{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_68835/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_68835","id":"gutenberg_68835","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68835","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Humour","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Irish wit and humor"],"text":"_HUMOUR SERIES_\n\n EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS\n\n\n THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND\n\n\n\n\n ALREADY ISSUED\n\n\n _FRENCH HUMOUR_\n _GERMAN HUMOUR_\n _ITALIAN HUMOUR_\n _AMERICAN HUMOUR_\n _DUTCH HUMOUR_\n _IRISH HUMOUR_\n _SPANISH HUMOUR_\n _RUSSIAN HUMOUR_\n\n [Illustration: \u201cAND EACH GIRL HE PASSED BID \u2018GOD BLESS HIM\u2019 AND\n SIGHED.\u201d--P. 276.]\n\n\n\n\n THE\n HUMOUR OF IRELAND\n\n SELECTED, WITH INTRODUCTION,\n BIOGRAPHICAL\n INDEX AND NOTES, BY\n D. J. O\u2019DONOGHUE: THE\n ILLUSTRATIONS BY\n OLIVER PAQUE\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,\n PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.\n CHARLES SCRIBNER\u2019S SONS,\n 153\u2013157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.\n 1908.\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS.\n\n\n PAGE\n\n INTRODUCTION xi\n\n EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY--_From the Irish_ 1\n\n THE ROMAN EARL--_From the Irish_ 7\n\n THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN--_Folk-Tale_ 9\n\n OFTEN-WHO-CAME AND SELDOM-WHO-CAME--_From the Irish_ 22\n\n THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW--_From the Irish_ 23\n\n ROGER AND THE GREY MARE--_Folk-Poem_ 23\n\n WILL O\u2019 THE WISP--_Folk-Tale_ 25\n\n EPIGRAMS AND RIDDLES--_From the Irish_ 32\n\n DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS--_Folk-Tale_ 34\n\n THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS--_From the Irish_ 39\n\n IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS--_Jonathan Swift_ 41\n\n A RHAPSODY ON POETRY--_Jonathan Swift_ 45\n\n LETTER FROM A LIAR--_Sir Richard Steele_ 50\n\n EPIGRAMS--_John Winstanley_ 55\n\n A FINE LADY--_George Farquhar_ 56\n\n THE BORROWER--_George Farquhar_ 60\n\n WIDOW WADMAN\u2019S EYE--_Laurence Sterne_ 67\n\n BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES--_Arthur Dawson_ 70\n\n JACK LOFTY--_Oliver Goldsmith_ 73\n\n BEAU TIBBS--_Oliver Goldsmith_ 84\n\n THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY--_John O\u2019Keeffe_ 93\n\n THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER--_John O\u2019Keeffe_ 94\n\n TOM GROG--_John O\u2019Keeffe_ 97\n\n BULLS--_Sir Boyle Roche_ 101\n\n THE MONKS OF THE SCREW--_J. P. Curran_ 102\n\n ANA--_J. P. Curran_ 103\n\n THE CRUISKEEN LAWN--_Anonymous_ 105\n\n THE SCANDAL-MONGERS--_R. B. Sheridan_ 108\n\n CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE\u2019S SUBMISSION--_R. B. Sheridan_ 115\n\n ANA--_R. B. Sheridan_ 124\n\n MY AMBITION--_Edward Lysaght_ 126\n\n A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT--_George Canning_ 127\n\n CONJUGAL AFFECTION--_Thomas Cannings_ 130\n\n WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!--_Joseph O\u2019Leary_ 130\n\n TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE WITH HER\n PETTICOAT--_Anonymous_ 132\n\n EPIGRAMS, ETC.--_Henry Luttrell_ 133\n\n LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE--_Thomas Moore_ 134\n\n MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA--_E. S. Barrett_ 137\n\n MODERN MEDI\u00c6VALISM--_E. S. Barrett_ 141\n\n THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED--_William Maher(?)_ 145\n\n DARBY DOYLE\u2019S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC--_Thomas Ettingsall_ 148\n\n ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!--_Dr. William Maginn_ 160\n\n THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY--_Dr. William Maginn_ 164\n\n THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS--_Dr. William Maginn_ 166\n\n THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS--_Dr. William Maginn_ 173\n\n DANIEL O\u2019ROURKE--_Dr. William Maginn_ 175\n\n THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR--_Charles O\u2019Flaherty_ 184\n\n THE NIGHT-CAP--_T. H. Porter_ 187\n\n KITTY OF COLERAINE--_Anonymous_ 188\n\n GIVING CREDIT--_William Carleton_ 190\n\n BRIAN O\u2019LINN--_Anonymous_ 198\n\n THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE--_J. A. Wade_ 200\n\n WIDOW MACHREE--_Samuel Lover_ 202\n\n BARNEY O\u2019HEA--_Samuel Lover_ 204\n\n MOLLY CAREW--_Samuel Lover_ 206\n\n HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER--_Samuel Lover_ 209\n\n THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE--_Samuel Lover_ 213\n\n BELLEWSTOWN HILL--_Anonymous_ 228\n\n THE PEELER AND THE GOAT--_Jeremiah O\u2019Ryan_ 231\n\n THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER--_Gerald Griffin_ 234\n\n NELL FLAHERTY\u2019S DRAKE--_Anonymous_ 239\n\n ELEGY ON HIMSELF--_F. S. Mahony_ (\u201c_Father Prout_\u201d) 242\n\n BOB MAHON\u2019S STORY--_Charles Lever_ 243\n\n THE WIDOW MALONE--_Charles Lever_ 253\n\n THE GIRLS OF THE WEST--_Charles Lever_ 255\n\n THE MAN FOR GALWAY--_Charles Lever_ 256\n\n HOW CON CREGAN\u2019S FATHER LEFT HIMSELF A BIT OF\n LAND--_Charles Lever_ 257\n\n KATEY\u2019S LETTER--_Lady Dufferin_ 264\n\n DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES UNDER YOUR FEET,\n LOVE--_Dr. J. F. Waller_ 266\n\n FATHER TOM\u2019S WAGER WITH THE POPE--_Sir Samuel Ferguson_ 267\n\n THE OULD IRISH JIG--_James McKowen_ 271\n\n MOLLY MULDOON--_Anonymous_ 273\n\n THE QUARE GANDER--_J. S. Lefanu_ 279\n\n TABLE-TALK--_Dr. E. V. H. Kenealy_ 288\n\n ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET--_R. D. Williams_ 290\n\n SAINT KEVIN AND KING O\u2019TOOLE--_Thomas Shalvey_ 291\n\n THE SHAUGHRAUN--_Dion Boucicault_ 294\n\n RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP--_T. D. Sullivan_ 298\n\n LANIGAN\u2019S BALL--_Anonymous_ 306\n\n THE WIDOW\u2019S LAMENT--_Anonymous_ 308\n\n WHISKY AND WATHER--_Anonymous_ 310\n\n THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD--_C. J. Kickham_ 314\n\n IRISH ASTRONOMY--_C. G. Halpine_ 320\n\n PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST\u2019S BOY--_J. F. O\u2019Donnell_ 322\n\n O\u2019SHANAHAN DHU--_J. J. Bourke_ 329\n\n SHANE GLAS--_J. J. Bourke_ 332\n\n AN IRISH STORY-TELLER--_Patrick O\u2019Leary_ 333\n\n THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN--_C. P. O\u2019Conor_ 337\n\n FAN FITZGERL--_A. P. Graves_ 341\n\n FATHER O\u2019FLYNN--_A. P. Graves_ 343\n\n PHILANDERING--_William Boyle_ 344\n\n HONIED PERSUASION--_J. De Quincey_ 345\n\n THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT--_W. P. French_ 347\n\n THE AMERICAN WAKE--_F. A. Fahy_ 355\n\n HOW TO BECOME A POET--_F. A. Fahy_ 358\n\n THE DONOVANS--_F. A. Fahy_ 368\n\n PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES--_F. A. Fahy_ 371\n\n MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS--_G. B. Shaw_ 373\n\n FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE--_Edmund Downey_ 382\n\n THE DANCE AT MARLEY--_P. J. McCall_ 393\n\n FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS--_P. J. McCall_ 397\n\n TATTHER JACK WELSH--_P. J. McCall_ 403\n\n THEIR LAST RACE--_Frank Mathew_ 405\n\n IN BLARNEY--_P. J. Coleman_ 409\n\n BINDIN\u2019 THE OATS--_P. J. Coleman_ 411\n\n SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC. 414\n\n BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX 423\n\n NOTES 433\n\n\n\n\n INTRODUCTION.\n\n\nThat the Irish people have a wide reputation for wit and humour is a\nfact which will not be disputed. Irish humour is no recent growth, as\nmay be seen by the folk-lore, the proverbs, and the other traditional\nmatter of the country. It is one of Ireland\u2019s ancient characteristics,\nas some of its untranslated early literature would conclusively prove.\nThe curious twelfth-century story of \u201cThe Vision of McConglinne\u201d is a\nsample of this early Celtic humour. As the melancholy side of older\nCeltic literature has been more often emphasised and referred to, it\nis usually thought that the most striking features of that literature\nis its sadness. The proverbs, some of which are very ancient, are\ncharacteristic enough to show that the early Irish were of a naturally\njoyous turn, as a primitive people should be, for sadness generally\ncomes with civilisation and knowledge; and the fragments of folk-lore\nthat have so far been rescued impress us with the idea that its\noriginators were homely, cheerful, and mirthful. The proverbs are so\nnumerous and excellent that a good collection of them would be very\nvaluable--yet to judge by Ray\u2019s large volume, devoted to those of\nmany nations, Ireland lacks wise sayings of this kind. He only quotes\nseven, some of which are wretched local phrases, and not Irish at\nall. The early humour of the Irish Celts is amusing in conception\nand in expression, and, when it is soured into satire, frequently of\nmarvellous power and efficacy.\n\nThose who possessed the gift of saying galling things were much\ndreaded, and it is not absolutely surprising that Aengus O\u2019Daly\nand other satirists met with a retribution from those whom they had\nrendered wild with rage. In the early native literature the Saxon\nof course came in for his share of ridicule and scorn; but there is\nmuch less of it than might have been fairly expected, and if the\nbards railed at the invader, they quite as often assailed their own\ncountrymen. One reason for the undoubted existence of a belief that\nthe old Celts had little or no humour is that the reading of Irish\nhistory suggests it, and people may perhaps be forgiven for presuming\nit to be impossible to preserve humour under the doleful circumstances\nrecorded by historians. And indeed if there was little to laugh at\neven before the English invasion, there was assuredly less after it.\nLife suddenly became tragic for the bards and the jesters. In place\nof the primitive amusements, the elementary pranks of the first ages,\nmore serious matters were forced upon their attention, but appearances\nnotwithstanding, the humorist thrived, and probably improved in the\ngloom overcasting the country; at any rate the innate good humour of\nthe Irish refused to be completely stifled or restricted. Personalities\nwere not the most popular subjects for ridicule, and the most detested\ncharacters, though often attacked in real earnest, were not the\nfavourite themes with the wits. Cromwell\u2019s name suggested a curse\nrather than a joke, and it is only your moderns--your Downeys and\nFrenches--who make a jest of him.\n\nIt being impossible to define humour or wit exactly, it is hardly wise\nto add another to the many failures attached to the attempt. But Irish\nhumour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative\nthan any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any\nother nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying\nof things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can\nput more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another\nrace. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish\nhumorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people\nare inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates,\nthe native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined\nwith precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much\nbuoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart.\nAn eminent French writer described humour as a fusion of smiles and\ntears, but clearly that defines only one kind, and there are many\nvarieties, almost as many, one might say, as there are humorists. The\ndistinguishing between wit and humour is not so simple a matter as it\nlooks, but one might hazard the opinion that while the one expresses\nindifference and irreverence, the other is redolent of feeling and\nsincerity. Humour and satire are extremes--the more barbed and keen\na shaft, the more malicious and likely to hurt, whereas the genuine\nquality of humour partakes of tenderness and gentleness. Sheridan is\nan admirable example of a wit, while Lover represents humour in its\nmost confiding aspect. There are intermediate kinds, however, and the\nmalice of Curran\u2019s repartees is not altogether akin to the rasping\npersonalities of \u201cFather Prout.\u201d Irish humour is mainly a store of\nmerriment pure and simple, without much personal taint, and does not\nprofess to be philosophical. Human follies or deformities are rarely\ntouched upon, and luckily Irish humorous writers do not attempt the\ndidactic. In political warfare, however, many bitter taunts are heard,\nand it is somewhat regrettable that Irish politics should have absorbed\nso great a part of Irish wit, and turned what might have been pleasant\nreading into a succession of biting sarcasms. The Irish political\nsatirists of the last and present centuries have often put themselves\nout of court by the ephemeral nature of their gibes no less than by the\nextra-ferocious tone they adopted. There is no denying the _verve_\nand point in the writings of Watty Cox, Dr. Brenan, William Norcott,\nand so on, but who can read them to-day with pleasure? Eaton Stannard\nBarrett\u2019s \u201cAll the Talents,\u201d after giving a nickname to a ministry,\ndestroyed it; it served its purpose, and would be out of place if\nresurrected and placed in a popular collection, where the student of\npolitical history--to whom alone it is interesting and amusing--will\nhardly meet with it. Consequently political satire finds no place\nin this work, and even T. D. Sullivan, who particularly excels in\npersonal and political squibs in verse, is shown only as the author\nof a prose sketch of more general application. Besides what has been\nwasted in this way, from a literary point of view, a good deal of the\nnative element of wit has been dissipated as soon as uttered. After\nfulfilling its mission in enlivening a journey or in circling the\nfestive board, it is forgotten and never appears in print. How many of\nLysaght\u2019s and Curran\u2019s best quips are passed beyond recall? It cannot\nbe that men like these obtained their great fame as wits on the few\nsample witticisms that have been preserved for us. Their literary\nremains are so scanty and inconsiderable, and their reputation so\nuniversal, that one can only suppose them to have been continuously\ncoining jokes and squandering them in every direction.\n\nIrish humour has been and is so prevalent, however, that in spite\nof many losses, there is abundant material for many volumes. It is\nimported into almost every incident and detail of Irish life--it\noverflows in the discussions of the local boards, is bandied about by\ncarmen (who have gained much undeserved repute among tourists), comes\ndown from the theatre galleries, is rife in the law courts, and chronic\nin the clubs, at the bar-dinners, and wherever there is dulness to be\nexorcised. Jokes being really as plentiful as blackberries, no one\ncares to hoard so common a product. A proof of the contempt into which\nthe possession of wit or humour has fallen may be observed in the fact\nthat no professedly comic paper has been able to survive for long the\nindifference of the Irish public. There have been some good ones in\nDublin--notably, _Zoz_, _Zozimus_, _Pat_, and _The Jarvey_--but they\nhave pined away in a comparatively short space of time, the only note\nof pathos about their brief existence being the invariable obituary\nannouncement in the library catalogues--\u201cNo more published.\u201d But their\nlives, if short, were merry ones. It was not their fault if the people\ndid not require such aids to vivacity, being in general able to strike\nwit off the corners of any topic, no matter how unpromising it might\nappear. Naturally enough, the chief themes of the Irish humorist have\nbeen courting and drinking, with the occasional relief of a fight.\nThe amativeness of the poets is little short of marvellous. Men like\nLover (who has never been surpassed perhaps as a humorous love-poet)\nusually confined their humour in that groove; others, like Maginn,\nkept religiously to the tradition that liquor is the chief attraction\nin life, and the only possible theme for a wit after exhausting his\npleasantries about persons. Maginn, however, was very much in earnest\nand did not respect the tradition simply because it was one, but solely\non account of his belief in its wisdom. There can be no question,\nit seems to me, of Ireland\u2019s supremacy in the literature devoted to\nBacchus. It is another affair, of course, whether any credit attaches\nto the distinction. All the bards were not so fierce as Maginn in their\nlikes and dislikes when the liquor was on the table. It may indeed be\nsaid of them in justice that their enthusiasm for the god of wine was\noften enough mere boastfulness. It is difficult to believe Tom Moore in\nhis raptures about the joys of the bowl. He was no roysterer, and there\nis wanting in his Bacchanalian effusions, as in others of his light and\ngraceful school, that reckless _abandon_ of the more bibulous school.\nA glance at the lives of the Irish poets shows that a goodly number\nof them lived up to their professions. The glorification of the joys\nof the bottle by so many of our poets, their implication that from no\nother source is genius to be drawn, suggests that the Irish inclination\nto wit was induced by drinking long and deep. Sallies flowed therefrom,\nand the taciturn man without an idea developed under the genial\ninfluence into a delightful conversationalist. Yet as the professional\nhumorist is often pictured as a very gloomy personage, gnawed by\ncare and tortured by remorse, his pleasantries probably strike more\nin consequence of their vivid contrast to his dismal appearance. But\nto return to the bards\u2019 love of liquor. One and all declare of the\nbrown jug that \u201cthere\u2019s inspiration in its foaming brim,\u201d and what\nmore natural than that they should devote the result to eulogy of the\nsource. It may be somewhat consoling to reflect that often they were\nless reckless than they would have us believe. Something else besides\npoetic inspiration comes from the bowl, which, after all, only brings\nout the natural qualities.\n\nAs a rule, Irish poets have not extracted a pessimistic philosophy\nfrom liquor; they are \u201celevated,\u201d not depressed, and do not deem it\nessential to the production of a poem that its author should be a cynic\nor an evil prophet. One of the best attributes of Irish poetry is its\nconstant expression of the natural emotions. Previous to the close of\nthe seventeenth century, it is said, drunkenness was not suggested by\nthe poets as common in Ireland--the popularity of Bacchanalian songs\nsince that date seems to prove that the vice soon became a virtue.\nMaginn is the noisiest of modern revellers, and easily roars the others\ndown.\n\nNot a small portion of the humour of Ireland is the unconscious variety\nin the half-educated local poets. Sometimes real wit struggles for\nadequate expression in English with ludicrous and unlooked-for results.\nA goodly number of the street ballads are very comic in description,\nphraseology, or vituperation, and \u201cNell Flaherty\u2019s Drake\u201d may be\ntaken as a fair specimen of the latter class. Occasionally there is\ncoarseness, usually absent from genuine Irish songs; sometimes a\nghastly sort of _grotesquerie_, as in \u201cThe Night before Larry was\nStretched.\u201d Only a few examples of such are necessary to form an idea\nof the whole. Maginn\u2019s great service in exposing the true character of\nthe wretched rubbish often palmed off on the English public as Irish\nsongs deserves to be noticed here. He proved most conclusively that\nthe stuff thus styled Irish, with its unutterable refrains of the\n\u201cWhack Bubbaboo\u201d kind, was of undoubted English origin, topography,\nphraseology, rhymes, and everything else being utterly un-Irish. The\ninternal evidence alone convicts their authors. No Irishman rhymes\n_O\u2019Reilly_ to _bailie_, for instance, and certainly he would never\nintroduce a priest named \u201cFather Quipes\u201d into a song, even if driven\nto desperation for rhymes to \u201cswipes.\u201d Any compiler who gives a place\nin a collection of Irish songs to such trash as \u201cLooney Mac*-twolter,\u201d\n\u201cDennis Bulgruddery,\u201d or any other of the rather numerous effusions of\ntheir kind, with their Gulliverian nomenclature and their burlesque\nof Irish manners, is an accomplice in the crime of their authors. In\nthis connection it may be pointed out that not only in songs, but in\nmany stories and other writings purporting to be Irish, the phraseology\nis anything but Irish. Irishmen do not, and never did, speak of their\nspiritual guardian as the _praste_. The Irishman never mispronounces\nthe sound of _ie_, and if he says _tay_ for tea and _mate_ for meat he\nis simply conforming to the old and correct English pronunciation, as\nmay be seen by consulting the older English poets, who always rhymed\n_sea_ with _day_, etc. To this hour, the original sound is preserved\nby English people in _great_ and _break_.\n\nTo leave the anonymous, the hybrid, and the spurious, it will be well\nto consider the continuity of the humour of Ireland. The long line of\nhumorous writers who have appeared in our literary history has never\nbeen broken, despite many intervals of tribulation. In Anglo-Irish\nliterature they commence practically with Farquhar, whose method of\ntreating the follies of fine ladies and \u201cmen of honour\u201d is anticipatory\nof that of the _Spectator_. Swift\u2019s irony, unsurpassable as it is, is\ncruel to excess, and has little that is Irish about it. A contemporary\nand countryman, Dean Smedley, said he was \u201calways in jest, but most\nso in prayer,\u201d but that is an exaggeration, for Swift was mostly in\ngrim earnest. The charge implies that many of his contemporaries, like\nseveral moderns, had a difficulty in satisfying themselves as to when\nhe joked and when he did not. Smedley is also responsible for another\npoem directed against Swift, which was posted upon the door of St.\nPatrick\u2019s, Dublin, when the great writer was appointed its Dean, and of\nwhich the following is the best stanza:--\n\n \u201cThis place he got by wit and rhyme,\n And many ways most odd,\n And might a bishop be in time,\n Did he believe in God.\u201d\n\nThe impassive and matter-of-fact way in which Swift, using the\ndeadliest of weapons, ridicule, reformed the abuses of his time,\ndeceived a good many. He never moved a muscle, and his wit shone by\ncontrast with his moody exterior as a lightning-flash illuminates a\ngloomy sky. It has that element of unexpectedness which goes far to\ndefine the nature of wit.\n\nReal drollery in Anglo-Irish literature seems to have begun with\nSteele. In the case of Steele there is rarely anything to offend\nmodern taste. His tenderness is akin to Goldsmith\u2019s, and the natural\nman is clearly visible in his writings. A direct contrast is seen\nin Sterne, who was more malicious and sly, full of unreality and\nmisplaced sentiment, and depending chiefly upon his constant supply of\n_doubles entendres_ and the morbid tastes of his readers. Writers\nlike Derrick and Bickerstaffe were hardly witty in the modern sense,\nbut rather in the original literal meaning of the term. There are\nmany wits, highly popular in their own day, who are no longer readable\nwith any marked degree of pleasure. Wit depends so largely upon the\nmanner of its delivery for the effect produced that the dramatists\nare not so numerously represented in this collection as might be\nexpected from the special fecundity and excellence of the Irish in\nthat branch of literature. To extract the wit or humour from some of\nthe eighteenth-century plays is no easy task. In men like Sheridan, it\nis superabundant, over-luxuriant, and easily detachable; but others,\nlike Kane O\u2019Hara, Hugh Kelly, William O\u2019Brien, James Kenney, and so on,\nwhose plays were famous at one time and are not yet forgotten, find no\nplace in this work on account of the difficulty of bringing the wit of\ntheir plays to a focus.\n\nThere never was a writer, perhaps, concerning whose merits there has\nbeen less dispute than Goldsmith. Sheridan, with all his brilliance,\nhas not been so fortunate. Lysaght and Millikin were and are both\ngreatly overrated as poets and wits, if we are to judge by the\nfragments they have left. Lysaght, however, must have been considered\na genuine wit, for we find a number of once popular songs wrongly\nattributed to him. He most unquestionably did not write \u201cThe Sprig\nof Shillelagh,\u201d \u201cDonnybrook Fair,\u201d \u201cThe Rakes of Mallow,\u201d or \u201cKitty\nof Coleraine,\u201d though they have all been put down as his. The first\ntwo were written by H. B. Code and Charles O\u2019Flaherty respectively.\nMillikin\u2019s fame is due to one of those literary accidents which now\nand then occur. Henry Luttrell in his verse had something of the\nsprightliness and point of Moore.\n\nVery few specimens of parody have been included in this collection.\nTwo extracts are here given from Eaton Stannard Barrett\u2019s burlesque\nromance, which ridiculed a school of writers whose mannerisms were\nonce very prevalent. Maginn was a much better parodist. He was a great\nhumorist in every way, and may be claimed as the earliest writer who\nshowed genuine rollicking Irish humour. \u201cDaniel O\u2019Rourke\u201d is here\ngiven to him for the first time, probably, in a collection; though it\nappeared in Crofton Croker\u2019s \u201cFairy Legends\u201d it was known to their\ncontemporaries as Maginn\u2019s. He could be both coarse and refined; his\nboisterous praise of the bottle was not a sham, but his occasional\napparent delight in savage personal criticism was really quite foreign\nto his character, as he was a most amiable man, much loved by those\nwho knew him. It was different with \u201cFather Prout,\u201d who was one of the\nvenomous order of wits, and certainly not a personal favourite with\nhis colleagues. His frequent and senseless attacks on O\u2019Connell and\nother men, dragged into all his essays, are blots on his work. His wit\nis too often merely abusive, like that of Dr. Kenealy, who, almost\nas learned as \u201cProut,\u201d was quite as unnecessarily bitter. It is from\nLover that we get the cream, not the curds of Irish humour. He is the\nIrish arch-humorist, and it is difficult to exaggerate the excellence\nof his lovesongs. Others may be more classical, more polished, more\nsubtle, but there is no writer more irresistible. Among his earlier\ncontemporaries Ettingsall was his nearest counterpart in one notable\nstory. It must not be forgotten, either, that \u201cDarby Doyle\u2019s Voyage\nto Quebec\u201d appeared in print before Lover\u2019s \u201cBarney O\u2019Reirdon.\u201d\nCarleton and Lever were admirable humorists, but only incidentally so,\nwhereas Lover was nothing if not a humorist before all. There are many\nexcellent comic passages in the novels of both, as also in one or two\nof Lefanu\u2019s works, and if it should be thought that proportionately\nthey are under-represented, it need only be pointed out that though a\nlarge volume might easily be made up of examples of their humour alone,\nother writers also have a good claim to a considerable amount of space.\nIt has been thought preferable to restrict the selections from such\nfamous novelists in order to give a place to no less admirable but much\nless familiar work.\n\nO\u2019Leary and the other Bacchanalians who came after Maginn were worthy\nfollowers of the school which devoted all its lyrical enthusiasm to\nthe praise of drink, while Marmion Savage showed rather the acid wit\nof Moore. Ferguson and Wade are better known by their verse than as\nhumorous storytellers. We find true Irish humour again in Kickham\nand Halpine. The Irish humorists of the present day hardly need any\nintroduction to the reader.\n\nThe treatment of sacred subjects by Irish wits is similar to that\nin most Catholic countries. St. Patrick is hardly regarded as a\nconventional saint by Irish humorists, and it is curious that St. Peter\nis accepted by the wits of all nationalities as a legitimate object\nof pleasantry. If, however, Irish writers occasionally seem to lack\nreverence for things which in their eyes are holy, \u201cit is only their\nfun,\u201d as Lamb would say. Only those who are in the closest intimacy\nwith sacred objects venture to treat them familiarly, and the Irish\npeasant often speaks in an offhand manner of that which is dearest to\nhim. Few nations could have produced such a harvest of humour under\nsuch depressing and unfavourable influences as Ireland has experienced.\nAnd it may be asserted with truth that many countries with far more\nreason for uninterrupted good-humour, with much less cause for sadness,\nwould be hard put to it to show an equally valuable contribution to the\nworld\u2019s lighter literature.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThough it has been sought to make this volume as comprehensive as\npossible, some familiar names will be missed; it is believed, however,\nthat it contains a thoroughly representative collection of humorous\nextracts. There are some undoubted humorists whose wit will not bear\ntransferring or transplanting, and it is as hard to convey their humour\nin an extract as it is to bottle a sunbeam. In others, the humour\nis beaten out too thin, and spread over too wide an area, to make\nselection satisfactory. The absence from this collection of any example\nof Mr. Oscar Wilde\u2019s characteristic wit is not the fault of the present\nwriter or the publishers. I have to thank nearly all the living authors\nrepresented in this collection for permission to use their writings,\nthe one or two exceptions being those whose writings are uncollected,\nand whom I could not reach; and I have also to express my indebtedness\nto Mr. Alfred Nutt for allowing me to quote from \u201cThe Vision of\nMcConglinne\u201d and Dr. Hyde\u2019s \u201cBeside the Fire\u201d; to Messrs. Ward & Downey\nfor the extract from Edmund Downey; to Messrs. James Duffy & Son for\nthe extract from Kickham; to Messrs. Routledge for poems by Lover;\netc. I am also, deeply obliged to Dr. Douglas Hyde, the eminent Irish\nscholar and folk-lorist, for copies of some of the earlier extracts,\nand to Messrs. F. A. Fahy and P. J. McCall for some later pieces. For\nthe proverbs I am chiefly indebted to Dr. Hyde, Mr. Fahy, Mr. T. J.\nFlannery, and Mr. Patrick O\u2019Leary.\n D. J. O\u2019DONOGHUE.\n\n\n\n\n THE HUMOUR OF IRELAND.\n\n\n\n\n _EXORCISING THE DEMON OF VORACITY._\n\n [Cathal MacFinguine, King of Munster, is possessed by a demon of\n gluttony that \u201cused to devour his rations with him to the ruin\n of the men of Munster during three half-years; and it is likely\n he would have ruined Ireland during another half-year.\u201d Anier\n MacConglinne, \u201ca famous scholar\u201d and satirist, undertakes to\n banish the demon, whom he entices out of Cathal by marvellous\n stories of food and feasting, etc., meanwhile keeping him\n fasting.]\n\n\nAnd he called for juicy old bacon, and tender corned-beef, and\nfull-fleshed wether, and honey in the comb, and English salt on a\nbeautiful polished dish of white silver, along with four perfectly\nstraight white hazel spits to support the joints. The viands which he\nenumerated were procured for him, and he fixed unspeakable huge pieces\non the spits. Then putting a linen apron about him below, and placing a\nflat linen cap on the crown of his head, he lighted a fair four-ridged,\nfour-apertured, four-cleft fire of ash-wood, without smoke, without\nfume, without sparks. He stuck a spit into each of the portions, and as\nquick was he about the spits and fire as a hind about her first fawn,\nor as a roe, or a swallow, or a bare spring wind in the flank of March.\nHe rubbed the honey and the salt into one piece after another. And big\nas the pieces were that were before the fire, there dropped not to\nthe ground out of theses four pieces as much as would quench a spark\nof a candle; but what there was of relish in them went into their very\ncentre.\n\nIt had been explained to Pich\u00e1n that the reason why the scholar had\ncome was to save Cathal. Now, when the pieces were ready, MacConglinne\ncried out, \u201cRopes and cords here!\u201d \u201cWhat is wanted with them?\u201d asked\nPich\u00e1n. Now that was a \u201cquestion beyond discretion\u201d for him, since\nit had been explained to him before; and hence is the old saying,\n\u201ca question beyond discretion.\u201d Ropes and cords were given to\nMacConglinne, and to those that were strongest of the warriors. They\nlaid hands upon Cathal, who was tied in this manner to the side of\nthe palace. Then MacConglinne came, and was a long time securing the\nropes with hooks and staples. And when this was ended, he came into\nthe house, with his four spits raised high on his back, and his white\nwide-spread cloak hanging behind, its two peaks round his neck, to the\nplace where Cathal was. And he stuck the spits into the bed before\nCathal\u2019s eyes, and sat himself down in his seat, with his two legs\ncrossed. Then taking his knife out of his girdle, he cut a bit off the\npiece that was nearest to him, and dipped it in the honey that was\non the aforesaid dish of white silver. \u201cHere\u2019s the first for a male\nbeast,\u201d said MacConglinne, putting the bit into his own mouth. (And\nfrom that day to this the old saying has remained.) He cut a morsel\nfrom the next piece, and dipping it in the honey, put it past Cathal\u2019s\nmouth into his own. \u201cCarve the food for us, son of learning!\u201d exclaimed\nCathal. \u201cI will do so,\u201d answered MacConglinne and cutting another bit\nof the nearest piece, and dipping it as before, he put it past Cathal\u2019s\nmouth into his own. \u201cHow long wilt thou carry this on, student?\u201d asked\nCathal. \u201cNo more henceforth,\u201d answered MacConglinne, \u201cfor, indeed,\nthou hast consumed such a quantity and variety of agreeable morsels,\nthat I shall eat the little that is there myself, and this will be\n\u2018food from mouth\u2019 for thee.\u201d (And that has been a proverb since.) Then\nCathal roared and bellowed, and commanded the killing of the scholar.\nBut that was not done for him. \u201cWell, Cathal,\u201d said MacConglinne, \u201ca\nvision has appeared to me, and I have heard that thou art good at\ninterpreting a dream.\u201d \u201cBy my God\u2019s doom!\u201d exclaimed Cathal, \u201cthough\nI should interpret the dreams of the men of the world, I would not\ninterpret thine.\u201d \u201cI vow,\u201d said MacConglinne, \u201ceven though thou dost\nnot interpret it, it shall be related in thy presence.\u201d He then began\nhis vision, and the way he related it was, whilst putting two morsels\nor three at a time past Cathal\u2019s mouth into his own--\n\n \u201cA vision I beheld last night:\n I sallied forth with two or three,\n When I saw a fair and well-filled house,\n In which there was great store of food.\n\n A lake of new milk I beheld\n In the midst of a fair plain.\n I saw a well-appointed house\n Thatched with butter.\n\n As I went all around it\n To view its arrangement:\n Puddings fresh-boiled,\n They were its thatch-rods.\n\n Its two soft door-posts of custard,\n Its da\u00efs of curd and butter,\n Beds of glorious lard,\n Many shields of thin-pressed cheese.\n\n Under the straps of these shields\n Were men of soft sweet-smooth cheese,\n Men who knew not to wound a Gael,\n Spears of old butter had each of them.\n\n A huge caldron full of _luabin_--\n (Methought I\u2019d try to tackle it)\n Boiled leafy kale, browny-white,\n A brimming vessel full of milk.\n\n A bacon-house of two-score ribs,\n A wattling of tripe--support of clans--\n Of every food pleasant to man,\n Meseemed the whole was gathered there.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n(_MacConglinne then narrates a fable concerning the land of\nO\u2019Early-Eating, etc._)\n\nThen in the harbour of the lake before me I saw a juicy little coracle\nof beef-fat, with its coating of tallow, with its thwarts of curds,\nwith its prow of lard, with its stern of butter, with its thole-pins of\nmarrow, with its oars of flitches of old boar in it. Indeed she was a\nsound craft in which we embarked. Then we rowed across the wide expanse\nof New-Milk Lake, through seas of broth, past river-mouths of mead,\nover swelling boisterous waves of butter-milk, by perpetual pools of\ngravy, past woods dewy with meat-juice, past springs of savoury lard,\nby islands of cheeses, by hard rocks of rich tallow, by headlands of\nold curds, along strands of dry-cheese, until we reached the firm level\nbeach between Butter-Mount and Milk-Lake and Curd-Point, at the mouth\nof the pass to the country of O\u2019Early-Eating, in front of the hermitage\nof the Wizard Doctor. Every oar we plied in New-Milk Lake would send\nits sea-sand of cheese-curds to the surface.... Marvellous, indeed, was\nthe hermitage in which I then found myself. Around it were seven score\nhundred smooth stakes of old bacon, and instead of the thorns above the\ntop of every long stake was fried juicy lard of choice well-fed boar,\nin expectation of a battle against the tribes of Butter-fat and Cheese\nthat were on New-Milk Lake, warring against the Wizard Doctor. There\nwas a gate of tallow to it, whereon was a bolt of sausage.\n\nLet an active, white-handed, sensible, joyous woman wait upon thee,\nwho must be of good repute.... Let this maiden give thee thy thrice\nnine morsels, O MacConglinne, each morsel of which shall be as big as\na heathfowl\u2019s egg. Those morsels then must be put in thy mouth with\na swinging jerk, and thine eyes must whirl about in thy skull whilst\nthou art eating them. The eight kinds of grain thou must not spare, O\nMacConglinne, wheresoever they are offered thee--viz., rye, wild-oats,\nbeare, buckwheat, wheat, barley, _fidbach_, oats. Take eight cakes\nof each fair grain of these, and eight condiments with every cake, and\neight sauces with each condiment; and let each morsel thou puttest in\nthy mouth be as big as a heron\u2019s egg. Away now to the smooth panikins\nof cheese-curds, O MacConglinne:\n\n to fresh pigs,\n to loins of fat,\n to boiled mutton,\n to the choice easily-discussed thing for which the hosts\n contend--the gullet of salted beef;\n to the dainty of the nobles, to mead;\n to the cure of chest-disease--old bacon;\n to the appetite of pottage--stale curds;\n to the fancy of an unmarried woman--new milk;\n to a queen\u2019s mash--carrots;\n to the danger awaiting a guest--ale;\n to a broken head--butter roll;\n to hand-upon-all--dry bread;\n to the pregnant thing of a hearth--cheese;\n to the bubble-burster--new ale;\n to the priest\u2019s fancy--juicy kale;\n to the treasure that is smoothest and sweetest of all food--white\n porridge;\n to the anchor--broth;\n to the double-looped twins--sheep\u2019s tripe;\n to the dues of a wall--sides (of bacon);\n to the bird of a cross--salt;\n to the entry of a gathering--sweet apples;\n to the pearls of a household--hen\u2019s eggs;\n to the glance of nakedness--kernels.\n\nWhen he had reckoned me up those many viands, he ordered me my drop of\ndrink. \u201cA tiny little measure for thee, MacConglinne, not too large,\nonly as much as twenty men will drink, on the top of those viands: of\nvery thick milk, of milk not too thick, of milk of long thickness,\nof milk of medium thickness, of yellow bubbling milk, the swallowing\nof which needs chewing, of the milk the snoring bleat of a ram as it\nrushes down the gorge, so that the first draught says to the last\ndraught, \u2018I vow, thou mangy cur, before the Creator, if thou comest\ndown I\u2019ll go up, for there is no room for the doghood of the pair of us\nin this treasure-house.\u2019 ...\u201d\n\nAt the pleasure of the recital and the recounting of those many\npleasant viands in the king\u2019s presence, the lawless beast that abode in\nthe inner bowels of Cathal MacFinguine came forth, until it was licking\nits lips outside his head. The scholar had a large fire beside him in\nthe house. Each of the pieces was put in order to the fire, and then\none after the other to the lips of the king. One time, when one of\nthe pieces was put to the king\u2019s mouth, the son of malediction darted\nforth, fixed his two claws in the piece that was in the student\u2019s hand,\nand, taking it with him across the hearth to the other side, bore it\nbelow the caldron that was on the other side of the fire. And the\ncaldron was overturned on him.\n\n _From an Irish manuscript of the 12th century,\n translated by Kuno Meyer._\n\n\n\n\n _THE ROMAN EARL._\n\n\n No man\u2019s trust let woman claim,\n Not the same as men are they;\n Let the wife withdraw her face\n When ye place the man in clay.\n\n Once there was in Rome an earl,\n Cups of pearl held his ale.\n Of this wealthy earl\u2019s mate\n Men relate a famous tale.\n\n For it chanced that of a day,\n As they lay at ease reclined,\n He in jest pretends to die,\n Thus to try her secret mind.\n\n \u201cOch, ochone! if you should die,\n Never I should be myself,\n To the poor of God I\u2019d give\n All my living, lands and pelf.\n\n \u201cThen in satin stiff with gold\n I should fold thy fair limbs still,\n Laying thee in gorgeous tomb\u201d--\n Said the woman bent on ill.\n\n Soon the earl as if in death\n Yielded up his breath to try her;\n Not one promise kept his spouse\n Of the vows made glibly by her.\n\n Jerked into a coffin hard\n With a yard of canvas coarse,--\n To his hips it did not come--\n To the tomb they drove the corse.\n\n Bravely dressed was she that day,\n On her way to mass and grave--\n To God\u2019s church and needy men\n Not one penny piece she gave.\n\n Up he starts, the coffined man,\n Calls upon his wife aloud,\n \u201cWhy am I thus thrust away\n Almost naked, with no shroud?\u201d\n\n Then as women will when caught\n In a fault, with ready wit,\n Answered she upon the wing--\n Not one thing would she admit.\n\n \u201cWinding sheets are out of date,\n All men state it--clad like this,\n When the judgment trump shall sound\n You can bound to God and bliss.\n\n \u201cWhen in shrouds they trip and stumble,\n You\u2019ll be nimble then as erst,\n Hence I shaped thee this short vest;\n You\u2019ll run best and come in first.\u201d\n\n Trust not to a woman\u2019s faith,\n \u2019Tis a breath, a broken stem,\n Few whom they do not deceive;\n Let him grieve who trusts to them.\n\n Though full her house of linen web,\n And sheets of thread spun full and fair--\n A warning let it be to us--\n She left her husband naked there.\n\n Spake the prudent earl: \u201cIn sooth,\n Woman\u2019s truth you here behold,\n Now let each his coffin buy\n Ere his wife shall get his gold.\n\n \u201cWhen Death wrestles for his life,\n Let his wife not hear him moan,\n Great though be his pain and fear,\n Let her hear nor sigh nor groan.\u201d\n\n _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde from an\n old Irish manuscript._\n\n\n\n\n _THE FELLOW IN THE GOAT-SKIN._\n\n\nThere was a poor widow living down there near the Iron Forge when the\ncountry was all covered with forests, and you might walk on the tops\nof trees from Carnew to the Lady\u2019s Island, and she had one boy. She\nwas very poor, as I said before, and was not able to buy clothes for\nher son. So when she was going out she fixed him snug and combustible\nin the ash-pit, and piled the warm ashes about him. The boy knew no\nbetter, and was as happy as the day was long; and he was happier still\nwhen a neighbour gave his mother a kid to keep him company when\nherself was abroad. The kid and the lad played like two may-boys; and\nwhen she was old enough to give milk, wasn\u2019t it a godsend to the little\nfamily? You won\u2019t prevent the boy from growing up into a young man, but\nnot a screed of clothes had he then no more than when he was a gorsoon.\n\nOne day as he was sitting comfortably in his pew he heard poor Jin\nbleating outside so dismally. It was only one step for him to the door,\nanother to the middle of the road, and another to the gap going into\nthe wood; and there he saw a pack of deer hounds tearing the life out\nof his poor goat. He snatched a _rampike_ out of the gap, was up\nwith the dogs while a cat would be licking her ear, and in two shakes\nhe made _smithereens_ of the whole bilin\u2019 of them. The hunters\nspurred their horses to ride him down, but he ran at them with the\nterrible club, roaring with rage and grief; and horses and men were out\nof sight before he could wink. He then went back, crying, to the poor\ngoat. Her tongue was hanging out and her legs quivering, and after she\nstrove to lift her head and lick his hand, she lay down cold and dead.\nHe lifted the body and carried it into the cabin, and _pullilued_\nover it till he fell asleep out of weariness; and then a butcher, that\ncame in with other neighbours to pity him, took away the body and\ndressed the skin so smooth, so soft, and fastened two thongs to two of\nthe corners. When the boy\u2019s grief was a little mollified, the neighbour\nstepped in and fastened the nice skin round his body. It fell to his\nknees, and the head skin was in front like a Highlander\u2019s pocket. He\nwas so proud of his new dress that he walked out with his head touching\nthe sky, and up and down the town with him two or three times. \u201cOh,\ndear!\u201d says the people, standing at their doors and admiring the great\nbig boy, \u201clook at the _Gilla na Chreckan Gour_\u201d (_Giolla na\nChroiceann Gobhair_--the fellow in the goat-skin), and that name\nremained on him till he went into his coffin. But pride and fine dress\nwon\u2019t make the pot boil. So his mother says to him next morning, \u201cTom,\u201d\nsays she, for that was his real name, \u201cyou\u2019re idle long enough; so now\nthat you are well clad, and needn\u2019t be ashamed to appear before the\nneighbours, take that rope and bring in a special good _bresna_\n(fagot) of rotten boughs from the forest.\u201d \u201cNever say it twice,\u201d says\nGilla, and off he set into the heart of the wood. He broke off and\ngathered up a great big fagot, and was tying it, when he heard a roar\nthat was enough to split an oak, and up walks a giant a foot taller\nthan himself; and he was a foot taller than the tallest man you\u2019d see\nin a fair.\n\n\u201cWhat brings you here, you vagabone,\u201d says the giant, says he,\n\u201cthrespassin\u2019 in my demesne and stealin\u2019 my fire-wood?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m doin\u2019 no\nharm,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cbut clearin\u2019 your wood, if it is your wood, of\nrotten boughs.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll let you see the harm you\u2019re doin\u2019,\u201d says the\ngiant, and with that he made a blow at Gilla that would have felled\nan ox. \u201cIs that the way you show civility to your neighbours?\u201d says\nthe other, leaping out of the way of the club; \u201chere\u2019s at you,\u201d and\nhe leaped in and caught the giant by the body, and gave him such a\nheave that his head came within an inch of the ground. But he was as\nstrong as Goliath, and worked up, and gave Gilla another heave equal\nto the one he got himself. So they held at it, tripping, squeezing,\nand twisting, and the hard ground became a bog under their feet, and\nthe bog became like the hard road. At last Gilla gave the giant a\ngreat twist, got his right leg behind _his_ right leg, and flung\nhim headlong again the root of an oak tree. He caught up the club\nfrom where the giant let it fall at the beginning of the scrimmage,\nand said to him, \u201cI am goin\u2019 to knock out your brains; what have you\nto say again it?\u201d \u201cOh, nothin\u2019 at all! But if you spare my life, I\u2019ll\ngive you a flute that, whenever you play on it, will set your greatest\nenemies a-dancing, and they won\u2019t have power to lay their hands on\nyou, if they were as mad as march hares to kill you.\u201d \u201cLet us have it,\u201d\nsays Gilla, \u201cand take yourself out of that.\u201d So the giant handed him\nthe flute out of his oxter-pocket, and home went Gilla as proud as a\npaycock, with his fagot on his back and his flute stuck in it.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cTHE GIANT HANDED HIM THE FLUTE.\u201d]\n\nIn three days\u2019 time he went to get another fagot; and this day he was\nattacked by a brother of the same giant; and whatever trouble he had\nwith the other he had it twice with this one. He levelled him at last,\nand only gave him his life on being offered a bottle of soft green wax\nof a wonderful nature. If a person only rubbed it on the size of a\ncrown-piece on his body, fire, nor iron, nor any sharp thing could do\nhim the least harm for a year and a day after. Home went Gilla with his\nbottle, and never stirred out for three days, for he was a little tired\nand bruised after his wrestling. The next fagot he went to gather he\nmet with the third brother, and if they hadn\u2019t the dreadful struggle,\nleave it till again! They held at it from noon till night, and then\nthe giant was forced to give in. What he gave for his life was a club\nthat he took away once from a hermit, and any one fighting with that\nclub in a just cause would never be conquered. If Gilla stayed at home\nthree days after the last struggle, he didn\u2019t stir for a week after\nthis. It was on a Monday morning he got up, and he heard a blowing of\nbugles and a terrible hullabulloo in the street. Himself and his mother\nran to the door, and there was a fine fat man on horseback, with a\njockey\u2019s cap on his head, and a quilt with six times the colours of the\nrainbow on it hanging over his shoulders. \u201cHear, all you good people,\u201d\nsays he, after another pull at his bugle-horn, \u201cthe King of Dublin\u2019s\ndaughter has not laughed for three years and a half, and her father\npromises her in marriage, and his crown after his death, to whoever\nmakes her laugh three times.\u201d \u201cAnd here\u2019s the boy,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cwill\nmake her do that, or know the reason why.\u201d If one was to count all the\nthreads in a coat, it would never come into the tailor\u2019s hands; and\nif I was to reckon all that Gilla\u2019s mother and her neighbours said to\nhim before he set out, and all the steps he took after he set out, I\u2019d\nnever have him as far as the gates of Dublin; but to Dublin he got at\nlast, as sure as fate. They were going to stop him at the gates, but he\ngave a curl of his club round his shoulder, and said he was coming to\nmake the princess laugh. So they laughed and let him pass; and maybe\nthe doors and windows were not crowded with women and children gazing\nafter the good-natured-looking young giant, with his long black hair\nfalling on his shoulders, and his goat-skin hanging from his waist to\nhis knee. There was a great crowd in the palace yard when he reached\nthere, and ever so many of them playing all sorts of tricks to get\na laugh from the princess; but not a smile, even, could be got from\nher. \u201cWhat is your business?\u201d said the king, \u201cand where do you come\nfrom?\u201d \u201cI come, my liege,\u201d said Gilla, \u201cfrom the country of the \u2018Yellow\nBellies,\u2019[1] and my business is to make the princess, God bless her!\ngive three hearty laughs.\u201d \u201cGod enable you!\u201d said the king. But an\nugly, cantankerous fellow near the king, with a white face and red hair\non him, put in his spoon, and says he to Gilla, \u201cMy fine fellow, before\nany one is allowed to strive for the princess, he is expected to show\nhimself a man at all sorts of matches with the champions of the court.\u201d\n\u201cNothing will give me greater pleasure,\u201d says Gilla. So he laid his\nclub and spit in his fists, and a brave sturdy Galloglach came up and\ntook him by the shoulder and elbow. If he did, he didn\u2019t keep his hold\nlong; Gilla levelled him while you\u2019d wink, and then came another and\nanother till two score were pitched on their heads.\n\nWell, no one gripped him the second time; but at last all were so mad\nthat they stopped rubbing their heads and hips and shoulders, and made\nat Gilla in a body. The princess was looking very much pleased at\nGilla all the time, but now she cried out to her father to stop the\nattack. The white-faced fellow said something in the king\u2019s ear and\nnot a budge did he make. But Gilla didn\u2019t let himself be flurried. He\ntook up his _kippeen_ (cudgel or club), and gave this fellow a\ntap on his left ear, and that fellow a tap on his right ear, and the\nother a crack on the ridge pole of his head; and maybe it wasn\u2019t a\npurty spectacle to see every soul of two score of them tumbling over\nand hether, their heads in the dust and their heels in the air, and\nthey roaring \u201cMurdher\u201d at the _ling_ of their life. But the best\nof it was that the princess, when she saw the confusion, gave a laugh\nlike the ring of silver on a stone, so sweet and so loud that all the\ncourt heard it; and Gilla struck his club butt-end on the ground, and\nsays he, \u201cKing of Dublin, I have won half of your daughter.\u201d The face\nof Red-head turned from white to yellow, but no one minded him, and\nthe king invited Gilla to dine with himself and the princess and all\nthe royal family. So that day passed, and while they were at breakfast\nnext morning Red-head reminded the king that he had nothing to do now\nbut to send the new champion to kill the wild beast that was murdering\nevery one that attempted to go a hen\u2019s race beyond the walls. The king\ndid not say a word one way or the other; but the princess said it was\nnot right nor kind to send a stranger out to his certain death, for no\none ever escaped the wild beast if it could get near them. \u201cI\u2019ll make\nthe trial,\u201d says Gilla; \u201cI\u2019d face twenty wild beasts to do any service\nto yourself or your subjects.\u201d So he inquired where the beast was to be\nfound, and White-face was only too ready to give him his directions.\nThe princess was sorrowful enough when she saw him setting out, but go\nhe must and would. After he was gone a mile beyond the gates he heard\na terrible roar in the wood and a great cracking of boughs, and out\npounced a terrible beast on him, with great long claws, and a big mouth\nopen to swallow him, club and all.\n\nWhen he was at the very last spring Gilla gave him a stroke on the\nnose; and crack! he was sprawling on his back in two seconds. Well,\nthat did not daunt him; he was up, and springing again at Gilla, and\nthis time the blow came on him between the two eyes. Down and up he was\nagain and again till his right ear, his left ear, his right shoulder,\nand left shoulder were black and blue. Then he sat on his hindquarters\nand looked very surprised at Gilla and his club. \u201cNow, my tight\nfellow,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cfollow your nose to Dublin gates. Do no harm to\nany one, and I\u2019ll do no harm to you.\u201d \u201cWaw! waw! waw!\u201d says the beast,\nwith his long teeth all stripped, and sparks flashing from his eyes;\nbut when he saw the club coming down on him he put his tail between his\nlegs and walked on. Now and then he\u2019d turn about and give a growl, but\na flourish of the club would soon set him on the straight road again.\nOh! if there wasn\u2019t racing and tearing through the streets, and roaring\nand bawling; but Gilla nor the beast ever drew rein till they came to\nthe palace yard. Well, if the people in the streets were frightened,\nthe people in the court were terrified. The king and his daughter were\nin a balcony, or something that way, and so were out of danger; but\nlord and gentleman, and officer, and soldier, as soon as they laid eye\non the beast, began to run into passages and halls; but those that\ngot in first shut the doors in their fright; and they that were left\nout did not know what to do, and the king cried out to Gilla to take\naway the frightful thing. Gilla at once took his flute out of his\ngoat-skin pocket and began to play, and every one in the court--beast\nand body--began to dance. There was the unfortunate beast obliged to\nstand on his hind legs and play heel and toe, while he shovelled about\nafter those that were next him, and he growling fearfully all the\ntime. The people, striving to keep out of his way, were still obliged\nto mind their steps, but that didn\u2019t prevent them from roaring out to\nGilla to free them from their tormentor. The beast kept a steady eye on\nRed-head, and was always sliding after him as well as the figures of\nthe dance would let him; and you may be sure the poor fellow\u2019s teeth\nwere not strong enough to keep his tongue quiet. Well, it was all a\nfearful thing to look at, but it was very comical, too; and as soon as\nthe princess saw that Gilla\u2019s power over the beast was strong enough to\nprevent him doing any hurt, and especially when she heard the roars of\nRed-head and looked at his dancing, she burst out laughing the second\ntime. \u201cNow, King of Dublin,\u201d said Gilla, \u201cI have won two halves of the\nprincess, and I hope it won\u2019t be long till the third half will fall to\nme.\u201d \u201cOh! for goodness\u2019 sake,\u201d said the king, \u201cnever mind halves or\nquarters--banish this vagabone beast to Bandon, or Halifax, or Lusk, or\nthe Red Say, and we\u2019ll see what is to come next.\u201d Gilla took his flute\nout of his mouth and the dancing stopped like shot The poor beast was\nthrown off his balance and fell on his side, and a good many of the\ndancers had a tumble at the same moment. Then said Gilla to the beast,\n\u201cYou see that street leading straight to the mountain; down that street\nwith you; don\u2019t let a hare catch you; and if you fall, don\u2019t wait to\nget up. And if I hear of you coming within a mile of castle or cabin\nwithin the four seas of Ireland I\u2019ll make an example of you; remember\nthe club.\u201d He had no need to give his orders twice. Before he was done\nspeaking the beast was half-way down the street like a frightened dog\nwith a kettle tied to his tail. He was once after seen in the Devil\u2019s\nGlen, in Wicklow, picking a bone, and that\u2019s all was ever heard of him.\n\nWell, that was work enough for one day, and the potatoes were just done\nin the big kitchen of the palace. I don\u2019t know what great people take\ninstead of stirabout and milk before they go to bed. Indeed, people\ndo be saying that some of them never leave the table from dinner to\nbedtime, but I don\u2019t believe it. Anyhow, they took dinner and supper\nand went to bed, everything in its own time, and rose in the morning\nwhen the sun was as high as the trees. So when they were at breakfast,\nRed-head, who wasn\u2019t at all agreeable to the match, says to the king,\nin Gilla\u2019s hearing: \u201cThe Danes, ill-luck be in their road! will be\nnear the city in a day or two; and it is said in an old prophecy book,\nthat if you could get the flail that\u2019s hanging on the couple under\nthe ridge pole of Hell, you could drive every enemy you have into the\nsea--Dane or divil. I\u2019m sure, sir, Gilla wouldn\u2019t have too much trouble\nin getting that flail; nothing seems too hot or too heavy for him!\u201d\n\u201cIf he goes,\u201d said the princess, \u201cit is against my wish and will.\u201d\n\u201cIf he goes,\u201d said the king, \u201cit is not by my order.\u201d \u201cGo I will,\u201d\nsaid Gilla, \u201cif any one shows me the way.\u201d There was an old gentleman\nwith a red nose on him sitting at the table, and says he, \u201cOh! I\u2019ll\nshow you the way; it lies down Cut Purse Row. You will know it by the\nsign of the \u2018Cat and Bagpipes\u2019 on one side, and the \u2018Ace of Spades\u2019\nstuck in the window opposite.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m off,\u201d says Gilla; \u201cpray all of\nyou for my safe return.\u201d He easily found the \u201cCat and Bagpipes\u201d and\nthe \u201cAce of Spades,\u201d and nothing further is said of him till he was\nknocking at Hell\u2019s Gate. It was opened by an old fellow with horns on\nhim seven feet long, and says he to Gilla, mighty politely, \u201cWhat is\nit you want here, sir?\u201d \u201cI am a great traveller,\u201d said Gilla, \u201cand\nwish to see every place worth seeing, inside and outside.\u201d \u201cOh! if\nthat\u2019s the case,\u201d says the porter, \u201cwalk in. Here, brothers, show\nthis gentleman-traveller all the curiosities of the place.\u201d With that\nthey all, big and little, locked and bolted every window and door, and\nstuffed every hole, till a midge itself couldn\u2019t find its way out;\nand then they surrounded Gilla with their spits, and pitchforks, and\n_sprongs_; and if they didn\u2019t whack and prod him, it\u2019s a wonder.\n\u201cGentlemen,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cthese are the tricks of clowns. Fairplay\nis bonny play; show yourselves gentlemen, if you have a good drop in\nyou. Hand me a weapon, and let us fight fair. There\u2019s an old flail on\nthat couple, it will do as well as another.\u201d \u201cOh, yes! the flail! the\nflail!\u201d cried they all; and some little imps climbed up the rafters,\npulled down the flail and handed it to Gilla, expecting to see his\nhands burned through the moment it touched them. They knew nothing of\nthe giant\u2019s balsam that Gilla rubbed on his hands as he was coming\nalong, but they soon knew and felt the strength of his arm, when he\nwas knocking them down like nine-pins, and thrashing them, arms, legs,\nand bodies, like so much oaten straw. \u201cOh! murdher! murdher!\u201d says\nthe big divil of all at last. \u201cStop your hand, and we\u2019ll give you\nanything in our power.\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cI\u2019ve seen all I want in\nyour habitation. I don\u2019t like the welcome I\u2019ve got, and will thank\nyou to open the gate.\u201d Oh! wasn\u2019t there twenty pair of legs tearing\nin a moment to let Gilla out. \u201cYou don\u2019t mean, I hope, to carry off\nthe flail?\u201d says the big fellow; \u201cit\u2019s very useful to us in winter.\u201d\n\u201cIt was the very thing that brought me here,\u201d says Gilla, \u201cto get it,\nand I won\u2019t leave without it; but if you look in the black pool of the\nLiffey at noon to-morrow, you\u2019ll find it there.\u201d Well, they were very\ndown in the mouth for the loss of the flail, but a second rib-roasting\nwasn\u2019t to be thought of. When they had him fairly locked out they put\nout their tongues at him through the bars, and shouted, \u201cAh! Gilla na\nChreckan Gour! wait till you\u2019re let in here so easy again,\u201d but he\nonly answered, \u201cYou\u2019ll let me in when I ask you.\u201d There was both joy\nand terror at court when they saw Gilla coming back with the terrible\nflail in his hand. \u201cNow,\u201d says every one, \u201cwe care little for the Danes\nand all kith and kin. But how did you coax the fellows down below to\ngive up the implement?\u201d So he told them as much as he chose, and was\nvery glad to see the welcome that was on the princess\u2019s face. Red-head\nthought it would be a fine thing to have the flail in his power. So he\ncrept over to where Gilla laid it aside after charging no one to touch\nit; but his hand did not come within a foot of it, when he thought\nhe was burned to the bone. He danced about, shook his arm, put his\nfist to his mouth, and roared out for water. \u201cCouldn\u2019t you mind what\nI said?\u201d says Gilla, \u201cand that wouldn\u2019t have happened.\u201d However, he\ntook Red-head\u2019s hand within his own two that had the ointment, and he\nwas freed from the burning at once. Well, the poor rogue looked so\nrelieved, and so ashamed, and so impudent at the same time, that the\nprincess joined in the laughing of all about. \u201cThree halves at last,\u201d\nsaid Gilla; \u201cnow, my liege,\u201d said he, \u201cI hope that after I give a good\nthrouncing to the Danes, you will fulfil your promise.\u201d \u201cThere are no\ntwo ways about that,\u201d said the king; \u201cDanes or no Danes, you may marry\nmy daughter to-morrow, if she makes no objection herself.\u201d Red-head,\nseeing by the princess\u2019s face that she wasn\u2019t a bit vexed at what her\nfather said, ran up to his room, thrust his head into a cupboard, and\nnearly roared his arm off, but the company downstairs did not seem to\nmiss him.\n\nEarly in the forenoon of next day a soldier came running in all haste\nfrom the bridge that crossed the Liffey, and said the Danes were coming\nin thousands from the north, all in brass armour, brass pots on their\nheads, and brass pot-lids on their arms, and that the yellow blaze\ncoming from their ranks was enough to blind a body. Out marched the\nking\u2019s troops with the king at their head, to hinder the Danes from\ngetting into the town over the bridge. First went Gilla, with his flail\nin one hand and his club in the other. He crossed the bridge, and when\nthe enemy were about ten perch away from him, he shouted out, \u201cThis\nflail belongs to the divil, and who has a better right to it than his\nchildren?\u201d So saying, he swung it round his head, and flung it with\nall his power at the front rank. It mowed down every man it met in its\ncourse, and when it cut through the whole column, and the space was\nclear before it, it sunk down, and flame and smoke flew up from the\nbreach it made in the ground. The soldiers at each side of the lane of\ndead men ran forward on Gilla, but as every one came within the sweep\nof his club he was dashed down on the bridge or into the river. On they\nrushed like a snowstorm, but they melted like the same snow falling\ninto a furnace. Gilla kept before the pile of the dead soldiers, but at\nlast his arms began to tire. Then the king and his men came over, and\nthe rest of the Danes were frightened and fled. Often was Gilla tired\nin his past life, but that was the greatest and tiresomest exploit he\never done. He lay on a settle-bed for three days; but if he did, hadn\u2019t\nhe the princess and all her maids of honour to wait on him, and pity\nhim, and give him gruel, and toast, and tay of all the colours under\nthe sun? Red-head did his best to stop the marriage, but once when he\nwas speaking to the king, one of the body-guard swore he\u2019d open his\nskull with his battle-axe if he dared open his mouth again about it. So\nmarried they were, and as strong as Gilla was, if ever his princess and\nhimself had a _scruting_ (dispute), I know who got the upper hand.\n\n _Kennedy\u2019s Fireside Stories of Ireland._\n\n\n\n\n _OFTEN-WHO-CAME._\n\n\nThere was once a man, and he had a handsome daughter, and every one was\nin love with her. There used to be two youths constantly coming to her,\ncourting her. One of them pleased her and the other did not. The man\nshe did not care for used often to come to her father\u2019s house to get\na sight of herself, and to be in her company, while the man she liked\nused not come but seldom. The father preferred she should marry the boy\nwho was constantly coming, and he made one day a big dinner and sent\nevery one an invitation. When every one was gathered he said to his\ndaughter, \u201cDrink a drink now,\u201d says he, \u201con the man you like best in\nthis company,\u201d for he thought she would drink to the man he liked best\nhimself. She lifted the glass in her hand and stood up and looked round\nher, and then said this _rann_:--\n\n \u201cI drink the good health of Often-Who-Came,\n Who often comes not I also must name,\n Who often comes not I often must blame\n That he comes not as often as Often-Who-Came!\u201d\n\nShe sat down when she had spoken this quatrain, and said no other word\nthat evening; but the youth Often-Who-Came did not come as far as her\nagain, for he understood he was not wanted, and she married the man of\nher own choice with her father\u2019s consent.\n\nI heard no more of them since.\n\n _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._\n\n\n\n\n _THE OLD CROW AND THE YOUNG CROW._\n\n\nThere was an old crow teaching a young crow one day, and he said to\nhim, \u201cNow, my son,\u201d says he, \u201clisten to the advice I\u2019m going to give\nyou. If you see a person coming near you and stooping, mind yourself,\nand be on your keeping; he\u2019s stooping for a stone to throw at you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut tell me,\u201d says the young crow, \u201cwhat should I do if he had a stone\nalready down in his pocket?\u201d\n\n\u201cMusha, go \u2019long out of that,\u201d says the old crow, \u201cyou\u2019ve learned\nenough; the devil another learning I\u2019m able to give you.\u201d\n\n _Translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde._\n\n\n\n\n _ROGER AND THE GREY MARE._\n\n\n Roger the miller came coorting of late\n A rich farmer\u2019s daughter called Katty by name.\n\n She has to her fortune goold, dimins, and rings;\n She has to her fortune fifty fine things;\n\n She has to her fortune a large plot of ground;\n She has to her fortune five hundred pounds.\n\n When dinner was over and all things laid down,\n It was a nice sight to see five hundred pounds.\n\n The sight of the money and beauty likewise\n Tickled his fancy and dazzled his eyes.\n\n \u201cAnd now, as your daughter is comely and fair,\n It\u2019s I that won\u2019t take her,\n It\u2019s I that won\u2019t take her,\n Without the grey mare.\u201d\n\n Instantly the money was out of his sight,\n And so was Miss Katty, his own heart\u2019s delight.\n\n Roger the miller was kicked out the doore,\n And Roger was tould not to come there no more.\n\n Roger pulled down his long yalla hair,\n Saying, \u201cwishing I never,\u201d\n And \u201cwishing I never\n Spoke of the grey mare.\u201d\n\n It was in twelve months after, as happened about,\n That Roger the miller saw his own true love.\n\n \u201cGood morrow, fair maid, or do you know me?\u201d\n \u201cGood morrow, kind sir, I do well,\u201d says she;\n\n \u201cA man of your complexion with long yalla hair,\n That wance came a-coorting,\n That wance came a-coorting\n Me father\u2019s grey mare.\u201d\n\n \u201cIt was not to coort the grey mare I came,\n But a nice handsome girl called Katty by name.\n\n \u201cI thought that her father would never dispute,\n In giving his daughter, the grey mare for boot,\n\n \u201cBefore he would lose such a beautiful son;\n It\u2019s then I was sorry,\n It\u2019s now I am sorry\n For what I have done.\u201d\n\n \u201cAs for your sorrow, I do value not,\n There is men in this town enough to be got.\n\n \u201cIf you had the grey mare you would marry me,\n But now you have nayther the grey mare nor me.\n\n \u201cThe price of the grey mare was never so great,\n So fare you well, Roger,\n So fare you well, Roger,\n Go murn[2] for Kate.\u201d\n\n _Traditional (taken down from a peasant by\n Dr. Douglas Hyde)._\n\n\n\n\n _WILL O\u2019 THE WISP._\n\n\nIn old times there was one Will Cooper, a blacksmith who lived in the\nparish of Loughile; he was a great lover of the bottle, and all that he\ncould make by his trade went to that use, so that his family was often\nin a starving condition. One day as he was musing in his shop alone\nafter a fit of drunkenness, there came to him a little old man, almost\nnaked and trembling with cold. \u201cMy good fellow,\u201d said he to Will, \u201cput\non some coals and make a fire, that I may get myself warmed.\u201d Will,\npitying the poor creature, did so, and likewise brought him something\nto eat, and told him, if he thought proper, he was welcome to stay\nall night. The old man thanked him kindly, and said he had farther\nto go; \u201cbut,\u201d says he, \u201cas you have been so kind to me, it is in my\npower to make you a recompense; make three wishes,\u201d says he, \u201cfor\nanything you desire most, and let it be what it will you shall obtain\nit immediately.\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d says Will, \u201csince that is the case, I wish\nthat any person who takes my sledge into their hand may never get\nfree of it till I please to take it from them. Secondly, I have an\narmed chair, and I wish that any person sitting down on the same may\nnever have power to rise until I please to take them off it. I likewise\nwish for the last,\u201d says Will, \u201cthat whatever money or gold I happen\nto put into my purse, no person may have power to take it out again\nbut myself.\u201d \u201cAh! unfortunate Will!\u201d cries the old man, \u201cwhy did not\nyou wish for Heaven?\u201d With that he went away from the shop, as Will\nthought, very pensive and melancholy, and never was heard of more. The\nold man\u2019s words opened Will\u2019s eyes; he saw it was in his power to do\nwell had he made a good use of the opportunity, and when he considered\nthat the wishes were not of the least use to him, he became worse every\nday, both in soul and body, and in a short time he was reduced to great\npoverty and distress.\n\nOne idle day as he was walking along through the fields he met the\ndevil in the appearance of a gentleman, who told him if he would go\nalong with him at the end of seven years, he should have anything he\ndesired during that time. Will, thinking that it was as bad with him\nas it could be, although he suspected it was the devil, for the love\nof rising in the world, made bargain to go with him at the end of the\nseven years, and requested that he would supply him with plenty of\nmoney for the present. Accordingly, Will had his desire, and dreading\nto be observed by his neighbours to get rich on a sudden, he removed\nto a distance from where he was then living. However, there was nobody\nin distress or in want of money but Will was always ready to relieve,\ninsomuch that in a short time he became noted, and went in that country\nby the name of Bill Money, in regard of the great sums he could always\ncommand. He then began to build houses, and before the seven years were\nexpired he had built a town, which, in imitation of the name he then\nhad, was called Ballymoney, and is to this day. However, to disguise\nthe business, and that nobody might suspect him having any dealings\nwith Satan, he still did something now and then at his trade. The seven\nyears being expired, he was making some article for a friend, when the\ndevil came into the shop in his former appearance. \u201cWell, Will,\u201d says\nhe, \u201care you ready to go with me now?\u201d \u201cI am,\u201d says Will, \u201cif I had the\njob finished; take that sledge,\u201d says he, \u201cand give me a blow or two,\nfor it is a friend that is to get it, and then I will go with you where\nyou please.\u201d The devil took the sledge, and they soon finished the job.\n\u201cNow,\u201d says Will, \u201cstay you here till I run to my friend with this, and\nI will not stay a minute.\u201d Will then went out and the devil stopped in\nthe shop till it was near night, but there was no sign of Will coming\nnear him, nor could he by any means get the sledge out of his hands.\nHe thought if he was once in his old abode, perhaps there might be\nsome of the smith trade in it who would disengage him of the sledge,\nbut all that were in hell could not get it out of his hand, so he had\nto retain the shape he was then in as long as the iron remained in his\nhand. The devil, seeing he could get nobody to do anything for him,\nwent in search of Will once more, but somehow or other he could not\nget near him for a month. At length he met him coming out of a tavern,\npretty drunk. \u201cWell, Will,\u201d says he, \u201cthat was a pretty trick you put\non me!\u201d \u201cFaith, no,\u201d says Will, \u201cit was you that tricked me, for when\nI came back to the shop you were away, and stole my sledge with you,\nso that I could not get a job done ever since.\u201d \u201cWell, Will,\u201d says\nSatan, \u201cI could not help taking the sledge, for I cannot get it out of\nmy hand; but if you take it from me I will give you seven years more\nbefore I ask you with me.\u201d Will readily took the sledge, and the devil\nparted from him well pleased that he had got rid of it. Will having now\nseven years to play upon, roved about through the town of Ballymoney,\ndrinking and sporting, and sometimes doing a little at his trade to\nblindfold the people; yet there was many suspected he had dealings with\nSatan, or he could not do half of what he had done.\n\nAt length the seven years were expired, and the devil came for him\nand found him sitting at the fire smoking, in his own house, where he\nkept his wonderful chair. \u201cCome, Will,\u201d says he, \u201care you ready to\ngo with me now?\u201d \u201cI am,\u201d says Will, \u201cif you sit down a little till I\nmake my will and settle everything among my family, and then I will go\nwith you wherever you please.\u201d So, setting the arm-chair to Satan, he\nsat down, and Will went into the chamber as if to settle his affairs;\nafter a little he came up again, bidding the devil come along, for he\nhad all things completed to his mind, and would ask to stay no longer.\nWhen Will went out the devil made an attempt to rise, but in vain; he\ncould not stir from the chair, nor even make the least motion one way\nor other, so he was as much confounded to think what was the matter, as\nwhen he was first cast into utter darkness. Will, knowing what would\noccur to Satan, stayed away a month, during which time he never became\nvisible in the chair to any of the family, nor do we hear that any one\nelse ever observed him at any time but Will himself. However, at the\nmonth\u2019s end Will, returning, pretended to be very much surprised that\nthe devil did not follow him. \u201cWhat,\u201d says Will, \u201ckept you here all\nthis time? I believe you are making a fool of me; but if you do not\ncome immediately I will have the bargain broken, and never go with you\nagain.\u201d \u201cI cannot help it,\u201d says Satan, \u201cfor all I can do I cannot stir\nfrom my seat, but if you could liberate me I will give you seven years\nmore before I call on you again.\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d says Will, \u201cI will do what\nI can.\u201d He then went to Satan and took him by the arm, and with the\ngreatest ease lifted him out of the chair and set him at liberty once\nmore. No sooner was Satan gone than Will was ready for his old trade\nagain; he sported and played, and drank of the best, his purse never\nfailing, although he sunk all the property and income he had in and\nabout Ballymoney long before; but he did not care, for he knew he could\nhave recourse to the purse that never would fail, as I told you before.\nHowever, an accident happened the same purse, that a penny would never\nstay in it afterwards, and Will became one of the poorest men to be\nfound. This was at the end of the seven years of his last bargain, when\nSatan came in quest of him again, but was so fearful of a new trick\nput upon him by Will that he durst not come near the house. At length\nhe met him in the fields, and would not give him time to bid as much\nas farewell to his wife and children, he was so much afraid of being\nimposed upon. Will had at last to go, and travelling along the road\nhe came to an inn, where many a good glass he had taken in his time.\n\u201cHere\u2019s a set of the best rogues,\u201d says Will, \u201cin Ireland; they cheated\nme many a time, and I will give all I possess could I put a trick upon\nthem.\u201d ... \u201cWell,\u201d says Satan, \u201cI do not care if we stop.\u201d \u201cBut,\u201d says\nWill, \u201cI have no money, and I cannot manage my scheme without it; but\nI will tell you what you can do-you can change yourself into a piece\nof gold; I will put you in my purse, and then you will see what a\nhand I will make for you and me both, before we are at our journey\u2019s\nend.\u201d Satan, ever willing to promote evil, consented to change himself\ninto gold, and when he had done so, Will put the piece into his purse\nand returned home. Satan, understanding that Will did not do as he\npretended, strove to deliver himself from confinement, but by the power\nof the purse he could never change himself from gold, as long as Will\npleased to keep him in it, and no other person, as I have told you\nbefore, had power to take anything out of it but himself. Will would go\nto drink from one ale-house to another, and would pretend to be drunk\nwhen he was not, where he would lay down his purse and bid the waiters\ntake what they pleased for the reckoning. Every person saw he had money\nplenty, yet all they could do they could never get one penny out of the\npurse, and he would get so drunk when they would give it back to him\nthat he would not seem to understand anything, and so would sneak away.\nIn this manner he cheated both town and country round, until Satan,\nweary of confinement, had recourse to a stratagem of his own, and\nchanged himself from pieces of gold into a solid bar or ingot of the\nsame metal, but could not get out of the purse.\n\nThis, however, put a great damp upon Will\u2019s trade, for when he had no\ncoin to show he could get nothing from anybody, and how to behave he\ndid not know. He took a notion that he would perhaps force him into\ncoin again, and accordingly brought him to an iron forge, where he had\nthe ingot battered, for the length of an hour, at a fearful rate; but\nall they could do they never changed it in the least, neither could\nthey injure the purse, for the quality of it became miraculous after\nhis wish, and the people swore the devil was surely in the purse, for\nthey never saw anything like it. They were compelled at last to give\nover, and Will returned home and went to bed, putting the purse under\nhis head. His wife was asleep, and the devil kept such a hissing,\npuffing, and blowing under the bolster that he soon awakened her, and\nshe, almost frightened out of her wits, awakened Will, telling him that\nthe devil was under his head. \u201cWell, if he be,\u201d says Will, \u201cI will take\nhim to the forge, where I assure you he will get a sound battering.\u201d\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d says Satan, \u201cI would rather be in hell than stay here\nconfined in this manner, and if you let me go I will never trouble you\nagain.\u201d \u201cWith all my heart,\u201d says Will; \u201con that head you shall have\nyour freedom,\u201d and opening the purse, gave Satan his liberty.\n\nWill was now free from all dread or fear of anything, and cared not\nwhat he did. But I forgot to mention that at the time Will wished\nnobody might take anything out of the purse, he wished he might never\nput his hand in it himself but he would find money--but after Satan\nbeing in it he found it empty ever after. By this unlucky accident,\nhe that had seen so much of the world for such a length of time was\nreduced to the most indigent state, and at length forced to beg his\nbread. In this miserable condition he spent many years until his glass\nwas run, and he had to pay that debt to nature which all creatures\nhave since the fall of Adam. However, his life was so ill-spent and\nhis actions so bad that it is recorded he could get no entrance to any\nplace of good after his decease, so that he was destined to follow\nhis own master. Coming to the gates of hell, he made a horrible noise\nto get in; then Satan bid the porter ask who it was that made such a\ndin, and not to admit him till he would let him know. The porter did\nso, and he bade him tell his master that he was his old friend, Will\nCooper, wanting to come to him once more. When Satan had heard who it\nwas he ordered the gates to be strongly guarded; \u201cfor if that villain\ngets in,\u201d says he, \u201cwe are all undone.\u201d Will pleaded the distress he\nwas in, that he could not get backward nor forward with the darkness\nhe was surrounded with, and having lost his guide, if Satan would not\nlet him in; and being loath to listen to the noise and confusion he\nwas making at the gate, Satan sent one of his servants to conduct him\nback to earth again, and particularly not to quit him until he left\nhim in Ireland. \u201cNow,\u201d says Satan to Will when he was going away, \u201cyou\nwere a trusty servant to me a long time; now you are going to earth\nagain, let me see you be busy, and gain all to me that you can; but\nremember how you served me when in the purse, and you shall never be\nout of darkness. I will give you a light in your hand to allure and\ndeceive the weary traveller, so that he may become a prey to us.\u201d So\nlighting a wisp, he gave it to Will, and he was conducted to earth,\nwhere he wanders from that day to this, under the title of _Will o\u2019\nthe Wisp_.\n\n _Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._\n\n\n\n\n _EPIGRAMS._\n\n\n THE CHURL AND HIS WINE.\n\n To thirst he\u2019ll never own,\n His wife\u2019s a stingy crone,\n A little bottle, half-filled, _mavrone_,\n He keeps locked tight in a corner lone!\n\n\n ON A SURLY PORTER.\n\n What a pity Hell\u2019s gates are not kept by O\u2019Flinn--\n The surly old dog would let nobody in.\n\n\n\n\n _RIDDLES._\n\n\n There\u2019s a garden that I ken\n Full of little gentlemen,\n Little caps of blue they wear,\n And green ribbons very fair.\n (_Flax._)\n\n\n I threw it up as white as snow,\n Like gold on a flag it fell below.\n (_Egg._)\n\n\n I ran and I got,\n I sat and I searched,\n If I could get it I would not bring it with me,\n As I got it not I brought it.\n (_A thorn in the foot._)\n\n\n From house to house he goes,\n A messenger small and slight,\n And whether it rains or snows\n He sleeps outside in the night.\n (_Boreen--lane or path._)\n\n\n On the top of the tree\n See the little man red,\n A stone in his belly,\n A cap on his head.\n (_Haw._)\n\n\n A bottomless barrel,\n It\u2019s shaped like a hive,\n It is filled full of flesh,\n And the flesh is alive.\n (_Tailor\u2019s thimble._)\n\n\n As I went through the garden\n I met my uncle Thady,\n I cut his head from off his neck\n And left his body \u201caisy.\u201d\n (_A head of cabbage._)\n\n\n Out in the field my daddy grows,\n Wearing two hundred suits of clothes.\n (_Ditto._)\n\n\n Snug in the corner I saw the lad lie,\n Fire in his heart and a cork in his eye.\n (_Bottle of whisky._)\n\n\n \u2019Tis round as dish was ever known,\n And white as snow the look of it,\n \u2019Tis food and life of all mankind,\n Yet no man e\u2019er partook of it.\n (_Breast-milk._)\n\n\n MY daddy on the warm shelf\n Talking, talking to himself.\n (_Pot on the hob, simmering._)\n\n\n Up in the loft the round man lies,\n Looking through two hundred eyes.\n (_A sieve._)\n\n\n Out she goes and the priest\u2019s dinner with her.\n (_Hen with an egg._)\n\n _Translated by Dr. Hyde and F. A. Fahy._\n\n\n\n\n _DONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS._\n\n\nHudden and Dudden and Donald O\u2019Nery were near neighbours in the barony\nof Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former,\nenvying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his\nbullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured,\nthat going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands,\nwhich they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock\nkilled, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his\nshoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it,\nto dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a\nmagpie flew on the top of the hide and began picking it, chattering\nall the time. The bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human\nvoice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying,\nput round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it,\nhe put it under his great-coat, and so went on to the town. Having\nsold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the\nlandlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it\nchatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. \u201cWhat is\nthat I hear?