[Pg 377]

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

ORMEAU, COUNTY OF DOWN, THE SEAT OF THE MARQUESS OF DONEGAL.

In the selection of subjects for illustration in our Journal, there are none which we deem more worthy of attention, or which give us greater pleasure to notice, than the mansions of our resident nobility and gentry; and it is from this feeling chiefly that we have made choice of Ormeau, the fine seat of the Marquess of Donegal, as eminently deserving an early place among our topographical notices. Many finer places may indeed be seen in Ireland, belonging to noblemen, of equal or even inferior rank; but there are, unfortunately, few of these in which the presence of their lordly owners is so permanently to be found cementing the various classes of society together by the legitimate bond of a common interest, and attracting the respectful attachment of the occupiers and workers of the soil by the cheering parental encouragement which it is the duty of a proprietor to bestow.

Ormeau is situated on the east side of the river Lagan, above a mile south of Belfast.

The mansion, which, as our view of it will show, is an extensive pile of buildings in the Tudor style of architecture, was originally built as a cottage residence in the last century, and has since gradually approximated to its present extent and importance, befitting the rank of its noble proprietor, by subsequent additions and improvements. It has now several very noble apartments, and an extensive suite of offices and bed-rooms; but as an architectural composition, it is defective as a whole, from the want of some grand and elevated feature to give variety of form to its general outline, and relieve the monotonous effect of so extensive a line of buildings of equal or nearly equal height.

The original residence of the family was situated in the town of Belfast, which may be said to have grown around it, and was a very magnificent castellated house, erected in the reign of James I. Its site was that now occupied by the fruit and vegetable markets, and it was surrounded by extensive gardens which covered the whole of the ground on which Donegal-place and the Linen Hall now stand. Of this noble mansion, however, there are no vestiges now remaining. It was burnt in the year 1708, by an accidental fire, caused by the carelessness of a female servant, on which occasion three daughters of Arthur, the third Earl of Donegal, perished in the flames; and though a portion of the building which escaped destruction was afterwards occupied for some years, the family finally removing to their present residence, its preservation was no longer necessary.

The demesne surrounding Ormeau is not of great extent, but the grounds are naturally of great pastoral beauty, commanding the most charming views of Belfast Lough and adjacent mountains, and have received all the improvements that could be effected by art, guided by the refined taste of its accomplished proprietress.

We have only to add, that ready access to this beautiful demesne is freely given to all respectable strangers—a privilege of which visitors to the Athens of the North should not fail to avail themselves.

P.

[Pg 378]

THE IRISH SHANAHUS,
BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

The state of Irish society has changed so rapidly within the last thirty or forty years, that scarcely any one could believe it possible for the present generation to be looked upon in many things as the descendants of that which has immediately gone before them. The old armorial bearings of society which were empanelled upon the ancient manners of our country, now hang like tattered scutcheons over the tombs of customs and usages which sleep beneath them; and unless rescued from the obliterating hand of time, scarcely a vestige of them will be left even to tradition itself. That many gross absurdities have been superseded by a social condition more enlightened and healthy, is a fact which must gratify every one who wishes to see the general masses actuated by those principles which follow in the train of knowledge and civilisation. But at the same time it is undeniable that the simplicity which accompanied those old vestiges of harmless ignorance has departed along with them; and in spite of education and science, we miss the old familiar individuals who stood forth as the representatives of manners, whose very memory touches the heart and affections more strongly than the hard creations of sterner but more salutary truths. For our own part, we have always loved the rich and ruddy twilight of the rustic hearth, where the capricious tongues of blazing light shoot out from between the kindling turf, and dance in vivid reflection in the well-scoured pewter and delft as they stand neatly arranged on the kitchen-dresser—loved, did we say? ay, and ever preferred it to philosophy, with all her lights and fashion, with all her heartlessness and hypocrisy. For this reason it is, that whilst retracing as it were the steps of our early life, and bringing back to our memory the acquaintances of our youthful days, we feel our hearts touched with melancholy and sorrow, because we know that it is like taking our last farewell of old friends whom we shall never see again, from whom we never experienced any thing but kindness, and whose time-touched faces were never turned upon us but with pleasure, and amusement, and affection.

In this paper it is not with the Shanahus whose name and avocations are associated with high and historical dignity, that we have any thing to do. Our sketches do not go very far beyond the manners of our own times; by which we mean that we paint or record nothing that is not remembered and known by those who are now living. The Shanahus we speak of is the dim and diminished reflection of him who filled a distinct calling in a period that has long gone by. The regular Shanahus—the herald and historian of individual families, the faithful genealogist of his long-descended patron—has not been in existence for at least a century and a half, perhaps two. He with whom we have to do is the humble old man who, feeling himself gifted with a strong memory for genealogical history, old family anecdotes, and legendary lore in general, passes a happy life in going from family to family, comfortably dressed and much respected—dropping in of a Saturday night without any previous notice, bringing eager curiosity and delight to the youngsters of the house he visits, and filling the sedate ears of the old with tales and legends, in which, perhaps, individuals of their own name and blood have in former ages been known to take a remarkable and conspicuous part.

Indeed, there is no country in the world where, from the peculiar features of its social and political changes, the chronicles of the Shanahus would be more likely to produce such a powerful effect as in Ireland. When we consider that it was once a country of princes and chiefs, each of whom was followed and looked up to with such a spirit of feudal enthusiasm and devoted attachment as might naturally be expected from a people remarkable for the force of their affection and the power of imagination, it is not surprising that the man who, in a state of society which presented to the minds of so many nothing but the records of fallen greatness or the decay of powerful names, and the downfall of rude barbaric grandeur, together with the ruin of fanes and the prostration of religious institutions, each invested with some local or national interest—it is not surprising, we say, that such a man should be welcomed, and listened to, and honoured, with a feeling far surpassing that which was awakened by the idle jingle of a Provençal Troubadour, or the gorgeous dreams begotten by Arabian fiction. Neither the transition state of society, however, nor the scanty diffusion of knowledge among the Irish, allowed the Shanahus to produce any permanent impression upon the people; and the consequence was, that as the changes of society hurried on, he and his audience were carried along with them; his traditionary lore was lost in the ignorance which ever arises when a ban has been placed upon education; and from the recital of the high deeds and heroic feats of by-gone days, he sank down into the humble chronicler of hoary legends and dim traditions, for such only has he been within the memory of the oldest man living, and as such only do we intend to present him to our readers.

