first, then order. When France challenged the kings to battle, it Hung them the head of a king. We have done more; we are going to pull down the Europe of the kings, with all its wealth, feudalism, ranks, and classes, till we have swept the place clean. And," he paused, " our gage of battle is the shattered body of the Tsar." There could be no mistaking how the applause went now. It was violent and vociferous. The stranger hardly seemed to notice it. ^^'hen silence was restored he went on in a musing voice, low but exceedingly distinct, as if speak- ing: to himself. " When I was a bov 1 too had mv dreams," he said, and In; glanced towards Ivor. " I believed in Goethe and Voltaire, in Victor Hugo and the sentimental- ists. I thought the struggle was for light. I see it is for bread. Look out in tlie streets to-night and consider the faces that pass. Beyond tliese walls," his voice sank lower, but it was wonderfully clear throughout, " lies the anarchy of London. Rags, hunger, nakedness, tears, filth, incest, s(|ualor, decay, disease, the human lazar-house, the black death eating its victims piecemeal, — that is three-fourths WILLIAM FRANCIS BARRY. 16S of the London lying at tliese doors. Whose care is it? Nay, who cares for it? The pih'S of the royal palace are laid deep in a lake of blood. And you will leave it standing? You talk of light; you prefer sentiment to dynamite and assassination ! What a meek Christian you are ! " " No," returned Ivor, with heightened color in his face, " I am neither meek nor a Christian. The lake of blood is a terror to me as to you. That is not the question. You know me too well to imagine it," he said almost liercely. " The question is whether a second anarchy will cure a first. I say no. I prefer sentiment to assassination? Very well, why should I not? But I prefer reason and right even to sentiment. I appeal to what is deepest in the heart of man." The stranger laughed unpleasantly and resumed, as though dismissing the argument. " I have seen battles," he said, " in which there were heroism, and madness, and the rush of armies together, and the thunder of cannon, and wild, raging cries in the artillery gloom, enough to intoxicate a man with the blood}^ splendors of war. But I never beheld anything more heroic or glorious " — he smiled, his voice fell, and he gave a long, peculiar glance down the hall — " than the overture to our great enterprise. It cost many days to tliink it out; it was accomplished in a moment." Then, in the strange, musing tone of one that has a vision before him, " I saw him stagger, lean his arm against the parapet, and fall, shattered as with a thunder- bolt. It was not the death of a man; it was the annihila- tion of a tyranny ! " " And the springing up of a fresh tyranny from his l)lood," cried Ivor, unable, amid the cheering of the others, to contain himself. " Ah, it was a fine sight," continued the speaker, as though he had not been interrupted, " and new in its kind. The great White Tsar has often been murdered — by his wife, his son, his brother; Nicholas committed suicide, and so did Alexander the First. But never until now have the people done justice on their executioner." Then in the same quiet voice, where passion was so concentrated that it gave only a dull red intensity of ex- pression, but none of those lyric cries that lift up the soul, he recited, without naming person or place, the tragedy of 164 /AV;SfZ7 LITERATURE. which he liad been a witness and one of the prime movers. No sound of protest came while he was s])eaking. The audience hunji' spellbound on his words; and the somber, sanguinary picture unrolled itself in all its dreadfulness before their vision. Like a traj^ic messeni!,er, he told the tale jiraphically, yet as thoujih he had no part in it; but the conviction, unanimous in that meetin«!:, of the share he had taken added a covert fear, a wonder not unmixed with somethin«>- almost loathsome, as the man stood there, his hands clean, but the scent of blood clinj;inf>- to his raiment. Ivor listened, his head bowed down, motionless. Rupert never once turnc^l his eyes from the stranajer, who moved ah)ni!: the lines of the story swiftly, (piietly, painting with lurid tints, and not pausing till he had shown the mangled remains of the victim wrapped in his bloody shroud. '' That was not all the blood si)ilt in the tragedy," be concluded. " We, too, lost our soldiers, but they were willing to die. And now that you have seen the deed tlirough mv eves, iudge whether it was riuhtlv done." " Stay," said Ivor, risijig again, and in his agitation lean- ing heavily upon Ivupert's shoulder, " before you judge let me ask on what princi])les your verdict is to be founded. Will you take those of the Revolution, or return to those of Absolutism? " "■ The Revolution, the Revolution," cried many voices. " One of them," returned the young man, " is fraternity. Where did his murderers show pity to the Tsar? Another is humanity, to employ the arms of reason to enlighten blindness, not strike it with the sword. ]Must war be per- l»etual, or where is retaliation to cease? I have always thought that j)ardon, light, and love were the watchwords of our cause; and I looked forward to the day when men should live in peace with one another. To be a man, I understood, was to bear a charmed life, on wliich no other man should lay a daring hand. ^Iur belore him; nor did Mr. Canning, on the other liand. omit any opportunity of drawing Oilray into favorable notice. In the satire upon Addington, called ' Tlie Grand Consulation,' Cilray's caricature of "Dra- matic Royalty, or, tlie Patriotic Courage of Sherry An- drew," is particularly alluded to in the following verse: ROBERT BELL. 169 " And instead of the jack-pudding blustei" of Sherry, And his ' dagger of lath ' and his speeches so merry! Let us bring to the field — every foe to appal — Aldini's galvanic deceptions, and all The sleight-of-hand tricks of Conjuror Val." Canninjjj's passion for literature entered into all his pursuits. It colored his whole life. Every moment of leisure was given up to books. lie and IMtt were passion- ately fond of the classics, and we find them together of an evening', after a dinner at Pitt's, poring over some old Grecian in a corner of the drawing-room, while the rest of the company are dispersed in conversation. Fox had a similar love of classical literature, but his wider sympa- thies embraced a class of works in which Pitt never ap- pears to have exhibited any interest. Fox was a devourer of novels, and into this region Mr. Canning entered with gusto. In English writings, his judgment was pure and strict; and no man was a more perfect master of all the varieties of composition. He was the first English minister who banished the French language from our diplomatic correspondence, and vindicated before Europe the copi- ousness and dignity of our native tongue. He had a high zest for the early vigorous models in all styles, and held in less estimation the more ornate and re- fined. Writing to Scott about the ' Lady of the Lake,' he says tliat, on a repeated perusal, he is more and more de- lighted with it; but that he wishes he could induce him to try the effect of a " more full and sweeping style " — to present himself " in a Drydenic habit." His admiration of Dryden, whom he pronounced to be " the perfection of harmony"; and his preference of that poet of gigantic mould over the melodists of the French school, may be suggested as an evidence of the soundness and strength of his judgment. Yet it is remarkable that, with this broad sense of great faculties in others, he was himself fastidious to excess about the slightest turns of expression. He would correct his speeches, and amend their verbal graces, till he nearly polished out the original spirit. He was not singular in this. Burke, whom he is said to have closely studied, did the same. Sheridan always prepared his speeches; the highly wrought passages in the speech on Hastings' im- 170 IRISH LITERATURE. peachment were written beforeliaiid and coininitted to iiu'inory; and the ditfereuees were so marked that the audience conhl readily distiujiiiish between the extempor- aneous i)assaiies and those that were premeditated. ^Ir. Canninii'y alterations were frequent!}^ so minute and extensive that the printers found it easier to recompose the nuitter afresh in type than to correct it. This dif- ficulty of choice in diction sometimes sprint's from rcniharras dcs ricli esses, but oftener from poverty of re- soal. Mr. Caunin.ii's opinions on the subject of public speak- ing- alTord a useful commentary upon his practice. He used to say that speakinj^- in the House of Commons must take <-fjiifcrsali2 appeared one of the most masterly of Berkeley's works, * The Minute Philosopher.' In 1733, he was made Bishop of Cloyne, and in the yame year he deeded his Rhode Island property to Yale College. In 1735 appeared his discourse called ' The Analyst,' addressed as to an infidel mathematician, and his defense of it under the title of 'A Defense of Freetliinking in Mathematics.' In the same year also appeared 'The Querist,' and in 174-4 tlie celebrated and curious work, ' Siris. a Chain of Philosophical Enquiries and Reflections concerning the Virtues of Tar Watei'.' Finding great benefit him- self from the use of tar water in an attack of nervous colic, he de- sii-ed to benefit otliers by the publication of its virtues, and he de- clared tbat the work cost him more time and pains than any other he had ever been engaged in. With his wife and family he now moved to Oxford, drawn thither by the facilities it possessed for study. Before leaving Cloyne he provided that out of the £1,000 ($5,000), which was all his see pro- duced him, £200 ($1,000) per annum should during his life be distri- buted among the poor householders of Cloyne, Youghal, and Agha- doe. His last work as an author was the collection and publication of his briefer writings in one volume. On Sunday evening, Jan. 14, 1753, while listening to a sermon his wife was reading, he was seized with i)alsy of the heart and expired almost instantly, thus closing a beautiful and ingenious life devoted to the exposition of his views of tlie necessary dependence of material nature upon Omnipresent Intelligence, in the course of which he discovered, as Huxley says, "the great truth that the honest and rigorous following up of the argument which leads us to ' materialism,' inevitably carries us beyond it." TRUE PLEASURES. From No. 40 of 'The Guardian.' FA'f'vy and down on a surface as smooth and bright as glass, enlivened the prosi)ect. On the other hand, we looked down on green pastures, flocks, and herds, basking beneath in suusliine, while we, in our superior situation, enjoyed the freshness of air and shade. Here we felt that soil of joyful instinct which a rural scene and fine weather inspire; and projjosed no small ])leasure in resuming and continuing our conference, without int(^rru])tion, till din- ner: but we had hardly seate(l oui-selves, and looked about UH, when we saw a fox run by tlx* foot of our mount into an adjacent thicket. A few minutes after, we heard a con- BISHOP BERKELEY. 177 fused noise of the opening of hounds, the winding of horns, and the roaring of country squires. While our attention was suspended by this event, a servant eanie running out of breath, and tohl Crito that his neigld^or, Ctesippus, a squire of note, wda faHen from his horse attempting to leap over a hedge, and brought into the hall, where he lay for dead. Upon which we all rose and walked hastily to the house, w'here we found Ctesipi)us just come to himself, in the midst of half a dozen sunburnt squires, in frocks and short wigs, and jockey-boots. Being asked how he did, he answered, it was only a broken rib. With some difTi- cultj' Crito persuaded him to lie on a bed till the chirur- geon came. These fox-hunters, having been up earlj'^ at Uieir sport, were eager for dinner, which was accordingly hastened. They passed the afternoon in a loud rustic mirth, gave proof of their religion and loyalty by the healths they drank, talked of hounds and horses, and elec- tions, and country affairs, till the chirurgeon, who had been employed about Ctesippus, desired he might be put into Crito's coach and sent home, having refused to stay all night. Our guests being gone, we reposed ourselves after the fatigue of this tumultuous visit, and next morn- ing assembled again at the seat of the mount. EXTRACTS FROI\r 'THE QUERIST.' ' The Querist ' was originally published in three pai'ts and anony- mously. It was the first of Bishop Berkeley's series of tracts on the social and economic condition of Ireland. There were originally over eight hundred queries propounded, all equally pregnant. The following selection, with the original numbering retained, will give a good idea of their trend and suggestiveness. They contain perhaps more hints, then original, still unapplied in legislation and political economy than are to be found in any equal space elsewhere. ' The Querist ' was the cause of organized endeavor on an exten- sive Bcale of patriotic Irish gentlemen to promote the agriculture, manufactures, and commerce of their country. We have, as a matter of curiosity, reproduced the peculiar capitali- zation, the italics, and the spelling of the period, which in this case seem to emphasize the points ' The Querist ' wishes to make. 4. Whether the four Elements and Man's labour therein, be not the true Source of Wealth? 12 17S IRISH LITERATURE. r». WliotluT any otlier ^Nleans, oqiially coii(liK-iii2: to ex- ciii' ami c-inuiato the Industry of Mankind, may not hv as u.si'fiil as 31om'y? 13. Whether it may not concern the Wisdom of the Lei?- ishiture to interpose in the making of Fashions; and not leave an Atlair of so great Influence to the Management of Women and Fops, Taylors and Vintners? IT). \\lK'tlier a general good Taste in a People does not greatly conduce to their thriving? And Avhether an uned- U( aicd (lentiy be not the greatest of national Evils? 1(). Whether Customs and Fashions do not supply the Place of licason, in the Vulgar of all Hanks? Whether, tlierefore, it doth not very much import that they should be Aviselv framed? 10. Whether the Bulk of our Irish Natives are not kept from thriving, by that Cynical Content in Dirt and Beg- gary, which they possess to a Degree beyond any other Pe()])le in Cliristendom? 20. Whether the creating of Wants be not the likeliest Way to i)roduce Industry in a People? And whether, if our I*easants were accustomed to eat Beef and wear Shoes, they would not be more industrious? 38. Whether it were not wrong to suppose Land itself to be Wealth? And whether the Industry of the People is not first to be considered, as that which constitutes Wealth, ANliich makes even Land and Silver to be Wealth, neither of whir the Public hath not a Right to employ those who cannot, or will not, find Employment for them- selves? 384. Whether all sturdy Beggars should not be seized and nmde Slaves to the Public, for a certain Term of Years? 40G. Whether Fools do not make Fashions, and wise Men follow them? 410. ^^'hether Money circulated on the Landlord's own Lands, and among his own Tenants, doth not return into his own Pocket? 447. ^Vhelv there can be a worse Sign than that People should quit their Country for a Livelilkood? Though Men often leave their Country for Health, or Pleasure, or Riches, yet to leave it merely for a Livelihood? Whether this be not exceeding bad, and sheweth some peculiar mis- management? r><)l!. \Vhether there can be a greater Mistake in Politics, than to measure the Wealth of the Nation by its Gold and Silver? 58G. Whether the divided Force of Men acting singly, would not be a Rope of Sand? ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA. The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Hnrron of every glorious theme. In distant lands now waits a better time Pi-oduciug subjects worthy fame: Id ha7)7)v climes, whoro from the genial sun And virgin earth sucli scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true. BISHOP BERKELEY. 181 In hap{)y elimea, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides and virtue rules; Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools; There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great ins])iring epic rage The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay — Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly tlanie did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way, The four first acts already past ; A fifth shall close the drama with the day — Time's noblest offspring is the last. ISAAC BTCKERSTAFF. (1785?— 1800?) Thk accounts of the life of Isaac Bickerstaflf , the well-known play- wriglit, are somewhat vague. He was born in Dublin m 1735 (some say 1732), and the date of his death is as uncertain (some say 1800 and otliers 1812). In 1746 he became page to Lord Chesterfield when that nobleman was appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and hiter on in life he was an officer of tlie marines. From this post he was dismissed for some dishonorable action; he left his country and died abroad. He was the author of some twenty-two comedies, farces, operas, etc., many of them highly successful. His three old-fashioned English comic operas, ' Love in a Village,' ' The Maid of the Mill,' and ' Lionel and Clarissa,' are declared by a clever yet sober critic to be '• of the first class, which Avill continue to be popular as long as the language in which they are written lasts." ' Love in a Vil- lage,' which appeared in 1762, and was played frequently during its first season, still enjoys a high reputation and is a stock piece on the English stage, although it is said to be at best only a clever compilation of scenes and incidents from a number of other plays. Three of BickerstaflE's farces, 'The Padlock,' 'The Sultan,' and ' The Spoiled Child,' held the stage for a long time. Bickerstaff once attempted oratorio ; his ' Judith ' was set to music by Dr. Arne, and performed first at the Lock Hospital Chapel in February, 1764, and afterward at the church of Stratford-on-Avon on the oc- casion of Garrick's "Jubilee in honor of the memory of Shaks- pere," in 1769. In 1705 'The Maid of the Mill' was produced at Covent Garden, and ran the unusual period of thirty-five nights. It is chiefly founded on Richardson's novel 'Pamela.' ' The Plain Dealer' and 'The Hypocrite,' both alterations of other plays, the latter of Colley Cibber's ' Nonjuror,' are well known and still keep the stage. One of Bickerstaff's best comedies, ' 'T is Well it 's no Worse,' is founded on a Spanish original. Indeed, of all his works, only ' Lionel and Clarissa ' can be said to be thoroughly and completely original. This real name should not be confounded with the pseudonym used by Swift in his ' Predictions ' ridiculing Partridge, the alma- nac maker; nor with the assumed name under which Steele later edited the ' Tatler ' — the same in both cases. MR. MAWWORM. From 'The Hypocrite.' Old Lady Lambert and De. Cantwell in conference. Enter Mawwokm. Old Ladij Lambert. Ilovr do you do, Mr, Mawworm? 