\u201d said she to Donald; \u201cI think it is talk, and yet I do\nnot understand.\u201d \u201cIndeed,\u201d said Donald, \u201cit is a bird I have that\ntells me everything, and I always carry it with me to know when there\nis any danger. Faith,\u201d says he, \u201cit says you have far better liquor\nthan you are giving me.\u201d \u201cThat is strange,\u201d said she, going to another\ncask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. \u201cI\nwill,\u201d said Donald, \u201cif I get enough for it.\u201d \u201cI will fill your hat\nwith silver if you leave it with me.\u201d Donald was glad to hear the news,\nand taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not\nbeen long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. \u201cMr.,\u201d said he,\n\u201cyou thought you did me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a\nbetter, for look here what I have got for the hide,\u201d showing them the\nhatful of silver; \u201cyou never saw such a demand for hides in your life\nas there is at present.\u201d Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their\nbullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their hides. On coming\nto the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get\na trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and\ncame home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had\na pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the\nkitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or perhaps kill him\nwhen asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed he left his\nold mother in his place and lay down in her bed, which was on the other\nside of the house; and taking the old woman for Donald, they choked her\nin her bed, but he making some noise they had to retreat and leave the\nmoney behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak\nDonald got his mother on his back and carried her to town. Stopping at\na well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for\na drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a\ndram. \u201cI wish,\u201d said he to a woman that stood near him, \u201cyou would tell\nmy mother to come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and\nshe is hard of hearing. If she does not observe you, give her a little\nshake and tell her that I want her.\u201d The woman called her several\ntimes, but she seemed to take no notice; at length she went to her and\nshook her by the arm, but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her\nhead into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in\ngreat surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened.\n\u201cOh, mercy,\u201d said he, \u201cwhat is this?\u201d He ran and pulled her out of the\nwell, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner\nthat you would imagine he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other\nhand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but\nshe imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman\u2019s death. The\ninhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make\nDonald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened\nin their place; and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than\nhe got for the magpie. They buried Donald\u2019s mother, and as soon as he\nsaw Hudden and Dudden he showed them the last purse of money he had\ngot. \u201cYou thought to kill me last night,\u201d said he, \u201cbut it was good for\nme it happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make\ngunpowder.\u201d\n\nThat very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next\nmorning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their\nburthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, \u201cWho will buy old\nwives for gunpowder?\u201d so that every one laughed at them, and the boys\nat last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and\nvowing revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit\nof him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast,\nand seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river\nat some distance. As they were going along the highway they raised a\nhare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the sack, ran\nafter her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their\nabsence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the\nsack, wondered greatly what could be the matter. \u201cWhat is the reason,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cthat you are singing, and you confined?\u201d \u201cOh, I am going to\nheaven,\u201d said Donald, \u201cand in a short time I expect to be free from\ntrouble.\u201d \u201cOh, dear,\u201d said the drover, \u201cwhat will I give you if you let\nme to your place?\u201d \u201cIndeed, I do not know,\u201d said he; \u201cit would take a\ngood sum.\u201d \u201cI have not much money,\u201d said the drover, \u201cbut I have twenty\nhead of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.\u201d\n\u201cWell,\u201d says Donald, \u201cI do not care if I should; loose the sack, and I\nwill come out.\u201d In a moment the drover liberated him and went into the\nsack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers, and left them in\nhis pasture.\n\nHudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the\nsack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the\nriver, and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched\nhome, intending to take immediate possession of Donald\u2019s property; but\nhow great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before\nthem, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none\nbefore. \u201cDonald,\u201d said they, \u201cwhat is all this? We thought you were\ndrowned, and yet you are here before us.\u201d \u201cAh,\u201d said he, \u201cif I had but\nhelp along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best\njob ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever\nwas seen is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage\nmore than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might\nget hundreds.\u201d They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald\naccordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up\na stone. \u201cNow,\u201d said he, \u201cwatch this,\u201d throwing it into the stream;\n\u201cthere is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want\nhelp you have nothing to do but call.\u201d Hudden, jumping in and sinking\nto the bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do\nthat are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. \u201cWhat is that he\nis saying now?\u201d says Dudden. \u201cFaith,\u201d says Donald, \u201che is calling for\nhelp; don\u2019t you hear him? Stand about,\u201d said he, running back, \u201ctill I\nleap in. I know how to do better than any of you.\u201d Dudden, to have the\nadvantage of him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with\nHudden. And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.\n\n _Hibernian Tales (a chap-book)._\n\n\n\n\n _THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS._\n\n\n O Woman of Three Cows, _agragh!_ don\u2019t let your tongue thus rattle!\n Oh, don\u2019t be saucy, don\u2019t be stiff, because you may have cattle.\n I have seen--and here\u2019s my hand to you, I only say what\u2019s true--\n A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.\n\n Good luck to you, don\u2019t scorn the poor, and don\u2019t be their despiser;\n For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser:\n And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows,\n Then don\u2019t be stiff, and don\u2019t be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!\n\n See where Momonia\u2019s heroes lie, proud Owen More\u2019s descendants--\n \u2019Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!\n If _they_ were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,\n Can _you_ be proud, can _you_ be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?\n\n The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;\n _Mavrone!_ for they were banished, with no hope of their returning;\n Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?\n Yet _you_ can give yourself those airs, O Woman of Three Cows!\n\n Oh, think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted--\n See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!\n He sleeps, the great O\u2019Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse--\n Then ask yourself, should _you_ be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!\n\n O\u2019Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in\n story--\n Think how their high achievements once made Erin\u2019s greatest glory;\n Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,\n And so, for all your pride, will you, O Woman of Three Cows!\n\n The O\u2019Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest,\n Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin\u2019s best and oldest;\n Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?\n Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!\n\n Your neighbour\u2019s poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,\n Because, _inagh_,[3] you\u2019ve got three cows, one more, I see, than\n _she_ has;\n That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows--\n But if you\u2019re strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!\n\n\n THE SUMMING-UP.\n\n Now, there you go! you still, of course, keep up your scornful\n bearing,\n And I\u2019m too poor to hinder you--but, by the cloak I\u2019m wearing,\n If I had but _four_ cows myself, even though you were my spouse,\n I\u2019d thrash you well, to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!\n\n _Translated by James Clarence Mangan._\n\n\n\n\n _IN PRAISE OF DIGRESSIONS._\n\n\nI have sometimes heard of an Iliad in a nut-shell, but it has been my\nfortune to have much oftener seen a nut-shell in an Iliad. There is\nno doubt that human life has received most wonderful advantages from\nboth, but to which of the two the world is chiefly indebted I shall\nleave among the curious as a problem worthy of their utmost inquiry.\nFor the invention of the latter I think the commonwealth of learning\nis chiefly obliged to the great modern improvement of digressions:\nthe late refinements in knowledge running parallel to those of diet\nin our nation, which, among men of a judicious taste, are dressed up\nin various compounds, consisting in soups and olios, fricassees and\nragouts.\n\nIt is true, there is a sort of morose, detracting, ill-bred people\nwho pretend utterly to disrelish these polite innovations; and as to\nthe similitude from diet, they allow the parallel, but are so bold to\npronounce the example itself a corruption and degeneracy of taste.\nThey tell us that the fashion of jumbling fifty things together in a\ndish was at first introduced in compliance to a depraved and debauched\nappetite, as well as to a crazy constitution; and to see a man hunting\nthrough an olio after the head and brains of a goose, a widgeon,\nor a woodcock, is a sign he wants a stomach and digestion for more\nsubstantial victuals. Further, they affirm that digressions in a book\nare like foreign troops in a state, which argue the nation to want a\nheart and hands of its own, and often either subdue the natives or\ndrive them into the most unfruitful corners.\n\nBut after all that can be objected by these supercilious censors,\nit is manifest the society of writers would quickly be reduced to a\nvery inconsiderable number if men were put upon making books with the\nfatal confinement of delivering nothing beyond what is to the purpose.\nIt is acknowledged that were the case the same among us as with the\nGreeks and Romans, when learning was in its cradle, to be reared and\nfed, and clothed by invention, it would be an easy task to fill up\nvolumes upon particular occasions, without further expatiating from the\nsubjects than by moderate excursions, helping to advance or clear the\nmain design. But with knowledge it has fared as with a numerous army\nencamped in a fruitful country, which, for a few days, maintains itself\nby the product of the soil it is on; till, provisions being spent, they\nare sent to forage many a mile, among friends or enemies, it matters\nnot. Meanwhile, the neighbouring fields, trampled and beaten down,\nbecome barren and dry, affording no sustenance but clouds of dust.\n\nThe whole course of things being thus entirely changed between us and\nthe ancients, and the moderns wisely sensible of it, we of this age\nhave discovered a shorter and more prudent method to become scholars\nand wits, without the fatigue of reading or of thinking. The most\naccomplished way of using books at present is twofold: either, first,\nto serve them as some men do lords, learn their titles exactly, and\nthen brag of their acquaintance; or, secondly, what is indeed the\nchoicer, the profounder, and politer method, to get a thorough insight\ninto the index, by which the whole book is governed, and turned like\nfishes by the tail. For to enter the palace of learning at the great\ngate requires an expense of time and forms; therefore men of much haste\nand little ceremony are content to get in by the back door. For the\narts are all in flying march, and therefore more easily subdued by\nattacking them in the rear. Thus physicians discover the state of the\nwhole body by consulting only what comes from behind. Thus men catch\nknowledge by throwing their wit into the posteriors of a book, as boys\ndo sparrows with flinging salt upon their tails. Thus human life is\nbest understood by the wise man\u2019s rule of regarding the end. Thus are\nthe sciences found, like Hercules\u2019 oxen, by tracing them backwards.\nThus are old sciences unravelled, like old stockings, by beginning at\nthe foot. Beside all this, the army of the sciences has been of late,\nwith a world of martial discipline, drawn into its close order, so that\na view or a muster may be taken of it with abundance of expedition. For\nthis great blessing we are wholly indebted to systems and abstracts in\nwhich the modern fathers of learning, like prudent usurers, spent their\nsweat for the ease of us their children. For labour is the seed of\nidleness, and it is the peculiar happiness of our noble age to gather\nthe fruit.\n\nNow, the method of growing wise, learned and sublime, having become so\nregular an affair, and so established in all its forms, the number of\nwriters must needs have increased accordingly, and to a pitch that has\nmade it absolutely necessary for them to interfere continually with\neach other. Besides, it is reckoned that there is not at this present\na sufficient quantity of new matter left in nature to furnish and adorn\nany one particular subject to the extent of a volume. This I am told by\na very skilful computer, who has given a full demonstration of it from\nrules of arithmetic.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBy these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a writer\ncapable of managing the profoundest and most universal subjects. For\nwhat though his head be empty, provided his commonplace book be full?\nand if you will bate him but the circumstances of method, and style,\nand grammar, and invention; allow him but the common privileges of\ntranscribing from others, and digressing from himself, as often as he\nshall see occasion; he will desire no more ingredients towards fitting\nup a treatise that shall make a very comely figure on a bookseller\u2019s\nshelf; there to be preserved neat and clean for a long eternity,\nadorned with the heraldry of its title fairly inscribed on a label;\nnever to be thumbed or greased by students, nor bound to everlasting\nchains of darkness in a library; but when the fulness of time is come,\nshall happily undergo the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the\nsky.\n\nWithout these allowances, how is it possible we modern wits should\never have an opportunity to introduce our collections, listed under\nso many thousand heads of a different nature; for want of which the\nlearned world would be deprived of infinite delight, as well as\ninstruction, and we ourselves buried beyond redress in an inglorious\nand undistinguished oblivion.\n\nFrom such elements as these I am alive to behold the day wherein the\ncorporation of authors can outvie all its brethren in the guild. A\nhappiness derived to us, with a great many others, from our Scythian\nancestors; among whom the number of pens was so infinite, that the\nGrecian eloquence had no other way of expressing it than by saying that\nin the regions far to the north it was hardly possible for a man to\ntravel, the very air was so replete with feathers.\n\n _Jonathan Swift_ (1667\u20131745).\n\n\n\n\n _A RHAPSODY ON POETRY._\n\n\n All human race would fain be wits,\n And millions miss for one who hits:\n Young\u2019s universal passion, Pride,\n Was never known to spread so wide.\n Say, Britain! could you ever boast,\n Three poets in an age at most?\n Our chilling climate hardly bears\n A sprig of bays in fifty years,\n While every fool his claim alleges,\n As if it grew in common hedges.\n What reason can there be assigned\n For this perverseness in the mind?\n Brutes find out where their talents lie:\n A bear will not attempt to fly:\n A foundered horse will oft debate\n Before he tries a five-barred gate:\n A dog by instinct turns aside,\n Who sees the ditch too deep and wide;\n But man we find the only creature\n Who, led by folly, combats Nature;\n Who, where she loudly cries \u201cForbear,\u201d\n With obstinacy fixes there,\n And where his genius least inclines,\n Absurdly bends his whole designs.\n Not empire to the rising sun,\n By valour, conduct, fortune, won:\n Not highest wisdom in debates,\n For framing laws to govern states:\n Not skill in sciences profound,\n So large to grasp the circle round,\n Such heavenly influence require\n As how to strike the Muse\u2019s lyre.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Poor starveling bard! how small thy gains!\n How unproportioned to thy pains!\n And here a simile comes pat in:\n A chicken takes a month to fatten,\n Tho\u2019 guests in less than half-an-hour\n Will more than half-a-score devour.\n So after toiling twenty days\n To earn a stock of pence and praise,\n Thy labours, grown the critic\u2019s prey,\n Are swallowed o\u2019er a dish of tea;\n Gone to be never heard of more,\n Gone where the chickens went before.\n How shall a new attempter learn\n Of different spirits to discern?\n And how distinguish which is which,\n The poet\u2019s vein or scribbling itch?\n Then hear an old experienced sinner\n Instructing thus a young beginner.\n Consult yourself, and if you find\n A powerful impulse urge your mind,\n Impartial judge within your breast,\n What subject you can manage best:\n Whether your genius most inclines\n To satire, praise, or hum\u2019rous lines;\n To elegies in mournful tone,\n Or prologue sent from hand unknown;\n Then rising with Aurora\u2019s light,\n The Muse invok\u2019d, sit down to write;\n Blot out, correct, insert, refine,\n Enlarge, diminish, interline;\n Be mindful, when invention fails,\n To scratch your head and bite your nails.\n Your poem finished, next your care\n Is needful to transcribe it fair:\n In modern wit all printed trash is\n Set off with num\u2019rous breaks--and dashes--\n To statesmen would you give a wipe\n You print it in _Italic_ type:\n When letters are in vulgar shapes,\n \u2019Tis ten to one the wit escapes;\n But when in CAPITALS exprest,\n The dullest reader smokes the jest;\n Or else perhaps he may invent\n A better than the poet meant,\n As learned commentators view\n In Homer more than Homer knew.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Be sure at Will\u2019s the foll\u2019wing day,\n Lie snug and hear what critics say,\n And if you find the general vogue\n Pronounces you a stupid rogue,\n Damns all your thoughts as low and little,\n Sit still, and swallow down your spittle:\n Be silent as a politician,\n For talking may beget suspicion;\n Or praise the judgment of the Town,\n And help yourself to run it down;--\n Give up your fond paternal pride,\n Nor argue on the weaker side:\n For poems read without a name\n We justly praise or justly blame;\n And critics have no partial views,\n Except they know whom they abuse;\n And since you ne\u2019er provoked their spite,\n Depend upon\u2019t, their judgment\u2019s right.\n But if you blab you are undone,\n Consider what a risk you run;\n You lose your credit all at once,\n The Town will mark you for a dunce;\n The vilest doggerel Grub Street sends\n Will pass for yours with foes and friends,\n And you must bear the whole disgrace,\n Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.\n Your secret kept, your poem sunk,\n And sent in quires to line a trunk,\n If still you be disposed to rhyme,\n Go try your hand a second time.\n Again you fail; yet safe\u2019s the word;\n Take courage, and attempt a third:\n But first with care employ your thoughts\n Where critics marked your former fau\u2019ts;\n The trivial turns, the borrow\u2019d wit,\n The similies that nothing fit;\n The cant which every fool repeats,\n Town-jests and coffee-house conceits;\n Descriptions tedious, flat and dry,\n And introduced the Lord knows why;\n Or where we find your fury set\n Against the harmless alphabet;\n On A\u2019s and B\u2019s your malice vent\n While readers wonder whom you meant;\n A public or a private robber,\n A statesman or a South Sea jobber;\n A pr-l-te, who no God believes;\n A p-m-t or den of thieves;\n A pickpurse at the bar or bench,\n A duchess or a suburb-wench;\n \u201cAn House of P--rs, a gaming crew,\n A griping ---- or a Jew.\u201d\n Or oft, when epithets you link\n In gaping lines to fill a chink,\n Like stepping-stones to save a stride\n In streets where kennels are too wide;\n Or like a heel-piece to support\n A cripple, with one leg too short;\n Or like a bridge that joins a marish\n To moorlands of a different parish.\n So have I seen ill-coupled hounds\n Drag diff\u2019rent ways in miry grounds;\n So geographers in Afric maps\n With savage pictures fill their gaps,\n And o\u2019er unhabitable downs\n Place elephants for want of towns.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Then, poet! if you mean to thrive,\n Employ your muse on kings alive,\n With prudence gath\u2019ring up a cluster\n Of all the virtues you can muster,\n Which, formed into a garland sweet,\n Lay humbly at your monarch\u2019s feet,\n Who, as the odours reach his throne,\n Will smile, and think them all his own:\n For law and gospel doth determine\n All virtues lodge in royal ermine;\n (I mean the oracles of both,\n Who shall depose it upon oath);\n Your garland, in the following reign,\n Change but the names, \u2019twill do again.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Hobbes clearly proves that ev\u2019ry creature\n Lives in a state of war by nature;\n The greater for the smaller watch,\n But meddle seldom with their match.\n A whale of mod\u2019rate size will draw\n A shoal of herrings in his maw;\n A fox with geese his belly crams;\n A wolf destroys a thousand lambs;\n But search among the rhyming race,\n The brave are worried by the base.\n If on Parnassus\u2019 top you sit,\n You rarely bite, are always bit.\n Each poet of inferior size\n On you shall rail and criticize,\n And strive to tear you limb from limb,\n While others do as much for him.\n The vermin only tease and pinch\n Their foes superior by an inch,\n So nat\u2019ralists observe a flea\n Have smaller fleas on him that prey,\n And these have smaller still to bite \u2019em,\n And so proceed _ad infinitum_.\n\n _Jonathan Swift._\n\n\n\n\n _LETTER FROM A LIAR._\n\n\nI shall, without any manner of preface or apology, acquaint you that\nI am, and ever have been from my youth upward, one of the greatest\nliars this island has produced. I have read all the moralists upon\nthe subject, but could never find any effect their discourses had\nupon me but to add to my misfortune by new thoughts and ideas, and\nmaking me more ready in my language, and capable of sometimes mixing\nseeming truths with my improbabilities. With this strong passion\ntowards falsehood in this kind there does not live an honester man or a\nsincerer friend; but my imagination runs away with me, and whatever\nis started, I have such a scene of adventures appear in an instant\nbefore me, that I cannot help uttering them, though, to my immediate\nconfusion, I cannot but know I am liable to be detected by the first\nman I meet.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cMY IMAGINATION RUNS AWAY WITH ME.\u201d]\n\nUpon occasion of the mention of the battle of Pultowa I could not\nforbear giving an account of a kinsman of mine, a young merchant, who\nwas bred at Moscow, that had too much mettle to attend books of entries\nand accounts when there was so active a scene in the country where he\nresided, and followed the Czar as a volunteer. This warm youth, born\nat the instant the thing was spoken of, was the man who unhorsed the\nSwedish general; he was the occasion that the Muscovites kept their\nfire in so soldier-like a manner, and brought up those troops which\nwere covered from the enemy at the beginning of the day; besides\nthis, he had at last the good fortune to be the man who took Count\nPiper. With all this fire I knew my cousin to be the civilest man in\nthe world. He never made any impertinent show of his valour, and then\nhe had an excellent genius for the world in every other kind. I had\nletters from him--here I felt in my pockets--that exactly spoke the\nCzar\u2019s character, which I knew perfectly well, and I could not forbear\nconcluding that I lay with his imperial majesty twice or thrice a week\nall the while he lodged at Deptford. What is worse than all this, it\nis impossible to speak to me but you give me some occasion of coming\nout with one lie or other that has neither wit, humour, prospect of\ninterest, nor any other motive that I can think of in nature. The\nother day, when one was commending an eminent and learned divine, what\noccasion had I to say, \u201cMethinks he would look more venerable if he\nwere not so fair a man\u201d? I remember the company smiled. I have seen the\ngentleman since, and he is coal black. I have intimations every day\nin my life that nobody believes me, yet I am never the better. I was\nsaying something the other day to an old friend at Will\u2019s coffee-house,\nand he made me no manner of answer, but told me that an acquaintance\nof Tully the orator, having two or three times together said to him,\nwithout receiving an answer, \u201cThat upon his honour he was but that\nvery month forty years of age,\u201d Tully answered, \u201cSurely you think me\nthe most incredulous man in the world, if I don\u2019t believe what you\nhave told me every day these ten years.\u201d The mischief of it is, I find\nmyself wonderfully inclined to have been present at every encounter\nthat is spoken of before me; this has led me into many inconveniences,\nbut indeed they have been the fewer because I am no ill-natured man,\nand never speak things to any man\u2019s disadvantage. I never directly\ndefame, but I do what is as bad in the consequence, for I have often\nmade a man say such and such a lively expression, who was born a mere\nelder brother. When one has said in my hearing, \u201cSuch a one is no\nwiser than he should be,\u201d I immediately have replied, \u201cNow, faith, I\ncan\u2019t see that; he said a very good thing to my lord such-a-one, upon\nsuch an occasion,\u201d and the like. Such an honest dolt as this has been\nwatched in every expression he uttered, upon my recommendation of him,\nand consequently been subject to the more ridicule. I once endeavoured\nto cure myself of this impertinent quality, and resolved to hold my\ntongue for seven days together; I did so, but then I had so many winks\nand contortions of my face upon what anybody else said that I found I\nonly forbore the expression, and that I still lied in my heart to every\nman I met with. You are to know one thing, which I believe you will\nsay is a pity, considering the use I should have made of it. I never\ntravelled in my life; but I do not know whether I could have spoken\nof any foreign country with more familiarity than I do at present, in\ncompany who are strangers too ... though I was never out of this town,\nand fifty miles about it.\n\nIt were endless to give you particulars of this kind, but I can assure\nyou, Mr. Spectator, there are about twenty or thirty of us in this town\n(I mean by this town the cities of London and Westminster); I say there\nare in town a sufficient number to make a society among ourselves; and\nsince we cannot be believed any longer, I beg of you to print this\nletter that we may meet together, and be under such regulation as there\nmay be no occasion for belief or confidence among us. If you think fit,\nwe might be called THE HISTORIANS, for liar is become a very\nharsh word.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBut, alas! whither am I running! While I complain, while I remonstrate\nto you, even all this is a lie, for there is no such person of quality,\nlover, soldier, or merchant, as I have now described, in the whole\nworld, that I know of. But I will catch myself once in my life, and\nin spite of nature speak one truth, to wit, that I am,--Your humble\nservant.\n\n _Sir Richard Steele_ (1672\u20131729).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cGOD BLESS YOU, SIR!\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n EPIGRAMS.\n\n\n ON A FAT MAN.\n\n When Fatty walks the street, the paviors cry,\n \u201cGod bless you, sir!\u201d and lay their rammers by.\n\n\n ON A STINGY BEAU.\n\n Curio\u2019s rich sideboard seldom sees the light;\n Clean is his kitchen, his spits are always bright;\n His knives and spoons, all ranged in even rows,\n No hands molest, or fingers discompose.\n A curious jack, hung up to please the eye,\n For ever still, whose flyers never fly;\n His plates unsullied, shining on the shelf,\n For Curio dresses nothing,--but himself.\n\n\n ON MARRIAGE.\n\n Cries Celia to a reverend dean,\n \u201cWhat reason can be given,\n Since marriage is a holy thing,\n That there are none in heaven?\u201d\n\n \u201cThere are no women,\u201d he reply\u2019d;\n She quick returns the jest;\n \u201cWomen there are, but I\u2019m afraid\n They cannot find a priest.\u201d\n\n _John Winstanley_ (1678\u20131750).\n\n\n\n\n _A FINE LADY._\n\n _A Lady\u2019s Apartment. Two Chambermaids enter._\n\n\n_First Chambermaid._ Are all things set in order? The toilette\nfixed, the bottles and combs put in form, and the chocolate ready?\n\n_2nd Cham._ \u2019Tis no greater matter whether they be right or not;\nfor right or wrong we shall be sure of our lecture. I wish for my part\nthat my time were out.\n\n_1st Cham._ Nay, \u2019tis a hundred to one but we may run away before\nour time be half expired, and she\u2019s worse this morning than ever. Here\nshe comes.\n\n LADY LUREWELL _enters_.\n\n_Lure._ Ay, there\u2019s a couple of you indeed! But how, how in the\nname of negligence could you two contrive to make a bed as mine was\nlast night; a wrinkle on one side, and a rumple on t\u2019other; the pillows\nawry, and the quilt askew. I did nothing but tumble about and fence\nwith the sheets all night along. Oh! my bones ache this morning as if\nI had lain all night on a pair of Dutch stairs.--Go, bring chocolate.\nAnd, d\u2019ye hear? be sure to stay an hour or two at least.--Well! these\nEnglish animals are so unpolished! I wish the persecution would rage a\nlittle harder, that we might have more of these French refugees among\nus.\n\n _The Maids enter with chocolate._\n\nThese wenches are gone to Smyrna for this chocolate---- And what made\nyou stay so long?\n\n_Cham._ I thought we did not stay at all, madam.\n\n_Lure._ Only an hour and a half by the slowest clock in\nChristendom--and such salvers and dishes too! The lard be merciful to\nme! what have I committed to be plagued with such animals? Where are my\nnew japan salvers? Broke, o\u2019 my conscience! all to pieces, I\u2019ll lay my\nlife on\u2019t.\n\n_Cham._ No, indeed, madam, but your husband----\n\n_Lure._ How! husband, impudence! I\u2019ll teach you manners. (_Gives\nher a box on the ear._) Husband! Is that your Welsh breeding? Ha\u2019n\u2019t\nthe Colonel a name of his own?\n\n_Cham._ Well, then, the Colonel. He used them this morning, and we\nha\u2019n\u2019t got them since.\n\n_Lure._ How! the Colonel use my things! How dare the Colonel\nuse any thing of mine? But his campaign education must be pardoned.\nAnd I warrant they were fisted about among his dirty _lev\u00e9e_\nof disbanded officers? Faugh! the very thoughts of them fellows,\nwith their eager looks, iron swords, tied-up wigs, and tucked in\ncravats, make me sick as death. Come, let me see. (_Goes to take the\nchocolate, and starts back._) Heavens protect me from such a sight!\nLord, girl! when did you wash your hands last? And have you been pawing\nme all this morning with them dirty fists of yours? (_Runs to the\nglass._) I must dress all over again. Go, take it away, I shall\nswoon else. Here, Mrs. Monster, call up my tailor; and d\u2019ye hear? you,\nMrs. Hobbyhorse, see if my company be come to cards yet.\n\n _The Tailor enters._\n\nOh, Mr. Remnant! I don\u2019t know what ails these stays you have made me;\nbut something is the matter, I don\u2019t like them.\n\n_Rem._ I am very sorry for that, madam. But what fault does your\nladyship find?\n\n_Lure._ I don\u2019t know where the fault lies; but, in short, I don\u2019t\nlike them; I can\u2019t tell how; the things are well enough made, but I\ndon\u2019t like them.\n\n_Rem._ Are they too wide, madam?\n\n_Lure._ No.\n\n_Rem._ Too straight, perhaps?\n\n_Lure._ Not at all! they fit me very well; but--lard bless me;\ncan\u2019t you tell where the fault lies?\n\n_Rem._ Why, truly, madam, I can\u2019t tell. But your ladyship, I\nthink, is a little too slender for the fashion.\n\n_Lure._ How! too slender for the fashion, say you?\n\n_Rem._ Yes, madam! there\u2019s no such thing as a good shape worn\namong the quality; you fine waists are clear out, madam.\n\n_Lure._ And why did not you plump up my stays to the fashionable\nsize?\n\n_Rem._ I made them to fit you, madam.\n\n_Lure._ Fit me! fit my monkey. What, d\u2019ye think I wear clothes\nto please myself! Fit me! fit the fashion, pray; no matter for me--I\nthought something was the matter, I wanted quality-air. Pray, Mr.\nRemnant, let me have a bulk of quality, a spreading counter. I do\nremember now, the ladies in the apartments, the birth-night, were most\nof them two yards about. Indeed, sir, if you contrive my things any\nmore with your scanty chambermaid\u2019s air, you shall work no more for me.\n\n_Rem._ I shall take care to please your ladyship for the future.\n[_Exit._\n\n _A Servant enters._\n\n_Serv._ Madam, my master desires----\n\n_Lure._ Hold, hold, fellow; for gad\u2019s sake, hold; if thou touch\nmy clothes with that tobacco breath of thine, I shall poison the whole\ndrawing-room. Stand at the door pray, and speak. (_Servant goes to\nthe door and speaks._)\n\n_Serv._ My master, madam, desires----\n\n_Lure._ Oh, hideous! Now the rascal bellows so loud that he tears\nmy head to pieces. Here, awkwardness, go take the booby\u2019s message, and\nbring it to me.\n\n (_Maid goes to the door, whispers, and returns._)\n\n_Cham._ My master desires to know how your ladyship rested last\nnight, and if you are pleased to admit of a visit this morning.\n\n_Lure._ Ay--why this is civil. \u2019Tis an insupportable toil though\nfor women of quality to model their husbands to good breeding.\n\n _George Farquhar_ (1678\u20131707).\n\n\n\n\n _THE BORROWER_.\n\n\n_Richmore._ You may keep the letter.\n\n_Young Wou\u2019d-be._ But why would you trust it with me? You know I\ncan\u2019t keep a secret that has any scandal in \u2019t.\n\n_Rich._ For that reason I communicate it. I know thou art a\nperfect Gazette, and will spread the news all over the town; for you\nmust understand that I am now besieging another, and I would have the\nfame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town may surrender the\nsooner.\n\n_Y. W._ But if the report of your cruelty goes along with that of\nyour valour, you\u2019ll find no garrison of any strength will open their\ngates to you.\n\n_Rich._ No, no; women are cowards, terror prevails upon them\nmore than clemency; my best pretence to my success with the fair is\nmy using them ill; \u2019tis turning their own guns upon them, and I have\nalways found it the most successful battery to assail one reputation by\nsacrificing another.\n\n_Y. W._ I could love thee for thy mischief, did I not envy thee\nfor thy success in it.\n\n_Rich._ You never attempt a woman of figure.\n\n_Y. W._ How can I? This confounded hump of mine is such a burden\nto my back that it presses me down here in the dirt and diseases\nof Covent Garden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst fortune! I\nam a younger brother, and yet cruelly deprived of my birthright,\na handsome person; seven thousand a year, in a direct line, would\nhave straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, in my present\ncircumstances, like a branch of another kind, grafted only upon the\nstock which makes me look so crooked.\n\n_Rich._ Come, come, \u2019tis no misfortune, your father is so as well\nas you.\n\n_Y. W._ Then why should not I be a lord as well as he? Had I the\nsame title to the deformity I could bear it.\n\n_Rich._ But how does my lord bear the absence of your twin-brother?\n\n_Y. W._ My twin-brother? Ay, \u2019twas his crowding me that spoiled my\nshape, and his coming half-an-hour before me that ruined my fortune. My\nfather expelled me from his house some two years ago, because I would\nhave persuaded him that my twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my\nportion, which was about fifteen hundred pounds, and I have spent two\nthousand of it already. As for my brother, he don\u2019t care a farthing for\nme.\n\n_Rich._ Why so, pray?\n\n_Y. W._ A very odd reason--because I hate him.\n\n_Rich._ How should he know that?\n\n_Y. W._ Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so.\n\n_Rich._ But did your actions ever express any malice to him?\n\n_Y. W._ Yes; I would fain have kept him company; but being aware\nof my kindness, he went abroad. He has travelled these five years, and\nI am told is a grave, sober fellow, and in danger of living a great\nwhile; all my hope is, that when he gets into his honour and estate\nthe nobility will soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. But\ncome, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the world, a brother before me\nand a hump behind me, and thou art still laying them in my way; let us\nassume an argument of less severity. Can\u2019st thou lend me a brace of\nhundred pounds?\n\n_Rich._ What would you do with them?\n\n_Y. W._ Do with them? There\u2019s a question indeed. Do you think I\nwould eat them?\n\n_Rich._ Yes, o\u2019 my troth would you, and drink them together. Look\n\u2019e, Mr. Wou\u2019d-be, whilst you kept well with your father, I could have\nventured to have lent you five guineas. But as the case stands, I can\nassure you I have lately paid off my sister\u2019s fortune, and----\n\n_Y. W._ Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you know I\ndon\u2019t use to take such things.\n\n_Rich._ Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you know I\ndon\u2019t use to give such things.\n\n_Y. W._ Sir, I\u2019ll pawn my honour.\n\n_Rich._ That\u2019s mortgaged already for more than it is worth; you\nhad better pawn your sword there, \u2019twill bring you forty shillings.\n\n_Y. W._ \u2019Sdeath, sir---- [_Takes his sword off the table._\n\n_Rich._ Hold, Mr. Wou\u2019dbe--suppose I put an end to your misfortunes all\nat once.\n\n_Y. W._ How, sir?\n\n_Rich._ Why, go to a magistrate and swear you would have robbed\nme of two hundred pounds. Look \u2019e, sir, you have been often told that\nyour extravagance would some time or other be the ruin of you; and it\nwill go a great way in your indictment to have turned the pad upon your\nfriend.\n\n_Y. W._ This usage is the height of ingratitude from you, in whose\ncompany I have spent my fortune.\n\n_Rich._ I\u2019m therefore a witness that it was very ill spent. Why\nwould you keep company, be at equal expenses with me, that have fifty\ntimes your estate? What was gallantry in me was prodigality in you;\nmine was my health, because I could pay for it; yours a disease,\nbecause you could not.\n\n_Y. W._ And is this all I must expect from our friendship?\n\n_Rich._ Friendship! Sir, there can be no such thing without an\nequality.\n\n_Y. W._ That is, there can be no such thing when there is occasion\nfor \u2019t.\n\n_Rich._ Right, sir--our friendship was over a bottle only; and\nwhilst you can pay your club of friendship, I\u2019m that way your humble\nservant; but when once you come borrowing, I\u2019m this way--your humble\nservant. [_Exit._\n\n_Y. W._ Rich, big, proud, arrogant villain! I have been twice his\nsecond, thrice sick of the same love, and thrice cured by the same\nphysic, and now he drops me for a trifle--that an honest fellow in\nhis cups should be such a rogue when he is sober! The narrow-hearted\nrascal has been drinking coffee this morning. Well, thou dear solitary\nhalf-crown, adieu! Here, Jack, take this, pay for a bottle of wine, and\nbid Balderdash bring it himself. [_Exit Servant._] How melancholy\nare my poor breeches; not one chink! Thou art a villainous hand, for\nthou hast picked my pocket. This vintner now has all the marks of an\nhonest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a strutting belly, and a\njolly mien. I have brought him above three pounds a night for these two\nyears successively. The rogue has money, I\u2019m sure, if he would but lend\nit.\n\n _Enter_ BALDERDASH, _with a bottle and glass_.\n\nOh, Mr. Balderdash, good-morrow.\n\n_Bald._ Noble Mr. Wou\u2019dbe, I\u2019m your most humble servant. I have\nbrought you a whetting-glass, the best Old Hock in Europe; I know \u2019tis\nyour drink in a morning.\n\n_Y. W._ I\u2019ll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash.\n\n_Bald._ Your health, sir. [_Drinks._\n\n_Y. W._ Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing, but first sit\ndown; now tell me plainly what you think of me?\n\n_Bald._ Think of you, sir? I think that you are the honestest,\nnoblest gentleman that ever drank a glass of wine, and the best\ncustomer that ever came into my house.\n\n_Y. W._ And do you really think as you speak?\n\n_Bald._ May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don\u2019t speak from the\nbottom of my heart. [_Drinks._\n\n_Y. W._ And how much money do you think I have spent in your house?\n\n_Bald._ Why, truly, sir, by a moderate computation I do believe\nthat I have handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds\nwithin these two years.\n\n_Y. W._ Very well! And do you think that you lie under any\nobligation for the trade I have promoted to your advantage?\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI THINK THAT YOU ARE THE HONESTEST, NOBLEST\n GENTLEMAN THAT EVER DRANK A GLASS OF WINE.\u201d]\n\n_Bald._ Yes, sir; and if I can serve you in any respect, pray\ncommand me to the utmost of my ability.\n\n_Y. W._ Well! thanks to my stars, there is still some honesty in\nwine. Mr. Balderdash, I embrace you and your kindness; I am at present\na little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a hundred pieces.\n\n_Bald._ Why, truly, Mr. Wou\u2019dbe, I was afraid it would come to\nthis; I have had it in my head several times to caution you upon your\nexpenses, but you were so very genteel in my house, and your liberality\nbecame you so very well, that I was unwilling to say anything that\nmight check your disposition; but truly, sir, I can forbear no longer\nto tell you that you have been a little too extravagant.\n\n_Y. W._ But since you reaped the benefit of my extravagance, you\nwill, I hope, consider my necessity.\n\n_Bald._ Consider your necessity! I do, with all my heart; and must\ntell you, moreover, that I will be no longer accessory to it: I desire\nyou, sir, to frequent my house no more.\n\n_Y. W._ How, sir?\n\n_Bald._ I say, sir, that I have an honour for my good lord your\nfather, and will not suffer his son to run into any inconvenience. Sir,\nI shall order my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. Would\nyou have me connive at a gentleman\u2019s destruction?\n\n_Y. W._ But methinks, sir, that a person of your nice conscience\nshould have cautioned me before.\n\n_Bald._ Alas! sir, it was none of my business. Would you have me\nbe saucy to a gentleman that was my best customer? Lack-a-day, sir, had\nyou money to hold it out still, I had been hanged rather than be rude\nto you. But truly, sir, when a man is ruined, \u2019tis but the duty of a\nChristian to tell him of it.\n\n_Y. W._ Will you lend me money, sir?\n\n_Bald._ Will you pay me this bill, sir?\n\n_Y. W._ Lend me the hundred pound, and I\u2019ll pay the bill.\n\n_Bald._ Pay me the bill, and I will--not lend you the hundred\npound, sir. But pray consider with yourself, now, sir; would not you\nthink me an errant coxcomb to trust a person with money that has always\nbeen so extravagant under my eye? whose profuseness I have seen, I have\nfelt, I have handled? Have not I known you, sir, throw away ten pounds\na-night upon a covey of pit-partridges and a setting-dog? Sir, you have\nmade my house an ill house; my very chairs will bear you no longer. In\nshort, sir, I desire you to frequent the \u201cCrown\u201d no more, sir.\n\n_Y. W._ Thou sophisticated ton of iniquity, have I fattened your\ncarcass and swelled your bags with my vital blood? Have I made you\nmy companion to be thus saucy to me? But now I will keep you at your\ndistance.\n\n [_Kicks him._\n\n_Ser._ Welcome, sir! [_Kicks him._\n\n_Y. W._ Well said, Jack. [_Kicks him again._\n\n_Ser._ Very welcome, sir! I hope we shall have your company\nanother time. Welcome, sir! [_He is kicked off._\n\n_Y. W._ Pray wait on him downstairs, and give him a welcome at the\ndoor too. (_Exit Servant._) This is the punishment of hell; the\nvery devil that tempted me to sin, now upbraids me with the crime. I\nhave villainously murdered my fortune, and now its ghost, in the lank\nshape of poverty, haunts me. Is there no charm to conjure down the\nfiend?\n\n _George Farquhar._\n\n\n\n\n WIDOW WADMAN\u2019S EYE.\n\n\n\u201cI am half distracted, Captain Shandy,\u201d said Mrs. Wadman, holding up\nher cambric handkerchief to her left eye, as she approached the door of\nmy uncle Toby\u2019s sentry-box; \u201ca mote--or sand--or something--I know not\nwhat, has got into this eye of mine;--do look into it--it is not in the\nwhite.\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018DO LOOK INTO IT,\u2019 SAID SHE.\u201d]\n\nIn saying which Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside my uncle\nToby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of his bench, she gave\nhim an opportunity of doing it without rising up. \u201cDo look into it,\u201d\nsaid she.\n\nHonest soul! thou didst look into it with as much innocency of heart\nas ever child looked into a raree show-box; and \u2019twere as much a sin to\nhave hurt thee.\n\nIf a man will be peeping of his own accord into things of that nature,\nI\u2019ve nothing to say to it.\n\nMy uncle Toby never did; and I will answer for him that he would have\nsat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, you know, takes\nin both the hot and cold months) with an eye as fine as the Thracian\nRhodope\u2019s beside him, without being able to tell whether it was a black\nor a blue one.\n\nThe difficulty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all.\n\n\u2019Tis surmounted. And--\n\nI see him yonder, with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the ashes\nfalling out of it--looking-and looking--then rubbing his eyes--and\nlooking again, with twice the good nature that ever Galileo looked for\na spot in the sun.\n\nIn vain! for, by all the powers which animate the organ--Widow Wadman\u2019s\nleft eye shines this moment as lucid as her right;--there is neither\nmote, nor sand, nor dust, nor chaff, nor speck, nor particle of opaque\nmatter floating in it. There is nothing, my dear paternal uncle! but\none lambent delicious fire, furtively shooting out from every part of\nit, in all directions into thine.\n\nIf thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one moment longer,\nthou art undone.\n\nAn eye is, for all the world, exactly like a cannon, in this respect,\nthat it is not so much the eye or the cannon in themselves, as it is\nthe carriage of the eye--and the carriage of the cannon; by which both\nthe one and the other are enabled to do so much execution. I don\u2019t\nthink the comparison a bad one; however, as \u2019tis made and placed at\nthe head of the chapter, as much for use as ornament, all I desire in\nreturn is that whenever I speak of Mrs. Wadman\u2019s eyes (except once in\nthe next period) that you keep it in your fancy.\n\n\u201cI protest, Madam,\u201d said my uncle Toby, \u201cI can see nothing whatever in\nyour eye.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not in the white,\u201d said Mrs. Wadman. My uncle Toby looked with\nmight and main into the pupil.\n\nNow, of all the eyes which ever were created, from your own, Madam, up\nto those of Venus herself, which certainly were as venereal a pair of\neyes as ever stood in a head, there never was an eye of them all so\nfitted to rob my uncle Toby of his repose as the very eye at which he\nwas looking;--it was not, Madam, a rolling eye--a romping, or a wanton\none,--nor was it an eye sparkling, petulant, or imperious--of high\nclaims and terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that\nmilk of human nature of which my uncle Toby was made up; but \u2019twas an\neye full of gentle salutations--and soft responses--speaking--not like\nthe trumpet-stop of some ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to\nholds coarse converse, but whispering soft--like the last low accents\nof an expiring saint-\u201cHow can you live comfortless, Captain Shandy, and\nalone, without a bosom to lean your head on--or trust your cares to?\u201d\n\nIt was an eye----\n\nBut I shall be in love with it myself if I say another word about it.\n\nIt did my uncle Toby\u2019s business.\n\n _Laurence Sterne_ (1713\u20131768).\n\n\n\n\n _BUMPERS, SQUIRE JONES._\n\n\n Ye good fellows all,\n Who love to be told where good claret\u2019s in store,\n Attend to the call\n Of one who\u2019s ne\u2019er frighted,\n But greatly delighted\n With six bottles more.\n Be sure you don\u2019t pass\n The good house, Moneyglass,\n Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns,\n \u2019Twill well suit your humour--\n For, pray, what would you more,\n Than mirth with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?\n\n Ye lovers who pine\n For lasses that oft prove as cruel as fair,\n Who whimper and whine\n For lilies and roses,\n With eyes, lips, and noses,\n Or tip of an ear!\n Come hither, I\u2019ll show ye\n How Phillis and Chloe\n No more shall occasion such sighs and such groans;\n For what mortal\u2019s so stupid\n As not to quit Cupid,\n When called to good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones?\n\n Ye poets who write,\n And brag of your drinking famed Helicon\u2019s brook,--\n Though all you get by it\n Is a dinner ofttimes,\n In reward for your rhymes,\n With Humphry the Duke,--\n Learn Bacchus to follow,\n And quit your Apollo,\n Forsake all the Muses, those senseless old crones:\n Our jingling of glasses\n Your rhyming surpasses\n When crowned with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.\n\n Ye soldiers so stout,\n With plenty of oaths, though no plenty of coin,\n Who make such a rout\n Of all your commanders,\n Who served us in Flanders,\n And eke at the Boyne,--\n Come leave off your rattling\n Of sieging and battling,\n And know you\u2019d much better to sleep in whole bones;\n Were you sent to Gibraltar,\n Your notes you\u2019d soon alter,\n And wish for good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.\n\n Ye clergy so wise,\n Who mysteries profound can demonstrate so clear,\n How worthy to rise!\n You preach once a week,\n But your tithes never seek\n Above once in a year!\n Come here without failing,\n And leave off your railing\n \u2019Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;\n Says the text so divine,\n \u201cWhat is life without wine?\u201d\n Then away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!\n\n Ye lawyers so just,\n Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,\n How worthy of trust!\n You know black from white,\n You prefer wrong to right,\n As you chance to be fee\u2019d:--\n Leave musty reports\n And forsake the king\u2019s courts,\n Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones;\n Burn Salkeld and Ventris,[4]\n And all your damned entries,\n And away with the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!\n\n Ye physical tribe\n Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace,\n Whene\u2019er you prescribe,\n Have at your devotion,\n Pills, bolus, or potion,\n Be what will the case;\n Pray where is the need\n To purge, blister, and bleed?\n When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns\n That the forms of old Galen\n Are not so prevailing\n As mirth with good claret,--and bumpers, Squire Jones!\n\n Ye fox-hunters eke,\n That follow the call of the horn and the hound,\n Who your ladies forsake\n Before they\u2019re awake,\n To beat up the brake\n Where the vermin is found:--\n Leave Piper and Blueman,\n Shrill Duchess and Trueman,--\n No music is found in such dissonant tones!\n Would you ravish your ears\n With the songs of the spheres,\n Hark away to the claret,--a bumper, Squire Jones!\n\n _Arthur Dawson_ (1700?\u20131775).\n\n\n\n\n _JACK LOFTY._\n\n _Scene_--CROAKER\u2019S HOUSE.\n _Present_--MRS. CROAKER _and_ LOFTY.\n\n\n _Enter_ LOFTY, _speaking to his servant_.\n\n_Lofty._ And if the Venetian ambassador, or that teasing\ncreature, the marquis, should call, I am not at home. D-- me, I\u2019ll be\na pack-horse to none of them. My dear madam, I have just snatched a\nmoment--and if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them be sent\noff; they\u2019re of importance. Madam, I ask a thousand pardons.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Sir, this honour----\n\n_Lofty._ And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission,\nlet him know that it is made out. As for Lord Cumbercout\u2019s stale\nrequest, it can keep cold; you understand me. Madam, I ask ten thousand\npardons. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough,\nyou must do him--you must do him, I say. Madam, I ask you ten thousand\npardons--and if the Russian ambassador calls--but he will scarce call\nto-day, I believe. And now, madam, I have just got time to express my\nhappiness in having the honour of being permitted to profess myself\nyour most obedient humble servant.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Sir, the happiness and honour are all mine; and yet, I\nam only robbing the public while I detain you.\n\n_Lofty._ Sink the public, madam, when the fair are to be attended.\nAh! could all my hours be so charmingly devoted! Thus it is eternally:\nsolicited for places here; teased for pensions there; and courted\neverywhere. I know you pity me.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Excuse me, sir. \u201cToils of empires, pleasures are,\u201d as\nWaller says----\n\n_Lofty._ Waller, Waller! Is he of the house?\n\n_Mrs. C._ The modern poet of that name, sir.\n\n_Lofty._ Oh, a modern! We men of business despise the moderns; and\nas for the ancients, we have no time to read them. Poetry is a pretty\nthing enough for our wives and daughters; but not for us. Why, now,\nhere I stand, that know nothing of books; and yet, I believe, upon a\nland-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two\nhours without feeling the want of them.\n\n_Mrs. C._ The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty\u2019s eminence in\nevery capacity.\n\n_Lofty._ I am nothing, nothing, nothing in the world; a mere\nobscure gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the present\nministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable man. I know they\nare pleased to bespatter me at all their little dirty levees; yet, upon\nmy soul, I don\u2019t know what they see in me to treat me so! Measures, not\nmen, have always been my mark; and I vow, by all that\u2019s honourable, my\nresentment has never done the men, as mere men, any manner of harm;\nthat is, as mere men.\n\n_Mrs. C._ What importance! and yet, what modesty!\n\n_Lofty._ Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I own, I am\naccessible to praise; modesty is my foible. It was so the Duke of\nBrentford used to say of me, \u201cI love Jack Lofty,\u201d he used to say; \u201cno\nman has a finer knowledge of things, quite a man of information, and\nwhen he speaks upon his legs, by the lord, he\u2019s prodigious! He scouts\nthem. And yet all men have their faults,--too much modesty is his,\u201d\nsays his Grace.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI CAN TALK MY TWO HOURS WITHOUT FEELING THE WANT\n OF THEM.\u201d]\n\n_Mrs. C._ And yet, I dare say, you don\u2019t want assurance when you\ncome to solicit for your friends.\n\n_Lofty._ Oh, there, indeed, I\u2019m in bronze! Apropos, I have just\nbeen mentioning Miss Richland\u2019s case to a certain personage; we must\nname no names. When I ask, I am not to be put off, madam. No, no; I\ntake my friend by the button: a fine girl, sir; great justice in her\ncase. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Business must be done, Mr.\nSecretary. I say, Mr. Secretary, her business must be done, sir. That\u2019s\nmy way, madam.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Bless me! You said all this to the Secretary of State,\ndid you?\n\n_Lofty._ I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it! since\nyou have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary.\n\n_Mrs. C._ This was going to the fountain-head at once; not\napplying to the understrappers, as Mr. Honeywood would have had us.\n\n_Lofty._ Honeywood! he, he! He was, indeed, a fine solicitor. I\nsuppose you have heard what has just happened to him?\n\n_Mrs. C._ Poor, dear man! no accident, I hope.\n\n_Lofty._ Undone, madam, that\u2019s all. His creditors have taken him\ninto custody. A prisoner in his own house.\n\n_Mrs. C._ A prisoner in his own house? How! I am quite unhappy for\nhim.\n\n_Lofty._ Why, so am I. This man, to be sure, was immensely\ngood-natured; but, then, I could never find that he had anything in him.\n\n_Mrs. C._ His manner, to be sure, was excessive harmless; some,\nindeed, thought it a little dull. For my part, I always concealed my\nopinion.\n\n_Lofty._ It can\u2019t be concealed, madam, the man was dull; dull as\nthe last new comedy. A poor, impracticable creature! I tried once or\ntwice to know if he was fit for business; but he had scarce talents to\nbe groom-porter to an orange-barrow.\n\n_Mrs. C._ How differently does Miss Richland think of him; for, I\nbelieve, with all his faults, she loves him.\n\n_Lofty._ Loves him! Does she? You should cure her of that, by\nall means. Let me see, what if she were sent to him this instant, in\nhis present doleful situation? My life for it, that works her cure.\nDistress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the\nnext room? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine fortune, and must\nnot be thrown away. Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss\nRichland; and rather than she should be thrown away, I should think it\nno indignity to marry her myself.\n\n [_Exeunt._\n\n\n _Scene_--YOUNG HONEYWOOD\u2019S HOUSE.\n\n _Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD _and_ MISS RICHLAND.\n\n_Sir W._ Do not make any apologies, madam. I only find myself\nunable to repay the obligation. And yet, I have been trying my interest\nof late to serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had some demands\nupon Government, I have, though unasked, been your solicitor there.\n\n_Miss R._ Sir, I am infinitely obliged to your intentions; but my\nguardian has employed another gentleman, who assures of success.\n\n_Sir W._ Who? The important little man that visits here? Trust me,\nmadam, he\u2019s quite contemptible among men in power, and utterly unable\nto serve you. Mr. Lofty\u2019s promises are much better known to people of\nfashion than his person, I assure you.\n\n_Miss R._ How have we been deceived! As sure as can be, here he\ncomes.\n\n_Sir W._ Does he? Remember, I am to continue unknown; my return to\nEngland has not as yet been made public. With what impudence he enters!\n\n _Enter_ LOFTY.\n\n_Lofty._ Let the chariot--let my chariot drive off; I\u2019ll visit his\nGrace\u2019s in a chair. Miss Richland here before me! Punctual, as usual,\nto the calls of humanity. I am very sorry, madam, things of this kind\nshould happen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, and carried\namongst us as a particular acquaintance.\n\n_Miss R._ I find, sir, you have the art of making the misfortunes\nof others your own.\n\n_Lofty._ My dear madam, what can a private man like me do? One man\ncan\u2019t do everything--and, then, I do so much in this way every day. Let\nme see: something considerable might be done for him by subscription;\nit could not fail if I carried the list. I\u2019ll undertake to set down a\nbrace of dukes, two dozen lords, and half the lower house, at my own\nperil.\n\n_Sir W._ And, after all, it is more than probable, sir, he might\nreject the offer of such powerful patronage\n\n_Lofty._ Then, madam, what can we do? You know, I never make\npromises. In truth, I once or twice tried to do something with him\nin the way of business; but, as I often told his uncle, Sir William\nHoneywood, the man was utterly impracticable.\n\n_Sir W._ His uncle! Then that gentleman, I suppose, is a\nparticular friend of yours?\n\n_Lofty._ Meaning me, sir? Yes, madam; as I often said, \u201cMy dear\nSir William, you are sensible I would do anything, as far as my poor\ninterest goes, to serve your family;\u201d but what can be done? There\u2019s no\nprocuring first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities.\n\n_Miss R._ I have heard of Sir William Honeywood; he\u2019s abroad in\nemployment; he confided in your judgment, I suppose.\n\n_Lofty._ Why, yes, madam; I believe Sir William had some reason to\nconfide in my judgment; one little reason, perhaps.\n\n_Miss R._ Pray, sir, what was it?\n\n_Lofty._ Why, madam--but let it go no further; it was I procured\nhim his place.\n\n_Sir W._ Did you, sir?\n\n_Lofty._ Either you or I, sir.\n\n_Miss R._ This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind, indeed.\n\n_Lofty._ I did love him; to be sure, he had some amusing\nqualities; no man was fitter to be toast-master to a club, or had a\nbetter head.\n\n_Miss R._ A better head?\n\n_Lofty._ Ay, at a bottle. To be sure, he was as dull as a choice\nspirit; but hang it, he was grateful--very grateful; and gratitude\nhides a multitude of faults.\n\n_Sir W._ He might have reason, perhaps. His place is pretty\nconsiderable, I am told.\n\n_Lofty._ A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of business. The\ntruth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater.\n\n_Sir W._ Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? I am told he is much\nabout my size and figure, sir.\n\n_Lofty._ Ay; tall enough for a marching regiment, but then he\nwanted a something; a consequence of form; a kind of a--I believe the\nlady perceives my meaning.\n\n_Miss R._ Oh, perfectly; you courtiers can do anything, I see.\n\n_Lofty._ My dear madam, all this is but a mere exchange; we do\ngreater things for one another every day. Why as thus, now, let me\nsuppose you the First Lord of the Treasury, you have an employment in\nyou that I want; I have a place in me that you want; do me here, do you\nthere; interest of both sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it\u2019s\nover.\n\n_Sir W._ A thought strikes me. (_Aside._) Now you mention\nSir William Honeywood, madam, and as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of\nyours, you\u2019ll be glad to hear he\u2019s arrived from Italy; I had it from a\nfriend who knows him as well as he does me, and you may depend on my\ninformation.\n\n_Lofty._ The devil he is. (_Aside._)\n\n_Sir W._ He is certainly returned; and as this gentleman is a\nfriend of yours, you can be of signal service to us, by introducing me\nto him; there are some papers relative to your affairs that require\ndespatch and his inspection.\n\n_Miss R._ This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a person employed in my\naffairs; I know you will serve us.\n\n_Lofty._ My dear madam, I live but to serve you. Sir William shall\neven wait upon him, if you think proper to command it.\n\n_Sir W._ That would be quite unnecessary.\n\n_Lofty._ Well, we must introduce you, then. Call upon me--let me\nsee--ay, in two days.\n\n_Sir W._ Now, or the opportunity will be lost for ever.\n\n_Lofty._ Well, if it must be now, now let it be. But, d--n it,\nthat\u2019s unfortunate; my Lord Grig\u2019s cursed Pensacola business comes on\nthis very hour, and I\u2019m engaged to attend--another time----\n\n_Sir W._ A short letter to Sir William will do.\n\n_Lofty._ You shall have it; yet, in my opinion, a letter is a very\nbad way of going to work; face to face, that\u2019s my way.\n\n_Sir W._ The letter, sir, will do quite as well.\n\n_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! do you pretend to direct me--direct me in\nthe business of office? Do you know me, sir? Who am I?\n\n_Miss R._ Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not so much his as mine;\nif my commands--but you despise my power.\n\n_Lofty._ Sweet creature! your commands could even control a debate\nat midnight; to a power so constitutional, I am all obedience and\ntranquillity. He shall have a letter; where is my secretary, Dubardieu?\nAnd yet, I protest, I don\u2019t like this way of doing business. I think if\nI spoke first to Sir William---- But you will have it so.\n\n [_Exit with Miss R._\n\n\n _Scene_--AN INN.\n\n _Present_--SIR WILLIAM HONEYWOOD, HIS NEPHEW,\n CROAKER, LOFTY, _and_ MISS RICHLAND.\n\n _Enter_ LOFTY.\n\n_Lofty._ Is the coast clear? None but friends. I have followed you\nhere with a trifling piece of intelligence; but it goes no further,\nthings are not yet ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a\ncertain board; your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than--a\nthousand years. Mum!\n\n_Miss R._ Sooner, sir, I should hope.\n\n_Lofty._ Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into proper\nhands, that know where to push and where to parry; that know how the\nland lies.\n\n_Miss R._ It is fallen into yours.\n\n_Lofty._ Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, your thing is\ndone. It is done, I say; that\u2019s all I have just had assurances from\nLord Neverout that the claim has been examined and found admissible.\nQuietus is the word, madam.\n\n_Miss R._ But how? his lordship has been at Newmarket these ten\ndays.\n\n_Lofty._ Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have been most d--y\nmistaken. I had it of him.\n\n_Miss R._ He? Why, Sir Gilbert and his family have been in the\ncountry this month.\n\n_Lofty._ This month? It must certainly be so. Sir Gilbert\u2019s letter\ndid come to me from Newmarket, so that he must have met his lordship\nthere; and so it came about. I have his letter about me; I\u2019ll read\nit to you. (_Taking out a large bundle._) That\u2019s from Paoli of\nCorsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. Have you a mind to see\na letter from Count Poniatowski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon----\n(_Searching._) Oh, sir, what, are you here too? I\u2019ll tell you\nwhat, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered my letter to\nSir William Honeywood, you may return it. The thing will do without him.\n\n_Sir W._ Sir, I have delivered it, and must inform you, it was\nreceived with the most mortifying contempt.\n\n_Croa._ Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that mean?\n\n_Lofty._ Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You\u2019ll find it come\nto something directly.\n\n_Sir W._ Yes, sir, I believe you\u2019ll be amazed; after waiting some\ntime in the ante-chamber, after being surveyed with insolent curiosity\nby the passing servants, I was at last assured that Sir William\nHoneywood knew no such person, and I must certainly have been imposed\nupon.\n\n_Lofty._ Good; let me die, very good. Ha, ha, ha!\n\n_Croa._ Now, for my life, I can\u2019t find out half the goodness of it.\n\n_Lofty._ You can\u2019t? Ha, ha!\n\n_Croa._ No, for the soul of me; I think it was as confounded a bad\nanswer as ever was sent from one private gentleman to another.\n\n_Lofty._ And so you can\u2019t find out the force of the message? Why,\nI was in the house at that very time. Ha, ha! It was I that sent that\nvery answer to my own letter. Ha, ha!\n\n_Croa._ Indeed! How?--why?\n\n_Lofty._ In one word, things between Sir William and me must be\nbehind the curtain. A party has many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard,\nI side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery.\n\n_Croa._ And so it does, indeed, and all my suspicions are over.\n\n_Lofty._ Your suspicions! What, then, you have been suspecting,\nyou have been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were\nfriends, we are friends no longer.\n\n_Croa._ As I hope for your favour, I did not mean to offend. It\nescaped me. Don\u2019t be discomposed.\n\n_Lofty._ Zounds, sir! but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To\nbe treated thus! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by\nins and outs? Have I been libelled in the _Gazetteer_ and praised in\nthe _St. James\u2019s_? Have I been chaired at Wildman\u2019s, and a speaker at\nMerchant Tailors\u2019 Hall? Have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in\nthe print-shops, and talk to me of suspects!\n\n_Croa._ My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking\npardon?\n\n_Lofty._ Sis, I will not be pacified! Suspects! Who am I? To be\nused thus, have I paid court to men in favour to serve my friends, the\nLords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang,\nand talk to me of suspects! Who am I, I say--who am I?\n\n_Sir W._ Since, sir, you\u2019re so pressing for an answer, I\u2019ll tell\nyou who you are. A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as\nwith men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with\nmodesty; with the Lords of the Treasury as with truth; and with all, as\nyou are with Sir William Honeywood. I am Sir William Honeywood.\n\n [_Discovers his ensigns of the Bath._\n\n_Croa._ Sir William Honeywood!\n\n_Hon._ Astonishment! my uncle! [_Aside._\n\n_Lofty._ So, then, my confounded genius has been all this time\nonly leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the\nwindow.\n\n_Croa._ What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? Suspect\nyou! You who have been dreaded by the ins and outs. You who have had\nyour hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops. If you\nwere served right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory.\n\n_Lofty._ Ay, stick it where you will; for, by the lord, it cuts\nbut a very poor figure where it sticks at present.\n\n _Oliver Goldsmith_ (1728\u20131774).\n\n\n\n\n _BEAU TIBBS._\n\n\nAttracted by the serenity of the evening, my friend and I lately went\nto gaze upon the company in one of the public walks near the city. Here\nwe sauntered together for some time, either praising the beauty of\nsuch as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had nothing else to\nrecommend them. We had gone thus deliberately forward for some time,\nwhen, stopping on a sudden, my friend caught me by the elbow and led me\nout of the public walk. I could perceive by the quickness of his pace,\nand by his frequently looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid\nsomebody who followed; we now turned to the right, then to the left; as\nwe went forward, he still went faster, but in vain; the person whom he\nattempted to escape hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon\nus each moment, so that at last we fairly stood still, resolving to\nface what we could not avoid.\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018YOU KNOW I HATE FLATTERY,--ON MY SOUL, I DO.\u2019\u201d]\n\nOur pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all the familiarity of an\nold acquaintance. \u201cMy dear Drybone,\u201d cries he, shaking my friend\u2019s\nhand, \u201cwhere have you been hiding this half a century? Positively I\nhad fancied you were gone to cultivate matrimony and your estate in\nthe country.\u201d During the reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the\nappearance of our new companion: his hat was pinched up with peculiar\nsmartness; his looks were pale, thin, and sharp; round his neck he wore\na broad black riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass;\nhis coat was trimmed with tarnished twist; he wore by his side a sword\nwith a black hilt, and his stockings of silk, though newly washed,\nwere grown yellow by long service. I was so much engaged with the\npeculiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of\nmy friend\u2019s reply, in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs on the taste of\nhis clothes and the bloom in his countenance. \u201cPshaw, pshaw, Will,\u201d\ncried the figure, \u201cno more of that, if you love me; you know I hate\nflattery,--on my soul, I do; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with\nthe great will improve one\u2019s appearance, and a course of venison will\nfatten; and yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do; but\nthere are a great many damn\u2019d honest fellows among them, and we must\nnot quarrel with one half because the other wants weeding. If they were\nall such as my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured creatures that\never squeezed a lemon, I should myself be among the number of their\nadmirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly\u2019s. My\nlord was there. \u2018Ned,\u2019 says he to me; \u2018Ned,\u2019 says he, \u2018I\u2019ll hold gold\nto silver I can tell where you were poaching last night?\u2019 \u2018Poaching, my\nlord?\u2019 says I; \u2018faith, you have missed already; for I stayed at home,\nand let the girls poach for me. That\u2019s my way: I take a fine woman as\nsome animals do their prey--stand still, and swoop, they fall into my\nmouth.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,\u201d cried my companion, with looks\nof infinite pity; \u201cI hope your fortune is as much improved as your\nunderstanding in such company?\u201d \u201cImproved!\u201d replied the other; \u201cyou\nshall know,--but let it go no farther--a great secret--five hundred a\nyear to begin with--my lord\u2019s word of honour for it. His lordship took\nme down in his own chariot yesterday, and we had a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_\ndinner in the country, where we talked of nothing else.\u201d \u201cI fancy you\nforget, sir,\u201d cried I, \u201cyou told us but this moment of your dining\nyesterday in town.\u201d \u201cDid I say so?\u201d replied he, coolly; \u201cto be sure,\nif I said so, it was so. Dined in town; egad, now I do remember I did\ndine in town; but I dined in the country, too; for you must know, my\nboys, I eat two dinners. By-the-bye, I am grown as nice as the devil in\nmy eating. We were a select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram\u2019s,--an\naffected piece, but let it go no farther--a secret. Well, there\nhappened to be no asaf\u0153tida in the sauce to a turkey, upon which says\nI, \u2018I\u2019ll hold a thousand guineas, and say done first, that---- \u2019 But,\ndear Drybone, you are an honest creature; lend me half-a-crown for a\nminute or two, or so, just till--but hearkee, ask me for it the next\ntime we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to pay you.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nMy little Beau yesterday overtook me again in one of the public walks,\nand, slapping me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most\nperfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, except that he\nhad more powder in his hair, wore a dirtier shirt, a pair of temple\nspectacles, and his hat under his arm.\n\nAs I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, I could not\nreturn his smiles with any degree of severity; so we walked forward\non terms of the utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all\nthe usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. The oddities\nthat marked his character, however, soon began to appear; he bowed to\nseveral well-dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the\ncompliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals he drew out a\npocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all the company, with\nmuch importance and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the\nlength of the whole walk, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying\nmyself laughed at not less than him by every spectator. When we were\ngot to the end of our procession, \u201cBlast me,\u201d cries he, with an\nair of vivacity, \u201cI never saw the Park so thin in my life before!\nThere\u2019s no company at all to-day; not a single face to be seen.\u201d \u201cNo\ncompany!\u201d interrupted I, peevishly; \u201cno company where there is such a\ncrowd? why, man, there\u2019s too much. What are the thousands that have\nbeen laughing at us but company?\u201d \u201cLord, my dear,\u201d returned he with\nthe utmost good-humour, \u201cyou seem immensely chagrined; but, blast\nme, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at the world, and so we are\neven. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creolian, and I, sometimes make\na party at being ridiculous; and so we say and do a thousand things\nfor the joke\u2019s sake. But I see you are grave, and if you are for a\nfine, grave, sentimental companion, you shall dine with me and my wife\nto-day; I must insist on\u2019t. I\u2019ll introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of\nas elegant qualifications as any in nature; she was bred (but that\u2019s\nbetween ourselves) under the inspection of the Countess of All-Night.\nA charming body of voice; but no more of that,--she will give us a\nsong. You shall see my little girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia\nTibbs, a sweet, pretty creature! I design her for my Lord Drumstick\u2019s\neldest son; but that\u2019s in friendship--let it go no farther: she\u2019s but\nsix years old, and yet she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar\nimmensely already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possible in\nevery accomplishment. In the first place, I\u2019ll make her a scholar; I\u2019ll\nteach her Greek myself, and learn that language purposely to instruct\nher; but let that be a secret.\u201d\n\nThus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took me by the arm and\nhauled me along. We passed through many dark alleys and winding ways;\nfor, from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have a particular\naversion to every frequented street; at last, however, we got to the\ndoor of a dismal-looking house in the outlets of the town, where he\ninformed me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. We entered\nthe lower door, which ever seemed to lie most hospitably open; and I\nbegan to ascend an old and creaking staircase, when, as he mounted\nto show me the way, he demanded whether I delighted in prospects; to\nwhich, answering in the affirmative, \u201cThen,\u201d says he, \u201cI shall show you\none of the most charming in the world out of my window; you shall see\nthe ships sailing and the whole country for twenty miles round, tip\ntop, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give ten thousand guineas for such\na one; but, as I sometimes pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep\nmy prospects at home, that my friends may visit me the oftener.\u201d\n\nBy this time we were arrived as high as the stairs would permit us to\nascend, till we came to what he was facetiously pleased to call the\nfirst floor down the chimney; and knocking at the door, a voice from\nwithin demanded, \u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d My conductor answered that it was\nhim. But this not satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated\nthe demand; to which he answered louder than before; and now the door\nwas opened by an old woman with cautious reluctance. When we were got\nin, he welcomed me to his house with great ceremony, and turning to\nthe old woman, asked where was her lady. \u201cGood troth,\u201d replied she\nin a peculiar dialect, \u201cshe\u2019s washing your twa shirts at the next\ndoor, because they have taken an oath against lending out the tub\nany longer.\u201d \u201cMy two shirts!\u201d cried he in a tone that faltered with\nconfusion, \u201cwhat does the idiot mean?\u201d \u201cI ken what I mean weel enough,\u201d\nreplied the other; \u201cshe\u2019s washing your twa shirts at the next door,\nbecause----\u201d \u201cFire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations!\u201d\ncried he; \u201cgo and inform her we have got company. Were that Scotch\nhag,\u201d continued he, turning to me, \u201cto be for ever in my family, she\nwould never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd poisonous accent\nof hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or high life; and\nyet it is very surprising, too, as I had her from a parliament man,\na friend of mine from the Highlands, one of the politest men in the\nworld; but that\u2019s a secret.\u201d\n\nWe waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs\u2019 arrival, during which interval I\nhad a full opportunity of surveying the chamber and all its furniture,\nwhich consisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he\nassured me were his wife\u2019s embroidery; a square table that had been\nonce japanned; a cradle in one corner, a lumbering cabinet in the\nother; a broken shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were stuck\nover the chimney; and round the walls several paltry unframed pictures,\nwhich, he observed, were all his own drawing. \u201cWhat do you think, sir,\nof that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? there\u2019s the\ntrue keeping in it; it is my own face, and though there happens to be\nno likeness, a Countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused\nher, for, hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.\u201d\n\nThe wife at last made her appearance, at once a slattern and a\ncoquette; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She\nmade twenty apologies for being seen in such odious deshabille, but\nhoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night with the Countess,\nwho was excessively fond of the horns. \u201cAnd, indeed, my dear,\u201d added\nshe, turning to her husband, \u201chis lordship drank your health in a\nbumper.\u201d \u201cPoor Jack!\u201d cries he, \u201ca dear, good-natured fellow; I know he\nloves me. But I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you\nneed make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us;\nsomething elegant, and little, will do,--a turbot, an ortolan, a----\u201d\n\u201cOr what do you think, my dear,\u201d interrupts the wife, \u201cof a nice\npretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own\nsauce?\u201d \u201cThe very thing!\u201d replies he; \u201cit will eat best with some smart\nbottled beer; but be sure to let us have the sauce his Grace was so\nfond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over;\nextremely disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with\nhigh life.\u201d By this time my curiosity began to abate and my appetite\nto increase: the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at\nlast never fails of rendering us melancholy; I therefore pretended\nto recollect a prior engagement, and after having shown my respect\nto the house, according to the fashion of the English, by giving the\nold servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave; Mrs. Tibbs\nassuring me that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less\nthan two hours.\n\n _Oliver Goldsmith._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cA CHIRPING CUP IS MY MATIN SONG.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY._\n\n\n I am a friar of orders grey:\n As down the valley I take my way,\n I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,\n Good store of venison does fill my scrip:\n My long bead-roll I merrily chaunt,\n Where\u2019er I walk, no money I want;\n And why I\u2019m so plump the reason I\u2019ll tell--\n Who leads a good life is sure to live well.\n What baron or squire\n Or knight of the shire\n Lives half so well as a holy friar!\n\n After supper, of heaven I dream,\n But that is fat pullet and clouted cream.\n Myself, by denial, I mortify\n With a dainty bit of a warden pie:\n I\u2019m clothed in sackcloth for my sin:\n With old sack wine I\u2019m lined within:\n A chirping cup is my matin song,\n And the vesper bell is my bowl\u2019s ding dong.\n What baron or squire\n Or knight of the shire\n Lives half so well as a holy friar!\n\n _John O\u2019Keeffe_ (1747\u20131833).\n\n\n\n\n _THE TAILOR AND THE UNDERTAKER._\n\n (_The two tradesmen call for orders respecting a supposed\n corpse._)\n\n\n _Enter_ SHEARS, _a tailor_, _and_ GRIZLEY, _a servant_.\n\n_Griz._ Mr. Shears, sir,--I\u2019ll tell him, sir.\n\n_Shears._ Yes, Mr. Shears, to take orders for his mourning. (_Exit_\nGRIZLEY.) A bailiff shall carry them home, tho\u2019--yet no tailor in\ntown so complacently suits his own dress to the present humour of his\nemployer--to a brisk bridegroom, I\u2019m white as a swan, and here, to this\nwoful widower, I appear black--black as my own goose.\n\n _Enter_ UNDERTAKER.\n\n_Under._ \u201cHearse--mourning-coaches--scarfs--pall.\u201d Um--ay--if the\ncash was plenty this might turn out a pretty sprightly funeral.\n\n_Shears._ Servant, sir.\n\n_Under._ Scarfs--a merry death--coffin--um--ay----\n\n_Shears._ A sudden affair this, sir.\n\n_Under._ Sudden--ah! I\u2019m always prepared for death.\n\n_Shears._ Sign of a good liver.\n\n_Under._ No tradesman within the bills of mortality lives better.\n\n_Shears._ You\u2019ve many customers then, sir?\n\n_Under._ Not one breathing.\n\n_Shears._ You disoblige them, perhaps?\n\n_Under._ Why, the truth is, sir, tho\u2019 my friends would die to\nserve me, yet I can\u2019t keep one three days without turning up my nose at\nhim--Od so! I forgot to take measure of the body.\n\n_Shears_ (_aside_). Oh, oh!--a brother tailor--you measure\nnobody here.\n\n_Under._ Yes, I shall--Mr. Sandford\u2019s body.\n\n_Shears._ For what, pray?\n\n_Under._ For a wooden surtout lined with white satin.\n\n_Shears_ (_aside_). Odd sort of mourning!--But, sir, I have\nthe business of this family.\n\n_Under._ You! I know I have had it since St. James\u2019s churchyard\nwas set on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years last\ninfluenza business. I have nineteen bodies under lock and key this\nmoment.\n\n_Shears._ You may have bodies, skirts, cuffs, and buttons--my\nbusiness!--ask my foreman--I don\u2019t set a stitch--I\u2019m merely an\nundertaker.\n\n_Under._ Undertaker! so am I!