The most accomplished Shanahus of this kind that ever came within our observation, was a man called Tom Grassiey, or Tom the Shoemaker. He was a very stout well-built man, about fifty years of age, with a round head somewhat bald, and an expansive forehead that argued a considerable reach of natural intellect. His knowing organs were large, and projected over a pair of deep-set lively eyes, that scintillated with strong twinklings of humour. His voice was loud, his enunciation rapid, but distinct; and such was the force and buoyancy of his spirits, added to the vehemence of his manner, that altogether it was impossible to resist him. His laughter was infectious, and so loud that it might be heard of a calm summer evening at an incredible distance. Indeed, Tom possessed many qualities that rendered him a most agreeable companion: he could sing a good song for instance, dance a hornpipe as well as any dancing-master, and we need not say that he could tell a good story. He could also imitate a Jew’s harp or trump upon his lips with his mere fingers in such a manner that the deception was complete; and it was well known that flocks of the country people used to crowd about him for the purpose of hearing his performance upon the ivy leaf, which he played upon by putting it in his mouth, and uttering a most melodious whistle. Altogether, he was a man of great natural powers, and possessed such a memory as the writer of this never knew any human being to be gifted with. He not only remembered everything he saw or was concerned in, but everything he heard also. His language, when he spoke Irish, was fluent, clear, and sometimes eloquent; but when he had recourse to the English, although his fluency remained, yet it was the fluency of a man who made an indiscriminate use of a vocabulary which he did not understand. His pedantry on this account was highly ludicrous and amusing, and his wit and humour surprisingly original and pointed. He had never received any education, and was consequently completely illiterate, yet he could repeat every word of Gallagher’s Irish Sermons, Donlevy’s Catechism, Think Well On’t, the Seven Champions of Christendom, and the substance of Pastorini’s and Kolumb Kill’s Prophecies, all by heart. Many a time I have seen him read, as he used to call it, one of Dr Gallagher’s Sermons out of the skirt of his big-coat; a feat which was looked upon with twice the wonder it would have produced had he merely said that he repeated it. But to read it out of the skirt of his coat! Heavens, how we used to look on with awe and veneration, as Tom, in a loud rapid voice, “rhymed it out of him,” for such was the term we gave to his recital of it! His learning, however, was not confined to mere English and Irish, for Tom was also classical in his way, and for want of a better substitute it was said could serve mass, which must always be done in Latin. Certain it was that he could repeat the Deprofundis, and the Seven Penitential Psalms, and the Dies Iræ, in that language. We need scarcely add, that in these learned exhibitions he dealt largely in false quantities, and took a course for himself altogether independent of syntax and prosody; this, however, was no argument against his natural talents, or the surprising force of his memory.

Tom was also an easy and happy Improviser both in prose and poetry; his invention was indeed remarkably fertile, but his genius knew no medium between encomium and satire. He either lashed his friends, for the deuce an enemy he had, with rude and fearful attacks of the latter, or gave them, as Pope did to Berkley, every virtue under heaven, and indeed a good many more than ever were heard of beyond his own system of philosophy and morals.

Tom was a great person for attending wakes and funerals, where he was always a busy man, comforting the afflicted relatives with many learned quotations, repeating ranns, or spiritual songs, together with the Deprofundis or Dies Iræ, over the corpse, directing even the domestic concerns, paying attention to strangers, looking after the pipes and tobacco, and in fact making himself not only generally useful, but essentially[Pg 379] necessary to them, by his happiness of manner, the cordiality of his sympathy, and his unextinguishable humour.

At one time you might see him engaged in leading a Rosary for the repose of the soul of the departed, or singing the Hermit of Killarney, a religious song, to edify the company; and this duty being over, he would commence a series of comic tales and humorous anecdotes, which he narrated with an ease and spirit that the best of us all might envy. The Irish heart passes rapidly from the depths of pathos to the extremes of humour; and as a proof of this, we can assure our readers that we have seen the nearest and most afflicted relatives of the deceased carried away by uncontrollable laughter at the broad, grotesque, and ludicrous force of his narratives. It was here also that he shone in a character of which he was very proud, and for the possession of which he was looked up to with great respect by the people; we mean that of a polemic, or, as it is termed, “an arguer of Scripture,” for when a man in the country parts of Ireland wins local fame as a controversialist, he is seldom mentioned in any other way than as a great arguer of Scripture. To argue scripture well, therefore, means the power of subduing one’s antagonist in a religious contest. Many challenges of this kind passed between Tom and his polemical opponents, in most or all of which he was successful. His memory was infallible, his wit prompt and dexterous, and his humour either broad or sarcastic, as he found it convenient to apply it. In these dialectic displays he spared neither logic nor learning: where an English quotation failed, he threw in one of Irish; and where that was understood, he posed them with a Latin one, closing the quotation by desiring them to give a translation of it; if this too were accomplished, he rattled out the five or six first verses of John in Greek, which some one had taught him; and as this was generally beyond their reading, it usually closed the discussion in his favour. Without doubt he possessed a mind of great natural versatility and power; and as these polemical exercitations were principally conducted in wake-houses, it is almost needless to say that the wake at which they expected him was uniformly a crowded one.

Tom was very punctual in attending fairs and markets, which he did for the purpose of bringing to the neighbouring farmers a correct account of the state of cattle and produce; for such was the honour in which his knowledge and talents were held, that it was expected he should know thoroughly every topic that might happen to be discussed. During the peninsular war he was a perfect oracle, but always maintained that Bonaparte never would prosper, in consequence of his having imprisoned the Pope. He said emphatically, that he could not be shot unless by a consecrated bullet, and that the said bullet would be consecrated by an Irish friar. It was not Bonaparte, he insisted, who was destined to liberate Ireland: that could never be effected until the Mill of Louth should be turned three times with human blood, and that could not happen until a miller with two thumbs on each hand came to be owner of the mill. So it was prophesied by Beal Dearg, or the man with the red mouth, that Ireland would never be free until we first had the Black Militia in our own country, and that no rebellion ever was or could be of any use that did not commence in the Valley of the Black Pig, and move upwards from the tail to the head. These were axioms which he laid down with great and grave authority; but on none of his authentic speculations into futurity did he rely with more implicit confidence than the prophecy he generously ascribed to St Bridget, that George the Fourth would never fill the throne of England.

Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish songs of our country with singular pathos and effect. He sang Peggy Slevin, the Red-haired Man’s Wife, and Shula Na Guira, with a feeling that early impressed itself upon my heart. Indeed we think that his sweet but artless voice still rings in our ears; and whilst we remember the tears which the enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we cannot help acknowledging that the memory of these things is mournful, and that the hearts of many, in spite of new systems of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after the homely but touching traits which marked the harmless Shanahus, and the times in which he lived. Many a tear has he beguiled us of in our youth when we knew not why we shed them. One of these sacred old airs, especially, we could never resist, “the Trougha,” or “the Green Woods of Trough;” and to this day we remember with a true and melancholy recollection that whenever Tom happened to be asked for it, we used to slink over to his side and whisper, “Tom, don’t sing that; it makes me sorrowful;” and Tom, who had great goodness of heart, had consideration for the feelings of the boy, and sang some other. But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and we will never more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good humour of the Shanahus, nor ever again pay the artless tribute of our tears to his old pathetic songs of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the ideal miseries of tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful recitative from his lips. Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is not happiness.

