Chapter III (8)

“That you’re not,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, an’ he done his best, an’ managed to send another finger stone beyant Fan’s throw; an’ shure, the three stones are to be seen, be all the world, to this very day.

“Well, me lad,” says Fan, stoopin’ for another as big as a hill, “I’m sorry I have to bate you; but I can’t help it,” sez he, lookin’ over at the Prencess Maynish, an’ she as mute as a mouse watchin’ the two big men, an’ the ould king showin’ fair play, as delighted as a child. “Watch this,” sez he, whirlin’ his arm like a windmill, “and now put on your spectacles,” sez he; and away he sends the stone, buzzin’ through the air like a peggin’-top, over the other three _clochauns_, and then across Dublin Bay, an’ scrapin’ the nose off ov Howth, it landed with a swish in the say beyant it. That’s the rock they calls Ireland’s Eye now!

“Be the so an’ so!” sez the king, “I don’t know where that went to, at all, at all! What _direct_ did you send it?” sez he to Fan. “I had it in view, till it went over the say,” sez he.

“I’m bet!” sez the Prence ov Imayle. “I couldn’t pass that, for I can’t see where you put it, even--good-bye to yous,” sez he, turnin’ on his heel an’ makin’ off; “an’ may yous two be as happy as I can wish you!” An’ back he went to the butt ov Lugnaquilla, an’ took to fret, an’ I undherstand shortly afther he died ov a broken heart; an’ they put a turtle-dove on his tombstone to signify that he died for love; but _I_ think he overstrained himself, throwin’, though that’s nayther here nor there with me story!

“Are you goin’ to lep back agen?” sez ould King Garry, wantin’ to see more sport; for he tuk as much delight in seein’ the like as if he was a lad ov twenty.

“To be shure I will!” sez Fan, ready enough, “but I’ll have to take the girl over with me this time!” sez he.

“Oh, no, Fan!” sez Maynish, afeerd ov her life he might stumble, an’ that he’d fall in with her; an’ then she’d have to fall out with him--“take me father with you,” sez she; an’, egonnys, the ould king thought more about himself than any ov them, an’ sed he’d take the will for the deed, like the lawyers. So the weddin’ went on; an’ maybe that wasn’t the grand _blow out_. But I can’t stay to tell yous all the fun they had for a fortnit; on’y, me dear, they all went into _kinks_ (fits) ov laughin’, when the ould king, who tuk more than was good for him, stood up to drink Fan’s health, an’ forgot himself.

“Here’s to’ards your good health, Fan MaCool!” sez he, as grand as you like--“an’ a long life to you, an’ a happy wife to you--an’ a great many ov them!” sez he, like he’d forgot somethin’.

Well, me dear, every one was splittin’ their sides like the p’yates, unless the prencess, an’ _she_ got as red in the face as if she was churnin’ in the winther an’ the frost keepin’ the crame from crackin’; but she got over it like the maisles.

But I suppose you can guess the remainder, an’ as the evenin’s gettin’ forrad I’ll stop; so put down the kittle an’ make tay, an’ if Fan and the Prencess Maynish didn’t live happy together--that we may!

_Patrick J. McCall._

_TATTHER JACK WELSH._

Did you e’er meet a boy on the road to the fair,
With his merry blue eyes and his curly brown hair,
With his hands in his pockets, and whistling a jig,
To humour the way for himself and his pig?

Oh, that was the boy who has won my fond heart,
Whose eyes have sent through me a dangerous dart;
And cut out my sweetheart of old, Darby Kelsh--
Oh, my blessing attend you, my Tatther Jack Welsh!

Well, he lives up the lane, by the side of Lug Dhu,
And the dickens a ha’porth in life does he do,
But breaking the hearts of the girls all around--
Not a single one, whole and entire, can be found.

For he is the boy that can lilt up a tune--
Troth, you’d think ’twas the fairies were singing “Da Luan.”
Oh! your feet would go jigging in spite of yourself
If you heard the fife played by that musical elf.

One fine evening young Darby came up to our house,
And indeed the poor boy was as mute as a mouse,
Till my Jacky came in, and says he, “Darby Kelsh,
Shure you can’t court at all--look at Tatther Jack Welsh!”

So up the rogue rushes, and gave me a _pogue_,[57]
And Darby ran out, like he’d got a _polthogue_,[58]--
“Arrah, what can be ailing,” says he, “Darby Kelsh?”
“Haith, you know well enough,” says I, “Tatther Jack Welsh!”

_Patrick J. McCall._

_THEIR LAST RACE._

I.--THE FACTION FIGHT.

In the heart of the Connemara Highlands, Carrala Valley hides in a triangle of mountains. Carrala Village lies in the comer of it towards Loch Ina, and Aughavanna in the corner nearest Kylemore. Aughavanna is a wreck now: if you were to look for it you would see only a cluster of walls grown over by ferns and nettles; but in those remote times, before the Great Famine, when no English was spoken in the Valley, there was no place more renowned for wild fun and fighting; and when its men were to be at a fair, every able-bodied man in the countryside took his _kippeen_--his cudgel--from its place in the chimney, and went out to do battle with a glad heart.

Long Mat Murnane was the king of Aughavanna. There was no grander sight than Mat smashing his way through a forest of _kippeens_, with his enemies staggering back to the right and left of him; there was no sweeter sound than his voice, clear as a bell, full of triumph and gladness, shouting, “Hurroo! whoop! Aughavanna for ever!” Where his _kippeen_ flickered in the air his followers charged after, and the enemy rushed to meet him, for it was an honour to take a broken head from him.

