. -O' S LLl ^ A r 
 
 48 Holj-oke Street, 
 
 Cambridge Mass. 
 
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 vr| 
 
I 
 
 » 
 
 PENNY READINGS 
 
 THE/ 
 
 lOEOPLE. 
 
 [compiled by the editor op the “nation.”] 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 B ^; cr ;J r T library 
 CHLbIJNUf HILL, MASS. 
 
 DUBLIN: 
 
 D. SULLIVAN, 90 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET. 
 1879. 
 
ffos 33 
 
 'pi- i 
 
 190225 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 The National Literature of the Irish People is of recent 
 growth. It is fresh, and bright, and vigorous ; but com- 
 pared with the Literature of other nations it is but as a 
 sapling among ancient oaks. The “ reason why” is not far 
 to seek. The ancient language of other peoples continues 
 to be their language to this day ; their literary culture pro- 
 gressed continuously, and circumstances were favourable to 
 its development. Far different was the case in Ireland. The 
 subjection of this country by a foreign people crushed out 
 the old laws, literature, and language ; and a long and 
 troubled period elapsed before the new ones began to take 
 root. Art and literature in other lands were putting forth 
 some of their fairest flowers when Ireland w r as a scene of 
 wretchedness, suffering, and horror. Shakspeare was pro- 
 ducing his immortal works in England when Mountjoy and 
 Carew were reducing Ireland to the condition of a howling 
 1 wilderness ; and it was the same queen for whose delecta- 
 tion the great dramatist wrote one of his famous plays, w;ho 
 received from Ireland the comforting assurance that nothing 
 was left for her to reign over in that country but “ carcases 
 and ashes.” Later on, Milton was giving to the world those 
 splendid compositions which he knew that “ posterity would 
 not willingly let die,” while Cromwell with fire and sword 
 | was laying Ireland waste, and his captains were despatching 
 1 the native Irish “ to Hell or Connaught.” Dryden, Pope, 
 Addison, were enriching the English language with their 
 noble works at a time when learning was a crime in Ireland, 
 and there was a price on the head of a schoolmaster. Art, 
 
4 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 science, literature, commerce, all were thriving and advan- 
 cing in other lands while the Irish people were being “ brayed 
 as in a mortar” — beggared by confiscations, tortured by cruel 
 persecutions, hunted into exile, or slain by famine and the 
 sword. Our country, consequently, came late into the 
 literary field, and the triumphs of her sons therein are fewer 
 and less grand than they would have been under happier 
 circumstances. Yet the wonder is not that they are not more 
 numerous, but that they are so many and so brilliant, and 
 that Irish genius, weighted and restricted by such adverse 
 circumstances, has been able to assert itself so nobly as it 
 has done. Ireland can point to a long list of distinguished 
 names ranging from the time of Swift down to this day — a 
 whole galaxy of stars, shining lustrously in every depart- 
 ment of art and literature. In oratory and poetry, which 
 above all other things express the mind of a nation, she is 
 especially well represented ; and the products of Irish genius- 
 in these arts are included amongst their literary treasures by 
 all cultivated readers of the English language. 
 
 The literature of Ireland, especially in recent times, is 
 identified with the struggles and aspirations of the Irish 
 people for freedom. Its noblest passages are either protests 
 against oppression or appeals to the love of liberty, and jus- 
 tice, and honour, that glows in the Irish heart. Swift gave 
 it that direction at the outset, and in our time it received 
 extension and impulse from the warm Celtic soul of Thomas 
 Davis. Our national literature is now essentially patriotic, 
 and nearly all the additions that are being made to it are in 
 the same character. In that fact, and the fact that it is 
 loved and cherished by the whole Irish race, we see one of 
 the surest pledges for the future independence and greatness 
 of our country. Desirous of contributing by every means in 
 our power to popularise it still further, to bring it into the 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 5 
 
 homes and hearts of all our countrymen, to put its most 
 instructive, inspiriting, and delightful passages into the 
 hands of the mechanic, and the peasant, and the schoolboy, 
 whose means may not enable them to range through a whole 
 library, we have brought together the following series of selec- 
 tions from Irish history, poetry, and fiction, from lectures and 
 essays, from the speeches of eloquent orators and the writings 
 of clever journalists. Our extracts are not exclusively poli- 
 tical, nor are they compiled in any party spirit, but all will 
 be found “racy of the soil.” The eloquence, the wit, the 
 humour of Ireland are represented in our pages, but we trust 
 there is nothing in them that can offend the susceptibilities 
 of any honest Irishman. In these “ Penny Readings” we 
 present a compilation which we hope will prove acceptable 
 to our countrymen, and not only creditable, but serviceable 
 to our native land. 
 

 
 
 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 %\t Jfltttj anil fpnsic jof |rrian5r. 
 
 FROM ** LECTURES AND ESSAYS” BY HENRY GILES. 
 
 Ireland is a land of poetry. The power of the Past there, 
 over every imagination, renders it a land of romance. The 
 past is yet an actuality in Ireland ; in all other parts of the 
 British islands it is a song. The tragedy of Flodden Field 
 moves a Scotchman’s feelings, but it does not disturb his 
 business; the battle of Bannockburn calls up his enthusiasm, 
 but, though it keeps him late at the bottle, it never keeps 
 him late from the counting-house. The imprisonment of the 
 poet-king Jamie softens his affections, but it leaves his judg- 
 ment perfectly clear on bills of exchange and the price of 
 stocks. Even the battle of Culloden is gone long ago to the 
 calm impartiality of things that were. The Welshmen take 
 English money without remorse, and say not a word about 
 the assassin, King Edward, and the murder of their bards. 
 Even the English themselves have but faint remembrance of 
 the Heptarchy, the revolt of the barons, the wars of the 
 Boses, the death of the first Charles, and the abdication of 
 the second James. But events do not pass so rapidly in 
 Ireland. Ireland is a country of tradition, of meditation, 
 and of great idealism. It has much of the Eastern feeling 
 of passion added to fancy, with continuity of habit, as in the 
 East, connected with both passion and fancy. Monuments 
 of war, princedom, and religion cover the surface of the 
 land. The meanest man lingers under the shadow of piles 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 8 
 
 which tell him that his fathers were uot slaves. He toils in 
 the field or he walks on the highways with structures 
 before him that have stood the storms of time, through 
 which the wind echoes with the voice of centuries, and that 
 voice is to his heart the voice of soldiers, of scholars, and of 
 saints. We would pen no chilling word respecting the im- 
 pulse of nationality that now seems astir in Ireland. We 
 honour everywhere the spirit of nationality. We honour 
 the glorious heroism which, for an idea and a conviction, if 
 it cannot do, can always dare and die. 
 
 Much there is in Ireland that we most dearly love. We 
 love its music, sweet and sad, and low and lonely ; it comes 
 with a pathos, a melancholy, a melody, on the pulses of the 
 heart, that no other music breathes ; and while it grieves, it 
 soothes. It seems to flow with long complaint over the 
 course of ages, or to gasp with broken sobs through the 
 ruins and fragments of historic thought. We are glad with 
 the humour of Ireland, so buoyant and yet so tender ; quaint 
 with smiles, quivering with sentiment, pursing up the lips 
 while it bedews the eyelids. We admire the bravery of 
 Ireland, which may have been broken, but never has been 
 bent — which has often been unfortunate, but which never 
 has been craven. We have much affection for the Irish char- 
 acter. We give unfeigned praise to that purity of feeling 
 ’which surrounds Irish women in the humblest class, and 
 amidst the coarsest occupations, with an atmosphere of sanc- 
 tity. We acknowledge with heartfelt satisfaction that kin- 
 dred love in the Irish poor that no distance can weaken, and 
 no time can chill. We feel satisfied with our humanity when 
 we see the lowly servant-girl calling for her wages, or draw- 
 ing on the savings’ bank for funds, to take tears from the 
 eyes of a widowed mother in Connaught, or fears from the 
 soul of an aged father in Munster. We behold a radiance of 
 grandeur around the head of the Irish labourer, as he bounds, 
 three thousand miles away, at the sound of Repeal, at the | 
 name of O’Connell ; and yet more as his hand shakes as he 
 takes a letter from the post-office, which, rude as it may be in 
 superscription, is a messenger from the cot in which his child- 
 hood lay — is an angel from the fields, the hills, the streams, 
 the mountains, and the moors wherein his boyhood sported. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 9 
 
 We remember with many memories of delight, too, the beau- 
 ties of Ireland’s scenery. We recollect the fields that are ever 
 green ; the hills that bloom to the summit ; the streamlets 
 that in sweetness seem to sing her legends ; the valleys 
 where the fairies play ; the voices among her glens, that 
 sound from her winds as with the spirits of her bards ; the 
 shadows of her ruins at moonlight, that in pale and melan- 
 choly splendour appear like the ghosts of her ancient heroes. 
 
 £Lot 
 
 BY JOHN F. O’DONNELL. 
 
 Not death, not sleep, nor yet the hectic beauty 
 Of one whose hours are closing with the day — 
 r Not the cold pallor, the reluctant eyelids, 
 
 The hair, once golden, dashed with ashen gray, 
 
 Are tliine, dear Island ; but the calm suspension, 
 From the deep, vital fount of suffering drawn, 
 
 Of passion, progress, effort, and achievement, 
 
 Through the night agony that moves towards dawn. 
 
 Sad Mother, sitting in the mists of ages 
 By oceans spuming to the sun and moon — 
 
 Sad Mother, tranced in ungradating twilight 
 That keeps no promise of an eve or noon, 
 
 The sea wind freshens thy eternal garland, 
 
 The salt ooze perfumes thy delicious hair, 
 
 And on the cheek where death had set its signet 
 The rose of immortality blows fair. 
 
 Thou art in exile, yet are present with us, 
 
 As in the moonlight, on a far-off sea, 
 
 The pilgrim skiff puts out to catch the lustre, 
 
 But on and on it moves incessantly. 
 
10 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 It pales, it perishes ; the silver surges 
 Melt slowly into blackness one by one ; 
 
 The pilot turns his helm, dejected, baffled, 
 
 And in his front upsprings the blood-red sun. 
 
 And so with thee, Invisible Existence, 
 
 Dreamiest of Phantoms, yet most true, 
 
 0 Shape divinest that eludes our searches — 
 
 Pure fire, and spirit, as ascending dew. 
 
 We hear thy voice in solitary pauses, 
 
 We see thy face, but dark, as in a glass ; 
 
 The odour of thy presence fills the mountain, 
 
 The traces of thy vestment sweep the grass. 
 
 How have they painted thee ? A haggard beauty, 
 
 One pearly elbow o’er a rent harp cast, 
 
 Eyes tear-diffused with multitudes of sorrows, 
 
 And hair blown backward by the shrieking blast. 
 
 The hills encircle thee, the sea’s before thee ; 
 
 And on the yeasty billows’ shaking rim, 
 
 Sole hope of thine, and of thy generations, 
 
 One melancholy star shines low and dim. 
 
 1 have beheld thee, 0 transcendant vision ! 
 
 A greater glory rounded thy estate, 
 
 Thine were not then the weeds of woman’s sorrow, 
 
 Nor the quenched lamp outside the thrice-barred gate : 
 
 The Summer kindled in thy radiant tresses, 
 
 The passion-flowers were heaped upon thy lap, 
 
 Thy left hand held the shield, thy right the sabre, 
 
 And on thy temples sat the Phrygian Cap. 
 
 A lovely majesty, a form immortal ! 
 
 Grace in thy silence, music in thy step ! 
 
 The ever vernal youth beneath thine eyelids, 
 
 Fresh blood and beauty on thy high-curved lip. 
 
 The clear, chill air grew golden to thy movement, 
 
 The columned aisles of oaks bowed to thine head, 
 
 And, maiden as thou art, the flinten mountains 
 Shook, as a god had moved them, to thy tread. 
 
 Ah, the wild background ! for there loomed behind fcheo 
 The spectral shadow of the land that was — 
 
 Heaped ruin, chaos piled on tumbled chao3, 
 
 The giant fragments of a beaten cause ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 11 
 
 Bat not thy cause — the cause of thine oppressor — 
 
 His temples’ depths lay baking in the sun, 
 
 The owls were harvesting within his prisons ; 
 
 For thou hadst conquered, and his race was run. 
 
 The painful vigil, the sublime persistence — 
 
 Prayers, tears, and sufferings — had wrought their end ; 
 Thou stoodst a victor crowned among the nations, 
 
 Angel of Peace, but armed to defend. 
 
 The banner of our Race flew on the oceans, 
 
 No more the trampled ensign of the Past ; 
 
 Dense legions poured along the swollen highways, 
 
 Or where the cities rose erect and vast. 
 
 And from the People’s hearts one thunderous paean 
 Gathered and rolled along the skirts of night : 
 
 “ Praise to our God, whose arm hath slain oppression, 
 
 And given the battle to dishonoured Right.” 
 
 O waiting Ireland, ’twas thy shining future ! 
 
 What recks it that thy past was foul and red, 
 
 When, on the calm and fulness of fruition, 
 
 Heaven shall proclaim to Earth : — Thou art not dead ? 
 
 % fpora. 
 
 On May 27th, 1848, John Mitchel, who had been convicted of “ Trea- 
 son Felony,” and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation, was 
 placed on board a Government steamship, and borne off into exile. 
 While on board of that vessel, and subsequently, up to the time 
 of his escape from Australia, the distinguished captive occupied a 
 portion of his time in penning a sort of journal, or diary, of his prison 
 experiences, and record of his thoughts on things in general. This 
 journal he published in the pages of the Citizen , a newspaper which he 
 started after his arrival in New York, and it was afterwards issued in 
 book form. The volume contains much quaint, curious, and clever 
 writing ; and although many readers may differ with some of Mr. 
 Mitchei’s criticism on individuals, and opinions on existing facts and 
 circumstances, none can fail to admire the ability and spirit evinced in 
 the composition. Many pleasant bits of description, many airy and 
 delicate plays of fancy, many passages of saturnine humour, are to be 
 found in its pages, interspersed among the political disquisitions and re- 
 
12 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 cords of facts which form the staple of the work. One of these is the 
 following delicious little “ par” on a British bombardment of the 
 Moon : — 
 
 Last night, after two bells (one o’clock,) I was awakened by 
 great trampling, pushing, hauling, and thumping on deck. 
 Something unusual was certainly going forward. Got up, 
 went through the cabin, and to the foot of the companion 
 ladder ; found the skylights of the cabin removed, and 
 smooth deck laid in their place — the captain out on 
 deck — the companion ladder blocked up at the top. The 
 deck tuas cleared for action . I heard loud words of com- 
 mand. Spirit of the Constitution ! has the war been de- 
 clared since we came to sea *1 Is Baudin, is Trehouart upon 
 us. May the Powers grant it ! 0 Trehourat ! admiral of 
 
 heaven ! lay yourself alongside here — you can easily wing 
 our accursed paddle, or send two or three fifty-pounders into 
 us amidships, to derange the economy of our engine-room. I 
 ran through the lieutenant’s room, telling a boy who was 
 there to run before me and report me to my sergeant. At 
 the foot of one of the funnels I found a ladder that brought 
 me on deck. Ah ! there was no enemy (no friend) in sight ; 
 it was only British discipline that had started British prowess 
 from his sleep, to practise in the dead of the night ; we were 
 alone on the broad silent sea, and were going to bombard 
 the moon. Four times we shelled her with our huge mortar 
 — not, if truth must be told, with actual bombshells, but 
 with quarter-charges of powder ; four times we thundered at 
 her with our long-gun, four times with our carronade ; and 
 then, British energy, having blotted the white moonshine 
 awhile with his gunpowder smoke, tumbled into his hammock 
 again. No living soul, but those on board, heard that 
 cannonade — for fishes are notoriously deaf. On the con- 
 vex of the great globe we are all alone here ; and even here 
 amongst the guns the whole effect is mean, for there is no 
 •echo, and each report is a mere belch , far indeed from the 
 reverberating thunderous roll of heavy guns alongshore. It is 
 a pitiful pyrotechny ; and the black thunder-bearing Scourge 
 seems, in this silent immensity, but a small black spiteful 
 spitfire doing its paltry worst to trouble the still empire of 
 great ambrosial Night. But the smoke soon melts away, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 13 
 
 driven off to leeward, and the solemn moon (unharmed ap- 
 parently) looks down as mildly on ship and ocean as before 
 the battery was opened upon her. Forgive the impudent 
 spitfire, 0 soft Moon ! Sink her not to the depths with a 
 discharge of thy terrible aerolite grape —for thou, too, as I 
 do remember, art potent in artillery. 44 What is to become 
 of us mortals,” saith Jean Paul, 44 dwelling on this bare con- 
 vexity, and the moon going round bombarding us with 
 stones, like a Turk V’ Let there be peace between us and 
 thee, 0 Toxophora ! 0 fairest huntress ’ Iocheaira ! Call 
 
 to mind those nights on Latmos, and be gracious to mortal 
 man. We have war-engines enough, argument enough, and 
 diabolic rage enough, to tear, blow up, crush, and batter 
 one another — ay, enough to glut thee in thy character of 
 Hecate — without thy ordnance of meteor-stones. Needs not 
 that thou exact human sacrifices, beautiful Bendis ! gentle 
 Astarte, Queen of Heaven ! There be ill-favoured demons 
 enough unto whom we may immolate our brothers — Mam- 
 mon and Moloch, and the truly enlightened god of civilisa- 
 tion, fair-spoken Belial. Do thou, 0 Moon ! wheel thy 
 bright orbit, weave thy mystic nodes, and fill thy horns in 
 peace ! 
 
 <D ’Council as an Orator. 
 
 FROM A LECTURE BY HENRY GILES. 
 
 O’Connell was in every way made for a great tribune. Of 
 commanding height and solid breadth of body — with ele- 
 vated head, open face, clear, piercing eye, a full, sweet voice, 
 imperturbable cheerfulness, ready wit, vernacular expression, 
 and earnest address — in thought, forcible and direct ; in 
 passion, kindly or angry, as the case might be ; in impulse 
 ever varying, from the whisper of emotion to the tempest of 
 excitement, from the rush of prayer to the rage of indigna- 
 
14 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 tion — O’Connell, as he willed, ruled a popular assembly. He 
 put positions into broad, brief, and homely statements ; be 
 clinched them with pertinent instances, and then he let them 
 take their chance. He dealt much in aphorism, proverb, 
 anecdote. He ever and ever changed his topic and his 
 manner ; and joke, story, insinuation, sarcasm, pathos, mer- 
 riment, a lofty burst of passion, a bold personality, indignant 
 patriotism, or subdued conciliating persuasiou, came in quick 
 succession — so that all within hearing of his rich, strong, 
 musical voice became unconscious of fatigue, and wished 
 only the enchantment to continue. He was never boisterous, 
 was not often even vehement ; and though he could, and fre- 
 quently did, rise to transcendentally figurative and impas- 
 sioned speech, his general matter consisted in simple and 
 earnest argument, in vigorous and homely sense. It is true 
 that the popular assemblies which O’Connell was accustomed 
 to address were Irish, and that Irish multitudes are suscep- 
 tible and impassioned is also true. O’Connell had naturally 
 his first school among such multitudes, and a most excellent 
 school it was. Ho other multitudes can be so electrified by 
 flashes of emotion, or can be so aroused by the expression of 
 a sentiment. They are quick to every allusion of tender- 
 ness ; and to wit, humour, and melancholy they are alive in 
 every fibre. Irish assemblies are not critical, but sympa- 
 thetic. Eloquence is the child of confidence ; and therefore 
 it is that eloquence springs up in Irish assemblies as a native 
 instinct. O’Connell in all such assemblies was an incarna- 
 tion of the Irish soul. His genius was the genius of the 
 nation, and faithfully it gave expression to the native mind 
 of Ireland. One moment in jest and banter, sparkling like 
 the streamlets in Irish glens ; in another, like the tempest 
 amidst Irish mountains ; now soft as a song to the Irish 
 harp, deep as the wind upon an Irish heath ; again 
 mournful as waves around the Irish shores. The people 
 felt their being in the personality of O’Connell — the sorrow 
 of the past and its anger — the love of their country and 
 its afflictions. They felt this in words plain to their intel- 
 lect, in a poetry bold as their hopes, and in a prophecy as 
 wild as their enthusiasm. Yet O’Connell’s sway as an orator 
 was not limited to an Irish multitude. I heard him in 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 15 
 
 Scotland, when his triumph was as complete as it could have 
 be,en in Ireland, and more splendid in its circumstances. He 
 stood on Calton Hill, which overlooks the city of Edinburgh. 
 The sky was clear and blue, and a mellowed sunlight spread 
 afar and along upon flood and mountain. Some tens of 
 thousands ranged themselves on the side of the hill, and 
 gazed upon the stalwart man from Ireland. The city lay 
 below them — the city of palaces — the city of romance and 
 story — the city of Mary, of Knox, of Scott — the city of heroic 
 memories and of resplendent genius. The panoramic vision 
 stretched into the infinite, through glory and loveliness, and 
 the eye strayed over frith, and lake, and brae, and highland, 
 until the heart was dazzled and drunk with beauty. To 
 this sublime scenery O’Connell pointed, and opened with an 
 earnest eulogium upon Scotland. The palace of Holyrood 
 was beneath. He called up the shade of Bruce, and quoted 
 Burns. He glorified the beauty of Scottish women, and the 
 bravery of Scottish men. He said to the women that he 
 would tell their sisters beyond the Channel that the 
 daughters of Scotland could feel for the woes of Ireland. He 
 dwelt with enthusiasm on the independence which Scotland 
 had always maintained — giving sovereigns, but receiving 
 none, allowing no foreign king to keep his foot upon her 
 heathered hills. He spoke of the Covenanters, whose dust 
 made the soil which held it consecrated ground. He did 
 homage to the sanctity of conscience for which these heroic 
 men had fought, prayed, and died. He then turned with an 
 eloquent despondency to Ireland. He pictured the long, 
 the hard, the desolate sway of the oppressor — the humilia- 
 tion which for centuries had crushed his countrymen, who, 
 never willing to be slaves, had always vainly struggled to 
 be free. He enlarged on the charms of his native land and 
 her miseries — on the loss of her Parliament — the waste of 
 her energies — the decline of her nationality, and the sinking 
 of her heart and hope. Then he gradually arose to more 
 cheerful strains, and closed in the rapture of jubilant and 
 exultant prophecy. After three hours he was silent ; then 
 the* collected enthusiasm of that sublime mass burst into 
 one loud shout ; it rent the skies with its boomings, and 
 rolled in long-sounding echoes through the rocks and hills. 
 
16 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 JUtists* (Song. 
 
 BY T. C. IRWIN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ours is an Arab life, they say — 
 
 Sweet saucy friends, ; tis truth they tell- — 
 
 Yet, somehow, can we find each day 
 A peaceful palm and quiet well ; 
 
 Our wants are few where beauties shine, 
 
 And beauties shine o’er earth and sea ; 
 
 Let Fate give others gold and wine, 
 
 But leave us Art and Liberty ! 
 
 We speed each sorrow 
 Toward the morrow 
 
 Where the golden clouds have birth, 
 
 While, like the swallow, 
 
 Still we follow 
 
 Summer and freedom round the earth. 
 
 H. 
 
 ’Tis true, we smile at custom’s form — 
 
 Art looks for truth in everything, 
 
 And birds that sing through sun and storm 
 Would lose, if caged, both voice and wing % 
 
 The bird that lives uncaged, unsought 
 (Our neighbour in the ivy tree), 
 
 And sings his song each morn, is not 
 More careless of the world than we. 
 
 We may grow rich, 
 
 And win our niche, 
 
 And change our views, and change our mirth — 
 Till then we follow, 
 
 Like the swallow, 
 
 Fancy and freedom round the earth. 
 
 ii r. 
 
 Our mansions, they are baseless yet, 
 
 The sunny fields our only pew, 
 
 A faithful dog our household pet, 
 
 Our “ public” but a friend or two ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 17 
 
 Yet poverty has many modes 
 
 Of doubling such sweet charms as come : 
 
 We’ve rambles o’er the pleasant roads, 
 
 We’ve moonlight songs returning home. 
 
 When we grow great, 
 
 In carriage state 
 
 We yet may roll in gouty worth : 
 
 Till then we follow, 
 
 Like the swallow, 
 
 Summer and sunshine round the earth. 
 
 iv. 
 
 Within the little chamber there 
 
 How many an hour we’ve won from fate ! 
 
 Oh, glorious refuge, ten feet square, 
 
 From all the mockeries of the great ! 
 
 There rise our pictures like the dream 
 That soothes the poor man all the night ; 
 
 Our systems, wonderful as steam, 
 
 Our strains, unknown as exquisite, 
 
 Some day day divine 
 Abroad they’ll shine — 
 
 Till then we live in fortune’s dearth, 
 
 And, like the swallow, 
 
 Follow, follow 
 
 Summer and fortune round the earth. 
 
 v. 
 
 There oft our chorused voices roll — 
 
 ’Tis beer alone inspires our folk ; 
 
 There theories of star and soul 
 Grow clear amid tobacco smoke. 
 
 No watch have we, but o’er the town 
 Time toils the hour in crimson light ; 
 
 No princely company we own, 
 
 ’Tis Shakspeare only oheers the night ; 
 
 Our wit abounds, 
 
 Each voice resounds, 
 
 We yet may win a calmer hearth — 
 
 Till then we follow, 
 
 Like the swallow, ' 
 
 Beauty and sunshine round the earth. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet have we something dearer, friends, 
 
 Than the hearts that pulsate fearlessly ; 
 
 9 
 
18 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Something diviner Heaven sends, 
 
 Like stars that light a lonely sea. 
 
 Oh, we have hope for all who’ve flown ! 
 
 Oh, we have angels in the air, 
 
 Beloved souls that, all unknown, 
 
 Still follow us from year to year — 
 
 Tn mute despairs, 
 
 In silent pray’rs, 
 
 We think o’er all who’ve blessed our hearth, 
 And deem they follow, 
 
 Like the poor swallow, 
 
 All that they love around the earth. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then let us dwell in such delight 
 As heart and soul can give alone, 
 
 And with wild fancy’s charms to-night 
 Revel, while time is yet our own ; 
 
 While yon rich Autumn cloud unrolls. 
 
 And fills with gold our casement nigh ; 
 While the great stars, like poet souls, 
 
 Look in on Art and Liberty ! 
 
 Where nature beams 
 We’ll weave our dreams, 
 
 Where folly struts we’ll have our mirth, 
 And, like the swallow, 
 
 Follow, still follow, 
 
 Freedom and light around the earth. 
 
 folm "gtitriiel m dhrntte ghnpit. 
 
 A collection— but not a complete one— of the poetry of James Clarence 
 Mangan,with a biographical introduction by John Mitch el, v/as pub- 
 lished by the Messrs. Sadlier of New York in the year 1866. Mr. 
 Mitchel had but slight material to work upon for a biography of Mangan, 
 but that little he utilised as he alone could. On one point in con- 
 nexion with his subject Mr. Mitchel wrote under a misapprehension. He 
 says, “ Mangan’s remains lie in the cemetery of Glasnevin, a suburb on 
 the northern confines of Dublin, where there is not, so far as I have 
 learned, a stone to mark his last abode.” The fact is, there is a modest 
 tombstone over the grave, the inscription on which simply records the 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 19 
 
 date of the poet’s death, and his age at the time of his decease, with the 
 customary prayer for the soul departed. The passage which we here 
 extract from Mr. Mitchel’s “introductory” follows immediately .after 
 one in which he had referred to the character of Mangan’s. poetry, the 
 high appreciation of it entertained in Ireland, and the little that is 
 known of it elsewhere : — 
 
 I have undertaken also to give some account of his life — ■ 
 or, rather, his two lives ; for never was a creature on this 
 earth whose existence was so entirely dual and double ; nay, 
 whose two lives were so hopelessly and eternally at war, 
 racking and desolating the poor mortal frame which was the 
 battle-ground of that fearful strife. Yet, I ask myself, 
 what would Mangan think and feel now, if he could know 
 that a man was going to write his life h Would he not rise 
 up from his low grave in Glasnevin to forbid ? Be still, poor 
 ghost ! Gentle and reverently, and with shoes from off my 
 feet, I will tread that sacred ground. 
 
 And first, of the mere material and visible life : Mangan 
 was not born in the aristocratic rank. Moore’s father was a 
 grocer in Aungier-street ; Beranger was brought forth in the 
 shed of his grandfather, a tailor. Of Mangan’s parentage 
 little more is known than that his father was one James 
 Mangan, a native of Shanagolden, in Limerick county ; who 
 in 1801 was married to Catharine Smith, of Fishamble- 
 street, Dublin. In the same street, and in 1803, James 
 Clarence Mangan was born, his father being then a shop- 
 keeper of the grocer species, and unfortunate in his business. 
 In the short sketch of Mangan’s life prefixed to Mr. O’Daly’s 
 publication called “ The Poets and Poetry of Munster,” 
 it is said, touching this unprosperous grocer parent, 
 “ that being of a restless disposition he removed to 
 another locality, having consigned the establishment 
 and his son to the care of his brother-in-law, whom 
 he induced to come from London for that purpose.” 
 Those who knew Clarence Mangan in later days had 
 a vague sort of knowledge that he had a brother, a 
 sister, and mother still living — some of whom survived him ; 
 and that their scanty sustenance depended, at least partly, 
 upon him. In the older part of Dublin, between the Castle 
 and the river Liffey, runs off from Werburgh-street a narrow 
 alley which brings you into a small square of dismal brick 
 
20 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 bouses, called “ Derby-square.” Very few of the wealthier 
 and more fashionable inhabitants of Dublin know of the ex- 
 istence of this dreary quadrangle. The houses are high and 
 dingy ; many of the windows are patched with paper ; clothes- 
 lines extend across from window to window, and on the whole 
 the place has an air of having seen better days — better, but 
 never very good. In this Derby-square, it appears, was a 
 boys’ school ; and here Clarence Mangan received what scho- 
 lastic training he ever had. Then, for seven years, he 
 laboured as a copyist in a scrivener’s office at a weekly salary ; 
 a mechanical employment which had at least one advantage 
 for him — that his mind could wander. Eye and finger once 
 set steadily to their task, the soul might spread her wings and 
 soar beyond all the spheres — 
 
 “ Then Fancy bore him to the palest star, 
 
 Pinnacled in the lofty aether dim.” 
 
 After that, for two or three years, he gained his living and 
 maintained his wretched household as an attorney’s clerk. 
 The name of that particular member of the Society of the 
 King’s Inns who doled out a few shillings to so remarkable a 
 clerk is not known to fame ; and my researches upon this- 
 important point will be for ever in vain. 
 
 At what age he devoted himself to this drudgery, at what 
 age he left it, or was discharged from it, does not appear : for 
 his whole biography documents are wanting, the man having 
 never for one moment imagined that his poor life could 
 interest any surviving human being, and having never, ac- 
 cordingly, collected his biographical assets, and appointed a 
 literary executor to take care of his posthumous fame. 
 Neither did he ever acquire the habit, common enough among 
 literary men, of dwelling upon his own early trials, struggles, 
 and triumphs. But those who knew him in after years can 
 remember with what a shuddering and loathing horror he 
 spoke, when at rare intervals he could be induced to speak at 
 all, of his labours with the scrivener and the attorney. He 
 was shy and sensitive, with exquisite sensibility and fine 
 impulses ; eye, ear, and soul open to all the beauty, music, and 
 glory of heaven and earth ; humble, gentle, and unexacting ; 
 modestly claiming nothing in the world but celestial glorified 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 21 
 
 life, seraphic love, and a throne among the immortal gods 
 (that’s all) — and he was eight or ten years scribbling deeds, 
 pleadings, and bills in Chancery. Know all men by these 
 presents that it was “ a very vile life,” if, indeed, his true 
 life were spent there and so ; but there was another, an inner 
 and a higher life, for him ; and in those years of quill-driving, 
 amongst gross and ill-conditioned fellow-clerks, whose naughty 
 ways long after made him tremble to think of, that subtle 
 spirit wandered and dwelt afar. At this time he must have 
 been a great devourer of books, and seems to have early de- 
 voted himself to the exploration of those treasures which lay 
 locked up in foreign languages. Mangan had no education 
 of a regular and approved sort ; neither, in his multifarious 
 reading, had he, nor could brook, any guidance whatever. 
 Yet the reader of his poems will probably find in them 
 ample proof of culture both high and wide, both profound 
 and curiously exquisite. How he came by these acquire- 
 ments — by what devoted and passionate study, deep in the 
 night, like the wrestle of Jacob with a god, this poor attor- 
 ney’s clerk brought down the immortals to commune with 
 him — is not recorded. He has not made provision, as was 
 remarked before, for satisfying the laudable curiosity of the 
 public on these points. 
 
 Indeed, for some years after his labours had ceased in the 
 attorney’s office, there is a gap in his life which painstaking 
 biography will never fill up. It is a vacuum and obscure 
 gulf which no eye hath fathomed or measured ; into which 
 he entered a bright-haired youth, and emerged a withered 
 and stricken man. Mangan, when the present writer saw 
 him first, was a spare and meagre figure, somewhat under 
 middle height, with a finely formed head, clear blue eyes, 
 and features of peculiar delicacy. His face was pallid and 
 worn, and the light hair seemed not so much grizzled as 
 bleached. From several obscure indications in his poems, it 
 is plain that in one at least of the branches of education he 
 had run through his curriculum regularly ; he had loved, 
 and was deceived. The instructress in this department of 
 knowledge was a certain fair and false “ Frances at least, 
 such is the name under which he addressed to her one of 
 his dreariest songs of sorrow. In that obscure, unrecorded 
 
22 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 interval of his life, he seems to have some time or other, by 
 a rare accident, penetrated (like Diogenes Teufelsdrochk) 
 into a sphere of life higher and more refined than any which 
 his poor lot had before revealed to him ; and even to have 
 dwelt therein for certain days. Dubiously and with diffi- 
 culty I collect, from those who were his intimates many 
 years, thus much. He was on terms of visiting in a house 
 where were three sisters ; one of them beautiful, spiritvelle , 
 and a coquette. The old story was here once more re- 
 enacted in due order. Paradise opened before him : the 
 imaginative and passionate soul of a devoted boy bended in 
 homage before an enchantress. She received it, was pleased 
 with it, even encouraged and stimulated it, by various arts 
 known to that class of person, until she was fully and 
 proudly conscious of her absolute power over one other 
 noble and gitted nature — until she knew that she was the 
 centre of the whole orbit of his being, and the light of his 
 life ; then with a cold surprise, as wondering that he could 
 be guilty of such a foolish presumption, she exercised her 
 undoubted prerogative and whistled him down the wind. 
 His air-paradise was suddenly a darkness and a chaos. 
 
 Well, it was a needful part of his education ; if his Frances 
 had not done him this service, some other as fair and cruel 
 most undoubtedly would. She was but the accidental 
 instrument and occasion of giving him that one fundamental 
 » lesson of a poet’s life, une grande passion. As a beautiful 
 dream she entered into his existence once for all ; as a tone 
 of celestial music she pitched the key-note of his song ; and 
 sweeping over all the chords of his melodious desolation you 
 may see that w hite hand. Let us bid her farewell, then,. 
 not in unkindness ; for she w T as more than half the Mangan. 
 
 He never loved, and hardly looked upon, any woman for- 
 ever more. Neither over his disappointment did he gnash- 
 his teeth and beat his breast before the public ; nor make- 
 himself and his sorrows the burden of his song. Only in the 
 selection of poems for translation, and in the wonderful 
 pathos of the thought which he scrupled not sometimes to 
 interpolate, can you discern the master-misery — as in that 
 ballad from Rueckert : — 
 
 “ I saw her once, one little while, and then no more. 
 
 ’Twas Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 23 
 
 Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? 
 
 She shone before my eyes awhile, and then no more. 
 
 The shallop of my peace was wrecked near Beauty’s shore — 
 
 Near Hope’s fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more ! 
 
 I saw her once, one little while, and then no more. 
 
 Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. 
 
 Her presence thrilled and lighted to its inner core 
 
 My desert breast a little while, and then no more.” 
 
 Into the empty and dreary interval which followed there are 
 but few glimpses of light ; unless the hinted revelations in 
 that ghastly poem, “ The Nameless One,” be regarded as 
 autobiographic. One thing is plain : he could not afford 
 leisure to brood over the shivered splinters of his great 
 dreams, by reason of the necessity of earning daily bread for 
 himself and his mother and sister : which was also probably 
 what saved him from suicide. Men do not usually rush to 
 meet death, when death by mere hunger stands like a wolf 
 at the door. It is well, also, if the devil find one for ever 
 occupied ; which was the receipt found effectual by the 
 learned Count Caylus, who kept diligently engraving, to 
 illustrate his own works, a glass always stuck in his eye, and 
 a burin in his hand, his maxim and rule of life being, “ Je 
 grave pour nepas mependre .” Certain it is the man became 
 miserable enough. At home he had no pleasure ; nothing 
 but reproaches and ill-humour. He contracted a “ friend- 
 ship” with I know not whom ; and the friend betrayed him 
 at his need. Baffled, beaten, mocked, and all alone amid 
 the wrecks of his world, is it wonderful that he sought 
 at times to escape from consciousness by taking for bread 
 opium, and for water brandy h Many a sore and pitiable 
 struggle he must have maintained against the foul fiend, but 
 with a character and a will essentially feeble he succumbed 
 at last. 
 
 Ireland’s Rights. — “ The remedy is wholly in your own 
 hands. By the laws of God, of nations, and of your country, 
 you are, and ought to be, as free a people as your brethren 
 in England .” — Dean Swift 
 
24 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 dblbttt <2lgcr. 
 
 BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, 
 
 How it plashes on the window sill ! 
 
 Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, 
 
 Strass and gass* are grown so still. 
 
 Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — 
 
 Ah ! ’twas rarely I beheld it flow 
 In the tavern where I loved to sup 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Twenty years ago, alas ! — but stay — 
 
 On my life, ’tis half-past twelve o’clock ! 
 After all, the hours do slip away ; 
 
 Come, here goes to burn another block ! 
 
 For the night, or morn, is wet and cold, 
 
 And my fire is dwindling rather low : 
 
 I had fire enough when young and bold, 
 
 Twenty golden years ago. 
 
 Dear ! I don’t feel well at all somehow : 
 
 Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; 
 
 Floods of tears grow common with me now — 
 High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam. 
 Doctors think I’ll neither live nor thrive 
 If I mope at home so. I don’t know— 
 
 Am I living noiv ? 1 was alive 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone — 
 
 Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose — 
 Left with naught to do, except to groan, 
 
 Not a soul to woo, except the Muse — 
 
 Oh ! this is hard for me to bear, 
 
 Me, who whilome lived so much en haut , 
 
 Me, who broke all hearts like China ware, 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 * Street and lane. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 25 
 
 Perhaps ’tis better — time’s defacing waves 
 Long have quenched the radiance of my brow — 
 
 They who curse me nightly from their graves 
 Scarce could love me were they living now. 
 
 But my loneliness hath darker ills — 
 
 Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought, and Co., 
 Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors’ bills 
 Twenty golden years ago I 
 
 Did 1 paint a fifth of what I feel, 
 
 Oh, how plaintive you would ween I was 1 
 But I won’t, albeit I have a deal 
 
 More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
 
 Kerner’s tears are wept for withered flowers, 
 
 Mine for withered hopes — my scroll of woe 
 Dates, alas ! from youth’s deserted bowers, 
 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Yet, may Deutschland’s bardlings flourish long ; 
 
 Me, I tweak no beak among them — hawks 
 Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song 
 I could once beat all of them by chalks. 
 
 Though you find me, as I near my goal, 
 
 Sentamentalising like Rousseau, 
 
 Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Tick-tick, tick-tick ! — not a sound save Time’s, 
 
 And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — 
 
 Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, 
 
 Go to bed and rest thine aching brain ! 
 
 Sleep ! no more the dupe of hopes or schemes ; 
 
 Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — 
 
 Curious anticlimax to thy dreams 
 Twenty golden years ago ! 
 
 Irish Dramatic Talent. — Difference of taste makes it 
 difficult, if not impossible, to say which is the best comedy 
 in the English language. Many, however, are of opinion 
 that there are three which more particularly dispute the 
 palm — namely, “ She stoops to Conquer,” “ The School for 
 Scandal,” and “ The Heiress” ; and it is remarkable that the 
 authors of these three beautiful productions were all Irish- 
 men . — English Paper . 
 
26 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 f.fre frislj §ripfte at fretomfeskret. 
 
 The battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia, was fought between the Fe- 
 deral and Confe ierate forces on Saturday, 13th of December, 1862. One 
 of the most gallant episodes of the fight was the conduct of the Irish 
 Brigade, under General Meagher, in their attempts to storm the Confe- 
 derate batteries, which were strongly posted on Marye’s Hill. The 
 following article, from the pen of Mr. Richard O’Sullivan, published in 
 the Nation of January 17th, 1863, gives a vivid account of the memo- 
 rable conflict, and affords an indication of the feelings with which the 
 news, which possessed so deep an interest for many an Irish heart, was 
 received in Ireland : — 
 
 Full details of the terrible battle of Fredericksburg have 
 now reached our shores. No attempt, for it would be futile, 
 is made to conceal or palliate the awful disaster that befel 
 the great army of the North on that day of December 13th, 
 1862, now forever memorable in the blood-stained annals of 
 war. If American generalship has been foiled, and Ame- 
 rican strategy baffled, the soldiers of the republic need not 
 blush or hang the head in shame ; it was at the hands of 
 Americans they sustained defeat, and their bitterest enemies 
 must allow that they fought nobly — fought bravely and 
 gallantly — and only failed where men of mortal mould 
 w’ere powerless to succeed. Here in Ireland, as we read 
 of that fierce contest, our eye instinctively wanders over 
 the long list of divisions, and brigades, and squadrons 
 that formed the proud array of Northern valour, in search 
 of one little phalanx, one gallant force, that had borne the 
 Green Flag through the varying fortunes of the campaign 
 with honour and chivalry ; and where we find mention of 
 that name, there do we find also a record of heroism, its 
 sure accompaniment, its abiding glory. True, the foes they 
 faced on the battle-field were no enemies of their own be- 
 loved motherland, no haters of the green flag they bore ; yet 
 it was a chivalrous motive that inspired their action ; and 
 the old country cannot but feel proud that, having taken up 
 the arms of freemen for a great cause, they bore themselves 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 as heroes in the strife. They have nobly discharged that 
 duty which they considered owing to the land of their adop- 
 tion. It called upon them in its hour of trial ; they answered 
 with the martial eagerness of their race, and paid it tribute 
 in torrents of their hearts’ blood on the fields of Sharpsburg, 
 Malvern Hills, Antietam, and, last and most of all, Frede- 
 ricksburg. 
 
 Let us see how they fought, and what they had to contend 
 with. Behind Fredericksburg, and parallel to the sedgy 
 banks of the Rappahannock, rise a series of low hills, over 
 looking a narrow plain lying between their bases and the 
 river. All the skill and energy of the Confederates were 
 directed to make these hills, by nature so formidable, im- 
 pregnable — how well they succeeded let the Federal generals 
 say. The crest of every hill bristled with cannon ; in the 
 pine forests at their foot, and between them, gleamed rifle 
 and bayonet. Ho spot was left unguarded — no advantage 
 of position was unnoticed. Thus confident in their own 
 strength, the Confederates awaited the attack of the Fede- 
 rals, their left under Generals Ransom, Anderson, and Hood ; 
 Jackson’s corps occupying the centre ; the right division 
 commanded by Generals Hill, Early, and Stewart. Posted 
 in front of Fredericksburg, within four hundred yards of it, 
 on the crest of a hill called Marye’s Hill, was the Wash- 
 ington Artillery, under Colonel Walton, the pride and boast 
 of the Confederates. 
 
 Having crossed the Rappahannock, the Federals deployed 
 into line, and advanced against their foes. Shortly before 
 ten o’clock on the morning of the 13th, the attack com- 
 menced. Along a line of battle extending upwards of six 
 miles the hostile armies engaged. The Federals, by a series 
 of the most daring assaults, attempted to carry the Confe- 
 derate positions at the point of the bayonet, while the latter, 
 wisely keeping on the defensive, mowed them down with 
 artillery. It was a fearful duel. Along six miles of what 
 but twenty-four hours before had been a peaceful and smiling 
 country, men fought, and toiled, and bled, and died in a 
 dreadful contest for supremacy ; the smoke of a hundred 
 cannon and a hundred thousand muskets shut out the blue 
 sky ; through the dense foliage of the pine trees screamed, 
 
28 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 and whistled, and hustled the engines of havoc and destruc- 
 tion. Again and again the Federals rushed up the heights 
 with undaunted bravery, striving to gain the summit and 
 close with the death-dealing cannon, and as often, when they 
 seemed on the point of success, did the gallant soldiers of 
 the Confederacy, rushing like tigers upon their thinned and 
 disordered ranks, drive them down by an irresistible bayonet 
 charge. 
 
 But where was the Irish Brigade ? What part did they 
 take in the Titanic struggle % We answer, where Irishmen 
 ever have been and ever will be found. Where the contest 
 raged loudest, where the leaden hail poured thickest, where 
 steel met steel with the sharpest clang — there fought and 
 bled the sons of Ireland. The Federal generals well knew 
 the stuff that Irish muscle and sinew were composed of, and 
 they assigned them the pesition they merited. 
 
 On the right of the Federal position lay the town of 
 Fredericksburg, with the Confederate batteries of Marye’s 
 Hill within four hundred yards of its streets. These bat- 
 teries, it was determined, should be taken, and the flank 
 of the enemy thus turned. The task of effecting this was 
 handed over to French’s division, which comprised Meagher’s 
 Irish Brigade. Through the streets they rushed, and, 
 hastily forming while grape and 'round shot tore their way 
 through the ranks, they sprang to the charge. Up the 
 hill they rush; hotter and fiercer grow the volleys of 
 artillery ; around and about them are unseen foes pouring 
 in a deadly fusillade ; the ground they tread on is reddened 
 with their gore ; they retreat, and slowly and haughtily 
 descend, returning volley for volley to the foe. Again they 
 dress their decreasing files, and renew the frightful struggle, 
 and again they are repulsed. Six times they assailed the 
 Confederate battery with a fury that seemed irresistible, 
 and a pertinacity that seemed madness, and six times did 
 the flame-tongued artillery thunder forth their death-song. 
 Darkness came at length, mercifully veiling the havoc ; and 
 the glory of the Irish Brigade was won — the glory of death, 
 for the Brigade was annihilated. 
 
 So they fell. How bitter must have been the feelings of 
 their brave young general when he knew that, of thirteen 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 29 
 
 hundred of his countrymen he led so confident and exultant 
 to that battlefield, scarce two hundred and fifty passed un- 
 scathed through the fiery ordeal. They had joined the 
 cause of their adopted country in a quarrel that they deemed 
 just, but well their valiant leader knew that, behind the 
 desire of vindicating the American flag, Lay the fondly 
 cherished hope that they might “ learn the soldier’s glorious 
 trade,” not alone for America’s sake, but for Ireland’s — the 
 hope that some day, known only to God, Irish soil should 
 ring to their martial tread, Irish hills give back their wild 
 cheer, and Irish clay drink the hot blood with -which they 
 would gladly have bought their country’s freedom. 
 
 For their country they may yet be replaced — those heroes 
 that, thick as Autumn leaves beneath the forest trees, lay at 
 the very muzzles of the cannon at Marye’s Hill — but never 
 shall the void made in many an Irish hearth, in New York, 
 in Boston, in Philadelphia, and here at home in the fertile 
 plains of Ireland, be filled up. Many a mother’s heart will 
 ache, many a new’-madejwidow will drop a tear, and many an 
 orphan will raise the wail, for the loving son, for the fond 
 husband, and the kind father, sleeping in a soldier’s grave 
 beside the gliding waters of the Rappahannock. 
 
 They have earned well of their country ; they have forced 
 from those who never mentioned their name but to belie and 
 calumniate, the confession that the land that gave them birth 
 is still, as she ever was, the nurse of true and valiant 
 soldiers; and that the men wdio bravely fought at Fontenoy,. 
 at Cremona, at Landen, and, unfortunately, under the 
 standard of her enslavers at Saragossa, at Albuera, and 
 Waterloo, had worthy successors in those who fell before 
 the cannon of the Confederates at the battle of Fredericks- 
 burg. 
 
 Anecdote of Curran. — Curran was told that a lawyer 
 who was dirty in his person and sparing of money had set 
 out from Dublin to Cork wdth one shirt and one guinea. 
 “Yes,” said Curran, “and he will change neither of them 
 till he returns.” 
 
30 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 $crt IjCcrsi. 
 
 The Census returns for the decennial period 1861-71, when published, 
 showed that within that time the population of Ireland had declined by 
 nearly 400, 000 souls. In 1861 similar returns were published, exhibiting 
 a decrease of more than three quarters of a million. The Census of 
 1851 had shown a still larger reduction of the people, the loss of popula- 
 tion being no less than 1,600,846. This terrible outpouring of the 
 nation’s life-blood naturally created in Irish hearts feelings of alarm for 
 the future of the country, and of indignation against the system of mis- 
 rule which was devastating the land and banishing its inhabitants 
 to other climes. The English press rejoiced over the process of deple- 
 tion : they prophesied that in a few years Catholic Irishmen would be 
 as rare in Munster or Connaught as Bed Indians are on the plains of 
 Manhattan ; and one of them gave utterance to its joy in the brief and 
 jcheery ejaculation, which will never be forgotten, that “the Irish were 
 gone with a vengeance.” At the same time Irish feelings on the subject 
 received vigorous expression in speech and writing, in prose and verse. 
 Several fine poems in relation to it were given to the public, and 
 amongst them was the following, which appeared in the Nation of 
 August 17th, 1861. It bore the well-known signature “ Thomasine,” 
 which was the nom de p\ume under which Miss Olivia Knight, formerly 
 of Mullingar, now Mrs. Hope Connolly, of Brisbane, Australia, contri- 
 buted a large number of graceful and beautiful poems to that journal. 
 
 I. 
 
 The grey old Earth from its primal years 
 Hath been wet with a torrent of mothers’ tears, 
 
 Since the Lady of Eden wept the stain 
 His crime had burnt on the brow of Cain, 
 
 Till the heart- wrung tears of the outcast wild 
 Eell hot last night o’er her famishing child ; 
 
 And the fiercest tempest that sweeps the skies 
 Were weak to the shriek of their mingled cries ; 
 
 And for every leaf in its forests old 
 Might a story of mother’s love be told ; 
 
 Yet far deeper the love, and far wilder the woe, 
 
 When a Nation mourns o’er her children low. 
 
 ii. 
 
 A cry rings round the Irish coast, 
 
 A cry of despair for our myriads lost, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 31 
 
 And the tyrant sit?, with vindictive smile, 
 
 Reckoning the ruined homes of our Isle ; 
 
 But I laugh out in triumphant glee, 
 
 For they are not lost ! — nor ever shall be ! 
 
 They are gone, in sooth, from the ancient land — 
 
 Ay, as goeth the seed from the sower’s hand, 
 
 To bourgeon and flourish with richer fruit, 
 
 A hundred for every scattered root. 
 
 Let the broken rooftrees lie as they fall ! 
 
 To the new we shall rear they are few and small. 
 
 • hi. 
 
 Grief might there be if our Mother bore 
 From her fertile bosom no children more ; 
 
 But the sea-Cybele hath given birth 
 To sons as many as any on earth ; 
 
 And far from the blood-stained grasp of him 
 Who would fain devour them limb by limb, 
 
 They are gone to be nursed on the hardy fare 
 Of labour, in freedom’s mountain air ; 
 
 And soon shall they come, in their manhood’s might, 
 To claim the throne that is theirs of right, 
 
 And their Mother to crown with her towers old, 
 
 While the Lions crouch, bound ’neath her car of gold ! 
 
 IT. 
 
 This, this is the hope that gives heart and life 
 To Erie’s sons in the world’s wild strife ; 
 
 Exiled and scattered, they fondly train 
 For her future service their hand or brain. 
 
 The Statesman studies with anxious thought 
 How Erie’s weal may be surest wrought ; 
 
 The Orator thrills with his magic words 
 Of ten thousand bosoms the hidden chords, 
 
 Then the laurel crown and the praises meet 
 He lays for a tribute at Erie’s feet ; 
 
 And the Soldier dreams as he draws his brand 
 That he sees the foe of his native land, 
 
 Till the enemy’s bravest pale with fear 
 At the thunder-bur3t of his charging cheer ! 
 
 v. 
 
 O England, blind in thy ruthless greed ! 
 
 Like “ dragon’s teeth” is our banished seed. 
 
 Wherever an Irish foot has trod, 
 
 A cry has gone up to the ear of God, 
 
32 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 To hasten the day that will surely come — 
 
 Ay, sure as the ruin of Pagan Rome — 
 
 When thy crime-built Babylon’s wealth and pow’r 
 Shall be crushed and rent in one vengeful hour ! 
 And, Mother of sorrows ! upraise thy head — 
 
 The children thou mournest are not dead ! 
 
 Go, look abroad o’er the earth’s extent, 
 
 Thy blood with the best of each race is blent. 
 
 And wherever one drop of that stream doth flow, 
 Thou countest a friend, and thy tyrant a foe ! 
 
 tfnirsn in gefentc of % |lrcss. 
 
 Ia the struggles of the Irish people for freedom they have always had 
 journals to take a bold and fearless part — to denounce oppression, ex- 
 pose injustice, and claim the rights of the nation. On those journals 
 the vengeance of the Government was always sure to fall. Seizures, 
 prosecutious, fines, and imprisonment were frequently resorted to for the 
 purpose of stifling the voice of complaint, hiding from the public gaze 
 the misdeeds of the rulers of the country, and crushing the hopes of the 
 people. The list of Irish journals assailed and destroyed in this way by 
 the Government forms one of no inconsiderable length. The annexed 
 extract is from a speech of the distinguished patriot, orator, and advo- 
 cate, John Philpot Curran, spoken on December 22nd, 1797, in defence 
 of the Press newspaper, one of the organs of the United Irishmen, which 
 was published at 62 Abbey-street, Dublin. A letter had appeared in 
 that journal addressed to the Lord Lieutenant in relation to the legal 
 murder of William Orr, and this splendid and powerful document formed 
 the ground of the prosecution. A verdict of “ Guilty” was returned 
 against Mr. Peter Finnerty, the publisher of the paper, and he was sen- 
 tenced to two years’ imprisonment, to stand in the pillory for an hour, 
 to pay a fine of £ :0, and, at the expiration of his imprisonment, to find 
 heavy sureties for his future good behaviour. 
 
 And now, gentlemen, let us come to the immediate subject 
 of the trial, as it is brought before you by the charge in 
 the indictment, to which it ought to have been confined ; 
 and also, as it is presented to you by the statement of the 
 learned counsel, who has taken a much wider range than the 
 mere limits of the accusation, and has endeavoured to force 
 upon your consideration extraneous and irrelevant facts, for 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 33 
 
 reasons which it is not my duty to explain. The indictment 
 states simply that Mr. Finnerty has published a false and 
 scandalous libel upon the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, tend- 
 ing to bring his government into disrepute, and to alienate 
 the affections of the people ; and one would have expected, 
 ^without stating any other matter, the counsel for the Crown 
 would have gone directly to the proof of this allegation : 
 but he has not done so; he has gone to a most extraor- 
 dinary length, indeed, of preliminary observation, and 
 an allusion to facts, and sometimes an assertion of 
 facts, at which, I own, I was astonished, until I saw 
 the drift of these allusions and assertions. Whether 
 you have been fairly dealt with by him, or are now 
 honestly dealt with by me, you must be judges. 
 He has been pleased to say that this prosecution is 
 brought against this letter signed “ Marcus,” merely as a 
 part of what he calls a system of attack upon the Govern- 
 ment by the paper called the Press. As to this, I will only 
 ask you whether you are fairly dealt with ? whether it is fair 
 treatment to men upon their oaths to insinuate to them 
 that the general character of a newspaper (and that general 
 character founded merely upon the assertion of the pro- 
 secutor) is to have any influence upon th£ir minds when they 
 are to judge of a particular publication ? I will only ask you 
 what men you must be supposed to be, when it is thought 
 that, even in a court of justice, and with the eyes of a nation 
 upon you, you can be the dupes of that trite and exploded 
 expedient, so scandalous of late in this country, of raising a 
 vulgar and mercenary cry against whatever man, or what- 
 ever principle, it is thought necessary to put down ; and I 
 shall, therefore, merely leave it to your own pride to suggest 
 upon what foundation it could be hoped that a senseless 
 clamour of that kind could be echoed back by the yell of a 
 jury upon their oaths. I trust you see that this has nothing 
 to do with the question. Gentlemen of the jury, other 
 matters have been mentioned, which I must repeat for the 
 same purpose ; that of showing you that they have nothing 
 to do with the question. The learned counsel has been 
 pleased to say that he comes forward in this prosecution as 
 the real advocate for the liberty of the press, and to protect 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 a mild and a merciful Government from its licentiousness ; and 
 he lias been pleased to add that the constitution can never 
 be lost while its freedom remains, and that its licentiousness 
 alone can destroy that freedom. As to that, gentlemen, he 
 might as well have said that there is only one mortal dis- 
 ease of wdiicli a man can die — I can die the death inflicted by 
 tyranny ; and when he comes forward to extinguish this 
 paper, in the ruin of the printer, by a State prosecution, in 
 order to prevent its dying of licentiousness, you must judge 
 how candidly he is treating you, both in the fact and in the 
 reasoning. Is it in Ireland, gentlemen, that we are told 
 licentiousness is the only disease that can be mortal to the 
 press ? Has he heard of nothing else that has been fatal to 
 the freedom of publication ? I know not whether the printer 
 of the Northern Star may have heard of such things in his 
 captivity ; but I know that his wife and children are well ap- 
 prised that a press may be destroyed in the open day, not by 
 its own licentiousness, but by the licentiousness of a mili- 
 tary force. As to the sincerity of the declaration that the 
 State has prosecuted in order to assert the freedom of the 
 press, it starts a train of thought — of melancholy retrospect 
 and direful prospect — to which I did not think the learned 
 counsel would have wished you to commit your minds. It 
 leads you naturally to reflect at what times, from what mo- 
 tives, and with what consequences, the Government has dis- 
 played its patriotism by prosecutions of this sort. As to the 
 motives, does history give you a single instance in which the 
 State has been provoked to these conflicts except by the fear 
 of truth and by the love of vengeance ? Have you ever seen 
 the rulers of any country bring forward a prosecution from 
 motives of filial piety, for libels upon their departed ances- 
 tors ? Do you read that Elizabeth directed any of those 
 State prosecutions against the libels wdiich the divines of her 
 times had written against her Catholic sister, or against the 
 other libels which the same gentlemen had written against 
 her Protestant father? No, gentlemen, we read of no such 
 i thing ; but we know she did bring forward a prosecution 
 from motives of personal resentment ; and we know that a 
 jury was found time-serving and mean enough to give a ver- 
 dict which she w r as ashamed to carry into effect. I said the 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 35 
 
 learned counsel drew you back to the times that have been 
 marked by these miserable conflicts. I see you turn your 
 thoughts to the reign of the second James. I see you turn 
 your eyes to those pages of governmental abandonment, of 
 popular degradation, of expiring liberty, of merciless and 
 sanguinary prosecutions — to that miserable period, in which 
 the fallen and abject state of man might have been almost an 
 argument in the mouth of the atheist and the blasphemer 
 against the existence of an all-just and an all-wise First Cause, 
 if the glorious era of the Revolution that followed it had not 
 refuted the impious inference, by showing that if a man de- 
 scends it is not in his own proper motion ; that it is with la- 
 bour and pain ; that he can continue to sink only until, by 
 the force and pressure of the descent, the spring of his immor- 
 tal faculties acquires that recuperative energy and effort that 
 hurries him many milesjaloft ; that he sinks but to rise again. 
 It is at that period the State seeks for shelter in the destruc- 
 tion of the press ; it is in a period like that that the tyrant 
 prepares for an attack upon the people by destroying the li- 
 berty of the press — by taking away that shield of wisdom and 
 of virtue behind wnich the people are invulnerable ; in whose 
 pure and polished convex, ere the lifted blow has fallen, he 
 beholds his own image, and is turned into stone. It is at 
 those periods the honest man dares not speak, because truth 
 is too dreadful to be told ; it is then humanity has no ears, be- 
 cause humanity has no tongue. It is then that the proud 
 man scorns to speak, but, like a physician baffled by the way- 
 ward excesses of a dying patient, retires indignantly from the 
 bed of an unhappy wretch whose ear is too fastidious to bear 
 the sound of wholesome advice, wdiose palate is too^debauched 
 to bear the salutary bitter of the medicine that might 
 redeem him, and therefore leaves him to the felonious piety 
 of the slaves that talk to him of life, and strip him before he 
 is cold. I do not care, gentlemen, to exhaust too much of your 
 attention by following this subject through the last century 
 with much minuteness ; but the facts are too recent in your 
 minds not to show you that the liberty of the press and the 
 liberty of the people sink and rise together; that the liberty of 
 speaking and the liberty of acting have shared exactly the 
 same fate. You must have observed in England that their 
 
36 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 fate has been the same in the successive vicissitudes of their 
 late depression ; and sorry I am to add that this country 
 has exhibited a melancholy proof of their inseparable destiny, 
 through the various and fitful stages of deterioration, down 
 to the period of their final extinction, when the constitution 
 has given place to the sword, and the only printer in Ireland 
 who dares to speak for the people is now in the dock. 
 
 SEIten ? 
 
 BY REV. A. J. RYAN. 
 
 ^Father Eyan is an Irish- American priest, a resident, we believe, of 
 New Orleans. During the civil war his sympathies went with his adop- 
 ted State, and he contributed some splendid lyrics to the literature of 
 the Southern cause. Some of his near relatives fought and fell in the 
 ranks of the Confederacy, and their loss appears to have deeply affected 
 the mind of the gifted poet. Most of his writings since then have been 
 cast in a pathetic strain, and all exhibit much beauty and tenderness of 
 feeling. 
 
 Some day in Spring, 
 
 When earth is bright and glad, 
 
 When wild-birds sing, 
 
 And fewest hearts are sad, 
 
 Shall I die then ? 
 
 Ah, me ! no matter when ! 
 
 I know it will be sweet 
 To leave the homes of men, 
 
 To rest beneath the sod — 
 
 To kneel and kiss Thy feet, 
 
 In Thy Home, 0 my God ! 
 
 Some Summer morn, 
 
 When all the winds sing song3, 
 
 When roses hide each thorn, 
 
 And smiles — the spirit’s wrong3, 
 
 Shall I die then ? 
 
 Ah, me ! no matter when ! 
 
 I know I wiil rejoice 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 37 
 
 To leave the homes of men, 
 
 To rest beneath the sod— 
 
 To hear Thy tender voice 
 In Thy Home, 0 my God ! 
 
 Some Autumn eve, 
 
 When shadows dim the sky— 
 When all things grieve, 
 
 And fairest things all die, 
 Shall I die then ? 
 
 Ah, me ! no matter when ! 
 
 I know I will be glad 
 To leave the homes of men, 
 
 To sleep beneath the sod — 
 .No heart can e’er be sad 
 In Thy Home, 0 my God ! 
 
 Some Wintry day, 
 
 When all the sky is gloom, 
 
 And beauteous May 
 
 Sleeps in December’s tomb, 
 
 Shall I die then ? 
 
 Ah, me ! no matter when ! 
 
 My heart shall throb with joy 
 To leave the homes of men, 
 
 To rest beneath the sod — 
 
 Ah ! joy has no alloy 
 In Thy Home, 0 my God ! 
 
 Ah, me ! I tell 
 The Rosary of my years ; 
 
 And it is well 
 
 The Beads are strung with tears ! 
 Haste, Death, and come — 
 
 I pine — I pray for Home ! 
 
 I know it will be sweet 
 To rest beneath the sod — 
 
 To kneel and kiss Thy feet 
 In Thy Home, 0 my God ! 
 
 W here the Fault Lies. — With such a climate, such a 
 soil, and such a people, the inferiority of Ireland to the rest 
 of Europe is directly traceable to the long wickedness of the 
 English Government. — Rev . Sydney Smith. 
 
38 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 $. $. gleaqkr flit % l)o licit foe gwtanfr. 
 
 The following speech is certainly one of the most brilliant and impres- 
 sive ever delivered by the gifted T. F. Meagher. When speaking it he 
 knew that he had to argue against opinions better calculated to awaken 
 the enthusiasm, to kindle the imagination, and fire the blood of a Celtic 
 audience. He had to plead in favour of a tamer policy than that advo- 
 cated by some of his friends — to recommend a continuance of constitu- 
 tional effort at a time when they were advocating a policy of insurrec- 
 tion. He felt that he was at a disadvantage, but he overcame it by 
 throwing his whole soul into the work, and bringing to the support of his 
 views a wondrous wealth of eloquence, argument, illustration, and every- 
 thing that could strengthen and adorn an appeal to the feelings as well 
 as the reason of the assembly he addressed. This speech was delivered 
 in a debate of the Irish Confederation, held in the Music Hall, Lower 
 Abbey-street, on Friday the 5th of February, 1848. The question at 
 issue— which had been raised by some resolutions of William Smith 
 O’Brien, designed to dissociate the Confederation from the opinions of 
 Mr. Mitchel with regard to the desirability and necessity of immediately 
 adopting a war policy— was debated for three days, and on a division being 
 taken, on an amendment proposed by Mr. Mitchel, the resolutions, 
 which were supported by Mr. O’Brien, Mr. J. B. Dillon, Mr. Meagher, 
 Mr. Duffy, and other members of the Confederation, were carried by a 
 majority of 317 to 188. To this result the following splendid oration 
 very powerfully contributed : — 
 
 My friend, Mr. Mitchel — whom I shall never cease to trust 
 and admire — has brought the real question at issue, most 
 conveniently for me, into the smallest possible space. 
 “ The real question,” he says, “ which we have to decide is, 
 whether we are to keep up the constitutional and Parlia- 
 mentary agitation or not : for my part” (he adds) “ I am 
 weary of this constitutional agitation.” Now, this is pre- 
 cisely the question, and most neatly reduced to a nutshell. 
 You have to decide wdiether this constitutional agitation 
 is to be given up or not. You are to say whether you, 
 too, are weary of it or not. Previous, however, to our 
 going into the merits of this constitutional agitation, I 
 think that upon one point w~e are quite agreed — quite agreed 
 that, whatever policy we may adopt, all this vague talk 
 should cease wdth which your ears have been vexed for so 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 39 
 
 long a period. All this vague talk about a crisis at hand 
 — shouts of defiance — Louis Philippe is upwards of seventy 
 — France remembers Waterloo — the first gun fired in Eu- 
 rope — all this obscure babble — all this meaningless mys- 
 ticism — must be swept away. Ten thousand guns fired 
 in Europe would announce no glad tidings to you if their 
 lightning flashed upon you in a state of disorganisation 
 and incertitude. Sir, I know of no nation that has won 
 its independence by an accident. Trust blindly to the fu- 
 ture — wait for the tide in the affairs of men, which, taken 
 at the flood, leads on to fortune — envelope yourselves in 
 mist — leave everything to chance, and be assured of this, the 
 most propitious opportunities will arise and pass away, leav- 
 ing you to chance — masters of no weapons — scholars of no 
 science — incompetent to decide — irresolute to act — powerless 
 to achieve. This was the great error of the Repeal Associa- 
 tion. From a labyrinth of difficulties there was no avenue 
 open to success. The people were kept within this labyrinth 
 — they moved round and round — backwards and forwards — 
 there was perpetual motion, but no advance. In this bewil- 
 derment are you content to wander until a sign appears 
 in heaven, and the mystery is disentangled by a miracle ?• 
 Have you no clear intelligence to direct you to the right 
 path, and do you fear to trust your footsteps to the guidance 
 of that mind with which you have been gifted ? Do you 
 prefer to substitute a driftless superstition in place of a de- 
 termined system — groping and fumbling after possibilities, 
 instead of seizing the agencies within your reach % This, 
 indeed, would be a blind renunciation of your powers, and 
 thus, indeed, the virtue you prize so justly — the virtue of 
 self-reliance — would be extinguished in you. To this you 
 will not consent. You have too sure a confidence in the re- 
 sources you possess to leave to chance what you can accom- 
 plish by design. A deliberate plan of action is, then, essen- 
 tial — something positive — something definite. This you re- 
 quire, and upon this you have this night to determine. 
 From what suggestions, then, are we to shape our course % 
 Is it not come to this — that we have to choose between a 
 constitutional policy and an insurrection % Is an insurrec- 
 tion probable ] Ii probable, is it practicable % Prove to 
 
40 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 me that it is, and I, for one, will vote for it this very night. 
 You know well, my friends, that I am not one of those tame 
 moralists who say that liberty is not worth a drop of blood. 
 Men who subscribe to such a maxim are fit for out- 
 door relief, and for nothing better. Against this miser- 
 able maxim the noblest virtue that has served and sanc- 
 tified humanity appears in judgment. From the blue 
 waters of the Bay of Salamis — from the valley over which 
 the sun stood still and lit the Israelites to victory — from 
 the cathedral in which the sword of Poland has been sheathed 
 in the shroud of Kosciusko — from the convent of St. Isi- 
 dore, where the fiery hand that rent the ensign of St. 
 George upon the plains of Ulster has crumbled into dust — 
 from the sands of the desert, where the wild genius of the 
 Algerine so long had scared the eagles of the Pyrenees — 
 from the ducal palace in this kingdom, where the memory 
 of the gallant and seditious Geraldine enhances, more 
 than royal favour, the nobility of his race — from the soli- 
 tary grave which, within this mute city, a dying request has 
 left without an epitaph — oh ! from every spot where hero- 
 ism has had its sacrifice, or its triumph, a voice breaks in 
 upon the cringing crowds that cheer this wretched maxim, 
 crying out — “ Away with it, away with it.” Would to God, 
 sir, that we could take every barrack in the island this night, 
 and with our blood purchase the independence of the coun- 
 try. It is not, then, a pedantic reverence for common law — 
 it is not a senseless devotion to a diadem and sceptre — it is 
 not a whining solicitude for the preservation of the species 
 — that dictates the vote I give this night in favour of a con- 
 stitutional movement. I support this constitutional policy, 
 not from choice, but from necessity. My strongest feelings 
 are in favour of the policy advised by Mr. Mitchel. I wish 
 to God that I could defend that policy. It is a policy which 
 calls forth the noblest passions — it kindles genius, generosity, 
 heroism — it is far removed from the tricks and crimes of 
 politics — for the young, the gallant, and the good, it has the 
 most powerful attractions. In the history of this kingdom 
 the names that burn above the dust and desolation of the 
 past — like the lamps in the old sepulchres of Rome — shed 
 their glory round the principles of which a deep conviction 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 41 
 
 of our weakness compels me this night to be the opponent ; 
 and in being their opponent, I almost blush to think that 
 the voice of one whose influence is felt through this struggle 
 more powerfully than any other — one who unites the genius 
 of Madame Roland with the heroism of the Maid of Orleans, 
 and whose noble lyrics will bid this cause to live for ever — 
 I almost blush to think that this voice which speaks to us 
 in these glorious lines — 
 
 u And the beckoning angels win you on, with many a radiant 
 vision, 
 
 Up the thorny path to glory, where man receives his 
 crown” — 
 
 should be disobeyed, and that, for a time at least, we must 
 plod on in the old course, until we acquire strength and dis- 
 cipline, and skill — discipline to steady, skill to direct, 
 strength to enforce the claim of a united nation. J ust look 
 for a moment to our position. To an insurrectionary move- 
 ment the priesthood are opposed. To an insurrectionary 
 movement the middle classes are opposed. To an insur- 
 rectionary movement the aristocracy are opposed. To give 
 effect to this opposition, 50,000 men, equipped and paid by 
 England, occupy the country at this moment. Who, then, 
 are for it 1 The mechanic and the peasant classes, we are 
 told. These classes, you will tell us, have lost all faith in 
 legal agencies, and through such agencies despair of the 
 slightest exemption from their suffering. Stung to madness 
 — day from day gazing upon the wreck and devastation that 
 surround them, until the brain whirls like a ball of fire — they 
 see but one red pathway, lined with gibbets and hedged 
 with bayonets, leading to deliverance. But will that path- 
 way lead them to deliverance 1 Have these classes, upon 
 which alone you now rely, the power to sweep like a torrent 
 through that pathway, dashing aside the tremendous obstacles 
 that confront them 1 You know they have not. Without 
 discipline, without arms, without food — beggared by the 
 law, starved by the law, diseased by the law, demoralised by 
 the law — opposed to the might of England, they would have 
 the weakness of a vapour. Yes, but you have said so ; for, 
 what do you maintain ? You maintain that an immediate 
 
42 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 insurrection is not designed. Well, then, you confess your 
 weakness ; and, then, let me ask you, what becomes of the 
 objection you urge against the policy we propose ? The 
 country cannot afford to wait until the legal means have 
 been fully tested — that is your objection. And yet you will 
 not urge an immediate movement — you will not deal with 
 the disease upon the spot — you will permit it to take its 
 course — your remedy is remote. Thus it appears there is 
 delay in both cases — so, upon this question of time, we are 
 entitled to pair off. But at no time, you asssert, will legal 
 means prevail — public opinion is nonsense — constitutional 
 agitation is a downright delusion. Tell me, then, was it an 
 understanding when we founded the Irish Confederation, 
 this time twelvemonth, that if public opinion failed to repeal 
 the Act of jUnion in a year, at the end of a year it should 
 be scouted as a “ humbug” h When you established this 
 Confederation in January, 1847 — when you set up for your- 
 selves — did you agree with public opinion for a year only ? 
 Was that the agreement, and will you now serve it with a 
 notice to quit ? If so, take my advice and break up the 
 establishment at once. After all, look to your great argu- 
 ment against the continuance of a parliamentary or a con- 
 stitutional movement. The constituencies are corrupt — they 
 will not return virtuous representatives — the tree shall be 
 known by its fruits. The constituencies are knaves, per- 
 jurers, cowards, on the hustings — they will be chevaliers, 
 sans peur et sans reproche , within the trenches. The 
 Thersites of the polling booth will be the Achilles of the 
 bivouac. Your argument comes to this, that the consti- 
 tuencies of Ireland will be saved “ so as by fire” — they will 
 acquire morality in the shooting gallery — and in the art of 
 fortification they will learn the path to paradise. These 
 constituencies constitute the elite of the democracy ; and is 
 it you, who stand up for the democracy, that urge this 
 argument % To be purified and saved, do you decree that 
 this nation must writhe in the agonies of a desperate circum- 
 cision h Has it not felt the knife long since ? And if its 
 salvation depend upon a flow of blood, has it not poured out 
 torrents into a thousand graves, deep enough and swift enough 
 to earn the blessing long before our day ] Spend no more until 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 43 
 
 you are certain of the purchase. Nor do I wish that this 
 movement should become a mere democratic movement. I 
 desire that it should continue to be what it has been — a na- 
 tional movement — a movement not of any one class, but of all 
 classes. Narrow it to one class — decide that it shall be a 
 democratic movement, and nothing else — what then % You 
 augment the power that is opposed to you — the revolution 
 will provoke a counter-revolution — Paris will be attacked by 
 the emigrants as well as by the Austrians. You attach little 
 importance to the instance cited by Mr. Pv,oss — Poland is no 
 warning to you. The Polish peasants cut the throats of the 
 Polish nobles, and before the Vistula had washed away the 
 blood the free city of Cracow was proclaimed a dungeon. So 
 much for the war of classes. No ; I am not for a democratic, 
 but I am for a national movement — not for a movement 
 like that of Paris in 1793, but for a movement like that of 
 Brussels in 1830 — like that of Palermo in 1848. If you 
 think differently, say so. If you are weary of this “ consti- 
 tutional movement” — if you despair of this “ combination of 
 classes” — declare so boldly, and let this night terminate the 
 career of the Irish Confederation. Yet, upon the brink of 
 this abyss, listen for a moment to the voice that speaks to 
 you from the vaults of Mount Saint Jerome ; and if you dis- 
 trust the advice of the friend who now addresses you — one 
 who has done something to assist you, and who, I believe, 
 has not been unfaithful to you in some moments of diffi- 
 culty, and perhaps of danger — if you do not trust me, 
 listen, at least, to the voice of one who has been carried to 
 his grave amid the tears and prayers of all classes of his 
 countrymen, and of whose courage and whose truth there 
 has never yet been uttered the slightest doubt : — “Be bold, 
 but wise — be brave, but sober — patient, earnest, striving, 
 and untiring. You have sworn to be temperate for your 
 comfort here and your well-being hereafter. Be temperate 
 now for the honour, the happiness, the immortality of your 
 country — act trustfully and truthfully one to another — 
 watch, wait, and leave the rest to God.” 
 
44 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 gDobelfl Jftarj) IpGttn&Uj). 
 
 BY WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 0 lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s yon I love the best ! 
 
 If fifty girls were round you, I’d hardly see the rest ; 
 
 Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom around me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that’s flowing from a rock, 
 
 How clear they are, how dark they are ! they give me many a 
 shock ; 
 
 Peed flowers warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower, 
 
 Could ne’er express the charming lip that haB me in its power. 
 
 The dance o’ last Whit Monday night exceeded all before, 
 
 No pretty girl for miles around was absent from the floor ; 
 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh ! but she was gay ! 
 
 She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away. 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, 
 
 The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet ; 
 
 The fiddler mourned hi3 blindness, he heard her so much 
 praised, 
 
 But blessed himself he wasn’t deaf when once her voice she 
 raised. 
 