Such is, we fear, an imperfect outline of Tom’s life. It was one of ease and comfort, without a care to disturb him, or a passion that was not calmed by the simple but virtuous integrity of his life. His wishes were few, and innocently and easily gratified. The great delight of his soul was not that he should experience kindness at the hands of others, but that he should communicate to them, in the simple vanity of his heart, that degree of amusement and instruction and knowledge which made them look upon him as a wonderful man, gifted with rare endowments; for in what light was not that man to be looked upon who could trace the old names up to times when they were great, who could climb a genealogical tree to the top branch, who could repeat the Seven Penitential Psalms in Latin, tell all the old Irish tales and legends of the country, and beat Paddy Crudden the methodist horse-jockey, who had the whole Bible by heart, at arguing Scripture? Harmless ambition! humble as it was, and limited in compass, to thee it was all in all; and yet thou wert happy in feeling that it was gratified. This little boon was all thou didst ask of life, and it was kindly granted thee. The last night we ever had the pleasure of being amused by Tom was at a wake in the neighbourhood, for it somehow happened that there was seldom either a wake or a dance within two or three miles of us that we did not attend; and God forgive us, when old Poll Doolin was on her death-bed, the only care that troubled us was an apprehension that she might recover, and thus defraud us of a right merry wake! Upon the occasion we allude to, it being known that Tom Grassiey would be present, of course the house was crowded. And when he did come, and his loud good-humoured voice was heard at the door, heavens! how every young heart bounded with glee and delight!

The first thing he did on entering was to go where the corpse was laid out, and in a loud rapid voice repeat the Deprofundis for the repose of her soul, after which he sat down and smoked a pipe. Oh, well do I remember how the whole house was hushed, for all was expectation and interest as to what he would do or say. At length he spoke—“Is Frank Magaveen there?”

“All’s that left o’ me’s here, Tom.”

“An’ if the sweep-chimly-general had his due, Frank, that wouldn’t be much; and so the longer you can keep him out of that same, the betther for yourself.”

“Folly on Tom! you know there’s none of us all able to spake up to you, say what you will.”

“It’s not so when you’re beside a purty girl, Frank. But sure that’s not surprisin’; you were born wid butther in your mouth, an’ that’s what makes your orations to the fair sect be so soft an’ meltin’, ha, ha, ha! Well, Frank, never mind; there’s worse where you’ll go to: keep your own counsel fast: let’s salt your gums, an’ you’ll do yet. Whisht, boys; I’m goin’ to sing a rann, an’ afther that Frank an’ I will pick a couple o’ dozen out o’ yez ‘to box the Connaughtman.’” Boxing the Connaughtman is a play or diversion peculiar to wakes; it is grotesquely athletic in its character, but full, besides, of comic sentiment and farcical humour.

He then commenced an Irish rann or song, the substance of which was as follows, according to his own translation:—

“St Patrick, it seems, was one Sunday morning crossing a mountain on his way to a chapel to say mass, and as he was an humble man (coaches wern’t then invented, at any rate) an’ a great pedestrium (pedestrian), he took the shortest cut across the mountain. In one of the lonely glens he met a herd-caudy, who spent his time in eulogizin’ his masther’s cattle, according to the precepts of them times, which was not by any means so larned an’ primogenitive as now. The countenance of the dog was clear an’ extremely sabbathical; every thing was at rest barring the little river before him, an’ indeed one would think that it flowed on with more decency an’ betther behaviour than upon other sympathising occasions. The birds, to be sure, were singin’, but[Pg 380] it was aisy to see that they chirped out their best notes in honour of the day. ‘Good morrow on you,’ said St Patrick; ‘what’s the raison you’re not goin’ to prayers, my fine little fellow?’

‘What’s prayers?’ axed the boy. St Patrick looked at him with a very pitiful and calamitous expression in his face. ‘Can you bless yourself?’ says he. ‘No,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t know what it means?’ ‘Worse and worse,’ thought St Patrick.

‘Poor bouchal, it isn’t your fault. An how do you pass your time here?’

‘Why, my mate (food) ’s brought to me, an’ I do be makin’ kings’ crowns out of my rushes, whin I’m not watching the cows an’ sheep.’

St Patrick sleeked down his head wid great dereliction, an’ said, ‘Well, acushla, you do be operatin’ kings’ crowns, but I tell you you’re born to wear a greater one than a king’s, an’ that is a crown of glory. Come along wid me.’

‘I can’t lave my cattle,’ said the other, ‘for fraid they might go astray.’

‘Right enough.’ replied St Patrick, ‘but I’ll let you see that they won’t.’ Now, any how St Patrick undherstood cattle irresistibly himself, havin’ been a herd-caudy (boy) in his youth; so he clapped his thumb to his thrapple, an’ gave the Soy-a-loa to the sheep, an’ behould you they came about him wid great relaxation an’ respect. ‘Keep yourselves sober an’ fictitious,’ says he, addressin’ them, ‘till this boy comes back, an’ don’t go beyant your owner’s property; or if you do, it’ll be worse for yez. If you regard your health durin’ the approximatin’ season, mind an’ attend to my words.’

Now, you see, every sheep, while he was spakin’, lifted the right fore leg, an’ raised the head a little, an’ behould when he finished, they kissed their foot, an’ made him a low bow as a mark of their estimation an’ superfluity. He thin clapped his finger an’ thumb in his mouth, gave a loud whistle, an’ in a periodical time he had all the other cattle on the hill about him, to which he addressed the same ondeniable oration, an’ they bowed to him wid the same polite gentility. He then brought the lad along wid him, an’ as they made progress in the journey, the little fellow says,

‘You seem frustrated by the walk, an’ if you’ll let me carry your bundle, I’ll feel obliged to you.’

‘Do so,’ said the saint; ‘an’ as it’s rather long, throw the bag that the things are in over your shoulder; you’ll find it the aisiest way to carry it.’

Well, the boy adopted this insinivation, an’ they went ambiguously along till they reached the chapel.

‘Do you see that house?’ said St Patrick.

‘I do,’ said the other; ‘it has no chimley on it.’

‘No,’ said the saint; ‘it has not; but in that house, Christ, he that saved you, will be present to-day.’ An’ the boy thin shed tears, when he thought of the goodness of Christ in saving one that was a stranger to him. So they entered the chapel, an’ the first thing the lad was struck with was the beams of the sun that came in through the windy shinin’ beside the altar. Now, he had never seen the like of it in a house before, an’ thinkin’ it was put there for some use or other in the intarior, he threw the wallet, which was like a saddle-bag, across the sunbeams, an’ lo an’ behould you the sunbeams supported them, an’ at the same time a loud sweet voice was heard, sayin’, ‘This is my servant St Kieran, an’ he’s welcome to the house o’ God!’ St Patrick then tuck him an’ instructed him in the various edifications of the larned languages until he became one of the greatest saints that ever Ireland saw, with the exception an’ liquidation of St Patrick himself.”