--and for work----\n\n_Shears._ Now I do no work--I cut out indeed----\n\n_Under._ Cut out! oh, you embowel \u2019em, perhaps--can you make a\nmummy in the Egyptian fashion?\n\n_Shears._ I never made masquerade habits.\n\n_Under._ What! could you stuff a person of rank, to send him sweet\nover sea?\n\n_Shears._ Stuff! persons of rank--Irish tabinets are in style for\npeople of rank.\n\n_Under._ Nothing like sage, thyme, pepper and salt.\n\n_Shears._ Pepper and salt!--thunder and lightning!--for a colour!\n\n_Under._ Thunder and lightning! why, you are in the clouds,\nman--in one word, could you pickle a Duke?\n\n_Shears._ I pickle a Duke!\n\n_Under._ Could you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a\ncoat for a hatchment, without the help of a herald?\n\n_Shears._ Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that\nname.\n\n_Under._ Mr. Hatchment--you\u2019ve a skull as thick as a tombstone.\n\n_Shears._ Mayhap so, but I\u2019ll let you know no cross-legg\u2019d and\nbandy button-making, Bedford-bury, shred-seller shall rip a customer\nfrom me.\n\n_Under._ Friend, depart in peace--or my cane shall make you a\n_memento mori_ to all impertinent rascals.\n\n_Shears._ Here\u2019s a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man--lay\nby your cane, and I\u2019ll talk to you.\n\n (_The_ UNDERTAKER _throws down his cane, which_\n SHEARS _takes up and beats him with._)\n\n_Under._ Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!\n\n _Enter_ DENNIS.\n\n_Den._ Hey! what\u2019s all this?\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI PERCEIVE THIS MISTAKE.\u201d]\n\n_Under._ A villain!--why, here\u2019s another undertaker insists that\nhe\u2019s to bury your master.\n\n_Shears._ Oh, thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but, egad,\nyou\u2019re a frolicsome tailor.\n\n_Under._ Tailor! oh, you son of a sexton! call you me tailor? a\nmore capital undertaker than yourself.\n\n_Shears._ Zounds, man, I\u2019m no undertaker! I\u2019m a tailor.\n\n_Under._ And, zounds, man--tailor, I mean--I\u2019m an undertaker.\n\n_Den._ (_aside_). I perceive this mistake. One word, good\ngentlemen mechanics--Mr. Tailor!\n\n_Shears._ Sir!\n\n_Den._ My lady is not dead.\n\n_Shears._ Your lady not dead!\n\n_Den._ No, nor my master neither.\n\n_Under._ Your master not dead!\n\n_Den._ No.\n\n_Under._ Then perhaps he don\u2019t want to be buried!\n\n_Den._ Not alive, I believe.\n\n_Under._ The most good-for-nothing family in the parish.\n\n_Shears._ By these shears, parchment of mine shall never cross a\nshoulder in it. [_Exit._\n\n_Under._ Zounds, I\u2019ll go home and bury myself for the good of my\nfamily. [_Exit._\n\n _John O\u2019Keeffe._\n\n\n\n\n _TOM GROG._\n\n _Present_--TOM GROG _and_ RUPEE.\n\n_Rupee._ I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacit\u2019s this evening. Tom, you\u2019ll\ncome--I\u2019ll introduce you to the ladies; you\u2019ll see my intended sposa,\nCornelia.\n\n_Grog._ Ay, give me her little waiting-maid, Nancy. If I can get\nher to my berth in the Minories, I shall be as happy as an Admiral.\n\n_Rupee._ Admiral! _apropos_--I shall be married to-morrow--Tom, you\u2019ll\ndress to honour my wedding?\n\n_Grog._ Ay, if the tailor brings home my new rigging. But now you\ntalk of a wife, the first time I ever saw my wife, the pretty Peggy,\nwas on Portsmouth ramparts, full dress\u2019d, streamers flying, gay as\na commissioner\u2019s yacht at a naval review--What cheer, my heart! says\nI--she bore away; love gave signal for chase, so I crowded sail, threw\na salute shot across her fore-foot to make her bring-to; prepared for\nan engagement, we came to close quarters, grappled. I threw a volley of\nkisses at her round-top, she struck--next day, with a cheer, I took my\nprize in tow to Farum Church, and the parson made out my warrant for\ncommand--captain of the Pretty Peggy fifteen years; then she foundered\nin Blanket Bay--Death took charge, and left me to swim thro\u2019 life, and\nkeep my chin above water as long as I cou\u2019d.\n\n_Rupee._ Tom, you may be chin-deep, but water can never reach your\nlips unless mixed with brandy--brandy! _apropos_, now for the\nladies.\n\n_Grog._ Well, sheer off; d\u2019ye see, I have business at the\nAdmiralty, and then I bear away for Tower Hill, to meet some Hearts of\nOak.\n\n_Rupee._ Adieu, my Man of War; my _vis-a-vis_ is at St. James\u2019 Gate,\nso, Tom, farewell; and now, hey for the land of love.\n\n [_Exit._\n\n_Grog._ Now must I cruise in the channel of Charing Cross, to look\nout for this lubber that affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_. I\nheard he put in at the Admiralty--Hold! is Rupee gone? If he thought I\nwent to fight, mayhap he\u2019d bring the Master-at-Arms upon me, and have\nme in the bilboes--Smite my timbers! there goes the enemy.\n\n _Enter_ STERN (_crossing_).\n\nI\u2019ll hail him--yo! ho!\n\n_Stern._ What cheer?\n\n_Grog._ You\u2019re Sam Stern?\n\n_Stern._ Yes.\n\n_Grog._ Do you remember me?\n\n_Stern._ Remember! Yes, though you\u2019re rich now, you\u2019re still Tom\nGrog.\n\n_Grog._ You affronted me aboard the _Dreadnought_; the Spaniards were\nthen in view, and I didn\u2019t think it time to resent private quarrels\nwhen it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam\nStern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog.\n\n_Stern._ Mayhap so.\n\n_Grog._ Mayhap you\u2019ll fight me?\n\n [Illustration: \u201cWHAT CHEER?\u201d]\n\n_Stern._ I will--when and where?\n\n_Grog._ The _where_ is here, and _when_ is now; and slap\u2019s the word.\n(_Lays his hand on his hanger._) But hold, we must steer off the open\nsea into some creek.\n\n_Stern._ But I\u2019ve neither cutlash nor pistols.\n\n_Grog._ I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in\na pawnbroker\u2019s window; come, it lies on our way to the War Office.\n\n_Stern._ I should like to touch at the _Victualling_ Office\nin our voyage.\n\n_Grog._ Why, ha\u2019n\u2019t you dined?\n\n_Stern._ I\u2019ve none to eat.\n\n_Grog._ A seaman in England without a dinner! that\u2019s hard, d--d\nhard! there\u2019s money--pay me when you can. (_Gives a handful of\nmoney._)\n\n_Stern._ How much?\n\n_Grog._ I don\u2019t know--get your dinner--buy the arms--meet me in\ntwo hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don\u2019t blow\nyour head off.\n\n_Stern._ Then I can\u2019t pay you your money.\n\n_Grog._ True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if so, I shall\nhave no occasion for it.\n\n_Stern._ Right, I forgot that.\n\n (_Wipes his eyes with his sleeve._)\n\n_Grog._ What do you snivel for?\n\n_Stern._ What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to\nhim for a meal\u2019s meat.\n\n_Grog._ Then you own you\u2019ve used me ill! Ask my pardon.\n\n_Stern._ I\u2019ll be d--d if I do.\n\n_Grog._ Then take it without asking. You\u2019re cursed saucy, but\nyou\u2019re a good seaman; and hark ye, Sam, the brave man, though he\nscorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to deserve it. Come,\nwhen you\u2019ve stowed your bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set\nfriendship afloat. (_Shake hands._)\n\n_Stern._ Oh, I\u2019m a lubber!\n\n_Grog._ Avast! Swab the spray from your bows! poor fellow! don\u2019t\nheed, my soul! whilst you\u2019ve the heart of a lion, never be ashamed of\nthe feelings of a man.\n\n _John O\u2019Keeffe._\n\n\n\n\n _BULLS._\n\nIn a speech on the threatened French invasion into Ireland, made, like\nthe rest, in the Irish House of Commons, Sir Boyle Roche said--\n\n\u201cMr. Speaker, if we once permitted the villainous French masons to\nmeddle with the buttresses and walls of our ancient constitution, they\nwould never stop nor stay, sir, till they brought the foundation-stones\ntumbling down about the ears of the nation.... Here, perhaps, sirs,\nthe murderous Marshellaw men (Marseillais) would break in, cut us to\nmincemeat, and throw our bleeding heads upon that table, to stare us in\nthe face.\u201d\n\nWhen a member had committed a breach of privilege, and the\nsergeant-at-arms was censured for letting him escape, he said--\n\n\u201cHow could the sergeant-at-arms stop him in the rear, while he was\ncatching him in the front? Could he, like a bird, be in two places at\nonce?\u201d\n\nIn opposing a proposed grant for some public works, he said--\n\n\u201cWhat, Mr. Speaker, and so we are to beggar ourselves for the fear of\nvexing posterity? Now, I would ask the honourable gentleman, and this\nstill more honourable house, why we should put ourselves out of our\nway to do anything for posterity; for what has posterity done for us!\n(Laughter.) I apprehend gentlemen have entirely mistaken my words. I\nassure the house that by posterity I do not mean my ancestors, but\nthose who are to come immediately after them.\u201d\n\n _Sir Boyle Roche_ (1740?--1807).\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _THE MONKS OF THE SCREW._\n\n\n When St. Patrick this order established,\n He called us the \u201cMonks of the Screw\u201d;\n Good rules he revealed to our abbot\n To guide us in what we should do.\n But first he replenished our fountain\n With liquor the best from on high;\n And he said, on the word of a saint,\n That the fountain should never run dry.\n\n\n Each year, when your octaves approach,\n In full chapter convened let me find you;\n And when to the convent you come,\n Leave your favourite temptation behind you.\n And be not a glass in your convent--\n Unless on a festival--found;\n And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it\n One festival all the year round.\n\n My brethren, be chaste--till you\u2019re tempted;\n While sober, be grave and discreet;\n And humble your bodies with fasting,\n As oft as you\u2019ve nothing to eat.\n Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face\n Among you I\u2019d always require;\n If the abbot should please, he may wear it,\n If not, let it come to the prior.\n\n Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren,\n And with due devotion, prepare,\n With hands and with voices uplifted,\n Our hymn to conclude with a prayer.\n May this chapter oft joyously meet,\n And this gladsome libation renew,\n To the saint, and the founder, and abbot,\n And prior, and Monks of the Screw.\n\n _John Philpot Curran_ (1750\u20131817).\n\n\n\n\n _ANA._\n\n\nOne day, when out riding with Lord Norbury, they came to a gallows, and\npointing to it the judge said, \u201cWhere would you be, Curran, if that\nscaffold had its due?\u201d \u201cRiding alone, my lord,\u201d was Curran\u2019s prompt\nreply.\n\nThe same judge (noted for his merciless severity) was seated opposite\nCurran at dinner on another occasion, and asked, \u201cIs that _hung_\nbeef before you, Curran?\u201d \u201cDo you try it, my lord,\u201d replied the\nadvocate, \u201cand it is sure to be.\u201d\n\nA blustering Irish barrister once told the little man he would put him\nin his pocket if he provoked him further. \u201cEgad, if you do, you\u2019ll\nhave more law in your pocket than ever you had in your head.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you see anything ridiculous in my wig, Curran?\u201d asked a vain\nbarrister, whose displaced head-gear had caused some merriment in\ncourt. \u201cNothing, _except the head_, sir,\u201d answered Curran.\n\nAnother judge had the habit of continually shaking his head during\nCurran\u2019s addresses to the jury, and the counsel, fearing the jury\nmight be influenced, assured them that the judge was not expressing\ndissent--\u201cwhen he shakes his head, _there\u2019s nothing in it_.\u201d\n\nWhen he had to meet a notorious duellist named Bully Egan, whose girth\nwas twice that of Curran\u2019s, Egan complained that the advantages were\nall on one side, inasmuch as he could barely see Curran\u2019s diminutive\nperson, while Curran could hardly fail to hit him. \u201cOh!\u201d said Curran,\n\u201cwe can soon arrange that. Let the size of my body be chalked on Mr.\nEgan\u2019s, and I am willing all shots outside the marks should not be\ncounted.\u201d\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _THE CRUISKEEN LAWN._\n\n\n Let the farmer praise his grounds,\n Let the huntsman praise his hounds,\n The farmer his sweet-scented lawn;\n While I, more blest than they,\n Spend each happy night and day\n With my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.\n _Gra-ma-chree-ma cruiskeen,\n Slainte geal ma vourneen,\n Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn, bawn, bawn,\n Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn!_\n\n Immortal and divine,\n Great Bacchus, god of wine,\n Create me by adoption your son,\n In hope that you\u2019ll comply\n That my glass shall ne\u2019er run dry,\n Nor my smiling little cruiskeen lawn.\n Gra-ma-chree, etc.\n\n And when grim Death appears,\n After few but happy years,\n And tells me my glass it is run,\n I\u2019ll say, \u201cBegone, you slave!\n For great Bacchus gave me leave\n Just to fill another cruiskeen lawn.\u201d\n Gra-ma-chree, etc.\n\n Then fill your glasses high,\n Let\u2019s not part with lips a-dry,\n Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;\n And since we can\u2019t remain,\n May we shortly meet again\n To fill another cruiskeen lawn.\n Gra-ma-chree, etc.\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _THE SCANDAL-MONGERS._\n\n\n _Scene_--LADY SNEERWELL\u2019S HOUSE.\n\n _Present_--LADY SNEERWELL, MARIA, MRS. CANDOUR, _and_\n JOSEPH SURFACE.\n\n_Mrs. C._ My dear Lady Sneerwell, how have you been this century?\nMr. Surface, what news do you hear? though indeed it is no matter, for\nI think one hears nothing else but scandal.\n\n_Joseph._ Just so, indeed, ma\u2019am.\n\n_Mrs. C._ (_to Maria_). Oh, Maria! child, what! is the whole\naffair off between you and Charles? His extravagance, I presume; the\ntown talks of nothing else.\n\n_Maria._ I am very sorry, ma\u2019am, the town has so little to do.\n\n_Mrs. C._ True, true, child; but there\u2019s no stopping people\u2019s\ntongues. I own I was hurt to hear it, as I indeed was to learn, from\nthe same quarter, that your guardian, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, have\nnot agreed lately as well as could be wished.\n\n_Maria._ \u2019Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves\nso.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Very true, child; but what\u2019s to be done? People will\ntalk, there\u2019s no preventing it. Why, it was but yesterday I was told\nthat Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filigree Flirt. But, lord!\nthere\u2019s no minding what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from\nvery good authority.\n\n_Maria._ Such reports are highly scandalous.\n\n_Mrs. C._ So they are, child; shameful, shameful! But the world\nis so censorious, no character escapes. Lord, now, who would have\nsuspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the\nill-nature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week,\njust as she was stepping into the York mail with her dancing-master.\n\n_Maria._ I\u2019ll answer for\u2019t, there are no grounds for that report.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Ay, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more,\nprobably, than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino\u2019s\naffair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never\nrightly cleared up.\n\n_Joseph._ The licence of invention some people take is monstrous,\nindeed.\n\n_Maria._ \u2019Tis so; but, in my opinion, those who report such things\nare equally culpable.\n\n_Mrs. C._ To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as\ntale-makers; \u2019tis an old observation, and a very true one; but what\u2019s\nto be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking?\nTo-day, Mrs. Clackit assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last\nbecome mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. She\nlikewise hinted that a certain widow in the next street had got rid of\nher dropsy, and recovered her shape in a most surprising manner. And\nat the same time Miss Tattle, who was by, affirmed that Lord Buffalo\nhad discovered his lady at a house of no extraordinary fame; and that\nSir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter were to measure swords on a similar\nprovocation. But, lord! do you think I would report these things? No,\nno! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as tale-makers.\n\n_Joseph._ Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and\ngood nature!\n\n_Mrs. C._ I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked\nbehind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our\nacquaintance, I own I always love to think the best. (LADY SNEERWELL\n_and_ MARIA _retire_.) By-the-bye, I hope \u2019tis not true that your\nbrother is absolutely ruined?\n\n_Joseph._ I am afraid his circumstances are very bad, indeed,\nma\u2019am.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Ah! I heard so. But you must tell him to keep up his\nspirits; everybody almost is in the same way. Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas\nSplint, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear, within this week; so if Charles\nbe undone, he\u2019ll find half his acquaintance ruined, too; and that, you\nknow, is a consolation.\n\n_Joseph._ Doubtless, ma\u2019am: a very great one.\n\n _Enter_ SERVANT.\n\n_Serv._ Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [_Exit._\n\n_Lady S._ So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively,\nyou shan\u2019t escape.\n\n _Enter_ CRABTREE _and_ SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.\n\n_Crab._ Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand! Mrs. Candour, I don\u2019t\nbelieve you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad,\nma\u2019am, he has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn\u2019t he, Lady\nSneerwell?\n\n_Sir B._ Oh, fie, uncle!\n\n_Crab._ Nay, egad! it is true; I back him at a rebus or a charade\nagainst the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the\nepigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle\u2019s feather catching fire.\nDo, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore\nat Mrs. Drowzie\u2019s conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a\nfish, your second a great naval commander, and----\n\n_Sir B._ Uncle, now--pr\u2019ythee----\n\n_Crab._ I\u2019faith, ma\u2019am, \u2019twould surprise you to hear how ready he\nis at these things.\n\n_Lady S._ I wonder, Sir Benjamin, you never publish anything.\n\n_Sir B._ To say the truth, ma\u2019am, \u2019tis very vulgar to print; and\nas my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular\npeople, I find they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to\nthe friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which,\nwhen favoured with this lady\u2019s smiles, I mean to give the public.\n\n_Crab._ \u2019Fore heaven, ma\u2019am, they\u2019ll immortalise you! you will be\nhanded down to posterity, like Petrarch\u2019s Laura, or Waller\u2019s Sacharissa.\n\n_Sir B._ Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when you shall\nsee them on a beautiful quarto page, where a neat rivulet of text shall\nmeander through a meadow of margin. \u2019Fore gad! they will be the most\nelegant things of their kind.\n\n_Crab._ But, ladies, have you heard the news?\n\n_Mrs. C._ What, sir, do you mean the report of----\n\n_Crab._ No, ma\u2019am, that\u2019s not it--Miss Nicely is going to be\nmarried to her own footman.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Impossible!\n\n_Crab._ Ask Sir Benjamin.\n\n_Sir B._ \u2019Tis very true, ma\u2019am; everything is fixed, and the\nwedding liveries bespoke.\n\n_Crab._ Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for\nit.\n\n_Lady S._ Why, I have heard something of this before.\n\n_Mrs. C._ It can\u2019t be; and I wonder any one should believe such a\nstory of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.\n\n_Sir B._ Oh, lud! ma\u2019am, that\u2019s the very reason \u2019twas believed at\nonce. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody\nwas sure there was some reason for it at bottom.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the\ncredit of a prudent lady of her stamp, as a fever is generally to\nthose of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny\nsickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster\ncharacters of a hundred prudes.\n\n_Sir B._ True, madam; there are true valetudinarians in reputation\nas well as constitution; who, being conscious of their weak part, avoid\nthe least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and\ncircumspection.\n\n_Mrs. C._ Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir\nBenjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most\ninjurious tales.\n\n_Crab._ That they do, I\u2019ll be sworn, ma\u2019am. Did you ever hear how\nMiss Piper came to lose her lover and her character last summer at\nTunbridge? Sir Benjamin, you remember it?\n\n_Sir B._ Oh, to be sure; the most whimsical of circumstances.\n\n_Lady S._ How was it, pray?\n\n_Crab._ Why, one evening at Miss Ponto\u2019s assembly, the conversation\nhappened to turn on the breeding Nova Scotia sheep in this country.\nSays a young lady in company, I have known instances of it; for Miss\nLetitia Piper, a first cousin of mine, had a Nova Scotia sheep that\nproduced her twins. What! cries the lady dowager Dundizzy (who you know\nis as deaf as a post), has Miss Piper had twins? This mistake, as you\nmay imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of laughter. However,\n\u2019twas the next day everywhere reported, and in a few days believed by\nthe whole town, that Miss Letitia Piper had actually been brought to\nbed of a fine boy and girl; and in less than a week there were some\npeople who could name the father, and the farmhouse where the babies\nwere put to nurse.\n\n_Lady S._ Strange, indeed!\n\n_Crab._ Matter of fact, I assure you. Oh, lud! Mr. Surface, pray\nis it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?\n\n_Joseph._ Not that I know of, indeed, sir.\n\n_Crab._ He has been in the East Indies a long time. You can\nscarcely remember him, I believe? Sad comfort, whenever he returns, to\nhear how your brother has gone on.\n\n_Joseph._ Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope\nno busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may\nreform.\n\n_Sir B._ To be sure he may; for my part, I never believed him to\nbe so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost\nall his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.\n\n_Crab._ That\u2019s true, egad! nephew. If the Old Jewry were a ward, I\nbelieve Charles would be an alderman: no man more popular there, \u2019fore\ngad! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that\nwhenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health\nin all the synagogues.\n\n_Sir B._ Yet no man lives in greater splendour. They tell me,\nwhen he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a\ndozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the\nante-chamber, and an officer behind every guest\u2019s chair.\n\n_Joseph._ This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen, but you pay\nvery little regard to the feelings of a brother.\n\n_Maria._ Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish\nyou a good morning. I\u2019m not very well. [_Exit._\n\n_Mrs. C._ Oh, dear! she changes colour very much.\n\n_Lady S._ Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your\nassistance.\n\n_Mrs. C._ That I will, with all my soul, ma\u2019am. Poor dear girl,\nwho knows what her situation may be? [_Exit._\n\n_Lady S._ \u2019Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear\nCharles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.\n\n_Sir B._ The young lady\u2019s _penchant_ is obvious.\n\n_Crab._ But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that;\nfollow her, and put her into good humour. Repeat her some of your own\nverses. Come, I\u2019ll assist you.\n\n_Sir B._ Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but depend on\u2019t,\nyour brother is utterly undone.\n\n_Crab._ Oh, lud! ay, undone as ever man was. Can\u2019t raise a guinea!\n\n_Sir B._ And everything sold, I\u2019m told, that was movable.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cPOOR DEAR GIRL, WHO KNOWS WHAT HER SITUATION MAY\n BE?\u201d]\n\n_Crab._ I have seen one that was at his house. Not a thing left\nbut some empty bottles that were overlooked, and the family pictures,\nwhich I believe are framed in the wainscot!\n\n_Sir B._ And I\u2019m very sorry, also, to hear some bad stories\nagainst him.\n\n_Crab._ Oh! he has done many mean things, that\u2019s certain.\n\n_Sir B._ But, however, as he\u2019s your brother----\n\n_Crab._ We\u2019ll tell you all another opportunity.\n\n [_Exit with_ SIR BENJAMIN.\n\n _R. B. Sheridan_ (1751\u20131816).\n\n\n\n\n _CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE\u2019S SUBMISSION._\n\n\n _Scene_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE\u2019S LODGINGS.\n\n _Present_--CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE AND HIS FATHER.\n\n\n_Capt. Absolute._ Now for a parental lecture. I hope he has heard\nnothing of the business that has brought me here. I wish the gout had\nheld him fast in Devonshire, with all my soul!\n\n _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.\n\nSir, I am glad to see you here, and looking so well!--your sudden\narrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are\nrecruiting here, eh?\n\n_Capt. A._ Yes, sir, I am on duty.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not\nexpect it; for I was going to write to you on a little matter of\nbusiness. Jack, I have been considering that I grow old and infirm, and\nshall probably not trouble you long.\n\n_Capt. A._ Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and\nhearty, and I pray fervently that you may continue so.\n\n_Sir Anth._ I hope your prayers may be heard with all my heart.\nWell then, Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty\nI may continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that\nthe income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is\nbut a small pittance for a lad of your spirit.\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, you are very good.\n\n_Sir Anth._ And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy\nmake some figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you\nat once in a noble independence.\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Yet, sir, I presume\nyou would not wish me to quit the army?\n\n_Sir Anth._ Oh! that shall be as your wife chooses.\n\n_Capt. A._ My wife, sir!\n\n_Sir Anth._ Ay, ay, settle that between you; settle that between\nyou.\n\n_Capt. A._ A wife, sir, did you say?\n\n_Sir Anth._ Ay, a wife; why, did not I mention her before?\n\n_Capt. A._ Not a word of her, sir.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Od so! I mustn\u2019t forget her though--Yes, Jack, the\nindependence I was talking of is by a marriage; the fortune is saddled\nwith a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference.\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, sir, you amaze me!\n\n_Sir Anth._ Why, what the devil\u2019s the matter with the fool? Just\nnow you were all gratitude and duty.\n\n_Capt. A._ I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a\nfortune, but not a word of a wife.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Why, what difference does that make? Ods life, sir! if\nyou have the estate, you must take it with the live stock on it, as it\nstands.\n\n_Capt. A._ Pray, sir, who is the lady?\n\n_Sir Anth._ What\u2019s that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to\nlove, and to marry her directly.\n\n_Capt. A._ Sure, sir, this is not very reasonable, to summon my\naffections for a lady I know nothing of!\n\n_Sir Anth._ I am sure, sir, \u2019tis more unreasonable in you to\nobject to a lady you know nothing of.\n\n_Capt. A._ You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all,\nthat in this point I cannot obey you.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Harkye, Jack! I have heard you for some time with\npatience, I have been cool, quite cool; but take care; you know I\nam compliance itself,--when I am not thwarted! No one more easily\nled,--when I have my own way; but don\u2019t put me in a frenzy.\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, I must repeat it,--in this I cannot obey you.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Now, d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again, while I\nlive!\n\n_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, but hear me.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Sir, I won\u2019t hear a word, not a word; not one word: so\ngive me your promise by a nod; and I\u2019ll tell you what, Jack (I mean,\nyou dog!), if you don\u2019t, by----\n\n_Capt. A._ What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of\nugliness!----\n\n_Sir Anth._ Zounds, sirrah! the lady shall be as ugly as I choose:\nshe shall have a hump on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the\ncrescent; her one eye shall roll like the bull\u2019s in Cox\u2019s museum; she\nshall have a skin like a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be\nall this, sirrah! yet, I\u2019ll make you ogle her all day, and sit up all\nnight to write sonnets on her beauty.\n\n_Capt. A._ This is reason and moderation, indeed!\n\n_Sir Anth._ None of your sneering, puppy! no grinning, jackanapes!\n\n_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humour for mirth in\nmy life.\n\n_Sir Anth._ \u2019Tis false, sir; I know you are laughing in your\nsleeve! I know you\u2019ll grin when I am gone, sirrah!\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, I hope I know my duty better.\n\n_Sir Anth._ None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if\nyou please; it won\u2019t do with me, I promise you.\n\n_Capt. A._ Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life.\n\n_Sir Anth._ \u2019Tis a confounded lie! I know you are in a passion at\nyour heart; I know you are, you hypocritical young dog; but it won\u2019t\ndo.\n\n_Capt. A._ Nay, sir, upon my word----\n\n_Sir Anth._ So you will fly out! Can\u2019t you be cool, like me? What\nthe devil good can passion do? passion is of no service, you impudent,\ninsolent, overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! don\u2019t provoke\nme! but you rely upon the mildness of my temper; you do, you dog! you\nplay upon the meekness of my disposition! Yet, take care; the patience\nof a saint may be overcome at last. But mark!--I give you six hours and\na half to consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition,\nto do every thing on earth that I choose, why--confound you! I may in\ntime forgive you. If not, zounds! don\u2019t enter into the same hemisphere\nwith me! don\u2019t dare to breathe the same air, or use the same light with\nme; but get an atmosphere and a sun of your own! I\u2019ll strip you of your\ncommission! I\u2019ll lodge a five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees,\nand you shall live on the interest. I\u2019ll disown you, I\u2019ll disinherit\nyou, I\u2019ll unget you! and d--n me! if ever I call you Jack again!\n[_Exit_.]\n\n_Capt. A._ Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hands.\n\n _Enter_ FAG.\n\n_Fag._ Assuredly, sir, your father is wroth to a degree; he comes\ndownstairs eight or ten steps at a time, muttering, growling, or\nthumping the banisters all the way; I and the cook\u2019s dog stand bowing\nat the door--rap! he gives me a stroke on the head with his cane; bids\nme carry that to my master; then kicking the poor turnspit into the\narea, d--ns us all for a puppy triumvirate! Upon my credit, sir, were\nI in your place, and found my father such very bad company, I should\ncertainly drop his acquaintance.\n\n_Capt. A._ Cease your impertinence, sir; did you come in for\nnothing more? Stand out of the way.\n\n [_Pushes him aside, and exit._\n\n_Fag._ So! Sir Anthony trims my master; he is afraid to reply to\nhis father, then vents his spleen on poor Fag! When one is vexed by one\nperson, to revenge one\u2019s self on another who happens to come in the\nway, shows the worst of temper, the basest----\n\n _Enter_ ERRAND BOY.\n\n_Boy._ Mr. Fag! Mr. Fag! your master calls you.\n\n_Fag._ Well, you little, dirty puppy, you needn\u2019t bawl so: the\nmeanest disposition, the----\n\n_Boy._ Quick, quick, Mr. Fag!\n\n [Illustration: \u201cYOU LITTLE, IMPERTINENT, INSOLENT,\n KITCHEN-BRED----\u201d]\n\n_Fag._ Quick, quick, you impudent jackanapes! am I to be commanded\nby you, too? you little, impertinent, insolent, kitchen-bred----\n [_Kicks him off, and exit._\n\n\n _Scene_--THE NORTH PARADE.\n\n _Enter_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE.\n\n_Capt. A._ \u2019Tis just as Fag told me, indeed. Whimsical enough,\n\u2019faith. My father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am\nplotting to run away with. He must not know of my connection with her\nyet awhile. He has too summary a method of proceeding in these matters;\nhowever, I\u2019ll read my recantation instantly. My conversion is something\nsudden, indeed; but, I can assure him, it is very sincere. So, so, here\nhe comes; he looks plaguy gruff. (_Steps aside._)\n\n _Enter_ SIR ANTHONY.\n\n_Sir Anth._ No--I\u2019ll sooner die than forgive him! Die, did I say?\nI\u2019ll live these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his\nimpudence had almost put me out of temper; an obstinate, passionate,\nself-willed boy! Who can he take after? This is my return for getting\nhim before all his brothers and sisters! for putting him at twelve\nyears old into a marching regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds\na year, besides his pay, ever since! But I\u2019ve done with him; he\u2019s\nanybody\u2019s son for me: I never will see him more, never, never; never,\nnever.\n\n_Capt. A._ Now for a penitential face! (_Advances._)\n\n_Sir Anth._ Fellow, get out of the way!\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, you see a penitent before you.\n\n_Sir Anth._ I see an impudent scoundrel before me.\n\n_Capt. A._ A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my\nerror, and to submit entirely to your will.\n\n_Sir Anth._ What\u2019s that?\n\n_Capt. A._ I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering\non your past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Well, sir?\n\n_Capt. A._ I have been likewise weighing and balancing what you\nwere pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Well, puppy?\n\n_Capt. A._ Why, then, sir, the result of my reflections is,\na resolution to sacrifice every inclination of my own to your\nsatisfaction.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard\nanything more sensible in my life. Confound you! you shall be Jack\nagain.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cSIR, YOU SEE A PENITENT BEFORE YOU.\u201d]\n\n_Capt. A._ I am happy in the appellation.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you\nwho the lady really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you\nsilly fellow, prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for\nwonder and rapture--prepare. What think you of Miss Lydia Languish?\n\n_Capt. A._ Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire?\n\n_Sir Anth._ Worcestershire! no. Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop\nand her niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you\nwere last ordered to your regiment?\n\n_Capt. A._ Malaprop! Languish! I don\u2019t remember ever to have\nheard the names before. Yet stay, I think I do recollect\nsomething--Languish--Languish--She squints, don\u2019t she? A little\nred-hair\u2019d girl!\n\n_Sir Anth._ Squints! A red-hair\u2019d girl! Zounds! no!\n\n_Capt. A._ Then I must have forgot; it can\u2019t be the same person.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Jack! Jack! what think you of blooming love-breathing\nseventeen?\n\n_Capt. A._ As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent; if I can\nplease you in the matter, \u2019tis all I desire.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Nay, but Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently\nwild! so bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some\nthought of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply\nblushing at the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her\nlips! Oh, Jack, lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not\nsmiling, more sweetly pouting--more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack,\nher neck! Oh, Jack! Jack!\n\n_Capt. A._ And which is to be mine, sir, the niece or her aunt?\n\n_Sir Anth._ Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you.\nWhen I was of your age, such a description would have made me fly like\na rocket! The aunt, indeed! Ods life! when I ran away with your mother,\nI would not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire.\n\n_Capt. A._ Not to please your father, sir?\n\n_Sir Anth._ To please my father--Zounds! not to please--Oh, my\nfather--Odso!--yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired--that\u2019s\nquite another matter. Though he wasn\u2019t the indulgent father that I am,\nJack.\n\n_Capt. A._ I dare say not, sir.\n\n_Sir Anth._ But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is\nso beautiful?\n\n_Capt. A._ Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, \u2019tis\nall I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome;\nbut, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something\nabout a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind; now,\nwithout being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine\nto have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back: and\nthough one eye may be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always\nrun in favour of two, I should not wish to affect a singularity in that\narticle.\n\n_Sir Anth._ What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an\nanchorite! a vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! You\u2019re a walking\nblock, fit only to dust the company\u2019s regimentals on! Ods life! I\u2019ve a\ngreat mind to marry the girl myself!\n\n_Capt. A._ I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should\nthink of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have\nme marry the aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old\nlady,--\u2019tis the same to me, I\u2019ll marry the niece.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great\nhypocrite, or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject\nmust be all a lie--I\u2019m sure it must--come now, d--n your demure face;\ncome, confess, Jack, you have been lying--ha\u2019n\u2019t you? You have been\nplaying the hypocrite, eh?--I\u2019ll never forgive you, if you ha\u2019n\u2019t been\nlying and playing the hypocrite.\n\n_Capt. A._ I\u2019m sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear\nto you should be so mistaken.\n\n_Sir Anth._ Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me.\nI\u2019ll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady\ndirectly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to you--come along:\nI\u2019ll never forgive you, if you don\u2019t come back stark mad with rapture\nand impatience--if you don\u2019t, egad, I\u2019ll marry the girl myself.\n [_Exeunt._\n\n _R. B. Sheridan._\n\n\n\n\n _ANA._\n\n\nWhen some one proposed to tax milestones, Sheridan protested that\nit would not be constitutional or fair, as they could not meet to\nremonstrate.\n\nLord Lauderdale having declared his intention to circulate some\nwitticism of Sheridan\u2019s, the latter hastily exclaimed, \u201cPray don\u2019t, my\ndear Lauderdale; a joke in your mouth is no laughing matter!\u201d\n\nLord Erskine on one occasion said that \u201ca wife was only a tin canister\ntied to one\u2019s tail.\u201d Lady Erskine was justly annoyed at this remark,\nand Sheridan dashed off this impromptu:--\n\n \u201cLord Erskine, at woman presuming to rail,\n Calls a wife a tin canister tied to one\u2019s tail;\n And fair Lady Anne, while the subject he carries on,\n Seems hurt at his lordship\u2019s degrading comparison.\n But wherefore degrading? Considered aright,\n A canister\u2019s polished and useful and bright;\n And should dirt its original purity hide,\n That\u2019s the fault of the puppy to whom it is tied.\u201d\n\nSheridan met two sprigs of nobility one day in St. James\u2019s Street, and\none of them said to him, \u201cI say, Sherry, we have just been discussing\nwhich you were, a knave or a fool. What is your opinion on the\nsubject?\u201d Sheridan took each of them by the arm, and replied, \u201cWhy,\nfaith, I believe I am between the two.\u201d\n\nOf his parliamentary opponent, Mr. Dundas, he once said, \u201cThe\nhonourable gentleman is indebted to his imagination for his facts, and\nto his memory for his jests.\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018WHY, FAITH, I BELIEVE I AM BETWEEN THE TWO.\u2019\u201d]\n\nWhen he was found intoxicated in the gutter by a night-watchman and was\nasked his name, he replied, \u201cWilberforce,\u201d meaning the eminent teetotal\nadvocate.\n\nOnce at a parliamentary committee he found every seat occupied, and\nlooking round, asked, \u201cWill any gentleman _move_ that I may\n_take the chair_?\u201d\n\nMichael Kelly, the singer and composer, kept a shop at the bottom of\nthe Haymarket, where he sold wine and music. He asked Sheridan for a\nsign, and Sheridan gave him the following:--\u201cMichael Kelly, composer of\nwine and importer of music.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n _MY AMBITION._\n\n\n _Ease_ often visits shepherd-swains,\n Nor in the lowly cot disdains\n To take a bit of dinner;\n But would not for a turtle-treat,\n Sit with a miser or a cheat,\n Or cankered party sinner.\n\n _Ease_ makes the sons of labour glad,\n _Ease_ travels with the merry lad\n Who whistles by his waggon;\n With me she prattles all day long,\n And choruses my simple song,\n And shares my foaming flagon.\n\n The lamp of life is soon burnt out;\n Then who\u2019d for riches make a rout,\n Except a doating blockhead?\n When Charon takes \u2019em both aboard,\n Of equal worth\u2019s the miser\u2019s hoard\n And spendthrift\u2019s empty pocket.\n\n In such a scurvy world as this\n We must not hope for perfect bliss,\n And length of life together;\n We have no moral liberty\n At will to live, at will to die,\n In fair or stormy weather.\n\n Many, I see, have riches plenty--\n Fine coaches, livery, servants twenty;--\n Yet envy never pains me;\n My appetite\u2019s as good as theirs,\n I sleep as sound, as free from fears;\n I\u2019ve only what maintains me!\n\n And while the precious joys I prove\n Of Tom\u2019s true friendship--and the love\n Of bonny black-ey\u2019d Jenny,--\n Ye gods! my wishes are confin\u2019d\n To--health of body, peace of mind,\n Clean linen, and a guinea!\n\n _Edward Lysaght_ (1763\u20131810).\n\n\n\n\n _A WAREHOUSE FOR WIT._\n\n\nIt is with men of their wit, as with women of their beauty. Tell a\nwoman she is fair, and she will not be offended that you tell her she\nis cruel. Tell a man that he is a wit, and if you lay to his charge\nill-nature or blasphemy, he will take it as a compliment rather than a\nreproach. Thus, too, there is no woman but lays some claim to beauty;\nand no man will give up his pretensions to wit. In cases of this\nkind, therefore, where so much depends upon opinion, and where every\nman thinks himself qualified to be his own judge, there is nothing\nso useless to a reader as illustrations; and nothing to an author so\ndangerous as definition. Any attempt therefore to decide what true\nWIT is must be ineffectual, as not one in a hundred would be\ncontent to abide by the decision; it is impossible to rank all mankind\nunder the name of wits, and there is scarce one in a hundred who does\nnot think that he merits the appellation.\n\nHence it is that every one, how little qualified soever, is fond of\nmaking a display of his fancied abilities; and generally at the expense\nof some one to whom he supposes himself infinitely superior. And from\nthis supposition many mistakes arise to those who commence wags, with\na very small share of wit, and a still smaller of judgment; whose\nimaginations are by nature unprolific, and whose minds are uncultivated\nby education. These persons, while they are ringing their rounds on\na few dull jests, are apt to mistake the rude and noisy merriment\nof illiterate jocularity for genuine humour. They often unhappily\nconceive that those laugh _with_ them who laugh _at_ them. The sarcasms\nwhich every one disdains to answer, they vainly flatter themselves\nare unanswerable; forgetting, no doubt, that their _good things_\nare unworthy the notice of a retort, and below the condescension\nof criticism. They know not perhaps that the Ass, whom the fable\nrepresents assuming the playfulness of the lap-dog, is a perfect\npicture of jocular stupidity; and that, in like manner, that awkward\nabsurdity of waggishness which they expect should delight, cannot\nbut disgust; and instead of laying claim to admiration, must ensure\ncontempt. But, alas! I am aware that mine will prove a success-less\nundertaking; and that though knight-errant-like I sally forth to\nengage with the monsters of witticism and waggery, all my prowess will\nbe inadequate to the achievement of the enterprise. The world will\ncontinue as facetious as ever in spite of all I can do; and people will\nbe just as fond of their \u201clittle jokes and old stories\u201d as if I had\nnever combated their inclination.\n\nSince then I cannot utterly extirpate this unchristian practice, my\nnext endeavour must be to direct it properly, and improve it by some\nwholesome regulations. I propose, if I meet with proper encouragement,\nmaking application to Parliament for permission to open \u201c_A Licensed\nWarehouse for Wit_,\u201d and for a patent, entitling me to the sole vending\nand uttering ware of this kind, for a certain term of years. For\nthis purpose I have already laid in _Jokes_, _Jests_, _Witticisms_,\n_Morceaus_, and _Bon-Mots_ of every kind, to a very considerable\namount, well worthy the attention of the public. I have _Epigrams_\nthat want nothing but the sting; _Conundrums_ that need nothing but an\nexplanation; _Rebuses_ and _Acrostics_ that will be complete with the\naddition of the name only. These being in great request, may be had at\nan hour\u2019s warning. _Impromptus_ will be got ready at a week\u2019s notice.\nFor common and vernacular use, I have a long list of the most palpable\n_Puns_ in the language, digested in alphabetical order; for these I\nexpect good sale at both the universities. _Jokes_ of all kinds, ready\n_cut_ and _dry_.\n\nN.B.--Proper allowance made to gentlemen of the law going on circuit;\nand to all second-hand vendors of wit and retailers of repartee, who\ntake large quantities.\n\nN.B.--_Attic Salt_ in any quantity.\n\nN.B.--Most money for old _Jokes_.\n\n _George Canning_ (1770\u20131827).\n\n\n\n\n _CONJUGAL AFFECTION._\n\n\n When Elliott (called the Salamander)\n Was famed Gibraltar\u2019s stout commander,\n A soldier there went to a well\n To fetch home water to his Nell;\n But fate decreed the youth to fall\n A victim to a cannon ball.\n One brought the tidings to his spouse,\n Which drove her frantic from the house;\n On wings of love the creature fled\n To seek her dear--she found him dead!\n Her husband killed--the water spilt--\n Judge, ye fond females, what she felt!\n She looked--she sighed--and melting, spoke--\n \u201cThank God, the pitcher is not broke!\u201d\n\n _Thomas Cannings_ (_fl._ 1790\u20131800).\n\n\n\n\n _WHISKY, DRINK DIVINE!_\n\n\n Whisky, drink divine!\n Why should drivellers bore us\n With the praise of wine\n While we\u2019ve thee before us?\n Were it not a shame,\n Whilst we gaily fling thee\n To our lips of flame,\n If we could not sing thee?\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n Greek and Roman sung\n Chian and Falernian--\n Shall no harp be strung\n To thy praise, Hibernian?\n Yes! let Erin\u2019s sons--\n Generous, brave, and frisky--\n Tell the world at once\n They owe it to their whisky--\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n If Anacreon--who\n Was the grape\u2019s best poet--\n Drank our _mountain-dew_,\n How his verse would show it!\n As the best then known,\n He to wine was civil;\n Had he _Inishowen_,\n He\u2019d pitch wine to the divil--\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n Bright as beauty\u2019s eye,\n When no sorrow veils it:\n Sweet as beauty\u2019s sigh,\n When young love inhales it:\n Come, then, to my lips--\n Come, thou rich in blisses!\n Every drop I sip\n Seems a shower of kisses--\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n Could my feeble lays\n Half thy virtues number,\n A whole _grove_ of bays\n Should my brows encumber.\n Be his name adored,\n Who summed up thy merits\n In one little word,\n When he called thee _spirits_--\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n Send it gaily round--\n Life would be no pleasure,\n If we had not found\n This enchanting treasure:\n And when tyrant death\u2019s\n Arrow shall transfix ye,\n Let your latest breaths\n Be whisky! whisky! whisky!\n Whisky, drink divine, etc.\n\n _Joseph O\u2019Leary_ (17-- -1845?).\n\n\n\n\n _TO A YOUNG LADY BLOWING A TURF FIRE\n WITH HER PETTICOAT._\n\n\n Cease, cease, Amira, peerless maid!\n Though we delighted gaze,\n While artless you excite the flame,\n We perish in the blaze.\n Haply you too provoke your harm--\n Forgive the bold remark--\n Your petticoat may fan the fire,\n But, O! beware a _spark_!\n\n _Anonymous_ (1772).\n\n\n\n\n _EPIGRAMS, ETC._\n\n\n _On Lord Dudley, who was noted for learning all his\n speeches by heart._\n\n In vain my affections the ladies are seeking:\n If I give up my heart, there\u2019s an end to my speaking.\n\n\n _On Miss Ellen Tree, the singer._\n\n On this _Tree_ if a nightingale settles and sings,\n The _tree_ will return her as good as she brings.\n\n\n _On Moore the poet\u2019s excuse to his guests that his servant was\n ill from the effects of a carousal._\n\n Come, come, for trifles never stick,\n Most servants have a failing,\n Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,\n But mine are always _aleing_.\n\nOn being asked what \u201con the contrary\u201d meant, when that phrase was used\nby a person charged with eating three eggs every morning, Luttrell\u2019s\nready retort was, \u201cLaying them, I daresay.\u201d\n\nI hate the sight of monkeys, they remind one so of poor relations.\n\n\n _On a man run over by an omnibus._\n\n Killed by an omnibus--why not?\n So quick a death a boon is.\n Let not his friends lament his lot--\n _Mors omnibus communis_.\n\nAt one of the crowded receptions at Holland House, Lady Holland\nwas requested by the guests to \u201cmake room.\u201d \u201cIt must certainly be\n_made_, for it does not exist,\u201d said Luttrell.\n\n\n _On Samuel Rogers\u2019 poem, \u201cItaly,\u201d which was illustrated by\n Turner._\n\n Of Rogers\u2019 \u201cItaly\u201d Luttrell relates\n That \u2019twould have been _dished_, if \u2019twere not for the _plates_!\n\n _Henry Luttrell_ (1766?-1851.)\n\n\n\n\n _LETTER FROM MISS BETTY FUDGE, IN\n PARIS, TO MISS DOROTHY----._\n\n\n What a time since I wrote!--I\u2019m a sad naughty girl--\n For though, like a tee-totum, I\u2019m all in a twirl;--\n Yet ev\u2019n (as you wittily say) a tee-totum\n Between all its twirls gives a letter to note \u2019em.\n But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses,\n My gowns, so divine!--there\u2019s no language expresses,\n Except just the words \u201csuperbe,\u201d \u201cmagnifique,\u201d\n The trimmings of that which I had home last week!\n It is call\u2019d--I forget--_\u00e0 la_--something which sounded\n Like _alicampane_--but, in truth, I\u2019m confounded\n And bother\u2019d, my dear, \u2019twixt that troublesome boy\u2019s\n (Bob\u2019s) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi\u2019s:\n What with fillets of roses and fillets of veal,\n Things _garni_ with lace, and things _garni_ with eel,\n One\u2019s hair and one\u2019s cutlets both _en popillote_,\n And a thousand more things I shall ne\u2019er have by rote,\n I can scarce tell the diff\u2019rence, at least as to phrase,\n Between beef _\u00e0 la Psyche_ and curls _\u00e0 la braise_.--\n But, in short, dear, I\u2019m trick\u2019d out quite _\u00e0 la Fran\u00e7aise_,\n With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking,\n Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.\n\n Where shall I begin with the endless delights\n Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights--\n This dear busy place, where there\u2019s nothing transacting\n But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?\n _Imprimis_, the opera--mercy, my ears!\n Brother Bobby\u2019s remark, t\u2019other night, was a true one;--\n \u201cThis must be the music,\u201d said he, \u201cof the spears,\n For I\u2019m curst if each note of it doesn\u2019t run through one!\u201d\n Pa says (and you know, love, his Book\u2019s to make out,\n \u2019Twas the Jacobins brought ev\u2019ry mischief about)\n That this passion for roaring has come in of late,\n Since the rabble all tried for a _voice_ in the State.--\n What a frightful idea, one\u2019s mind to o\u2019erwhelm!\n What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it,\n If, when of age, every man in the realm\n Had a voice like old La\u00efs,[5] and chose to make use of it;\n No--never was known in this riotous sphere\n Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear.\n So bad, too, you\u2019d swear that the God of both arts,\n Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic\n For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts,\n And composing a fine rumbling base in a cholic!\n\n But the dancing--ah! _parlez-moi_, Dolly, _de \u00e7a_--\n There, _indeed_, is a treat that charms all but Papa.\n Such beauty--such grace--oh, ye sylphs of romance!\n Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if _she_ has\n One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance\n Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias!\n Fanny Bias in _Flora_--dear creature!--you\u2019d swear,\n When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round,\n That her steps are of light, that her home is the air,\n And she only _par complaisance_ touches the ground.\n And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels\n Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven,\n Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils,\n That hold her and hug her, and keep her from Heaven?\n Then, the music--so softly its cadences die,\n So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I,\n It\u2019s as well for my peace that there\u2019s nobody nigh\n To make love to me then--_you\u2019ve_ a soul, and can judge\n What a crisis \u2019twould be for your friend, Betty Fudge!\n\n The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in)\n They call it the Play-house--I think--of St. Martin;\n Quite charming--and _very_ religious--what folly\n To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly,\n When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly,\n The Testament turned into _melodrames_ nightly;\n And, doubtless, so fond they\u2019re of scriptural facts,\n They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts.\n Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance\n To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff\u2019d lions,\n While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet,\n In very thin clothing, and _but_ little of it;--\n Here B\u00e9grand,[6] who shines in the scriptural path,\n As the lovely Suzanna, without ev\u2019n a relic\n Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath\n In a manner that, Bob says, is quite _Eve-angelic_!\n But, in short, dear, \u2019twould take me a month to recite\n All the exquisite places we\u2019re at, day and night.\n\n _Thomas Moore_ (1779\u20131852).\n\n\n\n\n _MONTMORENCI AND CHERUBINA._\n\n [The two extracts which follow are taken from a burlesque novel\n which had a great success early in the century. Its ridicule of\n the Radcliffian type of romance, full of accumulated horrors and\n grotesque affectation, probably did much to extirpate the worst\n examples of that unrealistic school.]\n\n\nThis morning, soon after breakfast, I heard a gentle knocking at my\ndoor, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour,\nentered. Oh! ye conscious blushes; it was my Montmorenci! A plume of\nwhite feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were\nwanting. \u201cI come,\u201d cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand\nto his lips, \u201cI come in the ancient armour of my family to perform my\npromise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.\u201d \u201cMy\nlord,\u201d said I, \u201crise and be seated. Cherubina knows how to appreciate\nthe honour that Montmorenci confers.\u201d He bowed; and having laid by his\nspear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and\nbegan his heart-rending history.\n\n\u201cAll was dark. The hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder\nrolled. Nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. In the\nprovince of Languedoc stood the Gothic castle of Montmorenci. Before\nit ran the Garonne, and behind it rose the Pyrenees, whose summits\nexhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours\nrolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue\ntinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that\nswept downward to their base. \u2018My lads, are your carbines charged, and\nyour daggers sharpened?\u2019 whispered Rinaldo, with his plume of black\nfeathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. \u2018If they an\u2019t,\u2019 said\nBernardo, \u2018by St. Jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and\nsharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.\u2019 \u2018The wind is\neast-south-east,\u2019 said Ugo. At this moment the bell of Montmorenci\nCastle tolled one. The sound vibrated through the long corridors, the\nspiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears\nof the personage who has the honour to address you. Much alarmed, I\nstarted from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet\nof flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with\njonquils and butterflies by Michael Angelo. But conceive my horror when\nI beheld my chamber filled with banditti! Snatching my faulchion, I\nflew to the armoury for my coat of mail; the bravos rushed after me,\nbut I fought and dressed and dressed and fought, till I had perfectly\ncompleted my unpleasing toilet. I then stood alone, firm, dignified,\ncollected, and only fifteen years of age.\u201d\n\n \u201c\u2018Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,\n Than twenty of their swords----\u2019\n\nTo describe the horror of the contest that followed were beyond the pen\nof an Anacreon. In short, I fought till my silver skin was laced with\nmy golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail,\n\n \u201c\u2018And whistled as they went for want of thought.\u2019\n\nAt length I murdered my way down to my little skiff, embarked in it,\nand arrived at this island. As I first touched foot on its chalky\nbeach, \u2018Hail! happy land,\u2019 cried I, \u2018hail, thrice hail!\u2019 \u2018There is no\nhail here, sir,\u2019 said a child running by.... Nine days and nights I\nwandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my\nrepast; the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.\u201d \u201cAh!\u201d interrupted\nI, \u201chow much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted\nover with jonquils and butterflies!\u201d \u201cExtremely,\u201d said he, \u201cfor during\nsixteen long years I had not a roof over my head--I was an itinerant\nbeggar! One summer\u2019s day, the cattle lay panting under the broad\numbrage, the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and\nthe struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. I sat\nunder a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form,\nflexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the\nsighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the\ndaisies as it trod. What a divinity! she was fresh as the Anadyomene\nof Apelles, and beautiful as the Gnidus of Praxiteles, or the Helen of\nZeuxis. Her eyes dipt in heaven\u2019s own hue----\u201d \u201cSir,\u201d said I, \u201cyou\nneed not mind her eyes; I dare say they were blue enough. But pray, who\nwas this immortal doll of yours?\u201d \u201cWho?\u201d cried he, \u201cwhy, who but--shall\nI speak it? who but--the LADY CHERUBINA DE WILLOUGHBY!!!\u201d\n\u201cI!\u201d \u201cYou!\u201d \u201cAh! Montmorenci!\u201d \u201cAh! Cherubina! I followed you with\ncautious steps,\u201d continued he, \u201ctill I traced you into your--you had a\ngarden, had you not?\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cInto your garden. I thought ten thousand\nflowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay.\nBut the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and\nfortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of Cupid is extinguished\nfor ever!... But wherefore,\u201d cried he, starting from his seat,\n\u201cwherefore talk of the past? Oh! let me tell you of the present and of\nthe future. Oh! let me tell you how dearly, how deeply, how devotedly\nI love you!\u201d \u201cLove me!\u201d cried I, giving such a start as the nature of\nthe case required. \u201cMy Lord, this is so--really now, so----\u201d \u201cPardon\nthis abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,\u201d said he, flinging himself\nat my feet; \u201cfain would I have let concealment, like a worm in the\nbud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening\nsight of so much beauty?\u201d I remained silent, and, with the elegant\nembarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. I never\nlooked so lovely.... \u201cI declare,\u201d said I, \u201cI would say anything on\nearth to relieve you--only tell me what.\u201d \u201cAngel of light!\u201d exclaimed\nhe, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might\nliquefy marble. \u201cHave I then hope? Dare I say it? Dare I pronounce the\ndivine words, \u2018she loves me\u2019?\u201d \u201cI am thine and thou art mine,\u201d murmured\nI, while the room swam before me.\n\n _Eaton Stannard Barrett_ (1786\u20131820).\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _MODERN MEDI\u00c6VALISM._\n\n\n CHAPTER I.\n\n \u201cBlow, blow, thou wintry wind.\u201d\n --_Shakespeare._\n\n \u201cBlow, breezes, blow.\u201d\n --_Moore._\n\nIt was on a nocturnal night in autumnal October; the wet rain fell in\nliquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and Ossianly\nmanner. The lowly but peaceful inhabitants of a small but decent\ncottage were just sitting down to their homely but wholesome supper,\nwhen a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. Bertram armed himself\nwith a ladle. \u201cLack-a-daisy!\u201d cried old Margueritone, and little Billy\nseized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. Innocent\nfraud! happy childhood!\n\n \u201cThe father\u2019s lustre and the mother\u2019s bloom.\u201d\n\nBertram then opened the door, when, lo! pale, breathless, dripping,\nand with a look that would have shocked the Royal Humane Society, a\nbeautiful female tottered into the room. \u201cLack-a-daisy! ma\u2019am,\u201d said\nMargueritone, \u201care you wet?\u201d \u201cWet?\u201d exclaimed the fair unknown,\nwringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; \u201cO ye gods,\nwet!\u201d Margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and\nturned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits.\n\n \u201cSpirit of my sainted sire.\u201d\n\nThe stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. Her hair was long and\ndark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will\nleave her there awhile, lest we should betray an ignorance of the world\nin appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people.\n\nOn the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed\nby the angry Atlantic, stood a moated and turreted structure called\nIl Castello di Grimgothico. As the northern tower had remained\nuninhabited since the death of its late lord, Henriques de Violenci,\nlights and figures were, _par consequence_, observed in it at\nmidnight. Besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit\nof meeting for several years, and _quelque fois_, he paced the\npicture-gallery with a hurried step. These circumstances combined,\nthere could be no doubt of his having committed murder....\n\n\n CHAPTER II.\n\n \u201cOh!\u201d\n --_Milton._\n\n \u201cAh!\u201d\n --_Pope._\n\nOne evening, the Baroness de Violenci, having sprained her left leg\nin the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to Lady\nPenthesilea Rouge\u2019s rout. While she was sitting alone at a plate of\nprawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left\nfor her. \u201cLay it down, John,\u201d said she, touching his forehead with her\nfork. The gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired and capered\nout of the room. Judge of her astonishment when she found, on opening\nit, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. An oaken cross, with\n\u201cHysterica\u201d inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark,\nlike a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. As she and\nher lord had never had children, she determined, _sur le champ_,\non adopting the pretty Hysterica. Fifteen years did this worthy woman\ndedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time taught\nher every mortal accomplishment. Her sigh, particularly, was esteemed\nthe softest in Europe.\n\nBut the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and\nneither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. In a word, the good old\nBaroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body.\n\n \u201cO what a fall was there, my countrymen!\u201d\n\nBut it is now time to describe our heroine. As Milton tells us that Eve\nwas \u201cmore lovely than Pandora\u201d (an imaginary lady who never existed but\nin the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our\nlives, that our heroine excelled in her form the Timinitilidi, whom no\nman ever saw; and in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man\never heard. Perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more--it was\ninteresting--it was oval. Her eyes were of the real, original old blue;\nand her lashes of the best silk. You forgot the thickness of her lips\nin the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of York\nand Lancaster were united in her cheek. A nose of the Grecian order\nsurmounted the whole. Such was Hysterica.\n\nBut, alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. For one night,\nwhen our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her\ncustomary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a\nsudden,\n\n \u201cOh, horrid horrible, and horridest horror!\u201d\n\nthe distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. While she was preparing, in\nmuch terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men\nin masks rushed from among some tombs and bore her to a carriage, which\ninstantly drove off with the whole party. In vain she sought to soften\nthem by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad; they sat counting\nmurders and not minding her. As the blinds of the carriage were closed\nthe whole way, we waive a description of the country which they\ntraversed. Besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the\nreader enough; for in one of the villains Hysterica discovered--Count\nStilletto! She fainted. On the second day the carriage stopped at an\nold castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment--in which\nrusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls lay scattered in all\nthe profusion of feudal plenty--where the delicate creature fell ill of\nan inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping....\n\n\n CHAPTER III.\n\n \u201cSure such a day as this was never seen!\u201d\n --_Thomas Thumb._\n\n \u201cThe day, th\u2019 important day!\u201d\n --_Addison._\n\n \u201cO giorno felice!\u201d\n --_Italian._\n\nThe morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered\ninto the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. Maidens,\nunited in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the\npipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity\nto the union of congenial minds. On the left of the village are some\nplantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel\n\n \u201cWith venerable grandeur marks the scene,\u201d\n\nwhile everywhere the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and\nminute daisies. In a word,\n\n \u201cAll nature wears one universal grin.\u201d\n\nThe procession now set forward to the church. The bride was habited in\nwhite drapery. Ten signs of the Zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled\nround its edge, but Virgo was omitted at her desire, and the bridegroom\nproposed to dispense with Capricorn. Sweet delicacy! She held a pot\nof myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch,\nemblematical of Hymen.... The marriage ceremony passed off with great\nspirit, and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt\nhow pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue.\n\n _Eaton Stannard Barrett._\n\n\n\n\n _THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS\n STRETCHED._[7]\n\n\n The night before Larry was stretched,\n The boys they all paid him a visit;\n A bit in their sacks, too, they fetched--\n They sweated their duds till they riz it;\n For Larry was always the lad,\n When a friend was condemned to the squeezer,\n To fence all the togs that he had,\n Just to help the poor boy to a sneezer,\n And moisten his gob \u2019fore he died.\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry now, Larry,\u201d says I,\n \u201cTo see you in this situation;\n \u2019Pon my conscience, my lad, I don\u2019t lie,\n I\u2019d rather it was my own station.\u201d\n \u201cOchone! \u2019tis all over,\u201d says he,\n \u201cFor the neckcloth I am forced to put on,\n And by this time to-morrow you\u2019ll see\n Your Larry will be dead as mutton;\n Bekase why?--his courage was good!\u201d\n\n The boys they came crowding in fast;\n They drew all their stools round about him,\n Six glims round his trap-case were placed--\n He couldn\u2019t be well waked without \u2019em.\n I ax\u2019d him was he fit to die,\n Without having duly repented?\n Says Larry, \u201cThat\u2019s all in my eye,\n And all by the gownsmen invented,\n To make a fat bit for themselves.\u201d\n\n Then the cards being called for, they played,\n Till Larry found one of them cheated;\n Quick he made a smart stroke at his head--\n The lad being easily heated.\n \u201cOh! by the holy, you thief,\n I\u2019ll scuttle your nob with my daddle!\n You cheat me bekase I\u2019m in grief,\n But soon I\u2019ll demolish your noddle,\n And leave you your claret to drink.\u201d\n\n Then in came the priest with his book;\n He spoke him so smooth and so civil;\n Larry tipp\u2019d him a Kilmainham look,\n And pitched his big wig to the divil.\n Then stooping a little his head,\n To get a sweet drop of the bottle,\n And pitiful, sighing he said,\n \u201cOh! the hemp will be soon round my throttle,\n And choke my poor windpipe to death!\u201d\n\n So moving these last words he spoke,\n We all vented our tears in a shower;\n For my part, I thought my heart broke,\n To see him cut down like a flower!\n On his travels we watched him next day,\n Oh! the hangman I thought I could kill him!\n Not one word did our poor Larry say,\n Nor changed, till he came to \u201cKing William\u201d:\n Och! my dear, then his colour turned white.\n\n When he came to the nubbling chit,\n He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,\n The rumbler jogged off from his feet,\n And he died with his face to the city.\n He kicked, too, but that was all pride,\n For soon you might see \u2019twas all over;\n And as soon as the noose was untied,\n Then at evening we waked him in clover,\n And sent him to take a ground sweat.\n\n _William Maher_ (?) (_fl._ 1780).\n\n\n\n\n DARBY DOYLE\u2019S VOYAGE TO QUEBEC.\n\n\nI _tuck_ the road, one fine morning in May, from Inchegelagh, an\u2019 got\nup to the Cove safe an\u2019 sound. There I saw many ships with big broad\nboords fastened to ropes, every one ov them saying, \u201cThe first vessel\nfor Quebec.\u201d Siz I to myself, those are about to run for a wager; this\none siz she\u2019ll be first, and that one siz she\u2019ll be first. At any rate\nI pitched on one that was finely painted. When I wint on boord to ax\nthe fare, who shou\u2019d come up out ov a hole but Ned Flinn, an ould\ntownsman ov my own.\n\n\u201cOch, is it yoorself that\u2019s there, Ned?\u201d siz I; \u201care ye goin\u2019 to\nAmerrykey?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, an\u2019 to be shure,\u201d sez he; \u201cI\u2019m _mate_ ov the ship.\u201d\n\n\u201cMeat! that\u2019s yer sort, Ned,\u201d siz I; \u201cthen we\u2019ll only want bread.\nHadn\u2019t I betther go and pay my way?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re time enough,\u201d siz Ned; \u201cI\u2019ll tell you when we\u2019re ready for\nsea--leave the rest to me, Darby.\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, tip us your fist,\u201d siz I; \u201cyou were always the broath of a boy;\nfor the sake ov ould times, Ned, we must have a dhrop ov drink, and a\nbite to ate.\u201d So, my jewel, Ned brought me to where there was right\ngood stuff. When it got up to three o\u2019clock I found myself mighty weak\nwith hunger. I got the smell ov corn-beef an\u2019 cabbage that knock\u2019d me\nup entirely. I then wint to the landlady, and siz I to her, \u201cMaybee\nyour leddyship \u2019id not think me rood by axin iv Ned an\u2019 myself cou\u2019d\nget our dinner ov that fine hot mate that I got a taste ov in my nose?\u201d\n\u201cIn throath you can,\u201d siz she (an\u2019 she look\u2019d mighty pleasant), \u201can\u2019\nwelkim.\u201d So my darlin\u2019 dish and all came up. \u201cThat\u2019s what I call a\n_flaugholoch_[8] mess,\u201d siz I. So we ate and drank away.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cMANY\u2019S THE SQUEEZE NED GAVE MY FIST.\u201d]\n\nMany\u2019s the squeeze Ned gave my fist, telling me to leave it all to\nhim, and how comfortable he\u2019d make me on the voyage. Day afther day we\nspint together, waitin\u2019 for the wind, till I found my pockets begin to\ngrow very light. At last, siz he to me, one day afther dinner--\n\n\u201cDarby, the ship will be ready for sea on the morrow--you\u2019d betther go\non boord an\u2019 pay your way.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it jokin\u2019 you are, Ned?\u201d siz I; \u201cshure you tould me to leave it all\nto you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh! Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201cyou\u2019re for takin\u2019 a rise out o\u2019 me; shure enough,\nye were the lad that was never without a joke--the very priest himself\ncouldn\u2019t get over ye. But, Darby, there\u2019s no joke like the thrue one.\nI\u2019ll stick to my promise; but, Darby, you must pay your way.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201cis this the way you\u2019re goin\u2019 to threat me afther\nall? I\u2019m a rooin\u2019d man; all I cou\u2019d scrape together I spint on you. If\nyou don\u2019t do something for me, I\u2019m lost. Is there no place where you\ncou\u2019d hide me from the captin?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a place,\u201d siz Ned.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 where, Ned, is the place I saw you comin\u2019 up out ov?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Darby, that was the hould where the cargo\u2019s stow\u2019d.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 is there no other place?\u201d siz I.\n\n\u201cOh, yes,\u201d siz he, \u201cwhere we keep the wather casks.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201cdoes any one live down there?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a mother\u2019s soul,\u201d siz he.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201ccan\u2019t you cram me down there, and give me a lock ov\nstraw an\u2019 a bit?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Darby,\u201d siz he (an\u2019 he look\u2019d mighty pittyfull), \u201cI must thry.\nBut mind, Darby, you\u2019ll have to hide all day in an empty barrel, and\nwhen it comes to my watch, I\u2019ll bring you down some prog; but if you\u2019re\ndiskiver\u2019d, it\u2019s all over with me, an\u2019 you\u2019ll be put on a dissilute\nisland to starve.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201cleave it all to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fear, Darby, I\u2019ll mind my eye.\u201d\n\nWhen night cum on I got down into the dark cellar, among the barrels;\npoor Ned fixt a place in a corner for me to sleep, an\u2019 every night he\nbrought me down hard black cakes and salt mate. There I lay snug for\na whole month. At last, one night, siz he to me, \u201cNow, Darby, what\u2019s\nto be done? we\u2019re within three days\u2019 sail ov Quebec; the ship will\nbe overhauled, and all the passengers\u2019 names called over; if you are\nfound, you\u2019ll be sould as a slave for your passage money.\u201d \u201cAn\u2019 is that\nall that frets you, my jewel?\u201d siz I; \u201ccan\u2019t you leave it all to me?\nIn throath, Ned, I\u2019ll never forget your hospitality, at any rate. But\nwhat place is outside ov the ship?\u201d \u201cWhy, the sea, to be shure,\u201d siz\nhe. \u201cOch! botheration,\u201d siz I. \u201cI mean what\u2019s the outside ov the ship?\u201d\n\u201cWhy, Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201cpart of it\u2019s called the bulwark.\u201d \u201cAn\u2019 fire an\u2019\nfaggots!\u201d siz I, \u201cis it bulls work the vessel along?\u201d \u201cNo, nor horses,\u201d\nsiz he, \u201cneither; this is no time for jokin\u2019; what do you mean to do?\u201d\n\u201cWhy, I\u2019ll tell you, Ned; get me an empty meal-bag, a bottle, an\u2019 a\nbare ham-bone, and that\u2019s all I\u2019ll ax.\u201d So, begad, Ned look\u2019d very\nqueer at me; but he got them for me, anyhow. \u201cWell, Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201cyou\nknow I\u2019m a great shwimmer; your watch will be early in the mornin\u2019;\nI\u2019ll jist slip down into the sea; do you cry out, \u2018There\u2019s a man in the\nwather,\u2019 as loud as you can, and leave all the rest to me.\u201d Well, to\nbe shure, down into the sea I dropt without as much as a splash. Ned\nroared out with the hoarseness ov a brayin\u2019 ass, \u201cA man in the sea! a\nman in the sea!\u201d Every man, woman, and child came running up out ov\nthe hole, the captain among the rest, who put a long red barrel like a\ngun to his eye--gibbet me, but I thought he was for shootin\u2019 me! down\nI dived. When I got my head over the wather agen, what shou\u2019d I see\nbut a boat rowin\u2019 to me, as fast as a throut after a pinkeen. When it\ncame up close enough to be heard, I roared out: \u201cBad end to yees, for\na set ov spalpeen rascals, did ye hear me at last?\u201d The boat now run\n\u2019pon the top ov me; down I dived agen like a duck afther a frog, but\nthe minnit my skull came over the wather, I was gript by the scruff ov\nthe neck and dhragged into the boat. To be shure, I didn\u2019t kick up a\nrow--\u201cLet go my hair, ye blue divils,\u201d I roared; \u201cit\u2019s well ye have me\nin your marcy in this dissilute place, or by the powthers I\u2019d make ye\nfeel the strinth of my bones. What hard look I had to follow yees, at\nall, at all--which ov ye is the masther?\u201d As I sed this every mother\u2019s\nson began to stare at me, with my bag round my neck, an\u2019 my bottle\nby my side, an\u2019 the bare bone in my fist. \u201cThere he is,\u201d siz they,\npointin\u2019 to a little yellow man in a corner ov the boat. \u201cMay the----\nrise blisthers on your rapin\u2019 hook shins,\u201d siz I, \u201cyou yallow-lookin\u2019\nmonkey, but it\u2019s a\u2019most time for you to think ov lettin\u2019 me into your\nship--I\u2019m here plowin\u2019 and plungin\u2019 this month afther ye: shure I\ndidn\u2019t care a _thrawneen_ was it not that you have my best Sunday\nclothes in your ship, and my name in your books. For three sthraws, if\nI don\u2019t know how to write, I\u2019d leave my mark on your skull;\u201d so sayin\u2019,\nI made a lick at him with the ham-bone, but I was near tumblin\u2019 into\nthe sea agen. \u201cAn\u2019 pray, what is your name, my lad?\u201d siz the captin.\n\u201cWhat\u2019s my name! What \u2019id you give to know?\u201d siz I; \u201cye unmannerly\nspalpeen, it might be what\u2019s your name, Darby Doyle, out ov your\nmouth--ay, Darby Doyle, that was never afraid or ashamed to own it at\nhome or abroad!\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019, Mr. Darby Doyle,\u201d siz he, \u201cdo you mean to persuade us that you\nswum from Cork to this afther us?\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is more ov your ignorance,\u201d siz I--\u201cay, an\u2019 if you sted three\ndays longer and not take me up, I\u2019d be in Quebec before ye, only my\npurvisions were out, and the few rags of bank-notes I had all melted\ninto paste in my pocket, for I hadn\u2019t time to get them changed. But\nstay, wait till I get my foot on shore, there\u2019s ne\u2019er a cottoner in\nCork iv you don\u2019t pay for leavin\u2019 me to the marcy ov the waves.\u201d\n\nAll this time the blue chaps were pushin\u2019 the boat with sticks through\nthe wather, till at last we came close to the ship. Every one on board\nsaw me at the Cove but didn\u2019t see me on the voyage; to be sure, every\none\u2019s mouth was wide open, crying out \u201cDarby Doyle.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe---- stop your throats,\u201d siz I, \u201cit\u2019s now you call me loud enough,\u201d\nsiz I; \u201cye wouldn\u2019t shout that way when ye saw me rowlin\u2019 like a tub in\na mill-race the other day fornenst your faces.\u201d\n\nWhen they heard me say that, some of them grew pale as a sheet--every\nthumb was at work till they a\u2019most brought the blood from their\nforreds. But, my jewel, the captin does no more than runs to the book,\nan\u2019 calls out the names that paid, and them that wasn\u2019t paid--to be\nshure, I was one ov them that didn\u2019t pay. If the captin looked at\nme before with _wondherment_, he now looked with astonishment.\nNothin\u2019 was tawk\u2019d ov for the other three days but Darby Doyle\u2019s great\nshwim from the Cove to Quebec. One sed, \u201cI always knew Darby to be a\ngreat shwimmer.\u201d \u201cDo ye remimher,\u201d siz another, \u201cwhen Darby\u2019s dog was\nnigh been dhrownded in the great duck hunt, whin Darby peeled off an\u2019\nbrought in the dog, an\u2019 made afther the duck himself, and swam for two\nhours endways; an\u2019 do ye remimber whin all the dogs gather round the\nduck at one time; whin it wint down how Darby dived afther it,--an\u2019\nsted below while the creathur was eatin\u2019 a few frogs, for she was weak\nan\u2019 hungry; an\u2019 whin everybody thought he was lost, up he came with the\nduck by the leg in his kithogue\u201d (left hand). Begar, I agreed to all\nthey sed, till at last we got to Amerrykey. I was now in a quare way;\nthe captin wouldn\u2019t let me go till a friend of his would see me. By\nthis time, my jewel, not only his friends came, but swarms upon swarms,\nstarin\u2019 at poor Darby.\n\nAt last I called Ned. \u201cNed, avic,\u201d siz I, \u201cI want to go about my\n_bisness_.\u201d \u201cBe asy, Darby,\u201d siz he; \u201chaven\u2019t ye your fill ov good\natin\u2019, an\u2019 the captin\u2019s got mighty fond ov ye entirely.\u201d \u201cIs he, Ned?\u201d\nsiz I; \u201cbut tell us, Ned, are all them crowd ov people goin\u2019 to sea?\u201d\n\u201cAugh, ye _omadhaun_,\u201d[9] siz Ned, \u201csure they are come to look at\nyou.\u201d Just as he said this a tall yallow man, with a black curly head,\ncomes and stares me full in the face. \u201cYou\u2019ll know me agen,\u201d siz I,\n\u201cbad luck to yer manners an\u2019 the school-masther that taught ye.\u201d But\nI thought he was goin\u2019 to shake hands with me when he tuck hould ov\nmy fist and opened every finger, one by one, then opened my shirt and\nlook\u2019d at my breast. \u201cPull away, _ma bouchal_\u201d[10] siz I, \u201cI\u2019m no\ndesarthur, at any rate.\u201d But never an answer he made, but walk\u2019d down\ninto the hole where the captin lived. \u201cThis is more ov it,\u201d siz I;\n\u201cNed, what could that tallah-faced man mean?\u201d \u201cWhy,\u201d siz Ned, \u201che was\n_lookin\u2019 to see_ if your fingers were webbed, or had ye scales\non your breast.\u201d \u201cHis impidence is great,\u201d siz I; \u201cdid he take me for\na duck or a bream? But, Ned, what\u2019s the meanin\u2019 ov the boords acrass\nthe stick the people walk on, and the big white boord up there?\u201d \u201cWhy,\ncome over and read,\u201d siz Ned. But, my jewel, I didn\u2019t know whether\nI was stannin\u2019 on my head or my heels when I saw in great big black\nletthers:--\n\n THE GREATEST WONDHER OF THE WORLD\n TO BE SEEN HERE!\n\n _A Man that beats out Nicholas the Diver!_\n\n He has swum from Cork to Amerrykey!!\n\n Proved on oath by ten of the Crew and twenty Passengers.\n\n _Admittance--Half a Dollar._\n\n\u201cBloody wars! Ned,\u201d siz I, \u201cdoes this mean your humble sarvint?\u201d \u201cDivil\nanother,\u201d siz he. So I makes no more ado, than with a hop, skip, and\njump gets over to the captin, who was now talkin\u2019 to the yallow fellow\nthat was afther starin\u2019 me out ov countenance. \u201cPardon my roodness,\nyour honour,\u201d siz I, mighty polite, and makin\u2019 a bow,--at the same time\nNed was at my heels--so risin\u2019 my foot to give the genteel scrape,\nshure I scraped all the skin off Ned\u2019s shins. \u201cMay bad luck to your\nbrogues,\u201d siz he. \u201cYou\u2019d betther not curse the wearer,\u201d siz I, \u201cor----\u201d\n\u201cOh, Darby!\u201d siz the captin, \u201cdon\u2019t be unginteel, an\u2019 so many ladies\nand gintlemen lookin\u2019 at ye.\u201d \u201cThe never another mother\u2019s soul shall\nlay their peepers on me till I see sweet Inchegelagh agen,\u201d siz I.\n\u201cBegar, ye are doin\u2019 it well. How much money have ye gother for my\nshwimmin\u2019?\u201d \u201cBe quiet, Darby,\u201d siz the captin, an\u2019 he look\u2019d very much\nfrickened; \u201cI have plenty, an\u2019 I\u2019ll have more for ye if ye do what I\nwant ye to do.\u201d \u201cAn\u2019 what is it, avic?\u201d siz I. \u201cWhy, Darby,\u201d siz he,\n\u201cI\u2019m afther houldin\u2019 a wager last night with this gintleman for all the\nworth ov my ship, that you\u2019ll shwim agen any shwimmer in the world;\nan\u2019 Darby, if ye don\u2019t do that, I\u2019m a gone man.\u201d \u201cAugh, give us your\nfist,\u201d siz I; \u201cdid ye ever hear ov Paddies disheving any man in the\nEuropean world yet--barrin\u2019 themselves?\u201d \u201cWell, Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201cI\u2019ll\ngive you a hundred dollars; but, Darby, you must be to your word, an\u2019\nyou shall have another hundred.