 And evermore I’m whistling or lilting what you sung, 
 
 Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue ; 
 But you’ve as many sweethearts as you’d count on both your 
 hands, 
 
 And for myself there’s not a thumb or little finger stands. 
 
 Oh, you’re the flower o’ womankind, in country or in town ; 
 The higher I exalt you the lower I’m cast down ; 
 
 If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty 
 bright, 
 
 And you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 45 
 
 Ob, might we live together in a lofty palace hall, 
 
 Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall ! 
 
 Oh, might we live together in a cottage neat and small, 
 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and inud the only wail ! 
 
 0 lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress ! . 
 
 It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less ; 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low, 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! 
 
 ErcUtnij. 
 
 BY M. F. HUGHES. 
 
 We know, dear land, that soon or late 
 Thy long-lost liberty will be 
 Restored to thee, 
 
 And thou wilt shine in queenly state, 
 
 While gloriously 
 O’er earth and sea 
 
 Thy conquering standard shall be seen— 
 
 Our darling, worshipped flag of green. 
 
 Oh ! vision grand ! 
 
 Oh ! dream sublime ! 
 
 How would my bosom teem 
 With pride if when that hallowed time 
 Shall greet thee I might greet thee too, 
 
 And feast mine eyes upon thy radiance bland, 
 Enchanting as a poet’s dream, 
 
 And hear the full* voiced trump proclaim 
 Thy triumphs, and thy golden fame 
 Spreading afar where’er the kingly sun 
 
 Scatters his glories. Such dear wish I hold 
 Inviolate, a sweet omnipotence, 
 
 That through all seasons burns and glows the same, 
 And sways me more than love of fame or gold. 
 
46 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 ®&e Irisfc 
 
 {FROM CARLETON’S * * TRAITS AND STORIES OF THE IRISH PEASANTRY. ”) 
 
 One of the most amusing specimens of the dancing-master 
 that I ever met, was the person alluded to at the close of my 
 paper on the Irish Fiddler, under the nickname of Buckram- 
 Back. This man had been a drummer in the army for some 
 time, where he had learned to play the fiddle ; but it appears 
 that he possessed no relish ^whatever for a military life, as 
 his abandonment of it without even the usual form of a 
 discharge or furlough, together with a back that had become 
 cartilaginous from frequent flogging,could abundantly testify. 
 It was from the latter circumstance that he had received his 
 nickname. 
 
 Buckram-Back was a dapper light little fellow, with a rich 
 Tipperary brogue, crossed by a lofty strain of illegitimate 
 English, which he had picked up whilst in the army. His 
 habiliments sat as tight upon him as he could readily wear 
 them, and were all of the shabby-genteel class. His crimped 
 black coat was a closely-worn second-hand, and his crimped 
 face quite as much of a second-hand as the coat. I think I 
 see his little pumps, little white stockings, his coaxed drab 
 breeches, his hat, smart in its cock but brushed to a polish 
 and standing upon three hairs, together with his tight ques- 
 tionably coloured gloves, all before me. Certainly he was 
 the jauntiest little cock living — quite a blood, ready to fight 
 any man, and a great defender of the fair sex, whom he 
 never addressed except in that highflown, bombastic style so 
 agreeable to most of them, called by their flatterers the com- 
 plimentary, and by their friends the fulsome. He was in 
 fact a public man, and up to everything. You met him at 
 every fair, wEere he had only time to give you a wink as he 
 passed, being just then engaged in a very particular affair ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 47 
 
 but he would tell you again. At cock-fights he was a very 
 busy personage, and an angry better from half-a-crown down- 
 wards. At races he was a known fellow, always shook hands 
 with the winning jockey,’ and then looked pompously about, 
 that folks might see he was hand and glove with those who 
 knew something. 
 
 The house where Buckram-Back kept his school, which 
 was open only after the hours of labour, was an uninhabitable 
 cabin, the roof of which, at a particular spot, was supported 
 by a post that stood upright from the floor. It was built 
 upon an elevated situation, and commanded a fine view of 
 the whole country for miles about it. A pleasant sight it 
 was to see the modest and pretty girls, dressed in their best 
 frocks and ribbons, radiating in little groups from all direc- 
 tions, accompanied by their partners or lovers, making way 
 through the fragrant Summer fields of a calm cloudless even- 
 ing, to this happy scene of innocent amusement. 
 
 Buckram-Back’s system, in originality of design, in comic 
 conception of decorum, and in the easy practical assurance 
 with which he wrought it out, was never equalled, much less 
 surpassed. Had the impudent little rascal confined himself 
 to dancing as usually taught, there would have been nothing 
 so ludicrous or uncommon in it ; but no : he was such a 
 stickler for example in everything, that no other mode of 
 instruction w r ould satisfy him. Dancing ! Why, it was the 
 least part of what he taught or professed to teach. 
 
 In the first place, he undertook to teach every one of us 
 — for I had the honour of being his pupil — how to enter a 
 drawingroom “ in the most fashionable manner alive,” as he 
 said himself. 
 
 Secondly. He was the only man, he said, who could, in the 
 most agreeable and polite style, taich a gintleman how to 
 salute, or, as he termed it, how to shiloote a leedy. This he 
 taught, he said, wid great success. 
 
 Thirdly. He could taich every leedy and gintleman how 
 to make the most beautiful bow or curchy on airth, by only 
 imitating himself — one that would cause a thousand people, 
 if they were all present, to think that it was particularly in- 
 tended only for aich o’ themselves ! 
 
 Fourthly. He taught the whole art o’ courtship wid all 
 
48 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 politeness and success, accordin’ as it was practised in Paris 
 durin’ the last saison. 
 
 Fifthly. He could taich thiui how to write love-letthers 
 and valentines, accordin’ to the Great Macademy of Compli- 
 ments, which was supposed to be invinted by Bonoparte when 
 he was writin’ love-letthers to both his wives. 
 
 Sixthly. He was the only person who could taich the 
 famous dance called Sir Pi,oger de Coverley, or the Helter- 
 Skelter Drag, which comprehended widin itself all the advan- 
 tages and beauties of his whole system, in which every 
 gintleman was at liberty to pull every leedy where he 
 plaised, and every leedy was at liberty to go wdierever he 
 pulled her. 
 
 We shall now give a brief sketch of Buckram-Back’s manner 
 of tuition, begging our readers at the same time to rest as- 
 sured that any sketch we could give would fall far short of 
 the original. 
 
 “ Paddy Corcoran, walk out an’ ‘ inther your drawin’-room 
 an’ let Miss Judy Hanratty go out along wid you, an’ come 
 in as Mrs. Corcoran.” 
 
 “ Faith, I’m afeard, masther, I’ll make a bad hand of it ; 
 but, sure, it’s something to have Judy here to keep me in 
 countenance.” 
 
 “ Is that by way of compliment, Paddy ? Mr. Corcoran, 
 you should ever an’ always spaik to a leedy in an alyblasther- 
 tone ; for that’s the cut.” [Paddy and Judy retire . 
 
 “ Mickey Scanlan, come up here, now that we’re braithin’ a 
 little ; an’ you, Miss Grauna Mulholland, come up along wid 
 him. Miss Mulholland, you are masther of your five positions, 
 and your fifteen attitudes, I believe V “ Yes, sir.” “ Very 
 well, Miss. Mickey Scanlan — ahem ! Misther Scanlan, can 
 you perform the positions also, Mickey V 7 
 
 “ Yes, sir ; but you remember I stuck at the eleventh alti- 
 tude.” 
 
 “ Attitude, sir — no matther. Well, Misther Scanlan, do 
 you know how to shiloote a leedy, Mickey f ’ 
 
 “ Faix, it’s hard to say, sir, till we thry : but I’m very 
 willin’ to larn it. I’ll do my best, an’ the best can do no more.” 
 
 “ Very well — ahem! Now mark me, Misther Scanlan; 
 you approach your leedy in this style, bowin’ politely, as I clo. 
 
 . 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 49 
 
 Miss Mulholland, will you allow me the honour of a heavenly 
 shiloote % Don't bow, ma’am ; you are to curchy, you know ; 
 a little lower eef you plaise. Now you say, ‘ Wid the greatest 
 pleasure in life, sir, an’ many thanks for the feevour.’ (SmacJc.) 
 There, now, you are to make another curchy politely, an’ say 
 ‘ Thank you, kind sir, I owe you one.’ Nov/, Misther Scanlan, 
 proceed.” 
 
 “ I’m to imitate you, masther, as well as I can, sir, I be- 
 lieve 1” 
 
 “ Yes, sir, you are to imiteet me. But hould, sir, did you 
 see me lick my lips or pull up my breeches 1 Be gorra, that’s 
 shockin’ unswentemental. First make a curchy, a bow I 
 mane, to Miss Grauna. Stop, agin, sir ; are you going to 
 sthrangle the leedy ? Why, one would think that it’s about 
 to teek laive of her for ever you are. Gently, Misther Scan- 
 lan ; gently, Mickey. There — well, that’s an improvement. 
 Practice, Misther Scanlan, practice will do all, Mickey ; but 
 don’t smack so loud, though. Hilloo, gintlemen ! where’s 
 our drawing-room folk ? Go out, one of you, for Misther 
 and Mrs. Paddy Corcoran.” 
 
 Corcoran’s face now appears peeping in at the door, lit up 
 with a comic expression of genuine fun, from whatever cause 
 it may have proceeded. 
 
 “ Aisy, Misther Corcoran ; an’ where’s Mrs. Corcoran, sir?’ 
 
 “ Are we both to come in together, masther ?’ 
 
 “ Certainly. Turn out both your toeses — turn them out, 
 I say.” _ 
 
 “ Faix, sir, it’saisier said than done wid some of us.” 
 
 “ I know that, Misther Corcoran ; but practice is every- 
 thing. The bow legs are strongly against you, I grant. Hut 
 tut, Misther Corcoran — why, if your toes wor where your 
 heels is, you’d be exactly in the first position, Paddy. Well, 
 both of you turn out your toeses ; look street forward ; clap 
 your caubeen — hem ! — your castor, undher your ome (arm), 
 an’ walk into the middle of the flure, wid your head up. 
 Stop, take care o’ the post. Now, take your caubeen — castor, 
 I mane — in your right hand ; give it a flourish. Aisy, Mrs. 
 Hanratty — Corcoran I mane — it’s not you that’s to flourish. 
 Well, flourish your castor, Paddy, and thin make a graceful 
 bow to the company. Leedies and gintlemen” 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “ Leedies and gintlemen.” 
 
 “ I’m your most obadient sarvint” 
 
 “ I’m your most obadient sarwint.” 
 
 “ Tuts, man alive ! that’s not a bow. Look at this : there's 
 a bow for you. Why, instead of meeking a bow, you appear 
 as if you wor goin’ to sit down wid an embargo (lumbago) in 
 your back. Well, practice is everything; and there’s luck 
 in leisure.” 
 
 ii Dick Doorisli, will you come up, and thry if you can meek 
 anything of that threblin’ step. You’re a purty lad, Dick ; 
 you’re a purty lad, Misther Doorish, wid a pair o’ left legs, an’ 
 you to expect to larn to dance; but don’t despeer, man alive. 
 I’m not afeard but I’ll meek a graceful slip o’ you yet. Can 
 you meek a curchy 
 
 “ Not right, sir, I doubt.” 
 
 “ Well, sir, I know that ; but, Misther Doorish, you ought 
 to know how to meek both a bow and a curchy. Whin you 
 marry a wife, Misther Doorish, it mightn’t come wrong for 
 you to know how to taich her a curchy. Have you the 
 gad and suggaun wid you V “ Yes, sir.” “ Very well, on 
 wid them ; the suggaun on the right foot, or what ought to 
 be the right foot, an’ the gad upon what ought to be the 
 left. Are you ready V “ Yes, sir.” “ Come, thin, do as 
 I bid you — rise upon suggaun an’ sink upon gad ; rise 
 
 upon suggaun an’ sink upon gad ; rise upon Hould, 
 
 sir ; you’re sinkin’ upon suggaun an’ risin’ upon gad, the 
 very thing you ought not to do. But, God help you then ! 
 sure you’re left-legged ! Ah, Misther Doorish, it ’ud be a 
 long time before you’d be able to dance Jig Polthogue or 
 the College Hornpipe upon a drum-head, as I often did. 
 However, don’t despeer, Misther Doorish — if I could only get 
 you to know your right leg — but, God help you ! sure you 
 haven’t sich a thing — from your left, I’d make something of 
 you yet, Dick. ” 
 
 The Irish dancing-masters were eternally at daggers-drawn 
 among themselves ; but, as they seldom met, they were forced 
 to abuse each other at a distance, which they did with a 
 virulence and scurrility proportioned to the space between 
 them. Buckram-Back had a rival of this description, who 
 was a sore thorn in his side. His name was Paddy Fitz- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 51 
 
 patrick, and from having been a horse jockey, he gave up 
 the turf, and took to the calling of a dancing-master. Buck- 
 ram-Back sent a message to him to the effect that “ if he 
 could not dance Jig Polthogue on the drum-head, he had 
 better hould his tongue for ever.” To this Paddy replied 
 by asking if he was the man to dance the Connaught Jockey 
 upon the saddle of a blood-horse and the animal at a three- 
 quarter gallop. 
 
 At length the friends on each side, from a natural love of 
 fun, prevailed upon them to decide their claims as follows. 
 Each master, with twelve of his pupils, was to dance against 
 his rival with twelve of his ; the match to come off on the 
 top of Mallybeny Hill, which commanded a view of the whole 
 parish. I have already mentioned that in Buckram-Back’s 
 school there stood near the middle of the door a post, which, 
 according to some new manoeuvre of his own, was very con- 
 venient as a guide to the dancers when going through the 
 figure. Now, at the spot where this post stood it was neces- 
 sary to make a curve, in order to form part of the figure of 
 eight, which they were to follow ; but as many of them 
 were rather impenetrable to a due conception of the line of 
 beauty, he forced them to turn round the post rather than 
 make an acute angle of it, which several of them did. Hav- 
 ing premised thus much, we proceed with our narrative. 
 
 At length they met, and it would have been a matter of 
 much difficulty to determine their relative merits, each was 
 such an admirable match for the other. When Buckram- 
 Back’s pupils, however, came to perform, they found 
 that the absence of the post was their ruin. To the post 
 they had been trained — accustomed — with it they could 
 dance ; but, wanting that, they were like so many ships at 
 sea without rudders or compasses. Of course a scene of lu- 
 dicrous confusion ensued, which turned the laugh against 
 poor Buckram-Back, who stood likely to explode with shame 
 and venom. In fact he was in agony. 
 
 “ Gintlemen, turn the post !” he shouted, stamping upon 
 the ground, and clenching his little hands with fury ; 
 “ leedies, remember the post ! Oh, for the honour of Kil- 
 nahushogue, don’t be beat. The post ! gintlemen ; leedies, 
 the post, if you love me ! Murdher alive, the post !” 
 
52 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “ Be gorra, masther, the jockey will distance us,” replied 
 Bog Magawly ; “ it’s likely to be the winning-post to him, 
 anyhow.’' 
 
 “ Any money,” shouted the little fellow — “ any money for 
 long Sam Sallaghan ; he’d do the post to the life. Mind it, 
 boys dear, mind it, or we're lost. Divil a bit they heed me ; 
 it’s a flock o’ bees or sheep they’re like. Sam Sallaghan, 
 where are you % The post, you blackguards 1” 
 
 “ 0 masther dear, if we had only a fishin’-rod, or a crow- 
 bar, or a poker, we might do yet ! But, anyhow, we had 
 better give in, for its only worse we’re gettin’.” 
 
 At this stage of the proceedings Paddy came over to him, 
 and making a low bow, asked him, “ Arra, how do you feel, 
 Misther Dogherty'?” for such was Buckram-Back’s name. 
 
 “ Sir,” replied Buckram-Back, bowing low, however, in 
 return, “ I’ll take the shine out o’ you yet. Can you shiloote 
 a leedy wid me ? — that’s the chat ! Come, gintlemen, show 
 them what’s betther than fifty posts — shiloote your partners 
 like Irishmen. Kilnahushogue for ever !” 
 
 The scene that ensued baffles all description. The fact 
 is, the little fellow had them trained as it were to kiss in 
 platoons, and the spectators were literally convulsed with 
 laughter at this most novel and ludicrous character which 
 Buckram-Back gave to his defeat, and the ceremony which 
 he introduced. The truth is, he turned the laugh com- 
 pletely against his rival, and swaggered off the ground in 
 high spirits, exclaiming, “ He know how to shiloote a leedy ! 
 Why, the poor spalpeen never kissed any woman but his 
 mother, an’ her only when she was dyin’. Hurrah for Kil- 
 nahushogue !” 
 
 Ireland for Ever. — Mr. Egan, better known as “ Bully 
 Egan,” held the Chairmanship of Kilmainham at the time 
 that the Government were using their utmost endeavours to 
 pass the Act of Union, and, of course, expected to be de- 
 prived of his office should he oppose it. However, when the 
 time for the division had arrived, his love of country pre- 
 ponderating over his love of pelf, he voted against the mea- 
 sure, exultingly exclaiming, “ Ireland for ever, and Kilmain- 
 ham to the devil !” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 53 
 
 $ast anil present. 
 
 BY “MARY” OF THE “ NATION.” 
 
 True love, remembered yet through all that mi3t of years, 
 
 Clung to with such vain, vain love — wept with such vain tears — 
 On the turf I sat last night, where we two sat of yore, 
 
 And thought of thee till memory could bear to think no more. 
 
 The twilight of the young year was fading soft and dim ; 
 
 The branches of the budding trees fell o’er the water’s brim ; 
 
 And the stars came forth in lonely light through all the silent 
 skies ; 
 
 I scarce could see them long ago, with looking in thine eyes. 
 
 For oh ! thou wert my starlight, my refuge, and my home ; 
 
 My spirit found its rest in thee, and never sought to roam ; 
 
 All thoughts and all sensations that burn and thrill me through, 
 
 In those first days of happy love were calmed and soothed by 
 you. 
 
 I 
 
 How wise thou wert — how tender — ah ! but it seemed to be 
 Some glorious guardian angel that walked this earth with me ; } 
 
 And now, though hope be over, and love too much in vain, 
 
 What marvel if my weary heart finds naught like thee again ? 
 
 [ 
 
 Beloved, when thou wert near me, the happy and the right 
 Were mingled in one gentle dream of ever fresh delight ; 
 
 But now the path of duty seems cold and dark to tread, 
 
 Without one radiant guide-star to light me overhead. 
 
 If there were aught my faith in thee to darken or remove — 
 
 One memory of unkindness — one chilling want of love ! — 
 
 But no — thy heart still cling3 to me as fondly, warmly true, 
 
 As mine, through chance, and change, and time, must ever cling 
 to you. 
 
54 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 If thou were aught to shrink from — to blush with sudden 
 shame — 
 
 That he who won the beating heart the lips must fear to name ! 
 But oh! before the whole wide world how proudly would I say : 
 “He reigned my king long years ago — he reigns my king to- 
 day.’’ 
 
 And so I turn to seek thee throught all the mist of years, 
 
 And love with vain devotion, and weep with vainer tears ; 
 
 And on the turf I sit alone, where we two sat of yore, 
 
 And think of thee till memory can bear to think no more. 
 
 longs of Our 
 
 BY PRANCES BROWNE, THE BLIND POETESS OF DONEGAL. 
 
 Songs of our land, ye are with 113 for ever — 
 
 The power and the splendour of thrones pass away ; 
 
 But yours is the might of some far-flowing river, 
 
 Through Summer’s bright roses or Autumn’s decay. 
 
 Ye treasure each voice of the swift-passing ages, 
 
 And truth, which time writeth on leaves or on sand ; 
 
 Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages, 
 
 And keep them among us, old songs of our land. 
 
 The bards may go down to the place of their slum! ers. 
 The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the grave, 
 
 But far in the future the power of their numbers 
 Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and brave. 
 
 It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, 
 
 Like voices of reeds by the Summer breeze fanned ; 
 
 It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only 
 Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land. 
 
 For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted, 
 
 Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain ; 
 
 They show us bright shadows of glory departed, 
 
 Of love that grew cold, and the hope that wa 3 vain. 
 
IllISII PENNY READINGS. 
 
 55 
 
 Tho page may be lost, and the pen long forsaken, 
 
 And weeds may grow wild o r er the brave heart and hand \ 
 But ye are still left when all else hath been taken, 
 
 Like streams in the desert, street songs of our land. 
 
 Songs of our land, ye have followed the stranger, 
 
 With power, over ocean and desert afar ; 
 
 Ye have gone with our wanderers through distance and danger, 
 And gladdened their path like a home-guiding star. 
 
 With the breath of our mountains in Summers long vanished, 
 And visions that passed like a wave from the sand, 
 
 With hope for their country and joy from her banished, 
 
 Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our land. 
 
 The spring-time may come with the song of our glory, 
 
 To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice, 
 
 But the pine of the mountain, though blasted and hoary, 
 
 And the rock in the desert, can send forth a voice. 
 
 It was thus in their triumph or deep desolations, 
 
 While ocean waves roll or the mountains shall stand, 
 
 Still hearts that are bravest and best of the nations 
 Shall glory and live in the song3 of their land. 
 
 The Bayonet tor Ireland. — The constancy of our State 
 doctors to their old remedy, the bayonet, is miraculous. 
 Having exhibited it in 1786 with their accustomed vigour 
 and success, they continued so to administer it, at con- 
 venient intervals and with increasing exacerbation, till 
 1798 — when it brought on that violent, but imperfect crisis, 
 the Rebellion. They then resumed the same course of 
 physic immediately after the Union, and have persevered in 
 it, only with greater frequency of doses, down to the present 
 day. It would take a whole page to enumerate the various 
 forms and names under which this one sole specific for all 
 the evils of Ireland has been administered — viz., Peace Pre- 
 servation Acts, Seizure of Arms Acts, Secret Society Acts, 
 Constabulary Acts, &c., &c., &c. But, as Dr. Ollapod says, 
 “ Rhubarb is rhubarb, call it what you will” ; and there is 
 no disguising by any change of name or phrase that the 
 bayonet is the sole active ingredient in all these various for- 
 mulas. — “ Memoirs of Captain Rock” ; by Thomas Moore . 
 
56 
 
 IBISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Sfncchtes of IJpMItn, ilje Contcbiim. 
 
 Macklin was exceedingly quick at a reply, especially in a 
 dispute. One day Dr. Johnson was contending some drama- 
 tical question, and quoted a passage from a Greek poet in 
 support of his opinion. “ I don't understand Greek though, 
 doctor,” said Macklin. “ Sir,” said Johnson, pompously, 
 “ a man who undertakes to argue should understand all 
 languages.” “ Oh, very well,” returned Macklin ; “ how- 
 will you answer this argument ¥’ and immediately treated 
 him to a long quotation in Irish. 
 
 One night, sitting at the back of the front boxes with a 
 gentleman of his acquaintance, one of the underbred box- 
 lobby loungers of the day stood up immediately before him, 
 and being rather large in person, covered the sight of the 
 stage from him. Everybody expected that Macklin would 
 have knocked the fellow down, notwithstanding his size, but 
 he managed the matter in another temper. Patting him 
 gently on the shoulder with his cane, he requested of him, 
 with apparent politeness, “ that when he saw or heard any- 
 thing vei'y entertaining on the stage, he would be pleased to 
 turn round and let him and the gentleman beside him know 
 of it ; for you see, my dear sir,” added the veteran, “ that at 
 present we must totally depend on you as a telegraph.” This 
 had the desired effect, and the lounger walked off. 
 
 Macklin was very intimate with Frank Hayman (at that 
 time a well-known historical painter), and happening to call 
 upon him one morning soon after the death of the painter’s 
 wife, he found him wrangling with the undertaker about his 
 high charge for the funeral expenses. Macklin listened to 
 the altercation for some time ; at last, going up to Hay- 
 man, “ Come, come, Frank,” said he, “ this bill, to be sure, 
 is a little extravagant, but you should pay it, if it were only 
 on account of the respect you owe your wife's memory ; for 
 
IRISH PENNY RExYDINGS. 
 
 57 
 
 I am sure,” he added, with the greatest gravity, “ she would 
 have paid twice as much for your burial with the greatest 
 gladness, if she had had the opportunity.” 
 
 An Irish dignitary of the Church, not remarkable for his 
 veracity, complaining that a tradesman of his parish had 
 called him a liar, Macklin asked what reply he had made 
 him. “I told him,” said the bishop, “ that a lie was among 
 those things that I dared not commit.” “ And why, doctor,” 
 returned Macklin, with an indescribable sort of comic frown, 
 u why did you give the rascal so erroneous a notion of your 
 courage T y 
 
 ^utth in parenthesis. 
 
 BY CHARLES G. HALPINE. 
 
 I love — oh! more than words can tell 
 (Your ninety thousand golden shiners) ; 
 You draw me by a nameless spell 
 (As California draws the miners) ; 
 
 You are so rich in beauty’s dower 
 (And rich in several ways beside it), 
 
 Had I your hand within my power 
 (Across a banker’s draft to guide it), 
 
 No cares my future life could dim. 
 
 (My tailor, too — what joy to him !) 
 
 Oh ! should you change your name for mine 
 (I’ve given my name — on bills — to twenty), 
 Existence were a dream divine 
 
 (At least so long as cash was plenty) ; 
 
 Our home should be a sylvan grot 
 (Bath, billiard, smoking-room, and larder), 
 And there, forgetting and forgot 
 
 (My present need, I’d live the harder), 
 
 Our days should pass in fresh delights 
 (Lethargic days, but roaring nights). 
 
58 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Oh, say, my young, my fawn-like girl 
 (She’s old enough to be my mother), 
 
 Let “Yes” o’erleap those gates of pearl 
 (My laughter it is hard to smother) ; 
 
 Let lips that Love hath formed for joy 
 (For joy if they her purse resign me) 
 
 Long hesitate ere they destroy 
 
 (And to a debtor’s jail consign me) 
 
 The heart that beats but to adore 
 (Yourself the less, your fortune more). 
 
 Consent — consent, my priceless love 
 (Her price precise is ninety thousand) ; 
 
 I swear by all around, above, 
 
 (Her purse-strings now, I feel, are loosened), 
 I have not loved you for your wealth 
 (Nor loved at all, as I’m a sinner) ; 
 
 Oh, blis3 ! you yield ; one kiss by stealth ! 
 
 (I’m sick — that kiss has spoiled my dinner). 
 Now early name the blissful day 
 (My duns grow clamorous for their pay). 
 
 ‘Sits Ikiunitb .Sxrliiier. 
 
 BY MICHAEL SCANLAN. 
 
 I come into the village green a soldier from the wars. 
 
 Dear neighbours, I am plain Tom Brown, but beautified with 
 scars, 
 
 And bronzed by Southern Summer suns and twenty battles’ 
 glare; 
 
 But where i3 lovely Molly with the dark-brown hair 1 
 
 ’Twas here, beneath this spreading tree, I kissed my love adieu. 
 
 The drums were beating down the lane their wildering tattoo, 
 
 Three years ago, and now I ask — dear friends, why do you 
 stare ? — 
 
 Where is my lovely Molly with the dark-brown hair ? 
 
 The village has turned out to see and greet me home once 
 more, 
 
 And every pleasant face of old is smiling to the fore ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 59 
 
 The scowling front of war unbends beneath this peaceful air, 
 But where is lovely Molly with the dark-brown hair % 
 
 I’ve heard her sweet voice singing clear above the roar of war, 
 I’ve seen her bright eyes shining through wild nights without a 
 star, 
 
 I’ve felt her dewy kisses till my parched lips met in pray’r, 
 
 As I twined my dreaming Ungers through her dark-brown 
 hair. 
 
 When death was roaring for his prey I’ve looked him in the 
 eye, 
 
 I’ve stood upon the hills and felt his messengers sweep by ; 
 W r hile I wa3 spared who plucked his beard within his very 
 lair, 
 
 He called for lovely Molly with the dark-brown hair. 
 
 The sun shines gaily as of old, the birds pipe in the trees ; 
 
 The hills, the streams, the pleasant fields, there is no change in 
 these ; 
 
 The breath of clover blossoms rides along the conscious air, 
 
 But where is lovely Molly with the dark-brown hair ? 
 
 I feel a spirit, like a dream, from out the meadows rise, 
 
 A heaven of beauty folds me round illumed by wondrous eyes, 
 The breath of olden memories perfumes the placid air — 
 
 ’Tis the presence of my Molly with her dark-brown hair. 
 
 I come unto the village green a soldier from the wars, 
 
 A wreck of twenty battle-fields, all bronzed and slashed with 
 scars — 
 
 Ye give me merry greeting, but your joy I cannot share, 
 
 Ye cannot give me Molly with the dark- brown hair. 
 
 Enslaving Effect of the Union on the Irish Gentry. — 
 The very fact of being governed by laws made in another 
 country has degraded the minds of the Irish aristocracy and 
 gentry. Use has familiarised them with national servitude ; 
 and the consequent depravation of their sentiments operates 
 most perniciously on the interests of their country. They 
 have lost that pride of national honour which is the best pro- 
 tector of a nation’s prosperity. — O'Neill Daunt 
 
60 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 
 The following short lecture is quite as much needed now as when it was 
 written in the Nation, of December 12, 1863 
 
 There are, unhappily, very many men in Ireland who seem 
 utterly unconscious of the idea that they owe any duty to 
 their native land. If they amuse themselves, eat, drink, 
 and sleep, they appear to believe that all the ends of their 
 being are fulfilled. They vegetate like mosses, they grow as 
 cattle do, they buy and sell, or spend, just as foreigners, men 
 of any land, travellers, or temporary sojourners in this 
 country may be expected to do, but into the mental and 
 political life of the nation they do not enter. They have no 
 thought of contributing a share towards helping up the po- 
 pulation of which they form a part to a level of honour with 
 the acting and thinking peoples by whom they are sur- 
 rounded. Whether the character of Ireland stand high or 
 low in the world — whether Irishmen are accounted a gifted, 
 ingenious, and high-spirited people, or a crowd of stupid, 
 soulless slaves — is a consideration that never troubles them. 
 So long as they can pass their own time along in an endur- 
 able manner within their own narrow circles, occupied with 
 the smallest and most selfish order of ideas, they are satis- 
 fied to let come what will to the fame and fortune of their 
 country. 
 
 Ireland can, less than any other land under the sun, afford 
 to have such men upon her soil. In many other countries a 
 majority of the population may, with comparative safety, 
 leave the conduct of public affairs almost completely in the 
 hands of those appointed to carry them on. A moderate 
 share of public criticism and of public effort will there be 
 sufficient to keep matters very nearly in the right track. 
 The ruling powers in those countries are not hostile to the 
 nation’s honour or interest. But with us the case is very 
 different. Ireland needs the love and the aid of all her 
 children — every brain, and heart, and arm, that she can call 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. G1 
 
 her own ; and a degree of inattention to matters of national 
 moment, which would be excusable in other countries, be- 
 comes dishonourable, if not absolutely criminal, in this. 
 
 We hold that every man born within the shores of this 
 island, be his station high or lowly, has the power, and is in 
 duty bound, to do something towards the moral and mate- 
 rial elevation of his country. There are plenty of abuses in 
 the land which a powerful public opinion w T ould clear away, 
 and many are the injuries and insults heaped upon her to 
 which she would never be subjected if Irishmen in general 
 ■were sensitive as they should be to those indignities, and 
 showed an unmistakeable disposition to resent them. But, 
 as matters stand, England is able to speak of those whom 
 she offends by her w r orst outrages on Ireland, as only a party. 
 Though the wrong she does presses home on all classes — 
 though the abuse she flings hither covers every section of the 
 population, and defames them all equally before the world — 
 yet she sees clearly enough that there are masses of Irish- 
 men who never seem to feel aggrieved by her conduct, and 
 who leave complaint or protest against it to emanate from a 
 few. And this is one of the reasons why the English Govern- 
 ment and the English press have no hesitation about vio- 
 lating every right and outraging every feeling that ought to 
 be dear to Irishmen. We have all seen the sort of language 
 that has recently been held by English journals of the 
 highest class towards the Irish people. They would not 
 dare to utter it if they thought that the spirit of men was 
 in the breasts of the educated and wealthier classes in this 
 country. They w r ould not dare to speak it of the hum- 
 blest class of Frenchmen, for they know that if the cannon 
 of France did not answer it, the swords of French gentlemen 
 would bring the slanderers to account. 
 
 The Union is a measure which goes to degrade the country 
 by saying it is unworthy to govern itself. It is the revival 
 of the odious and absurd title of conquest. It is a renewal 
 of the abominable distinction between mother-country and 
 colony which lost America. It is the denial of the rights of 
 nature to a great nation from an intolerance of its prosperity. 
 — Charles Kendal Bu she. 
 
62 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 .Slaitimr. 
 
 BY J. B. KILLED. 
 
 They slander thee who say that thou 
 Hast e’er forgot that thou wert free, 
 
 For in thy bosom burneth now 
 The fire and love of liberty, 
 
 As pure as when thy hero broke 
 
 The Northman’s strong and savage yoke. 
 
 They slander thee who say that thou 
 Hast sons less true, less bold or brave, 
 
 Than when was launched the venturous prow 
 Of conquering Dathi on the wave ; 
 
 Oh ! when the times comes to be free, 
 
 We’ll show how brave we yet may be. 
 
 With wily tongue they slander thee 
 
 Who preach to thee thy “ weakness” still, 
 They speak the things they wish to be, 
 
 These prophets of unfailing ill ; 
 
 They know how strong the brave may be, 
 And call thee weak who fear thee free. 
 
 They slander us, they slander thee, 
 
 Who say that we must still be slaves — 
 Who say that thou wert made to be 
 Ruled by a tyrant o’er the waves — 
 
 Kept like a minion, and to live 
 Content with what he deigns to give. 
 
 They slander thee — what can they more ? 
 
 The sword has fallen from their hands : 
 Without the hearts their fathers bore, 
 
 Their pride before the nation stands, 
 
 In boasts as loud as e’er of old, 
 
 But in its boasting only bold. 
 
 Fling back their taunts, their slanders fling — 
 The liar’s lips are white with fear, 
 
 The liar’s words have lost their sting ; 
 
 For freedom’s day of truth is near ; 
 
 The day when tyrants will be just, 
 
 And lying tongues shall lick the dust. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 63 
 
 ®jre IpttOTg of \\t gtalr. 
 
 From a speech of John B. Dillon, in proposing “The Memory of 
 O’Connell,” at a soiree of the Dublin Catholic Young Men’s Society, on 
 the 19th of January, 1863 : — 
 
 The heart of a nation never ceases to beat so long as it 
 cherishes the memory of its illustrious dead. The peasant 
 of Tyrol swears by the name of Hofer that the foot of an in- 
 vading [foe shall never pollute his beautiful valleys. The 
 chilled and bruised heart of Poland throbs with the warmth 
 of recovered youth when it recalls the names of Sobieski and 
 Kosciusko. Our own land, too, this Poland of the ocean, as 
 it has been called, has not forgotten the names of those who 
 have nobly laboured or nobly died in her service. Though 
 no longer amongst us, their influence is still felt. The valour 
 of the soldier sustains our courage ; the song of the bard 
 still speaks to the heart ; the voice of the orator calls out 
 from the tomb ; the blood of the martyr consecrates the soil 
 to liberty. While honouring the memory of O’Connell to- 
 night, which of us will not acknowledge the truth of those 
 noble words of Grattan — “ The public speaker may die, but 
 the immortal fire will outlast the organ that conveyed it, and 
 the breath of liberty, like the word of the holy man, will not 
 die with the prophet, but survive him. ,, 
 
 The Ruins of Clonmacnoise. — There is not, perhaps, in 
 Europe a spot where the feeling heart would find more mat- 
 ter for melancholy reflection than among the ancient churches 
 of Clonmacnoise. Its ruined buildings call forth national as- 
 sociations and ideas. They remind us of the arts and litera- 
 ture, the piety and humanity, which distinguished their 
 time, and are the work of a people who, in a dark age, 
 marched among the foremost on the road to life and civilisa- 
 tion, but who were unfortunately checked and barbarised by 
 those who were journeying in the same course, and ought to 
 have cheered them on. — Dr . Petrie. 
 
64 : IRISH PENNY READING3. 
 
 c&hz (Sxrob ©lb ©ait0e. 
 
 BY M. B. LEYNE. 
 
 For Ireland’s Good Old Cause, my friends, gird up your loins 
 anew, 
 
 Nor flinch for that as yet we’ve failed our mission work to do. 
 The fixed faith and stubborn strength that strive unto the end, 
 Can wrest from tyrants Liberty — Salvation from the fiend. 
 
 The good old cause, with mem’ries linked of Freedom and of 
 Fame, 
 
 Is not, as lying panders tell, an empty, idle name ; 
 
 For Freedom is the child of God, eternal in her youth, 
 
 Angelic in her loveliness, as holy as His truth ! 
 
 The good old cause ! On this our soil ruled once our Irish race, 
 Of native right, in guardian love — view now the contrast base ! 
 Here hunger faints, and mis’ry yells beneath the savage reign 
 Of stranger lords, who starve the slave and tighter draw his 
 chain. 
 
 The good old cause ! How eagerly our young hearts drank the 
 lays 
 
 In native tongue our mothers sung of earlier, better days ; 
 
 The dreamy legends musical ; the bounding ballad rhyme, 
 
 That swept like rushing mountain-flood — alas ! that song-taught 
 time ! 
 
 The good old cause ! For it, in deeds that glory sanctifies, 
 
 Our fathers poured their hearts’ red hoard in plenteous sacri- 
 fice ! 
 
 On battle-field, in stormy wrath, they smote the alien’s might ; 
 Or trod serene the scaffold high, brave martyrs to the right ! 
 
 The good old cause ! For it alone through fifty glorious years 
 O’Connell raised that magic voice that woke our rage or tears ; 
 And though his Titan labours failed to free us from the foe, 
 
 Not truer friend, not greater chief, did Ireland ever know ! 
 
 The good old cause ! ’Twas Freedom’s hand that strung the 
 golden lyre 
 
 Of our chosen minstrel, Davis, with his living chords of fire i 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 65 
 
 And though that lyre lie silent in the charnel’s sacred gloom, 
 
 Let Holof ernes tremble — for a Judith sing3 his doom ! 
 
 The good old cause ! Our own sad days have seen a hero band 
 
 March forth, like armed cherubim, to free this Irish land ; 
 
 And though, bereaved, our country mourns her bravest and her 
 best, 
 
 There’s something tells — “ free Erin yet shall clasp them to her 
 breast !” 
 
 The good old cause ! To lift this isle from ruin and from shame, 
 
 And with the beggar’s squalid rags tramp out the beggar's name ; 
 
 Oh, truest, noblest, worshipped friend, king of the rhythmic 
 speech, 
 
 This the emprise, dear Meagher, thy last proud words did 
 preach 1 
 
 The good old cause ! ’Tis time to peal that thunder cry again, 
 
 And rouse to thought and act, once more, the tranced souls of 
 men. 
 
 Oh, prompting brain and helping hand are wondrous wise and 
 strong — 
 
 True champions they to aid the Prone and strangle ruffian 
 Wrong ! 
 
 For Ireland ’3 good old cause, then, friends, gird up your loins 
 anew, 
 
 And calmly, sternly, front the work that yet remains to do ; 
 
 The fixed faith and stubborn strength that strive unto the end, 
 
 Can wrest from tyrants Liberty — Salvation from the fiend ! 
 
 liebntainmt. 
 
 BV J, T. CAMPION, ESQ., M.D. 
 
 Two thousand men for Ireland, upon the mountain top ! 
 
 With such a harvest Freedom’s arm might glean a glorious 
 crop — 
 
 A crop of seed, to cast abroad, through village, town, and 
 home, 
 
 And to the children of the land across the Atlantic’s foam. 
 
 5 
 
06 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Two thousand men for Ireland, on splendid Slievenamon: 
 
 Two thousand voices asking Heaven how Ireland may be won — 
 Won from her sickening thraldom, from the serpent’s tliick’ning 
 coil — 
 
 From the poison of its slavering tongue, its trail upon the soil. 
 
 No puny arm, nor limb nor lung, could clamber such a height — 
 A red deer’s wild and rocky road, an eagle’s kingly flight ! 
 
 No craven breast could brave that mount, upon its crest to 
 breathe 
 
 A prayer to God — to save, to spare the beauteous land beneath. 
 
 Two thousand men for Ireland, upon that altar high — 
 
 Its broad base, Tipperary ! its canopy the sky ! 
 
 Two thousand hearts, ennobled by place, and cause, and all — 
 Two thousand Patriots pondering on their country’s rise and fall. 
 
 Yes, raise the pile, and feed the blaze, on every mountain’s side. 
 And, to the blushles3 recreant’s shame, ring out the voice of 
 pride — 
 
 A true man’s pride, his country’s pride, the link that binds in one 
 The Irishmen of every clime with those on Slievenamon. 
 
 I Sure some mu3t tend the sacred fire that feeds the nation’s life, 
 And though of high or low degree, in torpid peace or strife, 
 
 A gallant soul he still must be who gives hi3 aiding breath 
 To rouse the dark’ning, slumbry spark from an untimely death. 
 
 Then, hail ! brave men of Ireland, upon the mountain top — 
 With such a harvest Freedom’s arm might glean a glorious 
 crop. 
 
 Be you of cheer, though foemen sneer, and fearlessly push on, 
 Till every mountain in the land be manned like Slievenamon ! 
 
 The Irish Harpers. — Nothing could equal the renown 
 of the bards of Erin and the skilfulness of her harpers. 
 When the English landed for the first time in that country, 
 into which they were destined to carry slavery, their archers 
 < paused in ecstacy at the sweet harmony which the native 
 I minstrels drew from their instruments. Even to-day this 
 oppressed nation keeps its harp, the emblem of its genius, in 
 its national arms. — : Ozanam , Etudes Germaniques. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 G7 
 
 JtitcMe of 
 
 Sheridan and Kelly were one day in earnest conversation 
 close to the gate of the path which was then open to the 
 public, leading across the churchyard of St. Paul's, Covent 
 Garden, from King-street to Henrietta-street, when Mr. Hol- 
 loway, who was a creditor of Sheridan’s to a considerable 
 amount, came up to them on horseback, and accosted Sheri- 
 dan in a tone of something more like anger than sorrow, and 
 complained that he never could get admittance when he 
 called, vowing vengeance against the infernal Swiss, Monsieur 
 Francois, if he did not let him in the next time he went to 
 Hertford-street. 
 
 Holloway was really in a passion. Sheridan knew that he 
 was vain of his judgment in horseflesh, and, without taking 
 any notice of the violence of his manner, burst into an ex- 
 clamation upon the beauty of the horse which he rode. He 
 struck the right chord. 
 
 “ Why,” said Holloway, “ I think I may say there never 
 was a prettier creature than this. You were speaking to me, 
 when I last saw you, about a horse for Mrs. Sheridan ; now, 
 this would be a treasure for a lady.” 
 
 “ Does he canter well V* said Sheridan. 
 
 “ Beautifully,” replied Holloway. 
 
 “ If that’s the case, Holloway,” said Sheridan, “ I really 
 should not mind stretching a point for him. Will you have 
 the kindness to let me see his paces'?” 
 
 “ To be sure,” said the lawyer ; and putting himself into a 
 graceful attitude, he threw his nag into a canter along the 
 market. 
 
 The moment his back was turned, Sheridan wished Kelly 
 good morning, and went off through the churchyard, where 
 no horse could follow, into Bedford-street, laughing immo- 
 derately, as indeed did several of the standers-by. The only 
 person not entertained by this practical joke was Mr. 
 Holloway. 
 
68 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 George Petrie, LL.D., the eminent archaeologist, artist, and writer on 
 Irish antiquities, to whose pen and pencil Ireland owes much, was born 
 in Dublin in the year 1789. After a busy, an honoured, and a useful 
 life, he expired in the same city on the 17th of January, 1866. His 
 name is best known in connexion with his celebrated essay on the Pound 
 Towers of Ireland ; but his writings on ancientlrish architecture, Pagan 
 and Christian remains, monuments, inscriptions, and kindred subjects, 
 were very numerous and of great value. He was a great lover of the 
 ancient music of Ireland, the peculiar beauties of which he well under- 
 stood ; and he formed a large collection of airs noted down by himself in 
 the course of his various tours through the country, from the singing or 
 the playing of the old people— airs which, but for such care, might ere 
 long have been utterly lost. A full and highly interesting account of 
 the life and labours of this distinguished Irishman, forming one large 
 volume, has been published by Messrs. Longman, Green, and Co. ; the 
 editor, who has accomplished his task with great ability, being Dr. 
 Stokes, of Dublin, who was an intimate and valued friend of the de- 
 ceased archaeologist. The following passage from one of Petrie’s letters, 
 published in that volume, will show how warmly he felt on the subject 
 of the ancient and neglected music of our land 
 
 Time will roll on and carry on its wings the arts and luxu- j 
 ries of a new civilisation, obliterating all the memorials of 
 the old world, all the natural strength and freedom and ten- 
 derness that belonged to man in his simpler and in his less 
 artificial state, and which he has expressed in his works. 
 But the depths of feeling that are expressed in the natural 
 works of man in this state of imperfect civilisation, and par- 
 ticularly in the original music which comes direct from the 
 heart, untrammelled by rules, will, however simple, possess 
 charms of a more lasting and touching kind to those who 
 retain the pure simplicity of man’s nature, than the finest 
 works produced by the brain or the fancy of the most skil- 
 ful musician of a cold and artificial age. 
 
 The music of Ireland has hitherto been the exclusive pro- 
 perty of the peasantry — the descendants of the ancient inha- 
 bitants of the country. 
 
 It is characteristic of their ardent and impassioned tem- 
 perament, and expressive of the tone of feeling that has been 
 
" 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 69 
 
 for ages predominant. The upper class are a different race 
 — a race who possess no national music ; or, if any, one essen- 
 tially different from that of Ireland. 
 
 They were insensible to its beauty, for it breathed not 
 their feelings ; and they resigned it to those from whom 
 they took everything else, because it was a jewel of whose 
 worth they were ignorant. He, therefore, who would acid 
 to the stock of Irish melody must seek it, not in the halls of 
 the great, but in the cabins of the poor. He must accept 
 the frank hospitality of the peasant’s humble hearth, or 
 follow him as he toils at his daily labours; but he must 
 choose a season to do so — unlike the frightful Summer of 
 1822 — when even “ the song of sorrow” was only heard em- 
 bodied wifh the song of death ! 
 
 It is a great error to suppose that all the valuable melodies 
 in Ireland have been gathered. I am satisfied — and I speak 
 from experience, having for very many years been a zealous 
 labourer in this way — I am satisfied that not the half . 
 of the ancient music of the country has yet been saved 
 from the danger of extinction. What a loss would these bo 
 to the world ! How many moments of the most de- 
 lightful enjoyment would be lost to thousands upon thou- 
 sands, by the want of those most deeply touching strains. 
 Dear music of my country ! I cannot speak of it without 
 using the language of enthusiasm ; I cannot think of it with- 
 out feeling my heart glow with tenderness and pride ! Well 
 may Ireland exult in the possession of such strains; but she 
 will exult more when freedom shall bid her indulge the proud 
 .'feelings that of right belong to her ! 
 
 If the character of a people were to be judged by its na- 
 tional music — and is there a truer criterion % — where, in the 
 world, w^ould there be found a people of more intense 
 sensibility — that sensibility, which, though it may, in its 
 unconfined expansion, often exceed the limits within which 
 cold prudence would confine it, is still the root of all genius, 
 and the source of every generous feeling ! 
 
 Could we suppose a being of another planet to come down I 
 to live among the inhabitants of this, ignorant of every lan- 
 guage but music — that language of the heart — what strains 
 w T ould allure him like those of this green island ] In what 
 

 70 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 region would he be addressed with such eloquent language, 
 whether of gaiety or tenderness, of sorrow or of joy, as in this 
 bright land of song ] 
 
 Alas for those who are insensible to its beauty ! It is 
 among them that the dull and ungenerous bigots will be 
 found who spread poison in the land which they tread. 
 Could music penetrate their stony hearts, the melodies of 
 Ireland would make them weep for the ill they 'were the 
 means of perpetuating on this unhappy island ; and they 
 would embrace that ill-treated people with a generous affec- 
 tion, anxious to make reparation for past injuries. 
 
 ^Ttsabbentur&s of a Jttcbical -Student. 
 
 EY RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS. 
 
 llichard Dalton Williams was one of the liveliest, gayest, and sweetest 
 poets of the Nation. His first contribution to the poesy of that journal 
 appeared in its thirteenth number, published on January 7th, 1843. It 
 was a ringing war-song, intended to represent the spirit of the Munster 
 clans when uniting and rising against the English in the year 1190. 
 No finer poem of its kind exists in our modern Irish literature. He 
 continued, up to the year 1848, when the crash came, to contribute at 
 frequent intervals poems on a variety of subjects and pitched in many 
 moods ; there were fiery battle pieces, glowing appeals to the rising en- 
 thusiasm of the people, some pieces expressive of tenderer emotions, and 
 several light-hearted and humorous compositions, amongst which his 
 “ Misadventures of a Medical Student” occupy a foremost place. The 
 author was himself a medical student when he sent to the press those 
 amusing compositions, which, appearing as they did in the columns of 
 a high-pressure political journal, and affording a pleasant sort of con- 
 trast to hot speeches and fiery articles, were all the more enjoyed. A 
 collection of his poems, with a memoir of the author, has been published 
 at the Nation office. 
 
 There’s a tavern off Westmoreland-street, near Bobinson and 
 Bussell's, 
 
 Where I often took the wrinkles from my epigastric muscles. 
 And sometimes brought a friend or two right valiantly to join 
 In a foray on the “ Natives" or a jousting with Sir Loin ; 
 
 And oft I condescended with my solemn host to chatter 
 Of steam-engines and rattle-snakes, or any other matter. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 71 
 
 I glanced at apple-dumplings, monster-meetings, civil wars, 
 Ham sandwiches, geology, the Oregon, the stars. 
 
 Hydropathy, the Puseyites, the newspapers, and soup, 
 
 And gave himself advice for gout, his child the same for croup. 
 I blarneyed him, I plastered him, I stuck it on in lumps, 
 
 I said he was a “ roarer/’ and the emperor of trumps ; 
 
 And I called him, while he boarded me respectably on tick, 
 
 The quintessence concentrated of a sublimated brick. 
 
 At length (misguided man !) unpleasant messages were sent 
 Most annoying to the feelings — that is, pocket — of a gent, 
 Containing inuendoe3 about — damn it ! — about the rent. 
 
 To think that I, who spend my cash on science and experiment, 
 Would pay for vulgar food’s enough to wake a stoic’s merri- 
 ment. 
 
 I quoted much in learned tongues from many an ancient oracle, 
 And poured upon mine host a flood of logic oratorical, 
 
 To prove that his the debt had been, and I had been the loser ; 
 Whereto he only answered me, “ By Jingo — but that’s new, 
 sir.” 
 
 (Vile wretch, before posterity I’ll be his soul’s accuser.) 
 
 In wrath 1, somewhat rashly, drew a scalpel from my pocket 
 To amputate his humerus directly at the socket ; 
 
 But slips belong unhappily to surgery and dancing, 
 
 I stumbled on an orange-peel while hastily advancing, 
 
 And only slightly wounded, through his “ready-made” habili- 
 ments, 
 
 Some intercostohumeralcutaneous nervous filaments ; 
 
 And then he called a gentleman in deep cerulean blue, 
 
 With cabalistic symbols on his broidered collar too. 
 
 What! — a minstrel of the Nation — therefore one of “ nature’s 
 nobs” — 
 
 To be sent, with knights and aldermen, and other prosy snobs, 
 For malt arrears, to Jericho — although, did Guinness know it, 
 He’d bring me here his finest beer, and never charge a poet. 
 
 I stood in the Insolvent Court — not one of all my friends, 
 
 To save my soul from Newgate, as security attends ; 
 
 Though when I revelled gloriously on hock and venison pie, 
 The deuce a one in Dublin had so many friends as I. 
 
 Yet I thought that the indignant court would strike away the 
 fetter 
 
 That my creditor, in malice, wove to chain his guileless debtor, 
 And would adjudge that I, to meet a schedule pretty full, 
 
 Had rather more than plenty in a thorax and a skull. 
 
 Besides — I thank post mortems — I also claim as mine, 
 
 A heart, and lungs, and liver, in a jar of spirits of wine ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 
 And curious little monsters from the Niger and the Ganges, 
 
 An alderman’s intestines, and a pickpocket’s phalanges. 
 
 As these were all my assets, save a scapula and carpus, 
 
 I sang the following melody to soothe opposing harpies :■ — 
 
 “ I give thee all, I can no more, 
 
 Though poor the offering be ; 
 
 My heart and lungs are all my store, 
 
 And these I give to thee. 
 
 A heart where dilatation and 
 Hypertrophy are seen, 
 
 And lungs with countless tubercles 
 Upon them and between.” 
 
 They listened -to my eloquence ; but yet, ’tis very odd, 
 
 They sent me ignominiously, the savages, to quod. 
 
 Farewell to Poupart’s ligament, the brain, and caeliac axis, 
 
 The lancet and the tourniquet, the cannula and taxis ! 
 
 Adieu St. Vincent’s, Dun’s, the Meath, obstetrical diameters ! 
 
 Pm left alone, in quod to groan, or howl my own hexameters, 
 And muse upon a law like this, so dolorously funny, 
 
 That takes away my liberty because I haven’t money. 
 
 I could work before they quodded me, but devil a thing at all 
 Can a fellow do in prison but apostrophise the wall ; 
 
 But I’m not without some distant hope of bettering my fate ; 
 
 And my hope, like many another’s, is built upon the grate — 
 
 No fire it has to solace me, but, better far, I knew 
 That one of the detective force was always up the flue. 
 
 So, as I ever like to have a little quiet fun, 
 
 I sat me down beside the hob, and, having first begun 
 To damn the Court Insolvent for refusing my petition, 
 
 I projected up the chimney a Vesuvius of sedition ; 
 
 Especially on railway wars I came it very strong, 
 
 And then I sang, extempore, a treasonable song, 
 
 Particularly lauding in the chorus of my lays 
 A pyrotechnic plan to set the Liffey in a blaze ; 
 
 And my melody, no doubt of it, was sweet as Hybla’s dew 
 To the tympanum detective of the “ crusher” in the flue. 
 
 And now I’m hoping constantly — I trust not without reason — 
 
 To be put upon my trial for sedition or high treason, 
 
 And thus at once win martyrdom and Richmond country air ! 
 By means of “ a delusion, a mockery, and a snare” ; 
 
 But it very much depends upon the Alphabetic* liver 
 
 * The Attorney-General who conducted the State prosecutions 
 against the Repealers was popularly known by the cognomen of 
 “Alphabet Smtib,” in allusion to the number of initial letters which 
 he prefixed to his name. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 7 
 
 Whether he’ll believe or not the quiz about the river. 
 
 Perhaps, if his digestion’s good, he’ll be a little sceptical, 
 
 But men -will snap at. anything when surly and dyspeptical. 
 
 So here I stay imploring all the consonants and vowels 
 To constipate imperviously the Alphabetic bowels ; 
 
 And should the fates decree him “ dura ilia messorum 
 I confidently hope to stand ere long arraigned before him, 
 Accused of “foul conspiracy” — God knows, perhaps to shatter 
 The Pigeon-House with lollypop, or capture Stoneybatter. 
 Unless, indeed, ad interim , the fortune-telling benchers 
 Adjudicate to stop at once my breath and misadventures. 
 
 ^hc $k(rsmb£ii Jikcj- 
 
 BY JOHN CHARLES WATERS, ESQ., M.D. 
 
 No flag have we by land or sea, 
 Where’er a nation’s flag should be ! 
 
 No galley bears it by the shore — 
 
 It floats no marshalled squadron o’er ; 
 Yet ’tis not that our pride is dead — 
 
 It is not that our love is fled 
 From its allegiance to the land, 
 
 But oh ! our Irish Flag is banned. 
 
 Banned by traitor and by knave — 
 Banned the struggle of the brave — 
 Banned of Irish earth and air — 
 
 The flag which fluttered everywhere, 
 From morning dawn till evening’s smile, 
 Within the compass of our isle. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! our fallen land — 
 
 The emblem of our freedom’s banned. 
 
 The herdsman watched its blaze of gold 
 Afar upon our hills unrolled — 
 
 The Druid at his evening pray’r 
 Beheld it flutter in the air — 
 
 The Bard with wildest song flushed high 
 While yet it swept in grandeur by — 
 
 And Kern and Chieftain kept our land 
 Before that ancient Flasr was banned. 
 
74 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 In battle long our tyrants saw 
 Its sheen in spite of wile or law ; 
 
 From many an Irish rampart still 
 It flew through days of gathering ill — 
 Flew while the Norman and the Dane 
 Fled fast with all their routed train 
 Across the valleys of our land 
 Before the Flag that now is banned. 
 
 On many a woeful field since then 
 Has poured the blood of Irishmen, 
 
 And to the headlong charge they led, 
 
 A myriad foes before them fled ; 
 
 But oh ! the stranger reaped the spoil 
 Of all their blood and all their toil, 
 
 And spurned the merit of our land, 
 Because our native Flag was banned. 
 
 O blessed the eyes that yet once more 
 Shall meet its flash, as, waving o’er 
 The tramping ranks of marshalled men, 
 5 Tis flung to battle winds again. 
 
 O blessed the hand that guards it there — 
 O blessed the sword that hand shall bear, 
 As once again through all our land 
 We lift the Flag our tyrants banned. 
 
 Indent feist ffanuitg. 
 
 (From O’Curry's Lectures on the “ Manuscript Materials of Irish 
 History.”) 
 
 I:? Ireland it is deeply to be regretted that as yet we have 
 not at all adequately explored the numerous valuable monu- 
 ments, and the great abundance of national records, which 
 have been bequeathed to us by our Celtic ancestors. But if 
 in our days the language, history, and traditions of our 
 country and our race are not prized by Irishmen as they 
 ought to be, we know that this has not been always the case. 
 Even a limited acquaintance with our manuscript records 
 will suffice to show us how the national poet, the historian, 
 
 - . 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 75 
 
 and the musician, as well as the man of excellence in any 
 other of the arts or sciences, were cherished and honoured. 
 We find them, indeed, from a very early period placed in a 
 position not merely of independence, but even of elevated 
 rank ; and their persons and property declared inviolate, and 
 protected specially by the law. Thus, an Ollamh or Doctor in 
 Fdedecht* when ordained by the king or chief — for such is 
 the expression used on the occasion — was entitled to rank 
 next in precedence to the monarch himself at table. He 
 ■was not permitted to lodge, or accept refection when on his 
 travels, at the house of anyone below the rank of a Flaith. + 
 He — that is, the OUamli — was allowed a standing income of 
 <e twenty-one cows and their grass” in the chieftain’s terri- 
 tery, besides ample refections for himself and for his atten- 
 dants, to the number of twenty-four ; including his subordi- 
 nate tutors, his advanced pupils, and his retinue of servants. 
 He was entitled to have two hounds and six horses. He 
 was, besides, entitled to a singular privilege within his ter- 
 ritory — that of conferring a temporary sanctuary from injury 
 or arrest, by carrying his wand, or having it carried, around 
 or over the person or place to be protected. His wife also 
 enjoyed certain other valuable privileges ; and similar pri- 
 vileges were accorded to all the degrees of the legal, his 
 torical, musical, and poetic art below him, according to their 
 rank. 
 
 Similar rank and emoluments, again, were awarded to the 
 
 * It is very difficult to find an adequate translation in the English 
 language for the words pWoecu (pronounced nearly “ fillidecht” — 
 the c/t guttural), and pbe (which is pronounced nearly “ filley”). 
 The word File (the reader will observe the pronunciation) is com- 
 monly rendered by the English word “Poet” ; but it was, in fact, 
 the general name applied to a Scholar in or a Professor of Literature 
 and Philosophy ; the art of composition in verse, or “Poetry,” being 
 included under the former. Perhaps the best general name to repre- 
 - sent the File would be that of “ Philosopher,” in the Greek sense of 
 the word ; but the term would be too vague as it is understood in 
 modern English. 
 
 t The pbAic (now pronounced nearly “Flah”) was a Noble, or 
 Landlord-Chief ; a class in the ancient Irish community in many re- 
 spects analogous to the Noble class in Germany, or in France before 
 the Revolution of 1789 ; though the rights and privileges of the 
 ancient Irish were by no means those of the Feudal Law of the Con- 
 tinent, which never prevailed in any form in ancient Erinn, 
 
76 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Senacliaidhe ,* or Historian ; so that in this very brief refe- 
 rence you will already obtain some idea of the honour and 
 respect which were paid to the national literature and tra- 
 7 ditions in the persons of those who were in ancient times 
 looked on as their guardians from age to age. And surely 
 by the Irishman of the present day it ought to be felt an 
 imperative duty, which he owes to his country not less than 
 to himself, to learn something at least of her history, her 
 literature, and her antiquities, and, as far as existing means 
 will allow, to ascertain for himself what her position was in 
 past times, when she had a name and a civilisation, a law 
 and life of her own. 
 
 Amongst the large quantities of MS. records which have 
 come down to our times will be found examples of the litera- 
 ture of very different periods in our history. Some, as there 
 is abundant evidence to prove, possess a degree of antiquity 
 very remarkable, indeed, when compared with the similar 
 records of other countries of modern Europe. Others again 
 have been compiled within still recent times. Those MSS. 
 which we now possess belonging to the earliest periods ai e 
 themselves, we have just reason to believe, either in great 
 part or in the whole, but transcripts of still more ancient 
 works. 
 
 At what period in Irish history written records began to 
 be kept it is, perhaps, impossible to determine at present 
 with precision. However, the national traditions assign a 
 very remote antiquity and a high degree of cultivation to 
 the civilisation of our Pagan ancestors. 
 
 Without granting to such traditions a greater degree of 
 credibility than they are strictly entitled to, it must, I think, 
 be admitted that the immense quantity of historical, legend- 
 ary, and genealogical matter relating to the pagan age of 
 ancient Erinn, and which we can trace to the very oldest 
 written documents of which we yet retain any account, could 
 only have been transmitted to our times by some form of 
 written record. 
 
 Passing over those earlier periods, however, for the present, 
 
 * SeAticaroe (now pronounced nearly “Shanchie”) was the His- 
 torian or Antiquarian, and, in his character of Reciter, also the 
 Story-Teller. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 77 
 
 and first directing our inquiries to an era in our history of 
 which we possess copious records (though one already far 
 removed from modern times), it may be found most con- 
 venient that I should ask your attention at the opening of 
 this course of lectures to the probable state of learning in 
 Erinn about the period of the introduction of Christianity 
 by St Patrick. 
 
 There is abundant evidence in the MSS. relating to this 
 period [(the authority and credibility of which will be 
 fully proved to you), to show that Saint Patrick found 
 on his coming to Erinn a reguTarly defined system of 
 law and policy, and a fixed classification of the people ac- 
 cording to various grades and ranks, under the sway of a 
 single monarch, presiding over certain subordinate provincial 
 kings. 
 
 We find mention likewise of books in the possession of 
 the Druids before the arrival of Saint Patrick ; and it is 
 repeatedly stated (in the Tripartite Life of the saint) that 
 he placed primers or lessons in the Latin language in the 
 hands of those whom he wished to take into his ministry. 
 
 We have also several remarkable examples of the literary 
 eminence which was rapidly attained by many of his dis- 
 ciples, amongst whom may be particularly mentioned Benen 
 or Benignus ; Moche ; and Fiacc, or Slebhte, or Sletty. 
 This last is the author of a biographical poem on the Life of 
 the Apostle in the Gaedhlic language, a most ancient copy 
 of which still exists, and which bears internal evidence of 
 a high degree of perfection in the language at the time at 
 which it was composed. And it is unquestionably in all re- 
 spects a genuine and native production, quite untinctured 
 with the Latin or any other foreign contemporary style or 
 idiom. 
 
 There are besides many other valuable poems and other 
 compositions referable to this period which possess much of 
 the same excellence, though not all of equal ability ; and 
 among these are even a few still extant, attributed, and with 
 much probability, to Dubthach (now pronounced “ Duvach”) 
 Ua Lugair, chief poet of the monarch Laeghaire (pron. 
 nearly as “ Layry”), who was uncle, on the mother’s side, and 
 preceptor of the Fiacc just mentioned. 
 
78 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 It is to be remarked here that, in dealing with these early 
 periods of Irish history, the inquirer of the present day 
 has to contend with difficulties of a more than ordinary 
 kind. Our isolated position prevented the contemporary 
 chroniclers of other countries from giving to the affairs of 
 ancient Eiian anything more than a passing notice ; while 
 many causes have combined to deprive us of much of the 
 light which the works of our own annalists would have 
 thrown on the passing events of their day in the rest of 
 Europe. 
 
 The first and chief of these causes was the destruction 
 and mutilation of so many ancient writings during the 
 Danish occupation of Erinn ; for we have it on trustworthy 
 record, that those hardy and. unscrupulous adventurers 
 made it a special part of their savage warfare to tear, 
 burn, and drown (as it is expressed) all books and records 
 that came to their hands in the sacking of churches and 
 monasteries, and the plundering of the habitations of 
 the chiefs and nobles. And that they destroyed them, 
 and did not take them away, as some have thought (con- 
 trary to .the evidence of our records), is confirmed by 
 the fact that not a fragment of any such manuscripts has 
 as yet been found among the collections of ancient records 
 in Copenhagen, Stockholm, or any of the other great 
 northern repositories of antiquities that we are acquainted 
 with. 
 
 Another, and, we may believe, the chief cause, was the 
 occurrence of the Anglo-Xorman invasion so soon after the 
 expulsion of the Danes, and the sinister results which it 
 produced upon the literary as well as upon all the other in- 
 terests of the country. The protracted conflicts between 
 the natives and their invaders were fatal not only to the 
 vigorous resumption of the study of our language, but also 
 to the very existence of a great part of our ancient litera- 
 ture. The old practice of reproducing our ancient books, 
 and adding to them a record of such events as had occurred 
 from the period of their first compilation, as well as the com- 
 position of new and independent works, was almost altoge- 
 ther suspended. And thus our national literature received 
 a fatal check at the most important period of its development, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 79 
 
 and at a time when the mind of Europe was beginning to 
 expand under the influence of new impulses. 
 
 Again, the discovery of printing at a subsequent period 
 made w T orks in other languages so much more easy of access 
 than those transcribed by hand in the Irish tongue, that this 
 also may have contributed to the farther neglect of native 
 compositions. 
 
 Aided by the new political rule under which the country, 
 after a long and gallant resistance, was at length brought, 
 these and similar influences banished, at last, almost the 
 possibility of cultivating the Gaedhlic literature and learn- 
 ing. The long-continuing insecurity of life and property 
 drove out the native chiefs and gentry, or gradually 
 changed their minds and feelings — the class which had ever 
 before supplied liberal patrons of the national literature. 
 
 Wx . e §xsho$ at ^000. 
 
 BY AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 A.D. 1650 . 
 
 They led him to the peopled wall — 
 
 “ Thy sons,” they said, u are those within ! 
 If at thy word their standards fall, 
 
 Thy life and freedom thou shalt win !” 
 
 Then spake the warrior bishop old : 
 
 “ Remove those chains, that I may bear 
 ■ My crozier staff and stole of gold ; 
 
 My judgment then will I declare.” 
 
 They robed him in his robes of state ; 
 
 They set the mitre on his head : 
 
 On tower and gate was silence great : 
 
 The hearts that loved him froze with dread. 
 
 He spake : “Right holy is your strife ! 
 
 Fight for your country, kiDg,* and faith : 
 
 * Charles the First. 
 
80 HUSH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 I taught you to be true in life : 
 
 1 teach you to be true in death. 
 
 “ A priest apart by God is set 
 To offer prayer and sacrifice ; 
 
 And he is sacrificial yet, 
 
 The pontiff for his flock who dies.” 
 
 Ere yet he fell, his hand on high 
 He raised, and benediction gave ; 
 Then sank in death, content to die : 
 Thy great heart, Erin, was his grave. 
 
 ‘JEIte (Exodus. 
 
 By Eev. J. Butler, in the Nation, April 21, 1S70. 
 
 They are going, they are going where Missouri’s waves are 
 flowing, 
 
 Where the waving crops are growing for the tiller of the soil ; 
 
 Where the light of Justice beameth, and the sword of Justice 
 gleameth, 
 
 And good fortune ever seemeth as attendant upon toil. 
 
 Far from Erin they are flying, where their fathers’ bones are 
 
 lying, 
 
 Where Atlantic’s waves are sighing round her desolated shore ; 
 
 Where the streams of care are welling round each simple pea- 
 sant’s dwelling, 
 
 And the bravest hearts are swelling with the sorrow at their 
 core. 
 
 There are parents fond, endearing ; there are scenes yet bright 
 and cheering ; 
 
 But an evil star i3 peering o’er the dwellings of our isle — 
 
 O’er the cot amidst the bushes where the shining river rushes, 
 
 Where the sparkling fountain guslie 3 like a heart that has no 
 guile. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 81 
 
 They are leaving home for ever ; and the fondest kindred sever ; 
 
 And the light of joy shall never brightly beam upon their 
 breast. 
 
 Though the freeman’s flag is o’er them, and a life of peace before 
 them, 
 
 Yet the mother fond who bore them sighs with sorrow in tho 
 West. 
 
 Let them go ! may Heaven speed them ! be a blessed lot decreed 
 them ; 
 
 But if Ireland e’er shall need them, may they hasten o’er the 
 sea ; 
 
 May the loving hearts that slumbered, by the weight of grief 
 encumbered, 
 
 Beat for Erin’s woes unnumbered, and return to set her free ! 
 
 ©’Cornell on lire infon. 
 
 In the same year in which the Union came into effect, O’Connell made 
 his first speech against it. Ten years afterwards, in the Corn Exchange, 
 Dublin, at a public meeting, he inveighed against that ruinous measure 
 in a splendid oration, from which we take the following instructive and 
 interesting extract : — 
 
 The Union, sir, was a violation of our national and in- 
 herent rights ; a flagrant injustice. The representatives 
 whom we had elected for the short period of eight years 
 had no authority to dispose of their country for ever. It 
 cannot be pretended that any direct or express authority to 
 that effect was given to them, and the nature of their dele- 
 gation excludes all idea of their having any such by implica- 
 tion. They were the servants of the nation, empowered to 
 consult for its’good ; not its masters, to traffic and dispose of 
 it at their fantasy or for their profit. I deny that the nation 
 itself had a right to barter its independence, or to commit 
 political suicide ; but when our servants destroyed our ex- 
 istence as a nation, they added to the baseness of assassina- 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 tion all the guilt of high treason. The reasoning upon 
 which those opinions are founded is sufficiently obvious. 
 They require no sanction from the authority of any name ; 
 neither do I pretend to give them any weight by declaring 
 them to be conscientiously my own ; but if you want autho- 
 rity to induce the conviction that the Union had injustice 
 for its principle, and a crime for its basis, I appeal to that of 
 his Majesty’s present Attorney-General, Mr. Saurin,who in his 
 place in the Irish Parliament pledged his character as a lawyer 
 and a statesman that the Union must be a violation of every 
 moral principle, and that it was a mere question of prudence 
 whether it should not be resisted by force. I also appeal 
 to the opinions of the late Lord High Chancellor of Ireland, 
 Mr. George Ponsonby ; of the present Solicitor-General, Mr. 
 Bushe ; and of that splendid lawyer, Mr. Plunket. The 
 Union was therefore a manifest injustice, and it continues 
 to be unjust at this day ; it was a crime, and must be still 
 criminal, unless it shall be ludicrously stated that crime, 
 like wine, improves by old age, and that time mollifies in- 
 justice into innocence. You may smile at the supposition, 
 but in sober sadness you must be convinced that we daily 
 suffer injustice ; that every succeeding day adds only ano- 
 ther sin to the catologue of British vice ; and that if the 
 Union continues it will only make the crime hereditary and 
 injustice perpetual. We have been robbed, my countrymen, 
 most foully robbed of our birthright, of our independence ; 
 may it not be permitted us mournfully to ask how this 
 consummation of evil was perfected h For it was not in any 
 disastrous battle that our liberties were struck down; no 
 foreign invader had despoiled the land ; w~e have not for- 
 feited our country by any crimes ; neither did we lose it by 
 any domestic insurrection ; no, the rebellion was completely 
 put down before the Union was accomplished ; the Irish 
 militia and the Irish yeomanry had put it down. How, then, 
 have we become enslaved ] Alas ! England, that ought to 
 have been to us a sister and a friend — England, whom we had 
 loved, and fought, and bled for — England, whom we have pro- 
 tected, and whom we do protect — England, at a period when 
 out of 100,000 of the seamen in her service 70,000 were Irish, 
 England stole upon us like a thief in the night, and robbed us 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 83 
 
 of the precious gem of our liberty ; she stole from us “ that in 
 which naught enriched her, but made us poor indeed.” Re- 
 flect, then, my friends, on the means employed to effect this dis- 
 astrous measure. I do not speak of the meaner instruments 
 of bribery and corruption. We all know that everything was 
 put to sale — nothing profane or sacred was omitted in that 
 Union mart. Offices in the revenue, commands in the army 
 and navy, the sacred ermine of justice, and the holy altars of 
 God, were all profaned and polluted as the rewards of Union 
 services. By a vote in favour of the Union, ignorance, inca- 
 pacity, and profligacy obtained certain promotion; and our ill- 
 fated but beloved country was degraded to her utmost limits 
 before she was transfixed in slavery. But I do not intend 
 to detain you in the contemplation of those vulgar means of 
 parliamentary success — they are within the daily routine of 
 official management ; neither will I direct your attention to 
 the frightful recollection of that avowed fact, which is now 
 part of history, that the rebellion itself was fomented and en- 
 couraged in order to facilitate the Union. Even the rebellion 
 was an accidental and a secondary cause ; the real cause of 
 the Union lay deeper, but it was quite obvious — it is to be 
 found at once in the religious dissensions which the enemies 
 of Ireland have created, and continued, and seek to perpe- 
 tuate amongst ourselves, by telling us off and separating 
 us into wretched sections and miserable subdivisions. They 
 separated the Protestant from the Catholic, and the Presby- 
 terian from both ; they revived every antiquated cause of 
 domestic animosity, and invented new pretexts of rancour ; 
 but, above all, my countrymen, they belied and calumniated 
 us to each other ; they falsely declared that we hated each 
 other ; and they continued to repeat that assertion until we 
 came to believe it ; they succeeded in producing all the 
 madness of party and religious distinctions ; and whilst we 
 were lost in the stupor of insanity, they plundered us of our 
 country, and left us to recover at our leisure from the horrid 
 delusion into which w T e had been so artfully conducted. 
 Such, then, were the means by which the Union was effec- 
 tuated. It has stripped us of commerce and wealth, it has de- 
 graded us, and deprived us not only of our station as a nation, 
 but even of the name of our country. We are governed by 
 
 
84 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 foreigners — foreigners make our laws ; for were the hundred 
 members who nominally represent Ireland in what is called 
 the Imperial Parliament — were they really our representa- 
 tives, what influence could they, although unbought and 
 unanimous, have over the 558 English and Scotch mem- 
 bers'? But what is the fact? Why, that out of the hun- 
 dred, such as they are, that sit for this country, more 
 than one-fifth know nothing of us, and are unknown to us. 
 What, for example, do we know of Andrew Strahan, printer to 
 the king ? What can Henry Martin, barrister-at-law, care for 
 the rights and liberties of Irishmen ? Some of us may, perhaps, 
 for our misfortune, have been compelled to read a verbose 
 pamphlet of James Stevens, but who knows any thing of one 
 Crile, one Hughan, one Cackin, or of a dozen more whose 
 names I could mention only because I have discovered them 
 for the purpose of speaking to you about them ? What sym- 
 pathy can we, in our sufferings, expect from these men? w r hat 
 solicitude for our interests ? w T hat are they to Ireland, or Ire- 
 land to them? Ho, Mr. Sheriff, we are not represented; we 
 have no effectual share in the legislation ; the thing is a mere 
 mockery ; neither is the Imperial Parliament competent to 
 legislate for us ; it is too unwieldy a machine to legislate b 
 with discernment for England alone ; but with respect to 
 Ireland it has all the additional inconveniences that arise 
 from want of interest and total ignorance. It is useless to 
 detain the meeting longer in detailing the miseries that the 
 Union has produced, or in pointing out the necessity that 
 ; exists for its repeal. I have never met any man who did 
 not deplore this fatal measure which had despoiled his 
 country ; nor do I believe that there is a single indivi- 
 dual in the island who could be found even to pretend ap- 
 probation of that measure. I would be glad to see the 
 face of the man, or rather of the beast, who could dare to 
 say he thought the Union wise or good — for the being who 
 could say so must be devoid of all the feelings that distin- 
 guish humanity. With the knowledge that such were the 
 sentiments of the universal Irish nation, how does it happen 
 that the Union has lasted for ten years ? The solution of 
 the question is easy — the Union continued only because we 
 despaired of its repeal. Upon this despair alone has it con- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 85 
 
 tinned — yet what could be more absurd than such despair ? 
 If the Irish sentiment be but once known — if the voice of 
 six millions be raised from Cape Clear to the Giant’s Cause- 
 way — if the men most remarkable for their loyalty to their 
 king and attachment to constitutional liberty will come 
 forward as the leaders of the public voice, the nation would, 
 in an hour, grow too great for the chains that now shackle 
 you, and the Union must be repealed without commotion and 
 without difficulty. Let the most timid amongst us compare 
 the present probability of repealing the Union with the pros- 
 pect that in the year 1795 existed of that measure being ever 
 brought about. Who in 1785 thought a Union possible 1 
 Pitt dared to attempt it, and he succeeded ; it only requires 
 the resolution to attempt its repeal ; in fact, it requires only 
 to entertain the hope of repealing it, to make it impossible 
 that the Union should continue ; but that pleasing hope 
 could never exist while the infernal dissensions on the 
 score of religion were kept up. The Protestant alone could 
 not expect to liberate his country — the Roman Catholic 
 .alone could not do it — neither could the Presbyterian — but 
 amalgamate the three into the Irishman, and the Union is 
 repealed. Learn discretion from your enemies — they have 
 crushed your country by fomenting religious discord ; serve 
 her by abandoning it for ever. Let each man give up his 
 share of the mischief ; let every man forsake every feeling of 
 •rancour, i I say not this to barter with you, my countrymen. 
 I require no equivalent from you ; whatever course you shall 
 take, my mind is fixed. I trample under foot the Catholic 
 -claims, if they can interfere with the repeal ; I abandon all 
 wish for emancipation, if it delays the repeal. Nay, were 
 Mr. Percival to-morrow to offer me the repeal of the Union 
 upon the terms of re-enacting the penal code, I declare from 
 my heart, and in the presence of my God, that I would most 
 cheerfully embrace his offer. Let us, then, my beloved 
 countrymen, sacrifice our wicked and groundless animosities 
 on the altar of our country ; let that spirit which heretofore, 
 emanating from Dungannon, spread all over the island, and 
 gave light and liberty to the land, be again cherished 
 amongst us ; let us rally round the standard of old Ireland, 
 and we shall easily procure that greatest of political bles- 
 
86 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 sings, an Irish King, an Irish House of Lords, and an Irish 
 House of Commons. 
 