But Carrala Fair was the black day for him. That day Carrala swarmed with men--fishers from the near coast, dwellers in lonely huts by the black lakes, or in tiny ragged villages under the shadow of the mountains, or in cabins on the hill-sides--every little town for miles, by river or seashore or mountain-built, was emptied. The fame of the Aughavanna men was their ruin, for they were known to fight so well that every one was dying to fight them. The Joyces sided against them; Black Michael Joyce had a farm in the third corner of the Valley, just where the road through the bog from Aughavanna (the road with the cross by it) meets the high-road to Leenane, so his kin mustered in force. Now Black Michael, “Meehul Dhu,” was Long Mat’s rival; though smaller he was near as deadly in fight, and in dancing no man could touch him, for it was said he could jump a yard into the air and kick himself behind with his heels in doing it.

The business of the Fair had been hurried so as to leave the more time for pleasure, and by five of the afternoon every man was mad for the battle. Why you could scarcely have moved in Callanan’s Field out beyond the churchyard at the end of the Village, it was so packed with men--more than five hundred were there, and you could not have heard yourself speak, for they were jumping and dancing, tossing their _caubeens_, and shouting themselves hoarse and deaf--“Hurroo for Carrala!” “Whoop for Aughavanna!” Around them a mob of women, old men and children, looked on breathlessly. It was dull weather, and the mists had crept half-way down the dark mountain walls, as if to have a nearer look at the fight.

As the chapel clock struck five, Long Mat Murnane gave the signal. Down the Village he came, rejoicing in his strength, out between the two last houses, past the churchyard and into Callanan’s Field; he looked every inch a king; his _kippeen_ was ready, his frieze coat was off, with his left hand he trailed it behind him holding it by the sleeve, while with a great voice he shouted--in Irish--“Where’s the Carrala man that dare touch my coat?” “Where’s the cowardly scoundrel that dare look crooked at it?”

In a moment Black Michael Joyce was trailing his own coat behind him, and rushed forward, with a mighty cry, “Where’s the face of a trembling Aughavanna man?” In a moment their _kippeens_ clashed; in another, hundreds of _kippeens_ crashed together, and the grandest fight ever fought in Connemara raged over Callanan’s Field. After the first roar of defiance the men had to keep their breath for the hitting, so the shout of triumph and the groan as one fell were the only sounds that broke the music of the _kippeens_ clashing and clicking on one another, or striking home with a thud.

Never was Long Mat nobler: he rushed ravaging through the enemy, shattering their ranks and their heads, no man could withstand him; Red Callanan of Carrala went down before him; he knocked the five senses out of Dan O’Shaughran of Earrennamore, that herded many pigs by the sedgy banks of the Owen Erriff; he hollowed the left eye out of Larry Mulcahy, that lived on the Devil’s Mother Mountain--never again did Larry set the two eyes of him on his high mountain-cradle; he killed Black Michael Joyce by a beautiful swooping blow on the side of the head--who would have dreamt that Black Michael had so thin a skull?

For near an hour Mat triumphed, then suddenly he went down under foot. At first he was missed only by those nearest him, and they took it for granted that he was up again and fighting. But when the Aughavanna men found themselves out-numbered and driven back to the Village, a great fear came on them, for they knew that all Ireland could not out-number them if Mat was to the fore. Then disaster and rout took them, and they were forced backwards up the street, struggling desperately, till hardly a man of them could stand.

And when the victors were shouting themselves dumb, and drinking themselves blind, the beaten men looked for their leader. Long Mat was prone, his forehead was smashed, his face had been trampled into the mud--he had done with fighting. His death was untimely, yet he fell as he would have chosen--in a friendly battle. For when a man falls under the hand of an enemy (as of any one who differs from him in creed or politics), revenge and black blood live after him; but he who takes his death from the kindly hand of a friend leaves behind him no ill-will, but only gentle regret for the mishap.

II.--THEIR LAST RACE.

When the dead had been duly waked for two days and nights, the burying day came. All the morning Long Mat Murnane’s coffin lay on four chairs by his cabin, with a kneeling ring of dishevelled women _keening_ round it. Every soul in Aughavanna and their kith and kin had gathered to do him honour. And when the Angelus bell rang across the Valley from the chapel, the mourners fell into ranks, the coffin was lifted on the rough hearse, and the motley funeral--a line of carts with a mob of peasants behind, a few riding, but most of them on foot--moved slowly towards Carrala. The women were crying bitterly, _keening_ like an Atlantic gale; the men looked as sober as if they had never heard of a wake, and spoke sadly of the dead man, and of what a pity it was that he could not see his funeral.

The Joyces too had waited, as was the custom, for the Angelus bell, and now Black Michael’s funeral was moving slowly towards Carrala along the other side of the bog. Before long either party could hear the _keening_ of the other, for you know the roads grow nearer as they converge on Carrala. Before long either party began to fear that the other would be there first.

There is no knowing how it happened, but the funerals began to go quicker, keeping abreast; then still quicker, till the women had to break into a trot to keep up; then still quicker, till the donkeys were galloping, and till every one raced at full speed, and the rival parties broke into a wild shout of “Aughavanna _abu_!” “Meehul Dhu for ever!”

For the dead men were racing--feet foremost--to the grave; they were rivals even in death. Never did the world see such a race, never was there such whooping and shouting. Where the roads meet in Callanan’s Field the hearses were abreast; neck to neck they dashed across the trampled fighting-place, while the coffins jogged and jolted as if the two dead men were struggling to get out and lead the rush; neck to neck they reached the churchyard, and the hearses jammed in the gate. Behind them the carts crashed into one another, and the mourners shouted as if they were mad.

But the quick wit of the Aughavanna men triumphed, for they seized their long coffin and dragged it in, and Long Mat Murnane won his last race. The shout they gave then deafened the echo up in the mountains, so that it has never been the same since. The victors wrung one another’s hands; they hugged one another.

“Himself would be proud,” they cried, “if he hadn’t been dead!”

_Frank Mathew_ (1865).

_IN BLARNEY._

_He_--Be the fire, _alanna_, sittin’,
Purty ’tis you look and sweet,
Wid yer dainty fingers knittin’
Shtockin’s for yer daintier feet.

_She_--It’s yer tongue that has the blarney,
Yis, and impudence _galore_!
Is it me to thrusht ye, Barney,
When yer afther half-a-score?