Such is a faint outline of the style and manner peculiar to the narratives of Tom Grassiey. Indeed, it has frequently surprised not only us, but all who knew him, to think how and where and when he got together such an incredible number of hard and difficult words. Be this as it may, one thing was perfectly clear, that they cost him little trouble and no study in their application. His pride was to speak as learnedly as possible, and of course he imagined that the most successful method of doing this was to use as many sesquipedalian expressions as he could crowd into his language, without any regard whatsoever as to their propriety.

Immediately after the relation of this legend, he passed at once into a different spirit. He and Frank Magaveen marshalled their forces, and in a few minutes two or three dozen young fellows were hotly engaged in the humorous game of “Boxing the Connaughtman.” Boxing the Connaughtman was followed by “the Standing Brogue” and “the Sitting Brogue,” two other sports practised only at wakes. And here we may observe generally, that the amusements resorted to on such occasions are never to be found elsewhere, but are exclusively peculiar to the house of mourning, where they are benevolently introduced for the purpose of alleviating sorrow. Having gone through a few more such sports, Tom took a seat and addressed a neighbouring farmer, named Gordon, as follows:—“Jack Gordon, do you know the history of your own name and its original fluency?”

“Indeed no, Tom, I cannot say I do.”

“Well, boys, if you derogate your noise a little, I’ll tell you the origin of the name of Gordon; it’s a story about ould Oliver Crummle, whose tongue is on the look-out for a drop of wather ever since he went to the lower story.” This legend, however, is too long and interesting to be related here: we are therefore forced to defer it until another opportunity.

SEALS OF IRISH CHIEFS.

By George Petrie, R.H.A., M.R.I.A.

(Concluded from No. 45.)

The next seal which I have to exhibit, belongs to a chief of another and nobler family of Thomond, the O’Briens, kings of the country, and descendants of the celebrated monarch Brian Boru. This seal is also from the collection of the Dean of St Patrick’s, and was purchased a few years since in Roscrea. Its type is unlike the preceding, as, instead of the armed warrior, it presents in the field the figure of a griffin.

The inscription reads, Sigillum: Brian: I Brian.

In the genealogies of this illustrious family, which are remarkable for their minuteness and historical truth, two or three chiefs bearing the Christian name of Brian occur. But from the character of the letters on this seal, I have little hesitation in assigning it to Brian O’Brian, who, according to the Annals of the Four Masters, succeeded to the lordship of Thomond in 1343, and was killed in 1350.

The next seal which I have to exhibit is also from the Dean’s collection, and, though of later date, is on many accounts of still higher interest than perhaps either of the preceding. It is the seal of a chief of the O’Neills, whose family were for seven hundred years the hereditary monarchs of Ireland.

This seal was found about ten years since in the vicinity of Magherafelt, in the county of Derry, and was purchased by the Dean from a shopkeeper in that town some years after. The arms of O’Neill, the bloody hand, appear on a shield, and the legend reads, Sigillum Maurisius [Maurisii] ui Neill. The name Mauritius, which occurs in this inscription, does not occur in the genealogies of the O’Neill family, and is obviously but a latinised form of the name Murtogh or Muircheartach, which was that of two or three chiefs of the family; and of these I am inclined to ascribe this seal to Murtogh Roe, or the Red O’Neill, lord of Clanaboy, who, according to the Annals of the Four Masters, died in 1471.

These are all the seals of Irish princes which have fallen under my observation. But there remain two of equal antiquity, but which belonged to persons of inferior rank, which[Pg 381] it may interest the Academy to see. The first, which is in my own collection, exhibits the figure of an animal, which I must leave to the zoologists of the Academy to describe, with the legend Sigillum Mac Craith Mac I Dafid.

The O’Dafys were an ancient family in Thomond, and are still very numerous in the county of Clare.

The next and last is from the cabinet of the Dean, and is very remarkable in having the head of a helmeted warrior cut on a cornelian within the legend, which reads, Sigillum Brian: O’Harny.

The O’Harnys are a very ancient and still numerous family in Kerry, descendants of the ancient lords of that country, and remarkable in history as poets and musicians.

I have only to add, that it will be observed that these seals are all of a round form, which characterises the seals of secular persons, while those belonging to ecclesiastics were usually oval.

ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

BY JOHN O’DONOVAN.

Fourth Article.

Having in the last article spoken of the origin of surnames in Ireland, and of the popular errors now prevailing respecting them, I shall next proceed to notice certain epithets, sobriquets, &c., by which the Irish chieftains and others of inferior rank were distinguished.

Besides the surnames, or hereditary family names, which the Irish people assumed from their ancestors, it appears from the authentic annals that most, if not all, of their chieftains had attached to their Christian names, and sometimes to their surnames, certain cognomens by which they were distinguished from each other. These cognomens, or, as they may in many instances be called, sobriquets, were given them from some perfection or imperfection of the body, or some disposition or quality of the mind, from the place of birth, or the place of fosterage, and very frequently from the place of their deaths. Of the greater number of these cognomens, the pedigree of the regal family of O’Neill furnishes examples, as Niall Roe, i. e. Niall the Red, who flourished about the year 1225, so called from his having red hair; Hugh Toinlease (a name which requires no explanation), who died in 1230; Niall More, i. e. Niall the Great, who died in 1397; Con Bacach, i. e. Con the Lame, who was created Earl of Tyrone in 1542. Among the same family we meet Henry Avrey, i. e. Henry the Contentious, Shane an Dimais, i. e. John the Proud. Of the cognomens derived from the places in which and the families by whom they were fostered, the pedigree of the same family affords several instances, as Turlogh Luineach, so called from his having been fostered by O’Luney, chief of Munterluney in Tyrone; Niall Conallach, so called from his having been fostered by O’Donnell, chief of Tirconnell; Shane Donnellach, so called from his having been fostered by O’Donnelly (An Four Masters, 1531 and 1567); and Felim Devlinach, so called from his foster-father O’Devlin, chief of Munter-Devlin, near Lough Neagh, in the present county of Londonderry. Various examples of cognomens given to chieftains from the place or territory in which they were fostered, are to be met with in other families, as, in that of O’Brien, Donogh Cair-breach, who was so called from his having been fostered by O’Donovan, chief of Carbery Aeva, the ancient name of the plains of the county of Limerick. In the regal family of Mac Murrough of Leinster, Donnell Cavanagh was so called from having been fostered by the Coarb of St Cavan, at Kilcavan, near Gorey, in Hy-Dea, in the present county of Wexford. This cognomen of Donnell has been adopted for the last two centuries as a surname by his descendants, a thing very unusual among Irish families. In the family of Mac Donnell of Scotland, John Cahanach was so called from his having been fostered by O’Cahan or O’Kane, in the present county of Londonderry.