 ©'JlciU in Iflcmte. 
 
 BY T. D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 Hugh O’Neill, after his flight to Home, continued for some years to 
 nurse a hope that another movement for freedom might be attempted in 
 Ireland. He knew that all over the Continent there were at that time 
 many valiant Irish officers and soldiers who held the same hope, and 
 who were making preparations to realise it ; and he had reason to think 
 that aid from some powerful quarters would be forthcoming. His ex- 
 pectations and their plans were not unknown to the English Govern- 
 ment, who had spies watching those Irishmen everywhere. One of those 
 informants, writing from Rome to a person in London, gave the follow- 
 ing account of O’Neill’s condition and habits : “Though a man would 
 think that he is an old man by sight : no, he is lusty and strong, and 
 well able to travel ; for, a month ago, at evening, when his frere and his 
 gentlemen were all with him, they were talking of England and Ireland, 
 and he drew out his sword. ‘His Majesty,’ said he, ‘thinks that I am 
 not strong. I would that he who hates me most in England were with 
 me to see whether I am strong or no.’ Those that were by said, ‘ We^ 
 would we were with forty thousand pounds of money in Ireland, to see 
 what we should do.’ ” Another informant, writing to the king, says he 
 has learned “that Tyrone, whilst he is his own man, is always much 
 reserved, pretending ever his desire of your Majesty’s grace, and by that 
 means to adoperate his return to his country ; but when he is vino plenus 
 et ira , as he is commonly once a night, and therein is veritas , he doth 
 then declare his resolute purpose to die in Ireland, and both he and his 
 company doth usually in that mood dispose of governments and pro- 
 vinces, and make new commonwealths.” Those documents will be 
 found in full in Father Meehan’s valuable work, “ The Fate and For- 
 tunes of the Earls of Tyrone and Tyrconnell.” The following poem,, 
 suggested by those circumstances in the life of the exiled chieftain, is 
 also published in the same work : — 
 
 Where yellow Tiber’s waters flow, 
 
 Within the seven-hilled city’s bound, 
 
 An aged chief, with footsteps slow, 
 
 Moves sadly o’er the storied ground ; 
 
 Or, from his palace window panes, 
 
 Looks out upon the matchless dome, 
 
 The ruins grand, the glorious fane3, 
 
 That stud the soil of holy Rome. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 87 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland far away — 
 
 For Ireland in the western sea ! 
 
 The chieftain’s heart is there to-day ; 
 
 And there, in truth, he fain would be. 
 
 On every side the sweet bells ring, 
 
 And faithful people bend in pray’r ; 
 
 Sweet hymns, that angel choirs might sing, 
 
 And loud hosannas, [fill the air. 
 
 His place is with the princely crowd, 
 
 Amidst the noblest and the best ; 
 
 His large, white head is lowly bowed ; 
 
 His hands are clasped before his breast. 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland far away — 
 
 For Ireland, dear, with all her ills — 
 
 For Mass in fair Tyrone to-day, 
 
 Amid the circling Irish hills ! 
 
 Kind friends are round him — pious freres, 
 
 And pastors of Christ’s mystic fold ; 
 
 The holy Pope, ’mid many cares, 
 
 For him has blessings, honours, gold ; 
 
 Grave fathers, speaking words of balm, 
 
 Bid him forget the bygone strife, 
 
 And spend, resigned in holy calm, 
 
 The years that close a noble life. 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland ! there again 
 The grand old chieftain fain would be, 
 
 ’Midst glittering spears, on hill or plain, 
 
 To charge for Faith and Liberty ! 
 
 His fellow exiles — men who bore, 
 
 With him, the brunt of many a fight — 
 
 Talk past and future chances o’er, 
 
 Around his table grouped at night. 
 
 While speeds each tale of grief or glee, 
 
 With tears their furrowed cheeks are wet ; 
 
 And oft they rise and vow to see 
 A glorious day in Ireland yet. 
 
 And, oh ! for Ireland o’er the main — 
 
 For Ireland, where they yet shall be, 
 
 Since Irish braves, in France and Spain, 
 
 Have steel and gold to set her free. 
 
 He sits, abstracted, by the board ; 
 
 Old scenes are pictured in his brain — 
 
88 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Banburb ! Armagh ! the Yellow Ford !— 
 
 Re fights and wins them o’er again. 
 
 Again he sees fierce Bagnal fall ; 
 
 Sees craven Essex basely yield ; 
 
 Meets armoured Segrave, gaunt and tall, 
 
 And leaves him lifeless on the field. 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland — there once more 
 To rouse the true men of the land, 
 
 And proudly bear, from shore to shore, 
 The banner of the “ Blood-red Hand” ! 
 
 And when the wine within him plays, 
 
 Bold, hopeful words the chief will speak ; 
 
 He draws his shining sword, and says : 
 
 “ The King of England deems me weak ! 
 
 Ah, would the Englishman were nigh 
 That hates me most — my deadliest foe — 
 
 To cross his sword with mine, and try 
 If this right arm be weak or no !” 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland, where good swords 
 And valiant arms are needed most, 
 
 To fall on England’s cruel hordes, 
 
 And sweep them from the Irish coast ! 
 
 Years come and go ; but, while they roll, 
 
 His limbs grow weak, his eyes grow dim ; 
 
 The hopes die out that buoyed his soul ; 
 
 War’s mighty game is closed for him. 
 
 Before him from the earth have passed 
 
 Friends, kinsmen, comrades true and brave ; 
 
 And well he knows he nears, at last, 
 
 His place of rest — a foreign grave ! 
 
 But, oh ! for Ireland far away — 
 
 For Irish love and holy zeal ; 
 
 Oh for a grave in Irish clay, 
 
 To wrap the heart of Hugh O’Neil ! 
 
 Physical Qualities of the Irish People. — Yet surely 
 they are very valiant and hardie, for the most part great en- 
 durers of colde, labor, hunger, and all hardinesse, very 
 active and strong of hand, very swift of foot, very vigilant 
 and circumspect in their enterprises, very present in perils, 
 very great scorners of death. — Spenser's View of the State of 
 Ireland . 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS, 
 
 89 
 
 pimage of ftam llatCart|tr pore. 
 
 (From “MacCarthy More ; or, The Fortunes of an Irish Chief in the 
 Reign of Queen Elizabeth.” By Mrs. J. Sadlier.) 
 
 The marriage scene related in the following extract from one of the 
 works of Mrs, Sadlier is a historical incident. To prevent the union of 
 Florence MacCarthy Reagh with the daughter of The MacCarthy 
 More, the political advisers of Queen Elizabeth had exercised their 
 utmost ingenuity. They had reason to fear that Florence MacCarthy 
 was about to cast in his fortune with the cause for which Hugh O’Neill 
 was then in arms ; and as this union, by placing Florence at the head of 
 the two great branches of the MacCarthy family, would render him a 
 formidable enemy, they determined to prevent it if they could. The 
 marriage, which was solemnised under the circumstances here detailed, 
 was treated as an act of treason by Elizabeth’s G-overnment. Husband 
 and wife, and mother-in-law, and other members of both families, were 
 arrested immediately on the news of the event becoming known, and 
 Florence MacCarthy spent the remainder of his life in the Tower of 
 London : — 
 
 Lady Ellen was sitting by a window in a musing attitude, 
 but there was an angry flush on her cheek which did not 
 escape her mother’s keen scrutiny. 
 
 “ Aileen !” said she in Irish — in which language they ge- 
 nerally spoke to each other — “ Aileen, my child, Florence 
 MacCarthy wishes to pay a visit to Muckruss Abbey w r hile 
 here. We shall go this evening. The moon is at her full 
 to-night, and we shall sail over after the evening meal.” 
 
 “ As you will, my lady mother !” said Ellen, carelessly. 
 
 “ Aileen,” said her mother, “how is this? Methought it 
 would give you pleasure, this sail on the lake by moonlight — 
 in such good company !” she added, significantly. 
 
 “ You are ever thoughtful for me, mother,” the young lady 
 replied, in a softened voice. “ I desire no better company 
 than yours and O’Sullivan More’s.” 
 
 “ Aileen ! Aileen ! beware !” said the countess, solemnly 
 and sadly. “ Our last chance is lost if you turn his heart 
 away. He is well affected towards you now, but his mind 
 may change if he find you cold and careless. You are mad, 
 
90 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 mad, mad, if you do not thankfully accept the deliverance 
 that God hath placed within your reach, for me, for your 
 father, for Clan Carthy — for the Geraldines !” she added, 
 with stern emphasis, as she quitted the room. 
 
 After her mother’s departure, Ellen sat long in the same 
 attitude ; it were hard to define the expression of her face, 
 and so her faithful Una thought as she anxiously observed 
 her. She was evidently debating some point in her own mind, 
 the same angry flush on her cheek, the same cloud lowering 
 on her brow. At length she started from her reverie. 
 
 “ I will go,” she said, “ but not on his account. Since he 
 is so easily put off, I will e’en show him that I am otherwise 
 disposed.” She smiled as she met Una’s anxious eyes, aud 
 going up to her, patted her on the head, where she sat at 
 work. “ You must use your best skill, little Una, to deck 
 me as becomes MacCarthy’s daughter. Bring forth my 
 kirtle of sea-green taffety. I would look my best to-day — 
 not for love,” she added in an undertone, “ but for spite.” 
 
 And she did look her best, when, as evening approached, 
 she appeared before her mother, ready to descend to the hall. 
 The Countess noted with an approving smile the change in 
 her daughter’s apparel. 
 
 “ How passing fair my child is !” she murmured low to 
 herself, as they descended to the banqueting-hall, at the 
 entrance of which they were met by MacCarthy and O’Sul- 
 livan, who conducted them to their seats on the dais. The 
 same feeling of admiration was expressed in the eloquent 
 glance of Florence, but the lady, proud and cold, appeared 
 to notice it not. 
 
 With music and mirth the moments lightly sped while the 
 meal went on. Never had Eman of the Harps called from 
 the silver strings more joyous strains ; the praises of the 
 O’Sullivans and MacCarthys mingled in his song ; and the 
 gentles above, and the retainers below, were alike inspired 
 by his minstrelsy. Even the Countess was less grave than 
 usual. Lady Ellen alone refused to smile, and O’Sullivan, 
 with the privilege of an old friend, bantered the fair girl on 
 her maidenly modesty, as he doubtless deemed it. 
 
 When the first moonbeams came streaming into the hall 
 through the splayed loopholes, the Countess and Florence 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 91 
 
 rose simultaneously, and the Countess whispered to her 
 daughter that it was time to go, if they would have the best 
 of the moonlight. O’Sullivan, who had been pledging Mac- 
 Finan across the table, drained his goblet hastily, and de- 
 clared his willingness to join the party. 
 
 “ Though I must own, Countess,” he pleasantly said, “ I 
 were better pleased to go by daylight. It is a lonesome 
 place, that same Irrelagh, now that the monks are gone, and 
 only the dead dwelling in the old abbey.” 
 
 “ No need to go in,” replied the lady with a calm smile. 
 <( We may even land, and there will be enough of us in the 
 boat to make good company.” 
 
 Some of the gentlemen looked as though they would fain 
 have joined the party, gathering its destination from O’Sul- 
 livan’s words, but unasked they might not intrude them- 
 selves on such a company, and so they were fain to content 
 themselves with toasting the ladies of Clancarthy in the 
 Spanish wine that sparkled in huge mothers on the board, as 
 the retainers did in the less costly usquebaugh provided for 
 their delectation. 
 
 Meanwhile our party sailed out into the Lower Lake, the 
 boat guided by a skilful hand through the rocks and shoals 
 at the head of the swift rolling Laune. Some half a dozen 
 sturdy gallowglasses occupied one end of the boat, their 
 battle-axes gleaming in the moonlight — such a guard was, in 
 those stormy times, not alone one of honour, but one of pru- 
 dence — while the lusty arms of four stalw T art kerne impelled 
 the light craft over the waters, now bright in the moonlight, 
 now dark in the shade. 
 
 On sped the boat, and silence seemed to have fallen like a 
 spell on the party, enhanced, as it were, by the more than 
 earthly beauty of the scenes through which they glided, and 
 the hushed repose of earth and air. The boatmen began all 
 at once a low, plaintive song, to the measured cadence of 
 which their oars kept time. Occasionally, too, was heard 
 the shrill scream of the heron from the mountains above. 
 These sounds served but to make the general hush of nature 
 deeper still by contrast, and lent, therefore, a new charm to 
 the scene. 
 
 Past Eabbit Island the boat glided — past Innisfallen and 
 
92 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 its ruined abbey, ruined like Muckruss and Aghaboe,* not 
 as yet by time, but by the ruthless soldiers of Henry the 
 Eighth and his daughter Elizabeth ; past Ross Island, with its 
 ancient stronghold of the O’Donoghoes ; past the mouth of 
 Glena Bay, with “ Dinis’ green isle” seen dimly through the 
 hazy moonlight — it was then that O’Sullivan’s voice broke 
 the silence. 
 
 “ Had we but music on board,” said he, “ we might sail 
 up the bay to the Eagle’s Xest.” 
 
 “ Music need not be wanting,” said Florence. <c With 
 permission of the Countess, I have brought Lady Ellen’s 
 lute ; it may be that she will favour us so far as to play 
 somewhat. I dare not ask such grace, but you, Owen, she 
 will scarce refuse.” 
 
 €C That I will answer for,” said O’Sullivan, and the Coun- 
 tess, in a low voice, told her daughter at once to accede to 
 the request. 
 
 Lady Ellen took the lute from the hand of Florence, 
 though it must be owned with no gracious air, and while 
 the boat glided up the narrow channel between 
 
 ‘ ‘Dinis’ green isle and Glena’s wooded shore,” 
 
 played a strain of the elder time, slow and simple, such as 
 “ Killamey’s wild echoes” best repeat. 
 
 The air was a sad one, and as the fairy-like echoes caught 
 it up, repeating it in every possible way, it seemed as though 
 the spirits of the dead were wailing on every craggy steep 
 above, and along the shadowed waters that lay beneath, dark 
 as the river of death. While all listened, as if entranced, 
 Lady Ellen stopped suddenly and laid down the lute ; her 
 heart was sad that hour, she knew not why — sad and troubled 
 — and her own mournful music was more than she could bear. 
 Yet she could not, and would not, wake a livelier strain. 
 
 Xo one spoke, but Ellen felt the instrument drawn gently 
 from her hand, and the next moment a bolder hand swept 
 
 * Three abbeys, for ages long in ruins, give a more mournful and 
 solemn beauty to the magic scenes of Killarney. These are Aghaboe, 
 on a high hill in sight of the Lower Lake ; Innisfallen, on the island 
 of that name ; and Muckruss, or Irrelagh, on the peninsula of 
 Muckruss. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 93 
 
 its chords with a strange wild prelude that went ringing 
 like the sound of many trumpets away among the rocks and 
 mountains. Before the young lady had recovered from the- 
 first surprise, the strain was changed, and a wild, sweet 
 Spanish air w r as floating on the night breeze, and breaking, 
 in fitful snatches, from lonely caves where the echoes dwelt. 
 
 The air was the same that for months long had been 
 haunting Ellen MacCarthy, and its every note woke an echo 
 of gladness in her heart. But she said not a word. The 
 Countess praised the air and asked what it was called. 
 Florence answered that it was a Spanish serenade air, men- 
 tioning the name at the same time. 
 
 “Will you not play that air again, Florence V whispered 
 Lady Ellen. 
 
 Not only that air, but many others, Irish and Spanish, 
 did Florence play, and the echoes answer, as the boat 
 floated down the stream again towards the broad expanse of 
 the Lower Lake. As it rounded the sharp headland at 
 Otter’s Point, and glided along under the dark woods of 
 Muckruss toward the ancient Abbey of Irrelagh, the accom- 
 plished minstrel changed the lively strain he had last 
 played to a wild and mournful air that thrilled every heart 
 — it was the funeral march of the Clan Caura, whose time- 
 honoured burying-place they were approaching. 
 
 For a brief space the boat stopped when the abbey was 
 in sight, solemn and mournful in the silence and decay to 
 which the ruffian barbarism of English soldiers had con- 
 signed it for evermore. 
 
 Grand and stately was the music and full of woe, and as 
 the oarsmen rested on their oars, and the gallowglasses 
 raised their barrads in honour of the noble sleepers within 
 the ruined pile, it seemed as if the voices of the dead Mac- 
 Carthys rose, hollow and plaintive, from amid the tall an- 
 cestral trees that had for ages sheltered their last repose, 
 joining in the solemn and familiar strain. 
 
 “ Ellen,” said Florence MacCarthy, laying down the lute, 
 as the boat sped on again over the bright waters of Castle 
 Lough Bay, where a castle of the MacCarthys stood on a 
 small island, flinging its shadows far out into the bay; 
 “ Ellen, it is there, before the ruined shrine of Irrelagh, over 
 
94 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 the ashes of our fathers, that I should wish to plight my 
 faith to the fairest daughter of Clau Caura. Say, shall it 
 so be 
 
 “ It is a strange thought, Florence,” replied Ellen, softly, 
 “yet I mislike not the plan. But methinks it were well, 
 before you talk in such wise, to speak with my lady mother 
 anent the matter.” 
 
 “ I leave that to you, fair lady mine,” said Florence plea- 
 santly, and he laughed low to himself. 
 
 Two days after, when the moon w T as again shining on the 
 desolate abbey walls in the last hours of night, a bridal 
 party stood before the ruined shrine of Muckruss, where the 
 altar still stood, defaced and broken. The light of day 
 might not witness, in those evil times, the marriage of 
 MacCarthy More’s daughter to the son of one MacCarthy 
 Beagh and the stepson of another — himself the lord of broad 
 ancestral domains ! 
 
 Few were the witnesses of that marriage, that in other 
 times would have gathered together princes and chiefs, and 
 lords and ladies, from more than one of the four provinces 
 of Ireland. O’Sullivan More, MacFinan, the seneschal, and 
 another young officer of the Earl’s household, who was the 
 Lady Ellen’s foster-brother — these, with the Countess and 
 Una O’Leary, were alone present. The friar, the Earl’s 
 chaplain, a man of venerable age, who said Mass and per- 
 formed the ceremony, was one of those who, in the direful 
 days of Henry the Eighth, was expelled from the abbey at 
 the sword’s point. It was, truly, a solemn and picturesque 
 scene, suggestive of many a mournful reflection. 
 
 No bard played, no clair seach sounded, no clansman 
 raised his joyous cheer, when the daughter of the Mac-Car- 
 thys and the Geraldines wedded her equally noble kinsman; 
 no banner waved, no spear or battle-axe gleamed ; only the 
 pale moonlight streaming through the roofless aisle, and the 
 sickly ray of two small tapers on the altar, illumined the 
 strange scene. Amid the ghostly shadows of the ruined 
 fanes, in silence and in mystery, where their lordly fathers 
 slept beneath. Lady Ellen became the wife of Florence Mac- 
 Carthy. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 95 
 
 ^Chc < \La.xm<m. 
 
 BY B. D. WILLIAMS. 
 
 Tax o, taxe is, taxe i, teeton, taa romen, taxete , tascousi . — Greek Grammar . 
 
 A moon ago, one morning, as I tried to kill the blues 
 By the fragrance of Manillas and elopements in the news, 
 
 All suddenly the echo of a spurious double knock 
 So startled me that both of them dropped from me at the 
 shock ; 
 
 But my vinaigrette was near — it was near me, thank my stars, 
 For my nerves are very weak from dissipation and cigars. 
 
 I sank upon the cushions of a lounger, rich and thick 
 (Like all my other furniture, I had it upon tick), 
 
 Till the valet brought me, grinningly, an oblong billet-doux, 
 
 With Queen Victoria’s compliments, requesting one-pound-x 
 two — 
 
 By Parnassus, His the taxman ; he hath called three times 
 before — 
 
 “ The phantom of the threshold” — the lion’s at the door ; 
 
 “Say, Tom, Pm sick, or not at home, and won’t be back at 
 all.” 
 
 “ So I tould him, plase your honour, but he wouldn’t lave the 
 hall.” 
 
 Well, then, thought I, soft solder must be given as before ; 
 
 So I took a gentle stimulant, and hastened to the door, 
 
 In my richest robe-de-chambre, and my Turkish slippers too, 
 And my very blandest simper, I began with, “Ah — how do V y 
 But the taxman spake unto me, “Three times I’ve called in 
 vain ; 
 
 By the Hokey you shall rue it if you make me call again.” 
 
 (Mem . — Probably this Hokey’s he whom savage Muses sing — 
 
 Of all the islands cannibal, the not unworthy king. ) 
 
 And then the door he most melodramatically slammed — 
 
 A fine emphatic pantomime, expressing “ You be 
 
 A week of doubt most terrible, of expectation dire, 
 
 And again the phantom cometh, he cometh in his ire, 
 
 And the taxman spake untome, he spake with jeer and scoff, 
 “Fork out the blunt instanter, or I’ll cant your chattels off.” 
 
96 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 And thereto, besides, moreover, superadded he an oath, 
 
 But the Muse, unused to swearing, to repeat it here is loath — 
 The Muse, a pious virgin, never swears but when she’s vexed — 
 So alas for future critics on this here most classic text I 
 Screw microscopic goggles on each philologic snout, 
 
 If the Muse won’t tell you what he swore, you’ll scarcely make 
 it out. 
 
 But, courage, future philomaths, and friends of lyric lore — 
 By Jingo — living Jingo — was the solemn oath he swore. 
 
 But who this awful Jingo is, none know, ’tis very odd ; 
 
 He, possibly, of taxmen is the tin- devouring god. 
 
 In vain to soothe the worshipper of Jingo I began — 
 
 ‘ ‘ Dear sir, I’ll tell my uncle, who’s a very public man, 
 
 And whose ready generosity will gladly knuckle down 
 Whatever tin I ask him for, from a yellow to a brown ; 
 
 And if you call to-morrow, I, mayhap, shall tell you then’ 
 
 What Sunday in the coming week you’d better call again.” 
 Kow the taxman spake not to me, but, with eccentric bound, 
 Like a bit of Indian-rubber uprose he from the ground, 
 
 And falling round the corner, from the horizon and from me, 
 Went off hopping like a chess-knight or intoxicated flea. 
 
 But many an imprecation flitted back on zephyr’s wing — 
 
 By Jingo and by Hokey — by Hokey and by Jing : 
 
 And though I know he loves me so he’ll surely come again, 
 With certain raw crustacese, most likely, in his train, 
 
 The phantom and his lobster host with calmness I shall view, 
 Bor my uncle above-mentioned has supplied the one-pound-two. 
 
 ‘(Elte (Exile’s Request. 
 
 BY T. D. M‘GEE. 
 
 I. 
 
 0 pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, 
 
 Let it be some token still of the green old land once mine ; 
 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. 
 
 ii. 
 
 For I was born in Ireland — I glory in the name — 
 
 1 weep for all her sorrows, I remember well her fame ! 
 
 And still my heart must hope that I yet may repose at rest, 
 On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel of the West. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 97 
 
 III. 
 
 Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow’s streaming rains, 
 Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery’s ancient chains, 
 Yet, pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye 
 The island of the gifted, and of men who knew how to die. 
 
 iv. 
 
 Like the summit of a fire-mount, all without is bleak and bare, 
 But a glow from within revealeth what fire and force is there ; 
 Even now in the heaving craters, far from the gazer’s ken, 
 
 The fiery steel is forging that will crush her foes again. 
 
 v. 
 
 Then, pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, 
 Let it be some token still of the dear old land once mine ; 
 
 A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me 
 Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. 
 
 f ©ft §Mlts of few. 
 
 [From O'Curry’s Lectures on the “ Manuscript Materials of Irish 
 History.”] 
 
 Hot only were the old Irish nobility, gentry, and people in 
 general, lovers of their native language and literature, and 
 patrons of literary men, but even the great Anglo-Norman 
 nobles themselves who effected a permanent settlement among 
 us appear from the first to have adopted what doubtless 
 must have seemed to them the better manners, customs, 
 language, and literature of the natives ; and not only did 
 they munificently patronise their professors, but became 
 themselves proficients in these studies ; so that the Gerald- 
 ines, the Butlers, the Burkes, the Keatings, and others, 
 thought, spoke, and wrote in the Gaedhlic, and stored their 
 libraries with choice and expensive volumes in that language; 
 and they were reproached by their own compatriots with 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 having become “ ipsis Hibernis Hiberniores” — “ more Irish 
 than the Irish themselves.” So great indeed was the value 
 in those days set on literary and historical documents by 
 chiefs and princes, that it has more than once happened that 
 a much-prized MS. was the stipulated ransom of a captive 
 noble, and became the object of a tedious warfare; and this 
 state of things continued to exist for several centuries, even 
 after the whole framework of Irish society was shaken to 
 pieces by the successive invasions of the Danes, the Norse- 
 men, and the Anglo-Normans, followed by the Elizabethan, 
 Cromwellian, and Williamite wars and confiscations, and 
 accompanied by the ever-increasing dissensions of the native 
 princes among themselves, disunited as they were ever after 
 the fall of the supreme monarchy at the close of the twelfth 
 century. 
 
 With the dispersion of the native chiefs, not a few of the 
 great books that had escaped the wreck of time were altoge- 
 ther lost to us ; many followed the exiled fortunes of their 
 owners ; and not a few were placed in inaccessible security 
 at home. Indeed, it may be said that after the termination 
 of the great wars of the seventeenth century, so few and in- 
 accessible were the examples of the old Gaedhlic literature, 
 that it was almost impossible to acquire a perfect knowledge, 
 of the language in its purity. 
 
 With such various causes, active and long-continued, in 
 operation to effect its destruction, there is reason for wonder 
 that we should still be in possession of any fragments of the 
 ancient literature of our country, however extensive it may 
 once have been. And that it was extensive, and compre- 
 hended a wide range of subjects — justifying the expressions 
 of the old writers who spoke of “ the hosts of the books of 
 Ei-inn” — may be judged from those which have survived the 
 destructive ravages of invasion, the accidents of time, and 
 the other causes just enumerated. When we come to 
 inquire concerning the fragments which exist in England 
 and elsewhere, they will be found to be still of very large 
 extent ; and if we judge the value and proportions of the 
 < original literature of our Gaedhlic ancestors, as we may fairly 
 do, by what remains of it, we may be justly excused the in- 
 dulgence of no small feeling of national pride. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 99 
 
 Notwithstanding, however, the irreparable loss of the 
 before-named books, there still exists an immense quantity 
 of Gaedhlic writing of great purity, and of the highest value 
 as regards the history of this country. And these MSS. 
 comprise general and national history, civil and ecclesias- 
 tical records, and abundant materials of genealogy ; besides 
 poetry, romance, law, and medicine ; and some fragments of 
 tracts on mathematics and astronomy. 
 
 The collection in Trinity College consists of over 140 
 volumes, several of them on vellum, dating from the early 
 part of the twelfth down to the middle of the last century. 
 There are also in this fine collection beautiful copies of the 
 Gospels, known as the Books of Kells and Durrow, and 
 Dimma’s Book, attributable to the sixth and seventh cen- 
 turies ; the Saltair of St. Ricemarch, Bishop of St. David’s in 
 the eleventh century, containing also an exquisite copy of 
 the Roman Martyrology ; and a very ancient ante-Hierony- 
 mian version of the Gospels, the history of which is unknown, 
 but which is evidently an Irish MS. of not later than the 
 ninth century ; also the Evangelistarium of St. Moling, 
 Bishop of Ferns in the seventh century, with its ancient 
 box ; and the fragment of another copy of the Gospels, of 
 the same period, evidently Irish. In the same library will 
 •be found, too, the chief body of our more ancient laws and 
 annals — all, with the exception of two tracts, written on 
 vellum ; and, in addition to these invaluable volumes, many 
 historical and family poems of great antiquity, illustrative 
 of the battles, the personal achievements, and the social 
 habits of the warriors, chiefs, and other distinguished per- 
 sonages of our early history. There is also a large number 
 of ancient historical and romantic tales, in which all the 
 incidents of war, of love, and of social life in general, are 
 pourtrayed, often with considerable power of description and 
 great brilliancy of language ; and there are besides several 
 sacred tracts and poems, amongst the most remarkable of 
 which is the Liber Hymnorum, believed to be more than a 
 thousand years old. The Trinity College collection is also 
 rich in lives of Irish saints, and in ancient forms of prayer ; 
 and it contains, in addition to all these, many curious trea- 
 tises on medicine, beautifully written on vellum. Lastly, 
 
 
100 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 amongst these ancient MSS. are preserved numerous Ossianic 
 poems relating to the Fenian heroes, some of them of very 
 great antiquity. 
 
 The next great collection is that of the Royal Irish Aca- 
 demy, which, though formed at a later period than that of 
 Trinity College, is far more extensive, and, taken in connec- 
 tion with the unrivalled collection of antiquities secured to 
 this country by the liberality of this body, forms a national 
 monument of which we may well be proud. It includes some 
 noble old volumes written on vellum, abounding in history as 
 well as poetry ; ancient laws, and genealogy ; science (for it 
 embraces several curious medical treatises, as well as an 
 ancient astronomical tract) ; grammar ; and romance. There 
 is there also a great body of most important theological and 
 ecclesiastical compositions, of the highest antiquity, and in 
 the purest style perhaps that the ancient Gaedhlic language 
 ever attained. 
 
 The most valuable of these are original Gaedhlic compo- 
 sitions, but there is also a large amount of translations from 
 the Latin, Greek, and other languages. A great part of 
 these translations is, indeed, of a religious character, but 
 there are others from various Latin authors, of the greatest 
 possible importance to the Gaedhlic student of the present 
 day, as they enable him by reference to the originals to de- 
 termine the value of many now obsolete or obscure Gaedhlic 
 words and phrases. 
 
 Among these later translations into Irish, we find an ex- 
 tensive range of subjects in ancient mythology, poetry, and 
 history, and the classical literature of the Greeks and 
 Romans, as well as many copious illustrations of the most re- 
 markable events of the middle ages. So that anyone well read 
 in the comparatively few existing fragments of our Gaedhlic 
 literature, and whose education had been confined solely to 
 this source, would find that there were but very few, indeed, 
 of the great events in the history of the world, the knowledge 
 of which is usually attained through the classic languages, or 
 those of the middle ages, with which he was not acquainted. 
 I may mention, by way of illustration, the Irish versions of 
 the Argonautic Expedition ; the Destruction of Troy ; the 
 Life of Alexander the Great ; the Destruction of Jerusalem ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 101 
 
 the Wars of Charlemagne, including the history of Roland 1 
 the Brave ; the History of the Lombards ; the almost con- 
 temporary translation into Gaedhlic of the Travels of Marco 
 Polo; Ac., &c. 
 
 It is quite evident that a language which has embraced so 
 wide a field of historic and other important subjects, must 
 have undergone a considerable amount of development, and 
 must have been at once copious and flexible ; and it may be 
 observed, in passing, that the very fact of so much of trans- 
 lation into Irish having taken place shows that there must 
 have been a considerable number of readers ; since men of 
 learning would not have translated for themselves what they 
 could so easily understand in the original. 
 
 Passing over some collections of MSS. in private hands 
 at home, I may next notice that of the British Museum 
 in London, which is very considerable, and contains much 
 valuable matter ; that of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, 
 which, though consisting of but about sixteen volumes, is en- 
 riched by some most precious books, among which is the copy 
 already alluded to of the remains of the Saltair of Cashel, 
 made in the year 1454 ; and some two or three works ( 
 of an older date. Next comes the Stowe collection, 
 now in the possession of Lord Ashburnham, and which 
 is tolerably well described in the Stowe Catalogue 
 
 by the late Rev. Charles O’Conor. There are also in Eng- 
 land some other collections in the hands of private indivi- 
 duals, as that of Mr. Joseph Monck Mason in the neigh- 
 bourhood of London, and that of Sir Thomas Phillips in 
 Worcestershire. The Advocates’ Library in Edinburgh con- 
 tains a few important volumes, some of which are shortly 
 described in the Highland Society’s Report on MacPherson’s 
 Poems ofOisin, published in 1794. 
 
 And passing over to the Continent, in the National or Im- 
 perial Library of Paris (which, however, has not yet been 
 thoroughly examined) there will be found a few Gaedhlic 
 volumes ; and in Belgium (between which and Ireland such 
 intimate relations existed in past times) — and particularly in 
 the Burgundian Library at Brussels — there is a very im- 
 portant collection, consisting of a part of the treasures for- 
 merly in the possession of the Franciscan College of Louvain, 
 
102 IRISH PENNY READINGS 
 
 for which our justly celebrated friar, Michael O’Clery, col- 
 lected, by transcript and otherwise, all that he could bring 
 togther at home of matters relating to the ancient ecclesias- 
 tical history of his country. 
 
 The Louvain collection, formed chiefly, if not wholly, by 
 Fathers Hugh Ward, John Colgan, and Michael O’Clery, be- 
 tween the years 1620 and 1640, appears to have been widely 
 scattered at the French Devolution. For there are in the 
 College of St. Isidore, in Eome, about twenty volumes of 
 Gaedhlic MSS., which we know at one time to have formed 
 part of the Louvain collection. Among the manuscripts 
 now at Eome are some of the most valuable materials for the 
 study of our language and history — the chief of which is an 
 ancient copy of the Felire Aengusa , the Martyrology, or 
 Festology of Aengus Celle De (pron. “ Keli De”), incorrectly 
 called Aengus the Culdee, who composed the original 
 of this extraordinary work, partly at Tamklaclit, now Tal- 
 laght, in the county of Dublin, and partly at Cluain Eidhnech 
 in the present Queen’s County, in the year 798. The collec- 
 tion contains, besides, the Festology of Cathal M‘Guire, a work 
 only known by name to the Irish scholars of the present day • 
 and it includes the autograph of the first volume of the 
 Annals of the Four Masters. There is also a copy, or frag- 
 ment, of the Liber Hymnorum already spoken of, and which 
 is a work of great importance to the ecclesiastical history of 
 Ireland ; and besides these the collection contains several 
 important pieces relating to Irish history, of which no- 
 copies are known to exist elsewhere. It may be hoped, 
 therefore, that our Holy Father the Pope— who feels such a 
 deep interest in the success of this national institution (the 
 Catholic University) — will at no distant day be pleased to 
 take steps to make these invaluable works accessible to the 
 Irish student, by placing them within the walls of the Catho- 
 lic University of Ireland, where only they can be made avail- 
 able to the illustration of the early history of the Catholic 
 faith in this country. 
 
 A barrister whose wig had got awry, and who noticed 
 some persons smiling at it, asked Curran, “ Do you see any- 
 thing ridiculous in my wig V “ Nothing but the head,” was 
 the reply. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 103 
 
 pungent (Eonsiieratiouii oi the "tkraous ^raiies anil 
 fallings. 
 
 BY C. G, HALPINE, 
 
 Charles Graham Halpine was the son of a Protestant clergyman, the 
 Rev. Nicholas J. Halpine, and was born near Oldcastle, in the county 
 Meath, in the year 1829. He received his education at Trinity College, 
 where he graduated with distinction ; subsequently he studied medicine 
 for some time, but his strong predilection for a literary life caused him 
 to discontinue his studies and to employ his talents on the press. He 
 contributed to several journals, Irish and English, but not being satisfied 
 with the field for his labours open to him on this side of the Atlantic, he 
 emigrated to the United States. In that country he soon won a position 
 and achieved distinction. He contributed a flood of writing in prose 
 and verse to several newspapers, and his wit and humour were every- 
 where appreciated. Many of his poems are strongly national and anti- 
 English ; he retained to the last a warm love of his native land, and sym- 
 pathised keenly with the national movements made for her liberation. In 
 1868, in the very fulness of his mental powers, he accidentally met his 
 death. He was in the habit of occasionally taking opiates to set him- 
 self to sleep, and one night, having unfortunately inhaled an overdose 
 of chloroform, he slept to wake no more. A collection of his poems has 
 been published in New York. Most of them have a local character, and 
 can best be appreciated by those who are versed in the politics of the 
 Yankee nation. The following is one of his lighter compositions, and 
 is ingenious and amusing : — 
 
 Of all the trades that men may call 
 Unpleasant and offensive, 
 
 The editor’s is worst of all, 
 
 For he is ever pen-sive ; 
 
 His leaders lead to nothing high, 
 
 His columns are unstable, 
 
 And though the printers make him pie, 
 
 It does not suit his table. 
 
 The carpenter — his course is plane, 
 
 His bit is always near him ; 
 
 He augers every hour of gain, 
 
 He chisels — and none jeer him ; 
 
 He shaves, yet is not close, they say ; 
 
 The public pay his board, sir ; 
 
 Full of wise saws, he bores away, 
 
 And so he swells his hoard, sir. 
 
104 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Sfc. Crispin’s son — the man of shoes — 
 Has all things at control, sir ; 
 
 He waxes wealthy in his views, 
 
 But ne’er neglects his sole, sir ; 
 
 His is, indeed, a heeling trade ; 
 
 And when he comes to casting 
 
 The toe-tal profits he has made. 
 
 We find his ends are lasting. 
 
 The tailor, too, gives fit to all, 
 
 Yet never gets a basting ; 
 
 His cabbages, however small, 
 
 Are most delicious tasting ; 
 
 His goose is heated — happy prig ! 
 Unstinted in his measure, 
 
 He always plays at thimble-rig, 
 
 And seams a man of pleasure. 
 
 The farmer reaps a fortune plump, 
 Though harrowed, far from woe, sir ; 
 
 His spade for ever proves a trump, 
 
 His book is Fve-an-hoe, sir ; 
 
 However corned, he does not slip ; 
 Though husky, never hoarse, sir ; 
 
 And in a ploughshare partnership 
 He gets his share, of course, sir. 
 
 The sailor on the giddy mast — 
 Comparatively master — 
 
 Has many a bulwark round him cast 
 To wave away disaster ; 
 
 Even shrouds to him are full of life, 
 
 His mainstay still is o’er him, 
 
 A gallant and a top-gallant crew 
 Of beaux esprits before him. 
 
 The sturdy Irish labourer picks 
 And climbs to fame — ’tis funny ! 
 
 He deals with none but regular bricks, 
 And so he pockets money ; 
 
 One friend sticks to him (mortar ’tis), 
 
 In hodden grey, unbaffled, 
 
 He leaves below an honest name 
 When he ascends the scaffold. 
 
 The printer, though his case be hard, 
 Yet sticks not at his hap, sir ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 105 
 
 ’Tis his to canonise the bard, 
 
 And trim a Roman Cap, sir. 
 
 Some go two-forty — what of that ? 
 
 He goe3 it by the thousand ; 
 
 A man of form, and fond of fat, 
 
 He loves the song I now send. 
 
 The engine-driver, if we track 
 His outward semblance deeper, 
 
 Has got some very tender traits — 
 
 He ne’er disturbs the sleeper ; 
 
 And when you switch him as he goes 
 He whistles all the louder ; 
 
 And should you brake him on the wheel 
 It only makes him prouder. 
 
 I launched this skiff of rhymes upon 
 The trade-wind3 of the Muses, 
 
 Through pungent seas they’ve borne it on, 
 
 The boat no rudder uses ; 
 
 So masticate its meaning once, 
 
 And judge not sternly of it — 
 
 You’ll find a freight of little puns, 
 
 And very little profit. 
 
 lest.’ 
 
 BY FATHER RYAN. 
 
 My feet are wearied and my hands are tired, 
 
 My heart oppressed, 
 
 And I desire, what I long desired, 
 
 Rest — only rest. 
 
 The burden of myday3 is hard to bear, 
 
 But God knows best ; 
 
 And I have prayed — but vain has been my pray’r — 
 For rest — for rest. 
 
106 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 My way lias wound across the desert years, 
 And cares infest 
 
 My path, and through the flowing of hot tears 
 I pine for rest. 
 
 ’Twas always so ; when yet a child I laid 
 On mother’s breast 
 
 My wearied little head, e’en then I prayed, 
 
 As now, for rest. 
 
 And I am restless still ; ’twill soon be o’er ; 
 K^r down the West 
 
 Life’s sun is setting, and I see the shore 
 Where I shall rest. 
 
 fjuto f,om pilau §et;une a gjinrak 
 
 A STORY OF THE COUNTY CORK. 
 
 [By “ Brigid,” in Young Ireland .] 
 
 I was not long in Italy, and it was my first night in the 
 
 guard-room at S , soon after the Brigade for our Holy 
 
 Father the Pope was sent out from Ireland ; and, as the men 
 lay scattered in different attitudes around, there was a uni- 
 versal call on Tom Dillon to tell them how it was he had 
 become a Zouave. 
 
 He was a fine, tall, soldierly-looking fellow, with a hand- 
 some bronzed face, a well curled dark moustache, and a merry 
 twinkle in his well-set grey eyes, which would have of itself 
 proclaimed his nationality, even if he did not happen to 
 possess a still clearer evidence of it on the tip of his tongue ; 
 for the first sentence he spoke proclaimed unmistakably not 
 alone that the Green Island was his native country, but that 
 Cork was his native county. 
 
 “ Is it what made a Zouave of me you’re asking V he de- 
 
IIUSH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 107 
 
 manded in his broad brogue. “ Oh, bedad, I’ll tell you fast 
 enough, only don’t be laughing at me ; for ’tis easy to make 
 me ashamed. There agin to it ! Sure I knew how ’twould 
 be,” he continued, as a shout of laughter greeted this an- 
 nouncement of a modesty on his part which none of his com- 
 rades seemed to have discovered for themselves. “ Agin to 
 it to be going on in this way, an’ ye knowin’ how shy I am. 
 The dickens take it for shyness ! sure only for it, ’tisn’t here 
 to day I’d be, aiting grapes and drinking wine like a lady, 
 but at home on the ould sod, with a dhrop av the rale native 
 out before me, talking natural language to the neighbours, 
 in place av listening to gibberish that I dunno what it manes 
 from morning till night. Maybe ’tis cutting my throat they 
 do be half my time, and I undherstanding nothing at all 
 about it ; not to spake,” he went on, “ of the motions they 
 do be making with their face and eyes and their shouldhers, 
 enough to frighten the life out of me, and I not strong in my 
 health.” 
 
 The idea of this delicate timidity seemed to tickle the 
 fancy of his hearers quite as much as that of his shyness had 
 done, and again a shout of laughter greeted his remarks, 
 when, rising from his seat with well assumed indignation, he 
 declared : 
 
 “ I’ll lave the place at wanst. I wouldn’t make a sportheen 
 of myself for anyone.” 
 
 But a couple of fellows held him back, while all called out 
 they would be very respectful now if he would only continue 
 his account of how he had become a Zouave. 
 
 “ Why, then, how aisy ’tis to lade me,” he said, as he sat 
 down again. “ A soogawn snoctha could do it since I was a 
 small boy ontil this present minute. Well, boys,” he recom- 
 menced, (C you see, my father and mother were daicint, well- 
 to-do people, living comfortable on their own little spot of 
 land, never caring to save much as long as they kept out of 
 debt, and putting fretting on the long finger ; for they used 
 to say, 6 We have but Tom, and he’s growing up a fine likely 
 boy, and some one will surely take a liking to him and 
 keep him in the best of style,, he’s such a fine scholar, and 
 has such winning ways about him.’ Don’t offer to laugh,” 
 he broke off suddenly, as a strong inclination that way again 
 
108 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 betrayed itself among his audience. “ ’Tis the truth Pm tell- 
 ing you, and who could better give a charackther of me than 
 them that rared me ; and they always told me, and indeed I 
 knew it as well myself, that I was as nate a young fellow of 
 two or three and twenty as you’d meet in a day’s walk, and 
 that’s saying a great word. 
 
 “ Well, our spot of ground is just about half a mile out- 
 side M , and a purty smart town it is. Mavrone ortli 
 
 that ’tisn’t there I am to-night, with a tidy saisoned pipe 
 convanient to me, and the ace and five in my hand on five 
 and forty, instead of being here smoking paper tobacky, and 
 playing a soart of an unnatural pitch and toss on my ten fin- 
 gers. 
 
 “ But, as I was saying, M is a purty smart town, with 
 
 R very fine lot of shops in it of every description — soft goods 
 shops, spirit shops, grocery shops, bakeries, general hardware 
 establishments, and all soarts of that kind ; but the genteel 
 shop of the whole place is kept by one Miss Finer ty. She 
 sells snuff and cigars and tobacky and post paper and hair 
 oil, and she keeps pictures and blacking and the post-office, 
 and valentines when they’re in saison, and sweeties and 
 stamps and eggs and threads and newspapers and biscuits 
 and pins and needles and starch and lemons and oranges and 
 matches and Dutch dolls and pollracks and the circ’lating 
 lib’ry and buttons and” 
 
 “ Oh ! that’s enough, Tom, that’s enough,” cried one of 
 his comrades. “ We know the kind of shop Miss Finerty 
 keeps now very well ; but what about her V* 
 
 “ What about her T repeated Tom. “ How can I tell you 
 what about her until I have you know what kind of a place 
 she has first ? and your unmannerly interruption was near 
 making me forget to make mention that she kept fancy soap 
 and gingerbread and button blue and crochet work in a glass 
 case on the counter. 
 
 “ She was mighty genteel herself too ; thin-spared and 
 very slindher in the waist, and her hair pasted down very 
 nate at each side of her face, the same way they say that 
 Queen Victoria wears it. There w T asn’t much of it there to 
 paste anywhere, but anyway she was as genteel as she could 
 with what she had. She used to wear long blue ear-rings 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 109 
 
 almost touching her shouldhers, and a green ribbon about 
 her neck ; and of a fine day, when her nose wasn’t too blue at 
 the top, she didn’t look a day more than forty, although by 
 all account she’d never see forty-five. 
 
 “ The way she got to be so genteel was, she was taking 
 care of an ould lady for a long time, and when this ould lady 
 died she left her a tidy little legacy that was enough to stock 
 a shop and lave something to the good beside ; and there 
 was nothing troubling her now but to get married ; but she 
 w’as very tasty, and it wasn’t everyone at all that she’d 
 have. 
 
 “ There Avas nobody living with her but a brother’s 
 daughter of hers — an orphan, the craither, that used to help 
 to mind the shop, and do things about the place when Nell 
 Jarvis, the ould woman wdio used to be in an out to ’em, 
 ■wasn’t there. ’Twas the ‘ child’ her aunt used to call her 
 when she used to be talking, though her name was Mary ; 
 and ’twas a bird-eye pip cotton bib she used to wear, fas- 
 tened about her waist with a belt, although she was often 
 brought to ordher for not laving it loose like all the other 
 childher of the place.” 
 
 “ How old was she, Tom V inquired one of his friends. 
 
 “ Indeed, then, I dunno how ould she w r as,” replied Tom 
 shortly. “ I was never a judge of anyone’s age yet ; and 
 I’m not sorry for it — ’tis a very onthankful gift to have. 
 She wasn’t under seven or over seventeen anyway, and she 
 was as tall as her aunt every inch, but not near so genteel 
 or slindher. 
 
 “ Her lips wor too ripe and red, you’d think ; and her 
 cheeks too rosy ; and there was too much light in her eyes, 
 although ’twas brown they wor ; but ’twas her hair sp’iled 
 her entirely. It wasn’t settled like Queen Victoria’s at all, 
 but was in one mop of brown curls, with a sunbaim or two 
 shining among ’em, all over her head ; so that, of coorse, 
 little Mary was a great trouble to her aunt ; for she could 
 never get her to be as she was herself, lady-like and par- 
 tickler.” 
 
 “ As to myself, as I was telling you before, I was never 
 very strong in my health, and I usen’t like to be fretting my 
 mother by doing too much work on the farm, and I used to 
 
110 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 go up street very often as far as Miss Finerty’s, to get a book 
 for myself out of the lib’ry — paying my penny a night regu- 
 lar for it of coorse. 
 
 44 Well, at first I usen’t notice her much one way or ano- 
 ther, only to bed her 4 good morrow,’ or 4 good night,’ or 
 that ; but I was always fond of childher, and so I used to 
 take notice of little Mary on and off ; but I began to remark 
 that, wherever Miss Finerty used to be, if she heard my voice 
 at all she’d make a run out, and be putting talk at me, and be 
 putting her head o’ one side, and be looking sideways at me, 
 until I thought ’twas a cast in her eye or a crick in her neck 
 she had. And bedad I was just on the point of putting my 
 foot in it all out one evening, by asking her wasn’t her neck 
 anything better and the Aist wind gone, when she took the 
 word out of my mouth by telling me the child was baking a 
 bit of a hot cake for the tay, and wouldn’t I stop and ate a 
 bit of it with ’em. 
 
 44 Well, egorra,” continued Tom, 44 I didn’t like to be stiff 
 that way — I never was — so I said I would 3 and, while she 
 was tending a couple of customers that came in just at the 
 time, not to be interrupting the business I slipped into the 
 little parlour at the back of the shop where the griddle was 
 down, and helped little Mary to bake the cake. 
 
 44 Miss Finerty said afterwards,” he added in an innocent 
 tone, “ that there was a square or two of it burned 3 but sure 
 that wasn’t our fault. I suppose ’twas the fire that did it. 
 What more could the two of us do than mind it 1 Only 
 maybe cake is like broth, and that too many cooks spile it. 
 
 44 However, when everything was ready Miss Finerty came 
 in, and there was a nice mug of the tay filled out for the 
 child, and a couple of pieces of the cake butthered equally 
 so for her, and she was sent out to ait it in the shop, while 
 her aunt took her share inside, she and I together, my dear, 
 in great state, if you plaise, at the tay table. 
 
 4 4 Well, when my plate was well heaped up with the slim- 
 xjake — (and I was always fond of it) — and my cup steaming 
 with the Congou, she told me to stir it if I plaised, and 
 see was it to my liking, or would I take another bit of sugar 
 in it. 
 
 “ 4 Oh ! ’tis beautiful, ma’am’, ses I, 4 and ’twas waste, I’m 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. Ill 
 
 sure, to put sugar at all in it. Once you looked at it, that 
 sweetened it enough.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh ! for pity’s sake,’ says she with a gay little giggle, 
 6 don’t be calling me ma’am ; it comes so odd to a girl to be 
 called ma’am. Call me Bridgie, Misther Dillon ; it comes a 
 deal more natural.’ 
 
 “ Well, I was near destroying myself on the mortal spot 
 by saying all out that I was shy of making too free with my 
 elders ; but I thought of myself in time, and said : 
 
 “ 6 Bridgie is a very purty name entirely, and by all account 
 your namesake, the great Saint Brigid, was a very handsome 
 woman in her time — that’s when she was young, of coorse.’ 
 “ ‘ Youth is a snare,’ ses Miss Finerty in a mournful voice, 
 as if she was reading out of one of the books in the lib’ry ; 
 4 it is surrounded by dangers — youth is a snare.’ 
 
 “ c Egor, if it is,’ ses I in my own mind, ‘ you’re to be con- 
 gratulated on being well out of it.’ But ’twas what I said 
 out loud — the Lord pardon me ! — after I looked very hard 
 at her for a minit or so, was : 
 
 “ c That’s very true for you, Bridgie, particklerly whin 
 there’s a very purty girl in the w r ay, an’ all the boys of the 
 place afther her, an’ breaking their necks to get her.’ 
 
 “ Well, she turned her head a little bit o’ one side when 
 I said this, an’ begin to play with her tayspoon and to look 
 bashful. 
 
 “ ‘ All the young men of the place,’ ses she, ‘ are very 
 oneddycated ; they only read the newspaper, an’ never think 
 of subscribing to the lib’ry ; an’ one brought up as I was by 
 the best of quollity,’ ses she, ‘ couldn’t put up with anyone 
 that wasn’t rale refined !’ 
 
 “ Well, ’tis one of my failings,” continued Tom, “ that 
 once I begin to talk to a faimale of any description I danno 
 whin to hould my tongue ; so I suppose ’twas the ould boy 
 put it into my head to say in reply to this : 
 
 u 6 Why, then, bad manners to the quollity that rared you, 
 whoever they wor, for I suppose none of the poor boys about 
 this place now have any chance of making their own of you 
 afther the manners they taught you !’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh ! I didn’t mane that at all,’ ses she, taking me up 
 very quick, ‘ I didn’t mane that at all. I wouldn’t be so 
 
112 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 onmannerly as to mane present company, I’m sure ; an’ 
 ’fcwas only the other day I was remarking to the child how- 
 singular it was that ’twas all my favourite books you used to 
 choose out of the lib’ry, just as av it was rale kindred sperits 
 we were indeed.’ An’ the tears come in her eyes, an’ she 
 begin looking out before her at notthing. 
 
 “ Well, I was afeerd to make any answer to this, for I 
 was getting very much in dread of her by that time, an’ if I 
 was too civil in the beginning there was no knowing where 
 she’d stop before I could get away. So, as if it was accidental 
 I did it, I dhrew hether the fire-shovel to me — not as a 
 waypon of coorse again a woman, but a protection for my 
 face if it was the way she’d want to kiss me. 
 
 “ 4 But then,’ ses she, spaiking herself again, 4 what I 
 mane is, that ’tisn’t for everyone I’d have a welcome, only 
 for a smart clever young fellow that would be above the 
 common.’ 
 
 44 4 Well,’ ses I, 4 you’d be right not to throw yourself away 
 in the latther ind after all your time — that is, I mane,* ses I, 
 4 that ? tis your pick an’ ch’ice of the whole barony you’d have 
 if what you’re saying now got wind.’ 
 
 44 4 1 don’t want that, I tell you again, Misther Dillon,’ 
 ses she ; 4 ’tis a boy I’d put my eye in of my own accord I’d 
 rather have ; but,’ ses she, with another sly look at me, an’ 
 a half laugh, 4 1 wondher you’re not thinking of getting mar- 
 ried yourself.’ 
 
 44 Well, between the cake an’ the Congou, an’ the fire an’ 
 the soft talk, an’ the shyness I was telling you about,” went 
 on Tom, casting down his eyes, and spreading his lingers 
 bashfully over his lips, 44 my faitures by this time was as red 
 as scarlit ; an’ sure they got scarliter again when she said 
 this to me ; but, ketching a grip of the fire-shovel, I looked 
 sideways back again at her, an’ ses I : 
 
 44 4 Why, then, no ; I didn’t think much about it before 
 this evening, but from this out I’ll be taking a notion that 
 way may be. My mother, I know, would be again my chang- 
 ing my condition for sometime longer, but anyway I’ll begin 
 to break it to her by degrees.’ 
 
 44 For Miss Finerty was a snug woman, you see,” said Tom, 
 confidentially, 44 an’ I wanted to keep her on my hands, an’ 
 take a stroll in an’ out of her place every now an’ then.” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 113 
 
 “ To see after the child, I suppose, poor little thing !” sug- 
 gested one of his friends. 
 
 “ Yes, of coorse, to see afther the child,” assented Tom, 
 “ if it was nothing else ; but, however, I didn’t stay much 
 longer there then, for Nell Jarvis come in to put up the 
 shets, an’ Miss Finerty stood up at once ; but, to give her 
 her due, there was no use of the fire-shovel afther all, for she 
 only shuck hands with me, an’ said : 
 
 “ i I didn’t think ’twas so late, Misther Dillon, and I hope 
 w r e’ll soon have another pleasant evening together ; but, as an 
 onprotected girl can’t be too particular, I won’t keep you 
 longer now, for I’m going to close up.’ 
 
 “ Well, I shuck hands back again with her, an 7 ses I : 
 
 “ You’re right, Bridgie ; but you won’t be long without a 
 protecthor if I’m a right fortune-teller . 7 An’ then she gave 
 another shy little giggle, an’ turned inside the counther to 
 count the coppers in the till; but I was just as far as the 
 doore going away when I missed my handkerchief, an’ had to 
 follow little Mary back into the room to look for it ; but I 
 w r asn’t a minute getting it — she helped me to find it — oh ! 
 she did indeed I She was always an obliging craiture, little 
 Mary was.” 
 
 “ Well, that child used to come in your way very often, 
 Tom,” remarked the same man who had spoken before. 
 
 “ Why, then, she used,” said Tom, simply ; “ but I usen’t 
 mind it some way. Sure ’tis a very ill-natured soart of a 
 fellow that would be cross to a child. Howsever, I went 
 away at last, an’ it was closing nine o’clock of an October 
 evening when I got out into the street, an’ looked up an 3 
 down an’ over an’ hether, making up my mind would I go 
 home or would I take a turn for half an hour or so into the 
 Widow Magrath’s place — a good bit dowm at the same side 
 of the street — where some chance or another used to take 
 me nearly every night in the week for the last seven months, 
 anyway. 
 
 “ ’Twas the strongest sperit shop in the town she kept ; an’ 
 sometimes some fellow would take me in there ; an’ some- 
 times I’d take some other fellow in there ; an’ sometimes, 
 maybe, I’d be thirsty myself an’ go in without anyone with 
 me ; but, anyway, it happened very often that I called 
 
 8 
 
114 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 there; an’ even now, while I was debating the matter in my 
 mind, my feet were taking me toowards the place ; an’, of 
 coorse, when they brought me as far as the doore I walked 
 
 in. 
 
 “ At this time that I spaik of Mrs. Magrath was a widow 
 for upwards of ten months ; an’ the bets were far from being 
 even that she’d wait for the full twelve before she’d change 
 her condition again ; for she w r as left very comfortable, an’ 
 had but the two childher. She was a snug purty woman too 
 — eight-and-twenty, she said herself, but if she was two or 
 three years more ’twas as much as she was. She was low- 
 sized, an’ not slindher an’ genteel at all, like Miss Finerty; 
 but a tidy block of a woman, with a brown complexion, a 
 good pair of eyes as black as a sloe, an’ as much hair of the 
 same colour as would make a cable for a man-o’-war, rowled 
 up under the high-cauled widow’s cap that she wore, well 
 pushed back on her head, to show it off. She was very 
 stirring about the business — always wore a fine large check 
 ■apron on her, inside the counther ; an’ of a fair or market 
 day, with the tail of her gown pinned up tidy about her, 
 could show as nate a foot an’ ancle under her, as she went 
 to an’ fro among the customers, as e’er a woman from this 
 to herself, I don’t care where the other is.” 
 
 “ Egad, Tom,” interrupted one of his friends again, “ I 
 don’t think the child would understand your talking in that 
 way about the widow if she could hear you.” 
 
 “Why, then, maybe not,” replied Tom ; “but what un- 
 derstanding could you expect from the like of her % But, 
 anyway, ’tis the truth I’m telling about Mrs. Magrath ; an’ 
 '’twas laning her two arms, rowled up in her apron, upon 
 the counther she was, when I went in and bed her good 
 evening. 
 
 “ ‘ Why, then, welcome, Tom/ ses she, making answer ; 
 for she usen’t ever be mistering me like Miss Finerty at all 
 — ’twas always Tom I used to be with her ; or indeed anyone 
 else either would be only Bill or Thade,or whatever his name 
 \ was, she was so off-hand and pleasant. 
 
 “ 4 Why, then, welcome, Tom ! Sure Tis betther late than 
 never. I thought ’twas afther your first sleep you were by 
 this time, when you didn’t give us a call an’ it so late.’ 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 115 
 
 “ ‘ What a chance of sleeping I’d have if I went to bed 
 without seeing you/ ses I ; ‘ Yd be so onaisy for fear there 
 would be anything the matter with you.’ 
 
 “‘Oh! you’re a nice lad/ ses she, laughing again; ‘I 
 never believe the half what you say ; but, anyway, come in 
 an’ take an air of the fire ; the night is cowld, I think, for 
 there was no one coming in, an’ I wasn’t stirring about.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Well, it wasn’t in the room where the people used to 
 sit down we went at all, but into the kitchen, where there 
 was a good fire of turf down, and the hearth swep’ and clane, 
 an’ the light dancing up and down in the pewther on the 
 dhresser, an’ everything nate an’ comfortable, an’ the sarvint 
 maid gone to bed with the young ones, afther finishing her 
 day’s work. 
 
 “ 6 1 sat down at one side of the fire-place on a small stool 
 that was there, while she was mixing a dhrop of punch for 
 me ; an’ when she brought it in, she sat down on another 
 one at the oppozzite side, where she could have her eye on 
 ihe shop, though she was after putting the bo wit on the half 
 doore for fear anyone would come in onknownst on her. 
 
 “ ‘ I wondhered where you were all the evening/ ses she. 
 x Was it at ould Mrs. Cassidy’s wake you were V 
 
 “ ‘ No, then/ ses I ; ‘I wasn’t very well in myself, an’ I 
 never stirred out all day ontil now.’ 
 
 “ Oh, Tom — Tom !” exclaimed his friends in chorus. 
 
 “ Oh ! yes ! Tom — Tom !” he repeated ; “ but what is a 
 fellow to do h Sure he can’t be telling women everything ; 
 an’ I only said it to keep her tongue off o’ me. ‘ ’Tis a cowld 
 I have, I think/ ses I, ‘ I must get my mother to make a bit 
 of grille for me when I go home.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Yeh ! get your granny to make grule for you/ ses she, 
 throwing a bit of the turf anear her at me ; ‘ ’tis a wife you 
 ought to have at this hoar of your time to look afther you, 
 not to be getting your mother to make grule for you.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Iss, the way she’d be bringing me into throuble as Eve 
 did to Adam/ ses I, very knowing, as I thought. 
 
 “ ‘ Eve brought him into no throuble/ ses she ; ‘ ’twas he 
 was the cause of every misfortune himself.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh dear !’ ses I ; ‘I was always tould that ’twas she 
 ait the apple.’ 
 
116 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “ ‘ An suppose ifc was atself,’ ses she, ‘ if he was the good 
 husband he ought to be, an’ he in such a way ontil he got 
 her, ’tisn’t gallivanting about the garden he’d be — looking 
 was there another Eve there, I suppose, the desaiver of the 
 world — but alongside of his wife, minding her, the innocent 
 craiture, after ondhertaking to do for her, an he sich a short 
 time married an’ all/ 
 
 “ ‘ I never h’ard it said that he wasn't alongside of her,’ 
 ses I, making answer. 
 
 “ ‘ More shame for him if he was,’ ses she, going on 
 another tack at wanst, 4 to see his wife made a fool of before 
 his face by any slippery schamer of a sarpint without knock- 
 ing the eye out of him with the apple. Egonneys, ’tis no 
 wondher we have cowards in the world,’ ses she, 6 an’ plinty 
 of ’em too, whin the first man of ye all was what he was.’ 
 
 “ ‘ I’m no coward, any way,’ ses I, as well as I could say 
 it with the laughing. 
 
 “ ‘ Every fellow is a coward,’ ses she, ‘ that doesn’t take 
 some poor girl an’ provide for her as a man should. Sure 
 there wouldn’t be any ould maids going only far ould bache- 
 lors.’ 
 
 “ ‘ But,’ ses I, beginning to spaik. 
 
 <l c But,’ ses she, interrupting me, c don’t make me talk 
 any more raumash now, but dhrink that sup of punch while 
 ’tis hot. ’Twas what I always gave poor Pat,’ she added, 
 changing her v’ice, ‘ with a lump of butther in it, whenever 
 he got a cowld, and it used to sarve him.’ 
 
 “ An’ then she coughed herself, an’ put the corner of her 
 apron to her eye. 
 
 “ 6 If you do be frettin’ that way always about Pat Ma- 
 grath,’ ses I, ‘ I’ll not be plaised with you. I’m sure his 
 day come, an’ he was an eldherly man, an’ you must put up 
 with what’s allotted for you.’ 
 
 “ c Well, that’s thrue, Tom,’ ses she, c an’ av coorse I was 
 a little girl, I may say, whin my people made the match for 
 me, an’ he anear ould enough to be my father ; an’ indeed, 
 an’ indeed,’ ses she, very sorrowful, ‘ he left me a heavy 
 charge, for I’m throubled in mind about Thady, how Til 
 ever be able to keep him down without a man’s hand over 
 him to keep him as he ought to be, an’ make him mind his 
 school.’ 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 117 
 
 “ Well, I pitied the poor woman very much about this, 
 any way,” remarked Tom, drily, “ for I imew Thady was up 
 to three year ould, and that she must have a heavy handful 
 in him thryin’ to keep him at home at night, an’ from falling 
 into company with the wild boys of the place. So sez I : 
 
 “ 4 That’s very true for you,’ ses I, 4 an’ ’tis often I do be 
 thinking the same myself about you ; but sure you needn’t 
 be long without one that would be a father to him an’ his 
 little sisther if you liked yourself.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Wisha, sure it isn’t the thought of marriage you’d be 
 dhrawing to me, Tom/ ses she, ‘ and poor Pat only a year in 
 the clay yet.’ 
 
 “ Well, it wanted a couple of months of the year all out,” 
 said Tom, “ but I knew the poor thing was tossicated in her 
 mind, so I didn’t bother her about the mistake she was 
 making ; but ses I : 
 
 “ * Indeed, then, it is, an’ why wouldn’t 1 % I’m sure he’s 
 as dead now as ever he’ll be, an’ ’tisn’t by yourself you’d 
 stop always, an’ you, I may say, in the beginniiT of your 
 days.’ 
 
 “ ‘ You’re very sinsible, I think/ ses she. 
 
 “ 1 Well, nobody could lay it to my charge that I ever tuck 
 a bite out of a stone wall yet/ ses I, ‘any way.’ 
 
 “ c Poor Pat put no bush in the gap on me when he was 
 going/ ses she. ‘ Of coorse — an’ why not '? — he cut out their 
 own share for his childher, an’ they’d be no incumberance to 
 anyone that would come over ’em ; but this house is mine, 
 an’ I’m doing rapid well in it. The shop is well stocked,’ 
 she went on, ‘ and I have four fine feather beds, an’ bed 
 clothes according, fit for anyone to lie in, an’ half a dozen 
 rale silver spoons, an’ a great dale of other value ; an’ if I 
 haven’t three or four good pigs in the yard it isn’t in the 
 want of the price of ’em, but in the want of a man able to 
 buy and sell, an’ take an intherest in the business. So (if I 
 could think of the like at all) it is into a snug nest he’d be 
 coming that would be coming in to me.’ 
 
 “Well, of coorse, the dickens was busy with myself as 
 usual, v said Tom, “ an’ so nothing would do me but to look 
 over acrass at her too, very sarious, an’ say : 
 
 “ ‘ How do. you know but I’m looking out for a wife 
 
118 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 myself, Mrs. Magrath 1 An’ I am looking out for one,’ ses 
 I, ‘ an’ ’tis to you that I’m telling it.’ 
 
 “ 4 Why should you be telling it to me in particular, Tom? 
 ses she, looking very innocent all of a sudden ; ‘my little 
 girl is too young all out for you. You’d have to wait too 
 long for her. She was only four years ould a week or two 
 ago.’ 
 
 ttc l don’t want your daughther, Peggy Magrath,’ ses I, 
 very offended like ; ‘ av she was twenty year ould I don’t 
 want your daughther ; ’tis the woman of the exparience an’ 
 the nate leg an’ foot I’d like to be talking to,’ ses I, ‘ an’ 
 maybe ’t won’t be long before I will be talking to her when 
 she laist expects it.’ 
 
 “ 4 Bedad,’ ses the widow, laughing over at me, ‘ I’d like 
 to try my hand at matchmaking again. I’d want to know 
 the ways of it for little Kitty, an’ if it is any woman I know 
 you mane, out* with it. There’s no time, they say, like the 
 present.’ 
 
 “ ‘ No, Peggy,’ ses I, very sarious again — ‘ no, Peggy 
 Magrath, I’ll say no more now, ontil I’ll spaik first to the 
 ould people ; for I promised my mother solemn that I’d lave 
 her know of it twenty-four hours at the laist before I’d ask 
 any woman to marry me, be she who she may.’ 
 
 “ £ Well, ’tis right, of coorse, Tom,’ ses she, ‘that you’d be 
 said an’ led by your parents, as long as they wouldn’t be too 
 onraisonable, which is often the case ; an’, begor, if it is a 
 daughther-in-law they’d be wanting you to bring in upon the 
 flure to ’em, as civil as they’d be in the beginning, maybe 
 you’d soon know that your own house would be the best for 
 you — of coorse I mane with the falling in of the farm to you, 
 whin they’d be gone, to back it.’ 
 
 “ ‘ That’s the very thing I was thinking of myself, too/ 
 ses I. 
 
 “ ‘ You’re so far right/ ses she, ‘ an’ I find myself there’s 
 nothing like the shop ; an’ indeed, as I said before, I’m 
 doing rapid well in it, an’ all the neighbours love an’ like 
 me, an’ I’m not afeard of the world — not a bit of it — only 
 that I get downhearted sometimes when I think what a lone 
 w r idow I am, without the man’s help about the place that I 
 was used to.’ 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 119 
 
 “ c What else would the neighbours do but love an’ like 
 you V ses I. ‘ They’d bo quare if they didn’t. An’ you 
 won’t be long without the help either — that’s if you like to 
 take it — only I’ll say no more now, as I promised my mother 
 what I tould you.” 
 
 “Well, afther that, I dunno much how the talk went, or 
 whether I moved over to the widow, or the widow moved 
 hether to me, or the two stools come together of themselves ; 
 but by the time the punch was finished I found myself with 
 my arm round Mrs. Magrath’s waist, an’ she looking up at 
 me telling me how lonesome she was, especially when she 
 was going to shet up, without anyone she could open her 
 mind to, or turn the key in the doore ; an’ what a great 
 look she thought I had of poor Pat about the moosetay- 
 chies. 
 
 “ Well, I pitied the poor thing so much that I stopped 
 with her consoling her, ontil the last minute of keeping 
 open, an’ ” 
 
 “ What about the fire-shovel, Tom T inquired one of his 
 friends blandly. 
 
 “ Yeh ! sure we didn’t want it,” replied Tom, with his most 
 artless expression. “ What would we want putting down fire 
 at that time of night, an’ I going away ] But I tould her 
 again that I wouldn’t be plaised if she’d be always grieving 
 about poor Pat, but to keep up her sperits ontil she’d see me 
 again, which would be soon ; an’ then I stepped out in airnest 
 for home, without any more delay. 
 
 “ Well, they used never be waiting up for me when I went 
 in,” continued Tom ; “ for the sarvint boy slept in the settle 
 in the kitchen, so the doore used to be left upon the latch, an’ 
 the candle on the clevy, the way I could light it myself, an’ 
 boult the doore, an’ go to bed without disturbing anyone. 
 But, begor, this night, when I dhrew anear the house, what 
 should I see but a light in the windy ; an’ when I went in, 
 sure enough the sarvint boy was sound asleep afther his day ; 
 but, instead of being the same way in her own nest, my 
 mother was sitting all alone by the fire, an’ she nodding over 
 her baid, the poor woman. 
 
 “ ‘ Yeh ! is it there I have you, mother V ses I. 6 What’s 
 the matther 1 Is it anything ails my father V 
 
120 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “ ‘ Oh! wisha, never welcome you, Tom,’ ses she, rousing 
 up when I spoke ; * how late you do be out, wherever you 
 do be ! Xo ; there’s nothing ails your father, thank God ! 
 only I come down to settle the fire-place when Con was in bed, 
 and then I sat here from minit to minit till you come.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Bedad, there’s more than that in it,’ says I in my own 
 miud, ‘ whatever it is ; but if it is anyone else wants to 
 many me to-night I’m in dhread I’ll never be able to 
 stand it.’ 
 
 “ Howsever, I lit the pipe, an’ ses I out loud : 
 
 u ‘ I’ll take a smoke, mother, before I go to bed ; but sure 
 you needn’t wait for me. I suppose you’re tired, an’ you at 
 the market to-day.’ 
 
 " ‘ Why, then, no, Tom,’ ses she ; ‘ I’m not tired at all, 
 although I stirred about a good dail. ’Twas very w*ell at- 
 tinded — there was a power of people there entirely.’ 
 
 “ * Oh ! I suppose so,’ ses I, quite careless. 
 
 “ ‘ Yes, indeed,’ ses she, ‘ an’ there wor a dail of matches 
 spoken of there ; an’ indeed, Tom, one or two of the neigh- 
 bours wor talking to myself an’ your father about you 
 too.’ 
 
 “ 6 Oh ! we’re coming to it now,’ ses I to myself ; but I 
 said to my mother : 
 
 “ Yeh ! what had they to say about me 1 I never inter- 
 fere with anyone’s business but my own ; an’ can’t they 
 let me pass V 
 
 “ 6 Well, indeed they had nothing bad to say of you aither,’ 
 ses she, 4 an’ if they had atself, I suppose ’tisn’t to your own 
 father an’ mother they’d come to say it ; but when all the 
 matchmaking was going on I begin to think what they said 
 was thrue — that you ought to be on the look-out as well as 
 the rest now.’ 
 
 “ Well,” said Tom, “ when I h’ard my mother inthroducin’ 
 the talk about matchmakin’, I stopped and considhered my- 
 self for a minit, an’ then I thought maybe ’twasn’t a bad op- 
 portunity.” 
 
 i: Opportunity for what, Tom V asked one of his friends. 
 
 “ For consulting my mother — what else V replied Tom. 
 “ What could be more nathural 1 So, ses I to her, ‘ Why, 
 then, maybe you’re right, mother,’ ses I ; ‘ for though you 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 121 
 
 look as young an’ handsome a’most as ever you did, still, as 
 you have no daughther of your own,’ ses I, 4 it mightn’t be 
 any harm to be on the look-out for some nice sweet-tempered 
 girl about seventeen or so that you could taich how to fall 
 into your own ways’ ” 
 
 44 And that would have brown eyes, and a sunbeam or two 
 astray among her curls, eh ! Tom V said one of his comrades. 
 
 But Tom passed over the remark in silence, and repeated: 
 
 44 4 Taich how to fall into your own ways, and not be mis- 
 thiss before her time over you in your own house.’ 
 
 44 4 Oh, edad, I’m not afeard of that at all,’ ses my mother, 
 settling herself on the stool an’ throwing another sod on the 
 fire, 4 while I’m there I’m there, an’ whin I’m gone, of coorse, 
 everything will be afther me for her to have, whoever she’ll 
 be ; but I’m too ould now to have a misthiss over me for the 
 remaindher of my days.’ 
 
 44 4 Well, that’s the very thing I meant whin I spoke,’ ses 
 I ; 4 to have a nice young craiture that you’d have loving 
 about you, not a stager that would be more up to every- 
 thing than yourself ; for I’d be sorry to be the ’casion of 
 any throuble to you,’ ses I, 4 or dhrawing any disturbance 
 in the family.’ 
 
 44 4 1 suppose noane of us would like to have a stager come 
 in among us,’ ses my mother, making answer ; 4 but the girl 
 I have in my eye for you is no stager, but a fine likely young 
 woman, an’ a great hand entirely at milk an’ butther.’ 
 
 44 Well, ’twasthe first time,” said Tom, 44 that my mother 
 showed any wish for me to get married, so I thought ’twould 
 be betther for me humour her in it, an’ laive her get used to 
 the notion of it, an’ that afterwards I could slip in the right 
 daughther-in-law whin the time would come ; so ses I to her : 
 
 44 4 Yeh ! mother,’ ses I, 4 who is she at all that's taking 
 the liking to me, an’ I so young and youthful an’ tindherly 
 raircd V 
 
 44 Laive off your thricks, you schaming thief of the world/ 
 ses my mother, laughing ; 4 I’m not saying the girl tuck any 
 liking to you ; but, to make it plain to you, ’twas Dinis 
 Shine — an’ a proper honest man he is — that intliroduced a 
 match to-day to your father an’ myself, between you an’ his 
 niece, the Widow Connor’s daughther ; an’ your father cot- 
 
122 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 toned at wanst to it, and bed me to spaik to you about it an* 
 see what you’d say.* 
 
 “Well, 1 knew in my heart,” remarked Tom, “that my 
 poor father never throubled his head one way or another 
 about the business, only whatever my mother put him up 
 to about it ; he was too fair an’ aisy-going for that ; but 
 t wouldn’t do to say so, an’ so I made answer very simple : 
 
 “ ‘ What have I to say about it, mother] Sure I wasn’t 
 there at all to know what was going on.’ 
 
