Chapter III (7)

And who shall paint the joy that will irradiate life when you find yourself in print for the first time? who shall describe the delirium of reading your own verses? a delight leading you almost to forgive the printer’s error which turns your “blessed rule” into “blasted fool,” and your “Spring quickens” into “Spring Chickens”; who will count the copies of that paper you will send to all your friends?

By-and-by your fame spreads and you rank of the _élite_; you assume the air and manners of a poet. You wear your hair long (it saves barber’s charges). You are fond of solitary walks, communing with yourself (or somebody else). You assume a rapt and abstracted air in society (when asked to stand a drink). You despise mere mundane matters (debts, engagements, and the like). Your eyes have a far-away look (when you meet a poor relation). When people talk of Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne, etc., you smile pityingly, and say: “Ah, yes! Poor Alfred (or Robert or Algernon, as the case may be); he means well--he means well;” and you ask your friends if they have read your “Spirit Reveries,” and if not, you immediately produce it from your pocket, and read it (never be without copies of your latest pieces for this purpose).

And now farewell and God-speed. You are on the high road to renown.

“Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour,
They crown you with laurels and throne you in power,
Oh, think of the friend who first guided your way,
And set you such rules you could not go astray,
And who, as reward, doth but one favour claim,
That you _won’t_ dedicate your first vol. to his name.”

_Francis A. Fahy._

_THE DONOVANS._

If you would like to see the height of hospitality,
The cream of kindly welcome and the core of cordiality;
Joys of old times are you wishing to recall again?--
Oh! come down to Donovan’s, and there you’ll meet them all again!

_Chorus._

_Cead mille failte_[44] they’ll give you down at Donovan’s,
As cheery as the spring-time, and Irish as the _ceanabhan_;[45]
The wish of my heart is, if ever I had any one--
That every luck in life may linger with the Donovans.

Soon as you lift the latch, little ones are meeting you;
Soon as you’re ’neath the thatch, kindly looks are greeting you;
Scarce have you time to be holding out the fist to them--
Down by the fireside you’re sitting in the midst of them!

There sits the grey old man, so _flaitheamhail_[46] and so handsome,
There sit his sturdy sons, well worth a monarch’s ransom;
Songs the night long, you may hear your heart’s desire of them,
Tales of old times they will tell you till you tire of them.

There bustles round the room the _lawhee_-est[47] of
_vanithees_,[48]
Fresh as in her young bloom, and trying all she can to please;
In vain to maintain you won’t have a _deorin_[49] more again--
She’ll never let you rest till your glass is brimming o’er again.

There smiles the _cailin deas_[50]--oh! where on earth’s the peer
of her?
The modest grace, the sweet face, the humour and the cheer of her?
Eyes like the skies, when but twin stars beam above in them--
Oh! proud may be the boy that’s to light the lamp of love in them.

Then when you rise to go, ’tis “Ah, then, now, sit down again!”
“Isn’t it the haste you’re in,” and “Won’t you come round soon
again?”
Your _cothamor_[51] and hat you had better put astray from them--
The hardest job in life is to tear yourself away from them!

_Francis A. Fahy._

_PETTICOATS DOWN TO MY KNEES._

When my first troubles in life I began to know,
Spry as a chick newly out of the shell,
Nothing I longed for so much as a man to grow,
Sharing his joys and his sorrows as well.
Now that the high tide of life’s on the slack again,
Pleasure’s deep draught drained down to the lees,
Dearly I wish I had the days back again,
When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Well do I mind the day I donned trousereens,
My proud mother cried “We’ll soon be a man!”
Little we know what fate has in store for us--
Troth, it was then that my troubles began.
Cramped up in clothes, little comfort or ease I find,
Crippled and crushed, almost frightened to sneeze!
Oh to have back my old freedom and peace of mind,
When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Now must I walk many miles for an appetite,
And after all find my journey in vain--
Oh for the days when howe’er you might wrap it tight
My school lunch was ate at the end of the lane!
Now scarce a wink of sleep on the best of nights,
Worried in mind and ill at my ease,
Headache or heartache ne’er troubled my rest of nights
When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Once of my days I thought girls were nuisances,
Petting and coaxing and ruffling your brow,
Now Love the rogue runs away with my few senses,
Vainly I wish they would fondle me now!
Idols I worship with ardour unshakeable,
But none of all half so fitted to please
As the poor toys full of sawdust and breakable,
When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Little I cared then for doings political,
The ebb or the flow of the popular tides,
Europe might quake in convulsions most critical--
I had my bread buttered well on both sides.
Now must I wander for themes for my puny verse
Over earth’s continents, islands and seas;
Small stock I took of affairs of the universe,
When I wore petticoats down to my knees!

Life is a puzzle and man is a mystery,
He that would solve them a wizard need be;
Precepts lie thick in the pathways of history,
This is the lesson that life has taught me.
Man ever longs for the dawn of a golden day,
Visions of joy in futurity sees,
Ah! he enjoyed Life’s cream in the olden day,
When he wore petticoats down to his knees!

_Francis A. Fahy_

_MUSICAL EXPERIENCES AND IMPRESSIONS._

AT A GIRL’S SCHOOL--THE TONIC SOL-FA METHOD--PAYING AT THE
DOOR--FLORAL OFFERINGS--DOROTHISIS.

Last Tuesday, when turning over my invitations, I found a card addressed to me, not in my ancestral title of Di Bassetto, but in the assumed name under which I conceal my identity in the vulgar business of life. It invited me to repair to a High School for Girls in a healthy south-western suburb, there to celebrate the annual prize-giving with girlish song and recitation. Here was exactly the thing for a critic. “Now is the time,” I exclaimed to my astonished colleagues, “to escape from our stale iterations of how Mr. Santley sang ‘The Erl King,’ and Mr. Sims Reeves ‘Tom Bowling’; of how the same old orchestra played Beethoven in C minor or accompanied Mr. Henschel in Pogner’s ‘Johannistag’ song, or Wotan’s ‘Farewell’ and ‘Fire Charm.’ Our business is to look with prophetic eye past these exhausted contemporary subjects into the next generation--to find out how much beauty and artistic feeling is growing up for the time when we shall be obsolete fogies, mumbling anecdotes of the funerals of our favourites.” Will it be credited that the sanity of my project and the good taste of my remarks were called in question, and that I was absolutely the only eminent critic who went to the school!