In the pedigrees of other families, various instances are on record of cognomens having been applied by posterity to chieftains from the place of their deaths; in the family of O’Neill, for example, Brian Chatha an Duin, or “of the battle of Down,” was so called by posterity from his having been killed in a battle fought at Downpatrick in the year 1260; in the family of O’Brien, Conor na Siudaine, from the wood of Suidain in Burren, in which he was killed in the year 1267; and in the family of Mac Carthy, the celebrated Fineen Reanna Roin, from his having been killed at the castle of Rinn Roin in the year 1261, after a brilliant career of victory over the English.

On this subject of cognomens and sobriquets among the Irish, Sir Henry Piers wrote as follows in the year 1682, in a description of the county of Westmeath, written in the form of a letter to Anthony Lord Bishop of Meath, and published in the first volume of Vallancey’s Collectanea:—

“Every Irish surname or family name hath either O or Mac prefixed, concerning which I have found some make this observation, but I dare not undertake that it shall hold universally true, that such as have O prefixed were of old superior lords or princes, as O’Neal, O’Donnell, O’Melaghlin, &c., and such as have Mac were only great men, viz, lords, thanes, as Mac Gennis, Mac Loghlin, Mac Doncho, &c. But however this observation [may] hold, it is certain they take much liberty, and seem to do it with delight, in giving of nicknames; and if a man have any imperfection or evil habit, he shall be sure to hear of it in the nickname. Thus, if he be blind, lame, squint-eyed, grey-eyed, be a stammerer in speech, be left-handed, to be sure he shall have one of these added to his name; so also from his colour of hair, as black, red, yellow, brown, &c.; and from his age, as young, old; or from what he addicts himself to, or much delights in, as in draining, building, fencing, or the like; so that no man whatever can escape a nickname who lives among them, or converseth with them; and sometimes so libidinous are they in this kind of raillery, they will give nicknames per antiphrasim, or contrariety of speech. Thus a man of excellent parts, and beloved of all men, shall be called grana, that is, naughty or fit to be complained of; if a man have a beautiful countenance or lovely eyes, they will call him Cueegh, that is, squint-eyed; if a great housekeeper, he shall be called Ackerisagh, that is greedy.” (Collectanea, vol. I. p. 113.)

In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when the Irish families increased, and their territories were divided into two and three parts among rival chieftains of the same family, each of the chieftains adopted some addition to the family surname for the sake of distinction. Thus, among the O’Conors of Connaught we find O’Conor Don, i. e. O’Conor the brown-haired, and O’Conor Roe, or the red-haired. This distinction was first made in the year 1384, when Torlogh Don and Torlogh Roe, who had been for some time in emulation for the chieftainship of the territory of Shilmurry, agreed to have it divided equally between them; on which occasion the former was to be called O’Conor Don, and the latter O’Conor Roe. (See Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Charles O’Conor). It is now supposed by many of the Irish that the epithet Don postfixed to the name of the chief of the O’Conors is a Spanish title! while those who are acquainted with the history of the name think that he should reject it as being a useless sobriquet, and more particularly now, as there is no O’Conor Roe from whom he needs to be distinguished. It is true that the O’Conor Don might now very lawfully be called the O’Conor, as there is no O’Conor Roe or O’Conor Sligo, at least none who take the name; but as he had borne it before O’Conor Roe disappeared, we would not advise it to be rejected for another generation, as we think that an O’Conor Roe will in the meantime make his appearance, for we are acquainted with an individual of that name who knows his pedigree[Pg 382] well, but is not sufficiently wealthy to put himself forward as an Irish chieftain.

In the same province we find the Mac Dermots of Moylurg divided into three distinct families the head of whom was, par excellence, styled the Mac Dermot, and the other two who were tributary to him called, the one Mac Dermot Roe, i. e. the Red, and the other Mac Dermot Gall, or the Anglicised. In Thomond we find the Mac Namaras split into two distinct families, distinguished by the names of Mac Namara Fin, i. e. the Fair, and Mac Namara Reagh, or the Swarthy. In Desmond the family of Mac Carthy split into three powerful branches, known by the names of Mac Carthy More or the Great, Mac Carthy Reagh or the Swarthy, and Mac Carthy Muscryagh, i. e. of Muskerry. Beauford asserts with his usual confidence that Mac Carthy Reagh signifies Mac Carthy the King, but this is utterly fallacious, for the epithet, which is anglicised Reagh, is written riach and riabhach, in the original annals of Inisfallen and of the Four Masters, and translated fuscus by Philip O’Sullivan Beare (who knew the import of it far better than Beauford) in his History of the Irish Catholics published at Lisbon in 1621. The O’Sullivans split into the families of O’Sullivan More and O’Sullivan Beare; the O’Donovans into those of O’Donovan More, O’Donovan Locha Crot, and O’Hea O’Donovan; the O’Kennedys of Ormond into those of O’Kennedy Finn, O’Kennedy Roe, and O’Kennedy Don; the O’Farrells of Annally into those of O’Farrell Bane, i. e. the White, and O’Farrell Boy, or the Yellow, &c., &c.

The foregoing notices are sufficient to show the nature of the surnames in use among the ancient Scotic or Milesian Irish families. It will be now expected that I should say a few words on the effect which the Anglo-Norman invasion and the introduction of English laws, language, and names, have had in changing or modifying them, and on the other hand the influence which the Irish may have had in changing or modifying the English names.