 “ 4 Well, Dinis said,’ ses my mother, ‘ that we wor ould 
 neighbours always, and that Misthiss Connor could give her 
 daughther a hundhred pound down on the nail, besides a 
 fair share of stock an’ other value ; an’ bedad, Tom,’ ses my 
 mother, very confidential like, ‘ ’twould be very aisy for you 
 to go farther and fare worse.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Well, you know best, mother, of coorse,’ ses I ; ‘ an’ 
 indeed to have you for it is everything ; but you know well 
 how shy I am, an’ that I know nothing at all about coorting 
 or whatsumever they call it.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Well, indeed, Tom, you w^or never forward that way/ 
 ses my mother, ‘ but ’twould be a sheepish thing now, an’ 
 you going for your three an’ twinty, not to know how to pass- 
 a joke with a young woman whin you’d fall into company 
 with her.’ 
 
 “ * Ah ! yes,’ ses I ; an’ I felt it all,” added Tom senti- 
 mentally, “ ‘ but you know well, mother, that marriage is 
 no joke. Sure I’m tould, even if ’twas the way that it 
 turned out conthrary atself, that you’d have to stick to your 
 bargain all through, whether you like it or not ; for that, 
 wanst he tied the sthring, all the art of Father MacCartby 
 himself couldn’t loosen it !’ 
 
 “ ‘ Yeh 1 don’t be talking like a fool that way, child,’ ses 
 my mother. Ah, there’s no one like the mother for undher- 
 standing the soart you are,” put in Tom parenthetically. 
 “ ‘ I’ll set the thing going for you/ ses she, ‘ an’ you’ll soon 
 get into the ways of it. Besides, sure you know Nelly 
 Connor always. I often see you nodding your head to her 
 in the chapel-yard of a Sunday.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh ! ’tis aisy enough to nod my head,’ ses I, c if that 
 was all ; but I suppose I’d have to be spaiking to her if the 
 
IRISI* PENNY READINGS. 123 
 
 match wint on, an’ what would I do? I wouldn’t know 
 from Adam what to bo saying to her, I’d be so much 
 ashamed.’ 
 
 “ 4 Yeh ! I declare to the good stick/ ses my mother — for 
 she’d never curse about anything,” said Tom — “ 6 I declare 
 to the goood stick/ ses she, ‘ but them books you do be 
 always reading are afther making a born omedhawn of you. 
 Laive it all to me/ ses she, ‘ an’ I’ll make a married man of 
 you before you know where you are. Here, go away to your 
 bed now, you poor slob, an’ the blessing o’ God on you ; an’ 
 laive me go to mine ; ’tis dhropping with the sleep I am/ ses 
 she, ‘ an’ I having to be up in the morning.’ 
 
 “ ‘But, mother/ ses I 
 
 “ ‘ But, mother/ ses she back again, c I’ll not say another 
 word about the business now ontil I have it all right ; so 
 don’t you be fretting about it ; an’ whin everything is settled 
 about the wedding you’ll be tould.’ 
 
 “ An’ away she went, an’ I hear her laughing to herself 
 down in the room, if you plaise (for I knew my father was 
 asleep), an’ she going to bed, at my being so simple ; an’ no- 
 wondher for her, of coorse ; but how could I help it ? Sure 
 ’tis the same thing to this present minit ; for I’m sure, if it 
 wasn’t, tisn’t telling my family affairs to a set of bright 
 boys like ye I’d be to-night, an’ I the same thing as a help- 
 less orphan in a foreign land.” 
 
 A loud moan of sympathy passed through the guard-room 
 at these pathetic words, in which Tom himself joined, and 
 then continued : 
 
 “ Well, egor, I spent a good part of the night awake afther 
 I turned in, thinking and planning what would be best for 
 me to do. ‘ If I laive my mother go too far with the story 
 about the match I’ll get info a scrape with the Connors/ ses 
 I to myself; ‘an’ whatever way the wind blows I’m not in- 
 clined to put a ring on their daughther’s finger ; for, without 
 any disparagemint to the young woman, although I knew 
 her always I never tuck a notion of her at all.’ So, although 
 the girl come of a good family, an’ had good manes, an’ could 
 get many a betther match than me, I didn’t want to have 
 anything to say to her, an’ that’s the truth all out. 
 
 “ 6 Still,’ ses I again, ‘ I’ll say notthing for a few days 
 
m 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Advent is a good bit off yet, an’ between this an’ then I can 
 throw cowld wather on it some way or another ; an, besides, 
 Father Madden (he was curate at the time, an’ I suppose is 
 still) is taking down a power of the boys’ names to go out in 
 the Pope’s Brigade to be Zouaves, whatsumever soart of 
 soldiers they are, an’ if all goes to all I have only to threaten 
 to go with ’em, an’ my mother will give me my own way in 
 everything.’ An’ my mother of coorse meant my father as 
 well, for he was quite in himself, just like his son, an’ left 
 her manage everything. 
 
 “ So I gave myself no more trouble about it, but went to 
 sleep, an’ got up in the morning as soon as I found myself 
 aiquil to doing so, and went about much as ushul for the 
 next week or ten days, an’ li’ard nothing of the match, only 
 wanst that my father said to me : 
 
 “ ‘ Well, Tom, a bouchal, so I’m tould you’re thinking of 
 bringing home a little girl of your own to us.’ 
 
 “ But I was that shy that I only mutthered something 
 about my mother, an’ sloped off with myself, reddening up 
 to the two ears. Whisht, I tell you,” he exclaimed sud- 
 denly, as he saw one of the fellows was about to speak — 
 “ whisht, I tell you ! ’tis hard enough on me to tell my deli- 
 cate story as it is, without you confusing me more with your 
 onfeeling and barefaced observations. 
 
 “ But, as I was saying, ’twas of a Tuesday evening, afther 
 I gave my little rounds to the two places I used to be call- 
 ing into, that, when I went home, what should I see but 
 everything in confusion about the place — the sarvent boy 
 taking down the pewther and brass candlesticks off of the 
 dhresser ; the sarvent maid polishing ’em for fair fashion ; a 
 sthrange woman scouring the clevy ; an’ my mother up to 
 her eyes in business, regulating everything, an’ giving 
 ordhers. 
 
 “ 6 Yeh ! what are ye about V ses I, casting an eye about 
 me, an’ feeling very onaisy in my mind all of a sudden. 
 
 ‘ Is it a Station ye’re to have this week, that ye’re all so hard 
 at work V 
 
 ci c Whisht, whisht !’ ses me mother, threading on my foot, 
 an’ beckoning me down in the room to her, an’, when I fol- 
 lowed her, shetting the doore on the two of us. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 125 
 
 44 4 Wisha, won’t you ever have sinse V ses she, 4 to he 
 talking that way before the people, laiving ’em into the 
 knowledge that you worn’t at the settling of the marriage, 
 an’ we to have the wedding o’ Thursday night. So I begin 
 to clane up at wanst, an’ I having no time to spare.’ 
 
 “ 4 What wedding ?’ ses I. 
 
 44 ‘What wedding,’ ses she, 4 but your own an’ Nelly Con- 
 nor’s to be sure. I left your father there afther me while 
 ago, an’ you’re to get’ 
 
 44 4 I’m to get notthing at all with Nelly Connor,’ ses I, 
 intherrupting her. 
 
 44 4 What put that in your head V ses she ; 4 I tell you again 
 they’re snug people.’ 
 
 44 Edad, I got such a start that I out with the truth at 
 w r anst,” said Tom ; “ an’ 4 I tell you I’ll never put a ring 
 on her finger,’ ses I, 4 hot or cowld, dead or alive, or a- 
 horseback.’ 
 
 44 Well, when I said this,” he went on, 44 she stared up 
 straight at me as if she thought it was mad I was getting, 
 an’ ses she : 
 
 44 4 Yeh, Tom, avic machree ses she, 4 what change come 
 in your mind sence we wor talking the other night, an’ 
 you made no objection to anything, only said you’d laive it 
 all to me V 
 
 “ 4 There’s no change in my mind, then,’ ses I, very sulky, 
 * for I never intended to marry the girl at all.’ 
 
 44 4 What did you mane, then V ses she, curling up to me. 
 ( What did you mane by making a fool of me an’ of your 
 dacint father?’ — (an’ indeed I couldn’t contradict her in 
 that,” said Tom ; 44 for he is as dacint a man as there’s 
 going) — ‘an* the dacint people you sint me to on your 
 arrand, av you had no intention of marrying their daugli- 
 ther V 
 
 44 4 1 didn’t send you to ’em,’ ses I. 
 
 44 4 What else did you do V ses she ; 4 didn’t you say you 
 knew notthing at all about coorting, an’ that I was to say 
 notthing more about it to you ontil the matther was settled.’ 
 
 44 4 ’Twas yourself said that,’ ses I ; 4 what I said was, if 
 you had a nice innocent young craiture about seventeen or 
 so that you could taich yourself on the Sure with’ — — 
 
12G IHISH PENNY HEADINGS. 
 
 44 4 Yeh ! maybe you have her ready to your hand that 
 you’re able to dayscribe her so well/ ses she, interrupting 
 me. 
 
 44 4 Maybe I have, then/ ses I. 
 
 44 4 If you have, then/ ses she, in a murdherin’ rage, 4 you 
 may take her to some other Sure besides this one ; for who- 
 ever she is, if I wint to the gallows for it, she’ll never come 
 under one roof with me.’ 
 
 44 4 If she won’t, then/ ses I, playing my thrump card at 
 wanst, 4 I’ll go along with the rest of the boys to the 
 .Zouaves.’ 
 
 44 4 You may go to the devil if you like, you blackguard/ 
 ses she — 4 where you’re going, whether or no, every day you 
 get off your bed.’ 
 
 44 Well, it tetched my feelings,” said Tom, with an air of 
 wounded sensibility, 44 when she said this ; for I could bear 
 anything but an insinuation again my conduct, an’ what was 
 it but an insinuation again my conduct to say I was goin 9 
 -every day to where I won’t make mint ion of, an’ I the boy I 
 was ; so I walked sthraight out of the room from her, an’ 
 raytired to my own ajiartment without spaikin’ another 
 word ; but I h’ard her for an ear an hour afther knocking 
 everything about, and scowlding the sarvint girl about 
 everything. 
 
 44 When my father came in, howsever, the doore was 
 boulted, an’ some cugger-mugger was going on between ’em 
 for a long time — so long, egor, that I thought ’twas up to 
 pay me a visit they’d be coming, an’ I made up my mind, if 
 they did, that cannon balls wouldn’t wake me. Howsever, 
 they postponed the intherview ontil breakfist time in the 
 morning, an’ maybe ’twasn’t then they opened fire on me in 
 gallant style. 
 
 44 To give my father his due, ’twas the first time he showed 
 much curiosity about my motives for anything ; but his in- 
 therest in them now was roused up in a most inconvanient 
 manner. Like all quiet people, when he was angry at all he 
 was outrageous angry ; an’ the first word he spoke was to ask 
 me, like my mother, what maning I had for my behaviour, 
 or how could he look the dacint people in the face — the 
 studdy proper woman an’ her well raired child — afther mak- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 127 
 
 ing a showboher of ’em, taking them to the priest, an’ laiving 
 all the neighbours into the knowledge of the match. 
 
 “ He faced my mother, too, an’ said she was a dail of the 
 ’casion of it, forcing him to go there, and telling him all was 
 right ; though that didn’t excuse me, for he didn’t know 
 what one of his family ever done that a ruffin like me should 
 be sent among ’em to disgrace ’em. 
 
 “ An’ my mother, cowed by seeing my father in such a 
 passion, could only keep walking up an’ down the house, 
 with her apron to her eyes, wondhering what any of 
 her family did that I should be sint as a cross to her, for she 
 knew she never deserved it herself. 
 
 “ Well, at iast I made a clane boult of it,” said Tom, “an’ 
 left my breakfist afther me ; but the two of ’em follyed me 
 to the doore, screeching out that they’d see it out with me, 
 an’ laive Father MacCarthy know of the way I w T as using 
 ’em. 
 
 “An’ indeed I didn’t put it beyant ’em either,” re- 
 marked Tom incidentally, “ for they seemed inclined to act 
 very conthrary entirely. An’ begor twas very much throubled 
 I was about the mess my being too bashful to do my own coort- 
 ing brought me into, as I w T alked along the road towards 
 town, with my hat pulled down over my eyes, an’ my two 
 hands in my pockets ; for ’twas in a regular quandhary I 
 was by this time. 
 
 “ I was very anxious, too, to give a call into the circ’lating 
 lib’ry, for I knew the report of the marriage would be flying 
 about the place like wild-fire, an’ if anyone tould it to the 
 child I was afeard ’twas fretting she’d be, thinking she 
 wouldn’t be asked to the wedding at all, an’ I always promis- 
 ing she would, an’ that sure ’twould be no wedding without 
 her ; but I was shy of meeting the aunt, for fear she’d be go- 
 ing on with any of her gachees. 
 
 “ Howsever, I put a bould face on myself in the end, and 
 in I went, an’ sure enough somebody was afther fretting tbe 
 poor child, for she was as white as a sheet, an’ her purty lips 
 thrimbling, an’ her little hands shaking while she was weigh- 
 ing something for a customer at the eounther. 
 
 “ When she see me she made all the haste she could tying 
 up the parcel, an’ she made no answer when I bed her good 
 
128 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 morrow, only went in as fast as she could to the little room, 
 an’ shet the doore of it almost in my face : but I didn’t mind 
 that a bit, an’ I was jest going to follow her, when I gev an 
 eye inside the counther, an’, without any doubt, there was 
 Miss Finerty herself, sitting on a chair anear the windy, with 
 a very nate white pocket-handkercher up to one of her eyes, 
 and she looking like pi’son at me out of the other. 
 
 “ 4 So/ says she, w T hen she discovered that I see her, giving 
 herself a jerk up off the chair, an’ facing me out as Geoffrey 
 faced the cat — 4 so/ says she, 4 you think because I’m a 
 parientless girl that you can trifle with my feelings — an’ to 
 glory in it, Misther Dillon — an’ to glory in it !’ 
 
 44 4 Egor, then, there was enough of the glory pulled off o’ 
 
 me last night an’ this morning/ I began ; 4 but’ 
 
 “ 4 Don’t spaik to me, sir/ ses she, very grand all out — 
 c don’t spaik to me. I only want you to answer me one 
 kustion. What do you mane, sir, by your behaviour V 
 44 4 Bedad/ says I to myself, 4 that’s what they all want to 
 know — what do I mane by my behaviour ? ’Twould be a 
 dale more paicible for me to have no behaviour at all in me, 
 like a great many others, than to be brought to ordher every 
 minit about what I have of it, by everyone that’s curious 
 enough to be making inquiries / but I tould her : 
 
 44 4 1 dunno what maning you have yourself. What maning 
 do you mane V 
 
 44 4 1 mane,’ says she, screeching at me again very spiteful 
 au’ voylant, 4 that you come here every evening desaiving me 
 with your talk about marriage in the beginnin’ of my days ; 
 but if Father MacCarthy is within the walls of the parish/ 
 ses she, 4 I’ll see it out with you before night ? 
 
 44 4 Egor, ’tis all upon one word they are/ ses I in my own 
 mind — 4 what do I mane by my behaviour, an’ they’ll see it 
 out with me, an’ they’ll go to Father MacCarthy ; but sure, 
 if it isn’t a Turk in disguise he is, he can’t ordher me to 
 marry ’em all.’ But, anyway. I gev her no answer, only 
 walked away from her when I found I had no way of saying 
 a w’ord or two to little Mary, an’ away with me to the 
 widow’s. 
 
 44 Of coorse she’d want to know the maning of my beha- 
 viour too, an’ she’d see it out with me; but I was that 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 129 
 
 desperate now I didn’t care for anything she’d say or do, only, 
 whatsumever ’twoulcl be, ’twas as good to have it over me* 
 
 44 Well,” continued Tom, 44 I wasn’t long or lazy going 
 down the street, an’ when I turned into the shop, who should 
 be standing at the counther before me, an’ she wiping her 
 mouth with the corner of her apron, but the woman that 
 used to be claining out the chapel ; an’ Mrs. Magrath her- 
 self at the other side of it, very red in the face, an’ a frown 
 on her as black as thundher ; an' of coorse I knew then that 
 the news was there before me. 
 
 44 The chapel woman slipped out when I came in, as if 
 she knew what was coming, an’ didn’t want to have any 
 more hand in it afther herself rising the war with her talk, 
 an’ getting her dhrop of sperits for her information ; but the 
 widow didn’t give me time to spaik a word when ses she to 
 me : 
 
 44 4 I wish you joy, Misther Dillon/ ses she, 4 an’ a great 
 dail of joy, both yourself an’ the purty girl of the Connors 
 that you’re going to make your own of. Yeh ! how did you 
 braik the business to your mother at all, an’ she so onwiliing 
 to part with you V 
 
 44 Bedad, I didn’t know what to make of her at all/’ 
 acknowledged Tom — 44 whether ’twas jokin’ or in airnest, or 
 whether ’twas bitther she was when she spoke — I was too 
 simple for her entirely — but ses I, when she paused for a 
 reply, as the orathors say : 
 
 44 4 1 dunno what you mane by your behaviour,’ says I — 
 for, edad, I thought I’d have the first o’ that, anyway — 4 1 
 dunno what you mane by your behaviour, an’ I’m not going to 
 be married to any of the Connors.’ 
 
 44 4 Oh ! you owdacious villain/ ses she, 4 that dunno w r hat 
 the thruth is— afther the dacint woman telling she see w r ith 
 her two looking eyes herself both parties of ye together 
 above at the priest’s to settle the wedding for to-morrow 
 night ! An’ is it my behaviour you’re alludin’ to % — my 
 behaviour, you desaiver of the world ! ISTo one could ever 
 lay a wet finger on my charackther, that you’d begin to do 
 do it afther coming here every night talking of marriage to a 
 poor lone widow an’ her two orphans, that had no iday of 
 the like, an’ her husband in the clay.’ 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS; 
 
 “ ‘ Yeb ! sure ’t wouldn’t be a proper thing for me to be 
 spaikiug about it to a dacint woman like you,’ ses I, ‘ if he 
 was anywhere else ; but ’twas what I said to you,’ ses 
 
 I 
 
 “ But she wouldn’t listen to another word. She said ’twas 
 in purposely to insult her I come. 
 
 “ ‘ I wan’t no more of your sayin’s at the present, any- 
 how,’ ses she, c but, as sure as my name is Peggy Magrath, 
 I’ll put a stop to your doin’s before there’s another minit 
 over me, for I’ll go at wanst an’ laive Father MacCarthy 
 into the knowledge of the promise you’re ondher to me, an’ 
 I’ll’ 
 
 “ ‘ See it out with me,’ ses I, finishing it myself ; for of 
 coorse I knew what was coming. 
 
 “But, my dear,” continued Tom with an injured air, 
 
 “ that set her wild altogether. She thought ’twas making 
 game of her I was ; an’ sure it wasn’t” 
 
 “ Of course not, Tom,” cried two or three of his friends 
 ' together; “you are far too simple for anything of the 
 i kind.” 
 
 An’ sure it wasn’t,” he repeated, innocently ; “ only I 
 was so stupid from everyone saying it to me that I didn’t 
 know what I was saying only to say it.” 
 
 “ But as soon as ever she h’ard the words I thought ’twas 
 into a fit she got, she was in such a passion ; an’ over she 
 made to one of the pewther vessels to laive the mark of it 
 on me, but when I see her retching for it I thought ’twas 
 j time for me to raytire, as they say in the sarvice, which I did 
 speedy an’ in good ordher, laiving her screeching to the girl J 
 to come an’ stand in the shop while she was rubbing a wet 
 cloth to her face before she went before his reverence to have 
 justice done to herself an’ her helpless orphans. 
 
 “ Well, away with me again,” said Tom, “ on the fresh, 
 like the Wandhering Jew, bedad, dhruv out everywhere; but 
 I didn’t go far this time when I met a boy of the neighbours 
 going to a coorsing match a couple of miles off ; an’, egor, 
 
 > though my breakfast was a light one, I thought that would 
 1 only make me the lighter for the running, an’ that I’d go 
 too, for the fresh air would do me good, an’ maybe things 
 would be quieter again I’d be back in the evening. An’ a 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS, 131 
 
 splindid day’s sport we had,” said Tom, warming to the re- 
 collection of it, “ but that’s neither here nor there now. Tis 
 about the poor mi sforth unate hare that fell among the 
 hounds when I came home at nightfall that I have to tell, 
 an’ notthing else ; for I was only just walking leisurely up 
 the sthreet, an’ I tired an’ hungry enough afther the run, 
 whin who should I meet cornin’ too wards me but Paddy 
 Gorman, the clerk of the chapel, an’ he dhressed in a cast 
 shuit of the priest’s clothes — hat an’ all, my dear, an’ a laif 
 to it a quarter of a yard broad if it was an inch — an’ his face 
 as cross as two sticks ondher it. 
 
 “ ‘ Why, then, do yon think I have nothing else to do but 
 to be lookin’ for you V ses he. ‘ His reverence wants you to 
 go yandher to the house to him at wanst.’ 
 
 “ * What does he want me for V ses I. ‘ I was at the 
 coorsing match all day, an’ I’m very tired.’ 
 
 “ 4 You must take another coorse now, then, up to him,’ 
 ses he, 1 if you war as tired agin, for he wants you par- 
 tickler.’ 
 
 “ 4 Yeh ! the divil a foot I’ll go to him to-night,’ ses I ; 
 x tell him you didn’t see me ; sure he can wait till morning.’ 
 
 “ 4 The divil another hunt, then, I’ll have afther you in the 
 morning as I had to-day,’ ses he, clapping his hands on my 
 shoulder, ‘ so I’ll tell no lie to the priest for you ; an’ av I 
 had to call the neighbours to help me to carry you there, 
 you’ll come over to him now.’ 
 
 “ Well,” said Tom, “ I see by the look of him that he’d 
 do it, an’, as I was show enough as it was, without dhraw- 
 ing a crowd about me, I went with him without any more 
 delay. 
 
 “ When w T e come to the priest’s hall doore, of coorse we 
 rapped, an’ the housekeeper — a most respectable woman — 
 indeed a relation of his own — opened it for us. I bed her 
 good evening, to be sure, an’ asked her was his reverence 
 inside, an’ she said very civil that he was, an’ that I was to 
 go into him at wanst. An’ in I went accordingly. 
 
 “ Well, it was dark enough outside at the time, but it 
 was pitch dark in the enthry ; for the housekeeper didn’t 
 bring a candle with her, an’ when she opened the parlour 
 doore to tell that I was there, an’ the priest called out very 
 
132 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 cheerful-like, c Let him come in — let him come in — Pm 
 waiting for him' — my eyes worn’t used to the light, an’ my 
 foot caught in the mat, an’ when I did go in, as he tould me 
 to do, egor ’twas head foremost I wint in among a whole 
 roomful of people that wor there before me, an’ in a minit 
 they wor all screeching together at me for the bare life. 
 
 “ ‘ Oh ! see the state ho’s in an’ he coming before his 
 reverence,’ ses one. 
 
 “ ‘ I declare to the law if he have a leg ondker him,’ ses 
 another. 
 
 “ ‘ Av he had a bit of shame at all in him is it dhrinking 
 all day he’d be V ses some one else. 
 
 c: An’ sure what harm if I had my breakfast atself in me !” 
 complained Tom, in a tone of sincere self-pity ; “ but in the 
 middle of it all Father MacCarthy called out : 
 
 “ ‘ Silence — silence, all of ye !’ an’ spoke very grand out of 
 his two-arm-cliair at the head of the table. An’ a fine clever 
 man he is, with a handsome, open face, a head of hair like 
 any silver, an’ an eye like a hawk’s,” remarked Tom, ad- 
 miringly. 
 
 “ ‘ Silence !’ ses he again. ‘ Whatever other errors the 
 young man has fallen into, he is perfectly sober, at any 
 rate.’ 
 
 “ ‘ God help us ! ’tis hard to say he couldn’t desaive the 
 like of me when he’s desaivin’ the priest as he stands,’ ses a 
 voice I knew. 
 
 “ ‘ He does not desaive me so far,’ repaited the priest ; 
 c he is perfectly sober ;’ for, as I said before, he was very 
 sharp, an’ he see at wanst how the stumble happened me. 
 Well, I begin to recover myself by degrees, an’ to get my 
 eyesight clear again ; an’ so I begin to look about me, an’ to 
 see the whole gathering that was about the table. 
 
 “ Mrs. Magrath was in a chair up anear the priest, an’ her 
 high-cauled widow’s cap upon her ; an’ her, my dear, rockin’ 
 herself to and fro as if ’twas at a wake she was, an’ clapping 
 her hands aisy. Miss Finerty was down from her at the 
 lower corner, with the white handkercher in her hand still, 
 as if she never parted with it since morning, an’ a new green 
 ribbon about her neck, an’ a tumbler of spring water out 
 before her, an’ she laining back in her chair as if ’twas going 
 
IRISH FE2SNY READINGS. 133 
 
 to faint she was. My father was grinding his teeth at me, 
 you’d think, from the other side over, an’ he having a hard ■ 
 grip of his stick by the middle ; an’ my mother was rocking 
 herself, an’ clapping her hands aisy too, foreninst Mrs. 
 Magrath ; an’ Dinis Shine, that, like many another match- 
 maker before him, was feeling very onthankful to himself 
 by this time for his pains, was up anear his sister-in-law, the 
 Widow Connor, at the other side of the priest, an’ the two 
 of ’em looking very throubled ; an’ Nelly Connor — poor girl ! 
 
 — setting between ’em with the hood of her cloak drawn 
 down over her face, an’ she crying very bitther intirely* 
 
 44 Well, as sure as I’m sitting here talking to you,” said 
 ! Tom, 44 an’ that’s enough to say about it, I was very sorry 
 for that poor girl anyway ; for she had nothing at all to say 
 to the business, only to be said an’ led by her people ; an’ . 
 besides,” he added sentimentally, 44 I knew what a good hus- . 
 band she was losing when she was losing me.” 
 
 44 Oh ! indeed she was to be pitied in that respect,” de- 
 clared his friends. 
 
 44 Yes,” assented Tom demurely ; 44 an’ indeed I felt a dail 
 for her disapp’intment. But sich things must be — ’tisn’t 
 every girl is born to get a good companion ; but, howsever, 
 ses the priest to me then : 
 
 44 4 Sit down, Dillon,’ ses he, 4 there’s a chair behind you, 
 an’ dhraw in to the table. I want to ask you a few kustions 
 about this diffyculty you seem to have got into,’ ses he. 
 
 44 Well, egor,” continued Tom, 44 I did sit down as his 
 reverence tould me to, but it was on the bare edge of the 
 chair I sot, anear the doore ; for, as ushul, I was rather shy 
 in myself, an’ I didn’t feel aiquil to making one among ’em 
 ' at the table. 
 
 44 4 Well,’ ses the priest, spaiking very raisonable to me 
 indeed, 4 Well, Tom,’ ses he, 4 don’t mind twisting the laif off 
 of your hat for the presint, but tell me is it thrue that you’re 
 thrying to introduce Mormon practices into the parish by 
 wanting to marry three or four wives at wanst. For if it is 
 the case,’ ses he, 4 it wouldn’t be possible for me to sanc- 
 tion it.’ 
 
 44 4 Wisha, Father John,’ ses I, 4 have some compasshin on 
 me’ — for I see by the corners of his mouth that ’twas as 
 
m 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 much as he could do to keep from laughing, an’ that gev me 
 courage to spaik — 4 have some compasshin on me, your re- 
 verence, for ’tis always aisy to make me ashamed, an’ ’twas 
 through the manes of being too bashful in regard to match- 
 making that I got into this little bit of throuble at all.’ 
 
 44 Yeh ! my dear, the words weren’t hardly out of my mouth 
 when I thought ’twas in Bedlam I was. Miss Finerty — Mrs. 
 Magrath — my father — Dinis Shine — the Widow Connor — * 
 my mother — all riz up together at me. I wasn’t too bashful 
 to dhrink their tay, or to ait their cake, or to dhrink their 
 punch, or to promise to marry ’em, or to send my parients 
 to ’em, or to say I’d be a father to their orphans, or to make 
 a fool of a dacint family, or to make a laughing stock of my 
 father, to say nothing of sending my mother with her heart 
 broke to the grave. An’ bedad, when they had all they 
 could think of, an’ more along with it, said to me, taking 
 advantage of my being too shy to make ’em an answer, what 
 did they do but begin at aitch other] My mother screeched 
 out above board that she wanted no deserted-looking ould 
 maid, as ould as herself, if it wint to that, for a daughther- 
 in-law : an’, beyant that again, no desaiver of a widow, with 
 two gorlochs to do for, to be coaxing her child from her, an 7 
 she having his own aiquils ready for him. 
 
 44 But poor Nelly said, as well as she could spaik with the 
 crying, if it was her she meant she was never ready for him, 
 for ’twas again her will she was there at all ; an’ Dinis 
 Shine, an’ Mrs. Connor, both of ’em together, as good as tuck 
 their oath that the match was broke at their side, for if it 
 was rowling in goold I was, an’ of the best of charackthers, 
 let alone to be the ruffin I was, no one belonging to them 
 should have any call to me now. 
 
 44 An’ whin I see the priest houlding back Mrs. Magrath 
 from making over to my mother to tear her, an’ Miss Finerty 
 flinging the tumbler of spring wather she had out before her 
 in among the Connors, an’ my father making toowards my- 
 self with the stick, egonneys, ’twas out the doore I made, 
 an’ down the sthreet, as if ’twas the Ould Boy was afther me, 
 an’ my intention settled ferrum that I’d retire into private 
 life for the present anyway, an’ take a turn out of the 
 Zouaves, whatever would be the ind of it. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 135 
 
 “ An’ so I did,” concluded Tom, “ as you may persaive by 
 my presence here among you this evening — this evening, 
 which I look on as the proudest minit of my life — as the 
 gintlemen say at the election dinners, when they’re done 
 aiting an’ the dhrink is put before ’em.” 
 
 “ Oh, but, Tom,” called out one of the fellows, “ you 
 haven’t told us how you got away. Surely you didn’t run 
 straight to the train from the priest’s house, without any 
 preparation, or speaking a word to the child.” 
 
 “ Why, then, sure enough,” confessed Tom, “ I did see her 
 for a minit or two when I was running home, between life 
 an’ death, for fear ’twas in on me they’d be, for a few things 
 an’ a thrifle of change I wanted. Howsever, I was in Cork 
 the next day, without being saized on by any of the parties 
 in purshuit of me, an’ on the salt says a couple of days 
 afther in company ’with some more that are listening to me 
 now, an’ can tell, if they like, how murnful an’ agitated I 
 was when they see me first.” 
 
 A hearty burst of laughter was the response to this 
 appeal, and at its close, Tom was asked by one of the 
 laughers if he had heard from home since he left it. 
 
 “ Oh ! dear, yis,” he replied. “ My ‘ crewil parients,’ as 
 the song calls such relatives, repinted very soon of their on- 
 dutiful conduct too wards me, an’ I got a letter from ’em 
 askin’ me to forgive ’em an’ to come home an’ marry who- 
 sumever I’d like. 
 
 “ They tould me, too, that Mrs. Magrath was married last 
 Sheroff to a very dacint man, a cattle-dailer, thatused resoart 
 her house afther I left ; but that Miss Finerty is on the 
 look-out still — the last man she put her eye in bein’ a tall 
 foxy young man wdth a waist a’mostas slindher as her own, 
 that comes about selling threads an’ tapes an’ writing 
 matarials.” 
 
 “ I hope he doesn’t occasionally help the child to bake the 
 cake,” said one of his friends. 
 
 “ No, he don’t, then, help the child tobakethe cake,” said 
 Tom, very shortly. “ She’s gettin’ a big girl now, an’ don’t 
 rayquire it ; but Miss Finerty, I’m tould, is sure he’s going to 
 marry her, although there’s nobody else sure of it but herself. 
 An’ Nelly Connor is settled very comfortable too, I h’ard 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 136 
 
 tell, with a boy she had a likin’ for always. So I’m glad I 
 didn’t spile her market, any way.” 
 
 “ And when do you intend to go home and fall into the 
 same rank yourself, Tom'?” asked a comrade. 
 
 “ When the Holy Father — God bless him ! — tells me he 
 has no farther use of my services/’ replied Tom, reverently 
 and gravely, as he lifted his cap ; “ not an hour sooner. 
 Then, indeed,” he added in his usual manner, “ I’ll return to 
 my native island, generously forgive myparients, congratu- 
 late my inimies, an’ ” 
 
 “ Marry the child,” they all cried out in chorus. 
 
 “ Yes,” asseuted Tom, putting his head aside and glancing 
 bashfully at them — “ I was very shy of confessing it, but I’ll 
 not deny it any longer of ye, comrades ; if the poor little 
 thing will have me — an’ I don’t say but she will — I’ll marry 
 the child.” 
 
 $crox gDittle Jmmij. 
 
 BY T. D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 Poor little Jemmy was small and slight. 
 
 His hands were thin and his face was v hite, 
 
 His back was bent since one luckless day 
 He fell from a height he had climbed at ].lay ; 
 
 And care or skill could never restore 
 His youthful bloom or his beauty more. 
 
 It was sad for the child when he first came to know 
 
 He was stricken for life by so cruel a woe ; [ i 
 
 It was sad for the boy when in time he could see 
 
 Little playmates and friends, that were younger than he, 
 
 Shoot up with a growth like twigs in Spring, 
 
 And leave him below, a poor misshapen thing. 
 
 But brothers and sisters, neighbours and all, 
 
 Loved poor little Jemmy, so slight and small. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 137 
 
 Bright little girls, soft-hearted and kind, 
 
 Getting anything good, would bear Jemmy in mind, 
 
 Give him shares of their sweets, of their fruits, and their flow’rs. 
 Give him all their new toys, and not ask them for hours ; 
 
 And often the boys that were hearty and strong 
 Took him up on their backs, and would bear him along 
 To some spot by the roadside, or seat in the glade, 
 
 Where he might look on at the games they played ; 
 
 And if ever he ventured to join in the fun, 
 
 They handled him tenderly, every one, 
 
 For it touched their hearts with a thrill of delight 
 To give joy to poor Jemmy, so small and slight. 
 
 But time for play is not long to last, 
 
 And careless years fly rapidly past ; 
 
 And poor men's children must soon begin 
 The toils of this world of care and sin. 
 
 And Jemmy’s young friends soon were scattered around— 
 Some tending in farmsteads, some tilling the ground, 
 
 Some plying the shuttle, some pulling the oar, 
 
 Some duly apprenticed in workshop and store ; 
 
 But the father and mother of poor little Jim 
 Decided on making a scholar of him ; 
 
 For although he was feeble, and puny, and slight, 
 
 The spirit within was unclouded and bright. 
 
 So they kept him to school ; and whatever the cost, 
 
 None could say that the time or the money was lost, 
 
 For he read and he learned, and what went to his brain 
 "Remained there, and never went from it again. 
 
 And soon to his parents and friends ’twas a joy 
 In the calm Summer evenings to sit with the boy, 
 
 And hear him discourse on the news of the day, 
 
 Or the glories of Ireland in times passed away ; 
 
 Or, grouped by the fireside on long Winter nights, 
 
 Hear him speak of her prospects, her wrongs, and her rights. 
 For he knew how his nation was plundered and gored — 
 
 Was oppressed by the law and cut down by the sword ; 
 
 And he knew there were men in the land even then 
 Who were plotting and planning to raise her again : 
 
 Tone, Russell, Fitzgerald — yet ’twas not to all 
 That a hint of their names or their work he’d let fall ; 
 
 But many a night might the youngster be found 
 
 In the house of a friend, with strong men gathered round ; 
 
 On a table before him two dim burning tapers, 
 
 And near him long lists, and account-books, and papers ; 
 
 And if one could listen, at times they might hear 
 
138 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 The fierce hopeful talk of a day drawing near, 
 
 The strong cry for vengeance, the oath wildly sworn, 
 
 That the deeds of the “ Yeos” could no longer be borne, 
 
 That ’twas better die fighting with arms in their hands, 
 
 Than be butchered like sheep by those merciless bands, 
 
 Than see outrage and wrong on their own cabin floors, 
 
 Than be burned in their beds, or be shot at their doors. 
 
 At times little Jemmy would join them, and pray 
 
 That Heaven would soon send them the long-wished-for day, 
 
 For he, too, grew weary of living a slave, 
 
 And would rather meet death in the ranks of the brave. 
 
 Then the strong men would smile as they thought of the might 
 That poor little Jemmy could bring to the fight, 
 
 And they’d clasp him in tender and loving embrace, 
 
 Or they’d stoop down and kiss his white delicate face ; 
 
 And “ Jemmy asthore,” some stout fellow would say, 
 
 “ Leave the fighting to us, for that lies in our way ; 
 
 Be it yours to spread round you with tongue and with pen 
 The high noble thoughts that make heroes of men ; ^ 
 
 Let your foemen be those who would slander our cause, 
 
 And would bid us bow down to the foreigner’s laws. 
 
 We want you to answer the lies that they spread 
 Of the true men of Ireland, both living and dead ; 
 
 To teach some good fellows who need to be told 
 How Ireland is drained of her blood and her gold, 
 
 How it comes that her sons are scourged, trampled, and banned. 
 And the Sassenagh breed have the fat of our land ; 
 
 Then to say by what means may her wrongs be undone, 
 
 May her freedom be gained, and be kept when ’tis won.” 
 
 But, argue and settle the point as they might, 
 
 Little Jim seemed to think his own notion was right ; 
 
 That, although he was weak, there was work he might do 
 In the camp or the ranks of the good men and true, 
 
 And that thinkers and toilers should all take the sword 
 When the word went out — “ Strike, in the name of the Lord.’* 
 
 The time came at last, and the word was sent round, 
 
 And brave men leaped forth as if sprung from the ground. 
 
 And they clustered, and marshalled, and rushed on their foes y 
 And often their wild shout of triumph arose ; 
 
 And if in some daring endeavour they failed, 
 
 Yet, a3 victors or vanquished, their hearts never quailed, 
 
 For death has no terrors to loom on the sight 
 Of brave men who battle for God and their right. 
 
 One day when the fierce rush of conflict was o’er, 
 
 And many a stout peasant lay stark in his gore, 
 
 
 
8 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS* 130 
 
 Kind hands came to bear the dear relics away, 
 
 And to make their calm graves deep in consecrate clay ; 
 
 ’Midst the bodies they raised from the blood-sodden ground, 
 One slighter and smaller than any, they found ; 
 
 ’Twas a poor fragile frame, and misshapen beside, 
 
 Yet the dead face showed plain ’twas a hero that died. 
 
 He had fought in the van, and had sunk to his rest 
 With the green flag of Ireland clutched close to his breast. 
 
 His heart’s blood had oozed through each firmly held fold, 
 
 It had flowed through his hands, and cemented their hold : 
 
 No foeman could tear it from thence, and no friend 
 Could the grasp of those thin rigid fingers unbend. 
 
 So they buried the corse of the patriot brave 
 
 With the green banner clasped to his heart in the grave. 
 
 It was poor little Jemmy, so small and so slight, 
 
 Whose hands were so thin and whose face was so white, 
 
 And who, true to his plight, grasped the patriot’s sword 
 When the word went out — “ Strike, in the name of the Lord 1” 
 
 (Shamrock from the Erislt Shore. 
 
 (On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.) 
 
 BY DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY, M.R.I.A. 
 
 0 postman ! speed thy tardy gait — 
 
 Go quicker round from door to door ; 
 
 For thee I watch, for thee I wait, 
 
 Like many a weary wanderer more. 
 
 Thou bringest news of bale and bliss — 
 
 Some life begun, some life well o’er. 
 
 He stops — he rings ! — O Heaven ! what’s this ] 
 A Shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 Dear emblem of my native land, 
 
 By fresh, fond words kept fresh and green ; 
 
 The pressure of an unfelt hand — 
 
 The kisses of a lip unseen — 
 
no 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 A throb from my dead mother’s heart — 
 
 My father’s smile revived once more — 
 
 Oh ! youth — oh ! love — oh ! hope thou art, 
 Sweet Shamrock from the Irish shore ! 
 
 Enchanter, with thy wand of power, 
 
 Thou mak’st the past be present still : 
 
 The emerald lawn — the lime leaved bower — 
 The circling shore — the sunlit hill — 
 
 The grass, in Winter’s wintriest hours 
 By dewy daisies dimpled o’er, 
 
 Half hiding ’neath their trembling flowers 
 The Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 And thus where’er my footsteps strayed, 
 
 By queenly Florence, kingly Rome — 
 
 By Padua’s long and lone arcade — 
 
 By Ischia’s fires and Adria’s foam — 
 
 By Spezzia’s fatal waves, that kissed 
 My poet sailing calmly o’er — 
 
 By all, by each, I mourned and missed 
 The Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, 
 
 Irresolute ’twixt the sand and sea ; 
 
 I saw upon the trellised roof 
 
 Outspread the wine that was to be ; 
 
 A giant-flowered and glorious tree, 
 
 I saw the tall magnolia soar ; 
 
 But there, even there, I longed for thee, 
 Poor Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 How on the ramparts of Boulogne, 
 
 As lately by the lonely Ranee, 
 
 At evening, as I watch the sun, 
 
 I look ! I dream ! Can this be France ? 
 Hot Albion’s cliffs, how near they be, 
 
 He seems to love to linger o’er, 
 
 But gilds, by a remoter sea, 
 
 The Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 I’m with him in that wholesome clime — 
 That fruitful soil — that verdurous sod — 
 Where hearts, unstained by vulgar crime, 
 Have still a simple faith in Cod — 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 141 
 
 Hearts that in pleasure and in pain 
 
 The more they’re trod rebound the more, 
 
 Lik thee when we w . wi h heaven’s own rain, 
 
 O Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Memorial of my native land, 
 
 True emblem of my land and race, 
 
 Thy small and tender leaves expand 
 Bub only in thy native place ; 
 
 Thou needest for thyself and set d 
 Soft dews around, kind sunshine o’er ; 
 
 Transplanted, thou’rt the merest weed, 
 
 O Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Here on the tawny fields of France, 
 
 Or in the rank, red English clay, 
 
 Thou showest a stronger form, percl ance— 
 
 A bolder front thou may’st display — 
 
 More able to resist the scythe, 
 
 That cut so keen, so sharp before ; 
 
 But then thou art no more the blithe, 
 
 Bright Shamrock of the Irish shore 2 
 
 Ah, me ! to think thy scorns, thy slights, 
 
 Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave 
 On Fredericksburg’s ensanguined heights 
 Or by Potomac’s purple wave ! 
 
 Ah, me ! to think that power malign 
 Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, 
 
 And what calm rapture might be thine, 
 
 S weet Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, 
 
 True type of trustful love thou art ; 
 
 Thou liest the whole year at my feet, 
 
 To live but one day at my heart. 
 
 One day of festal pride to lie 
 Upon the loved one’s heart — what more ) 
 
 Upon the loved one’s heart to die, 
 
 0 Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 A shall I not return thy love ? 
 
 And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be 
 Placed on thy son’s proud heart above 
 The red rose or the fleur-de-lis ? 
 
 - 
 
142 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Yes, from these heights the waters beat, 
 I vow to press thy cheek once more, 
 And lie for ever at thy feet, 
 
 O Shamrock of the Irish shore ! 
 
 ©Ire ©fratatfer of (Milter iolirsmitlr. 
 
 FROM A LECTURE BY HENRY GILES. 
 
 The lectures on Irish subjects delivered by our countryman, Henry 
 Giles, in various parts of America, are much, and deservedly, admired 
 in that country. They have been collected and published in a volume 
 which has obtained a large degree of popularity. We have already 
 quoted from them some passages descriptive of the oratory of O’Con- 
 nell ; the following, from his lecture on Goldsmith, is also justly con- 
 ceived and eloquently expressed : — 
 
 The character of Goldsmith is one which does not tax 
 -analysis ; it is felt by instinct ; and that happy phrase, 
 “ good-natured,” defines it with a singular accuracy. Gold- 
 smith’s good nature, though it exhausted his purse, did not 
 exhaust itself. It was an unfailing well-spring ; it was ever 
 pure and fresh, bubbling from a copious fountain of kindness, 
 and refreshing life around him with streams of gaiety, of 
 fondness, and of pity. There was a benignity in him which 
 gave his heart an interest in the humblest creature. Early 
 in life, in writing home, he says, “ If there be a favourite dog 
 in the family, let me be remembered to him.” His attach- 
 ment to children was as strong as it was amiable. The 
 younger Colman speaks in rapture of his acquaintance with 
 Goldsmith, when in infant insolence he used to tweak the 
 poet’s nose ; and the poet, in return, played thimble-rig with 
 the child. Nor was this merely deference to the son of a rich 
 man and a critic. Goldsmith was an idol, also, to the chil- 
 dren of the poor ; it was his common practice to go among 
 them with pockets full of gingerbread, and to set them 
 dancing to the sound of his flute. His, in every scene, was 
 a simple nature, and he, around whom rustics pranced on 
 
IRISH PENN* READINGS. 143 
 
 the banks of the Loire, was the same around whom ragged 
 innocents gabbled and rejoiced in the garrets of Old Bailey. 
 Goldsmith’s humanity to the poor, generally, was most cour- 
 teous and most bountiful. His charity would often have 
 been sublime if the improvidence of his temper did not drive 
 him to contrivances to supply it, which gave it the air of 
 the ludicrous. One morning, towards the close of his college 
 course, a cousin and fellow-student of his knocked at the 
 door of his chamber. No reply. He knocked again. Still 
 no reply. He then broke it open. Goldsmith was in bed, 
 literally in it, for he was stuck bodily into the feathers. 
 Some poor woman had told him a tragical story ; he was 
 out of money, so he brought her to the college and gave her 
 his blankets. 
 
 Let me take another instance from his later life — an 
 instace which, as 1 think, is most characteristic of the author 
 .and the man. Suppose ourselves gazing into an humble 
 chamber, in the humblest part of London. A ragged bed 
 is in one corner, a broken wash-stand is in another. A crazy 
 table is placed near a small dusty window, and a man sits 
 by this table on the only chair which the room contains. 
 The stature of the man is short, and his face is pale ; his 
 position has an air of thought, and his look the glow of fancy. 
 This man, whose forehead bulges out with sentiments and 
 ideas so as to defy all rules of sculpture, is ugly ; but he is ugly 
 only to those who cannot see the light of the spirit through 
 the shrine of the countenance. To those who know the 
 touch of nature that makes all men akin, he is inexpressibly 
 dear ; they love to gaze on his homely portrait, as if it were 
 lovely as ever dawned upon a sculptor’s dream. The man 
 is Oliver Goldsmith, and, as we now describe him, he is 
 engaged in writing his Essay on the State of Polite Learning 
 in Europe. A knock at his lonely door arouses him, and a 
 visitor enters. The visitor is Bishop Percy, the admirable 
 collector of Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Goldsmith 
 courteously gives the prelate his only chair, and takes him- 
 self a seat on the window-sill. They are engaged in an 
 earnest conversation on belle-lettres and the fine arts, when 
 a ragged but decent little girl comes into the room, and, with 
 a respectful obeisance to Goldsmith, says, “ My mamma sends 
 
144 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 her compliments, sir, and begs the favour of you to lend her 
 a pot of coals.” 
 
 As Goldsmith's fortunes increased, so did his gifts ; and 
 food was added to fuel. After he had entertained a large 
 party at breakfast, he distributed the fragments among a few 
 poor women whom he had kept waiting for the purpose. A 
 vulgar guest remarked that he must be very rich to afford 
 such bounty. “ It is not wealth, my dear sir,” said Gold- 
 smith, “ it is inclination; I have only to suppose that a few 
 more friends have been of the party, and then it amounts to 
 the same thing.” He was, besides, always surrounded by a 
 circle of needy writers, whom he had not the firmness to 
 refuse, nor the prudence to discharge. He was also beset 
 by destitute countryman, who found a ready way to his last 
 shilling through his compassion and his patriotism. To such 
 people, bounty was no virtue ; but with Goldsmith, pity gave 
 ere charity began, and charity had always the start of wis- 
 dom. Much as there was in such actions which implied 
 want of purpose and want of thought, there was goodness, 
 too, upon which no tone of distress ever fell in vain. “ He 
 has been known,” says Prior, the most genial of his bio- 
 graphers, “ to quit his bed at night, and even labouring 
 under indisposition, in order to relieve the miserable ; and 
 when money was scarce, or to be procured with difficulty 
 by borrowing, he has, nevertheless, shared it with such as 
 presented any claims to charity.” 
 
 This generosity of temper, united with keen observation, 
 enabled Goldsmith to pierce readily through the disguises of 
 selfishness ; so that with his comic sagacity, and his genial 
 perception of the ludicrous, no writer can give more amusing 
 pictures than he does of sordid follies. Even in his very 
 youth, we have the narrative of an adventure which pro- 
 mises all the thoughtful drollery that he afterwards ex- 
 hibited. He had gone in a freak to Cork, mounted on a 
 noble horse, and with thirty pounds in his pockets. It was 
 not long ere he was returning, with merely five shillings, 
 and mounted on an animal which he called Fiddle-back. 
 He was, however, blithe and careless, for near to the city 
 there was a college friend who had often pressed him to a 
 visit. “ We shall enjoy,” he would say, “ both the city 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 145 
 
 and the country ; and you shall command my stable and my 
 purse.” „ 
 
 Going towards his friend’s house, he divided his five shil- 
 lings with a destitute woman, and on his arrival he found 
 his friend an invalid ; but so cordial was his reception, that 
 remorse struck him for not having given the whole five shil- 
 lings to his needy sister. He stated his case, and opened his 
 heart to his friend. His friend walked to and fro, rubbed 
 his hands, and Goldsmith attributed this to the force of his 
 compassion, which required motion, and to the delicacy of 
 his sentiments, which commanded silence. The hour was 
 growing late, and Goldsmith’s appetite had been long at 
 craving point. “ At length an old woman came into the room 
 with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which she laid 
 on the table. This appearance,” says Goldsmith, “ without 
 increasing my spirits, did not diminish my appetite. My 
 protectress soon returned with one bowl of sago, a small 
 porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and 
 the heel of an old cheese. My friend,” continues the poet, 
 “ apologised, that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and 
 that better fare was not in the house ; observing, at the same 
 time, that a milk diet was certainly the most healthful. At 
 eight o’clock he again recommended a regular life, declaring 
 that, for his part, he would lie down with the lamb, and rise 
 with the lark. My hunger was at this time so exceedingly 
 sharp that I wished for another slice of the loaf, but was 
 obliged to go to bed without that refreshment.” 
 
 Next morning Goldsmith spoke of his departure. “ To 
 be sure,” said this munificent friend, “ the longer you 
 stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve her, 
 and your other relatives ; and possibly they are already 
 afflicted at hearing of this foolish expedition you have 
 made.” Goldsmith, then, reminding him of former good 
 turns, tried to borrow a guinea from him. “ Why, look 
 you, Mr. Goldsmith,” said Solomon the younger, “I have 
 paid you all you ever lent me, and this sickness of mine 
 has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought myself 
 of a conveyance for you. Sell your horse, and I will 
 furnish you with a much better one to ride on.” I readily, 
 said Goldsmith, grasped at this proposal, and begged to 
 
 10 
 
146 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 see the nag ; on which he led me to his bedchamber, and 
 from under the bed pulled out a stout oak stick. “ Here,” 
 said he, “ take this in your hand, and it will cany you to 
 your mother’s with more safety than such a horse as you 
 ride.” Goldsmith was about to lay it on his back, but a 
 casual visitor coming on, his generous friend introduced him 
 with eulogium and with enthusiasm. Both of them had an 
 invitation to dinner — for which Goldsmith was quite pre- 
 pared ; and it seemed not less acceptable to the amiable 
 invalid. At the close of the evening, the entertainer offered 
 Goldmith a bed, who then told his former host to go home 
 and take care of his excellent horse, but that he would never 
 enter his house again. 
 
 I have confined my remarks chiefly to a distinctive quality 
 in the character of Goldsmith, universally conceded ; but his 
 whole worth was by no means confined to this. No gross 
 vices are recorded against him ; his general habits appear 
 to have been comparatively unstained ; his general tastes 
 were simple ; he was temperate almost to abstinence ; and 
 excess he regarded with abhorrence. To speak thus is to 
 speak negatively ; but these negatives, connected with Gold- 
 smith’s position and his times, have a value that is positive. 
 But one virtue eminently positive belongs to Goldsmith, and 
 that is his exceeding literary purity ; the sacred indepen- 
 dence with which he used his talents, and the sacred pur- 
 poses to which he applied them. Follies were his, which 
 gathered afflictions about his lot, which not all his innocent 
 hilarity could throw off. Carelessness brought misfor- 
 tunes upon him, which broke at last his elastic capacity 
 of endurance ; but no destitution was ever a temptation 
 to his literary conscience, and no pressure ever bent its 
 rectitude. From the beginning, Goldsmith eschewed pa- 
 trons ; he acted, from the first, on the manly resolution of 
 seeking support in the honest exertion of his own powers. 
 The Earl of Northumberland, goiug as Lord Lieutenant of 
 Ireland, offered him assistance ; Goldsmith declined for him- 
 \ self, but requested protection for his brother, a worthy pastor 
 and a worthy man. Sir John Hawkins calls him a fool ; but 
 his own words show he was as wise as he was conscientious : 
 €i I have,” said he, “ no dependence on the promises of great 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 147 
 
 men. I look to the booksellers for support ; they are my 
 best friends.*’ 
 
 It is true that Goldsmith could not always have an end 
 equal to his genius ; but he never perjured his convictions, 
 nor bartered his soul. It is true that his main object 
 was often merely to do a certain quantity of work, and 
 receive a certain sum of wages, and of this he some- 
 times complains with a sort of melancholy pleasantry. He 
 says, in reference to his “ History of England” : “ I have been 
 a good deal abused lately in the newspapers for betraying 
 the liberty of the people. God knows, I had no thought 
 for or against liberty in my head ; my whole aim being 
 to make a book of a decent size, that, as Squire Richard says, 
 would do no harm to nobody.” But, though Goldsmith had 
 often to think more of sustenance than fame, he merely wrote 
 rapidly, he did not write falsely. Living in an age when a 
 name sold a book, and when patrons made a name, and 
 when dedications earned patrons, Goldsmith passed over 
 titles and gratified his affections. The first of his poems he 
 inscribed to an indigent brother, and the others he inscribed 
 to his immediate friends. 
 
 He was ever perplexed with debts and surrounded with 
 difficulties. His heart always craving for money to give, and 
 his supply always far behind his craving, yet he could reject 
 propositions which men who have secured a reputation for 
 more austere virtue than Goldsmith, would have found elegant 
 excuses for accepting. The British Cabinet, by a confiden- 
 tial agent, intimated a munificent remuneration for his pen. 
 The poet occupied sordid chambers, and laboured lake a 
 slave ; but here was his answer : “ I can earn as much as 
 will supply my wants without writing for any party ; the 
 assistance, therefore, which you offer is unnecessary to me.” 
 
 Can you think of a much stronger temptation among 
 earthly struggles, than the offer of a rich Government to 
 a poor writer ? Judge Goldsmith, then, by the severity 
 of his trial, and give him the credit of his victory. But 
 he was honest with the public as he was with patrons. 
 Needy though he was, he sought the suffrage of men only 
 by means which tended to make them wiser, and to 
 make them better; and of those compositions which mul- 
 
148 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 titudes seek ns much as they should shun them, and 
 which it as easy as it is dishonourable to produce, not one 
 can be laid to the charge of Goldsmith. The spirit of his 
 works is as chaste as their style is classical ; and to him 
 belongs the glory of having purified expression, when the 
 phraseology even of women was coarse ; and of having con- 
 secrated the novel to virtue, when the pen of fiction was 
 dipped in the offscourings of passion. 
 
 Goldsmith is one of those whom we cannot help liking, 
 and whom we cannot criticise ; yet he is one that should be 
 praised with caution, if in our age there W'as much danger 
 of his being imitated. We are too busy for meditative 
 vagrancy ; we are too practical for the delusions of scholar- 
 ship ; even with the felicitous genius of Oliver Goldsmith, 
 the literary profession would now be an insecure basis for 
 subsistence, and none at all for prodigality. Extent of com- 
 petition, the rigour of criticism, the difficulty of acting on an 
 immensely reading public, repress the efforts of vanity; yet, 
 except in a few instances, they do not compensate the efforts 
 of power ; the vain are driven to obscurity, but the power- 
 ful have little more than their fame. And though we pos- 
 sessed the abilities of Goldsmith, and were tempted to his 
 follies, his life is before us for a memento, and his expe- 
 rience is sufficient for a warning. Yet it is agreeable to lay 
 aside our prudence for a little, and enjoy with him, in fancy [ 
 at least, the advantage of the hour ; to participate in his 
 thoughtless good nature, and to enter into his careless gaiety; 
 to sit with him in some lonely Swiss gleu ; or to listen to his 
 flute among the peasantry of France ; or to hear him debate 
 logical puzzles in monastic Latin ; to share the pride of his 
 new purple coat, which Johnson would not praise, and which 
 Boswell could not admire. More grateful still is the relief 
 which we derive from the perusal of his works ; for in these 
 we have the beaty of his mind, and no shade upon its wis- 
 dom ; the sweetness of humanity, and its dignity also. 
 
 We need the mental refreshment which writers like Gold- 
 smith afford. Our active and our thoughtful powers are all 
 on the stretch ; and such, unless it has appropriate relaxa- 
 tions, is not a state of nature or a state of health. From 
 the troubles of business, wffiich absorb the attention or ex- 
 
IRISH RENN1 READINGS. 149 
 
 haust it ; from the acclivities of society, which exemplify, in 
 the same degree, the force of mechanism and the force of 
 will ; from the clamour of politics, from the asperity of reli- 
 gious discussions, we turn to philosophy and literature for 
 less fatiguing or less disquieting interests. But our philo- 
 sophy, when not dealing with matter, is one which, in seek- 
 ing the limits of reason, carries it ever into the infinite and 
 obscure ; our literature is one which, in its genuine forms, 
 has equal intensity of passion and intensity of expression — 
 which, in its spurious forms, mistakes extravagance for the J 
 one, and bombast for the other. Our genuine literature 
 is the production of natural causes, and has its peculiar ex- 
 cellence. But from the excitement of our present literature, 
 whether genuine or spurious, it is a pleasant change to take 
 up the tranquil pages of Goldsmith ; to feel the sunny glow 
 of his thoughts upon our hearts, and on our fancies the gentle 
 music of his words. In laying down his writings we are 
 tempted to exclaim, “ Oh that the author of ‘ The Deserted 
 Village’ had written more poetry ! Oh that the author of 
 c The Vicar of Wakefield’ had written more novels !” 
 
 (Bob Iplcss the |Jrahe! 
 
 One of the Irish-American regiments serving in the civil war erected 
 a handsome marble monument over the grave of Richard Dalton 
 Williams in the cemetery of Thibodeaux, Louisiana. Their kindly 
 deed was made the subject of the following graceful poem by T. D. 
 M‘Gee 
 
 God bless the brave ! the brave alone 
 Were worthy to have done the deed ; 
 
 A soldier’s hand has raised the stone, 
 
 Another traced the lines men read, 
 
 Another set the guardian rail 
 Above thy minstrel, Innisfail ! 
 
 A thousand years ago — ah ! then 
 Had such a harp in Erin ceased, 
 

 150 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 His cairn had met the eyes of men, 
 
 By every passing hand increased. 
 
 God bless the brave ! not yet the race 
 Could coldly pass his resting place. 
 
 True have ye writ, ye fond and leal, 
 
 And, if the lines would stand so long, 
 
 Until the archangel’s trumpet peal 
 Should wake the silent son of song, 
 
 Broad on his breast he still might wear 
 The praises ye have planted there ! 
 
 Let it be told to old and young, 
 
 At home, abroad, at fire, at fair, 
 
 Let it be written, spoken, sung, 
 
 Let it be sculptured, pictured fair, 
 
 How the young braves stood, weeping, round 
 Their exiled poet’s ransomed mound ! 
 
 How lowly knelt, and humbly prayed, 
 
 The lion-hearted brother band, 
 
 Around the monument they made 
 For him who sang the Fatherland ! 
 
 A scene of scenes, where glory’s shed 
 Both on the living and the dead ! 
 
 Sing on, ye gifted ! never yet 
 Has such a spirit sung in vain ; 
 
 Ho change can teach us to forget 
 
 The burthen of that deathless strain. 
 
 Be true, like him, and to your graves 
 Time yet shall lead his youthful braves ! 
 
 A Wise and Patriotic Declaration. — The following 
 resolution was passed unanimously at a meeting of the Pro- 
 testant Repeal Association held in the Music Hall, Lower 
 Abbey-street, Dublin, on June 27th, 1848 : — “ Resolved — 
 That national prosperity is grounded upon social confidence ; 
 and that social confidence cannot be expected to exist in 
 Ireland so long as the laws are made and the government is 
 administered by strangers to the Irish people.” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 151 
 
 Ulte Question. 
 
 BY JOHN F. O’DONNELL. 
 
 You asked me, twice, in anxious mood, 
 
 What good can Ireland win, achieve, 
 
 By boasting of the right of blood — 
 
 What sullen day can she retrieve ? 
 
 I answer : For the common good, 
 
 Let her be hopeful, and believe. 
 
 If destined to be conquered — slain— 
 
 By native foe or foreign fate, 
 
 Of Ireland solely would remain 
 A memory void of space or date — 
 
 A dim tradition of the main — 
 
 A leper by the city gate. 
 
 But Ireland wears no lepers’ sore3 : 
 
 Her eye is clear, her stature strong ! 
 
 Through her strong veins the life-tide pours 
 In mighty tides of speech and song ; 
 
 She watches, by the echoing shores. 
 
 The birth of Bight, the death of Wrong. 
 
 Poor toilers we, with sword and brain, 
 
 We help her with our utmost power ; 
 
 We write her name on rath and plain — 
 
 Her banner plant on fosse and tower ; 
 
 We watch the seedling in the rain, 
 
 And wait till Heaven shall give it flower. 
 
 Greece fought ; at last, her great heart burst ; 
 Her spirit quailed before the foe ; 
 
 Poland, the mightiest and the first, 
 Surrendered at the triple blow ; 
 
 But Ireland ten times dared the worst, 
 
 And England never laid her low. 
 
 Persistent in her hidden strength, 
 
 And wakeful in her vigil’s dresm, 
 
152 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Confiding, surely, that at length 
 The issue of the years would seem, 
 
 Not the poised torch and amaranth, 
 
 But Freedom and the sun abeam. 
 
 It has not come ; a hundred cells 
 Hold fast our bravest and our best ; 
 
 They sing in pain the air that dwells 
 In every movement of unrest ; 
 
 The anthem of the heart that tells 
 
 How man is cursed and God is blessed. 
 
 Again you turn to me and say : 
 
 “ But why such gallant sacrifice ? 
 
 The peaceful land before them lay, 
 
 They needed no avenging cries ; 
 
 They might have clearly said their say, 
 And spared the tears of women’s eyes. ,# 
 
 And answer thus I freely give : 
 
 Suppose them happy, self-content — 
 
 Suppose them cursed and fugitive — 
 
 Their natures took their natural bent : 
 
 They knew the nation could not live, 
 
 By fraud and foul oppression rent. 
 
 They saw this Ireland trampled down ; 
 They hoped no mercy from the foe ; 
 
 In wasted field and ruined town, 
 
 Altar and hovel tumbled low ; 
 
 And by the Harp that wears no Crown, 
 They swore to lay the Saxon low. 
 
 They failed, I grant you— Klapki failed— 
 But not the cause for which he bled ; 
 
 Disaster, blood, and tears entailed, 
 
 Till beaten Hungary ran red, 
 
 And Europe howled and Europe railed 
 Above the victors and the dead. 
 
 But still the mighty Magyar race, 
 Persisting, won the doubtful day ; 
 
 The empire, charmed to sudden grace. 
 Achieved its mission — forced its way ; 
 
 The nation’s sons got breathing space, 
 
 Its heart resumed its pulse and sway. 
 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 153 
 
 Are we unworthy less renown ? 
 
 Are we unworthy less reward ? 
 
 We who, despite our masters’ frown, 
 
 Cling to tradition of the sword, 
 
 And prize the axe that strikes us down, 
 
 More precious than the spiteful word. 
 
 I say — let history answer this — 
 
 For us, we freely risk the chance, 
 
 And, meanwhile, be it joy or bliss, 
 
 Our constant motto is : Advance. 
 
 To ladies, whispered voice and kiss ; 
 
 For freemen, rifle, sword, and lance. 
 
 You see our corpses strew the field ; 
 
 You see our standard in the dust ; 
 
 You see our legions backward reeled 
 Before the foes’ imperious thrust. 
 
 We’ll dare all that before we yield — 
 
 The cause is good, and God is just. 
 
 f ersml Retail cttiotts at ifje <£Mw. 
 
 BY T. F. MEAGHER. 
 
 In February, 1846, there was a vacancy in the representation of Gal- 
 way : the seat was contested by Mr. Anthony O’Flaherty, in the Repeal 
 interest, and by Mr. James Henry Monahan, then Solicitor-General 
 (afterwards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas), in the interest of the 
 G-overnment. The “ Young Irelanders” and the “ Old Irelanders” and 
 the Catholic clergy worked heartily together, but the Whig landlords, 
 by dint of most unscrupulous and flagrant coercion of their tenants, carried 
 the election of the Government candidates by the narrow majority of seven. 
 Some of the scenes which occurred in the course of the contest form the 
 subject of the following raoy sketch from the pen of T. F. Meagher, who 
 with other members of the Repeal Association went down from Dublin 
 to render what assistance they could to the national candidate. 
 
 It was a fierce contest. Night and day the combatants 
 were at work. For more than a week they fought. From 
 dawn to sundown, the battle surged and thundered within 
 
154 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 the courthouse. From sundown to dawn the theatre, the 
 lanes, the streets, some of the oldest houses in the city, 
 the suburbs, the roads all round, were scenes of furious 
 action. 
 
 The theatre was a ridiculous old building. The walls in- 
 side were salmon-coloured. The paint, here and there and 
 everywhere, had been rubbed off. Occasionally some gashes 
 appeared. The white underground shone through these. 
 Monstrous noses, boldly delineated with burnt stick, revealed 
 themselves in swelling curves upon the walls. Cobwebs were 
 plentiful. They were there by the yard, the perch, the mile. 
 They were there in pocket-book editions and the folio size. 
 They were there as small as a snuff-box and as huge as a 
 bale. It was a warehouse of cobwebs. 
 
 Two or three of the side scenes were standing. One was 
 a stricken oak. Another a dingy pilaster with an Ionic 
 volute. A third represented an abutment of sandstone, 
 with an iron ring hanging out of it — a large black pudding 
 describing a circle on the door of a kitchen. The gas foot- 
 lights seemed very little better off than the rest of the furni- 
 ture. They were dismally out of repair. Most of them were 
 no better than rush-lights. A few of them did too much. 
 Extravagant beyond control, they went literally to blazes. 
 The rest of them, choked with dust, and otherwise incapa- 
 citated, were not a spark of use. 
 
 Nothing more favourable can be said of the stage. Full 
 of holes ; with a trap-door now and then giving way ; with 
 a scene-roller at intervals breaking loose from the ropes, or 
 the ropes snapping ; with the scantiest allowance of light 
 bare wall on either side, and a bare wall in the rear ; it was 
 the most disreputable platform any patriot could have the 
 infatuation to stand on. For years no tragic step had made 
 it creak. For years no ghost had risen through the shift- 
 ing apertures from the musty regions underneath. For years 
 no death by bowl or dagger had provoked the approving- 
 thunders of the soapless gods. 
 
 Seven o'clock, every evening of the contest, saw that paint- 
 less, lustreless, dishevelled temple of the drama in possession 
 of the stormiest crowd. Pit, boxes, galleries, every seat, 
 every standing-place, from floor to ceiling, were black with 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 155 
 
 people. The orchestra didn’t escape. The first into the 
 theatre, the moment the front door opened, had that. In- 
 stead of trombones and fiddles, bassoons and kettle-drums, 
 we had devoted Repealers who beat time with their heels, 
 and, previously to the chair being taken, enthusiastically 
 whistled “ Garryowen” with variations. One of these per- 
 formers was a man of huge limbs, upwards of six feet in 
 height. His shoulders were broad enough to carry a dray, 
 whilst the girth and shape of his arm realised what has been 
 told us of the colossal pugilist of Crotona. This famous Italian 
 carried a young bullock over forty yards, and then killed it 
 with one blow of his fist. Our friend in the orchestra might 
 easily have accomplished a similar feat. He was the image 
 of Hugh in the story of “ Barnaby Budge.” Every inch as 
 sinewy and large, he was as wild and shaggy in appear- 
 ance, and almost as desperate in his onslaughts. During 
 the election his exploits were terrific. In the courthouse, 
 the day of the nomination, he seized four men round the 
 neck with his right arm, and crushed them together as if 
 they were walnuts and he himself was a nutcracker. Another 
 time he pulled a big sergeant of hussars clean off his horse 
 — saddle, saddle-cloth, and all — with one jerk at the spurred 
 heel of the trooper. 
 
 About twelve o’clock one night he called on one of the 
 Confederates. Creeping inch by inch softly into the room 
 on tiptoe, he stood — with his broken hat in his hand, his 
 brown mass of hair strewed about his face and shoulders, 
 and his coarse shirt, spattered with mud, torn open from the 
 throat — the very picture of a Rapparee outlaw. 
 
 “ I’m done for,” says Mullin. 
 
 “ How so — what’s the matter now V 
 
 “ Done for,” says Mullin. 
 
 “ Let us know how.” 
 
 “ It’s up with me entirely,” says he. 
 
 “ But what’s the matter V 9 asks his friend the Confederate. 
 
 Mullin straightens himself up, twirls his hat twice, throws 
 back with his left hand a dozen brown flakes off his face, and 
 leaning over towards the table where his confidential adviser 
 was sitting, in a dismal whisper informs him that he’s had 
 no less than eleven petty sessions notices served on him for 
 assault and battery since morning. 
 
156 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “Now, what’s to be done 1 ?” said he. 
 
 “ Make them a dozen,” was the prompt reply of his 
 counsel. 
 
 Mullin, without saying a word, but with a comical shrug 
 of one shoulder, walked out. Slowly aud heavily he de- 
 scended the stairs, plaintively whistling as he went, but 
 making up his mind to make it the dozen. He did so. 
 
 Mullin was the terror of Monahan. He was the terror of 
 every man of the Government party. The latter would have 
 been beaten to rags were it not for the sabres of the hussars 
 and the bayonets of the police. Mullin would have done it. 
 Alone he’d have fluttered the Yolsces in Corioli. 
 
 A little after seven the chair in the theatre was usually 
 taken. The chair was a picturesque piece of stage furniture. 
 Made entirely of the plainest wood, with a high arched back, 
 and no openings between the legs, it was painted to har- 
 monise with the colour of the walls. It had been the judg- 
 ' ment-seat of the Doge in the “ Merchant of Venice,” had 
 also supported in their dying moments several dynasties 
 of kings and queens, and, with its back to the audience, and 
 the help of a little black and white canvas, had served for 
 the rostrum from which Mark Antony, more than once, 
 poured out his eloquent sorrows over the senseless body of 
 Caesar. It was all that was left of the gorgeous palaces, 
 temples, villas, banquet halls, and solemn courts of justice, 
 which had collapsed and withered into cobwebs. 
 
 One evening the orators and committee were half an hour 
 late. The people, grown utterly impatient, and despairing 
 of the usual performance, resolved on having something by 
 way of a change. 
 
 it was very near eight o’clock, when a few of us entered 
 the green-room. From the door opening on to the stage, 
 we beheld the chair planted close to the foot-lights, and a 
 number of legs and arms, with a head and a pretty big stick, 
 flashing from it on all sides. They were evidently keeping 
 time to a rollicking song. 
 
 “ I’m a ranting roving blade, 
 
 Of never a thing was I ever afraid ; 
 
 I’m a gentleman born, I scorn a trade, 
 
 And I’d be a rich man if my debts were paid. 
 
 Right fal lal de lal lal.” 
 
IIIIS II PENNY READINGS. 
 
 157 
 
 This was the sentiment of the singer, and in this senti- 
 ment, in ranting roving chorus, the tumultuous theatre . 
 seemed to concur. They had voted some frolicsome vaga- 
 bond into the chair, and this bright lad, with his hat tipped ■ 
 on three hairs, and the wrists of his coat turned up, was 
 flourishing a beautiful knobby bit of blackthorn in the ; 
 handsomest style, striking out with his elbows and fists, and 
 handling his legs with bewildering ease and rapidity. Nov/ ; 
 and then, when he chanced to do something perfectly mar- 
 vellous — when the blackthorn gave an extra twist or twirl, ’ 
 or his elbows and toes seemed to strike one another and ; 
 knock fresh music out of his throat — there was a roar of 
 applause, during which the shillelagh and legs worked away 
 as if the boy wrnre possessed. 
 
 The committee having arrived, we moved towards the 
 vocalist. A shout, lusty enough to sweep every cobweb, the 
 toughest and blackest, from the walls, greeted our entrance * 
 on the stage. Again and again and again it broke out. The 
 ranting roving blade, carried away with the enthusiasm of I 
 his art, infatuated with the belief that it was ail meant for 
 him, redoubled his efforts and continued his song. We came 
 closer. The shouts grew louder. The blackthorn frantically : 
 swept the air, the elbows shot out right and left, the legs ; 
 fairly flew asunder. Closer still. Up to the chair. Deafen- j 
 ing shouts ! The roving blade w T as one blaze of musical and ) 
 gymnastic insanity ! ) 
 
 In the midst of the next chorus he saw it all. One \ 
 sudden glance to the left disclosed to him the com- 
 mittee and Dublin deputations, Tom Steele at their 
 head. The stick fell from his grasp. His head fell 
 back. His hat fell off. His legs shot out, and quivered at 
 full length. ’Twas all over with him. The thought stunned 
 him. Recovering a little, he leaped headlong from the 
 salmon-coloured chair into the densely packed orchestra, 
 and disappeared for the rest of the contest. 1 never saw 
 him after that night. I never heard that anyone else did. 
 Indeed, I never heard that he was seen in Galway again. 
 
 His hat and favourite blackthorn, left behind on the surface 
 as he vanished with a plunge, were charitably fished up by - 
 the treasurer of the committee, carried away as trophies, and 
 deposited in the library of that gentleman. 
 
158 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 The speeches in the theatre can be easily imagined. They 
 were philippics against the Whigs. They were panegyrics 
 on Repeal. The servility of the landlords — the Marquis of 
 Clanricarde especially — swelled many an indignant period. 
 From the graves with which the famine had crowded the 
 land, flowers of the darkest hue sprang up. With the hard, 
 stern facts which years of vicious government had set one 
 upon another these flowers were woven. It was the ruin and 
 the ivy. Both had their roots in the soil strewed with wreck 
 and consecrated to the dead. The history of the Whigs, in 
 connexion with the popular party in Ireland, was laid open 
 with the boldest hand. Tom Steele denounced them as the 
 deadliest enemies of Repeal. The Rev. Mr. Roche spoke 
 with a thrilling emphasis of the “ cruel and criminal policy 
 of the Whig Government.” That the people were reduced 
 to starvation ; that all the corn and Indian meal stored in 
 Galway was permitted to rot ; that the gain of the English 
 merchants was preferred to the very lives of the people ; 
 that coroner’s inquests daily and hourly took place, whilst 
 the storehouses and granaries were overflowing ; these, he 
 said, and many other evils, were the rank fruit of the policy 
 maintained by that heartless Government. Richard O’ Gor- 
 man, Michael Joseph Barry, and Michael Doheny, shook that 
 old building with an eloquence which would have saved 
 Galway the disgrace of being beaten by the public prosecutor 
 cf the British Government, if eloquence could have prevailed 
 against the power of a corrupt Government, backed by a 
 servile aristocracy, and hundreds of tenants reduced to serf- 
 dom. 
 
 There were many of the voters just as corrupt as the 
 Government themselves. There were some who laid out 
 their votes for sale just as openly as an apple-woman does 
 her Golden Russetens and Sweet Williams. They asked 
 high prices, too. One old thief was exorbitant. A pawn- 
 broker by profession, he was a politician by trade. Inhabit- 
 ing two rooms on the third floor of a gloomy gaunt Spanish 
 house, there was a quaint picturesqueness surrounding him 
 which would have made, and may still render him, an attrac- 
 tive figure in Irish romance. 
 
 The house was very large. A dark low passage led to a 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 159 
 
 still darker staircase, up which one groped to the duskiest 
 lobbies, which again opened into the gloomiest chambers. 
 These chambers were wide and lofty, but it was somehow' 
 a very subdued light which their four walls imprisoned. 
 Imprisoned is the word, for the light never played in them. 
 It was dull — it was stagnant. It seemed to have been shut 
 up in those big coffins of masonry, and to have grown stale 
 and decayed. The wiudows were square. Massive stone 
 mullions gave them a deep, thick-set frown on the outside. 
 The staunch stonework in which the small, diamond-shaped 
 panes of greenish glass flickered, and the lead sashes in 
 which these pieces of mournful crystal were set, deepened 
 the gloom inside. Everything in and out of those Anda- 
 lusian houses wore a frown. The protruding parapet up 
 there, seven storeys above the rough pavement, was a petri- 
 fied frown. The stone carvings under the parapet were ever 
 so many gray frowns. The doorway was an arch frown. The 
 whole front of the house was a ponderous frown. Within, as 
 I have hinted, it wasn’t a whit better. 
 