182 ' ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 183 MawiDorm. Thank your ladyship's axing, I 'm but deadly poorish, indeed; the world and I can't agree — I have got the books, doctor, and ^Irs. Grunt bid me give her sarvice to you, and thanks you for the eighteenpencc. Dr. Cantwcll. Ilush ! friend Mawworm I not a word more; you know I hate to have my little charities blazed about: a poor widow, madam, to whom I sent my mite. Old Lady Lanihcrt. Give her this. (Offers a purse to Maicworm. ) Dr Cantwell. I '11 take care it shall be given to her. ( Takes the purse. ) Old Lady Lamhcrt. But what is the matter with you, Mr. Mawworm? Maicworm. I don't know what's the matter with me; I 'm breaking my heart; I think it 's a sin to keep a shop. Old Lady Lambert. Why, if you think it 's a sin, indeed ; pray, what 's your business? Maicworm. We deals in grocery, tea, small-beer, char- coal, butter, brick-dust, and the like. Old Lady Lamhcrt. Well; you must consult with your friendly director here. Mawworm. I wants to go a-preaching. Old Lady Lamhert. Do you? Mawworm. I 'm almost sure I have had a call. Old Lady Lamhert. Ay! Mawworm. I have made several sermons already. I does them extrumpery, because I can't write; and now the devils in our alley says as how my head 's turned. Old Lady Lamhert. Ay, devils indeed; but don't you mind them. Maicworm. No, I don't; I rebukes them, and preaches to them, whether they will or not. We lets our house in lodgings to single men, and sometimes I gets them to- gether, with one or two of the neighbors, and makes them all cry. Old Lady Lamhert. Did you ever preach in public? Mawworm. I got up on Kennington Common the last review day; but the boys threw brickbracks at me, and pinned crackers to my tail; and I have been afraid to mount, your ladyship, ever since. Old Lady Lamhert. Do you hear this, Doctor? throw 184 IRISH LITERATURE. britkbats at bim, and pin crackers to his tail! Can these things be stood by ? Mainronn. I tobl them so; says I, I does nothing clan- decently ; I stands here contagions to his majesty's guards, and I charges yon upon your apparels not to mislist me. 01(1 Lady Lambert. And it had no etfect? Matr>rorm. No more than if I spoke to so many post- esses; but if he advises me to go a-preaching, and quit my shop, I '11 make an exeressance farther into the country. ()J(1 Ladi/ hainhcrt. An excursion you would say. .]fairirorin. I am but a sheep, but my bleating shall be heard afar off, and that sheep shall become a shepherd; nay, if it be only, as it were, a shei)lierd's dog, to bark the stray lambs into the fold. OJiJ Lad J/ Lamhcrf. He wants method, Doctor. Dr. CaiifirclL Yes, madam, but there is matter; and I despise not the ignorant. Matrironn. lie 's a saint. Dr. rant well Oh! Old Lady Lamhcrt. Oh! Mairirorm. If ever there was a saint, he's one. Till I went after him I was little 1)etter than the devil; my con- science was tanned with sin like a piece of neat's leather, and had no more feeling than the sole of my shoe; always a-roving after fantastical delights; I used to go every Siinrlay evening to the Three Hats at Islington; it 's a pub- lic-house; mayhap your ladyship may know it. I was a great lover of skittles tof>, l)ut now I can't bear them. Old Lady Lamlurl. AVhat a blessed reformation! Mairirorm. I believe, Doctor, you never know'd as how I was instigated one of the stewards of the Reforming Society. I convicted a man of five oaths, as last Thursday was a se'nniglit, at the Pewter Platter in the Borough; and another of three, while he was playing trapball in St. fleorge's Fields; 1 bouglit this waistcoat out of my share of the money. Old Lady Lamhert. But how do you mind your busi- ness ? Mairuorm. We have lost almost all our customers; be- cause I keeps extorting them whenever they come into the shop. Old Lady Lambert. And how do you live? ISAAC BTCKERS^TAFF. 185 Mawtcorm. Better than ever we did : while we were worldly minded, my wife and I (for I am married to as likely a woman as you shall see in a thousand) could hardly make thinii^s do at all; hut since this good man has brought us into tlie road of the rigliteous, we have always plenty of everything; and my wife goes as well dressed as a gentlewoman. We have had a child too. Old Lady Lambert. Merciful ! Mawivorm. And yet, if you would hear how the neigh- bors reviles my wife; saying as how she sets no store by me, because we have words now and then : but, as I says, if such was the case, would she ever have cut me down that there time as I Avas melancholy, and she found me hanging behind the door? I don't believe there 's a wife in the par- ish would have done so by her husband. Dr. Canticell. I believe 'tis near dinner-time; and Sir John will require my attendance. Mawivorm. Oh ! I am troublesome ; nay, I only come to you. Doctor, with a message from Mrs. Grunt. I wish your ladyship heartily and heartily farewell : Doctor, a good day to you. Old Lady Lambert. Mr. Maw worm, call on me some time this afternoon; I want to have a little private dis- course with you ; and pray, my service to your spouse. Maioworm. I will, madam ; you are a malefactor to all goodness; I'll wait upon your ladyship; I will indeed. (Going, return.^.) Oh! Doctor, that's true; Susy desired me to give her kind love and respects to you. {Exit.) SONG. From 'Love in a Village.' There was a jolly miller once, Lived on the River Dee; He worked and snng, from morn to night; No lark so blitlie as he. And this the burden of his song, Forever used to be, — " I care for nobody, not I, If no one cares for me." 186 IRISH LITERATURE. TWO SONGS. From ' Thomas and Sally, or the Sailor's Return.* 1. My time how happy once and S'^J- Oh I blithe 1 was as blithe could be; But now 1 'm sad, ah, well-a-daj ! For my true love is gone to sea. The lads ])ursue, T strive to shun ; Tlioufxh all their arts are lost on me; For I can never love but one. And he, alas! has gone to sea. They bid me to the wake, the fair, || To dances on the neighb'ring lea : But how can I in i)leasure share. While my true love is out at sea? The flowers droop till light's return. The j)igoon mourns its absent she; So will I droop, so will 1 mourn, Till my true love comes back from sea. n. How happy is the sailor's life. From coast to coast to roam ; In every ])ort he finds a wife, In every land a home. He loves to range, he 's nowhere strange ; He ne'er will turn his back To friend or foe; no, masters, no; My life for honest Jack. If saucy foes dare make a noise, And to the sword appeal ; We out, and quickly larn 'em, boys. With whom they have to dead. ISAAC BICKERSTAFF. 187 We know no craft but 'fore and aft, Lay on our strokes amain ; Then, if they 're stout, for t'other bout, We drub 'em o'er again. Or fair or foul, let Fortune blow, Our hearts are never dull; The pocket that to-day ebbs low, To-morrow shall be full ; For if so be, we want, d' ye see? A pluck of this here stuff. In Indi — a, and Americ — a, We 're sure to find enough. Then bless the king, and bless the state, And bless our captains all ; And ne'er may chance unfortunate The British fleet befall. But prosp'rous gales, where'er she sails, And ever may she ride, Of sea and shore, till time 's no more, The terror and the pride. WHAT ARE OUTWARD FORMS? What are outward forms and shows. To an honest heart compared? Oft the rustic, wanting those. Has the nobler portion shared. Oft we see the homely flower, Bearing, at the hedge's side, Virtues of more sovereign power Than the garden's gayest pride. HOPE. Hope ! thou nurse of young desire. Fairy promiser of joy. Painted vapor, glow-worm fire, Temp'rate sweet, that ne'er can cloy. 188 IRISH LITERATURE. Hope I thou earnest of delight, Softest soother of the mind, Balniv cordial, prospect briuht, {Surest friend the wretched find. Kind deceiver, flatter still. Deal out pleasures unpossest, With thy dreams iny fancy fill, And in wishes make me blest. *\ MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE. (1840 ) Mrs. Blake (nee McGi-ath) was born in 1840 in County Water- ford, Ireland, and came to this countrj- when six years old. She was educated at Mr. Emerson's private school in Boston, and at- tended the Academy of the Sacred Heart at Manhattanville. In 1865 she married Dr. John G. Blake of Boston, Mass., and has since resided in that city and its environs. She is a constant contributor to Tlie Roman Catholic and other magazines, and, while her life has been full of literary activity, she has found time to supervise the rearing and education of five sons, all Harvard men, and one daughter, who has inherited in great measure her mother's literary gifts. Among her books may be mentioned ' On the Wing,' ' Mexico Picturesque and Political,' 'A Summer Holiday in Europe,' ' Verses Along the Way,' ' Merry Months All,' ' Youth in Twelve Centuries,' and ' In the Harbor of Hope.' THE DAWNING O' THE YEAR. All ye who love the springtime — and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell!— Think not ye ken its beauty, or know its face so dear, Till ye look upon old Ireland in the dawning o' the year ! For where in all the earth is there any joy like this. When the skylark sings and soars like a spirit into bliss, While the thrushes in the bush strain their small brown mottled throats. Making all the air rejoice with their clear and mellow notes; And the blackbird on the hedge in the golden sunset glow Trills with saucy, side-tipped head to the bonny nest below; And the dancing wind slips down through the leaves of the boreen. And all the world rejoices in the wearing o' the green ! For 't is green, green, green, where the ruined towers are gray. And it's green, green, green, all the happy night and day; Green of leaf and green of sod, green of ivy on the wall, And the blessed Irish shamrock with the fairest green of all. 189 100 7/17^7/ LITERATURE. There the primrose breath is sweet, and the yellow gorse is set A crown of shinins: gold on the headlands brown and wet; Not a nook of all the land but the daisies make to glow, And the hajjpy violets pray in their hidden cells below. And it's there the earth is merry, like a young thing newly made Running wild amid the blossoms in the field and in the glade, Habbling ever into music under skies with soft clouds piled, Like the laughter and the tears in the blue eyes of a child. But the green, green, green, O 't is that is blithe and fair! In the fells and on the hills, gay and gladsome as the air. Lying warm above the bog, lloating brave on crag and glen. Thrusting forty banners high where another land has ten. f^ure brother Nature knows of her sore and heavy grief, And thus with soft caress would give solace and relief; Would fold her close in loveliness to keep her from the cold, And clasp the mantle o'er her heart with emeralds and gold. So ye who love the springtime, — and who but loves it well When the little birds do sing, and the buds begin to swell! — • Think not ye ken its beauty or know its face so dear Till ye meet it in old Ireland in the dawning o' the year! THE FIRST STEPS. To-night as the tender gloaming Was sinking in evening's gloom. And only the blaze of the fii-elight Brightened the dark'ning room, I laughed with the gay heart gladness That only to motliei's is known, For the beautiful brown-fyed baby Took his first stej)s alone! TTurriodly running to meet him rauie trooping tlic household band, Joyous, loving, and eager To reach him a lielj»ing hand, MARY ELIZABETH BLAKE. liJi To watch him with silent rapture, To cheer him witli haitpy noise, — My one little fair-faced daughter And four brown romping boys. Leaving the sheltering arms That fain would bid him rest Close to the love and the longing, Near to the mother's breast,— Wild with daring and laughter, Looking askance at me, He stumbled across through the shadows To rest at his father's knee. Baby, my dainty darling, Stepping so brave and bright With flutter of lace and ribbon Out of my arms to-night. Helped in thy pretty ambition With tenderness blessed to see, Sheltered, upheld, and protected — How will the last steps be? See, we are all beside you, Urging and beckoning on, Watching lest aught betide you Till the safe, near goal is won, Guiding the faltering footsteps That tremble and fear to fall — How will it be, my darling. With the last sad step of all? Nay! shall I dare to question. Knowing that One more fond Than all our tenderest loving Will guide the weak feet beyond! And knowing beside, my dearest. That whenever the summons, 't will be But a stumbling step through the shadow Then rest — at the Father's knee! COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. (1789—1849.) The Countess of Blessington, famous for her beauty and her grand receptions as well as for her contributions to liglit literature, was born in Kuockbrit, County Tipperary, Sept. 1, 1789. She was a daughter of Edmund Power. On the mother's side she was de- scended from an ancient Irish family. When scarcely fifteen she married Captain Farmer of the 4Tth Regiment. The marriage proved imfortunate, and she lived with him only three months. In 1817 he was killed in a drunken brawl in the Fleet Prison. The jiext year she became the wife of Charles John Gardiner, Earl of Blessington, and thej- lived in Europe for several years, moving in a brilliant circle of rank, fashion, and genius. The result of her res- idence on the Continent is her two delightful works, ' The Idler in Italy ' and ' The Idler in France.' The Earl died in 1829, and she returned to London and settled at Gore House. Kensington, devoting herself to literature. For four- teen years her house was the resort of the most distinguished men of wit and genius of every country and opinion, where all classes of intellect and art were represented, ancl where everything Avas "welcome but exclusive or illiberal prejudice. Some of the most genial and delightful associations of the time belong to that house. Lord Byron was a friend and admirer of Lady Blessington and her frequent visitor. In 1832 her ' Journal of Conversations with Lord Byron ' was published. ' The Repealers ' next appeared, followed by 'The Victims of Society,' 'The Two Friends,' ' Meredith,' and 'The Governess.' Then came 'The Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman.' The last two are said to be the best of Ladj^ Bless- ington's w^orks. 'Country Quarters,' ' Marmaduke Herbert,' and ' The Confessions of an Elderly Lady ' followed. The last was intended as a companion to ' The Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman,' and in 1853 they were issued in one volume as ' Con- fessions of an Elderly Lady and Gentleman.' ' The Idler in Italy' and 'The Idler in France,' published from 1839-41, were well re- ceived and universally praised by the critics. In the latter Lady Blessington introduces to her readers the leading representatires of art, literature, politics, and society, whom she had received as friends or had casually met. The anecdotes with which the work abounds are toM with a charming frankness and piquancy. She afterward wrote ' Desultory Thoughts and Reflections,' a collection of terse and well-digested aphorisms of great moral value; ' The Belle of the Season,' 'Tour through the Netherlands to Paris,' ' Strathren,' ' Memoirs of a Femme de Chambre,' ' The Lottery of Life,' and other tales. She also edited Tlte Keepsake and Tlie Book of Beauty for several years, and contributed articles and sketches to the periodicals of the day. Count d'Orsay, the sculptor, who had married her step- 192 \AOTDV^\^^3JQ lo aaaxnuoD 3ht V THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON From the painting by Sir Thomas Lawrence COUNTES^"^ OF BLESSIXOTON. 193 daughter, tlie only child of the Earl of Blessington, was separated from his wife, and took up his abode with Lady Blessington in Paris. She spent all her money and became bankrupt. After dining with the Duchess of Grammont, she was seized with apoplexy, of which she died next morning, June 4, 1849. Her remains were laid in a mausoleum designed by the Count d'Orsay , near the village of Cham- boury. Mr. N. P. Willis, in his ' Pencil] ings by the Way,' thus describes the personal appearance of Lady Blessington : " She looks some- thing on the sunny side of thirty. Her person is full, but preserves all the fiutniess of an admii-able sha])e ; her foot is not crowded into a satin slipper, for which a Cinderella might be looked for in vain, and her complexion (an unusually fair skin with very dark hair and eyebroAvs) is of even girlish delicacy and freshness. . . . Her fea- tures are regular, and her mouth, the most expressive of them, has a ripe fullness and freedom of play j^eculiar to the Irish physiognomy, and expressive of the most unsuspicious good humor." " In her life- time," says Mr. Procter (" Barry Cornwall "), "she was loved and admired for her many graceful writings, her gentle manners, her kind and generous heart. Men famous for art and science in dis- tant lands sought her friendship : and tho historians and scholars, the poets and wits, and painters of her own country found an un- failing welcome in her ever-hospitable home. She gave cheerfully to all who were in need, help, and sympathy, and useful counsel, and she died lamented by many friends." Her ' Life and Correspondence ' was written and edited by Richard Robei't Madden, who tells in most interesting style of the friendship of Byron and Lady Blessington, and draws a moui"nful picture of 'The Break-up of Gore House,' in the spiung of 1849, when its treasures were brought to the hammer by her creditors. JOURNAL OF A LADY OF FASHION. Monday. — AAvoke with a headache, the certain effect of being bored all the evening before by the never-dying- strain at the Countess of Leydeu's. Nothing ever was half so tiresome as musical parties: no one gives them ex- cept those who can exhibit themselves, and fancy they excel. If you speak, during the performance of one of their endless pieces, they look cross and affronted : except that all the world of fashion are there, I never would go to another; for, positively, it is ten times more fatiguing than staying at home. To be compelled to look charmed, and to applaud, when you are half-dead from suppressing yawns, and to see half-a-dozen very tolerable men, with whom one could have had a very pleasant chat, except for the stupid music, is really too bad. Let me see, what 13 194 IRISH Literature. have I done tliis day? Oh! I reiuember everythini!; went wronji", as it always does when I have a headache. Fh^unce, more than usually stupid, tortured my hair; and I tlushed my face by seoldiui;- her. I wish people e(mld scold with- out jicttinii- red, for it disliiiures one for the whole day; and the consciousness of this always makes me more angry, as I think it doubly provoking in Flounce to dis- compose me, when she must know it spoils my looks. Dressing from twelve to three. ^ladame Tornure sent me a most unbecoming cap: mem. I shall leave her off when I have jtiiid lier bill. Ileigh-ho! when will that be? Tormented by duns, jewelers, mercers, milliners: I think they always fix on Mondays for dunning: I suppose it is because they know one is sure to be horribly vapored after a Sunday-evening's party, and they like to increase one's miseries. Just as I was stepping into my carriage, fancying that I had got over the dcagrcmcns of the day, a letter arrives to say that my mother is very ill and wants to see me: drove to Grosvenor Square in no very good humor for nursing, and, as I expected, found that Madame Ma Mere fancies herself much worse than she really is. Advised her to have dear Dr. Emulsion, who always tells people they are not in danger, and who never disturbs his pa- tient's mind with the idea of death until the moment of its arrival : found my sister supporting mamma's head on her bosom, and heard that she had sat up all night with her: by-thc-by, she did not look half so fatigued and ennuied as I did. They seemed both a little surprised at my leav- ing them so soon; but really there is no standing a sick- room in May. ^ly sister begged of me to come soon again, and cast a look of alarm (meant only for my eye) at my motlK'r; I really think she helps to make her hippish, for she is always fancying her in danger. Made two or three calls: drove in the Park: saw Belmont, who looked as if he expected to see me, and who asked if I was to be at the Duchess of Winterton's to-night. I promised to go — he seemed delighted. What would Lady Allendale say, if she saw the pleasure which the assurance of my going gave him? I long to let her see my triumph. Dined tete-a-tete — my lord very sulky — abused my friend Lady Winstan- COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 195 ley, purposely to pique mc — lie wished nie not to go out; said it was shameful, and mamma so ill; just as if my staying at home would make her any better. Found a letter from madame the governess, saying that the chil- dren want frocks and stockings: — they are always want- ing: — I do really believe they wear out their things purposely to plague me. Dressed for the Duchess of Wiu- terton's: wore my new Parisian robe of blonde lace, trimmed, in the most divine way, with lilies of the valley. Flounce said I looked myself, and I believe there was some truth in it; for the little discussion with my Caro had given an animation and luster to my eyes, I gave Flounce my puce-colored satin pelisse as a peace-offering for the morning scold. — The party literally full almost to suffo- cation, Belmont was hovering near the door of the ante- room, as if waiting my approach: he said I never looked so resplendent. Lady Allendale