\u201d So sayin\u2019, he brought me down into the\ncellar; but, my jewel, I didn\u2019t think for the life of me to see sich\na wondherful place--nothin\u2019 but goold every way I turn\u2019d, an\u2019 Darby\u2019s\nown sweet face in twenty places. Begar, I was a\u2019most ashamed to ax the\ngintleman for the dollars. \u201cBut,\u201d siz I to myself agen, \u201cthe gintleman\nhas too much money, I suppose, he does be throwin\u2019 it into the sea, for\nI often heard the sea was much richer than the land, so I may as well\ntake it, anyhow.\u201d \u201cNow, Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201chere\u2019s the dollars for ye.\u201d\nBut, begar, it was only a bit of paper he was handin\u2019 me. \u201cArrah, none\nov yer thricks upon thravellers,\u201d siz I; \u201cI had betther nor that, an\u2019\nmany more ov them, melted in the sea; give me what won\u2019t wash out ov my\npocket\u201d \u201cWhy, Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201cthis is an ordher on a marchant for the\namount.\u201d \u201cPho, pho!\u201d siz I, \u201cI\u2019d sooner take your word nor his oath,\u201d\nlookin\u2019 round mighty respectful at the goold walls. \u201cWell, Darby,\u201d siz\nhe, \u201cye must have the raal thing.\u201d So, by the powthers, he reckoned\nme out a hundred dollars in goold. I never saw the like since the\nstockin\u2019 fell out of the chimley on my aunt and cut her forred. \u201cNow,\nDarby,\u201d siz he, \u201cye are a rich man, and ye are worthy ov it all--sit\ndown, Darby, an\u2019 take a bottle ov wine.\u201d So to please the gintleman I\nsat down. Afther a bit, who comes down but Ned. \u201cCaptin,\u201d siz he, \u201cthe\ndeck is crowded; I had to block up the gangway to prevint any more from\ncomin\u2019 in to see Darby. Bring him up, or blow me if the ship won\u2019t be\nsunk.\u201d \u201cCome up, Darby,\u201d siz the captin, lookin\u2019 roguish pleasant at\nmyself. So, my jewel, he handed me up through the hall, as tendher as\nif I was a lady, or a pound ov fresh butther in the dog days.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI WAS MADE TO PEEL OFF BEHIND A BIG SHEET.\u201d]\n\nWhen I got up, shure enough I couldn\u2019t help starin\u2019; sich crowds of\nfine ladies and yallow gintlemen never was seen before in any ship. One\nov them, a little rosy-cheeked beauty, whispered the captin somethin\u2019,\nbut he shuk his head, and then came over to me. \u201cDarby,\u201d siz he, \u201cI\nknow an Irishman would do anything to please a lady.\u201d \u201cIn throth you\nmay say that with your own ugly mouth,\u201d siz I. \u201cWell, then, Darby,\u201d\nsiz he, \u201cthe ladies would wish to see you give a few sthrokes in the\nsea.\u201d \u201cOch, an\u2019 they shall have them, an\u2019 welkim,\u201d siz I. \u201cThat\u2019s a\ngood fellow,\u201d siz he; \u201cnow strip off.\u201d \u201cDecency, captin,\u201d siz I; \u201cis\nit in my mother-naked pelt before the ladies? Bad luck to the undacent\nbrazen-faced--but no matther! Irish girls for ever, afther all!\u201d But\nall to no use. I was made to peel off behind a big sheet, and then I\nmade one race an\u2019 jump\u2019d ten yards into the wather to get out of their\nsight. Shure enough, every one\u2019s eyes danced in their head, while they\nlook\u2019d on the spot where I went down. A thought came into my head while\nI was below, how I\u2019d show them a little divarsion, as I could use a\ngreat many thricks on the wather. So I didn\u2019t rise at all till I got\nto the other side, an\u2019 every one run to that side; then I took a hoult\nov my two big toes, an\u2019 makin\u2019 a ring ov myself, rowled like a hoop\non the top ov the wather all round the ship. I b\u2019leeve I opened their\neyes! Then I yarded, back swum, an\u2019 dived, till at last the captin made\nsigns for me to come out so I got into the boat an\u2019 threw on my duds.\nThe very ladies were breakin\u2019 their necks runnin\u2019 to shake hands with\nme. \u201cShure,\u201d siz they, \u201cyou\u2019re the greatest man in the world!!\u201d So for\nthree days I showed off to crowds ov people, though I was _fryin\u2019_\nin the wather for shame.\n\nAt last the day came that I was to stand the tug. I saw the captin\nlookin\u2019 very often at me. At last, \u201cDarby,\u201d siz he, \u201care you any way\ncow\u2019d? The fellow you have to shwim agenst can shwim down watherfalls\nan\u2019 catharacts.\u201d \u201cCan he, avic?\u201d says I; \u201cbut can he shwim up agenst\nthem? Wow, wow, Darby, for that. But, captin, come here; is all my\npurvisions ready? don\u2019t let me fall short ov a dhrop ov the raal stuff\nabove all things.\u201d An\u2019 who should come up while I was tawkin\u2019 to the\ncaptin but the chap I was to shwim with, an\u2019 heard all I sed. Begar!\nhis eyes grew as big as two oysther-shells. Then the captin called me\naside. \u201cDarby,\u201d siz he, \u201cdo you put on this green jacket an\u2019 white\nthrowsers, that the people may betther extinguish you from the other\nchap.\u201d \u201cWith all hearts, avic,\u201d siz I; \u201cgreen for ever! Darby\u2019s own\nfavourite colour the world over; but where am I goin\u2019 to, captin?\u201d \u201cTo\nthe swhimmin\u2019 place, to be shure,\u201d siz he. \u201cDivil shoot the failers\nan\u2019 take the hindmost,\u201d siz I; \u201chere\u2019s at ye.\u201d I was then inthrojuiced\nto the shwimmer. I looked at him from head to foot. He was so tall\nhe could eat bread an\u2019 butther over my head--with a face as yallow\nas a kite\u2019s foot. \u201cTip us the mitten, _ma bouchal_\u201d siz I (but,\nbegad, I was puzzled. \u201cBegar,\u201d siz I to myself, \u201cI\u2019m done. Cheer up,\nDarby. If I\u2019m not able to kill him, I\u2019ll fricken the life out ov him.\u201d)\n\u201cWhere are we goin\u2019 to shwim to?\u201d But never a word he answered. \u201cAre ye\nbothered, neighbour?\u201d \u201cI reckon I\u2019m not,\u201d siz he, mighty chuff. \u201cWell,\nthen,\u201d siz I, \u201cwhy didn\u2019t ye answer your betthers? What \u2019ud ye think if\nwe shwum to Keep Cleer or the Keep ov Good Hope?\u201d \u201cI reckon neither,\u201d\nsiz he agen, eyein\u2019 me as if I was goin\u2019 to pick his pockets. \u201cWell,\nthen, have ye any favourite place?\u201d siz I. \u201cNow, I\u2019ve heard a great\ndeal about the place where poor Boney died; I\u2019d like to see it, if\nI\u2019d any one to show me the place; suppose we wint there?\u201d Not a taste\nov a word could I get out ov him, good or bad. Off we set through the\ncrowds ov ladies and gintlemen. Sich cheerin\u2019 an\u2019 wavin\u2019 ov hats was\nnever seen even at _Dan\u2019s_[11] enthry; an\u2019 then the row ov purty\ngirls laughin\u2019 an\u2019 rubbin\u2019 up agenst me, that I could har\u2019ly get on. To\nbe shure, no one could be lookin\u2019 to the ground, an\u2019 not be lookin\u2019 at\nthem, till at last I was thript up by a big loomp ov iron stuck fast in\nthe ground with a big ring to it. \u201cWhoo, Darby!\u201d siz I, makin\u2019 a hop\nan\u2019 a crack ov my finger, \u201cyou\u2019re not down yet.\u201d I turn\u2019d round to look\nat what thript me.\n\n\u201cWhat d\u2019ye call that?\u201d siz I to the captin, who was at my elbow.\n\n\u201cWhy, Darby,\u201d siz he, \u201cthat\u2019s half an anchor.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave ye any use for it?\u201d siz I.\n\n\u201cNot in the least,\u201d siz he; \u201cit\u2019s only to fasten boats to.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybee you\u2019d give it to a body,\u201d siz I.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 welkim, Darby,\u201d siz he; \u201cit\u2019s yours.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod bless your honour, sir,\u201d siz I, \u201cit\u2019s my poor father that will\npray for you. When I left home the creather hadn\u2019t as much as an anvil\nbut what was sthreeled away by the agint--bad end to them. This will\nbe jist the thing that\u2019ll match him; he can tie the horse to the ring,\nwhile he forges on the other part. Now, will ye obleege me by gettin\u2019\na couple ov chaps to lay it on my shoulder when I get into the wather,\nand I won\u2019t have to be comin\u2019 back for it afther I shake hands with\nthis fellow.\u201d\n\nBegar, the chap turned from yallow to white when he heard me say this.\nAn\u2019 siz he to the gintleman that was walkin\u2019 by _his_ side--\n\n\u201cI reckon I\u2019m not fit for the shwimmin\u2019 to-day--I don\u2019t feel\n_myself_.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019, murdher an\u2019 Irish, if you\u2019re yer brother, can\u2019t you send him\nfor yerself, an\u2019 I\u2019ll wait here till he comes. Here, man, take a dhrop\nov this before ye go. Here\u2019s to yer betther health, and your brother\u2019s\ninto the bargain.\u201d So I took off my glass, and handed him another; but\nthe never a dhrop ov it he\u2019d take. \u201cNo force,\u201d siz I, \u201cavic; maybee you\nthink there\u2019s poison in it--well, here\u2019s another good luck to us. An\u2019\nwhen will ye be able for the shwim, avic?\u201d siz I, mighty complisant.\n\n\u201cI reckon in another week,\u201d siz he.\n\nSo we shook hands and parted. The poor fellow went home, took the\nfever, then began to rave. \u201cShwim up catharacts!--shwim to the Keep ov\nGood Hope!--shwim to St Helena!--shwim to Keep Cleer!--shwim with an\nanchor on his back!--Oh! oh! oh!\u201d\n\nI now thought it best to be on the move; so I gother up my winners; and\nhere I sit undher my own hickory threes, as indipindent as any Yankee.\n\n _Thomas Ettingsall_ (17--\u20131850?).\n\n [Illustration: ST. PATRICK AND THE SNAKES.]\n\n\n\n\n _ST. PATRICK OF IRELAND, MY DEAR!_\n\n\n A fig for St. Denis of France--\n He\u2019s a trumpery fellow to brag on;\n A fig for St. George and his lance,\n Which spitted a heathenish dragon;\n And the saints of the Welshman or Scot\n Are a couple of pitiful pipers;\n Both of whom may just travel to pot,\n Compared with that patron of swipers,\n St Patrick of Ireland, my dear!\n\n He came to the Emerald Isle\n On a lump of a paving stone mounted;\n The steamboat he beat by a mile,\n Which mighty good sailing was counted.\n Says he, \u201cThe salt water, I think,\n Has made me most fishily thirsty;\n So bring me a flagon of drink\n To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye--\n Of drink that is fit for a saint.\u201d\n\n He preached, then, with wonderful force,\n The ignorant natives a\u2019 teaching;\n With a pint he washed down his discourse,\n \u201cFor,\u201d says he, \u201cI detest your dry preaching.\u201d\n The people, with wonderment struck,\n At a pastor so pious and civil,\n Exclaimed--\u201cWe\u2019re for you, my old buck!\n And we pitch our blind gods to the divil,\n Who dwells in hot water below!\u201d\n\n This ended, our worshipful spoon\n Went to visit an elegant fellow,\n Whose practice, each cool afternoon,\n Was to get most delightfully mellow\n That day, with a black-jack of beer,\n It chanced he was treating a party;\n Says the Saint--\u201cThis good day, do you hear,\n I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty!\n So give me a pull at the pot!\u201d\n\n The pewter he lifted in sport\n (Believe me, I tell you no fable),\n A gallon he drank from the quart,\n And then placed it full on the table.\n \u201cA miracle!\u201d every one said,\n And they all took a haul at the stingo;\n They were capital hands at the trade,\n And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo,\n The pot still frothed over the brim!\n\n Next day, quoth his host, \u201c\u2019Tis a fast,\n And I\u2019ve naught in my larder but mutton;\n And on Fridays, who\u2019d make such repast,\n Except an unchristian-like glutton?\u201d\n Says Pat, \u201cCease your nonsense, I beg,\n What you tell me is nothing but gammon;\n Take my compliments down to the leg,\n And bid it come hither a salmon!\u201d\n And the leg most politely complied!\n\n You\u2019ve heard, I suppose, long ago,\n How the snakes, in a manner most antic,\n He marched to the County Mayo,\n And trundled them into th\u2019 Atlantic.\n Hence, not to use water for drink,\n The people of Ireland determine:\n With mighty good reason, I think,\n Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin,\n And vipers and such other stuff!\n\n Oh! he was an elegant blade\n As you\u2019d meet from Fairhead to Kilcrumper!\n And though under the sod he is laid,\n Yet here goes his health in a bumper!\n I wish he was here, that my glass\n He might by art magic replenish;\n But since he is not--why, alas!\n My ditty must come to a finish,\n Because all the liquor is out.\n\n _William Maginn, LL.D._ (1793\u20131842).\n\n\n\n\n _THE LAST LAMP OF THE ALLEY._\n\n A MOORE-ISH MELODY.\n\n\n The last lamp of the alley\n Is burning alone!\n All its brilliant companions\n Are shivered and gone;\n No lamp of her kindred,\n No burner is nigh\n To rival her glimmer\n Or light to supply.\n\n I\u2019ll not leave thee, thou lone one,\n To vanish in smoke,\n As the bright ones are shattered,\n Thou too shalt be broke:\n Thus kindly I scatter\n Thy globe o\u2019er the street,\n Where the watch in his rambles\n Thy fragments shall meet.\n\n Then home will I stagger\n As well as I may,\n By the light of my nose, sure,\n I\u2019ll find out the way;\n When thy blaze is extinguished,\n Thy brilliancy gone,\n Oh! my beak shall illumine\n The alley alone!\n\n _William Maginn, LL.D._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI\u2019LL NOT LEAVE THEE, THOU LONE ONE.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS._\n\n\nAlas! how we are changed as we progress through the world! That breast\nbecomes arid which once was open to every impression of the tender\npassion. The rattle of the dice-box beats out of the head the rattle\nof the quiver of Cupid; and the shuffling of the cards renders the\nrustling of his wings inaudible. The necessity of looking after a\ntablecloth supersedes that of looking after a petticoat; and we more\nwillingly make an assignation with a mutton-chop than with an angel\nin female form. The bonds of love are exchanged for those of the\nconveyancer; bills take the place of billets; and we do not protest,\nbut are protested against, by a three-and-sixpenny notary. Such are the\nmelancholy effects of age.\n\n \u2042\n\nThere are few objects on which men differ so much as in regard to\nblue-stockings. I believe that the majority of literary men look upon\nthem as entirely useless. Yet a little reflection will serve us to\nshow the unphilosophical nature of this opinion. There seems, indeed,\nto be a system of exclusive appropriation in literature, as well as in\nlaw, which cannot be too severely reprobated. A critic of the present\nday cannot hear a young woman make a harmless observation on poetry\nor politics without starting; which start, I am inclined to think,\nproceeds from affectation, considering how often he must have heard\nthe same remark made on former occasions. Ought the female sex to be\ndebarred from speaking nonsense on literary matters any more than the\nmen? I think not. Even supposing that such privilege was not originally\nconferred by a law of Nature, they have certainly acquired right to it\nby the long prescription. Besides, if commonplace remarks were not\ndaily and nightly rendered more commonplace by continual repetition,\neven a man of original mind might run the hazard of occasionally so far\nforgetting himself and his subject as to record an idea which, upon\nmore mature deliberation, might be found to be no idea at all. This, I\ncontend, is prevented by the judicious interference of the fair sex.\n\n \u2042\n\nDon\u2019t marry any woman hastily at Brighton or Brussels without knowing\nwho she is, and where she lived before she came there. And whenever you\nget a reference upon this or any other subject, always be sure and get\nanother reference about the person referred to.\n\n \u2042\n\nDon\u2019t marry any woman under twenty; she is not come to her wickedness\nbefore that time; nor any woman who has a red nose at any age; because\npeople make observations as you go along the street. \u201cA cast of the\neye\u201d--as the lady casts it upon you--may pass muster under some\ncircumstances; and I have even known those who thought it desirable;\nbut absolute squinting is a monopoly of vision which ought not to be\ntolerated.\n\n \u2042\n\nDon\u2019t on any account marry a \u201clively\u201d young lady; that is, in other\nwords, a \u201cromp\u201d; that is, in other words, a woman who has been hauled\nabout by half your acquaintance.\n\n \u2042\n\nOn the very day after your marriage, whenever you do marry, take\none precaution. Be cursed with no more troubles for life than you\nhave bargained for. Call the roll of all your wife\u2019s even speaking\nacquaintance; and strike out every soul that you have--or fancy you\nought to have--or fancy you ever shall have--a glimpse of dislike\nto. Upon this point be merciless. Your wife won\u2019t hesitate--a hundred\nto one--between a husband and a gossip; and if she does, don\u2019t you. Be\nparticularly sharp upon the list of women; of course, men--you would\nfrankly kick any one from Pall Mall to Pimlico who presumed only to\nrecollect ever having seen her. And don\u2019t be man\u0153uvred out of what\nyou mean by cards or morning calls, or any notion of what people call\n\u201cgood breeding.\u201d ... Never dispute with her where the question is of no\nimportance; nor, where it is of the least consequence, let any earthly\nconsideration ever once induce you to give way.\n\n \u2042\n\nFew pieces of cant are more common than that which consists in\nre-echoing the old and ridiculous cry of \u201cvariety is charming,\u201d\n\u201c_toujours perdrix_,\u201d etc., etc., etc. I deny the fact. I want\nno variety. Let things be really good, and I, for one, am in no\ndanger of wearying of them. For example, to rise every day about half\nafter nine--eat a couple of eggs and muffins, and drink some cups of\ngenuine sound, clear coffee--then to smoke a cigar or so--read the\n_Chronicle_--skim a few volumes of some first-rate new novel, or\nperhaps pen a libel or two in a slight sketchy vein--then to take a\nbowl of strong, rich, invigorating soup--then to get on horseback, and\nride seven or eight miles, paying a visit to some amiable, well-bred,\naccomplished young lady, in the course of it, and chattering away an\nhour with her,\n\n \u201cSporting with Amaryllis in the shade,\n Or with the tangles of Ne\u0153ra\u2019s hair,\u201d\n\nas Milton expresses it--then to take a hot-bath, and dress--then to sit\ndown to a plain substantial dinner, in company with a select party of\nreal good, honest, jolly Tories--and to spend the rest of the evening\nwith them over a pitcher of cool Chateau-Margout, singing, laughing,\nspeechifying, blending wit and wisdom, and winding up the whole with\na devil, and a tumbler or two of hot rum-punch. This, repeated day\nafter day, week after week, month after month, and year after year, may\nperhaps appear, to some people, a picture pregnant with ideas of the\nmost sickening and disgusting monotony. Not so with me, however. I am a\nplain man. I could lead this dull course of uniform, unvaried existence\nfor the whole period of the Millennium. Indeed, I mean to do so.\n\n \u2042\n\nWhen a man is drunk, it is no matter upon what he has got drunk.\n\n \u2042\n\nIn whatever country one is, one should choose the dishes of the\ncountry. Every really national dish is good--at least, I never yet\nmet with one that did not gratify my appetite. The Turkish pilaws are\nmost excellent--but the so-called French cookery of Pera is execrable.\nIn like manner, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding is always a prime\nfeast in England, while John Bull\u2019s _Fricandeaux souffl\u00e9es_,\n_etc._, are decidedly anathema. What a horror, again, is a\n_Bifsteck_ of the Palais Royal! On the same principle--(for\nall the fine arts follow exactly the same principles)--on the same\nprinciple it is, that while Principal Robertson, Dugald Stewart, Dr.\nThomas Brown, and all the other would-be English writers of Scotland,\nhave long since been voted tame, insipid, and tasteless diet, the real\nhaggis-bag of a Robert Burns keeps, and must always keep, its place.\n\n \u2042\n\nThe next best thing to a really good woman is a really good-natured\none. The next worst thing to a really bad man (in other words, _a\nknave_) is a really good-natured man (in other words, a fool).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cWINDING UP THE WHOLE WITH A DEVIL, AND A TUMBLER\n OR TWO OF HOT RUM-PUNCH.\u201d]\n\nA married woman commonly falls in love with a man as unlike her\nhusband as is possible--but a widow very often marries a man extremely\nresembling the defunct. The reason is obvious.\n\n \u2042\n\nIf you meet with a pleasant fellow in a stage-coach, dine and get drunk\nwith him, and, still holding him to be a pleasant fellow, hear from his\nown lips at parting that he is a Whig--do not change your opinion of\nthe man. Depend on it, he is quizzing you.\n\n \u2042\n\nThe safety of women consists in one circumstance--men do not possess at\nthe same time the knowledge of thirty-five and the blood of seventeen.\n\n \u2042\n\nIf prudes were as pure as they would have us believe, they would not\nrail so bitterly as they do. We do not thoroughly hate that which we do\nnot thoroughly understand.\n\n \u2042\n\nFew idiots are entitled to claver on the same form with the\nbibliomaniacs; but, indeed, to be a _collector_ of anything,\nand to be an _ass_, are pretty nearly equivalent phrases in the\nlanguage of all rational men. No one _collects_ anything of which\nhe really makes use. Who ever suspected Lord Spencer, or his factotum,\nlittle Dibdin, of reading? The old Quaker at York, who has a museum of\nthe ropes at which eminent criminals have dangled, has no intention\nto make an airy and tassel-like termination of his own terrestrial\ncareer--for that would be quite out of character with a man of his\nbrims. In like manner, it is now well known that the three thousand\nthree hundred and thirty-three young ladies who figure on the books\nof the Seraglio have a very idle life of it, and that, in point of\nfact, the Grand Seignior is a highly respectable man. The people that\ncollect pictures, also, are, generally speaking, such folk as Sir John\nLeicester, the late Angerstein, and the like of that. The only two\nthings that I have any pleasure in collecting are bottles of excellent\nwine and boxes of excellent cigars--articles, of the first of which I\nflatter myself I know rather more than Lord Eldon does of pictures; and\nof the latter whereof I make rather more use than old Mustapha can be\nsupposed to do of his 3333 knick-knacks in petticoats--or rather, I beg\ntheir ladyships\u2019 pardon, in trousers.\n\n \u2042\n\nAs to the beautiful material adaptation of cold rum and cold water,\nthat is beyond all praise, and indeed forms a theme of never-ceasing\nadmiration, being one of Nature\u2019s most exquisite achievements.\nSturm has omitted it, but I intend to make a supplement to his\n_Reflections_ when I get a little leisure.\n\n _William Maginn, LL.D._\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _THE GATHERING OF THE MAHONYS._\n\n\n Jerry Mahony, arrah, my jewel, come let us be off to the fair,\n For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be\n there;\n Say they, \u201cThe whole Mahony faction we\u2019ll banish \u2019em out clear and\n clean;\u201d\n But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to\n maintain.\n\n There\u2019s Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,\n \u2019Twould make your mouth water to see him just giving a bit of a\n stroke;\n There\u2019s Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of\n stuff,\n Who\u2019d fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out\n of his buff.\n\n There\u2019s broken-nosed Bat from the mountain--last week he burst out\n of jail--\n And Murty, the beautiful Tory, who\u2019d scorn in a row to turn tail;\n Bloody Bill will be there like a darling--and Jerry--och! let him\n alone\n For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone!\n\n And Tim, who\u2019d served in the Militia, has his bayonet stuck on a\n pole;\n Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order--a neat sort of tool on the\n whole;\n A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;\n But I think that a man is more handy who fights, as I do, with a\n flail.\n\n We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by iligant men,\n Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;\n To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of\n their talk,\n We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the\n walk.\n\n After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so,\n We\u2019ll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery\u2019s\n go;\n In gallons we\u2019ll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry\n day,\n When mustering again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.\n\n _William Maginn, LL.D._\n\n\n\n\n _DANIEL O\u2019ROURKE._\n\n\nPeople may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\nbut how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above\nand below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the\nwalls of the Phooka\u2019s tower. I knew the man well: he lived at the\nbottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you\ngo towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time that he told me the\nstory, with grey hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June,\n1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe\nunder the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the\nsky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the\nmorning at Glengariff.\n\n\u201cI am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,\u201d said he, \u201cso that this is\nnot the first time. The master\u2019s son, you see, had come from beyond\nforeign parts, in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go,\nbefore Bonaparte or any such was ever heard of; and sure enough there\nwas a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple,\nhigh and low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the\ngentlemen after all, saving your honour\u2019s presence. They\u2019d swear at a\nbody a little, to be sure, and maybe give one a cut of a whip now and\nthen, but we were no losers by it in the end, and they were so easy\nand civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;\nand there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant\non the estate that did not taste of his landlord\u2019s bounty often and\noften in a year, but now it\u2019s another thing; no matter for that, sir,\nfor I\u2019d better be telling you my story. Well, we had everything of\nthe best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced,\nand the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from\nthe Bohereen--a lovely young couple they were, though they are both\nlow enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may\nsay, the same thing as tipsy almost. And so as I was crossing the\nstepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenogh, I missed my foot, and\nsouse I fell into the water. \u2018Death alive!\u2019 thought I, \u2018I\u2019ll be drowned\nnow!\u2019 However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for the dear\nlife, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, but never the one of\nme can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island.\n\n\u201cI wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered,\nuntil at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as\nday, or your fair lady\u2019s eyes, sir (with your pardon for mentioning\nher), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way,\nand nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I began to scratch my head,\nand sing the _Ullagone_[12]--when all of a sudden the moon grew\nblack, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it\nwas moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was.\nDown it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and\nwhat was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom\nof Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, \u2018Daniel\nO\u2019Rourke,\u2019 says he, \u2018how do you do?\u2019 \u2018Very well, I thank you, sir,\u2019\nsays I; \u2018I hope you\u2019re well;\u2019 wondering out of my senses all the time\nhow an eagle came to speak like a Christian. \u2018What brings you here,\nDan?\u2019 says he. \u2018Nothing at all, sir,\u2019 says I; \u2018only I wish I was safe\nhome again.\u2019 \u2018Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?\u2019 says he.\n\u2018\u2019Tis, sir,\u2019 says I, so I up and told him how I had taken a drop\ntoo much, and fell into the water. \u2018Dan,\u2019 says he, after a minute\u2019s\nthought, \u2019though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady-day,\nyet as you are a decent sober man, who \u2019tends mass well, and never\nflings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields--my\nlife for yours,\u2019 says he, \u2018so get up on my back, and grip me well for\nfear you\u2019d fall off, and I\u2019ll fly you out of the bog.\u2019 \u2018I am afraid,\u2019\nsays I, \u2018your honour\u2019s making game of me; for who ever heard of riding\na horseback on an eagle before?\u2019 \u2018\u2019Pon the honour of a gentleman,\u2019 says\nhe, putting his right foot on his breast, \u2018I am quite in earnest; and\nso now either take my offer or starve in the bog--besides, I see that\nyour weight is sinking the stone.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute\ngoing from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint\nheart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. \u2018I thank your\nhonour,\u2019 says I, \u2018for the loan of your civility; and I\u2019ll take your\nkind offer.\u2019 I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held\nhim tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark.\nLittle I knew the thrick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up, God\nknows how far up he flew. \u2018Why then,\u2019 said I to him--thinking he did\nnot know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his\npower entirely; \u2018sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018please your honour\u2019s glory, and with\nhumble submission to your better judgment, if you\u2019d fly down a bit,\nyou\u2019re now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many\nthanks to your worship.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018_Arrah_, Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018do you think me a fool? Look down in\nthe next field, and don\u2019t you see two men and a gun? By my word it\nwould be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard\nthat I picked up off a _cowld_ stone in a bog.\u2019 \u2018Bother you,\u2019 said\nI to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir,\nup he kept flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,\nand all to no use. \u2018Where in the world are you going, sir?\u2019 says I to\nhim. \u2018Hold your tongue, Dan,\u2019 says he: \u2018mind your own business, and\ndon\u2019t be interfering with the business of other people.\u2019 \u2018Faith, this\nis my business, I think,\u2019 says I. \u2018Be quiet, Dan,\u2019 says he; so I said\nno more.\n\n\u201cAt last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can\u2019t\nsee it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook\nsticking out of the side of the moon, this way [drawing the figure thus\n[image] on the ground with the end of his stick].\n\n\u201c\u2018Dan,\u2019 said the eagle, \u2018I\u2019m tired with this long fly; I had no\nnotion \u2019twas so far.\u2019 \u2018And, my lord, sir,\u2019 said I, \u2018who in the world\n_axed_ you to fly so far--was it I? did not I beg and pray and\nbeseech you to stop half-an-hour ago?\u2019 \u2018There\u2019s no use talking, Dan,\u2019\nsays he; \u2018I\u2019m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on\nthe moon until I rest myself.\u2019 \u2018Is it sit down on the moon?\u2019 said I;\n\u2018is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I\u2019d fall off\nin a minute, and be _kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you\nare a vile deceiver, so you are.\u2019 \u2018Not at all, Dan,\u2019 said he; \u2018you can\ncatch fast hold of the reaping-hook that\u2019s sticking out of the side\nof the moon, and \u2019twill keep you up.\u2019 \u2018I won\u2019t then,\u2019 said I. \u2018May be\nnot,\u2019 said he, quite quiet. \u2018If you don\u2019t, my man, I shall just give\nyou a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground,\nwhere every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew\non a cabbage-leaf in the morning.\u2019 \u2018Why, then, I\u2019m in a fine way,\u2019 said\nI to myself, \u2018ever to have come along with the likes of you;\u2019 and so\ngiving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he\u2019d know what I said, I\ngot off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and\nsat down upon the moon, and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you\nthat.\n\n\u201cWhen he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,\n\u2018Good morning to you, Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\u2019 said he, \u2018I think I\u2019ve nicked\nyou fairly now. You robbed my nest last year\u2019 (\u2019twas true enough for\nhim, but how he found it out is hard to say), \u2018and in return you\nare freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a\ncockthrow.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?\u2019 says\nI. \u2018You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve\nme at last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all\nyour breed, you blackguard.\u2019 \u2019Twas all to no manner of use; he spread\nout his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like\nlightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and\nbawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never\nsaw him from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be\nsure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the\nbare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the\nmoon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month\nbefore--I suppose they never thought of greasing \u2019em, and out there\nwalks--who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by\nhis bush.\n\n\u201c\u2018Good morrow to you, Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\u2019 said he; \u2018how do you do?\u2019\n\u2018Very well, thank your honour,\u2019 said I. \u2018I hope your honour\u2019s well.\u2019\n\u2018What brought you here, Dan?\u2019 said he. So I told him how I was a\nlittle overtaken in liquor at the master\u2019s, and how I was cast on a\n_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the\nthief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that\nhe had fled me up to the moon.\n\n\u201c\u2018Dan,\u2019 said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was\ndone, \u2018you must not stay here.\u2019 \u2018Indeed, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018\u2019tis much\nagainst my will I\u2019m here at all; but how am I to go back?\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s your\nbusiness,\u2019 said he; \u2018Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must not\nstay, so be off in less than no time.\u2019 \u2018I\u2019m doing no harm,\u2019 says I,\n\u2018only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s\nwhat you must not do, Dan,\u2019 says he. \u2018Pray, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018may I ask\nhow many you are in family, that you would not give a poor traveller\nlodging; I\u2019m sure \u2019tis not so often you\u2019re troubled with strangers\ncoming to see you, for \u2019tis a long way.\u2019 \u2018I\u2019m by myself, Dan,\u2019 says\nhe; \u2018but you\u2019d better let go the reaping-hook.\u2019 \u2018And with your leave,\u2019\nsays I, \u2018I\u2019ll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I\nwon\u2019t let go--so I will.\u2019 \u2018You had better, Dan,\u2019 says he again. \u2018Why,\nthen, my little fellow,\u2019 says I, taking the whole weight of him with my\neye from head to foot, \u2018there are two words to that bargain; and I\u2019ll\nnot budge, but you may if you like.\u2019 \u2018We\u2019ll see how that is to be,\u2019\nsays he; and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him\n(for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought the moon and all would\nfall down with it.\n\n\u201cWell, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again\nhe comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a\nword he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was\nkeeping me up, and _whap!_ it came in two. \u2018Good morning to you,\nDan,\u2019 says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly\nfalling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; \u2018I thank you for your\nvisit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.\u2019 I had not time to make\nany answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling and\nrolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. \u2018God help me!\u2019 says I, \u2018this is a\npretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night; I\nam now sold fairly.\u2019 The word was not out of my mouth when, whiz! what\nshould fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese; all the way\nfrom my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they know _me_?\nThe _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his head,\ncried out to me, \u2018Is that you, Dan?\u2019 \u2018The same,\u2019 said I, not a bit\ndaunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds\nof _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. \u2018Good\nmorrow to you,\u2019 says he, \u2018Daniel O\u2019Rourke; how are you in health this\nmorning?\u2019 \u2018Very well, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018I thank you kindly,\u2019 drawing my\nbreath, for I was mightily in want of some. \u2018I hope your honour\u2019s the\nsame.\u2019 \u2018I think \u2019tis falling you are, Daniel,\u2019 says he. \u2018You may say\nthat, sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018And where are you going all the way so fast?\u2019 said\nthe gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on\nthe island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an\neagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me\nout. \u2018Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018I\u2019ll save you; put out your hand and catch me by\nthe leg, and I\u2019ll fly you home.\u2019 \u2018Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of\nhoney, my jewel,\u2019 says I, though all the time I thought within myself\nthat I don\u2019t much trust you; but there was no help, so I caught the\ngander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as\nfast as hops.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI WAS TUMBLING OVER AND OVER, AND ROLLING AND\n ROLLING.\u201d]\n\n\u201cWe flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide\nocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking\nup out of the water. \u2018Ah! my lord,\u2019 said I to the goose, for I thought\nit best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, \u2018fly to land if\nyou please.\u2019 \u2018It is impossible, you see, Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018for a while,\nbecause you see we are going to Arabia.\u2019 \u2018To Arabia!\u2019 said I, \u2018that\u2019s\nsurely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose; why then,\nto be sure, I\u2019m a man to be pitied among you.\u2019 \u2018Whist, whist, you\nfool,\u2019 said he, \u2018hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent\nsort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only\nthere is a little more sand there.\u2019\n\n\u201cJust as we were talking a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful\nbefore the wind; \u2018Ah! then, sir,\u2019 said I, \u2018will you drop me on the\nship, if you please?\u2019 \u2018We are not fair over her,\u2019 said he. \u2018We are,\u2019\nsaid I. \u2018We are not,\u2019 said he; \u2018if I dropped you now you would go\nsplash into the sea.\u2019 \u2018I would not,\u2019 says I; \u2018I know better than that,\nfor it is just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.\u2019 \u2018If you\nmust, you must,\u2019 said he; \u2018there, take your own way;\u2019 and he opened his\nclaw, and, faith, he was right--sure enough I came down plump into\nthe very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went, and I\ngave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching\nhimself after his night\u2019s sleep, and looked me full in the face, and\nnever the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he splashed me all\nover again with the cold salt water till there wasn\u2019t a dry stitch upon\nmy whole carcase; and I heard somebody saying--\u2019twas a voice I knew\ntoo--\u2018Get up, you drunken brute, off o\u2019 that;\u2019 and with that I woke up,\nand there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she was splashing\nall over me--for, rest her soul! though she was a good wife, she never\ncould bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. \u2018Get\nup,\u2019 said she again; \u2018and of all places in the parish would no place\n_sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls\nof Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.\u2019 And sure\nenough I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles,\nand men of the moons, and flying ganders, and whales driving me through\nbogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean. If\nI was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I\u2019d lie down in\nthe same spot again, I know that.\u201d\n\n _William Maginn, LL.D._\n\n\n\n\n _THE HUMOURS OF DONNYBROOK FAIR._\n\n\n Oh! \u2019twas Dermot O\u2019Nowlan McFigg,\n That could properly handle a twig,\n He went to the Fair,\n And kicked up a dust there,\n In dancing the Donnybrook Jig,\n With his twig,\n Oh! my blessing to Dermot McFigg!\n\n When he came to the midst of the Fair,\n He was _all in a paugh_ for fresh air,\n For the Fair very soon\n Was as full as the moon,\n Such mobs upon mobs as were there,\n Oh! rare,\n So more luck to sweet Donnybrook Fair.\n\n The souls, they came crowding in fast,\n To dance while the leather would last,\n For the Thomas Street brogue\n Was there much in vogue,\n And oft with a brogue the joke passed,\n Quite fast,\n While the Cash and the Whisky did last!\n\n But Dermot, his mind on love bent,\n In search of his sweetheart he went;\n Peep\u2019d in here and there,\n As he walked thro\u2019 the Fair,\n And took a small taste in each tent,\n As he went,\n Och! on Whisky and Love he was bent.\n\n And who should he spy in a jig,\n With a Meal-man so tall and so big,\n But his own darling Kate\n So gay and so neat;\n Faith, her partner he hit him a dig,\n The pig,\n He beat the meal out of his wig!\n\n Then Dermot, with conquest elate,\n Drew a stool near his beautiful Kate;\n \u201cArrah! Katty,\u201d says he,\n \u201cMy own Cushlamachree,\n Sure the world for Beauty you beat,\n Complete,\n So we\u2019ll just take a dance while we wait!\u201d\n\n The Piper, to keep him in tune,\n Struck up a gay lilt very soon,\n Until an arch wag\n Cut a hole in his bag,\n And at once put an end to the tune\n Too soon,\n Oh! the music flew up to the moon!\n\n To the Fiddler says Dermot McFigg,\n \u201cIf you\u2019ll please to play \u2018Sheela na gig,\u2019\n We\u2019ll shake a loose toe\n While you humour the bow,\n To be sure you must warm the wig\n Of McFigg,\n While he\u2019s dancing a neat Irish jig!\u201d\n\n But says Katty, the darling, says she,\n \u201cIf you\u2019ll only just listen to me,\n It\u2019s myself that will show\n Billy can\u2019t be your foe,\n Tho\u2019 he fought for his Cousin, that\u2019s me,\u201d\n Says she,\n \u201cFor sure Billy\u2019s related to me!\n\n \u201cFor my own cousin-german, Ann Wild,\n Stood for Biddy Mulrooney\u2019s first child,\n And Biddy\u2019s step-son,\n Sure he married Bess Dunn,\n Who was gossip to Jenny, as mild\n A child\n As ever at mother\u2019s breast smiled.\n\n \u201cAnd maybe you don\u2019t know Jane Brown,\n Who served goat\u2019s whey in sweet Dundrum town,\n \u2019Twas her uncle\u2019s half-brother\n That married my mother,\n And bought me this new yellow gown,\n To go down,\n When the marriage was held in Miltown!\u201d\n\n \u201cBy the Powers, then,\u201d says Dermot, \u201c\u2019tis plain,\n Like a son of that rapscallion Cain,\n My best friend I\u2019ve kilt,\n Tho\u2019 no blood it is spilt,\n And the devil a harm did I mean,\n That\u2019s plain,\n But by me he\u2019ll be ne\u2019er kilt again!\u201d\n\n Then the Meal-man forgave him the blow,\n That laid him a-sprawling so low,\n And being quite gay,\n Asked them both to the play,\n But Katty, being bashful, said \u201cNo,\u201d\n \u201cNo!\u201d \u201cNo!\u201d\n Yet he treated them all to the show!\n\n _Charles O\u2019Flaherty_ (1794\u20131828).\n\n\n\n\n _THE NIGHT-CAP._\n\n\n Jolly Ph\u0153bus his car to the coach-house had driven,\n And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;\n He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,\n And rubbed them and littered them up for the night.\n\n Then down to the kitchen he leisurely strode,\n Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;\n He swore he was tired with that damned up-hill road,\n He\u2019d have none of her slops or hot water, not he.\n\n So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen\n Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best,\n (From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen);\n And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.\n\n His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,\n For his bed, faith, \u2019twas dampish, and none of the best;\n All above him the clouds their bright-fringed curtains drew,\n And the tuft of his night-cap lay red in the west.\n\n _Thomas Hamblin Porter_ (_fl._ 1820).\n\n\n\n\n _KITTY OF COLERAINE._\n\n\n As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping\n With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,\n When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,\n And all the sweet butter-milk watered the plain.\n \u201cOh! what shall I do now?--\u2019twas looking at you, now!\n Sure, sure, such a pitcher I\u2019ll ne\u2019er see again;\n \u2019Twas the pride of my dairy--O Barney McCleary,\n You\u2019re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!\u201d\n\n I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,\n That such a misfortune should give her such pain;\n A kiss then I gave her, and ere I did leave her,\n She vowed for such pleasure she\u2019d break it again.\n \u2019Twas hay-making season--I can\u2019t tell the reason--\n Misfortunes will never come single, \u2019tis plain;\n For very soon after poor Kitty\u2019s disaster\n The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI SAT DOWN BESIDE HER, AND GENTLY DID CHIDE HER.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _GIVING CREDIT._\n\n\nIn due time it was determined that Peter, as he understood poteen,\nshould open a shebeen-house. The moment this resolution was made, the\nwife kept coaxing him until he took a small house at the cross-roads\nbefore alluded to, where, in the course of a short time, he was\nestablished, if not in his line, yet in a mode of life approximating\nto it as nearly as the inclination of Ellish would permit. The cabin\nwhich they occupied had a kitchen in the middle, and a room at each end\nof it, in one of which was their own humble chaff bed, with its blue\nquilted drugget cover; in the other stood a couple of small tables,\nsome stools, a short form, and one chair, being a present from his\nfather-in-law. These constituted Peter\u2019s whole establishment, so far as\nit defied the gauger. To this we must add a five-gallon keg of spirits\nhid in the garden and a roll of smuggled tobacco. From the former he\nbottled, overnight, as much as was usually drunk the following day;\nand from the tobacco, which was also kept underground, he cut, with\nthe same caution, as much as to-morrow\u2019s exigencies might require.\nThis he kept in his coat-pocket, a place where the gauger would never\nthink of searching for it, divided into halfpenny and pennyworths,\nounces, or half-ounces, according as it might be required; and, as he\nhad it without duty, the liberal spirit in which he dealt it out to his\nneighbours soon brought him a large increase of custom.\n\nPeter\u2019s wife was an excellent manager, and he himself a pleasant,\ngood-humoured man, full of whim and inoffensive mirth. His powers of\namusement were of a high order, considering his station in life and his\nwant of education. These qualities contributed, in a great degree, to\nbring both the young and the old to his house during the long winter\nnights, in order to hear the fine racy humour with which he related his\nfrequent adventures and battles with excisemen. In the summer evenings\nhe usually engaged a piper or fiddler, and had a dance, a contrivance\nby which he not only rendered himself popular, but increased his\nbusiness.\n\nIn this mode of life the greatest source of anxiety to Peter and Ellish\nwas the difficulty of not offending their friends by refusing to give\nthem credit. Many plans were, with great skill and forethought, devised\nto obviate this evil; but all failed. A short board was first procured,\non which they got written with chalk--\n\n \u201cNo credit giv\u2019n--barrin\u2019 a thrifle to Pether\u2019s friends.\u201d\n\nBefore a week passed after this intimation, the number of \u201cPether\u2019s\nfriends\u201d increased so rapidly that neither he nor Ellish knew the half\nof them. Every scamp in the parish was hand and glove with him: the\ndrinking tribe, particularly, became desperately attached to him and\nEllish. Peter was naturally kind-hearted, and found that his firmest\nresolutions too often gave way before the open flattery with which\nhe was assailed. He then changed his hand, and left Ellish to bear\nthe brunt of their blarney. Whenever any person or persons were seen\napproaching the house, Peter, if he had reason to expect an attack\nupon his indulgence, prepared himself for a retreat. He kept his eye\nto the window, and if they turned from the direct line of the road, he\nimmediately slipped into bed, and lay close, in order to escape them.\nIn the meantime they enter.\n\n\u201cGod save all here! Ellish, agra machree, how are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod save you kindly! Faix, I\u2019m middlin\u2019, I thank you, Condy; how is\nyourself, an\u2019 all at home?\u201d\n\n\u201cDevil a heartier, barrin\u2019 my father, that\u2019s touched wid a loss of\nappetite afther his meals--ha, ha, ha!\u201d\n\n\u201cMusha, the dickens be an you, Condy, but you\u2019re your father\u2019s\nson, anyway; the best company in Europe is the same man. Throth,\nwhether you\u2019re jokin\u2019 or not, I\u2019d be sarry to hear of anything to his\ndisadvantage, dacent man. Boys, won\u2019t yees go down to the other room?\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201cHE KEPT HIS EYE TO THE WINDOW, AND IF THEY TURNED\n FROM THE DIRECT LINE OF THE ROAD, HE SLIPPED INTO BED.\u201d]\n\n\u201cGo way wid yees, boys, till I spake to Ellish here about the affairs\no\u2019 the nation. Why, Ellish, you stand the cut all to pieces. By the\ncontints o\u2019 the book, you do; Pether doesn\u2019t stand it half so well. How\nis he, the thief?\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, he\u2019s not well to-day, in regard of a smotherin\u2019 about the\nheart he tuck this morning, afther his breakfast. He jist laid himself\non the bed a while, to see if it would go off of him--God be praised\nfor all his marcies!\u201d\n\n\u201cThin, upon my _sole_vation, I\u2019m sorry to hear it, and so will\nall at home, for there\u2019s not in the parish we\u2019re sittin\u2019 in a couple\nthat our family has a greater regard an\u2019 friendship for than him an\u2019\nyourself. Faix, my modher, no longer ago than Friday night last, argued\ndown Bartle Meegan\u2019s throath that you and Biddy Martin war the two\nportliest weemen that comes into the chapel. God forgive myself, I\nwas near quarrellin\u2019 wid Bartle, on the head of it, bekase I tuck my\nmodher\u2019s part, as I had good right to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cThrath, I\u2019m thankful to you both, Condy, for your kindness.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, the sarra taste o\u2019 kindness was in it all, Ellish, \u2019twas only the\nthruth; an\u2019 as long as I live I\u2019ll stand up for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah, how is your aunt down at Carntall?\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, thin, but middlin\u2019, not gettin\u2019 her health: she\u2019ll soon give\nthe crow a puddin\u2019, anyway; thin, Ellish, you thief, I\u2019m _in_ for\nthe yallow boys. Do you know thim that came in wid me?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, I can\u2019t say I do. Who are they, Condy?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, one o\u2019 thim\u2019s a bachelor to my sisther Norah, a very dacent boy,\nindeed--him wid the frieze jock upon him, an\u2019 the buckskin breeches.\nThe other three\u2019s from Teenabraighera beyant. They\u2019re related to my\nbrother-in-law, Mick Dillon, by his first wife\u2019s brother-in-law\u2019s\nuncle. They\u2019re come to this neighbourhood till the \u2019Sizes, bad luck to\nthem, goes over; for, you see, they\u2019re in a little throuble.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Lord grant them safe out of it, poor boys!\u201d\n\n\u201cI brought them up here to treat them, poor fellows; an\u2019 Ellish,\navourneen, you must credit me for whatsomever we may have. The thruth\nis, you see, that when we left home none of us had any notion of\ndhrinkin\u2019, or I\u2019d a put a something in my pocket, so that I\u2019m taken\nat an average.--Bud-an\u2019-age--how is little Dan? Sowl, Ellish, that\ngoor-soon, when he grows up, will be a credit to you. I don\u2019t think\nthere\u2019s a finer child in Europe of his age, so there isn\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, he\u2019s a good child, Condy. But, Condy, avick, about givin\u2019\ncredit:--by thim five crasses, if I could give score to any boy in\nthe parish, it ud be to yourself. It was only last night that I made\na promise against doin\u2019 sich a thing for man or mortual. We\u2019re a\u2019most\nbroken an\u2019 harrish\u2019d out o\u2019 house an\u2019 home by it; an\u2019 what\u2019s more,\nCondy, we intend to give up the business. The landlord\u2019s at us every\nday for his rint, an\u2019 we owe for the two last kegs we got, but hasn\u2019t\na rap to meet aither o\u2019 thim; an\u2019 enough due to us if we could get\nit together: an\u2019 whisper, Condy, atween ourselves, that\u2019s what ails\nPether, although he doesn\u2019t wish to let an to any one about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, but you know I\u2019m safe, Ellish?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know you are, avourneen, as the bank itself; an\u2019 should have what\nyou want wid a heart an\u2019 a half, only for the promise I made an my two\nknees last night aginst givin\u2019 credit to man or woman. Why the dickens\ndidn\u2019t you come yistherday?\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I tell you, woman alive, that it was by accident, an\u2019 that I\nwished to sarve the house, that we came at all. Come, come, Ellish;\ndon\u2019t disgrace me afore my sisther\u2019s bachelor an\u2019 the sthrange boys\nthat\u2019s to the fore. By this staff in my hand, I wouldn\u2019t for the best\ncow in our byre be put to the blush afore thim; an\u2019 besides, there\u2019s a\n_cleeveenship_ atween your family an\u2019 ours.\u201d\n\n\u201cCondy, avourneen, say no more: if you were fed from the same breast\nwid me, I couldn\u2019t, nor wouldn\u2019t break my promise. I wouldn\u2019t have the\nsin of it an me for the wealth o\u2019 the three kingdoms.\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad, you\u2019re a quare woman; an\u2019 only that my regard for you is great\nentirely, we would be two, Ellish; but I know you\u2019re dacent still.\u201d\n\nHe then left her, and joined his friends in the little room that was\nappropriated for drinking, where, with a great deal of mirth, he\nrelated the failure of the plan they had formed for outwitting Peter\nand Ellish.\n\n\u201cBoys,\u201d said he, \u201cshe\u2019s too many for us! St. Pether himself wouldn\u2019t\nmake a hand of her. Faix, she\u2019s a cute one. I palavered her at the\nrate of a hunt, an\u2019 she ped me back in my own coin, wid dacent\nintherest--but no whisky!--Now to take a rise out o\u2019 Pether. Jist sit\nwhere yees are, till I come back.\u201d\n\nHe then left them enjoying the intended \u201cspree,\u201d and went back to\nEllish.\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m sure, Ellish, if any one had tuck their book oath that you\u2019d\nrefuse my father\u2019s son sich a thrifle, I wouldn\u2019t believe them. It\u2019s\nnot wid Pether\u2019s knowledge you do it, I\u2019ll be bound. But bad as you\nthrated us, sure we must see how the poor fellow is, at any rate.\u201d\n\nAs he spoke, and before Ellish had time to prevent him, he pressed into\nthe room where Peter lay.\n\n\u201cWhy, tare alive, Pether, is it in bed you are, at this hour o\u2019 the\nday?\u201d\n\n\u201cEh? What\u2019s that--who\u2019s that? Oh!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, the sarra lie undher you, is that the way wid you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!--oh! Eh? Is that Condy?\u201d\n\n\u201cAll that\u2019s to the fore of him. What\u2019s asthray wid you, man alive?\u201d\n\n\u201cThroth, Condy, I don\u2019t know rightly. I went out, wantin\u2019 my coat,\nabout a week ago, an\u2019 got cowld in the small o\u2019 the back: I\u2019ve a pain\nin it ever since. Be sittin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs your _heart_ safe? You have no smotherin\u2019 or anything upon\n_it_?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, thank goodness, no; it\u2019s all about my back an\u2019 my hinches.\u201d\n\n\u201cDivil a thing it is but a complaint they call an _alloverness_\nails you, you shkaimer o\u2019 the world wide. \u2019Tis the oil o\u2019 the hazel, or\na rubbin\u2019 down wid an oak towel, you want. Get up, I say, or, by this\nan\u2019 by that, I\u2019ll flail you widin an inch o\u2019 your life.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it beside yourself you are, Condy?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, faix; I\u2019ve found you out: Ellish is afther tellin\u2019 me that it\nwas a smotherin\u2019 on the heart; but it\u2019s a pain in the small o\u2019 the back\nwid _yourself_. Oh, you born desaver! Get up, I say agin, afore I\ntake the stick to you!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, all sorts o\u2019 fortune to you, Condy--ha, ha, ha!--but you\u2019re\nthe sarra\u2019s pet, for there\u2019s no escapin\u2019 you. What was that I hard\natween you an\u2019 Ellish?\u201d said Peter, getting up.\n\n\u201cThe sarra matther to you. If you behave yourself, we may let you into\nthe wrong side o\u2019 the sacret afore you die. Go an\u2019 get us a pint o\u2019\nwhat you know,\u201d replied Condy, as he and Peter entered the kitchen.\n\n\u201cEllish,\u201d said Peter, \u201cI suppose you must give it to thim. Give\nit--give it, avourneen. Now, Condy, whin\u2019ll you pay me for this?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fret yourself about that; you\u2019ll be ped. Honour _bright_,\nas the black said whin he stole the boots.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, Pether,\u201d said the wife, \u201csure it\u2019s no use axin me to give it,\nafther the promise I made last night. Give it yourself; for me, I\u2019ll\nhave no hand in sich things, good or bad. I hope we\u2019ll soon get out of\nit altogether, for myself\u2019s sick an\u2019 sore of it, dear knows!\u201d\n\nPeter accordingly furnished them with the liquor, and got a promise\nthat Condy would certainly pay him at mass on the following Sunday,\nwhich was only three days distant. The fun of the boys was exuberant at\nCondy\u2019s success: they drank, and laughed, and sang, until pint after\npint followed in rapid succession.\n\nEvery additional inroad upon the keg brought a fresh groan from\nEllish; and even Peter himself began to look blank as their potations\ndeepened. When the night was far advanced they departed, after having\nfirst overwhelmed Ellish with professions of the warmest friendship,\npromising that in future she exclusively should reap whatever benefit\nwas to be derived from their patronage.\n\nIn the meantime Condy forgot to perform his promise. The next Sunday\npassed, but Peter was not paid, nor was his clever debtor seen at\nmass, or in the vicinity of the shebeen-house, for many a month\nafterwards--an instance of ingratitude which mortified his creditor\nextremely. The latter, who felt that it was a _take in_, resolved\nto cut short all hopes of obtaining credit from them in future. In\nabout a week after the foregoing hoax he got up a board, presenting a\nmore vigorous refusal of _score_ than the former. His friends,\nwho were more in number than he could possibly have imagined, on this\noccasion were altogether wiped out of the exception. The notice ran to\nthe following effect:--\n\n \u201cNotice to the Public, _and to Pether Connell\u2019s friends in\n particular_--Divil resave the morsel of credit will be got\n or given in this house, while there is stick or stone of it\n together, barrin\u2019 them that axes it has the _ready money_.\n\n \u201cPETHER X CONNELL, his mark.\n \u201cELLISH X CONNELL, her mark.\u201d\n\n _William Carleton_ (1794\u20131869).\n\n\n\n\n _BRIAN O\u2019LINN._\n\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn was a gentleman born,\n His hair it was long and his beard unshorn,\n His teeth were out and his eyes far in--\n \u201cI\u2019m a wonderful beauty,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn was hard up for a coat,\n He borrowed the skin of a neighbouring goat,\n He buckled the horns right under his chin--\n \u201cThey\u2019ll answer for pistols,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn;\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn had no breeches to wear,\n He got him a sheepskin to make him a pair,\n With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in--\n \u201cThey are pleasant and cool,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn had no hat to his head,\n He stuck on a pot that was under the shed,\n He murdered a cod for the sake of his fin--\n \u201c\u2019Twill pass for a feather,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn had no shirt to his back,\n He went to a neighbour and borrowed a sack.\n He puckered a meal-bag under his chin--\n \u201cThey\u2019ll take it for ruffles,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn had no shoes at all,\n He bought an old pair at a cobbler\u2019s stall,\n The uppers were broke and the soles were thin--\n \u201cThey\u2019ll do me for dancing,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn had no watch for to wear,\n He bought a fine turnip and scooped it out fair,\n He slipped a live cricket right under the skin--\n \u201cThey\u2019ll think it is ticking,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn was in want of a brooch,\n He stuck a brass pin in a big cockroach,\n The breast of his shirt he fixed it straight in--\n \u201cThey\u2019ll think it\u2019s a diamond,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn went a-courting one night,\n He set both the mother and daughter to fight--\n \u201cStop, stop,\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cif you have but the tin,\n I\u2019ll marry you both,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn went to bring his wife home,\n He had but one horse, that was all skin and bone--\n \u201cI\u2019ll put her behind me, as nate as a pin,\n And her mother before me,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n Brian O\u2019Linn and his wife and wife\u2019s mother,\n They all crossed over the bridge together,\n The bridge broke down and they all tumbled in--\n \u201cWe\u2019ll go home by water,\u201d says Brian O\u2019Linn!\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _THE TURKEY AND THE GOOSE._\n\n\nDid yir honor ever hear of the wager \u2019tween the goose and the turkey?\nOncet upon a time an ould cock-turkey lived in the barony of Brawny,\nor, let me see, was it in Inchebofin or Tubbercleer? faix, an\u2019 it\u2019s\nmeself forgets that same at the present writin\u2019,--but Jim Gurn--you\nknow Jim Gurn, yir honor, Jim Gurn the nailer that lives hard by,--him\nthat fought his black-and-tan t\u2019other day \u2019gainst Tim Fagan\u2019s silver\nhackle,--oh! Jim is the boy that\u2019ll tell ye the _ins_ and\n_outs_ of it any day yir honor wud pay him a visit, \u2019caze Jim\u2019s in\nthe way of it. Well, as I was relatin\u2019, the turkey was a parson\u2019s bird,\nand as proud as Lucifer, bein\u2019 used to the best of livin\u2019; while the\ngander was only a poor _commoner_, for he was a _Roman_,[13]\nand oblidged to live upon what he could get by the roadside. These two\nfowls, yir honor, never could agree anyhow,--never could put up their\nhorses together on any blessed p\u2019int,--till one day a big row happened\nbetune them, when the gander challenged the turkey to a steeplechase\nacross the country, day and dark, for twenty-four hours. Well, to my\nsurprise,--though I wasn\u2019t there at the time, but Jim Gurn was, who\ngave me the whole history,--to my surprise, the turkey didn\u2019t say\n_no_ to it, but was quite agreeable to it, all of a suddent; so\naway they started from Jim Gurn\u2019s dunghill one Sunday after mass, for\nthe gander wouldn\u2019t stir a step afore prayers. Well, to be sure, to\ngive the divil his due, the turkey took the lead in fine style, and\nwas soon clane out of sight; but the gander kept movin\u2019 on, no ways\ndownhearted, after him. About nightfall it was his business to pass\nthrough an ould archway across the road; and as he was stoopin\u2019 his\nhead to get under it,--for yir honor knows a gander will stoop his\nhead under a doorway if it was only as high as the moon,--who should\nhe see comfortably sated in an ivy-bush but the turkey himself, tucked\nin for the night. The gander, winkin\u2019 to himself, says, \u201cIs it there\nye are, honey?\u201d--but he kept never mindin\u2019 him for all that, but only\nwalked bouldly on to his journey\u2019s end, where he arrived safe and sound\nnext day, afore the turkey was out of his first sleep; \u2019caze why, ye\nsee, sir, a goose or a gander will travel all night; but in respect of\na turkey, once the day falls in, divil another inch of ground he\u2019ll\nput his futt to, barrin\u2019 it\u2019s to roost in a tree or the rafters of a\ncow-house! Oh! maybe the parson\u2019s bird wasn\u2019t ashamed of himself! Jim\nGurn says he never held his head up afterward, though to be sure he\nhadn\u2019t long to fret, for Christmas was nigh at hand, and he had to\nstand sentry by the kitchen fire one day without his body-clothes till\nhe could bear it no longer; so they dished him entirely. Them that\nett him said he was as tough as leather, no doubt from the grief; but\ndivil\u2019s cure to him! what business had he to be so proud of himself,\nthe spalpeen?\n\n _Joseph A. Wade_ (1796\u20131845).\n\n\n\n\n _WIDOW MACHREE._\n\n\n Widow Machree, it\u2019s no wonder you frown,\n Och hone, Widow Machree--\n Faith, it ruins your looks that same dirty black gown,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n How altered your air,\n With that close cap you wear--\n It\u2019s destroying your hair,\n Which should be flowing free,\n Be no longer a churl\n Of its black silken curl,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n\n Widow Machree, now the summer is come,\n Och hone, Widow Machree,\n When everything smiles--should a beauty look glum,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n See the birds go in pairs,\n And the rabbits and hares--\n Why even the bears,\n Now in couples agree,\n And the mute little fish,\n Though they can\u2019t speak, they wish,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n\n Widow Machree, when the winter comes in,\n Och hone, Widow Machree,\n To be poking the fire, all alone, is a sin,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n Why the shovel and tongs,\n To each other belongs,\n And the kettle sings songs,\n Full of family glee,\n While alone with your cup,\n Like a hermit you sup,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n\n And how do you know, with the comforts I\u2019ve told,\n Och hone, Widow Machree,\n But you\u2019re keeping some poor divil out in the cold?\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n With such sins on your head,\n Sure your peace would be fled,\n Could you sleep in your bed,\n Without thinking to see,\n Some ghost or some sprite,\n Come to wake you each night,\n Crying, och hone, Widow Machree.\n\n Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,\n Och hone, Widow Machree,\n And with my advice, faith, I wish you\u2019d take me,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n You\u2019d have me to desire.\n Then to stir up the fire,\n And sure hope is no liar,\n In whispering to me,\n That the ghosts would depart,\n When you\u2019d me near your heart,\n Och hone, Widow Machree.\n\n _Samuel Lover_ (1797\u20131868).\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _BARNEY O\u2019HEA._\n\n\n Now let me alone, though I know you won\u2019t,\n I know you won\u2019t,\n I know you won\u2019t,\n Now let me alone, though I know you won\u2019t,\n Impudent Barney O\u2019Hea.\n It makes me outrageous when you\u2019re so contagious--\n You\u2019d better look out for the stout Corney Creagh!\n For he is the boy that believes me his joy;--\n So you\u2019d better behave yourself, Barney O\u2019Hea.\n Impudent Barney--\n None of your blarney,\n Impudent Barney O\u2019Hea.\n\n I hope you\u2019re not going to Bandon fair,\n To Bandon fair,\n To Bandon fair,\n For sure I\u2019m not wanting to meet you there,\n Impudent Barney O\u2019Hea.\n For Corney\u2019s at Cork, and my brother\u2019s at work,\n And my mother sits spinning at home all the day;\n So no one will be there, of poor me to take care,\n And I hope you won\u2019t follow me, Barney O\u2019Hea.\n Impudent Barney--\n None of your blarney,\n Impudent Barney O\u2019Hea.\n\n But as I was walking up Bandon Street,\n Just who do you think \u2019twas myself should meet\n But impudent Barney O\u2019Hea!\n He said I look\u2019d killin\u2019,\n I call\u2019d him a villain,\n And bid him that minute get out of my way.\n He said I was jokin\u2019,\n And look\u2019d so provokin\u2019,--\n I could not help laughing with Barney O\u2019Hea!\n Impudent Barney--\n \u2019Tis he has the blarney,\n Impudent Barney O\u2019Hea!\n\n He knew \u2019twas all right when he saw me smile,\n For he is the rogue up to every wile,\n Is impudent Barney O\u2019Hea!\n He coax\u2019d me to choose him,\n For, if I\u2019d refuse him,\n He swore he\u2019d kill Corney the very next day;\n So for fear \u2019twould go further,\n And--just to save murther--\n I think I must marry that mad-cap O\u2019Hea.\n Botherin\u2019 Barney--\n \u2019Tis he has the blarney\n To make a girl Misthress O\u2019Hea!\n\n _Samuel Lover._\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n _MOLLY CAREW._\n\n\n Och hone, and what will I do?\n Sure, my love is all crost\n Like a bud in the frost,\n And there\u2019s no use at all in my going to bed;\n For \u2019tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head;\n And \u2019tis all about you,\n My sweet Molly Carew--\n And indeed \u2019tis a sin and a shame;\n You\u2019re complater than Nature\n In every feature,\n The snow can\u2019t compare\n With your forehead so fair;\n And I rather would see just one blink of your eye\n Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky--\n And by this and by that,\n For the matter of that,\n You\u2019re more distant by far than that same!\n Och hone! wirrasthrue!\n I\u2019m alone in this world without you.\n\n Och hone! but why should I spake\n Of your forehead and eyes,\n When your nose it defies\n Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?\n Tho\u2019 there\u2019s one Burke, he says, that would call it _snublime_.\n And then for your cheek!\n Throth, \u2019twould take him a week\n Its beauties to tell as he\u2019d rather.\n Then your lips! oh, Machree!\n In their beautiful glow\n They a patthern might be\n For the cherries to grow.\n \u2019Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know--\n For apples were _scarce_, I suppose, long ago;\n But at this time o\u2019 day,\n \u2019Pon my conscience, I\u2019ll say,\n Such cherries might tempt a man\u2019s father!\n Och hone! wirrasthrue!\n I\u2019m alone in this world without you.\n\n Och hone! by the man in the moon,\n You _taze_ me all ways,\n That a woman can plaze,\n For you dance twice as high with that thief Pat Magee,\n As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,\n Tho\u2019 the piper I bate,\n For fear the ould chate\n Wouldn\u2019t play you your favourite tune;\n And when you\u2019re at mass\n My devotion you crass,\n For \u2019tis thinking of you\n I am, Molly Carew;\n While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,\n That I can\u2019t at your sweet purty face get a peep:\n Oh! lave off that bonnet,\n Or else I\u2019ll lave on it\n The loss of my wandherin\u2019 sowl!\n Och hone! wirrasthrue!\n Och hone, like an owl,\n Day is night, dear, to me, without you!\n\n Och hone! don\u2019t provoke me to do it;\n For there\u2019s girls by the score\n That love me--and more;\n And you\u2019d look very quare if some morning you\u2019d meet\n My wedding all marchin\u2019 in pride down the sthreet;\n Throth, you\u2019d open your eyes,\n And you\u2019d die with surprise,\n To think \u2019twasn\u2019t you was come to it!\n And, faith, Katty Naile,\n And her cow, I go bail,\n Would jump if I\u2019d say,\n \u201cKatty Naile, name the day.\u201d\n And tho\u2019 you\u2019re fair and fresh as a morning in May,\n While she\u2019s short and dark like a cowld winther\u2019s day,\n Yet if you don\u2019t repent\n Before Easther, when Lent\n Is over I\u2019ll marry for spite;\n Och hone! wirrasthrue!\n And when I die for you,\n My ghost will haunt you every night.\n\n _Samuel Lover._\n\n\n\n\n _HANDY ANDY AND THE POSTMASTER._\n\n\n\u201cRide into the town, and see if there\u2019s a letter for me,\u201d said the\nSquire one day to our hero.\n\n\u201cYes, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know where to go?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the town, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut do you know where to go in the town?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why don\u2019t you ask, you stupid fellow?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, I\u2019d find out, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cDidn\u2019t I often tell you to ask what you\u2019re to do when you don\u2019t know?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd why don\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t like to be throublesome, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cConfound you!\u201d said the Squire, though he could not help laughing at\nAndy\u2019s excuse for remaining in ignorance.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d continued he, \u201cgo to the post-office. You know the post-office,\nI suppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir, where they sell gunpowder.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re right for once,\u201d said the Squire; for his Majesty\u2019s postmaster\nwas the person who had the privilege of dealing in the aforesaid\ncombustible. \u201cGo, then, to the post-office, and ask for a letter for\nme. Remember,--not gunpowder, but a letter.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d said Andy, who got astride of his hack and trotted away to\nthe post-office. On arriving at the shop of the postmaster (for that\nperson carried on a brisk trade in groceries, gimlets, broadcloth, and\nlinen drapery), Andy presented himself at the counter, and said--\n\n\u201cI want a letther, sir, if you plaze.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho do you want it for?\u201d said the postmaster, in a tone which Andy\nconsidered an aggression upon the sacredness of private life; so\nAndy thought the coollest contempt he could throw upon the prying\nimpertinence of the postmaster was to repeat his question.\n\n\u201cI want a letther, sir, if you plaze.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who do you want it for?\u201d repeated the postmaster.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that to you?\u201d said Andy.\n\nThe postmaster, laughing at his simplicity, told him he could not tell\nwhat letter to give unless he told him the direction.\n\n\u201cThe directions I got was to get a letther here--that\u2019s the directions.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho gave you those directions?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe masther.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who\u2019s your master?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat consarn is that o\u2019 yours?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, you stupid rascal! if you don\u2019t tell me his name, how can I give\nyou a letter?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou could give it if you liked; but you\u2019re fond of axin\u2019 impident\nquestions, bekase you think I\u2019m simple.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo along out o\u2019 this! Your master must be as great a goose as yourself\nto send such a messenger.\u201d\n\n\u201cBad luck to your impidence,\u201d said Andy; \u201cis it Squire Egan you dar\u2019 to\nsay goose to?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Squire Egan\u2019s your master, then?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; have you anything to say agin it?\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly that I never saw you before.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith, then, you\u2019ll never see me agin if I have my own consint.\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t give you any letter for the Squire unless I know you\u2019re his\nservant. Is there any one in the town knows you?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlenty,\u201d said Andy; \u201cit\u2019s not every one is as ignorant as you.\u201d\n\nJust at this moment a person to whom Andy was known entered the house,\nwho vouched to the postmaster that he might give Andy the Squire\u2019s\nletter. \u201cHave you one for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir,\u201d said the postmaster, producing one--\u201cfour pence.\u201d\n\nThe gentleman paid the fourpence postage, and left the shop with his\nletter.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s a letter for the Squire,\u201d said the postmaster; \u201cyou\u2019ve to pay\nme elevenpence postage.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat \u2019ud I pay elevenpence for?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor postage.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the divil wid you! Didn\u2019t I see you give Mr. Durfy a letther for\nfourpence this minit, and a bigger letther than this? and now you want\nme to pay elevenpence for this scrap of a thing. Do you think I\u2019m a\nfool?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, but I\u2019m sure of it,\u201d said the postmaster.\n\n\u201cWell, you\u2019re welkim to be sure, sure;--but don\u2019t be delayin\u2019 me now;\nhere\u2019s fourpence for you, and gi\u2019 me the letther.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo along, you stupid thief!\u201d said the postmaster, taking up the\nletter, and going to serve a customer with a mouse-trap.\n\nWhile this person and many others were served, Andy lounged up and down\nthe shop, every now and then putting in his head in the middle of the\ncustomers, and saying, \u201cWill you gi\u2019 me the letther?\u201d\n\nHe waited for above half-an-hour, in defiance of the anathemas of the\npostmaster, and at last left, when he found it impossible to get common\njustice for his master, which he thought he deserved as well as another\nman; for, under this impression, Andy determined to give no more than\nthe fourpence.\n\nThe Squire, in the meantime, was getting impatient for his return, and\nwhen Andy made his appearance, asked if there was a letter for him.\n\n\u201cThere is, sir,\u201d said Andy.\n\n\u201cThen give it to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI haven\u2019t it, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe wouldn\u2019t give it to me, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho wouldn\u2019t give it to you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat ould chate beyant in the town--wanting to charge double for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe it\u2019s a double letter. Why the devil didn\u2019t you pay what he\nasked, sir?\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah, sir, why would I let you be chated? It\u2019s not a double letther\nat all; not above half the size o\u2019 one Mr. Durfy got before my face for\nfourpence.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll provoke me to break your neck some day, you vagabond! Ride back\nfor your life, you _omadhaun_; and pay whatever he asks, and get\nme the letter.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, sir, I tell you he was sellin\u2019 them before my face for fourpence\napiece.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo back, you scoundrel! or I\u2019ll horsewhip you; and if you\u2019re longer\nthan a hour, I\u2019ll have you ducked in the horsepond!\u201d\n\nAndy vanished, and made a second visit to the post-office. When he\narrived two other persons were getting letters, and the postmaster was\nselecting the epistles for each from a large parcel that lay before him\non the counter; at the same time many shop customers were waiting to be\nserved.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m come for that letther,\u201d said Andy.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll attend to you by-and-by.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe masther\u2019s in a hurry.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet him wait till his hurry\u2019s over.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019ll murther me if I\u2019m not back soon.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m glad to hear it.\u201d\n\nWhile the postmaster went on with such provoking answers to these\nappeals for despatch, Andy\u2019s eye caught the heap of letters which lay\non the counter; so while certain weighing of soap and tobacco was going\nforward, he contrived to become possessed of two letters from the heap,\nand having effected that, waited patiently enough till it was the great\nman\u2019s pleasure to give him the missive directed to his master.\n\nThen did Andy bestride his hack, and, in triumph at his trick on the\npostmaster, rattled along the road homeward as fast as the beast could\ncarry him. He came into the Squire\u2019s presence, his face beaming with\ndelight, and an air of self-satisfied superiority in his manner, quite\nunaccountable to his master, until he pulled forth his hand, which had\nbeen grubbing up his prizes from the bottom of his pocket; and holding\nthree letters over his head, while he said, \u201cLook at that!\u201d he next\nslapped them down under his broad fist on the table before the Squire,\nsaying--\n\n\u201cWell, if he did make me pay elevenpence, by gor, I brought your honour\nthe worth o\u2019 your money, anyhow!\u201d\n\n _Samuel Lover._\n\n\n\n\n _THE LITTLE WEAVER OF DULEEK GATE._\n\n\nThere was a waiver lived, wanst upon a time, in Duleek here, hard by\nthe gate, and a very honest, industherous man he was. He had a wife,\nand av coorse they had childhre, and plenty of them, and small blame to\nthem, so that the poor little waiver was obleeged to work his fingers\nto the bone a\u2019most to get them the bit and the sup, but he didn\u2019t\nbegridge that, for he was an industherous craythur, as I said before,\nand it was up airly and down late with him, and the loom never standin\u2019\nstill.\n\nWell, it was one mornin\u2019 that his wife called to him, \u201cCome here,\u201d\nsays she, \u201cjewel, and ate your brekquest, now that it\u2019s ready.\u201d But he\nnever minded her, but wint an workin\u2019. So in a minit or two more, says\nshe, callin\u2019 out to him agin, \u201cArrah, lave off slavin\u2019 yourself, my\ndarlin\u2019, and ate your bit o\u2019 brekquest while it is hot.\u201d\n\n\u201cLave me alone,\u201d says he, and he dhruv the shuttle fasther nor before.\nWell, in a little time more, she goes over to him where he sot, and\nsays she, coaxin\u2019 him like, \u201cThady, dear,\u201d says she, \u201cthe stirabout\nwill be stone cowld if you don\u2019t give over that weary work and come and\nate it at wanst.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m busy with a patthern here that is brakin\u2019 my heart,\u201d says the\nwaiver; \u201cand antil I complate it and masther it intirely I won\u2019t quit\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, think of the iligant stirabout that \u2019ill be spylte intirely.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the divil with the stirabout,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cGod forgive you,\u201d says she, \u201cfor cursin\u2019 your good brekquest.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, and you too,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cThroth, you\u2019re as cross as two sticks this blessed morning, Thady,\u201d\nsays the poor wife; \u201cand it\u2019s a heavy handful I have of you when you\nare cruked in your temper; but stay there if you like, and let your\nstirabout grow cowld, and not a one o\u2019 me \u2019ill ax you agin;\u201d and with\nthat off she wint, and the waiver, sure enough, was mighty crabbed,\nand the more the wife spoke to him the worse he got, which, you know,\nis only nath\u2019ral. Well, he left the loom at last, and wint over to the\nstirabout; and what would you think but whin he looked at it, it was as\nblack as a crow--for you see, it was in the hoighth o\u2019 summer, and the\nflies lit upon it to that degree that the stirabout was fairly covered\nwith them.\n\n\u201cWhy, thin, bad luck to your impidence,\u201d says the waiver, \u201cwould no\nplace sarve you but that? and is it spyling my brekquest yiz are, you\ndirty bastes?\u201d And with that, bein\u2019 altogether cruked-tempered at the\ntime, he lifted his hand, and he made one great slam at the dish o\u2019\nstirabout, and killed no less than threescore and tin flies at the one\nblow. It was threescore and tin exactly, for he counted the carcases\none by one, and laid them out an a clane plate for to view them.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cHE KEM HOME IN THE EVENIN\u2019, AFTHER SPENDIN\u2019 EVERY\n RAP HE HAD.\u201d]\n\nWell, he felt a powerful sperit risin\u2019 in him, when he seen the\nslaughther he done at one blow, and with that he got as consaited as\nthe very dickens, and not a sthroke more work he\u2019d do that day, but out\nhe wint, and was fractious and impident to every one he met, and was\nsquarin\u2019 up into their faces and sayin\u2019, \u201cLook at that fist! that\u2019s\nthe fist that killed threescore and tin at one blow--Whoo!