 In such a house lived the corrupt pawnbroker. Reported 
 to be wealthy, he sluggishly spun out on crumbs his existence 
 in rags. One of the two rooms he rented served as a kitchen, 
 a nursery, an audience chamber for his distressed friends, 
 and a refectory where he picked his occasional meal. Lub- 
 berly as a sloth, he was as sly as a fox. The moment the 
 election began he slipped off his clothes and slipped into 
 bed. He was determined to be bought — was determined to 
 be bought at the highest possible price. With this determi- 
 nation he got into bed, and gave out that he was sick. The 
 greater the difficulties the buyer had in getting him to mar- 
 ket, the greater the inducement to his walking that way the 
 considerate contractors were likely to offer. The difficulty 
 of finding them enhances the value of the emeralds of Gra- 
 nada. The pawnbroker knew this. The difficulty of gather- 
 ing it infuses a fresh lustre into the sapphire. This, too, 
 the pawnbroker knew. His logic was perfect. 
 
 For the first five days of the election no one took notice 
 of him. No one mentioned him. No one thought of him 
 even. He might have been dead — stone dead — instead of 
 pretending to be a little indisposed. He must have grown 
 
1G0 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 weary of his speculation. The time must have been heavy 
 with him in his blankets. There was no one to visit him. 
 
 Drawing close to the last day of the contest every vote 
 was of consequence. It was now a neck-and-neck race. The 
 registry book w T as anxiously scrutinised. It was sharply 
 scrutinised. It Tvas scrutinised with the eye of a proof 
 reader, or that of a London detective. Not a voter’s name 
 appeared on the ruled sheets but was studied, sifted, hunted, 
 as it were, into its remotest recesses. Even the voters re- 
 ported to be dead, reported to be at sea, reported to be off 
 in some Terra del Fuego or Sandwich Islands, became the 
 subjects of inquiry, anxious, profound, and persevering. 
 After which search and exploration, it’s no wonder that the 
 poor invalid pawnbroker was found out. An active agent of 
 O’Flaherty’s committee asked me to accompany him on a 
 visit to the patient. I consented to do so. Indeed, urged 
 by curiosity, I cheerfully assented. 
 
 “ Come in.” 
 
 This came from a very weak voice. We had heard that 
 the inmate of the room at which we knocked was laid up — 
 the wdiole town had suddenly heard of it and wakened up 
 sympathetically to the disconsolate fact — and the tenderness 
 of the tones in which we were desired to come in confirmed 
 the report. Gently, noiselessly, stealthily we opened the door. 
 
 “ Come in,” said the sick man, coughing harshly but 
 weakly, and drawing up the quilt. 
 
 “ Mr. Cassidy,” said my friend, in the sweetest notes possi- 
 ble, and bending towards him with all the affection of a family 
 physician, “ we’ve heard of your illness, and have called in to 
 see you.” 
 
 “ Thank you, gentlemen, thank you,” coughed out spasmo- 
 dically the prostrate poor pawnbroker. 
 
 “ You’re aw'are, sir,” continued the eloquent and active 
 Eepealer, “ you’re aware, sir” 
 
 “ I’m aware of nothing,” hastily interposed the consump- 
 tive man, with a spit and a spasm, and some minutes’ 
 coughing. 
 
 “ Most probably not, sir,” resumed the Eepealer ; “ for 
 having been for so many days, so many months, a victim to 
 neuralgia” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 161 
 
 “ It’s not neuralgia,” shouted the pawnbroker, with a jerk, 
 kicking the quilt violently up at the foot of the bed. 
 
 “ Well, then, sir,” the patriotic agent calmly resumed, “ not 
 being professionally cognizant of your disease, I may have 
 innocently erred in the few preliminary words which have 
 fallen from me, and which courtesy, as well as a deep sym- 
 pathy with your present condition” 
 
 “Never mind my condition,” was the gruff injunction 
 which came from the blankets. 
 
 “Which,” the eloquent and courteous gentleman con- 
 tinued, never minding the interruption, “ your present con- 
 dition inspired.” 
 
 A toss of the blankets, a restless cough, a snufflle or two, 
 and a flap of the patient’s hand on the pillow. 
 
 “ But I’ve come,” said the kindly Samaritan, “ principally 
 to see you on business.” 
 
 The sick man rose up in the bed, straightened his spec- 
 tacles, looked keenly and piercingly through them, coughed 
 heartily — just for a second or two — then clapping the sheets 
 spread down before him with the palm of his hand, somewhat 
 effectively exclaimed — too much so, indeed, for a man drop- 
 ping off with consumption : 
 
 “ Well, then, to business, if that’s what you’re on.” 
 
 The spectacles were cracked. They were cracked in the 
 shape of a star, or a sun-fish with an extra allowance of legs. 
 They were cracked as a smooth clear sheet of ice happens 
 occasionally to be, when a gentleman in broad pantaloons, 
 being swept clean off his heels, falls plump backward upon it. 
 Set in the palest silver, they blended fearfully with Mr. 
 Cassidy’s complexion. ’Twas a ghoul in a night-shirt that 
 sat there before us. A copy of the World newspaper lay 
 crumpled amongst the hillocks and furrows of the quilt, 
 close to the wall. The quilt was of patchwork. A dingy 
 brown colour prevailed. The smell of stale mustard was 
 strong. 
 
 “ Mr. Cassidy,” said the stranger who first addressed him, 
 “ the exciting circumstances of this moment may at once 
 suggest to you the purport of our visit.” 
 
 “ Ever read the World V } was Mr. Cassidy’s pleasant inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 11 
 
1G2 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 “ You’re aware, sir,” said the diplomatist with the airiest 
 benignity, taking no heed of the question the pawnbroker 
 propounded, “ that a great — a serious — a vital question, in 
 short, is now being decided in your town. An election — a 
 furious and deadly election — is raging. On the one hand we 
 have, sir, the nominee of a foreign Government.” 
 
 The pawnbroker, during the first part of the foregoing 
 sentence, had turned his back on the speaker, and busied 
 himself violently, rummaging under the bolster and mattress 
 for something. Wheeling suddenly, with a stern movement, 
 into his former position, he faced his visitors, with a flute 
 under his lip, his fingers upon the keys, and his nightcap 
 thrown back from his forehead. The nightcap looked as if 
 it were made of cobwebs. It looked as if peopled with 
 spiders. It looked as if the spiders were frantic, and were 
 twisting and jerking it (holding on by the tassel) back from 
 the pawnbroker’s head. The flute was a German one, made 
 of dark cocoa wood, mounted in ivory and silver. The ivory 
 was cracked. The cocoa wood was cracked. So was the 
 pawnbroker. The silver had the distemper. It was the 
 
 colour of soot, with a slight infusion of whitewash. 
 
 “Ever hear 6 Away with Melancholy’?” the musician in- 
 quired. 
 
 “ Seldom under such circumstances,” was the temperate 
 reply. 
 
 It was gracefully tendered. My friend rose with the occa- 
 sion. His sweetness increased as the difficulties of the pa- 
 triotic diplomacy grew to be more close and entangled. The 
 eccentricities of the miserable elector in bed were enough to 
 exasperate the blandest of spirits. The impediments his 
 capricious intellect, movements, and tastes threw in the way 
 of a prompt settlement of the question in point, were more 
 than enough to repel the hardest of hearts. 
 
 Diplomacy, after all, is the superlative of art. In no other 
 business does heart or brain, physical endurance, or Chris- 
 tian patience undergo such excruciating tests. In no other 
 \ business do they so wonderfully demonstrate their elasticity. 
 
 ' In no other business do they so exquisitely harmonise theft • 
 with honesty, and the turmoil of Erebus with the placidity 
 of Elysium. It is the Andean altitude of art. There is 
 no ascension on this earth beyond it. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 1G3 
 
 My friend was master of it. The scene in which he 
 proved himself on this occasion was confined. The issue of 
 his controversy was insignificant. But in the classic days, 
 we are told, one made himself famous for his physical achieve- 
 ments — famous for carrying with the jauntiest air and ease 
 the weightiest loads — having begun with carrying a calf, and 
 continuing to carry it until it became a ponderous ox. It 
 grew on his back, and he strengthened with its strength. 
 So, too, the Irish gamekeeper became the first of shots in. 
 his neighbourhood, and for miles and miles round. The gun 
 he used, he knew it, he said, ever since it had been a pistol. 
 And so, too, my friend in the Galway election practised on 
 small things in the narrowest spheres. But in the obscure prac- 
 tice he disclosed an exhaustless wealth of temper, genius, 
 language, urbanity, ingenuity, duplicity, and delicacy, which 
 set in motion on a loftier stage — set to control the ambition 
 of princes — set to upset the schemes of Metternichs or Tal- 
 leyrands — would have immortalised him in the pages of 
 Macaulays and Machiavellis of a century greater than the 
 nineteenth. Had Ireland been a nation, he should have 
 had the mission to Japan, 
 
 Mr. Cassidy poured his dull soul into the cracked cocoa- 
 wood, and, looking over his spectacles, burnt his blood-shot 
 eyes, as if with a pair of red-hot knitting-needles, into his 
 audience. A grotesque and imaginative thief, there was 
 method in his madness. 
 
 “ He’s as mad as a hatter,” whispered the Repealer to me, 
 winking one eye to flatter the maniac, and the other to inti- 
 mate he understood it completely. The maniac was partly 
 misled. Partly. For a look through the spectacles fiercer 
 than usual gave notice he was watching us sharply. Mr. 
 Cassidy evidently, in the depth of his own mind, deter- 
 mined to have the best of the joke. He came to the con- 
 clusion he could tire us out, with his comical tricks, into his 
 own way of thinking. Some men close up a bargain consi- 
 derably to their disadvantage, to get rid of the trouble and 
 vexation the huxtering discussion entails. Cassidy, who 
 knew the value of the emeralds of New Granada from the 
 labour their discovery necessitates, was well aware of this 
 weakness. He inwardly resolved to be obstinate. His ec- 
 
lGI IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 centricities and pranks were but the expression of his secret 
 oath to achieve the highest price for his vote. 
 
 My friend’s name has not been as yet mentioned. I felt 
 some delicacy in giving it. In the course of the story I 
 have warmed (as one does with rich wine, briskly sent 
 round), and, becoming confidential, disclose it. James O’Hea 
 is the name. An attorney by necessity and profession, had 
 he the fine linen fand full purse to sport, his tastes would 
 have secured him into the more glittering regions of govern- 
 ment, and been satisfied exuberantly with the knee breeches 
 and small sword of the mission to Naples. Providence 
 unequally dispenses the gifts of the world. Stupidity and 
 proud flesh are paramount, while genius huddles itself away 
 from the blaze of diamonds, and the flaunting of sky-blue 
 Garter, and the cloudy grandeur of Golden Fleece ho- 
 nours, into a dim cell with a broken bedstead and window, 
 where with the stump of a pen, as wfith a Prospero wand, it 
 gives to the world “ The Vicar of Wakefield” or “ Gisippus” 
 — a tragedy which covers the grave of the author as with 
 the towering and arching magnificences of a cosmopolitan 
 Pantheon. Instead of bamboozling a Bourbon at the foot of 
 Vesuvius, James O’Hea, a Carrickfergus attorney, was doing 
 his best to outwit an obscure pawnbroker of Galway. It 
 was not a throne, but a vote, that was at stake. Such are 
 the mistakes of Fortune. Such, it appears to me, are the 
 infelicities which humiliate genius and impoverish mankind, 
 being the main cause of the ugliest quarrels between nations, 
 and all the evils which, like toads and lizards from an over- 
 turned fountain, in" the slimiest abundance issue there- 
 from. 
 
 “ Admirable !” the gentle attorney exclaimed, as Mr. 
 Gassidy solemnly dwelt on the last notes of the piece he had 
 selected, and unfolding his eyelids to the tattered roof of the 
 bedstead, expanding his shirt bosom, and fainting back on 
 the bolster, blew the most solemn and sorrowful wind through 
 the dark tunnel which forwarded to the wall the varying 
 moods of his soul. 
 
 “ Beautiful !” I plaintively murmured, ravenously wishing 
 for the death of the comical rascal, or that his flute and him- 
 self might be blowed. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 165 
 
 Mr. Cassidy laughed as he took down his flute, and 
 smoothly shoved it in under the blankets and quilt. It was 
 like sheathing a rapier in velvet. The sensation produced 
 by it was perfectly delicious. When buried completely, Mr. 
 Cassidy, slipping himself after it, and leaving nothing but 
 his teeth, cracked spectacles, and nightcaps of cobwebs in 
 sight, for a second time laughed. ’Twas the laugh of a 
 hyena. Had it come from the mouldiest vault in which 
 dead people were stored, it could not have sounded more 
 horrible. 
 
 “ Oh ! let’s go,” I emphatically said ; “ he’s a frightful old 
 scoundrel.” 
 
 “ To beguile the time, look like the time — bear welcome 
 in your eye, your hand, your lip” — 
 
 Mr. O’Hea went on in the sweetest style with the quota- 
 tion, waving and curving his right hand to the silent musi- 
 cian, who with his keen red-hot knitting needles of eyes 
 pierced him through and through almost, until he came to 
 the end of it, when the diplomatist turned to me, impres- 
 sively repeating the words — 
 
 “ Look like the flower, but be the serpent under it.” 
 
 “ I’m sick,” said the flutist, wriggling under the quilt, 
 working his spectacles up and down his nose, from eyebrows 
 to nostrils, digging the flute deeper into the blankets at the 
 foot of the bed, so as to make the keys very audibly shake, 
 and then seizing the World with his left hand, crumpling it 
 savagely, working it spasmodically with his fingers into a 
 huge wrinkled ball, waving it furiously in the air, and finally 
 pitching it against the window, from which it rebounded, 
 falling into a basin of suds, which had been lying in a sickly 
 white frame under the shadowy window for more than a 
 week. Mr. O’Hea w T as nowise dismayed. Not the least. He 
 was confident of his strength, ingenuity, and patience. He 
 knew that Cassidy was anxious to be bought. Knowing this, 
 he knew Mr. Cassidy’s weakness. Knowing *his weakness, 
 he knew how to manage him. He had the secret to his suc- 
 cess. Determined to tire him out, he was resolved to be 
 patient. In fact, with the consciousness of his own strength, 
 the weakness of his victim, and the certainty of conquest, it 
 cost him nothing to be calm, complacent, affable, and abiding. 
 
166 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Thus it is that the largest salmon are sloped quietly ashore. 
 Thus it is that even the sternest rock will become a 
 sponge. 
 
 “ The flute must be a great comfort to you,” the gentle- 
 man all the way from Carrickfergus observed. 
 
 u Nothing to you,” growled Cassidy, slipping deeper under 
 the bed-clothes, and snuffling, as if suffocating, as the tip of 
 his nose went under. 
 
 “ Come, now, Mr. Cassidy.” 
 
 6 ‘ Never mind Mr. Cassidy.” 
 
 “ Like a good fellow.” 
 
 “ You're mighty soft — aren’t ye 
 
 “ But you know” 
 
 “ But I don't.” 
 
 “ There's nothing like a man having a little money beside 
 him.” 
 
 Mr. Cassidy came up, drawing the flute after him. It was 
 exposed to the third joint. The patient himself was visible 
 to the waist. A smile was perceptible. It filled up the 
 holes left by the small-pox, and played through the cracks 
 of the spectacles. Then there was a rubbing of hands, and 
 another laugh from the hyena, as if the hyena had just made 
 a good match, and had a great fortune secured him. I was 
 thoroughly tired all this time, and several times implored 
 my friend to drop the Three Balls, or else excuse me for 
 going alone. He was not to be touched. Stick to him I 
 should. See it out, he appealed to me by the loftiest con- 
 siderations to do. I felt bound to him by links of iron. 
 But the links were covered with honey, and gradually his 
 wit and suavity were transforming the sick reprobate into an 
 interesting case, from the contemplation of which I felt my- 
 self every moment less and less disposed to tear myself 
 away. It was Titania in love with poor Bottom. 
 
 Bottom lay in bed, enchanted partly by his own conceit 
 (he was sure he’d win his own terms), and partly by the 
 attorney of Oberon, who even by this time had so played 
 upon his delicate imagination that the bed-posts glittered 
 like thick sticks of gold, and the whitewash on the walls 
 melted into golden showers, and the cobwebs in the corner 
 of the window-frame tightened themselves into stiff netting 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 1G7 
 
 of fine gold. The illusion became so beautiful, the pawn- 
 broker felt his nightcap hardened into a crown of precious 
 metal. He was in ecstacies. 
 
 “ You’re a good fellow,” he cried out — “ a right good 
 fellow — the best fellow I’ve met this many a day” — he 
 shouted, slapping the quilt with the flute, which he had 
 pulled out the full length from its scabbard — “ good luck to 
 the girls, and three cheers for Cassidy !” 
 
 His delight became riotous. He jerked off his night-cap, 
 pitched the flute over the footboard of his bed, threw up his 
 spectacles, launched the bolster out on the floor, whirled 
 one of the pillows over his red head, kicking up his toes, and 
 beating the mattress and sheets with his heels, as if swim- 
 ming for life and death in a horsepond on the broad of his 
 back. But the fit didn’t last long. 
 
 “ That’s right, Mr. Cassidy,” said Mr. O’Hea, patting him 
 confidentially on his left shoulder, and whispering to him 
 that all should be right. 
 
 “ Where is it V asked Cassidy. 
 
 “ You’ll have it the moment you’re up,” whispered O’Hea. 
 
 “ A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” the pawn- 
 broker observed with a frown, a cough, a scornful twitch of 
 his lip and left shoulder, and his whole manner subdued. 
 
 “ Oh ! get up, Mr. Cassidy — get up, if you please — we’re 
 in a hurry, you know.” 
 
 This request was urged with the sweetest earnestness of 
 gesture and voice. It was not half through, when the bed- 
 clothes became perfectly still. Nothing but a dull waste 
 lay flat and noiseless between the four posts of the bed. 
 Nothing was visible but the brown quilt, and the quilt was 
 unruffled. The pawnbroker was below. He had disappeared 
 — like his flute on a former occasion. 
 
 “ Mr. Cassidy 1” 
 
 Not a word, not a stir, not a ripple on the surface. 
 
 “ Mr. Cassidy !” 
 
 The name was called in a louder tone this time, but 
 to no purpose. It might have been a corpse was under the 
 quilt. 
 
 “ Mr. Cassidy, here’s w T hat you want.” 
 
 Mr. O’Hea had forced his hand deep into his trousers’ 
 
168 IRISH PENNY HEADINGS. 
 
 pocket, and drawn from out there a handful of crispy bank- 
 notes. He squeezed them. They rustled. He took one, hold- 
 ing it up to the light, and rattled it sharply and cunningly. 
 It rattled like the newest and brightest of tin-foil. It gave 
 out, like a chorus of crickets, the loveliest of notes. It was 
 brisk enough to have started a miser a hundred years dead 
 from his shroud. Cassidy awoke. 
 
 “ Now, won’t you come V said the tempter. 
 
 cc Would you like any beef!” asked the pawnbroker, half 
 with a smile and half with a leer. 
 
 Mr. Cassidy got on the floor. His movement in doing so 
 was rapid. It was a wild slide and descent. Lightly clad in 
 his loose cotton tunic, he threw himself on his knees in front 
 of a green box, which stood near the window, close to the 
 foot of his bed. Inserting a key and twisting it in the lock, 
 with a grin and a squint at his visitors, he lifted the lid, 
 looked into the box eagerly, gave a cough and a snuffle, 
 smelt about for a second or two, laughed like a hyena, shook 
 his head sharply; laughed again, grinned and squinted again 
 at his guests, and then shut down the lid. Quickly re- 
 tracing his steps to the head of the bed, he tossed up the 
 blanket and quilt in search of his spectacles. The search 
 was productive of many queer treasures. First of all he 
 drew up an old pamphlet ; an embroidered waistcoat, very 
 much worn and stained, next came to the top ; a razor strop 
 followed ; then a japanned toasting-fork, a case of surgical 
 instruments, a pair of middling-sized tin scales, two or three 
 blue worsted stockings, nail-brushes and boot-hooks, a tea- 
 pot, a sugar-bowl, a bundle of tea-spoons, and two old- 
 fashioned egg-cups of silver. Every article was set down on 
 the floor with a laugh, a squint, and a grin. A shout or 
 shriek, with a brief dance in the short tunic, varied occa- 
 sionally the monotonous process. It was, on the whole, a 
 grim exhumation of forfeited deposits. 
 
 “ That,” he cried out, holding up an electrotyped teapot 
 and rattling it, “ has belonged to one of the Blakes.” 
 
 His explorations went on. By-and-byhe came to a razor. 
 Opening it carefully, he passed it up and down the ball of 
 his left thumb. 
 
 “ Good !” says he, with a wink like that of a fiend, “ one 
 of the Frenches owned that.” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 169 
 
 An ivory enamelled card-case made its appearance on the 
 dish of a brass candlestick. The dish was discoloured and 
 fouL It was as green and as damp as a grave in the church- 
 yard of Kilbarry. The last treasure exhumed was a piece of 
 stale corn beef, as tough as an ash root, about the size of a 
 brick. A thick rag of fat clung around it, and a broken 
 bone forced its way through it. The bone was decayed. 
 Spotted with something like verdigris, it was punctured all 
 over. 
 
 “ Take a bit,” said Mr. Cassidy, with the most winning 
 voice, smiling at his guests, holding the beef in one hand, 
 and with the razor, which belonged to one of the Frenches, 
 slicing the meat dexterously. 
 
 After this, I concluded we were done for. I gave up the 
 game in despair. Cassidy couldn’t be wheedled. ’Twas no 
 use in trying. He was obstinate, dogged, incorrigible. No- 
 thing could coax him. Nothing could bend him. Nothing 
 could reason or tempt him out of his pretended insanity. 
 He was determined to beat us. We should have to conclude 
 with him on his own full terms, or we might go home. 
 That was his determination. The variety of his treasures — 
 those countless forfeited goods — boot-hooks, teapots, sauce- 
 pans, and razors — above all, the package of beef — enabled 
 him, with considerable relish to himself, to prolong the ex- 
 periment. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Mr. O’Hea was 
 still patient and hopeful. 
 
 “ Good day, Mr. Cassidy.” 
 
 “ Good day,” he laughed out — “ won’t you have a bit 
 
 And as I drew the door after me, I saw the pawnbroker, 
 staring fiercely at me through the cracks of his spectacles, 
 stretching the boiled beef in his skinny hand towards me, 
 and with his yellow teeth set and his stump of a nose curved 
 in a grin, inviting me to take a bit, if it were ever so small. 
 
 [CONCLUDED IN VOL. III., PAGE 3 .] 
 
 England’s Difficulty, Ireland’s Opportunity. — When 
 England conquered, Ireland was coerced ; when she was de- 
 feated, Ireland was relieved. — Grattan . 
 
170 IRISH PENNY READINGS 
 
 ®0m* mxb @ba. 
 
 BY THOMAS IRWIN. 
 
 Mistily, oh ! mistily, ye starless clouds, awhile 
 Float around yon castle lands that forest-skirt the isle ; 
 
 Muffle up the lovers as they tread the path to shore, 
 
 But thickest hang between them and the tower that looks it o’er* 
 
 Distantly, oh ! distantly, thou heavy rounded sun, 
 
 Pause beneath the tides until their swinging bark is won ; 
 Daintily, a little while, ye billows, wash the strand 
 Ere yet ye kiss that tiny coying footstep off the sand. 
 
 Sink awhile thy thunder surges, surfy rolling swell ! 
 
 Drink not up that little bark that tops thy hills so well ; 
 
 Shake no more with thy rude mirth that beating heart thi3 
 hour, 
 
 But o’er thee let it float in peace, like thy blue little flow’r. 
 
 Spring aloft now when thou wilt, 0 cheerful morning light ! 
 Make the sea floor spreading off to yonder islet bright ; 
 Tenderly and steadily sweep on, thou sunny gale, 
 
 And fan her cheek, and keep astretch the full-blown eager sail. 
 
 Now yonder on the yellow beach an evening group appears, 
 Gazing toward that dipping barque and blessing him that 
 steers — 
 
 Oh, hush thee, good sea wind ! till she who looks through fright* 
 ened tears 
 
 Can hear the song of yonder maidens floating to her ears. 
 
 Sink again thy thunder surges, surfy rolling swell ! 
 
 Drink not up that little barque that tops thy waves so well ; 
 Daintily, a little while, ye billows, wash the strand 
 Ere yet ye kiss that tiny coying footstep off the sand. 
 
 And thou, their fellow traveller, now red and rounding dim, 
 
 Oh, rest a little longer on the moorland’s rushy rim, 
 
 And through the window on the stair of Oscar’s towered home, 
 Where Eva treads, with one last smile of welcome shining come. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 171 
 
 3Enmshoto£R. 
 
 BY MICHAEL SCANLAN. 
 
 ~No wonder I do weep and sigh 
 As here alone 
 
 I sadly stray through forests gray, 
 
 Unloved, unknown. 
 
 Oh for the rays of boyhood’s days, 
 
 Bright days long down, 
 
 The waving woods and the rushing floods 
 Of Innishow’n ! 
 
 The woe and tears of dreary years 
 Have worn away 
 
 That sterner part which round my heart 
 Through manhood lay, 
 
 And, like a child that’s roamed the wild 
 And tired grown, 
 
 I sit and sigh for days gone by 
 In Innishow’n. 
 
 The mountain streams dance through my dreams 
 In silver song — 
 
 As leaping light the liquid bright 
 Laughs down among 
 
 The dark glens wild where oft, a child, 
 
 I’ve wandered through, 
 
 Ere sorrow gave her poisoned wave 
 For Summer dew. 
 
 From hill and vale the Clan na Gael 
 Have sadly fled ; 
 
 The cold footfall of Saxon Gall 
 Disturbs the dead. 
 
 How must they feel ’neath Saxon heel ? 
 
 Ochone ! ochone ! 
 
 The rook finds rest in the eagle’s nest 
 In Innishow’n. 
 
172 IRISH PENNY READINGSr 
 
 Should Cahir come from his mo3S-grown tomb 
 To Couldah’s side, 
 
 And from the height look down beneath 
 Where true men died, 
 
 How would he sigh as days gone by 
 Came rushing on, 
 
 To find how slaves can tread the graves 
 Of lions gone ! 
 
 O Liberty ! when shall we see 
 Thy smiles again ? 
 
 Both night and day we watch and pray, 
 
 And look in vain. 
 
 How many years, through woe and tears, 
 We’ve braved the storm, 
 
 In heart and mind we’ve kept enshrined 
 Thy sacred form ! 
 
 ’Tis true that we were false to thee 
 And to the dead, 
 
 Else from where first thy youth was nursed 
 Thou ’dst never fled — 
 
 That, whilst wo slept, foul tyrants crept 
 And bound the chains 
 
 Which tinged the flood of Gaelic blood 
 Within our veins. 
 
 But, Liberty, when Tyranny 
 Was on thy track, 
 
 The blood and bone of Innishow’n 
 Were at thy back ; 
 
 From mount and glen came stalwart men, 
 Each heart thine own ; 
 
 What foe would dare the wolf-dog’s lair 
 In Innishow’n ? 
 
 Those were the times when clashing chimes 
 From hungry swords 
 
 Fell on the ears of mountaineers 
 Like sweetest words ; 
 
 Where Freedom found her native ground 
 Was on the heath, 
 
 Where men grown bold through legions old 
 Did play with death. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 173 
 
 But long ago by want and woe 
 
 Fond ties were riven ; 
 
 A scattered host, on every coast 
 
 They’re tempest-driven ; 
 
 But still they bear through toil and care 
 The stamp and tone 
 
 That freemen bore in days of yore 
 Through Innishow’n. 
 
 Green Innisfail ! one of the Gael 
 That ne’er may see 
 
 The golden days when thou shalt raise 
 Thy proud head free, 
 
 Stands by the shore, and gazing o’er 
 The deep, wide sea, 
 
 Thus tills the cup of true love up, 
 
 And drinks to thee 1 
 
 Ptacfoer’s f crsml 
 
 DAN CALLAGHAN AND GANSEY— THE KILLARNEY PIPER AND THE 
 MEMBER FOR CORK. 
 
 In our last number we left the member for Cork sitting 
 at that jovial table, in Finn’s Hotel, Killarney, with Gansey, 
 the blind chant eur, close to his elbow. The cloth had been 
 removed, the fruit laid, the port and claret circulated; the 
 mellow, genial old whiskey — Wyse’s oldest — had been passed 
 from hand to hand, and, under another combination, from 
 mouth to mouth. Cigars, too, had been lit. The dining 
 room was full of aromatic smoke and exhilirating steam. 
 The festive sea was at its highest tide. Not a bare or barren 
 spot could be descried. The sparkling, bounding waves 
 rolled over the broad space ; swept the brown, glistening ; 
 strand from end to end ; dashed up to the sulkiest rocks that 
 thought to frown or look stiff upon them ; broke in flashes 
 
174 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS; 
 
 through many a lowering crevice ; and flinging up pearls, and 
 shells, or flowers of daintiest fibre and countless shapes and 
 hues, while many a white-winged wild bird swept down to 
 and up from them, made earth, if not heaven, rejoice. 
 
 As if there were Naiads and Tritons gambolling in that 
 flashing sea, there was a white-bearded Neptune presiding 
 there, and with a potent silver ladle, instead of Trident, ruling 
 the revelry and benignly keeping down its storms. This was 
 easy for him ; HSolus, with the winds in his leather cave, 
 being close to the elbow, and under the thumb, of the aqueous 
 old god. 
 
 There was a pause in the tinkling of glasses, the shoving 
 of sugar bowls, the hubbub of voices. The member for Cork 
 had finished his fifth glass of port with a smack. He had 
 straightened himself in his chair and bent forward a little. 
 His fishy little eyes gleamed out like glow-worm, on the eve 
 of exhaustion, from the depths of their caverns. The faint 
 speck of light had to pierce its way through a bog of soft flesh 
 before it could flicker on the moist surface ; and when it 
 succeeded, it gave signs of the struggle. It was a gelatinous 
 lustre. It could not have illuminated a globe the girth of a 
 pea. 
 
 Drawing the napkin across his lips, smiling with ponderous 
 composure, revolving his head a little to one side, then 
 nudging the piper with the broad tip of his elbow, his slim, 
 half-suffocated little voice squeaked out — “ Now for it, 
 Gansey !” 
 
 What a cheer ! What a ringing hear, hear ! What a 
 furious tattoo of spoons and nut-crackers down both sides of 
 the table ! What a lifting, and clanking, and draining of 
 glasses ! How rapturously and wildly they sprang to their 
 legs, and waving decanters, and tumblers, and candlesticks, 
 and dessert knives, and finger bowls, above their heads, and 
 across the table, gave three times three for the glorious blind 
 Minstrel of the Lakes ! Callaghan, all the while, during all 
 the tumult, in the fiercest of it, sitting with a radiant com- 
 placency in his cushioned chair, his napkin replaced, his 
 small eyes voluptuously glistening, his snowy waistcoat dilat- 
 ing with the glowing atmosphere of the scene, his old face 
 reddening and cracking and oozing like a leg of mutton 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 175 
 
 upon the spit, his elbow working impatiently at the piper, 
 and the small, half-stifled voice still squeaking — “ Now, 
 Gansey, now for it.” 
 
 “ Very well, your honour,” says Gansey, and he turns his 
 aged noble head slightly towards the master of the feast. 
 Then throwing himself back a little ; turning up the left leg 
 across the right, so that the ankle of the former might rest 
 the least bit above the bent knee of the latter ; fixing the 
 bag under one arm and the bellows under the other; fixing 
 them nice and tidy, so that not a breath might be lost, nor 
 a note of the smallest dimensions escape ; and then hurriedly 
 patting the keys up and down, behind and before, to make 
 sure they were there and good for the night, the glorious old 
 fellow bent himself to it, and, with all its wild witchery, gave 
 us the “ Foxhunt ers’ Jig.” 
 
 When I forget Ireland, I shall forget that scene. It is be- 
 fore me now, as distinct, as glowing, as full of life, as though 
 I came away from it last night only, and were still within 
 speaking distance of the echoes of Dunloe. The long, bright 
 table, so richly furnished with fruit and wines ; the few wax 
 lights, placed at long intervals apart, throwing over the 
 principal figures and features of the picture a faint, lemon- 
 hued, delicately mellowed gilding, and leaving the entire 
 room, except where the narrow isthmus of wine-flowing and 
 fruit-bearing mahogany extended, in deep darkness ; the 
 multitude of faces all animated, most of them gay, none 
 serious, many flashing with fun ; here and there an odd 
 one clouding up suddenly, and as suddenly breaking into 
 lightnings, as that quaint, grand music woke memories of 
 the martial days of the island ; and all turned with an 
 earnestness more or less vivid — more or less marked by 
 the eye, the mouth, the protruding chin, the elbow 
 on the table, and the arm with clenched hand pressed against 
 the head — all turned towards old Gansey, watching with an 
 intent delight and wonder the ecstatic movements of his 
 fingers, thumbs, arms, backbone, sole of the foot, and knee- 
 joint. But it was the outward play of the soul on the blind 
 features — the sunshine, the storm, the rush of the red leaves 
 before the wind, the scudding clouds above the sleeping lake, 
 the starlight in the Black Valley — it was this which made 
 
176 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS, 
 
 him glorious. It was this which perfected the magic of that 
 wild minstrelsy. It was this which gave to it the cry of the 
 hounds, the scream of the startled eagle, the echoes of the 
 mountains, the splash and gurgle of the brook, the moan of 
 the w’oods in the midnight, the tramp of the chasing hoofs, 
 the rapture of the sport ! 
 
 As the last note died with a gasp in the glorious pipes, 
 and the old man loosened his limbs, lifted his noble grey head, 
 and took a breath of fresh air higher up, he was greeted as 
 when he commenced. Again the revellers rose ; again flashed 
 cup and bowl and silvered knife amongst the fragrant clouds ; 
 again broke out the hip, hip , hurrah; again the windows 
 rattled ; again the loud jovial peals went rolling through 
 stone wall and oaken door, upstairs, along the slumbering 
 corridors, to the rafters of the garret, and through the sky- 
 lights out upon the lake. Gansey rose from his seat in the 
 midst of it, sweetly smiled, bowed, and sat down. 
 
 Unruffled in the midst of it, Callaghan remained enthroned 
 on his green cushion, the napkin still flowing from beneath 
 his waistcoat, his little eyes still winking and glistening 
 through the chinks still left them in their dungeon depths 
 of fat, his white head looking whiter through the smoke 
 than ever, his old face exuberantly blossoming and blazing 
 with unctuous delight and the best of whiskey. 
 
 The cheers subsided. Everyone sat down. Everyone 
 filled up. 
 
 “ Gansey, what will you have V* said the member for Cork 
 to the piper, turning his head almost imperceptibly in the 
 direction of the latter, at the same time giving him a social 
 wink, as it were, with the tip of his elbow. 
 
 “ Your honour, there’s nothing better than the owld stuff,” 
 says Gansey. 
 
 “ Eight, Gansey,” says Callaghan, “ devilishly right.” 
 
 “ How will you have it, Gansey — hot or cold, Gansey — 
 which, Gansey, will you have V 9 
 
 “ I have a preference for the cowld, your honour,” says 
 Gansey. 
 
 “ Eight again, Gansey,” says Callaghan, “ devilishly right.” 
 
 With such confirmatory words, the member for Cork fills 
 up a large tumbler of grog for the Minstrel of the Lakes, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 177 
 
 which the latter takes at a breath, handing the vacant 
 tumbler back to the member, who, delighted with the ex- 
 cuse, fills himself one, smiles, winks, gives Gansey a nudge, 
 and absorbs the whole. 
 
 Then the performance begins again. Gansey braces him- 
 self up for a second achievement. Tightens the bag again 
 under his left arm. Tightens the bellows again under his 
 right. Crosses one leg over the other. Slips his fingers, up 
 and down, over the keys. Bends to it lovingly, and gives 
 us the “ Devil’s Gallop round the Hob.” And again there’s 
 the same quaint, wild, rude, grand, descriptive music ; again 
 does the old man’s bleak face light up and flash, and show 
 like a landscape in a changeful season of rain and sunbeam ; 
 and again does the cheer break out, and the glasses ring, and 
 the delighted faces flash their grateful joyousness upon the 
 blind musician ; and again does the member for the beauti- 
 ful city of Cork sit there, in snowy vastness of waistcoat, 
 napkin, head, and whiskers, with corpulent complacency 
 drinking in the mirth of the music, the enthusiasm, and 
 something yet more grateful to his unfathomable soul, silent, 
 smiling, radiant, massive, and immutable. A Neptune, if you 
 will, among the Naiads and Tritons — but a Neptune with 
 the leer and paunch of Bacchus. 
 
 As the last note dies, for the second time, with a gasp in 
 those glorious pipes, and the old man loosens himself, lifts 
 his gray head, and takes a breath of fresh air higher up, Dan 
 Callaghan, motioning his head in the direction of the pipes, 
 finishing his own tumbler, faintly smacking his lips, and 
 trying to give Gansey a nudge, says : 
 
 ‘ Gansey, what will you have — brandy or spirits, Gansey 
 — which will you have V 
 
 “ Your honour, we’d better stick to the owld thing — we’re 
 not tired with it yet.” 
 
 “ Bight, Gansoy,” says Callaghan, “ devilishly right, and 
 devilishly good.” 
 
 “ How will you have it — hot or cold, Gansey — how will you 
 have it V 9 
 
 “My preference,” says Gansey, “is for the cowld — it 
 warms one better than the hot.” 
 
 “ Bight !” exclaims Callaghan, trying to slap his thigh with 
 
 12 
 
ITS IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 his fin — for lie was built like a turtle : “ right, Gansey, devil- 
 ishly right I” 
 
 Close upon which there was another, and, for the fifth 
 time, a tremendous cheer, amid the ringing of glasses, the 
 battering of spoons, the shaking of windows, the flashing of 
 fruit-knives, and countless other expressions of convivial en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 Until long past midnight did this continue. Until long 
 past midnight did this feasting, drinking, cheering, carous- 
 ing, music, wild merriment, enthusiasm, uproar, roll on and 
 roar. For the third, and the fourth, and the sixth, and the 
 seventh, and the eighth, and the ninth time, did Gansey 
 tighten and bend to the tune ; did the hip , hip , hurrah , ring 
 out; did the pipes carry us to the hunt, or a charge, the camp, 
 or a wake ; did the pipes gasp out their last hoarse note ; did 
 the tumult of thanks break out ; did the gray head bow in 
 kindly acknowledgment, the old man rising sweetly smiling, 
 as most blind people do ; and for the third, the fourth, and 
 the fifth, the sixth, the seventh, the eighth, the ninth time, 
 did Dan Callaghan, immovable in that capacious chair, turn 
 almost imperceptibly in the direction of the pipes, and ask : 
 
 “ Gansey, what will you have — brandy or spirits, Gansey — 
 which will you have V ’ 
 
 And each and every time did Gansey meekly but in- 
 corrigibly reply : 
 
 “ Your honour, we'd better stick to the owld thing.” 
 
 And every time that Gansey made this answer, did Cal- 
 laghan, more or less vivaciously, exclaim : 
 
 “ Eight, Gansey, dev’lishly right !” 
 
 Coming on close to two o’clock in the morning, I left the 
 j room. I was the last to leave it with the exception of Cal- 
 laghan and Gansey. They were still sitting, just as they 
 had been sitting eight hours before, when I closed the door 
 of the dining-room upon them. As I went up stairs, with 
 my bedchamber light in hand, and as I reached the second 
 landing-place and paused for a moment, I could hear the 
 i words — faintly, it is true — but distinctly enough : 
 
 “ Gansey, what will you have T 
 
 Then there was a mumbling, a shuffling of glasses, a very 
 short dry laugh, and these words : 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 179 
 
 “ Eight, Gansey, dev’lishly right !* 
 
 On getting to my room, I found they had forgotten to 
 make the bed. I pulled the bell. In a few minutes one of 
 the servants came up. Having told her what I wanted, I 
 thought I might as well return to the dining-room whilst she 
 was putting the things in order. There was a fire there 
 when I was leaving. I had taken cold on the Lake, coming 
 down from the Gap, passing through which we had been 
 drenched to the skin, and I thought it would be as well 
 to take a heat at the coals preparatory to a bake in the 
 blankets. 
 
 Down I went, candlestick in hand. Down I went, and 
 into the dining-room I walked. Close to me was a dense 
 mass of shadow — a little beyond me, a misty stream or streak 
 of light — beyond that again, another bank of cloud. In one 
 spot, up at the head of the misty stream or streak of light, 
 after some intent and quiet gazing, there appeared to me to 
 be a circle of peculiar brightness, and something like huge 
 phantoms looming up within it. 
 
 I advanced a little further. I was in the same room I had 
 dined in. Sepulchral as it looked, it was our uproarious 
 banquet hall. I recognised the fire-place, the bell-ropes, the 
 hangings of the windows, the very cracks in the yellowish 
 smoked ceiling, and the parochial attempts at plastic art 
 upon what the waiters called the “ cornish.” 
 
 I advanced still further, still holding the candlestick, which 
 held the mould candle, in my hand. I looked down. There 
 was the very table at which I had sat, and no mistake about 
 it. There was the bright, brown mahogany, in which I had 
 seen reflected so many jovial faces, and those golden and 
 ruby coloured glasses, and the fruits of the Azores and 
 Malaga. There it was, strewed with the remnants and ves- 
 tiges of the feast, broken tumblers, decanter-stoppers, finger- 
 bowls turned up like bee-hives, raisin stalks, orange peels, 
 the husks of walnut and hazel nuts — sprawling nutcrackers, 
 strained sugar-tongs, the melancholy roots of cigars, a water 
 jug with a hare lip, another without a handle — a profusion 
 of ruins, over which and through which a sickly blueish light 
 went to and fro — there it was, the w r reck of the board at 
 which I had sat. 
 
180 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 I advanced still further yet ; I looked up — up to the head 
 of the table — up to where the huge phantoms appeared to 
 me to be cowering. 
 
 There were two silver candlesticks there. The candles in 
 them were burnt down to within three inches of the sockets, 
 whilst the black wick, with a great red fiery bulb at the end 
 of it, hung over full two inches, and like a scorpion was 
 eating its way into its own body with a suicidal malignity. 
 It was a deadly description of light these candles threw out. 
 But within it I saw the white napkin and whiskers, and the 
 bagpipes. Callaghan and Gansey were still at it. 
 
 I retired to the fire-place, and stood with my back to it. 
 Neither of them had remarked me. They had seen nothing 
 — heard nothing. They were alone in the world, and as 
 happy as a couple of old Irish kings. 
 
 “ What will you have, Gansey V 
 
 “ No use of changing at this time of day — the owld thing, 
 your honour.” 
 
 “ Bight, Gansey, right — dev’lishly right.” 
 
 “ Hot or cold, Gansey — which will you have ?’ 
 
 “ The hot gives me cowld, and the cowld makes me hot,” 
 says the piper. 
 
 “ Bight,” says the member, “ dev’lishly right, and 
 dev’lishly good.” 
 
 Something put it into my head to go over to them. I did 
 so. Gansey, of course, couldn’t see anything. He heard 
 something, and spread his ear. Callaghan saw very little 
 more than his neighbour, and was no better for hearing. 
 He sat there without a stir, without a wink, without a 
 breath hardly, as if a carved or stuffed continuation of the 
 velvet-cushioned chair. He looked neither to the right nor 
 the left, nor up nor down. Gansey looked as if there were 
 an evil spirit near him. 
 
 “ Good night, Mr. Callaghan,” I said. 
 
 “ Who the devil are you — good night,” he said. 
 
 “ I suppose, sir,” I said, “ we shall not have the pleasure 
 of your company to Cork to-morrow?’ 
 
 “ I don’t care a d — ,” says he, trying to look up, but kept 
 down by a nightmare, “ I don’t care a d — if I never moved 
 out of this. Gansey, what will you have ?’ 
 
 And so I left them both. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 181 
 
 ©r (Etee ! 
 
 BY “ DESMOND,” OF THE NATION. 
 
 Our country has one glorious boast — 
 
 She caught at Freedom’s flame 
 
 When, leaving freed Columbia’s coast, 
 
 To trampled France it came. 
 
 The iron grim left soul and limb, 
 
 As heated metal melts — 
 
 Our fathers vowed — unawed — aloud, 
 Their country’s rights — or else ! 
 
 The selfish strangers long had banned 
 Our freedom and our trade — 
 
 To one wild waste they turned our land, 
 Then mocked the wreck they made. 
 
 Despite their jeers, the Volunteers 
 Put sharp swords in their belts ; 
 
 And bravely swore they’d bear no more 
 Their country’s wrongs — or else ! 
 
 We ask no boon, these brave men cried — 
 We scorn to stoop or kneel — 
 
 Our flag must wave on every tide 
 Where floats a British keel ; 
 
 We’ll take the wines of southern vines, 
 We’ll send our flax and felts ; 
 
 The sea allures — ’tis ours as yours — 
 
 “ Free trade,” they cried — or else ! 
 
 Free trade was won — our emerald flag 
 Passed proudly o’er the main ; 
 
 But still our land was doomed to drag 
 Some links of slavery’s chain. 
 
 The meanest tool of Saxon rule 
 Made law for Irish Celts — 
 
 Our fathers swore this blot no more 
 Should stain their land — or else ! 
 
 They used no base or whining arts — 
 They struck no dastard blow ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 182 
 
 They cried — from Irish heads and hearts 
 Our Irish laws must flow ! 
 
 And England’s frown (for France mowed down 
 Her red coats and her kelts) 
 
 Was smoothed away ! — oh ! brave men they 
 Who cried — “Our rights — or else !” 
 
 The splendour of those famous years 
 Has vanished and decayed — 
 
 Gone are our glorious Volunteers, 
 
 Our freedom, and our trade ! 
 
 We’re beggars now, but still we vow — 
 
 Though poor and trampled Celts — 
 
 Though England fret, she’ll yield us yet 
 Our plundered rights — or else ! 
 
 Courage ! The clouds are in the West ! 
 
 And though they pass away, 
 
 Still haughty England’s iron breast 
 Holds deadlier foe3 than they ! 
 
 Her idle looms — her living tombs — 
 
 Her mines where childhood swelts — 
 
 Her shattered frame — all, all proclaim 
 A peaceful path — or else ! 
 
 God knows we do not wish to see 
 Her fall, if fall she must — 
 
 What sadder sight than this can be ? 
 
 A giant in the dust ! 
 
 But if her hour of pomp and pow’r 
 Is o’er like snow that melts, 
 
 Her race is run, ours but begun — 
 
 Yield, tyrant land ! — or else ! 
 
 Catholic Tolerance. — The restoration of the old religion 
 (in the reign of Queen Mary) was effected without violence ; 
 no persecution of the Protestants was attempted ; and seve- 
 ral of the English, who fled from the furious zeal of Mary’s 
 inquisitors, found a safe retreat among the Catholics of Ire- 
 land. It is but justice to this maligned body to add that on 
 three occasions of their obtaining the upper hand they never 
 injured a single person in life or limb for professing a religion 
 different from their own. — Taylor’s History of the Civil Wars 
 of Ireland. [The historian was a Protestant.] 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 183 
 
 §Mctr jof f'Ditomtell. 
 
 From “ The Story of Ireland” : by A. M. Sullivan. 
 
 I have remarked that the Irish chiefs may be said to 
 have fought each other with one hand, while they fought 
 the English with the other. Illustrating this state of 
 things, I may refer to the story of Godfrey, King of Tyr- 
 connel — as glorious a character as ever adorned the page of 
 history. For years the Normans had striven in vain to gain 
 a foothold in Tyrconnel. Elsewhere — in Connacht, in 
 
 Munster, throughout all Leinster, and in southern Ulster — 
 they could betimes assert their sway, either by dint of arms 
 or by insidious diplomatic strategy. But never could they 
 overreach the wary and martial Cinel-Connal, from whom 
 more than once the Norman armies had suffered overthrow. 
 At length the Lord Justice, Maurice Fitzgerald, felt that this 
 hitherto invulnerable fortress of native Irish power in the 
 north-west had become a formidable standing peril to the 
 entire English colony : and it was accordingly resolved that 
 the whole strength of the Anglo-Norman force in Ireland 
 should be put forth in one grand expedition against it ; and 
 this expedition the Lord Justice decided that he himself 
 would lead and command in person ! At this time Tyrcon- 
 nel was ruled by a prince who was the soul of chivalric 
 bravery, wise in the council, and daring in the field — 
 Godfrey O’Donnell. The Lord Justice, while assembling 
 his forces, employed the time, moreover, in skilfully diplo- 
 matising, playing the insidious game which in every cen- 
 tury most ‘largely helped the Anglo-Norman interest in Ire- 
 land — setting up rivalries, and inciting hostilities amongst 
 the Irish princes ! Having, as he thought, not only cut off 
 Godfrey from all chance of alliance or support from his 
 fellow-princes of the North and West, but environed him 
 with their active hostility, Fitzgerald marched on Tvrcon- 
 
184 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 nel. His army moved with all the pomp and panoply of 
 Norman pride. Lords, earls, knights, and esquires from 
 every Norman castle or settlement in the land, had rallied 
 at the summons of the king’s representative. Godfrey, iso- 
 lated though he found himself, was nothing daunted by the 
 tremendous odds which he knew were against him. He was 
 conscious of his own military superiority to any of the Nor- 
 man lords yet sent against him — he was, in fact, one of the 
 most skilful captains of the age — and he relied implicitly on 
 the unconquerable bravery of his clansmen. Both armies 
 met at Credan-Kille, in the north of Sligo. A battle, which 
 the Normans describe as fiercely and vehemently contested, 
 ensued and raged for hours without palpable advantage to 
 either side. In vain the mail-clad battalions of England 
 rushed upon the saffron-kilted Irish clansmen ; each time 
 they reeled from the shock and fled in bloody rout. In 
 vain the cavalry squadrons — long the boasted pride of the 
 Normans — headed by earls and knights whose names were 
 rallying cries in Norman England, swept upon the Irish 
 lines. Biderless horses alone returned. The Lord Justice in 
 wild dismay saw the proudest army ever rallied by Norman 
 power on Irish soil, being routed and hewn piecemeal before 
 his eyes. Godfrey, on the other hand, the very impersona- 
 tion of valour, was everywhere cheering his men, directing 
 the battle, and dealing destruction to the Normans. The 
 gleam of his battle-axe, or the flash of his sword, was the 
 sure precursor of death to the haughtiest earl or knight that 
 dared to confront him. The Lord Justice — than whom no 
 abler general or braver soldier served the king — saw that the 
 day was lost if he could not save it by some desperate effort, 
 and at the worst he had no wish to survive the overthrow of 
 the splendid army he had led into the field. The flower of 
 the Norman nobles had fallen under the sword of Godfrey, 
 and him the Lord Maurice now sought out, dashing into the 
 thickest of the fight. The two leaders met in single combat. 
 Fitzgerald dealt the Tyrconnel chief a deadly wound ; but 
 Godfrey, still keeping his seat, with one blow of his battle-axe 
 clove the Lord Justice to the earth, and the proud baron was 
 carried senseless off the field by his followers. The English 
 fled in hopeless confusion ; and of them the chroniclers tell 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 185 
 
 ns there was made a slaughter that night’s darkness alone 
 arrested. The Lord Maurice was done with pomp and power 
 after the ruin of that day. He survived his dreadful wound 
 for some time ; he retired into a Franciscan monastery which 
 he himself had built and endowed at Youghal, and there, 
 taking the habit of a monk, he departed this life tranquilly 
 in the bosom of religion. Godfrey, meanwhile, mortally 
 wounded, was unable to follow up quickly the great victory 
 of Credan-kille ; but stricken as he was, and with life ebbing 
 fast, he did not disband his army till he had demolished the 
 only castle the English had dared to raise on the soil of Tyr- 
 connel. This being done, and the last soldier of England 
 chased beyond the frontier line, he gave the order for dis- 
 persion, and himself was borne homewards to die. 
 
 This, however, sad to tell, was the moment seized upon 
 by O’Neill, prince of Tyrone, to wrest from the Cinel-Connal 
 submission to his power ! Hearing that the lion-hearted 
 Godfrey lay dying, and while yet the Tyrconnellian clans, 
 disbanded and on their homeward roads, were suffering from 
 their recent engagement with the Normans, O’Neill sent 
 envoys to the dying prince demanding hostages in token of 
 submission ! • The envoys, say all the historians, no sooner 
 delivered this message than they fled for their lives ! Hying 
 though Godfrey was, and broken and wounded as were his 
 clansmen by their recent glorious straggle, the messengers 
 of Tyrowen felt but too forcibly the peril of delivering this 
 insolent demand. And characteristically was it answered by 
 Godfrey. His only reply was to order an instantaneous 
 muster of all the fighting men of Tyrconnel. The army of 
 Tyrowen meanwhile pressed forward rapidly to strike the 
 Cinel-Connal, if possible, before their available strength, such 
 as it was, could be rallied. Nevertheless, they found the 
 quickly re-assembled victors of Credan-Kille awaiting them. 
 But, alas ! sorrowful story ! On the morning of the battle, 
 death had but too plainly set his seal upon the brow of the 
 heroic Godfrey ! As the troops were being drawn up in 
 line, ready to march into the field, the physicians announced 
 that his last moments were at hand ; he had but a few hours 
 to live ! Godfrey himself received the information with 
 sublime composure. Having first received the last sacra- 
 
186 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 ments of the Church, and given minute instructions as to the 
 order of battle, he directed that he should be laid upon the bier 
 which ivas to have borne him to the grave ; and that thus he 
 should be carried at the head of his army on the march ! His 
 orders were obeyed, and then was witnessed a scene for 
 which history has not a parallel ! The dying king, laid on 
 his bier, was borne at the head of his troops into the field ! 
 After the bier came the standard of Godfrey — on which was 
 emblazoned a cross with the words, “ In hoc signo vinces ” — 
 and next came the charger of the dying king, caparisoned as 
 if for battle ! But Godfrey’s last fight was fought ! Never 
 more was that charger to bear him where the sword-blow T s 
 fell thickest. Never more w r ould his battle-axe gleam in 
 the front of the combat. But as if his presence, living, 
 dead, or dying, was still a potential assurance of triumph to 
 his people, the Cinel-Connal bore down all opposition. Long 
 and fiercely, but vainly, the army of Tyro wen contested the 
 field. Around the bier of Godfrey his faithful clansmen 
 made an adamantine rampart which no foe could penetrate. 
 Wherever it was borne, the Tyrconnel phalanx, of which it 
 was the heart and centre, swept all before them. At length, 
 when the foe was flying on all sides, they laid the bier upon 
 the ground to tell the king that the day w r as won. But the 
 face of Godfrey was marble pale, and cold and motionless ! 
 All was over ! His heroic spirit had departed amidst his 
 people’s shouts of victory ! 
 
 It is sometimes weakly urged that the venality of the last 
 Irish Parliament is a perpetual disqualifier of the Irish peo- 
 ple from the right of self-legislation. It might as well be said 
 that the owner of an estate was disqualified from the rights 
 of possession by the rascality of his agent. The Irish peo- 
 ple had nothing to do with the venality of their legislators. 
 The sin was not theirs, nor should its punishment be visited 
 on them. And in the last grand struggle the men who 
 really were their representatives — the men who were re- 
 turned for open, popular constituencies — nearly all voted 
 j against the Ministerial project, and for the preservation of 
 the Irish Parliament. — O'Neill Daunt . 
 
 L 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 187 
 
 ®. f. Iptjjjjer m % Htntm. 
 
 The speeches of Thomas Francis Meagher are amongst the most bril- 
 liant specimens of Irish oratory. They are full of passion, fire, and 
 beauty. On the souls of those who heard them their effect was elec- 
 trical. From the time of his joining the Repeal movement under O’Con- 
 nell up to the date of the attempted insurrection, in July, 1848, young 
 Meagher continued to pour forth a flood of the purest eloquence, and 
 there is no doubt that his inspiriting appeals to his countrymen contri- 
 buted much to kindle that glow of popular enthusiasm which then 
 swept through the land. Many of his magnificent addresses, having 
 reference to the then existing condition of Irish political affairs, are no 
 less appropriate at this day ; and, even if this were not so, they could 
 still be read by Irishmen with pride and pleasure because of their lite- 
 rary merits. The following, having reference to the Act of Union, was 
 spoken at a meeting held in Conciliation Hall, Dublin, on the 16th of 
 February, 1846 : — 
 
 Sir, we have pledged ourselves never to accept the Union 
 — to accept the Union upon no terms — nor any modification 
 of the Union. It ill becomes a country like ours — a country 
 with an ancient fame — a country that gave light to Europe 
 whilst Europe’s oldest State of this day was yet an infant 
 in civilisation and in arms — a country that has written down 
 great names upon the brightest page of European literature 
 — a country that has sent orators into the senate whose 
 eloquence, to the latest day, will inspire free sentiments, and 
 dictate bold acts — a country that has sent soldiers into the 
 field whose courage and whose honour it will ever be our 
 proudest privilege to record, if not our noblest duty to 
 imitate — a country whose sculptors rank high in Dome, and 
 whose painters have won for Irish genius a proud pre- 
 eminence even in the capital of the stranger — a country 
 whose musicians may be said to stand this day in glorious 
 rivalship with those of Italy, and whose poets have had 
 their melodies re-echoed from the most polished courts of 
 Europe to the loneliest dwellings in the deep forests beyond 
 the Mississippi — it ill becomes a country so distinguished 
 and respectable to serve as the subaltern of England, quali- 
 fied as she is to take up an eminent position, and stand erect 
 
188 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 in the face of Europe. It is hers to command, for she 
 possesses the materials of manly power and stately opulence. 
 Education is abroad, and her people are being tutored in the 
 arts and virtues of an enlightened manhood. They are being 
 taught how to enjoy, and how to preserve, the beatitude of 
 freedom. A spirit of brotherhood is alive, and breathing 
 through the land. Old antipathies are losing ground — tra- 
 ditional distinctions of sect and party are being now effaced. 
 Irrespective of descent or creed, we begin at last to appre- 
 ciate the abilities and virtues of all our fellow-countrymen. 
 We now look into history with the generous pride of the 
 nationalist, not with the cramped prejudice of the partisan. 
 We do homage to Irish valour, whether it conquers on the 
 walls of Derry or capitulates with honour before the ram- 
 parts of Limerick ; and, sir, we award the laurel to Irish 
 genius, whether it has lit its flame within the walls of old 
 Trinity or drawn its inspiration from the sanctuary of Saint 
 Omer’s. Acting in this spirit, we shall repair the errors 
 and reverse the mean condition of the past. If not, we per- 
 petuate the evil that has for so many years consigned this 
 country to the calamities of war and the infirmities of vas- 
 salage. “ We must tolerate each other,” said Henry Grattan, 
 the inspired preacher of Irish nationality — he whose elo- j 
 quence, as Moore has described it, was the very music of 
 Freedom — “ We must tolerate each other, or we must tole- 
 rate the common enemy.” After years of social disorder, 
 years of detestable recrimination, between factions, and 
 provinces, and creeds, we are on the march to freedom. 
 A nation, organised and disciplined, instructed and in- 
 spired, under the guidance of wise spirits, and in the 
 dawning light of a glorious future, makes head against 
 a powerful supremacy. On the march let us sustain a 
 firm, a gallant, and a courteous bearing. Let us avoid 
 all offence to those who pass us by ; and, by rude affronts, 
 let us not drive still further from our ranks those who 
 at present decline to join. If aspersed, we must not 
 stop to retaliate. With proud hearts let us look forward to 
 the event that will refute all calumnies — that will vindicate 
 our motives and recompense our labours. An honourable 
 forbearance towards those who censure us, a generous respect 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 189 
 
 for those who differ from us, will do much to diminish the 
 difficulties that impede our progress. Let us cherish, and, 
 upon every occasion, manifest an anxiety for the preservation 
 of the rights of all our fellow-countrymen — their rights as 
 citizens — their municipal rights — the privileges which their 
 rank in society has given them — the position which their 
 wealth has purchased or their education has conferred — and 
 we will in time, and before long, efface the impression that 
 we seek for Repeal with a view to crush those rights, to 
 erect a Church-ascendancy, to injure property, and create a 
 slave-class. But, sir, whilst we thus act towards those who 
 dissent from the principles we profess, let us not forget the 
 duties we owe each other. The good will it becomes us to 
 evince towards our opponents, the same should we cultivate 
 amongst ourselves. Above all, let us cherish, and in its full 
 integrity maintain, the right of free discussion. With his 
 views identified with ours upon the one great question, let 
 us not accuse of treason to the national cause the associate 
 who may deem this measure advisable or that measure inex- 
 pedient. Upon subordinate questions — questions of detail 
 — there must naturally arise in this assembly a difference of 
 opinion. If views adverse to the majority be entertained, 
 we should solicit their exposition, and meet them by honest 
 argument. If the majority rule, let the minority be heard. 
 Toleration of opinion will generate confidence amongst all 
 classes, and lay the sure basis of national independence. 
 But, sir, whilst we thus endeavour wisely to conciliate, let 
 us not, to the strongest foe, nor in the most tempting emer- 
 gency, weakly capitulate. A decisive attitude — an une- 
 quivocal tone — language that cannot be construed by the 
 English press into the renunciation or the postponement 
 of our claim — these should be the characteristics of this 
 assembly at the present crisis, if we desire to convince the 
 opponents of our freedom that our sentiments are sincere 
 and our vow irrevocable. Let earnest truth, stern fidelity 
 to principle, love for all who bear the name of Irishmen, 
 sustain, ennoble, and immortalise this cause. Thus shall 
 we reverse the dark fortunes of the Irish race, and call forth 
 here a new nation from the ruins of the old. Thus shall a 
 parliament moulded from the soil, racy of the soil, pregnant 
 

 190 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 with the sympathies and glowing with the genius of the soil, 
 be here raised up. Thus shall an honourable kingdom be 
 enabled to fulfil the great ends that a bounteous Providence 
 hath assigned her — which ends have been signified to her in 
 the resources of her soil and the abilities of her sons. 
 
 ©it the lEUmpart : IDimerick. 
 
 BY JOHN F. O’DONNELL. 
 
 Cheerily rings the boatman’s song 
 Across the dark-brown water ; 
 
 His mast is slant, his sail is strong, 
 
 His hold is red with slaughter — 
 
 With beeves that cropped the field of Glynn, 
 And sheep that pricked their meadows, 
 
 Until the sunset-cry trooped in 
 The cattle from the shadows. 
 
 He holds the foam-washed tiller loose, 
 
 And hums a country ditty ; 
 
 For, under clouds of gold turned puce, 
 
 Gleam harbour, mole, and city. 
 
 0 town of manhood ! maidenhood ! 
 
 By thee the Shannon flashes — 
 
 There Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 St. Mary’s, in the evening air, 
 
 Springs up austere and olden ; 
 
 Two sides its steeple gray and bare, 
 
 Two sides with sunset golden. 
 
 The bells roll out, the bells roll back, 
 
 For lusty knaves are ringing ; 
 
 Deep in the chancel, red and black, 
 
 The white-robed boys are singing. 
 
 The sexton loiters by the gate 
 With eyes more blue than hyssop, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 191 
 
 A black-green skull-cap on his pate, 
 
 And all his mouth a-gossip. 
 
 This is the town beside the flood — 
 
 The walls the Shannon washes — 
 
 Where Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 The streets are quaint, red-bricked, antique, 
 
 The topmost storeys curving, 
 
 With, here and there, a slated leak, 
 
 Through which the light falls swerving. 
 
 The angry sudden light falls down 
 On path and middle parquet, 
 
 On shapes weird as the ancient town, 
 
 And faces fresh for market. 
 
 They shout, they chatter, disappear, 
 
 Like imps that shake the valance 
 At midnight, when the clock ticks queer, 
 
 And time has lost its balance, 
 
 This is the town beside the flood 
 Which past its bastions dashes, 
 
 Where Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 Oh, how they talk, brown country folk, 
 
 Their chatter many-mooded, 
 
 With eyes that laugh for equivoque, 
 
 And heads in kerchiefs snooded ! 
 
 Such jests, such jokes, whose plastic mirth 
 But Heine could determine — 
 
 The portents of the latest birth, 
 
 The point of Sunday’s sermon, 
 
 The late rains and the previous drouth, 
 
 How oats were growing stunted, 
 
 How keels fetched higher prices South, 
 
 And Captain Watson hunted. 
 
 This is the town beside the flood 
 Whose waves with memories flashes, 
 
 Where Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 How thick with life the Irish town ! 
 
 Dear gay and battered portress, 
 
 That laid all save her honour down, 
 
 To save the fire-ringed fortress. 
 
192 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Here Sarsfield stood, here lowered the flag 
 That symbolised the people — 
 
 A riddled rag, a bloody rag, 
 
 Plucked from St. Mary’s steeple. 
 
 Thick are the walls the women lined 
 With courage worthy Roman, 
 
 When, armed with hate sublime, if blind, 
 
 They scourged the headlong foeman. 
 
 This is the town beside the flood 
 That round its ramparts flashes, 
 
 Where Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 To blossom into ashes. 
 
 This part is mine : to live divorced 
 Where foul November gathers, 
 
 With other sons of thine dispersed, 
 
 Brave city of my fathers — 
 
 To gaze on rivers not mine own, 
 
 And nurse a wasting longing, 
 
 Where Babylon, with trumpets blown, 
 
 South, North, East, West, comes thronging — 
 To hear distinctly, if afar, 
 
 The voices of thy people — 
 
 To hear through crepitating jar 
 The sweet bells of thy steeple — 
 
 To love the town, the hill, the wood, 
 
 The Shannon’s stormful flashes, 
 
 Where Freedom’s seed was sown in blood, 
 To blossom into ashes, j 
 
 Parting Address of the French Monarch to the 
 Irish Brigade. — We acknowledge, gentlemen, the invaluable 
 services which France, during the lengthened period of one 
 hundred years, has received from the Irish Brigade — services 
 which we shall never forget, though totally unable to repay. 
 Receive this standard, a pledge of our remembrance, a token 
 of our admiration and respect ; and this, generous Hiber- 
 nians, shall be the motto of your spotless colours — “ 1692- 
 1792 ; Semper et ubique fideles !” (Always and everywhere 
 faithful.) 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 193 
 
 SprfT flf George ftnrg poor*. 
 
 (On the hustings at Ballinrobe, August 25tb, 1868.) 
 
 Electors and non-electors of Ballinrobe and Kilmain, what 
 has brought you all here to-day % In what cause assemble 
 here all the men I see before me 1 It is the same spirit 
 that upheld the cross and the shamrock — faith in God and 
 faith in Ireland — throughout the immortal past. It is the 
 same spirit that will hold together the Irish race, one and 
 indestructible, through the half revealed glories of an august 
 future. It is the spirit of manhood that is within you. It 
 is the divine fire of your race that burns in your hearts. It 
 is the resolve to be free that is sustained in your souls by 
 the prayer of St. Patrick, that the land of his labours and 
 his love should not remain in bondage for ever. It is not 
 whether I shall be returned to Parliament or not — which in 
 itself is a matter of very little consequence — but whether 
 Irishmen and the consciences of Irishmen shall be trodden 
 under foot by tyrants. It is not my cause but your own . 
 cause — the good fight that your fathers fought before you, 
 that your children will win after you — that you come here to i 
 maintain to-day. The lords of the soil have won the soil by 
 the sword ; and with the sword, as long as they can, of 
 course, will retain it ; they have sold the Parliament of their 
 country to the English Parliament, and the price of their 
 treason, like the leprechaun’s gold, has turned into withered 
 leaves in their pockets. But there is something belonging 
 to the people that they have never won or bought or sold, 
 which they never will win or buy or sell — the right of the 
 people to think for themselves and act for themselves — the 
 “ courage never to submit or yield,” which they have held 
 good for ages, and which has never yet been conquered 
 from them. And this is not only their right by the 
 laws of nature and of God, but by the law of the land, 
 which goes for a good deal more under the British con- 
 
 13 
 
194 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 stitution. A petitioner once said to the celebrated Duke of 
 Ormond, “ I have no friend at court but God and your 
 Grace.” “ I am sorry to say,” he replied, “ you could not 
 have two worse friends at court than those that you have 
 named.” And so we will say nothing for the present of two 
 such friends as God and natural right have been in this 
 country, and content ourselves with pleading the law of the 
 land, on which we are told we may more legally rely. In the 
 address to the electors of the county which I published a 
 few weeks ago, among the rights which I announced my in- 
 tention to watch over and defend were the rights of pro- 
 perty ; and I knew the first rights of property that I should 
 be called upon to defend would be those of the electors in 
 the exercise of the electoral franchise — which are as much 
 the property of the voters as their estates are the property 
 of the landlords. And now you may ask me what brings 
 me here to-day % And I tell you, in all sincerity, that I am 
 not here with the views and purposes of a candidate. I come 
 on the part of the electors of Mayo, to call you to the rescue 
 of your fellow-countrymen — to take counsel with you against 
 a great act of meditated oppression — that, with a common 
 will and united effort, we may assert their liberties and 
 punish their oppressors. There are at this moment, as 
 you well know, upwards of a thousand men in this 
 county, as good Irishmen as any in the world ; men of 
 quick intelligence and warm hearts — with eyes fixed, like 
 our own, on the future destinies of their country — with hearts 
 burning to see those destinies accomplished ; but bound in 
 chains of feudal tyranny that they are as powerless to resist 
 as sleeping men in the thrall of a nightmare. There is no 
 iron on their limbs ; no hempen cords round their necks. 
 They are no longer menaced, like their fathers of old, with 
 the dungeon and the scaffold. And yet there is a fear in 
 their hearts deeper than the dread of the jailor or the hang- 
 man. A fear for their homes, a fear for the food of their 
 children, a secret sense of helplessness and hopelessness, more 
 ! deadly and degrading than those more open dangers that 
 spur the souls of men to resistance. It is no longer their 
 bodies that are in bondage ; it is their souls that are in irons 
 — their consciences that are sent to the scaffold. It is with 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 195 
 
 sorrow and dismay that I speak of such relations as existing 
 between landlords and tenants — between my friends and my 
 fellow-countrymen — in my native county. If, instead of 
 maintaining such relations with the people, they would come 
 forward as their natural leaders and protectors, the people 
 would not look for leadership or protection to me or to 
 those who stand around me. The electors of Mayo are 
 called upon to elect two representatives to take two different 
 sides upon every political question. They are compelled 
 to elect one Whig and one Tory — to elect one man to 
 vote for tenant-right and one to vote against it — one t 
 
 to declare for a native Parliament and another against 
 it. They are to elect one man to vote for the suspen- 
 sion of the Habeas Corpus Act and the gagging of the Irish 
 people, while another is to be chosen as the not inappropri- 
 ate representative of a gagged people. Surely they reckon 
 too much upon the endurance of the people if they expect 
 them to submit to this insult upon their patience. It is said 
 that on one occasion, as the Emperor Napoleon the First 
 went the rounds the night before a battle in which his army 
 had to contend with overwhelming odds, he recognised an old 
 grenadier standing at his post, and addressed to him this 
 question : “ The enemy seem to think they can swallow ns up 
 at a mouthful — what think you V 9 “ No ! please your Ma- 
 jesty,” said the old man, “ we’ll place ourselves crossways.” 
 Now, that’s what I want you to do. We must place ourselves 
 crossways. Every honest elector and non-elector in the county 
 must place himself crossways. And it will not be as difficult 
 a process this time as it was before. Let those conspirators 
 do what they will, the day of their usurped dominion 
 is past. Whatever tyranny is executed on the con- 
 sciences of men in this election will have no confirmation 
 in the future. I pledge myself to the electors that after 
 this election not a man will be injured for the vote that 
 he may give for God and the people. And I’ll tell you why. 
 There is a story of two brothers in the island of Corsica l 
 — twins born almost at the same instant — so like each 
 other that no one could tell one from the other — their hair, 
 eyes, features, stature, the very sound of their voice, so 
 wonderfully like, that their very mother could not tell the 
 
196 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 difference. But that is not all — there was such a strange 
 and inscrutable sympathy between them that, at whatever 
 distance they might be apart, they felt together almost as 
 one man. When one was in sorrow, the other mourned ; 
 and when one w’as triumphant, the other’s heart was glad ; 
 and one day one of these brothers felt in his heart that his 
 brother was dead — foully murdered in another land. He 
 knew it ; he was sure of it. He did not stop to prove the 
 murder or to identify the assassin — he set off straight for the 
 country in which the outrage was committed. He knew the 
 murderer the instant he saw him, and he avenged his brother 
 on the spot. Well, the Irish people have a brother — not a 
 Corsican, but an American brother. A brother people, 
 sprung from the same Irish loins, nursed at the same Irish 
 breasts, and so like each other are these brothers that their 
 mother, Ireland, can hardly tell the difference. The same 
 dark hair, the same grey eyes, the same ringing laugh with 
 which the Irishman makes love and makes war all over the 
 world. And that brother people, far away over the wave, 
 feels a secret and ineffable sympathy with his brother people 
 at home. He mourns over his sorrows — he is indignant 
 at his wrongs — he has a heart that feels for him, and l 
 
 a sword that is ready to avenge his injuries. He will 
 know if his brother is murdered, and he will know 
 where the murderer is to be found. And we have a step- 
 sister, too, on the other side of the way — a very shrewd and 
 sensible lady, as I am informed. She has many great and 
 good qualities too, when they are brought into play. She 
 is never cruel, unless cruelty can be turned to advantage, 
 and she hates injustice on the part of others, unless she can 
 make anything by it herself. In this case all her good qua- 
 i lities, all her good sense, and her love of justice, and her 
 I hatred of cruelty, will come into play. She knows that 
 those who sympathise with you and protect you might be- 
 i come very dangerous enemies ; she knows that those who 
 oppress you can never add a feather’s weight to her credit 
 or her dominion ; and, under those circumstance, she will 
 take very good care that you shall not be oppressed. How, 
 
 I shall call both upon our brother over the way, and our 
 step-sister over the way, just to look on and see fair play — 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 197 
 
 to protect the Irish electors in the exercise of their legal 
 rights, and not to allow a petty band of foolish tyrants to 
 sow the seeds of hatred and animosity between two great 
 empires. At all events, I am determined to see this out 
 with them. I will have the question settled whether one 
 lord shall drive a hundred human souls to the hustings, 
 another fifty, and another a score — whether this or that 
 squire shall call twenty, or ten, or five, as good men as him- 
 self, his voters, and send them up with his brand on their 
 backs to vote for an omadhaivn at his bidding. In doing this 
 I shall incur much odium, and expect to reap no reward. In 
 doing this I have no object, end, or ambition, but that of 
 serving and saving the land in which I was born. 
 
 ©Kt pong Pen. 
 
 BY T. D. SULLIVAN IN THE “ NATION .” 
 
 Ireland may well hope much from the young men of the 
 present generation. They are growing up in possession of 
 many advantages denied to those who went before them, and 
 indications are abundant that they will turn those advan- 
 tages to good account for their country. 
 
 In bravery, courage, and fidelity they cannot surpass their 
 forefathers, who met the shock of wave after wave of invasion, 
 and bore the brunt of the penal laws ; but in certain other 
 important respects, in some qualities and powers necessary 
 to the building up of a nation, they may fairly be expected 
 to excel them. Those dreadful trials of past times, those 
 ages of conflict, suffering, and proscription, had the effect of 
 checking the material and intellectual progress of the Irish 
 race and reducing them to a state of grievous depression. 
 While the other peoples of the earth went on increasing in 
 skill and knowledge, cultivating every art, exploring every 
 science, adding to their resources, and therefore to their 
 
198 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 strength, every avenue to learning, every way to wealth, was 
 closed against the Irish. Education, industry, enterprise, 
 were forbidden to them. They might not have books lest 
 they should learn the full extent of their wrongs ; they might 
 not have arms lest they should proceed effectively to redress 
 them. It would be hard for any race of men to live through 
 such times and circumstances ; but the Irish did more than 
 merely live through them — they preserved unimpaired great 
 social and national virtues, possessed of which no race can 
 die or be perpetually degraded. They never accepted the 
 position of slavery into which they had been forced, but con- 
 tinued to struggle against it with a spirit and resolution in- 
 domitable, and in the end irresistible. For many years they 
 have been forcing their way “ upward and onward,” bursting 
 every shackle that restrained their free action, clearing every 
 obstruction from their path, and recovering rapidly the 
 ground lost in darker and sadder periods of their history. 
 
 Such is the progress of the Irish race at the present time. 
 The education of the people is advancing with giant strides,, 
 and as their knowledge increases their patriotism becomes more 
 enlightened, more active, more intense. Never did a more 
 intelligent and high-spirited race of young men exist in Ire- 
 land than tread its soil to-day. They are thinkers and read- 
 ers to an extent previously unknown in this country. Even 
 w r ithin the last twenty years the intellectual development has 
 been immense. The heart of Thomas Davis would have been 
 gladdened could he have witnessed it. In his time the so- 
 called National Schools had begun to tell upon the education 
 of the people. Thousands of young persons were quitting 
 those schools with learning sufficient to enable them to take 
 up and study the literature of their country, if only their 
 country had a literature to present to them. Many good 
 and useful works on Ireland and Irish affairs were then in 
 existence, but they were not widely diffused, and their price 
 placed them beyond the reach of the people. He desired to 
 meet the want of the time with a literature that should be- 
 come truly popular, with books that the poorest might pur- 
 chase and take to their homes, works of history, biography, 
 poetry, romance, all calculated to spread the knowledge and 
 the love of Ireland. A noble commencement of his design 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 199 
 
 was promptly made, but he did not live to see it — the 
 first volume of the “ Library of Ireland” was dedicated to 
 his memory. But since then the good work has been 
 vigorously carried on. Volume after volume of Irish lore 
 has been given to the public, who have received the 
 gift with rejoicing. Old books have been republished, and 
 new ones have been issued in great numbers, and still the 
 popular demand for such reading is on the increase. The 
 history of Ireland is now becoming known in every cottage ; 
 the names of Ireland’s warriors, saints, and statesmen, her 
 heroes, and her martyrs, are become familiar words ; their 
 acts are talked of by artisans in their workshops and peasants 
 in the fields ; the songs and the music of Ireland are on all 
 lips — songs that do not mourn for the past ; songs that have 
 in them no trace of despair, or doubt, or fear, but express a 
 resolute and noble spirit, and are worthy of a nation march- 
 ing on to freedom. Newspapers that are genuine national 
 educators have attained an immense circulation. In short, 
 Irish literature in every shape is now rendered accessible to 
 the people, and the people show that they know how to give 
 it welcome. 
 
