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THE IRISH MONTHLY.
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THE
IRISH MONTHLY
% Htega^tite of (Setters! %ittxntuxt
FOURTEENTH YEARLY VOLUME 1886
LUBLIN M. H. GILL A SON, O'CONNELL STREET
LONDON: BURNS * OATE8; SIMPKIN, MAB8HAU. ft CO.
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M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN.
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CONTENTS.
Stories.
The Chaplain of St Denis. By the late C. W. Russell, D.D.
Mr. Baker's Domestic System
The Five Cobblers of Brescia. By Rosa Mulholland
Bet's Matchmaking. By the Same
Maureen Lacy. By the Same
An Arcachon Comedy. By Mrs. Frank Fentrill .
An Arcachon Tragedy. By the Same .
The Fit of Ailrie's Shoe. By Rosa Mulholland .
Molly the Tramp. By the Same
The Haunted Organist of Hurly Burly. By the Same
Marigold. By the Same
The Ghost at the Rath. By the Same .
Little Jack and the Christmas Pudding. By M. E. Francis
Sketches of Places and Persons.
A Curious Relic of Thomas Francis Meagher
The Last of the Shanachies. By Mrs. Morgan John O*0onnell
A Family of Famous Celtic Scholars. By the Most Rev. Dr. Healey
A Convert'! Reminiscence. By F. B. A.
A Web of Irish Biographies •
John Mitchel's Daughter. By the Editor
An Idyll of the City. By T. F.W.
Nutshell Biograms ..... 164,
Another Irish Nun in Exile •
Richard Robert Madden. By M. R. .
Augustus Law, S.J. Notes in Remembrance. By the Editor 185,
Irish-American Poets. By Daniel Connolly
Gerhard Sehneemann, S. J. By the Rev. Peter Finlay, S. J.
The Ursulines of Tenos. By Hannah Lynch
Frederick Lucas. By the Rev. Peter Finlay, S J.
November in a Greek Island. By Hannah Lynch
Abbe* MaoCarron. By the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J.
The Last Martyr of the Confessional. By Frank Hugh O'Donnell
At Nasareth House .....
Leibnite. By the late C. W. Russell, D. D.
The Round Tower of Blbannon. By Richard J. Kelly .
Sir Samuel Ferguson. By the Editor .
Last Relics of Augustus Law, S. J. By the Editor
Leaves from the Annals of Dublin. By W. F. Dennehy .
Carlyle'e Irish Tours. By T. Griffin ODonoghue
The Hospital of Our Mother of Mercy.
201, 277,
489,
PAGB . 17
. 70 . 117 . 175
233, 299 . 265 . 316 . 345 . 401 . 457
513, 573 . 629 . 655
. 11 . 27 . 59 . 82 . 108 . 134 . 150
398, 482 . 164 . 171
319,430 . 194 . 247 . 269 . 368 . 377
445, 648 . 441 . 470
537,595 . 601 . 529 . 349 . 565 . 613 . 678
3'
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▼1
Contents.
Essays and Reviews.
Miss Miilholland's Poems
Reflection. By the Ber. William Sutton, S.J. .
Sir Stephen de V ere*e Translations
Fitipatrick's « Father Burke w
Everyday Thoughts. By Mrs. Fran* Pentrill—
No. X Angels Unawares
No. XI. Old Age . Keeping a Diary. By the Ber. William Sutton, S. J. Harmless Novell. By the Present Writer An Irish Poet's American Critics June in the Famine year. By John Hitohel Something about Sonnets. By the Editor Mrs. Piatt's Poems. By Katharine Tynan The Work of the Poor Churches. By the Present Writer Goings Forth and Home-comings. By M. B." In Everlasting Remembrance. By the Same '
PAOS
1 23 33
48
44
6o8 100 206 274 289 335 385 420 476 590
Notices of New Books.
The Poet in May.— Odile.— Monsabreon the Rosary.— Queen by Bight Divine.— Life of St Philip Benisi.— The Chair of Peter — Theodore Wibaux, SX— Authority and Conscience.— Christmas ttevels and the Wanderers.— Little Dick's Christmas Carol.— Louis et Augusts Buellan, SJ.— The Mad Peni- tent of Todi.-Jubilee Hymn of Leo XIIL— The Last Carol.— GiUow's Dictionary of English Catholics.— The Birthday Book of Our Dead.— Bason's Almanac for Ireland, Ac., . . .51
Lord 0*Hagan's Speeches.— Waifs of a Christmas Morning.— The Treasure of the Abbey.— True Wayside Tales.— English Catholic Directory.— The Scholastic Annual — Culwiok's Te Deum — Bacques on the Divine Office.— Principles of Government of St Ignatius. Miss Mulbolland's Edition of " Robinson Crusoe."— Miscellaneous Pamphlets, Ac., . . . 113
Sonnets of this Century.— English Nonjurors of 1715.— Studies of Family Life. —Life of St. NorberU— Odile.— The Birthday of Our Dead.— Joseph Marchand, Martyr.— Catholic Soldier's Guide.— American CatholioQuarterly, — Socialist, Protestant, Catholic — Cleanliness. — Joy and Laughter, Ac, . 160
Flora the Roman Martyr.— The Keys of the Kingdom.- Vapid Vapourings.— American Criticism on Miss Mulholland's Puems.— The Lepers of Molokai, —The Server's Missal.— Life of St. Patrick.— Little Month of St Joseph.— Rev. John Behan on Dr. Maguire's Pamphlet.— Ellis's Education Guide.— The O'Connell Press Popular Library, Ac., . . . . 216
Edward VI. Supreme Head.— The Synods in English.— Leaves from St. Augus- tine—Birthday Book of Our Dead.— The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling. — Discourses on the Divinity of Jesus Christ— Miscellaneous Pamphlets. — Liverpool Irish Literary Institute, Ac, . 285
Santi on Canon Law.— Pax Vobis.— The End of Man.— Verses on Doctrinal and Religious Subjects.— The Valiant Woman.— The Castle of Ooetquen.— Christian Symbols.- The Birthday Book of Our Dead.— Preparation for Death. — Margaret ditherow. — Essays on Ireland. — Parvum Missale. — S. Anselmi Mariale.— Dupanloup on Education.— The O'Connell Press Popular Library.— Catholic Truth Society.— Catholic School Hymnbook.— Tauler's Following of Christ— The Sodality Manual.— Life of Henrietta Kerr, . 390
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Contents.
Tttr
- . PAOK
Amherst's History of Catholio Emancipatioito-- Short Papers*forthc People.— - The Cardinal Archbishop of Westndnster.— AtUs das Mission© Oatholiques, . —The Virgin Mother of God. —Sketches of the Royal Irish Constabulary. -JThe Flight of the Harls.— Bdmund Burke on Irish Afisirs.--At Antioclr A«ain.— Canon Crofty on Continuity of the Church.— Pomfret Oakes^r * Three Pamphlets— Hundred Best Irish Books.— Bodesinstieal Bnglkh—A \. National Song.— Merry and Wise, • • ,.
Mr. J. J. Piatt's Poems.— Miss Jordan's Echoes from the .Pines.«-Golden Sano> Gerald Griffin's Poems.— Catechism in Examples.— The Clothes of Religion. -Comorford's Kildare and Leighlin.— King, Prophet, and Priest.— Moore's Melodies.— Chronicles of Castle Cloy ne.— The Boston Stylus.— The Flower of Holywett, . . • ... 462
Handbook of Christian Symbols.— Hunoltfs Sermons.— American Catholic Quarterly.— Catholio Monthly Magaiine.— Centenary ^Edition of St. Alphonsus—Oompanion to the Catechism.— The Children's Mass—History of the Society of Jesus.— Six Seasons on our Prairies.— Judges of the Faith and Godless Schools.— CConneil Press Popular Library.— Monrignor Grad- weU's St. Patrick.— Glltbauer's Cornelius Nepos.— Amon* the Fairies,
The tittle Bosary of the Sacred Heart— Bishop Ullathorne's Curistian Patience. —St Columba and Other Poems.— OathoKc Truth Society's Publications.— Lalla Rookh.— The League of the North and South.— Toser's Catholic Hymns.— Today's Gem for the Casket of Mary.— '• Catholic World "and "Merry England, * ....-•
Father Gerard's Stonyhurst Latin Grammar.— The Late Miss Hollingford.— Marcella Grace.— Historical Notes on Longford.— Budimenta Linguae Hebraicae.— The School of Dirine Love.— Life of St. Oare.— Thoughts from St. Francis.— The Bible and Belief .— Eucharistic Hours.— The Month of the Souls in Purgatory, ...•••
Most Rer. Dr. Walsh's Addresses.— Centenary Edition of St Alphonsus.— Augustus Law, S.J. — Notes in Remembrance.— During the Persecution. — Canon Monahan's Ardagh and Clonmacnoise,— Purgatory, Dogmatioand Scholastic— Souls Departed.— Hymn to the Eternal, &c.— Simple Readings on the Parables.— Catholio Home Almanac.— Donahoo's Magasine.— St Augustine.— The Saturday Review on " Marcella Grace."— Gems of Ca- tholic Thought— Kickham's Last NoyoL— Catholio Truth Society.-Life of Muard,&c — Miscellaneous . .
608
661
670
Poems and Miscellaneous Papers.
In the Desert ByBrelynPyne
To Cardinal Newman. By Lewis Diummond, S.J.
My Song and L * By R. M. .
The Lord's Messenger. By Erelyn Pyne
To St. Rose of Lima. By Mary 0. Crowley
The O'Connell Papers. Parts XXI., XXII., XXm.
A Few Repartees. ByT. B.B.
Winged Words ....
The King. By Cassie CHara
0 Thou who hast made me, hare mercy on me. By S. M. S.
The Bishop of Down. By A. Harkin, M D.
Estrada's Spouse. By Eleanor E. Donnelly
Sonnet by Arrers. Translated by W. H. E.
A Curious Little Relic of '48 .
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. 16
. 26
. 69
. 81
. 91 92,166,229
. 105 111, 312
. 132
. 149
. 183
. 192
. 215
. 220
Googk
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Content*.
Pigeonhole Paragraph! . 9 224
To Cardinal Newman. By T. H. Wright . .232
Pictures from the Rotary By Katharine Tynan . .245
The Cottage Gate. By Ethel Tene . .256
The Leaping Procession at Eohternach. By G. O'C. B. .267 The Prisoned Song. By Caseie O'Hara .... w260
Unpublished Poems of the " Certain Professor " . . . .261
Filiesy's Proridenoe of God. By W, H. E. .268
To a Musician. By Anna X- Johnston . .284
Lore's AdTent. By Evelyn Pyne . . . 288
The Touch of a Mother's Hand. By Richard B. White . .297
At Midnight A Sonnet in Dialogue. By Evelyn Pyne . .411
An Old Man's Reverie. By Attie O'Brien '. . . 314 Snow in May. By Eugene Daris ..... 329
The Roman Poet's Prayer. By Sir Stephen de Vere, Bart • 367
Remembrance. By W. B. Teats . . .376
Filicaja's Crowning with Thorns. By O. . .384
The Queen's Favourite. By C. O'C. B. . . . .390
Martinui Hugo Hamill, Thomae Longo $uo .... 392
A Maiden. By E. E. T. . . . . . 419
Martyr Thirst. By Evelyn Pyne . . . .429
L'Oeuvre des Tabernacles. . . .440
Vittoria Colonna's Sonnet to Our Lady. By W. H. E. . .444
The Heart of a Mother. By Katharine Tynan . .450
Kindness. ByEUy. . . .469
Consummates in BrevL By H. L. M. . . 475
Nursery Rhymes in Latin. No. 1— Three Blind Mice. By 0. . 481
No. 2— Sing a Song of Sixpence . . 668
Footprints. By James J. Piatt . .488 Watch and Pray. By Anna I. Johnston .... 500
Meditation of the Old Fisherman. By W. B. Teats .528
My Wife's Birthday. By M. B. . .530
Two Little Angels. By M. R. . .537 In Honorem Eduardi Confessoris ..... 560
Christus Oonsolator. By Sister Mary Agnes .... 564
A Poet's Love. By Evelyn Pyne .589
All Saint* By Sister Mt ry Agnes .594
Novembribus Horis. By J. G. . .607
True to the Bead. Bj Helena Callanan . . .611
Eros. ByE. E. T. . . . . . .625
Songs from Shakspeare in Latin. No. I— Full fathom Jivt thy father lies . 628
The Stolen OhUd. By W. B. Teats . . . . .646
Rebecca at the Well. By the Rev. W. H. Kent, O.S.C. . . .653
The Soul's Offering. By M. W. Brew . . . . .679
Eden. ByE.E. T. . . . .677
Bitterness. By Evelyn Pyne. . .677
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( 1 )
MISS MTTLHOLIAND'S POEMS.*
THIS book and this name are thus made the opening words of our fourteenth yearly volume in order that the readers of this Magazine may have no excuse for ignoring a noteworthy event in our Irish literature. Miss Mulholland's name indeed has occupied a similar position before in more than one of our New Tear Numbers, linked with the opening chapters in the history of one or other of her delightful, pure-minded Irish heroines, Nell or Fanchea or Maroella — the latest of whom seems to have won more hearts than even any of her predecessors. No person with the faintest glimmering of insight into the subtle mechanism of literary composition in its higher forms could study the prose writings of the author of "The Wicked Woods of Tobereevil," of "Elder- gowan " and many other dainty fictions, without being sure that the writer of such prose was a poet also, not merely by nature but by art ; and many had learned to follow her initials through the pages of this and of certain London magazines, though the famous periodical most frequently favoured by her muse is in the habit of suppressing even the initials of its contributors. The present work contains nearly all of these scattered lyrics ; and, along with them, many that are now printed for the first time combine to form a volume of the truest and holiest poetry that has been heard on earth since Adelaide Procter went to heaven.
The only justification for the too modest title of " Vagrant Verses " which gleams from the cover of this pretty volume lies in the fact that this most graceful muse wanders from subject to subject according to her fancy, and pursues no heroic or dramatic theme with that exhaustive treatment which exhausts everyone except the poet. The poems in this collection are short, written not to order but under the manifest impulse of inspiration, for the expression only of the deeper thoughts and more vivid feelings of the souL Except the fine lyrical and dramatic ballad, " The Children of Lir," which occupies eight pages, and the first five pages given to " Emmet's Love/' none of the rest of the seventy poems go much beyond a page or two, while they range through every mood, sad or mirthful, and through every form of metre.
* " Vagrant Verses." By Rosa Mulholland. London: Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co.
Vol. xit. No. 151. January, 1886. 2
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2 Muss MulhoUantfs Poems.
We have named the opening poem, which is an exquisitely pathetic soliloquy of Sarah Curran, a year after the death of her betrothed, young Robert Emmet — a nobler tribute to the memory of our great orator's daughter than either Moore's verse or Washington Irving s prose. But the metrical interlacing of the stanzas, and the elevation and refinement of the poetic diction, require a thoughtful perusal to bring out the perfections of this poem which therefore lends itself less readily to quotation. We shall rather begin by giving one shorter poem in full, taken almost at random. Let it be " Wilfulness and Patience," as it teaches a lesson ^which it would be well for many to take to heart and to learn by heart : —
I said I am going into the garden,
Into the flush of the sweetness of life ; I can stay in the wilderness no longer,
Where sorrow and sickness and pain are so rife ;
So I shod my feet in their golden sandals, And looped my gown with a ribbon of blue,
And into the garden went I singing, The birds in the boughs fell a-singing too.
Just at the wicket I met with Patience,
Grave was her face, and pure, and kind, But oh, I loved not her ashen mantle,
Such sober looks were not to my mind.
Said Patience, " Go not into the garden,
But come with me by the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains,
To the higher levels of love and praise ! "
Gaily I laughed as I opened the wicket,
And Patience, pitying, flitted away; The garden glory was full of the morning—
The morning changed to the glamour of day.
0 sweet were the winds among my tresses, And sweet the flowers that bent at my knees,
Ripe were the fruits that fell at my wishing, But sated soon was my soul with these.
And would I were hand in hand with Patience,
Tracking her feet on the difficult ways, Over the wastes and the wilderness mountains,
To the higher levels of love and praise
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The salutary lesson that the singer wants to impress on the young heart is here taught plainly and directly even by the very name of the piece. But here is another very delicious melody, of which the name and the purport are somewhat more mysterious. It is ^called " Perdita."
I dipped my hand in the sea. Wantonly — The sun shone red o'er castle and cave j Dreaming, I rocked on the sleepy wave 5— I drew a pearl from the sea, Wonderingly.
There in my hand it lay j Who could say How from the depths of the ocean calm It rose, and slid itself into my palm P I smiled at finding there Pearl so fair*
I kissed the beautiful thing. Marvelling. Poor till now, I had grown to be The wealthiest maiden on land or sea, A priceless gem was mine, Pure, divine 1
I hid the pearl in my breast, Fearful lest The wind should steal, or the wave repent Largess made in mere merriment, And snatch it back again Into the main.
But careless grown, ah me ! Wantonly I held between two fingers fine My gem above the sparkling brine, Only to see it gleam
Across the stream.
I felt the treasure slide Under the tide ; I saw its mild and delicate ray Glittering upward, fade away. Ah ! then my tears did flow, Long ago 1
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I weep, and weep, and weep, Into the deep ; Sad am I that I could not hold A treasure richer than virgin gold, That Fate so sweetly gave Out of the wave.
I dip my hand in the sea. Longingly; But never more will that jewel white Shed on my soul its tender light ; My pearl lies buried deep
Where mermaids sleep.
Some readers of this paper are no doubt for the first time making acquaintance with Miss Mulholland under this character in which others have known her long ; and even these newest friends know enough of her already to pronounce upon some of her characteristics. She is not uninfluenced by the spell of modern culture which has invested the poetic diction of recent years with an exquisite expressiveness and delicate beauty. But, while her style is the very antithesis of the tawdry or the commonplace, she has no mannerisms or affectations ; she belongs to no school ; she does not deem it the poet's duty to cultivate an artificial, rechercM, dilettante dialect unknown to Shakspeare and Wordsworth— if we may use a string of epithets which can only be excused for their outlandishness on the plea that they describe something very out- landish. Her meaning is as lucid as her thoughts are high and pure. If, after reading one of her poems carefully, we sometimes have to ask " what does she mean by that ? " we ask it not on account of any obscurity in her language but on account of the depth and height of her thoughts.
The musical rhythm of our extracts prepares us for the form which many of Miss Mulholland's inspirations assume — that of the song pure and simple. Those last epithets have here more than the meaning which they usually bear in such a context ; for these songs are not only eminently singable, but they are marked by a very attractive purity and simplicity. There are many of them besides this one which alone bears no other name than " Song/'
The silent bird is hid in the boughs,
The scythe is hid in the corn, The lazy oxen wink and drowse, ^ The grateful sheep are shorn.
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Redder and redder burns the rose,
The lily was ne'er so pale, Stiller and stiller the river flows
Along the path to the Tale.
A little door is hid in the boughs,
A face is hiding within ; When birds are silent andt oxen drowse.
Why should a maiden spin ? Slower and slower turns the wheel,
The face turns red and pale, Brighten and brighten the looks that steal
Along the path to the vale.
Here and everywhere how few are the adjectives, and never any slipped in as mere adjectives. Verbs and nouns do duty for them, and the pictures paint themselves. There is more of genius, art, thought, and study in this self-restraining simplicity than in the freer and bolder eloquence that might make young pulses tingle.
This remarkable faculty for musical verse seems to us to enhance the merit of a poem in which a certain ruggedness is introduced of set purpose. At least we think that the subtle sympathy which in the workmanship of a true poet links theme and metre together is curiously exemplified in " News to Tell." What metre is it P A very slight change here and there would conform it to the sober, solemn measure familiar to the least poeti- cal of us in Gray's marvellous " Elegy in a Country Churchyard." That elegiac tone already suits the rhythm here to the pathetic story. But then the wounded soldier, who perhaps will not recover after all but may follow his dead comrade — see how he drags himself with difficulty away from the old gray castle where the young widow and the aged mother are overwhelmed by the news he had to tell ; and is not all this with exquisite cunning repre- sented by the halting gait of the metre, in which every line deviates just a little from the normal scheme of five iambics P
Neighbour, lend me your arm, for I am not well, This wound you see is scarcely a fortnight old,
All for a sorry message I had to tell,
I've travelled many a mile in wet and cold.
Yon is the old grey chateau above the road,
He bade me seek it, my comrade brave and gay ;
Stately forest and river so brown and broad, He showed me the scene as he a-dying lay.
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I have been there, and, neighbour, I am not well;
I bore his sword and some of his curling hair, Knocked at the gate and said I had news to tell,
Entered a chamber and saw his mother .there.