_He_--Shure, I ne’er, in all I thravelled,
Found at all the likes o’ you.
_She_--Now my worsted all is ravelled
And whatever will I do?

_He_--Might I make so bould to ask it,
Shure I know the girl o’ girls;
And I’d make me heart the casket,
And her love the pearl o’ pearls.

_She_--Ah, thin, Barney dear, I’m thinkin’
That it’s you’re the honied rogue.
_He_--Faix, I’d be the bee a-dhrinkin’
From yer rosy lips a _pogue_.[59]

_She_--Is it steal a colleen’s kisses,
When it’s all alone she’s left?
_He_--Wor they all as sweet as this is,
Troth, I’d go to jail for theft.

_She_--Barney! Barney, shtop yer foolin’!
Or I’ll soon begin to scould.
Sure, I’d like to know what school in
Did ye learn to be so bould?

_He_--Och! it’s undher Masther Cupid
That I learned me A, B, C.
_She_--That the scholar wasn’t stupid,
Faith, is very plain to see.

_He_--Ah, then Eily, but the blush is
Most becomin’ to ye, dear!
Like the red rose on the bush is----
_She_--Sir I you needn’t come so near!

_He_--Over lane and road and _boreen_,
Troth, I’ve come a weary way,
Jusht to whisper ye, _asthoreen_,
Somethin’ that I’ve longed to say.

I’ve a cosy cottage, which is
Jusht the proper size for two----
_She_--There, I’ve tangled all me stitches,
And it’s all because av you!

_He_--And, to make a sthray suggestchun,
Maybe you me wish might guess?
_She_--Sure, an’ if ye pressed the question,
Somehow--I--might answer--YES!

_Patrick J. Coleman_ (1867).

_BINDIN’ THE OATS._

Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
That evening, dear?
Ah! but you bound my heart complately,
Fair and nately,
Snug in the snood of your silken hair!

Swung the sickles, you followed after
With musical laughter
And witchin’ eye.
I tried to reap, but each swathe I took, love,
Spoiled the stook, love,
For your smile had bothered my head awry!

Such an elegant, graceful binder,
Where could I find her
All Ireland through?
Worn’t the stout, young, strappin’ fellows
Fairly jealous,
Dyin’, _asthore machree_, for you?

Talk o’ Persephone pluckin’ the posies,
Or the red roses,
In Henna’s plain!
_You_ wor sweeter, with cheeks so red, love,
And beautiful head, love,
Gatherin’ up the golden grain.

Bindin’ the oats in sweet September,
Don’t you remember
The stolen _pogue_?[60]
How could I help but there deliver
My heart for ever
To such a beautiful little rogue?

Bindin’ the oats, ’twas there you found me,
There you bound me
That harvest day!
Ah! that I in your blessed bond, love,
Fair and fond, love,
Happy, for ever and ever, stay!

_Patrick J. Coleman._

_SELECTED IRISH PROVERBS, ETC._

A man ties a knot with his tongue that his teeth will not loosen.

Honey is sweet, but don’t lick it off a briar.

The doorstep of a great house is slippery.

The leisure of the smith’s helper (_i.e._, from the bellows to the anvil).

You have the foal’s share of the harrow.

Laziness is a heavy burden.

You’d be a good messenger to send for death--(said of a slow person).

Better be bald than have no head at all--but the devil a much more than that.

Better the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight.

Let him cool in the skin he warmed in.

A man is shy in another man’s corner.

The pig in the sty doesn’t know the pig going along the road.

’Tis on her own account the cat purrs.

Cows far from home have long horns.

A black hen lays a white egg (_i.e._, do not judge by appearances).

’Tis a good story that fills the belly.

A drink is shorter than a story.

The man that’s up is toasted,
The man that’s down is trampled on.

He knows more than his “Our Father.”

A mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.

A soft word never broke a tooth yet.

He comes like the bad weather (_i.e._, uninvited).

Who lies down with dogs will get up with fleas.

The eye of a friend is a good looking-glass.

’Tis the fool has luck.

What the Pookha writes, he himself can read.

A blind man can see his mouth.

To die and to lose one’s life are much the same.

Don’t leave a tailor’s remnant behind you.

’Tis a wedge of itself that splits the oak.

The three sharpest things at all--a thorn in mire, a hound’s tooth, and a fool’s retort.

When it goes hard with the old hag, she must run.

The jewel most rare is the jewel most fair.

He that loses the game, let him talk away.

A heavy purse makes a light heart.

He is like a bag-pipe--he never makes a noise till his belly’s full.

Out of the kitchen comes the tune.

Falling is easier than rising.

A woman has an excuse readier than an apron.

The secret of an old woman scolding (_i.e._, no secret at all).

A bad wife takes advice from every man but her own husband.

The daughter of an active old woman makes a bad housekeeper.

Never take a wife who has no faults.

She burnt her coal and did not warm herself (_i.e._, when a woman makes a bad marriage).

A ring on the finger and not a stitch of clothes on the back.

A hen with chickens never yet burst her craw.

A big belly was never generous.

One bit of a rabbit is worth two of a cat.

There is hope from the sea, but no hope from the cemetery.

When the hand ceases to scatter, the mouth ceases to praise.

Big head and little sense.

The tail is part of the cat (_i.e._, a man resembles his family).

A cat’s milk gives no cream (said of a stingy person).

Butter to butter’s no relish (said when two men dance together, or two women kiss each other).

One cockroach knows another.

A heavy load are your empty guts.

The young thorn is the sharpest.

Sweet is wine, bitter its payment.

Whoever drinks, it is Donall that pays.

An alms from his own share, to the fool.

Better a wren in hand that a crane promised.

The man on the fence is the best hurler (against critics and idle lookers-on).

A closed hand gets but a shut fist.

It is not all big men that reap the harvest.

Easy, oh woman of three cows! (against pretentious people).

Fair words won’t feed the friars.