 The young men who have grown up in the midst of such 
 circumstances, with minds so trained and cultivated, are 
 naturally a greater power for Ireland than were those on 
 whose lives lay the blighting shadow of the penal laws, the 
 darkness of enforced ignorance, and the crushing weight 
 of a hideous social tyranny. The foreign ruler and the 
 domestic oppressor are still strong in the land, but there 
 are things they may not do, deeds once familiar to them 
 which they dare not repeat. The people, who never loved 
 them, do not fear them now ; and, instead of being the party 
 to sue for terms, are those who declare they will have no 
 peace until every wrong endured by the Irish nation is 
 righted. They have learned that in every such struggle, 
 however numerous the armies of the oppressor, however 
 strong his fortresses, however full his coffers, the people with 
 a just cause are sure to prevail in the end ; and they are 
 resolved that, come when it may, and cost what it may, the 
 end of this struggle shall be the freedom of Ireland. 
 
200 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 ^he Irish lUajxer's <Smtg. 
 
 BY T. C. IRWIN. 
 
 Well, never a pleasanter meal Fve eat, 
 Thank God, than this that now is done ; 
 Come, boys and girls who love the sun, 
 And let us go out into the wheat. 
 
 Mary, alanna , hand me quick 
 My bran-new sickle down from the thatch, 
 And take this kiss for handsel. Dick, 
 Just put a string about the latch 
 
 Lestways the pig might burst the door, 
 And in the cradle fright the child — 
 
 The purtiest your mother bore, 
 
 As it’s the last — ’twould drive her wild 
 If ill luck happened him. All right. 
 
 With hearts as light as sun is bright, 
 
 Now for a happy harvest day ; 
 
 Reapers and binders young and gay, 
 
 Bend in the heat, 
 
 And close to your feet 
 Cut down the wheat 
 We sowed in Spring ; 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground, 
 
 While lads around 
 And colleens sing ! 
 
 A glorious morning, hot and still : 
 
 There’s not a cloud, and scarce a sound, 
 Except where yonder from the mound 
 Drums the wheel of the white-washed mill. 
 
 How strong the great sun showers his rays 
 Upon this corn they’ve turned to gold ! 
 
 If it could hear us sing its praise 
 As once the people did of old, 
 
 Its ears would better like the tune — 
 Chiefly if young Rose yonder sung — 
 
 Than any breeze of morn or noon 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS* 201 
 
 That ever moved its stems among ; 
 
 For there’s no music like the voice 
 Of a colleen that’s glad, my boys ; 
 
 And we have reason just to drop 
 Upon our knees for this fine crop : 
 
 Bend in the heat, 
 
 Close to the feet 
 Cut down the wheat 
 We sowed in Spring ; 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground, 
 
 While lads around 
 And colleens sing ! 
 
 Hurrah ! my friends, you’ve done your best ; 
 
 Half the field cut with half the day ! 
 
 Let us be gay — all work is play 
 When it brings profit. Now for a rest 
 And drink beside the streamlet blue. 
 
 How pleasantly the thrushes sing ; 
 
 And see, from town the sparrows, too, 
 
 Have come to join our harvesting ; 
 
 How close the whistling swallows fly — 
 
 Not one of them that hasn’t come 
 Up from the far hot Southern sky, 
 
 Perhaps from Greece or holy Rome : 
 
 If from America they flew, 
 
 I’d like them more, ’twixt me and you ; 
 
 For they’d have seen our friends, ochone ! 
 
 Well, the sun sees them, and the moon : 
 
 But, up ! and beat, 
 
 My boys, complete, 
 
 The field of wheat 
 We sowed in Spring ; 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground, 
 
 While lads around 
 And colleens sing ! 
 
 Faith, it’s too bad that Labour, which 
 Makes money, unlike money, here 
 Can bear no interest : work the year, 
 
 And, at its end, you’re just as rich. 
 
 The law, too, stands in its own light, 
 
 Which leaves a land of men bereft ; 
 
 Why, if we don’t get tenant-right, 
 
202 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 We’ll soon have scarce a tenant left. 
 
 Union may last, or be repealed, 
 
 But if war comes, by this and that, 
 
 Though they send cattle to the field, 
 
 They’ll find a woeful want of — Pat ; 
 
 And then to prate of freedom — sure 
 No man or State is free that’s poor. 
 
 Y et let us do as best we may ; 
 
 Each work-day brings a happier day ; 
 
 Bend in the heat, 
 
 Close to your feet 
 Cut down the wheat 
 We sowed in Spring ; 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground, 
 
 While boys around 
 And colleens sing ! 
 
 For politics I don’t much care 
 Upon a day so fine, because 
 Better are nature’s old Corn Laws 
 Than those whose chaff we chiefly share. 
 
 In Peter’s heart young Kate at least 
 Has fixity of tenure — eh 1 
 
 And, for improvements made, the priest 
 Will put them in the lease some day ; 
 
 And if ever we have a Parliament 
 In College-green, Kory, my boy, 
 
 Sure you’d be sent to represent 
 The Reapers — but for Ellen Hoey ; 
 
 Such whispering ! — and how long, you thief. 
 Two sweethearts take to bind a sheaf ! 
 
 But as you’re both in want of brogues, 
 
 And even love’s path has thorns, you rogues — * 
 Bend in the heat, 
 
 And close to your feet 
 Cut down the wheat 
 We sowed in Spring ; 
 
 And lay it bound 
 Light on the ground, 
 
 While boys around 
 And colleens sing ! 
 
 The sun which sinks the hills behind 
 A finer harvest never saw ; 
 
 The wheat will feed us, and the straw 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 20 $ 
 
 Will shield us from the Winter’s cold. 
 
 And now the last thrush leaves the tree ; 
 
 Our cottage turf-smoke rises blue 
 Up to the sickle moon, as we 
 Plod homeward in the heavy dew. 
 
 No other race can work so much 
 On little, as we can, they say ; 
 
 And would we had to reap as rich 
 A field all night as this to-day ! 
 
 But now for a dance, and then to rest 
 After a taste of true poteen, 
 
 To drink a health to friends in the West, 
 
 And to old Ireland’s flag of green ! 
 
 For all the heat, 
 
 Our work was sweet ; 
 
 Now with our feet 
 The floor shall ring ; 
 
 And, friend with friend, 
 
 Our songs we’ll blend, 
 
 To happily end 
 Our harvesting ! 
 
 fate SJjitl mt % 
 
 The following passages are from Mr. Shiel’s speech on Repeal, de- 
 livered in the English House of Commons on the 25th of April, 1843 : — 
 
 I cannot sit down without adverting to two points : first, 
 the probable constitution of an Irish Parliament ; secondly, 
 the likelihood of separation. As to the first, let the Whigs 
 recollect that, on the Reform question, it was urged that 
 this House would be filled by men of an inferior station. It 
 was answered, property must prevail ; wherefore should it 
 not prevail in Ireland as well as here ? Is it not manifest 
 that, in a little while after the Repeal had been carried, the 
 Irish nation would follow the example of all other nations, 
 and select men of influence, from fortune or talents (which 
 
204 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 give a higher title to respect), as the depositaries of the legis- 
 lative trust? The qualification of the Irish voter (£10 a- 
 year rent) ought surely to secure a highly respectable 
 representation. Besides, observe that if the evil is to take 
 place after Repeal, it must take place without it. If Ireland 
 would then return 300 unworthy men, she will return 105 
 of the same character ; and thus you entail on yourselves as 
 great an evil as that which you apprehend as a consequence 
 of Repeal. The arguments which are urged against Repeal 
 were the very same as those which were pressed by Conserva- 
 tives against Reform. They said that a collision would take 
 place between Lords and Commons, and saw as many calami- 
 ties in that collision as you foresee in the anticipated disa- 
 greements of the Irish and English Parliaments. No man 
 pointed out these consequences with more force than Mr. 
 Canning — an authority which the noble lord the Secretary 
 for Foreign Affairs, and the President of the Board of Control, 
 once held in some regard. But was Lord Grey terrified by 
 the phantom of revolution ? Why should he expect that we 
 should be dismayed by another spectre, which was as huge 
 and hideous in 1800 when he looked at it without dismay. 
 Is the argument more valid now than it w^as then ? It is 
 built on this abstract proposition — two Parliaments cannot 
 amicably co-exist. He then said they could. He was not a 
 beardless politician at that epoch ; he had already proposed 
 his great plan of reform — he was about the age of the Secre- 
 tary for the Colonies — had reached the age of discretion, and 
 had passed the period at which men might be led away by a 
 juvenile enthusiasm — when the understanding may be 
 obscured by the mists which arise from the boiling emotions 
 of the heart. Lord Grey’s assertion is as valid as it was 
 thirty-four years ago : it is one of those propositions which 
 time cannot impair. 
 
 What was then a sophism cannot grow into a reason, as 
 into a sophism a reason cannot degenerate. Let it be borne 
 in your minds that although some of the arguments against 
 a Union were founded on temporary and transient circum- 
 stances, yet others (like that grounded on the fear of separa- 
 tion) were permanent, and are now just as good as they 
 were a quarter of a century ago. The authority of Plunket, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 205 
 
 and Bushe, and Saurin, and, above all, the authority of 
 Grattan, is as powerful as it ever was. The Secretary for the 
 Treasury insists that Grattan had changed his mind. His 
 son has proved the contrary. He read his answer in 1810, 
 declaring that he desired the restoration of the Irish Parlia- 
 ment. To what document was that answer a response To 
 an address from the grand juries of Dublin, in which they 
 describe the evils of the Union, and call on Mr. Grattan 
 to employ his great faculties in accomplishing its repeal. Mr. 
 Grattan did not change his mind. But what is the crime of 
 the Repealers ] This — that they consider Lord Grey a good 
 statesman when he is old, but a better prophet when he 
 was young. I blame him not for having altered his opinion ; 
 but I own myself to be surprised that he should lavish in 
 the speeches, for the utterance of which he avails himself of 
 the royal enunciation, such unqualified and almost contu- 
 melious condemnation of those with whom he strenuously 
 coincided when he was upwards of thirty years of age. But 
 have we no better argument than that which Lord Grey so 
 often urged against Mr. Pitt, when he reproached him with 
 a desertion of his former opinions 3 How stands history % 
 It is asked, when did two Parliaments long co-exist in friend- 
 ship 'l Show me an instance in wdiich 8,000,000 of people 
 in one island submitted to a Parliament held in another, and 
 containing such proportions as exist in this assembly. The 
 case of America is obvious ; but look to two strong instances. 
 Sweden and Norway have one king and two Parliaments. 
 Since the year 1815 there has been no quarrel between the 
 legislatures. Turn to Belgium. Does not the example bear 
 us out ] Hear an extract from the declaration of Belgian 
 independence. After alleging that the union was obtained 
 by fraud, the document goes on and states that “ an enor- 
 mous debt and expenditure, the only portion which Holland 
 brought to us at the time of our deplorable union — taxes 
 overwhelming by their amount — laws always voted by the 
 Dutch for Holland only (and always against Belgium, repre- 
 sented so unequally in the States-General) — the seat of all 
 important establishments fixed in Holland — -the most offen- 
 sive partialities in the distribution of civil and military em- 
 ployments; in a word, Belgium treated as a conquered pro- 
 
206 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 vince, as a colony : everything rendered a revolution inevi- 
 table.” 
 
 Do you mark this ? You were instrumental in effecting 
 the union of Belgium and Holland. Lord Castlereagh, who 
 carried the Irish Union, represented you at the Congress in 
 which the different arrangements with respect to Belgium 
 and Holland were made. You have yourselves recently been 
 parties to that separation which Belgium demanded, and you 
 assented to the grounds on which it was required. All 
 the public establishments removed to Holland ! What has 
 become of our Custom House, of our Stamp Office] Our 
 Royal Hospital too, built by a contribution made among the 
 Irish soldiers, raised out of a sixpence which they joyfully 
 gave to provide for them an asylum — that institution, con- 
 nected with our national pride, associated with our best feel- 
 ings of country, you, for the sake of some miserable saving, 
 have determined to annihilate. Take warning — you have 
 made experiments enough. Be taught not by the failures 
 of others, but by your own. Go on as you have hitherto 
 proceeded, and you will soon find the entire of Ireland united 
 for Repeal. A reference has been made to the small number 
 of signatures to petitions. If there shall be a million next 
 year, what will you say? We are told that the Irish people 
 do not desire Repeal. Are thirty-eight Irish members out 
 of one hundred and five nothing ? What other test do you 
 demand ? The last election ought to exhibit the truth. That 
 last election verified the prediction which I made to the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer. I went to him when the Tithe 
 Bill was pending in 1832. I told him what would happen. 
 I exclaimed : “ You are on the eve of a general election ; 
 you are driving the Irish to fury by your tithe measures ; 
 and the result will be that on every hustings in the South 
 the standard of Repeal will be planted.” It is said that the 
 gentry are against Repeal. How fast do the gentry of every 
 -country fall into the mass of the people ! They desert one 
 by one, and the moment it is their interest they combine 
 with the class once designated as the multitude. How soon 
 the populace becomes the people ! Let a few years go by. 
 Catholic and Protestant will be reconciled ; the national 
 mind will become one mass of hot emotion ; the same dis- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 207 
 
 regard for the interests and feelings of Ireland will be dis- 
 played in this assembly ; and if there should be an outbreak 
 of popular commotion here — if the prediction of the Conser- 
 vatives should be fulfilled — and if your alliance with France, 
 which is as unstable as its dynasty, should give way — you 
 may have cause to lament, when lamentation will be un- 
 availing, that to seven millions of Irishmen justice was re- 
 fused. 
 
 finite anir Cmipr. 
 
 (FROM THE “NATION,”) 
 
 Ip their national education taught our young men no other 
 lesson than that of antagonism and resistance to foreign 
 rule, some doubts and anxious fears with regard to the 
 future of Ireland might still be entertained. But they can- 
 not have studied Irish history without deriving from it the 
 lesson that to make such resistance effective, and to preserve 
 the freedom of the country when won, union and patriotic 
 accord among the vast majority of the people are essential 
 conditions. In every page that history teaches that national 
 aspirations, high spirit, indomitable ardour, and the most 
 heroic valour are powerless to forward on the road to free- 
 dom a people who will not unite for the accomplishment 
 of their common purpose. It has been charged against 
 Irishmen that they lack that quality of mind which dis- 
 poses other peoples to aggregate and act as a single 
 body — that adhesiveness of character which enables those 
 peoples to hold together, notwithstanding the variety of 
 opinion that must necessarily exist among large numbers of 
 men. Numerous occasions can be pointed to in our history 
 when unity of action on the part of our people would have 
 led to great results, and when division, contention, and cross 
 
208 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 purposes have lost everything, and involved the nation in the 
 direst consequences. Even in recent times but too much 
 reason has been given for the assertion that the Irish people 
 are a “ heap of uncementing sand.” Nearly every patriotic 
 organisation started during the past twenty years divided 
 into hostile sections at one stage or another of its career. 
 In most cases the revolts, excisions, or secessions, were caused 
 not by any difference upon principles, but by needless con- 
 flicts of opinion on details and non-essentials. Withal, we 
 do not believe that a proclivity to such quarrels and separa- 
 tions is inherent in the national character ; we believe rather 
 that as far as it exists it is owing to the very embarrassing 
 and depressing circumstances under which the Irish people 
 for a long period of time were forced to carry on their 
 political struggles. But all rightly educated Irishmen should 
 make it their study to correct that proclivity as far as their 
 influence may extend, teaching those around them the 
 wisdom of courteous, tolerant, and conciliatory habits 
 among all lovers of Ireland, and exhibiting the shame and 
 the folly of a line of conduct which tends to the manifest 
 advantage of the common enemy and the grievous injury of 
 Ireland. This is the best work to which the young men of 
 Ireland could now set themselves — the cultivation of that 
 disposition in themselves and others which will render united 
 national action practicable and easy of accomplishment. 
 For this there is no need to insist upon identity of opinion. 
 That, in Ireland, as elsewhere, is unattainable. The spirit 
 we want in the country is that which induces men to sacrifice 
 some points of feeling and some of their theoretical ideas 
 when an opportunity is open to achieve by united action a 
 practical benefit for their native land. 
 
 Irish Love of Justice. — I have been informed by many 
 of those that had judicial places in Ireland, and know partly 
 of my own knowledge, that there is no nation of the Chris- 
 tian world that are greater lovers of justice than the Irish 
 are, which virtue must needs be accompanied by many 
 others . — Lord Coke . 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 209 
 
 m z MoM Winter. 
 
 RY T. D. M*GEE. 
 
 The following poem was written by T. D. M‘Gee, in America, on 
 reading accounts of the despairing rush of emigrants from Ireland in 
 December, 1848. The same melancholy subject supplied a theme to 
 several of the Irish poets in those dark days, and some of “ Speranza’s” 
 most powerful and thrilling compositions have reference to the events of 
 that “ woful Winter,” and the no less sad Spring and Summer by which 
 it was succeeded : — 
 
 They are flying, flying, like northern birds over the sea for 
 fear ; 
 
 They cannot abide in their own green isle, they seek a resting 
 here ; 
 
 Oh ! wherefore are they flying ? is it from the front of war, 
 
 Or have they smelt the Asian plague the winds waft from afar ? 
 
 No ! they are flying, flying, from a land where men are sheep, 
 Where sworded shepherds herd and slay the silly crew they 
 keep ; 
 
 Where so much iron hath passed into the souls of the long en- 
 slaved, 
 
 That none was found by fort or field, or in champion’s right hand 
 waved. 
 
 Yea ! they are flying hither, breathless and pale with fear, 
 
 And it not the sailing time for ships, but the Winter dark and 
 drear ; 
 
 They had rather face the waters, dark as the frown of God, 
 Than make a stand for race and land on their own elastic sod. 
 
 O blood of Brian, forgive them ! O, bones of Owen, rest ! 
 
 O spirits of our brave fathers, turn away your eyes from the 
 West ! 
 
 Look back on the track of the galleys that with the soldier 
 came — 
 
 Look, look to the ships of Tyre, moored in the ports of Spain ! 
 
 But look not on, dread fathers ! look not upon the shore 
 Where valour’s spear and victory’s horn were sacred signs of 
 yore ; 
 
 14 
 
210 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Look not toward the hill of Tara, or Iveagli, or Ailech high ! 
 
 Look toward the East and blind your sight, for they fly at last, 
 they fly ! 
 
 And ye who met the Romans behind the double wall, 
 
 And ye who smote the Saxons as mallet striketh ball, 
 
 And ye who sheltered Harold and Bruce — fittest hosts for the 
 brave — 
 
 Why do you not join your spirit-strength, and bury her in the 
 wave ? 
 
 Alas ! alas for Ireland ! so many tears were shed, 
 
 That the Celtic blood runs palely, that once was winy red ! 
 
 They are flying, flying from her, the holy and the old — 
 
 Oh ! the land has altered little, but the men are cowed and cold. 
 
 Yea ! they are flying hither, breathless and pale with fear, 
 
 And it not the sailing time for ships, but the Winter dark and 
 drear ; 
 
 They had rather face the waters, dark as the frown of God, 
 
 Than make a stand for race and land on their own elastic sod. 
 
 tteott 1799. 
 
 From Daunt’s “Wife-Hunter; or, Memoirs of M.P.’s.” 
 
 [Major Grant, a Government hack, attempts to persuade his relation, 
 the incorruptible M.P. for Garry dangan, to desert Ireland and support 
 the Union. Jack Grant, the senator, recounts the dialogue. The 
 major, it should be mentioned, had just dispersed an anti-Union meeting 
 by military violence.] 
 
 “ When we got into the street, I encountered the major, 
 who accosted me with as much nonchalant ease as if he had 
 not threatened to blow me to pieces five minutes before. 
 1 Well, Jack Grant, why the deuce do you stick with such 
 i infatuated desperation to the losing side '? Had you taken 
 my advice you might have made your own terms with 
 them. Even still you may make good terms. Why, I, 
 who have no seat in the House, and who can only show 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 211 
 
 ray zeal out of doors, can do some little thing for my- 
 self. Don’t be surprised if you see me gazetted a colonel 
 before long — and maybe Susan won’t prove to be the worst 
 catch going just because her father knew at which side of 
 the hedge the sun was shining. Every man, sir, is a fool, 
 or mad, who doesn’t make the most of the present oppor- 
 tunity. It is not in the nature of things that such another 
 can again occur. Vote for the Union, Jack Grant, and by 
 
 ! the Ministry will give you that old peerage of ours, 
 
 and fill your pockets into the bargain.’ 
 
 “ c And what good will the Union do Ireland V 
 
 “ 6 Oh, the devil take Ireland ! What good can it do 
 Jack Grant ? That’s the point of view to look at it from. 
 Look to yourself, man. I vow to Heaven I speak as your 
 warm friend.’ 
 
 “ The reader will acquit me of the folly of trying to reason 
 with the major for the purpose of producing the smallest 
 impression on his mind. But as he had been lately much 
 closeted with Secretary Cooke and a clique of the Govern- 
 ment subordinates, I talked about the measure with him 
 with the view of ascertaining how the Union was regarded in 
 -the private circles of its friends. The major was a tolerable 
 parrot, and could repeat with sufficient accuracy the opinions 
 he had heard in the coteries he frequented. And to me he 
 spoke without the least reserve, for he believed that if he 
 could persuade me the measure was inevitable, I might be 
 induced to exalt the race of Grant by ‘ making good terms/ 
 as he called it ; whilst, on his part, the service of enlisting 
 so important a recruit as myself could be pleaded to the 
 Government as a new and signal merit. 
 
 4t £ Are they not a little afraid/ asked I, ‘ that by letting 
 loose one hundred Irish members at St. Stephen’s, they will 
 introduce a dangerous and turbulent element into their 
 legislature V 
 
 “ 6 Not a bit of it/ answered he. 6 I heard that very point 
 discussed at Cooke’s. The Secretary said your hundred mem- 
 bers never could be troublesome. Their force will be im- 
 paired by being drafted from home. There will be no 
 cohesion among them. They will bring over their own old 
 quarrels to St. Stephen’s. They will have no master-mind 
 
212 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 who could hold them together. Flood failed totally in the 
 English Parliament, and so will Grattan if he goes there. 
 They will always have the weakness of their conscious na- 
 tional inferiority in an alien senate. The poorer ones will 
 be even more accessible to bribery than the most corrupt of 
 them are here, for their transplantation will increase their 
 expenses and necessities. Then, the Government will always 
 have the good things in their gift, and your poor Irish mem- 
 ber in London will scarcely care to fall out with the hand 
 that holds the purse. And a very clever fellow whom I met 
 \ at Cooke’s, says the minds of the Irish members will be 
 emasculated by their national pupillage ; so that, whilst they 
 ; will carry the appearance of a representation, they will in 
 truth be the weakest and most contemptible set of fellows- 
 in existence. Oh, no, sir, there’s not the least fear enter- 
 tained that your hundred birds of passage will make a revo- 
 lution at St. Stephen’s.’ 
 
 “ c Yet,’ said I, c don’t they suppose that if one hundred 
 members would but stick together’ 
 
 “ ‘ Bah ! Have I not given you twenty reasons, hot from 
 ] Cooke, to show that they never will stick together, and by 
 consequence never can be formidable h The United Parlia- 
 ment will be Imperial in name, but English in reality. Cooke 
 and the rest of them expect that the 500 English members 
 will in fact grasp Ireland as completely as if there were no 
 Irish representatives at all. And truly five to one is great 
 odds. The thing’s the same as done, J ack ; and once more I 
 entreat you as a friend and relation to fling your patriotic 
 nonsense to old Nick, and make my old crony, your father, 
 a lord with full pockets. Viscount Ballygrant ! Why, I doubt 
 1 not they’d give you a step in the peerage — an earldom is not 
 impossible.’ ” 
 
 [Jack Grant of course resists the Union to the last, much to the 
 disappointment of the “ loyal” major,] 
 
 The cause of a kingdom’s thriving is her being governed 
 only by laws made with her own consent ; for otherwise her 
 people are not free. And therefore all appeals for justice, 
 or applications for favour or preferment, to another country, 
 are so many grievous impoverishments . — Dean Sivift . 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 213 
 
 Hein $0tat its. 
 
 Air— “Nora Creina.” 
 
 BY T. D. SULLIVAN. 
 
 Welcome to our homes once more, 
 
 Fairest gift of bounteous Erin ; 
 
 Joy comes in on every floor 
 
 Upon the date of your appearin’. 
 
 Och, the poor old spuds were gone ; 
 
 Black and blue they turned complately ; 
 
 Out of every ten, not one 
 
 Could mortal man make use of lately. 
 
 Welcome, food for young and old, 
 
 For rich and poor, for lords and ladies, 
 White as milk and bright as gold, 
 Bursting, laughing New Potaties. 
 
 Many fruits our island yields 
 
 Above the soil, likewise below it ; 
 
 Gardens, orchards, parks, and fields, 
 
 Are full of sweets, and well I know it ; 
 
 But go praise them all who will, 
 
 I’ll maintain, for that I’m able, 
 
 ’Taties, sound and clean, are still 
 The pride and glory of the table. 
 
 Welcome, food for young and old, 
 
 For men and babes, for lords and ladies. 
 White as milk and bright as gold, 
 
 Sweet and wholesome New Potaties. 
 
 I’ll make bowld and free to say, 
 
 Despite the way some people go on, 
 
 Bits of bread and drops of tay 
 
 Are not the things for men to grow on ; 
 
 Och, ’tis quite a sartin case, 
 
 There must be matchless sustentation 
 
 In the food that feeds the race 
 That’s plainly batin’ all creation. 
 
214 : IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 That’s the food for young and old, 
 
 For sick and hale, for lords and ladie3, 
 White as milk and bright as gold, 
 Healthfu], beautiful New Potaties. 
 
 Men there are of pampered wills 
 
 Who feast on viands strange and various — 
 
 Ah, but then come draughts and pills 
 
 To cure some ills both sharp and sarious ; 
 
 Not a thing with them goes wrong 
 Who use the simple food of Erin ; 
 
 Lives are theirs serene and long, 
 
 And virtues bright beyond comparin’. 
 
 Welcome, joy of young and old, 
 
 Of rich and poor, of lords and ladies, 
 White a3 milk and bright as gold, 
 
 Grand and glorious New Potatiss. 
 
 Cjre Jtttpsjwi! flf few urn frislj fntosttg. 
 
 It is quite a usual occurrence that whenever political agitation in Ire- 
 land becomes particularly earnest and powerful, some few individuals, 
 affecting to be very sensible, practical, and business-like people, begin 
 to get up a cry that it is not political changes that are needed in the 
 country, but business habits, commercial enterprise, and an influx of 
 that English capital which, they allege, is scared away by political ex- 
 citement. Those persons propose from time to time some particular 
 branch of trade or manufacture, the cultivation of which, they say, is 
 all that is needed to make Ireland prosperous and happy ; sometimes 
 the panacea is the growth of flax, sometimes the manufacture of beet- 
 root sugar, sometimes the manufacture of compressed peat, and so on. 
 Those pretendedly “ practical” people ignore the fact that the “ political 
 agitators” are just as desirous as any class of people can be to see trade 
 and commerce and business of all sorts, from the building of iron ships 
 to the manufacture of match-boxes, flourish in Ireland. What the 
 “agitators” assert, and maintain by argument, is, that the absence of a 
 native legislature has much to do with the absence of trade and manu- 
 facture in Ireland, and that with the restoration of the national rights 
 of the country Irish commerce and industry would receive an immense 
 impetus and be placed on a secure basis. One of the distinguished 
 patriots who have always held to these opinions is his Grace the Most 
 llev. John MacHale, Archbishop of Tuam. In one of hi3 pastorals. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 215 
 
 published in the year 1864, when the “ flax” cry was raised to supersede 
 the popular demand for a Repeal of the Union, his Grace, with his usual 
 wisdom and penetration, thus referred to the subject 
 
 We are grieved at the terrible evils that are driving our 
 faithful flocks to foreign lands, and the more so on account 
 of the cruel indifference with which those evils are viewed, 
 without any serious exertion to check them, or to alleviate 
 their pressure. Many projects are entertained, but of a mere 
 superficial character, and only temporary expedients. There 
 will be no pause in this work of extermination of our people 
 and the persecution of their faith, until the huge injustice 
 done to Ireland in the first year of this century, by violence 
 and treachery, is repaired ; which, so far from acquiring any 
 moral sanction by the lapse of time, has acquired through 
 successive years fresh and heavier aggravation. For ex- 
 ample, a branch of industry, the cultivation of flax, is 
 proposed, desirable under present circumstances, but of 
 little avail to the tenant without security and a guarantee 
 on the part of the landlord that he alone is not to profit by 
 the increased value which the land may acquire from such 
 cultivation. So far from any disposition being manifested 
 to establish by lease their reciprocal interest, the contrary is 
 acknowledged, and in raising flax, as well as corn and other 
 crops, the tenant will continue to be debarred from the 
 rights of a freeman. For this abject condition there will be 
 no adequate remedy until the land again enjoys the protect- 
 ing influence of a native legislature. 
 
 In the meantime, however, we are inclined to encourage 
 any project that may give even a temporary respite to our 
 afflicted people, provided they do not suffer themselves to be 
 duped by a fresh succession of such false and treacherous 
 pretenders to patriotism as have brought deep disaster on 
 the country. We well recollect the time when the gladsome 
 sound of the wheel and the shuttle was heard in the cot- 
 tages within a wide circle surrounding almost every town 
 in Mayo and Galway, and when the desolate streets of some 
 towns that are now like the old city of the dead, were 
 animated with the busy and thriving market of this do- 
 mestic manufacture. Cultivate, then, flax by all means, but 
 forget not to insist that the land in which you sow it be, by 
 
216 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 just covenant, your own, hoping for the restoration of 
 that legislature to which the linen trade of Ireland owed 
 its origin and its prosperity. With this, and this alone, will 
 come every temporal blessing that will protect your poverty 
 from the temptations that now beset it, your children from 
 the dangers of proselytism, and your entire race from exter- 
 mination. The land alone would not then be the only plank 
 to which the people should necessarily cling, since other 
 manufactures would spring up, as they fail not to do when 
 they are sure to be fostered by native parliaments. And 
 among those manufactures none could be more congenial 
 with, and prove more conducive to, the comfort, the inno- 
 cence, nay, to the prosperity of our people, than both the 
 woollen and linen manufactures, heretofore so flourishing, 
 when the light of a native legislature shone upon them. 
 
 ttott illegal. 
 
 Sir, I, in the most express terms, deny the competency of 
 Parliament to do this act. I warn you, do not dare to lay your 
 hands against the constitution. I tell you that if, circum- 
 stanced as you are, you pass this Act, it will be a nullity, and 
 that no man in Ireland will be bound to obey it. . . . 
 
 Yourselves you may extinguish, but Parliament you cannot 
 extinguish. It is enthroned in the hearts of the people. It 
 is enshrined in the sanctuary of the constitution. It is im- 
 mortal as the island which it protects. As well might the 
 frantic suicide hope that the act which destroys his mise- 
 rable body should extinguish his eternal soul. Again, there- 
 fore, I warn you, do not dare to lay your hands on the con- 
 stitution ; it is above your power. — William Conyngham 
 Plunket against the Union , 22nd January , 1799. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 217 
 
 QLxti §o\w? 
 
 BY “FI0N BARRA” OF THE “NATION.” 
 
 If all the wrath of England ran 
 To fill the land with ruin-fires, 
 
 If all her bloodiest hounds began 
 To tear us as they tore our sires : 
 
 If every cabin felt the flame, 
 
 And all the fields were waste and red, 
 
 Till silence o’er our highways came — 
 
 Such silence as will bless the dead : 
 
 If blood were spilled in thunder-showers 
 Where’er the hunted came to bay, 
 
 And all the grass and all the flowers 
 W T ere stained and sickened day by day : 
 
 If once again the maidens cried 
 To all the hills to hide their heads, 
 
 And babes and mothers side by side 
 Lay butchered in their bloody beds : 
 
 If all the love that lit the land 
 
 When priests knew well how hunger kills, 
 
 Flashed out again when, bruised and banned, 
 The priests were with us on the hills : 
 
 If in the lonely mountain cave 
 
 We heard how Jude and Macchabee 
 
 Cried God’s great curse to smite the slave 
 Who e’er forgot God made him free : 
 
 If all the tears our fathers shed 
 
 Came back to us, and all the groans ; 
 
 And wives and sons and daughters dead 
 Lay, with no priest to bless their bones : 
 
 All, all were vain to quench the fires 
 That burn within our veins to-day ; 
 
 So help us, God, that helped our sires, 
 
 We cannot give the land away ! 
 
218 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 m geailj irf f ttgfr @'pIL 
 
 From “ The Fate and Fortunes of Tyrone and Tyrconnel,” by tho 
 Rev. C. P. Meehan, author of “ The Rise and Fall of the Fran- 
 ciscan Monasteries of Ireland,” “The History of the Confederation 
 of Kilkenny,” &c., &c. 
 
 Few particulars of O’Neill’s last hours have reached us ; but 
 it is certain that his countess and his chaplain, Father 
 Chamberlaine, were constant watchers at his bedside, and 
 that the Pontiff’s physicians were there, too, prescribing the 
 best remedies known to the pharmacopaeia of the time. But 
 all in vain ; for the illustrious patient, after receiving the 
 comforts of religion, expired July 20, 1616, in the seventy- 
 sixth year of his age. “ The prince,” say the Four Masters, 
 u who died there in Borne, far away from Armagh, was a 
 powerful lord — mild and gentle with his friends, pious and 
 charitable, but stern and fierce to his enemies; and it was 
 a token that God was pleased with his life that He allowed 
 him to breathe his last in Borne, the metropolis of Christen- 
 dom.” Ah ! surely it was better to have given up the ghost 
 there, in the shadow of the Vatican, than on the Tower-green, 
 or in a cell of that living tomb where some of those who 
 conspired to ruin him were slowly wearing out the residue 
 of their remorseful years. O’Neill’s obsequies took place the 
 day after his decease, for he died in a month when “ the 
 burial rite must needs follow fast the agony.” Clothed in 
 the Franciscan habit, and laid on a bier, the lugubrious 
 trappings of which showed the cognisance of the Bed Hand, 
 his corse was borne by twelve stalwart Irishmen along the 
 Longara, the Spanish ambassador and three of the chiefest 
 of the Boman nobility holding the pall. Beligious of all 
 Orders, with lighted torches, preceded and followed the bier, 
 chanting the psalms with which the Church accompanies her 
 departed faithful t c the frontier of eternity ; and, as the 
 long procession slowly ascended the acclivity of the Jani- 
 culum, the tolling of a hundred bells, the throb of the muf- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 219 
 
 fled drum, and the minute-gun of S. Angelo, announced to the 
 Imperial City, the shepherds of the Campagna, and the vine- 
 dressers among the Alban hills, that an illustrious personage 
 was then about to be laid in his last resting-place. In 
 obedience to the Pontiffs command, the church of Montorio 
 was draped in mourning, and nothing was omitted that could 
 lend deepest solemnity to the funeral pomp. Cardinals, 
 Roman patricians, and ambassadors from various foreign 
 courts, assisted at the Mass of Requiem ; and, when the last 
 absolution was pronounced, the hands of his fellow-exiles 
 deposited the remains of their great chieftain beside those 
 of his son, the Baron of Dungannon, and those of the 
 O’Donels, Lords of Tyrconnel. 
 
 Physical Strength of the Irish. — Considering man 
 merely as a source of animal power, it is gratifying to have 
 it proved that, when all well fed, there is no race more per- 
 fectly developed as to physical conformation than the in- 
 habitants of this island. Professor Forbes instituted an 
 extensive series of observations of the size and strength of 
 the students attending the University of Edinburgh, who 
 may be considered as fairly representing the middle classes 
 of their respective countries ; and I have subjoined the 
 similar results of Professor Quetelet, regarding the students 
 of the University of Brussels. The strength indicated is 
 that of a blow given to the plate of a spring dynamo- 
 meter : — 
 
 Average height 
 in inches. 
 
 English ... 68 i 
 
 Scotch ... 69 
 
 Irish ... 70 
 
 Belgians ... 68 
 
 Average weight 
 
 Average strength 
 
 in lbs. 
 
 in lbs. 
 
 151 
 
 403 
 
 152i 
 
 423 
 
 155 
 
 432 
 
 150 
 
 339 
 
 The Irish are thus the tallest, the strongest, and the 
 heaviest of the four races. Mr. Field, the eminent mechani- 
 cal engineer of London, had occasion to examine the relative 
 
220 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 powers of British and Irish labourers to raise weights by a 
 crane. He communicated his results to the Institute of 
 Civil Engineers in London. He fouud that the utmost 
 effort of a man lifting at the rate of one foot per minute 
 ranged — 
 
 Englishman ... from 11,505 lbs to 24,255 lbs. 
 
 Irishman ... ,, 17,325 ,, 27,562 lbs. 
 
 The utmost effort of a Welshman was 15,112 lbs. 
 
 — Sir Robert Kane . 
 
 |[Uman0trauce. 
 
 BY D. F. MCCARTHY. 
 
 Bless the dear old verdant land ! 
 
 Brother, wert thou born of it 1 
 As thy shadow life doth stand, 
 Twining round its rosy band, 
 
 Did an Irish mother’s hand 
 Guide thee in the morn of it ? 
 
 Did thy father’s soft command 
 Teach thee love or scorn of it ? 
 
 Thou who tread’st its fertile breast. 
 Dost thou feel a glow for it ? 
 Thou, of all its charms possest, 
 Living on its first and best, 
 
 Art thou but a thankless guest, 
 
 Or a traitor foe for it ? 
 
 If thou lovest, where the test ? 
 Wouldst thou strike a blow for it ? 
 
 Has the past no goading sting 
 That can make thee rouse for it ? 
 Does thy land’s reviving spring, 
 
 Full of buds and blossoming, 
 
 Fail to make thy cold heart cling, 
 Breathing lover’s vows for it ? 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 221 
 
 With the circling ocean’s ring 
 Thou wert made a spouse for it ! 
 
 Hast thou kept, as thou sliouldst keep, 
 Thy affections warm for it — 
 
 Letting no cold feelings creep, 
 
 Like the ice-breath o’er the deep, 
 Freezing to a stronger sleep 
 
 Hopes the heart would form for it — 
 Glories that like rainbows peep 
 
 Through the darkening storm for it ? 
 
 What we seek is Nature’s right — 
 Freedom and the aids of it ; 
 
 Freedom for the mind’s strong flight, 
 Seeking glorious shapes star-bright 
 Through the world’s iutensest night, 
 When the sunshine fades of it ! 
 
 Truth is one, and so is light, 
 
 Yet how many shades of it ! 
 
 A mirror every heart doth wear, 
 
 For heavenly shapes to shine in it — 
 
 If dim the glas3 or dark the air, 
 
 That Truth, the beautiful and fair, 
 God’s glorious image, shines not there, 
 Or shines with naught divine in it — 
 A sightless lion in its lair, 
 
 The darkened soul must pine in it. 
 
 Son of this old down-trodden land, 
 
 Then aid us in the fight for it ; 
 
 We seek to make it great and grand ; 
 Its shipless bays, its naked strand, 
 
 By canvas-swelling breezes fanned — 
 
 Oh ! what a glorious sight for it ! 
 
 The past expiring like a brand 
 In morning’s rosy light for it ! 
 
 Think that this dear old land is thine, 
 And thou a traitor slave of it ; 
 
 Think how the Switzer leads his kine, 
 When pale the evening star doth shine ; 
 His song has home in every line — 
 
 And freedom in each stave of it ! 
 Think how the German loves his Rhine, 
 And worships every wave of it ! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Our own dear land is bright as theirs, 
 
 But oh ! our hearts are cold for it ; 
 
 Awake ! we are not slaves, but heirs ; 
 
 Our fatherland requires our cares — 
 
 Our speech with man, with God our pray’rs. 
 
 Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it — 
 Let us do all that honour dares — 
 
 Be earnest, faithful, bold for it ! 
 
 fjre |ris& prfiml gmanJr. 
 
 At the opening of Parliament, on the 17th of January, 1873, the Home 
 Buie members brought forward an amendment to the address in reply to 
 the Queen’s speech. Their objection to the speech and the address was 
 that neither of them contained any reference to Ireland’s demand for 
 Home Buie. They proposed therefore to amend the address by inserting 
 in it a paragraph which, after some prefatory observations, went on to 
 say — “ We humbly assure your Majesty that we shall regard it as the 
 •duty of Parliament, in the present condition of public affairs, on the 
 earliest opportunity to consider in a wise and conciliatory spirit the 
 national demands which the Irish people have repeatedly raised.” To 
 speak against this amendment the Government party put up Mr. David 
 Plunket, member for the University of Dublin, a grandsqn of that Lord 
 Plunket who in the Irish House of Commons had most vehemently 
 opposed and denounced the Act of Union, and who had declared that if 
 that measure should be passed he would, like another Hannibal, take 
 his children to the altar of his country and there swear them to eternal 
 enmity against the Power which had so basely wronged their native 
 land. From this incident Lord Plunket’s numerous progeny— for all of 
 whom, notwithstanding his patriotic^vow, he managed to get Government 
 places— came in after times to be called “ tn^ little Hannibals.” Mr. 
 Sullivan replied to Mr. David Plunket’s attack on the Home Bulers, 
 and argued the whole question of the Irish claims, in the following 
 speech : — 
 
 Sir — The House stands indebted to the honourable and 
 gallant gentleman the member for Waterford. His motion 
 has broken “ the cold chain of silence’’ that hung over the 
 Government benches, and has elicited from the hon. and 
 learned gentleman who has just sat down (Mr. Plunket) a 
 speech w T hich, whatever its other characteristics, we have all 
 admired for its varied play of humour, eloquence, and ability. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 223 
 
 He had no need to apologise to the House for the time he 
 was occupying. This is the business, and this of all 
 others is the subject, with which the time of the House 
 should most rightly be occupied. Parliament has been 
 assembled three weeks earlier than usual, and within these 
 three weeks there should be good time for discussing and 
 considering the Irish question — for fully considered and dis- 
 cussed we are fixedly determined it shall be. Mr. Speaker, 
 that hon. and learned gentleman said of the men amidst 
 whom I stand that they were “masquerading as Home Rulers.” 
 Masquerading ! The phrase is not offensive, I suppose, or 
 he would not have applied it ; so I may use it too, and say 
 that the thing which is really intolerable is to see the grand- 
 son of the great Plunket ' masquerading on the floor of the 
 House as an Imperialist. We are supposed to be concerned 
 just now with the Turkish question. One of the cruelest 
 wrongs which the subject Christians under the Moslem yoke 
 were made to feel was that oftentimes the children of Chris- 
 tian parents were seized and carried into the Turkish camp, 
 trained up in Turkish ideas, embraced the faith and the 
 banner of the conqueror, and appeared many a time, scimitar 
 in hand, to wage war upon their kindred and their race ! 
 Even so it has been with us in Ireland through many a sad 
 chapter of our country’s story. Sometimes by force, some- 
 times by guile, sometimes by one influence, sometimes by 
 another, the British power has been able to tear away from 
 us children who bore great names, and might have greatly 
 served their country ; and we have seen these converts, as 
 to-night, skilfully set in the fore-front of the assault when 
 their countrymen were to be cut down. Who is our accuser % 
 The voice is the voice of an Irishman ; the wit, the ability, 
 the brilliant play of fancy and of genius, the rhetoric, the 
 skill — all, all are Irish, but all are used against Ireland ! 
 Who, I repeat, is our accuser % If we stand here to-night, 
 as we do, upon the floor of this House to maintain in the 
 face of the empire and of Europe the protest of Ireland 
 against the memorable crime that robbed her of her con- 
 stitutional liberties, whose behests are we fulfilling? — 
 who pledged us to undying hate and eternal war against 
 that crime 1 The honourable and learned gentleman 
 
224 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 had the temerity to use a phrase for ever notable in the 
 history of his family when he spoke of men “ swearing upon 
 the altar.” Who was that great Irishman, that distinguished 
 constitutional lawyer, who declared that if the Irish Parlia- 
 ment were successfully overthrown he would bring his child 
 — ah ! why did he not say his grandchild ? — and swear him 
 upon the altar of his country to wage relentless war against 
 that tremendous wrong ? How little did he imagine in this 
 hour that to-night the representatives of Ireland should dis- 
 cover in the ranks of their Imperial adversaries the heritor 
 of his great name, and in no small degree of his genius, false 
 to his principles and his teachings, false to his lineage and 
 his fame. But, sir, I turn from the man to his arguments. 
 He drew for us a picture of Ireland. Many years ago O’Con- 
 nell was defending a sheep-stealer. In his speech to the jury 
 he drew a glowing picture of the prisoner at the bar as a 
 model husband and father (he was not married at all), a duti- 
 ful son, an exemplary citizen, virtuous, pious, industrious, in- 
 offensive. At this point the prisoner in the dock could stand 
 it no longer, and he exclaimed to those around him, “ I 
 never knew before that I bore so high a character.” Well, 
 sir, we have heard to-night the defender of British rule in 
 Ireland extolling the virtues and excellencies of his client ; 
 and well may the prisoner at the bar in this case exclaim, 
 “ I never knew I was so beautiful, so virtuous, so merito- 
 rious as all that.” Only believe the hon. and learned gentle- 
 man, and there is not the slightest need of changing anything 
 — the slightest possibility of improving anything — in Ireland. 
 Everything there is already perfect in the matter of govern- 
 ment, law, and administration. There is not, if you believe 
 him, a more fortunate spot on the face of the habitable globe. 
 It is the home of happiness, peace, prosperity, of beneficent 
 rule and abounding loyalty. Hon. gentlemen opposite cheer. 
 You evidently think so too. You know all about it. You know 
 Ireland better than we do. You are better entitled to speak 
 for it than we, the Irish majority, are. Are you? But, pray, 
 by what right does your party hold those benches and rule 
 the destinies of England but by the right of a Parliamentary 
 majority? In virtue of a Parliamentary majority you say 
 you are entitled to speak to the world for England, while in 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 225 
 
 virtue of a Parliamentary minority you would claim to speak 
 for Ireland. But, sir, the question before the House is much 
 wider, and greater, and more serious, than the merits of the 
 Irish “ bills” which the Government has promised. If it were a 
 matter of a better or a worse grand jury law, or a better or a 
 worse Intermediate Education Bill, I for one should hesitate 
 to concur in an interposition like the present. The question 
 we raise is that for which it may be said Parliament has been 
 specially convoked. We have been told in the royal speech 
 of a possible danger near at hand, of precautions and pre- 
 parations that may be necessary for the defence of the power 
 and stability of the empire. Well, we have come forward to 
 suggest the wisest precaution and the most potential pre- 
 paration which the Government could make. The matter is 
 glozed over by smooth phrases, but the danger that you all 
 mean is war — a war in which England will have to fight for 
 her very existence as a nation. If that war break out, if it 
 be not averted, as I hope it may be, England will find her- 
 self in such desperate strait as she has not known for four 
 hundred years. Your army, small, but brave and fearless as 
 ever, will behave with its traditional valour ; wherever it 
 may be sent, on whatever field it may fight, the army of 
 this country will exhibit those splended qualities that have 
 justly given it a world-wide fame. I would say as much 
 for it even were it not composed as largely as it is of my own 
 brave countrymen. But there is not a military man sitting 
 in this House who does not know and feel the truth of what 
 I say — that a recent memorable war in Europe has demon- 
 strated that courage and prestige no longer compensate as 
 largely as they used to do sixty years ago against overwhelm- 
 ing odds ; and that your army of a hundred thousand, or a 
 hundred and fifty thousand men, would be utterly powerless 
 before the hosts that now stand arrayed and disciplined on 
 the continent of Europe. Should this calamity befall, should 
 this trouble for your existence arise, think you that it is 
 upon inanimate sword and bayonet, and ship and gun, rather 
 than upon stalwart arms and patriotic enthusiasm, your best 
 reliance will be ] Should that crisis come, right sure am I that 
 amongst the English masses a patriotic fervour will answer 
 to your call. Throughout England and throughout Scotland 
 
 15 
 
226 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 it will be so, but will it be so in Ireland ? In the spirit of 
 the oath which I swore at that table — nay, higher obligations 
 still, by the duty I owe to conscience and to truth — I dare all 
 misconception and outcry to deliver at this momentous crisis 
 my solemn testimony and belief that if this empire enters 
 upon a struggle of such magnitude while Ireland is in the 
 attitude which Hungary occupied towards Austria previous 
 to Sadowa, the popular enthusiasm which you will receive in 
 England and Scotland will not respond to you in Ireland. I 
 was prepared for your exclamations, and I do not complain, 
 for the statement I have made is serious, and naturally un- 
 welcome ; but time will vindicate the truth of my words and 
 the integrity of my motives. Twenty or twenty-five years 
 ago there stood upon the floor of this House a band of Irish 
 members, struggling, as we struggle now, to persuade you to 
 listen to Irish demands. Study for yourselves what was 
 their fate ; read for yourselves the lesson of that time. 
 They were voted down, they were shouted down, they 
 were laughed at, they were denounced or derided. You had 
 in that day — as you always have — some gifted and eloquent 
 Irishman in your service to get up and do your work against 
 his countrymen, to contradict their testimony, to tell you 
 pleasant tidings which you hailed as Gospel truths, while 
 honest warnings were shrieked against as seditious incen- 
 tives. John Francis Maguire and others ventured to say in 
 this House, as I say now, that there was danger and disaffec- 
 tion in Ireland. They were set upon angrily as almost trai- 
 tors. They were contradicted and condemned. This House, 
 by overwhelming voice, declared their testimony untrue, and 
 that Ireland was peaceable, contented, and loyal to the core. 
 Alas ! a year or two barely passed when events threw a ter- 
 rible light on all this. At that very moment my unfortunate 
 countrymen were being sworn in by the thousand in a secret 
 conspiracy for armed insurrection. Barely a few years 
 passed away when the crowded dock, the convict ship, the 
 penal gang, the triangle, and the bloody lash — nay, the 
 1 scaffold itself — furnished a frightful contradiction to the 
 pleasant testimonies which you preferred to believe ; a fright- 
 ful corroboration to the warnings you denounced and disre- 
 garded ! What happened then *1 Like the story of the re- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 227 
 
 cent Fenian amnesty which we have heard to-night, measures 
 prayed for in vain in the hour of your tranquillity, when con- 
 cession would have grace and efficacy, were conceded amidst 
 public disquietude and almost panic. Writing some six 
 weeks ago to a friend in the North of England — a fair-minded, 
 a kindly-hearted, and high-principled Englishman — yes, I be- 
 lieve in the existence of such men, not in scores or hun- 
 dreds, but in hundreds of thousands — I complained of this, 
 and asked how and why it was that English statesmen and 
 politicians should thus put a premium on turbulence and 
 revolt. Just look what has been the history of any great 
 political measure passed for Ireland in our own generation. 
 The argument of Catholic Emancipation was exhausted 
 in 1819. Its justice was as patent to all men in 
 1822 as at any time afterwards ; yet it was resisted and re- 
 fused until, as the Duke of Wellington declared, civil war 
 seemed inevitable. Was not that a mischievous lesson to 
 Irishmen % The Tithe question you resisted until our land 
 was reddened with blood. The Church question and the 
 Land question — it is a story of recent years. A land bill 
 was passed in 1870, after passions had been aroused, hearts 
 broken, homes desolated by the thousand; after you had 
 filled America with combustible elements that are at this 
 moment a serious menace to England. In that straggle you 
 broke the heart of Lucas, and drove Gavan Duffy into exile 
 — robbed Ireland of the services of a man whose genius and 
 whose worth you have been glad to recognise at the Anti- 
 podes. The land bill, prayed for in 1850, was granted in 
 part in 1870, after the terrible tragedy of Bally cohey had 
 startled the empire. In 1868 you suddenly overthrew the 
 Irish Church, because, as you avowed, of the spread of 
 Fenianism. In the face of the men whose warnings you had 
 angrily resented a few years previously, you came down to 
 this House to concede in an hour of alarm what you had re- 
 fused in the time of tranquillity. Is this narration true or 
 false % Am I, or am I not, reciting facts known to you all 1 
 What do those facts show ? That by some malign fatality, 
 some calamitous coincidence, if nothing more, you scoff at 
 men like my colleagues and myself, who beseech you to be 
 Just in time. You resist concession in time of calm, and 
 
228 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 yield it only in the face of real or fancied peril. If it be not 
 so, let some one get up to-night, and name for us any great 
 national concession made to Ireland under any other cir- 
 cumstances. As it has been, perhaps it is still to be. 
 You will complain of my words ; you will say I do 
 not warn but threaten ; and you will prefer to believe 
 those who tell you the Irish masses are contented and 
 well-affected — as enthusiastically ready as Englishmen could 
 be to pour out their blood in your defence. But I dare 
 all risk of temporary misrepresentation and blame. I look 
 into the future, and can await my vindication. Do not 
 affect to mistake our position in this crisis of the empire. 
 We are not so many members of a party or a section of this 
 House. We are not so many advocates of this or that bill. 
 We are the national representation of Ireland, here in over- 
 whelming majority to demand the restoration of Parlia- 
 mentary rule and constitutional government. We are pro- 
 jecting no new proposal, like the friends of this or that 
 great reform or amelioration. We are here to call for the* 
 restitution of what we enjoyed and possessed, but which you 
 wrung from us by means held to vitiate and render illegal 
 every public transaction between man and man, between 
 nation and nation. Possession gives you no title to it, 
 for no time runs against a claim asserted and renewed, as 
 ours has been, from generation to generation. Legally we 
 stand to-day where we stood seventy years ago. Restore to 
 Ireland the reign of law ! It is all she asks as the price 
 of her friendship ; a price cheap indeed, for it takes nothing 
 from you that belongs to you. The price of her friendship L 
 You are now, in view of a terrible emergency, possibly at 
 hand, searching Europe through for allies. Here we are to- 
 night empowered to offer you one worth the best you could 
 elsewhere find — the alliance, the hearty friendship, the en- 
 thusiastic support of Ireland. I own I have deep reason to 
 wish this question settled, and to see a cordial feeling estab- 
 lished between the two countries before dark clouds grow 
 darker, and while yet the reconciliation can be free and 
 generous and efficacious. The peace, the happiness, the 
 tranquillity of Ireland are most dear to me ; and I do not 
 wish to see my country destroyed by being made, perhaps. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 229 
 
 a battlefield of the coming struggle. I do not want the 
 ghastly episode of some Continental despot making what he 
 would call a diversion in Ireland — wasting the blood and 
 blasting the hopes of my country in a mere stroke of tactics 
 to serve his own ends. I shudder when I think of such a 
 possibility ; and I appeal to you — yes, unchilled by the fore- 
 gone conclusion of your unwise refusal, I nevertheless raise 
 and record my appeal to you and the English nation to-night 
 to let us clasp hands in friendship on the only terms on which 
 we can be either allies or friends. Be simply just. That 
 you will do so yet, despite your customary refusals now, I 
 am as convinced as I am of my own existence. It is the 
 time which, with your customary unwisdom, you may select 
 for such a step, that alone disquiets me. Austria tried your 
 present policy towards Hungary, and changed it after Sa- 
 <lowa. I hope and pray you will wait for no such hour to 
 accept the proffered hand and secure the ready aid of the 
 brave and gallant Irish nation. 
 
 
 The night of the 23rd of October, 1641, was the date fixed upon by 
 the Northern Irish leaders for an uprising of the whole nation against 
 English rule in Ireland. The fact was kept a profound secret from the 
 English governors of Ireland until a few hours before the time agreed 
 upon, when Colonel Hugh M ‘Mahon incautiously confided it, or rather 
 boasted of it, to a person, Owen Connolly, who was a sort of henchman 
 or follower of one of the English Puritanical party. Connolly hastened 
 with the news to Dublin Castle, and related it to the Lords J ustices^ 
 Parsons and Borlase, who were at first inclined to give no credence to 
 his story, more especially as the narrator was evidently half drunk at 
 the time ; but subsequently, deeming it better to be on their guard 
 against the worst, they ordered the Castle gates to be closed, and had a 
 search made in the houses in which the Irish leaders were said to be 
 staying. The result was that several of them, including Colonel 
 M‘Mahon, were captured, but others made their escape. When 
 M ‘Mahon was confronted with the Lords Justices in the Council 
 Chamber of Dublin Castle, he avowed his complicity in the intended 
 rising ; he gloried in it, and told them that the work was now 
 
230 IRISH PENN\ READINGS. 
 
 afoot, and that huts an power could not now avail to prevent it. He 
 knew, he said, what fate he had now to expect from them, but he could 
 die with joy, as Ireland would that night be up in arms against 
 her cruel oppressors. The following poem, founded on this incident, 
 was written by Mr. James N. M‘Kane, and was published in the 
 Nation , November 13th, 1869 : — 
 
 Scene : Council Chamber, Dublin Castle. Time : Night, 23rd October, 
 
 1641. 
 
 By Heaven, that hateful name is false ! no “ traitor V’ soul have 
 I— 
 
 Not mine to blush for “ craven crimes” — not mine “ the dread to 
 die 
 
 And, though a captive here I stand within these Dublin towrs, 
 I swear we fight for king and right — a holy cause is ours : 
 
 Even here I fling your tauntings back — I fling them in your 
 
 face — 
 
 Dark picture, Parsons, of your heart — a tell-tale of your race. 
 Lords — justices ! misnamed — my tongue your perfidy shall 
 brand, 
 
 Betrayers of your prince’s cause, and robbers of the land ! 
 
 I dare your worst ! — your rope, your block no terrors have for 
 me, 
 
 For the hour that saw these hands enchained, that hour saw 
 Ireland free ! 
 
 Ay , “ bear me hence” — what boots it now if I should live or die ? 
 Thank God ! the long-sought hour is come — our banners kiss 
 the sky ! 
 
 Albeit a worthless tool is broke — ’tis hallowed in the deed — 
 Thank God that Ireland’s cause ia safe — that I for Ireland 
 bleed ! 
 
 Ay, ‘‘'bear me to the bloody block” — nor need ye waste your 
 light, 
 
 For Ulster, all ablaze, my lords, shall be our torch to-night ; 
 Each Saxon tower that frowned upon our country’s plundered 
 thanes 
 
 Shall light its felon lord, ere dawn, to dastard flight or chains ; 
 Shall guide the steps of gathering clans, whose watchwords rend 
 the sky — 
 
 O God ! it is a happy death on such a night to die ! 
 
 Clan-ConnaPs outlawed sons rush down o’er cliff and rugged 
 
 rock — 
 
 Than Erna’s flood at Assaroe, more fierce and dread their 
 shock ; 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 231 
 
 As storm-clouds driven o’er Summer’s sky, Maguire’s shattered 
 clan 
 
 Shall sweep from Erna’s hundred isles, and clutch their own 
 again : 
 
 A thunderbolt that cleaves the heavens, with scathing levi^ 
 bright, 
 
 Clan-Nial’s gathering masses burst o’er tower and town to- 
 night ; 
 
 O’Hanlon builds his eyrie strong in Tanderagee’s old town ; 
 
 O’Reilly raises Brefni’s kernes ; Magennis musters Down ; 
 
 And though not mine the glorious task my rightful clan to lead, 
 
 Clan-Mahon shall not want a chief to teach it hew to bleed ! 
 
 Tyr-Eoghain’s banished chief unfurls the “ Red Hand” o’er 
 the sea ; 
 
 And many an exile’s sword that flag shall lead to victory. 
 
 Once more upon Lough S willy’s shore O’Neill again shall stand — * 
 
 Hugh’s victor fire burns in his eye, and guides his vengeful 
 brand ! 
 
 Pull soon the “Bloody Hand” shall grasp Tyrconnel’s “ Holy 
 Cross 
 
 And, side by side, through battle’s tide their mingling folds 
 shall toss ; 
 
 And “In this sign we’ll conquer” now despite your robber 
 pow’rs — 
 
 Proclaim ! the glorious goal is won — again the land is ours ! 
 
 Ha ! wherefore shakes that craven hand — Lord J ustice Parsons, 
 say ? 
 
 Why stare so stark, my Lord Borlase ? — why grow so pale, I 
 pray ? 
 
 Me thought you deemed it “ holy work” to fleece “ the Philis- 
 tine 
 
 That in “ God’s name” you taxed belief in many a goodly fine ; 
 
 Then wherefore all these rueful looks 1 — “ the Lord’s work ye 
 have done 1” 
 
 Advance the lights ! Ha ! vampire lords, your evil race is run. 
 
 Ye traitors to a trusting prince ! ye robbers of his realm ! 
 
 Small wonder that the ship’s adrift, with pirates at the helm ! 
 
 Hark ! heard’st that shout that rang without ? Ye ministers 
 of ill, 
 
 Haste, sate ye with your latest crime while yet you’ve time to 
 kill! 
 
232 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 I dare your worst, ye Saxon knaves ! then wherefore do you 
 pause ? 
 
 My blood shall rouse the Southern clans, though prostrate in 
 our cause ! 
 
 For as the resurrection-flower, though withered many a year, 
 
 Blooms fresh and bright and fair again when watered with a 
 tear, 
 
 So, nurtured in the willing wave of a martyr’s ruddy tide, 
 
 Our sons shall say — The nation lived when Hugh M‘Mahon 
 died ! 
 
 flje |nsl] JfoMtr. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CARLETON. 
 
 In my native parish there were four or five fiddlers — all 
 good in their way ; but the Paganini of the district was the 
 far-famed Mickey M‘Rorey. Where Mickey properly lived, 
 I never could actually discover, and for the best reason :in 
 the world — he was not at home once in twelve months. As 
 Colley Cibber says in the play, he was “ a kind of here-and- 
 thereian — a stranger nowhere.” This, however, mattered 
 little ; for though perpetually shifting day after day from 
 place to place, yet it somehow happened that nobody ever 
 was at a loss to know where to find him. The truth is, he 
 never felt disposed to travel incog ., because he knew that his 
 interest must suffer by doing so ; the consequence was, that 
 wherever he went, a little nucleus of local fame always at- 
 tended him, which rendered it an easy matter to find his 
 whereabouts. 
 
 Mickey was blind from his infancy, and, as usual, owed to 
 the small-pox the loss of his eyesight. He was about the 
 middle size, of rather a slender make, and possessed an intel- 
 ligent countenance, on which beamed that singular expres- 
 sion of inward serenity so peculiar to the blind. His temper 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 233 
 
 was sweet and even, but capable of rising through the buoy- 
 ancy of his own humour to a high pitch of exhilaration and 
 enjoyment. The dress he wore, as far as I can remember, 
 was always the same in colour and fabric — to wit, a brown 
 coat, a sober-tinted cotton waistcoat, grey stockings, and 
 black corduroys. Poor Mickey ! I think I see him before 
 me, his head erect, as the heads of all blind men are, the 
 fiddle-case under his left arm, and his hazel staff held out 
 like a feeler, exploring with experimental pokes the nature 
 of the ground before him, even although some happy urchin 
 leads him onward with an exulting eye ; an honour of which 
 he will boast to his companions for many a mortal month to 
 come. 
 
 The first time I ever heard Mickey play was also the first I 
 ever heard a fiddle. Well and distinctly do I remember the 
 •occasion. The season was Summer — but Summer was Summer 
 then — and a new house belonging to Frank Thomas had been 
 finished, and was just ready to receive him and his family. 
 The floors of Irish houses in the country generally consist at 
 first of wet clay ; and when this is sufficiently well smoothed 
 and hardened, a dance is known to be an excellent thing to 
 bind and prevent them from cracking. On this occasion the 
 evening had been appointed, and the day was nearly half ad- 
 vanced, but no appearance of the fiddler. The state of ex- 
 citement in which I found myself could not be described. 
 The name of Mickey MTtorey had been ringing in my ears 
 for God knows how long, but I had never seen him, or even 
 heard his fiddle. Every two minutes I was on the top of a 
 little eminence looking out for him, my eyes straining out 
 of their sockets, and my head dizzy with the prophetic ex- 
 pectation of rapture and delight. Human patience, however, 
 could bear this painful suspense no longer, and I privately 
 resolved to find Mickey, or perish. I accordingly proceeded 
 across the hills, a distance of about three miles, to a place 
 called Kilnahushogue, where I found him waiting for a 
 guide. At this time I could not have been more than seven 
 years of age, and how I wrought out my way over the lonely 
 hills, or through what mysterious instinct I was led to him, 
 and that too by a path over which I never travelled before, 
 must be left unrevealed, until it shall please that Power 
 
234 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 which guides the bee to its home, and the bird for thousands 
 of miles through the air, to disclose the principle upon which 
 it is accomplished. 
 
 On our return home I could see the young persons of both 
 sexes flying out to the little eminence I spoke of, looking 
 eagerly towards the point we travelled from, and immediately 
 scampering in again, clapping their hands, and shouting 
 with delight. Instantly the whole village was out, young 
 and old, standing for a moment to satisfy themselves that 
 the intelligence was correct ; after which about a dozen 
 of the youngsters sprang forward, with the speed of so many 
 antelopes, to meet us, whilst the elders returned with a 
 soberer but not less satisfied manner into the houses. Then 
 commenced the usual battle as to who should be honoured 
 by permission to carry the fiddle-case. Oh ! that fiddle- 
 case ! For seven long years it was an honour exclusively 
 allowed to myself, whenever Mickey attended a dance any- 
 where at all near us ; and never was the Lord Chancellor’s 
 mace — to which, by the way, with great respect for his 
 lordship, it bore a considerable resemblance — carried with a 
 prouder heart or a more exulting eye. But so it is — 
 
 “ These little things are great to little men” 
 
 “ Blood alive, Mickey, you’re welcome !” “ How is every 
 
 bone of you, Mickey? Bedad, we gev you up.” “No, we 
 didn’t give you up, Mickey ; never heed him ; sure we knew 
 very well you’d not desart the Towny boys — whoo! — Fol de 
 rol lol !” “ Ah, Mickey, won’t you sing 4 There was a wee 
 
 devil come over the wall ’ T “ To be sure he will, but wait 
 till he comes home and gets his dinner first. Is’t off an 
 empty stomach you’d have him to sing V “ Mickey, give me 
 the fiddle-case — won’t you, Mickey 2” “ No, to me , Mickey.” 
 
 “ Never heed them, Mickey ; you promised it to me at the 
 dance in Carntaul.” 
 
 “ Aisy, boys, aisy. The truth is, none of yez can get the 
 fiddle-case. Shibby, my fiddle, hasn’t been well for the last 
 day or two, and can’t bear to be carried by anyone barrin’ 
 myself.” 
 
 “ Blood alive ! sick is it, Mickey ? — an’ what ails her ?” 
 
 “ Why, some o’ the docthors says there’s a frog in her. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 235 
 
 an’ others that she has the colic ; but I’m going to give her 
 a dose of balgriifauns when I get up to the house above. 
 Ould Harry Connolly says she’s with fiddle ; an’ if that’s 
 true, boys, maybe some o’ yez won’t be in luck. I’ll be able 
 to spare a young fiddle or two among yez.” 
 
 Many a tiny hand was clapped, and many an eye was lit 
 up with the hope of getting a young fiddle ; for Gospel 
 itself was never looked upon to be more true than this asser- 
 tion of Mickey’s. And no wonder. The fact is, he used to 
 amuse himself by making small fiddles of deal and horse- 
 hair, which he carried about with him as presents for such 
 youngsters as he took a fancy to. This he made a serious 
 business of. and carried it on with an importance becoming 
 the intimation just given. Indeed, I remember the time 
 when I watched one of them, which I was so happy as to 
 receive from him, day and night, with the hope of being- 
 able to report that it was growing larger ; for my firm belief 
 was that in due time it would reach the usual size. 
 
 As we went along, Mickey, with his usual tact, got out of 
 us all the information respecting the several courtships of 
 the neighbourhood that had reached us, and as much, too, 
 of village gossip and scandal as we knew. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the overflowing kindness and affection 
 with which the Irish fiddler is received on the occasion of a 
 dance or merry-making ; and, to do him justice, he loses no 
 opportunity of exaggerating his own importance. From 
 habit, and his position among the people, his wit and power 
 of repartee are necessarily cultivated and sharpened. Not 
 one of his jokes ever fails— a circumstance which improves 
 his humour mightily ; for nothing on earth sustains it so 
 much as knowing that, whether good or bad, it will be 
 laughed at. Mickey, by the way, was a bachelor, and, 
 though blind, was able, as he himself used to say, to see 
 through the ears better than another could through the eyes. 
 He knew every voice at once, and every boy and girl in the 
 parish by name the moment he heard them speak. 
 
 On reaching the house he is bound for, he either partakes 
 of, or at least is offered, refreshment, after which comes the 
 ecstatic moment to the youngsters ; but all this is done by 
 due and solemn preparation. First he calls for a pair of 
 
236 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 scissors, with which he pairs or seems to pair his nails ; then 
 asks for a piece of resin, and in an instant half a dozen boys 
 are off at a break-neck pace to the next shoemaker’s, to pro- 
 cure it ; whilst in the meantime he deliberately pulls a piece 
 out of his pocket and resins his bow. But, heavens ! what 
 a ceremony the opening of that fiddle-case is ! The mani- 
 pulation of the blind man as he runs his hands down to 
 the key-hole — the turning of the key — the taking out of the 
 fiddle — the twang-twang — and then the first ecstatic sound, 
 as the bow is drawn across the strings ; then comes a screw- 
 ing ; then a delicious saw or two •> again another screwing — 
 twang-twang — and away he goes with the favourite tune of 
 the good woman, for such is the etiquette upon these occa- 
 sions. The house is immediately thronged with the neigh- 
 bours, and a preliminary dance is taken, in which the old 
 folks, with good-humoured violence, are literally dragged 
 out and forced to join. Then come the congratulations. 
 “ Ah, Jack, you could do it wanst,” says Mickey, “ an’ can 
 still ; you have a kick in you yet.” “ Why, Mickey, I seen 
 dancin’ in my time,” the old man will reply, his brow re- 
 laxed by a remnant of his former pride, and the hilarity of 
 the moment, “ but you see the breath isn’t what it used to 
 be wid me when I could dance the Baltehorum Jig on the 
 bottom of a ten-gallon cask. But I think a glass o’ whiskey 
 will do us no harm after that. Heigh-ho ! — well, well ! — I’m 
 sure I thought my dancin’ days wor over.” 
 
 “ Bedad an’ you wor matched any how,” rejoined the 
 fiddler. “ Molshy carried as light a heel as ever you did ; 
 sorra a woman of her years ever I seen could cut the buckle 
 with her. You would know the tune on her feet still.” 
 
 “ Ah, Mickey, the thruth is,” the good woman would say, 
 “we have no such dancin’ now as there was in my days. 
 Thry that glass.” 
 
 “ But as goad fiddlers, Molshy, eh ? Here’s to you both, 
 and long may you live to shake the toe ! Whoo ! bedad 
 that’s great stuff. Come now, sit down, Jack, till I give you 
 your old favourite, c Cannie Soogah .’ ” 
 
 These were happy moments and happy times, which might 
 well be looked upon as picturing the simple manners of 
 country life, with very little of moral shadow to obscure the 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 237 
 
 cheerfulness which lit up the Irish heart and hearth into 
 humble happiness. Mickey, with his usual good nature, 
 never forgot the younger portion of his audience. After en- 
 tertaining the old and full-grown, he would call for a key, 
 one end of which he placed in his mouth, in order to make 
 the fiddle sing for the children their favourite song, beginning 
 with 
 
 “ Oh ! grandmamma, will you squeeze my wig V 9 
 This he did in such a manner, through the medium of the 
 key, that the w T ords seemed to be spoken by the instrument 
 and not by himself. After this was over, he would sing us, 
 to his owtl accompaniment, another favourite, “ There w T as a 
 wee devil looked over the wall,” which generally closed 
 that portion of the entertainment so kindly designed for us. 
 
 Upon those moments I have often witnessed marks of 
 deep and pious feeling, occasioned by some memory of the 
 absent or the dead, that were as beautiful as they were 
 affecting. If, for instance, a favourite son or daughter hap- 
 pened to be removed by death, the father or mother, re- 
 membering the air which was loved best by the departed, 
 would pause a moment, and with a voice full of sorrow, say, 
 “ Mickey, there is one tune that I would like to hear ; I love 
 to think of it, and to hear it ; I do, for the sake of them 
 that’s gone — my darlin’ son that’s lyin’ low ; it was he that 
 loved it. His ear is closed against it now ; but for his sake 
 — ay, for your sake, avourneen machree — we will hear it 
 once more.” 
 
 Mickey always played such tunes in his best style, and 
 amidst a silence that was only broken by sobs, suppressed 
 moanings, and the other sounds of profound sorrow. These 
 gushes, however, of natural feeling soon passed away. In 
 a few minutes the smiles returned, the mirth broke out 
 again, and the lively dance went on as if their hearts had 
 been incapable of such affection for the dead — affection at 
 once so deep and tender. But many a time the light of 
 cheerfulness plays along the stream of Irish feeling when 
 cherished sorrow lies removed from the human eye far down 
 from the surface. 
 
 These preliminary amusements being now over, Mickey is 
 conducted to the dance-house, where he is carefully installed 
 
238 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 in the best chair, and immediately the dancing commences. 
 It is not my purpose to describe an Irish dance here, having 
 done it more than once elsewhere. It is enough to say that 
 Mickey is now in his glory ; and proud may the young man 
 be who fills the honourable post of his companion, and sits 
 next him. He is a living storehouse of intelligence, a tra- 
 velling directory for the parish — the lover’s text-book — the 
 young woman’s best companion ; for where is the courtship 
 going on of which he is not cognisant 1 where is there a mar- 
 riage on the tapis with the particulars of which he is not 
 acquainted ? He is an authority whom nobody would think 
 of questioning. It is now, too, that he scatters his jokes 
 about; and so correct and well-trained is his ear, that he 
 can frequently name the young man who dances, by the pe- 
 culiarity of his step. 
 
 “ Ah ha ! Paddy Brien, you’re there h Sure I’d know the 
 sound of your smoothin’-irons anywhere. Is it true, Paddy, 
 that you wor sint for down to Errigle Keerogue, to kill the 
 clocks for Dan M‘Mahon ? But, nabuklish ! Paddy, what’ll 
 you have ?” 
 
 “ Is that Grace Beilly on the Sure ? Faix, avourneen, you 
 can do it ; devil o’ your likes I see anywhere. I’ll lay Shibby 
 to a penny trump that you could dance your own namesake 
 — the Calleen dims dhun , the bonny brown girl — upon a 
 cobweb widout breakin’ it. Don’t be in a hurry, Grace dear, 
 to tie the knot ; Fll wait for you.” 
 
 Several times in the course of the night a plate is brought 
 round, and a collection made for the fiddler : this was the 
 moment when Mickey used to let the jokes fly in every direc- 
 tion. The timid he shamed into liberality, the vain he 
 praised, and the niggardly he assailed by open hardy satire ; 
 all managed, however, with such an under-current of good 
 humour, that no one could take offence. No joke ever told 
 better than that of the broken string. Whenever this hap- 
 pened at night, Mickey would call out to some soft fellow, 
 “ Blood alive, Ned Martin, will you bring me a candle 1 — I’ve 
 broken a string.” 
 
 The unthinking young man, forgetting that he w^as blind, 
 would take the candle in a hurry,’ and fetch it to him. 
 
 “Faix, Ned, I knew you wor jist fit for’t; houldin’ a 
 
IRISH TEXXY READINGS. 
 
 239 
 
 candle to a dark man ! Isn't he a beauty, boys ? — look at 
 him, girls — as cute as a pancake !” 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that the mirth on such occasions 
 was convulsive. Another similar joke was also played off 
 by him against such as he knew to be ungenerous at the 
 collection. 
 
 “ Paddy Smith, I want a word wid you. I’m goin’ across 
 the counthry as far as Ned Donnelly’s, and I want you to 
 help me along the road, as the night is dark.” 
 
 “ To be sure, Mickey. I’ll bring you over as snug as if 
 you wor on a clane plate, man alive !” 
 
 “ Thank you, Paddy ; throth you’ve the dacency in you ; 
 an’ kind father for you, Paddy. Maybe I’ll do as much for 
 you some other time.” 
 
 Mickey never spoke of this until the trick was played off, 
 after which he published it to the whole parish ; and Paddy, 
 of course, was made a standing jest for being so silly as to 
 think that night or day had any difference to a man who 
 could not see. 
 
 Thus passed the life of Mickey M'Rorey, and thus pass 
 the lives of most of his class, serenely and happily. As the 
 sailor to his ship, the sportsman to his gun, so is the fiddler 
 attached to his fiddle. His hopes and pleasures, though 
 limited, are full. His heart is necessarily light, for he comes 
 in contact with the brightest side of life and nature ; and 
 the consequence is that their mild and mellow lights are 
 reflected on and from himself. 
 