\u201d\n\nWith that all the neighbours thought he was crack\u2019d, and faith, the\npoor wife herself thought the same when he kem home in the evenin\u2019,\nafther spendin\u2019 every rap he had in dhrink, and swaggerin\u2019 about the\nplace, and lookin\u2019 at his hand every minit.\n\n\u201cIndeed, an\u2019 your hand is very dirty, sure enough, Thady, jewel,\u201d says\nthe poor wife; and thrue for her, for he rowled into a ditch comin\u2019\nhome. \u201cYou had betther wash it, darlin\u2019.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow dar\u2019 you say dirty to the greatest hand in Ireland?\u201d says he,\ngoing to bate her.\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s nat dirty,\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cIt is throwin\u2019 away my time I have been all my life,\u201d says he; \u201clivin\u2019\nwith you at all, and stuck at a loom, nothin\u2019 but a poor waiver, when\nit is Saint George or the Dhraggin I ought to be, which is two o\u2019 the\nsiven champions o\u2019 Christendom.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, suppose they christened him twice as much,\u201d says the wife,\n\u201csure, what\u2019s that to uz?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t put in your prate,\u201d says he, \u201cyou ignorant sthrap,\u201d says he.\n\u201cYou\u2019re vulgar, woman--you\u2019re vulgar--mighty vulgar; but I\u2019ll have\nnothin\u2019 more to say to any dirty snakin\u2019 thrade again--divil a more\nwaivin\u2019 I\u2019ll do.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Thady, dear, and what\u2019ll the children do then?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet them go play marvels,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cThat would be but poor feedin\u2019 for them, Thady.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey shan\u2019t want for feedin\u2019,\u201d says he, \u201cfor it\u2019s a rich man I\u2019ll be\nsoon, and a great man too.\u201d\n\n\u201cUsha, but I\u2019m glad to hear it, darlin\u2019, though I dunna how it\u2019s to be;\nbut I think you had betther go to bed, Thady.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t talk to me of any bed but the bed o\u2019 glory, woman,\u201d says he,\nlookin\u2019 mortial grand.\n\n\u201cOh! God sind we\u2019ll all be in glory yet,\u201d says the wife, crossin\u2019\nherself; \u201cbut go to sleep, Thady, for this present.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll sleep with the brave yit,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cIndeed, an\u2019 a brave sleep will do you a power o\u2019 good, my darlin\u2019,\u201d\nsays she.\n\n\u201cAnd it\u2019s I that will be the knight!\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cAll night, if you plaze, Thady,\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cNone o\u2019your coaxin\u2019,\u201d says he. \u201cI\u2019m detarmined on it, and I\u2019ll set off\nimmediately and be a knight arriant.\u201d\n\n\u201cA what?\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cA knight arriant, woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cLord, be good to me! what\u2019s that?\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cA knight arriant is a rale gintleman,\u201d says he; \u201cgoin\u2019 round the world\nfor sport, with a swoord by his side, takin\u2019 whatever he plazes for\nhimself; and that\u2019s a knight arriant,\u201d says he.\n\nWell, sure enough he wint about among his neighbours the next day, and\nhe got an owld kittle from one, and a saucepan from another, and he\ntook them to the tailor, and he sewed him up a shuit o\u2019 tin clothes\nlike any knight arriant, and he borrowed a pot lid, and _that_ he\nwas very partic\u2019lar about bekase it was his shield, and he went to a\nfrind o\u2019 his, a painther and glazier, and made him paint an his shield\nin big letthers:--\n\n \u201cI\u2019M THE MAN OF ALL MIN,\n THAT KILL\u2019D THREESCORE AND TIN\n AT A BLOW.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the people sees _that_\u201d says the waiver to himself, \u201cthe\nsorra one will dar\u2019 for to come near me.\u201d\n\nAnd with that he towld the wife to scour out the small iron pot for\nhim, \u201cfor,\u201d says he, \u201cit will make an illigant helmet;\u201d and when it was\ndone, he put it on his head, and his wife said, \u201cOh, murther, Thady,\njewel; is it puttin\u2019 a great heavy iron pot an your head you are, by\nway iv a hat?\u201d\n\n\u201cSartinly,\u201d says he, \u201cfor a knight arriant should always have _a\nweight an his brain_.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, Thady, dear,\u201d says the wife, \u201cthere\u2019s a hole in it, and it can\u2019t\nkeep out the weather.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt will be the cooler,\u201d says he, puttin\u2019 it an him; \u201cbesides, if I\ndon\u2019t like it, it is aisy to stop it with a wisp o\u2019 sthraw, or the like\no\u2019 that.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe three legs of it looks mighty quare, stickin\u2019 up,\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cEvery helmet has a spike stickin\u2019 out o\u2019 the top of it,\u201d says the\nwaiver, \u201cand if mine has three, it\u2019s only the grandher it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says the wife, getting bitther at last, \u201call I can say is, it\nisn\u2019t the first sheep\u2019s head was dhress\u2019d in it\u201d\n\n\u201c_Your sarvint, ma\u2019am_,\u201d says he; and off he set.\n\nWell, he was in want of a horse, and so he wint to a field hard by,\nwhere the miller\u2019s horse was grazin\u2019, that used to carry the ground\ncorn round the counthry. \u201cThis is the idintical horse for me,\u201d says the\nwaiver; \u201che is used to carryin\u2019 flour and male, and what am I but the\n_flower_ o\u2019 shovelry in a coat o\u2019 _mail_; so that the horse\nwon\u2019t be put out iv his way in the laste.\u201d\n\nBut as he was ridin\u2019 him out o\u2019 the field, who should see him but the\nmiller. \u201cIs it stalin\u2019 my horse you are, honest man?\u201d says the miller.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says the waiver; \u201cI\u2019m only goin\u2019 to exercise him,\u201d says he, \u201cin\nthe cool o\u2019 the evenin\u2019; it will be good for his health.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you kindly,\u201d says the miller; \u201cbut lave him where he is, and\nyou\u2019ll obleege me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t afford it,\u201d says the waiver, runnin\u2019 the horse at the ditch.\n\n\u201cBad luck to your impidince,\u201d says the miller, \u201cyou\u2019ve as much tin\nabout you as a thravellin\u2019 tinker, but you\u2019ve more brass. Come back\nhere, you vagabone,\u201d says he. But he was too late; away galloped the\nwaiver, and took the road to Dublin, for he thought the best thing\nhe could do was to go to the King o\u2019 Dublin (for Dublin was a grate\nplace thin, and had a king iv its own). Well, he was four days goin\u2019\nto Dublin, for the baste was not the best, and the roads worse, not\nall as one as now; but there was no turnpikes then, glory be to God!\nWhen he got to Dublin, he wint sthrait to the palace, and whin he got\ninto the coortyard he let his horse go and graze about the place,\nfor the grass was growin\u2019 out betune the stones; everything was\nflourishin\u2019 thin in Dublin, you see. Well, the king was lookin\u2019 out\nof his dhrawin\u2019-room windy for divarshin, whin the waiver kem in; but\nthe waiver pretended not to see him, and he wint over to a stone sate,\nundher the windy--for, you see, there was stone sates all round about\nthe place, for the accommodation o\u2019 the people--for the king was a\ndacent obleeging man; well, as I said, the waiver wint over and lay\ndown an one o\u2019 the sates, just undher the king\u2019s windy, and purtended\nto go asleep; but he took care to turn out the front of his shield that\nhad the letthers an it. Well, my dear, with that, the king calls out to\none of the lords of his coort that was standin\u2019 behind him, howldin\u2019 up\nthe skirt of his coat, accordin\u2019 to rayson, and says he: \u201cLook here,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cwhat do you think of a vagabone like that, comin\u2019 undher\nmy very nose to sleep? It is thrue I\u2019m a good king,\u201d says he, \u201cand I\n\u2019commodate the people by havin\u2019 sates for them to sit down and enjoy\nthe raycreation and contimplation of seein\u2019 me here, lookin\u2019 out o\u2019 my\ndhrawin\u2019-room windy, for divarshin; but that is no rayson they are to\n_make a hotel_ o\u2019 the place, and come and sleep here. Who is it at\nall?\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cNot a one o\u2019 me knows, plaze your majesty.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think he must be a furriner,\u201d says the king, \u201cbekase his dhress is\noutlandish.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd doesn\u2019t know manners, more betoken,\u201d says the lord.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go down and _circumspect_ him myself,\u201d says the king; \u201cfolly\nme,\u201d says he to the lord, wavin\u2019 his hand at the same time in the most\ndignacious manner.\n\nDown he wint accordingly, followed by the lord; and when he wint over\nto where the waiver was lying, sure the first thing he seen was his\nshield with the big letthers an it, and with that, says he to the lord,\n\u201cBedad,\u201d says he, \u201cthis is the very man I want.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor what, plaze your majesty?\u201d says the lord.\n\n\u201cTo kill the vagabone dhraggin, to be sure,\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cSure, do you think he could kill him,\u201d says the lord, \u201cwhin all the\nstoutest knights in the land wasn\u2019t aiquil to it, but never kem back,\nand was ate up alive by the cruel desaiver?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, don\u2019t you see there,\u201d says the king, pointin\u2019 at the shield,\n\u201cthat he killed threescore and tin at one blow; and the man that done\n_that_, I think, is a match for anything.\u201d\n\nSo, with that, he wint over to the waiver and shuck him by the shoulder\nfor to wake him, and the waiver rubbed his eyes as if just wakened, and\nthe king says to him, \u201cGod save you,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cGod save you kindly,\u201d says the waiver, _purtendin_\u2019 he was quite\nonknownst who he was spakin\u2019 to.\n\n\u201cDo you know who I am,\u201d says the king, \u201cthat you make so free, good\nman?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed,\u201d says the waiver, \u201cyou have the advantage o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I have,\u201d says the king, _moighty high_; \u201csure ain\u2019t I\nthe King o\u2019 Dublin?\u201d says he.\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018SURE, DON\u2019T YOU SEE THERE,\u2019 SAYS THE KING, \u2018THAT\n HE KILLED THREESCORE AND TIN AT ONE BLOW.\u2019\u201d]\n\nThe waiver dhropped down on his two knees forninst the king, and says\nhe, \u201cI beg God\u2019s pardon and yours for the liberty I tuk; plaze your\nholiness, I hope you\u2019ll excuse it.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo offince,\u201d says the king; \u201cget up, good man. And what brings you\nhere?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m in want o\u2019 work, plaze your riverence,\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cWell, suppose I give you work?\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll be proud to sarve you, my lord,\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d says the king. \u201cYou killed threescore and tin at one blow,\nI undherstan\u2019,\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cYis,\u201d says the waiver; \u201cthat was the last thrifle o\u2019 work I done, and\nI\u2019m afeard my hand \u2019ll go out o\u2019 practice if I don\u2019t get some job to do\nat wanst.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou shall have a job immediately,\u201d says the king. \u201cIt is not\nthreescore and tin or any fine thing like that; it is only a blaguard\ndhraggin that is disturbin\u2019 the counthry and ruinatin\u2019 my tinanthry wid\naitin\u2019 their powlthry, and I\u2019m lost for want of eggs,\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cThroth, thin, plaze your worship,\u201d says the waiver, \u201cyou look as\nyellow as if you swallowed twelve yolks this minit.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I want this dhraggin to be killed,\u201d says the king. \u201cIt will be\nno throuble in life to you; and I am only sorry that it isn\u2019t betther\nworth your while, for he isn\u2019t worth fearin\u2019 at all; only I must tell\nyou that he lives in the county Galway, in the middle of a bog, and he\nhas an advantage in that.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t value it in the laste,\u201d says the waiver, \u201cfor the last\nthreescore and tin I killed was in a _soft place_.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen will you undhertake the job, thin?\u201d says the king.\n\n\u201cLet me be at him at wanst,\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I like,\u201d says the king; \u201cyou\u2019re the very man for my\nmoney,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cTalkin\u2019 of money,\u201d says the waiver, \u201cby the same token, I\u2019ll want a\nthrifle o\u2019 change from you for my thravellin\u2019 charges.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs much as you plaze,\u201d says the king; and with the word he brought\nhim into his closet, where there was an owld stockin\u2019 in an oak chest,\nburstin\u2019 wid goolden guineas.\n\n\u201cTake as many as you plaze,\u201d says the king; and sure enough, my dear,\nthe little waiver stuffed his tin clothes as full as they could howld\nwith them.\n\n\u201cNow I\u2019m ready for the road,\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d says the king; \u201cbut you must have a fresh horse,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cWith all my heart,\u201d says the waiver, who thought he might as well\nexchange the miller\u2019s owld garron for a betther.\n\nAnd maybe it\u2019s wondherin\u2019 you are that the waiver would think of goin\u2019\nto fight the dhraggin afther what he heerd about him, when he was\npurtendin\u2019 to be asleep, but he had no sich notion; all he intended\nwas--to fob the goold, and ride back again to Duleek with his gains and\na good horse. But you see, cute as the waiver was, the king was cuter\nstill; for these high quality, you see, is great desaivers; and so the\nhorse the waiver was an was larned on purpose; and sure, the minit he\nwas mounted, away powdhered the horse, and the divil a toe he\u2019d go but\nright down to Galway. Well, for four days he was goin\u2019 evermore, until\nat last the waiver seen a crowd o\u2019 people runnin\u2019 as if owld Nick was\nat their heels, and they shoutin\u2019 a thousand murdhers, and cryin\u2019--\u201cThe\ndhraggin, the dhraggin!\u201d and he couldn\u2019t stop the horse nor make him\nturn back, but away he pelted right forninst the terrible baste that\nwas comin\u2019 up to him; and there was the most _nefaarious_ smell o\u2019\nsulphur, savin\u2019 your presence, enough to knock you down; and, faith,\nthe waiver seen he had no time to lose; and so he threw himself off\nthe horse and made to a three that was growin\u2019 nigh-hand, and away\nhe clambered up into it as nimble as a cat; and not a minit had he to\nspare, for the dhraggin kem up in a powerful rage, and he devoured\nthe horse body and bones, in less than no time; and then he began to\nsniffle and scent about for the waiver, and at last he clapt his eye\nan him, where he was, up in the three, and says he, \u201cYou might as well\ncome down out o\u2019 that,\u201d says he, \u201cfor I\u2019ll have you as sure as eggs is\nmate.\u201d\n\n\u201cDivil a fut I\u2019ll go down,\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cSorra care I care,\u201d says the dhraggin; \u201cfor you\u2019re as good as ready\nmoney in my pocket this minit, for I\u2019ll lie undher this three,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cand sooner or later you must fall to my share;\u201d and sure enough he\nsot down, and began to pick his teeth with his tail, afther the heavy\nbrekquest he made that mornin\u2019 (for he ate a whole village, let alone\nthe horse), and he got dhrowsy at last, and fell asleep; but before he\nwint to sleep he wound himself all round about the three, all as one as\na lady windin\u2019 ribbon round her finger, so that the waiver could not\nescape.\n\nWell, as soon as the waiver knew he was dead asleep, by the snorin\u2019 of\nhim--and every snore he let out of him was like a clap o\u2019 thunder--that\nminit the waiver began to creep down the three, as cautious as a fox;\nand he was very nigh hand the bottom, when a thievin\u2019 branch he was\ndipindin\u2019 an bruk, and down he fell right a top o\u2019 the dhraggin; but if\nhe did, good luck was an his side, for where should he fall but with\nhis two legs right acrass the dhraggin\u2019s neck, and, my jew\u2019l, he laid\nhowlt o\u2019 the baste\u2019s ears, and there he kept his grip, for the dhraggin\nwakened and endayvoured for to bite him; but, you see, by rayson the\nwaiver was behind his ears he could not come at him, and, with that,\nhe endayvoured for to shake him off; but not a stir could he stir the\nwaiver; and though he shuk all the scales an his body, he could not\nturn the scale agin the waiver.\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018I\u2019LL GIVE YOU A RIDE THAT \u2019ILL ASTONISH YOUR\n SIVEN SMALL SENSES, MY BOY.\u2019\u201d]\n\n\u201cOch, this is too bad intirely,\u201d says the dhraggin; \u201cbut if you won\u2019t\nlet go,\u201d says he, \u201cby the powers o\u2019 wildfire, I\u2019ll give you a ride\nthat \u2019ill astonish your siven small senses, my boy;\u201d and, with that,\naway he flew like mad; and where do you think did he fly?--bedad, he\nflew sthraight for Dublin, divil a less. But the waiver bein\u2019 an his\nneck was a great disthress to him, and he would rather have had him an\n_inside passenger_; but, anyway, he flew and he flew till he kem\n_slap_ up agin the palace o\u2019 the king; for, bein\u2019 blind with the\nrage, he never seen it, and he knocked his brains out--that is, the\nsmall thrifle he had, and down he fell spacheless. An\u2019 you see, good\nluck would have it, that the King o\u2019 Dublin was looking out iv his\ndhrawin\u2019-room windy, for divarshin, that day also, and whin he seen\nthe waiver ridin\u2019 an the fiery dhraggin (for he was blazin\u2019 like a tar\nbarrel), he called out to his coortyers to come and see the show.\n\n\u201cBy the powdhers o\u2019 war here comes the knight arriant,\u201d says the king,\n\u201cridin\u2019 the dhraggin that\u2019s all a-fire, and if he gets _into the\npalace_, yiz must be ready wid the _fire ingines_,\u201d says he,\n\u201cfor to _put him out_.\u201d\n\nBut when they seen the dhraggin fall outside, they all run\ndownstairs and scampered into the palace-yard for to circumspect the\n_curosity_; and by the time they got down, the waiver had got off\no\u2019 the dhraggin\u2019s neck; and runnin\u2019 up to the king, says he--\n\n\u201cPlaze your holiness, I did not think myself worthy of killin\u2019 this\nfacetious baste, so I brought him to yourself for to do him the honour\nof decripitation by your own royal five fingers. But I tamed him first,\nbefore I allowed him the liberty for to _dar\u2019_ to appear in your\nroyal prisince, and you\u2019ll obleege me if you\u2019ll just make your mark\nwith your own hand upon the onruly baste\u2019s neck.\u201d And with that, the\nking, sure enough, dhrew out his swoord and took the head aff the\n_dirty_ brute, as _clane_ as a new pin.\n\nWell, there was great rejoicin\u2019 in the coort that the dhraggin was\nkilled; and says the king to the little waiver, says he--\n\n\u201cYou are a knight arriant as it is, and so it would be no use for to\nknight you over again; but I will make you a lord,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cO Lord!\u201d says the waiver, thunderstruck like at his own good luck.\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d says the king; \u201cand as you are the first man I ever heer\u2019d\ntell of that rode a dhraggin, you shall be called Lord _Mount_\nDhraggin,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cAnd where\u2019s my estates, plaze your holiness?\u201d says the waiver, who\nalways had a sharp look-out afther the main chance.\n\n\u201cOh, I didn\u2019t forget that,\u201d says the king. \u201cIt is my royal pleasure\nto provide well for you, and for that rayson I make you a present of\nall the dhraggins in the world, and give you power over them from this\nout,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cIs that all?\u201d says the waiver.\n\n\u201cAll!\u201d says the king. \u201cWhy, you ongrateful little vagabone, was the\nlike ever given to any man before?\u201d\n\n\u201cI b\u2019lieve not, indeed,\u201d says the waiver; \u201cmany thanks to your majesty.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut that is not all I\u2019ll do for you,\u201d says the king; \u201cI\u2019ll give you my\ndaughter too, in marriage,\u201d says he.\n\nNow, you see, that was nothin\u2019 more than what he promised the waiver in\nhis first promise; for, by all accounts, the king\u2019s daughter was the\ngreatest dhraggin ever was seen....\n\n _Samuel Lover._\n\n\n\n\n _BELLEWSTOWN HILL_.\n\n\n If a respite ye\u2019d borrow from turmoil or sorrow,\n I\u2019ll tell you the secret of how it is done;\n \u2019Tis found in this statement of all the excitement\n That Bellewstown knows when the races come on.\n Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,\n Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,\n In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,\n And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!\n\n On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion,\n It Banagher bangs, by the table o\u2019 war!\n From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity\n Jogging along on an ould jaunting-car.\n Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,\n Its jigging and jumping to mollify still;\n Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly,\n From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.\n\n In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and fifers,\n Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best knows;\n While Paddy is prancing, his colleen is dancing,\n Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his toes.\n More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot isn\u2019t sticky,\n But bounds from the boards like a pea from a quill.\n Oh, \u2019twould cure a rheumatic,--he\u2019d jump up ecstatic,\n At \u201cTatter Jack Welsh\u201d upon Bellewstown Hill.\n\n Oh, \u2019tis there \u2019neath the haycocks, all splendid like paycocks,\n In chattering groups that the quality dine;\n Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen dealers,\n In flattery spout and come out mighty fine.\n And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are \u201chaving\u201d\n \u2019Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian quadrille.\n All we read in the pages of pastoral ages\n Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown Hill.\n\n Arrived at its summit, the view that you come at,\n From etherealised Mourne to where Tara ascends,\n There\u2019s no scene in our sireland, dear Ireland, old Ireland!\n To which nature more exquisite loveliness lends.\n And the soil \u2019neath your feet has a memory sweet,\n The patriots\u2019 deeds they hallow it still;\n Eighty-two\u2019s volunteers (would to-day saw their peers!)\n Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Hill.\n\n But hark! there\u2019s a shout--the horses are out,--\n \u2019Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!\n To old _Crock-a-Fatha_, the people that dot the\n Broad plateau around are all for a view.\n \u201cCome, Ned, my tight fellow, I\u2019ll bet on the yellow!\n Success to the green! faith, we\u2019ll stand by it still!\u201d\n The uplands and hollows they\u2019re skimming like swallows,\n Till they flash by the post upon Bellewstown Hill.\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cFROM THE COACH OF THE QUALITY, DOWN TO THE\n JOLLITY JOGGING ALONG ON AN OULD JAUNTING-CAR.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE PEELER AND THE GOAT._\n\n\n A Bansha Peeler wint wan night\n On duty and pathrollin, O,\n An\u2019 met a goat upon the road,\n And tuck her for a sthroller, O.\n Wud bay\u2019net fixed he sallied forth,\n And caught her by the wizzen, O,\n And then he swore a mighty oath,\n \u201cI\u2019ll send you off to prison, O.\u201d\n\n\n GOAT.\n\n \u201cOh, mercy, sir!\u201d the goat replied,\n \u201cPray let me tell my story, O!\n I am no Rogue, no Ribbonman,\n No Croppy, Whig, or Tory, O;\n I\u2019m guilty not of any crime\n Of petty or high thraison, O,\n I\u2019m badly wanted at this time,\n For this is the milking saison, O.\u201d\n\n\n PEELER.\n\n It is in vain for to complain\n Or give your tongue such bridle, O;\n You\u2019re absent from your dwelling-place,\n Disorderly and idle, O.\n Your hoary locks will not prevail,\n Nor your sublime oration, O,\n You\u2019ll be thransported by Peel\u2019s Act,\n Upon my information, O.\n\n\n GOAT.\n\n No penal law did I transgress\n By deeds or combination, O,\n I have no certain place to rest,\n No home or habitation, O.\n But Bansha is my dwelling-place,\n Where I was bred and born, O,\n Descended from an honest race,\n That\u2019s all the trade I\u2019ve learned, O.\n\n\n PEELER.\n\n I will chastise your insolince\n And violent behaviour, O;\n Well bound to Cashel you\u2019ll be sint,\n Where you will gain no favour, O.\n The Magistrates will all consint\n To sign your condemnation, O;\n From there to Cork you will be sint\n For speedy thransportation, O.\n\n\n GOAT.\n\n This parish an\u2019 this neighbourhood\n Are paiceable an\u2019 thranquil, O;\n There\u2019s no disturbance here, thank God!\n And long may it continue so.\n I don\u2019t regard your oath a pin,\n Or sign for my committal, O,\n My jury will be gintlemin\n And grant me my acquittal, O.\n\n\n PEELER.\n\n The consequince be what it will,\n A peeler\u2019s power I\u2019ll let you know,\n I\u2019ll handcuff you, at all events,\n And march you off to Bridewell, O.\n An\u2019 sure, you rogue, you can\u2019t deny\n Before the judge or jury, O,\n Intimidation with your horns,\n And threatening me with fury, O.\n\n\n GOAT.\n\n I make no doubt but you are dhrunk\n Wud whisky, rum, or brandy, O,\n Or you wouldn\u2019t have such gallant spunk\n To be so bould or manly, O.\n You readily would let me pass\n If I had money handy, O,\n To thrate you to a potheen glass--\n Oh! it\u2019s thin I\u2019d be the dandy, O.\n\n _Jeremiah O\u2019 Ryan_ (17-- \u20131855).\n\n\n\n\n _THE LOQUACIOUS BARBER._\n\n\nHe had scarcely taken his seat before the toilet, when a soft tap\nat the door, and the sound of a small squeaking voice, announced\nthe arrival of the hair-cutter. On looking round him, Hardress\nbeheld a small, thin-faced, red-haired little man, with a tailor\u2019s\nshears dangling from his finger, bowing and smiling with a timid and\nconciliating air. In an evil hour for his patience, Hardress consented\nthat he should commence operations.\n\n\u201cThe piatez were very airly this year, sir,\u201d he modestly began, after\nhe had wrapped a check apron about the neck of Hardress, and made the\nother necessary arrangements.\n\n\u201cVery early, indeed. You needn\u2019t cut so fast.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery airly, sir--the white-eyes especially. Them white-eyes are fine\npiatez. For the first four months I wouldn\u2019t ax a better piatie than\na white-eye, with a bit o\u2019 bacon, if one had it; but after that the\nmeal goes out of \u2019em, and they gets wet and bad. The cups arn\u2019t so\ngood in the beginnin\u2019 o\u2019 the saison, but they hould better. Turn your\nhead more to the light, sir, if you plase. The cups, indeed, are a\nfine substantial, lasting piatie. There\u2019s great nutriment in\u2019em for\npoor people, that would have nothin\u2019 else with them but themselves,\nor a grain o\u2019 salt. There\u2019s no piatie that eats better, when you have\nnothin\u2019 but a bit o\u2019 the little one (as they say) to eat with a bit o\u2019\nthe big. No piatie that eats so sweet with point.\u201d\n\n\u201cWith point?\u201d Hardress repeated, a little amused by this fluent\ndiscussion of the poor hair-cutter upon the varieties of a dish which,\nfrom his childhood, had formed almost his only article of nutriment,\nand on which he expatiated with as much cognoscence and satisfaction\nas a fashionable gourmand might do on the culinary productions of\nEustache Ude. \u201cWhat is point?\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201cON LOOKING ROUND HIM, HARDRESS BEHELD A SMALL,\n THIN-FACED, RED-HAIRED LITTLE MAN.\u201d]\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you know what that is, sir? I\u2019ll tell you in a minute. A joke\nthat them that has nothin\u2019 to do, an\u2019 plenty to eat, make upon the poor\npeople that has nothin\u2019 to eat, and plenty to do. That is, when there\u2019s\ndry piatez on the table, and enough of hungry people about it, and the\nfamily would have, maybe, only one bit o\u2019 bacon hanging up above their\nheads, they\u2019d peel a piatie first, and then they\u2019d _point_ it up\nat the bacon, and they\u2019d fancy that it would have the taste o\u2019 the\nmait when they\u2019d be aitin\u2019 it after. That\u2019s what they call point, sir.\nA cheap sort o\u2019 diet it is (Lord help us!) that\u2019s plenty enough among\nthe poor people in this country. A great plan for making a small bit o\u2019\npork go a long way in a large family.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed it is but a slender sort of food. Those scissors you have are\ndreadful ones.\u201d\n\n\u201cTerrible, sir. I sent my own over to the forge before I left home, to\nhave an eye put in it; only for that, I\u2019d be smarter a deal. Slender\nfood it is, indeed. There\u2019s a deal o\u2019 poor people here in Ireland,\nsir, that are run so hard at times, that the wind of a bit o\u2019 mait is\nas good to \u2019em as the mait itself to them that would be used to it.\nThe piatez are everythin\u2019; the _kitchen_[14] little or nothin\u2019.\nBut there\u2019s a sort o\u2019 piatez (I don\u2019t know did your honour ever taste\n\u2019em) that\u2019s gettin\u2019 greatly in vogue now among \u2019em, an\u2019 is killin\u2019 half\nthe country,--the white piatez, a piatie that has great produce, an\u2019\nrequires but little manure, and will grow in very poor land; but has no\nmore strength nor nourishment in it than if you had boiled a handful o\u2019\nsawdust and made gruel of it, or put a bit of a deal board between your\nteeth and thought to make a breakfast of it. The black bulls themselves\nare better; indeed, the black bulls are a deal a better piatie than\nthey\u2019re thought. When you\u2019d peel \u2019em, they look as black as indigo, an\u2019\nyou\u2019d have no mind to \u2019em at all; but I declare they\u2019re very sweet in\nthe mouth, an\u2019 very strengthenin\u2019. The English reds are a nate piatie,\ntoo; and the apple piatie (I don\u2019t know what made \u2019em be given up),\nan\u2019 the kidney (though delicate o\u2019 rearing); but give me the cups for\nall, that will hould the meal in \u2019em to the last, and won\u2019t require any\ninthricket tillage. Let a man have a middling-sized pit o\u2019 cups again\nthe winter, a small _caish_[15] to pay his rent, an\u2019 a handful o\u2019\nturf behind the doore, an\u2019 he can defy the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know as much, I think,\u201d said Hardress, \u201cof farming as of\nhair-cutting.\u201d\n\n\u201cOyeh, if I had nothin\u2019 to depend upon but what heads comes across me\nthis way, sir, I\u2019d be in a poor way enough. But I have a little spot o\u2019\nground besides.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd a good taste for the produce.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas kind father for me to have that same. Did you ever hear tell,\nsir, of what they call limestone broth?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas my father first made it. I\u2019ll tell you the story, sir, if you\u2019ll\nturn your head this way a minute.\u201d\n\nHardress had no choice but to listen.\n\n\u201cMy father went once upon a time about the country, in the idle season,\nseeing would he make a penny at all by cutting hair, or setting razhurs\nand penknives, or any other job that would fall in his way. Well an\u2019\ngood--he was one day walking alone in the mountains of Kerry, without\na hai\u2019p\u2019ny in his pocket (for though he travelled a-foot, it cost him\nmore than he earned), an\u2019 knowing there was but little love for a\ncounty Limerick man in the place where he was, on being half perished\nwith the hunger, an\u2019 evening drawing nigh, he didn\u2019t know well what\nto do with himself till morning. Very good--he went along the wild\nroad; an\u2019 if he did, he soon sees a farmhouse at a little distance o\u2019\none side--a snug-looking place, with the smoke curling up out of the\nchimney, an\u2019 all tokens of good living inside. Well, some people would\nlive where a fox would starve. What do you think did my father do? He\nwouldn\u2019t beg (a thing one of our people never done yet, thank heaven!)\nan\u2019 he hadn\u2019t the money to buy a thing, so what does he do? He takes up\na couple o\u2019 the big limestones that were lying on the road in his two\nhands, an\u2019 away with him to the house. \u2018Lord save all here!\u2019 says he,\nwalkin\u2019 in the doore. \u2018And you kindly,\u2019 says they. \u2018I\u2019m come to you,\u2019\nsays he, this way, looking at the two limestones, \u2018to know would you\nlet me make a little limestone broth over your fire, until I\u2019ll make\nmy dinner?\u2019 \u2018Limestone broth!\u2019 says they to him again; \u2018what\u2019s that,\n_aroo_?\u2019 \u2018Broth made o\u2019 limestone,\u2019 says he; \u2018what else?\u2019 \u2018We\nnever heard of such a thing,\u2019 says they. \u2018Why, then, you may hear it\nnow,\u2019 says he, \u2018an\u2019 see it also, if you\u2019ll gi\u2019 me a pot an\u2019 a couple\no\u2019 quarts o\u2019 soft water.\u2019 \u2018You can have it an\u2019 welcome,\u2019 says they. So\nthey put down the pot an\u2019 the water, an\u2019 my father went over an\u2019 tuk\na chair hard by the pleasant fire for himself, an\u2019 put down his two\nlimestones to boil, and kep stirrin\u2019 them round like stirabout. Very\ngood--well, by-an\u2019-by, when the wather began to boil--\u2018\u2019Tis thickening\nfinely,\u2019 says my father; \u2018now if it had a grain o\u2019 salt at all, \u2019twould\nbe a great improvement to it\u2019 \u2018Raich down the salt-box, Nell,\u2019 says\nthe man o\u2019 the house to his wife. So she did. \u2018Oh, that\u2019s the very\nthing, just,\u2019 says my father, shaking some of it into the pot. So he\nstirred it again awhile, looking as sober as a minister. By-an\u2019-by,\nhe takes the spoon he had stirring it, an\u2019 tastes it \u2018It is very good\nnow,\u2019 says he, \u2018although it wants something yet.\u2019 \u2018What is it?\u2019 says\nthey. \u2018Oyeh, wisha nothing,\u2019 says he; \u2018maybe \u2019tis only fancy o\u2019 me.\u2019\n\u2018If it\u2019s anything we can give you,\u2019 says they, \u2018you\u2019re welcome to\nit\u2019 \u2018\u2019Tis very good as it is,\u2019 says he; \u2018but when I\u2019m at home, I find\nit gives it a fine flavour just to boil a little knuckle o\u2019 bacon, or\nmutton trotters, or anything that way along with it.\u2019 \u2018Raich hether\nthat bone o\u2019 sheep\u2019s head we had at dinner yesterday, Nell,\u2019 says\nthe man o\u2019 the house. \u2018Oyeh, don\u2019t mind it,\u2019 says my father; \u2018let it\nbe as it is.\u2019 \u2018Sure if it improves it, you may as well,\u2019 says they.\n\u2018_Baithershin!_\u2019[16] says my father, putting it down. So after\nboiling it a good piece longer, \u2018\u2019Tis as fine limestone broth,\u2019 says\nhe, \u2018as ever was tasted; an\u2019 if a man had a few piatez,\u2019 says he,\nlooking at a pot of \u2019em that was smokin\u2019 in the chimney-corner, \u2018he\ncouldn\u2019t desire a better dinner.\u2019 They gave him the piatez, and he\nmade a good dinner of themselves an\u2019 the broth, not forgetting the\nbone, which he polished equal to chaney before he let it go. The people\nthemselves tasted it, an\u2019 thought it as good as any mutton broth in the\nworld.\u201d\n\n _Gerald Griffin_ (1803\u20131840).\n\n\n\n\n _NELL FLAHERTY\u2019S DRAKE._\n\n\n My name it is Nell, quite candid I tell,\n That I live near Coote hill, I will never deny;\n I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,\n That my grandmother left me and she going to die;\n He was wholesome and sound, he would weigh twenty pound,\n The universe round I would rove for his sake--\n Bad wind to the robber--be he drunk or sober--\n That murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s beautiful drake.\n\n His neck it was green--most rare to be seen,\n He was fit for a queen of the highest degree;\n His body was white--and would you delight--\n He was plump, fat and heavy, and brisk as a bee.\n The dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,\n He would fly like a swallow and dive like a hake,\n But some wicked savage, to grease his white cabbage,\n Has murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s beautiful drake.\n\n May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,\n May a ghost ever haunt him at dead of the night;\n May his hen never lay, may his ass never bray,\n May his goat fly away like an old paper kite.\n That the flies and the fleas may the wretch ever tease,\n And the piercing north breeze make him shiver and shake,\n May a lump of a stick raise bumps fast and thick\n On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake.\n\n May his cradle ne\u2019er rock, may his box have no lock,\n May his wife have no frock for to cover her back;\n May his cock never crow, may his bellows ne\u2019er blow,\n And his pipe and his pot may he evermore lack.\n May his duck never quack, may his goose turn black,\n And pull down his turf with her long yellow beak;\n May the plague grip the scamp, and his villainy stamp\n On the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake.\n\n May his pipe never smoke, may his teapot be broke,\n And to add to the joke, may his kettle ne\u2019er boil;\n May he keep to the bed till the hour that he\u2019s dead,\n May he always be fed on hogwash and boiled oil.\n May he swell with the gout, may his grinders fall out,\n May he roll, howl and shout with the horrid toothache;\n May the temples wear horns, and the toes many corns,\n Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake.\n\n May his spade never dig, may his sow never pig,\n May each hair in his wig be well thrashed with a flail;\n May his door have no latch, may his house have no thatch,\n May his turkey not hatch, may the rats eat his meal.\n May every old fairy, from Cork to Dunleary,\n Dip him snug and airy in river or lake,\n Where the eel and the trout may feed on the snout\n Of the monster that murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake.\n\n May his dog yelp and howl with the hunger and could,\n May his wife always scold till his brains go astray;\n May the curse of each hag that e\u2019er carried a bag\n Alight on the vag. till his hair turns grey.\n May monkeys affright him, and mad dogs still bite him,\n And every one slight him, asleep or awake;\n May weasels still gnaw him, and jackdaws still claw him--\n The monster that murdered Nell Flaherty\u2019s drake.\n\n The only good news that I have to infuse\n Is that old Peter Hughes and blind Peter McCrake,\n And big-nosed Bob Manson, and buck-toothed Ned Hanson,\n Each man had a grandson of my lovely drake.\n My treasure had dozens of nephews and cousins,\n And one I must get or my heart it will break;\n To keep my mind easy, or else I\u2019ll run crazy--\n This ends the whole song of my beautiful drake.\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n\n\n\n _ELEGY ON HIMSELF._\n\n\n Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourned\n This priest devout;\n Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurned\n The bones of Prout!\n Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column\n His place of rest,\n Whose soul, above earth\u2019s homage, meek, yet solemn,\n Sits \u2019mid the blest.\n Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke\n O\u2019erawed sheep-stealers;\n And rogues feared more the good man\u2019s single look\n Than forty Peelers.\n He\u2019s gone, and discord soon I ween will visit\n The land with quarrels;\n And the foul demon vex with stills illicit\n The village morals.\n No fatal chance could happen more to cross\n The public wishes;\n And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,\n Except the fishes;\n For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring\n Preferred to gammon.\n Grim death has broke his angling rod: his _berring_\n Delights the salmon.\n No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,\n For fasting pittance--\n Arts which St. Peter loved, whose gate to Prout\n Gave prompt admittance.\n Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep\n His sainted dust,\n The bad man\u2019s death it well becomes to weep--\n Not so the just!\n\n _Francis Sylvester Mahony_ (\u201c_Father Prout_\u201d) (1804\u20131866).\n\n\n\n\n _BOB MAHON\u2019S STORY._\n\n\nFather Tom rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story after story\nof his own early experiences, some of them not a little amusing.\n\nThe major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest\u2019s anecdotal\npowers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. \u201cVery\ntrue, Tom,\u201d said he, at length breaking silence; \u201cyou have seen a fair\nshare of these things for a man of your cloth; but where\u2019s the man\nliving--show him to me, I say--that has had my experience, either as\nprincipal or second: haven\u2019t I had my four men out in the same morning?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, I confess,\u201d said I meekly, \u201cthat does seem an extravagant\nallowance.\u201d\n\n\u201cClear waste, downright profusion, _du luxe, mon cher_, nothing\nelse,\u201d observed Father Tom. Meanwhile the major rolled his eyes\nfearfully at me, and fidgeted in his chair with impatience to be asked\nhis story, and as I myself had some curiosity on the subject, I begged\nhim to relate it.\n\n\u201cTom, here, doesn\u2019t like a story at supper,\u201d said the major, pompously;\nfor, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a\nlittle tyrannical before telling it.\n\nThe priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his\nobjection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last\nthirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with\nmuch pleasure.\n\n\u201cYou shall have it, then!\u201d said the major, as he squared himself in his\nchair, and thus began:--\n\n\u201cYou have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide\nbleak line of country there, that stretches away to the westward, with\nnothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here\nand there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre\nof lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on\ntheir way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they\ntraverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.\n\n\u201cIn the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to\nbuild a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood\nand no sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society\nsome time before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in\nretirement; so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me,\nneither were the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much\nsharper look-out for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.\n\n\u201cOf course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build\nsomething very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a\nfine portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were\nten windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and, faith,\ntaking it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick,\nthe windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin, Darcy\nMahon, called it Newgate; and not a bad name either--and the devil\nanother it ever went by: and even that same had its advantages; for\nwhen the creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they\u2019d\nsay--\u2018Poor devil! he has enough on his hands; there\u2019s no use troubling\nhim any more.\u2019 Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not\nmuch accommodation when you got inside. There was, \u2019tis true, a fine\nhall, all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been\nthe dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was\nused for herding sheep in winter. On the right hand, there was a cozy\nlittle breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the\nback of the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was\na grand staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a\ngreat suite of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one, a little crib I\nhad for myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and,\nindeed, in one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists\nwere never laid, which was all the better, for it was there we used to\nkeep our hay and straw.\n\n\u201cNow, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in, and\ninstead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so\nthat, when you opened the door above stairs, instead of finding the hay\nup beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t help boring you with all these details--first, because they\nare essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a\nforeigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of\nsome of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have,\nafter lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a\nbig house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the\ncase may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner\nof it, \u2018just for grandeur,\u2019 as a body may say. It\u2019s a droll notion,\nafter all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn\u2019t at least six\nspecimens of what I mention.\n\n\u201cNewgate was a beautiful one; and although the sheep lived in the\nparlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley\nslept in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck-goat kept house in\nthe library--faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not\none that saw it, from the high road to Ennis--and you could see it for\ntwelve miles in every direction--didn\u2019t say, \u2018That Mahon must be a snug\nfellow: look what a beautiful place he has of it there! \u2018Little they\nknew that it was safer to go up the \u2019Reeks\u2019 than my grand staircase,\nand it was like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.\n\n\u201cWell, it was about four o\u2019clock in the afternoon of a dark louring day\nin December, that I was treading homewards in no very good humour; for,\nexcept a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with\nnothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry\non as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a\nvoice called out--\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s Bob Mahon, boys! By the hill of Scariff, we are in luck!\u2019\n\n\u201cI turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red\ncoats--they were the blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry\nEyre, Joe M\u2019Mahon, and the rest of them; fourteen souls in all. They\nhad come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake\u2019s about ten miles from\nme; but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs--they\nlost their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance they lost\neverything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and\nthey looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.\n\n\u201c\u2018Isn\u2019t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?\u2019 said Lambert.\n\n\u201c\u2018They told us you were away,\u2019 said Burke.\n\n\u201c\u2018Some said that you were grown so pious, that you never went out\nexcept on Sundays,\u2019 added old Harry, with a grin.\n\n\u201c\u2018Begad,\u2019 said I, \u2018as to the luck, I won\u2019t say much for it; for here\u2019s\nall I can give you for your dinner;\u2019 and so I pulled out the four birds\nand shook them at them; \u2018and as to the piety, troth, maybe you\u2019d like\nto keep a fast with as devoted a son of the church as myself.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018But isn\u2019t that Newgate up there?\u2019 said one.\n\n\u201c\u2018That same.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And you don\u2019t mean to say that such a house as that hasn\u2019t a good\nlarder and a fine cellar?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You\u2019re right,\u2019 said I, \u2018and they\u2019re both full at this very\nmoment--the one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven\ncoals.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Have you got any bacon?\u2019 said Mahon.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, yes!\u2019 said I, \u2018there\u2019s bacon.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018And eggs?\u2019 said another.\n\n\u201c\u2018For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Come, come,\u2019 said Dan Lambert, \u2018we\u2019re not so badly off after all.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Is there whisky?\u2019 cried Eyre.\n\n\u201c\u2018Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!\u2019\n\n\u201cAs I said this, they gave three cheers you\u2019d have heard a mile off.\n\n\u201cAfter about twenty minutes\u2019 walking, we go up to the house, and when\npoor Darby opened the door, I thought he\u2019d faint; for, you see, the red\ncoats made him think it was the army coming to take me away; and he was\nfor running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s the blazers, ye old fool,\u2019 said I. \u2018The gentlemen are come to\ndine here.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Hurroo!\u2019 said he, clapping his hands on his knees--\u2018there must be\ngreat distress entirely, down about Nenagh and them parts, or they\u2019d\nnever think of coming up here for a bit to eat.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Which way lie the stables, Bob?\u2019 said Burke.\n\n\u201c\u2018Leave all that to Darby,\u2019 said I; for ye see he had only to whistle\nand bring up as many people as he liked--and so he did too; and as\nthere was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded\ndown and comfortable; and in ten minutes\u2019 time we were all sitting\npleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.\n\n\u201c\u2018Now, if you\u2019d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come\nalong with me.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018By all means,\u2019 said he.\n\n\u201cThe others were standing up too; but I observed that, as the house was\nlarge, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till\nI\u2019d come back for them.\n\n\u201cThis was a real piece of good luck, Bob,\u2019 said Dan, as he followed me\nupstairs: \u2018capital quarters we\u2019ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom\nye have here.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes,\u2019 said I carelessly; \u2018it\u2019s one of the small rooms--there are\neight like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see;\nbut for the present, you know----\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here--the other\nfellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 said I, \u2018if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the\nroom is one of the warmest in the house\u2019--and this was telling no lie.\n\n\u201c\u2018Here I\u2019ll sleep,\u2019 said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and\ngiving the bed a most affectionate look. \u2018And now let us join the rest.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhen I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M\u2019Mahon, and\nso on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them\nall bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet\nhe had got the best bedroom.\n\n\u201cDinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very\nperfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men\ncutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did\nnothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the\nkitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.\n\n\u201cDo you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving\nvenison, and Burgundy, and claret, enough to swim a life-boat in, I\noften thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren\u2019t\nhalf as pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I\u2019ll talk to you more about\nanother time; I\u2019ll only observe now, that I\u2019m sure we all over-feed\nour company. I\u2019ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that,\nas far as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a\ngreat mistake to provide too well for your guests. There is something\nheroic in eating your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey among\njolly fellows; there is a kind of reflective flattering about it that\ntells you you have been invited for your drollery, and not for your\ndigestion; and that your jokes, and not your flattery, have been your\nrecommendation. Lord bless you! I\u2019ve laughed more over red herrings and\npoteen than I ever expect to do again over turtle and toquay.\n\n\u201cMy guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory.\nA pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good\nsongs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until\nat last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot\nwater I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so\nwe were compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think,\nprecipitated matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it\ninstead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was\nonly the more tipsy you were getting.\n\n\u201cAbout two o\u2019clock five of the party were under the table, three more\nwere nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest\nwere mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.\n\n\u201c\u2018Bob,\u2019 said Lambert to me, in a whisper, \u2018if it\u2019s the same thing to\nyou, I\u2019ll slip away and get into bed.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Of course, if you won\u2019t take anything more. Just make yourself at\nhome; and, as you don\u2019t know the way here--follow me!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m afraid,\u2019 said he, \u2018I\u2019d not find my way alone.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I think,\u2019 said I, \u2018it\u2019s very likely. But come along.\u2019\n\n\u201cI walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I\nwent the other way, till I came to the door of the large room, that I\nhave told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my\nhand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the\nwind.\n\n\u201c\u2018What a draught there is here!\u2019 said I; \u2018but just step in, and I\u2019ll go\nfor a light.\u2019\n\n\u201cHe did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful\nlittle carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I\nlooked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out--\n\n\u201c\u2018As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to\nshow you the drop. Good night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a\nlittle farther from the door, as there are more coming.\u2019\n\n\u201cWell, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three\nmore stood up and declared for bed also. The first I took up was\nFfrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn\u2019t a cute fellow at the best\nof times; and if it wasn\u2019t that the hay was so low, he\u2019d never have\nguessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well,\ndown he went. Then came Eyre! Then Joe Mahon--two-and-twenty stone--no\nless! Lord pity them!--this was a great shock entirely! But when I\nopened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you\u2019d think it was\nPandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and\nroaring with all their might.\n\n\u201c\u2018Good night, Tom,\u2019 said I, pushing Burke forward. \u2018It\u2019s the cows you\nhear underneath.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Cows!\u2019 said he. \u2018If they\u2019re cows, begad, they must have got at that\nsixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they\u2019re all drunk.\u2019\n\n\u201cWith that, he snatched the candle out of my hand, and looked down\ninto the pit. Never was such a scene before or since. Dan was pitching\ninto poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was\nhitting out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at\nevery blow as he called out--\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019ll smash you! I\u2019ll dinge your ribs for you, you infernal scoundrel!\u2019\n\n\u201cEyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life;\nand poor Joe Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, \u2018Poor\nfellow! good dog!\u2019 for he thought it was Towser, the bull-terrier, that\nwas prowling round the calves of his legs.\n\n\u201c\u2018If they don\u2019t get tired, there will not be a man of them alive by\nmorning!\u2019 said Tom, as he closed the door. \u2018And now, if you\u2019ll allow me\nto sleep on the carpet, I\u2019ll take it as a favour.\u2019\n\n\u201cBy this time they were all quiet in the parlour, so I lent Tom a\ncouple of blankets and a bolster, and having locked my door, went to\nbed with an easy mind and a quiet conscience. To be sure, now and then\na cry would burst forth, as if they were killing somebody below stairs,\nbut I soon fell asleep and heard no more of them.\n\n\u201cBy daybreak next morning they made their escape; and when I was trying\nto awake at half-past ten, I found Colonel M\u2019Morris, of the Mayo, with\na message from the whole four.\n\n\u201c\u2018A bad business this, Captain Mahon,\u2019 said he; \u2018my friends have been\nshockingly treated.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018It\u2019s mighty hard,\u2019 said I, \u2018to want to shoot me, because I hadn\u2019t\nfourteen feather-beds in the house.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018They will be the laugh of the whole country, sir.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Troth!\u2019 said I, \u2018if the country is not in very low spirits, I think\nthey will.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018There\u2019s not a man of them can see!--their eyes are actually closed\nup!\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The Lord be praised!\u2019 said I. \u2018It\u2019s not likely they\u2019ll hit me.\u2019\n\n\u201cBut, to make a short story of it; out we went. Tom Burke was my\nfriend; I could scarce hold my pistol with laughing; for such faces no\nman ever looked at. But, for self-preservation sake, I thought it best\nto hit one of them; so I just pinked Ffrench a little under the skirt\nof the coat.\n\n\u201c\u2018Come, Lambert!\u2019 said the colonel, \u2018it\u2019s your turn now.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Wasn\u2019t that Lambert,\u2019 said I, \u2018that I hit?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018No,\u2019 said he, \u2018that was Ffrench.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Begad, I\u2019m sorry for it. Ffrench, my dear fellow, excuse me; for, you\nsee, you\u2019re all so like each other about the eyes this morning----\u2019\n\n\u201cWith this there was a roar of laughing from them all, in which, I\nassure you, Lambert took not a very prominent part; for somehow he\ndidn\u2019t fancy my polite inquiries after him; and so we all shook hands,\nand left the ground as good friends as ever, though to this hour the\nname of Newgate brings less pleasant recollections to their minds than\nif their fathers had been hanged at its prototype.\u201d\n\n _Charles Lever_ (1806\u20131872).\n\n\n\n\n _THE WIDOW MALONE._\n\n\n Did ye hear of the widow Malone,\n Ohone!\n Who lived in the town of Athlone,\n Alone?\n Oh! she melted the hearts\n Of the swains in them parts,\n So lovely the widow Malone,\n Ohone!\n So lovely the widow Malone.\n\n Of lovers she had a full score,\n Or more;\n And fortunes they all had galore,\n In store;\n From the minister down\n To the Clerk of the Crown,\n All were courting the widow Malone,\n Ohone!\n All were courting the widow Malone.\n\n But so modest was Mrs. Malone,\n \u2019Twas known\n No one ever could see her alone,\n Ohone!\n Let them ogle and sigh,\n They could ne\u2019er catch her eye,\n So bashful the widow Malone,\n Ohone!\n So bashful the widow Malone.\n\n Till one Mr. O\u2019Brien from Clare--\n How quare,\n It\u2019s little for blushing they care\n Down there--\n Put his arm round her waist,\n Gave ten kisses at laste--\n \u201cOh,\u201d says he, \u201cyou\u2019re my Molly Malone,\n My own;\u201d--\n \u201cOh,\u201d says he, \u201cyou\u2019re my Molly Malone!\u201d\n\n And the widow they all thought so shy,\n My eye!\n Ne\u2019er thought of a simper or sigh--\n For why?\n But \u201cLucius,\u201d says she,\n \u201cSince you\u2019ve now made so free,\n You may marry your Molly Malone,\n Ohone!\n You may marry your Molly Malone.\u201d\n\n There\u2019s a moral contained in my song,\n Not wrong;\n And, one comfort, it\u2019s not very long,\n But strong\n If for widows you die,\n Learn _to kiss_, not to sigh,\n For they\u2019re all like sweet Mistress Malone,\n Ohone!\n Oh! they\u2019re all like sweet Mistress Malone.\n\n _Charles Lever._\n\n\n\n\n _THE GIRLS OF THE WEST_\n\n\n You may talk, if you please,\n Of the brown Portuguese,\n But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam,\n You nothing will meet\n Half so lovely or sweet\n As the girls at home, the girls at home.\n\n Their eyes are not sloes,\n Nor so long is their nose,\n But, between me and you, between me and you,\n They are just as alarming,\n And ten times more charming,\n With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue.\n\n They don\u2019t ogle a man\n O\u2019er the top of their fan,\n Till his heart\u2019s in a flame, his heart\u2019s in a flame\n But though bashful and shy,\n They\u2019ve a look in their eye\n That just comes to the same, just comes to the same.\n\n No mantillas they sport,\n But a petticoat short\n Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best,\n And a leg--but, O murther!\n I dare not go further,\n So here\u2019s to the West; so here\u2019s to the West.\n\n _Charles Lever._\n\n\n\n\n _THE MAN FOR GALWAY._\n\n\n To drink a toast\n A proctor roast,\n Or bailiff, as the case is;\n To kiss your wife,\n Or take your life\n At ten or fifteen paces;\n To keep game-cocks, to hunt the fox,\n To drink in punch the Solway--\n With debts galore, but fun far more--\n Oh, that\u2019s \u201cthe man for Galway!\u201d\n\n The King of Oude\n Is mighty proud,\n And so were onst the Caysars;\n But ould Giles Eyre\n Would make them stare\n With a company of the Blazers.\n To the devil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,\n He\u2019s only a prince in a small way,\n And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall--\n Oh, he\u2019d never \u201cdo for Galway.\u201d\n\n Ye think the Blakes\n Are no great shakes--\n They\u2019re all his blood relations;\n And the Bodkins sneeze\n At the grim Chinese,\n For they come from the _Phenaycians_;\n So fill to the brim, and here\u2019s to him\n Who\u2019d drink in punch the Solway;\n With debts galore, but fun far more--\n Oh, that\u2019s \u201cthe man for Galway!\u201d\n\n _Charles Lever._\n\n\n\n\n _HOW CON CREGAN\u2019S FATHER LEFT\n HIMSELF A BIT OF LAND._\n\n\nI was born in a little cabin on the borders of Meath and King\u2019s County;\nit stood on a small triangular bit of ground, beside a cross-road;\nand although the place was surveyed every ten years or so, they were\nnever able to say to which county we belonged; there being just the\nsame number of arguments for one side as for the other--a circumstance,\nmany believed, that decided my father in his original choice of the\nresidence; for while, under the \u201cdisputed boundary question,\u201d he paid\nno rates or county cess, he always made a point of voting at both\ncounty elections. This may seem to indicate that my parent was of a\nnaturally acute habit; and, indeed, the way he became possessed of the\nbit of ground will confirm that impression.\n\nThere was nobody of the rank of gentry in the parish, not even\n\u201csquireen\u201d; the richest being a farmer, a snug old fellow, one\nHarry McCabe, that had two sons, who were always fighting between\nthemselves which was to have the old man\u2019s money. Peter, the elder,\ndoing everything to injure Mat, and Mat never backward in paying off\nthe obligation. At last Mat, tired out in the struggle, resolved he\nwould bear no more. He took leave of his father one night, and next\nday set off for Dublin, and listed in the \u201cBuffs.\u201d Three weeks after\nhe sailed for India; and the old man, overwhelmed by grief, took to\nhis bed, and never arose from it after. Not that his death was any\nway sudden, for he lingered on for months long; Peter always teasing\nhim to make his will, and be revenged on \u201cthe dirty spalpeen\u201d that\ndisgraced the family, but old Harry as stoutly resisting, and declaring\nthat whatever he owned should be fairly divided between them. These\ndisputes between them were well known in the neighbourhood. Few of the\ncountry people passing the house at night but had overheard the old\nman\u2019s weak, reedy voice, and Peter\u2019s deep hoarse one, in altercation.\nWhen, at last--it was on a Sunday night--all was still and quiet in the\nhouse; not a word, not a footstep could be heard, no more than if it\nwere uninhabited, the neighbours looked knowingly at each other, and\nwondered if the old man was worse--if he were dead!\n\nIt was a little after midnight that a knock came to the door of our\ncabin. I heard it first, for I used to sleep in a little snug basket\nnear the fire; but I didn\u2019t speak, for I was frightened. It was\nrepeated still louder, and then came a cry--\n\n\u201cCon Cregan! Con, I say! open the door! I want you.\u201d\n\nI knew the voice well, it was Peter McCabe\u2019s; but I pretended to be\nfast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door,\nand I heard him say--\n\n\u201cOh, Mr. Peter, what\u2019s the matter? is the ould man worse?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaix! that\u2019s what he is, for he\u2019s dead!\u201d\n\n\u201cGlory be his bed! when did it happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cAbout an hour ago,\u201d said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner\ncould perceive was greatly agitated. \u201cHe died like an ould haythen,\nCon, and never made a will!\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s bad,\u201d said my father; for he was always a polite man, and said\nwhatever was pleasing to the company.\n\n\u201cIt is bad,\u201d said Peter; \u201cbut it would be worse if we couldn\u2019t help it.\nListen to me now, Conny, I want ye to help me in this business; and\nhere\u2019s five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye\nwere always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye\nwere mistaken for each other every day of the week.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnan!\u201d said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion,\nwithout well knowing why.\n\n\u201cWell, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house and get into\nthe bed.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot beside the corpse?\u201d said my father, trembling.\n\n\u201cBy no means; but by yourself; and you\u2019re to pretend to be my father,\nand that ye want to make yer will before ye die; and then I\u2019ll send for\nthe neighbours, and Billy Scanlan the schoolmaster, and ye\u2019ll tell him\nwhat to write, laving all the farm and everything to me--ye understand.\nAnd as the neighbours will see ye and hear yer voice, it will never be\nbelieved but it was himself that did it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe room must be very dark,\u201d says my father.\n\n\u201cTo be sure it will, but have no fear! Nobody will dare to come nigh\nthe bed; and ye\u2019ll only have to make a cross with your pen under the\nname.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd the priest?\u201d said my father.\n\n\u201cMy father quarrelled with him last week about the Easter dues, and\nFather Tom said he\u2019d not give him the \u2018rites\u2019; and that\u2019s lucky now!\nCome along now, quick, for we\u2019ve no time to lose; it must be all\nfinished before the day breaks.\u201d\n\nMy father did not lose much time at his toilet, for he just wrapped\nhis big coat \u2019round him, and slipping on his brogues, left the house.\nI sat up in the basket and listened till they were gone some minutes;\nand then, in a costume light as my parent\u2019s, set out after them, to\nwatch the course of the adventure. I thought to take a short cut and\nbe before them; but by bad luck I fell into a bog-hole, and only\nescaped being drowned by a chance. As it was, when I reached the house\nthe performance had already begun. I think I see the whole scene this\ninstant before my eyes, as I sat on a little window with one pane, and\nthat a broken one, and surveyed the proceeding. It was a large room, at\none end of which was a bed, and beside it a table, with physic-bottles,\nand spoons, and tea-cups; a little farther off was another table, at\nwhich sat Billy Scanlan, with all manner of writing materials before\nhim. The country people sat two, sometimes three deep round the walls,\nall intently eager and anxious for the coming event. Peter himself\nwent from place to place, trying to smother his grief, and occasionally\nhelping the company to whisky--which was supplied with more than\naccustomed liberality. All my consciousness of the deceit and trickery\ncould not deprive the scene of a certain solemnity. The misty distance\nof the half-lighted room; the highly-wrought expression of the country\npeople\u2019s faces, never more intensely excited than at some moment of\nthis kind; the low, deep-drawn breathings, unbroken save by a sigh or a\nsob--the tribute of some affectionate sorrow to some lost friend, whose\nmemory was thus forcibly brought back; these, I repeat it, were all so\nreal that, as I looked, a thrilling sense of awe stole over me, and I\nactually shook with fear.\n\nA low, faint cough, from the dark corner where the bed stood, seemed to\ncause even a deeper stillness; and then in a silence where the buzzing\nof a fly would have been heard, my father said--\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Billy Scanlan? I want to make my will!\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s here, father!\u201d said Peter, taking Billy by the hand and leading\nhim to the bedside.\n\n\u201cWrite what I bid ye, Billy, and be quick, for I hav\u2019n\u2019t a long time\nbefore me here. I die a good Catholic, though Father O\u2019Rafferty won\u2019t\ngive me the \u2018rites\u2019!\u201d\n\nA general chorus of \u201cOh, musha, musha,\u201d was now heard through the\nroom; but whether in grief over the sad fate of the dying man, or the\nunflinching severity of the priest, is hard to say.\n\n\u201cI die in peace with all my neighbours and all mankind!\u201d\n\nAnother chorus of the company seemed to approve these charitable\nexpressions.\n\n\u201cI bequeath unto my son, Peter--and never was there a better son, or\na decenter boy!--have you that down? I bequeath unto my son, Peter,\nthe whole of my two farms of Killimundoonery and Knocksheboorn, with\nthe fallow meadows behind Lynch\u2019s house; the forge, and the right\nof turf on the Dooran bog. I give him, and much good may it do him,\nLanty Cassarn\u2019s acre, and the Luary field, with the limekiln--and that\nreminds me that my mouth is just as dry; let me taste what ye have in\nthe jug.\u201d\n\nHere the dying man took a very hearty pull, and seemed considerably\nrefreshed by it.\n\n\u201cWhere was I, Billy Scanlan?\u201d says he; \u201coh, I remember, at the\nlimekiln; I leave him--that\u2019s Peter, I mean--the two potato-gardens at\nNoonan\u2019s Well; and it is the elegant fine crops grows there.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019t you gettin\u2019 wake, father, darlin\u2019?\u201d says Peter, who began to be\nafraid of my father\u2019s loquaciousness; for, to say the truth, the punch\ngot into his head, and he was greatly disposed to talk.\n\n\u201cI am, Peter, my son,\u201d says he, \u201cI am getting wake; just touch my lips\nagain with the jug. Ah, Peter, Peter, you watered the drink!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, indeed, father, but it\u2019s the taste is leavin\u2019 you,\u201d says Peter;\nand again a low chorus of compassionate pity murmured through the cabin.\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019m nearly done now,\u201d says my father; \u201cthere\u2019s only one little\nplot of ground remaining, and I put it on you, Peter--as ye wish to\nlive a good man, and die with the same asy heart I do now--that ye\nmind my last words to ye here. Are ye listening? Are the neighbours\nlistening? Is Billy Scanlan listening?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir. Yes, father. We\u2019re all minding,\u201d chorused the audience.\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018YOU WATERED THE DRINK!\u2019 \u2018NO, INDEED, FATHER, BUT\n IT\u2019S THE TASTE IS LEAVIN\u2019 YOU,\u2019 SAYS PETER.\u201d]\n\n\u201cWell, then, it\u2019s my last will and testament, and may--give me over the\njug\u201d--here he took a long drink--\u201cand may that blessed liquor be poison\nto me if I\u2019m not as eager about this as every other part of my will; I\nsay, then, I bequeath the little plot at the cross-roads to poor Con\nCregan; for he has a heavy charge, and is as honest and as hard-working\na man as ever I knew. Be a friend to him, Peter dear; never let him\nwant while ye have it yerself; think of me on my death-bed whenever he\nasks ye for any trifle. Is it down, Billy Scanlan? the two acres at\nthe cross to Con Cregan and his heirs, in _secla seclorum_. Ah,\nblessed be the saints! but I feel my heart lighter after that,\u201d says\nhe; \u201ca good work makes an easy conscience; and now I\u2019ll drink all the\ncompany\u2019s good health, and many happy returns----\u201d\n\nWhat he was going to add there\u2019s no saying; but Peter, who was now\nterribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming,\nhurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in\npeace. When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was\nputting on his brogues in a corner.\n\n\u201cCon,\u201d says he, \u201cye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the\ntwo acres at the cross.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course it was,\u201d says he; \u201csure it was all a joke for the matter of\nthat; won\u2019t I make the neighbours laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell\nthem all about it!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou wouldn\u2019t be mean enough to betray me?\u201d says Peter, trembling with\nfright.\n\n\u201cSure ye wouldn\u2019t be mean enough to go against yer father\u2019s dying\nwords?\u201d says my father; \u201cthe last sentence ever he spoke;\u201d and here he\ngave a low, wicked laugh that made myself shake with fear.\n\n\u201cVery well, Con!\u201d says Peter, holding out his hand; \u201ca bargain\u2019s a\nbargain; yer a deep fellow, that\u2019s all!\u201d and so it ended; and my father\nslipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the\nlegacy he left himself. And thus we became the owners of the little\nspot known to this day as Con\u2019s Acre.\n\n _Charles Lever._\n\n\n\n\n _KATEY\u2019S LETTER._\n\n\n Och, girls dear, did you ever hear I wrote my love a letter?\n And although he cannot read, sure, I thought \u2019twas all the better,\n For why should he be puzzled with hard spelling in the matter,\n When the maning was so plain that I loved him faithfully?\n I love him faithfully--\n And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.\n\n I wrote it, and I folded it and put a seal upon it;\n \u2019Twas a seal almost as big as the crown of my best bonnet--\n For I would not have the postmaster make his remarks upon it,\n As I said inside the letter that I loved him faithfully.\n I love him faithfully--\n And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.\n\n My heart was full, but when I wrote I dare not put the half in;\n The neighbours know I love him, and they\u2019re mighty fond of\n chaffing,\n So I dared not write his name outside for fear they would be\n laughing,\n So I wrote \u201cFrom Little Kate to one whom she loves faithfully.\u201d\n I love him faithfully--\n And he knows it, oh, he knows it, without one word from me.\n\n Now, girls, would you believe it, that postman\u2019s so consated,\n No answer will he bring me, so long as I have waited--\n But maybe there may not be one, for the reason that I stated,\n That my love can neither read nor write, but he loves me\n faithfully,\n He loves me faithfully,\n And I know where\u2019er my love is that he is true to me.\n\n _Lady Dufferin_ (1807\u20131867).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cAS I SAID INSIDE THE LETTER THAT I LOVED HIM\n FAITHFULLY.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _DANCE LIGHT, FOR MY HEART IT LIES\n UNDER YOUR FEET._\n\n\n \u201cAh, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from that wheel--\n Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;\n Come trip down with me to the sycamore tree,\n Half the parish is there and the dance is beginning.\n The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon\n Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;\n While all the air rings with the soft loving things\n Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley!\u201d\n\n With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up the while,\n Her eyes in the glass, as she bound her hair, glancing;\n \u2019Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,--\n So she couldn\u2019t but choose to go off to the dancing.\n And now on the green the glad groups are seen,\n Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;\n And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil,--\n Somehow, when he asked, she ne\u2019er thought of refusing.\n\n Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,\n And with flourish so free sets each couple in motion;\n With a cheer and a bound the lads patter the ground,--\n The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.\n Cheeks bright as the rose, feet light as the doe\u2019s,\n Now coyly retiring, now boldly advancing,--\n Search the world all around, from the sky to the ground,\n No such sight can be found as an Irish lass dancing!\n\n Sweet Kate! who could view your bright eyes of deep blue,\n Beaming humidly through their dark lashes so mildly,--\n Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast, rounded form,--\n Nor feel his heart warm and his pulses throb wildly?\n Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,\n Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;\n The sight leaves his eye, as he cries, with a sigh,\n \u201c_Dance light, for my heart it lies under your feet, love!_\u201d\n\n _John Francis Waller, LL.D._ (1809\u20131894).\n\n\n\n\n _FATHER TOM\u2019S WAGER WITH THE POPE._\n\n\n\u201cI\u2019d hould you a pound,\u201d says the Pope, \u201cthat I\u2019ve a quadruped in my\npossession that\u2019s a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.\u201d\n\n\u201cDone,\u201d says his riv\u2019rence, and they staked the money. \u201cWhat can this\nlarned quadhruped o\u2019 yours do?\u201d says his riv\u2019rence.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s my mule,\u201d says the Pope; \u201cand if you were to offer her goolden\noats and clover off the meadows o\u2019 Paradise, sorra taste ov aither\nshe\u2019d let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or\nholiday in the year.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, and what \u2019ud you say if I showed you a baste ov mine,\u201d says his\nriv\u2019rence, \u201cthat, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only,\nfasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday\nin the week as reg\u2019lar as a Christian?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, be asy, Misther Maguire,\u201d says the Pope.\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t b\u2019lieve me, don\u2019t you?\u201d says his riv\u2019rence; \u201cvery well, I\u2019ll\nsoon show you whether or no,\u201d and he put his knuckles in his mouth,\nand gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The\naycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,\nwhen the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be\nsitting next the door, betuxt him and his riv\u2019rence, and may I never\ndie if he didn\u2019t clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018HERE, SPRING, MY MAN,\u2019 SAYS HE.\u201d]\n\n\u201cGod\u2019s presence be about us!\u201d says the Pope, thinking it was an evil\nspirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he hed tould in regard\nov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted in\ngrazing the brute\u2019s teeth); but seeing it was only one ov the greatest\nbeauties ov a greyhound that he\u2019d ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he\nsoon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom\nris and went to the sideboard, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice\nov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on\na plate thegither. \u201cHere, Spring, my man,\u201d says he, setting the plate\ndown afore him on the hearthstone, \u201chere\u2019s your supper for you this\nblessed Friday night.\u201d Not a word more he said nor what I tell you;\nand, you may believe it or not, but it\u2019s the blessed truth that the\ndog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted\nhis nose out ov the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his\ntail wagging, looking up in his riv\u2019rence\u2019s face, as much as to say,\n\u201cGive me your absolution, till I hide them temptations out ov my sight.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a dog that knows his duty,\u201d says his riv\u2019rence; \u201cthere\u2019s a\nbaste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlour or the\nfield. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you\nseen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you\u2019d say the\nhill was running away from undher him. Oh, I wisht you had been wid\nme,\u201d says he, never letting on to see the dog at all, \u201cone day last\nLent, that I was coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile\nbehind me, for the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at\nthe chapel door; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations\nov Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev the whilloo, and\nknowing that she\u2019d take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch,\nand up through Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping\nher in view, but afore I hed gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away\nthe two went like the wind, up Drumrewy, and down Clooneen, and over\nthe river, widout his being able onst to turn her. Well, I run on\ntill I came to the Diffagher, and through it I went, for the wather\nwas low, and I didn\u2019t mind being wet shod, and out on the other side,\nwhere I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a coorse as I\u2019ll be bound to\nsay was never seen afore or since. If Spring turned that hare onst\nthat day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back and for\u2019ard,\nthroughout and about. At last he run her right into the big quarry-hole\nin Mullaghbawn, and when I went up to look for her fud, there I found\nhim sthretched on his side, not able to stir a fut, and the hare lying\nabout an inch afore his nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark\nov a tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn\u2019t that thrue?\u201d says he.\n\nJist at that minit the clock sthruck twelve, and afore you could say\n_thrap-sticks_, Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. \u201cNow,\u201d\nsays his riv\u2019rence, \u201chand me over my pound, for I\u2019ve won my bet fairly.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll excuse me,\u201d says the Pope, pocketing the money, \u201cfor we put the\nclock half-an-hour back, out ov compliment to your riv\u2019rence,\u201d says he,\n\u201cand it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s no matter,\u201d says his riv\u2019rence, \u201conly,\u201d says he, \u201cit\u2019s\nhardly fair to expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the\nscience ov chronology.\u201d\n\n _Sir Samuel Ferguson_ (1810\u20131886).\n\n\n\n\n _THE OULD IRISH JIG._\n\n\n My blessing be on you, old Erin,\n My own land of frolic and fun;\n For all sorts of mirth and diversion,\n Your like is not under the sun.\n Bohemia may boast of her polka,\n And Spain of her waltzes talk big;\n Sure, they are all nothing but limping,\n Compared with our ould Irish jig.\n\n Then a fig for your new-fashioned waltzes,\n Imported from Spain and from France;\n And a fig for the thing called the polka--\n Our own Irish jig we will dance.\n\n I\u2019ve heard how our jig came in fashion--\n And believe that the story is true--\n By Adam and Eve \u2019twas invented,\n The reason was, partners were few.\n And, though they could both dance the polka,\n Eve thought it was not over-chaste;\n She preferred our ould jig to be dancing--\n And, faith, I approve of her taste.\n\n Then a fig, etc.\n\n The light-hearted daughters of Erin,\n Like the wild mountain deer they can bound,\n Their feet never touch the green island,\n But music is struck from the ground.\n And oft in the glens and green meadows,\n The ould jig they dance with such grace,\n That even the daisies they tread on,\n Look up with delight in their face.\n\n Then a fig, etc.\n\n An ould Irish jig, too, was danced by\n The kings and the great men of yore;\n King O\u2019Toole could himself neatly foot it\n To a tune they call \u201cRory O\u2019More.\u201d\n And oft in the great hall of Tara,\n Our famous King Brian Boru,\n Danced an ould Irish jig with his nobles,\n And played his own harp to them, too.\n\n Then a fig, etc.