Never poor till one goes to hell.

Not worried till married.

Brother to Donall is Theigue (= _Arcades ambo_).

Three without rule--a wife, a pig, and a mule.

When your hand is in the dog’s mouth, draw it out gently.

Better a drop of whisky than a blow of a stick.

After their feeding, the whelps begin to fight.

The four drinks--the drink for thirst, the drink without thirst, the drink for fear of thirst, and the drink at the door.

A woman is more obstinate than a mule--a mule than the devil.

All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.

When the goat goes to church he never stops till he goes up to the altar.

A strip of another man’s leather is very soft.

’Tis a bad hen that won’t scratch for herself.

Better riding a goat than the best marching.

Death is the poor man’s doctor.

If ’tis a sin to be yellow, thousands will be damned.

There’s no good crying when the funeral is gone.

Buttermilk is no milk, and a pudding’s no meat.

Though near to a man his coat, his shirt is nearer (_i.e._, blood is thicker than water).

Better a fistful of a man than a basketful of a woman.

What cannot be had is just what suits.

An unlearned king is a crowned ass.

’Tis the end of the little pot, the bottom to fall out of it.

A woman’s desire--the dear thing.

Twelve things not to be found--four priests not covetous, four Frenchmen not yellow, and four cobblers not liars.

Nora having a servant and herself begging (shabby gentility).

A man without dinner--two for supper.

The man without a resource is hanged.

Poor women think butter-milk good.

Harsh is the poor man’s voice--he speaks all out of place.

A wet mouth does not feel a dry mouth (_i.e._, plenty does not understand want).

’Tis a fine horse that never stumbles.

Take care of my neck and go on one side (_i.e._, do not lean altogether on one).

A man loses something to teach himself.

A hen carried far is heavy.

The day of the storm is not the day for thatching.

Winter comes on the lazy.

A crow thinks its own young white.

Putting on the mill the straw of the kiln (_i.e._, robbing Peter to pay Paul).

Truth is bitter, but a lie is savoury at times.

’Tis a bad hound that is not worth whistling for.

Better to-day than to-morrow morning.

Patience is the cure of an old complaint.

Have your own will, like the women have.

It is not the same thing to go to town (or to court) and to come from it.

An old cat does not burn himself.

A foolish woman knows the faults of a foolish man.

The man that’s out his portion cools (_i.e._, out of sight, out of mind).

That’s great softening on the butter-milk.

The law of lending is to break the ware.

No heat like that of shame.

A candle does not give light till lit.

Don’t praise your son-in-law till the year’s out.

It is not a sheep’s head that we wouldn’t have another turn at it (there being only one meal in a sheep’s head).

The glory the head cannot bear, ’twere better not there.

He that does not tie a knot will lose his first stitch.

The fox never found a better messenger than himself.

Better a little fire that warms than a large fire that burns.

Better a short sitting than a long standing.

Better be idle than working for nothing.

Do not show your teeth when you cannot give a bite.

Better come empty than with bad news.

Trust him as far as you can throw a cow by the tail.

Praise the end of it.

To know one since his boots cost fourpence (_i.e._, from an early age).

Never was door shut but another was opened.

The heaviest ear of corn bends lowliest.

He who is bad at giving lodging is good at showing the road.

The husband of the sloven is known amongst a crowd.

Where there’s women there’s talk, and where there’s geese there’s cackling.

More beard than brains, as the fox said of the goat.

A bad reaper never got a good reaping hook.

A trade not learned is an enemy.

An empty house is better than a bad tenant.

He knows as much about it as a dog knows of his father.

He’d say anything but his prayers.

A vessel will only hold the full of it.

Blow before you drink.

Better fame (_i.e._, reputation and character) than fortune.

A blind man is no judge of colours.

Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.

When the cat is out, the mice dance.

There is often anger in a laugh.

A fool’s gold is light.

No one claims kindred with the homeless.

An empty vessel makes most sound.

The lamb teaching her dam to bleat.

Both hard and soft, like the cow’s tail.

He that gets a name for early rising may sleep all day.

Talk is cheap.

When the hand grows weak, love gets feeble.

If you have a cow you can always find somebody to milk her.

Long-lived is a man in his own country.

Forgetting one’s debts does not pay them.

Nearer is God’s aid than the door.

Bad is the walk that is not better than rest.

Diseases without shame are love and thirst.

It is hard to dry a rush that has been dipped in tallow (_i.e._, it is hard to break off a habit).

Might is not lasting.

Wrath speaketh not true.

A bribe bursts the rock.

What goes to length goes to coldness.

Better the good that is than the double good that was.

Often a mouse went under a cornstack.

A good retreat is better than a bad stand.

Not better is food than sense at time of drinking.

The idiot knows the fault of the fool.

Thy complexion is black, says the raven.

Better be sparing at first than at last.

Whoever escapes, the peacemaker won’t.

I would take an eye out of myself to take two out of another.

A hedge on the field after the trespass.

Melodious is the closed mouth.

A spit without meat is a long thing.

Alas for a house that men frequent not.

It’s many the skin that sloughs off youth.

Time is a good story-teller.

The quills often took the flesh with them.

One debt won’t pay another.

There never came a gatherer but a scatterer came after him.

There’s none for bad shoes like the shoemaker’s wife.

No man ever gave advice but himself were the better for some of it.

A man of learning understands the half-word.

O’Brien’s gift and his two eyes after it (_i.e._, regretting it).

BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.

BARRETT, EATON STANNARD.--Satirist and poet, and one of
the wittiest of writers. Born in Cork in 1786, he graduated at
Trinity College, Dublin, and became a barrister in London. Some
of his satires had great vogue, especially “All the Talents,”
which was directed against a ministry still known by that
description. He was the author of various burlesque novels,
plays, and poems, but could write well on serious topics.
Barrett died in Glamorganshire, Wales, on March 20th, 1820,
through the bursting of a blood-vessel.