I found the school on the margin of a common, with which I have one ineffaceable association. It is not my custom to confine my critical opinions to the columns of the Press. In my public place I am ever ready to address my fellow-citizens orally until the police interfere. Now, it happens that once, on a fine Sunday afternoon, I addressed a crowd on this very common for an hour, at the expiry of which a friend took round a hat, and actually collected sixteen shillings and ninepence. The opulence and liberality of the inhabitants were thus very forcibly impressed on me; and when, last Tuesday, I made my way through a long corridor into the crowded schoolroom, my first thought, as I surveyed the row of parents, was whether any of them had been among the contributors to that memorable hatful of coin. My second was whether the principal of the school would have been pleased to see me had she known of the sixteen and ninepence.

When the sensation caused by my entrance had subsided somewhat, we settled down to a performance which consisted of music and recitation by the rising generation, and speechification by the risen one. The rising generation had the best of it. Whenever the girls did anything, we were delighted; whenever an adult began, we were bored to the very verge of possible endurance. The deplorable member of Parliament who gave away the prizes may be eloquent in the House of Commons; but before that eager, keen, bright, frank, unbedevilled, unsophisticated audience he quailed, he maundered, he stumbled, wanted to go on and couldn’t, wanted to stop and didn’t, and finally collapsed with a few remarks to the effect that he felt proud of himself, which struck me as being the most uncalled-for remark I ever heard, even from an M.P. The chairman was self-possessed, not to say hardened. He quoted statistics about Latin, arithmetic and other sordid absurdities, specially extolling the aptitude of the female mind since 1868 for botany. I incited a little girl near me to call out “Time” and “Question,” but she shook her head shyly, and said “Miss---- would be angry;” so he had his say out. Let him deliver that speech next Sunday on the common, and he will not get 16s. 9d. He will get stoned.

But the rest of the programme was worth a dozen ordinary concerts. It is but a few months since I heard Schubert’s setting of “The Lord is my Shepherd” sung by the Crystal Palace Choir to Mr. Manns’ appropriate and beautiful orchestral transcript of the accompaniment; but here a class of girls almost obliterated that memory by singing the opening strain with a purity of tone quite angelic. If they could only have kept their attention concentrated long enough, it might have been equally delightful all through. But girlhood is discursive; and those who were not immediately under the awful eye of the lady who conducted, wandered considerably from Schubert’s inspiration after a time, although they stuck to his notes most commendably. Yet for all that I can safely say that if there is a little choir like that in every High School the future is guaranteed. We were much entertained by a composition of Jensen’s, full of octaves and chords, which was assaulted and vanquished after an energetic bout of fisticuffs by an infant pianist, who will not be able to reach the pedals for years to come.

* * * * *

I need hardly say that my remarks about the Tonic Sol-fa have brought letters upon me insisting on the attractive simplicity of the notation, and even inviting me to learn it at once. This reminds me of a sage whom I consulted in my youth as to how I might achieve the formation of a perfect character. “Young man,” he said, “are you a vegetarian?” I promptly said “Yes,” which took him aback. (I subsequently discovered that he had a weakness for oysters.) “Young man,” he resumed, “have you mastered Pitman’s shorthand?” I told him that I could write it very nearly as fast as longhand, but that I could not read it; and he admitted that this was about the maximum of human attainment in phonography. “Young man,” he went on, “do you understand phrenology?” This was a facer, as I knew nothing about it, but I was determined not to be beaten, so I declared that it was my favourite pursuit, and that I had been attracted to him by the noble character of his bumps. “Young man,” he continued, “you are indeed high on the Mount of Wisdom. There remains but one accomplishment to the perfection of your character. Are you an adept at the Tonic Sol-fa system?” This was too much. I got up in a rage, and said, “Oh, d--the Tonic Sol-fa system!” Then we came to high words, and our relations have been more or less strained ever since. I have always resolutely refused to learn Tonic Sol-fa, as I am determined to prove that it is possible to form a perfect character without it.

* * * * *

The other evening I went to the Wind Instrument Society’s concert at the Royal Academy of Music in Tenterden Street. Having only just heard of the affair from an acquaintance, I had no ticket. The concert, as usual, had been kept dark from me; Bassetto the Incorruptible knows too much to be welcome to any but the greatest artists. I therefore presented myself at the doors for admission on payment as a casual amateur. Apparently the wildest imaginings of the Wind Instrument Society had not reached to such a contingency as a Londoner offering money at the doors to hear classical chamber music played upon bassoons, clarionets, and horns; for I was told that it was impossible to entertain my application, as the building had no licence. I suggested sending out for a licence; but this, for some technical reason, could not be done. I offered to dispense with the licence; but they said it would expose them to penal servitude. Perceiving by this that it was a mere question of breaking the law, I insisted on the secretary accompanying me to the residence of a distinguished Q.C. in the neighbourhood, and ascertaining from him how to do it. The Q.C. said that if I handed the secretary five shillings at the door in consideration of being admitted to the concert, that would be illegal. But if I bought a ticket from him in the street, that would be legal. Or, if I presented him with five shillings in remembrance of his last birthday, and he gave me a free admission in celebration of my silver wedding, that would be legal. Or, if we broke the law without witnesses and were prepared to perjure ourselves if questioned afterwards (which seemed to me the most natural way), then nothing could happen to us. I cannot without breach of faith explain which course we adopted; suffice it that I was present at the concert.