Tall and straight with the snows of age on her head, Brave and stern as a soldier's mother might be,
Beep in her eyes a living look of the dead, She grasped her staff and silently gazed at me.
I thought I'd better be dead than meet her eye ;
She guessed it all, I'd never a word to tell. Taking the sword in her arms she heaved a sigh,
Clasping the curl in her hand she sobbed, and fell.
I raised her up ; she sate in her stately chair, Her face like death, but not a tear in her eye ;
We heard a step, and tender voice on the stair Murmuring soft to an infant's cooing cry.
My lady she sate erect, and sterner grew. Finger on mouth she motioned me not to stay ;
A girl came in, the wife of the dead I knew, She held his babe, and, neighbour, I fled away !
1 tried to run, but I heard the widow's cry.
Neighbour, I have been hurt and I am not well : I pray to God that never until I die
May I again have such sorry news to tell !
The next piece that we shall cite has travelled across the Atlantic and come back again under false pretences and without its author's leave or knowledge. Some years ago an American newspaper published some pathetic stanzas to which it gave as a title " Exquisite Effusion of a Dying Sister of Charity." One into whose hands this journal chanced to fall read on with interest and pleasure, feeling the verses strangely familiar — till on reflec- tion he found that the poem had been published sometime before in The Month over the well-known initials R. M. As the American journalist named the Irish Convent where the Sister of Charity had died — not one of Mrs. Aikenhead's spiritual daughters, but one of those whom we call French Sisters of Charity — the reader afore- said went to the trouble of writing to the Mother Superior, who gave the following explanation. The holy Sister had been fond of reading and writing verse; and these verses with others were found in her desk after her death and handed over to her relatives
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as relics. They, not comparing them very critically with the nun's genuine literary remains, rashly published them as " The Exquisite Effusion of a Dying Sister of Charity." The foregoing circumstances were soon afterwards published in the Boston Pilot; but the ghost of such a blunder is not so easily laid, and the poem reappears in The Messenger of St. Joseph for last August, under the title of " An Invalid's Plaint " and still attributed to the dying Nun who had only had the good taste to admire and tran- scribe Miss Mulholland's poem. In all its wanderings to-and-fro across the Atlantic many corruptions crept into the text ; and it would be an interesting exercise in style to collate the version given by The Messenger with the authorised edition which we here copy from page 136 of " Vagrant Verses," where the poem of course bears its original name of u Failure."
The Lord, Who fashioned my hands for working,
Set me a task, and it is not done ; I tried and tried since the early morning,
And now to westward sinketh the sun !
Noble the task that was kindly given
To one so little and weak as I — Somehow my strength could never grasp it,
Never, as days and years went by.
Others around me, cheerfully toiling, Showed me their work as they passed away 5
Filled were their hands to overflowing. Proud were their hearts, and glad and gay.
Laden with harvest spoils they entered In at the golden gate of their rest;
Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master, Found their places among the blest.
Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid !
Fain would their love have borne me onward, But 1 was unready and sore afraid.
Now I know my task will never be finished, And when the Master calleth my name,
The Voice will find me still at my labour, Weeping beside it in weary shame.
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With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him, And, when He looks for the fruits of years,
Nothing1 have I to lay before Him But broken efforts and bitter tears.
Yet when He calls I fain would hasten — Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone ;
And I am as weary as though 1 carried A burthen of beautiful work well done.
I will fold my empty hands on my bosom,
Meekly thus in the shape of His Gross ; And the Lord Who made them frail and feeble
Maybe will pity their strife and loss.
It might have been expected that so skilful an artist in beauti- ful words would be sure occasionally to find the classic sonnet- form the most fitting vehicle for some rounded and stately thought. About half a dozen sonnets are strewn over these pages, all cast in the true Petrarchan mould, and all very properly bearing names of their own, like any other form of verse, instead of being labelled promiscuously as " sonnets." The following is called " Love." What a sublime ideal, only to be realised in human love when in its self-denying sacredness it approaches the divine !
True love is that which never can be lost :
Though cast away, alone and ownerless, Like a strayed child that wandering misses most
When night comes down its mother's last caress ;
True love dies not when banished and forgot,
But, solitary, barters still with Heaven The scanty share of joy cast in its lot
For joys to the beloved freely given.
Love smiling stands afar to watch and see Each blessing it has bought, like angel's kiss,
Fall on the loved one's face, who ne'er may know At what strange cost thus, overflowingly,
His cup is filled, or how its depth of bliss Doth give the measure of another's woe.
As this happens to be the solitary one among Miss Mulholland's sonnets which in the arrangement of the quatrains varies slightly from the most orthodox tradition of this pharisee of song, I will give another specimen, prettily named " Among the Boughs."
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High on a gnarled and mossy forest bough,
Dreaming, I hang between the earth and sky,
The golden moon through leafy mystery Gazing aslant at me with glowing brow. And since all living creatures slumber now,
O nightingale, save only thou and I,
Tell me the secret of thine ecstasy, That none may know save only I and thou.
Alas, all vainly doth my heart entreat ; Thy magic pipe unfolds but to the moon What wonders thee in faery worlds befell : To her is sung thy midnight-music sweet, And ere she wearies of thy mellow tune, She hath thy secret, and will guard it well !
Unstinted as our extracts have been, there are poems here by the score over which our choice has wavered. Our selection, while passing over the poems which might already be familiar to some readers, and therefore passing over many of the best, has been made partly with a view to the illustration of the variety and versatility displayed by this new poet in matter and form ; and on this principle we are tempted to quote " Girlhood at Midnight " as the only piece of blank verse in Miss Mulholland's repertory, to show how musical, how far from blank, she makes that most difficult and perilous measure. But we must put a restraint on ourselves and just give one more sample of the achievements of the author of " The Little Flower Seekers" and " The Wild Birds of Kil- leevy " in what an old writer calls " the mellifluous meeters of poesie." This last is called "A Rebuke/' Was there ever a sweeter or gentler rebuke ?
Why are you so sad P (ring the birds, the little birds,)
All the sky is blue, We are in our branches, yonder are the herds,
And the sun is on the dew; Everything is merry, (ring the happy little birds,)
Everything but you !
Fire is on the hearthstone, the ship is on the wave,
Pretty eggs are in the nest, Yonder sits a mother smiling at a grave,
With a baby at her breast; And Christ was on the earth, and the sinner He forgave
Is with Him in His rest.
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10 Mm MulhollaruTs Poems. .
We shall droop oar wings, (pipe* the throttle on the tree,)
When everything is done: Time unfarleth yours, that you soar eternally
In the regions of the sun. When our day is over, (sing* the blackbird in the lea,)
Yours is but begun I
Then why are you so sad P (warble all the little birds,)
While the sky is blue, Brooding over phantoms and vexing about words
That never can be true; Everything is merry, (trill the happy, happy birds,)
Everything but you I
The setting of these jewels is almost worthy of them. The book is brought out with that faultless taste which has helped to win for the firm of No. 1 Paternoster-square such fame as poets' pub- lishers. A large proportion of contemporary poetry of the highest name, including till lately the Laureate's, has appeared under the auspices of Kegan Paul, Trench, and Company, who seem to have expended special care on the production of " Vagrant Verses."
And now, as we have let these poems chiefly speak for them- selves, enough has been said. We do not hesitate to add in con- clusion that those among us with pretensions to literary culture, who do not hasten to contribute to the exceptional success which awaits a work such as even our brief account proves this work to be, will so far have failed in their duty towards Irish genius. For this book more than any that we have yet received from its author's hand — nay, more than any that we can hope to receive from her, since this is the consummate flower of her best years — will serve to secure for the name of Rosa Mulholland an enduring place among the most richly gifted of the daughters of Erin.
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( 11 )
A CURIOUS RELIC OF THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER.
A THICK, strongly bound, and well filled manuscript-book lies before us, which bears the title " Six Tears in Clongowes, by a Rhetorician of '40," and on the page before the title is written crosswise : " To D. V. Donegan I present this old scratch- book in token (and a queer one it is) of my sincere affection. Thomas Francis Meagher, Richmond Prison, June 8th, 1849."
Mr. D. V. Donegan of Cork, whose kindness allows us to make this use of his treasured keepsake, first made Meagher's acquaint- ance when the latter returned on a visit to Clongowes in 1843. This acquaintance ripened into friendship, the more readily because Meagher's bosom-friend was a cousin of Mr. Donegan's, Charles Murphy, a younger brother of Father Frank Murphy, S. J., still well remembered in Ireland, though his work for many years has lain in Australia. Charles Murphy died while Meagher was in Richmond Prison under sentence, and Mr. Donegan at Meagher's earnest entreaty visited him there to console him and to tell all the particulars of their poor friend's death. He was with him as often as he could, and he was with him the night before Meagher was transported to Van Dieman's Land. When he was leaving at the usual hour, the Governor of the gaol, Mr. Marquis, met him and told him to go back and bid his friend a last farewell, as in the morning he was to sail, the convict-ship then lying ready for the prisoners at Kingstown. Mr. Donegan returned^*) Meagher's cell, which he found empty ; so, acting from a generous impulse of affection, he crept under the bed, determined, if he could, to pass with his friend his last night in Ireland. The prison seems to have been loosely enough managed at that time, for Mr. Donegan remained undisturbed until after a considerable interval Meagher returned. When he came in, the cell was locked up for the night. He then seated himself at the little table, leaned his head on his hand and sighing deeply said aloud : — " My last night in Ireland, and alone!" "No, Tom, not alone," said his faithful friend, emerging from his uncomfortable hiding-place, " I am here, and will remain with you to the last." "Good God!" exclaimed Meagher, "what will become of you if you are discovered?" forgetting his own sad condition in anxiety for one who had shown gaoh devotion to him. They spent the night together, and then it
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12 A Curious Relic of Thomas Francis Meagher.
was that Meagher presented the curious manuscript-book from which the following extracts are taken. On the same occasion he gave him his uniform as a member of the '82 club, both which relics of one he loved so much Mr. Donegan, it is unnecessary to add, moat highly prizes and cherishes. In the morning, when Marquis discovered what had happened, he took Mr. Donegan aside and said to him : — " I understand what has prompted you to do this ; but, remember, if it is found out, I am ruined." The tale was never told till Marquis was beyond the reach of injury from its being known. This act of friendship was near costing the doer of it very dear. That night a rescue, as was afterwards ascertained, was to have been attempted, which, if unforeseen causes had not prevented it, would in all probability have marked Mr. Donegan out as an accomplice, and so consigned him to share not only in his friend's prison-cell but later in his sentence of trans- portation.
When Mr. Justin Mac Carthy lately delivered a lecture on Irish eloquence, after Burke, and Sheridan, and Sheil, and O'Connell, he named Thomas Francis Meagher as the orator of the Young Ireland movement, This scratch-book, as the young orator calls it, gives no hope of his fascinating eloquence, except in showing the care with which he drafted his speeches and even his letters. He does not name the person to whom the following letter was to be addressed : —
You use me cruelly : you have sent me but two letters since I have been at Stonyhurst, and these too agreeable not to make me sensible how great my loss is in not receiving more. Next to seeing you is the pleasure of seeing your handwriting ; next to hearing you is the pleasure of hearing from you. Duties of no ordinary weight which devolve npon you oblige me to excuse you : and this I do the more willingly because I know you desire to keep up a constant correspondence with me.
To-day closed the third term, and, as you will see by the accompanying programme, there was an academical exhibition given by the First of Gram- marians.* (l The Death of Nelson '* was performed in brilliant style and was received with loud and prolonged clapping. When the piece was ended, the reading out of the names took place — only of the compositions, as the Examen report is not made till next week, as is always the case. I am gratified to tell you I got sixth place. As there is no distinction given of the several themes, I cannot tell you whether I got first for the poem or not, but this I can say that my English composition must have been chiefly instrumental in raising me so high. W.B. If I who was always one of the last at Olongowescan get so good a place, how much superior would not [one name illegible] M.
* The members of the first class of grammar.
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A Curiam Belie of Thomas Francis Meagher. 13
Coghlan and Power be oyer the Stonyhurstians, were they to come here. The subject of the English poem was " The Foundation of Venice 5 " that of the Latin was " The Death of Brian Boru." The elegy was a translation from Moore.
Our opinion of the worth and interest of this " scratch-book " of poor Meagher has grown during the short time that we have spent turning over its leaves. The Vergniaud of '48 was capable of spelling incorrectly, but one can trace the orator in the rounded and (sooth to say) stilted periods which the lad prepares here to inflict on his correspondents. Highly effective speakers are some- times effective by reason of qualities which unfit them for a good sober style of writing — although, if both speakers and hearers had good taste and judgment, the best speaking would generally be the best writing also. In after years Meagher often wrote what he intended to be read ; but we think he never escaped from the plat- form style. It was with a special significance that The Nation supplement which first gathered together some of Meagher's most brilliant speeches called them " The Orations of Thomas Francis Meagher."
The spell which these speeches once exercised over a certain little lad who used to spout them out in the solitude of certain mountain braes to the astonishment of the sheep, his only listeners — these hallowed associations will not allow me to publish here such unfavourable samples as drafts of schoolboy speeches in Debating Societies, or the letters which Meagher wrote under the signature of " Henry Grattan " in a college controversy with someone signing himself " Ninu-cd." One of his embryo essays begins : u In the month of June, 1835, I visited the ruins of Dunbrody Abbey." Then follows a page or two full of blottings and interlineations. But he succeeded better with " A Visit to the Lakes of Killarney," to which he devotes some twenty pages in .which he exercises per- petually " that last and greatest art — the art to blot." As another date in his early life we give the opening words : " It was late in the evening of the 6th of August, 1837, that I arrived at the Kenmare Arms.'1
The most elaborate part, however, of this curious relic of Thomas Francis Meagher consists of some sixty pages which go further than any other portion of the volume to justify the title- page with its amateur printing : " Six Tears in Clongowes, written by a Rhetorician of '40" — though the narrative does not go beyond six days. Was it in mercy to his little boy that his father allowed his school-life to begin so very near to the summer vacation P
Vol. xiv. No. 151. Digitized by Gt>CK
14 A Curious Belie of Thomas Francis Meagher.
" Late in the evening of the 12th of June, 1834, 1 drove up the Naas avenue leading to dongowes. The sun was declining/' Ac. [two pages of very boyish reflections follow, which we omit]. " Bather concealed by some intervening trees rose the towers of the castle, while the rest of the building appeared now and then through the woods which form a grand enclosure round this noble demesne/9
Then comes another page of reflections too puerile to quote even as a curiosity, attributed by a rhetorician of sixteen years to a boy of eleven. He describes the room into which they were first shown — "a handsome and elegant apartment, lit by a dome of glass, while the walls of a noble height were richly ornamented with workings in stucco." The young writer proceeds to describe his uncle, Father Meagher, S J., whom at first he and his brother Henry cannot recognize, because, as the juvenile writer pretends, he was so utterly changed by his religious habit from the wit and the dandy who had been a prominent figure in the club-room and the ball-room. One cannot help suspecting that the lad was only trying to make sentences out of the scantiest materials, condescend- ing to describe very minutely his first dinner at Glongowes, more elegant than many that he afterwards partook of with a heartier appetite. His account of persons and things is so melodramatic that one takes the liberty of supposing it to be more an effort of imagination than of memory ; and there are no characteristic touches in the boyish composition which might tempt us to single out any further specimens.
During Meagher's sojourn at Glongowes Wood his Alma Mater celebrated in the year 1839 her noces cTargent, her silver jubilee, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the foundation of the college. On the "academy- day" of that year the event was sung in heroic metre, with a due proportion of classic allusions. As an accident has placed in our hands at the same time the young Clongownian's " scratch-book " and a scrapbook of Clongowes compositions, we may insert here this extract from the latter collection : —
Scared by the din of war that shook the world, When first Napoleon to the breeze unfurled Ambition's banner, meek-eyed learning sought Some spot congenial to the peaceful thought, And peaceful language of the Muse's strains, But vainly sought it o'er Europa's plains Where to repose once more her virgin choir And tune to joy's wild pathos all her lyre. Mourning she turned— when lo 1 a distant isle Based midst the ocean's foam is seen to smile j
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A Curious Relic qf Thomas Francis Meagher. 15
Where perfumed gales their dew-dropt winge expand And sprinkle fragrance thro* that happy land, Where lovelier rills than bright Meander flow And flowers with nature's loveliest colours glow, Where brighter hills than Ida deck the scene And slope to valleys of perennial green ; Where hallowed oaks of stateliest growth deride Dodona's fame and frown in classic pride. And here a spot arrests her wandering gaze, Throned mid the woodland vista's flowery maze ; Streams circle near, while farther Liffoy's tide Is seen in sombre majesty to glide ; While trees, with shrubs commingling, form a shade For fancy's dreams and contemplation made. All seemed to woo delay — " Here, here," she said 41 Shall fount Pierian gush from where I tread." Then viewing near a castle's stately dome — " Here," she exclaimed, *' shall be my favourite home. And here assisted by my fostering hand Shall virtue rear the youth of Erin's land. And as the eagle towering o'er the height Of Glendaloch's wreathed cliffs, instructs for flight Her generous young, and points the way to rise On heavenward pinions to the sun-lit skies, So shall I teach my favourite youth to soar And grasp at truth on wings of classic lore." She said — nor vain her seraph accents fell In the full unison of lyre and shell. For since that hour of happiest omen shone Ne'er from that spot has learning's genius flown, Ne'er ceased the Muse to tune her harp sublime, And laugh to scorn the palsying arm of time. Yes, Clongowes, oft since then has glory shed Its loveliest halo round thy beaming head And with thy children's praises linked, thy name Has shone emblazoned on the rolls of fame. Since then the quarter of an age has passed, Nor hath time's wing its envious shadow cast To dim the lustre of thy youthful brow, Still brilliant as thou wert we view thee now, Nor tremble for thy glories. No, even we With new-born rays shall swell thy brilliancy, And fired by those whom men with wond'ring eyes Have seen like stars in learning's sphere arise Shall press still forward in the paths of fame With youth's warm zeal to vindicate thy name To fadeless laurels— whilst in letters bright Stamped on thy walls, illumed by memory's light, Shall live the name of him whose parent eye Watched with a parent's fondness o'er thy infancy.
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16 In the Desert.
These concluding lines allude to the first Rector of Clongowes, Father Peter Kenny, S.J. A manuscript diary kept at Clongowes when the college was only two years old lies here before us, beginning with the names of the members of the community, the first being of course Father Kenny's and the last being that of Brother John Curtis who came to the college on the 22nd of November, 1816, after his two years in the novitiate of the Society — namely, that venerable patriarch who has only just passed away from us, dying at St. Francis Xavier's, Dublin, on the 10th of November, 1885, in the ninety-second year of his age.
The poem that we have quoted would have a better right to a place in this article if it bore (which it does not) the same endow- ment as a prose paper in the same volume, namely an essay on the " Importance of Time " read by Thomas Meagher in the Concer- tatio, November 9th, 1837. One of the sentences preaches the old lesson in these terms : " Were we even secure of reaching a happy old age, and even taking it for granted that we should be blessed with the longest period of life ever allotted to man, we are not hence licensed to run into debt with time, nor are we privileged to burden to-morrow with the business of to-day." When the boy " spouted " this sonorous period, he little dreamed of all the various fortunes that lay for him between that moment and his own untimely death on an American river.
IN THE DESERT.
" VTIGHT closes round me, Lord, and black despair, iN . Even than the freezing night-tide bitterer!
How shall 1 banish these foul things, that stir, Loathly and fierce, until the encircling air Grows but one choking horror I Where, oh where May my strest soul find refuge P Lo I to her In terror of this darkness, fiends aver Thou and thine heaven, but mocking dreams, and bare I "
" Raise thy dim eyes ; breaketh the golden morn
Across yon shadowy hill — the black night flies — And lo, I waiting stand to lead thee home ! Child, I forsake not— leave no soul forlorn—
Nor mocking dream, but sun -filled Paradise Awaits thy weary feet ; mine own child, come ! *
Evelyn Pyse.
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( 17 )
THE CHAPLAIN OF ST. DENIS.
BY THE LATE C. W. RUSSELL, D.l).
ON a lovely Sunday evening in the end of August, 1792, a party of fierce-looking strangers seated themselves with an insolent and swaggering air under the awning in front of a cabaret in the square of the little town of St. Denis. They were all more or less armed, and all, without exception, wore the bonnet rouge. The provincial accent in which the greater number of them spoke, showed that they were new arrivals in the capital ; and the patois with which two or three interlarded their conversa- tion betrayed a Marseillaise origin. A few of the villagers who had been sitting quietly in the shade before they arrived, made way at once for the swaggering strangers ; and though curiosity detained a few listeners, the majority slunk off with an evident expression of fear, if not dislike, at their approach.
