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I 3 > ' >Ji\/!:Dr/>. -. irr-.'.'irr- c -n l-- C5 < DO i -^ ^ -^ ly^ // /j'i2 I ^/,. f:nfi/mSiiUiSm-.//Y THE ^ OF Ireland, A Choice Collection of Literary Gems from the Masterpieces of the Great Irish Writers, with Biographical Sketches. BY JOHN O'KANE MURRAY, B.S., AUTHOR OF ".-^ Popular History of lite Catliolic Church in I lie United States" ^^ Lessons in English Literature" etc., etc. " No people who do not often look back to their ancestors can look forward to posterity." — EDMUND BtTRKK. ■ We must confine ourselves to the masterpieces of great names ; we have not time for the rest." — LaCORDAJEK VITA SINE LITERIS MORS EST. EIGHTH EDITIOX. Xcto yocfe: PETER F. COLLIER, ITTU.TSITER 1878. Copyright, 1877, by Peter F. Collier. TO srije Xrioft 3|co|ile THEIR WORTHY DESCENDANTS IN AMERICA— EKAVE, BRIGHT, XOBLE, FAITHFUL, AXD KIXD-HEARTED RACE — THIS VOLUMK OX rije ?|cosc antr ^iJortui? of Brae 0lti Jcrelautr, IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THEIR VERY TRULY AND DEVOTEDLY, Joiix O'Kaxe Murray. Apkil, 1S77. C>, f - ■;'!> ."""^ r^ r^ PREFACE. WHY this book ? Briefly, because it is intended to supply a widely-felt want ; because there is no other work of the kind ; because I earnestly hope it will do some good, and will be found of value in thousands of homes in this Republic. As we gaze at night on the beautiful, star-lit firmament, we are struck with the fact that star differs from star in brightness. And though thousands of stars dazzle the eye with their twinkles, yet as- tronomers tell us that there are but twenty-two whose brightness and splendor entitle them to be called " stars of the first magni- tude." So it is in the world of letters. There are thousands of writers, but the truly great ones are not very numerous. lii sweeping our somewhat inexperienced telescope over the dis- tant literary sky of Ireland, we fancied that we saAV twenty- two shining names, whose superior brightness could not be mistaken. After much thought and careful comparison, we set them down. They are the twenty-two authors whose writings enrich the pages of this volume. Of course, the limited size of the book compelled us to stop somewhere, and the suggestive number just referred to, was, for more than one reason, admirably convenient. On Ireland and the Irish race, the writings of these illustrious men and women reflect immortal honor. It is my firm conviction that no other nation of ancient or modern times can point to tweii- ty-two such glorious names in the history of its literature. While the selections are very choice, and are made on the princi- ples of beauty and utility, still I hope I have not failed to present an agreeable variety. Here, side by side, can be found the familiar letter, the learned lecture, the interesting chapter of history, the soul-stirring speech, the charming essay, the fascinating tale, and the matchless poem. The plan of the volume, which I am free to say was not hastily laid down, forced me to exclude many famous writers whose great merits no one is more ready to recognize than myself. This is a book for the people, for the family. It is a select little 4 Preface. library oj Irish literature in one volume. And, if I am not greatly mistaken, it will prove of more than mere passing value, above r-il, to the Irish and their descendants in the United States. The young will find it rich in mental nourishment, and even the aged and the learned can glean something from its pages. The father who j^uts this work into the hands of his children — it is not a book merely to look at — and sees that they read it, will do much to de- velop a healthy taste for good, sound literature, to enrich and elevate their minds, and to give them just conceptions of Irish wit and worth and valor and genius. I feel that I can confidently commend " The Prose and Poetry of Ireland " to Catholic families as entirely free from anything dan- gerous to faith and morals. Eegardless of heavy expense, Mr. P. F. Collier, the energetic pub- lisher, is issuing it in a style which, indeed, reflects no small credit on his good taste and enlightened enterprise. For kind courtesies, which aided me not a little during the pre- paration of this volume, I return my warm thanks to Eev. M. J. O'Farrell, the learned and devoted joastor of St. Peter's Church, New York City ; John Savage, LL.D., Fordham, N. Y. ; Aubrey De Vere, Esq., Curragh Chase, Adarc, Ireland ; Sister Mary Francis Clare, Kenmare Convent, Ireland ; Hon. W. E. Robinson, Brook- lyn, N. Y. ; Mr. J. C. Curtin, editor of the New York Tablet ; Eev. Brother Justinian, Director of the Christian Brothers, Brooklyn, N. Y. ; and last, though not least, to my sister. Miss Murray, and to my brothers, Mr. B. P. Murray and Mr. J. J. Murray. I cannot better conclude these prefatory remarks than by quoting the words of two of the greatest minds that ever shed a lustre on the history of the Catholic Church : ''The reading of literary masterpieces," writes the great and pious Lacordairc, "not only forms the taste, but it keeps the soul in elevated regions and prevents it from sinking down into vul- garity."' *' Literature," says the illustrious Pope Leo X., " is the ornament and glory of the Church. I have always remarked that it knits its cultivators more firmly to the dogmas of our faith." J. o'e:. m. BROOKLYiq-, L. I., April 1-i, 1877. CONTENTS. PAGE Biographical Index, 0.6 Introductory Remarks, 9 Chronological Table of Irish Writers, 10 St. Columbkille. Life of, 13 Selections from his Poems, 27 Rev. Brother Michael O'Clert, O.S.P. Life of, 39 Selections from " The Annals of the Four Masters," .... 48 Sir Richard Steele. Life of, 89 Selections from his Writings, 1)5 Rev. Jonathan Swift, D.D. Life of, 117 Selections from his Writings, 148 Oliver Goldsmith, M.D. Life of, . . ■ 192 Selections from his Writings, 197 Sir Philip Francis. Life of, . 274 Selections from the "Letters of Junius," 277 Right Hon. Edmund Burke. Life of, 294 Selections from his Writings, 300 Right Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Life of, 314 Selections from his Writings, 320 Right Hon. Henry Grattan. Life of, 331 Selections from his Speeches, 388 Right Rev. Dr. Doyle, O.S.A. Life of, 357 Selections from his Writings, 364 5 6 Contents, Gerald Griffin. page Life of, 383 Selections from his Writings, 388 John Banim. Life of, 413 Selections from his "Writings, 417 Thomas Davis, M.R.I.A. Life of, 441 Selections from his Writings, 444 Daotel O'Connell, M.P. Life of, 463 Selections from his Speeches and Letter's, 468 Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil. Life of, . 483 Selections from his Speeches and Writings, 485 Thomas Moore. Life of, 502 Selections from his Writings, 509 Professor Eugene O'Curry, M.R.I.A. Life of, 627 Selections from his Lectures, 630 Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, B.C.L. Life of, 651 Selections from his Writings, 656 Most Rev. John MacHale, D.D. Life of, • 670 Selections from his Grace's Writings, 675 Mrs. James Sadlier. Life of, 690 Selections from her Writings, 693 Rev. Sister Mary Francis Clare. Life of, 710 Brief selections from her Writings, 713 Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P. Life of, 717 Selections from his "Lectures," 719 MiscELLA^nr, . . . . ■ 741 ^^ For any particular, poem, essay, lecture, etc., consult General Index at the close of the volume. BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX. Banim, John, Burke, Edmund, Burke, Very Rev. T. K. Clare, Sister Mary Francis, Columbkille, St., . Davis, Thomas, Doyle, Right Rev. James, Francis, Sir Philip, Grattan, Heniy, Goldsmith, Oliver, GrifBn, Gerald, McGee, Thomas D'Arey, MacHale, Most Rev. John, Moore, Thomas, O'Clery, Michael, . O'Connell, Daniel, . O'Curry, Eugene, . Sadlier, Mrs. J., . , . Shell, Richard Lalor, Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, Steele, Sir Richard, Swift, Rev. Jonathan, PASE 413 294 717 710 13 441 274 331 192 383 G51 670 502 39 4(J3 627 690 483 314 89 117 ^t** See General Index at the end of the volume for the writers whose poems are given in the Miscellany. INTRODUCTORY RExlARKS. TT is not our intention to weary the reader with a long introcluc- -■- tion. A few words must suffice. ''Every remarkable man,*' writes Lacordaire, ''has been fond of letters." The same can be said of every remarkable nation. The Irish have always been a literary people. To song and legend and history they have clung through sunshine and shadow with the same lofty tenacity as to faith and fatherland. No misfortune has been able to dull the Irish mind, however it might check its expression. War with the Danes failed. War with the Saxon and Norman failed. The loss of national inde- pendence failed. Penal laws failed. The whole infernal ma- chinery of English -tyranny failed. In short, everything failed. This is one of the wonders of history. If we would understand the philosophy of such a singular fact, we must view the Irish race from both a natural and a supernatural standpoint. The true Celt is, above all other men, gifted with fine sentiments, generous imj)ulses, and a capacity to admire the good, the beautiful, the sublime. Thus, by nature, he is a lover of litera- ture. But there is a still higher view to be taken. The Catholic religion harmonizes with his nature, at the same time that it ele- vates his mind and spiritualizes his faculties. Nature and religion have thus combined to mould his genius. St. Columbkille is an illustration. The glory of a nation is her illustrious sons. When their manly frames and splendid intellects have passed away, still their bright memories^ like so many stars, illumine the national firmament. As lo Introductory Remarks. a precious inlieritance, tlieir noble deeds and inspiring words pass down to posterity, and the influence of tlieir careers is felt to the last day of a nation's existence. " A nation's greatness lies in men, not acres ; One master-mind is worth a million hands ; No kingly robes have marked the planet-shakers, But Samson-strength to burst the ages' bands." ^ This is especially true of the great writers, the rulers of thought, the men who haye given to the world "truths that wake to perish never," men who evermore influence the destinies of the human race. 1 Joka Boyle O'BeiUy, " A Nation's Test." CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF IRISH WRITERS. Kame. Bate of Death. Chief Work. Oisin (also written Ossian) 31 Cent'y . . Fenian Poems. Dubththach O'Lugair 5tli " ..Poems. St. ColumbkiUe 597 Poems. St. Fiaoc Gth Cont'y. Metrical Life of St. Patrick. St. Simhin.... Gth " .Tripartite Life of St. Patrick. St. Evin , Life of St. Bridget. St. Adamnan 703 Life of St. Columbkille. John Scotus Eregina 875 (about). Works on Philosophy and Theology. Cormac Cullinan 933. Psalter of Cashel. M. O'CarroU 1009 Annals of Inisf alien. Plann 1053 ...Synchronisms. Gilla Caemhain 1073 Chronological Poem. Ttghernach 1033 Annals of Tighemach. Cathal Maguire 14)8 Annals of Ulster. Most Bev. Florence Conroy, D.D 1G33 Compendium of St. Augustine's Works. Most Rev. Peter Lombard, D.D 153 J Commentary on Irish History. Bev. Hugh Ward, O.S.F 1335 Irish Martyrology. Rev. Brother Michael O'Clary, O.S.F.1G43. . . . . . . .Annals of the Four Masters. Rev. Geoffrey Keating, D.D 1311 History of Ireland. James Ussher, D.D 1053 Antiquities of the British Churches. Rev. Luke Wadding, O.S.F 1G37 Annals of the Friars Minor. Rev. John Colgan, O.S.F 1053 Lives of the Irish Saints. Right Rev. John Lynch, D.D 17thCcn'y .Cambrensis Eversus. Sir James Ware 13G3 Lives of the Irish Bishops. Duald Mac Firbis 1G70 The Book of Mac Firbis. Right Rev. Nicholas French 1073 Sale and Settlement of Ireland. WilUam Molyneaux 1G33 The Case of Ireland Stated. Roderick O'Flaherty 1718 Ogygia. Sir Richard Steele '. 1730 Essays. Jonathan Swift, D D 1745 GuUiver's Travels. Rev. Abbe MacGeoghegan 1750 History of Ireland. Bishop Berkeley, D.D 1753 The Minute Philosopher. Oliver Goldsmith 1773 The Deserted ViUage Edmund Burke 17D7... Reflections on the Revolution in Francao Richard B. Sheridan 1816 The School for Scandal. John Philpot Currau 1317 Speeches. Sir Philip Francis 1318 Letters of Junius. Henry Grattan 1833 Speeches. Right. Rev. Dr. Doyle, O.S.A.. 183-1 Letters on the State of Ireland. Sir Jonah Barrington Rise and Fall of the Irish Nation. Blatthew Carey 1339., Ireland Vindicated. ijerald Griffln 1343 The Collegians. John Banim 1843 Th? Boyno Water. Right Rev. Dr. England 1343 Essays on Various Subjects. WilUam Maginn, LL.D 1343 Miscellanies. Thomas Davis, M.R.I. A , 18i5 Poems and Essays. Sir Aubrey de Vero 1846 Julian, the Apostate. Daniol O'ConneU 1847 Speeches. James Clarence Mangan 1849 Poems. Lady Blessington 18iS Many volumes of fiction. Richard Lalor Shell 1S51 Sketches of the Irish Bar. Thomas Mooro 1853 ...Irish Melodies. 12 Chronological Table of Irish Writers, Name. Dale of Death. CliiefWork. Most Rev Dr. Murray 1854 Sermons. Lady Morgan 1853 O'Donnell. Eev. George Croly, LL.D 1830 Life of Burke. Mrs. A. Jamiesoa 1S60 The Postry of Sacred and Legendary Art. John O'Donovan. LL D 1861 ..Grammar of the Irish Language. Eugene O'Curry, M.R.I A 1862 Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History. Richard Dalton "Williams 1883 Poems. Most Rev. Dr. Haghss 1883 Lectures, Essays, etc. Most Rev. F. P. Ksnrick, D.D 1834 ....Primacy of the Apostolic See. Rev. Francis Mahoay 1333 Reliques of Father Prout. T. D. McGee, B.C.L 1837 History of Ireland. T. F. Meagher, LL.D 1837 Speeches. Rev. Mr. Boyca Shandy McGuire. Samuel Lover 1833 Pooms. Rev. Dr. CahiU Letters and Lectures. Henry Giles Lectures and Essays. « "William Carleton 1ST3 The Poor Scholar. CharlesJ. Lever, M.D 1372 Charles O'Malley. John Francis Maguirc, M.P The Irish in America. Rev. Dr. P. E. Moriarty, O.S.A 1875 Life of St. Augustine. JohnMitchel 1875 History of Ireland. Most Rev. JohaMacHale, D.D Letters, etc. Mrs. J. Sadlier The Confederate Chieftains. Rev. T. N.Burko, O P L3ctares. Sister Mary Francis Claro History of the Irish Nation. Robert Joyce, M D Deirdre. Aubrey de Vera Alexander the Great. D. F. MacCarthy ■. Poems. John Savage, LL.D Th3 Poets and Poetry of Ireland. John Boyle O'Reilly Songs from tha Soulhera Seas. Lady "Wilde Poems. A. M. Sullivan Poems, etc. Rev. Dr. Patrick Murray Poems and Theological Works. "W. J. Fitzpatrick, J.P Life aad Times of Dr. Doyle. "WUliam CoUins Ballads, Poems, and Songs. Mrs. S. C. Hill Lights and Shadows of Irish Life. Sir C. G. Duffy Pooms, etc. Thomas Mooney Lectures en Irish History. Rev. C. P. Meehan, M.R.I. A O'NeUl and O'Donnell. R. Shelton Mackanzio, D.C.L Lifj of Sir "Walter Scott, etc. R. R. Maddan, M.D Lives of the United Irishmen. John Cornelius O'Ca'.laghsn, M.U.I.A History of the Irish Brigade. E. B. O'Cailaghan, LL.D History of the New 1^ etherlands. Rev. A. J. O'Reilly Martyrs of the Colosseum. Rev. Stephen Byrne, O. P Irish Emigration. Rev. William Gleeson, M. A History of the Catholic Churc'a in Cali- fornia. Most Rev. Peter R. Kenrick, D.D Holy House of Loretto. Rev. C. W. Russell, D.D Life of Cardinal Mezzofanti. John P. Prendergasl Cromwcllian Settlement of Ireland. Most Rev. John 13. Parcell, D.D Campbell and Purcell Debate. Sir Robert Kane Resources of Ireland. W. B. MacCabo History of England. W. J. O'NeiU Daunt Recollections of 0"C'onneU. Martin Haverty History of Ireland. Hon. WiUiam B Robinson The Irish Element ia America. THE Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ST. COLUMBKILLE, POET, MONK, APOSTLE OF SCOTLAND, AND PRINCE OF IRISH MISSIONARIES. •' Columbkille was born a poet and remained a poet to the last day of bis life." — COUKT DE MOKTAIiEinJEET. ST. COLUMBKILLE, one of the most famous of Irish saints, poets, and missionaries, was born at Gartan, a v/ild district i]i the county of Donegal, on December 7, a.d. 521.^ His father was descended from the great King Niall of the ISTine Hostages," Avho was supremo monarch of Ireland at the close of the fourth cen- tury. Before his birth, his mother, who belonged to a distinguished family in Leinster, had a dream whicli posterity has accepted as a graceful and poetical symbol of her son's career. An angel appear- ed to her, brin2:in2r her a yeil covered with flowers of wonderful beauty and the sweetest variety of colors. Immediately after she saw the veil carried away by the Avind, and rolling out as it fled over 1 " The slab of stone," -writes Montalembert, " upon -whieh his mother lay at the moment of his birth is still shown. He who passes a night upon that stone is cured for ever from the pangs of homesickness, and will never be consumed, while absent or in exile, by a too passionate love for his country. Such, at least, is the belief of the poor Irish emigrants, who flock thither at the moment when they are about to abandon the ccnflseated and ravaged soil of their country to seek their living in America, moved by a touching recol- lection of the great missionary who gave up his native land for the love of God and hu- man souls."—" Monks of the West," vol. ii., Am. ed. Gartan is about the centre of the County. It is noted in the " Map of the Localities and Titles of the Principal Old Irish Families," in Ihe Nun of ileiimare's " Illustrate J History of Ireland." " Because of the hostages taken from nine several powers, wMsh he subdued and m^de tributary. 13 14 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. plains, woods, and monntains. Then tlie angel said to her : " Thou art about to become the mother of a son who shall blossom for heaven, who shall be reckoned among the jDrophets of God, and who shall lead numberless souls to the heavenly country." ' This saintly and illustrious man has been very fortunate in his biographers. His life, written by his cousin and ninth successor, St. Adamnan, is one of the most charming narratives in all early Chris- tian literature ; * and the story of his career told in our own day by the gifted and learned Count de Montalembert is certainly one of tlie most beautiful productions to be found in the whole range of Cath- olic biograjohy.* In common "vvdtli many other Irish saints, our poet-monk bore a name borrowed from the Latin, a name signifying the dove of the Holy Ghost. By Irish writers, however, he is nearly always called Columbkille, or dove of the cell. We use this name as that by which he is best known. The priest who baptized the child also gave him the first rudi- ments of knowledge. From his earliest years Columbkill^ was accustomed to heavenly visions. Often, when his guai'dian angel Avould appear to him, the child would ask if all the angels in heaven were as young and shining as he. He afterwards passed into the great monastic schools, which were nurseries not only for the clergy of Ireland, but also for young lay- men of all conditions. Here manual toil was joined to study and j)rayer. Like all his young companions, ColumbkiUe had to grind over night the corn for the next day's food ; but when his turn came, it was so well and quickly done that his companions susj^ected him of having been assisted by an angel. ^ Having completed his education and monastic training, he was ordained by his revered 3 " The Monks of the West, " vol. ii. ^ The " Life of St. ColumbkiUe," by Adamnan, ninth Abbot of lona, is Tvritten in Latin'^ Twenty years ago it was reprinted after a MS. of the eighth century, and edited by Rev. Dr. Beeves, of Ballymena, for the Celtic Arehasological Society of Dublin. " Adamnan s Me- moir," writes Eev. Dr. Reeves, "is to bo prized as an inestiraablo literary relic of the Irish Church — perhaps the most valuable monument of that institution which has escap- ed the ravage of time " (p. 36, Preface), and the Protestant divine might have added, of Enrjland. Adamnan, which is the diminutive of Adam, is a name of rare occurrence in Irish records. His life of St. ColumbkiUe begins thus : '■ In. nomine Jesu Christi ordiiur Picefatio.'' s The Count de Montalembert's life of our Saint takes up 108 pages of vol. ii. '■ Monks of the West, " in which he is invariably called Columiba. We make free use of it in our brief sketch. « O'DonneU, i. 42, quoted by Montalembert. S/. Coltimbkillc. 15 master, the Abbot Finnian, founder of the rcno"wned monastic school of Clouard. An incident is related of his student career at Clonard, when he was only a deacon. An old Bard came to live near the monastery. Columbkille, who at all times in life was a passionate admirer of Irish i^oetry, determined to join the school of the Bard azid to share his labors and his studies. One dav the two were *readin£: to- gether, at a little distance ajoart, out of doors. A young girl ran to- wards them, pursued by a robber. She, no doubt, hojied to find safety in the old Bard's authority. The latter called to his pupil for assistance. Scarcely, however, had the girl reached the spot than her pursuer, coming up, struck her with his lance, and she fell dead at their feet. "How long," exclaimed the horrified old man to Columbkille, ''will God leave unpunished this crime which dishonors us ? " "For this moment only," replied the indignant young monk — "not longer. At this very hour, when the soul of this innocent creature ascends to heaven, the .soul of the murderer shall go down to hell ! " Scarcely were the words pronounced, when the wretched assassin fell dead. Soon, far and wide, Columbkille's name became famous. Closely allied to the reigning monarch of all Ireland, and eligible himself to the same high office, it was very natural that his influence increased with his years. Before he reached the age of twenty-fiA'e, he had presided over the erection of a crowd of monasteries. Of these the chief were Durrow and Derry. He was especially attached to Dcrry. In the poem attributed to his old age he says so patheti- cally : " Were all the tribute of Scotia mine, From its midland to its borders, I would give all for one little cell In my beautifid Derry. For its peace and for its purity, For the white angels that go In crowds from one end to the other, I love my beautiful Derry ! " Columbkille was as much a bard as a monk during the first part of his life ; and he had the roving, ardent, agitated, and even quar- relsome character of the race. He had also a passion for travelling, but a still greater one for books. Indeed, his intense love of books brought him more than one misadventure. He went everywhere in 1 6 The Pi'osc and Poetry of Ireland. searcli of volumes wliieli be could borrow or copy, often experienc- ing refusals tbat be bitterly resented. At tbe time of wbicb we write, there was in Ossory a boly recluse, very learned doctor in laws and pliilosopby, named Longarad. Columbkille paid bim a visit, and asked leave to examine bis books. A direct refusal was given by tbe old man. '' j\Iay tby books," exclaimed Columbkille, ''no longer do tbee any good, neitber to tbee nor to tbose wbo come after tbee, since tbou takcst occasion by tbem to sbow tby inbospi- tality." Tbis curse was beard, according to tbe legend. As soon as old Longarad died bis books became unintelligible. "They still exist," says an author of the ninth century, "but no man can read tbem ! " Another narrative in the career of our poet-monk leads us to the decisive event which for ever changed his destinv, and transformed him from a wandering poet and ardent book-worm into a great mis- sionary and apostle. While visiting his old master, the Abbot Fin- nian, Columbkille found means to make a secret and huri'ied copy of the Abbot's Psalter by shutting himself uj) at night in the church where it was deposited, and illuminating bis work by the light which escaped from his left band, while he wrote with the right. The Abbot Finnian discovered what was going on by means of a curious wanderer, who, attracted by that singular light, looked in through tbe keyhole. Tbe wanderer's curiosity, however, met with swift punishment. While his face was pressed against the door, he had bis eye suddenly torn out by a crane, one of those familiar birds that were permitted by the Irish monks to seek a home in their churches.'' Finnian was indignant at what he considered a theft, aiid claimed the copy when it was finished, on tbe ground that a copy made %vitbout permission ought to belong to the master of the original, seeing that the transcription is but tbe child of the original book. Columbkille refused to give up his work, and the question was referred to the king in his palace at Tara. King Diarmid, at that time suj)rcme monarch of Ireland, was descended from the famous jSTiall of the Xine Hostages, and, con- sequently, related to Columbkille. Ilovvcver, he loronounced against bis kinsman. The king's decision was given in a rustic phrase which has passed into a proverb in Ireland — To every' cow her ec//,* and, " O'Donnell, book ii. , quoted by Montalembert. " " Le gach boin a boinin, le gach leabhar a kabhrcn." S^. Cohmibkillc. 17 therefore, to every book its copy. Loudly did Columbkille protest. "It is an unjust sentence," lie exclaimed, "and I will revenge myself." Shortly after this another event occurred "which still more irritated the poet-monk. A young prince, son of the King of Connaught, having transgressed in some way, took refuge with Columbkille, but was seized and put to death by order of King Diarmid. With prompt vengeance Columbkille threatened the supreme monarch. " I will denounce to my brethren and my kindred, thy wicked judgment," he said, " and the violation in my person of the immunity of the Church ; they will listen to my com- l^laint and punish thee, sword in hand. Bad king, thou shalt no more see my face in thy province until God, the just Judge, has subdued thy pride. As thou hast humbled me to-day before thy lords and thy friends, God will humble thee on the battle day before thine enemies ! " Diarmid attempted to retain him by force, but, evading the guards, Columbkille escaped by night from Tara, and directed his steps to his native province of Tirconnell. As he went on his lonely way, his soul found utterance in a pious song — ^^ The Song of Trust,'' ^ " w^hich," writes Montalembert, "has been preserved to us, and which may be reckoned among the most authentic relics of the ancient Irish tongue." " Columbkille arrived safely in his native province ; the powerful clans of Ulster were aroused as one man, and the aid of the King of Connaught, the father of the executed young prince, was easily obtained. The combined forces marched against Diarmid, who met them on the borders of Ulster and Connaught. The battle was short. Diarmid's army was routed, and he fled, taking refuge at Tara." According to the historian Tighernach, the victory was due to the prayers and hymns of Columbkille, who for days had fasted and prayed to obtain from Heaven the punishment of royal insolence, and who besides was present at the battle, and took upon himself before all men the responsibility of the blood shed. ^'^ "As to the manuscript," says Montalembert, " which had been the object of this strange conflict of copyright elevated into a civil 8 See page 36. i» •' The Monks of the West," vol. ii., Am. ed. " Cul-Dreimhne, where this battle -was fought, is in the barony of Carbury, to the north of the town of Sligo. The battle is mentioned in the " Annals of the Four Masters," in which it is stated that "three thousand was the number that fell of Diarmid's people. One man only fell on the other side." Vol. i., p. 195. 12 >' The Monks of the West," vol. ii., Am. ed. 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. war, it was afterward venerated as a kind of national, military, and religious palladium. Under the name of Cathac, or Fighter, the Latin Psalter transcribed by Columbkille, enshrined in a sort of por- table altar, became the national relic of the O'Donnell clan. For more than a thousand years it was carried with them to battle as a pledge of yictory, on the condition of being supj^orted upon the breast of a cleric pure from all mortal sin. It has escaped as by miracle from the ravages of which Ireland has been the victim, and exists still, to the great joy of all learned Irish patriots." " Columbkille was victorious. But victory is not always peace. He soon felt the double reaction of personal remorse and the condemnation of many pious souls. In the S3mod of Teilte," held in 5G2, he was accused of having occasioned the shedding of Chris- tian blood. Though absent, he was excommunicated. Columb- kille, however, was not a man to draw back before his accusers and judges. He suddenly jiresented himself to the synod, which had struck without hearing him. In the famous Abbot Brendan he found a defender. When the poet-monk made his apjoearance, this Abbot rose, went to meet him, and embraced him. " How can you," said some members of the synod, "give the kiss of peace to an excommunicated man ? " *' You would do as I have done," answered Brendan, ''and you would never have excommu- nicated him, had you seen what I see — a pillar of fire which goes before him, and the angels that accompany him. I dare not dis- dain a man predestined by God to be the guide of an entire people to eternal life." The synod withdrew the sentence of excommuni- cation, but Columbkille was charged to Avin to Christ by his preaching as many pagan souls as the number of Christians who had fallen in the battle which he had occasioned. The soul of the poet-monk was troubled. The voice of an accus- ing conscience touched his heart. He wandered from solitude to " The casket in which this precious MS. is preserved was made towards the 11th cen- tury by the head of the clan, Cathbar O'Donnell. Towards the close of the 17th century the Caihac came into the possession of Daniel O'Donnell, who raised a regiment in Ire- land for James II., and afterwards attained the rank of Brigadier-General in the service of France. This wonderful book remained on the Continent until 1802, when it was trans- ferred to a nobleman cf the name of O'Donnell, who resided at Newport, county of !Mayo. It is now to be seen in the library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, Dublin, and con- sists of fifty-eight pages of vellum manuscript, somewhat damaged at the commence- ment. A fac-simile of a portion of one of its pages can be seen in the appendix to O'Curry's ''Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History" and in the Nun of Ken- mare's "Illustrated History of Ireland." " Now Teltown, a little village in the county of Meath. SL ColiLmbkille. 19 solitude, from monastery to monastery, seeking masters of Christian virtue, and asking them anxiously what ho should do to obtain the pardon of God for the murder of so many victims. At length, he found a holy monk called Abban, to whom he poured out the troubles of his soul. To Columbkille's enquiries Abban assured him that the souls of those killed in tlie battle eujoyed eternal repose ; and, as his confessor, he condemned him to perpetual exile from Ireland. ''What you have commauded," said Columbkille, " shall bo done."' jSTow begins the second and grandest jieriod of Columbkille's life. Taking a loving leave of his warlike kindred, to whom he was intensely attached, he directed his course towards Scotland, to be- gin his labors among the heathen Picts. Twelve of his devoted disciples accompanied him ; and thus, at the age of forty-two, our poet-monk bade a last adieu to his native land. Their bark put in at that little isle which he has immortalized, and which took from him the name of I-Colm-Klll (the island of Columbkille), now better known as loiia.^^ On this small sj^ot, surrounded by sombre seas, overshadowed by the bare and lofty peaks of other islands, and witli a wild beauty to be seen in the far distance, Columbkille, poet, prince, monk, and missionary, founded the firsi monastery in Scot- Vmd, and began the gigantic labors of a life more than heroic, more than apostolic. Over thirteen hundred years ago this became the monastic capital and the centre of Christian civilization in North Britain. Columbkille became transformed into a new man. He whom we have seen so passionate, so irritable, so warlike and vindictive, grew, little by little, the most gentle, tender, and humble of friends and fathers. It was he, the illustrious head of the Caledonian Church, who, kneeling before strangers that came to lona, or before the monks returning from their work, took off their shoes, washed their feet, and, after having washed them, respectfully kissed them. But charity was still stronger than humility in that transfigured soul. No necessity, spiritual or temporal, found him indifferent. He devoted himself to the solace of all infirmities, all misery and pani, often weeping over those who did not weep for themselves. In the midst of the new community Columbkille inhabited, in- stead of a cell, a sort of hut built of planks, and placed upon the most elevated spot ivithin the monastic enclosure. Up to the ago 1^ It is only throe miles long by about two in width. 20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. of seventy-six lie slept there upon the hard floor with a stone for his pillow. This hut was at once his study and his oratory. It wa? there that he gaye himself up to those prolonged prayers which e> cited the admiration, and almost the alarm, of his disci]3les. It wats there that he returned after sharingthe out-door labor of his monks like the least among them, to consecrate the rest of his time to the study of Holy Scripture and the transcription of the sacred text. The work of transcription remained until his last day the occu- pation of his old age, as it had been the passion of his youth. It had such an attraction for him, and seemed to him so essential to a knowledge of the truth, that tlirec hundred copies of the Holy Gospel, written by his own hand, have been ascribed to him. '^ It was in the same hut that he received with unwearied patience and gentle courtesy the hundreds of visitors, of high and low de- gree, who flocked to see him. Sometimes he was obliged to complain mildly, as of that indiscreet stranger Avho, desirous of embracing him, awkwardly overturned his ink on the border of his robe. For over a third of a century, the holy and dauntless Columbkille traversed the wild northern regions of Caledonia — regions hitherto inaccessible even to the Eoman eagle. At his preaching and miracles the fierce and warlike Picts bowed beneath the cross. This renowned missionary laid the foundation of Christianity, civilization, and lit- erature in Scotland. Out of the many monasteries which he found- ed in that land, the remains of fifty-three are to be seen to this day. The noble figure of St. Columbkille, prince and monk, towers aloft in that distant age. His is by far the grandest name that appears in the early annals of Great Britain.'^ Skimming Loch Ness with his little skiff, our Saint soon pene- trated to the principal fortress of the Pictish king, the site of which is still shown upon a rock north of the town of Inverness. Brude was the name of the hardy and powerful monarch.'* At first he would not receive the Irish missionary, but gave orders that the gates of the fortress should not be opened to the unwelcome visi- tor. But Columbkille was not alarmed. *' He went up to the [gateway," says his biographer, '' made the sign of the cross upon the two gates, and then knocked with his hand. Immediately the bars and bolts drew back, the gates rolled upon their hiuges and »• "The Monks of the West," vol. ii. " J. O'Kane Murray, " Lessons in English Literature," book i. ■ IS The Venerable Bede styles him "rege potentissimo." S^. Columbkille, 21 were thrown wide open, and Columbkille entered like a conqueror. The king, though surrounded by his council, was struck with pan- ic ; he hastened to meet the missionary, addressed to him pacific and encouraging words, and from that moment gave him every honor." '' Thus obstacles vanished at the very glance of the great Irish Missionary. One day, while laboring at his evangelical work in the principal island of the Hebrides,^" he cried out all at once : '' My sons, to-day you will see an ancient Pictish chief, who has kept faithfully all his life the precepts of the natural law, arrive in this island ; he comes to be baptized and to die." Immediately after a boat was seen to approach the shore with a feeble old man seated in the prow. He was the chief of one of the neighboring tribes. Two of his companions took him up in their arms, and brought him be- fore the missionary, to whose words, as repeated by the interpre- ter, he listened attentively. When the discourse was ended, the old man asked to be baptized, and soon after breathed his last breath, and was buried in the very spot Avhere he had just been brought to shore. " Columbkille accomplished the conversion of the entire Pictish nation, and destroyed for ever the authority of the Druids in that last refuge of Celtic paganism. Before he closed his glorious ca- reer he had sown their forests, their defiles, their inaccessible mountains, their savage moors, and scarcely-inhabited islands with churches and monasteries. In 574, St. Columbkille blessed Aidan, consecrating him king of the Caledonian Scots. Ecclesiastical writers say that this is the -first example in history of the solemn consecration of a Christian king." In Ireland the bards were regarded as an honored class — in fact, as oracles of poetry, music, history, and all knowledge. If their training was long and rigorous, their privileges were nearly un- bounded. At the royal table they occupied the first jilace after that of the king himself.^' At the time of which we speak they were loudly accused of having grossly misused their power and their '5 Mcntalembert, vol. ii. St. Adamnan, in his Latin life of St. Columbkille, gives a detail- ed statement of this miraculous incident. 20 The isle of Skye. 2' Montalembert, who, of course, follows Adamnan. ** Martene, " Do Solemni Regum Benedictione," quoted by Montalonibert. *3 O'Curry, " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." 22 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. privileges. Indeed, the enmities raised against them had come to such a j)oint that tlie chief monarch of Ireland felt himself suffi- ciently strong to propose to the assembly of Drumceitt the entire suppression, and even banishment, of the bards. St. Columbkille, however, saved them by his wonderful influence. Their gratitude Avas boundless, and for centuries after the bards of Erinn sang the praises of the great missionary, who himself was born a poet, lived a poet, and died a poet. The soul of St. Columbkille, amid all his labors in Scotland, was swayed by one master sentiment — regret for his long-lost Erinn. His passionate love for his country displayed itself to his last breath. In his songs he pours forth his sorrowful affection. " My sad heart over bleeds," he says. " There is a gray eye which ever turns to Erinn; but never in this life shall it see Erinn, nor her sons, nor her daughters. I look over the sea, and great tears are in my eye ! " The most severe penance which he could imagine for the most guilty sinners who came to confess to him was to impose upon them the same fate which he had voluntarily inflicted upon himself — never to set foot again upon Irish soil. To monks about returning to Ireland he would say: ''You go back to the country that you love." " This melancholy patriotism," says Montalembert, ''never faded out of his heart." His regret for his lost Ireland Avas (as we have said) life-long. Once he bade a monk to sit ujDon the shore of lona, and watch for a poor, exhausted, weather-beaten stork from the north of Ireland, Avhich would fall at his feet. "Take her up with pity," added the Saint, "feed her, and watch her for three days. When she is refreshed she will no longer wish to prolong her exile among us — she will fly to sweet Ireland, her dear country where she was born. I bid thee care for her thus, because she comes from the land where I, too, was born." Everything happen- ed as he said. In three days the stork rose from the ground in her host's presence, and directed her flight towards Ireland. To all his relations he was most tenderly attached. One day at lona, he suddenly stopjicd short while reading, and said with a smile to his monks : " I must now go and pray for a poor little woman who is in the pains of child-birth, and who suffers like a true daughter of Eve. She is down yonder in Ireland, and reckons upon my prayers ; for she is my kinswoman, S/. Cobmibkille. 23 and of my mother's family." Upon this the great priest hastened to the church, and, Avlieu his prayer was ended, returned to his brethren, saying : " She is delivered. The Lord Jesus, who deigned to be born of a woman, has come to her aid ; this time she Avill not die." "■' Towards his last days a celestial light was occasionally seen to surround him as a garment. And, once as he prayed, his face was first lit up with beatific joy, which finally gave exjoression to a profound sadness. Two of his monks saw this singular change of countenance. Throwing themselves at the aged Abbot's feet, they implored him, with tears in their eyes, to tell them what he had learned in his prayer. "Dear children," said he, "I do not wish to afiiict you. . . . But it is thirty years to-day since I began my pilgrimage in Caledonia. I have long prayed to God to let my exile end with this thirtieth year, and to call me to the heavenly country. When you saw me so joyous, it was because I could already see the angels who came to seek my soul. But all at once they stopped short down there upon that rock at the farthest limits of the sea which surrounds our island, as if they would approach to take me and could not. And, in truth, they could not, because the Lord had 2oaid less regard to my ardent prayer than to that of the many churches which have prayed for me, and which have obtained, against my will, that I should still dwell in this body for four years. This is the reason of my sadness. But in four years I shall die without being sick. In four years, I know it and see it, they will come back, these holy angels, and I shall take my flight with them towards the Lord." " Wonderful man ! His last day on earth came. It was on a Saturday in sunny June. Drawn in a car by oxen, the aged j)atriarcli passed through the fields near the monastery, and blessed his monks at their labor. Arising in his rustic chariot, he then gave his solemn benediction to the whole island — a benediction which, according to local tradition, was like that of St. Patrick iu Ireland, and drove from that day all vij)ers and venomous creatures out of lona. *° He then went to the granary of the monastery, and gave it his blessing, remarking to his faithful attendant, Diarmid : "''Montaleinbert,-who here literally follows St. Adamnan. s* Montalembert, vol. ii. ; Adamnan, iii. 23. -« Ibid. 24 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. " This very niglit I shall enter into the path of my fathers. Thou weepest, dear Diarmid, but console thyself. It is my Lord Jesus who deigns to invite me to rejoin him. It is he who has revealed to pie that my summons will come to-night." He then left the store-house, and on the way to the monastery was metbj a good and ancient servant, the old white horse, which came and put his head upon his master's shoulder, as if to take leave of him. " The eyes of the old horse," remarks the biographer of our Saint, "had an ex|)ression so pathetic that they seemed to be bathed in tears." Caressing the faithful brute, he gave him a last blessing.*' He now entered his cell and began to work for the last time. It was at his dearly-loved employment — transcribing the Psalter. When the sublime old man came to a certain verse in the thirty-third Psalm, he said : *' I must stop here. Baithen will write the rest." ^® After a time spent in prayer he entrusted his only companion with a last message for the community, advising them, like the apostle of old, "to love one another." As soon as the midnight bell had rung for the matins of the Sunday festival, the noble old saint and poet rose and knelt down before the altar. Diarmid followed him, but, as the church was not yet lighted, he could only find him by groping and crying in a plaintive voice: "Where art thou, my father?" He found Co- lumbkille lying before the altar, and, placing himself at his side, raised the aged Abbot's venerable head upon his knees. The whole community soon arrived with lights, and wej)t as one man at the sight of their dying chief and father. Once more Columbkille oj)ened his eyes, and turned them to his children on each side with a look full of serene and radiant joy. Then with the aid of Diar- mid he raised, as best he could, his right hand to bless them all. His hand dropped, the last sigh came from his lips, and his face remained calm and sweet like that of a man who in his sleep had seen a vision of heaven." And thus died, or rather passed away, on the 9th of June, in the year 597, in his seventy-sixth year, the glorious St. Columbkille, apostle of Caledonia, Irish prince, poet, 2' Adamnan, iii. 23. 2s Baithen became his successor. 25 Montalembert, vol. ii. p. 106, Am. ed. ; Adamnan, iii. 23. The long chapter of Adam, nan -which describes the last scenes of the great Abbot's life "is," writes Rev. Dr. Beeves, " as touchingly beautiful a narrative as is to be met -with in the whole range of ancient biography " (Adamnan's " Life of St. Columbkille," p. 78, note). It is worthy of remark that St. Augustine landed at Kent, England, the very year that St. Columbkille died. St. Colunibkille. 2 monk, and missionary — a man whose beautiful name and shining deeds will live for ever and for ever ! After Oisin,'" says Montalembert, Columbkille opens the series of two hundred Irish poets whose memories and names, in default of their works, have remained dear to Ireland. He wrote verses not only in Latin, but also, and more frequently, in Irish. But three, however, of his Latin poems survive ; and only two centuries ago eleven of his Irish poems were still in existence." Colgan gives the title and quotes the first verse of each of those Irish poems, the most authentic of which is the one dedicated to the glory of St. Bridget.'' The six poetical pieces which we reproduce in this vol- ume are all attributed to the pen of the Saint, and the most rigid criticism is forced to accept them as the genuine literary remains of a venerable past." As to the so-called ''prophecies" of St. Columbkille, it may be well to remark that the best Catholic critics and the most profound Irish scholars regard them as impositions and silly fictions. The learned and pious O'Curry, in one of his matchless lectures, fully discusses this matter.'* In concluding he says : " It is remarkable that no reference to any of these long, circumstantially-defined prophecies can be found in any of the many ancient copies of the Saint's life which have come down to us. ... I feel it to be a duty I owe to my country, as well as to my creed as a Catholic, to express thus in public the disgust which I feel with every right- s'' Oisin (and not Ossian) is the true form of the word. It is singular that so many writers on English literature copy each other's blunders in spelling the name of this ancient Irish poet. See Prof. O'Curry's Lectures, 31 " The Monks of the West," vol. ii. 22 " Trias Thaumaturgas," p. 472. 33 Speaking of the writings of St. Columbkille that yet exist, Rev. Dr. Reeves says : " Three Latin hymns of considerable beauty are attributed to Mm, and in the ancient Liber JTijmnorum, where they are preserved, each is accompanied by a preface describing the occasion on which it was written. His alleged Irish compositions are also poems. There are in print his ' Farewell to Aran,' a poem of twenty-two stanzas ; another poem of seventeen stanzas which is supposed to have been written on the occasion of his flight from King Diarmid. Besides these, there is a collection of some fifteen poems bearing his name in one of the O'Clery MSS., preserved in the Burgundian library at Brussels. But much the largest collection is contained in an oblong MS. of the Bod- leian Library at Oxford, Laud C16, which embraces everything in the shape of poem or fragment that could be called ColumbkiUo's, which industry was able to scrape together at the middle of the sixteenth century."— " Life of St. Columbkille "by St. Adamnan, appendix to the preface, pp. 78-9. The learned Count de Montalembert, who doubtless examined the Bodleian collection cf St. Columbkilie's poems, says it "contains thirty-six Irish poems." 34See " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History," lecture xix. 26 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. miuded Irishman in witnessing tlio dishonest exertions of certain parties of late years " in attempting, by various publications, to fasten these disgraceful forgeries on the credulity of honest and sincere Catholics as the undoubtedly insjjired revelations of the ancient saints of Erinn. . . . Our jjrimitive saints never did, according to any reliable authority, pretend to foretell political events of remote occurrence" In personal appearance St. Columbkille was most attractive and dignified. His lofty figure and pure, manly, beautiful counte- nance imj^ressed every beholder. We have endeavored to give a few feeble glimpses at his grandly holy and heroic career. He was, above all others, the dear Irish saint, ardent, eloquent, impulsive, noble, and generous to a fault. Kext to God, he loved his friends and his country with a love passionate and deathless. In a confus- ed age and unknown region he disj^layed all that is greatest and purest, and, it must be added, most easily forgotten in human genius — the gift of ruling souls by ruling himself. The influence of St. Columbkille, as of all men really suiDcrior to their fellows, and especially of the saints, far from ceasing with his life, grew greater and gTcater after his death. The visions and miracles which went to prove his sanctity would fill a volume. As long as his body remained in his island grave, lona continued to be the most venerated sanctuary of the Celts. Seventy kings were buried at his feet,''' and from his great monastery, on that blessed sj^ot, religion, learning, and civilization flashed their genial rays over the neighboring kingdoms. In the eighteenth century the celebrated Dr. Johnson visited the sad and sombre ruins of historic lona — that grand lona whose famous sanctuary had been plundered by pagan Danes," and fin- 35 We have before us a pretentious version of these so-called " Prophecies," edited by one Nicholas O'Kearnty, and issued at Dublin in 1855. Yet, accordingto Rev. Dr. Reeves, "Eire this night," the sixth and last of St. Columbkille's "prophecies " given in that singular volume, " is not as eld as the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill " ! ^'Montalembert.— The recollection of this royal cemetery has been consecrated by Shakspere in his great tragedy of " Macbeth " : " RossE. Where is Duncan buried ? Macdtjtf. Carried to Colmes-kiU, The sacred store-house of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones.'' 3' The Danes first sacked this monastery in 801. This sad event is thus recorded in the "Annals of the Four Masters " (vol. i. p. 411) : " The age of Christ 801. Hi-Coluim-Cille [lona] was plundered by foreigners, and great numbers of the laity and clergy were killed by them— namely, sixty-eight." For safety, toward the close of the same century, the sacred remains of St. Columbkille were transferred to Ireland. S/. Cohcmbkille. 27 ally profaned and destroyed by the brutal and more than pagan bauds of Scotch fanatics and English ruffians. ''We arc now treading," wrote the enthusiastic Johnson, "that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavored, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses, whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advan- ces us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifl;er- ent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wis- dom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied Avliose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of lona." ^° THE RECORD OF COLUMBKILLE'S PRINCIPAL CHURCHES.'^ Delightful to be on Benn-Edar " Before going o'er the white sea ; The dashing of the waves against its face. The bareness of its shores and its border. Delightful to be on Benn-Edar, After coming o'er the white-bosomed sea, To row one's little coracle, Ohone ! on the swift-waved shore. How rapid the speed of my coracle ; And its stern turned upon Derry ; I grieved at my errand o'er the noble sea, Travelling to Alba of the ravens. My foot in my sweet little coracle, My sad heart still bleeding ; »s '"T^our to the Hebrides." 3i> Dr. Reeves is of opinion that this poem belongs to a later period than St, Columb Mile's day, but we do not see any pood reason to think that it is. 40 The highest elevation of the peninsula of Howth. 28 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Weak is the man that cannot lead ; Totally blind are all the ignorant. There is a gray eye That looks back upon Erinn ; It shall not see during life The men of Erinn nor their wives. My vision o'er the brine I stretcli From the ample oaken planks ; Sage is the tear of my soft gray eye When I look back upon Erinn. Upon Erinn my attention is fixed ; Upon Loch Levin/' upon Line " ; Upon the lands the Ultonians own ; Upon smooth Munster — upon Meath. Numerous in the East " are tall champions, Many the diseases and distempers there, Many they with scanty clothes, Many the hard and jealous hearts. Plentiful in the West ^' the apple fruit; Many the kings and princes ; Plentiful its luxuriant sloes, Plentiful its noble acorn-bearing oaks. Melodious her clerics, melodious her birds. Gentle her youths, wise her seniors, Illustrious her men, noble to behold. Illustrious her Avomen for fond espousal. It is in the West sweet Brendan is. And Colum, son of Crimthann, And in the West fair Baithin shall be, And in the West shall Adamnan be. Carry my enquiries after that Unto Comgall of eternal life ; ' The above translation, with a few slight changes, is that given by Prof. O'Curry in his "Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." The original ia Irish is given in the appendix to the same work. This dedication, both in Irish and English, can also be found in the " Annals of the Four Masters," vol. i. '< The names of the ancient works used by the Four Masters are given in the Testimo- nium. Michael O'Clery, O.S.F, 43 had known by experience to be well qualified for carrying ont his intentions in the selection and treatment of his vast matei'ials. '* His three jirincipal associates were Conary O'Clery, Peregrine O'Clery, and Ferfeasa O'Mulconry, and these with himself are now known as the "Four Masters." There were giants in those days, for in little more than four years and a half that immortal Historical monument, " The Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland," otherwise known as the "Annals of the Four Masters," was begun and completed ! The approbations affixed to the original manu- script copy of the work were six in number, one being from the pen of Malachy O'Kelly, Archbishop of Tuam, and another from Thomas Fleming, Archbishop of' Dublin. The Testimonium to the " Annals" gives the names of the Four Masters and the authorities used by them, and concludes thus : " We have seen all these books with the learned men of whom we have spoken before, and other historical books besides them. In proof of everything which has been written above, the following persons put their hands to this in the convent of Donegal, the tenth day of August, the age of Christ being 1636: " Brother Bernardine O'Clery, Guardian of Donegal, " Brother Maurice Ulltach, " Brother Maurice Ulltach, "Brother Bojstavejstura O'Donistell, Jubilate Lector." '* After finishing this great literary undertaking. Brother O'Clery, it appears, was recalled to Louvain. Here he wrote and printed, in 1643, a dictionary or glossary of difficult Irish words, under the title of " Sanas-an Nuadh." This was his last work. According to Harris, I13 died in 1643, aged about sixty-eight years." JSQCurry. "This Testimonium may be found both in Irish and English in Prof. O'Curry's "Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History," or in the "Annals of the Pour Masters," f.dited by Dr. O'Donovan. "Of CONART O'Cleuy, the second of the Four Masters, nothing is known. "Heap- pears," •writes Dr. O Donovan, "to have acted as scribe, and to have transcribed the greater portion of these Annals, probably at the dictation of his brother (Michael O'Ciery), or under his directions, from other MS -. He was not a member of any religious order, and appears to have had no property except his learning." Peregrine O'Clery, the third of the Pour Masters, was the head of the Tirconnell sept of the O'Clerys. Ho wrote in the Irish language a life of the celebrated Hugh Roe O'Donnell, who died in Spain in 1602. Peregrine was a considerable land-owner, but was dispossessed by the flendish, thievish system introduced by the tyrannical Govermnent 44 T^^^c Prose and Podiy of Ireland. Passing from the immortal {iiitliors, we shall now give the reader a glance at the interior of their work, that great treasury of Irish history. The full title, as given in the last edition, is : "Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland, by the Four Masters, from the earliest Pe- riod to IGIG. Edited from MSS. in the Library of the Eoyal Irish Academy and of Trinity College, Dublin, with a Translation and copious Notes, by John O'Donovan, LL.D., M.E.I. A., Barrister-at- Law." " All events coming before the birth of our Lord and noted down in these Annals are preceded by the phrase "The age of the world 3000," or whatever the date may happen to be. All events coming after the birth of our Lord are preceded by the phrase " The age of Christ GOO," or whatever the date may be. EXAMPLES. ' The Age of the World 3370. This was the first year of the reign of Gann and Geanann over Ireland. " The Age of the World 3273. The fourth year of Gann and Geanann, and they died at the end of this year, with twenty hun- dred along with them, in Crich-Liathain." " For some years, however, the historical details are much longer than in the preceding examples. " The Age of Christ 157. Conn of the Hundred Battles, after having been thirty-five years in the sovereignty of Ireland, was slain of England. His property -was stolen from him because— hearthe reason, O just Heaven !— he was "o mee.re Irisli7nan, and not of English or British descent or sirname.'''' The words quoted are taken from an old English document which states the fact just mentioned. O'C^ery's lands were forfeited to the King of England. He then removed to Baliycroy, county of Mayo, carrying with him his books, which were his chief treasure. At his death, in 16G4, he bequeathed his precious volumes to his two sons, John and Deimot. This WG learn from His will, which is written in Irish. In it he says : "I bequeath the property most dear to me that I ever possessed in this wor d— namely, my books— to my two sons, John a-d Dermot." This will, says Dr. O'Donovan. in rather a bad state of pre- servation, is still to be seen in the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin. Nothing is known of Ferpeasa O'Mulconry, the last of the Four Masters, except that he was a native of the county of Roscommon acd a hereditary antiquary. '8 The title "Annals of the Four Masters " was first given these annals by the learned Father John Colgan. In the preface to his " Acta Sanctorum Hibernia; " he says : " On account of other reasons, chiefly from the compilers themselves, who were four most eminent masters in antiquarian lore, we have been led to call them the ' Annals of the FourlMasters '" In old works they are sometimes referred to as the " Annals of Donegal," from the monastery wheie they were written. "" Crich-Liathain, a district in the county of Cork. Michael aClery, O.S.F. 45 by Tiberaite Tireach, son of Mai, son of Eochraidlie, King of Ulster, at Tuatli-Amrois." =° '' The Age of Christ 1172. Brigidian O'Kane, successor of Maidoc," died." This event is followed, under the same date, by eleven other events of importance, seven of which are deaths of distinguished person- ages, one a battle, one an ecclesiastical visitation of the Archbishop of Armagh, one a raid, and one a synod at Tuam. ''The Age of Christ 1175. O'Brien, Bishop of Kildare, died." Under the same date this is followed by twelve other events. " The Age of Christ 1185. Auliffe O'Murray, Archbishop of Armagh, a brilliant lamp that had enlightened clergy and laity, died ; and Fogartagh O'Carellan was consecrated in his place. "The west of Connaught was burned, as well churches as houses, by Donnell O'Brien and the English." Ten other events are noted down under this date. " The Age of Christ 1201. Tomaltagh O'Conor, successor of St. Patrick and Primate of Ireland, died." This is followed by fifteen other events. " The Age of Christ 1205. The Archbishop O'Heney retired into a monastery, where he died soon after. " Manus O'Kane, son of the Lord of Kianaglita and Firnacreeva,"^ tower of the valor and vigor of the North, was wounded by an arrow, and died of the wound. Conor O'Brien, of Brawney, died on his pilgrimage to Clonmacnoise." Eight other events follow this date. " The Age of Christ 1252. Conor O'Dolierty, chief of Ardmire," tower of hospitality and feats of arms of the North, died." " Great heat and drought prevailed in this summer, so that the people crossed the rivers of Ireland with dry feet. The reaping of the- corn crops of Ireland was going on twenty days before Lam- mas, °* and the trees were scorched by the heat of the sun. "New money was ordered by the King of England to be made" in Ireland, and the money i^reviously in use Avas discontinued." Nine other events are recorded under the foregoing year. "The Age of Christ 1315. Teige O'Higgin, a learned poet, 2" Tuath-Amrois, a place near Tara. -' Maidoc was the first Bishop of Ferns. 22 Kianaghta and Firnacreeva, districts in the present county of Londonderry. ^23 Ardmire, a district in the county of Donegal. «< The 1st of August. " Coined. 46 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. died." Under this date are given eight other events, one of which is the lauding of Edward Bruce, brother of the hero of Bannock- burn, with an army in the North. " The Age of Christ 1566. Mary, the daughter of Manus, son of Hugh Duv, son of Hugli Eoe O'Donnell, and wife of Magennis, died on the 8th of October." Nine other events follow this date. The foregoing will, we trust, give the intelligent reader an idea of the clear, brief, and simple manner in which most events in the history of Ireland are recorded in the pages of the ''Annals of the Four Masters." Some important events are given with more detail than others ; however, on this head more can be learned from the carefully-selected extracts which we give further on. The gigantic labors of Brother Michael O'Clery and his three associates may well be imagined when w^e state that Dr. John O'Donovan's edition of the "Annals of the Four Masters" is in seven large quarto volumes, splendidly bound, and contains 4,215 pages of closely-printed matter. This was the first complete printed edition of the "Annals" ever given to the world.'^ It was issued in 1851 from the ]5ress of the enter^jrising Mr. George Smith, of Grafton Street, Dublin. It is given both in Irish and in English. "The translation," says the learned and accurate Prof. O'Curry, " is executed with extreme care. The immense mass of notes contains a vast amount of information, embracing every variety of topic, historical, topographical, and genealogical, upon which the text requires elucidation, addition, or correction ; and I may add that of the accuracy of the researches which have borne fruit in that information I can myself, in almost every instance, bear personal testimony." " 26 Thus the " Annals of the Four Masters " remained in manuscript over two hundred years before the unhappy condition of Ireland would allow such a precious treasure to be entirely given to the world in print ! Portions, however, had been published some years before Dr. O'Donovan's grand edition. That portion of the "Annals" ending at the year A.D. IITI was printed in 1826 by Rev. Charles O'Connor, librarian to the Duke of Bucking- ham. It occupies the whole of the third volume of his ' ' Rerum Hibernicarum Scriptores," a large quarto of 840 pages. "This edition," writes Prof. O'Curry, " is certainly valuable, but it is very inaccurate." A translation of the second part of the "Annals," extending from 1171 to 1616, by Mr. Owen Connellan, was issued at DubUn in 1846. 2^ John O'Donovan, LL.D., M.R.I.A., the prof oundly learned editor of the "Annals of the Four Masters," was born in an humble farm-house in the county of Kilkenny July 10, 1809. From his ear'.iest years he was devoted to the history and language of his native Erinn. When only fifteen years of age he was sent to Dublinto become the Gaelic teacher of Gen. Larcom, head of the famous Ordnance Survey of Ireland. Here he began his mis- sion. O'Donovan took his LL.D. at Trinity College, and became a member of the bar in 1847. He never practised. When the Queen's College was established at Belfast, this ripe Michael aClcry, O.S.F. 47 The historic monastery in which the ''Annals of the Four Mas- ters" were written was founded for the Franciscan Friars of the Strict Observance in 1474 by Hugh Eoe O'Donnell, chief of Tir- connell, and his wife Finola, daughter of Conor O'Brien, King of Thomond. "On the 2d of August, IGOl," writes Dr. O'Donovan, ''the building was occupied by a garrison of 500 English soldiers, and the friars fled into the fastnesses of the country, carrying with them their chalices, vestments, and other sacred furniture, though probably not their entire library." In the storming of this point by the Irish chieftains of the North, the venerable old structure took fire, and was soon a heap of ruins. ^* " It is more than probable," says Dr. O'Donovan, "that the library was destroyed on this occa- sion. . . . After the restoration of liory O'Donnell to his posses- sions, the brotherhood were permitted to live in huts or cottages near the monastery, whence they were not disturbed till the period of the Revolution. It was in one of these cottages, and not, as is generally supposed, in the great monastery now in ruins, that this work was compiled by the Four Masters. " "" and finished scholar was appointed to the chair of Irish history and archaeology. His editions and translations of ancient Irish books were numerous, but the greatest work of his life, the work which gave him a world-wide fame as an Irish scholar and antiquarian, was his complete edition of the '-Annals of the Four Masters."' For this great work he was warmly complimented by such distinguished foreigners as Guizot, Hallam, and Jacob Grimm. His " Irish Grammar " is the highest authority on the laws and structure of the ancient and venerable language of Ireland. At the time of his death Dr. O'Donovan was associated with his eminent brother-in law, Prof. Eugene O'Curry, in translating "The Brehon Laws." He died in 1861. Dr. O'Donovan was a true man, a worthy Irishman, and a sound and deeply learned historian, whose name and labors will always be indissolubly connected with the famous "Four Masters." 2' Sir Henry Docwra, the EngUsh general, in his "Narrative" says : "Now had O'Don- nell, O'Kane, MacBaron, and all the chiefs of the country thereabout made all the forces they were able to attend the issue of this intended meeting of my lord and me. . . . The Abbey of Donegal was kept only by a few friars, the situation of it close to the sea, and very convenient for many services, especially for a step to take Ballyshannon. . . . I sent 500 English soldiers to put themselves into this place, which they did on the 2d of August. . . . O'Donnell with those forces returned and laid siege to these men, which continued at least a month, and on the 19th of September the abbey took fire, by acci' dent or of purpose I could never learn, but burnt it was, all save one comer, into which our men made retreat. . . ." Thus it was that the cursed demon of sacrilegious destruc- tion always followed the hateful course of England and her troops in Ireland. But as sure as the stars twinkle and the sun shines, so sure will a dread day of reckoning yet come, and the long-standing account between Ireland and England, covering a sad period of over seven centuries, will be properly balanced. The great God is just ; He gov- erns the world according to His blessed and mysterious decrees, and never fails to punish iniquity in His own good time. 29 Introductory Remarks to the "Annals cf the Four Masters." According to Dr. Petrie, the MS. copy of these Annals, now in the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, "is the original autograph of the work." It appears that the Four Masters made several copies of their great work. " Besides the copy of the first 48 TJlc Prose and Poetry of Ireland. The remains of tliis venerable monastery are still to be seen at u short distance from the town of Donegal. In oiir imj^erfect remarks on the saintly and learned Michael O'Clery and his unmatched labors, "\ve have been carried further on than we at first intended. But we do not regret it. Who that has one spark of true manhood in him can refuse his admiration to the giant minds and industrious pens that planned and executed the "Annals of the Four Masters'' ? The illustrious Chief of the Four Masters was right when he said that, should he then neglect to put on record the facts contained in his great work, "they would not again be found to be put on record or commemorated even to the end of the world ! " When any one asks us, Where is the history of holy and ancient Erinn ? we point with pride to the ••'Annals of the Four Masters," a work without which, says an English critic, "the history of Great Britain could never be re- garded as complete " ; ^° and a work that, in the language of the learned Professor O'Curry, "must form the basis of all fraitful study of the history of Ireland."" Michael O'Clery was not only a profound scholar, a great historian, and a holy religious ; he was also a devoted patriot. He lived and labored for God and his loved native Isle ; and Ireland, her noble sons, and their last descendants shall have perished from the earth before the name of the Chief of the Four Masters can be forgotten. FIRST EXTRACT FROM THE "ANNALS OP THE FOUR MASTERS," VOL. I., P. 3-0. The Age of the World " to this year of the Deluge 2243. Forty volume," says Dr. Petrie, "preserved at Stowe, there is another equally authentic and original in the CoUege of St. Isidore at Rome. ... It [the one at Rome] was probably the first volume of the copy sent out to Ward and used by Colgan." — Address delivered March 5 1831. 3" The London Athenxum. SI '■ Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History." 3" The Age of the World.— This is according to the computation of the Septuagint, as given by St. Jerome in his edition of the "Chronicon" of Eusebius, from whom, no doubt, the Four Masters took this date. His words are : " Ab Adam usque ad Diluvium, anni sunt MMCCXLII. Secundum Hebroeorum numerum MDCLVI." According to the Annals of Clonmacnoise and various ancient Irish historical poems, 1656 years had elapsed from tho C.-eation to the Flood, which was the computation of the Hebrews. — See Keal^ ing's " History of Ireland " (Haliday's edition, page 145), and D. 0'Conor"s "Prolegomena ad Annales," p. li., and from p. csxvii. to cxxxv. Michael GClcry, O.S.F. 49 Jays before the Deluge, Cccasair" came to Ireland" with fifty girls and three men — Bith, Ladhra, and Fintain, their names. Ladhra died at Ard-Ladlirann," and from him it is named. He was the first that died'^ in Ireland. Bith died at Sliabh Beatha/^ and was interred in the earn of Sliabh Beatha/' and from him the mountain is named. Ceasair died at Guil-Ceasra, in Connaught, and was in- " Cemalr.~'^\s, story of the coming of Ceasair, the grand-daughter of Noah, to Ire- land, is given in the " Book of Leinster," fol. 2, h ; in all the copies of the " Book of Inva- sions" ; in the " Book of Fenagh " ; and in Giraldus Cambrensis's " Topographica Hi- bernia," dist. ii. c. i. It is also given in Mageoghegan's translation of the Annala of Clonmacnoise ; but the translator remarks : " My author, Eochy O'Flannagan, giveth no credit to that fabulous tale." Hanmer also gives this story, as does Keating ; but they do not appear to believe it, "because," says the latter, "I cannot conceive hovf the Irish antiquaries could have obtained the accounts of those who arrived in Ireland before the Flood, unless they were communicated by those aerial demons or familiar sprites who waited on them in times of paganism, or that they found them engraved on stones after the Deluge had subsided." The latter opinion has been propounded by Giraldus Tambrensis (?/iJ sw/^ra) in the twelfth century : "Sed forte in aliqua materia inscripta, lapidea scilicet vel lateritia (sicut de arte musica leeitur ante diluvium) inventa istorum memoria, fuerat reseruata." O'Flaherty also notices this arrival of Ceasair, " forty days before the Flood, on the 15th day of the Moon, being the Sabbath." In the Chronicon Scotorum, as transcribed by Duald Mac Firbis, it is stated that this heroine was a daugh- ter of a Grecian, ffhe passage runs as follows : " Kl. u. f. 1. x. M. ix. c. ix. Anno Mundi. In hoc anno venit fllia alicvjus de Grecis ad Ilibcrniam, cni nonunlleru vel Berbha [Baniha], vel Ceasar et l.fdlce et in, viri, cumea. Ladhra gubernator fuit qui primus in Hibernia iu- niulatus est. Hoc non narrant Antiquarii Scotorum." '* /?'«/a«(/.— According to the '• Book of Lecan," fol. 272, a, the Leabhar-'Cdbhala of the O'Clerys, andKeating's " History of Ireland," they put in at Dun-na-mbrac, in Corca-Duib- hne, now Corcaguiny, a barony in the west of Kerry. There is no place in Corcaguiny at present known as having borne the name ; and the Editor is of opinion that "Corea- Duibhne" is an error of transcribers for "Corca-Luighe," and that the place referred to is Dunnamba, in Corea Luighe, now Dunamark in the parish of Kilcommoge, barony of Bantry, and county of Cork. '* Ard-Ladhrann — i.e., Ladhra's Hill or Height. This was the name of a place on the sea- coast, in the east of the present county of Wexford. The name is now obsolete ; but the Editor thinks that it was applied originally to Ardamine, in the east of the county of Wexford, where there isa curious moat near the sea-coast. — See Colgan's " Acta Sanc- torum," pp. 210, 217, and Duald Mao Firbis's Genealogical work (Marquis of Drogheda's copy, pp. 23, 210, 217). The tribe of Cinel-Cobhthaigh were seated at this place. '^ The first that died, etc. — Literally, " the first dead [marj] of Ireland." Dr. O'Conor ren- ders this : " Occisus est Ladra apud Ard-Ladron, et ab eo nominatur. Erat ista prima occisio in Hibernia." But this is very incorrect, and shows that this translator had no critical knowledge of the language of these Annals. ConneU Mageoghegan, who trans- lated the Annals of Clonmacnoise in 1627, renders it thus: "He was the first that ever dyed in Ireland, of whom Ard Leyrenn (where he died, and was interred) took the name." 5^ Sliah Beatha — i.e., Bith's Mountain. Now anglici Slieve Beagh, a mountain on the confines of the counties of Fermanagh and Monaghan. ^' Cam of Sliabh Beatha. — This cam still exists, and it is situated on that ■pa.Tt of the mountain of Slieve Beagh which extends across a portion of the parish of Clones belong ing to the county of Fermanagh. If this earn be ever explored, it may furnish evidences of the true period of the arrival of Bith. 50 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, terred in Carn-Ceasra." From Fintan is (named) Feart-Fintain," over Loch Deirgdheirc. From the Deluge until Parthalon took possession of Ireland, 278 years ; and the age of the world when he arrived in it, 2520. The age of the world" when Parthalon came into Ireland, 2520 years. These were the chieftains who were with him : Slainge, Laighlinne, and Eudhraidhe, his three sons ; Dealgnat, Nerbha, Ciochbha, and Cerbuad, their four wives. SECOND EXTRACT FROM THE " ANNALS OF THE FOUR MASTERS," VOL. II., PAGES 743-781. The Age of Christ 1000. The twenty-second year of Mael- seachlainn. Maelpoil, Bishop of Cluain-mic-Nois, and successor of Feichin, and'Flaithemh, Abbot of Corcach, died. Fearghal, son of Conaing, lord of Oileach, died. Dubhdara Ua Maelduin, 35 Cam Cm»ra^in C9?m«t<(7A<.—0' Flaherty states in his "Ogygia," part iii. c.i.,thatKnoo- mea, a hill in the barony of Clare and county of Galway, is thought to be this Cam Ceasra, and that Cuil-Ceasra was near it. This hill has on its summit a very ancient cam, or sepulchral heap of stones ; but the name of Ceasair is not remembered in con- nection with it, for it is believed that this is the earn of Finnbheara, who is believed by the peasantry to be king of the fairies of Connaught. Geraidus Cambrensis states (ubi supra) that the place where Ceasair was buried was called Caesarae Tumulus in his own time : "Littui igitur in quo navisUla primum applicuit, nameularum lifrtus vocatur, and in quo praefata tumulus nominatur." But O'Plaherty's opinion must be wrong, for in Eochaidh O'Flynn's poem on the early colonization of Ireland, as in the '" Book of Lein- ster," fol. 3, Cam-Ceasra is placed over the fruitful [river] Boyle. It is distinctly stated in the Leahhar-Gahhala of the OClerys that Carn-Ceasair was on the bank of the river Boyle, and that Cuil-Ceasra was in the same neighborhood. Cuil-Ceasra is mentioned in the Annals of Kilronan, at the year 1571, as on the river Boyle. ^'^ Fearth Fintan— i.e., Fintain's Grave. This place, which was otherwise called Tul- tuine, is described as in the territory of Aradh, over Loch Deirgdheirc, now Lough Derg, an expansion of the Shannon between Killaloe and Portumna. According to a wild le- gend, preserved in Leabhar-na-hUidhri, in the Library of the Royal Irish Academy, this Fintan survived the Deluge, and lived till the reign of Dermot, son of Fergus-Ceirbheoil, .having during this period undergone various transmigrations; from which O'Flaherty infers that the Irish Druids held the doctrine of the Metempsychosis: "Ex hac autem fabula colligere est Pythagoricae ac latonicae scholae de animarum migratione, seu in quaevis corpora reditu deliramenta apud Ethnicos nostros viguiss " — " Ogygia," p. 4. This Fintan is still remembered in the traditions of the country as the Mathusala of Ireland, and it is believed in Connaught thajt he was a saint, and that he was buried at a locality called Kiliintany, in the south of the pari-h of Kilcommon, barony of Erris, and county of Mayo. Dr. Hanmer says that this traditional fable gave rise to a proverb, common in Ireland in his own time: '■'■ If I had lived Fintan's years, I could say much.'''' ■■ ' The age of the world.— The Annals of Clonmacnoise synchronize the arrival of Partha- lon with the twenty-first year of the age of the Patriarch Abraham, and in the twelfth year of the reign of Semiramis, Empress of Assyria, am. 19C9, or 313 years after the Flood. O'Flaherty adopts this chronology in his " Ogygia," part iii. c. il. Giraldus Cambrensis writes that "Bartholanus Serae Alius de stirpe Japhet filii Noe" came to Ireland in the three hundredth year after the Deluge. Michael GClcry^ O.S.F. 51 lord of Feara-Luirg,"- was slain. Laidhgnen Ua Lcoggan was slain by the Ulidians. Niall Ua Ruairc was slain by the Cincl- Conaill and Hugh Ua Neill. Ceannfaeladh, son of Conchobhar, lord of [Ui-Conaill] Gabhra, and Eighbhardan, son of Dubheron, died. A great depredation by the men of Munster in the south of Meath, on the Nones of January ; but Aenghus, son of Car- rach, with a few of his people, overtook them, so that they left behind the spoils and a slaughter of heads with him. The cause- way of Ath-Luain was made by Maelseachlainn, son of Domhnall, and by Cathal, son of Conchobhar. The causeway of Ath-liag" was made by Maelseachlainn to the middle of the river. Diarmaid Ua Lachtnain, lord of Teathbha, was killed by his own jieople. The Age of Christ 1001. The twenty-third year of Maelseach- lainn. Colum, Abbot of Imleach-Ibhair [died]. Treinfher, son of Celecan, Prior of Ard-Macha, was slain. ConaingUaFiachrach, Abbot of Teach-Mochua ; Cele, son of Suibhne, Abbot of Slaine ; Cathalan Ua Corcrain, Abbot of Daimhinis Maenach ; Ostiarius " of Ceanannus ; and Flann, son of Eogham, chief Brehon " of Leath- Chuinn, died. Maelmhuaidh, son of Duibhghilla, lord of Dealbhna- Beathra, died. Sitric, son of Amhlaeibh, set out on a jiredatory excursion into Ulidia, in his ships, and he plundered Cill-cleithe^' *2 Feara-Luirg — i.e., the men of Lurg — now a barony in the north of the county of Fer- managh. The family name, O'Maelduin, is now anj^licized Muldoon, without the prefix Ua or O'. ■*3 ihe Oameway oj Ath liaq.~?'V\n.% is imperfectly given by the Four Masters. It should be : "The causeway, or artificial ford, of Ath-Uag" [at Lanesborough] "was made by Maelseachlainn, King of Ireland, and Cathal Ua Conchobhair, King of Connaught, each carrying his portion of the work to the middle of the Shannon." The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : " A.D. 1000. — A change of abbots at Ardmach, viz., Maelmuire mac Eocha, instead of Muregan of Bohdovnai. Forgall mac Conaing, King of Aileach, died. Nell O'Royrke killed by Kindred Owen and Conell. Maelpoil, Coarb of Fechin, mortuus est. An army by Munstermen into the south of Meath, where Aengus mac < arrai mett them, rescued their praios, and committed theire slaghter. The battle " \_recte, the causeway] " cf Athlone by Maelseachlainn and Caeil O'Conor."— " Cod. Clarend..'' tom. 49. Most cf the same events are given in the Annals of Clcnmacnoise at the year 994, as foUows . "AD. 994" [recfe, 1001].—" They of the borders of Munster came to the neather parts of Meath, and there made a great pieye, and were overtaken by Enos mac Carrhie Calma, who took many of their heads. Ferall mac Conyng, Prince of Aileagh, died. Nealo O'Royrck was killed by TyrconneU, and Hugh O'Neale of Tyrone. Moylepoyle, Bushopp of Clonvieknose, and Couarb of Saint Peichyn, died. King Moyleseaghlyn, and C ahall O'Connor of Connaught, made a bridge at Athlone over the Synau. Dermott O'Laghtna, prince of the land of TeafEa, was killed by some of his own men. King Moyleseaghlyq made a bridge at Ath-Lyag " [now Lanesborough] •' to the one halfe of the river."' •*'' Ostiarius~i.e., the porter and bell-ringer. See Petrie's " Bound Towers," pp. 377, 878. <5 Chief brefiOTir-i.e., the chief judge. *• Cill-deUhe.—Noyr Kilclief, in the barony of Lecale and county of Down. 52 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. and Inis Cumliscraigb/' and carried off many prisoners from both. An army was led by Aedb, son of Dombnall Ua Neill, to Tailltin, but be returned back in peace and tranquillity. Connaugbt was plundered by Aedb, son of Dombnall. Ceamacban, son of Flann, lord of Luigbne, went upon a predatory excursion into Tearnmbagb, and he was killed by Muircbcartacb Ua Ciardba, Tanist of Cairbre. A hosting by Brian, with the foreigners/' Leinstermen, and Mun- stermen to Ath-Luain, so that be weakened the Ui-Neill of the South and the Connaughtmen, and took their hostages. After this Brian and Maelseacblainn, accompanied by the men of Ireland, as well Meathmen, Connaughtmen, Munstermen, and Leinstermen, as the foreigners, proceeded to Dun-Dealgan," in Conaille-Muir- theimbne. Aedb, son of Dombnall Ua Neill, heir-apparent to the soycreignty of Ireland, and Eochaidh, son of Ardghar, King of Ulidia, with the Ulidians, Cinel-Conaill, Cinel-Eoghain, and Airghialla, repaired to the same place to meet them, and did not permit them to advance further, so that they separated in peace, without hostages or booty, spoils or pledges. Meirleachan, i.e., the son of Conn, lord of Gaileanga and Brodubh, i.e., the son of Diar- maid, were slain by Maelseachlainn. A change of abbots at Ard- Macba, i.e., Maelmuire, son of Eochaidh, in the place of Muireagan, of Both-Domhnaigh. An army " was led by Brian to Ath-cliath, and he received the hostages of Meath and Connaugbt. 4' /nfe-C«m/iscmig'^— i.e., Cumhscrach's Island, now Inishcourcey, a peninsula formed by the ■western branch of Loch Cuan near Saul, in the county of Down. See Harris's " History of the County of Down," p. 37 ; " The Dublin Journal," vol. i., pp. 104, 396 ; and Reeves's " Eccles. Antiq. of Down and Connor," etc., pp. 4i, 93, 379. ''s With the foreigners. —Since Brian conceived the ambitious project of deposing the monarch, Maelseachlainn, he invariably joined the Danes against him, and this is sufB- cient to prove that the subjugation of the Danes was not Brian's chief object. The Munster writers, with a view of exonerating Brian from the odium of usurpation, and invostinghis acts with the sanction of popular approval, have asserted that he had been, previously to his first attack upon the monarch, solicited by the king and chieftains of Connaugbt to depose Maelseachlainn and become supreme monarch himself ; but no authority for this assertion is to be found in any of our authentic annals. ■" Dun-Dealgan. — Now Dundalk, ia the county of Louth. ^° An Army,etc..—lt\fia\,a,t&A in the Royal Irish Academy copy of these Annals that this entry is from Leahhar Leaaln. The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : " A. D. 1001.— An army by Bryan tD Athlone, that he carried with him the pledges of Connaught and Meath. The forces of Hugh mac Donell into Tailten, and went back in peace. Trenir mac Celegan, Socnap of Ardmach, killed by Macleginn mac Cairi!l, King of Fernvay. The praies of Connaught with Hujh mac Donell. Merlechan, King of Gal- eng, and Broda mac Diarmada oceisi sunt by Maelseachlainn. Colum, Airchinnech of Imlech Ivair, and Cahalan, Airchinnech of Daivinis, moriui sunt. Cernachan mac Flainn, King of Luigne,wentto Fernval for booty, where Murtagh O'Kiargay, heyre of Carbry, Michael GClery^ O.S.F. 53 The Age of Christ 1002. The first year of Brian, son of Cein- neidigh, son of Lorcan, in soyereignty over Ireland. Seventy-six years " was his age at that time. Dunchadh Ua Manchain, successor of Caeimhghin ; Flannchadh Ua Euaidhine, successor of Ciaran, son of the artificer, of the tribe of Corca-Mogha ; Eoghan, son of Ceallach, archinneach of Ard-Breachain ; [and] Donnghal, son of Beoan, Abbot of Tuaini-Greine [died]. A great depredation by Donnchadh, son of Donnchadh-Finn, and the Ui-Meitli, and they plundered Lann Leire ; but Cathal, son of Labhraidh, and the men of Breagha overtook and defeated them, and they left behind their booty ; and they were afterwards slaughtered or led captive, together with Sinnach Uah Uarghusa, lord of Ui-Meith. Cathal, son of Labhraidh, and Lorcan, son of Brotaidh, fell fighting face to face. Donnghal, son of Donncothaigh, lord of Gaillanga, was slain by Trotan, son of Bolgargait (or Tortan, son of Bolgar- gaith), son of Maelmordha, lord of Feara Cul, in his own house. Geallach, son of Diarmaid, lord of Osraighe, was slain by Donn- chadh, son of Gillaphadraig, the son of his father's brother. Aedh, son of O'Coinfhiacla, lord of Teashbha, was slain by the TJi Con- chille. Conchobhar," son of Maelseachlainn, lord of Corca-Modh- ruadh, and Aicher Ua Traighthech, with many others, were slain by the men Umhall. Aedh, son of Echthighern, was slain in the oratory of Fearna-mor-Maedhog by Mael-na-mbo." was killed. Forces by Bryan and Maelseachlainn to Dun Delgan— Z.«., Dundalk— to seek hostases,but returned with cessation.'' Of these entries the Annals of Clonmacnoise contain only the two following : "A.D. 995" [rccfe, 1003].— "Moylemoye mac Dowgill, prince of Delvin Beathra (now called Mac Ooghlans Countrey), died. Colume, Abbot of Imleach, died." 61 Seventy-six 3>.ars.— See a.d. 925, where it is stated that Brian, son of Kennedy, was born in that year ; and that he was twenty-four years older than King Maelseaghlainn, who2i ho deposed. This is very much to be doubted, for, according to the Annals of Ulster, Brian, son of Kennedy, was born in 941, which looks more likely to be the true date. He was therefore, about sixty-one years old when he deposed Maelseachlainn, who was then about fifty-three. 52 Conchobhar.—'H.e was the progenitor after whom the family of O'Conchobhair, or O'Conor, of Corcomroe, in the west of the county of Clare, took their hereditary sur- name. 53 Mael-na-nibo—i.e., chief of the cows. His real name was Donnchadh, and he was the grandfather of Jlurchadh, after whom the Mac Murroughs of Leinster took their here- ditary surname. The Annals of Ulster notice the following events under this year : "A.D 1002.— Brienus reynare incepit. Flanncha 0"Ruain, Coarb of Kiaran ; Duncha O'Manchan, Coarb of Caemgin ; Donngal mac Beoan, Airchinnech of Tuomgrene; Owen mac Cellay, Airchinnech of Ardlrekan, quieverutit in Christo. Sinach O'h Uargusa, King of Meith" LUi Meith], -'and Cahal mac Lavraa, heyre of Meath, fell one with another" [rec^e, fell the one by the other]. "Geallach mac Diarmada, King of Ossory ; Hugh 54 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. The Age of Christ 1003. The second year of Brian. Aenghus, son of Breasal, successor of Cainneach, died on his pilgrimage at Ard Macha. Dubhshlaine Ua Lorcain, Abbot of Imleach Ibhair, died. Eochaidh Ua Flannagain," airchinneach of the Lis-aeid- headh" of Ard-Macha, and of Cluain-Fiaohna/' the most distin- guished historian of the Irish, died. An army was led by Brian and Maelseachlainn into North Connaught, as far as Traigh- Eothaile/' to proceed around Ireland; but they were prevented by the Ui-Neill of the North. Domhnall, son of Flannagan, lord of Feara-Li, died. larnan, son of Finn, son of Duibhghilla, was slain by Core, son of Aedh, son of Duibhghilla, in the doorway of the oratory of G-ailinne,'* by treachery. Two of his own people slew this Core immediately, by which the name of God and Machonog was magnified. Brian, son of Maelruanaidh, lord of West Connaught, was slain by his own people. The two O'Canan- nains were slain by O'Maeldoraidh. Muireadhacli, son of Diar- O'Coniacla, King of Theva ; Conor Mac Maelsechlainn, King of Torcmurua ; and Acher surnamed of the fat," [were] " all killed. Hugh mac Echtiern killed within the oratory of Fema-more-Maog."— " Cod. Clarend.," torn. 49. The accession of Briin to the monarchy of Ireland is noticed in the Annals of Clon- macnoise under the year 933 ; but the translator has so interpolated the text with his own ideas of the merits of Brian as to render it useless as an authority. His words are : "A.D 996.— Bryan Borowe took the kingdom and government thereof out of the hands of King Moyleseaghlyn, in such a manner as I do not intend to relate in this place " [Tigher- nachsaysptT(^oZ;mi— Ed.] "He was very weU worthy of the government and reigned twelve years, the most famous king of his time, or that ever was before or after him, of the Irish nation. For manhood, fortune, maners, laws, liberality, religion, and other good parts, he never had his peer among them all ; though some chroniclers of the kingdome made comparisons between him and t. on Kedcagh, < onarie More, and King Neale of the NIdo Hostages ; yett he, in regard of the state of the kingdome, when he came to the government thereof, was judged to bear the beU from them all." ^^ Eochaidh Ua F^annajaln. —ConneU .Mageoghegan, who had some of his writings, calls him " Eoghie O'Plannagan. Archdean of Armagh and Clonfeaghna." See note b, under A.M. 2334 ; and extract from Leabhar-na-h Uuidh'iin Petrie's " Hound Towers of Ireland," pp. 103. 104. O Reilly has given no account of this writer in his " Descriptive Catalogue of Irish Writers. " ^5 Li -aeidheadh — i.e.. Fort of the Guests. =« Cluain Fiuchna.—'Sovf Clont&akl's, a parish in the north of the county of Armagh. The ancient parish church stood in the townland of Tullydowey, in a curve of the river Llackwater, on the north or Tyrone side. See the Ordnance Survey of the county of Tyrone, sheet 62. Joceline calls th's church Cluain-fiacail, inhis " Life of St. Patrick," c. 8T ; but in the Taxation of 1306, and in the Registries of the Archbishops Sweteman, Swayne, Mey, Octavian, and Dowdall, it is called by the name of Cluain-Fiachna, variously orthographiod, thus: "Ecclesia de Clonfecyna," Taxation 1306; " Ecclesia parochiaiisde - lonfekyna," TJ^flfW^. Milv. Sweteman, a.d 1367, fol. 45,6,' " Clonfeguna," neg. Swayne, a.d. 1428, fol. 14, b ; " Clonfekena," Reg. Mey, i.-23, b, iv. 16, b; " Clonfekena," Eeg, Octavian, fol. 46, S; " CI nfekena," Eeg. Dowdall, a.d. 1535, p. 2:1. s' Traigh-Eothile.—A large strand near L'a lysadare in the county of Sligo. ss Oailinne. — Now Gallen, in the barony of Garrycasile and King's County. Michael O'Clcry, O.S.F. 55 maid, lord of Ciarraighe-Luaclira, died. Naebhan, son of Mael- chiarain, chief artificer of Ireland, died. The battle of Craebh- tulcha/" between the Ulidians and the Cinel-Eoghain, in which the Ulidians were defeated. In this battle were slain Eochaidh, son of Ardghair, King of Ulidia, and Dubhtninne, his brother ; and the two sons of Eochaidh — i.e., Cuduiligh and Domhnall ; Gairbhidh, lord of Ui-Eathach; Gillapadraig, son of Tomaltach ; Cumuscach, son of Flathrai ; Dubhshlangha, son of Aedli ; Cathal, son of Etroch ; Conene, son of Muircheartach, and the most part of the Ulidians in like manner, and the battle extended as far as Dnn- Eathach " and Drnimbo." Donnchadh Ua Loingsigh, lord of Dal- Araidhe and royal heir of Ulidia, was slain on the following day by the Cinel-Eoghain. Aedh, son of Domhnall TJa Neill, lord of Oileach, and heir-apparent to the sovereignty of Ireland, fell in the heat of the conflict, in the fifteenth year of his reign and the twenty-ninth of his age. A battle between Tadhg Ua Ceallaigh with the Ui-Maine, and the men of West Meatli assisting the Ui- Maine [on the one side], and the Ui-Fiachrach Aidhne, aided by West Connanght [on the other], wherein fell Gillaceallaigh, son of Comhaltan Ua Cleirigh, lord of Ui-Fiachrach ; Conchobhar, son of Ubban ; Ceannfaeladh, son of Euaidhri, and many others. Finn, s' Cra«iA-o>'ticii.% sacristy, or lateral building attached to the great church of Kells. Soe Petrio's •' Round Towers of Ireland," pp. 433-438. The Annals of Ulster notice the following events under this year : "A.D ICOO.— Maelruanamac Ardgair killed by >:adagan mac Donell. Cellach O'Menn- gorr.n. Airchinnech of Coi'k., qiiieril. Trencr 0'Boyllan,King of Dartry, killed by Kindred- Connell at Loch Erne. Madagau mac Donell, king of Ulster, killed by Tork, in Gt. Eride's Church, in the midest of Dundalenglas. Cuconnacht mac Dunai kil'.ed by Bryan per dolum. An army by I'lahvertach O'Xell into Ulster, that he brought seven pledges from them, and killed the King of Lecale, Cu-Ula mac Aengusa. Forc:s by Bryan into Ein- dred-Owcn to Dunerainn, nere Ardmach, and brought with him Criciden. C oarb of Fin- nei Maibile, who was captive from Ulster with Kindred-Owen. The Tork, King of Ulster, killed by Mureach mac Crichain, renounced " {^i-ccte, resigned] " the coarbship of Colum Cill for God. The renewing of the fa/ire of Aenach TaiUten by Maclsechlainn. Ferdov- nach " [was installed] "in the coarbship of Columkill by the advice ol Ireland in that faire. The book called Socel mor, or Great Gof pell of Colum CiU, stolen."— "Cod. Cla- rend.,"tcm. 49. The entry relatirg to the stealing of the Gospel of St.' olumbkillo is left imperfect in the old translation of the Annals of Ulster, but in O' Conor's edition the passage is complete, and agrees with tho text of the Four Masters. 6o The Prose and Poetry of Irela^id. by FlaitliblieartacliUa Neillin to Uliclia, and carried off seven hos- tages from them, and slew the lord of Leath-Chathail, i.e., Cun- ladli, son of Aenghus. Domlinall, son of Dubhtuinne, King of Ulidia, was slain by Muireadhach, son of Madudhan, and Uargli- aeth of Sliabh Fuaid. Airmeadhacli, son of Cosgrach, bishop and scribe of Ard-Macha, died. The Ago of Christ 1007. The sixth year of Brian. Muir- eadhach, a distinguished bishop, son of the brother of Ainmire Bocht, was suffocated in a cave'' in Gaileanga of Corann. Fear- domhnach, successor of Finnen of Cluain-Iraird, died. Fiushnechta Ua Fiachra, Abbot of Teach-MocLna ; and Tuashal O'Conchobhair, successor of Finntan, died. Maelmaire Ua Gearagain, successor of Cainneach and Ceileachair, son of Donncuau, son of Ceinneidigh, Abbot of Tir-da-ghlas, died. A victory was gained by Aenghus, son of Carrach, over the Feara Ceall, wherein fell Demon Gatlach Ua Maelmhuaidh. Great frost and snow from the eighth of the ides of January till Easter. Muireadhach, '* son of Dubhtuinne, King of Ulidia [was slain]. The Age of Christ 1008. The seventh year of Brian. Cathal, son of Carlus, successor of Cainneach ; Maelmuire Ua li Uchtain, comharba of Ccanannus, died. EchthighearnUa Goirmghilla, died. Dubhchobhlaigh, daughter of the King of Connaught and wife of Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, died. Tadhg Dubhshuileach," son of '3 A Caw«.— This is probably the cave of Keshcorran, in the barony of Corran and county of Sligo, connected with which curious legends still exist among the peasantry. '* 2hLlrca(l'iach. —This is inserted in a modern hcnd, and is left imperfect. The Annals of Ulster notice the following events under this year : "A.D. lOOr — Ferdcvnach, l oarb of Kells, vizt Ccnannas ; Celechair, mac Duncuan mic Cinedi, Coarbof Colum mac Crivthainn ; and Maelmuire Coarb of Cainnech, in thisto dormuruht. JIureach mac Madugan, heyre of Ulster, killed by his own. Fachtna, Coarb of Finian of Clondraird, qidciit. Great frost and snow from the first " {)-ecte, sixth] ■' Id. cf January untill Easteo-. "— " Cod. Clarend ,'" torn. 49. " Tadhj Lubhshvileach.—i.e., Teigc, Thaedacus, cr Timothy, the Blackeyed. The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : "A.D. 1000.— Extrcam revenge by Maelscchlainn upon Lcnster. Cahal mac Carlusa, Coarbh cf Cainnech, and Maelmuire O Huchtan, Coarb of Eells, mortuisuiit. Maelan-in- gai-moir, i. of the great speare. King of O'Dorhaina, killed by Kindred-Owen in Ardmach, ind the midest of Trian-mor, for the uprising of both armyes. Donncha O Cele blinded Flahvcrtach at Inis-Owcn, and killed him after. An overthrow given to ConnaghtbyBref- nymen ; and another by Connaght given them. An army by Flahvertach O Nell to the men of Bregh, from whom he brought many cowes. Maelmorra, King cf Lenster, gott a fall, and burst " [broke] " his legg. " Duvchavlay, daughter of the King of Connaght, wife to Bryan mac Cinnedy, itiortua est. The oratory of Ardmach this yeare is covered with lead ' {Oratm'iiim Ardmacha in Iioc anno ]ilumbo t-egitur\. " Clothna mac Aeugusa, chief poet of Ireland, died." — "Cod. Clarend.," tom. 49. Michael GClery^ O.S.F. 6i Llie King of Connaught, was slain by the Conmaicni. Gussan, son of Ua Trcassacli, lord of Ui-Bairrche, died. Madudhan, lord of Sil-Anmcliadha, was slain by his brother. An army was led by riaithbheartach Ua ISTeill against the men of Breagha, and carried o2 a great cattle spoil. A battle was gained over the Conmaicni by the men of Breif ne. A battle was gained over the men of Breifne by the Connaughtmen. Clothna, son of Aenghus, chief poet of Ire- land in his time, died. Gusan, son of Treasach, lord of Ui-Bairche, died. The Age of Christ 1009 \_recte 1010]. The eighth year of Brian. Conaing, son of Aedhagan, a bishop, died at Cluain-mic-Nois ; he was of the tribe of the Mughdhorna-Maighen. Crunnmhael, a bi- shop, died. Scannlan Ua Dunghalain, Abbot of Dun-Leathghlaise, was blinded. Diarmaid, successor of Bearrach ; Muireadhach, son of Mochloingseach, airchinneach of Mucnamb ; Maelsuthain Ua Cearbhaill, [one] of the family of Inis-Faithleann," chief doctor of the Western world in his time, and lord of Eoghanacht of Loch- Lein," died. Marcan," son of Ceinneidigh, head of the clergy of Munster, died. The comharba of Colnm, son of Crimhthainu, i.e., of Tir-da-ghlas, Innis-Cealtra, and Cill-Dalua, died. Cathal, son of Conchobhar, King of Connanght, died after penance ; he was the grandson of Tadhg of the Tower. Dearbhail, daughter of Tadhg, son of Cathal, died. Cathal, son of Dubhdara, lord of Feara-Ma- nach,'' died. Muireadhach Ua h Aedha, lord of Muscraighe [died]. An army was led by Brian to Claenloch *° of Sliabh-Fuaid, and he obtained the hostages of the Cinel-Eoghain and Ulidians. Aedh, '8 Inls-Faithleann.—lfiow Innisfallen, an island in the Lower Lake of Killarney, in the county of Kerry, on which are the ruins of several ancient churches. ■" Eoohmiaclit Locha-Leiii.—K territory in the county of Kerry, comprised in the pre- sent barony of Magunihy, in the southeast of that county. ''^ MarcatT.—Tle was a brother of Brian Borumha. '^ Feara-3fa?iach.—'No-w Fermanagh. s" Claenloch.— SitvLated near Newtown Hamilton, in the county of Armagh. The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : "A.D. 1009.— Cahal mac Conor, King of Connaght" [in. 2^eniten(ia 7no7itur], " Mureacb O'Hugh, King of Muskry, and Cahal mac Duvdara, King of Fermanach, vwrtid sunt. Maelsuhain O'Corval, chiefe learned of Ireland, and King of Koganacht Locha-Lein. Makan mac Cinnedy, Coarb of Colum mac Crivhaiun, of Inis-Celtra ; and Killdalua, and Mure- ach mac Mochloingse, Airchinnech of Mucknav, in CJuisto dormierunt. Hugh mac Cuinn, heyre of Aileach, and Duncuan, King of Mugorn, occisi sunt. Forces by Bryan to Claen- loch of Sliave-Fuaid, that ho got the pledges of Leth Cuinn, i." [the ?wrtheni] "half cf Irland. JEstas torrida, Autumnus fructuosus. Scannlan O'Dungalain, Frinco of Dundaleh- glas, was forcibly entered into his mansion" [rccte, was forcibly entered upon in his mansion], "himself blinded after he was brought forth at Finavar by Nell mac Duv- thuinne. Dervaile, Tegmac CahaFs daughter, mortua est.'''—'' Cod. Clarend.," torn. 49. 62 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. son of Conn, royal lieir of Olleacli ; and Donncaan, lord of Mugli- dhorna, Avere slain. The Age of Christ 1010 \)-ecte 1011]. The ninth year of Brian. Muireadhach, son of Crichan, successor of Colum-Cille and Adam- nan, a learned man, bishop, and virgin, lector of Ard-Macha, and intended successor of Patrick, died after the seventy-fourth year of his age, on the fifth of the calends of January, on Saturday night" precisely ; and he was buried with great honor and veneration in the great church of Ard-Macha, before the altar. Flann Ua Donn- chadha, successor of Oenna,'' died. Flaithbheartach Ua Cethenen, successor of Tighearnach, a [venerable] senior and distinguished bishop, Avas mortally wounded by the men of Breifne, and he after- wards died in his own church at Cluain-Evis. Dubhthach, son of larnan, airchinneach of Dearmhach ; Dalach of Disert-Tola, succes- sor of Feichin and Tola, [and] a distinguished scribe ; [and] Fachtna, successor of Finnen of Cluain-Iraird, died. An army was led by Brian to Magh-Corrann,*' and he took with him the lord of Cinel- Conaill, i.e., Maelruanaidh TJa Maeldoraidh, in obedience to Ceann- Coradh/' Maelruanaidh Ua Domhnaill,'' lord of Cinel-Luighdheach, was slain by the men of Magh-Ithe. Oenghus Ua Lapain, lord of Oinel-Enda,'' was slain by the Cenil-Eoghain of the Island." Mur- 81 On Saturday Mght.— These criteria clearly show that the Annals of the Four Masters as -weU as the Annals of Ulster, are antedated at this period by one year. In the year 1010, the flfth of the Calends of January, or 28th of Dscember, feU oa Friday, as appears from the Dominical letters, and of the cycle of the moon. But the next year, ^011, the fifth before the Calends of January, or 3Sth of December, feU on Saturday. ^- Oenna—i.e., Endeus of Killeany in Aranmore, an island in the Bay of Gadway. *3 Macjh- Corrann. — Not identified. 8* Ceann- Coradh—i.e. , Head of the Weir, no-w angUcized Kincora. This -was the name of a hill in the present town of Killaloe, in the county of Clare, -where the kings of Tho- mond erected a palace. It extended from the present Roman Catholic chapel to the brow of the hill over the bridge, but not a vestige of it remains. The name is still retained ia Kincora Lodge, situated not far from the original site of Brian Borumha's palace. ^5 ra DomhiiaiU.—'Sow anglice O'Donnell. This is the pvt notice of the surname Ua Domhnalll to bo found in the Irish annals. This family, who, after the English invasion, became supreme princes or kings of Tirconnell, had been previously chiefs of the can- tred of Cinel-Luighdheach, of which Kilmacrenan, in the county of Donegal, was the prin- cipal church and residence. They derive their hereditary surname from Domhnall, son of Eigneachan, who died in the year 901, who was son of Dalach, who died in 868, who Was the youngest son of Muircheartach, son of Ceannfaeladh, son of Gorbh, son of Ke- nan, son of Lughaidh, from whom was derived the tribe-name of Cinel-Luigheach. son of Sedna, son of Fearghus Ceannfoda, i.e., Fergus the Longheaded, son of Conall Gulban, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, monarch of Ireland in the beginning of the fifth century. 8'5 Cinel-Enda.—A. territory lying between Lough Foyle and Lough Swilly, in the present county of Donegal. " Tlie Ciml-Eoghain of the Island— i.e., of Inis-Eoghain, now the barony of Inishowen, Michael OClery, O.S.F. 63 chadli, son of Brian, Avitli the men of Munster, tlio Leinstermen with the Ui JSTeill of tlic South, and Flaithbheartach, son of Muir- cheartach, lord of Oileach, with the soldiers of the North, to plunder Cinel-Luighdheach, and they carried off three hundred and a great prey of cattle. Domhnall, son of Brian, son of Oeinneidigh, son of the King of Ireland, died. An army was led by Flaithbheartach Ua Kcill to Dun-Eathach ; and ho burned the fortress and demol- ished the town, and he carried off pledges from Niall, son of Dubh- thuinne. Aedh, son of Mathghamhain, royal heir of Caiseal, died. Fealan, son of Dunlaing, lord of TJi-Buidhc, died. The Age of Christ 1011 \_reca 1012]. The tenth year of Brian. A great malady ®* — namely, lumps and griping — at Ard-Macha from Allhallowtide till May, so that a great number of the seniors and students died, together with Ceannfaeladh of Sabhall, bishop, anchorite, and pilgrim; Maelbrighde Mac-an-Ghobhann, lector of Ard-Macha ; and Scolaighe, son of Clercen, a noble priest of Ard- Macha. These, and many others along with them, died with this sickness. Martin, Abbot of Lnghmhadh ; Cian, successor of Cain- neach; Caenchomrac Ua Scannlain, airchinneach of Daimhinis ; Maclonain, Abbot of Eos-Cre; and Connmhach Ua Tomhrair, priest and chief singer of Cluain-m.ic-Xois, died. An army was led by Flaithbheartach, son of Muircheartach, into Cinel-Conaill, in the county of Donegal. The Annals of Ulster record the following events under this year : " A.D. 1010 " \recte, 1011].— '' Dunaach in Colum Gill's in Ardmach ; Flaihvertagh O'Cebi- nan, Coarb of Tiarnach, cheif e bushop and anchorite, killed by Brefnemcn in his owno cit- tie. Mureaeh O'Criohau, Coarb of Colum Gill, and Lector of Ardmach, in ChrUto mor- tuus es'. Flavertach O Nell, King of Ailoch, with the young men of the Fochla, and Murcha Bryan's sonn, with Mounsternmen, Lenster, and the south O'Nells. spoyled Kin- dred-Conell, from whence they brought 300 captives with many cowes. Bryan and Mael- sechlainn againo in campe at Anaghduiv. " Jlaelruanay O'Donell, King of Kindred-Lugach, killed by the men of Magh-Itha. Aen- gus O'Lapan, King of Kindred-Enni, killed by Kindred-Owen of the Uand. Hugh mac Mathganna, heyre of Gashill, moi-imis est. An army by Flaivertaeh O'Nell against mac Duvthuinnc to Dun-Echach, burnt the said Dun, broocke the towne, and tooke Nell mac Duvthuinne's pledges. "An army by Bryan to Macorainn, and carried with him the King of Kindred-Conell close" [prisoner] " to Cenn-Cora, i. Maelruanai O'Maeldorai. Delach of Disert-Tolai, Coarb of Fechin " [bona scncctutt'], " in Christo mortmis est."—" Cod. Clarend.," tom. 49. 68 A great malady.— Ihis passage is translated by Colgan as follows : "A.D. 1011.— Ardmacha a fcsto omnium Sanctorum usque ad initium Mail, magna mor- talitate infostatur ; qua Kennfailadius, de Saballo, Episcopus, Anachoreta et Perogri- nua ; Maolbrigidus Macangobhann, Scholasticus, sen Lector Ardmachanus ; Scolagius, Alius Clercheni, nobilis Praebyter Ardmachanus, et alii innumeri Seniores et studiosi Ardmachani interierunt." — " Trias Thaum ," p. 298. 64 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. until he arrived at Magli-Cedne; " he carried off a great prey of cows, and returned safe to his house. An army was led by Flaithbheartach, son of Muircheartach, a second time into Cinel-Conaill, until he reached Druim-Cliabh and Tracht-Eothaile/* where jS"iall, son of Gillaphadraig, son of Fearghal, was slain, and Maelruanaidh Ua Maeldoraidh was defeated ; but no [other] one was lost there. An army was led in their absence by Maelseach- lainn into Tir-Eoghain, as far as Magh-da-ghabhal," which they burned ; they preyed as far as Tcalach-Oog," and, having obtained spoils, they returned back to his house. An army was after- wards led by Flaithbheartach till he arrived at Ard-Uladh," so that the whole of the Ardes was plundered by him ; and he bore off from thence spoils the most numerous that a king had ever borne, both jDrisoners and cattle without number. A battle was gained over Niall, son of Dubhtuinne — i.e., the battle of the Mullachs " — by Xial, son of Eochaidh, son of Ardgliar, where many were slain, together with Muircheartach, son of Artan, Tanist of Ui-Eathach ; and he afterwards deposed Niall, son of Dubhthuinne. Ailell, son of Gebhennach, royal heir of Ui-Maine, *' Magh-Cedne.—TSovr Moy, a plain situated between the rivers Erne and Drowes, in the south of the county of Donegal. See note m, under a. d. 1301. »" Trachi-Eothaile—i.e.. the strand of Eothaile, now Trawohelly, a great strand near Ballysadaro, in the county of Sligo. »i 3Iagh-da-ghabhal. —P\a.in of the Two Forks. Not identified. *^ Tealach-Oog.—'Sow Tullaghoge, in the barony of Dungannon and county of Tyrone. " Ara-Uladh.—i.e., altiiudo Ultorum, now the Ardes, in the east of the county of Down. '* The ifuUachs— i.e., the summits. There are many places of this name, but nothing has been discovered to fix the site of this battle. The Aanals of Ulster record the following events under this year : '•A.D. 1011.— A certain disease that year at ArJmach, whereof died many. Maelbride Macangovan, Ferleginn"' [Lectori "of Ardmaeh, and Scolai mac Clearkean, priest of the same, died thereof, and Cenfaela of the Savall, i. chosen gowle-friend." "An army by Flavertach mac Murtagh, King of Ailech, upon Kindred-Con ell, untill he came to Macetne, from whence he brought a great pray of cowes, and returned saufe again. An army by him againe to the Conells as farr as DrumcUav and Tracht-Neothailo (i. shore of Neo- thaOc), and kiUed " [Gil] " Patrick mac Fergaile, sonn of NeH, and broke of Maelruanai O'Maeldorai, but none killed. An army behind them " [i.e., in their absence] "into Tyrone by Maelsechlainn, and to Madagaval, and burnt the same ; prayed Tullanoog and carried them " [the preyes] " away. An army yet by Flavertach into Ard-Ula, and spoyled and gott the greatest bootyes that ever king had there, both men and chattle, that cannot be numbered. Forces by Bryan into Magh-Murthevin, that he gave fredom to Patrick's churches by that voyage. A discomfiture of NeU mac Duvthuinae by Nell mac Eochaa, where Murtagh mac Artan, heyre of Onehachs, was killed, and mac Eochaa raigned after. Caenchorack O'Scanlan, Airchinnech of Daivinis,"' [and] "Macklonan, Airchinnech of Roscree, Tnortui sunt. Aengus, Airchinnech of Slane, killed by the heyre of Duva," [i.e., was killed by the Airchinnech of Dowth]. Crinan mac Gormlaa, King cf the Conells, kUled [by Cucuailgne],— "Cod. Clarend.," tom. 49. Michael GClcry, O.S.F. 65 died. Crinan, son of Gormladh, lord of Conaille, was killed bv Cucuailgnc. The Age of Christ 1012. The twelfth year of Brian. Mac- Maine, son of Cosgrach, comharba of Cill-Dalua'° [died]. The Prior of Saighir was killed. Cian Ua Geargain, successor of Cain- neacli, [and] Dearbhail, daughter of Conghalach, son of Maclmi- tliigh, [i.e.,] daughter of the King of Ireland, died. Domhnall — i.e., the Cat — royal heir of Connanght, w^as killed by Mael- ruanaidh Ua j\Iaeldoraidh, and Magh-Aei was totally plundered and burned by him, after defeating and slaughtering the Connaught- men. A great depredation was committed by Ualgharg Ua Ciardha, lord of Cairbre, and the son of Niall O'Ruairc, and the men of Feathbha in Gaileanga ; but a few good men of the house- hold of Maelseachlainn overtook them, and being at the time in- toxicated after drinking, they [imprudently] gave them battle through pride. There Avere slain in it Donnchadh, son of Mael- seachlainn ; Dubhtaichligh Ua Maelchallann,'° lord of Dealbhna Beag ; " Donnchadh, son of Donnchadh Finn, royal heir of Team- hair; Cearnachan, son of Flann, lord of Luighne ; Seanan Ua Leochain, lord of Gaileanga ; and many others along with them. Maelseachlainn afterwards overtook them [with his forces], and the spoils were left behind to him ; and Ualgharg Ua Ciardha, lord of Cairbre, and many others besides them, were slain. Great forces were led by Maelseachlainn into the territory of the foreigners, and he burned the country as far as Edar ; ^* but Sitric and Maclraordha overtook one of his preying parties, and slew two hundred of them, together with Flann, son of Maelseachlainn, the son of Lorcan, son of Echthegern, lord of Cinel-Meachair, and numbers of others. This was the defeat of Draighnen,°° in commemoration of which this quatrain was composed : '^ Cill-Dalua — i.e., the Church of St. Lua, Dalua, or Molua, ■who erected a church here about the beginning of the sixth century ; now anglici Killaloe, a -well-known town, the head of an ancient bishop's see, situated on the ■western bank of the river Shannon, in the southeast of the county of Clare. =" O'JfadrkaUann.— 'Sow anglici Mulholland, ■without the prefix O. There were several distinct families of this name in Ireland.— See Reeves's " Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Do^wn and Connor,'" etc., pp. 370 to 375. " Z>ea!bhna-£eag.— 'Sow theha,rojij of Fore, or Demifore,in the north^west of the county of Meath. "8 Edar. — Otherwise called Beann-Edair, ■which is still kno^wn throughout Ireland as the Irish name of the Hill of Ho^wth, in the county of Dublin. »» Draighmn.— Now Drinan, near Kinsaly, in the county of Dublin. 66 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. " Not well on Monday on the expedition Did the Meathmen go to overrun. The foreigners, it was heard, were joyful Of the journey at the Draighnen." An army was led by Flaitbbhearfcacb, lord of Aileacb, to Maigben-Attaed,"'' by tbe son of Ceanannus, and Maelseacblainn left tbe bill [undisputed] to bim. Gillaniocbonna, son of Fogbar- tacb, lord of Soutb Breagba, plunderer of tlie foreigners and flood of tbe glory of tbe East of Ireland, died. A depredation by Murcbadb, son of Brian, in Leinster; be plundered tbe country as far as Gleann-da-locba and Cill-Maigbneann/" and burned tbe wliole country and carried off great spoils and innu- merable prisoners. A great fleet of tbe foreigners arrived in Mun- ster, so tbat tbey burned Corcacb ; but God immediately took ven- geance on tbem for tbat deed, for Amblaeibb, son of Si trie — i.e., tbe son of tbe lord of tbe foreigners — and Matbgbambain, son of Dubbgball, and many otbers, were slain by Catbal, son of Dombnall, son of Dubbdabhoireann. Muircbeartacb, son of Aedb O'Neill, was slain by tbe Dal-Riada, with a number of otbers along with bim. A great war between tbe foreigners and tbe Gaeidbil. An army was led by Brian to Atb-an-cbairtbinn,"* and be tbere encamped and laid siege to tbe foreigners for tbree niontbs. Many fortresses were erected by Brian, namely, Catbair-Cinn-coradb,"^ Inis-Gaill-duibb,^"^ and Inis-Locba-Saighleann [etc.] Tbe Leinstermen and foreigners were at war with Brian ; and Brian encamped at Sliabb Mairge to defend Munster, and Leinster was plundered by bim as far as Atb- cliatb. A great depredation upon tbe Conailli by Maelseacblainn, in revenge of tbe profanation of tbe Finnfaidheacb and of tbe breaking of Patrick's crosier by tbe Conailli — i.e., by tbe sons of Cucuailgne. Tbe Age of Cbrist 1013 [recte 1014]. Konan, successor of Fecbin ; Flaitbbbeartacb, son-of Dombnall — i.e., of tbe Clann-Col- main — successor of Ciaran and Finnen ; and Conn Ua Duigraidb, '"" Matghen-AUaed — i.e., Attaedh's little Plain. This would be anglicized Moynatty, but the name is obsolete. '<" cm Maiglmeann. — Now Kilmainham, near DubUn. "2 Ath-an-chairthinn — i.e.. Ford of the Rock. Situation unknown. "" Cathair-Cinn-corad?i — i.e., the Stone Fort of Kincora at Killaloe. "•* Inis-GaUl-duibh — i.e., the Island of the Black Foreigner. It is stated in the Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen, at the year 1016, that this was the name of an island in the Shannon, but it has not been yet identified. It was probably another name for the King's Island at Limerick. Michael aClery, O.S.F. 67 successor of Caeimlighin, died. Cairbre Fial/°^ son of Cutlial, anclio- ritc of Grleaiiu-da-locha, [and] IS'acmhan Ua Seincliinn, died; these were both anchorites. Dunking, son of Tuathal, King of Leinster, died. Cairbre, son of Cleircheu/"' lord of Ui Fidhgeinte, was treach- erously slain by Maelcoluini Caenraigheach/" A battle between the Ui-Eathach"^ themselves — i.e., between Cian, son of Maelnihuaidh,'"^ and Domhnall, son of Dubh-da-bhoireann "° — in which were slain Cian, Cathal, and Eoghallaoh, three sons of Maelnihuaidh, with a great slaughter along with them. An army was led by Donnchadh, son of Brian, to the South of Ireland ; and he slew Cathal, son of Domhnall, and carried off hostages from Domhnall. An army was led by the foreigners and Leinstertaen into Meath, and afterwards into Breagha ; and they plundered Tearmonn-Fichine,'" and carried off many captives and countless cattle. An army Avas led by Brian, son of Ceinneidigh, son of Lorcan, King of Ireland, and by Maelseachlainn, son of Domhnall, King of Teamhair, to Ath-cliath. The foreigners of the West of Europe assembled against Brian and Maelseachlainn, and they took with them ten hundred men with coats of mail. A spirited, fierce, vio- lent, vengeful, and furious battle was fought between them, the likeness of which was not to be found in that time, at Cluaintarbh,''" on the Friday before Easter precisely. In this battle were slain los Cairire Fial—i.e., Carbry the Hospitable or Munificent. "8 C'leirc/ie/i.—He was the ancestor of the family of O'Cleirchen, now pronounced in Irish O'Cleireachain, and anglicized Cleary and Clarke, a name still extant in the county of Limerick. "' 3Iadcoluim Caenraig/i£ach—i.e.,'M.edcolm of Kenry, now a barony in the north of the county of Limerick. "8 The Ui Eathach.— This was the tribe name of the O'Mahonys and O'Donohoes of South Mun^ter. '"" Clan, son of Maelmhuaidh—i.e., Kean, son of MoLloy. He is the ancestor of the family of O'Mahony. ii» Dam/mull, son of DiMi-da-blmreann—i.e., Donnell, or Daniel, son of Duv-Davoran. He ■was the ancestor of the O'Donohoes. Both these chieftains fought at the battle of Clon- tarf, and the Pour Masters have therefore misplaced this entry. ^'^ Teminonn Fc-lchine—i.e., asylum Sanctl Pechini, the Termon, or Sanctuary, of St. Feichin, now Termonfeckin, in the barony of Ferard and county of Louth. — See Ussher's " Primordia," p. 966 ; and ArchdaU's " Monas. Hib.,'"p. 491. i'2 Cluain-tarlh—i.c, the Plain, Lawn, or Meadows of the Bulls, nowClontarf, near the city of Dublin. In Dr. O'Conor's edition this is headed, "Oath Coradh Cluana tarbh,"' which is translated " ProtUum Ileroirum C'hiaittarbhia," but it simply means '• Battio of the Fishing Weir of Cluain-tarbh." The Danes were better armed in this battle than the Irish, for they had one thousand men dressed in armor from head to foot. In a dialogue between the Banshee Oeibhill, or Oeibhinn, of Craglea, and the hero, Kineth O'Hartagan, the former is represented as advising the latter to shun the battle, as the Gaeidhil were dressed only in satin shirts, while the Danes were in one mass of iron. 68 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. Brian, son of Ceinneidigli, nionarcli of Ireland, who was the Augus- tus of all the West of Europe, in the eighty-eighth year of his age ;'" Murchadh, son of Brian, heir apparent to the sovereignty of Ire- land, in the sixty -third '" year of his age; Conaing, son of Donncuan, the son of Brian's brother; Toirdhealbhach, son of Murchadh,"' son of Brian ; Mothla, son of Domhnall, son of Faelan,"^ lord of the Deisi- Mumhan ; Eocha, son of Dunadhach — /.c, chief of Clann-Scann- lain; Nial Ua Cuinn ; '" Cuduiligh, son of Ceinneidigh, the three companions'" of Brian; Tadhg Ua Ceallaigh,"' lord of IJi-Maine; Maelruanaidh na Paidre Ua h Eidhiu,'^" lord of Aidhne ; Geibhean- j "' In the eighty-eighth year of his afire.— This is also stated to have been Brian's age in the Annals of Clonmacnoise, as well as the Annals of Innisfallen, and other accounts of this battle. But the Annal.^J of Ulster state that Brian was born in the year 941, according to which he was in the seventy-third year of his age when he was slain, and this seems correct.— See Colgan's " Acta Sanctorum," p. 106, note 3 ; and " Ogygia," p. 435, "« Sixty-third.—T:)!ns should probably be fifty-third, or, perhaps, forty-third. The eldest sen of Murchadh was fifteen years old at this time, according to the Annals of Clonmac- noise. This looks very like the truth ; the grandson was fifteen, the eldest son forty- three, and Brian himself seventy-three. "= Tf/irdhealbhach, son of Murchadh.— " Terrence, the king's grandchild, then but of the age of 15 years, was found drouned neer the fishing weare of Clontarfe, with both his hands fast bound in the hair of a Dane's head, whom he pursued to the sea at the time of the flight of the Danes.''— Ann. Clon. "" Faelan.—'B.e was the progpnitor after whom the O'Faelains, or O'Phelans, of the De- sies, took their hereditary surname. This Mothla was the first who was called O'Faelain, i.^., Xepos Foilani. "^ Mall Ua Cui/m.—Ue is the ancestor of the O'Quins of Muintir-Iflernain, a distin- guished sept of the Dal-g-Cais, who were originally seated at Inchiquin and Corofin, in the county of Clare. The Earl of Dunraven is the present head of this family. i'8 Three Companions.— In Mageoghegan's translation of the Annals of Clonmacnoise, these are called ••three i oblemen of the king's bed-chamber." In the translation of the Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen they are called "Brian's three companions or aides-de-camp." "i* Tadhg O'Ceallaiff— i.e., Teige, Thaddaeus, or Timothy O'Kelly. From him all the septs of the O'Kellys of Hy-Many are descended. According to a wild tradition among the O'Kellys of this race, after the fall of their ancestor, Teige Mor, in the battle of Clontarf, a certain animal like a dog (ever since used in the crest of the O'Kellys of Hy- Many) issued from the sea to protect the body from the Danes, and remained guarding it till it was carried away by the Ci-Malne.— See " Tribes and Customs of Hy-lMany," p. 99. '1 hero is a very curious poem relating to this chieftain in a fragment of the Book of Hy- Many, now preserved in a manuscript in the British Museum, Egerton. 90. It gives a list of the sub-chiefs of Hy-Many who were contemporary with Tadhg Mor OCeallaigh, who is therein stated to have been ths principal hero in the battle next after Brian, and it adds that he did more to r)reak down the power of the Danes than Brian himself. Ac- cording to the tradition in the country, the Connaughtmen were dreadfully slaughtered in this battle, and very few of the O'Kellys or O'Heynes sur-vived it. , 120 Maelruanaidh nu Paidri O'h Ei'lhin-i.e., Mulrony O'Heyne of the Prayer. He was the first person ever cai:ed Olleidliin. as being the grandson of Eidhin, the progenitor of the family, brother MaelfabhaiU, from whence the O'Heynes, now Heynes, chiefs of By-Fiachrach-Aidhne, in the county of Galway, are descended.— See " Genealogies, etc., of Hy Fiachrach," p. 398. Michael O'Clery, O.S.F. 69 nacli, son of Dubhagan/" lord of Feara-Maiglic ; ]\rac-Bcatha,'" son of Muireadhach-Claeu, lord of Ciarraiglio-Luachra ; IJomhnall, son of Diarmaid/'Mordof Corca-Bliaiscinu ; Scannlan, son of Catlial/"^ lord of Eoghanacht-Locha Lein; and Domlmall, son of Eimliin/" son of Cainneacli, great steward of Mair in Alba. Tlie forces were after- wards routed by dint of battling, bravery, and striking by Mael- seachlainn/^^ from Tnlcainn '" to Atli-cliath, against the foreigners '21 Dubhoffan.— B.e was descended from the Druid Mogh Roth, and from Cuanna Mac GaiJchine, commonly called Laech Liathmhuine. From this Dubhagan descends the family of the Ui Dubhagain, now L.''uggan, formerly chiefs of Fermcy, in the county of Cork, of whom the principal branch is now represented by the Cronins of Park, near KiUarney, in the county of Kerry, who are paternally descended from the O'Dubhagains of Fermoy. '■-• 31(10 Beatha^ son of Muireadhach Claen.-~E.e was evidently the ancestor of 0"Couor Kerry, though in the pedigrees the only Mac Beathato be found is made Mac Beatha, son of Conchobhar, but it should clearly be Mac Beatha, son of Muireadhach Claen, son of Con- chobhar, the progenitor from whom the O'Conora Kerry derive their hereditary surname. Daniel OTonnell O'Oonnor Kerry of the Austrian service is one of the representatives of this family. The following are also of the O'Connor Kerry sept : Daniel Connor, Esq., of Mancho, in the county of Cork ; Feargus O'Connor, Esq., M.P., who is son of the late Roger O'Connor Kierrie, Esq., of Dangan Castle, author of the "Chronicles of Eri" ; Daniel Conner, Esq., of Ballybriton ; and William Conner, Esq., of Mitchels, Bandon, county of Cork ; also William Conner, Esq., late of Inch, near Athy, in the Queen's County, author of " The True Political Economy of Ireland," etc., who is the son of the celebrated Arthur Coadorcet O'Connor, General of DivisioninFrance, now living, in the eighty-sixth year of his age; who is the son of Roger Conner, Esq., of Connerville; son of William Conner, Esq., of Connerville; son of Mr. Daniel Connor, of Swithin's Alley, Tem- ple Bar, London, merchant, and afterwards of I'andon, in the county of Cork; son of Mr, Cornelius Conner, of Cork, whose will is dated 1719 ; son of Daniel Conner ; who was the relative of O'Connor Kerry. This Cork branch descends from Philip Conner, merchant, of London, to whom his relative, John O'Connor Kerry, conveyed Asdee by deed, dated August, 1598. •-3 Domhnall, son of IHarmaid.— This Domhnall was the progenitor of the family of O'Domhnaill, O'Donnell, of East Corca Bhaiscinn, now the barony of Clonderalaw, in the present county of Clare. According to Dual mac Firbis's genealogical work, a Bishop Conor O'Donnell, of Baphoe, was the nineteenth in descent from this DomhnaH. The editor does not know of any member of this family. The O'Donnels of Limerick and Tipperary, of whom Colonel Sir Charles O'Donnel is the present head, are descended from Shane Luirg, one of the sons of Turlough of the Wine O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell in the beginning of tho fifteenth century. I-* Scannlan, son of Cathal. — He was the ancestor of the family of O'Cearbhaill, who had been lords or chieftains of Eoghanacht Locha-Lein before the O'Donohoes, a branch of the Ui-Eathach Munnhan, dispossessed them. '-•'■' Domhnall, son of Eimhui.—'ilQVia.s chief of the Eoghanachts of Magh Geirrginn, or Marr, in Scotland, and descended from Maine Leamhna (the brother of Cairbro Luachra, ancestor of the O'Moriartys of Kerry), son of Core, son of Lughaidh, son of Oilioll Flannbeg, son of Fiacha Muilleathan, son of Eoghan Mor, son of Oilioll Olum, King of Munster, and common ancestor of King Brian and of this Domhnall of Marr, who as- sisted him against the common enemy.— See O'f laherty's '" Ogygia," part iii c. 81. ■-<■' By Maelseachlainn. — This fact is suppressed in all the Munster accounts of this action, which state that Maelseachlainn did not take any part in the battle. The Mun- ster writers, and among others Keating, introduce Maelseachlainn as giving a ludicrous account of the terrors of the battle, in which ho is made to sav that he did not join either side, being paralyzed w)th fear by the horrific scenes of slaughter passing before his eyes. 127 Tulcainn.—How the Tolka, a small river which flows through the village of Finglas, 70 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. and the Leinstermen ; and there fell Maelmordha/'' son of Murchadl), son of Finn, King of Leinster ; the son of Brogarbhau, son of Con- chobhar/^" Tanist of Ui-Failghe ; and Tuatlial, son of Ugaire/'" royal heir of Leinster ; and a countless slaughter of the Leinstermen along with them. There were also slain Dubhghall, son of Amli- laeibh, and G illaciarain, son of Gluniairn, two Tanists of the foreign- ers ; Sechfrith, son of Loder, Earl of Lmsih Ore;'" Brodar, chief of the Danes of Denmark, who was the person that slew Brian. The ten hundred in armor "'^ were cut to pieces, and at the least three thousand of the foreigners were there slain. It was of the death of Brian and of this battle the [following] quatrain was composed • " Thirteen years, one thousand complete, Since Christ was born, not long since the date, Of prosperous years — accurate the enumei-ation — Until the foreigners were slaughtered together with Brian." Maelmuire, son of Eochaidh, successor of Patrick, iiroceeded with and, passing under Ballybough Bridge and Annesley Bridge, unites with the sea near Clontarf. '-8 JTadMOrdha.—Se was not the ancestor of the Mac Morroughs, or Kafanaghs, as generaUy supposed, but was the father of Bran, the progenitor after whom the Ui Broin, or O'Bymes, of Leinster have taken their hereditary surname. 129 27ig son of Brogarhhan, son of (Jonclidbhar. — This should be Brogarbhan, son of Con- chobhar. He is the ancestor of O'Conor Faly. 130 Xuathal, soil of UgaUw — This is a mistake, because Tuathal, son of Ugaire, died in 956. It should be, as in the Annals of Innisfallen, mac TuathaU— i.e., "the son Tuthal, son of Ugaire," or " Dunlaing, son of TuathaJ, son of Ugaire." This Tuathal -was the progeni- tor after whom the Ui-Tuathail or OTooles, of Ui-Muireadhaigh, Ui Mail, and Feara-Cua- lann, in Leinster, took their hereditary surname. "I Iiisi-h Ore— i.e., the Orcades, or Orkney Islands, on the north of Scotland. 132 Tlie ten hundred in armor.-la the Niala Saga, published in Johnston's "Ant. Celto- Scand," a Norse prince is introduced as asking, some time after this battle, what had be- come of his men, and the answer was that ''they wore all killed." This seems to allude to the division in coats of mail, and is sufBcient to prove that the Irish had gained a real and groat victory. According to the Cath-Chluana-tarbh, and the account of the battle inserted in the Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen, thirteen thousand Danes and three thousand Leinstermen were slain ; but that this is an exagge- ration of modern popular writers will appear from the authentic Irish annals. The Annals of Ulster state that seven thousand of the Danes perished by field and flood. The Annals of Boyle, which are very ancient, make the number of Danes slain the one thousand -who were dressed in coats of mail and three thousand others. The pro- bability is, therefore, that the Annals of Ulster include the Leinstermen in their sum total of the slain on the Danish side, and in this sense there is no discrepancy between them and the Annals of Boyle, which count the loss of the Danes only. In the Chronicle of Ademar, monk of St. Eparchius of Angouleme, it is stated that this battle lasted for three days, that all the Norsemen were killed, and that crowds of their women in despair threw themselves into the sea ; but the Irish accounts agree that it lasted only from sun- rise to sunset on Good Friday. Michael OClery, O.S.F. 71 the seniors and relics to Sord-Choluim-Chille ; '" and they carried from thence the body of Brian, King of Ireland, and the body of Mnrchadh, his son, and the head of Conaing, and the head of Mothla. Maelmuire and his clergy waked the bodies with great *'' Sord-Choluim-Chille.—lSov} Swords, in the county of Dublin. Ware says that, accord- ing to some, the bodies of Brian and his son, Murchadh, as well as those of 0"Kelly, Doulan 0"Hartegan, and GLUa-Barred, were buried at Kihnainham, a mile from Dublin, near the old stone cross. — See Dublin P. Journal, vol. i. p. 68. The most circumstantial account of the battle of Clontarf accessible to the editor is that given in the " Cath Chluanatarbh," from which, and from other romantic accounts of this great battle, a copious description has been given in the Dublin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen, compiled by Dr. O'Brien and John Conry ; but it has been too much am- plified and modernized to be received as an authority. It also gives the names of chiefs as fighting on the side of Brian, who were not in the battle, as Tadhg O'Conor, son of Cathal,King of Connaught; Maguire, Prince of Fermanagh, etc. These falsifications, so unworthy of Dr. O' Drien, have been given by Mr. Moore as true history, which very much disfigures his otherwise excellent account of this important event. It is stated in the Annals of Clonmacnoise that " the O'Neals forsooke King Brian in this battle, and so did all Connaught, except" [Hugh, the son of] "FeraU 0"Rourke and Teige O'Kelly. The Leinstermen did not only forsake him, but were the first that opposed themselves against him of the Danes" side, only O'Morrey " [O'Mordha or O'More] " and O'NoUan excepted.'' The following chiefs are mentioned in tho account of the battle of Clontarf in the Dub- lin copy of the Annals of Innisfallen as fighting in the second division of Brian's army, viz. : Cian, son of Maelmuaidh, son of Bran (ancestor of O'Mahoney), and Domhnall, son of Dubhdabhoireann (ancestor of O'Donohoe), who took the chief command of the forces of the race Eoghan Mor ; Mothla, son of Faelan, King of the Desies ; Muir- cheartach, son of Amnchadh, chief of the Ui-Liathain ; Scannlan, son of Cathal, chief of Loch-Lein ; Loingseach, son of Lunlaing, chief of Ui-Conaill- Gabhra ; Cathal, son of Donnabhan, chief of Cairbro Aebhdha ; Mac Beatha, son of Muireadhach, chief of Ciar- raigh-Laiachra; Geibheannach, son of Dubhagan, chief of Feara-Maighe-Feine ; O'Cearb- haill. King of File; another O'Cearbhaill, King of Oirghialla, and MagUidhir, King of Feara-Manach. This account omits some curious legendary touches respecting Oebhinn (now Aoibhill) of Craigliath (Craglea, near Killaloe), theLeanan Sidhe, or familiar sprite, of Dal-g Cais, which are given in the romantic story called " Cath-Chluanatarbh," as well as in some Munster copies of the Annals of Innisfallen, and in the Annals of Kilronan, and also in some ancient accounts of the battie in various manuscripts in the library of Trinity College, Dublin. It is said that this banshee enveloped in a magical cloud Dun- laing O'Hartagain (a chief hero attendant on Murchadh, Brian's eldest son), to prevent him from joining the battle. But O'Hartagain, nevertheless, made his way to Murchadh, who, on reproaching him for his delay, was informed that Oebhinn was the cause. Whereupon O'Hartagain conducted Murchadh to whcBe she was, and a conversation ensued in which she predicted the fall of Brian, as weU. as of Murchadh, O'Hartigain, and other chief men of their army : " Murchadh shall fall ; Brian shall fall ; Te all shall fall in one Litter ; This plain shall be red to-morrow with thy proud blood 1 " Mr. Moore, who dwells with particular interest on this battle, and who describes it well, notwithstanding some mistakes into which he has been led by Dr. O'Conor's mistransla- tions, has the following remarks on the Irish and Norso accounts of it in his '• History of Ireland " : '' It would seem a reproach to the bards of Brian's day to suppose that an event so proudly national as his victory, so full of appeals, as weU to the heart as to tho imagination, should have been suffered to pass unsung. And yet, though some poems in the native language are still extant, supposed to have been written by an ollamb, or doctor, attached to the court of Brian, and describiug the solitude of the halls of Kin- 72 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. honor and Tenerution, and they were interred at Ard-Macha in a new tomb. A battle between the two sons of Brian — i.e., Donnchadh and Tadhg. Donnchadh was defeated, and Euaidhri Ua Donnagain, lord of Aradh, and many others along with him, fell in the battle. cora after the death of their royal master, there appears to be in none of these ancient poems an aliusion to the inspiriting theme of Clontarf . By the bards of the north, however, that field of death, and the name of its veteran victor, Brian, were not so lightly forgotten. "Traditions of the dreams and portentous appearances that preceded the battle formed one of the mournful themes of Scaldic song ; and a Norse ode of' this description which has been made familiar to English readers breathes, both in its feeling and ima^- gery, all that gloomy wildness which might be expected from an imagination darkened by defeat."— Vol. ii. pp. 128, 129. This battle is the theme of an Icelandic poem, translated by the English poet. Gray, "The Fatal Sisters."— See Johnston's " Antiquitates Celto- Scandicae," Hafn., 1786. The Annals of Ulster give the following events under this year : " A.D. 1013 " \cd. 1014].- "//;c cut annus octavus circuli Decimiiotsenalis et hie est 582 annua ah adventu Sancti Patricii ad haptizandos Scoios. St. Gregorie's feast at Shrovetide, and the Sunday next after Easter, in summer this yeare, guod non auditum est ah antiquls tempori- liui. An army by Bryan, mac Cinnedy, mic Lorkan, King of Ireland, and by Maelsech- lainn mac Donell, King of Tarach, to Dublin. Lenster great and small gathered before them, together with the Galls of Dublin, and so many of the Gentiles of Denmark, and fought a courageous battle between them, the Like [of which] was not seene. "Gentiles and Lenster dispersed first altogether, in which battle fell of the adverse part of the GaUs " [in quo hello cecederunt ex adversa caterva ffallorum], " Maelmora mac Mvir- cha, King of Leinster ; Donell mac Ferall " [recf£, Donell O'Ferall, of the race of Finn- chadh Mac Garchon], " King of the Fortuaths, i. outward parts of Leinster; and of the Galls were slaine Duvgall mac Aulair, Sinchrai mac Lodar, Earle of Iimsi Hork ; Gilky- aran mac Gluniarn, heyre of Galls ; Ottir Diiv; Suartgar ; Duncha O'Herailv ; Grisene, Luimni, and Aulaiv mac Lagmainn ; and Brodar, who killed Bryan, i. cheife of the Den- mark navy, and 7,000 between killing and drowning ; and, in greveing the battle, there were lost of the Irish, Bryan mac Kennedy (Archking of Ireland, of GaUs and Welsh, the Cesar of the northwest of Europe all) ; and his sonu, Murcha, and his grandsonn, Tir- lagh mac Murcha, and Conaing, mac Duncuan, mic Cinedy, heyre of Mounster ; Mothla, mac Donell, mic Faelain, King of Dossyes, in Mounster; Eochaa mac Dunaai, Nell O'Cuinn, and " [CudnUigh] " mac Kinnedy, Bryan's three bedfeUowea ; the two Kings of O'Mani, O'Kelli, and Maelruanai O'Heyn, King of Aigne ; and Gevinach O'Duvagan, King of Fermai ; Magveha mac lluireaiklyn. King of Kerry Luochra ; Daniell mac Der- mada. King of Corcabascin ; Scannlan, mac Cahas, King of Eoganacht Lochlen ; DoneU mac Evin, mic Cainni, a great murmor in Scotland " [recti Morrmoer of Marr, in Scotland], " and many more nobles. MaelmuLre mac Eocha, Patrick's Coarb, went to Lord Colum CUl, with learned men and reliques in his company, and brought from thence the body of Bryan, the body of Murcha, his sonn, the heads of Conaing and Mothla, and buried them in Ardmach, in a new tombe. Twelve nights were the people and reliques " [recti., clergy] " of Patrick at the wake of the bodyes, propter honcn-em liegis peniii. Dunlaing mac Tuo- hall, King of Leinster, died. A battle between Kyan mac MaeUmuai and Donell mac Du- vaavorenn, where Kyan, Cahell, and RagaUach, thi-ee sonns of Maelmuai, were killed. Teige mac Bryan put Dunch mac Bryan to flight, where Roary 0"Dcnnagan, King of Ara, was slaine. An army by O'Maeldorai and O'Royrk into Magh Nali, where they killed DoneU mac Cahall, and spoyled the Magh ' ' [i.e. , the Maghery , of plain of Connaught] , ' ' and cary ed their captives ; liect non hi eadeii vice. Dalriarai dispersed by Ulster, where many were killed. Flavertach mac Donell, Coarb of Kyaran and Finnen ; and Ronan, Coarb of Fech- in ; and Conn O'Digrai, in, (Jhristo dormierunt. The annals of this year are many."—" Cod. Clarend.," torn. 49. Michael GClcry, O.S.F. 73 An army was led by Ua Maeldoraidh and O'Rnairc into Magii Aoi and they slow Domlmall, son of Cathal, and plundered the plain and carried off the hostages of Connaught. THIED SELECTION— VOL. V., PP. 1835 TO 1843. The Age of Christ 1585. The Earl of Kildare died in England, namely, Garrett, the son of Garrett, son of Garrett, son of Thomas, son of John Cam. This earl had been five years under arrest, kept from his j)atrimonial inheritance, until he died at this time. Henry his son was appointed his successor by the English Council. Henry was then permitted to go westwards^" to his patrimonial inheritance. Mac William Burke (Eichard, the son of Oliver, son of John) 'lied, and no person was elected his successor ; but the Blind Abbot um-ho—i.e., the Peaks of the Cows, now Benbo, a remarkable mountain near the parish of Drumleas, barony of Dromahaire, and county of Lietrim, extending from near Manor Hamilton in the direction of Sligo for about three miles. According to the tradi- tion in the country, this mountain is pregnant with gold mines. "38 They thought.— Ihis should be, They knew. 74 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. although [they, as] his own true followers,"' should have succored him [on sucli an emergency], it was not so that they acted, but they gave their day's support"" in battle to his enemies, so that the heroic soldier was attacked on both sides. He was met by shouts before and behind, [and] he was so surrounded on every side that lie could not move backwards or forwards. In this conflict many men were slain around him, and [among the rest] was cut off a company of gallowglasses of the Mac Sheehys, who were the surviv- ing remnant and remains of the slaughter of the gallowglasses of the Geraldines, who were along with Brian on that day, and who had gone about from territory to territory offering themselves for hire after the extermination of the noblemen by whom they had been employed previously; and they would not have been thus cut off had they not been attacked by too many hands and overwhelmed by numbers. The men of Breifny and O'Eourke's people gave protection to Brian in this perilous situation, and carried him off under their protection to be guarded. On the third day afterwards [however], they came to the resolution of malevolently and maliciously putting him to death, he being under their clemency and their protection. O'Eourke was accused"' of participating in this unbecoming deed. Edmund Dorcha [the Dark], the son of Donnell, son of Mur- rough, son of Eory More, and Turlough, the son of Edmund Oge, son of Edmund, son of Turlough Mac Sheehy, were both executed at Dublin. There was much rain this year, so that the greater part of the corn in Ireland was destroyed. Dermot, the son of Donnell Mag Congail'" (Mac Goingle), died on the 14th of June. A proclamation of Parliament "' was issued to the men of Ire- land, commanding their chiefs to assemble in Dublin precisely on "9 Uinmcn true followers— i.e., these were bis own followers who posted themselves in the narrow pass to intercept his retreat. It looks strange that the Four Masters should not have told us why his own followers should have acted thus ; but we may conjecture that they did so by order of O'Eourke, who, having submitted to the Government this year, did not wish that Brian should thus violate the law. See " Chorographical Descrip- tion of lar-Connaught," edited by Mr. Hardiman, p. 346. "" Their day's svpporf.—lhis is a common Irish phrase. "1 Was ac«/«e^/.— Literally, "A bad share of this evil deed was ascribed to O'Rourke." "« Jlaff-Conr/ail.— Now anglice. Magonigle, a name stUl common in the south of the county of Donegal. J" Farliameni.-For some curious notices of the Parliaments held in Elizabeth's reign, the reader is referred to Hardiman's edition of the " Statute of Kilkenny," Introduction, p. xiii. et seg. Michael aClery, O.S.F. 75 May-day/** for the greater part of the people of Ireland were at this time obedient to their sovereign ; and accordingly they all at that summons did meet in Dublin face to face. Thither came the chiefs of Kinel-Connell '"^ and Kinel-Owen — namely, O'Xeill (Turlougli Luineach/" the son of Niall Conallagh, son of Art, son of Con, son of Henry, son of Owen), and Hugh, the son of Ferdoragh, son of Con Bacagh, son of Con, son of Henry, son of Owen — i.e., the young Baron O'Neill, who obtained the title of Earl of Tyrone at this Parliament ; and O'Donnell (Hugh Eoe, the son of Manns, "^ son of Hugh Duv, son of Hugh Eoe, son of K"iall Garv, son of Turlougli of the Wine) ; Maguire '" (Cuconnaught, 141 Precisely on May-clay.— This Parliament assembled at Dublin on the 26tli of April, 1583, according to the original record of it preserved in the Rolls' OfiQce, Dublin. See Ap- pendix to the " Statute of Kilkenny," p. 189. "^ Kiiiel-ConneU.— It looks very strange that the Four Masters should mention Kinell- Connell first in order, as O'Donnell was not acknowledged as a member of this Parlia- ment. See lists of the ' ' Lords, spirituall and temporal!, etc. , etc., as were summoned into Parliament holden before the Right Honorable Sir John Perrot, Knyght, Lord Dcputie- Generall of the realme of Ireland, xxvi° die Aprilis, anno regni Regine nostre Elizabeth vicesimo septimo," printed in the third Appendix to Hardiman's edition of the " Statute of Kilkenny," p. 139. '■"'' Turlougli Lidncach.—B-B came to Dublin to attend this Parliament, but it does not appear that he took his seat, as his name is not in the oflBcial list. It appears, by patent to Elizabeth, that the queen intended to create him Earl of Clan O'NeiU and Baron of Clogher, but the patent was never perfected. His rival, Hugh, son of Ferdoragh, is en- tered twice in this list, once as Lord of Dunganyne, and again as Earl of Tyrone. This latter title was evidently interlined after his claim had been allowed by this Parliament. The first title should have been cancelled after the interlining of the higher title. Tur- lough Luineach is supposed by our historians to have sat in this Parliament, but they have not told us in what capacity. It is stated in " Perrott's Life " that it was the pride of Perrott that ho could prevail on the old Irish leaders, not only to exchange their savage (?) state for the condition of English subjects, but to appear publicly in the Eng- lish garb, and to make some eCort to accommodate themselves to the manners of his court, but that it was not without the utmost reluctance and confusion that they thus appeared to resign their ancient manners. That Turlough Luineach in his old age, en- cumbered with his fashionable habiliments, expressed his discontent with a good-humored simplicity : " Prithee, my lord," said he, " let my chaplain attend me in his Irish mantle ; thus shall your English rabble be diverted from my uncouth figure and laugh at him." Sir Richard Cos, who embraced every oppoitunity of traducing the Irish, asserts that "the Irish Lords were obliged to wear robes, and, the better to induce them to it, the Deputy bestowed robes on Turlough Lynogh and other principal men of the Irish, which they embraced like fetters." The representatives of these chieftains, Turlough and Hugh, are now unknown, but there are various persons of the name Mac Baron, now in huc-ble circumstances, in the county of Tyrone, who claim descent from Cormac mac Baron, the brother of Hugh, Earl of Tyrone. KT Hugh Roe, the son of Man-'js.—H.Q became chief of Tirconnell on the death of his elder brother, Calvagh, in 1566. The race of this Hugh have been long extinct. The O'Dounells of Castlebar, in Ireland, and the more illustrious O'Donnells of Austria and Spain, are descended from his eldest brother, Calvagh. "8 J/fff/iwre.— The chieftain of Fermanagh did not attend as a member of this Parlia- ment. This Cuconnaught was the ancestor of the late Constantino Maguire, Esq., of Tempo. /6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. the son of Cuconnaught, son of Brian/" son of Philip, son of Thomas) ; O'Doherty (John Oge, the son of John, son of Fehm, sou of Conor Carragh) ; O'Boyle'" (Turlough, the son of Niall, son of Turlough Oge, son of Turlough More) ; and O'Gallagher"' (Owen, the son of Tnathal, son of John, son of Eory, son of Hugh). To this assembly also repaired Mac Mahon "' (Eoss, the son of Art, son of Brian of the Early Eising, son of Eedmond, son of Glas- ney) ; O'Kane '" (Eory, the son of Manns, son of Donough the 1^5 O'Doherty, chief of Inishowen, did not attend as a member of this Parliament. There are various respectable branches of this family in Inishowen, but the eldest branch is not determined. The most distinguished man of the name in Ireland is the Honorable Chief Justice Doherty ; and Mr Thomas Doherty, of Muff, so remarkable for his gigantic stature, has, by honest industry, realized a larger property than the chief- tains of Inishowen had ever enjoyed. '50 O' Boyle, chief of Boylagh, in the west of the county of Donegal, did not attend as a member of this Parliament. This family are dwindled into petty farmers and cottiers. 151 O'Gallaglier, O'DonneU's marshal, who had a small tract of land in the barony of Tirhugh, did not attend as a member of this Parliament. Though the family is one of the most regal of the Milesian race, there are none of the name at present above the rank of farmers in the original country of Tirhugh, and very few i i any part of Ireland. Captain Gallagher, of Kill of Grange, near Dublin, and Henry Gallagher Esq., Baldoyle, Raheny, form the aristocracy of this name at present. 15- Mac Mahon, chief of Oriel, did not attend this Parliament as a member. The pre- sent representative of this family is unknown to the Editor. The Baron Hartland, of Strokestown, in the County Roscommon, and Sir Ross Mahon, of Castlegar, in the county of Galway, are said to be of this race, but their pedigrees are unknown. Sir Beresf ord Mac Mahon, the son of the late Sir William Mac Mahon. Master of the Rolls in Ireland, is of a very obscure branch of the Mac Mahons of the county of Clare, his grandfather having been a gentleman's servant and his pedigree unknown. 153 O'Kane, chief of Oireacht-TJi-Chathain, did not attend as a member. The present representative of this family is unknown The only person of the name in the county of Londonderry, whose pedigree was confidently traced to Donnell Cleireach O Kane of Dungiven, when the Editor examined the county of Londoaderry in 1834, was George O'Kane, who was gardener to Francis Bruce, of Downhill. Sir Richard Cane [O'Cathain], of the county of Waterford, and Sir Robert Kane, of Dublin, the distinguished chemist who has reflected so much honor on his name and country in the nineteenth century, are undoubtedly of this race, but their pedigrees are not satisfactorily made out. There are several of the name in Boston and other parts of America, some of whom are related to Sir Robert Kane of Dublin, and are distinguished for scientiflc and literary attain- ments. [The foregoing note by Dr. O'Donovan calls for some explanation. It is more likely to mislead the reader than to throw any new light on the subject of which it treats. From its perusal a person would be likely to conclude that the O'Kane family had almost dwindled down to one person in the county of Londonderry. But such is not at all the fact. The present writer has made an earnest and careful research into the history of this ancient Irish family - and, as so little is generally known about it, he feels that it is quite proper just here to add a few words. The O'Kanes (sometimes written O'Cahan, and in Irish O'Cathain), are descended, according to the learned works on Irish genealogy, from Eogan— after whom the county of Tyrone is named— son of Niall of the Nine Hostages. Little is known of the O'Kanes until the tenth century, when Birnames became hereditary in Ireland. The first of the name was Casey O'Kane. He lived about a.d. 1000. The O'Kanes inhabited and were princes or rulers of a district which stretches from the Foyle to the east of the Bann, and is bounded on the north by Michael aClcry, O.S.F. 'j'j Hospitable, son of John, son of Aibhne) ; Con, the son of Niall Oge, son of Niall, son of Con, son of Hugh Boy O'Xeill, as repre- the sea and on the south by the hills of Munterlooney. The -whole region is now comprised in the baronies of Tikeeran, Keenaght, and Coleraine, in the county of Londonderry, ■which was once known as " O'Kane's country." " Great benefactors to the Church," -writes Father Meehan, " -were the O'Kancs ; for they founded and endo-wed the monastery of the Regular Canons of St. Augustine at Dungi^en, -where the sculptured torab of the greatest of their race, Cooey-na-Gall, still exists." This abbey -was founded by Dermot 0"Kane in the year 1100. The to-wn of Dungiven -was founded by the O'Kanes in 1297. According to Father Meehan, their prin- cipal seats or castles -were Ainoch, Dungiven, and Limavady, the latter of which " stands upon a time-worn cliff a hundred feet above the point where the Roe forms a cataract of exceeding beauty." The chief of the O'Kane sept, adds the same accurate writer, was a high functionary whenever tlie O'Ndll was inaugurated on the royal hill of TuUaghoge, for it was his ofiQce to cast the gold shoe over the head of the prince-elect. Whenever the latter made war. O'Kane was also to furnish him with a contingent of 140 horse and 400 light and heavy infantry. The O'Kanes have ever been the stern and unchanging foes of English power and Eng- lish misrule in Ireland. And even out of Ireland they made their power felt. We are told that on the field of Bannockburn their bright swords flashed in the sun and fell on the English troops with terrific force, thus materially aiding the brave Bruce to achieve a glorious victory. The bard O'Duggan, who died in 1370, wrote : " Of the valiant race of Eogan, The now fair chief of Kianacht is O'Kane." The family reached the zenith of its greatness in the person of Cooey O'Kane, kno-wn in history as Cooey-na-Gall— i.e., hunter of the English, or foreigners. His death is thus recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters ' : " The age of Christ 1385. Cooey O'Kane, lord of Oireacht-Ui-Chathain, died, while at the pinnacle of prosperity and renown." " He was buried," writes Dr. O'Donovan, "in the old church of Dungiven, where his tomb is still preserved, of which an illustration is given in the Dublin Penny Jmirnal, vol. i. p. 405. It is an altar tomb of much architectural beauty, situated in the south side of the chancel. O'Kane is represented in armor, in the usual recumbent position, -with one hand resting on his sword, and on the front of the tomb are figures of six warriors sculptured in relievo." Dr. Petrie also describes this tomb as possessing much architec- tural beauty. "Dungiven isto this day," says Father Meehan, " the burying-place of the O'Kanes." Its cemetery is regarded as one of the most extraordinary in Ireland. There is still preserved in the English State Paper OfBce a singular document, which gives an interesting picture of the state of Ireland in 1515. In it the O'Kanes are men- tioned as among the great Irish chiefs of that day. They weoe ever the faithful allies of the O'Neills in the contest with England. Even in 1585, when Shane O'Neill was attainted by Elizabeth, English power, as Father Meehan remarks, was not able to transform the territory of the O'Kanes into shire ground. In the long and gallant struggle of Hugh O'Neill with the armies of England, his chief ally was his son-in-law, Donald O'Kane, who supported him with " 1,200 foot and 300 horse, the ablest men that Ulster yielded." Some- time after O'Neill's flight, Donald O'Kane was arrested, immured in Dublin Castle, and finally sent to the Tower of London, where, after about seventeen years' imprisonment, he died in 1627. The territory of the O'Kanes was forfeited to the English crown. "It was," writes Montgomery, first Protestant Bishop of Derry, who got his share of the plundered land, "large, pleasant, and fruitful; twenty-four miles in length between Lough Foyle and the Bann ; and in breadth, from the seacoast towards the lower part of Tyrone, fourteen miles." In that rich domain, in Glenconkeine alone, a number of English thieves and adveoQturers, in 1609, felled oak to the value of about $300,000 for the purpose of building 78 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. sentativc of the O'Neills of Clannaboy ; ''' and Magennis "' (Hugh, the sou of Doiinell Oge, son of Donnell Duv). Thither came also the chiefs of the Eongh Third of Connaught — namely, O'Rourke "' (Brian, the son of Brian, son of Owen) ; O'Reilly (John Eoe,'" the son of Hugh Conallagh, son of Mael- mora, son of John, son of Cathal), and his uncle, Edmond, son of Maelmora,'"^ both of whom were then at strife with each other concerning the lordship of their country ; also both the O'Farrells, — viz., O'Farrell Bane"' (William, the son of Donnell, son of Cormac), and O'Farrell Boy "° (Fachtna, the son of Brian, son of Eory, son of Cathal). the to-vra of Londonderry. Thus this ancient and noble Irish family -was robbed and plundered by the grasping, shameless, and ferocious government of England. After the confiscation of their broad lands, many of the OKanes took service in tho Catholic armies of Spain and Austria. One of these, Gen. Daniel O'Kane, ■won high dis- tinction in the Netherlands. In 1642 he came to Ireland as a Lieutenant-General to the celebrated Owen Roe O'Neill. He foil in battle, gloriously fighting for the freedom of his native Isle. " This Daniel O'Kane," says Father Meehan, "-was singularly gifted as a linguist and general scholar, and was much lamented by his chief."' Though reduced to the condition of tenantry to Eaiglish adventurers, the descendants of Cooey-na-Gall stUl continued to hold a large portion of the county of Londonderry. And there many of the name, highly respectable families, can be found even to this day. At the beginning of the present century, the representative of the oldest branch of the race was Dermot O'Kane, who held a considerable distriqt of country in the territory of his ancestors. This venerable man died about the year 1830. His eldest son, Bernard O'Kane, emigrated to the United States in 181", making his residence in Philadelphia, ■where he died. Bernard O'Kane's family consisted of but t^wo daughters, who now re- side in Brooklyn, N. Y., and one of -whom— the mother of the present •writer— was bom in Philadelphia.] 154 o'MUla of Clannahoy.— Con, the son of Niall Oge, did not attend this Parliament as a member ; but his nephew, Shane Mac Brian, the ancestor of the present Viscount 0"Netll, is marked in the official list as one of the knights for the county of Antrim. 155 jfayermls. — Sir Hugh Magennis, chief of Iveagh, was elected one of the knights of Parliament for the county of Down this year, his colleague being Sir Nicholas Bagnell. Captain Magennis, the nephew of the late Lord EnniskiUen, represents a respectable branch of this family. 156 o'jBotwfe.— He did not attend this Parliament as a member. There is a Prince O'Rourke in Russia, whose immediate ancestors, as Counts O'Rourke, attained high dis- tinction in that empire. He is said to be the chief of his name. Ambrose O'Rourke, Esq., J. P., of BaUybollen, County Antrim, descends from the house of Dromahaire. 15" John Soe.— The ofaoial list of the members of this Parliament gives Philip O'Reyly as the colleague of Edmond. He was the brother of John Roe. 156 Edmond, the son of M(U'lmora.—E.e was Tanist of East Breifny, and was elected one of the knights of Parliament for the county of Cavan. The present representative of this Edmond is Myles John O'Reilly, Esq , late of the Heath House, and now living in France. 159 O'Farrell ^anc— William O'Fferrall was duly elected one of the knights of Parlia- ment for the county of Longford. Mr. O'Farrell, of Dublin, the tax collector, is the representative of this family, according to Dr. George Petrie ; but the editor is not acquainted with the e^videnccs which prove his descent. 18" o«.— He was not a member of this Parliament. This family is now repre- sented by the member from Roscommon, Denis, the eon of Owen, son of Denis, son of Charles the historian, son of Donough Liath, son of Cathal, son of Cathal, son of Hugh OConorDon of Ballintober, who is the person mentioned in the text. The only other surviving members of this family are Denis O'Conor of Mountdruid, Arthur O'Cocor of Elphin, and Matthew O'Conor, Esqrs., sons of Matthew, son of Denis, son of Charles O'Conor of Belanagare, the historian. "2 O'Conor I{oe.—E.& did not attend as a member of this Parliament. The knights elected for the county of Roscommon were Sir Richard Byngham and Thomas Dillon. The late Peter O'Conor Roe, of Tomona, in the county of Roscommon, who left one ille- gitimate son, Thomas of Ballintober, was the last recognized head of this family. There is another family of the O'Conors Roe, living in the village of Lanesborough, who retain a small property in Slieve Baune ; and there are others of undoubted legitimate descent living in and near the town of Roscommon, but they are reduced to utter • poverty. "3 O'Conor Sligo.— Sir Donald O'Conor Slygagh was not a member of this Parliament. The knights elected for the county of Slygagh were Sir Valantyn Browne, Ja. Crofton, and Jo. Marbury. The last chief of the O'Conor Sligo family was Daniel O'Conner Sligoe, who was a lieutenant-general in the Austrian service ; he died at Brussels on the 7th of February, 1756, and was buried in the church of St. Gudule, where the last female of the house of Hapsburg erected a monument to him. Some of the collateral branches of this family who remained in Ireland are still respectable ; but the present senior re- presentative of the name is a struggling farmer, as the late Matthew O'Conor, of Mount- druid, who knew him intimately, often told the Editor. "* Ma-c Dermot of Moylurg.— Tlis deputy did not attend as a member of this Parliament. This family is now represented by Charles Mac Dermot, Esq , of Coolavin, who ridicu- lously styles himself " Prince of Coolavin," a small barony to which his ancestors had no claim. 155 O'^eira^.— He was chief of Tir-Briuin-na-Sinna, a beautiful district lying between Elphin and Jamestown, in the east of the county of Roscommon. Mr. O'Beirne, of Dan- gan-I-Beirno, alias Dangan BonacuiUinn, in the parish of Kilmore, near the Shannon, in this territory, is the undoubted head of this family. He still possesses a smuli remnant of TirBriuin. O'Beirne did not attend this Parliament as a member. 8o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. O'Kelly;'" and O'Madden'" (Donnell, the son of John, son of Breasal). Thither hkewise went the Earl of Clanrickard ''' (Ulick, the son of Eickard, son of Ulick-na-g Ceann), and the two sons of Gilla- Duv O'Shaughnessy '" — i.e., John and Dermot. None worthy of note went thither from West Connaught, with the exception of Murrough of the Battle-Axes, the son of Teige, son of Murrough, son of Eory OTlaherty."" Thither in like manner went the Earl of Thomond '" (Donough, the son of Conor, son of Donongh, son of Conor, son of Turlough, son of Teige O'Brien) ; and Sir Turlongh,'" the son of Donnell, 1C6 Teige, son of William, etc., O'JCdly.—'E.e was the head of the branch of the 0"Kellys seated at Mullaghmore, in the county of Galway. This Teige was not chief of his name, nor did he attend this Parliament as a member. The race of this Teige are now extinct, but the families of Screen and Gallagh are still extant and highly respectable. See "Tribes and (. ustomj of Ily-Many," p. 121. The knights of Parliament elected for the county of Galway were Thomas le Straunge and Francis Shane, who was a disguised O'Fferall. '"^ 0' Jfadden.— n.6 did not attend as a member. The present representative of this DoDnell, the son of John O'Madden, is Ambrose Madden of Streamston, Esq., who is the son of Breasal, son of Ambrose, son of Breasal, son of Daniel, son of John, sonof Anmhadh, son of Donnell mentioned ia the text. See " Tribes and Customs of Hy-Many," p. 152. 1^8 The Earl of Clannckard.—'i.n the list of the '-Temporal Lordes " of this Parliament, printed by Mr. Hardiman, " the Earle of Clanricard " is given as the fourth in order. He is now represented by the Marquis of Clanricarde. 1"^ 0'' ShaughnesHij — Neither of these sons of O'Shaughnessy was a member of this Par- liament. See " Genealogies, Tribes, etc., of Hy-Fiachrach," pp. 378,386, S88. The present head of this famUy is Sir. Bartholomew O'Shaughnessy of Galway. The Very Rev. and Ven. Terence O'Shaughnessy, R. C. Dean of Killaloe, Dr. Wm. O'Shaughnessy of Calcut- ta, P.R.S., and all the O'Shaughnessys of the county of Clare, are not of the senior branch of this family, but descended from Roger, the third son of Lieutenant-Colonel William O'Shaughnessy, who was made free of the Corporation of Galway in 1648, and who was the son of Sir Dermot II., who died in 1606, who was the son of Sir Roger I., who was the son of Sir Dermot O'ihaughnessy, who was knighted by King Henry VIII., a. d. 1533. A branch of this family have changed their names to Sandys ; and Mr. Levy, the well known musician of the Royal DublinTheatre, whoisone of the descendants of Lieutenant-Colonel William O'Shaughnessy of 1648, has suppressed his father's name and retained that of his mother, contrary to the usage of most nations. I TO o'Flakei'ti/.Sii Murrough na doe O'Fflahertie was not a member of this Parliament. This chieftain is now represented by Thomas Henry O'Fflahertie of Lemonfield, in the county of Galway, who is the son of Sir John O'Fflahertie, the son of Murrough, son of Brian Oge, son of Brian Oge na Samhthach, son of Teige, who was son of Murrough nah Tuagh, or Murrough of the Battle-Axes, who was appointed " chief of all the O' Fflaher- ties " by Queen Elizabeth. See Genealogical Table in " Chorographical Description of lar-Connaught," edited by Mr. Hardiman, p. 3C-2. '"' The Earl of Tlicymond.—ln. the official list printed by Mr. Hardiman, the "Earle of Tomond" is given as fifth in order among the " Temporal Lordes." The race of this Donough, son of Connor, is extinct. The present Marquis of Thomond descends from Dermot, who was the son of Murrough, first Earl of Thomcwad, from whose second son, Donough, the famOy of Dromoland are descended. 1'= Sir Turlmgh.—Ue was duly elected one of the knights of Parliament for the county of Clare. According to a pedigree of the O'Briens, preserved in a paper manuscript in Michael OClcry, O.S.F. 8i son of Conor, son of Turlongli, son of Teige O'Brien, who had been elected a knight of Parliament for the county of Clare. Thither went Turlough, son of Teige, son of Conor O'Brien; '" and also the lord of the western part of Clann-Coilein — namely, Mac IS'amara "* (John, the son of Teige) ; and Boethius, the son of Hugh, son of Boethius Mac Clancy,"^ the second knight of Parlia- ment elected to represent the county of Clare. Thither repaired the son of O'Loughlin of Burren "" (Rossa, the son of Owny, son of Melaghlin, son of Eury, son of Ana) ; Mac-I- Bi-ien Ara,'" Bishop of Killaloe — namely, Murtough, son of Tur- the Library of the Royal Irish Academy, No. 23, p. 61, this Sir Turlough had a son DonneU, who married Ellen, the daughter of Edmond Fitzgerald, knight of Glinn, by whom he had two sons— 1, Teige, the grandfatherof Christopher O'Brien, Esq. [of EnnistimonJ, who was living in 1713 when this pedigree was compiled ; and 2, Murtough, who married Slaine, daughter of John Mac Namara of Moyreask, by whom he had a son Donnell, who married the daughter of Major Donough Eoe Mac Namara, by whom he had issue living in 1713, but the compiler of this pedigree does not name the issue of Donnell Spainneach. Ac- cording to the tradition in the country, Terence O'Brien, Esq., of Glencolumbkille, is the great-grandson of a Donnell Spaineach, son of Colonel Murtough O'Brien ; but Terence O'Brien h im self asserts that ho descends from a Donnell Spaineach, who was the son of a General Murtough O'Brien, who was a son of Dermot, fifth Baron of Inchiquin, but the editor has not b.:en able to find any evidence to prove that Dermot, the fifth Baron of Inchiquin, had a son Murtough. '"3 Turlough, (he Scm of Teige, etc., 0''JBrien.—Re did not attend as a member of this Par- liament. The Lord of Inchiquin sat in this Parliament among the peers, though the Four Masters take no notice of him. "* Mac Namara.— 'S.Q did not attend as a member of this Parliament. The race of this John is extinct. Major Mac Namara, M.P., is descended from a junior branch of the eastern Mac Namara family, but his pedigree is not satisfactorily made out. Majoi Daniel Mac Mamara Bourchier descends by the mother's side from the senior branch ol the western Mac Namaras. ' ■ ^ Boethius Mac Clancy.—'' Boetins Clanchy," who was the Brehon of Thomond and a good scholar, was duly elected one of the two knights to represent the county of Clare in this ParUament. He was afterwards appointed High Sheriff of the county of Clare, an office for which he was very well qualified, and, according to the tradition in the country, murdered some Spaniards belonging to the great Armada, who were driven on the coast of Clare in 1588. '■"5 0'' Laughliii of Burren.— Rq did not attend as a member of this Parliament. Mr. O'Loughlin, of Newton, is the present senior representative of this famUy. Sir Colman O'Loughlin represents a jxmior branch. 1'" Mac-I-Brien .4/'«.