* * * * *

I went to the Prince of Wales’ Theatre on Wednesday afternoon to hear the students of the Royal College of Music.... I am sorry to say that the bad custom of bouquet-throwing was permitted; and need I add that an American _prima donna_ was the offender? What do you mean, Madame----, by teaching the young idea how to get bouquets shied? After the manner of her countrymen this _prima donna_ travels with enormous wreaths and baskets of flowers, which are handed to her at the conclusion of her pieces. And no matter how often this happens, she is never a whit the less astonished and delighted to see the flowers come up. They say that the only artist who never gets accustomed to his part is the performing flea who fires a cannon, and who is no less dismayed and confounded by the three-hundredth report than by the first. Now, it may be ungallant, coarse--brutal even; but whenever I see the fair American thrown into raptures by her own flower-basket, I always think of the flea thrown into convulsions by his own cannon. And so, dear but silly American ladies, be persuaded, and drop it. Nobody except the very greenest of greenhorns is taken in; and the injury you do to your own artistic self-respect by condescending to take him in is incalculable. Just consider for a moment how insanely impossible it is that a wreath as big as a cart-wheel could be the spontaneous offering of an admiring stranger. One consolation is, that if the critics cannot control the stars, they can at least administer the stripes.

* * * * *

Last Saturday evening, feeling the worse for want of change and country air, I happened to voyage in the company of an eminent dramatic critic as far as Greenwich. Hardly had we inhaled the refreshing ozone of that place ninety seconds when, suddenly finding ourselves opposite a palatial theatre, gorgeous with a million gaslights, we felt that it was idiotic to have been to Wagner’s Theatre at Bayreuth and yet be utterly ignorant concerning Morton’s Theatre at Greenwich. So we rushed into the struggling crowd at the doors, only to be informed that the theatre was full. Stalls full, dress circle full; pit, standing room only. As the eminent dramatic critic habitually sleeps during performances, and is subject to nightmare when he sleeps standing, the pit was out of the question. Was there room anywhere? we asked. Yes, in a private box or in the gallery. Which was the cheaper? The gallery, decidedly. So up we went to the gallery, where we found two precarious perches vacant at the side. It was rather like trying to see Trafalgar Square from the knife-board of an omnibus half-way up St. Martin’s Lane; but by hanging on to a stanchion, and occasionally standing with one foot on the seat and the other on the backs of the people in the front row, we succeeded in seeing as much of the entertainment as we could stand.

The first thing we did was to purchase a bill, which informed us that we were in for “the entirely original pastoral comedy-opera in three acts, entitled ‘Dorothy,’ which has been played to crowded houses in London 950, and (still playing) in the provinces 788 times.” This playbill, I should add, was thoughtfully decorated with a view of the theatre showing all the exits, for use in case of a reduction to ashes during performing hours. From it we further learnt that we should be regaled by an augmented and powerful orchestra; that the company was “No. 1”; that---- believes he is now the only HATTER in the county of Kent that exists on the profits arising solely from the sale of HATS and CAPS; and so on. Need I add that the eminent one and I sat bursting with expectation until the overture began. I cannot truthfully say that the augmented and powerful orchestra proved quite so augmented or so powerful as the composer could have wished; but let that pass; I disdain the cheap sport of breaking a daddy-long-legs on a wheel (butterfly is out of the question, it was such a dingy band). My object is rather to call attention to the condition to which 788 nights of Dorothying have reduced the unfortunate wanderers of “No. 1 Company.” I submit to the manager of these companies that in his own interest he should take better care of No. 1. Here are several young persons doomed to spend the flower of their years in mechanically repeating the silliest libretto in modern theatrical literature, set to music which must pall somewhat on the seven hundred and eighty-eighth performance.

As might have been expected, a settled weariness of life, an utter perfunctoriness, an unfathomable inanity pervaded the very souls of “No. 1.” The tenor, originally, I have no doubt, a fine young man, but now cherubically adipose, was evidently counting the days until death should release him from the part of Wilder. He had a pleasant speaking voice; and his affability and forbearance were highly creditable to him under the circumstances; but Nature rebelled in him against the loathed strains of a seven-hundred-times repeated _rôle_. He omitted the song in the first act, and sang “Though born a man of high degree,” as if with the last rally of an energy decayed and a willing spirit crashed. The G at the end was as a vocal earthquake. And yet methought he was not displeased when the inhabitants of Greenwich, coming fresh to the slaughter, encored him. The baritone had been affected the other way; he was thin and worn; and his clothes had lost their lustre. He sang “Queen of my heart” twice in a hardened manner, as one who was prepared to sing it a thousand times in a thousand quarter-hours for a sufficient wager. The comic part, being simply that of a circus clown transferred to the lyric stage, is better suited for infinite repetition; and the gentleman who undertook it addressed a comic lady called Priscilla as “Sarsaparilla” during his interludes between the _haute-école_ acts of the _prima donna_ and tenor, with a delight in the rare aroma of the joke, and in the roars of laughter it elicited, which will probably never pall. But anything that he himself escaped in the way of tedium was added tenfold to his unlucky colleagues, who sat out his buffooneries with an expression of deadly malignity. I trust the gentleman may die in his bed; but he would be unwise to build too much on doing so. There is a point at which tedium becomes homicidal mania.

The ladies fared best. The female of the human species has not yet developed a conscience: she will apparently spend her life in artistic self-murder by induced Dorothisis without a pang of remorse, provided she be praised and paid regularly. Dorothy herself, a beauteous young lady of distinguished mien, with an immense variety of accents ranging from the finest Tunbridge Wells English (for genteel comedy) to the broadest Irish (for repartee and low comedy), sang without the slightest effort and without the slightest point, and was all the more desperately vapid because she suggested artistic gifts wasting in complacent abeyance. Lydia’s voice, a hollow and spectral contralto, alone betrayed the desolating effect of perpetual Dorothy; her figure retained a pleasing plumpness akin to that of the tenor; and her spirits were wonderful, all things considered. The chorus, too, seemed happy; but that was obviously because they did not know any better. The pack of hounds employed darted in at the end of the second act, evidently full of the mad hope of finding something new going on; and their depression when they discovered it was “Dorothy” again, was pitiable. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should interfere. If there is no law to protect men and women from “Dorothy,” there is at least one that can be strained to protect dogs.