BOUCICAULT, DION.--The real name of this popular
dramatist and actor was Dionysius Lardner Bourcicault. He was
born in Dublin on December 26th, 1822, and wrote the comedy of
“London Assurance,” when only nineteen years old. His Irish
dramas are well known, and are still considered the best of
their kind. He was an admirable comedian, as well as dramatic
writer. He spent many years in the United States, and died there
in September 1890.

BOURKE, JAMES JOSEPH.--Born in Dublin on September
17th, 1837. His poems are very widely known and appreciated
among Irish people. Over the signature of “Tiria” he wrote
largely for the Irish newspapers of the last thirty years. He
died on April 28th, 1894.

BOYLE, WILLIAM.--There are few Irish authors whose
writings are more racy than his. He was born in 1853 at
Dromiskin, co. Louth, and was educated at St. Mary’s College,
Dundalk. He entered the Inland Revenue department in 1874, and
is now stationed in Glasgow.

CANNING, GEORGE.--Born in London on April 11th, 1770.
His father and mother were Irish, and he insisted that he was an
Irishman born out of Ireland. After a brilliant Parliamentary
career he became Prime Minister in 1827, but only held the
position about three months, his death occurring on August 8th
of that year. His witty essays were written in early life for
_The Microcosm_ and _Anti-Jacobin_.

CANNINGS, THOMAS.--A private soldier, who published at
Cork in 1800, or thereabouts, a volume of _Detached Pieces in
Verse_. He belonged to the 61st Regiment.

CARLETON, WILLIAM.--Author of the _Traits and Stories
of the Irish Peasantry_, and recognised as one of the
greatest delineators of Irish character. Born at Prillisk, co.
Tyrone, in 1794, he was the son of a peasant. His best-known
work, already mentioned, appeared in 1830, and after that date
scarcely a year passed without a new work of his appearing.
He wrote largely for the _Dublin University Magazine_,
etc., and was granted a Civil List pension of £200 by Lord John
Russell. He died near Dublin on January 30th, 1869.

COLEMAN, PATRICK JAMES.--A native of Ballaghadeerin,
co. Mayo, where he was born on September 2nd, 1867. He
matriculated in London University, and in 1888 went to
America. He now occupies a position in the journalistic
world of Philadelphia, and is regarded as one of the rising
Irish-American poets.

CURRAN, JOHN PHILPOT.--This noted orator and wit was
born at Newmarket, co. Cork, on July 24th, 1750. His patriotism
has endeared him to his countrymen, and his eloquence and humour
have made his name widely familiar. He became Master of the
Rolls in Ireland in 1806, and died in London on October 14th,
1817.

DAWSON, ARTHUR.--A Baron of the Exchequer in Ireland,
was born about 1700, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University. He
was appointed Baron of the Irish Court of Exchequer in 1742, and
died in 1775.

DE QUINCEY, J.--A solicitor’s clerk in Limerick, who
wrote a little humorous verse in the Irish papers some years ago.

DOWNEY, EDMUND.--Author of the well-known stories
signed “F. M. Allen,” such as “Through Green Glasses,” etc.
These richly humorous Irish stories are perhaps better known,
but can hardly be considered superior to his excellent
sea-stories. “Anchor-Watch Yarns” and kindred tales by Mr.
Downey place him in the front rank of writers of sea-stories.
He was born in Waterford in 1856, and is the son of a shipowner
and broker. He came to London in 1878, and was for a time in the
office of Tinsley the publisher. He afterwards became a partner
in the firm of Ward & Downey, from which he has now retired.

DUFFERIN, LADY.--Born in 1807, the daughter of Thomas,
son of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She and her two sisters were
noted for personal beauty; one of them, the Hon. Mrs. Norton,
was also well known as a poetess. She married first the Hon.
Pryce Blackwood (afterwards Lord Dufferin), and afterwards the
Earl of Gifford. The present Marquis of Dufferin is her son. She
died on June 13th, 1867. Her poems are often exquisite in their
pathos, humour, or grace.

ETTINGSALL, THOMAS.--A fishing-tackle manufacturer of
Wood Quay, Dublin, and was born about the close of last century.
He wrote only a few sketches and stories for _The Irish Penny
Journal_ (1840) and _Dublin Penny Journal_ (1832). It
was in the last-named magazine, on December 15th, 1832, that
the story here given appeared. He was concerned with H. B.
Code in the authorship of _The Angling Excursions of Gregory
Greendrake_, which was published in Dublin in 1824. He was
“Geoffrey Greydrake” of that work, which was reprinted from
_The Warder_. He died in poor circumstances about 1850.

FAHY, FRANCIS ARTHUR.--One of the raciest and most
humorous of Irish poets. Born in Kinvara, co. Galway, on
September 29th, 1854, and came to London as a Civil Service
clerk in 1873. He wrote many poems for the Irish papers, signed
“Dreoilin” (the wren), and in 1887 published a collection of
_Irish Songs and Poems_ in Dublin. He is represented
by a few pieces in the recently-issued _Songs of the Four
Nations_, and some of his later songs have been admirably set
to music by Mrs. Needham.

FARQUHAR, GEORGE.--This noted dramatist was born in
Derry in 1678, and was the son of a clergyman. He studied at
Dublin University and did not graduate. He went on the stage
in 1695, but though successful as an actor, he left the stage
and wrote plays, of which his most important are “The Beaux
Stratagem,” “The Inconstant,” and “The Recruiting Officer.” He
died in April 1707.

FERGUSON, SIR SAMUEL.--Is regarded as one of the
greatest of Irish poets. Was born on March 10th, 1810; graduated
at Dublin University, and was called to the Bar. He was one of
the leading contributors to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, his
“Father Tom and the Pope” (often attributed in error to others)
appearing in its columns, and also his fine poem, “The Forging
of the Anchor.” He published several volumes of very admirable
poetry, and some graphic stories of ancient Ireland. He died on
August 9th, 1886.