Nor, indeed, was it any wonder. It was an awful period. May we never, dear reader, know anything of its horrors except from history! Men had learned, from the reckless atrocities then daily and hourly committed, that no institution, however venerable, could be regarded as staple, that no ordinance, how- ever sacred, was secure from profanation. And especially it was no wonder that the poor burghers of St. Denis should tremble in this inauspicious presence ; for it was but a short time before that a similar gang had broken into the old cathedral of their town — the burial-place of the royal line of France — profaned its altars, rifled its tombs, scattered the ashes of the kings to the winds, and destroyed in a few hours some of the noblest monuments of anti- quity, of which not France alone but Europe could boast.
The strangers, however, took no notice of the consternation they occasioned ; but after ordering a supply of wine and eau-de- vie, to which they addressed themselves with no unpractised air, they continued the conversation in which they had seemingly been engaged before they arrived.
" That was a clever job at the St. Esprit in Troyes last week," said one, apparently the leader of the party. " The croaking old nuns refused for a long time to leave the convent, till at last citizen Pettica coolly set fire to it over their heads ; and then, I
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18 The Chaplain of St. Denis.
promise you, they scampered off like rats from a smoking corn- stack."
" But did you hear of the glorious doings at Bordeaux P " said one of the Marseillaise. " Balmat is just back from the south, and told it to us last night at the club, in proposing a new mem- ber. The day before he came away, he saw no less than three of the ringleaders of the priestly gang quietly disposed of. The first was beheaded, the second drowned, and the third flogged to death ; and the brother of one of them, the gallant fellow whom Balmat proposed for the club, was the very first to plant the * Tree of Liberty ' on the spot still red with his brother's blood."*
" Bravo/' replied Mortier, the first speaker. " We are picking down the crows out of the old rookery by degrees. They have cawed too long for liberty/ '
" Never mind/' said a fierce, red-whiskered fellow, more than half drunk already, though he still plied the bottle steadily. " Never mind! This slow work will never do. We must burn them out by wholesale, and pay off all scores at once."
" Well said, Bichaud ! " echoed two or three of the Marseil- laise voices. " Give us the wholesale work ! Here's to Meslier's immortal toast : ' Que le dernier dee rats soit etrangU avec lee boyaun du dernier dee prStres /' "t
It is revolting to relate that the brutal toast was received with acclamation by the infatuated wretches. Alas, where is the depth of depravity too deep for the human heart when abandoned to its own wicked will! Alas, alas, if the gates of the infernal abyss, had been flung open, and its foulest fiends had walked the earth uncontrolled, what is the possible enormity their hellish ingenuity could devise, that has not actually been exceeded by the incarnate fiends of this unhappy time !
During the clamour which succeeded the toast, one of the party rose, and withdrew from the cabaret. He had hardly yet reached the prime of manhood, but his stern and gloomy features wore a dark and sullen, though not utterly depraved, expression. Of a rank evidently superior to that of his companions, he was an amateur in the work of violence for which they were hired. He waa a professed lover of liberty, though he could hardly conceal from himself that his feelings were strongly warped by misanthropy
* This is literally true.
t u May the last of the Kings be strangled with the bowels of the last of the, Priests ! " This brutal wish of Meslier is actually recorded of him with approval by Naigeon in the article on his life.
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and disappointed ambition. Still, he had wrought himself up to a degree of enthusiasm in his new career, and regarded the cruelties by which it was marked as but the wild justice of an insulted people, whose sense of wrong, pent up for centuries of oppression, had at length burst out with a violence which it was idle to re- strain. The present expedition had been undertaken by direction of the higher powers for the arrest of several non-juring priests, who were reported to have taken refuge in the neighbourhood of St. Denis ; and Ferrand (for so he was called) had joined it from some undefined feeling which he could not himself fully analyze.
He strolled from the square towards the old cathedral, the towers of which were gorgeously lighted up by the declining sun. I dare say but few of my readers have seen the cathedral of St. Denis, and those who may happen to have seen it of late years, must remember that at the time of which I speak, now fifty years ago, its appearance was very different from that which it now wears. The whole building bore numberless traces of recent vio- lence: the exterior, now so tastefully and successfully restored, was not only time-worn — that one would not have minded in a church of six or seven centuries' standing — but hideously shattered and dismantled. The pinnacles were broken, the fretwork was destroyed, the niches were despoiled of their sacred occupants, which lay in fragments upon the ground, the gorgeous windows were shivered into pieces, the roof, now so exquisitely finished in " blue powdered in stars of gold," was then cold, bare, and in part blackened ; the pillars and frieze bore the fresh marks of the pick- axe and the sledge hammer, the statues were mutilated and hurled to the ground, the boxes were rifted and flung down, the monu- ments were torn open, and fragments of the coffins and other memorials of the dead strewed the floor, the choir-stalls were hacked and disfigured, the altars were stripped of their sacred ornaments, and one or two of them overthrown ; in a word, the whole scene was an illustration, and even so did it force itself upon Ferrand's mind, of " the abomination of desolation standing in the holy place."
Still, even in its desolation, it was a venerable old pile. Fer- rand, who sa w it for the first time, was struck, in his own despite, by the exquisitely light and graceful proportion of the exterior, the rich ornamental work of the tower, and the gorgeous tracing of the doors and windows. He could not withdraw his eyes from the startling, though grotesque, sculptures which adorn the entranoe, and exerted all his skill in trying to decipher (what was
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20 The Chaplain of St. Denis.
then a difficult task) the legend which surrounds it. I may take this opportunity, while he is so engaged, to tell a few words of his history.
Jules Ferrand (he had dropped the aristocratic Be) was a younger son of a noble family in the Tourraine. The eldest brother, as a matter of course, was destined to succeed to the family estates. Jules, with a second brother, was born to com- parative dependence. Still his prospects to distinction were suffi- ciently flattering. The utmost pains were bestowed upon his education, and he was carefully trained up in the strictest prin- ciples of religion. From his boyhood, however, he had displayed a degree of sensibility almost bordering upon moroseness. He bitterly felt his inferiority to his more favoured brother ; and some chance allusion to his dependent prospects, intended merely to stimulate his industry, fixed the barb of discontent in his heart for ever. Ambitious and aspiring, yet without the perseverance which would enable him to win his way unaided to eminence, and too proud to accept, much less to seek, the assistance which he thought was only extended as a favour, he dreamed away his early youth in unavailing repinings at his lot. The more pliant temper of his younger brother, Jean, opened a way for him to distinction ; and his early success, which was sometimes put forward as a model for Jules, and the favour with which he was regarded by all who knew him, tended still more to embitter the lot of the sensitive and unhappy young man. His repinings soon ripened into dis- content. Evil companions completed the work of disaffection. He became gradually estranged from his family and friends. His religious principles were one by one undermined. The flatteries of false friends taught him to believe that in another state of things his talents could not fail to secure him fortune and distinc- tion; and when the hour of change arrived, and the revolution burst out in all its fatal fury, he was among the first to hail the prospect, and the .most violent in urging it on to a speedy crisis. Once in- volved in the whirlpool, he was drawn from abyss to abyss, till at last the natural feelings of humanity were almost totally obliterated, and he could herd with the vilest and most brutal of the revolu- tionary mob on terms, not alone of toleration, but even of fellow- ship and fraternity. Thus he advocated, or professed to advocate, upon principle, all the violence into which the more menial instru- ments of revolutionary cruelty plunged from the mere instinct of brutality and thirst of blood.
That one such as he should be struck with anything like regret
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at the sight which awaited him in the interior of the cathedral, it would hardly be natural to expect. Yet so it was. Hardened as he was, a feeling akin to shame, if not to remorse, stole over him as he contemplated the scene of ruin. He could not help asking himself what the cause must be, which it was sought to uphold by means like these ; and the gloomy silence of the hour, the melan- choly plight of the venerable old aisles, the shattered and mutilated fragments of what once had been bright and beautiful, gave weight and force to the reflections which his better feelings suggested. But he yielded not to the impulse. He passed on with a rapid and determined step, as though he sought to fly from the thoughts to which he was resolved not to give way.
Insensibly, however, his pace slackened, as he passed around the back of the choir, and he paused to examine, now the rude sculptures which adorn the enclosure, now the antique and strange looking altars which rest against the wall of the church. The dim and unsteady light of the evening hour heightened the effect which they were calculated to produce, by bringing out more mysteriously their strange and uncouth forms, and concealing the injuries which they had sustained from the recent violence of the mob.
He was irresistibly impelled to pause at every step, and, in the interest which the examination created, he forgot for a moment the purpose for which the visit had been made.
Suddenly, however, his attention was recalled by the sound of suppressed or distant voices, and he stood still, in the hope of discovering whence it issued. It was as if immediately beneath his feet ; and after a moment's reflection, he concluded that it came from the crypt, a subterraneous chapel. Returning cautiously from the rear of the high altar, he descended once more into the aisle, and, to his surprise, discovered that the massive iron gate of the crypt lay open. He entered without hesitation, and threading his way through the dark passage at the entrance, he soon reached a spot from which he was able to see distinctly what was passing within.
A number of little children were assembled in the small chapel which lies immediately below the high altar in the upper church, and which is used for the mass of the dead. An old and vener- able priest, assisted by another clergyman still very young, was in the act of addressing the little flock. They had evidently selected this spot for their Sunday evening's devotions, for the purpose of concealment ; and the priest was giving them a few words of in-
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22 The Chaplain of St. Bents.
struction on the duties oi Christiana, jttevious to dismissing them for the night.
These, then, were the men of whom Ferrand's party were in quest, and his first impulse was to return and bring them to the spot without delay. A certain undefined curiosity, however, in- duced him to hesitate for a few moments, and listen to the dis- course of the old man. It was upon the horror of sin, and the terrors of God's judgment. Simple and unstudied, it was addressed direct to the hearts of his little hearers, and from the trembling lips of the venerable old man it came with a sort of unearthly power. The whole scene was almost overpowering. The darkness which reigned all around, save in the single spot where the preacher and his little auditory stood ; their eager and awe-struck young faces as they gazed with breathless interest upon the speaker; the zeal, and charity, and paternal affection which gleamed from his eyes, and trembled in his faltering accents ; the simple earnest- ness with which he proposed the terrific truths which he laid before them, all came upon the unseen stranger with a force which he himself could never have anticipated. They touched a chord which for years had lain silent and neglected. He strove to laugh off the feelings this excited, as he had done a thousand times. He recalled all the fallacies by which he so often quieted the " still small voice," of his inward monitor. But it was vain. The impression was too strong to bo thus summarily dismissed. He would fain have withdrawn ; shame, pride, anger urged him to re- turn to his companions. But he was withheld by an impulse which he could not resist, and remained rapt in the subject of the preacher's address till he had concluded, with even more unction than he had manifested in any previous moment.
Scarcely had he closed, when the little crowd fell upon their knees, and all with one voice, began to repeat, along with the venerable priest, their evening prayers — the very prayers which Ferrand in his better days had been taught to say. Their little voices chimed harmoniously together. The deep and solemn, though trembling, tones of the old priest were heard distinctly above them. They spoke to Ferrand's heart of many a long-forgotten feeling, of many a touching and tender memory long passed away. And while he gazed with intense anxiety upon the scene, he saw a mother, who was among that crowd, take the little hands of her child within her own, and try to teach its young lips to join in the prayer which it could barely articulate. This simple incident completed the triumph of grace in the softened heart of the long-lost man. He
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Meflectivn. 33
flung Himself upon his knees, and, after a brief and almost die- pairing prayer, he rushed from the spot.
In a few minutes after Ferrand left the church, a hurried messenger was observed to enter the cabaret, where his companions* still continued their carousal, and addressed a few words to the leader of the party. He started up with an air of alarm, and the whole company hastily quitted the shop and returned in confusion
to Paris.
* * . * * *
About a dozen year since* an Irish traveller heard the above story related in a very affecting sermon on the religious education of youth, from the pulpit of the cathedral of St. Denis. The preacher — a venerable old man, bowed down by the weight of years and apostolic labours — was the long-lost but penitent Ferrand him- self. He died in a few months afterwards, a most holy and edify- ing death, and is still affectionately remembered by the villagers as the good old Chaplain op St. Denis.
REFLECTION.
BY THB REV. WILLIAM SUTTON, S.J.
A PHILOSOPHER, when asked what philosophy had done for him, replied : — " It has taught me to talk with myself." That is a man's own reward for all the labour implied in becoming even something of a philosopher. And it is a great one. Congenial society is one of the greatest blessings we can enjoy ; uncongenial, among the greatest and most clinging miseries, almost as bad as ill-health or habitual heart-heaviness. Wisdom reconciles incom- patibilities or what seem so. Man is social or communing. Unphilosophic man only knows himself in others, thinks of himself as related to others, instinctively flees from himself ; being by himself is living death to him. Inconsistently he loves and prizes himself as only such men can, and at the same time hates and despises his own conscious company, that is when he is not occupied in or planning what will enlarge his life with others.
* This sketch was written more than forty years ago, when Dr. Russell was a young professor in Maynooth College. — En. I. M.
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24 Reflection.
Philosophic man is a world to himself — never less alone than when alone, for as such omnia sua secum portat. His possessions are one, — reflection. How he got it, is not easy to say. He spent a good number of years reading and mastering what others had thought and taught. He found great difficulty in coming at their minds and experienced great pleasure after the toil, as thought revealed itself to his thought, like far-off stars which one sees through a telescope when he looks long into the black firmament. They come out from the deep dark sky around — so small, so still, so clear, meaning so much, so easily lost, if one is careless. After awhile he found himself seeing the same thing in different ways, dividing, combining, comparing. He began to understand how language was to be used in order to command attention, how word* were to be combined, that would give new things the solidity and power of maturity, and old things the freshness and pleasing vigour of youth. Coleridge says philosophy begins and ends in wonder. Men are but children of a larger growth. If a child could express its emotions, its fresh surprises and wondering imaginings, it would be, not indeed a philosopher, but a literary genius, for wisdom is separable from and often unpossessed by masters of expression. The puzzles of the child become the problems of the philosopher. How came we into the world P Why are we here? What is the meaning of Roman, Greek, Egyptian, Asiatic History P Why are there so mauy and so con- flicting religions in the world P How can people be idolaters P Why are men so cruel P Why do they kill and torture one another P Why so much suffering, cold, hunger, disease P And savages, has God care of them P Does God really mind what we do P Are his rewards and punishments so vast P What is God P What are we P What is the soul P The answers that will stop a child's inquiries will but stimulate the philosopher's obstinate questionings. One of the most curious results of philosophic research is that the ideas of children on the most fundamental truths are perfectly sound, while the ideas of numberless philo- sophers on the same points are utterly wrong. Two very striking examples of this are the notions of causality and free will. These are simple, self-evident ideas, overwhelmingly clear to the unpre- judiced, unsophisticated intellect. But as the notion of and belief in God is easy and natural for the child and unsophisticated reasoner, which a little surface philosophy renders difficult and often undermines and practically destroys, which again much and deep philosophy strengthens and developes, so in their own way
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ion. 25
with these ideas. No one indeed can help acting and thinking, as if his theories of causality and moral responsibility were not all that they should be, and St. Augustine says hcec est vis verce Deitatis, ut nunquam possit penitus abscondi. The idea of God is so natural that it never can be completely extinguished.
We must not think that thinkers are necessarily professed metaphysicians, musing on abstractions and all the necessary truths connected with every mode of being. We have a famous example of this in one of the greatest geniuses and thinkers of the age, Cardinal Newman. All his writings are redolent of the full flavour of thoughtfulness, throbbing with the stimulating power of " the words of the wise, which are like goads and like nails deeply fastened in." Writing and speaking as he does with vast intellectual power and vast erudition his simple language conveys, such wide-reaching meaning that we return again and again to his poems, and sermons, and essays with renewed, varying, un- exhausted delight, certain each time to see what we never saw before, certain to take away fresh energy and subject for thought. And still he seems to make it his deliberate purpose to bring what is behind the mysterious veil as far as possibly can be done into the world of shapes and symbols, which the intellectual imagina- tion may figure to itself and realize. With this object when treating of abstract ideas he does not inquire what they are in themselves, but how we store them and consider them in the algebra of practical thought and reasoning.
Genius is a large word. It is originality of conception and expression. To some it comes without effort, in others it is the fruit of "accumulated reflection/' Buffon says: — "Le genie, c'est la patience." Newton, when asked how he discovered the universality and the formula of the law of gravitation, replied, " By constantly thinking about it." I remember reading in a review of some work in the Times, that it gave signs of careful work, of the exercise of that infinite capacity for taking trouble which is but another name for genius itself. On the other hand Shakespeare is said to give us his own method of writing when describing how Hamlet "devised a new commission." "Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, they had begun the play." Mozart tells us when a little boy melodies and harmonies he had never heard came surging through his brain, sounding on his mental ear unbidden. Nevertheless for the production of their balanced work Shakespeare and he and all such had need of accu- mulated reflection, of trained and indomitable will, no less than of
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26 To Cardinal Newman.
the consciousness of genius and its seasons of inspiration. Talent is receptive, genius is creative* Talent takes in and expresses the minds of others. Genius throws its own silver light on all it assimilates. Cardinal Newman says it is the work of genius to give old things the freshness of new, as well as to produce what is wholly new, and he himself is great in both performances. For conveying truths that will work on the mind like leaven, an ounce of originality or genius is worth a ton of talent. Often too, the simple little words in which a new view of an old truth is con- veyed are an explosive bullet which strikes at first like any other message, but straightway then proceeds to shatter preconceived notions and encrusted prejudices. Thoughtful work, though not always genius as commonly understood, is fed at least on the crumbs that fall from its table, and produces analogous effects. Hence the utility even of spending years in acquiring the habit of reflection.
TO CARDINAL NEWMAN. Born in Feb. 1801, converted in Oct. 1845.
QCARCE forty years of energising brain L> Had set thee king o'er all that walk sincere Without the fold. A loss thou didst not fear Of kingship seemed thy joining us ; a gain Immense it proved : then thousands felt thy reign, Now loving millions hail thee Prince most dear, And countless alien slaves of style thy peer In soul-compelling prose have sought in vain.
These other forty years of life mature, How vastly nobler in their silent sway
O'er England's heart and English-thinking mind ! Decoy divine, thy deeds, thy words ! they lure To God. The «• kindly light " that led thy way Full oft through them on searcher true hath shined.
Lewis Drummond, S J. St Boniface College, Manitoba.
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THE LAST OP THE SHANACHIES.
BT MRS. MORGAN JOHN o'cOKNELL*
THE teller of old tales was a recognized character in Ireland long ago. When the bard vanished from the scene, the thanachie preserved whatever traditions of song and story still linger in the land.
I spent an hour to-day in Kildysart workhouse with the last of the Shanachies, blind Teague M'Mahon. He must be as old as the century, if not older ; but his broad, bent figure and his ruddy well-featured face are still full of vigour. The sightless eyes are closed, the white hair is long and thick, and only the wrinkled hands, somewhat wasted from enforced illness, show how old the ihanachie must be. The purely rural Workhouse of Kildy- sart, twelve miles from any large town, is no bad place of shelter for the denizens of the infirm wards. Blind Teague is quite a personage among them, especially as a kind gentleman sends him newspapers and tobacco all the way from Dublin, and it is known that his stories have been written down in books and his name printed by the learned Dr. Petrie. He is, in fact, the only thoroughly happy person I ever saw in a workhouse.
Though born near Kildysart, Teague hails from further west in Clare — from Kilmurry M'Mahon, where his people were fol- lowers of the extinct family of M'Mahons of Cloneena. When Teague grew up, he took service with one Oonnell, who, besides his farming, worked a quarry near Money Point, not very far from Kilrush. This Connell was brother to Peter Connell, a famous old hedge-schoolmaster, and a very shanachie of shanachies, at whose feet the sturdy hewer of flagstones sat. Peter was an old man then and Teague a very young one : so the gleaner of old tradi- tions flourished in the last half of the last century.
Teague only knows a limited amount of English. He speaks like a foreigner, with difficulty and deliberation, using the most dignified idioms and with a tantalising slowness but with a wonderful good accent. He evidently picked it up late in life from educated people. As his vocabulary is limited, he needs an interpreter. Once he turned to him in the middle of a broken sentence of his halting but picturesque English, to exclaim in Irish : " Why cannot Morgan John's wife speak Irish P " But
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28 The Last of the Shanachies.
this was said more in sorrow than as a reproach for my degeneracy. In his young days country ladies had to know enough of Irish to manage the large number of servants then kept when the killing and curing of meat, the opening and carding of flax and wool, and the making of bread and cider, had all to be carried on at home. Except silk, broadcloth, saddlery, and wine, almost everything was produced in the household.