_George Bernard Shaw_ (1856).

FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE.

Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a dacent little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.

At the time I spayke of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the sheep that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot. But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an’ he stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.

Well, in the coorse of time poor Paddy felt his days wor well-nigh numbered, so he tuk to the bed an’ sent for the priest; an’ thin he settled himself down to aise his conscience an’ to clear the road in the other world by manes of a good confession.

He reeled off his sins, mortial an’ vanyial, to the priest by the yard, an’ begor he felt mighty sorrowful intirely whin he thought what a bad boy he’d been, an’ what a hape of quare things he’d done in his time--though, as I’ve said before, he was a dacent little man in his way, only, you see, bein’ so close to the other side of Jordan, he tuk an onaisy view of all his sayin’s and doin’s. Poor Paddy--small blame to him--was very aiger to get a comfortable corner in glory in his old age, for he’d a hard sthruggle enough of it here below.

Well, whin he’d towld all his sins to Father McGrath, an’ whin Father McGrath had given him a few hard rubs by way of consolation, he bent his head to get the absolution, an’ lo an’ behold you! before the priest could get through the words that would open the gates of glory to poor Paddy, the life wint out of the man’s body.

It seems ’twas a busy mornin’ in heaven, an’ as soon as Father McGrath began to say the first words of the absolution, down they claps Paddy Power’s name on the due-book. However, we’ll come to that part of the story by-an’-by.

Anyhow, up goes Paddy, an’ before he knew where he was he found himself standin’ outside the gates of Paradise. Of coorse, he partly guessed there ’ud be throuble, but he thought he’d put a bowld face on, so he gives a hard double-knock at the door, an’ a holy saint shoves back the slide an’ looks out at him through an iron gratin’.

“God save all here!” says Paddy.

“God save you kindly!” says the saint.

“Maybe I’m too airly?” says Paddy, dhreadin’ all the time that ’tis the cowld showlder he’d get.

“’Tis naither airly nor late here,” says the saint, “pervidin’ you’re on the way-bill. What’s yer name?” says he.

“Paddy Power,” says the little man from Portlaw.

“There’s so many of that name due here,” says the saint, “that I must ax you for further particulars.”

“You’re quite welcome, your reverence,” says Paddy.

“What’s your occupation?” says the saint.

“Well,” says Paddy, “I can turn my hand to anything in raison.”

“A kind of Jack-of all-thrades?” says the saint.

“Not exactly that,” says Paddy, thinkin’ the saint was thryin’ to make fun of him. “In fact,” says he, “I’m a general dayler.”

“An’ what do you generally dale in?” axes the saint.

“All’s fish that comes to my net,” says Paddy, thinkin’, of coorse, ’twould put Saint Pether in good humour to be reminded of ould times.

“An’ is it a fisherman you are, thin?” axes the saint.

“Well, no,” says Paddy, “though I’ve done a little huckstherin’ in fish in my time; but I was partial to scrap-iron, as a rule.”

“To tell you the thruth,” says the saint, “I’m not over fond of general daylin’, but of coorse my private feelin’s don’t intherfere wud my duties here. I’m on the gates agen my will for the matther of that; but that’s naither here nor there so far as yourself is consarned, Paddy,” says he.

“It must be a hard dhrain on the constitution at times,” says Paddy, “to be on the door from mornin’ till night.”

“’Tis,” says the saint, “of a busy day--but I must go an’ have a look at the books. Paddy Power is your name?” says he.

“Yis,” says Paddy; “an’, though ’tis meself that says it, I’m not ashamed of it.”

“An’ where are you from?” axes the saint.

“From the parish of Portlaw,” says Paddy.

“I never heard tell of it,” says the saint, bitin’ his thumb.

“Sure it couldn’t be expected you would, sir,” says Paddy, “for it lies at the back of God-speed.”

“Well, stand there, Paddy _avic_,” says the holy saint, “an’ I’ll have a good look at the books.”

“God bless you!” says Paddy. “Wan ’ud think ’twas born in Munsther you wor, Saint Pether, you have such an iligant accent in spaykin’.”

Faix, Paddy was beginnin’ to dhread that his name wouldn’t be found on the books at all on account of his not havin’ complate absolution, so he thought ’twas the best of his play to say a soft word to the keeper of the kays.

The saint tuk a hasty glance at the enthry-book, but whin Paddy called him Saint Pether he lifted his head an’ he put his face to the wicket again, an’ there was a cunnin’ twinkle in his eye.

“An’ so you thinks ’tis Saint Pether I am?” says he.

“Of coorse, your reverence,” says Paddy; “an’ ’tis a rock of sense I’m towld you are.”

Well, wud that the saint began to laugh very hearty, an’ says he--

“Now, it’s a quare thing that every wan of ye that comes from below thinks Saint Pether is on the gates constant. Do you raley think, Paddy,” says he, “that Saint Pether has nothing else to do, nor no way to pass the time except by standin’ here in the cowld from year’s end to year’s end, openin’ the gates of Paradise?”

“Begor,” says Paddy, “that never sthruck me before, sure enough. Of coorse he must have some sort of divarsion to pass the time. An’ might I ax your reverence,” says he, “what your own name is? an’ I hopes you’ll pardon my ignorance.”

“Don’t mintion that,” says the saint; “but I’d rather not tell you my name, just yet at any rate, for a raison of my own.”