appeared ready to die with envy — very few handsome women in the room — and still fewer well dressed. Looked in at Lady Calderwood's and Mrs. Burnet's. Belmont followed me to each. Came home at half-past three o'clock, tired to death, and had my lovely dress torn past all chance of repair, by coming in contact with the button of one of the footmen in Mrs. B.'s hall. This is very provoking, for I dare say Madame Tornure will charge abominably high for it. Tuesday. — Awoke in good spirits, having had delightful dreams: — sent to know how mamma felt, and heard she had a bad night: — must call there, if I can: — wrote ma- dame a lecture, for letting the children wear out their clothes so fast : Flounce says they wear out twice as many things as Lady Woodland's children. Read a few pages of • Amelia Mansfield ' : very affecting : put it by for fear of making my eyes red. Lady Mortimer came to see me, and told me a great deal of scandal chit-chat : she is very amus- ing. I did not get out until past five: too late then to go and see mamma. Drove in the Park and saw Lady Litch- field walking: got out and joined her: the jjeople stared a good deal. Belmont left his horse and came to us: he admired my walking-dress very much. — Dined alone, and so escaped a lecture: — had not nerves sufficient to see the children — they make such a noise and spoil one's clothes. Went to the opera: wore my tissue turban, which has a 19G IRISH LITERATURE. good effect. Belmont eaiiie to my box and sat every other visitor out. My lord eame in and looked, as usual, sulky. Wanted me to j>o aAvay without waiting for the dear de- liiilitfnl S(]ueeze of the round-room. My lord scolded the wliole way home, and said I should have been by the sick- bed of my mother instead of beinc; at the opera. I hummed a tune, which I lind is the best mode of silencing him, and he muttered something about my being unfeeling and incorrigible. Wcihicsdaij. — Did not rise till past one o'clock, and from three to five was occui)ied in trying on dresses and examining new trimmings. Determined on not calling to se(» mamiiia this day, because, if I found her much worse, I might be prevented from going to Almack's, wliich I have set my heart on : — drove out sliO])ping, and bought some lovely things: — met Belmont, who gave me a note which he begg(Ml me to read at my leisure: — had half a mind to refuse taking it, but felt confused, and he went away be- fore I recovered my self-possession : — almost determined on returning it without breaking the seal, and put it into ray reticule with this intention; but somehow or other my curiosity prevailed, and I opened it. — Found it filled with hearts, and darts, and declarations: — f(^lt very angry at first; for I'cally it is very provoking tliat one can't have a comfoi (able little flirtation half-a-dozen times with a man, but that he fancies he may declare his passion, and so bring on a denouement; for one must either cut the crea- ture, wbiclj, if he is amusing, is disagreeable, or else he tliinks himself ])rivileged to repeat his love on every oc- casion. How very silly men are in acting thus; for if they continued their assiduities without a positive declaration, one might affect to misunderstand their attentions, how- ever marked; but those decided declarations leave notli- ing to the imagination; and offended modesty, with all the guards of female.' ])ropri('ly, ai-e indis])ensably up in arms. 1 remember reading in some book tliat "A man has sel- dom an offer of kindness to make to a woman, that she has not a presentiment of it some moments before"; and I think it was in the same book that I read that a continua- tion of fpiiet attentions, leaving their meaning to the im- agination, is the best mode of gaiTiing a female heart. My own e,\penence has proved tlie trutli of tliis.— I wish Bel- COUNTE.SS OF nLESIFUNGTON. 107 mont liad not wiitten to ine: — I don't know Avhat to do:— how shocked my mother and sister woiihl be if tliey knew it! — I liave promised to dance with him at Almack's too: — how disaj»Teeable ! I shall take the note and return it to him, and desire that he will not address me again in that stjde. I have read the note again, and I really believe he loves me very much: — poor fellow, I pity him: — how vexed La(l,y ^^'iustanley would be if she knew it! — T must not be very angry with him : I '11 look grave and diguilicd, and so awe him, but not be too severe. I have looked over the billet again, and don't find it so presumptuous as I first thought it : — after all, tliere is nothing to be angry about, for fifty women of rank have had the same sort of thing happen to them without any mischief following it. Belmont says I am a great prude, and I believe I am; for I frequently find myself recurring to the sage maxims of mamma and m^'^ sister, and asking myself what would they think of so-and-so. Lady Winstanley laughs at them and calls them a couple of precise quizzes; but still I have re- marked how much more lenient they are to a fault than she is. Heigh-ho, I am afraid they have been too lenient to mine : — but I must banish melanchol}^ reflections, and dress for Almack's. Flounce told me, on finishing my toi- lette, that I was armed for conquest; and that I never looked so beautiful. Mamma would not much approve of Flounce's familiar mode of expressing her admiration; but, poor soul, she only says what she thinks. — I have ob- served that my lord dislikes Flounce very much; but so he does every one that I like. Never was there such a delightful ball : — though I am fatigued beyond measure, I must note down this night's adventures: I found the rooms quite filled, and narrowly escaped being locked out by the inexorable regulations of the Lady Patronesses, for it only wanted a quarter to twelve when I entered. Bv-the-bv, I have often wondered Avhy peojjle submit to the haughty sway of those ladies; but I suppose it is that most persons dislike trouble, and so prefer yielding to their imperious dictates to incurring a displeasure, which would be too warmly and too loudly expressed, not to alarm the generality of quiet people. There is a quackery in fashion, as in all other things, and au3^ one_^who has courage enough (I was going to write 198 IRISH LITERATURE. iinpndenco), rauk enoiigii, and wealth enough, may be a It'adrr. Unt here am 1 moralizing on the requisites of a h'a«ler of fashion, when I should be noting down the de- licious scene of this night in her favorite and favored temple. I tried to look very grave at poor Belmont; but the lights, the music, and the gaiety of the scene around me, with the consciousness of my looking more than usually well, gave such an exhilaration to my spirits, that I could not contract my brows into anything like a frown, and witht)ut a frown, or something approaching it, it is impossible to look grave. Belmont took advantage of my good spirits to claim my hand and pressed it very much. I determined to postpone my lecture to him until the next good oi)portuuity, for a ball-room is the worst place in the world to act the moral or sentimental. Apropos of Belmont, what have I done with his note? — My God, what a scrape have I got into I I left my reticule, into which I had i)ut the note, on my sofa, and the note bears the evi- dent marks of having been opened by some one who could not fold it again : it must have been Flounce. I have often oliserved her curiosity — and now I am completely in her ])ower. What shall I do? After serious consideration, I think it the wisest plan to appear not to suspect her, and j)art with her the first good opportunity. I feel all over in a tremor, and can write no more. Thursday. — Could not close my eyes for three hours after I got to bed ; and when I did, dreamed of nothing but detections, duels, and exposures: — awoke terrified: — I feel nervous and wretched : — Flounce looks more than usually important and familiar — or is it conscience that alarms me? Would to Heaven I had never received that horrid note — or that I had recollected to take it to Almack's and give it back to him. I really felt quite ill. Madame re- quested an audience, and has told me she can no longer re- main in my family, as she finds it impossible to do my chil- dren justice unassisted by me. I tried to persuade her to stay another (|uarter, l)ut she firmly, but civilly, declined. This is very provoking, for the children are fond of and obcMlient to madame, and I have had no trouble since she has lieen with them ; besides, my mother recommended her, and will be annoyed at her going. I must write to ma- dame and olfer to double her salary; all governesses, at COUNTERS OF BLEf^f^TNGTON. 109 least all that I have tried, like money. I must lie clown, 1 feel so fatij;ue(l and languid : — nuunnia is worse, and really I am unable to j;o to her; for I am so nervous that I could be of no use. Friday. — I am summoned to my mother, and my lord says she is in the utmost danger, ^Madame, to add to my discomforts, has declined my otTers: I feel a strong presen- timent of evil, and dread I know not what. . . . Good Heavens ! what a scene have I witnessed — my dear and excellent mother was insensible when I got to her, and died without seeing or blessing me.' Oh ! what would I not give to recall the past, or to bring back even the last fleet- ing week, that I might atone, in some degree, for my folly — my worse than folly — my selfish and cruel neglect of the best of mothers! Never shall I cease to abhor myself for it. Never till I saw that sainted form for ever insensi- ble did I feel my guilt. From day to day I have deceived myself with the idea that her illness was not dangerous, and silenced all the whispers of affection and duty, to pur- sue my selfish and heartless pleasures. How different are the resignation and fortitude of my sister, from my frantic grief ! she has nothing to accuse herself of, and knows that her care and attention soothed the bed of death. But how differently was I employed! distraction is in the thought; I can write no more, for my tears efface the words. Saturday. — My dear and estimable sister has been with me, and has spoken comfort to my afflicted soul. She con- veyed to me a letter from my sainted parent, written a few hours before her death, which possibly this exertion accelerated. The veil which has so long shrouded my rea- son is for ever removed, and all my selfishness and mis- conduct are laid bare to my view. Oh ! my mother — ^you whose pure counsel and bright example in life could not preserve your unworthy child — from the bed of death 3'our last effort has been to save her. As a daughter, a wife, and a mother, how have I blighted your hopes and wounded your affections. My sister says that my mother blessed me with her last words, and expressed her hopes that her dying advice Avould snatch me from the paths of error. Those dying hopes, and that last blessing, shall be my preservatives. I will from this hour devote mj^self to the performance of 200 TRISH LITF.RATTJRE. those (lutii's that 1 have so shamefully, so cruelly ne* jilected. ^ly hushand, my children — with yon will I re- tire from those scenes of dissipation and folly, so fatal to my repose and virtue; and in retirement commune with my own heart, correct its faults, and endeavor to emulate the excelleniies of my lamented mother. Oh I may my future conduct atone for the past — but never, never let the remembrance of my errors be effaced from my mind. FOUND OUT. From ' Confessions of an Elderly Gentleman.' I had been to IJundle and r>i'idi>;es' one day selectinr? jewels, and had far exceeded the sum I intended to expend there; incited to this extravagance, I frankly own, much more by the broad hints of tlie aunt, and implied rather than expressed desires of her niece, than by any sponta- neous to dine; when, not wishing- to en- (•ountei- any of my a('(]uaintanc(?s, I ensconced m^^self in a corner of the larj:?e room, and had an Indian screen of vast dimensions so placed that I was isolated from the general mass, and could not be seen by any new-comers. While I was discnssini:; my solitary repast I heard voices familiar to my ear command dinner to be brought to them at the table next to mine, and only divided from me by the screen. When I recognized the tones of Lord Henry and Sir John, for whose vicinity at that period I felt no COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 201 peculiar desire, I congratulated myself on the precaution which had induced me to use this barrier. " When did you come to town? " asked Lord Henry. " I only arrived an hour ago," was the reply. " I came late last night, and am on my way to Avon- more' s." " Have you heard that our pretty friend, Arabella Wil- ton, is going to be married? and to Lyster too? " '' Est-il poHmhlef " Yes, positively to Lyster, whom we have heard her abuse and ridicule a thousand times." I felt my ears begin to tingle, and verified the truth of the old proverb, '' Listeners never hear good of them- selves." " By-the-by, you were a little smitten there, and at one time I began to think you had serious intentions, as they call it— eh! Sir John?" " Why, so Arabella took it into her wise head to fancy too; but I was not quite so young as all that. No, no, Arabella is a devilish nice girl to flirt with, but the last, the very last, I would think of as a wife." " Now, there I differ from you ; for she is precisely the sort of person I should think of as a wife." " You don't say so? " " Yes, I do ; but then it must be as the wife of another ; and, when she is so, I intend to be — one of her most assid- uous admirers." I felt my blood boil with indignation, and was on the point of discovering my proximity to the speakers when Sir John resumed. " What a flat Lyster must be to be gulled into marrying her! I never thought they could have succeeded in de- ceiving him to such an extent, though I saw they were playing us off against the poor devil." " Oh ! by Jove, so did I too, and if our supposed matri- monial projects led to this real one I don't regret it for poor Arabella's sake, for she was most impatient to change her name." " Only think of the aunt's sending me Lyster's letter of proposal," " Capital, capital, the plot thickens ; for she also sent it to me." 202 IRISH LITERATURE. " You don't say so? " " I swear she did ; and what is more, I can p;ive you chap- ter and verse, for Lyster was so matter-of-fact in detail- ini; his readiness to make liberal settlements, and liberal they certainly were, that I remember nearly the words of his letter to Mudume la tante/' '* And what reason did the old she fox assign for con- sulting you on the subject? " '' The old one, to be sure, of considering me as a friend to the family." " Exactly the same reason she gave for consulting me." '' She stated to me that Arabella had a positive dislike to Mr. Lyster, and she feared (mark the cunning of the old woman) that this dislike to so unexceptionable a parti orig- inated in her having a preference elsewhere; and, there- fore, .s7/( had determined to ask my opinion whether she ought to influence her niece to accept Lyster." " In short, a roundabout way of soliciting you to propose for Arabella yourself. The exact sense of her letter to me." *' I dare be sworn they were fac-similes. Madame la tantc added that her niece was by no means committed with jNIr, Lyster, for that she had been so guarded when he asked her (on observing her coldness) if his proposal was disagreeable to her, as merely to repeat, with a shudder, the word he had uttered — disagreeable." Well did I recollect this circumstance, trifling as it was; and overpowering were the sensations of anger and mor- tified vanity that oppressed me on recalling it to mem- ory! " Well," resumed Lord Ilenry, " so you wTote, as did I, to jidvise b}' all means that Mr. Lyster should be ac- cepted?" " Yes, precisely; for 1 thought it the most prudent ad- vice from ^a friend of tlu; family' — ha! ha! ha! — for the soul of me I can't help laughing! " " lla ! ha ! ha ! nor I neither. BoUi of us consulted, and from tin; same motive." '' It's cajiital, and worthy of the old lady, who has as much cunning, and as little heart, as any dowager in the I)urlieus of Ht. James's." COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 203 " I '11 hi}^ an even waj^or that we twain were not the only single men consulted on the occasion." " For my part I should not wonder if the letters had been circular: ha! ha! " " And how simple Lyster must be ; for while the aunt was sending round his proposal to all the admirers of her niece, lie must have been impatiently waiting for her an- swer." "Luckless devil! how I pity him!" (Oh, how I writhed!) "He has been atrociously taken in: yet I am glad that poor Arabella has at last secured a good estab- lishment; for, I confess, I have a faihlessc for her. Indeed, to say the truth, I should have been ungrateful if I had not ; for I believe — in fact I have reason to know — that the preference to which the old aunt alluded had more truth in it than she imagined." " So / suspect, too ; for, without vanity, I may own that I believe the poor girl had a penchant for your humble ser- vant." " For you? " " Yes, for me. Is there anything so very extraordinary in her liking me that you look so surprised and incredu- lous? " " Why, yes, there is something devilishly extraordinary; for if I might credit Arabella's own assertion, her 'pen- chant was quite in a different quarter." " You don't mean to say it was for youf " "And what if I did? Is there anything more astonish- ing in her feeling a preference for me than for youf " " / merely suppose that she could not have a penchant for us both at the same time, and I have had reason, and very satisfactory reason too, to be satisfied that she liked me." " And / can swear that I have heard her ridicule you in your absence until I have been compelled to take your part; though she often made me laugh, the dear creature did it so cleverly. Ha ! ha ! ha ! the recollection makes me laugh even now." " And / have heard her attack you with such acrimony that even an enemy must have allowed that her portrait of you was caricatured ; aud ye^ there was so much droll- 204 IRISH LITERATURE. erj' in lior manner of showinp: jou up that it was impossi- ble to resist lauuhiu^. Tla ! lia ! lia ! ■ ' '* Lord Henry, I beg to inform you that I allow no man to Inuiih at my expense.'' " Permit me to tell you, Sir John, that I ask no man's permission to laugh when 1 am so disposed." " Am I to consider that you mean to be personal? " " You are perfectly at liberty to consider what you please." " My friend shall call on you to-morrow morning to name a plaee for our meeting.'' " I shall be (]uite ready to receive him." And exit Lord Henry, followed in a few minutes by Sir John. " And so," thought I, " here are two vain fools about to try to blow each other's brains out for a hearth'ss coquette, and a third, perliaps the greatest fool of the three, was on the point of making her his wife. What an escape have I had I No, no, never will I marry her. She may bring an action against me for breach of promise — and she and her aunt are quite capable of such a proceeding — but be united to her 1 never will. Kidicule and abuse nie, indeed! Oh, the hypocrite I xVnd to think of all the tender sijeeches and loving insinuations she has lavished on me; the delicate iiatter}^ and iiiii)lied deference to my opinions! Oh, wo- man, woman ! all that has ever been said, written, or imag- ined against you is not half severe enough. You are all alike, worthless and designing." . . . I set out at an unusually early hour for Richmond, de- termined to come to an explanation with both aunt and niece; and, shall I own it, anticipating Avith a childish pleasure their rage and disappointment at my breaking off the marriage. On arriving at the villa T was informed that 3Ii-s. Spencer had not yet left her chamber, and that Miss NN'ilton was in the garden. To the garden then I hied me, anxious to overwhelm her with the sarcastic re- proaches I had conned over in my mind. While advancing along a gravel walk, divided by a hedge from a scrpicstered lane, 1 heard the neighing and tramp- ing of a horse; and on looking over the hedge discovered the lean steed on which I had so fre(|uently encountered the good-looking Unknown on the roafi to Uichmond. The COUNTEl^S OF BLE^^INGTON. 