the fearful depths of the whirlpool, under the hanging oak on the other bank. Well do I remember the first time that I ventured to swim across it, and even yet do I see, in imagination, the two bunches of water flaggons on which the inexperienced swimmers trusted themselves in the water. About two hundred yards above this, the boreen [a little road or by-road] which led from the village to the main road crossed the river by one of those old narrow bridges whose arches rise like round ditches across the road- -an almost impassable barrier to horse and car. On passing the bridge, in a northern direction, you found a range of low thatched houses on each side of the road; and if one o'clock, the hour of dinner, drew near, you might observe columns of blue smoke curling up from a row of chimneys, some made of wicker creels plastered over with a thick coat of mud; some of old, narrow, bottomless tubs; and others, with a greater appearance of taste, ornamented with thick circular ropes of straw, secured together like bees' skeps with the peel of a brier; and many having nothing but the open vent above. But the smoke by no means escaped by its legitimate aperture, for you might observe little clouds of it bursting out by the doors and windows; the panes of the latter, being mostly stopped at other times with old hats and rags, were now left entirely open for the purpose of giving it a free escape. Before the doors, on right and left, was a series of dunghills, each with its concomitant sink of green, rotten water; and if it happened that a stout-looking woman, with watery eyes, and a yellow cap hung loosely upon her matted locks, came, with a chubby urchin on one arm, and a pot of dirty water in her hand, its unceremonious ejection in the aforesaid sink would be apt to send you up the village with your finger and thumb (for what purpose you would yourself perfectly understand) closely, but not knowingly, applied to your nostrils. But independently of this, you would be apt to have other reasons for giving your horse, whose heels are by this time surrounded by a dozen of barking curs, and the same number of shouting urchins, a pretty sharp touch of the spurs, as well as for complaining bitterly of the odour of the atmosphere. It is no landscape without figures, and you might notice, if you are, as I suppose you to be, a man of observation, in every sink as you pass along, a 'slip of a pig' stretched in the middle of the mud, the very beau ideal of luxury, giving occasionally a long luxuriant grunt, highly expressive of his enjoyment; or, perhaps, an old farrower, lying in indolent repose, with half-a-dozen young ones jostling each other for their draught, and punching her belly with their little snouts, reckless of the fumes they are creating; whilst the loud crow of the cock, as he confidently flaps his wings on his own dunghill, gives the warning note for the hour of dinner. (From 'The Hedge School' in Traits and Stories.) C. LITTON FALKINER. Michael Banim (1796-1874) and John Banim (1798-1842), two brothers who are best known as the authors of Tales of the O'Hara Family, represent a remarkably successful instance of literary collaboration. It has never been possible to assign correctly the respective shares of the two brothers in the fame collectively acquired. But it seems as though the higher reputation enjoyed by the younger was due rather to the resolute self-abnegation of his senior than to his superior merit. The Banims were born in Kilkenny, where their father kept what Moore in his Diary describes as 'a little powder and shot shop,' much resorted to by local sportsmen. They were educated together at Kilkenny College; but John, evincing a taste for painting, was in 1813 sent to Dublin to study drawing. After some years devoted to art John turned to literature, and quickly produced two dramas, Turgesius and Damon and Pythias, of which the latter was produced at Covent Garden by Macready and Charles Kemble in 1821. He also wrote an elaborate poem, The Celt's Paradise. In the following year-John having settled in London, where he contributed to the Literary Register the brothers commenced the publication of the O'Hara series. The tales at once became popular, and as a result of their success the next work published by them, Boyne Water (1825), found a numerous audience. These stories were mostly conceived on historical lines, and they did much, as was intended, to interest the English public in Irish questions and to lead to a fuller comprehension of certain phases of Irish character. A further series of Tales appeared in 1826, and included The Nowlans, for which Colburn gave a large sum. This work failed, however, to sustain the reputation of its predecessors, a failure due probably to the breakdown of John Banim's health. The brothers, however, continued to collaborate, John's intellectual activity being maintained in spite of bodily failure, and in 1829 a final series of O'Hara Tales appeared. John had meantime produced independently a set of essays, Reflections on the Dead-Alive (1824), and Sylla, a tragedy, besides numerous contributions to magazines. In 1836 he became paralysed in the lower limbs, and received a pension of £150 from the Civil List, together with a further grant of £40 yearly for his daughter. His strength thenceforward ebbed away, and though he survived six years longer, he had ceased to work. A Life by P. J. Murray appeared in 1857. Michael Banim long survived his younger brother, but like him was all his life in straitened circumstances. In 1853, however, he was appointed postmaster of Kilkenny, and on his retirement twenty years later received an allowance from the Royal Literary Fund. His chief works after his brother's death were Clough Fionn (1852) and The Town of the Cascades (1864). The O'Hara Tales have often been compared to the Waverley Novels, and no doubt they, like Miss Edgeworth's and Gerald Griffin's works, served in a great degree to do for Ireland what the 'Waverley' series did for Scotland. But the Banims lacked the broad sanity and kindly humour of Scott, while they were without the wholesome cheerfulness of Maria Edgeworth. They moved, especially the younger, on a more tragic plane, and it is the more gloomy elements in the Celtic temperament that they most success Soggarth aroon. Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Soggarth aroon? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon, Yet be not slave to you, Nor out of fear to you- Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon, When the cold blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Who, on the marriage-day, Soggarth aroon? And did both laugh and sing, Soggarth aroon? Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon? And when my eye was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him, Soggarth aroon? Och! you and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon ; In love they'll never shake, When for Ould Ireland's sake, We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon? (By John Banim.) Terence O'Brien. During his term of sea-service Terence O'Brien had unconsciously contracted some characteristics which rendered him a puzzle to his present neighbours and, indeed, a contradiction to himself - or, at least, to Terence O'Brien that then was, and Terence O'Brien that used to be, once upon a time. For instance. In his more youthful days, he had engaged in some one of those many rustic combinations for which the Irish peasantry are celebrated, and which can best be accounted for by considering that their wants make them discontented, and the injuries which often produce those wants, reckless of all consequences, when their object is vengeance on the nearest palpable aggressor. Terence and his associates violated the law of the land; rewards for their apprehension were offered; some of them were discovered, tried, and hanged; and he himself, to avoid the fate that seemed to await him, absconded from his native place, and never cried stop, nor let the grass grow under his feet,' till he had arrived in Cork's own town,' distant about one hundred miles (Irish) from his starting-point. There, scarce yet pausing to take breath, he entered on board a man-of-war, as his most secure hiding-place; and thus the wild Irishman, who, but a few hours before, had been denounced as almost a traitor to the State, became one of its sworn defenders; ay, andin a very short time, if not at that very moment, one of its most loyal and sincere defenders. This character grew upon him, and in it fully confirmed he returned home after a long absence, in peaceful and oblivious times, much to the non-edification of his stationary neighbours, as has been intimated. Further. As a Whiteboy, before going on his travels, Terence had mortally hated England, England's king, and the very name of everything English in the same ratio, had loved England's foes, of all denominations-the French, her 'natural enemies,' as they have been somewhat strangely called, above all others. But none of these youthful prejudices did Terence bring home with him. 'Long life and a long reign to King George!' was now his shout, while the hairs on his head bristled in enmity against 'parly. woos; and good reason why for both sentimentssensations rather. During half his amphibious existence, Terence's grog had been sweetened by pouring it down his throat, among his ship-comrades, with a grateful mention of the name of his Britannic Majesty, and Terence's only thoughts and efforts constantly directed towards the discomfiture of the ill-wishers of that august personage. The loss of his arm, and of half his nose, with the disgraceful substitution of that half by the half of a Frenchman's 'snub,' gave him personal cause to detest the Gallic race. So that he might be said to loathe the French to the marrow of his bones—yea, even of those portions of his bones which had been severed from his body and cast to the sharks. : (From The Bit o' Writin'.) The Pirate's Return. 'It was of a dreary night in December I first met your brother Collum, sir,' said Father Fenelly when he and Mr Felix M'Carty, as we are now obliged to call him, discoursed together shortly after the old pirate's story had been related, 'of a Saturday night, too; I remember it well; one of the last upon which my poor people crowd into the little chapel to prepare for their Christmas duty. Ere I entered the confessional I had observed a very remarkable man sauntering, or rather dodging, about the chapel-yard that was before the chapel-door. He wore a sailor's dress; one marking the degree above the common sailor, for aught I know; but his air, his face, his step, and the whole bearing of his tall, straight figure suggested, at all events, the idea of a superior person. Something wondering to see a stranger of his kind in such a place, and also recollecting that on one or two occasions before I had noticed him, at a distance, in the lonesome walks about the village, I passed into the chapel, sat down in my confession-box, and began the duties of the evening. A great number, as is usual on the approach of Christmas and Easter, were waiting on my ministry, or "to be heard," as we call it, in their turns; and I could not change fast enough in my box for them, and open the slide of