“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me, sir,” says Paddy.

“’Tis a civil-spoken little man you are,” says the saint.

Findin’ the saint was such a nice agreeable man an’ such an iligant discoorser, Paddy thought he’d venture on a few remarks just to dodge the time until some other poor sowl ’ud turn up an’ give him the chance to slip into Paradise unbeknownst--for he knew that wance he got in by hook or by crook they could never have the heart to turn him out of it again. So says he--

“Might I ax what Saint Pether is doin’ just now?”

“He’s at a hurlin’ match,” says the deputy.

“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “couldn’t I get a peep at the match while you’re examinin’ the books?”

“I’m afeard not,” says the saint, shakin’ his head. “Besides,” says he, “I think the fun is nearly over by this time.”

“Is there often a hurlin’ match here?” axes Paddy.

“Wance a year,” says the saint. “You see,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his thumb, “they have all nationalities in here, and they plays the game of aich nation on aich pathron saint’s day, if you undherstand me.”

“I do,” says Paddy. “An’ sure enough ’twas Saint Pathrick’s Day in the mornin’ whin I started from Portlaw, an’ the last thing I did--of coorse before tellin’ my sins--was to dhrink my Pathrick’s pot.”

“More power to you!” says the saint.

“I suppose Saint Pathrick is the umpire to-day?” says Paddy.

“No,” says the saint. “Aich of us, you see, takes our turn at the gates on our own festival days.”

“Holy Moses!” shouts Paddy. “Thin ’tis to Saint Pathrick himself I’ve been talkin’ all this while back. Oh, murdher alive, did I ever think I’d live to see this day!”

Begor, the poor _angashore_ of a man was fairly knocked off his head to discover he was discoorsin’ so fameeliarly wud the great Saint Pathrick, an’ the great saint himself was proud to see what a dale the little man from Portlaw thought of him; but he didn’t let on to Paddy how plaized he was. “Ah!” says he, “sure we’re all on an aiquality here. You’ll be a great saint yourself, maybe, wan of these days.”

“The heavens forbid,” says Paddy, “that I’d dhrame of ever being on an aiquality wud your reverence! Begor, ’tis a joyful man I’d be to be allowed to spake a few words to you wance in a blue moon. Aiquality, _inagh_!”[52] says he. “Sure what aiquality could there be between the great apostle of Ould Ireland and Paddy Power, general dayler, from Portlaw?”

“I wish there was more of ’em your way of thinkin’, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick, sighin’ deeply.

“An’ do you mane to tell me,” says Paddy, “that any craychur inside there ’ud dar’ to put himself an an aiqual footin’ wud yourself?”

“I do, thin,” says Saint Pathrick; “an’ worse than that,” says he, “there’s some of ’em thinks ’tis very small potatoes I am, in their own mind. I gives you me word, Paddy, that it takes me all my time occasionally to keep my timper wud Saint George an’ Saint Andhrew.”

“Bad luck to ’em both!” said Paddy, intherruptin’ him.

“Whisht!” says Saint Pathrick. “I partly admires your sintiments, but I must tell you there’s no rale ill-will allowed inside here. You’ll feel complately changed wance you gets at the right side of the gate.”

“The divil a change could make me keep quiet,” says Paddy, “if I heard the biggest saint in Paradise say a hard word agen you, or even dar’ to put himself on a par wud you!”

“Oh, Paddy!” says Saint Pathrick, “you mustn’t allow your timper to get the betther of you. ’Tis hard, I know, _avic_, to sthruggle at times agen your feelin’s, but the laiste said the soonest mended.”

“An’ will I meet Saint George and Saint Andhrew whin I get inside?”

“You will,” says Saint Pathrick; “but you mustn’t disgrace our counthry by makin’ a row wud aither of ’em.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Paddy, “as ’tis yourself that axes me. An’ is there any more of ’em that thrates you wud contimpt?”

“Well, not many,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ indeed,” says he, “’tis only an odd day we meets at all; an’ I can tell you I’m not a bad hand at takin’ my own part--but there’s wan fellow,” says he, “that breaks my _giddawn_ intirely.”

“An’ who is he? the bla’guard!” says Paddy.

“He’s an uncanonised craychur named Brakespeare,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A wondher you’d be seen talkin’ to the likes of him!” says Paddy; “an’ who is he at all?”

“Did you never hear tell of him?” says Saint Pathrick.

“Never,” says Paddy.

“Well,” says Saint Pathrick, “he made the worst bull----”

“Thin,” says Paddy, interruptin’ him in hot haste, “he’s wan of ourselves--more shame for him! Oh, wait till I gets a grip of him by the scruff of the neck!”

“Whisht! I tell you!” says Saint Pathrick. “Perhaps ’tis committin’ a vaynial sin you are now, an’ if that wor to come to Saint Pether’s ears, maybe he’d clap twinty years of Limbo on to you--for he’s a hard man sometimes, especially if he hears of any one losin’ his timper, or getting impatient at the gates. An’ moreover,” says Saint Pathrick, “himself an’ this Brakespeare are as thick as thieves, for they both sat in the same chair below. I had a hot argument wud Nick yesterday.”

“Ould Nick, is it?” says Paddy.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick, laughin’. “Nick Brakespeare, I mane--the same indeveedual I was tellin’ you about.”

“I beg your reverence’s pardon,” says Paddy, “an’ I hopes you’ll excuse my ignorance. But you wor goin’ to give me an account of this hot argument you had wud the bla’guard whin I put in my spoke.”

Begor, Saint Pathrick dhrew in his horns thin, an’ fearin’ Paddy might think they wor in the habit of squabblin’ in heaven, he says, “Of coorse, I meant only a frindly discussion.”

“An’ what was the frindly discussion about?” axes Paddy.

“About this bull of his,” says Saint Pathrick.

“The mischief choke himself an’ his cattle!” says Paddy.