\n\n And sure, when Herodias\u2019 daughter\n Was dancing in King Herod\u2019s sight,\n His heart that for years had been frozen,\n Was thawed with pure love and delight;\n And more than a hundred times over,\n I\u2019ve heard Father Flanagan tell,\n \u2019Twas our own Irish jig that she footed,\n That pleased the ould villain so well.\n\n Then a fig, etc.\n\n _James M\u2019Kowen_ (1814\u20131889).\n\n\n\n\n _MOLLY MULDOON._\n\n\n Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,\n And as fine a one\n As you\u2019d look upon\n In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.\n Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,\n And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;\n Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,\n But owned that a power o\u2019 beauty was there.\n Now many a hearty and rattling _gorsoon_,\n Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,\n Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,\n But for _that_ in her eye\n Which made most of them shy\n And look quite ashamed, though they couldn\u2019t tell why--\n Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,\n And heart and mind seemed in them blended.\n If _intellect_ sent you one look severe,\n _Love_ instantly leapt in the next to mend it.\n Hers was the eye to check the rude,\n And hers the eye to stir emotion,\n To keep the sense and soul subdued,\n And calm desire into devotion.\n\n There was Jemmy O\u2019Hare,\n As fine a boy as you\u2019d see in a fair,\n And wherever Molly was he was there.\n His face was round and his build was square,\n And he sported as rare\n And tight a pair\n Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.\n And Jemmy would wear\n His _caubeen_[17] and hair\n With such a peculiar and rollicking air,\n That I\u2019d venture to swear\n Not a girl in Kildare,\n Nor Victoria\u2019s self, if she chanced to be there,\n Could resist his wild way--called \u201cDevil may care.\u201d\n Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,\n Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run\n With Jemmy--no _gorsoon_ could equal him--none,\n At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,\n At throwing the sledge with such dext\u2019rous sleight,--\n He was the envy of men, and the women\u2019s delight.\n\n Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O\u2019Hare,\n And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.\n I believe in my conscience a purtier pair\n Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,--\n To a bagpipe or fiddle\n On the rough cabin-door\n That is placed in the middle--\n Ye may talk as ye will,\n There\u2019s a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there\n With which people of quality couldn\u2019t compare.\n And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two\n That could keep up the longest and go the best through\n All the jigs and the reels\n That have occupied heels\n Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.\n\n It was on a long bright sunny day\n They sat on a green knoll side by side,\n But neither just then had much to say;\n Their hearts were so full that they only tried\n To do anything foolish, just to hide\n What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.\n They plucked the speckled daisies that grew\n Close by their arms,--then tore them too;\n And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk\n They threw at each other for want of talk;\n While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,\n Reflected pure souls without art or guile;\n And every time Molly sighed or smiled,\n Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;\n And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,\n The grass so green, the daisies so white;\n Everything looked so gay in his sight\n That gladly he\u2019d linger to watch them till night--\n And Molly herself thought each little bird,\n Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,--\n Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.\n\n An Irish courtship\u2019s short and sweet,\n It\u2019s sometimes foolish and indiscreet;\n But who is wise when his young heart\u2019s heat\n Whips the pulse to a galloping beat--\n Ties up his judgment neck and feet,\n And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?\n Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,\n Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;\n They look not by art, and they love not by rule,\n For their souls are not tempered in fashion\u2019s cold school.\n Oh! give me the love that endures no control\n But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,\n As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,\n Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.\n Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,\n By rank unallured and by riches unbought;\n Whose very simplicity keeps it secure--\n The love that illumines the hearts of the poor.\n\n All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,\n As one week before Lent\n Jem procured her consent\n To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.\n Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,\n And it dawned as bright as they\u2019d wish to see.\n And Jemmy was up at the day\u2019s first peep,\n For the livelong night no wink could he sleep.\n A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,\n He took from a chest and carefully put on--\n And brogues as well lamp-blacked as ever went foot on,\n Were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_!\n Then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn\u2019t be seen\n Treading the Emerald Isle so green--\n Light was his step, and bright was his eye,\n As he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of Athy.\n And each girl he passed bid \u201cGod bless him\u201d and sighed,\n While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.\n\n Hush! here\u2019s the Priest--let not the least\n Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.\n \u201cCome, bridegroom and bride,\n That the knot may be tied\n Which no power on earth can hereafter divide.\u201d\n Up rose the bride and the bridegroom too,\n And a passage was made for them both to walk through;\n And his Riv\u2019rence stood with a sanctified face,\n Which spread its infection around the place.\n The bridegroom blushed and whispered the bride,\n Who felt so confused that she almost cried,\n But at last bore up and walked forward, where\n The Father was standing with solemn air;\n The bridegroom was following after with pride,\n _When his piercing eye something awful espied!_\n He stopped and sighed,\n Looked round and tried\n To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:\n With a spring and a roar\n He jumped to the door,\n AND THE BRIDE LAID HER EYES ON THE BRIDEGROOM NO MORE!\n\n Some years sped on,\n Yet heard no one\n Of Jemmy O\u2019Hare, or where he had gone.\n But since the night of that widow\u2019d feast,\n The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;\n Till, at length, from earth\u2019s sorrow her soul released,\n Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.\n And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,\n Just five years after the widow\u2019d feast,\n An American letter was brought to the priest,\n Telling of Jemmy O\u2019Hare deceased!\n Who, ere his death,\n With his latest breath,\n To a spiritual father unburdened his breast,\n And the cause of his sudden departure confest.--\n \u201cOh, Father,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019ve not long to live,\n So I\u2019ll freely confess, and hope you\u2019ll forgive--\n That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;\n Ay, as well as the Creed\n That was never forsaken by one of my breed;\n But I couldn\u2019t have married her, after I saw--\u201d\n \u201cSaw what?\u201d cried the Father, desirous to hear--\n And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking--\n \u201cNot in her _kar\u00e0cter_, yer Riv\u2019rince, a flaw\u201d--\n The sick man here dropped a significant tear,\n And died as he whispered in the clergyman\u2019s ear--\n \u201cBut I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!\u201d\n\n\n THE MORAL.\n\n Lady readers, love may be\n Fixed in hearts immovably,\n May be strong and may be pure;\n Faith may lean on faith secure,\n Knowing adverse fate\u2019s endeavour\n Makes that faith more firm than ever;\n But the purest love and strongest,\n Love that has endured the longest,\n Braving cross, and blight, and trial,\n Fortune\u2019s bar or pride\u2019s denial,\n Would--no matter what its trust--\n Be uprooted by disgust:--\n Yes, the love that might for years\n Spring in suffering, grow in tears,\n Parents\u2019 frigid counsel mocking,\n Might be--where\u2019s the use of talking?--\n Upset by a BROKEN STOCKING!\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cWITH A SPRING AND A ROAR HE JUMPED TO THE DOOR.\u201d]\n\n [Illustration: \u201cTHE GANDHER ID BE AT HIS HEELS, AN\u2019 RUBBIN\u2019\n HIMSELF AGIN HIS LEGS.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE QUARE GANDER._\n\n\nTerence Mooney was an honest boy and well-to-do, an\u2019 he rinted the\nbiggest farm on this side iv the Galties, an\u2019 bein\u2019 mighty cute an\u2019\na sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every\nharvest; but unluckily he was blessed with an iligant large family iv\ndaughters, an\u2019 iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, strivin\u2019 to make\nup fortunes for the whole of them--an\u2019 there wasn\u2019t a conthrivance iv\nany soart or discription for makin\u2019 money out iv the farm but he was up\nto. Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin\u2019 up in the world, he\nalways kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poultry; an\u2019 he was\nout iv all raison partial to geese--an\u2019 small blame to him for that\nsame--for twiste a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand--an\u2019 get\na fine price for the feathers, and plenty of rale sizable eggs--an\u2019\nwhen they are too ould to lay any more, you can kill them, an\u2019 sell\nthem to the gintlemen for gozlings, d\u2019ye see,--let alone that a goose\nis the most manly bird that is out. Well, it happened in the coorse\niv time, that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful likin\u2019 to Terence,\nan\u2019 divil a place he could go serenadin\u2019 about the farm, or lookin\u2019\nafther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an\u2019 rubbin\u2019\nhimself agin his legs, and lookin\u2019 up in his face just like any other\nChristian id do; and the likes iv it was never seen,--Terence Mooney\nan\u2019 the gandher wor so great. An\u2019 at last the bird was so engagin\u2019 that\nTerence would not allow it to be plucked any more; an\u2019 kept it from\nthat time out, for love an\u2019 affection--just all as one like one iv\nhis childhren. But happiness in perfection never lasts long; an\u2019 the\nneighbours bigin\u2019d to suspect the nathur and intentions iv the gandher;\nan\u2019 some iv them said it was the divil, and more iv them that it was a\nfairy. Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin\u2019,\nand you may be sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an\u2019\nfrom one day to another he was gettin\u2019 more ancomfortable in himself,\nuntil he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in\nGarryowen, an\u2019 it\u2019s he was the iligant hand at the business, and divil\na sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An\u2019 moreover\nhe was very great wid ould Terence Mooney, this man\u2019s father that was.\nSo without more about it, he was sint for; an\u2019 sure enough the divil a\nlong he was about it, for he kem back that very evenin\u2019 along wid the\nboy that was sint for him; an\u2019 as soon as he was there, an\u2019 tuck his\nsupper, an\u2019 was done talkin\u2019 for a while, he bigined of coorse to look\ninto the gandher. Well, he turned it this away an\u2019 that away, to the\nright, and to the left, an\u2019 straight-ways an\u2019 upside down, an\u2019 when he\nwas tired handlin\u2019 it, says he to Terence Mooney--\n\n\u201cTerence,\u201d says he, \u201cyou must remove the bird into the next room,\u201d says\nhe, \u201can\u2019 put a pettycoat,\u201d says he, \u201cor any other convaynience round\nhis head,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 why so?\u201d says Terence.\n\n\u201cBecase,\u201d says Jer, says he.\n\n\u201cBecase what?\u201d says Terence.\n\n\u201cBecase,\u201d says Jer, \u201cif it isn\u2019t done--you\u2019ll never be asy agin,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cor pusilanimous in your mind,\u201d says he; \u201cso ax no more questions,\nbut do my biddin\u2019,\u2019 says he.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says Terence, \u201chave your own way,\u201d says he.\n\nAn\u2019 wid that he tuck the ould gandher, and giv\u2019 it to one iv the\ngossoons.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 take care,\u201d says he, \u201cdon\u2019t smother the crathur,\u201d says he.\n\nWell, as soon as the bird was gone, says Jer Garvan, says he, \u201cDo you\nknow what that ould gandher _is_, Terence Mooney?\u201d\n\n\u201cDivil a taste,\u201d says Terence.\n\n\u201cWell then,\u201d says Jer, \u201cthe gandher is your own father,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s jokin\u2019 you are,\u201d says Terence, turnin\u2019 mighty pale; \u201chow can an\nould gandher be my father?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not funnin\u2019 you at all,\u201d says Jer; \u201cit\u2019s thrue what I tell\nyou--it\u2019s your father\u2019s wandhrin\u2019 sowl,\u201d says he, \u201cthat\u2019s naturally\ntuck pissession iv the ould gandher\u2019s body,\u201d says he; \u201cI know him many\nways, and I wondher,\u201d says he, \u201cyou do not know the cock iv his eye\nyourself,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cOh, blur an\u2019 ages!\u201d says Terence, \u201cwhat the divil will I ever do at\nall at all,\u201d says he; \u201cit\u2019s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve\ntimes at the laste,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cThat can\u2019t be helped now,\u201d says Jer; \u201cit was a sevare act surely,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cbut it\u2019s too late to lamint for it now,\u201d says he; \u201cthe only\nway to prevint what\u2019s past,\u201d says he, \u201cis to put a stop to it before it\nhappens,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cThrue for you,\u201d says Terence; \u201cbut how the divil did you come to the\nknowledge iv my father\u2019s sowl,\u201d says he, \u201cbein\u2019 in the ould gandher?\u201d\nsays he.\n\n\u201cIf I tould you,\u201d says Jer, \u201cyou would not undherstand me,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cwithout book-larnin\u2019 an\u2019 gasthronomy,\u201d says he; \u201cso ax me no\nquestions,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ll tell you no lies; but b\u2019lieve me in this\nmuch,\u201d says he, \u201cit\u2019s your father that\u2019s in it,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 if I\ndon\u2019t make him spake to-morrow mornin\u2019,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019ll give you lave\nto call me a fool,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cSay no more,\u201d says Terence, \u201cthat settles the business,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019\noh! blur an\u2019 ages, is it not a quare thing,\u201d says he, \u201cfor a dacent,\nrespictable man,\u201d says he, \u201cto be walkin\u2019 about the counthry in the\nshape iv an ould gandher,\u201d says he; \u201cand oh, murdher, murdher! isn\u2019t\nit often I plucked him,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019 tundher an\u2019 ouns, might not I\nhave ate him,\u201d says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration,\nsavin\u2019 your prisince, an\u2019 was on the pint iv faintin\u2019 wid the bare\nnotions iv it.\n\nWell, whin he was come to himself agin, says Jerry to him quiet an\u2019\nasy--\u201cTerence,\u201d says he, \u201cdon\u2019t be aggravatin\u2019 yourself,\u201d says he,\n\u201cfor I have a plan composed that \u2019ill make him spake out,\u201d says he,\n\u201can\u2019 tell what it is in the world he\u2019s wantin\u2019,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019 mind\nan\u2019 don\u2019t be comin\u2019 in wid your gosther an\u2019 to say agin anything I\ntell you,\u201d says he, \u201cbut jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought\nback,\u201d says he, \u201chow that we\u2019re goin\u2019 to sind him to-morrow mornin\u2019 to\nmarket,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019 if he don\u2019t spake tonight,\u201d says he, \u201cor gother\nhimself out iv the place,\u201d says he, \u201cput him into the hamper airly, and\nsind him in the cart,\u201d says he, \u201cstraight to Tipperary, to be sould\nfor aiting,\u201d says he, \u201calong wid the two gossoons,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019 my\nname isn\u2019t Jer Garvan,\u201d says he, \u201cif he doesn\u2019t spake out before he\u2019s\nhalf-way,\u201d says he; \u201can\u2019 mind,\u201d says he, \u201cas soon as ever he says\nthe first word,\u201d says he, \u201cthat very minute bring him off to Father\nCrotty,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 if his raverince doesn\u2019t make him ratire,\u201d says\nhe, \u201clike the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,\u201d says he,\n\u201cinto the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory, there\u2019s no vartue in\nmy charums,\u201d says he.\n\nWell, wid that the ould gandher was let into the room agin, an\u2019 they\nall bigined to talk iv sindin\u2019 him the nixt mornin\u2019 to be sould for\nroastin\u2019 in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled;\nbut not a notice the gandher tuck, no more nor if they wor spaking\niv the Lord Liftinant; an\u2019 Terence desired the boys to get ready the\nkish for the poulthry, \u201can\u2019 to settle it out wid hay soft and shnug,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cfor it\u2019s the last jauntin\u2019 the poor ould gandher \u2019ill get\nin this world,\u201d says he. Well, as the night was getting late, Terence\nwas growin\u2019 mighty sorrowful an\u2019 downhearted in himself entirely wid\nthe notions iv what was goin\u2019 to happen. An\u2019 as soon as the wife an\u2019\nthe crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some iligant potteen,\nan\u2019 himself an\u2019 Jer Garvan sot down to it, an\u2019 the more anasy Terence\ngot, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a quart\nbetune them: it wasn\u2019t an imparial though, an\u2019 more\u2019s the pity, for\nthem wasn\u2019t anvinted antil short since; but divil a much matther it\nsignifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what\nit does, sinst Father Mathew--the Lord purloin his raverince--bigin\u2019d\nto give the pledge, an\u2019 wid the blessin\u2019 iv timperance to deginerate\nIreland. An\u2019 begorra, I have the medle myself; an\u2019 its proud I am iv\nthat same, for abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it\u2019s mighty\ndhry. Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well\nstop, \u201cfor enough is as good as a faste,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 I pity the\nvagabond,\u201d says he, \u201cthat is not able to conthroul his licquor,\u201d says\nhe, \u201can\u2019 to keep constantly inside iv a pint measure,\u201d says he, an\u2019 wid\nthat he wished Jer Garvan a good night, an\u2019 walked out iv the room.\nBut he wint out the wrong door, being a thrifle hearty in himself, an\u2019\nnot rightly knowin\u2019 whether he was standin\u2019 on his head or his heels,\nor both iv them at the same time, an\u2019 in place iv gettin\u2019 into bed,\nwhere did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys\nhad settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin\u2019; an\u2019 sure enough\nhe sunk down soft an\u2019 complate through the hay to the bottom; an\u2019 wid\nthe turnin\u2019 an\u2019 roulin\u2019 about in the night, not a bit iv him but was\ncovered up as shnug as a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin\u2019. So\nwid the first light, up gets the two boys that war to take the sperit,\nas they consaved, to Tipperary; an\u2019 they cotched the ould gandher, an\u2019\nput him in the hamper and clapped a good wisp iv hay on the top iv him,\nand tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med the sign iv the\ncrass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an\u2019 put the hamper up on the\ncar, wontherin\u2019 all the while what in the world was makin\u2019 the ould\nbird so surprisin\u2019 heavy. Well, they wint along quiet an\u2019 asy towards\nTipperary, wishin\u2019 every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the\nsame way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn\u2019t half like the\nnotions iv havin\u2019 no company but the bewitched gandher, an\u2019 small blame\nto them for that same. But, although they wor shakin\u2019 in their shkins\nin dhread iv the ould bird biginin\u2019 to convarse them every minute, they\ndid not let on to one another, but kep singin\u2019 and whistlin\u2019, like mad,\nto keep the dhread out iv their hearts. Well, afther they wor on the\nroad betther nor half-an-hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father\nCrotty\u2019s, an\u2019 there was one divil iv a rut three feet deep at the\nlaste; an\u2019 the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin\u2019 through it, that\nit wakened Terence within the basket.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d says he, \u201cmy bones is bruck wid yer thricks, what the divil are\nye doin\u2019 wid me?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid ye hear anything quare, Thady?\u201d says the boy that was next to the\ncar, turnin\u2019 as white as the top iv a musharoon; \u201cdid ye hear anything\nquare soundin\u2019 out iv the hamper?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cNo, nor you,\u201d says Thady, turnin\u2019 as pale as himself; \u201cit\u2019s the ould\ngandher that\u2019s gruntin\u2019 wid the shakin\u2019 he\u2019s gettin\u2019,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cWhere the divil have ye put me into?\u201d says Terence inside; \u201clet me\nout, or I\u2019ll be smothered this minute,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no use in purtendin\u2019,\u201d says the boy; \u201cthe gandher\u2019s spakin\u2019,\nglory be to God!\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cLet me out, you murdherers,\u201d says Terence.\n\n\u201cIn the name iv all the holy saints,\u201d says Thady, \u201chould yer tongue,\nyou unnatheral gandher,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s that, that dar\u2019 to call me nicknames?\u201d says Terence inside,\nroaring wid the fair passion; \u201clet me out, you blasphamious infiddles,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cor by this crass I\u2019ll stretch ye,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cIn the name iv heaven,\u201d says Thady, \u201cwho the divil are ye?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho the divil would I be but Terence Mooney,\u201d says he. \u201cIt\u2019s myself\nthat\u2019s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,\u201d says he; \u201clet me out, or by\nthe holy I\u2019ll get out in spite iv yez,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 be jabers I\u2019ll\nwallop yez in arnest,\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s ould Terence, sure enough,\u201d says Thady; \u201cisn\u2019t it cute the fairy\ndocthor found him out?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m on the pint iv snuffication,\u201d says Terence; \u201clet me out I tell\nyou, an\u2019 wait till I get at ye,\u201d says he, \u201cfor begorra, the divil a\nbone in your body but I\u2019ll powdher,\u201d says he; an\u2019 wid that he bigined\nkickin\u2019 and flingin\u2019 inside in the hamper, and dhrivin\u2019 his legs agin\nthe sides iv it, that it was a wondher he did not knock it to pieces.\nWell, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a\ngallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest\u2019s house, through the\nruts, an\u2019 over the stones; an\u2019 you\u2019d see the hamper fairly flyin\u2019 three\nfeet up in the air with the joultin\u2019, glory be to God; so it was small\nwondher, by the time they got to his raverince\u2019s door, the breath was\nfairly knocked out iv poor Terence; so that he was lyin\u2019 speechless in\nthe bottom iv the hamper. Well, whin his raverince kem down, they up\nan\u2019 they tould him all that happened, an\u2019 how they put the gandher into\nthe hamper, an\u2019 how he bigined to spake, an\u2019 how he confissed that he\nwas ould Terence Mooney; and they axed his honour to advise them how\nto get rid iv the sperit for good an\u2019 all. So says his raverince, says\nhe--\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take my book,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ll read some rale sthrong holy\nbits out iv it,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 do you get a rope and put it round the\nhamper,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 let it swing over the runnin\u2019 wather at the\nbridge,\u201d says he, \u201can\u2019 it\u2019s no matther if I don\u2019t make the sperit come\nout iv it,\u201d says he.\n\nWell, wid that, the priest got his horse, an\u2019 tuck his book in undher\nhis arum, an\u2019 the boys follied his raverince, ladin\u2019 the horse down to\nthe bridge, an\u2019 divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it\nwas no use spakin\u2019, an\u2019 he was afeard if he med any noise they might\nthrait him to another gallop an\u2019 finish him intirely. Well, as soon as\nthey war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with\nthem, an\u2019 med it fast to the top iv the hamper an\u2019 swung it fairly over\nthe bridge; lettin\u2019 it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the\nwather; an\u2019 his raverince rode down to the bank iv the river, close\nby, an\u2019 bigined to read mighty loud and bould intirely. An\u2019 when he\nwas goin\u2019 on about five minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper\nkem out, an\u2019 down wint Terence, falling splash dash into the water,\nan\u2019 the ould gandher a-top iv him; down they both went to the bottom\nwid a souse you\u2019d hear half-a-mile off; an\u2019 before they had time to\nrise agin, his raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse\none dig iv the spurs, an\u2019 before he knew where he was, in he went,\nhorse and all, a-top iv them, an\u2019 down to the bottom. Up they all kem\nagin together, gaspin\u2019 an\u2019 puffin\u2019, an\u2019 off down wid the current wid\nthem, like shot in undher the arch iv the bridge, till they kem to the\nshallow wather. The ould gandher was the first out, an\u2019 the priest and\nTerence kem next, pantin\u2019 an\u2019 blowin\u2019 an\u2019 more than half dhrounded;\nan\u2019 his raverince was so freckened wid the dhroundin\u2019 he got, and wid\nthe sight iv the sperit as he consaved, that he wasn\u2019t the better iv\nit for a month. An\u2019 as soon as Terence could spake, he said he\u2019d have\nthe life iv the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his\nwill; an\u2019 as soon as he was got quiter they all endayvoured to explain\nit, but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, an\u2019 his\nwife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion ov having the\ndhrop taken. An\u2019 his raverince said it was a mysthery, an\u2019 swore if he\ncotched any one laughin\u2019 at the accident, he\u2019d lay the horsewhip across\ntheir shouldhers; an\u2019 Terence grew fonder an\u2019 fonder iv the gandher\nevery day, until at last he died in a wondherful ould age, lavin\u2019 the\ngandher afther him an\u2019 a large family iv childher.\n\n _Joseph Sheridan Lefanu_ (1814\u20131873).\n\n\n\n\n _TABLE-TALK._\n\n\nIf the age of women were known by their teeth, they would not be so\nfond of showing them.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhat is an Irishman but a mere machine for converting potatoes into\nhuman nature?\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe smiles of a pretty woman are glimpses of Paradise.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMilitary men never blush; it is not in the articles of war.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWe look with pleasure even on our shadows.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt is particularly inconvenient to have a long nose--especially if you\nare in company with Irishmen after dinner.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWeak-minded men are obstinate; those of a robust intellect are firm.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBear-baiting has gone down very much of late. The best exhibitions of\nthat manly and rational amusement take place nightly in the House of\nCommons.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhen you are invited to a drinking-party you do not treat your host\nwell if you do not eat at least six salt herrings before you sit down\nto his table. I have never known this to fail in ensuring a pleasant\nevening.\n\n * * * * *\n\nButchers and doctors are with great propriety excluded from being\njurymen.\n\n * * * * *\n\nFew men have the moral courage _not_ to fight a duel.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt is a saying of the excellent Tom Brown, \u201cNo poet ever went to a\nchurch when he had money to go to a tavern.\u201d This may be looked on as\nan indisputable axiom; there is no truer proposition in Euclid. Indeed,\nthe very name of poet is derived from _potare_--to drink; and it\nis not by mere accident that the same word signifies _Bacchus_ and\na _book_.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe most ferocious monsters in existence are authors who insist on\nreading their MSS to their friends and visitors.\n\n * * * * *\n\nA friend of mine, one of the wittiest and most learned men of the day,\nonce recommended a Frenchman, who expressed an anxiety to possess the\nautographs of literary men, to cash their bills. \u201cAnd, believe me,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cif you do, you will get the handwriting of the best of the\ntribe.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nTailors call Adam and Eve the first founders of their noble art; they\nhave them depicted on their banners and escutcheons. But they would be\nnearer the truth if they called the devil the first master-tailor; as\nonly for him a coat and breeches would be unnecessary and useless. This\nwould be giving the devil his due.\n\n * * * * *\n\nA very acute man used to say, \u201cTell me your second reason; I do not\nwant your first. The second is the true motive of your actions.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nYouth and old age seem to be mutual spies on each other--blind, each,\nto its own imperfections, but extremely quick-sighted to those of its\nopposite.\n\n * * * * *\n\nHINTS TO MEN OF BUSINESS.--Whenever you are in a hurry engage\na drunken cabman; he will drive you at double the speed of a sober one.\nAlso, be sure not to engage a cabman who owns the horse he drives; he\nwill spare his quadruped, and carry you at a funeral pace. Both these\nmaxims are as good as any in Rochefoucault.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMan is a twofold creature; one half he exhibits to the world, and the\nother to himself.\n\n _Edward V. H. Kenealy, LL.D._ (1819\u20131880).\n\n\n\n\n _ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET._\n\n\n Snooks, my friend, I see with sorrow\n How you waste much precious time--\n Notwithstanding all you borrow--\n In concocting wretched rhyme.\n\n Do not think that I fling any\n Innuendoes at your head,\n When I state the fact that many\n Mines of Wicklow teem with lead.\n\n Snooks, my friend, you are a ninny\n (Class, mammalia-genus, muff),\n If you hope to make a guinea\n By such caterwauling stuff.\n\n Lives of poets all remind us\n We may write \u201cdemnition\u201d fine,\n Leaving still unsolved behind us\n The problem, \u201cHow are bards to dine?\u201d\n\n Problem which perhaps some others,\n As through life they dodge about,\n Seeing, shall suppose our mothers\n Did not know that we were out.\n\n Hang the bard, and cut the punster,\n Fling all rhyming to the deuce,\n Take a business tour through Munster,\n Shoot a landlord--be of use.\n\n _Richard Dalton Williams_ (1822\u20131862).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cSAINT KEVIN TOOK THE GANDER FROM THE ARMS OF THE\n KING.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _SAINT KEVIN AND KING O\u2019TOOLE._\n\n\n As Saint Kevin once was travelling through a place called\n Glendalough,\n He chanced to meet with King O\u2019Toole, and asked him for a\n _shough_;[18]\n Said the king, \u201cYou are a stranger, for your face I\u2019ve never seen,\n But if you have a taste o\u2019 weed, I\u2019ll lend you my _dhudeen_.\u201d[19]\n\n While the saint was kindling up the pipe the monarch fetched a\n sigh;\n \u201cIs there anything the matter,\u201d says the saint, \u201cthat makes you\n cry?\u201d\n Said the king, \u201cI had a gander, that was left me by my mother,\n And this morning he cocked up his toes with some disease or other.\u201d\n\n \u201cAnd are you crying for the gander, you unfortunate ould goose?\n Dhry up your tears, in frettin\u2019, sure, there\u2019s ne\u2019er a bit o\u2019 use;\n As you think so much about the bird, if I make him whole and sound,\n Will you give to me the taste o\u2019 land the gander will fly round?\u201d\n\n \u201cIn troth I will, and welcome,\u201d said the king, \u201cgive what you ask;\u201d\n The saint bid him bring out the bird, and he\u2019d begin the task;\n The king went into the palace to fetch him out the bird,\n Though he\u2019d not the least intention of sticking to his word.\n\n Saint Kevin took the gander from the arms of the king,\n He first began to tweak his beak, and then to pull his wing,\n He _hooshed_ him up into the air--he flew thirty miles around;\n Said the saint, \u201cI\u2019ll thank your majesty for that little bit o\u2019\n ground.\u201d\n\n The king, to raise a ruction next, he called the saint a witch,\n And sent in for his six big sons, to heave him in the ditch;\n \u201c_Nabocklish_,\u201d said Saint Kevin, \u201cI\u2019ll soon settle these young\n urchins,\u201d\n So he turned the king and his six sons into the seven churches.\n\n _Thomas Shalvey_ (_fl._ 1850).\n\n\n\n\n _THE SHAUGHRAUN._\n\n\n _Scene_--EXTERIOR OF FATHER DOLAN\u2019S COTTAGE.\n\n _Enter_ MOYA.\n\n_Moya._ There! now I\u2019ve spancelled the cow and fed the pig, my\nuncle will be ready for his tay. Not a sign of Conn for the past three\nnights. What\u2019s come to him?\n\n _Enter_ MRS. O\u2019KELLY.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ Is that yourself, Moya? I\u2019ve come to see if that\nvagabond of mine has been round this way.\n\n_Moya._ Why would he be here--hasn\u2019t he a home of his own?\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ The shebeen is his home when he\u2019s not in gaol. His\nfather died o\u2019 drink, and Conn will go the same way.\n\n_Moya._ I thought your husband was drowned at sea?\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ And, bless him, so he was.\n\n_Moya_ (_aside_). Well, that\u2019s a quare way of dying o\u2019 drink.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ The best of men he was, when he was sober--a betther\nnever dhrawed the breath o\u2019 life.\n\n_Moya._ But you say he never was sober.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ Nivir! An\u2019 Conn takes afther him!\n\n_Moya._ Mother.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ Well?\n\n_Moya._ I\u2019m afeard I\u2019ll take afther Conn.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ Heaven forbid, and purtect you agin him. You are a\ngood, dacent girl, an\u2019 desarve the best of husbands.\n\n_Moya._ Them\u2019s the only ones that gets the worst. More betoken\nyourself, Mrs. O\u2019Kelly.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ Conn nivir did an honest day\u2019s work in his life--but\ndhrinkin\u2019, an\u2019 fishin\u2019, an\u2019 shootin\u2019, and sportin\u2019, and love-makin\u2019.\n\n_Moya._ Sure, that\u2019s how the quality pass their lives.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ That\u2019s it. A poor man that spoorts the sowl of a\ngentleman is called a blackguard.\n\n _Enter_ CONN.\n\n_Conn._ There\u2019s somebody talking about me.\n\n_Moya_ (_running to him_). Conn!\n\n_Conn._ My darlin\u2019, was the mother makin\u2019 little of me? Don\u2019t\nbelieve a word that comes out o\u2019 her! She\u2019s jealous--a devil a haporth\nless. She\u2019s choking wid it this very minute, just bekase she sees my\narms about ye. She\u2019s as proud of me as an ould hen that\u2019s got a duck\nfor a chicken. Hould your whist now! Wipe your mouth, an\u2019 give me a\nkiss!\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ (_embracing him_). Oh, Conn, what have you been\nafther? The polis were in my cabin to-day about ye. They say you stole\nSquire Foley\u2019s horse.\n\n_Conn._ Stole his horse! Sure the baste is safe and sound in his\npaddock this minute.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ But he says you stole it for the day to go huntin\u2019.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cJUST THEN WE TOOK A STONE WALL AND A DOUBLE DITCH\n TOGETHER.\u201d]\n\n_Conn._ Well, here\u2019s a purty thing, for a horse to run away with\na man\u2019s characther like this! Oh, wurra! may I never die in sin, but\nthis was the way of it. I was standing by ould Foley\u2019s gate, when I\nheard the cry of the hounds comin\u2019 across the tail end of the bog, and\nthere they wor, my dear, spread out like the tail of a paycock, an\u2019 the\nfinest dog fox you\u2019d ever seen sailing ahead of them up the boreen, and\nright across the churchyard. It was enough to raise the inhabitants.\nWell, as I looked, who should come up and put his head over the gate\nbeside me but the Squire\u2019s brown mare, small blame to her. Divil a\nthing I said to her, nor she to me, for the hounds had lost their\nscent, we knew by their yelp and whine as they hunted among the\ngrave-stones, when, whish! the fox went by us. I leapt on the gate,\nan\u2019 gave a shriek of a view holloo to the whip; in a minute the pack\ncaught the scent again, an\u2019 the whole field came roarin\u2019 past. The mare\nlost her head, an\u2019 tore at the gate. \u201cStop,\u201d ses I, \u201cye divil!\u201d and I\nslipped the taste of a rope over her head an\u2019 into her mouth. Now mind\nthe cunnin\u2019 of the baste, she was quiet in a minute. \u201cCome home now,\u201d\nses I, \u201casy!\u201d and I threw my leg across her. Be jabers! no sooner was\nI on her bare back than whoo! holy rocket! she was over the gate, an\u2019\ntearin\u2019 like mad afther the hounds. \u201cYoicks!\u201d ses I; \u201ccome back, you\nthief of the world, where are you takin\u2019 me to?\u201d as she went through\nthe huntin\u2019 field an\u2019 laid me beside the masther of the hounds, Squire\nFoley himself. He turned the colour of his leather breeches. \u201cMother of\nMoses!\u201d ses he, \u201cis that Conn the Shaughraun on my brown mare?\u201d \u201cBad\nluck to me!\u201d ses I, \u201cit\u2019s no one else!\u201d \u201cYou sthole my horse,\u201d ses the\nSquire. \u201cThat\u2019s a lie!\u201d ses I, \u201cfor it was your horse sthole me!\u201d\n\n_Moya._ An\u2019 what did he say to that?\n\n_Conn._ I couldn\u2019t sthop to hear, for just then we took a stone\nwall and a double ditch together, and he stopped behind to keep an\nengagement he had in the ditch.\n\n_Mrs. O\u2019K._ You\u2019ll get a month in gaol for this.\n\n_Conn._ Well, it was worth it.\n\n _Dion Boucicault_ (1822\u20131890).\n\n\n\n\n _RACKRENTERS ON THE STUMP._\n\n A REMARKABLE DEMONSTRATION.\n\n\nThe first public meeting held under the auspices of the newly-formed\nIrish landlord organisation was held on Thursday last, in a field\nclose by the charming residence of W. L. Cromwellian Freebooter, Esq.,\nJ.P., and is considered by all who took part in it to have been a\ngreat success. The Government gave the heartiest co-operation to the\nproject; they undertook to supply the audience; they sent an engineer\nfrom the Royal Barracks, Dublin, to select a strategic site for the\nmeeting, and to superintend the erection of the platform; and they\noffered any amount of artillery that might be considered requisite to\ngive an imposing appearance to the assembly, and to inspire a feeling\nof confidence in the breasts of those who were to take part in it.\nAll the police stations within a radius of thirty miles were ordered\nto send in contingents to form the body of the meeting, and a number\nof military pensioners were also directed to proceed to the spot and\nexert themselves in cheering the speakers. When the meeting was fully\nconstituted it was calculated that there could hardly have been less\nthan two hundred and fifty persons on the grounds.\n\nAt about one o\u2019clock P.M. the carriages containing the noble\nlords and gentlemen who were to occupy the platform began to arrive at\nFreebooter Hall, where they set down the ladies of the party, who were\nto figure in the grand ball which was to be held there that evening. At\n1.30 the noblemen and gentlemen proceeded to the scene of the meeting,\nand took their places on the platform, amidst the plaudits of the\nconstabulary, which were again renewed in obedience to signals given\nby the sub-inspectors. The view from the platform, which was situated\non a rising ground, was particularly fine. Some years ago a number of\npeasant homes and three considerable villages existed on the property;\nbut Mr. Freebooter, being of opinion that they spoiled the prospect\nand tended to favour overpopulation in the country, had the people all\nevicted and their houses levelled to the ground. The wisdom and the\ngood taste he had shown in this matter were highly praised by their\nlordships as they made their way up the carpeted steps leading to the\nplatform, and took their seats on the chairs and sofas which had been\nplaced there for their accommodation. The meeting having presented\narms, it was moved by the Hon. Frederick Augustus Mightyswell, and\nseconded by George Famous Grabber, Esq., that the most noble the\nMarquis of Squanderall do take the chair.\n\nThe noble marquis said--My lords and gentlemen, I may say I thank\nyou for having called me--that is, for the honour you have done me\nin having called me to have the honour of presiding over this, I may\nsay, important meeting. (Cheers.) I have come over from London--I may\nsay across the Channel--to have the honour of attending this meeting,\nbecause we all know these tenant fellows have been allowed to have\nthis sort of thing too long to themselves. (Hear, hear, and cheers.)\nThere have been, I may say, hundreds of these meetings, at which the\nfellows say they want to get their rents reduced, that their crops\nwere short, that they must keep their families from starving, and\nall that sort of rot. How can we help it if their crops were short?\n(Hear, hear.) How can we help it if they have families to support?\n(Cheers.) The idiots talk about our rents being three or four times\nmore than Griffith\u2019s valuation; if that be so, I may say, more shame\nfor the fellow Griffith, whoever he was. (Groans for Griffith.) Are\nwe to be robbed because Griffith was an ass? (Cheers.) My lords and\ngentlemen, I shall not detain you longer--(cries of \u201cGo on\u201d from\nseveral sub-inspectors)--but will call upon, I may say, my eloquent\nfriend, Lord Deliverus, who will propose the first resolution. (Loud\nand long-continued cheering from the constabulary.)\n\n [Illustration: \u201cMY ELOQUENT FRIEND, LORD DELIVERUS.\u201d]\n\nLord Deliverus--My dear Squanderall, my good friends, and other\npersons, you know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing, but I have\nbeen asked to propose the following resolution:--\n\n\u201cThat we regret to notice that the unbounded prosperity which is being\nenjoyed by the small farmers and the labouring classes of Ireland\nis having a very bad effect on them, leading them into all sorts of\nextravagance, and producing among them an insolent and rebellious\nspirit, and that in the interest of morality and public safety we\nconsider it absolutely necessary that the rents of the country shall be\nincreased by about 100 per cent.\u201d\n\nNow, my friends, this is a resolution which must waken a sympathetic\necho in the bosom of every rightly-constituted gentleman of property.\nDo we not all know, have we not all seen, the lamentable changes\nthat have taken place in this country? Twenty years ago not half the\npopulation indulged in the luxury of shoes and stockings, and the\nlabouring classes never thought of wearing waistcoats; now, most of\nthem take care to provide themselves with these things. Where do they\nget the money to buy them but out of our rents? (True, true.) Twenty\nyears ago they were satisfied if they could get a few potatoes to live\nupon each day, and a very good, wholesome, simple food they were for\nsuch people. (Hear, hear.) But latterly some bad instructors have got\namongst them, and now the blackguards will not be contented unless they\nhave rashers two or three times a week. (Oh, oh.) Where do they get the\nmoney for these rashers? (Voices--\u201cOut of our rents.\u201d) Yes, my friends,\nout of our rents. They rob us to supply themselves with delicacies of\nthis kind. Eight or ten years ago we could bring up the fellows to\nvote for us; now they do as they like. (Groans.) And now the fellows\nsay we must give them a reduction of their rents! (A voice--\u201cGive them\nan ounce of lead.\u201d) The rascals say they won\u2019t starve. (Oh, oh, and\ngroans.) They say they will feed themselves first, and then consider\nif they have anything to spare for us. (Shrieks and groans on the\nplatform--Colonel Hardup faints.) They say the life of any one among\nthem is just as precious as the life of any one of us. (Expressions of\nhorror on all sides--Lord Tomnoddy looks unutterably disgusted, changes\ncolour, puts his hand on his stomach, and retires hastily to the back\nof the platform.) My friends, I need not tell you that the Government\nis bound to put them down at any cost. (Tremendous cheering.) Just\nthink what would result from any considerable reduction of our incomes;\nwhy, most of us might have to remain in this wretched country, for\nwe would be ashamed to return in reduced circumstances to London and\nParis; we should have fewer horses, fewer yachts, fewer servants, less\nchampagne, less Italian opera, no _rouge et noir_--think, my\nfriends, of the number of charming establishments from London to Vienna\nthat would feel the shock. (Sobs and moans on the platform.) Would life\nbe worth living under such circumstances? (No, no.) No, my lords and\ngentlemen, it would not; and therefore we are entitled to call upon the\nGovernment to interfere promptly and with a strong hand to stop the\nspread of those subversive theories that are now being taught to the\nlower classes in this country. (Great applause.)\n\nA. D. Shoneen, Esq., J.P., came forward to second the resolution.\nHe said--My lords and gentlemen, I feel that I need not add a word,\neven if I were able to do so, to the beautiful, the eloquent, the\nargumentative, the thrilling oration you have just heard from the\nestimable Lord Deliverus. I will not attempt to describe that\nmagnificent performance in the language it deserves, for the task\nwould far transcend my humble capacity. But I do think that this\ncountry should feel grateful--every country should feel grateful--the\nhuman race should feel grateful--to his lordship for the invaluable\ncontribution he has made to the sum of our political philosophy in\nthat address. I own I am moved almost to tears when I consider that\nthe people whose conduct has excited such righteous indignation in\nthe breast of his lordship, and so affected the epigastric region of\nthat most amiable young nobleman, Viscount Tomnoddy--are my countrymen.\nI blush to make the confession, I am so overcome by my feelings that\nI am unable to do more than briefly second the resolution, which has\nbeen proposed to you in words that deserve to live for ever, and\nthat mankind will not willingly let die. (The resolution was passed\nunanimously.)\n\nMajor Bearhead came forward to propose the next resolution, which was\nin the following terms:--\u201cThat, from the unlawful, rebellious, and\nrevolutionary spirit which is now abroad, we deem it essential that a\nsuspension of the Habeas Corpus Act shall at once be effected, that\nmartial law shall be proclaimed in all disturbed districts, that all\nland agitators shall be at once arrested, and all tenant-right books,\npamphlets, and newspapers shall be confiscated and suppressed.\u201d\n\nThe gallant Major said--My lords and gentlemen, ahem! you may talk\nof resolutions, but this is the resolution that is wanted. Ahem! by\nthe soul of Julius C\u00e6sar, it is only such spirited measures that will\never settle this confounded Irish trouble. Ahem! the fellows want\nreductions--by the boots of the immortal Wellington, I would reduce\nthem with grape and canister; that\u2019s the reduction I would give them!\nThunder and lightning--ahem! thunder and lightning! to think that\nthese agitating fellows have been going about the country these twelve\nmonths, and not one of them shot, sabred, or hanged yet! Two or three\nfellows were put under a sort of sham arrest, and I am told they are\nto be tried; trial be damned, I say. Ahem! a drum-head court-martial\nis the sort of trial for them. No fear they would ever trouble the\ncountry afterwards. Let the Horse-Guards only send me word, \u201cBearhead,\nyou settle with these people,\u201d and see how soon I\u2019d do it. (Cheers.)\nBy all the bombshells in Britain, I\u2019d have the country as quiet as a\nchurchyard in two months. That is enough for me to say--ahem! (Great\ncheering.)\n\nThe Hon. Charles Edward Algernon Featherhead, in seconding the\nresolution, said--My lords, ladies, and gentlemen--oh, I really forgot\nthat the ladies are not present, which I take to be a dooced pity,\nfor, as the poet says, \u201cTheir smiles would make a summer\u201d--oh, yes,\nI have it--\u201cwhere darkness else would be.\u201d (Applause.) I can\u2019t say I\nknow much about these blooming agricultural matters, for on my word\nof honour I always looked on them as a low, vulgar sort of thing, and\nall my set of fellows do just the same; but my old governor wished me\nto come here and take part in the proceedings, and I have a little\nreason for wishing to humour him just now. But, as I was saying, I\ndon\u2019t see how any sort of fun can go on if we are not to get money from\nthese farming fellows. It may be very true that oats were not worth\ndigging this season, and that potatoes were very short in the straw\nand very light in the ear; but then, on the other hand, was there not\na plentiful supply of cucumbers? (Cheers.) We hear a great deal about\nAmerican importations, but it seems to me that\u2019s the jolliest part\nof the whole thing, because surely the farming fellows can\u2019t want to\neat the American food and the Irish food both together. Let them eat\nthe Yankee stuff, and then sell the Irish and give us the money, and\nthere\u2019s the whole thing settled handsomely. It\u2019s their confounded\nstupidity that prevents them seeing this plain and simple way of\nsatisfying themselves and us. For, as the poet says, \u201cIs there a heart\nthat never loved?\u201d--no, that\u2019s not it--\u201cWhen the wine-cup is circling\nbefore us\u201d--no, I forget what the poet said, but no matter: I beg to\nsay that I highly approve of the toast which has just been proposed.\n(The resolution was carried unanimously.)\n\nSir Nathaniel H. Castlehack wished to offer a few remarks before the\nclose of the meeting. It appeared to him that the tone of some of the\nspeakers had not shown quite as much confidence in the Government as\nin his opinion they deserved. I do not think (said the speaker) that\nthe arrests which have been referred to were at all intended to be a\nflash in the pan, for I have reason to know that at this moment the\njury panels are being carefully looked after by the authorities--(good,\ngood)--and I think I may say to the gallant major who has just preceded\nme, and whose zeal for the public cause we all must recognise and\nadmire, that if he will only exercise to some extent the virtue of\npatience, and allow things to take their regular course, he will\nprobably ere long have the opportunity which he desires for again\ndistinguishing himself and rendering the State some service.... Don\u2019t\nbe afraid, my friends; rely with confidence on the Government; they\nwill give to this unreasonable and turbulent people everything but what\nthey want.\n\nA scene of immense enthusiasm followed these remarks. The gentlemen\non the platform embraced each other; the band of the 33rd Dragoons\nstruck up \u201cGod save the Queen,\u201d and the constabulary fired a _feu\nde joie_. The meeting was then put through some evolutions, which\nthey performed in brilliant style, after which they broke into sections\nand marched off to their different stations. Their lordships and the\ngentry then proceeded to their carriages, and drove off to Freebooter\nHall. They expressed themselves highly pleased with the results of the\ndemonstration, and stated that similar meetings would soon be held in\nvarious parts of the country.\n\n _T. D. Sullivan_ (1827).\n\n\n\n\n _LANIGAN\u2019S BALL._\n\n\n In the town of Athy one Jeremy Lanigan\n Battered away till he hadn\u2019t a pound,\n His father he died and made him a man again,\n Left him a house and ten acres of ground!\n He gave a grand party to friends and relations\n Who wouldn\u2019t forget him if he went to the wall;\n And if you\u2019ll just listen, I\u2019ll make your eyes glisten\n With the rows and the ructions of Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n Myself, to be sure, got free invitations\n For all the nice boys and girls I\u2019d ask,\n And in less than a minute the friends and relations\n Were dancing as merry as bees round a cask.\n Miss Kitty O\u2019Hara, the nice little milliner,\n Tipped me the wink for to give her a call,\n And soon I arrived with Timothy Glenniher\n Just in time for Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n There was lashins of punch and wine for the ladies,\n Potatoes and cakes and bacon and tay,\n The Nolans, the Dolans, and all the O\u2019Gradys\n Were courting the girls and dancing away.\n Songs they sung as plenty as water,\n From \u201cThe Harp that once through Tara\u2019s ould Hall,\u201d\n To \u201cSweet Nelly Gray\u201d and \u201cThe Ratcatcher\u2019s Daughter,\u201d\n All singing together at Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n They were starting all sorts of nonsensical dances,\n Turning around in a nate whirligig;\n But Julia and I soon scatthered their fancies,\n And tipped them the twist of a rale Irish jig.\n Och mavrone! \u2019twas then she got glad o\u2019 me:\n We danced till we thought the old ceilin\u2019 would fall,\n (For I spent a whole fortnight in Doolan\u2019s Academy\n Learning a step for Lanigan\u2019s ball).\n\n The boys were all merry, the girls were all hearty,\n Dancin\u2019 around in couples and groups,\n When an accident happened--young Terence McCarthy\n He dhruv his right foot through Miss Halloran\u2019s hoops.\n The creature she fainted, and cried \u201c_Millia murther!_\u201d\n She called for her friends and gathered them all;\n Ned Carmody swore he\u2019d not stir a step further,\n But have satisfaction at Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n In the midst of the row Miss Kerrigan fainted--\n Her cheeks all the while were as red as the rose--\n And some of the ladies declared she was painted,\n She took a small drop too much, I suppose.\n Her lover, Ned Morgan, so pow\u2019rful and able,\n When he saw his dear colleen stretched out by the wall,\n He tore the left leg from under the table,\n And smashed all the china at Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n Oh, boys, but then was the ructions--\n Myself got a lick from big Phelim McHugh,\n But I soon replied to his kind introductions,\n And kicked up a terrible hullabaloo.\n Old Casey the piper was near being strangled,\n They squeezed up his pipes, his bellows, and all;\n The girls in their ribbons they all got entangled,\n And that put an end to Lanigan\u2019s ball.\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n\n\n\n _THE WIDOW\u2019S LAMENT._\n\n\n Ochone, _acushla mavourneen_! ah, why thus did ye die?\n (I won\u2019t keep ye waitin\u2019 a minit: just wait till I wipe my eye);\n And is it gone ye are, darlint,--the kindest, the fondest, the\n best?\n (Don\u2019t forget the half-crown for the clerk--ye\u2019ll find it below\n in the chest).\n\n And to leave me alone in the world--O _whirra, ochone, ochone_!\n (Is that Misther Moore in the car?--I thought I was goin\u2019 alone);\n Why am I alive this minit? why don\u2019t I die on the floore?\n (I\u2019ll take your hand up the step, an\u2019 thank ye, Misther Moore!)\n\n An\u2019 are ye gone at last from your weepin\u2019, desolate wife?\n (Not a dhrop, Misther Moore, I thank ye--well, the laste little\n dhrop in life!)\n \u2019Twas ye had the generous heart, an\u2019 \u2019twas ye had the noble mind,\n (Good mornin\u2019, Mrs. O\u2019Flanagan! Is Tim in the car behind?)\n\n Oh, that I lived till this minit, such bitther sorrow to taste,\n (I\u2019m not goin\u2019 to fall, Misther Moore! take your arm from around\n my waist).\n \u2019Twas the like of you there wasn\u2019t in Ballaghaslatthery town,\n (There\u2019s Mary Mullaly, the hussy, an\u2019 she wearin\u2019 her laylock\n gown!)\n\n I\u2019ll throw meself into the river; I\u2019ll never come back no more;\n (\u2019Twon\u2019t be takin\u2019 ye out of the way to lave me at home, Misther\n Moore?)\n It\u2019s me should have gone that could bear it, now that I\u2019m young and\n sthrong,\n (He was sixty-nine come Christmas: I wondhered he lasted so\n long!)\n\n Oh, what\u2019s the world at all when him that I love isn\u2019t in it?\n (If \u2019twas any one else but yourself, I\u2019d lave the car this\n minit!)\n There\u2019s nothin\u2019 but sorrow foreninst me, wheresoever I roam,\n (Musha, why d\u2019ye talk like that--can\u2019t ye wait till we\u2019re goin\u2019\n home?)\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI\u2019M NOT GOIN\u2019 TO FALL, MISTHER MOORE! TAKE YOUR\n ARM FROM AROUND MY WAIST.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _WHISKY AND WATHER._\n\n\n It\u2019s all mighty fine what Taytotallers say,\n \u201cThat ye\u2019re not to go dhrinking of sperits,\n But to keep to pump wather, and gruel, and tay\u201d--\n Faith, ye\u2019d soon have a face like a ferret\u2019s.\n I don\u2019t care one sthraw what such swaddlers may think,\n (Ye\u2019ll find them in every quarther),\n The wholesomest liquor in life you can dhrink,\n I\u2019ll be bail, now, is _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n Don\u2019t go dhrinking of Brandy, or Hollands, or Shrub,\n Or Gin--thim\u2019s all docthored, dipind an it--\n Or ye\u2019ll soon have a nose that ye niver can rub,\n For the blossoms ye\u2019ll grow at the ind iv it;\n But the \u201craal potheen\u201d it\u2019s a babby may take\n Before its long clothes are cut shorther;\n In as much as would swim ye there\u2019s divil an ache,\n Av it\u2019s not mixed with _too much_ could wather.\n\n Do ye like thim small dhrinks? Dhrink away by all manes--\n I wonst thried Ginger Beer to my sorrow--\n Ye\u2019ll be tuck jist as I was, wid all sorts of pains,\n And ye\u2019ll see what ye\u2019re like on the morrow.\n Ye\u2019ll find ye can\u2019t ate--no, nor walk--for the wind;\n Ye\u2019ll have cheeks jist the colour of morthar;\n Av ye call in the docthor he\u2019ll jist recommind\n A hot tumbler of _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n Av the colic you get, or the cramp in your legs,\n Don\u2019t go scalding yerself wid hot bottles:\n (Tho\u2019 thim\u2019s betther, they tell me, than hot flannel bags),\n And take no docthor\u2019s stuff down your throttles;\n But just tell the misthress to hate the tin pot--\n (Maybe one for tay ye\u2019ll have bought her)--\n And keep dosing yerself off and an, hot and hot,\n Till ye\u2019re aisy--wid _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n Av ye go to a fair, as it maybe ye might,\n And ye meet with some thrilling disasther,\n Such as having the head iv ye broken outright,\n Av coorse ye\u2019ll be wanting a plasther.\n Don\u2019t sind for a surgeon, thim\u2019s niver no use--\n Sure their thrade is to cut and to quarther--\n They\u2019d be dealing wid you, as you\u2019d dale wid a goose:\n Thry a poultice iv _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n Av ye can\u2019t sleep at night, an ye rowl in yer bed\n (And that\u2019s mighty disthressin\u2019--no doubt iv it),\n Till ye don\u2019t know the front from the back iv yer head,\n The best thing ye can do is--rowl out iv it.\n Av ye\u2019ve let out the fire, and can\u2019t get a light,\n Feel yer way to the crock, till ye\u2019ve caught her\n (In the dark it\u2019s ye are, so remimber, hould tight),\n Take a pull--an\u2019 thin dhrink some could wather.\n\n Av ye meet wid misfortune, beyant your controwl,\n Av disease gets a hould iv the praties,\n Or the slip iv a pig gets the masles, poor sowl;\n No matther how sarious yer case is--\n Don\u2019t go walking about wid yer hands crossed behind,\n And a face like a cow\u2019s--only shorther,--\n Sure the best way to keep up yer sperits, ye\u2019ll find\n Is to keep to hot _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n It\u2019s in more ways than thim ye\u2019ll find whisky yer frind,\n Sure it\u2019s not only jist while ye dhrink it--\n It has vartues on which ye can always depind--\n And perhaps, too, when laste ye would think it.\n One fine summer\u2019s day, it was coorting I wint,\n To make love to Dame Flanagan\u2019s daughter--\n And I won her--and got the old woman\u2019s consint:\n Sure I did it wid _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n In the Liffey I tumbled, one could winther\u2019s day,\n And, bedad, it was coulder than plisint,\n Out they fished me, and stretched me full length on the quay,\n But the divil a docthor was prisint,\n When a blessed ould woman of eighty came by\n (There\u2019s no doubt expariance had taught her),\n And--in jist a pig\u2019s whisper--I tell ye no lie--\n Fetched me to, wid hot _Whisky and Wather_.\n\n It\u2019s the loveliest liquor ye iver can take,\n And no matther how often ye take it;\n The great thing is never to mix it too wake:\n And see now--it\u2019s this way ye make it:\n Take three lumps of sugar--it\u2019s jist how ye feel--\n About whisky, not less than one quarther;\n No limon--the laste taste in life of the peel,\n And be sure you put screeching hot wather.\n\n It\u2019ll make ye, all over, as warm as a toast,\n And yer heart jist as light as a feather;\n Sure it\u2019s mate, dhrink, and washing, and lodging almost,\n And the great-coat itself, in could weather.\n Oh! long life to the man that invinted potheen--\n Sure the Pope ought to make him a marthyr--\n If myself was this moment Victoria, our queen,\n I\u2019d dhrink nothing but _Whisky and Wather_!\n\n _Anonymous._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cIT\u2019LL MAKE YE, ALL OVER, AS WARM AS TOAST, AND\n YER HEART JIST AS LIGHT AS A FEATHER.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE THRUSH AND THE BLACKBIRD._\n\n\nA stranger meeting Sally Cavanagh as she tripped along the mountain\nroad would consider her a contented and happy young matron, and might\nbe inclined to set her down as a proud one; for Sally Cavanagh held\nher head rather high, and occasionally elevated it still higher with\na toss which had something decidedly haughty about it. She turned up\na short boreen for the purpose of calling upon the gruff blacksmith\u2019s\nwife, who had been very useful to her for some time before. The smith\u2019s\nhabits were so irregular that his wife was often obliged to visit the\npawn office in the next town, and poor Sally Cavanagh availed herself\nof Nancy Ryan\u2019s experience in pledging almost everything pledgeable she\npossessed. The new cloak, of which even a rich farmer\u2019s wife might feel\nproud, was the last thing left. It was a present from Connor, and was\nonly worn on rare occasions, and to part with it was a sore trial.\n\n [Illustration: \u201cNANCY FLEW AT HER LIKE A WILD CAT.\u201d]\n\nLoud screams and cries for help made Sally Cavanagh start. She stopped\nfor a moment, and then ran forward and rushed breathless into the\nsmith\u2019s house. The first sight that met her eyes was our friend Shawn\nGow choking his wife. A heavy three-legged stool came down with such\nforce upon the part of Shawn Gow\u2019s person which happened to be most\nelevated as he bent over the prostrate woman, that, uttering an\nexclamation between a grunt and a growl, he bounded into the air, and\nstriking his shins against a chair, tumbled head over heels into the\ncorner. When Shawn found that he was more frightened than hurt, and\nsaw Sally with the three-legged stool in her hand, a sense of the\nludicrous overcame him, and turning his face to the wall, he relieved\nhis feelings by giving way to a fit of laughter. It was of the silent,\ninward sort, however, and neither his wife nor Sally Cavanagh had any\nnotion of the pleasant mood he was in. The bright idea of pretending to\nbe \u201ckilt\u201d occurred to the overthrown son of Vulcan, and with a fearful\ngroan he stretched out his huge limbs and remained motionless on the\nbroad of his back. Sally\u2019s sympathy for the ill-used woman prevented\nher from giving a thought to her husband. Great was her astonishment\nthen when Nancy flew at her like a wild cat. \u201cYou kilt my husband,\u201d\nshe screamed. Sally retreated backwards, defending herself as best she\ncould with the stool. \u201cFor God\u2019s sake, Nancy, be quiet. Wouldn\u2019t he\nhave destroyed you on\u2019y for me?\u201d But Nancy followed up the attack like\na fury. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing the matter with him,\u201d Sally cried out, on\nfinding herself literally driven to the wall. \u201cWhat harm could a little\ntouch of a stool on the back do the big brute?\u201d\n\nNancy\u2019s feelings appeared to rush suddenly into another channel, for\nshe turned round quickly, and kneeling down by her husband, lifted up\nhis head. \u201cOch! Shawn, _avourneen machree_,\u201d[20] she exclaimed,\n\u201cwon\u2019t you spake to me?\u201d Shawn condescended to open his eyes. \u201cSally,\u201d\nshe continued, \u201che\u2019s comin\u2019 to--glory be to God! Hurry over and hould\nup his head while I\u2019m runnin\u2019 for somethin\u2019 to rewive him. Or stay,\nbring me the boulster.\u201d\n\nThe bolster was brought, and Nancy placed it under the patient\u2019s head;\nthen snatching her shawl from the peg where it hung, she disappeared.\nShe was back again in five minutes, without the shawl, but with a half\npint of whisky in a bottle.\n\n\u201cTake a taste av this, Shawn, an\u2019 \u2019twill warm your heart.\u201d\n\nShawn Gow sat up and took the bottle in his hand.\n\n\u201cNancy,\u201d says he, \u201cI believe afther all you\u2019re fond o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWisha, Shawn, _achora_,[21] what else \u2019d I be but fond av you?\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought, Nancy, you couldn\u2019t care for a divil that thrated you so\nbad.\u201d\n\n\u201cOch, Shawn, Shawn, don\u2019t talk that way to me. Sure I thought my heart\nwas broke when I see you sthretched there \u2019idout a stir in you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 you left your shawl in pledge agin to get this for me?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I did; an\u2019 a good right I had; an\u2019 sorry I\u2019d be to see you\nin want of a dhrop of nourishment.\u201d\n\n\u201cI was a baste, Nancy. But if I was, this is what made a baste av me.\u201d\n\nAnd Shawn Gow fixed his eyes upon the bottle with a look in which\nhatred and fascination were strangely blended. He turned quickly to his\nwife.\n\n\u201cWill you give in it was a blackbird?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cA blackbird,\u201d she repeated, irresolutely.\n\n\u201cYes, a blackbird. Will you give in it was a blackbird?\u201d\n\nShawn Gow was evidently relapsing into his savage mood.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said his wife, after some hesitation, \u201c\u2019twas a blackbird. Will\nthat plase you?\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 you\u2019ll never say \u2019twas a thrish agin?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever. An\u2019 sure on\u2019y for the speckles on the breast, I\u2019d never\nsay \u2019twas a thrish; but sure you ought to know betther than\nme--an\u2019--an\u2019--\u2019twas a blackbird,\u201d she exclaimed, with a desperate\neffort.\n\nShawn Gow swung the bottle round his head and flung it with all his\nstrength against the hob. The whole fireplace was for a moment one\nblaze of light.\n\n\u201cThe Divil was in id,\u201d says the smith, smiling grimly; \u201can\u2019 there he\u2019s\noff in a flash of fire. I\u2019m done wid him, any way.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I wish you a happy Christmas, Nancy,\u201d said Sally.\n\n\u201cI wish you the same, Sally, an\u2019 a great many av \u2019em. I suppose you\u2019re\ngoin\u2019 to first Mass? Shawn and me\u2019ll wait for second.\u201d\n\nSally took her leave of this remarkable couple, and proceeded on her\nway to the village. She met Tim Croak and his wife, Betty, who were\nalso going to Mass. After the usual interchange of greetings, Betty\nsurveyed Sally from head to foot with a look of delighted wonder.\n\n\u201cLook at her, Tim,\u201d she exclaimed, \u201can\u2019 isn\u2019t she as young an\u2019 as\nhearty as ever? Bad \u2019cess to me but you\u2019re the same Sally that danced\nwid the master at my weddin\u2019, next Thursday fortnight \u2019ll be eleven\nyears.\u201d\n\n\u201cBegob, you\u2019re a great woman,\u201d says Tim.\n\nSally Cavanagh changed the subject by describing the scene she had\nwitnessed at the blacksmith\u2019s.\n\n\u201cBut, Tim,\u201d said she, after finishing the story, \u201chow did the dispute\nabout the blackbird come first? I heard something about it, but I\nforget it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you that, then,\u201d said Tim. \u201cBegob, ay,\u201d he exclaimed\nabruptly, after thinking for a moment; \u201ctwas this day seven years, for\nall the world--the year o\u2019 the hard frost. Shawn Gow set a crib in his\nhaggart the evenin\u2019 afore, and when he went out in the mornin\u2019 he had a\nhen blackbird. He put the _goulogue_[22] on her nick, and tuck her\nin his hand; an\u2019 wud one _smulluck_ av his finger knocked the life\nout av her; he walked in an\u2019 threw the blackbird on the table.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, Shawn,\u2019 siz Nancy, \u2018you\u2019re afther ketchin\u2019 a fine thrish.\u2019 Nancy\ntuck the bird in her hand an\u2019 began rubbin\u2019 the feathers on her breast.\n\u2018A fine thrish,\u2019 siz Nancy.\n\n\u201c\u2018\u2019Tisn\u2019t a thrish, but a blackbird,\u2019 siz Shawn.\n\n\u201c\u2018Wisha, in throth, Shawn,\u2019 siz Nancy, \u2018\u2019tis a thrish; do you want to\ntake the sight o\u2019 my eyes from me?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I tell you \u2019tis a blackbird,\u2019 siz he.\n\n\u201c\u2018Indeed, then, it isn\u2019t, but a thrish,\u2019 siz she.\n\n\u201cAnyway one word borrowed another, an\u2019 the end av it was, Shawn flailed\nat her an\u2019 gev her the father av a batin\u2019.\n\n\u201cThe Christmas Day afther, Nancy opened the door an\u2019 looked out.\n\n\u201c\u2018God be wud this day twelve months,\u2019 siz she, \u2018do you remimber the\nfine thrish you caught in the crib?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas a blackbird,\u2019 siz Shawn.\n\n\u201c\u2018Whisht, now, Shawn, \u2019twas a thrish,\u2019 siz Nancy.\n\n\u201c\u2018I tell you again \u2019twas a blackbird,\u2019 siz Shawn.\n\n\u201c\u2018Och,\u2019 siz Nancy, beginnen to laugh, \u2018that was the quare blackbird.\u2019\n\n\u201cWud that, one word borrowed another, an\u2019 Shawn stood up an\u2019 gev her\nthe father av a batin\u2019.\n\n\u201cThe third Christmas Day kem, an\u2019 they wor in the best o\u2019 good humour\nafther the tay, an\u2019 Shawn puttin\u2019 on his ridin\u2019-coat to go to Mass.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, Shawn,\u2019 siz Nancy, \u2018I\u2019m thinkin\u2019 av what an unhappy Christmas\nmornin\u2019 we had this day twelve months, all on account of the thrish you\ncaught in the crib, bad \u2019cess to her.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018\u2019Twas a blackbird,\u2019 siz Shawn.\n\n\u201c\u2018Wisha, good luck to you, an\u2019 don\u2019t be talkin\u2019 foolish,\u2019 siz Nancy;\n\u2018an\u2019 you\u2019re betther not get into a passion agin, account av an ould\nthrish. My heavy curse on the same thrish,\u2019 siz Nancy.\n\n\u201c\u2018I tell you \u2019twas a blackbird,\u2019 siz Shawn.\n\n\u201c\u2018An\u2019 I tell you \u2019twas a thrish,\u2019 siz Nancy.\n\n\u201cWud that, Shawn took a _bunnaun_[23] he had seasonin\u2019 in the\nchimley, and whaled at Nancy, an\u2019 gev her the father av a batin\u2019. An\u2019\nevery Christmas morning from that day to this \u2019twas the same story, for\nas sure as the sun Nancy \u2019d draw down the thrish. But do you tell me,\nSally, she\u2019s afther givin\u2019 in it was a blackbird?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is,\u201d replied Sally.\n\n\u201cBegob,\u201d said Tim Croak, after a minute\u2019s serious reflection, \u201cit ought\nto be put in the papers. I never h\u2019ard afore av a wrong notion bein\u2019\ngot out av a woman\u2019s head. But Shawn Gow is no joke to dale wud, and it\ntook him seven years to do id.\u201d\n\n _Charles Joseph Kickham_ (1828\u20131882).\n\n\n\n\n _IRISH ASTRONOMY._\n\n A veritable myth, touching the constellation of O\u2019Ryan,\n ignorantly and falsely spelled Orion.\n\n\n O\u2019Ryan was a man of might\n Whin Ireland was a nation,\n But poachin\u2019 was his chief delight\n And constant occupation.\n He had an ould militia gun,\n And sartin sure his aim was;\n He gave the keepers many a run,\n And didn\u2019t mind the game laws.\n\n St. Pathrick wanst was passin\u2019 by\n O\u2019Ryan\u2019s little houldin\u2019,\n And as the saint felt wake and dhry,\n He thought he\u2019d enther bould in;\n \u201cO\u2019Ryan,\u201d says the saint, \u201cavick!\n To praich at Thurles I\u2019m goin\u2019;\n So let me have a rasher, quick,\n And a dhrop of Innishowen.\u201d\n\n \u201cNo rasher will I cook for you\n While betther is to spare, sir;\n But here\u2019s a jug of mountain dew,\n And there\u2019s a rattlin\u2019 hare, sir.\u201d\n St. Pathrick he looked mighty sweet,\n And says he, \u201cGood luck attind you,\n And whin you\u2019re in your windin\u2019 sheet\n It\u2019s up to heaven I\u2019ll sind you.\u201d\n\n O\u2019Ryan gave his pipe a whiff--\n \u201cThim tidin\u2019s is transportin\u2019,\n But may I ax your saintship if\n There\u2019s any kind of sportin\u2019?\u201d\n St. Pathrick said, \u201cA Lion\u2019s there,\n Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer\u201d--\n \u201cBedad,\u201d says Mick, \u201cthe huntin\u2019s rare,\n St. Pathrick, I\u2019m your man, sir!\u201d\n\n So, to conclude my song aright,\n For fear I\u2019d tire your patience,\n You\u2019ll see O\u2019Ryan any night\n Amid the constellations.\n And Venus follows in his thrack,\n Till Mars grows jealous raally,\n But, faith, he fears the Irish knack\n Of handling the--shillaly.\n\n _Charles Graham Halpine_ (1829\u20131868).\n\n\n\n\n _PADDY FRET, THE PRIEST\u2019S BOY._\n\n\n\u201cSorra a one of me\u2019ll get married,\u201d remarked Paddy Fret, as he was\nfurbishing up the priest\u2019s stirrups one beautiful Saturday morning, in\nthe little kitchen at the rear of the chapel-house. \u201cSure, if I don\u2019t,\nyou will; and there\u2019ll be a great palin\u2019 of bells at the weddin\u2019. We\u2019ll\nall turn out to see you--the whole of the foolish vargins rowled into\nwan.\u201d\n\nMrs. Galvin, who was at the moment occupied in turning the white side\nof a slab of toast to the fire, turned round to her tormentor, no small\ndegree of acerbity wrinkling up her face.\n\n\u201cMind your work, and keep a civil tongue in your impty head,\u201d\nshe exclaimed petulantly. \u201cThere was many a fine lump of a boy\nwould marry me in my time, if I only took the throuble to wink\na _comether_[24] at him. There was min in them times, not\n_sprahauns_[25] like you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re burnin\u2019 the toast, an\u2019 goin\u2019 to make snuff of Father Maher\u2019s\nbreak\u2019ast,\u201d interrupted Paddy. \u201cAt the rate you\u2019re goin\u2019 on, you\u2019ll\nbile the eggs that hard that you\u2019ll kill his riverence, and be thried\nfor murdher. And, upon my _soukins_, the hangman will have a nate\njob with you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019d slip thro\u2019 the rope, you flax-hank,\u201d was the answer. \u201cWait till\nI put my two eyes on Katty Tyrrell, and, troth, I\u2019ll put your nose out\no\u2019 joint, or my name isn\u2019t Mary Galvin. You goin\u2019 coortin\u2019! The Lord\nsave and guide us! As if any wan would dhrame of taking a switch for a\nhusband--a crathur like you, only fit to beat an ould coat with!\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t lose your timper, Mrs. Galvin,\u201d said Paddy, whose\ninextinguishable love of fun gleamed out of his black eyes, and\nflashed from his dazzlingly white and regular teeth. \u201cGod is good; all\nthe ould fools isn\u2019t dead yet, and there\u2019s a chance of your not dying\nwithout some unforchinate gandher saying the Rosary in thanks for his\nredimption.\u201d\n\nMrs. Galvin made no reply. She placed the toast in the rack in silence;\nbut that silence was ominous. Next, she removed the teapot, cosy and\nall, from the fireside, and placed all on a tray, which she bore off\nwith a sort of conscious yet sullen dignity, to the pretty parlour,\nwhere Father Maher, after his hard mountain ride, waited breakfast.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll never spake to Paddy Fret again, your riverence,\u201d she said, when\neverything had been arranged, and it was her turn to quit the room.\n\nThe priest, like the majority of his Irish brethren--God bless\nthem!--had a ready appreciation of a joke. He paused in the task of\nshelling an egg, and inquired with all possible gravity, \u201cWhat is the\nmatter now, Mrs. Galvin?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, your riverence, my heart is bruk with the goin\u2019s on of Paddy\nFret. From mornin\u2019 till night he\u2019s never done makin\u2019 faces at me, an\u2019\nsayin\u2019 as how no wan in Croagh would think of throwin\u2019 a stick at me.\nAh! then, I can tell you, Father Michael, I squez the heart\u2019s blood out\nof many as fine a man, in my time, as iver bid the divil good night,\nsavin\u2019 your riverence.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are in the autumn of your beauty yet, Mary,\u201d said the priest,\n\u201chandsome is that handsome does, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you kindly, Father Maher. But that boy\u2019ll be the death o\u2019 me.\nAnd then,\u201d putting her sharp knuckles on the table\u2019s edge, and bending\nover to her master, in deep confidence, \u201cI know for sartin that he\u2019s\nrunnin\u2019 after half the girls in the parish.\u201d\n\nFather Maher looked grave at this disclosure.\n\n\u201cOf course they keep running away from him--don\u2019t they, Mary? Why,\nwe\u2019ve got an Adonis in the house.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Lord forbid I\u2019d say that of him, sir,\u201d remarked Mrs. Galvin,\nwhose acquaintance with Hellenic myths was rather hazy. \u201cBad as he is,\nhe hasn\u2019t come to that yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am glad to hear you say as much,\u201d said the priest, as he poured out\na cup of tea, and proceeded to butter the toast. \u201cNever fear, Mary,\nI\u2019ll have an eye on that fellow.\u201d\n\nThe door closed, shutting out the housekeeper, and Father Maher\u2019s face\nrelaxed into a broad smile. He rested the local paper against the\ntoast-rack, and laughed cautiously from time to time, as he ran down\nits columns of barren contents. Neither Paddy nor Mrs. Galvin had the\nfaintest idea of the amusement their daily quarrels afforded him, or of\nthe gusto with which he used to describe them at the dinner-tables to\nwhich he was occasionally invited.\n\nHaving burnished the irons and cleansed the leathers until they\nshone again, Paddy Fret mounted to his bedroom, over the stable, and\nproceeded to array himself with unusual care. His toilet completed,\nhe surveyed himself in the cracked triangle of looking-glass imbedded\nin the mortar of the wall, and the result of the scrutiny satisfied\nhim that there was not a gayer or handsomer young fellow in the whole\nparish of Croagh. So, in love with himself and part of the world, he\nstole cautiously down the rickety step-ladder, and gliding like a snake\nbetween the over-bowering laurels which flanked the chapel-house,\nemerged on the high road.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afeerd, Paddy, that my father will never listen to a good word\nfor you,\u201d said pretty Katty Tyrrell, as the priest\u2019s boy took a stool\nbeside her before the blazing peat fire, burning on the stoveless\nhearth. \u201cHe\u2019s a grave man, wanst he takes a notion into his head.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll ould min has got notions,\u201d said Paddy, \u201cbut they dhrop off with\ntheir hairs. Lave him to me, and if I don\u2019t convart him, call me a\nsouper. Sure, if he wants a son-in-law to be a comfort in his ould age\nhe couldn\u2019t meet with a finer boy than meself.\u201d\n\n\u201cMrs. Galvin says,\u201d continued Katty, \u201cthat it would be a morchial\nsin to throw me and my two hundherd pounds away on the likes o\u2019 you.\n\u2018A good-for-nothin\u2019 _bosthoon_,\u2019[26] says she, \u2018that I wouldn\u2019t\ngraize the wheel of a barrow with.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cShe wouldn\u2019t graize a great many wheels, at any rate,\u201d replied Paddy.\n\u201cThe truth is, Katty dear, the poor woman is out of her sivin sinses,\nand all for the want of a gintleman to make a lady of her, as I\u2019m goin\u2019\nto make wan o\u2019 you.\u201d\n\nThe splendour of the promise bewildered Miss Tyrrell. She could only\nrest her elbows on her knees, hide her face in her hands, and cry, \u201cOh,\nPaddy!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, me jewel,\u201d continued the subtle suitor, \u201cI\u2019m poor to-day,\nperhaps, but there\u2019s noble blood coursin\u2019 thro\u2019 my veins. Go up to the\ntop of Knock-meil-Down some fine mornin\u2019, and look down all around\nyou. There isn\u2019t a square fut o\u2019 grass in all you see that didn\u2019t\nwanst belong to my ancisthors. In the time of Cahul Mohr wan o\u2019 my\ngrandfathers had tin thousand min and a hundherd thousand sheep at his\ncommand, not to spake of ships at say and forthresses and palaces on\nland.\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah, how did you get robbed, Paddy?\u201d said Katty.\n\n\u201cWell, you see, my dear, they were a hard-dhrinkin\u2019 lot at the time I\u2019m\nspakin\u2019 of. The landed property wint into the Incumbered Estates Coort,\nand was sould for a song; the forthresses were changed into Martello\ntowers, and the army took shippin\u2019 for France, but they were wracked\nsomewhere in the South Says, where they all swam ashore and turned New\nZealandhers.\u201d\n\nKatty was profoundly interested by this historical sketch of the Fret\nfamily, which Paddy rolled out without hitch or pause--indispensable\nelements of veracity in a spoken narrative. She allowed her lover to\nhold her hand, and fancied she was a princess.\n\nAs they sat in this delightful abstraction--the ecstasy known to the\nmoderns as \u201cspooning\u201d--they were startled by the sound of wheels in the\nfarmyard, and Katty, with one swift glance at the window, exclaimed in\nthe wildest anguish, \u201cOh, Paddy, Paddy, what\u2019ll become o\u2019 me? Here\u2019s my\nfather and mother come back from market already.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake it aisy, darlint,\u201d replied Mr. Fret. \u201cCan\u2019t I hide in the bedroom\nbeyant?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot for all the world!\u201d said Katty, in terror. \u201cOh, dear! oh, dear!\u201d\n\n\u201cThin stick me in the pot and put the lid over me,\u201d was Mr. Fret\u2019s next\nhappy suggestion.\n\nKatty glanced in agony round the kitchen, and suddenly a great hope\nfilled her to the lips. Over the fireplace was a rude platform--common\nto Irish farmhouses--on which saddles, harness, empty sacks, old ropes,\nboots, and sometimes wool, were stored away indiscriminately.\n\n\u201cUp there--up with you,\u201d she cried, placing a chair for him to ascend.\n\nPaddy lost no time in mounting, and having stretched himself at full\nlength, his terrified sweetheart piled the litter over him until he was\ncompletely hidden from view.\n\nThe hiding was scarce effected when Andy Tyrrell, old Mrs. Tyrrell,\nand Mrs. Galvin made their appearance. They each drew stools round the\nfire, in order to enjoy the blaze, which was most welcome after their\ninclement ride.\n\n\u201cAre you yit mopin\u2019 over that blackguard, Paddy Fret, _ma\ncolleen_?\u201d asked the priest\u2019s housekeeper. \u201c\u2019Tis a bad bargain you\u2019d\nmake o\u2019 the same _daltheen_,[27] honey.\u201d\n\nKatty, profoundly concerned in the mending of a stocking, pretended not\nto hear the inquiry.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s gettin\u2019 sense, Mary,\u201d said Mrs. Tyrrell. \u201cBoys\u2019ll be boys, and\ngirls\u2019ll be girls, till the geese crows like cocks.\u201d\n\n\u201cI tould the vagabone at the last fair,\u201d remarked the old man, \u201cthat\nif ever I caught him within an ass\u2019s roar o\u2019 this doore I\u2019d put him\ninto the thrashin\u2019 machine, and make chaff of his ugly bones. Bad luck\nto his impidence, the _aulaun_,[28] to come lookin\u2019 afther my\ndaughter.\u201d\n\nA bottle of whisky was now produced, and Katty busied herself in\nproviding glasses for the party. Mrs. Galvin at first declined to\n\u201ctouch a dhrop, it bein\u2019 too airly,\u201d but once persuaded to hallow the\nseductive fluid with her chaste lips, it was wonderful how soon she got\nreconciled to potation after potation, till her inquisitive eyes began\nto twinkle oddly in the firelight.\n\n\u201cWhat the divil is the matther with the creel?\u201d (the platform above\nalluded to) asked old Tyrrell. \u201c\u2019Tis groanin\u2019 as if it had the lumbago.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe wind, my dear man, \u2019tis the wind,\u201d replied Mrs. Galvin.