205 poor animal was voi'aciousl3' devouring the leaves of the hedge, his bridle being fastened to the stem of an old tree. A vague notion that the owner, who could not be far off, was now holding a parley with my deceitful mistress in- stantly occurred to me, and seemed to account for liis fre- quent visits to Kichmond. I moved on with stealthy steps towards a small pavilion at the far end of the garden, where I correctly concluded Arabella to be, and whence I soon lieard the sound of voices, as I concealed myself beneath the spreading branches of a large laurestinus close to the window. I will not attempt to defend my listening, because I admit the action to be on all occasions indefensible, but the impulse to it was irresistible. " Is it not enough," exclaimed Arabella, " that I am com- pelled to marry a man who is hateful to me, while my whole soul is devoted to you, but that you thus torment me Avith your ill-founded jealousy? " " How can I refrain from being jealous," was the re- joinder, " when I know that you will soon be another's? Oh, Arabella! if I were indeed convinced that you hated him I would be less wretched." " How amiable and unselfish I " thought I. " He washes the woman he professes to love to be that most miserable of human beings, the wife of a man who is hateful to her, that he, forsooth, may be less unhapp}^; and he has the unblushing effrontery to avow the detestable sentiment." " How can you doubt my hating him? " asked my siren, in a wheedling tone. " Can vou Joolc at Mm and then re- gard yourself in a mirror without being convinced that no one who has eyes to see or a heart to feel could ever be- hold the one without disgust, or the other without ad- miration? " " Oh, the cockatrice I " thought I ; " and this after all the flatteries she poured into my too credulous ear." Listeners, beware, for ye are doomed never to hear good of yourselves. So certain is the crime of listening to carry its own punishment that there is no positive pro- hibition against it: we are commanded not to commit other sins, but this one draws down its own correction, and woe be to him that infringes it! The speech of Arabella, which, I acknowledge, enraged me exceedingly, had a most soothing effect on my rival, 20G IRISH LITERATURE. for I heard sundry kisses bestowed, as I hope, for pro- priety's sake, on the hand of the fair flatterer. " Yes," resumed she, " Lyster is a perfect fright, and so <7auchc, that positively he can neither sit, stand, nor walk like anybody else.'' Oh! the traitress! how often had she commended my air (Icgat/c, and the manly grace, as she styled it, of my movements, Afti'r this who ought ever to believe in the honied adulation of a woman? " Now I must disagree with you, Arabella," replied my lival (and 1 felt a sudden liking to him as I listened) : ''Lyster is a devilish good-looking fellow" (I thought as much) ; " one whom any woman whose affections were not previously engaged might fancy." " Let us not talk or think of him, I entreat you," said Ai-abella; "it is quite punishment enough for me to be obliged to .sec and hear him half the day without your oc- cupying the short time we are together in a conversation rcsjjecting a person so wholly uninteresting. Have I not refused Lord Henry and Sir John to please you? yet you will not be content, do what I will." '' Oh, Ara])ella! how can you expect me to be otherwise than discontented, than wretched, when I reflect that 3'our destiny depends not on me, and that another will be the master of your fate? He may be harsh, unkind, and /, who love, who adore you, cannot shield you from many liours of recrimination when he discovers, and dis- ( over he must, that in wedding him you gave not your heart with your hand." " Oh ! leave all that to me to manage," said the crafty creature. " He is so vain and so hete that it requires no artifiee on my part to make him believe that I married him from motives of pnre ])reference. lie is persuaded of it: for wliat will not vanity like his believe?" " liy flattery; yes, by decei)ttage down the lane." " And yet tht^y might be worse employed, fair lady," exclaimed 1, vaulting into the room. Arabella uttered a faint shriek, turned to a deathlike COUNT ES;."^ OF niJJSISIXGTON. 209 paleness, and then became suffused with the crimson blushes of shame, " I have witnessed your stolen interview with my fa- vored rival ; rival no louy,er, for here I resign all pretensions to your hand." She attempted to utter some defense, but I was not in a humor to listen to what lengths her duplicity and de- sire for a rich husband might lead her; so, f^ans ceremonie, I interrupted her by saying that what I liad ANitnessed and heard had produced no change in my previously formed resolution of breaking off the marriage. She sank into a chair; and even I pitied her confusion and chagrin, until I recollected her comments on my '^ gaiicJicfHe/' and the polite epithet of "a perfect fright," with which she had only a few minutes before honored me. I can noio smile at the mortification my vanity t]ien suffered; but, at the time, it was no laughing matter with me. I left Arabella to her meditations, which, I dare be sworn, were none of the most agreeable; and returned to the house to seek an interview with her aunt. That sa- pient lady met me, as was her wont, with smiles on her lips, and soft words falling from them. " Look here, dear Mr. Lyster," said she, holding out an ecrin towards me, " did you ever see anything so beautiful as these rubies set in diamonds? Are they not the very things for our beloved Arabella? How well they would show in her dark hair; and how perfectly they would suit the rich, warm tint of her cheeks and lips. None but bril- liant brunettes should ever wear rubies. Are you not of my opinion? and do j'ou not think that this par are seems made for our sweet Arabella? " I mastered myself sufficiently to assent Avith calmness to her observations, when she immediately resumed : — " Oh, I Incio you would agree with me, our tastes are so exactly alike. I was sure, my dear Mr. L3 ster, you would at once select this in preference to emeralds or sapphires, which suit fade, blonde beauties better; but for our spar- kling Arabella, rubies and diamonds are the thing. Yet, how grave you look ; — bless me ! what is the matter? Per- haps, after all, you do not like rubies and diamonds; and in that case, though (entre nous) 1 knoiv that our darling Aral)ella dotes on them, I am sure she would prefer having 14 210 IRISH LITERATURE. only the oruaiiicuts which i/on like, for she is the most tnu'tabk^ creature iu the world, as you must have observed. So, confess the truth, you do not admire this paruref " " Why, the truth is," said I, taking a spiteful pleasure in raising:: her expectations, that her disappointment mif»lit he the '•reater, " I yesterday houjilit at Kundle and Bridges' a pur arc of rubies and diamonds more than twice the size of the one before me, and set in the best taste " — alluding to the very purchase for which I had been blam- ing myself when I overheard the dialogue between Lord llenry and Sir John. ''Oh! you dear, kind, generous creature, how good of you! How delighted our sweet Arabella will be! Have you brought it with you? I am positively dying with im- patience to see it." " Then I fear, madam," replied I, with sternness, " that your curiosity will never be gratified." " Why, w hat a strange humor you are in, my dear Mr. Lyster — nei)hew, I was going to call you; but I sha'n't give you that affectionate appellation Avhile you are so odd and so cross. And why am I not to see them, pray? Surely you do not intend to prevent my associating with my sweet child when she becomes your wife? No, you never could be so cruel." And the old hypocrite laid her hand on my arm in her most fawning manner. " I have no intention, madam, of separating two per- sons who seem so peculiarly formed for each other." "Good creature! How kind of you, dear Mr. Lyster; how happy you have made me; I felt so wretched at the thoughts of our sweet Arabella's being taken from me, for I have ever looked on her as if she were my own child. How considerate of you not to separate us. I am sure she will be delighted; and / shall be the happiest per- son in the world to give up the cares and troiil)le of an es- tablislniicnt of my own, which, at my advanced age, and deprived of Arabella, would be insupportable. Believe me, most cheerfully, nay, gladh', shall I avail myself of your kind offer, and fix myself with you and my affection- ate child." The f)ld lady was so delighted at the thought of this plan, that she made more than one attempt to embrace her dear ne]>he\v, as she now called me, and it was some miu- COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 211 utes before I could silence her joyful loquacity; during which time, I will candidly own, I had a malicious pleas- ure in anticipatiii.n' the bitter disa])i)ointinent that awaited her. ^^'lleu, at len<;tli, she had exhausted her ejaculations of delight, I thus sternly addressed her: — " AVhen I declared my intention, madam, of not sep- arating you and your niece, I did not mean to ask you to become a member of my family. I simply meant to state that I did not intend depriving you of the advantage of her society, as I have determined on not marrying her." " Good heavens! what do I hear? " exclaimed Mrs. Spen- cer. " What do you, what can you mean, Mr. Lyster? It is cruel thus to try my feelings; you have quite shocked me; I — I — am far from well." And her changeful hue denoted the truth of the asser- tion. " Let it suffice to say, madam, that I last evening heard Lord Henry and Sir John declare the extraordinary con- fidence you had reposed in them; that you had not only sent to each my letter of proposal to your niece, but be- trayed to them her more than indifference towards me, and the very words in which she expressed herself when I made her the offer of my hand." " How base, how unworthy of Lord Henry and Sir John ! " said Mrs. Spencer, forgetting all her usual craft in the surprise and irritation caused by this information. " Never was there such shameful conduct." " You are right, madam," replied I, " the conduct prac- ticed on this occasion has been indeed shameful; luckily for me the discovery of it has not been too late." " If you are so dishonorable as not to fulfill your en- gagement," said the old lady, her cheeks glowing with anger and her eyes flashing fury, " be assured that I will instruct my lawyer to commence proceedings against you for a breach of promise of marriage; for I have no notion of letting my injured niece sit quietly down a victim to such monstrous conduct." " I leave you, madam," replied I, " to pursue whatever plan you deem most fitting to redress her grievances, and blazon forth to the world your own delicate part in the Corned}^ of Errors; the denouement of which is not pre- cisely what you could have wished. However, as comedies 212 IRISH LITERATURE. should always end in a marrinjie, lot me advise you to seek a substitute for your liuud)le servant." Then, bowiuj^ low to luy intended aunt, I loft her pres- ence for ever: and returned to London with a sense of redeemed freedom that gave a lightness to my spirits, to whieh they had been a stranger ever since the ill-omened hour of uiy i)roposal to Arabella. Of all the presents that had found their way to the villa, and tlu^y were not, " like angel visits, few and far between," but many and costly, not one, except my portrait, was ever returned. I retained that of Arabella; not out of love, heaven knows, but because I wished to preserve a memento of the follv of being caught bv more beautv; and as it had eost mo a considerable sum, I thought myself privileged to keep it as a specimen of art. Lord Henry and Sir John fought a duel the day after their altercation at the club, in which the first was mor- tally wounded, and the latter was consetiueutly compelled to tly to the Continent. In a week from the period of my last interview with Arabella and Inn- aunt the newspapers were filled with ac- counts of the elopement of the beautiful and fashionable Miss Wilton with Lieutenant Kodney of the Guards. It was stated that the young lady had been on the eve of marriage with the i-ich Mr. L. of L. Park, but that Cupid had triiiiiiidied o\'er Plutus, and the disinterested beauty had prcfeired love in a cottage with Lieutenant Rodney, to sharing the immense wealth of her rejected suitor, who was said to \\ ear the willow with all due sorrow. TUE PRINCESS TALLEYRAND AS A CRITIC. From ' The Idler in France.' Met the Princess de Talleyrand last night at ^Madame C 's. I felt curious to see this lady, of whom I had heard such various reports; and, as usual, found her very dilTcrent to the descri]>tioiis 1 ha]nng, prosperous-looking young fellow, and re- membered his mother's description of him. The black eyes and curly hair and rosy cheeks were all there, cer- tainly, bnt otherwise the likeness to "St. Patrick" was not so ytn-y marked. " xMr. lliariy wants to hear all nbout his mother. Sister," said the Sister Superior. "This is Sister Louise, Mr. Br;idy, who attended your poor mother to the last." Mr. lirady, who seemed a taciturn youth, rolled his black ey<'s towards the new-comer aixl waited foi' her to procee<]. Xi'vy simply did Sister Louise tell her little story, dwell- ing on such of his mother's sayings, during her last ill- ness, as she thouglit might interest and comfort hira. "niere are hor heads, and the little medal, which she always wore. She left tliein to you witii her blessing." Bame}' thrust out one large brown hand and took the MRS. BLUNDELL. 225 little packet, swallowini^ down what appeared to be a very large lump in liis throat. " She told me," pursued the Sister in rather tremulous tones, " to tell you that she did not fret at all at the last, and died content and happy. Slie did, indeed, and she told me to say tliat slie was tliankful to b(» liere " But Barney interrupted lier with a sudden increduh)us gesture, and a big sob. "Ah, whisht, Sisther!" he said. FATHER LALOR IS PROMOTED. From 'Miss Erin.' Father Lalor was, as has been said, much distressed at Erin's present attitude. However little he might approve of Mr. Fitzgerald's system of education, there was no doubt that such an education was better than none; and to run wild as she was now doing was, for a girl of her dis- position, pernicious in the extreme. But he was getting very old now, and full of infirmities; and when he found his remonstrances and prayers of no avail, he gave uj) at- tempting to slmke her resolution. In fact, he acknowl- edged himself wholly unable to cope with her. He did not understand this tenderly loved little friend of his. Her enthusiasm startled him, her determination distressed him, her passionate nature and impatience of control filled him with fears for her future. He was the only friend she had now, and he was failing fast. " Child, child, what will become of you when I am gone? " he groaned once, half to himself, after listening, with anxious, puzzled face, to one of her tirades. And tlien Erin ceased declaiming, and burst into tears. He often sighed heavily as he looked at her, and when she asked him the reason, would reply, sighing again: " Old age, my dear, old age." One Ash Wednesday morning, after Father Lalor had distributed as usual the blessed ashes to an innumerable congregation — for Ash Wednesday and Palm Sunday are great daj's in Ireland, days on which every man, woman, 220 • IRISH LITERATURE. and child in the parish rallies round the priest — when he had imprinted a dusky cross on the forehead of the last infant of tender years who ai)])roaelied the altar rails, he straightened liiiiiself, and stood for a moment lookinly. " Moll," said Father Lalor, " it 's a queer thinG; : there 's — there 's lead in my shoes." " CJod bless us, yer reverence, how 'd lead "et into them ? Didn't I clean them myself last night, and fetch them up to ye this mornin'? " " It 's there, though," repeated the priest, in a tone of conviction, " I feel it so cold and so hea\^, Moll. See — I can hardly lift my foot." He made an attemi:)t to do so, but fell suddenly prone on his face, stiff and speechless: a leaden hand had indeed gripped him — he had a paralytic stroke. For many days after he lay motionless and unconscious, but at last revived in some degree, though it was plain he would never leave his bed again. Often, even before his power of speech returned, his eyes would rest anxiously on Erin, who sat by his bedside with a pale face and woful eyes. She could scarcely be per- suaded to eat or sleep; and even when forced to leave the sick-room, would take up her position outside the door, where she would crouch for hours weeping, or praying des- perately. One evening she chanced to be alone with him, Mrs. Riley, who was in attendance, having left the room for a moment; and suddenly he spoke in the feeble stammering tones with which they had become familiar. '^ Erin, my pet — I 'm going from ye — ye know that? " " Oh, no, no, father I I can't let you go. God will make you get better, I am praying so hard. You are the only friend I have in the world. God will not take you away from me." " Faith, my dear," he said, with something of his old quaint manner, " I don't see whj' we should expect the Almighty- to perform a miracle for the like of us. And it would be a miracle, Erin — nothing less, if I am to recover. No, no ; the Lord has called me, and I '11 have to go, child. 228 IRISH LITERATURE. He 's askiii' us to make the sacrifice each in our own way — Tou in the beiiinniiig of your life, and I at the end of mine. It 's the last lie '11 recjuire of me; and as for you, ray pet, vou 're in his hands — I leave you in His hands. He made you, and He '11 protect you. Come here, child — close — and kneel down.-' Erin obeyed, sobbing-, and the old man, feebly lifting his hand, marked the sign of the cross on her forehead. " ]Mav the God of tiie fatherless be with you! " he said. " I surrender you to Him. May He watch over you in all your ways ! '' After this last great effort he ceased to take any interest in earthly things, and concerned himself wholly with his own spiritual affairs. ** AVhen the end is near," he said once, with his quiet smile, " it "s just the same for priest or layman. There 's only yourself and God. No matter how many souls you maj' have had to look after in your lifetime, at the last you must just concern yourself with your own." One day he asked suddenly, " Do you hear the bell, Erin?" " What bell, dear father? I don't hear anything." " I thought," he said, knitting his brows, as though making an effort to concentrate his attention — " I thought I heard a l)ell tolling. They '11 all be praying for me, won't they? All my faithiul people. . . . Come to his assistance, all ye saints of God; meet him, all ye angels of God; re- ceive his soul and present it now before its Lord." Erin leaned forward, startled; the old man's fixed, un- recognizing gaze betokened that his mind was wandering. He continued to recite slowly and impressively the prayers for the dying, that he had said so often by so many poor beds — his voice weak, but infinitely solemn. " May Jesus Christ receive thee, and the angels conduct thee to thy place of rest. May the angels of God receive his soul, and present it now before its Lord. . . . Lord have mercy on him, Chi-ist have mercy on him. Lord have mercy on him. Our Father. . . ." The greater part of this prayer being said " in secret," his voice dropped suddenly; but he seemed to lose the train of thought, and presently fell into a doze. His mind, how- ever, appeared to run jx-rpetually in this groove, and in MRS. B LUND ELL. 229 his fancy he frequently said Mass for the dead, and re- peated the hist blessing and th(; litany for the departing soul. During his transient moments of consciousness, he Avas still busy with his preparations for this great " flit- ting." He did not appear afraid, only solemn, and deeply in earnest. One day he said with pathetic simplicity: " I think, you know — I think I have always done my best. I always tried to do my best — and God knows that. He will remember that when T go to my account. Fifty- six years — lifty-six years! Think of all the souls I have had the charge of in fifty-six years. And I must render an account of all; an account of all . . . but I think I have always done my best." " I fancy," said Mrs. Riley, that same evening — " I fanc}^, Moll, that I can see a change. He 's got the look, ye know " " Ay, an' the color 's altered," said Moll. Both women had been weeping, and even now restrained their tears with difiiculty. There was a kind of desperate resignation in their look and manner as became those who were bracing themselves up to bear a great blow. Erin looked from one to the other, turning sick and cold; she had never been so near death before, and the awfulness of it overwhelmed her. This inevitable, terrible, unspeakable mystery, which was about to be brought close to her, by which her friend and father would be snatched away from her, even while she clung to him — eternity itself, as it were, entering the homely chamber to engulf him under her very eyes — for a moment the terror of it outweighed her anguish. She crept out of the parlor, where this colloquy had taken place, and went upstairs to the familiar room, stand- ing trembling, with her hand on the handle of the door, her heart beating violently. But presently she con(]uered her- self and entered, all her fear vanishing at the first sight of the dearly loved face. It had changed since she saw it last, but for the better, she thought; a certain settled majesty of line and expression had taken possession of it — it had even lost the drawn look which it had worn for so many days. But the white hair lay damp and heavy on Father Lalor's brow, and he breathed with difficulty. 