Blind Teague, partly himself in English, partly in Irish to his interpre ter — told me of Peter Connell. Now, that schoolmaster in his youth not only crossed into Oonnaught to study " all the old talk, and the old stories " but visited every part of Ireland and even spent a long time in Scotland from whence he brought back much matter of song and story. We know how the heroic cycle of the Legends of Fionn and Cuohulain and the doom of the Children of TJsnagh live in Scotland as in Tigh Lore. How many years Peter Connell spent thus I cannot tell, but Teague assured me " he spent ten years in Limerick sitting on the one bench with Dr. O'Reardon," writing it all down, the doctor was to have found the means of publishing the book, but he died, and the M.S. was still unpublished ; and Teague often saw the outside of it in the farm-house where he worked with Peter's brother who sheltered his old age.
One time Peter was keeping school at G-ower, three miles from Kilrush, when he gave the following proof of his acquirements. He must have had access to documents quoted by the late learned Father Shearman in the pedigrees in his Loca Patriciana. For I identified some of the particulars given by Teague, but he does not seem to have informed his disciple whence he derived them. Peter Connell's aid was indirectly sought to rescue from a serious dilemma one Murtagh M'Mahon of Cloneena, of whose family Teague's people were followers. This gentleman's only daughter, Margaret M'Mahon, was married to the O'Donoghue of the Glen, the great-grandfather of the present chieftain. On the birth of their eldest son the Kerry gentlemen is reported to have said that, if the child's lineage on the mother's side were equal to that of the O'Donoghues few Irish noblemen would be above him. These words reached Madam O'Donoghue's ears, who indignantly appealed to her father for proofs of the antiquity of her own family. Now Murtagh was a pleasant gentleman who had made a runaway match in 1750 with " Fair Mary M'Donnell " of the New Hall family— a lady whose courage, beauty, and charity are recorded in Irish verses translated by Professor O'Loony. This gentle and " Fair
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The Last of the Shanachies. 29
Mary M'Donnell " and stem "Bed Mary M'Mahon" the terribly strong-minded lady of Liemenegh of a century earlier are the idyllic and epic heroines of West Clare tradition even yet. Now the chiefs of both branches of the M'Mahon sept had disappeared in the long struggles culminating in Cromwell's wars, and the various junior branches who held on to their own castles and lands were unable to claim the chief tancy : so, Murtagh was sorely puzzled. In his perplexity he appealed to a certain poet of his clan, Michael, the son of Murrogh. The son of Murrogh was quite ready to chaunt the praises of his race, but was no better prepared than Murtagh himself with dry genealogies. So Murtagh then appealed to a certain learned Irish scholar named Considine, who had not the courage to avow his incompetence, but asked for time and visited the hedge-school where Peter Connell held sway. Peter, who told Teague, who told me, knew where to come at the required information, but he had no notion of telling it to his brother scholar. He raised difficulties and said, "I could gather it in ten days through the country if anyone would mind the craythureens," i.e. little creatures. Considine volunteered ; so for ten days the young scholars of G-owran passed from Peter Connell's ferule, while, as he told his disciple, he ranged the country far and wide gathering the links of the pedigree. I suspect, however, he simply got at the papers of Hugh M'Curtin, who died in 1755, leaving many precious documents preserved by his family the hereditary historians of Thomond. This last of their line lived by teaching a small school near Lisoanor Bay. Whether Peter Connell really travelled far and wide as he stated, or simply got at M'Curtin's clan pedigrees, he presented himself not to his brother pedagogue, but to Murtagh M'Mahon of Cloneena, armed with a voluminous document to which he casually alluded as containing all the fathers since Brian Boru, but only the mothers sinoe one Brian M'Mahon who was grandfather to Murtagh's ancestor of Cromwell's time. He professed his willingnesss to produce sundry more details if required, and if he got ten times more and the overhauling of O'Donoghue's pedigrees, he professed his ability to pick out any number of errors in the Kerry document. Con- sidering that Irish pedigrees not unfrequently ran up to very near, the days of the Ark, it was not very hard to pick holes in the early part of them. Peter Connell's services were not required either for the dissection of the claims of the Kerry Milesian or the further addition to the document he produced, and though Madam O'Donoghue's father was not a chief himself, Peter Connell You xiv. No. 151. r* *
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SO The Lattofthe Bhanaehie*.
succeeded in tracing her desoent to chiefs enough to satisfy even a Ketryman's wife. What reward Peter got, though it was an ample one, I am unable to state. It was years and years after, in extreme old age, that he sought his brother's fireside with his pre- cious volume the labour of a lifetime. Many a song, and many a story, and many a queer tradition blind Teague, then a stalwart young peasant, learned from the sage. I tested several of them as to dates and names by looking them up in authentic records, and allowing for exaggeration and certain dements of ghostly and diabolical nature, nearly all the people were living at the times stated, and performed the feats of bloodshed, love-making, or drinking, from which the legends spring.
How long Peter Connell dwelt with his nephew I do not quite know, but while there he received a visit from a gentleman who offered him fifty pounds for the precious book he had been so long compiling on condition it should bear the purchaser's name — an offer refused with scorn by the poor old pedagogue, saying, " What I worked at these thirty years I will not part with it." He was kindly treated by various people, and had many learned books, some in Irish, from which he derived much solace, nor was he by any means insensible to the comforts of the national bever- age. He was a tall, gaunt, swarthy man, large limbed and blade- haired, dark-eyed, and strongly built, like nearly all his family. I asked his disciple how he spoke English — for his Irish was of course perfect. Teague' a disciple's reply was that he was " flat in his tongue that you would never think he could speak a word of English." To this most accurate description of a strong brogue Teague added all good Irish speaking men were of necessity " flat " in their English, i.e., spoke it with broad open sounds — but that Peter Connell ' had ' every word of both Irish and English in the big dictionary, could talk fine English, and once when his English was impugned, swore, the king himself could not beat him in English speech. The year Teague spent at Moneypoint quarrying for his brother was " the year whfen the oats was pulled out of the ground," some year of phenomenal dryness, before the great Clare] election of 1826. Teague was strong about 26, but whether it was apropos of the great election of O'Connell, or that he himself was 26 the year he spent under the rooftree of the Connells, or that Peter died in 1826, 1 could not unravel. Dates are very hard things to get interpreted. At all events some time about that momentous date Peter Connell was gathered to his fathers. A Protestant clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Martin, erected a
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The Last <tf the Shmachm. 31
tombstone over his remains, and the old Irish scholar's hones sleep in Barrane churchyard, quite near the Colleen Bawn's grave. All the Gonnells hut one had voted for their great namesake, and Peter's own nephew, Andrew, was dispossessed in favour of the kinsman who had pleased the Protestant middleman under whom they held. Andrew had inherited the precious volume, and kept it though he sold the printed books. Seven pounds' worth of the Irish ones were bought by the O'Gorman Mahon. He set off to the Tralee assizes in the hopes that the Liberator would buy the MS. book. But Andrew at home and abroad had a weakness for whiskey, and he imbibei freely in Tralee, and Was finally reduced to pledge the precious MS. for ten shillings to pay his score.
Someone, however, redeemed it. The busy Tribune of the people had no time to examine it and did not buy it, and Andrew and the volume returned to the West. He eventually sold it, Teague grandly says to " the English Government " and went to America on the proceeds. Teague returned to his own country, where his people seem to have been cottier tenants working as labourers but holding some land. He was getting on so well he was offered to have his holding enlarged to twelve acres, when his sight failing, he gave up the little bit he had, got money from his landlord, who gave the little bit to add to some other farm, and went to Dublin. He recovered his sight on being couched for cataract, and made a fine living " hauling timber out of the bog." Bog timber is most valuable for roofing purposes and greatly prized even now. However, the wet nature of his work affected his eyes again and he returned to Dublin — this time doomed to slow and gradual extinction of sight.
Teague was walking one day outside Dublin talking Irish to another man when he was stopped, accosted in Irish, and asked where he was from — Teague immediately named his remote birth- place. " I am a Kilmurry man too," said his interlocutor in Irish, and this was no less a person than poor Eugene O'Curry, probably the best Irish scholar of his day. 'The Irish professor of the Catholic University took up his old neighbour and was good to him, and made him known to richer men interested in Irish lore, and then Teague had fine times. He is fully convinced that but for his blindness they would have made him porter in the Royal Irish Academy. He knew Dr. Todd, and Dr. Lyons, and " Dr. Stokes and his son the Councillor/' and the late Mr. Pigott, and Mr. O'Mahony who keeps him in newspapers and tobacco, and Mr. Joyce ; but his man is " The Doctor," not the great lexicographer
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32 The Last of the Skanachies.
but gentle, kindly Dr. l*etrie. Many a tumbler of punch has Teague partaken of in a corner of his diningroom while " singing songs, and the doctor playing them on the fiddle/' and some other tricean " taking them down." Great was his pleasure when I told him I had been playing over some of them the other day, and he says Mr. Joyce has " translated them finely.'1
Teague looks on the Royal Irish Academy as a sacred shrine, and it is his great boast that his was the only single knock that was ever answered at that learned door. Once a policeman ordered him off the steps as having no business there. The indignant shanachie responded : " It is I that have business there with the gentlemen, and not the likes of you that would be let inside." Teague's emphatic rap was repeated and he was let in, in the very teeth of the guardian of law and order.
Long after his various patrons had got all the songs and stories and old pedigrees they wanted, they continued their benefactions, and Teague says he never wanted for anything in all the years *' he gave in Dublin." But when he got very old he felt smother- ing in the city, and a longing came on him to go back to the breezy west country. He was so old his people were scattered, but in Kildysart workhouse he found various contemporaries, plenty of people to speak Irish to him, and the finest breezy air blowing over ridge upon ridge of rocky hills, and coming from the Shannon, five miles wide, where the Fergus joins the wider stream. There are few finer inland views than this world of waters, the near hills and distant mountains, distant plantations) and the many isles, one with a ruined abbey, all spread out before Kildysart workhouse. Teague's sightless eyes cannot profit by these beauties, but the air and sunshine reach him, and the last of the shanachies, as I before stated, is that phenomenon, a thoroughly cheery and contented pauper.
If any gentle reader appreciates the old Gaelic tongue, let him add to its votary's happiness by a little more tobacco. Four ounces go so cheaply by post ; and may I also commend to him the grave and respectable old man who interpreted between me and Blind Teague M'Mahon P
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SIR STEPHEN DE VERE'S TRANSLATIONS *
HORACE made two prophecies concerning the fate of his own writings which have been singularly fulfilled. The first was the famous ode predicting their immortality. He had achieved, he proudly said, a monument more durable than bronze, and loftier than the royal height of the pyramids; a work which bade defiance to wasting rain and tempest, to the innumerable series of years and the flight of time. The other was that they should fill the lowlier function of being taught by the faltering lips of old age to boys in suburban schools, f How soon this latter pre- diction was verified we learn from Juvenal who, in less than a century afterwards, speaks of both Horace and Virgil as school- books. This doom of great writers has been often mourned over. It has seemed like setting the gallant steed to drag ignoble wheels when the sublime language of a poet has to be declined and parsed and crammed into unwilling minds, so as to be associated after- wards in memory with mental, and, it may be, with corporal indignities. A poet amongst the highest in fame and genius expresses this sentiment towards Horace in resonant Spenserian verse, recording his abhorrence of
Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned
My sickening memory, and though time hath taught
My mind to meditate what then it learned,
Tet such the fixed inveteracy wrought
By the impatience of my early thought,
That with the freshness wearing out before
My mind could relish what it might have sought
If free to choose, I cannot now restore
Its health, but what I then detested still abhor.
Then farewell, Horace, whom I hated so, Not for thy fault but mine,! &c, &c
And it has been asked what relish we should have of Hamlet or Lear if they were made the staple of a daily verbal exercise before the mind approached the capability of comprehending their
* Translations from Horace, &c., by Sir Stephen de Vere, Bart. London : George Bell and Sons. Dublin : M. EL Gill and Son. + Hoc quoque te manet ut pueros elements docentem
Occupet extremis in vicis balba senectus.— Epist. I., 20. t Ohilde Harold, Canto III. j
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34 Sir Stephen de Vere's Translations.
greatness. Yet, notwithstanding all these protests, the judgment of mankind for eo many centuries has been clearly right. Putting aside the primary argument that a language is best taught from its best writers, it is certain that, if the great authors of antiquity were not read at school and college, they would run very little chance of being read at all, save by an extremely select few. The majority of men drop their classical reading altogether when they embark in active life ; and even of those
qtribua arte benign& Et meliore luto finxit prscordia Titan,*
there are few whose taste leads them to range outside the circle of authors with whom they had become familiar in their youth. For these they may attain a higher and still higher appreciation as their taste, culture, and imagination expand. The mechanical acquisition of their boyhood becomes thus instrumental in leading to an enlarged and intimate sympathy and delight. Let us then be thankful that the fate which Horace playfully dreaded of becoming a daily lesson in the schools has really befallen him.
Of him, almost beyond all other authors, it may be said that he is the eternal temptation and despair of translators. How great is the temptation may be gleaned from the multitude of aspirants from the sixteenth century down. A few years ago Mr. Charles Cooper published a collection of translations of the Odes of Horace drawn from different sources early and late, and the separate names number about sixty. Towards the end of the seventeenth century Creech published a translation of the entire of the poet's works, odes, satires, and epistles, In the course of the last century Dr. Francis, the father of the famous Sir Philip Francis, gave to the world another complete translation ; and, be it said without disparagement, amongst those who have attempted that most arduous of tasks, Dr. Francis may still hold up his head. In our own day several distinguished men have entered the same lists, among whom we will only name the late Professor Conington and Sir Theodore Martin.
There are many who do not deem the odes of Horace the highest achievement of his genius and who prize the epistles before all his works. The latter with their mature yet playful philosophy, the matchless knowledge of the world and the ways of men which they exhibit, their inimitable art of narrative, their
• " Whose heartr the divine power has formed with benign art and of better clay."
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Sir Stephen de JW« Translations. 95
strong and abiding good sense conveyed with singular urbanity and polish as well as .ease and graoe of diction, have an undefinable and imperishable charm. When P&re Hardouin broached his famous paradox that almost all the great works which we prize as classics were forgeries of mediaeval monks, one of the few excep- tions he made was the Epistles of Horace. But the poet's own prevision of immortality rested on the Carmina — on his being the first to attune the Eolian lyre to Italian strains. He boasts to be first, princepz, in order of time ; he has remained not only first but without a second in order of supremacy. Of all the lyrics in the Latin tongue, alcaics, sapphics, asclepiads, which have been pro- duced either in the decline of Roman literature or since the revival of letters by Latin versifiers in Italy, Germany, France, and England — many of them correct, tasteful, and elevated, many possessing tenderness and vigour, is there even one which the world at large has accepted and agreed to place side by side with one of the great lyrics of Horace f No doubt the Odes taken as a whole show much and inevitable inequality. Many of them are dictated by trivial and transient themes, are love-songs or bacchanalian songs ; and one book, that of the Epodes, said to have been written in his youth, contains compositions utterly at variance with the good taste and dignity of thought and language which distinguish his maturer works, But the heroic odes which have become the favourites of mankind, stand unapproached in their excellence by any subsequent Latin lyrics.
This excellence, into the causes and characteristics of which it would be far beyond our present task to enter and which has been the theme of so much Horatian criticism, forms the shoal of the translator as it is his lure. The " curious felicity ;" the concen- trated meaning to which the Latin language lends itself, the wealth of apposite and never-inflated illustration, the supreme skill by which so much is left unsaid which a lesser artist would be sure to say, and the Roman character and Roman patriotism which breathe throughout — how are all these traits and lineaments to be trans- ferred into another tongue for the delight of men of a distant age and clime P
In speaking thus we have in view a work assuming to be a translation of the Odes as a whole. In such an undertaking no success has been yet achieved, and we doubt if it could be possibly achieved even by a poet of a high order. Far be it from us to suggest that translations of great beauty and spirit as well as of a genuine fidelity to the original may not be made of particular
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88 Sir Stephen de jWs Translations.
odes. If we desired a refutation of such an idea, we need not go farther than the little volume which forms our theme. But what we say with full conviction is that any man, however gifted, who lays before him as his achievement to translate all the odea of Horace will soon find his genius grow barren and commonplace from the mechanical straits and contrivances into which he will be inevitably driven.
Or, to put the same thought into other words, no man ought to attempt a lyric of Horace unless he feels that he cannot help it ; unless the beauty of the original so sinks into his mind, so per- vades his imagination, so haunts, and dominates, and possesses him, that, almost as it were in his own despite, a reproduction in some lyrical measure and idiom of his own language breaks forth from his lips and pen, to be wrought with great and necessary labour into the desired perfection. Once more, in briefer words, the translation of an inspired original needs to be itself inspired.
Sir Stephen de Yere — the son of a poet-sire and the elder brother of a still better known poet, of whom it has been truly said that his life has been " devoted in equal measure to his faith, his country, and his muse" — is himself one in whom the hereditary faculty of poetry has not, as in the case of his brother Aubrey, become the vocation and devotion of a lifetime, but has been made manifest in verse, whether original or translated, of rare delicacy and polish, feeling and refinement.
The volume before us contains translations of half a score of the odes, each of the originals a masterpiece, and the translations fulfilling the ideal we have endeavoured to indicate, in this respect that the Latin poem had through genuine admiration and reverence become fused and molten in the mind of the translator and flowed from thence into the form and symmetry of English lyric ?erse. This result Sir Stephen de Yere considers incompatible with a merely literal and verbal rendering. He cites on this point the judgment of Boileau who says :
"To translate servilely into modern language an ancient author phrase by phrase and word by word is preposterous; nothing can be more unlike the original than such a copy. It is not to show, it is to disguise the author ; and he who has known him in this dress would not know him in his own. A good writer, instead of taking this inglorious and unprofitable task upon him would . . . rather imitate than translate, rather emulate than imitate. He will transfuse the sense and spirit of the original into his own work, and will endeavour to write as
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Sir Stephen de VerS* Translation*. 87
the ancient author would have written, had he writ in the same language/9
To this weighty opinion may be added that of Chapman, the •translator of Homer, who urges that " it is the part of every knowing and judicious interpreter not to follow the number and order of words but the material things themselves, and sentences to weigh diligently, and to clothe and adorn them with words, and such a style and form of oration as are most apt for the language into which they are converted."
The typical instance of absolutely literal translation is Milton's version of the song " To Pyrrha :"
What slender youth bedewed with liquid odours Courts thee in roses in some pleasant. cave P Pyrrha, for whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden hair P
Plain in thy neatness, O how oft shall he On faith and changed gods complain, and seas
Bough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire, &c., &c.
A rendering like this may give pleasure to scholars who have the original line by line in their memories, but to what mere English reader does it not seem stiff and stiltified, the effusion of a pedant rather than a lover P Or take Professor Conington, whose translation of Virgil, though very un- Yirgilian, has yet a good deal of the freedom and ring of one of Scott's metrical romances. He has translated Horace upon system— take his version of the ode, " Laudabunt alii,"
Let others Rhodes or Mitylene sing
Or Ephesus, or Corinth set between Two seas, or Thebes or Delphi for its king
Each famous, or Thessalian Tempo green.
There are who make chaste Pallas* virgin tower
The daily burden of unending song And search for wreaths the olive's rifled bower ;
The praise of Juno sounds from many a tongue, &c, &c.
Now, with all respect for an eminent scholar now departed, is not such verse almost enough to set the teeth on edge P If out of the Latin lyric an English lyric cannot be produced with lyric fire and movement, better let it alone and be content with Smart's translation in bald prose. Sir Stephen de Vere is therefore justi-
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8Q Sir Stephen de Veri% Tramlatiom*
fied in his protest against servile fidelity to the letter, and justified all the more by the examples he has given of fidelity to the mean* ing and spirit of his author.