“Begor,” says Saint Pathrick, “’twas choked the poor man was, sure enough.”

“More power to the man that choked him!” says Paddy. “I hopes ye canonised him.”

“’Twasn’t a man at all,” says Saint Pathrick.

“A faymale, perhaps?” says Paddy.

“Fie, fie, Paddy,” says Saint Pathrick. “Come, guess again.”

“Ah, I’m a poor hand at guessin’,” says Paddy.

“Well, ’twas a blue-bottle,” says St. Pathrick.

“An’ was it thryin’ to swallow the bottle an’ all he was?” says Paddy. “He must have been ‘a hard case.’”

Begor, Saint Pathrick burst out laughin’, an’ says he, “You’ll make your mark here, Paddy, I have no doubt.”

“I’ll make my mark on them that slights your reverence, believe me,” says Paddy.

“Hush!” says Saint Pathrick, puttin’ his finger on his lips an’ lookin’ very solemn an’ business-like. “Here comes Saint Pether,” he whispers, rattlin’ the kays to show he was mindin’ his duties. “He looks in good-humour too; so it’s in luck you are.”

“I hope so, at any rate,” says Paddy; “for the clouds is very damp, an’ I’m throubled greatly wud the rheumatics.”

“Well, Pathrick,” says Saint Pether, comin’ up to the gates--Paddy Power could just get a sighth of the pair inside through the bars of the wicket--“how goes the enemy? Have you had a hard day of it, my son?”

“A very hard mornin’,” says Saint Pathrick. “They wor flockin’ here as thick as flies at cock-crow--I mane,” says he, gettin’ very red in the face, for he was in dhread he was afther puttin’ his fut in it wud Saint Pether, “I mane just at daybreak.”

“It’s sthrange,” says Saint Pether, in a dhramey kind of a way, “but I’ve noticed meself that there’s often a great rush of people in the airly mornin’; often I don’t know whether it’s on my head or my heels I do be standin’ wud the noise they kicks up outside, elbowin’ wan another, an’ bawlin’ at me as if it was hard of hearin’ I was.”

“How did the match go?” says Saint Pathrick, aiger to divart Saint Pether’s mind from his throubles.

“Grand!” says Saint Pether, brightenin’ up. “Hurlin’ is a great game. It takes all the stiffness out of my ould joints. But who’s that outside?” catchin’ sighth of Paddy Power.

“A poor fellow from Ireland,” says Saint Pathrick.

“I dunno how we’re to find room for all these Irishmen,” says Saint Pether, scratchin’ his head. “’Twas only last week I gev ordhers to have a new wing added to the Irish mansion, an’ begor I’m towld to-day that ’tis chock full already. But of coorse we must find room for the poor sowls. Did this chap come _viâ_ Purgathory?” say he.

“No,” says Saint Pathrick. “They sint him up direct.”

“Who is he?” says Saint Pether.

“His name is Paddy Power,” says St. Pathrick. “He seems a dacent sort of craychur.”

“Where’s he from?” axes Saint Pether.

“The Parish of Portlaw,” says Saint Pathrick.

“Portlaw!” says Saint Pether. “Well, that’s sthrange,” says he, rubbin’ his chin. “You know I never forgets a name, but to my sartin knowledge I never heard of Portlaw before. Has he a clane record?”

“There’s a thrifle wrong about it,” says Saint Pathrick. “He’s down on the way-bill, but there are some charges agen him not quite rubbed out.”

“In that case,” says Saint Pether, “we’d best be on the safe side, an’ sind him to Limbo for a spell.”

Begor, when Paddy Power heard this he nearly lost his seven sinses wud the fright, so he puts his face close up to the wicket, an’ he cries out in a pitiful voice--

“O blessed Saint Pether, don’t be too hard on me. Sure even below, where the law is sthrict enough agen a poor sthrugglin’ boy, they always allows him the benefit of the doubt, an’ I gives you my word, yer reverence, ’twas only by an accident the slate wasn’t rubbed clane. I know for sartin that Father McGrath said some of the words of the absolution before the life wint out of my body. Don’t dhrive a helpless ould man to purgathory, I beseeches you. Saint Pathrick will go bail for my good behaviour, I’ll be bound; an’ ’tis many the prayer I said to your own self below!”

Faix, Saint Pether was touched wud the implorin’ way Paddy spoke, an’ turnin’ to Saint Pathrick he says, “’Tis a quare case, sure enough. I don’t know that I ever remimber the like before, an’ my memory is of the best. I think we’d do right to have a consultation over the affair before we decides wan way or the other.”

“Ah, give the poor _angashore_ a chance,” says Saint Pathrick. “’Tis hard to scald him for an accident. Besides,” says he, brightenin’ up as a thought sthruck him, “you say you never had a man before from the parish of Portlaw, an’ I remimber you towld me wance that you’d like to have a represintative here from every parish in the world.”

“Thrue enough,” says Saint Pether; “an’ maybe I’d never have another chance from Portlaw.”

“Maybe not,” says Saint Pathrick, humourin’ him.

So Saint Pether takes a piece of injy-rubber from his waistcoat-pocket, an’ goin’ over to the enthry-book he rubs out the charges agen Paddy Power.

“I’ll take it on meself,” says he, “to docthor the books for this wance, only don’t let the cat out of the bag on me, Pathrick, my son.”

“Never fear,” says Saint Pathrick. “Depind your life on me.”

“Well, it’s done, anyhow,” says Saint Pether, puttin’ the injy-rubber back into his pocket; “an’ if you hands me over the kays, Pat,” says he, “I’ll relaise you for the day, so that you can show your frind over the grounds.”

“’Tis a grand man you are!” says Saint Pathrick. “My blessin’ on you, _avic_!”

“Come in, Paddy Power,” says Saint Pether, openin’ the gate; “an’ remimber always that you wouldn’t be here for maybe nine hundred an’ ninety-nine year or more only that you’re the only offer we ever had from the Parish of Portlaw.”