— This bishop was the son of Turlough Mac-I-Brien Ara, who made his submission to Queen Elizabeth in 1567. On the death of his elder brother, Donough, Murtough or Mauri-ce, Bishop of Killaloe, became the head of this family. Murtough O'Brien Ara was appointed Bishop of Killaloe by Queen Elizabeth, by letters- patent dated the 15th of May, 1570, and had his writ of restitution to the tempo- ralities the same day. He received the profits of this see six years before his conse- cration, but, being at last consecrated, he sat about thirty-six years after. He died o-ti the last day of April, 1613, having voluntarily resigned a year before his death. S'Je Harris's edition of " Ware's Bishops," p. 595, where Harris states that the Arra fr^m whence this bishop's family, for the sake of distinction, were called O'Brien^ Ai *, is a barony in the county of Limerick. But this is an error of Harris, who ought to ent in im- pertinences, which to the one part of us might be an entertain-- ment, to the other a suffering. What, therefore, Ephraim said when we were almost arrived at London had to ms an air not only of good understanding, but good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim delivered himself as follows : " There is no ordinary 2:>art of human life which ex- presseth so much a good mind and a right inward man as his be- havior upon meeting with strangers, especia,llj such as may seenu 1 14 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. the most unsuitable companions to him. Such a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and innocence, how- ever knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself thereof, but will the rather hide his superiority to them, that ho may not be painful unto them. My good friend," continued ho, turning to the officer, " thee and I are to part by and by, and perad venture we may never meet again ; but be advised by a j)lain man : modes and apparel are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor sucli a one as me contemptible for mine. When two such as thee and I meet, with affections as we ought to have toward each other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peaceful demeanor, and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to protect me in it." LETTERS FROM SIR RICHARD STEELE TO HIS WIPE Christmas Day." Dear Prue : I went the other day to see Betty" at Chelsea, who represented to me, in her pretty language, " that she seemed helpless and friendless, without anybody's taking notice of her at Christmas, when all the children but she and two more were with their relations." I have invited her to dinner to-day, with one of the teachers, and they are here now in the room, Betty and Moll very noisy and joleased together. Bess goes back again, as soon as she has dined, to Chelsea. I have stayed in to get a very advanta- geous affair despatched ; for, I assure you, I love money at present as well as your ladyship, and am entirely yours. I told Betty I had writ to you, and she made me open the letter again and give her humble duty to her mother, and desire to know when she shall have the honor to see her in town. She gives hor love to Mrs. Be vans and all her cousins. EiCHARD Steele. [Undated.] My Dearest Prue : I have yours of the 7th instant, which turns wholly upon my taking care of my health, and advice to for- bear embarking too deeply in public matters, which yon enforce by reminding me of the ingratitude I have met with. I have as quick "^ 1716. 25 His little daughter Sir RicJiard Steele. 1 1 5 sense of the ill-treatment I have received as is consistent with keep- ing up my own spirit and good-humor. Whenever I am a malcon- tent, I will take care not to be a gloomy one, but hope to keep some stings of wit and humor in my own defence. I am talking to my wife, and therefore may speak my heart and the vanity of it. I know, and you are witness, that I have served tlie royal family with an unreservedness due only to Heaven, and I am now (I iliank my brother Whigs) not possessed of twenty shillings from the fa- vor of the court. The playhouse it had been barbarity to deny at the players' request, and therefore I do not allow it a favor. But I banish the very memory of these things, nor will I expect anything but what I must strike out of myself. By Tuesday's post I think I shall be able to guess when I shall leave the town and turn all my thoughts to finish my comedy.''^ You will find I have got so much constancy and fortitude as to live my own way (within the rules of good breeding and decency) wherever I am ; for I will not sacri- fice your husband, and the father of the poor babes, to any one's humor in the world. But to provide for and do you good is all my ambition. I have a list of twenty-one leases for the setting out £199 8s. per annum. I have not yet heard of Mr. Philips. I am, dear Prue, ever yours. Richakd Steele. Hampton Court, March 16, 1716-17. Dear Prue : If you have written anything to me which I should have received last night, I beg your pardon that I cannot answer it till the next post. The House of Commons will be very busy the next week ; and I had many things, public and private, for which I wanted four-and-twenty hours' retirement, and there- fore came to visit your son. I came out of town yesterday, being Friday, and shall return to-morrow. Your son, at the present wa-it- ing, is mighty well employed in tumbling on the floor of the room and sweeping the sand with a feather. He grows a most delight- ful child, and very full of play and spirit. He is also a very great scholar : he can read his primer, and I have brought down my Virgil. He makes most shrewd remarks upon the pictures. We are very intimate friends and pfay-fellows. He begins to be very ragged ; and I hope I shall be pardoned if I equip him with new 26 If this was his " Coascious Lovers," it remained unfinished till V!i\. 1 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. clothes and frocks, or what Mrs. Evans and I shall think for his service. I am, dear Prue, ever yours, EicHAED Steele. March 26, 1717. My Deaeest Pkue : I have received yours, wherein you give me the sensible affliction of letting me know of the continual pain in your head. I could not meet with necessary advice ; but, accord- ing to the descriptions you give me, I am confident washing your head in cold water will cure you — I mean, having water poured on your head, and rubbed with a hand, from the crown of your head to the nape of your neck. When I lay in your j^lace and on your pillow, I assure you, I fell into tears last night, to think that my charming little insolent might be then awake and in pain, and took it to be a sin to go asleep. For this tender passion towards you, I must be contented that your Prueship will condescend to call yourself my well-wisher. I am going abroad, and write before I go out, lest accidents should hap- pen to prevent my writing at all. If I can meet with further advice for you, I will send it in a letter to Alexander. I am, dear Prue, ever yours, EicHAED Steele. JONATHAN SWIFT, D.D. " The greatest wit of all time." — Thackeray. " He knew, almost beyond any man, the purity, the extent, the precision of the English language." — Blair. " The most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the greatest genius of his age." — Addison. ' ' Jonathan ! of merry fame. As swift in fancy as in name." JONATHAN SWIFT, one of the most remarkable men in the history of literature, was born on November tlie 30th, 1G67, at Hoey's Court, Dublin — "that renowned city," as he afterwards wrote, "where I had the honor to draw my first breath." His mother was poor, and he was ushered into the world about seven months after his father's death. It is related that his nurse taught the future Dean to spell at three years of age, and that " at five he was able to read any chapter in the Bible." In his sixth year Jonathan was sent by his uncle, Godwin Swift, to the school at Kilkenny, where he remained for eight years. In 1G82 he was admitted within the historic walls of Trinity College, Dublin. Young Swift first showed his wit and strong sense by his repugnance to the obscure, antiquated jargon which then filled the works on logic pursued in the undergraduate course. A logician by nature, he could well afford to despise the limping, stupid ways of the musty old books. The examination day came. The solemn professors asked hard questions. Swift refused to reply to the senseless jargon jiropounded to him. He was warned to study logic and to come before the grave faculty on a future occasion. But Jonathan, neglecting nearly everything else, re- solutely bent his mind to poetry and history. Again came around the day of trial. "We shall let another tell what happened : " In 1685, in the great hall of Dublin University, the pro- fessors engaged in examining for the bachelor's degree enjoyed a singular spectacle. A poor scholar, odd, awkward, with hard blue eyes, an orphan, friendless, poorly supported by the charity of an 117 1 18 The Prose a7id Poehy of Ireland. uncle, haying once failed before to take his degree on account of his ignorance of logic, had come up again Tivithout having condescended to read logic. When the argumentation came on, the proctor was obliged ' to reduce his rejilies into syllogism. ' He was asked how he could reason well without rules. He replied that he did reason pretty well without them. This folly shocked them ; yet he was received, though barely, speciali gratia,^ says the register, and the professors went away, doubtless "wdth pitying smiles, lamenting the feeble brain of Jonathan Swift ! " '^ Thus by collegiate sophists and pedagogues the future renowned author of " Gulliver's Trav- els " and " The Tale of a Tub " was regarded as little short of a downright blockhead.^ It is but fair to add, however, that Swift himself was not satisfied with his college work. He resolved to make up for any lost time, and for the next seven years it is said he studied about eight hours a day. By the death of his uncle, Godwin, in 1688, young Swift was flung upon the world. He went to England to see his poor mother, with whom he remained for some months. She advised him to make his circumstances known to Sir William Temj)le, one of the ablest and most scholarly men of his day. Temple was married to one of her relatives. Jonathan did as he was advised, and tiie re- sult was that he became Sir William Temj^le's private secretary. Here he met some of the greatest men of his day — men who have since passed into history. The young Irishman was intro- duced to King William III., who not only showed him how to eat asj)aragus after the Dutch fashion — stalks and all^but even offered to make him captain of a trooj) of horse, a position that Swift politely refused. This not too happy portion of the famous Dean's life is thus humorously sketched by a late Avriter : *'It was at Skene and at Moor Park, with a salary of twenty pounds [1100], and a dinner at the uj^per servants' table, that this great and lonely Swift passed a ten years' apprenticeship, wore a cassock that was not a livery, bent down a knee as proud as Luci- fer's to supplicate my lady's good graces, or ran on his honor's er- rands. It was here, as he was writing at Temjole's table or follow- 1 By a special favor. = Taine, " History of English Literature." ^ The accounts of Swift's college career are so various and contradictory that It is no easy matter to get at the real truth. We believe many of his English and Scotch bio- graphers have, in this connection, done the illustrious author of "Gulliver"' great in- justice, not to say slandered him. See his life by Thomas Roscoe. Jonathan Swift^ D.D. 119 ing his patron's walk, that ho saw and heard the men wlio had governed the great world ; measured himself with them, looking up from his silent cover ; gauged their brains, weighed their Avits, turned them and tried them and marked them. Ah ! what plati- tudes he must have heard ; what feeble jokes ! what pompous commonplaces ! What small men they must have seemed, under those enormous periwigs, to the swarthy, uncouth, silent Irish sec- retary ! I wonder whether it ever struck Temple that the Irishman was his master ? I suppose that dismal conviction did not present itself under the ambrosial wig, or Temple could never have lived with Swift. Swift sickened, rebelled, left tiie service, ate humble- pie, and came back again ; and so for ten years went on gathering learning, swallowing corn, and submitting with a stealthy rage to his fortune." * Swift entered Oxford University, and, after a few weeks' study, received the degree of M.A. In 1G95 he took orders in the Episco- pal Church. His first appointment was to the humble living of Kilroot, in the diocese of Connor. On Temple's death he became the literary executor of his old patron, and prepared numerous works for the press. He expected preferment in the English Church. With that object in view he wrote to the king, and the Earl of Romney promised to assist him. Of that nobleman Swift afterwards wrote: ''The Earl of Eomney, who professed much friendship, promised to second my petition, but as he was an old, vicious, illiterate rake, without any sense of truth or honor, he said not a word of it to the king." At length, disgusted with things generally. Swift accepted the post of chaplain to the Earl of Berkeley, and accompanied him to Ireland. The deanery of Derry soon became vacant. The young minister applied for it. He was told that the good- will of the bishop and a bribe of $5,000 were necessary to get the position. He asked the Earl of Berkeley if this was so. The nobleman assured him it was. '' Then ." exclai med the honest and indignant S wift, "may God con found you both for a couple of rascals ! " In 1G99 he was appointed rector of Aughcr and vicar o'f Laracor. Here Protestants were very scarce. Swift, however, gave notice that during Lent he would read the prayers in church on Wednes- days and Fridays. When the first evening came he found no one present but Eoger Cox, the parish clerk. Nothing surprised, the < Thackeray, " English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century." 1 20 The Prose and Poct7y of Ireland. new rector ascended the desk and gravely began : "Dearly beloved Roger, the Scrij)ture moveth you and me in sundry places," and so proceeded to the end of the service. Swift had reached his thirty-fourth year when he took his place in the front rank of politics by writing a pamphlet on the Whig side. His pen was the lever by Avhich he meant to raise Jonathan to the pinnacle of clerical or political greatness. ''Against all comers," says Copjoee, " he stood the Goliath of pamphleteers in the reign of Queen Anne, and there arose no David who could slay him." In 1704 appeared his extraordinary "Tale of a Tub.""* It is the wildest and wittiest of his polemical works. He now began to measure his own power. The jioliticians* courted and feared his powerful pen more than if it were ten thousand swords. He treated lords and dukes as if he were more than one himself. For a political article Ilarley, the Prime Minister, sent him a bank-bill. Swift was insulted at being taken for a paid man. He instantly demanded an apology. It was giA^en. He then wrote in his journal: "I have taken Mr. Harley into favor again." On one occasion, St. John, Secretary of State, looked coldly on the author of "The Tale of a Tub." He was rebuked without delay. "I warned him," writes Swift, "never to appear cold to me; for it was what I would hardly bear from a crowned head." St. John excused himself, saying that several nights at "business and one at drinking" made him seem ill-humored. "Mr. Secretary," Avrites Swift on another occasion, "told me the Duke of Buckingham had been talking to him much about me and desired my acquaintance. I answered it could not be, for that he had not made sufficient advances.' Then the Duke of Shrews- bury said he thought the duke was not used to make advances. I said I could not help that ; for I always expected advances in pro- portion to men's quality, and more from a duke than other men." Thus the dignity and haughty manners of Swift compelled even the great to bend before him. lu the Prime Minister's drawing- room he would go and speak to some obscure person, forcing lords to do the same. In 1713 Dr. Swift was appointed dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. At first his native city treated him badly. The mob threw mud at ^ It -vras first published anonymously. « The reader must not understand this as referring to money. yonathan Swift ^ D.D. 121 the Dean, and he was insulted by the aristocracy. He lived, how- ever, to see these feelings vanish as the mists of morning. The sad sufferings of his country each year more deeply touched him. In his heart he hated the corruption of the English court and the unmatched tyranny of England. An occasion soon offered when those feelings, long welled up, burst forth like the dread roar of a mighty cataract. In 1724 an Englishman, named William Wood, obtained a patent from the Grovernment empowering him to coin £180,000 worth of copper for circulation in Ireland. Swift, who saw in this measure another link added to the Irish chain, flew to the rescue of his oppressed countrymen, and in a Dublin news- paper i^roduced a seiies of lett-crs marked by bold, simple, and hardy eloquence, and signed "M. B. Drapier." Wood and his patent were squelched, and the great Dean became from that day the idol of the Irish people. The printer of the •' Letters" was imprisoned, andTa reward of £300 was offered for the author. Loved by all, no one was found base enough to betray Drapier. Ever afterwards Swift was known as The Deax. Ills power over the masses was really boundless. Once when a Protestant archbishop accused him of stirring up the populace. Swift excused himself by saying: "If I had but lifte d up m y li ttle finger, they would have tor n you to piece s ! " In 1726, when in his fifty-ninth year, the ''Travels of Captain Gulliver,'"' that wonderful fiction and inimitable political and social satire, was issued by a London publisher. Swift's name was, of course, not appended to it. It was so with nearly all his works. They at first appeared anonymously. He claimed them only after witnessing their impression on the public mind. High and low read ''Gulliver," and all were astonished at the wit, plainness, genius, and audacity of the unknown author and his strangely curious book. This was his last great literary effort. An old constitutional disorder, exhibiting itself in attacks of gid- diness and deafness, which at intervals had dogged his steps throughout life, now gradually settled down upon the great and lonely Swift. As age advanced his 'attacks were more frequent. His temper grew terrible, yet he continued to write until 173G. The friends of his youth and his manhood were one by one gath- ered to the tomb. Above all, Stella, whom he dearly loved, had passed away. He stood almost alone, and he deeply felt his posi- tion. His distress of mind seems to have been bitter in the ex- 122 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Ireme. His usual mode of salutation in taking leave of his clearest friends for years before his death joartook of that melancholy eccen- tricity so peculiar to him. " May God bless you ! " he would say ; • • I trust we shall never meet again. " ' Dr. Young tells us that one evening himself and Swift were taking an evenins; walk about a mile out of Dublin. The Dean stopped short, and, looking upwards at a noble tree which at the top was much withered and decayed, he pointed to it, saying: " I shall be like that tree : I shall wither first at the top." We hasten in sorrow, as from some unavoidable calamity, over the closing scene. The state of Lis mind is vividly described in a few sentences to his friend and comforter, Mrs. Whiteway : " I have been very miserable all night, and to-day extremely deaf and full of pain. I am so stupid and confounded that I cannot express the mortification I am under, both in body and in mind. All I can say is, I am not in torture, but I daily and hourly expect it. Pray let me know how your health is and your family. I hardly understand one word I write. I am sure my days will be very few ; few and miserable they must be. I am, for these few days, yours entirely. "J- Swift. ''If I do not blunder, it is Saturday." We shall let the sympathetic pen of Sir Walter Scott describe the last sad days of this famous man : "In the course of about three years he is only known to have spoken once or twice. At length, when, this awful moral lesson had subsisted from 174-3 until the 19th of October, 1745, it pleased God to release the subject of these memoirs from this calamitous situation. He died upon that day Avithout a single pang — so gently, indeed, that his attendants were scarce aware of his disso- lution. '•'It was then that the gratitude of the Irish showed itself in the full glow of national enthusiasm. The interval was forgotten dur- ing which their great patriot had been dead to the world, and he was wept and mourned as if he had been called away in the full career of his public services. Young and old of all. ranks sur- rounded the house to pay the last tribute of sorrow and affection. Locks of his hair were so eagerly sought after that Mr. Sheridan happily applies to the enthusiasm of the citizens of Dublin the lines of Shakspere : ' Scott's " Life of Swift." yonathan Swift ^ D.D. 123 " ' Yea, beg a hair of him in memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a real legacy Unto their issue.' " Swift was in person tall, strong, and well made ; of a dark complexion, but with blue eyes, black and bushy eyebrows, nose somewhat aquiline, and features which well expressed the stern, haughty, and dauntless turn of his mind. He Avas never known to laugh, and his smiles arc hajopily characterized by the well-known lines of Shakspere ; indeed, the whole description of Cassius might be applied to Swift : ' ' ' He reads much ; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men ; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mocked himself and scorned his spirit, That could be moved to smiie at anything.' " '^ Swift's writings must endure as long as the English language. He was a poet, if not a very great one. One quality he possessed in an eminent degree — originality. Over rhyme he had an entire mastery. His more important pieces of poetry generally abound in good sense, acute remark, and richness of allusion. The great Dean's poem on his own death is one of his longest, and, perhaps, the best effort of his muse. But his fame rests securely on his pure and powerful prose. "I remember," writes Sheridan, "■ to have heard the late Hawkins Brown say that the 'Drapier's Letters' Avere the most perfect pieces of oratory ever composed since the days of Demosthenes. And, indeed, upon comparison, there will appear a great similitude between the two writers. They both make use of the plainest words, and such as were in most general use, which they adorned only by a proper and most beautiful arrangement of them." Of the numberless merits and grave defects of "^Gulliver's Travels" — the greatest, most popular, and most original of his works — much could be written. Its true merit consists in the interest and origi- nality of the narratives, and the rich and beautiful simjilicity of the diction. But the gross indecency of the chapters which dc- 8 Eoscoe, "Life of Swift." 124 '^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. scribe the laud of the Houyhnhnms is enough to shock Christian modesty. " Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense." "As a writer," says Dr. Hart, "Swift is without a parallel in English letters. His style is a model of clear, forcible expression, disj)laying a consummate knowledge of the foibles and vices, of man- kind." Th^ coarseness wliich frequently disfigures his writings is simply a reflex of the coarse age in which he lived. Of the love-affairs of the Dean's life we have neither space nor inclination to enter at any length. A small volume would not suf- fice to explain them. Miss Esther Johnson ("Stella") was a gifted and lovely girl, whose studies Swift in early life directed. She was devotedly attached to her tutor, and many years afterwards (1716) it is supposed they Avere privately married. Miss Jane Waryng ("Varina") was a young lady who at first rejected Swift's offer of marriage, but subsequently repented and renewed the pro- posal herself. Swift, however, replied with a refusal as decided as her own. Miss Esther Vanhomrigh ("Vanessa") was another young lady whose studies the famous wit directed. The young pupil became so enamored of her master as to make a j)roposal of marriage. She was certainly not encouraged by Swift. It is said she died of a broken heart in 1722. It must, however, be confessed after all that has been written upon it, that the love-life of the author of "' Gulliver" is still nearly as great a mystery as the "Man with the Iron Mask." The character of Di*. Swift is hard to be understood. This we admit. But his has been a much-abused character. Nearly all the English writers who have either sketched or touched it have done their best to blacken it. Swift was an Irishman. That was enough. The London critics, and those who hang for support on their apron- strings, generally view him as with a microscope. His failings are carefully magnified ; his good qualities, as carefully left unnoticed. The beam in the critic's eye is nothing comj^ared to the mote in the great Irish Dean's. "We do not belong to this narrow school ; nor do we fear to express our good ojunion of Swift — the great Swift — the honest Swift — the cliaritable Swift — the liberal Swift — the patriotic Swift. His eccentricities must be attributed to the un- happy disposition Avith which his life was one continual battle, and Jonathan Szuift, D.D. 125 to which, in the end, he was obliged to succumb. His faults, like straws, floated on the surface ; his good qualities, like pearls, were on the bottom. The instances of his kindness and tender charity are simply countless. According to his lights, he was a firm Chris- tian and a deeply religious man. But if there is one quality that exalts him more than another it is his fearless patriotism. Ilis grand example nerved in after-times Burke, Gra.ttau, Curran, and O'Connell in their long struggles for the rights of the noble but shamefully oppressed people of Ireland. "No man," says Dr. Delaney, "ever deserved better of any country than Swift did of his. A steady, persevering, inflexible friend; a wise, a watchful, and- a faithful counsellor under many severe trials and bitter persecutions, to the manifest hazard both of his liberty and his fortune. He lived a blessing, he died a bene- factor, and his name will ever live an honor to Ireland." A GRUB STREET ELEGY. ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTKnJGE, THE ALMANAC-MAKEE. 1708. "Well, 'tis as BickerstafE ' has guess'd. Though we all took it for a jest : Partridge is dead ! Nay, more, he died Ere he could prove the good 'squire lied. Strange an astrologer should die Without one wonder in the sky ; Not one of all his crony stars To pay their duty at his hearse ! No meteor, no eclipse appcar'd ! No comet with a flaming beard ! The sun has rose and gone to bed Just as if Partridge were not dead ; Nor hid himself behind the moon To make a dreadful night at noon. He at fit periods walks through Aries, Howe'er our earthly motion varies; 9 "Isaac BickerstafE, Esq.," was the name under •which Swift wrote a number of hu- morous predictions in 1T08 ; among others, that "Partridge, the Almanac-Maker, wiU infallibly die upon the 29th of March next, about eleven at night, of a raging fever." 126 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And twice a year he'll cut th' equator. As if there liad been no such matter. Some wits have wonder'd what analogy There is 'twixt cobbling" a,nd astrology; How Partridge made his optics rise From a shoe-sole to reach the skies. A list the cobbler's temples ties To keep the hair out of his eyes. From whence 'tis plain the diadem That princes wear derives from them ; And therefore crowns are nowadays Adorn'd with golden stars and rays ; Which plainly shows the near alliance 'Twixt cobbling and the planets' science. Besides, that slow-paced sign Bootes, As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis ; But Partridge ended all disputes : He knew his trade, and call'd it Boots !^^ The horned moon which heretofore Upon their shoes the Eomans wore, Wiiose wideness kept their toes from corns. And whence we claim our shoeing-horns. Shows how the art of cobbling bears A near resemblance to the spheres. A scrap of parchment hung by geometry (A great refiner in barometry) Can, like the stars, foretell the weather ; And what is parchment else but leather ? Which an astrologer might use Either for almanacs or shoes. Thus Partridge, by his wit and parts. At once did practise both these arts ; And as the boding owl (or rather The bat, because her wings are leather) Steals from her private cell by night, And flies about the candle-lidit. So learned Partridge could as well Creep in the dark from leathern cell, "> Partridge was a cobbler.— SwCTT '* See his almanac— Swift. yonathaii Swift, D.D. 127 And in his fancy fly as far To peep upon a twinkling star. Besides, be could confound the spheres, And set the planets by the ears ; To show his skill he Mars could join To Venus, in aspect malign ; Then call in Mercury for aid, And cure the wounds that Venus made. Great scholars have in Lucian read. When Philip, King of Greece, was dead. His soul and spirit did divide. And each part took ti. different side : One rose a star; the other fell Beneath, and mended shoes in bell. Thus Partridge still shines in each art. The cobbling and star-gazing part, And is iustall'd as good a star As any of the Ciiesars are. Triumphant star ! some pity show On cobblers militant below. Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights, Torment by p — g out their lights. Or through a chink convey their smoke Enclosed artificers to choke. Though high exalted in thy sphere, May'st follow still thy calling there. To thee the Bull would lend his hide, By Phoebus newly tanned and dried ; For thee they Argo's hulk will tax. And scrape her pitchy sides for wax; Then Ariadne kindly lends Her braided hair to make the ends ; The points of Sagittarius' dart Tunis to an awl by heavenly art ; And Vulcan, wheddlcd by his wife. Will forge for thee a paring-knife. For want of room by Virgo's side, She'll strain a point, and sit '* astride, 12 "Tibibrachia contrahit ingena Scorpius," etc. 128 The Prose and Poetry of Pr eland. To take thee kindly in between ; And then the signs will be thirteen. THE EPITAPH. Here, five feet deep, lies on- his back A cobbler, starmonger, and qnack. Who to the stars, in pure good-will. Does to his best look npward still. Weep, all you customers that use His pills, his almanacs, or shoes ; And you that did your fortunes seek Stop to his grave but once a week ; This earth, which bears his body's print. You'll find has so much virtue in't That, I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell Whate'er concerns you full as well. In physic, stolen goods, or love. As he himself could, when above. AN ELEGY ON THE DKATH OF DEJIAR, THE USUEEE, Who died the 6th of July, 1720. Swift, with some of his usual party, happened to be in Mr. Sheridan's, in Capel Street, when the news of Demar's death was brought to them, and the elegy was the joint composition of the company. Kkow all men by these presents. Death, the tamer. By mortgage has secured the corpse of Demar ; Nor can four hundred thousand sterling jDound Redeem him from his prison under ground. His heirs might well, of all his wealth possess'd. Bestow to bury him one iron chest. Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know His faithful steward in the shades below. He walk'd the streets and wore a threadbare cloak; He dined and supp'd at charge of other folk ; And by his looks, had he held out his palms, He might be thought an object fit for alms. i Joizathaii Swift, D.D. 129 So, to tlie poor if lie refused liis pelf, He used them full as kindly as liimsclf. Where'er he Avent, he never saw his betters ; Lords, knights, and squires were all his humble debtors : And, under hand and seal, the Irish nation Were forced to own to him their obligation. He that could once have half the kino-dom bousrht In half a minute is not worth a groat. His coffers from the coffin could not save, Nor all his interest keep him from the grave. A golden monument would not be right. Because wc wish the earth upon him light. London Tavern ! thou hast lost a friend, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend ; He touch'd the pence when others touch'd the pot ; The hand that sign'd the mortgage paid the shot. Old as he wais, no vulgar known disease On him could ever boast a power to seize ; '' But as he weigh'd his gold, grim Death in spite Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light ; And as he saw his darling money fail, Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale." He who so long was current, 'twould be strange If he should now be cried down since his change. The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow ; Alas ! the sexton is thy banker noAv. A dismal banker must that banker be Who gives no bills but of mortality ! EPITAPH OX THE SAME. Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar, the wealthy and the wise. His heirs, that he might safely rest. Have put his carcass in a chest — The very chest in which, they sav. His other self, his money, lay. And if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe that four in five Will think his better half alire. The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. DR. SWIFT TO HIMSELF. ON ST. CECILIA'S DAT. Grave Dean of St. Patrick's, how comes it to pass That you, who know music no more than an ass, That you, who so lately were writing of drapiers, Should lend your cathedral to players and scrapers ? To act such an ojiera once in a year. So offensive to every true Protestant ear. With trumpets, and fiddles, and organs, and singing, "Will sure the Pretender and Popery bring in ; No Protestant prelate, his Lordship or Grace, Durst there show his right or most reverend face ; How would it pollute their crosiers and rochets To listen to minims, and quavers, and crotchets ! " k AN ANSWER TO A FRIEND'S QUESTION. The furniture that best doth please St. Patrick's Dean, good sir, are these: The knife and fork with which I eat. And next the pot that boils the meat ; The next to be preferred, I think, " ; Is the glass in which I drink ; \ The shelves on Avhich my books I keep. And the bed on which I sleep ; An antique elbow-chair between. Big enough to hold the Dean ; And the stove that gives delight In the cold, bleak, wintry night ; To these we add a thing below More for use reserved than show — These are what the Dean do please ; All superfluous are but these* 13 The rest of this piece is wanting. yojiathan Swift, D.D. 131 THE DEAN'S MANNER OP LIVING. Ojst rainy days alone I dine Upon a chick and pint of wine. On rainy days I dine alone. And pick my chicken to the bone ; But this my servants much enrages — No scraps remain to save board-wages. In weather fine I nothing spend, But often sponge upon a friend ; Yet, where he's not so rich as I, I pay my club, and so good-by. TO STELLA.'" ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1731-2. While, Stella, to your lasting praise The Muse her annual tribute pays — While I assign myself a task Which you expect, but scorn to ask — If I perform this task with 23ain, Let me of partial fate complain. You every year the debt enlarge, I grow less equal to the charge ; In you each virtue brighter shines. But my poetic vein declines. My harp will soon in vain be strung. And all your virtues left unsung ; For none among the upstart race Of poets dare assume my place. Your worth will be to them imknown — They must have Stellas of their own ; And thus, my stock of wit decay'd, I, dying, leave the debt unpaid. Unless Delany, as my heir. Will answer for the whole arrear. " This was Swift's poetical naaia for Miss Johnson. Stella means a star. 132 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. UPON TOE DECLARATIONS OF THE SEVERAL CORPORATIONS OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN AGAINST wood's HALFPENCE. (To the tune of " London is a Fine Town," etc.) ' Oh ! Dublin is a fine town And a, gallant city, For Wood's trasli is tumbled down ; Come listen to my ditty. In full assembly all did meet Of every cor2)oration, From every lane and every street. To save the sinking nation. The bankers would not let it pass For to be ^Yood's tellers. Instead of gold to count his brass, And fill their small-beer cellars. And, next to them, to take his coin The Gild would not submit ; Tliey all did go, and all did join. And so their names they writ. The brewers met within their hall. And spoke in lofty strains ; These halfpence shall not pass at all : They want so many grains. TJie tailors came upon this pinch, And wish'd the dog m hell ; Should we give this same Woods an inch. We know he'd take an ell. But now the nol)le clothiers Of honor and renown, If they take Wood's halfpence. They will be all cast down. The shoemakers came on the next. And said they would much rather Tlian be by Wood's copper vext Take money stamped on leather. ( Jonathan Szut'/t, D,D. i-"- jj Tlie cliandlers noxfc in order came, And what they said was right : They hoped the rogue that laid the scheme Would soon be brought to light 5 And that if "Woods were now withstood, To his eternal scandal, That twenty of these halfpence should Not. buy a farthing candle. The butchers then, those men so brave. Spoke thus, and -witli a frown : Should Woods, tliat cunning, scoundrel, knave. Come here, we'd knock him down : For any rogue that comes to truck And trick away our trade Deserves not only to be stuck. But also to be flay'd. The bankers in a ferment were. And wisely shook tlieir head ; Should these brass tokens once come here. We'd all have lost our bread. It set the very tinkers mad. The baseness of the metal. Because, they said, it was so bad It would not mend a kettle. The carpenters and joiners stood Confounded in a maze ; They seemed to be all in a wood. And so they went their ways. This coin how well could we employ it In raising of a statue To those brave men tluit would destroy it, And then, old Woods, have at you. 134 '^^^ Prose a7id Poetry of P-eland. God prosper long our tradesmen, then. And so lie will, I hope ! May they be still such honest men When Woods has got a rope. EPIGRAM, April, 1735. In answer to the Dean's verses on his own deafness. What though the Dean hears not the knell Of the next church's passing bell ; What though the thunder from a cloud. Or that from female tongue more loud. Alarm not ; at the Drapier's ear Chink but Wood's halfpence, and he'll hear. THE EPITAPH ON JUDGE BOAT. Here lies Judge Boat within a coffin ; Pray, gentlefolks, forbear your scoffing. A Boat a judge ! Yes ; wdiere's the blunder ? A wooden judge is no such wonder. And in his robes you must agree ]S[o boat was better deck'd than he. 'Tis needless to describe him fuller ; In short, he was an able sculler. EPITAPH. IN BERKELEY CHTJHCnYAKD, GLOUCESTIIRSHXRE. Here lies the Earl of Suffolk's fool. Men called him Dicky Pearce ; His folly served to make fools laugh When wit and mirth were scarce. Poor Dick, alas ! is dead and gone; What signifies to cry ? Dickies enough are still behind To laugh at by and by. Buried June 18, 1728, aged 63, Joitathan Swift, D.D. 135 ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT.'* Written in November, 1731. Occasioned by rsading the following maxim in Rochefoucauld : " Dans I'adver- si^e de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons toujours quelquo chose qui ne nous dt'plait pas." "In tl adversity of our best friends we always find something that does not displease us." As Eocliefoucauld his maxims drew From nature. I believe them true. They argue no corrupted mind In him ; the fault is in mankind. This maxim, more than all the rest. Is thought too base for human breast : *' In all distresses of our friends We first consult our private ends ; While nature, kindly bent to ease us. Points out some circumstance to please us. K this, perhaps, your patience move. Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equals raised above our size. Who vs^ould not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low ? I love my friend as well as you : But why should he obstruct my view ? Then let me have the higher post. Suppose it but an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One whom you love of all mankind Ilad some heroic action done, A champion kill'd, or trophy won, Eather than thus be overtopped, Would you not wish his laurels cropped ? Dear honest Ned is in the gout. Lies rack'd with pain, and you without. How patiently you hear him groan ! How glad the case is not your own ! 15 " The versss on his death, and the " Rhapsody on Poetry," are the best of Swift's poetical productions, though they cannot be called true poetry." — Dr. Warton. 13G The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Wliat poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he. But, rather than they should excel, Would wish his rivals all in hell ? Her end when Emulation misses, She turns to Envy, sting-s and hisses ; The strongest friendship yields to pride. Unless the odds be on our side. Vain humankind ! fantastic race ! Thy various follies who can trace ? Self-love, ambition, envy, joride, Their empire in our hearts divide ; Give others riches, power, and station, '*Tis all on me a usurpation. I have no title to asi:)ire. Yet when you sink I seem the higher. In Pope I cannot read a line. But with a sigh I wish it mine. When he can in one couj^let iix More sense than I can do in six, It gives me such a jealous fit, I cry, '-'Pox take him and his wit !" I grieve to be outdone by Gay In my own, humorous, biting way. Arbuthnot is no more my friend, Who dares to irony jiretend, Which I was born to introduce. Refined it first, and show'd its use. St. John, as well as Pultenev, knows That I had some repute for jorose, And, till they drove me out of date. Could maul a minister of state. If they have mortified my pride, And made me throw my pen aside — If with such talents Heaven has bless'd 'em- Have I not reason to detest 'em ? To all my foes, dear Fortune, send Thy gifts, but never to my friend. I tamely can endure the first ; But this with envy makes me burst. yonathan Swift, D.D. T37 Tlins much may serve by -way of proem ; Proceed we therefore to our poem. * The time is uot remote when I Must, by the course of nature, die \ When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends, And, though 'tis hardly understood Which way my death can do them good. Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak : '•'See how the Dean begins to break ! Poor gentleman, he droops apace ! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays; He recollects not what he says ; He cannot call his friends to mind ; Forgets the place where last ho dined ; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er ; He told them fifty times before. How docs he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit ? But he takes up with younger folks. Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith ! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter ; In half the time he talks them round There must another set be found. *' For poetry he's past his prime ; He takes an hour to find a rhyme. His fire is out, his wit decay'd. His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen ; Bat there's no talking to some men !" And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years : " He's older than he would be reckoned. And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine. And that, I doubt, is no good sign. 1 18 The Pi'ose and Poetry of Ireland. His stomac'tt, too, begins to fail ; # Last year we thought him jiirong and hale, But now he's quite another thing; I wish he may hold out till spring ! " They hug themselves, and reason thus : ''It is not yet so bad with us ! " In such a case they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, ]^o enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess. The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'yes come of course, And servants answer, " Worse and worse !") Would please them better than to tell That " God be praised, the Dean is well." Then he who prophesied the best Approves his foresight to the rest : " You know I always fear'd the worst. And often told you so at first." He'd rather choose that I should die Than his prediction prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover ; But all agree to give me over. Yet, should some neighbor feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain. How many a message would he send ! What heartv pravcrs that I should mend ! Enquire what regimen I kept. What gave me ease, and how I slept. And more lament when I vras dead Than all the snivellers round my bed. My good companions, never fear ; For though you may mistake a year. Though your prognostics run too fast They must be verified at last. Behold the fatal day arrive ! " How is the Dean ? " " He's just alive." Xow the departing prayer is read j ''He hardly breathes." " The Dean is dead I " yonatha7i Swift, D.D. 139 Before the passing bell begun The news through half the town is run. *' Oh ! may we all for death prepare. What has he left ? and who's his heir ?" *'I know no more than what the news is;' 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses." ^'To public uses ! There's a whim ! What had the public done for him ? Mere envy, avarice, and pride ! He gave it all — but first he died. And had the Dean in all the nation No worthy friend, ilo poor relation ? So ready to do strangers good, Forsfettino: his own flesh and blood ! " ISTow Grub Street wits are all employed ; '* With elegies the town is cloy'd ; Some paragraph in every paper To curse the Dean or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame. Wisely on me lay all the blame : *' We must confess his case was nice ; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears He might have lived these twenty years. For when we open'd him we found That all his vital parts were sound." From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court '' The Dean is dead," And Lady Suffolk," in the spleen, Euns laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good. Cries, '' Is he gone ? 'Tis time he should. He's dead, you say ; then let him rot ! I'm glad the medals '^ were forgot. I promised him, I own ; but when ? I only was the princess then ; " The Dean supposed himself to die in Ireland, where he was born. 1' Mrs. Howard, at one time a favorite with the Dean. »8 The medals were to be sent to the Dean in four months ; but . I40 The Prose and Poetry of Irclaucl But now, as consort of the king, You know 'tis quite another thing." Now Chartres," at Sir Eobert's levee. Tells with a sneer tlie tidings heavy. *' Why, if he died without his shoes," Cries Bob,'"' " I'm sorry for the news. Oh ! were the v/rctch but linng still. And in his place my good friend Will," Or had a mitre on his head. Provided Bolingbroke "" were dead." IsTow Curll" his shop from rubbish drains; Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains ! And then to make them pass the glibber, Kevised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Gibber.''* He'll treat me as he does my betters : Publish my will, my life, my letters ;" Eevivc the libels born to die. Which Pope must bear as well as I. Hero shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope would grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, *' I'm sorry — but we all must die ! " Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise. All fortitude of mind supplies ; 1' Chartres, an infamous scoundrel, grown from a footboy to a prodigious fortune, both in England and Scotland. =" Sir Roberi Walpolc, Chief Minister of State, treated the Dean in 1726 -with great dis- tinction ; invited him to dinner at Chelsea, with the Dean's friends chosen on purpos3 ; appointed an hoar to talk with him on Ireland, to which kingdom and people the Dean found him no great friend. 21 Mr. WUliam Pultney, from being Sir Robert's intimate friend, detesting his adminis- tration, opposed his measures, and joined with my Lord Bolingbroke. '-" Henry St. John, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, Secretary of State to Queen Anne, of blessed memory. "2 Curll hath been the most infamous bookseller of any age or country. -* Three stupid verse-writers in London ; the last, to the shame of the court and tlie disgrace to wit and learning, was made Laureate. "-'■> Curll, notoriously infamous for publishing the lives, letters, and last wills and testa- ments of the nobility and .ministers of state, as well as of all the rogues who are hanged at Tyburn. Jonathan Swifts D.D. 141 For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt ? AYhen we are lash'd, they kiss the rod, Eesigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year. Are tortur'd with suspense and fear, • Who wisely thought my age a screen When death approach'd to stand between, The screen removed, their hearts are trembling ; They mourn for mc without dissembling. Mv female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Eeceive the news in doleful dumj)s : "The Dean is dead ! (Pray, Avhat is tramps?) Then Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole. ) (Six deans, they say, must l^oar the pall. (I wish I knew what king to call. ) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend. No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight ; And he's engaged to-morrow night. My Lady Club will take it ill If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved the Dean (I loud a heart) ; But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come ; he ran his race ; We hope he's in a better place." Why do we grieve that friends should die ? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past ; a different scene ! No further mention of the Dean, Who now, alas ! no more is miss'd Than if he never did exist. Where's now this favorite of Apollo ? Departed — and his works must follow. Must undergo the common fate ; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country squire to Lintot goes, Enquires for '' Swift in Verse and Prose." 14.2 The Prose and Poehy of Ireland. Says Liiitot, "I have licard the name; He died a year ago ?"' — " The same." He searches all the shoj^s in vain. " Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane; " I sent them with a load of books, * Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year ! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time. And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past ; The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff. But spick and span I have enough. Pray do but give me leave to show 'em ; Here's Colley Gibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen. By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penn'd Against the Craftsman and his friend ; It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Eobert's vindication,"' And Mr. Henley's last oration. ^^ The hawkers have not got them yet ; Your honor please to buy a set ? *' Here's Wolston's ^^ tracts, the twelfth edition-" ■*Tis read by every politician ; The country members, when in town. To all their boroughs send them down. You never met a thing so smart ; The courtiers have them all by heart ; Those maids of honor who can read Are taught to use them for their creed. 25 Where old books are sold. 2^ Walpole had a set of party scribblers, who did nothing but -wTito in his defence. -8 Henley, a clergyman, who, wanting both merit and luck to get preferment, or even to keep his curacy in the Established Church, formed a new conventicle, which he called an Oratory. -» Wolston, a clergyman, who, for want of bread, in several treatises, in the most blas- phemous manner, attempted to turn our Saviour's miracles into ridicule. Jonathan Swift, D.D. 143 The reverend author's good intention Has been rewarded Avith a pension. " He does an honor to his gown By bravely running priestcraft down. He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor ; That all his miracles were cheats, Perform'd as jugglers do their feats. The church had never such a writer ; A shame he has not got a mitre ! " Suppose me dead, and then suppose A club assembled at the Eose, Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat ; And while they toss my name about, With favor some, and some without. One quite indifferent in the cause My character impartial draws : ** The Dean, if we believe report. Was never ill-received at court. As for his works in verse and prose, I own myself no judge of those, Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em ; But this I know, all people bought 'em. As with a moral view design'd To cure the vices of mankind. His vein, ironically grave, Expos'd the fool and lash'd the knave. To steal a hint was never known. But what he writ was all his own. *' He never thought an honor done hiin Because a duke was proud to own him ; Would rather slip aside and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes ; Despised the fools with stars and garters So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station ; Ko persons held in admiration ; so Wolston is here confounded with Woolaston. 144 ^^^ Prose and Poetry of Irelanel. Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he souglit for no man's aid. Tliougli trusted long in great affairs. He gave himself no haughty airs ; Without regarding private ends. Spent all his credit for his friends. And only chose the wise and good — ]S[o flatterers ; no allies in blood ; But succor'd yirtue in distress. And seldom fail'd of good success. As numbers in their hearts must own. Who but for him had been unknown.'' '' With princes kept a due decorum. But never stood in awe before 'em. He follow'd David's lesson just — In princes never put thy trust ; And would you make him truly sour. Provoke him with a slave in power. The Irish Senate if you named. With what impatience he declaim'd ! * Fair Liberty ' was all his cry, For her he stood prepared to die ; For her he boldly stood alone ; For her he oft exposed his own. Two kingdoms," just as faction led. Had set a price upon his head ; But not a traitor could be found Could sell him for six hundred pound. "Had he but spared his tongue and pen. He might have rose like other men ; But power was never in his thought. And wealth he valued not a cToat. " Dr. Dalany, in the close of his eighth letter, after haying enumerated the friends with whom the Dean lived in the greatest intimacy, very handsomely applies this passage to himself. .t- o =- In iri3 the queen was prevailed with, by an address from the House of Lords in Eng- land, to publish a proclamation, promising £.300 to discover the author of a pamphlet caUed^'The PubUc Spirit of the Whigs " ; and in Ireland, in the year ITiU, Lord Carteret, a. hisSrst coming into the Government, was prevailed on to issue a proclamation for promising the like reward of £000 to any person who would discover the author of a pam- phlet called "The Drapiers Fourth Letter." Jonathan Swift, DJ). 145 Ingratitude he often found. And pitied those who meant the wound ; But kept the tenor of liis mind. To merit well of humankind ; Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true to please his foes. He labor'd many a fruitless hour To reconcile his friends in power ; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursued each other's ruin. But finding vain was all his care. He left the court in mere desj)air." '^ And oh ! hoAY short are human schemes. Here ended all our golden dreams. What St. John's skill in state affairs. What Ormond's valor, Oxford's cares. To save their sinking country lent. Was all destroyed by one event. Too soon that precious life Avas ended. On which alone our weal depended. °* When up a dangerous faction starts," With wrath and vengeance in their hearts By solemn league and covenant bound To ruin, slaughter, and confound ; To turn religion to a fable. And make the Government a Babel ; Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown — Corrupt the senate, rob the crown ; To sacrifice Old England's glory. And make her infamous in story — When such a tempest shook the land. How could unguarded'Virtue stand ? With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene ; His friends in exile or the Tower, Himself ^^ within the frown of power ; '■' Queen Ann's ministry fell to variance from the first year after its commencement. »< In the height of the quarrel between the ministers the queen died, August 1, 1714. ''■• On the queon"s demise tbo Whigs were restored to power. '" Upon the queen's doath the Dean returned to Dublin. J 146 The Prose and Poehy of Ireland. Pursued by base envenom'd pens Far to the land of saints and fens — A servile race in folly nursed, \Yho truckle most when treated worst. " By innocence and resolution He bore continual persecution, AVliile numbers to preferment rose Whose merits were to be his foes ; When even his own familiar friends. Intent upon their private ends. Like renegadoes now he feels Against him lifting up their heels. ''The Dean did by his pen defeat An infamous, destructive cheat ; " Taught fools their interest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow. Envy has own'd it was his doing To save that hapless land from ruin : While they who at the steerage stood, And reap'd the profit, sought his blood. " To save them from their evil fate In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench,°* Whose fury blood could never quench — As vile and profligate a villain 3a As modern Scroggs or old Tresilian ; Who long all justice had discarded, Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded, Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent. And make him of his zeal repent ; But Heaven his innocence defends. The grateful people stand his friends. Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, 5' Wood, a hardware man from England, had a patent for coining copper halfpence for Ireland, to the sum of £180,000 which, in the consequence, must have left that kingdom without gold or silver. «8 Whitshee was then Chief-Justice, s» Sir William Scroggs, Chief-Justice of the King's Bench in the reign of King Charles II. and Sir Robert Tresilian, Chief-Justice of England in the time of Richard II. yonathan Swift, D.D. 147 Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd, Prevail to bring him in convict. "In exile, with a steady heart. He spent his life's declining part, Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Eemotc from St. John, Pope, and Gay. His friendships there, to few confined. Were always of the middling kind — No fools of rank, a mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed ; Where titles give no right or power. And peerage is a wither'd flower ; He would have held it a disgrace If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane. He vented oft his wratli in vain ; . . . squires to market brought, Who sell their souls and . . . for naught. The ... go joyful back. The , . . the church their tenants rack. Go snacks with . . . And keep the peace to pick up fees ; In every job to have a share, A jail or turnpike to repair, And turn the tax for public roads Commodious to their own abodes. " Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein. And seemed determined not to starve it. Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim ; He lashed the vice, but spared the name ; No individual could resent Where thousands equally were meant. His satire points at no defect But what all mortals may correct; Por he abhorr'd that senseless tribe Who call it humor when they gibe : He spared a hump or crooked nose Whose owners set not up for beaux. 148 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. True genuine dulness moved his pity, Unless it offered to be witty. Those who their ignorance confess'd He ne'er offended Avith a jest; But hiugh'd to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learned by rote. " He knew a hundred pleasing stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories ; Was cheerful to his dying day, And friends would let him have his way. " He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools arid mad ; And show'd by one satiric touch No nation wanted it so much. Tliat kingdom he had left his debtor ; I wish it soon may have a better." GULLIVER'S TRAVELS. A YOTAGE TO LILLIPUT. Gulliver gives some account of himself and family — His first inducements to travel — He is shipwrecked and swims for his life — Gets safe on shore in the country of Lilliput — Is made a prisoner and carried up the country. My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire ; I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College, in Cambridge, at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and ajiplied my- self close to my studies ; but the charge of maintaining me, al- though I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years ; my father now and then sending me small sums of money, I laid them out in learning navigation and other parts of the mathematics useful to those who intend to travel, as I always believed it would be, some time or other, my fortune to do. When I left Mr. Bates I went down to my father, where, by the assistance of him and my Uncle John, and some other relations, I got forty pounds, and a promise of thirty pounds a year to maintain me at Leyden. There I studied physic two years and seven months, knowing it would be useful in long voyages. GULLIVER IN LILLIPUT. yonathan Swift, D.D. 149 Soon after my return from Leyden I was recommended by my good master, Mr. Bates, to be surgeon to the iSwalloio, Captain Abraham Paunel, commander, with whom I continued three years and a half, making a voyage or two into the Levant and some other parts. When I came back I resolved to settle in London, to which Mr. Bates, my master, encouraged me, and by him I was recom- mended to several patients. I took part of a small house in the Old Jewry, and, being advised to alter my condition, I married Miss Mary Burton, second daughter to Mr. Edmund Burton, hosier, in Newgate Street, with whom I received four hundred pounds for a portion. But my good master, Bates, dying in two years after, and I having few friends, my business began to fail ; for my conscience would not suffer mo to imitate the bad practice of too many among my brethren. Having therefore consulted with my wife and some of my acquaintances, I determined to go again to sea. I was surgeon successively in two ships, and made several voyages, for six years, to the East and West Indies, by which I got some addition to my for- tune. My hours of leisure I spent in reading the best authors, ancient and modern, being always provided with a good number of books, and, when I was ashore, in observing the manners and dis- positions of the people, as well as learning their language, wherein I had a great facility, by the strength of my memory. The last of these voyages not proving very fortunate, I grew weary of the sea, and intended to stay at home Avitli my wife and family. I removed from the Old Jewry to Fetter Lane, and from thence to Wapping, hoping to get business among the sailors ; but it would not turn to account. After three years' expectation that things would mend, I accepted an advantageons offer from Captain William Prichard, master of the Antelope, who was making a voy- age to tha South Sea. We set sail from Bristol, May 4, 1G99, and our voyage at first was very prosperous. It would not be proper, for some reasons, to trouble the reader with the particulars of our adventures in those seas ; let it suflQce to inform him that, in our passage from thence to the East Indies, we were driven by a violent storm to the northwest of Van Diemcn's Land. By an observation wo found ourselves in the latitude of 30° 2' south. Twelve of our crew were dead by immoderate labor and ill food ; the rest were in a very weak condition. On the 5tli of November, which was the beginning of summer in those parts. 1 50 The Prose mid Poetry of Ireland. tho weather being very liazy, the seamen spied a roclc within half a cable's-length of the ship ; but the wind was so strong that we were driven directly upon it, and imme lately split. Six of the crew, of whom I was one, having let down the boat into the sea, made a shift to get clear of the ship and the rock. We rowed, by my com- putation, about three leagues, till we were able to work no longer, being already spent with labor while we were in the ship. We therefore trusted ourselves to the mercy of the waves, and in about half an hour the boat was overset by a sudden flurry from the north. What became of my companions in the boat, as well as of those who escaped on the rock or were left in the vessel, I cannot tell, but conclude they were all lost. For my own part, I swam as Fortune directed me, and was pushed forward by wind and tide. I often let my legs drop, and could feel no bottom ; but when I was almost gone, and able to struggle no longer, I found myself within my depth, and by this time the storm was much abated. The declivity was so small that I walked near a mile before I got to the shore, Avhich I conjectured was about eight o'clock in the evening. I then advanced forward near half a mile, but could not discover any sign of houses or inliabitauts, at least I was in so weak a condition that I did not observe them. I was extremely tired, and with that and the heat of the weather, and about half a pint of brandy that I drank as I left the ship, I found myself much inclined to sleep. I lay down on the grass, which was very short and soft, where 1 slept sounder than I ever remembered to have done in my life, and, as I reckoned, about nine hours, for when I awaked it was Just daylight. I attempted to rise, but was not able to stir ; for, as I happened to lie on my back, I found my arms and legs were strongly fastened on each side to the ground, and my hair, which was long and thick, tied down in the same manner. I likewise felt several slender liga- tures across my body, from my arm-pits to my thighs. I could only look upwards ; the sun began to grow hot and the light offended my eyes. I hetyd a confused noise about me, but, in the posture I lay, could see nothing except the sky. In a little time I felt something alive moving on my left leg, which, advancing gently forward over my breast, came almost to my chin, when, bending my eyes down- ward as much as I could, I perceived it to be a human creature not six inches high, with a bow and arrow in his hands and a quiver at his back. In the meantime I felt at least forty more of the same kind (as I conjectured) following the first. I was in the utmost Jo7iatJiaii Swift, D.D. 151 astonishment, and roared so loud that they all ran back in a fright, and some of them, as I was afterwards told, were hurt with the fulls they got by leaping from my sides uj)on the ground. However, they soon returned, and one of them, who ventured so far as to get a full sight of my face, lifting up his hands and eyes by way of ad- miration, cried out, in a shrill but distinct voice, Hehinah degul ; the others repeated the same words several times, but I then knew not what they meant. I lay all this while, as the reader may be- lieve, in great uneasiness. At length, struggling to get loose, I had the fortune to break the strings and wrench out the pegs that fastened my left arm to the ground ; for, by lifting it up to my face, I discovered the metliods they had taken to bind me, and, at the same time, with a violent pull which gave me excessive pain, I a little loosened the string that tied down my hair on the left side^ so that I was Just able to turn my head about two inches. But the creatures ran otf a second time before I could seize them ; where- upon there was a great shout, in a very shrill accent, and, after it ceased, I heard one of them cry aloud, ToJgo plionac, when, in an instant, I felt above a hundred arrows discharged on my left hand, wliich pricked me like so many needles, and, besides, they shot an- other flight into the air, as we do bombs in Europe, whereof many, I suppose, fell on my body (though I felt them not), and some on my face, which I immediately covered with my left hand. When this shower of arrows was over, I fell a-groaning with grief and pain ; and then, striving again to get loose, they discharged another volley, larger than the first, and some of them attempted with spears to stick me in the sides ; but, by good luck, I had on me a buff jerkin, which they could not pierce. I thought it the most prudent method to lie still ; and my design was to continue so till night, when, my left hand being already loose, I could easily free myself ; and as for the inhabitants, I had reason to believe I might be a match for the greatest army they could bring against me, if they were all the same size with him that I saw. But fortune dis- posed otherwise of me. When the people observed I was quiet, they discharged no more arrows, but by the noise I heard I knew their numbers increased ; and about four yards from me, over against my right ear, I heard a knocking for above an hour, like that of people at Avork, when, turning my head that way as well as the pegs and strings would permit me, I saw a stage erected about a foot and a half from the ground, capable of holding four of the iuhabitants. 152 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. with two or three ladders to mount it, from whence one of them, who seemed to be a person of quality, made me a long speech, whereof I understood not one syllable. But I should have men- tioned that before the principal person began his oration he cried out three times, Langro dehul san (these words and the former were afterwards repeated and explained to me) ; whereupon, imme- diately, about fifty of the inhabitants came and cut the. strings that fastened the left side of my head, wliich gave me the liberty of turning it to the right, and of observing the person and gesture of him that was to speak. He appeared to be of a middle age, and taller than any of the other three who attended him, whereof one was a page that held up his train, and seemed to* be somewhat longer than my middle finger ; the other two stood the one on eacli side to support him. He acted every part of an orator, and I could observe many periods of threatenings, and others of promises, pity, and kindness. I answered in a few words, but in the most submis- sive manner, lifting up my left hand and both my eyes to the sun, as calling him for a witness ; and being almost famished with hun- ger, having not eaten a morsel for some hours before I lef C the ship, I found the demands of nature so strong upon me that I could not forbear showing my impatience (perhaps against the strict rules of decency) by putting my finger frequently to my mouth, to signify tliat I wanted food. The Jmrgo (for so they called a great lord, as I afterwards learned) understood me very well. He descended from the stage and commanded that several ladders should be apj)lied to my sides, on which above a hundred of the inhabitants mounted and walked towards my mouth, laden with baskets full of meat, which had been provided and sent thitlicr by the king's orders, upon the first intelligence he received of me. I observed there was the flesh of several animals, but could not distinguish them by the taste. There were shoulders, legs, and loins, shaped like those of mutton and very well dressed, but smaller than the wings of a lark. I eat them by two or three at a mouthful, and took three loaves at a time about the bigness of musket-bullets. They supplied me as fast as they could, showing a thousand marks 01 wonder and aston- ishment at my bnlk and appetite. I then made another sign, that I wanted drink. They found by my eating that a small quantity would not suffice me, and, being a most ingenious people, they slung up, with great dexterity, one of their largest hogsheads, then rolled it towards my hand and beat out the top ; I drank it off at a Jojiathan Swift, D.D. 153 dranglit, -which I might well do, for it did not hold half a pint and tasted like a small wine of Burgundy, but much more delicious. They brought me a second hogshead, which I drank m the same manner and made sis^ns for more, but thev had none to orive me. When I had performed these wonders they shouted for joy and danced upon my breast, repeating several times, as they did at first, Ilekinah degul. They made me a sign that I should throw down the two hogsheads, but first warning the people how to stand out of the way, crying aloud, Borach movolah ; and wlien they saw the vessels in the air there was a universal shout of Ilekinah dcgul. I confess I was often tempted, while they were passing backwards and forwards on my body, to seize forty or fifty of the first that came in my reach and dash them against the ground. But the remembrance of what I had felt, which probably might not be the worst they could do, and the promise of honor I made them — for so I inter- preted my submissive behavior — soon drove out these imaginations. Besides, I now considered myself as bound by the laws of hospitality to a people who had treated me with so much expense and magnifi- cence. However, in my thoughts I could not sufficiently wonder at the intrepidity of these diminutive mortals, wlio durst venture to mount and walk upon my body, while one of my hands was at liberty, without trembling at the very sight of so prodigious a creature as I must appear to them. After some time, when they observed that I made no more demands for meat, there appeared before me a person of high rank from his imperial majesty. His excellency, having mounted on the small of ray right leg, advanced forwards up to my face, witli about a dozen of his retinue, and, producing his credentials, under the signet-royal, which he applied close to my eyes, spoke about ten minutes without any signs of anger, but with a kind of determined resolution, often pointing forwards, which, as I afterwards found, was towards the capital city, about half a mile distant, whither it was agreed by his majesty in council that I must be conveyed. I answered in a few words, but to no purpose, and made a sign with my hand that was loose, putting it to the other (but over his excellency's head, for fear of hurting him or his train) and then to my own head and body, to signify that I desired my liberty. It appeared that he understood me well enough, for lie shook his head by way of disapprobation, and held his hand in a posture to show that I must be carried as a prisoner. • However, he made other signs, to let me know that I 1 54 The Prose and Poeiry of Ireland, should have meat and drink enough, and very good treatment. AVherenpon I once more thought of attempting to break my bonds; but again, when I felt the smart of the arrows upon my face and hands, which vs^ore all in blisters, and many of the darts still stick- ing in thera, and observing likewise tliat the number of my enemies increased, I gave tokens to let them know that they might do with me what they pleased. Ujoon this tlie liurgo and his train with- drew, Avith mnch civility and cheerful countenances. Soon after- wards I heard a general shout with frequent repetitions of the Avords, Peplora selan ; and I felt great numbers of people on my left side, relaxing the cords to such a degree that I was able to turn upon my right and to ease myself with making Avater, which I A'ery plentifully did, to the great astonishment of the peo- ple, Avho, conjecturing by my motion Avhat I was going to do, im- mediately opened to the right and left on that side to avoid the torrent, Avhich fell with noise and violence from me. But before this they had daubed my face and both my hands Avith a sort of ointment, very pleasant to the smell, which, in a few minutes, re- raoA'ed all the smart of their arroAvs. These circumstances, added to the refreshment I had received by their victuals and drink, which Avere very nourishing, disposed me to sleep. I slept about eight liours, as I Avas afterAvards assured ; and it was no wonder, for the physicians, by the emperor's order, had mingled a sleepy potion in the hogsheads of Avino. It seems that, upon the first moment I was discovered sleeping on the ground after my landing, the emperor had early notice of it by an express, and determined, in council, that I should be tied in the manner I have related (which Avas done in the night: while I slept), that plenty of meat and drink sliould be sent to me, and a machine prepared to carry me to the capital city. This resolution, perhaps, may appear very bold and dangerous, and, I am confident, AA'ould not be imitated by any prince in Europe on the like occasion. However, in my opinion, it was ex- tremely prudent, as Avell as generous ; for, supposing these people had endeavored to kill me with their spears and arrows Avhile I was asleep, I should certainly have awaked with the first sense of smart, which might so far have roused my rage and strength as to haA'e enabled me to bronk the strings wherewith I was tied; after which, as they were not able to make resistance, so they could expect no mercy. yonathan Swift ^ D.D. 155 These people are most excellent matliematiciaus, and arrived to a great j)erfection in mechanics, by the conntcuance and encour- agement of the emperor, who is a renowned patron of learning. This prince has several machines fixed on wheels for the carriage of trees and other great weights. He often builds his largest men- of-war, whereof some are nine feet long, in the woods where the tim- ber grows, and has them carried on these engines three or four hun- dred yards to the sea. Five hundred carpenters and engineers were immediately set at work to prepare the greatest engine they had. It was a frame of wood raised three inches from the ground, about seven feet long and four wide, moving upon twenty-two wheels. The shout I heard was upon the arrival of this engine, which, it seems, set out in four hours after my landing. It was brought parallel to me as I lay. But the principal difficulty was to raise and place me in this vehicle. Eighty poles, each of one foot high, were erected for this j^urpose, and very strong cords, of the bigness of pack-thread, were fastened by hooks to many bandages which the workmen had girt round my neck, my hands, my body, and my legs. Nine hundred of the strongest men were employed to draw up these cords, by many pulleys fastened on the poles ; and thus, in less than three hours, I was raised and slung into the engine, and there tied fast. All this I was told; for, while the whole operation was performing, I lay in a profound sleep, by the force of that soporiferous medicine infused into my liquor. Fifteen hundred of the emperor's largest horses, each about four inches and a half high, were employed to draw me towards the metropolis, which, as I said, was half a mile distant. About foar hours after Ave began our journey, I awaked by a very ridiculous accident ; for the carriage being stopped a while, to adjust something that was out of order, two or three of the young natives had the curiosity to see how I looked when I was asleep; they climbed up into the engine, and, advancing very softly to my face, one of them, an officer in the guards, jjut the sharp end of his half-pike a good way up into my left nostril, whicli tickled my nose like a straw, and made me sneeze violently; whereupon they stole off unperceived, and it was three weeks before I knew the cause of my waking so suddenly. We made a long march the re- maining part of, the day, and rested at night with five hundred guards on each side of me, half with torches, and half with bows and arrows, ready to shoot me if I should offer to stir. The next 156 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. morning at sunrise we continued our march, and arrived within two hundred yards of the city gates about noon. The emperor and all his court came out to meet us ; but his great officers would by no means suffer his majesty to endanger his person by mounting on my body. At the place where the carriage stopped there stood an ancient temjile, esteemed to be the largest in the whole kingdom ; which, having been polluted some years before by an unnatural murder, was, according to the zeal of those people, looked upon as profane, and therefore had been applied to common use, and all the orna- ments and furniture carried away. In this edifice it was determined I should lodge. The great gate fronting to the north was about four feet high, and almost two feet wide, through which I could easily creep. On each side of the gate was a small window, not above six inches from the ground : into that on the left side the king's smith conveyed four score and eleven chains, like those that hang to a lady's watch in Europe, and almost as large, which were locked to my left leg with six-and-thirty padlocks. Over against this temple, on the other side of the great highway, at twenty feet distance, there was a turret at least five feet high. Here the emperor as- cended, with many principal lords of his court, to have an oppor- tunity of viewing me, as I was told, for I could not see them. It was reckoned that above a hundred thousand inhabitants came out of the town upon the same errand ; and, in sjoite of my guards, I believe there could not be fewer than ten thousand at several times, who mounted my body by the help of ladders. But a pro- clamation was soon issued to forbid it upon pain of death. When the workmen found it was impossible for me to break loose, they cut all the strings that bound me ; whereupon I rose up with as melancholy a disposition as ever I had in my life. But the noise and astonishment of the people at seeing me rise and walk are not to be expressed. The chains that held my left leg were about two yards long, and gave me not only the liberty of walking backwards and forwards in a semicircle, but, being fixed within four inches of the gate, allowed me to creep in, and lie at my full length in the temple." *" After a number of wonderful adventures related in eight chapters, of which the foregoing is the first, Gulliver escaped froai Lilliput and returned home. yonathan Sivift^ D.D. 157 A VOYAGE TO BROBDINGNAG. A ^eat storm described, the long-boat sent to fetch water— Gulliver goes with it to discover the country — He is left on shore, is seized by one of the natives, and carried to a farmer's house— His reception, with several accidents that happened there — A description of the inhabitants. Having been condemned by nature and fortune to an active and restless life, in two months after my return I again left my native country and took shipping in the Downs on the 20th day of June, 1702, in the Adventure, Captain John Nicholas, a Cornishman, commander, bound for Surat. We liad a very prosperous gale till we arrived at the Cape of Good Hope, where we landed for fresh water ; but, discovering a leak, we unshipped our goods and win- tered there ; for the captain, falling sick of an ague, we could not leave the Cape till the end of March. We then set sail, and had a good voyage till we passed the Straits of Madagascar ; but hav- ing got northward of that island and to about live degrees south latitude, the winds, which in those seas are observed to blow a con- stant equal gale between the north and west, from the beginning of December to the beginning of May, on the 19th of April began to blow with much greater violence, and more westerly than usual, continuing so for twenty days together, during which time we were driven a little to the east of the Molucca Islands and about three degrees northward of the line, as our captain found by an observation he took the 2nd of May, at which time the wind ceased, and it was a perfect calm, Avhereat I was not a little re- joiced. But he, being a man well experienced in the navigation of those seas, bid us all prepare against a storm, which accordingly happened tlie day following ; for the southern wind, called the southern monsoon, began to set in. Finding it was likely to overblow [what follows is a hapj^y parody of the sea-terms in old voyages], we took in our spritsail and stood to hand the foresail ; but, making foul weather, we looked the guns were all fast, and handed the mizzen. The ship lay very broad off, so we thought it better spooning before the sea than trying or hulling. We reefed the foresail, and set him, and hauled aft the foresheet ; the helm was hard-a-weather. The ship wore bravely. We belayed the fore-downhaul ; but the sail was split, and we hauled down the yard and got the sail into the ship, and unbound all the things clear of it. It was a very fierce storm; 158 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. the sea broke strange and dangerous. We hauled off upon the lanyard of the whipstaif and helped the man at the helm. We could not get down our topmast, but let all stand, because she scudded before the sea very well, and we knew that the topmast being aloft the ship was the wholesomer, and made better way through the sea, seeing we had sea-room. When the storm was over we set foresail and mainsail, and brought the ship to. Then we set the mizzen, maintopsail, and the foretopsail. Our course was east-north-east, the wind was at southwest. We got the star- board tacks aboard, we cast off our weather-braces and lifts, we set-in the lee-braces and hauled forward by the weather-bowlings, and hauled them tight, and belayed them, and hauled over the mizzen tack to windward, and kept her full and by as near as she would lie. During this storm, which was followed by a strong wind west- south-west, we were carried, by my computation, about five hun- dred leagues to the east, so that the eldest sailor on board could not tell in what part of the world we were. Our provisions held out well, our ship was stanch, and our crew all in good health ; but we lay in the utmost distress for water. We thought it best to hold on the same course rather than turn more northerly, which might have brought us to the northwest part of Oreat Tartary and into the Frozen Sea. On the 16 til day of June, 1703, a boy on the topmast discovered land. On the 17th we came in full view of a great island or conti- nent (for we knew not whether), on the south side whereof was a small neck of land jutting out into the sea, and a creek too shallow to hold a ship of above one hundred tons. We cast anchor within a league of this creek, and our captain sent a dozen of his men well armed in the long-boat, with vessels for water, if any could be found. I desired his leave to go with them that I might see the country and make what discoveries I could. When we came to land we saw no river or S2:)ring nor any sign of inhabitants. Our men, therefore, wandered on the shore to find out some fresh water near the sea, and I walked alone about a mile on the other side, where I observed the country all barren and rocky. I now began to be weary, and, seeing nothing to entertain my curiosity, I re- turned gently down towards the creek, and, the sea being full in my view, I saw our men already got into the boat and rowing for life to the shi]^. I was going to holloa after them, although it had yonathan Szvift, D.D. i^g been to little purpose, when I observed a huge creature walking after them in the sea as fast as he could ; he "waded not much deeper than his knees, and took jDrodigious strides ; but our men had the start of him half a league, and the sea thereabouts being full of sharp-pointed rocks, the monster was not able to overtake the boat. This I vras afterwards told, for I durst not stay to see the issue of the adventure, but ran as fast as I could the w^ay I first wont, and then climbed up a steep hill which gave me some pros- pect of the country. I found it fully cultivated ; but that which first surprised me was the length of the grass, w^hich, in those gTounds that seemed to be kept for hay, was about twenty feet high. I fell into a high road, for sO I took it to be, though it served to the inhabitants only as a footpath through a field of barley. Here I walked on for some time, but could see little on either side, it being now near harvest, and the corn rising at least forty feet. I was an hour walking to the end of this field, which was fenced in with a hedge of at least one hundred and twenty feet high, and the trees so lofty that I could make no computation of their altitude. There was a stile to pass from this field into the next. It had four steps and a stone to cross over when you came to the uppermost. It was impossible for me to climb this stile, because every steji was six feet high, and the U2:)per stone about twenty. I was endeavor- ing to find some gap in the hedge when I discovered one of the inhabitants in the next field, advancing towards the stile, of the same size with him whom I saw in the sea pursuing our boat. He appeared as tall as an ordinary spire-steeple, and took about ten yards at every stride, as near as I could guess. I was struck with the utmost fear and astonishment, and ran to hide myself in the corn, whence I saw him at the top of the stile, looking back into the next field on the right hand, and heard, him call in a voice many degrees louder than a speaking-trumpet ; but the noise was so high in the air that at first I certainly thought it was thunder. Whereupon seven monsters, like himself, came towards him with reaping-hooks in their hands, each hook about the largeness of six scythes. These people were not so well clad as the first, whose servants or laborers they seemed to be ; for upon some words he spoke they went to reap the corn in the field where I lay. I kept from them at as great a distance as I could, but was forced to move with extreme difficulty, for the stalks of the corn were sometimes 1 60 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. not above a foot distant, so that I could hardly squeeze my body betwixt them. However, I made a shift to go forward till I came to a part of the field where the corn had been laid by the rain and wind. Here it was impossible for me to advance a step, for the stalks were so interwoven that I could not creep through, and the beards of the fallen ears so strong and pointed that they pierced through my clothes into my flesh. At the same time I heard the reapers not above a hundred yards behind me. Being quite dis- pirited with toil, and wholly overcome by grief and desjmir, I lay down between two ridges and heartily wished I might there end my days. I bemoaned my desolate widow and fatherless children. I lamented my own folly and wilfulness in attempting a second voyage, against the advice of all my friends and relations. In this terrible agitation of mind I could not forbear thinking of Lilliput, whoso inhabitants looked upon me as the greatest prodigy that ever ap- peared in the world ; where I was able to draw an imj^erial fleet in my hand and perform those other actions which will be recorded for ever in the chronicles of that empire, while posterity shall hardly believe them, although attested by millions. I reflected what a mortification it must prove to me to appear as inconsiderable in this nation as one single Lilliputian would be among us. But this I conceived was to be the least, of my misfortunes; for, as human creatures are observed to be more savage and cruel in pro- portion to their bulk, what could I expect but to be a morsel in the mouth of the first among these enormous barbarians that should happen to seize me ? Undoubtedly philosophers are in the right when they tell us that nothing is great or little otherwise than by comparison. It might have pleased fortune to have let the Lillipu- tians find some nation where the people were as diminutive with respect to them as they were to me. And who knows but that even this prodigious race of mortals might be equally overmatched m somc'distant part of the world, whereof we have yet no discovery ? Scared and confounded as I was, I could not forbear going on with these reflections, when one of the reapers, approaching within ten yards of the ridge where I lay, made me apprehend that with the next step I should be squashed to death under his foot, or cut in two Avith his reaping-hook. And therefore, when he was again about to move, I screamed as loud as fear could make me ; whereupon the huge creature trod short, and looking round about under him for some time, at last espied me as I lay on the ground. lie considered Jonatkaii Swift, D.D. i6i a while, with the caution of one who endeavors to lay hold on a small, dangerous animal in such a manner that it shall not be able either to scratch or to bite him, as I myself have sometimes done with a weasel in England. At length ho ventured to take me be- hind, by the middle, between his fore-finger and thumb, and brought me within three yards of his eyes, that he might behold my shape more perfectly. I guessed his meaning, and my good fortune gave me so much presence of mind, that I resolved not to struggle in the least as he held me in the air, above sixty feet from the ground, al- though he grievously pinched my sides, for fear I should slip through his fingers. All I ventured was to raise mine eyes toward the sun, and place my hands together in a supplicating jiosture, and to speak some words in an humble, melancholy tone, suitable to the condition I then was in, for I apprehended every moment that he would dash me against the ground, as we usually do any little, hateful animal, which we have a mind to destroy. But my good star would have it that he appeared pleased with my voice and gestures, and began to look upon me as a curiosity, much wondering to hear me pronounce articulate words, although he could not understand them. In the mean time, I was not able to forbear groaning, and shedding tears, and turning my head towards my sides, letting him know, as well as I could, how cruelly I was hurt by the pressure of his thumb and finger. He seemed to apprehend my meaning ; for lifting up the lappet of his coat, he put me gently into it, and immediately ran along with me to his" master, who was a substantial farmer, and the. same person I had first seen in the field. The farmer having (as I supposed by their talk) received such an account of me as his servant could give him, took a piece of a small straw, about the size of a walking staff, and therewith lifted up the lappets of my coat ; which, it seems, he thought to be some kind of covering that nature had given me. He blew my hairs aside^ to take a better view of my face. He called his hinds about him, and asked them, as I afterwards learned, ''Whether they had ever seen in the fields any little creature that resembled me ? " He then placed me softly on the ground upon all four, but I got immediately up, and walked slowly backward and forward, to let those peoiile see I had no intent to run away. They all sat down in a circle about me, the better to observe my motions. I pulled off my hat, and made a low bow towards the farmer. I fell on my knees, and lifted up my hands and eyes, and spoke several words as loud as I could ; 1 62 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. I took a purse of gold out of my pocket, and humbly presented it to him. He received it on the palm of his hand, then applied it close to his eye to see what it was, and afterwards turned it several times with the point of a pin (which he took out of his sleeve), but could make nothing of it. Whereupon I made a sign that he should place his hand on the ground. I then took the purse, and opening it poured all the gold into his palm. There were six Spanish pieces of four pistoles each, besides twenty or thirty smaller coins. I saw him wet the tip of his little finger upon his tongue, and take up one of my largest pieces, and then another ; but he seemed to be wholly ignorant what they were. He made me a sign to put them again into my purse, and the purse again into my pocket, which, after offering it to him several times, I thought it best to do. The farmer, by this time, was convinced I must be a rational creature. He spoke often to me ; but the sound of his voice pierced my ears like that of a water-mill, yet his words were articulate enough. I answered as loud as I could in several languages, and he often laid his ear within two yards of me, but all in vain, for we were wholly unintelligible to each other. He then sent his ser- vants to their work, and taking his handkerchief out of his pocket, de doubled and spread it on his left hand, which he placed flat on the ground, with the palm ujiward, making me a sign to step into it, as I could easily do, for it was not above a foot in thickness. I thought it my part to obey ; and, for fear of falling, laid myself at lull length upon the handkerchief, with the remainder of which he lapped me up to the head for further security, and in this manner carried me home to his house. There he called his wife, and showed me to her ; but she screamed and ran back, as women in England do at the sight of a toad or a spider. However, when she had awhile seen my behavior, and how well I observed the signs her husband made, she was soon reconciled, and by degrees grew ex- tremelv tender of me. It Avas about twelve at noon, and a servant brought in dinner. It was only one substantial dish of meat (fit for the plain condition of a husbandman), in a dish of about four-and-twenty feet diameter. The company were, the farmer and his wife, three children, and an old grandmother. When they were sat down, the farmer placed me at some distance from him on the table, wliicli was thirty feet higli from the floor. I was in a temble fright, and kept as far as I could from the edge, for fear of falling. The wife minced a bit of meat. yonathan Swift ^ D.D, i6 J then crumbled some bread on a trencher, and placed it before me. I made her a low bow, took out my knife and fork, aud fell to cat, which gave them exceeding delight. The mistress sent her maid for a small dram-cup which held about two gallons, and filled it with drink ; I took up the vessel with much difficulty in both hands, and in a most respectful manner drank to lier ladyship's health, ex- pressing the words as loud as I could in Englisli, v/hich made the company laugh so heartily that I Avas almost deafened with the noise. This liquor tasted like a small cider, and was not unpleasant. Then the m^aster made me a sign to come to his trencher side ; but as I walked on the table, being in great surprise all the time, as the indulgent reader Avill easily conceive and excuse, I happened to stumble against a crust, and fell flat on my face, but received n(j hurt. I got up immediately, and observing the good people to be in much concern, I took my hat (which I held under my arm out of good manners), and waving it over my head, made three huzzas, to show I had got no mischief by my fall. But advancing forward towards my master (as I shall henceforth call him) his youngest son, Avho sat next to him, an arch boy of about ten years old, took me by the legs, and held me so high in the air, that I trembled every limb; but his father snatched me from him, and at the same time gave him such a box on the left ear as would have felled an European troop of horse to the earth, ordering him to be taken from the table. But being afraid the boy might owe mo a spite, and well remembering how mischievous all children among us naturally arc to sparrows, rabbits, young kittens, and puppy-dogs, I fell on my knees, and, pointing to the boy, made my master to understand, as well as I could, that I desired his son might be pardoned. The father complied and the lad took his seat again, whereupon I went to him and kissed his hand, which my master took, and made him stroke me gently with it. In the midst of dinner my mistress's favorite cat leaped into her lap. I heard a noise behind me like that of a dozen stocking- weavers at work, and, turning my head, I found it proceeded from the purring of that animal, wdio seemed to be three times larger than an ox, as I computed by the view of her head and one of her paws while her mistress was feeding and stroking her. The fierce- ness of this creature's countenance altogether discomposed me, though I stood at the farther end of the table, about fifty feet off, and although my mistress held her fast for fear she might give a 1 64 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. spring and seize me in her talons. But it happened there was no danger, for the cat took not the least notice of me when my master placed we within three yards of her. And, as I have been always told, and found true by ex^ierience in my travels, that flying or dis- covering fear before a fierce animal is a certain way to make it pursue or attack you, so I resolved in this dangerous juncture to show no manner of concern. I walked with intrepidity five or .six times before the very head of the cat, and came within half a yard of her, whereupon she drew herself back, as if she were more afraid of me. I had less apprehension concerning the dogs, whereof three or four came into the room, as it is usual in farmers' houses, one of which was a mastiff, equal in bulk to four elephants, and a grey- hound, somewhat taller than the mastiff but not so large. "When dinner was almost done the nurse came in with a child of a year old in her arms, who immediately espied me and began a squall that you might have heard from London Bridge to Chelsea, after the usual oratory of infants, to get me for a plaything. The mother, out of pure indulgence, took me up and j)ut me towards the child, who presently sei'zed me by the middle and got my head into his mouth, where I roared so loud that the urchin was frighted and let me drop, and I should infallibly have broke my neck if the mother had not held her apron under me. The nurse, to quiet her babe, made use of a rattle, which was a kind of hollow vessel filled with great stones, and fastened by a cable to the child's waist; but all in vain, so that she was forced to apply the last remedy by giving it suck. I must confess no object ever disgusted me so much as the sight of her monstrous breast, which I cannot tell what to com- pare with so as to give the curious reader an idea of its bulk, shajoo, and color. It stood prominent six feet, and could not be less than sixteen in circumference. The nipple was about half the bigness of my head, and the hue, both of that and the du^, so varied with spots, pimples, and freckles, that nothing could ajjpear more nauseous : for I had a near sight of her, she sitting down, the more conveniently to give suck, and I standing on the table. This made me reflect upon the fair skins of our English ladies, who appear so beautiful to us only because they are of our own size, and their defects not to be seen but through a magnifying glass, where we find by experiment that the smoothest and whitest skins look rough, and coarse, and ill-colored. I remember, when I was at Lilliput, the complexions of those yonathan Swift, D.D. 165 diminutive people appeared to mo the fairest in the world ; and talking upon this subject with a person of learning there, who was an intimate friend of mine, he said that my face appeared much fairer and smoother when he looked on me from the ground than it did upon a nearer view when I took him up in my hand and brought him close, which he confessed was at first a very shocking sight. He said "he could discover great holes in my skin; that the stumps of my beard were ten times stronger than the bristles of a boar, and my complexion made up of several colors altogether disagreeable " ; although I must beg leave to say for myself that I am as fair as most of my sex and country, and very little sunburnt by all my travels. On the other side, discoursing of the ladies in that emperor's court, he used to tell me ''one had freckles, another too wide a mouth, a third too large a nose " ; nothing of which I was able to distinguish. I confess this reflection was obvious enough, which, however, I could not forbear, lest the reader might think those vast creatures were actually deformed : for I must do tliem the justice to say they are a comely race of people ; and par- ticularly the features of my master's countenance, although he were but a farmer, when I beheld him from the height of sixty feet, ap- peared very well proportioned. When dinner was done my master went out to his laborei's, and, as I could discover by his voice and gestures, gave his wife a strict charge to take care of me. I was very much tired and disposed to sleep, which my mistress perceiving, she put me on her own bed, and covered me with a clean white handkerchief, but hu'ger and coarser than the mainsail of a man-of-war. I slept about two hours, and dreamt I was at home with my wife and children, which aggravated my sorrows when I awaked and found myself alone in a vast room between two and three hundred feet wide and above two hundred high, lying in a bed twenty yards wide. My mistress was gone about her household afl'airs and had locked me in. The bed was eight yards from the floor. Some natural necessities required me to get down; I durst not presume to call; and if I had it Avould have been in vain, with such a voice as mine, at so great a distance as from the room where I lay to the kitchen where the family kept. While I was under these circum- stances, two rats crept up the bed-curtains, and ran smelling back- wards and forwards on the bed. One of them came up almost to my face, whereupon I rose in a fright, and drew out my hanger to defend 1 66 The Prose and Poetry of Irelajid. myself. These liorrible animals had the boldness to attack me on both sides, and one of them held his forefeet at my collar ; but I had the good fortune to rip up his belly before he could do me any mischief. He fell down at my feet ; and the other, seeing the fate of his com rade, made his escape, but not without one good wound on the back, Avhich I gave him as he fled, and made the blood run trickling from him. After this exploit I walked gently to and fro on the bed to recover my breath and loss of spirits. These creatures were of the size of a large mastiff, but infinitely more nimble and fierce ; so that if I had taken off my belt before I went to sleep I must have infal- libly been torn to j)ieces and devoured. I measured the tail of the dead rat and found it to be two yards long, wanting an inch; but it went against my stomach to drag the carcass off the bed, where it lay still bleeding ; I observed it had yet some life, but with a strong slash across the neck I thoroughly despatched it. Soon after my mistress came into the room, who, seeing me all bloody, ran and took me up in her hand. I pointed to the dead rat, smiling and making other signs to show I was not hurt ; whereat she was extremely rejoiced, calling the maid to take up the dead rat with a pair of tongs and throw it out of the Avindow. Then she set me on a table, where I showed her my hanger all bloody, and, wiping it on the lapj)et of my coat, returned it to tlie scabbard. I was l^ressed to do more than one thing which another could not do for me, and therefore endeavored to make my mistress understand that I desired to be set down on the floor ; which, after she had done, my bashfulness would not suffer me to express myself further than by pointing to the door and bowing several times. The good woman with much difficulty at last perceived what I would bo at, and taking me up again in her hand walked into the garden where she set mo down. I went on one side about two hundred yards and beckoned to her not to look or to follow me, I hid myself between two leaves of sorrel and there discliarsfed the necessities of nature. I hope the gentle reader will excuse me for dwelling on these and the like particulars, which, however insignificant they may appear to grovelling vulgar minds, yet will certainly help a philosopher to en- large his thoughts and imagination, and apply them to the benefit of joublic as well as private life, which was my sole design in joresenting this and other accounts of my travels to the world : wherein I have been chiefly studious of truth, without affecting any ornaments of learning or of style. But the whole scene of this voyage made so yonathan Swift, D.D. 167 strong an impression on my mind, and is so dccjly fixed in nij me- mory, that, in committing it to paper, ] did not omit one material circumstance: however, upon a strict review, I blotted out several l)assages of less moment, which were in my first copy, for fear of being censured as tedious and trifling, whereof travellers are often, perhajis not without justice, accused." THE FIRST OF DRAPIER'S LETTERS." TO THE TRADESM3N, SHOPKEEPERS, FARMERS, AND COUNTRY PEOPLE IX GENERAL OF THE KING DO JI OF IRELAND. Concerning the brass halfpence coined by one William Wood, hardwareman, with a design to have them pass in this kingdom : Wherein is shown the power of his patent, the value of his halfpence, and how far every person may be obliged to take the same in payments, and how to behave himself, in case such an attempt should be made by Wood, or any other person. (VERY PROPEn TO B3 KEPT IN EVERT FAMILY.) By M. B. Drapier, 1734. Brethreis', Frie]>^^ds, Couxtrymex, axd Fellow-subjects : What I intend now to say to yon is, next to yotir duty to God and the care of your salvation, of the greatest concern to yourselves and your children ; your bread and clothing, and every common neces- sary of life, entirely depend upon it. Therefore, I do most earn- estly exhort you as men, as Christians, as iiarents, and as lovers of your country, to read this paper with the utmost attention, or get it read to you by others ; which that you may do at the less expense, I have ordered the printer to sell it at the lowest rate. It is a great fault among you that, when a jierson writes with no other intention than to do you good, you will not be at the pains to read his advices. One copy of this paper may serve a dozen of you, which will be less than a farthing apiece. It is your folly that you have no common or general interest in your view, not even the wisest among yoti ; neither do you know, or enquire, or care who are your friends, or who are your enemies. retend to vie with nature by tying that withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk; it is now, at best, but the reverse of what it was — a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth, and the root in the air; it is now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do her drudgery, and by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other things clean, and be nasty itself ; at length, Avorn to the stumps in the service of the maids, it is either thrown out of doors, or condemned to the last use of kindling a fire. When I beheld this I sighed, and said within myself, Sukely Man" is a Broomstick ! Nature sent him into the world strong and lusty, in a thriving condition, wearing his own hair on his head, the proper branches of this reasoning vegetable, until the axe of intemperance has lopped off his green boughs, and left him a withered trunk ; he then flies to art, and puts on a j)eriwig, valuing himself uj)on an unnatural bundle of hairs (all covered with powder) that never grew on his head ; but now should this our broomstick pretend to enter the scene, proud of those birchen spoils it never bore, and all covered with dust, though the sweepings of the finest lady's chamber, we should be apt to ridicule and despise its vanity. Partial judges that we are of our own excellences and other men's defaults ! But a broomstick perhaps you will say is an emblem of a tree standing on its head ; and pray what is man but a topsy-turvy crea- ture, his animal faculties perpetually mounted on his rational, his head where his heels should be, grovelling on the earth ; and yet, with all his faults, he sets up to be a universal reformer and cor- rector of abuses, a remover of grievances, rakes into every slut'3 corner of nature, bringing hidden corruption to the light, and raises a mighty dust where there was none before, sharing deej^ly all the while in the very same pollutions he pretends to sweep away, till, worn out to the stumps like his brother besom, he is either kicked out of doors, or made use of to kindle flames ■ for others to warm themselves by. yonathan Swift, D.D. 177 A TREATISE ON GOOD MANNERS AND GOOD BREEDING."^ Good manners is the art of making those people easy with whom we converse, Whoever makes the fewest persons uneasy is the best bred in the company. As the best law is founded upon reason, so are the best manners. And as some lawyers have introduced unreasonable things into com- mon law, so likewise many teachers have introduced absurd things into common good manners. One principal point of this art is, to suit our behavior to the three several degrees of men ; our sujieriors, our equals, and those below us. For instance, to press either of the two former to eat or drink is a breach of manners ; but a tradesman or a farmer must be thus treated, or else it will be difficult to persuade them that they are welcome. Pride, ill-nature, and want of sense, are the three great sources of ill-manners : without some one of these defects, no man will be- have himself ill for want of experience, or of what, in the language of fools, is called knowing the world. I defy any one to assign an incident wlierein reason will not direct us what to say or do in company, if we are not misled by pride or ill-nature. Therefore I insist that good sense is the jorincipal foundation of good manners; but because the former is a gift which very few among mankind are possessed of, therefore all the civilized nations of the world have agreed upon fixing some rules upon common be- havior best suited to their general customs or fancies, as a kind of artificial good sense, to supply the defects of reason. Without which the gentlemanly part of dunces would be perpetually at cuffs, as they seldom fail when they happen to be drunk, or engaged in squabbles about women or play. And, God be thanked, there hardly happens a duel in a year, which may not be imputed to one of these three motives. Upon which account, I should be exceed- ingly sorry to find the legislature make any new laws against the practice of duelling ; because the methods are easy and many for a wise man to avoid a quarrel with honor, or engage in it with inno- 45 "The result of much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for the sake of others, and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them." — Lord Chesterfield. 1 78 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. cence. And I can discover no political evil in suffering bullies, sharpers, and rakes, to rid the world of each other by a method of tlieir own, where the law has not been able to find an ex- joedient. As the common forms of good manners were intended for regu- lating the conduct of those who have weak understandings ; so they have been corrui)ted by the persons for whose use they were con- trived. For these people have fallen into a needless and endless way of multiplying ceremonies, which have been extremely trouble- some to those who practise them, and insupportable to everybody else ; insomuch that wise men are often more uneasy at the over- civility of these refiners than they could possibly be in the conver- sation of peasants or mechanics. The impertinences of this ceremonial behavior are nowhere bet- ter seen than at those tables where the ladies preside, who value themselves upon account of their good breeding; where a man must reckon upon passing an hour without doing any one thing he has a mind to, unless he will be so hardy as to break through all the set- tled decorum of the family. She determines what he loves best, and how much he shall eat; and if the master of the house happens to be of the same disjiosition, he proceeds in the same tyrannical manner to lorescribe in the drinking part: at the same time you are under the necessity of answering a thousand apologies for your en- tertainment. And although a good deal of this humor is pretty well worn oif among many people of the best fashion, yet too much of it still remains, especially in the country, where an honest gen- tleman assured me, that having been kept four days against his will at a friend's house, with all the circumstances of hiding his boots, locking up the stable, and other contrivances of the like nature, he could not remember, from the moment he came into the house to the moment he left it, any one thing wherein his inclination was not directly contradicted, as -if the whole family had entered into a combination to torment him. But, besides all this, it would be endless to recount the many foolish and ridiculous accidents I have observed among these unfor- tunate proselytes to ceremony. I have seen a duchess fairly knocked down, by the precipitancy of an officious coxcomb running to save her the trouble of opening a door. I remember, upon a birth-day ■at court, a great lady was rendered utterly disconsolate by a dish of sauce let fall by a page directly upon her head-dress and brocade yonatkan Swift, D.D. i ~g while slic gave a cuddea turn to her elbow upon some point, of ceremony with tlic person who sat next to her. Monsieur Buys, the Dutch envoy, whose i)olitics and manners were much of a size, brought a son with him, about thirteen years old, to a great table at court. The boy and his father, whatever they put on their plates, tliey first offered round in order to every person in conij)any, so that wc could not get a minute's quiet during the whole dinner. At last their two plates happened to encounter, and with so much violence, that, being china, they broke in twenty pieces, and stained half the company with sweetmeats and cream. There is a pendantry in manners, as in all arts and sciences, and sometimes in trades. Pedantry is proj)erly the overrating of any kind of knowledge wo pretend to. And if that kind of knowledge be a trifle in itself, the pedantry is the greater. For wliich reason I look upon fiddlers, dancing-masters, heralds, masters of the cere- mony, etc., to be greater pedants than Lipsius or the elder Scaliger. With this kind of -pedants the court, while I knew it, was always plentifully stocked ; I mean from the gentleman usher (at least) in- clusive, downward to the gentleman porter, who are, generally speaking, the most insignificant race of people that this island can afford, and with the smallest tincture of good manners, which is the only trade they profess. For, being wholly illiterate, and conversing chiefly with each other, they reduce the whole system of breeding Avithin the forms and circles of their several offices ; and, as they are below the notice "of ministers, they live and die in court under all revolutions, with great obsequiousness to those who are in any degree of credit or favor, and Avitli rudeness and insolence to every- body else. Whence I have long concluded that good manners arc not a plant of the court growth ; for, if they were, those people who have understandings directly of a level for such acquirements, who have served such long apprenticeships to nothing else, would cer- tainly have picked tliem up. For, as to the great officers, who at- tend the prince's person or councils, or fireside in his family, they are a transient body, who have no better a title to good manner:j than their neighbors, nor Avill probably have recourse to gentlemen ushers for instruction. So that I know little to be learned at court upon this head, except in the material circumstance of dress, wherein the authority of the maids of honor must indeed be allowed to be almost equal to that of a favorite actress. I remember a passage my Lord Bolingbroke told me — that going i8o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. to receive Prince Eugene of Savoy at his landing, in order to con- duct him immediately to the queen, the prince said he was much concerned that lie could not see her majesty that night ; for Mon- sieur Iloiiman (who was then hy) had assured his highness that he could not be admitted into her presence with a tied-up periwig ; that his equipage was not arrived; and that ho had endeavored in vain to borrow a long one among all his valets and pages. My lord turned the matter into a jest, and brought the prince to her ma- jesty ; for which he was highly censured by the whole tribe of gen- tleman ushers, among wdiom Monsieur Hoffman, an old dull resident of the emperor's, had picked ujj this material point of ceremony, and which, I believe, was the best lesson he had learned in five-and. twenty years' residence. I make a difference between good manners and good breeding, although, in order to vary my expression, I am sometimes forced to confound them. By the first I only understand the art of reniem- boring and applying certain settled forms of general behavior. But good breeding is of a much larger extent ; for, besides an uncommon degree of literature, sufficient to qualify a gentleman for reading a play or a political pamphlet, it takes in a great compass of know- ledge, no less than ihat of dancing, fighting, gaming, making the circle of Italy, riding the great horse, and speaking French, not to mention some other secondary or subaltern accomplishments, which arc more easily acquired. So that the dificrence between good breeding and good manners lies in this — that the former cannot be attained to by the best understandings without study and labor, whereas a tolerable degree of reason will instruct us in every part of good manners without other assistance. I can think of nothing more usefiil upon this subject than to point out some particulars wherein the very essentials of good man- ners are concerned, the neglect or perverting of which does very much disturb the good commerce of the world by introducing a traffic of mutual uneasiness in most companies. First, a necessary part of good manners is a punctual observance of time at our own dwellings or those of others or at third places, whether upon matter of civility, business, or diversion, which rule, though it be a plain dictate of common reason, yet the greatest minister I ever knew was the greatest trespasser against it, by which all his business doubled upon him, and placed him in a continual arrear, upon which I often used to rally him as deficient in point Jonathan Szui/l, D.D. i8i of good manners. I have known more than one ambassador and sepretary of state, with a very moderate portion of intellectuals, execute their offices with good success and applause by the mere force of exactness and regularity. If you duly observe time for the service of another, it doubles the obligation; if upon your own ac- count, it would be manifest folly as well as ingratitude to neglect it; if both are concerned, to make your equal or inferior attend on you to his own disadvantage is pride and injustice. Ignorance of forms cannot properly be styled ill manners, because forms are subject to frequent changes, and, consequently, being not founded upon reason, are beneath a wise man's regard. Besides, they vary in every country, and, after a short period of time, very frequently in the same ; so that a man who travels must needs be at first a stranger to them in every court through which he jiasses ; and, perhaps, at his return as much a stranger in his own, and, after all, they are easier to be remembered or forgotten than faces or names. Indeed, among the many impertinences that superficial young men bring with them from abroad, this bigotry of forms is one of the principal, and more predominant than the rest, who look upon them not only as if they were matters capable of admitting of choice, but even as points of importance, and are therefore zealous on all occasions to introduce and propogate the new forms and fashions they have brought back with them, so that, usually speaking, the worst bred person in company is a young traveller just returned from abroad. SOME OF SWIFT'S LETTERS. A LETTER TO THE EARL OF PEMBROKE. 1709, at a conjecture. My Lord : It is now a good while since I resolved to take some occasions of congratulating with your lordship, and condoling with the public, upon your lordship's leaving the Admiralty; and I thought I could never choose a better time than when I am in the country with my lord bishop of Clogher and his brother the doctor; for we pretend to a triumvirate of as humble servants and true ad- mirers of your lordship as any you have in both islands. You may call them a triumvirate ; for, if you choose to try-urn, they will vie 1 82 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. with the best, and are of the first rate, though they arc not men of war, but men of the cburch. To say the truth, it was a pity your lordship shoukl be confined to the Fleet, when you are not m debt. Though your lordship is cast atoaij, you are not suyih ; nor ever will be, since nothing is out of your lordship's dejjth. Dr. Ashe says, it is but justice that your lordship, who is a man of letters, should be placed upon i\ie 230st-office ; and my lord bishop adds, that he hopes to see your lordship tossed from that 2^ost to be a 'pillar of state again ; which be desired I would put in by way of pcstscript. I am, my lord, etc. Jonathan Swift. TO MR. SECRETARY ST. JOHN. January 7, 1711. Sir: Though I should not value such usage from a Secretary of State and a great minister, yet, when I consider the person it conies from, I can endure it no longer. I would have you know, sir, that if the queen gave you a dukedom and the garter to-morrow, with the treasury staff at the end of them, I would regard you no more than if you were not worth a groat. I could almost resolve, in spite, not to find fault with my victuals or to be quarrelsome to- morrow at your table ; but if I do not take the first opportunity to let all the world know some qualities in you that you take most care to hide, may my right hand forget its cunning. After which threatening, believe me, if you please, to be with the greatest re- spect, sir, your most obedient, most obliged, and most humble, ser- vant, Jonathan Swift. TO MR. GIRALDI. Dublin, February 25, 1714-15. Sir: I take the liberty to recommend to you the bearer, Mr. Howard, a learned gentleman of good family in this country, who intends to make the tour of Italy, and being a canon in my deanery, and professor of a college in this University, would fain be confirmed in his heresy by travelling among Catholics. And after all, sir, it is but just that, since you have borrowed our English frankness and sincerity to engraft on your Italian politeness, some of us tramon- tanes should make reprisals on you by travelling. You will also yonathan Swift, D,D. i83 permit me to beg you will be so kind as to present my most humble duty to his royal highness the Grand Duke. With regard to myself, I will be so free as to tell you that two months before the queen's decease, finding that it was impossible to reconcile my friends of the ministry, I retired to a country-house in Berkshire ; from whence after the melancholy event I came over to Ireland, where I now reside upon my deanery, and with Chris- tian resignation wait for the destruction of our cause and of my friends, which the reigning faction arc daily contriving. For these gentlemen are absolutely determined to strike ofl! half a dozen heads of the best men in England, whom you intimately knew and esteemed. God knows what will be the consequence. For my part I have bid adieu to politics, and with the good leave of the honest men who are now in power, I shall spend the remainder of my days in my hermitage, and attend entirely to my own private affairs. Adieu, sir, and do me the justice to believe that I am, with great respect, sir, yours, etc. Joistathan Swift. TO MISS VANHOMKIGH. October 15, 1720. I SIT down with the first opportunity I have to write to you ; and the Lord knows when I can find conveniency to send this letter; for all the morning I am plagued with impertinent visits, below any man of sense or honor to endure if it were any way avoidable. Dinners and afternoons and evenings are spent abroad in walking, to keep and avoid spleen as far as I can ; so that, when I am not so good a correspondent as I could wish, you are not to quarrel and be governor ; but to impute it to my situation, and to conclude infalli- bly that I have the same respect and kindness for you I ever pro- fessed to have, and shall ever preserve ; because you will always merit the utmost that can be given you, especially if you go on to read and still further improve your mind and the talents that nature has given you. I am in much concern for poor Mobkin ; and the more because I am sure you are so too. You ought to be as cheer- ful as you can, for both our sakes, and read pleasant things that will make you laugh, and not sit mojiing with your elbows on your knees on a little stool by the fire. It is most infallible that riding would do Mobkin more good than any other thing, provided fair days and 1 84 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, warm clothes be provided ; and so it would to you ; aud if you lose any skin, you know Job says, " skin for skin will a man give for his life." It is either Job or Satan says so, for aught you know. I am getting an ill head in this cursed town, for want of exercise. I wish I were to walk with you fifty times about your garden, and then drink your coffee. I was sitting last night with half a score of both sexes for an hour, and grew as weary as a dog. Everybody grows silly and disagreeable, or I grow monkish and splenetic, which is the same thing. Conversation is full of nothing but South Sea, and the ruin of the kingdom, and scarcity of money. Jonathan Swift. TO ME. POPE." Dublin, November 17, 1726. I AM just come from answering a letter of Mrs. Howard's, writ in such mystical terms that I should never have found out the meaning if a book had not been sent me called ''Gulliver's Trav- els," of which you say so much in yours. X read the book over, and in the second volume observed several passages which appear to be patched and altered, and the style of a different sort, unless I am mistaken. Dr. Arbutlinot likes the j)rojectors least ; others, you tell me, the flying island ; some think it wrong to be so hard upon whole bodies or corporations, yet the general opinion is, that reflections on particular persons are most to be blamed ; so that in these cases I think the best method is to let censure and opinion take their course. A bishop here said that book was full of im- probable lies, and for his part he hardly believed a word of it ; and so much for Gulliver. Going to England is a very good thing, if it were not attended Avith an ugly circumstance of returning to Ireland. It is a shame you do not persuade your ministers to keep me on that side, if it were but by a court expedient of keeping me in prison for a plot- ter ; but at the same time I must teli you that such journeys very much shorten my life, for a month here is longer than six at Twick- enham, How comes friend Gay to be so tedious ? Another man can pub- lish fifty thousand lies sooner than he can publish fifty fables. ** The celebrated poet Pope was a Catholic, a native of England, and died in 1744. Jonathan Swift, D.D. 185 I am just going to perform a very good office ; it is to assist with the archbishop in degrading a parson who couples all our beggars, by which I shall make one happy man, and decide the great ques- tion of an indelible character in favor of the principles in fashion. This I hope you will represent to the ministry in my favor as a point of merit ; so farewell till I return. I am come back, and have deprived the parson, who, by a law here, is to be hanged the next couple he marries. He declared to us that he resolved to be hanged — only desired that when he was to go to the gallows the archbisho}:* would take off his excommunication. Is not he a good Catholic ? and yet he is but a Scotchman. This is the only Irish event I ever troubled you with, and I think it deserves notice. Let me add that if I were Grulliver's friend I would desire all my acquaintance to give out that his copy was basely mangled, and abused, and added to, and blotted out, by the printer, for so to me it seems, in the second volume particularly. Adieu. JoNATHAisr Swift. TO THE ABBE DES POJSTTAINES. August, 1727. Sir : It is above a month since I received your letter of the 4th of July, but the copy of the second edition of your translation is not yet come to hand. I have read the preface to the first, and give me leave to tell you that I was very much surprised to find that at the same time you mentioned the country in which I was born, you also took notice of me by name as the author of that book, though I have had the misfortune of incurring the displea- sure of some of our ministers by it, and never acknowledged it as mine. Your behavior, however, in this respect, though somewhat exceptionable, shall not prevent me from doing you justice. The generality of translators are very lavish of their praises on such works as they undertake to render into their own language, imagin- ing, perhaps, that their rej)utation depends in some measure 011 that of the authors whom they have thought proper to translate. lUit you were sensible of your own abilities, which rendered all such precautions needless. Capable of mending a bad book — an enter- prise more difficult than to write a good one — you have ventured to 1 86 The Prose a?id Poetry of Irela7id. publish the tivanslation of a work which you affirm to abound with nonsense, puerilities, etc. We think Avith you that nations do not always agree in taste, but are inclined to believe that good taste is the same wherever there arc mcii of wit, judgment, and learning. Therefore, if the " Travels of Gulliver" are calculated only for the British islands, that voyager must certainly be reckoned a paltry writer. The same vices and folly prevail in all countries, at least in all the civilized parts of Europe; aud an author who would sit down to Avrite only for a single town, a province, a kingdom, or even a century, so far from deserving to be translated, does not de- serve to be read. This Gulliver's adherents, who are very numerous here, maintain that his book will last as long as our language, because he does not derive his merit from certain modes of expression or thought, but from a series of observations on the imperfections, follies, and vices of mankind. You may very well judge that the people I have been speaking of do not approve of your criticisms ; and you will doubtless be surprised when I inform you that they regard this sea-surgeon as a grave author who never departs from his character, and who uses no foreign embellishment — never pretends to set up for a wit — but is satisfied with giving the public a plain and simple narrative of the adventures that befell him, and of the things he saw and heard in the course of his voyages. Witli regard to the article relating to Lord Carteret, without waiting for any information whence you borrowed your intelligence, I shall take the liberty to tell you that you have written only one- half of the truth ; and that this real or supposed Drapier has saved Ireland, by spiriting up the whole nation to oppose a project by which a certain number of individuals would have been enriched at the public expense. A series of accidents have intervened which will prevent my going to France at present, and I am now too old to hope for any future opportunity. I am sensible that this is a great loss to me. The only consolation that remains is to think that I shall be the better able to bear that spot of gi'ound to which fortune has con- demned me, etc. Joi^ATHAN Swift. Jonathan Swift, D.D. 187 , 4T TO MR. GAY. Dublin, November 27, 1727. I ENTIRELY approve your refusal of that employment and your writing to the queen. I am perfectly confident you have a keen enemy in the ministry." God forgive him, but not till he puts himself in a state to be forgiven. Upon reasoning with myself, I should hope they are gone too far to discard you quite, and that they will give you something which, although much less than they onght, will be (as far as it is Avorth) better circumstantiated ; and since you already just live, a middling help will make you just tolerable. Your lateness in life (as you so soon call it) might be imjiroper to begin the world with. , but almost the eldest men may hope to see changes in a court. A minister is always seventy ; you are thirty years younger ; and consider, Cromwell himself did not begin to appear till he was older than you. I beg you will be thrifty and leara to value a shilling, which Dr. Birch said was a serious thing. Get a stronger fence about your £1,000 and throw the inner fence into tho heap, and be advised by your Twickenham landlord and me about an annuity. You are the most refractory, honest, good-natured man I have ever known ; I could argue out this paper. I am very glad your '• Opera " is finished, and hope your friends will join the readier to make it succeed, because you are ill used by others. I have knoAvn courts these thirty-six years, and know they differ ; but in some things they are extremely constant: first, in the trite old maxim of a minister's never forgiving those he has injured ; secondly, in the insincerity of those who would be thought the best friends ; thirdly, in the love of fawning, cringing, and tale-bearing ; fourthly, in sacrificing those whom we really wish Avell to a point of interest or intrigue ; fifthly, in keeping everything worth taking for those Avho can do no service or disservice. I bought your " Opera" to-day for sixpence, a cursed print. I find there is neither dedication nor preface, both which wants 1 approve ; 3 1 is in the grand gout. We are as full of \i, ijro modulo nostro, as London can be ; con- tinually acting, houses crammed, and the Lord-Lieutenant several times laughing there his heart out. I did not understand that the ■•^ An English poet of some note who died 1738. ^s Sir Robert Walpole. 1 88 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. scene of LocTcd and Pejclnmh quarrel was an imitation of one be- tween Brutus and Cassias till I was told it. I wish Maclieath, when he was going to be hanged, had imitated Alexander the Great when he was dying ; I would have had his fellow-rogues desire his commands about a successor, and he to answer, Let it be the most worthy, etc. We hear a million of stories about the opera, of the applause of the song, "" That was levelled at me," when two great ministers Avere in a box together and all the world staring at them. I am heartily glad your opera hath mended your purse, though per- haps it may sjjoil your court. I will excuse Sir the trouble of a letter. When ambassadors came from Troy to condole with Tiberius upon the death of his nejihew after two years, the emjaeror answered that he likewise condoled with them for the untimely death of Hector. I always loved and respected him very mucli, and do still as much as ever, and it is a return sufficient if he pleases to accept the offers of my most humble service. • The " Beggars' Opera" hath knocked down ''Gulliver." I hope to see Pope's ''Dulness" knock down the ''Beggars' Opera," but not till it hath fully done its job. To expose vice and make people laugh with innocence does more public service than all the ministers of state from Adam to Wal- pole, and so adieu. Jonathan" Swift. TO ME. WOEEALL. Maeket Hill, January 4, 1739. I HAD your long letter, and thank you heartily for your concern about my health. I continue very deaf and giddy; but, however, I would certainly come to town, not only for my visitation, but be- cause in these circumstances, and in winter, I would rather be at home. But it is now Saturday night, and that beast Sheridan is not yet come, although it has been thawing since Monday. If I do not come, you know what to do. My humble service to our friends, as usual. Jonathan Swipt. Jo7iathan Swift, D.D, 189 TO MR. POPE. May 12, 1735. Your letter was sent me yesterday by Mr. Stopford," who landed the same day, but I have not yet seen him. As to my silence, God knows it is my great misfortune. My little domestic affairs are in great confusion by the villany of agents and the miseries of this kingdom, where there is no money to be had ; nor am I unconcerned to see all things tending towards absolute power in both nations (it is here in perfection already), although I shall not live to see it established. This condition of things, both public and personal to myself, has given me such a kind of desjoondency that I am almost unqualified for any company, diversion, or amusement. The death of Mr. Gay and the doctor have been terrible wounds near my heart. Their living would have been a great comfort to me, although I should never have seen them — like a sum of money in the bank, from which I should receive at least annual interest, as I do from you and have done from my Lord Bolingbroke. To show in how much ignorance I live, it is hardly a fortnight since I heard of the death of my Lady Masham, my constant friend in all changes of times. God forbid that I should expect you to make a voyage that would in the least affect your health ; but in the meantime how un- happy am I that my best friend should have perhaps the only kind of disorder for which a sea-voyage is not in some degree a remedy ! The old Duke of Ormond said he would not change his dead son (Ossory) for the best living son in Europe. Neither Avould I change you, my absent friend, for the best present friend round the globe. I have lately read a book imputed to Lord Bolingbroke, called "A Dissertation ujwn Parties." I think it very masterly written. May God reward you for your kind prayers. I believe your prayers will do me more good than those of all the prelates in bo th kingdoms, or any prelates in Europe, excejit the Bishop of Mar- seilles. And God preserve you for contributing more to mend the world than the whole pack of (modern) j)arsons in a lump. I am ever entirely yours, Jonathan" Swift. ■1' Afterwards Bisliop of Cloyne. 190 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. TO DK. SHEEIDAISr." September 12, 1735. Here is a very ingenious observation upon the days of the week, and iu rliyme, Avortli your observation, and very proper for the in- formation of boys and girls, that they may not forget to reckon them : Sunday's a pun day, Monday's a dun day, Tuesday's a news day, Wednesday's a friend's day, Thursday's a cursed day, Friday's a dry day, Saturday's the latter day. I intend somethmg of equal use upon the months: as, January, women vary. I shall likewise in dud time make some observation upon each year as it passes. So for the present year : One thousand ses'en hundred and thirty-five, When only the d and b ps will thrive. And for the next : One thousand seven hundred and thirty-six, When the d will carry the b ps to Styx. Perge : One thousand seven hundred and thirty-seven, When the Whigs are so blind they mistake hell for heav'n. I will carry these predictions no further than to year 2001, when the learned think tlie world will be at an end, or the fine-all cat-a- strow-fee. The last is the period, two thousand and one, When m — and b — to hell are aU gone. "When that time comes, pray remember the discovery came from me. It is MOW time I should begin my letter. I hojje you got safe to Cavan, and have got no cold in those two terrible days. All your friends are well, and I as I used to be. I received yours. My humble service to your lady and love to your children. I suppose you have all the news sent to you. I hear of no marriages going on. One Dean Cross, an eminent divine, we hear is to be Bishop of Cork. Stay till I ask a servant what Patrick's bells ring for so late at night. You fellow, is it for joy or sorrow ? I believe it 5" The grandfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, a great wit, and friend of Swift. He Was a native of Ireland, and died 17b8. Jonathan Swift^ D.D. 191 some of our royal birthdays. Oil! they tell me it is for joy a new master is chosen for the corporation of butchers. 80 farewell. Jonathan Swift. CEKTIFICATE TO A DISCARDED SEEVANT. Deanery-House, January 9, 1740. Whereas the bearer served me the space of one year, during which time he was an idler and a drunkard ; I then discharged him as such; but how far his having been five years at sea may have mended his manners, I leave to the penetration of those who may hereafter choose to employ him. Jonathan Swift. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. " He left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn."— Dr. Johnson. OXE of the dearest and brightest names in English literature is Oliver Goldsmith. His life was, indeed, a strange melo- d]-ama, so varied Avith laughter and tears, so checkered with fame and misfortune, so resounding with songs, pathetic and comic, that were he an unknown hero his adventures would be read with plea- sure by every person of sensibility. Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Eev. Charles Goldsmith, a minister of the Established Church, was born at the little, out-of-the-way village of Pallas, or Pallasmore, county of Longford, in 1728. He was the fifth of nine children, and at his birth his father was — " Passing rich on forty pounds a year." While the child was yet in his second year, the Eev. Mr. Goldsmith removed to the delightful village of Lissoy, county of Westmeath, afterwards made immortal by Goldsmitli as — " Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain." Here the good minister held a comfortable living, and occupied a tine house. Oliver, in due time, was sent to the village school. We are told that he was *' an exceedingly dull boy." However, he was a poet, for at eight years of age he showed a turn for rhyming. His first master was Mr. Thomas Byrne, a brave, kind-hearted old sol- dier who had faced cannon under Marlborough. He pitied the shy and unattractive Oliver, and let the lad have a good deal of his own way. Mr. Byrne is, no doubt, the wonderful pedagogue pictured in the '' Deserted Village " as the person who astonished the rustics with his erudition and his "■ words of learned length and thunder- ing sound." While a mere boy, a severe attack of small-pox had left deep pits in poor Oliver's face. His mischievous companions called him ugly ; he became the butt of coarse fun ; but he did not always listen in Oliver Goldsmith. 193 silence to the boorish jibes. " AVhy, Noll," said a relative, staring ■At the boy's face, " you are become a i'riglit ! AVhen do you mean to get handsome again ?" "When you do," replied Oliver Avitli a quiet grin. After a fair training in various schools at Elphin, Athlone, and Edgcworthtown, young Goldsmith, in his sixteenth year, was sent to Trinity College, Dublin. He was so unfortunate as to have for tutor, Rev. Mr. Wilder, a harsh and brutal man. Oliver's five years of university life in the capital of Ireland were unhappy years. His father died, and but for the generosity of a kind uncle ' he Avould have starved. At this time we meet his first literary performance. He wrote street ballads for five shillings apiece, and at night he would quietly slip into the dimly-lighted streets to see them sold and to hear them sung. Here also we first behold that boundless benevolence which could never learn discre- tion. Scarcely was his hard-earned and much-needed ballad money in his hand when it was shared with the first beggar he met. Poor Oliver's few shillings often melted away in the heat of charity be- fore he could reach the college entrance ! Hated and discouraged by the brutal Wilder, he grew idle, and took a share in all the college scrapes. He even had a hand in ducking a bailiff under the college pump. On one occasion he made thirty shillings, and, of course, he could not avoid celebrating the event by a dance in his room. In the midst of the festive scene the evil genius. Wilder, ajipeared, knocked Goldsmith d-own with a blow, and threw the dancers neck and heels out of the window.^ In 1749 ho took, with difficulty, the degree of Bachelor of Arts, and bade a final adieu to his severe Alma Mater. The graduate of old Trinity now directed his steps to his mother's cottage at Ballymahon, near Edgcworthtown, where she lived in reduced circumstances. Here Oliver spent two years trying to qualify for orders in the Episcopal Church. He could tell a story, sing a song, or play a game, with anyone. Occasionally he could also be found learning French from some Catholic priest, fishing on the banks of the Inny, playing his flute, and winning a prize at the fair of Ballymahon for throwing the sledge-hammer. We have not space to give a minute account of Olivers attempts to be a tutor, a clergyman, a lawyer, and a physician. When he j^re- 1 Rev. Mr. Contarine. 2 Irving, " Life of Goldsmith." 194 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. sen ted himself for orders, the Protestant bishop rejected him.' He turned tutor, but in a game of chance quarrelled with one of his i)a- tron's family, left his place with SL50 in his pocket, and wended his Avay to Cork, intending to go to America. In six weeks he returned to his mother without a penny, but had with him an old horse, v/hich he humorously named "Fiddlestick." Oliver next turned his thoughts to law. His good IJncle Con- tarine again came to his aid, and, with 8250 in his pocket, Oliver Goldsmith, B.A., set out for London. He had barely reached Dublin Avhen, in a game with a sharper, he lost all his money. Again he was jjenniless. He was now advised to study medicine, and his friends once more came to his assistance. He went to Edin- burgh, and for nearly two years attended the medical lectures in I he university of that city. But his standing, we are told, was higher in social circles than in the halls of science. He was a good story-teller, and he could sing a capital Irish song. From Edinburgh he next went to Leyden, on the Continent, to complete his medical education. After a year spent at this place, he got into some difficulty, and hastily left the university without taking any degree. He now began the grand tour of Europe, with "a guinea in his pocket, a shirt on his back, and a flute in his hand." This journey Goldsmith has immortalized in his "Travel- ler." On foot he made his way through Belgium, France, Switzer- land, and Italy ; and it is generally believed that he took his medi- cal degree either at Louvain or Padua. While in Italy he heard of his generous Uncle Contarine's death. Oliver was obliged to foot it towards home, and was happy in finding lodging and a meal in some wayside monastery. In the extremity of distress he reached London in 1756, and en- gaged awhile in teaching, under an assumed name. He next turned to practise medicine, but his patients outnumbered his fees. He IhuiUy took up his pen, and began that struggle in the troubled waters of London life which closed only when the struggler lay coffined in Brick Court. He began l)y writing essays and criticisms for the reviews and magazines. lu 1759, Goldsmith's first work, "An Enquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe," Avas given to the public. The next year he wrote for a popular periodical a series of letters assuming to come from a Chinese philosopher living in London, and ' Because, it is said, he -V70ic a " pair oi scarletirccchcs''^ en tho cccasicn. Oliver Goldsmith. 195 giving his countrymen an account of wliat ho was seeing there. The '•' Vicar of Wakefield." was finished in 17G4, though not pub- lislied for nearly two years after. We arc indebted, to Dr. Johnson for the story of how the manuscript was sold. "I received, one morning," says the doctor, ''a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begged that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had ar- rested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I per- ceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired him to be calm, and began to talk to him of the means whereby he might be extricated. He then told me he had a novel ready for the press, which he i^roduced to me. I looked into it and saw its merit, told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his land- lady in a high tone for having used him so ill." * In 1704, Goldsmith published '*' The Traveller." During the next ten years his gifted pen gave the comedies of '■' The Good- Natured Man" and "^She Stoops to Conquer," the beautiful poem of ''The Deserted Village," in which the good, sim2:)le peo- ple, the sights and scenes of Lissoy, in Ireland, are immortalized, and a number of historical and other works, for some of which he was paid largo sums of money. The last flash of his genius was the short poem, " Eetaliation," written in reply to some jibing epitaphs which Avere composed on him by the company met one day at dinner in the St. James's Cofilee-Housc. The actor Garrick's couplet ran thus : " Here lies Poet Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, Who wrote like an angel, but talked like poor Poll." Garrick, even to-day, suffers for his unkindncss, as can be seen by reading the " Ectaliation," Death, alas ! was now silently a])proaching Goldsmith, and the light of his genius was soon to go out. Low fever set in. He took powders contrary to the advice of his physicians, and after * Bos-well's " Life of Johnson." 196 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. nine days' sickness the author of "■ Sweet Auburn '' was no more. He died on the 4th of April, 1774, in his forty- sixth year. His last moments were jieculiarly sad, as he died deeply in debt. Dr. Johnson tells us that he owed fully ^10,000, and exclaims : ''Was ever poet so trusted before ! " On hearing of Goldsmith's death, Edmund Burke burst into tears. A monument was raised to him in Westminster Abbey, and good old Doctor Johnson wrote the epitaph in Latin, of which the following is a translation : "OLR^ER GOLDSMITH, POET, NATURALIST, A>T5 HISTOKIAN, Who left scarcely any style of -writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn ; of all the passions, whether smiles or tears were to be moved, a powerful yet gentle master ; in genius sub- lime, vivid, versatile; in style elevated, clear, elegant . . . The love of companions, the fidelity of friends, and the veneration of readers have by this monument honored the Memory. He was born in Ireland, at a place called Pallas, In the parish of Forney, and county of Longford, on the 29th of Nov., 1728, educated at the University of Dublin, and died at London, 4th AprO, 1774." As an author. Goldsmith holds the first place in both poetry and prose. His original productions are classics. But of all his poetic gems, the finest, most polished, and most precious is " The Deserted Village." For tender jiathos, simple, charming, lifelike descrip- tions, exquisite harmony, and matchless beauty of expression, it is a poem, perhaps, unequalled in the Avliole range of literature. It Avill last as long as the English language. His good-natured wit and healthy humor shine through his come- dies, essays, "Vicar of Wakefield," and especially his lines on "Madame Blaze." To Goldsmith belongs the great merit of purifying the novel, of raising it above the sensual and the obscene. The beautiful story of "The Vicar of Wakefield" stands alone in English letters, the matchless story of his own matchless pen. Its perusal gave the great German poet, Goethe, his first taste for English liter- ature. SWERT AUBURN. Oliver Goldsmith. 197 As a gay and graceful essayist, the author of '' Sweet Auburn" excelled either Steele or Addison. "In person," writes one avIio knew Goldsmith well, ''he was short ; about five feet five or six inches ; strong, but not heavy in make ; rather fair in complexion, with brown hair. His manners were simple, natural, and, perhaps, on the whole, we may say j)ol- islied. He was always cheerful and animated, often, indeed, bois- terous in his mirth." * Goldsmith's faults, like the faults of other men, are neither to be denied nor excused. But we should not dwell upon them. Ho was a man whose character should be determined not so much by his defects as by his excellences. Of his charity instances without number could be given, as where he took the blankets from his own bed to cover a poor woman and her children. The truth of Bulfon's famous saying, " The style is the man," was never seen in a clearer light than in the case of Goldsmith. His bright mind, joyous spirits, and kind heart shine through all his writ- insfs. These exhibit his better self. Johnson is said to have remarked that no man was wiser than Goldsmith Avhen he had a pen in his hand, or more foolish when he had not. We should remember that it was Goldsmith's misfortune rather tlian his fault that his whole life was a struggle with adversity and his own poorl^'-balanced cha- racter. Yet neither poverty nor distress could ever curdle the milk of human kindness in his good heart. And when we come to con- sider that some of his masterpieces were composed in a miserable garret, with indigence staring him on every side, we are really forced to bow to the shining splendor of his genius. GOLDS:\riTH'S POEMS. THE DESERTED TILLAGE. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, "Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and case. Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, ^ Judge Day. 1 98 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Wliere humble happiness enclear'cl each scene ! How often have I paus'd on every charm — The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! How often have I bless'd the coming day. When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sj)orts beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old survey 'd ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ! And still as each repeated loleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band insjiir'd ; The dancing pair that simply sought renown By holding out, to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charm.s, sweet village ! sports like these. With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to j^lease ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled ! Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. And desolation saddens all thy green. One only master grasps the whole domain. And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The Lollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Oliver Goldsmith. igg Slink are tliy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall, And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Ear, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold jieasantry, their country's pride, When once dcstroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintained its man. Eor him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life requir'd, but gave no more ; His best comiDanions innocence and health, Aud his best riches ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous j)omp repose, And every want to luxury allied. And every pang that folly pays to j)ride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that grac'd the peaceful scene, Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green — Tliesc, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds. And, many a year elaps'd, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has giv'n my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down: 200 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; I still bad hopes, for pride attends ns still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill. Around my fire an evening group to draw. And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; And as a hai'c whom hounds and horse pursue Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return — and die at home at last. blest retirement ! friend to life's decline, Ectreats from care, that never must be mine. How blest is he w-ho crowns in shades like these A youth of labor with an age of ease ; Who quits a world where strong temptations try. And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! For him no wretclies, born to work and weep, Explore the mine or tempt the dang'rous deep, Nor surly porter stands in guilty state. To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay. While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last. His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound when oft, at ev'ning's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow. The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. The sober herd that low^'d to meet their young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playful children just let loose from school. The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind — These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. Oliver Goldsmith. 201 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread ; But all the bloomy flush of life is fled — All but you widow'd, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring. She, wretch'd matron, forc'd in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread ; To pick her wintry fagot from tlie thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd. And still where many a garden-flower grows wild — There, where a few torn "shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the counti-y dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Kemote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place. Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power. By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; Par otlier aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house Avas known to all the vagrant train, He chid their Avand'rings, but reliev'd their pain ; The long-remember d beggar was his guest. Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his fire and talk'd the night away. Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. And quite forgot their vices in tlicir woe ; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call. He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 202 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay, Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismay'd. The rev'rend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul, Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. And fools who c:imc to scoff remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children follow'd w^th endearing wile. And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd ; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ; As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds arc spread. Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way "With blossom'd furze unprofitable gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Eull well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; Oliver Goldsmith. 203 The village all declar'cl how much he knew — 'Twas certain ho could write, and cji)hcr too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thund'ring sound Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around. And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot "Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot, Near yonder thorn thatlifts its head on high, "Where once the sign-post caught tlie passing eye. Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd. Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retir'd, "Where village statesmen talk'd Avith looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlor splendors of that festive j)lace ; The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded flooi*. The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; .The hearth, except when winter chiird the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay, While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Kang'd o'er the chimney, giisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendors ! could not all Reprieve the tott'ring mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An houj''s importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair. To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; JSTo more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Eelax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear ; 204 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see tlie mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half-willing to be prest. Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. These simple blessings of the lowly train. To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm than all the gloss of art ; Spontaneous joys, where ]Si'ature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvy'd, unmolested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain. And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey The rich man's joy increase, the poor's decay, 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide wath loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards e'en bevond the miser's wish abound. And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. This man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supply'd ; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sjDorts are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product flies. For a^.l the luxuries the world supplies. While thus the land adorn'd, for j^leasure, all In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. Oliver Goldsmith. 205 As some fair femulo, nnadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, When time advances and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd — In nature's simplest charms at first array'd. But verging to decline, its splendors rise. Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise. While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band. And while he sinks, without one arm to save. The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside. To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is deny'd. If to the city sped — what waits him there ? To see profusion that he must not share ; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; To see each joy the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. Here, wdiile the courtier glitters in brocade. There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display. There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, Here, richly dcck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles ere annoy ! Sure these denote one universal joy ! Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. 2o6 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaitd. She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has Avept at tales of innocence distrest ; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn, Xow lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. And, pinched with cold and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour When idly first, ambitious of the town. She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train — Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! Ah I no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, "Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, Where Avild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed before. The various terrors of that horrid shore — Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray And fiercely shed intolerable day ; Those matted woods Avhero birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; AYhere at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; While oft in Avhirls the mad tornado flies. Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene — The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove That only shelter'd thefts of harmless loA^e. Good heaven ! Avhat sorrows gloom'd that parting day That called them from their native walks aAvay; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. Hung round the bowers and fondly look'd their last. Oliver Goldsmith. 207 And took a long farewell, and wisli'd in Tain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And, shndd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire, the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. AVith louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. And bless'd the cot where every j)leasure rose. And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. luxury ! thou curst by heaven's decree, How ill-exchang'd are things like these for thee ! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their jDleasures only to destroy ! Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness growm Boast of a florid vigor not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe. Till, sapp'd their strength and every part unsound, Down, down they sink and spread a ruin round E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done. E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale, Dow^nward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore and darken all the strand. Contented toil and hospitable care And kind connubial tenderness are there, And piety, with wishes plac'd above, And steady loyalty and faithful love. 2o8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And thou, sweet Poetry, tliou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade, Unfit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd. My shame in crowds, my solitary pride, Thou source of all my bliss and all my Avoe, That found'st me poor at first and keep'st me so ; Thou guide by Avhich the noble arts excel. Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well. Farewell, and ! where'er thy voice be try'd. On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side. Whether where equinoctial fervors glow Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, tStill let thy voice, prevailing over time, Eedress the I'igors of tli' inclement clime ; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him that states of native strength possest. Though very poor, may still be very blest ; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away. While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. THE TRAVELLEK ; OE, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door ; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies A weary waste expanding to the skies ; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee — Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ; T±l£ BL.l:aK SWISS. Oliver Goldsmith. 209, Blest be tliat spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. And every stranger finds a ready chair ; Blest be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd. Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale, Or press the bashful stranger to his food. And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share. My prime of life in wandering spent and care ; Impeird, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view , That, like the circle bounding earth and skies. Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies ; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. And find no spot of all the world my own. E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend. And, placed on high above the storm's career. Look downward where an hundred realms appear, Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide. The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus creation's charms around combine. Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. These little things are great to little man ; And wiser he whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd. Ye fields, where summer sjireads profusion round. Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale. Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale. For me your tributary stores combine ; Creation's heir, the world, the Avorld is mine. As some lone miser, visiting his store. Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er. 2 lo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still ; Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleas'd Avith each good that Heaven to man supplies: Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consigned. Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. But where to find that happiest spot below Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. And his long nights of revelry and ease ; The naked negro planting at the line Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home. And yet, 'perhaps, if countries we compare. And estimate the blessings wdiich they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given. To different nations makes their blessings even. Kature, a mother kind alike to all. Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call; With food as well the peasant is sujDplied On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; And though the rocky-crested summits frown. These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. From art more various are the blessings sent, AYealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. Yet these each other's power so strong contest That either seems destructive of the rest. Where wealth and freedom reign contentment fails. And honor sinks where commerce long prevails. Oliver Goldsmith. Ilenco every state, to one lov'd blessing prone, Conforms and models lii'e to that alone. Each to the fav'rite happiness attends, And spurns the plan that aims at other ends, 'Till, carried to excess in each domain. This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. But let us try these truths with closer eyes, And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; Here for a while, my proper cares resign'd — Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind, Like yon neglected shrub at random cast. That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Far to the right wliero Apennine ascends. Bright as the summer, Italy extends. Its uplands sloping deck the mountains' side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride. While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast. The sons of Italy were surely blest. Wliatevcr fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year ; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — These here disporting own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; AVhile sea-born gales their gelid wings expand To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign ; Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue. And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind That opulence departed leaves bchiiul ; 211 2 1 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date When commerce proudly flourished through the state ; At her command the palace learnt to rise, Again the long-fall' n column sought the skies ; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form, Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave But towns unmanned and lords without a slave. And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; Processions f orm'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove. By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd. The sports of children satisfy the child ; Each nobler aim, repressed by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behind. In happier meanness occuj)y the mind ; As in those domes where Caesars once bore sway, Defaced by time and tottering in decay. There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile. Exults and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul turn from them, turn we to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display. Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread. And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; No product hero the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array. But winter, lingering, chills the lap of May ; Oliver Goldsmith. 2 1 3 No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast. But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, e'en here, content can sjiread a charm. Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho' small. He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head To shame the meanness of his humble shed, No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal To make him loath his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil. Each wish contractino- fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose. Breathes the keen air and carols as he goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the Avay, And drags the struo-o-lintr savajre into dav. At night returning, every labor sped. He sits him down tho monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly 2:»latter on the board ; And haply, too, some pilgrim, thither led. With many a tale repays the nightly bed. Thus every good his native Avilds im2:)art, Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are tho charms to barren states assign'd ; Their wants but few, their Avishes all confin'd. Yet let them only share the praises due. If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 2 14 The Prose and Poetry of Irela?id. For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest ; "Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies. That first excites desire and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Uu known those powers that raise the soul to flame. Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a mouldering fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong desire ; Unfit for raptures, or, if raj)tures cheer On some high festival of once a year, In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire. Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow; Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unalter'd, unimprov'd the manners ruu. And love's and friendship's finely-pointed dart Fall blunted from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest; But all the gentler morals, such as play Thro' life's more cultur'd Avalks, and charm the way, These, far dispers'd on timorous pinions, fly To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, T turn, and France displays her bright domain. Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, Pleas'd with thyself, whom all the world can please. How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew. And f reshen'd from the wave the zephyr flew ; And haply, though my harsh touch, falt'ring still, But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noon-tide hour. Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze; Olivet' GoldsmitJi. 2 1 And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gcstic lore, Has frisk'd beneath .the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away ; Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honor forms the social temper here. Honor, that praise which real merit gains, Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. And all are taught an avarice of praise ; They please, are pleas'd, they give to get esteem. Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But Avhile this softer art their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly lov'd or warmly souglit Enfeebles all internal strength of thought, And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art. Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, And trims her robes of f rize with copper lace ; Hero beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year ; The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, ]S[or weighs the solid worth of self-applause. To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand. Where the Ijroad ocean leans against the land, And sedulous to stop the coming tide. Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward, methinks, and diligently slow. The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. Scoops out an empire, and usurps the sliorc. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. Sees an ampliibious world beneath him smile ; 2 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. The slow canul, the yellow-blossom 'd rale. The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, J The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign. Thus while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign. And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs. With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; But view them closer, craft and fraud appear. E'en liberty itself is barter'd here. At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, The needy sell it, and the rich man buys ; A land of tyrants and a den of slaves. Here wretches seek dishonorable graves. And calmly bent, to servitude conform. Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold ; War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! Fir'd at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride. And brighter streams than fam'd Hydaspes glide There all around the gentlest breezes stray. There gentle music melts on every spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd, Extremes are only in the master's mind ! Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state. With daring aims irregularlv 2:reat; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by ; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. By forms unfashion'd fresh from Xature's handj, Eicrce in their native hardiness of soul. True to imagin'd right, above control. ' Oliver Goldsmith. 217 While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, tliine the blessings picturd here. Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy. But foster'd e'en by Freedom ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high. Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. Minds combat minds, repelling and reiDell'd. Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, Eeprest ambition struggles round her shore, Till, overwrought, the general system feels Its motions stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay. As duty, love, and honor fail to sway. Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength and force unwilling awe. Hence all obedience bows to thee alone, And talent sinks and merit weejDS unknown. Till time may come when, stript of all her charms, The land of scholars and the nurse of arms. Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, Where kings have toil'd and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie, And scholars, soldiers, kings unhonor'd die. Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to flatter kings or court the gi'cat ; Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. Far from my bosom drive the low desire ; And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage and tyrants' angry steel. Thou transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt or favor's fostering sun. Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure, I only would repress them to secure ; For just experience tells, in every soil, That those that think must govern those that toil; 2 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And all that freedom's highest aims can reach Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportion^ grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. Oh ! then how blind to all tliat truth requires Who think it freedom when a part asj)ires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms; But when contending chiefs blockade the throne. Contracting regal power to stretch their own, When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, Pillag'd from slaves to purchase slaves at home • Fear, pity, justice, indignation start. Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart, Til], half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power, And, thus polluting honor in its source, Gave wealth to sway the mind Avitli double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Her useful sons exchang'd for useless ore ? Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, Like flaring tapers bright'ning as they waste ; Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain. Lead stern depopulation in her train. And over fields Avhere scattered hamlets rose In barren, solitary pomp repose ? Have we not seen at pleasure's lordly call The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd. The modest matron, and the blushing maid, Eorc'd from their homes a melancholy train, To traverse climes beyond the western main. Where wild Oswego spreads her swamp around. And Niagara stuns with thund'ring sound ? Oliver Goldsmith. 219 E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays. Through tangled forests and through dangcroiis "ways ; Where beasts with man divided empire claim, And the brown Indian marks with niurd'rous aim ; There, while above the giddy tempest flies, And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe. To stop too fearful, and too faint to go ; Casts a long look where England's glories shine. And bids his bosom sympathize Avith mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind ; Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose. To seek a good each government bestov/s ? In every government, though terrors reign. Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain How small of all that human hearts endure That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, Our own felicity we make or find ; With secret course, which no loud storms annoy. Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel. To men remote from power but rarely known. Leave reason, faith, and conscience all our own. RETALIATION. [A club of literary men used to meet at the St. James's Coffee-House, in St. James's Street, and soon after Goldsmith was elected a member he was made the butt of their witticisms, both spoken and written, on account of his provincial dialect and the oddity of his appearance. In a good-humored manner he subse- quently produced and read the following poem.] Op old, when Scarron ° his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our landlord ' supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself — and he brings the best dish. " A celebrated French -writer of burlesque. ' The land ord of the coffee-house. 2 20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Our dsan ' shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; Our Burkes " shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains ; Our Will ' shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor ; And Dick " Avith his pepper shall heighten the savor ; Our Cumberland's '' sweet-bread its place shall obtain. And Douglas '' is pudding, substantial and plain ; Our Garrick's " a salad, for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Eidge " is anchovy, and Eeynolds'" is lamb ; That Hickey's " a capon, and, by the same rule. Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast. Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able. Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. Let me ponder and tell what I think of the dead. Here hes the good dean,'' reunited to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure and wisdom with mirth ; If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good Edmund,'^ whose genius was such We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind, 8 Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry. » The Right Hoq. Edmund Burke. 1" Mr. William Burke, a relation of Edmund Burke, and M.P. tor Bedwin. '■ Mr. Richard Burke, a barrister, and younger brother of Edmund Burke, and Re- corder of Bristol. '- The dramatist. 13 Dr. Douglas, a Scotchman, canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Carlisle. 14 The celebrated actor. i-* John Ridge, a barrister in the Irish courts. " Sir Joshua Reynolds. 1' An Irish lawyer. ■ 15 Dean Barnard. 19 Edmund Burke. Oliver Goldsmith. 221 Though fraught Vv'ith all learning, yet straining liis throat To persuade Tommy Townshend " to lend him a vote; AYho, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing while they thought of dining; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit. Too nice for a statesman, too j)roud for a wit ; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient. And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unomploy'd or in place, sir. To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William,'' whoso heart was a mint. While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. Would you ask for his merits, alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard," whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas ! that such frolic should now be so quiet. What spirits Avere his ! what wit and what whim ! Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! " Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball, Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! In short, so provoking a devil was Dick That we wisli'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, As often we wisli'd to have Dick back again. *o^ Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultle"ss, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine ; 20 Thomas Townshend, afterwards Lord Sydney. '■!i WiUiam Burke. a- Richard Burke. 23 Richard Burke loved a jest, and he unfortunately broke one of his legs. 222 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Like a tragedy qneen he has dizen'd her out. Or rather like tragedy given a ront. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught, Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To" find out man's virtues, and finding them few. Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last and drew for himself ? Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax. The scourge of impostors the terror of quacks ; Come all ye quack bards and j-e quacking divines, Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. When satire and censure encircled his throne ; I fear'd for your safety, I f car'd for my own ; But now he is gone and we want a detector, Our Dodds'" shall be pious, our Kenricks " shall lecture ; Macpherson '" write bombast and call it a style. Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile ; New Landers and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over," iS'o countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. Here lies David Oarrick, describe me who can. An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty his colors he spread. And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. -■' The notorious Dr. Dodd, who was hanged for forgery. ■•'5 Dr. Kenrick used to deliver lectures at the Devirs Tavern, under the title of "The School of thakspeare." '-'' James Macpherson made a prose translation of Homer, to which allusion is here made. -' Lauder and Bower were two Scotch authors of bad moral character. Oliver Goldsmith. 223 On the stage lie was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. With 110 reason on earth to get out of his way. He turn'd and he yaricd full ten times a day ; Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick. If they were not his own by finessing and trick ; He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack. For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 'Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease. Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please ; But let us be candid and speak out our mind. If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,^^ and Woodfalls "" so grave, What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave ! How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais'd While he Avas be-Eoscius'd and you were bepraised ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. To act as an angel and mix with the skies ; Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill Shall be his flatterers, go where he will. Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature. And slander itself must allow him good nature. He cherish'd his friend and he relish'd a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper ! Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah ! no. Then what was his failing ? come, tell it and burn ye. He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 28 The author of " Words to the Wis?," " Ulementina," "School for Wires," etc. -^ Printer of the Morning Chronicle, died 1803. 224 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand. His manners were gentle, complying, and bland. Still born to improve ns in every part. His pencil our faces, his manners our heart ; To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of hearing; AVhen they talked of their Eaphaels, Correggios, and stuff He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff. ^° EDWIX AXD ANGELINA. A Ballad. "TuRif, gentle hermit of the dale. And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hosj^itable ray. ''For here forlorn and lost I tread. With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread. Seem length'ning as I go." •'Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still. And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will. " Then turn to-night and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows. My rushy couch and frugal fare. My blessing and repose. 3" Sir Joshua Eeynolds was deaf and used an ear -trumpet.' He also took a great quan« tity of sauU. Oliver Golds7nith. 22; '']S'o flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them. *' But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless least I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring. *'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares arc wrong ; Man wants but little here below, Xor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends. And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath his humble thatch Kequir'd a master's care. The wicket, opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair. And now, wlien busy crowds retire To take their ev'ning rest. The hermit trimm'd his little fire. And cheer'd his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store. And gaily press'd and smil'd ; And, skiird in legendary lore. The ling'ring hours beguil'd. 2 26 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Around in sympatliotic mirth Its triclis tlie kitten tries ; Tlie cricket cliirrnps in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the strr.nger's woe ; For grief Avas heavy at his heart. And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spy'd. With answ'ring care opprest : "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd^ The sorrows of thy breast ? • " From better habitations spurn'd, Eeluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. Or unregarded love ? "Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. "And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame. But leaves the wretch to weep ? "And love is still an emjitier sound, Tiie modern fair-one's jest. On earth unseen, or only found To warn the turtle's nest. '•For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. And spurn the sex," he said ; But while he spoke a rising blush ' His love-lorn guest betray'd. ■ Oliver Goldsmith. 227 Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view, Like colors o'er the morning skies. As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms ; The lovely stranger stands coufest A maid in all her charms. ''And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried, " Whose feet uuhallow'd tlius intrude Where Heav'n and you reside. '' But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father liv'd beside the Tyne. A wealthy lord was he. And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; He had but only me. '' To win me from his tender arms Unnumber'd suitors came. Who prais'd me for imputed charms. And felt, or feign'd, a flame. *' Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad, ]N"o wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had. But these were all to me. 2 28 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, <^' And when beside me in the dale lie carol'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale And music to the grove. '' The blossom ojiening to the day. The dews .of heav'n refin'd, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind. " The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, woe to me. Their constancy was mine. " For still I tryVl each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. *'Till, quite dejected witli my scorn, lie left me to my pride, And sought a solitude forlorn. In secret, where he died. *' But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn despairing hid, I'll lay me down and die ; -'Twas so for mo that Edwin did. And so for him will I." "Forbid it Heav'n I "' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast. The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide— 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. Oliver Goldsmith. *'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to sec Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin liere, Eestor'd to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign. And shall we never, never part. My life, my all that's mine ? *' No, never from this hour to part. We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." 229 AN ELEGY OX THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY EL.VIZE. Good people all, with one accord. Lament for Madam Blaize, "Who never wanted a good word — From those who spoke her j^raise. The needy seldom pass'd her door, And always found her kind ; She freely lent to all the poor — Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighborhood to please. With manners wondrous winning ; And never follow'd wicked ways — Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new, With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew — But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver. By twenty beaux and more ; The king himself has follow'd her — When she has walk'd before. 230 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. But now licr wealth aud finery fled, Her liangers on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead. Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow sore. For Kent Street well may say, That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more. She had not died to-day. AX ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wondrous short. It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad. When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound^ And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends. But when a pique began. The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran,- And swore the dos; had lost his wits To bite so good a man. Oliver Goldsmith. The wound it scem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light That show'd the rogues they li The man recovered of the bit The dog it was that died. 231 THE CLOWN S REPLY. John Trot was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears. *' An"t please you," quoth John, '•' I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; Ilowe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses." EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON. Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed. Who long .was a bookseller's hack ; lie led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. This tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name. May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay. That leads to truth through j^leasure's flowery way ! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid, And Ileav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow The transitory breath of fame below ; More lasting rapture from his works shall rise. While converts thank their poet in the skies. 232 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. GOLDSMITH'S ESSAYS. THE CITIZEN OF TUB "WORLD. As I am one of that sauntering tribe of mortals wlio spend tlie greatest part of their time in taverns, coffee-houses, and other places of i^ublic resort, I have tliereby an opportunity of observing an infinite variety of characters, wliich, to a person of a contempla- tive turn, is a much higher entertainment than a view of all the curiosities of art or nature. In one of these my late rambles I acci- dentally fell into the company of half a dozen gentlemen who were engaged in a warm dispute about some political affair, the decision of which, as they were equally divided in their sentiments, they thought proper to refer to me, which naturally drew me in for a share of the conversation. Amongst a multiplicity of other topics, we took occasion to talk of the different characters of the several nations of Europe, when one of the gentlemen, cocking his hat and assuming such an air of importance as if he had possessed all the merit of the English nation in his own person, declared that the Dutch were a j)arcel of avaricious wretches, the French a set of flattering sycophants, that the Germans were drunken sots and beastly gluttons, and the Span- iards proud, haughty, and surly tyrants ; but that in bravery, generosity, clemency, and in every other virtue the English excelled all the rest of the world. This very learned and judicious remarh was received with a general smile of approbation by all the company — all, I mean, but your humble servant, who, endeavoring to keep my gravity as well as I could, and, reclining my head upon my arm, continued for some time in a posture of affected thoughtfulness, as if I had been musing on something else, and did not seem to attend to the sub- ject of conversation, hoping by these means to avoid the disagree- able necessity of explaining myself, and thereby dei^riving the gen- tleman of his imaginary happiness. But my pseudo patriot had no mind to let me escape so easih-. Not satisfied that his opinion should pass without contradiction, he was determined to have it ratified by the suffrage of every one in the company, for which purpose, addressing himself to me with an air of inexpressible confidence, he asked me if I was not of the same way of thinking. As I am never forward in giving my ojiinion, especially when I have reason to believe that it Avill not be agree- Oliver Goldsmith, 233 able ; so, when I am obliged to give it, I always hold it for a maxim to speak my real sentiments. I therefore told him that, for my own part, I should not have ventured to talk i:i sucii a peremptory strain unless I had made the tour of Europe and examined the manners of these several nations with great care and accuracy ; that perhaps a more impartial judge would not scruple to affirm that the Dutch were more frugal and industrious, tlie French more temperate and polite, the Germans more hardy and patient of labor and fadgue, and the Spaniards more staid and sedate, than the English, who, though undoubtedly brave and generous, were at the same time rash, headstrong, and impetuotis ; too apt to be elated with prosperity and to despond in adversity. I could easily perceive that all the company began to regard mo with a jealous eye before I had finished my answer, which I had no sooner done than the patriotic gentleman observed, with a con- temptuous sneer, that he was greatly stirprised how some iieojile could have the conscience to live in a country which they did not love, and to enjoy the protection of a government to which in their hearts they were inveterate enemies. Finding that by this modest declaration of my sentiments I had forfeited the good opinion of my companions, and given them occasion to call my political princi- ple in qtiestion, and well knowing tliat it was in vain to argue with men who were so very full of themselves, I threw down my reckon- ing and retired to my own lodgings, reflecting on the absurd and ridiculous nature of national prcjiidioe and prepossession. Among all the famous sayings of antiquity there is none that does greater honor to the author, or affords greater pleasure to the reader (at least if he be a person of generous and benevolent heart), than that of the philoso^Dher who, being asked what ''countryman he was," replied that he was ''' a citizen of the Vv^orld." TIow few arc there to be found in modern times who can say the same, or whose condttct is consistent with such a profession ! We are new become so mtich Englishmen, Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Spaniards, or Ger- mans that we are no longer citizens of the world ; so much the natives of one particular spot, or members of one petty society, that wc no longer consider ourselves as the general inhabitants of the globe, or members of that grand society which comprehends the whole human kind. Did these prejudices prevail only among the meanest and lowest of the people, perhaps they might be excused, as they have few, if 2 34 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. any, opportunities of correcting them by reading, travelling, or con- versing with foreigners ; but the misfortune is that they infect the minds and influence the conduct even of our gentlemen — of those, I mean, who have every title to this appellation but an exemption from prejudice, which, however, in my opinion, ought to be regard- ed as the characteristical mark of a gentleman ; for let a man's birth be ever so high, his station ever so exalted, or his fortune ever so large, yet if he is not free from national and other prejudices, I should make bold to tell him that he had a low and vulgar mind, and had no just claim to the character of a gentleman. And in fact you will always find that those are most apt to boast of na- tional merit who have little or no merit of their own to dej^end on, than which, to bo sure, nothing is more natural ; the slender vine twists around the sturdy oak for no other reason in the world but because it has not strength sufficient to support itself. Should it be alleged in defence of national prejudice that it is the natural and necessary growtli of love to our country, and that therefore the former cannot be destroyed without hurting the latter, I answer that this is a gross fallacy and delusion. That it is the growth of love to our country I will allow, but that it is the natu- ral and necessary growth of it I absolutely deny. Superstition and enthusiasm, too, are the growtli of religion ; but wljo ever took it into his head to affirm that they are the necessary growth of this noble principle ? They are, if you will, the bastard sprouts of this heavenly plant, but not its natural and genuine branches, and may safely enough be lopt off without doing any harm to the parent stock — nay, perha2)s, till once they are lopt o2 this goodly tree can never flourish in perfect health and vigor. Is it not very possible that I may love my own country without hating the natives of other countries ? that I may exert the most heroic bravery, the most undaunted resolution, in defending its laws and liberty without despising all the rest of the world as cow- ards and poltroons ? Most certainly it is ; and if it were not — but what need I suppose what is absolutely impossible ? — but if it were not, I must own, I should prefer the title of the ancient philoso- pher — viz., a citizen of the world — to that of an Englishman, a Frenchman, a European, or to any other appellation whatever. Oliver Goldsmith. 235 CAEOLAlSr, THE IKISH BARD. There can be, perhaps, no greater entertainment than to compare the rude Celtic simplicity witii modern rehnemcnt. Books, how- ever, seem incapable of famishing the parallel; and to bo acquainted with the ancieut manners of our own ancestors, we should endeavor to look for their remains in those countries which, being in some measure retired from an intercourse with other nations, are still nntinctured with foreign refinement, language, or breeding. The Irish will satisfy curiosity in this respect preferably to all other nations I have seen. They, in several parts of that country, still adhere to their ancient language, dress, furniture, and supersti- tions; several customs exist among them that still speak their ori- ginal ; and in some respects Csaesar's description of the ancient Bri- tons is aj)plicable to them. Their bards, in particular, are still held in great veneration among them. Those traditional heralds are invited to every funeral, in order to fill up the intervals of the howl with their songs and harps. In these they rehearse the actions of the ancestors of the deceased, be- wail the bondage of their country under the English Government, and generally conclude with advising the young men and maidens to make the best use of their time, for they will soon, for all their present bloom, be stretched under the table, like the dead body be- fore them. Of all the bards this country ever produced, the last and the greatest was Carolan the Blind. He was at once a ^oai, a musician, a coMiposer, and sung his own verses to his harp. The original na- tives never mention his name without rapture; both his poetry and music they have by heart; and even some of the English themselves who have been transplanted there find his music extremely pleas- ing. A song beginning, " O'Rourke's noble fare will ne'er bo for- got," translated by Dean Swift, is of his composition, which, though ])erhaps by this means the best known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most deserving. His songs in general may be compared to those of Pindar, as they have frecpiently the same flights of imagi- nation, and are composed (I don't say written, for he could not write,) merely to flatter some man of fortune upon some excellence of the same kind. In these one man is praised for the excellence of his stable, as in Pindar, another for his hosi^itality, a tiiird for the beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for the anucpiity 2 ^6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. of his family. Whenever any of the original natives of distinction were assembled at feasting or revelling, Carolan vfas generally there, Avhcro he was always ready with his harp to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature formed for his profession ; for as he was born blind, so also was he possessed of a most astonishing memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction. Being once at the house of an Irish nobleman, where there was a musician present who was eminent in the profession, Carolan immediately challenged him to a trial of skill. To carry his jest forward, his lordship persuaded the musician to accept the challenge, and he accordingly played over on his fiddle the whole piece after him, without missing a note, though he had never heard it before, which produced some surprise ; but their astonishment increased when he assured them he could make a concerto in the same taste himself, which he instantly comjwsed, and that with such spirit and elegance that we may compare it (for we have it still) with the finest compositions of Italy. His death was not more remarkable than his life. Homer was never more fond of a glass than he ; he would drink whole pints of usquebaugh, and, as he used to think, without any ill consequence. His intemperance, however, in this respect, at length brought on an incurable disorder, and when just at the point of death, he called for a cup of his beloved liquor. Those who were standing round him, surprised at the demand, endeavored to persuade him to the con- trary ; but he persisted, and when the bowl was brought him, at- tempted to drink, but could not ; wherefore, giving away the bowl, he observed with a smile that it woiild be hard if two such friends as he and the cup should part, at least without kissing, and then expired. THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IK WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS "WELL OF MINDS AS OF PER- SONS." I WAS ever of opinion that the honest man who married and brought up a large family did more service than he who continued single and only talked of population. From this motive T had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of 31 This is the nrst chapter of the "Vicar of Wakefield " Oliver Goldsmith. 237 inutrimony, and chose my wife, as she did licr wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities us Avould wear well. To do her justice, she w^as a good-natured, notable woman ; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any Englisli book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house- keeping, though I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness in- creased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a good neighborhood. The year was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting our rich neighbors and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for whicli we had great re- putation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honor by these claims of kindred, us wo had the blind,- the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as they were the same f,csh and blood, they should sit wHh us at the same table. So that if we had not very rich we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this remarK will hold good through life, that the i^oorer the guest the better pleased he ever is with being treated ; and as some men gacc with admiration at the colors of a tulip or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any of our relations was found to be a 2')erson of a very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of smdll value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like : but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors. 238 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Thus Avc lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its favors. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards iilnndered by the cats or the children. The squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic j^arts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at churcli with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without softness so they were at once well formed and healthy, my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, Avhich promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensburg, who, in Henry II.'s progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her Aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who during her ^^regnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another vear we had another daughter, and now I was de- termined that Grissel should be her name; but a ricli relation tak- ing a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia ; so that wc had two romantic names in the family, but I solemnly protest I had no hand it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more. It would be fruitless to deny exultation Avhen I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.-' ''Ay, neighbor," she would answer, ""' they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for hand- come is that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads, who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very liandsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me that I should scarcely have remembered to mention it had it not Oliver Goldsm ith. 239 been a general topic of conversation in the conntry. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that Inxnriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Ilebe— open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first ; but often did more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one van- quished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features — at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers ; Sophia, to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please; Sophia even repressed excellence from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I "was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son, George, was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy, Moses, whom I dc- sis'ned for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young people that liad seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all ; and, properly speaking, they had but one character — that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. LETTER PEOM LIEN" CHI ALTANGI TO -= =-' '•, MEECHAKT IX AMSTER- DAM — LOXDON" AKD ITS PEOPLE.'^ Friexd of mt Heart : 2Lay tlie wings of peace rest upon iliy dwelling, and the shield of conscience preserve tliee from vice and misery! For' all thy favors accept my gratitude and esteem, the only tributes a poor philosophic wanderer can return. Sure, fortune is resolved to make me unhappy, when she gives others a power of testifying their friendship by actions, and leaves me only words to express the sincerity of mine. I am perfectly sensible of the delicacy with Avhich you endeavor to lessen your own merit and my obligations. By calling your late '-In these letters— or rather essays in the form of letters— Goldsmith assumed the character of a Chinese philosopher. •V 240 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. instances of friendship only a return for former favors, you vvonld induce me to impute to your justice what I owe to your generosity. The services I did you at Canton, justice, humanity, and my office bade me perform ; those you have done me since my arrival at Amsterdam no laws obliged you to, no justice required ; even half your favors would have been greater than my most sanguine expec- tations. The sum of money, therefore, Avhich you privately conveyed into my baggage when I was leaving Holland, and which I was ignorant of till my arrival in London, I must beg leave to return. You have been bred a merchant, and I a scholar; you consequently love money better than I. You can find pleasure in superfluity ; I am perfectly content with what is sufficient. Take, therefore, what is vours ; it may give you some pleasure, even though you have no "occasion to use it ; my happiness it cannot improve, for I have already all that I Avant. My passage by sea from Rotterdam to England was more painful to me than all the journeys I ever made on land. I have traversed the immeasurable wilds of Mogul Tartary ; felt all the rigors of Siberian skies ; I have had my repose a hundred times disturbed by invading savages, and have seen, without shrinking, the desert sands rise like a troubled ocean all around me. Against these calamities I was armed with a resolution ; but in my passage to England, though nothing occurred that gave the mariners any uneasiness, to one who was never at sea before all was a subject of astonishment and terror. To find the land disappear, to see our ship mount the waves swift as an arrow from the Tartar bow, to hear the wind liowling through the cordage, to feel a sickness v/hich depresses even the spirits of the brave — these were unexpected distresses, and con- sequently assaulted me unprepared to receive them. You men of Europe think nothing of a voyage by sea. With us of China a man who has been from sight of land is regarded upon liis return with admiration. I have known some provinces where there is not even a name for the ocean. What a strange people, therefore, am I got amongst, who have founded an empire on this imstable clement, v/ho build cities upon billows that rise higher than the mountains of Tiptartala, and make the deep more formidable than the wildest tempest. Such accounts as these, I must confess, were my first motives for seeing England. These induced mc to undertake a journey of seven Oliver Goldsmith. 241 hiindred painful daj'^s, in order to examine its opulence, buildings, sciences, arts, and manufactures on the spot. Judge, then, my dis- appointment on entering London to see no signs of that opulence so much talked of abroad. Wherever I turn I am presented with a gloomy solemnity in the houses, the streets, and the inliabitants ; none of that beautiful gilding which makes a principal ornament in Chinese architecture. The streets of Nankin are sometimes strewed with gold leaf. Very different are those of London ; in the midst of their pavements a great lazy puddle moves nmddily along ; heavy- laden machines, wnth wheels of uiiweildy thickness, crowd up every 2iassage, so that a stranger, instead of finding time for observation, is often happy if he has time to escape from being crushed to pieces. The houses borrow very few ornaments from architecture ; their chief decoration seems to bo a paltry piece of painting hung out at their doors or windows, at once a proof of their indigence and vanity — their vanity, in each having one of those pictures exposed to jjublic view ; and their indigence, in being unable to get them better painted. In this respect the fancy of their painters is also deplorable. Could you believe it ? I have seen five black lions and three blue boars in less than the circuit of half a mile ; and yet you know that animals of these colors are nowhere to be found except in the wild imaginations of Europe. From these circumstances in their buildings, and from the dismal looks of the inhabitants, I am induced to conclude tluit the nation is actually poor; and that, like the Persians, they make a splendid figure everywhere but at home. The proverb of Xixofu is, that a man's riches may be seen in his eyes. If we judge of the English by this rule, there is not a poorer nation under the sun. I have been here but two days, so will not be hasty in my deci- sions. Such letters as I shall write to Fipsihi, in Moscow, I beg you'll endeavor to forward with all diligence. I shall send them open, in order that you may take coj^ies or translations, as you are equally versed in the Dutch and Chinese languages. Dear friend, think of my absence with regret, as I sincerely regret yours ; even while L write, I lament our separation. Farewell 1 242 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. LETTEE FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM, PIEST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL ACADEMY AT PEKIN, IN CHINA— PICTURE OF A LONDON SHOPKEEPER. The shops of London are us well furnished as those of Pekin. Those of London have a picture hung at their door, informing the passengers what they have to sell, as those at Pekin have a board to assure the buyer that they have no intention to cheat him. I was this morning to buy silk for a nightcap. Immediately upon entering the mercer's shop, the master and his two men, with wigs plastered with powder, appeared to ask my commands. They were certainly the civilest people alive ; if I but looked, they flew to the place where I cast my eye ; every motion of mine sent them run- ning- round the whole shop for my satisfaction. I informed them that I wanted what was good, and they showed me not less than forty pieces, and each was better than the former, the prettiest pat- tern in nature, and the fittest in the world for nightcaps. " My very good friend,"' said I to the mercer, "you must not pretend to instruct me in silks ; I know these in particular to bo no better than your mere flimsy Bungees." "That may be," cried the mercer, who I afterwards found had never contradicted a man in his life, " I cannot pretend to say but they may ; but I can assure you my Lady Trail has had a sacque from this piece this very morning.*' '• But, my friend,'' said I, " though my lady has chosen a sacque from it, I sec no necessity that I should wear it for a nightcap." " That may be," returned he again ; " yet what becomes a joretty lady will at any time look well on a handsome gentleman." This short compliment was thrown in so very seasonably upon my ugly face that even though I disliked the silk I desired him to cut me off the pattern of a nightcap. While this business was consigned to his journeymen, the master himself took down some pieces of silk still finer than any I had yet seen, and spreading them before me: "There," cries he, " there's beauty ! " My Lord Snakeskin has bespoke the fellow to .this for the birthnight this very morning ; it would look charmingly in waistcoats." " But I do not want a waistcoat," replied I. " Not Avant a waistcoat," returned the mercer, " then I would advise you to buy one ; when waistcoats are wanted, depend upon it, they will come dear. Always buy before you want, and you are sure to be well used, as. they say in Cheapside." There was so much justice Oliver Goldsmith. 243 in his advice that I could not refuse talking it; besides, the silk, wliicli was really a good one, increased the temptation, so I gave orders for that too. As I was waiting to haVe my bargains measured and cut, wiiich, I know not how, they executed but slowly, during tlie interval the mercer entertained me with the modern manner of some of the no- bility receiving company in their morning-gowns. "Perhaps, sir,"' adds he, '' you have a mind to see what kind of silk is universally worn." Without waiting for my reply, he spreads a piece before me which mic-ht be reckoned beautiful even in China. "If the nobility," continues he, "were to know I sold this to any under a right honorable I should certainly lose their custom. You see, my lord, it is at once rich and tasty, and quite the thing." " I am no lord," intermitted I. "I beg pardon," cried he, '"'but be pleased to remember when you intend buying a morning-gown that you had an offer from me of something worth money. Conscience, sir, conscience is my way of dealing ; you may buy a morning-gown now, or you may stay till they become dearer and less fashionable; but it is not my business to advise." In short, most reverend Fum, he persuaded me to buy a morning-gown also, and would probably have persuaded me to have bought half the goods in his shop, if I had stayed long enough, or was furnished with sufficient money. Upon returning home, I could not help reflecting, with some astonishment, how this very man, with such a confined education and capacitjf, was yet capable of turning me as ho tiiought j^roper, and moulding me to his inclinations. I knew he was only answer- ing his OAvn purposes, even while he attempted to appear solicitous about mine ; yet by a voluntary infatnation, a sort of passion com- pounded of vanity and good-nature, I walked into the snare witli my eyes open, and put myself to future pain in order to give him immediate pleasure. The Avisdom of the ignorant somcAvhat re- sembles the instinct of animals; it is diffused in but a very narrow ephere, but within that circle it acts with vigor, uniformity, and success. Adieu ! LETTER FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — THE ENGLISH LAW COURTS AS SEEN UY A CHINESE PHILOSOPHER. I HAD some intentions lately of going to visit Bedlam, the place where those Avho go mad arc confined. I went to wait upon the 244 ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. mail in black to be my conductor, but I found him prej^aring to go to Westminster Hall, where the English hold their courts of justice. It gave me some surprise to find my friend engaged in a lawsuit, but more so when he informed me that it had been depending for seve- ral years. '^IIow is it j)ossible," cried I, "for a man who knows the world to go to law ? I am well acquainted with the courts of justice in China; they resemble rat-traps everyone of them; no- thing more easy than to get in, but to get out again is attended with some difficulty, and more cunning than rats are generally found to possess ! '" '•■ Faith," replied my friend, " I should not have gone to law but that I was assured of success before I began. Things wx-re presented to me in so alluring a light that I thought by barely declaring my- self a candidate for the prize I had nothing more to do than to en- joy the fruits of the victory. Thus have I been uj^on the eve of an imaginary triumph every term these ten years ; have travelled forward with victory ever in my view but ever out of reach. However, at pre- sent I fancy we have hampered our antagonist in such a manner that without some unforeseen demur we shall this day lay him fairly on his back." "If things be so situated," cried I, "I do not care if I attend you to the courts and partake of the pleasure of your success. IBut prithee," continued I, as we set forward, " what reasons have you to think an affair at last concluded which has ffiven so many for- mcr disappointments?" "My lawyer tells me," returned he, "that I have Salkeldand Ventris strong in my favor^ and that there are no less than fifteen cases in point." " I understand," said I, "those are two of your judges who have already declared their opinions." "Pardon me," replied my friend, " Salkeld and Ven- tris are lawyers wlrt) some hundred years ago gave their opinions on cases similar to mine. These opinions which make for me my lawyer is to cite, and those opinions which look another Avay are cited by the lawyer employed by my antagonist. As I observed, I have Sal- keld and Ventris for me, he has Coke and Hale for him, and he that has most opinions is most likely to carry his cause." "But where is the necessity," cried I, " of prolonging a suit by citing the opinions and reports of others, since the same good sense which determined lawyers in former ages may serve to guide your judges at this day ? They at that time gave their opinions only from the light of reason;, your judges have the same liglit at present to direct Olivei'' Goldsmith. 245 them, let me even add a greater, as in former ages there were many 2)rejudices from wliich the present is happily free. If arguing from autliorities be exploded from every other branch of learning, why should it he particularly adhered to in this ? I plainly foresee^ how such a method of investigation must embarrass every suit, and even perplex the students ; ceremonies will be multiplied, formali- ties must increase, and more time will thus be spent in learning the arts of litigation than in the discovery of right." '"'I see," cries my friend, "that you are for a speedy administra- tion of justice, but all the world will grant that the more time that is taken up in considering any subject, the better it will be under- stood. Besides, it is the boast of an Englishman that his property is secure, and all the Avorld will grant that a deliberate administra- tion of justice is the best way to secure his property. Why have we so many lawyers but to secure our property ? Why so many forma- lities but to secure our property ? Not less than one hundred thou- sand families live in opulence, elegance, and ease merely by securing our property." " To embarrass justice," returned I, ''by a multi2)licity of laws, or to hazard it by a confidence in our judges, are, I grant, the oppo- site rocks on which legislative wisdom lias ever split. In one case the client resembles that emperor who is said to have been suffo- cated with the bed-clothes which were only designed to keep him warm ; in the other, to that town which let the enemy take posses- sion of its walls in order to show the world how little they depended upon aught but courage for safety. But bless me, what numbers do I see here — all in black — how is it possible that half this multi- tude find employment ! " " Nothing so easily conceived," returned my companion; "they live by watching each other. For instance, the catchpole watches the man in debt, the attorney watches the catchpole, the counsellor watches the attorney, the solicitor the counsellor, and all find sufficient employment." "I conceive you," interrupted I ; "• they watch each other, but it is the client that pays them all for Avatching. It jouts me in mind of a Chineso fable which is entitled, ' Five Animals at a Meal : ' "'A grasshopper filled with dew was merrily singing under a shade ; a whangam that eats grasshoppers had marked it for its prey, and was just stretching forth to devour it ; a serjient that had for a long time fed only on whangam was coiled up to fasten on the whangam ; a yellow bird was just upon the Aving to dart upon the 246 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. serpent ; a liawk had just stooped from above to seize the yellow bird. All Avere intent on tlieir prey and unmindful of their danger; so the whangam ate the grasshopper, the serpent ata the whangam, the yellow bird the serpent, and the hawk the yellow .bird, when, sousing from on high, a vulture gobbled up the hawk, grasshopper, whangam, and all in a moment.'" I had scarcely finished my fable when the lawyer came to inform my friend that his case was put off till another term, that money was wanted to retain, and that all the world was of opinion that the very next hearing would bring him off victorious. ''If so, then," cries my friend, "I believe it Avill be my wisest way to con- tinue the cause for another term, and in the meantime my friend here and I will go and see Bedlam.*' Adieu ! LETTEli FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — CRITICISM IN" ENGLAND. I HAVE frequently admired the manner of criticising in China, where the learned are assembled in a body to Judge of every new publication, to examine the merits of the work without knowing the circumstances of the author, and then to usher it into the Avorld with proper marks of respect or reprobation. In England there are no such tribunals erected; but if a man thinks proper to be a judge of genius, few Avill be at the pains to contradict his pretensions. If any choose to be critics, it is but saying they are critics, and from that time forward they become invested with full power and authority over every caitiff who aims at their instruction or entertainment. As almost every member of society has by tliis means a vote in literary transactions, it is no way surprising to find the rich leading the way here as in other common concerns of life — to see them either bribing the numerous herd of voters by their interest, or browbeat- ing them by their authority. A great man says at his table that such a book "is no bad thing." Immediately the praise is carried off by five flatterers to be dis- persed at twelve different coffee-houses, from whence it circulates, still improving as it proceeds, through forty-five houses Avhere cheaper liquors are sold ; from thence it is carried away by the honest tradesman to his own fireside, where the applause is eagerly caught up by his wife and children who have been long taught to regard his Oliver Goldsmith. 247 judgment as the standard of perfection. Thus when wc have traced a wide-extended literary re2:)utation up to its original source, Ave shall find it derived from some great man, who has, j^erhaps, received all his education and English from a tutor of Berne or a dancing- master of Picardy. The English are a people of good sense, and I am the more sur- prised to find them swayed in their opinions by men who often, from their very education, are incompetent judges. Men who, being always bred in affluence, see the world only on one side, are surely improper judges of human nature. They may indeed describe a ceremony, a pageant, or a ball ; but how can they pretend to dive into the secrets of the human heart, Avho have been nursed up only in forms, and daily behold nothing but the same insipid, adulation smiling upon every face. Few of them have been bred in that best of schools, the school of adversity ; and, by what I can learn, fewer still have been bred in any school at all. From such a description one Avould think that a droning duke or a dowager duchess was not possessed of more just pretensions to taste than persons of less quality ; and yet Avhatever the one or the other may write or praise shall pass for perfection, without further examination. A nobleman has but to take a pen, ink, and paper, Avrite away through three large volumes, and then sign his name to the title-page ; though the whole might have been before more dis- gusting than his own rent-roll, yet signing his name and title gives value to tlie deed, title being alone equivalent to taste, imagination, and genius. As soon as a piece, therefore, is published, the first questions are : Who is the author ? Does he keep a coach ? Where lies his estate ? What sort of a table does he keep ? If he happens to be poor and. unqualified for such a scrutiny, he and his works sink into irremediable obscurity, and too late he finds that having fed upon turtle is a more ready way to fame than having digested Tully. The poor devil against whom fashion has set its face vainly alleges that he has been bred in every part of Europe where know- ledge was to be sold ; that he has grown pale in the study of nature and himself. Ilis works may please upon the perusal, but his preten- sions to fame are entirely disregarded, lie is treated like a fiddler whose music, though liked, is not much praised, because he lives by it ; while a gentleman performer, though the most wretched scraper alive, throws the audience into raptures. The fiddler, indeed, may 248 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. in such a case console himself with thinking that while the other goes ofE with all the praise, he runs away with all the money ; but here the parallel drops ; for while the nobleman triumphs in un- merited applause, the author by profession steals off with — nothing. The poor, therefore, here, who draw their pens auxiliary to the laws of their country, must think themselves veiy happy if they find, not fame, but forgiveness; and yet they are hardly treated ; for as every country grows more polite, the press becomes more useful, and writers become more necessary as readers are supposed to in- crease. In a polished society, that man, though in rags, who has the jwwer of enforcing virtue from the press, is of more real use than forty stupid brachmans, or bonzes, or gucbres, though they preached never so often, never so loud, or never so long. That man, though in rags, who is capable of deceiving even indolence into wisdom, and professes amusement while he aims at reforma- tion, is more useful in refined society than twenty cardinals with all their scarlet, and tricked out in all the fopperies of scholastic finery. LETTER FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — HOW KINGS REWARD. The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding their subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with about two yards of blue ribbon, which is worn about the shoulder. They who are honored Avith this mark of distinction are called knights, and the king himself is always the head of the order. This is a very frugal method of recompensing the most important services, and it is very fortunate for kings that their subjects are satisfied with such trifling rewards. Should a nobleman happen to lose his leg in a battle, the king presents him with two yards of ribbon, and he is paid for the loss of his limb. Should an ambas- sador spend all his paternal fortune in supporting the honor of his country abroad, the king presents him with two yards of ribbon, which is to be considered as an equivalent to his estate. In short, while a European king has a yard of blue or green ribbon left, he need be under no apprehension of wanting statesmen, generals, and soldiers. I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men with large patrimonial estates are willing thus to undergo real hardships Oliver Goldsmith. 249 for empty favors. A person alreiidy possessed of a competent for- tune, who undertakes to enter the career of ambition, feels many real inconveniences from his station, while it procures him uu real happiness that he was not possessed of before. He could eat, drink, and sleep before he became a courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when invested with his authority. He could command flatterers in a private station as well as in his public capacity, and indulge at liome every favorite inclination uncensured and unseen by the people. What real good, then, does an addition to a fortune already suf- ficient procure ? Not any. Could the great man, by having his fortune increased, increase also his appetites, then precedence might be attended with real amusement. Was he, by having his one thousand made two, thus enabled to enjoy two wives or eat tW'O dinners, then, indeed, he might be ex- cused for undergoing some pain in order to extend the sphere of his enjoyment. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure often lessen as he takes pains to be able to improve it ; and his capacity of enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to in- crease. Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon them as a set of good-natured, misguided people, who are indebted to us and not to themselves for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery ; for our j)leasure the lackeyed train, the slow-parading pa- geant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in review. A single coat, or a single footman, answers all the purposes of the most indo- lent refinement as well ; and those who have twenty may be said to keep one for their own pleasure, and the other nineteen merely for ours. So true is the observation of Confucius, '"' that we take greater pains to i-)ersuade others that we are happy than endeavor- ing to think so ourselves." But though this desire of being seen, of being made the subject of discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted station, be troublesome enough to the ambitious, yet it is well for society that there are men thus willing to exchange case and safety for danger and a ribbon. We lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavor to deprive a child of its rattle. If a duke or a duchess are willing to carry a long train for our entertainment, so 250 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. much the worse for themselves; if they choose to exhibit in pubhc with a hundred hickeys and Mamohikes in tlieir equijiage for our entertainment, still so much the worse for themselves. It is the spectators alone who give and. receive the pleasure; they, only the sweating figures that swell the pageant. A mandarin who took much pride in appearing with a number of jewels on every part of his robe was once accosted by an old, sly bonze, who, following him through several streets, and bowing often to the ground, thanked him for his jewels. "What does he mean?" cried the mandarin. "Friend, I never gave thee any of my jewels." "N'o," replied the other ; " but you have let me look at them, and that is all the use you can make of them yourself ; so there is no difference between us, except that you have the trouble of watching them, and that is an emjjloyment I don't much desire." Adieu ! LETTER FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME — A GLANCE AT WEST- MINSTER ABBEY. I AM just returned from Westminster Abbey, the place of sepul- ture for the philosophers, heroes, and kings of England. What a gloom do monumental inscriptions, and all the venerable remains of a deceased merit, inspire ! Imagine a temple, marked with the hand of anticputy, solemn as religious awe, adorned with all the magnificence of barbarous profusion, dim windows, fretted pillars, long colonnades, and dark ceilings. Think, then, Avliat were my sensations at being introduced to such a scene. I stood in the midst of the temple and threw my eyes round on the walls, filled with the statues, the inscriptions, and the monuments of the dead. Alas ! I said to myself, how does pride attend the puny child of dust even to the grave ! Even, humble as I am, I possess more con- sequence in the present scene than the greatest hero of them all. They have toiled for an hour to- gain a transient immortahty, and are at length retired to the grave, where they have no attendant but the worm, none to flatter but the epitaph. As I was indulging such reflections, a gentleman dressed in black, perceiving me to be a stranger, came up, entered into conver- sation, and politely offered to be my instructor and guide through the temple. "If any monument," said he, "should particularly excite your curiosity, I shall endeavor to satisfy your demands." I Oliver Goldsmith. 251 accepted with thanks the gentleman's offer, adding that ''I was come to observe the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the Eng- lish in conferring rewards npon deceased merit. If adulation like this (contained I) be properly conducted, as it can no ways in- jure those who are flattered, so it may be a glorious incentive to those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of every good government to turn this monumental pride to its owii advan- tage ; to become strong in the aggregate from the weakness of the individual. If none but the truly great have a place in this awful repository, a temple like this will give the finest lessons of morality, and be a strons: incentive to true merit." The man in black seemed impatient at my observations, so I discontinued my remarks, and we walked on together to take a view of every particular monument in order as it lay. As the eye is naturally caught by the finest objects, I could not avoid being jiarticularly curious about one monument which ap- peared more beautiful than the rest. ''That," said I to my guide, "I take to be the tomb of some very great man. By the peculiar excellence of the workmanship and the magnificence of the design, this must be a trophy raised to the memory of some king who has saved his country from ruin, or lawgiver who has reduced his fellow-citizens from anarchy into just subjection.'' "It is not requisite," replied my companion, smiling, '' to have such qualifica- tions in order to have a very fine monument here. More humble abilities will suffice." *' What ! I suppose, then, the gaining two or three battles or the taking half-a-score of towns is thought a suffi- cient qualification?" "Gaining battles or taking towns," replied the man in black, " may be of service ; but a gentleman may have a very fine monument here without ever seeing a battle or a siege." " This, then, is the monument of some poet, I presume — of one whose wit has gained him immortality?" "No, sir," replied my guide ; " the gentleman who lies here never made verses, and as for wit, he despised it in others, because he had none himself." " Pray, tell me, then, in a word," said I peevishly, " what is the great man who lies here particularly remarkable for ?" " Eemarkable, sir !" said my companion ; "why, sir, the gentleman that lies here is re- markable, very remarkable — for a tomb in Westminster Abbey." " But, head of my ancestors ! how has he got here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians of the temple to give him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be seen among company where even 252 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. modcruto merit would look like infamy?" "I suppose," replied the man in black, " the gentleman was rich, and his friends— it is usual in such a case— told him he was great. He readily believed them. The guardians of tlie temple, as they got by the self-delusion, were ready to believe him too ; so he paid his money for a fine monument, and the workman, as you see, has made him one of the most beautiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman is singu- lar in his desire of being buried among the great ; tliere are several others in the temple who, hated and shunned by the great while alive, have come here fully resolved to keep them company now they are dead." As we walked along to a particular part of the temple, "There," says the gentleman, pointing with his finger, " that is the poets' corner ; there you see the monuments of Shaksi^eare, and Milton, and Prior, and Drayton." '' Drayton ! " I rej^lied; " I never heard of him before ; but I have been told of one Pope ; is he there ? " " It is time enough," replied my guide, "these hundred years; he is not long dead; people have not done hating him yet." "Strange;" cried I, '•'can any be found to hate a man whose life was wholly spent in enteiiaining and instructing his fellow-creatures ? " " Yes," says my guide,, " they hate him for that very reason. There are a set of men called t^nswerers of books, who take upon them to watch the republic of letters, and distribute reputation by the sheet. They somewhat resemble the eunuchs in a seraglio, who are incapable of giving i^leasure themselves, and hinder those that would. These answerers have no other employment but to cry out dunce and scribbler ; to praise the dead and revile the living ; to grant a man of confessed abilities some small share of merit ; to applaud twenty blockheads in ordor to gain the reputation of candor, and to revile the moral character of the man whose writing they cannot injure. Such wretches are kept in ^vc^ by some mercenary bookseller, or, more frequently, the bookseller himself takes this dirty work off their hands, as all that is required is to be very abusive and very dull. Every poet of any genius is sure to find such enemies. He feels, though he seems to despise, their malice ; they make him miserable here, and in the pursuit of empty fame at last he gains solid anxiety." "Has this been the case with every poet I see here ?" cried I. "Yes, with every mother's son of them," replied he; " except he happened to be born a mandarin. If he has much money, he may Oliver Goldsmith. 25 buy reputation from your book-nnswerers, as well as a monument from the guardians of the temple."' "But arc there not some men of distinguished taste, as in China, who are willing to patronize men of merit, and soften the rancor of malevolent dulness ? " "I own there are many," replied the man in black; "but, alas I sir, the book-answerers crowd about them, and call themselves the writers of books, and the patron is too indolent to distinguish ; thus poets are kept at a distance, Avhile their enemies eat up all their rewards at the mandarin's table." Leaving this part of the temple, Ave made up to an iron gate, through which my companion told me we were to pass in order to see the monuments of the kings. Accordingly I marched u]) with- out further ceremony, and was going to enter, when a person who held the gate in his hand told me I must pay first. I was surprised at such a demand, and asked the man whether the peoj^lo of Eng- land kept a show 9 whether the paltry sum he demanded was not a national rejiroach ? whether it Avas not more to the honor of the country to let their magnificence or their antiquities be openly seen than thus meanly to tax a curiosity which tended to their oavu honor ? "As for your questions," replied the gate-keeper, "' to be sure they may be very right, because I don't understand them ; but as for that threepence, I farm it from one, who rents it from another, who hires it from a third, who leases it from the guardians of the temple, and we all must live." I expected, ujion paying here, to see something extraordinary, since Avhat I had seen for nothing filled me with so much surprise ; but in this I Avas dis- appointed. There Avas little more within than black cofiins, rusty armor, tattered standards, and some few slovenly figures in Av^ax. I Avas sorry I had paid, but I comforted m3-self by considering it Avould be my last payment. A person attended us, Avho, Avithout once blushing, told a hundred lies ; he talked of a lady avIio died by pricking her finger; of a king with a golden head, and twenty such pieces of absurdity. "Look ye there, gentlemen," says he, pointing to an old oak chair, " there's a curiosity for ye. In that chair the kings of England Averc crowned ; you see also a stone un- derneath, and that stone is Jacob's pilloAV." I could see no curiositv either in the oak chair or the stone. Could I indeed behold one of the old kings of England seated in this, or Jacob's head laid upon the other, there might be something curious in the sight ; 2 54 ^^^<^' Prose and Poetry of Ireland. but in the present case there was no more reason for my surprise than ii; I shoiihl pick a stone from their streets, and call it a curiosity, merely because one of the kings happened to tread upon it as he jmssed in a jn'ocession. From hence our conductor led us through several dark walls and winding ways, uttering lies, talking to himself, and flourishing a wand which he held :n his hand. lie reminded me of the black magicians of Kobi. After Ave had been almost fatigued with a variety of objects, he at last desired me to consider attentively a certain suit of armor, which seemed to show nothing remarkable. '"'This armor,"' said he, "belonged to General Monk." ''Very surprising that a general sliould wear armor!" "And pray," added he, "observe this caj-), this is General Monk's cap." "Very strange indeed, very strange, that a general should have a cap also ! Pray, friend, what might this cap have cost originally ? " " That, sir,*' says he, " I don't know ; but this cap is all the wages I have for my trouble." " A very small recompense, truly," said I. "' Not so very small," replied he, "for every gentleman puts some money into it, and I spend the money." " What, more money ! Still more money!" "Every gentleman gives something, sir." "I'll give thee nothing," returned I; "the guardians of the temple should pay your Avages, friend, and not permit you to squeeze thus from every spectator. When wc pay our money at the door to sec a show, Avc never give more as avc are going out. Sure the guardians of the temple can never think they get enough. Show me the gate ; if I stay longer, I may probably meet with more of those ecclesiastical beggars." Thus leaving the tcmiile precipitately, I returned to my lodgings, ju order to ruminate over Avhat was great and to despise what was mean in the occurrences of the day. LETTER FROil LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO HINGPO, BY THE WAY OF MOSCOW— FOETUKE AXD WHAIfG, THE MILLER. The Europeans are themselves blind who describe Fortune with- out sight. IsQ first-rate beauty ever had finer eyes or saw more clearly. They who have no other trade but seeking their fortune need never hope to find her; cocpiette-like she flies from her close Oliver Goldsmith. 255 pursuers, and at last fixes ou the jiloddiug mechanic who stays at home and minds his business. I am amazed how men can call her blind when by the company she keeps she seems so very discerning. AVhercver you see a gam- ing-table, bo very sure Fortune is not there ; wherever you see a house with the doors open, bo very sure Fortune is not there ; when you see a man whose pocket-holes are laced with gold, be satisfied Fortune is not there ; wherever you see a beautiful woman good- natured and obliging, be convinced Fortune is never there. In short, she is ever seen accompanying industry, and as often trundling a wheelbarrow as lolling in a coach and six. If you Avould make Fortune your friend, or, to 2">ersonize her no longer, if you desire, my son, to be rich and have money, be more eager to save than to acquire. "When people say, "• Money is to be got here and money is to be got there,"' take no notice ; mind your own business ; stay where you are and secure all you can get, without stirring. When you hear that your neighbor has picked up a purse of gold in the street, never run out into the same street looking about 3'ou in order to pick up such another ; or, when you are in- formed that ho has made a fortune in one branch of business, never change your own in order to bo his rival. Do not desire to be rich all at once, but patiently add farthing to farthing. Perhaps you despise the petty sum ; and yet they who want a farthing and have no friend that will lend them it think farthing's vcrv good things. Whang, the foolish miller, wdien he wanted a farthing in his dis- tress, found that no friend would lend, because they knew he want- ed. Did you ever read the story of Whang in our books of Chinese learning; he who, desj)ising small sums and grasping at all^ lost even what he had ? Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious ; nobody lored money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would sav, I know him very well ; he and I have been long acquainted ; he and I are intimate ; he stood for a child of mine. But if ever a poor man was mentioned ho had not the least knowledge of the man ; he might be very well for aught he knew, but he was not fond of many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company. Whang, hov/cver, with all his eagei'ness for riches, was in reality poor ; he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him ; but though these were small;, they were certain. While his mill 256 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. stood and went he was sure of eating, and his frugality was such that he every day laid some money by, which he would at intervals count and contemplate with much satisfaction. Yet still his ac- quisitions were not equal to his desires — he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence. One day as he was indulging these wishes he was informed that a neighbor of his had found a jiau of money underground, having dreamed of it three nights running before. These tidings were daggers to the heart of jioor Whang. "Here am I," says he, " toil- ing and moiling from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while ]S'eighbor Hunks only goes quietly to bed and dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh ! that I could dream like him. With what jileasure would I dig round the pan ; how sly would 'I carry it home; not even my wife should see me; and then, Oh ! the joleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap of gold up to the elbow." Such I'cflections only served to make the miller unhappy ; he dis- continued his former assiduity, he was quite disgusted with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he re- peated the wish and every night laid himself down to dream. For- tune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distresses, and indulged him with the Avished-for vision. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill there was concealed a monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground and covered with a large, flat stone. He rose up, tlumked the stars, that were at last pleased to take pity on liis sufferings, and concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be certain of its vera- city. His wislies in this also w^re answered, he still dreamed of the same pan of money in the very same place. Now, therefore, it w\as past a doubt; so, getting up early the third morning, he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine that part of the wall which the vision directed. The first omen of success that he met was a broken mug ; digging still deeper, he turns up a house-tile, quite new and entire. At last, after much digging, he came to the broad, flat stone, but then so large that it v/as beyond one man's strength to remove it. "Here," cried he in raptures to himself, "here it is ; under this «tone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds Oliver Goldsmith. 257 indeed. I must e'en go home to my wife and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up." Away, therefore, he goes and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good fortune. Her raptures on this occasion may easily he im- agined, she flew round his neck and embraced him in an agony of joy ; but those transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to know the exact sum. Eeturning, therefore, speedily together to the place where Whang had been digging, there they found — not in- deed the expected treasure, but the mill, their only support, under, mined and fallen. Adieu ! GOLDSMITH'S LETTERS. TO HIS MOTHER AT BALLTMAHON". 1751. My dear Mother : If you will sit down and calmly listen to what I say, you shall be fully resolved in every one of those many questions you have asked me. I went to Cork and converted my horse, which you prize so much higher than Fiddleback, into cash, took my passage in a ship bound for America, and, at the same time, paid the captain for my freight and all the other expenses of my voyage. But it so happened that the wind did not answer for three weeks ; and you know, mother, that I could not command the elements. My misfortune Avas that when the wind served I hap- pened to be with a party in the country, and my friend the captain never enquired after me, but set sail with as much indifference as if I had been on board. The remainder of my time I employed in the city and it environs, viewing everything curious ; and you know no ■ one can starve while he has money in his pocket. Eeduced, however, to my last two guineas, I began to think of my dear mother and friends whom I had left behind me, and so bought that generous beast, Fiddleback, and bade adieu to Cork with only five shillings in my pocket. This, to be sure, was but a scanty allowance for man and horse towards a journey of above a hundred miles ; but I did not despair, for I knew I must find friends on the road. I recollected j)articularly an old and faithful acquaintance I made at college, who had often and earnestly pressed me to spend a sum- mer with him, and he lived but eight miles from Cork. This cir.!-- 258 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. cumstance of vicinity he would expatiate on to me with peculiar emphasis. "Wo shall," says he, "enjoy the delights of both city and country, and you shall command my stable and my purse." However, upon the way I met a poor woman all in tears, who told me her husband had been arrested for a debt he was not able to pay, and that his eight children must now starve, bereaved as they were of his industry, Avhich had been their only support. I thought my- self at home, being not far from good friend's house, and therefore parted with a moiety of all my store ; and pray, mother, ought I not to have given her the other half-crown, for what she got would be of little use to her ? However, I soon arrived at the mansion of my affectionate friend, guarded by the vigilance of a huge mastiff, who flew at me and would have torn me to pieces but for the assist- ance of a woman, whose countenance was not less grim than that of the dog; yet she with great humanity relieved me from the jaws of this Cerberus, and was prevailed on to carry up my name to her master. Without suffering me to wait long, my old friend, who was then recovering from a severe fit of sickness, came down in his night-cap, night-gown, and slippers, and embraced me with the most cordial welcome, showed me in, and, after giving me a history of his indis- position, assured me that he considered himself peculiarly fortunate in having under his roof the man he most loved on earth, and whose stay with him must, above all things, contribute to his per- fect recovery. I now repented sorely I had not given the poor wo- man '(ho. other half-crown, as I thought all my bills of humanity would be punctually answered by this worthy man. I revealed to him my whole soul ; I opened to him all my distresses ; and freely owned that I liad but one half-crown in my pocket ; but that now, like a ship after weathering out the storm, I considered myself se- cure in a safe and hospitable harbor. He made no answer, but walked about the room rubbing his hands as one in deep study. This I imputed to the sympathetic feelings of a tender heart, which increased my esteem for him, and, as that increased, I gave the .most favorable interjoretation to his silence. I construed it into .delicacy of sentiment, as if he dreaded to wound my pride by ex- pressing his commiseration in words, leaving his generous conduct ,to speak for itself. It now approached six o'clock in the evening, and as I had eaten .no breakfast,- and as my spirits were raised,, my appetite for dinner Oliver Goldsmith. 259 grew uncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the room with two platc^ one spoon, and a dirty cloth, which she laid upon the table. This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my appetite. My protectress soon returned with a small bowl of sago, a small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and the heel of an old cheese all over crawling with mites. My friend apologized 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 ; and 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 larh. 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 even that refreshment. This Lenten entertainment I had received made me resolve to de- part as soon as possible ; accordingly next morning, when I spoke of going, he did not oppose my resolution ; he rather commended my design, added some very sage counsel upon the occasion. " To be sure," said he, "the longer you stay away from your mother the more you will grieve her and your other friends, and possibly they are already afQicted at hearing of this foolish expedition you have made." Notwithstanding all this, and without any hope of soften- ing such a sordid heart, I again renewed the tale of my distress, and asking "how he thought I could travel above a hundred miles upon one half-crown ? " I begged to borrow a single guinea, which I assured him should be repaid with thanks. "And you know, sir," said I, "it is no more than I have often done for you." To which he firmly answered, " Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, that is neither here nor there ; I have paid you all you ever lent me, and this sick- ness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought my- self of a conveyance for you ; sell your horse and I will furnish you with a much better one to ride on." I readily grasped at this pro- posal, and begged to see the nag ; on which he led me to his bed- chamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick. "Here he is," said he ; "take this in your hand, and it will carry you to your mother with more safety than such a horse as you ride.'' I was in doubt, Avhen T got it into my hand, whether I should not, in the first place, apply it to his pate ; but a rap at the street door made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlor he in- troduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the gentle- 26o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. man who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy friend, of whom he had so often lieard him sp.eak with rapture. I could scarcely compose myself ; and must have betrayed indignation in my mien to the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the neigliborhood, a man of engaging aspect and polite address. After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with him at his house. Tl]is I declined at first, as I wished to have no farther communication with my hospitable friend ; but at the soli- citation of both I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives — one, that I was prejudiced in favor of the looks and man- ner of the counsellor ; and the other, that I stood in need of a com- fortable dinner. And there, indeed, I found everything that I could wish, abundance without profusion, and elegance without affectation. In the evening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at his neighbor's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, made a motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should take a bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he might go home and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I should never re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me to add this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of his plausible neighbor. And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to all my follies ; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor had two sweet girls, his daughters, who played enchantingly on the harpsichord ; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the first time I heard them ; for that being the first time also that either of them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I saw the tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every day endeavored to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay. On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse and servant to convey me home ; but the latter I declined, and only took a guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road. Olivek Goldsmith. TO ROBEET BRYAIfTOIs, ESQ., AT BALLYMAHOX, IRELAIfD. Edinburgh, Sept. 26, 1753. My Dear Bob : How many good excuses (and you know I was ever good at an excuse) might I call up to vindicate my past shame- ful silence ! • I might tell how I wrote a long letter on my first Oliver Goldsmith. 261 coming hither, and seem yastly angry at my not receiving an an- swer. I might allege that business (with business you know 1 was always pestered) had never given me time to finger a pen — but I suppress these and twenty more equally plausible, and as easily in- vented, since they might be attended with a slight inconvenience of being known to be lies. Let me then speak truth ; an hereditary indolence (I have it from the mother's side) has hitherto prevented my writing to you, and still prevents my writing at least twenty- five letters more due to my friends in Ireland. No turnspit dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit down to write, yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better than I do him I now address. Yet what shall I say now I've entered ? Shall I tire you with a description of this unfruitful country, where I must lead j^ou over their hills all brown with heath, or their val- leys scarce able to feed a rabbit ? Man alone seems to be the only creature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Every part of the country presents the same dismal landscape. No grove nor brook lend their music to cheer the stranger or make the in- habitants forget their poverty; yet with all these disadvantages, enough to call him down to humility, a Scotchman is one of the proudest things alive. The poor have pride ever ready to relieve them; if mankind should happen to despise them, they are masters of their own admiration, and that they can plentifully bestow upon themselves. From their pride and poverty, I take it, results one advantage this country enjoys — namely, the gentlemen here are much better bred than ajnongst us. No such characters here as our fox-hunters, and they have expressed great surprise when I informed them that some men in Ireland of £1,000 a year spend their whole lives in running after a hare and drinking to be drunk ; and truly, if such a being, equipped in his hunting-dress, came among a circle of Scotch gentry, they would behold him with the same astonish- ment that a countryman would King George on horseback. The men here have generally high cheek-bones, and are lean and swarthy, fond of action, dancing in particular. Though now I mention dancing, let me say something of their balls, which are very frequent here. When a stranger enters the dancing-hall, he sees one end of the room taken up with the ladies, who sit dismally in a group by themselves. On the other end stand their pensive partners that are to be, but no more intercourse between the sexes 262 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. than tliere is between two countries at war ; the ladies, indeed, may ogle and the gentlemen sigh, but an embargo is laid on any closer commerce. At length, to interrupt hostilities, the lady directress or intendant, or what you will, jntches on a gentleman and lady to walk a minuet, which they perform with a formality that ap- proaches to despondence. After five or six couj^le have thus walked the gauntlet, all stand up to country dances, each gentle- man furnished with a j^artner from the aforesaid lady directress; so they dance much and say nothing, and thus concludes our assembly. I told a Scotch gentleman that such jorofound silence resembled the ancient procession of the Roman matrons in honor of Ceres, and the Scotch gentleman told me (and faith, I believe he was riglit,) that I was a very great pedant, for my pains. ^'ow I am come to the ladies, and to show that I love Scotland and everything that belongs to so charming a country, I insist on it, and will give him leave to break m.y head that denies it, that the Scotch ladies are ten thousand times handsomer and finer than the Irish, To be sure, now, I see your sisters Betty and Peggy vastly surprised at my partiality, but tell them flatly I don't value them, or their fine skins, or eyes, or good sense, or , a potato ; for I say it, and will maintain it, and as a convincing proof (I'm in a very great passion) of wliat I assert, the Scotch ladies say it themselves. But to be less serious, where will you find a language so pretty become a pretty mouth as the broad Scotch ? and the women here speak it in its highest jiurity ; for instance, teach one of their young ladies to pronounce, '' Whoar wull I gong?" with a becoming wideness of mouth, and I'll lay my life they will wound every hearer. "We have no such character here as a coquette ; but, alas! how many envious prudes ! Some days ago I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's (don't be surprised, my lord is but a glover), Avhen the Duchess of Hamilton"- (that fair who sacrificed her beauty to ambition, and her inward jioace to a title and gilt equipage,) passed by in her chariot ; her battered husband, or, more properly, the guardian of her charms, sat by her side. Straight envy began, in the shape of no less than three ladies who sat with me, to find faults in her faultless form. ''Fur my part," says the first, ''I think what I always thought, that the duchess has too much red in her complexion." "Madam, I'm of your opinion," says the second; "I think her "ace has a palish cast too much on the delicate order." "And 33 Elizabeth Gunning, the most beautiful -woman in the world. Oliver Goldsmith. 263 let me tell you," adds the third lady, whoso month was puckered u]^ to the size of an issue, " that the duchess has fine li])s, but slio wants a mouth." At this every l5,dy drew up her moutli as if going to pronounce tlie letter P. But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with whom I have scarce any correspondence. There are, 'tis certain, liandsome women here ; and 'tis as certain there are handsome men to keep them company. An ugly and a poor man is society for him- self, and such society the world lets me enjoy in great abundance. Fortune lias given you circumstances, and nature a person to look charming in the eyes of the fair world, l^or do I envy, my dear Bob, such blessings, while I may sit down and laugh at the world and at myself, the most ridiculous object in it.' But I begin to grow splenetic, and perhaps the -fit may continue till I receive an answer to this. I know you can't send news from B[ally]mahon, but such as it is, send it all ; everything you write will be agreeable and entertaining to me. Has George ConAvay put up a sign yet ? or John Finecly left off drinking drams ? or Tom Allen got a new wig ? But I leave to your own choice what to write. While Oliver Goldsmith lives, know you have a friend. P.S. — Give my sincere regards (not compliments, do you mind,) to your agreeable famaly, and give my service to my mother if you see her ; for, as you express it in Ireland, I have a sneaking kind- ness for her still. Direct to me , Student in Physic, in Edinburgh. TO THE EEY. THOMAS CONTAEINE. Close of 1753. My Dear Uncle : After having spent two Avinters in Edin- burgh, I now prepare to go to France the 10th of next February. I have seen all that this country can exhibit in the medical way, and therefore intend to visit Paris, where the great Mr. Farhein, Petit, and DuIIammel de Monceau instruct their pupils in all the branches of medicine. They speak French, and consequently I have much the advantage of most of my countrymen, as I am perfectly ac- quainted with that language, and few who leave Ireland are so. 264 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. Since I am upon so pleasing atopic as self -applause, giye me leave to say that the circle of science which I have run through before I undertook the study of physic is not only useful, but absolutely necessary to the making of a skilful physician. Such sciences en- large our understanding and sharpen our sagacity ; and what is a practitioner without both but an empiric, for never yet was a dis- order found entirely the same in two patients. A quack, unable to distino'iiish the particularities in each disease, prescribes at a ven- ture ; if he finds such a disorder may be called by the general name of fever, for instance, he has a set of remedies Avhich he applies to cure it, nor does he desist till his medicines are run out or his patient has lost his life. But the skilful physician distinguishes the symp- toms, manures the sterility of nature or prunes her luxuriance ; nor does he depend so much on the efficacy of medicines as on their projjer application. I shall spend this spring and summer in Paris, and the beginning of next winter go to Leyden. The great Albinus is still alive there, and 'twill be proper to go, though only to have it said that we have studied in so famous a university. As I shall not have another opportunity of receiving money from your bounty till my return to Ireland, so I have drawn for the last sum that I hope I shall ever trouble you for — 'tis £20. And now, dear sir, let me here acknowledge the humility of the station in which you found me ; let me tell how 1 was despised by most and hateful to myself. Poverty, hopeless j)overty, was my lot, and Melancholy was beginning to make me her own. When you — but I stop here to enquire how your health goes on. How does my dear Cousin Jenny, and has she recovered her late complaint? How does my poor Jack Goldsmith ? I fear his disorder is of such a na- ture as he won't easily recover. I wish, my dear sir, you would make me haj^py by another letter before I go abroad, for there I shall hardly hear from you. I shall carry just £33 to France, with good store of clothes, shirts, etc., etc., and that with economy will serve. I have spent more than a fortnight every second day at the Duke of Hamilton's, but it seems they like me more as a jeder than as a companion, so I disdained so servile an employment ; 'twas un- worthy my calling as a physician. I have nothing new to add from this country, and I beg, dear sir, you will excuse this letter, so filled with egotism. I wish you may Oliver Goldsmith. 265 be revenged on me by sending an answer filled with nothing bnt an account of yourself. I am, dear uncle, your most devoted, Oliver Goldsmith. Give my — how shall I express it ? Give my earnest love to Mr. and Mrs. Lawder. TO THE EEV. THOMAS CONTARINE. Leyde:n^, April or May, 1754. Dear Sir : 1 suppose by this time I am accused of either neglect or ingratitude, and my silence imputed to my usual slowness of writing. But believe me, sir, when I say that till now I had not an opportunity of sitting down with that ease of mind which writ- ing required. You may see by the top of the letter that I am at Leyden, but of my journey hither you must be informed. Some time after the receijit of your last I embarked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship called the aSV. A7idreivs, Captain John AY all, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and, as another in- ducement, I was let to knoAV that six agreeable j^assengers were to be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a storm drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-ui^on-Tyne. We all went ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening, as we were all very merry, the room door bursts open, enter a sergeant and twelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed, and puts us all Tinder the king's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the French army. I endeavored all I could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got oS even then. Dear sir, keej) this all a secret, or at least say it was for debt, for if it were once known at the university, I should hardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in my favor ; the ship was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mottth of the Garonne and every one of the crew were drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for Holland ; I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God ! I arrived safe at Rotterdam, whence I travelled by land to Leyden, and whence I now write. You may expect some account of this country, and though I am not well qualified for such an undertaking, yet shall I endeavor to 266 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. satisfy some part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me more than tlio books every day pubhshed descriptive of the manners of this country. Any young man who takes it into his head to pub- lish his travels visits the countries he intends to describe, passes throuirh them with as much inattention as his valet-de-chambre, and consequently, not having a fund himself to fill a volume, ho applies to those who wrote before him, and gives us the manners of a country, not as he must have seen them, but such as they might have been fifty years before. The modern Dutchman is quite a different creature from him of former times ; he in everything imi- tates a Frenchman but in his easy, disengaged air, which is the re- sult of keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly ceremo- nious, and is, perhaps, exactly what a Frenchman might have been in the reign of Louis XIV. Such are the better bred. Eat the downright Hollander is one of the oddest figures in nature ; upon a head of lank hair he wears a half-cocked, narrow hat, Kced with black ribbon; no coat, but seven waistcoats and nine pairs of breeches, so that his hips reach almost up to his arm-pits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to see company or make love. But what a pleasing creature is the object of his appetite t Why, she wears a large fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace, and for every pair of breeches he carries she puts on two petticoats. A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phlegmatic admirer but his tobacco. You must know, sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under her petticoats, and at this chimney dozing Streplion lights his joipe. I take it that this continual smoking is what gives the man the ruddy, healthful complexion he generally wears by draining his superfluous moisture, while tlie woman, deprived of this amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint the complexion and give that pale- ness of visage which low, fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. A Dutchwoman and Scotch will well bear an opposition. The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy ; the one walks as if she were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too masculine a stride. I shall not endeavor to deprive either country of its share of beauty, but must say that of all objects on this earth an English farmer's daughters is most charming. Every woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher class of women want many of the requisites to make them even tolerable. Their plea- sures here are- very dull, though very various.- You may smoke, you Oliver Goldsviith. 267 may doze^ you may go to the Italian comedy, as good an amnsenient as either of the former. This entertainment always brings in Har- lequin, who is generally a magician, and, in consequence of his dia- bolical'art, performs a thousand tricks on the rest of the persons in the drama, who are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of laughter at this humor, when wnth his sword he touches the glass from which another was drinking. 'Twas not his face they laughed at, for that was masked. They must have seen something vastly queer in the wooden sword that neither I nor you, sir, were you there, could see. In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, and all people are on the ice ; sleds drawn by horses and skating are at that time the reigning amusements. They have boats here that slide on the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they spread all the sails they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their motion is ^o rapid the eye can scarcely accompany them. Their ordinary manner of travelling is very cheap and very con- venient ; they sail in covered boats drawn by horses, and in these you are sure to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch slum- ber, the French chatter, and the English play at cards. Any man who likes company may have them to his taste. For my part, I generally detached myself from all society, and was wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. Nothing can equal its beauty; wherever I turn my eye, fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottos, vistas, presented themselves ; but when you enter their townas you are cliarmed beyond description. !tso misery is to be seen here ; every one is usefully employed. Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. There hills and rocks intercept every prospect ; here 'tis all a continued j^laiu. There you might see a well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close ; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a jxilace. The Scotch may be compared to a tulip planted in dung ; but I never see a Dutchman in his own house but I think of a magnificent Eg}^:)tian temple dedicated to an ox. Physic is by no means here taught so well as in Edinburgh ; and in all Leyden there are but four British students, owing to all necessaries being so extremely dear and the pro- fessors so very lazy (the chemical professor excepted) that we don't much care to come hither. I am not certain how long my stay here may be ; however, I expect to have the hapi^iness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, next March. 268 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Direct to me, if I am lionored with a letter from you, to Madame Diulliou's, at Leyden. Thou best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve you and those vou love. Oliver Goldsmith. TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH, AT LOWFIELD, NEAR BALLTMORE, YS. WESTMEATH, IRELAND. Dear Sir: Your punctuality in answering a man whose trade is writing is more than I had reason to expect, and yet you see me generally fill a whole sheet, which is all the recompense I can make for being so frequently troublesome. The beliavior of Mr. Mills and Mr. Lawder is a little extraordinary. However, their answering neither you nor me is a sufficient indication of their disliking the employment which I assigned them. As their conduct is different from what I expected, so I have made an alteration in mine. I shall, the beginning of next month, send over two hundred and fifty books, which are all that I fancy can be well sold among you, and I would have you miikc some distinction in the persons who have subscribed. The money, which Avill amount to sixty pounds, may be left with Mr. Bradley, as soon as possible. I am not cer- tain but I shall quickly have occasion for it. I have met with no disappointment with respect to my East Indian voyage, nor are my resolutions altered ; though, at the same time, I must confess it gives me some jiain to think I am almost beginning the world at the age of thirty-one. Though I never had a day's sickness since I saw you, yet I am not that strong and active man you once knew me. You scarcely can conceive how much eight years of disappoint- ment, anguish, and study have worn mo down. If I remember right, you are seven or eight years older than me, yet I dare venture to say that if a stranger saw us both he would pay me the honors of seniority. Imagine to yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles between the eye-brows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a big wig, and you may have a perfect picture of my present appearance. On the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek and healthy, passing many a happy day among your own children, or those who knew you a child. Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have not known. I have passed my days among a parcel of cool, designing beings, and have Oliver Goldsmith. 269 contracted all their suspicious manner in my own behavior. I should actually be as untit for the society of my friends at home as I detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink, have contracted a hesi- tating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill- nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melan- choly, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romantic turn that all our family are jDOSsessed with ? "Whence this love for every place and every country but that in which we reside ? for every occupation but our own ? this desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissipate ? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals for indulging this splenetic manner, and following my own taste, regardless of yours. . The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son as a scholar are judicious and convincing. I should, however, be glad to know for what particular profession he is designed. If he be assiduous and divested of strong passions (for passions in youth al- ways lead to pleasure) he may do very well in your college; for it must be owned that the industrious poor have good encouragement there, perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strong passions, and an excpnsite sensibility of contempt, do not send him there, unless you have no other trade for him ex- cept your own. It is impossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper education at home. A boy, for instance, who under- stands perfectly well Latin, French, arithmetic, and the principles of the civil law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any undertaking. And these parts of learning should be carefully inculcated, let him be designed for whatever calling he will. Above all things, let him never touch a romance or novel; those i:)aint beauty in colors more charming than nature, and describe happiness that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive arc those pictures of consummate bliss ! They teach the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and hapjDiness which never existed ; to despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than she ever gave ; and, in general, take the word of a man who has seen the world, and who has studied human nature more by experience than precept. Take my word for it, that books teach us very little of the world. The greatest merit in 270 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. a stale of poverty would only serve to make the possessor ridiculous —may distress, but cannot relieve him. Frugality, and even avar- ice, in the lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to preferment. Teach, then, my dear sir, to your son thrift and economy. Let his poor, wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous before I was taught from exi^erience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher while I was exposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning ; and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my bounty. While I am in the remotest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps ho may improve from my example. But I find myself again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking. My mother, I am informed, is almost blind. Even though I had the utmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I could not ; for to liehold her in distress, without a cajoacity of re- lieving her from it, Avoiild add too much to my splenelic habit. Your last letter was much too short; it should have answered some queries I had made in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you have fdled all your paper; it requires no thought, at least from the ease Avith which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to you. For, believe me, my head has no share in all I write; my heart dictates the whole. Pray, give my love to Bod Bryan ton, and entreat him, from mo, not to drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny (his younger sister, Avho had married unprospcrously). But her husband loves her ; if so, she cannot be unhappy. I know not whether I should tell you — yet why should I conceal those trifles, or, indeed, anything from you ? — there is a book of mine will be published in a few days, the life of a very extraordi- nary man, no less than the great Yoltaire. You know already, by the title, that it is no more than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole performance, for which I received twenty pounds. AVhen published, I shall take some method of con- veying it to you, unless you may think it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or five shillings. However, I fear you will not find an equivalent of amusement. Your last .letter, I repeat it, was Oliver Goldsmith. 271 too short ; yon should have given me your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you ; you remember I intended to introduce tlie licro of the poem as lying in a paltry alehouse. You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may be described somewhat this way: The window, patched with paper, lent a ray That feebly show'd the state in which he lay. The sandy floor, that grits beneath the tread ; The humid wall, with paltry pictures spread ; The game of goose was there exposed to view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ; The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-blaf.k face. The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire A rusty grate unconscious of a fire. An unpaid reck'ning on the freeze was scor'd, And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board. And now imagine, after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his appearance, in order to dun him for the reckoning : Not with that face, so servile and so gay. That welcomes every stranger that can pay, With sulky eye he smoak'd the patient man, Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, etc. All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of Montaigne's, that the- wisest men often have friends with whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable species of composition than prose ; and could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant enjoyment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very well know already — I mean that I am your most affectionate friend and brother, Oliver Goldsmith. TO SIE JOSHUA REYNOLDS. My Dear Friend : We had a very quick passage from Dover to Calais, which we performed in three hours and twenty minutes, all of us extremely sea-sick, which must necessarily have happened, as 272 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. my machine to prevent sea-sickness was not completed. We were glad to leave Dover, because we hated to be imposed npon ; so were in high spirits at coming to Calais, where we were told that a little money would go a great way. Upon landing two little trunks, which was all we carried with ns, we were surprised to see fourteen or fifteen fellows all running down to the ship to lay tlieir hands upon them ; four got under each trunk, the rest surrounded and held the hasps, and in this manner our little baggage was con- ducted, with a kind of funeral solemnity, till it was safely lodged at the Custom-House. We were well enough pleased with the jdco- ple's civility till they came to be paid, when every creature that had the happiness of but touching our trunks with their fingers ex- pected sixpence, and had so pretty, civil a manner of demanding it that there was no refusing them. When we had done with the porters, we had next to speak with the Custom-House officers, who had their pretty, civil way too. We were directed to the Hotel d'Angleterre, where a valet-de-place came to offer his service, and spoke to me ten minutes before I once found out that he was speak- ing English. We had no occasion for his services, so we gave him a little money because he spoke English, and because he wanted it. I cannot help mentioning another circumstance. I bought a new ribbon for my wig at Canterbury, and the barber at Calais broke it, in order to gain sixpence by buying me a new one. TO BEKl^ET LAJfGTOX, ESQ., AT LANGTOX, NEAR SPILSBY, IK LINCOLNSHIRE. Temple, Beick Court, Sept. 7, 1771. My Dear Sir : Since I had the pleasure of seeing you last I liave been almost wholly in the country at a farmer's house, quite ulone, trying to write a comedy. It is now finished, but when or how it will be acted, or whether it will be acted at all, are questions I cannot resolve. I am, therefore, so much employed upon that that I am under the necessity of putting off my intended visit to Lincoln- shire for this season. Eeynolds is just returned from Paris, and finds himself now in the case of a truant that must make up for his idle time by diligence. We have therefore agreed to postpone our jour- ney till next summer, when we hope to have the honor of waiting upon Lady Eothes and you, and staying double the time of our late Oliver Goldsmith. ^-IZ intended visit. We often meet, and neycr without remembering you. I see Mr. Beauclerc yery often both in town iind country. He is now going directly forward to become a second Boyle, deep in chemistry and physics. Johnson has been down upon a visit to a country parson, Doctor Taylor, and is returned to his old haunts at Mrs. Thralo's. Burke is a farmer, en attendant a better place, but visiting about too. Every soul is a visiting about and merry but myself. And that is hard, too, as I have been trying these three months to do something to make people laugh. There have I been strolling about the hedges, studying jests with a most tragi- cal countenance. The ''Natural History" is about half finished, and I will shortly finish the rest. God knows I am tired of this kind of finishing, which is but bungling w^ork, and that not so much my fault as the fault of my scurvy circumstances. They be- gin to talk in town of the Opposition's gaining ground ; the cry of liberty is still as loud as ever. I have published, or Davis has pub- lished for me, an " Abridgment of the History of England," for which I have been a good deal abused in the newspapers for betray- ing the liberties of the people. God knows I had no thought for or against liberty in my head, my whole aim being to make up a book of a decent size that, as Squire Eichards says, " would do no harm to nobody." However, they set me dow^n as an arrant Tory, and consequently an honest man. When you come to look at any part of it, you'll say that I am a sour Whig. God bless you, and, with my most respectful compliments to her ladyship, I remain, dear sir, your most affectionate. Humble servant, Oliver Goldsmith. SIR PHILIP FRANCIS, AND THE " LETTERS OF JUNIUS." . "As specimens of style, the "Letters of Junius" are, in their kind, absolutely perfect."— Dr. Hart. " Perhaps the literature of no country in the world can offer a finer example of intense, unscrupulous, yet always elegant and dignified invective. "—Shaw. SIR PHILIP FPtANCLS was born iu Dublin, in 1740. His father was a scholarly man and an able and versatile writer. Younff Francis was educated at St. Paul's School, London. While yet in his sixteenth year, he obtained a government position, and in 17G0 visited Portugal in comjDany with the British envoy. On returning to London, the same year, Francis was appointed to a clerkship in the War Office. He resigned this position in 1772. Two years subsequently he received a lucrative office in British India, where he became a member of the Council of Bengal. Hero his duties brought him into contact with that disgrace to the British name, that man of blood and violence, Warren Hastings. Hastings was Governor-General of India. Francis, like a true man, opposed the governor's rapacious measures, and a bitter controversy ensued. It ended in a duel. Francis was wounded. Disgusted with the state of affairs in India, he returned to Eng- land in 1781, and three years later he entered the English Parlia- ment as member for Yarmouth. It was chiefly through the efforts of Francis that Warren Hastings was impeached in 1788. He was the mainspring in the famous trial tluit followed. He supplied'thc information which Burke and Sheridan expanded into elocpient ora- tions and burning iiivective. In 1806 Sir Philip Francis was knighted. He died in 1818. Francis, in his day, was consi^icuous as a statesman and member -of the British Parliament ; and, though an eloquent and effective speaker, he was more fluent with the j)en than with the tongue. His real fame, however, rests on the connection of his name witli that immortal collection of political epistles — around tlie author- ship of which there hung, for so long a time, the shadow of mys- .tery — the "Letters of Junius." 274 Sir Philip Francis. 275 THE "LETTERS OF JUNIUS." These "Letters" were published in the Puhlic Advertiser oi Lon- don, and appeared at various times during a period of three 3'ears, the first bearing the date January 21, 17G9, and the last of January 21, 1772. They number sixty-nine, the majority of them being signed "Junius." This soon became the most famous nom clc plume in literature. Tlic letters are addressed to various personages, high and low; but it is especially the Duke of Grafton and his colleagues that Junius attacks with cutting satire and merciless severity. The duke, was Premier of England, and to him eleven of the letters were addressed. The thirty-fifth letter was addressed to the king." It concludes with these b61d words : " The prince who imitates their [the Stuarts'] conduct should be warned by their example ; and, while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the crown, should remember that as it was acquired by one revolution it may be lost by another." The burning words that fell from the pen of Junius startled the British nation. All read them, and all were astonished. These singular epistles contain some of the most effective invective to be found in literature. Their condensed and lucid diction, studied epigrammatic sarcasm, dazzling metaphors, and fierce and haugljty personal attacks arrested the attention of tiie Government and of the public. Not less startling was the immediate and minute know- ledge which they evinced of court secrets, making it believed that the writer movctl in the circle of the court, and Avas intimately ac- quainted not only with ministerial measures and intrigues, but with every domestic incident. They exhibit indications of rank and for- tune as well as scholarship, the writer affirming that he was "above a common bribe " and far "above pecuniary views."" " IIow comes this Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law," said Edmund Burke in a speech in the House of Com- mons, " and to range uncontrolled, unpunished through the land ? The myrmidons of the court have been long, and arc still, pursuing him in vain. They will not spend their time upon you or me. No ; ihey disdain such vermin when the mighty boar of the forest that has broken through all their toils is before them. But what will all their efforts avail ? No sooner has he wounded one than he lays another dead at his feet ! " 1 George III. - Applstons " American Cyclopxdia," last edition, vol. ix. 276 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, ''Who wrote these letters ?" was the question asked by king, and lord, 'and peasant. It was a profound secret. Junius was a mys- tery ; not more so was the " Man with the Iron Mask." In his dedication of his letters to the people of England he said : " I am the sole depository of my secret, and it shall perish Avith me." Did it " perish with him " ? It is now more than a century since the last of these famous let- ters apj)eared in the Public Advertiser. They have been ascribed to forty-two different writers,' among wdiom were Edmund Burke, Henry Flood, Henry Grattan, Sir William Jones, and Sir Philip Francis. Over a hundred books have been written on the subject of their authorship. But it may now be considered as proved that the gifted Irishman, Sik Philip Fraistcis, Avas Juj^ius — that keen, sarcastic Junius, from whose jien flowed a brilliant stream of light- ning whose flashes frightened lords and dukes, and the thunder of which shook the very Parliament of Great Britain ! The first attempt to fix the authorship of these '•' Letters" upon Sir Philip Francis was made in 181G by John Taylor, in his " Identity of Junius with a Distinguished Living Character." Since that time his claims have been most rigorously examined, and each new development but strengthens the evidence that Francis and Junius were the same person. Lord Macaulay said that "the case against Francis, or, if you please, in favor of Francis, rests on coincidences sufficient to convict a murderer." A volume appeared in 1871 which did much to settle the ques- tion. It was entitled '' The Iland-writino; of Junius Professionallv Investigated," by Charles Chabot, an expert. ''Its object," writes Dr. Hart, "is to jirove by a minute and exhaustive examination of the Junian manuscripts and of the letters of Sir Philip Francis that both were WTitten by the same hand. The proof is of the strongest kind, amounting almost to a demonstration, and will go far to jiut this vexed question at rest." " Sir Philip Francis Avas but twenty-nine years of age when he began these famous letters. Doubtless they cost him great labor. They were polished to the utmost brilhancy, and with un- equalled dexterity and skill they inflicted deep and envenomed wounds. In English literature they hold the rank of a classic. 3 See Allibone's " Dictionary of Authors," vol. i. < " English Literature," edition of 1875. See Appleton"s "American Cyclopasdia," last edition, vol. ix , and the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," vol. x., Am. ed. Sir Philip Francis. 277 "I quote Junius in English," says Mathias, ''as I would quote Tacitus or Livy in Latin." ^ It is scarcely necessary to add that these "Letters"' had a great popularity, and powerfully promoted tiie cause of civil liberty. LETTERS OF JUNIUS. LETTER TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF GRAFTOX. February 14, 1770. My Lord : If I were personally your enemy, I might pity and forgive you. You have every claim to compassion that can arise from misery and distress. The condition you are reduced to would disarm a private enemy of his resentment, and leave no consolation to the most vindictive spirit, but that such an object as you are Avould disgrace the dignity of revenge. But in the relation you have borne to this country you have no title to indulgence, and if I had followed the dictates of my own opinion, I should never have allowed you the respite of a moment. In your public character you have injured every subject of the empire; and though an individual is not authorized to forgive the injuries done to society, he is called upon to assert his separate share in the public resentment. I submit- ted, however, to the judgment of men more moderate, perhaps more candid, than myself. For my own part, I do not ju'etend to under- stand those prudent forms of decorum, those gentle rules of discre- tion, which some men endeavor to unite with the conduct of the greatest and most hazardous affairs. Engaged in the defence of an honorable cause, I would take a decisive part. I should scorn to provide for a future retreat, or to keep terms with a man who jn-e- serves no measures Avith the public. Neither the abject submission of deserting his post in the hour of danger, nor even the sacred ° shield of cowardice should protect him. I would pursue him through life, and try the last exertion of my abilities to preserve the perishable infamy of his name, and make it immortal. What, then, my Lord ? Is this the event of all the sacrifices you have made to Lord Bute's patronage and to your own unfortunate ambition ? Was it for this you abandoned your earliest friendshi])s, the warmest connections of your youth, and all those honorable •» " Pursuits of Literature." • Sacro trcnmere timore — Every coward pretends to be planet-struck. 278 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. engagements by which you once solicited, and might have acquired, the esteem of your country ? Have you secured no recompense for such a waste of lionor ? Unhappy man ! what party will receive the common deserter of all parties ? Without a client to flatter, without a friend to console you, and with only one companion from the honest house of Bloomsbury, you must now retire into a dreadful solitude. At the most active period of life you must quit the busy scene, and conceal yourself from the world, if you would hope to save the wretched remains of a ruined reputation. The vices operate like age, bring on disease before its time, and in the Di'ime of youth leave the character broken and. exhausted. Yet your conduct has been mysterious, as well as contemptible. Where is now that firmness, or obstinacy, so long boasted of by your friends and acknowledged by your enemies ? We were taught to expect that you would not leave the ruin of this country to be com- pleted by other hands, but were determined either to gain a deci- sive victory over the constitution or to perish bravely, at least, behind the last dike of the jorerogative. You knew the danger, and might have provided for it. You took sufficient time to prepare for a meeting with your Pai'liament to confirm the mercenary fidelity of your dependents, and to suggest to your sovereign a lan- guage suited to his dignity, at least, if not to his benevolence and wisdom. Yet, Avhile the whole kingdom was agitated with anxious expectation upon one great looint, you meanly evaded the question, and, instead of the explicit firmness and decision of a king, gave us nothing but the misery of a ruined ' grazier, and the whining piety of a Methodist. We had reason to expect that notice would have been taken of the petitions which the king had received from the English nation ; and, although I can conceive some personal mo- tives for not yielding to them, I can find none, in common prudence 0] decency, for treating them with contempt. Be assured, my Lord, the English people will not tamely submit to this unworthy treatment. They had a right to be heard, and their petitions, if not granted, deserved to be considered. Whatever be the real views and doctiincs of a court, the sovereign should be taught to preserve some forms of attention to his subjects; and, if he will not redress their grievances, not to make them a topic of jest and mockery among lords and ladies of the bed-chamber. Injuries may be atoned for and forgiven, but insults admit of no compensation. "< There was something wonderfully pathetic in the mention of the horned cattle. Sir Philip Fra7icis. 279 They degrade the mind in its own esteem, find force it to recover its level by revenge. This neglect of the petitions was, however, a part of your original plan of government ; nor will any consequences it has produced account for your deserting your sovereign in the midst of that distress in Avliich you and your nevv^ friends ' have in- volved him. One would think, my Lord, you might have taken this spirited resolution before you had dissolved the last of those early connections which once, even in your own ojiinion, did honor to your youth — before you had obliged Lord Granby to quit a ser- vice he was attached to — before you had discarded one Chancellor and killed another. To what an abject condition have you labored to reduce the best of princes, when the unhappy man who yields at last to such personal instance and solicitation as never can be fairly employed against a subject, feels himself degraded by his com- pliance, and is unable to survive the disgraceful honors which his gracious sovereign has compelled him to accept ! He was a man of spirit, for he had a quick sense of shame, and death has redeemed his character. I know your Grace too well to appeal to your feel- ings upon this event ; but there is another heart, not yet, I hope, quite callous to the touch of humanity, to which it ought to be a dreadful lesson forever.' Now, my Lord, let us consider tlie situation to which you have conducted, and in which you have thought it advisable to abandon, your royal master. Whenever the people have complained, and nothing better could be said in defence of the measures of the Government, it has been the fashion to answer us, though not very fairly, with an apjieal to the private virtues of your sovereign : "Has he not, to relieve the people, surrendered a considerable part of his revenue ? Has he not made the Judges independent by fix- ing them in their places for life ?" My Lord, we acknowledge the gracious principle which gave birth to these concessions, and have nothing to regret but that it has never been adhered to. At the end of seven years we are loaded with a debt of above five hundred thousand pounds uj^on the civil list, and now we see the Chancellor of Great Britain tyrannically forced out of his office, not for want of abilities, not for vv^ant of integrity, or of attention to his duty, but for delivering his honest opinion in Parliament upon the great- 8 The Bedford party. 9 The most secret particular of this detestable transaction shall in due time be given to the public. The peopie shall know what kind of man they have to deal with. 2 So The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. est constitutional question that has arisen since the revolution. We care not to whose private virtues you api^eal. The theory of such a government is falsehood and mockery ; the practice is oppression. You have labored, tlien (though, I confess, to no purpose), to rob your master of the only jolausible answer that ever was given in de- fence of his Government — of the opinion which the people had conceived of his personal honor and integrity. The Duke of Bed- ford was more moderate than your Grace ; he only forced his master to violate a solemn promise made to an individual ;" but you, my Lord, have successively extended your advice to every political, every moral engagement that could bind either the magistrate or the man. The condition of a king is often miserable ; but it re- fjuired your Grace's abilities to make it contemi^tible. You will say, perhaps, that the faithful servants in whose hands you have left him are able to retrieve his honor, and to support his Govern-, mcnt. You have j^ublicly declared, even since your resignation, that you approved of their measures and admired their conduct, particularly that of the Earl of Sandwich. What a pity it is that, with all this appearance, you should think it necessary to separate yourself from such amiable companions ! You forgot, my Lord, that, while you are lavish in the praise of men whom you desert, you are publicly opposing your conduct to your opinions, and de- priving yourself of the only plausible pretence you had for leaving your sovereign overwhelmed with distress. I call it plausible ; for, in truth, there is no reason whatsoever, less than the frowns of your master, that could Justify a man of spirit for abandoning his post at a moment so critical and important. It is in vain to evade the question ; if you will not speak out, the public have a right to judge from appearances. We are authorized to conclude that you either differed from your colleagues, whose measures you still aifect to defend, or that you thought the administration of the king's af- fairs no longer tenable. You are at liberty to choose between the hypocrite and the coward. Your best friends are in doubt which Avay they shall incline. Your country unites the characters, and gives you credit for them both. For my own part, I see nothing inconsistent in your conduct. You began Avith betraying the peo- ple ; you conclude with betraying the king. In your treatment of particular persons you have preserved the uniformity of your character. Even Mr. Bradshaw declares that 1" Mr. Stuart McKenzie. Sir Philip Francis. 281 no man was ever so ill used as himself. As to the provision " you have made for his family, he was entitled to it by the house he lives in. The successor of one chancellor might well joretend to he the rival of another. It is the breach of jirivatc friendship Avhich touches Mr. Bradshaw ; and, to say the truth, Avhen a man of his rank and abilities had taken so active a part in your affairs, he ought not to have been let down at last with a miserable pension of fifteen hundred pounds a year. Colonel Luttrell, Mr. Onslow, and Governor Burgoyiie were equally engaged with you, and have rather more reason to complain than Mr. Bradshaw. These are men, my Lord, whose friendship you should have adhered to on the same principle on which you deserted Lord Eockingham, Lord Chatham, Lord Camden, and the Duke of Portland. We can easily account for your violating your engagements with men of honor ; but why should you betray your natural connections ? Why sejmrate your- self from Lord Sandwich, Lord Gower, and Mr. Eigby, or leave the three wortliy gentlemen above mentioned to shift for them- selves ? With all the fashionable indulgence of the times, this country does not abound in characters like theirs ; and you may find it a very difficult matter to recruit the black catalogue of your friends. The recollection of the royal patent you sold to Mr. Hine obliges me to say a word in defence of a man whom you have taken the most dishonorable means to injure. I do not refer to the sham prosecution which you affected to carry on against him. On that ground, I doubt not, he is prepared to meet you with tenfold re- crimination, and set you at defiance. The injury you have done him affects his moral character. You knew that the offer to pur- chase the reversion of a place, which has heretofore been sold under a decree of the court of chancery, however impudent in his situa- tion, would no way tend to cover him with that sort of guilt which 11 A pension of £1,500 per annum, insured upon the four and a half per cents (he was too cunning to trust to Irish security) for the lives of himself and sons. This gentle- man, who, a very few years ago, was clerk to a contractor for forage, and afterwards ex- alted to a petty post in the War-OfiBce, thought it necessary (as soon as he was appointed Secretary to the Treasury) to take that grjat house in Lincoln's Inn Fields in which the Eari of Northington had resided while he was Lord High-Chancellor of Great Britain. As to the pension, Lord North very solemnly assured the House of Commons that no pension was ever f o weU deserved as Mr. Bradshaw's. N. B — Lord Camden and Sir Jef- frey Amherst are not near so well provided fcr ; and Sir Edward Hawke, who saved the state, retires with two thousand pounds a year on the Irish establishment, from which he, In fact, receives less than Mr. Bradshaw's pension. 282 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid, you wished to fix upon liim in the eyes of the world. Yon labored then, by every species of false suggestion, and even by publishing counterfeit letters, to have it understood that he had proposed terms of accommodation to you, and had offered to abandon his principles, his party, and his friends. Yon consulted your own breast for a character of consummate treachery, and gave it to the public for that of Mr. Vanghan. I think myself obliged to do this justice to an injured man, because I was deceived by the appear- ances thrown out by your Grace, and have frequently spoken of his conduct with indignation. If he really be, what I think him, honest though mistaken, he will be happy in recovering his reputa- tion, though at the expense of his understanding. Here I see the matter is likely to rest. Your Grace is afraid to carry on the prose- cution. Mr. Hine keeps quiet possession of the purchase, and Governor Burgoync, relieved from the apjirehension of refunding the money, sits down for the remainder of his life infamous and contented. . I believe, my Lord, I may now take my leave of you forever. You are no longer that resolute minister who had s^Dirit to support the most violent measures, who compensated for the want of good and great qualities by a brave determination (which some i^eople admired and relied on) to maintain himself without them. The reputation of obstinacy and iiersevcrance might have sujiplied the place of all the absent virtues. You have now added the last nega- tive to your character, and meanly confessed that you are destitute of the common spirit of a man. lletire, then, my Lord, and hide your blushes from the world; for, with such a load of shame, even Hack may change its color. A mind such as yours, in the solitary hours of domestic enjoyment, may still find topics of consolation. You may find it in tlie memory of violated friendshiji, in the afflictions 01 an accomplished prince whom you have disgraced and deserted, and in the agitations of a great country, driven, by your counsels, to the brink of destruction. The palm of ministerial firmness is now transferred to Lord North. lie tells us so himself, and with the plenitude of the ore rotundo ;'- and I am ready enough to believe that, while he can keep his place, he will not easily be persuaded to resign it. Your Grace was the firm minister of yesterday ; Lord North is the firm 12 This eloquent person has got as far as the discipline of Demosthenes. He constantly speaks with pebbles in his mouth to improve his articulation. Si?' Philip Francis. 283 minister of to-d;iy ; to-morrow, perhaps, his Majesty, in his wis- dom, may give ns a rival for you both. You arc too well acquainted with the temper of your hite alhes to thinlv it possihle that Lord North should be permitted to govern this country. If we may helieve com- mon fame, they have shown him their superiority already. His Ma- jesty is, indeed, too gracious to insult his subjects by choosing his first minister from among the domestics of the Duke of Bedford ; that would have been too gross an outrage to the three kingdoms. Their purpose, hoAvever, is equally answered by pushing forward this un- haj^py figure, and forcing it to bear the odium of measures which they in reality direct. W.ithout immediately appearing to govern, they possess the power and distribute the emoluments of govern- ment as they think proper. They still adhere to the spirit of that calculation which made Mr. Luttrell representative of Middlesex. Far from regretting your retreat, they assure us, very gravely, that it increases the real strength of the ministry. According to this way of reasoning, they will probably grow stronger and more flourishing every hour they exist ; for I think there is hardly a day passes in which some one or other of his Majesty's servants does not leave them to improve by the loss of his assistance. But, alas ! their countenances speak a different language. When the members drop off, the main body cannot be insensible of its approaching dissolution. Even the violence of their proceedings is a signal of despair. Like broken tenants who have had warning to quit the premises, they curse the landlord, destroy the fixtures, throw everytliing into confusion, and care not Avhat mischief tliey do to the estate. Junius. LETTER TO LORD NOETH. August 23, 1770. My Lord : Mr. Luttrell's services were the chief support and ornament of the Duke of Grafton's administration. The honor of rewarding them was reserved for your Lordship. The Duke, it seems, had contracted an obligation he was ashamed to acknow- ledge and unable to acquit. You, my Lord, had no scruples. You accepted the succession Avith all its encumbrances, and have paid Mr. Luttrell his legacy at the hazard of ruining the estate. AVhen this accomplished youth declared himself the champion of Government, the Avorld was busy enquiring what honors or cmolu- 284 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ments could be a sufficient recompense to a young man of bis rank and fortune for submitting to mark his entrance into life with the universal contempt and detestation of his country. His noble ; father had not been so precipitate. To vacate his seat in Parlia- J ment, to intrude upon a country in which he had no interest or 1 connection, to possess himself of another man's right, and to main- ' tain it in defiance of public shame as well as justice, bespoke a de- i gree of zeal or of depravity which all the favor of a pious prince could hardly requite. I protest, my Lord, there is in this young man's conduct a strain of prostitution which, for its singularity, 1 cannot but admire. He has discovered & new line in the human character; he has degraded even the name of Luttrell, and gratified his father's most sanguine expectations. The Duke of Grafton, with every possible disposition to patronize this kind of merit, was contented with pronouncing Colonel Lut- trell's panegyric. The gallant spirit, the disinterested zeal of the young adventurer, were echoed through the House ol Lords. His Grace repeatedly pledged himself to the House, as an evidence of the purity of his friend Mr. Luttrell's intentions, that he had en- gaged Avithout any prospect of personal benefit, and that the idea of compensation would mortally offend him.'^ The noble Duke could hardly be in earnest, but he had lately quitted his employ- ment and began to think it necessary to take some care of his rcpii- tation. At that very moment the Irish negotiation Avas probably begun. Come forward, thou worthy representative of Lord Bute, and tell this insulted country who advised the king to appoint Mr. Luttrell adjutant-general to the army in Ireland. B y Avhat man- agement was Colonel Cunninghame prevailed on to resign his em- ployment, and the obsequious Gisborne to accept of a pension for the government of Kinsale ? '* Was it an original stipulation with the Princess of Wales, or does ho owe his preferment to your Lord- ship's partiality, or to the Duke of Bedford's friendship ? My '3 He now says that his great object is the rank of colonel, and that he will have it. I'' This infamous transaction ought to be explained to the public. Colonel Gisborne ■was quartermaster-general in Ireland. Lord Townshend persuaded him to resign to a Scotch officer, one Frazer, and gives him the government of Kinsale. Colonel Cunning- hame was adjutant-general in Ireland. Lord Townshend offers him a pension to induce him to resign to Luttrell. Cunninghame treats the offer with contempt. What is to be done ? Poor Gisborne must move once more. He accepts of a pension of £500 a year until a government of greater value shall become vacant. Colonel Cunninghame is made Gov- ernor of Kinsale ; and LuttreU, at last, for whom the whole machinery is put in motion, becomes adjutant-general, and, in effect, takes the command of the army in Ireland. Sir PJiilip Fraricis. 285 Lord, thougli it may not be possible to trace this measure to its source, we can follow the stream, and warn the country of its ap- proaching destruction. The English nation must be roused and put upon its guard, Mr. Luttrell has already shown us how far he may be trusted whenever an open attack is to be made upon the liberties of this country. I do not doubt that there is a deliberate plan formed. Your Lordship best knows by whom. The corrup- tion of the legislative body on this side, a military force on the other, and then fareicell to England ! It is impossible that any minister shall dare to advise the King to place such a man as Lut- trell in the confidential post of adjutant-general if there were not some secret purpose in view which only such a man as Luttrell is fit to promote. The insult offered to the army in general is as gross as the outrage intended to the people of England. What ! Lieutenant-Colonel Luttrell adjutant-general of an army of sixteen thousand men ! One would think his Majesty's campaigns at Blackheath and Wimbledon might have taught him better. I can- not helji Avishing General Harvey joy of a colleague who does so much honor to the emjiloyment. But, my Lord, this measure is too daring to jmss unnoticed, too dangerous to be received with in- difference or submission. You shall not have time to new model the Irish army. They will not submit to be garbled by Colonel Luttrell. As a mischief to the English Constitution (for he is not worth the name of enemy) they already detest him. As a boy, im- jjudently thrust over their heads, tiiey will receive him with in- dignation and contempt. As for you, my Lord, who, perhaps, are no more than the blind, unhaj)py instrument of Lord Bute and her Eoyal Highness the Princess of Wales, be assured that you shall be called upon to answer for the advice which has been given, and either discover your accomplices or fall a sacrifice to their security. Junius. LETTER TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD MANSFIELD. November 14, 1770. My Lord: The appearance of this letter will attract the curi- osity of the public, and command even your Lordshiji's attention. I am considerably in your debt, and shall endeavor, once for all, to balance the account. Accept of this address, my Lord, as a jiro^ 286 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. logne to more important scenes, in which you Avill probably be called upon to act or suffer. You will not question my veracity when I assure you that it has not been owing to any particular respect for your person that I have abstained from you so long. Besides the distress and danger with which the press is threatened, when your Lordship is party, and the party is to be judge, I confess I have been deterred by the diffi- culty of the task. Our language has no term of reproach, the mind has no idea of detestation, which has not already been happily applied to you, and exhausted. Ample justice has been done, by abler pens than mine, to the separate merits of your life and cha- racter. Let it be my humble office to collect the scattered SAveets till their imited virtue tortures the sense. Permit me to begin with paying a just tribute to Scotch sin- cerity wherever I find it. I own I am not apt to confide in the professions of gentlemen of that country, and when they smile I feel an involuntary emotion to guard myself against mischief. With this geiieral opinion of an ancient nation, I always thought it much to your Lordship's honor that, in your earlier days, you were but little infected with the jorudcnce of your country. You had some original attachments, which you took every proper opportunity to acknowledge. The liberal sjiirit of youth prevailed over your native discretion. Your zeal in the cause of an unhai)py prince Avas ex- pressed with the sincerity of Avine and some of the solemnities of religion.'^ This, I conceive, is the most amiable jwint of view in which your character has appeared. Like an honest man, you took that part in i^olitics which might have been expected from your birth, education, country, and connections. There was something generous in your attachment to the banished house of Stuart. We lament the mistakes of a good man, and do not begin to detest him until he affects to renounce his princij)les. Why did you not adhere to that loyalty you once professed ? Why did yon not follow the example of your worthy brother?'" With him you might have shared in the honor of the Pretender's confidence ; Avitli him vou might have preserved the integrity of your character ; and England, I think, might have spared you without regret. Y'our friends will 16 This man was always a rank Jacobite. Lord Ravensworth produced the most satie- factory evidence of his having frequently drank the Pretender's health on his knees. i«Coniidential secretary to the late Pretender. This circumstance confirmed the friendship between the brothers. S& Philip Francis. 287 say, perliaps, tliafc, although you deserted the fortuuc of your liege lord, you have adhered firmly to the principles which drove his father from the throne ; that, without openly supporting the per- son, you have done essential service to the cause, and consoled your- self for the loss of a favorite family by reviving and establishing the maxims of their government. This is the way in which a Scotch- man's understanding corrects the errors of his heart. My Lord, I acknowledge the truth of the defence, and can trace it through all your conduct. I see through your whole life one uniform itlan to enlarge the power of the crown at the expense of the liberty of the subject. To this object your thoughts, words, and actions have been constantly directed. In contempt or ignorance of the common law of England, you have made it your study to introduce into the court where you preside maxims of jurisprudence unknown to Eng- lishmen. The Eoman code, the law of nations, and the opinion of foreign civilians are your perpetual theme ; l)ut who ever heard you mention Magna Charta or the Bill of Eights with approbation or respect ? By such treacherous arts the noble simplicity and free spirit of our Saxon laws were lirst corrupted. The Norman con- quest was not complete until Norman lawyers had introduced their laws, and reduced slavery to a system. This one leading principle directs your interpretation of the laws, and accounts for your treat- ment of juries. It is not in political questions only (for there the courtier might be forgiven), but let the cause be what it may, your understanding is equally on the rack, either to contract the jiower of the jury or to mislead their judgment. For the truth of this assertion I appeal to the doctrine you delivered in Lord Grosve- nor's cause. An action for criminal conversation being brought by a peer against a prince of the blood, you were daring enough to tell the jury that, in fixing the damages, they were to pay no regard to the quality or fortune of the parties ; that it was a trial between A and B ; that they were to consider the offence in a moral light only, and give no greater damages to a peer of the realm than to the meanest mechanic. I shall not attempt to refute a doctrine which, if it was meant for law, carries falsehood and absurdity upon the face of it ; but if it was meant for a declaration of your political creed, is clear and consistent. Under an arbitrary government all ranks and distinctions are confounded ; the honor of a nobleman is no more considered than the reputation of a peasant ; for, with dif- ferent liveries, they are equally slaves. 2 88 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, Even in matters of private property we see the same bias and in- clination to depart from the decisions of your predecessors, which 3-0U certainly ought to receive as evidence of the common law. In- stead of those certain positive rules by which the judgment of a court of law should invariably be determined, you have fondly in- troduced your own unsettled notions of equity and substantial jus- tice. Decisions given upon such principles do not alarm the public so much as they ought, because the consequence and tendency of each particular instance is not observed or regarded. In the mean- time the practice gains ground, the Court of King's Bench becomes a court of equity, and the judge, instead of consulting strictly the law of the land, refers only to the wisdom of the court, and to the purity of his own conscience. The name of Mr. Justice Yates will naturally revive in your mind some of those emotions of fear and detestation with which you always beheld him. That great lawyer, that honest man, saw your whole conduct in the light that I do. After years of ineffectual resistance to the pernicious princijile in- troduced by your Lordship, and uniformly supported by humble friends upon the bench, he determined to quit a court whose pro- ceedings and decisions he could neither assent to with honor nor oppose with success. The injustice done to an individual '^ is sometimes of service to the public. Facts are apt to alarm us more than the most danger- ous principles. The sufferings and firmness of a printer have roused the public attention. You knew and felt that your conduct would not bear a parliamentary enquiry ; and you hoped to escape it by tlie meanest, the basest sacrifice of dignity and consistency that ever was made by a great magistrate. Where was your firmness, where was that \4ndictive spirit, of which we haye seen so many examples, when a man so inconsiderable as Bingley could force you to confess, in the face of this country, that, for two years together, you had illegally deprived an English subject of his liberty, and that he had triumphed over you at last ? Yet, I own, my Lord, that yours is not an uncommon character. Women, and men like women, are timid, vindictive, and irresolute. Their passions counteract each other, and make the same creature at one moment hateful, at an- other contemptible. I fancy, my Lord, some time will elapse before 1' The oppression of an obscure individual gave birth to the famous Habeas Corpus Act of 31 Car. II. which is frequently considered as another Magna Charta of this king- dom.— " Blackstone '" lii. 135. Sir Philip Francis. 289 you venture to commit another Englishman for refusing to answer interrogatories.'* The doctrine you have constantly delivered in cases of libel is another jiowerful evidence of a settled plan to contract the legal ])ower of juries, and to draw questions, inseparable from fact, within the arhitrium of the court. Here, my Lord, you have fortune on your side. When you invade the province of the jury, in matter of libel, you in effect attack the liberty of the press, and with a single stroke wound two of your greatest enemies. In some in- stances you have succeeded, because jurymen are too often ignorant of their own rights, and too apt to be awed by the authority of a chief -justice. In other criminal prosecutions the malice of the de- sign is confessedly as much the subject of consideration to a jury as the certainty of the fact. If a different doctrine prevails in the case of libels, why should it not extend to all criminal cases ? Why not to capital offences ? I see no reason (and dare say you will agree with me, that there is no good one) why the life of the subject should be better protected against you than his liberty or property. Why should you enjoy the full j^ower of i^illory, fine, and imprison- ment, and not be indulged with hanging or transportation ? With 3'our Lordship's fertile genius and merciful disposition, I can con- ceive such an exercise of the power you have as could hardly be aggravated by that which you have not. But, my Lord, since you have labored (and not unsuccessfully) to destroy the substance of the trial, why should you suffer the form of the verdict to remain ? Why force twelve honest men, in palpable violation of their oaths, to pronounce their fellow-subject a guilty man, when, almost at the same moment, you forbid their enquiring into the only circumstance wliich, in the eye of law and reason, constitutes guilt — the malignity or innocence of his intentions ? But I understand your Lordship. If you could succeed in making the trial by jury useless and ridiculous, you miglit then, with greater safety, introduce a bill into Parliament for enlarging the jurisdic- tion of the court, and extending your favorite trial by interrogato- '*■ Bingley was committed for contempt in not submitting to be examined. He lay in prison two years, until the Crown thought the matter might occasion some serious com- plaint, and therefore he was let out, in the same contumelious state he had been put in, with all his sins about him, unannointed and unanealed. There was much coquetry be- tween the court and the attorney-general about who should undergo the ridicule of letting him escape. Vide another " Letter to Almon," p. 189. 290 The- Prose and Poetry of Ireland. lies to every question in which the life or liberty of an Englishman is concerned." Your charge to the jury in the prosecution against Almon and Woodfall contradicts the highest legal authorities, as well as the plainest dictates of reason. In Miller's case, and still more expressly in that of Baldwin, you have proceeded a step farther, and grossly contradicted yourself. You may know, perhaps, though I do not mean to insult you by an appeal to your experience, that the lan- guage of truth is uniform and consistent. To depart from it safely requires memory and discretion. In the last two trials your charge to the jury began, as usual, with assuring them that they had no- thing to do with the law ; that they were to find the bare fact, and not concern themselves about the legal inferences drawn from it, or the degree of the defendant's guilt. Thus far you were consistent with your former practice. But how will you account for the con- clusion ? You told the jury that " if, after all, they would take upon themselves to determine the law, tliey wight do it, but they must be very sure that they determined according to law ; for it touched their consciences, and they acted at their peril." If I un- derstand your first jj reposition, you mean to affirm that the jury were not competent judges of 'the law in the criminal case of a libel; that it did not fall within their jurisdiction ; and that with respect to them the malice or innocence of the defendant's intentions would be a question coram non judice. But the second proposition clears away your own difficulties and restores the jury to all their judicial cajiacities.^" You make the competence of the court to depend upon the legality of the decision. In the first instance you deny the power absolutely ; in the second you admit the power, provided it be legally exercised. Now, my Lord, without pretending to re- concile the distinctions of Westminster Hall with the simple infor- '" The philosophical poet doth notably describe the damnable and damned proceedings of the judge of hall: " Gnossius haec Radamanthus habet durissima regna, Castigatque, auditque dolos, subigitque fateri." First he punisheth and then he heareth, and lastly compelleth to confess, and makes and mars laws at his pleasure, like as the Centurion, in the holy history, did to St. Paul ; for the text saith : " Centurio apprehendi Paulum jussit, et se catenis ligari, et tunc in- terrogabat quis fuisset, et quid feoisset." But good judges and justices abhor those courses. Coke, 2 Inst. 53. "0 Directly the reverse of the doctrine he constantly maintained in the House of Lords and elsewhere upon the decision of the Middlesex election. He invariably asserted that the decision must be legal because the coutt was competent, and never could be prevailed on to enter farther into the question. Sir Philip Francis. 