After the murder, in 1333, of William de Burgo, third Earl of Ulster of that name, and the lessening of the English power which resulted from it, many if not all of the distinguished Anglo-Norman families located in Connaught and Munster became hibernicised—Hibernis ipsis Hiberniores—spoke the Irish language, and assumed surnames in imitation of the Irish by prefixing Mac (but never O in any instance) to the Christian names of their ancestors. Thus the De Burgos in Connaught took the name of Mac William from their ancestor William de Burgo, and were divided into two great branches, called Mac William Oughter and Mac William Eighter, i. e. Mac William Upper and Mac William Lower, the former located in the county of Galway, and the latter in that of Mayo; and from these sprang many offshoots who took other surnames from their respective ancestors, as the Mac Davids of Glinsk, the Mac Philbins of Dun Mugdord in Mayo, the Mac Shoneens, now Jennings, and the Mac Gibbons, now Fitzgibbons. The Berminghams of Dunmore and Athenry in Connaught, and of Offaly in Leinster, took the name of Mac Feoiris, from Pierce, the son of Meyler Bermingham, who was one of the principal heads of that family in Ireland. The head of the Stauntons in Carra took the name of Mac Aveely. The chief of the Barretts of Tirawley took the name of Mac Wattin, and a minor branch of the same family, located in the territory of the Two Backs, lying between Lough Con and the river Moy, assumed that of Mac Andrew, while the Barretts of Munster took the now very plebeian name of Mac Phaudeen, from an ancestor called Paudeen, or Little Patrick. The De Exeters of Gallen, in Connaught, assumed the surname of Mac Jordan from Jordan De Exeter, the founder of that family; and the Nangles of the same neighbourhood took that of Mac Costello. Of the Kildare and Desmond branches of the Fitzgeralds there were two Mac Thomases, one in Leinster, and the other in the Desies, in the now county of Waterford, in Munster. A branch of the Butlers took the name of Mac Pierce, and the Poers, or Powers, that of Mac Shere. The Freynes of Ossory took the name of Mac Rinki, and the Barrys that of Mac Adam. In the present county of Kilkenny were located two families, originally of great distinction, who took the strange name of Gaul, which then signified Englishman, though at an earlier period it had been a term applied by the Irish to all foreigners; the one was Stapleton, who was located at Gaulstown, in the parish of Kilcolumb, barony of Ida, and county of Kilkenny; the other a branch of the Burkes, who obtained extensive estates in that part of Ireland, and dwelt at Gaulstown, in the barony of Igrine. The writer, who is the sixth in descent from the last head of this family, has many of his family deeds, in which he styles himself sometimes Galle and sometimes Galle alias Borke; on his tomb, however, in his family chapel at Gaulskill, he is called Walterus De Burgo without the addition of Galle, and is there said to be descended from the Red Earl of Ulster. His descendants now all retain the name of Gaul, as do those of his neighbour Stapleton. The Fitzsimons, in Westmeath, took the name of Mac Ruddery, and the Wesleys that of Mac Falrene, &c. &c.

Edmund Spenser, secretary to the Lord Arthur Grey (deputy of Ireland under Queen Elizabeth in the year 1580), attempted to prove that many distinguished families then bearing Irish surnames, and accounted of Irish origin, were really English. This, however, is undoubtedly false, and is a mere invention of the creative fancy of that great poet and politician: but as it has been received as truth by Sir Charles Coote and other English writers, we shall show how Spenser deceived himself or was deceived on this point. He instances the following families: 1, The Mac Mahons of Oriel in Ulster, who, as he states on the authority of the report of some Irishmen, came first to Ireland with Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, under the name of Fitz-Ursula: 2, The Mac Mahons of the South: 3, The Mac Sweenys of Munster: 4, The Mac Sheehys of Munster: 5, The O’Brins or O’Byrnes of Leinster: 6, The O’Tooles of the same province: 7, The Cavanaghs: 8, The Mac Namaras of Thomond. But he gives no proof for his assertions but the report of some Irishmen, corroborated by etymological speculations of his own; and as the report of some unnamed persons can have no weight with us when in direct contradiction of the authentic annals of the country, I shall slightly glance at some of the most important of his etymological evidences, and then give my own proofs of the contrary. To prove that the Mac Mahons of Oriel are the Fitz-Ursulas, he says that Mahon signifies bear in Irish, and hence that Mac Mahon is a translation of Fitz-Ursula; but granting that Mahon does mean a bear, it does not follow that Mac Mahon is a translation of Fitz-Ursula. But we have stronger reasons to urge than to prove that this is a non sequitur, for we have the testimony of the authentic pedigree of the Mac Mahons of Oriel, and of the annals of Ulster, that the Mac Mahons had been located in Oriel and had borne that name long before the English invasion. The Mac Mahons and Mac Namaras of the south are a branch of the Dal-Cais, a great tribe located in Thomond, whose history is as certain from the ninth century as that of any people in Europe. The Mac Sweenys and Mac Sheehys of Munster are of Irish origin, but their ancestors removed to Scotland in the tenth century, or beginning of the eleventh, and some of their descendants returned to Ireland in the beginning of the fourteenth century, and were hereditary leaders of Gallowglasses to many Irish chieftains. To prove that the Byrnes, Tooles, and Cavanaghs, are of British origin, he has recourse also to etymology, which is a great lever in the hand of a historical charlatan, and says, in the first place, that Brin in the Welsh language means woody, and that hence the O’Brins or O’Byrnes must be of Welsh origin. But admitting that Brin does in the Welsh language mean woody, what has that to do with O’Brain, the original Irish name of O’Byrne, especially when it can be proved that that surname was called after Bran, king of Leinster, who was usually styled Bran Duv, i. e. the Black Raven, from the colour of his hair, and his thirst for prey. Secondly, to prove that O’Toole is a Welsh name, he says that tol means hilly in the Welsh language! and so does tol in Irish bear this meaning. But what, I would ask, has that to do with O’Tuathail, or descendants of Tuathal, the son of Ugaire, from whom this family have taken their surname? The name Tuathal, signifying the lordly, has no more to do with tol, a hill, than it has with the English word tool, to which it has been anglicised for the last two centuries. Thirdly, to prove that the name Cavanagh is of Welsh origin, he asserts that Kaevan in Welsh signifies strong in English. This may be true; but what has the signification of the Welsh word Kaevan to do with the name of the Mac Murroghs of Leinster, who assumed the cognomen of Cavanagh from Donnell Cavanagh, the son of Dermot Mac Murrogh, who had himself received this name from his having been fostered at Kilcavan in the north-east of the present county of Wexford? Spectatum admissi risum teneatis amici?

These errors of Spenser have been already exposed by Dr Jeffry Keating, a man of learning and undoubted honesty, but of great simplicity, which is characteristic of the age in which[Pg 383] he lived, also by Gratianus Lucius, and by the learned Roderic O’Flaherty, who has devoted a chapter of his Ogygia to prove that Spenser, though a distinguished poet, can have no claim to credit as a historian. Spenser’s purpose in fabricating this story about the Mac Mahons was to hold them up as objects of hatred to the Irish and English people, as being descended from the murderer of Thomas à Becket. He never succeeded, however, in convincing Ever Mac Cooley, or any other of the rebels of the Farney, that they were descended from the Beares of England! Spenser also asserts that it was said that most of the surnames ending in an, though then considered Irish, were in reality English, such as Hernan, Shinan, Mungan, &c. I do not, however, believe a word of this latter assertion of the great English poet, but conclude, with the simple and honest Keating, that, “as being a poet, he gave himself, as was usual with the profession, licence to revel in poetic fictions, which he dressed in flowery language to decoy his reader.” For we know that there is not a single instance on record of any Anglo-Norman family having taken any Irish names except such as they formed from the names or titles of their own ancestors by prefixing Mac, which they considered equivalent to the Norman Fitz, as Mac Maurice, Mac Gibbon, Mac Gerald, Mac William, which are equivalent to Fitz-Maurice, Fitz-Gibbon, Fitz-Gerald, Fitz-William. In this manner, however, the great Anglo-Norman families of the south and west of Ireland, who were after all more French and Irish than they were English (their ancestors having dwelt scarcely a century in England), nearly all hibernicised their names. It seems rather curious that Spenser has not furnished any list of those Anglo-Norman families who really hibernicised their names, while he was so minute in naming those who were not English, but whom he wished to make appear as such, in order to be enabled to censure them the more harshly for their treasons and rebellions. He contents himself by stating that there were great English families in Ireland who, he regretted to say, had become Irish in name and feeling. The manner in which he states this fact is worthy of consideration, and I shall therefore insert his very words here as they appear in the Dublin edition:—“Other great houses there bee of the English in Ireland, which thorough licentious conversing with the Irish or marrying or fostering with them, or lacke of meet nurture [i. e. education or rearing], or such other unhappy occasions, have degendred from their auncient dignities, and are now growne ‘as Irish as O’Hanlon’s breech,’ as the proverbe there is.”