the little round orifice at either side, to listen alternately to the varied avowals of human frailty that craved my advice, my control, and finally, through my mouth, a conditional promise of pardon from my God. An hour might have been thus spent, when, chancing to look out through the slit in the curtain of my box, I recognised the tall and almost sublime figure of the stranger, leaning against one of the little rude props that supported the thatched roof of my humble chapel. From another prop, the weak light of a tin sconce, or lamp, fell upon his features, and allowed me to see their expression; and I thought I read upon his cloudy brow, and his rolling eye, and in his half-open and contorted mouth the story of a bosom blackened with crime, torn with remorse, and just beginning to work in the terrible labour of a first repentance. I could perceive that he eyed askance the humble crowds that, in the twilight, knelt around him where he stood; and, now and then, that his agitated glance followed those who came, some moving on their knees, to confess their burden of sin; and those who, their ordeal over, returned from the confessional to the railing of the sanctuary to throw themselves there, in aspirations of thanks to God, and of promises of future virtue. Having remarked him for some time, I proceeded in my duty. About another hour elapsed before I thought I could properly spare time to pay him more attention, and a sweet little child of thirteen or fourteen, who went from me with permission to approach her first communion, had, accompanied by her father, also a penitent of the evening, gone to the sanctuary to complete their devotions; when I was alarmed by a sudden noise and outcry, that spread among all the people of the chapel, and hastily stepping out of my box, I found the poor stranger just after flinging himself prostrate by the side of the child, while his frame shook, groans and sobs brake from his manly breast, and the glorious tears of a true repentance ran down the backs of the hands with which he covered his face. Not unaffected myself, I raised him and held him in my arms, and whispered the words of sublime consolation my merciful and Almighty Master had commanded me to drop as so many drops of oil upon the torn heart of the remorseful sinner. My words seemed to overwhelm him with greater agony. He would have again fallen at my feet. I resisted his attempt. We retired from the wondering and sympathising crowd, into the little sacristy at the back of the altar. That night-that moment, Collum M'Carty first sued for peace with his God.' (From Tales of the O'Hara Family-second series.) Samuel Lover (1797-1868), one of the most versatile of Irish nineteenth-century writers, though hardly one of the greatest, was born in Dublin, and there received his education. The son of a stockbroker, he was intended to follow his father's calling; but the business instincts required for this career were foreign to a youth who early developed tastes for painting, music, and letters of a most marked kind. Leaving his parental roof, Lover devoted himself to the first of these arts; and at once achieving distinction as a portrait-painter, he in a few years took high rank among Dublin artists, and was elected a Royal Hibernian Academician. He was particularly successful with miniatures, and a portrait of Paganini won him much praise in 1832. Lover early became acquainted with Moore, who exercised a considerable influence on the development of the literary proclivities which he joined to his artistic aptitudes, and the character of his verse is largely imitative of the author of Irish Melodies. But his first published work belongs to a school in which Moore never studied. The Legends and Stories of Ireland (1831) at announced that a clever artist was likely to be extinguished by a still more clever writer, and soon led to Lover's association with the distinguished group of literary Irishmen by whom the Dublin University Magazine was founded. To this periodical Lover remained for many years a constant contributor. While still busy as an artist he had won fame as a ballad writer with Rory O'More (1826), and no one could recite it so well as its author. Thus, when in 1835 he resolved to move to London, it was little wonder that with a reputation for versatility little short of marvellous Lover speedily became fashionable in the society of the capital. He painted Brougham, fraternised with Dickens, and was lionised everywhere. once In 1837 Lover came out as a novelist, expanding the theme of his ballad of Rory O'More into a popular romance. Shortly afterwards the same theme did duty for a play. This was the beginning of a considerable apprenticeship to the drama, and a succession of pieces, including a burlesque opera called Il Paddy Whack in Italia, were rapidly produced. He then fell back on his earlier parts, and Songs and Ballads (1839), Handy Andy, his principal work of fiction (1842), and Treasure Trove (1844)—first published by the title of L.S.D.