230 IRISH LITERATURE. llv smiled at her as she approached, and then his thoughts lloated away from her aiiain to the empire of that vast woi'hl which he was so soon to enter. His lips moved, and the child bent over him to listen. " To Thee, O Lord, the angels cry aloud "... he murmured, over and over again. " Ah," said Mrs. Riley, who had followed Erin into the room, " he 's been saying it ever since morning. You know what it is, dear? ... It 's from the 7V Dciiw." Moll entered presently, with the priest who had attended Father Lalor during his illness. The old man had squared his accounts with his Master long before, and now merely greeted his young companion-in-arms with the same com- fortable smile which he had bestowed on Erin, and betook himself again to the great half-open gate through which he had already caught the echo of angels' voices. It was his last sign of recognition; already he had wandered beyond their reach, though they clasped his hand and listened to his voice. Erin's young and passionately human heart rebelled; he was there still, and she was dearest of all to him. Would he not look at her once, only once more, re- turn a single pressure of her hand? She thrust her poor, little, eager, quivering face forward as he turned his head, and cried aloud : " Oh, father, father, dear father, speak to your little Erin I Only one word — one word. Look at me, just look at me, to show you hear me." But Father Lalor heard no more; his eyes were fixed on things that she could not see; he had gone too far on his great journey to pause or to look back. Erin sank down on her knees again, and for some time there was no sound in the room but that of the patient's laboi-cd breathing and the low tones of the young priest. Then there came a silence, a long silence, broken at last by the voice of the old man. "Mother!" ITe had raised his head for a moment, with an expression of astonishment and unutteralde joy — and then it fell back. He was gone. A great awe fell upon them all. For a moment no one stirred or wept. At last — MRf^. BLUXDELL. 231 " Our mother came to fetch him," said Mrs. Riley, trem- ulously. " Oh, no, ma'am, sure it was the Holy Vir<^iu herself he saw," added Moll, stooping to kiss the inert hand. Whether it was indeed the mother of his youth, upon whom the white-haired priest called with his last breath, or that other Mother, whom for all time all nations shall call blessed, certain it is that he died with that hallowed word upon his lips. It was a meet end to his most simple and innocent life — as a little child he entered the kingdom of Ileaven. MATTHIAS M'DONNELL BODKIN. (1850 ) Matthias M'Donnell Bodkin, K.C, of the Irish bar, is one of the modern school of Irish novehsts, whose works are permeated not alone with the characteristic humor of the people, but with that strangely blended note of sadness which underlies so much of it. lie was born on the Stli of October, 1850. His father was Dr. Thomas Bodkin of County Gal way. He was educated at the Tulla- beg Jesuit College and at the Catholic University. He gained the double gold medal of the law students' debating society. He mar- ried in 1SS5, and shortly afterward was elected Member of Parlia- ment for North Roscommon, but Avas unseated in 1890. Among his books may be mentioned 'Shillalegh and Shamrock,' ' Poteen Punch ' (a series of stories which have appeared in various Christmas numbers of The United Irishman), ' Pat o' Nine Tails,' 'Lord Edward Fitzgerald.' 'White Magic,' 'Stolen Life,' 'The Rebels,' ' Paul Beck,' ' Dora Myrl,' etc. THE LORD LIEUTENANT'S ADVENTURE. From 'Poteen Punch.' "nnlf-])iist one," said his Excellency, turnins: to his aidc-dc-cainp, who sat beside him in the comfortable landau. " Still a full hour and a half from lunch; perhaps I should say, an empty hour and a-half. I am beginning to understand what they tell me about ' the pinch of hunger in Connemara.' There is famine in the air. I am not surprised that the people are troubled with a -superabun- dance of appetite." "Your Excellency will find there is also a superabun- dance of food," rejoined the private secretary, a pale-faced abortion with a jnnce-nez and an incipient mustache. " You will get a luncheon at Maam Hotel you could not gel in London,^ To talk of starvation in a country where there are such grouse on the mountains and such trout in the lak(.'S always appeared to me the very height of ab- surdity," and he smiled a complacent little smile of supe- rior wisdom. 1 The incident herein narrated regarding Lord Carlisle is absolutely authentic, and occurred about If^OO. 232 MATTHIAS MCDONNELL BODKIN. 233 His Excellency alyo smiled — a <»astrou()inic smile, in which pleasant memories and anticipations were curiously mingled. He leaned back on the cushions and gazed with courteous patronage — courteous still, though slightly bored — at the solemn procession of mountains, as the carriage bowled swiftly along the level road that wound among the hills. It was a glorious spring day. High over head were the great, clear curves of the mountains against the blue sky, and here and there bright little lakes glittered in the sun- shine like flashing jewels set in the bosom of the hills. His Excelleuc,y had fallen into a dreamy reverie, in which no doubt, were pleasant visions of broiled trout of a golden brown, and tender grouse and champagne, with the cream on its surface and the bub}>les rising through the liquid amber. No word more was spoken until the carriage swept suddenly round the shoulder of a mountain, and came upon the pleasant inn of Maam, with the tall hill towering up into the sunshine at the back, and in front the broad flash of a crystal lake. Neither to lake nor mountain were the eyes or thoughts of his Excellency turned at the moment. He missed the flutter of excitement which the Viceregal arrival had hitherto provoked at the pleasant hotel in the heart of lonely Connemara. For a moment the dreadful thought flashed across his mind that the special courier dispatched to announce his arrival had miscarried, but he promptly dismissed the fear as absurd. The carriage swept over the bridge in front of the hotel, and drew up with a flourish on the smooth gravel sweep before the door. Still the place seemed as silent and as solitary as the front of the bare mountain opposite. The footman leaped down at once, and played the kettle-drum on the knocker with such vigor that the echo might be heard rolling and vibrating through the hills as if a hundred hungry giants had come home together to dinner and forgotten their latch-keys. Not a sound answered from within. A second time the knocker was plied more vigorously than the first, and as the echoes died away in the dead silence that followed there was heard within the house a smothered, mysterious titter- ing, that seemed to pervade the entire building. The foot- man raised the knocker for the third time as if to batter 234 llilSU LITERATURE. in the door, aud at the same moment lie almost fell forward on his face; the door opened suddenly, aud the host ap- peared, bhxkinj:: the entrauee with his sturdy form. In- stantly every window iu front was peopled with grinning faies, as if some huge practical joke was in progress. " His Excellency the Lord Lieutenant," gasped the gorgeous flunkey as soon as he recovered a little from his ninazement. " Move on, my good man, there is nothing for you here," retorted the in keeper, with an impudent grin, as if address- ing an importunate beggar. The joke was emphasized by a roar of laughter from the windows. Lord Carlisle was speechless for a moment at the gro- tesque absurdity of the whole proceeding, too surprised at first to feel indignant. He thought, so far as he had power to think at all, that the host had gone mad, and, on the principle of " birds of a feather flock together," had filled his place with lunatics. But the situation was a desperate one. Here was a hungrj^ — a very hungry — Viceroy in the heart of a desolate region with a dozen Connemara miles (the longest miles in the world) between him and the near- est food and shelter. Something must be done. He stepped past the petrified footman and confronted the host, who did not budge an inch. '' My good fellow," said he with his blandest smile, "you surely received tlie announcement of m^' arrival? " " Ay," retorted the host, " and got my orders how to welcome you." " Remember," said Lord Carlisle, with tremendous dig- nity, " I am the representative of 3^our Sovereign." "And I," rejoined the other, "am a tenant of Lord Leitrim." Then, for the first time, a vague suspicion of the nature of tjie proceedings dawned on his Excellency. He rec- ognized the terril)le revenge of the rack-renting nobleman, but he tried to put a brave face on his fear. " AVonld you insult the representative of the Queen?" he demanded. "The landlord," replied the innkeeper, insolently, "is king and queen in Ireland, and all the royal family besides; no one knows that better than yourself."^ It is he that has MATTHIAS M'DONNELL BODKIN. 235 filled the hotel with his frieuds, and arraoged a welcome for your Excellency." " What kind of welcome has he arranged for me? " asked the Viceroy, hastily betrayed into the question. " That," retorted the host, suddenly slamming the door of the inn within an inch of tlie Viceregal nose. It was a pleasant position, truly — standing beside his own footman on the wrong side of the hotel door, with the whole front of the house alive with faces laughing at his discomfiture, lie turned a foolish face on his private secretary and aide-de-camp, who turned still more foolish faces upon him. A storm of laughter broke out from the hotel, so loud and long, that it set all the giants into a roar of laughter amongst the echoing mountains. To get clean out of tlie place was clearly the first thing to be done. His Excellency could never tell how he got back into his carriage or outside the inhospitable gates, with roars of laughter all the time ringing in his ears. The coachnmn drove on instinctively a couple of hundred yards from the place, then pulled his horses on their haunches in the middle of the road, and stood stock-still awaiting in- structions. The prospect was not a pleasant one. Tlie midday splendor of the spring day was over. A chill breeze came blowing up from the west with a damp raw^- ness in it that told of coming rain. Croagli Patrick clapped his gray nightcap firmly down on his high bald pate, which is the signal for putting out the light in those deso- late regions. Sure enough, a heavy cloud at the moment came drifting across the sun, and the whole brightness and charm of the wild landscape vanished in a moment. The bleak moorland stretched away to the gray horizon, broken by broad patches of dull water, whose surface was already pockpitted by the raindrops, and the mountains frowned dismally, like sulky giants, in the gathering gloom. Be- hind them, the road wound, like a long white ribbon, back towards Gal way, and turned out of sight round the corner of a mountain. In front it stretched on towards Cong, till the ribbon dwindled to a thread, and the eye lost it. The carriage stood stock-still on the road, waiting for orders, but no orders were given. So it might have waited for an hour if the horses' impatience, reacting on the coach- man, had not temjjted him to break silence. 23fi IRISH LITERATURE. '* A\'bere to now, your Excellenc}^? '' he inquired, dis- mallj' enough. " To bl — zesi " answered his Excellency. It was the first time the smooth, smiling lips of Lord Carlisle had shaped a profane syllable. Before decorum could stop the words they were out. But decorum re- sumed command the next instant. "Ay, to blazes, to be sure,'' he continued, in quite an altered tone of voice, with a look of mihl reproach at the tittering aide-de-camp. " But what blazes? that is the question. The blaziuL!; fire that this morning browned our toast in the best parlor of Mack's Hotel in Galwa}^, or the blazes that are perhaps kindly cooking our dinners in Cong? Any blazes, or, at least, almost any blazes, were welcome on such an evening as this." lie gazed as he spoke, with a half shudder, at the rain-blotted landscape, and smiled a sickly smile at his own sickly pleasantries. " Cong is the nearest refuge — perhaps, I should rather say Galway is tlie farther of the two, yoviv Excellency," in- terposed the private secretary. " Then to Cong let it be," said Lord Carlisle, leaning back in his carriage, with a look of patient resignation. I am not cruel enough to ask the gentle reader (how I love the good old-fashioned phrase I) to hang on behind the Mceregal coach for that dreary drive in the pelting rain for twelve Connemara miles, with weary horses, along the muddy, mountain roads. With that power which is given to me I will lift him up, snug and warm, and set him down under a porcb, sheltered from rain and storm, in the lit- tle village of Cong, just as the Viceregal carriage comes floundering along through tbe pools of water that shine in the light of the flickering oil-lamps in the streets, and draws up in front of the principal, because only, hotel in the town. Unlike the hotel from which they parted a good three hours ago, at Maam, the house is ablaze with light, and redolent \\\\\\ savory odors. Now and again, from inside, a burst of jolly laughter drowns the fretful whining of the wind. The very look of the place seemed to bid a cordial wel- come to the wet, weary, and hungry travelers. A smile began to dawn on the pale face of his Excellency, as eyes, MATTHIAS iFDONNELL BODKIN. 237 ears, and nostrils ht not all suit the ears of his ExcelleucY.'' " LTis Excellenev's ears are neither as loua; nor as tender as a donkey's," was the curt reply, " and his Exeelleuc3'''s teeth are as hun(ed for the pleasures of to-night. I will tell you what no mortal l)ut he and I know at this moment, and what may puzzle future generations. MATTHIAS MCDONNELL BODKIN. 241 WHY LORD LEITRIM SLAMMED THE DOOR. " Lord Leiti'im and I were the best of friends when I first came to Irehiud. We used to shoot a great deal to- gether in Conneniara. Leitrim had a considerable estate nearMaam; and as he generally had some evictions in progress there, he managed to combine business with amusement. For me, I confess those were very happy days. I have ever loved," said his lordship, lapsing unconsciously into the oratorical vein, "• the contemplation of human vir- tue. The frugality and the industry of the peasantry, and, above all, their becoming reverence for those whom Provi- dence had placed over them touched my heart. These men and their families were actuallv starving. Thev were clothed like scarecrows and lodged like pigs. Yet they crowded in to pay every farthing of their earning into the hands of the landlord or his agents. They stood with trem- bling knees and uncovered heads in his presence, and an- swered his taunt or curse with a blessing ' on his Honor.' So great and beneficial an effect has the distinction of sta- tion, which the unthinking would condemn, upon the har- mony of the universe. " The contemplation of such primitive virtue was to my sensitive soul more pleasurable than the slaughter of in- nocent birds. I therefore frequently remained at home, while Leitrim pursued his sport alone on the mountains. As Gaskin has said, in his admirable and immortal col- lection of my speeches, addresses, and poems, which I humbly assure you would well repay perusal, ' I was always a patron of elegant literature.' " So it chanced that I sat one autumn evening at the open window of the hotel, with a litter of manuscript around me, now smoothing sentences for an address to an agricultural meeting, now hunting up rhymes for an ex- tempore poem. The scene was propitious to the muse. On the left lay a miniature lake, its smooth water turned to burnished gold by the slanting suuliglit, with a minia- ture castle balanced on a miniature island in its center. Down to the lake came leaping a torrent with glimpses of the sunlight on its waves. Beyond, a perfect wilderness of hills stretched away in dim outlines to the distant horizon. But one great mountain rose dark and threaten- 16 •2V2 IRISH LITERATURE. iiiU' in tho near foT'euround, with an annry flush of purple Iicath upon its massive face. On this mountain I knew that Leitrim was at that moment euga<;eil in j;rouse-shoot- injr. Indoors or out there was no stir or sound of life. Dead silence in the room, dead silence outside. The dreary lifelessness of that vast landscape grew intolerably awful. I could not - lif^htly n]) the mountain alonj^ the narrow ])ath that led from ^laam to Lenane. I have traveled a good deal in my life, though circumstances have compelled me to lead a Yerj sedentary life of late. I was always an appreciative admirer of the female form divine, and was always of opinion that the Irish peasant girl is the most graceful woman in the world. I could get little more than the out- line of the face and figure through the glass, but I knew it was a figure of surpassing grace and a face of surpassing beauty. " She was dressed in a scarlet petticoat, with a plaid shawlet folded across her bosom, her dark hair smoothly parted over her forehead. Her naked feet gleamed whitely through the dark heather, as she moved swiftly, with light elastic step, up the side of the mountain. In the pleasure with w'hich I watched her. Lord Leitrim was, as I said, forgotten. I followed her movements with the glass, and was absolutely startled when Lord Leitrim stepped suddenly from the other side into the field of vision. " He advanced towards her with the confident air of an old acquaintance. I could see that she was embar- rassed and abashed. Then there seemed to be some con- versation between them, for he pointed with his hand down towards a poverty-stricken village on his property on the skirt of the mountain, while the girl stood with drooped head, and I could swear she was blushing. Then with a quick, graceful little curtsey, she tried to slip past, but he caught her round the waist with arrogant gallantry, and strove roughly for a kiss. Even while the girl was struggling in his arms, and while I watched the struggle with intense interest, another figure sprang suddenly into the circle of mountain slope that was covered by my glass; the strong hand of a stalwart young peasant was laid upon Leitrim's shoulder, and he went reeling back three paces. lie recovered Wmself in an instant, caught up his gun, ilU IRISH LITERATURE. which he had rested upon a rock, and leveled it at his younp: assailant. Bnt the young mountaineer was too quick for him. Spiingini;- lightly forward, with his left hand he flung u]> the gun almost, it seemed to me, as the flash and smoke issued from the barrel, while a strong straight blow from his right hand made his lordship measure his aristo- cratic length upon the heather. Then, with a gesture of terror, the young girl seized his arm and pulled him away, and both, moving swiftly round the shoulder of the hill, were lost to view. Lord Leitrim picked himself up slowly from the ground and gazed sullenly after the pair, as if meditating a pursuit; but he quickly abandoned the thought, if he entertained it, and, followed by the solitary pointer, moved steadily down the hill in the direction of the nearest police barrack. The pleasurable excitement of the little drama I had witnessed indisposed me to further literary labor for the day. The scene had been the more startling and vision-like, as I could only see, not hear, and the whole had rapidly passed in dumb show be- fore mv eves like a drama of ghosts. " So with a mild cigar for my companion, I set out for a solitary stroll round the borders of the lake. An hour afterwards I found Lord Leitrim awaiting my arrival at the hotel, and in a brief space of time we were sitting tete-a-tete discussing an excellent dinner, of which the trout from the lake and the grouse from the mountain formed delicious accessories. His lordship ate heartily and drank heavily, and was, for him, in exceptionally good spirits; but not one word passed his lips as to the scene I had so strangely witnessed. lie left next morning early for Clifden, and I saw him no more during my visit. A few days afterwards I was enlightened by the waiter, a sleek, smooth-faced fellow, whom I had heard described by his fellow-servants as ^ a slevcen.' " ' Quare goings on, your Excellency,' he said, as he laid a delicately browned trout before me on the breakfast table. ' Quare goings on entirely, be all accounts, on the mountain. The other morning, your Excellency will re- nn*mber, whin his lordship was out on the mountain, didn't young Mark Joyce think to take his life, the blackguard, and h(; a tenant of his own? Out he jumps from behind a rock, out forninst him, and catches the gun out of his hand. MATTHIAS M'DONNELL BODKIN. 