Sir Henry Piers of Tristernagh, in the county of Westmeath, complains of the same custom among the families of English descent, in about a century after Spenser’s period.

“In the next place, I rank the degeneracy of many English families as a great hindrance of the reducing this people to civility, occasioned not only by fostering, that is, having their children nursed and bred during their tender years by the Irish, but much more by marriages with them, by means whereof our English in too many great families became in a few generations one both in manners and interest with the Irish, insomuch as many of them have not doubted [i. e. hesitated] to assume even Irish names and appellations: instances whereof are but too many even to this day: thus a Bermingham is called by them Mac Yoris, Fitz-Simmons, Mac Kuddery [recte Mac-Ruddery], Wesley [i. e. Wellesley], Mac Falrene, &c., and from men thus metamorphosed what could be expected?”—Collectanea, vol. I. p. 105.

On the other hand, the Irish families who lived within the English pale and in its vicinity gradually conformed to the English customs, and assumed English surnames; and their doing so was deemed to be of such political importance that it was thought worthy the consideration of parliament: accordingly it was enacted by the statute of 5 Edward IV (1465), that every Irishman dwelling within the English pale, then comprising the counties of Dublin, Meath, Louth, and Kildare, should take an English surname. This act is so curious as illustrating the history of Irish family names, that it demands insertion in this place.

“An act, that the Irish men dwelling in the counties of Dublin, Myeth, Uriell, and Kildare, shall goe apparelled like English men, and weare theire beards after the English maner, sweare allegeance, and take English surname.”—Rot. Parl. ca. 16.

“At the request of the Commons it is ordeyned and established by authority of the said parliament, that every Irish man that dwells betwixt or amongst Englishmen in the county of Dublin, Myeth, Uriell, and Kildare, shall goe like to one Englishman in apparell, and shaveing off his beard above the mouth, and shal be within one yeare sworne the liege man of the king in the hands of the lieutenant or deputy, or such as he will assigne to receive this oath for the multitude that is to be sworne, and shall take to him an English surname of one towne, as Sutton, Chester, Trym, Skryne, Corke, Kinsale; or colour, as white, blacke, browne; or arte or science, as smith or carpenter; or office, as cooke, butler; and that he and his issue shall use this name under payne of forfeyting of his goods yearely till the premises be done, to be levied two times by the yeare to the king’s warres, according to the discretion of the lieutenant of the king or his deputy.”—5 Edward IV. cap. 3.

“In obedience to this law,” observes Harris, in his additions to Ware, “the Shanachs took the name of Foxes, the Mac Gabhans of Smiths, Geals of Whites, the Branachs of Walshes, and many others; the said words being only literal translations from the Irish into the English language.” Harris, however, I may remark, is very much mistaken when he supposes that the Branachs (Breaṫnaiġ, i. e. Britones) of the English pale in Ireland are an Irish family, or that any ancient Irish family had borne that name before the Anglo-Norman and Welsh families settled in Ireland towards the latter end of the twelfth century; and he is also wrong in assuming that the Irish word for Geal, white, was by itself ever used as the name of any family in Ireland. In the other two instances he is correct; for the head of the O’Caharnys of Teffia, who was usually styled the Shinnagh, translated his name into Fox, and the Mac-an-Gowans and O’Gowans translated their name into Smith.

The importance thus attached by this act to the bearing of an English surname soon induced many of the less distinguished Irish families of the English pale and its vicinity to translate or disguise their Irish names, so as to make them appear English ones, as Mac Intire to Carpenter, Mac Spallane to Spenser, Mac Cogry to L’Estrange, &c.; but the more distinguished families of the pale and its vicinity, as Mac Murrogh, O’Brennan, O’Kayly, and others, retained with pride their original Irish names unaltered; for while they could look back with pride on a long line of ancestors, they could not bear the idea of being considered as the descendants of tradesmen and petty artizans, a feeling which prevails at the present day, and will prevail for ever; for though a man has himself sunk into poverty, he still feels a pride in believing that he is of respectable origin. It is certain, however, that the translation and assimilation of Irish surnames to English ones was carried to a great extent in the vicinity of Dublin and throughout Leinster; and hence it may at this day be safely concluded that many families bearing English surnames throughout the English pale are undoubtedly of Milesian or Danish origin.

It appears, however that this statute had not the intended effect; for, about a century after its having passed, we find Spenser recommending a renewal of it, inasmuch as the Irish had then become as Irish as ever. His words on this point are highly interesting, as throwing great light on the history of Irish surnames towards the close of the sixteenth century, and we shall therefore lay them before the reader:—

“Moreover, for the better breaking of these heads and [of?] septs which (I told you) was one of the greatest strengthes of the Irish, methinkes it should be very well to renewe that ould statute which was made in the reigne of Edward the Fourth in Ireland, by which it was commanded, that whereas all men used to be called by the name of their septs, according to the severall nations, and had no surnames at all, that from henceforth each one should take upon himself a severall surname, either of his trade and faculty, or of some quality of his body or minde, or of the place where he dwels, so as every one should be distinguished from the other, or from the most part, whereby they shall not only not depend upon the head of their sept, as now they do, but also in time learne quite to forget his [their] Irish nation. And herewithal would I also wish all the O’s and the Mac’s which the heads of septs have taken to their names, to be utterly forbidden and extinguished. For, that the same being an ordinance (as some say) first made by O’Brien for the strengthening of the Irish, the abrogating thereof will as much enfeeble them.”

Towards the close of the next century we find Sir Henry Piers of Tristernagh, in his account of the county of Westmeath, rejoicing that the less distinguished Irish families were beginning to take English surnames:—

“These, I suppose, may be reckoned among the causes of the slow progress this nation hath made towards civility and[Pg 384] accommodation to our English laws and customs; yet these notwithstanding, this people, especially in this and the adjoining counties, are in our days become more polite and civil [civilized] than in former ages, and some very forward to accommodate themselves to the English modes, particularly in their habit, language, and surnames, which by all manner of ways they strive to make English or English like; this I speak of the inferior rank of them. Thus you have Mac Gowan surname himself Smith; Mac Killy, Cock; Mac Spallane, Spenser; Mac Kegry, L’Estrange, &c., herein making small amends for our degenerate English before spoken of.”