We have far too long detained our readers from the opportu- nity of judging for themselves as to the merits of Sir Stephen de Vere's reproductions of Horace, and we have to consider a little as to the best means of doing so. To give isolated passages and stanzas would be unjust both to author and translator. The odea of Horace are distinguished by a pervading unity of conception. The unity is of a kind which m&y be exemplified by the type of a perfect sonnet. Starting with one great idea and from thence rising to an apposite simile or illustration, or some historical or legendary parallel, it ends there, leaving the link which binds it with the original theme not expressed but to be added mentally by the reader. As Keats begins with Chapman's Homer, and ends with Nunez gazing on the Pacific
" Silent upon a peak in Darien * —
so is the conclusion of one of these odes. But we must hear what Sir Stephen de Yere himself says in his preface : —
" Horace, in his Lyrics, has two distinct styles. His shorter poems are light, graceful, and easily understood. They are in fact songs rather than odes, and remind us of the tenderness and simplicity of our great Scottish lyrist, Burns. The heroic Odes are of a very different class. They seem to have been written with the intention of effecting some large social or political purpose, or of developing some principle of moral philosophy. A thread of consecutive pur- pose, often obscure, runs through each. The first duty of the translator, that which he owes to the original author, is to assure himself of the scope of this veiled purpose ; his second, which he owes to his readers, is to frame his render- ing so as to present to English ears what Horace intended to present to the Romans. In the latter lies his main difficulty. If by inserting words under- stood, though not actually expressed in the original, he attempts to make clear the object and full meaning of the whole ;— if he seeks to elucidate what to English ears may be obscure, and to complete and transfuse the thoughts and images which though only half developed were intelligible to the Roman, he is taxed with presumption, he is called a paraphraser, not a translator. To be true to the spirit he must claim liberty as regards the letter. The true canon of poetical translation—that which such men as Dryden and Shelley understood and obeyed — is to lay before the reader the thoughts that breathe in the original, to add nothing that is not in entire harmony with them in such language as the author would have employed if writing in the tongue of those who have to read tne translation. "
We could not, as we said, do justice to Sir Stephen de Yere by mere extracts, and yet, when we come to lay before our readers some of the entire odes, we are puzzled by the choice, all of them
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. Sir Stephen de Vere's Translations. 89
seem to us to be of such excellence. We will, however, confine ourselves to three. The first is the magnificent address in which the poet cites the martyr-spirit of Regulus as a protest against an ignominious treaty with the Parthians, the conquerora of Grassus.
TO AUGUSTUS. Ccdo tanantem credidimu* Jovem.— Book IIL Ode 5.
Jove rules the skies, his thunder wielding : Augustus Caesar, thou on earth shall be
Enthroned a present Deity; Britons and Parthian hordes to Rome their proud necks yielding.
Woe to the Senate that endures to see
(O ore extinct of old nobility I)
The soldier dead to honour and to pride Ingloriously abide
Grey-headed mate of a Barbarian bride,
Freeman of Rome beneath a Median King.
Woe to the land that fears to fling
Its curse, not ransom, to the slave
Forgetful of the shield of Mars,
Of Vesta's unextinguished flame,
Of Roman garb, of Roman name ;
The base unpitied slave who dares
From Rome his forfeit life to crave : In vain; — Immortal Jove still reigns on high : Still breathes in Roman hearts the spirit of Liberty
With warning voice of stern rebuke
Thus Regulus the Senate shook :
He saw, prophetic, in far days to come,
The heart corrupt, and future doom of Rome.
*' These eyes," he cried, " these eyes have seen
Unbloodied swords from warriors torn,
And Roman standards nailed in scorn
On Punic shrines obscene ; Have seen the hands of freeborn men Wrenched back ; th' unbarred, unguarded gate And fields our war laid desolate By Romans tilled again.
What! will the gold-enfranchised slave Return more loyal and more brave P
Ye heap but loss on crime ! The wool that Cretan dyes distain Can ne'er its virgin hue regain j And valour fallen and disgraced Revives not in a coward breast
Its energy sublime.
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40 Sir Stephen de Vereh Translation*.
The stag released from hunter's toils From the dread sight of maa recoils, Is he more brave than when of old He ranged his forest free ? Behold In him your soldier! He has knelt To faithless foes ; he too has felt The knotted cord; and crouched beneath Fear, not of shame, but death.
He sued for peace tho' vowed to war Will such men, girt in arms once more, Dash headlong on the Punic shore ? No ! they will buy their craven lives With Punic scorn and Punic gyves. O mighty Carthage, rearing high Thy fame upon our infamy, A city, aye, an empire built On Roman ruins, Roman guilt 1"
From the chaste kiss, and wild embrace Of wife and babes he turned his face,
A man self-doomed to die : Then bent his manly brow, in scorn, Resolved, relentless, sad, but stern,
To earth, all silentlyl; Till counsel never heard before Had nerved each weavering Senator ; — Till flushed each cheek with patriot shame, And surging rose the loud acclaim ; — Then, from his weeping friends, in haste, To exile and to death he passed.
He knew the tortures that Barbaric hate Had stored for him. Exulting in his fate
With kindly hand he waved away
The crowds that strove his course to stay. He passed from all, as when in days of yore.
His judgment given, thro' client throngs he pressed
In glad Venafrian fields to seek his rest, Or Greek Tarentum on th' Ionian shore.
The next is the invitation to Maecenas, in which the translator has the difficult task of competing with Dry den. That parts of Dryden's paraphrase are splendidly executed no one can deny, but it is deformed with vulgarities about " the new Lord Mayor " and other temporary trivialities which Dryden dragged in after his accustomed fashion. Sir Stephen de Yere's version is throughout as dignified as it is musical.
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(Jir Stephen de Vere's Translation*. 4i
TO MAECENAS.
Tyrrkena regum progenies tibi.— Book III, Ode 29.
MtBcenas, thou whose lineage springs
From old Etruria's kings dome to my humble dwelling. Haste ;
A cask unbroached of mellow wine Awaits thee, roses interlaced,
And perfumes pressed from nard divine. Leave Tibur sparkling with its hundred rills ;
Forget the sunny slopes of iEsul®, And rugged peaks of Telagonian hills
That frown defiance on the Tuscan sea. Forego vain pomps, nor gaze around
From the tall turret of thy palace home On crowded marts, and summits temple-crowned,
The smoke, the tumult, and the wealth of Rome. Gome, loved Maecenas, come !
How oft in lowly cot Uncurtained, nor with Tyrian purple spread, Has weary State pillowed its aching head And smoothed its wrinkled brow, all cares forgot P Gome to my frugal feast, and share my humble lot.
For now returning Oepheus shoots again
His fires long-hid ; now Procyon and the star
Of the untamed Lion blaze amain : * Now the light vapours in the heated air
Hang quivering : now the shepherd leads
His panting flock to willow-bordered meads
By river banks, or to those dells
Remote, profound, where rough Silvanus dwells,
Where by mute margins voiceless waters creep,
And the hushed Zephyrs sleep.
Too long by civil cares opprest, Snatch one short interval of rest, Nor fear lest from the frozen North Don's arrowed thousands issue forth, Or hordes from realms by Cyrus won, Or Scythians from the rising sun.
Around the future Jove has cast
A veil like night ; he gives us power To see the present and the past,
But kindly hides the future hour, And smiles when man with daring eye Would pierce that dread futurity.
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42 Sit Stephen de Vene'a Tramtofom$.
Wisely and justly guide thy present state Life's daily duty : the dark future flows Like some broad river, now in calm repose, Gliding untroubled to the Tyrrhene shore,
Now by fierce floods precipitate,
And on its frantic bosom barring
Homes, herds, and flocks,
Drowned men, and loosened rocks; Uprooted trees from groaning forests tearing ; Tossing from peak to peak the sullen waters' roar.
Blest is the man who dares to say, 11 Lord of myself, I've lived to-day : To-morrow let the Thunderer roll Storm and thick darkness round the pole, Or purest sunshine : what is past Unchanged for evermore stall last Nor man, nor [Jove's resistless sway Can blot the record of one vanished day."
Fortune, capricious, faithless blind,
With cruel joy her pastime plays
Exalts, enriches, and betrays, One day to me, anon to others kind.
I praise her while she stays ;— But when she shakes her wanton wing And soars aloft, her gifts to earth I fling, And wrapped in Virtue's mantle live and die Content with dowerless poverty.
When the tall ship with bending mast Reels to the fury of the blast, The merchant trembles, and deplores Not his own fate, but buried stores From Cyprian or Phoenician shores ; — He with sad vows and unavailing prayer
Rich ransom proffers to the angry gods : I stand erect : no groans of mine shall e'er
Affront the quiet of those blest abodes :
My light unburthened skiff shall sail
Safe to the shore before the gale, While the twin sons of Leda point the way. And smooth the billows with benignant ray.
The last which we can cite is the ode to Grosphus, in which the thoughtful philosophy of the poet, his abiding sense of the brevity of life, of the unsatisfying and tainted nature of worldly aspirations, and of the blessedness of peace in a humble condition, are strikingly brought out — ideas which have often made Horace dear to the Christian reader.
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Sir Stephen de Veris Translations. 48
TO GROSPHUS-
When the pale moon is wrapt in dond,
And mistB the guiding stars enshroud;
When on the dark JEgasan ahore
The bunting surges flash and roar ;
The mariner with toil opprest
Sighs for his home, and prays for rest:
80 pray the warrior sons of Thrace; So pray the quivered Mede's barbaric raee :
Grosphus, not gold nor gems can buy That peace which in brave souls finds sanctuary;
Nor Consul's pomp, nor treasured store,
Can one brief moment's rest impart,
Or chase the cares that hover o'er
The fretted roof, the wearied heart
Happy is he whose modest means afford
Enough — no more: upon his board Th' ancestral salt vase shines with lustre clear, Emblem of olden faith and hospitable cheer: Nor greed, nor doubt, nor envy's curses deep
Disturb his innocent sleep. Why cast on doubtful issues life's short years? Why hope that foreign suns can dry our tears P
The Exile from his country flies, Not from himself, nor from his memories.
Care climbs the trireme's brazen sides; Care with the serried squadron rides ; Outstrips the cloud-compelling wind And leaves the panting stag behind : But the brave spirit, self-possest. Tempers misfortune with a jest, With joy th' allotted gift receives, The gift denied, to others_frankly leaves.
A chequered life the gods bestow • Snatched by swift fate Achilles died : Time-worn Tithonus, wasting slow, Long wept a death denied : A random hour may toss to me Some gifts, my friend, refused to thee.
A hundred flocks thy pastures roam : Large herds, deep-uddered, low around thy home
At the retclose of day :
The steed with joyous neigh Welcomes thy footstep : robes that shine Twice dipt in Afric dyes are thine.
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44 Everyday Thoughts.
To me kind Fate with bounteous hand
Grants other boon ; a spot of land,
A faint flame of poetic fire,
A breath from the JBolian lyre,
An honest aimf a spirit proud
That loves the tiuth9 and scorns the crowd.
The success which has crowned Sir Stephen de Vere's efforts in these few odes makes us naturally crave for some others done in the same fashion, such others as he may equally have at heart. We own we should rejoice to see the Archytas, and the Quakm ministrum fulminis alitem in Sir Stephen de Vere's rendering.
EVERYDAY THOUGHTS.
BY MRS. FRANK PENTRILL.
No. X — Anobls Unawares.
MY friend and I were sitting on the lawn, beneath the trees ; enjoying that mixture of tea and talk, so dear to the feminine heart, and so sneered at by the lords of creation — though I notice that these latter enjoy both tea and talk quite as much as we do ; and it is certain that our husbands always drifted, towards four o'clock, into the little harbour of refuge, where we took shelter from the heat and fatigue of the autumn afternoons.
We had talked of many things in lazy desultory fashion, and were now discussing my friend's German governess — a square- headed, square-shouldered, square-minded daughter of the Father- land, whom one could not lopk at without thinking of butterbrot and boiled veal, and knitted stockings, and the many other useful but unattractive things, beloved by our Teutonic cousins.
" A worthy creature," my friend, Mrs. Leaderly, was saying, " a worthy creature, as patient as Griselda, and as truthful as a photograph."
" And almost as ugly," put in Mr. Leaderly, Botto voce.
" Excellent for the children while they are young,19 continued Mrs. Leaderly," but when they grow older, they will require some
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Everyday Thoughts. 45
one better fitted to form their characters — someone who will teach them to love great and noble things. Now, poor Fraulein is a mere machine — without a spark of feeling or sensibility."
While my friend was speaking, the German governess passed down the avenue, three little girls clinging to her skirts, and a golden-haired boy perched aloft on her sturdy shoulders.
%i There goes Fraulein Butterbrot," said my husband, " and it must be confessed that the children seem very fond of her."
" Oh, yes," answered Mr. Leaderly, " 'tis an age that loves thick bread and butter/'
Then bur talk wandered to other things, and we had, for the time, forgotten both governess and children, when the clank of the gate made us look in that way, and we saw a labouring man run- ning towards us, across the lawn, water dripping from his clothes, his hands outstretched, his face of a ghastly paleness.
" The boy, sir — the boy — the river — " he gasped.
In another moment the two gentlemen and the labourer were running down the road towards the river ; and we hurried after them, as fast as we could ; I trying in vain to soothe my friend's hysterical excitement, for the boy was her only son, the darling of her heart, the long prayed for, long waited for heir.
Soon we met our husbands returning ; Mr. Leaderly carrying his son in his arms, and dear Henry following more slowly, bur- dened as he was with Fraulein's substantial weight. By my husband's side walked the labourer who had given the alarm, and who was now volubly describing the accident.
Fraulein and the children, it appeared, had sauntered by the river side ; the steady little girls in front, the wild, wilful boy, held by the governess' hand. But suddenly, he sprang away, his fancy caught by a flower, growing at the waters edge ; and in a moment he had fallen from the steep bank into the river below. Scarcely another moment and Fraulein had followed the boy and had caught him in her arms. That was easy enough, but the bank was so steep that she vainly strove to climb it ; again and again the loose earth gave way, and she fell back into the water ; then, by a supreme effort, she raised the child in her arms and flung him upwards with all her strength.
" And, faith," concluded the labourer, " it's drowned the poor foreign Miss would be this minute, if I hadn't been working on the hill. I seen it all, and got down just in the nick of time ; for she'd put all the strength that was left in her to fling up the boy. The rising so far out of the water was a great risk entirely, and Vol. xiv. No. 151. > c\ha\o
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46 Everyday Thoughts.
she knew it too, as I could see by the pale determined face of
her But sure, them quiet ones they generally has a power of
pluck/'
All the household gathered anxiously round the rescued boy, and I whispered to Henry to oarry Praulein to my room, where with the help of a good-natured housemaid, I soon restored her to consciousness. When she opened her eyes her first words were :
"The boy, is he safe ?"
And when I assured her he was she fell asleep with a smile that beauty might have envied — and envied in vain.
From that day we became friends, and my " angel in mufti," as Henry called her, often spent part of her holidays with us ; so that I learnt her history ; one of those sad commonplace tragedies, which no audience heeds, though they are being acted over and over again on the world's gloomy stage.
Fraulein is the daughter of a German professor, living in London ; a clever and cultured man, but whom drink has dragged down, through long years of misery, till he is both unfit and un- willing to work. Sorrow and disgrace have soured and hardened her mother, and for home, poor Fraulein has only a sordid London lodging, unbrightened by that domestic love which can gild the bare walls of garret and cabin.
Among these surrounding's had the girl grown up, deprived of the tenderness, and praises, and caresses which seem the birth- right of youth. With patient gentleness she bore her mother's ill- temper and complainings, her father's deeper sins. At fourteen she was already working to support them both ; teaching German to other children scarcely younger than herself, and faithfully carrying home the earnings which would probably be spent in one night's excess. Now, at twenty, she is still working hard for those unloving parents, dressing like a servant, and denying herself all the pleasures and harmless frivolities of girlhood, that she may pour more money into their thankless hands.
Do you remember the sorrow and dismay with which all Dublin received the news of Sergeant Fitzgerald's sudden death P He was pleading in court and felt a strange faintness, followed by
a few minutes' agony, and then the awful stillness of death.
My husband was his friend, and had to convey the dreadful tidings to his wife and little children, and to his eldest son, a clever handsome boy, whose studies were just ending.
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It seems but yesterday that all this happened, and this after- noon I met the brilliant boy coming down the steps of the Hibernian Bank, where he is now a clerk. He walks with a slow and weary step, his eyes are dim, his shoulders bent, and already there are wrinkles on his brow, and grey streaks in his hair. The heads of the bank speak of him as trustworthy and diligent, but the other clerks call him an old fogey, an old muff, and despise him for his stinginess, his unsociableness, his indifference to all the ordinary pursuits and pleasures of manhood.
But as he turns into the shabby street where he lives, his step becomes lighter, his face less pale and sad. There are eager young faces watching for him at the window, and he answers their smiles with a smile almost as bright. When he enters the little sitting room, his invalid mother is cheered by his coming, and his young brothers and sisters crowd round him for sympathy and help.
The poor hard- worked clerk is very tired after his long day's drudgery. How he would enjoy a little peace, an hour's rest. But he never thinks of escaping from his young tormentors ; with kindest sympathy he listens to their account of the day's events ; with gentlest patience he helps them to prepare the morrow's tasks. His one dream, that his brothers may have the chances which were denied to him ; his one prayer, that, till then, he may live to support them.
Poor bank clerk, with the stooping shoulders, and the thread- bare coat ; poor hard- worked toiler with the worn face and the weary heart, in very truth thou art an angel unawares !
Last week I spent an hour at the CrSche, among the little children and their gentle nurses ; and I amused myself watching the mothers who came to fetch their babies home.
Among them was a woman, who looked miserably poor and wretched. Her clothes were shabby to the verge of raggedness, her eyes were swollen with weeping, and, across her pale cheek, was a bruise which told of recent blows. Altogether she had that aspect of utter misery, which our minds instinctively associate with vice, and I could not help shrinking back a little, when she passed me on her way to the cot where her child was lying. Then I saw the crowing delight of the baby, as he nestled in his mother's arms ; and the look of unutterable love that brightened the woman's poor plain face, while she tenderly wrapped her old shawl round the cbild.
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48 Fitzpatrick'a L\fe of Fxt&er Burke.
I learnt later that this poor woman is one of those daily martyrs, whose humble sufferings are recorded in the Book of Life. She is a charwoman, that servant of our servants, who stands on the very last rung of the ladder of servitude ; and she has a drunken husband, who spends his wages at the public house. Then when there is no more money, come the blows of which I had seen the trace.
All this she bears uncomplainingly ; loving her child, loving even her drunken husband, and offering to God the constant suffering of her sunless life.
"lis ever so ; God's chosen ones pass by, unnoticed and un- praised, as they patiently toil up the rugged hill, whose summit is in heaven. Angels are all around us and we know it not ; they are kneeling at our feet, standing at our side, dwelling in our kitchens, stretching forth their hands by the roads we daily pass ; but we do not recognise them, blinded as we are by the bondage of our worldliness.
We stoop with half contemptuous pity to some poor creature, who, simple soul, looks up admiringly to the little pedestal on which we stand. She thinks us kind, and generous, and gracious, to notice her. But the angels watching us from heaven, how different is their verdict ! They often claim kinship with this world's outcasts, and I fear, as often turn away — alas, how sadly — from the whited sepulchre of our life, with itspharisaical piety, its daily deceptions, its selfishness, its meanness, and its greed.
FITZPATRICK'S LIFE OF FATHER BURKE.*
THE author of " The Life, Times, and Correspondence of the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle, Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin," of " Ireland before the Union," of " The Sham Squire, and the Informers of 1798," of the " Life of Charles Lever," and of many other books and papers on similar subjects, has manifestly a very strong vocation for the biographical department of literature. The chief elements of a vocation are inclination and aptitude. In
• The Life of the Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P. By William J. Fitzpatrick, F.S.A. London : Kegan Paul, Trench & Oo.
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Fitepatrick's Life qf Hither Burke. 49
the present instance, the overmastering inclination is proved by the perseverance which has brought out a whole library devoted to the biographical history of Ireland in this nineteenth century, from Dr. Lanigan to Father Burke ; and, if the aptitude were wanting to back up the inclination, the reading public and the critics would long ago have undeceived Mr. Fitzpatrick. The vote of thanks after each of his performances may not have been absolutely unanimous, but the Ayes must certainly have had it, for otherwise, not even Mr. Fitzpatrick's enthusiasm for his art could have carried him through the toil of compiling such stately volumes as the tfro which lie before us.
In his preface, Mr. Fitzpatrick apologises for having under- taken a task which might seem to belong more naturally to a Father of the same Order, as in France Father Chocarne wrote the Vie Intime of Father Lacordaire. One child of St. Dominick was pre-eminently qualified for such an office — the gifted English- woman who has given us such masculine works as " Christian Schools and Scholars." But no one could collect for another the materials of a work like the present, and, if an Irish layman had not come forward, no such record might have been left to pos- terity of the man who perhaps did most in our time to maintain the tradition of Irish eloquence.