\n\n\u201cFaith, I think \u2019tis enchanted it is,\u201d observed the lady of the house.\n\u201cLook how it keeps rockin\u2019 and shakin\u2019, as if there was a throubled\nsowl in it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe wind, ma\u2019am--\u2019tis I know what it is, _alanna_,[29] to my\ncost,\u201d said the housekeeper; \u201c\u2019tis only the wind.\u201d\n\nKatty\u2019s heart went pit-a-pat during this conference. She knew that the\n\u201ccreel\u201d was not the firmest of structures, and she shivered at the bare\nidea of Paddy making a turn which might send it to pieces.\n\nAgain the whisky went round, mollifying the hard lines of Mrs. Galvin\u2019s\nunromantic countenance. Old Tyrrell, meanwhile, kept a steady eye on\nthe \u201ccreel,\u201d which had relapsed by this time into its normal immobility.\n\n\u201cHave a dhrop, Katty,\u201d he said, handing his daughter his glass.\n\nThe girl, who knew the consequence of disobeying his slightest command,\ntouched the rim of the vessel with her lips, and returned it with a\ngrateful \u201cThank you, father.\u201d At the same time on lifting her eyes to\nthe \u201ccreel\u201d she saw Paddy\u2019s face peering out at her, and was honoured\nwith one of the finest winks that gentleman was capable of.\n\n\u201cWell, here\u2019s long life to all of us, and may we be no worse off this\nday twelvemonth,\u201d said the old man, as he replenished the ladies\u2019\nglasses, and then set about draining his own. \u201cGive me your hand, Mrs.\nGalvin. There isn\u2019t a finer nor a better woman in----\u201d\n\nThe sentence was never finished, for whilst he was speaking the \u201ccreel\u201d\ngave way, and Paddy Fret, followed by the miscellaneous lumber which\nhad concealed him, tumbled into the middle of the astonished party. The\nwomen shrieked and ran, whilst poor Katty, overcome by the terror of\nthe situation, fainted into a chair.\n\nPaddy rose to his feet, unabashed and confident. \u201cWasn\u2019t that a grand\nfright I gave ye all?\u201d he asked, with superb indifference.\n\nTyrrell, pale as death, and trembling in every limb, went to a corner,\ntook up a gun, and pointed the muzzle at the intruder\u2019s head. \u201cSwear,\u201d\nhe hoarsely exclaimed, \u201cyou\u2019ll make an honest woman of my daughter\nbefore another week, or I\u2019ll blow the roof off your skull.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll spare you all the throuble,\u201d said Paddy; \u201csend for Father Maher\nand I\u2019ll marry her this minit, if you like. Will you have Paddy Fret\nfor your husband, Katty?\u201d he asked, taking the hands of the now\nconscious girl.\n\nThe whisky was finished, and on the following Sunday Father Maher\nunited Paddy Fret and Katty Tyrrell, in the little chapel of Croagh.\nMrs. Galvin danced bravely at the wedding, and was heard, more than\nonce, to whisper that \u201conly for her \u2019twould never be a match.\u201d\n\n _John Francis O\u2019Donnell_ (1837\u20131874).\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018THAT\u2019S THE TRUTH,\u2019 SAYS O\u2019SHANAHAN DHU.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _O\u2019SHANAHAN DHU._\n\n\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu, you\u2019re a rover, and you\u2019ll never be better, I fear,\n A rogue, a deludherin\u2019 lover, with a girl for each day in the year;\n Don\u2019t you know how the mothers go frowning, when a village you\n wander athrough,\n For the priest you\u2019d not seek were you drowning--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu,\n \u201cFor I\u2019m aisy in love and divarsion,\u201d says the ranting\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n O\u2019Shanahan, don\u2019t think you\u2019re welcome, for I was but this moment,\n I\u2019m sure,\n Saying--\u201cSpeak of the dhioul[30] and he\u2019ll come,\u201d and that moment\n you stood on the floor;\n Now you\u2019ll blarney, and flatter, and swear it, while you know I\u2019ve\n my spinning to do,\n It would take a bright angel to bear it--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu;\n \u201cFor, darling, all know you\u2019re an angel,\u201d says the ranting\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu, there\u2019s Jack Morrow, the smith in the hill-forge\n above,\n Who says marriage is nothing but sorrow, and a wedding the end of\n all love;\n I myself don\u2019t care much for believing that it\u2019s gospel, yet what\n can one do,\n When you men are so given to deceiving--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu;\n \u201cWe\u2019re the thieves of the world, still you like us,\u201d says\n the ranting O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu, why come scheming, when there\u2019s nobody in but poor\n me,\n Can you fancy I\u2019m foolish or draming, to believe that our hearts\n could agree?\n Don\u2019t you know, sir, all round they\u2019re reporting, with good reason,\n perhaps, for it too,\n That Jack Shea\u2019s dainty daughter you\u2019re courting?--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu,\n \u201cBut there\u2019s no one believes it, my darling,\u201d with a wink,\n says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu, now you\u2019ll vex me, let me go, sir, this moment, I\n say,\n I\u2019m in airnest, and why so perplex me, see I\u2019m losing the work of\n the day.\n There\u2019s my spinning all gone to a tangle, my bleached clothes all\n boiled to a blue,\n While for kisses you wrestle and wrangle--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu,\n \u201cI own I\u2019ve a weakness for kisses,\u201d says the ranting\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n O\u2019Shanahan Dhu, here\u2019s my mother, if you don\u2019t let me go, faith,\n I\u2019ll cry,\n Why, she\u2019ll tell both my father and brother, and with shame maybe\n cause me to die,\n And then at your bedside I\u2019ll haunt you, with a light in my hand\n burning blue,\n From my shroud moaning, \u201cShemus, I want you,\u201d--\n \u201cThat\u2019s the truth,\u201d says O\u2019Shanahan Dhu,\n \u201cBut, ah, darling, say that while you\u2019re living,\u201d says the\n ranting O\u2019Shanahan Dhu.\n\n _James J. Bourke_ (1837\u20131894).\n\n\n\n\n _SHANE GLAS._\n\n\n If you saw Shane Glas as he tramped to the fair,\n With his fresh white shirt and his neat combed hair,\n You\u2019d never believe what a rake went by;\n Why the girls--however he\u2019s won them--the rogue--\n Love the ground that is touched by the sole of his brogue,\n And they follow him, \u2019spite of the old people\u2019s cry--\n\n \u201cSludhering Shawn, deludhering Shawn,\n Whose blarneying lies might a warship float,\n Let the girls alone, you big vagabone,\n Or soon they\u2019ll have reason to cry, \u2018Ochone,\u2019\n Go home I say, there\u2019s a rogue in your coat.\u201d\n\n He met Sally one day at the market town,\n With her neat blacked shoes and her dimity gown,\n And never dreamt she what a rake was nigh;\n He whispered soft nothings, he pleaded with sighs,\n Praised her red glowing cheek, her round breasts, her blue eyes,\n And, O maid of the mountain, he left her to cry--\n\n \u201cSludhering Shawn, soothering Shawn,\n Traitor, on whom all the girls still doat,\n Sal, Peggy, and Sue have reason to rue\n The day they beheld your bright eyes of blue,\n And your swaggering gait, and the rogue in your coat.\u201d\n\n _Translated from the Irish by J. J. Bourke._\n\n\n\n\n _AN IRISH STORY-TELLER._\n\n\nMeehawl Theige Oge (Murphy) was the name of the man of whom I speak.\nThough small in stature, he himself deemed that there never lived a\nmore powerful man. He was not fond of speaking truth, as may be easily\nlearnt from the following story.\n\nHe lived near Miskish, and reclaimed as much land at the base of this\nhill as afforded pasture to a cow or two. This, he often swore, he made\nso fertile that it would grow potatoes without sowing them at all.\nSomebody once asked him how were the new potatoes. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you,\nthen,\u201d says he. \u201cI was setting down yesterday west there near the end\nof wan of the ridges, and I heard the sweetest music that ever a singer\nmade. Wid the hate (heat) of the sun, \u2019tis how the _knapawns_[31]\nwere fighting wid aich other, and they making noise and they saying\nlike this:--\n\n \u201c\u2018Move out from me and don\u2019t crush me so,\n But you won\u2019t, you won\u2019t, O bitter woe!\u2019\n\nWest wid me to the house for a spade and a skive. I hadn\u2019t the spade\nin the ground right, when up popped every _knasster_[32] as big\nas your head. I went home in high glee,--sure, a wran\u2019s egg wouldn\u2019t\nbreak under me, my heart was so light,--I washed the praties for myself\nand hung them over the fire. Then I sat on the _seestheen_,[33]\nand reddened (lit) my pipe. I hadn\u2019t a _shoch_ (whiff) and a half\npulled when here are the praties fubbling. I tuk \u2019em off the fire at\nmy dead aise and put \u2019em on the table after a spell. Glory be to God\nthat gave \u2019em to me; \u2019tis they wor the fine ating; I never ate the like\nof \u2019em, and I won\u2019t again too till the _Day of Flags_ (day of his\nburial). \u2019Tisn\u2019t that itself, but they wor laffing with me, widout they\nknowing I was going to lie my back-teeth on \u2019em.\u201d\n\nMeehawl was often obliged to go to England. Once, after returning home,\na contemptible little fellow asked him would himself find any kind of\nsuitable employment there. Meehawl looked at him from head to foot, as\nhe stood by the fire warming himself, though the sun was splitting the\ntrees, the heat was so great. A fly alighted on his nose; but he gave\nhim a slap which put an end to his pricking. \u201cThe divel,\u201d says Meehawl,\n\u201cif you had a whip I am sure you would keep the flies from the hams of\nbacon which I used see hanging in the houses in England!\u201d\n\nHe was very fond of liquor, but alas! he had not the means whereby\nto indulge his desires. At times, however, he used to have a few\nshillings; then he would go to the fair,--not without bringing his\nblackthorn stick,--and finding some neighbour whom he made much of,\nthey would both go and have a \u201cdrop\u201d together, till his money was\nspent; after which he would make his exit from the tavern like a mad\nthunderbolt. And if anybody came near him he was sure to get a taste of\nhis blackthorn. To do him justice, there were few men who could beat\nhim fighting with a stick.\n\nOne day he came home drunk; \u201che had a blow on the cat and a blow\non the dog.\u201d His wife was sitting in the corner as mute as a cat,\nbut she uttered not a word till he had slept off the effects of the\ndrunkenness; then she asked him why he had come home as he did the\nnight before. It did not take him long to find his answer:--\u201cSure,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cI had to drink something to clane the cobwebs out of my\nthroat!\u201d The poor fellow had no stripper that winter, so that he had to\neat his food dry.\n\nI have stated before that Meehawl often had to go to England. Here is\none of the stories which he used to relate after coming back:--\u201cAfter\ngoing to England I was a spell widout any work, and sure it did not\ntake me long to spind the little penny of money that I brought wid me,\nand I wouldn\u2019t get a lodging anywhere, since my pocket wasn\u2019t stiff.\nI put my hand in my pocket, trying for my pipe, and what should I\nget there but tuppence (2d.) by the height of luck. I bought a loaf\nof bread for myself; I ate a bit of it, and put the rest of it in\nthe pocket of my _casoge_.[34] When it was going of me to get a\nlodging anywhere, what should I see a couple of steps from me but a\nbig gun. It was a short delay for me to get into its mouth, and while\nyou\u2019d be closing your eye I wasn\u2019t inside when I fell asleep. In the\nmorning, when I was waking myself up, I didn\u2019t feel a bit till I got a\nbullet that put so much hurry on me that I couldn\u2019t ever or ever stop\ntill I fell in a fine brickle (brittle) _moantawn_[35] in France.\n\u2018Well, Meehawl,\u2019 says I to myself, \u2018maybe you oughtn\u2019t complain since\nyou didn\u2019t fall into the say where you\u2019d get swallowing without chawing\n(chewing).\u2019 Then I thanked God who brought me safe and sound so far. I\nput my hand in the pocket of my _casoge_ and what should be there\nbefore me but the small little bit of bread I put into it the night\nbefore that. \u2018_Food is the work-horse_, wherever you\u2019ll be,\u2019 says\nI to myself, ating up the bread dry as fast as I could. When I had it\nate, I looked around me just as cute as Norry-the-bogs[36] when she\u2019d\nbe trying for fish in a river, but sure if I stopped looking till the\n_Day of Flags_, I wouldn\u2019t get as much as the full of my eye of\nwan Frenchman.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, that\u2019s best,\u2019 says I, going to a fine cock of hay, as high as\nMiskish, but high as it was, I went on top of it. I made a hole through\nit, and left myself into it, widout a bit of me out but the top of my\nnose, to draw my breath. I wasn\u2019t there long till I fell asleep, and\nI didn\u2019t feel anything till morning. When I woke up I looked round\nme--where was I? God for ever wid me! where was I only in the middle of\nthe say, and my heart ruz as I thought of it right. I suppose \u2019tis how\na cloud fell near the cock, and that ruz the flood in the river so much\nthat it swept myself and the cock all together away--widout letting\n_me_ know of it. I gave myself up to God, but if I did \u2019tis likely\nI didn\u2019t deserve much of the good from Him, for again a spell here\u2019s a\nwhale to me (there\u2019s a creeping could running through me when I think\nof him!), and he opened his dirty mouth and he swallowed myself and the\ncock holus bolus.\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t gone right till that happened me. People say that Hell is\ndark, but if it is as dark as the stomach of that baste, the divil\nentirely is in it. But that isn\u2019t here nor there; you\u2019d see the fish\nrunning hither and over about his stomach, some of \u2019em swimming fine\nand aisy for theirself, more of \u2019em lepping as light as flays (fleas),\nand some more of \u2019em bawling like young childer. \u2018Ye haven\u2019t any more\nright to do that nor me,\u2019 says I, and I tuk out and opened a big knife;\nwidout a lie it was sharp--wan blow of it would cut off the leg of the\nbiggest horse that ever trod or walked on grass. Here am I cutting,\nand \u2019tis short till the pain pinched the whale, and begor I saw that\nhe would like to turn off. \u2018Squeeze out,\u2019 says I, and wid that I saw\nthe fish running out. \u2018That your road may rise wid ye,\u2019 says I; but I\nwasn\u2019t going to stop till he would give the same tratement or better\nto myself. Here\u2019s he blowing; \u2018Blow on wid you,\u2019 says I, and I was\ncutting always at such a rate that it wasn\u2019t long till I put my knife\nout through his side, and I fell on the top of my head. \u2018_Fooisg!\nfooisg!_\u2019 says the stomach of the whale, and praise and thanks be to\nGod, he blew me out through his mouth. He was tired of me and I was no\nless tired of him too. He blew me so high in the sky that I couldn\u2019t be\nfar from the sun, there was so much hate (heat) there. But any way I\nfell down safe and sound on a fine soft bog of turf that was cut only\na few days before that. Nothing happened to me, only that the nail was\ntaken off the _loodeen_[37] of my left leg!\u201d\n\n _Patrick O\u2019Leary._\n\n\n\n\n _THE HAUNTED SHEBEEN._\n\n\n A very queer story I heard\n Long ago,\n In Kerry. \u2019Tis gruesome and weird:\n Stage went slow\n As we passed a ruined shebeen\n On our way to Cahirciveen.\n\n \u201cThey drank and they feasted _galore_,\n With each breath\n Loud calling for one bottle more!\n Father Death\n Came in in the midst of the cheer,\n With \u2018Long life to all of yez here!\u2019\n\n \u201cBy Crom\u2019ell! his eyes they were bright;\n Loud he laughed,\n Saying, \u2018Boys, we will make it a night.\u2019\n Then he quaffed\n A dandy of punch in a trice,\n Remarking, \u2018_Da di!_ it is nice!\u2019\n\n \u201c\u2019Tis whisky that loosens the tongue!\n Beard o\u2019 Crom\u2019!\n And that same has been often sung;\n Not a _gom_[38]\n Was _filea_[39] that _clairsech\u2019d_[40] the line:\n O whisky\u2019s a nectar divine!\n\n \u201cOne welcomed the pale king with cheers;\n All his life\n Was channelled with woe\u2019s soulful tears;\n He had wife\n That came, a black fate, in his way,\n When his years were just clasping the May.\n\n \u201cAnother--he gave furtive glance,\n And grew pale--\n \u2018This coming,\u2019 mused he, \u2018won\u2019t entrance,\n I\u2019ll go bail,\n This meeting of ours!\u2019--week ere this,\n God Hymen had made for him bliss.\n\n \u201cAnd another?--Rises the din\n Loud and strong;\n The whisky a-firing, Neill Finn\n Said, \u2018A song\n We\u2019ll have from our guest ere we\u2019ll go!\u2019\n The guest said, \u2018Well, Neill, be it so!\u2019\n\n \u201cHe sang them a _spirited_ stave,\n Written where\n The poet for bread is no slave\n To black care--\n \u2018Long life to yez!\u2019 shouted Neill Finn;\n Death smiled, and said, \u2018Neill, boy, amin!\u2019\n\n \u201cThey called for the cards and they played,\n Sure the same\n \u2018Forty-fives\u2019 it was named--Mike Quade\n In the game\n So cheated that Death said: \u2018\u2019Tis like\n The wind from your sails I\u2019ll take, Mike.\u2019\n\n \u201cWhat time with a blow from his stick,\n To the earth\n He struck Mick. Then _kippeens_[41] took quick\n Striking birth;\n The Quade boys were there to the fore,\n All longing, my dear, for red gore!\n\n \u201cThey went for the old man, but he\n Used to fight,\n His glass drained, and quick as a bee\n Left and right\n Blows laid--when they woke from their fix,\n They waited for Charon by Styx.\n\n \u201cThe old one he stuck to the drink,\n (So they tell),\n Till being o\u2019ercome (as they think),\n That he fell\n Down under the table--nor woke\n Till day o\u2019er the Atlantic broke.\n\n \u201cForgetful of all that had passed,\n He looked round,\n And seeing his subjects all massed\n On the ground,\n He said, \u2018Oh, get up from the floor,\n And help me with one bottle more!\u2019\n\n \u201cSince that time, the peasantry say,\n Every night\n Sure there is the devil to pay!\n And the sight\n They see--\u2018Sirs, no lie! \u2019pon my soul!\u2019\n Death drunk, _singing Beimedh a gole_!\u201d[42]\n\n _Charles P. O\u2019Conor_ (1837?).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cHE SAID, \u2018OH, GET UP FROM THE FLOOR, AND HELP ME\n WITH ONE BOTTLE MORE!\u2019\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _FAN FITZGERL._\n\n\n Wirra, wirra! _ologone!_\n Can\u2019t ye lave a lad alone,\n Till he\u2019s proved there\u2019s no tradition left of any other girl--\n Not even Trojan Helen,\n In beauty all excellin\u2019--\n Who\u2019s been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?\n\n Wid her brows of silky black\n Arched above for the attack,\n Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;\n Masther Cupid, point your arrows,\n From this out, agin the sparrows,\n For you\u2019re bested at Love\u2019s archery by young Miss Fan.\n\n See what showers of goolden thread\n Lift and fall upon her head,\n The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread;\n For, whin accurately reckoned,\n \u2019Twas computed that each second\n Of her curls has cot a Kerryman and kilt him dead.\n\n Now mintion, if you will,\n Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,\n Or Mag\u2019llicuddy\u2019s Reeks, renowned for cripplin\u2019 all they can;\n Still the country-side confisses\n None of all its precipices\n Cause a quarther of the carnage of the nose of Fan.\n\n But your shatthered hearts suppose,\n Safely steered apast her nose,\n She\u2019s a current and a reef beyand to wreck them roving ships.\n My meaning it is simple,\n For that current is her dimple,\n And the cruel reef \u2019twill coax ye to\u2019s her coral lips.\n\n I might inform ye further\n Of her bosom\u2019s snowy murther,\n And ah ankle ambuscadin\u2019 through her gown\u2019s delightful whirl;\n But what need when all the village\n Has forsook its peaceful tillage,\n And flown to war and pillage all for Fan Fitzgerl!\n\n _Alfred Perceval Graves_ (1846).\n\n\n\n\n _FATHER O\u2019FLYNN._\n\n\n Of priests we can offer a charmin\u2019 variety,\n Far renown\u2019d for larnin\u2019 and piety;\n Still, I\u2019d advance ye without impropriety,\n Father O\u2019Flynn is the flow\u2019r of them all.\n Here\u2019s a health to you, Father O\u2019Flynn,\n _Slainthe_, and _slainthe_, and _slainthe_ agin;\n Powerfullest preacher, and tenderest teacher,\n And kindliest creature in ould Donegal.\n\n Don\u2019t talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,\n Famous for ever at Greek and Latinity,\n Faix, and the divil and all at Divinity,\n Father O\u2019Flynn \u2019d make hares of them all!\n Come, I venture to give ye my word,\n Never the likes of his logic was heard,\n Down from Mythology into Thayology,\n Troth! and Conchology, if he\u2019d the call.\n\n Och! Father O\u2019Flynn, you\u2019ve a wonderful way wid you,\n All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,\n All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,\n You\u2019ve such a way wid you, Father _avick_!\n Still for all you\u2019ve so gentle a soul,\n Gad, you\u2019ve your flock in the grandest control;\n Checking the crazy ones, coaxing onaisy ones,\n Lifting the lazy ones on with a stick.\n\n And though quite avoidin\u2019 all foolish frivolity,\n Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity,\n Where was the play-boy could claim an equality\n At comicality, Father, wid you?\n Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,\n Till this remark set him off wid the rest:\n \u201cIs it lave gaiety all to the laity?\n Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too!\u201d\n\n _Alfred Perceval Graves._\n\n\n\n\n _PHILANDERING._\n\n\n Maureen, _acushla_, ah! why such a frown on you!\n Sure, \u2019tis your own purty smiles should be there,\n Under those ringlets that make such a crown on you,\n As the sweet angels themselves seem to wear,\n When from the picthers in church they look down on you,\n Kneeling in prayer.\n\n Troth, no, you needn\u2019t, there isn\u2019t a drop on me,\n Barrin\u2019 one half-one to keep out the cowld;\n And, Maureen, if you\u2019ll throw a smile on the top o\u2019 me,\n Half-one was never so sweet, I\u2019ll make bowld.\n But, if you like, dear, at once put a stop on me\n Life with a scowld.\n\n Red-haired Kate Ryan?--Don\u2019t mention her name to me!\n I\u2019ve a taste, Maureen darlin\u2019, whatever I do.\n But I kissed her?--Ah, now, would you even that same to me?--\n Ye saw me! Well, well, if ye did, sure it\u2019s true,\n But I don\u2019t want herself or her cows, and small blame to me\n When I know you.\n\n There now, _aroon_, put an ind to this strife o\u2019 me\n Poor frightened heart, my own Maureen, my duck;\n Troth, till the day comes when you\u2019ll be made wife o\u2019 me,\n Night, noon, and mornin\u2019, my heart\u2019ll be brack.\n Kiss me, _acushla_! My darlin\u2019! The life o\u2019 me!\n One more for luck!\n\n _William Boyle_ (1853).\n\n\n\n\n _HONIED PERSUASION._\n\n\n \u201cTerry O\u2019Rourke, \u2019tis your presence that tazes me;\n Haven\u2019t I towld you so often before?\n If you\u2019ve the smallest regard for what plazes me,\n Never come prowlin\u2019 round here any more.\n Why you persist in this game\u2019s what amazes me;\n Didn\u2019t I tell you I\u2019d beaus be the score?\n There\u2019s Rody Kearney would give twenty cows to me\n Any fine day that I\u2019d let him be spouse to me.\u201d\n\n \u201cBiddy, _asthore_, an\u2019 \u2019tis you that is hard on me,\n Whin \u2019tis me two wicked legs are to blame;\n Troth, I believe if you placed a strong guard on me,\n They\u2019d wandher back to this spot all the same.\n Saving the gates of the prison are barr\u2019d on me,\n You might as well try to keep moths from the flame,\n Ducks from the water, or bees from the flowers,\n As thim same legs from your door, be the powers!\n\n \u201cCome now, me darlin\u2019, \u2019tis no use to frown on me;\n Tho\u2019 I\u2019ve no cows, but two mules an\u2019 a car,\n You wouldn\u2019t know but I\u2019d yet have the gown on me,\n Ringing the tunes of me tongue at the Bar.\n Whin I\u2019ve won you, who despised and looked down on me,\n Shure \u2019tis meself that might come to be Czar.\n What are you smilin\u2019 at? Give me the hand of you,\n I\u2019ll make the purtiest bride in the land of you.\u201d\n\n _J. De Quincey_ (185-).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cI\u2019LL MAKE THE PURTIEST BRIDE IN THE LAND OF YOU.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE FIRST LORD LIFTINANT._\n\n (AS RELATED BY ANDREW GERAGHTY, PHILOMATH.)\n\n\n\u201cEssex,\u201d said Queen Elizabeth, as the two of them sat at breakwhist in\nthe back parlour of Buckingham Palace, \u201cEssex, me haro, I\u2019ve got a job\nthat I think would suit you. Do you know where Ireland is?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no great fist at jografy,\u201d says his lordship, \u201cbut I know the\nplace you mane. Population, three million; exports, emigrants.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says the Queen, \u201cI\u2019ve been reading the _Dublin Evening\nMail_ and the _Telegraft_ for some time back, and sorra one\no\u2019 me can get at the trooth o\u2019 how things is goin\u2019, for the leadin\u2019\narticles is as conthradictory as if they wor husband and wife.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s the way wid papers all the world over,\u201d says Essex; \u201cColumbus\ntold me it was the same in Amerikay, when he was there, abusin\u2019 and\nconthradictin\u2019 each other at every turn--it\u2019s the way they make their\nlivin\u2019. Thrubble you for an egg-spoon.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s addled they have me betune them,\u201d says the Queen. \u201cNot a know I\nknow what\u2019s goin\u2019 on. So now, what I want you to do is to run over to\nIreland, like a good fella, and bring me word how matters stand.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it me?\u201d says Essex, leppin\u2019 up off his chair. \u201cIt\u2019s not in airnest\nye are, ould lady. Sure it\u2019s the hoight of the London saison. Every\none\u2019s in town, and Shake\u2019s new fairy piece, \u2018The Midsummer\u2019s Night\nMare,\u2019 billed for next week.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll go when ye\u2019re tould,\u201d says the Queen, fixin\u2019 him with her eye,\n\u201cif you know which side yer bread\u2019s buttered on. See here, now,\u201d says\nshe, seein\u2019 him chokin\u2019 wid vexation and a slice o\u2019 corned beef, \u201cyou\nought to be as pleased as Punch about it, for you\u2019ll be at the top o\u2019\nthe walk over there as vice-regent representin\u2019 me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI ought to have a title or two,\u201d says Essex, pluckin\u2019 up a bit. \u201cHis\nGloriosity the Great Panjandhrum, or the like o\u2019 that.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow would His Excellency the Lord Liftinant of Ireland sthrike you?\u201d\nsays Elizabeth.\n\n\u201cFirst class,\u201d cries Essex. \u201cCouldn\u2019t be betther; it doesn\u2019t mean much,\nbut it\u2019s allitherative, and will look well below the number on me hall\ndoor.\u201d\n\nWell, boys, it didn\u2019t take him long to pack his clothes and start\naway for the Island o\u2019 Saints. It took him a good while to get there,\nthough, through not knowin\u2019 the road; but by means of a pocket compass\nand a tip to the steward, he was landed at last contagious to Dalkey\nIsland. Going up to an ould man who was sittin\u2019 on a rock, he took off\nhis hat, and says he--\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s great weather we\u2019re havin\u2019?\u201d\n\n\u201cGood enough for the times that\u2019s in it,\u201d says the ould man, cockin\u2019\none eye at him.\n\n\u201cAny divarshun goin\u2019 on?\u201d says Essex.\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a sthranger in these parts, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019,\u201d says the ould man,\n\u201cor you\u2019d know this was a \u2018band night\u2019 in Dalkey.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t aware of it,\u201d says Essex; \u201cthe fact is,\u201d says he, \u201cI only\nlanded from England just this minute.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d says the ould man bitterly, \u201cit\u2019s little they know about us over\nthere. I\u2019ll hould you,\u201d says he, with a slight thrimble in his voice,\n\u201cthat the Queen herself doesn\u2019t know there is to be fireworks in the\nSorrento Gardens this night.\u201d\n\nWell, when Essex heard that, he disremembered entirely he was sent\nover to Ireland to put down rows and ructions, and away wid him to see\nthe fun and flirt wid all the pretty girls he could find. And he found\nplenty of them--thick as bees they wor, and each one as beautiful as\nthe day and the morra. He wrote two letters home next day--one to Queen\nElizabeth and the other to Lord Montaigle, a play-boy like himself.\nI\u2019ll read you the one to the Queen first:--\n\n \u201cDAME STHREET, _April 16th, 1599_.\n\n \u201cFAIR ENCHANTRESS,--I wish I was back in London,\n baskin\u2019 in your sweet smiles and listenin\u2019 to your melodious\n voice once more. I got the consignment of men and the\n post-office order all right. I was out all the mornin\u2019 lookin\u2019\n for the inimy, but sorra a taste of Hugh O\u2019Neil or his men can\n I find. A policemin at the corner o\u2019 Nassau Street told me they\n wor hidin\u2019 in Wicklow. So I am makin\u2019 up a party to explore the\n Dargle on Easter Monda\u2019. The girls here are as ugly as sin, and\n every minute o\u2019 the day I do be wishin\u2019 it was your good-lookin\u2019\n self I was gazin\u2019 at instead o\u2019 these ignorant scarecrows.\n Hopin\u2019 soon to be back in ould England, I remain, your lovin\u2019\n subjec\u2019,\n\n \u201cESSEX.\n\n \u201cP.S.--I hear Hugh O\u2019Neil was seen on the top o\u2019 the Donnybrook\n tram yesterday mornin\u2019. If I have any luck the head \u2019ll be off\n him before you get this.\n\n \u201cE.\u201d\n\n\nThe other letter read this way--\n\n \u201cDEAR MONTY--This is a great place all out. Come over\n here if you want fun. Divil such play-boys ever I seen, and\n the girls--oh! don\u2019t be talkin\u2019--\u2019pon me secret honour you\u2019ll\n see more loveliness at a tay and supper ball in Rathmines than\n there is in the whole of England. Tell Ned Spenser to send me\n a love-song to sing to a young girl who seems taken wid my\n appearance. Her name\u2019s Mary, and she lives in Dunlary, so he\n oughtent to find it hard. I hear Hugh O\u2019Neil\u2019s a terror, and\n hits a powerful welt, especially when you\u2019re not lookin\u2019. If he\n tries any of his games on wid me, I\u2019ll give him in charge. No\n brawlin\u2019 for yours truly,\n\n \u201cESSEX.\u201d\n\nWell, me bould Essex stopped for odds of six months in Dublin,\npurtendin\u2019 to be very busy subjugatin\u2019 the country, but all the time\nonly losin\u2019 his time and money widout doin\u2019 a hand\u2019s turn, and doin\u2019\nhis best to avoid a ruction with \u201cFighting Hugh.\u201d If a messenger came\nto tell him that O\u2019Neil was campin\u2019 out on the North Bull, Essex would\nup stick and away for Sandycove, where, after draggin\u2019 the forty-foot\nhole, he\u2019d write off to Elizabeth, saying that \u201cowing to their suparior\nknowledge of the country, the dastard foe had once more eluded him.\u201d\n\nThe Queen got mighty tired of these letters, especially as they always\nended with a request to send stamps by return, and told Essex to finish\nup his business and not be makin\u2019 a fool of himself.\n\n\u201cOh, that\u2019s the talk, is it,\u201d says Essex; \u201cvery well, me ould\nsauce-box\u201d (that was the name he had for her ever since she gev him\nthe clip on the ear for turnin\u2019 his back on her), \u201cvery well, me ould\nsauce-box,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019ll write off to O\u2019Neil this very minute, and\ntell him to send in his lowest terms for peace at ruling prices.\u201d\n\nWell, the threaty was a bit of a one-sided one--the terms being--\n\n1. Hugh O\u2019Neil to be King of Great Britain.\n\n2. Lord Essex to return to London and remain there as Viceroy of\nEngland.\n\n3. The O\u2019Neil family to be supported by Government, with free passes to\nall theatres and places of entertainment.\n\n4. The London markets to buy only from Irish dealers.\n\n5. All taxes to be sent in stamped envelope, directed to H. O\u2019Neil, and\nmarked \u201cprivate.\u201d Cheques crossed and made payable to H. O\u2019Neil. Terms\ncash.\n\nWell, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he\u2019d\nhave seen it was of too graspin\u2019 a nature to pass with any sort of a\nrespectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document\nin the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for\nEngland.\n\n\u201cIs the Queen widin?\u201d says he to the butler, when he opened the\ndoor o\u2019 the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid\ntravellin\u2019 all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was\nfor not littin\u2019 him in at the first go off, so says he very grand:\n\u201cHer Meejesty is abow stairs and can\u2019t be seen till she\u2019s had her\nbreakwhist.\u201d\n\n\u201cTell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an enterview,\u201d says\nEssex.\n\n\u201cOh, beg pardon, me lord,\u201d says the butler, steppin\u2019 to one side, \u201cI\ndidn\u2019t know \u2019twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen\u2019s in\nthe dhrawin\u2019-room.\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018YER MAJESTY, YOU HAVE A FACE ON YOU THAT WOULD\n CHARM A BIRD OFF A BUSH.\u2019\u201d]\n\nWell, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin\u2019-room wid him,\nmuddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s your missis?\u201d says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was\ndustin\u2019 the chimbley-piece.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s not out of her bed yet,\u201d says the maid with a toss of her head;\n\u201cbut if you write your message on the slate beyant, I\u2019ll see\u201d--but\nbefore she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin\u2019 at\nthe Queen\u2019s bedroom door.\n\n\u201cIs that the hot wather?\u201d says the Queen.\n\n\u201cNo, it\u2019s me,--Essex. Can you see me?\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith, I can\u2019t,\u201d says the Queen. \u201cHould on till I draw the\nbed-curtains. Come in now,\u201d says she, \u201cand say your say, for I can\u2019t\nhave you stoppin\u2019 long--you young Lutharian.\u201d\n\n\u201cBedad, yer Majesty,\u201d says Essex, droppin\u2019 on his knees before her (the\ndelutherer he was), \u201csmall blame to me if I am a Lutharian, for you\nhave a face on you that would charm a bird off a bush.\u201d\n\n\u201cHould your tongue, you young reprobate,\u201d says the Queen, blushin\u2019 up\nto her curl-papers wid delight, \u201cand tell me what improvements you med\nin Ireland.\u201d\n\n\u201cFaith, I taught manners to O\u2019Neil,\u201d cries Essex.\n\n\u201cHe had a bad masther then,\u201d says Elizabeth, lookin\u2019 at his dirty\nboots; \u201ccouldn\u2019t you wipe yer feet before ye desthroyed me carpets,\nyoung man?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, now,\u201d says Essex, \u201cis it wastin\u2019 me time shufflin\u2019 about on a mat\nyou\u2019d have me, when I might be gazin\u2019 on the loveliest faymale the\nworld ever saw.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says the Queen, \u201cI\u2019ll forgive you this time, as you\u2019ve been so\nlong away, but remimber in future that Kidderminster isn\u2019t oilcloth.\nTell me,\u201d says she, \u201cis Westland Row Station finished yet?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a side wall or two wanted yet, I believe,\u201d says Essex.\n\n\u201cWhat about the Loop Line?\u201d says she.\n\n\u201cOh, they\u2019re gettin\u2019 on with that,\u201d says he, \u201conly some people think\nthe girders a disfigurement to the city.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there any talk about that esplanade from Sandycove to Dunlary?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s talk about it, but that\u2019s all,\u201d says Essex; \u201c\u2019twould be an\nodious fine improvement to house property, and I hope they\u2019ll see to it\nsoon.\u201d\n\n\u201cSorra much you seem to have done, beyant spendin me men and me money.\nLet\u2019s have a look at that threaty I see stickin\u2019 out o\u2019 your pocket.\u201d\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018ARREST THAT THRATER.\u2019\u201d]\n\nWell, when the Queen read the terms of Hugh O\u2019Neil she just gev him one\nlook, an\u2019 jumpin\u2019 from off the bed, put her head out of the window, and\ncalled out to the policeman on duty--\n\n\u201cIs the Head below?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell him you want him, ma\u2019am,\u201d says the policeman.\n\n\u201cDo,\u201d says the Queen. \u201cHello,\u201d says she, as a slip o\u2019 paper dhropped\nout o\u2019 the dispatches. \u201cWhat\u2019s this? \u2018Lines to Mary.\u2019 Ho! ho! me gay\nfella, that\u2019s what you\u2019ve been up to, is it?\u201d\n\n \u201cMrs. Brady\u2019s\n A widow lady,\n And she has a charmin\u2019 daughter I adore;\n I went to court her\n Across the water,\n And her mother keeps a little candy-store.\n She\u2019s such a darlin\u2019,\n She\u2019s like a starlin\u2019,\n And in love with her I\u2019m gettin\u2019 more and more,\n Her name is Mary,\n She\u2019s from Dunlary;\n And her mother keeps a little candy-store.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat settles it,\u201d says the Queen. \u201cIt\u2019s the gaoler you\u2019ll serenade\nnext.\u201d\n\nWhen Essex heard that, he thrimbled so much that the button of his\ncuirass shook off and rowled under the dhressin\u2019-table.\n\n\u201cArrest that man,\u201d says the Queen, when the Head-Constable came to the\ndoor; \u201carrest that thrater,\u201d says she, \u201cand never let me set eyes on\nhim again.\u201d\n\nAnd indeed she never did, and soon after that he met with his death\nfrom the skelp of an axe he got when he was standin\u2019 on Tower Hill.\n\n _William Percy French_ (1854).\n\n\n\n\n _THE AMERICAN WAKE._[43]\n\n\n \u2019Twas down at the Doherty\u2019s \u201cwake,\u201d\n (They were off to New York in the morning),\n So we thought we\u2019d a night of it make,\n And gave all the countryside warning.\n The girls came drest in their best,\n The boys gathered too, every soul of them,\n And Mary along with the rest----\n \u2019Tis she took the sway of the whole of them.\n\n We\u2019d a fiddler, the pipes, and a flute----\n The three were enough sure to bother you,\n But you danced to whichever might suit,\n And tried not to think of the other two.\n The frolic was soon at its height,\n The small drop went round never chary,\n The girls would dazzle your sight,\n But all I could think of was Mary.\n\n The first jig, faith, out she\u2019d to go,\n The piper played \u201cHaste to the Wedding,\u201d\n And while I set to heel and toe,\n You\u2019d think \u2019twas on eggs she was treading.\n So bright was her smile and her glance,\n So dainty the modest head bowed of her,\n \u2019Tis she was the Queen of the Dance,\n And wasn\u2019t it I that was proud of her!\n\n At last I looked out for a chair,\n And off I led Mary in state to it;\n But think of us when we got there,\n The sorra the sign of a _sate_ to it!\n Still, as there was no other free,\n We thought we\u2019d put up for a start with it--\n Och, when she sat down on my knee\n For an emperor\u2019s throne I\u2019d not part with it.\n\n When Mary sat down on my lap\n A tremor ran through every bit of me,\n My heart \u2019gin my ribs gave a rap\n As if it was going to be quit of me.\n I tried just a few words to say\n To show the delight and the pride of me,\n But my tongue was as dry in a way\n As if I\u2019d a bonfire inside of me.\n\n And there sat the _cailin_ as mild\n As if nothing at all was gone wrong with me,\n And I just as wake as a child,\n To have her so cosy along with me.\n My arm around her I passed\n When I saw there was no one persaiving us--\n \u201cDon\u2019t you wish, dear,\u201d says I, at long last,\n \u201cThe Dohertys always were laving us?\u201d\n\n The words weren\u2019t out of my mouth\n When the thieves of musicians stopped playing,\n And the boys ruz a laugh and a shout,\n When they listened to what I was saying.\n Poor Mary as swift as a hare\n Ran off \u2019mong the girls and hid herself,\n And, except that I fell through the chair,\n I fairly forget what I did myself.\n\n The Dohertys scarce in New York\n Were landed, I\u2019m thinking, a week or more,\n When a wedding took place in West Cork,\n The like of it vainly you\u2019d seek before.\n Some day if my way you should pass,\n Step in--I\u2019ve a drop of the best of it;\n And while Mary is mixing a glass,\n I\u2019ll try and I\u2019ll tell you the rest of it.\n\n _Francis A. Fahy_ (1854).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cMY ARM AROUND HER I PASSED.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _HOW TO BECOME A POET._\n\n\nOf all the sayings which have misled mankind from the days of Adam to\nChurchill, not one has been more harmful than the old Latin one, \u201cA\npoet is born, not made.\u201d\n\nThe human intellect, it is said, may, by patient toil and study,\ngather laurels in all fields of knowledge save one--that of poesy. You\nmay, by dint of hard work, become a captain in the Salvation Army, a\ncorporation crossing-sweeper--ay, even an unsuccessful Chief Secretary\nfor Ireland; but no amount of labour or perseverance will win you the\nfavour of the Muses unless those fickle-minded ladies have presided\nat your birth, wrapped you, so to speak, in the swaddling clothes of\nmetre, and fashioned your first yells according to the laws of rhythm\nand rhyme.\n\nFoolish, fatal fallacy! How many geniuses has it not nipped in the\nbud--how many vaulting ambitions has it not brought to grief, what\ntreasures of melody has it not shut up for ever to mankind!\n\nHence the paucity of poetical contributions to the press, the eagerness\nof publishers to secure the slightest scrap of verse, the bashfulness\nand timidity of authors, who yet in their hearts are quite confident\nof their ability to transcend the best efforts of the \u201cstars\u201d of\nancient or modern song.\n\nNow the first thing that will strike you in reading poetical pieces is\nthe fact that nearly all the lines end in rhymed words, or words ending\nin similar sounds, such as \u201ckick, lick, stick,\u201d \u201cdrink, ink, wink,\u201d etc.\n\nThis constitutes the _real_ difference between prose and poetry.\nFor instance, the phrase, \u201cThe dread monarch stood on his head,\u201d is\nprose, but\n\n \u201cThe monarch dread\n Stood on his head\u201d\n\nis undeniable poetry.\n\nRhyme is, in fact, the chief or only feature in modern poetry. Get your\nendings to rhyme and you need trouble your head about little else.\nA certain amount of common sense is demanded by severe critics; the\ngeneral public, however, never look for it, would be astonished to find\nit, and, as a matter of fact, seldom or never do find it.\n\nBy careful study of the best authors you will soon discover what words\nrhyme with each other, and these you should diligently record in a\nsmall note-book, procurable at any respectable stationers for the\nridiculously small sum of one penny.\n\nFew researches afford keener intellectual pleasure than the discovery\nof rhymes, in such words, say, as \u201ccat, rat, Pat, scat\u201d; \u201cshed, head,\nsaid, dead,\u201d and it is excellent elementary training for the young poet\nto combine such words into versed sentences, and even sing them to a\npopular operatic air.\n\nFor example----\n\n \u201cWith that the cat\n Sprang at the rat,\n Whereat poor Pat\n Yelled out \u2018Iss-cat.\u2019\n\n The roof of the shed\n Fell plop on his head,\n No more he said,\n But fell down dead.\u201d\n\nThese first efforts of your muse are of high interest, and, although\nit would not be advisable to rush to press with them, they should be\nsedulously preserved for the use of future biographers, when fame,\nhonours, and emoluments shall have showered in upon you.\n\nA little caution is needed in the use of such rhymes as \u201cfire, higher,\nMaria,\u201d \u201cHannah, manner, dinner,\u201d \u201cfight, riot, quiet.\u201d There is\nexcellent authority for these, but it is well to recognise that an\nabsurd prejudice does exist against them.\n\nYou will soon make the profitable discovery that there is a host of\nwords, the members of which run, like beagles, in couples, the one\ninvariably suggesting the other, such as \u201cpeeler, squealer\u201d; \u201click,\nstick\u201d; \u201cIreland, sireland\u201d; \u201cocean, commotion,\u201d and so on.\n\n \u201c\u2019Twas then my bold peeler\n Made after the squealer;\u201d\n \u201cHe fetched him a lick\n Of a murdering stick;\u201d\n \u201cHis shriek spread from Ireland,\n My own beloved sireland;\u201d\n \u201cAnd raised a commotion\n Beyond the wide ocean.\u201d\n\nWere it not for such handy couplets as these, most of our modern bards\nwould be forced to earn their bread honestly.\n\nOf equal importance is \u201calliteration\u2019s artful aid.\u201d It consists in\nstringing together a number of words beginning with the same letter.\nA large school of our bards owe their fame to this figure. You should\nmake a free use of it. How effective are such phrases as, \u201cFor Freedom,\nFaith, and Fatherland we fight or fall\u201d; \u201cDear Dirty Dublin\u2019s damp and\ndreary dungeons\u201d; \u201cSoftly shone the setting sun in Summer splendour\u201d;\n\u201cBlow the blooming heather\u201d; \u201cWinter winds are wailing wildly.\u201d\n\nOf great effect at this stage of your progress will be the adroit and\nunstinted employment of such phrases as \u201cI wis,\u201d \u201cI wot,\u201d \u201cI trow,\u201d\n\u201cIn sooth,\u201d \u201cMethinks,\u201d \u201cOf yore,\u201d \u201cErstwhile,\u201d \u201cAlack,\u201d a plentiful\nsprinkling of which, like currants in a cake, will impart a quaint\npoetical flavour to your verses, making up for a total want of sense\nand sentiment. Observe their effect in the following admirable lines\nfrom Skott:--\n\n \u201cIt were, I ween, a bootless task to tell\n How here, of yore, in sooth, the foeman fell,\n Erstwhile the Paynim sank with eerie yell,\n Alack, in goodly guise, forsooth, to----.\u201d\n\nOf like value are words melodious in sound or poetical in suggestion,\nlike \u201cnightingale,\u201d \u201cmoonlight,\u201d \u201croundelay,\u201d \u201ctrill,\u201d \u201cdreamy,\u201d and so\non, which, freely used, throw a glamour over the imagination and lull\nthought, the chiefest value of verse nowadays.\n\n \u201cThere trills the nightingale his roundelay\n In dreamy moonlight till the dawn of day.\u201d\n\nNote that in poetic diction you must by no means \u201ccall a spade a\nspade.\u201d The statement of a plain fact is highly objectionable, and a\nroundabout expression has to be resorted to. For example, if a girl\nhave red hair, describe it as\n\n \u201cGlowing with the glory of the golden God of Day,\u201d\n\nor, if Nature has blest her with a \u201cpug-nose,\u201d you should, like\nTennyson, describe it as\n\n \u201cTip-tilted like the petal of a flower\u201d\n\nFor similar reasons words of mean significance have to be avoided. For\ninstance, for \u201cdead drunk,\u201d use \u201cspirituously disguised\u201d; for \u201cthirty\ndays in quad,\u201d \u201cone moon in durance vile.\u201d You may now be said to have\nmastered the rudiments of modern poetry, and your future course is easy.\n\nYou may now choose, although it is not at all essential, to write on a\nsubject conveying some meaning to your reader\u2019s mind. You would do well\nto try one of a familiar kind, or of personal or everyday interest,\nof which the following are specimens:--\u201cLines on beholding a dead rat\nin the street\u201d; \u201cImpromptu on being asked to have a drink\u201d; \u201cReverie\non being asked to stand one\u201d; \u201cEpitaph on my mother-in-law\u201d; \u201cOde to\nmy creditors\u201d; \u201cMorning soliloquy in a police cell\u201d; \u201cAcrostic on a\nshillelah.\u201d Through pieces of this character the soul of the writer\npermeates. Hence their abiding value and permanency on second-hand\nbookstalls; Then you may seek \u201cfresh woods and pastures new,\u201d and\nweave garlands in fields untrod by the ordinary bard. One of these\nis \u201cSpring.\u201d Conceive the idea of that season in your mind. Winter\ngone, Summer coming, coughs being cured, overcoats put up the spout,\nstreets dryer, coals cheaper, or--if you love nature--the strange facts\nof the leaves budding, winds surging, etc. Then probably the spirit\n(waterproof) of poesy will take possession of you, and you will blossom\ninto song as follows:--\n\n \u201c\u2019Tis the Spring! \u2019Tis the Spring!\n Little birds begin to sing.\n See! the lark is on the wing,\n The sun shines out like anything;\n And the sweet and tender lamb\n Skips beside his great big dam,\n While the rough and horny ram\n Thinketh single life a sham.\n Now the East is in the breeze,\n Now old maids begin to sneeze,\n Now the leaves are on the trees,\n Now I cannot choose but sing:\n Oh, \u2019tis Spring! \u2019tis Spring! \u2019tis Spring!\u201d\n\nVerses like the above have an intrinsic charm, but if you should think\nthem too trivial, you may soar into the higher regions of thought, and\nexpand your soul in epics on, say, \u201cThe Creation,\u201d \u201cThe Deluge,\u201d \u201cThe\nFall of Rome,\u201d \u201cThe Future of Man.\u201d You possibly know nothing whatever\nof those subjects, but that is an advantage, as you will bring a fresh\nunhackneyed mind to bear upon them.\n\nI need hardly tell you that there is one subject above all others\nwhose most fitting garb is poetry, and that is--Love. Fall in love if\nyou can. It is easy--nothing easier to a poet. He is mostly always\nin love, and with ten at a time. But if you cannot, or (hapless\nwretch!) if you find it an entirely one-sided affair--very little\nfree trade, and no reciprocity--ay, even if you be a married man who\nwalketh the floor of nights, and vainly seeketh to soothe the seventh\nolive-branch--despair not. To write of Love, needeth not to feel it.\nIf not in love, imagine you are. Extol in unmeasured terms the beauty\nof your adored one--matchless, as the pipe-bearing stranger in the\nstreet--peerless, as the American House of Representatives. Safely call\non mankind to produce her equal, and inform the world that you would\ngive up all its honours and riches (of which you own none) for the sake\nof your Dulcinea; but tell them not the fact that you would not forego\nyour nightly pipe and glass of rum punch for the best woman that ever\nbreathed. Cultivate a melancholy mood. Call the fair one all sorts of\nnames, heartless, cold, exacting--yourself, a miserable wight, hurrying\nhot haste to an early grave, and bid her come and shed unavailing\ntears there. At the same time keep your strength up, and don\u2019t forget\nyour four meals a day and a collation.\n\nI need not touch on the number of feet required in the various kinds of\nverse, as if a verse lacks a foot anywhere you are almost sure to put\nyours in it.\n\nAnd now to \u201ccast your lines in pleasant places.\u201d\n\nHaving fairly mastered the gamut of poetical composition, you will\nbe open to a few hints as to the publication of your effusions. It\nis often suggested that the opinion of a friend should be consulted\nat the outset as to their value. Of course you may do so, but, as\nfriends go nowadays, you must be prepared to ignore his verdict. It\nis now you will discover that even the judgment of your dearest and\nmost intellectual friend is not alone untrustworthy, but really below\ncontempt, and that what he styles his candour is nothing less than\nbrutality. I have known the greatest coolnesses ascribable to this\ncause, and the noblest offspring of the muse consigned to oblivion in\nweak deference to a friendly opinion. On the other hand, it is often of\ngreat value to read aloud your longest epics to some one who is in any\nway indebted to you and cannot well resent it.\n\nWhere the poet\u2019s corners of so many papers await you, the choice of\na medium to convey your burning thoughts to the world will be easily\nmade. You will scarcely be liable, I hope, to the confusion of mind of\na friend of mine who, in mistake, sent his \u201cOde to Death\u201d to the editor\nof a comic paper, and found it accepted as eminently suitable.\n\nYou should write your poem carefully on superfine paper with as little\nblotting, scratching, and bad spelling as you can manage.\n\nTo smooth the way to insertion, you might also write a conciliatory\nnote to the editor, somewhat in this vein:--\n\n \u201cRESPECTED SIR,--It is with much diffidence that a\n young poet of seventeen (_no mention of the wife and five\n children_) begs to send you his first attempt to woo the\n Muses (_it may be your eighty-first, but no matter_).\n Hoping the same may be deemed worthy of insertion in the\n widely-read columns of your admirable journal, with whose\n opinions I have the great pleasure of being in thorough accord\n (_you may have never read a line of it before_), I have the\n honour to be, respected sir, your obedient, humble servant,\n\n \u201cHOMER.\n\n \u201cP.S.--If inserted, kindly affix my full name as A. B.; if not,\n my _nom-de-plume_, \u2018Homer.\u2019\n\n \u201cN.B.--If inserted send me twenty copies of your valuable\n paper.--HOMER.\u201d\n\nIt will be vain to attempt to describe your feelings from the time you\npost that letter until you know the result of your venture. Your reason\nis unhinged; you cannot rest or sleep. You hang about that newspaper\noffice for hours before the expected edition is out of the press. At\nlast it appears. Trembling with eagerness you seize the coveted issue,\nand disregarding the \u201cDouble Murder and Suicide in----,\u201d the \u201cCollapse\nof the Bank of----,\u201d the \u201cOutbreak of War between France and Germany,\u201d\nyou dash to the poet\u2019s corner and search with dazed eyes for your fate.\n\nYou may have vaguely heard, at some period of your life, of the mean,\npetty jealousies that befoul the clear current of journalism, and frown\ndown new and aspiring talent, however promising, and you may have\nindignantly refused to believe such statements. Alas! now shall you\nfeel the full force of their truth in your own person.\n\nYou look for your poem blindly, confusedly--amazed, bewildered,\ndisgusted! You turn that paper inside out, upside down; you search in\nthe Parliamentary debates, in the Money Market, in the Births, Deaths,\nand Marriages, in the advertisements--everywhere. No sign of it!\n\nWith your heart in your boots you turn to the \u201cAnswers to\nCorrespondents,\u201d there to find your _nom-de-plume_ heading some\nscurrilous inanity from the editorial chair, of one or other of the\nfollowing patterns:--\n\n \u201cHomer--_Don\u2019t_ try again!\u201d\n\n \u201cHomer--Sweet seventeen. So young, so innocent. Hence we spare\n you.\u201d\n\n \u201cHomer--Have you no friends to look after you?\u201d\n\n \u201cHomer--Do you really expect us to ruin this paper?\u201d\n\n \u201cHomer--Send it to the _Telegraph_ man. We have a grudge\n against him?\u201d\n\n \u201cHomer--The 71st _Ode to Spring_ this year! And yet we\n live.\u201d\n\nWhile it would be quite natural to indulge in any number of \u201ccuss\u201d\nwords, your best plan will be to veil your wrath, and, refraining from\nsmashing the editorial windows, write the editor a studiously polite\nletter, asking him to be good enough to point out for your benefit any\nerrors or defects in the poem submitted to him. This will fairly corner\nhim, and he will probably be driven to disclose his meanness in the\nnext issue:--\n\n \u201cHomer--If you will engage to pay for the working of this\n journal during the twelve months it would take us to explain the\n defects in your poem, we are quite willing to undertake the job.\u201d\n\nInsults and disappointments like these are the ordinary lot of rising\ngenius, and should only nerve you to greater efforts. Perseverance will\nultimately win, though it may not deserve, success.\n\nAnd who shall paint the joy that will irradiate life when you find\nyourself in print for the first time? who shall describe the delirium\nof reading your own verses? a delight leading you almost to forgive the\nprinter\u2019s error which turns your \u201cblessed rule\u201d into \u201cblasted fool,\u201d\nand your \u201cSpring quickens\u201d into \u201cSpring Chickens\u201d; who will count the\ncopies of that paper you will send to all your friends?\n\nBy-and-by your fame spreads and you rank of the _\u00e9lite_; you\nassume the air and manners of a poet. You wear your hair long (it\nsaves barber\u2019s charges). You are fond of solitary walks, communing\nwith yourself (or somebody else). You assume a rapt and abstracted air\nin society (when asked to stand a drink). You despise mere mundane\nmatters (debts, engagements, and the like). Your eyes have a far-away\nlook (when you meet a poor relation). When people talk of Tennyson,\nBrowning, Swinburne, etc., you smile pityingly, and say: \u201cAh, yes! Poor\nAlfred (or Robert or Algernon, as the case may be); he means well--he\nmeans well;\u201d and you ask your friends if they have read your \u201cSpirit\nReveries,\u201d and if not, you immediately produce it from your pocket,\nand read it (never be without copies of your latest pieces for this\npurpose).\n\nAnd now farewell and God-speed. You are on the high road to renown.\n\n \u201cFarewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,\n They crown you with laurels and throne you in power,\n Oh, think of the friend who first guided your way,\n And set you such rules you could not go astray,\n And who, as reward, doth but one favour claim,\n That you _won\u2019t_ dedicate your first vol. to his name.\u201d\n\n _Francis A. Fahy._\n\n\n\n\n _THE DONOVANS._\n\n\n If you would like to see the height of hospitality,\n The cream of kindly welcome and the core of cordiality;\n Joys of old times are you wishing to recall again?--\n Oh! come down to Donovan\u2019s, and there you\u2019ll meet them all again!\n\n\n _Chorus._\n\n _Cead mille failte_[44] they\u2019ll give you down at Donovan\u2019s,\n As cheery as the spring-time, and Irish as the _ceanabhan_;[45]\n The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one--\n That every luck in life may linger with the Donovans.\n\n Soon as you lift the latch, little ones are meeting you;\n Soon as you\u2019re \u2019neath the thatch, kindly looks are greeting you;\n Scarce have you time to be holding out the fist to them--\n Down by the fireside you\u2019re sitting in the midst of them!\n\n There sits the grey old man, so _flaitheamhail_[46] and so handsome,\n There sit his sturdy sons, well worth a monarch\u2019s ransom;\n Songs the night long, you may hear your heart\u2019s desire of them,\n Tales of old times they will tell you till you tire of them.\n\n There bustles round the room the _lawhee_-est[47] of\n _vanithees_,[48]\n Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to please;\n In vain to maintain you won\u2019t have a _deorin_[49] more again--\n She\u2019ll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o\u2019er again.\n\n There smiles the _cailin deas_[50]--oh! where on earth\u2019s the peer\n of her?\n The modest grace, the sweet face, the humour and the cheer of her?\n Eyes like the skies, when but twin stars beam above in them--\n Oh! proud may be the boy that\u2019s to light the lamp of love in them.\n\n Then when you rise to go, \u2019tis \u201cAh, then, now, sit down again!\u201d\n \u201cIsn\u2019t it the haste you\u2019re in,\u201d and \u201cWon\u2019t you come round soon\n again?\u201d\n Your _cothamor_[51] and hat you had better put astray from them--\n The hardest job in life is to tear yourself away from them!\n\n _Francis A. Fahy._\n\n [Illustration: \u201cSHE\u2019LL NEVER LET YOU REST TILL YOUR GLASS IS\n BRIMMING O\u2019ER AGAIN.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES._\n\n\n When my first troubles in life I began to know,\n Spry as a chick newly out of the shell,\n Nothing I longed for so much as a man to grow,\n Sharing his joys and his sorrows as well.\n Now that the high tide of life\u2019s on the slack again,\n Pleasure\u2019s deep draught drained down to the lees,\n Dearly I wish I had the days back again,\n When I wore petticoats down to my knees!\n\n Well do I mind the day I donned trousereens,\n My proud mother cried \u201cWe\u2019ll soon be a man!\u201d\n Little we know what fate has in store for us--\n Troth, it was then that my troubles began.\n Cramped up in clothes, little comfort or ease I find,\n Crippled and crushed, almost frightened to sneeze!\n Oh to have back my old freedom and peace of mind,\n When I wore petticoats down to my knees!\n\n Now must I walk many miles for an appetite,\n And after all find my journey in vain--\n Oh for the days when howe\u2019er you might wrap it tight\n My school lunch was ate at the end of the lane!\n Now scarce a wink of sleep on the best of nights,\n Worried in mind and ill at my ease,\n Headache or heartache ne\u2019er troubled my rest of nights\n When I wore petticoats down to my knees!\n\n Once of my days I thought girls were nuisances,\n Petting and coaxing and ruffling your brow,\n Now Love the rogue runs away with my few senses,\n Vainly I wish they would fondle me now!\n Idols I worship with ardour unshakeable,\n But none of all half so fitted to please\n As the poor toys full of sawdust and breakable,\n When I wore petticoats down to my knees!\n\n Little I cared then for doings political,\n The ebb or the flow of the popular tides,\n Europe might quake in convulsions most critical--\n I had my bread buttered well on both sides.\n Now must I wander for themes for my puny verse\n Over earth\u2019s continents, islands and seas;\n Small stock I took of affairs of the universe,\n When I wore petticoats down to my knees!\n\n Life is a puzzle and man is a mystery,\n He that would solve them a wizard need be;\n Precepts lie thick in the pathways of history,\n This is the lesson that life has taught me.\n Man ever longs for the dawn of a golden day,\n Visions of joy in futurity sees,\n Ah! he enjoyed Life\u2019s cream in the olden day,\n When he wore petticoats down to his knees!\n\n _Francis A. Fahy_\n\n\n\n\n _MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS._\n\n AT A GIRL\u2019S SCHOOL--THE TONIC SOL-FA METHOD--PAYING AT THE\n DOOR--FLORAL OFFERINGS--DOROTHISIS.\n\n\nLast Tuesday, when turning over my invitations, I found a card\naddressed to me, not in my ancestral title of Di Bassetto, but in\nthe assumed name under which I conceal my identity in the vulgar\nbusiness of life. It invited me to repair to a High School for Girls\nin a healthy south-western suburb, there to celebrate the annual\nprize-giving with girlish song and recitation. Here was exactly the\nthing for a critic. \u201cNow is the time,\u201d I exclaimed to my astonished\ncolleagues, \u201cto escape from our stale iterations of how Mr. Santley\nsang \u2018The Erl King,\u2019 and Mr. Sims Reeves \u2018Tom Bowling\u2019; of how the same\nold orchestra played Beethoven in C minor or accompanied Mr. Henschel\nin Pogner\u2019s \u2018Johannistag\u2019 song, or Wotan\u2019s \u2018Farewell\u2019 and \u2018Fire Charm.\u2019\nOur business is to look with prophetic eye past these exhausted\ncontemporary subjects into the next generation--to find out how much\nbeauty and artistic feeling is growing up for the time when we shall be\nobsolete fogies, mumbling anecdotes of the funerals of our favourites.\u201d\nWill it be credited that the sanity of my project and the good taste of\nmy remarks were called in question, and that I was absolutely the only\neminent critic who went to the school!\n\nI found the school on the margin of a common, with which I have one\nineffaceable association. It is not my custom to confine my critical\nopinions to the columns of the Press. In my public place I am ever\nready to address my fellow-citizens orally until the police interfere.\nNow, it happens that once, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I addressed\na crowd on this very common for an hour, at the expiry of which a\nfriend took round a hat, and actually collected sixteen shillings and\nninepence. The opulence and liberality of the inhabitants were thus\nvery forcibly impressed on me; and when, last Tuesday, I made my way\nthrough a long corridor into the crowded schoolroom, my first thought,\nas I surveyed the row of parents, was whether any of them had been\namong the contributors to that memorable hatful of coin. My second was\nwhether the principal of the school would have been pleased to see me\nhad she known of the sixteen and ninepence.\n\nWhen the sensation caused by my entrance had subsided somewhat, we\nsettled down to a performance which consisted of music and recitation\nby the rising generation, and speechification by the risen one. The\nrising generation had the best of it. Whenever the girls did anything,\nwe were delighted; whenever an adult began, we were bored to the very\nverge of possible endurance. The deplorable member of Parliament who\ngave away the prizes may be eloquent in the House of Commons; but\nbefore that eager, keen, bright, frank, unbedevilled, unsophisticated\naudience he quailed, he maundered, he stumbled, wanted to go on and\ncouldn\u2019t, wanted to stop and didn\u2019t, and finally collapsed with a few\nremarks to the effect that he felt proud of himself, which struck me as\nbeing the most uncalled-for remark I ever heard, even from an M.P. The\nchairman was self-possessed, not to say hardened. He quoted statistics\nabout Latin, arithmetic and other sordid absurdities, specially\nextolling the aptitude of the female mind since 1868 for botany. I\nincited a little girl near me to call out \u201cTime\u201d and \u201cQuestion,\u201d but\nshe shook her head shyly, and said \u201cMiss---- would be angry;\u201d so he\nhad his say out. Let him deliver that speech next Sunday on the common,\nand he will not get 16s. 9d. He will get stoned.\n\nBut the rest of the programme was worth a dozen ordinary concerts.\nIt is but a few months since I heard Schubert\u2019s setting of \u201cThe\nLord is my Shepherd\u201d sung by the Crystal Palace Choir to Mr. Manns\u2019\nappropriate and beautiful orchestral transcript of the accompaniment;\nbut here a class of girls almost obliterated that memory by singing\nthe opening strain with a purity of tone quite angelic. If they could\nonly have kept their attention concentrated long enough, it might have\nbeen equally delightful all through. But girlhood is discursive; and\nthose who were not immediately under the awful eye of the lady who\nconducted, wandered considerably from Schubert\u2019s inspiration after a\ntime, although they stuck to his notes most commendably. Yet for all\nthat I can safely say that if there is a little choir like that in\nevery High School the future is guaranteed. We were much entertained\nby a composition of Jensen\u2019s, full of octaves and chords, which was\nassaulted and vanquished after an energetic bout of fisticuffs by an\ninfant pianist, who will not be able to reach the pedals for years to\ncome.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI need hardly say that my remarks about the Tonic Sol-fa have brought\nletters upon me insisting on the attractive simplicity of the notation,\nand even inviting me to learn it at once. This reminds me of a sage\nwhom I consulted in my youth as to how I might achieve the formation of\na perfect character. \u201cYoung man,\u201d he said, \u201care you a vegetarian?\u201d I\npromptly said \u201cYes,\u201d which took him aback. (I subsequently discovered\nthat he had a weakness for oysters.) \u201cYoung man,\u201d he resumed, \u201chave\nyou mastered Pitman\u2019s shorthand?\u201d I told him that I could write it\nvery nearly as fast as longhand, but that I could not read it; and\nhe admitted that this was about the maximum of human attainment in\nphonography. \u201cYoung man,\u201d he went on, \u201cdo you understand phrenology?\u201d\nThis was a facer, as I knew nothing about it, but I was determined not\nto be beaten, so I declared that it was my favourite pursuit, and that\nI had been attracted to him by the noble character of his bumps. \u201cYoung\nman,\u201d he continued, \u201cyou are indeed high on the Mount of Wisdom. There\nremains but one accomplishment to the perfection of your character.\nAre you an adept at the Tonic Sol-fa system?\u201d This was too much. I got\nup in a rage, and said, \u201cOh, d--the Tonic Sol-fa system!\u201d Then we came\nto high words, and our relations have been more or less strained ever\nsince. I have always resolutely refused to learn Tonic Sol-fa, as I am\ndetermined to prove that it is possible to form a perfect character\nwithout it.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe other evening I went to the Wind Instrument Society\u2019s concert at\nthe Royal Academy of Music in Tenterden Street. Having only just heard\nof the affair from an acquaintance, I had no ticket. The concert, as\nusual, had been kept dark from me; Bassetto the Incorruptible knows\ntoo much to be welcome to any but the greatest artists. I therefore\npresented myself at the doors for admission on payment as a casual\namateur. Apparently the wildest imaginings of the Wind Instrument\nSociety had not reached to such a contingency as a Londoner offering\nmoney at the doors to hear classical chamber music played upon\nbassoons, clarionets, and horns; for I was told that it was impossible\nto entertain my application, as the building had no licence. I\nsuggested sending out for a licence; but this, for some technical\nreason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with the licence; but\nthey said it would expose them to penal servitude. Perceiving by this\nthat it was a mere question of breaking the law, I insisted on the\nsecretary accompanying me to the residence of a distinguished Q.C. in\nthe neighbourhood, and ascertaining from him how to do it. The Q.C.\nsaid that if I handed the secretary five shillings at the door in\nconsideration of being admitted to the concert, that would be illegal.\nBut if I bought a ticket from him in the street, that would be legal.\nOr, if I presented him with five shillings in remembrance of his last\nbirthday, and he gave me a free admission in celebration of my silver\nwedding, that would be legal. Or, if we broke the law without witnesses\nand were prepared to perjure ourselves if questioned afterwards (which\nseemed to me the most natural way), then nothing could happen to us. I\ncannot without breach of faith explain which course we adopted; suffice\nit that I was present at the concert.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI went to the Prince of Wales\u2019 Theatre on Wednesday afternoon to hear\nthe students of the Royal College of Music.... I am sorry to say that\nthe bad custom of bouquet-throwing was permitted; and need I add that\nan American _prima donna_ was the offender? What do you mean,\nMadame----, by teaching the young idea how to get bouquets shied? After\nthe manner of her countrymen this _prima donna_ travels with\nenormous wreaths and baskets of flowers, which are handed to her at the\nconclusion of her pieces. And no matter how often this happens, she is\nnever a whit the less astonished and delighted to see the flowers come\nup. They say that the only artist who never gets accustomed to his part\nis the performing flea who fires a cannon, and who is no less dismayed\nand confounded by the three-hundredth report than by the first. Now,\nit may be ungallant, coarse--brutal even; but whenever I see the fair\nAmerican thrown into raptures by her own flower-basket, I always think\nof the flea thrown into convulsions by his own cannon. And so, dear\nbut silly American ladies, be persuaded, and drop it. Nobody except\nthe very greenest of greenhorns is taken in; and the injury you do\nto your own artistic self-respect by condescending to take him in is\nincalculable. Just consider for a moment how insanely impossible it is\nthat a wreath as big as a cart-wheel could be the spontaneous offering\nof an admiring stranger. One consolation is, that if the critics cannot\ncontrol the stars, they can at least administer the stripes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLast Saturday evening, feeling the worse for want of change and country\nair, I happened to voyage in the company of an eminent dramatic critic\nas far as Greenwich. Hardly had we inhaled the refreshing ozone of\nthat place ninety seconds when, suddenly finding ourselves opposite\na palatial theatre, gorgeous with a million gaslights, we felt that\nit was idiotic to have been to Wagner\u2019s Theatre at Bayreuth and yet\nbe utterly ignorant concerning Morton\u2019s Theatre at Greenwich. So we\nrushed into the struggling crowd at the doors, only to be informed that\nthe theatre was full. Stalls full, dress circle full; pit, standing\nroom only. As the eminent dramatic critic habitually sleeps during\nperformances, and is subject to nightmare when he sleeps standing, the\npit was out of the question. Was there room anywhere? we asked. Yes, in\na private box or in the gallery. Which was the cheaper? The gallery,\ndecidedly. So up we went to the gallery, where we found two precarious\nperches vacant at the side. It was rather like trying to see Trafalgar\nSquare from the knife-board of an omnibus half-way up St. Martin\u2019s\nLane; but by hanging on to a stanchion, and occasionally standing with\none foot on the seat and the other on the backs of the people in the\nfront row, we succeeded in seeing as much of the entertainment as we\ncould stand.\n\nThe first thing we did was to purchase a bill, which informed us that\nwe were in for \u201cthe entirely original pastoral comedy-opera in three\nacts, entitled \u2018Dorothy,\u2019 which has been played to crowded houses in\nLondon 950, and (still playing) in the provinces 788 times.\u201d This\nplaybill, I should add, was thoughtfully decorated with a view of the\ntheatre showing all the exits, for use in case of a reduction to ashes\nduring performing hours. From it we further learnt that we should be\nregaled by an augmented and powerful orchestra; that the company was\n\u201cNo. 1\u201d; that---- believes he is now the only HATTER in the county of\nKent that exists on the profits arising solely from the sale of HATS\nand CAPS; and so on. Need I add that the eminent one and I sat bursting\nwith expectation until the overture began. I cannot truthfully say\nthat the augmented and powerful orchestra proved quite so augmented\nor so powerful as the composer could have wished; but let that pass;\nI disdain the cheap sport of breaking a daddy-long-legs on a wheel\n(butterfly is out of the question, it was such a dingy band). My object\nis rather to call attention to the condition to which 788 nights of\nDorothying have reduced the unfortunate wanderers of \u201cNo. 1 Company.\u201d\nI submit to the manager of these companies that in his own interest\nhe should take better care of No. 1. Here are several young persons\ndoomed to spend the flower of their years in mechanically repeating the\nsilliest libretto in modern theatrical literature, set to music which\nmust pall somewhat on the seven hundred and eighty-eighth performance.\n\nAs might have been expected, a settled weariness of life, an utter\nperfunctoriness, an unfathomable inanity pervaded the very souls of\n\u201cNo. 1.\u201d The tenor, originally, I have no doubt, a fine young man, but\nnow cherubically adipose, was evidently counting the days until death\nshould release him from the part of Wilder. He had a pleasant speaking\nvoice; and his affability and forbearance were highly creditable to him\nunder the circumstances; but Nature rebelled in him against the loathed\nstrains of a seven-hundred-times repeated _r\u00f4le_. He omitted the\nsong in the first act, and sang \u201cThough born a man of high degree,\u201d\nas if with the last rally of an energy decayed and a willing spirit\ncrashed. The G at the end was as a vocal earthquake. And yet methought\nhe was not displeased when the inhabitants of Greenwich, coming fresh\nto the slaughter, encored him. The baritone had been affected the other\nway; he was thin and worn; and his clothes had lost their lustre. He\nsang \u201cQueen of my heart\u201d twice in a hardened manner, as one who was\nprepared to sing it a thousand times in a thousand quarter-hours for\na sufficient wager. The comic part, being simply that of a circus\nclown transferred to the lyric stage, is better suited for infinite\nrepetition; and the gentleman who undertook it addressed a comic lady\ncalled Priscilla as \u201cSarsaparilla\u201d during his interludes between the\n_haute-\u00e9cole_ acts of the _prima donna_ and tenor, with a\ndelight in the rare aroma of the joke, and in the roars of laughter\nit elicited, which will probably never pall. But anything that he\nhimself escaped in the way of tedium was added tenfold to his unlucky\ncolleagues, who sat out his buffooneries with an expression of deadly\nmalignity. I trust the gentleman may die in his bed; but he would be\nunwise to build too much on doing so. There is a point at which tedium\nbecomes homicidal mania.\n\nThe ladies fared best. The female of the human species has not yet\ndeveloped a conscience: she will apparently spend her life in artistic\nself-murder by induced Dorothisis without a pang of remorse, provided\nshe be praised and paid regularly. Dorothy herself, a beauteous\nyoung lady of distinguished mien, with an immense variety of accents\nranging from the finest Tunbridge Wells English (for genteel comedy)\nto the broadest Irish (for repartee and low comedy), sang without the\nslightest effort and without the slightest point, and was all the more\ndesperately vapid because she suggested artistic gifts wasting in\ncomplacent abeyance. Lydia\u2019s voice, a hollow and spectral contralto,\nalone betrayed the desolating effect of perpetual Dorothy; her figure\nretained a pleasing plumpness akin to that of the tenor; and her\nspirits were wonderful, all things considered. The chorus, too, seemed\nhappy; but that was obviously because they did not know any better.\nThe pack of hounds employed darted in at the end of the second act,\nevidently full of the mad hope of finding something new going on; and\ntheir depression when they discovered it was \u201cDorothy\u201d again, was\npitiable. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should\ninterfere. If there is no law to protect men and women from \u201cDorothy,\u201d\nthere is at least one that can be strained to protect dogs.\n\n _George Bernard Shaw_ (1856).\n\n\n\n\n FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.\n\n\nWance upon a time, an\u2019 a very good time it was too, there was a dacent\nlittle man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.\n\nAt the time I spayke of, an\u2019 indeed for a long spell before it, most\nof Paddy\u2019s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an\u2019 the sheep\nthat didn\u2019t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot.\nBut Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an\u2019 he\nstuck to the ould faith like a poor man\u2019s plasther.\n\nWell, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh\nnumbered, so he tuk to the bed an\u2019 sent for the priest; an\u2019 thin he\nsettled himself down to aise his conscience an\u2019 to clear the road in\nthe other world by manes of a good confession.\n\nHe reeled off his sins, mortial an\u2019 vanyial, to the priest by the yard,\nan\u2019 begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a\nbad boy he\u2019d been, an\u2019 what a hape of quare things he\u2019d done in his\ntime--though, as I\u2019ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his\nway, only, you see, bein\u2019 so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk\nan onaisy view of all his sayin\u2019s and doin\u2019s. Poor Paddy--small blame\nto him--was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old\nage, for he\u2019d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.\n\nWell, whin he\u2019d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an\u2019 whin Father\nMcGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent\nhis head to get the absolution, an\u2019 lo an\u2019 behold you! before the\npriest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory\nto poor Paddy, the life wint out of the man\u2019s body.\n\nIt seems \u2019twas a busy mornin\u2019 in heaven, an\u2019 as soon as Father McGrath\nbegan to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy\nPower\u2019s name on the due-book. However, we\u2019ll come to that part of the\nstory by-an\u2019-by.\n\nAnyhow, up goes Paddy, an\u2019 before he knew where he was he found himself\nstandin\u2019 outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed\nthere \u2019ud be throuble, but he thought he\u2019d put a bowld face on, so he\ngives a hard double-knock at the door, an\u2019 a holy saint shoves back the\nslide an\u2019 looks out at him through an iron gratin\u2019.\n\n\u201cGod save all here!\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cGod save you kindly!\u201d says the saint.\n\n\u201cMaybe I\u2019m too airly?\u201d says Paddy, dhreadin\u2019 all the time that \u2019tis the\ncowld showlder he\u2019d get.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis naither airly nor late here,\u201d says the saint, \u201cpervidin\u2019 you\u2019re\non the way-bill. What\u2019s yer name?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cPaddy Power,\u201d says the little man from Portlaw.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s so many of that name due here,\u201d says the saint, \u201cthat I must\nax you for further particulars.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re quite welcome, your reverence,\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your occupation?\u201d says the saint.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cI can turn my hand to anything in raison.\u201d\n\n\u201cA kind of Jack-of all-thrades?\u201d says the saint.\n\n\u201cNot exactly that,\u201d says Paddy, thinkin\u2019 the saint was thryin\u2019 to make\nfun of him. \u201cIn fact,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019m a general dayler.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 what do you generally dale in?\u201d axes the saint.\n\n\u201cAll\u2019s fish that comes to my net,\u201d says Paddy, thinkin\u2019, of coorse,\n\u2019twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 is it a fisherman you are, thin?\u201d axes the saint.\n\n\u201cWell, no,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cthough I\u2019ve done a little huckstherin\u2019 in fish\nin my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo tell you the thruth,\u201d says the saint, \u201cI\u2019m not over fond of general\ndaylin\u2019, but of coorse my private feelin\u2019s don\u2019t intherfere wud my\nduties here. I\u2019m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but\nthat\u2019s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,\u201d\nsays he.\n\n\u201cIt must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,\u201d says Paddy,\n\u201cto be on the door from mornin\u2019 till night.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis,\u201d says the saint, \u201cof a busy day--but I must go an\u2019 have a look\nat the books. Paddy Power is your name?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cYis,\u201d says Paddy; \u201can\u2019, though \u2019tis meself that says it, I\u2019m not\nashamed of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 where are you from?\u201d axes the saint.\n\n\u201cFrom the parish of Portlaw,\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cI never heard tell of it,\u201d says the saint, bitin\u2019 his thumb.\n\n\u201cSure it couldn\u2019t be expected you would, sir,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cfor it lies\nat the back of God-speed.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, stand there, Paddy _avic_,\u201d says the holy saint, \u201can\u2019 I\u2019ll\nhave a good look at the books.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod bless you!\u201d says Paddy. \u201cWan \u2019ud think \u2019twas born in Munsther you\nwor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin\u2019.\u201d\n\nFaix, Paddy was beginnin\u2019 to dhread that his name wouldn\u2019t be found on\nthe books at all on account of his not havin\u2019 complate absolution, so\nhe thought \u2019twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper\nof the kays.\n\nThe saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called\nhim Saint Pether he lifted his head an\u2019 he put his face to the wicket\nagain, an\u2019 there was a cunnin\u2019 twinkle in his eye.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 so you thinks \u2019tis Saint Pether I am?\u201d says he.\n\n\u201cOf coorse, your reverence,\u201d says Paddy; \u201can\u2019 \u2019tis a rock of sense I\u2019m\ntowld you are.\u201d\n\nWell, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an\u2019 says he--\n\n\u201cNow, it\u2019s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below\nthinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think,\nPaddy,\u201d says he, \u201cthat Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way\nto pass the time except by standin\u2019 here in the cowld from year\u2019s end\nto year\u2019s end, openin\u2019 the gates of Paradise?\u201d\n\n\u201cBegor,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cthat never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of\ncoorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An\u2019 might\nI ax your reverence,\u201d says he, \u201cwhat your own name is? an\u2019 I hopes\nyou\u2019ll pardon my ignorance.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t mintion that,\u201d says the saint; \u201cbut I\u2019d rather not tell you my\nname, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlaize yourself an\u2019 you\u2019ll plaize me, sir,\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,\u201d says the saint.\n\nFindin\u2019 the saint was such a nice agreeable man an\u2019 such an iligant\ndiscoorser, Paddy thought he\u2019d venture on a few remarks just to dodge\nthe time until some other poor sowl \u2019ud turn up an\u2019 give him the chance\nto slip into Paradise unbeknownst--for he knew that wance he got in by\nhook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it\nagain. So says he--\n\n\u201cMight I ax what Saint Pether is doin\u2019 just now?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s at a hurlin\u2019 match,\u201d says the deputy.\n\n\u201cOh, murdher!\u201d says Paddy, \u201ccouldn\u2019t I get a peep at the match while\nyou\u2019re examinin\u2019 the books?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m afeard not,\u201d says the saint, shakin\u2019 his head. \u201cBesides,\u201d says he,\n\u201cI think the fun is nearly over by this time.