But I have exceeded the space which the Journal allows for this article, and I must defer the remainder to a future number, promising the reader that I shall make every effort to bring the subject of Irish surnames to a conclusion in two additional articles.

Aristocratic Travelling.—Mr Theobald was at that instant speaking to Lord Bolsover. “Listen,” said the Earl of Rochdale to Arlington, “and you will hear some of the uses and advantages of travel.” Arlington accordingly directed his attention to the speakers. “I will just tell you what I did,” said Mr Theobald. “Brussels, Frankfort, Berlin, Vienna, Munich, Milan, Naples, and Paris, and all that in two months. No man has ever done it in less.” “That’s a fast thing; but I think I could have done it,” said Lord Bolsover, “with a good courier. I had a fellow once who could ride a hundred miles a-day for a fortnight.” “I came from Vienna to Calais,” said young Leighton, “in less time than the government courier. No other Englishman ever did that.” “Hem! I am not sure of that,” said Lord Bolsover. “But I’ll just tell you what I have done: from Rome to Naples in nineteen hours; a fact, upon my honour; and from Naples to Paris in six days.” “Partly by sea?” interrogated Leighton. “No! all by land,” replied Lord Bolsover, with a look of proud satisfaction. “I’ll just tell you what I did,” Mr Leighton chimed in again, “and I think it is a good plan—it shows what one can do. I went straight on end, as fast as I could, to what was to be the end of my journey. This was Sicily. So straight away I went there at the devil’s own rate, and never stopped anywhere by the way; changed horses at Rome and all those places, and landed in safety in——I forget exactly how long from the time of starting, but I have got it down to an odd minute. As for the places I left behind, I saw them all on my way back, except the Rhine, and I steamed down that in the night-time.” “I have travelled a good deal by night,” said Theobald. “With a dormeuse and travelling lamp I think it is pleasant, and a good plan of getting on.” “And you can honestly say, I suppose,” said Denbigh, “that you have slept successfully through as much fine country as any man living?” “Oh, I did see the country,” replied Theobald, “that is, all that was worth seeing. My courier knew all about that, and used to stop and waken me whenever we came to anything remarkable. Gad! I have reason to remember it, too, for I caught an infernal bad cold one night when I turned out by lamp-light to look at a waterfall. I never looked at another.” There was a pause in the conversation, and the group moved onwards to another room.—Arlington, a Tale, by the Hon. Mr Lister.

Truth will never be palatable to those who are determined not to relinquish error, but can never give offence to the honest and well-meaning; for the plain-dealing remonstrances of a friend differ as widely from the rancour of an enemy as the friendly probe of a physician from the dagger of an assassin.—E. W. Montague.

Parental Duties.—Bring thy children up in learning and obedience, yet without outward austerity. Praise them openly, reprehend them secretly. Give them good countenance and convenient maintenance, otherwise thy life will seem their bondage, and what portion thou shalt leave them at thy death they will thank death for it, and not thee. And I am persuaded that the foolish cockering of some parents, and the overstern carriage of others, cause more men and women to take ill courses than their own vicious inclinations. Marry thy daughters in time, lest they marry themselves; and train not up thy sons in the wars, for he that sets up his rest to live by that profession can hardly be an honest man or a good Christian; besides, it is a science no longer in request than use, for soldiers in peace are like chimneys in summer.—Lord Burleigh’s Maxims.

HALF AN HOUR IN IRELAND.

(From Charles O’Malley.)

When the Bermuda transport sailed from Portsmouth for Lisbon, I happened to make one of some four hundred interesting individuals, who, before they became food for powder, were destined to try their constitutions on pickled pork. The second day after our sailing, the winds became adverse; it blew a hurricane from every corner of the compass but the one it ought; and the good ship, that should have been standing straight for the Bay of Biscay, was scudding away with a double-reefed topsail towards the coast of Labrador. For six days we experienced every sea-manœuvre that usually preludes a shipwreck; and at length, when, what from sea sickness and fear, we had become utterly indifferent to the result, the storm abated, the sea went down, and we found ourselves lying comfortably in the harbour of Cork, we had a strange suspicion on our minds that the frightful scenes of the past week had been nothing but a dream.

“Come, Mr Medlicot,” said the skipper to me, “we shall be here for a couple of days to refit; had you not better go ashore and see the country?”

I sprung to my legs with delight; visions of cowslips, larks, daisies, and mutton chops, floated before my excited imagination, and in ten minutes I found myself standing at that pleasant little inn at Cove, which, opposite Spike Island, rejoices in the name of the Goat and Garters.

“Breakfast, waiter,” said I; “a beefsteak—fresh beef, mark ye; fresh eggs, bread, milk, and butter, all fresh.” No more hard tack, thought I, no salt butter, but a genuine land breakfast.

“Up stairs, No. 4, sir,” said the waiter, as he flourished a dirty napkin, indicating the way.

Up stairs I went, and in due time the appetizing little dejeune made its appearance. Never did a miser’s eye revel over his broad acres with more complacent enjoyment than did mine skim over the mutton and the muffin, the teapot, the trout, and the devilled kidney, so invitingly spread out before me. Yes, thought I, as I smacked my lips, this is the reward of virtue; pickled pork is a probationary state that admirably fits us for future enjoyments. I arranged my napkin upon my knee, I seized my knife and fork, and proceeded with most critical acumen to bisect a beefsteak. Scarcely, however, had I touched it, when with a loud crash the plate smashed beneath it, and the gravy ran piteously across the cloth. Before I had time to account for the phenomenon, the door opened hastily, and the waiter rushed into the room, his face redolent with smiles, while he rubbed his hands in an ecstacy of delight.

“It’s all over, sir;” said he, “glory be to God, it’s all done.”

“What’s over? what’s done?” said I with impatience.

“M’Mahon is satisfied,” replied he, “and so is the other gentleman.”

“Who and what the devil do you mean?”

“It’s over, sir, I say,” replied the waiter again; “he fired in the air.”

“Fired in the air,” said I. “Did they fight in the room below stairs?”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter with a benign smile.

“That will do,” said I, as seizing my hat I rushed out of the house, and hurrying to the beach took a boat for the ship. Exactly half an hour had elapsed since my landing, but even those short thirty minutes had fully as many reasons, that although there may be few more amusing, there are some safer places to live in than the green island.

All men are masked; the world is one universal disguise, each individual endeavouring to fathom his neighbour’s intentions, at the same time wishing to hide his own, and, above all, striving to secure a reputable character rather by words than deeds.

Persons who are always innocently cheerful and good-humoured are very useful in the world; they maintain peace and happiness, and spread a thankful temper amongst all who live around them.—Miss Talbot.