 I am ignorant whether poor Mickey is dead or not ; but I 
 dare say he forgets the boy to whose young spirit he com- 
 municated so much delight, and who often danced with a 
 buoyant and careless heart to the pleasant notes of his 
 fiddle. Mickey M'Rorey, farewell 1 Whether living or 
 dead, peace be with you 1 
 
 Effect of the Union on our Taxes. — If the Union had not 
 been enacted, we should have long since paid off every shilling 
 of the Irish national debt, and we should now be one of the 
 least taxed and most prosperous countries in Europe. — 
 O'Neill Daunt . 
 
240 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 §oul n\xb Country. 
 
 BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 Arise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! 
 
 And learn what yet remains for thee 
 To dree or do ! 
 
 The signs are flaming in the skies ; 
 
 A struggling world would yet be free, 
 
 And live anew. 
 
 The earthquake hath not yet been born 
 That soon shall rock the lands around 
 Beneath their base ; 
 
 Immortal freedom’s thunder horn 
 As yet yields but a doleful sound 
 To Europe’s race. 
 
 Look round, my soul ! and see and say 
 If those about thee understand 
 Their mission here ; 
 
 The will to smite — the power to slay— 
 Abound in every heart and hand, 
 
 Afar, anear. 
 
 But, God ! must yet the conqueror’s sword 
 Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? 
 Oh, dream it not ! 
 
 It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 
 
 Begot and born of moral fear — 
 
 And ill-begot I 
 
 To leave the world a name is naught ; 
 
 To leave a name for glorious deeds 
 And works of love — 
 
 A name to waken lightning thought, 
 
 And fire the soul of him who reads— 
 
 This tells above. 
 
 Napoleon sinks to-day before 
 The ungilded shrine, the single soul 
 Of Washington ; 
 
 Truth’s name alone shall man adore, 
 
 Long as the waves of time shall roll 
 Henceforward on ! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 241 
 
 Mv countrymen ! my words are weak, 
 
 My health is gone, my soul is dark, 
 
 My heart is chill — 
 
 Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
 To see you borne in freedom’s bark 
 O’er ocean still. 
 
 Beseech your God, and bide your hour — 
 
 He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; 
 
 Even now his tread 
 
 Is heard o’er earth with coming pow’r ; 
 
 And coming, trust me, it will come, 
 
 Else were he dead ! 
 
 fris| JbrtM Cam 
 
 At the great Tenant Right Banquet held in Castlebar, on October 
 26th, 1869, Mr. A. M. Sullivan, in response to the toast of “The Na- 
 tional Cause,” delivered a speech in which he gave the following historical 
 retrospect of Ireland’s defence of her national existence : — 
 
 There is this to be said for the Irish cause, however its 
 foes may scoff or sneer, that its record is a chapter in the 
 world’s history more great and glorious than has been con- 
 tributed by any other race or nation of ancient or modern 
 times. All over the world’s expanse we seek in vain for 
 such a spectacle of fortitude, of endurance, of national vita- 
 lity, unconquered, unconquerable, and indestructible to the 
 last. It used to be claimed as the proudest tribute to the 
 praise of the armies of England that “ they never knew 
 when they were beaten,” and the page of history attests 
 no fact more strikingly than this, that the Irish nation has 
 never accepted defeat. There is scarcely a land in Christen- 
 dom that has not been swept or submerged by a billow 
 of invasion. Some struggled bravely for a while, but even- 
 tually succumbed. Others yielded easily, accepted their 
 fate, and purchased terms by the sacrifice of liberty. But 
 
 16 
 
242 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 of all the countries in Europe, none has so frequently, so 
 systematically, so easily, yielded to invasion and accepted 
 conquest as the so-called “ haughty Albion.” It is a histori- 
 cal fact that England never repelled an invasion. It is a 
 historical fact that no expedition ever touched the English 
 shore that it was not followed by national subjugation. The 
 invader, whomsoever he might be, had but to come and see 
 and conquer. The Piet came as he listed, and spoiled the 
 ancient Briton. The Roman came, and almost instantaneously 
 Britain accepted and contentedly wore the conqueror’s chains 
 — nay, wept when he retired and left her to independence. 
 The Dane, and the Saxon, each in his turn, invaded, and 
 each in his turn made England slave or subject. The 
 Norman galleys scarce touched the English shore when the 
 whole fabric of national liberty fell. Long after the gallant 
 Harold was laid in his bloody grave the masses of the Eng- 
 lish people groaned beneath a yoke the most cruel and op- 
 pressive. But they never lifted a banner or drew a sword ; their 
 sufferings were only those of the submissive serf, not of the 
 struggling captive. The England of to-day is simply the Eng- 
 land of the last conquest ; and if we may judge the future by 
 the past, no invader of the neighbouring island need fear a 
 protracted struggle for national liberty on the part of those 
 valiant pressmen over the way who are so profuse with 
 their taunts and sarcasms against the Irish cause. Con- 
 trast the picture I have drawn from history with the record 
 of that cause since the hour when Queen Scota unfurled 
 the sacred standard of the Milesians. If the Dane came to 
 Ireland, there were brave Conacians to confront him on a 
 hundred battle-fields, and the combat for freedom never 
 ceased till an Irish monarch at the head of the national 
 legions finally swept the invaders into the sea. If the 
 Roman, master of Britain, gazing towards the setting sun, 
 ever sighted the Irish shore, he turned aside, for he too 
 well knew that in that western isle there dwelt a race too 
 proud and strong to wear the chains which Teuton, Gaul, 
 i and Briton wore. In an hour of weakness and division the 
 Anglo-Norman came to Ireland, not as an invader, but as 
 the foreign contingent in an Irish civil war. Not for two 
 , hundred years did the presence of the foreign colony pre- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 243 
 
 sent itself or assert itself in the open character of a national 
 invasion; and when it did, the Irish people, so far from 
 succumbing — though too late they found themselves in 
 toils too strong to be broken — commenced that struggle un- 
 precedented in history for its vehemence and persistence, 
 as a refusal to submit to national extinction. Against 
 this the Irish people have struggled “from bleeding sire 
 to son.” The arena of conflict, the weapons of the warfare, 
 may be changed, but the grand object is the same to-day 
 that it was at any time for seven centuries — national life, 
 national liberty. Throughout the long struggle of our race 
 our fathers fought with no mere Pagan valour. There were 
 brave men in ancient Greece and Rome, ere the Christian 
 hope was mingled with the patriot’s zeal. A Curtius leaped 
 into the yawning gulf, and gave his life for the public weal. 
 But a higher and a holier purpose still than ever animated 
 Greek or Roman of those times moved the heart of the Irish 
 patriot, because he struck for happy homes and altars free 
 — for God and dear fatherland. Interwoven with the 
 struggle for faith, until, fused in the crucible of terrible trial 
 and suffering, faith and patriotism became blended, indi- 
 visible, and inseparable. And so it has come to pass that 
 in Ireland the priests and the people stand side by side, 
 shoulder to shoulder, in every lawful and wise endeavour to 
 advance and vindicate the national cause. Long, long may 
 that holy alliance last. Long may we have by our side the 
 devoted priests of Ireland, to moderate by their calmer 
 counsels our sometimes rash resolves, or cheer by their 
 stronger hopes our sometimes fainting spirits. They are 
 with us to-day in this endeavour to root the remnant 
 of our people on the native soil. Three and twenty 
 years ago the fell spirit that through centuries had 
 pursued our race with the purpose of extirpation, 
 saw, or fancied that it saw, its surest opportunity in 
 the terrible visitation that fell upon the land. In the track 
 of famine and pestilence came a third desolator — the notice- 
 to-quit ; amidst the ring of the crowbar and the wail of the 
 emigrant evil men imagined that their hour of triumph had 
 arrived, and that Ireland would soon be cleared for a new 
 oolonisation. We have seen the havoc wrought in that dread- 
 
244 IRISH PENNY READINGS, 
 
 fill time. As we survey the bullock ranges that extend for 
 miles, we can mark the spots where stood the peasant’s 
 home — 
 
 “ Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever de- 
 parted — 
 
 Scattered like leaves and dust when the mighty blasts of October 
 Seize them and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far oe’r the 
 OCean.” 
 
 What has been accomplished by this dispersion of the Irish 
 race ? Has it succeeded ? has it blotted out the Irish nation ? 
 has it quenched our spirit? has it reduced our strength? 
 No, no. It has but multiplied our power and increased our 
 influence. In captivity or in exile the modem Israel grows 
 formidable. Witness that array in the streets of London 
 the other day, of a mighty multitude of exiles and scorned 
 outcasts who for years “ by the waters of Babylon” had sat 
 down, “ and wept when they remembered Sion.” In every 
 Christian land we reckon our friends and count our strength ; 
 to all that is manly and generous in England itself we may 
 safely appeal for sympathy. Yes ; the Irish cause is “ march- 
 ing on.” Oppression has had its day, and the reign of jus- 
 tice will come at last, and living men will see and bless the 
 triumph of the national cause. 
 
 English Rule in Ireland Described. — Generous conci- 
 liation and gracious mercy have always been foreign to the 
 policy of our rulers. Tyrants they were from the beginning, 
 and tyrants they seem resolved to be to the end of their 
 baleful domination. England’s sceptre has been the sword, 
 her diadem has been the black cap, and her throne has been 
 the gallows for the last seven hundred years. She is steeped 
 in the blood of India ; red-handed from the massacre of the 
 women of J amaica ; she exists with the blood of twenty gene- 
 rations of dead Irishmen standing between her and God on 
 high ; and, with brave Irishmen still suffering in her dun- 
 geons, she calls on us to applaud the proud policy of her 
 government . — From a speech of G. 1L Moore , M.P., at 
 Castlebar , on September \2th , 1869. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 245 
 
 <St. fjjaur tncz’s Qiibxzss 
 
 TO THE IRSH PRINCES AT PEACE WITH THE INVADER. 
 
 BY C. G. DUFFY, 
 
 [Laurence O’Toole, more properly O’Tuahal, one of the truest and 
 boldest patriots God ever granted to the necessities of a people, was 
 Archbishop of Dublin at the period of the English invasion. From the 
 first hour of their usurpation he was the head and soul of all the effective 
 opposition offered to the foreigners. After the landing of the second 
 gang of adventurers, he went among the princes of the country, and, by 
 his solitary exertions, organised a formidable league against them. He 
 afterwards addressed himself to the task of winning the princes who had 
 made submission to the enemy back to their natural allegiance. The 
 address which he may be supposed to have delivered upon that occasion 
 i3 the subject of the present ballad. The great influence St. Laurence 
 possessed with the princes of his country arose partly from his belonging 
 to their rank by birth, but much from his wise, pious, and exalted cha- 
 racter, and ascetic life. He died in France (some assert, an exile for his 
 patriotism), and in the course of time was canonised and chosen patron 
 saint of Dublin. Ireland produced no man who served her more faith- 
 fully, or whose services have been more shamefully forgotten.] 
 
 (A.D. 1171 .) 
 
 Princes, Tanists, Chiefs of Iran,* wherefore meet we here to- 
 day 1 
 
 Come ye but to raise the calloidf o’er your country’s lifeless 
 clay ? 
 
 Como ye here to whine your sorrow for the ill yourselves have 
 wrought, 
 
 Or to swear you’ll buy redemption, at the price it may be 
 bought ? 
 
 Once your names were names of honour in the citied camps of 
 Gaul — 
 
 Once the iron tribe of Odin did not blush to bear your 
 thrall! — 
 
 * Iran, or Irin, is the characteristic name which all our ancient manu- 
 scripts affix to this country. There is no exception to this admitted 
 rule. — OBrien's Round Towers. + A funeral elegy. 
 
 ! Many of the Danes who remained in Ireland after the battle of 
 Clontarf took service under the Irish princes. 
 
246 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Once the proud Iberian boasted how your royal race begun ; 
 
 But your glory hath gone from you, swiftly as a setting sun. 
 
 And throughout our desolation mark you not God’s holy hand 
 
 Smiting us with subtle vengeance, for our sins against the land ? 
 
 Frantic feuds and broken pactions, selfish ends and sordid lust, 
 
 And, the blackest vice of vices, treason to our sacred trust ! 
 
 Where be all the fiefs He gave you — well to govern, well to 
 guard ? 
 
 Bartered to the Godless spoiler — and behold your just reward : 
 
 Desolation shall pursue you, and shall pierce you through and 
 through, 
 
 Till, where women’s tears are raining, princely rage shall 
 thunder too 1 
 
 When the stranger came a stranger, still you gave the stranger’s 
 meed — 
 
 Shelter when he came an exile — succour when he came in 
 need — 
 
 When he came a student, learning, and the right of book and 
 board — 
 
 Princes! when he came a robber, had you not the axe and 
 sword ? 
 
 And was peace the fruit of treason ? Let our kinsmen, fled or 
 dead, 
 
 Chainless plunder, lust and murder, teach you how submission 
 sped ; 
 
 Nay, behold yon vale ! a convent lay like love embosomed 
 there, 
 
 Where the weary found a shelter, and the wounded needful 
 care ; 
 
 And the prayers of holy maidens streamed to Heaven night and 
 
 . da 7, 
 
 Like a healing incense burning all infectious sin away : 
 
 There it flourished till the spoiler, Christless more than Heathen 
 Jew, 
 
 Came — and now the wolf and Saxon share the wreck between 
 them two. 
 
 Oh ! may God our Lord assoil me, if at times, in high disdain, 
 
 Seeing this, I prayed that Brian had not wholly crushed the 
 Dane. 
 
 Well the savage pirate guarded all the spoil his crimes amassed^ 
 
 And the isle, from sea to centre, trust me, he had held it fast. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 247 
 
 When ye shrink to monks, ’tis seeming, monks should nil your 
 princely place ; 
 
 And a peaceful priest proclaims you traitors black with foul dis- 
 grace. 
 
 Allies ? They will be your allies ? Ay, and keep their faith as 
 true 
 
 As Black Raymond on the bloody feast of Saint Bartholomew.* 
 
 And their king will be your father ? Yea, and grant you many 
 a grace — 
 
 Gyves and fetters from the donjons of hi3 own begotten race ! 
 Scorn this knavish scheme to mesh you in a net of idle words ; 
 Thank him as his sons have thanked him — thank him with your 
 naked swords. 
 
 Still ye doubt ! Then, royal Norman, reeking red with holy 
 blood, 
 
 Come and lead to newer slaughter all your sacrilegious brood ; 
 Come in triumph — here are bishops, worn to stone with fast 
 and pray’r, 
 
 None shall question why you send them Beckett’s bloody shroud 
 to share. 
 
 Nay, my children, if you doom us to the martyr’s bitter crown, 
 With your own dishonoured weapons strike your priests and 
 prelates down ; 
 
 Better thus than by the stranger — better thus than being 
 cursed 
 
 With that hideous daily torture, living on to know the worst. 
 
 And the loyal wives that love you with a fend and generous 
 truth, 
 
 And the daughters who surround you with the sunshine of 
 their youth, 
 
 Drag them to the carnal tyrant as he swoops upon your shore — 
 Meekly you must do his pleasure, nor deny him ever more. 
 
 Oh ! forgive my rash injustice ; Heber’s blood is wroth at wrong, 
 And I see you burn to grapple all the ills we bore so long ; 
 
 * One of the most infamous butcheries recorded in history was com- 
 mitted by the English invader on St. Bartholomew’s Day. Strongbow, 
 who first set foot in Ireland that very day, appointed his confederate, 
 Raymond le Gros, to attack Waterford, which, after a resolute resist- 
 ance, was taken : whereupon (to use the words of Leland, the Pro- 
 testant historian) “ the whole city was made a scene of promiscuous car- 
 nage, without mercy or distinction.” That is to say, they murdered the 
 citizens for endeavouring to protect their own city from a gang of pirates, 
 landed only a few hours on the soil. 
 
248 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 And you’ll league like royal brothers, till from joyful shore to 
 shore 
 
 Princely rage indeed shall thunder, women’s tears shall rain no 
 more. 
 
 Yes, like brothers ; let the Psalters link his name with fixt dis- 
 grace, 
 
 Who, when Iran waves her banner, strikes for region, clann, or 
 race ; 
 
 Not for Desmond, not for Ulad, not for Ir or Eogan’s seed,* 
 
 But for ocean-girdled Iran must our kingly chieftains bleed. 
 
 Moran’s self-denying justice, Dathi’s world-embracing fame, 
 
 Fodhla’s wisdom, Cormac’s counsel, holy Patrick’s sacred name, f 
 
 And our own dear land, that gave us kindly culture, state, and 
 gold- 
 
 Oh ! my children, need you stronger spell- words for the true 
 and bold ] 
 
 Thus you match and over-match them, be they harnessed breast 
 and backs — 
 
 Never Norman forged a cuirass could resist an Irish axe ; 
 
 And be sure your fearless clansmen soon shall scorn their black 
 array, 
 
 As the cowards clad in iron and a horse to ride away !£ 
 
 And the dull and slavish Saxons, whipped and leashed by 
 Norman hands, 
 
 Trained to wreak the wrongs they suffered on the breast of 
 kindred lands — 
 
 * Desmond , South Munster ; Vlad , Ulster ; Jr, a son of Milesius, and 
 head of many illustrious Irish families ; Eogan (Owen), descendant of 
 Heber , and head of another race. 
 
 + Perhaps it may be necessary to inform some readers that Moran, 
 the son of a usurper of the Irish crown, abandoned his claim in favour 
 of the legitimate heir, and became chief judge of Ireland, and illustrious 
 for his equity — his miraculous collar is famous in song and story. Dathi, 
 the last of our Pagan kings, carried the Irish arms through Gaul and 
 Helvetia in the fifth century. Ollamh Fodhlah (pronounced Ollav Fola ), 
 the great lawgiver of our ancestors, earned a reputation for profound 
 wisdom by his laws and institutions ; his head adorns the Hall of the 
 Four Courts, Dublin. Cormac was King and Bishop of Cashel, and a 
 poet of celebrity ; some of his writings are still extant. 
 
 £ It is necessary to remind the reader that the English adventurers 
 were defended by armour, and fought on horseback, while the Irish 
 were without armour, and generally fought on foot. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 249 
 
 Trained, like mastiffs in the shambles, at a beck to rend and 
 bite, 
 
 As the wolves before the beagles, you shall track their bloody 
 flight. 
 
 Pause not till each Dun and Tower planted by the strangers* 
 hand 
 
 Blazes like a Viking beacon, guiding them from out the land — 
 
 Till the last of all the pirates to their galleys shall have fled, 
 
 Shuddering at the dire gal-tromba * as the trumpet of the dead. 
 
 Thus shall you be free for ever — thu3 the promised day shall 
 come, 
 
 When the Children of the Soldierf guard a proud, untrammelled 
 home ; 
 
 Thus your memory of the present like the prophet’s joy shall 
 seem, 
 
 Who, oppressed with fearful danger, waked to find ’twas but a 
 dream. 
 
 Irish Eights and English Honour. — He (Mr. Pitt) con- 
 fines the “ purposes of Irish representation” [in the English 
 Parliament] to two objects — first, watching and stating, 
 which only requires one representative ; secondly, protection 
 against Jacobinism, which requires no representative what- 
 ever. He then proceeds to ask himself a question extremely 
 natural after such reasoning — What security has Ireland ? 
 He answers, with great candour, Honour — English Honour. 
 Now, when the liberty and security of one country depends 
 on the honour of another, the latter may have much honour, 
 but the former can have no liberty. To depend on the honour 
 of another country is to depend on her will ; and to depend on 
 the ivill of another country is the definition of slavery. — Grattan x 
 26th May , 1800. 
 
 * The war-trumpet of the Irish, adopted from the Danes, and called 
 galtromba — the trumpet of the stranger. 
 
 ■f “ Children of the Soldier” — i.e of Milesius, whose name some derive 
 from miles . 
 
250 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Sard's 
 
 From “The Story of Ireland.” By A. M. Sullivan. 
 
 Early on the 9th of August, 1690, William drew from hi& 
 encampment at Caherconlish, and, confident of an easy 
 victory ; sat down before Limerick. That day he occupied 
 himself in selecting favourable sites for batteries to com- 
 mand the city, and in truth, owing to the formation of the 
 ground, the city was at nearly every point nakedly exposed 
 to his guns. He next sent in a summons to surrender, 
 but De Boisseleau courteously replied that “ he hoped he 
 should merit his opinion more by a vigorous defence than 
 a shameful surrender of a fortress which he had been en- 
 trusted with.”* 
 
 The siege now began. William’s bombardment, however, 
 proceeded slowly ; and the Limerick gunners, on the other 
 hand, were much more active and vigorous than he had ex- 
 pected. On, Monday, the 11th, their fire compelled him to 
 shift his field train entirely out of range ; and on the next 
 day, as if intent on following up such practice, their balls fell 
 so thickly about his own tent, killing several persons, that 
 he had to shift his own quarters also. But in a day or two 
 he meant to be in position to pay back these attentions with 
 heavy interest, and to reduce those old walls despite all re- 
 sistance. In fine, there was coming up to him from Water- 
 ford a magnificent battering train, together with immense 
 stores of ammunition, and, what was nearly as effective for 
 him as the siege train, a number of pontoonboats of tin or 
 sheet copper, which would soon enable him to pass the Shan- 
 non where he pleased. So he took very coolly the resistance 
 so far offered from the city. For in a day more Limerick 
 would be absolutely at his mercy ! 
 
 So thought William ; and so seemed the inevitable fact. 
 But there was a bold heart and an active brain at work at 
 
 * “ Memoirs of King James the Second.” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 251 
 
 that very moment, planning a deed destined to immortalise 
 its author to all time, and to baffle William’s now all-but-ac- 
 complished designs on Limerick ! 
 
 On Sunday, the 10th, the battering train and its convoy 
 had reached Cashel. On Monday, the 11th, they reached a 
 place called Ballyneety, within nine or ten miles of the 
 Williamite camp. The country through which they had 
 passed was all in the hands of their own garrisons or patrols ; 
 yet they had so important and precious a charge that they 
 had watched it jealously so far ; but now they were virtually 
 at the camp — only a few miles in its rear ; and so the con- 
 voy, when night fell, drew the siege train and the vast line 
 of ammunition waggons, the pontoon boats and store-loads, 
 into a field close to an old ruined castle, and, duly posting 
 night sentries, gave themselves to repose. 
 
 That day an Anglicised Irishman, one Manus O’Brien, a 
 Protestant landholder in the neighbourhood of Limerick, 
 came into the Williamite camp with a piece of news. Sars- 
 field, at the head of five hundred picked men, had ridden off 
 the night before on some mysterious enterprise in the direc- 
 tion of Killaloe ; and the informer, from Sarsfield’s character, 
 judged rightly that something important was afoot, and 
 earnestly assured the Williamites that nothing was too 
 desperate for that commander to accomplish. 
 
 The Williamite officers made little of this. They thought 
 the fellow was only anxious to make much of a trifle, by way 
 of securing favour for himself. Besides, they knew of no- 
 thing in the direction of Killaloe that could affect them.. 
 William, at length, was informed of the story. He, too, 
 failed to discern what Sarsfield could be at ; but his mind 
 anxiously reverting to his grand battering train — albeit it was 
 now but a few miles off — he, to make safety doubly sure, 
 ordered Sir John Lanier to proceed at once with five hundred 
 horse to meet the convoy. By some curious chance, Sir 
 John — perhaps deeming his night ride quite needless — did 
 not greatly hurry to set forth. At two o’clock, Tuesday 
 morning, instead of nine o’clock on Monday evening, he rode 
 leisurely off. His delay of five hours made all the difference 
 in the world, as we shall see. 
 
 It was indeed true that Sarsfield, on Sunday night, had se- 
 
252 
 
 IRISH PENNY HEADINGS. 
 
 cretly quitted his camp on the Clare side, at the head of a 
 chosen body of his best horsemen ; and true enough also that 
 it was upon an enterprise worthy of his reputation he had set 
 forth. In fine, he had heard of the approach of the siege 
 train, and had planned nothing less than its surprise, cap- 
 ture, and destruction ! 
 
 On Sunday night he rode to Killaloe, distant twelve miles 
 above Limerick on the river. The bridge here was guarded 
 by a party of the enemy ; but, favoured by the darkness, he 
 proceeded further up the river, until he came to a ford near 
 Ballyvally, where he crossed the Shannon, and passed into 
 Tipperary county. The country around him now Tvas all in 
 the enemy’s hands ; but he had one with him as a guide on 
 this eventful occasion, whose familiarity with the locality 
 enabled Sarsfield to evade all the Williamite patrols, and but 
 for whose services it may be doubted if his ride this night 
 had not been his last. This was Hogan, the Rapparee chief, 
 immortalised in local traditions as “ Galloping Hogan.” By 
 paths and passes known only to riders 66 native to the sod,” 
 he turned into the deep gorges of Silver Mines, and ere day 
 had dawned was bivouacked in a wild ravine of the Keeper 
 mountains. Here he lay perdu all day on Monday. When 
 night fell there was anxious tightening of horsegirths and 
 girding of swords with Sarsfield’s five hundred. They knew 
 the siege train was at Cashel on the previous day, and must 
 by this time have reached near to the Williamite lines. 
 The midnight ride before them was long, devious, diffi- 
 cult, and perilous ; the task at the end of it was crucial 
 and momentous indeed. Led by their trusty guide, 
 they set out southward, still keeping in by-ways and 
 mountain roads. Meanwhile, as already mentioned, the 
 siege train and convoy had that evening reached Ballyneety, 
 where the guns were parked and the convoy bivouacked. 
 It was three o’clock in the morning wffien Sarsfield, reaching 
 within a mile or two of the spot, learnt from a peasant 
 that the prize was now not far off ahead of him. And here 
 we encounter a fact which gives the touch of true romance 
 to the whole story ! It happened, by one of those coinci- 
 dences that often startle us with their singularity, that the 
 pass-word with the Williamite convoy on that night was 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 253 
 
 “ Sarsfield P’ That Sarsfield obtained the pass-word before 
 he reached the halted convoy is also unquestionable, though 
 how he came by this information is variously stated. The 
 painstaking historian of Limerick states that from a woman, 
 wife of a sergeant in the Williamite convoy, unfeelingly left 
 behind on the road by her party in the evening, but most 
 humanely and kindly treated by Sarsfield’s men, the word 
 was obtained.* Biding softly to within a short distance of 
 the place indicated, he halted, and sent out a few trusted 
 scouts to scan the whole position narrowly. They returned 
 reporting that besides the sentries there were only a few 
 score troopers drowsing beside the watch fires on guard ; 
 the rest of the convoy being sleeping in all the immunity of 
 fancied safety. Sarsfield now gave his final orders — silence 
 or death, till they were in upon the sentries ; then, forward 
 like a lightning flash upon the guards. One of the Wib 
 liamite sentries fancied he heard the beat of horse-hoofs 
 approaching him ; he never dreamt of foes ; he thought it 
 must be one of their own patrols. And, truly enough, through 
 the gloom he saw the figure of an officer, evidently at the 
 head of a body of cavalry, whether phantom or reality he 
 could not tell. The sentry challenged, and, still imagining 
 he had friends, demanded the “word.” Suddenly, as if 
 from the spirit land, and with a wild, weird shout that 
 startled all the sleepers, the “ phantom troop” shot past like 
 a thunderbolt ; the leader crying, as he drew his sword, 
 “ Sarsfield is the word, and Sarsfield is ilie man /” The 
 guards dashed forward, the bugles screamed the alarm, the 
 sleepers rushed to arms, but theirs was scarcely an effort. 
 The broadswords of Sarsfield’s five hundred were in their 
 midst ; and to the affrighted gaze of the panic-stricken vic- 
 tims that five hundred seemed thousands ! Short, desperate, 
 and bloody, was that scene — so short, so sudden, so fearful, 
 that it seemed like the work of incantation. In a few 
 minutes the whole of the convoy were cut down or dispersed ; 
 and William's splendid siege train was in Sarsfield’s hands ! 
 But his task was as yet only half accomplished. Morning 
 was approaching ; William’s camp was barely eight or ten 
 miles distant, and thither some of the escaped had hurriedly 
 
 * Lenihan’s “ History of Limerick,” p. 232. 
 
254 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 fled. There was scant time for the important work yet to 
 be done. The siege guns and mortars were filled with 
 powder, and each muzzle buried in the earth; upon and around 
 the guns were piled the pontoon boats, the contents of the 
 ammunition waggons, and all the stores of various kinds, of 
 which there was a vast quantity. A train of powder was 
 laid to this huge pyre, and Sarsfield, removing all the 
 wounded Williamites to a safe distance, drew off his men, 
 halting them while the train was being fired. There was a 
 flash that lighted all the heavens, and showed with dazzling 
 brightness the country for miles around. Then the ground 
 rocked and heaved beneath the gazers’ feet, as with a deafen- 
 ing roar that seemed to rend the firmament that vast mass 
 burst into the sky ; and as suddenly all was gloom again ! 
 The sentinels on Limerick walls heard the awful peal. It 
 rolled like a thunderstorm away by the heights of Cratloe, 
 and wakened sleepers amidst the hills of Clare. William 
 heard it too ; and he at least needed no interpreter of that 
 fearful sound. He knew in that moment that his splendid 
 siege train had perished, destroyed by a feat that only one 
 man could have so planned and executed ; an achievement 
 destined to surround with unfading glory the name of Patrick 
 Sarsfield ! 
 
 Sir John Lanier’s party, coming up in no wise rapidly, saw 
 the flash, that, as they said, gave broad daylight for a second, 
 and felt the ground shake beneath them as if by an earthquake, 
 and then their leader found he was just in time to be too late. 
 Rushing on, he sighted Sarsfield’s rear-guard; but there 
 were memories of the Irish cavalry at the Boyne in no way 
 encouraging him to force an encounter. From the William- 
 ite camp two other powerful bodies of horse were sent out 
 instantly on the explosion being heard, to surround Sarsfield 
 and cut him off from the Shannon. But all was vain, and 
 on Tuesday evening he and his Five Hundred rode into 
 camp amidst a scene such as Limerick had not witnessed for 
 centuries. The whole force turned out ; the citizens came 
 with laurel boughs to line the way ; and as he marched in 
 amidst a conqueror’s ovation, the gunners on the old bastions 
 across the river gave a royal salute to him whom they all 
 now hailed as the saviour of the city ! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 255 
 
 
 BY D. F. MCCARTHY, 
 
 The different hues that deck the earth 
 All in our bosoms have their birth — 
 
 ? Tis not in blue or sunny skies, 
 
 ’Tis in the heart the Summer lies ! 
 
 The earth is bright if that be glad, 
 
 Dark is the earth if that be sad ; 
 
 And thus I feel each weary day — 
 
 ? Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 In vain, upon her emerald car, 
 
 Comes Spring, “ the maiden from afar,” 
 And scatters o’er the woods and fields 
 The liberal gifts that nature yields ; 
 
 In vain the buds begin to grow, 
 
 In vain the crocus gild3 the snow ; 
 
 I feel no joy though earth be gay — 
 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 And when the Summer, like a bride, 
 
 Comes down to earth in blushing pride, 
 And from that union sweet are born 
 The fragrant flowers and waving corn, 
 
 I hear the hum of birds and bees, 
 
 I view the hills and streams and trees, 
 
 Yet vain the thousand charms of May— 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 And when the Autumn crowns the year, 
 And ripened hangs the golden ear, 
 
 And luscious fruits of ruddy hue 
 The bending boughs are glancing through, 
 When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks 
 Come forth and try the mountain brooks — 
 Even then I feel, as there I stray, 
 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
256 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 And when the Winter comes at length, 
 
 With swaggering gait and giant strength, 
 
 And with his strong arms in a trice 
 Binds up the streams in chains of ice, 
 
 What need I sigh for pleasures gone — 
 
 The twilight eve, the rosy dawn ? 
 
 My heart is changed as much as they — 
 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 Even now, when Summer lends the scene 
 Its brightest gold — its purest green — 
 Whene’er I climb the mountain’s breast, 
 
 With softest moss and heath-flowers dressed — 
 When now I hear the breeze that stir3 
 The golden bells that deck the furze — 
 
 Alas ! ye all are vain, I say — 
 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 But when thou comest back once more — 
 Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar. 
 And mists obscure the nearest hills, 
 
 And dark and turbid roll the rills — 
 
 Such pleasures then my breast shall know, 
 That Summer’s sun shall round me glow ; 
 
 Then quick return, dear maid, I pray — 
 
 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away ! 
 
 gmp n't! Sang Writers. 
 
 BY “ATETH” IN THE NATION. 
 
 Op the numerous bores that infest society, perhaps the most 
 intolerable, if we except the prize boars at the cattle shows, 
 are those small sing-song writers who, whilst utterly devoid 
 of one single spark of real poetic fire, imagine themselves 
 geniuses, and are perpetually foisting their namby-pamby 
 effusions on the public. “Why do the public purchase 
 them V asks some uncompromising individual. Alas ! my 
 friend, the public cannot help doing so ; they are literally 
 pestered and betrayed into it. Shortly after that child of 
 song, Mr. Twaddle, has published his exquisitely wretched 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 257 
 
 ditty, entitled “ The Dying Wail of a Broken Heart,” you 
 happen to meet, in an evil hour, a good-natured acquaintance. 
 “ Tom,” says the person to you, “ Twaddle has published a 
 new song — ’tisn’t a bad one either — and I have promised to 
 get rid of a few copies for the poor fellow. I expect you’ll 
 take one. Now ‘ don’t say no,’ as Mr. Bralligan says” — 
 and you don’t say no, though you ought. Again, a kind 
 editor, remarkable for his abilities in bestowing praise upon 
 anything, from a bloated Aberdeen turnip — bad at heart, 
 maybe, for all its splendid appearance — to the bloated exter- 
 minator — similarly affected — upon whose cottageless pro- 
 perty the vegetable was grown, in a characteristically eulo- 
 gistic paragraph thus speaks of what he is pleased to style 
 “ the latest emanation of the genius of Twakins Twaddle, 
 Esq., our gifted fellow-townsman” : — “ It has often be- 
 fore been our pleasing duty to call attention to, and 
 speak in the language of well-merited praise of, the gifted 
 poet who is such an honour to our town, and whose latest 
 effusion, ‘ The Dying Wail of a Broken Heart,’ now lies 
 before us. This charming ballad possesses all the beauties 
 that characterised the talented author’s former productions, 
 besides many more peculiar to itself. We can honestly say 
 that its perusal yielded us those exquisitely pleasurable sen- 
 sations, much more easily imagined than described, tending 
 to elevate the heart and refine the sensibilities of the soul. 
 In it Mr. Twaddle has transcendently displayed his won- 
 drous power of transforming convertibility into individuality.” 
 After such a paragragh — the concluding portion of the last 
 sentence of which, we deem it necessary to observe, is a 
 genuine quotation — what is unsophisticated humanity to do 
 but rush to the local bookseller’s with frantic haste, and 
 invest in “ The Dying Wail.” If the payment of a few 
 shillings for a couple of sheets of waste paper were the only 
 grievances we had to sustain at the hands of vain and foolish 
 poetasters thirsting for fame, it were well, and we should 
 have but little reason to complain : but such is not the case. 
 In compliance with the request of friends, or influenced by 
 the laudations of the encomiastic editor, or, perchance, cap- 
 tivated by the attractions of the pink-cheeked damsel gene- 
 rally to be found depicted on the front sheet, young ladies 
 
 17 
 
258 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 — we say ladies, because we are not of those who much 
 affect male warblers — purchase the new song ; and, alas ! its 
 purchase is but the prelude to its committal to memory, 
 with ulterior views. How often have we listened w T ith a 
 “ sad civility, ” closely bordering on indignation, whilst bril- 
 liant young creatures, in whose thrilling tones we should 
 like to hear the noble songs of Moore and Davis sung, “ made 
 long the night,” as they poured forth, in nauseating succes- 
 sion, the mawkish maunderings of vitiated taste and non- 
 sensical sentimentality. But why do we speak of singing % 
 Positively we have heard — horresco referens — sentimental 
 songs, of the class we have indicated, recited. Goaded into 
 desperation by there iterated “ pressings” of friends, (1) re- 
 solved to make a fool of himself and have done with it, 
 some weak-minded young man, with watery eyes, a husky 
 voice, and a pair of unmanageable legs, rises from his chair, 
 and — but we spare our readers the description of a scene 
 under the accumulated horroi’3 of which even the indomit- 
 able “jollity” of Mark Tapley himself must succumb. 
 
 Hand in Hand for Ireland. — Let us hope that the 
 Catholic and Protestant people of this country — now that a 
 wall of separation which kept them asunder for centuries is 
 happily levelled for ever — will unite in honourable and loving 
 brotherhood to work out, hand in hand, the regeneration of 
 our country. Why should we not 1 We are all the children 
 of Ireland — children of the same mother, equally dear to us. 
 all. Why should we not join hands to raise her up and 
 nourish her, and wipe away the stains of long suffering from 
 her face, and try to array her again in that moral and 
 material beauty that once was hers ? Let us pray for this 
 blessed consummation, and let us take care to prove to the 
 ! world by our conduct that if Irishmen will not unite as 
 1 brothers for the weal of their country, the fault does not lie 
 with Catholics . — Letter of Most Rev. Dr. Butler , Bishop of 
 Limerick , August , 1869. 
 
IRISH PENNY HEADINGS, 
 
 259 
 
 §r. paging jof f mj, on Religion sidr 
 
 In replying to an invitation to a public dinner in Derry, the illustrious 
 Doctor Maginn made use of the following noble words, the spirit of 
 which we trust is now widely prevalent in Ireland : — 
 
 I further, in all earnestness, respond to the beautiful sen- 
 timent which your committee (composed, as it is, of the 
 most respectable Protestants and Presbyterians), with a con- 
 fidence I shall always highly value, entrusted to my keeping. 
 
 It is a delightful sentiment, ever the fondest desire of my 
 heart. I longed, I sighed to see it realised — a sentiment 
 not less patriotic than Christian, which, if felt and under- 
 stood, and brought into lively universal action, would shortly 
 raise our country from the depths of unparalleled misery in 
 which she has been plunged, to that station which God and 
 nature intended her to occupy among the nations of the 
 earth — union among all classes and creeds in Ireland- — a , 
 blissful sentiment, and the only panacea for all the evils our 
 unhappy country endures. And why, sir, should we not be 
 united in all things conducive to the common weal 1 By 
 nature we are all brethren ; in society we are all members 
 of the same body. Religion, the loveliest daughter of 
 Heaven, whose name is union and whose mission is peace — 
 religion, given to us by the God of love to bind man to his ; 
 fellow-man, and men to the Being that made them — should j 
 not surely be made the occasion of keeping us asunder — 
 that religion which sees in the face of an enemy that of & 
 brother — which, no matter under what dress or form she be ; 
 presented to us, must have charity as the very soul of her 
 existence. Why should she be made a bone of contention ; 
 or an apple of discord among us % 
 
 On another occasion Dr. Maginn, in replying to an address which had 
 been presented to him, spoke as follows : — 
 
 You complimented me on my patriotism. If it be a vir- j 
 
260 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 tue, I confess I felt and feel its influence. If it be a crime 
 to prefer Ireland, her honour and happiness, to that of any 
 other country on earth, I plead guilty to that soft impeach- 
 ment. I, in all sincerity, pity the Irishman, bred and born 
 in Ireland, who could love with equal fervour any other 
 land on earth. Ireland is our second mother ; her soil is 
 sacred to us ; her honour, her glory, her independence 
 should, after God and His holy faith, enlist all our sympa- 
 thies, excite our warmest affections, and, to promote them, 
 concentrate all our energies. Differences in religious belief 
 should not make us forget the duty of loving our common 
 country, which not to love would be as unnatural as it 
 would be monstrously singular. 
 
 The Lesson of Grattan’s Life. — Reader, if you be an 
 Irish Protestant, and entertain harsh prejudices against your 
 Catholic fellow-countrymen, study the works and life of 
 Grattan — learn from him, for none can teach you better, 
 how to purify your nature from bigotry. Learn from him to 
 look upon all your countrymen with a loving heart — to be 
 tolerant of infirmities caused by their unhappy history — 
 &nd, like Grattan, earnestly sympathise with all that is brave 
 and generous in their character. Reader, if you be an Irish 
 Catholic, and that you confound the Protestant religion with 
 tyranny, learn from Grattan that it is possible to be a Pro- 
 testant and have a heart for Ireland and its people. Think 
 that the brightest age of Ireland was when Grattan — a steady 
 Protestant — raised it to proud eminence ; think also that in 
 the hour of his triumph he did not forget the state of your 
 oppressed fathers, but laboured through his virtuous life 
 that both you and your children should enjoy unshackled 
 liberty of conscience. But, reader, whether you be a Pro- 
 testant or a Catholic, and whatever be your party, you will 
 do well as an Irishman to ponder upon the spirit and prin- 
 ciples which governed the public and private life of Grattan. 
 Learn from him how to regard your countrymen of all deno- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 261 
 
 minations. Observe, as he did, how very much that is ex- 
 cellent belongs to both the great parties into which Ireland 
 is divided. If (as some do) you entertain dispiriting views 
 of Ireland, recollect that any country containing such ele- 
 ments as those which roused the genius of Grattan never 
 need despair. Sursum corda. Be not disheartened . — From 
 Memoir of Henry Grattan , by D, 0. Madden . 
 
 z l|Dcgenb oi §iiffenbaxh. 
 
 BY R. D. WILLIAMS, ** SHAMROCK.” OF THE te NATION.” 
 
 One day the Baron Stiffenbach among his fathers slept, 
 
 And his relict o’er his ashes, like a water goddess, wept, 
 
 Till her apparatus lachrymal required so many “ goes” 
 
 From certain flasks, that soon there shone a ruby on her nose. 
 
 The Dowager of Stiffenbach was fair enough to view, 
 
 And having her dead husband’s wealth, could touch the rhino 
 too ; 
 
 But yet of all the neighb’ring nobs not one would e’er propose, 
 Because she wore a ruby, a large ruby on her nose. 
 
 At this the jewelled baroness was very much annoyed, 
 
 But rival baronesses her perplexity enjoyed, 
 
 For the ruby was a byword and a triumph to her foes, 
 
 Who, spinster, wife, and widow, all exulted at her nose. 
 
 The Baroness of Stiffenbach now called the doctors in, 
 
 And freely gave for drugs and shrug3 great quantities of “ tin. 5 ’ 
 At length they said ’twas surgeon’s work, then gravely all 
 arose, 
 
 And left her, as they found her, with the ruby on her nose. 
 
 Now came the surgeons. First they voted all the doctors fools. 
 Then drew from curious armouries a multitude of tools. 
 
 Thht they were armed to fight a bear a stranger would suppose, 
 And not to dig a ruby from a baroness’s nose. 
 
262 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 But now among the surgeons vital difference we find, 
 
 For some proposed to cut before, and some to cut behind ; 
 
 And soon in scalpelomachy they well-nigh came to blows, 
 
 For the baroness’s ruby — for the ruby on her nose. 
 
 At length came forward one, by lot elected from the rest, 
 
 But, alas ! the eager brotherhood too closely round him pressed, j 
 For they stood upon the corns of the operator’s toes, 
 
 Who, leaping, with the ruby also sliced away the nose. 
 
 ! 
 
 They stitched it on immediately, (why yet has not transpired) 
 
 That very day the baroness capriciously expired ; 
 
 Thus died that lovely lady, a j udgment, some suppose, 
 
 For having led the baron, in his lifetime, by the nose. 
 
 They made her grave three fathoms deep by Rhine’s embattled 
 tide, 
 
 And bowed her gently downwards by her darling Stiffy’s side ; 
 
 But her restless spirit wanders still, and oft, at evening’s close 
 She haunts the castle ramparts with her finger on her nose. 
 
 Grim reader ! let U3 blubber o’er the melancholy fate 
 Of the quondam Baron Stiffy’s nonteetotalising mate ; 
 
 And for the future solemnly, if possible, propose 
 To shun the weird elixirs that bring rubies on the nose. 
 
 ©rattan. 
 
 BY AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 God works through man, not hills or snows ! 
 
 In man, not men, is the God-like pow’r 1 
 The man, God’s potentate, God foreknows ; 
 
 He sends him strength at the destined hour. 
 His spirit He breathes into one deep heart ; 
 
 His cloud He bids from one mind depart. 
 
 A saint ! and a race is to God re-born ! 
 
 A man ! one man makes a nation’s morn ! 
 
 A man, and the blind land by slow degrees 
 
 Gains sight ! A man, and the deaf land hears ! 
 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 263 
 
 A man, and the dumb land, like wakening seas, 
 Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears ! 
 
 One man, and the people a three days’ corse, 
 Stands up, and the graven bands fall off perforce ; 
 One man, and the nation in height a span 
 To the measure ascends of the perfect man. 
 
 Thus wept unto God the land of Eire : 
 
 Yet there rose no man, and her hope wa3 dead r 
 In the ashes she sat of a burned-out fire, 
 
 And sackcloth was over her queenly head. 
 
 But a man in her latter days arose ; 
 
 Her deliverer stepped from the camp of her foes : 
 He spake — the great and the proud gave way, 
 
 And the dawn began which shall end in day ! 
 
 Sjotial fife in Jtoeni $«M. 
 
 From M Tho Confiscations of Ulster.” 
 
 BY THOMAS MACNEVIN. 
 
 If we were to judge by the modern historians, the Irish 
 people at the accession of James — nay, some have said from 
 the earliest periods — were buried in the most profound bar- 
 barism, even though from the fifth century they had enjoyed 
 the light of Christianity, and though the priests and mis- 
 sionaries of the country had preserved, through mediaeval 
 gloom, both faith and learning, and propagated them 
 through the world. In the tenth century, ere the history of 
 England had well begun, and when the greatest part of 
 Europe was involved in darkness, a steady light of piety and 
 learning continued to shine in this island, and shed its rays 
 over the neighbouring countries. In the schools of the con- 
 tinent the Irish scholars continued “ to retain their former 
 
264 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 superiority, and amongst the dwarf intellects of that 
 time towered as giants.” In France and Germany the 
 monasteries of the Irish, the only retirements for piety and 
 learning in an ungodly age, were flourishing, and the fame 
 of Irish scholars was joyfully recognised. Irish monks 
 founded a school at Glastonbury, England, where St. Dun- 
 stan imbibed under their teaching “the very marrow of 
 Scriptural learning. ,, There that distinguished ornament of 
 the English Church was learnedly accomplished, according 
 to the acquisitions of the time, in astronomy, arithmetic, and 
 geometry ; and there too he cultivated that sweet taste for 
 music in which he indulged through all his life. 
 
 And so did piety and learning continue to flourish in 
 Ireland, until by the constant intercourse, both peaceable 
 and warlike, with the Danes, and by their employment as 
 mercenaries of those barbarians in local feuds, the Irish had 
 become familiar with rapine and all turbulent crimes, and a 
 national degeneracy had been thereby produced, which con- 
 tinued increasing up to the time of the English invasion. 
 Then it may, without disparagement to our country, be ad- 
 mitted that the Irish were matched against a people posses- 
 sing at that time superior civilisation, greater refinement, 
 and a more compact and better system of government. A 
 nation governed by innumerable princes and chiefs, was to 
 meet in battle, and struggle with in poli cy, a country having 
 but one centre of power, one head, one recognised source of 
 government. It is no shame that with such unequal odds 
 they were worsted in the long contest of ages, and it is a 
 matter of national pride that so noble and unceasing a re- 
 sistance could have been made with such discordant mate- 
 rials. 
 
 But much as Ireland had degenerated since the English 
 invasion, she still enjoyed at the accession of James a great 
 degree of civilisation, when compared with other countries 
 at the same period. Under the rule of her native chieftains 
 religion had been protected, and the country was covered 
 with the noblest architectural monuments of princely piety, 
 of many of which, subsequently, she was stripped by the 
 sacrilegious fury of the English. Laws had been propounded 
 with solemn sanctions — laws repugnant to later notions and 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 2G5 
 
 to the refinement of modern ages, but suited to the wants, 
 the genius, and the feelings of the people. Amongst the 
 chieftains had been men, and still were men, of high ac- 
 complishment, courtesy, and valour. The Scotic chronicle 
 of Fordun supplies us with a letter written in the reign of 
 Edward the Third, by O’Neill, King of Ulster, and, as he 
 proudly says, “ rightful heir to the monarchy of all Ireland,” 
 and addressed to the Pope John the Twenty-second, and a 
 more impressive and eloquent document will scarcely be 
 found in the pages of history, indicating a degree of high 
 refined feeling that could not be surpassed, if it could be 
 equalled, in the Court of Edward. It is a history of English 
 rule in Ireland from the beginning, told with grave and ear- 
 nest simplicity, but in language the most eloquent and 
 graceful. There is little evidence in it of that perennial 
 barbarism which Hume attributes to the chiefs and people 
 of ancient Ireland. 
 
 The deterioration which tGok place has been attributed to 
 many causes ; to the Danish invasions, to the Brehon laws 
 — yet in days of acknowledged splendour and civilisation 
 these Brehon laws formed the national code ; but, however 
 that degeneracy was produced, it was signally accelerated by 
 the arrival of the Anglo-Normans. They came “ like raven- 
 ing wolves, and more cunning than foxes” ; they drove the 
 inhabitants from their houses and their lands, “ to seek 
 shelter like wild beasts in woods, marshes, and caves ; they 
 sought out the miserable natives even in those dreary 
 abodes” ; they seized on the noble endowments of the Church, 
 and destroyed the buildings devoted to piety and education. 
 O’Neill pathetically laments that by the intercourse of the 
 Irish with the English his countrymen had lost the fine 
 features of the national character, “for, instead of being 
 like our ancestors, simple and candid, we have become as 
 artful and designing as themselves.” 
 
 Moryson, in writing the time of Elizabeth, says that an 
 Irish chieftain sat round the fire with his family in a state 
 of nakedness. But, not to dwell upon the requisitions of 
 a climate not tropical, this will appear a mere gratuitous 
 misrepresentation, when we consider that sumptuary laws to 
 prevent extravagance in dress were very frequent from an 
 
2GG I1USH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 early period in Ireland, and that even English writers have 
 minutely described the gorgeous garments of the chiefs and 
 clansmen — the ornamented vest, the trowse, the flowing 
 mantle, the vast sleeves of finest linen dyed in saffron — and 
 that the ornaments of the women were of gold, and are duly 
 recorded in bardic rhymes and soberer annals. A people so 
 well supplied with, and so fond of using, a costly wardrobe, 
 would scarcely be reduced to a barbarous nakedness even in 
 the recesses of their dwellings. 
 
 It must be confessed, however, that the residences of the 
 Irish, contrasting strangely with the splendour of their eccle- 
 siastical architecture, were in most instances mean and tem- 
 porary, and suited only for a loose pastoral people. They 
 were slight, and composed of hurdles. But this is not to 
 be taken to support the charges of barbarism made against 
 the nation, which are completely belied by the course of 
 education in the management of cattle, in husbandry, in na- 
 vigation, and in letters, which was administered to their 
 youth, the early commercial dealings with foreign nations, 
 and the long possession of letters. But the social habits 
 in almost every country in Europe were of a low nature, 
 and their standard of social comfort was mean. Great 
 contrasts — noble castles, splendid edifices of piety, look- 
 ing down upon mean structures of hurdles — were not un- 
 usual in England at the time of the first Anglo-Norman 
 monarchs. 
 
 Hume sums up the character of the Anglo-Saxon race — 
 and doubtless they were at the time of Henry the Second 
 not much ameliorated by the Norman invasion — in this 
 manner : “ They were in general a rude, uncultivated 
 people, ignorant of letters, unskilled in the mechanic arts, 
 untamed to submission under law and government, addicted 
 to intemperance, riot, and disorder. Their best quality was 
 their military courage, which yet was not supported by dis- 
 cipline or conduct. Their want of fidelity to the prince, or 
 any trust reposed in them, appears strongly in the history 
 of their later period. Even the Norman historians, notwith- 
 standing the low state of arts in their own country , speak of 
 them as barbarians when they speak of the invasion made 
 upon them by the Duke of Normandy. The conquest put 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 2G7 
 
 the people in the way of receiving slowly from abroad the 
 rudiments of science and cultivation, and of correcting their 
 rough and licentious manners.” The Normans brought with 
 them their habits and their tastes, and some refinement — 
 which was, as Hume says, slowly imparted to the Saxons ; 
 and the composite nation, when its adventurers first invaded 
 the shores of Ireland, had achieved a certain degree of civili- 
 sation. Settled there, however, they made no exertion to 
 extend this to the natives ; they acted merely as needy 
 adventurers, seeking to make easy fortunes, and reckless of 
 the ruin they wrought in the pursuit of wealth and power. 
 
 In every other recorded case the disasters of conquest 
 have been followed by social amelioration to the conquered 
 people. But the Anglo-Norman invasion was an unrelieved 
 and unatoned-for calamity to the Irish people ; the conquest 
 up to the reign of James never having been completed, the 
 policy of division, and the practices of petty and incessant 
 warfare, were adopted from the first. Whatever superior 
 civilisation was enjoped by the invader was never imparted 
 to the invaded people ; he gave nothing but his vices to his 
 new country. Entrenched within the stunted boundaries of 
 the Pale, his only security was in the weakness of the 
 “ enemy •” and this was effectually secured by the divisions 
 which the institutions of tanistry and chieftainship enabled 
 him to create amongst their numerous kings and princes. 
 The social amelioration of the Irish nation was never thought 
 of by the English adventurers ; the country was looked upon 
 merely as so many estates, and the people as so many en- 
 emies. The legislation of the conqueror, the most remark- 
 ably cruel, ignorant, and selfish of any of which there is a 
 remaining record, was carefully framed to obstruct the im- 
 provement of the nation. Statutes were passed to prevent 
 intermarriages, and all those other social connections which 
 the humanity of Irish customs taught, and which would have 
 gradually led to a perfect union of the two nations. Laws 
 were made preventing the exercise of any of the arts and 
 pursuits of peace. It was impossible for the Irish either to 
 improve their own institutions, or, assuming them to be 
 superior, to adopt those of the Anglo-Normans. Their ex- 
 pulsion and extermination continued to be for centuries the 
 
208 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 objects of Government, which it sought to effect by remorse- 
 less cruelty, and by a policy even more cruel and relentless. 
 The wars of the Pale — the Statute of Kilkenny — the Plan- 
 tations of Munster and Ulster, were the varying indications 
 of that settled policy. The resistance of the Irish was noble 
 and continuous, but it was without plan, without unity, 
 without any principle of concert, and it finally yielded to the 
 warlike and politic genius of Lord Mountjoy. The submis- 
 sion of Hugh and Roderick removed the last obstacle to 
 English dominion ; and if the English did not succeed in the 
 total annihilation of the natives, it was not that they had 
 changed their policy, but that it had become impossible. 
 
 ©rattan anb Jtrrcbcm. 
 
 EY EDWARD LYSAGHT. 
 
 Edward Lysaght, barrister-at-law, was one of the wits and bon vivants 
 of Dublin society in the times immediately preceding the Union. His 
 genial qualities, his abounding humour, his racy anecdotes and ready 
 repartees obtained for him amongst his friends the familiar appellation 
 of “pleasant Ned Lysaght.” His faculty of improvisation in poetry 
 was remarkable, but he cared little for the preservation of the composi- 
 tions which he produced so readily and easily, and many of them, con- 
 sequently, were not recoverable when a volume of his poetry was being 
 collected a short time after his death. One of his anti-Union poems, 
 commencing “ How justly alarmed is each Dublin Cit,” is very well 
 known, and his poem on Grattan as “ the gallant man who led the van 
 of the Irish Volunteers,” is frequently quoted. The following, written 
 on the occasion of Grattan’s candidature for the representation of Dublin, 
 is not so frequently met with, but it is very clever and amusing : — 
 
 Since the Union, poor Dublin lay dozed, 
 
 Oppressed with dismay and dejection — 
 
 Till Patrick’s kind voice interposed, 
 
 Saying, “ Hasten to Grattan’s election i” 
 
 Be advised by our tutelar saint ; 
 
 Vile bigots and knaves never heed ’em ; 
 
 Corruption’s grown hopeless and faint 
 At the mention of Grattan and Freedom. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 269 
 
 Some minions (vile bigotry’s tools), 
 
 Who have got selfish hearts and dull sconces, 
 
 Would to Parliament send solemn fools, 
 
 Fit to represent blockheads and dunces. 
 
 Their legible characters base, 
 
 There’s none of us all but can read ’em ; 
 
 Dull knavery’s stamped on each face 
 That vilifies Grattan and Freedom. 
 
 You merchants, a liberal train 
 
 (Some few, very few, are ungrateful), 
 
 Remember who struck off the chain 
 
 From your trade, so oppressive and hateful. 
 
 More blessings for Erin he sought, 
 
 Till destiny hence had decreed ’em ; 
 
 To all public virtue forgot, 
 
 Shall we traffic our Grattan and Freedom ? 
 
 The lawyers the libel refute 
 
 Of Junius, who says they’re contracted, 
 
 And zealously favour his suit 
 
 By whom such good laws were enacted. 
 
 For Grattan has studied our rights — 
 
 No advocate like him can plead ’em ; 
 
 Each sound-hearted lawyer delights 
 To bustle for Grattan and Freedom. 
 
 Distinguished by honour’s true pride, 
 
 Physicians, at liberty’3 station, 
 
 Will vote for the man who applied 
 
 Much balm to the wounds of our nation. 
 
 The children of Erin he’d heal , 
 
 While others would blister and bleed ’em ; 
 
 The faculty’s pulse let me feel ; 
 
 Oh! it’s beating for Grattan and Freedom. 
 
 Honest Crispins will serve him with pleasure, 
 
 For he’ll prove a good sold to the last t sir ; 
 
 Worthy tailors are sure every measure 
 He’ll take will be good as the past, 3 ir. 
 
 The gardeners and seedsmen revile 
 Bank knaves, and from Erin they’d iveed ’em ; 
 
 They say, “To protect our green isle 
 
 From a blight , give us Grattan and Freedom.” 
 
^70 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 The barbers their votes are bestowing 
 | On Grattan, the man, to a hair , sir, 
 
 I Who’d keep Erin’s welfare a growing, 
 
 While others would shave it quite bare, sir ; 
 
 They rail at the thick muddy bloods 
 
 Of blockheads, and say, “ We don’t need ’em — 
 Our country they’d leave in the suds , 
 
 So our poll is for Grattan and Freedom.” 
 
 For serving their trade in our isle 
 
 The brewers his cause will maintain, sir ; 
 
 They know (though a man without guile) 
 
 He’s clever, and honest in grain , sir : 
 
 As clear and as sound as brown stout , 
 
 With froth he disdains to mislead ’em : 
 
 Drink the king — then the tankard about, 
 
 To Erin, to Grattan, and Freedom ! 
 
 The bricklayers, manly and true. 
 
 Acknowledge, with grateful effusion, 
 
 That Grattan, in famed Eighty-Two, 
 
 Erected a fine constitution : 
 
 Though all this free mason did build 
 Some slaves have pulled down (d — 1 speed ’em), 
 The brothers of this worthy guild 
 
 Are cemented with Grattan and Freedom. 
 
 The hosiers and haliers assert 
 
 He’s right from the heel to the crown, sir ; 
 
 The people he’ll never desert, 
 
 Nor let just prerogative down, sir. 
 
 Each butcher, that’s honest, disdains 
 
 All hirelings, and wonders who’d breed ’em — 
 
 “ Who’d choose a calf’s head without brains ? 
 
 On your marrow-bones drink Hal and Freedom! ” 
 
 And all the industrious neighbours, 
 
 Whatever their callings may be, sir, 
 
 Should side with the man whose life’s labours 
 Would make us all happy and free, sir. 
 
 Bless the king ! At his word of command 
 We’ll hazard our lives, should he need ’em, 
 
 For the rights and delights of our land — 
 
 For Erin, and Grattan, and Freedom ! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 271 
 
 “ Captain pelt” m Irtslj fffiifirs. 
 
 One of the most effective political squibs of its time was the “ Memoirs 
 of Captain Rock,” written by the poet Moore. “Captain Rock” was in 
 those days what “ Rory of the Hills” has been in more recent times — 
 the genius of “ agrarian outrage” — the avenger of tenant wrongs— the 
 terror of exterminating landlords — the annoyance and shame of the 
 Government. Whatever may be said of Roryism, Rockism was a 
 natural product of the times, the fruit of the gross misgovernment of 
 the country, and of the frightful oppression of the agricultural classes 
 especially. It was to bring out this fact clearly that Moore wrote this 
 clever work, in which he sketched the history and condition of the 
 country from the Rockite point of view. The following passage out- 
 lines with great clearness the character of the Irish Parliament down to 
 a period close on the Union : — 
 
 For about fifty years after the Devolution, there was in 
 the politics of Ireland no Irish party. Our Parliament was 
 but a sort of Chapel of Ease to that in Westminster. Irish 
 pensions, Irish peerages, and even Irish patriotism, were all 
 exclusively in the hands of Englishmen, or the sons of 
 Englishmen ; and, though now and then their deliberations 
 affected to be patriotic and national, the country itself had 
 as little to do with the matter as a corpse has with the 
 inquest the coroner holds over it. 
 
 It was not till about the period of Lord Harrington’s ad- 
 ministration (1747-9), that the English in Ireland began to 
 be, as Burke says, “ domiciliated,” and to feel that they had 
 a country ; and it is in the writings of that indefatigable tri- 
 bune, Dr. Lucas, that the first dawnings of a national and 
 Irish feeling are to be found. No longer circumscribing the 
 spirit of patriotism within the wizard circle of the “ Protest- 
 ant interest,” he was the first member of the Parliament of 
 Ireland that dared to extend his sympathies beyond the little 
 colony around him to the great mass of the Irish nation ; 
 and there is one of his addresses in which, putting aside, 
 boldly and entirely, the eternal scapegoat of Popery, he 
 
272 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 arraigns the whole conduct of England towards Ireland, and 
 declares that “ the Mexicans were never used worse by the 
 barbarous Spaniards than the poor Irish had been for cen- 
 turies by the English.” 
 
 The duration of our Parliaments had been, till this time, 
 for the whole life of the king — so that the Parliament which 
 the death of George the Second dissolved had been in exist- 
 ence for thirty-two years ! — and it was by the exertions of 
 Lucas that they were at length, in the year 1767, limited to 
 the period of eight years. But still their dependency on the 
 will of England was so absolute, and all power of originating 
 bills, even money bills, was so completely taken away from 
 them, that their deliberations and decisions, except for pur- 
 poses of corruption, were mere acting and child’s play. 
 
 In this shackled state our Parliament remained till 1782, 
 and, among the farces on a grand scale which have been 
 played off before the world, the debates of such a House of 
 Commons, in the leading-strings of the English Attorney- 
 General, 30uld not have been the most unamusing to an in- 
 different spectator. The solemn proposal, by some patriot 
 member, of a bill previously submitted to the censure of the 
 Privy Council — the appeals to liberty and the constitution 
 on both sides — the animation of the Opposition benches — the 
 agitation of the galleries — and, all this time, a perfect con- 
 sciousness everywhere that the Attorney-General of Eng- 
 land could, with a dash of his pen, reverse, alter, or entirely 
 do away the matured result of all the eloquence and all the 
 abilities of this whole assembly ! 
 
 With a Parliament so constituted, corruption would seem 
 hardly necessary ; but the influence of the Undertakers (as 
 three or four great families were called) had become, at 
 length, so enormous and so embarrassing to the Government, 
 that it was found necessary to break it down by every mode 
 of seduction and bribery that intrigue and a pension-list, 
 expansible ad infinitum , could supply. 
 
 In Swift’s time “burgundy, kind words, and closeting” 
 was the recipe for bringing over refractory country gentlemen ; 
 but something more was requisite now ; and Lord Towns- 
 end, under whom the experiment was first tried, found the 
 decomposition of these Parliamentary clans a process not less 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 273 
 
 costly than it was invidious and hazardous. He seems, 
 however, to have succeeded — particularly with the patriots ; 
 and the names of Loftus, Beresford, &c., among the apostates 
 of that period, show the foundations upon which Tory titles 
 and fortunes are sometimes constructed. 
 
 Under a subsequent administration (Lord Harcourt’s), so 
 little did court influence mask its operations that, for the 
 purpose of recruiting the Treasury bench against the meet- 
 ing of Parliament, five earls, seven viscounts, and eighteen 
 barons were all made in one day. 
 
 This system of government was all along a rehearsal for 
 the Union — that last grand bouquet of the feux d’ artifice of 
 corruption. But though even thus soon did that “ coming 
 event cast its shadows before,” the slightest hint of such a 
 measure was received with universal indignation. The peo- 
 ple preferred of the two a bad Parliament to none at all, and 
 the event has shown that they were right. Like Harlequin 
 decapitated, “though his head was no great ornament to 
 him when on , you cannot imagine how awkward he looks 
 without it.” 
 
 [The “Captain,” who is supposed to write those “Memoirs,” confesses 
 that when Grattan and the Volunteers wrested the legislative indepen- 
 dence of Ireland from the English Government his youthful mind was 
 charmed and dazzled by the prospect, and he thought that the liock 
 family would in a little time find their peculiar occupation gone. But his 
 father, a sage and experienced person, soon undeceived him ; represented 
 to him that England would never rest until she had destroyed the 
 glorious work of Grattan, and that, consequently, there was yet a long 
 and busy career before the Rocks. Some chapters farther on the “ Cap- 
 tain” says :— ] 
 
 My father had predicted but too truly. The light of 1782 
 soon passed away, and left in the hearts of those who loved 
 Ireland only a vague and restless imagination of what she 
 might have been. 
 
 The British Minister, no longer able to govern us by his 
 Attorney-General, was driven to the more circuitous and ex- 
 pensive mode of ruling us by our own Parliament ; and a 
 course of corruption was now boldly entered into — a sort of J 
 frank, Lothario spirit was adopted by the Government, which 
 seemed to say, “ Think’st thou I mean the shame should be 
 concealed V 9 and which soon succeeded in making political 
 profligacy fashionable. 
 
 18 
 
274 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Had it been a regular trade-wind of corruption, blowing 
 steadily from the usual Tory quarter, servility would have 
 been at least consistent, and might have even pre- 
 tended to honesty, on the ground of having but one pay- 
 master. But, just about this time, those Titans, the 
 Whigs, had succeeded more than once in scaling the 
 Olympus of office ; and, though speedily hurled down again, 
 they remained long enough each time to puzzle both 
 patriots and courtiers considerably, and to produce such 
 a confusion in their votes and opinions as made it no easy 
 matter to distinguish one party from the other. 
 
 At length, however, Toryism and corruption resumed their 
 full and undisturbed empire. A regular market was opened 
 at the Castle, and the price of every service, down to single 
 votes on particular questions, was ascertained and tariffed 
 with the most tradesmanlike accuracy. So little decency did 
 the Government observe in these transactions that the 
 Attorney-General (afterwards Lord Clare) did not hesitate on 
 one occasion, when some of the train-bands of the court had 
 joined the Opposition, to hint broadly at the expense that 
 would be incurred in buying them back again. 
 
 A wTiter on Egypt mentions, as a singular phenomenon, 
 the respect which the Mamelukes have for men who have 
 been purchased — far beyond what they feel for the most 
 ancient nobility. A Turkish officer, in pointing out to him 
 some personage who held an important situation under Go- 
 vernment, said, “ C'est un homme de bonne race — il a etc 
 achete .” What homage, then, would a Mameluke feel for the 
 “ hommes achetes” of the Irish nobility — many of whom 
 might introduce an auctioneer’s hammer into their coats of 
 arms, so often have they and their illustrious sires been 
 knocked down to the highest bidder ! 
 
 During the administration of the Marquis of Buckingham, 
 the Pension List outstripped that of England by several 
 thousands; and when, at length, under Lord Westmoreland, 
 as a momentary sacrifice to public opinion, a bill was allowed 
 ! to pass limiting the grants of pension to £1,200 a year, ad- 
 * vantage was taken of the few months that were to elapse 
 before the commencement of the Act, to grant pensions to 
 the amount of more than £12,000 — being equal to ten years’ 
 anticipation of the powers of the Crown. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 275 
 
 This system was the consummation, the coronis, of Eng- 
 land's deadly policy towards Ireland. Having broken down 
 and barbarised our lower orders, by every method that was 
 ever devised for turning men into brutes, she now pre- 
 meditatedly — by the example of a gay and dissipated court — 
 by the encouragement of habits of expense, and the ready 
 proffer of the wages of corruption to maintain them — so 
 demoralised and denationalised our upper classes, that per- 
 haps the most harmless part many of them have since played 
 has been that of absentees. 
 
 The venality, peculation, and extravagance exhibited in 
 the higher departments of the State, soon spread through 
 the lower — a concordat of mutual connivance was established 
 throughout — and clerks, with a salary of £100 a year, 
 entertained their principals with fine dinners and claret 
 out of the perquisites. In the Ordnance department, it was 
 found, in Lord Buckingham's time, that the arms, ammuni- 
 tion, and military accoutrements, condemned as useless, were 
 stolen out of one gate, brought in at the other, and charged 
 anew to the public account. 
 
 [These passages are succeeded by some very trenchant and vigorous 
 chapters descriptive of the atrocities of the tithe system, of the outrages 
 committed by the Orange party, and of the horrors of the rebellion of 
 1798, into which the author says the people were absolutely driven by 
 the Government ; and then this able work, which created in its time an 
 immense sensation, and rendered valuable service to the popular cause, 
 thus concludes : — 
 
 We now come to the consummation — to the harvest 
 reaped from all this blood. Forfeitures were, as we have 
 seen, the price paid by Ireland for her former rebellions — 
 and the forfeiture of her existence as a nation was the mulct 
 imposed upon her for this. 
 
 So proud was Mr. Pitt of his achievement of the Union, 
 that he regarded it as a matter of triumph to begin the 
 century with it. Alas for the Muse of Ireland ! Her se- 
 cular odes have thus always been dirges of slavery and 
 sorrow. The seventeenth century opened with the perfidy 
 of James, who first flattered the hopes of the Catholics, and 
 then persecuted and plundered them afterwards ; the birth 
 of the eighteenth was signalised by the violation of the 
 Articles of Limerick ; and the Union — a measure rising out 
 
276 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 of corruption and blood, and clothed in promises put on 
 only to betray — was the phantom by which the dawn of the 
 nineteenth was welcomed. 
 
 The proclamation of the herald in the secular games cf 
 the ancients was, “ Come ye unto sports which no mortal 
 hath ever seen, nor ever shall see.” But to us the revolu- 
 tion of ages brings no such novelty, and the words of our 
 herald, Time, should be, “ Come ye unto the misery and 
 the slavery which your fathers endured before you, and 
 which it is the will and the wisdom of the legislature that 
 your children should suffer after you” ! 
 
 I clearly foresaw the advantages that a Union would bring 
 to my family ; nor was I singular in this view of the conse- 
 quences of that measure. Mr. Saurin (the late Attorney- 
 General), in a speech delivered on the 21st of February, 
 1800, in the Irish House of Commons, thus strongly foretold 
 the great accession of strength which would ensue from a 
 Union to the Rock interest : “ Is it by such a project and 
 such a measure that we believe Ireland can be tranquillised, 
 or her distractions and dissensions removed ? No, sir. Is 
 it not, on the contrary, adding to and augmenting her divi- 
 sions and distractions, by a new sort of division and distrac- 
 tion, which will last, in all human probability, for another 
 century, with rancour and fury 1 ?” Mr. Foster, too (now 
 Lord Oriel) was equally clear-sighted in prophesying the 
 consequences that have since resulted from the measure — 
 declaring that a Union would have no other effect than that 
 of turning Ireland into “ a discontented province” 
 
 Aware, however, as I was of all this, and fondly as my 
 fancy already revelled in the clear field of combat which 
 the removal of the Parliament would leave to me and the 
 Ascendancy, yet could I not help shuddering, from a sort of 
 Irish instinct, at the act of national degradation that was 
 now about to be exhibited to the world. 
 
 When I saw the boon of Emancipation held temptingly to 
 the lips of the Catholic, like that dear-bought draught at 
 Cleopatra’s banquet, with the pearl of his country’s inde- 
 pendence dissolved within it, scarcely could I help joining 
 the few voices that exclaimed, “ What ! will you surrender 
 your country for a shadow ? Will you trust to those who 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS* 277 
 
 have betrayed you so often, and cease to be Irishmen in the 
 vain hope of becoming freemen 1 The bargain of our Parlia- 
 mentary Judases is at least intelligible and tangible, and the 
 “ thirty pieces of silver” on the palm acquits them of their 
 being romantic in their treason. But what have you in ex- 
 change for this surrender of national existence ] The verbal 
 pledge of a Minister — the fairy money of Hope, which 
 seems gold to the eye, but will turn into dust in the hand !” 
 The shame of corruption, like the blessing of mercy, falls 
 alike on “ him who gives and him who takes,” and at the 
 period of the Union this reciprocity of disgrace was perfect* 
 The Protestant Parliament was purchased with solid bribes, 
 the Catholic people were won over with deceitful promises ; 
 and the Minister, glorying in his triumph over both, 
 
 “ Gave Liberty the last, the fatal shock, 
 
 Slipped the slave’s collar on, and snapped the lock.* 
 
 JV ICay (Sermon. 
 
 EY C. G. DUFFY. 
 
 Brother, do you love your brother ? 
 
 Brother, are you all you seem ] 
 
 Do you live for more than living ? 
 
 Has your life a law, a scheme ? 
 
 Are you prompt to bear its duties, 
 
 As a brave man may beseem ? 
 
 Brother, shun the mist exhaling 
 From the fen of pride and doubt ; 
 Neither seek the house of bondage 
 Walling straitened souls about ; 
 
 Bats ! who, from their narrow spy-hole, 
 Cannot see a world without. 
 
 Anchor in no stagnant shallow — 
 
 Trust the wide and wondrous sea, 
 
278 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Where the tides are fresh for ever, 
 
 And the mighty currents free ; 
 
 There, perchance, 0 young Columbus, 
 
 Your New World of truth may be ! 
 
 Favour will not make deserving — 
 
 (Can the sunshine brighten clay ?) — 
 
 Slowly must it grow to blossom, 
 
 Fed by labour and delay, 
 
 And the fairest bud of promise 
 Bears the taint of quick decay. 
 
 You must strive for better guerdons ; 
 
 Strive to be the thing you’d seem ; 
 
 Be the thing that God hath made you, 
 
 Channel for no borrowed stream ; 
 
 He hath lent you mind and conscience, 
 
 See you travel in their beam ! 
 
 See you scale life’s misty highlands 
 By this light of living truth ! 
 
 And, with bosom braced for labour, 
 
 Breast them in your manly youth ; 
 
 So, when age and care have found you, 
 
 Shall your downward path be smooth. 
 
 Fear not on that rugged highway 
 Life may want its lawful zest ; 
 
 Sunny glens are in the mountain, 
 
 Where the weary feet may rest, 
 
 Cooled in streams that gush for ever 
 From a loving mother’s breast. 
 
 “ Simple heart and simple pleasures,” 
 
 So they write life’s golden rule ; 
 
 Honour won by supple baseness, 
 
 State that crowns a cankered fool, 
 
 Gleam as gleam the gold and purple 
 
 On a hot and rancid pool. I 
 
 Wear no show of wit or science 
 
 But the gems you’ve won and weighed ; 
 
 Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, 
 
 Make the rifts they seem to shade : 
 
 Are you not a thief and beggar 
 In the rarest spoils arrayed ? 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 270 
 
 Shadows deck a sunny landscape, 
 
 Making brighter all the bright ; 
 
 So, my brother ! care and danger 
 On a loving nature light, 
 
 Bringing all its latent beauties 
 Out upon the common sight. 
 
 Love the things that God created, 
 
 Make your brother’s need your care ; 
 
 Scorn and hate repel God’s blessings, 
 
 But where love is, they are there ; 
 
 As the moonbeams light the waters, 
 
 Leaving rock and sand bank bare. 
 
 Thus, my brother, grow and flourish, 
 
 Fearing none and loving all ; 
 
 For the true man needs no patron — 
 
 He shall climb, and ne.ver crawl : 
 
 Two things fashion their own channel — 
 
 The strong man and the waterfall. 
 
 Ipsicu jof Momcn. 
 
 FROM THE “ NATION” OF OCTOBEPw 19lH, 1S44. 
 
 To the women of Ireland it is thought fit, in these days of 
 our strife for liberty, to address a word of affectionate re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 That they have a part, and an important part, in the work 
 to be done, we hope and desire to prove to them. Once 
 awakened to the knowledge that there is a duty which they 
 have overlooked, we are assured that it will be religiously ful- 
 filled. We are constantly hearing that “ women have no 
 business with politics. ,, This we deny. If politics be, as a 
 great woman has most justly defined them, “ Morals — i.e., of 
 equal concern to all,” it is not only the business but the 
 duty of every woman to be cognizant of what implicates 
 
280 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 and determines her own happiness, and that of all dear 
 to her. But we take a broader ground than even this — 
 one more befitting, as it seems to us, the disinterested 
 nature of women. We conceive that in her pure and noble 
 heart should be found a principle second only in strength to 
 her devotion to God — the love of her native land. Why is 
 man to engross a feeling to which both sexes have so 
 obviously an equal title 1 Every high and lofty affection is 
 found far purer and more intense in woman than in man. 
 With her no love of gain, no self-seeking, mingles with the 
 holy strength of her impulses. But, alas ! with rare excep- 
 tions, women have been taught to fear the cherishing of the 
 purest earthly affection. They dread the sneers of “the 
 world. ,, They fear to tear aside the tissue of false preju- 
 dice in which the great fact has been enwrapped and con- 
 cealed, that active patriotism is a duty bearing equally upon 
 man and woman. 
 