291 mutioii of common sense, or the integrity of fair argument, I shall be understood by your Lordship when I assert that if a jury, or any other court of judicature (for jurors are judges), have no right to enter into a cause or question of law, it signifies nothing whether their decisions be or be not according to law. Their decision is, in itself, a mere nullity ; the parties are not bound to submit to it; and if tlie jury run any risk of punishment, it is not for pronounc- ing a corrupt or illegal verdict, but for the illegality of meddling with a point on which they have no legal authority to decide." I cannot quit this subject without reminding your Lordship of the name of Mr. Benson. Without offering any legal objection, you ordered a special juryman to be set aside in a cause where the King was prosecutor. The novelty of the fact required explanation. AYill you condescend to tell the world by what law or custom you were authorized to make a peremptoiy challenge of a juryman ? The parties, indeed, have this power, and perhaps your Lordship, having accustomed yourself to unite the characters of judge and party, may claim it in virtue of the new capacity you have assumed, and profit by your own wrong. The time within which you might have been punished for this daring attempt to pack a jury is, I fear, elapsed ; but no length of time shall erase the record of it. The mischiefs you have done this country are not confined to your interpretation of the laws. You are a minister, my Lord, and as such have long been consulted. Let us candidly examine what use you have made of your ministerial influence. I will not descend to little matters, but come at once to those important points on which your resolution was waited for, on which the ex- pectation of your opinion kept a great part of' the nation in suspense. A constitutional question arises upon a declaration of the law of Parliament by which the freedom of election and the birthright of the subject were supposed to have been invaded. The King's servants are accused of violating the Constitution. The nation is in a ferment. The ablest men of all parties engage in the question, and exert their utmost abilities in the discussion of it. What part has the honest Lord j\f;insfield acted ? As an eminent judge of the law, his opinion would have been respected. As a 21 These iniquitous prosecutions cost the best of princes six thousand pounds, and ended in the total defeat and disgrace of the prosecutors. In the course of one of them Judge Aston had the unparalleled impudence to tell Mr. Morris, a gentleman of unques- tionable honor and integrity, and who -was then giving his evidence on oath, that he sJuxuldi>aij very little regard to any affidavit he should make. 292 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. peer, lie had a right to demand an audience of his sovereign, and inform him that his ministers were pursuing uuconstitntional mea- sures. Upon otlier occasions, my Lord, you have no difficulty in finding your way into the closet. The pretended neutrality of belonging to no party will not save your reputation. In a question merely political an honest man may stand neuter ; but the laws and Constitution are the general jn-oiierty of the subject ; not to defend is to relinquish — and who is there so senseless as to renounce his share in a common beneDt, unless he hopes to profit by a new division of the spoil ? As a Lord of Parliament, you were repeatedly called upon to condemn or defend the new law declared by the House of Commons. You affected to have scruples, and every ex- pedient was attempted to remove them. Tlie question was proposed and urged to you in a thousand different shapes. Your prudence still supplied you with evasion ; your resolution was invincible. For my own part, I am not anxious to penetrate this solemn secret. I care not to whose wisdom it is entrusted, nor how soon you carry it with you to the grave." You have betrayed your oj)inion by the very care you have taken to conceal it. It is not from Lord Mans- field that wc expect any reserve in declaring his real sentiments in favor of government or in opposition to the j)cople ; nor is it diSi- cult to account for the motions of a timid, dishonest heart, which neither has virtue enough to acknowledge truth nor courage to contradict it. Yet you continue to support an administration which you know is universally odious, and which, on some occasions, you yourseK speak of with contempt. You would fain be thought to take no share in government, while in reality you are the main- spring of the machine. Here, too, we trace the Uitlc, prudential policy of a Scotchman. Instead of acting that open, generous part which becomes your rank and station, you meanly skulk into the closet and give your sovereign such advice as you have not the spirit to avow or defend. You secretly engross the power, Avhilo you decline the title, of a minister ; and, though you dare not be Chan- cellor, you know how to secure the emoluments of the office. Are the seals to be for ever in commission, that you may enjoy five thousand pounds a year ? I beg pardon, my Lord I your fears have interposed at last, and forced you to resign. The odium of con- tinuing Speaker of the House of Lords upon such terms was too 22 He said in the House of Lords that he believed he should carry his opinion with him to the grave. It was afterwards reported that he had entrusted it in special confidence to the ingenious Duke of Cumberland. Sir Philip Francis. 293 formidable to be resisted. What a multitude of bad passions are forced, to submit to a constitutional infirmity ! But, though you have relinquished the salary, you still assume the rights of a minister. Your conduct, it seems, must be defended in Parliament. For what other purpose is your wretched friend, that miserable Serjeant, posted to the House of Commons ? Is it in the abilities of a Mr. Leigh to defend the great Lord Mansfield ? Or is he only the Punch of the jouppet-show, to speak as he is prompted by the chief juggler behind the curtain ? " In j)ublic affairs, my Lord, cunning, let it be ever so well wrought, will not conduct a man honorably through life. Like bad money, it may be current for a time, but it will be soon cried down. It cannot consist with a liberal spirit ; though it be sometimes united with extraordinary cpialifications. .When I acknowledge your abili- ties, you may believe I am sincere. I feel for human nature when I see a man so gifted as you are descend to such vile jiractices. Yet do not suffer your vanity to console you too soon. Believe me, my good Lord, you are not admired in the same degree in which you are detested. It is only the partiality of your friends that balances the defects of your heart with the superiority of your understand- ing. No learned man, even among your own tribe, thinks you qualified to i)reside in a court of common law ; yet it is confessed that under Justinian you might have made an incomparable prcetor. It is remarkable enough, but I hope not ominous, that the laws you understand best, and the judges you affect to admire most, flourished in the decline of a great empire, and are supposed to have contributed to its fall. Here, my Lord, it may be proper for us to pause together. It is not for my own sake that I wish you to consider the delicacy of your situation. Beware how you indulge the first emotions of your re- sentment. This paper is delivered to the world, and cannot be re- called. The prosecution of an innocent printer cannot alter facts nor refute arguments. Do not furnish me with farther materials against yourself. Au honest man, like the true religion, appeals to the understanding, or modestly confides in the eternal evidence of his conscience. The impostor employs force instead of argument, imposes silence where he cannot convince, and propagates his cha- racter by the sword. Junius. ^3 This paragraph gagged poor Leigh. I am really concerned for the man, and wish it were possible to open his mouth. He is a very pretty orator. EDMUND BURKE. " This man has been to his own country and to all Europe a new light of political wisdom and moral experience."' — Schlegel. " Edmund Burke was one of the greatest of the sons of men." — Axlibone. E"^DMUjSrD BURKE was born in a liouse on Arran Qnay, Dublin, — ^ in 1730. His father, Eicliard Burke, a Protestant, was an at- torney who enjoyed a large and thriving practice. His mother, Miss Mary Nagle, was a Catholic, an excellent lady, and a member of an ancient Irish family of the county of Cork. * In his twelfth year Edmund was sent to school at Ballitore, in Kildare, and there, under a skilful master, Abraham Shackleton, the Quaker, he studied for about two years. It is said "the boy is father of the man." Of the truth of this, Burke is a happy illus- tration. As a boy he was very studiotts and a hard worker. "When we were at play," said his brother Richard, in after years, ''Xed was always at work." He was also noted for his wit, humor, and amiability. Trinity College, Dublin, Burke entered in 1743.' To-day his portrait adorns the walls of the Examination Hall. Goldsmith entered Trinity the following year, but it appears these distin- guished men knew little of each other in early life. Burke took the degree of B.A. in 1748, and three years subsequently the degree of M.A. While pursuing his university course, he read Shakspere and other great poets with unceasing delight. In 1747 Edmund Burke entered the Middle Temple, London, with the intention of studying law. But he never became a law- yer. His great genius soon found its fitting sphere in literature and in the life of a statesman. His very first production, •' The Vindication of Natural Society," in imitation of Lord Bolingbroke, is pronounced by the best critics to be " the most perfect specimen of imitation that was ever penned." In the course of the same year (175G) he published his celebrated "Essay on the Sublime 1 Miss Nano Nagle, the holy foundress of the Presentation Nuns, was a descendant of the same family. 2 It is said that he also studied for a time at the EngUsh Catholic College of St. Omer, France. 294 Edmund Burke. 295 and Beautiful." This work attracted immense attention, In'onglit the author money, and at once stamped him as a remarkable young man. He was now in his twenty-eighth year, but severe study and men- tal effort began to tell on a constitution naturally delicate. To his Catholic countryman. Dr. Christopher Nugent, he applied for ad- vice. He was told that he especially needed relaxation, and the friendly physician, that he might more carefully attend to his wants, invited him to take up his residence in his own hospitable house. Here Burke found a home and unceasing care. The good doctor had a bright, lovely, and most amiable daughter. That the doctor's daughter should assist in the doctor's work w\as natural, nor perhaps was it less natural that the patient should be fascinated. " The rest may be imagined," says one of Burke's biographers. " The patient ventured to prescribe for himself, the disease having reached the heart, and, in 1757, Miss Nugent became Mrs. Edmund Burke." Thus was the cure perfected in a short time, and, what was more, the future statesman obtained the greatest earthly bless- ing that any man can desire— a most devoted wife, loving compan- ion, wise adviser, and, above all, sympathizing friend. The young lady had not a shilling ; but she brought with her the incomparable fortune of education, beauty, and virtue. The eulogy of this good and accomplished Irisliwoman may be given in one sentence of her • illustrious husband. He declared that, amid all the toils, and trials, and conflicts cl life, "every care vanished the moment he entered his own roof." Burke's entrance on public life may be dated from his appoint- ment, in 1761, as private secretary to " Single-Speech " Hamilton, who then became Chief-Secretary for Ireland. The atmosphere of Dublin Castle, however, did not long agree with the clever young Whig, who threw up a lately-conferred pension of 11,500 a year, broke with Hamilton, and returned to London. In his whole life Hamilton made but one good speech, hence the handle to his name, " Single-Speech." It is said Burke wrote the speech for him. But what this man lacked in brains and ability was abundantly supj^lied by another sort of article, which we may label ''arrogance." Be- fore parting Avith Burke, he had the meanness to insult him. " I took you down from a garret," ^ taunted the malicious " Single- 3 This was a falsehood. Burke'a family was wealthy, and his own social position was scarcely inferior to Hamilton's. 296 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Speech." ''Sir," replied the noble Burke, in a tone of withering sarcasm, ''it was I that descended to know you."' A brilliant career awaited Bnrke in London. He was appointed private secretary to the Marquis of Eockingham, who became Prime Minister in 1765. The following year the gifted author of the " Essay on the Sublime and the Beautiful " entered Parliament as member for Wendover, and no man, perhaps, ever entered or ever will enter the legislative halls of Great Britain with so full a mind and so well trained for his work. K"ow began his political career. Reform, Ireland,^ and America were the great subjects of the day, and the mighty voice of Edmund Burke was ever heard on the side of justice and liberty. His very first speech rivetted the attention of the House. At the success of this first effort a conceited mem- ber of the Literary Club expressed some astonishment in the pre- sence of old Dr. Johnson of dictionary fame. " Sir," interrupted the indignant literary dictator, snuffing his man out in a moment — " sir, there is no wonder at all. We who know Mr. Burke know that he will be one of the/rs^ men in the country." "At the age of thirty-six," says a late writer, "he stood for the first time on the fioor of St. Stephen's Chapel, whose walls were to ring so often during the next eight-and-twenty years with the rolling periods of his grand eloquence, and the peals of acclamation burst- ing alike from friend and foe. Among the great men who then sat upon the benches of that ancient hall, Burke at once took a foremost place." He advocated the freedom of the press ; he advocated Catholic emancipation ; ' he advocated the rights of the American Colonies ; and his matcliless words careered over the broad Atlantic, strength- ening the hearts and nerving the arms of the American patriots. "Venality and meanness," says Campbell, "stood appalled in his presence." But we must be brief. The life of Edmund Burke is a history of those eventful times ; here it cannot all be told. One day, after a brilliant conversation, four gentlemen went out for a walk. They were Burke, his son Eichard, the friend of his youth, Shackleton, of Ballitore school, and another gentleman. « Edmund Burke was not a Catholic ; but " against the penal laws then weighing upon the Irish Catholics," writes Arnold, " he spoke and wrote with a generous pertinacitv. The memory of his mother had, perhaps, as much to do with this as the native enlighten- ment and capacity of his mind." Ed7?miid Bttrke. 297 Mr. Shackleton remarked to young Burke: ''Your father is the greatest man of the age." '•'Ho is," replied the son with filial en- thusiasm, " tlie greatest man of any age ! " ' His son was a young- man of splendid gifts ; in fact, Edmund Burke always considered liis son's talents as far sujierior to his own. Such was the modesty of this illustrious man. Burke's impeachment, in the House of Commons, of Warren Hastings, Governor-General of India, was perhaj)s the grandest oratorical achievement of his life. In a speech of four days he opened the case, in February, 1788. He continued his statement during certain days in April. Ilis cliarges he wound up with a matchless address, which began on May 28, and lasted for nine suc- ceeding days. The effect was indescribable ; ladies sobbed and screamed, and stern men felt the tears trickling down their cheeks. The dignity and grandeur of this memorable speech may be judged from the concluding sentences : "My Lords, it is not the crimi- nality of the prisoner, it is not the claims of the Commons, to demand judgment to bo passed upon him ; it is not the honor and dignity of this court, and the welfare of millions of the human race, that alone call upon you. When the devouring flames shall have destroyed this perishable globe, and it sinks into the abyss of nature Avhence it was commanded into existence by the great Author of it — tlien, my lords, when all nature, kings and judges themselves, must answer for their actions, there Avill be found what sujiersedes creation itself — namely. Eternal Justice. It was the attribute of the great God of Inatuke before worlds were, it will reside with him when they perish ; and the earthly portion of it committed to your care is now solemnly deposited in your hands by the Commons of England. I have done." Another subject now filled his mind. He foresaw, almost with prophetic vision, that the hurricane of revolution was gathering over France, and when it broke in its fury, devastutiiig that beauti- ful land, he gave the world his greatest work, "Reflections on the Eevolution in France." By this unrivalled book the great Irishman made Europe his debtor. Kings complimented him ; even the bluff old George HI. said "it was a book that every gentleman should read." The King of Poland sent him his likeness on a gold medal, with a flattering letter in English. Honors were showered " Burke had only two children — Christopher, who died an infant, and Richard, who reached the age of manhood, but died some yea's before his father. 298 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. on the author by the universities, and the clergy of France and England were warm in expressing their gratitude/ But by his opinions in regard to the French Eevolution he also made himself many opponents. It caused the estrangement between him and Fox. The breach was never healed. When the rupture with Fox occurred, Burke, in one of his eloquent speeches, said, in his own energetic way : "I have made a great sacrifice ; I have done my duty, though I have lost my friend." A severe domestic blow now fell upon the aged philosopher and statesman. His only son, Eichard, died in 1794. This sad event threAV a dark shadow across his last days. It almost broke his heart, as his love for his gifted son was unbounded. In one of his celebrated letters he thus refers to his loss: "I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me have gone before me ; they who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of ancestors. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of these old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am strip t of all my honors. I am torn up by the roots, and lie pros- trate on the earth. There, and prostrate there, I must unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit to it." ' The three years which he survived his son were chiefly spent in acts of charity. For the children of French emigrants he founded a school, and its permanent support formed one of his latest cares. Eetaining the perfect possession of all his faculties to the last, the immortal Edmund Burke calmly expired at his country seat of Beaconsfield in July, 1794, and his honored remains were laid in a vault under Beaconsfield church, beside the dust of that son whom he had loved so well. His last words were : " God bless you !" Of Burke's works and character we have but space for a few re- marks. His '•Parliamentary Speeches" fill several volumes, and form an enduring monument to his fame as, perhaps, the greatest philosophical statesman that the world has ever seen. His "Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful " stands in the front rank of English classics. Burke holds the same place in English prose that Shakspere does in English verse. He united solidity of thought to brilliancy of imagination in a degree, perhaps, never attained by any other writer. In our prose literature, his " Eeflections on the Eevolution « "The first orator of England." wrote the noble Catholic Archbishop of ALs, "has become the defender of the clergy of France." '' " Letter to a nuble Lord. " Edmund Btirke. 299 in France" is the masterpiece of masterpieces. It is a treasurj^ of eloquence and political wisdom. Every great conservative Catholic statesman since the days of Burke has nourished his mind on this book. It is a Christian book. It shows that without religion, civi- lization must cease to exist. "We know," says Edmund Burke, "and, what is better, we feel inwardly, that religion is the basis of civil society, and the source of all good and of all comfort." " Burke corrected his age," says the famous Catholic philosopher, Schlegel, "when it was at the height of its revolutionary frenzy ; and, without maintaining any system of philosophy, he seems to have seen further into the true nature of society, and to have more clearly comprehended the effect of religion in connecting individual security with national welfare, than any philosopher or any system of philosophy of any preceding age."* This great man loved his native Ireland, and for thirty years his voice and pen ceased not to dehiand justice for his oppressed Catho- lic countrymen. His last "Letter on the Affairs of Ireland" was written but a few months before his death. In it he avows that he has not "power of mind or body to bring out his sentiments with their natural force; but," adds the grand old statesman, " I do not wish to have it concealed that I am of the same ojnnion to my last breath which I entertained when my faculties were at the best." Brave and solemn Avords, indeed ! In conversation Burke was unrivalled. Said Dr. Johnson : " I do not OTudije Burke's being the first man in the House of Com- mous, for he is tlie first everywhere. He is an extraordinary man. He is the only man whose common conversation corresponds with the general fame which he has in the world. Take him u}) where you please, he is ready to meet you. No man of sense could meet Burke by accident under a gateway to avoid a shower without being convinced that he was the first man in England." ° Grattan also declared that he was the greatest man in conversation he ever met. " Shakspere and Burke," said Sir James Mackintosh, "are, if I may venture the expression, above talent. Burke's works contain an ampler store of political and moral wisdom than can be found in any other writer whatever." Lord Macaulay styles him " the greatest master of eloquence," and pronounces him "superior to every orator, ancient or modern." 8 " Lectures on the History of Literature," lect. xiT. ' Boswell's " Life of Johnson." ^oo The Prose mid Poetry of h-eland. o But, though a master of eloquence, Edmund Burke, happily, had more wisdom than eloquence. "Xever," says Cazales, "was there a more beautiful alliance between virtue and talents. Mr. Burke was superior to the age in which he lived. His prophetic genius only astonished the nation which it should have governed." "Burke," remarked Hamilton, "understood everything but gaming and music." "He was," said Grattan, "a prodigy of nature and of acquisi- tion. He read everything— he saw everything. His knowledge of history amounted to a power of foretelling ; and, when he perceived the wild work that was doing in France, that great .political physi- cian, cognizant of symptoms, distinguished between the access of fever and the force of health, and what others conceived to be the vigor of her constitution, lie knew to be the paroxysm of her mad- ness ; and thus, prophet-like, he pronounced the destinies of France, and in his prophetic fury admonishefl nations." " So long," exclaims an American writer, " as virtue shall be be- loved, wisdom revered, or genius admired, so long will the memory of this illustrious exemplar of all be fresh in the world's history ; for human nature has too much interest in the preservation of such a character ever to permit the name of Edmund Burke to perish ' from the earth." '" SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION— 1774 Sik: I agree with the honorable gentleman who spoke last, that this subject is not new in this House. For nine long years, session after session, we have been lashed round and round this miserable circle of occasional arguments and temporary expedients. I am sure our heads must turn and our stomachs nauseate with them. We have had them in every shape ; Ave have looked at them in every point of view. Invention is exhausted ; reason is fatigued ; experience has given judgment ; but obstinacy is not yet conquered. The honorable gentleman has -made one more endeavor to diver- sify the form of this disgusting argument. He has thrown out a speech composed almost entirely of challenges. Challenges are serious things ; and, as he is a man of prudence as well as resolu- 10 AUibone, " Dictionary of Authors." In person Burke was about five feet ten inches in height, erect and •well-formed. He had a manly, pleasing countenance. Echmtnd Burke. 301 tion, I dare sny ho has very Avell weighed those challenges before he delivered them. He desires to know wlietlier, if we were to repeal this tax, agreea- bly to the propositions of the honorable gentleman who made the motion, the Americans would not post on this concession, in order to make a new attack on the next body of taxes, and whether they would not call for a repeal of the duty on wine as loudly as they do now for the repeal of the duty on tea. Sir, I can give no security on this subject ; but I will do all that I can, and all that can be fairly demanded. To the cxi)erience which the honorable gentleman reprobates in one instant and reverts to in the next, to that expe- rience, without the least wavering or hesitation on my part, I steadily aj)j)cal ; and would to God there were no other arbiter to decide on the vote with Avhich the House is to conclude this day ! When Parliament repealed the Stamp Act in the year 17GG, I affirm, first, that the Americans did not in consequence of this mea- sure call upon you to give uj) the former parliamentary revenue which subsisted in that country, or even any one of the articles which compose it. I affirm also that Avhen, departing from the maxims of that repeal, you revived the scheme of taxation, and thereby filled the minds of the colonists with new jealousy and all sorts of apprehensions, then it Avas that they quarrelled with the old taxes as well as the new ; then it was, and nof till then, that they questioned all parts of your legislative power, and by the battery of such questions have shaken the solid structure of this empire to its deepest foundations. Gentlemen will force the colonists to take the teas. You will force them ! Has seven years' struggle been yet able to force them ? Oh ! but it seems "we are in the right. The tax is trifling, in ef- fect it is rather an exoneration than an imposition ; three-fourths of the duty formerly payable on teas exported to America is taken off ; the place of collection is only shifted ; instead of the retention of a shilling from the drawback here, it is threepence custom paid ill America." All this, sir, is very true. But this is the very folly and mischief of the act. Incredible as it may seem, you knoAV that you have deliberately thrown away a large duty Avliich you held secure and quiet in your hands for the vain hope of getting one three-fourths less through every hazard, through certain litigation, and possibly through war. But they tell you, sir, that your dignity is tied to it. I know 302 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. not how it happens, but this dignity of yours is a terrible encum- brance to you ; for it has of late been ever at war with your inter- est, your equity, and eyery idea of your policy. Show the thing you contend for to be reason ; show it to be common sense ; show it to be the means of attaining some useful end, and then I am content to allow it what dignity you please. But what dignity is derived from the perseverance in absurdity is more than I ever could discern. Let us, sir, embrace some system or other before we end this ses- sion. Do you mean to tax America, and to draw from thence a productive revenue ? If you do, speak out ; name, fix, ascertain this revenue ; settle its quantity, define its objects, provide for its col- lection, and then fight when you have something to fight for. If you murder, rob ; if yen kill, take possession ; and do not appear in the character of madmen as well as assassins, violent, vindictive, bloody, and tyrannical without an object. But may better coun- sels guide yon ! Again and again revert to your old principles ; seek peace and en- sure it ; leave America, if she has taxable matter in her, to tax her- self. I am not here going into the distinctions of rights, nor at- tempting to mark their boundaries. I do not enter into these metaphysical distinctions ; I hate tlie very sound of them. Leave the Americans as they anciently stood, and these distinctions, born of our unhappy contest, will die along with it. They and we, and they and our ancestors, have been happy under that system. Let the memory of all actions in contradiction to that good old mode on both ^ides be extinguished for ever. Be content to bind America by laws of trade ; you have always done it. Let this be your rea- son for binding their trade. But do not burden them by taxes; you were not used to do so from the beginning. Let this be your reason for not taxing. These are the arguments of states and kingdoms. Leave the rest to the schools ; for there only they may be discussed with safety. But if, intemperately, unwisely, fatally, you sophisticate, and poison the very source of government by urg- ing subtle deductions and consequences odious to those you govern, from the unlimited and illimitable nature of supreme sovereignty, you will teach them by these means to call that sovereignty itself in question. When you drive him hard, the boar will surely turn upon the hunters. If that sovereignty and their freedom cannot be reconciled, which will they take ? They Avill cast your sover- eignty in your face. Nobody will be argued into slavery. Sir, let Edmund Bw^ke. 303 the gentlemen on the other side call forth all their ability ; let the best of them get up and tell me loliat one character of liberty the Americans have, and lohat one brand of slavery they are free from, if they are bound in their jiroperty ard industry by all the restraints jou can imagine on commerce, and, at the same time, are made pack-horses of every tax you choose to impose, without the least share in granting them. A noble lord,'' who spoke some time ago, is full of the jBre of in- genuous youth. He has said that the Americans are our children, and how can they revolt against their jiarent ? He says if they are not free in their present state, England is not free, because Man- chester and other considerable places are not represented. So then, because some towns in England are not represented, America is to have no representative at all ! They are " our children," but when children ask for bread are we not to give a stone ? Ask yourselves the question : Will the Americans be content in such a state of slavery ? If not, look to the consequences. Reflect how you are to govern a people who think they ought to be free and tldnlc they are not. Your scheme yields no revenue ; it yields no- thing but discontent, disorder, disobedience ; and such is the state of America that after wading up to your eyes in blood you could only just end where you begun — that is, to tax where no revenue is to be found, to — my voice fails me ; my inclination, indeed, cames me no further, all is confusion beyond it ! On this business of America I confess I am serious, even to sad- ness. I have had but one opinion concerning it since I sat and be- fore I sat in Parliament. The noble lord '^ Avill, as usual, probably attribute the part taken by me and my friends in this business to a desire of getting his places. Let him enjoy this happy and original idea. If I deprived him of it, I should take away most of his wit, and all his argument. But I would rather bear the brunt of all his wit, and, indeed, blows much heavier, than stand answerable to God for embracing a system that tends to the destruction of some of the very best and fairest of his works. But I know the map of England as well as the noble lord or any other person, and I know that the way I take is not the way to preferment. My excellent and honor- able friend under me on the floor has trod that road with great toil for upwards of twenty years together. He is not yet arrived at the uoble lord's destination. However, the tracks of my worthy friend '1 Lord Caremarthen. 12 Lord North. 304 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. are those I have ever wished to follow ; because I know they lead to honor. Long may we tread the same road together, whoever may accompany us, or whoever may laugh at us on our journey ! LOUIS XVI. AND HIS QUEEN, MARIE ANTIONETTE. [From " Eeflections oq the Revolution in France.'"] HiSTOET will record that on the morning of the Gth of October, 1789, the King and Queen of France, after a day of confusion, alarm, dismay, and slaughter, lay down, under the pledged security of public faith, to indulge nature in a few hours of respite and troubled, melanclioly repose. From this sleep the Queen was first startled by the voice of the sentinel at her door, who cried out to her to save herself by flight ; that this was the last proof of fidelity he could give ; that they were upon him, and he was dead. Instantly he was cut down. A band of cruel ruffians and assassins, reeking with his blood, rushed into ths chamber of the Queen, and j^ierced with a hundred strokes of bayonets and poinards the bed from whence this persecuted woman had but just time to fly almost naked, and through ways unknown to the murderers had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and husband not secure of his own life for a moment. This King, to say no more of him, and this Queen, and their infant children (who once would have been the pride and hope of a great and generous people) were then forced to abandon the sanctuary of the most splendid jjalace in the world, which they left swimming in blood, polluted by massacre, and strewed with scattered limbs and mutilated carcasses. Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom. Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted, promiscuous slaughter which was made of the gentlemen of birth and family who composed the King's body-guard. These two gen- tlemen, with all the parade of an execution of justice, were cruelly and publicly dragged to the block and beheaded in the great court of the palace. Their heads Avere stuck uj)on spears, and led the procession, whilst the royal captives who followed in the train were slowly moved along, amid the horrid 3'ells and shrilling screams and frantic dances and infamous contumelies, and all the unutter- able abominations of the furies of hell, in the abused shape of the Edimuid Burke. 305 vilest of women. After they had been made to taste, drop by drop, more than the bitterness of death in the slow torture of a journey of twelve miles protracted to six hours, they were, under a guard composed of those very soldiers who had thus conducted them through this famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palaces of Paris, now converted into a Bastile for kings. Influenced by the inborn feelings of my nature, and not being- illuminated by a single ray of the new-sj)rung modern light, I con- fess that the exalted rank of the persons suffering, and particularly the sex, the beauty, and the amiable qualities of the descendant of so many kings and emperors, w4th the tender age of royal infants, insensible only through infancy and innocence of the cruel outrages to which their parents were exposed, instead of being a subject of exultation, adds not a little to my sensibility on that most melan- choly occasion. I hear that though Louis XVI. supported himself, he felt much on that shameful occasion. As a man, it became him to feel for his wife and children, and the faithful guards of his person, that were massacred in cold blood about him ; as a prince, it became him to feel for the strange and frightful transformation of his civilized subjects, and to be more grieved for them than to be solicitous for himself. It derogates little from his fortitude, while it adds infi- nitely to the honor of his humanity, I hear, and I rejoice to hear, that the great lady, the other object of the triumph, has borne that day, and that she bears all the succeeding days, that she bears the im- prisonment of her husband, and her own captivity, and the exile of her friends, and the insulting adulation of addresses, and the whole weight of her accumulated wrongs, with a serene patience, in a manner suited to her rank and race, and becoming the offspring of a sovereign distinguished for her piety and her courage ; that, like her, she has lofty sentiments; that she feels with the dignity of a Roman matron ; that in the last extremity she will save herself from the last disgrace ; and that, if she must fall, she will fall by no ig- noble hand. It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of Prance, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles, and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightfid vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheer- ing the elevated sphere she just began to move in, glittering like the morning star, full of life, and sj^lendor, and joy. Oh ! what a. 3o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. revolution, and what a lieart must I have to contemplate Avithout emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respect- ful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone ; that of sophisters, economists, and calcu- lators has succeeded, and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the chief defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone ! It is gone, that sensibihty of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which in- spired courage, whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled what- ever it touched, and under which vice i-tself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. LETTER TO A NOBLE LORD— 1796." Mt Lord : I could hardly flatter myself with the hope that so very early in the season I should have to acknowledge obligations to the Duke of Bedford and to the Earl of Lauderdale. These noble persons have lost no time in conferring upon me that sort of honor which it is alone within their competence, and which it is certainly most •congenial to their nature and their manners, to bestow. To be ill spoken of, in whatever language they speak, by the .zealots of the new sect in philosophy and politics, of which these noble persons think so charitably, and of which others think so justly, to me is no matter of uneasiness or surprise. To have in- curred the displeasure of the Duke of Orleans or the Duke of Bed- is This letter was called forth by the shameful personal attacks made upon the vener- (iblo -writer and liis pension, in the House of Lords, by the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of Lauderdale in 1796. The above is simply a few of the best passages in the original, which would fill over fifty pages of the present volume. Edmicnd Burke. 307 ford, to fall under the censure of Citizen Brissot, or of his friend, the Eiirl of Lauderdale, I ought to consider as proofs not the least sat- isfactory that I have produced some part of the effect I proposed by my endeavors. I have labored hard to earn wliat the noble lords are generous enough to pay. Personal offence I have given them none. The part they take against me is from zeal to tlie cause. It is well. It is perfectly well. I have to (hj liomagt^ to their justice. I have to thank the Bedfords and the Lauderdales for having so faithfully and so fully acquitted towards me whatever arrear of debt was left undischarged by the Priestleys and the Paines. But will they not let me remain in obscurity and inaction ? Are they apprehensive that if an atom of me remains the sect has some- thing to fear ? Must I be annihilated lest, like old John Zisca's, my skin should be made into a drum to animate Europe to eternal battle against a tyranny that threatens to overwhelm all Europe and all the human race ? In one thing I can excuse the Duke of Bedford for his attack upon me and my mortuary pension. He cannot readily compre- hend the transaction he condemns. What I have obtained is the fruit of no bargain, the production of no intrigue, the result of no compromise, the effect of no solicitation. The first suggestion of it never came from me, mediately or immediately, to his Majesty or any of his ministers. It was long known that the instant my en- gagements would permit it, and before the heaviest of all calamities had for ever condemned me to obscurity and sorrow, I had resolved on a total retreat. I had executed that design. I was entirely out of the way of serving or of hurting any statesman or any party Avhen the ministers so generously and so nobly carried into effect the spontaneous bounty of tlie Crown. Both descriptions have acted as became them. When I could no longer serve them, the ministers have considered my situation. When I could no longer hurt them, the revolutionists have trampled on my infirmity. ^Nfy gratitude, I trust, is equal to the manner in which the benefit was conferred. It came to me, indeed, at a time of life and in' a state of mind and body in which no circumstance of fortune could afford me any real pleasure. But this was no fault in the royal donor or in his minis- ters, who were pleased in acknowledging the merits of an invalid servant of the public, to assuage the sorrows of a desolate old man. Loose libels ought to be passed by in silence and contempt. By 3o8 The Prose and Poetry of Iretand. me they have been so always. I knew that as long as I remained in public I should live down the cahimnies of malice and the judg- ment of ignorance. If I happened to be now and then in the v/rong, as who is not, like all other men, I must bear the consequence of my faults and my mistakes. The libels of the present day are just of the same stuff as the libels of the past. But they derive an miporlance from the rank of the persons they come from and the gravity of the place where they were uttered. In some way or another I ought to take some notice of them. To assert myself thus traduced is not vanity or arrogance. It is a demand of justice ; it is a demonstration of gratitude. If I am unworthy, the minis- ters are worse than prodigal. On that hypothesis I perfectly agree with the Duke of Bedford. But I decline his Grace's jurisdiction as a judge. I challenge the Duke of Bedford as a juror to pasc upon the value of my services. Whatever his natural parts may be, I cannot recognize in his few and idle years the competence to judge of my long and laborious life. If I can help it, he shall not be on the inquest of my quantum meruit. Poor rich man ! he can hardly know anything of public industry in its exertions, or can estimate its compensations when its work is done. I have no doubt of his Grace's readiness in all the calculations of vulgar arithmetic, but I shrewdly suspect that he is little studied in the theory of moral proportions, and has never learned the rule of three in the arithmetic of policy and state. His Grace is pleased to aggravate my guilt by charging my ac- ceptance of his Majesty's grant as a departure from my ideas and the spirit of my conduct with regard to economy. If it be, my ideas of economy were false and ill-founded. But they are the Duke of Bedford's ideas of economy I have contradicted, and not my own. If he means to allude to certain bills brought in by me on a message from the throne in 1783, I tell him that there is no- thing in my conduct that can contradict either the letter or the spirit of those acts. Does he mean tlie Pay-Office Act ? I take it for granted he does not. The act to which he alludes is, I sup- pose, the Establishment Act. I greatly doubt whether his Grace has ever read the one or the other. The first of these systems cost me, with every assistance which my then situation gave me, pains incredible. I found an opinion common through all the offices and general in the public at large that it would prove impossible to re- form and methodize the office of Paymaster-General. I undertook Edimind Burke. 3^9 it, however, and I succeeded in my nndertaking. Whether the military service or whether the general economy of our finance have profited by that act I leave to those wJio are acquainted with the army and with the treasury to judge. I was not, like his Grace of Bedford, swaddled and rocked and dandled into a legislation ; " Nitor in adversum" is the motto for a man like me. I possessed not one of the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recommend men to the favor and protection of the great. I was not made for a minion or a tool. As little did I follow the trade of Avinning the hearts by imi^osing on the xinder- standings of the people. At every step of my jn'ogress in life (for in every step was I traversed and opposed), and at every turnpike I met, I was obliged to show my passport and again and again to prove my sole title to the honor of being useful to my country by a proof that I was not wholly unacquaiiited Avith its laws and the whole system of its interest, both abroad and at home. Otherwise no rank, no toleration even, for me. I had no arts but manly arts. On them I have stood, and, please God, in spite of the Duke of Bedford and the Earl of Lauderdale, to the last gasp I will stand. His Grace may think as meanly as he will of my deserts in the far greater part of my conduct in life. It is free for him to do so. There will always be some difference of opinion in the value of po- litical services. But there is one merit of mine which he, of all men living, ought to be the last to call in question, I have supported with very great zeal, and I am told Avith some degree of success, those opinions, or, if his Grace likes another expression better, those old prejudices which buoy up the ponderous mass of his nobility, wealth, and titles. I have omitted no exertion to prcA'ent him and them from sinking to that level to Avhich the meretricious French faction, his Grace at least coquets Avith, omit no exertion to reduce both. I have done all I could to discountenance their enquiries into the fortunes of those Avho hold large portions of Avealth Avith- out any apparent merit of their own. I have strained every nerve to keep the Duke of Bedford in that situation Avhich alone makes him my superior. Your Lordship has been a Avitness of the use he makes of that pre-eminence. The awful state of the time, and not myself or my own justifica- tion, is my true object in Avhat I noAV Avrite, or in Avhat I shall ever write or say. It little signifies to the world what becomes of such things as me, or even as the Duke of Bedford. 3 lo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Why will his Grace, by attacking me, force me reluctantly to compare my little merit with that vdiich obtained from the Crow^n those j)ro(]igies of profuse tlonatiou by which he tramples on the mediocrity of humble and laborious individuals ? I would willing- ly leave him to the Herald's College, which the philosophy of the sans-culottes (prouder by far tlian all the Garters and ISTarrays and Clarencieux and Eouge Dragons that ever pranced in a procession of what his friends call aristocrats and despots) will abolish with contumely and scorn. These historians, recorders, and blazoners of virtues and arms difier wholly from that other description of historians who never assign any act of politicians to a good motive. These gentle historians, on the contrary, dip their jicns in nothing but the m.ilk of human kindness. They seek no further for merit than the preamble of a patent, or the inscription of a tomb. AVith them every man created a peer is first a hero ready made. They judge of every man's capacity for office by the offices he has filled, and the more offices the more ability. Every general officer with them is a Marlborough ; every statesman a Burleigh ; every Judge a Murray or a Yorke. They who, when alive, Avere laughed at or pitied by all their acquaintance make as good a figure as the best of them in the pages of Guillim, Edmondson, and Collins. Had it pleased God to continue to me hopes of succession, I should have been, according to my mediocrity and the medi- ocrity of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family. I should have left a son who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in generosity, in humanity, and in every liberal sentiment and every liberal accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon tliat provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency and symmetrized every disproporlion. It would not have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant, wasting reservoir of merit in me or in my ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring of generous and manly action ; every day he lived ho would have repurchased the bounty of the Crown, and ten times more if ten times more he had re- ceived. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. Edmund Btirke. 311 But a Disposer whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wisdom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, and (whatever my querulous weakness might sug- gest) a far better. The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth. There, and prostrate there, I most un- feignedly recognize the divine justice, and, in some degree, submit to it. Bat whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The patience of Job is proverbiaL After some of the convulsive struggles of our irritable nature, he submitted liimself and repented in dust and ashes. But even so I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a considerable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his who visited his dunghill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his misery. I am alone. 1 have none to meet my enemies in the gate. Indeed, my Lord, I greatly deceive myself if in this hard season I would give a jjeck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. This is the appetite of but a fcvv. It is a luxury ; it is a privilege ; it is an indulgence for those who arc at their ease. But we are all of us made to shun disirrace as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and disease. It is an instinct, and under the direction of evil, instinct is always in the riglit. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded mo are gone before me. They who should have been to me as posterity are in the place of ancestors." Pardon, my Lord, the feeble garrulity of age. At my years we live in retrospect alone ; and, wholly unfitted for the society of vigorous life, we enjoy the best balm to all wounds — the consolation of friendsliiji in those only whom we have lost for ever. I have the honor to be, etc., Edmund Bukke. LETTER TO THE CATHOLIC ARCHBISHOP OF AIX." Lois-DON", July 15, 1791. Sir : It is with great satisfaction to me that the generous victims of injustice and tyranny accept in good part the homage which I i* The warmest friend that the exiled and persecuted Catholic clergy of France met on reaching the shores of England was the generous-hearted Eurke. Through the Arch- 3 1 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. have offered to their virtues. It is a distinction which I would not have had occasion to merit from the clergy of France in the time of their credit and sj)lendor. Your Church, the intelligence of which was the ornament of the Christian world in its prosperity, is now more brilliant in the moment of its misfortunes to the eyes wliicli are capable of judging of it. IS^ever did so great a number of 2nen disi:)lay a constancy so inflexible, a disinterestedness so manifest, u humihty so magnanimous, so much dignity in their patience, and so much elevation in their sentiments of honor. Ao-es have not furnished so many noble examples as France has produced in the space of two years. It is odious to search in antiquity for the merit we admire, and to be insensible to that which passes under our eyes. Franco is in a deplorable condition, both in its poHtical and moral state; but it seems to be in the order of the general economv of the world that when the greatest and most detestable vices domi- neer, the most eminent and distinguished virtues raise their heads more proudly. Such is not the time for mediocrity. We may have some diversity in our opinions, but we have no difference in princi- ples. There is but one kind of honor and virtue in the world; it consists in sacrificing every other consideration to the sentiments of our duty, of right, and of piety. It is this Avhich the clergy of France have done. One thing I see distinctly, because the bishops of France have proved it by their example, and that is that they have made known to all the orders and to all the classes of citizens the advantages which even religion can derive from the alliance of its own proper dignity with the character Avliich illustrious birth and the sentiment of honor gives to man. I do not know if it is to the complaisance of your Lordship that I owe the chefs-d'ceuvre of ingenuity, intelligence, and superior eloquence, varied as the occasions require with different dis- courses and letters, which I from time to time receive. They are the works of a great statesman, of a great prelate, and of a man versed in the science of administration. We cannot be astonished that the state, the clergy, the finances, and the trade of the king- dom should be ruined when the author of these works, instead of having an important share in the councils of his country, is perse- cuted and undone. The loroscription of such men is enough to bishop of Aix the Bishops of France conveyed their thanks to him, in reply to which the great statesman wrote the above. Edmund Bnrkc. 313 cover a wliole i)eoplc with eternal reproach. Those who persecute tliem have by this one act clone more injury to tlieir country in de- l)riving it of their services than a million of men of their own standard can ever repair, even when they shall he dis2:)0sed to build upon the ruins they have made. Maintain, sir, the courage whicli yon have hitherto shown, and be persuaded that, though the world is not worthy of you and your colleagues, we are not insensible of the honor which you do our common nature. I have the honor to be, ■^ery truly, Edmujstd Bueke. LETTER TO DR. FRANKLIN.'^ LoNDOX, Charles Street, February 28, 1782. Dear Sir: Your most obliging letter demanded an early answer. It has not received the acknowledgment so justly due to it. But Providence has Avell supplied my deficiencies, and the delay of an- swer has made it much more satisfactory than at the time of my receipt of your letter I dared to promise myself it could be. I congratulate you, as the friend of America, on the resolution of the House of Commons, carried by a majority of nineteen, at two o'clock this morning, in a very full house. It was the declaration of two hundred and fifty-four: I think it was the opinion of the Avhole. I trust it will lead to a speedy peace between the two branches of the English nation, perhaps to a general peace, and that our happi- ness may be an introduction to that of the world at large. I most sincerely congratulate you on the event. I wish I could say that I had accomplished my commission. Difficulties remain. But as Mr. Laurens is released from his con- finement, and has recovered his health tolerably, he may Avait, I hope, without a deal of inconvenience, for the final adjustment of liis troublesome business. lie is an exceedingly agreeable and honorable man. I am much obliged to vou for the honor of his acquaintance. He speaks of you as I do, and is perfectly sensible of your warm and friendly inter jiosition in his favor. I have the honor to be, with the highest possible esteem and regard, dear sir, your most faithful and obedient servant, Edmukd Burke. '5 This letter was in aus-wer to one from Franklin requesting Burke to interest himself in negotiating the exchange of Henry Laurens, then in the Tower, for Gen. Burgoyne. As will be seen, it announces the happy termination of the long and gallant struggle of America for complete independence. RICHARD DRINSLEY SHERIDAN, " Whatever Sheridan has done or chosen to do has been, -par excellence, always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, the best opera, the best farce, the best address, and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration ever conceived or heard in this country.'' — Lord Byron. " His mind was an essence compounded with art From the finest and best of all other men's powers ; He ruled like a wizard the world of the heart, And called up its sunshine or drew down its showers. " — MOOEE. "QICIIAED BEIIS^SLEY SIIEKIDAN, one of the most singularly J-^ gifted men of modern times, was born in Dorset Street, Dub- lin, in 1751. He belonged to a family which appeared to possess an hereditary monopoly of genius. His grandfather was a great wit, classical scholar, and friend of Swift. His father, Thomas Sheridan, was a noted actor, elocutionist, and lexicographer, whose " General Dictionary of the English Language " was, we believe, thej^rs/ work in which carefnl attention was given to the best pro- nunciation of our language. Eichard's mother was also a lady of uncommon mental gifts and rare personal attractions. In her day she was a writer of distinction. The lad in his seventh year was placed under the tuition of Mr. Samuel Whyte, of Grafton Street, Dublin. Here he got many a sound birching, and was regarded as "■ a most impenetrable dunce." * He was next sent to Harrow,^ but Eichard did not injure himself much by overstudy. Still, he contrived to win the affection, and even admiration, of the whole school by his frank and genial ways, and by the occasional gleams of superior intellect which broke through all the indolence and indifference of his manner.^ " I saw in him," writes the celebrated Dr. Parr, then one of the teachers in Harrow, '*' vestiges of a superior intellect. His eye, his ' " It may be consoling," writes Moore, " to parents -who are in the first crisis of im- patience at the sort of hopeless stupidity whisli some children exhibit, to know that the dawn of Sheridan s intellect was as dull and unpromising as its meridian day was bright."—" Memoirs of Sheridan." 2 A famous English academy. 3 Stainforth, " Life of Sheridan." 314 Richard Brinsley Sheridan. 315 countenance, his general manner, were striking. His answers to any common question were prompt and acute. We knew the esteem and even admiration which somehow or other all his school- fellows felt for him. lie was mischievous enough, but his pranks were accompanied by a sort of vivacity and cheerfulness wliich de- lighted Sumner^ and myself." * In his eighteenth year Eichard was recalled from Harrow. Though at this time he had made some progress in G-reek, it is said he was unable to spell English. He never attended any uni- versity. The limited means of his father, Avho then resided at Bath, England, would not permit such a step. Sheridan's life henceforth reads more like a romance than a sober, matter-of-fact biography. He began it as a hopeless literary adven- turer. Yet nothing failed him. . Position, fame, and fortune he grasj)ed at as if they were his birthright. " The poor, unknown youth," writes Taine, " wretched translator of an unreadable Greek sophist, who at twenty walked about Bath in a red waistcoat and a cocked hat, destitute of hope and ever conscious of the emi^tiness of his pockets, gained the heart of the most admired beauty and musi- cian " of her time, carried her off from ten rich, elegant, titled adorers, fought with the best hoaxed of the ten, beat him, and car- ried by storm the curiosity of the public. Then, challenging glory and wealth, he placed successively on the stage the most diverse and the most applauded dramas, comedies, farces, opera, serious verse ; he bought and worked a large theatre without a farthing, inaugu- rated a reign of successes and pecuniary advantages, and led a life of elegance amid the enjoyments of social and domestic Joys, sur- rounded by universal admiration and wonder. Thence, aspiring yet higher, he conquered power, entered the House of Commons, showed himself a match for the first orators, opposed Pitt, accused AYarren Hastings, supported Fox, sustained with hhtt. disinterest- edness, and constancy a most difficult and generous pai't, became one of three or four of the most noted men in England, an equal of the greatest lords, the friend of a royal prince, in tlie end Ee- * Dr. Sumuer, the Principal. 6 Letter on Sheridan's youth. « The celebrated Miss '■ inley, who was but sixteen when Sheridan first met her. She is said to have possessed exquisite personal charms, and, in spite of her profession as au actress, maintained a character of no ordinary beauty and brightness. To Sheridan she proved a wise, devoted v.'ife. After her death Wilkes wrote that she was '• the most mo- dest, pleasing, and deliecite fios^er he had ever seen." 3i6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ceiver-Gcneral of the Duchy of Cornwall and Treasurer to the Elect. In every career he took the lead." ' Sheridan's principal plays arc " The Rivals "—produced in 1775— " The Duenna," " The School for Scandal," and " The Critic," which appeared during the five following years. ''All these plays are in prose, and all, \vith the exception of ' The Duenna,' reflect con- temporary manners. In the creation of comic character and the conduct of comic dialogue Sheridan has never been surpassed. Ilis wit flashes evermore. In such a play as 'The Eivals' the reader is kept in a state of continual hilarious delight by a profusion of sallies, rejoinders, blunders, contrasts which seem to exhaust all the resources of the ludicrous. Mrs. Ilalaprop's ' parts of speech ' will raise the laughter of unborn generations, and the choleric, generous old father Avill never And a more perfect representation than Sir Anthony Absolute. In tlie evolution of plots he is less Jiappy ; nevertheless, in this respect also he succeeded admirably in ' The School for Scandal,' which is by common consent regarded as the most j^srfect of his plays, and is still an established favorite in our theatres." ^ The "School for Scandal" was translated into German, and some vears airo had a irood run in the cities along the Rhine and the Danube. The highest critics agree in pronouncing it the best comedy in the English language. '•'Sheridan," says Ilazlitt, "has been justly called a dramatic star of the first magnitude ; and, indeed, among the comic writers of the last century he shines like Hesperus among the lesser lights." ' ''The dramas of Sheridan," writes J. W. Croker, "have placed him at the head of tlie genteel comedy of England." " Sheridan made his first speech in the House of Commons on the 20th of Xovember, 1780. lie vras heard with particular attention. After he had spoken ho went to the gallery to his friend, Woodfall, and, Avith much anxiety, asked what he thought of this first at- tempt. Woodfall, Avith unusual frankness, remarked that he did not think Parliamentary speaking was in Sheridan's line. For a mo- ment the latter rested his head upon his hands, and tlien warmly exclaimed : "It is in me, and it shall come out !" "> " The History of English Literature." * Arnold's "Manual of English Literature, Historical and Critical." ' " Lectures on the English Comic Writers," Lecture viii. 10 The London QuarUrly lieview. 1826. RicJiard Brinslcy Sheridan. 317 The author of "Tlio School for Scandal" was, however, seven years in Parliament before he gained any reputation as a great ora- tor. The genius and energy of Edmund Burke brought on the famous impeachment of Warren Hastings. This was the event that called forth all the latent ability, dazzling wit, scorching sar- casm, and splendid eloquence of Sheridan. To him was allotted the task of bringing forward in the House of Commons the charge relating to the spoliation of the Begum Princesses of Oude. This speech was delivered on the 7th of February, 1787. It occupied live hours and a half in the delivery. Burke declared it to be *'the most astonishing effort of eloquence, argument, and wit united of which there w\as any record or tradition." Fox said "all that he had ever heard, all that he had ever read, when compared with it, dwindled into nothing, and vanished like vapor before the sun.'' And even Pitt acknowledged "that it surpassed all the elo- quence of ancient and modern times, and possessed everything that genius or art could furnish to agitate or control the human mind.'' Unhappily, this masterpiece of Sheridan's eloquence was poorly re- ported, so much so that Lord Macaulay remarks that "it may be said to be wholly lost, but which was without doubt the most elab- orately brilliant of all the productions of his ingenious mind." " Sheridan's closing speech against Hastings w^as delivered in West- minster Hall on the Scl, Gth, 10th, and 13th of June, 17SS. On the very last night a remarkable evidence of his unrivalled ability — an honor such as no man in Europe or America, past or present, can claim — was exhibited. " The galleries of the English House of Lords were filled to overflov/ing to hear what all exjoectcd would be a masterpiece of eloquence. Peers and peeresses were glad to obtain seats early in the day, in which they continued nearly the entire night, tumultuously overcrowded. On the same night his plav, ' The School for Scandal,' the lest comedy on the British stage, Avas playing at ono theatre, and his opera, ' The Duenna,' the last in its line on the stage, was performing at another, while the gifted author was himself delivering to the entranced British senate the most eloquent harangue ever delivered Avithin its walls." '^ Sheridan's conversational powers were remarkable. His Avit and humor were only equalled by his good tempei", and he Avas regarded ""Essays." I'^Mooney, " History of Ireland. " 3 1 8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. as the dclJa'lit of the social circles in wliich lio moved. Fox de- Glared that he was the wittiest man he had ever known. Indeed, men spent whole nights in listening to him. On one occasion the author of "The School for Scandal" made liis appearance in a ncAV pair of boots. These attracted the notice of some of his friends. "Now guess/*' said he, " how I came by these boots." Many frobabh guesses then took place. " IS'o,'' said Sheridan, "you haVe not hit it, and never will; I bought them and paid for them." One day Sheridan met two royal dukes in St. James Street, and the younger flippantly remarked: "I say, Slicrry, wo have just been discussing whether you are a greater fool or rogue. Wliat is your opinion, old boy ? " Sheridan bowed, smiled, and, as he took each of them by the arm, quietly replied • " Why, faith, I believe I'm between both ! '' Some mention having been made in his presence of a tax u]?on milestones, he said : " Such a tax would be unconstitutional, as they were a race that could not meet to remonstrate." Once, being on a Parliamentary committee, Sheridan arrived wIicd all the members were assembled and seated, and about to commence business. In vain he looked around for a seat, and then, with a bow and a cjuaint twinkle in his eyes, said: " Will any gentleman move that I might take the chair ? " Ilcaring that Gifford, the somewhat savage editor of The Quar- terly Ilevictv, had boasted of his power of conferring and distribut- ing literary reputation, Sheridan remarked: "Very true; and in the present instance ho has done it so thoroughly that he lias none left for Mmselfy In a good-natured way he one day remarked to a creditor who demanded instant payment of a long-standing debt with interest : "My dear sir, you know it is not my interest to pay the ininc%;pal, nor i3 it vtx^ principle to pay the interest.'' Lord Lauderdale happening to say that he would repeat some good thing of Slicridan's, the latter said : "Pray don't; a joJce in your moitilh is no laughing matter.'^' The brilliant but unhappy Sheridan's parliamentary career drew to a close in 1813. Among the last sentences uttered by him in the House were the following bravo and beautiful words : "My ob- jection to t]io present ministry is that they arc avowedly arrayed and embodied against a principle— that of concession to the Catho- I Richard Drinslcy Sheridan. 319 lies of Ireland '^ — which I think, and must always think, essential to tlio safety of this empire. I will never give my vote to any Ad- ministration that opposes the question of Catholic emancipation. I will not consent to receive a inrlongh njion that particular ques- tion, even though a ministry were carrying every other that I Avished. In tine, I think the situation of Ireland a paramount con- sideration. If they were to be the last words I should ever utter in this House, I should say: 'Be just to Ireland, as you value your own honor ; be just to Ireland, as you value yonr own peace.' " Parliament was dissolved in September, 1812. Sheridan again went to the polls, bnt was defeated. This completed his ruin. The success and fortune which had smiled on his younger years frowned on his old age. For him all ordinary rules were reversed. At forty-four debts began to shower npon him ; at sixty he was a hopeless bankrupt. What was the cause of his misfortune ? The truth must be told ; poor Sheridan had drank to excess. Tlie lottU had blighted his briglat genius and his hopeful life. He — the gifted and brilliant Sheridan — closed his last days in the shades of poverty and neglect. Oh ! what a lesson. Forsaken by the false great ones avIio had basked around him in the sunshine of pros- perity, Eichard Brinsley Sheridan died in London on July 7, ISIG, in his sixty-fifth year. The titled knaves who had heartlessly shunned the great man's death-bed now crowded round to jDartake of his glory as he was laid in the grave. In the worldly sense of the word, his funeral was "grand." Barons and lords, marquises and dukes followed in the train. Moore wrote : ' Oh ! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow And friendships so false in the great and high bom ; To think what a long line of titles may follow The rehcs of him who died friendless and Lorn ! " How proud they can press to the funeral array Of him whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow — How bailiffs may seize his last blanket ''' to-day Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow ! " He was buried in Westminster Abbey, in the Poet's Corner. Sheridan, when young, possessed a manly, handsome counte- "^ Sheridan, it must be remembered, was not a Catholic. " "A sheriff's ofQcer arrested the dying man in his bed, and was about to carry him off in his blankets, when Doctor Bain interfered, and by threatening the officer with the re- sponsibility he must incur if his prisoner should expire on the way, averted this out- rage."— Stainforth's "Life of Sheridan." 320 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. nance, but in his later years liis eyes were the only testimonials of l)eanty that remained to liim. In person he was about the middle size, strong, and well proportioned. Lord Byron's monody on Sheridan terminates ""hus : " Long shall we seek his likeness, long in vain, And turn to all of him which may remain, Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, And broke the die in moulding Sheridan ! " We cannot better conclude this sketch than in the wise and elo- quent words of his illustrious countrywoman, the Nun of Kenmare: "Had not Sheridan's besetting sin degraded and incapacitated him, it is probable he would have been Prime Minister on the death of Fox. At the early age of forty he was a confirmed drunkard. The master mind which had led a senate was clouded over by the fumes of an accursed spirit; the brilliant eyes that had captivated a million hearts were dimmed and bloodshot ; the once noble brain, which had used its hundred gifts with equal success and ability, was de- prived of all power of acting ; the tongue whose potent, spell had entranced thousands was scarcely able to articulate. Alas ! and a thousand times alas ! that man can thus mar his Maker's work, and stamp ruin and wretchedness where a wealth of mental power had been given to reign supreme ! " "^ SELECTIONS FROM SHERIDAN'S WORKS. DEY BE THAT TEAR. Dey be that tear, my gentlest love, Be hush'd that struggling sigh, Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove More fixed, more true than I. Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear — Dry be that tear. Ask'st thou how long my love will stay, When all that's new is past ? How long, ah ! Delia ? '" can I say How long my life will last ? '' " Illustrated Hi-tory of Ireland." " M ss Elizabeth Linley. -wliom he afterwards married. I Richard Brinslcy Shc7'idan. 321 Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, At least I'll love thee till I die — Husli'd be that sigh. And does that thought affect thee too, The thought of Sylvio's " death— That he who only breathed for you Must yield that faitliful breath ? Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven here — Dry be that tear. 30 THE RECOKDING ANGEL. Cherub of ITeavon that from thy secret stand Dost note tiie follies of each mortal here. Oh ! if Eliza's '* steps employ thy hand, Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear. Xor when she errs, through passion's wild extreme, Mark then lier course, nor heed each trifling wrong ; Nor when her sad attachment is her theme Note down the transports of her erring tongue. But when she sighs for sorrow not her own. Let that dear sigh to mercy's cause be given, And bear that tear to her Creator's throne Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven ! THE LEARNED (!) DIALOGUE BETWEEN MRS. MALAPROP AND SIR ANTHONY ABSOLUTE. FROM ''THE RIVALS," ACT I, SCENE II. Mrs. Malapro'p and old Sir Anthony enter Lydia's room. Mrs. Malaprop. There, Sir Anthony, there sits the deliberate simpleton who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a fellow not worth a shillinsf. Lydia {Mrs. Malaprop's niece). Madam, I thought you once — Mrs. Malaprop, You tliought, miss ! I don't know any busi-^ " Sheridan. " Mrs. Elizabeth Sheridan, nee Linley^ 32 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ness you have to think at all; tUugU does not become a young woman. But the point we would request of you is that you will promise to forget this fellow— to illiterate him, I say, quite from your memory. Ltdia. Ah ! madam, our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so easy to forget. Mes. Malaprop. But I say it is, miss; there is nothing on earth so easy as to forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much forgot your poor, dear uncle as if he had never existed ; and I thought it my duty so to do; and let mo tell you, Lydia, these violent memories don't become a young woman. Sir Anthoxt. Why, sure she don't pretend to remember what she's ordered not ! — ay, this comes of her reading. Mrs. ]\Ialaprop. jSTow, don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter ; you know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise to do as you're bid ? Will you take a hus- band of your friend's choosing ? Lydia. Madam, I must tell you plainly that, had I no pre- ference for any one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. Mrs. Malaprop. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion ? They don't become a young woman; and you ought to know that, as both always wear off, 'tis safest in matrimony to begin with a little aversion. I am sure I hated your poor, dear uncle before marriage as if he'd been a blackamoor ; and yet, miss, you are sensible of what a wife I made ; and when it pleased Heaven to release me from him 'tis unknown what tears I shed. But sup- pose we were going to give you another choice, Avill you promise us to give up this Beverley ? Lydia. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my actions would certainly as far belie my words. Mrs. Malaprop. Take yourself to your room. You are fit com- pany for nothing but your ill-humors. Lydia. Willingly, ma'am. I cannot change for the worse. \Exit Lydia.'] Mrs. Malaprop. There's a little intricate hussy for you ! Sir AxTHOXY. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thou- sand daughters, confound it ! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet. ^ Richard Br ins ley SJieridan. 323 Mrs. Malaprop. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony ; you are an absolute misanthropy. Sir Axthoxy. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming from a circulating library. She had a book in each hand ; they were half-bound volumes Avith marble covers. From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress. Mrs. Malaprop. Those are vile places, indeed. Sir AjsTTHONY. Madam, a circulating library in a town is an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge. It blossoms through the year. And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handlin2: the leaves will long for the fruit at last. Mrs. Malaprop. Eie, fie, Sir Anthony ! you surely speak laconically. Sir Aj^thont. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation now, what would you have a woman know ? Mrs. Malaprop. Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman. Por instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning ; neither Avould it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts ; and as she grew up I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries ; but above all. Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not niissj)ell and mispronounce Avords so shamefully as girls usually do, and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is sapng. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know, and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. Sir Anthony. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further with you ; though I must confess that you arc a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question. I have hojies, madam, that time will bring the young lady — Mrs. Malaprop. Oh ! there's nothing to be hoped for from her She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile ! 324 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. EXTRACT PROM A SPEECH ON THE IRISH REBELLION. {Delivered in June, 1798.) What ! wlion conciliation was held ont to the people of Ireland, was there any discontent ? "VVhcn the goyernment of Ireland was agreeable to the j^eople, was there any discontent ? After the pros- pect of that conciliation was taken away — after Lord Fitzwilliam was i-ecallcd — after the hopes which had been raised were blasted — when the spirit of the j^eople was beaten down, insulted, despised, I will ask any gentleman to point out a single act of conciliation which has emanated from the goyernment of Ireland ! On the contrary, has not that country exhibited one continual scene of the meet grieyous oppression, of the most yexatious proceedings ; arbi- trary punishments inflicted ; torture declared necessary, by the highest authority in the sister kingdom next to that of the Legis- lature ? And do gentlemen say that the indignant spirit which is aroused by such exercise of goyernment is unproyoked ? Is this concilia- tion ? Is this lenity ? Has eyerything been done to avert the eyils of rebellion ? It is the fashion to say, and the Address holds the same language, that the rebellion which now rages in the sister kingdom has been owing to the machinations of "wicked men." Agreeing to the amendment jiroposed, it was my first intention to moye that these words should be omitted. But, sir, the fact they assert is true. It is, indeed, to the measures of loicked men that the deplorable state of Ireland is to bo imputed. It is to those vnched ministers yvho haye broken the promises they held out; who be- trayed the party they seduced to their yiews, to the instruments of the foulest treachery that eyer was practised against any people. It is to those wicked ministers who haye giyon up that devoted country to plunder, resigned it a prey to this faction, by which it has been so long trampled upon, and abandoned to every species of insult and oppression by Avhicli a country was ever overwhelmed or the spirit of a people insulted, that wc owe the miseries into which Ireland is plunged and the dangers by which England is threatened. These evils are thcMloings of mclccd ministers, and applied to them, the language of the Address records a fatal and melancholy truth ! Richard Brinslcy Sheridan. 325 SPEECH IN OPPOSITION TO PITT'S FIRST INCOME-TAX. {Delivered in the House of Commons. ) A WISE man, sir, it is said, should doubt of everything. It was this maxim, probably, that dictated the amiable diffidence of tlie learned gentleman who addressed himself to the chair in these re- markable words : " I rise, Mr. Speaker, if I have risen." Now, to remove all doubts, I can assure the learned gentleman '' that he actually did rise, and not only rose, but pronounced an able, long, and elaborate discourse, a considerable portion of which was em- ployed in an erudite dissertation on the histories of Eomc and Carthage. He further informed the House, ujion the authority of Scipio, that we could never conquer the enemy until wo were first conquered ourselves. It was when Hannibal was at the gates of Rome that Scipio had thought the pro23er moment for the invasion of Carthage — what a pity it is that the learned gentleman does not go with this consolation and the authority of Scipio to the Lord Mayor and aldermen of the city of London ! Le! him say : '^ Re- joice, my friends I Bonaparte is encamped at Blackheath ! What happy tidings ! " For here Scipio tells us you may every moment expect to hear of Lord Hawkesbury making his triumphal entry into Paris. It would be whimsical to observe how they would receive such joyful news. I should like to sec such faces as they would make on that occasion. Though I doubt not of the erudition of the learned gentleman, he seems to me to have somehow con- founded the stories of Hanno and Hannibal, of Scipio and the Romans. He told us that Carthage was lost by the parsimony or envy of Hanno in preventing the necessary supplies for the Avar being sent to Hannibal ; but he neglected to go a little further, and to relate that Hanno accused the latter of having been am- bitious — ' ' Juvenem f urentem cupidine regni " — and assured the Senate that Hannibal, though at the gates of Rome, was no less dangerous to Hanno. Be this, however, as it may, is there any Hanno in the British Senate ? If there is, nothing can be more certain than that all the efforts and remonstrances of the British Hanno could not prevent a single manor a single guinea being sent for the supply of any Hannibal our ministers might *' Mr. Perceval, afterwards Chancellor of the Exchequei; 326 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland. choose. The learned gentleman added, after the defeat of Hanni- bal, Hanno lauglied at the Senate ; but he did not tell ns what he lauiriied at. The advice of Hannibal has all the appearance of being a good one : " Carthaginis moenia Romae niunerata." If thej did not follow his advice, they had themselves to blame for it. The circumstance of a great, extensive, aiid victorious republic, breathing nothing but war in the long exercise of its most success- ful ojwrations, surrounded with triumphs, and panting for fresh laurels, to be comj^ared, much less represented as inferior, to the ]nilitarj power of England, is childish and ridiculous. What similitude is there between us and the great Eoman Eepublic in the height of its fame and glory ? Did you, sir, ever hear it stated that the Roman bulwark was a naval force ? And, if not, what comparison can there be drawn between their efforts and power ? This kind of rhodomontade declamation is finely described in the language of one of the Eoman poets : "I, demens, curre per Alpes, Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias.""" — Juvenal, Sat. s. , 166. The proper ground, sir, upon which this bill should be opposed I conceive to be neither the uncertainty of the criterion nor the injustice of the uetrospect, though they would be sufficient. The tax itself will be found to defeat its own purposes. The amount which an individual paid to the assessed taxes last year can be no rule for what he shall pay in future. All the articles by which the gradations rose must be laid aside and never resumed again. Cir- cumstanced as the country is, there can be no hope, no chance Avhatcvcr, that, if the tax succeeds, it ever will be repealed. Each individual, therefore, instead of putting down this article or that, will make a final and general retrenchment, so that the minister cannot get at him in the same Avay again by any outward sign which might be used as a criterion of his wealth. These retrench- ments cannot fail of depriving thousands of their bread, and it is vain to hold out the delusion of modification or indemnity to the "■" Go, fight, to please schoolboy statesmen, and furnish a declamation for a doctor learned in the law. Richard Brinslcy Sheridan. 327 lower orders. Every burtlien imposed upon the rich in the articles which give tlie poor employment affects them not the less for affecting them circuitonsly. A coachmaker, for instance, would willingly compromise with the minister, to give him a hundred guineas not to lay the tax upon coaches ; for though the hundred guineas would be much more than his proportion of the new tax, yet it would be much better for him to pay the larger contribution, than, by the laying down of coaches, be deprived of those orders by which he got his bread. The same is the case with watch- makers, which I had lately an opportunity of witnessing, who, by the tax imposed last year, are reduced to a state of ruin, starvation, and misery ; yet, in proposing that tax, the minister alleged that the poor journeymen could not be affected, as the tax would only operate on the gentlemen by whom the watches were worn. It is as much cant, therefore, to say that, by bearing heavily on the rich, we are saving the lower orders, as it is folly to suppose we can come at real income by arbitrary assessment or by symptoms of opulence. There are three ways of mising large sums of money in a state : First, by voluntary contributions ; secondly, by a great addition of new taxes ; and, thirdly, by forced contributions, which is the worst of all, and which I aver the present plan to be. I am at present so partial to the first mode that I recommend the further considera- tion of this measure to bo postponed for a month, in order to make an experiment of Avhat might be effected by it. For this purpose let a bill be brought in authorizing the proper persons to receive voluntary contributions ; and I should not care if it were read a third time to-night. . I confess, however, that there are many powerful reasons which forbid us to be too sanguine in the success even of this measure. To awaken a spirit in the nation, the ex- ample should come from the first authority and the higher depart- ments of the state. It is, indeed, seriously to be lamented that, whatever may bo the burdens or distresses of the people, the gov- ernment has hitherto never shown a disposition to contribute any- thing, and this conduct must hold out a poor encouragement to others. Heretofore all the jiublic contributions were made for the benefit and profit of the contributors, in a manner inconceivable to more simple nations. If a native inhabitant of Bengal or China were to be informed that in the west of Europe there was a small island which in the course of one hundred years contributed four hundred and fifty millions to the exigencies of the state, and that o 28 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. every individual, on the making of a demand, vied with his neigh- bor in alacrity to subscribe, lie would immediately exclaim: "Mag- nanimous nation ! you must surely be invincible." But far diffe- rent would be his sentiments if informed of the tricks and jobs attending these transactions, where even loyalty was seen cringing for its bonus ! If the first example were given from the highest authority, there would at least be some hopes of its being followed by other great men who received large revenues from tlie govern- ment. I would instance particularly the Teller of the Exchequer, and another person of higb rank, who receive from their offices £13,000 a year more in war than they do in peace. The last noble lord (Lord Grenville) had openly declared for perpetual war, and could not bring his mind to think of anything like a peace Avith the French. "Without meaning any personal disrespect, it was the nature of the human mind to receive a bias from such circum- stances. So much was this acknowledged in the rules of this House that any person receiving a pension or high employment from his ]\[ajesty thereby vacated his seat. It was not, therefore, unreasonable to expect that the noble lord would contribute his proportion, and that a considerable one, to carry on the war, in order to show the world his freedom from such a bias. In respect to a near relative of that noble lord, I mean the noble marquis (Marquis of Buckingham), there could be no doubt of his coming forward liberally. I remember when I was Secretary to the Treasury the noble mar- quis sent a letter there requesting that his office might, in point of fees and emoluments, be put under the same economical regula- tions as the others. The reason he assigned for it was, "the emolu- ments were so much greater in time of war than peace that his conscience would be hurt by feeling that he received them from the distresses of his country. No retrenchment, however, took place in that office. If, therefore, the marquis thought proper to bring the arrears since that time also from his conscience, the jmblic would be at least £40,000 the better for it. By a calculation I have made, which, I believe, cannot be controverted, it appears, from the vast increase of our burdens during the war, that if peace were to be concluded to-morrow we should have to provide taxes annually to the amount of £28,000,000. To this is further to be added the ex- pense of that system by which Ireland is not governed, but ground, insulted, and oppressed. To find a remedy for all these incum- Richard Brinslcy Sheridan. 329 brances, the first tiling to bo clone is to restore tbe credit of the bank, which has failed, as well in credit as in honor. Let it no longer, in the ministers hands, remain the slave of political circum- stances. It must continue insolvent till the connection is broken off. I remember, in consequence of expressions made use of in tliis House upon former discussions, wlien it was thought the minister would relinquish that unnatural and ruinous alliance, the ncw^spapers sported a good deal with the idea that the House of Commons had forbid the bans between him and the old lady."^ Her friends had interfered, it was said, to prevent the union, as it was well known that it was her dow'er he sought, and not her person nor the charms of her society. • • It is, sir, highly offensive to the decency and sense of a commer- cial people to observe the juggle between the minister and. the bank. The latter vauntingly boasted itself ready and able to i)ay, but that the minister kindly jorevented, and jiut a lock and key upon it. There is a liberality in the British nation which always makes allowance for inability of payment. Commerce requires enterprise, and enterprise is subject to losses. But I believe no indulgence was ever shown to a creditor saying, " I can, but will not pay you." Such was the real condition of the bank, together with its accounts, when they were laid before the House of Commons, and the chair- man " reported from the committee, stating its jirosperity and the great increase of its cash and bullion. The minister, however, took care to vary the old saying, " Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is better." ''Ah!" said he, '' my worthy chairman, this is excel- lent news, but I will take care to secure it." IIo kept his word, took the money, gave the Exchequer bills for it, which were no security, and there was then an end to all our public credit. It is singnlar enough, sir, that the reporb upon this bill stated that it was meant to secure our jiublic credit from the avowed intentions of the French to make war upon it. This was done most effectu- ally. Let the French come when they please ; they cannot touch our public credit at least. The minister has' wisely provided against it ; for he has previously destroyed it. The only consolation besides that remains to us is his assurance that all will return again to its former state at the conclusion of the war. Thus we are to hope "^^ " Old lady of Thraadneedle Street " is in England a common expression for the Bank of Engla!:d. -- Mr. Bragge ^as chairman of the committee, and this gave Sheridan the hint for his punning allusion. 330 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. that, though the bank now presents a meagre spectre, as soon as peace is restored the golden bust will make its reappearance. This, however, is far from being the way to inspirit the nation or in- timidate the enemy. Ministers have long taught the people of the inferior order that they can expect nothing from them but by coer- cion, and nothing from the great but by corruption. The highest encouraijement to the French Avill be to observe the public supine- ness. Can they have any apprehension of national energy or spirit in a people whose minister is eternally oppressing them ? Though, sir, I have opj^osed the present tax, I am still conscious that our existing situation requires great sacrifices to be made, and that a foreign enemy mu«t at all events be resisted. I behold in the measures of the minister nothing except the most glaring incapacity and the most determined hostility to our liberties ; but we must be content, if necessary for preserving our independence from foreign attack, to strip to the skin. ''It is an established maxim," we are told, that men must give up a part for the preservation of the re- mainder. I do not dispute the justice of the maxim. But this is the constant language of the gentleman opposite to me. We have already given up part after part, nearly till the whole is swallowed up. If I had a pound, and a person asked me for a shilling to preserve the rest, I should willingly comply, and think myself obliged to him. But if he repeated that demand till he came to my twentieth shilling, I should ask him, "Where is the remainder? Where is my pound now ? Why, my friend, that is no joke at all." Upon the whole, sir, I see no salvation for the country but in the conclu- sion of a peace and the removal, of the present ministers. HENR Y GRA TTAN. "By reading the admirable speeches of Grattan, I have discovered, as it were, a new world — the world of Ireland, of her long sufferings, her times of freedom and glory, her sublime geniuses, and her indefatigable struggles." ' — Count de MONTALEMBERT. *' Who that ever hath heard him — that drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring the fire and the force And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown." — Mooee. " The speeches of Grattan are the finest specimens of imaginative eloquence in the English or in any language." — Davis. HENRY GRATTAN, one of the greatest of Irisli orators, states- men, and patriots, was born in Dublin on the 3d of July, 1746. His father was for many years Recorder of the Capital of Ireland. Mary Marlay,^ his mother, was a lady of refined taste, cultivated mind, and great personal attractions — in short, a rare woman. Henry, like most other great men of history, inherited his natural genius from his gifted mother. In nothing did he resemble his father, whose views were narrow and bigoted in the extreme. Young Grattan was first sent to a school kept by a Mr, Ball in Great Ship Street, Dublin. Though of delicate constitution, he exhibited from his earliest years great energy of character. "His body," says one of his biographers, "was rather a frail tenement for a spirit so enterprising." ' In his seventeenth year Henry entered Trinity College, studied hard and successfully, and graduated with distinction in 1?G7. He then proceeded to London to qualify for the bar. Here he made the acquaintance of Burke, Fox, Chatham, and other famous men whose names have since passed into history. Grattan's was a poetic and emotional nature. He loved others Intensely, and the warmth of his friendshij:* was universally re- ciprocated. Ho delighted in wandering in the open country, and his love of rural scenery had the nature of a passion.* 1 This is the enthusiastic language of a gifted boy of eighteen. - She was the daughter of Chief-Justice Marlay, who belonged to a distinguished Irish family of Norman origin. 3 Madden, " Memoir of Grattan." * Madden. 331 332 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Many anecdotes are told of tliis period of Grattan's life. He was in the habit of declaiming to himself. His London landlady was alarmed. She wrote to his friends, requesting that he should, be removed, as he was always pacing her garden addressing some l^erson whom he called ''Mr. Speaker;" and, in truth, she was in doubt of the sanity of her lodger ! Judge Day relates that Graltan, in one of his moonlight rambles through Windsor Forest, stopped at a gibbet, whose chains he apostrophized in his usual animated strain. He was suddenly tapped upon the shoulder by a very j)rosaic personage, who enquired : " How the devil did you get down ?" In his twenty-sixth year, Grattan was called to the Irish bar. He foon discovered that law was not his vocation. Abandoning it, he was induced by several of his friends to enter the Irish Parlia- ment. In the fall of ] 775 '" he was elected member for Charlemont. K'ow began that grand public career extending over half a century — a career that ended only with the life of the illustrious man. Let us glance back a hundred years. What do we see in un- happy Ireland? "A hundred years ago," says a recent writer, " one island insisted on ruling the other with iron desjootism. Ire- land, indeed, possessed a Parliament of its own ; but not all the Lords and Commons of Ireland could pass a law, even about an Irish turnpike gate, without leave expressly asked and expressly given from London. Ireland had not a single representative in the English Parliament, and yet tlie English Parliament bound Ireland by any laws it liked. This legislative power vv^as, as might be supposed, used ignorantly. It could scarcely be otherwise in those days, when a Yorkshire squire' knew far less about Ireland than such a squire now knows about Timbuctoo. Whenever Irish interests clashed, or seemed to clash, with English interests, Eng- land remorselessly sacrificed the former to the latter, and laws w^ere passed with the avowed object of prejudicing the entire population of Ireland." A man now stepped upon the scene of Irish public affairs — a briglit, brave man, whose soul scorned injustice, whose noble nature hated iniquity and tyranny, and who could not be bribed to stand unmoved at the awful oppression of his loved and uniortanate country. It was Henry Grattan. He was '•' twenty-nine years of age when he entered politics, and in seven years he was the trium- 5 The same year, be it remarked, in which Daniel O'Connell was bom. Henry Grattan. '^^i'}) phant leader of a i:)Coplc free and victorious, after hcreditary bondage."° In 1770 lie addressed the House on the subject of free trade for Ireland, and on the 19th of April, 1780, he made his famous demand for the constitutional independence of the Irish Parliament and the Irish nation. "His memorable speech' upon that occasion," writes Madden, "was the most sjilendid piece of eloquence that had ever been heard in Ireland, and it vies with the greatest efforts ever made in the English House of Com- mons.'" "I wish for nothing," exclaimed the noble Grattan in that im- mortal speech, "but to breathe in this our island, in common with- my fellow-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no ambition unless it be the ambition to break your chain and to contemplate your glory. I never will be satisfied so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of the British cliain clanking to his rags. He may be naked, but he shall not be in irons'!" The giant efforts of Grattan at length brought a day about on which tlic legislative independence of Ireland was proclaimed. She was permitted to make her own laws. It was April IG, 1782, one of the most memorable days in Irish history. The spectacle pre- sented by the Irish metropolis was something never witnessed be- fore, nor since. Thousands crowded round the Parliament House on College Green. The Irish Volunteers, soldiers racy of the soil, kept the multitude in order. Carriage after carriage passes. Finally one moves slowly and solemnly between the lines of the Volunteers. It contains the hero of the day. The name of Grattan is miirmured. Cheers burst forth. The nation in one voice thunders its words of joyous welcome. Grattan bows to the j^eo- ple. He hurries up the granite steps, and as he does so a keen observer could see that those eyes which never feared the face of man are now streaming with overflowing tears. "Ah ! dear, dear Grattan," exclaims one of his eloquent countrymen, "kindly Irish of the Irish — all our own ! " ° Let us enter the Parliament-House. The Duke of Portland '° rises. His message is brief. In the very first sentence he announces that the Irish have won the game, and that the King, Lords, and Com- " Davis, "Literary and Historical Essays." ' See p. 338 for this speech on '• The Declaration of Irish Kight." 8 "Memoir of Grattan." 9 The late lamented Rev. James J. Murphy, editor of the Montreal True yVitnesi. '"At that time Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. . 334 '^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. mons of Great Britain liavo acceded without reserve to the de- claration of the Irish Parhament, and have acknowledged officially tlio constitutional independence of Ireland. And now it is Grattan's turn. He is just thirty-six years of age; hut he looks older by at least a dozen years. His face is not by any means a handsome face, not made according to any model that painters or young ladies have ever loved. But it is essentially a face of power, and of power that looks as if it had declared everlasting war against knavery and in- justice. There is terrible strength in the intense mouth, terrible fire in the intense eyes, terrible daring in the knotted and graj)pling brows, and over the whole visage there is tbat awful self-forgetfulness which only comes from long pondering in the dark, or long watching with the stars. As the man rises — and he rises with a painful effort which seems spasmodic — his body looks to be small and shrunken, below the middle height, spare and bony, and as, lifting himself erect, he stretches out his uplifted hand the fingers seem spare and knotted as an eagle's claw. For the first two or three minutes, says a looker on, you can hardly keep from laughing, so awkward is the figure, so uncouth is the gesture ; but gradually the man's voice as- serts itself, soul is left alone with soul, and you are smitten through heart and brain with such a strength of speech as Avas never heard before except from the great Demosthenes. The stillness is terrible as death and the judgment day. At last the speaker sits down, every fibre of his body trembling with emotion, and at once there arises from all that vast assemblage such a rapture of applause as tells the people in the remotest part of historic Dublin that Grattan has triumphed and that Ireland is free." Men shako hands with one another and toss their caps high in the air, and renewed and thunderous clieers loroclaim the praises of Henry Grattan. ''^ ' ' When Grattan rose, none dared oppose The claim he made for freedom ; They knew our swords to back his words Were ready, did he need them." " "Thus was carried the revolution of 1782," writes Madden, "in the achievement of which Henry Grattan played a part that would " On that day England for the first time recognized Ireland as a distinct kingdom, with a Parliament of her own, the sole legislature thereof. '- Rev. James J. Murphy. " Davis's " Song of the Volunteers of 178?." Henry Grattan. 335 preserve liis memory in liistory, oven if his eloquence had not im- mortaHzcd his name.'' " The gratitude of the Irisli nation was boundless. It was pur- posed in Parliament to reward Grattan's great services by voting him 1500,000, ''as a testimony of the national gratitude for great national services." To decline the grant was his first impulse. But his i^atrimony Avas small, and by the advice of his friends he con- sented to accept half of the sum voted him, at the same time form- ing the inflexible resolution never to take office, a resolution to which he adhered to the day of his death. In 1782, during the very crisis of the age, Grattan married Miss Henrietta Fitzgerald, *' a lady of beauty and virtue,"' writes Madden, "to whose character her son has paid a most touching tribute while recording his father's career." '^ We have not space to follow minutely Grattan's grand Parlia^ mentary career. We come down at once to the dark days of the Union. Unsuccessful revolution, disunion, the corruj)tion begot of English gold, had at length done their sad work. Ireland was about to lose her Parliament, to give up her existence as a distinct kingdom. Where was Grattan ? Tliough at this time sick at his home and almost dead, he had himself elected for Wicklow. It was the 15th of January, 1800. The last session of the last Irish Parlia- ment opened its sittings. The crisis was at hand. The bill for the union of Ireland and England was the subject up for discussion. Each sjieaker for and against excelled himself. The night wore on. Suddenly, cheering was heard at the door of the House. Two of the members rushed out. Eeturning, they led between them a wasted and feeble man. It was Grattan ! At his appearance, we are told, the v/hole House stood up and uncovered. As he took the oaths Lord Castlereagh and the ministers bowed and remained standing. Sobs of emotion burst from the galleries. All acknow- ledged the presence of genius and virtue in the person of the very father of the Irish Parliament, the great patriot whose frail body could scarcely contain his dauntless spirit. He was unable to stand ; but, sitting down, he addressed the House for two hours, his eyes sparkling, and burning words flowing from his pale lips. The closing sentence of that great and solemn speech in opposition to the Union was: "Against such a proposition, were I expiring on i« " Memoir of Grattan." -^ See Grattan's " Life," by his son, vol. iii, chap. i. T^T^6 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaitd. tlie floor, I sliould beg to utter my last breath and record my dying testimony ! "' '"'If the Irish Parhament," said a -writer, " conkl have been saved by eloquence, Grattau would have saved it." But cor- ruption was victorious, iniquity won the day, and Ireland dis- appeared from the list of independent nations ! Grattan, sad at heart, retired from public life, and until 1805 lived in the bosom of liis family. In that year the friends of Catho- lic emancipation induced him to offer himself as a candidate for the British Parliament. He was elected for Dublin, which city he represented till his death. Let it be remembered to the everlasting honor of Grattan, that, though a Protestant himself, he was the un- ceasing advocate of the poor, oppressed, and down-trodden Catholics of his native isle. When other statesmen were ashamed to speak of Catholics as men having any rights, the noble Grattan, transcending the meanness and narrow bigotry of his age, raised his manly voice in their favor. At all times he claimed their entire emancii^ation. lie wrought for them in the Irish Parliament. He wrought for Lhem in the English Parliament. In season and out of season, till his dying day he was their tried and trusted friend. To their sacred cause, to use his own words, he "clung with desperate fidelity." It may be said with truth that he died in the cause of Catholic emancipation.'® Though warned by his medical attendants of the consequences, he insisted, in 1820, ujoon going to London, that he might once more present the petition of the Catholics. '-'I shall be happy," said the venerable patriot, "to die in the performance of my duty." With these words on his lips he left Ireland never to see it again. He took sick soon after his arrival in England. To the end he thought of nothing, dreamt of nothing, but his dear and unhappy country. "Keep knocking at the Union," he whispered on his death-bed to Lord Cloncurry. These were almost his last words. He died in London on June G, 1820, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. "The purity of his life," says Sir James Mackintosh, "was the brightness of his glory. Among all the men of genius I have known, I have never found so much native grandeur of soul accompanying all the wisdom of ago and all the simplicity of genius." " "The history of his life," writes Mr. Chambers, "is, in a great 16 arpjjg Penny Cycloptedia," vol. xi. '^ " Eulogy of Grattan."' Henry C rat tan. -^Zl measure, the history of the Irish Constitution, and entirely the history of the Irish Parliament." '° Grattan was W\q first modern Irishman wlio really ministered in- tellectually to the national character of his country. He "in- rented an eloquence," writes Madden, "■ to which the moral tem- perament of his country responded. His speeches are so much in conformity with its genius and its mental characteristics, as the pensive and wildly beautiful, yet alternately gay and exciting, music of the island. You may trace in his eloquence the vivid na- ture, the eager mind, the cordial sympathy, and aspiring soul of the Irishman. In short, Grattan was the first powerful assertor, as he is certainly the most splendid illustrator, of Irish genius." '° "No other orator," observes Thomas Davis, "is so uniformly animated. No other orator has brightened the depths of political philosophy with such vivid and lasting light. No writer in the language, except Shakspere, has so sublime and suggestive a dic- tion. His force and vehemence are amazing — far beyond Chatham, far beyond Fox, far beyond any orator we can recall.""" " Grattan may be ranked," wrote a famous critic, " among the greatest masters of the sarcastic style. He had a lively and play- ful fancy, which he seldom permitted to break loose, and his habits of labor were such that he abounded in all information, ancient and modern, which his subject required, and could finish his com- position with a degree of care seldom bestowed upon speeches in modern times. Finally, he was a man of undaunted courage, and al- Avays rose with the difficulties of his situation. No one ever threw him off his guard. Whoever dreamed that he had caught him unawares was speedily aroused to a bitter sense of his mistake; and it is a remarkable circumstance that, of all his speeches now preserved, the two most striking in point of execution are those personal at- tacks upon Mr. Flood and Mr. Corry, Avhich, from the nature of the occasions that called them forth, must of necessity have been the production of the moment.""' Lord Byron said that Grattan was — " With all that Demosthenes wanted endowed. And his rival or master in all he possessed." Of Grattan the famous Sydney Smith wrote : "No government >' " Chambers's Encyclopeedia," vol. v. " " Memoir of Grattan." 2" " Literary and Uistorical Essays." ''■^ Edinburgh Jieview, voL xxxriii. 338 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ever dismayed liim ; the world could not bribe him ; he thought only of Ireland ; lived for no other object ; dedicated to her his beauti- ful fauc}^, his manly courage, and all the splendor of his astonish- ing eloquence." To the foregoing we add our sincere and admiring testimony. It is now (1877) fifty-seven years since Grattan's death. The fame of his greatness and his eloquence has but grown with tlie growth of vears. We read and reread his speeches — his unrivalled speeches — with astonishment and delight. Evermore they enrich English lit- erature. In a degree possessed by no others they find their way to the heart, they captivate the soul. And as a noble and patriotic orator, whose excellent sense, massive grandeur of thought, sub- limity of sentiment, beauty of imagination, and magic grasp of language carry all before them, we must concede to Grattan the highest rank. We style him the orator of orators. SPEECH ON THE DECLARATION OP IRISH RIGHTS. {Delivered in the Irish House ol Commons, April 19, 1780.) SiK : I have entreated an attendance on this day that you might, in the most public manner, deny the claim of the British Parlia- ment to make law for Ireland, and with one voice lift up your hands against it. If I had lived when the 9tli of William took away the woollen manufacture, or when the Gth of George I. declared this country to be dependent and subject to laws to be enacted by the Parliament of England, I should have made a covenant with my own conscience to seize the first moment of rescuing my country from the ignominy of such acts of power ; 01^ if I had a son, I should have adminis- tered to him an oath that he would consider himself a person sep- arate and set apart for the discharge of so important a duty. Upon the same principle am I now come to move a declaration of right, the first moment occurring, since my time, in which such a declar- ation could be made with any chance of success, and without ag- gravation of oppression. Sir, it must appear to every person that, notwithstanding the im- port of sugar and export of woollens, the people of this country are not satisfied • something remains; the greater work is behind ; Henry Grattan. ■^2)<^ the public heart is not well at ease. To promulgate our satisfac- tion ; to stop the throats of millions "with the votes of Parliament ; to preach homilies to the volunteers; to utter invectives against the people, under j)retencc of affectionate advice, is an attempt weak, suspicious, and inflammatory. You cannot dictate to those whose sense you are entrusted to rep- resent. Your ancestors who sat within these Avails lost to Ireland trade and liberty ; you, by the assistance of the people, have recov- ered trade ; you still owe the kingdom liberty ; she calls upoij you to restore it ; and if this nation, after the death-wound given to her freedom, had fallen on her knees iu anguish and besought the Almighty to frame an occasion in which a Aveak and injured people might recover their rights, prayer could not have asked, nor God have furnished, a moment more opportune for the restoration of liberty than this in which I have the honor to address you. England now smarts under the lesson of the American War ; the doctrine of imperial legislature she feels to be pernicious. The revenues and monopolies annexed to it she has found to be un- tenable ; she lost the power to enforce it. Her enemies are a host, pouring upon her from all quarters of the earth. Her armies are dispersed ; the sea is not hers ; she has no minister, no ally, no ad- miral — none in whom she long confides — and no general whom she has not disgraced. The balance of her fate is in the hands of Ire- land ; you are not only her last connection, you are the only nation in Europe that is not her enemy. Besides, there does, of late, --^ certain damp and spurious supineness overcast her arms and coun- cils, miraculous as that vigor which has lately inspirited yours. For with you CA^erything is the reverse. INTeA'cr was there a Parlia- ment in Ireland so possessed of the confidence of the people. You are the greatest political assembly noAv sitting in the Avorld; you are at the head of an immense army. Nor do Ave only possess an un- conquerable force, but a certain unquenchable public fire, Avhich has touched all ranks of men like a visitation. Turn to the groAvth and spring of your country, and behold and admire it ! Where do you find a nation Avho, upon Avhatever con- cerns the rights of mankind, expresses herself Avith more truth or force, perspicuity or justice ? Not the set phrase of scholastic men, not the tame unreality of court addresses, not the vulgar raving of a rabble, but the genuine si^eech of liberty and the unsophisticated oratory of a free nation. 340 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. See her military ardor, expressed i^ot only in 40,000 men, con- ducted by instinct as they were raised by inspiration, but manifested in the zeal and promptitude of every young member of the growing community. Let corruption tremble ! Let the enemy, foreign or domestic, tremble; but let the friends of liberty rejoice at these means of safety and this liour of redemption ! Yes, there does exist an enlightened sense of rights, a young appetite for freedom, a solid strength., and a rapid lire, "wliich not only put a declaration of right within your power, but put it out of your power to decline one. Eighteen counties are at your bar. They stand there with the compact of Henry, with the charter of John, and witli all the passions of tlie people. "Our lives are at your semcc; but our liberties — we received them from God ; we v/ill not resign them to man." Speaking to you thus, if you repulse these petitioners, you abdicate the privileges of Parliament, forfeit the rights of the king- dom, repudiate the instruction of your constituents, belie the sense of your country, palsy the enthusiasm of the j)eople, and reject that good which not a minister, not a Lord ISTorth, not a Lord Bucking- hamshire, not a Lord Hillsborough, but a certain providential con- juncture, or rather the hand of God, seems to extend to you. ISTor are we only prompted to this when W'C consider our strength ; wo are challenged to it when we look to Great Britain. The people of that country are now waiting to hear the Parliament of Ireland speak on the subject of their liberty ; it begins to be made a ques- tion in England whether the principal persons wish to be free. It Avas the delicacy of former Parliaments to be silent on the subject of commercial restrictions, lest they should show a knowledge of the fact and not a sense of the violation. You have spoken out; you have shown a knowledge of the fact, and not a sense of the viola- tion. On the contrary, you have returned thanks for a partial repeal made on a princijile of power ; you have returned thanks as for a favor, and your exultation has brought your character as well as your sj)irit into question, and tends to shake to her foundation your title to liberty. Thus you do not leave your rights where you found them. You have done too much not to do more ; you have gone too far not to go on; you have brought yourselves into that situation in which you must silently abdicate the rights of your country or publicly restore them. It is very true you may feed your manufacturers, and landed gentlemen may get their rents, and you nuiy export woollens, and may load a vessel with baize, serges, I Henry Grattan. . 341 and kerseys, and you may bring back again directly from the plan- tations sugar, indigo, speckle-wood, beetle-root, and panellas ; but liberty, the foundation of trade, the charters of the land, the inde- pendence of Parliament, the securing, crowning, and the consum- mation of everything, are yet to come. Without them the work is imperfect, the foundation is wanting, the capital is Avanting, trade is not free, Ireland is a colony without the benefit of a char- ter, and you are a jirovincial synod without the privileges of a Parliament. I therefore say, with the voice of 3,000,000 of people, that, not- withstanding the import of sugar, beetle-wood, and panellas, and the export of woollens and kerseys, nothing is safe, satisfactory, or honorable, nothing except a declaration of right. What ! are you, with 3,000,000 of men at your back, with charters in one hand and arms in the other, afraid to say you are a free people ? Arc you, the greatest House of Commons that ever sat in Ireland, that Avant but this one act to equal that English House of Commons that passed the Petition of Itight, or tlmt other that passed the Declara- tion of Eight, are you afraid to tell that British Parliament you arc a free people ? Are the cities and the instructing counties, who have breathed a spirit that would have done honor to old Pome when Pome did honor to mankind, are they to be free by con- nivancc ? Are the military associations, those bodies whose origin, progress, and deportment have transcended — equalled, at least — anything in modern or ancient story — is the vast line of northern army — are they to be free by connivance ? What man will settle among you ? Where is the use of the Naturalization Bill ? What man Avili settle among you ? Who Avill leave a land of liberty and a settled government for a kingdom controlled by the Parliament of another country, whose liberty is a thing by stealth, whose trade a thing by permission, whose judges deny her charters, whose Parlia- ment leaves everything at random ; where the chance of freedom depends upon the hope that the jury shall despise the jndge stating a British act, or a rabble stop the magistrate executing it, rescue your abdicated privileges, and save the Constitution by trampling on the Government, by anarchy, and confusion ? But I shall be told that these are groundless jealousies, and that the principal cities, and more than one-half of the counties of the kingdom, are misguided men raising those groundless jealousies. Sir, let me become, on this occasion, the people's advocate, and your 342 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. historian. The people of this country were possessed of a code of liberty similar to that of Great Britain, but lost it through the weakness of the kingdom and the pusillanimity of its leaders. Ilaving lost our liberty by the usurpation of the British Parliament, no wonder wo, became a prey to her ministers ; and they did plunder us with all the hands of all the harpies, for a scries of years, in every chape of power, terrifying our people with the thunder of Great Britain and bribing our leaders with the rapine of Ireland. The kingdom became a plantation ; her Parliament, deprived of its privileges, fell into contempt, and Avith the Legislature, the law, Llie spirit of liberty, with her forms, vanished. If a war broke out, as in 1778, and an occasion occurred to restore liberty and restrain I'apine, Parliament declined the ojoportunity ; but, with an active ccrvility and trembling loyalty, gave and granted, without regard to the treasure we had left or the rights we had lost. If a partial reparation was made upon a principle of expediency, Parliament did not receive it with the tranquil dignity of an august assembly, but Avith the alacrity of slaA'es. The people of Ii-cland are not satisfied ; they ask for a Constitu- tion ; they have the authority of the wisest men in this House for what they noAv demand. What have these Avails for this last cen- tury resounded ? The usurpation of the British Parliament and the interference of the Privy Council. IlaAX avc taught tlie j)eople to complain, and do Ave noAV condemn their insatiability because they desire us to remove such grievances at a time in which nothing can oppose them, except the very men l)y Avhom these grievances Avere acknowledged ? Sir, Ave may hope to dazzle vv^ith illumination, and we may sicken Avitli addresses, but the public imagination Avill never rest, nor Avill her heart be well at ease — never ! so long as the Parliament of Ens;- land exercises or claims a legislation over this country. So long as til is shall be the case, that very free trade, otherwise a perpetual attachment, Avill be the cause of ncAv discontent ; it Avill create a pride to feel the indignity of bondage ; it will furnish a strength to bite your chain, and the liberty Avithheld Avill poison the good com- municated. The British minister mistakes the Irish character. Had he in- tended to make Ireland a slave, he should have kept her a beggar. There is no middle policy ; Avin her heart by the restoration of her right, or cut off the nation's right hand; greatly emancipate, or Henry Grattan. 343 fundamentally destroy. We may talk plausibly to England, but so long as she exercises a power to bind this country, so long are the nations in a ttate of war; the claims of the one go against the liberty of the other, and the sentiments of the latter go to oppose those claims to the last drop of her blood. The English Opposition, there- fore, are right; mere trade will not satisfy Ireland — they judge of us by other great nations, by the nation whose political life has been a struggle for liberty; they judge of us with a true knowledge of and just deference for our character — that a country enlightened as Ireland, chartered as Ireland, armed as Ireland, and injured as Ire- land, will be satisfied with nothing less than liberty. There is no objection to this resolution, except fears. I liare ex- amined your fears ; I pronounce them to be frivolous. If England is a tyrant, ii; is you have made her so ; it is the slave that makes the tyrant, and then murmurs at the master whom he himself has constituted. There is nothing in the way of your liberty except your own corruption and pusillanimity, and nothing can jDrevent your being free except yourselves. It is not in the disposition of England; it is not in the interest of England; it is not in her arms. What! can 8,000,000 of Englishmen, opposed to 20,000,000 of French, to 7,000,000 of Spanish, to 3,000,000 of Americans, reject the alliance of 3,000,000 in Ireland? Can 8,000,000 of British men, thus outnumbered by foes, take upon their shoulders the expense of an expedition to enslave you ? Will Great Britain, a wise and magnanimous country, thus tutored by experience and wasted by war, the French navy riding her Channel, send an army to Ireland, to levy no tax, to enforce no law, to answer no end whatsoever, except to. spoliate the charters of Ireland and enforce a barren oppression ? What ! has England lost thirteen provinces ? Has she reconciled herself to this loss, and will she not be re- conciled to the liberty of Ireland ? Take notice that the very Constitution whicli I move you to declare. Great Britain herself offered to America ; it is a very instructive proceeding in the British history. In 1778 a commission Avent out, with jiowers to cede to the thirteen provinces of America, totally and radically, the legis- lative authority claimed over her by the British Parliament, and the commissioners, pursuant to their powers, did offer to all or any of the American States the total surrender of the legislative authority of the British Parliament. Wliat ! has England offered this to the resistance of America, and will she refuse it to the 344 '^'^'^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. loyalty of Ireland ? Your fears are then nothing bnt an habitual subjugation of mind; that subjugation of mind which made you, at first, tremble at every great measure of safety ; -which made the principal men amongst us conceive the commercial association Avould be a war; that fear, which made them imagine the military association had a tendency to treason ; which made them think a short money-bill would be a public convulsion ; and yet these mea- sures have not only joroved to bo useful, but are held to be mode- rate, and the Parliament that adoj^ted them praised, not for its unanimity only, but also for its temper. You now wonder that you submitted for so many years to the loss of the woollen trade and the deprivation of the glass trade ; -raised above your former abject state in commerce, you are ashamed at your past pusillanimit}'. So when you have summoned a boldness which shall assert the liberties of your country — raised by the act, and reinvested, as you will be, in the glory of your ancient rights and privileges — you will be sur- l^rised at yourselves, who have so long submitted to their violation. Moderation is but a relative term ; for nations, like men, are only safe in proportion to the spirit they put forth, and the proud con- templation with which they survey themselves. Conceive your- selves a plantation, ridden by an oppressive government, and every- thing you have done is but a fortunate frenzy ; conceive yourselves to be what you are, a great, a growing, and a proud nation, and a declaration of right is no more than the safe exercise of your in- dubitable authority. I shall hear of ingratitude ; I name the argument to despise it and the men who make use of it. I know the men who use it are not grateful, they are insatiate ; they are public extortioners, who would slop the tide of public prosperity, and turn it to the channel of their own emolument. I know of no species of gratitude which should prevent my country from being free, no gratitude which should oblige Ireland to be the slave of England. In cases of robbery and usurpa- tion nothing is an object of gratitude except the thing stolen, the charter spoliated. A nation's liberty cannot, like her treasures, be meted and parcelled out in gratitude. No man can be grateful or liberal of his conscience, nor woman of her honor, nor nation of her liberty. There are certain unimpartable, inherent, invaluable proper- ties not to be alienated from the person, whether body politic or body natural. With the same contempt do I treat that charge which says that Ireland is insatiable, saying that Ireland asks nothing but that Henry G rat tan. 345 "whicli Grroat Britain has robbed her of, her rights and privileges. To say that Ireland will not be satisfied with liberty because she is not satisfied with slavery is folly. I laugh at that man who supjioses that Ireland will not be content with a free trade and a free Consti- tution ; and v,ould any man advise her to be content with less ? I shall bo told that wo hazard the modificaiion of the Lav of Poynings' and the Judges' Bill, and the Ilabeas Corpus Bill, and the Nullum Tempus Bill ; but I ask. Have you been for 'ye-^rs begging for these little things and have not you yet been able to obtain them ? and have you been contending against a little body of eighty men in Privy Council assembled, convocating themselves into the image of a Parliament, and ministering your high office ? And havej-ou been contending against one man, an humble individual, to you a levia- than, the English Attorney-General, who advises in the case of Irish bills, and exercises legislation in his own person, and makes your parliamentary deliberations a blank, by altering your bills or sujo- pressing them ? And have you not yet been able to conquer this little monster ? Do you wish to know the reason ? I will tell you ; because you have not been a parliament nor your country a people. Do you wish to know the remedy ? be a Parliament, become a nation, and these things will follow in the train of your consequence. I shall be told that titles are shaken, being vested by force of English acts; but, in answer to that, I observe time may be a title, acquiescence a title, forfeiture a title, but an English act of Parliament certainly cannot. It is an authority which, if a judge would charge, no jury would lliul, and which all the electors in Ireland have already dis- claimed unequivocally, cordially, and universally. Sir, this is a good argument for an act of "title, but no argument against a declaration of right. My friend, who sits above me (Mr. Yelverton), has a Bill of Confirmation ; we do not come unprepared to Parliament. I am not come to shake property, but to confirm iirojocrty and restore freedom. The nation begins to form ; w^c arc moulding into a peo- ple ; freedom asserted, property secured, and the army (a mercenary baud) likely to be restrained by law. Never was such a revolution accomplished in so short a time, and with such public tranquillity. The same laws, the same charters, communicate to both kingdoms. Great Britain and Ireland, the same rights and privileges ; and one privilege above them all is that communicated by Magna Charta, by the 25th of Edward the Third, and by a multitude of other statutes, *'not to be bound by any act except made with the archbishops. o 46 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. bishops, earls, barons, and freemen of the commonalty "—viz., of the Parliament of the realm. On this right of exclusive legislation are founded the Petition of Eight, Bill of Plight, Eevolution, and Act of Settlement. The King has no other title to his crown than that which you have to your liberty; both are founded, the throne and your freedom, upon the right vested in the subject to resist by arms, notwithstanding their oaths of allegiance, any authority attempting to impose acts of power as laws, whether that authority be one man or a host, the second James, or the British Parliament. And as anything less than liberty is inadequate to Ireland, so is it dangerous to Great Britain. We are too near the British nation, we are too conversant with her history, we are too much fired by her example, to be anything less than her equal ; anything less ! we should be her bitterest enemies, an enemy to that power which smote us with her mace, and to that Constitution from whose bless- ings we were excluded. To be ground as we have been by the British nation, bound by her Parliament, plundered by her Crown, threat- ened by her enemies, insulted with her protection, while we returned thanks for her condescension, is a system of meanness and misery which has expired in our determination, as I hope it has in her magnanimity. Tliat there are precedents against us I allow — acts of power I would call them, not precedents — and I answer the English pleading such in-ecedents as they answered their kings when they urged jirecedents against the liberty of England : Such things are the weakness of the times ; the tyranny of the one side, the feebleness of the other, the law of neither ; we will not be bound by them ; or rather, in the words of the Declaration of Eight, "no doing judgment, proceeding, or anywise to the contrary, shall be brought into precedent or ex- ample." Do not, then, tolerate a power, the power of the British Parliament, over this land which has no foundation in utility, or necessity, or empire, or the laws of England, or the laws of Ireland, or the laws of nature, or the laws of God ; do not surfer it to have a duration in your mind. Do not tolerate that power which blasted you for a century, that power which shattered your looms, banished your manufactures, dis- honored your peerage, and stopped the growth of your people ; do not, I say, be bribed by an export of woollen, or an import of sugar, and permit that power which has thus withered the land to remain m your country and have existence in your pusillanimity. Henry Grattan. 347 Do not suffer the arrogance of England to imagine a surviving hoi5c in the fears of Ireland; do not send the people to their own resolves for liberty, passing by the tribunals of justice and the high court of Parliament ; neither imagine that, by any formation of apology, you can palliate such a commission to your hearts, still less to your ciiildren, who will sting you with their curses in your grave for having interposed between them and their Maker, robbing them of an immense occasion, and losing an opportunity which you did not create and can never .restore. Hereafter, when these things shall be history — your age of thral- dom and poverty, your sudden resurrection, commercial redress, and miraculous armament — shall the historian stop at liberty, and observe that here the principal men among us fell into mimic trances of gratitude ; they were awed by a weak ministry, and bribed by an empty treasury ; and when liberty was within their grasp, and the temple opened her folding doors, and the arms of the people clanged, and the zeal of the nation urged and encouraged them on, that they fell down and were prostituted at the threshold ? I might, as a constituent, come to your bar and demand my liberty. I do call, upon you, by the laws of the land and their viola- tion, by the instruction of eighteen counties, by the arms, inljiira-^ tion, and providence of the present moment, tell us the rule by which we shall go, assert the law of Ireland, declare the liberty of the land. I will not be answered by a public lie in the shape of an amend- ment ; neither, speaking for the subject's freedom, am I to hear of faction. I wish for nothing but to breathe in this our island, in common wutli my felloAv-subjects, the air of liberty. I have no ambition, unless it be the ambition to break your chain and contem- jolate your glory. I never will be satisfied so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link of the British chain clanking to his rags. lie may be naked, he shall not be in irons; and I do see the time is at hand, the spirit is gone forth, the declaration is planted ; and though great men should apostatize, yet the cause will live ; and though the public speaker should die, yet the immortal fire shall outlast the organ which conveyed it, and the breath of liberty, like the Avord of the holy man, will not die with the prophet, but survive him. I shall move you, " Tliat the King's most excellent Majesty, and the Lords and Commons of Ireland, are the only power competent to make laws to bind Ireland." 348 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. SPEECH ON THE CATHOLIC QUESTION. ' {Delivered in the Irish Parliament, Feh. 20, 1783.) Siu : I object to any delay that can be given to this clause." When this country had resolved no longer to crouch beneatli the burden of oppression that England had laid upon her, Avhcn she armed in defence of her rights, and a high-spirited people demanded a free trade, did the Eonian Catholics desert their countrymen ? Ko, no ; they were found among the foremost. When it was after- wards thought necessary to assert a free Constitution, the Eoman Catholics displayed their public virtue ; they did not endeavor to make terms for themselves, but they entered frankly and heartily into the cause of their country, judging by their own virtue that they might depend upon your generosity for their reward. But now, after you have retained a free trade, after the voice of the natior has asserted her independence, they approach the House as humble suppliants, and beg to be admitted to the common rights of men. Upon the occasions I have mentioned I did carefully ob- serve their actions, and did then determine to support their cause whenever it came before this House. Tke question now is, whether w'e shall grant Eoman Catholics the power of enjoying estates— whether we shall be a Protestant settle- ment or an Irish nation? Whether we shall throw open the gates of the temple of liberty to all our countrymen, or whether we sliall confine them in bondage by penal laws. So long as the penal code remains, we never can be a great nation. The penal code is the shell in which the Protestant power has been hatched, and now that it has become a bird it must burst the shell or perish in it. In Holland, where the number of Eoman Catholics is compara- tively small, the toleration of their religion is an act of mei-cy to them ; but in this countrv it is an act of policv, an act of necessity, an act of incorporation. The question is not whether we shall show mercy to the Eoman Catholics, but whether we shall mould the in- habitants of Ireland into a people ; for so long as we exclude Catho- lics from natural liberty and the common rights of man we are not a people. We may triumph over them, but other nations will triumph over us. If you love the Eoman Catholic, you may be sure of a re- -- A clause in the bill which moved that Irish Catholics be resim-ed to the rigMs of pur- chasing, holding, and inheriting property. By the barbarous Government of England they had long been deprived of cny rights— even the right to breathe and live I Henry Gratta7i. 349 turn from him ; but if you treat him with cruelty, you must always live in fear, conscious tliat you merit his just resentment. Will you, then, go down the stream of time, the Roman Catholic sitting by your side, unblessing and unblest, blasting and blasted ? Or will you take oft his chain, that he may take off yours ? Will you give him freedom, that he may guard your liberty ? I give my consent to the clause in its ])rmci])le, extent, and 'bold- ness ; I give my consent to it as the most likely means of obtaining a victory over the prejudices of Catholics, and over our own; I give my consent to it because I would not keep 2,000,000 of my fellow- subjects in a state of slavery, and because, as a mover of the Declara- tion of Rirjlds, 1 would be ashamed of givins; freedom to but G00,000 of my countrymen when I could extend it to 2,000,000 more. PniLIPPTC AGAINST FLOOD. {October 2S, 1783.) It is not the slander of an evil tongue that can defame me. I maintain my reputation in public and in private life. No man Avho has not a bad character can ever say that I deceived; no coun- try can call me a cheat. But I will suppose such a public charac- ter. I will suppose such a man to have existence ; I will begin Avitli his character in his jiolitical cradle, and I will follow him to the last state of political dissolution. I will suppose him in the first stage of his life to have been in- temperate, in the second to have been corrupt, and in the last se- ditious ; that after an envenomed attack on the persons and mea- sures of a succession of Viceroys, and after much declamation against their illegalities and their profusion, he took office, and be- came a supporter of Government Avhen the profusion of ministers had greatly increased, and their crimes multiplied beyond examj^le ; when your money bills were altered w^ithout reserve by the council ; when an embargo was laid on your export trade, and a war declared a2:ainst the liberties of America. At such a critical moment I will suppose this gentleman to be corrupted by a great sinecure office to muzzle his declamation, to swallow his invectives, to give his assent and vote to the ministers, and to become a supporter of Govern- xnent, its measures, its embai'go, and its American War. I will sup- 50 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. pose that he was suspected by the Government that had bought him, and in consequence thereof that he thought proper to resort to the arts of a trimmer, the last sad refuge of disappointed ambi- tion ; that, with respect to the Constitution of his country— that part, for instance, which regarded the Mutiny Bill when a clause of reference was introduced whereby the articles of war which were, or hereafter might be, passed in England should be current in Ire- land without the interference of her Parliament — when such a clause was in view I will suppose this gentleman to have absconded. Again, when the bill was made perpetual, I will suppose him again to have absconded. But a year and a half after the bill had passed, then I will suppose this gentleman to have come forward, and to say that your Constitution had been destroyed by the perpetual bill. With regard to that part of the Constitution that relates to the law of Poynings, I will suppose the gentleman to have made many a long, very long, disquisition before he took office, but after he had received office to have been as silent on that subject as before he had been loquacious. That when money bills, under color of that law, were altered year after year, as in 1775 and 1776, and when the bills so altered were resumed and passed, I will suppose that gentleman to have absconded or acquiesced, and to have supported the minister who made the alteration ; but when he was dismissed from office, and a member introduced a bill to remedy this evil, I' will suppose that this gentleman inveighed against the mischief, against the remedy, and against the person of the introducer, who did that duty which he himself for seven years had abandoned. With respect to that part of the Constitution which is connected with the repeal of the 6th of George I., when the adequacy of the repeal was debating in the House I will suj^pose this gentleman to make no kind of objection ; that he never named at that time the word renunciation ; and that, on the division on that subject, he absconded ; but when the office he had lost was given to another man, that then he came forward and exclaimed as^ainst the measure : nay, that he went into the public streets to canvass for sedition, that he became a rambling incendiary, and endeavored to excite a mutiny in the volunteers against an adjustment between Great Britain and Ireland of liberty and repose, which he had not the virtue to make, and against an Administration who had the virtue to free the country without buying the members. With respect to commerce, I will suppose this gentleman to have Henry Grattan. 351 supported an embargo wliicli lay on tlio country for three years, and almost destroyed it, and when an address in 177S to open her trade was propounded, to remain silent and inactive ; and with re- spect to -that other part of her trade which regarded the duty on sugar, when the merchants were examined in 1778 on the inade- quate protecting duty, when the inadequate duty was voted, when the act was recommitted, when another duty was proposed, when the bill returned with the inadequate duty substituted, when the altered bill Avas adopted — on every one of those questions I will suppose the gentleman to abscond ; but a year and a half after the mischief was done, he out of ofiQce, I will suppose him to come forth, and to tell his country that her trade had been destroyed by an inadequate duty on English sugar, as her Constitution had been ruined by a perpetual Mutiny Bill. With relation to three-fourths of our fellow-subjects, the Catholics, when a bill was introduced to grant them rights of jiroperty and religion, I will suppose this gen- tleman to have come forth to give his negative to their pretensions. In the same manner I will suppose him to have opposed the institu- tion of the volunteers, to which we owe so much, and that he went to a meeting in his own country to prevent their establishment; that he kept himself out of their associations ; that he was almost the only man in this House that was not in uniform ; and that he never was a volunteer until he ceased to be a placeman, and until he became an incendiary. With regard to the liberties of America, which were inseparable from ours, I will suppose this gentleman to have been an enemy decided and unreserved ; that he voted against her liberty, and voted, moreover, for an address to send 4,000 Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans ; that he called these butchers "armed negotiators," and stood Avitli a metaphor in his mouth and a bribe in his pocket, a champion against the rights of America, the only hope of Ireland, and the only refuge of the liberties of mankind. Thus defective in every relationship, whether to Constitution, commerce, toleration, I will suppose this man to luwc added much private improbity to public crimes ; that his probity Avas like his patriotism, and his honor on a level with his oath. He loves to deliver panegyrics on himself. I Avill interrupt him, and say : Sir, you are much mistaken if you think that your talents have been as great as your life has been reprehensible. You began your parlia- 352 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. menfcary career with an acrimony and personality which could have been justified only by a supposition of virtue. After a rank and clamorous opposition, you became on a sudden silent ; you were silent for seven years ; you were silent on the greatest questions, and you were silent for money ! In 1773, while a negotiation was pending to sell your talents and your turbulence, 3'ou absconded from your duty in Parliament ; you forsook your law of Poynings ; you forsook the questions of economy, and abandoned all the old themes of your former declamation ; you were not at that period to be found in the House ; you were seen, like a guilty spirit, haunting the lobby of the House of Commons, watching the moment in which the question should be put, that you might van- ish. You were descried with a criminal anxiety retiring from the scenes of your past glory ; or you were perceived coasting the upper benciies of this House like a bird of jirey, with an evil aspect and a sepulchral note, meditating to pounce on its quarry. These ways — they Avere not the ways of honor — you practised jicnding a ne- gotiation which was to end either in your sale or your sedition. The former taking place, you supported the rankest measures that ever came before Parliament — the embargo of 177G, for instance. ''0 fatal embargo ! that breach of law and ruin of commerce I" You supported the unparalleled jorof usion and jobbing of Lord Har- court's scandalous ministry; the address to sujiport the American War; the other address to send 4,000 men whom you had yourself declared to be necessary for the defence of Ireland fco fight against the liberties of America, to which you had declared yourself a f ]-iend ; you, sir, who delight to utter execrations against the American commissioners of 1778, on account of their hostility to America ; you, sir, who manufacture stage thunder against Mr. Eden for his anti- American principles ; you, sir, whom it pleases to chant a hymn to the immortal Hampden ; you, sir, approved of the tyranny exercised against America, and you, sir, voted 4,000 Irish troops to cut the throats of the Americans fighting for their freedom, fighting for your freedom, fighting for the great principle, liherty. But you found at last (and this should be an eternal lesson to men of your craft and cunning) that the king had only dishonored you ;"^ the court had bought, but would not trust, you ; and, having voted for the worst measures, you remained for seven years the creature of salary, without the confidence of Government. Mortified at the discovery, and stung by disappointment, you betake yourself to Hemy Gratian. 353 the sad expedients of duplicity ; you try the sorry game of a trimmer in your progress to the acts of an incendiary ; you give no honest support either to the Government or tlie people ; you, at the most critical period of their existence, take no part, you sign no non-consumption agreement, you are no volunteer, you 02')pose no perpetual Mutiny Bill, no altered Sugar Bill ; you declare that you lament that the Declaration of Eights should liave been brought forward ; and observing, with regard to j^rince and people, the most impartial treachery and desertion, you justify the suspicion of your sovereign by betraying the Govern- ment, as you had sold the peoj)le ; until, at last, by this hollow conduct, and for some other steps, the result of mortified ambition, being dismissed, and another jierson put in your place, you fly to the ranks of the volunteers, and canvass for mutiny ; you announce that the country was ruined by other men during that period in which she had been sold by you. Your logic is that the repeal of a declaratory law is not the repeal of a law at all, and the effect of that logic is an English act affecting to emancipate Ireland by exer- cising over her the legislative authority of the British Parliament. Such has been your conduct, and at such conduct every order of your fellow-subjects have a right to exclaim. The merchant may say to you, the constitutionalist may say to you, the American may say to you, and I, I now say, and say to your beard : Sir, you are not an honest man. REPLY TO CORRY. {February 14, 1800.) Has the gentleman done ? lias he completely done ? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a Avord he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House, but I did not call him to order. Why ? Because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentar}-. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion I should think myself justi- fiable in treating with silent contempt anything Avhich might fall from thut honorable member, but there are times when the insiirni- ficance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. 354 The Prose and Poet7y of Ireland. I know the difficult)'- the honorable gentleman labored nnder "wlien he attacked mo, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an lionest man. The right honorable gentleman has called me '*' an unimjieached traitor.'*' I ask, why not ''traitor," unqualified by any epithet ? I will tell him it was because he dare not. It was the act of a coward who raises his aim to strike but has not courage to ^ive the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be uu2:)arliamen- tary, and he is a Privy Counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I say he is one who has abused the privilege of Parliament and freedom of debate to the uttering language which, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how hidi his situa- tion, how low his character, how contemptible his sjieech ; Avhether a Privy Counsellor or a jmrasite, my answer would be a blow. He has charged me with being connected with the rebels ; the charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the honorable gentleman rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his assertion ? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb or whether he brought himself into poAver by a false glare of cour- age or not. I scorn to answer any wizard of the Castle throwing himself into fantastical airs. But if an honorable and independent man were to make a charge against me, I would say: ''You charge me with having an intercourse with the rebels, and you found your charge upon Avhat is said to have appeared before a committee of the Lords. Sir, the report of that committee is totally and egregiously irregular." I will read a letter from Mr. Xelson, who had been examined before that committee. It states that what the report represents him as having spoken is not tvhat he said" ■=' Mr, Grattan here read a letter from Mr. Nelson denying that he had any connection with Mr. Grattan as charged in the report ; and concluding by saying, " ^'ever tcasmia- .reprcseutation more tile than thaijmi into my raoidh Vy the rcpo^tr Henry Grattan. 355 From the situation that I held, and from the connections I liad in tlie city of Dublin, it Avas necessary for me to hold intercourse with various descriptions of persons. The right honorable member might as well have been charged with a j^'^^i'ticipation in the guilt of those traitors ; for he had communicated with some of those very persons on the subject of parliamentary reform. The Iiish Government, too, were in communication Avith some of tliem. The right honorable member has told me I deserted a profession where wealth and station were the reward of industry and talent. If I mistake not, that gentleman endeavored to obtain those re- wards by the same means ; but he soon deserted the occupation of a barrister for those of a parasite and j^'indcr. He fled from the labor of study to flatter at the table of the great. He found the lord's parlor a better sphere for his exertions than the hall of the Four Courts ; the house of a great man a more convenient way to power and to place ; and that it was easier for a statesman of mid- dling talents to sell his friends than for a lawyer of no talents to sell his clients. For myself, whatever corporate or other bodies have said or done to me, I from the bottom of my heart forgive them. I feel I have done too much for my country to bo vexed at them. I would rather that they should not feel or acknowledge what I have done for them, and call me traitor, than have reason to say I sold them. I will always defend myself against the assassin, but with large bodies it is difEerent, To the people I Avill bow ; they may be my enemy, I never shall be theirs. At the emancipation of Ireland in 1782 I took a leading part in the foundation of that Constitution Avhich is now endeavored to be destroyed. Of that Constitution I was the author ; in that Con- stitution I glory ; and for it the honorable gentleman should bestow praise, not invent calumny. l^Totwithstanding my Avcak state of body, I come to give my last testimony to this Union, so fatal to the liberties and interests of my country. I come to make common cause with these honorable and virtuous gentlemen about me ; to try and save the Constitution ; or if not save the Constitution, at least to save our chai'acters, and remove from our graves the foul disgrace of standing apart while a deadly blow is aimed at the in- dependence of our country. The right honorable gentleman says I fled from the country after exciting rebellion, and that I have returned to raise another. No 356 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. such thing. Tlie charge is false. Tlic civil war had not com- menced when I left the kingdom, and I could not have returned without taking a part. On tlie one side there was the camp of the rebel, on the other the camp of the minister, a greater traitor than that rebel. The stronghold of the Constitution was nowhere to be found. I agree that tlie rebel who rises against the Govern- ment should have suffered, but I missed on the scaffold the right honorable gentleman. Two desperate parties were in arms against the Constitution. The right honorable gentlemen belonged to one of those parties, and deserved death. I could not join the rebels ; I could not join the Government ; I could not join torture ; I could not join half-hanging ; I could not join free quarter ; I could take part with none. I was, therefore, absent from a scene Avhere I could not be active without self-reproach, nor indifferent witli safety. Many honorable gentlemen thought differently from me. I re- spect their opinions, but I keep my own ; and I think now, as I thought then, that tlie treason of tlie minister against tJie liberties of. the inofle loas infinitely worse than the reheUion of the people against the minister. I have returned, not as the right honorable member has said, to raise another storm, I have returned to discharge an honorable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for past services, which, I am joroud to say, was not greater than my deserts. I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and the founder from the assassination of such men as the honorable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are cor- rupt — they are seditious — and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honorable gentleman ; I defy the Government ; I defy their whole phalanx. Let them come fortli. I tell the ministers I will neither give them quarter nor take it, I am hero to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this House in defence of the liberties of my country. THE RIGHT REV. JAMES DOYLE, D.D., O.S.A., BISHOP OF KILDARE AND LEIGHLIN. "Dr. Doyle, the incomparable 'J. K. L.'" — Aenold. "Behold great Doyle ! with reverence speak his name — His life was virtue and his death was fame ! " " The most powerful faculty in Dr. Doyle's genius was his vigorous understand- ing. Perhaps no writer was ever more free from stiffness and mannerism. He was always practical and to the point." — Giles. WERE a person to visit London a little more than half a cen- tury ago, and were he i^ermitted to traverse the halls of the Ilouse of Lords, he would there see before a select committee of Engr- lish peers a noble-looking personage wearing the habiliments and in- signia of a Catholic bishop. On further enquiry he might be told that this distinguished man was giving evidence on the state of the Irish people, endeavoring to enlighten the dark and narrow minds of bigoted and ignorant statesmen, and eloquently pleading in favor of what he loved next to God — his native land. This was no other than the subject of our sketch. Dr. Doyle, the illustriQus Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin. James Doyle was born near the town of New Ross, county of Wex- ford, in 178G. His father was a small farmer, an njDright, but very eccentric man, and belonged to a family whose rank was once high in his native county.' Some monthsibefore the child's birth his father died, and his support and education devolved on his mother, " a young woman of vigorous and almost masculine strength of judgment.'"' Like many other gifted men, James donbtless inherited his remark- able strength of character from his mother. In his twelfth year the boy was sent to a Catholic academy kept by a zealous priest named Father Crane, O.S.A. Here he pursued his studies until, becoming of canonical age, he entered the novitiate of the Augus- tinians, at Grantstown. His mind, naturally gifted and powerful, ' The O'Doyles were an ancient Irish sept. 2 Fitzpatrick, "Life and Times of Dr. Doyle," toI. i. 357 358 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. was imbued with a deep religious feeling, the result of early and careful training. In 180G, young Doyle proceeded to the continent to continue his hififher studies. Within the time-honored walls of the famous Uni- versity of Coimbra he labored with ceaseless industry. The uncom- mon calibre of our Irish student's mind was soon well-known. But a storm was coming. The invasion of the French iipset everything. The landing of Wellington was the signal for resistance, and the students of Coimbra — foremost among Avho was Doyle — threw aside their books and assumed the helmet and the sword, to aid in driving the legions of Bonaparte from the soil of Portugal. Doyle had now reached a period in life when many dangers beset his path. He was young, was living in stormy times. The French Eevolution had swept over Eurojie, uprooting ancient landmarks, overturning almost everything social, political, and religious. The world seemed to be falling back into chaos. Voltaire and his infidel works did much to complete the disorder that prevailed. Doyle read those books. He was even surrounded by professed infidels who boasted of their principles. Such dreadful influences gave, for a time, an unhappy bent to his youthful intellect. Often he paced the halls of his Alma Mater revolving within himself whether he should become an unbeliever or still remain a Christian, Speaking of this period of his life, the great prelate afterwards wrote : '•' I recollect, and always with fear and trembling, the danger to which I exposed the gifts of faith and Christian morality which I had received from a bounteous God ; and since I became a man, and was enabled to think like a man, I have not ceased to give thanks to the Father of mercies, who did not deliver me over to the pride and presumption of my own heart. But even then, when all things Avhich could have an influence over my youthful mind com- bined to induce me to shake off the yoke of Christ, I was arrested by the majesty of religion. Her innate dignity, her grandeur and solem- nity, as well as her sweet influence upon the heart, filled me with awe and veneration. I examined the systems of religion prevailing in the East; I read the Koran with attention; I perused the Jewish history, and the history of Christ, of his disciples, and of his Church, with an intense interest, and I did not hesitate to continue attached to the rehgion of our Redeemer, as alone worthy of God ; and being a Christian, I could not fail to be a Catholic. Since then my habits of life and profession have rendered me famihar at least with the The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 359 doctrines and ordinances of divine revelation, and I have often exclaimed with Augustine : ' beauty ever ancient and ever new ! too late have I known thee, too late have I loved thee.' " ' On completing a brilliant course of studies at Coimbra, Doyle re- turned to Ireland in 1808. By uniting labor and perseverance to great talents, we are told that he had " outstrijipcd all his fellow- students, and was qualified to teach before others were half in- structed." He was ordained the following year. In 1813 Father Doyle obtained a professorship in Carlow College. An anecdote is related in connection with this appointment. He was introduced to Dean Staunton, the president. " What can you teach ? " enquired the Dean. ''Anything," replied Doyle, "from A, B, C to the 'Third Book of Canon Law.'" The j^i'esident did not altogether like the confidence of the answer, and, long accustomed to the tui- tion of 3"outh, a rebuke flowed with ease from his lips. "Pray, young man, can you teach and- practise humility?" "I trust I have at least the humility to feel," answered Doyle, " that the more I read the more I see how ignorant I have been, and how little can at best bo known." The president was so struck with the reply that he mused, "You'll do." * Father Doyle was first appointed to the chair of rhetoric, then to that of philosophy and mathematics, and finally elevated to the i^rofessorship of theology and sacred Scripture. In the discharge of all these highly responsible offices he displayed the ability of a master mind. But the light of his life could not be hidden under a college bushel ; when only in his thirty-second year Doctor Doyle was elevated to the united sees of Kildare and Leighlin.'^ His life, henceforth, was given with unreserved devotion to his God, his people, his native Ireland. "Ilis devotion to the affairs of his diocese," writes the Nun of Kenmare, "from the care of the very jDoorest of his people to the supervision of his clergy, was be- yond all praise." ° In 1822 Bishop Doyle came out as a writer of marked ability. Magee, the Protestant Archbishop of Dublin, had insulted the 3 " Letters on the State of Ireland." * Fitzpatrick's "Life and Times of Dr. Doyle." 5 He was appointed at the rinanimous request— a rare tribute of respect— of the Irish bishops and the clergy of the entire diocese. Dr. R. S. Mackenzie states that Doyle was " the youngest man ever raised to the prelacy in Ireland."—" Sketches of the Irish Bar," vol. i., p. 382, note. 6 " Life of Daniel O'Connell." o 60 The Prose and Poet 7 j of Irelo.nd. Catholics in a circular. Dr. Do}ae at once replied. His letters- keen, bold, learned, and powerful— were signed "J. K. L." The public— so Utile accustomed to see or hear a brave word in favor of the down-trodden Catholics — were astonished ; and, to use a com- mon expression, Magee was extinguished. " Who is the writer ?" was the question asked by every one. It looked as if ''Junius" Avas yet alive, and turned Jesuit. But no ; it was a greater still. It was James, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin ; hence the initials " J. K. L." In 1824 Dr. Doyle sent forth to the world an able and eloquent work entitled "Vindication of the Eoman Catholic People of Ire- land." In the same year he wrote his celebrated "Twelve Letters on the State of Ireland." These, in their way, were masterpieces. He afterwards published the Letters in book-form, dedicating them to Daniel O'Connell. Dr. Doyle's Letters threw so much light on the state of Ireland, and were so frequently quoted in the British Parliament, that ho was summoned to give evidence on the state of Ireland before a select committee of j^eers in the House of Lords. This occurred in 1825, and of all the public acts of his life this was, perhaps, the greatest — certainly one requiring great abilities. His astonishing memory, ripe scholarship, and vast knowledge as a theologian, jurist, and politician, were never entirely known or called into requi- sition until this occasion. The questions asked and the answ'ers given would fill a volume. " You are examining Doyle ? " said a peer to the Duke of Wellington, as they met in the portico of the House. "No, no," replied the Iron Duke dryly ; "Doyle is examining us.' And he continued, "That Doyle has a prodigious mind; his head is as clear as rock-Avater. " ' "Lord ," said Dr. Doyle afterwards, "had given me a volun- tary assurance that he would protect me throughout the examina- tion. My name was called, and I entered. What was my surprise, as I glanced round the varied array of faces before me, to find no trace of Lord 's countenance ! ' Ah ! ' I soliloquized, ' Lord has abandoned me to the Philistines ; but there is another and a greater Lord who will not forsake me in the hour of need.' Seve- ral peers eagerly put questions to me. I never made a reply until I discovered the object which the enquirer had in view. His quer}', if insidious, I received on the point of the bayonet. If a direct reply was unavoidable, I uttered a mental prayer to God that He ' Fitzpatrick, "Life and Times of Dr. Doyle." The Right Rev. Jcunes Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 361 would direct and protect nie ; and lie did so. I found it easier to answer the bishops than the lords." " Who is there," says the 3furning Ch'onicle, "of the Established clergy of England, Ireland, or Scotland, for instance, to compare with Dr. Doyle ? Compare iiis evidence before the Poor-Law Com- mittee witii tiiat of Dr. Chalmers, and the superiority appears immense." Tlie effect of this evidence was most happy. It changed the principles of many British lords, who from inveterate foes of Ireland w'cre transformed into fast friends. The influence of Dr. Doyle's labors in the cause of Catholic emancipation cannot be over- estimated. O'Connell and he toiled hand in hand in obtaining that great boon for the Catholics of Ireland and the British Empire. '' His influence," writes Henry Giles, " was very efficient in promot- ing O'Coiincirs election for Clare, which was the decisive blow that brought the Tory statesmen to their senses. The pen of Dr. Doyle was as powerful in its way as the tongue of O'Connell. Dr. Doyle had influence over classes which O'Connell did not reach. Dr. Doyle's writings were read by aristocratic and educated men of all parties— men who would not listen to O'Connell, and whom, if they would, O'Connell could not convince. O'Connell had the ears and hearts of the masses ; Dr. Doyle had the attention and thoughts of the select." ' AVe have not space to speak of Dr. Doyle as an eloquent preacher and illustrious bishop. He was a bishop of bishops. " He tried ca,ch art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way." ''He shone," writes Mooney, "a continued light among the faithful. He embodied in his life the precepts, beauty, and poetry of religion. He pointed the way to Heaven with a hand untar- nished and unencumbered by grasped wealth. His precepts were delivered in fascinating spells of eloquence, unbroken by any allu- sion to money, to house, or to lands. He exhibited during his episcopate the learning, charity, and toleration of Fenelon com- bined with the heroic independence of St. Thomas a Becket. His years were few but glorious. Ireland will treasure his memory to the latest generations."* • "Lectures and Essays." » " History of Ireland." 62 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Dr. Doyle's unceasing toils, especially the numberless letters, tracts, and essays that he wrote, acted as a continued strain on his physical and mental powers. Indeed, the activity of his mind was fast wearing out his delicate frame. His last hours were eloquent expressions of faith, hope, and charity. But a few moments before he expired, he asked to be laid on the hard, uncarpeted floor, that he mio-ht die in a manner somewhat similar to his divine Master. The request was granted, and thus lying on the boards, his pure, great soul fortified by the sacraments of the Church, died this illus- trious Irish bishop on Sunday morning, June 16, 1834. He was only in his forty-eighth year. Dr. Doyle, who was unacquainted with "the pride that apes humility," thus describes his own lofty character better than any other pen can do: "I am a churchman, but I am unacquainted with avarice, and I feel no worldly ambition. I am attached to my profession, but I love Christianity more than its earthly appen- dages. I am a Catholic from the fullest conviction ; but few will accuse me of bigotry. I am an Irishman, hating injustice, and abhorring with my wiiole soul the oppression of my country ; but I desire to heal her sores, not to aggravate her sufferings."' " Dr. Doyle," said a celebrated English statesman, ''was as much superior to O'Connell as O'Connell was superior to other men." His tomb is in Carlow Cathedral, ornamented with a noble-look- ins- fiiiure of himself from Hogan's chisel. O'Connell relates that when this statue of Dr. Doyle was first exhibited Lord Anglesey and a party from Dublin Castle went to examine it. One of the party said : " I never remember seeing Dr. Doyle in that remarkable position." ''I remember it well," interrupted the marquis. '•' Wlien he was giving evidence before a committee in the Lords, a peer put a ridiculous question which touched the Catholic doc- trine. Throwing up his arm just in that commanding way, the bishop said, ' I did not think there was a British peer so ignorant as to ask such a question.'" Dr. Doyle was a man of extraordinary natural gifts. "With a pro- digious memory, he possessed remarkable discernment, an excellent judgment, and a masculine courage that quailed before nothing. Indeed, it was generally well known that fear was a feeling utterly unknown to him. In manner he was very grave and dignified. Speaking of him as a professor in Carlow College, his biographer writes : "Although Doyle w^as remarkably youthful in appearance, The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 363 a frequent expression of awe grew up in his immediate presence. His general deportment was not by any means calculated to dimi- nish this feeling. Erect as a lath, grave as a judge, reserved, dig- nified, and austere, he was feared by some, beloved by those wlio knew him intimately, and revered by all. The noon-day sun was not more spotless than his dress and person." " ''He appeared at that era in Irish history,"' writes Mooney, " when the people were yet in the most torpid state of despair, when nothing appeared in the surrounding gloom but objects hor- rible to the sight. Ho entered with spirit, with honesty, and with unbounded acquirements the great political and religious contro- versies which then shook the British Empire. Everything that came from his pen or his tongue had weight. His mind Avas un- fathomable. His thoughts were things, maxims, axioms, shaped in the mould of justice, learning, philosoiihy, and religion." " Sjoeaking of tlie "Twelve Letters on the State of Ireland," a work of 3G4 pages, Mr. Fitzpatrick writes: "Though written rapidly, with a view to assist the researches of the Parliamentary Committee on the State of Ireland, they can bear the severest ordeal of literary criticism. The views expressed are sound, sensible, courageous ; the majority of them sparkle with the freshness of originality, while many passages swell with an indignant eloquence and vigor, which Grattan in his happiest perorations has not surpassed." "They present," says Eev. Mr. Brennan, "a rare combination of eloquence, patriotism, and philosophy. The nerve and unlabored simplicity of the diction, together with the justness of the remarks with which they abound, rendered them perhaps the most popular literary collection that has ever been published in this country." " We have not space to point out the rare merits of this great Irish bishop's writings, or to depict their numerous beauties. His diction, like his intellect, was rich, luminous, splendid, and power- ful. With greater dignity and more massive strength, he possessed all the wit and sarcasm of " Junius." Lord Bacon did not surpass "J. K. L." in pointed brevity, nor was Edmund Burke more solid and sublime. i" Fitzpatrick, " Life and Times of Dr. Doyle." " "History ol! Ireland." 