For the undue prominence given' in these sketches to one side of his hero's character, his quaint humour and bright social qualities, Mr. Fitzpatrick pleads in excuse that his soul in its highest moments of inspiration had expressed itself in his sermons. It would be very well indeed, if Father Burke's printed sermons could be read by the readers of these amusing volumes, though his printed discourses give to those who never heard him, no idea of his unction and the solemnity of his demeanour. We were about to apply to Father Burke what Mitchel in his Last Conquest of Ireland says of O'Connell's oratory ; but we pass on to Father Burke's biographer. A writer in United Ireland says with truth that " Mr. Fitzpatrick's plan is not to sketch the great Friar as a colossal figure and use his facts as an artist would his paints to fill in the colouring. He chiefly lets Father Burke's speeches, sermons, and deeds tell their own tale, helping them out with the boundless illustrations of his inner life, for which Mr. Fitzpatrick seems to have ransacked every convent of the Order, and racy ana of his lighter hours for which almost everybody who ever dined or chatted with him, seems to have been laid under contribution. The result is, upon the whole, a most entertaining, inspiring, and
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50 FitzpatricV* Life of Father Burke.
roughly faithful portrait of the big-limbed, big-hearted Galway Friar, with the rich organ- voice, the golden tongue, and the dark eye that sometimes filled with heaven's lightnings, and sometimes with the rollicking drollery of his race."
It is plain that such a plan of writing biography has its perils as well as its advantages. People will always differ in their notions about the line of demarcation which separates gossip from twaddle. Father Burke's admirers — and who that ever came in any way under the spell of his bright genius and kind heart could help admiring him? — will wish that some things had been left unsaid, and that other things had been said differently. But there can be only one opinion as to Mr. Fitzpatrick's indefatigable zeal in accomplishing his task, his marvellous industry in amassing materials from far and near, and his equally marvellous ingenuity in piecing together the scattered fragments into a biographical mosaic, to which every slight per- sonal allusion in any of Father Burke's sermons or lectures is forced to lend its little streak of colour. If any Irish Pere Ghocarner would supplement these volumes with some more sacred reve- lations of the " Interior Life" of this Irish Lacordaire, we should approach to the full idea of this most devoted son of St. Bominick, who was not only regular and edifying, but almost austere in his asceticism. But as it is, the student of these varied pages, who gives due weight to the Rev. Father Burke's influence with the gravest audiences in conventual and sacerdotal retreats, will form from the two fine tomes, which Messrs. Kegan Paul, and Com- pany have produced excellently in all mechanical details, almost as accurate a picture of the great preacher's life and character as the frontispiece gives us of his thoughtful features, and of his clear, manly handwriting.*
* A mistake occurs at page 820 of the second volume. Father Burke's first panegyric of St. Ignatius was preached, not in London but in Dublin, in the year 1873 ; and it was the invitation of an Irish Jesuit that he accepted eagerly with the remark that this would gratify an unsatisfied desire of his heart.
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( 51 )
NEW BOOKS.
4t Thb Poet in May, by Evelyn Pyne," is another claim on the part of Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trenoh, and Company, to the title we have elsewhere conferred upon them, in calling them the Poet's Publishers. The Laureate, indeed, has recently transferred its allegiance from them to the Macmillans ; but ohangeableness has always been Lord Tenny- son's policy in this matter. Moxon was hardly his first publisher ; and since then, he has had others beside Strahan, King, Paul, Macmillan. Perhaps his next move will be into O'Oonnell Street/ Miss Evelyn Pyne is fully worthy of the good company that she meets in the catalogue of this favourite firm of Parnassus. Our readers must take our word for this for the present, as so many of the early pages of this present number are devoted to a minute discussion of the claims of the latest Irish poet, that we must defer to another month our review of her English sister. Miss Pyne's new volume has a much greater variety of matter and treatment than " A Dream of Gironde," her first publication, which the Westminster Review, The Saturday Review, The Scotsman, and other critics, welcomed with warm and judi- cious praise, and of which our own magazine last year gave a satis- factory account at page 267 of the volume just completed. Though her decided dramatic talent breaks out in some fine fragments of blank verse in which she excels, the present collection is chiefly lyrical, in every form of metre, according to the changing nature of the thoughts. The thoughts are always noble and pure, though we must confess we grudge such fine poetry to such melancholy themes as the self-inflicted deaths of Charlotte Stieglitz and Chatterton. We* suspect that this true poet is at her best in the " Leaves from Mary Merivale's Diary," and " At the Gate of Death," and these are both in that stately and perilous metre which Professor Conington says can be managed properly by only one or two in an age, and of which the Ettrick Shepherd said that, whenever he attempted it, he never could tell whether he was really writing prose or poetry. But this present book- note, as we have said, is only meant to pledge us to a careful study of " The Poet in May," long before May comes round.
We defy the Christmas season of '85 to produce a better book of its kind than Mrs. Frank Pentrill's " Odile : a Tale ofkthe Commune " (Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son). It is aimed at more mature readers than those for whom the author catered last year in her "Lina's Tales." She, too, like Miss Kathleen O'Meara, shows that she has a right to lay the scene of her tale in France where she is sufficiently at home to avoid those little exhibitions of collateral ignorance into which many clever writers fall in similar circumstances. " Odile/' besides being very interesting, is very instructive and edifying, without a
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trace of the goody-goody in style and sentiment. The O'Connell Street Press has produced the book in that festive garb which suits the Christmasbox season.
Father Monsabre, a member of the same order which has given to the Church such orators as Laoordaire and Thomas Burke, has long been one of the most eloquent of French preachers. An Irish Ameri- can priest, also a Dominican, Father Stephen Byrne, has published through the New York Catholic Publication Society, an excellent translation of the French Dominican's " Meditations on the Mysteries of the Holy Rosary."
Among the shorter stories which have enlivened the pages of this Magazine there is hardly one that seems to have caught the fancy of our constituents more than '* Eobin Redbreast's Victory," with which our fifth volume opened in January, 1877. We recall it for the sake of those readers whose memory goes so far back, in order to prejudice them in favour of a new work by the same author, Miss Kathleen O'Meara, who has done injustice to her fame by linking some of her works, such as the excellent " Life of Thomas Grant, first Bishop of Southwark," not with her own sweet Irish name but with the pen- name of " Grace Ramsay." Her new book is called " Queen by Right Divine, and other Tales." (Burns and Oates). Why is it called so ? It consists simply of three biographical sketches — Sister Rosalie, the famous Parisian Sister of Charity, the still more famous Madame Swetohine, and Father Laoordaire. The lives and characters of these two noble and saintly women, and of this great sacred orator are drawn with Miss O'Meara's wonted liveliness and solidity of style, with many life-like touches and some idioms also which show her to be more a Frenchwoman than an Irishwoman.
The Servite Fathers have been for twenty years at work in London, and one of them has just published there a very complete and satis- factory biography of their holy Founder — "Life of St. Philip Benizi of the Order of the Servants of Mary, with some account of the first disciples of the Saint." By the Rev. Peregrine Soulier, Priest of the same order (London : Burns and Oates). This year, 1885, is the sixth centenary of the Saint's death, a fitting occasion for this act of filial piety. Father Soulier's work, written in French, has been already translated into Italian and received with great favour. The French censor states that the narrative is founded on a wide and solid erudi- tion, and it is not only an extremely edifying Life of a Saint, written in a style at once dignified and easy, but also a valuable and very- interesting fragment of monastic history, and of the history of the Italian republics in mediaeval times. It is the fullest and most satisfactory piece of hagiography that has of late years been added to our literature. The English version is admirably executed and fills a very portly volume of 566 pages, not spread out like a magazine-
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poem of the Laureate's, but printed with type compact and economical though pleasantly clear and readable. A writer in Notes and Queries said lately that the reason why reviews never mentioned the prices of books was merely a tradition coming down from times when a paragraph of that nature would be taxed as an advertisement. Advertisements are no longer taxed ; and publishers ought to enable reviewers to mention the interesting particulars of price. The price of the "Life of St. Philip Benizi" is, we think, eight shillings.
A popular edition, with much new matter, and the statistics brought down to the present time, has just been published of the very learned work, " The Chair of Peter, or the Papacy considered in its institution, development, and organization, and in the benefits which for over eighteen centuries it has conferred on mankind. By John Nicholas Murphy, Roman Count, author of ' Terra Incognita/ " (Burns and Oates). Even in this less expensive form it is a fine tome of 720 ample pages, of which fifty are devoted to a minute and most serviceable index. Count Murphy has taken immense pains to 'secure fulness and accuracy in the treatment of his supremely important subject, and all the incidental questions mixed up with it. Very valuable and interesting information is frequently given in the notes, which sometimes furnish brief accounts of the authors quoted and supply dates and particulars of the highest utility to the careful reader. Non-catholic critics such as The Standard and the British Quarterly Review have borne emphatic testimony to the moderation of the historian's tone. Count Murphy writes in a clear and calm style well suited to his theme and his purpose.
" Theodore Wibaux, Zouave Pontificale et Jesuite," (Paris : Betaux- Bray) is far the most interesting piece of biography that has come to us from France for many a day. The author, Father C. Coetlosquet, S.J., has fulfilled his duty admirably. This beautiful life occupied only the thirty-three years between 1849 and 1882. The glimpses we get of Theodore' s family are most amiable and edifying. After a brilliant boyhood Theodore became a Papal Zouave, and his letters and journal, which are here edited very judiciously, give the best accounts to be found anywhere of a Zouave's life in Italy. In the unhappy war with Prussia the young man served under General de Charette among the •• Volunteers of the West." In 1871 he entered another regiment — the Company of Jesus — and died on the eve of priesthood. We hope at some time or other to enter into the details of this short .but full and varied life, which is of quite exceptional interest.
" Authority and Obedience," by J. Augustus J. Johnstone (London : Burns and Oates) is a pamphlet which will hardly be read by any one who does not accept beforehand its very orthodox political and social doctrines. One of Mr. Johnstone's remarks is worth quoting. "I
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fear posthumous almsgiving is of little avail to the giver. Charity, to be efficacious, should be aocompanied bj a little self-denial, and therefore for our own sakes we should support the clergy and the Church during our lives and out of our own savings, and not lay that part of our duty on our heirs."
Mr. Washbourne of 18, Paternoster Bow, London, has added two new sixpenny plays to his large repertory of " Dramas, Comedies, and Farces." Things of this sort, that seem very dreary in the reading, pass off very pleasantly, we are told, when properly mounted and Performed. It is a striking proof of the power of the stage. Even with a good moral and a religious tone, it might be possible to produce a bright, clever little play ; but we have not seen such. The two present attempts — " Christmas Revels," and " The Wanderers " — seem to be below a very low average. " The Wanderers" is far the best. Both are in rhymed couplets, like Dryden's plays or the French theatre. The rhymesters show skill enough to avoid such rhymes as f< Craze " and " Rage," " Time " find Fine," if they cared.
The same publisher, who always does his part of the work admir- ably, has sent us another little book of which we can speak in a more genial Christmas tone. Under the same cover (an exceedingly pretty one), we have " Little Dick's Christmas Carols, and other Tales," by Miss Amy Fowler. There are half a dozen little stories, each teach- ing a very good lesson, which young readers may understand all the better from being taught in a rather oommonplace fashion, without any of those bright, fanciful touches which we are accustomed to in such writers of juvenile tales as the authors of " The Little Flower Seekers," or of the more famous but hardly more brilliant <( Alice in Wonderland."
There are very many of our readers in oonvents, and in Catholic homes, who by choice or by necessity have recourse for their spiritual reading to the language of Bourdaloue, and of St. Francis de Sales. For this reason, French books are occasionally sent to us for review. The latest of these is a very cheap volume (costing only a franc and a- half),.of 160 close but clearly printed pages, containing a full and most interesing account of Father Lewis Ruellan, S. J., with a collec- tion of his edifying letters, and then a sketch of Father Augustus Ruellan by the younger brother who survived him a few years. Those last few years were spent as a Jesuit missionary in the Rocky Mountains, chiefly working among the American Indians. The letters sent home to Europe are extremely interesting, interlarded quaintly here and there with words and phrases from that terrible English language which the French Jesuit was then compelled to learn. It is touching to read how he was sometimes consoled amid his rude priva-
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tione by the faith and goodness of Irish women and children who are found in those wild places and everywhere.
The fifth of the well-printed ten cent volumes issued at Notre Dame, Indiana, as " The Ave Maria Series/' is u The Mad Penitent of Todi, by Mrs. Anna Hanson Dorsey." To use a curious word of Mrs. Dorsey's, we cannot enthuse over it very much. It purports to be a dreadfully picturesque sketch of the conversion of the Franciscan Jacopone, the supposed author of the Stabat Mater. We should have liked the story told in a very different manner. As one little mark of poor workmanship, why does the writer mix up French and Italian by calling her hero Jacques dei Benedetti ? Tet there are many different palates to be pleased, and some may prefer these florid pages to Maurice Egan's simple little tales, of which we are promised a batch in the next number of " The Ave Maria Series," and to which we promise a hearty welcome.
Mrs. Eleanor Donnelly of Philadelphia is the author of a beautiful " Hymn for the Jubilee of the Priesthood of His Holiness Pope Leo XIII." Vincent Joachim Pecci was ordained priest on the 23rd of Decem- ber, 1837, by Cardinal Odiscalchi, in the chapel of St. Stanislaus, in the Church of St. Andrew, on the Quirinal. This was the Jesuit novitiate, and it reminds us that this holy Cardinal renounced his ecclesiastical dignities to become a member of the Society of Jesus. As the fiftieth anniversary of the Pope's ordination is still in the future, there will be time for this Jubilee Hymn to circulate among the English-singing nations. But wide as the sphere is of this very convenient language which we speak and write, Miss Donnelly's Jubilee strains address a wider audience. A very perfect German version, and also one in the language of His Holiness to whom the work is about to be presented, accompany the English text; but the Italian cannot be sung to the original musio which has been composed for the English and German, by Professor Wiegand. It is arranged as a duet or trio for equal voices, and as a chorus for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass, with piano or orchestra accompaniment. As many of our readers will draw a practical conclusion from this notice, we may add that the publisher is T. Fisher, 7, Bible House, New York, and that the price of the score is forty cents, of the orchestral part, one dollar. What these prices may become in the idiom of O'Connell-street, or Orchard-street, the present deponent wotteth not. With regard to the music which Herr Weigand has wedded to Miss Donnelly's poetry, our musical critic reports that the" air is in style like a German Yolkslied, simple and tuneful, and will be acceptable in schools and convents. A more original composition is " The Last Carol ; song written by C. E. Meekkirke ; composed by Odoardo Barri " (London : Playfair and Co.) It may be had in two keys, C and E, is both musically and effectively
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written for the voice with an organ or harmonium acoompaniment ad libitum. The change of harmony from the minor to the major is pleasing and appropriate. Mrs. Meetkerke*s stanzas are very sweet and touching and quite in the spirit of these Christmas times.
The largest and most learned tome that this month has brought under our notice is the second volume of Mt. Joseph Gillow's " Liter- ary and Biographical History, or Bibliographical Dictionary of English Catholics, from the breach with Rome in 1534, to the present time " (Burns and Oatee). This volume carries the work from " Lord Dacre," to Bishop Gradwell. In many respects it is an improvement on its predecessor. It is impossible to turn over ten pages without being impressed with Mr. Gillow's extraordinary diligence in gather- ing materials for such minute notices of so many thousands of persons and tens of thousands of books. The accounts of such moderns as Father Dalgairns and Lady Georgiana Fullerton, are very satisfactory. English Catholics especially are deeply indebted to Mr. Gillow, and we trust they will not confine themselves to a barren admiration of his labours. When shall something similar be done for Ireland ? We should have liked an index for each volume ; but at any rate, we entreat the author to furnish us with a very full index of the whole work at its conclusion. And may that conclusion be happily reached before as many years shall have elapsed as there are volumes in this excellent " Bibliographical Dictionary of English Catholics."
"The Birthday Book of our Dead" (M. H. Gill and Son) is an excellent idea admirably carried out. Few care to have their birth- days remembered, as the years glide on ; but there are many advan- tages in keeping a record of the anniversaries of the deaths of departed friends. In this book a page is assigned to each day of the year, and a sufficient space at the bottom of each page is left blank for the insertion of names and dates, the rest of the page being occupied with two or three extracts in prose and verse, generally teaching in a terse and vivid way some of the great lessons of life and death or suggesting motives of consolation to mourners. The present collection differs from ordinary birthday books, not only in turning our thoughts to the other end of life, but also in furnishing us with full and sugges- tive passages instead of mere soraps and catoh words. The compilation shows a great deal of taste and originality. The last quality will appear from a glance at the index of authors. In this index we have counted up the number of times that the most frequently quoted are quoted, passing over all those who are represented here by less than half a dozen extracts ; though this rule excludes many who rank high when suffrages nan solum numerantur sed pmdtr oritur, when quality is taken into account as well as quantity. Our minimum is just reached by Washington Irving, Pfcre Besson, Abbe Gay, and Cardinal Manning, while even Fathers Burke and Lacordaire, St. Chrysostom and Denis
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Florence Mao Carthy, fall short of it by a unit. Those who are quoted seven times are (in alphabetical order) Father Collins, Dr. Grant of Southwark, Pere Gratry, Katharine Tynan, and the American Whittier. The number 8 is represented by Ellen Downing, Canon Gilbert, Thomas Moore, Rosa Mulholland, and Wordsworth. The nines are Mrs. Browning, Carlyle, Oliver Wendell Holmes, the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., and Thackeray. " L.E.L.," Russell Lowell, Father Ryder, and Aubrey de Vere, each furnish half a score of quotations. A strange trio comes under the number eleven — Dickens, Father Joseph Farrell, and Shakespeare. The even dozen has no representative, whereas the baker's dozen has Byron, Father Abraham Ryan of Mobile, and Madame Swetchine to stand for it. And now the field (in sporting phrase) grows thinner; only St. Augustine having 14 marks, Fenelon 15, Mrs. Remans and Pere de Ravignan 16 each. Eugenie de Guerin, St. Francis de Sales, Mrs. Craven, and Lord Tennyson have 22, 23, 24, and 25 extracts respectively. Finally, Longfellow figures 28 times in this anthology, Cardinal Newman 31 times, Adelaide Procter 32 times, and Father F. W. Faber is far ahead of all with exactly fifty specimens, nearly all of his prose. The records entered in this beautiful book ought not to be confined to one's own family but to include many known to us only by name, for whom we shall be reminded to pray, seeing their names in "The Birthday Book of our Dead."
The Art and Book Company of Leamington have brought out for 1886 a Catholic Prayerbook Calendar, a Church Boor Calendar, and an Order of Vespers for Sundays and Holidays.
The Illustrated Catholic Family Annual (New York Catholic Publication Society) is now in its eighteenth year, and the issue for 1886 is one of the most interesting of the series. It is crammed with biographical and miscellaneous sketches, and copiously illustrated with excellent engravings, giving successful portraits of the new Archbishop of Dublin, and Dr. Corrigan the new Archbishop of New York, Cardinal Moran, Father Peter Beckx, S.J., Lady Georgiana Fullerton, A. M. Sullivan, Cardinal M'Cabe and Cardinal M'Closkey, and some American notabilities, such as the first Bishop of Mobile and Father Badin the first priest of the United States.
A Sermon preached by Father Humphrey, S.J. at the clothing of two Sisters of Mercy in St. Catharine's Convent, Edinburgh, has been published under the title of " The Spouses of the King/'
Sir James Marshal, late Chief Justice of the Gold Coast Colony, has published in a neat little sixpenny pamphlet his " Reminiscences of West Africa and its Missions," .Extremely interesting and edifying the reminiscences are. We heartily agree with Sir James Marshall that the Annals of the Propagation of the Faith are ''in general too depressing and dull, giving nearly always the gloomy side of things,
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dwelling on trials, dangers, difficulties, and revelling in martyrdoms and cruelties." The good Chief Justice's experience is that Catholic Missionaries are as happy and cheerful a set of men as he ever met. " The pluck of a soldier (he adds) made even the Ashanti Expedition a sort of amusing picnic to those who really had pluck, and they were decidedly the majority. So also the vocation of the Missionary keeps him happy and cheery through everything, and if this spirit prevailed more in missionary letters and literature, I think it would take better with the general public."
Messrs. Browne and Nolan are the publishers of a little pamphlet entitled " An Olive Branch." It is well- written and well-intentioned ; but it is political and therefore beyond our sphere.
Denvir's Penny Irish National Almanac, published at Liverpool, is kept up cleverly.
" Eason's Almanac for Ireland for the year 1886 " (Dublin : "W. H. Smith and Son) fully maintains its high reputation for accuracy, research, and great practical utility. One of the most interesting items in this thirteenth yearly issue is a clear summary of the views of some leading politicians on the important question of Irish Self- Government.
But even at Christmas we cannot go on for ever noticing new books. One very cheap and very attractive book for the season is a handsome quarto entitled "Good and Pleasant Heading for Boys and Girls," containing Tales, Sketches, and Poems (M. H. Gill and Son). A Christmas-box of a different kind is the very newest of new prayer* books, "The Dominican Manual." It has been compiled by the Dominican Nuns of Cabra near Dublin, and a pioture of the Convent fronts the titlepage. It is an admirable collection of prayers and devotions, and the publishers, Brown and Nolan, have brought it out with extreme care and skill. The binding of the copy before us is a luxury to the sight and touch.