_Edmund Downey_ (1856).

_THE DANCE AT MARLEY._

Murtagh Murphy’s barn was full to the door when eve grew dull,
For Phelim Moore his beautiful new pipes had brought to charm
them;
In the kitchen thronged the girls--cheeks of roses, teeth of
pearls--
Admiring bows and braids and curls, till Phelim’s notes alarm
them.
Quick each maid her hat and shawl hung on dresser, bed, or wall,
Smoothed down her hair and smiled on all as she the _bawnoge_
entered,
Where a _shass_ of straw was laid on a ladder raised that made
A seat for them as still they stayed while dancers by them
cantered.

Murtagh and his _vanithee_[53] had their chairs brought in to see
The heels and toes go fast and free, and fun and love and
laughter;
In their sconces all alight shone the tallow candles bright--
The flames kept jigging all the night, upleaping to each rafter!
The pipes, with noisy drumming sound, the lovers’ whispering sadly
drowned,
So the couples took their ground--their hearts already dancing!
Merrily, with toe and heel, airily in jig and reel,
Fast in and out they whirl and wheel, all capering and prancing.

“Off She Goes,” “The Rocky Road,” “The Tipsy House,” and “Miss
McLeod,”
“The Devil’s Dream,” and “Jig Polthogue,” “The Wind that Shakes
the Barley,”
“The First o’ May,” “The Garran Bwee,” “Tatther Jack Welsh,” “The
River Lee,”--
As lapping breakers from the sea the myriad tunes at Marley!
Reels of three and reels of four, hornpipes and jigs _galore_,
With singles, doubles held the floor in turn, without a bar low;
But when fun and courting lulled, and the dancing somewhat dulled,
The door unhinged, the boys down pulled for “Follow me up to
Carlow.”

Ned and Nelly, hand in hand, footed in a square so grand,
Then back the jingling door they spanned, and swept swift as
their glances;
Nell, indignant-like, retired, chased by Ned until he tired,
Her constancy so great admired, that he soon made advances.
But young Nell would not be won, and a lover’s chase came on--
The maidens laughed to see the fun, till she surrendered fairly:
Hands enclasped in rosy pride, tripping neatly side, by side,
They turned and bowed most dignified to all the folk of Marley!

Poorly pen of sage or scribe could such scenes of joy describe,
Or due praises fair ascribe, where all were nearly equal!
The love-making I’ve forgot in each cosy _saustagh_[54] spot--
Yet now I think I’d better not go tell, but wait the sequel.
Everything must have an end, and the _girshas_[55] home did wend,
With guarding brother and a friend--this last was absent rarely!
Late the Murphys by the hearth talked about the evening’s mirth--
Ne’er a dance upon the earth could match that one at Marley.

_Patrick J. McCall_ (1861).

_FIONN MACCUMHAIL AND THE PRINCESS._

Wance upon a time, when things was a great’le betther in Ireland than they are at present, when a rale king ruled over the counthry wid four others undher him to look afther the craps an’ other industhries, there lived a young chief called Fan MaCool. Now, this was long afore we gev up bowin’ and scrapin’ to the sun an’ moon an’ sich like _raumash_ (nonsense); an’, signs an it, there was a powerful lot ov witches an’ Druids, an’ enchanted min an’ wimen goin’ about, that med things quare enough betimes for iverywan.

Well, Fan, as I sed afore, was a young man when he kem to the command, an’ a purty likely lookin’ boy, too--there was nothin’ too hot or too heavy for him; an’ so ye needn’t be a bit surprised if I tell ye he was the mischief entirely wid the _colleens_. Nothin’ delighted him more than to disguise himself wid an ould _coatamore_ (overcoat) threwn over his showlder, a lump ov a _kippeen_ (stick) in his fist an’ he mayanderin’ about unknownst, _rings around_ the counthry, lookin’ for fun an’ _foosther_ (diversion) ov all kinds.

Well, one fine mornin’, whin he was _on the shaughraun_, he was _waumasin_’ (strolling) about through Leinster, an’ near the royal palace ov Glendalough he seen a mighty throng ov grand lords an’ ladies, an’, my dear, they all dressed up to the nines, wid their jewels shinin’ like dewdrops ov a May mornin’, and laughin’ like the tinkle ov a _deeshy_ (small) mountain strame over the white rocks. So he cocked his beaver, an’ stole over to see what was the matther.

Lo an’ behould ye, what were they at but houldin’ a race-meetin’ or _faysh_ (festival)--somethin’ like what the quality calls _ataléticks_ now! There they were, jumpin’, and runnin’, and coorsin’, an’ all soorts ov fun, enough to make the trouts--an’ they’re mighty fine leppers enough--die wid envy in the river benaith them.

The fun wint on fast an’ furious, an’ Fan, consaled betune the _trumauns_ an’ _brushna_ (elder bushes and furze), could hardly keep himself quiet, seein’ the thricks they wor at. Peepin’ out, he seen, jist forninst him on the other bank, the prencess herself, betune the high-up ladies ov the coort. She was a fine, bouncin’ _geersha_ (girl) with goold hair like the furze an’ cheeks like an apple blossom, an’ she brakin’ her heart laughin’ an’ clappin’ her hands an’ turnin’ her head this a-way an’ that a-way, jokin’ wid this wan an’ that wan, an’ commiseratin’, _moryah_![56] the poor _gossoons_ that failed in their leps. Fan liked the looks ov her well, an’ whin the boys had run in undher a bame up to their knees an’ jumped up over another wan as high as their chins, the great trial ov all kem on. Maybe you’d guess what that was? But I’m afeerd you won’t if I gev you a hundhered guesses! It was to lep the strame, forty foot wide!