13 " Ecclesiastical History of Ireland." 364 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. THE STUDENTS' ADIEU TO THEIR ALMA MATER. Moore, in his autobiographical sketch of his Ufe, revives the old remark that it ■would 1x3 difljcult to name any emuient public man, unless Pitt, who had not, at some time, tried hL^ hand at verse. Dr. Doyle was no exception to this rule. In the summer of 1813, the religious students of the Catholic college at Ross were about to depart to theii- appointed convents, when Dr. Doyle— then a priest— at the earnest solicitation of the warm-hearted novices, composed the following farewell lines, to the air of "Bannows Banks." The drooping sun concealed his ]-ays behind the cultured hill ; The lengthening shade forsook the flood, or faded from the rill ; The blue smoke, curling from the cot, seemed lingering to the view, As if in nature's silent hour 'twould hear our last adieu. The tuneful bird now pensive sat, or smoothed its languid wing ; Its notes no longer closed the day, nor would the milkmaid sing ; The blooming meadow turned to gray, and lost its lovelier hue, When we by nature's self were forced to take our last adieu. All human ties must break in time, new scenes old scenes replace; Hands may be rent, but hearts cannot be torn apart by space. Affection makes one sad farewell, and love springs up anew — Love, the best passion of the heart, that sanctions our adieu. With minds improved, with grateful hearts, we leave the scene we love, Where social virtues fix their seat, descended from above ; Where all that generous nature yields, and gentle wishes woo. Lie round about our college hill, that hears our last adieu. Hail, College, hail ! thou blessed abode, where innocence and mirth. Where frequent play and casual feast, made paradise 071 earth' ; Mayst thou each year send forth, like us, a fond and fervent few, Who, when the hour of duty comes, will bid thy walls adieu. Ah ! father of our college days, and must we go .and leave Our boyhood's prop, our manhood's pride, our dream in life's last eve ? Parental fondness filled thy breast ; let filial tears bedew These cheeks, made cheerful long by thee, whom now we bid adieu. The Right Rev. Jafiies DoyCc, D.D.^ OS.A, 365 With feelings of fraternal love each heart responds for all ; We go, "immortal souls to save," obedient to our call ; But ere we leave our college nest to cleave life's tempest through. Do thou, our father aud our friend, receive our last adieu. ON PARTIES IN IRELAND. [From " Letters on the State of Ireland."] Mt Dear Sir : The object of this letter is to give you some idea of the state of j)arties in Ireland, their composition and ulterior views, and to throw some light on the character of our gentry. The country is divided into three great parties — the Orange- men, the Catholics, and the Government party, besides a vast mass of inert matter, or what Swift would call prudent men, who, solely intent on their own interest, whisper away the characters of all the others, pass judgment in secret upon whatever occurs, are never pleased with anything, and are ready to pray with Cromwell or cry with Charles, but not until the contest between them is de- cided. The Orange party are next to the Government in the jiaucity of their numbers, in their knowledge of court discipline, in the array of their responsible olSces, in their legal forms and proceed- ings, in the formality of their attitude, in the show and circum- stance of their dignity, in keeping up a standing army, in adminis- tering oaths of allegiance, in having a council of state, plenipoten- tiaries, and envoys, with a public press to publish and defend their proceedings. This party would be even stronger than it is, and more than able to cope with either of the other two, if it were not overbearing, haughty, insolent, and cruel. Monopoly and injustice are written on its standards, oppression is its watchword, falsehood and slander are its heralds ; it has no reason or justice with it, but it is so clamorous and so menacing and so unblushing as to overwhelm or confound whomsoever would approach it with argument, or seek to treat with it on a basis just, useful, or honorable. This party, like Catiline and Cethegus, has collected into its ranks every spendthrift, every idler, every punished or unpunished malefactor, every public robber and private delinquent, all the gam- blers, all those whom gluttony or extravagance has reduced to want ; 366 The Prose and Poetry of Irela?idy in fine, all who love commotion, and who hope to live by corrup- tion or to rebuild their broken fortunes on the ruins of their country. There is also a large class of saints or fanatics, another of con- scientious Protestants, a third of traders in education, with almost the entire body of the established clergy, who, through fear or hatred of the Catholics, are induced to give their support to the Orangemen. These classes form, in appearance, a neutral power, but constitute in reality the force which sustains the warfare in this country. Government should exist for the sake of the pcojile, and not the people for those who govern them. The forms of speech to which we are accustomed sanction tlris mode of expression, and we may suppose, therefore, that the Government here is formed and carried on for the good of the community. The Catholics, there- fore, who are, morally speaking, the people of this country, should engross the principal attention of our rulers; their interests in the state of Ireland should be considered like those of other subjects. Their rank or station or property, however respectable, should not be so much contemplated as their numbers ; for just laws make no distinction in providing for the happiness and security of the rich more than of the poor. To treat of the Catholics, then, as of a party in Ireland is not altogether correct, according to this theory ; nor again is it just in point of law, for such is the profound wisdom of onr laws that they almost ignore the existence of the people, and contemplate as subjects men who are nowhere to be found. The Catholics, then, under the fostering care of penal statutes, and quite nnnoticed by the laws niade to protect and foster the faithful subjects of this part of the realm, have grown at least into a party. This party is kept in a state of constant excitement ; they are goaded by the Orangemen, they are insulted by the press, they are taunted with insult by the education societies, the distributors of Bibles, and itinerant saints ; they are stripped naked and almost starved by the squierarchy and church ; the Legislature does not at- tend to them ; the Government does not protect them ; the judges, who would not give a stone to them for bread, are generally inac- cessible to them ; they are reduced to such a state tliat thousands upon thousands of them look to death for rej^ose, as the exhausted traveller looks to the shadow of a great rock in a land fainting from The Right Rev. James Doyle ^ D.D., OS.A. 367 heat. Add to these causes of excitement the harangues of their own leaders, tlie recollection of their former greatness, the history of their country, recollections '*' pleasing and mournfulto the soul," and which are known by reading or by tradition to them all ; but, above all, we should add their enthusiastic attachment to the faith of their fathers — a faith rendered more and more dear to them by being daily and hourly reviled. When you have considered all these things, you may judge of the state of feeling which jiervades the Catholic i)oj)ulation. Should it be suffered to continue ? Should this party or this people, whichever it maybe called, remain neglected by the Legisla- ture — should their grievances be left unredressed — should their poor be left to perish — should their children be left a prey to Evan- gelicals and Methodists — should their religion continue to bo in- sulted — sliould the agent, and the tithe-proctor, and the churcn- Avarden, like the toads and locust, come still in succession to devour the entire fruit of their industry — should their blood when wantonly spilled go unrevenged, we need no Pastorini to foretell the result. We have only to refer to our own history, or open the volume of human nature, in order to ascertain it, A Police Bill, and a Tithe- composition Bill, and an Insurrection Bill, and fifty thousand bayo- nets, may repress disturbances, but who can contemplate a brave and generous people so abused ? who can dwell in a country so accursed ? What man can appear before his God who has looked patiently at so much wrong, or who has not contributed by every legal means to relieve his fellow-creatures from suiferings so intense ? How often have I perceived in a congregation of some thousand jicrsons how the very mention from my own tongue of the penal code caused every eye to glisten and every ear to stand erect ! The trumpet of the last judgment, if sounded, would not produce a more perfect stillness in any assemblage of Irish peasantry than a strong allusion to the wrongs wo suffer. And there are men who think that the country can be improved whilst such a temper continues, or that this temper will cease whilst emancipation is withheld. Vain and silly thought ! Men who reason so know nothinsr of human nature, or if they do, they know nothing of the nature of Irishmen. The gentry have as many grades as there were steps in Jacob's ladder. Those of them who are possessed of large estates, and Avhose education and rank should lift them above local prejudices and bless 368 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. lliem with a knowledge of men and things, are for the greater part absent from the country ; they know not the condition of their ten- antry, unless from the reports of their agents, some of whom, to my knowledge, are most excellent men, whilst others of them are un- feeling extortioners, who exercise over the tenantry an inconceivable tyrannv, and are the very worst description of oppressors. I have tlie honor to remain, dear sir, J. K. L. TEE IRISH AS A PROFOUNDLY RELIGIOUS PEOPLE. [From " Letters on the State of Ireland."] The Irish are, morally speaking, not only religions, like other nations, but entirely devoted to religion. The geographical position of the country, its soil and climate, as well as the state of society, have a strong influence in forming the natural temperament of the people. The Irish people are more sanguine than the English, les? mercurial than the French ; they seem to be compounded of both these nations, and more suited than either to seek after and indulge in spiritual affections. When it pleased God to have an Island of Saints upon earth, he prepared Ireland from afar for this high destiny. Her attachment to the faith once delivered to her was produced by many concurrent causes, as far as natural means are employed by Providence to produce effects of a higher kind. The difference of language, the pride of a nation, the injustice and crimes of those who would introduce amongst us a second creed, are assigned as the causes of our adhesion to that which we first received. These causes have had their influence, but there was another and a stronger power laboring in Ireland for the faith of the Gospel ; there was the natural disposition of the people suited to a religion which satisfied the mind and gratified the affections, whilst it turned them away from one whose origin, as it appeared to tis, was tainted, and which stripped worship of substance and solemnity. Hence, the aboriginal Irish are all Catholics, for the few of them who have departed from the faith of their fathers only appear '' rari nuntes in gurgite vasto." To these are joined, especially within the ancient Pale, great numbers who have descended from the first settlers, and who iXi 1 he Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 369 process of time liavc become more Irish than the Irish themselves. Every year, also, adds considerably to their uumbers, not only, as we suj^pose, through the influence of divine grace, but also by that at- tractive power which abides in the multitude ; so that were it not for the emoluments and pride attached to Protestantism, and the artificial modes resorted to for recruiting its strength, there would not remain in three provinces of Ireland, amongst the middling and lower classes, more than a mere remnant of the modern faith. These Catholics have for nearly three centuries been passing through an ordeal of persecution more severe than any recorded in history. I have read of the j)ersecutions by Isero, Domitian, Genseric, and Attila, with all the barbarities of the sixteenth century; I have. com- pared them with those inflicted on my own country, and I protest to God that the latter, in my opinion, have exceeded in duration, extent, and intensity, all that has ever been endured by mankind for justice' sake. The Irish Catholics are obliged to sweat and toil for those very ministers of another religion '^ who contributed to forge their chains. Their hay and corn, their fleece and lambs, with the roots on which they feed, they are still compelled to offer at an altar which they deem profane. They still are bound to rebuild and ornament their own former parish church and spire, that they may stand in the midst of them as records of the rights of conquest, or of the triumph of law over equity and the public good. They still have to attend the bailiff when he calls with the warrant of the churchwardens to collect their last shilling (if one should happen to remain), that the empty church may have a stove, the clerk a surplice, the communion- table elements to be sanctified, though perhaps there be no one to partake of them ; they have also to pay a singer and a sexton, but not to toll a bell for them, with a schoolmaster, perhaps, but one who can teach the lilies how to grow, as he has no joupils. Such is their condition, while some half-thatched cabin or unfurnished house collects them on Sundays to render thanks to God for even these blessings, and to tell their woes to Heaven ! 13 The Anglican or Protestant Church. 370 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. TEE TRUE FRIENDS OP THE POOR AND THE AFFLICTED. \ J'ICTURH OF SUFFERIKG IRELAND. [From " Letters on the State of Ireland."] I AM laboring as the advocate of the poor, of tl*e unprotected, and of the distressed. I can ask with Cicero Low could I fail to be interested in the general agitation of religious and political, civil and ecclesiastical interests ; or how could I bo insensible to the gene- rous impulse of our nature ? St. Paul himself exclaims : '' Quis infirmatur et ego non infirmor, quis scandilizatur et ego non uror." In every nation a clergyman is separated from society only that he may labor the more efficiently for his fellow-men, and his duty of administering to their temporal wants is not less pressing than that of devoting himself to their spiritual concerns. The one ought to be done by him, and the other ought not to be neglected. There arc times and circumstances when he is justified, nav, when ho is obliged, to mix Avitli his fellow-countrymen, and to sus- pend his clerical functions Avhilst he discharges those of a member of society. I myself have once been placed in such circumstances, and devoted many a laborious hour to the service of a people engaged in the defence of their rights and liberties. The clerical profession exalts and strengthens the natural obligation we are all under of laboring for our country's welfare ; and the jiriests and prophets cf the old law have not only announced and administered tlie decrees of Heaven, but have aided by their counsel and their conduct the society to which Providence attached them. In the Christian dis- pensation priests and bishops have greatly contributed to the civili- zation and improvement of mankind ; they have restrained ambi- tion, they have checked turbulence, they have enlightened the councils of kings, and infused their own wisdom into laws and public institutions. Arts and sciences are their debtors ; history and jurisprudence have been cultivated by them. They have been the teachers of mankind, and have alone been able to check the in- solence of power, or plead before it the cause of the oppressed. The clergy of the Catholic Church have been accused of many faults ; but in no nation or at no time — not even by the writers of the reign of Henry the Eighth—have they been charged with be- traying this sacred trust, or embezzling the property of the poor. In Ireland, above all, where their possessions were immense, their hearts vv'cre never corrupted by riches; and, whether during the The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS.A. 371 incursions of the Danes, or the civil wars, or foreign invasions, which desolated the country, it was the clergy wdio repaired the ravages that were committed, rebuilt cities and churches, restored the fallen seats of literature, gave solemnity to the divine worshiji, and opened numberless asylums for the poor. Whilst Ireland, though a j)rey to many evils, was blessed with sucli a clergy, her poor required no extraordinary aid ; the heavenly virtue of charity was seen to Avalk unmolested over the ruins of towns and cities, to collect the wanderer, to shelter the houseless, to support the infirm, to clothe the naked, and to minister to every species of human dis- tress; but "fuit llkim ct ingens gloria Dardanidum ! '' When the ancient religion Avas expelled from her j)ossessions, and another inducted in her place, the church and the hospital and the cabin of the destitute became alike deserted, or fell into utter ruin. This change, with the others which accompanied or followed after it, in Ireland threw back all our social and religious institutions into what is generally called a state of nature — a state, such as Ilobbes describes it, in which men are always arming or engaged in Avar. Clergymen,'' so-called, still appeared amongst their fellow-men, but they Avere no longer " of the seed of those by Avhom salvation had been wrought in Israel '"' ; they did not consider it a portion of their duty to be employed in Avorks of mercy, or to devote the property Avhich had passed into their hands to those sacred purj)oses for Avhich it was originally destined. They Avcrc, like the generality of mankind, solely intent on individual gain, or tlie snl^port or aggrandizement of their families, but totally regardless of those sublime virtues or exa;lted charities Avhich the Gospel recommends. They found themselA'CS A'ested with a title to the projierty of the poor ; they did not stop to enquire whether they held it in trust ; there Avas no friend to humanity Avho Avould impeach them for abuse, and they aj)propriated all, evxrything to Avhicli they could extend their rapacious grasp. The churches were suiTered to de- cay, and the spacious cloister or toAvering dome through Avhich the voice of prayer once resounded became for a while tlie resort of oavIs and bats, till time razed their foundations and mixed up their ruins Avilh the dust. The poor Averc cast out into the wilderness, and lef c, like Ishmael, to die ; whilst Ireland, like the afflicted mother of the rejected child, cast her last sad looks toAvards them, and then Icf: them to perish. These men "ate the milk, and clothed them- •< Ministers of the Anglican Church. 3/2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. selves with tlic wool, and killed that which was fat ; but the flock they did not feed, the weak they did not strengthen, and that which was sick they did not heal, neithei- did they seek for that which was lost ; but they ruled over them with rigor and with a high hand."' They could not bo blamed ; they had a title and a calling different from their predecessors; '' and the state, from which they derived their commission, could not infuse into them virtues which can only emanate from Christ. The evidence already given to Parliament shows that the average wages of a laboring man in Ireland (and a great mass of the poor are laborers) is worth scarcely tiireepexce a day ! Threepence " a day for such as obtain cmj^loyment, whilst in a family where one or two persons are employed there may be four, perhaps six, others dependent on these two for their sujiport ! Good God ! an entire family to be lodged, clothed, fed, on theeepei^ce a day ! Less than the ayerago price of ::, single stone of i^otatoes ; equal only to the value of a single quart of oatmeal ! What further illustration can be required ? Why refer to the nakedness, to the hunger of individuals ? Why speak of parishes receiving extreme unction be- fore they expired of hunger ? Why be surprised at men feeding on manure ; of contending with the cattle about the weeds ; of being lodged in huts and sleeping on the clay ; of being destitute of energy, of education, of the virtues or qualities of the children of men ? Is it not clear, is it not evident, that the great mass of the poor are in a state of habitual famine, the prey of every mental and bodily disease ? Why are we surprised at the spectres who haunt our dwellings, whose tales of distress rend our hearts — at the dis- tracted air and incoherent language of the wretched father Avho starts from the presence of his famished wife and children, and gives vent abroad in disjointed sounds to the agony of his soul ? How often have I met and labored to console such a father ! How often have I endeavored to justify to him the ways of Providence, and check the blasphemy against Heaven which was already seated o]i his tongue ! How often have I seen the visage of youth, which should be red with vigor, pale and emaciated, and the man Avho liad scarcely seen his fortieth year withered like the autumn leaf, and his face furrowed with the wrinkles of old age ! How often has the virgin, pure and spotless as the snow of heaven, detailed to me the miseries of her family, her own destitution, and sought "The Catholic clergy. i e About five cents. The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS A. 3 7^ ihrongli the ministry of Christ for some supernatural support whereby to resist the alhirements of the seducer and to preserve un- tainted the dearest virtue of her soul ! But above all, how often have I viewed witli my eyes, in the person of the wife and of the widow, of the aged and the orphan, the aggregate of all the misery which it was possible for human nature to sustain ! And how often have these persons disappeared from my eyes, returned to their wretched abode, and closed in the cold embrace of death their lives and their misfortunes ! "What light can bo shed on the dis- tresses of the Irish poor by statements of facts when their notoriety and extent are known throughout the earth. But Ireland, always unhappy, always oppressed, is reviled Avhen she complains, is persecuted when she struggles ; her evils are suf- fered to corrode her, and her wrongs are never to be redressed ! Wo look to her pastures, and they teem with milk and fatness ; to her fields, and they are covered with bread ; to her flocks, and they are numerous as the bees which encircle the hive; to her porls^ they are safe and spacious ; to her rivers, they are deep and navi- gable ; ifo her inhabitants, they are industrious, brave, and intelli- gent as any people on earth; to her position on the globe, and she seems to be intended as the emporium of wealth, as the mart of universal commerce ; and yet, . . . but no, wo will not state the causes, they are obvious to the sight and to the touch; it is enough that the mass of her children are the most wretched of any civilized people on the globe. THE CATHOLIC EELTGION. [From " Vindication of the Principles of the Irish Catholics."] It was the creed, my Lord, of a Charlemagne and of a St. Louis, of an Alfred and an Edward, of the monarchs of the feudal times as well as of the Emperors of Greece and Eome. It was believed at Venice and at Genoa, in Lucca and the Helvetic nations in the days of their freedom and greatness ; all the barons of the middle ages, all the free cities of later times, professed the religion wo now profess. You well know, my Lord, that the charter of British free- dom and the common law of England have their origin and source in Catholic times. Who framed the free constitutions of the Spanish Goths ? "Who preserved science and literature during the long night 3 74 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ircla7id. of the middle ages ? AVlio imported literature from Constantinople and opened for her an asylnm at Eome, Florence, Padua, Paris, and Oxford ? Who polished Europe by art and refined lier by legisla- tion ? "Who discovered the JSTew World and opened, a passage to another ? Who were the masters of architecture, of painting, and of music ? Who invented the compass and the art of printing ? Who were the j)oets, the historians, the jurists, tlie men of deep re- search and profound literature ? Who have exalted human nature and made man appear again little less than the angels ? Were they not almost exclusively the professors of our creed ? Were they who created and professed freedom under every shape and form unfit for her enjoyment ? Were men, deemed even now the lights of the world and the benefactors of the human race, the deluded victims of a slavish superstition ? But what is there in our creed which renders us unfit for freedom ? Is it the doctrine of jiassive obedi- ence ? No; for the obedience Ave yield to authority is not blind, but reasonable. Our religion does not create despotism; it sup- ports every established constitution which is not opposed to the laws of nature, unle-s it be altered by those who are entitled to change it. In Poland it supported an elective monarch ; in Prance, an hereditary sovereign ; in Spain, an absolute or constitutional king indifferently; in England, when the houses of York and Lancaster contended, it declared that he who was king da facto Avas entitled to the obedience of the peoj^le. During the reign of the Tudors there was a faithful adherence of the Catholics to their prince, under trials the most severe and galling, because the Constitution required it. The same Avas exhibited by them to tlio ungrateful race of Stuart ; but since the expulsion of James (foolishly called an abdi- cation) have they not adopted Avith the nation at large the doctrine of the Revolution — '-' that the crown is held in trust for the benefit of the people, and that should tlie monarch violate his compact, the subject is freed from the bond of his allegiance.'"' Has there been any form of government ever devised by man to which the religion of Catholics has not been accommodated ? Is there any obligation, either to a prince or to a constitution, Avhich it does not enforce ? What, my Lord ! is the allegiance of the man divided Avho gives to Caesar Avhat belongs to Ccesar and to God Avhat belongs to God ? Is the allegiance of the priest divided Avho yields submission to his bishop and his king? of the son Avho obeys his parent and his prince ? And vet these duties arc not more distinct than those The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., 0,S.A. J/? which wo owe our sovereign and our spiritual head. Is there anv man in society who has not distinct duties to discharge ? May not the same jicrson be the head of a corporation and an officer of the king? a justice of the peace, perhaps, and a bankrupt surgeon with lialf his pay ? And are the duties thus imposed upon him incom- patible with one another ? If the Pope can define that tlic Jewisli Sabbath is dissolved and tliat the Lord's day is to be sanctified, may not this be believed without prejudice to the act of settlement or that for the limitation of the Crown ? If the church decree tliat on Fridays her children shall abstain from flesh-meat, are they thereby controlled from obeying the king when he summons them to war ? No, I conclude it is impossible that any rational man could sup- pose that the Catholics, under equal laws, would be less loyal, less faithful subjects than any others EDUCATION. Next to the blessing of redemption and the graces consequent upon it, there is no gift bestowed by God equal in value to a good education. Other advantages are enjoyed by the body ; this belongs entirely to the spirit. Whatever is great, or good, or glorious in the works of men is the fruit of educated minds. Wars, conquests, commerce, all the arts of industry and peace, all the refinements of life, all the social and domestic virtues, all the refinements and delicacies of mutual intercourse ; in a word, Avhatever is estimable amongst men, oAves its origin, increase, and perfection to the exer- cise of those faculties- whose imj^rovemcnt is the object of educa- tion. Reliirion herself loses half her bcautv and influence when not attended or assisted by education, and her power, splendor, and majesty are never so exalted as when cultivated genius and refined taste become her heralds or her handmaids. Many have become fools for Christ, and by their simplicity and piety exalted the glory of the cross ; but Paul, not John, was the apostle of nations, and doctors, more even than prophets, have been sent to declare the truths of religion before kings and princes and the nations of the earth. Education draws forth the mind, improves its faculties, in- creases its resources, and by exercise strengthens and augments its powers. I consider it, therefore, of inestimable value ; but, like gold, which is the instrument of human happiness, it is and always 2,^6 The Prose and Poefiy of Irelaiid. must be luieqnally distributed amongst men. Some will always be iinablc or unwilling to acquire it, others will expend it prodigally or pervert it to the worst ends, whilst the bulk of mankind will always be more or less excluded from its possession." LETTER TO HIS NIECE. Caklow College,'* 4th ISToyember, 1814. My Dear Mary : I find the longer a correspondence is inter- rupted the more difficult it is to resume it. My situation in life, my views, my prospecfes, my acquaintances are so different from yours, and so little known to you, that I can scarcely find a subject for a letter when I wish to write, unless I were to fill it with expres- sions of esteem for you and interest in your welfare ; but this would be useless at present. You might expect that I would bo offering you advice, and so J. should if it were necessary ; but in your own family you have enough, to consult, and my only wish is that you should always act in con- cert with your husband and mother, and at all times jirefer their wishes and opinions to your own. A thousand things occur in your town and county, and yet you stand so much on ceremony with me that you would not write me a single word unless I had formally requested of you to do so. As to myself, I have little to say ; if good health and a good fire- side, plenty of labor, plenty of money,'' and a good name bo advan- tages, I enjoy them to the fullest extent. I feel contented; and, except when a recollection of poor Pat ^^ disturbs my mind, I might say that none of my family can be more happy. Providence has been particularly kind to me. I strive to thank God every day ; and, as I pray for you as well as myself, I hope you will do the same for me in your turn. I had promised to spend the Christmas vacation at Kilkenny Avith Dr. Marum ; but as he is about to be consecrated Bishop of Ossory, he may be so occupied that I would not wish to intrude on him. Adieu. Believe me, most truly and affectionately, yours, J. Doyle, ' ' " Letters on the State of Ireland," letter vi. 18 At this date Dr. Doyle was a professor in Carlow College. ^ His salary as professor was $125 a year. The apostolic Doyle considered this "plenty." 2" His brother, a gifted young lawyer, who died some time before. The Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS.A. 2>77 LETTER TO A NUN ^' IN DUBLIN. EoBERTSTOWN, 29 ill April, 1824. My Dear Mariana: After straying through almost every jmrt of this diocese, like your last letter, I find myself here in the midst of an immense hotel, through which all the elements are driving furiously, and having packed up my papers and finished about half a dozen letters, I fold my arms and put myself to think on what 1 have next to do. Your letter, endorsed by the postmarks of the various towns, ending with Derrig or Derg, througli which it had been missent, occurred to me as still waiting amongst others to be disposed of, and, though my head is confused and my spirits exhausted, I am resolved to tell you that I am strongly inclined to go up to Dublin to tell you some silly story by way of apology for not replying to your letters ; but as I may be obliged to take some other direction, it is necessary, I suppose, to inform you that when your last note reached me I was just leaving home Avith an intention of seeing you before my return. Mr. Fitzgerald, also, when leaving Carlow promised to see you, to present you with my compliments, and to tell me on his return all the good news he could collect of you and of my dear Catherine." The favorable account you gave in your letter of the state of her health lessened my anxiety about it, and increased my desire of seeing her, should I be able to go to Dublin, and ascertain with my own eyes that improvement which I so anx- iously wish for. From the exhausted state of my mind, I am unable to Avritc you a very long letter. lam just going to dine at Mr. Dease's. I must re- main in tliat neighborhood until after Sunday, and whether I can go up to town before my return is somewhat uncertain. If not, 1 shall be deprived of the pleasure of seeing my dear child until June next, when she may be so much restored as to come to cull the flowers at old Derrig, Avhich always droop in the absence of the Hermit [Dr. Doyle], who unhappily is driven from them in the sum- mer ; but probably they might continue in bloom till his return if only a genial breath fell upon them from the countenance of his friend, or a tear of sympathy for the absence of their solitary guardian. Tell ''I Mariana was an accnraplished young Irish lady, the daughter of a Protestant banker. She became a Catholic, and finally a religious, and found a wise and dear friend in Dr. Doyle. Many years afterwards she became superioress cf a convent. 22 Mariana's sister, who had also embraced tho ancient faith. 3/8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. her how truly I rejoice at the prospect of her thorough recovery. Bless the little, the good Sarah for her blessing to me, and with best respects to her who is blessed by you all — your mother — believe me always, dear Mariana, etc. •f< J. Doyle. LETTER m REPLY TO A " WOLFF == IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING." Caelow, 17th October, 182G. Sir : I have received your letter written at Knaresborough. I regret that a young person, such as you are, should continue in the delusion in which you seem to live. It is, perhaps, my duty to tell you that your "challenge," as you call it, excited in this county nought but ridicule, and that you might as justly exj^ect one of the judges in the courts of law to descend from the bench and dispute with you about the code which he administers as to hope that any Catholic bishop would attend to your "^ challenge." My dear young man, you are either deceived, or seeking to deceive others. I did not refuse to sec you ; I refused to admit you to re- side in my family, and for the reasons explained in my note to you on the subject. Did you at any time call upon me to consult with mo as to what you should do, or to enquire what you want to know, I would offer to you the best advice or information in my power. I feel for you nought but pity and compassion. You have strayed from the truth. You arc very much occupied with yourself. You err greatly as to your own value or efficiency. You are riot cajoable of rendering service to your brethren, whether Jews or Gentiles, whilst you yourself continue a victim of delusion or a hypocrite, as you must be, if you bo not a fanatic. Your correspondence with me can serve no good purpose ; may I request, therefore, that it cease, and should you at any time call upon me, pray present yourself Avithout an inclination to dispute, for "if any one love disputes, we have no such custom," says au Apostle. ^ J. Doyle. '^ Rev. J. Wol2 Was an apostate student of the Propaganda. He came to Ireland as a Protestant preacher, and one of his eccentric feats was to issue a "challenge'' to the Ca- tholic bishops of Ireland to mott him in argument I The bishops, of course, did not no- tice the buzzing theological insect, WoLffi, finally, addressed himself to Dr. Doyle, who snuffed him out with the foregoing letter. The Right Rev. Jcwtes Doyle, D.D., O.S.A. 379 LETTER TO HIS NIECE. Caklow, loth August, 1828. My Dear Mary : Since J. AV luuidcd me your letter I have had little leisure to reply to it, but as I am about leaving home on my visitation, and will not return for six weeks, I must discharge my debt to you, though it is now late at night, and this has been with me a day of great labor. It is no wonder that your constitution should be altered by so many and so severe attacks, and it may be that Providence will re- new your youth, now that you are taught how to use it well. All things, Avithout doubt, work together for the good of the elect, and it often hajopens that nothing less than continued and severe illness would preserve them in the fear of God and the observance of his commands. Unless we sigli after our eternal abode, we will not enter it, and when all things are agreeable to us here below we rather fear than wish for an exchange. I think, therefore, my dear Mary, considering the temporal blessings which have attended you, that if you had not been chastened by the pressure of the cross, you might have become worldly in your disjiosition, tepid in the exercise of religion, and too little desirous of eternal life. I am sure, however great my affection for you — and there is scarcely any person whom I more love — that what I esteem most in you is that religious dis- position, that patience and forgiveness towards others, and that cordial charity to the poor with which our good God has always in- sjiired you. You will not cease to thank him and to promote his will on earth whilst you remain here, and whether you and I often meet on this side of the -grave is of little consequence. Our mutual interest and affection for each other will not be di- minished, and the grace of Christ and the virtue of his holy reli- gion will enable us to serve each other Ijy our mutual prayers. I intend to keep my promise of seeing you at the time I men- tioned, if we be still alive. My health is often very good and some- times not so ; my incessant cares and labors are wearing my consti- tution, but that gives mo no concern. I have lived long enough if I were but prcjiared to die; but the day or the hour of the depart- ure is known only to God ; our business is to be always prejiared. Pierce "■* is really a very good boy ; I am very fond of him and hope he will be virtuous. As to his talents, they are sufficient ; I scarcely ^< " Pierce," the bishop's nep'aow. 380 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. wish to have them better. Great talents are often a great evil ; thos3 which have been given to me have led me into many nseless labors and desires : thev are like riches, which render the wav to heaven narrow as the eye of an needle. Go see Peter, and remem- ber me to all friends, especially to your mother and John ; and be- lieve me, my dear Mary, most affectionately yours, ►J* J. Doyle. LETTER TO DANIEL 0'CONNELL.=^ Caklow, 12th January, 1829. My Dear Sir : He who speaks often and handles exciting toj^ics will not fail to commit mistakes and to give offence, nor can a popular assembly, writhing under injustice, be justly condemned for the excesses into which it may be betrayed. We do not claim exemption from error, but the purity of our principles entitles all we do and say to the most charitable construc- tion, whilst those who oppose and condemn us, even when their language is fair and their proceedings moderate, deserve reproach, because they are not sustained by any sound principle either of justice or policy. I think I can judge without passion, and I can find nothing in the conduct of our opponents respected. Who can respect ignorance or stupidity ? Who can defer to bigotry or monopoly ? All opposition is founded on ignorance, religious in- tolerance, or self-interest. When you proceeded to combat this opposition in Clare, I saw to its fullest extent the difficulties and dangers, public and personal, to be encountered ; but I thought they ought to be braved, and I cheered you upon your way. You were Avell fitted for that contest, but that which is now before you is of a different and more delicate character. Courage, perseverance, and address were then necessary, but in addition to them you now require Parliamentary knowledge, great fortitude, and that cool deliberation which cannot be circum- vented, but knows how to turn every occurrence to the best account. The suaviter in onodo and foriitcr in re, so little suited to us Irish, would be always useful to you, but in your approaching struggle will be indispensable. You will have to give "honor to whom honor is due," whilst you enforce the rights you possess, knowing 26 This was written shortly after O'Connell's election as M.P. for Clare. TJic Right Rev. James Doyle, D.D., OS.A. 381 that tbey belong to you even as tlie crown belongs to a king. Were I not of a profession which prescribes to me other duties, I should attend you to the door of the House of Commons and share in your success, for success must attend you; but at home I shall pray un- ceasingly to him who holds in his hands the hearts of men, that he may direct and prosper you in all your ways, that he may vouchsafe to give peace in our days, and. not suffer his people to be tried beyond, what they can bear. Yours most sincerely, ►J« J. Doyle. LETTER TO HIS NIECE. Carlow, 2Gtli May, 1831. My Dear Mary : You may be assured I participated both in your anxiety during the late elections and in your joy at the result. 1 am very much obliged, to you for your letters, and. delayed writing to acknowledge them until I should receive that other letter which you promised; but your promise was like most of those made at elections — not to be relied on ; and having despaired of its fulfil- ment, I hasten to congratulate you and all our friends on the issue of our struggle against the old and irreclaimable enemies of our country. I should never again have boasted of my native country had she not acted now as she has done, for I knew the power was in her if she had only virtue to exert it ; and if she had not, I would resign her to the Saxons or N'ormans, and attach myself to some more Celtic soil. I have, however, been spared the pain of separation, and I will continue attached to the country of my birth. Our vic- tory here was signal. We had no aid but God and our own strength ; but when a good cause is well conducted it succeeds in spite of all opposition. The affairs of Ireland are beginning to imiDrove, but they are only beginning. We have many difBculties to contend with, and if we relax wc will be thrown back ; for our enemies, though now defeated, have still great resources, and have no notion of quitting the field. You have an excellent representative in Mr. Walker, and I trust Mr. Lambert will realize all your hopes of him. Write me that long letter you promised when your head is composed. Tell John, 38 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. llichard, and all my friends how delighted I vas with the exhibi- tion of their patriotism. Say everything kind for me to your mother and to the family at Pierccstown. Affectionately yours, •^ J. Doyle. LETTER TO ANOTHER NIECE. Caklow, February 22, 1833. My Dear Kate: I am very glad to hear from you, and particu- larly gratified to know that the Rev. Mr. 0' was about to be restored for some time longer to his health and friends. Of all thpse who regret his pain or sympathize Avith liim in his suffer- ings, Ave should be the first, as avc always enjoyed the advantage of his special friendship and affectionate regard. Pay him a visit for me ; tell him hoAV much I lamented his illness, and hoAV I rejoice at the prospect of his recovery; for though I hope his demise, Avhen- evcr it may occur, will be only a removal to a happy life, still I cannot but wish that his stay in this world may be somewhat more lirolonged. It is Avell that you have not been visited by the cholera, Avhich lias kept us in a state of alarm for several months. How are all your little ones ? When you write to me, dear Kate, you must change your mode of address. What you use is too stiff and school- like. You must be familiar, and easy, and affectionate when writ- ing or conversing Avith me; so begin your letters Avith ''My Dear Uncle," and end them in the same Avay ; and do not think hoAv or Avhat you Avrite, but set down everything that comes intoy our head, as a child tells a story to a father. Adieu. Yours most affectionately, ►I* J. Doyle. GERALD GRIFFIN. "A siiro test, it has been often said, as to the good influence of a writer is that when we lay aside his book we feel better in ourselves, and we think better of others. This test, I believe, Gerald Griffin can safely stand." — Giles. "Poetry was his first and greatest inspiration, and if his natural bent had been properly encouraged, he would probably liave been the greatest of the Irish poets." — IIay£S. THE name of Grerald Griffin is one of tlie purest and brightest in the history of literature. It is surrounded by a halo of glory, and virtue, and romance. Gerald, the ninth son of Patrick Griffin, was born "in one of the most ancient and celebrated parts" of the city of Limerick, on De- cember 12, 1803. His parents belonged to old Irish and Catholic families of great resj^ectability. His father was a man of intelli- gence, and if remarkable for anything, it Avas his quiet humor and unruffled good nature. His mother Avas a lady of great elevation of character, religious, earnest, and very affectionate. ''' She Avas,'' Avrites Gerald's biographer,' ''a person of exceedingly fine taste on most subjects, particularly on literature, for which she had a strong original turn, and which Avas indeed her passion." Her j^assion for letters and her deep sensibility, "the restless and inexhaustible fountain of so much happiness and so much pain, she handed doAvn to her son Gerald in all its entireness." " Of his first schoolmaster an anecdote is related. Mrs. Griffin Avent to school with the boys on the first day of their entrance. ''Mr. MacEligot," said she, "you Avill oblige me very much by pay- ing jDarticular attention to the boys' pronounciation and making them perfect in their reading." He looked at her Avith astonish- ment. "Madam," he abrttptly exclaimed, "you had better take your children home; I can have nothing to do with them."' She expressed some sttrprise. "Perhaps, Mrs. Griffin," said he, after a pause, "you are not aware that there are only three persons in Ire- land Avho know how to read." "Three I" said she. "Yes, 'Gerald's "Life," written by his brother, Daniel Griffln, is one of the most charming biographies in the English languase. - '• Life of GrifBn,"' by his brother. 383 384 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. madam, there are only three— the Bishop of Kilhiloe, the Earl of Clare, and your humble servant. Heading, madam, is a natural gift, not an acquirement. If you choose to expect impossibilities. you had better take your children home." Mrs. Griffin found much difficulty in keeping her countenance; but, confessing her ignorance of this import^^nt fact, slie gave the able but rain and ec- centric pedagogue ^ to understand that she would not look for a degree of perfection so rarely attainable, and the matter was made up. In 1810, Gerald being in his seventh year, Mr. Griffin with his family moved from the city to a place in the country, which he luimed Fairy LaAvu. It was situated on the Shannon, about twenty- eight miles from Limerick. Here young Griffin, either at school or at home, received the greater part of his education. He read widely, and acquired a good knowledge of classical literature. Here he also learned to read and admire the works of God in the beau- ties of nature. On the banks of the lordly Shannon, in the solitude of the fine fields and woods, or in the solemn stillness of grand old ruins, he had the training which was best suited to his character and genius. The ruined abbey and the picturesque hillside were to him poems which yielded ideas lofty and sublime. " The influence on his mind," writes Henry Giles, '•' of natural beauty and of ancient traditions may be traced in all his writings, both of poetry and of prose. He had equally a passion for nature and a passion for the past.'" ^ After the Griffin family had lived in Fairy Lawn for a consider- able number of years, they were induced to emigrate to America by an elder brother of Gerald's, an officer in the British army. This occurred in 1830. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, with a portion of the family, chose for their future abode a sweet spot in Pennsylvania, in Susquehanna County. In memory of their former Irish home, they called it Fairy Lawn. Gerald, who was intended for the medical profession, remained in Ireland under the guardianship of an older brother, Dr. William Griffin, who took up his residence at Adare, about ten miles from Limerick. Two sisters and his brother Daniel— afterwards Gerald's biographer— also remained in the old 3 One of Mr. MacEligof s advertisements began thus : " When ponderous pollysyllables promulgate professional powers "' ! What alterative bombast ! We hope Mr MacEli, got s elocution was better than his style of writing. < "Lectures and Essajs."' Ge7'ald Griffin. ogc land. Under his excellent brother's instruction, Gerald made some progress in his medical studies, until that jDassion arose which soon swallowed up all other desires. When a mere child he exhibited his love of poetry. He read the poets with delight. The little fellow had a scrap-book into which he carefully copied many of Moore's " Melodies." He also had '' a secret drawer in which he kept papers, and it was whispered that he wrote scraps and put them there." All this in the sweet days of boyhood — " The shining days when life is new, And all is bright as morning dew." Youth'camc, and with it arose higher thoughts, higher aspirations, and loftier schemes. At the age of nineteen he wrote his drama of ''• Aguire," of which his brother. Dr. Griffin, thought so highly that he consented to Gerald's going to London to seek his fortune as a dramatic writer. Gerald had early conceived the idea — a some- what romantic one — of reforming the modern drama. In the fall of 1823 — in his twentieth year — the gifted and enthusiastic young Irishman entered the capital of England unknown, unfriended, scantily provided with means, having no other weapon or armor to light the battle of life, upon which he was about to enter, than a facile pen, a good constitution, a well-balanced mind, and indomi- table perseverance, and the jDatient, hopeful spirit of true genius. There, in the " modern Babylon," his life for nearly three weary years was a prolonged struggle, first for recognition and then for existence itself. It was dreadful up-hill work. lie was sternly obliged '' to labor and to wait." Often with an empty stomach, a sad heart, and shabby "garments he toiled away, the glimmering taper of hope cheering him on, and the spirit of a bold and resolute independence nerving him in his destitution and distress. In July, 1824, he published in the Literary Gazette a poem th6 first stanza of which is truly sad and expressive of his London life : " Mv soul is sick and lone^ No social ties its love entwine ; A heart upon a desert thrown Beats not in solitude like mine ; For though the pleasant sunlight shine, It shows no form that I may own. And closed to me is friendship's shrine — I am alone — I am alone ! " o S6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. In a letter, written about the same date, to liis sister in America, Griffin says : "You have no idea what a heart-breaking life that of a young scribbler beating about and endeavoring to make his way in London is, going into a bookseller's shop, as I have often done, and being obliged to praise up my own manuscript to induce him to look at it at all — for there is so much competition that a person without a name will not even get a trial — while he puts on his spec- tacles and answers your self-commendation with a ' hum — um.' A set of hardened villains ! and yet at no time whatevei- could I have been prevailed upon to quit London altogether. That horrid word /rtiTwre— no ! death first." This paragraph is the key to his difficulties and his lofty feelings. Poor, noble Griffii; ! bright soul of irenius! " failure " was the word that you dreaded most to admit into your dictionary of life. In his gifted countryman, Banim, he found a good and generous friend. Writing in the early part of 1824, he says : " What would I have done if I had not found Banim ? I should never be tired of talkins: and thinkinc: of Banim. Mark me ! he is a man — the only one I have met since I left Ireland. Wc " Avalked over Hyde Parlc together on St. Patrick's day, and renewed our home recollections by gathering shamrocks and placing them in our hats, even under the eye of John Bull." " The darkest day will pass away." At length. Griffin's occasional sketches in the newspapers and 23eriodicals attracted attention. He worked his way above tlie sur- face. In the autumn of 182G " Holland-Tide " appeared. This work gained for the author some money, and the applause of the critics. It was followed the succeeding year by the " Tales of the Munster Festivals," thorough Irish stories, evincing great powers of observation and description. Griffin's abilities as a novelist vrerc now recognized by all, and, at last, he had discovered his true voca- tion. Abandoning the drama, to which he had hitherto devoted much attention, he resolved to bend his energies to prose fiction. He returned to Ireland in the spring of 1827, and in the quiet of his L'ish home continued to give the world his masterpieces. His splendid work "The Collegians" appeared in 1829. "The Duke of Monmouth," " The Rivals and Tracey's Ambition," "' The Inva- ' Himself and Banim. Gerald Griffin. ^^'^^ sion," "The Christian Pliysiologist," and others were issued from the press from time to time. • Griffin had now cHmbed the steep and rugged liill of fame, and upon liim shone the sun of fortune. Still, his immaculate genius Avas not satisfied ; his heart craved something more. God alone could fill it, and to God he resolved to dedicate himself. After mature delihc- ration, he became a Christian Brother in 1838. In this new, modest, and sublime sphere, Brotlicr Joseph — such was Griffin's name in re- ligion — labored with all the earnestness of his deep, ardent nature. From the monastery in Cork, he Avrote to a friend in London in 1839 : "■ I was ordered off here from Dublin last June, and have been, since enlightening the craniums of the Vv-ondcring Paddies in this quarter, who learn from me with profound amazement and profit thai 0-X spells ox, that the top of a map is the north, and the bottom the south, with various other ' branches ' ; as also that they ought to be good boys and do as they are bid, and say their prayers every morning and evening, etc. ; and yet it seems curious even to myself that I feel a great deal happier in the practice of this daily routine than I did while I Avas roving about your great city absorbed in the modest l^roject of rivalling Shakspcre and throwing Scott into the shade.'' For two years he led the devoted life of a good religious, of a saint, then *' death softly touched him and he j^assed away" on the 12th of June, 1840. Cheered and sanctified by religion, the lofty genius and pure, bright soul of Gerald Griffin passed to that better, brighter world where all is joy and happiness supreme. In the little cemetery of the Xorth Monastery in Cork, the traveller Avill sec a simple headstone marked, "Brother Joseph.*' That is the honored grave of Gerald Griffin, saint, poet, dramatist, novelist, patriot — in short, one of the A'ery best, greatest, and most gifted men ever produced by Ireland. The poetry of Gerald Griffin glows with all the fire and feeling of youth. Dearly Ave love it for its pure beauty, freshness, and origin- al it \% His excellent tragedy of ^' Gisippus" — written in his twentieth year, while shouldering his way through the rough-and-tumble of London life — was performed for the first time at Drury Lane in 1812. Both liy the press and public it was received with the utmost favor. As a writer. Griffin is bold, Irish, faithful, original. In the field of fiction he holds the first rank — indeed, it is our opinion that he is o 88 The Prose and Poet 7 j of Ireland. the greatest of the Irish novelists. "The Collegians" is his most popular, and j^erhaps his most powerful, work. His works, in ten volumes, are published by D. & J. Sadlier & Co. , New York. Gerald GrifEn was a wonderful compound of the purest feeling and the most splendid intellect. His character was deep, loftv, beautiful, and independent. In jierson he was dignified and com- manding. His brother, who visited him in London in 182G, tells us of his " tall figure, expressive features, and his profusion of dark hair, thrown back from a fine forehead, giving an impression of a person remarkably handsome and interesting." "How long we live, not years but actions tell ; That man lives twice who lives the first life well." SELECTIONS PilOM GRIFPIX'S WORKS. I LOVE MY LOVE li^" THE MOKXIXG. I LOVE mv love in the morninc:, Tor she like morn is fair ; Her blushing cheek its crimson streak. Its clouds her golden liair, Her glance its beam, so soft and kind, Her tears its dewy showers. And her voice the tender, whispering wind That stirs the earlv bowers. I love mv love in the mornino;, I love my love at noon ; For she is bright as the lord of night. Yet mild as autumn's moon. Her beauty is my bosom's sun, Her faith my fostering shade. And I will love my darling one Till even the sun shiall fade. I love my love in the morning, I love my love at even ; Her smile's soft plav is like the rav. That lights the western heaven. Gerald Griffin. 389 I loved her when the sun was high, I loved her when he rose; But best of all when evening's sigh Was murmuring at its close. MY SPIRIT IS GAT. My spirit is gay as the breaking of dawn, As the breeze that s]3orts over the sunlighted lawn. As the song of yon lark from his kingdom of light. Or tlic harp-string that rings in the chambers at night. For the world and its vapors, though darkly they fold, I have light that can turn them to purple and gold. Till they brighten the landscaj^e they came to deface. And deformity changes to beauty and grace. Yet say not to selfish delights I must turn. From the grief-laden bosoms around me that mourn ; For 'tis pleasure to share in each sorrow I see. And sweet sympathy's tear is enjoyment to me. Oh I blest is the heart, when misfortunes assail. That is armed in content as a garment of mail ; For the grief of another that treasures its zeal. And remembers no woe but tlie woe it can heal. When the storm gathers dark o'er the summer's young bloom, And each ray of the noontide is sheathed in gloom, I would be the rainbow, high arching in air, Like a gleaming of hope on the brow of despair. When the burst of its fury is s|)ent on the bower And the buds are yet bow'd with the weight of the shower, I would be the beam that comes warminsf and bright, And that bids them burst open to fragrance and light. I would be the smiie that comes breaking serene O'er the features where lately affliction has been ; Or the heart-speaking scroll after years of alloy That brings home to the desolate tidings of joy; Or the life-giving rose-odor borne by the breeze To the sense rising keen from the couch of disease. ;90 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Or the whisper of charity, tender and kind, Or the dawning of hope on the penitent's mind. Then breatlie ye, street roses, your fragrance around, And awalceu, ye wild-birds, the grove with your sound : When the soul is restrained and the heart is at ease There's a rapture in pleasures so simple as these. I rejoice in each sunbeam that gladdens the vale, I rejoice in each odor that sweetens the gale. In the bloom of the spring, in the summer's gay voice. With a spirit as gay I rejoice ! I rejoice ! OLD TIMES ! OLD TIMES ! Old times ! old times ! the gay old times ! When I was young and free. And heard the merry Easter chimes. Under the sally tree. My Sunday palm beside me placed. My cross upon my hand, A heart at rest within my breast. And sunshine on the land ! Old times ! old times ! It is not that my fortunes flee, ISTor that my cheek is pale, I mourn whene'er I think of thee, My darling native vale. A wiser head I have, I know. Than when I loitered there ; But in my wisdom there is woe. And in my knowledge care. Old times ! old times ! I've lived to know my share of joy. To feel my share of pain. To learn that friendship's self can cloy. To love, and love in vain^ Gerald Griffin. 391 To feel a pang and wear a smile. To tiro of other climes, To like my own imliappy isle. And sing tlie gay old times ! Old times ! old times ! And sure the land is nothing changed, The birds are singing still, The flowers are springing where we ranged, There's sunshine on the hill; The sally, waving o'er my head. Still sweetly shades my frame ; But, ah ! those happy days are fled. And I am not the same ! Old times ! old times ! Oh ! come again, ye merry times. Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm. And let me hear those Easter chimes. And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes j\Iy tears would flow in vain ; If I could waste my heart in sighs. They'll never come again ! Old times ! old times ! A PLACE IX THY MEMOllY, DEAREST. A PLACE in thy memory, dearest. Is all that I claim. To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer. Another may win and wear ; I care not though he be dearer. If I am remembered there. 392 The Prose and Poetry of Ii^eland Remember me— not as a lover Whose hope was cross'd, Whose bosom can never recover The hght it hath lost; As the young bride remembers the mother She loves though she never may see. As a sister remembers a brother, dearest ! remember me. Could I be thy true lover, dearest, Couldst thou but smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest That ever loved thee ! But a cloud on my pathway is glooming That never mu^t burst upon thine. And Heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. Remember me, then ; oh ! remember My calm, light love, Though bleak as the blasts of Xovember My life may prove ; That life will, though lonely, be sweet. If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet. And a place in thy memorj. YOU HAVE XEVER BADE :?IE HOPE, 'tIS TRUE. You have never bade me hope, 'tis true, 1 ask you not to swear ; But I looked into those eyes of blue And read a promise there. The vow should bind with maiden sighs That maiden's lips have spoken; But that which looks from maiden's eyes Should last of all be broken ! Gerald Griffin. 393 LIKE THE OAK BY THE FOUNTAIN". Like the oak by the fountain In sunshine and storm ; Like the rock on the mountain, Unchanging in form ; Like tiie course of the river, Tlirough ages the same ; Like tlic mist mounting ever To heaven, wlience it came. So firm be thy merit, So changeless tliy soul, So constant thy spirit, While seasons shall roll. The fancy that ranges Ends where it began ; But the mind that ne'er changes Brings glory to man. FARE THEE WELL, MY NATIVE DELL. Fare thee well, my native dell ! Though far away I Avandcr, With thee my thoughts shall ever dwell. In absence only fonder. Earewell,- ye banks where once I roved To view that lonely river. And you, ye groves so long beloved, And fields, farewell for ever ! Here once my youthful moments flew In joy like sunshine splendid, The brightest hours that e'er I knew With those sweet scenes were blended — When o'er those hills at break. of morn The deer went bounding early, And huntsmen woke with hounds and horn The mountain echoes cheerly. ;94 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. Fare ye well, ye happy hours, So bright, but long departed ! Fare ye well, yet fragrant bow'rs. So sweet, but now deserted ! Farewell, each rock and lonely isle, That make the poet's numbers ; And thou, ancient, holy pile ! ' Where mighty Brian slumbers ! Farewell, thou old, romantic bridge. Where morn has seen me roaming. To mark across each shallow ridge Tlie mighty Shannon foaming. No more I'll press the bending oar To speed the painted wherry, And glide along the shady wood To Yiew the hills of Derry. There's many an isle in ScarifE Bay, AYith many a garden blooming, Where oft I've passed the summer day Till twilight hours were glooming. No more shall evening's yellow glow Among those ruins find me ; Far from these dear scenes I go. But leave my heart behind me. 'tis, it is the shaxkon's stream. 'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream Brightly glancing, brightly glancing. See, oh ! see the ruddy beam Upon its waters dancing ! Thus return from travel vain. Years of exile, years of pain. To see old Shannon's face again. Oh 1 the bliss entrancing. • The cathedral in which is the monument of the celebrated Brian Boru. Gerald Griffin. 395 Hail, our own majestic stream, Flowing ever, flowing ever. Silent in the moa-ning beam, Our own beloved river ! Fling thy rocky portals wide. Western ocean, western ocean ; Bend, ye hills, on either side. In solemn, deep devotion ; While before the rising gales On his heaving surface sails Half the wealth of Erin's vales. With undulating motion. Hail, our own beloved stream. Flowing ever, flowing ever. Silent in the morning beam. Our own majestic river ! On thy bosom deep and wide, Noble river, lordly river, Eoyal navies safe might ride. Green Erin's lovely river ! Troud upon thy banks to dwell. Let me ring ambition's knell. Lured by hope's illusive spell. Again to wander, never. Hail, our own romantic stream. Flowing ever, flowing ever. Silent in the morning beam, Our own majestic river ! Let me from thy placid course. Gentle river, mighty river, Draw such truths of silent force As sophist uttered never. Thus like thee, unchanging still, With tranquil breast and ordered will. My heaven-appointed course fulfil, Undeviating ever ! '> 96 The Prose mid Poetry of Irela^id. Hail, our own majestic stream, Flowing ever, flowing ever, Silent in the morning beam. Our own delightful river ! THE SISTER OF CHARITY. She onoe was a lady of honor and wealth. Brio-lit glowed on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold. And her motion shook perfume from every fold ; Joy reveird around her, love shone at her side. And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride. And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall. When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace. That call'd her to live for the suffering race. And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Kose quickly, like Mary, and answered, '' I come." She put from her person the trappings of pride And passed from her home with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moTcd, For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved. Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost. That beauty that once was the song and the toast ; ISTo more in the ball-room that figure we meet. But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name. For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; For2:ot are the claims of her riches and birth. For she barters for heaven the glory of earth. Those feet that to music could gracefully move Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem Are tending the helpless, or lifting for them ; That voice that once ccho'd the songs of the vain Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain ; Gerald Gi^iffin. 397 And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. Her down bed a pallet, her trinkets a bead. Tier lustre, one taper that serves her to read, Iler sculpture, the crucifix nailed by her bed, Her paintings, one print of the thorn-crowned head. Her cushion, the pavement that wearies her knees. Her music the i:)salm, or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lived mortified there. And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined ; Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary, she comforts the Avcak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; Where want and affliction on mortals attend. The Sister of Charity tliere is a friend. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath. Like an angel she moves 'mid the vapor of death ; Where rings the loud musket and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ! How kindly she dresses each suffering limb. For she sees in the wounded the image of Him ! *o^ Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain ; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days. Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men — Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, IIow stands in the balance your eloquence weighed. With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid ? '> qS The Prose and Poetry )f Ireland. TO THE BLESSED VTRGIN" .MARY. As the mnte niglitinsfalc in closest groves Lies hid at noon, but when day's piercing eye Is lock'd in night, with full heart beating high, Pourcth her plain song o'er the light she loves, So, Virgin, ever pure and ever blest. Moon of religion, from whose radiant face, Eeflectod, streams the light of heavenly grace On broken hearts, by contrite thoughts oppressed — .So, Mary, they who Justly feel the weight Of Heaven's offended majesty implore Thy reconciling aid, with suppliant knee. Of sinful man, sinless Advocate ! To thee they turn, nor him the less adore; '"Tis still Ms light they love, less dreadful seen in thee. THE CHOICE OF FRIEliirDS, IrEAGUE not with him in friendship's tie Whose selfish soul is bent on pleasure ; For he from joy to joy will fly As changes fancy's fickle measure, j^ot his the faith whose bond we see With lapse of years remaining stronger ; ]^or will he then bo true to thee When thou canst serve his aim no longer. Him, too, avoid whose grov'lling love In earthly end alone is centred, Within whose heart a thought above Life's common cares has seldom entered. Trust not to him thy bosom's weal, A painted love alone revealing. The shoAv, without the lastinar zeal. The hollow voice, without the fcelimr. Gerald Griffin. 399 THE VILLAGE RUIK. The lake wliicli waslies the orchards of the village of divides it from au uhbey now in ruins, but associated with the recollection of one of those few glorious events which shed a scanty and occa- sional lustre on the dark and mournful tide of Irish history. At this foundation was educated, a century or two before the English conquest, Melcha, the beautiful daughter of O'Melachlin, a j)rinco whose character and conduct even yet afford room for speculation to the historians of his country. Not like the maids of our degene- rate days, who are scarce exceeded by the men in their effeminate vanity and love of ornament, young Melcha joined to tlie tenderness and beauty of a virgin the austerity and piety of a hermit. The simplest roots that fed the lowest of her father's subjects were the accustomed food of Melcha ; a couch of heath refreshed her deli- cate limbs, and the lark did not' rise earlier at morn to sing the praises of his Maker than did the daughter of O'Melachlin. One subject had a large proportion of her thoughts, her tears, and jn-ayers — the misery of her afflicted country ; for she had not falleii on happy days for Ireland. Some years before her birth a svv'anu of savages from the North of Europe had landed on the eastern coast of the island, and, in despite of the gallant resistance of lu-r father (who then possessed the crown) and of the other chiefs, suc- ceeded in establishing their power throughout the country. Thor- gills, the barbarian chief who had led them on, assumed the sove- reignty of the conquered isle, leaving, however, to O'Melachlin the name and insignia of royalty, while all the power of government was centred in himself. The history of tyranny scarcely furnishes a more appalling picture of devastation and oppressive cruelty than that which followed the success of this invasion. Monasteries were destroyed, monks slaughtered in the shelter of their cloisters, cities laid waste and burnt, learning almost exterminated, and religion persecuted with a virulence j^eculiar to the gloomy and sujoerstitious character of the oppressors. Historians present a minute and affect- ing detail of the enormities which were perpetrated in the shape of taxation, restriction, and direct aggression. The single word tyranny, however, may convey an idea of the whole. Astonished at these terrible events, O'Melachlin, though once a vigilant general, seemed struck with some base palsy of the soul that rendered him insensible to the groans and tortures of his sub- 400 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. jects, or to the barbarous cruelty of the monster who was nominally Icao-ued with him in power. Apparently content with the shadow of dominion left him, and with the security afforded to those of his own household, he slept upon his duties as a king and as a man, and thirty years of misery rolled by without his striking a blow, or even, to all appearance, forming a wish for the deliverance of his afflicted country. It was not lill he was menaced with tiie danger of sharing the afflictions of his people that he endeavored to re- move it. Such apathy it was which pressed upon the mind of Melcha, and filled her heart with shame and with affliction. A weak and help- less maid, she had, however, nothing but her prayers to bestow upon her country ; nor were those bestowed in vain. At the age of fifteen, rich in virtue as in beauty and in talent, she was recalled from those cloisters whose shadows still are seen at even-fall reflected in the wa- ters of the lake, to grace the phantom court of her degenerated father. Tlie latter, proud of his child, gave a splendid feast in honor of her return, to which he was not ashamed to iiivite the oppressor of his subjects and the usurper of his own authority. The coarser vices are the usual concomitants of cruelty. Thorgills beheld the saintly daughter of his host with other eyes than those of admiration. Ac- customed to mould the wishes of the puppet-monarch to his own, he tarried not even the conclusion of the feast, but, desiring the company of O'Melachlin on the green without the jialace, he there disclosed to him, with the bluntness of a barbarian and the insolence of a conqueror, his infamous wishes. Struck to the soul at what he heard, O'Melachlin was deinnved of the power of reply or utterance. For the first time since he had resigned to the invader the power which had fallen so heavy on the laud, his feelings were awakened to a sense of sympathy, and self-in- terest made him pitiful. The cries of bereaved parents, to which till now his heart had been impenetrable as a wall of brass, found sudden entrance to its inmost folds, and a responsive echo amid its tenderest strings. lie sat for a time upon a bench close by, with his forehead resting on his hand, and a torrent of tempestuous feel- ings rushing through his bosom. •'What sayest thou?" asked the tyrant, after a long silence. " Shall I have my wish ? ISTo answer ! Hearest thou, slave ? What insolence keeps thee silent ? " " I pray you pardon me," replied the monarch ; "I was thinking Gerald Griffi,n. 401 then of a, sore annoyance that has lately bred about our castle. I mean that rookery yonder, the din of Avhich even now confounds the music of our feast, and invades with its untimely harshness our cheering and most singular discourse. I would I had some mode of banishing that pest. I would I had some mode — I Avould I had." " Ho ! was that all the subject of thy thought ? " said Tliorgills. " Why, fool, thou never wilt be rid of them till thou hast burned the nests wherein they breed." "\ thank thee," answered the insulted jiarent; "I'll take thy counsel. I'll burn the nests. Will you walk into the house ? " " What, first, of my request ?" said Thorgills; "tell mc that." "If thou hadst asked me," replied the king, "a favorite hobby for the chase, or a hound to guard tliy threshold, thou wouldst not think it much to grant a week at least for preparing my heart to part with what it loved. How much more when thy demand reaches to the child of my heart, the only offspring of a mother who died before she had beheld her offspring ? " "A week, then, let it be," said Thorgills, looking with contempt upon tlie starting tears of the applicant. " A week would scarce suffice," replied the monarch, "to teach my tongue in what language it should communicate a destiny like this to Melcha." "What time wouldst thou require, then?" cried the tyrant hastily. " Thou seest," replied the king, pointing to the ncAV moon, which showed its slender crescent above the wood-crowned hills that bounded in the prospect. " Before that thread of light that glimmers now upon the distant lake, like chastity on beauty, has fulfilled its changes thou shalt receiv-e my answer to this proffer." " Be it so," said Thorgills, and the conversation ended. When the guests had all departed, the wretched monarch went into his oratory, where he bade one of his followers to order Melcha to attend him. She found him utterly depressed, and almost incapa- ble of forming a design. Having commanded the attendants to withdraw, he endeavored, but in vain, to make known to the astonished princess the demand of the usurper. He remembered her departed mother, and he thought of her own sanctity, and, more than all, he remembered his helpless condition, and the seem- ing impossibility of doing anything within the time to remove from his own doors the misery which had already befallen so many of his 402 The Prose a7td Poetry of Ireland, subjects without meeting any active sympathy from him. Was this the form wliich he was to resign into a ruffian's hands ? Was it for such an end he had instilled into her delicate mind the principles of early virtue and Christian piety ? By degrees, as he contem- plated his situation, his mind was roused by the very nature of the exigency to devise the means of its removal. He communicated both to Melcha, and was not disappointed in her firmness. With a zeal beyond her sex, slic prepared to take a part in the desperate counsels of her father and the still more desperate means by which he proposed to put them into execution. Assembling the officers of his court, he made known to all, in the i^resence of his daughter, the flagrant insult which had been offered to their sovereign, and obtained the ready pledge of all to j)eril their existence in the futherance of his wishes. He unfolded in their sight the green banner of their country, which had now for more than thirty years lain hid amongst the wrecks of their dejjarted freedom, and, while the memory of former glories shone Avarmly on their minds through the gloom of recent shame and recent injuries, the monarch easily directed their enthusiasm to the point where he would have it fall — the tyranny of Thorgills and his countrymen. On the following day the latter departed for the capital, where he was to await the determination of his colleague. Accustomed to hold in contempt the imbecility of the conquered king, and hard himself at heart, he knew not what prodigious actions may take their rise from the impulse of paternal love. That rapid month was fruitful in exertion. Couriers were despatched from the palace of O'Melach- lin to many of those princes whose suggestions of the deliverance of the isle ho had long since received with apathy or disregard. Plans Avere arranged, troops organized, and a general system of in- telligence established throughoitt the island. It is easy to unite the oppressed against the sovereign, so suddenly his scheme was spread throughout the country. The moon rolled by, and by its latest glimmer a messenger Avas despatched to the capital to meet at Avhat- ever place he should appoint. There was an island on the lake in Meath, in which Thorgills had •erected a lordlv palace, surrounded by the richest woods, and af- fording a delicious prospect of the lake and the surrounding country. Hither the luxurious monarch directed that the daughter of O'Melachlin should be sent, together Avith her train of fifteen noble maidens of the court of O'Melachlin. The address of the Gerald Griffin. 403 latter ia seeming to accede to the wishes of the tyrant is preserved amongst the annals of the isle. It requested him to consider wliethcr he might not find elsewhere some object more deserving of his favor than "that brown girl," and bosonght him to remember "whose father's child she was." Far from being touched by this appeal, the usurper, on the ap- 23ointcd day, selected in the capital fifteen of the most dissolute and brutal of his followers, with whom he arrived at evening at the rendezvous. It was a portentous night for Ireland. Even to the eyes of the tyrant and his gang, half blinded as they were to all but their own hideous thoughts, there appeared something gloomy and foreboding in the stillness of nature, and seemed even to per- vade the manners of the people. The villages were silent as they passed, and there appeared in the greeting of the few they met upon the route an air of deep-seated and almost menacing intelli- gence. Meantime, with feelings widely different and an anxiety that even the greatness of the enterprise and the awakened spirit of heroism could not wholly subdue, O'Melachlin prepared himself for the painful task of bidding farewell to his beloved daughter. Melcha, already aware of his design, awaited with the deepest anxiety, yet mingled with a thrilling hope, the approach of the auspicious mo- ment that was to crown her ardent and long-cherished wishes or to dash them to the earth forever. Alone in her royal father's oratory, she lay prostrate before the marble altar, and wet with floods of tears the solid pavement at its base. She prayed, not like a fanatic or worldling, but like one who understood with a fcelimr mind the real riiiseries of her countrv, and knew that she addressed a power capable of removing them. The step of her father at the porch of the oratory aroused the princess from her attitude of devotion. She stood up hastily uj)on her feet, like one prepared for enterprise, and waited the speech of O'Melachlin. He came to inform her that all was ready for her departure, and conducted her into an adjoining chamber, that he might bid her farewell. The father and daughter embraced in silence and with tears. Believing from the error of the light that she looked pale as she stood before him, he took her hand and pressed it in an encourag- ing manner. "Follow me," he said, "my child, and thou shalt see how little cause thou hast to fear the power of this IsTorwegian Holofernes." 404 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. . The king conducted her into another room, Avhere stood fifteen young maidens, as it seemed, and richly attired. "Thou seest these virgins, Melcha," said the monarch, ''Their years are like thine own, but under every cloak is a warrior's sword, and tlicy do not want a warrior's hand to wield it, for all that is woman of them is their dress. Dost thou think," he added ten- derly, "tliat thou hast firmness for such a task as this ?" '"'I have no feai'," replied his daughter. "He who put strength into the arm of Judith can give courage to the heart of Melcha." They departed from the palace, where the anxious father re- mained a little longer, until the fast advancing shades of night should enable him to put the first steps of his design into effect. As soon as the earliest stars began to glimmer on the woods of Meath, he took from its recess the banner which so long had rested idle and inglorious in his hall, and the brazen sword which was once the constant companion of his early successes and defeats, but which Jiow had not left its sheath since ho received a visionary crown from Thorgills. Girding the weapon to his side, he drew the blade with tears of shame and sorrow, imprinted a kiss ujion the temi^ered metal, and hastened with reviving hope and energy to seek the troops Avho awaited him in the adjoining wood. Mounting in haste, they hurried along through forests and defiles which were in many places thronged Avith silent multitudes, armed, and waiting but the signal-word to rush to action. They halted near the bor- ders of the lake of Thorgills, where a number of currachs, or basket-boats, were moored under shelter of the wood. After hold- ing a council of war, and allotting to the several princes engaged their part in the approaching enterprise, O'Melachlin remained on the shore casting from time to time an anxious eye to the usurper's isle, and awaiting the expected signal of his daughter. The princess in the meantime i^ursued the hazardous journey to the abode of Thorgills. The sun had already set before they reached the shores of the lake which suiTounded the castle of the tyrant, and tlie silver bow of the expiring moon w\as glimmering in its pure and tranquil waters. A barge, allotted by Thorgills for the purpose, was sent to convey them to the island, and they were welcomed with soft music at the entrance of the palace. The place was lonely, the guards were few, and the 1)1 ind security of the monarch was only equalled by his wealmess. Besides, the revel spirit had descended from the chieftain to his train, and most even of those who were Gerald Grtjfjfin. 405 in arms had incapacitated themselves for using them with any energy. Melcha and her train were conducted by a half-intoxicated slave to an extensive hall, Avhere they were commanded to av/ait the orders of the conqueror. The guide disappeared, and the princess prepared for the issue. In a little time the liangings at one side of the apartment were drawn back, and tbe usurper, accompanied by his ruffian band, made his appearance, hot with the fumes of in- toxication, and staggering from the late debauch. The entrance of Thorgills was the signal for Melcha to prepare her part. All re- mained still while Thorgills passed from one to another of the silent band of maidens, and paused at length before the "brown girl" for whom O'Melachlin had besought his pity. A thrill of terror shot throus^h the heart of Melcha as she beheld the hand of the wretch about to grasp her arm. ''Down with the tyrant I" she exclaimed, in a voice that rung like a bugle-call. "Upon him,' warriors, in tlie name of Erin ! Bind him, but slay him not."' With a wild " Farrah ! '' that shook the roof and walls of the abhorred dwelling, the youths obeyed the summons of the heroine. The tornado bursts not sooner from the bosom of Eastern calm than did the band of warriors from their delicate disguise at the sound of those beloved accents. Their swords for an instant gleamed unstained on high, but when they next rose into the air they smoked with the streaming gore of the oppressors. Struck poAverlcss by the charge, the tyrant and his dissolute crew were disabled before they had even time to draw a sword. Thorgills was seized-alive and bound Avith their scarfs and bands, while the rest were hewed to pieces without pity on the spot. "While this was done, the heroic Melcha seized a torch which burned in the apartment, rushed swiftly from the palace. The affrighted guards, believing it to be some apparition, gave way as she approached, and suCcred her to reach the borders of the lake, where she waved the brand on hiffh, forgetting in the zeal of libertv her feminine cha- racter, and more resembling one of their own war goddesses than the peaceful Christian maiden whose prayers and tears till now had been her only weapons. Like a train to which a spark has been applied, a chain of beacon-fires sprang up from hill to hill of the surrounding country, amid the shouts, of thousands gasping for breath — for the breath of freedom, and hailing that feeble light as Ao6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. its rising star. Tiie boats of O'Melaclilin, shooting like arrows from the surrounding shores, darkened the surface of the lake, and the foremost reached the isle before the guards of the tyrant, stupified by wine and fear, had yet recovered courage to resist. They were an easy prey to O'Mclachlin and his followers; nor was the enterprise thus auspiciously commenced permitted to grow cold until the power of the invaders was destroyed throughout the isle, and Melcha had the happiness to see peace and liberty restored to her afflicted country. In the watei's of that lake which so often had borne the usurper to the lonely scene of his debaucheries he was consigned, amidst the acclamations of a liberated people, to a nameless sepulchre, and the power he had abused once more reverted to its rightful owner. In one thing only did the too confiding islanders neglect to profit by the advice of Thorgills himself. They did not hum the nests. They suffered the strangers still to possess the seaport towns and other important holds throughout the isle,' an imprudence, how- ever, the effect of which did not appear till the reign of O'Melachlin was ended by his death. The reader may desire to know what became of the beautiful and heroic princess who had so considerable a share in the restoration of her country's freedom. As this had been the only earthly object of her wishes, even from childhood, with its accomplishment was end- ed all she desired on earth. Rejecting the crowds of noble and wealthy suitors who ardently sought her hand, and preferring the solitude of her own heart to the splendors and allurements of a court, she besought her father, as a recompense for her ready compliance with his wishes, that he would allow her once more to retire into the convent where she had received her education, to con- sume her days in exercises of piety and virtue. Pained at her choice, the king, however, did not seek to thwart it ; and after playing her brief but brilliant part upon the theatre of the world, she de- voted in those holy shades her virgin love and the residue of her days to heaven. ^ Such are the recollections that hallow the village ruin and dig- nify its vicinity with the majesty of historical association. The peasantry choose the grave of the royal nun as the scene of their devotions; and even those who look with contempt upon their humble piety, and regard as superstition the religion of their buried princess, feel the genial cui-rent gush within their bosoms as they Gerald Griffin. 407 pass the spot at evening, and think upon her singleness of heart and her devoted zeul. Long may it bo before feelings such as these shall be extinguished. GRIFFIN'S LETTERS. letter to his sister. London, Nov. 23, 1823. My Dearest Ellen: I have but a small place' left for you, so I must confine myself. William docs not mention whether you wrote to or heard from America since I left Ireland. AVhen you write, tell Mary Ann ° that while her affectionate remembrance of me in her last letter gave me pleasure, I felt no small degree of pain at the air of doubt with which she requested that " the muses should not supersede her in my affections." I was hurt by it at the time, and have not since forgot it. . Tell her that, long as we have been acquainted, she yet knows little of me if she thought the charge necessary. Since I came here I have discovered that home is more necessary to my content than I previously imagined. The novelty of change is beginning to wear off, and even amid the bustle of this great city I think of you already with a feeling of loneliness, which rather in- creases than lessens by time. I do not expect you to write to me, as I know it distresses you; but you can remember me now and then, and make William, or whoever writes, be particular in the account of your health. Never give up hope. It is the sweetest cordial with which Heaven qualifies the cup of calamity, next to that which you never lose sight of — religion. Dearest Ellen, remember me affectionately to all, and believe me. Yours ever, Gerald Griffin. TO HIS brother, London, June 18, 1825. My Dear William: I do not intend to send this until I have more to tell you than I can do at present. Your letter was a great prize. I wish you could send me what you intend. I know not ' This follows, on the same sheet, a letter to his brother, Dr. William Griffin. ■^ Another of his sisters ; she afterwards became a Sister of Charity. 4o8 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. how to turn it to account until I see it all ; but I apprehend the idea of a journal is not good, for mine must be all talcs, short and attractive in their appearance. I called the other day on a celebrated American scribbler, Mr. K . He is a pleasant fellow, and we had some chat. He has been filling half Blackivood since he came witli American topics, and is about novelizing here, as 1 perceive by the advertisement of " Brother Jonathan." His cool egotism is amusing. "Tragedy, Mr. Griffin," says he to me, "is your passion, I presume ? I wrote one myself the other day, and sent it in to the players; they returned it with- out any answer, which was wise on their part. I was sorry for it, however, for I thought it was such a thing as would do them a good deal of credit, and me too.'''' He is, I believe, a lawyer. You under- stand my reason for mentioning this precisely in that jilace. He is, I think, clever. Have you seen Banim's " O'Hara Tales " ? If not, read them, and say Avhat you think of them. I think them most vigorous and original things, overflowing Avith the spirit of poetry, passion, and painting. If you think otherwise, don't say so. My friend W sends me word that they are well written. All our critics here say they are admirahly written ; that nothing since Scott's first novels has equalled them. I difl:er entirely with W in his idea of the fidelity of their delineations. He says they argue unacquintance with the country. I think they are astonishing in nothing so much as in the power of creating an intense interest without stepping out of real life, and in the very easy and natural drama that is carried through them, as well as in the excellent tact he shows in seizing on all the points of national character which are capable of effect. Mind, I don't speak of "The Fetches "now. That is romance. But is it not a splendid one ? Nobody knew anything of Banim till he published his "O'Hara Tales," which are becoming more and more popular every day. I have seen pictures taken from them already by first-rate artists, and engravings in the windows. Tales, in fact, are the only things the public look for. Miss Kelly has been trying to pull Congreve above water, and has been holding him by the nose for tlie last month, but it won't do ; he must down. When I came to London the playgoers Avere spectacle mad, then horse mad, then devil mad, now they are monkey mad, and the Lord knows, my dear William, when they will be G. G. mad. I wish I could get " a vacancy at 'em/' Gerald Griffin. 409 I'm sure. Every day shows me more and more of tlio humbug of literature. It is laughablo and sickening. What curious ideas I had of fame, etc., before I left Ireland ! . . . Dear William, affectionately yours, Gerald Gkiffin. TO HIS SISTER. DuBLiK, April 13, 1829. My Dear Lucy : I am most ready to admit your last letter as an acquittance for all old debts, and likewise to subscribe Avith the greatest humility to the justice of your criticism. IIow hajopy it would be for the world if all the reviewers had your taste and dis- cernment ! They would know what was good when they got it, and they would buy the " Collegians " in cart-loads. If you are not content with your way of spending the Lent, I don't know what you Avould say to my dancing quadrilles on Mon- day evening at a ]:)arty in Baggot Street. The family is a most agreeable one, living in very elegant style, and the most friendly and unaiiected that you can imagine. I here met Miss , the sister of the hero you might have heard mc speak of, Avhoni I knew in London. Sbe is a most charming girl indeed. I'll tell you how I might give you some idea of her : if Ehj 0' Connor had been a gentlewoman, she Avould have been just such a one, I think, as Miss . Isn't this very modest talking of my heroine ? I have a great mind to juit her into my next book, and if I do, I'll kill her as sure as a gun, for it would be such delightful play. I exult in the destruction of amiable people, ^particularly in the slaughter of handsome young ladies, for it makes one's third volume so interesting. I have even a hankering wish to make a random blow at yourself, and I think I'll do it some day or other ; so look to yourself and insure your life, I advise you, for I think, if well managed, you would make a very pretty catastrophe. But, until I find occasion for killing you, let my dear Lucy continue to love her affectionate brother. Gerald Griffin". TO HIS BROTHER. LoNDOif, July 31, 182G. My Dear William : I have just got your letter, and write to say that there is at present no chance of my being out of town any 4 1 o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. , time before winter. I iiave been as hard at work, and to as little purpose as usual, since I Avrotc last. The Neios of Literature is dead and buried, leaving me unpaid to some amount — enough to be disagreeable. I am sorry to perceive you write in unpleasant spirits ; these things I have forgot a long time now, for I have been so seasoned by jiartial success and great disapjoointment that I am become quite indifferent about either, though I am still pulling on from habit. My friend Llanos goes to France next week, which I regret as dec2:)ly as it is j^ossible for me to say. As to success, or disappoint- ment, or uncertainty, or apprehension, they are all nonsense. The only plan is to persuade yourself that you will get on gloriously, and that's the best success going. I have, within the last year, seen and talked with some of the most successful geniuses of the day, and I perceive those who possess bril- liant rcj^utations to be conceited, impertinent, affected fools, '•' out of their inspiration," and all others are just about as happy and as miserable as the rest of the world whom nobody knows or cares about. I don't care to know whether you are aware of the low ebb at which literature is at present. Tliat accounts for my obscurity, of course. I write this at such a New Market rate to overtake the joost that I scarcely know what I have said, but it is not of much consequence, as wo shall have the happiness of meeting so soon. I stick by honest Cab's motto: ''Hang sorrow; care'll kill a cat; uj") tails all, and a rouse for the hangman." Dear William, yours affectionately, Geeald Gkiffin. LETTER TO JOHX T5ANIM. Pallas Kexey, October, 183G. My dear Banim : It is with no little gratification I find myself writing to you once more as of old, to ask you how you are, and all who arc about you. I have often thought since I left "Windgap that it must have been an easo to you to get rid of me, you kept such continual driving about while I was with you; besides, the ex- haustion of the evenings, which, I fear, must have been too much for you in your present state of health. To enable me to pass my time i^lcasantly, I am afraid you made it more unpleasant to your- Gerald Griffin. 411 self tlian I ought to havo permitted ; but I am a great hand at see- ing what I ought to hare done when the occasion is jDast. And, now, in the first place, I will ask you, How have you been since ? And have you yet had relief from those terrible jiains and sinkings from which you used to suffer so much and so continually while I was with you ? I believe you would think well of Munster folks if you knew how kind and general have been -their enquiries respecting you since your return. IIow fervently do I wish that time and home and patience may bring about in you the same happy change which they have often done in other invalids, and enable you again to take, and long to hold, your rightful place at the head of our national literature. This sounds mighty like a fine speech, but let it pass. Would it be unreasonable to ask you to send me that song — your song — when you can conveniently do so. I would also wish to have that beautiful little poem you read to mo one evening — the lines " On a Churchyard " \ some of them have been haunting me ever since I heard you read them. It is time for me to say something of the other members of your family, and to make enquiries for Mrs. Banim, and for your sweet little daughter. It is a great blessing that Mrs. Banim's health has held out so well under the severe trials and fatigues to Avhich it has been so long subjected, and most sincerely do I hope that her de- votedness and patience may ere long meet some reward in seeing you restored to at least a jDortion of the health you once enjoyed. I would be most ungrateful — indeed, very ungrateful — if I could ever forget the attention I received both from her and you in London when friends were less than few. In 3'our present state it must be a great source of satisfaction to have your sweet little Mary near friends who feel for her the interest which only, or almost only, relatives can feel. Farewell, my dear frien.l. God bless you and all you feel an interest in. This is my sincere and fervent prayer. Eemember me to your father and brother, also to your sister. Hoping that you will find my '^ shalls '' and "wills," ''shoulds" and '"woulds," " wercs " and ''have beens"in the foregoing orthodox, and hoping far more ardently that they may find you in better health and hope than when I left you, I remain, my dear Banim, your sincere friend, GrEEALD Griffin. JOHN BANIM, " Ireland was the theme most upon his lips, and the love of country glowed in his bosom ever and always." " I should never be tired of talking about and thinking of Banim. Mark me ! he is a man— the only one I have met since I left Ireland." — Gerald Gkiffin. JOWls BANIM, "a bright-hearted, true-souled Irishman," was born in the city of Kilkenny on tlie 3d of April, 1798. His father, Michael Banim, was a respectable shop-keeper and farmer, wlio dealt ''in everything from a fowling-piece of John Eigby's to one of Martin Kelly's fishing-rods, and kept a pair of well-bred horses." He was a good Catholic, and by all who knew him was re- spected for his worth and intelligence. We are told that John's mother, Joannah Carroll, '' possessed a mind of very snperior order, and a store of good sense and womanly, wifely patience ; and these, with health and trust in Heaven, were her only marriage-portion."^ John was a precocious boy, exhibiting marks of genins at an early age. He loved to study in his own way. His greatest pleasure was to steal from school, and, lying under a hedge or beneath the shelter of a haycock, to pore over some prized volume of "I'omance or fairy tale."° At six he resolved to write a story. The table was too high for the young novelist, so he placed his paper on the bed- room floor, anct there scribbled away. It took him three months to finish it. He even wished to get it printed. ISTor did he end with this fairy story. '' We have seen," says his elegant and careful biographer, "■ a romance in two thick manuscript volumes, written in his tenth year, and have looked through several manuscript poems, particu- larly one extending to over a thousand lines, entitled ' Hibernia,' written about the same period." Thus the lad was a poet and novelist, with bold, original, and independent views, even before he made his first Communion ! After a good preliminary training, young Banim, in his thir- teenth year, was sent to Kilkenny College. There he pursued his > Patrick Joseph Murray, " The Life of John Banim." 2 Ibid. 412 John Danint. 413 studies for nearly three years ; but, having developed a very remark- able talent for drawing and jiainting, he selected the profession of artist, and, in 1813, was sent to Dublin, where he entered tlie draw- ing academy of the Eoyal Society as a pupil. For two years more drawing occupied his earnest attention. He returned to his native city, and began life as an artist and teacher of drawing. hX this time John '' was just eighteen years of age, about the middle height, and of good figure. His face was oval, and, though not handsome, his broad, high forehead and his dark-hued eyes, teeming with life and spirit, saved him from the designation — ugly." ^ At one of the schools which he attended, as the teacher of draw- ing, was a young lady, a boarder in the establishment and a pupil of Banim's. She was a bright-eyed, pure-souled, artless girl of seventeen. Banim, full of romance and overflowing w^th aSection, unconsciously fell in love with his pupil, and she, as might have been expected, returned his ardent love. Her father — a blunt, rude- tempered old man — not only refused Banim's j^roposal for his daughter's hand, but insulted the high-spirited young fellow, and secretly removed the girl to a distant part of the country. Six unhappy months passed, when the artist learned that his lady- love was dead — of a broken heart. The shock aroused him from his lethargy, and though in the midst of winter, he started on foot to walk twenty-five weary Irish miles to gaze once more on the placid features of his intended bride. He arrived at his destination, sadly followed her hearse to the churchyard, "and when all had departed, cast himself upon the fresh green mound that marked the grave of his first love." Poor Banim ! Sick at heart, Avith an empty stomach and a 'trembling frame, he turned his steps home- wards. Where he passed the night that followed, he could never remember. Next morning he was met by his brother, leaning upon whose arm he came home. He lay down on his sick-bed, and for twelve months he merely existed. The mental excitement he had undergone and the exposure endured on his journey culminated in a chronic disease of the spine, from which he never entirely re- covered. On regaining his health, Banim soon abandoned the profession of an artist. He first became a contributor to a local paper, the Leinster Gazette, and then editor of the same. Early in 1820 he left his father's house for Dublin, and from this period we may date ^ "Life of Banim." 414 '^^^(^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. his life as a literary man. His letters reveal liis many difficulties — his early struggles for recognition, and liis occasionally " whistling for want of a dinner." But Banim was bold, manly, the very soul of resolution ; literature counts no name moi^e heroi.c, and perse- verino-, und independent. He turned his attention to the drama, and on the 28th of May, 1821, his " Damon and Pythias," an his- torical i)lay of great excellence, was produced at Covent Garden Theatre, the author being only in his twenty-fourth year. Macready and Charles Kemble took the principal parts. In conjunction with his brother Michael ^ he laid the foundation of the celebrated '' Tales of the O'Hara Family " — John to be known by the nom tie plume of Abel O'llara, and Michael by that of Barnes O'Hara. Each was to write as much as possible, and submit his MS. to the other for criticism. At that time Michael was in business with his father, and could only devote his occasional leisure moments to composition, wdiile his more gifted brother proposed to go to London and devote himself wholly to literature. Banim w^as an earnest Catholic, and an ardent and patriotic Irishman, and at this period Ireland had long grown sick and weary of resting under the iron heels of religious degradation and politi- cal despotism. The Irishman was then placed in print only to be jeered and mocked at. Banim saw this. He determined to do something for himself and the good name of his country. He re- solved to do for Ireland what Sir Walter Scott had done for Scot- land. In short, he longed to become the novehst of his dear native isle. In 1822, he married Miss Ellen Euth, the jorctty daughter of a •'gentleman-farmer" of his native count}^ Less tlian a month after his marriage, he set out with his young wife for London, really to seek their fortune. He had little money, but he possessed that wonderful courage which ever dwells in the strong, deep heart of genius. He soon made friends. He wrote for the periodicals. He was ever "up and doing." In April, 1825, the first volume of "The Tales of the O'Hara Family" appeared. This brought him fame and money. " The Boyne Water" was issued early in 1826, The following year he produced " Sylla," a tragedy. " The Croppy/' * Michael Banim, John's elder brother and literary partner, was born in 1796. The Banim family consisted of Michael, John, and Joannah. Michael Banim, towards the end of his life, held the position of Postmaster of Kilkenny, and died only a few years ago. yolni Banim. 415 "The Anglo-Irish," "The Ghost-mmtcr," "The Denounced," '•' TJie Smuggler," ''The Mayor of Windgap," and, finally," Father Oounell " were issued in rapid succession from this time until 1840, when the literary labors of the brothers entirely ceased. The sorrow which shaded John Banim's young days rested on his last years. In 1830 occurred the death of his mother, whom he loYcd with all the intensity of his poetic nature. It was a sad blow. But death was quickly stealing even after himself. In Januar}^ 1832, he wrote to his brother : " My dear Michael : My legs are quite gone, and I suffer agony in the extreme, yet I try to work for all that." Cholera attacked him the same year. His weak and shat- tered body never recovered, and the gifted and high-souled Banim was a confirmed cripple for the brief remainder of his life. In 1835 he returned to his birthplace to -die. The next year a pension of seven hundred and fifty dollars a year was bestowed on him by the Government. This lightened his anxieties for the future, but did not serve to prolong his bright and useful life. In his little cottage of Windgap, surrounded by all the delicate attentions that his devoted wife and afEectionate relatives could bestow, he breathed his last in the summer of 1843. "Have you seen Banim's ' O'Hara Tales ' ?" writes Gerald Griffin to his brother. "If not, read them, and say Avhat you think of them. I think them most vigorous and original things, overflowing with the very spirit of poesy, passion, and painting. All our critics here say they are admirably written ; that nothing since Scott's first novels has equalled them. I think they are astonishing in that power of creating an intense interest without stepping out of real life, and in the very easy and natural drama that is carried through them, as well as in the excellent tact which he shows in seizing on all the points of national character which are capable of effect."' " The story of 'The Nowlans ' and that of ' Croohore of the Bill- Hook,'" writes Mr. Chambers, "can never be forgotten by those who have once perused them. The force of the passions and the effects of crime have rarely been painted with such overmastering energy, or wrought into narratives of more sustained and harrowing interest." ° As a distinguished dramatist, novelist, and, above all, as a man., John Banim stands in the front rank. He is a powerful describer s Letter of June 18, 1825. » " CyclopEedia of English Literature," voL iL 4i6 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. of Irish life, for liis genius was truly Irish, and his knowledge of the Irish character, hahits, and customs, was most accurate. He was a hravc, noble, generous-hearted man. Uis purse — often poorly filled — was always open to the needy and the distressed. Like all good and lofty geniuses, jealousy of rivals was to him a feeling un- known. He was ever ready to assist Gerald Griffin, and Avas the only true friend which that bright soul of genius met in London. " I cannot tell you," writes Griffin to his brother, ''the many many in- stances in which Banim has shown his friendship since 1 wrote last ; let it suffice to say that he is the sincerest, heartiest, most disinter- ested being that breathes. His fireside is the only one where I en- joy anything like social life or home." Wc consider Banim's letters as, perhaps, the most hearty, direct, and graceful specimens of epistolary correspondence in English literature. There is about them a simplicity, easy dash, and pointed brevity for which we look in vain in other great authors. The following lines to the memory of John Banim are from the pen of the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee : " Go preach to those who have no souls to save, who would not shed a tear O'er beauty's blight, or patriot's worth, or virtue on the bier ; Far from the land that bore us, oft did he restore The memory of our earlier days, our country's matchless lore ! " "WTio hath not paused wiuh burning brow o'er his immortal story Of Sarsfield and his Irish hearts in Limerick's list of glory. Or sorrowed with the aged priest or MacNary's lovely daughter, Or felt the power that genius sheds o'er Boyne's historic water ? " Scarce had he to the world given the ancient pastor's worth When he whose pen could paint the soul was torn away from earth ; And many a calm declining eve upon his tombless grave Shall Kilkenny's daughters strew their flowers and sing a requiem stave." " ' Banim's works, in ten volumes, are published by D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York. John Danhn. 417 SELECTIONS FROM BANIM'S WRITINGS. SOGGARTH AEOON ! * Am I a slave, they say, So2:£farth Aroon? Since you did sliow the way, Soggartli Aroon ! Their slave no more to be, While they did Avork with me Old Ireland's slavery, Soggartli Aroon ! Why not her poorest man, Soggartli Aroon ! Try and do all he can, Soggarth Aroon ' Her commands to fulfil, Of his own lieart and will. Side by side with you still, Soggarth Aroon ^ 'ao^ Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth Aroon 1 Yet be no slave to you, Soirfrarth Aroon ! Nor, out of fear to you. Stand up so near to you — Ocli ! out of fear to you I Soggarth Aroon ! •^aa' Who in the winter's night, Soggarth Aroon ! When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth Aroon ! Came to my cabin-door, And on my cabin-floor. Knelt by me sick and poor, Soffsfarth Aroon ? ■'Ob' « Soggarth Aroon 1— rriest dear. d 1 8 T/ie Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Who oil the marriage-day, Soggarth Aroon I Made tlie poor cabin gay, Soggarth Aroon ! And did both langh and sing, Making our hearts to ring, At the jioor christening, Soggarth Aroon ? Wlio as friend only met, Soo-gartli Aroon ! Never did flout me yet, Soggarth Aroon ! And when my heart was dim Gave, while his eye did brim. What I should give to him, Soggarth Aroon ? Och ! you, and only you, Soggarth Aroon ! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth Aroon ! In love they'll never shake. When for Old Ireland's sake We a true joart did take ! Soggarth Aroon ! AILLEElSr. 'Tis not for love of gold I sro, 'Tis not for love of fame. Though fortune should her smile bestow And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go. And yet it is for fame — That they may deck another brow. And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. . John Banim. 410 For this, but this, I go ; for this I lose thy love awhile, And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful smile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. And I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o'er and o'er. And tempt a wave and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Upon a stranger shore. Oh ! when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care ; Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen, I know a brow shall wear. And when with both returned again. My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me. THE EECOXCILIATIOif. [Tae facts recorded in this ballad occurred in a little mountain chapel in the county of Clare at the time efforts were made to put an end to faction fighting among the peasantry.] TnE old man knelt at the altar, Ilis enemy's hand to take. And at first his weak voice did falter And his feeble limbs did shake ; For his only brave boy, his glory, Ilad been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory, By the hand which he now must greet. 420 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And soon the old man stopt speaking, And rage, which had not gone bj, For nnder his brows came breaking Up into liis enemy's eye ; And now his Hmbs were not shaking. But liis clenched hands his bosom crossed. And he looked a fierce wish to be taking Eevenge for the boy he had lost. But the old man he looked around him And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him. And thought that revenge was sin ; And then, crying tears like a woman, •' Your hand," he said, " ay, tliat hand. And I do forgive you, foeman. For the sake of our bleeding land ! " THE STOLEN SHEEP. [From " The Bit o' Writin'."] The faults of the lower classes of the Irish are sufficiently well known ; perhaps their virtues have not been proportionately ob- served, or recorded for observation. The Irish plague, called typhus fever, raged in its terrors. In almost every third cabin there was a corpse daily. In every one, without an exception, there was what had made the corpse — hun- ger. It need not be added that there was poverty, too. The poor could not bury their dead. From mixed motives of self-protection, terror, and benevolence, those in easier circumstances exerted them- selves to administer relief in different ways. Money was sub- scribed ; wholesome food, or food as wholesome as a bad season permitted, was provided ; and men of respectability, bracing their minds to avert the danger that threatened themselves by boldly facing it, entei'ed the infected house, where death reigned almost alone, and took measures to cleanse and purify the cLose-cribbcd air and the rougli, bare walls. Before proceeding to our story, let us be permitted to mention some general marks of Irish virtue, which, under those circumstances, we personally noticed. In yoh7i Banim. 421 poverty^ In abject misery, and at a short and fearful notice, the poor man died like a Christian. He gave vent to none of the poor man's complaints or invectives against the rich man who had neglected him, or who, he might have supjiosed, had done so till it was too late. Except for a glance — and doubtless a little inward pang while he glanced — at the starving and perhaps infected wife, or child, or old parent, as helpless as the child, ho blessed God and died. The appearance of a comforter at his wretched bedside, even •when he knew comfort to be useless, made his heart grateful and his spasmed lips eloquent in thanks. In cases of indescribable misery — some member of his family lying lifeless before his eyes, or else some dying, stretched upon damp and unclean sti'aw, on an earthen floor, without cordial for his lips or potatoes to point out to a cry- ing infant — often we have heard him whisper to himself (and to another who heard him), "■ The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Such men need not always make bad neighbors. In the early progress of the fever, before the more affluent aroused themselves to avert its career, we cross the threshohl of an indi- vidual peasant. His young wife lies dead ; his second child is dying at her side ; he has just sunk into a corner himself under the first stun of disease, long resisted. The only persons of his family who have escaped contagion, and are likely to escape it, are his old father, who sits weeping feebly upon the hob, and his first-born, a boy of three or four years, who, standing between the old man's knees, cries also for food. We visit the young peasant's abode some time after. He has not sunk under "■ the sickness." He is fast regaining his strength, even Avithout proper nourishment ; he can creep out of doors and sit in the sun. But in the expression of his sallow and emaciated face there is no joy for his escape from the grave as he sits there silent, brooding. His father and his surviving child are still hungry — more hungry, indeed, and more helpless than ever, for the neigh- bors who had relieved the family with a potato and a mug of sour milk are now stricken down themselves, and want assistance to a much greater extent than they can give it. ''I wish Mr. Evans was in the place," cogitated Michaul Carroll; '^a body could spake for'nent him, and not spake for nothin', for all that he's an Englishman ; and I don't like the thoughts 0' goin' up 422 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. to tlic house to the steward's face; it wouldn't turn kind to a body. Maybe he'd soon come home to us, the masther himself." Another fortnight elapsed. Michaul's hope proved rain. Mr. Evans was still in London ; though a regular resident on his small Irish estate since it had come into his possession; business unfortu- nately—and he would have said so himself — now kept him an un- usually long time absent. Thus disappointed, Michaul overcame his repugnance to appear before the "hard" steward. He only asked for work, however. There was none to be had. He turned his slow and still feeble foot into the adjacent town. It was market- day, and he took up his place among the crowd of other claimants for agricultural employment, shouldering a spade, as did each of his comrades. Many farmers came to the well-known ''stannin'," and hired men at his right and at his left, but no one addressed Michaul. Once or twice, indeed, touched perhaps by his sidelong looks of beseeching misery, a farmer stopped a moment before him, and glanced over his figure ; but his worn and almost shaking limbs giving little promise of present vigor in the working-field, worldly prudence soon conquered the humane feeling which started towards him in the man's heart, and, with a choking in his throat, poor Michaul saw the arbiter of his fate pass on. lie walked homewards without having broken his fast that dav. "Bud, muslia, what's the harm o' that," he said to himself ; "only here's the ould father an' her pet boy, the weenoch without a pyathec cither. Well asthoo'c, if they can't have the pyathees, they must have betther food — that's all. Ay," he muttered, clenching his hands at his sides, and imprecating fearfully in Irish, "an' so they must." He left his house again, and walked a good way to beg a few po- tatoes. He did not come home quite empty-handed ; his father and his child had a meal. He ate but few himself ; and when he was about to lie down in his corner for the night, he said to the old man across the room : " Don't be crying to-night, father — you and the child there — but sleep well, an' ye'll have the good break'ast afore ye in the morning." " The good break'ast, ma-bouchair a-thin an' where 'ill id come from ? " "A body promised it to me, father.'' '"Avich, Michaul, an' sure its fun you're making of us now at any rate. Bud, the good night, a-cliorra,^" an' my blessin' on your » My boy. lo Term of endearment. Jolni Bcniim. 423 jioad, Micliaul. If we keep trust in the good God, an' ax his bless- in" too, niornin' and cvenin', gettin' up and lyin' doAvn, he'll bo u friend to us at last. That was always an' ever my word, to you, poor boy since yon was the years o' your own wcenoch now fast asleep at my side ; an' it's my word, to you now, ma-bouclial, and. you won't forget id. And. there's one sayin' the same to you out o' heaven this night — herself an' her little angel-in-glory, by the hand, Michaul a-vour- neen.'' Having thus spoken in the fervent and rather exaggerated, though everyday, words of pious allusion of the Irish poor man, old Carroll soon droj^ped asleep with his arms around his little grandson, both overcome by an unusually abundant meal. In the middle of the night he was av;akcncd by a stealthy noise. AYithout moving, he cast his eyes round the cabin. A small window, through which the moon broke brilliantly, was open. He called to his son, but received no answer. He called again and again ; all remained silent. He arose, and crej^t to the corner where Michaul had lain down. It v^as empty. He looked out through the window into the moon- light. The figure of a man appeared at a distance just about to enter a pasture-field belonging to Mr. Evans. The old man leaned his back against the wall of the cabin, tremb- ling with sudden and terrible misgivings. "With him the language of virtue which we have heard him utter was not cant. In early prosperity, in subsequent misfortunes, and in his late and present excess of wretchedness he had never swerved in jn-ac- tico from the spirit of his own exhortations to honesty before men, and love for and dependence upon God, which, as he has truly said, he had constantly addressed to his son since his earliest childhood. And hitherto that son had indeed walked by his in-ecepts, further assisted by a regular observance of the duties of his religion. "Was he now about to turn into another path, to bring shame on his father in his old age, to put a stain on their family and their name ? '*' the name that a rogue or a bould woman never bore," con- tinued old Carroll, indulging in some of the pride and egotism for which an Irish peasant is, under his circumstance, remarkable. And then came the thought of the personal peril incurred by '.Michaul, and liis agitation, incurred by the feebleness of age, nearly overpowered him. He was sitting on the floor shivering like one in an ague fit, when he heard steps outside the house. He listened and they ceased, but 424 The Pnose and Poetry of Ireland. tlie familiar noise of an old barn-door creaking on its crazy hinges came on his ear. It was now day-dawn. He dressed himself, stole out cautiously, peeped into the barn through a chink of the door, and all he feared met full confirmation. There, indeed, sat Michaul, busily and earnestly engaged, w^ith a frowning brow and a haggard face, in quartering the animal he had stolen from Mr. Evans's field. The sight sickened the father — the blood on his son's hands and all. He was barely able to keep himself from falling. A fear, if not a dislike, of the unhapjiy culprit also came upon him. Ilis un- conscious impulse was to re-enter their cabin unperceived, without speaking a word. He succeeded in doing so, and then he fastened the door again, and undressed and resumed his place beside his in- nocent little grandson. About an hour after, Michaul came in cautiously through the still open Avindow, and also undressed and reclined on his straw, after glancing towards his father's bed, who pretended to be asleep. At the usual time for arising old Carroll saw him suddenly jump up and prepare to go abroad. He sjooke to him, leaning on his elbow. '• An' what hollg " is on you, ma-ljouchalV "' Going for the good break'ast I promised you, father dear." "An' who's the good Christian 'ill give id to us, Michaul ?" " Oh ! you'll know that soon, father ; now, a good-by." He hur- ried to the door. ''A good-by, the Michaul; bud, tell me what's that on your hand?" " No — nothing," stammered Michaul, changing color, as he hastily examined the hand himself. "Nothing is on id; what could there be ? " ]^or was there, for he had very carefully removed all evidence of guilt from his person, and the father's question was asked upon grounds distinct from anvthinc: he then saw. '' Well, avich, an' sure I didn't say anything was on it wrong, or anything to make you look so quare an' spake so sthrange to your father this mornin'. Only I'll ax you, Michaul, over again. Who has tuk such a sudd'n likin' to us to send us the good break'ast ? an' answer me sthraight, Michaul. "What is it to be that you call so good ? "' 1 1 What are you about ? yoh7i Banim. 425 "The good mate, fatlier." Ho was again passing the threshold. *' Stoj? ! " cried his father, " stop, and turn foment me. Mate — the good mate ? What 'ud bring mate into our poor house, Mi- chaul ? Tell me, I bid you again an' again, who is to give id lo you ? " " Why, as I said afore father, a body that " — "A body that thieved it, Michaul Carroll !'' added the old man, as his son hesitated, walking close up to the culprit. "A body that thieved id, an' no otlier body. Don't think to blind me, Mi- chaul. I am ould, to be sure, but sense enough is left in me to look round among the neighbors in my own mind and know that none of 'cm that has the will has the power to send us the mate for our break'ast in an honest way. An' I don't say outright that you had the same thought wid me when you consented to take it from a thief. I don't mean to say that you'd go to turn a thief's rccaivcr at this hour o' your life, an' uf ther growin' up from a bey to a man widout bringin' a spot o' shame on yourself, or on your weenock, or on one of us. No, I won't say that. Your heart was scalded, Michaul, and your mind was darkened, for a start, and the thou^-ht o' trettina: comfort for the ould father and the little son made vou consent in a hurrv, widout lookin' Avell afore you or wid- out lookin' up to your good God." " Father, father, let me alone ; don't spake them words to me ! '' interrupted Michaul, sitting on a stool, and spreading his large and hard hands over his face. "Well, thin, an' I won't, avicli, I won't ; nothin' to trouble you sure ; I did'nt mean id. Only this, a-vourneen^ don't bring a mouth- ful o' the bad, unlucky victuals into this cabin. The pyatees, the wild berries o' the bush, the Avild roots o' the earth will be sweeter to us, Michaul; the hunger itself will be sweeter ; an' when we givf God thanks af ther our poor meal, or af ther no meal at all, our hearts will be lighter, and our hopes for to-morrow sthronger, avicli-ma- chrec, than if we faisted on the fat o' the land, but couldn't ax a blessin' on our faist." "Well, thin, I won't either, father, I won't; an' sure you have your own way now. I'll only go out a little Avhile from you to beg ; or else, as you say, to root down in the ground with my nails, like a bastc-brute, for our break'ast." " My vourncen you are, Michaul, an' my blessing on your head I Yes, to be sure, avich, beg, an' I'll beg wid you. Sorrow a shame is 426 The Prose and Poetry of Irelayid. in that ; no, but a good deed, Micliaul, when it is done io keep ns honest. So come, we'll go among the Christians together. Only before vre go, Michaul, my dear son, tell me — tell me one thing. " •• What, father .^ " jMichaul began to suspect. "' Xever be afraid to tell me, Michaul CarroD, ma-houchaJ, I won't — I can't be angry wid you now. You are sorry, an' your Father in heaven forgives you, and so do I. But you know, avich, there would be danger in quitting the place without hiding well every scrap of anything that could tell on us. " '• Tell ou us I What can tell us ? " demanded Michaul ; '- what's in the place to tell on us ? '' " Xothing in the cabin, I know, Michaul ; bnt — " '•But what, father?" '• Have you left nothin' in the way out there ? " whispered the old man, pointing towards the barn. '•■ Out there ? Where ? What ? What do yon mean at all now, father ? Sure you know its your own self has kept me from as much as layin' a hand on it." "'Ay, to-day — mornin' ; but you laid a hand ou it last night, avich, an' so — "' " Curp-an dlwnl! '' imprecated Michaul ; '' this is too bad at any rate. Xo, I didn't, last night or any other night. Let me alone, I bid you, father." "' Come back again, Michaul,'' commanded old Carroll, as the son once more humedtothe door, and his words were instantly obeyed. Michaul, after a srlance abroad and a start, which the old man did not notice, paced to the middle -of the floor, hanging his head, and savincf in a low voice : '• Hushth now, father : it's time." '• Xo, Michaul, I will not hushth ; and it's not time. Come out with me to the bam." '•Hushth I" repeated Michaul, whispering sharply. He had glanced sideways to the square patch of strong morning sunlight on the groimd of the cabin, defined there by the shape of the open door, and saw it intruded upon by the shadow of a man's bust lean- mg forward in an earnest posture. ■• Is id in your mind to go back into your sin, Michaiil, an' tell me you were not in the barn at daybreak the mornin' ? " asked his fa- ther, still unconscious of a reason for silence. " Arrah, hushth, ould man 1 " Michael made a hastv sign towards the door, but was disreofarded. yohn Banim. 427 '' I saw jou ill id," j)ursued old Ciirroll sternly; "av, air at your "svork in id, too." '■' What's that your sayin', ould Pecry Carroll ? " demanded a well- known voice. '• Enough to hang his son," whispered Michaul to his father, as ]Mr. Evans's land-steward, followed by his herdsman and two police- men, entered the cabin. In a few minutes afterwards the policemen had in charge the dismembered carcass of the sheep, dug up out of the floor of the barn, and were escorting Michaul, handcuffed, to the county jail, in the vicinity of the next town. They could find no trace of the animal's skin, though they sought attentively for it, and this seemed to disappoint them and the steward a good deal. From the moment that they entered the cabin till their dej)art- ure, old Carroll did not speak a word. Without knowing it, as it seemed, he sat down on his straw bed, and remained staring stupidly around him, or at one or other of his visitors. When Michaul was about to leave the wretched abode, he paced quickly towards his father, and, holding out his ironed hands and turning his cheek for a kiss, said, smiling miserably, "God be wid you, father dear." Still the old man was silent, and the prisoner and all his attendants passed out on the road. But it was then the agony of old Carroll assumed a distinctness. Uttering a fearful cry, he snatched up his still sleeping little grandson, ran with the boy in his arms till he overtook Michaul, and kneeling down before him in the dust, said : " I ax pardon o' you, avicli ; won't you tell me I have id afore you go ? An' here I've brought little Peery for you to kiss ; you forgot him, a-vourneen.'' *' Xo, father, I didn't ; " answered Michaul, as he stooped to kiss the child ; " an' get up, father, get up ; my hands are not my own, or I wotildn't let you do that afore your son. Get up, there's no- thin' for you to throuble yourself about — that is, I mean, I have nothin' to forgive you ; no, but everything to be thankful for, and to love you for ; you were always and ever the good father to me ; an' — " The many strong and bitter feelings which till now he had almost perfectly kept in found full vent, and poor Michaul could not go on. The parting from his father, however, so dif- ferent from what it had promised to be, comforted him. The old man held him in his arms and wept on his neck. They were sepa- rated with difficultv. 428 The Prose and Podry of Ireland. Pccry Carroll, sitting on the roadside, after he had lost sight of the prisoner, and holding his screaming grandson on his knees, thought the cup of his trials was full. By his imprudence he had fixed the proof of guilt on his own child ; that reflection was enough for him ; and he could indulge it only generally. But he was yet to conceive exactly in what a dilemma he had involved him- self as well as Michaul. The policemen came back to compel his appearance before the magistrate ; and when the little child had been disposed of in a neighbor's cabin, he understood, to his conster- nation and horror, that he was to be chief witness against the sheep- stealer. Mr. Evans's steward knew well the meaning of the words he had heard him say in the cabin, and that if compelled to swear all he was aware of, no doubt would exist of the criminality of Michaul in the eyes of the jury. '' 'Tis a sthrange thing to ax a father to do," muttered Peery more than once, as he proceeded to the magistrate's ; '•' it's a very sthrange thing." The magistrate proved to be humane man. Notwithstanding the zeal of the steward and the policemen, he committed Michaul for trial without continuing to press the hesitating and bewildered old Peery into any detailed evidence ; his nature seemed to rise against the task, and he said to the steward, " I have enough of facts for making out a committal ; if you think the father will be necessary on the trial, subpoena him.'' The steward objected that Peery would abscond, and demanded to have him bound over to prosecute, on two sureties, solvent and res2^cctable. The magistrate assented ; Peery could name no bail ; and consequently he also was marched to prison, though prohibited from holding the least intercourse with Michaul. The assizes soon came on. Michaul was arraigned ; and during his plea of '' not guilty" his father appeared, unseen by him, in the jailer's custody, at the back of the dock, or rather in an inner dock. The trial excited a keen and painful interest in the court, the bar, the jury-bos, and the crowds of spectators. It was universally known that a son had stolen a sheep, partly to feed a starving father, and that out of the mouth of the father it was now sought to con- demn liim. '' What will the old man do ? " was the general ques- tion which ran through the assembly. And while few of the lower orders could contemplate the possibility of his swearing the truth, many of their betters scarce hesitated to make out for him a case of natural necessity of swearing falsely. John Ban int. 429 The trial began. The first witness, tlie herdsman, proved the loss of the sheep and the finding the dismembered carcass in the old barn. The policeman and tlie steward followed to the same effect, and the latter added the allusions which ho had heard the father make to the son npon the morning of tlie arrest of the latter. The steward went down from the table. There was a pause and complete silence, which the attorney for the prosecution broke by saying to the crier deliberately, '' Call Pcery Carroll." "Here, sir," immediately answered Pcery, as the jailer led him by a side-door out of the back dock to the table. The prisoner started round, but the new witness against liim had passed for an instant into the crowd. The next instant old Pcery was seen ascending the table, assisted by the jailer and by many otlier commiserating hands near him. Every glance fixed on his face. The barristers looked wistfully up from their seats round the table ; the judge put a glass to his eye and seemed to study his features attentively. Among the audience there ran a low but expressive murmur of pity and interest. Though much emaciated by confinement, anguish, and suspense, Peery's cheeks had a flush and his weak blue eyes glittered. The half-gaping expression of his parched and haggard lips was misera- ble to sec. Yet he did not tremble much nor appear so confounded as upon the day of his visit to the magistrate. The moment he stood upright on the table he turned himself fully to the judge, without a glance towards the dock. '' Sit down, sit down, poor man," said the judge. ''Thanks to you, my lord, I will," answered Peery, '*' only first I'd ax you to let me kneel for a little start." lie accoi'dingly did kneel, and after bowing his head and forming the sign of the cross on his forehead, he looked up and said: '•' My Judge in heaven above, 'tis you I pray to keep me in my duty afore my earthly judge this day. Amen ! " Then, repeating the sign of the cross, ho seated himself. The examination of the witness commenced, and humanely pro- ceeded as follows (the counsel for the prosecution taking no notice of the superfluity of Peery's answers) : " Do you know Michaul or Michael Carroll, the prisoner at the bar?" " Afore that night, sir, I believed I knew him well — every thought of his mind, every bit of the heart in his body. Afore 430 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland'. tluit niglit no living craturc could throw a word at Michanl Car- roll, or say lie ever forgot his father's rearin' or his love of his good God. Sure the people are afther tellin' you by this time how it came about that night ; an', my lord, an' ye gintlemen, an' all good Christians that hear me, here I am to help to hang him, my own boy, and my only one. But for all that, gintlemen, ye ought to think of it. 'Twas for the weenoch and the ould father that he done it. Indeed an' 'deed, we hadn't a pyatee in the place, and the sickness was amonsr us a start afore ; it took the wife from him an' anothdr babv, an' id had himself down a week or so beforehand ; an' all that day lie was looking for work, but couldn't get a hand's turn to do. An' that's the way it was. Not a mouthful for me an' little Peery. More betoken, he grew sorry for id in the mornin', and promised me not to touch a scrap of what was in the barn — ay, long afore the steward an' the joeelers came on us — but was willin' to go among the neighbors an' beg our breakfast, along wid myself, from door to door, sooner than touch it." " It is my painful duty," resumed the barrister, when Peery would at length cease, "■ to ask you for closer information. You saw ^lichael Carroll in the barn that night ?" " Miislia — the Lord pity him an' me I — I did, sir." '' Doing what ? " " The sheep between his hands," answered Peery, dropjoing his head and speaking almost inaudibly. ■ "'I must still give you pain, I fear. Stand up, take the crier's rod, and if you see Michael Carroll in court lay it on his head." '' Och, nuisha, musha, sir, don't ax me to do that!" pleaded Peer}', rising, wringing his hands, and, for the first time, weeping. '•' Och, don't, my lord, don't, and may your own judgment be favor- able the last day I " '' I am sorry to command you to do it, witness, but you must take the rod," answered the judge, bending his head close to his notes to hide his own tears. At the same time many a veteran bar- rister rested his forehead on the edge of the table. In the body of the court were heard sobs. '•'Michaul, avich! Michaul, a corra-ma-chree I" exclaimed Peery, when at length he took the rod, and faced around to his son. "is id your father they make to do it, ma-houchal ? " ''My father docs Avhat is right," answered Michaul in Irish. The judge immediately asked to have his words translated, and John Banim. 431 when he learned their import, regarded the prisoner with satis- faction. " We rest here, my lord," said the counsel, with the air of a man freed from a painful task. The judge instantly turned to the jury-box : " Gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner at the bar stole the sheep in question there can be no shade of moral doubt ; but you have a very peculiar case to consider. A son steals a sheep that his own famishing father and his own famishing son may have food. Ilis aged parent is compelled to give evidence against him here for the act. The old man virtuously tells the whole truth before you and me. He sacri- fices his natural feelings — and we have seen that they are lively — to his honesty and to his religious sense of tlie sacred obligations of an oath. Gentlemen, I will pause to observe that the old man's conduct is strikingly exemplary, and even noble. It teaches all of us a lesson. Gentlemen,, it is not within the jorovince of a judge to censure the rigor of the proceedings which have sent him before us ; but I venture to anticipate your pleasure that, notwithstanding all the evidence given, you will be enabled to acquit the old man's son, the prisoner at the bar. I have said there cannot be the shade of a moral doubt that he has stolen the sheep, and I repeat the words : but, gentlemen, there is a legal doubt, to the full benefit of whicli he is entitled. The sheep has not been identified. The herdsman could not venture to identify it (and it would have been strange if he could) from the dismembered limbs found in the barn. To his mark on its skin, indeed, he might have positively spoken ; but no skin has been discovered. Therefore, according to the evidence — and you have sworn to decide by that alone — the prisoner is entitled to your acquittal. Possibly, now that the prosecutor sees the case in its full bearing, he may be pleased with this result." "While the jury, in evident satisfaction, prepared to return their verdict, Mr. Evans, who had but a moment before returned home, entered the court, and, becoming aware of the concluding words of the judge, expressed his sorrow aloud that the prosecution had ever been iTudertaken ; that circumstances had kept him uninformed of it, though it had gone on in his name. And ho begged leave to as- sure Lis lordship that it would be his future effort to keep Michaul Carroll in his former path of honesty by finding him honest and ample employment, and, as far as in him lay, to reward the virtue of the old father. 432 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. While Tcery Carroll was laughing and crying in a breath in tliG :irms of his delivered son, a subscription commenced by the bar was mounting into a considerable sum for his advantage. LETTERS OF JOHN BANIM. LETTER TO HIS BEOTHER. DuBLiK, May 10, 1820. My dear Michael: The health that I enjoy is Avouderful to myself. Do not be so fearful on my account. You that stay at ' home and are very happy have many superfluous apprehensions about a younger son or brother who roves about a little. Be assured of this, my dear and only friends, almost the sole thing that sends the blood to my heart or the tear to my eye is the recollection, now and then, that I am parted from you ; but this gives me greater strength for the struggle to get back — and back I will return, if God spares me life, and we will spend and end our days together. Your affectionate brother, JOHH BaNIM. TO HIS BROTHER. Dublin, May 18, 1820. My dear Michael: You speak very gloomily on the uncertainty of my means if I go to London. Don't let your fear affect you so keenly. I have not found a crock of gold, nor has a prize in the lottery turned up for me ; but, with Heaven's helj), I shall not want means. ISTo man of ordinary talents wants them in London, with proper conduct and half the introductions I hold. Say I possess no talent — this you will not say ; it would not be what you feel — I have a consciousness of possessing some powers, and, situated as I am, it is not vanity to say so. I have health, hope, energy, and good- humor, and I trust in the Lord God for the rest. I know not how long I could fast ; even this I may be called on to try. I have been the best part of two days without tasting food of late. Often have I gone to Avhistle for my dinner, and once I walked about the town during the night for want of a bed. I sec you start at this. I can assure you, without affectation, it has John Baiiim. AZZ amused mc, and I thrive on it. I am fatter and better-looking than when yon saw me. At the present time I am comparatively rich, and go so high as tenpence for my dinner, and a goodly plate of beef and vegetables it is. Most affectionately yours, JoH]sr Banim. TO HIS FATHER. Dublin, October 12, 1820. My dear Father : When difficulties pressed most upon me, I determined to wage war with them manfully ; I called on my own mind, and put its friendship for me to the proof. In the midst of occasionally using my pencil, of newspaper scribbhng and reporting, < and surrounded by privation, and almost every evil but bad health, I manufactured some hundreds of verses, with notes appending, which I called " Ossian's Paradise." I handed "Ossian's Paradise" to a friend, an eminent poet, celebrated orator, and lawyer. lie showed it to a friend of his, a jMr. Curran, who introduced it to Lord Cloncurry. It pleased both. It was subsequently submitted to the greatest writer of the age, Scott. His judgment was : '^Itis a poem possessing imagination in a high degree, often much beauty of language, with a consider- able command of numbers and metre." This opinion was accom- panied by a candid criticism on j)articular portions, with a view to its success when published. " Ossian's Paradise " is to be published by Mr. "Warren, of Bond Street, London. I am to receive £20 within a month, with fifty copies to dispose of on my own account. If it runs to a second edition, £10 more. Tliese terms my friend before mentioned, Mr. Shiel, thinks advantageous. My dear Father, do not blame me for not communicating this matter in its progress. I will explain my motive. My failures hitherto had given to all of you at home quite enough of uneasiness, and I wished to have a rational probability of success in view before I should excite your interest. If I failed, I had determined to be silent on the affair to you, my mother, and Michael, and to all the world besides. Do me the favor, my dear Sir, of requesting Michael to read this 434 '^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. letter for my old schoolmaster, Mr. Buchanan, and fill your glass in the evening to the success of '' Ossian's Paradise," when you three are seated round the little octagon table in your own sanctum sanctorum. And my own dearest mother, perhaps she may have cause to think more respectably than was her wont of my rhyming pro- pensities. Believe me your most affectionate son, JOHif BA]S^IM. TO HIS FATHEE. DuBLix, November 30, 1820. My deak Fathee : I am employed for another and larger work, which, in case of the success of the present, Mr. Warren i^romises to give me a fair price for. I am not flattered into anything like sanguine hope. I will continue to do my best. If I succeed, I will thank God ; if I fail, it may be for the better, and I will thank Him then also. In remembering me to my dearest mother and to Joanna, say that I thank them for their present. They have knitted me a fine lot of stockings indeed, which fit me excellently well, and to all appearance they are everlasting. With love to all at home, I am, as ever, John Banim. TO HIS fathee AKD MOTHEE. LoNDOX, 7 Amelia Place, i PcLHAM Egad, March 30, 1S22. f My deae Fathee and Mothee: We '- got into London on Mon- day evening. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we spent lodging- hunting. We settled here yesterday. We are pleasantly situated as regards accommodation, and when I retire to the back drawing-room, which I have fixed upon for my study, I am as quiet as if I were in a wood. Exclusive of the convenience I enjoy, there is a charm attached to my abode that recommended it to me above all others. I breathe the very air of inspiration : I sit in the same chair, I lounge on the 12 Himself and his wife. . "ii yohn Banim. 43 c same sofa, and I think, read, and write in the very stndy Avhere John Philpot Curran sat, lonnged, and thought. Four years of the latter part of this great man's life were spent in the rooms I now occupy. His thoughts even yet, perhaps, iloat about my little study ; and when I lock the door and sit down, I almost imagine I can get them into a corner and make them my own. Ever truly and lovingly your devoted son, JoHisr Banim. TO HIS BROTHEK. LOKDOX, May 2, 1824. Mt dear Michael: I have read attentively, and with the great- est pleasure, the portion of the tale you sent me by J. H . So far as it goes, I pronounce that you have been successful. Here and there I have marked such particular criticisms as struck me, and those you may note by referring to the margin. I send you the MSS. of my tale, and I request your severest criticisms ; scratch out and condemn at your pleasure. This is the first copy. Looking over it, I perceive m.any parts that are bad ; send it back when you can with every suggestion you are capable of making. Read it over for the whole family in solemn conclave. Let Father, Mother, Joanna, and yourself sit in judgment on it, and send mo all your opinions sincerely given. I have met some eminent literary characters lately, and many of whom I had formed high notions fall far short of my expectations. I will say no more about these, and at your peril keep my gossip to yourself. Hap ! hap ! it is dangerous to meddle with edged tools ; a chip from an angry liomme de lettres " would cut deep. I have had opportunities for coming into close contact with Geoffrey Crayon.'* Ho is as natural as his sketches, a man who would play with a child on the carpet, and one of the few litterateurs I have known whose face and character are in sincere keeping with his talents. Believe me, dear Michael, ever yours, JoHJsr Bani-v. ^3 A literary man. ■■i This was the nom deplume of Washington Irving. We are pleased to see the gifted and -warm-hearted Banim praising oar gifted, gentle, and graceful Irving, the American master of English prose. 1 6 The Prose and PoeLry of Ireland. TO HIS BKOTHEE. LONDOH, April 6, 1825. My deah Michael : Our talcs have not been announced in the usual manner, and I will tell you why. A certain literary gentleman, an Irishman, too, of undoubted talent, beino- aware of the nature of our volumes, started with a spirited publisher and got out notices, and it became rather an amusing race between us. He would come occasionally, in tlie most friendly manner, to hope I was going on well. Pen against pen it was, as fast as they could gallop. Mounted on my grey goose quill, I have beaten him, as to time at all events. It was necessary to keep him in the dark by leaving our books unan- nounced. What may be the further result of our race is yet to be seen. There is quackery in ail trades, from the boudoir to the pill-box. I purpose to be in Derry,''^ two hundred miles north of you, in a few v/ecks, and in some time after I will run down to Kilkenny to shake hands with you all, and to hear my poor mother call me her own ^Ujraw Izwn " '" once again. JoHiq^ Baxim. TO niS BROTHEE. CoLERAiXE, May 28, 1825. My DEAR Michael : Lest you should be uneasy at my staying longer than I proj^osed, I wiitc to say I am well and have only been delayed by the uninterrupted interest of my route from Belfast.'^ I walked a great part of the way along the coast to this town ; hav- ing foi-^-arded all my baggage, trusting to Him who feeds the spar- row and the raven for a meal and a bed. My adventures have been considerable in the way of living alone. I sometimes slept in a sheebecn house, sometimes in a farmer's house, and sometimes in a good inn ; and only I thought myself too ill-dressed a fellow, I might have shared the hospitality of a certain lady of high rank. But what scenery have I beheld ! grand, exquisite ! the Cause- way, from which I have just returned, the best part of it. You may look out for mo towards tlie end of next Aveek. One tliino- is o " Londonderry. ic a term of endearment. " It T7as on this journey that Eanim cor.ected the materials for his excellent historic story of " The Boyne Water." yolni Bani7n. 437 certain, I will meet a hearty welcome at the old house where I first Dear Michael, ever yours, JoiiK Baxiji. saw the light TO HIS BEOTHER. LoxDOX, Koyember G, 1825. My deae Michael : With this you will receive the first volume of " The Boyne Water." I expect it to go to press iu a montli from this day, so read it immediately, and return it as promptly as you can. Be very candid in your remarks ; because I ought to he made to know myself ; and don't you at least, through a false delicacy, let mc lead myself astray ; every man's vanity blinds himself, to himself, of himself. This morning (Sunday), accompanying Ellen '^ to Communion, I was delighted with the fair and beautiful sight of a crowd of other communicants of every rank and age clustering to the sanctuary. Some old Chelsea pensioners were there ; the lame, the blind, and the tottering ; and there were boys and girls of very tender age mixed with these infirm old men. Leaning down to minister the bread of comfort and of life to those stumblers on the grave's brink, and those young adventurers on a world of temptation, w^as a most reve- rend-looking priest, with long white hairs, who, to my knowledge, is one of the most zealous, virtuous, simple-minded men alive. My dear Michael, as I looked on, the recollection of our first Com- munion together side by side, and of the devotion and holy awe that filled my heart at the time ; and the remembrance of the aged and benevolent parish priest bending down to us with the Sacrament in his fingers came refreshingly to me, like the draught of a pure spring ; and a long train of innocent days and blissful times passed before me, with my thoughts recitrrent to boyhood. Your devoted brother, Jonx Baxim. letter to GERALD GRIFFIX. Sevex Oaks, May 27, 1828. My DEAR Griffix: I see you lead the way. Be assured tliat your last, of April 22, gives me heartfelt pleasure. My old harp of " Mrs. Banim. 438 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. a heart lias a string restored to it. I accciDt your invitation not to allow anything that may occur in letters between us to start a doubt in future of your fricndshiii or character. Let mo add my own coYcnant. When we meet, treat me more bluntly, oil-handedly, and talkatively than you have done. I am now sure that an unlucky difficulty hitherto regulated (or rather disarranged) your social man- ner. However, 1 shall be happier with you if amongst your other re- cent changes you have acquired a knack of treating a friend differ- ently, and I close this topic by protesting against your supposing that I here mean an iota which does not meet your eyes. I envy* your life in poor Ireland. My health has been bad since I saw you ; I nearly lost the use of my limbs, but can now limp about on a stick. I write you a short and hasty letter. Till this day, since I had the great j)leasure of receiving your last, I have been very busy, and ill enough into the bargain, and this morning I start with Mrs. Banim to make a long-promised visit to the Eev. James Dunn. Pray write soon, and believe me your affectionate friend, JOHIS" BAlTIil, TO HIS BROTHER. Boulogne, May 2, 1830. Mt dear Michael : I am now a paralyzed man, walking with iTiueli difficulty. I move slowly and cautiously, assisted by a stick and any good person's arm charitable enough to aid me. It is not to add to your trouble that I thus describe myself ; I only tell you to prepare you at home for the change. I look well, and my spirit is yet uncrippled. Go to my Mother's bedside as soon as you re- ceive this and say what you can for me. I think that she need not kuuw that I am so lame. Your affectionate brother, JOHif BAIiflM. TO HIS BROTHER. BouLOGisE, July 4, 1830. My dear Brother: You will naturally ask yourself, " Why has not John written?" Dear Michael, I could not, and I have no John Banim. 439 explanation — only I could not. And now I liavc not a single word to the purpose to say, althongli, after a fortnight's silence, I do write. The blow has not yet left me master of myself. A blow, indeed, it was. Yonr letter was suddenly thrust into my hand, and the color of the wax told me at a glance that my Mother had left me. I fell to the ground without having opened it. I anticipated the contents. You tell me to be tranquil. It is in vain. I never felt anguish be- fore. Yet it is true that the spiritualized lot of our Mother is a grand consolation ; so also is the certainty that she died in the arms of those she loved, and who loved her. Not a very long time shall elapse, if I live, till we meet in Kil- kenny. My wanderings, with God's leave, must end there. Ever, dear Michael, your loving and devoted brother, JoHX Baxim. TO HIS BROTHER. Paris, April 30, 1835. Dear Michael: "What I require is this: I must have a little garden — not overlooked, for with eyes on me I could not enjoy it. Herein paths to be, or afterwards so formed, as to enable three per- sons to walk abreast. If not paths, grass-plats formed out of its beds ; for with the help of your neck or arm, dear Michael, I want to try and put my limbs under m3. This is the reason for my last, and to you, perhaps, strange, request; but indeed there is a reason connected with my bodily and mental state for all the jorevious matters to be sought for in my contemplated abode, and which I have so minutely particularized. If possible, I wish my little house to have a sunny aspect ; sun into all possible windows every day that the glorious material god shines. I am a shivering being, and require and rejoice in his in- vigorating rays as does the drooping, sickly plant. If this little house could be within view of our Nore stream, along the bank of which you and I have so often bounded, but along which I shall never bound again, it would enhance my pleasure. I will begin to go home the 10th of next month (May). Travel- ling is to me a most expensive and tedious process. Every 440 ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. league of the road will take a shackle off me. My mind is fixed on a little sunny nook in Kilkenny, where I may set myself down and die easily, or live a little longer as happily as I can. Until we meet, believe me, my dear Michael, Your most affectionate brother, JoHif Bakim. THOMAS DAVIS. " I remember with what startled enthusiasm I would arise from reading Davis's ' Poems ' ; and it would seem to me that before my young eyes I saw the dash of the Brigade at Fonteuoy ; it would seem to mc as if my young ears were filled with the shout that resounded at the Yellow Ford and Benburb — the war-cry of the Red Hand — as the English hosts were swept away, and, like snow under the beams of the rising sun, melted before the Irish onset." — V. Rev. Father BUKKE, O.P. " It is impossible to exaggerate this man's genius, acquirements, and extraor- dinary talents, or his brilliant services to Ireland. He has, I will venture to say, given a nev/ impulse to the minds of Ireland, invested Irish literature with a classic dignity, and adorned it with a classic grace, bringing to its cultivation and development a mind imbued with philosophy, history, science, art, poetry, and warmed by a heart charged with an enthusiastic iove of freedom." — Mooxey. THOMAS DAVIS was born in the year 1814, in the famous little town of Mallow/ on the Blackwater, in the county of Cork. '' Amongst the hills of Miinster," writes John Mitchel, ''on the banks of Ireland's most beauteous river, the Avondlieu — Spencer's Auinduff — and amidst a simple people who yet retained most of the venerable usages of the olden time — their wakes and funeral caoincs, their wedding merrymakings and simple hospitality, with a hundred thousand welcomes — he imbibed that passionate and deep love, not for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native land, which gives to his Avritings, both in prose and poetry, their chief- value and charm." ^ After a good preliminary training, Davis entered Trinity College, Dublin. As a student, he was a quiet, hard worker, who did not confine himself merely to the text-books of the university. " There- fore," says Mitchel, ''he was not a dull, plodding blockhead, 'pre- mium-man.' He came through the course creditably enough, but without distinction." Slowly his rich intellect developed. His latent abilities were un- known even to himself. He spent his fresh,, young days in storing his mind and training his heart, and when he devoted both to the 1 Ma'low is the birthplace of the venerable Archbishop Purcell, the eminent historian. Dr. E. B. O'Callaghan, and several other distinguished men. a " Introduction to the 'Poems ' of Davis." 441 442 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. lofty service of his country, the world beheld in him a full man— a true, warm-hearted Irishman of splendid gifts. *' During his college course," Avrites Wallis, his friend and com- rade, "and for some years after, while he was very generally liked, he had, unless perhaps with some who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation of any kind. ■ In his twenty-fifth year, as I re- member — in the spring of 1839 — he first began to break out of this. His opinions began to have weight, and his character and influence to unfold tliemselves in a variety of ways. In the following year he entered political life. '•' The outbreak of his poetical power began in this wise : In the autumn of 1842, taking an active part in the establishment of a new popular journal — the Xation — which was intended to advance the cause of nationality by all the aids which literary as well as poli- tical talent could bring to its advocacy, Davis, and the friends asso- ciated witli him, found that while their corps in other respects was sufficiently complete, they had but scanty promise of support in the poetical department. Davis and his companions resolved, in default of other aids, to write the poetry themselves. They did so ; they surprised themselves, and everybody else. "The rapidity and thrilling power with which, from the time that he got full access to the public car, Davis developed his energies as statesman, political writer, and poet excited the surjorise and admira- tion even of those who knew him best, and won the respect of num- bers who, from jiolitical or personal jirejudices, had been originally most unwilling to admit his worth. ";N"o power is so overwhelming, no energy so untiring, no enthusi- asm so indomitable as that which slumbers for years, unconscious and unsuspected, until the character is completely formed, and then bursts at once into light and life when the time for action is come." Equal to any emergency was tlie genius of Davis. The labors of a quarter of a century he crushed into three short years. "It is not detracting," writes John Mitchel, " from any man's just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, inspired, created, and moulded the strong national feehng that possessed the Irish people in 1843, made O'Connell a true uncrowned kins ' Placed the strength of all the land Like a falchion in his hand.' " In the following year Davis gave the greater portion of his best Thomas Davu 443 poems to the world. Unliappily, liis wise and patriotic genius was to be too soon dimmed in deatli. Ho died, after a brief illness, at his mother's residence, Dublin, on the 16th of September, 1845. He was only in his thirty-first year. His grave is in Mount Jerome Cemetery, and there rests all that is mortal of " the most danger- ous foe English dominion in Ireland has had in our generation." ^ What Thomas Davis left behind him is but a fragment of tlit man's real greatness. His ''Poems" and " Literary and Historical Essays " are published in one neat volume of about five hundred pages. Until three years before his death he never wrote a line of poetry. Yet his glorious quill dashed ofl: poems that will endure as long as the English language — poems that will be read and admired as long as there is a man of the Irish race alive. His poetry was but the expression of his own manly nature, warm heart, and lofty character. It came from the heart. It finds its way to the heart. It has the true ring which finds an echo in every soul that can admire the brave and the beautiful. Speaking of the poetry and music of Ireland, Father Burke, the wonderfully eloquent Dominican, justly remarks: "A hand less un- worthy came, a hand less unworthy than Thomas Moore's, a hand more loyal and true than even his was, when in Ireland's lays appeared the immortal Thomas Davis. He and the men upon whom we built up our hopes for Young Ireland — he, with them, seized the sad, silent harp of Erin and sent forth another thrill in the invitation to the men of the Korth to join hands with their Catholic brethren — to the men of the South to remember the ancient glories of ' Brian the Brave.' To the men of Connaught he seemed to call forth Roderick O'Conor from bis grave at Clonmacnoise. He rallied Ire- land in that year so memorable for its hopes and for the blighting of those hopes. He and the men of the Nation did what this vforld has never seen in the same space of time, by the sheer power of Irish genius, by the sheer strength of Young Ireland's intellect; the Nation of '43 created a national poetry, a national literature, which no other country can equal. Under the magic voices and pens of these men, every ancient glory stood forth again. I remember it well ; I was but a boy at the time, but I remember with what startled enthusiasm I would arise from reading 'Davis's Poems'; and it Avonld seem to me that before my young eyes I saw the dash of the Brigade at Fontenoy ; it would seem to me as if my young ears were 3 Jolm Mitchel. 444 ^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. filled with the shout tliat resounded at the Yellow Ford and Ben- burb— the war-cry of the Ked Hand — as the English hosts were swept away, and, like snow under the beams of the rising sun, melted before tlio Irish onset. The dream of the poet, the aspi- ration of the true Irish heart, is yet unfulfilled. But remember that there is something sacred in the poet's dream. The inspi- ration of genius is second only to the inspiration of religion. There is something sacred and infallible, with all our human fallibility, in the hope of a nation that has never allowed the hope of freedom to be extinguished." ^ O'Connell mourned deeply the loss of Davis. '' I cannot expect," Avrote the aged Liberator, '• to look upon his like again, or to see the place he has left vacant adequately filled up." ^ SELECTIONS FEOM THE WORKS OF DAVIS. THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. 'TwAS dying they thought hei". And kindly they brought her, To the banks of Black water, "Where her forefathers lie. 'Twas the place of her childhood, And they hoped that its wild wood And air soft and mild Avould Soothe her spirit to die. But she met on its border A lad who ador'd her — 2\"o rich man nor lord, or A coward or slave ; But one who had worn A green coat, and borne A pike from Sliab Mourue With the patriots brave. Oh ! the banks of the stream are Than emeralds greener ; And how should they wean her * "Lecture on the National Music of Ireland." * Nun of Eenmare's •■ Life of Daniel O'Connell. Thomas Davis. 