-proclaimed that neither the song-writer nor the novelist had been lost in the dramatist or musician. Obliged by a failure of vision to abandon painting, which all this time had not ceased to be a source of income, Lover resolved to woo fame in a new character. An entertainment called 'Irish Evenings,' in which the items of the programme, whether musical or literary, were exclusively the composition of the reciter, testified to Lover's extraordinary adaptability. Repeated in America, the recitations were even more popular in New York than in London. The success of this tour was comparable with those of Dickens, and marks the climax of Lover's fortunate career. His experiences in America were utilised by Lover on his return in another entertainment, called 'Paddy's Portfolio.' Lover's later years were not marked by much literary fertility, and, indeed, it was inevitable that an inventiveness which reflected in its brightness the abounding animal spirits of the man should have declined with declining years. Two dramas, The Sentinel of the Alma and MacCarthy More, some contributions to operatic libretti, a clever series of parodies of popular authors, and Metrical Tales and other Poems (1858) are the only original work of his last twenty years. He was, however, a diligent contributor to the magazines, and in 1858 edited a collection of Lyrics of Ireland. In 1859 he threw himself into the Volunteer movement, and wrote the popular song 'Defence, not Defiance.' In 1856, in recognition of his various services to art and literature, Lover received a Civil List pension. Lover's reputation has certainly not endured the test of time. But it was scarcely possible that it should. His was one of those winning personalities which serve to invest an author's writings with an added charm in the eyes of contemporaries. But such a charm is necessarily evanescent, and the body of Lover's work is unequal to his former fame. His songs in particular, though many of them remain popular, seem to lack the salt that makes verse literature. But his prose works have more enduring qualities. And as the counterpart, not to say antithesis, of such writers as the authors of the Tales of the O'Hara Family, his characterisations of the whimsical and devil-may-care Irishman and his illustrations of the more grotesque forms of Irish humour will always enable Lover to fill an important place among the Irish prose writers of his age. King O'Toole and St Kevin. Well, the king was nigh-hand broken-hearted, and melancholy intirely, and was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, an' thinkin' o' drownin' himself that could get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him. 'God save you,' says the king (for the king was a civilspoken gentleman by all accounts); ‘God save you,' says he to the young man. God save you kindly,' says the young man to him back again; 'God save you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'True for you,' says the king, 'I am King O'Toole, prince and plennypennytinchary o' these parts,' says he ; 'but how kem you to know that?' 'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kevin. For you see, said Old Joe, in his undertone again, and looking very knowingly, it was Saint Kevin, sure enough-the saint himself in disguise and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he. 'I know more than that,' says he, 'nor twice that.' 'And who are you,' said the king, 'that makes so bowld-who are you at all at all?' 'Oh, never you mind,' says Saint Kevin, 'who I am; you'll know more o' me before we part, King O'Toole,' says he. 'I'll be proud o' the knowledge o' your acquaintance, sir,' says the king, mighty p'lite. 'Troth, you may say that,' says Saint Kevin. And now, may I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he. 'Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?' says the king. 'Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kevin. 'Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the king, 'bekase myself and my goose is private friends,' says he, ‘and no one could tell you,' says he, ‘barrin' the fairies.' 'Oh thin, it wasn't the fairies,' says Saint Kevin, 'for I'd have you to know,' says he, 'that I don't keep the likes o' sitch company.' 'You might do worse then, my gay fellow,' says the king, for it's they could show you a crock o' money as aisy as kiss hand; and that's not to be sneezed at,' says the king, 'by a poor man,' says he. 'Maybe I've a betther way of making money myself,' says the saint. 'By gor,' says the king, 'barrin' you're a coiner,' says he, that's impossible.' 'I'd scorn to be the like, my lord!' says Saint Kevin, mighty high; 'I'd scorn to be the like,' says he. 'Then, what are you,' says the king, that makes money so aisy, by your own account?' 'I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kevin. 'Well, honest man,' says the king, and how is it you make your money so aisy?' By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kevin. 'Blur-an-ouns, is it a tinker you are?' says the king. 'No,' says the saint, I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he. 'What would you say,' says he, if I made your ould goose as good as new?' My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, and says he, Troth thin I'd give you more money nor you could count,' says he, 'if you did the like: and I'd be behoulden to you into the bargain.' 'I scorn your dirty money,' says Saint Kevin. 'Faith then, I'm thinkin' a trifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the king, lookin' up sly at the ould caubeen that Saint Kevin had on him. 'I have a vow agin it,' says the saint, and I am book-sworn,' says he, never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.' 'Barrin' the trifle you can't help,' says the king, mighty 'cute, and looking him straight in the face. 'You just hot it,' says Saint Kevin; but though I can't take money,' says he, I could take a few acres of land if you'd give them to me.' 'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the king, 'if you do what you say.' 'Thry me,' says Saint Kevin. 'Call down your goose here,' says he, and I'll see what I can do for her.' With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'By Jaminee,' says King O'Toole, if you do, bud I'll say you 're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.’ 