FRENCH, WILLIAM PERCY.--Born at Clooniquin, co.
Roscommon, on May 1st, 1854, and graduated at Dublin University.
He is one of the cleverest of living Irish humorists, and is the
author of many verses, stories, etc., most of which appeared in
a small Dublin comic, _The Jarvey_, edited by himself. Some
of his songs have become very popular, and he is also the author
of the _libretti_ of one or two operas.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.--The leading facts of Goldsmith’s
career are almost too well known to need even bare mention. He
was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, co. Longford, on November
10th, 1728. He entered Dublin University, and graduated B.A.
there in 1749. After wandering about the Continent he settled
down in London to a literary life, his first experiences being
those of a badly-paid hack. He died on April 4th, 1774, and was
buried in the Temple.

GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL.--The author of “Father
O’Flynn” is decidedly the most popular, after Lover, of the
humorous Irish song-writers. He has not only produced many good
songs in the lighter vein, but has also written excellent ones
of a pathetic character. He is the son of the present Bishop
of Limerick, and was born in Dublin in 1846. He is a graduate
of Dublin, and holds the position of Inspector of Schools. He
resided for some years in Taunton, but now lives in London. It
would have been easy to extract a dozen inimitable pieces from
his several volumes. He has done much to make Irish music and
the Irish character better known.

GRIFFIN, GERALD.--Born in Limerick on December 12th,
1803, came to London in youth to carve out his fortune. He wrote
some admirable Irish stories and some beautiful poems, as well
as a tolerable play, but just as he was succeeding in literature
he withdrew from the world, joining the order of the Christian
Brothers. He died in Cork on June 12th, 1840. His best-known
book is _The Collegians, or, the Colleen Bawn_.

HALPINE, CHARLES GRAHAM.--Author of one or two volumes
of verse, some of which is occasionally very humorous. He was
born at Oldcastle, co. Meath, in 1829, and was the son of a
Protestant clergyman. He went to the United States in the
fifties and fought through the Civil War, gaining the rank of
colonel. He died through taking an overdose of chloral to induce
sleep, on August 3rd, 1868.

HYDE, DOUGLAS, LL.D.--Is the son of Rev. Arthur Hyde
of Frenchpark, co. Roscommon, and was born at Kilmactranny, co.
Sligo, somewhere about 1860. Graduated at Dublin University, and
had a brilliant career there. Is one of the foremost of living
Irish writers, and a master of the Gaelic tongue. He is well
known as a scholar and an enthusiast in folk-lore studies, and
has published fine collections of Irish folk-tales and popular
songs of the West of Ireland. He is also a clever writer of
verse, both in Irish and in English.

KENEALY, EDWARD VAUGHAN HYDE, LL.D.--Born in Cork
on July 2nd, 1819, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University
in 1850. Was called to the English Bar in 1847, and had a
somewhat stormy career as a member, being finally disbarred on
account of his conduct in the famous Tichbourne case. He wrote
a good deal for _Fraser’s Magazine_ in its early years,
as also for _Bentley’s Miscellany_, and published various
collections of poetry. He was a vigorous journalist, and a man
of undoubtedly great ability, and entered Parliament in 1875. He
died on April 16th, 1880.

KICKHAM, CHARLES JOSEPH.--A poet of the people, and
a novelist of some power. To get a genuine impression of
the home-life of the Munster people, his stories, _Sally
Cavanagh_ and _Knocknagow, or the Homes of Tipperary_,
should be read. He was born at Mullinahone, co. Tipperary, in
1828, and became a Fenian. He was connected with _The Irish
People_, the Fenian organ, and in 1865 was arrested and
sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude. He lost his sight
during his imprisonment, and was much shattered in health. He
died on August 22nd, 1882.

LEFANU, JOSEPH SHERIDAN.--Born in Dublin on August
28th, 1814, and graduated B.A. at Dublin University in 1837. He
was called to the Bar, but devoted himself to literature and
journalism. He owned two or three Dublin papers, and was editor
of _The Dublin University Magazine_, also his property,
where most of his novels and poems appeared. He is one of the
most enthralling of novelists, his _Uncle Silas_, _In a
Glass Darkly_, etc., being very powerful. His poems, such as
“Shamus O’Brien,” are also very well known. He died on February
7th, 1873.

LEVER, CHARLES JAMES.--This most widely read of Irish
novelists was born in Dublin on August 31st, 1806, and graduated
M.B. at Dublin University in 1831. He took his M.D. degree at
Louvain, and became a dispensary doctor in Ireland, but also
practised abroad for a time with success. He was editor of
_The Dublin University Magazine_ from 1842 to 1845, and
wrote much for it, for _Blackwood’s Magazine_ and other
leading periodicals. There is no necessity to name any of his
novels. He acted as English Consul in Italy, and died at Trieste
on June 1st, 1872. His life has been admirably told by Mr. W. J.
Fitzpatrick (1879; 2nd ed. 1882).

LOVER, SAMUEL.--Poet, painter, musician, dramatist, and
novelist--and successful in all departments. His work in each
was excellent, and he might have been considered great if he
had confined himself to any one of them. He was born in Dublin
on February 24th, 1797, and was first notable as a miniature
painter. His weak eyesight, however, compelled him to give up
the art. He wrote several clever plays, one or two tremendously
popular novels, and some hundreds of songs, most of which he set
to music himself. He died in Jersey on July 6th, 1868.

LUTTRELL, HENRY.--At one time Luttrell was one of the
most popular men in London society, and known far and wide for
his powers of repartee. He was born in 1766 or 1767, in Dublin,
and was for a time a member of the Irish Parliament. After
the Union he came to England, and was a frequent guest at the
brilliant social functions of Holland House. He died in Brompton
Square on December 19th, 1851. His “Advice to Julia” and
“Crockford House” are clever verse of the light satirical order.