445 From loving the earth, AVhile the song-birds so sweet, And the waves at their feet, And each young pair they meet. Are all flushing with mirth. And she listed his talk, And he shar'd in her Avalk, And how could she baulk One so gallant and true ? But why tell the rest ? Her love she confest. And sank on his breast Like the eventide dew. Ah ! now her cheek glows With the tint of the rose. And her healthful blood flows Just as fresh as the stream. And her eye flashes bright, And her footstep is light, And sickness and blight Fled away like a dream. And soon by his side She kneels a sweet bride, In maidenly pride And -maidenly fears. And their children were fair. And their home knew no care, Save that all homesteads were Not as happy as theirs. love's longings. To the conqueror his crowning, First freedom to the slave, And air unto the drowning Sunk in the ocean's wave. 44^ The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And succor to the faithful Who light, tlieir flag above. Are sweet but far less grateful Thau were my lady's love. I know I am not worthy Of one so young and bright. And yet I would do for thee Far more than others might. I cannot give you pomp or gold If you should be my wife, But I can give you love untold. And true in death or life, Methinks that there are passions Within that heaving breast To scorn their heartless fashions, And wed whom you love best. Methinks you would be prouder As the struggling patriot's bride. Than if rank your home should crowd, or Cold riches round you glide. Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, And the infant cries for lioht. And the saint for heaven's warning, And the vanquished pray for might ; But their prayer, when lowest kneeling. And their supiiliance most true, Are cold to the appealing Of this longing heart to vou. MT LAXD. She is a rich and rare land , Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land She is a dear and rare land— This native land of mine. Thomas Davis. 447 No men than hers are braver ; Her women's hearts ne'er waver ; I'd freely die to save her, And think my lot divine. She's not a dull or cold land ; No ! she's a warm and bold land, Oh ! she's a true and old land — This native land of mine. Could beauty ever guard her. And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border, No friend within it pine. Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land ; Oh ! she's a true and rare land; Yes ! she's a rare and fair land — This native land of mine. A NATIOK ONCE AGAIN. When boyhood's fire was in my blood, I read of ancient freemen, For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, Tliree Mindred men and three men ! And then I prayed I yet might sec Our fetters rent in twain, And Ireland, long a province, be A nation once again. And from that time, through wildest woe. That hope has shone a far light ; Nor could love's brightest summer glow Outshine that solemn starlight. It seemed to watch above my head In forum, field, and fane ; Its angel voice sang round my bed : "A nation once again." 448 The Prose and Poetij of Ireland. It whispered, too, that "freedom's ark" And service, higli and holy, AVould be profan'd by feehugs dark And passions vain or lowly ; For freedom comes from God's right hand. And needs a godly train ; And righteoiis men must make our land — A nation once again. So, as I grew from boy to man, I bent me to that bidding. My spirit of each selfish plan And cruel passion ridding ; For thus I hoped some day to aid — Oh ! can such hope be vain ? — AYhen my dear country should be made A nation once again. FONTENOY. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column lailed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assail'd; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary. As vainly through Do Barri's Wood the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back diminished and dispersed. The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye. And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride ! And mustering came his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread. Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head. Steady they step adown the slope, steady they climb the hill ; Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still. Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace-blast. Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast. Thoutas Davis. 449 And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve that mocked at hostile force, Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee tlirough Holland's ocean- banks. More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round ; As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the ground ; Bombshell and grape and round-shot, still on they marched and fired — Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. " Push on, my Household Cavalry I " King Louis madly cried : To death they rush, but rude their shock — not unrevenged they died. On through the camp the column trod ; King Louis turns his reign. "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed ; "the Irish troops remain." And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. " Lord Clare," he says, " you have your wish ; there are your Saxon foes ! " The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes ! How fierce the look the exiles wear, who'rc wont to be so gay. The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day — The Treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry, Their plundered liomes, their ruined shrines, their Avomen's part- ing cry. Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country over- thrown — Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets ; charge!" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands ! Thin is the English column now and faint their volleys grow, Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. 450 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. They dress tlieir ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind, Their bayonets the breaker's foam, like rocks the men behind. One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza ! *'Keveno-e ! remember Limerick ! dash down the Saesanach !" Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger's pang, Eight up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang. Bright was their steel ; 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore. Throu"-h shattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore ; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled — The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon the track. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field is fought and won ! CLAKE S DKAGOOXS. When, on Eamillies' bloody field, The baffled French were forced to yield. The victor Saxon backward reeled Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. The flags we conquered in that fray Look lone in Ypres' choir they say ; We'll win them, company, to-day. Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. Cliorus. Viva la for Ireland's wrong ! Viva la for Ireland's right ! Viva la in battled throng For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! Thomas Davis. 451 The brave old lord died near the fight. But for each drop he lost that night A Saxon cavalier shall bite The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons ; For never when our spurs were set, And never when our sabres met, Could we the Saxon soldiers get To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. Cliorus. Viva la the New Brigade ! Viva la the old one, too ! Viva la the rose shall fade And the Shamrock shine forever new ! Another Clare is here to lead. The worthy son of such a breed ; The French expect some famous deed When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. Our colonel comes from Brian's race. His wounds are in his breast and face, The gap of danger is still his place. The foremost of his bold dragoons. Cliorus. Viva la the New Brigade ! Viva la the old one, too ! Viva la the rose shall fade And the shamrock shine for ever' new % There's not a man in squadron here Was ever known to flinch or fear, Tliou2;li first in char-Tjc and last in rear Has ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons. But see, we'll soon have work to do. To shame our boasts or prove them true. For hither comes the English crew To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. 452 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. Chorus. Viva la for Ireland's wrong ! Viva la for Ireland's right ! Viva la in battled throng For a Spanish steed and sabre bright ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,. Her dearest hope the ordered lines. And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons. Then fling your Green Flag to the sky, Be Limerick your battle-cry. And charge till blood floats fetlock higli Around the track of Clare's Dragoons. Clioncs. Viva la the New Brigade ! Viva la the old one, too ! Viva la the rose shall fade And the Shamrock shine for ever new ! XATIOXALITY. A nation's voice, a nation's voice. It is a solemn thins: ! It bids the bondage-sick rejoice, 'Tis stronger than a king. 'Tis like the liglit of many stars. The sound of many waves. Which brightly look through prison-bars, And sweetly sound in caves. Yet is it noblest, godliest known When righteous triumph swells its tone. A nation's flag, a nation's flag, ' If wickedly unrolled. May foes in adverse battle drag Its every fold from fold ! Thomas Davis. 453 But ill the cause of Liberty Guard it "gaiust earth and hell, Guard it till death or victory — Look you you guard it well ! No saint or king has tomb so proud As he whose flag becomes his shroud. A nation's right, a nation's right — God gave it, and gave, too, A nation's sword, a nation's might. Danger to guard it through. 'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, 'Tis just and equal laws. Which deal unto the humblest folk As in a noble's cause. On nations fixed in right and truth God would bestow eternal youth. May Ireland's voice be ever heard. Amid the world's applause ! Aud never be her flag-staff stirred. But in an honest cause ! May freedom be her every breath Be justice ever dear. And never an ennobled death May son of Ireland fear ! So the Lord God Avill ever smile, With guardian grace, upon our Isle. OH ! FOR A STEED. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing scimitar. To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red hussar ; To mock their boasts. And strew their hosts, And scatter their flags afar. 454 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Oil ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Poland gather d round, To smite her circle of savage foes, and smash tliem on the ground • Nor hold my hand "While on the land A foreign foe was found. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that never failed. And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate valor mailed, Till '"^ stripes and stars," And Russian czars. Before the Eed Indian qnailed. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains of Ilindostan, And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge like a single man. Till our shirts were red. And the English fled Like a cowardly caravan. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks at Marathon, Or a place in the Switzer phalanx when the Morat men swept on. Like a jMne-clad hill By an earthquake's will Hurl'd the valleys npon. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian smote down the Dane, Or a place beside great Hugh O'Neill when Bagenal the bold was slain. Or a waving crest And a lance in rest, With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Currach of Cilldar, And L-ish squadrons skilled to do, as they are ready to dare, A hundred yards. And Holland's guards Drawn up to engage me there. Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good cause at all. Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding a leaguered wall For freedom's right ; In flushinsr fiirht To conquer, if then to fall. Thomas Davis. 455 THE GREEX ABOVE THE RED. i'uLL often, when our fathers saw the Red above the Green, They rose, in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and skian, And over many a noble town and many a field of dead They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red. But in the end throughout the land the shameful sight was seen, The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green ; But well they died, in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled. Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red. And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green Were withered as the grass that dies beneath the forest screen ; Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed. That in some day to come the Green should flutter o'er the Red. Sure, 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and "Wolfe Tone sunk serene — Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green ; And 'twas for this that Owen fought and Sarsfield nobly bled — Because their eyes were hot to see tlie Green above the Red. So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red Avas seen ; Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said : " Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red." And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean — That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green, And leave our sons sweet liberty, and smiling plenty spread Above the land, once dark with blood — the Green above the Red! The jealous English tyrant now has bann'd the Irish Green, And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean ; But yet, by Heaven ! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead Than force our hearts to leave the Green and cotton to the Red. We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or qneen ; And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed Once and for evermore to raise the Green above tl:e Red ! 456 The Prose a?id Poetry of Ireland. THE PEXAL DAYS. Oh ! weep tliose days, the penal days, When Ireland hopelessly complained ; Oil ! weep those days, the i)enal days. When godless persecution reigned; When, year by year. For serf and peer Fresh cruelties were made Ijy law. And, fdled with hate. Our Senate sate To weld anew each fetter's flaw. Oh ! weep those days, those penal days ; Their mem'ry still on Ireland weighs. They bribed the flock, they bribed the son. To sell the jiriest and rob the sire ; Their dogs were taught alike to run Upon the scent of wolf and friar. Among the poor. Or on the moor. Were hid the pious and the true, While traitor knaye And recreant slave Had riches, rank, and retinue. And, exiled in those penal days. Our banners over Europe blaze. A stranger held the land and tower Of many a noble fugitive ; No Catholic lord had lordly power, The peasant scarce had leave to live : | Above his head A ruined shed, No tenure but a tyrant's will ; Forbid to plead. Forbid to read, ' Bisarm'd, disfranchis'd, imbecile— "j What v/onder if your step betrays The freedom born in penal days ? Thomas Davis. 457 They're gone, they're gone, tliose penal days, All creeds are equal in our isle ; Then grant, Lord ! thy plenteous grace Our ancient feuds to reconcile. Let all atone For blood and groan. For dark revenge and open wrong ; Let all unite For Ireland's right. And drown our griefs in freedom's song. Till time shall veil in twilight's haze The memory of those penal days. THE RIGHT ROAD. Let the feeble-hearted pine. Let the sickly spirit whine, But to work and win be thine. While you've life. God smiles upon the bold, So when vour flao-'s unroll'd Bear it bravely till you're cold In the strife. If to rank or fame you soar, Out your spirit frankly pour. Men will serve you and adore Like a king. Woo your girl with honest pride Till you've won her for your bride, Then to her through time and tide Ever clinir. Xever under wrongs despair; Labor long and everywhere, Link your countrymen, prepare, And strike home. Thus have great men ever wrought, Thus must greatness still be sought. Thus labor'd, lov'd, and fought Greece and Eome. 458 The Prose a?id Poetry of Ireland, TIPPEEAEY. Let Britain boast her British hosts, About them all right little care we ; Not British seas nor British coasts Can match the man of Tipperary ! Tall is his form, his heart is warm, His sirit light as any fairy ; His wrath is fearful as the storm That sweeps the hills of Tipperary ! Lead him to fight for native land. His is no courage cold and wary : The troops live not on earth Avould stand The headlong charge of Tipperary ' Yet meet him in his cabin rude, Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary, You'd swear they knew no other mood But mirth and love in Tipperary ! You're free to share his scanty meal, His plighted word he'll never vary ; In vain they tried with gold and steel To shake the faith of Tipperary ! Soft is his cuilin's sunnv eve. Her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high ; Oh ! she's the pride of Tipperary. Let Britain, too, her banner brag. We'll lift ther Green more proud and airy ; Be mine the lot to bear that flair, And head the men of Tipperary. Tliough Britain boasts her British hosts. About them all right little care we ; Give us, to guard our native coasts. The matchless men of Tipperary ! Thomas Davis. 459 STUDY. [From "Literary and Historical Essays," by T. Davis.] Beside a library, how poor are all the other greatest deeds of men — his constitution, brigade, factory, man-of-war, cathedral — •how poor are all miracles in comparison ! Look at that wall of motley calfskin, open those slips of inked rags, who would fancy them as valuable as the rows of stamped cloth in a warehouse ? Yet Aladdin's lamp was a child's kaleidoscope in comparison. There the thoughts and deeds of the most efficient men during three thousand years are accumulated, and every one who will learn a few conventional signs — twenty-six (magic) letters — can pass at l^leasurc from Plato to jSTajioleon, from Argonauts to the Afighans, from the woven mathematics of La Place to the mythology of Egypt, and the lyrics of Burns. Young reader, pause steadily and look at this fact till it blaze before you \ look till your imagination summons up even the few acts and thoughts named in that last sentence, and when these visions, from the Greek pirate to the fiery-eyed Scotchman, have be- gun to dim, solemnly resolve to use these glorious opportunities, as one whose breast has been sobbing at the far sight of a mountain resolves to climb it, and already strains and exults in his purposed toil. Throughout the country, at this moment, thousands are consult- ing how to obtain and use books. We feel painfully anxious that this noble purpose should be well directed. It is possible that these sanguine young men who are wildly pressing for knowledge may grow weary or be misled — to their own and Ireland's injury. We intend, therefore, to put down a few hints and warnings for them. Unless they themselves ponder and discuss these hints and warnings, they will be useless, nay, worse than useless. On the selection and purchase of books it is hard to say what is useful without going into detail. Carlyle says that a library is the true university of our days, where every sort of knowledge is brought together to be studied ; but the student needs guides in the library as much as in the university. He does not need rules nor rulers, but light and classification. Let a boy loose in a library, and if he have years of leisure and a creative spirit, he will come out a master- mind. If he have the leisure without the original spring, he will become a book-worm, a useful help, perhaps, to his neighbors, but 460 The Pilose and Poetry of Ireland. himself a very feeble and poor creature. For oue man who gains weapons from idle reading we kuow twenty who lose their simpli- city without getting strength, and purchase cold recollections of other men's thoughts by the sacrifice of nature. Just as men are bewildered and lost for want of guides in a large library, so are others from an equal want of direction in the pur-' chase of a small one. We know from bitter experience how much money it costs a young man to get together a sufficient library. Still more hard we should think it for a club of young men to do so. But worse than the loss of money are the weariness from read- ing dull and shallow books, the corruption from reading yicious, extravagant, and confused books, and the waste of time and patience from reading idle and impertinent books. The remedy is not by saying: "ThisJ^ook you shall read, and this other you shall not read under penalty," but by inducing students to regard their self- education solemnly, by giving them information on the classification of books, and by setting them to judge authors vigorously, and for themselves. Booksellers, especially in small towns, exercise no small influence in the choice of books, yet they are generally unfit to do so. They are like agents for the sain of j^atent medicines, knowing the joricc but not the ingredients, nor the comparative worth of their goods, yet puffing them for tiie commission's sake. If some competent person would write a book on books, he would do the world a great favor ; but he had need be a man of caution, above political bias or personal motive, and indifferent to the out- cries of party. One of the first mistakes a young, ardent student falls into is that he can master all knowledge. The desire for universal attainment is natural and glorious ; but he who feels it is in danger of hurry- ing over a multitude of books, and confusing himself into the belief that he is about to know everything because he h::3 ckimmed many things. Another evil is apt to grow from this. A young man who gets a name for a great variety of knowledge is often ashamed to appear ignorant of what he does not know. He is appealed to as an au- thority, and instead of nninfully and Avisely avowing his ignorance, he harangues from the title page, or skilfully parades the opinions of other men as if they were his own observations. Looking through books in order to talk of them is one of the Thomas Davis. 461 worst and commonest vices. It is an acted lie, a device to conceal laziness and ignorance, or to compensate for want of Avit ; a stupid device, too, for it is soon found out, the employer of it gets the character of being a literary cheat ; he is thought a pretender, even when well informed, and a plagiarist when most original. Heading to consume time is an honest but weak employment. It is a positive disease with multitudes of people. They crouch in corners, going over novels and biographies at the rate of two volumes a day, when they would have been far better employed in digging or jilaying shuttle-cock. Still it is hard to distinguish betv.'cen this long looking through books and the voracity of a curious and l^owerful mind gathering stores which it will afterwards arrange and use. The reader needs not formally criticise and review every book, still less need he pause on every sentence and word till the full meaning of it stands before him. But he must often do this : He must analyze as Avell as enjoy. He must consider the elements as well as the arguments of a book, just as, long dwelling on a landscape, he will begin to know the trees and rocks, the sun-flooded hollow and the cloud-crowned top, which go to make the scene ; or, to use a more illustrative thought, /IS one, long listening to the noise on a summer day, conies to sepa- rate and mark the bleat of the lamb, the hoarse caw of the crow, the song of the thrush, the buzz of the bee, and the tinkle of the brook. Doing this deliberately is an evil to the mind, whether the subject be nature or books. The evil is not because the act is one of analy- sis, though that has been said. It is proof of higher power to com- bine new ideas out of what is before you, or to notice combinations not at first obvious, than to distinguish and separate. The latter ieads to logic, which is our liumblest exercise of mind, the for- mer to creation, which is our highest. Yet analysis is not an nnhealthy act of mind, nor the process wo have described always analytical. The evil of deliberate criticism is that it generates sceiiticism. Of course we do not mean religious, but general, scepticism. The process goes on till one sees only stratification in the slope, gases in die stream, cunning tissues in the face, associations in the mind, du astronomical machine in the sky. A more miserable state of coul no mortal ever suffered than this. But an earnest man, living 462 The I' rose mid Poetry of Ireland. and loving vigorously, is in little danger of this condition, nor docs it last long with any man of strong character. Another evil, confined chiefly to men who write or talk for effect, is that they become spies (as Emerson calls them) on nature. Thcy do not wonder at, love, or hate what they see. All books and men are arsenals to be used, or, more projoerly, stores to be plundered bv them. But their punishment is sharp. They love insight into the godlier qualities, they love the sight of sympathy, and become con- scious actors of a jooor farce. Happiest is he who judges and knows books and nature and men (himself included) spontaneously or from early training, whose feel- ings are assessors with his intellect, and who is thoroughly in ear- nest. An actor or a spy is weak as well as wretched ; yet it may be needful for him who was blinded by the low principles, the tasteles; rules, and the stupid habits of his family and teachers to face this danger, deliberately to analyze his own and others' nature, delibe- rately to study how faculties are acquired and results produced, and to cure himself of blindness and deafness and dumbness, and be- come a man observant and skilful. He Avill suffer much' and run great danger, but if he go through this faithfully and then fling himself into action and undertake respousibilitv, he shall be o-reaT and happy. " ^ DANIEL aCONNELL. " O'Connell had not merely to arouse a people— he had, first of all, to create a people. Having created a people, he had to shape their instincts — to direct and rule them. Hannibal is esteemed the greatest of generals, not because he gained victories, but because he made an array. O'Connell, for the same reason, must be considered among the first of legislators — not because he won triumphs, but because he made a people.^'' — Giles. " Centuries of patient endurance brought, at length, the dawn of a better day. God's hour came, and it brought with it Ireland's greatest son, Daniel O'Connell." — V. Rev. Father Burke, O.P. " God, the Church, and his country — such were the great ends of all his actions.'' — Father VENTxmA. D ANIEL O'CONNELL, one of the most remarkable men and greatest political geniuses in the history of the world, was born on the Gth of August, 1775, at a i^lace called Carhen, near the little town of Cahirciveen, county of Kerry. His father, Morgan O'Connell, belonged to an ancient Irish family. His mother, Kate O'Mullane, was a lady of rare beauty of character. Her illustrious son, in after years, often spoke of her. " I am," he wrote in IS-il, '*' the son of a sainted mother, who watched over my childhood with the most faithful care. She was of a high ordei* of intellect, and what little I possess was bequeathed me by her. I may, in fact, say without vanity that the superior situation in which I am placed by my countrymen has been owing to her. Her last breath was passed, I thank Heaven, in calling down blessings on my head ; and I valued her blessing since. In the perils and dangers to which I have been exposed through life I have regarded her blessing as an angel's shield over me ; and as it has been my protection in this life, I look forward to it also as one of the means of obtaining hereafter a hap- piness greater than any this world can give." ' Daniel's first schoolmaster v/as poor old David Mahony. "We are told that he kindly took the little fellow on his knee, and in the short space of an hour and a half the future '' Liberator " — then in 1 Letter in the Belfast Vindicator, quoted by the Nun of Kenmare in her " Life of Daniel O'ConneU." 463 464 The Pi'osc and Poetry of Ireland. liis fourth year— learned tlie whole alphabet perfectly and per- manently.' As a boy, he liked ballads, and was very ambitious. He read much and studied hard. His uncle ' took the Dublin Magazine, which contained sketches and pictures of distinguished men. " I won- der," he would say to himself, " will my picture ever appear in this ? " One day, when he was about nine years of age, the family were discussins: the merits of Burke and Grattan. The lad looked grave and said nothing. '•' What are you thinking of ? " said a lady. "I'll make a stir in the world yet !" was the characteristic reply. At the age of thirteen, young O'Connell was sent for a time to a Catholic school ■ near the Cove of Cork, or, as it is now called, Queens- town, and a year or two later he proceeded to the Continent, where he studied successively at Louvain, St. Omer, and Douai. He was driven from France by the barbarities of the French Ee- volution, and after about three years of assiduous law study in London, he was called to the Irish bar in that sadly memorable year, 1798. When thus fairly entered upon the world's wide stage, he had strong reasons for avoiding politics. No lawyer could hope to rise in his profession unless willing to be the parasite and slave of the Go- vernment. In Ireland it was even very dangerous to be found in op- position to the Government. Despite all this, O'Connell could not be silent when he beheld the legislative independence of his country about to be annihilated. Like a brave, honest man, he indignantly protested against the abhorred Union. His first public speech was a protest against it. This was delivered in January, 1800, in the Hall of the Royal Exchange, Dublin. Tliis first speech contained the principles of his whole political life. " It is a curious thing enough," said he, afterwards, "that all the principles of my subse- quent political life are contained in ray very first speech." In 1802 O'Connell married his cousin. Miss Mary O'Connell, the daughter of a physician in Tralee. She proved a most devoted wife = -'Life of O'Connell," by his son, John O'Connell. ^ '• Daniel O'Connell was adopted by his Uncle Maurice, the o-wner of Derrynane, from •vrhomhe inherited that celebrated place."— " Centenary Life of O'Connell," by Rev. John O'Rourke, P.P., M.R.I.A. ' This was Vti% first Catholic school publicly opened after the repeal of the penal law ■whioh forbade CathoU:s to educate their children. '■' \V. J. O NeUl Daunt, " Personal Reco'lections of O'ConneU," vol. ii. Daniel O Council. 465 His success in his profession is tlius translated into pounds by himself. " The first year I was at the bar," he remarked to Mr. Daunt, " I made £58 ; the second year about £150 ; the third year £200 ; the fourth year about 300 guineas. I then advanced rapidly, and the last year of my practice I got £9,000, although I lost one term." " The story of 0' Connell's life as a public man is the history of Ire- land for over a third of a century. It cannot bo told here; and, indeed, it is too well known to need repetition. When the Catho- lics of Ireland were sunk in gloomy apathy, and degraded by odious penaJ enactments, he raised them up by the unaided force of his astonishing genius. He assumed the leadership. In 1809, he began his agitation of Catholic emancipation. He addressed the people of Ireland in letters which he headed with the motto from Byron : *' Hereditary bondsmen, know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow." For years he was the chief organizer and speaker at all Catholic meetings. In season and out of season, he' toiled away, cheering by his words and his presence a heart-broken and down-trodden people. Peacefully he fought the battles of his native isle, almost single- handed. In 1833, he founded the Catholic Association ; organized the Catholic " Eent," by which the battle of the people was fought at the election hustings; boldly stood for the representation of the county of Clare in 1828 — was elected; forced the thick-headed statesmen and barbarous Government of England to concede Catholic emancipation in 1829 ; and finally held a seat in the British Parliament until the day of his death. He coiild have been a judge or a lord, but he would rather be Daniel O'Connell. He cared for position only in as far as it enabled him to assist Ireland and her unhajopy people. In 1831 he left the bar that he might wholly deyote himself to the cause of his country. He began the Eepeal agitation. He wished to see a Parliament once more in Dublin. In 18-13 he was prosecuted by the Government, and was in prison for three months, when the judgment against him was reversed by the House of Lords. Soon after he found himself opposed by the " Young Ireland " party ; his health declined ; his popularity declined ; he saw gaunt famine stalk the land, and the clouds of misfortune gather and become blacker and blacker. While the Irish were famishing by thousands, » W. J. O'NeDl Daunt, '•Personal Recollections of O'Connell," vol. i. 466 The Prose ajid Poetry of Ireland Irish grain was shipped from Ireland. Then, that the cause of the famine might be investigated, some English scientists were sent over. Well did the indignant spirit of the great old man— great even in adversity— exclaim : ''So we have got scientific men from England ! It appears that they would not answer unless they came from Eno-land ! just as if we had not men of science in abundance in Ireland, and of a higher order and more fitted for the duties than any Saxon they could send over. There must be something English mixed up in the thing, even in an enquiry involving per- haps the life and death of millions; anti-national prejudices must bo indulged in, and the mixing-stick of English rule introduced ! Well, they have given us two reports — these scientific men have. And what is the value of them ? Of what practical use will they be to the people ? I read them over and over again in the hope of finding something suggestive of a remedy, and, so help me Heaven ! — I don't mean to swear — if I can find anything in the reports of these scientific men, unless that they knew not what to say ! They suggest a thing, and then show a difficulty. Again a suggestion is made which comes invested with another difiiculty, and then they are ' your very humble servants ! ' Oh ! one single peck of oats — one bushel of wheat — ay, one boiled potato — would be better than all their reports ! " His last words in the British Parliament were: ''Ireland is in your hands. She is in your power. If you don't save her, she can't save herself ; and I solemnly call upon you to recollect that I predict, with the sincerest conviction, that one-fourth of her population will perish unless you come to her relief ! " Two months later the gi'eat and venerable O'Connell was no more. He started for Rome, "the City of the Soul," but on reaching Genoa he died, on the 15th of May, 1847, in the seventy-second year of his age. His last words were : " My body to Ireland, my heart to Rome, my soul to Heaven ! " THE MOSES OF ERIN".'' BY JOHN o'KANE MUKRAY. Columbia's bold battle-cry had echoed o'er the sea, The brave had raised their banners high tp struggle and be free, When the western shores of Erin, those shores so grand and wild, Were honored by a genius young, a good and gifted child. Written on the occasion of tlio O'Connell Centenary, August 6, 1875. Daniel GConnell. 467 A hundred years, a hundred years have slowly rolled away, And in this land v»-e celebrate O'Connell's own birthday — A day when Justice bright arrayed to his great tomb shall go, And smiling Freedom, too, shall there a beauteous bouquet throw. The hero of an isle sublime, his course I need not trace. For as he grew in stature grand, he grew in mind and grace ; His patent of nobility to him came from above. And ancient faith and native laud were objects of his love. In him great Nature blended, in one harmonious whole, A figure of matchless manhood with beauties of the soul ; A mind of sparkling genius bold, a breast that knew not fear, A soul that scanned the future with the vision of a seer. Great man ! the world could not bribe him, nor Britain make him feat ; He thought but of his country — her wrongs — her sad, sacred tear ! Ever faithful, nobly faithful, in hall or felon's cell. He loved dear, beauteous Erin ever wisely and well. What sword and blood could ne'er obtain from England's brutal hand His peaceful power and giant voice called forth at a command — A command of magic eloquence that round the world did roll. And proclaimed the cause of Erin to every heart and soul I Shall we ever see his like again, so nobly bright and bold. Poor Erin's own Demosthenes— greater than he of old ; The golden tongue in eloquence, whose words kept Bull at bay, Whose language was a thunder grand, that shook tyrannic sway ? To me speak not of warriors bold who battled for a name, Here was the Christian Hercules that fought not for fame. But with grim oppression struggled, and single-handed won, A glory great, an action gi'and — more fadeless than the sun ! O'Connell ! bright, immortal name ! the greatest of the great. The Moses of earth's blessed isle, the guider of a state ! From the Egypt of tyranny he set his people free. And the promised land of freedom in the distance had to see 1 Away in that famed old city, in story proud and bright, Renowned home of Columbus, in which first he saw the Ught, There came an honored pilgrim to rest his aged head, For him life's battle ended, the hopes of time had fled. At last that moment dr^ad arrived, his spirit would depart, And then he breathed these farewell words, which moved his mighty heart: " My soul to thee. Almighty Lord ! my Irish heart to Rome, My blessing and my latest thought to my fond island home ! " 468 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Ami hovering by that bed of death, near Erin's faithful son, Are angcla. Columbus hails him on his victories won. They rise ! and on high together shine the pilgrims o'er the main. And the glorious soul sublime that a " world gave to Spain." And clear aloft O'Connell's name a light shall ever shine As bright freedom's star resplendent in a firmament divine. His words shall be remembered, his glories spoken o'er, When England's power and savage rule shall long be things of yore. On the green hill-sides of Erin his voice is heard no more, But the echo of his clarion tones comes from that upper shore, Whence his pure and lofty spirit still cheers us here below. And beckons "onward," "upward," as the ages swiftly flow. REPLY TO MR. BELLEW. {Delivered in the Catholic Board, 1813.) At tliis late hour, and in the exhausted state of the meeting, it requires all the impulse of duty to overcome my determination to allow the debate to be closed without any reply, but a speech has been delivered by the learned gentleman (Mr. Bellew) which I can- not suffer to pass without further answer. My eloquent friend, Mr. O'Gormau, has already powerfully exposed some of its fallacies, but there were topics involved in that sjoeech which he has not touched upon, and which, it seems to me, I owe it to the Catholics and to Ireland to attempt to refute. It was a speech of much talent, and much labor and prepara- tion. Mr. Bellew declared that he had spoken extempore. Well, it was certainly an able speech, and we shall see whether this extempore effort of the learned gentleman will appear in the newspapers to-morrow in the precise words in which it was uttered this day. I have no skill in prophecy, if it does not happen ; and if it does so happen, it will certainly be a greater miracle than that the learned gentleman should have made an artful and ingenious, though, I confess, I think a very mischievous, speech without pre- paration. I beg to say that, in replying to him and to the other supporters of the amendment, I mean to speak with great personal respect of Daniel O' Council. 469 them, but that I feel myself bound to treat their arguments "vvith no small degree of reprehension. The learned gentleman naturally claims the greater part of my attention. The ingenuity with which he has, I trust, gratuitously advocated our bigotet) enemies, and the abundance in which he has dealt out insinu ns against the Catholics of Ireland, entitle his discourse to the ..^st place in my reprobation. Yet I shall take the liberty of saying a passing word of the other speakers before I arrive at him. He shall be last, but I promise him not least, in my consideration. The opposition to the general vote of thanks to the Bishops was led by my friend Mr. Hussey. I attended to his speech with that regard which I always feel for anything that comes from him ; I attended to it in the expectation of hearing from his shrewd and distinct mind something like argument or reasoning against this expression of gratitude to our prelates. But, my Lord, I was entirely disappointed ; argument there was not any, reasoning there was none ; the sum and substance of his discourse was lite- rally this, that he (Mr. Hussey) is a man of a prudent and econo- mical turn of mind, that he sets a great value on everything that is good, that praise is excellent, and, therefore, he is disposed to be even stingy and niggard of it; that my motion contains four tim.cs too much of that excellent article, and he therefore desires to strike of[ three parts of my motion, and thinks that one-quarter of his praise is full enough for any bishops, and this the learned gentle- man calls an amendment. Mr. Bagot came next, and he told us that he had made a speech but a fortnight ago, which we did not understand, and he has now added another which is unintelligible ; and so, because he was mis- understood before, and cannot be comj^rchended at j:) resent, he con- cludes most logically that the Bishops are wrong, andthat he and Mr. Hussey are right. Sir Edward Bellew was the next advocate of censure on the Bishops ; he entertained us Avith a sad specimen of minor polemics, and drew a learned and lengthened distinction between essential and non-essential discipline ; and he insisted that, by virtue of this distinction, that which Avas called schism by the Catholic prelates could be changed into orthodoxy by an Irish baronet. This distinc- tion between essential and non-essential, must, therefore, be very beautiful and beautifying. It must be very sublime, as it is very senseless, unless, indeed, he means to tell us that it contains some 470 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. secret allusion to our enemies. Por example, that the Duke of Eichmond affords an instance of the essential whilst my Lord Manners is plainly non-essential ; that Paddy Duigenan is essential in perfection, and the foppish Peel is, in nature, without essence ; that Jack Gilfard is, snrely, of the essential breed, whilst Mr. Willy Saurin is a dog of a different color. Such, I presume, is the plain English of the worthy baronet's dissertation. Translated thus, it clearly enough alludes to the new commission; but it would be more difficult to show how it applied in argument against my motion. I really did not expect so whim- sical an opposition from the honorable baronet. If there be any feeling of disappointment about him for the rejection of the double Veto Bill, he certainly ought not to take revenge on the board by bestowing on us all the tediousness of incomprehensible and in- sane theology. I altogether disclaim reasoning with him, and I freely consent that those who relish his authority as a theologian should Yote against the prelates. And now I address myself to the learned brother of the theolo- gical baronet. lie began by taking great merit to himself and de- manding great attention from you, because he says that he has so rarely addressed you. You should yield to him, he says, because he so seldom requires your assent. It reminds me of the prayer of the English officer before battle: ''Great Lord," said he, "during the forty years I haye lived I never troubled you before with a single prayer. I have, therefore, a right that you should grant me one request, and do just as I desire for this once." Such was the manner in which the learned gentleman addressed us; he begs you will confide in his zeal for your interests because he has hitherto confined that zeal to his own. He desires that you w^ll rely upon his attention to your affairs because he has been heretofore inatten- tive to them ; and that you may depend on his anxiety for Catholic emancipation inasmuch as he has abstained from taking any step to attain that measure. Quite different are my humble claims on your notice, quite dif- ferent are the demands I make on your confidence. I humbly so- licit it because I have sacrificed, and do, and ever will, sacrifice my interest to yours ; because I have attended to the varying posture of your affairs, and sought for Catholic emancipation with an activity and energy proportioned to the great object of our pursuit. I do, therefore, entreat your attention whilst I unravel the spider-web of Daniel O Council. 471 sophistry witli which the learned gentlemau this day sought to em- barrass and disfigure your cause. His discourse was divided into tliree principal heads. First, he charged the Catholic prelates witli indiscretion ; secondly, he charged them with error ; and, lastly, he charged the Catholics with bigotry; and, with the zeal and anxiety of a hired advocate, he gratuitously vindicated the intolerance of our oppressors. I beg your patience whilst I follow the learned gentleman through this threefold arrangement of his subject. I shall, however, invert the order of his arrangement and begin with his third topic. His argument in support of the intolerants runs thus : First, he alleges that the Catholics are attached to tlieir religion with a bigoted zeal. I admit the zeal, but I utterly deny the bigotry. He seems to think I overcharge the statement. PerhaiDs I do ; but I feel con- fident that, in substance, this accusation amounted to a direct charge of bigotry. "Well, having charged the Catholics with a bigoted attachment to their Churcli, and having truly stated our repugnance to any interference on the part of tlie secretaries of the Castle with our prelates, he proceeded to insist that those feelings on our part justified the apprehensions of the Protestants. The Catholics, said Mr. Bellew, are alarmed for their Church ; why should not the Protestants be alarmed also for theirs ? The Catholic, said he, de- sires safety for his religion ; why should not the Protestant require security for his ? When you Catholics express your anxiety for the purity of your faith, adds the learned advocate, you demonstrate the necessity there is for the Protestant to be vigilant for the preserva- tion of his belief ; and hence Mr. Bellew concludes that it is quite natural, and quite justifiable in the Liverpools and Eldons of the Cabinet to invent and insist upon guards and securities, vetoes, and double vetoes, boards of control, and commissions for loyalty. Before I reply to this attack upon its and vindication of our enemies, let me observe that, however groundless the learned gentle- man may be in argument, his friends at the Castle will at least have the benefit of boasting that such assertions have been made by a Catholic at the Catholic Board. . And now see how futile and unfounded his reasoning is. He says that our dislike to the proposed commission justifies the sus- picion in which the plan of such commission originated ; that our anxiety for the preservation of our Church vindicates those who deem the proposed arrangement necessary for the protection of 472 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. theirs— a mode of reasoning perfectly true, and perfectly applicable, if Ave souglit any interference with, or control over, the Protestant Church. If we desire to form any board or commission to control or to regulate the appointment of their bishops, deans, archdeacons, rectors, or curates ; if we asked or required that a single Catholic should be consulted upon the management of the Protestant Church or of. its revenues or privileges ; then indeed would the learned gen- tleman be right in his argument, and then would he have, by our example, vindicated our enemies. BuL the fact does not bear him out ; for we do not seek, nor desire, nor would we accept of, any kind of interference with the Protestant Church. We disclaim and disavow any kind of control over it. We ask not, nor would we allow, any Catholic authority over the mode of appointment of their clergy. Nay, we are quite content to be excluded forever from even advising his Majesty with respect to any matter relating to or concerning the Protestant Church, its rights its properties, or its privileges. I will, for my own part, go much further ; and I do declare most solemnly that I would feel and express equal, if not stronger, repugnance to the in- terference of a Catholic with the Protestant Church than that I have expressed and do feel to any Protestant interference with ours. In opposing their interference with us, I content myself with the mere war of words. But if the case were reversed, if the Catholic sought this control over the religion of the Protestant, the Protest- ant should command my heart, my tongue, my arm, in opj)Osition to so unjust and insulting a measure. So help me God ! I would in that case not only feel for the Protestant and speak for him, but I would fight for him, and cheerfully sacrifice my life in the defence of the great principle for which I have ever contended — the prin- ciple of universal and complete religious liberty. Then, can anything be more absurd and untenable than tlie argument of the learned gentleman when you see it stripped of the false coloring he has given it ? It is absurd to say that merely be- cause the Catholic desires to keep his religion free the Protestant is thereby justified in seeking to enslave it. Pteverse the position, and see whether the learned gentleman will adopt or enforce it. The Protestant desires to preserve his religion free ; would that justify the Catholic in any attempt to enslave it ? I will take the learned advocate of intolerance to the bigoted court of Spain or Portugal, and ask him would he, in the supposed case, insist that Daniel G ConnelL 473 the Catholic was justifiable. No, my Lord, he will not venture to assert that the Catholic would be so ; and I boldly tell him that in such a case the Protestant Avould bo unquestionably right, the Catholic certainly an insolent bigot. But the learned gentleman has invited mo to a -discussion of tlie question of securities, and I cheerfully follow him. And I do, my Lord, assert that the Catholic is warranted in the most scrupulous and timid jealousy of any English, for I will not call it Protestant (for it is political, and not, in truth, religious), interference with his Ciiurch. And I will also assert, and am ready to prove, that the English have no solid or rational pretext for requiring any of those guards, absurdly called securities, over us or our religion. My Lord, the Irish Catholics never, never broke their faith — they never violated their plighted promise to the English. I appeal to history for the truth of my assertion. My Lord, the English never, never observed their faith with ns — they never performed their plighted i^romise ; the history of the last six hundred years joroves the accuracy of my assertion. I will leave the older pe- riods, and fix myself at the Revolution. More than one hundred and twenty years have elapsed since the Treaty of Limerick. That treaty has been honorably and faithfully performed by the Irish Catholics ; it has been foully, disgracefully, and directly violated by the English. English oaths and solemn engagements bound them to its performance; it remains still of force and un- perform.ed, and the ruffian yell of English treachery which accom- panied its first violation has, it seems, been repeated even in tlic Senate House at the last repetition of the violation of that treaty. They rejoiced and they shouted at the perjuries of their ancestors — at their own want of good faith or common sense. IsTay, are there not present men who can tell us, of their own knowledge, of another instance of English treachery ? Was not the assent of many of the Catholics to the fatal — oh ! the fatal — measure of the Union purchased by the express and written promise of Catholic emancipation, made from authority by Lord Corn- wallis, and confirmed by the Prrme Minister, Mr. Pitt ? And has that promise been j)erformed ; or has Irish credulity afforded only another instance of English faithlessness ? Now, my Lord, I ask this assembly whether they can confide in English promises ? I say nothing of the solemn pledges of individuals. Can you confide in the more than punic faith of your hereditary task-mas- 474 1^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ters ? or shall we be accused of our scrupulous jealousy when Ave reject with iudignatiou the contamination of English control over our Church ? But, said their learned advocate (Mr. Bellew), they have a right to demand, because they stand . in need of securities. I deny the right ; I deny the need. There is not any such right ; there exists no such necessity. What security have they had for the century that has elapsed since the violation of the Treaty of Limerick ? Wliat security have they had during these years of oppression and barbarous and bloody legislation ? What security have they had whilst the hereditary claim of the house of Stuart remained ? And surely all the right that hereditary descent could give was vested in that family. Let me not be misunderstooil. I admit they had no right ; I admit that their right was taken away by the people. I freely admit that, on the contrary, the people have the clear right to cashier base and profligate princes. What security had the Eng- lish from our Bishops when England was invaded, and that the unfortunate but gallant Prince Charles advanced into the heart of England, guided by valor, and accompanied by a handful of brave men, who had, under his command, obtained more than one vic- tory ? He was a man likely to excite and gratify Irish enthusiasm. He was chivalrous and brave ; he was a man of honor and a gen- tleman — no violater of his word ; he spent not his time in making his soldiers ridiculous with horse-tails and white feathers ; he did not consume his morniugs in tasting curious drams, and eyenings in gallanting old women. What security had the Enghsh, then? What security had they against our Bishops or our laity when Ame- rica nobly flung off the yoke that had become too heavy to be borne, and sought her independence at the risk of her being ? What security had they then ? I will tell you, my Lord. Their security at all those periods was perfect and complete because it existed in the conscientious allegiance of the Catholics ; it consisted in the duty of allegiance which the Irish Catholics have ever held, and will, I trust, ever hold, sacred ; it consisted in the conscien- tious submission to legitimate authority, however oppressive, which our Bishops have always preached and our laity have always prac- tised. And now, my Lord, they have the additional security of our oaths, of our ever-inviolated oaths of allegiance ; and if they had emancipated us, they would have had the additional security of Daniel OCoimelL 475 onr gratitude and of our personal and immediate interests. We bare gone through persecution and sorrow; we have experienced oppression and affliction, and yet we have continued faithful. How absurd to think that additional security could be necessary to guard against conciliation and kindness ! But it is not bigotry that requires those concessions ; they were not invented by mere intolerance. The English do not dislike us as Catholics ; they simply hate us as Irish. They exhaust their blood and treasure for the Catholics of Spain ; they have long observed and cherished a close and affectionate alliance with the ignorant and bigoted Catholics of Portugal ; and now they exert every sinew to preserve those Catholics from the horrors of a foreign yoke. Tliey emancipated the French Catholics in Canada, and a German Catholic is allowed to rise to the first rank in his profession — the army ; he can command not only Irish, but even English Protes- tants. Let us, therefore, be just; there is no such horror of '' Popery " in England as is supposed. They have a great dislike to Irish Catholics ; but separate the qualities, put the filthy whiskers and foreign visage of a German on the animal, and the Catholic is entitled to high favor from the just and discriminating English. We fight their battles, we beat their enemies, v/c pay their taxes, and we are degraded, oppressed, and insulted, whilst the Spanish, the Portuguese, the French, and the German Catholics are courted, cherished, and promoted. I revert now to the learned gentleman's accusation of the Bishops. He has accused them of error in doctrine and of indiscretion in prac- tice. He tells us that he is counsel to the College of Maynooth, and in that capacity he seems to arrogate to himself much theolo- gical and legal knowledge. I concede the law, but I deny the divinity ; neither can I admit the accuracy of the eulogium which he has pronounced on that institution, with its mongrel board of control, half Catholic and half Protestant. I was, indeed", at a loss to account for the strange Avant of talent — for the silence of Irish genius which has been remarked within the College. I now see it easily explained. The incubus of jealous and rival intolerance sits upon its walls, and genius and taste and talent fly from tlie sad dormitory, where sleeps the spirit of dulness. I have heard, in- deed, of their Crawleys and these converts, but where or when will that College produce a Magee or a Sandes, a McDonnell or a Griffin ? When will tlie warm heart of Irish genius exhibit in Maynooth such 476 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. bright examples of worth and talent as those men disclcJse ? It is true that the bigot may rale in Trinity College ; the highest sta- tion in it may be the reward of writing an extremely bigoted and more foolish pamphlet ; but still there is no conflicting principle of hostile jealousy in his rulers ; and, therefore, Irish genius does not slumber there, nor is it smothered as at Maynooth. The accusation of error brought against the Bishops by the learned gentleman is sustained simply upon his opinion and autho- rity. The matter stands thus : At the one side we hare the most reverend and right reverend the Catholic Prelates of Ireland, who assert that there is schism in the proposed arrangement; on the other side we have the very reverend the counsel for the college of Maynooth, who asserts that there is no schism in that arrangement. These are the conflicting authorities. The reverend Prelates assert the one ; he, the counsellor, asserts the other ; and as Ave have not leisure to examine the point here doctrinally, we are reduced to the sad dilemma of choosing between the Prelates and the lawyer. There may be a want of taste in the choice which I make, but I confess I cannot but prefer the Bishops. I shall, therefore, say with them there would be schism in the arrangement, and deny the as- sertion of the reverend counsel that it would not be schism. But suppose his reverence the counsel for Maynooth was right, and the Bishops wrong, and that in the new arrangement there would be no schism, I then say there would be worse ; there would be corrup- tion and profligacy and subserviency to the Castle in it, and its de- grading effects would soon extend themselves to every rank and class of the Catholics. I now come to the second charge which the learned gentleman, in his capacity of counsel to the College of Maynooth, has brought against the Bishops. It consists of the high crime of '^ indiscre- tion." They were indiscreet, said he, in coming forward so soon and so boldly. "What ! when they found that a plan had been formed which they knew to be schismatic and degrading — when they found that this plan was matured and printed and brought into Parliament and embodied in a bill and read twice in the House of Commons, without any consultation with and, as it were, in contempt of the Catholics of Ireland— shall it be said that it was either premature or indiscreet solemnly and loudly to protest against such plan ? If it were indiscreet, it was an indiscretion which I love and admire— a necessary indiscretion, unless, perhaps, the Daniel O Connell. 477 learned counsel for Maynootli may imagine that tlic projocr time would not arrive for this protest until tlio bill had actually passed, and all protest should be unavailing. No, my Lord, I cannot admire this thing called Catholic discre- tion, which would manage our affairs in secret and declare our opinions when it was too late to give them any importance. Catholic discretion may be of value at the Castle ; a Catholic secret may be carried to be discounted there for prompt payment. The learned gentleman may also tell us the price that Catholic discretion bears at the Castle — whether it be worth a place, a j^eerage, or a pension. But if it have value and a price for individuals, it is of no worth to the Catholic people. I reject and abjure it as applicable to public officers. Our opinions ought to be formed deliberately, but they should be announced manfully and distinctly. We should be despi- cable and deserve to continue in slavery if we could equivocate or disguise our sentiments on those subjects of vital importance ; and I call upon you to thank the Catholic Prelates precisely because they had not the learned gentleman's quality of discretion, and that they had the real and genuine discretion, which made them pub- lish resolutions consistent with their exalted rank and reverend character, and most consonant to the wishes and vicAvs of the Catholic people of Ireland. I now draw to a close, and I conjure you not to come to any divi- sion. Let the amendment be withdrawn by my learned friend, and let our approbation of our amiable and excellent, our dignified and independent. Prelates be, as it ouglit to be, unanimous. We want unanimity ; we require to combine in the constitutional pur- suit of Catholic emancipation every class and rank of the Catho- lics — the prelate and the peer, the country gentleman and the far- mer, the peasant and his priest. Our career is to begin again ; let our watchword be unanimity, and our object be plain and undis- guised, as it has been — namely, simple Eepeal. Let us not involve or embarrass ourselves with vetoes and arrangements and securities and guards and pretexts of divisions and all the implements for min- isterial corruption and Castle dominion. Let our cry be simple Piepeal ! It is well, it is very well, that the late bill has been rejected. I rejoice that it has been scouted. Our sapient friends at Cork called it a "^ Charter of Emancipation." You, my Lord, called it so ; but, with much respect, you and they are greatly mistaken. In truth. 478 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. it was no charter at all, nor like a charter ; and it would not have emancipated. This charter of emancipation was no charter, and would give no emancipation. As a plain, prose-like expression it was unsupported, and as a figure of fiction it made very bad poetry. Xo, my Lord, the bill would have insulted your religion and done almost nothing for your liberties ; it would have done nothing at all for the people. It would send a few of our discreet Catholics, with their Castle discretion, into the House of Commons, but it would not have enabled Catholic peers in Ireland to vote for the repre- sentative peers ; and thus the blunder arose, because those friends who, I am told, took so much trouble for you examined the Act of Union only, and did not take the trouble of examining the act regu- lating the mode of voting for the representative peers. The bill would have done nothing for the Catholic bar save the paltry dignity of silk gowns, and it would have actually dejDrived that bar of the places of assistant barrister, which, as the law stands, they may enjoy. It would have done nothing in corpora- tions — literally nothing at all ; and when I pressed this on Mr. Plunket, and pointed out to him the obstacles to corporate rights in a conference with which, since his return to Ireland, he honored me, he informed me — and informed me, of course, truly — that the reason why the corporations could not be further opened, or even the Bank of Ireland mentioned, was because the English would not listen to any violation of chartered rights. And this bill, my Lord — this inefficient, useless, and insulting bill — must be dignified with the appellation of a '^ Charter of Emancipation." I do most res23ectfully entreat, my Lord, that the expression may be well con- sidered before it is used asfain. And now let me entreat, let me conjure the meeting to banish every angry emotion, every sensation of rivalship or opposition ; let us recollect that we owe this vote to the unimpeached character of our worthy Prelates. Even our enemies respect them, and in the fury of religious and pohtical calumny the breath even of hostile and polemical slander has not reached them. Shall Catholics, then, be found to express, or even to imply, censure ? Eecollect, too, that your country requires your unanimous sup- port. Poor, degraded, and fallen Ireland has you, and, I may al- most say, you alone, to cheer and sustain her ! Her friends have been lukewarm and faint-hearted ; her enemies are vigilant, active, yelhng, and insulting. lu the name of your country I call on you Daniel C Co7i7iell. /^yg not to divide, but to concentrate your unanimous efforts to lier sup- jDort, till bigotry shall be put to flight and oppression banished this land for ever. O'CONIs'ELL'S LETTERS TO ARCHBISHOP MACHALE. Mereiox Square/ 31st December, 1827. My Lord : The public papers will have already informed your Lordship of the resolution to hold a meeting for petition in every parish in Ireland on Monday, 13th January. I should not presume to call your Lordship's particular attention to this measure, or respectfully to solicit your countenance and sup- port in your diocese, if I was not most deej^ly convinced of its ex- treme imj)ortance and utility. The combination of national action — all Catholic Ireland acting as one man — must necessarily have a powerful effect on the minds of the ministry and of the entire British nation ; a people who can be thus brought to act together, and by one impulse, are too powerful to be neglected, and too for- midable to be long opposed. Convinced, dee^^li/, firmly convinced, of the importance of this measure, I am equally so of the imj)ossibility of succeeding unless we obtain the countenance and support of the Catholic prelates of Ireland. To you, my Lord, I very respectfully appeal for that sup- port. 1 hope and respectfully trust that in your diocese no parish will be found deficient in activity and zeal. I intend to publish in the papers the form of a petition for emancipation which may be adojoted in all places where no indi- vidual may be found able and willing to prepare a projoer draft. I am sorry to trespass thus on your Lordship's most valuable time, but I am so entirely persuaded of the vital utility of the measure of simultaneous meeting to petition that I venture over again, but in the most respectful manner, to urge on your kind and considerate attention the propriety of assisting in such manner as you may deem best to attain our object. I have the honor to be, with profound respect, my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient humble servant, Daniel O'Connell. To the Eight Eev. Dr. MacHale.' ^ Dublin. * At this time Dr. MacHale vra,s Bishop of KiJIala. 480 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. L0ND02T, 22d March, 1834. My ever-respected Loed : I had the honor of receiving a let- ter from you some time ago, 2^romising a repeal petition, and I wish to say that the petition has not come to hand. I regret to bo obliired to add that the number of repeal petitions does not at all correspond with my hopes and expectations. I am tlie more sorry for this because 1 liave the most intimate conviction that nothing of value can jJossiMi/ he clone for Ireland until we have a domestic Parliament. The faction whicli, in all its ramifications, bears so severely on our people and our country, can never bo rendered innoxious whilst they can cling, even in idea, to suj^port from the Government of this conntry. It is a subject of serious but melancholy speculation to reflect upon the innate spirit of hatred of everything Irish which seems to be the animating prin- ciple of their existence. You certainly have two distinct specimens of the worthlessness of that existence in your county members. Two such 'Rubbers," as the seamen would call them, two such ''bustoons," as we in Munstcr would denominate them, never yet figured on any stage, pnblic or private. One of the best of your Lordship's good works will be assisting to muster such a combina- tion of electoral force in your county as will ensure the rejection of both at the next practical opportunity. I should be tempted to despair of Ireland if I could doubt of your success. I read with deep and painful interest* your published letters to Lord Grey. What a scene of tyranny and heartless oppression on the one hand ! what a frightful view of wretchedness and misery on the other ! A man is neither a human being nor a Christian who does not de- vote all his energies to find a remedy for such grievances. But that remedy is not to be found in a British Parliament. You will see by the papers that the Protestant dissenters in this country are storming that citadel of intolerance and pride — the Established Church. The effect of such an attack can operate only for good in Ireland. This was the strongliold of the Irish Establish- ment. As long as they liad England at their back they conld laugh to scorn all attempts in Ireland to curb them. But I believe, firmly believe, their days are numbered, and hope that we shall see, but certainly not weep. I have the honor to be, my Lord, most respectfully, your most obedient servant, Daniel O'Connell. Eight Ecv. Dr. MacHale. Daniel GCoitnell. 481 Merriox Square, lOth December, 1834. My revered Lord : There have been many letters of congratu- lation " addressed to your Grace, but none, I will venture to say, so cordial as mine, because I not only congratulate you as a gentle- man whom even as a private individual I highly respect, but con- gratulate you in the name of Ireland, and for her sake ; and above all, for the sake of that faith whose sacred deposit has been pre- served by your predecessors, and will be preserved unblemished, and indeed with increased lustre, by your Grace. Indeed, I venture to hope that there are times coming when the period of the oppression of the Church in Ireland, destined by God in his adorable dispensations to arrive, will have arrived. I do, 1 confess, venture to augur favorably from your nomination by his Holiness the Pope — you wlio had proved yourself too honest an Irishman not to be obnoxious to the British Administration. It seems to me to be the brilliant dawn of a noonday in which the light of Kome will no longer be obscured by the clouds of English influence. I often sighed at the delusion created in the political circles at Rome on the subject of the English Government. They thought, good souls, that England favored the Catholics when she only yielded to our claims, not knowing that the secret animosity to Catholicity was as envenomed as ever it was. The present Pope " — may God protect his Holiness — has seen through that delusion, and you are proof that it will no longer be a cause of misconception to be as true to the political interests as to the spiritual wants of the people of Ireland. I am delighted at this new era. No man can be more devoted to the spiritual authori- ty of his Holiness. I always detested what were called the liberties of the " Church in France." I am convinced that the more direct and unequivocal is that authority according to the canons, the more easy will it be to pre- serve the unity of faith. I need not add that there does not live a human being more sub- missive — in omnibus — to the Church than I am, from the most un- changeable conviction. I have only to add that if your Grace could have any occasion for any exertion of mine in supjDort of any can- didate in any county in Connaught, I shall have the greatest pleasure in receiving your suggestions as cherished commands. '" Dr. MacHale had just been appointed Archbishop of Tuam. ■ ' Gregory XVI. 482 The Prose and Poetry of P^elajid. I have the honor to be, with profound respect, my Lord, of your Grace the most obedient, faithful servant, Daniel O'Conxell. Most Eev. Dr. MacHale. Mereion- Square, 9th Koy., 1837. My ever-respected axd dear Lord: I know you pity me'' and afford me the relief of your prayers. To-morrow I begin to console my heart by agitation. I am now determined to leave every other consideration aside and to agitate really — to agitate to the full extent the law sanctions. Command me now in everything. I got this morning a blank cover enclosing two letters for your Grace. I enclose one in this and another in a second frank ; they would be overweight if sent together. The address has the name of George Washington on the corner — whether an assumed name or not I have no room, to conjecture. I mention these things merely to show your Grace that if these letters be not genuine I am unable to afford any clue to the writer. They may, however, be perfectly correct iu all particulars. I believe we are safe in all the counties and towns in Connaught save Sligo and Athlone. I indeed believe the latter tolerably secure. Every nerve must be strained to increase the Irish majority in Par- liament. My watchword is, " Irish or Eepeal." Indeed, I entertain strong hopes that we shall live to see the latter — " a consummation most devoutly to be wished." Dr. England " was with me yesterday ; he gave me some strong evidence of the hostility of the English Catholics to those of Ireland. He has promised to give it to me in writing, and I will send your Grace a copy. He goes off to ''Haite" next week, but purposes to return next year, and then intends to suggest a place for a Foreign Missionary Society in Ireland, should it meet with the approbation of tlie Irish prelates. Irish priests arc abundantly abused, yet they are in demand by the religious and zealous Catholics all over the world. I have the honor to be, with profound respect, my revered Lord, of your Grace the servant, Daistiel O'Coi^XELL. Most Eev. Dr. MacHale. " He had just buried his devoted wife, » The celebrated Bishop of Charleston, S. C. RICHARD LALOR SHEIL. " A man who, while our language lasts, will be spoken of as one of the most brilliant orators of Ireland." — Dk. R. S. Mackenzie. RICHAED LALOR SHEIL was born at Waterford, Ireland, in the year 1793.' His father, Edward Sheil, had acquired in Cadiz, Spain, a considerable fortune, which he invested in the pur- chase of an estate near "Waterford, and married Miss Catharine Mac- Carthj, a lady of the county of Tipperary. Eichard received his first education from a French clergyman, an exile from his own country, who resided at Mr. Shell's house. The boy was then sent to a French Catholic school at Kensington, afterwards to the Jesuit College at Stonyhurst, and finally he entered Trinity College, Dublin, " with a comj^eteut knowledge of the classics, some acquaintance with Italian and Spanish, and the power of speaking and writing French as if it Avero his mother- tongue." Before he was twenty, he graduated with distinction. In 1814, at the age of twenty-one. Shell was called to the Irish bar. His youth, of course, was against him. His tastes inclined to literature, and for several years his contributions to the London magazines afforded him the chief means of subsistence. He wrote for the stage also — excited by the brilliant genius of Miss O'Neill, the Irish tragedienne — and his play of " Evadne " still retains a place in the acted drama by means of its declamatory poetry and effective situations.^ In 181G Shell married Miss O'Halloran, a young lady whose only fortune was her education and her great j)ersonal beauty. He joined with O'Connell in establishing the Catholic Association in 1823. "In this body," writes Dr. E. S. Mackenzie, "both leaders spoke earnestly and well. O'Connell's role was to insist on justice for Ireland ; Shell's to cast contempt and ridicule upon what was called Protestant ascendancy.''^ In the Catholic cause Shell labored for many years with tireless 1 MacNevin, in his "Memoir " of SheU, says that he was born in the county of Kilkenny on the 16th of August, 1791. Dr. Mackenzie, in his " Memoir" of Sheil, states what we give above. Somebody has blundered. 2 11. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L , "idemoirof Sheil." 483 484 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. devotiou. At the celebrated election of G'Connell in 1829 as M.P. for the county of Clare, he was the ''Liberator's" most eloquent supporter. His speech on that historic occasion was among his happiest efforts. But perhaps the most solid and splendid of all his speeches was that delivered the previous year at Penenden Heath, England, in defence of the Irish Catholics and their reli- gion. This speech is given on page 485 in the present volume. Of this speech the famous philosopher, Jeremy Bentham, wrote to his friend Galloway: " So masterly a union of logic and rhetoric as Mr. Shcifs sjieech scarcely have I ever beheld." The Catholic question having been settled, a great change took place in the fortunes of Shell. Through Lord Egerton he was made king's counsel. But the object of his ambition was a seat in the House of Commons. In 1831 he was returned for Milbourne Port ; in after years for the connty of Tipperary ; and from 1841 to 1850 he represented the little Irish borough of Dungarvan. In Parliament, the position occupied by Shell was immediate, unquestioned, and exalted. In fact, he took rank at once as one of the best orators in the House of Commons. Though not a very ready debater, his prepared speeches enchained attention, and won the applause even of his antagonists. He had the disadvantage of a small person, negligent attire, shrill voice, and vehement gesticula- tion ; but these were all forgotten when he spoke, and his singu- larly peculiar manner gave the appearance of impulse even to his most elaborated compositions. "Words cannot briefly describe the character of Shell's rhetoric. It was aptly said, in the style of his o\vn metaphors, " He thinks lightning." ^ In November, 1850, Shell, whose health was declining, was offered, and accepted, the post of British Plenipotentiary at the Court of Tuscany, Italy. He died at Florence of a sudden attack of gout, on the 25th of May, 1851. Shell's "Sketches of the Irish Bar," one of the most spicy, graphic, and entertaining works in our literature, was begun in 1822 in the Neio Monthly Magazine, a London periodical, then conducted by the poet, Thomas Campbell. " The far-famed paper on O'Connell," writes Dr. Mackenzie, "was repeatedly reprinted in Europe and America, and translated into French, German, Italian, and Spanish." "The Sketches of the Irish Bar," in two volumes, 3 R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L. ' Richard Lalor Sheil. 485 with a memoir and notes by R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L., was first published in New York City in 1854. " Sheil/' said North, "erred in the choice of a profession. Had he cultivated the drama instead of the law, he would have equalled Shakspere." " Sheil," wrote Henry Giles, " had a mind of -the finest nature and of the richest cultivation, a vigorous intellect, and an exuberant fancy. His speaking was a condensation of thought and passion, in brilliant, elaborate, and often antithetical expression. He happily united precision and embellishment, and his ideas in being adorned became not only attractive, but distinct. Images were as easy to him as words, and his figures were as correct as they were abundant. With a faculty peculiarly dramatic, he gave vivid illu- sion to the scenes and characters Avith which he filled the imagination of his hearers. He compressed into a passage the materials of a tragedy, and moved as he pleased to terror and to pity. He was not the less the master of invective and of sarcasm. He was in l^rose almost as effective a satirist as Pope was in verse — as scath- ing and as lacerating. He clothed burlesque in as mocking a gi'avity, was as bitter in his irony, as polished in his wit, as elegant in his banter, and sometimes as unmerciful in his ridicule. In the battle for Catholic emancipation this splendid and impassioned orator was heard everywhere in Ireland shrieking forth the wrongs of his people. That shrill voice of his cried aloud and spared not. It stirred his brethren to indignation and to action ; it pierced into their souls, and awakened to torture the sense of their degradation. It was heard in metropolis and village, on the moun- tain and in the market-place. It rang out from sea to sea; and was chorused by the shouts of sympathetic multitudes. O'Connell was the legislator and the doer, but in the agency of speech Shielwas indefatigable, and had no superior."'' THE CATHOLICS OF lEELAXD. (Speech at Penenden Heath, England, October 24, 1828.) Let no man believe that I have come here in order that I might enter the lists of religious controversy and engage with any of you in a scholastic disputation. In the year 1828 the Real Presence * " Lectures and Essays." 486 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. does not afford an appropriate subject for debate, and it is not by the shades of a mystery that the rights of a British citizen are to be determined. I do not know whether there are many here by whom I am regarded as an idolater because I conscientiously adhere to the faitli of your forefathers, and profess the doctrine in which I was born and bred ; but if I am so accounted by you, you ought not to inflict a civil deprivation upon the accident of the cradle. You ought not to punish me for tliat for whicli I am not in reality to blame. If you do, you will make the misfortune of the Catholic the fault of the Protestant, and by inflicting a wrong upon my re- ligion cast a discredit ujion your own. I am not the worse subject of my King and the worse citizen of my country because I concur in the belief of the great majority of the Christian world ; and I will venture to add, with the frankness and something of the blunt- ness by which Englishmen are considered to be characterized, that if I am an idolater, I have a right to be one if I choose; my idola- try is a branch of my pi*erogative, and is no business of yours. But you have been told by Lord Winchelsea that the Catholic religion is the adversary of freedom. It may occur to you, per- haps, that his Lordship aftords a proof in his own person that a passion for Protestantism and a love of liberty arc not inseparably associated ; but without instituting too m!nate or embarrassing an enquiry into the services to freedom which in the course of his political life have been conferred by my Lord Winchelsea, and put- ting aside all personal considerations connected with the accuser, let me proceed to the accusation. Calumniators of Catholicism, have you read the history of your countrv ? Of the charges a2;ainst the relicrion of Ireland the an- nals of England afford the confutation. The body of your com- mon laws was given by the Catholic Alfred. lie gave you your judges, your magistrates, your high sheriffs, your courts of justice, your elective system, and the great bulwark of your liberties — the trial by jury. When Englishmen i^eruse the chronicles of their glory their hearts beat high with exultation, their emotions are pro- foundly stirred, and their souls are ardently expanded. Where is the English boy who reads the story of his great island whose pulse does not beat at the name of Eunnemedc, and whose nature is not deeply thrilled at the contemplation of that gi-eat incident when the mitred Langton, Avith his uplifted crozier, confronted the tyrant whose sceptre shook in his trembling hand, and extorted Richard Lalor ShciL 487 what you have so Justly called the Great, and what, I trust in God, you will have cause to designate as your everlasting. Charter ? It was by a Catholic Pontiff that the foundation-stone in the Temple of Liberty was laid, and it was at the altars of that religion which you are accustomed to consider as the handmaid of oppression that the architects of the Constitution knelt down. Who conferred upon the people the right of self-taxation, and fixed, if he did not create, the representation of the people ? The Catholic Edward the First, while in the reign of Edward the Third perfection was given to the representative system, joarlia- ments were annually called, and the statute against constrnctive treason Avas enacted. It is false, foully, infamously false, that the Catholic religion, the religion of your forefathers, the religion of seven millions of your felloAV-subjects, has been the auxiliary of de- basement, and that to its influences the suppression of British freedom can, in a single instance, be referred. 1 am loath to say that which can give you cause to take offence; but when the faith of my country is made the object of imputation I cannot help, I cannot refrain, from breaking into a retaliatory interrogation, and from asking whether the overthrow of the old religion of England was not effected by a tyrant with a hand of iron and a heart of stone ? Whether Henry did not trample upon freedom while iipon Catholicism he set his foot ; and whether Elizabeth herself, the virgin of the Reformation, did not inherit her despotism with her creed ; whether in her reign the most barbarous atrocities were not committed ; whether torture, in violation of the Catholic common law of England, Avas not politically inflicted, and with the shrieks of agony the Towers of Julius in the dead of night did not re- echo ? And to pass to a more recent period, was it not on the very day on which Eussell perished on the scaffold that the Protestant University of Oxford loublished the declaration in favor of passive obedience, to which your Catholic ancestors would have laid down their lives rather than have submitted ? These are facts taken from your own annals, with which every one of you should be made familiar; but it is not to your own annals that the recriminatory evidence on which I am driven to rely shall be confined. If your religion is the insej)arablc attendant uj)on liberty, how does it come to pass that Prussia, and Sweden, and Denmark, and half the German States should be Protestants, and should be also slaves ? You may suggest to me that in tlie 488 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. larger portion of Catholic Europe freedom does not exist ; but you should bear in mind that at a period when the Catholic religion was in its most palmy state freedom flourished in countries in which it is now extinct. Look at Italy, not indeed as she now is, but as she was before ]\Iartin Luther was born, when literature and liberty were associated, and the arts imparted their embellishments to her free political institutions. I call up the memory of the Italian Catholic republics in the great cause which I am suflBcieutly ad- venturous to plead before you. Florence, accomplished, manufac- turing, and democratic, the model of your own municipal corpora- tions, gives a noble evidence in favor of Catholicism ; and Venice, Catholic Venice, rises in the splendor of her opulence and the light of her liberty to corroborate the testimony of her celebrated sister with a still more lofty and majestic attestation. If from Italy I shall ascend the Alps, shall I not find in the mountains of Switz- erland the sublime memorials of liberty and the reminiscences of those old achievements which preceded the theology of Geneva, and which were performed by men by whom the ritual of Kome was uttered on the glaciers, and the great mystery of Catholicism was celebrated on the altars which nature had provided for that high and holy worship ? But Spain, I may be told, Spain affords the proof that to the purposes of despotism her religion has always lent its impious and disastrous aid. That mistake is a signal one, for when Spain was most devotedly Catholic Spain was comparatively free; her Cortes assumed an attitude nobler even than your own Parliament, and told the King, at the opening of every session in which they were convened, that they were greater and invested with a higher authority than himself. In the struggles made by Spaniards within our own memory we have seen the revival of that lofty sentiment ; while amongst the descendants of Spaniards in the provinces of South America, called into existence in some sort by yourselves, we behold no religion but the Catholic, and no gov- ernment of Avhich the principle is not founded in the supremacy of the people. Eepublic after republic has arisen at your bidding through that immeasurable expanse, and it is scarce an exaggeration to say (if I may allude to a noble passage in one of the greatest writers of our time) that liberty, with her ''' meteor standard "' un- furled upon the Andes, "Looks from lier throne of clouds o'er half the world." Richard Lalor Shell. 489 False, T repeat, it with all the vehemence of indignant asseveration, utterly false is the charge habitually preferred against tlie religion which Englishmen have laden with penalties, and have marked with degradation. I can bear any other cliarge but this — to any othei* charge I can listen with endurance. Tell me that I prostrate myself before a sculptured marble ; tell mc that to a canvas glowing with the imagery of heaven I bend my knee ; tell mc that my faith is my j)erdition ; and, as you traverse the churchyards in which your fore- fathers are buried, pronounce upon those wlio have lain there for many hundred years a fearful and appalling sentence ; yes, call what 1 regard as the truth not only an error, but a sin to which mercy shall not bo extended; all this will I bear — to all this will I submit — nay, at all this I Avill but smile ; but do not tell me that I am in heart and creed a slave ; that my countrymen cannot brook ; in their own bosoms they carry the high consciousness that never was imputation more foully false, or more detestably calumnious. I do not believe that Avith the passion for true liberty a nation was ever more enthu- siastically inspired, never were men more resolved, never were men more deserving to be free, than the nation in whose oppression, fatally to Ireland and to themselves, the statesmen of England have so madly persevered. What liavc been the results of that system which you have been this day called together to sustain ? You behold in Ireland a beau- tiful country, with wonderful advantages agricultui-al and commer- cial — a resting-place for trade on its way to either hemisphere ; in- dented with havens, watered by numerous rivers; with a fortunate climate in which fertility is raised upon a rich soil, and inliabitcd by a bold, intrepid, and, with all their faults, a generous and enthusi- astic people. Such is Ireland as G-od made her ; what is Ireland as you have made her ? This fine country swarming Avith a population the most miserable in Europe, of Avhose Avretchedness, if you are the authors, you are beginning to be the victims ; .the poisoned chalice is returned in its just circulation to your lips. Harvests the most abundant are reaped by men Avith starvation in their faces; all the great commercial facilities of the country are lost; the rivers that should circulate opulence and turn the machinery of a thousand manufactures flow to the ocean Avithout AA'aftiuG,- a boat or turninc: '^^ Avhecl ; the wave breaks in solitude in the silent magnificence of de- serted and shipless harbors. In place of being a source of Avealth and revenue to the empire, Ireland cannot defray its own expenses ; 490 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. her discontent costs millions of money ; she debilitates and endangers England. The great mass of her population are alienated and disso- ciated from the state; the influence of the constituted and legitimate authorities is gone ; a strange, anomalous, and unexampled kind of government has sprung up and exercises a despotic sway ; while the class, inferior in numbers, but accustomed to authority, and infuriated at its loss, are thrown into formidable reaction ; the most ferocious passions rage from one extremity of the country to the other. Hun- dreds and thousands of men arrayed with badges gather in the South, and the smaller faction, with discipline and with arms, are marshalled in the North ; the country is like one vast magazine of powder, which a spark might ignite into an explosion, and of which England would not only feel, but, perhaps, never recover from the shock. And is this state of things to be permitted to continue ? It is only requisite to present tlie question in order that all men should an- swer, something must be done. What is to be done ? Are you to re-enact the penal code ? Are you to deprive Catholics of their properties, to shut up their schools, to drive them from the bar, to strip them of the elective franchise, and reduce them to Egyptian bondage ? It is easy for some visionary in oppression to imagine these thin ITS. In the drunkenness of sacerdotal debauch men D have been found to give vent to such sanguinary aspirations, and the teachers of the Gospel, the ministers "^ of a mild and merciful Eedeemer, have uttered in the midst of their ferocious Avassails the bloody orison that their country should be turned into one vast field of massacre, and that upon the pile of carnage the genius of Orange ascendancy should be enthroned. But these men are maniacs in ferocity, whose appetites for blood you will scarcely undertake to satiate. You shrink from the extirpation of a whole i)eople. Even suppose that, with an impunity as ignominious as it would be san- guinary, that horrible crime could be effected, then you must needs ask, AV hat is to be done ? In answering that question you will not dismiss from your recollection that the greatest statesmen who have for the last fifty years directed your counsels and conducted the business of this mighty empire concurred in the opinion that with- out a concession of the Catholic claims nothing could be done for Ireland. 6 Ministers of the Protestant Church, estabUshed by la-cr-and It might be added, with due reverence, the devil— in Ireland. Richard Lalor Shcil. 491 Bni'ke, the foe to revolution, Fox, the asserter of popular right, Pitt, the prop of the prerogative, concurred. With reference to this great question their minds met in a deep confluence. See to what a conclusion you must arrive when you denounce the advocates of emancipation. Your anathema will take in one-half of Westmin- ster Abbey ; and is not the very dust into which the tongues and hearts of Pitt, and Burke, and Fox have mouldered better than the living hearts and tongues of those who have survived them ? If you were to try the question by the authorities of the dead, and by those voices whicli may be said to issue from the grave, how would you decide ? If, instead of counting votes in St. Stephen's, you were to count the tombs in the mausoleum beside it, how would the division of the great departed stand ? There would be a majority of sepul- chres inscribed with immortal names upon our side. But suppos- ing that authority, that the coincidence of the wisest and of the best in favor of Ireland, Avas to be lield in no account, consider how the religious disqualifications must necessarily operate. Can that bo a wise course of government which creates not an aristocracy of opulence, and rank, and talent, but an aristocracy in religion, and places seven millions of people at the feet of a few hundred thou- sand ? Try this fashion of government by a very obvious test, and make the case your own. If a few hundred thousand Presbyterians stood towards you in the relation in which the Irish Protestants stand towards the Catholics, would you endure it ? Would you brook a sys- tem under which Episcopalians should be rendered incapable of holding seats in the House of Commons, should be excluded from sherifiships and corporate offices, and from the bench of justice, and from all the higherofiices in the administration of the law; and should be tried by none but Presbyterian juries, flushed with the insolence of power and infuriated with all the ferocity of joassion ? How would you brook the degradation which would arise from such a system, and the scorn and contumelies which would flow from it ? Would you listen with patience to men who told you that there was no grievance in all this, that your complaints were groundless, and that the very right of murmuring ought to be taken away ? Are Irishmen and Roman Catholics so differently constituted from your- selves that they are to behold nothing but blessings in a system which you would look upon as an unendurable wrong ? Protestants and Englishmen, however debased you may deem our countrv, believe me that we have enouo"h of human nature left 492 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. within us— we have enough of the spirit of manliood, all Irishmen as we are, to resent a usage of this land. Its results are obvious. The nation is divided into two castes. The powerful and the pri- vileged few are patricians in religion, and trample upon and despise the plebeian Christianity of the millions who are laid prostrate at their feet. Every Protestant thinks himself a Catholic's better ; and every Protestant feels himself the member of a privileged cor- poration. Judges, sheriffs, crown counsel, crown attorneys, juries are Protestants to a man. Wliat confidence can a Catholic have in the administration of public justice ? We have the authority of an eminent Irish judge, the late Mr. Fletcher, who declared tliat in the JSTorth the Protestants were uniformly acquitted, and the Catholics were as undeviatingly condemned. A body of armed Orangemen fall upon and put to death a defenceless Catholic ; they are put upon their trial, and when they raise their eyes and look upon the jury, as they are commanded to do, they see twelve of their brethren in massacre empanelled for their trial ; and, after this, I shall be told that all the evils of Catholic disqualification lie in the disap- pointed longing of some dozen gentlemen after the House of Com- mons ! No ; it is the bann, the opprobrium, the brand, the note and mark of dishonor, the scandalous partiality, the flagitious bias, the sacrilegious and perjured leaning, and the monstrous and hydra- headed injustice that constitute the grand and essential evils of the country. And you think it wonderful that we should be indignant at all this. You marvel and are amazed that we are hiirried into the use of rash and vehement phrases. Have we alone foi'gotten the dictates of charity ? Have our opponents been always distin- gtiished by their meekness and forbearance ? Have no exasperating expressions, no galling taunts, no ferocious menaces ever escaped from them ? Look to the Brunswick orgies of Ireland, and behold not merely the torturers of '98, who, like retired butchers, feel the want of their old occupation and long for the political shambles again, but to the ministers of the Gospel, by whom their libations to the Moloch of faction, in the revelries of a sanguinary ascendancy, are ferociously poured out. Make allowances for the excesses into which, with much provocation, we may be hurried, and pardon iis when you recollect how, under the same circumstances, you would, in all likelihood, feel yourselves. Perhaps you will say that while ou are conscious that we have much to suffer, you owe it to your own Richai'd Lalor Sheil. 493 safety to exclude us from power. Wc liuve power already — the power to do mischief ; give us that of doing good. Disarray us — dissolve us — break up our confederacy — take from the law (the great conspirator) its combining and organizing quality, and Ave shall no longer be united l)y the bad chain of slavery, but by the natural bonds of allegiance and contentment. Yon fear our possible influence in the Ilonse of Commons. Don't you dread our actual influence beyond its precincts ? Catholics out of the House of Com- mons, we shonld be citizens within it. It has been sometimes insisted that we aim at the i^olitical exaltation of our Church upon the ruins of the Establishment — that once emancipated we should proceed to strip your clerg}-, and to possess ourselves of the opulence of an anti- apostolic and anti-scriptural Establishment. Xever was there a more unfounded imputation. The whole body of the Irish Catholics look upon a vrcalthy priesthood with abhorrence. They do not desire that their bishops should be invested w^ith pontifical gorgeousncss. When a bill was introduced in order to make a small, and no more than a decent, provision for the Catholic clergy, did they not repudiate the offer, and prefer their honorable poverty, and the affections of the people, to the seductions of the ci'own ? How did the people act ? Although a provision for the priesthood would relieve them from a burden, did they not deprecate all connection with jDOwer ? The Catholics of Ireland know that if their clergy were endowed with the wealth of the Establishment, they w^ould become a profligate corporation, pampered with luxury-, swelling with sacerdotal pride, and presenting in their lives a monstrous contrast with that sim- plicity and that poverty of which they arc now as well the practisers as the teachers. They know that in place of being, as they now arc, the indefatigable instructors of the peasantry, their consolers in affliction, their resource in calamity, their precej)tors and their models in religion, their visitors in sickness, and their companions at the bed of death, they would become equally insolent to the humble and sycophantic to the great — flatterers at the noble's table and extortioners in the poor man's hovel ; slaves in politics and tyrants in demeanor, who from the porticoes of palaces would give their instructions in humility ; who from the banquets of patricians would prescribe their lessons in abstinence ; and from the prim- rose path of dalliance would jwint to the steep and thorny way to Heaven. Monstrous as the opulence of the Establishment now is, the people of Ireland would rather see the wealth of Protestant 494 1^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. bishops increased tenfold, and another million of acres added to their episcopal territories, than behold their pnro and simple priest- liood deo-raded from their illustrions hnmility to that dishonorable and anti-Christian ostentation which, if it were once established, would be sure to characterize their Church. I speak the sentiments of the whole body of my countrymen when I solemnly and emphati- cally reiterate my asseveration that there is nothing which the Ptoman Catholic body would regard with more abhorrence than the transfer of iho enormous and corrupting revenues of the Establish- ment to a clergy who owe their virtues to their poverty, and the attachment of the peoi^le to their dignified dependence upon the people for their support. I should have done; and yet before I retire from your presence indulge me so far as to permit me to press one remaining topic upon you. I have endeavored to show you that you have mistaken tlie character and political principles of my religion ; I have endeavored to make you sensible of the miserable condition of my country ; to impress upon you the failure of all the means which have been hitherto tried to tranquillize that unhappy country, and the neces- sity of adopting some expedient to alleviate its evils. I have dwelt upon the concurrence of great authorities in favor of concession, the little danger that is to bo apprehended from that concession, and the great benefit which would arise from religious peace in Ire- land. I might enlarge upon those benefits, and show you that when factions were reconciled, when the substantial causes of animosity were removed, the fierce passions which agitate the country would be laid at rest ; that English capital would, in all likelihood, flow into Ireland ; that English habits would gradually arise ; that a confidence in the administration of justice would grow up ; that the people, instead of appealing to arms for redress, would look to the public tribunals as the only arbiters of right ; and that the obsta- cles which now stand in the way of education would be removed ; that the fierceness of polemics would be superceded by that charity which the Christian extends to all mankind ; that a reciprocal sen- timent of kindness would take place between the two islands ; that a real union, not depending upon acts of Parliament, but upon mutual interest and affection, would be permanently established ; that the empire would be consolidated, and all dangers from the enemies of Great Britain would disappear. I might point out to you, what is obvious enough, that if Ireland be allowed to remain Richard Lalor SJieil. 495 as it now is, at no distant jieriod the natural foes of Great Britain may make that nnfortunate country tlic field of some formidable enterprise. I might draw a jiicture of the consequences Avhicli would arise if an enormous population Avere to he roused into a con- current and simultaneous movement; hut I forbear from pressing such considerations upon you, because I had much rather rely upon your own lofty-mindedness than upon any terrible contingency. I therefore put it to you, that, independently of every consideration of expediency, it is unworthy of you to persevere in a system of prac- tical religious intolerance which Roman Catholic states, who hold to you a fine example in this regard at least, have abandoned. I have heard it said that the Catholic religion was a persecuting religion. How easily I could retort on you the charge of persecution — remind you that the early reformers, who set up a claim to liberty of conscience for themselves, did not indulge others in a similar luxury — tell you that Calvin, having obtained a theological master- dom in Geneva, offered up the screams of Servetus to the God of mercy and of love ; that even your own Cranmer, who was himself a martyr, had first inflicted what he afterwards suftered, and that this father of your churcli, whose hand was indeed a guilty one, had, even in the reign of Edward the Sixth, accelerated the progress of heretics to immortality, and sent them through fiire to Heaven. But the truth is that both parties have, in the paroxysms of reli- gious frenzy, committed the most execrable crimes, and it might be difficult, if their misdeeds were to be weighed, to adjust the balance of atrocity between them. But Catholics and Protestants have changed, and with the alteration of time we ourselves have undergone a salutary reformation. Through the whole continent religious distinctions have begun to vanish, and freedom of con- science is almost universally established. It is dei:)lorable that Eng- land should be almost the only country Avhere such disqualifications are maintained. In France, where the religion of the state is that of Eome, all men are admissible to power, and no sort of sectarian distinction is instituted by the law. The third article of the French charter pro- vides that every French citizen, no matter of what denomination, shall be capable of holding every office in the state. The Chamber of Dejraties is filled with Protestants, who are elected by Roman Catholics ; and Protestants have held places in the Cabinet of France. In Hungary, in the year 1T91, Protestants were placed by 496 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. a Roman Catliolic government on a perfect level with their fellow- ciiizens. In Bavaria the same jirinciple of toleration was adopted. Thus the Caiholics of Europe have given you an honorable cxamjole, and, while they have refuted the imputation of intolerance, have pronounced upon you a practical reproach. You are behind almost every nation in Europe. Protestant Prussia has emancipated her Catliolic subjects, and Silesia is free. In Germany the churches are used indiscriminately by Protestants and Catholics — the Lutheran service, in happy succession, follows the Catholic Mass ; or the Catholic Mass follows the Lutheran service. Thus in every state in Europe the spirit of religious toleration has signally advanced, wdiile here, in ihis noble island, which avc are wont to consider the asylum of civil liberty^ the genius of persecution has found a refuge. In England, and in England only, deprivations and dishonor are inflicted upon those whose conscience inhibits their conformity with the formulas of j-our Avorship ; and a vast body of Englishmen in this one of your finest counties are called upon to offer up a gratui- tous invocation to the Legislature to rivet the fetters of their Catho- lic fellow-subjects. Do not undertake so ungenerous an office, nor interpose for the low-hearted purposes of oppression. I have heard since I came here that it is a familiar saying that " the men of Kent have never been conquered." That you will never be van- cpiished in any encounter where men shall be arrayed in arms against you is my belief and my desire ; but while in this regard you will always prove unconquered and unconquerable, there is one particular in which I hope that proof will be afforded that you can be subdued. Be no longer invincible, but let the victory be achieved by yourselves. The worst foes with which you have to contend are lodged in your own breasts — your prejudices are the most formidable of your antagonists, and to discomfit them will confer upon you a higher honor than if in the shouts of battle you put your enemies to flight. It is over your antipathies, national and religious, that a masterdom should he obtained by you, and you may rest assured that if you shall vanquish your animosities, and bring your passions into subjection, you wull, in conquering yourselves, extend your dominion over that country by which you have been so long resisted, your empire over our feelings will be securely established, you will make a permanent acquisition of the affections of Irishmen, and make our hearts vour own. Richard Lalor Shell. 497 PEN-AND-INK SKETCH OF DANIEL OCONNELL. [Frcm Shell's " Sketches of tho Irish Bcr," vol. i.] If any one being a stranger in Dublin should cliancc, as you re- turn upon a winter's morning from one of the "small and early"' parties^of that raking metropolis — that is to say, between the hours of five and six o'clock — to pass along the south side of Merrion Sjqnare/ you will not fail to observe that among those splendid mansions there is one evidently tenanted by a person whose habits differ materially from those of his fashionable neighbors. The half- open parlor shutter and the light within announce that some one dwells there whose time is too precious to permit him to regulate his rising with the sun. Should your curiosity tempt you to ascend the steps and under cover of the dark to reconnoitre the interior, you will sec a tall, able-bodied man standing at a desk and im- mersed in solitary occupation. Upon the vrall in front of him there l:ano-s a crucifix. From this and from the calm attitude of the person within, and from a certain monastic rotundity about his neck and shoulders, your first impression will be that he must be some pious dignitary of the Church of Eome absorbed in his matin devotions. But this conjecture will be rejected almost as soon as formed. Xo sooner can tlic eye take in the other furniture of the apartment — the book-cases, clogged Avith tomes in plain calfskin binding, the blue covered octavos that lie about on the tables and the floor, the reams of manuscript in oblong folds and begirt Avitli crimson tape — than it becomes evident that the party meditating amid such objects must be thinking far more of the law than the prophets. He is unequivocally a barrister, but apparently of that homely, chamber- keeping, i)lodding cast who labor hard to make up by assiduity what they want in wit, who are up and stirring before tho bird of the morning has sounded the retreat to the wandering spectre, and arc already brain-deep in the dizzy vortex of mortgages and cross-re- minders and mergers and remitters, while his clients, still lapped in sweet oblivion of the law's delay, are fondly dreaming that their cause is peremptorily set down for a final hearing. Having come to this conclusion, you push on for home, blessing your stars on the way that you are not a lawyer, and sincerely compassionating the . <■• One of tho principal squares in DubLn. There 0"ConnelI resided for about thirty years. 498 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. sedentary drudge whom you have just detected in the performance of his cheerless toil. But should you happen in the course of the same day to stroll down to the Four Courts, you will not he a little surprised to find the ohjcct of your pity miraculously transferred from the severe re- cluse of the morning into one of the most hustling, important, and joyous personages in that husy scene. There you will he sure t;) cee him, his countenance hraced up and glistening with health and spirits, with a huge, plethoric bag, which his robust arm can scarce- ly sustain, clasped with paternal fondness to his breast, and envi- roned by a living palisade of clients and attorneys with outstretched necks, and mouths and ears agape to catch up any chance-opinion that may be coaxed out of him in a collorpiial vray, or listening to what the client relishes still better (for in no event can they I'C elided into a bill of costs), the counsellor's bursts of jovial and familiar humor, or, when he touches on a sadder strain, his pro- phetic assurance that the hour of Ireland's redemption is at hand. You perceive at once that you have lighted upon a great popular advocate ; and if you take the trouble to follow his movements foi- a couple of hours through the several courts, you will not fail t discover the qualities that have made him so — his legal competency, his business-like habits, his sanguine temperament, which renders him not merely the advocate, but the partisan of his client, his acutV- ness, his fluency of thought and language, his unconquerable good- humor, and, above all, his versatility. By the hour of three, when the judges usually rise, you will have seen him go through a quantity of business the preparation for and the performance of which Avould be sufficient to wear down an ordi- nary constitution, and you naturally suppose that the remaining portion of the day must, of necessity, be devoted to recreation or repose. But here again you will be mistaken ; for should you feel disposed, as you return from the courts, to drop into any of the public meetings that are almost daily held for some purpose, or to no purpose, in Dublin," to a certainty you will find the coun- sellor there before you, the presiding spirit of the scene, riding in the whirlwind and directing the storm of popular debate with ;i strength of lungs and redundancy of animation as if he had that moment started fresh for the labors of the day. There he remains ■' This sketch \7a3 written in 1823. bIs years before Catholic cmii-zcipaticn -waG an cc- ccmpIiEhed fact. Richard Lalor SJieil. 499 until, by dint of strength or dexterity, he has Ccarried every point; and tlicnce, if you would see him to the close of the day's "event- ful history," you will, in all likelihood, have to follow him to a pub- lic dinner from wliicli, after having acted a conspicuous part in the turbulent festivity of the evening and thrown off half a dozen speeches in praise of Ireland, he retires at a late hour to repair the wear and tear of the day by a short interval of repose, and is sure to be found before daybreak next morning at his solitary post, recom- mencing the routine of his restless existence. K'ow, any one who has once seen in the preceding situations the able-bodied, able-minded, acting, talking, multifarious person I have been just describing has no occasion to enquire his name. He may be assured that he is and can be no other than "Kerry's pride and Munster's glory," the far-famed and indefatigable Dak-iel O'Conxell. His frame is tall, expanded, and muscular, precisely such as be- fits a man of the people ; for the physical classes ever look witii double confidence and affection upon a leader who represents in his ov/n person the qualities upon which they rely. In his face he has been equally fortunate ; it is extremely comely. The features are at once soft and manly ; the florid glow of health and a sanguine temperament is diffused over the whole countenance, which is na- tional in the outline, and beaming with national emotion. The ex- pression is open and confiding, and inviting confidence ; there is not a trace of malignity or guile ; if there were, the bright and sweet blue eyes, the most kindly and honest-looking that can be conceived, would repel the imputation. These popular gifts of na- ture O'Connellhas not neglected to set off by his external carriage and deportment ; or perhaps I should rather say that the same hand which has moulded the exterior has supersaturated the inner man Avitli a fund of restless propensity which it is quite beyond his povver, as it is certainly beyond his inclination, to control. A large portion of this is necessarily expended upon his legal avocations ; but the labors of the most laborious of professions cannot tame him into repose. After deducting the daily drains of the study and the courts, there remains an ample residuum of animal spirits and ardor for occupation, which go to form a distinct, and I might say a pre- dominant character — tlio political cliieftaiii. The existence of this overweening- vivacity is conspicuous in O'ConnelFs manners and movements, and being a popular, and more particularly a national, quality, greatly recommends him to the Irish 500 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Y>co]Aq—" MoUlitate vigei "—body and soul are in a state of per- manent insurrection. See liim in the streets and you perceive at once that he is a man who lias sworn that his country's vv-rongs shall be aveno-ed. A Dublin jury— if judiciously selected— would find Ids very gait and gestures to be high treason by construction, so explicitly do they enforce the national sentiment of " Ireland her own, or the world in a blaze." As he marches to court, he shoulders his umbrella as if it were a pike. He flings out one factious foot before the other as if he had already burst his bonds and was kicking Protestant ascendancy before him, while ever and anon a demo- cratic, broad-shouldered roll of the upper man is manifestly an in- dignant effort to shuffle of[ " the oppression of seven hundred years."' This intensely national seusibiaty is the prevailing peculiarity in O'Connell's character ; for it is not only when abroad and in the popular gaze that Irish affairs seem to press on his heart. The same Erin-go-hragh feeling follows him into the most technical de- tails of his forensic occupations. Give him the most dry and abstract position of the law to support — the most remote that ima- gination can conceive from the violation of the Articles of Limerick, and, ten to one, he .will contrive to interweave a patriotic episode upon those examples of Britisli domination. The people are never absent from his thouo'hts. SKETCH OF DR. MURRAY, CATHOLIC ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN. [From '-The Catholic Lsadors " in Sheirs " Sketches cf tho Irish Bar," vol i.] Doctor Murray, the present Archbishop of Dublin, was educa- ted in the University of Salamanca, but his mind is untarnished by the smoke of the scholastic lamp, and he has a spirit of liberty within him which shows how compatible the ardent citizen is with the enthusiastic priest. Ilis manners are not at all Spanish, although he passed many years in Spain under the tuition of Doctor Curtis, the Catholic primate, who was professor of theology in Salamanca. Dr. Murray is meek, composed, and placid, and has an expression of patience, of sweetness, and benignitv, united with strong intel- lectual intimations, which would fix the attention of any ordinary observer who chanced to see him in the public way. Ho has groat dignity and simplicity of deportment, and has a bearing befitting Richard Lalor Shcil, 501 his rank, 'without the least touch of arrogance. His voice is singu- larly soft and harmonious, and even in reproof itself he does not l^nt his Christian gentleness aside. His preaching is of the first order. It is difficult to hear his sermons upon charity without tears ; and there is, independently of the charms of diction and the graces of elocution, of which he is a master, an internal evidence of his own profound conviction of what he utters that makes its way to the heart. When he stands in the pulpit it is no exaggera- tion to say that he diffuses a kind of piety about him ; he seems to belong to the holy edifice, and it may be said of him with perfect truth : " At church, with meek and unafiEected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place." It is obvious that such a man, attended by all the influence which his office, his abilities, and his apostolic life confer upon him, must have added great weight to the proceedings of the Association,^ when, with a zeal in patriotism corresponding with his ardor in religion, he caused himself to be enrolled among its members. "The contemplation of the wrongs of my country," he exclaimed at a public meeting held in the beautiful and magnificent Catholic Cathedral in Marlborough Street, Dublin — ''"'the contemplation of the wrongs of my country makes my soul burn within me ! '' As he spoke thus, ho pressed to his heart the hand which the people were accustomed to see exalted from the altar in raising the Host to Heaven. His fine countenance was inflamed with emotion, and his whole frame trembled under the dominion of the vehement feeling by which he was excited.^ " The Catholic Association. " The ^lost Rov. Daniel Murray, D.D., Archbishop of Dublin, died in 1854. He was a sort of Irish St. Francis de Sales. His p .blished sermons are in two large volumes. THOMAS MOORE. " In the quality of a national Irish lyrist, Moore stands absolutely alone and unapproachable. " — Shaw.' " Of aU the song-writers that ever warbled or chanted or sung, the best, in our estimation, is verily none other than Thomas Moore." — Peof. Wilson.^ " The genius of Moore must ever command admiration." — Akchbishop Mac- Hale. THOMAS MOORE, " the sweet son of song " and " the poet of all circles," was born in Anngier Street, Dublin, on May 28, 1779. His father was a respectable grocer and spirit- dealer, and both his joarents were Catholics. The house in which he was born and reared still stands, the shop being devoted to the same unam- bitious department of commerce. Thomas began rhyming at so early an age that he Avas never able to fix the date of his first eftusions. Of him, as of the Catholic poet Pope, it might indeed be said : '■ As yet a child, and all unknown to fame, He lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." He was but a mere lad when he indited the following to the editor of a Dublin masiaziue : '•' Sept. 11, 1793. " To the Editor of the Anthologies Hibernica: "Sir : If the following attempts of a youthful muse seem worthy of a place iu your magazine, by inserting them you will much oblige a constant reader. '•' Tn— M— s M— RE." With this note t\vo poems were enclosed. "We give one: "a pastoral ballad. " My gardens are covered with flowers, My vines are all loaded with gi-apes, Nature sports in my fountains and bowers. And assumes all her beautiful shapes. • Shaw was an Englishman. . Wilson was a Scotchman. 502 Tk?:nxs Moyre, 503 " The shepherds admire my lays, When I pipe they all flock to the song ; They deck me with laurels and bays, And list to me all the day long. *' But tlieir laurels and praises are vain. TJieyVe no joy or delight for me now ; For Celia despises the strain, And that withers the wreath on my brow." Those, certainly, are good lines for a boy of only fourteen. In clue time they appeared in the magazine, and young Moore was de- lighted to see his productions in print. His first master was Mr. Samuel Whyte. This gentleman liad a great taste for poetry and the drama, and our young poet soon be- came one of his favorite pupils, unlike the famous Eichard Brins- ley Sheridan, wlio, before Moore's day, had received, as tlie most incorrigible of dunces, many and many a sound birching at tlie ] lands of Mr. Whvte. Moore's father was a warm and patriotic Irisliman, and tlio son was not slow to catcli tlio spirit of liis parent. The times were stirring and dangerous. The French Eevolution had shoolv Europe. Ireland but yearned for some opportunity to throw off tlie hated sliackles in wliich English tyranny had bound her hand and foot. The United Irislmicn — that band of gallant men — were daily grow- ing more restive. Moore Avas thus early initiated into rebellion; in fact, his fellow-student and bosom friend was no other than Robert Emmctt. He was a member of the jiatriotic debating-clubs and a contributor to the Press, the oi-gan of the United Irishmen. One of his fiery letters was. even noticed in Parliament. He was sus- pected, examined before the Vice-Chancellor, but nothing could be proved against him. His mother, a woman of excellent sense and judgment, now warned him to be prudent. Her advice prevailed, and perhaps saved the future author of the "Irish Melodies " from the unhappy fate of the brave Robert Emmett. An act of Parliament in 1793 partly opened the doors of Dublin University to Catholics. The following year Moore entered Trinity College. He was a hard-working student whose diligence was crowned by success. "And," says one of his biographers, "while engaged with his classics at the xmiversity, at home he was learning- Italian from a priest, French from one of the many emigrants who sought refuge on our shores during that unhappy time for their 504 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. own country, and pianoforte music from his sister's teacher." In 1799 Moore loft his famous Ahna Mater, taking the degree of B.A. He at once started for London, a translation of Anacreon's Odes in his hands, witli the intention of entering himself as a law student in the Middle Temple. In his translation of Anacreon Moore exhibits a very great extent of reading and no little proficiency in Greek phi- lology. He was also more lucky than most of the authors who have sought the mighty city with nothing but their brains for a fortune. In Lord Moira he found a kind friend. This nobleman obtained him permission to dedicate his Odes to the Prince of Wales. ^ This was his first step on the road to fame and success. But it Avas fatal to his law studies, and Blackstone was thrown aside for the Muses. In 1801 appeared Moore's first volume of original verses. It was entitled "The Poetical Works of the late Thomas Little." While there was much that was meritorious in this volume, it also con- tained many pieces quite loose and immoral in tone. In after-life Moore thought of "those jiroductions with feelings of shame." In 1803 our poet received an appointment under the Government as Eegistrar to the Court of Admiralty in the island of Bermuda. The following year he arrived at his post. In a few months, how- ever, he left a deputy to perform his duties, and began a tour through the United States and Canada. It appears there was only one city that pleased him in this Eepublic. Writing to his mother from Passaic Falls in June, 1804, he says : "' The only place which I have seen that I had one wish to pause in Avas Philadel- phia." It is a pity he did not live to see it 1876. He wrote some fine pieces of poetry during this journey, as "Alone by the Schuylkill," "Lines written at the Cohoes," the "Canadian Boat-Song," and his letter in verse to his sister, Miss Moore, in which he says : " In days, my Kate, when life was new, When lulled with innocence and you, I heard in liome's beloved shade The din the world at distance made. '•■ Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea RoUs wide between that home and me ; The moon may thrice be born and die Ere even your seal can reach my eye." ^ Afterwards George IV. TJiomas Moore. 505 There were no railroads or steamships in those days, and even poets were obliged to move slowly along. Later in life, when referring to his American visit, lie would boast of his introduction to the illustrious Thomas Jefferson, ex- claiming with enthusiasm : '•' I had the honor of shaking h.ands with the man v/ho wrote the Declaration of American Independence."' In 1806 he published his "Epistles, Odes, and other Poems.''' JefErey, in the Edinburgh Revietc, treated the book with merciless severity. Moore took mortal offence, and nothing but blood could wash out the critic's crime. Moore challenged. Jeffrev felt bound to give him satisfaction. A duel was the result, but the seconds managed to put no lead into the pistols, and, of course, there Avas nothing but smoke. The combatants were obliged to laugh. They shook hands, and to the end of their lives there were no more llrm friends than Thomas Moore and Lord Jeffrey. A sneering allusion of Lord Byron in his ''English Bards and Scotch Eeviewers " was nearly the cause of another duel. Moore demanded an ajoology. A dinner and some explanations made the affair all right. The intimacy thus began soon ripened into firm friendship. In 1807 Moore began his immortal '• Irish Melodies." ' One hun- dred and twenty-four in number, they were composed at intervals covering over a quarter of a century. Mr. Power, a musical pub- lisher, offered to pay him $2,500 r. year during the time he Avould be occupied in composing them. Dr. E. S. Mackenzie computes that he received $75,000 for the "Melodies." This is about 830 a line. The musical accompaniments were supplied by Sir John Stephenson. What Moore accomplished by those matchless congs is thus truthfully and" beautifully referred to by himself : " Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee, The cold chains of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy cords to light, freedom, and song." ''Of a theatrical turn," says one of his biographers, "Moore acted well in private drama, in which the gentlemen Avere amateurs and the female j^arts Avere personated by jorofessional actresses. * Moore'p "Irish Melodies" have been translated into the principal languages c£ Eu- rope. Theywava alsj translated into Latin, and the venerable Archbishcp AiacIIale, greet prelate a:;<3 poet th-it he is, rendered them into the ancient and beautiful language of IrslJiad. --0 stste'a of Arcibishop MacHalc. 5o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Thus plaving in a cast with Miss Dykes, the daughter of an Irish uctoi-, Moore fell in love with her and married her on the 25th of Marcii, 1811." It is but right to add that this young lady proved a sensible, loving, and most devoted wife. Never did the domestic hearth of'a literary man exhibit a more perfect picture of household comfort. ]\roore now settled down to literature as a profession. " Lalliv Eookh,-'' ' his charming versified Eastern romance, appeared in 1817- After this followed the "Life of Sheridan"' ; "The Epicurean,'' a beautiful Egyptian tale of early Christian times; '' Life of Byron" ; ''Memoirs of Captain Eock"; '"'Memoir of Lord Edward Eitzgc- rald"; "Travels of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Eeligion '' ; "History of Ireland," and various other productions. During the last twenty-nine years of his life Moore lived in the quiet seclusion of Sloperton Cottage, near Devizes, England. Here, iu 1832, he was visited by Gerald Griffin, who had been commic- sioned by the electors of the. city of Limerick to request Moore to stand for the representation of that city in Parliament. The poet dechned. Griffin, in a letter to a lady friend, gives us a peep at the celebrated author of the "Irish Melodies " at home. " In the morn- ing," he writes, "we° set olf to Sloperton; drizzling rain, but a delightful country; such a gentle shower as that through which ha looked at Innisf alien — his farewell look. And we drove away until we came to a cottage, a cottage of gentility, with two gateways and pretty grounds about it. "We alighted and knocked at the hall-door ; and there was dead silence, and wc whispered one another ; and ray nerves thrilled as the wind rustled in the creeping shrubs that graced the retreat of Moore. I wonder I ever stood it at all, and I iui Irishman, too, and singing liis songs, since I was the height of my knee. The door opened and a young woman appeared. 'I:J j\Ir. Moore at homo ? ' ' I'll see, sir. "What name shall I say, sir ? ' "' Well, not to be too particular, vrc Avere shown up-stairs, where v.-c found our hero in his study, a table before him covered Avitli books and papers, a drawer half open and stuffed with letters, a i:)iano, also open, at a little distance ; and the iliicf Imiisdf, a little r.ian, but full of spirit, with eyes, hands, feet, and frame for ever in motion, looking as if it would be a feat for liinT to sit for thrc? minutes quiet in his chair. I am no great observer of proportions, * This poem -was translated into the Persian laajua^e. ' * GrifSn and.his brother. Thomas Moore. 507 but he seemed to mc to bo a neat made little fellow, tidily buttoned up, youug as fifteen at heart, though Avitli hair that reminded me of the 'Alps in the sunset' ; not handsome, perhaps, but something in the whole cut of him tliat pleased me ; finished as an actor, but without an actor's affectation ; easy as a gentleman, but without somo gentlemen's formality ; in a word, as people say when they find their brains be2:in to run as^rouud at the fag end of a magnili- cent period, avo found him a hospitable, warm-hearted Irishman, as pleasant as could bo himself, and disposed to make others so. Xeed I tell- you that Ave spent the day delightfully, chiefly in listening to his i-nnumerablc jests and admirable stories and beautiful similes, beautiful and orio-inal as those he throAvs into his songs and anec- dotes, that would make the Danes laugh ?" Moore's last years were unhappily clouded l)y mental infirmity. He died at Sloperton Cottage in February, 1852. That man must, indeed, be a soulless clod of earth who can read the *' Irish Melodies," or hear them sung, without feeling himself aroused to admiration. Is there anything in the literature of Europe or America to equal them ? As an instance, take '" The Meeting of the Waters." The Avords are exquisitely beautiful, the calm sweetness of the melody touches the very depths of the soul, and, when, played, the music strikes the ear as something almost celestial. The entrancing beauty and grandeur of this solo, as once sung by a dear friend, yet lingers in our mind. The very memory of it is "sweet and mournful to the soul." "The hour is yet near," said the eloquent Father Burke, O.P., *'when God gaA^e to our native land its highest gift — a truly poetic child. AYhen Ireland's poet came to find fame and immortality in Ireland, nothing was required of him but to take the ancient melo- dies floating in the land, to interpret the Celtic in Avhicli they Avcre found into the language of to-day, and Tom Moore, Ireland's poet, might Avell say, as he took Erin's harp in his hand : ' Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee.' Ireland's poet was a lover of his country. He made every true heart and every noble mind in the world melt into sorrow at the contemplation of Ireland's Avrongs, and the injustice that she suf- fered, as they came home to every sympathetic heart upon the wings of Ireland's ancient melody." That the influence of Moore's 5oS The Pj^osc and Poetry of Ireland, "Irish Melodies" hastened Catholic emancipation there can be no donbt. '•' The ' Irish Melodies,' " writes S. C. Hall, '' must be considered j as the most valuable and enduring of all his works; they ' Circle his name with a charm against death,' and as a writer of song he stands without a rival. Moore found the national music of his country, with very few exceptions, debased by a union with words that were either unseemly or unintelligible. The music of Ireland is now known and appreciated all over the world, and the songs of the Irish poet will endure as long as the country, the loves and glories of which they commemorate." ^ "The genius of Moore," says the illustrious Archbishop Mac- Hale, ''must ever command admiration. Its devotion to the vindi- cation of tlie ancient faith of Ireland, and the character of its injured people must inspire every Irishman with still more estimable feelings. He seized the harp of Sion and Erin — at once the emblem of piety and patriotism — and gives its boldest and most solemn chords to his own impassioned inspirations of country and religion." ' "The 'Irish Melodies,'" writes Chambers, "are full of true feeling and delicacy. By universal consent, and by the sure test of memory, these national strains are the most popular of all Moore's Avorks. They are musical almost beyond parallel in words ; grace- ful in thought and sentiment ; often tender, pathetic, and. heroic ; and they blend pathctical and romantic feelings with the objects and sympathies of common life in language chastened and refined, yet apparently so simple that every trace of art has disappeared."' ' •' Gems of the Modem Poets." '' " Moore's Irish Melodies Translated into the Irish " " Cyclopiedia of English Literature," vol. ii. TJiomas Moore. 509 SELECTIONS PROM MOORE. SOME IBISU MELODIES. THE MEETIXG OF THE WATEKS.'" [We place this first of all the "Irish Melodies," as a tribute of respect toits sweet and beautiful air.] There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ! " Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it liias not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no, it was something more exquisite stilL 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, "Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of nature improve AVhen we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, ^Vhere the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace ! THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF EEIN WITH SORROW I SEE. Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see. Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home. And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, "Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and tliink the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. 10 "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery vhich lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were sug- gcsued by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807. ' ' The Rivers Avon and Avoca. 5IO The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair/' EICH AND KARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WOKE.'' Rich and rare were the gems she wore. And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But oh ! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snoAV- white wand. " Lady, dost thou not -\'ar to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " " Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin Avill offer me harm ; For though they love women and golden store, Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more ! " On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted lier round the Green Isle. And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride. 1= In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an act was made respecting the hab ts and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing gliVbes or coulbw (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called acmmcal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is mado to give the preference to her dear Cmilln (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the Eng- lish were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired (" Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards," p. 134). Sir. Walker informs us also that about the same period there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish minstrels. '^ This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote : " The people were inspired with such a tpirit of honor, virtue, and religion by the great cxaraple of Brian, and by his ex- cellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels (" Warner's History of Ireland," vol. 1. book s.) Thomas Moore. 511 WHEN HE WHO ADOBES THEE." When he who adores thee has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh ! say wilt thou weep when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn. Thy tears shall efface their decree ; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee ! "With thee were the dreams of my earliest love , Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! Oh ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live The days of thy glory to see ; But tlie next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. THE HARP THAT OXCE THEOUGn TAEA's HALLS. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days. So glory's thrill is o'er. And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more ! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes ; The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks. To show that still she Hvcj^. '■• This, doubtless, refers to Robert Emmett, who r.ddresses Erin, bis loved but un happy country. 5 1 2 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIAN THE BRAYE." Remember the glories of Brian the brave. Though the days of the hero are o'er ; Though lost to Mononia," and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora " no more ! That star of tlie field, which so often has pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to glory yet. 3Iononia, when nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair. Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there ? No, freedom ! whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine Than to sleep but a moment in chains ! Forget not our wounded companions who stood '"^ In the day of distress by our side ; "While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr'd not, but couquerd and died ! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! Oh ! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain ! 1^ Brian Boru, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in t-wenty-flve engagements. '" Miinster. '" The palace of Brian. 1* This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brian, when they were interrupted in their return from the battlo of Clontarf by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. " Let slakes''' they said, " he ctiicTc in the ground, and svffer each of 1(5, tied to and supported hy one of these stakes, to l>e placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "■' Between sevenand eight hundred wounded men," adds O'HaUoran, " pale, eraaciitcd, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops ; nevsr was such another sight exhibited " ('" History of Ireland,"' book xii. chap, i.) Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora no more. That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set; ^ But enough of its glory remains on each sword f^ J To light us to victory yet Thomas Moore, 513 THE SONG OF FIOJTN'UALA. " Silent, Moylc ! be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world ! Sadly, Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping. Fate bids me languish long ages away ! Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping. Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! When will that day-star, mildly springing. Warm our isle with peace and love ! When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing. Call my spirit to the fields above ? LET EEIX REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. Let Erin remember the days of old. Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; When Malachi wore the collar of gold '^^ Which he won from her proud invader ; When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd. Led the Eed-Branch Knights to danger ; "' Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger. 1' To make this story intelligible in a song -would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be content to learn in a note that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, Tras, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to -wander, for many hun- dred years, over certain lakes and rivers of Ireland till the coming of Christianity, -when the flrst sound of the Mass-bell -was to be the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, begun under the direction of the late Countess of Moira. 20 "This brought on an encounter bet-ween Malachi (the monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in -which Malachi defeated two of their champions, -whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck i>f one, and carrying ofE the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory " (" Warner's Hist, of Ireland " vol. i. book ix ) -1 Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland. Long before the 514 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. On Longli Neagli's bank as the fisherman strays/ When^the clear, cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining ! Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. Catch a glimpse of the days that are over. Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover ! BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EXDEAEIXG YOUXG CHAKMS. ■Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away ! Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art. Let thy loveliness fade as it will. And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. And thy cheeks iinj^rofaned by a tear. That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known. To which time will but make thee more dear ! Oh ! the heart that has truly loved never forgets. But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets The same look which she turn'd when he rose ! birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster called the Curaidhe na Craidbhe ruwlh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craidbhe ruadh, or the Aca- demy of the Red Branch, and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Sron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier ' . (•' O'Halloran's Introduction," etc., part i. chap, r.) -■- It was an old tradition in the time of Giraldus that Lough Neagh had been origin- ally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He Bays that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastic towers undertho water. ^ Thomas Moore. 515 EEIN ! O EEIX ! Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine. And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, ■ Is the heart that sorrows have frownM on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm ! Erin ! Erin ! thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears ! The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising when others are set ; And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin ! Erin ! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade ! Unchill'd by the raiu, and unwaked by the wind. The lily lies sleeping through the winter's cold hour. Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind. And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. Erin ! Erin ! thy winter is past. And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last ! BEFOEE THE BATTLE. By the hope within us springing. Herald of to-morrow's strife ; By that sun whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life. Oh ! remember, life can be 1^0 charm for him who lives not free ! Like the day-star in the wave. Sinks a hero to his grave. Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! Blessed is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine. And light him down the steep of years ; But, oh ! how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 5 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the focman's check turns white, While his heart that field remembers Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! Never let him bind again A chain like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls ; Oh ! before the evening falls May we pledge that horn in triumph round I " Many a heart that now beats high In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound ; But, oh ! how blest that hero's sleep O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! AFTER THE BATTLE. Night closed around the conqueror's way, And liffhtnino- show'd the distant hill, "Where those who lost that dreadful day. Stood few and faint, but fearless still — The soldiers hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimm'd for ever crost ; Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel When all but life and honor's lost ? The last sad hour of freedom's dream And valor's task moved slowly by. While mute they watch'd till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die ! There is a world where souls are free, Where tpants taint not nature's bliss ; If death that world's bright opening be. Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? -' " The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaCed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."— Fo/fcer. Thomas Moore. c^\*j 0]S" MUSIC. Whek through life nnblcst wo rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love In days of boyhood meet our ear, Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept ! Like the gale that sighs along Beds of Oriental flowers Is the grateful breath of song That once was heard in haj)pier hours ; Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on. Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone It's memory lives in music's breath ! Music ! oh ! how faint, how weak. Language fades before thy spell ! Why should feeling ever speak When thoii canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship's balmy words may feign. Love's are even more false than they ; Oh ! 'tis onlv music's strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray ! I SAW THY FOEM IlyT YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime, ISTor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of time And waste its bloom away, Mary ! Yet still thy features Avore that light Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne'er look'd more purely bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 5 1 8 The Prose arid Poetry of Ireland. As streams that run o'er golden mines With modest murmur glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary ! So, veil'd beneath the simple guise, Thy radiant genius shone. And that which nharm'd all other eyes Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; Or could we keep the souls we love. We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! Though many a gifted mind we meet, Thou2:h fairest forms we see. To live with them is far less sweet Than to remember thee, Mary ! O THE SHAMROCK ! Through Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wander'd. With Wit, the sprite. Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander'd ; Where'er they pass A triple grass '* Shoots np, with dew-drops streaming. As softly green As emeralds seen Through purest crystal gleaming ! the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 21 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to -which in Ire- land we give the name of Shamrock in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there he any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a boauti- tul child, "standing upon tip-toes and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand." Tho77ias Moore. 519 Says Valor : ''See, They spring for nic, Those leafy gems of morning ! " Says Love : ''No, no, For me they grow. My fragrant path adorning ! " But Wit perceives The triple leaves. And cries : '•' Oh ! do not sever A type that blends Three godlike friends. Love, Valor, Wit, for ever ! " O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock ! THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer. Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Arc faded and gone ; l&o flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nioh To reflect back her blushes. Or give sigh for sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed. Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. 5 20 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd. And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? THE MINSTREL BOY. The minstrel boy to tlie war has gone. In the ranks of death yon'll find him. His father's sword he has girded on. And his wiLd harp slung beliind kirn. Land of song ! " said the warrior bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard. One faithful harp shall praise thee I " The minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again. For he tore its chords asunder ; And said, "JSTo chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the pure and free. They shall never sound in slavery !" DEAE HAEP OF MY C0U:N"TRY. Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I found thee. The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, "When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee. And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have wakcn'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. The Minstrel fell! — but the foeman's chain ^^W 'i?^^^'' Could not bring his proud soul under The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder • And said, "No chains shall sully thee, "Thou soul of love and bravery ! .^" Thy songs were made for the pure and free,^ hall never sound in s^ v. I Thomas Jlloarc. 521 Doar TLirp of my couiiirv ! fiuvwoll (o iliy nnml)Pvs, This swool. Aviwiih of soii<;- is tho I:i,sf wo sIkiJI Iwiiic ; Go. sloo}i wiili tlio simshino o'i f;uno on (liy sluiubora. Till loiU'hM by somo hainl loss umvorthv llinii luiiio. If tlio|Milsoof tlio patriot, soUHit. or lo\or lias ihrobbM at. oiir lay, 'lis tliy glory alouo ; I was hut as I ho wiml passing hooJlossly over, And all the wiKl sweetness I waked was thy own. A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. Written on the Elvor St. Lawrence, pATNTiiY as tolls the evening ohinie, Onr Yoiees keep tune and our oars keep time ; Soon as the woods on the shore look dim, AVe'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the dayligliii's past ! "Wliy should we yet our sail unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl I But when the wind blows o(lf the shore. Oh ! sweetly w'ell rest oxw weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past ! Ottawa's tide ! this trembling moon Shall sec us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers. Oh ! grant us cool hearcns and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapidi are near and the daylight's past ! SOME SACRED S02rGS. "WERE NOT THE SINFUL IIARY's TEARS. Were not the sinful j\[a.ry's tears An olfcring worthy Heaven, "When o'er the faults of former years She wept — and was forgiven ? 522 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. When, bringing every balmy sweet Her day of luxury stored, She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet The precious perfume pour'd ; And wiped tliern with that golden hair Where once the diamonds shone ; Though now those gems of grief were there Which shine for God alone. Were not those sweets, though humbly shed- That hair, those weeping eyes, And the sunk heart that inly bled — Heaven's noblest sacrifice ? Thou that hast slept in error's sleep, Oh ! wouldst thou Avake in Heaven, Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, " Love much," " and be forgiven. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETIXG SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, Por man's illusion given ; The smiles of Joy, the tears of woe. Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven. And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even ; And love and hope and beauty's bloom Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven. Poor wand'rers of a stormy day. From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way — There's nothing calm but Heaven. as "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven ; for she loved much."— Zaie vii. 42. Thomas Moore. 523 O THOU WHO DRT'sT THE MOUENER'S TEAR ! •' He healeih. the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds." — Fsalm cxlvii. 3. Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, "We could not fly to thee ! The friends who in our sunshine live When winter comes are flown. And he who has but tears to give Must weep those tears alone. But thou wilt heal that broken heart Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers. And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimm'd and vanish'd too, Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above ! Then sorrow, touch'd by thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray ; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day. THOU ART, O GOD ! "The day is thine, the niglit also is thine ; thou hast prepared the light of the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth : thou hast made summer and winter." — Fsalm Ixziv. 16. 17. Thou art, God ! the life and lisht Of all this wond'rous Avorld we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from thee. Where'er we turn thy glories shine. And all things fair and bright are thine. 524 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. When clay, with farewell beam, delays Among the op'ning clouds of even. And Ave can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven — Those hues that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies. Like some dark, beauteous bird whose plume Is sjoarkling witli unnumber'd eyes — That sacred gloom, those fires divine. So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine. When youthful spring around us breathes. Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn thy glories shine. And all things fair and bright are thine ! THE BIRD LET LOOSE, The bird let loose in eastern skies," When hast'ning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam ; But high she shoots througli air and light. Above nil low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight. Nor shadow dims her way. So grant mc, God, from every care And stain of passion free. Aloft, through virtue's ^lurcr air. To hold my course to thee ! -« The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmoiint every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined. « THE YOUNG EGYPTIAN. Thomas Moore. No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home slie sjirings ; Thy sunshine on her joyful way. Thy freedom in her wings ! 525 THE EPICUREAN. A TALE. A Letter to the Translator, from , Esq. Cairo, June 19, 1800. My dear Sir : During a visit lately paid by me to the Monastery of St. Macarius — which is situated, as you know, in the Valley of the Lakes of Natron — I was lucky enougli to obtain possession of a curious Greek manuscript, which, in the hope that you may be induced to translate it, I herewith transmit to you. You will find the story, I think, not altogether uninteresting ; and the coin- cidence, in many respects, of the curious details in Chap. VI. with the descrip- tion of the same cei-emonies in the romance of " Sethos " will, I have no doubt, strike you. Hoping that you may be induced to give a translation of this tale to the world, I am, my dear sir. Very truly yours. THE EPICUREAN". CHAPTER I. It was in the fourth" year of the reign of the late Emperoi; Vale- rian " that the followers of Epicurus, who were at that time nume- rous in Athens, proceeded to the election of a person to fill the vacant chair of their sect, and, by the unanimous voice of the school, I was the individual chosen for their chief. I was just then entering on my twenty-fourth year, and no instance had over before occurred of a person so young being selected for that high office. Youth, however, and the personal advantages that adorn it, could not but rank among the most agreeable recommendations to a sect that included within its circle all the beauty as well as the wit of Athens, and which, though dignifying its pursuits with the ^ Valerian began his reign A.d. S53. 526 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, name of pliilosopliv, was little else tliau a plausible pretext for the more retined cultivatiou of pleasure. The character of the sect had, indeed, much changed since the time of its wise and virtuous founder, who, while he asserted that pleasure is the only good, inculcated also that good is the only sourcc of pleasure. The purer part of this doctrine had long eva- porated, and the temperate Epicurus would have as httlo recognized his own sect in the assemblage of refined voluptuaries who noWi usurped its name as he would have known his own quiet garden in the luxurious groves and bowers among which the meetings of the school were now held. Many causes concurred at this period, besides the attractiveness of its doctrines, to render our school by far the most popular of any that still survived the glory of Greece. It may generally be observed that the jDrevalencc in one-half of a community of very rigid notions on the subject of religion produces the ojipositc extreme of laxity and infidelity in the other, and this kind of reaction it was that now mainly contributed to render the doctrines of the garden the most fashionable philosophy of the day. The rapid progress of the Christian faith had alarmed all those who, either from piety or worldliness, were interested in the con- tinuance of the old established creed — all who believed in the deities of Olympus, and all who lived by them. The natural consequence was a considerable increase of zeal and activitv throughout the constituted authorities and priesthood of the whole heathen Avorld. "What was wanting in sincerity of belief Avas made up in rigor ; the weakest parts of the mythology were those, of course, most angrily defended, and any reflections tending to bring Saturn or his Avife, Ops, into contempt, were punished with the utmost severity of the law. In this state of affairs between the alarmed bigotry of the declin- ing faith and the simple, sublime austerity of her rival, it was not wonderful that those lovers of ease and pleasure who had no inte- rest, reversionary or otherwise, in the old religion, and were too indolent to enquire into the sanctions of the new, should take refuge from the severities of both in the arms of a luxurious philosophy, which, leaving to others the task of disputing about the future, centred all its wisdom in the full enjoyment of the present. The sectaries of the garden had, ever since the death of their founder, been accustomed to dedicate to his memorv the twentieth TJiornas Moore. 527 day of every montli. To these monthly rites liad for some .time been added a grand annual festival, in commemoration of his birth. The feasts given on this occasion by my predecessors in the chair had been invariably distinguished for their taste and splendor, and it was my ambition not merely to imitate this example, but even to render the anniversaiy now celebrated under my auspices so lively and brilliant as to efface the recollection of all that had pre- ceded it. Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a scene. The grounds that formed the original site of the garden had received, from time to time, considerable additions, and the whole extent was now laid out with that perfect taste which understands how to wed nature with art without sacrificing any of her simplicity to the alliance. Walks leading throudi wildernesses of shade and fra- grance, glades opening as if to afford a playground for the sunshine, temples rising on the very spots Avhere Imagination herself would have called them up, and fountains and lakes in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure or calmly sleeping in its embrace — such was the variety of feature that diversified these fair gardens ; and animated as they were on this occasion by all the living wit and loveliness of Athens, it afforded a scene such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxury and beauty, could hardly have anticipated. The ceremonies of the day began with the very dawn, when, ac- cording to the form of simpler and better times, those among the disciples who had apartments within the garden bore the image of our founder in procession from chamber to chamber, chanting verses in praise of what had long ceased to be objects of our imitation — his frugality and temperance. Hound a beautiful lake in the centre of the garden stood four white Doric temj)les, in one of which was collected a library con- taining all the flowers of Grecian literature, while in the remaining three conversation, the song, and the dance held, uninterrupted by each other, their respec-tive rites. In the library stood busts of all the most illustrious Epicureans, both of Rome and Greece — Horace, Atticus, Pliny the elder, the jooet Lucretius, Lucian, and the lamented biographer of the philosophers, lately lost to us, Diogenes Laertius. There were also the portraits in marble of all the eminent female votaries of the school — Leontium and her fair daughter Danae, Themista, PhilEenis, and others. 528 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. It was here that in my capacity of Heresiarch, on the morning of the festival, I received the felicitatious of the day from some of the fairest lips of Athens ; and, in pronouncing the customary ora- tion to the memory of our Master (in which it was usual to dwell upon the doctrines ho had inculcated), endeavored to attain that art, so useful before such an audience, of lending to the gravest subjects a charm, which secures them listeners even among the simplest and most volatile. Though study, as may be supposed, engrossed but little the nights or mornings of the garden, yet all the lighter parts of learning — that j^ortion of its attic honey for which the bee is not compelled to go very deep into the flower — was somewhat zealously cultivated by us. Even here, however, the young student had to encounter that kind of distraction which is, of all others, the least favorable to composure of thought ; and with more than one of my fair dis- ciples there used to occur such scenes as the following, which a poet of the garden, taking his picture from the life, thus described : " As o'er the lake, in evening's glow, That temple threw its lengthening shade, Upon the marble steps below There sate a fair Corinthian maid, Gracefully o'er some volume bending ; While by her side the youthful Sage Held back her ringlets, lest, descending. They should o'ershadow all the page. " But it was for the evening of that day that the richest of our luxuries were reserved. Every part of the garden was illuminated, with the most skilful variety of lustre, while over the Lake of the Temples were scattered wreaths of flowers, through which boats, filled with beautiful children, floated as through a liquid parterre. Between two of these boats a mock combat was perpetually car- ried on, their respective commanders, two blooming youths, being habited to represent Eros and Anteros — the former the Celestial Love of the Platonists, and the latter that more earthly spirit Avhich usurps the name of Love among the Epicureans. Throughout the whole evening their conflict was maintained with various success, the timid distance at which Eros kept aloof from his lively antagonist being his only safeguard against those darts of fire, with showers of which the other assailed him, but which, falling short of their mark Thomas Mooi^e. 529 upon the hike, only scorched tlie few flowers on wliich they fell and were extinguished. In another part of the gardens, on a wide glade, illuminated only by the moon, was performed an imitation of the torch-race of the Panathencea by young boys chosen for their fleetness and arrayed with wings like cupids; while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, with each a star on her forehead, reiirescnted the movements of the planetary choir, and embodied the dream of Pythagoras into real motion and song. At every turning some new enchantment broke unexpectedly on the eye or ear ; and novr, from the depth of a dark grove, from which a fountain at the same time issued, there came a strain of sweet music, which, mingling with the murmur of the vrater, seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over its flow ; while at other times the same strain appeared to come breathing from among flowers, or was heard suddenly from underground, as if the foot had just touched some spring that set its melody in motion. It may seem strange that I should now dwell ujion all these trifling details ; but they were to me full of the future, and every- thing connected with that memorable night — even its long-repented follies — must forever live fondly and sacredly in my memory. The festival concluded with a banquet, at which, as master of the sect, I presided, and being myself, in every sense, the ascendant spirit of the whole scene, gave life to all around me, and saw my own happi- ness reflected in that of others. CHAPTER n. The festival was over; the sounds of the song and dance had ceased, and I was now left in those luxurious gardens alone. Though so ardent and active a votary of pleasure, I had, by nature, a disposition full of melancholy — an imagination that, even in the midst of mirth and happiness, presented saddening thoughts and threw the shadow of the future over the gayest illusions of the present. Melancholy was, indeed, twin-born in my soul with pas- sion, and not even in the fullest fervor of the latter were they ever separated. From the first moment that I was conscious of thought and feeling the same dark thread had run across the web, and im- ages of death and annihilation came to mingle themselves with even the most smiling scenes through which love and enjoyment led me. 530 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. My very passion for iileasiire Ijut dcciocncd these gloomy thoughts. For, shut out, as I Avas by my creed, from a future life, and having no hoijc beyond the narrow horizon of this, every minute of earthly delight assumed, in my eyes, a mournful preciousness, and pleasure, like the flower of the cemetery, grew but more luxuriant from the nci"-hborhood of death. o This very night my triumph, my happiness, had seemed com- plete. I had been the presiding genius of that voluptuous scene. Both my ambition and my love of pleasure had drunk deep of the rich cup for which they thirsted. Looked up to as I was by the learned, and admired and loved by the beautiful and the young, I had seen in every eye that met mine either the acknowledgment of bright triumphs already won, or the promise of others still brighter that awaited me. Yet, even in the midst of all this, the same dark thoughts had presented themselves ; the perishablencss pf myself and all around me had recurred every instant to my mind. Those hands I had pressed, those eyes in which I had seen sparkling a spirit of light and life that ought never to die, those voices tnat had spoken of eternal love, all, all I felt were but a mockery of the moment, and would leave nothing eternal but the silence of their dust ! Oh ! were it not for this sad voice. Stealing amid cur mirth to say That all in which wc most rejoice Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey But for this bitter — only this — Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, \ And capable as feels my soul Of draining to its depth the whole, 1 should turn earth to heaven, and be. If bliss made gods, a deity ! Such was the description I gave of my own feelings in one of those wild, passionate songs to which this mixture of mirth and melan- choly in a spirit so buoyant naturally gave birth. And seldom had my heart so fully surrendered itself to this sort of yague sadness as at that very moment Avhen, as I paced thought- fully among the fading lights and flowers of the banquet, the echo of my own step was all that now sounded where so many gay forms had lately been revelling. The moon was still up, the morning had not yet glimmered, and the calm glories of the night still rested on Thomas Moore. 