 We want to teach them that there is something far higher 
 than this world-applause — something which amply compen- 
 sates for its sneers. The world says, too, that “ women are 
 not to meddle in politics and if by this is meant meddling 
 \ publicly , the world is right. This is not a woman’s sphere, 
 and we should more deeply regret to see her so “ unsex” 
 herself than we now deplore the unfulfilled duty which is in 
 her province. But it is not needed. God has placed 
 woman in a sphere by which it is plain that He intends 
 her to influence man to all that is good and holy. In every 
 stage of her life she has this to do ; and in every stage of her 
 life she does exert an incalculable influence either to the 
 well-being or prejudice of those around her. This every 
 man feels, let him admit it or not — and it is to the extreme 
 importance of this influence being well directed that we wish 
 to awaken our countrywomen. 
 
 A woman’s sphere is her home — her school her fireside, 
 where she has all holy things to teach. Why has one great 
 lesson been so constantly forgotten] We every day see 
 woman among the objects of her influence — her pupils, in 
 short, though she and they may know it not — and we see 
 her eye brighten and her cheek flush as she reads or tells of 
 some brave man’s struggle for the freedom of his fatherland ! 
 
IRISH FENNY READINGS. 
 
 281 
 
 The names of these men are heroes with her, as they ought 
 to be. She worships Washington, Hofer, Tell, and such as 
 they, with all a woman’s beautiful enthusiasm ; but it too 
 seldom occurs to her that she, too, has a country to love — to 
 cherish — as they loved theirs, and that if she fulfilled her 
 “ mission” well and rightly, some of her own dear ones might 
 go down to all ages with names as brilliant, as soul-stirring, 
 as those she reverences, as examples to all time. 
 
 No one denies, at all events, the fact, that every man 
 ought to be a patriot, whatever meaning he may attach to 
 that word. Everybody respects and admires a man who 
 knows he has a duty to fulfil by his country, and w T ho does 
 fulfil it according to his views. Who is so fit to instil 
 one feeling more, which will elevate and purify the heart 
 which receives it rightly, as she who teaches all else ? 
 Let us not be told that the subject is too deep or grave for 
 her. There are deeper and graver ones which (amid all the 
 heresies put forth against the mission of women) we have 
 never heard her right to impart denied her. This is but 
 one of the many of the false theories by which the sphere of 
 woman’s usefulness has been limited and narrowed, which 
 have been received without inquiry or examination as esta- 
 blished facts, and which need but a little investigation to 
 fall to pieces. We maintain that a woman’s sphere and duty 
 are to teach all things good and ennobling. 
 
 To do this well, a woman must do more than feel. Irish- 
 women ! you who have husbands, brothers, and sons, look 
 and see whether the love and reverence they bear you does 
 not sway them towards your opinions — you, who can teach 
 them by your gentle influence to love God, His laws, charity, 
 peace, purity, affection, why should you deem it beneath or 
 beyond your sphere to implant in their hearts the seed of 
 one more holy duty — to love, to work for , to live, and if 
 necessary to be prepared to die, for their fatherland ? 
 
 Enthusiasm alone will not do this beneficially. There 
 must be head as well as heart in the work, and for this pur- 
 pose Irishwomen must read. In these days of studies and 
 accomplishments, this will not be a hard task among our 
 countrywomen of the wealthier class — and it is precisely this 
 class whose influence we are most anxious to secure. The 
 
232 IRISH PENNY READINGS* 
 
 women of the labouring and very poor class exert an uncon- 
 scious influence over their families, as great as is needed — 
 the influence of suffering. No poor man who sees that his 
 sweat and toil fail to give sufficient daily food to his wife or 
 his daughter, wants any spur from them to do all he can to 
 alter this. He knows that he cannot be worse off than he is 
 and has been, and he has sense enough to perceive that tho 
 men who are working to effect this change for him have 
 already given him substantial advantages as pledges for their 
 future measures ; and if he did need to be stimulated, there 
 is less apathy and more unselfishness among that class of our 
 countrywomen than any other. It is to the women sur- 
 rounded by men whose circumstances of ease might prompt 
 apathy — whose objects in life might tempt to an overlooking 
 of principle for interest — that we more particularly address 
 our words. It is among these that the influence of a well 
 informed, regulated, and enthusiastic woman would be most 
 felt, and most needed. 
 
 We are sure of the poor men while they suffer as they do ; 
 but the men we want are leaders to these men — the power- 
 ful, the wealthy, the independent — above all, the leaders 
 among the intellectual and educated men of Ireland. The* 
 aid of women in their homes would be a powerful agent to pro- 
 cure us these men ; but we would wish to see that influence- 
 exerted — as all influence, to be effectual, must be — reason- 
 ably, not blindly. Irishwomen who can and do afford time, 
 trouble, and money, to study the language and the history 
 of almost every country in Europe, surely could convince 
 themselves, by a moment’s reflection, that there is some- 
 thing which is more important for them to know — something 
 about themselves , their own history, their own character, 
 their own resources, their own music — why not their own 
 language 1 We want Irishwomen to read about Ireland — to 
 give themselves reasons why they love her, and why they 
 should put to work the engine of her silent power to help 
 her. 
 
 We want no blind enthusiasm — it is not lasting nor useful. 
 We want knowledge , instead of the grossest ignorance 
 amongst Irishwomen about what concerns them most. We 
 want them, too, to turn to the never-closed books of human 
 nature and visible things, to learn from them. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 283 
 
 Let them study the character of the people — let them 
 observe their sufferings — let them look abroad and see how 
 beautiful and rich God has made the land lor them to dwell 
 in ; then, looking on man’s part below, ask their hearts 
 what curse it is that has blighted and marred so fair a 
 work — that has given hunger and cold, desolation and 
 misery, in the midst of a land to which God gave all fer- 
 tility % 
 
 Let the Irish woman assist us in our peaceful battle with 
 oppression, and when (as, please God, soon she shall) she 
 sees her countrymen free and happy, employing the natural 
 resources of their own soil for their own benefit — when 
 tyranny and bigotry, and the iron hand of unjust laws, are 
 things that are past, and that the pure spirits of love and 
 liberty abide among us — when her dear native land has its 
 place among the free nations of the world, let her, in thank- 
 ing God, exult and say, “ I helped this work.” 
 
 0itr little §ov. 
 
 The los3 of a dear child hag often formed the subject of exquisitely 
 touching and tender lyrics. The following graceful little poem on that 
 subject is taken from a small volume entitled ‘‘Lays of the Lost One,” 
 by Haidee Johnston ; published by Madden and Oldham, 7 Grafton- 
 street, in the year 1857. There are several others on the same theme 
 in the volume, and also some miscellaneous poems possessed of con- 
 siderable merit 
 
 There used to be a small foot 
 Climbing on our stair ; 
 
 There used to be a blithe step 
 Running here and there ; 
 
 The memory of a sweet voice 
 Lingers on mine ear ; 
 
 It mocks the lonely silence 
 Ever reigning here ! 
 
 We had a little plaything 
 In our garden bowers ; 
 
284 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 We loved a little white hand 
 Picking garden flowers : 
 
 Then tree, and shrub, and blossom 
 Well-known friends became, 
 
 And welcome were the Spring birds 
 Coupled with his name. 
 
 I used to feel a soft hand 
 Patting on my cheek, 
 
 I used to kiss two soft lips — 
 
 Loved to hear them speak : 
 
 Then merry was the playing 
 On our parlour floor ; 
 
 Now naught is left but silence — 
 Silence evermore ! 
 
 A little figure, nightly, 
 
 By our window stood ; 
 
 He watched the star of evening — 
 Told us God was good ; 
 
 A little form knelt, nightly, 
 
 Praying in our room ; 
 
 Now comes that hour with silence, 
 Agony, and gloom. 
 
 We wandered through a glad world 
 Happy, three sweet years ; 
 
 For many were our bright hopes, 
 Seldom fell our tears ; 
 
 We never dreamt of parting 
 Till that hour of fear 
 
 Brought blank and tomblike silence 
 Ever reigning here. 
 
 I weary for the bright land — 
 Weary all the day ; 
 
 The sun has gone from this land — 
 Can I care to stay ? 
 
 There meet us with the old love— 
 The olden smile of joy ; 
 
 Yes, meet us in the home land, 
 Little angel boy ! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 285 
 
 §its tom Mr Gaelic §00113. 
 
 We take it to be a fact that among reading and thinking Irishmen 
 there is a general desire to know more than they do of the manners, 
 customs, modes of thought, and general civilisation of their forefathers 
 in ancient times. To what degree of literary and artistic culture had 
 they attained ; what were their ideas of social, political, and military 
 organisation ; by what sort of laws were they governed — these, and ques- 
 tions of a similar nature, must often occur to the minds of Irishmen who 
 have learned to feel an interest in the history of their race. It is only 
 of late years that any degree of light is beginning to be thrown on the 
 subject; the labours of the Celtic, Ossianic, and Archaeological Societies, 
 and of the Royal Irish Accademy, have amassed a considerable store of 
 information on those points ; but unfortunately it is accessible to only a 
 limited few. The splendid collection of Irish antiquities in possession of 
 the Academy, the works in gold and bronze, the ancient manuscripts 
 with their elaborate and beautiful illuminations which are preserved 
 there, and in the library of Trinity College, to be appreciated must be 
 seen ; and the publications of the societies to which we have referred, 
 being issued only to subscribers and members of those bodies, do not 
 come within the reach of the general public. It occurs to us that, under ' 
 these circumstances, a few extracts from some of our ancient Gaelic 
 books would be acceptable to the readers of the present publication, and 
 we therefore proceed to quote some passages which we believe will be 
 found curious and interesting. Of course the literary style of these 
 writings is very different from that of the present day ; in them, as in 
 the early literature of other intellectual and imaginative races, there is 
 in it a redundancy of descriptive epithet and much metaphorical lan- 
 guage ; but withal there will be found in them great force and beauty of 
 expression, a fine sense of colour, and an imagery that is often exceed- 
 ingly apt and brilliant. Let us take, for instance, the following passage 
 from a Gaelic tale which is yet unpublished — “ The Tain Bo Chuailgne,” 
 or Cattle Spoil of Cooley— a tale which, though wild and fanciful in 
 many parts, is admitted to have an historical basis. How many of our 
 modern bards, from the laureate downwards, could picture a brighter 
 vision than this : — 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF FEITHLIN, PROPHETESS OF THE FAIRY 
 PALACE. 
 
 Then she (Meabh) observed with her eyes a thing that 
 amazed her— viz., a single woman at her chariot wheel,, 
 guarding, with twenty fringes on her, and a white burnished 
 
286 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 sword in her right hand, with seven chains to it of ruddy 
 gold, and a magnificent light-blue speckled variegated robe 
 upon her, with keen green eyes in her head, and pearly fresh 
 teeth, and her lips fine-cut and ruddy, so that one might deem 
 her mouth like unto fresh berries ; her voice was as sweet as 
 the music of the strings of a harp discoursing melody, and her 
 truth-speaking head was fair as the snow of a single night. 
 The clothing on her body was shining down to her feet, and 
 her cloak was of soft silk ; the appearance of her bright yel- 
 low hair was like gold ; three tresses of it were banded over 
 her head, and her other tresses hung down to her waist be- 
 hind her. 
 
 DRESS AND ORNAMENTS OF IRISH WARRIORS. 
 
 The dres3 of the Irish warrior-chiefs in ancient times appears to have 
 combined utility and splendour. From a description of the monarch 
 Fergus Mac Roy, in the Tain-Bo, we take the following passage : — 
 
 A chieftain with his golden bright -yellow hair plaited over 
 his head, and a woven robe of purple upon him, and a pin of 
 ■ gold in the cloak that is on him over his bosom ; a broad- 
 | bladed, high-tempered spear, ruddy as a torch, in his hand, 
 and a long sword hanging down by the thigh of the hero. 
 
 The battle costume of Ferdiagb, another of the heroes of the tale, is 
 thus described : — 
 
 ! Then Ferdiagh put on his war-helmet, and this was the 
 fashion of his armour, viz. : — A beauteous shirt, embroi- 
 dered with much gold and silk, around his fair body, and a 
 broad, beauteous, embroidered girdle over that ; and he put 
 on his very strong iron coat of mail over both, on the out- 
 side, for fear of the Gai Bolga , and he placed his steel hel- 
 met on his head, in which there was a fourfold gem of car- 
 buncle as its ornament, set with crystal ; and he grasped his 
 sharp, broad-bladed sword in his fist by its golden haft, and 
 he took his mighty invincible blood-spattered shield and 
 slung it on his back, with a row of beautiful gold letters in- 
 scribed on the outside borders of that shield, inquiring was 
 there amongst the champions of the world any one bearing 
 ; shield or sword that was superior to that hero. 
 
 Clearly the staff-officers of our modern armies do not make a braver 
 show than did those gorgeously appareled champions of ancient Ireland. 
 
 : - ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ -■ ■ ■■■ 
 
IRISH TENNY READINGS. 
 
 287 
 
 Another of those warriors, as we read in “ The Battle of Majh Leana,” 
 (translated by Eugene O’Curry, and published by the Celtic {Society in 
 1855), was thus attired : — 
 
 Then Conn arose and put upon his fair skin and beautiful 
 body his battle and combat suit — namely, his dark-grey, 
 flowing, long, wide skin-shirt, with its three beautiful, varied, 
 well-coloured wheels (brooches) of gold in it. He put on his 
 well-fitting coat of distinction, made of the wonderful cloth 
 of the flock-abounding, beautiful-mansioned Land of Pro- 
 mise, bound with girdles and buttons, and with embroidered 
 borders of red gold ; so that it fitted to every part which 
 could be touched by the sharp point of a hard needle, from 
 the top of his head to the calves of his legs. Outside this 
 he put on a heavy, firm, strong-ringed coat of mail, w T ith its 
 firm head-piece of the same kind. He put his light, strong 
 leg-armour, made of fine-spun thread of Finndruine,* upon 
 his legs, giving a dignity to his noble carriage, and being a 
 protection against cutting and a support in resistance. He 
 put his two lacerating gloves upon his hands, having 
 the colour of snow freely to be seen upon them, and 
 possessing the attribute of victory in the field of battle, 
 j and that no erring cast should be thrown from them by 
 j day or night. He put upon his neck his easy, thick, noble, 
 
 | light collar ; and upon his head his diadem of a chief- 
 king, in which were fifty carbuncle gems of the beautiful 
 ! rare stones oi Eastern India, artistically set with beautiful 
 bright silver, and with well-coloured gold, and with other 
 precious stones. He placed his blue, sharp-edged, rich- 
 hilted sword at his convenience ; and his strong, triumphant, 
 wonderful, firm, embossed shield of beautiful devices upon 
 the convex slope of his back. He grasped his two-headed 
 j wide-socketed battle spears, with their rings of gold upon 
 their necks. 
 
 Cuchullin, the hero of the Tain-Bo, and of many of the Irish ro- 
 mances, was arrayed no less brilliantly when going into combat. Of 
 his equipment we get the following account 
 
 Then did the warrior grasp his bloody sword for the field, 
 a weapon for piercing the hearts of his enemies ; and he — 
 
 * Finndruine : this was a kine of fine bronze, used chiefly in orna- 
 mental works by the artists of ancient Erinn. 
 
288 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 viz. ; Cuchullin MacSubhailte — in his battle dress, prepared 
 for the fight and for conflict ; and that battle dress had 
 twenty-seven folds of dark smooth linen, twined together like 
 as if they were twine wrapped and bound around his loins 
 on his fair skin, so that it would be no easy task for anyone 
 to discover immediately where the folds commenced ; and he 
 also fastened around him his battle-belt, outside of his stiff 
 leathern defensive dress, made of seven several layers of 
 oxes’ hides, seven times strengthened ; and it reached from 
 the top of his side to the fat part of his arm-pits ; and it 
 was upon him a defence against spears, and splinters of 
 spears, and darts ; and he ’was in expectation that by means 
 of it, if a stone or a javelin chanced to strike him, it would 
 glance off him ; and he put on a sash of flowered silk with a 
 fringe of bright gold to it, speckled from its middle to its soft 
 extremity ; and he bound him with a strap of dark brown 
 leather, well and strongly sewed, of seven excellent ox-hides, 
 for the battle ; and he placed this ox-hide girdle under his 
 sash of variegated silk, which he wore outside over all ; and 
 he went forth to the battle and the conflict after that ; and 
 his arms for the battle were seven swords besides his protect- 
 ing sword, and eight spears besides his five-pronged spear, and 
 eight feathered arrows besides his sling ; and he took eight 
 shields besides his own black, blood-stained, curved shield, 
 which had the similitude of a boar represented upon it, and 
 which the high-spirited, strong, very fierce warrior held out 
 before him as an encircling tower and a sure resource in 
 streams and in plains against sharp weapons whenever any 
 youth might make a dexterous blow of any sharp weapon at 
 him ; and he placed upon his head his dark battle helmet for 
 the conflict, which would cause a hundred warriors to cry out 
 in terror and make off backward in every corner from him. 
 
 a charioteer's suit. 
 
 Coachmen at the present day are more brilliantly dressed than their 
 masters, and it would seem from the following description of the apparel 
 worn by Cuchullin’s charioteer that in ancient Ireland, if they did not 
 outshine their chiefs in that respect, their appearance was at all events 
 little less splendid. 
 
 Then Laoigh arose and put on his charioteering suit — his 
 graceful frock oi deerskins, which was light and airy, varie- 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 289 
 
 gated and striped, well strapped with deer-leather, so as that 
 the action of his arm should not be impeded. He put on 
 over that a bespangled over-cloak which Simon the Druid 
 had made for the King of the Romans, who gave it to 
 Connor, and Connor to Cuchullin, and Cuchullin to his 
 charioteer. The same charioteer put on his crested bright 
 four-angled helmet of varied colours and devices, covering 
 over his mid-shoulders, being more graceful than cumber- 
 some. He placed with his hand the red yellow band of red 
 gold crescent-shaped, which had been purified over the edge 
 of an anvil, on to his forehead, to distinguish him as the 
 charioteer from his master ; and he took his steed-urging 
 instruments and his long switch in his right hand, and he 
 took the restraining reins of steeds in his left for the accom- 
 plishing of his charioteership ; and then he threw their long 
 iron coats over his steeds, which covered them from face to 
 tail, (to protect them) from files and spikes and small spears 
 and steeled points ; and every spot of that chariot was ail 
 over spikes, and every end and point and head of that 
 chariot was a passage of laceration ; and then he shed a 
 charm of invisibility upon his steed and upon his companion, 
 so that they were not visible to anyone in the Dun. 
 
 MILITARY ORGANISATIONS AND THE ART OF WAR IN 
 ANCIENT IRELAND. 
 
 It appears abundantly clear from our ancient histories and tales that 
 the Irish in remote ages moved to battle and fought their engagements, 
 not in confused and disorderly masses, but in regularly arranged and 
 appointed divisions, each under its own chiefs and leaders, and with a 
 supreme commander over each host. The following passage is one of 
 those which supply conclusive evidence on this point. It is taken from 
 the Tain-Bo : — 
 
 And that vast host held a council and a debate, and they 
 consulted and came to this decision — namely, to put each 
 host under its own king, and each battalion under its own 
 ruler, and each band under its own chief, and to place the ' 
 heirs apparent of Erin by themselves ; and they debated ) 
 besides who it was most fitting* to put as commander-in-chief 
 over them, and they said it was best to make Fergus so, for 
 that host was an harmonious host, and he had been for 
 seventeen years King of Ulster. 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 In the same tale we find the following reference to the arrangement of 
 a commissariat 
 
 The people of Olioll took up their station on that plain, 
 and the people of Fergus MacRoy to their right, and 
 Cormac Coulingois MacConnor at the same side, and Gaib- 
 nean MacLuirgne at the same side ; and there were besides 
 three hundred men of Ulster at their right, to be in readi- 
 ness to give notice of the enemy's consultations and resolves, 
 and to supply them with meat and drink. 
 
 An Irish encampment is thus described in the Battle of ^lagh 
 Leana 
 
 A well-ordered, wide-extending, many-warrior encampment 
 was taken up by those tall troops ; and a resting place of 
 many streets by the hosts, in the centre of the long-hilled 
 Magh Leana. The lofty, many-coloured pavilion of the 
 chief king was raised by them upon a smooth hill, and they 
 ordered out an impetuous party of workmen to the woods, 
 and ready dexterous companies to the sedgy marshes ; these 
 parties selected the choicest of poles, and the smoothest of 
 wattles, and the finest of large trees, and materials of poles 
 and wattles, of thatch and good sedge, to the one appointed 
 place ; and they erected their lofty sheltering sheds, and 
 their fine compact dwelling houses, their beautiful purely 
 lighted distinguished lines of courts. Then they ordered 
 streets and cross ways, paths and marching roads, full and 
 straight, for their kings and for their great men ; and they 
 placed their spears in ranges, and their combat-arms upon 
 their posts, and their armour upon their long racks ; and 
 the hand weapon of each hero upon his bed. They after- 
 wards ordered their enclosures and markets ; their regula- 
 tions and their commerce ; their superintendence and their 
 preparations ; their feasts and their cookings ; their music 
 and their sleeping places. 
 
 The art of fortification was less requisite in those days than it has 
 become since the invention of artillery; however, it was not quite 
 unknown even in those olden times, as may be seen from the follow- 
 * ing : — 
 
 When Eoghan perceived the desire of his troops for con- 
 test, and the desire of his nobles for attack, and the ready 
 uprising of his foreigners, he said to them : “ There shall be 
 
K 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 201 
 
 made by us now three high-mounded, deep-trenched Buailes 
 upon this plain, so that Fraoch Mileasach, the son of Eibhear, 
 shall be making harassing incursions from their greens upon 
 the furious tribes of Feidhlim Beach tmhar.” Three strong 
 Duns were ordered by them to be raised, and three lofty 
 Murs of assemblage, and three firm Cathairs to be prepared. 
 These Duns were dug, marked out, defined, and fastened ; 
 and ruled, cleared, formed, adjusted, clipped, planed, shaped, 
 and made firm by them ; so that these three poisonous ini- 
 mical boils were a maintenance of strength against enemies, 
 and a separation of prosperity from hostile tribes ; and it 
 was a wresting of patrimony from families to see them in 
 process of being raised in that manner by the brave men in 
 the centre of Magh Leana. 
 
 THE COMBAT. 
 
 The descriptions of battles in our Gaelic stories — both single combats 
 :and the engagements of armies— are often exceedingly vigorous and 
 vivid. The following specimen must suffice for the present : — 
 
 Then Conn’s hosts raised a loud shout of exultation, which 
 awoke Eoghan with his followers ; and before they had time 
 to fasten on or to adjust their battle-accoutrements Conn’s 
 liosts began to slaughter and mangle them. It was then that the 
 two proud, nobly descended parties attacked each other with 
 increasing anger, and with the pleasures of hatred, and with 
 tempestuous minds ; and in front of each heavy-headed front 
 rank of them was planted a strong, long, firm wall of choicest, 
 golden, border-branching shields ; and of light-brown, neatly 
 formed, bright-faced bosses of brown shields ; and of the faces 
 • of beautifully streaked, chainful, truly firm shields ; and of 
 thick-sided, keen-edged, well-polished swords ; so that it was 
 like thrusting the head into a dense thick red flame ; and it 
 would be courting evil, and clambering against distress, to 
 thrust the head into any of these upright sharp-speared ranks. 
 And it was sufficient horror to hear the special incitings of the 
 high kings ; the shouts of defiance of the champions ; the 
 startling, chattering croakings of the birds of prey, and of the 
 hopping, bitter-screaming vultures; and the first clash of each 
 ^contest and combat ; and the whizz of each shower of slender 
 light spears which the champions cast in their first onset 
 
292 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 thither and hither. And it was then that they planted a 
 bare, ready, brown-grey, envenomed forest of thick-handled 
 spears past the white-rimmed great and firm shields into 
 each other’s breasts ; and it was by smooth, tough, strong 
 handles those keen spears, and smooth, sharp, deep-edged 
 weapons, were driven by them into the shoulders and sides of 
 each other ; so that the feet of warriors were stilled in quick 
 combat ; the arms of champions were sprained by manly 
 flesh strok es ; and the anger of the men was heightened by 
 these deep living wounds ; and the paths of valour were 
 formed by heroes ; and shining armour was torn by the 
 I fervour and powerful heat of the high-minded warriors, from 
 the excess of their fighting ; and the breasts and cheeks of 
 | the fearless champions resembled streaming, red-oozing 
 windows, from being pierced by countless weapons in that 
 attack ; and they were as soft as thoroughly rent ridges from 
 the punches of bright, broad, great shields. And spears 
 were reddened by the great wounds ; active bands expired 
 from the great, deep, repeated, incurable cuts ; and helmets 
 were crushed by the hard, quick blows of great heroes ; and 
 the faces of the great courageous champions were mangled 
 from the visits of spears and various sharp weapons ; and 
 the overflowing pools and the crimson-red stream of blood 
 which flowed from the men and from the bands, became 
 clotted, cold, thick pools in the hollows and in the furrows 
 of the ground : so that red-mouthed deep-black ravens de- 
 scended upon the bodies of champions, and upon the carcases 
 of noble warriors, and upon the broad breasts of combatants, 
 
 , and upon the chests of soldiers ; and blue-mouthed, loud- 
 croaking Badbhs* rejoiced ; and they were all merry and 
 vociferous at the extent of the tables and the abundance of 
 the flesh-spoils which they found upon those cold, prostrate 
 men . — Magh Leana. 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 * This is an Irish name for any bird of prey, particularly the raven 
 and birds of its class. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 293 
 
 (Eiacatioit. 
 
 BY “ SLIABH CU1LINN,” OF TUB “NATION,” 
 
 In that dark time of cruel wrong, when on our country’s breast 
 A dreary load, a ruthless code, with wasting terrors prest— 
 
 Our gentry stript of land and clan, sent exiles o’er the main 
 To turn the scale on foreign fields for foreign monarchs’ gain — 
 Our people trod like vermin down, all fenceless flung to sate 
 Extortion, lust, and brutal whim, and rancorous bigot hate — 
 Our priesthood tracked from cave to hut, like felons chased and 
 lashed, 
 
 And from their ministering hands the lifted chalice dashed ; 
 
 In that black time of law-wrought crime, of stifling woo and 
 thrall. 
 
 There stood supreme one foul device, one engine worse than all. 
 
 Him whom they wished to keep a slave, they sought to make a 
 brute — 
 
 They banned the light of heaven — they bade instruction’s voice 
 be mute. 
 
 God’s second priest — the Teacher — sent to feed men’s minds with 
 lore — 
 
 They marked a price upon his head, as on the priest’s before. 
 Well — well they knew that never, face to face beneath the sky, 
 Could tyranny and knowledge meet, but one of them should die ; 
 That lettered slaves will link their might until their murmurs 
 grow 
 
 To that imperious thunder peal which despots quail to know ! 
 That men who learn will learn their strength — the weakness of 
 their lords — 
 
 Till all the bonds that gird them round are snapt like Samson’s 
 cords. 
 
 This well they knew, and called the power of ignorance to aid ; 
 So might, they deemed, an abject race of soulless serfs be made — 
 When Irish memories, hopes, and thoughts were withered, 
 branch and stem — 
 
 A race of abject, soulless serfs, to hew and draw for them. 
 
294 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 i 
 
 Ah ! God, is good and nature strong — they let not thus decay 
 
 The seeds that deep in Irish breasts of Irish feeling lay ; 
 
 Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest fields on 
 earth, 
 
 And gave the type of deathless hope, the little shamrock, birth ; 
 
 Still faithful to their holy Church, her direst straits among, 
 
 To one another faithful still, the priests and people clung. 
 
 And Christ was worshipped and received with trembling haste 
 and fear, 
 
 In field and shed, with posted scouts to warn of bloodhounds 
 near ; 
 
 Still, crouching ’neath the sheltering hedge, or stretched on 
 mountain fern, 
 
 The teacher and his pupils met, feloniously — to learn ; 
 
 Still round the peasant’s heart of hearts his darling music 
 twined, 
 
 A fount of Irish sobs or smiles in every note enshrined ; 
 
 And still beside the smouldering turf were fond traditions told 
 
 Of heavenly saints and princely chiefs — the power and faith of 
 old. 
 
 Deep lay the seeds, yet rankest weeds sprang mingled — could 
 they fail ? — 
 
 For what were freedom’s blessed worth if slavery wrought not 
 bale? 
 
 As thrall, and want, and ignorance still deep and deeper grew, 
 What marvel weakness, gloom, and strife fell dark amongst us 
 too ? 
 
 And servile thoughts, that measure not the inborn worth of 
 man — 
 
 And servile cringe and subterfuge to ’scape our masters’ ban — 
 And drunkenness — our sense of woe a little while to steep — 
 And aimless feud, and murderous plot — oh ! one could pause 
 and weep ! 
 
 ’Mid all the darkness, faith in Heaven still shone, a saving ray, 
 And Heaven o’er our redemption watched, and chose its own 
 good day. 
 
 Two men were sent us — one for years, with Titan strength of 
 
 soul, 
 
 To beard our foes, to peal our wrongs, to band us and control ; 
 The other, at a later time, on gentler mission came, 
 
 To make our noblest glory spring from out our saddest shame ! 
 On all our wondrous upward course hath Heaven its finger 
 
 sot, 
 
 And we — but, oh ! my countrymen, there’s much before us 
 yet! 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 295 
 
 How sorrowful the useless powers our glorious island yields — 
 Our countless havens desolate, our waste of barren fields, 
 
 The all-unused mechanic might our rushing streams afford, 
 
 The buried treasures of our mines, our sea’s unvalued hoard ! 
 But, oh ! there is one piteous waste whence all the rest have 
 grown, 
 
 One worst neglect — the mind of man left desert and unsown. 
 Send Knowledge forth to scatter wide, and deep to cast its seeds, 
 The nurse of energy and hope, of manly thoughts and deeds. 
 Let it go forth ; right soon will spring those forces in its train 
 That vanquish Nature’s stubborn strength, that rifle earth and 
 main — 
 
 Itself a nobler harvest far than Autumn tints with gold, 
 
 A higher wealth, a surer gain, than wave and mine enfold. 
 
 Let it go forth unstained, and purged from Pride’s unholy 
 leaven, 
 
 With fearless forehead raised to Man, but humbly bent to 
 Heaven ; 
 
 Deep let it sink in Irish hearts, the story of their isle, 
 
 And waken thoughts of tenderest love and burning wrath the 
 while ; 
 
 And press upon us, one by one, the fruits of English sway, 
 
 And blend the wrongs of bygone times with this our fight 
 to-day ; 
 
 And show our fathers’ constancy, by truest instinct led 
 To loathe and battle with the power that on their substance 
 fed ; 
 
 And let it place beside our own the world’s vast page, to tell 
 That never lived the nation yet could rule another well. 
 
 Thus, thus our cause shall gather strength ; no feeling vague 
 and blind, 
 
 But stamped by passion on the heart, by reason on the mind. 
 Let it go forth — a mighter foe to England’s power than all 
 The rifles of America, the armaments of Gaul ! 
 
 It shall go forth, and woe to them that bar or thwart its way — 
 ’Tis God’s own light, all heavenly bright — we care not who says 
 nay. 
 
 By debilitating Ireland, by debasing its spirit, and drain- 
 ing it of the leading fortunes and talents of the country, by 
 creating an increase of absentees, by checking trade and 
 manufacture, it (the Union) must weaken our resources ; 
 and instead of the energy and zeal of a free people offering 
 their lives and their properties, the empire will at most have 
 
I 
 
 296 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 the tardy and inanimated support of a dispirited and dis 
 contented province. — Foster , Speaker of the Irish House of 
 Commons , 11 th April, 1799. 
 
 ®jpwits joit irisl] Jfkralisnt aitb th flight 
 
 0f pWic Piling. 
 
 The following admirable speech was delivered on the 28th of May, 
 1843, in the Loyal National Repeal Association by “ Thomas O’Hagan, 
 Esq., Barrister- at-Law,” njw Baron O'Hagan of Tullaghoge, late Lord. 
 Chancellor of Ireland. The eloquent and learned gentleman’s subscrip- 
 tion of £1, constituting him a member of the Association, was on the 
 same occasion handed in by O’Connell : — 
 
 I am here, sir, on the impulse of the occasion, because I 
 believe that all honest men who cherish a love for freedom 
 are bound to enter their solemn protest against the aggres- 
 sions which have been made, and the worse aggressions which 
 seem to be meditated, on the constitutional rights of the 
 Irish people. I should have desired to pursue the quiet 
 course of professional labour to which my life is devoted, 
 without any manifestation of my peculiar opinions, but when 
 the privileges of free thought and speech, on questions of 
 moment to Ireland, cease to be held sacred, I think that 
 personal convenience and personal interest should give way 
 to a sense of political duty, and that no man, however 
 powerless he may be, ought, by his tacit acquiescence, to 
 suborn the inflictions of new grievances upon his country. 
 
 I am here because I think that from this place the most 
 effectual appeal may be made in maintenance of the consti- 
 tution, and not because in all things I agree with many of j 
 those whom I address. With many I know I do not agree. 
 
 I believe that the system of centralisation, as it is deve- 
 loped in these islands, has been partial in its action and 
 mischievous in its results, and that a local legislation, for 
 local purposes, conducted by men of the country, who know 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 297 
 
 its people, understand their wants, respect their opinions, 
 sympathise with their feelings, and are identified with their 
 interests, would be of great practical utility to Ireland. I 
 believe that such a legislation, developing our resources, and 
 applying them with intelligence and faithfulness to our own 
 local improvement, may fairly and hopefully be sought, and 
 that, by the peaceful attainment of such a legislation, our mate- 
 rial prosperity and our intellectual progress would be essen- 
 tially advanced. But I also believe that, for imperial purposes, 
 not touching her internal economy, Ireland should not aban- 
 don such influence as she may fairly claim in the general 
 legislature of an empire which has been so enriched by Irish 
 treasure, so glorified by Irish bravery, and so cemented by 
 Irish blood. And thus distinguishing between the proper 
 objects of local and imperial legislation, and securing to our 
 country proper guards, sanctions, and guarantees for her 
 honour and her rights, in a federal connexion with Great 
 Britain, I am satisfied that the aims of reasonable men w^ould 
 be accomplished, all danger of separation effectively obviated, 
 the real welfare of Ireland promoted, and the integrity of 
 the empire consolidated and secured. These opinions are 
 cherished by very many who do not mingle in political life ; 
 they are, in my judgment, sustained by the teachings of his- 
 tory, and justified by the circumstances of the country and 
 the time. I am not here to discuss them, but I have thought 
 it necessary to state them clearly, that there may be no mis- 
 conception in my regard. Holding such opinions in all sin- 
 cerity, and differing much from many who are here, I should 
 not have thought of addressing you, but that I deem the 
 period one of difficulty and danger to public liberty ; and I 
 have come expressly and distinctly for the purpose of bearing 
 testimony against any attempt to overawe the free mind of 
 Ireland, and stifle the expression of her feelings on subjects 
 which she may legitimately discuss. And such an attempt 
 I hold to have been made in the late dismissals of the Irish 
 magistrates, and especially in the argument by which those 
 dismissals have been justified. I hold that war has been 
 declared against the opinion of the country, and that an act 
 has been done as ominous of coming evil as it is indefensible 
 in principle and will be injurious in practical operation. 
 
298 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Men are deposed from places of trust and honour. For 
 what ? For no crime proved — for no crime charged against 
 them. Be they right or wrong, the people of Ireland are 
 indisputably entitled to proclaim their sentiments on a mea- 
 sure which they hold of great national moment. The right 
 to petition for the repeal or amendment of the Act of Union 
 is as clear, as settled, secured by sanction as solemn and 
 authority as high, as that by which the Lord Chancellor 
 holds his office. The assemblies which assert this right he 
 does not allege to be illegal. But because magistrates have 
 dared to attend meetings admitted to be authorised by law, 
 to discuss questions which must manifestly be open for discus- 
 sion whilst the shadow of the constitution remains amongst 
 us, they are visited with pains and penalties. The Minister 
 of the hour has thought fit to declare that he does not 
 approve of certain political opinions, and what before his 
 declaration was innocence, becomes guilt when it is made. 
 There is no appeal to the tribunals of the country to 
 decide on the propriety or impropriety of the conduct of 
 the magistrates ; there is no appeal to Parliament to limit 
 the privileges of the subject or enlarge the prerogatives of 
 the executive. The Premier is erected into an autocrat, and r 
 on the ground that he and his Cabinet are hostile to altera- 
 tion in an existing statute, the subjects of the Queen, who r 
 until the legislature shall put its ban upon opinion, have as 
 good a right to think, and judge, and act, in relation to that 
 statute, as any Minister or body of Ministers — the educated 
 gentlemen of Ireland, -who have merely exercised the com- 
 monest privilege of their citizenship, without violating any 
 ordinance of God or man, are deprived of the commission of 
 the peace, as if they were convicted malefactors. It is said 
 that riots might have taken place at the assemblies which 
 they attended, and that they could not be trusted to quell 
 such riots. Why, any meeting may grow riotous, and the 
 necessary conclusion from this reasoning is, that for attending 
 any meeting a magistrate should forfeit his authority. May 
 not anti-Repealers be as riotous as Repealers 1 and shall 
 none of the Queen's justices mingle with those who sustain 
 the Union ] Who heard from Conservatives the call to dismiss 
 the magisterial leaders of the tens of thousands assembled at 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 299 
 
 Hillsborough in ’35? Did Sir James Graham whisper a 
 complaint of the “ myriad-musterings” at Birmingham which 
 carried the Reform Bill 1 And this measure seems to me 
 as dangerous in its results as it is evil in its principle. Years 
 of practical justice had inspired the people with confidence 
 in the administration of the law. The bench w 7 as occupied 
 by men in whom they had reliance, and the blessed fruits of 
 kindly and impartial government were manifested in the 
 wholly unexampled tranquillity of Ireland. The dominion 
 of order was established, and, had the spirit of a wise execu* 
 tive extended its benign influence to the legislature, and 
 taken the forms of settled laws and abiding institutions, the 
 peace and prosperity of the nation would have been secure. 
 Unhappily, a change has come upon us, and, by this act of 
 the administration, Ireland sees the friends in whom she had 
 reliance stript of power to help her, and faction again en- 
 throned on the seat of justice, to which the blending of 
 parties and opinions had begun to make her people look with 
 hope and trust. But, mischievous as the consequences of 
 the measure must be, it is because of the principle which it 
 involves that I have been mainly incited to protest against 
 it. Hating anarchy as the worst of evils, and loving ordered 
 and regulated liberty, I believe that the right of free speech 
 and thought is to be cherished as the source and safeguard 
 of all other civil rights. That right may continue to be 
 violated — the war against opinion may be prolonged, but it 
 will end in discomfiture to those who wage it. It will induce 
 men who, like myself, do not approve of many things which 
 are written and said and done for the promotion of 
 popular objects in Ireland, to rally in resistance to assaults 
 upon the chartered privileges of the people. It will decide 
 men who are vacillating, and invigorate men who are weak, 
 and bind together in a compact phalanx the true friends of 
 Ireland, who differ on many subjects, but have a common 
 attachment to the country and the constitution. Nay, 
 amongst the Conservative party there are men who have 
 national feeling, and respect in others the claim to rights 
 which are dear to themselves. Those men are not for 
 coercion, though they may not be for Repeal, and on their 
 support the Government should not rely. Irishmen have 
 
t 
 
 SCO IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 ueen widely and madly severed, but they have one home, 
 one birthplace, one dear fatherland ; and, however hereditary 
 prejudices and early misdirection may have perverted their 
 judgments and marred their native tendencies to good, there 
 are sound and generous minds in every section of them, which 
 will have no sympathy with measures aimed nominally and 
 directly at one class of the community, but establishing a 
 precedent pregnant with fearful mischief, and really, and by 
 necessary result, perilling the dearest privileges of the 
 whole. But, besides all this, the position of the Irish people 
 will render attack upon their opinion unavailing. They 
 have learned the wisdom of self-respect, the dignity Oj. 
 self-assertion, and giving implicit obedience to the law, and 
 above all things, and under all circumstances, maintaining 
 peace and order, they need not fear. They have a leader 
 exercising authority more absolute than mortal ever pos- 
 sessed before in a free nation — yielded by the unbought 
 homage of generous millions, who are grateful for unex- 
 ampled services. Acting under such a leader, in the spirit 
 of wisdom and of temperance, and seeking fair objects by 
 honest means, they will not shrink before the hostility of a 
 Chancellor ur a Cabinet. Ireland has sprung to the propor- 
 tions of a vigorous youthfulness, and there is no power in 
 the British Ministry to forge the fetters which shall per- 
 manently bind her giant limbs. There is a recuperative 
 energy in her constitution which measures of unwarranted 
 coercion cannot subdue or paralyse ; and relying on that 
 vital energy, and on her own resolve legally to achieve the 
 redress of her many grievances, though she may be worsted 
 once and again in the struggle, she will rise from her de- 
 pression with power and majesty augmented by her tem- 
 porary fall. 
 
 A Confederate General on the Irish Troops in the 
 Southern Army. — The following testimony is valuable from 
 the authority of the gallant man who gives it, General Beau- 
 regard : — “ Belative to the soldierly qualities of the Irish 
 who took a part in our late war, I beg to state that they dis- 
 
IRISH PENN* READINGS. 301 
 
 played the sturdy and manly courage of the English, com- 
 bined with the impetuous and buoyant character of the 
 French. They required, at times, only discipline, which is 
 always attained under good officers, to be equal to the best 
 soldiers of any country. They always exhibited on the field of 
 battle great gallantry, and during the operations of a cam- 
 paign showed much patience and fortitude. They joined the 
 Confederate ranks at the first call of the country for volun- 
 teers, and remained to the last devoted and true to the cause 
 they had zealously espoused. They w r ere found to be always 
 the worthy companions of the gallant Confederate soldiers 
 with whom they fought side by side during over four years 
 of internecine struggle.” 
 
 
 The following admirable verses, which are thoroughly Irish in tone and 
 
 spirit, appeared in the Nation of May 23, 18-18. They are from the pen 
 
 of “ Eva,” Mrs. Kevin I. O’Doherty. 
 
 Were you ever in sweet Tipp’rary, where the fields are so sunny 
 and green, 
 
 And the heath-brown Slieve -bloom and the Galtees look down 
 with so proud a mien ? 
 
 J Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish 
 ground — 
 
 God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match 
 bo found ? 
 
 They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your 
 eye; 
 
 But I’ll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie. 
 
 Oh ! no, macushla storm ! bright, bright and warm are you, 
 
 With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your 
 country true. 
 
 And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has 
 brought it there — 
 
 Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so 
 fair ; 
 
302 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 You’ve a hand for the grasp of friendship — another to make 
 them quake, 
 
 And they’re welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to 
 take. 
 
 Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled be- 
 fore our eyes ? 
 
 Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and 
 prize ? 
 
 No ! by those who were here before us, no churl our tyrant shall 
 be ; 
 
 Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are 
 free ! 
 
 No ! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Eire be- 
 long ! 
 
 No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among ; 
 
 And no frown or no word of hatred we give — but to pay them 
 back ; 
 
 In evil we only follow our enemies’ darksome track. 
 
 Oh ! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand ; 
 
 And you’ll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome 
 land ; 
 
 From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will 
 spring — 
 
 On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king. 
 
 tipple. 
 
 EY C. G. HALPINE, 
 
 With thickest growth of beard his face 
 Was matted in a ghastly smile ; 
 
 His hat preserved the faintest trace 
 Of what was once a shapely tile ; 
 
 His elbows glimmered through his coat, 
 
 His trousers needed tailor’s care, 
 
 His boots they were not of a pair, 
 
 And through them you his toes might note. 
 He only said, u It is the tipple, 
 
 The tipple ’tis,” he said ; 
 
 He murmured, “ Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till you’re dead.” 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 303 
 
 He raised his hand at dewy morn, 
 
 He raised it far into the night, 
 
 And, in a tone of maudlin scorn, 
 
 The temperance party he would slight ; 
 
 He drank his glass, and called for more, 
 With trembling fingers searching out 
 For dimes within the tattered clout 
 Which once the name of pocket bore. 
 
 He only said, “ It i3 the tipple, 
 
 The tipple ’tis,” he said ; 
 
 He murmured, “Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till you’re dead.” 
 
 And ever as the lamp grew dim, 
 
 And brandy lay beyond his reach, 
 
 He saw pale spectres glare at him, 
 
 And mutter fiercely each to each. 
 
 Oh, they were hours to freeze the soul, 
 When those blue corpses o’er him bent, 
 And, to convey the moral meant, 
 
 Each fiend upheld a glittering bowl. 
 
 He only said, “It is the tipple, 
 
 The tipple ’tis,” he said ; 
 
 He murmured, “ Go it like a cripple, 
 And go it till you’re dead.” 
 
 There is within some granite walls 
 A high and hideous wooden thing, 
 
 And in its floor a door that falls 
 Obedient to a secret spring. 
 
 Ay, groan and shriek ! with cries and tears, 
 Mercy of earth and heaven demand ! 
 
 A wife’s red blood is on your hand— 
 Your kindest gift to her for years. 
 
 So ends the ballad of the tipple : 
 
 Be warned, and pray, and think ; 
 
 The tap is Mother Murder’s nipple — 
 You suck blood as you drink. 
 
G04 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 STxjrir Jtanlut in tk §ritislj pdiawfnt 
 
 FROM J. CASHEL HOEY’s “MEMOIR OF LORD rLUNKET.” 
 
 In easy circumstances, member for his university, with the 
 fame of his former political career, of his present professional 
 pre-eminence, and of his austere and dignified ambition, pre- 
 ceding him, he took his seat under enviable auspices. 
 The time, too, was propitious of opportunity. He came in 
 the interval of two great Parliamentary eras — while the con- 
 temporaries of Pitt and Fox w T ere gradually retreating from 
 public life, and before Peel, Canning, or Brougham had yet 
 risen to the full perfection of their power. The Irish charac- 
 ter never stood in higher repute. For fifty years before, 
 almost the greatest names w T hich illuminated the history of 
 the Commons had been Irish. There w r ere dozens of old 
 members, anxious to hear the new orator, who had listened 
 to the inspired, majestic, and opulent wisdom of Burke, to 
 the popular vigour of Barre, to the splendid passion of Sheri- 
 dan, to the savage satire of Francis. Grattan’s lustrous energy, 
 Ponsonby’s manly sense, Tierney’s trenchant irony, Canning’s 
 classic tropes and elegant sarcasm, were at the time the great- 
 est intellectual attractions of the House. Plunket spoke to 
 them in a new and unexpected strain. In what he said, a 
 most elaborate logic, a rare depth of meditation, and an 
 austere gravity of tone, half statesmanlike, half judicial, 
 were splendidly combined with a singular purity and preci- 
 sion of language, and an extraordinary, vehement, and un- 
 flagging intensity of expression. It was more like the lan- 
 guage of some great noble of the robe, speaking with the 
 sense that the estates of the realm really hung upon his 
 wrnrds, than the common partisan declamation of the House 
 of Commons, which has no horizon but the opposite benches 
 and the reporters’ gallery. The greatest authorities in and 
 out of the House declared that he reached the very highest 
 style of Parliamentary oratory — a style in comparison with 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 305 
 
 which Canning’s was flashy, and Brougham’s coarse, and 
 Peel’s thin. Old Charles Butler had sat in the gallery of 
 the House from far back penal days, when there was not a 
 flicker of hope for the Catholics. He had heard Chatham, 
 North, Pitt, Fox, Burke, speak their greatest speeches, 
 with a fastidiously critical ear ; and he declared that 
 Blanket’s speech of 1821 had never been surpassed in the * 
 British senate. Of his very first appearance it was unani- 
 mously admitted that no such speech had been heard in the 
 House of Commons since Sheridan’s Begum oration. Lord 
 Dudley’s was an opinion upon political talents and effects 
 equal to Horace Walpole’s upon vertu and belles-lettres — he 
 repeatedly declared that for its gravity and sagacity, its 
 energy and intensity, its exactitude, its sober and stately 
 grace, he preferred Plunket’s to all other styles that he had 
 known or read of. “ I wish you had heard him,” he 
 wrote of the Peterloo speech, “ in answer to Mackintosh. 
 He assailed the fabric of his adversary, not by an irregular 
 damaging fire that left parts of it standing, but by a complete 
 rapid process of demolition that did not let one stone con- 
 tinue standing upon another.” That single speech admit- 
 tedly saved the Cabinet. It was Mackintosh’s own admis- 
 sion that if Plunket had been regularly bred to Parliament 
 he would have made the first public figure of the period. All 
 the great commoners of his era admitted his supremacy as 
 freely as had his old mates of the Historical Society. Last, 
 and most marvellous tribute of all — hardly credible of the 
 House of Commons ! — he is said, on several of the Catholic 
 claims debates, to have converted various votes to his side 
 (so many as six, it is alleged, upon one occasion) by very dint 
 of conscientious conviction. At fifty years of age he was in 
 the full maturity of his powers. The long interruption of 
 his public career had not in any way dulled or frustrated the 
 fine political faculties he had displayed in the Irish House. 
 The rolling vehemence and impatient fire of his earlier invec- 
 tive had subsided, indeed, but so had the passions which j 
 prompted them. His satire had become as serious and 
 mordant as Swift’s — his reasoning as strict, lucid, and 
 close as Locke’s or Suarez’. There w T as something 
 inspired and august in his tone when he addressed the 
 
 20 
 
30G IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 House ; they were flattered to feel that he raised them to 
 the level of his own genius. His person and physiognomy 
 fully sustained his character. He was of more than the 
 middle height, built of big bones and massive muscles, 
 with a deep full chest, from which issued a voice of powerful 
 metallic tones, slightly marked by the extra-emphatic accent 
 of Ulster. His head has been perpetuated by the masterly 
 chisel of Christopher Moore. It is the same head that our 
 ethnologists assign to the old Irish of Armagh. The brow 
 rises like a dome over the features of a coarse and crooked 
 outline. The sides of the head are like walls — there is a 
 lofty and well-arched span from ear to ear — a heavy arrear 
 of animal energy behind. The jaws were immense. The 
 lips, long and convex, looked as if language would overflow 
 from them. The eyes shone with calm, stern lustre, under 
 a forehead craggy wdth manifold organs, lined with innumer- 
 able, long, parallel wrinkles, and from which a perpetual 
 pallor overspread the whole visage. While he pleaded 
 before the bench, there was a natural authority about him 
 that embarrassed the Chancellor on his woolsack. He 
 lorded it over Mr. Speaker too, and chained the Commons 
 when he rose. His manner had the same austere energy 
 and studious simplicity as his language. It was perfectly 
 natural and unaffected : the only peculiarity of his delivery 
 on record is, that as he reached each climax of his state- 
 ment, point after point, he would raise his two hands gra- 
 dually above his head, and then suddenly swing them down, 
 as though he would drive the argument home with a sledge- 
 hammer. It was a singular gesture, and almost seemed to 
 say quod erat demonstrandum . 
 
 ©’CraittU’s to % fwgle. 
 
 Carry with you through all the operations of your every- 
 i day life these truths : — 
 
 Firstly — That there is not the least possibility of govern- 
 ing Ireland advantageously for her people through the 
 means of the British Parliament. 
 
 Secondly — That the only measure calculated to arouse all 
 
IIIISFI PENNY READINGS. 
 
 307 
 
 her people to such exertion as would entitle us to and 
 ensure success, is the Repeal of the Union. 
 
 Thirdly — That the time emphatically is come when the 
 Irish people can obtain that Repeal, if they are wise enough 
 and virtuous enough to combine peacefully in an over- 
 whelming majority for the restoration of the Irish Parlia- 
 ment. 
 
 Fourthly — That there is no real obstacle to the Repeal of 
 the Union, but an apprehension, arising out of our past dis- 
 sensions, and struggles for Emancipation, that the Repeal 
 would be followed by religious intolerance and sectarian ani- 
 mosity. 
 
 There never was a more unfounded apprehension. The 
 causes of irritation being removed, the irritation itself could 
 not continue. 
 
 Men of Ireland ! — your duty is to conduct yourselves so as 
 to obliterate every such apprehension. Exert yourselves 
 unremittingly to exhibit kindness, affection, conciliation, and 
 cordiality, towards persons of all sects, and of every persua- 
 sion. 
 
 Let us leave the settlement of our religious differences to 
 grace, to piety, to the mercies of God, to the merits of the 
 adorable Redeemer. 
 
 Irishmen ! — the more Christian qualities you exhibit, the 
 more Christian charity you display, the more moral virtues 
 you practise, the more profound is your piety before the 
 throne of your Redeemer, the more shall you advance the 
 temporal interests and the civil liberties of your native land. 
 
 It is a blessed consolation — patriotism and religion run in 
 the same channel. And if all Irishmen were to-morrow prac- 
 tical Christians, their legislative independence — fraught with 
 every blessing and every prosperity — would at once burst 
 with renewed existence amidst the joyful acclamation of all. 
 
 Dispersion of the Irish Swordsmen.— Foreign nations 
 were apprised by the Kilkenny Articles that the Irish were 
 to be allowed to engage in the service of any State in 
 amity with the Commonwealth. The valour of the Irish 
 soldier was well known abroad. From the time of the 
 
308 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Munster plantation by Queen Elizabeth, numerous exiles 
 had taken service in the Spanish army. There were 
 Irish regiments serving in the Low Countries. The 
 Prince of Orange declared they were born soldiers ; and 
 Henry the Fourth of France publicly called Hugh O’Neill 
 the third soldier of the age, and he said there was no nation 
 made better troops than the Irish when drilled. Sir John 
 Norris, who had served in many countries, said he knew no 
 nation where there were so few fools or cowards. Agents 
 from the King of Spain, the King of Poland, and the Prince 
 de Conde, were now contending for the service of Irish 
 troops. Don Ricardo White, in May, 1652, shipped 7,000 
 in batches from Waterford, Kinsale, Galway, Limerick, and 
 Bantry, for the King of Spain. Colonel Christopher Mayo 
 got liberty in September, 1652, to beat his drums to raise 
 3,000 for the same king. Lord Muskerry took 5,000 to the 
 King of Poland. In July, 1654, 3,500, commanded by 
 Colonel Edmund Dwyer, went to serve the Prince de Conde. 
 Sir Walter Dungan and others got liberty to beat their drums 
 in different garrisons to a rallying of their men that laid 
 down arms with them, in order to a rendezvous, and to de- 
 part for Spain. Between 1651 and 1654, 34,000 (of whom 
 few ever saw their loved native land again) were transported 
 into foreign parts . — The Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland , 
 by John P. Prendergast. 
 
 ignore JgjiU. 
 
 BY It, D. WILLIAMS. i 
 
 From city smoke, and cant, and cunning, 
 
 Splendid guilt and pauper care, 
 
 Fashion, fog, debauch, and dunning, 
 
 I come to breathe the Wicklow air. 
 
 In humbug clad, as in a boddice, 
 
 The town is false, and stiff, and odd ; 
 
 Betty Martin is its goddess, 
 
 Hookey Walker is its god ; 
 
 But from Dublin, vast and smoky, 
 
 Fly to nature if you will, 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 309 
 
 For (why is only known to Hokey) 
 
 Steam has left us Wicklow still. 
 
 Here you still may clasp your fingers 
 Round some real flowers and grass, 
 
 For near Dunore still nature lingers, 
 
 As an artless country lass. 
 
 Soon to meet with nature purely 
 Shall be but as a bygone dream ; 
 
 We speak and move by fire — and surely 
 Men will soon make love by steam. 
 
 Cupid now must turn a stoker, 
 
 Thrust his torch in engine fires, 
 
 Make his fatal bow a poker, 
 
 And his shafts electric wires. 
 
 ( Iron ships *will soon surround us, 
 
 Like that giant with the screw— 
 
 Nay, it shall no way astound us 
 When we see an iron crew. 
 
 We are learned with a vengeance ; 
 
 Great our civ’lisation when 
 Men each day grow more like engines— 
 
 Engines daily liker men. 
 
 Yet, methinks, a race will flourish 
 Half loco-motive and half man, 
 
 And a metal mother nourish 
 A sort of human pewter can. 
 
 Already some have hearts of iron, 
 
 Gold and silver they adore — 
 
 Were it strange that steel environ 
 Those already steel at core ] 
 
 In those days when pairs are wedded 
 They shall hire a job balloon, 
 
 And in half an hour be bedded 
 At some station in the moon. 
 
 Would his feeble pen were graphic 
 As the varied scene requires, 
 
 To paint the interstellar traffic 
 Which the poet’s eye admires ! 
 
 Crowds of youth are off to Yenus — 
 
 Bless me ! all the girls to Mars ; 
 
 And millions float like moats between us 
 And our allies in the stars. 
 
 We’ll screw our way sky-high, and from its 
 Farthest orb have Dalkey rails, 
 
 And, rushing past, see envious comets, 
 
 Like beaten curs, hang down their tails ! 
 
 i 
 
310 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 ’Tis an age of sense and iron ; 
 
 Poets now may eat their wares — 
 
 From Homer, hang them all, to Byron — 
 
 Give us stock and railway shares ! 
 
 'What are all thy hands, Briareus — 
 
 What, Ixion, is thy wheel — 
 
 To an engine’s vast and various 
 Limbs and orbs of living steel ? 
 
 But from Dunore I’ve rambled sadly — 
 
 My Pegasus has run away 
 (A proof I manage him but badly) ; 
 
 Yet, in excuse, I’ve this to say — 
 
 Hungry reader, to be candid, 
 
 Beyond the Scalp we had a lunch, 
 
 And I imbibed, if ever man did, 
 
 A Lifiey of the coldest punch. 
 
 At that pic-nic, o’erpowered with laughter, 
 Beside “ the Golden Spears”* I fell ; 
 
 But, rising gradually, thereafter, 
 
 I wrote those precious lines pell mell. 
 
 I swear, so strike me paralytic, 
 
 If I have mocked Horatian laws, 
 
 Not pique to thee, dyspeptic critic, 
 
 But punch— cold punch — has been the cause. 
 
 ‘Site «Sarsft'eIii testimonial. 
 
 BY M. HOGAN, OF LIMERICK. 
 
 Oh ! yes, ’tis true, the debt is due by Erin’s children all, 
 
 Brave chief, to you, who never flew from battle, fire, or ball ; 
 Alas ! too long the brave and strong in stern oblivion lies, 
 
 The glory of our ancient town — the idol of her eyes. 
 
 Oh ! ’twere a shame to let his name like other names decay, 
 
 Or let the earth forget his worth like other things of clay ; 
 
 But we must see the brave and free defender of our walls 
 High in the light of sculptured might among our homes and 
 halls. 
 
 The Irish name of the mountains vulgarly called the Sugar Leaves. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 311 
 
 There let him stand, with sword in hand and flashing arms of 
 steel, 
 
 In bright array, as on the day he made the foemen reel ; 
 
 And let our eyes, with glad surprise, the warlike sight enjoy 
 
 Of him who stood, ’mid fire and blood, our tyrants to destroy. 
 
 O sculptor ! trace on his bold face the spirit-blaze which shone 
 
 The day he rolled the flood of war to Limerick from Athlone ; 
 
 As if, with word and waving sword, he called on Limerick’s men, 
 
 “My freeborn sons ! with hearts and guns, go man yon breach 
 again !” 
 
 O sculptor ! show on his high brow his freedom-grasping zeal 
 
 When Limerick’s streets and brave old walls blazed red with fire 
 and steel ; 
 
 When, undismayed, with sweeping blade he cleared the flaming 
 town, 
 
 Oh ! show us how his stalworth arm had cut the foemen down. 
 
 Show us his godlike bearing ’mid the burning wreck of fight, 
 
 His loud command and lifted hand, and blazing eye of light ; 
 
 His eagle glance, that, like a lance, pierced centre, rear, and 
 van — 
 
 His form tall revealing all the majesty of man. 
 
 Let daring thought be sternly wrought in his high, dauntless 
 air, 
 
 As if the seed of some great deed had grown to action there ; 
 
 Like on the night when his fierce might from Limerick sallied 
 forth, 
 
 And swept the foe, at one dread blow, for ever from the earth. 
 
 Show us the grief that filled the chief, when, with his hopes 
 betrayed, 
 
 Far, far away, across the sea, he led the brave Brigade ; 
 
 Show us the blood-gout from his side, red- welling on his hand, 
 
 With his last words — “I wish’twere shed for thee, my Native 
 Land !” 
 
 Ireland’s Love of Liberty. — This unconquerable obsti- 
 nacy, this lengthened remembrance of departed liberty, this 
 faculty of preserving and nourishing through ages of physi- 
 cal misery and suffering the thought of that which is no 
 more, of never despairing of a constantly vanquished cause, 
 for which many generations have successively and in vain 
 perished in the field and by the executioner, is perhaps the 
 most extraordinary and the greatest example that a people 
 has ever given. — Thierry's History of the Norman Conquest. 
 
312 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 
 BY DR. PETRIE. 
 
 I have now described the various features which charac- 
 terise the hitherto little noticed and unappreciated primitive 
 churches of Ireland. That, as I have already stated, they 
 have little in them to interest the mind or attract regard as 
 works of art, it would be childish to deny ; yet, in their sym- 
 metrical simplicity — their dimly lighted nave, entered by 
 its central west doorway, and terminated on the other side 
 of its chancel arch, affording to the devout worshipper an 
 unimpeded view of that brighter sanctuary in which were 
 celebrated the divine mysteries which afforded him consola- 
 tion in this life and hope in tbe next — in the total absence 
 of everything which could distract his attention — there is 
 an expression of fitness to their purpose, too often wanting 
 in modern temples of the highest pretensions ; as the artless 
 strains sung to the Creator, which we may believe were daily 
 hymned in these unadorned temples, were calculated, from 
 their very simplicity and artlessness, to awaken feelings of 
 deep devotion, w T hich the gorgeous artificial music of the 
 modern cathedral but too rarely excites, even in minds pre- 
 disposed to feel its influence, and appreciate its refinement. 
 In short, these ancient temples are just such humble, un- 
 adorned structures as we might expect them to have been ; 
 but, even if they were found to exhibit less of that expression 
 of congruity and fitness, and more of that humbleness so 
 characteristic of a religion not made for the rich, but for the 
 poor and lowly, that mind is but little to be envied which | 
 could look with apathy on the remains of national structures 
 so venerable for their antiquity, and so interesting as being 
 raised in honour of the Creator in the simplest, if not the 
 purest, ages of Christianity. 
 
 That the unadorned simplicity and contracted dimensions 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 313 
 
 of the earliest Irish churches were not, at least, altogether 
 the result of poverty and ignorance of the arts in their 
 founders, appear to me extremely probable. Poor those 
 honoured individuals unquestionably were, but that poverty 
 generally, if not in all instances, appears to have been 
 voluntary, as became men walking in the footsteps of 
 the Redeemer, and who obtained their simple food by 
 the labour of their hands ; but that they were ignorant 
 of the arts, or insensible to their influence, could scarcely 
 have been possible to men, very many of whom — Ro- 
 mans, Gauls, and Britons — were educated where those arts, 
 though they had become debased, were still cultivated ; and 
 we have not only abundant historical evidence to show that 
 many of the ecclesiastics in these early times obtained cele- 
 brity as artificers and makers of the sacred implements neces- 
 sary for the church, and as illuminators of books, but we have 
 also still remaining the most indisputable evidence of their 
 skill in those arts, in ancient croziers, bells, shrines, &c., 
 and in manuscripts not inferior in splendour to any extant 
 in Europe. It is indeed by no means improbable that the 
 severe simplicity, as well as the uniformity of plan and size, 
 which usually characterise our early churches, was less the 
 result of the poverty or ignorance of their founders than of 
 choice, originating in the spirt of their faith, or a veneration 
 for some model given to them by their first teachers ; for, 
 that the earliest Christian churches on the Continent, before 
 the time of Constantine, were like these, small and un- 
 adorned, there is no reason to doubt ; and the oldest churches 
 still remaining in Greece are, as I shall hereafter show, 
 exactly similar to those I have described in Ireland. 
 
 Ireland, Old and Young. — Green Erin is a land old 
 while young ; old in Christianity, young in the hopes for 
 the future. It is a nation which received grace ere the 
 Saxon had set his foot upon the soil of England, and which 
 never has allowed the sacred flame to be extinguished in its 
 heart ; it is a Church which takes within the period of its 
 history the birth and fall of Canterbury and of York ; which 
 Augustus and Paulinus found at their coming, and Pole and 
 Fisher left living after them. — Rev. Dr. Newman. 
 
314 
 
 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 <2i})ar£. 
 
 BY JOHN F. O’DONNELL. 
 
 The morn comes freshly from the East, 
 
 It strikes with fire the upland ridge, 
 
 And pours a shaft of gold between 
 The midmost shadows of the bridge, 
 
 Where late at eve shall dance the midgo. 
 Flame fills the immemorial tree, 
 
 Which keeps its chestnuts for the time 
 When harvest banquets through the world. 
 And the hot breezes flow in rhyme. 
 
 Soft sleeps the village in the maze 
 Of dreamy elm and sycamore ; 
 
 Soft slides the river’s rosy tide 
 
 Through blossomed sedges by the shore, 
 Rushes, and pendent willows hoar. 
 
 The little boat moored in the cove 
 Takes no pulsation from the stream, 
 
 But shadowed on the water lies, 
 
 The lovely image of a dream. 
 
 I leave the village to its rest — 
 
 White walls with ivy diapered, 
 
 Brown roofs that in the Springtime give 
 Asylum to the happy bird, 
 
 Whose wing the southern air has stirred ; 
 And wandering down the grassy marge 
 Of Mague, amidst its Paradise, 
 
 Turn one green bend of lawn, and lo ! 
 
 Three Hundred Years confront mine eyes. 
 
 Three Hundred Years in channelled stone3, 
 Hewn in some quarry vast and fair, 
 
 But touched with melancholy gray — 
 
 That habit of our Irish air, 
 
 Which slays, but still knows when to spare. 
 
IRISH PENNY READINGS. 315 
 
 Chancel, quadrangle, tower, are here ; 
 
 Gaunt cloisters, roof and mullions riven ; 
 
 With that clear interspace through which 
 Souls, tired of flesh, looked out to Heaven. 
 
 I see it all — the choir, the stalls, 
 
 The broad east window, smote with blood — 
 
 (Bright as six rainbows ribbonded) — 
 
 St. Francis’ brown-robed brotherhood, 
 
 Eich with his crucifix of wood. 
 
 Slowly the instant pageant fades ; 
 
 Hum returns to leaf and stone ; 
 
 A shadow rises from my brain, 
 
 And I am, with the sun, alone. 
 
 And who were these ? By what access 
 Of patience did they find their way 
 
 To those cold penitential aisles 
 To stifle self, to bravely pray 
 Until their hairs grew scant and gray, 
 
 And some one plucked them by the sleeve 
 Some hour of interrupted breath ? 
 
 They turned to find who touched them so, 
 
 And met the smiling face of Death. 
 
 They were not wasted hearts alone, 
 
 Craving forgiveness and the rod — 
 
 Whose hearts’ best wine had spilled to earth, 
 
 And left the sediment to God ; 
 
 They heard no outside world applaud. 
 
 Their daily boon companions were 
 The matin lark, the sunset rock ; 
 
 And for excitement and repose, 
 
 The cloister, or the desk-chained book. 
 
 Fresh minds, and young, within these wall. 0 . 
 
 True to some master impulse, came — 
 
 Some thought that in their being lurked, 
 
 As in the black flint lurks the flame : 
 
 Christ’s friends are always not the same. 
 
 Home towered above a prostrate world 
 The while He walked in Galilee ; 
 
 He left the Caesar to his throne, 
 
 He kept the children by His knee. 
 
 If, to refine his discontent, 
 
 With tears and fastings, vacant days, 
 
316 IRISH PENNY READINGS. 
 
 Statesman or soldier hither came 
 To trample on his gown or bays, 
 
 And Heavenward turn his fretful gaze, 
 
 Thrice happy he ; but happier far 
 The pure soul, unassoiled by strife ; 
 
 Repose was but the life of one, 
 
 And action made the other’s life. 
 
 Heaven knows it all. We blindly move, 
 Seeking solutions of our fears. 
 
 Ah ! nobler consolations fall 
 In rains of penitential tears ; 
 
 Through those thick hazes peace appears. 
 
 We would be wise, we would be good, 
 
 We would have Heaven our single hope, 
 
 And yet insult that single trust 
 With crucible and telescope. 
 
 Thus thought I, musing in Adare ; 
 
 The little village slowly woke, 
 
 And from a heaven of purple cloud 
 The sun, a bright conclusion, broke 
 Clearly as if some prophet spoke. 
 
 O lark in ether choiring loud 
 In that blue sanctuary’s light ! 
 
 Tell those I love in far-off streets 
 I shall see Limerick to-night. 
 
 End oj Volume L 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Selections. 
 
 Adare 
 
 Artist’s Song 
 
 Anecdotes of Macklin, the Irish Comedian 
 Ancient Irish Learning 
 A Shamrock from the Irish Snore 
 Anecdote of Sheridan 
 A Lay Sermon 
 A Union Prophecy— 1799 
 Bombarding the Moon 
 Bits from our Gaelic Books ... 
 
 CuiBono? 
 
 Curran in Defence of the Pres3 
 
 Captain Rock on Irish Politics 
 
 Dispersion of the Irish Swordsmen 
 
 Dr. Petrie on Irish Music 
 
 Dr. Maginn on Religion and Patriotism 
 
 DunoreHill 
 
 Early Irish Churches 
 
 Education 
 
 God Bless the Brave 
 
 Grattan ... ... 
 
 Grattan and Freedom 
 
 Godfrey of Tyrconnell 
 
 How Tom Dillon Became a Zouave ... 
 
 Innishowen 
 
 John Mitchel on Clarence Mangan 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly 
 
 Lord Plunket in the British Parliament 
 
 Misadventures of a Medical Student ... 
 
 M‘Mahon’s Pleadings 
 
 Meagher’s Personal Recollections 
 
 Not Dead ... 
 
 New Potaties 
 Not Lost 
 O’Neill in Rome 
 Oscar and Eva 
 
 Authors. 
 
 Page . 
 
 John F. O’Donnell 
 
 814 
 
 T. C. Irwin 
 
 . 1G 
 
 ... 
 
 56 
 
 O’Curry 
 
 . 74 
 
 D. F. MacCarthv ... 
 
 139 
 
 
 67 
 
 C. G. Duffy 
 
 , 277- 
 
 O’Neill Daunt 
 
 . 210 
 
 John Mitchel 
 
 11- 
 
 
 285 
 
 “Fion Barra” (Rev. J. J 
 
 
 Murphy) 
 
 . 217 
 
 32- 
 
 Tom Moore 
 
 . 271 
 
 John P. Prenderg ist 
 
 , 307 
 
 ... 
 
 68- 
 
 ... 
 
 . 259’ 
 
 R.D. Williams 
 
 308 
 
 Dr. Petrie 
 
 312 
 
 “Sliabh Cuilinn” ... 
 
 293 
 
 T. D. Magee 
 
 149 
 
 Aubrey de Vere ... 
 
 , 262 
 
 Edward Lysaght ... 
 
 268 
 
 A. M. Sullivan 
 
 . 1S3 
 
 “ Brigid,” in Young Ireland 
 
 10G 
 
 Michael Scanlan ... 
 
 . 171 
 
 ... 
 
 . 18 
 
 William Allingham 
 
 . 44 
 
 J. Cashel Hoey ... 
 
 . 304 
 
 R. D. Williams ... 
 
 . 70 
 
 James N. M l Kane 
 
 . 229 
 
 ... 
 
 . 173 
 
 John F. O’Donnell 
 
 9 
 
 T. D. Sullivan 
 
 . 213 
 
 Thomasine 
 
 . 30 
 
 T. D. Sullivan 
 
 8G 
 
 Thomas Irwin 
 
 , 170 
 
CONTEXTS, 
 
 Selections. 
 
 Authors. 
 
 Pane. 
 
 Or Else! 
 
 “ Desmond” 
 
 ... 
 
 181 
 
 On the Rampart : Limerick ... 
 
 John F. O’Donnell 
 
 
 101) 
 
 Our Little Boy 
 
 Ilaidee Johnston ... 
 
 ... 
 
 28) 
 
 Our Young Men 
 
 T. D. Sullivan 
 
 
 197 
 
 O’Connell as an Orator 
 
 Henry Giles 
 
 
 13 
 
 O'Connell on the Union 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 O’Connell’s Advice to the Imh People 
 
 
 ... 
 
 30 > 
 
 Past and Present 
 
 “Mary’* (Miss E. Downing) ... 
 
 £3 
 
 Pungent Considerations of the Various Trades 
 and Callings ... 
 
 C. G. Halpine 
 
 
 103 
 
 Poor Little Jemmy ... 
 
 T. D. Sullivan 
 
 
 136 
 
 Personal Recollections of the Galway Election 
 
 T. F. Meagher 
 
 ... 
 
 133 
 
 .Rest 
 
 Father Ryan 
 
 
 105 
 
 Remonstrance 
 
 D. F. McCarthy ... 
 
 ... 
 
 221 
 
 Richard Lalor Shiel on the Repeal Question ... 
 
 ... 
 
 
 203 
 
 Songs of Our Land ... 
 
 Frances Browno ... 
 
 
 51 
 
 Slanders 
 
 J. B. Killen 
 
 
 G2 
 
 Slievenamon 
 
 J. T. Campion, M.D. 
 
 
 G5 
 
 Soul and Country 
 
 J. C. Mangan 
 
 
 24) 
 
 St. Laurence’s Address 
 
 C. G. Duffy 
 
 ... 
 
 215 
 
 Speech of George Henry Moore 
 
 ... 
 
 
 193 
 
 Sar^field’s Ride 
 
 A. M. Sullivan 
 
 
 250 
 
 Sarsfield Testimonial 
 
 M. Hogan 
 
 
 310 
 
 Songs and Song-Writers 
 
 “Ateth” 
 
 ... 
 
 25 » 
 
 Social Life in Ancient Ireland 
 
 Thomas MacXcvia 
 
 
 2.3 
 
 Twenty Golden Years Ago ... 
 
 J. C. Mangan 
 
 
 24 
 
 To Ireland 
 
 M. F. Hughes 
 
 ... 
 
 45 
 
 Truth in Parenthesis 
 
 Charles G. Halpine 
 
 
 57 
 
 The Returned Soldier 
 
 Michael Scaulau ... 
 
 
 5) 
 
 The Good Old Cause 
 
 M. R. Leyuc 
 
 
 G 4 
 
 The Proscribed Flag 
 
 J. C. Waters 
 
 
 73 
 
 The Bishop of Ross 
 
 Aubrey de Verc ... 
 
 ... 
 
 70 
 
 The Exodus 
 
 Rev. J. Butler 
 
 ... 
 
 8) 
 
 The Taxman 
 
 R. D. Williams ... 
 
 
 95 
 
 The Exile’s Request ... 
 
 T. D. M-Gee 
 
 ... 
 
 96 
 
 The Question ... ... 
 
 John F. O'Donnell 
 
 
 151 
 
 The Irish Reaper's Song 
 
 T. C. Irwin 
 
 
 2)0 
 
 The Woful Winter ... 
 
 T. D. M‘Gee 
 
 
 209 
 
 Tipperary ... 
 
 “Eva” (Mrs. K. I. 
 herty 
 
 0 Do- 
 
 301 
 
 The Tipple 
 
 C. G. Halpine 
 
 ... 
 
 302 
 
 The Irish Brigade at Fredericksburgh 
 
 R. O'Sullivan 
 
 
 26 
 
 T. F. Meagher on the Policy of Ireland 
 
 ... 
 
 ... 
 
 33 
 
 The Do-Nothings 
 
 T. D. Sullivan 
 
 
 6) 
 
 The Irish Dancing Master ... 
 
 Carleton... 
 
 
 45 
 
 The Memory of the Dead 
 
 John B. Dillon 
 
 
 63 
 
 The Marriage of Florence MacCarthy More ... 
 
 Mi's. J. Sadleir ... 
 
 ... 
 
 S9 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Selections. Authors. 
 
 The Old Books of Erin ... ... ... O’Curry ... 
 
 The Character of Oliver Goldsmith ... ... Henry Giles 
 
 T. F. Meagher on the Union ... ... ... ... 
 
 The Archbishop of Tuam on Irish Industry ... 
 
 The Poetry and Music of Ireland 
 The Seasons 
 
 The Death of Hugh O’Neill ... 
 The Irish National Demand ... 
 The Irish Fiddler ... 
 
 The Irish National Cause 
 The Mission of Women 
 Irish Federalism and the Big 
 Meeting ... ... ... 
 
 The Legend of Stiffenbach ... 
 The Union Illegal ... 
 
 Unite and Conquer ... 
 
 Whan? ... ... 
 
 ... Henry Giles 
 ... ... D. F. M'Carthy ... 
 
 ... ... Kev. C. P. Meehan 
 
 ... ... A. M. Sullivan ... 
 
 ... ... William Carleton 
 
 ... ... A. M. Sullivan 
 
 ... ... From the Nation ... 
 
 of Public 
 
 ... ... Thomas O’Hagan 
 
 ... ... R. D. Williams ... 
 
 ... ... William C. Plunket 
 
 ... ... From the Nation ... 
 
 ... ... Rev. A. J. Ryan ... 
 
 Page. 
 ... 97 
 
 ... 142 
 ... 157 
 
 ... 214 
 7 
 
 ... 295 
 ... 261 
 ... 216 
 ... 207 
 ... 36 
 
 
V 
 
 PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY T. D. SULLIVAN, 
 90 MIDDLE ABBEY- STREET, DUBLIN. 
 
 

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 DEC 2\ ! h6 
 
 J.K'*? 
 
 
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