Here, if nowhere else, we breathe our best Christmas wishes for all our readers and writers ; and, when Christmas is over, we wish them a happy New Tear.
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A FAMILY OF FAMOUS CELTIC SCHOLARS.
ON the eastern shore of the Bay of Killala, about ten miles north of Ballina, are the ruins of the old castle of Leacan. The site was well chosen, for it was to be the home, not of warriors, but of scholars, and so they built their stronghold in the hearing of the sea, fronting the gales from the west where they could see from the windows the fierce Atlantic billows spend their wintry rage against the bleak cliffs of Benmore. And many a fearful scene of shipwreck they must have witnessed, when the dismantled vessels flying from the outer gales were forced to seek the inhos- pitable shelter of Killala Bay; for a dangerous bar stretches across its mouth, and when the rising tide swept up the estuary in the teeth of the south-west wind and the Moy's full current, small chance of escape remained for the doomed ship, when she got amongst the breakers that barely covered the treacherous shoals.
Yet for the Celtic scholar that old castle of Leacan is classic ground. It was the home of a family of learned Irishmen, who, with the single exception of the O'Clerys, have done more for Celtic literature than any other race of our ancient hereditary ollaves. We propose in this paper to give a short sketch of the Clan Firbis of Leacan, and of their literary labours in the cause of Irish history and archaeology.
The Clan Firbis came of an illustrious stock, for they trace their descent to Dathi, the last pagan king of Ireland, who is said to have been killed by lightning at the foot of the Alps. Awley> his son, a prop in battle, brought home the body of the arch- chieftain through battles and marches by land and by sea, and buried him with his fathers at Cruachan of the Kings, where the tall red pillar-stone still marks the hero's grave. The original seat of the family was in Magh Broin between Lough Conn and the river Moy — a district that was then, and is still known as the " Two Baos." Gilla Iosa Mor Mac Firbis describes it in his topo- graphical poem as a sweet and fertile land, where the crops grew quick and rich ; it was embosomed in delightful woods, the seat of poets, who loved to wander in their shade and compose their songs for feast and battle. The Clan Firbis dwelt near the margin of the lake to the east, as well as on the opposite side in fair Glen Nephin, Vol. xrr. No. 152. February, 1886. * r\^\o
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60 A Family of Famous Celtic Scholars.
where the scarlet hazel dipped its hundred tendrils into the lake's pellucid waters.
It was probably the advance of the English settlers towards the close of the thirteenth century that drove the Clan Firbis from their beloved homes around the lake somewhat further to the north at Rosserk, which was the extreme limit of their ancient territory. This place was originally called Bos Scarce, the ros, or wooded promontory, of the Virgin Searc, whose church was built thereon. The primitive edifice of the virgin saint has disappeared, but its site is occupied by the ruins of a small but very beautiful abbey, which John O'Donovan thought was built about five cen- turies ago. He was nearly right, for Father Mooney, tho Franciscan Chronicler, tells us that " Rosserk was founded in the fifteenth century by a chieftain of the Joyces, a powerful family of Welsh extraction, remarkable (as they are still) for their gigantic stature, who settled in West Connaught in the thirteenth century."
The site was certainly well chosen on a promontory running into the river Moy, " the stream of speckled salmons." A graceful square-built tower of blueish stone, as in most of the Franciscan churches, surmounted the centre of the sacred edifice, which sees itself reflected in the waters of the river, and commands a magnificent prospect of all the surrounding country — the dark irregular range of the Ox mountains to the east, to the south- west Hephin's stately form throwing at evening its shadow over the waters of Lough Conn, while far to the north the eye wanders over river, and bay, and swelling waves, and frowning cliffy out to the boundless blue of the Atlantic. The Clan Firbis are described by Gilla Iosa Mor MacFirbis in 1418* as poets of Hy Amhalgaidh ( Awley) of Rosserk. Whence we may conclude that in the begin- ning of the fifteenth century the family had already left Magh Broin and were then established at the old abbey on the western bank of the Moy just where the river begins to widen to an estuary. How long they remained here cannot be exactly determined. Probably the Joyces who founded the Franciscan abbey in the fifteenth century drove them across the river, for the Welsh giants were men of war and blood who knew no law but force. But then if they expelled Clan Firbis they brought in the Franciscans and built them that beautiful abbey at Rosserk, and endowed it with a share of the lands plundered from the harmless bards and
* Hy Fiaihrach, page 287.
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ollaves of Tyrawley. True, indeed, the western shore of the river was fertile and " quick-growing/9 whilst the eastern shore towards the sea was bleak and bare ; but it was good enough for the mere Irish, and they ought to be thankful that the strong- handed Welshmen of Tirawley, the Barretts, Lynotts, and Joyces, left them so much of their ancient inheritance. A worse day was to come when both victors and vanquished were overwhelmed in a common ruin, and the troopers of Cromwell became lords of all. Yet although the O'Dowd himself, by ancient right the ruler of these territories, was robbed of all his lands in Tyrawley, and henceforward confined to Tireragh, he gave a new grant to the hereditary historians of his family, not so fertile or so. wide indeed as their ancient inheritance, but large enough to maintain them in competence and with a dignity becoming their high office. Here it was by the shore of the bay that " the brothers Ciothruaidh and James, sons of Diarmaid Caoch MacFirbis, aided by their cousin John Og, the son of William, built the castle of Leacan Mac Firbis, in the year of the age of Christ, 1560."* And there it was they wrote books of history, annals, and poetry ; and more- over kept a school of history long before that castle was built. So the family must have crossed the Moy from Eosserk many years before 1500, and established themselves at Leacan, although the great stone castle was not built for their protection down to the stormy period at which Elizabeth commenced her reign. Here it seems they continued to reside until the Cromwellian settlement. Then the Castle of Leacan came within the mile line of territory all round the province of Connaught, which was planted by Crom- wellians in order to deprive the natives of all access to the sea. And so Duald Mac Firbis, the last and greatest scholar of that ancient race, was driven from his ancestral home, his lands were confiscated, and he himself became a wanderer and a beggar depending for his daily bread on the bounty of the stranger. When he was an old man bowed down with the weight of eighty years, he was one night stopping in a wayside inn at Dunflin* in the parish of Screen, county Sligo. A young gentleman of the name of Crof ton, one of a family enriched by the plunder of the old Irish proprietors, came into the shop and began to take some improper freedoms with a young girl behind, the counter. She tried to stop his advances by pointing to the old gentleman in the inner parlour, who, perhaps, overheard what was taking place,
* Hy Fiaohrach, page 167.
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and uttered some remonstrance. Thereupon the licentious savage seized a large knife, and, rushing at the old man, stabbed him to the heart. And so the last of our great Irish scholars was foully murdered in cold blood by a young gentleman of the county Sligo.
The Clan Firbis were for many centuries at once bards, brehons, and historians to their kinsmen the O'Dowds, the heredi- tary princes of Tireragh, and Tyrawley. In this capacity they held large freehold estates, they exercised considerable power, and discharged various functions. As hereditary historians they kept an accurate and faithful record of the descent and subdivi- sions of the various families, of the territories assigned to each, the privileges which they claimed, as well as the charges to which they were liable: They were present in the battles of the clans to be witnesses of the prowess of the chiefs ; they sang the praises of the victors, and recorded the names and deeds of those who had fallen on the field: These songs they chanted at the banquet of the chiefs when the field was won, and stimulated the clansmen to battle by recounting the great deeds of their ancestors and the wrongs inflicted by the enemy which it was their duty to avenge.
Then when family disputes arose, or private wrongs were to be remedied, it was the duty of the annalist to divide and limit the territory of each family, for he alone had the custody of the records that fixed their titles, and he alone was sufficiently trained in the complex code of the Breon law to fix the eric or compen- sation for the wrong done.
Moreover, at the inauguration of the O'Dowd, MacFirbis always played an important part. The Irish sub-kings were solemnly inaugurated on the summit of some green hill under the open sky, with the principal chiefs, and the clergy, and the people assembled round about them. This ceremony, in the case of the O'Dowd, generally took place on Carn-Amhalgaith,* which is supposed to be the hill of Mullagh-carn, not far from Killala, on the western bank of the Moy. We have an account of this most interesting ceremony written by one of the Clan Firbis.
First of all, it seems, when the chiefs and the coarbs of the principal churches and all the people had selected their future ruler, who was that member of the royal family best qualified in their estimation for the office, MacFirbis read for the prince elfect a summary of his duties and privileges as contained in the interest-*
: * See Ey Fiachrach, page 489.
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A Family of Famous Celtic Scholars. 63
ing work called the " Institutions of a Sing " (Teaguso High) of which a manuscript copy still exists.* According to O'Sullivan Bearef the prince elect was then required to swear that he would observe these ordinances, and, above all, that he would preserve the rights and liberties of the Church, and if necessary, shed his blood in its defence. Mass was then celebrated, and the white wand of inauguration was solemnly blessed.
It was the high privilege of MacFirbis to bring the body of this white wand over the head of the new prince, who stood with sword ungirt, then to present it to him, as the symbol of kingly authority, and solemnly salute him by name as The O'Dowd. O'Caomhain, the representative of the senior family of the tribe, next pronounced the name, and after him all the coarbs, and all the chiefs pronounced the same name and offered their homage to the new ruler. The people then took up the name in one loud shout of approval, and the white rod was broken to signify that all authority thenceforward centered in the O'Dowd. This white rod was the symbol of authority from the most ancient times ; its whiteness and straightness were the emblems of the purity, truth, and recti- tude of the ruler. A sword would imply the power of life and death, but the rod signified that the ruler meant to govern his people as a father does his children, and that they would be so docile and obedient that the ruler would need no other weapon to govern them. The prince elect had previously put off his sword and cloak to give greater significance to this ceremony. Sometimes, too, one of the sub-chiefs put off his sandals in token of obedience, and threw a slipper over the head of the new chief for good luck, but these ceremonies were not everywhere observed. Lastly, the new chief turned round three times back- wards and forwards in honour of the Holy Trinity, looking out over his territory and his people, as their divinely chosen father and protector, and then the ceremony was complete.
Of course a banquet followed — drink and feasting, and song. The privilege of first drinking at this royal feast was given by The O'Dowd to O'Caomhain, the senior representative of the tribe, but O'Caomhain might not taste the cup until he had first given it to the poet MacFirbis to drink, where he sat at the right hand of his king. Moreover, O'Dowd gave to O'Caomhain the weapons, battle-dress, and steed, which he was wont to ufte before ; and O'Caomhain in turn presented his own battle-harness to M'Firbis the pfoet.
* Library of Trinity College, H. 1, 17. f Historia Oath.
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(H -4 Family of Famous Celtic Scholars.
. As might be expected, Clan Firbis produced several distin- guished scholars who have rendered most important services to our Celtic literature. The references to the family in ancient times are few and brief, for with very striking modesty these great annalists make little reference to themselves. From other sources, however, as well as from incidental references in their own books, we gather the following summary of their literary history.
The earliest reference dates from a.d. 1279, when, according to the Four Masters, Gilla Iosa MorMacFirbis, ollaveof Tireragh,died. Gilla Iosa — servant of Jesus — and Gilla Iosa Mor, were favourite names with the Mac Firbis family, and show that their learning was inspired and elevated by a truly Christian spirit. He was succeeded be another Gilla Iosa Mac Firbis, probably his son, whose death is assigned to 1301, and who is described in the quaint language of the translators of the old annals of Clonmacnoise, " as chief chronicler of Tyrefeaghrach, wonderful well-skilled in histories, poetry, computation, and many other sciences.1' This wonderful scholar was succeeded in his office by Donnach Mao Firbis, who died in 1376, and who is described in more mode- rate language as " a good historian." This Donnach was one of the compilers of the great work called the Yellow Book op Lkacan to which we shall presently refer. Three years later, in 1379, they record the death of Firbis Mac Firbis, a " learned historian " who no doubt also aided in the compilation of the same great work, although no special mention is made of his name. Then in 1417 we have recorded the death of another Gilla Iosa Mor Firbis, the son of the above named Donnach, who according to Duald MacFirbis, was " chief historian to O'Dowd of Tireragh, and composed a long topographical poem on the tribes and districts in the ancient territories of his ancestors." This is the work which, under the title of Hy Fiachrach, has been most ably edited by John O'Donovan, and published by the Irish Archaeological Society in 1844.
Several members of the family, too, became ecclesiastics, and under date of 1450, Archdale tells us that " Eugene O'Cormyn and Thady Mac Firbis, eremites of the order of St. Augustine, received a grant of the lands of Storma in Tyrawley from Thady O'Dowd, to erect a monastery thereon under the invocation of the Holy Trinity ; and Pope Nicholas V. confirmed the same by a Bull dated the 12th of December, 1454." Then we have the entry of the erection of Leacan Castle in 1560, to which we have already referred. But the following year a great calamity befell
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Oiothruadh, the principal builder of the castle, for the Annals of Lough Ce tell us that €t Naisse, the son (probably of this) CicL thruadh, the most eminent musician that was in Erinn, was drowned in Lough Gill, near Sligo — and also his wife, the daugh- ter of M'Donogh, with some other/' who likely accompanied them in the same boat
Fortunately for our Celtic literature and history, many of the great works composed by the Clan Fir bis still survive, although not yet published.
First of all we have the great compilation called the Yellow Book of Lkacan (Leabhar Buidhe Lecain) preserved in Trinity College Library, and classed H. 2. 16. This immense work con- tains some 500 pages of vellum manuscript, and was not com- posed, but rather transcribed from existing materials so early as 1390, by Donnach and Gilla Iosa MacFirbis to whom we have already referred. O'Curry tells us in his " Lectures" that it begins in its present condition with a collection of family and political poems mostly referring to the great Connaught septs — the O'Xellys, O'Connors, &c, &c, as well as to the O'Donnells of Donegal, who were neighbours of Tir Fiachrach in the north — the ancient boundary between the two tribes being the Codhnach river which flows into the sea close to Columcille's monastery at Drumcliff, under the shadow of Benbulbin, four miles to the north of Sligo. O'Curry says, however, that these pieces formed no part of the original work. Then we have some early monastic rules of great interest for the ecclesiastical historian written in verse- some of which have been published in the Irish Ecclesiastical Record, 1864-66 from copies made by O'Curry himself . These are followed by a great variety of legendary and historical pieces, like the battle of Magh Rath (Moyra) and the voyages of Maelduin in the Atlantic Ocean, which it is unnecessary to particularize here, but which are exceedingly valuable for the topographical and histo- rical information which they contain. Some of these tracts have been already published, but several, almost equally valuable, still remain in manuscript.
The second great work which we owe to the Clan Firbis is the Book of Leacan, a distinct compilation, composed some 26 years later, and mostly in the handwriting of Gilla Iosa Mor Mac Firbis. It is a still larger work, containing more than 600 pages of fine vellum manuscript, but its contents, though highly valuable, are almost identical with the contents of the famous Book of Bally- mote, from which it was probably copied, at least in part. The
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most original and therefore the moat valuable tract in the entire work is that to which we have already referred to as the " Tribes and Customs of Ht Fiachrach " published by the Irish Archaeo- logical Society. These two great works sufficiently prove that the historians of Tyrawley must have had a perfect acquaintance with our entire Celtic literature, and were indeed wonderfully well skilled " in histories, poetry, computation, and many other sciences."
Next we have the writings of Duald MacFirbis, the most learned and the most unfortunate of his name and race. His entire life was a chronicle of woe for himself, for his family, for his religion, and for his country.
Duald M'Firbis (Dubhaltach) was the son of another Gilla Iosa Mor, and was born at his father's castle of Leacan Mac Firbis about the year 1580. If, as O'Curry tells us, he went to the south of Ireland to study so early as 1595, he must have been at least fifteen years old at that time. The latter was the year in which O'Donnell made a fierce raid from Donegal on Southern Connaught, burning and pillaging all before him. The schools of Thomond were at this period very famous, and attracted native scholars from all parts of Ireland. The MacEgans of Redwood Castle in Lower Ormond were the most famous Brehon lawyers in Ireland, and here young MacFirbis came to perfect himself in the study of Celtic jurisprudence. The O'Davorensof Burren, county Clare, had also a famous school of law and poetry, and MacFirbis spent some time there also, po that he neglected no opportunities of mental culture, which could render him better qualified to discharge the high func- tions of hereditary ollave in his native territory. That he profited to the full by these opportunities is abundantly manifest from his writ- ings. Not only was he a distinguished Irish scholar and antiquarian but he was also familiar with the Latin and English languages, and what is more extraordinary still, and furnishes a striking proof of the excellence of our Celtic schools even at that unhappy period, he was very well acquainted with Greek also. For in his copy of Cormac's Glossary in T.C.D. MacFirbis explains the meaning of several of the Irish terms by giving in the margin the Latin and frequently the Greek equivalents, written, too, in Greek characters, and with an accuracy and freedom which prove that beyond doubt the writer must have not only understood Greek but was well able to write that language !
It was probably in the school annexed to the Collegiate Church of St. Nicholas, in Galway, that M'Firbis acquired his familiarity, such as it was, with the English and classical languages. Certainly
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very little English was spoken on tha banks of the Mo y about the year 1590, for the Welsh and Norman invaders of Tyrawley had become more Irish than the Irish themselves in customs, dress, and language. But Galway always continued to be an English city ; English was always spoken, although not perhaps exclusively by the citizens ; and the writings of Lynch and O'Flaherty prove that beyond doubt the study of the classical languages was culti- vated with a high degree of success in the City of the Tribes.
At any rate MacFirbis himself tells us that it was in the Col- lege of St. Nicholas, Galway, about the year 1650, " during the religious war between the Catholics of Ireland and the heretics of Ireland, Scotland, and England," that he composed his great work on " The Branches of Relationship and the Genealogical Ramifications of every colony that took possession of Erin traced from this time up to Adam . . . together with a Sanctilogium, and a catalogue of the Monarchs of Erin ; and finally an Index which comprises in alphabetical order the surnames and the remarkable places mentioned in this book which was compiled by Dubhaltach MacFirbis of Leacan, 1650," " and the cause of writing the books," adds the pious author, " is to increase the glory of God, and for the information of people in general." In those evil days of Ireland, it was not love of fame or gain that inspired her scholars to transmit to posterity the history of their bleeding country — it was the nobler purpose of God's glory, and the instruction of their countrymen in the better days that yet might dawn on their native land.
The autograph of this splendid compilation is in the possession of the Earl of Roden, and a copy made by O'Curry is in the R.I. Academy. It is a most valuable repertory of the highest autho- rity on all those subjects of which it treats, and has been univer- sally recognised as such by our ablest Irish scholars.* In 1666 MacFirbis drew up an abstract of his larger work including some additional pedigrees, of which work O'Donovan tells us there were two copies to be had, although he himself had seen neither of them.
MacFirbis compiled two other most valuable works, no copies of which are now known to .be extant, on6 a Glossary of the Ancient Laws of Erin, the loss of which is irreparable, and also a Biographical Dictionary of the writers and distinguished scholars of ancient Erinn, "of which," says O'Curry, "unfortu- nately not even a fragment has yet been discovered."
* See Dr. Petrie's Paper in Vol. XVIII. of the Transactions of the B. I. Academy.
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68 A Family of Famous Celtic Scholars.
Historian and lawyer as lie was by virtue of liis office, Mac Firbis was also a poet, and O'Curry tells that he himself had in his possession two poems of considerable pretension written by MacFirbis, in praise of his patrons the O'Shaughnessys of Gort, who were sprung from the same stock as MacFirbis himself. He was also the author of a collection of Annals which are quoted by his patron and friend, Sir James Ware, but which are not now known to exist.
We have, however, a most valuable summary of our Annals distinct from the former work compiled by MacFirbis, and lately published in the series of the Master of the Rolls. It is known well to students of Irish history as the Chronicon Scotorum, a work of great value for its historical accuracy. The author apologises for its meagre character, and tells us that it is merely an abstract, or compendium of the history of the Scots, omitting all lengthened details. Still it is of great value and contains several novel scraps of important historical information. In its present form it only comes down to the year 1135, and unfortu- nately even in that period a large deficiency occurs from 722 to 805.
The life of Duald MacFirbis corresponds with the most calami- tous period of Ireland's chequered history. When he was yet a boy he heard of the disastrous defeat at Kinsale, in 1601. The Flight of the Earls and the confiscation of Ulster followed a few years later, about the time when he had arrived at man's estate. He doubtless shared in the bright hopes that the Confederation of 1641 inspired in the breasts of his countrymen ; but he saw all these bright promises fade away before the breath of the angel of discord. He saw Cromwell's fiery sword sweep over the land, and the persecuted Catholics, who had hoped so much from the Restoration again doomed to disappointment by the perfidy of the faithless Stuarts.