531 all around. Unconscious whither my pathway led, I continued to wander along, till I at length found myself before that fair statue of Venus with which tlie chisel of Alcamenes had embellished our garden — that image of deifled woman, the only idol to which I had ever yet bent the knee. Leaning against the jiedestal of the statue, I raised my eyes to heaven, and, fixing them sadly and intently on the ever-burning stars, as if seeking to read the mournful secret in their light, asked wherefore was it that man alone must fade and perish, while they, so much less Avonderful, less god-like than he, thns still lived on in radiance unchangeable and forever ! '' Oh ! that there were some spell, some talisman," I exclaimed, "to make the spirit that burns within ns deathless as those stars, and open to it a career like theirs, as bright and inextinguishable throughout all time ! " While thus indulging iw. wild and melancholy fancies, I felt that lassitude which earthly pleasure, however sweet, still leaves behind come insensibly OA'cr me, and at length sunk at the base of the statue to sleep. But even in sleep the same fancies continued to haunt me, and a dream, so distinct and vivid as to leave behind it the impression of reality, thus presented itself to my mind. I found myself suddenly transported to a wide and desolate plain, where nothing appeared to breathe, or move, or live. The very sky that hung above it looked pale and extinct, giving the idea, not of darkness, but of light that had become dead ; and had that whole region been the remains of some older world, left broken up and sunless, it could not have pre- sented an aspect more quenched and desolate. The only thing that bespoke life throughout this melancholy waste was a small spark of light, that at first glimmered in the distance, but at length slowly approached the bleak spot where I stood. As it drew nearer I could see that its small but steady gleam came from a taper in the hand of an ancient and venerable man, who now stood, like a pale messenger from the grave, before me. After a few moments of awful silence, during which he looked at me with a sadness that thrilled my very soul, he said : "■ Thou who seekcst eternal life, go unto the shores of the dark Kile — go unto the shores of the dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest ! " No sooner had he uttered these words than the deathlike hue of his check at once brightened into a smile of more than earthly promise, while the small torch he held in his hand sent forth a 532 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. glow of radiance by wliicli suddenly the whole surface of the desert was illuminated, the light spreading even to the distant horizon's cd«ye, along Avhose line I could now sec gardens, palaces, and spires, air as bright as the rich architecture of the clouds at sunset. Sweet music, too, came floating in every direction through the air, and from all sides such varieties of enchantment broke upon me that, with the excess alike of harmony and of radiance, I awoke. That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly neither un- usual nor strange. A belief m superhuman agency seems natural and necessary to the mind, and if not suffered to flow in the obvious channels, it will find a vent in some other. Hence, many who have doubted the existence of a God have yet implicitly jolaced them- selves under the patronage of fate or the stars. Much the same inconsistency I was conscious of in my own feelings. Though re- jecting all belief in a divine Providence, I had yet a faith in dreams that all my philosophy could not conquer. Nor was experience wanting to confirm mo in my delusion ; for, by some of those acci- dental coincidences which make the fortune of soothsayers and prophets, dreams, more than once, had been to me — Oracles, truer far than oak, Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. It was not wonderful, therefore, that the vision of that night — touching, as it did, a chord so ready to vibrate — should have afiected me with more than ordinary power, and even sunk deeper into my memory with every effort I made to forget it. In vain did I mock at my own weakness ; such self-derision is seldom sincere. In vain did I pursue my accustomed pleasures. Their zest was, as usual, for ever new; but still, in the midst of all my enjoyment, came the cold and saddening consciousness of mortality, and with it the re- collection of that visionary jiromise to which my fancy, in defiance of reason, still continued to cling. At times indulging in reveries that were little else than a continu- ation of my dream, I even contemplated the possible existence of some mighty secret by which youth, if not pciiDctuated, might be at least prolonged, and that dreadful vicinity of death, within whose circle love pines and pleasure sickens, might be for a while averted. ''Who knows," I Avould ask, "but that in Egypt, that region of wonders where Mystery hath yet unfolded but half her treasures, where still remain, undeciphered, upon the pillars of Seth so many Thomas Moore. 533 written secrets of the untedilnvian world — who can tell but that some powerful charm, some amulet, may there lie hid Avhose dis- covery, as this jihantom hath promised, but awaits my coming — some compound of the same pure atoms that form the essence of the living stars, and whose infusion into the frame of man might render him also unfading and immortal !" Thus fondly did I sometimes speculate in those vague moods of mind when the life of excitement in which I was engaged, acting upon a warm heart and vivid fancy, produced an intoxication of spirit, during which I was not wholly myself. This bewilderment, too, Avas not a little increased by the constant struggle I experi- enced between my own natural feelings and the cold, mortal creed of my sect, in endeavoring to escaj)e from whose deadening bondage I but broke loose into the realms of fantasy and romance. Even in my soberest moments, however, that strange vision for ever haunted me, and every effort I made to chase it from my recollec- tion was unavailing. The deliberate, conclusion, therefore, to which I at last came was that to visit Egypt was now my only resource ; that without seeing that land of wonders I could not rest, nor, until convinced of my folly by disappointment, be reasonable. Without delay, accordingly, I announced to my friends of the garden the intention I had formed to pay a visit to the Land of Pyramids. To none of them, however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary impulse that actuated me, knowledge being the object that t alleged, while pleasure was that for which they gave me credit. The interests of the school, it was feared, might suffer by my ab- sence, and there were some tenderer ties which had still more to fear from separation. But for the former inconvenience a tempora- ry remedy was provided, while the latter a skilful distribution of vows and sighs alleviated. Being furnished with recommendatory letters to all parts of Egypt, I set sail, in the summer of the year 257 A.D., for Alexandria. CHAPTER III. ' To one who so well knew how to extract j^leasure from every mo- ment on land, a sea-voyage, however smooth and favorable, appeared the least agreeable mode of losing time that could be devised. Often, indeed, did my imagination, in passing some isle of those seas, people it with fair forms and loving hearts, to Avliich most 534 ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of h^cland. willingly would I have paused to offer homage. But tlie wind olew direct towards the Land of Mystery, and, still more, I heard a voice within me whispering for ever, ^' On." As we approached the coast of Egypt our course becarue less prosperous, and we had a specimen of the bencYolence of the divi- nities of the Kile in the shape of a storm, or rather whirlwind, which had nearly sunk our vessel, and which the Egyptians on board declared to be the work of their deity, Typhon. After a day and night of danger, during Avhich we were driven out of our course to the eastward, some bcnigner influence prevailed above, and, at length, as the morning freshly broke, we saw the beautiful city of Alexandria rising from the sea, with its proud Palace of Kings, its portico of four hundred columns, and the fair Pillar of Pillars towering in the midst to heaven. After passing in review this splendid vision, we shot rapidly round the Eock of Pharos, and, in a few minutes, found ourselves in the harbor of Eunostus. The sun had risen, but the light on the Great Tower of the Rock was still burning, and there was a languor in the first waking movements of that voluptuous city, whose houses and temples lay shining in silence around the harbor, that suffi- ciently attested the festivities of the preceding night. We were soon landed on the quay ; and, as I walked through a line of palaces and shrines up the street which leads from the sea to the Gate of Canopus, fresh as I was from the contemplation of my own lovely Athens, I yet felt a glow of admiration at the scene around me, which its novelty, even more than its magnificence, in- spired. Xor were the luxuries and delights which such a city pro- mised among the least of the considerations upon which my fancy dwelt. On the contrary, everything around me seemed i^rophetic of love and pleasure. The very forms of the architecture, to my Epicurean imagination, api:)cared to call uj) images of living grace ; and even the dim scclusicn of the temples and groves spoke only of tender mysteries to my mind. As the whole bright scene grew ani- mated around me, I felt that though Egypt might not enable me to lengthen life, she could teach me the next best art — that of multi- plying its enjoyments. Rapidly some weeks now jiassed in ever-changing pleasures. Even the melancholy voice deep within my heart died away; but, at length, as the novelty of these gay scenes Avore off, the same vague and gloomy bodings began to mingle with all my joys ; and an inci- Thomas Moore. 535 dent tliat occurred at this time, during one of my gayest revels, con- duced still more to deepen tlicir gloom. The celebration of the annual festival of Serapis happened to take place during my stay, and I was more than once induced to mingle Avitli the gay multitudes that flocked to the shrine at Cauopus on the occasion. Day and night, as long as this festival lasted, the great canal Avhicli led from Alexandria to Canopus was covered with boats full of pilgrims of both sexes, all hastening to avail themselves of this pious license, which lent the zest of a religious sanction to pleasure, and gave a holyday to the follies and passions of earth in honor of heaven. I was returning one lovely night to Alexandria. The north wind — that welcome visitor — had cooled and freshened the air, while the banks on either side of the stream sent forth, from groves of orange and henna, the most delicious odors. As I had left all the crowd behind me at Canopus, there was not a boat to be seen on the canal but my own, and I was just yielding to the thoughts which solitude at such an hour inspires, when my reveries were suddenly broken by the sound of some female voices, coming mingled with laughter and screams, from the garden of a pavillion that stood brilliantly illumi- nated upon the bank of the canal. On rowing nearer I perceived that both the mirth and the alarm had been caused by the cHorts of some playful girls to reach a hedge of jasmine Avhicli grew near the water, and in bending towards which they had nearly fallen into the stream. Hastening to proffer my assistance, I soon recognized the face of one of my fair Alexan- drian friends, and, springing on the bank, was surrounded by the whole group, who insisted on my joining their party in the pavil- lion ; and, having flung around me as fetters the tendrils of jasmine Avhich they had just i)lucked, conducted me no unwilling captive to the banquet-room. I found here an assemblage of the vary flower of Alexandrian so- ciety. The unexpectedness of the meeting added new zest to it on both sides, and seldom had I ever felt more enlivened mvself or succeeded better in infusing life and gayety into others. Among the company were some Greek women, v*'ho, according to the fashion of their country, wore veils, but, as usual, rather to set off than to conceal their beauty, some bright gleams of which were constantly escaping from under the cloud. There was, how- ever, one female who particularly attracted my attention, on whose 536 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. head was a cliaplct of dark-colored flowers, and who sat Yeiled and silent during the Avholc of the banr|iiet. She took no share, I ob- served, in what was passing around; the viands and the wine went by her untouched, nor did a word that was spoken seem addressed to her car. This abstraction from a scene so sparkling with gayety, though apparently unnoticed by any one but myself, struck me as mysterious and strange. I enquired of my fair neighbor the cause of it, but she looked grave, and was silent. In the meantime the lyre and the cup went round, and a young maid from Athens, as if inspired by the presence of her country- man, took her lute and sung to it some of the songs of Greece with the warmth of feeling that bore me back to the banks of the Ilissus, and, even in the bosom of present pleasures, drew a sigh from my heart for that which had passed away. It was daybreak ere our delighted party rose, and most unwillingly re-embarked to return to the city. We Avere scarce afloat when it was discovered that the lute of the young Athenian had been left behind, and, with a heart still full of its sweet sounds, I most readily sprang on shore to seek it. I has- tened at once to the banquet-room, which Avas now dim and soli- tary, except that — there, to my utter astonishment, was still seated that silent figure which had awakened so much my curiosity during the evening. A vague feeling of awe came over me as I now slowly approached it. There w^as no motion, no sound of breathing in that form ; not a leaf of the dark chaplet upon its brow stirred. By the light of a dying lamp w'hich stood on the table before the figure I raised, with hesitating hand, the veil, and saw — what ray fancy had already anticipated — tliat the shape underneath was life- less, was a skeleton ! Startled and shocked, I hurried back with the lute to the boat, and was almost as silent as that shape itself during the remainder of the voyage. This custom among the Egyptians of placing a mummy or skele- ton at the banquet-table had been for some time disused, except at particular ceremonies, rjid even on such occasions it had been the practice of the luxurious Alexandrians to disguise this memorial of mortality in the manner just described. But to me, who was wholly unprepared for such a spectacle, it gave a shock from which my imagination did not speedily recover. This silent and ghastly Avit- ness of mirth seemed to embody, as it were, the shadow in my own heart. The features of tlie grave Avere thus stamped upon the idea Thomas Moore. 537 that had long haunted mc, and tliis picture of what I was to le now associated itself constantly with the sunniest as2:>ect of what I teas. The memory of the dream now recurred to me more livelily than ever. The bright, assuring smile of that beautiful Spirit, and his words, '^ Go to the shores of the dark Nile and thou wilt find the eternal life thou scchest," were for ever present to my mind. But as yet, alas ! I had done nothing towards realizing the proud promise. Alexandria was not Egypt ; the very soil on which it now stood was not in existence when already Thebes and Memphis had numbered age" of glory. " No," I exclaimed ; " it is only beneath the Pyramids of Mem- phis or in the mystic halls of the Labyrinth those holy arcana arc to be found of which the antediluvian Avorld has made Egypt its heir, and among which — blest thought ! — the key to eternal life may lie." Having formed my determination, I took leave of my many Alex- andrian friends and departed for Memphis. CHAPTER, IV. Egypt was, perhaps, of all others, the country most calculated, from that mixture of the melancholy and the voluptuous which marked the character of her people, her religion, and her scenery, to affect deeply a fancy and temperament like mine and keep both for ever tremblingly alive. Wherever I turned I beheld the desert and the garden mingling together their desolation and bloom. I saw the love-bower and the tomb standing side by side, as if, in that land, pleasure and death kept hourly watch upon each other. In the very luxury of the climate there was the same saddening influ- ence. The monotonous splendor of the days, the solemn radiance of the nights, all tended to cherish that ardent melancholy, the offspring of passion and of thought, Avhich had been so long the familiar inmate of my soul. "When I sailed from Alexandria the inundation of the Nile was at its full. The whole valley of Egypt lay covered by its blood ; and, as looking around me, I saw in the light of the setting sun shrines, palaces, and monuments cncirled by the Avaters, I could almost fancy that I beheld the sinking island of Atalantis on the last even- ing its temples Avere visible above the Avave. Such varieties, too, of animation as presented themseh^es on every side ! 538 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. While, far as sight could reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever bless'd this sphere, Gardens and pillar'd streets and porphyry domes. And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods— and pyramids, whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower. Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that love, religion, commerce gives Of life and motion ever moves and lives. Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave, Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands ; While there rich barks, fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts, Glide with their precious lading to the cca. Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory. Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains Of gold wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Sais or Bubastus, among beds Of lotus-flowers, that close above their heads. Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower, Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour ; Y/hilc haply, not far off beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank Is play'd in the cool current by a train Of laugliing nymphs, lovely as sho whoso chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast, But for a third too feeble, broko at last. Enchanted with the whole scene, I lingered delightedly on my voyage, visiting all those luxurious and venerable places whose names have been consecrated by the wonder of ages. At Sais I was present during her Festival of Lamps, and read by the blaze of innumerable lights those sublime words on the temple of jSTeitha : ''' I am all that has been, that is, and that will be, and no man hath ever lifted my veil." I wandered among the prostrate obelisks of Ileliopolis, and saw, not v/ithout a sigh, the sun smiling over her ruins as if in mockery of the mass of perishable grandeur that had once called itself in its pride -'The City of the Sun." But to the Thomas Moore. 539 Isle of the Golden Venus was, I own, my fondest pilgrimage ; and there, as I rambled through its shades, where bowers are tlic only temples, I felt how far more worthy to form the shrine of a deity are the everlasting stems of the garden and the grove than the most precious columns the inanimate quarry can supply. Everywhere new pleasures, new interests awaited me, and though Melancholy stood as usual for ever near, her shadow fell but half- way over my vagrant path, leaving the rest but more welcomely brilliant from the contrast. To relate my various adventures dur- ing this short voyage would only detain me from events far, far more worthy of record. Amidst all this endless variety of attrac- tions the great object of my journey had been forgotten ; the mys- teries of this land of the sun still remained to me as much myste- ries as ever, and as yet I had been initiated in nothing but its pleasures. It was not till that memorable evening when I first stood before the Pyramids of Memphis and beheld them towering aloft like the Avatch-tovrers of Time, from whose summit, when about to expire, he will look his last — it was not till this moment that the great secret announced in my dream again rose, in all its inscrutable darkness, upon my thoughts. There was a solemnity in the sun- shine rocting upon those monuments ; a stillness, as of reverence, in the air that breathed around them, which seemed to steal like the music of past times into my heart. I thought what myriads of the wise, the beautiful, and the brave had sunk into dust since earth first saw those wonders, and, in the sadness of my soul, I exclaimed : "Must man alone, then, perish ? must minds and hearts be annihi- lated while pyramids endure ? Death, Death ! even upon these everlasting tablets — the only approach to immortality that kings themselves could jmrchasc — thou hast written our doom av/fnlly and intelligibly, saying, ' There is for man no eternal mansion but the grave.' '' My heart sunk at the thought, and for the moment I yielded to that desolate feeling which overspreads the soul that hath no light from the future. But again the buoyancy of my nature prevailed, and, again the willing dupa of vain dreams, I deluded myself into the belief of all that my heart most wished with that happy fa- cility which enables imagination to stand in the place of happi- ness. ''Yes,'' 1 cried, "immortality 7n?/;5< be within man's reach, and as wisdom alone is worthy of such a blessing, to the wise 540 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. alone must tlic secret liave been revealed. It is said that deep under yonder pyramid has lain for ages concealed the table of emerald, on -which the thrice-great Hermes, in times before the flood, engraved the secret of alchemy, which gives gold at will. Whv, then, may not the mightier, the more godlike secret that gives life at will be recorded there also ? It was by the power of gold, of endless gold, that the kings who now repose in those massy structures scooped earth to its very centre, and raised quarries into the air, to provide for themselves tombs that might outstand the world. Who can tell but that the gift of immortality was also theirs ? who knows but that they themselves, triumphant over decay, still live, those mighty mansions which we call tombs being rich and everlasting palaces within whose depths, concealed from this withering world, they still wander with the few elect who have been sharers of their gift through a sunless but ever-illuminated elysium of their own ? Else, wherefore those structures ? where- fore that subterranean realm by which the whole valley of Egypt is undermined ? Why, else, those labyrinths, which none of earth have ever beheld, which none of heaven, except that God who stands with finger on his hushed lip, hath ever trodden ? " While thus I indulged in fond dreams, the sun, already half sunk beneath the horizon, was taking, calmly and gloriously, his last look of the Pyramids, as he had done evening after evening for ages, till they had grown familiar to him as the earth itself. On the side turned to his ray they now presented a front of daz- zling whiteness, while on the other their great shadows, lengthening away to the eastward, looked like the first steps of night hasten- ing to envelop the hills of Ai'aby in her shade. ISTo sooner had the last gleam of the sun disapjieared than on every housetop in Memphis gay, gilded banners were seen waving aloft to proclaim his setting, while at the same moment a full burst of harmony was heard to peal from all the temples along the shores. Startled from my musing by these sounds, I at once recollected that on that very evening the great Festival of the Moon was to be celebrated. On a little island, half-way over between the gar- dens of Memphis and the eastern shore, stood the temple of that goddess — Thomas Moore. 541 Whose beams Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams. Not the cold Dian of the North, who chains In vestal ice the current of young veins ; But she who haunts the gay Biibastian grove, And owns she sees from her bright heaven above Nothiasr on earth to match that heaven but love. -•o Thus did I exclaim, in the words of one of their own Egyptian poets, as, anticipating the various dehghts of the festival, I cast away from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and hastening to my little bark, in which I now lived the life of a Nile-bird on the waters, steered my course to the island Temple of the Moon. CHAPTER v. The rising of the moon, slow and majestic, as if conscious of the honors that awaited her upon eartli, was welcomed with a loud acclaim from every eminence, where multitudes stood watching for her first light. And seldom had that light risen upon a more beautiful scene. The city of Memphis, still grand, though no lon- ger the unrivalled Memphis that had borne away from Thebes the crown of supremacy, and worn it undisputed through ages, now, softened by the moonlight that harmonized Avith her decline, shone forth among her lakes, her pyramids, and her shrines like one of those dreams of human glory that must ere long jiass away. Even already ruin was visible around her. The sands of the Libyan desert were gaining upon her like a sea, and there, among solitary columns and sj)hinxes, already half sunk from sight, Time seemed to stand waiting till all that now flourished around him should fall beneath his desolating hand' like the rest. On the waters all was gayety and life. As far as eye could reach the liijhts of innumerable boats were seen studdins: like rubies the surface of the stream. Vessels of every kind, from the light coracle, built for shooting down the cataracts, to the large yacht that glides slowly to the sound of flutes — all were afloat for this sacred festival, filled with crowds of the young and the gay, not only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities still fartlier re- moved from the festal scene. As I approached the island I could see glittering through the trees on the bank the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to the cere- 542 , The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, mony. Landing in the direction which those lights pointed out,. I soon joined the crowd, and, passing through a long alley of sphinxes, whose spangling marble gleamed out from the dark sycamores around them, reached in a short time the grand vestibule of the temple, where I found the ceremonies of the evening already com- menced. In this vast hall, which was surrounded by a double range of columns, and lay open overhead to the stars of heaven, I saw a group of young maidens moving in a sort of measured step, between walk and dance, round a small shrine, upon which stood one of those sacred birds that, on account of the variegated color of their wings, are dedicated to the worship of the moon. The vestibule was dimly lighted, there being but one lamp of naj)htha hung on each of the great pillars that encircled it. But, having taken my station beside one of those pillars, I had a clear view of the young dancers as in succession they passed me. The drapery of all was white as snow, and each wore loosely be- neath the bosom a dark-blue zone or bandelet, studded like the skies at midnight with small silver stars. Through their dark locks was wreathed the white lily of the Nile, that sacred flower being ac- counted no less welcome to the moon than the golden blossoms of the bean-flower are known to be to the sun. As they passed under the lamp a gleam of light flashed from their bosoms, which, I could perceive, was the reflection of a small mirror that, in the manner of the woQien of the East, each of the dancers wore beneath her left shoulder. There was no music to regulate their steps ; but as they grace- fully went round the bird on the shrine, some to the beat of the Cas- tanet, some to the shrill ring of a sistrum, wliich they held uplifted in the attitude of their own divine Isis, continued harmoniously to time the cadence of their feet, while others at every step shook a small chain of silver, whose sound, mingling with those of the casta- nets and sistrums, produced a wild but not unpleasing harmony. They seemed all lovely, but there was one, whose face the light had Hot yet reached, so downcast she held it, who attracted and at length riveted all my looks and thoughts. I knew not why, but there was something in those half-seen features, a charm in the very shadow that hung over their imagined beauty, which took my fancy more than all the outshining loveliness of her companions. So enchained was I by this coy mystery that her alone of all the Thomas Moore. 543 group could I either see or think of, lier alone I Avutchcd as with the same downcast brow she glided gently and aerially round the altar, as if her presence, like that of a spirit, was something to bo felt, not seen. Suddenly, while I gazed, the loud crash of a thousand cymbals was heard, the massy gates of tlie temple flew open as if by magic, and a flood of radiance from the illuminated aisle filled the whole vestibule, while at the same instant, as if the light and the sounds were born together, a peal of rich harmony came mingling Avith the radiance. It was then, by that light, which shone full upon the young maiden's features, as, starting at the sudden blaze, she raised her eyes to the portal and as quickly let fall their lids again — it was then I beheld what even my own ardent imagination. In its most vivid dreams of beauty, had never pictured. Not Psycho herself, when j)ausing on the threshold of heaven, Avliile its first glories fell on her dazzled lids, could have looked more purely beautiful or blushed with a. more innocent shame. Often as I had felt the power of looks, none had ever entered into my soul so deeply. It was a new feeling, a new sense, coming as suddenly upon me as that radiance into the vestibule, and at once filling my whole being, and had that bright vision but lingered another moment before my eyes, I should in my transjDort have wholly forgotten who I was and where, and thrown myself in prostrate adoration at her feet. But scarcely had that gush of harmony been heard when the sacred bird, which had till now been standing motionless as an image, spread wide his wings and flew into the temple, while his graceful young worshippers, with a flectness like his own, followed, and she, who had left a dream in my heart never to be forgotten, vanished along with tho rest. As she went rapidly past the pillar against which I leaned, the ivy that encircled it caught in her drapery and disengaged some ornament, which fell to the ground. It was the small mirror which I had seen shining on her bosom. Hastily and tremulously I picked it up, and hurried to restore it, but she was already lost "to my eyes in the crowd. In vain did I try to follow ; the aisles were already filled, and numbers of eager pilgrims j^ressed towards the portal. But the servants of the temple denied all further entrance, and still, as I presented myself, their white wands barred the way. Peri^lexed and irritated amid that crowd of faces, regarding all as enemies 544 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, that impeded my progress, I stood on tiptoe, gazing into the busy aisles, and with a heart beating as I caught from time to tim.e a glimpse of some spangled zone or lotus-wreath, which led me to fancy that I had discovered the fair object of my search. But it was all iu vain. In every direction files of sacred nymphs were movino-, but nowhere could I discover her whom alone I sought. In this state of breathless agitation did I stand for some time, bewildered with the confusion of faces and lights, as well as with tlie clouds of incense that rolled around me, till, fevered and impa- tient, I could endure it no longer. Forcing my way out of the vestibule into the cool air, I hurried back through the alley of sphinxes to the shore, and flung myself into my boat. There lies to the north of Memphis a solitary lake (which at this season of the year mingles with the rest of the waters), upon whose shores stands the Necropolis, or City of the Dead — a place of melan- choly grandeur, covered over with shrines and pyramids, where many a kingly head, proud even in death, has lain awaiting through long ages the resurrection of its glories. Through a range of sepulchral grots underneath, the humbler denizens of the tomb arc deposited, looking out on each successive generation that visits them with the same face and features they wore centuries ago. Every plant and tree consecrated to death, from the asphodel-flower to the mystic plantain, lends its sweetness or shadow to this place of tombs, and the only noise that disturbs its eternal calm is the low humming sound of the priests at prayer when a new inhabitant is added to the Silent Citv. ' It was towards this place of death that, in a mood of mind, as usual, half gloomy, half bright, I now, almost unconsciously, directed my bark. The form of the young priestess was continually before me. That one bright look of hers, the very remembrance of which was worth all the actual smiles of others, never for a moment left my mind. Absorbed in such thoughts, I continued to row on, scarce knowing whither I w^ent, till at length, startled to find myself within the shadow of the City of the Dead, I looked up, and beheld rising in succession before me pyramid 'beyond j)yramid, each towering more loftily than the other, while all w^ere out-topped in grandeur by one upon whose summit the bright moon rested a3 on a pedestal. Dravf'ing nearer to the shore, w'hich was sufficiently elevated to raise this silent city of tombs above the level of the inundation, I Thomas Moore. 545 rested my oar, and allowed the boat to rock idly upon the water, while, in the meantime, my thoughts, left equally without direc- tion, were allowed to fluctuate as idly. How vague and various were the dreams that then floated through my mind, that bright vision of the temple still mingling itself with all ! Sometimes she stood before me, like an aerial spirit, as pure as if that element of music and light into which I had seen her vanish was her only dwelling. Sometimes, animated with passion and kindling into a creature of earth, she seemed to lean towards me with looks of ten- derness which it were worth worlds but for one instant to inspire ; and again, as the dark fancies that ever haunted me recurred, I saw her cold, parched, and blackening amid the gloom of those eternal sepulchres before me ! Turning away with a shudder from the cemetery at this thought, I heard the sound of an oar plying swiftly through the water, and in a few moments saw shooting past me towards the shore a small boat in which sat two female figures, muffled up and veiled. Hav- ing landed them not far from the spot where, under the shadow of a tomb on the bank, I lay concealed, the boat again departed with the same fleetness over the flood. Kever had the prospect of a lively adventure come more welcome to me than at this moment, when my busy fancy was employed in weaving such chains for my heart as threatened a bondage of all others the most difficult to break. To become enamoured thus of a creature of my own imagination was the worst, because the most lasting, of follies. It is only reality that can afford any chance of dissolving such spells, and the idol I was now creating to myself must for ever remain ideal. Any pursuit, therefore, that seemed likely to divert me from such thoughts — to bring back my imagina- tion to ear tli and reality from the vague region in which it had been wandering — was a relief far too seasonable not to be welcomed with eagerness. I had watched the course which the two figures took, and, having hastily fastened my boat to the bank, stepped gently on shore, and, at a little distance, followed them. The windings through which they led were intricate ; but by the bright light of the moon I was enabled to keep their forms in view, as with rapid step they glided among the monuments. At length, in the shade of a small pyra- mid whose peak barely surmounted the plane-trees that grew nigh, they vanished from my sight. I hastened to the spot, but there 546 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ^ was not a sign of life around, and, had my creed extended to another world, I might have fancied these forms were spirits sent down from thence to mock me, so instantaneously had they disap- peared. I searched through the neighboring grove, but all there was still as death. At length, in examining one of the sides of the pvramid, which for a few feet from the ground was fur- nished AviLli steps, I found, midway between peak and base, a part of its surface which, although i:)resenting to the eye an appearance of smoothness, gave to the touch, I thought, indications of a con- cealed opening. After a variety of efforts and experiments, I at last, more by acci- dent than skill, pressed the spring that commanded this hidden ajoerture. In an instant the joortal slid aside, and disclosed a nar- row stairway within, the two or three first steps of which were dis- cernible by the moonlight, while the rest were all lost in utter darkness. Though it was difficult to conceive that the persons whom I had been pursuing would have ventured to pr.ss through this gloomy opening, yet to account for their disajipearance other- wise was still more difficult. At all events my curiosity was now too eager in the chase to relinquish it ; the sjiirit of adventure once raised could not be so easily laid. Accordingly, having sent up a gay prayer to that bliss-loving queen whose eye alone was upon me, I passed through the portal and descended into the pyramid. CHAPTER VI. At the bottom of the stairway I found myself in a low, narrow passage, through which, without stooping almost to the earth, it was impossible to proceed. Though leading through a multiplicity of dark windings, this way seemed but little to advance my progress, its course, I perceived, being chiefly circular, and gathering, at every turn, but a deeper intensity of darkness. "Can anything," thought I, "of human kind sojourn here?'"' and had scarcely asked myself the question when the i:»ath opened into a long gallery, at the farthest end of which a gleam of light was visible. This welcome glimmer appeared to issue from some cell or alcove, in Avhich the right-hand wall of the gallery terminated, and, breathless with expectation, I stole gently towards it. Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene presented itself to my eyes for which my fondest expectations of adventure could not Thomas Moore. 547 have prepared mo. The place from which the light proceeded was a small chapel, of whose interior, from the dark recess ia which I stood, I could take, unseen myself, a full and distinct yiew. Over the walls of this oratory were painted some of those various sym- bols by which the mystic wisdom of the Egyptians loves to shadow out the History of the Soul — the winged globe with a serpent, the rays descended from above, like a glory, and the Theban beetle, as he comes forth after the Avaters have j^assed away, and the first sun- beam falls on his regenerated wings. In the middle of the chapel, on a low altar of granite, lay a life- less female form, enshrined Avithin a case of crystal (as it is the custom to jDreserve the dead in Ethiopia) and looking as freshly beautiful as if the soul had but a few hours dei^arted. Among the emblems of death, on the front of the altar, were a slender lotus- branch broke in two, and a small bird just winging its flight from the spray. To these memorials of the dead, however, I paid but little at- tention, for there was a living object there upon which my eyes were now intently fixed. The lamp by which the whole of the chapel was illuminated was placed at the head of the pale image in the shrine, and between its light and me stood a female form, bending over the monument, as if to gaze upon the silent features within. The position in which this figure was placed, intercepting a strong light, afforded me at first but an imperfect and shadowy view oi it. Yet even at this mere outline I felt my heart beat highj, and memory had no less share, as it proved, in this feeling than imagination. For on the head changing its position, so as to let a gleam fall upon the features, I saw, with a transport which had almost led me to betray my lurking-place, that it was she — the young worshipper of Isis — the same, the very same whom I had seen, brightening the holy place where she stood, and looking like an inhabitant of some purer world. The movement by which she had now afforded me an ojiportunity of recognizing her was made in raising from the shrine a small cross of silver which lay directly over the bosom of the lifeless figure. Bringing it close to her lips, she kissed it with a religious fervor ; then, turning her eyes mournfully ujiwards, held them fixed with a degreg of inspired earnestness, as if at that moment, in direct communion with heaven, they saw neither roof nor any other earthly barrier between them and the skies. 54^ ^-^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. What a power is there in innocence ! whose very helplessness is its safeguard, in whose presence eveu Passion himself stands abashed, and turns worshipper at the Tcry altar which he came to despoil She who, but a short hour before, had presented herself to my im- ao-ination as somethinf? I could have risked immortality to win ; she .whom gladly from the floor of her own lighted temple, in the yery face of its proud ministers, I would haye borne away in tri- nmioh, and dared all punishments, diyine and human, to make her mine, that yery creature was now before me, as if thrown by fate itself into my power, standing there, beautiful and alone, with nothing but her innocence for her guard. Yet no, so touching was the purity of the whole scene, so calm and august that protection which the dead extended oyer the liying, that eyery earthly feeling was forgotten as I gazed, and loye itself became exalted into reve- rence. But entranced as I felt in witnessing such a scene, thus to enjoy it by stealth seemed to me a wrong, a sacrilege ; and, rather than let her eyes encounter the flash of mine, or disturb by a whisper that sacred silence in which youth and death held communion through undying love, I would have suffered my heart to break, without a murmur, where I stood. Gently, as if life itself de- pended on my every movement, I stole away from that tranquil and holy scene, leaving it still holy and tranquil as I had found it, and, gliding back through the same passages and windings by which I had entered, reached again the narrow stairway, and reascended into light. The sun had just risen, and from the summit of the Arabian hills was pouring down his beams into that vast valley of Avaters, as if proud of last night's homage to his own diyine Isis, now fading away in the superior splendor of her Lord. My first impulse was to fly at once from this dangerous spot, and in new loves and plea- sures seek forgetfulness of the wondrous scene I had just witnessed. " Once," I exclaimed, '''out of the circle of this enchantment, I know too well my own susceptibility to new impressions to feel any doubt that I shall soon break the spell that is now around me." But vain were all my efforts and resolves. Even while swearing to fly that spot, I found my stej)s still lingering fondly round the pyra- mid, my eyes still turned towards the portal which severed this enchantress from the world of the living. Hour after hour did I wander through that City of Silence, till already it was midday, Thomas Moore. 549 and, under the snn's meridian eye, the mighty pyramid of pyra- mids stood, like a great spirit, shadowless. Again did those wild and passionate feelings, which for the mo- ment her presence had suhdned into reverence, return to take pos- session of my imagination and my senses. I even reproached my- self for the awe that had held me spellbound before her. ''What," thought I, *' would my companions of the garden say, did they know that their chief, he whose path love had strewed with tro- phies, Avas now pining for a simple Egyptian girl, in whose presence he had not dared to utter a single sigh, and who had vanquished the victor without even knowing her triumph ? " A blush came over my cheek at the humiliating thought, and I determined at all risks to await her coming. That she should be an inmate of those gloomy caverns seemed inconceivable ; nor did there appear to be any egress out of their depths but by the pyra- mid. Again, therefore, like a sentinel of the dead, did I pace up and down among those tombs, contrasting mournfully the burning fever in my own veins with the cold quiet of those Avho lay slum- beriug around. At length the intense glow of the sun over my head, and, still more, that ever restless agitation in my heart, became too much for even strength like mine to endure. Exhausted, I threw my- self down at the base of the j^yramid, choosing my place directly under the portal, where, even should slumber surprise me, my heart, if not my ear, might still keep watch, and her footstep, light as it was, could not fail to awake me. After many an ineffectual struggle against drowsiness, I at length sunk into sleep, but not into forgctfulness. The same image still haunted me, in every variety of shape with which imagination, assisted by memory, could invest it. Now, like the goddess Neitha, upon her throne at Sais, she seemed to sit, with the veil just raised from that brow which till then no mortal had ever beheld, and' now, like the beautiful enchantress Ehodope, I saw her rise from out the i^yramid in which she had dwelt for ages — " Fair Rhodope, as story tells, The bright unearthly nymph, ■who dwells Mid sunless gold and jewels hid, The Lady of the Pyramid I " So long had my sleep continued that, when I awoke, I found the 550 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland, moon again rosplcndcut above the horizon. But all around was lookiug tranquil and lifeless as before, nor did a print on the grass betray that any foot had passed there since my own. Refreshed, however, by my long rest, and with a fancy still more excited by the mystic wonders of which I had been dreaming, I now resolved to revisit the chapel in the jiyramid, and put an end, ii possible, to this strange mystery that haunted me. Having learned, from the experience of the i^receding night, the inconvenience of encountering those labyrinths without a light, I now hastened to provide myself with a lamp from my boat. Tracking my way back with some difficulty to the shore, I there found not only my lamp, but also some dates and dried fruits, of which I was always provided with store for my roving life upon the waters, and which, after so many hours of abstinence, were now a most welcome and necessary relief. Thus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and was proceed- ing to search out the secret sj)ring, when a loud, dismal noise was heard at a distance, to which all the melancholy echoes of the cemetery gave answer. The sound came, I knew, from the great temple on the shore of the lake, and was the sort of shriek which its gates — the Gates of Oblivion, as they are called — used always to send forth from their hiiiges when opening at night to receive the newly-landed dead. I had more than once before heard that sound, and alwavs with sadness ; but at this moment it thrilled through me like a voice of ill omen, and I almost doubted whether I should not abandon my en- terprise. The hesitation, however, was but momentary ; even while it i^assed through my mind I had touched the spring of the portal. In a few seconds more I was again in the passage beneath the pyra- mid, and, being enabled by the light of my lamp to follow the wind- ings more rapidly, soon found myself at the door of the small chapel in the gallery. I entered, still awed, though there was now, alas ! nought living within. The young priestess had vanished like a spirit into the darkness, and all the rest remained as I had left it on the jDreceding night. The lamp still stood burning upon the crystal shrine ; the cross was lying Avhere the hands of the young mourner had placed it, and the cold image Avithin the shrine wore still the same tran- quil look, as if resigned to the solitude of death — of all lone things the loneliest. Eemembcring the lips that I had seen kiss that cross. Thomas Moore. 551 and kindling witli the recollection, I raised it passionately to my own ; but the dead eyes, I thought, met mine, and, awed and sad- dened in the midst of my ardor, I replaced the cross upon the shrine. I had now lost every clue to the object of my pursuit, and, with all that sullen satisfaction which certainty, even when unwelcome, brings, was about to retrace my stejos slowly to earth, when, as I held forth my lamp on leaving the chapel, I perceived that the gal- lery, instead of terminating here, took a sudden and snake-like bend to the left, which had before eluded my observation, and which seemed to give joromiseof a pathway still farther into those recesses. Eeanimated by this discovery, which opened a new source of lupe to my heart, I cast, for a moment, a hesitating look at my lamp, as if to encpiiro whether it would bo faitliful through the gloom I was about to encounter, and then, without further consideration, rushed eagerly forward. CHAPTER VU. The path led, for a while, through the same sort of narrow windings as those which I had before encountered in descending the stairway, and at length opened, in a similar manner, into a straight and steej? gallery, along each side of which stood, closely ranged and upright, a file of lifeless bodies, whose glassy eyes appeared to glare upon me preternaturally as I passed. Arrived at the end of this gallery, 1 found my hopes for the second time vanish, as the path, it was manifest, extended no fur- ther. The only object I was able to discern by the glimmering of my lamp, which now burned eveiy minute fainter and fainter, was the mouth of a huge well that lay gaping before me — a reservoir of darkness, black and unfathomable. It now crossed my memory that I had once heard of such wells as being used occasionglly for passages by the priests. Leaning down, therefore, ovor thG ^dge, I examined anxiously all within, in order to see if it affoi (ed the means of effecting a descent into the chasm ; but the sides, I could perceive, were hard and smooth as glass, being varnished all over with that sort of dark pitch which the Dead Sea throws cut upon its slimy shore. After a more attentive scrutiny, however, I observed, at the depth of a few feet, a sort of iron step projecting dimly from the side, and 552 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. below it another, which, thongli hardly j^erceptible, was just suffi- cient to encourage an adventurous foot to the trial. Though all hope of tracing the young priestess was now at an end — it being im- possible that female foot should have ventured on this descent — yet, as I had engaged so far in the adventure, and there was, at least, a mystery to be unravelled, I determined at all hazards to ex- plore tlie cliasm. Placing my lamp, therefore (which Tvas hollowed at the bottom, so as to be woru like a helmet), firmly upon my head, and having thus both hands at liberty for exertion, 1 set my foot cautiously on the iron step, and descended into the well. I found the same footing at regular intervals to a considerable depth, and had already counted near a hundred of these steps when the ladder altogether ceased, and I could descend no further. In vain did I stretch down my foot in search of support — the hard, slippery sides were all that it encountered. At length, stooping my head so as to let the light fall below, I observed an opening or win- dow directly above the step on which I stood, and, taking for granted that the way must lie in that direction, contrived to clam- ber, with no small difficulty, through the aperture. I now found myself on a rude and narrow stairway, the ste2:)S of which were cut out of the living rock, and wound spirally downward in the same direction as the Avell. Almost dizzy with the descent, which seemed as if it would never end, I at last reached the bottom, where a pair of massy iron gates were closed directly across my path, as if wholly to forbid any further progress. Massy and gigantic, how- ever, as they were, I found, to my surprise, that the hand of an infant might have opened them with ease, so readily did their stu- pendous folds give "way to my touch, " Light as a lime-bush, that receives Some wandering bird among its leaves." No sooner, however, had I passed through than the astounding din with which the gates clashed together again was such as might have awakened death itself. It seemed as if every echo throughout that vast subterranean w^orld, from the Catacombs of Alexandria to Thebes's Valley of Kings, had caught up and repeated the thunder- ing sound. Startled as I was by the crash, not even this supernatural clangor could divert my attention from the sudden light that now broke around me — soft, warm, and welcome, as are the stars of his ov/n Thomas Moore. 553 South to the eyes of tlio mariner wlio has long been wandering through the cold seas of the jSTorth. Looking for the source of this splendor, I saw through an archway opposite a long illuminated alley stretching away as far as the eye could reach, and fenced on one side Avitli thickest of odoriferous shrubs, while along the other extended a line of lofty arcades from which the light that filled the whole area issued. As soon, too, as the din of the deep echoes had subsided there stole gradually on my ear a strain of choral music, which appeared to come mellowed and sweetened in its passage through many a spacious hall within those shining arcades, while among the voices I could distinguish some female tones, which, towering high and clear above all the rest, formed the spire, as it were, into which the harmony tapered as it rose. So excited was my fancy by this sudden enchantment that, though never had I caught a sound from the fair Egyptian's lips, I yet per- suaded myself that the voice I now heard was hers, sounding high- est and most heavenly of all that choir, and calling to mc, like a distant spirit, from its sphere. Animated by this thought, I flew forward to the archway, but found, to my mortification, that it was guarded by a trelliswork, whose bars, though invisible at a distance, resisted all my efforts to force them. While occupied in these ineffectual struggles, I perceived, to the left of the archway, a dark cavernous opening which seemed to lead in a direction parallel to the lighted arcades. Notwithstanding, however, my impatience, the aspect of this passage, as I looked ehudderingly into it, chilled my very blood. It was not so much darkness as a sort of livid and ghastly twilight, from which a damp, like that of death-vaults, exhaled, and through which, if my eyes did not deceive me, pale, phantom-like shapes were at that very moment hoverins:. Looking anxiously round to discover some less formidable outlet, I saw, over the vast folding gates through which I had just passed, a blue, tremulous flame, which, after playing for a few seconds over the dark ground of the pediment, settled gradually into characters of light, and formed the following words ; You who would try Yon terrible track, To live or to die, But ne'er to look back— 554 '^^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland. You who aspii-e To be iDurified there By the terrors of Fire, Of Water, and Air— If danger and pain And death you despise, On ; for again ^ Into light you shall rise; Rise into light With that Secret Divine, Now shrowded from sight By the VeUs of the Shrine! But if— Here the letters faded away into a dead blank, more awfully intel- ligible than the most eloquent words. A new hope now flashed across me. The dream of the garden, which had been for some time almost forgotten, returned freshly to my mind. ''Am I, then,'' I exclaimed, "in the path to the pro- mised mystery ? and shall the great secret of Eternal Life indeed be mine ? " "Yes !" seemed to answer out of the air that spirit-Toice which still ^vas heard at a distance crowning the choir with its single sweetness. I hailed the omen with transport. Love and immor- tality both beckoning me onward — who wonld give even a thought to fear with two such bright hopes in prospect ! Having invoked and blessed that unknown enchantress whose steps had led me to this abode of mystery and knowledge, I instantly plunged into the chasm. Instead of that vague, spectral twilight which had at first met my eye, I now found, as I entered, a thick darkness, which, though far less horrible, was, at this moment, still more disconcerting, as my lamp, which had been for some time almost useless, was now fast expiring. Eesolved, however, to make the most of its last gleam, I hastened, with rapid step, through this gloomy region, which appeared to be wider and more open to the air than any I had yet passed. Xor was it long before the sudden appearance of a bright blaze in the distance announced to me that my first great trial was at hand. As I drew nearer, the flames before me burst high and wide on all sides, and the awful spectacle that then pre- TJiomas Moore. 555 sented itself was sncli as miglit have daunted hearts far more ac- customed to dangers than mine. Tliero lay before me, extending completely across my path, a thicket or grove of the most combustible trees of Egy])t — tama- rind, pine, and Arabian balm, while around their stems and branches were coiled serpents of fire, which, twisting themselves rapidly from bough to bough, spread the contagion of their own wild-fire as they Avent, and involved tree after tree in one general blaze. It was, indeed, rajiid as the burning of those reed-beds of Ethiopia whose light is often seen brightening at night the distant cataracts of the Nile. Through the middle of this blazing gi'ove I could now perceive my only pathway lay. There was not a moment, therefore, to be lost, for the conflagration gained rapidly on cither side, and already the narrowing joatli between was strewed with vivid fire. Casting away my now useless lamp, and holding my robe as some slight protec- tion over my head, I ventured, with trembling limbs, into the blaze. Instantly, as if my presence had given new life to the flames, a fresh outbreak of combustion arose on all sides. The trees clus- tered into a bower of fire above my head, while the serpents that hung hissing from the red branches shot showers of sparkles down upon mc as I passed. Never were decision and activity of more avail ; cne minute later and I must have perished. The narrow opening of which I had so promptly availed myself closed instantly behind mc, and, as I looked back to contemplate the ordeal which I had passed, I saw that the whole grove was already one mass of fire. Eejoiced to have escaped this first trial, I instantly plucked from one of .the pine-trees a bough that was but Just kindled, and, with this for my only guide, hastened breathlessly forward. I had ad- vanced but a few paces when the path turned suddenly off, leading downwards, as I could perceive by the glimmer of my brand, into a more confined region, through which a chilling air, as if from some neighboring waters, blew over my brow. Xor had I proceeded far in this course when the sound of torrents, mixed, as I thought, from time to time Avitli shrill wailings resembling the cries of persons in danger or distress, fell mournfully upon my ear. At every step the noise of the dashing waters increased, and I now perceived that I had entered an immense rocky cavern, through the middle of Avhich, headlong as a winter torrent, the dark flood to whose roar I had been listening poured its waters, while upon its surface floated 556 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. grim spectre-like shapes, wliicli, as tliey went by, sent fortli those dismal shrieks I had heard, as if in fear of some awful precipice towards whose brink they were hurrying. I saw plainly that across that torrent must be my course. It was, indeed, fearful ; but in courage and perseverance now lay my only hope, "^hat awaited me on the opposite shore I knew not ; for all there was immersed in impenetrable gloom, nor could the feeble light which I carried send its glimmer half so far. Dismissing, however, all thoughts but that of pressing onward, I sprung from the rock on which I stood into the flood, trusting that with my rio-ht hand I should be able to buffet the current, while with the other, as long as a gleam of the brand remained, I might hold it aloft to guide me safely to the shore. Long, formidable, and almost hopeless was the struggle I had now to maintain, and more than once, overpowered by the rush of the waters, I had given myself up as destined to follow those pale, death-like apparitions that still went past me, hurrying onward witli mournful cries to find their doom in some invisible gulf be- yond. At length, just as my strength was nearly exhausted and the last remains of the pine-branch were dropping from my hand, I saw, outstretching towards me into the water, a light double balustrade, with a flight of steps between, ascending almost perpendicularly from the wave till they seemed lost in a dense mass of clouds above. This glimpse — for it was nothing more, as my light expired in' giv- ing it — lent new spring to my courage. Ilaving now both hands at liberty, so desperate were my efforts that, after a few minutes' struggle, I felt my brow strike against the stairway, and in an instant my feet were on the steps. Eejoiced at my escape from that perilous flood, though I knew not whither the stairway led, I promptly ascended the steps. But this feeling of confldencc was of short duration. I had not mounted far, when, to my horror, I perceived that cacli successive step as my foot left it broke away from beneath mc, leaving me in mid-air with no other alternative than that of still mounting by the same momentary footing, and with the appalling doubt whether it would oven endure my tread. And thus did I for a few seconds continue to ascend, with nothing beneath me but that awful river, in which, so tranquil had it now become, I could hear the plash of the falling fragments as every Thomas Moo7'e. 557 step ill succession gave way from under my feet. It was a most fearful moment, but even still worse remained. I now found the balustrade by which I had held during my ascent, and which had hitherto appeared to be firm, growing tremulous in my hand, while the step to which I was about to trust myself tottered under my foot. Just then a momentary flash, as if of lightning, broke around me, and I saw hanging out of the clouds, so as to bo barely within my reach, a huge brazen ring. Instinctively I stretched forth my arm to seize it, and, at the same instant, both balustrade and steps gave way beneath mo, and I was left swinging by my hands in the dark void. As if, too, this massy ring which I grasped was by some magic power linked with all the winds in heaven, no sooner had I seized it than, like the touching of a spring, it seemed to give loose to every variety of gusts and tempests that ever strewed the sea- shore with wrecks or dead, and as I swung about, the sport of this elemental strife, every new burst of its fury threatened to shiver me like a storm-sail to atoms. Nor was even this the worst ; for, still holding, I know not how, by the ring, I felt myself caught up as if by a thousand whirlwinds, and then round and round, like a stone-shot in a sling, continued to be whirled in the midst of all this deafening chaos till m}^ brain grew dizzy, my recollection became confused, and I almost fancied myself on that Avheel of the infernal world whose rotations eternity alone can number. Human strength could no longer sustain such a trial. I was on the point, at last, of loosing my hold, when suddenly the violence of the storm moderated, my whirl through the air gradually ceased, and I felt the ring slowly descend with mo till — happy as a ship- wrecked mariner at the first touch of land — I found my feet once more upon firm ground. At the same moment a li^-ht of the most delicious softness filled the whole air. Music such as is heard in dreams came floating; at a distance, and, as my eyes gradually recovered their powers of vision, a scene of glory was revealed to them almost too bright for imagination, and yet living and real. As far as the sight could reach enchanting gardens were seen, opening away through long tracts of light and verdure, and sparkling everywhere with fountains that cir- culated like streams of life among the flowers. ISTot a charm was here wanting that the fancy of poet or prophet, in their warmest pictures of Elysium, have ever yet dreamed or promised. Yistas, 558 The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland. opening into scones of indistinct grandeur ; streams, shining out at intervals in their shadowy course ; and labyrinths of flowers, leading by mysterious windings to greea, spacious glades full of splen- dor and repose. Over all this, too, there fell a light from some un- seen source resembling nothing that illumines our upper world, a sort of golden moonlight mingling the warm radiance of day with the calm and melancholy lustre of night. IS^or were there wanting inhabitants for this sunless Paradise. Through all the bright gardens were seen wandering, -with the se- rene air and stej) of happy spirits, groups both of young and old, of venerable and of lovely forms, bearing, most of them, the Nile's white flowers on their heads and branches of the eternal palm in their hands, while over the verdant turf fair children and maidens went dancing to aerial music, whose source Avas, like that of the light, invisible, but which filled the whole air with its mystic sweet- ness. Exhausted as I was by the painful trials I had undergone, no sooner did I perceive those fair groups in the distance than my weariness, both of frame and spirit, was forgotten. A thought crossed me that she whom I sought might haply be among them, and notwithstanding the feeling of awe Avith which that unearthly scene inspired me, I was about to fly on the instant to ascertain my hope. But while in the act of making the effort, I felt my robe gently pulled, and turning round, beheld an aged man before me whom, by the sacred hue of his garb, I knew at once to be a Hiero- phant. Placing a branch of the consecrated palm in my hand, he said, in a solemn voice, "Aspirant of the Mysteries, welcome!" then, regarding me for a few seconds with grave attention, added, in a tone of courteousness and interest, " The victory over the body hath been gained. Follow me, young Greek, to thy resting-place." I obeyed the command in silence, and the priest, turning away from this scene of splendor into a secluded pathway where the light gradually faded as we advanced, led me to a small pavilion by the side of a whispering stream, where the very spirit of slumber seemed to preside, and, pointing silently to a bed of dried poppy-leaves, left me to repose. CHAPTER VITI. On awaking, the imprudence of the step on which I had ventured appeared in its full extent before my eyes. I had here thrown my- Thomas Moore. 559 self into the power of the most artful priesthood in the \7orld with- out even a chunce of being able to escape from their toils, or to resist any machinations with which they might beset me. It appeared evident, from the state of preparation in which I had found all that wonderful apparatus by which the terrors and splendors of initia- tion are produced, that my descent into the pyramid was not unex- pected. Numerous indeed and active as were the spies of the Sacred College of Memphis, it could little be doubted that all my move- ments since my arrival had been watclif ully tracked, and the many hours I had employed in wandering and exploring around the pyramid betrayed a curiosity and spirit of adventure which might well suggest to these wily priests the hope of inveigling an Epicu- rean into their toils. I was well aware of their hatred to the sect of which I was chief — that they considered the Epicureans as, next to the Christians, the most formidable enemies of their craft and power. '' How thoughtless, then," I exclaimed, "■ to have placed myself in a situa- tion where I am equally helpless against fraud and violence, and must either pretend to be the dupe of their impostures or else sub- mit to become the victim of their vengeance ! " Of these alterna- tives, bitter as they both were, the latter appeared by far the more welcome. It was with a blush that I even looked back upon the mockeries I had already yielded to, and the prospect of being put through still further ceremonials, and of being tutored and preached to by hypocrites whom I so much despised, appeared to me, in my present mood of mind, a trial of patience compared to which the flames and whirlwinds I had already encountered were pastime. The thought of death, ever ready to present itself to my ima- gination, now came with a disheartening weight, such as I had never before felt. I almost fancied myself already in the dark vestibule of the grave, removed for ever from the world above, and with nothing but the blank of an eternal sleep before me. It had happened, I knew, frequently that the visitants of this mysterious realm were, after their descent from earth, never seen or heard of, being condemned, for some failure in their initiatory trials, to pine away their lives in those dark dungeons with which, as well as with altars, this region abounded. Such, I shuddered to think, might probably be my own destiny, and so appalling was the thought that even the courage by which I had been hitherto sus- 56o The Prose and Poetiy of Ireland. taiued died within mo, iiud I was already giving myself np to help- lessness and despair. While with an imagination thus excited, and I stood waiting the result, an increased gush of light awakened my attention, and I saw, with an intenseness of interest which made my heart beat aloud, one of the corners of the mighty Veil of the Sanctuary raised slowly from the floor. I now felt that the great secret, whatever it mio-ht be, was at hand. A vague hope even crossed my mind — so wholly had imagination now resumed her empire — that the splendid loromise of a dream I once had was on the very point of being realized ! With surprise, however, and, for the moment, with some disap- liointment, I perceived that the massy corner of the veil was but lifted sufficiently from the ground to allow a female figure to emerge from under it, and then fell over its mystic splendors as utterly dark as before. By the strong light, too, that issued when the dra- pery was raised, and illuminated the profile of the emerging figure, I either saw, or fancied that I saw, the same bright features that had already so often mocked me with their momentary charm, and seemed destined, indeed, to haunt my fancy as unavailing as even the fond, vain dream of immortality itself. Dazzled as I had been by that short gush of splendor, and dis- trusting even my senses when under the influence of so much excite- ment, I had but just begun to question myself as to the reality of my impression when I heard the sounds of light footsteps approach- ing me through the gloom. In a second or two more the figure stopped before me, and, placing the end of a ribbon gently in my hand, said, in a tremulous whisper, *^ Follow, and be silent." So sudden and strange was the adventure that for a moment I hesitated, fearing that my eyes might possibly have been deceived as to the object they had seen. Casting a look towards the veil, which seemed bursting with its luminous secret, I was almost doubting to which of the two chances I should commit myself, when I felt the ribbon in my hand pulled softly at the other ex- tremity. This movement, like a touch of magic, at once decided me. Without any further deliberation, I yielded to the silent sum- mons, and following my guide, who was already at some distance before me, found myself led up the same flight of marble steps by which the priest had conducted me into the sanctuary. Amved at their summit, I felt the pace of my conductress quicken, and, giv- Thomas Moore. 561 ing one more look to the veiled sbriiie, whose glories we left burning uselessly behind us, hastened onward into the gloom, full of confi- denco in the belief that she who now held the other end of that clue was one whom I was ready to folloAV devotedly through the world. CHAPTEK IX. With such rajoidity was I hurried along by my unseen guide, full of wonder at the speed with which she ventured through these laby- rinths, that I had but little time left for reflection u^ion the strange- ness of the adventure to which I had committed myself. My know- ledge of the character of tlie Memphian priests, as well as some fearful rumors that had reached me concerning the fate that often attended unbelievers in their hands, awakened a momentary suspi- cion of treachery in my mind. But when I recalled the face of my guide as I had soon it in the small chapel, with that divine look, the very memory of which brought purity into the heart, I found my suspicions all vanish, and felt shame at having harbored them but an instant. In the meanwhile our rapid course continued, without any inter- ruption, through windings even more capriciously intricate^* than any I had yet passed, and whose thick gloom seemed never to have been broken by a single glimmer of light. My unseen conduct- ress was still at some distance before me, and the slight clue, to which I clung as if it were Destiny's own thread, was still kept by the speed of her course at full stretch between us. At length, sud- denly stopping, she said, in a breathless whisper, '' Seat thyself here," and at the same moment led me by the hand to a sort of low car, in which, obeying her brief command, I lost not a moment in placing myself, while the maiden no less promptly took her seat by my side. xi sudden click, like the touching of a spring, was then heard, and the car — which, as I had felt in entering it, leaned half-way over a steep descent — on being let loose from its station, shot down almost perpendicularly into the darkness with a rapidity which at first nearly deprived me of breath. The wheels slid smoothly and noise- -8 In addition to tho accounts -wMch tho ancients have left us of the prodigious erca. vatioao in all parts of Egypt, the tifteen hundred chambers under the Labyrinth, the subterr2,-joan stables of the Thebaul, containing a thousand horses, the crypts of Upper Egypt pacsing under tho bod of the Mile, etc., etc., tho stories and traditions current among the Arabs still preserve tho memory of those wonderful substructions. 562 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. lessly in grooves, and the impetus wliicli the car acquired in de- scending was sufficient, I perceived, to carry it up an eminence that succeeded, from the summit of wliich it again rushed down another dechvity even still more long and precipitous than the former. In this manner we proceeded, by alternate falls and rises, till at length from the last and steepest elevation the car descended upon a level of deep sand, where, after running a few yards, it by degrees lost its motion and stopped. Here the maiden, alighting again, placed the ribbon in my hands, and again I followed her, though with more slowness and difficulty than before, as our way now led up a flight of damp and time-worn steps, whose ascent seemed to the wearied and insecure foot intermin- able. Perceiving with what languor my guide advanced, I was on the point of making an effort to assist her progress when the creak of an opening door above, and a faint gleam of light which at tlio same moment shone upon her figure, apprised me that we were at last arrived within reach of sunshine. Joyfully I followed through this opening, and by the dim light could discern that avc were now in the sanctuary of a vast ruined temple, having entered by a secret passage under the pedestal upon which an image of the idol of the place once stood. The -first movement of the young maiden, after closing again the portal under the pedestal, was, without even a single look towards me, to cast her- self down upon her knees with her hands clasped and uplifted, as if in thanksgiving or prayer. Bat she was unable, evidently, to sustaiii herself in this position ; her strength could hold out no longer. Overcome by agitation and fatigue, slie sunk senseless upon the pavement. Bewildered as I was myself by the strange events of the night, I stood for some minutes looking upon her in a state of helplessness and alarm. But reminded by my own feverish sensations of the reviving effects of the air, I raised her gently in my arms, and, crossing the corridor that surrounded the sanctuary, found my way to the cuter vestibule of the temple. Here, shading her eyes from the sun, I placed her reclining upon the steps, where the cool north wind, then blowing freshly between the pillars, might play with free draught over her brow. It was, indeed, as I now saw with certainty, the same beautiful and mysterious girl who had been the cause of my descent into that subterranean world, and who now, under such strange and unac- Thomas Moore. 563 countable circnmsfcancos, Avas ray guide ba3k agaiu to the realms of day, I looked around, to discover where we were, and beheld such a scene of grandeur as, could my eyes have been then attracted to any object but the pale form I'oclining at my side, might well have' induced them to dwell on its splendid beauties. I Avas now standing, I found, on the small island in the centre of Lake Moeris, and that sanctuary, where Ave had just emerged from darkness, formed part of the ruins of an ancient temple Avhich Avas (as I have since learned), in the grander days of ^Memphis, a place of pilgrimage for worshippers from all parts of Egypt. The fair lake itself, out of whoso waters once rose pavilions, palaces, and even lofty pyramids, was still, though divested of many of thesa wonders, a scene of interest and splendor such as the whole Avorld could not ccjual. While the shores still sparkled Avith mansions and temples that bore testimony to the luxury of a living race, the A'oice of tlie j)asL, speaking out of unnumbered ruins, Avliose summits here and there rose blackly above the waA'C, told of times long fled and generations long swept away, before whose giant remains all the glory of the present stood humbled. Over the southern bank of the lake hung the dark relics of the Labyrinth ; its tAvelve royal palaces, representing the mansions of the Zodiac, its thundering portals and constellated halls, having left nothing now behind but a few froAvning ruins, which, contrasted Avith the soft groves of acacia and olive around them, seemed to rebuke the luxuriant smiles of nature and threw a melancholy grandeur over the Avliole scene. The effects of the air in reanimating the young priestess Avere less speedy than I had expected ; her eyes were still closed, and she remained pale and insensible. Alarmed, I noAV rested her head (vvhich had been for some time supported by my arm) against the base of one of the columns, Avith my cloak for its pillow, while I hastened to procure some Avater from the lake. The temple stood high, and the descent to the shore was precipitous; but my Epicu- rean habits liaA'ing but little impaired my activity, I soon descended with the lightness of a desert deer to the bottom. Here, plucking from a lofty bean-tree, whose flowers stood shining like gold above the Avater, one of those large hollowed loaA'cs that serve as cups for the Ilebes of the Nile, I lilled it from the lake and hurried back with the cool draught toAvards the temple. It Avas not, however, without some difficulty that I at last succeeded in bearing my rustic chalice steadily up the steep ; more than once did an unlucky 564 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. slip waste all its contents, and as often did I return impatiently to refill it. During this time the young maiden was fast recovering her anima- tion and consciousness, and at the moment when I appeared above the edge of the steep was just rising from the steps with her hand pressed to her forehead, as if confusedly recalling the recollection of what had occurred. I^o sooner did she observe mo than a short cry of alarm broke from her lips. Looking anxiously around, as though she sought for protection, and half-audibly uttering the words, " Where is he ? " she made an effort, as I approached, to re- treat into the temple. Already, however, I was by her side, and taking her hand, as she turned away from me, gently in mine, asked : ' ' Whom dost thou seek, fair joriestess ? " thus, for the first time breaking the silence she had enjoined, and in a tone that might have reassured the most timid spirit. But my words had no effect in calming her ap- prehension. Trembling, and with her eyes still averted towards the temple, she continued in a voice of suppressed alarm : '' Where can he be ? that venerable Athenian, that philosopher, who — " '^ Ilsre, here I " I exclaimed, anxiously interrupting her ; *' behold him still by thy side — the same, the very same who saw thee steal from under the Veils of the Sanctuary, whom thou hast guided by a clue through those labyrinths below, and who now only waits his command from those lips to devote himself through life and death to thy service." As I spoke these words she turned slowly round, and, looking timidly in my face while her own burned with blushes, said, in a tone of doubt and Avouder, ''Thou ! " and then hid her eyes in her hands. I knew not how to interpret a reception so unexpected. That some mistake or disappointment had occurred was evident ; but so inexplicable did the whole adventure appear to me that it was in vain to think of unravelling any part of it. Weak and agitated, she now tottered to the steps of the temple, and there seating her- self, with her forehead against the cold marble, seemed for some moments absorbed in the most anxious thought, while, silent and watchful, I avraited her decision, though, at the same time, with a feeling which the result proved to be prophetic — that my destiny was from thenceforth linked inseparably with hers. The inward struggle by which she was agitated, though violent, was not of long continuance. Starting suddenly from her seat, with Thomas Moore. 565 a look of terror towards the temple, as if the fear of immediate pursuit had alone decided her, she pointed eagerly towards the east, and exclaimed, '' To the Kile, without delay !" clasping her hands after she had thus spoken with the most suppliant fen'or, as if to soften the abruptness of the mandate she had given, and appealing to me at the same time with a look that would ha\e taught stoics themselves tenderness. I lost not a moment in obeying the welcome command. With a thousand wild hopes naturally crowding upon my fancy at the thoughts of a voyage under such auspices, I descended rapidly to the shore, and, hailing one of those boats that ply upon the lake for hire, arranged sjieedily for a passage down the canal to the Nile. Having learned, too, from the boatmen a more easy path up the rock, I hastened back to the temple for my fair charge, and, with- out a word or look that could alarm even by its kindness, or disturb the innocent confidence which she now evidently reposed in me, led her down by the winding path to the boat. Everything around looked sunny and smiling as we embarked. The morning was in its first freshness, and the path of the breeze might clearly be traced over the lake as it went wakening uji the waters from their sleep of the night. The gay, golden-winged birds that haunt these shores were in every direction skimming along the lake, while, with a graver consciousness of beauty, the swan and the pelican were seen dressing their white plumage in the mirror of its wave. To add to the liveliness of the scene, there came at intervals on the breeze a sweet tinkling of musical instru- ments from boats at a distance, employed thus early in pursuing the fish of these waters, that allow themselves to be decoyed into the nets by music. The vessel I had selected for our voyage was one of those small pleasure-boats or yachts so much in use among the luxurious navi- gators of the Kile, in the centre of which rises a pavilion of cedar or cypress wood, adorned richly on the outside with religious em- blems, and gaily fitted up Avithin for feasting and repose. To the door of this 2)avilion I now led my companion, and, after a few Avords of kindness, tempered cautiously with as much reserve as the deep tenderness of my feeling towards her would admit, left her to court that restoring rest which the agitation of her spirits so much required. For myself, though repose was hardly less necessary to me, the 566 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. state of ferment in Avhich I Inid been so long kept appeared to render it hopeless. Having thrown myself on the deck of the vessel, nnder an awning which the sailors had raised for me, 1 continued for some hours in a sort of vague day-dream, sometimes 2")assing in review tlie scenes of that subterranean drama and some- times, with my eyes fixed on drowsy vacancy, receiving passively the impressions of the bright scenery through which we passed. The banks of the canal were then luxuriantly wooded. Under the tufts of the light and towering palm were seen the orange and the citron interlacing their boughs, while here and there huge tama- risks thickened the shade, and, at the very edge of the bank, the Avillow of Babylon stood bending its graceful branches into the water. Occasionally out of the depth of these groves there shone a small temple or pleasure-house, while now and then an opening in their line of foliage allowed the eye to Avander over extensive fields all covered with beds of those pale, sweet roses for which this district of Egypt is so celebrated. The activity of the morning hour was visible in every direction. nights of doves and lapwings were fluttering among the leaves, and the white heron, which had been roosting all night in some date- tree, now stood sunning its wings upon the green bank, or floated, like living silver, over the flood. The flowers, too, both of land and water, looked all just freshly awakened, and, most of all, the superb lotus, which, having risen along with the sun from the wave, was novv^ holding up her chalice for a full draught of his light. Such were the scenes that now successively ]oresented themselves and mingled with the vague reveries that floated through my mind as our boat, with its high, capacious sail, swept along the flood. Though the occurrences of the last few days could not but appear to me one continued series of wonders, yet by far the greatest marvel of all was that she whose flrst look had sent wildfire into my heart, whom I had thought of ever since with a restlessness of passion that would have dared all danger and wrong to obtain its object — &I1C was now at this moment resting sacredly within that pavilion, while guarding her, even from myself, I lay motionless at its thrcsliold. Meanwhile, the sun had reached his meridian height. The busy hum of tlic morning had died gradually away, and all around was sleeping in the liot stillness of noon. The K"ile goose, having folded up her splendid wings, was lyiiig motionless on the shadow of the Thomas Moore, 567 sycamores in the w.iter. Even the nimble h'zards npon tlie Lank appeared to move less nimbly as the light fell on their gold and azure hues. Overcome as I was Avith watching, and weary with thought, it was not long before I yielded to tlie becalming influence of the hour. Looking fixedly at the pavilion, as if once more to as- sure myself that I was in no dream or trance, but that the young Egyptian was really there, I felt my eyes close as I gazed, and in a few minutes sunk into a profound sleep. CHAPTER XI. It was by the canal through which avc now sailed that in the more prosperous days of Memphis the commerce of Upper Egypt and Xubia was transported to her magnificent lake, and from thence, having paid tribute to the queen of cities, was poured forth again through the Nile into the ocean. The course of this canal to the river was not direct, but ascending in a southeasterly direction towards the Said; and in calms, or with adverse Avinds, the passage was tedious. But, as the breeze Avas now bloAving freshlv from the north, there Avas every prospect of reaching the river before nightfall. Eapidly, too, as our galley sAvept along the flood, its motion was so smooth as to be hardly felt, and the quiet gurgle of the Avaters and the droAvsy song of the boatman at the proAV were the only sounds that disturbed the deep silence which prevailed. The sun, indeed, had nearly sunk behind the Lybian hills before the sleep into Avhich these sounds had contributed to lull me AA'as broken, and the first object on Avhicli my eyes rested in waking was that fair young priestess, seated Avithin a porch Avhich shaded the door of the pavilion, and bending intently over a small volume that lay unrolled on her lap. Her face Avas but half turned towards me, and as she once or twice raised her eyes to the Avarm sky, Avliose lighu fell, softened through the trellis, over her cheek, I found all those feelings of reverence Avhicli she had inspired me with in the chapel return. There was even a purer and holier charm around her countenance thus seen by the natural light of day than in those dim and unhalloAved regions below. She was noAV looking, too, direct to the glorious sky, and her pure eyes and that heaven, so Avortliy of each other, met. After contemplating her for a few moments Avith little less than adoration, I rose gently from my resting-place and approached the -I 568 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. pavilion. But the mere movement had startled her from her devo- tion, and, blushing and confused, she covered the volume with the folds of her robe. In the art of winning ujion female confidence I had long, of course, been schooled, and now that to the lessons of gallantry the inspiration of love was added, my ambition to please and to interest could hardly fail, it may be supposed, of success. I soon found, however, how much less fluent is the heart than the fancy, and how very different may be the operations of making love and feeling it. In the few words of greeting now exchanged between ns it was evident that the gay, the enterprising Epicurean Avas little less embarrassed than the secluded priestess, and after one or two ineffectual efforts to converse, the eyes of both turned bashfully away, and we relapsed into silence. From this situation, the result of timidity on one side and of a feeling altogether new on the other, we were at length relieved, after an interval of estrangement, by the boatmen announcing that the ISTile was in sight. The countenance of the young Egyptian brightened at this intelligence, and the smile with which I con- gratulated her npon the speed of our voyage was resjionded to by another from her so full of gratitude that already an instinctive svmpathv seemed established between us. "\Yo were now on the point of entering that sacred river of whose sweet waters the exile drinks in his dreams, for a draught of whose flood the royal daughters of the Ptolemies, when far away on foreign thrones, have been known to sigh in the midst of their s^ilendor. As our boat, with slackened sail, was gliding into the current, an enquiry from the boatmen whether they should anchor for the night in the ISTile first reminded me of the ignorance in wdiich I still re- mained with res-pect to the motive or destination of our voyage. Embarrassed by their question, I directed my eyes towards the priestess, whom I saw w^aiting for my answer Avith a look of anxiety, which this silent reference to her wishes at once dispelled. Un- folding eagerly the volume with which I had seen her so much occupied, she took from between its folds a small leaf of papyrus, on Avhich there appeared to be some faint lines of drawing, and, after looking upon it thoughtfully for a few moments, j^laced it with an agitated hand in mine. In the meantime the boatmen had taken in their sail, and the yacht drove slowly down the river with the current, while by a light Thomas Moore. ' 569 wliicli had been kindled at smiset on the deck I stood examining the leaf tJiat the priestess had given me, her dark eyes fixed anxiously on my countenance all the while. The lines traced upon the papy- rus were so faint as to be almost invisible, and I Avas for some time wholly unable to form a conjecture as to their import. At length, however, I succeeded in making out that they were a sort of map or outlines, traced slightly and unsteadily with a Mcmphian reed, of a j)art of that mountainous ridge by which Upper Egypt is bounded to the east, together with the names, or rather emblems, of the chief towns in its immediate neighborhood. It was thither, I now saw clearly, that the young imestess wished to pursue her course. Without further delay, therefore, I ordered the boatmen to set our yacht before the wind, and ascend the cur- rent. My command was promptly obeyed ; the white sail again rose into the region of the breeze, and the satisfaction that beamed in every feature of the fair Egyptian showed that the quickness with which I had attended to her wishes was not unfelt by her. The moon had now risen, and, though the current was against us, the Etesian wind of the season blew strongly up the river, and we were soon floating before it through the rich plains and groves of the Said. The love with which this simple girl had inspired me was partly, l^erhaps, from the mystic scenes and situations in which I had seen her, not unmingled with a tinge of superstitious awe, under the in- fluence of which I felt the natural buoyancy of my spirit repressed. The few words that had passed between us on the subject of our route had somewhat loosened this spell, and what I wanted of vivacity and confidence was more than compensated by the tone of deep sensibility wliicli love had awakened in their place. We had not proceeded far before the glittering of lights at a dis- tance and the shooting up of fireworks at intervals into the air ap- j)rizcd us that we were then approaching one of those night-fairs or marts which it is the custom at this season to hold upon the Nile. To me the scene was familiar, but to my young companion it was evidently a new world, and the mixture of alarm and delight with which she gazed from under her veil upon the busy scene into which we now sailed gave an air of innocence to her beauty which still more heightened its every charm. It was one of the widest parts of the river, and the whole surface from one bank to the other was covered Avitli boats. Along the banks of a green island in the middle of the stream lay anchored 5 70 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. the galleys of the principal traders — large floating bazaars, bearing each the name of its owner emblazoned in letters of flame upon the stern. Over their decks were spread out in gay confusion the pro- ducts of the loom and needle of Egypt — rich carpets of Memphis and likewise those variegated veils for which the female embroider- ers of the Xile are so celebrated, and to which the name of Cleo- patra lends a traditional charm. In each of the other galleys was exhibited some branch of Egyptian workmanship — vases of the fra- grant porcelain of On, cups of that frail crystal Avhose hues change like those of the pigeon's plumage, enamelled amulets graven with the head of Anubis, and necklaces and bracelets of the black beans of Abyssinia. While commerce was thus displaying her various luxuries in one quarter, in every other the spirit of pleasure, in all its countless shapes, swarmed over the waters. Isox was the festivity confined to the river alone, as along the banks of the island and on the shores illuminated mansions were seen glittering through the trees, from whence sounds of music and merriment came. In some of the boats were bands of minstrels, who, from time to time, answered each other, like echoes, across the wave,and the notes of the lyre, the flageolet, and the sweet lotus- wood flute were heard, in the jiauses of revelry, dying along the waters. Meanwhile, from other boats stationed in the least lighted jilaces, the workers of fire sent forth their wonders into the air. Bursting out suddenly from time to time, as if in the very exuberance of joy, these sallies of flame appeared to reach the sky, and there, breaking into a shower of sparkles, shed such a splendor around as bright- ened even the white Arabian hills, making them shine as doth the brow of Mount Atlas at night when the fire from his own bosom is playing around its snows. The opportunity this mart afforded us of providing ourselves Avith some less remarkable habiliments than those in which we had escaped from that nether world was too seasonable not to be gladly taken advantage of by both. For myself, this strange mystic garb which I wore was sufficiently concealed by my Grecian mantle, which I had fortunately thrown round me on the night of my watch. But the thin veil of my companion was a far less efficient disguise. She had, indeed, flung away the golden beetles from her hair, but the sacred robe of her order was still too visible, and the stars of the bandelet shone brightly through her veil. Thomas Moore. 571 Most gladly, tliereforc, did slic avail herself of this opportunity of a change, and as she took from out a casket — which, with the volume I had seen her reading, appeared to be her only treasure — a small jewel to give in exchange for the simple garments she hud chosen, there fell out at the same time the very cross of silver which I had seen her kiss, as may be remembered, in the monumental chapel, and which was afterwards pressed to my own lijis. This link between us (for such it now appeared to my imagination) called uji again in my heart all the burning feelings of that moment, and had I not abruptly turned away, my agitation would have but too plainly betrayed itself. The object for which we had delayed in this gay scene having been accomplished, the sail was again spread, and we proceeded on our course up the river. The sounds and the lights wc bad left be- hind died gradually away, and avc now floated along in moonligbt and silence once more. Sweet dews, worthy of being called ''the tears of Isis,"' fell refreshingly through the air, and every plant and flower sent its fragrance to meet them. The wind, just strong enough to bear us smoothly against the current, scarce stirred the shadow of the tamarisks on the water. As the inhabitants from all quarters were collected at the night-fair, the Kilo was more than usually still and solitary. Such a silence, indeed, prevailed that, as we glided near the shore, we coitld hear the rustling of the acacias as the chameleons ran up their stems. It was altogether such a night as only the climate of Egypt can boast, when the whole scene around lies lulled in that sort of bright tranquillity which may be imagined to light the slumbers of those happy spirits who are said to rest in the Valley of the Moon on their way to heaven. By such a light, and at such an hour, seated side by side on the deck of that bark, did we pursue our cotirse up the lonely Nile, each a mystery to the other, our thoughts, our objects, our very names a secret ; separated, too, till now by destinies so dilferent ; the one a gay voluptuary of the garden of Athens, the other a secluded priestess of the temples of Mempliis, and the only rela- tion yet established between us being that dangerous one of love, passionate love, on one side, and the most feminine and confidim( dependence on the other. The passing adventttre of the night-fair had not only dispelled little our mutual reserve, but had luckily furnished tis with a sub^ ject on which we could converse without embarrassment. From 572 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. this topic I took care to lead lier, without any interruption, to others, being fearful lest our former silence should return, and the music of her voice again be lost to me. It was only, indeed, by thus indirectly unburdening my heart that I was enabled to avoid the disclosure of all I thought and felt, and the restless rapidity with which I flew from subject to subject was but an effort to escape from the only one in which my heart was really interested. *^'How bright and happy," said I — pointing up to Sothis, the fair Star of the Waters, which was just then shining brilliantly over our heads — ''how bright and happy this world ought to be, if, as your Egyptian sages assert, yon pure and beautiful luminary was its birth- star ! " Then, still leaning back, and letting my eyes wander over the firmament, as if seeking to disengage them from the fascination which tkey dreaded. *'To the study," I exclaimed, ''for ages of skies like this may the jiensive and mystic character of your nation be traced — that mixture of joride and melancholy which naturally arises at the sight of those eternal lights shining out of darkness ; that sublime but saddened anticipation of a future which steals sometimes over the soul in the silence of such an hour, when, though death appears to reign in the deep stillness of earth, there are yet those beacons of immortality burning in the sky." Pausing as I uttered the word " immortality," with a sigh to think how little my heart echoed to my lips, I looked in the face of my companion, and saw that it had lighted up, as I spoke, into a glow of holy animation, such as Faith alone gives, such as Hope herself wears when she is dreaming of heaven. Touched by the contrast, and gazing upon her with mournful tenderness, I found my arms half opened to clasp her to my heart, Avhile the words died away inaudibly upon my lij^s, " Thou, too, beautiful maiden ! must thou, too, die for ever ?" My self-command, I felt, had nearly deserted me. Eisiug abrupt- ly from my seat, I walked to the middle of the deck, and stood for some moments unconsciously gazing upon one of Ihocc fires which — according to the custom of all who travel by night on the Nile — oar boatmen had kindled to scare away the crocodiles from the vessel. But it was in vain that I endeavored to compose my spirit. Every effort I made but more deciily convinced me that till the mystery which hung round that maiden should be solved, till the secret with which my own bosom labored should be disclosed, it was fruitless to attempt even a semblance of tranquillity. t Thomas Moore. 573 My resolution was therefore taken : to lay open at once the feel- ings of my own heart, as far as such revealment might be hazarded, without startling the timid innocence of my companion. Thus re- solved, I resumed by seat, with more composure, by her side, and taking from my bosom the small mirror which she had dropped in the temple, and which I had ever since worn suspended round my neck, presented it with a trembling hand to her view. The boat- men had Just kindled one of their night-fires near us, and its light, as she leaned forward to look at the mirror, fell upon her face. The quick blush of surprise with which she recognized it to be hers, and her look of bashful yet eager enquiry in raising her eyes to mine, were appeals to which I was not, of course, tardy in an- swering. Beginning with tlie first moment when I saw her in the temjile, and passing hastily, but with words that burned as they went, over the impression which she had then left ujoon my heart and fancy, I proceeded to describe the particulars of my descent into the pyramid, my surprise and adoration at the door of the chapel, my encounter with the trials of initiation, so mysteriously pre- pared for me, and all the various visionary wonders I had witnessed in that region, till the moment when I had seen her stealing from under the veils to approach me. Though, in detailing these. events, I liad said but little of the feelings they had awakened in me, though my lips had sent back many a sentence unuttered, there was still enough that could neither be subdued nor disguised, and which, like that light from under the veils of her own Isis, glowed through every word that I spoke. When I told of the scene in the chapel, of the silent inter- yiew which I had witnessed between the dead and the living, the maiden leaned down her head and wept, as from a heart full of tears. It seemed a joleasure to her, however, to listen, and when she looked at me again there was an earnest and affectionate cor- diality in her eyes, as if the knowledge of my having been present at that mournful scene had opened a new source of sympathy and intelligence between us, so neighboring are the fountains of love and of i:orrow, and so imperceptibly do they often mingle their iitreams. Little, indeed, as I was guided by art or design in manner and conduct towards this innocent girl, not all the most experienced gallantry of the garden could have dictated a policy Iialf so seduc- tive as that which my new master. Love, now taught me. The same 574 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ill-dor whicli, if shown iit once and without reserve, might probably have startled a heart so httle prepared for it, being now checked and softened by the timidity of real love, won its way without alarm, and, when most diffident of success, was then most surely on its way to triumph. Like one whose slumbers are gradually broken by sweet music, the maiden's heart was awakened without being disturbed. She followed tlic course of the charm, unconscious wliithcr it led, nor was even aware of the flame she had lighted in another's bosom till startled by the reflection of it glimmering in her own. Impatient as I was to appeal to her generosity and sympathy for a similar jiroof of confidence to that which I had just given, the night was now too far advanced for me to impose upon her such a task. After exchanging a few words, in which, though little met tlic car, there was on both sides a tone and manner that spoke far more than language, we took a lingering leave of each other for the night, with every prospect, I fondly hoped, of being still together in our dreams. CHAPTER Xn. It was so near the dawn of day Avhen we parted that we found the Guu sinking v/estward when we rejoined each other. The smile, ■ so frankly cordial, with whicli she met me might have been taken for the greeting of a long-mellowed friendsliii?, did not the blush and the cast-down eyelid that followed betray symptoms of a feeling newer and less calm. For myself, lightened as I was in some de- gree by the avowal which I had made, I was yet too conscious of the new aspect thus given to our intercourse not to feel some little alarm at the prospect of returning to the theme. AYe Averc both, therefore, alike willing to allow our attention to be diverted by the variety of strange objects that j)resented themselves on the wayi from a subject that evidently both Avere alike unwilling to ap- proach. The river was new all stirring with commerce and life. Every instant \vc met with boats descending the current, so wholly indc- Itcndeut of aid from sail or oar that the mariners sat idly on the deck as they shot along, either singing or playing upon their double-reeded pipes. The greater number of these boats came laden with those large emeralds from the mine in the desert whose colors, it is said, are brightest at the full of the moon ; while some brought TJwmas Moore. 575 cargoes of frankincense from the acacia groves near tlie Ecd Sea. On the decks of others that had been, as we learned, to the Golden Mountains beyond Syene, were heaped blocks and fragments of that sweet-smelling wood which is yearly washed down by the Green Nile of Nubia at the season of the flood. Our companions up the stream were far less numerous. Occa- sionally a boat, returning lightened from the fair of last night, shot rapidly jiast us, with those high sails that catch every breeze from over the hills, while now and then we overtook one of those barges full of bees that are sent at this season to colonize the gardens of the south, and take advantage of the lirst flowers after the inun- dation has passed away. For a short time this constant variety of objects enabled us to divert so far our conversation as to keep it from lighting u[)on tlio one sole subject round which it constantly hovered. But the effort, as might be expected, was not long successful. As evening ad- vanced, the whole scene became more solitary. "\Ye less frequently ventured to look upon each other, and our intervals of silence grew more long. It was near sunset when, in passing a small temple on the shore, whose porticoes were now full of the evening light, we saw issuing from a thicket of acanthus near it a train of young maidens grace- fully linked together in the dance by the stems of the lotus held at arms' length between them. Their tresses were also wreathed with this gay emblem of the season, and in such profusion were its Avhite flowers twisted around their waists and arms that they might have been taken, as they lightly bounded along the bank, for nymphs of the Nile, then freshly risen from their bright gardens under the wave. After looking for a few minutes at this sacred dance, the maiden turned away her eyes with a look of jiain, as if the remembrances it recalled were of no welcome nature. This momentary retrospect, this glimpse into the past, ajipoared to offer a sort of clue to the secret for which I joanted, and accordingly I proceeded, as gradually and delicately as my impatience would allow, to avail myself of the opening. Iler own frankness, however, relieved mo from the em- barrassment of much questioning. She appeared even to feel that the confidence I sought was due to me, and, beyond the natural hesitation of maidenly modesty, not a shade of reserve or evasion appeared. 576 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. To attompfc to repeat, in her own touching woids, the simple story whieli she now related to me would be like endeavoring to note down some unpremeditated strain of music, with all those fugi- tive graces, those felicities of the moment, which no art can restore as they first met tlic ear. From a feeling, too, of humility, she had omitted in her short narrative several particulars relating to herself, wliich I afterwards learned, while others not less important she but lightly i^assed over, from a fear of offending the lorejudices of her heathen hearer. I shall, therefore, give her story, not as she herself sketched it, but as it was afterwards filled up by a pious and venerable hand — far, far more worthy than mine of being associated with the memory of such purity. STORY OF ALETHE. "•'The mother of this maiden was the beautiful Theora of Alex- andria, who, though a native of that city, was descended from Grecian parents. AVhen very young, Theora was one of the seven maidens selected to note down the discourses of the eloquent Origcn, who at that period presided over the school of Alexandria, and was in all the fullness of his fame both among pagans and Chris- tians. Endowed richly with the learning of both creeds, he brouglit the natural light of pliilosophy to illustrate the mysteries of faith, and was then only proud of his knowledge of the wisdom of this world when he found it minister usefully to the triumph of divine truth. '^Although he had courted in vain the crown of martyrdom, it was held, through his whole life, suspended over his head, and in more than one persecution he had shown himself cheerfully ready to die for that holy faith which he lived but to testify and uphold. On one of these occasions his tormentors, having habited him like an Egyptian jmest, placed him upon the steps of the Temple of Serapis, and commanded that he should, in the manner of the pagan ministers, present palm-branches to the multitude who went up into the shrine. But the courageous Christian disappointed their views. Holding forth the branches with an unshrinking hand, he cried aloud, ' Come hither and take the branch — not of an idol temple, but of Christ.' '-'- So indefatigable was this learned father in his studies that while TJioinas Moore. 577 composing his ' Commentary on the Scriptures,' he was attended by seven scribes or notaries, Avho relieved each other in recording the dictates of his eloquent tongue, while the same number of young females, selected for the beauty of their penmanship, were employed in arranging and transci'ibing the precious leaves." '^ Among the scribes so selected was the fair young Theora, wliose parents, though attached to the pagan worship, were not unwilling to profit by the accomplisliments of their daugliter thus occupied in a task which they looked on as purely mechanical. To the maid herself, however, her employment brought far other feelings and consequences. She read anxiously as she wrote, and the divine truths so eloquently illustrated found their way by degrees from the page to her heart. Deeply, too, as the written words affected her, the discourses from the lips of the great teacher himself, which she had frequent opportunities of hearing, sunk still more deeply into her mind. There was at once a sublimity and gentleness in his views of religion which to the tender fiearts and lively imaginations of women never failed to appeal with convincing power. Accordingly the list of his female pupils was numerous, and the names of Bar- bara, Juliana, Ilerais, and othei's, bear honorable testimony to his influence over that sex. '• To Theora the feeling with which his discourses inspired her was like a new soul, a consciousness of sj^iritual existence never be- fore felt. By the eloquence of the comment she was awakened into admiration of the text, and when, by the kindness of a cate- chumen of the school, who had been struck by her innocent zeal, she for the -first time became a possessor of a cojiy of the Scriptures she could not sleep for thinking of her sacred treasure. With a mixture of pleasure and fear, she hid it from all eyes, and was like one who had received a divine guest under her roof and felt fearful ,of betraying its divinity to the world. ' "A heart so awake would have been with ease secured to the faith had her opportunities of hearing the sacred word continued; but circumstances arose to deprive her of this advantage. The mild Origen, long harrassed and thwarted in his labors by the tyranny of Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, Avas obliged to relinquish his school and fiy from Egypt. The occupation of the fair scribe Avas therefore at an end, her intercourse Avitli the followers of the new -' It was during the composition of bis groat critical work, the " Hexapla," that Ori- gea employed these female acribes. 578 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. faitli ceased, and the growing enthusiasm of her heart gave way to more worldly impressions. " Among other earthly feelings, love conduced not a little to wean her thoughts from the true religion. While still very young, she became the wife of a Greek adventurer who had come to Egypt as a purchaser of that rich tapestry in which the needles of Persia are rivalled by the looms of the Nile. Having taken his young bride to Memphis, which was still the great mart of this merchandise, he there, in the midst of his speculations, died, leaving his widow on the point of becoming a mother, while as yet but in her nineteenth year. " For single and unprotected females it has been, at all times, a favorite resource to seek for employment in the service of some of those great temples by which so large a portion of the wealth and power of Egypt is absorbed. In most of these institutions there exists an order of priestesses, which, though not hereditary like that of the priests, is provided for by'iimple endowments, and confers that dignity and station with which, in a government so theocratic, relisfion is sure to invest even her humblest handmaids. From the general policy of the Sacred College of Memphis, we take for granted that an accomplished female like Tlieora found but little difficulty in being elected one of the priestesses of Isis, and it was in the service of the subterranean shrines that her ministry chiefly lay. " Here, a month or two after her admission, she gave birth to Alethe, who first opened her eyes among the unholy pomps and sjDecious miracles of this mysterious region. Though Thcora, as we have seen, had been diverted by other feelings from her first enthu- siasm for the Christian faith, she had never wholly forgot the im- pression then made upon her. The sacred volume which the pious catechumen had given her was still treasured with care, and though she seldom opened its pages, there was always an idea of sanctity associated with it in her memory, and often would she sit to look upon it Avith reverential pleasure, recalling the happiness she had felt when it was first made her own. "The leisure of her new retreat and the lone melancholy of Avid- owhood led her still more frequently to indulge in such thoughts, and to recur to those consoling truths which she had heard in the school of Alexandria. She now began to peruse eagerly the sacred volume, drinking deep of the fountain of which she before but TJioinas Moore. 579 tasted, aud feeling — what thousands of mourners since her have felt — that Christianity is the true and only religion of the sor- rowful. "This study of her secret hours became still more dear to lier, as well from the peril with which at that period it was attended as from the necessity she felt herself under of concealing from those around her the precious light that had been thus kindled in her own heart. Too timid to encounter the fierce persecution which awaited all who were suspected of a leaning to Christianity, she continued to officiate in the pomps and ceremonies of the temple, though often with such remorse of soul that she would pause, in the midst of the rites, and pray inwardly to God that he would for- give this profanation of his Spirit. '' In the meantime her daughter, the young Alethe, grew up still lovelier than herself, and added every hour both to her happiness and her fears. When arrived at a sufficient age, she was taught, like the other children of the priestesses, to take a share in the ser- vice and ceremonies of the shrines. The duty of some of these young servitors was to look after the flowers for the altar, of others to take care that the sacred vases were filled every day with fresh water from the Nile. The task of some was to preserve in perfect polish those silver images of the moon which the priests carried in processions, while others were, as we have seen, employed in feed- ing the consecrated animals, and in keeping their plumes and scales bright for the admiring eyes of their worshippers. "The office allotted to Alethe, the most honorable of these minor ministries, was to wait upon the sacred birds of the moon, to feed them daily with those eggs from the Nile which they loved, and to provide for their use that purest water, which alone these delicate birds will touch. This employment was the delight of her childish hours, and that ibis w^hich Alciphron (the Epicurean) saw her dance round in the temple was, of all the sacred flock, her especial favorite, and had been daily fondled and fed by her from infancy. " Music, as being one of the chief spells of this enchanted region, was an accomplishment required of all its ministrants, and the harp, the lyre, and the sacred flute sounded nowhere so sweetly as through these subterranean gardens. The cliief object, indeed, in the education of the youth of the temple, was to fit them, by every grace of art and nature, to give effect to the illusion of those shows 580 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. and phantasms in wliicli the entire charm and secret of initiation lay. " Among the means employed to support the old system of super- stition ao-ainst the infidelity and, still more, the new faith that menaced it, was an increased display of splendor and marvels in those mysteries for which Egypt has so long been celebrated. Of these ceremonies so many imitations had, under various names, multiplied throughout Europe that at length the parent super- stition ran a risk of being eclipsed by its progeny, and in order still to rank as the first priesthood in the world, it became necessary for those of Egypt to remain still the best imposters. " Accordingly, every contrivance that art could devise or labor execute — every resource that the wonderful knowledge of the priests in jiyrotechny, mechanics, and dioptrics could command, was brought into action to heighten the effect of their mysteries and give an air of enchantment to evervthing connected with them. " The final scene of beatification, the Elysium into which the initiate was received, formed, of course, the leading attraction of these ceremonies, and to render it cajitivating alike to the senses of the man of pleasure and the imagination of the spiritualist, was the great object to which the attention of the Sacred College was de- voted. By the influence of the priests of Memphis over those of the other temples, they had succeeded in extending their subterranean frontier, both to the north and south, so as to include within their ever-lighted joaradise some of the gardens excavated for the use of the other Twelve Shrines. " The beauty of the young Alethe, the touching sweetness of her voice, and the sensibility that breathed throughout her every look and movement, rendered her a i^owcrful auxiliary in such appeals to the imagination. She had been, accordingly, in her very childhood selected from among her fair companions as the most worthy repre- sentative of spiritual loveliness in those pictures of Elysium — those scenes of another world — by which not only the fancy, but the reason of the excited aspirants was dazzled. '•' To the innocent child herself these shows were pastime. But to Theora, who knew too well the imposition to which they were subservient, this profanation of all that she loved was a perpetual source of horror and remorse. Often would she, when Alethe stood smiling before her, arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit of the Elysian world, turn away with a shudder from the happy child, almost Thomas Moore. 581 fancying she saw already the shadows of sin descending over that innocent brow as she gazed upon it. "As the intellect of the young maid became more active and en- quiring, the ajiprehensions and difficulties of the mother increased. Afraid to communicate her own precious secret, lest she should in- volve her child in the dangers that encomjoassed it, she yet felt it to be no less a cruelty than a crime to leave her wholly immersed in the darkness of jiaganism. In this dilemma the only resource that remained to her was to select and disens-ao-e from the dross that surrounded them those pure particles of truth which lie at the bot- tom of all religions — those feelings, rather than doctrines, of which God has never left his creatures destitute, and which in all ages have furnished to those who sought after it some clue to his glory. ''The unity and perfect goodness of the Creator, the fall of the human soul into corruption, its struggles with the darkness of this world, and its Gnal redemption and rcasccnt to the source of all spirit; these natural solutions of the problem of our existence, these elementary grounds of all religion and virtue which Thcora had heard illustrated by her Christian teacher, lay also, she knew, veiled under the theology of Egypt, and to impress them in their abstract purity upon the mind of her susceptible pupil was, in default of more heavenly lights, her sole ambition and care. '' It was generally their habit, after devoting their mornings to the service of the temple, to pass their evenings and nights in one of those small mansions above ground allotted within the precincts of the Sacred College to some of the most favored priestesses. Here, out of the reach of those gross superstitions which pursued them at every step below, she endeavored to inform, as far as she could venture, the mind of her beloved girl, and found it lean as naturally and instinctively to truth as plants long shut up in darkness will when light is let in upon them incline themselves to its rays. '^ Frequently, as they sat together on the terrace at night admir- ing that glorious assembly of stars whose beauty first misled man- kind into idolatry, she would explain to the young listener by what gradations of error it was that the worship thus transferred from the Creator to the creature sunk still lower and lower in the scale of being till man at length presumed to deify man, and by the most monstrous of inversions heaven was made the mere mirror of earth, reflecting back all its most earthly features. '' Even in the temple itself the anxious mother would endeavor 582 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. to interpose her purer lessons among tli3 idolatrous ceremonies in wliicli they were engaged. AVhcn the favorite ibis of Alethe took its station upon the shrine, and the young maiden was seen ap- proaching, with all the gravity of worship, the very bird which she had played with but an hour before — when the acacia-bough which she herself had jilucked seemed to acquire a sudden sacredness in her eyes as soon as the priest had breathed upon it — on all such occasions Theora, though with fear and trembling, would venture to suggest to the youthful Avorshipjier the distinction that should be drawn between the sensible object of adoration and that spiritual, unseen Deity of which it was but the remembrancer or type. '' With sorrow, however, she soon discovered that in thus but partially letting in light upon a mind far too ardent to rest satisfied with such glimmerings she but bewildered the heart which she meant to guide, and cut down the feeble hoj)e around which its faith twined, without substituting any other support in its j^lace. As the beauty, too, of Alethe began to attract all eyes, new fears crowded upon the mother's heart — fears in which she was but too much justified by the characters of some of those around her. " In this sacred abode, as may easily be conceived, morality dul not always go hand in hand with religion. The hypocritical and ambitious Orcus, who was at this period high-priest of Memphis, was a man in every respect qualified to preside over a system of such splendid fraud. He had reached that effective time of life when enough of the warmth and vigor of youth remains to give anima- tion to the counsels of age. But in his instance youth had left only the baser passions behind, while age but brought with it a more refined maturity of mischief. The advantages of a faith ap- l^ealing almost wholly to the senses were well understood by him, nor had he failed cither to discover that in order to render religion sub- servient to his own interests he must shape it adroitly to the interests and passions of others. " The state of anxiety and remorse in which the mind of the hapless Theora was kcjit by the scenes, however artfully veiled, which she daily witnessed around her became at length intolerable, Xo perils that the cause of truth could bring with it would be half so dreadful as this endurance of sinfulness and deceit. Her child was as yet pure and innocent, but, without that sentinel of the soul, religion, how long might she continue so ? " Tliis thought at once decided her. All other fears vanished Thomas Moore. 583 before it. She resolved instantly to lay oi^en to Aletlie tlie whole secret of her soul ; to make this child, who was her only hope on earth, the sharer of all her hojoes in heaven, and tlicn fly with her, as soon as possible, from this nnhallowcd spot to the far desert, to the mountains, to any place, however desolate, where God and the consciousness of innocence might be with them. " The promptitude with which her young jjupil caught from her the divine truths was even beyond what she expected. It was like the lighting of one torch at another, so jirepared was Alethe's mind for the illumination. Amply, indeed, was the anxious mother now repaid for all her misery by this perfect communion of love and faith, and by the delight with which she saw her beloved child, like tlie young antelope when first led by her dam to the well, drink thirstily by her side at the source of all life and truth, "But such happiness was not long to last. The anxieties that Theora had suffered began to prey upon her health. She felt her strength daily decline, and the thoughts of leaving, alone and un- guarded in the world, that treasure which she had just devoted to heaven, gave her a feeling of despair wiiich but hastened the ebb of life. Had she put in practice lier resolution of flying from this place, her child might have been now beyond the reach of all she dreaded, and in the solitude of the desert would have found at least safety from wrong. But the very hapj^iness she had felt in her new task diverted her from this jiroject, and it was now too late, for slie Was already dying. " She still continued, however, to conceal the state of her health from the tender and sanguine girl, who, though observing the traces of disease on her mother's cheek, little knew that they were the hastening footsteps -of death, nor even thought of the j)ossibility of ever losing what was so dear to her. Too soon, however, the moment of separation arrived, and while the anguish and dismay of Alethe were in proportion to the security in which she had indulged, Theora, too, felt, with bitter regret, that she had sacri- ficed to her fond consideration much precious time, and that there now remained but a few brief and j)ainful moments for the com- munication of all those wishes and instructions on which the future destiny of the young orphan depended. " She had, indeed, time for little more than to place the sacred volume solemnly in her hands ; to implore that she would, at all risks, fly from this unholy place ; and, pointing in the direction of J ' 584 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. the mountains of tlie Said, to name with her last breath the renera- blc man to Avliom, under heaven, she looked for the protection and salvation of licr child. ''The first violence of feeling to which Alethe gave way was suc- ceeded by a fixed and tearless grief, which rendered her insensible for some time to the dangers of her situation. Her sole comfort consisted \\\ visiting that monumental chapel where the beautiful remains of Theora lay. There, night after night, in contemplation of those placid features, and in prayers for the peace of the departed spirit, did she pass her lonely and, however sad they were^, happiest hours. Though the mystic emblems that decorated that chapel were but ill-suited to the slumber of a Christian, there was one among them, the cross, which, by a remarkable coincidence, is an emblem alike common to the Gentile and the Christian, being to the former a shadowy type of that immortality of which to the latter it is a substantial and assuring pledge. " Nightly upon this cross, which she had often seen her lost mother kiss, did she breathe forth a solemn and heartfelt vow never to abandon the faith which that departed spirit had bequeathed to her. To such enthusiasm, indeed, did her heart at such mo- ments rise that but for the last injunctions of those pallid lips she would at once have avowed her perilous secret, and boldly pronounce the Avords, ' I am a Christian,' among those benighted shrines ! " But the will of her to whom she ov,'ed more than life was to be obeyed. To escape from this haunt of superstition must now, she felt, be her first object, and in planning the means of ejecting it her mind, day and night, was employed. It was with a loathing not to be concealed that she now found herself compelled to resume her idolatrous services at the shrine. To some of the offices of Theora she succeeded, as is the custom, by inheritance, and in the performance of these tasks, sanctified as they were in her eyes by the pure spirit she had seen engaged in them, there was a sort of melancholy pleasure in which her sorrow found relief. But the part she was again forced to take in the scenic shows of the myste- ries brought with it a sense of degradation and wrong which she Gould no longer endure. " Already had she formed in her own mind a plan of escape, in which her acquaintance with all the windings of this mystic realm gave her confidence, when the solemn reception of Alciphron us an initiate took place. Thomas Moore. 585 " From the first moment of tlie landing of that philosopher at Alexandria ho had become an object of suspicion and watchfulness to the inquisitorial Orcus, whom philosophy, in any shape, naturally alarmed, but to whom the sect over which the young Athenian pre- sided was particularly obnoxious. The accomplishments of Alci- pliron, his popularity wherever he went, and the bold freedom with which he indulged his wit at the expense of religion, were all faith- fully reported to the high-priest by his spies, and awakened in his mind no kindly feelings towards the stranger. In dealing with an infidel, such a personage as Orcus could know no other alternative but that of either converting or destroying him, and though his spite as a man would have been more gratified by the latter pro- ceeding, his pride as a priest led him to prefer the triumph of the former. " The first descent of the Epicurean into the pyramid became speedily known, and the alarm was immediately given to the priests belov.'. As soon as they had discovered that the young philosopher of Athens was the intruder, and that he not only still continued to linger around the j)yramid, but was observed to look often and wist- fully towards the portal, it was concluded that his ctiriosity would impel him to try a second descent, and Orcus, blessing the good chance which had thus brought the wild bird into his net, resolved not to suffer an ojoportunity so precious to be wasted. "^Instantly the whole of that wonderful machinery by which the 25hantasms and illusions of initiation are produced were put in active prejoaration throughout that subterranean realm, and the increased stir and vigilance awakened among its inmates by this more than ordinary display of the resources of priestcraft rendered the accom- plishment of Alethe's purpose at such a moment peculiarly difficult. Wholly ignorant of the important share which it had been her own fortune to take in attracting the young i)hilosopher down to this region, she but heard of him vaguely as the chief of a great Grecian sect, who had been led, by either curiosity or accident, to expose liimself to the first trials of initiation, and whom the priests, she could see, were endeavoring to ensnare in their toils by every art and lure with which their dark science had gifted them. " To her mind the image of a philosopher such as Alciphron had been represented to her came associated with ideas of age and reverence, and more than once the possibility of his being made instrumental to her deliverance flashed a hope across her heart in 586 The Prose and Poetry of Ii^eland. Avliich slic could not refrain from indulging. Often had she been told by Theora of the many Gentile sages who had laid their wisdom down humbly at the foot of the cross ; and though this initiate, she feared, could hardly be among the number, yet the rumors which slie had gathered from the servants of the temple of his undisguised contemj^t for the errors of heathenism led her to hope she might find tolerance, if not sympathy, in her appeal to him. '•' Kor was it solely with a view to her own chance of deliverance that she thus connected him in her thoughts with the plan which she meditated. The look of proud and self-gratulating malice with which the high-priest had mentioned this ' infidel,' as he styled liim, when giving her instructions in the scene she was to act before the philosopher in the valley, too plainly informed her of the dark destiny that hung over him. She knew how many were the hapless candidates for initiation who had been doomed to a durance worse than that of the grave for but a word, a whisper breathed against tlie sacred absurdities that they witnessed ; and it was evident to her that the venerable Greek (for such her fancy rejoresented Alci- phron) was no less interested in escaping from the snares and perils of this region than herself. "Her own resolution was, at all events, fixed. That visionary scene in which she had appeared before Alciphron, little knowing how ardent were the heart and imagination over which her beauty at that moment exercised its influence, was, she solemnly resolved, the very last unholy service that superstition or imposture should ever command of her. '' On the following night the aspirant was to watch in the Great Temple of Isis. Such an opportunity of approaching and address- ing him might never^come again. Should he, from compassion for her situation or a sense of the danger of his own, consent to lend his aid to her flight, most gladly would she accept it, well assured that no danger or treachery she might risk could be half so odious and fearful as those which she left behind. Should he, on the con- trary, reject the proposal, her determination was equally fixed — to trust to that God whose eye watches over the innocent, and go forth alone. "■ To reach the island in Lake Moeris was her first great object, and there occurred, fortunately, at this time a mods of effecting her purpose by which both the difficulty and dangers of the attempt would be much diminished. The day of the annual visitation of the TJiomas Moore. 587 liigli-priest to the Place of Weeping — as that island in the centre of the lake is called — was now fast approaching, and Alethe knew that the self -moving car bj which the liigh-priest and one of the liierophants are conveyed down to the chambers under the lake stood then Avaiting in readiness. By availing herself of this expedi- ent, she would gain the double advantage both of facilitating her own flight and retarding the speed of her pursuers. " Having paid a last visit to the tomb of her beloved mother, and wept there long and passionately, till her heart almost failed in the struggle, having paused, too, +0 give a kiss to her favorite ibis, which, although too much a Christian to worship, she was still child enough to love, she went early, with a trembling step, to the sanc- tuary, and there hid herself in one of the recesses of the shrine. Her intention was to steal out from thence to Alcij^hron while it was yet dark, and before the illumination of the great statue behind the veils had begun. But her fears delayed her till it was almost too late ; already was the image lighted up, and still she remained treml)ling in her hiding-place. "In a few minutes more the mighty veils would have been with- drawn and the glories of that scene of enchantment laid open, when at length, summoning all her courage and taking advantage of a momentary absence of those employed in preparing this splen- did mockery, she stole from under the veil and found her way through the gloom to the Epicurean. There was then no time for explanation ; she had but to trust to the simple words, ' Follow, and be silent,' and the implicit readiness with which she found them obeyed filled her with no less surprise than the philosopher himself had felt in hearing them. " In a second or two they were on their way through the subter- ranean windings, leaving the ministers of Isis to Avaste their splen- dors on vacancy, through a long series of miracles and visions which they now exhibited, unconscious that he whom they were taking such pains to dazzle Avas already, under the guidance of the young Christian, far removed beyond the reach of their deceiving sjjoIIs." CHAPTER xm:. Such was the singular story of which this innocent girl now gave me, in her own touching language, the outline. The sun Avas just rising as she finished her narrative. Fearful of encountering the expression of those feelings Avith Avhich, she could 588 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. not but observe, I was affected by lier recital, scarcely had she con- cluded the last sentence, when, rising abruptly from her seat, she hurried into the pavilion, leaving me Avith the words fast crowding for utterance to my lips. Oppressed by the various emotions thus sent back upon my heart, I lay down on the deck in a state of agitation that defied even the most distant approaches of sleeji. While every word she had uttered, every feeling she expressed, but ministered new fuel to that flame Avhich consumed me, and to describe which passion is far too weak a word, there Avas also much of her recital that disheartened and alarmed me. To find a Christian thus under the garb of a Mem- jihian priestess Avas a discovery that, had my heart been less deeply interested,, would but have more powerfully stimulated my imagi- nation and pride. But when I recollected the austerity of the faith she had embraced, the tender and sacred tie associated with it in her memory, and the devotion of Avoman's heart to objects thus consecrated, her very perfections but widened the distance between us, and all that most kindled my jsassion at the same time chilled my hopes. Were we to be left to each other, as on this silent river, in such undisturbed communion of thoughts and feelings, I knew too well, I thought, both her sex's nature and my OAvn to feel a doubt that love Avould ultimately triumph. But the scA^erity of the guardian- ship to Avhich I must resign her — that of some monk in the desert, some stern solitary — the influence such a monitor would gain over her mind, and the horror Avitli Avhich ere long he might teach her to regard the reprobate infidel upon Avhom she now smiled — in all this prospect I saw nothing but despair. After a few short hours, my dream of happiness Avould be at an end, and such a dark chasm must then open between our fates as Avould dissever them wide as earth from heaven asunder. It was true she was noAV Avholly in my power. I feared no wit- nesses but those of earth, and the solitude of the desert was at hand. But though I acknowledged not a heaven, I worshipped her Avho Avas to me its type and substitute. If at any moment a single thought of wrong or deceit towards one so sacred arose in my mind, one look from her innocent eyes averted the sacrilege. Even passion itself felt a holy fear in her presence, like the flame trem- bling in the breeze of the sanctuary, and love, pure love, stood in place of religion. Tho77tas Moore. 589 As long as I knew not her story, I could indulge at least in dreams of the future. But now what expectation, what prospect remained ? My single chance of happiness lay in the hope, how- ever delusive, of being able to divert her thoughts from the fatal jiroject she meditated, of weaning her, by persuasion and argument, from that austere faith which I had before hated and now feared, and of attaching her, perhaps, alone and unlinked as she was in the world, to my own fortunes for ever. In the agitation of these thoughts I had started from my resting- place, and continued to pace up and down, under a burning sun, till, exhausted both by thought and feeling, I sunk down amid that blaze of light into a gleep, which to my fevered brain seemed a sleep of fire. On awaking I found the veil of Alethe laid carefully over my brow, while she herself sat near me, under the shadow of the sail, looking anxiously upon that leaf which her mother had given her, and employed apparently in comparing its outlines with the course of the river, as well as with the forms of the rocky hills by which we were jiassing. She looked pale and troubled, and rose eagerly to meet me, as if she had long and impatiently waited for my waking. Iler heart, it was plain, had been disturbed from its security and was beginning to take alarm at its own feelings. But though vaguely conscious of the peril to which she was exposed, her reli- ance, as is usual in such cases, increased with her danger, and upon me, far more than on herself, did she seem to depend for saving her. To reach as soon as possible her asylum in the desert was now the urgent object of her entreaties and wishes, and the self -reji roach which she expressed at having for a single moment suffered her thoughts to be diverted from this sacred purpose not only revealed the truth that she liad forgotten it, but betrayed even a glimmering consciousness of the cause. Her sleep, she said, had been broken by ill-omened dreams. Every moment the shade of her mother had stood before her, re- buking, with mournful looks, her delay, and pointing, as she had done in death, to the eastern hills. Bursting into tears at this accusing recollection, she hastily placed the leaf, which she had been examining, in my hands, and imj^lored that I Avould ascertain, Avithout a moment's delay, what portion of our voyage was still un- performed, and in what space of time we might hope to accom- plish it. 590 The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland. I had, still less than herself, taken note of either place or dis- tance, and, could we have been left to glide on in this dream of hap- piness, should never have thought of pausing to ask where it would end. But such confidence was far too sacred to be deceived, and, reluctant as I naturally felt to enter on an enquiry which might soon dissipate even my last hope, her wish was sufficient to super- sede even the selfishness of love, and on the instant I proceeded to obey her will. There stands on the eastern bank of the Nile, to the north of An- tinoii, a high and steep rock impending over the flood, which has borne for ages, from a prodigy connected with it, the name of the Mountain of the Birds. Yearly, it is said, at a certain season and hour, large flocks of birds assemble in the ravine of which this rocky mountain forms one of the sides, and are there observed to go through the mysterious ceremony of inserting each its beak into a particular cleft of the rock, till the cleft closes upon one of their num- ber, when all the rest of the birds take wing and leave the selected victim to die. Through the ravine rendered famous by this charm — for such the multitude consider it — there ran in ancient times a canal from the Nile to some great and forgotten city now buried in the desert. To a short distance from the river this canal still exists, but after having passed through the defile its scanty waters disaj^pear and are wholly lost under the sands. It was in the neighborhood of this place, as I could collect from the delineations on the leaf — where a flight of birds represented the name of the mountain — that the abode of the solitary to whom Ale- the was about to consign herself was situated. Little as I knew of the geography of Egypt, it at once struck me that we had long since left this mountain behind, and on enquiring of our boatmen, I found my conjecture confirmed. We had, indeed, passed it on the preceding night ; and as the wind had been ever since blowing strongly from the north, and the sun was already sinking towards the horizon, we must be now at least a day's sail to the southward of the spot. This discovery, I confess, filled my heart with a feeling of joy which I found it difficult to conceal. It seemed as if fortune was conspiring with love in my behalf, and by thus delaying the mo- 7nent of our separation afforded me a chance at least of happiness. Her look and manner, too, when informed of our mistake, rathor encouraged than chilled this secret hope. In the first moment of Thomas Moore. 591 astonishment her eyes opened upon me with a suddenness of splen- dor under whicli I felt my own Avink as though lightning hud crossed them. But she again, as suddenly, let their lids fall, and, after a quiver of her lip, whicli showed the conflict of feeling, then going on within, crossed her arms upon her bosom and looked down silently upon the deck, her whole countenance sinking into an ex- pression sad but resigned, as if she now felt that fate was on the side of wrong, and saw love already stealing between her soul and heaven. I was not slow, of course, in availing myself of what I fancied to be the irresolution of her mind. But still fearful of exciting alarm by any appeal to feelings of regard or tenderness, I but addressed myself to her imagination and to that love of novelty and w'onders which is ever ready to be awakened within the youthful breast. We were now approaching that region of miracles, Thebes. '• In a day or two," said I, "we shall see towering above the waters the colos- sal Avenue of Sphinxes and the bright Obelisks of the Sun. We shall visit the plain of Memnon and behold those mighty statues that fling their shadows at sunrise over the Libyan hills. We shall hear the image of the Son of the Morning responding to the first touch of light. From thence, in a few hours, a breeze like this will transport us to those sunny islands near the cataracts, there to wander among the sacred palm-groves of Philoe, or sit at noontide hour in those cool alcoves which the waterfall of Syene shadows under its arch. Oh ! who is there that, with scenes of such loveli- ness within reach, would turn coldly away to the bleak desert and leave this fair world, with all its enchantments, shining unseen and unenjoyed ? At least," I added, taking tenderly her hand in mine, /' let a few more days be stolen from the dreary fate to which thou hast devoted thyself, and then — " ( She had heard but the last few words, the rest had been lost upon her. Startled by the tone of tenderness into which, in spite of all my resolves, I had suffered my voice to soften, she looked for an instant with passionate earnestness into my face, then, drop- ping upon her knees with her clasped hands upraised, exclaimed : " Tempt me not, in the name of God I implore thee — tempt me not to swerve from my sacred duty. Oh ! take me instantly to that desert mountain, and I will bless thee for ever." This appeal, I felt, could not be resisted, even though my heart Avere to break for it. Having silently intimated my assent to her 592 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. pniycr bv a slight pressure of lier hand as I raised her from the deck, I in-occcded immediately, as wo were still in full career for the south, to give orders that our sail should be instantly lowered, and not a moment lost in retracing our course. In sfivinsf these directions, however, it for the first time occurred to me that, as I had hired this yacht in the neighborhood of Mem- phis, where it was probable the flight of the young priestess would be most vigilantly tracked, we should run the risk of betraying to the boatmen the place of her retreat, and there was now a most fa- vorable opportunity for taking j^i'ecautions against this danger. Desiring, therefore, that we should be landed at a small Tillage on the shore, under pretence of paying a visit to some shrine in the neighborhood, I there dismissed our barge, and was relieved from fear of further observation by seeing it again set sail, and resume its course fleetly up the current. From the boats of all descriptions that lay idle beside the bank, I now selected one in every respect suited to my purpose, being, in its shape and accommodations, a miniature of our former vessel, but at the same time so light and small as to be manageable by my- self alone, and requiring, with the advantage of the current, little more than a hand to steer it. This boat I succeeded without much difficulty in purchasing, and after a short delay we were again afloat down the current, the sun just then sinking in conscious glory over his own golden shrines in the Libyan waste. The evening was calmer and more lovely than any that had yet smiled upon our voyage, and as we left the shore a strain of sweet melody came soothingly over our ears. It was the voice of a young ]^ubian girl, whom wo saw kneeling before an acacia upon the bank, and singing, while her companions stood around, the wild song of invocation, which in her country they address to thafe enchanted ti-oe : " Abyssinian tree ! We pray, we pray to thee ; By the glo^ of thy golden fruit, And the violet hue of thy flower, And the greeting mute Of thy bough's salute To the stranger who seeks thy bower."* 3" See an account of this sensitive tree, vhich bends down its branches to those who approach it, in M. Jomard's " Description of Syene and the Cataracts." Thomas Moore. 593 " Abyssinian tree I How the traveller blesses theo When the night no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near, And thou bend'st thy boughs To kiss his brows, Saying, ' Come, rest thee here' I Abyssinian tree 1 Thus bow thy head to me." Ill tlie burden of this song the companions of the yonng Nubian joined, and we heard the words, '•' Ab3'ssinian tree I" dying away on the breeze long after the whole group had been lost to our eyes. Whether in the new arrangement which I had made for our A^oy- age any motive besides those whicli I professed had a share I can scarcely even myself, so bewildered Avero then my feelings, deter- mine. But no sooner had the current borne us away from all human dwelliugs, and we were alone on the Avaters, with not a soul near, than I felt how closely such solitude draws hearts together, and how much more we seemed to belong tc each other than when there were eyes around us. The same feeling, but Avithout the same sense of its danger, Ayas manifest in every look and word of Aletlie. The consciousness of the one great effort which she had made appeared to have satisfied her heart on the score of duty, while the de\'otedness with which she saw I attended to her every wish was felt with all that trusting gratitude which in woman is the day-spring of Ioa'c. She was, therefore, happy, innocently happy, and the confiding and even af- fectionate unreseiTC of her manner, while it rendered my trust more sacred, made it also- far more difficult. It was only, however, upon subjects unconnected with our situa- tion or fate that she }aelded to such interchange of thought, or that her voice A'cntured to answer mine. The moment I alluded to the destiny that awaited us all her cheerfulness fled, and she became saddened and silent. When I described to her the beauty of my own native land, its founts of inspiration and fields of glory, her eyes sparkled with sympathy, and sometimes CA'cn softened into fondness. But when I ventured to Avhispcr that in that glorious country a life full of love and liberty awaited her ; Avhcn I pro- ceeded to contrast the adoration and bliss she might command Avith 594 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. the gloomy austerities of the life to which she was hastening, it was Tike the coming of a sudden cloud over a summer sky. Her head sunk as she listened, I waited in vain for an answer, and when, half playfully reproaching her for this silence, I stooped to take her hand, I 'could feci the warm tears fast falling over it. But even this, feehle as was the hope it held out, was still a o-hmpse of happiness. Though it foreboded that I should lose her, it also whispered that I was loved. Like that lake in the land of roses whose waters are half sweet, half bitter, I felt my fate to be a compound of bliss and pain, but its very pain well worth all ordi- nar}' bliss. And thus did the hours of that night pass along, while eveiy mo- ment shortened our happy dream, and the current seemed to flow with a swifter pace than any that ever yet humed to the sea. Not a feature of the whole scene but lives at this moment freshly in my memory — the broken starlight on the water, the rippling sound of the boat as, without oar or sail, it went, like a thing of enchant- ment, down the stream ; the scented fire, burning beside us upon the deck ; and then that face on which its light fell, revealing at every moment some now charm, some blush or look more beautiful than the last. Often while I sat gazing, forgetful of all else in this world, our boat, left wholly to itself, would drive from its course, and, bearing us away to the bank, get entangled in the water-flowers or be caught in some eddy ere I perceived where we were. Once, too, when the rustling of my oar among the flowers had startled away from the bank some wild antelopes that had stolen at that still hour to drink of the Nile, what an emblem did I think it of the young heart then beside me, tasting for the first time of hope and love, and so soon, alas ! to be scared from their sweetness for ever. CHAPTER XIT. The night was now far advanced; the bend of our course towards the left and the closing in of the eastern hills upon the river gave warning of our approach to the hermit's dwelling. Evei-y minute now appeared like the last of existence, and I felt a sinking of despair at my heart which would have been intolerable had not a resolution that suddenly, and as if by inspiration, oc- Tho77tas Moore. 595 curred to me, presented a glimpse of hope, wliich, in some degree, calmed my feelings. Much as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy — the very sect I had embraced being chiefly recommended to me by the war they continued to wage upon the cant of all others — it was, nevertheless, in hypocrisy that I now scrupled not to take refuge from that calamity which to me was far worse than cither shame or death — my separation from Alethe. In my despair I adopted the humili- ating plan — deeply humiliating, as I felt it to be, even amid the joy with which I welcomed it — of offering myself to this hermit as a convert to his faith, and thus becoming the fellow-disciple of Alethe under his care ! From the moment I resolved upon this plan my spirit felt lightened. Though having fully before my eyes the mean labyrinth of imposture into which it would lead me, I thought of nothing but the chance of our continuing still together. In this hope all pride, all philosophy was forgotten, and everything seemed tolerable but the jorospect of losing her. Thus resolved, it was with somewhat less reluctant feelings that I now undertook, at the anxious desire of my companion, to ascer- tain the site of that well-known mountain in the neighborhood of which the anchoret's dwelling lay. We had already passed one or two stupendous rocks, which stood detached like fortresses over the river's brink, and which in some degree corresponded with the description on the leaf. So little was there of life now stirring along the shores that I had begun almost to despair of any assistance from enquiry, when, on looking to the western bank, I saw a boat- man among the sedges, towing his small boat with some difficulty up the current. Hailing him as we passed, I asked: "^ Where stands the Mountain of the Birds ? " And he had hardly time, as he pointed above us, to answer "There," when we jDcrceived that we were just then entering into the shadow which this mighty rock flings across the whole of the flood. In a few moments we had reached the mouth of the ravine of which the Mountain of the Birds forms one of the sides, and through which the scanty canal of the Nile flows. At the sight of this awful chasm, within some of whose dreary recesses (if we had rightly interpreted the leaf) the dwelling of the solitary was to be found, our voices sunk at once into a low whisper, while Alethe turned round to me with a look of awe and eagerness, as if doubt- 590 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. fill wliciher I had not already disappeared from her side. A quick movement, however, of her hand towards the ravine told too plainly that her purpose was still unchanged. Immediately checking, therefore, with my oars the career of our boat, I succeeded, after no small exertion, in turning it out of the current of the river, and steering into this bleak and stagnant canal. Our transition from life and bloom to the very depth of desola- tion w\as immediate. While the water on one side of the ravine lay buried in shadow, the white, skeleton-like crags of the other stood aloft in the pale glare of moonlight. The sluggish stream through which we moved yielded sullenly to the oar, and the shriek of a few Avater-birds, which we had roused from their fastnesses, was succeeded by a silence so dead and awful that our lips seemed afraid to disturb it by a breath, and half-whispered exclamations, ''How dreary!" "How dismal!" were almost the only words exchanged between us. We had proceeded for some time through this gloomy defile, ■when, at a short distance before us, among the rocks upon which the moonlight fell, we could perceive, on a ledge elevated but a little above the canal, a small hut or cave, •which, from a tree or two planted around it, had some appearance of being the abode of a human being. "This, then," thought I, "is the home to which she is destined ! " A chill of despair came again over my heart, and the oars, as I sat gazing, lay motionless in my hands. I found Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the same object, drawing closer to my side than she had yet ventured. Laying her hand agitatedly upon mine, "We must here," said she, "joartfor over." I turned to her as she spoke; there was a tenderness, a despondency, in her countenance that at once saddened and in- flamed my souL "Part!" I exclaimed, passionately. "No; the same God shall receive us both. Thy faith, Alethe, shall from this hour be mine, and I will live and die in this desert with thee ! " Her surprise, her delight, at these words was like a momentary delirium. The wild, anxious smile with which she looked into my face, as if to ascertain whether she had indeed heard my words aright, bespoke a happiness too much for reason to bear. At length the fulness of her heart found relief in tears, and, murmuring forth an incoherent blessing on my name, she let her head fall languidly and powerlcssly on my arm. The light from my boat- fire shone upon her face. I saw her eyes, which she had closed for Thomas Moore. 597 a moment, again opening upon mc with the same tenderness, and — merciful Providence, how I remember that moment ! — was on the point of bending down my lips towards hers v/hen suddenly, in the air above us, as if coming direct from heaven, there burst forth a strain of choral music that with its solemn sweetness filled the whole valley. Breaking away from my caress at these supernatural sounds, the maiden threw herself trembling upon her knees, and, not daring to look up, exclaimed wildly, " My mother, oh ! my mother." It was the Christian's morning hymn that we heard — the same, as I learned afterwards, that, on their high terrace at Memphis, she had been taught by her mother to sing to the rising sun. Scarcely less startled than my companion, I looked up, and saw at the very summit of the rock above us a light, appearing to come from a small opening or window, through which those sounds like- wise that had appeared to me so supernatural issued. There could be no doubt that we had now found, if not the dwelling of the an- choret, at least the haunt of some of the Christian brotherhood of these rocks, by whose assistance we could not fail to find the place bt his retreat. The agitation into which Alethe had been thrown by the first burst of that psalmody soon yielded to the softening recollections which it brought back, and a calm came over her brow such as it had never before worn since avc met. She seemed to feel as if she had now reached her destined haven, and hailed as the voice of heaven itself those solemn sounds by which she was welcomed to it. In her tranquillity, however, I was very far from yet sympathiz- ing. Full of impatience to learn all that awaited her as well as my- self, I pushed our boat close to the base of the rock, so as to bring it directly under that lighted window on the summit, to explore my way up to which was now my immediate object. Having hastily received my instructions from Alethe and made her repeat again the name of the Christian whom we sought, I sprang uioon the bank and was not long in discovering a sort of path or stairway cut rudely out of the rock, and leading, as I found, by easy windings up the steep. After ascending for some time, I arrived at a level sjiace or ledge which the hand of labor had succeeded in converting into a garden, °' " The monka of "NTount Sinai (Sinw siys) havo covered over near four ceres of the naked rocks with fruitful gardens and orchards. 598 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. au(. _I which was planted here and there with fig-trees and palms. L-ound it, too, I could perceive through the glimmering light a number of small caves or grottos, into some of which human beings might find an entrance, while others appeared of uo larger dimen- sions than those tombs of the sacred birds which are seen ranged around Lake Moeris. I was still, I found, but half-way up the ascent, nor was there visible any further means of continuing my course, as the mountain from hence rose, almost perpendicularly, like a wall. At length, hov\-evcr, on exploring more closely, I discovered behind the shade of a fig-tree a large ladder of wood resting firmly against the rock, and affording an easy and safe ascent up the steep. Having ascertained thus far, I again descended to the boat for Alethe, whom I found trembling already at her short solitude, and having led her up the stairway to this quiet garden, left her lodged there securely amid its holy scicxice while I pursued my way upward to the light upon the rock. At the top of the long ladder I found myself on another ledge or platform, somewhat smaller than the first, but planted in the same manner with trees, and, as I could perceive by the mingled light of morninsr and the moon, embellished with flowers. I was now near the summit ; there remained but another short ascent, and, as a ladder against the rock supplied, as before, the means of scaling it, I was in a few minutes at the opening from which the light issued. I had ascended gently, as well from a feeling of awe at the whole scene as from an unwillingness to disturb rudely the rites on which I intruded. My approach, therefore, being unheard, an opportu- nity was for some moments afforded me of observing the group within before my appearance at the window was discovered. In the middle of the apartment, which seemed to have been once a pagan oratory, there was collected an assembly of about seven or eight persons, some male, some female, kneeling in silence round a small altar, while among them, as if presiding over their solemn ceremony, stood an aged man, who, at the moment of my arrival, was presenting to one of the female worshippers an alabaster cup, which she applied, with profound reverence, to her lips. The venerable countenance of the minister, as he pronounced a short prayer over her head, wore an expression of profound feeling that showed how wholly he was absorbed in that rite ; and when she had drank of the cup— which I saw had engraven on its side the image Thomas Moore. 599 of a head '" with a glory round it — the lioly man bent down and kissed her forehead." After this parting salutation, the whole group rose silently from their knees, and it was then for the first time that, by a cry of ter- ror from one of the women, the appearance of a stranger at the "window was discovered. The whole assembly seemed startled and alarmed except him, that superior person, who, advancing from the altar with an unmoved look, raised the latch of the door adjoining to the window and admitted me. There was in this old man's features a mixture of elevation and sweetness, of simplicity and energy, which commanded at once at- tachment and homage ; and half hoping, half fearing, to find in him the destined guardian of Alethe, I looked anxiously in his face as I entered and pronounced the name " Melauius." " Melanius is my name, young stranger," he answered, '' and, whether in friendship or in enmity thou comest, Melanius blesses thee." Thus saying, he made a sign with his right hand above my head, while, with involuntary respect, I bowed beneath the benediction. " Let this volume," I replied, '' answer for the peacefulness of my mission," at the same time placing in his hands the copy of the Scriptures which had been his own gift to the mother of Alethe, and "which her child now brought as the credential of her claims on his protection. At the sight of this sacred 2:)ledge, which he instantly recognized, the solemnity that had at first marked his reception of me softened into tenderness. Thoughts of other times appeared to pass through his mind, and as, with a sigh of recollection, he took the book from my hands, some words on the outer leaf caught his eye. They were few, but contained most probably the last wishes of the dying Theora, for, as he read them over eagerly, I saw tears in his aged eyes. " The trust," he said with faltering voice, ''is pre- cious and sacred, and God will enable, I hope, his servant to guard it faithfully." During this short dialogue the other persons of the assembly had departed, being, as I afterwards learned, brethren from the neigh- boring bank of the Nile, who came thus secretly before daybreak to join in worshipping their God. Fearful lest their descent down the 32 There was usually, Tertullian tells us, the image of Christ on the chalises. S3 " We are rather disposed to infer," says the late Bishop of Lincoln in his very sensi- ble work on TertuUian, "that at the conclusion of all their meetings for the purpose of devotion the early Christians were accustomed to give the kiss of peace in token of the brotherly love subsisting between them." 6oo The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. rock miglit alarm Alethc, I hnrried briefly oyer the few words of explanation that remained, and, leaving the Tcnerable Christian to follow at his leisure, hastened anxiously to rejoin the young maiden. CHAPTER XV. Melanius was one of the first of those zealous Christians of E"-vpt who, following the recent example of the hermit, Paul, bade f:u*ewell to all the comforts of social existence, and betook them- selves to a life of contemplation in the desert. Less selfish, how- ever, in his piety than most of these ascetics, Melanius forgot not tlie world in leaving it. He knew that man was not born to live wholly for himself, that his relation to human kind was that of the link to the chain, and that even his solitude should be turned to the advantage of others. In flying, therefore, from the din and distur- bance of life, he sought not to place himself beyond the reach of its sympathies, but selected a retreut where he could combine all the advantages of solitude with those opportunities of being useful to his fellow-men wliich a neighborhood to their populous haunts would aHord. That taste for the gloom of subterranean recesses which the race of Misraim inherit from their Ethiopian ancestors had, by hollowing out all Egypt into caverns and crypts, supplied these Christian anchorets with an ample choice of retreats. Accordingl)', some found a shelter in the grottos of Elethya, others among the royal tombs of the Thebaid. In the middle of the Seven Valleys, where the sun rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim and melan- choly retreat, while others have sought the neighborhood of the red lakes of Xitria, and there, like those pagan solitaries of old who fixed their dwelling among the palm-trees near the Dead Sea, pass their whole lives in musing amidst the sterility of nature, and seem to find in her desolation peace. It was one of the mountains of the Said, to the east oc the river, that Melanius, as we have seen, chose his place of seclusion, having all the life and fertility of the Xilo on one side and the lone, dis- mal barrenness of the desert on the other. Half-way down this mountain, where it impends over the ravine, he found a series of caves or grottos dug out of the rock, which had in other times mniistercd to some purpose of mystery, but whose use had long been forgotten and their recesses abandoned. To this place, after the banishment of this great master, Origen, p TJiomas Afoore. 