'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kevin, 'you must say more than that ;-my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?—that's the chat,' says Saint Kevin. 'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the king; 'isn't that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the way to do business. Now,' says he, this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer affther I make her as good as new?' Gerald Griffin (1803-40) was born and educated in Limerick, where his father was in trade. Early manifesting a literary bent, he became a contributor to various Irish journals, and at the age of twenty went to London, where he was well introduced by John Banim. Here he settled down to the composition of dramas and prose fiction. Of these, Holland-Tide Tales marked his first success, which was confirmed a year later by the publication of Tales of the Munster Festivals. The Collegians (1829), a novel of which the scenes were laid in his native town, at once acquired a popularity which endured, and is still the most considerable of Griffin's titles to fame. In most modern editions the book appeared (like the dramatisation of it) under the title of The Colleen Bawn. The Collegians was followed by a number of other works, among them being a further series of Tales of the Munster Festivals (1832), Tales of my Neighbourhood (1835), and two novels, The Invasion (1835) and The Duke of Monmouth (1836). Griffin had meantime returned to Ireland, having, after a brief flirtation with the law, to study which he entered London University, determined to devote himself to religion. In 1838, accordingly, having divided his property among his brothers, he joined the teaching order of Christian Brothers. Two years later, 12th June 1840, wasted by selfimposed privations, he fell a victim to fever and died at the North Monastery, Cork. Gisippus, a tragedy written by Griffin in his early days in London, which had been praised, but rejected, by Charles Kean, was brought out by Macready and Miss Helen Faucit after the author's death, and performed with success; while an adaptation of the Collegians by Dion Boucicault long held the stage under the title of The Colleen Bawn. Griffin understood the south of Ireland and its people, and it is to the fidelity with which he depicts society in Munster in the early part of the nine teenth century that his success as a novelist was mainly due. His dramas are lacking in vitality, and are forgotten. But his poetry, chiefly written in early youth, though seldom striking the highest notes, contains not a few pieces characteristic alike of the scenes that inspired them and of the brooding and sensitive nature of their author. How the Wake Concluded. Mr Cregan in the meanwhile had been engaged, at the request of Mrs O'Connell, in giving out the gloves, scarfs and cypresses, in the room which on the preceding night had been allotted to the female guests. In this matter, too, the selfishness of some unworthy individuals was made to appear, in their struggles for precedence, and in their dissatisfaction at being neglected in the allotment of the funeral favours. In justice, however, it should be stated that the number of those unfeeling individuals was inconsiderable. The last and keenest trial was now begun. The coffin was borne on the shoulders of men to the hearse, which was drawn up at the hall-door. The hearse-driver had taken his seat, the mourners were already in the carriages, and a great crowd of horsemen and people on foot were assembled around the front of the house, along the avenue, and on the road. The female servants of the family were dressed in scarfs, and huge head-dresses of white linen. The housemaid and Winny sat on the coffin, and three or four followed on an outside jaunting-car. In this order the procession began to move, and the remains of this kind mistress and affectionate wife and parent were borne away for ever from the mansion which she had blessed so many years by her gentle government. The scene of desolation which prevailed from the time in which the coffin was first taken from the room until the whole procession had passed out of sight it would be ⚫a vain effort to describe. The shrieks of the women and children pierced the ears and hearts of the multitude. Every room presented a picture of affliction. Female figures flying to and fro with expanded arms and cries of heart-broken sorrow, children weeping and sobbing aloud in each other's arms, men clenching their hands close and stifling the strong sympathy that was making battle for loud utterance in their breasts, and the low groans of exhausted agony which proceeded from the mourningcoaches that held the father, Kyrle Daly, and the two nearest sons. In the midst of these affecting sounds the hearse began to move, and was followed to a long distance on its way by the wild lament that broke from the open doors and windows of the now forsaken dwelling. 'Oh misthress!' exclaimed Lowry Looby as he stood at the avenue gate clapping his hands and weeping, while he gazed, not without a sentiment of melancholy pride, on the long array which lined the uneven road, and saw the black hearse-plumes becoming indistinct in the distance, while the rear of the funeral train was yet passing by 'Oh misthress! misthress! 'tis now I see that you are gone in airnest. I never would believe that you wor lost until I saw your coffin goen' out of the doores!' (From The Collegians.) Eileen Aroon. When, like the early rose, Eileen aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen aroon ! |