245 His lordship staggered with the surprise, and troth that was the luclvj stagger for him, for the wliole contents of the gun went clean througli the leaf of his hat, and it was the blessing of God it didn't blow the roof of the head off him. Tlie Lord betune us and harm, young Joyce must have thought he was done for out and out, for he cuts away with himself across the mountain, and there wasn't his equal to run, to fight, or, for that matter, work either, in the whole countryside. But his lordship gets up off the ground, I thank you, and walks fair and easy down to the police barrack, and the peelers had me boyo nabbed before he knew where he was at cock-shout in the morning. I heerd tell his colleen took on in a terrible way, shouting and screaming that her boy was wronged and innocent; but her father bid her hould her whist, for his lordship is master over them all, and it would be a poor look-out facing the winter without a roof over their heads. Troth, they say that his lordship has a hankering after the girl this while back, and that 's how all the row ruz. But, be that as it may, they took young Joyce before the magis- trate, and be all account it 's tried by the judge he '11 be at the next 'sizes coming on in Galway.' " This certainly seemed to me a somewhat distorted version of the scene I had witnessed on the mountain, but as the main incident was accurate — a peer had been vio- lently assaulted by a peasant — I didn't feel called upon to interfere, but determined with myself that justice must take its course. " A few days later," his Excellency continued, " I my- self left for Dublin to make arrangements for an approach- ing levee. On the occasion of my departure I received an enthusiastic ovation from a vast crowd, in which the two waiters and the ostler of the hotel, to whom I gave a sovereign each, were included ; and the fact was chronicled in the Dublin papers as 'an additional proof — if proof were wanted — of my benevolence and popularity.' In the self- same papers I found an account of the trial and committal of young JojTe before the magistrates for shooting at Lord Leitrim with murderous intent. His lordship's account was corroborated by his Scotch gamekeeper. There were no witnesses for the defense, and I could not sufficiently admire the discretion of the beautiful peasant girl in 240 IRISH LITERATURE. wlioso interest and presence the assault had been com- mitted, in retraining from obtruding herself. " But the preparations for the approaching levee and drawing-room soou chased all thoughts of the incident from mv memory. The drawing-room was on a scale of unusual maguiticence. The elite of Dublin society, the most delicate and delicious toadies in the universe, crowded the reception-rooms. I derived special pleasure from the hope of meeting once again my old Englisli friend, the rich, benevolent, and eccentric Dowager Coun- tess of D , who had written to me a few days previously for permission to present a beautiful young cousin and ])r()1('(/cc — a permission which, I need hardly say, I most willingly accorded. We had been in Connemara together, but had not met, and her ladyship had only returned to Dublin w itli her companion a day or two before the draw- ing-room. The eventful evening came, an evening memo- rable to me. The reception-room with its rich silk panel- ing and artistic mouldings, was one great glow of color and of li"ht. 'o' " ' And women beautiful, in rich array. In mist of muslin and in sheen of silk, And blazing jewels, filled the spacious hall.' " For myself, I took my stand, with Garter on knee and Star on breast, on the elevated dais in the throne-room, prepared for the kissing ordeal, which is alternately the privilege and penance of a Viceroy. I was exceptionally fortunate on that occasion. A long train of fresh young beauties filed past me, and I tasted the sweets of pouting lips and blushing cheeks — a privilege that many an ardent young lover would give five of the best years of his life to attain. But good luck Avon't last for ever. Suddenly the (h»ors opened on a gaunt and angular s])inster of about forty, dressed in the very perfection of bad taste, ' a dis- cor(i in mauve and yellow.' She bore rapidly down upon hk; with a mincing step and a self-complacent smile of ])ert inanity. False hair, and powder, and paint pro- claiiiicil themselves shamelessly under the merciless bril- liancy of the ta])ers. ^\'ith a gii-lish giggh^ of affected coy- ness she pressed her wrinkled old lips to mine, and for five MATTHIAS M'DONNELL BODKIX. 247 minutes afterwards I felt the distinct taste of carmine on my mouth. " But oh I what a contrast was she tliat next "lided slowly and gracefully up the brilliant avenue of light. The lissom figure was clad in pure white, and never did the Avhite marble of (Jreece assume more graceful form. The fair young face, framed in smooth bands of jet black hair, seemed very pale. There was a deep melancholy in the large eyes of darkest blue, and the rich, red, rosebud mouth was depressed at the corners as with sad rememl)rances. Shall I own it? my heart began to thump and jump strangely as she entered the throne-room. I had that startling sensation that every one has experienced, that the whole scene had occurred in some former life in some other world. I trembled and blushed like a schoolboy in the ecstasy of first love as I pressed her rich ripe lips to mine. She took my kiss with a calm, unconscious indifference that was more chilling than absolute repugnance. The dark blue eyes just flashed one earnest look upon my face as she swept past with easy grace. I have little recollec- tion of anything that occurred afterwards, until I found an opportunity of directing my chamberlain to discover for me the name of the beautiful stranger, and, if possible, secure her attendance at the next Viceregal entertainment. To my delight, he soon returned with the information that she had been presented by my old friend, the Countess of D , and that her name was Miss Kathleen O'Meara. " To the next ball they were bidden, and they came. I had no difficulty in obtaining an introduction from the Countess, who seemed strangely amused and pleased at my eagerness. " ' Let the all-accomplished Lord Carlisle beware,' she said. ' Miss O'Meara is a dangerous young rebel, and will, I fear, be merciless in the hour of victory.' " But I Vv-as not to be warned, and our acquaintance, after a few meetings, ripened into intimacy. There was a strange mystery about the young girl which completed the fascination that her beauty had begun. A quick, lively humor flashed out occasionally through the habitual mel- ancholy of her manner. She had read little, but that little she had read to good purpose. I never knew a truer ap- preciation than hers of the beauties of literature. I was 248 IRISH LITERATURE. eousc-ioiis of a deeper ineaiiin]anation of the trap into wliich I had tumbled was vei-y brief. Kathleen had seen the Counless at the ?Jaam Hotel. Hearing she was a great English lady and a friend of mine, she told her story with tearful eloquence, and im])]ored her help. The kind heart of the elder lady was deeply moved, and Kathleen's singular beauty and talent snggesteil the little ])lot of which 1 was the victim. "The i-est of lh(; sfoi-y is soon told. I i)are and Seem! Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme That ancient Nature sings, That keeps the stars in cadence for all time, And echoes thro' all things! Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, Thy light makes all lights dim; An aching solitude from henceforth seems The world of men to him. Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar, He follows wuth delight. Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door, And fares into the Night. JOIIX BOYLE, EARL OF CORK. (1707—1762.) John Boyle, Earl of Cork and Orrery, was the only son of Charles Boyle, Earl of Orrery, and Avas born Jan 2, 1707. At the age of twenty-one he married Lady Harriet Hamilton, a daughter of the Earl of Orkney. In 1732 Boyle took his seat in the House of Peers, where he dis- tinguished himself b}' his opposition to Walpole. In 1738 he went to live in a house in Duke Sti'eet, Westminster, and in June of the same year he married Margaret Hamilton, an Irish lady, " in whom the loss of his former countess was repaired." In 1(39 he produced his edition of Roger Boyle's dramatic works in two volumes, 8vo, and in 1742 his ' State Letters.' In 1746 he went to reside Avith his father-in-laAv at Caledon in Ireland, and there passed four happy years. In 1751 appeared his translation of Pliny's ' Letters,' with observations on each Letter and an essay on Pliny's life. This ran through several editions in a few years. Its success, no doubt, caused him to hurry the preparatioxa of his ' Re- marks on the Life and Writings of Swift,' which was also very suc- cessful, though not his best work from a literary point of view. In December, 1753, lie succeeded to the title of Earl of Cork. In addition to the works ah-eady mentioned Boyle wrote ' Letters from Italy,' which Avere published in 1774, and ' Memoirs of Robert Carj^ Earl of Monmouth,' 1759. He also contributed several papers to The World and TliC Connoisseur. His translation of Pliny is not Avithout merit, and his history of Tuscany, had he lived to finish it as begun, Avould liaA^e given him legitimate claim to a fair posi- tion among successful historians. His contributions to The World and The Connoisseur are read by those who still cling to that class of literature, and some of them are not without humor of a kind which no doubt Avas approved of in their time. SWIFT AS A PAMPHLETEER. From ' Remarks on the Life and Writings of Doctor Jonathan Swift.' In the year 1720, he began to reassume, in some dej^jree, tlie cliaracter of a political writer. A small pamphlet in defense of the Irish uianufactiii-ers, was, I believe, his first es.say (in Ji-chmdj in that kind iHipk', warnin<2; them not to accept Wood's halfpence and fai thiujis as current coin. This lirst letter was succeeded bv several others to the same purpose, all which are in- serted in his works. At the sound of the Drapier's trumpet, a spirit arose among- the people, that, in the Eastern phrase, was like unto a tempest in the day of the whirlwind. Every per- son of rank, party, and denomination, was convinced that tlie admission of Wood's copper must prove fatal to the commonwealth. The Papist, the Fanatic, the Tory, the ^^'lli,^•, all listed themselves volunteers under the banner of M. B. Drapier, and were all equally zealous to serve the common cause. ^luch heat, and many fiery speeches against the administration, were the consequence of this union: nor had the flames been allayed, notwithstanding threats and proclamations, had not the coin been totally suppressed, and had not Wood withdrawn his patent. This is the most succinct account that can be given of an afi'air which alarmed the whole Irish nation to a de- gree tliat in a less loyal kingdom must have fomented a re- bellion: but the steadfast loyalty of the Irish and their true devotion to the present royal family is immoveable: and, although this unfortunate nation may not hitherto have found many distinguishing marks of favor and in- dulgence from the throne, yet it is to be hoped in time they may meet with their reward. The name of Augustus was not bestowed upon Octavius C.Tsar with more universal approbation, than the name of The Di-aj)ier was bestowed upon The Dean. He had no sooner assumeut the new inhabitant, being a cow of a capacious stomach — several capacious stomachs, I believe I shouhl say — and of an energetic turn of mind on the question of supplies, no sooner had she devoured all the hay which had been set before her than she began to explore the premises for more. With this laudable intention she traversed round and round her domain, and when she stopped, rather disgusted with her fruitless eli'orts, she found her nose at the bottom of the spiral staircase, up which she scented the fresh night air. She had l)een bred upon the mountains, and was accustomed from her infancy to poke her nose and force her body into all sorts of rocky nooks and crevices in search of food. There was no telling what undiscovered treasure lay above tlicse steps. What loads of hay, what acres of scent(*(l meadow, what pits of succulent and luscious tur- nij)s might not li(; beyond her and above her! One trifling i'lTort and the blissful Eldorado she had often dimly dreamt of on her sunny mountainsides in happy calfhood might be her own. Talk not of Jack and his Beanstalk as jK'culiar only to the human tribe. Nature promi)ting for sui)plies is the riial parent of romance. The cow began to a.scend. No doubt, when she got some way up, " hopes and fears that kind hi hope; " must have crossed and re- crossed th(! tabletH of her brain. Iliit there was no retreat. WILLIAM BOYLE. 2G9 She could not descend backwards, and she could not turn around. There was clearly nothinj^ for it but to push on. The time and toil it must have cost this Christopher Columbus of the cowshed to reach the New World she was searchin- all the fairy terrors of the castle and remaininji; up all nii>,]it for the purpose. Just on the stroke of twelve, the knot was gravely tied upon the cow's tail, and the first bottle poured down her throat, not without protest on behalf of the recipient. Anxiously, with strained ears and backs creeping with affright, the two friends waited for the cock- crow. The caution Biddy gave them not to sleep was superfluous. Their nerves were too much tried for slum- ber. Once or tAvice Larry started up, thinking he had heard the signal he was waiting for. It was only a trick of his imagination. Then be would sit down again and listen to the blood coursing through his ears — which he doubted not was the echo of the fairies' feet — and to the cow contentedly grinding her hay. Duffy seemed less communicative than the cow. At last, clear, long, and shrill, " the harbinger of early morn " gave them warning. The two men started to their feet, Larry holding the bottle in his hand. But before they had time to lay a hand upon the patient's or rather victim's horn, the cock crew a second time, and to this they attrib- uted the subsequent failure. Down the cow's throat, however, the fluid was destined to go, the friends cunningly pledging themselves to keep the mishap from Mrs. Hanlon, which they did for three months at least. They felt that having a second time missed success by a hair's-breadth, even Jemmy Mulroy was now powerless to charm the cow to earth, "charmed he never so wisely." So they took his hint and fattened her where she was. It was a tragic termination to an aspiring and eventful 276 IRISH LITERATURE. career. A temporary roof of sticks and straw was laid across the turret battlement. A temporary manger was erected imderneatli. Then up the weary steps went day by day supplies of hay, and straw, and oilcake, and cab- bajj^e, and turnips, and water, and bucketfuls of white mealy drink, hot and steaming;, of all which the unsus- pecting prisoner freely, and even ravenously partook, and from which she apparently derived large internal comfort. But her high mountain birth and breeding precluded her from much obesity, and it was supposed that the fairies must continue milking her; for, though she devoured twice the quantity of food of any stalled ox in the barony, the resultant accumulation of beef was no more than half. Michael Dult'y said it was the keen air so far up that did it. One day the usual supply of edibles did not go up the winding staircase. The l)utclier man went instead, fol- lowed by an attendant, bearing the peculiar arms of his craft. I will draw a veil over what ensued. AMiether it is that fairy money, or monej' derived from sources over which fairies may have had control, has a way of multiplying of its own. Jemmy Mulroy could no doubt tell, but I cannot. Anyhow, it was lucky money that Larry received from the butcher for this cow. Xot liking to buy anything with it, lest there might be further trouble, Larry put the price of the cow in bank. It was the first money he had ever put away in such a manner, but once the custom was begun he rapidly developed a taste for call- ing at the bank, till at last he became a well-known figure at its broad counter on a fair or market day. Mr. and Mrs. llanlon are now people of importance. They ride their own jaunting-car, and have a son a student in Maynooth. But with all Biddy's worldly success, she suffered a keen disappointment when, after the death of Jenim^' Mulroy, she discovered that he had left his charm to a more distant relative, who happened to possess the advantage of knowing Irish, in which language alone it could be transmitted. Nevertheless, her pride is consoled by proclaiming, whenever an opportunity arises, that there is still a charm in her family, and the young fellows round about, wlien they look into her daugliter's bright eyes, and rfrnember the fortune waiting for her in the bank, never think for a moment of disputing the assertion. WILLIAM BOYLE. 277 PHILANDERING. Maui'CPn, acushla, ah ! why such a frown on you ! Sure, 't is your own purty smiles shouhl be there, Under those ringlets that make such a crown on 3'ou, As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear, When from the picthers in church they look down on you, Kneeling in prayer. Troth, no, you needn't, there isn't a drop on me, Barriu' one half-one to keep out the cowld; And, Maureen, if you '11 throw a smile on the top o' me, Half-one was never so sweet, I '11 make bowld. But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me Life with a scowld. Red-haired Kate Ryan? — Don't mention her name to me! I 've a taste, Maureen darlin', whatever I do. But I kissed her? — Ah, now, would you even that same to me? — Ye saw me ! Well, well, if ye did, sure it 's true, But I don't want herself or her cows, and small blame to me When I know you. There now, aroon, put an ind to this strife o' me Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck ; Troth, till the day comes when you '11 be made wife o' me, Night, noon, and mornin', my heart '11 be bruck. Kiss me, acushla! My darlin' ! The life o' me! One more for luck! JOSEPH BRENAN. (1828—1857.) Joseph Brenan was born in Cork, Nov. 17, 1828. ■ He became a journalist in 1847, and about the same time married a sister of John Savage. ''Brenan," says Mr. Justin McCarthy, "was one of the most powerful and eloquent of the younger writers in 1848." He contributed poems to The Nation and to Tlie Irishman^ of which latter he became editor. He was supposed to have been concerned in an attack on the Cappoquin police barracks and in 1849 he fled to this country. In 1853 he partly lost his sight, and before he died was quite blind. Pie became editor of The New Orleans Times soon after he had settled in that city, and died there in 1857. COME TO ME, DEAREST. Come to luo, dearest, I 'm lonely without thee ; Day-time and night-time 1 'm thinking about thee; Xiglit-time and day-time in dreams I behold tbee, Unwelcome the waking that ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten, Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly. Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows shall flit round the desolate ruin. Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, g Are circling my heart with a ])romise of pleasure; f O Spring of my spirit I O May of my bosom ! Shine out on my soul till it burgeon and blossom — The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even — Features lit up by a reflex of heaven — Eyes like the skies of jioor ICriu, our mother, Where sunshine and shadows are chasing each other; Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple. And opening their eyes fi-om the heart of a dimple — O llianks to the Saviour that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming! 278 JOSEPH BKENAN. 279 You have been glad when vou knew I was ghiddened ; Dear, are you sad now to Iioar I am saddened? As octave to octave and rhviuo unto rhyme, love. Our hearts always answer in tune and in time, love; 1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing— You cannot smile but my cheeks will be glowing — ■ I would not die without you at my side, love — You will not linger when I shall have died, love. Come to me, dear, ere 1 die of my sorrow; Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; Strong, swift, and fond as the words that T speak, love, With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is dreary; Haste, for my spirit is sickened and weary; Come to the arms that alone should caress thee; Conie to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! CHARLOTTE BROOKE. (1740—1793.) Charlotte Brooke, the author of Reliques of Irish Poetry,' was one of thetwenty-twoohiklreiiof Henry Brooke, the author of ' Gus- tavusVasa,' all of whom she survived. She w\as born in 1740, and was fond of books from a very early age. In the atmosphere of a home such as hers, there v/as ample opportunity of gratifying her taste for antiquarian lore, and often, while the rest of the family were in bed, she would steal downstairs to the study, there to lose herself in her beloved books. She was led to the study of the Irish language, and in less than two years she found herself mistress of it. From reading Irish poetry and admiring its l)eauties, she proceeded to translate it into English, one of her earliest efforts being a song and monody by Carolan, which appeared in Walker's ' Ilistorical Memoirs of Irish Bards.' Encouraged by tlie admiration they called forth, and by the advice of friends, she set herself to collect and translate such works of Irish poets as she could procure and were found worthy of appear- ing in an English dress. Her ' Reliques of Irish Poetry,' which ap- peared in 1788, was the result. This work has had an important in- fluence on the study of the then almost foi'gotten poets who had written in the Irish language. Miss Brooke's other works were: 'Dialogue between a Lady and her Pupils'; 'The School for Cliristians,' 'Natural History, etc.,' ' Emma, or the Foundling of the Wood,' a novel, and ' Belisarius,' a tragedy. Unfortunately, Charlotte Brooke was influenced by the taste of the time; she translated the vigorous and natural Irish idiom into formally elegant phraseology and gave it the form of classical odes, with strophe and antistrophe, and artificialities of that kind. She had, however, a fine spirit of appreciation, and brought to her work not only her own personal enthusiasm, but the knowledge and learn- ing which she had gained from her father ( q.v.). ODE ON HIS SHIP. From the Irish of Maurice Fitzgerald. P>less my fijoofl sliift, jn-otectinjij power of grace! And o'er the winds, the waves, the destined coast, Breathe, benign spirit! — Let thy radiant host Spread their angelic shields! Before us the bright l)ul\vaik let tliem place, And fly beside us, through tlieir azure fields! 280' CHARLOTTI'J BROOKE. 281 Oh calm the voice of winter's storm ! Rule the wr.ath of .ingry seas! The fury of the rending blast appease, Nor let its rage fair ocean's face deftjrm! Oh check the biting wind of spring, And, from before our course, Arrest the fury of its wing, And terrors of its force ! So may we safely pass the dangerous cape, And from the perils of the deep escape! I grieve to leave the splendid seats Of Teamor's ancient fame ! Mansion of heroes, now farewell ! Adieu, ye sweet retreats, Where the famed hunters of your ancient vale. Who swelled the high heroic tale, Were wont of old to dwell ! And you, briglit tribes of sunny streams, adieu! While my sad feet their mournful path pursue. Ah, well their lingering steps my grieving soul proclaim! Receive me now, ni}" ship ! — hoist now thy sails To catch the favoring gales. Oh Heaven ! before thy awful throne I bend ! Oh let thy power thy servant now protect ! Increase of knowledge and of v.isdom lend. Our course through every peril to direct; To steer us safe through ocean's rage. Where angry storms their dreadful strife maintain. Oh may thy power their wrath assuage ! May smiling suns and gentle breezes reign ! Stout is my well-built ship, the storm to brave. Majestic in its might, Her bulk, tremendous on the wave. Erects its stately height! From her strong bottom, tall in air Her branching masts aspiring rise: Aloft their cords and curling heads they bear, And give their sheeted ensigns to the skies ; While her proud bulk frowns awful on the main. And seems the fortress of the liquid plain! Dreadful in the shock of flight She goes — she cleaves the storm! l'S2 liat^II LITIJh'ATUh'IJ. W'lu'io inin Avoai-s its most tixMiieiuloiis form She sails, exulliug- in lior inii'ht; Ou the tieiro uecks of foaiiiiuj;- billows rides, And through the roar Of angry oivan. to the destined shore Her course triumphant guides; As though beueath her frown the winds were dead, And each blue valley was their silent bed! Through all the perils of the main She knows her dauntless progress to maintain ! Through (luicksands. Hats, and breaking waves. Her dangerous ])ath she dares explore; Wrecks, storms, and calms alike she braves, And gains with scarce a breeze the wished-for shore. Or in the hour of war. Fierce on she bounds, in conscious might, To meet the promised light! While, distant far, The Heets of wondering nations gaze, And view her course with emulous amaze. As, like some champion's son of fame, She rushes to the shock of arms, And joys to mingle in the loud alarms, Impelled by rage, and fired will) glory's flame! As the fierce Griffin's dreadful flight |j Her monstrous bulk ajjpears. While o'er the seas her towering height. And her wide wings, tremendous shade! she rears. Or, as a champion, thirsting after fame — The strife of swords, the deathless name — So does she seem, and such her rapid course! Such is the rending of her force; When her sharp keel, where dreadful sj)lendors {)lay, Cuts llii-ougli liie foaming main its lirpiid way. Like llic red bolt of heaven she shoots along, Dire as its flight, and as its fury strong! God of the winds! oh liear my j)rayer! Safe passage now br-stow! Soft o'er the slumbering deej), may fair And prosj)erous ])ree/x'S flow! O'er tlu' rough rock and swelling wave. Do lliou our j)i()gi'ess guide I Do thou fiom angry ocean save, And o'er its rage i)reside! CllMtLOTTi: II ROOK E 283 Speed vay good ship along the rolling sea, O heaven ! and smiling skies, and favoring gales decree! Speed the high -masted shiji of dauntless force. Swift in hei- gliltering ilight and sounding coursel Stately moving on the main. Forest of the azure plain ! Faithful to the confided trust, To her promised glorv just; Deadly in the strife of war, Rich in every gift of peace, Swift from afar, In peril's fearful hour, Mighty in force and bounteous in her power She conies, kind aid she lends. She frees from supplicating friends. And fear before her Hies, and dangers cease! Hear, blest Heaven ! my ardent prayer ! My ship — my crew — oh take us to thy care! O may no peril bar our way ! Fair blow the gales of each proy)itious day! Soft swell the floods, and gently roll the tides, While, from Dunboy, along the smiling main We sail, until the destined coast we gain. And safe in port our gallant vessel rides! HENRY BROOKE. (170G— 1783.) Hexry Brooke, dramatist, novelist, and essayist, a Goldsmith in versatility if not in genius, was born at Rantavan, County Cavan, in 17U6. His education was obtained from Dr. Sheridan and at Trinity College. In his seventeenth year he entered at the Temple, and soon became acquainted with every one in London worth know- ing. " Swift prophesied wonders of him," and " Pope affectionately loved him." Returning to Ireland, he became guardian to his aunt's only child, Catherine Meares, a beautiful girl. In a short time love sprang up between them and they were secretly married while as yet the young lady was in her fourteenth year. The match was a happy one, and remained so to the end. In 1732, at the pressing solicitations of his friends, he went again to London, to continue his studies and enter regularly upon his profession. But poetry was as fatal to him there as love had been in Ireland. Law was neglected for the Muses, and in the same year appeared his first poem, ' Universal Beauty,' which Pope looked upon as a wonderful first production. Soon after he was obliged to return to Ireland, and there for some time he devoted himself to his profession as a chamber counsel. In 1737 he went again to London, where he was received with enthusiasm by Pope, while Lord Lyttelton sought his acquaintance, and Mr. Pitt spoke of him and treated him with affectionate friend- ship. Before this he had published (in 1738) a graceful and spirited ti-aiislation of the first three books of Tasso. ' Gustavus Vasa ' gave offense to the authorities and its production was disallowed. This, however, only helped to add to his fame, for his friends rallied around him, the play was printed, and he sold 5,000 copies at 5s. (51.25) each, his pecuniary reward being more than it would prob- ably have been had the authorities not interfered. Soon after his return to Ireland he received the appointment of barrack-master from Lord Chesterfield, and while in this post resumed his pen to a certain extent. He wrote the ' Farmer's Letters,' something after the style of the ' Drapier Letters,' and in the same year (1745) his tragedy ' The Earl of Westmoreland ' appeared. In 1747 four fables by him were printed in Moore's ' Fables for the Female Sex,' and in 1748 his dramatic opera ' Little John and the Giants ' was performed in Dublin. In 1749 his tragedy 'The Earl of Essex' was performed at Dul)l in with great success, and also afterwards at Drury Lane. In 176G he issued his first novel, ' The Fool of Quality,' a work of unequal merit, but marked by wonderful flashes of genius in the midst of much that is mystical. In 1772 his poem ' Redemption' appeared, and in 1774 his second novel, 'Juliet Greville.' In 1778 a great number of his works were puVjlished, most of Avliich had evidently been written in the apparently blank years of his retirement. These were : ' The 284 HENRY BROOKE. 285 Last Speech of John Good,' ' Antony and Cleopatra,' ' The Im- postor,' ' Cymbeline,' ' Montezuma,' ' The Vestal Virgin,' five trag- edies ; ' The Contending Brothers,' ' The Charitable Association,' ' The Female Officer,' ' The Marriage Contract,' four comedies ; and 'Ruth,' an oratorio. Finally, in 1779, appeared the ' Fox Chase,' a poem. On Oct. 10, 1783, ho passed away, leaving of a numerous family but two to mourn his loss. Few of his other works are known to the majority of readers even by name, except ' Gustavus Vasa,' which still keeps the stage, and ' The Fool of Quality,' which was reissued under the editorship of, and with a biographical preface by, the Rev. Charles Kingsley, and ' Juliet Greville.' Yet they are full of splendid passages, suffi- cient to start many a modern poet or writer on the road to fame. His plays, with scarce an exception, are marked by force and clear- ness. His poems are not so brilliant as those of Pope, nor so sweet in diction as those of Goldsmith, but they are full of solid beauties and just sentiment. Brooke's poetical works were collected by his daughter Charlotte, who added some few things not mentioned here, and published them at Dublin in 1792 in one volume 8vo. A GENTLEMAN. There is no term in our language more common than that of " Gentleman " ; and whenever it is heard, all agree in the general idea of a man some way elevated above the vulgar. Yet perhaps no two living are precisely agreed respecting the qualities they think requisite for constitut- ing this character. When we hear the epithets of a " fine Gentleman," " a pretty Gentleman," " much of a Gentleman," " Gentlemanlike," " something of a Gentle- man," "nothing of a Gentleman," and so forth; all these different appellations must intend a peculiarity annexed to the ideas of those who express them; though no two of them, as I said, may agree in the constituent qualities of the character they have formed in their own mind. There have been ladies who deemed a bag-wig, tasseled waistcoat, new-fashioned snuff-box, and a sword-knot, very capital ingredients in the composition of — a Gentleman. A certain easy impudence acquired by low people, by cas- uall}^ being conversant in liigh life, has passed a man cur- rent through many companies for — a Gentleman. In the country, a laced hat and long whip uitikes — a Gentleman. In taverns and some other places, he who is the most of a bully, is the most of — a Gentleman. With heralds, every 2SG IRISH JJTEEATVRE. Esquire is, indisputably, — a (lentlemuii. And the bigb Avaynian, in his manner of takinj»; your purse; and your friend, in his manner of deeeiving- your wife, may, how- evi'r, be aUowed to have — niucli of the (Icntleman. Plato, among the philosophers, was '' the most of a man of fash- ion ''; and therefore allowed, at the court of Syracuse, to be — the most of a Gentleman, But seriously, I apprehend that this character is pretty much upon the modern. In all ancient or dead languages we have no term, any way adcMpiate, whereby we may express it. In the habits, man- ners, and characters of old Sparta and old Home, we find an antipathy to all the elements of modern gentility. Among those rude and unpolished people, you read of ])hilos(>])hcrs, of orators, patriots, heroes, and demigods; but you never hear of any character so elegant as that of — a pretty (leutleman. When those nations, however, became refined into what their ancestors would have called corruption; when luxury introduced, and fashion gave a sanction to certain sciences, which Cynics would have branded with the ill-mannered ai)pellations of debauchery, drunkenness, gambling, cheat- ing, lying, etc., the practitioners assumed the new title of Gentlemen, till such Gentlemen became as plenteous as stars in the milky-way, and lost distinction merely by the confluence of their luster. Wherefore as the said qualities were found to be of ready acquisition, and of easy descent to the populace from their betters, ambition judged it necessary to adarkiuii in the new till it had become a necessity of the ajie; by " broadening" slowly down from precedent to precedent," and by recognizing the universal truth hidden in that saying, " I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now." He clung, for example, to certain theories which seem incongruous with the rest of his views, — wliich seem strange to many of us now, just because we forget that England and the (Church are ten years older since his death. He refused to discuss thoroughly questions which we bring forward prominently. He purposed, for example, writing a book on Inspiration. He refrained; — "the mind of England," said he, "is not ready yet," But if he were alive now, he would write it. I have already said that he would never bring forward in the puli»it an opinion which was only fermenting in his mind. He waited till the must became wine. He en- deavored, as far as in him lay, without sacrificing truth, not to shock by startling opinions the minds of those who were resting peacefully in an "early heaven and in happy views." He refrained in all things from violating a weak brother's conscience. He would have hated the vaunting way with which some put forward novel views. He would have hated the pharisaical liberalism which says, " God, I thank Thee I am not as other men are, even as this believer in the universality of the Flood, or that in the eternal obligation of the Jowisli Sabbath." He would have dis- liked such a term as " free-]uinand his soul, and freedom for his intellect. He dis- coNcred the way to escape from the disadvantage I have mentioned, and vet to remain a true son of a Church which he loved and honored to the last. Moreover, he brought manv into the Church of England: both Unitarians and ()uakers, as well as men of other sects, were admitted b^' him into her communion. On the other hand, if the latter part of the accusation were true, and he was latitudinarian in opinion, it is at least remarkable that he should have induced in those who heard him profitably, not only a spiritual life, but also a high and punctilious morality. II is hearers kept the Law all the better from being freed from the Law. And many a workingman in Brighton, many a business man in London, many a young officer, many a traveler upon the Continent, many a one living in the great world of politics or in the little world of fashion, can trace back to words heard in Trinity Chapel the crea- tion in them of a ]ofti(T idea of moral action, and an altiding influence which has made their lives, in all their several spheres, if not religious, at least severely moral. These are some of the results which have flowed, and will continue to fh)w, from his work and life. They have been projiagated by means of his published sermons. The ex- tension of these sermons among all classes has been al- most unexami)led. Other sermons have had a larger circulation, but it has been confined within certain cir- cles. These have been read and enjoyed by men of every sect and of every rank. They seem to come home to that liuman heart which lies beneath all our outward differ- ences. Workingmen and women have spoken of them to me with (hdiglit. Clergymen of the most opposed views to his keej) them in their bookcases and on their desks. But fai- beyond these outward tributes of respect, a Tiioie perennial one than all, is the epistle written by this man of (iod u[»fin our hearts. That which Cod had given hiiii, he has left to us. His s])irit lives again in 8T0PF0RD AUGUSTUS BROOKE. 