LYSAGHT, EDWARD.--One of the most famous of Irish
wits, born at Brickhill, co. Clare, on December 21st, 1763,
and educated at Cashel, co. Tipperary, and at Oxford, where he
graduated M. A. in 1788. He became a barrister, but was too much
of a _bon vivant_ to succeed greatly in his profession. His
reputation as a wit is not sustained by his collected poems. He
has been accredited with the authorship of “Kitty of Coleraine,”
“The Sprig of Shillelagh,” “Donnybrook Fair,” and “The Lakes
of Mallow,” not one of which was written by him (_vide_
“The Poets of Ireland, a biographical dictionary,” by D. J.
O’Donoghue). He died in Dublin in 1810.

MAGINN, WILLIAM, LL.D.--One of the greatest scholars
and humorists Cork has produced. He was born in that city on
July 10th, 1793, and graduated LL.D. at Dublin University
in 1819. He was, from its commencement, the most brilliant
contributor to _Blackwood’s Magazine_, and also edited
_Fraser_ on its appearance in 1830. His fatal propensity to
liquor prevented his doing himself justice, though he wrote many
inimitable pieces, which have mostly been collected. He was one
of the most lovable of men. He died on August 21st, 1842.

MAHER, WILLIAM.--A Waterford clothier, who is
considered the most likely author of “The Night before Larry
was Stretched.” One thing is certain, Dean Burrowes of Cork
did _not_ write it, as has often been claimed. Walsh’s
_Ireland Sixty Years Ago_ (1847) gives it to Maher, who
flourished about 1780.

MAHONY, REV. FRANCIS SYLVESTER.--Better remembered as
“Father Prout,” the name he took as his pseudonym in writing.
He was of Kerry family, but was born in Cork in 1804--not 1805,
as is frequently said. He was educated for the priesthood at
Amiens and Paris, and joined the Jesuit order. After some
years, however, he practically gave up his functions, and led
a Bohemian life. He was one of the most admired contributors
to _Fraser_, where his “Reliques” appeared. In later life
he acted as Paris correspondent of _The Globe_ (which
he partly owned) and as Roman correspondent of _The Daily
News_. Before his death, which occurred in Paris on May 18th,
1866, he repented of his disregard for his sacred calling. He
was buried in his native city. It is extremely difficult to
make extracts from his prose, on account of the superabundant
classical allusions and references which it contains. He was not
a very agreeable man, personally.

MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE.--One of the first of Irish
poets, and held to be the greatest of them by many of his
countrymen. He was born in Dublin on May 1st, 1803, and was
the son of a grocer. He wrote innumerable poems to the Irish
periodicals of his time, notably _The Nation_ and _Dublin
University Magazine_. He knew various languages, but his
pretended translations from Turkish, Coptic, Hebrew, Arabic, and
Persian are so many elaborate jokes. He was most unfortunate
in life, mainly through his addiction to drink. His was a
wonderful personality, which has attracted many writers, and
his great poetical gifts are gradually becoming evident to
English critics. He was greatly encouraged by his admirers, but
to little purpose. His poems have been collected into several
small volumes, but there is no complete edition, though it is
badly wanted. He died in a Dublin hospital on June 20th, 1849.
See John McCall’s _Life of J. C. Mangan_ for further
particulars of his interesting career.

MATHEW, FRANK.--Is a solicitor and a nephew of the
eminent English judge, Sir James Mathew. Was born in 1865, and
his first literary work was his biography of his illustrious
relative, Father Mathew, “The Apostle of Temperance.” His
admirable Irish stories, which appeared in _The Idler_,
have been collected in a volume called _At the Rising of the
Moon_. They are very graphically told.

MCCALL, PATRICK JOSEPH.--A genuinely Irish poet,
whose original poems and translations from the Irish are very
characteristic. He is the son of a Dublin grocer (the author
of a memoir of Mangan), and was born in Dublin on March 6th,
1861. Was educated at the Catholic University School in his
native city, and for some years has been a frequent and welcome
contributor to the Dublin Nationalist press. A good selection of
his poems has just been published under the title of _Irish
Noinins_. His stories have mostly appeared in _The
Shamrock_ of Dublin.

MCKOWEN, JAMES.--Born at Lambeg, near Lisburn, co.
Antrim, on February 11th, 1814. He received only an elementary
education, and was first employed at a thread manufactory,
afterwards working as a linen-bleacher for many years. He wrote
principally for North of Ireland papers, and was exceedingly
popular with Ulster people, but one or two of his songs have
found a much wider audience. He died on April 22nd, 1889.

MOORE, THOMAS.--Son of a Dublin grocer, and born in
that city on May 28th, 1779. He graduated at Dublin University,
and studied law in London. He began to woo the muse, as the
saying goes, at a very early age, but his first great success
was occasioned by his _Irish Melodies_, which began to
appear in parts in 1806. He died on February 26th, 1852.

O’CONOR, CHARLES PATRICK.--Born in co. Cork in or
about 1837, and came to England in his youth. He has written
some good verse, and was granted a Civil List pension of £50 a
year. To Irish papers he contributed very largely, and published
several small collections of verse. His complete works were
published by himself, and are to be obtained from him at Hither
Green, Lewisham.

O’DONNELL, JOHN FRANCIS.--An Irish writer who is best
known to his countrymen as a poet. He was born in Limerick in
1837, and began to write for the press at the age of fourteen.
In 1861 he came to London, and wrote largely for various
journals, including those of Charles Dickens. He died on May
7th, 1874. A selection from his poems was published in 1891,
through the exertions of the Southwark Irish Literary Club.

O’FLAHERTY, CHARLES.--Born in 1794, in Dublin, where
his father was a pawnbroker in Ross Lane, and was apprenticed
to a bookseller, eventually turning to journalism. He was on
the staff of the Dublin _Morning Post_, and afterwards
edited the _Wexford Evening Post_. He died in May 1828. He
published three volumes of verse, and some of his songs enjoyed
great popularity, especially “The Humours of Donnybrook Fair,”
which is taken from his _Trifles in Poetry_, 1813.