60 1 Melaiiius with a few faithful followers retired, and there, by the example of his innocent life as well as by his fervid eloquence, suc- ceeded in winning crowds of converts to his faith. Placed as he was in the neighborhood of the rich city, Antinoe, though he mingled not with its multitude, his name and his fame were ever among them, and to all who sought after instruction or consolation the cell of the hermit was always open. Notwithstanding the rigid abstinence of his own habits, he was yet careful to provide for the comforts of others. Content witli a rude pallet of straw himself, he had always for the stranger a less homely resting-place. From his grotto the wayfaring and the in- digent never went unrefreshed, and with the aid of some of his brethren he had formed gardens along the ledges of the mountain, which gave an air of life and cheerfulness to his rocky dwelling, and. supplied him witli the chief necessaries of such a climate — fruit and. shade. Though tlie acquaintance he had formed with the mother of Alethe during the short period of her attendance at the school of Origen was soon interrupted and never afterwards renewed, the in- terest which he had then taken in her fate was far too lively to be forgotten. He had seen the zeal with which her young heart wel- comed instruction, and the thought that so i^romising a candidate for heaven should have relapsed into idolatry came often with dis- quieting apprehension over his mind. It was, therefore, with true pleasure that, but a year or two be- fore Theora's death, he had learned by a private communication from her, transmitted through a Christian embalmer of Memphis, that '^'not only had her own heart taken root in the faith, but that a new bud had flowered with the same divine hope, and that ere long he might sec them both transplanted to the desert." The coming, therefore, of Alethe was iar less a surprise to him than her coming thus alone was a shock and a sorrow, and the silence of their first meeting showed how painfully both remembered that the tie which had brought them together was no longer of this world, that the hand which should have been then joined with theirs was mouldering in the tomb. I now saw that even religion like his was not proof against the sadness of mortality. For, as the old man put aside the ringlets from her forehead, and contemplated in that clear countenance the reflection of what her mother had been, thei'e mingled a mournfulness with his piety as he said, ''Heaven rest her 6o2 The Prose and Poetry of Irelaiid. soul ! " Avliicli showed liow little even the certainty of a heaven for those we love can reconcile ns to the pain of having lost them on car ill. The full light of clay had now risen upon the desert, and our host, reminded by the faint looks of Alethe of the many anxious hours we had passed without sleep, proposed that we should seek, in the chambers of the rock, such rest as a hermit's dwelling could offer. Pointing to one of the largest of these openings, as he addressed me, ''Thou wilt find," he said, "in that grotto abed of fresh doom-leaves, and may the consciousness of having protected the ori^han sweeten thy sleep ! " I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and already almost rejientcd of having deserved it. There was a sadness in the counte- nance of Alethe as I took leave of her to which the forebodings of my own heart but too faithfully responded ; nor could I help fear- ing, as her hand parted lingeringly from mine, that I had, by this sacrifice, placed her beyond my reach for ever. Having lighted for me a lamp, which in these recesses even at noon is necessary, the holy man led me to the entrance of the grotto. And here, I blush to say, my career of hj^jiocrisy began. "With the sole view of obtaining another glance at Alethe, I turned humbly to solicit the benediction of the Christian, and having con- veyed to her, while bending reverently down, as much of the deep feehng of my soul as looks could express, I then, with a desponding spirit, hurried into the cavern. A short passage led me to the chamber within, the walls of which. I found covered, like those of the grottos of Lycopolis, with paint- ings, which, though executed long ages ago, looked as fresh as if their colors were but laid on yesterday. They were all of them representations of rural and domestic scenes, and, in the greater number, the melancholy imagination of the- artist had called in, as usual, the presence of Death, to throw his shadow over the pic- ture. My attention was particularly drawn to one series of subjects, throughout the whole of which the same group— consisting of a youth, a maiden, and two aged persons, who appeared to be the father and mother of the girl— were represented in all the details of then- daily life. The looks and attitudes of the young people denoted that tlicy were lovers; and sometimes they were seen sitting under a canopy of flowers with their eyes fixed on each Tho7nas Moore. 603 other's faces as though they could never look away ; sometimes they appeared walking along the banks of the Nile — .... on one of those sweet nights When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights Her bridal crescent o'er the holy stream ; When wandering youths and maidens watch ner beam, And number o'er the nights she hath to run Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. Through all these scenes of endearment the tAvo elder persons stood by, their culm countenances touched with a share of that bliss in whose perfect light the young lovers Avere basking. Thus far all was happiness, but the sad lesson of mortality was yet to come. In the last picture of the series one of the figures was missing. It was that of the young maiden, who had disappeared from among them. On the brink of a dark lake stood the three who rcmaiaied, while a boat Just departing for the City of the Dead told too plainly the end of their dream of happiness. This memorial of a sorrow of other times — of a sorroAV ancient as death itself — was not wanting to deepen the melancholy of my mind, or to add to the weight of the many bodings that pressed upon it. After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleeping thought, I rose from my bed and returned to the garden. I found the Chris- tian alone, seated, under the shade of one of his trees, at a small table, on which there lay a volume unrolled, Avhile a beautiful ante- lope was sleeping at his feet. Struck by the contrast which he i^re- sented to those haughty priests whom I had seen surrounded by the pomp and gorgeousness of temples, " Is this, then," thought I, " the faith before which the world now trembles, its temple the desert, its treasury a book, and its high-priest the solitary dweller of the rock ? '' He had prepared for me a simple, but hospitable repast, of which fruits from his own gai'den, the white bread of Olyra, and the juice of the honey-cauc formed the most costly luxuries. His manner to me was even more cordial and fatherly than before; hut the absence of Alethc, and, still more, the ominous reserve with which ho not only himself refrained from all mention of her name, but eluded the few enquiries by which I sought to lead to it, seemed to confirm all the apprehensions I had felt in parting from her. 6o4 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. She had acquainted him, it was evident, with tlie whole histoiy of our flight. My reputation as a philosopher, my desire to become a Christian, all was already known to the zealous anchoret, and the subject of my conversion was the very first on which he entered. pride of philosophy ! how wcrt thou then humbled, and with what shame did I stand in the presence of that venerable man, not darino- to let my eyes encounter his, while, with unhesitating trust in the sincerity of my intentidi, ho welcomed me to a participation of his holy hope, and imprinted the kiss of charity on my infidel brow ! Embarrassed as I could not but feel by the humiliating conscious- ness of hypocrisy, I was even still more perplexed by my almost total ignorance of the real tenets of the faith to which I professed myself a convert. Abashed and confused, and with a heart sick at its own deceit, I listened to the animated and eloquent gratulations of the Christian as though the/ were words in a dream without any link or meaning, nor could disguise but by the mockery of a reverent bow at every pause the total want of self-possession, and. even of speech, under which I labored. A few minutes more of such trial, and I must have avowed my imposture. But the holy man perceived my embarrassment, and whether mistaking it for awe or knowing it to bo ignorance, relieved me from my perplexity by at once changing the theme. Having gently awakened his antelope from its sleep, "You have doubtless," he said, ''heard of my brother-anchoret, Paul, who from his cave in the marble mountains near the Eed Sea sends hourly the blessed ' sacrifice of thanksgiving ' to heaven. Of Ids walks, they tell me, a lion is the companion ; " but for me," he added with a playful and significant smile, " who try my powers of taming but on the gentler animals, this feeble child of the desert is a far fitter playmate." Then taking his staff, and putting the timc-vrorn volume which he had been perusing into a largo goat-skin pouch that hung by his side, "I will now," said lie, "conduct thee over my rocky kingdom, that thou mayest see in what drear and barren places that 'sweet fruit of the spirit,' peace, may be gathered." To speak of peace to a heart throbbing as mine did at that mo- ment was like talking of some distant harbor to the mariner sink- ing at sea. In vain did I look around for some sign of Alethe, in vani make an effort even to utter her name. Consciousness of my " Chateaubriand has introduced Paul and his Hon into the " Martyrs," Ut. xL Thomas Moore. 605 own deceit, as well as a fear of awakening in the mind of Melanins any susj^icion that might tend to frustrate my only hope, threw a fetter over my spirit, and checked my tongue. In humble silence, therefore, I followed, Avhile the cheerful old man, with slow but firm ste]!, ascended the rock by the same ladders which I had mounted on the preceding night. During the time when the Dccian persecution was raging many Christians, as ho told me, of the neighborhood had taken refuge imder his protection in these grottos, and the small chapel upon the sum.mit where, I had found his flock at prayer was in those awful times of suffering their usual place of retreat, where, by drawing up these ladders, they were enabled to secure themselves from pursuit. The view from the top of the rock, extending on either side, em- braced the two extremes of fertility and desolation ; nor could the Epicurean and the anchoret, who now stood gazing from that height, be at any loss to indulge their respective tastes between the living luxuriance of the world on one side and the dead, pulseless repose of the desert on the other. When we turned to the river, Avhat a picture of animation presented itself ! Near us to the south Avere the graceful colonnades of Antinoe, its proud, populous streets, and triumphal monuments. On the opposite shore rich plains, all teeming with cultivation to the water's edge, seemed to offer up as from verdant altars their fruits to the sun, while beneath us the Nile — . . . . the glorious stream, That late between its banks was seen to glide. With shrines and marble cities on each side Glittering, Uko jewels strung along a chain, Had now sont forth its waters, and o'er plain And valley, like a giant from his bed Rising with outstretch'd limbs, superbly spread. From this scene on one side of the mountain we had but to turn round our eyes to the other, and it Avas as if nature herself had be- come suddenly extinct — a wide Avaste of sands, bleak and intermina- ble, wearying out the sun with its sameness of desolation ; black, burnt-up rocks that stood as barriers at which life stopped, Avhilc the only signs of animation, past or present, were the footprints here and there of an antelope, or ostrich, or the bones of dead 6o6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. camels as they lay whitening at a distance, marking out the track of the caravans over the waste. ^ , -, After listening while he contrasted, in a few eloquent words, the two recrions of lile and death on whose confines we stood, I again de- scendc'd with my guide to the garden that we had left. From thence, turnin- into a path along the mountain-side, he led me to another row of°grottos facing the desert, wliich had been once, he said, the a])ode of those brethren in Christ who had fled with him to this solitude from the crowded world, but which death had, within a few short months, rendered tenantless. A cross of red stone and a few faded trees were the only traces these solitaries had left behind. A silence of some minutes succeeded while we descended to the edge of the canal, and I saw opposite among the rocks that solitary cave which had so chilled me with its aspect on the preceding night. Beside the bank we found one of those rustic boats which the Egyptians construct of planks of wild thorn, bound rudely to- gether with bands of papyi'us. Placing ourselves in this boat, and rather impelling than rowing it across, we made our way through the foul and shallow flood, and landed directly under the site of the cave. This dwelling was situated, as I have already mentioned, .on a ledge of the rock, and, being provided with a sort of window or aperture to admit the light of heaven, was accounted, I found, far more cheerful than the grottos on the other side of the ravine. But there was a dreariness in the whole region around to which light only lent additional horror. The dead whiteness of the rocks as they stood like ghosts in the sunshine, that melancholy pool, half lost in the sands, all gave to my mind the idea of a Avasting world. To dwell in a place so desolate seemed to me a living death, and when the Christian, as we entered the cave, said, " Here is to bo thy home," prepared as I had been for the worst, all my resolution gave way, every feeling of disappointed passion and humbled pride which had been gathering round my heart for the last few hours found a vent at once, and I burst into tears. Accustomed to human weakness, and perhaps guessing at some of the sources of mine, the good hermit, without appearing to take any notice of this emotion, proceeded to expatiate with a cheerful air on what he called the comforts of my dwelling. Sheltered from the dry, burning wind of the south, my porch would inhale, he said, the fresh breeze of the Dog-star. Pruits from his own moun- Thomas Moore. 607 tain garden should furnish my repast. The well of the neighboring rock would supply my beverage ; and "here," he continued, lower- ing his voice into a more solemn tone as ho placed npon the table the volume which he had brought, "here, my son, is that 'well of living waters' in which alone thou wilt find lasting refreshment or peace." Thus saying, he descended the rock to his boat, and, after a few plashes of his oar had died upon my ear, the solitude and si- lence that reigned around me was complete. CHAPTER svi. What a fate was mine ! but a few weeks since presiding oyer that gay festival of the garden, with all the luxuries of existence tribu- tary in my train, and now — self-humbled into a solitary outcast, the hyj)ocritical pupil of a Christian anchoret, withoiit even the excuse of religious fanaticism or any other madness but that of love, wild love, to extennate my fall. "Were there a hope that by this humiliating waste of existence I might purchase now and then a momentary glimpse of Alethe, even the depths of the desert with such a chance would be welcome. But to live, and live thus, wiYZt- oui\\Qv, was a misery which I neither foresaw nor could endure. Hating even to look upon the den to which I was doomed, I hurried out into the air, and found my way along the rocks to the desert. The sun was going down, with that blood-red hue which he so often wears in this climate at his setting. I saw the sands stretching out like a sea to the horizon, as if their waste extended to the very verge of the world, and in the bitterness of my feelings rejoiced to see so large a portion of creation rescued, even by this barren liberty, from the encroaching grasp of man. The thought seemed to relieve my wounded pride, and, as I wandered over the dim and boundless solitude, to be thus free, even amidst blight and desolation, appeared to me a blessing. The only living thing I saw was a restless swallow, whose wingis were of the same hue with the gray sands over which he fluttered. " Why," thought I, "may not the mind, like this bird, i:)artake of the color of the desert, and sympathize in its austerity, its freedom, and its calm ?" thus vainly endeavoring, between despondence and defiance, to encounter with some degree of fortitude what yet my heart sickened to contemplate. But the effort was unavailing. Overcome by that vast solitude, whose repose was not the slumber 6o8 The Prose aiid Poetry of Ireland. of peace, but rather the sullen and burning silence of hate, I felt my spirit give way, and even love itself yielded to despair. Taking my scat on a fragment of a rock, and covering my eyes v/ith niy*]iands, I made an effort to shut out the overwhelming prospect But all in vain ; it was still before me, with every addi- tional horror that fancy could suggest ; and when again looking fortli I beheld the last red ray of the sun shooting across the melan- choly and lifeless waste, it appeared to mo like the light of that comet which once desolated this world, and thus luridly shone out over the ruin that it had made. Ajipallcd by my own gloomy imaginations, I turned towards the ravine, and, notwithstanding the disgust with which I had fled from my dwelling, was not ill pleased to find my way over the rocks to it again. On approaching the cave, to my astonishment, I saw a lio-ht within. At such a moment any vestige of life was welcome, and I hailed the unexpected appearance with pleasure. On enter- ing, however, I found the chamber all as lonely as I had left it. The light I had seen came from a lamp that burned brightly on the table ; beside it was unfolded the volume Avhicli Mclanius had brought, and upon the open leaves — oh ! joy and surprise — lay the well-known cross of Alethe. What hand but her own could have prepared this reception for me ? The very thought sent a hope into my heart before which all despondency fled. Even the gloom of the desert was forgotten, and my rude cave at once brightened into a bower. She had here reminded me, by this sacred memorial, of the vow which I had pledged to her under the hermit's rock, and I now scrupled not to reiterate the same daring jiromise, though conscious that through hypocrisy alone could I fulfil it. Eager to prepare myself for my task of imposture, I sat down to the volume, which I now found to be the Hebrew Scriptures, and the first sentence on which my eyes fell was, " The Lord hath com- manded the blessing, even life for evermore." Startled by those words, in which it appeared to me as if the spirit of my dream had again pronounced his assuring prediction," I raised my eyes from 33 "Many people," said Origen, " have been brought over to Christianity by the Spirit of God giving a sudden turn to their minds, and oaering visions to them either by day or night." On this Jortin remarlis: " Why should it be thought improbable t^iat pagans of good dispositions, but not free from prejudices, should have been called by divine admo- nitions, by dreams or visions, -which might be a support to Christianity in those days of distress ?" TJiomas Moore. 609 the page and rejoeated the sentence over and over, as if to tiy whether in these sounds there kiy any charm or spell to reawaken that faded illusion in my soul. But no; the rank frauds of the Memphian priesthood had dispelled all my trust in the promises of religion. My heart had again relapsed into its gloom of scepticism, and to the word of "Life" the only answer it sent back was "Death." Being impatient, however, to possess myself of the elements of a faith upon which — whatever it miglit 2:)roniise for hereafter — I felt that all my happiness here depended, I turned over the pages with an earnestness and avidity such as never even the most favorite of my studies had awakened in me. Though, like all who seek but the surface of learning, I flew desultorily over the leaves, lighting only on the more prominent and shining points, I yet found myself even in this undisciplined career arrested at every page by the awful, the supernatural sublimity, the alternate melancholy and grandeur, of the images that crowded upon me. I had till now known the Hebrew theology but through the pla- tonizing refinement of Philo, as, in like manner, for my knowledge of the Christian doctrine I was indebted to my brother Epicureans, Lucian and Celsus. Little, therefore, was my mind prepared for the simple majest)^, the high tone of inspiration, the poetry, in short, of heaven that breathed throughout these oracles. Could admiration have kindled faith, I should that night have been a believer, so elevated, so awed was my imagination by that wonder- ful book — its warnings of woe, its announcements of glory, and its unrivalled strains of adoration and sorrow. Hour after hour, with the saine eager and desultory curiosity, did I turn over the leaves, and when at length I lay down to rest, my fancy was still haunted by the impressions it had received. I went again through the various scenes of which I had read, again called up in sleep the bright images that had passed before me, and when awakened at early dawn by the solemn hymn from the chapel, imagined that I was still listening to the sound of the winds sighing mournfully through the harps of Israel on the willows. Starting from my bed, I hurried out upon the rock, with a hope that among the tones of that morning choir I might be able to dis- tinguish the sweet voice of Alethe. But the strain had ceased ; I caught only the last notes of the hymn, as, echoing up that lonely valley, they died away into the silence of the desert. 6 1 o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. With the first glimpse of liglit I was again eagerly at my study, ami, notwithstanding tlie frequent distraction both of my thoughts and' looks towards the distant, half-seen grottos of the anchoret, continued my task with unabating perseverance through the day. Still alive, however, but to the eloquence, the poetry of what I studied ; of its claims to authority as a history I never once paused to consider. My fancy alone being interested by it, to fancy only I referred all that it contained, and, passing rapidly from annals to prophecy, from narration to song, regarded the whole but as a tissue of oriental allegories, in which the deep melancholy of Egyptian asso- ciations was interwoven with the rich and sensual imagery of the East. Towards sunset I saw the venerable hermit on his way across the canal to my cave. Though he was accompanied only by his grace- ful antelope, which came snuffing the wild air of the desert as if sccntimj its home, I felt his visit even thus to be a most welcome relief. It was the hour, he caid, of his evening ramble up the mountain — of his accustomed visit to those cisterns of the rock from Avhich he drew nightly his most precious beverage. "While he spoke I observed in his hand one of those earthen cups " in which it is the custom of the inhabitants of the wilderness to collect the fresh dew among the rocks. Having proposed that I should accompany him in his walk, he proceeded to lead me, in the direction of the desert, up the side of the mountain that rose above my dwelling, and which formed the southern wall or screen of the deSle. Xear the summit we found a seat, where the old man paused to rest. It commanded a full view over the desert, and was by the side of one of those hollows in the rock, those natural reservoirs, in which are treasured the dews of night for the refreshment of the dwellers in the wilderness. Having learned from me how far I had advanced hi my study, "In yonder light," said he, pointing to a small cloud in the east which had been formed on the horizon by the haze of the desert, and was now faintly reflecting the splendors of sunset— '•'in the midst of that light stands Mount Sinai, of whose glory thou hast read, upon whoso summit was the scene of one of those awful revelations in which the Almighty has renewed from time to time lus communication with man, and kept alive the remembrance of his own Providence in this world." hahirel^S"^'"^^^ "J!? ^^™^ *''"^ '^ ^'J^P*' dessribes the monk Ptolemmus, ^7ho in. rn.V, ' PK, , of Soete, as collecting in earthen cups the abundant dew from tho rocks.- Bibhothec. Pat." torn. siii. Thomas Moore. 6ii After a pause, as if absorbed in the immensity of the subject, the holy man continued his sublime theme. Looking back to the ear- liest annals of time, he showed how constantly every relapse of the human race into idolatry has been followed by some manifestation of divine power, chastening the strong and proud by punishment and winning back the humble by love. It was to preserve, he said, unextinguished upon earth that great and vital truth — the creation of the world by one Supreme Being — that God chose from among the nations an humble and enslaved race, that he brought them out of their captivity "on eagles' wings," and, still surround- ing every step of their course with miracles, has placed them before tlie eyes of all succeeding generations as the depositaries of his will and the ever-during memorials of his power. Passing, then, in review the long train of inspired interpreters, whose pens and whose tongues were made the echoes of the divine voice, ho traced throughout the events of successive ages the gi-adual unfolding of the dark scheme of Providence — darkness without but all light and glory within. 'J.'he glimpses of a coming redemption, yisible even through the wrath of Heaven — the long series of pro- phecy through which this hope runs burning and alive, like a spark along a chain — the slow and merciful preparation of the hearts of mankind for the great trial of their faith and obedience that was at hand, not only by miracles that appealed to the living, but by pro- phecies launched into the future to carry conviction to the yet un- born — "through all these glorious and beneficent gradations wc may track," said he, "the manifest footsteps of a Creator advanc- ing to his grand, ultimate end — the salvation of his creatures," After some hours devoted to these holy instructions, we returned to the ravine, and Melanius left mo at my cave, praying, as he parted from me — with a benevolence which I but ill, alas ! deserved — that my soul might, under these lessons, be "as a Avatered gar- den," and, ere long, "bear fruit unto life eternal." Next morning I was again at my study, and even more eager in the awakening task than before. With the commentary of the her- mit freshly in my memory, I again read through, with attention, the Book of the Law% But in vain did I seek the promise of im- mortality in its pages. "It tells me," said I, "of a God coming down to earth, but of the ascent of man to heaven it speaks not. The rewards, the punishments it announces lie all on this side of the grave ; nor did even the Omnipotent offer to his own chosen 6i The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. servants a liopc beyond the impassable limits of this world. Where, then, is the salvation of which the Christian spoke ? or, if death be at the root of the faith, can life spring ont of it? " Af^ain, in the bitterness of disappointment, did I mock at my own°wiIling self-delusion, again rail at the arts of that traitoress. Fancy, ever ready, like the Delilah of this wondrous book, to steal upon the slumbers of Reason, and deliver him up, shorn and power- less, to his foes. If deception, thought I, be necessary, at least let me not practise it on myself ; in the desperate alternative before me, let me rather be even hypocrite than dupe. These self-accusing reflections, cheerless as they rendered my task, did not abate, for a single moment, my industry in pursuing it. I read on and on, with a sort of sullen apathy, neither charmed by style nor transported by imagery, the fatal blight in my heart having communicated itself to my imagination and taste. The cm-ses and the blessings, the glory and the ruin, which the historian had recorded and the prophet had predicted seemed all of this world — all temporal and earthly. That mortality of which the fountainhead had tasted tinged the whole stream; and when I read the words, ''All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again," a feeling like the wind of the desert came witheringly over me. Love, beauty, glory, everything most bright and wor- shipped upon earth, appeared to be sinking before my eyes, under this dreadful doom, into one general mass of corruption and silence. Possessed by the image of desolation I had thus called up, 1 laid my head upon the book in a paroxysm of despair. Death in all his most ghastly varieties passed before me, and I had continued thus for some time, as under the influence of a fearful vision, when the touch of a hand upon my shoulder roused me. Looking up, I saw the anchoret standing by my side, his countenance beaming with that sublime tranquillity which a hope beyond this earth alone can bestow. How I did envy him ! "We again took our way to the seat upon the mountain, the gloom within my own mind making everything around me more gloomy. Forgetting my hypocrisy in my feelings, I proceeded at once to make an avowal to him of all the doubts and fears which my study of the morning had awakened. " Thou art yet, my son," he answered, "but on the threshold of our faith. Thou hast seen but the first rudiments of the divine plan ; Thomas Moore. 613 its full and consummate perfection hath not yet opened upon thy mind. However glorious that manifestation of divinity on Mount Sinai, it was but the forerunner of another, still more glorious, which, in the fulness of time, was to burst ujion the world ; Avhen all that before had seemed dim and incomplete was to be perfected, and the promises shadowed out by the 'sjiirit of prophecy ' real- ized ; when the seal of silence, under which the future had so long lain, was to be broken, and the glad tidings of life and immortality proclaimed to the world ! " Observing my features brighten at these words, the pious man continued. Anticipating some of the holy knowledge that was in store for me, he traced through all its wonders and mercies the great work of Redemption, dwelling in detail upon every miraculous circumstance connected with it, the exalted nature of the Being by whose ministry it was accomplished, the noblest of Beings, the Son of God ; the mysterious Incarnation of this heavenly messenger ; the miracles that authenticated His divine mission ; the example of obedience to God and love to man which He set, as a shining light, before the world for ever ; and, lastly and chiefly, His death and resurrection, by which the covenant of mercy was sealed, and ''life and immortality brought to light." " Such," continued the hermit, '' was the Mediator promised through all time to 'make reconciliation for iniquity,' to change death into life, and bring ' healing on his wings ' to a darkened world. Such was the last crowning dispensation of that God of benevolence, in whose hands sin and death are but instruments of everlasting good, and who through apparent evil and temporary re- tribution, bringing all things ' out of darkness into his marvellous light,' proceeds watchfully and unchangingly to the great, final ob- ject of his providence — the restoration of the human race to purity and happiness." With a mind astonished if not touched by these discourses, I re- turned to my cave, and found the lamp, as before, ready lighted to receive me. The volume Avhich I had been hitherto studying was replaced by another, which lay open upon the table, with a branch of fresh palm between its leaves. Though I could not doubt to whose gentle and guardian hand I was indebted for this invisible watchfulness over my studies, there was yet a something in it so like spiritual interposition that it struck me with awe, and never more tlian at this moment when, on approaching the volume, I saw, 1 6 1 4 T/ie Prose and Poetry of Ireland. as the light glistened over its silver letters, that it was the very Book of Life of which the hermit had spoken. The midnight hymn of the Christians had sounded through the valley before°I had yet raised my eyes from that sacred Tolumc, and the second hour of the sun found me again over its pages. cniPTER stu. In this mode of existence I had now passed some days, my morn- ings devoted to reading, my nights to listening, under the wide canopy of heaven, to the holy eloquence of Melanius. The perse- verance with which I enquired, and the quickness with which I learned, soon succeeded in deceiving my benevolent instructor, who mistook ciu-iosity for zeal and knowledge for belief. Alas ! cold and barren and earthly was that knowledge— the word without the spirit, the shape without the life. Even when as a relief from hypocrisy I persuaded myself that I believed, it was but a brief de- lusion, a faith whose hope crumbled at the touch like the fruit of the desert-shrub, shining and empty. But though my soul was still dark, the good hermit saw not into its depths. The very facility of my belief, which might have suggested some doubt of its sincerity, was but regarded by his inno- cent zeal as a more signal triumph of the truth. His own ingenu- ousness led him to a ready trust in others, and the examples of sucli conversion as that of the philosopher Justin, who, during a walk by the sea-shore, received the light into his soul, had prepared him for illuminations of the spirit even more rapid than mine. During all this time I neither saw nor heard of Alethe, nor could my patience have endured through so long a privation had not those mute vestiges of her presence that welcomed me every night on my return made me feel that I was still living under her gentle influ- ence, and that her sympathy hung round every step of my jirogress. Once, too, when I ventured to speak her name to Melanius, though he answered not my enquiry, there was a smile, I thought, of pro- mise upon his countenance, which love, fur more alive than faith, was ready to interpret as it desired. At length— it was on the sixth or seventh evening of my solitude, when I lay resting at the door of ray cave after the study of the day— I was startled by hearing my name called loudly from the opposite rocks, and looking up, saw upon the ciifE near the deserted Tho7nas Moore. 615 grottos Melanins and — oli ! I could not doubt — my Alotlic by his side. Though I had never since the first night of my return from the desert ceased to flatter myself Avith the fancy that I was still living in her presence, the actual sight of her once more made mo feel for what a long age we had been sejiarated. She was clothed all in white, and, as she stood in the last remains of the sunshine, ap- peared to my too prophetic fancy like a parting spirit whose last footsteps on earth that pure glory encircled. With a deliglit only to be imagined I saw them descend the rocks, and, placing themselves in the boat, j^roceed directly towards my cave. To disguise from Melanius the mutual delight with whicli we again met was impossible, nor did Alethe even attempt to make a secret of her joy. Though blushing at her own happiness, as little could her frank nature conceal it as the clear waters of Ethiopia can hide their gold. Every look, every word, besjioke a fulness of affec- tion to which, doubtful as I was of our tenure of happiness, I knew not how to respond. I was not long, however, left ignorant, of the bright fate that awaited me ; but, as we wandered or rested among the rocks, learned everything that had been arranged since our imrting. She had made the hermit, I found, acquainted with all that liad passed be- tween us ; had told him without reserve every incident of our voy- age — the avowals, the demonstrations of affection on one side, and the deep sentiment that gratitude had awakened on the other. Too wise to regard affections so natural with severity, knowing that they were of heaven, and but made evil by man, the good hermit had heard of our attachment with pleasure, and, fully satisfied as to the honor and purity of my views by the fidelity witli which I had delivered my trust into his hands, saw in my affection for the young orphan but a providential resource against that friendless solitude in which his death must soon leave her. As, listening eagerly, I collected these particulars from their dis- course, I could hardly trust my ears. It seemed a happiness too great to be true, to bo real ; nor can words convey any idea of the joy, the shame, the v/onder with Avhicli I listened while the holy man himself declared that he awaited but the moment when he should find mo worthy of becoming a member of the Christian Church, to give me also the hand of Alethe in that sacred union which alone sanctifies love, and makes the faith Avhich it pledges holy. It 6 1 6 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. was but yesterdav, lie added, tliat his young charge herself, after a preparation of prayer and repentance, such as even her pure spirit required had been admitted by the sacred ordinance of baptism into the bosom of tlie faith, and the white garment she wore and the ring of gold on her finger ^'were symbols," he added, "of that new lifc^into^vhich she had been initiated." I raised my eyes to hers as he spoke, but withdrew them again, dazzled and confused. Even her beauty, to my imagination, seemed to have undergone some brightening change, and the contrast be- tween that happy and open countenance and the unblest brow of the infidel that stood before her abashed me into a sense of unwor- thincss, and almost checked my rapture. To that night, however, I look back as an epoch in my existence. It proved that sorrow is not the only awakener of devotion, but that joy may sometimes quicken the holy spark into life. Retm-niug to my cave with a heart full, even to oppression, of its happiness, I could find no other relief to my overcharged feelings than that of throwing myself on my knees and uttering, for the first time in my life, a heart-felt prayer, that if, indeed, there were a Being who watched over mankind, he would send down one ray of his truth into my darkened soul and make it worthy of the blessings, both here and hereafter, proffered to it ! 3Iy days now rolled on in a perfect dream of happiness. Every hour of the morning was welcomed as bringing nearer and nearer the blest time of sunset, when the hermit and Alethe never failed to visit my now charmed cave, where her smile left at each parting a light that lasted till her return. Then our rambles together by starlight over the mountain ; our pauses, from time to time, to contemplate the wonders of the bright heaven above us ; our repose by the cistern of the rock ; and our silent listening, through hours that seemed minutes, to the holy eloquence of our teacher — all, all was happiness of the most heartfelt kind, and such as even the doubts, the cold, lingering doubts, that still hung like a mist around my heart could neither cloud nor chill. As soon as the moonlight nights returned wo used to venture into the desert, and those sands, which had lately looked so desolate in my eyes, now assumed even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To the light, innocent heart of Alethe everything was a source of enjoy- ment. Eor her even the desert had its jewels and flowers, and sometimes her delight was to search amon.^ the sands for those Thomas Mooi^e. 617 beautiful pebbles of jasper that abound in them ; sometimes her eyes would sparkle with pleasure on finding, perhajis, a stunted marigold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers that lend their dry mockery of ornament to the desert. In all these jiursuits and pleasures the good hermit took a share, mingling occasionally with them the reflections of a benevolent piety that lent its own cheerful hue to all the works of creation, and saw the consoling truth, " God is love," written legibly everywhere. Such was, for a few weeks, my blissful life. mornings of hope ! nights of happiness ! Avitii what melancholy jfleasure do I retrace your flight, and how reluctantly pass to the sad events that followed I Daring this time, in compliance with the wishes of Melanius, who seemed unwilling that I should become wholly estranged from the world, I used occasionally to pay a visit to the neighboring city, Antinoe, which, being the capital of the Thebaid, is the centre of all the luxury of Upper Egypt. But here, so changed was my every feeling by the all-absorbing passion Avhich now possessed me, that I sauntered along wholly uninterested by either the scenes or the people that surrounded me, and, sigliing for that. rocky solitude where my Alethe breathed, felt iJiis to be the wilderness and that the Avorld. Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that at every step was called up by the light Grecian architecture of this imperial city, did not awaken one single regret in my heart, one wish to ex- change even an hour of my desert for the best luxuries and honors that awaited mo in the garden. I saw the arches of triumph, I walked under the superb portico which encircles the whole city with its marble shade, I stood in the Circus of the Sun, by whose rose- colored pillars the mysterious movements of the Xile are measured — on all these proud monuments of glory and art, as well as on the gay multitude that enlivened them, I looked with unheeding eye. If they awakened in me any thought, it was the mournful idea that one day, like Thebes and Heliopolis, this pageant Avould pass away, leaving nothing behind but a few mouldering ruins, like sea-shells found where the ocean has been, to tell that the great tide of life was once there ! But though indifferent thus to all that had formerly attracted me, there were subjects once alien to my heart on Avhicli it was now most tremblingly alive, and some rumors which had reached me in 6 1 8 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. one of my visits to tlio city, of an expected change in the policy of tlic emperor towards the Christians, filled my mind with apprehen- sions as new as they were dreadful to me. The toleration and even favor which the Christians enjoyed dur- ing tlie first four years of the reign of Valerian had removed from them all fear of a renewal of those horrors which they had experi- enced under the rule of his predecessor, Decius. Of late, however, some less friendly dispositions had manifested tliemselves. The bigots of the court, taking alarm at the raioid spread of the new faith, had succeeded in filling the mind of the monarch with that religious jealousy which is the ever-ready parent of cruelty and in- justice. Among these counsellors of evil was Macrianus, the Prae- torian Prefect, who was by birth an Egyptian, and had long made liimself notorious — so akin is superstition to intolerance — by his addiction to the dark practices of demon-worship and magic. From this minister, who was now high in the favor of Valerian, the new measures of severity against the Christians were expected to emanate. All tongues in all quarters were busy with the news. In the streets, in the public gardens, on the steps of the temples, I saw everywhere groups of enquirers collected, and heard the name of Macrianus upon every tongue. It was dreadful, too, to observe in the countenances of those who spoke the variety of feeling with which tlie rumor was discussed, according as they feared or desired its trutli, according as they were likely to be among the torturers or the victims. Alarmed, though still ignorant of the whole extent of the danger, I hurried back to the ravine, and going at once to the grotto of Melanius, detailed to him every particular of the intelligence I had collected. He listened to me with a composure which I mistook, alas ! for confidence in his own security, and, naming the hour for our evening walk, retired into his grotto. ; At the accustomed time, accompanied by Aletlie, he came to my cave. It was evident that he had not communicated to her the in- telligence which I had brought, for never hath brow worn such hap- piness as that which now played around hers ; it was, alas ! not of this earth. Melanius himself, though composed, was thoughtful, and the solemnity, almost approaching to melancholy, with which he placed the hand of Alethe in mine— in the performance, too, of a ceremony that oxkjU to have filled my heart with joy— saddened and alarmed mo. This ceremony was our bctrothment, the act of Thomas Moore. 619 jDligliting our faith to each other, which wo now solemnized on the rock before the door of my cave in the face of tliat calm, sunsec heaven, whose one star stood as onr witness. After a blessing from the hermit njoon onr spousal pledge, I placed the ring, the earnest of our future union, on her finger, and in the blush with which she surrendered to me her whole heart at that instant forgot everything but my happiness, and felt secure even against fate. We took our accustomed walk that eveninsf over the rocks and on the desert. So bright Avas the moon — more like the daylight, in- deed, of other climes — that we could plainly see the tracks of the wild antelopes in the sand ; and it was not without a slight tremble of feeling in his voice, as if some melancholy analogy occurred to him as ho spoke, that the good hermit said, '-'I have observed in the course of my walks that wherever tlie track of that gentle ani- mal appears there is almost always found the foot-print of a beast of prey near it."' He regained, however, his usual cheerfulness be- fore we parted, and fixed the following evening for an excursion on the other side of the ravine to a point looking, he said, "towards that northern region of the desert, where the hosts of the Lord en- camped in their departure out of bondage." Though when Alethe was present all my fears even for herself were forgotten in that perpetual element of happiness which encir- cled her like the air that she breathed, no sooner was I alone than vague terrors and bodings crowded upon me. In vain did I en- deavor to reason away my fears by dwelling only on the most cheer- ing circumstances, on the reverence with which Melanius was re- garded even by the pagans, and the inviolate security with which he had lived through the most perilous jieriods, not only safe him- self, but affording sanctuary in the depths of his grottos to others. Though somewhat calmed by these considerations, yet when at length I sunk off to sleep, dark, horrible dreams took possession of my mind. Scenes of death and of torment passed confusedly be- fore me, and when I awoke it was with the fearful impression that all these horrors were real. CHAPTER xvin. At length the day dawned, that dreadful day ! Impatient to be relieved from my susj)ense, I threw myself into my boat, the same in which we had performed our happy voyage, and as fast as oars 620 The Prose ajid Poetry of Ircla^td. couia ppccd mc liurricd away to tlio city. I found tlic suburbs si- lent and solitary, but as I approached the forum loud yells, like those of burbariaus in combat, struck on my car, and when I en- tered it— great God, what a spectacle presented itself ! The impe- rial edict against the Christians had arrived during the night, and already the wild fury of bigotry was let loose. Under a canopy in the middle of the forum was the tribunal of the governor. Two statues — one of Apollo, the other of Osiris — stood at the bottom of the steps that led up to his judgment-seat. Before these idols were shrines, to which the devoted Christians wore dragged from all quarters by the soldiers and mob, and there compelled to recant, by throwing incense into the flame, or, on their refusal, hurried away to torture and death. It was an appalling scene ; the consternation, the cries of some of the victims, the pale, silent resolution of others ; the fierce shouts of laughter that broke from the multitude when the dropping of the frankincense on the altar proclaimed some denier of Christ ; and the fiend-like triumph with which the courageous confessors who avowed their faith were led away to the flames — never could I have conceived such an as- semblage of horrors ! Thou2:h I gazed but for a few minutes, in those minutes I felt and fancied enough for years. Already did the form of Aletlie ap- pear to flit before me through that tumult ; I heard them shout her name, her shriek fell on my car, and the very thought so palsied mc with terror that I stood fixed and statue-like on the spot. Eecollecting, however, the fearful j)rcciousness of every moment, and that, perhaps, at this very instant some emissaries of blood might be on their way to the grottos, I rushed wildly out of the forum and made my way to the quay. The streets were now crowded, but I ran headlong through the multitude, and was already under the portico leading down to the river — already saw the boat that was to bear me to Alethe — when a centurian stood sternly in my path, and I w\as surrounded and arrested by soldiers ! It was in vain that I implored, that I struggled with them, as for life, assuring them that I was a stran- ger, that I was an Athenian, that I Avas— ^w^ a Christian. The precipitation of my flight was sufficient evidence against me, and unrelentingly, and by force, they bore mo away to the quarters of their chief. It was enough to drive me at once to madness ! Two hours, two Thornas Moore. 621 frightful hours, was I koiit waiting the arrival of the tribune of their legion, my brain burning with a thousand fears and imaginations, which every passing minute made but more likely to be realized. All I could collect, too, from the conversations of those around me but added to the agonizing apprehensions with which I was ra&ked. Troops, it was said, had been sent in all directions through the neighborhood to bring in the rebellious Christians and make them bow before the gods of the empire. AYith horror, too, I heard of Orcus — Orcus, the High- Priest of Memphis — as one of tlie lorincipal instigators of this sanguinary edict, and as here present in Antinoe, animating and directing its execution. In this state of torture I remained till the arrival of the tribune. Absorbed in my own thoughts, I had not perceived his entrance, till, hearing a voice in a tone of friendly surj)rise, exclaim, " Alci- phron ! " I looked up, and in this legionary chief recognized a young Roman of rank who had held a military command the year before at Athens, and was one of the most distinguished visitors of the garden. It was no time, however, for courtesies ; he was proceed- ing with all cordiality to greet me, but, having heard him order my instant release, I could wait for no more. Acknowledging his kind- ness but by a grasp of the hand, I flew off, like one frantic, through the streets, and in a few minutes was on the river. My sole hope had been to reach the grottos before any of the de- tached parties should arrive, and, by a timely flight across the desert, rescue, at least, Alethe from their fury. The ill-fated delay that had occurred rendered this hope almost desperate, but the tran- quillity I found everywhere as I proceeded down the river, and my fond confidence in the sacredncss of the hermit's retreat, kept my heart from sinking altogether under its terrors. Between the current and my oars, the boat flew with the speed of wind along the waters, and I was already near the rocks of the ravine when I saw, turning out of the canal into the river, a barge crowded with iieople and glittering with arms ! How did I ever survive the shock of that sight ? The oars dropped, as if struck out of my hands, into the water, and I sat helplessly gazing as that terrific vision approached. In a few minutes the current brought us together, and I saw, on the deck of the barge, Alethe herself and the hermit surrounded by soldiers ! We were already passing each other when, with a desperate effort, I sprang from my boat and lighted upon the edge of their vessel. 62 2 The Prose a7id Poetry of Ireland. I knew not what I did, for despair was my only prompter. Snatcli- ing at the sword of one of the soldiers as I stood tottering on the edge, I had succeeded in wresting it out of his hands when, at the same moment, I received a thrust of a lance from one of his com- rades and fellhackward into the river. I can just remember rising ao-iiin and making a grasp at the side of the vessel, but the shock and the faintness from my wound deprived me of all consciousness, and a shriek from Alethe as I sank is all I can recollect of what followed. "Would that I had then died ! Yet no, Almighty Being, I should have died in darkness, and I have lived to know thee ! On returning to my senses, I found myself reclining on a couch in a splendid apartment, the whole appearance of which being Grecian, I for a moment forgot all that had passed, and imagined myself in my own home at Athens. But too soon the whole dreadful cer- tainty flashed upon me, and, starting wildly — disabled as I was — from my couch, I called loudly, and with the shriek of a maniac, upon Alethe. I was in the house, I then found, of my friend and disciple, the young tribune, who had made the governor acquainted with my name and condition, and had received me under his roof when brought bleeding and insensible to Antinoe. From him I now learned at once, for I could not wait for details, the sum of all that had happened in that dreadful interval. Melanius was no more, Alethe still alive, but in prison. " Take me to her," I had but time to say — '^ take me to her in- stantly and let me die by her side," when, nature again failing under such shocks, I relapsed into insensibility. In this state I continued for near an hour, and on recovering found the tribune by my side. Tlie horrors, he said, of the forum were for that day over, but what the morrow might bring he shuddered to contemplate. His nature, it was plain, revolted from the inhuman duties in which he was en- gaged. Touched by the agonies he saw me suffer, he in some degree relieved them by promising that I should at nightfall be conveyed to the prison, and, if possible, through his influence gain access to Alethe. She might yet, he added, be saved, could I succeed in per- suading her to comply with the terms of the edict, and make sacri- fice to the gods. " Otherwise," said he, ''there is no hope; the vindictive Orcus, who has resisted even this short respite of mercy, will to-morrow inexorably demand his prey." Thomas Moore. 62 J . lie then related to me, at my own request, tliougli every word was torture, all tlie harrowing details of the proceeding before th« tribunal. '^I have seen courage," said he, ''in its noblest forms in the field ; but the calm intrepidity with which that aged her- mit endured torments — which it was hardly less torment to witness — surpassed all that I could have conceived of human fortitude." My jioor Alcthe, too ; in describing to me her conduct, the brave man wept like a child. Overwhelmed, he said, at first by her ap- prehensions for my safety, she had given way to a full burst of womanly weakness. But no sooner was she brought before the tri- bunal and the declaration of her faith was demanded of her than a spirit almost supei'natural seemed to animate her whole form. " She raised her eyes," said he, '' calmly, but with fervor, to heaven, while a blush was the only sign of mortal feeling on her features, and the clear, sweet, and untrembling voice with which she pro- nounced her own doom in the words, ' I am a Christian ! ' " sent a thrill of admiration and pity throughout the multitude. Her youth, her loveliness affected all hearts, and a cry of ' Save the young maiden ! ' was heard in all directions." The implacable Orcus, however, would not hear of mercy. Ee- scnting, as it appeared, Avith all his deadliest rancor, not only her own escape from hig toils, bn^-the aid with which she had, so fatally to his views, assisted mine, he demanded loudly and in the name of the insulted sanctuary of Isis, her instant death. It was but by the firm intervention of the governor, who shared the general sympathy in her fate, that the delay of another day was granted to give a chance to the young maiden of yet recalling her confession, and thus afl;ording some pretext for saving her. Even in yielding, with evident reluctance, to this respite, the in- human priest would yet accompany it with some mark of his ven- geance. Whether for the pleasure (observed the tribune) of mingling mockery with his cruelty, or as a warning to her of the doom she must ultim^itely expect, he gave orders that there should be tied around her brow one of those chaplets of coral with which it is the custom of young Christian maidens to array themselves on the day of their martyrdom ; '^and thus fearfully adorned," said he, ^'' The merit of the confession "Christianus sum," or "Christiana sum," was con- siderably enhanced by the clearness and distinctness with which it was pronounced. Eusebius mentions the martyr Vetius as making it Aa/ijrpo7aTr; (^uhtj. 624 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. "slic was led away amidst the gaze of the pitying multitude tp prison.'' With these harrowing details the short interval till nightfall — every minute of Avhicli seemed an age — was occupied. As soon as it "Tew dark, I was placed upon a litter — my wound, though not dan- gerous, requiring such a conveyance — and, under the guidance of my friend, I was conducted to the prison. Through his interest with the guard wo were without difiiculty admitted, and I was borne into the chamber Avhei'e the maiden lay immured. Even the A'eteran guardian of the place seemed touched with compassion for his prisoner, and, supi)0sing her to be asleep, had the litter placed gently near her. She Avas half reclining, with her face hid beneath her hands, upon a couch, at the foot of which stood an idol, over whose hideous features a lamp of naphtha that hung from the ceiling shed a wild and ghastly glare. On a table before the image stood a censer, witli a small vessel of incense beside it, one grain of which thrown vol- untarily into the flame would, even now, save that precious life. So strange, so fearful was the Avhole scene that I almost doubted its reality. Alethe, my own, happy Alethe ! can it, I thought, be thou that I look upon ? She now slowly and with difficulty raised her head from the couch, on observing which the kind tribune withdrew, and we were left alone. There was a paleness as of death over her features, and those eyes, which when last I saw them were but too bright, too hapi)y for this world, looked dim and sunken. In raising herself up, she put her hand, as if from pain, to her forehead, whose mar- ble hue but appeared more death-like from those red bands that lay so awfully across it. After Avandering for a minute vaguely, her eyes at length rested upon me, and, Avith a shriek half terror, half joy, she sprung from the couch and sunk upon her knees by my side. She had believed me dead, and even noAV scarcely trusted her senses. " My husband ! my love ! " she exclaimed ; '^ oh ! if thou comest to call me from this world, behold I am ready." In saying thus she pointed wildly to that ominous wreath, and then dropped her head down upon my knee as if an arrow had pierced it. "Alethe !" I cried, tei-rified to the very soul by that mysterious pang, and, as if the sound of my voice had reanimated her, she looked up, with a faint smile, in my face. Her thoughts, which Tho7nas Moore. 625 bad evidently been wandering, became collected, and in her joy at my safety, her sorrow at my suffering, she forgot entirely the fate that impended over herself. Love, innocent love, alone occupied all her thoughts, and the warmth, the affection, the devotedness with which she spoke, oh ! how at any other moment I would have blessed, have lingered upon every word ! But the time flew fast, that dreadful morrow was approaching. Already I saw her Avri thing in the hands of the torturer; the flames, the racks, the wheels Avere before my eyes ! Half frantic with the fear that her resolution was fixed, I flung myself from the litter in an agony of weejoing, and supplicated her, by the love she bore me, by the happiness that awaited us, by her own merciful God, who was too good to require such a sacrifice, by all that the most pas- sionate anxiety could dictate, I implored that she would avert from us the doom that was coming, and but for once comply with the vain ceremony demanded of her. Shrinking from me as I spoke, but with a look more of sorrow than reproach, "What, thou, too!" she said mournfully, "thou, into whose inmost spirit I had fondly hoped the same light had entered as into my own ! No, never be thou leagued with them who " would tempt me to ' make shijiwreck of my faith ! ' Thou, who couldst alone bind me to life, use not, I entreat thee, thy power, but let me die as he I serve hath commanded — die for the truth. Re- member the holy lessons we heard together on those nights, those happy nights, when both the present and future smiled upon us, when even the gift of eternal life came more welcome to my soul from the glad conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in its bless- ings. Shall I forfeit now that divine privilege ? shall I deny the true God whom we then learned to love ? "No, my own betrothed," she continued, jjointing to the two rings on her finger, "behold these pledges; they are both sacred. I should have been as true to thee as I am now to Heaven.: nor in that life to which I am hastening shall our love be forgotten. Should the baptism of fire through which I shall pass to-morrow make me worthy to be heard before the throne of grace, I will in- tercede for thy soul ; I will pray that it may yet -share with mine that 'inheritance immortal and undefiled' which mercy offers, and that thou and my dear mother and I — " She here dropped her voice, the momentary animation with which devotion and affection had inspired her vanished, and there 626 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. camo a darkness over all her features, a livid darkness like tlie ap- proach of death, that made me shudder through every limb. Seiz- ing my hand convulsively, and looking at me with a fearful eager- ncss, as if anxious to hear some consoling assurance from my own lips, ** Believe me," she continued, ''not all the torments they are preparing for me, not even this deep, burning pain in my brow to which they will hardly find an equal, could be half so dreadful to me as the thought that I leave thee without — " Here her voice again failed, her head sunk upon my arm, and — merciful God, let me forget what I then felt ! — I saw that she was dying ! Whether I uttered any cry I know not, but the tribune came rushing into the chamber, and, looking on the maiden, said, with a face full of horror, " It is but too true ! " He then told me, in a low voice, what he had just learned from the guardian of the prison — that the band round the young Christian's brow was — oh ! horrible — a compound of the most deadly poison, the hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and make the fate of his poor victim secure. My first movement was to untie that fatal wreath, but it would not come away — it would not come away ! Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face, but, unable to speak, took hastily from her bosom the small silver cross which she had brought with her from my cave. Having pressed it to her own lips, she held it anxiously to mine, and seeing me kiss the holy sym- bol with fervor, looked happy and smiled. The agony of death seem to have passed away ; there came suddenly over her features a heavenly light, some share of which I felt descending into my own soul, and in a few minutes more she expired in my arms. Here ench the manuscript^ but on the outer cover is found, in the handwriting of a much later period, the following notice^ extracted, as it appears, from some Egyptian martyr ology : "Alciphron, an Epicurean philosopher, converted to Christian- ity, A.D. 257, by a young Egyptian maiden, who suffered martyr- dom in.t!\iit year. Immediately upon her death he betook himself to the desert and lited a life, it is said, of much holiness and peni- tence. ^ During the persecution under Dioclesian his sufferings for the faith were most exemplary, and being at length, at an advanced age, condemned to hard labor for refusing to comply with an impe- rial edict, he died at the Brass Mines of Palestine a.d. 297. EUGENE a CURRY, " He belongs to the race of the giants in literary research and industry, a race now almost extinct." — Mattuew Arnold. EUGEISrE O'CURRY, one of the truest men and greatest scho- lars ever produced by Ireland, was born at Dunhana, near Carrigaholt, county of Clare, in 1796. He owed little to schools ; he Avas a self-made, self-taught man, all his vast knowledge being obtained by his own iron efforts. While young lie obtained a situation in Limerick, the duties of which required unceasing patience and attention. It was, perhaps, a good preparatory training for the future critic and antiquarian. As he grew in years, his love of Irish literature increased. His knowledge of the Irish language was thorough, and as time passed on he carefully added to his growing stock of Irish manuscripts. O'Curry accidentally became acquainted with George Smith, the enterprising publisher of " The Annals of the Four Masters," and this acquaintance led to his public career as an Irish scholar. He was invited to Dubhn, and from 1834 to 1841 he held a post in the antiquarian department of the Government Ordnance Survey of Ireland. He was then employed by the Royal Irish Academy, and by Trinity College, Dublin, in transcribing and cataloguing their old Irish manuscripts. While thus engaged, he was one day visited by the poet Moore, in connection with which is told an anecdote that points its own moral. "The first volume of Moore's ' History,'" ' writes O'Curry, "was published in the year 1835, and in the year 1839, during one of his yisits to the land of his birth, he, in company with his old and attached friend, Dr. Petrie, favored me with quite an unexpected visit at the Royal Irish Academy, then in Grafton Street. I was at that period employed on the Ordnance Survey of Ireland, and at the time of his visit happened to have before me on my desk the ' Books of Ballymote ' and ' Lecain,' the ' Leabhar Breac,' ' The Annals of the Four Masters,' and many other ancient books for ' His "History of Ireland." 627 628 The Prose and Poet-ry of Ireland. historical research and reference. I had never before seen Moore, and, after a brief introduction and explanation of the nature of my occupation by Dr. Pctrie, and seeing the formidable array of so many dark and time-worn volumes by which I was surrounded, he looked a little disconcerted, but after a while plucked up courage to open the 'Book of Ballymote ' and ask what it was. Dr. Petrie and myself then entered into a short explanation of the history and character of the books then present, as well as of ancient Gaedhlic documents in general. Moore listened with great attention, alter- nately scanning the books and myself, and then asked me, in a se- rious tone, if I understood them, and how I had learned to do so. Having satisfied him upon these points, he turned to Dr. Petrie and said : * Petrie, these huge tomes could not have been written by fools or for any foolish purpose. I never knew anything about them before, and I had no right to have undertaken the " History of Ireland."'"' Under the Brelion Law Commission, he and Dr. O'Donovan were enofagred, in 1853, to transcribe and translate the ancient laws of Ireland from originals in Trinity College and the British Museum. These O'Curry had himself, in great part, discovered, and he was the first modern scholar able to decipher and explain them. In 1854, on the establishment of the Catholic University in Du'i- lin, his eminent abilities were recognized, and he was appointed to fill the chair of Irish history and archaeology. With his whole soul Professor O'Curry applied himself to the unwrought field of his department, and the result was that his rich, patient, and mas- sive intellect gave to Ireland and to the world works that live " to perish never." In 18G0 he published his celebrated ''Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Ancient Irish History " — a deeply- interesting and profound volume, which takes its place among the greatest critical and historical works of modern times. When the summons of death came, the pious and learned Pro- fessor was still engaged in preparing for the press his " Lectures on the Social Customs, Manners, and Life of the People of Ancient Erinn." His last appearance in public was in the procession of Sunday, July 27, 1862, at the laying of the first stone of the new building of the Catholic University. " On the following Tuesday night," writes one of his biographers, " having spent a happy even- ing with his children, he retired to rest apparently in his usual » " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Irish History," lect. vii. Eugene G Curry. 629 health. A few hours later, his servant, hearing an unusual noise, hastened to his room, and found the Professor suffering from a pain in the heart, which he described as gradually extending up- wards. In twenty minutes O'Cun-y was no more ! " The " Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish History" is an octavo volume of 723 pages, embracing twenty-one lectures and a largo appendix.' Of this immortal book O'Curry says, in his own simple, modest way : " I may claim for it at least the poor merit of being the first effort ever made to bring within the view of the student of Irish history and archaeology an honest, if not a com- plete, analysis of all the materials of that yet unwritten story, which lies accessible, indeed, in our native language, but the great body of which — the flesh and blood of all the true history of Ireland — remains to this day unexamined and unknown to the world. " * His last great work — published in 1873, under the editorship of Dr. W. K. O'Sullivan — is in three large volumes. Its title is, ''Lectures on the Social Customs, Manners, and Life of the Ancient Irish." It embraces the detailed examination of: (1) the system of legislation and government in ancient Ireland ; (2) the system of ranks and classes in society ; (3) the religious system — if Druidism can be so styled — of the ancient Irish ; (4) the education of the people, with some account of their learning in ancient times ; (5) the military system, including the system of military education, and some account of the Irish chivalry or Orders of Champions ; (6) the nature, use, and manufacture of arms used in ancient times ; (7) the buildings of ancient times, both public, military, and do- mestic, and the furniture of the latter ; (8) the materials and forms of dress ; (9) the ornaments used by all classes and their manufac- ture ; (10) the musical instruments of the ancient Irish, with some account of their cultivation of music ; (11) the agriculture and im- plemcDts of ancient times; (12) commerce of the ancient Irish; and (13) their funeral rites and places of sepulture. This great work — the result of giant labor, profound learning, and prodigious research — is a complement to the '' Lectures on the Manuscript Ma- terials of Ancient Irish History." In person Professor O'Curry was tall and well-proportioned. He possessed a powerful mind in a powerful body. The Hon. T. D. ^ This valuable appendix, among other things, contains £ac simile specimens of ancient Irish MSS., extending from a.d. 430 to 3861. * Preface to his " Lectures." 6;o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 'o McGee thus describes the venerable scholar at work : "In the re- cess of a distant window there was a half-bald head bent busily over a desk, the living master-key to all this voiceless learning. It was impossible not to be struck at the first glance with the long, oval, well-spanned cranium as it glistened in the streaming sun- lio-lit ; and when the absorbed scholar lifted up his face, massive, as became such a capital, but lighted with every kindly inspiration, it was quite impossible not to feel sympathetically drawn towards the man. There, as we often saw him in the flesh, we see him still in fancy. Behind that desk, equipj^ed with inkstands, acids, and microscope, and covered with half-legible vellum folios, rose cheer- fully and buoyantly to instruct the ignorant, to correct the preju- diced, or to bear with the petulant visitor, the first of living Celtic scholars and palaeographers, Eugene O'Curry." The character of this illustrious man may be summed up in a few words. His vast learning was only exceeded by his virtue and modest simplicity. A pious, faitnful Catholic, and a true Irishman, he dedicated his splendid intellect to his God, to truth, and to his country. He did more than all the scholars of modern times to elevate ancient Ireland to its real place in the world of literature. And if the just, as the Holy Book assures us, will be held in ever- lasting remembrance, then the virtuous, learned, patriotic, and great-souled Eugene O'Curry shall never be forgotten. As the chief of Irish critics and the prince of Irish scholars, he will evermore shine as a brilliant star in the literary firmament of the '* Isle of Saints and Sages." " Blessings of all saiuts in glory We invoke for him who drew Old Egyptian seeds of story From the grave, to bloom anew ! " * LECTURE ON THE CHIEF EXISTING ANCIENT IRISH BOOKS.^ "We have now disposed of the chief national annals, and we have noticed the other historical works of the last and greatest of the An- nalists. But though in some respects undoubtedly the most im- portant, the compositions we have been considering form, after all, ' The late gifted Thomas D'Arcy McGee wrote two beautiful poems on O'Curry. The foregoing is a stanza from one of them. See " Poems " of T. D. McGee, pp. 455-460. « This is Lecture IX. of " Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History." It was delivered in the CathoUc University of Ireland, DubUn, on July 10, 1856. Eugene G Curry. 631 but a small portion of tlic immense mass of materials which exist in Irish manuscrijits for the elucidation of our history. Fortunately, of these great books we have many still remaining to us in perfect preservation. And there is not one of you to whom the originals themselves, notwithstanding the wear and tear of cen- turies, may not easily become intelligible, so beautifully was the scribe's Avork performed in early days in Ireland, whenever you shall be disposed to devote but half the time to the study of the noble old language of Erinn which you devote to that of the great classic tongues of other ancient peojile. A visit to the library of the Royal Irish Academy or of Trinity College will, however, little serve to make you aware of the vast extent of the treasures which lie in the dark-written, musty-looking old books you are shown there as curi- osities, unless you shall i^rovide yourselves with the key which some acquaintance with their characters and language alone will afford. In tlie short account, therefore, which I am about to lay before you of the great vellum books and MSS. in Dublin, I shall add in every case some approximate calculation of their length by reference to the number of pages each book would fill if printed (the Irish text alone) in large quarto volumes, such as those of O'Donovan's "An- nals of the Four Masters."' And when you have heard of what mat- ter the contents of these books consist, and reflect upon the length to which, if printed in full, they would extend, I think you will agree with me that all that I have said upon the value of our MS. treasures will, on better acquaintance with them, be found to fall far short of the reality. The first of these books that merits notice, because it is the oldest, is that which is known by the name " Leabhar na h-Uidre," or the " Book of the Dun Cow,'*' to which I have already briefly alluded in a former lecture. Of this book, so often referred to in Michael O'Clery's prefaces, we have now, unfortunately, but a fragment re- maining, a fragment which consists, however, of 138 folio pages, and is written on very old vellum. The name and period of writing the book of which it is a frag- ment might perhaps be now lost for ever if the curious history of the book itself had not led to, and in some degree, indeed, necessitated, their preservation. All that we know about it is found in two entries written at different periods in a blank part of the second column of the first page of folio 35. Of the first of these curious entries the following is a literal translation : 6 - 2 The Prose and Poetry of Irela7id. " Ti-avfor Maelmuire, the son of Ceikchair—ihiii is, the son of the son oic'onn-na-m-Bocht—^N\\o^roiQ and collected this book from varions books. Pray for Donnell, the son of Murtocli, son of Don- ncll, son of Tadhjlor Teig, son of Brian, son of Andreas, son oi Brian Luighnench, son of Turlocli Mor (or the Great) O'Conor. It was this Donnell that directed the renewal of the name of the person who wrote this beautiful book, by Sigraldli O'Cuirnin ; and it is not as well for us to leave our blessing with the owner of this book as to send it to him by the mouth of any other person. And it is a week from this day to Easter Saturday, and a week from yes- terday to the Friday of the Crucifixion, and (there will be) two Golden Fridays on that Friday— that is, the Friday of the Crucifix- ion—and this is greatly wondered at by some learned persons." The following is the translation of the second entry, same page and column : "A prayer here ior Aedh Ruadh (Hugh the Eed-Haired), the son of Niall Garhh O'Donnell, Avho forcibly recovered this book from the people of Connacht, and the ' Leabhar Gearr ' (or ' Short Book ') along with it after they had been hidden away from us from the time of Gailial 6g O'Conor to the time of Rory son of Brian (O'Conor), and ten lords ruled over Carbury (or Sligo) between them. And it was in the time of Conor, the son of Hugh O'Don- nell, that they were taken to the West, and this is the way in which they were so taken : the * Short Book ' in .ransom for O'Doherty, and ' Leabhar na h-Uidhre ' — that is, the present book — in ransom of the son of O'Donnell's chief family historian, who was captured by Cathal and carried away as a pledge, and thus they (the books) Avere away from the Cenel Conaill (or O'Donnells) from this time of Conor (O'Donnell) to the (present) time of Hugh." There is some mistake in this last memorandum. Conor, the son of Hugh O'Donnell, in whose time the books are stated here to have been carried into Connaught, was slain by his brother Niall in the year 1342, according to the "Annals of the Four Masters," and the capture of John O'Doherty by Cathal 6g O'Conor, at the battle of Ballyshannon, took place in the year 1359. The proper reading would therefore seem to be that " Leabhar na h-Uidhre " passed into Connacht first before Conor O'Donnell's death, in 1342, and that the "Leabhar Gearr," or "Short Book," was given in ransom for O'Doherty in 1359, Conor O'Donnell's reign covering both periods, as the writer docs not seem to recognize the reign of the fratricide, K"iall. Eugene G Curry. (o^^t^ The following passage from the "Annals of the Four Masters" ■will make this last entry more intelligible, and show that it was made in Donegall, in the year 1470 : " A,D. 1470. The Castle of Sligo was taken after a long siege by O'Donnell — that is, Hugh the Ked-Haired — from Donnell, the son of Eoghan O'Conor. On this occasion he obtained all that he de- manded by way of reparation, besides receiving tokens of submis- sion and tribute from Lower Connacht. It was on this occasion, too, that ho recovered the book called ' Lcabhar Gearr' (or the ' Short Book '), and another, ' Lcabhar na h-Uidhre,' as well as the chairs of O'Donnell 6(j (O'Donnell), which had been carried thither in the time of John, the son of Conor, son of Hugh, sou of Donnell 6g O'Donnell." In reference to the first entry, it must have been made while the book was in Connacht by Bigraidh O'Cuirnin, who was, according to the ''Annals of the Four Masters," a learned poet of Briefney, and died in the year 1347, and he must have made the entry in the year 1345, as that was the only year at this particular period in which Good Friday happened to fall on the Festival of the Annunciation, on the 25th of March. This fact is further borne out by an entry in the "Annals of the Four Masters," which records that Conor O'Donnell, chief of Tirconnell, died in the year 1342, after a reign of nine years, and we have seen from the entry that it was in his iime that this book must have been carried into Connacht. According to the same "Annals," Donnell, the son of Murtach O'Conor, died in the year 1437, by whose direction O^Cuirnin renewed the name of the original writer, which even at this early period seems to have disappeared, several leaves of this book, and amongst others that which contained this entry, having even then been lost. Of the original compiler and writer of the "Leabhar na h-Uidhre" I have been able to learn nothins^ more than the following brief and melancholy notice of his death in the "Annals of the Four Masters" at the year HOG : " Maelmuiri, son of the son of Conn-na-m-Boclit, w^as killed in the middle of the great stone church of Cluainmacnois by a party of robbers." A memorandum in the original hand at the top of folio 45 clearly identifies the writer of the book with the person whose death is recorded in the passage just quoted from the " Annals " ; it is partly in Latin and partly in GaedhUc, as follows : 634 ^^^'-^ ^^'^^^ ^^^^ Poetry of Ireland. "This is !i trial of his pen here by Maelmuiri, son of the son of Conn/' This Conn-na-m-Bocht, or "Conn of the Poor/' as he was called, from Ills devotion to their relief and care, was a lay religions of Clonmacnois, and tlie father and founder of a distinguished family of scholars, lay and ecclesiastical. He appears to have been the founder and superior of a community of poor lay monks of the CeiU-De (or Culdee) order in connection with that great establish- ment, and he died in the year 1059. Tlic contents of the MS. as they stand now are of a mixed charac- ter, historical and romantic, and relate to the ante-Christian as well as the Christian period. The book begins with a fragment of the Book of Genesis, part of which was always prefixed to the " Book of Invasions (or Ancient Colonizations) of Erinn " for genealogical pur- poses (and there is good reason to believe that a full tract on tliis subject was contained in the book so late as the year 1631, as Fa- ther Michael O'Clery quotes it in hisncAV compilation of the " Book of Invasions," made in that year for Brian Maguire). This is followed by a fragment of the " History of the Britons," by Xennius, translated into GaeclJdlc by Gilla Caomhain, the poet and chronologist, who died a.d. 1072. Tills tract Avas published by the Irish Archasological Society in 1848. The next important joiecc is the very ancient elegy written by the poet Dalian Fargaill on the death of St.,Colum Cille in the year 592. It is remarkable that even at the early period of the compila- tion of the "Leabhar na h-Uidhre," this celebrated poem should have required a gloss to make it intelligible. The gloss, which is, as usual, interlined, is not very copious, but it is most important both in a philological and historical point of view, because of the many more ancient compositions quoted in it for the explanation of words, Avhich compositions, therefore, must then have been still in ex- istence. The elegy is followed by fragments of the ancient historic tale of the "Mesca Uladh" or "Inebriety of the TJltonians," who, in a fit of excitement after a great feast at the royal palace of Emania, made a sudden and furious march into Munster, where they burned the palace of Teavihair Luachra in Kerry, then the residence of Curoi Mac Daire, King of West Munster. ' This tract abounds iu curious notices of topography as well as in illustrations to, and de- criptions of, social habits and manners. |i Eugene O' Curry. 635 Next come fragments of "Tain Bo Dartadha " and the "Tain Bo Flidais," both cattle spoils arising out of the celebrated Cattle Spoil of Cuailgue. Next comes the story of the wanderings of Maelduin's ship in the Atlantic for three years and seven months in the eighth century. These are followed by imperfect copies of the "Tain Bo Chuailque," or "Great Cattle Spoil of Chuailque," the " Bruighean Da Dearga," and death of the monarch Conaire Mor, a history of the great pagan cemeteries of Erinn and of the yarious old books from which this and other pieces Avere compiled, poems by Flann of Monastcrbaice and others, together with various other pieces of history and historic romance, chiefly referring to the ante-Christian period, and especially that of the " Tuatlia De Danann." This most valuable MS. belongs to the Eoyal Irish Academy. If printed at length, the text of it would make about five hundred pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." The next ancient book which I shall treat of is that at present known under the name of the "Book of Lcinster." It can be shown from various internal evidences that this volume was either compiled or transcribed in the first half of the twelfth century by Finn Mac- Gorman, Bishop of Kildare, who died in the year IIGO, and that it was compiled by order of Aodh Mac Crimhthainn, the tutor of the notorious Dermod Mac Murroch^ that King of Leinster who first invited Earl Strongbow and the Anglo-Normans into Ireland in the year 11G9. The book was evidently compiled for Dermod under the superintendence of his tutor, MacGorman, who had probably been a fellow-pupil of the king. In support of this assertion I need only transcribe the following entry, which occurs in the origi- nal hand at the end of the folio 202, page h, of the book : " Benediction and health from Finn, the Bishop of Kildare, to AedJi (Hugh) Mac Crimhthainn, the tutor of the chief King of Leth Mogha Nicadat (or of Leinster or Munstcr), successor of Colum, the son of Crimhthainn, and chief historian of Leinster in wisdom, intelligence, and the cultivation of books, knowledge, and learn- ing. And I write the conclusion of this little tale for thee, acute Aedh (Hugh), thou possessor of the sparkling intellect. May it be long before we are without thee. It is my desire that thou shouldst be always with us. Let Mac Louan's book of poems be given to me, that I may understand the sense of the poems that are in it, and farewell in Christ," etc. This note must be received as sufficient evidence to bring the date 6-6 The Prose and Poetry of Irelartd. of this valuable manuscript within the period of a man's life whose death as a Catholic bishop happened in the year 1160, and who was, I believe, consecrated to the ancient see of Kildare in the year 11-iS, long before which period, of course, he must have been em- ployed to'^vrito out this book. Of the Aedh Mac Crimhthamn for whom he wrote it, I have not been able to ascertain anything more than what appears above, but he must have flourished early in the twelfth century to be the tutor of Dermocl Mac Murroch, who, in concert with O'Brien, had led the men of Leinster against the Danes of Waterford so far back as the year 1137. That this book belonged either to Dermod Mac Murroch himself or to some person who had him warmly at heart will appear plainly from the following memorandum, which is written in a strange but ancient hand in the top margin of folio 200, page a : " Virgin Mary ! it is a great deed that has been done in Erinn this day, the kalends of August— viz., Dermod, the son of Dormoch Mac Murroch, King of Leinster and of the Danes of Dublin, to have been banished over the sea eastwards by the men of Erinn. Uch, uch, Lord ! what shall I do ?" The book consists at present of over four hundred pages of large folio vellum, but there are many leaves of the old pagination missmg. To give anything like a satisfactory analysis of this book would take at least one whole lecture. I cannot, therefore, within my jircsent limited si^ace, do more than glance at its general character, and point by name only to a few of the many important pieces pre- served in it. It begins, as usual, with a Book of Invasions of Erinn, but without the book of Genesis, after which the succession of the monarchs to the year 11G9, and the succession and obituary of the provincial and other minor kings, etc. Then follow specimens of ancient versification, poems on Tara, and an ancient plan and explanation of the Teach Midhechuarta or Banqueting Hall of that ancient royal city. These poems and plan have been published by Dr. Petrie in his paper on the history of Tara, printed in the " Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy for 1839," vol. xviii. After these came poems on the wars of the Leinstermen, the Ulstermen, and the Munstermen in great numbers, many of them of the highest histo- ric interest and value, and some prose pieces and small poems of Leinster of great antiquity, some of them, as I believe, certainly Eugene G Curry. 637 written by Dubhthach, the great antiquarian and poet, who was St. Patrick's first convert at Tara. After these a fine copy of the history of the celebrated battle of Ross na Righ on the Boyne, fought between, the men of Leinster and Ulster at the beginning of the Christian era; a copy of the " Mesca Uladhor," "Inebriety of the Ultonians," imperfect at the end, but which can be made per- fect by the fragment of it already mentioned in "Leabhar na h- Uidhre " ; a fine coi:)y of the origin of the Boromean Tribute and the battles that ensued down to its remission ; a fragment of the battle of Cexinahrat in Munster, with the defeat of Mac Con Oilioll Oluim; Mac Con's flight into Scotland, his return afterwards with a large force of Scottish and British adventurers, his landing in the Bay of Galway, and the ensuing battle of Magh Mucruimhe, fought between him and his maternal uncle, Art, the Monarch of Erinn, in which battle the latter was defeated and killed, as well as the seven sons of Oilioll Oluim. A variety of curious and important short tracts relating to Munster are also to be found in the book of Leinster, besides this last one, up to the middle of the eighth cen- tury. This volume likewise contains a small fragment of " Cormac's Glossary," copied perhaps with many more of these pieces from the veritable " Soltair of Cashel" itself ; also a fragment — unfortunately a very small one, (the first folio only) — of the wars of the Danes and the Gaedhils {i.e., the Irish); a copy of the " Dinnsenchus," a celebrated ancient topographical tract which was compiled at Tara about the year 550 ; several ancient poems on universal geography of the great Milesian tribes and families, particularly those of Lein- ster ; and, lastly, an ample list of the early saints of Erinn, with their pedigrees and affinities, and with copious references to the situations of their churches. This is but an imperfect sketch of this invaluable MS., and I think I may say with sorrow that there is not in all Europe any na- tion but this ol ours that would not long since have made a national literary fortune out of such a volume, had any other country in Europe been fortunate enough to possess such an heirloom of history. This volume forms at present part of the rich store of ancient Irish literature preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, and if printed at length, the GaedhUc text of it would make two thousand pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." The next book in order of antiquity of which I shall treat is the well-known "Book of Bally mote." 6;S The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. 'o This noble volume, tliongh defective in a few places, still consists of two hundred and fifty-one leaves, or five hundred and two pages, of the largest folio vellum, equal to about two thousand five hun- dred pages of the printed "Annals of the Four Masters." It was written by different persons, but chiefly by Soloman O'Droma and Manus O'Duigenana, and we find it stated at folio G26 that it was written at Ballymote (in the county of Sligo), in the house of Tomaltach 6g Mac Donogh, lord of Corann, in that country, at the time Torlocjh 6g, the son of Hugh O'Conor, was King of Connacht, and Charles O'Conor of Belanagar has written in it the date 1391 as the precise year in which this part of the book was written. This book, like all our old books still existing, is but a compilation col- lected from various sources, and must, like them, be held to repre- sent to a great extent several older compilations. It begins with an imperfect copy of the ancient " Leabhar Gabhala,*' or '" Book of Invasions of Erinn,'' differing in a few details from other copies of the same tract. This is followed by a series of ancient chronological, historical, and genealogical pieces in prose and verse. Then follow the pedigrees of Irish saints, the history and pedi- grees of all the great families of the Milesian race, with the various minor tribes and families which have branched off from them in the succession of ages, so that there scarcely exists an 0' or a Mac at the present day who may not find in this book the name of the par- ticular remote ancestor whose name he bears as a surname, as well as the time at which he lived, what he was, and from what more ancient line he again was descended. These genealogies may ap- pear unimportant to ordinary readers, but those who have assayed to illustrate any branch of the ancient history of this country, and who could have availed themselves of them, have found in them the most authentic, accurate, and important auxiliaries ; in fact, a his- tory which has remained as long unwritten as that of ancient Erinn could never he satisfactorily compiled at all without them. Of these genealogies I shall have more to say in a subsequent lecture. Those family histories in the ''Book of Ballymote," by some ac- counts of Conor Mac Nessa, King of Ulster; "of AWiirnei\iQ Sa- tirist j the tragical death of the beautiful lady Luaidet ; the story of the adventures of the monarch Cormac Mac Art in fairy-land ; some curious and valuable sketches of the death of the monarch Crwihthe?m 3for ; a tract on the accession of Niall of the Nine Eugene 0'^ Curry. 639 Hostages to the monarchy, his wars and the death of his brother Fiachra at Forraidh (in the present county of AVestmeath), on his return mortally wounded from the battle of Caenraighe (Kenry, in the present county of Limerick). Some of these pieces are doubtless mixed up in mythological fable, but as the main facts as Avell as all the actors are real, and as to these mythological fables may be traced up many of the charac- teristic popular customs and superstitions still remaining among us, these pieces must be looked upon as materials of no ordinary value by the historical and antiquarian investigator. After these fol- low tracts in prose and verse, on the names, parentage, and hus- bands of the most remarkable women in Irish history, down to the twelfth century ; a tract on the mothers of the Irish saints ; a tract on the origin of the names and surnames of the most remarkable men in ancient Irish history; and an ancient law tract on the rights, privileges, rewards, and so forth, of the learned classes, such as the ecclesiastical orders, the orders of poets, teachers, judges, etc. After this we have the ancient translation into the GaedhUc of the " History of the Britons," by Nennius, before alluded to as having .been published a few years ago by the Irish Archasological So- ciety ; an ancient grammar and prosody, richly illustrated with specimens of an ancient Irish versification ; a tract on the Agham alphabets of the ancient Irish, with illustrations (about to be pub- lished shortly by the Archaeological Society, edited by my respected friend, the Eev, Dr. Graves, F.T.C.D.) ; the book of reciprocal rights and tributes of the monarch and provincial kings, and some minor chiefs of ancient Ireland (a most important document, pub- lished for the first time in 1847 by the Celtic Society) ; a tract on the ancient history, chiefs, and chieftains of Corca Laoi, or O'Dris- coll's country, in the county of Cork (published also by the Celtic Society in their "Miscellany" for 1S49) ; a cojiy of the "Dinnsen- chus," or great topographical tract ; and a translation or account of ancient Gaedhlic, with a critical collation of various texts of the Argonautic expedition and the Trojan war. The book ends with the adventures of ^neas after the destruc- tion of Troy. The Gaedhlic text of this great book, which belongs to the Li- brary of the Koyal Irish Academy, would make about 2,500 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." As I have in a former lecture given a free analysis of the MS. 640 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. commonly called the - Leabhar Breac " (or " Speckled Book "), an ancient vellum MS. preserved in the same library, I have only to add here that the Guedhlic text of that most important volume would make above 2,000 pages of the ''Annals of the Four Mas- ters." The next great book which merits our attention is that which has been lately discovered to be in great part the "Leabhar Buidhe Lecain" (or the ''Yellow Book of Lecain"), one of the ponderous compilations of the truly learned and industrious family of the Mac Firbises of that ancient seat of learning. It is preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, where it is classed H, 2, 16. This volume, notwithstanding many losses, consists of about 500 pages of large quarto vellum, equal to about 2,000 pages of Gaedh- lic text printed like O'Donovan's "Annals of the Four Masters"; and, with the exception of a few small tracts in other and some- what later hands, it is all finely written by Donnoch and Gilla Isa Mac Firbis, in the year 1390. The " Yellow Book of Lecain," in its original form, would ap- pear to have been a collection of ancient historical pieces, civil and ecclesiastical, in prose and verse. In its present condition it begins with a collection of family and political p»oems, relating chiefly to the families of O'Kelly and O'Connor of Connacht, and the O'Don- nells of Donegall. This tract made no part of the original book. These pieces are followed by some monastic rules in verse, and some poems on ancient Tara, with another fine copy of the plan and ex- jilanation of its Teach MldhcJmarta, or Banqueting Hall, the same which has been j)ublished by Dr. Petrie in his "Essay on the His. tory and Antiquities of Tara." After this an account of the crea- tion, with the formation and fall of man, translated evidently from the book of Genesis. This biblical piece is followed by the "Feast of Dun nan-Gedh" and the "Battle of Magh Bath" (two important tracts published from this copy by the Irish Archasological Society) ; then a most curious and valuable account, though a little tinged with fable, of the reign and death of Meuirchertach 3Iac Erca, Mo- narch of Ireland, at the palace of Cleitech, on the banks of the Eiver Boyne, in the year of our Lord 527 ; an imperfect copy of the " Tain Bo Chuailgne," or " Great Cattle Spoil of Cuailgne," in Louth, with several of the minor cattle spoils that grew out of it ; after which is a fine copy of the Bruighean Da Dearga, and death of the monarch Conaire Mor ; the tale of the wanderings of Meal- Ettgene O Curry. 641 duin^s ship (for more than three years) in the Atlantic; some most interesting tracts concerning the banishment of an ancient tribe from East Meath, and an account of tlic wanderings of some Irish ecclesiastics in the Northern Ocean, "where they found the exiles ; an abstract of the battle of Dunbolg, in Wicklow, where the mo- narch Aedh Mac Ainmire was slain, in the year 594; the battle of Magh Bath (in the present county of Down) in which. Cougal Claen, prince of Ulidia, was slain, in the year 034 (published by the Irish Archaeological Society) ; and the battle of Almhaim (now Allen, in the present county of Kildare), where the monarch Fer- ghal was killed, in the year 718. A variety of curious joieces follow relating to Conor Mac Ncssa ; Curoi Mac Daire (pronounced nearly "Cooree Mac Darry"); Lahliraidli Loingseach [" Lovra Lingsha "), King of Leinster ; Niall of the Nine Hostages, and his poet Torna, together with many other valuable tracts and scraps which I can do no more than allude to at present ; and the volume ends with a fine copy (imperfect at the beginning) of the law tract I have already mentioned when speaking of the " Book of Bally- mote." This volume would make about 2,000 pages of the " Annals of the Four Masters." The next of the great books to which I would desire your atten- tion is the volume so well known as the '•' Book of Lecain." This book was compiled in the year 1416 by Gllla Isa Mur Mac Flrhis, of Lecain Mic Fhirbisigh, in the county of Sligo, one of the great school of teachers of that celebrated locality, and the direct ances- tor of the learned Duhhaltach (or Duald) Mac Firbis already men- tioned. This book, which belongs to the Library of the Eoyal Irish Academy, contains over GOO pages, equal to 2,400 pages of the Gaedhlic text of the "Annals of the Four Masters." It is beauti- fully and accurately written on vellum of small folio size, chiefly in the hand of G'dla Isa Mac Firbis, though there are some small parts of it written, respectively, in the hands of Adam G' Cuirnin (the historian of Breifne, or Briefney) and Morogh Ridbhac 0' Cuindhs. The first nine folios of the " Book of Lecain " were lost until dis- covered by me, a few years ago, bound up in a volume of the Sea- bright Collection, in the library of Trinity College. The " Book of Lecain" differs but little in the an'angements and general contents from the " Book of Ballymote." It contains two copies of the "Book of Invasions," an imperfect one at the begin- 642 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. ning, but a perfect one, with the succession of the kings, and the tract on the Jioromeau Tribute, at the end. It contains fine copies of ihe ancient historical, synchronological, chronological, and genea- lo'^ical poems already spoken of as comprised in the "Book of Bally- mote," as well as some that are not contained in that volume. These arc followed by the family history and genealogies and of the Mile- sians with considerable and important additions to those found in the " Book of Ballymote." Among the additions is a very valuable tract, in prose and verse, by Mac Firbis himself, on the families and subdi- visions of the territory of Tir F'mchracli, in the present county of Sligo, a tract which has been published by the Irish Archteologi- cal Society under the title of " The Tribes and Customs of Ey- Fiachracli.^' The other ancient vellum books of importance preserved in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, may be described as follows : A foho volume of ancient laws, of 120 pages, on vellum, written about the year 1400 (classed E, 3, 5). This forms part of the col- lection shortly to be published by the Brehon Law Commission, and would make about 400 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." A small folio volume of 430 pages, on vellum (classed H, 2, 7), con- sisting chiefly of Irish pedigrees, together with some historical jDoems on the O'Kellys and O'Maddens, and some fragments of ancient his- toric tracts of great value, the titles of which, however, are missing. It contains also some translations from ancient Anglo-Saxon writers of romance, and a fragment of an ancient translation of Giraldus Cambrensis' "History of the Conquest of Erinn." The hand- writing appears to be of the sixteenth centuiy, and the contents of the volume would make about 900 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." A large folio volume of 238 pages (classed H, 2, 15), part on vellum and part on paper, consisting of a fragment of Brehon Laws on vellum, transcribed about the year 1300 ; two copies of " Cormac's Glossary," on paper (one of them by Duald Mac Firbis) ; another ancient " Derivative Glossary " in the same hand; and some frag- ments of the early history of Erinn, on vellum. This volume would make about 500 pages of the "Annals of the Four Masters." A large folio volume of 400 pages (classed H, 2, 17), part on paper and part on vellum, consisting chiefly of fragments of vari- ous old books or tracts, and among others a fragment of a curious ancient medical treatise. This volume likewise contains a fragment Eugene CCurry. 643 of the '' Tciin B6 Chuailgne," and among merely literary tales it in- cludes that of the ''Keign of Saturn," an imperfect Eastern story, as well as an account of the Argonantic expedition (imperfect) and of the destruction of Troy (also imperfect). With this volume are bound up nine leaves belonging to the " Book of Lecain," contain- ing amongst other things the ''Dialogue of the Two Sages," the "Koyal Precepts of King Cormac Mac Art," a fragment of the " Danish Wars," short biographical sketches of some of the Irish saints, and many other interesting historic pieces. The Gaedhlic text of this volume would make altogether about 1,400 pages of the " Annals of the Four Masters." A large vellum quarto (classed H, 3, 3) containing a fine but much decayed copy of the ''Dinnseanchus." It would make about 100 pages. A small quarto volume of 870 pages, on vellum, written in the sixteenth century (classed H, 3, 17). The contents up to the 617th page consist of ancient laws, and from that to the end the contents are of the most miscellaneous character. They consist chiefly of short pieces such as " Brierin's Feast," an ancient tale of the Ulto- nians (imperfect), an account of the expulsion of the Deise (Decies or Deasys) from Bregia, a list of the wonders of Erinn, the tract on the ancient pagan cemeteries of Erinn, the account of the division of Erinn among the Aitheach Tuatha (called by English writers the Attacots), the discovery of Cashel and story of the two Druids, to- gether with the genealogies of the O'Briens and the succession of the monarchs of Ireland of the line of Eber. In the same volume will be found, too, the curious account of the revelation of the Crucifixion to Conor Mac Ness, a King of Ulster, by his 'Druid, on the day upon which it occurred, and of the death of Conor in consequence ; the story of the elopement of Ere, daughter of the King of Albain (or Scotland), with the Irish prince, Muiredhach, grandson of Niall of the Nine Hostages ; a tract on omens from the croaking of ravens, etc. ; the translation of the ''History of the Britons," by Nunnius ; the story of the courtship of Finn Mac Cum- haill (pronounced "Finn MacCoole") and Ailehe (pronounced Alveh), the daughter of King Cormac Mac Art, together with many other short but valuable pieces. This volume would make 1,700 pages of Gaedhlic text like those of the " Annals of the Four Masters." A small quarto volume of 665 pages of vellum and 194 pages 644 '^^^^ P^^^^ ^^^^ Poetry of Ireland. paper, written in the sixteenth century (classed H, 3, IS). The first 500 pages couttiin various tracts and fragments of ancient laws. The remainder to the end consists of several independent glossaries and o-losses of ancient poems and prose tracts, together with the ancient historical tales of Bruighean Da Cliogxdh (pronounced " Breean da Cugga ") ; a story of Cathal Mac Finghuine, King of Munstcr in the middle of the eighth century; stories of Ronan Mac Aedha (pronounced " MacEa or MacHugh "), King of Leinster, and the story of the poetess Liadian of Kerry. This volume contains also the account of the revolution of the Aitheach Tuatha (or Atta- cots), and the murder by them of the kings and nobles of Erinn, Tundal's vision, poems on the O'Neills and on the MacDonnells of Antrim, John O'Mulchouroy's celebrated poem on Brian-na Mur- tha OTiourke, together with a great number of short articles on a variety of historic subjects bearing on all parts of Erinn, and some pedigrees of the chief families of Ulster, Connacht, and Leinster. This volume would make about 1,800 pages of the " Annals of the Four Masters." A small quarto volume of 230 pages (classed H, 4, 23), seventy of which contain fragments of ancient laws. The remainder of the book contains a great variety of tracts and poems, and among others a large and important tract on the first settlement of the Milesians in Erinn, a fragment of the tale called '' Brierinn's Feast," several ancient poems on the families of the O'Neills, the O'Donnells, the Mac Kevalds, etc., together with various small poems and prose of some value. This volume appears to be made up of fragments of two books. The writing of the first seventy pages seems to be of the sixteenth century, but the remaining part appears to be at least a century older. The entire volume has suifered much from neglect and from exposure to smoke and damp. The Gaedhlic text of it would make about 500 pages of the " Annals of the Four Masters." To these books I may add (as being preserved in the same library) the ''Annals of Ulster" and those of Locli Ce, already spoken of both, by vellum, and the text of which would make about 900 pages of the ''' Annals of the Four Masters." Besides the vellum MSS. of law and history, the Trinity College library contains a large collection of paper MSS. of great value, being transcripts of ancient vellum books made chiefly in the first half of the last century. To enumerate, and even partially to analyze, these paper MSS. would carry me far beyond the limits to which Ejigene O Cutry. 645 the present lecture must necessarily be confined, but among the most important of them I may mention a volume written about the year 1690 by Owen O'Donnclly (an excellent Gaedhlic scholar), some large volumes by the O'Neachtans (John and Tadhg or Ticge) between the years ITIG and 1740, a copy of the "Wars of Tho- mond " made by Andrew MacCurtin in 1716, and several large volumes transcribed by Hugh O'Daly, for Doctor Francis O'Sulli- van of Trinity College, in and about the year 1750, the originals of which are not now known. In this catalogue of books I have not particularized, nor in some instances at all included, the large body of ecclesiastical writings preserved in the Trinity College library, consisting of ancient lives of Irish saints, and other religious pieces in prose and verse. K"either have I included in my analysis of the collection the fac-simile copies made by myself for the library of the " Book of Lecain " (on vel- him), of the so-called "Leabhar Breac " (on paper), of the "Danish Wars," of Mac Firbis's Glossaries, and of a volume of ancient Irish deeds (on paper). The library of the Royal Irish Academy, besides its fine treas- ures of ancient vellum MSS., contains also a very large number of important paper MSS. ; but as they amount to some hundreds, it would be totally out of my power and beyond the scope of this lec- ture to enumerate them, or to give the most meagre analysis of their "varied contents. There are, however, a few among them to which I feel called upon particularly to allude, although in terms more brief than with more time and space I should have been disposed to devote to them. The first of these volumes that I wish to bring under your notice is a fragment of the book well known as the " Book of Lismore." This is a MS. on paper of the largest folio size and best quality. It is a fac-simile copy made by me from the original in the year 1839 for the Eoyal Irish Academy. This transcript is an exact copy, page for page, line for line, word for word, and contraction for contrac- tion, and was carefully and attentively read over and collated with the original by Dr. John O'Donovan and myself. And, indeed, I think I may safely say that I have recovered as much of the text of the original as it was possible to bring out without the application of acids or other chemical preparations, which I was not at liberty to use. Of the history of the original MS., which is finely written on 646 The Prose and Poetry of Irelmid. vellum of the largest size, we know nothing previous to the year 1814. In that year the late Duke of Devonshire commenced the Avork of repairing the ancient castle of Lismore, in the county of Watcrford, his property, and in the progress of the work, the work- men having occasion to reopen a doorway that had been closed up with masonry, in the interior of the castle, they found a wooden box enclosed in the centre of it, which, on being taken out, was found to contain this MS., as well as a superb old crosier. The MS. had suffered much from damp, and the back, front, and top margin had been gnawed in several places by rats or mice ; but worse than that, it was said that the workmen by whom the precious box was found carried off several loose leaves, and even whole staves, of the book. Whether this be the case or not, it is, I regret to say, true that the greater number of the tracts contained in it are defective, and, as I believe, that whole tracts have disappeared from it altogether since the time of its discovery. The book was preserved for some time with great care by the late Colonel Curry, the Duke of Devon- shire's agent, who, however, in 1815 lent it to Denis OTlinn, a pro- fessed but a very indifferent Irish scholar, living then in Mallow Lane in the city of Cork. O'Flinn bound it in wooden boards, and disfigured several parts of it by writing on the IMS. While in OTlinn's hands it was copied in whole or in part by Michael O'Longan, of Carrignavar, near Cork. It was O'Flinn who gave it the name of the "Book of Lismore," merely because it was found at that place. After having made such use of the book as he thought proper, O'Flinn returned it, bound as I have already stated, to Colonel Curry some time between the years 1810 and 1820, and so the venerable old relic remained unquestioned, and I believe unopened, until it was borrowed by the Eoyal Irish Academy, to be copied for them by me, in the year 1839. The facilities for close examination which the slow progress of a fac-simile transcript afforded me enabled me to clearly discover this at least : that not only was the abstraction of portions of the old book of recent date, but that the dishonest act had been deliberately perpetrated by a skilful hand and for a double jourpose. For it Avas not only that Avhole staves had been pilfered, but particular subjects were mutilated, so as to leave the part that was returned to Lismore almost valueless without the abstracted parts, the offending parties having first, of course, copied ail or the most part of the mutilated pieces. I Etigciic G Curry. 6.^"/ After my transcript had been fuiislicd and the old fragments of tlie original returned to Lismore by the Academy, I instituted on my own account a close enquiry in Cork, with the view of discover- ing, if possible, whether any part of the " Book of Lismore " still remained there. Some seven or eight years passed over, however, without my gaining any information .on the subject, when I hap- pened to meet by accident in Dublin a literary gentleman from the town of Middleton, ten miles from the city of Cork ; and as I never missed an opportunity of prosecuting my enquiries, I lost no time in communicating to him my suspicious, and the circumstances on "whicli they were grounded, that part of the " Book of Lismore " must be still remaining in Cork. To my joy and surprise, the gen- tleman told me that he had certain knowledge of the fact of a large portion of the original MS. being in the hands of another party, but that he did not knew the owner, nor how or when he became pos- sessed of it. In a short time after this the late Sir William Betham's collection of MSS. passed by purchase into the library of the Royal Irish Academy ; and as I knew that the greater part of this collec- tion had been obtained from Cork, I lost no time in examining them closely for any copies of pieces from the *' Book of Lismore." Nor was I disappointed, for I found among the books copies of the lives of St. Brendan, St. Ciaran of Clonmacnois, St. Mochna of Balla, in Mayo, and St. Finnchn of Brigobhann, in the county of Cork, besides several legends arid minor pieces, all copied by Michael O'Longan from the "Book of Lismore "in the house of Denis Ban O'Flinn, in Cork, in the year 181G. And not only does O'Longan state at the end of one of these lives that he cojiied these from the book which Denis O'Flinn had borrowed from Lismore, but he gives the weight of it and the number of leaves or folios wiiich the book in its integrity contained. As a further piece of presumptive evidence of the " Book of Lismore" having been mu- tilated in Cork about this time, allow me to read for you the follow- ing memorandum in pencil in an unknown hand whicli has come into my possession : " Mr. Denis O'Flyn, of Mallow Lane, Cork, has brought a book from Lismore lately, written on vellum about 900 years ago by Miles O'Kelly for Florence McCarthy. It contains the lives of some principal Irish saints, with other historical facts, such as the wars of the Danes. 31st October, 1815." To this I may add here the following extract of a letter written 648 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. bv Mr. Joseph Long, of Cork, to the h^te William Ellicott Hudson, of Dublin, Esq., dated February the 10th, 1848: " HoNOKED Sir : I have taken the liberty of bringing this MS. to your honor. It contains various joieces copied from the ' Book of Lismore' and other old Irish MSS. They are pieces whose con- tents are 'Forbuis Droma Damhghoire,' a historic legend describ- ing the invasion of Munster by Cormac Mac Art, the wonderful actions of the Druids, Druidish incantations, and so forth ; ' Air an da Fearmaighe,' a topography of the two Fermoys, together with an account of its chieftains, tribes, or families, and so forth ; ' Sael Fiachna mic Eeataich,' a legend of iocA ^« in Connaught ; 'Eiag- hail do Eighthibh,' a rule for kings composed by Duhh Mac Turth; ' Seel air Chairbre Cinn cait,' the murder of the royal chieftains of Erinn by their slaves, the descendants of the Firholgs, and so forth— 'Book of Lismore.'" With all these evidences before me of a part of the " Book of Lismore " having been detained in Cork, in the year 1853 I pre- vailed on a friend of mine in that city to endeavor to ascertain in whose hands it was, what might be the nature of its contents, whether it would be sold, and at what price. All this my friend kindly performed. He procured me what purported to be a cata- logue of the contents of the Cork part of the ''Book of Lismore," and he ascertained that the fragment consisted of 66 folios, or 132 pages, and that it would be sold for fifty pounds. I immediately offered, on the part of the Eev. Drs. Todd and Graves, then the secretaries of the Eoyal Irish Academy, the sum named for the book, but some new conditions with which I had no power to comjily were afterwards added, and the negociation broke off at this point. The book shortly after passed by purchase into the possession of Thomas Hewitt, Esq., of Summerhill House, near Cork, and in January, 1855, a memoir of it was read before the Cuverian Society of Cork by John Windele, Esq., of Blair's Castle, in which he makes the following statement : " The work, it was supposed, may have been a portion of the 'Book of Lismore,' so well known to our literary antiquarians, but it is now satisfactorily ascertained to have been transcribed in the latter half of the fifteenth century for Fineen McCarthy Eeagh, Lord of Carbery, and his wife Catherine, the daughter of Thomas, eighth Earl of Desmond. Unfortunately," he adds, " the volume has suffered some mutilation by the loss of several folios. The ' Life Ezigene G Curry. 649 of Finnchen ' and the * Forbnis ' are partly defective in consequence, but we i^ossess among our local MS. collections entire copies of these pieces." To be sure, they have in Cork entire copies of these pieces, but they are copies by Michael O'Longan from the "Book of Lismore" before its mutilation among them, or else copies made from his copies by his sons. That Mr. Windele believed what he wrote about the Cork frag- ment there can, of course, be no doubt ; still, it is equally indubit- able that this same fragment is part and parcel of the " Book of Lismore," and that it became detached from it while in the hands of Denis O'Flinn, of Cork, some time in the year 181G. And it is, therefore, equally certain that the book which Mr. Hewitt jiur- chased, perhaps as an original 'bond-fide volume, with some slight losses, is nothing more than a fragment consisting of about one- third part of the " Book of Lismore," and that this joart was fraudulently abstracted in Cork at the time above indicated. The two pieces which Mr. Windele i:)articularizes as being defective in the Cork part are also defective in the Lismore part. The " Life of Saint Finnchn " wants but about one page in the latter, while in Cork they cannot have more of it than one page or folio ; and of the " Forbuis," something about the first half is at Lismore, while no more than the second half can be in Cork. And although I have never seen any part of the Cork fragment, I feel bold enough to say that should both parts be brought together in presence of com- petent judges, they will be pronounced to be jiarts of the same ori- ginal volume, and that several of the defects in either will be exactly supplied by the other. My transcript of the Lismore fragment of this valuable book consists of 131 folios, or 263 pages. The chief items of the con- tents are ancient lives of St. Patrick, St. Colum Cille, St. Brigid of Kildare, St. Lenan (of Scattery Island in the Lower Shannon), St. Fmnen of Clonard, and St. Finnchn of Brigohlan, in the county of Cork, all written in Gaedhlic of great purity and antiquity ; the conquests of Charlemagne, translated from the celebrated romance of the middle ages ascribed to Turpin, Archbishop of Klieims ; the conversion of the Pantheon at Rome into a Christian church ; the story of Petronilla, the daughter of St. Peter ; the discovery of the Sibylline oracle in a stone coffin at Rome ; the history of the Lombards (imperfect) ; an account of St. Gregory the Great ; the 650 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. licrcsy of tlie Empress Justina ; of some modification of certain minor ceremonies of tlie Mass on account of the successors of Cliarlemagne ; of tlie correspondence between Archbisliop Lanfranc and the clergy at liomc ; extracts from the travels of Marco Polo ; an account of the battles of the celebrated Csellachan, King of Cashel, with the Danes of Erinn in the tenth century ; of the battle of Crinna between Cormac Mac Art, King of Ireland, and the Ulstermen ; and of the sicTe of Brom Damli'jhaire (now called Knocklong, in the county of Limerick) by King Cormac Mac Art against the men of Munster. This last, though a strictly historic tale in its leading facts, is full of wild incident, in which 3£o(jh Ruith, the great Mun- ster Druid, and Cithruadh and Colpatha, the Druids of the monarch Cormac, bear a most conspicuous and. curious part. The last piece in the book is one of very great interest. It is in the form of a dialogue between St. Patrick and the two surviving warriors of the band of heroes led by the celebrated Finn Mac Cum- liaill Caoilte, the son of Eonan, and Oisin, the warrior poet, son of Fi)in himself. It describes the situation of several of the hills, moun- tains, rivers, caverns, rills, etc., in Ireland, with the derivation of their names. It is as much to be regretted that this very curious tract is imperfect. But for these defects we should probably have found in it notices of almost every monument of note in ancient Ireland, and even in its mutilated state it cannot but be regarded as preserving many of the most ancient traditions to which we can now have access — traditions which were committed to writing at a period Avhen the ancient customs of the people were unbroken and undis- turbed. I regret that space does not allow me to analyze a few more of the important paper books in the Academy's library, but I think I have already done enough to enable you to form some intelligible general estimate of the value and extent of the old Gaeclhlic books in Dublin, and I shall only add that the paper books in Trinity College and the Academy are above 600 in number, and may be es- timated to contain about 30,000 pages of GaedUic text if printed at length in the form to which I have so often referred as a speci- men—that of O'Donovan's " Annals." There is, however, one col- lection—rather, I may say, one class of MSS. monuments of Irish liistory— which I cannot pass by without at least alluding to it, though it would be perhaps improper for me at the present moment to enter upon any detailed account of it, I mean the great body of Eugene G Curry. 651 the laws of ancient Erinn, commonly called by the English the Brehon Laws. This collection is so immense in extent, and the subjects dealt with throughout tlic whole of it in the utmost detail are so numerous and so fully ilhistrated by exact definitions and minute descriptions, that to enable us to fill up the outline supplied by the annals and genealogies these books of laws alone would almost be found sufficient in competent hands. Indeed, if it were permitted me to enlarge upon their contents, even to the extent to which I have spoken upon the sul)ject of the various annals I have described to you, I should be forced to devote many lectures to this subject alone. But these ancient laws, as you are all awvare, are now, and have been for the last three years, in progress of tran- scription and preparation for publication under the direction of a commission of Irish noblemen and gentlemen appointed by royal warrant, and it would not be for me to anticipate their regular juiblication. Tlie quantity of transcript already made (and there is still a part to be made) amounts to over 5,000 close quarto pages, which on average would be equal to near 8,000 pages of the text of O'Dono- van's '^Annals." This quantity, of course, contains many duplicate pieces, and it wnll rest with the commissioners whether to p»ublish the whole mass or only a fair and full text compiled from a colla- tion of all the duplicate copies. Any one who has examined the. body of Welsh Laws, now some years before the world, will at once be able to form a fair opinion of the interest and value in a histori- cal and social point of view of this far larger, this immense and hitherto unexplored, mass of legal institutes. And these were the laws and institutes which regulated the political and social system of a people the most remarkable in Europe from a period almost lost in the dark mazes of antiquity down to within about two hundred years, or seven generations, of our own time, and whose spirit and traditions, I may add, influence the feelings and actions of the na- tive Irish even to this day. To these laws may we, indeed, justly apply the expressive remark of the poet Moore on the old MSS. in the Royal Irish Academy, that they " were not written by a foolish people, nor for any foolish purpose." Into the particulars and ar- rangements of this mass of laws I shall not enter here, since they arc, as I have already stated, in the hands of a commission on whose prerogatives I have no disposition to trench. I may, how- ever, be permitted to observe that, copious though the records in 652 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. Avliich the actions and everyday life of onr remote ancestors liav come down to us through the various documents of which I have been speaking, still without those laws our history would be necessarily barren, deficient, and uncertain in one of its most interesting and important essentials. For what can be more essential for the histo- rian's purpose than to have the means of seeing clearly what the laws and customs were precisely, which governed and regulated the general and relative action of the monarch and the provincial kings, of the provincial kings and the hereditary princes and chiefs of these in turn, and of what may be called the hereditary proprietors, the Flaiths (pronounced ''Flahs") or landlords, and below these again of their farmers and tenants of all grades and conditions, native and stranger ; and what is even more interesting, if possible, the conditions on which these various parties held their lands, and the local customs which regulated their agrarian and social policy, as well as in general the sumjituary and economical laws and the several customs wdiich distinguished all these classes one from another, compliance with which was absolutely necessary to main- tain them in their proper ranks and respective privileges ? There are thousands of allusions to the men and "women of those days, as well as to various circumstances, manners, customs, and habits to be met with in our historic writings, otherwise inexplicable, which find a clear and natural solution in these venerable institutes. And there are besides, too, a vast number of facts, personal and histori- cal, recorded in the course of the laws (often stated by the com- mentator, or scribe as examples or i:>recedents of the application of the particular law under discussion) which must be carefully gleaned from before that history which is yet to be framed out of the materials I have described to you can ever be satisfactorily completed. THOMAS UARCY McGEE. " One of the most gifted men of this age." — " Popular Eistory of the Ca- THOLic CmmcH in the United States." " No one, not even Davis, seems to have infused the spirit of Irish history so thoroughly into his mind and heart as McGee." — The Dublin " Nation." " It has been said, and I think with truth, that McGee was, even more than Moore, entitled to be called the Bard of Erin, for that his genius was more dis- tinctively Irish, and his inspiration more directly and more exclusively from Ire- land and her ancient race." — Mks. J, Sadliee. THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE was born in the little town of Car- lingford, county of Louth, Ireland, on the 13th of April, 1825. On both his father's and mother's side he belonged to Catholic and patriotic Irish families. His mother was the highly- educated, daughter of a Dublin bookseller, a woman of extraordinary elevation of mind, an enthusiastic lover of her country, its music, its legends, and its wealth of ancient lore.' Is it necessary to de- scribe the influence of such a mother on the tender mind of her gifted son ? Mothers are soul-moulders. " Born and nurtured," writes his friend, Mrs. J. Sadlier, "amid the grand and lovely scenery of the Rosstrevor coast, his early childhood fleeted by in a region of wild, romantic beauty, which im- pressed itself for evermore on his heart and mind, and tended not a little, as we may well suppose, to foster, if not create, that poetic fancy which made the charm of his life, and infused itself into all he wrote and all he said." '^ Thomas wag eight years old when the family removed to the town of Wexford. Here, year after year, his wonderful genius de- veloped, without other aids than the advantage of a day-school. He studied hard, and was a great reader of history and poetry. But, after his seventeenth year, McGee was his own professor, the world was his university, and experience his dij)loma. Coming to the United States in 1842, he soon distinguished him- 1 Mrs. J. Sadlier, " Biographical Sketch of McGee," « Ibid. 653 654 l^f^^ Prose and Poetry of Ireland, self, and when only nineteen years of age he filled— and ably filled —the editorial chair of the Boston Pilot. The Native-American excitement was then at its height, and Philadelphia and other cities were dis^-raced by riots, burnings, and mob-rnle." On all sides the Irish Catholics were attacked and vilified. "Few were then their defenders in the press of America, but of those few stood foremost in the van Thomas D'Arcy McGee, a host in himself. With all the might of his precocious genius, and all the fire of his fervid eloquence, he advocated the cause of his countrymen and co- relio^ionists, and so scathing were his fiery denunciations of the Native Americans, as the hostile party were styled, that all New Endand rang with their unwelcome echo," * The gifted young Irishman's fame crossed the Atlantic, and he was invited by the proprietor of the leading daily journal in Dublin to become its editor. But he soon joined the Dublin Nation, the organ of the "Young Ireland Party." Davis, Duffy, Mitchel, McGee, and other bright young minds of Ireland made it, for a time, one of the most remarkable journals in Europe. This is not the place to describe McGee's bold and stirring career as one of the Irish leaders in '48. Through the efforts of the patriotic Bishop Maginn he succeeded, disguised as a priest, in escaping to America, and landed at Philadelphia in October, 1848. He began the New York Nation the same month ; and, some time later, his devoted young wife from Ireland joined him. In 1850 McGee removed to Boston and commenced the publication of the American Celt. His subsequent career as a leading journalist, patriot, statesman, poet, orator, and historian is not unknown to the reading public. Ireland and the Catholic Church Avere his watchwords. In 1857 his countrymen of Montreal invited him to come amongst them, an invitation which he accepted, as he removed to Canada the same year. His career in Canada was distinguished. He soon entered the legislative halls north of the St. Lawrence, and all were obliged to recognize him as a man of marked ability. He was for years the chosen leader and eloquent spokesman of the Irish in Canada. It is now about twelve or thirteen years since the present writer, »See the " Popular History of the CathoUc Church in the United States," book ii., chap. V. * Mrs. J. Sadiier, '• Biographical Sketch of McGee." TJw7?tas UArcy McGce. 655 then a mere lad, whose highest ambition was to be able to read fluently, parse a difficult sentence, and write a fair composition on a broomstick, or some other equally profonnd subject, was intro- duced to Mr. McGee. He was then in the height of his fame. The introduction was purely accidental. Some expressions, few but very kind, came from the lips of the eminent orator, author, and legislator. It was 'i\\& first and the last time we ever saw him ; and little did the Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, or any one else, imagine that the timid, bashful boy to whom he then spoke so affectionately, would one day carefully collect together some of his choice pieces in verse and prose, and endeavor to perpetuate his bright and worthy name in the pages of history and litera- ture. McGee fell by the hand of a vile assassin in the capital of Canada. Nor was he the first great and good man who met such a melan- choly death. On the morning of April 7, 18G7, passed from earth, in his forty-second year, the most gifted Irishman in America, and one of the richest and most splendid intellects of the nineteenth century. McGee contributed to nearly every department of literature, and it can be as truly said of him as of Goldsmith that " he touched no subject which he did not adorn." He was the first to work up the crude materials of our Church history in his ''Catholic History of North America"; and in his "Irish Settlers in America " he was the first to point out what this EeiDublic owes to old Ireland. '' O'Connell and his Friends," " The Irish Writers of the Seven- teenth Century," the "Life of Bishop Maglnn," "Attempts to Establish the Protestant Ecformation in Ireland," " A Popular History of Ireland," and "Poems," edited by his friend, Mrs. J. Sadlier, complete, we believe, the list of his works, and show the wide field in which his solid and brilliant Catholic mind exerted itself. Among the foregoing, the " History of Ireland" holds the first place. It is, we think, the best brief work on that subject in the English language ; and if accuracy, sound judgment, philoso- phic grasp of thought, and a style pure, clear, and terse be merits in a writer of history, then McGee must ever hold a high rank as an historian. As a poet, he ranks with the first ; as an orator, journalist, and statesman, he has had, in our day and country, few equals and no superiors. Mr. McGee never sings so sweetly, nor do his j)ages ever glow so 6 •6 The Prose ana Poetry of Ireland. warmly, as Tvlien lie treats of his native isle, and of the glory and beaut/ aud grandeur of the CathoHc Church.'^ THE DYING CELT TO HIS AMERICAN SON. My son, a darkness falleth, Not of. night, upon my eyes ; And in my ears there calleth A voice as from the skies ; I feel that I am dying, I feel my day is done ; Bid the women hush their crying And hear to me, my son ! When Time my garland gathers, my son ! I charge you hold By the standard of your fathers In the battle-fields of old ! In blood they wrote their story Across its field, my boy ; On earth it was their glory. In Heaven it is their joy. By St. Patrick's hand 'twas planted On Erin's sea-beat shore, And it spread its folds, undaunted. Through the drift and the uproar. Of all its vain assaulters, AVho could ever say he saw The last of Ireland's altars, Or the last of Patrick's law ? Through the Western ocean driven. By the tyrant's scorpion whips, Behold ! the hand of Heaven Bore our standard o'er the ships = John O'Kano Murray, "Popular History of the Catholic Church in the United States." For i very excellent and detailed sketch of Hon. Thomas D'Arcy McGee, see the " Bio- graphical Sket h " by Mrs. J. Sadlier in McGee's " Poems." I I Thomas UArcy McGee. 657 In the forest's far recesses. When the moon shines in at night, The Celtic cross now blesses The weary wanderer's sight ! My son, my son ! there falleth Deeper darkness on my eyes ; And the Guardian Angel callcth Me by name from out the skies. Dear, my son, I charge thee cherish Chi'ist's holy cross o'er all ; Let whatever else may perish. Let whatever else may fall ! THE CELTIC CROSS. Through storm and fire and gloom I see it stand, Firm, broad, and tall — The Celtic Cross that marks our fatherland, Amid them all ! Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage Around its base ; It standeth shock on shock and age on age. Star of our scattered race. holy Cross ! dear symbol of tlie dread Death of our Lord, Around thee long have slept our martyr-dead. Sward over sward ! A hundred bishops I myself can count Among the slain ; Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining mount Of God's ripe grain. The recreant's hate, the Puritan's claymore. Smote thee not down ; On headland steep, on mountain summit hoar, In mart and town \ 658 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. In Glcndalough, in Ara, in Tyrone, We find thee sti]l, Thy open arms still stretching to thine own, O'er town, and lough, and hill. And they would tear thee out of Irish soil. The guilty fools ! How Time must mock their antiquated toil And broken tools ! Oranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp retired. Baffled and thrown ; William and Anne to sap thy site conspired — The rest is known ! Holy Saint Patrick, Father of our Faith, Beloved of God ! Shield thy dear Church from the impending scaitli ; Or, if the rod Must scourge it yet again, inspire and raise To emprise high Men like the heroic of other days, Who joyed to die ! Fear ! Wherefore should the Celtic people fear Their Church's fate ? The day is not — the day was never near — Could desolate The Destined Island, all whose seedy clay Is holy ground; Its cross shall stand till that predestined day When Erin's self is drowned ! A SM^y^L CATECHISM. Why are children's eyes so bright ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because the infinite Which they've left is still in sight. And they know no earthly blight — Therefore 'tis their eyes are bright. f Thomas U Arcy McGec. 659 Why do children laugh so gay ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because their hearts have play In their bosoms every day, Free from sin and sorrow's sway — Therefore 'tis they laugh so gay. Why do children speak so free ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because from fallacy, Cant, and seeming they are free ; Hearts, not lips, their organs be — Therefore 'tis they speak so free. Why do children love so true ? Tell me why ? 'Tis because they cleave unto A familiar, favorite few, Without art or self in view — Therefore children love so true. THE SHANTY. This is our castle ! enter in. Sit down, and be at home, sir; Your city friend will do, I hope. As travellers do in Kome, sir. 'Tis plain the roof is somewhat low, The sleeping-room but scanty. Yet to the settler's eye, you know. His castle is his shanty. The famine fear we saw of old Is, like a nightmare, over ; That wolf will never break our fold Nor round the doorway hover. Our swine in droves tread down the brake. Our sheep-bells carol canty, Last night yon salmon swam the lake That now adorns our shanty. 66o The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. That bread we break, it is our own. It grew around our feet, sir, Ic pays no tax to squire or crown, Which makes it double sweet, sir ! A woodman leads a toilsome life. And a lonely one, I gi'ant ye ; Still, with his children, friend, and wife. How happy is his shanty ! No feudal lord o'erawes us here. Save the ever-bless'd Eternal j To him is due the fruitful year. Both autumnal and yernal. We've rear'd to him, down in the dell, A temple, neat though scanty. And we can hear its blessed bell On Sunday in our shanty. This is our castle ! enter in. Sit down, and be at home, sir ; Your city friend will do, I hope. As travellers do in Rome, sir. 'Tis plain the roof is somewhat low, ■ The sleeping-room but scanty, Yet to the settler's eye, you know, His castle is his shanty, TO lynSS M. SADLIER. These humorous lines were placed in a little Indian basket presented by Mr. McGee to the young daughter of the late Mr. James Sadlier, Montreal. Ix a dream of the night I this casket received Prom the ghost of the late Hiawatha deceased. And these were the words he spoke in my ear : " Mr. D'Arcy New Era,'' attention and hear. You know Minnehaha, the young Laughing- Water, Mr. Sadlier of Montreal's dear eldest daughter ; To her bring this trifle, and say that I ask it. She'll trcasiu-e for my sake the light little casket." • At that time Mr. McQee was publishing in Montreal a journal called the Kew Era- \ Thomas D'Arcy McGec. 66 1 This said, in his own solemn Longfellow way, With a bow of his plumed head, he vanish'd away. ■As I hojoe to be spared all sucli ghostly commands, I now place the said Indian toy in your liands. August 15, 1857. DEATH OF THE HOMEWARD-BOUND. Paler and thinner the morning moon grew, Colder and sterner the rising wind blew. The pole-star had set in a forest of cloud. And the icicles crackled on spar and on shroud, "When a voice from below we feebly heard cry : " Let me see, let me see my own land ere I die. ''All ! dear sailor, say, have we sighted Cape Clear ? Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light near ? You are young, my brave boy ; thanks, thanks for your hand Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the land. Thank God ! 'tis the sun that now reddens the sky ; I shall see, I shall see my own land ere I die. ''' Let me lean on your strength ; I am feeble and old. And one half of my heart is already stone cold. Forty years work a change ; when I first crossed this sea ; There were few on the deck that could grapple with me. But my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I die." 'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the deck, His arm around a kindly young mariner's neck. His ghastly gaze fixed on the tints of the east. As a starveling might stare at the sound of a feast. The morn quickly rose, and revealed to the eye The land he had prayed to behold and then die. Green, green was the shore, though the year was near done. High and haughty the capes the white surf dashed upon ; A gray, ruined convent w^as down by the strand. And the sheep fed afar on the hills of the land. " God be with you, dear Ireland !" he gasjDcd with a sigh ; "I lived to behold you — I'm ready to die." 662 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. He sank by the hour, and his pulse 'gau to fail As we swept by the headland of storied Kinsale. Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower. And his corpse was clay-cold when we sighted Tramorc. At Passage we waked him, and now he doth lie In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. JACQUES CARTIER. ' In- the seaport of St. Malo, 'twas a smiling morn in May, AVhen the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward saileci away, In the crowded old cathedral all the town were on their knee?. For the safe return of kinsmen from the undiscovered seas ; And every autumn blast that swept o'er pinnacle and pier Filled manly hearts with sorrow and gentle hearts with fear. A year passed o'er St. Malo ; again came round the day AVhen the Commodore Jacques Cartier to the westward sailed away. But no tidings from the absent had come the way they went. And tearful were the vigils that many a maiden spent ; And manly hearts were filled with gloom, and gentle hearts with fear, When no tidings came from Cartier at the closing of the year. But the earth is as the future, it hath its hidden side. And the captain of St. Malo was rejoicing in his pride. In the forests of the North, while his townsmen mourned his loss, lie was rearing on Mount Royal the fleur-de-lis and cross ; And when two months were over and added to the year, St. Malo hailed him home again, cheer answering to cheer. lie told them of a region, hard, iron-bound, and cold, Kor seas of pearl abounded, nor mines of shining gold ; AYhere the wind from Thule freezes the word upon the lip. And the ice in spring comes sailing athwart the early ship. He told them of the frozen scene until they thrilled with fear. And piled fresh fuel on the hearth to make him better cheer. ' The famous CathoUc discoverer of Canada. It was he who conferred upon the most beautiful and majestic river in the world the name of St. Lawrence. Thomas UArcy McGee. 663 But when he changed the strain, he told ho^y soon is cast lu early spring the fetters that hold the waters fast; IIow the winter causeway, broken, is drifted out to sea, And the rills and rivers sing with pride the anthem of the free ; IIow the magic wand of summer clad the landscapes, to his eyes, Like the dry hones of the just Avhen they wake in Paradise. He told them of the Algonquin braves, the hunters of the wild ; Of how the Indian mother in the forest rocks her child ; Of how, poor souls ! they fancy in every living thing A spirit, good or evil, that claims their worshipping; ' Of how they brought their sick and maimed for him to breathe npon. And of the wonders wrought for them through the Gospel of St. John. lie told them of the river' whose mighty current gave Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave ; He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height. And of the fortress cliff '" that keeps of Canada the key. And they welcomed back Jacques Oartier from his perils o'er the sea. THE BLESSED VIRGIN'S KKEGHT. A Ballad of the Crusades. Bexeatii the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood. But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood, Xor of the joy the pilgrims feel, prostrated far, who see The hill where Christ's atoning blood poured down the jienal tree. Their theme was old, their theme w\as new, 'twas sweet and yet 'twas bitter ; Of noble ladies left behind spoke cavalier and ritter. And eyes grew bright and sighs arose from every iron breast For a dear wife or plighted maid far in the widowed West. ** For an account of Indian belief and superstition see " Popular History of the Catholic Church in the United States," by John O'Kane Murray, chap, i., p. 43, » Tho f:t. La-wrence. ■"Quebec. 664 ^^^^ /'/w^ and Poetry of Ireland. Toward the kniglits came Constantine, thrice noble by Lis birtli, And ten times nobler than his blood his high out-shining Trorth. His stop was slow, his lips were moved, though not a Avord he spoke. Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke. '•'What aileth thee, Constantino ! that solitude you seek ? If counsel or if aid you need, we pray thee but to speak ; Or dost thou mourn, like other /r^re^, thy ladylove afar, "Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star ? " Then answered courteous Constantine : '' Good sir, in simple truth, I chose a gracious lady in the heyday of my youth ; I wear her image on my heart, and when that heart is cold The secret must be rifled thence, but never must be told. For her I love and worship well by light of morn or even ; I ne'er shall see my mistress dear until we meet in heaven ; But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but onQ Such lady as my ladylove beneath the blessed sun." lie ceased, and passed with solemn step on to an olive grove. And ktieeling there he prayed a prayer to the lady of his love ; And many a cavalier whose lance had still maintained his OAvn Beloved to reign- without a peer, all earth's unequalled one. Looked tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight ; Witli wonder and with generous pride they marked the lightning light Of his fearless sword careering through the unbeliever's ranks. As angry Rlione sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks. '*' He fears not death, come when it will ; he longeth for his love. And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above. How should he fear for dying when liis mistress dear is dead ? " Thus often of Sir Constantine his Avatchf ul comrades said ; Until it chanced from Zion w^all the fatal arrow flew That pierced the outworn armor of his faithful bosom through ; And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine ! Beneath the royal tent the bier was guarded night and day, Where, with a halo round his head, the Christian champion lay. That talisman upon his breast, what marvel may that be ^ liich kept his ardent soul through life from every error free ? Thomas U Arcy McGee. 665 Approach ! behold ! nay, worship there the image of liis love, The heavenly Queen who rcigneth all the sacred hosts above ; Nor wonder that around his bier there lingers such a light, For the spotless one that slcepeth was the Blessed Yiegi]^"s Knight ! IT IS EASY TO DIE. It is easy to die When one's work is done. To pass from the earth Like a harvest day's sun. After opening the flowers and rij)ening the grain Eound the homes and the scenes where our friends remain. It is easy to die "When one's work is done, Like Simeon, the j)riest, Who saw God's Son ; In the fulness of years, and the fulness of faith, It is easy to sleep on the clay couch of death. But it is hard to die While one's native land Has scarce strength to cry 'Neath the spoiler's hand. merciful God ! vouchsafe that I May see Ireland free ; then let me die ! I LOVE THEE, MART I I MAT reveal it to the night, AVhere lurks around no tattling fairy. With only stars and streams in sight — I love, I love thee, Mary ! Your smile is like the dawn New breaking on the traveller weary y My heart is, bird-like, to it drawn — I love, I love thcc, Mary ! 666 The Prose and Poetry of Irclaiid. Your voice is like the August wind, Tliat of rich perfume is not chary. But leaves its sweetness long behind. As thou dost, lovely Mary ! Your stei^ is like the sweet, sweet spring, That treads the flowers with feet so airy. And makes its green, enchanted ring, As thou dost, where thou comest, Mary 1 AM I KEMEMBERED IN ERIN ? Am I remembered in Erin ? I charge you speak me true ; Has my name a sound, a meaning In the scenes my boyhood knew ? Does the heart of the mother ever Eecall her exile's name ? For to be forgot in Erin And on earth is all the same. Mother, Mother Erin ! Many sons your age has seen — Many gifted, constant lovers Since your mantle first was green. Then how may I hope to cherish The dream that I could be In your crowded memory numbered With that palm-crown'd companie ? Y^et faint and far, my mother. As the hope shines on my sight, 1 cannot choose but watch it Till my eyes have lost their light ; For never among your brightest, x\nd never among your best. Was heart more true to Erin Than beats within my breast. Thomas VArcy McGee. 667 REBUKE TO THE IGNORANT KNOW-NOTHINGS. [Prom " Lectures on the Catliolic History of North America."] You make the term foreigner 11 reproach to us. Who arc you ? Children or grandchildren of foreigners. And we, who arc we ? The parentage of native generations, destined to rule this continent in conjunction with your children's children. In one sense we are all foreigners to America; European civilization is foreign to it; white complexions are foreign to it; the Christian religion is foreign to it. The term conveys no stigma to the well-informed mind. The man of reading and reflection knows that at one time or other it was true of all humanity; true of the first man, as it may be of the last. The history of our race is a history of emigration. In Asia Eden was, hut without Eden lay the world. The first emigrants were that sad pair who travelled into the outer darkness, lighted by the glare of the fiery sword threatening at their backs. When their ears no longer caught the rustling of the trees of Paradise, or the flow of its living waters, they felt themselves truly emigrants. " Some natural tears they shed, but dried them soon • The world was all before them, where to choose A place of rest, and Providence their guide. " Upon what consolation did our first jmrents rest ? Upon labor and upon hope — " Go forth and fill the earth and subdue it," and the promised Messiah. Since then the story of their posterity has been the same. Westward with the sun they travelled from the first, keeping on earth an apparent parallel to his apparent course. The cities of Enoch — Babylon, Nineveh, Tyre, Thebes, Carthage, Rome — what are they ? Landmarks and tidemarks of the endless emigration. In the days before history, in the mountain mists of tradition, we see the dim forms of pioneers and leaders carrying their tribes from old homes to new homes over mountains and across straits and through the labyrinth of the primeval wilderness. All mythology is a story about emigrants, and the tale did not end when Hercules set up his pillars at the Strait of Gades,'' and for- bade his descendants to tempt the exterior ocean. The fearless Phoenician came, and swept by Avithout slacking sail or heeding Her- cules. He Avent and came and went, disenchanting mankind of their fears. The Eomans talked of having reached the earth's uU 1 ' Now the straits of Gibraltar. 66S The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. tima, and so Europe rested for ages, iu the full belief of tlic Roman fTco^aphy. At last Columbus rose, that inspired sailor who, dedi- cating his ship and himself to the protection of the Blessed Virgin, launched fearlessly into the undiscovered sea, and introduced the new world to the accpmintancc of the old. After Columbus we came, borne onward by the destiny of humanity in obedience to the in-imitive charter of our race—" Go forth and fill the earth and subdue it; and in the sweat of your brow you shall earn your bread." The Irish emigrant stands on this high ground, and, so standing, he can look the past fearlessly in the face. He has no cause to be ashamed of his predecessors here. If they founded no exclusive Mw Ireland, the blood of no extermined Indian tribe rises in judg- ment against them ; if they were sole proprietors of no province, neither have they to answer for enslaving the African. They were here subordinates in power, but principals in labor. They could say — and we may say for them — that in no department of American development have the Irish mind and the Irish arm been nnfelt. We have given the Union, in this nineteenth century, its greatest speculative and its greatest practical statesmen — John C. Calhoun and Andrew Jackson. We have given the Union two Vice-Presi- dents, nine signers of the Declaration of Independence, six authors of the Constitution, ten major-generals to its army, and six commo- dores to its navy. ^^ In science, in authorship, in oratory, we have been represented as w'cll as in digging, delving, and carrying the hod. We can look history in the face, and, putting our hands upon any part of the fabric of the state, we can say as a people : ''TJiis was ^>ari^y our work." THE CATHOLIC CHURCH AND THE lEISH IN A]VIERICA. [From " Lectures on the Catholic History of North America,"] Looking at it merely as a social agent, the Catholic Church iu America is of the utmost importance. To her aiDpertains the science of theology — the soul that originally in-formed the framework of our civilization. Her doctrine is a system within which the grandest intellects have ample range ; her spirit is one of true progress and real conservatism ; one which looks to truth, and not to popularity ; to all time, and not to the passion or fashion of the hour. As a mistress of philosophy, as a bulwark of order, as a stay of law, the 12 This lecture -was delivered in 1854. Thomas UArcy McGee. 669 Catholic Church is, socially, the most important of all religions in- stitutions to the peace and harmony of this confederation. Its silent power attracts to it all studious minds, and, by attraction or repul- sion, its j)resence is felt in every pulse and at every pore of American society. To us Catholics it is much more than a great social institution. It is the pillar and the ground of truth ; it is the work of God, and jmrtakes of the attributes of its Author. Its decrees are justice it- self; its mercy is inexhaustible ; its love is inexpressible; its glory is incomprehensible. All other institutions which exist on earth the soul of man can fathom without fear ; but this divine founda- tion is rooted in the eternal tides, and he who seeks with his paltry plummet to fathom them seeks confusion and his own shame. The Catholic Church partakes, even in space, of the magnificence of its Maker. The morning sun, as he steps forth out of his chamber in the east, salutes it first of earthly objects, and the noonday sun looks down and cries : " Lo ! it is here also ! " and the evening sun, as he i^asses away into the furthest west, lingers av/hile upon its turrets, and pays a jiarting visit to its altars. To us it is the Church of our fathers, the Church of our exile, the Church of our children. It is poetry, it is history, it is art, it is society, it is truth itself. Xo wonder, then, that every attack upon it sounds in our ears as a profanation ; no wonder we should prefer to hear every wrong the passions of the mob can j)lan or execute rather than for one moment to doubt or deny that Holy Church. The Irish Catholics in America have been chiefly instrumental in bringing their faith into this country. They stand here in their highest relation to the destiny of America as church-builders. They hare paid back the money of the Puritan by acclimating the cross in the atmosphere of the Puritan. They have made it known that the twenty-fifth of December is Christmas-day, and that God is to be honored in his saints. They have practically brought to the American mind the idea that marriage is a holy sacrament, not a civil contract. In their small catechism they have introduced the profoundest system of Christian philosophy. All this they have done out of their poverty, but not without exciting derision, scorn, envy, jealousy, and fear — the whole tribe of the meaner passions of human nature. A tree of that size does not lift itself aloft withoitt catching the gale, nor strike its strong roots around it without dis- turbing the earth. MOST REV. JOHN MACHALE, D.D., ARCHBISHOP OF TUAM. " The Lion of the Fold of Judah,"— 0*Connell. " Noble old man ! thy steadfast fifty years, Mitred with honor, yet with many woes, Have seen hope's sunshine follow bitter tears, Though Erin's friends oft spoke like Erin's foes ! No parchment makes thy gloiy, nor hath man A part in aught which doth to thee belong ; Thy title to our love hath ever ran In battle for the Right, in hating Wkong ! " " He stands yet, calm and majestic as the grand old mountains oi his native Connemara, ruling his flock in wisdom and power, and heeding but Uttle the angry assaults of those who cannot reach his altitude." — Nun of Kenmabe. '• rpiIE mysterious hand which goyerns the universe," says the J- profound Balnies, " seems to hold an extraordinary man in reserve for every great crisis of society." It is in this light that we view Archbishop MacHale and his illustrious career. John MacHale was born in the year 1791, at Tobarnavian, a vil- lage situated at the foot of Mount ]N"ephin in the beautiful and his- toric valley of Kephin, the most romantic district in the county of Mayo. He belongs to an ancient and honorable Irish family, which nobly sacrificed its grandeur in this world that it might preserve it in the next. " The Archbishop of Tuam,'' writes the Nun of Kenmare, '"'is directly descended from Bishop Mac Caile, who received the pro- fession of St. Bridget. His family lived for centuries in the valley where Amalgaid, then king of that county, met St. Patrick, near the wood of Fochut." ' The spot of his nativity, encircled with scenery grand and roman- tic, with hills, lakes, and woods, and enriched with classic legends, proud historic recollections, and the glories of ancient Celtic poetry and valor, was well calculated to inspire the child of genius with ' " Life of Daaisl O'Coaner,," p. 520, note. 670 ARCHBISHOP MacHALE. Most Rev. John MacHalc, D.D. 671 high aspirations, generous thonglits, lofty aims, and, above all, and before all, with a deej) and lasting love of faith and fatherland." From the parish school young MacIIale passed to an institution in the town of Castlebar, where he completed his classical studies. In 1S07 he entered Maynooth College. An earnest and success- ful student, he carried off the highest honors of his famous Alma Mater. He devoted, great attention to modern languages and litera- ture, making himself familiar with French, Spanish, Italian, and. German. He read English literature extensively. Shakspeare and Edmund Burke, it is said, were his favorite authors. In 1819, but a few years after his ordination, Father ^MacIIale was appointed to the high and very responsible position of Professor of Dogmatic Theology in Maynooth. He was elevated to the episco- pate on the 5th of June, 1835, being consecrated Coadjutor Bishop of Killala, his native diocese, with the title of Bishop of Maronia in panihus, by the Most Eev. Dr. Murray, Archbishop of Dublin. Bishop MacIIale visited the Continent in 1831. On reaching Romo Vo])Q. Gregory XVI. received him with marked kindness, and just before leaving the Eternal City, the Holy Father presented him with a gold chalice of exquisite workmanship. It was during this memorable journey that Dr. MacIIale visited the spots made dear and venerable by Irish sanctity or Irish valor. " The paths of our countrymen," he wrote, '' you can track by the streaks of glory that still linger on the lands which they traversed, and in the sanc- tuaries of their most magnificent cathedrals, as well as in the hearts of their present inhabitants, their ashes or their memories arc de- voutly enshrined."' In 1834 Dr. MacHale was raised to the Metropolitan see of Tuam. At the Council of the Vatican he was the senior archbishop of the world and sat next to the patriarchs. In June, 1875, the great old man celebrated the fiftietli anniversary of his episcopate. Here we make no attempt to write the life of Archbishop Mac- Hale. We merely glance at it, noting a few dates and events. The story of his bright career would be the history of eight against WROXG, in Ireland, for over half a century. The greatest of living Irishmen, he holds, and justly holds, the first place in the affections of the Irish race the world over. 2 See the venerable Archbishop's graphic description of his birthplace in his letter, p. 681. 3 '• Letters " of Archbishop MacHale, 672 The Prose and Poetry of Ireland. One evenino-, during his attendance at the Synod of Thurles in 1850, Dr. MacHale and a brother prelate went to take an evening walk in the suburbs of the town. They had not proceeded far Avhen a stalwart Tipperary peasant reverently 'approached, and, kneelino- before one of the jorelates, asked his blessing. After a moment's silence, however, the man raised his head, fixed his eyes on the bishop's face, and asked: "Are you Archbishop MacHale ?" '•' No," replied the bishop; 'Hhis is the person," pointing to his companion. *'WelI, my Lord," said the brave peasant firmly and j calmly, ''1 want no blessing but that of Archbishop MacHale," and immediately kneeling at the archbishop's feet he received the blessing of the great Irish patriarch, and went his Avay rejoicing." "He is," says an able writer, "truly the uncrowned monarch of j that faithful, chivalrous, and warm-hearted people, no matter in Avhat quarter of the globe their lot may be cast. Their friends have been his friends, and their enemies his enemies. True as the needle to the pole to the ennobling traditions of his heroic and martyred ancestors, he has, for nearly sixty years, advocated the rights of his countrymen with unpurchasable fidelity and unconquerable courage. With a voice loud as that of the tempest, loud as the angry ocean, loud as that which pealed from Sinai, he has denounced theii* wrongs before earth and high heaven ; branded their hereditary foes with infamy ; resisted every open attack, and exposed every covert assault on the rights and freedom of his episcoj)al brethren. Like the seraph Abdiel, he has kept his loyalty, his love, his zeal. Xo opposition could shake for a moment his unbending courage ; no tempting offer could seduce him from the path of patriotism ; no threats could terrify him. No wily English statesman could ever overreach him, ever mislead him ; yet English policy and intrigue sometimes deceived Grattan, deluded O'Connell, and made dupes and victims of other distinguished Irishmen. It is a remarkable fact that Archbishop MacIIale has never made one political mistake during his long and glorious career ! " ' Dr. MacIIale's pen has been a power for the last Jiff y-seven years. In 1820 he came out as a public writer of marked ability under the nom cle plume of " Heriophilos." His letters attracted wide atten- tion. He afterwards wrote under his various official names — John, * The Catholic Eecord for June, 18T5. » ma. Most Rev. John Mac Hale, D D. 673 Bisliop of Maronica; John, Bishop of Killala; and, finally, John, Archbishop of Tuam. His select public letters, edited by himself, and extending from 1820 to 184G, were published in one large volume in 184:7. These letters rank with those of Junius and Dr. Doyle. Dr. MacIIale's '' Evidences and Doctrines of the Catholic Church," published in 1827, is a masterly production. It has been translated into the French, German, and Italian languages. But the venerable archbishop is not only an illustrious prelate, patriot, and prose writer, he is also an eminent poet. He has translated the greater portion of Homer's ''Iliad" into heroic Irish metre; and, greater than all, he has enriched the ancient and noble literature of Ireland by translating over eighty of Moore's Irish melodies into the Irish language in the same metres which Moore himself employed. Irish is the first language that Dr. MacHale spoke, and, without any doubt, he is the greatest living master of that language. His style, like himself, is marked by rare strength and dignity. He is one of the very few writers in the history of the Avorld who has enriched two languages with the rich productions of his golden pen — masterpieces of .English, masterpieces of Irish. We conclude this imperfect sketch with a few stanzas written on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the archbishop's episco- pate : " Thou greatest bishop at St. Peter's throne, Bent with the weight of honored years of toil. Like a round-tower standing gray, alone, Upon thy native Erin's sacred soil — This day, which seals thy fifty glorious years With holy benediction and loud praise, Salutes thee first among thy mitred peers, Crowned with the laurel-wreath of fruitful days. " Noble old man ! thy steadfast fifty years, Mitred with honor, yet with many woes. Have seen hope's sunshine follow bitter tears. Though Erin's friends oft spoke like Erin's foes ! 674 1^^^^ Prose and Poetry of Irela?id. No parchment makes thy glory, nor hath man A jiart in aught which doth to thee belong ; Thy title to our love hath ever ran lu battle for the right, iu hating wrong ! *' Thon wert no whining hound at Saxon feet. Begging with expectation, faint and sick. Such countenance as to a dog were meet. That equal boon — a halfpenny or kick ! Thou heldst too high the glory of the Gael To wear dishonor's badge — a focman's smile ! Thou heart so tru^ to ancient Granu "Wail ! Thou strong right hand of Erin's holy isle ! ** Others might fall, but thou wert ever true. Undaunted patriot, freedom's pioneer ! First of the honest, great, immortal few Who live in Ireland's heart, for ever dear ! Thy monument shall need no epitaph. Cold as the marble it is writ upon ; Millions shall wash Avith tears the paragraj^h Which in God's time shall cry ; ' The saint is gone !' ** The heart of Erin everywhere to-day Throbs with the magic of a mighty love ; *God bless his life and death,' the millions pray, 'And crown him with celestial light above !' Ay, take him to your hearts, ye exiled band ; For who more worthy of the love of Gael Than he whose name is blest in every land, True patriot-priest; immortal John MacHale \ Mod Rev. John Mac Hale, D.D. 675 'Foi)!) — Se