299 otbtTs; his thoughts move many whom he never saw, on to noble ends. Unconsciously he blesses, and has blessed. Yet not unconsciously now: 1 rejoice to think that now, at least, he is freed from the dark thought which op- pressed his life, — that his ministry was a failure. I rejoice to think that he knows now — in that high Land where he is doing, with all his own vividness of heart, ampler work than his weary spirit could have done on earth — that his apparent defeat here was real Victory; that through him the S])irit of all Goodness has made men more true, more loving, and more pure. His books may perish, his memory fade, his opinions be super- seded, as, in God's progressive education of the Univer- sal Church, we learn to see more clearly into Truths Avhose relations are now ol)scure; but the Work whicli he has done upon human hearts is as imperishable as his own Immortality iu God. THE EARTH AND MAN. A little sun, a little rain, A soft wind blowing from the west, And woods and fields are sweet again, And warmth within the mountain's breast. So simple is the earth we tread, t^o quick with love and life her frame. Ten thousand years have dawned and tied And still her magic is the same. A little love, a little trust, A soft impulse, a sudden dream, And life as dry as desert dust Is fresher than a mountain stream. So simple is the heart of man, So ready for new hope and joy ; Ten thousand years since it began Have loft it younger than a boy. o 00 IRISH LITERATURE. A MOMENT. To-day chanco drove me to the wood, Where 1 have walked and talked with her Who lies iu the earth's solitude. The soft west wind, the minister Of Love and Spring, blew as of old Across the grass and marigold. And moved the waters of the pool. And moved my heart a moment — Fool ! Do I not know her lips are cold. DESERT IS LIFE. " Desert is Life, its fates are flame. Far ofl" the foes we seek to quell; Lord, let us pause awhile — the march In evening's dew were just as well." " Prophet of God," the Arabs cried, "The sun darts death on heart and head; Here rest till starlight night be cool " — " Hell is hotter " — Mohammed said. JOHN BROUGHAM. (1810—1880.) This noted actor, theater manager, playwright, poet, and story- writer, was born in Dublin in 1810. He made his fii'st appearance as an actor in 183U, and is said to have been the original of Lever's ' Harry Lorrequer.' In 1843 he came to America, and, with the exception of a short trip to England in 18G0, he remained here until his death on June 7, 1880. The following lines to his memory by H, C Bunner may fitly find a place here : " The actor 's dead, and memory alone Recalls the genial magic of his tone ; Marble, nor canvas, nor the printed page Shall tell his genius to another age : A memory, doomed to dwindle less and less, His world-wide fame slirinks to this littleness. Yet if, half a century from to-day, A tender smile about our old lips play. And if our grandchild query whence it came. We '11 say : ' A thought of i3rougham ' — And that is Fame ! " We have, however, some moi'e enduring monument than the memory of his acting, for, in addition to over one hundred come- dies, fai'ces, and burlesques, he wrote 'A Basket of Chips,' 'The Bunsby Papers,' 'Life Stories, and Poems.' Among his most suc- cessful plan's were 'Vanity Fair,' 'The Irish Emigrant,' and 'The Game of Love.' He collaborated with Dion Boucicault in writing 'London Assurance.' NED GERAGHTY'S LUCK. CHAPTER I. Brave old Ireland is tlie land of Fairies, but of all the various descriptions there isn't one to be compared with the Leprechaun, in the regard of cunning and 'cute- ness. Now if you don't know Avhat a Leprechaun is, I '11 tell you. Why, then — save us and keep us from harm, for they are queer chaps to gosther about — a Leprechaun is the fairies' shoemaker: and a mightv conceited little fellow he is, I assure you, and very mischievous, except where he might happen to take a liking. But, perhaps, the best wav to give you an idea of their 301 302 IRISH LITERATURE. appearance and cliaracteristies, will be to tell yon a bit of a story abont one. Once npon a time, thon, many years ago, before the screech of the steam engine had frightened the " good peoi)le " out of their quiet nooks and corners, there lived a rollicking, good-natured, rakish boy, called Ned Ger- au'htv; his father was the only miller in the neighbor- hood for miles round, and being a prudent, saving kind of an old hunk, was considered to be amazingly well o&, and the name of the town they lived in would knock all the teeth out of the upper jaw of an Englishman to pro- nounce: it was called Ballinaskerrybaughkilinashaghlin. Well, the boy, as he grew u]) to a man's estate, used to worry the old miller nearly out of his seven senses, he was such a devil-maj^-care good-for-nothing. Attend to anything that was said to him he would not, whether in the way of learning or of business. He upset ink- bottle upon ink-bottle upon his father's account-books, such as they were; and at the poor apology for a school, which the bigotry of the reverend monopolizers of knowl- edge permitted to exist in Ball , the town — he was al- ways famous for studying less and playing more, than any boy of his age in the barony. It isn't to be much wondered at then, that when, in the course of events, old Geraghty had tlie wheat of life threshed out of him by the Hail of unpitying Time, Mas- ter Ned, his careless, reprobate son, was but little fitted to take his position as the head-miller of the country. But to show you the luck that runs after, and sticks close to some people, whether they care for it or not, as if, ]\k(t love, it despiseth the too ardent seeker. Did you ever take notice, that two men might be fish- ing together at the same spot, with the same sort of tackle and the same sort of bait? One will get a bushel full before the other gets a bite — that's luck, — not that tliere 's any certainty about it; for the two anglers miglit change places to-moi-i-o\v. Ah I it's an uncomfortable, de- reiving, self-confidence-destroying, Jack-o'-lantern sort of thing is that same luck, and yet, how many people, espe- cially our countrymen, cram their hands into their pock- ets, and fully expect fliat the cheating devil will filter gold through their fingers. JOII\ J : ROUGH AM. 3o;j But, tiood pooplo, listPii to iiio, tako a frioiifl's advice don't trust her, and of this be assured, although a lump of luck Hia.v, now aud then — and nii^lity rarely at that — exhibit itself at your very foot, yet to find a good vein of it you must dig laboriously, unceasingly. Indolent hu- manity, to hide its own laziness, calls those lucky men, who, if you investigate the matter closely, you '11 find have been simply indui^trioiis ones. But to return to the particular luck which laid hold of Ned Geraghty, everybod}^ thought, and everybody of course, the A\'orst, and that Ned the rover would soon make ducks and drakes of the old man's money; that the mill might as well be shut up now, for there was no- body to see after it: every gossip, male and female, had his or her peculiar prognostic of evil. Sage old men shook their heads, grave old matrons shrugged their shoulders, while the unanimous opinion of the marriage- able part of the feminine community was, tliat nothing could possibly avert the coming fatality, except a careful wife. Now, candor compels the historian to say, that the mill-hoppers did not go so regularly as they did for- merly; and, moreover, that Ned, being blessed with a per- sonal exterior, began to take infinite pains in its adorn- ment. Finer white cords aud tops could not be sported by any squireen in the parish; his green coat was made of the best broadcloth, an intensely bright red Indian handkerchief was tied openly round his neck, a real beaver hat on his impudent head, and a heavy thong-whip in his hand, for he had just joined modestly in the Bally, etc., etc., hunt. This was the elegant rpparition that astonished the sober and sensible town folk, a very few months after the decease of the miserlv old miller, and of course all the evil forebodings of the envious and malicious were in a fair way to be speedily consummated, when my bold Ned met the piece of luck that changed the current of his life, and gave the lie to those neighborly and charitable prognostics. It was on one fine moonlight night that Ned was walk- ing homeward by a sliort cut across the fields, for his sorry old piece of horse-llosh had broken down in that a()4 IRISH LITERATURE. day's hunt, and for many a weary niilo bo had hocn foot- in«r it throujih boji' and brier, until, Avitli fatigue and mortiticatiou, he felt both heart-«iek and limb-weary, when all at once his quick ear caught the sound of the smallest kind of a voice, so low, and yet so musical, sing- ing a very little ditty to the accompaniment of tiny taps u])on a diminutive lap-stone. Ned's heart gave one great bound, his throat swelled, and his hair stuck into his head like needles. " ^lav I never eat another dav's vittals, if it ain't a Leprechaun," said he to himself, " and the little villain is so busv with his singing that he didn't hear me com- ing; if I could only catch a-howlt of him, my fortune's made." ^Vitll that, lie stole softly towards the place from whence the sounds proceeded, and peeping slyly over a short clump of blackthorn, there, sure enough, he saw a comical little figure not more than an inch and a half high, dressed in an old fashioned suit of velvet, with a cocked hat on his head, and a sword by his side, as grand as a prime minister, hammering at a morsel of fairies' sole- leather, and singing awa^^ like a cricket that had received a musical education. " Now 's my chance," said Ned, as, quick as thought, he droj)ped his hat right over the little vagabond. " Ha! ha I you murtlicrin scliemer, I've got you tight," he cried, as he crushed his hat together, completely imprisoning the Leprechaun. " Let me out, Ned Geraghty; you see I know who you are," scjualled the little chap. " The devil a toe," says Ned, and away he scampered towards home with his prize, highly elated, for he knew that the Leprechauns were the guardians of all hidden treasure, and he was determined not to suffer him to es- cape until he had pointed out where he could discover a j)ot of gold. When Scd had reach(Ml home, the first thing he did was to get a hammer and some nails, and having placed his hat upon the table fastened it securely by the brim, the little fellow screeching and yelling like mad. " Now, my boy, I 've got you safe and snug," says Ned, JOF.V BROUGHAM. 305 as he sat down iu his chair to have a i)arley with his pris- oner. " There -s no use in kickino; up such a hulhibuHoo — tell me where I can find a treasure, and I '11 let you go." " I won't, jou swago;erinnj blackguard, you stuck up lump of conceit, you good for nothing end of the devil's bad bargain, I won't;" and then the angry liUIc creature let fly a shower of abuse that gave Ned an indifferent opinion of fairy gentility. " Well, just as you please," says he; " it 's there you '11 stay till you do," and with that Ned makes himself a fine, stiff tumbler of whisky-punch, just to show his indepen- dence. " Ned," said the little schemer, when he smelt the odor of the spirits, " but that 's potteen." " It 's that same it is," says Ned. "Ah! ye rebel! ain't you ashamed of yourself to chate the ganger? Murther alive! how well it smells," chirps the cunning rascal, snuffing like a kitten with a cold in his head. "It tastes better, avic/' says Ned, taking a long gulp, and then smacking his lips like a post-boy's whip. " Arrah, don't be grciygiii ^ a poor devil that way," says the Leprechaun, " and me as dry as a lime-burner's wig." " Will you tell me what I want to know, then? " " I can't, really I can't," says the fairy, but with a pleasanter tone of voice. " He 's coming round," thought Ned to himself, and as with a view of propitiating him still further, " Here 's your health, old chap," says he, "and it 's sorry I am to be obliged to appear so conthrary, for may this choke me alive if I wish you any harm in the world." " I know you don't, Ned^ allana/^ says the other, as sweet as possible ; " but there 's one thing I 'd like j^ou to do for me." " And what might that be? " " Just give us the least taste in life of that elegant punch, for the steam of it 's gettin' under the crevices, an' I declare to my gracious it's fairlj^ killin' me with the drouth." " iVabocA7is/i,"2 cried Ned, *' I 'm not such a fool; how am I to get it at you? " 1 Greiggin, make one long. - Nabocklish, never mind. 20 30G IRISH LITERATURE. '* Aisy oiKMicii ; just slick a ]>in-liole in tlie hat, and gi' iiM' one of llu' hairs of your hoad for a straw." '• Kedad, 1 don't thinlc that would Avaste much o' the litjuor," says Ned, hiuuhiuti- at the contrivance; "but if it woukl do vou any nood, here i^oes." So Ned did as the Leprechaun desired, and the little scoundrel bi\uan to suck away at the punch like an alder- man, and by the same token the effect it had on him was curious : at first he talked miiiht}' sensibly, then he talked mighty lively, then he suni^' all the songs he ever knew; then he told a lot of stories as old as Adam, and lauiihed like the mischief at them himself; then he made speeches, tlien lie roared, then he cried, and at last, after having indulged in " Willie brewed a peck o' malt," down he fell on the table with a thump as though a small- sized potato had fallen on the floor. " Oh ! may I never see glory," roared Ned, in an explo- sion of laughter, " if the little rufitian ain't as drunk as a piper." '* Hal Ned, Ned, you unfeelin' reprobate an' bad Chris- tian; have you no compassion at all, at all?" squeaked the Leprechaun in druidcen but most miserable accents. " Oh I — oh I — oh ! " the poor little creature groaned, like a dying tadpole. '' \\hc\t 's the matter? " says Ned, with real concern. " Is there anvtliing I can do for you? " "Air! air I" grunted the Leprechaun. "The fellow's dead drunk," thought Ned, "so there'll be no harm in lettin' him have a mouthful of fresh air;" so he ripped up two or three of the nails, when, with a merry little laugh, the cunning vagabond slid through his fingers, and disappeared like a curl of smoke out of a pipe, '^ Mufilicn then, may bad luck be to you, for a deludin' discijile. but you 've taken the conceit out o' me in beau- tiful style," cried Ned, as he threw himself into his chair, laughing heartily, however, in spite of his disappoint- ment, at the clever way the little villain had effected his release. JOH^^ BROUdHAM. 307 " What a fool I was to be taken in by the dirty mounte- bank." " No, you arci not," said the voice, just above his lu^ad. Ned started with surprise, and looked eaj^erly round. " There 's no use in searching, my boy; I 've got my lib- erty, and I 'm now invisible," said the voice, " but your lettin' me out was a proof that you have a good heart, Ned, and I 'm bound to do you a good turn for it." " ^Yhy, then, yer a gentleman ivery inch of ye, though it 's only one an' a bit," cried Ned, jumping up with de- light; " what are ye goin' to gi' me? a treasure! " " No, better than that," said the voice. "What then?" " A warning." What the warning was we shall see in the next chap- ter. CHAPTER II. "What the mischief is the matter wid me at all, at all?" said Ned; "sure don't I know every foot of the ground between tliis and the next place, wherever it is? but bad luck attend the bit of mc knows where I 'm stan'in' now. " Howsomever, I can't stand here all night, so here goes for a bowld push, somewhere or another." With that, my bold Ned struck at random through the fields in one direction, hoi)ing to find some well- known landmark which might satisfy him as to his whereabout, but all in vain; the whole face of the coun- try was changed; where he expected to meet with trees, he encountered a barren waste; in the situation where he expected to find some princely habitation, he met with nothing but rocks — he never was so puzzled in his life. In the midst of his perplexity, he sat down upon a mound of earth, and scratching his head, began seriously to ponder upon his situation. " I '11 take my Bible oath I was on my track before I met with that devil of a Leprechaun," said he, and then the thought took possession of him, tliat the deceitful fairy had bewitched the road, so that he might wander away, and perhaps lose himself amongst the wild and terrible bogs. 30S IRISH LITERATURE. He was just jiiviii^' way to an extroinity of terror, wheu, upon raising his eyes, what was his astonishment to tind that the locality which, before he sat down, he could have sworn was notliini:: but a strange and inhos- j)itable waste, was blooming like a garden; and what's more, he discovered, upon rubbing his eyes, to make sure that he was not deceived, it was his own garden, his back rested against the wall of his own house; nay, the very seat beneath him, instead of an earthy knoll, was the good substantial form that graced his little door-porch. " Well," cries Ned, very much relieved at finding him- self so suddenly at home, '' if that don't beat the bees, I 'm a heathen; maj' I never leave this spot alive if I know how I got here no more nor the man in the moon; here goes for an air o' the fire, any way, I 'm starved intensely wid the cowld.'' Upon that he started to go in, when he found that he had made another mistake; it wasn't the house he was close to, but the mill. "Why, what a murthorin' fool I am this night; sure it's the mill that I 'm forninst, and not the house," said he. "Never mind, it's lucky I am, to be so near home, any way; there it is, just across the paddock"; so say- ing, he proceeded towards the little stile which separated the small field from the road, inly wondering as he went along, whether it was the Leprechaun or the whisky that had so confused his proceedings. "It's miglity im])iu(lent that I've been in my drinkin'," thought he, " for if I had drunk a trifle less, the country wouldn't be playin' such ingenious capers wid my eyesight, and if I had drunk a trifle more, I might a hunted up a soft stone by way of a pillow, and made my bed in the road." Arrived at the stile, a regular phenomenon occurred, which bothered him more and more — he couldn't get across it, notwithstanding the most strenuous exertion; wh(m he went to step over, the rail sprang up to his head, and when taking advantage of the opening he had to duf'k under he found it close to the ground. The moon now popped beliind a dense, black cloud and Budden darkness fell n])()n the place, while at the same moment the slow, rusty old village clock gave two JOHN BROUailAM. 309 or three premonitory croaks, and then banged out the hour of midnight. Twelve o'clock at night is, to the superstitious, the most terror-fraught moment the fearful earth can shud- der at, and Ned was strongly imbued with the dread of ghostly things; at every bang of the deep-toned old chron- icler, he quivered to the very marrow of his bones; his teeth chattered, and his flesh rose up into little hillocks. There he was, bound by some infernal power. The con- trary stile l)anied all his efforts to pass it : the last reverber- ation of the cracked bell ceascvl with a fearful jar, like the passing of a sinner's soul in agony, and to it suc- ceeded a silence yet more terrible. " Maybe it 's dyin' that I am," thought Ned ; and all that was lovely and clinging in God's beautiful world, rushed across his mind at the instant. " If it is to be mv fate to leave it all, so full of life and hope, and yet so unmindful of the great blessings I have unthankfully enjoyed, heaven pity me, indeed, for I 'm not fit to go." At this inoment his ear caught a most familiar sound, that of the mill hopper, so seldom heard lately, rising and falling in regular succession. Surprised still more than ever, he turned round and beheld the old mill, brilliantly lighted up; streams of brightness poured from every window, door, and cranny, while the atmosphere resounded with the peculiar busy hum which proceeds from an industriously employed mul- titude. Fear gave place to curiosity, and Ned stealthily crept towards the mill opening, and looked in; the interior was all a-blaze with an infinity of lights, while myriads of diminutive figures were employed in the various occu- pations incidental to the business. Ned looked on with wonder and admiration to see the celerity and precision with which everything was done; great as was the multi- tude employed, all was order and regularity; here thou- sands of little atomies pushed along sack after sack of corn — there, numberless creatures ground and deposited the flour in marked bags, while Ned recognized liis old friend, the Leprechaun, poring over a large account-book, every now and then reckoning up a vast amount of bank bills and dazzling gold pieces. o 10 IRISH LITERATURE. Nod's mouth fairly watered as he saw the shininp; metal, aud he heard the crisp ereasinp; of the new bauk notes which took the little accountant ever so long to smooth out, for each one would have made a blanket for him; as soon as the Leprechaun had settled his book affairs to his satisfaction, he after the jireatest amount of exertion, as- sisted by a few liundred of his tiny associates, deposited the money in a tin case, whereupon Ned distinctly read his name. While he was hesitatinii- what course to adopt, whether to try and capture the Lei)rechaun acjain, or wait to see what would eventuate, he felt himself pinched on the ear, and on turniiiii' round, he perceived one of the fairy millers sian