O’KEEFFE, JOHN.--This popular dramatist was born in
Dublin on June 24th, 1747, and was at first intended as an
artist, as he was very deft with the pencil. But he preferred
the stage, and was a successful actor for a time. Removing to
London, he began to earn repute as a dramatist, writing numerous
plays, chiefly operas and farces, which had great vogue. His
“Wild Oats,” a comedy, still keeps the stage, and other pieces
of his are still remembered. He lost his sight many years before
his death, which occurred at Southampton on February 24th, 1833.

O’LEARY, JOSEPH.--Author of _The Tribute_, a
collection of prose and verse, published anonymously at Cork in
1833. He was born in Cork about 1790, and was a contributor to
the scurrilous _Freeholder_ and other papers of his native
city and of Dublin. He came to London in 1834, and acted as
parliamentary reporter for the _Morning Herald_. Between
1840 and 1850 he disappeared, and is said to have committed
suicide in the Regent’s Canal. “Whisky, Drink Divine” first
appeared in The _Freeholder_ about 1820.

O’LEARY, PATRICK.--One of the foremost writers in
Irish at the present day. He is a resident of West Cork, and is
probably a native of that locality. The original of the sketch
quoted appeared in _The Gaelic Journal_, and was translated
by himself for the present collection.

O’RYAN, JEREMIAH.--Born near Bansha, co. Tipperary,
about the close of last century, and died in March 1855. He is
generally known as “Darby Ryan of Bansha.” Some of his songs
were collected and published in Dublin in 1861.

PORTER, REV. THOMAS HAMBLIN, D.D.--Born about 1800, and
died some years ago, but little is known about him. He graduated
D.D. at Dublin University in 1836, and wrote a few pieces, which
were published in Dublin magazines. “The Nightcap” appeared
about 1820.

ROCHE, SIR BOYLE.--Born probably in the south of
Ireland about 1740. Was a soldier, and distinguished himself
in the American War. He entered the Irish Parliament, and was
created a baronet in 1782 by the Government for his unwavering
support. He was pensioned for his service in voting for the
Union, and died in Dublin on June 5th, 1807. He was noted for
his very carefully prepared blunders in speech.

SHALVEY, THOMAS.--A market-gardener in Dublin, who
wrote some amusing poems for James Kearney, a vocalist who used
to sing at several music-halls and inferior concert-rooms in
Dublin a good many years ago. Kearney was very popular, and some
of his best songs were written for him by Shalvey.

SHAW, GEORGE BERNARD.--Born in Dublin in 1856, is now
recognised as one of the most brilliant of musical critics in
London. He was for a time a land agent in the West of Ireland,
but was always a musical enthusiast, and belongs to a musical
family well known in Dublin. He has a profound knowledge of
music, but a somewhat flippant way of showing it. He has written
several clever novels, and literary, art, and musical criticisms
for leading London papers. He was the caustic “Corno di
Bassetto” of _The Star_, and is now the musical critic of
_The World_. He is also a brilliant speaker, and has quite
recently come to the front as a dramatist.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY.--Born in October 1751, in
Dorset Street, Dublin, and son of a noted actor and manager.
As dramatist, orator, and spendthrift, Sheridan’s name figures
very prominently in the memoirs of his time. His wit was
squandered in every direction as well as his cash, and he has
been reproached for making every one of the characters in his
plays as witty as himself. He was an important personality in
the politics of his day, and sat in the English Parliament for
many years. He died in debt and poverty on July 7th, 1816, and
was accorded a grand burial in Westminster Abbey.

STEELE, SIR RICHARD.--Born in Dublin in 1671 or 1672,
and educated at the Charterhouse School, London, and at Oxford.
In 1709 he commenced the publication of _The Tatler_, and
followed it up by _The Spectator_, etc. He also wrote
several comedies, and other works. He entered Parliament in
1713, and held one or two Government offices. He died in Wales
on September 1st, 1729.

STERNE, REV. LAURENCE.--Born at Clonmel, co. Tipperary,
on November 24th, 1713, and graduated M.A. at Cambridge in
1740. His father was an officer in the army. He was ordained
about 1740, and after some years of inactivity at home and
travel abroad, wrote his great work, _Tristram Shandy_,
which appeared at intervals between 1759 and 1767. _His
Sentimental Journey_ appeared in 1768. He died on March 18th,
1768.

SULLIVAN, TIMOTHY DANIEL.--This well-known politician
is one of the most widely read of the Irish verse-writers, and
has written a few songs which have deeply impressed themselves
on Irish memories. But he excels in the writing of political
skits, which at one time formed one of the chief features of the
_Nation_ newspaper, then edited by him. Several volumes of
his poetical work have been published. He was born at Bantry,
co. Cork, in 1827.

SWIFT, REV. JONATHAN, D.D.--This greatest of satirists
in the English tongue was born in Hoey’s Court, Dublin, on
November 30th, 1667, and graduated B. A. at Dublin University
in 1686, and afterwards at Oxford. He was ordained in 1694,
and published The _Tale of a Tub_ in 1705. _Gulliver’s
Travels_ followed in 1726–27, and innumerable other works
came from his pen. He was one of Ireland’s champions, and had
an extraordinary popularity with the people. He died on October
19th, 1745.

WADE, JOSEPH AUGUSTINE.--An unfortunate Irish genius,
born in Dublin in 1796, and the son of a dairyman in Thomas
Street. As a poet and musician Wade has been highly praised. He
composed some excellent songs. He made large sums of money by
his writings and music, but was very erratic in his career. He
died in poverty on September 29th, 1845.

WALLER, JOHN FRANCIS, LL.D.--Born in Limerick in 1809,
and connected with the Wallers of co. Tipperary. He graduated
LL.D. at Dublin University in 1852, and held an important
Government position in Dublin for many years. He was editor
of The _Dublin University Magazine_ for some time, and
published several volumes of clever prose and verse. He is one
of the best of Irish song-writers. Died on January 19th, 1894.