List’nin’ to them whisperin’ to wan another, Fan heerd them tellin’ that whichever ov them could manage it wud be med a great man intirely ov; he wud get the Prencess Maynish in marriage, an’ ov coorse, wud be med king ov Leinster when the ould king, Garry, her father, cocked his toes an’ looked up through the butts ov the daisies at the skhy. Well, whin Fan h’ard this, he was put _to a nonplush_ (considering) to know what to do! With his ould _duds_ (clothes) on him, he was ashamed ov his life to go out into the open, to have the eyes ov the whole wurruld on him, an’ his heart wint down to his big toe as he watched the boys makin’ their offers at the lep. But no wan ov them was soople enough for the job, an’ they kep on tumblin’, wan afther the other, into the strame; so that the poor prencess began to look sorryful whin her favourite, a big hayro wid a _coolyeen_ (curls) a yard long--an’ more be token he was a boy o’ the Byrnes from Imayle--jist tipped the bank forninst her wid his right fut, an’ then twistin’, like a crow in the air scratchin’ her head with her claw, he spraddled wide open in the wather, and splashed about like a hake in a mudbank! Well, me dear, Fan forgot himself, an’ gev a screech like an aigle; an’ wid that, the ould king started, the ladies all screamed, an’ Fan was surrounded. In less than a minit an’ a half they dragged me bould Fan be the collar ov his coat right straight around to the king himself.

“What ould _geochagh_ (beggar) have we now?” sez the king, lookin’ very hard at Fan.

“I’m Fan MaCool!” sez the thief ov the wurruld, as cool as a frog.

“Well, Fan MaCool or not,” sez the king, mockin’ him, “ye’ll have to jump the strame yander for freckenin’ the lives clane out ov me ladies,” sez he, “an’ for disturbin’ our spoort ginerally,” sez he.

“An’ what’ll I get for that same?” sez Fan, _lettin’ on_ (pretending) he was afeerd.

“Me daughter, Maynish,” sez the king, wid a laugh; for he thought, ye see, Fan would be drownded.

“Me hand on the bargain,” sez Fan; but the owld chap gev him a rap on the knuckles wid his _specktre_ (sceptre) an’ towld him to hurry up, or he’d get the _ollaves_ (judges) to put him in the Black Dog pres’n or the Marshals--I forgets which--it’s so long gone by!

Well, Fan peeled off his _coatamore_, an’ threw away his _bottheen_ ov a stick, an’ the prencess seein’ his big body an’ his long arums an’ legs like an oaktree, couldn’t help remarkin’ to her comerade, the craythur--

“Bedad, _Cauth_ (Kate),” sez she, “but this beggarman is a fine bit ov a _bouchal_ (boy),” sez she; “it’s in the arumy he ought to be,” sez she, lookin’ at him agen, an’ admirin’ him, like.

So, Fan, purtendin’ to be fixin’ his shoes be the bank, jist pulled two _lusmores_ (fox-gloves) an’ put them anunder his heels; for thim wor the fairies’ own flowers that works all soort ov inchantment, an’ he, ov coorse, knew all about it; for he got the wrinkle from an owld _lenaun_ (fairy guardian) named Cleena, that nursed him when he was a little stand-a-loney.

Well, me dear, ye’d think it was on’y over a little _creepie_ (three-legged) stool he was leppin’ whin he landed like a thrish jist at the fut ov the prencess; an’ his father’s son he was, that put his two arums around her, an’ gev her a kiss--haith, ye’d hear the smack ov it at the Castle o’ Dublin. The ould king groaned like a corncrake, an’ pulled out his hair in hatfuls, an’ at last he ordhered the bowld beggarman off to be kilt; but, begorrah, when they tuk off his weskit an’ seen the collar ov goold around Fan’s neck the ould chap became delighted, for he knew thin he had the commandher ov Airyun for a son-in-law.

“Hello!” sez the king, “who have we now?” sez he, seein’ the collar. “Begonnys,” sez he, “you’re no _boccagh_ (beggar) anyways!”

“I’m Fan MaCool,” sez the other, as impident as a cock sparra’; “have you anything to say agen me?” for his name wasn’t up, at that time, like afther.

“Ay, lots to say agen you. How dar’ you be comin’ round this a-way, dressed like a playacthor, takin’ us in?” sez the king, lettin’ on to be vexed; “an’ now,” sez he, “to annoy you, you’ll have to go an’ jump back agen afore you gets me daughter for _puttin’ on_ (deceiving) us in such a manner.”

“Your will is my pleasure,” sez Fan; “but I must have a word or two with the girl first,” sez he, an’ up he goes an’ commences talkin’ soft to her, an’ the king got as mad as a hatther at the way the two were _croosheenin_’ an’ _colloguin_’ (whispering and talking), an’ not mindin’ him no more than if he was the man in the moon, when who comes up but the Prence ov Imayle, afther dryin’ himself, to put his pike in the hay, too.

“Well, _avochal_ (my boy),” sez Fan, “are you dry yet?” an’ the prencess laughed like a bell round a cat’s neck.

“You think yourself a smart lad, I suppose,” sez the other; “but there’s one thing you can’t do wid all your prate!”

“What’s that?” sez Fan. “Maybe not,” sez he.

“You couldn’t whistle an’ chaw oatenmale,” sez the Prence ov Imayle, in a pucker. “Are you any good at throwin’ a stone?” sez he, then.

“The best!” sez Fan, an’ all the coort gother round like to a cock-fight. “Where’ll we throw to?” sez he.

“In to’ards Dublin,” sez the Prence ov Imayle; an’ be all accounts he was a great hand at _cruistin_ (throwing). “Here goes pink!” sez he, an’ he ups with a stone, as big as a castle, an’ sends it flyin’ in the air like a cannon ball, and it never stopped till it landed on top ov the Three Rock Mountain.

“I’m your masther!” sez Fan, pickin’ up another _clochaun_ (stone) an’ sendin’ it a few perch beyant the first.