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs there often a hurlin\u2019 match here?\u201d axes Paddy.\n\n\u201cWance a year,\u201d says the saint. \u201cYou see,\u201d says he, pointin\u2019 over his\nshowldher wud his thumb, \u201cthey have all nationalities in here, and\nthey plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint\u2019s day, if you\nundherstand me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d says Paddy. \u201cAn\u2019 sure enough \u2019twas Saint Pathrick\u2019s Day in\nthe mornin\u2019 whin I started from Portlaw, an\u2019 the last thing I did--of\ncoorse before tellin\u2019 my sins--was to dhrink my Pathrick\u2019s pot.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore power to you!\u201d says the saint.\n\n\u201cI suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says the saint. \u201cAich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates\non our own festival days.\u201d\n\n\u201cHoly Moses!\u201d shouts Paddy. \u201cThin \u2019tis to Saint Pathrick himself I\u2019ve\nbeen talkin\u2019 all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think\nI\u2019d live to see this day!\u201d\n\nBegor, the poor _angashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his\nhead to discover he was discoorsin\u2019 so fameeliarly wud the great Saint\nPathrick, an\u2019 the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the\nlittle man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn\u2019t let on to Paddy\nhow plaized he was. \u201cAh!\u201d says he, \u201csure we\u2019re all on an aiquality\nhere. You\u2019ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe heavens forbid,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cthat I\u2019d dhrame of ever being on an\naiquality wud your reverence! Begor, \u2019tis a joyful man I\u2019d be to be\nallowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality,\n_inagh_!\u201d[52] says he. \u201cSure what aiquality could there be between\nthe great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from\nPortlaw?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish there was more of \u2019em your way of thinkin\u2019, Paddy,\u201d says Saint\nPathrick, sighin\u2019 deeply.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 do you mane to tell me,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cthat any craychur inside\nthere \u2019ud dar\u2019 to put himself an an aiqual footin\u2019 wud yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do, thin,\u201d says Saint Pathrick; \u201can\u2019 worse than that,\u201d says he,\n\u201cthere\u2019s some of \u2019em thinks \u2019tis very small potatoes I am, in their\nown mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time\noccasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an\u2019 Saint Andhrew.\u201d\n\n\u201cBad luck to \u2019em both!\u201d said Paddy, intherruptin\u2019 him.\n\n\u201cWhisht!\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cI partly admires your sintiments, but I\nmust tell you there\u2019s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You\u2019ll feel\ncomplately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe divil a change could make me keep quiet,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cif I heard\nthe biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar\u2019 to\nput himself on a par wud you!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Paddy!\u201d says Saint Pathrick, \u201cyou mustn\u2019t allow your timper to get\nthe betther of you. \u2019Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at\ntimes agen your feelin\u2019s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou will,\u201d says Saint Pathrick; \u201cbut you mustn\u2019t disgrace our counthry\nby makin\u2019 a row wud aither of \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do my best,\u201d says Paddy, \u201cas \u2019tis yourself that axes me. An\u2019 is\nthere any more of \u2019em that thrates you wud contimpt?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, not many,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cAn\u2019 indeed,\u201d says he, \u201c\u2019tis\nonly an odd day we meets at all; an\u2019 I can tell you I\u2019m not a bad hand\nat takin\u2019 my own part--but there\u2019s wan fellow,\u201d says he, \u201cthat breaks\nmy _giddawn_ intirely.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 who is he? the bla\u2019guard!\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cA wondher you\u2019d be seen talkin\u2019 to the likes of him!\u201d says Paddy; \u201can\u2019\nwho is he at all?\u201d\n\n\u201cDid you never hear tell of him?\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cNever,\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says Saint Pathrick, \u201che made the worst bull----\u201d\n\n\u201cThin,\u201d says Paddy, interruptin\u2019 him in hot haste, \u201che\u2019s wan of\nourselves--more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by\nthe scruff of the neck!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhisht! I tell you!\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cPerhaps \u2019tis committin\u2019\na vaynial sin you are now, an\u2019 if that wor to come to Saint Pether\u2019s\nears, maybe he\u2019d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you--for he\u2019s a hard\nman sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin\u2019 his timper, or\ngetting impatient at the gates. An\u2019 moreover,\u201d says Saint Pathrick,\n\u201chimself an\u2019 this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both\nsat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.\u201d\n\n\u201cOuld Nick, is it?\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says Saint Pathrick, laughin\u2019. \u201cNick Brakespeare, I mane--the\nsame indeveedual I was tellin\u2019 you about.\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your reverence\u2019s pardon,\u201d says Paddy, \u201can\u2019 I hopes you\u2019ll excuse\nmy ignorance. But you wor goin\u2019 to give me an account of this hot\nargument you had wud the bla\u2019guard whin I put in my spoke.\u201d\n\nBegor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an\u2019 fearin\u2019 Paddy might\nthink they wor in the habit of squabblin\u2019 in heaven, he says, \u201cOf\ncoorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.\u201d\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 what was the frindly discussion about?\u201d axes Paddy.\n\n\u201cAbout this bull of his,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cThe mischief choke himself an\u2019 his cattle!\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cBegor,\u201d says Saint Pathrick, \u201c\u2019twas choked the poor man was, sure\nenough.\u201d\n\n\u201cMore power to the man that choked him!\u201d says Paddy. \u201cI hopes ye\ncanonised him.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twasn\u2019t a man at all,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cA faymale, perhaps?\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cFie, fie, Paddy,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cCome, guess again.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, I\u2019m a poor hand at guessin\u2019,\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cWell, \u2019twas a blue-bottle,\u201d says St. Pathrick.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 was it thryin\u2019 to swallow the bottle an\u2019 all he was?\u201d says Paddy.\n\u201cHe must have been \u2018a hard case.\u2019\u201d\n\nBegor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin\u2019, an\u2019 says he, \u201cYou\u2019ll make\nyour mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,\u201d\nsays Paddy.\n\n\u201cHush!\u201d says Saint Pathrick, puttin\u2019 his finger on his lips an\u2019 lookin\u2019\nvery solemn an\u2019 business-like. \u201cHere comes Saint Pether,\u201d he whispers,\nrattlin\u2019 the kays to show he was mindin\u2019 his duties. \u201cHe looks in\ngood-humour too; so it\u2019s in luck you are.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope so, at any rate,\u201d says Paddy; \u201cfor the clouds is very damp, an\u2019\nI\u2019m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, Pathrick,\u201d says Saint Pether, comin\u2019 up to the gates--Paddy\nPower could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of\nthe wicket--\u201chow goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?\u201d\n\n\u201cA very hard mornin\u2019,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cThey wor flockin\u2019 here\nas thick as flies at cock-crow--I mane,\u201d says he, gettin\u2019 very red in\nthe face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin\u2019 his fut in it wud\nSaint Pether, \u201cI mane just at daybreak.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s sthrange,\u201d says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, \u201cbut\nI\u2019ve noticed meself that there\u2019s often a great rush of people in the\nairly mornin\u2019; often I don\u2019t know whether it\u2019s on my head or my heels\nI do be standin\u2019 wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin\u2019 wan\nanother, an\u2019 bawlin\u2019 at me as if it was hard of hearin\u2019 I was.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did the match go?\u201d says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint\nPether\u2019s mind from his throubles.\n\n\u201cGrand!\u201d says Saint Pether, brightenin\u2019 up. \u201cHurlin\u2019 is a great game.\nIt takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who\u2019s that\noutside?\u201d catchin\u2019 sighth of Paddy Power.\n\n\u201cA poor fellow from Ireland,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cI dunno how we\u2019re to find room for all these Irishmen,\u201d says Saint\nPether, scratchin\u2019 his head. \u201c\u2019Twas only last week I gev ordhers to\nhave a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an\u2019 begor I\u2019m towld to-day\nthat \u2019tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the\npoor sowls. Did this chap come _vi\u00e2_ Purgathory?\u201d say he.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cThey sint him up direct.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is he?\u201d says Saint Pether.\n\n\u201cHis name is Paddy Power,\u201d says St. Pathrick. \u201cHe seems a dacent sort\nof craychur.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere\u2019s he from?\u201d axes Saint Pether.\n\n\u201cThe Parish of Portlaw,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\n\u201cPortlaw!\u201d says Saint Pether. \u201cWell, that\u2019s sthrange,\u201d says he, rubbin\u2019\nhis chin. \u201cYou know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge\nI never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s a thrifle wrong about it,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cHe\u2019s down on\nthe way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that case,\u201d says Saint Pether, \u201cwe\u2019d best be on the safe side, an\u2019\nsind him to Limbo for a spell.\u201d\n\nBegor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud\nthe fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an\u2019 he cries\nout in a pitiful voice--\n\n\u201cO blessed Saint Pether, don\u2019t be too hard on me. Sure even below,\nwhere the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin\u2019 boy, they\nalways allows him the benefit of the doubt, an\u2019 I gives you my word,\nyer reverence, \u2019twas only by an accident the slate wasn\u2019t rubbed clane.\nI know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the\nabsolution before the life wint out of my body. Don\u2019t dhrive a helpless\nould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail\nfor my good behaviour, I\u2019ll be bound; an\u2019 \u2019tis many the prayer I said\nto your own self below!\u201d\n\nFaix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin\u2019 way Paddy spoke, an\u2019\nturnin\u2019 to Saint Pathrick he says, \u201c\u2019Tis a quare case, sure enough. I\ndon\u2019t know that I ever remimber the like before, an\u2019 my memory is of\nthe best. I think we\u2019d do right to have a consultation over the affair\nbefore we decides wan way or the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, give the poor _angashore_ a chance,\u201d says Saint Pathrick.\n\u201c\u2019Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,\u201d says he, brightenin\u2019\nup as a thought sthruck him, \u201cyou say you never had a man before from\nthe parish of Portlaw, an\u2019 I remimber you towld me wance that you\u2019d\nlike to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.\u201d\n\n\u201cThrue enough,\u201d says Saint Pether; \u201can\u2019 maybe I\u2019d never have another\nchance from Portlaw.\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe not,\u201d says Saint Pathrick, humourin\u2019 him.\n\nSo Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket,\nan\u2019 goin\u2019 over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy\nPower.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take it on meself,\u201d says he, \u201cto docthor the books for this\nwance, only don\u2019t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fear,\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cDepind your life on me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s done, anyhow,\u201d says Saint Pether, puttin\u2019 the injy-rubber\nback into his pocket; \u201can\u2019 if you hands me over the kays, Pat,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cI\u2019ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over\nthe grounds.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a grand man you are!\u201d says Saint Pathrick. \u201cMy blessin\u2019 on you,\n_avic_!\u201d\n\n\u201cCome in, Paddy Power,\u201d says Saint Pether, openin\u2019 the gate; \u201can\u2019\nremimber always that you wouldn\u2019t be here for maybe nine hundred an\u2019\nninety-nine year or more only that you\u2019re the only offer we ever had\nfrom the Parish of Portlaw.\u201d\n\n _Edmund Downey_ (1856).\n\n [Illustration: \u201c\u2018COME IN, PADDY POWER,\u2019 SAYS SAINT PETHER,\n OPENIN\u2019 THE GATE.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _THE DANCE AT MARLEY._\n\n\n Murtagh Murphy\u2019s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,\n For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm\n them;\n In the kitchen thronged the girls--cheeks of roses, teeth of\n pearls--\n Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim\u2019s notes alarm\n them.\n Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,\n Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she the _bawnoge_\n entered,\n Where a _shass_ of straw was laid on a ladder raised that made\n A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them\n cantered.\n\n Murtagh and his _vanithee_[53] had their chairs brought in to see\n The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and\n laughter;\n In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright--\n The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!\n The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers\u2019 whispering sadly\n drowned,\n So the couples took their ground--their hearts already dancing!\n Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,\n Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.\n\n \u201cOff She Goes,\u201d \u201cThe Rocky Road,\u201d \u201cThe Tipsy House,\u201d and \u201cMiss\n McLeod,\u201d\n \u201cThe Devil\u2019s Dream,\u201d and \u201cJig Polthogue,\u201d \u201cThe Wind that Shakes\n the Barley,\u201d\n \u201cThe First o\u2019 May,\u201d \u201cThe Garran Bwee,\u201d \u201cTatther Jack Welsh,\u201d \u201cThe\n River Lee,\u201d--\n As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!\n Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigs _galore_,\n With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;\n But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,\n The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for \u201cFollow me up to\n Carlow.\u201d\n\n Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,\n Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as\n their glances;\n Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,\n Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.\n But young Nell would not be won, and a lover\u2019s chase came on--\n The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:\n Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,\n They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!\n\n Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,\n Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!\n The love-making I\u2019ve forgot in each cosy _saustagh_[54] spot--\n Yet now I think I\u2019d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.\n Everything must have an end, and the _girshas_[55] home did wend,\n With guarding brother and a friend--this last was absent rarely!\n Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening\u2019s mirth--\n Ne\u2019er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.\n\n _Patrick J. McCall_ (1861).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cFAST IN AND OUT THEY WHIRL AND WHEEL, ALL\n CAPERING AND PRANCING.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS._\n\n\nWance upon a time, when things was a great\u2019le betther in Ireland than\nthey are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four\nothers undher him to look afther the craps an\u2019 other industhries, there\nlived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev\nup bowin\u2019 and scrapin\u2019 to the sun an\u2019 moon an\u2019 sich like _raumash_\n(nonsense); an\u2019, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an\u2019\nDruids, an\u2019 enchanted min an\u2019 wimen goin\u2019 about, that med things quare\nenough betimes for iverywan.\n\nWell, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command,\nan\u2019 a purty likely lookin\u2019 boy, too--there was nothin\u2019 too hot or too\nheavy for him; an\u2019 so ye needn\u2019t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was\nthe mischief entirely wid the _colleens_. Nothin\u2019 delighted him\nmore than to disguise himself wid an ould _coatamore_ (overcoat)\nthrewn over his showlder, a lump ov a _kippeen_ (stick) in his\nfist an\u2019 he mayanderin\u2019 about unknownst, _rings around_ the\ncounthry, lookin\u2019 for fun an\u2019 _foosther_ (diversion) ov all kinds.\n\nWell, one fine mornin\u2019, whin he was _on the shaughraun_, he was\n_waumasin_\u2019 (strolling) about through Leinster, an\u2019 near the\nroyal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords\nan\u2019 ladies, an\u2019, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their\njewels shinin\u2019 like dewdrops ov a May mornin\u2019, and laughin\u2019 like the\ntinkle ov a _deeshy_ (small) mountain strame over the white rocks.\nSo he cocked his beaver, an\u2019 stole over to see what was the matther.\n\nLo an\u2019 behould ye, what were they at but houldin\u2019 a race-meetin\u2019\nor _faysh_ (festival)--somethin\u2019 like what the quality calls\n_atal\u00e9ticks_ now! There they were, jumpin\u2019, and runnin\u2019, and\ncoorsin\u2019, an\u2019 all soorts ov fun, enough to make the trouts--an\u2019\nthey\u2019re mighty fine leppers enough--die wid envy in the river benaith\nthem.\n\nThe fun wint on fast an\u2019 furious, an\u2019 Fan, consaled betune the\n_trumauns_ an\u2019 _brushna_ (elder bushes and furze), could\nhardly keep himself quiet, seein\u2019 the thricks they wor at. Peepin\u2019 out,\nhe seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself,\nbetune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin\u2019\n_geersha_ (girl) with goold hair like the furze an\u2019 cheeks like\nan apple blossom, an\u2019 she brakin\u2019 her heart laughin\u2019 an\u2019 clappin\u2019\nher hands an\u2019 turnin\u2019 her head this a-way an\u2019 that a-way, jokin\u2019 wid\nthis wan an\u2019 that wan, an\u2019 commiseratin\u2019, _moryah_![56] the poor\n_gossoons_ that failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her\nwell, an\u2019 whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an\u2019\njumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov\nall kem on. Maybe you\u2019d guess what that was? But I\u2019m afeerd you won\u2019t\nif I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot\nwide!\n\nList\u2019nin\u2019 to them whisperin\u2019 to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin\u2019\nthat whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely\nov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an\u2019 ov coorse, wud be\nmed king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his\ntoes an\u2019 looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well,\nwhin Fan h\u2019ard this, he was put _to a nonplush_ (considering) to\nknow what to do! With his ould _duds_ (clothes) on him, he was\nashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the\nwhole wurruld on him, an\u2019 his heart wint down to his big toe as he\nwatched the boys makin\u2019 their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them\nwas soople enough for the job, an\u2019 they kep on tumblin\u2019, wan afther\nthe other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look\nsorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a _coolyeen_ (curls)\na yard long--an\u2019 more be token he was a boy o\u2019 the Byrnes from\nImayle--jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an\u2019 then\ntwistin\u2019, like a crow in the air scratchin\u2019 her head with her claw, he\nspraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a\nmudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an\u2019 gev a screech like an\naigle; an\u2019 wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed,\nan\u2019 Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an\u2019 a half they dragged me\nbould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king\nhimself.\n\n\u201cWhat ould _geochagh_ (beggar) have we now?\u201d sez the king, lookin\u2019\nvery hard at Fan.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m Fan MaCool!\u201d sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.\n\n\u201cWell, Fan MaCool or not,\u201d sez the king, mockin\u2019 him, \u201cye\u2019ll have\nto jump the strame yander for freckenin\u2019 the lives clane out ov me\nladies,\u201d sez he, \u201can\u2019 for disturbin\u2019 our spoort ginerally,\u201d sez he.\n\n\u201cAn\u2019 what\u2019ll I get for that same?\u201d sez Fan, _lettin\u2019 on_\n(pretending) he was afeerd.\n\n\u201cMe daughter, Maynish,\u201d sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye\nsee, Fan would be drownded.\n\n\u201cMe hand on the bargain,\u201d sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on\nthe knuckles wid his _specktre_ (sceptre) an\u2019 towld him to hurry\nup, or he\u2019d get the _ollaves_ (judges) to put him in the Black Dog\npres\u2019n or the Marshals--I forgets which--it\u2019s so long gone by!\n\nWell, Fan peeled off his _coatamore_, an\u2019 threw away his\n_bottheen_ ov a stick, an\u2019 the prencess seein\u2019 his big body an\u2019\nhis long arums an\u2019 legs like an oaktree, couldn\u2019t help remarkin\u2019 to her\ncomerade, the craythur--\n\n\u201cBedad, _Cauth_ (Kate),\u201d sez she, \u201cbut this beggarman is a fine\nbit ov a _bouchal_ (boy),\u201d sez she; \u201cit\u2019s in the arumy he ought to\nbe,\u201d sez she, lookin\u2019 at him agen, an\u2019 admirin\u2019 him, like.\n\nSo, Fan, purtendin\u2019 to be fixin\u2019 his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two\n_lusmores_ (fox-gloves) an\u2019 put them anunder his heels; for thim\nwor the fairies\u2019 own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an\u2019\nhe, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owld\n_lenaun_ (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he\nwas a little stand-a-loney.\n\nWell, me dear, ye\u2019d think it was on\u2019y over a little _creepie_\n(three-legged) stool he was leppin\u2019 whin he landed like a thrish jist\nat the fut ov the prencess; an\u2019 his father\u2019s son he was, that put his\ntwo arums around her, an\u2019 gev her a kiss--haith, ye\u2019d hear the smack\nov it at the Castle o\u2019 Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake,\nan\u2019 pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an\u2019 at last he ordhered the bowld\nbeggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit\nan\u2019 seen the collar ov goold around Fan\u2019s neck the ould chap became\ndelighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a\nson-in-law.\n\n\u201cHello!\u201d sez the king, \u201cwho have we now?\u201d sez he, seein\u2019 the collar.\n\u201cBegonnys,\u201d sez he, \u201cyou\u2019re no _boccagh_ (beggar) anyways!\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m Fan MaCool,\u201d sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra\u2019; \u201chave\nyou anything to say agen me?\u201d for his name wasn\u2019t up, at that time,\nlike afther.\n\n\u201cAy, lots to say agen you. How dar\u2019 you be comin\u2019 round this a-way,\ndressed like a playacthor, takin\u2019 us in?\u201d sez the king, lettin\u2019 on to\nbe vexed; \u201can\u2019 now,\u201d sez he, \u201cto annoy you, you\u2019ll have to go an\u2019 jump\nback agen afore you gets me daughter for _puttin\u2019 on_ (deceiving)\nus in such a manner.\u201d\n\n\u201cYour will is my pleasure,\u201d sez Fan; \u201cbut I must have a word or two\nwith the girl first,\u201d sez he, an\u2019 up he goes an\u2019 commences talkin\u2019 soft\nto her, an\u2019 the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were\n_croosheenin_\u2019 an\u2019 _colloguin_\u2019 (whispering and talking), an\u2019\nnot mindin\u2019 him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who\ncomes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin\u2019 himself, to put his\npike in the hay, too.\n\n\u201cWell, _avochal_ (my boy),\u201d sez Fan, \u201care you dry yet?\u201d an\u2019 the\nprencess laughed like a bell round a cat\u2019s neck.\n\n\u201cYou think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,\u201d sez the other; \u201cbut\nthere\u2019s one thing you can\u2019t do wid all your prate!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d sez Fan. \u201cMaybe not,\u201d sez he.\n\n\u201cYou couldn\u2019t whistle an\u2019 chaw oatenmale,\u201d sez the Prence ov Imayle, in\na pucker. \u201cAre you any good at throwin\u2019 a stone?\u201d sez he, then.\n\n\u201cThe best!\u201d sez Fan, an\u2019 all the coort gother round like to a\ncock-fight. \u201cWhere\u2019ll we throw to?\u201d sez he.\n\n\u201cIn to\u2019ards Dublin,\u201d sez the Prence ov Imayle; an\u2019 be all accounts he\nwas a great hand at _cruistin_ (throwing). \u201cHere goes pink!\u201d sez\nhe, an\u2019 he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an\u2019 sends it flyin\u2019 in\nthe air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top\nov the Three Rock Mountain.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m your masther!\u201d sez Fan, pickin\u2019 up another _clochaun_ (stone)\nan\u2019 sendin\u2019 it a few perch beyant the first.\n\n\u201cThat you\u2019re not,\u201d sez the Prence ov Imayle, an\u2019 he done his best, an\u2019\nmanaged to send another finger stone beyant Fan\u2019s throw; an\u2019 shure, the\nthree stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.\n\n\u201cWell, me lad,\u201d says Fan, stoopin\u2019 for another as big as a hill, \u201cI\u2019m\nsorry I have to bate you; but I can\u2019t help it,\u201d sez he, lookin\u2019 over\nat the Prencess Maynish, an\u2019 she as mute as a mouse watchin\u2019 the two\nbig men, an\u2019 the ould king showin\u2019 fair play, as delighted as a child.\n\u201cWatch this,\u201d sez he, whirlin\u2019 his arm like a windmill, \u201cand now put on\nyour spectacles,\u201d sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin\u2019 through\nthe air like a peggin\u2019-top, over the other three _clochauns_, and\nthen across Dublin Bay, an\u2019 scrapin\u2019 the nose off ov Howth, it landed\nwith a swish in the say beyant it. That\u2019s the rock they calls Ireland\u2019s\nEye now!\n\n\u201cBe the so an\u2019 so!\u201d sez the king, \u201cI don\u2019t know where that went to, at\nall, at all! What _direct_ did you send it?\u201d sez he to Fan. \u201cI had\nit in view, till it went over the say,\u201d sez he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m bet!\u201d sez the Prence ov Imayle. \u201cI couldn\u2019t pass that, for I can\u2019t\nsee where you put it, even--good-bye to yous,\u201d sez he, turnin\u2019 on his\nheel an\u2019 makin\u2019 off; \u201can\u2019 may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!\u201d\nAn\u2019 back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an\u2019 took to fret, an\u2019 I\nundherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an\u2019 they put a\nturtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but\n_I_ think he overstrained himself, throwin\u2019, though that\u2019s nayther\nhere nor there with me story!\n\n\u201cAre you goin\u2019 to lep back agen?\u201d sez ould King Garry, wantin\u2019 to see\nmore sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein\u2019 the like as if he was\na lad ov twenty.\n\n\u201cTo be shure I will!\u201d sez Fan, ready enough, \u201cbut I\u2019ll have to take the\ngirl over with me this time!\u201d sez he.\n\n\u201cOh, no, Fan!\u201d sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an\u2019\nthat he\u2019d fall in with her; an\u2019 then she\u2019d have to fall out with\nhim--\u201ctake me father with you,\u201d sez she; an\u2019, egonnys, the ould king\nthought more about himself than any ov them, an\u2019 sed he\u2019d take the\nwill for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin\u2019 went on; an\u2019 maybe\nthat wasn\u2019t the grand _blow out_. But I can\u2019t stay to tell yous\nall the fun they had for a fortnit; on\u2019y, me dear, they all went into\n_kinks_ (fits) ov laughin\u2019, when the ould king, who tuk more than\nwas good for him, stood up to drink Fan\u2019s health, an\u2019 forgot himself.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s to\u2019ards your good health, Fan MaCool!\u201d sez he, as grand as you\nlike--\u201can\u2019 a long life to you, an\u2019 a happy wife to you--an\u2019 a great\nmany ov them!\u201d sez he, like he\u2019d forgot somethin\u2019.\n\nWell, me dear, every one was splittin\u2019 their sides like the p\u2019yates,\nunless the prencess, an\u2019 _she_ got as red in the face as if she\nwas churnin\u2019 in the winther an\u2019 the frost keepin\u2019 the crame from\ncrackin\u2019; but she got over it like the maisles.\n\nBut I suppose you can guess the remainder, an\u2019 as the evenin\u2019s gettin\u2019\nforrad I\u2019ll stop; so put down the kittle an\u2019 make tay, an\u2019 if Fan and\nthe Prencess Maynish didn\u2019t live happy together--that we may!\n\n _Patrick J. McCall._\n\n\n\n\n _TATTHER JACK WELSH._\n\n\n Did you e\u2019er meet a boy on the road to the fair,\n With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,\n With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,\n To humour the way for himself and his pig?\n\n Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,\n Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;\n And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh--\n Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!\n\n Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,\n And the dickens a ha\u2019porth in life does he do,\n But breaking the hearts of the girls all around--\n Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.\n\n For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune--\n Troth, you\u2019d think \u2019twas the fairies were singing \u201cDa Luan.\u201d\n Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself\n If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.\n\n One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,\n And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,\n Till my Jacky came in, and says he, \u201cDarby Kelsh,\n Shure you can\u2019t court at all--look at Tatther Jack Welsh!\u201d\n\n So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a _pogue_,[57]\n And Darby ran out, like he\u2019d got a _polthogue_,[58]--\n \u201cArrah, what can be ailing,\u201d says he, \u201cDarby Kelsh?\u201d\n \u201cHaith, you know well enough,\u201d says I, \u201cTatther Jack Welsh!\u201d\n\n _Patrick J. McCall._\n\n\n\n\n _THEIR LAST RACE._\n\n\n I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.\n\nIn the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a\ntriangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the comer of it towards\nLoch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is\na wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster\nof walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times,\nbefore the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley,\nthere was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when\nits men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside\ntook his _kippeen_--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and\nwent out to do battle with a glad heart.\n\nLong Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight\nthan Mat smashing his way through a forest of _kippeens_, with\nhis enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was\nno sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and\ngladness, shouting, \u201cHurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!\u201d Where his\n_kippeen_ flickered in the air his followers charged after, and\nthe enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken\nhead from him.\n\nBut Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed\nwith men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by\nthe black lakes, or in tiny ragged villages under the shadow of the\nmountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles,\nby river or seashore or mountain-built, was emptied. The fame of the\nAughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well\nthat every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them;\nBlack Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the Valley, just\nwhere the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross\nby it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force.\nNow Black Michael, \u201cMeehul Dhu,\u201d was Long Mat\u2019s rival; though smaller\nhe was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him,\nfor it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself\nbehind with his heels in doing it.\n\nThe business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more\ntime for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for\nthe battle. Why you could scarcely have moved in Callanan\u2019s Field out\nbeyond the churchyard at the end of the Village, it was so packed\nwith men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have\nheard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their\n_caubeens_, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--\u201cHurroo for\nCarrala!\u201d \u201cWhoop for Aughavanna!\u201d Around them a mob of women, old men\nand children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the\nmists had crept half-way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a\nnearer look at the fight.\n\nAs the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down\nthe Village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two\nlast houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan\u2019s Field; he looked\nevery inch a king; his _kippeen_ was ready, his frieze coat was\noff, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the\nsleeve, while with a great voice he shouted--in Irish--\u201cWhere\u2019s the\nCarrala man that dare touch my coat?\u201d \u201cWhere\u2019s the cowardly scoundrel\nthat dare look crooked at it?\u201d\n\nIn a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him,\nand rushed forward, with a mighty cry, \u201cWhere\u2019s the face of a trembling\nAughavanna man?\u201d In a moment their _kippeens_ clashed; in another,\nhundreds of _kippeens_ crashed together, and the grandest fight\never fought in Connemara raged over Callanan\u2019s Field. After the first\nroar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so\nthe shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds\nthat broke the music of the _kippeens_ clashing and clicking on\none another, or striking home with a thud.\n\nNever was Long Mat nobler: he rushed ravaging through the enemy,\nshattering their ranks and their heads, no man could withstand him; Red\nCallanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses\nout of Dan O\u2019Shaughran of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the\nsedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry\nMulcahy, that lived on the Devil\u2019s Mother Mountain--never again did\nLarry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed\nBlack Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the\nhead--who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull?\n\nFor near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot.\nAt first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for\ngranted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men\nfound themselves out-numbered and driven back to the Village, a great\nfear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not out-number\nthem if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and\nthey were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till\nhardly a man of them could stand.\n\nAnd when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking\nthemselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was\nprone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the\nmud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as\nhe would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under\nthe hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or\npolitics), revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his\ndeath from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will,\nbut only gentle regret for the mishap.\n\n\n II.--THEIR LAST RACE.\n\nWhen the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying\nday came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane\u2019s coffin lay on four chairs\nby his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women _keening_\nround it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered\nto do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from\nthe chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the\nrough hearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of\npeasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly\ntowards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, _keening_ like an\nAtlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a\nwake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that\nhe could not see his funeral.\n\nThe Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and\nnow Black Michael\u2019s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along\nthe other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the\n_keening_ of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they\nconverge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the\nother would be there first.\n\nThere is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go\nquicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to\nbreak into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys\nwere galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival\nparties broke into a wild shout of \u201cAughavanna _abu_!\u201d \u201cMeehul Dhu\nfor ever!\u201d\n\nFor the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were\nrivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was\nthere such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan\u2019s\nField the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the\ntrampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the\ntwo dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck\nthey reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind\nthem the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if\nthey were mad.\n\nBut the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized\ntheir long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last\nrace. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains,\nso that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one\nanother\u2019s hands; they hugged one another.\n\n\u201cHimself would be proud,\u201d they cried, \u201cif he hadn\u2019t been dead!\u201d\n\n _Frank Mathew_ (1865).\n\n\n\n\n _IN BLARNEY._\n\n\n _He_--Be the fire, _alanna_, sittin\u2019,\n Purty \u2019tis you look and sweet,\n Wid yer dainty fingers knittin\u2019\n Shtockin\u2019s for yer daintier feet.\n\n _She_--It\u2019s yer tongue that has the blarney,\n Yis, and impudence _galore_!\n Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,\n When yer afther half-a-score?\n\n _He_--Shure, I ne\u2019er, in all I thravelled,\n Found at all the likes o\u2019 you.\n _She_--Now my worsted all is ravelled\n And whatever will I do?\n\n _He_--Might I make so bould to ask it,\n Shure I know the girl o\u2019 girls;\n And I\u2019d make me heart the casket,\n And her love the pearl o\u2019 pearls.\n\n _She_--Ah, thin, Barney dear, I\u2019m thinkin\u2019\n That it\u2019s you\u2019re the honied rogue.\n _He_--Faix, I\u2019d be the bee a-dhrinkin\u2019\n From yer rosy lips a _pogue_.[59]\n\n _She_--Is it steal a colleen\u2019s kisses,\n When it\u2019s all alone she\u2019s left?\n _He_--Wor they all as sweet as this is,\n Troth, I\u2019d go to jail for theft.\n\n _She_--Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin\u2019!\n Or I\u2019ll soon begin to scould.\n Sure, I\u2019d like to know what school in\n Did ye learn to be so bould?\n\n _He_--Och! it\u2019s undher Masther Cupid\n That I learned me A, B, C.\n _She_--That the scholar wasn\u2019t stupid,\n Faith, is very plain to see.\n\n _He_--Ah, then Eily, but the blush is\n Most becomin\u2019 to ye, dear!\n Like the red rose on the bush is----\n _She_--Sir I you needn\u2019t come so near!\n\n _He_--Over lane and road and _boreen_,\n Troth, I\u2019ve come a weary way,\n Jusht to whisper ye, _asthoreen_,\n Somethin\u2019 that I\u2019ve longed to say.\n\n I\u2019ve a cosy cottage, which is\n Jusht the proper size for two----\n _She_--There, I\u2019ve tangled all me stitches,\n And it\u2019s all because av you!\n\n _He_--And, to make a sthray suggestchun,\n Maybe you me wish might guess?\n _She_--Sure, an\u2019 if ye pressed the question,\n Somehow--I--might answer--YES!\n\n _Patrick J. Coleman_ (1867).\n\n [Illustration: \u201cGATHERIN\u2019 UP THE GOLDEN GRAIN.\u201d]\n\n\n\n\n _BINDIN\u2019 THE OATS._\n\n\n Bindin\u2019 the oats in sweet September,\n Don\u2019t you remember\n That evening, dear?\n Ah! but you bound my heart complately,\n Fair and nately,\n Snug in the snood of your silken hair!\n\n Swung the sickles, you followed after\n With musical laughter\n And witchin\u2019 eye.\n I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,\n Spoiled the stook, love,\n For your smile had bothered my head awry!\n\n Such an elegant, graceful binder,\n Where could I find her\n All Ireland through?\n Worn\u2019t the stout, young, strappin\u2019 fellows\n Fairly jealous,\n Dyin\u2019, _asthore machree_, for you?\n\n Talk o\u2019 Persephone pluckin\u2019 the posies,\n Or the red roses,\n In Henna\u2019s plain!\n _You_ wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,\n And beautiful head, love,\n Gatherin\u2019 up the golden grain.\n\n Bindin\u2019 the oats in sweet September,\n Don\u2019t you remember\n The stolen _pogue_?[60]\n How could I help but there deliver\n My heart for ever\n To such a beautiful little rogue?\n\n Bindin\u2019 the oats, \u2019twas there you found me,\n There you bound me\n That harvest day!\n Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,\n Fair and fond, love,\n Happy, for ever and ever, stay!\n\n _Patrick J. Coleman._\n\n\n\n\n _SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC._\n\n\nA man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.\n\nHoney is sweet, but don\u2019t lick it off a briar.\n\nThe doorstep of a great house is slippery.\n\nThe leisure of the smith\u2019s helper (_i.e._, from the bellows to the\nanvil).\n\nYou have the foal\u2019s share of the harrow.\n\nLaziness is a heavy burden.\n\nYou\u2019d be a good messenger to send for death--(said of a slow person).\n\nBetter be bald than have no head at all--but the devil a much more than\nthat.\n\nBetter the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.\n\nLet him cool in the skin he warmed in.\n\nA man is shy in another man\u2019s corner.\n\nThe pig in the sty doesn\u2019t know the pig going along the road.\n\n\u2019Tis on her own account the cat purrs.\n\nCows far from home have long horns.\n\nA black hen lays a white egg (_i.e._, do not judge by appearances).\n\n\u2019Tis a good story that fills the belly.\n\nA drink is shorter than a story.\n\n The man that\u2019s up is toasted,\n The man that\u2019s down is trampled on.\n\nHe knows more than his \u201cOur Father.\u201d\n\nA mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.\n\nA soft word never broke a tooth yet.\n\nHe comes like the bad weather (_i.e._, uninvited).\n\nWho lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.\n\nThe eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.\n\n\u2019Tis the fool has luck.\n\nWhat the Pookha writes, he himself can read.\n\nA blind man can see his mouth.\n\nTo die and to lose one\u2019s life are much the same.\n\nDon\u2019t leave a tailor\u2019s remnant behind you.\n\n\u2019Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.\n\nThe three sharpest things at all--a thorn in mire, a hound\u2019s tooth, and\na fool\u2019s retort.\n\nWhen it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.\n\nThe jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.\n\nHe that loses the game, let him talk away.\n\nA heavy purse makes a light heart.\n\nHe is like a bag-pipe--he never makes a noise till his belly\u2019s full.\n\nOut of the kitchen comes the tune.\n\nFalling is easier than rising.\n\nA woman has an excuse readier than an apron.\n\nThe secret of an old woman scolding (_i.e._, no secret at all).\n\nA bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.\n\nThe daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.\n\nNever take a wife who has no faults.\n\nShe burnt her coal and did not warm herself (_i.e._, when a woman\nmakes a bad marriage).\n\nA ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.\n\nA hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.\n\nA big belly was never generous.\n\nOne bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.\n\nThere is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.\n\nWhen the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.\n\nBig head and little sense.\n\nThe tail is part of the cat (_i.e._, a man resembles his family).\n\nA cat\u2019s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).\n\nButter to butter\u2019s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two\nwomen kiss each other).\n\nOne cockroach knows another.\n\nA heavy load are your empty guts.\n\nThe young thorn is the sharpest.\n\nSweet is wine, bitter its payment.\n\nWhoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.\n\nAn alms from his own share, to the fool.\n\nBetter a wren in hand that a crane promised.\n\nThe man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle\nlookers-on).\n\nA closed hand gets but a shut fist.\n\nIt is not all big men that reap the harvest.\n\nEasy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).\n\nFair words won\u2019t feed the friars.\n\nNever poor till one goes to hell.\n\nNot worried till married.\n\nBrother to Donall is Theigue (= _Arcades ambo_).\n\nThree without rule--a wife, a pig, and a mule.\n\nWhen your hand is in the dog\u2019s mouth, draw it out gently.\n\nBetter a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.\n\nAfter their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.\n\nThe four drinks--the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the\ndrink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.\n\nA woman is more obstinate than a mule--a mule than the devil.\n\nAll the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.\n\nWhen the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the\naltar.\n\nA strip of another man\u2019s leather is very soft.\n\n\u2019Tis a bad hen that won\u2019t scratch for herself.\n\nBetter riding a goat than the best marching.\n\nDeath is the poor man\u2019s doctor.\n\nIf \u2019tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.\n\nThere\u2019s no good crying when the funeral is gone.\n\nButtermilk is no milk, and a pudding\u2019s no meat.\n\nThough near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (_i.e._, blood\nis thicker than water).\n\nBetter a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.\n\nWhat cannot be had is just what suits.\n\nAn unlearned king is a crowned ass.\n\n\u2019Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.\n\nA woman\u2019s desire--the dear thing.\n\nTwelve things not to be found--four priests not covetous, four\nFrenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.\n\nNora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).\n\nA man without dinner--two for supper.\n\nThe man without a resource is hanged.\n\nPoor women think butter-milk good.\n\nHarsh is the poor man\u2019s voice--he speaks all out of place.\n\nA wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (_i.e._, plenty does not\nunderstand want).\n\n\u2019Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.\n\nTake care of my neck and go on one side (_i.e._, do not lean\naltogether on one).\n\nA man loses something to teach himself.\n\nA hen carried far is heavy.\n\nThe day of the storm is not the day for thatching.\n\nWinter comes on the lazy.\n\nA crow thinks its own young white.\n\nPutting on the mill the straw of the kiln (_i.e._, robbing Peter\nto pay Paul).\n\nTruth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.\n\n\u2019Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.\n\nBetter to-day than to-morrow morning.\n\nPatience is the cure of an old complaint.\n\nHave your own will, like the women have.\n\nIt is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from\nit.\n\nAn old cat does not burn himself.\n\nA foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.\n\nThe man that\u2019s out his portion cools (_i.e._, out of sight, out of\nmind).\n\nThat\u2019s great softening on the butter-milk.\n\nThe law of lending is to break the ware.\n\nNo heat like that of shame.\n\nA candle does not give light till lit.\n\nDon\u2019t praise your son-in-law till the year\u2019s out.\n\nIt is not a sheep\u2019s head that we wouldn\u2019t have another turn at it\n(there being only one meal in a sheep\u2019s head).\n\nThe glory the head cannot bear, \u2019twere better not there.\n\nHe that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.\n\nThe fox never found a better messenger than himself.\n\nBetter a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.\n\nBetter a short sitting than a long standing.\n\nBetter be idle than working for nothing.\n\nDo not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.\n\nBetter come empty than with bad news.\n\nTrust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.\n\nPraise the end of it.\n\nTo know one since his boots cost fourpence (_i.e._, from an early\nage).\n\nNever was door shut but another was opened.\n\nThe heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.\n\nHe who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.\n\nThe husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.\n\nWhere there\u2019s women there\u2019s talk, and where there\u2019s geese there\u2019s\ncackling.\n\nMore beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.\n\nA bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.\n\nA trade not learned is an enemy.\n\nAn empty house is better than a bad tenant.\n\nHe knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.\n\nHe\u2019d say anything but his prayers.\n\nA vessel will only hold the full of it.\n\nBlow before you drink.\n\nBetter fame (_i.e._, reputation and character) than fortune.\n\nA blind man is no judge of colours.\n\nFierceness is often hidden under beauty.\n\nWhen the cat is out, the mice dance.\n\nThere is often anger in a laugh.\n\nA fool\u2019s gold is light.\n\nNo one claims kindred with the homeless.\n\nAn empty vessel makes most sound.\n\nThe lamb teaching her dam to bleat.\n\nBoth hard and soft, like the cow\u2019s tail.\n\nHe that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.\n\nTalk is cheap.\n\nWhen the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.\n\nIf you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.\n\nLong-lived is a man in his own country.\n\nForgetting one\u2019s debts does not pay them.\n\nNearer is God\u2019s aid than the door.\n\nBad is the walk that is not better than rest.\n\nDiseases without shame are love and thirst.\n\nIt is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (_i.e._,\nit is hard to break off a habit).\n\nMight is not lasting.\n\nWrath speaketh not true.\n\nA bribe bursts the rock.\n\nWhat goes to length goes to coldness.\n\nBetter the good that is than the double good that was.\n\nOften a mouse went under a cornstack.\n\nA good retreat is better than a bad stand.\n\nNot better is food than sense at time of drinking.\n\nThe idiot knows the fault of the fool.\n\nThy complexion is black, says the raven.\n\nBetter be sparing at first than at last.\n\nWhoever escapes, the peacemaker won\u2019t.\n\nI would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.\n\nA hedge on the field after the trespass.\n\nMelodious is the closed mouth.\n\nA spit without meat is a long thing.\n\nAlas for a house that men frequent not.\n\nIt\u2019s many the skin that sloughs off youth.\n\nTime is a good story-teller.\n\nThe quills often took the flesh with them.\n\nOne debt won\u2019t pay another.\n\nThere never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.\n\nThere\u2019s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker\u2019s wife.\n\nNo man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.\n\nA man of learning understands the half-word.\n\nO\u2019Brien\u2019s gift and his two eyes after it (_i.e._, regretting it).\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.\n\n\n BARRETT, EATON STANNARD.--Satirist and poet, and one of\n the wittiest of writers. Born in Cork in 1786, he graduated at\n Trinity College, Dublin, and became a barrister in London. Some\n of his satires had great vogue, especially \u201cAll the Talents,\u201d\n which was directed against a ministry still known by that\n description. He was the author of various burlesque novels,\n plays, and poems, but could write well on serious topics.\n Barrett died in Glamorganshire, Wales, on March 20th, 1820,\n through the bursting of a blood-vessel.\n\n BOUCICAULT, DION.--The real name of this popular\n dramatist and actor was Dionysius Lardner Bourcicault. He was\n born in Dublin on December 26th, 1822, and wrote the comedy of\n \u201cLondon Assurance,\u201d when only nineteen years old. His Irish\n dramas are well known, and are still considered the best of\n their kind. He was an admirable comedian, as well as dramatic\n writer. He spent many years in the United States, and died there\n in September 1890.\n\n BOURKE, JAMES JOSEPH.--Born in Dublin on September\n 17th, 1837. His poems are very widely known and appreciated\n among Irish people. Over the signature of \u201cTiria\u201d he wrote\n largely for the Irish newspapers of the last thirty years. He\n died on April 28th, 1894.\n\n BOYLE, WILLIAM.--There are few Irish authors whose\n writings are more racy than his. He was born in 1853 at\n Dromiskin, co. Louth, and was educated at St. Mary\u2019s College,\n Dundalk. He entered the Inland Revenue department in 1874, and\n is now stationed in Glasgow.\n\n CANNING, GEORGE.--Born in London on April 11th, 1770.\n His father and mother were Irish, and he insisted that he was an\n Irishman born out of Ireland. After a brilliant Parliamentary\n career he became Prime Minister in 1827, but only held the\n position about three months, his death occurring on August 8th\n of that year. His witty essays were written in early life for\n _The Microcosm_ and _Anti-Jacobin_.\n\n CANNINGS, THOMAS.--A private soldier, who published at\n Cork in 1800, or thereabouts, a volume of _Detached Pieces in\n Verse_. He belonged to the 61st Regiment.\n\n CARLETON, WILLIAM.--Author of the _Traits and Stories\n of the Irish Peasantry_, and recognised as one of the\n greatest delineators of Irish character. Born at Prillisk, co.\n Tyrone, in 1794, he was the son of a peasant. His best-known\n work, already mentioned, appeared in 1830, and after that date\n scarcely a year passed without a new work of his appearing.\n He wrote largely for the _Dublin University Magazine_,\n etc., and was granted a Civil List pension of \u00a3200 by Lord John\n Russell. He died near Dublin on January 30th, 1869.\n\n COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES.--A native of Ballaghadeerin,\n co. Mayo, where he was born on September 2nd, 1867. He\n matriculated in London University, and in 1888 went to\n America. He now occupies a position in the journalistic\n world of Philadelphia, and is regarded as one of the rising\n Irish-American poets.\n\n CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT.--This noted orator and wit was\n born at Newmarket, co. Cork, on July 24th, 1750. His patriotism\n has endeared him to his countrymen, and his eloquence and humour\n have made his name widely familiar. He became Master of the\n Rolls in Ireland in 1806, and died in London on October 14th,\n 1817.\n\n DAWSON, ARTHUR.--A Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland,\n was born about 1700, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University. He\n was appointed Baron of the Irish Court of Exchequer in 1742, and\n died in 1775.\n\n DE QUINCEY, J.--A solicitor\u2019s clerk in Limerick, who\n wrote a little humorous verse in the Irish papers some years ago.\n\n DOWNEY, EDMUND.--Author of the well-known stories\n signed \u201cF. M. Allen,\u201d such as \u201cThrough Green Glasses,\u201d etc.\n These richly humorous Irish stories are perhaps better known,\n but can hardly be considered superior to his excellent\n sea-stories. \u201cAnchor-Watch Yarns\u201d and kindred tales by Mr.\n Downey place him in the front rank of writers of sea-stories.\n He was born in Waterford in 1856, and is the son of a shipowner\n and broker. He came to London in 1878, and was for a time in the\n office of Tinsley the publisher. He afterwards became a partner\n in the firm of Ward & Downey, from which he has now retired.\n\n DUFFERIN, LADY.--Born in 1807, the daughter of Thomas,\n son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She and her two sisters were\n noted for personal beauty; one of them, the Hon. Mrs. Norton,\n was also well known as a poetess. She married first the Hon.\n Pryce Blackwood (afterwards Lord Dufferin), and afterwards the\n Earl of Gifford. The present Marquis of Dufferin is her son. She\n died on June 13th, 1867. Her poems are often exquisite in their\n pathos, humour, or grace.\n\n ETTINGSALL, THOMAS.--A fishing-tackle manufacturer of\n Wood Quay, Dublin, and was born about the close of last century.\n He wrote only a few sketches and stories for _The Irish Penny\n Journal_ (1840) and _Dublin Penny Journal_ (1832). It\n was in the last-named magazine, on December 15th, 1832, that\n the story here given appeared. He was concerned with H. B.\n Code in the authorship of _The Angling Excursions of Gregory\n Greendrake_, which was published in Dublin in 1824. He was\n \u201cGeoffrey Greydrake\u201d of that work, which was reprinted from\n _The Warder_. He died in poor circumstances about 1850.\n\n FAHY, FRANCIS ARTHUR.--One of the raciest and most\n humorous of Irish poets. Born in Kinvara, co. Galway, on\n September 29th, 1854, and came to London as a Civil Service\n clerk in 1873. He wrote many poems for the Irish papers, signed\n \u201cDreoilin\u201d (the wren), and in 1887 published a collection of\n _Irish Songs and Poems_ in Dublin. He is represented\n by a few pieces in the recently-issued _Songs of the Four\n Nations_, and some of his later songs have been admirably set\n to music by Mrs. Needham.\n\n FARQUHAR, GEORGE.--This noted dramatist was born in\n Derry in 1678, and was the son of a clergyman. He studied at\n Dublin University and did not graduate. He went on the stage\n in 1695, but though successful as an actor, he left the stage\n and wrote plays, of which his most important are \u201cThe Beaux\n Stratagem,\u201d \u201cThe Inconstant,\u201d and \u201cThe Recruiting Officer.\u201d He\n died in April 1707.\n\n FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL.--Is regarded as one of the\n greatest of Irish poets. Was born on March 10th, 1810; graduated\n at Dublin University, and was called to the Bar. He was one of\n the leading contributors to _Blackwood\u2019s Magazine_, his\n \u201cFather Tom and the Pope\u201d (often attributed in error to others)\n appearing in its columns, and also his fine poem, \u201cThe Forging\n of the Anchor.\u201d He published several volumes of very admirable\n poetry, and some graphic stories of ancient Ireland. He died on\n August 9th, 1886.\n\n FRENCH, WILLIAM PERCY.--Born at Clooniquin, co.\n Roscommon, on May 1st, 1854, and graduated at Dublin University.\n He is one of the cleverest of living Irish humorists, and is the\n author of many verses, stories, etc., most of which appeared in\n a small Dublin comic, _The Jarvey_, edited by himself. Some\n of his songs have become very popular, and he is also the author\n of the _libretti_ of one or two operas.\n\n GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.--The leading facts of Goldsmith\u2019s\n career are almost too well known to need even bare mention. He\n was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, co. Longford, on November\n 10th, 1728. He entered Dublin University, and graduated B.A.\n there in 1749. After wandering about the Continent he settled\n down in London to a literary life, his first experiences being\n those of a badly-paid hack. He died on April 4th, 1774, and was\n buried in the Temple.\n\n GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL.--The author of \u201cFather\n O\u2019Flynn\u201d is decidedly the most popular, after Lover, of the\n humorous Irish song-writers. He has not only produced many good\n songs in the lighter vein, but has also written excellent ones\n of a pathetic character. He is the son of the present Bishop\n of Limerick, and was born in Dublin in 1846. He is a graduate\n of Dublin, and holds the position of Inspector of Schools. He\n resided for some years in Taunton, but now lives in London. It\n would have been easy to extract a dozen inimitable pieces from\n his several volumes. He has done much to make Irish music and\n the Irish character better known.\n\n GRIFFIN, GERALD.--Born in Limerick on December 12th,\n 1803, came to London in youth to carve out his fortune. He wrote\n some admirable Irish stories and some beautiful poems, as well\n as a tolerable play, but just as he was succeeding in literature\n he withdrew from the world, joining the order of the Christian\n Brothers. He died in Cork on June 12th, 1840. His best-known\n book is _The Collegians, or, the Colleen Bawn_.\n\n HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM.--Author of one or two volumes\n of verse, some of which is occasionally very humorous. He was\n born at Oldcastle, co. Meath, in 1829, and was the son of a\n Protestant clergyman. He went to the United States in the\n fifties and fought through the Civil War, gaining the rank of\n colonel. He died through taking an overdose of chloral to induce\n sleep, on August 3rd, 1868.\n\n HYDE, DOUGLAS, LL.D.--Is the son of Rev. Arthur Hyde\n of Frenchpark, co. Roscommon, and was born at Kilmactranny, co.\n Sligo, somewhere about 1860. Graduated at Dublin University, and\n had a brilliant career there. Is one of the foremost of living\n Irish writers, and a master of the Gaelic tongue. He is well\n known as a scholar and an enthusiast in folk-lore studies, and\n has published fine collections of Irish folk-tales and popular\n songs of the West of Ireland. He is also a clever writer of\n verse, both in Irish and in English.\n\n KENEALY, EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE, LL.D.--Born in Cork\n on July 2nd, 1819, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University\n in 1850. Was called to the English Bar in 1847, and had a\n somewhat stormy career as a member, being finally disbarred on\n account of his conduct in the famous Tichbourne case. He wrote\n a good deal for _Fraser\u2019s Magazine_ in its early years,\n as also for _Bentley\u2019s Miscellany_, and published various\n collections of poetry. He was a vigorous journalist, and a man\n of undoubtedly great ability, and entered Parliament in 1875. He\n died on April 16th, 1880.\n\n KICKHAM, CHARLES JOSEPH.--A poet of the people, and\n a novelist of some power. To get a genuine impression of\n the home-life of the Munster people, his stories, _Sally\n Cavanagh_ and _Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipperary_,\n should be read. He was born at Mullinahone, co. Tipperary, in\n 1828, and became a Fenian. He was connected with _The Irish\n People_, the Fenian organ, and in 1865 was arrested and\n sentenced to fourteen years\u2019 penal servitude. He lost his sight\n during his imprisonment, and was much shattered in health. He\n died on August 22nd, 1882.\n\n LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN.--Born in Dublin on August\n 28th, 1814, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University in 1837. He\n was called to the Bar, but devoted himself to literature and\n journalism. He owned two or three Dublin papers, and was editor\n of _The Dublin University Magazine_, also his property,\n where most of his novels and poems appeared. He is one of the\n most enthralling of novelists, his _Uncle Silas_, _In a\n Glass Darkly_, etc., being very powerful. His poems, such as\n \u201cShamus O\u2019Brien,\u201d are also very well known. He died on February\n 7th, 1873.\n\n LEVER, CHARLES JAMES.--This most widely read of Irish\n novelists was born in Dublin on August 31st, 1806, and graduated\n M.B. at Dublin University in 1831. He took his M.D. degree at\n Louvain, and became a dispensary doctor in Ireland, but also\n practised abroad for a time with success. He was editor of\n _The Dublin University Magazine_ from 1842 to 1845, and\n wrote much for it, for _Blackwood\u2019s Magazine_ and other\n leading periodicals. There is no necessity to name any of his\n novels. He acted as English Consul in Italy, and died at Trieste\n on June 1st, 1872. His life has been admirably told by Mr. W. J.\n Fitzpatrick (1879; 2nd ed. 1882).\n\n LOVER, SAMUEL.--Poet, painter, musician, dramatist, and\n novelist--and successful in all departments. His work in each\n was excellent, and he might have been considered great if he\n had confined himself to any one of them. He was born in Dublin\n on February 24th, 1797, and was first notable as a miniature\n painter. His weak eyesight, however, compelled him to give up\n the art. He wrote several clever plays, one or two tremendously\n popular novels, and some hundreds of songs, most of which he set\n to music himself. He died in Jersey on July 6th, 1868.\n\n LUTTRELL, HENRY.--At one time Luttrell was one of the\n most popular men in London society, and known far and wide for\n his powers of repartee. He was born in 1766 or 1767, in Dublin,\n and was for a time a member of the Irish Parliament. After\n the Union he came to England, and was a frequent guest at the\n brilliant social functions of Holland House. He died in Brompton\n Square on December 19th, 1851. His \u201cAdvice to Julia\u201d and\n \u201cCrockford House\u201d are clever verse of the light satirical order.\n\n LYSAGHT, EDWARD.--One of the most famous of Irish\n wits, born at Brickhill, co. Clare, on December 21st, 1763,\n and educated at Cashel, co. Tipperary, and at Oxford, where he\n graduated M. A. in 1788. He became a barrister, but was too much\n of a _bon vivant_ to succeed greatly in his profession. His\n reputation as a wit is not sustained by his collected poems. He\n has been accredited with the authorship of \u201cKitty of Coleraine,\u201d\n \u201cThe Sprig of Shillelagh,\u201d \u201cDonnybrook Fair,\u201d and \u201cThe Lakes\n of Mallow,\u201d not one of which was written by him (_vide_\n \u201cThe Poets of Ireland, a biographical dictionary,\u201d by D. J.\n O\u2019Donoghue). He died in Dublin in 1810.\n\n MAGINN, WILLIAM, LL.D.--One of the greatest scholars\n and humorists Cork has produced. He was born in that city on\n July 10th, 1793, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University\n in 1819. He was, from its commencement, the most brilliant\n contributor to _Blackwood\u2019s Magazine_, and also edited\n _Fraser_ on its appearance in 1830. His fatal propensity to\n liquor prevented his doing himself justice, though he wrote many\n inimitable pieces, which have mostly been collected. He was one\n of the most lovable of men. He died on August 21st, 1842.\n\n MAHER, WILLIAM.--A Waterford clothier, who is\n considered the most likely author of \u201cThe Night before Larry\n was Stretched.\u201d One thing is certain, Dean Burrowes of Cork\n did _not_ write it, as has often been claimed. Walsh\u2019s\n _Ireland Sixty Years Ago_ (1847) gives it to Maher, who\n flourished about 1780.\n\n MAHONY, REV. FRANCIS SYLVESTER.--Better remembered as\n \u201cFather Prout,\u201d the name he took as his pseudonym in writing.\n He was of Kerry family, but was born in Cork in 1804--not 1805,\n as is frequently said. He was educated for the priesthood at\n Amiens and Paris, and joined the Jesuit order. After some\n years, however, he practically gave up his functions, and led\n a Bohemian life. He was one of the most admired contributors\n to _Fraser_, where his \u201cReliques\u201d appeared. In later life\n he acted as Paris correspondent of _The Globe_ (which\n he partly owned) and as Roman correspondent of _The Daily\n News_. Before his death, which occurred in Paris on May 18th,\n 1866, he repented of his disregard for his sacred calling. He\n was buried in his native city. It is extremely difficult to\n make extracts from his prose, on account of the superabundant\n classical allusions and references which it contains. He was not\n a very agreeable man, personally.\n\n MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE.--One of the first of Irish\n poets, and held to be the greatest of them by many of his\n countrymen. He was born in Dublin on May 1st, 1803, and was\n the son of a grocer. He wrote innumerable poems to the Irish\n periodicals of his time, notably _The Nation_ and _Dublin\n University Magazine_. He knew various languages, but his\n pretended translations from Turkish, Coptic, Hebrew, Arabic, and\n Persian are so many elaborate jokes. He was most unfortunate\n in life, mainly through his addiction to drink. His was a\n wonderful personality, which has attracted many writers, and\n his great poetical gifts are gradually becoming evident to\n English critics. He was greatly encouraged by his admirers, but\n to little purpose. His poems have been collected into several\n small volumes, but there is no complete edition, though it is\n badly wanted. He died in a Dublin hospital on June 20th, 1849.\n See John McCall\u2019s _Life of J. C. Mangan_ for further\n particulars of his interesting career.\n\n MATHEW, FRANK.--Is a solicitor and a nephew of the\n eminent English judge, Sir James Mathew. Was born in 1865, and\n his first literary work was his biography of his illustrious\n relative, Father Mathew, \u201cThe Apostle of Temperance.\u201d His\n admirable Irish stories, which appeared in _The Idler_,\n have been collected in a volume called _At the Rising of the\n Moon_. They are very graphically told.\n\n MCCALL, PATRICK JOSEPH.--A genuinely Irish poet,\n whose original poems and translations from the Irish are very\n characteristic. He is the son of a Dublin grocer (the author\n of a memoir of Mangan), and was born in Dublin on March 6th,\n 1861. Was educated at the Catholic University School in his\n native city, and for some years has been a frequent and welcome\n contributor to the Dublin Nationalist press. A good selection of\n his poems has just been published under the title of _Irish\n Noinins_. His stories have mostly appeared in _The\n Shamrock_ of Dublin.\n\n MCKOWEN, JAMES.--Born at Lambeg, near Lisburn, co.\n Antrim, on February 11th, 1814. He received only an elementary\n education, and was first employed at a thread manufactory,\n afterwards working as a linen-bleacher for many years. He wrote\n principally for North of Ireland papers, and was exceedingly\n popular with Ulster people, but one or two of his songs have\n found a much wider audience. He died on April 22nd, 1889.\n\n MOORE, THOMAS.--Son of a Dublin grocer, and born in\n that city on May 28th, 1779. He graduated at Dublin University,\n and studied law in London. He began to woo the muse, as the\n saying goes, at a very early age, but his first great success\n was occasioned by his _Irish Melodies_, which began to\n appear in parts in 1806. He died on February 26th, 1852.\n\n O\u2019CONOR, CHARLES PATRICK.--Born in co. Cork in or\n about 1837, and came to England in his youth. He has written\n some good verse, and was granted a Civil List pension of \u00a350 a\n year. To Irish papers he contributed very largely, and published\n several small collections of verse. His complete works were\n published by himself, and are to be obtained from him at Hither\n Green, Lewisham.\n\n O\u2019DONNELL, JOHN FRANCIS.--An Irish writer who is best\n known to his countrymen as a poet. He was born in Limerick in\n 1837, and began to write for the press at the age of fourteen.\n In 1861 he came to London, and wrote largely for various\n journals, including those of Charles Dickens. He died on May\n 7th, 1874. A selection from his poems was published in 1891,\n through the exertions of the Southwark Irish Literary Club.\n\n O\u2019FLAHERTY, CHARLES.--Born in 1794, in Dublin, where\n his father was a pawnbroker in Ross Lane, and was apprenticed\n to a bookseller, eventually turning to journalism. He was on\n the staff of the Dublin _Morning Post_, and afterwards\n edited the _Wexford Evening Post_. He died in May 1828. He\n published three volumes of verse, and some of his songs enjoyed\n great popularity, especially \u201cThe Humours of Donnybrook Fair,\u201d\n which is taken from his _Trifles in Poetry_, 1813.\n\n O\u2019KEEFFE, JOHN.--This popular dramatist was born in\n Dublin on June 24th, 1747, and was at first intended as an\n artist, as he was very deft with the pencil. But he preferred\n the stage, and was a successful actor for a time. Removing to\n London, he began to earn repute as a dramatist, writing numerous\n plays, chiefly operas and farces, which had great vogue. His\n \u201cWild Oats,\u201d a comedy, still keeps the stage, and other pieces\n of his are still remembered. He lost his sight many years before\n his death, which occurred at Southampton on February 24th, 1833.\n\n O\u2019LEARY, JOSEPH.--Author of _The Tribute_, a\n collection of prose and verse, published anonymously at Cork in\n 1833. He was born in Cork about 1790, and was a contributor to\n the scurrilous _Freeholder_ and other papers of his native\n city and of Dublin. He came to London in 1834, and acted as\n parliamentary reporter for the _Morning Herald_. Between\n 1840 and 1850 he disappeared, and is said to have committed\n suicide in the Regent\u2019s Canal. \u201cWhisky, Drink Divine\u201d first\n appeared in The _Freeholder_ about 1820.\n\n O\u2019LEARY, PATRICK.--One of the foremost writers in\n Irish at the present day. He is a resident of West Cork, and is\n probably a native of that locality. The original of the sketch\n quoted appeared in _The Gaelic Journal_, and was translated\n by himself for the present collection.\n\n O\u2019RYAN, JEREMIAH.--Born near Bansha, co. Tipperary,\n about the close of last century, and died in March 1855. He is\n generally known as \u201cDarby Ryan of Bansha.\u201d Some of his songs\n were collected and published in Dublin in 1861.\n\n PORTER, REV. THOMAS HAMBLIN, D.D.--Born about 1800, and\n died some years ago, but little is known about him. He graduated\n D.D. at Dublin University in 1836, and wrote a few pieces, which\n were published in Dublin magazines. \u201cThe Nightcap\u201d appeared\n about 1820.\n\n ROCHE, SIR BOYLE.--Born probably in the south of\n Ireland about 1740. Was a soldier, and distinguished himself\n in the American War. He entered the Irish Parliament, and was\n created a baronet in 1782 by the Government for his unwavering\n support. He was pensioned for his service in voting for the\n Union, and died in Dublin on June 5th, 1807. He was noted for\n his very carefully prepared blunders in speech.\n\n SHALVEY, THOMAS.--A market-gardener in Dublin, who\n wrote some amusing poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used\n to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert-rooms in\n Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular, and some\n of his best songs were written for him by Shalvey.\n\n SHAW, GEORGE BERNARD.--Born in Dublin in 1856, is now\n recognised as one of the most brilliant of musical critics in\n London. He was for a time a land agent in the West of Ireland,\n but was always a musical enthusiast, and belongs to a musical\n family well known in Dublin. He has a profound knowledge of\n music, but a somewhat flippant way of showing it. He has written\n several clever novels, and literary, art, and musical criticisms\n for leading London papers. He was the caustic \u201cCorno di\n Bassetto\u201d of _The Star_, and is now the musical critic of\n _The World_. He is also a brilliant speaker, and has quite\n recently come to the front as a dramatist.\n\n SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY.--Born in October 1751, in\n Dorset Street, Dublin, and son of a noted actor and manager.\n As dramatist, orator, and spendthrift, Sheridan\u2019s name figures\n very prominently in the memoirs of his time. His wit was\n squandered in every direction as well as his cash, and he has\n been reproached for making every one of the characters in his\n plays as witty as himself. He was an important personality in\n the politics of his day, and sat in the English Parliament for\n many years. He died in debt and poverty on July 7th, 1816, and\n was accorded a grand burial in Westminster Abbey.\n\n STEELE, SIR RICHARD.--Born in Dublin in 1671 or 1672,\n and educated at the Charterhouse School, London, and at Oxford.\n In 1709 he commenced the publication of _The Tatler_, and\n followed it up by _The Spectator_, etc. He also wrote\n several comedies, and other works. He entered Parliament in\n 1713, and held one or two Government offices. He died in Wales\n on September 1st, 1729.\n\n STERNE, REV. LAURENCE.--Born at Clonmel, co. Tipperary,\n on November 24th, 1713, and graduated M.A. at Cambridge in\n 1740. His father was an officer in the army. He was ordained\n about 1740, and after some years of inactivity at home and\n travel abroad, wrote his great work, _Tristram Shandy_,\n which appeared at intervals between 1759 and 1767. _His\n Sentimental Journey_ appeared in 1768. He died on March 18th,\n 1768.\n\n SULLIVAN, TIMOTHY DANIEL.--This well-known politician\n is one of the most widely read of the Irish verse-writers, and\n has written a few songs which have deeply impressed themselves\n on Irish memories. But he excels in the writing of political\n skits, which at one time formed one of the chief features of the\n _Nation_ newspaper, then edited by him. Several volumes of\n his poetical work have been published. He was born at Bantry,\n co. Cork, in 1827.\n\n SWIFT, REV. JONATHAN, D.D.--This greatest of satirists\n in the English tongue was born in Hoey\u2019s Court, Dublin, on\n November 30th, 1667, and graduated B. A. at Dublin University\n in 1686, and afterwards at Oxford. He was ordained in 1694,\n and published The _Tale of a Tub_ in 1705. _Gulliver\u2019s\n Travels_ followed in 1726\u201327, and innumerable other works\n came from his pen. He was one of Ireland\u2019s champions, and had\n an extraordinary popularity with the people. He died on October\n 19th, 1745.\n\n WADE, JOSEPH AUGUSTINE.--An unfortunate Irish genius,\n born in Dublin in 1796, and the son of a dairyman in Thomas\n Street. As a poet and musician Wade has been highly praised. He\n composed some excellent songs. He made large sums of money by\n his writings and music, but was very erratic in his career. He\n died in poverty on September 29th, 1845.\n\n WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS, LL.D.--Born in Limerick in 1809,\n and connected with the Wallers of co. Tipperary. He graduated\n LL.D. at Dublin University in 1852, and held an important\n Government position in Dublin for many years. He was editor\n of The _Dublin University Magazine_ for some time, and\n published several volumes of clever prose and verse. He is one\n of the best of Irish song-writers. Died on January 19th, 1894.\n\n WILLIAMS, RICHARD DALTON.--Born in Dublin, of Tipperary\n family, on October 8th, 1822. Was one of the earliest and one of\n the leading contributors to _The Nation_, writing generally\n over the signature of \u201cShamrock.\u201d His writings are often very\n fierce and intense, but his true power lay in the humorous vein,\n some of his parodies being almost unrivalled. He was implicated\n in the \u201948 rising and was arrested, but was soon released,\n and went to America, where he became a professor of English\n literature at Mobile, Alabama. He was a medical student when he\n wrote for _The Nation_. He died in Louisiana on July 5th,\n 1862.\n\n WINSTANLEY, JOHN.--A Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin.\n He was born in 1678, and died in 1750. His poems first appeared\n in 1742, a second series being published after his death by his\n son.\n\n\n\n\n NOTES\n\n\n_The Monks of the Screw_, p. 102.--Curran belonged to a small\nconvivial society in Dublin known by this name in the latter part of\nthe last century. It included some of the most famous Irishmen of the\ntime, and Curran was prior, and called his residence at Rathfarnham\n\u201cThe Priory\u201d on that account.\n\n_To a Young Lady, etc._, p. 132.--From _The Shamrock, or\nHibernian Cresses_, 1772, a collection of poems edited and largely\nwritten by Samuel Whyte, the schoolmaster of Moore, Sheridan, etc.\n\n_Daniel O\u2019Rourke_, p. 175.--This was written for Crofton Croker by\nDr. Maginn, together with other stories, and as they were included in\nthe former\u2019s _Fairy Legends_ without a signature, they have been\nalways assigned to Croker.\n\n_Kitty of Coleraine_, p. 188.--This very popular song is based\non an old story, of which one version will be found in \u201cLa Cruche\u201d by\nM. Autereau, a contemporary of La Fontaine, the fabulist, which is\nincluded in some editions of the latter\u2019s works.\n\n_Brian O\u2019Linn_, p. 198.--This version is made up from several in\nthe possession of Mr. P. J. McCall, of Dublin.\n\n_Bellewstown Hill_, p. 228.--An inferior song on the same subject\nwas written by Richard Sheil, a Drogheda printer and poet.\n\n_The Peeler and the Goat_, p. 231.--This famous song, thought\nwritten at the time of, or very soon after, the establishment of the\nIrish police force, is still popular in Ireland. A version of it will\nbe found in Gerald Griffin\u2019s _Rivals_, 1835.\n\n_Nell Flaherty\u2019s Drake_, p. 239.--Many versions of this ballad\nare to be found in the Irish ballad-slips. They are all corrupt and\ngenerally very gross.\n\n_Father Tom\u2019s Wager with the Pope_, p. 267.--This is extracted\nfrom the story of \u201cFather Tom and the Pope,\u201d which, though attributed\nto Dr. Maginn, John Fisher Murray, and others, was really written\nby Sir Samuel Ferguson. It appeared anonymously, in May 1838, in\n_Blackwood\u2019s Magazine_, at the time of a famous controversy\nbetween a Father Maguire and the Rev. Mr. Pope.\n\n_Molly Muldoon_, p. 273.--This poem was written about 1850, and\nits authorship has always been a mystery. An American journal once\nascribed it to Fitzjames O\u2019Brien, the Irish-American novelist.\n\n_Lanigan\u2019s Ball_, p. 306.--A version made up from several, and as\nnear absolute correctness as seems possible.\n\n_The Widow\u2019s Lament_, p. 308.--This piece is of comparatively\nrecent origin. It appeared in an Irish-American paper some years ago,\nand attempts to find its author have proved futile.\n\n_Whisky and Wather_, p. 310.--Taken from a song-book published\nin Dublin, and there attributed in a vague way to \u201cZozimus\u201d (Michael\nMoran), the once celebrated blind beggar of Dublin. He, however, could\nnot have written it, any more than the other matters assumed to be his\ncompositions because he recited them.\n\n THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LIMITED, FELLING-ON-TYNE.\n 12-07\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] _I.e._, Wexford, the natives of which are nicknamed \u201cyellow\nbellies,\u201d from a legend current amongst them. Queen Elizabeth first\ngave them the name (so they say) on witnessing a hurling match when\nthe Wexford men, with yellow scarves round their waists, won. Said the\nqueen, \u201cThese Yellow Bellies are the finest fellows I\u2019ve ever seen.\u201d\n\n[2] Mourn.\n\n[3] Forsooth.\n\n[4] Law commentators of the time.\n\n[5] A celebrated and noisy French singer.\n\n[6] A noted French actress.\n\n[7] Hanged.\n\n[8] Generous, satisfying.\n\n[9] Fool.\n\n[10] My boy.\n\n[11] O\u2019Connell\u2019s.\n\n[12] Lament.\n\n[13] Catholic.\n\n[14] Anything eaten with potatoes.\n\n[15] A pig.\n\n[16] Be it so.\n\n[17] Hat.\n\n[18] A draw, a whiff.\n\n[19] Short pipe.\n\n[20] Darling of my heart.\n\n[21] Friend.\n\n[22] A forked stick.\n\n[23] Cudgel.\n\n[24] Come hither.\n\n[25] Evidently _sprissaun_, a diminutive, expressing contempt.\n\n[26] Blockhead.\n\n[27] Puppy.\n\n[28] Lout.\n\n[29] Child.\n\n[30] Devil.\n\n[31] _Knapawns_, a huge potato.\n\n[32] _Knasster_, a big potato.\n\n[33] A seat made of straw or hay ropes.\n\n[34] _Casoge_, a coat.\n\n[35] Reclaimed mountain-land.\n\n[36] A species of diver.\n\n[37] The small toe.\n\n[38] _Gom_ or _Gommach_--a fool.\n\n[39] Bard.\n\n[40] Harped.\n\n[41] Cudgels.\n\n[42] _Beimedh a gole_--Let us be drinking.\n\n[43] The \u201cAmerican wake\u201d is the send-off given to people the night\nbefore their departure for America.\n\n[44] A hundred thousand welcomes--pron. _cade meelya falltha_.\n\n[45] _Canavaun_--blossom of the bog.\n\n[46] _Floohool_--generous.\n\n[47] Kindliest.\n\n[48] Woman of the house.\n\n[49] _Doreen_--small drop.\n\n[50] _Colleen dhas_--pretty girl.\n\n[51] Overcoat.\n\n[52] Indeed.\n\n[53] Woman of the house.\n\n[54] Suitable.\n\n[55] Girls.\n\n[56] Forsooth.\n\n[57] A kiss.\n\n[58] A blow.\n\n[59] Kiss.\n\n[60] Kiss.\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\n1. Obvious printers\u2019, punctuation and spelling errors have been\n corrected silently.\n\n2. Some hyphenated and non-hyphenated versions of the same words\n have been retained as in the original.\n\n3. Italics are shown as _xxx_.\n\n4. Where appropriate, the original spelling has been retained.","title":"The humour of Ireland","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":113764}