There is no sadder chapter in literary history than the fate of this old man in his declining years. To his honour be it for ever remembered, Sir James Ware, to whom Irish literature owes so much, was, while he lived, the patron and friend of Mac Firbis. He received him into his own house in Dublin ; he employed him in the work which he loved — translating and elucidating the old manuscripts of his forefathers. But that noble knight, as Mac Firbis justly calls him, died in 1666, and once more the old man became a pauper and an outcast. He dare not remain in _ Dublin without a friend to protect him, for he would be perse- Digitized by VjOOQLC
My Sang and I. 69
cuted as a Catholic, and perhaps persecuted as a scholar. So like every hunted animal, he strove to reach his old home again, and travelled all the long ragged road from Dublin city to the hanks of Moy. But the stranger was in the home of his fathers, and the friends of his youth were like himself persecuted paupers ; even O'Dowd, the chieftain of his race, was without lands and without castles. For a few years more the venerable scholar lived on amidst the scenes of his childhood a broken-down old man, until, as Eugene Curry thinks, when, striving to make his way on foot to Dublin to visit the son of Sir James Ware, he met his tragic fate in a wayside inn at the hands of a savage and licentious youth.
Yet, in spite of poverty and persecution during all these disastrous years, Mac Firbis devoted his best energies to the preser- vation and illustration of his country's history, " for the glory of God, and the instruction of his countrymen in future years." May you rest in peace, faithful son of unhappy Ireland, and in the better days that are dawning upon us, we may hope that your countrymen will tenderly remember the name of Mac Firbis, and look with reverence on the ruined walls of Leacan Castle.
^ John Healy.
MY SONG AND I.
ALOFT, above the sea, by the tall cliff's winding path, A flitting foot treads down the sweet wild thyme, When its fragrant bloom runs over all the mossy rath And tides are full and the year is in its golden prime.
No flush of pomegranate, no breath of rich musk rose,
Or reddens or perfumes these regions where My song and I go, singing, while the keen north wind blows
And birds fly low, and the widening skies are cool and fair.
But with the fresh sea-odours floating towards us here And wild thyme's scent, out pressed by climbing feet,
And gleam of grey wings winnowing through the sunlight clear, Travel my song and I, in a lone world cold and sweet.
R. M^->
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70 )
MR. BAKER'S DOMESTIC SYSTEM.
A STORY.
MRS. Ball and Mrs. Baker had put the little Balls and the little Bakers to bed, and for the first time during the winter season were spending an evening together. It seemed very cosy and sociable to sit down in front of the fire, with its bed of glow- ing coal, and talk familiarly of matters interesting to wives and mothers. And so thought Mrs. Ball, who affirmed that her little ones had been so cross and wayward that day, that she needed just such a quiet period to calm her irritated nerves ; which remark was seconded by Mrs. Baker, who added, that Frank, Frederick, and Fanny had behaved shockingly all day, wearying her patience sadly, and preventing her from sewing, reading, or even thinking.
" I don't know that my boys and girls differ from other boys and girls, but I get very tired with the care of them all the day," said Mrs. Ball, sighing softly.
" And so do I ; yet my husband thinks the duty a very slight one," returned Mrs. Baker, sympathetically.
"That I do!" said the person alluded to, emphatically, abruptly entering. " That I do ; and as soon as I get on my slippers, I'll give you a good reason for it. Good evening, Mrs. Ball. I didn't intend to be a party to your innocent remarks, but the last one of my wife's I couldn't avoid hearing ; an assertion* by the way, which I am ready to make again."
'• As she rendered your views so correctly, I presume no harm is done," laughingly returned Mrs. Ball.
" Discussing children, were you not, and the tremendous bur- den of care and trouble they impose upon tender mothers ? ** inquired Mr. Baker, half seriously.
'* We stand convicted of the heinous crime. Pray, what have you to say against it P " retorted both Mrs. Ball and Mrs. Baker.
" Nothing, certainly, of the right of every lady to talk about what pleases her ; but a great deal against the erroneous opiniona you maintain. The truth is, Mrs. Ball, the truth is, wife, you magnify your motherly duties ; you look at them through a glass which increases their dimensions wonderfully. Tou make a mountain of a molehill and then imagine you are climbing up its.
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ragged sides when you are simply walking on level ground. You complain because it has become habitual ; you talk of fatigue and nervousness because every other mother does the same. There isn't one woman in ten who knows how to take care of children properly."
"Have you any experimental knowledge of the matter P" asked Mrs. Ball.
" No, indeed ! he knows nothing at all about it," cried Mrs. Baker.
" I see I am in the minority, but I don't mean to be frightened out of my argument," quoth Mr. Baker. " In the first place, I advance that women don't understand children."
Mrs. Ball and Mrs. Baker looked volumes.
" They make," he continued, undaunted by two pair of sharp eyes, " a great fuss about a very little matter. Children do not need continual talking to ; one word is as good as ten, if rightly applied. Begin right, and there need be no trouble in managing them. When they cry, make them be quiet ; when they want anything, make them wait on themselves."
" What if they can't walk P There is supposed to be a period in a child's life when its feet are of no possible service," remarked the listening wife, in a tone the least bit malicious.
" As I have two such critical listeners it behoves me to choose my words more carefully. To amend my remark, teach children to wait upon themselves as soon as they can walk."
" A difficult theory to put into practice," said Mrs. Ball, with the air of one confident of the soundness of her position.
" Not at all, madam, I assure you ; nothing easier."
"Did you ever try itP" pursued the lady, surveying her masculine theorist as though she compassionated his ignorance.
" Why— no — not exactly," he stammered, " but that doesn't militate against the facts of the case. I'm confident I can take care of children without tiring myself, or thinking it a burdensome duty. I should start right, Mrs. Ball."
The man in the dressing-gown and slippers contemplated the fire with great apparent satisfaction.
" Then why not take your wife's place to-morrow, and let her spend the day with me P " queried the mother of the four little Balls. " She needs relaxation ; and as you maintain that children are no trouble when rightly managed, they will not interfere with your happiness in any degree. You oan * start right/ and I have
Vol. xiv. No. 152. 7
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72 Mr. Baker9 8 Domestic System.
no doubt everything will go on swimmingly. What say you to my proposal P "
Mr. Baker eyed her attentively for a moment, then slowly replied : ,
" I don't know but it's reasonable. Should you like it P" he added, turning to his wife, who had been exchanging speaking glances with Mrs. Ball.
He received a hearty assent.
" Then it's settled ; I'll keep house, and you shall go visiting. I'm not particularly wanted at the business premises, and it will be a fine chance to write several letters and look oyer a book of accounts. I'll wager a new hat against a new bonnet — and the bonnet, with your permission, shall belong to Mrs. Baker — that I will get through the day grandly, without fretting and scolding or worriment and weariness," was the brave rejoinder.
" You hear, Mrs. Baker— a beaver against a two guinea bonnet. I wish I was as sure of a new velvet as you are P " exclaimed the merry Mrs. Ball.
" Don't be too positive ! a hat may be called for before you are aware of it," briskly retorted Mr. Baker. " I'll demonstrate my system, or confess myself in error."
Mrs. Ball smiled in a peculiar way, spoke a few words in an under-tone to her ally, and bade her friends good-night.
Mr. Baker was awakened at a late hour the following morning by baby Fanny, who was amusing herself by pulling his whiskers. Glancing at his watch, he found it was past eight o'clock. Where was Mrs. Baker P Why were not the older children dressed and out of the way, instead of jumping about the room, clamouring for their clothes P Mr. Baker did not make a very elaborate toilet. He ran down stairs, found a good fire in the stove, a pot of hot coffee, and the table spread ; but the party instrumental in bringing about this comfortable state of things was non est. He went through the rooms, glanced into the parlour, looked into the outhouse, into the cellar, and called "Ellen" several times. No response being given, he was driven to the conclusion that his better half had taken an early departure for the mansion of Mrs. Ball, leaving him to get a " right start " without her interference. He was rather unprepared for this punctual introduction to domestic life, but being somewhat of a philosopher Mr. Baker set about having the best of it. He was reflecting upon the propriety of refresh- ing the inner man, when two small voices were heard at the top of ^ the stairs :
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" I want to be dressed — I want to be dressed ! "
These were certainly reasonable requests, and hurrying up to the chamber, he collected together an armful of juvenile garments, and bidding the little ones follow, he went back to the warm room below. He was progressing very slowly in enrobing the miniature men (for Mr. Baker, like many other husbands, had but an im- perfect idea of children's needs), when a scream caused him to drop a boy suddenly and run to the assistance of baby Fanny, who, indignant at being left alone, had crept from the low bed and started to descend the stairs ; but an unlucky mishap caused her to come bumping down on her head and shoulders, to the dismay of her father. Fortunately, she was not much hurt ; a little sooth- ing and a lump of sugar soon dried up her tears.
" I wonder why children can't stay where they're put ! " thought Mr. Baker, as he wrapped a blanket about the baby, and sat her in a high chair, preparatory for breakfast. " But I'll get started right directly."
He went on with the dressing business so summarily disturbed. What a number of small shirts, dresses, pinafores, socks, and shoes the young Bakers wore ! And the pinning and buttoning that his awkward fingers so bunglingiy achieved, was by no means a trifling item. And then Frank and Freddy helped him by "turning round *' the wrong way, and thrusting their arms everywhere but into the right sleeve. The shoes seemed several sizes too small for the feet they were to cover ; yet, by much pulling and working the task was completed. Meantime, Miss Fanny was occupying her leisure moments by strewing the sugar about, crumbling the bread, and spreading butter on the cloth.
" How can a man look behind him, I wonder ! " muttered Mr. Baker, surveying the disordered table; but the complaints of ( two older boys ( who now made their appearance) that they should be late for school, made eating a paramount duty. Banging his five charges about the family, board, he stationed himself at the head to attend to their wants. He had no previous experience in that department, and therefore was astonished at the number of pieces of bread he was called upon to " spread," and the quantity of drink he was requested to prepare.
"And Mrs. Baker does this three times a day! Why, I shan't get a chance to eat a mouthful ! " mentally ejaculated the husband and father, going to the closet to replenish the butter- plate.
When he returned, three of his heirs were quarrelling over the
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last piece of bread. Mr. Baker thought it time to " lay down " his rules and " get a good start " for the day.
" Children/' he said, with as much dignity as though he were delivering a speech at the vestry, " children, your mother has gone away, and will not return till night ; but I shall stay at home with you, and everything will go on as usual. I trust you will make no noise, and prove obedient children."
These words were undoubtedly heard, but no perceptible effect was manifest. The listeners were very quiet, however. There- was no doubt that he had " hit the nail on the head." Encouraged by this " good start," Mr. Baker cleared away the dishes with alacrity, pausing only to ask William and Charles why they didn't go to school.
" 'Cause we ain't ready," replied both at once.
" Why not P"
" Mother brushes our clothes, and puts on our collars, and gives- us apples for lunch, and reads over our lessons with us, and picks, out the hard places on the maps, and mends our pencils, and sews up the holes in our pockets — I've got a great one in mine — and bends our hats into shape — mine's all jammed now — and "
" Stop — that'll do," interrupted Mr. Baker, frightened at the length of the list of offices required of him.
It was nothing to wield a clothes-brush, but to adjust collars- was another affair. He pinned and unpinned, fixed and unfixed ; sometimes the subjects of his operations declared that he " pricked," sometimes they insisted that he " pinched." But the poor collars- fared the worst of the three. By the time they were satisfactorily adjusted, Mrs. Baker would have consigned them to the wash-tub without an instant's hesitation. Apples were easily found, but they needed wiping ; whereupon the officiating manager sent one of the boys after a cloth — the first clause of his new system beings to make children wait upon themselves. Soon Charley made hia appearance with one of his mother's damask napkins. Mr. Baker said "pshaw!" not very amiably, and went for a proper article himself. As for the lessons and the " hard places on the map,'" they were left to the care of themselves. The "hole in the pocket " could not be so easily disposed of, for Charley declared that his pencils would slip through if it wasn't " run up." Up stairs again went the patient father, to consult Mrs. Baker's work- box. After marbles, nails, knives, strings, fish-hooks, and a dubious pocket-handkerchief had been emptied, and the receptacle for this heterogeneous mass duly turned (Charley had gathered up
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Mr. Baker 8 Domestic System. 75
one corner and tied a piece of twine around it), Mr. Baker pro- ceeded to repair the rent with something greatly resembling a darning-needle. .
" Running down " would have been as intelligible as " running up " to the puzzled-looking man who had placed the owner of the pocket in a chair that he might be reached more conveniently! and now stood contemplating the ." hole" with evident misgiving. If he had been about to sew up a wound in the boy's flesh, he could not have taken the first stitch with less reluctance. His needle unthreaded twice (it took him in the first instance five minutes to thread it), and once rolled out of his large fingers to the floor, where it required father and two sons to find it ; but after Mr. Baker had worked himself into a profuse perspiration by his efforts, Charley was of the opinion that it would " hold : " of which his progenitor was by no means certain. Next the "jammed" hat was produced. Mr. Baker manipulated it this way and that, but its crushed proportions defied his skill ; it went " jammed" to school. Flattering himself that nothing more was wanted, the demonstrator of the new system wiped his face, and breathed a sigh of relief.
" What are you waiting for now P " he demanded, impatiently, perceiving that the boys still lingered, as if wishing, yet half afraid to speak.
" School's been begun most an hour ; must have an excuse ; get punished for being late, if we don't," spoke up Charley.
" I've half a mind to make you go without one, for spoiling hats and breaking shoe-strings," responded the impatient father. ** However, one of you go and get the inkstand, and I'll write one ; I can't wait upon you any longer."
A boy bounded up the staircase, seized the inkstand and bounded down, spilling half its contents over a smaller boy.
" Why can't boys (and he might have added men) carry any- thing without slopping?" grumbled Mr. Baker, surveying the black circle which the inkstand left on the table-cloth. " I wish 1 had gone myself ! "
The remedy for lateness being put upon paper, Charles and William went on their way rejoicing, to the great satisfaction of the senior Baker.
It must not be supposed that the three smaller juveniles were inactive during his relaxation of surveillance. Rare reasoners are -children. Perceiving no watchful eyes upon them, they commenced amusing themselves in their own way. Their chubby hands and
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76 Mr. Baker's Domestic System.
the bed of ashes under the grate were soon in contact ; while tiny heaps began to multiply upon the floor under their nimble fingers, between which they made railroads, placing chips thereupon for cars, and a large piece of coal for an engine.
That his eyes could not be everywhere was fully obvious ; that children required more watching, much stricter attention than he had before imagined, was another evident conclusion ; and that the labour of attending to the wants of the five young Bakers was not inconsiderable nor to be performed without fatigue, he was also, just then, inclined to admit. He had assuredly " started right," yet for some singular reason, his system didn't work tohia mind. It had met with unexpected obstacles, and was rapidly running ofE the track. Half the day was nearly spent. What had he accomplished P Nothing — absolutely nothing ; or at least, that was the word he felt sure Mrs. Baker would have chosen to- apply to his morning's work. *
Still there was yet time to redeem his mistakes ; between that and night, he promised himself to take a new tack ; to triumph- antly walk over the difficulties relating to the management of children.
After proper reprimands, the trio of offenders were placed upon chairs, where they remained perched until Mr. Baker's back was turned, when they slid down noiselessly to look about for amusement. The culinary department required attention ; five hungry children would soon be wanting dinner ; he proposed try- ing his skill at a soup. Mrs. Baker made very good soup, but he was confident he could make a better. He was some time in getting the materials together, and once he came very near scalding one of his male heirs, who persisted in disregarding his directions to " keep off ; " but the necessary articles were at length collected in a pot and put to simmering over the fire, which he made of such intensity that he burned his compound. in less than half an hour. That accident didn't add to the fineness of its flavour, which he- was a little suspicious of before, from the fact that he had, in an unlucky moment, substituted ginger for pepper. But congra- tulating himself " that the children wouldn't taste it," he poured his preparation into a large tureen, and seating his noisy boys and girls, who were clamouring for " something to eat," he proceeded to divide the spoils. All being duly served, Mr. Baker stirred the soup thoroughly, and helped himself to a ladle full. The first mouthful was smart— the next smarter — the third smartest. That was owing to the ginger. But then ginger was.
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^ Mr. Baker' 8 Domestic System. 77
highly sanitive, and prized for many purposes ; that was no dis- paragement to the soup. His mouth felt uncomfortably warm, while an incessant call for "drink" kept him trotting busily between the pump and the table.
But though he slily wet his own lips with the cooling liquid, he was not going to retire vanquished from the field, albeit the bitter mingled with the sweet. He made another dive at the bottom of the dish, bringing up a suspicious-looking object, which he deposited upon his plate for closer inspection. It proved to be one of Fanny's shoes ; and it was neither nice nor tender. T/iat did not increase his appetite, or add to his admiration of that young lady's behaviour. No one participated in his discovery but Charley, whose astonished exclamations were cut short by a frown from his father, who dexterously pushed the dripping shoe between the tureen and a large pitcher, that eight other eyes might not detect it.
" What torments children are ! " mentally ejaculated Mr. Baker, wiping his moist forehead after dinner. " It isn't possible the little plagues act like this all the time ! If they do, I shouldn't blame the women for committing suicide or going crazy ! Here I've questioned the mischievous imps, and not one of them knows anything about the confounded shoe. I've a good mind to whip them all and put them to bed ! ''
But the performance of this threat would prevent a satisfactory demonstration of his system ; therefore it was given up as inex- pedient.
Stepping out a moment for something which he needed, he charged his charges (Charles and William having gone to school again) to be very quiet and do no mischief in the interim. A sheer waste of words ! Mischief lurked in their eyes, smiled on their lips ; mischief was largely represented in their compositions, and it must have an outlet. Scarcely had the door closed behind the retiring Mr. Baker, than the trio started on a voyage of dis- covery. Frank, being the oldest, led the expedition, which took for its first field of operations the kitchen closet. Pushing a chair before him to render less difficult the pleasant task in prospective, he mounted it and took a peep into the sugar-bowl. Generously giving his brother and sister two small lumps apiece, he stuffed his own mouth to repletion, casting, meantime, longing glances at a jar of jam beyond his reach. A logical mind had Master Frank for a boy of five. He thought that if he had a high chair, or was as tall as Charley, he could touch the coveted article ; the next
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78 Mr. Baker'* Domestic System.
link in the chain of his reasoning was, how could he make the chair he was in higher P A square box stood on the shelf on a level with his feet. He jumped down, pushed it on to the chair, and climbed up again. Now for the jam ! His little mouth and two other little mouths watered for the delicious compound. He knew he was " doing mischief," but that very knowledge made him more eager to touch the earthen jar ; for is it not a truism that stolen fruit is the sweetest P Standing on his toes, and stretch- ing his body as much as convenient, he was about grasping the treasure when down came boy, box, and chair — chair uppermost. The young climber was not heavy, yet his weight was sufficient to break the slight box cover, plunge his feet into a layer of choice honeycomb, slide the box off, and overturn the chair.
Much surprised at this unlooked for manifestation, but not a bit hurt, Master Frank essayed to rise. That, however, promised to be a matter of some difficulty, inasmuch as both feet were firmly imbedded in the sticky substance. ' By struggling he extricated himself, and the expectant ones, having no scruples against the contact of honey and leather, set about regaling themselves in a very primitive mode with their fingers. Freddy, stretching over Fanny for his share, dropped a liberal allowance on her hair and his own pinafore, and then tried to repair his mistake by rubbing both with his hands, to the detriment of the silky hair, which assumed at every brush of his fingers a still gummier aspect.
In the midst of this sweet repast Mr. Baker returned. One glance at Frank's feet, Frederic's apron, and Fanny's head, includ- ing their hands and faces, and the dripping box upon the floor, explained the nature of what presented itself. He shook one, boxed a second, and slapped a third, before recollecting that he was opposed to physical punishment. And Fanny's hair! What would Mrs. Baker say ! How should he get the honey off P He was undecided where or how to begin. He had just taken her locks in hand when the door-bell was heard to ring. * Commanding the offenders on no account to leave the room, he started for the door. It was a lady whose acquaintance he valued. He shook hands with her heartily, and invited her in. The lady was polite, but eyed her glove furtively. Our founder of a new system thought of his hands and apologised, telling some out-of-the-way story, extremely improbable.
The disagreeable subject was hardly disposed of before the three victims of honey appeared, bashfully sliding in, one after the other; Frank with his shoes sticking to the Brussels at
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