Blarney Castle (1832)

There is not one of our readers who has not heard of

"The groves of Blarney,
  They are so charming."

and the subject of our wood-cut might naturally tempt us to be mirthful and extravagant. But despite of Milliken’s excellent song — we are not in the vein, and feel more disposed to melancholy than gaiety at sight of a noble castle, the seat of one of the most ancient, and most unfortunate princely families of Ireland — the Mac Cartys of Desmond.

The castle of Blarney was founded about the middle of the fifteenth century by Cormac Mac Carty, or Carthy, surnamed Laider, or the strong, descended from the hereditary kings of South-Munster. He was also founder of the beautiful abbey and castle of Kilcrea, the nunnery of Ballyvacadine, and many other religious houses, in the former of which he was buried, and in which his tomb was till within a few years to be seen, bearing the following inscription:—

"Hic. Jacet. Cormacus. fil. Thadii. fil. Cormaci. fil. Dermitii. magni. Mc. Carthy, Dnus. de. Muscraigh. Flayn, ac. istius. conventus. Primus. Fundator. An. Dorn. 1494."

The castle remained in possession of his descendants till forfeited with the extensive estates belonging to the lord Muskerry and Clancarthy, in the war of 1689, after which it came into the possession of the Jeffrey's family, to whom it still belongs. A pension of three hundred a year was however allowed to this unfortunate nobleman, on condition of his leaving the kingdom. "With this," says Smith, "he retired to Hamburgh on the Elbe, and purchased a little island in the mouth of that river, from the citizens of Altona, which went by his name." He died here October 22, 1734, aged 64, leaving two sons, Robert, a captain in the English navy, commonly called Lord Muskerry, and Justin Mac Carthy, Esq. Lord Muskerry having fallen under suspicions of being attached to the house of Stewart, "which had on a former occasion," remarks Charnock, in his Biographia Navalis, "proved the ruin of his father, was ordered to be struck off the list of naval officers, on the 16th July, 1749. He afterwards entered into foreign services."

The military and historic recollections connected with Blarney are doubtless of sufficient importance to give an interest to the place: but to a curious superstition it is perhaps more indebted for celebrity. A stone in the highest part of the castle wall is pointed out to visitors, which is supposed to give to whoever kisses it the peculiar privilege of deviating from veracity with unblushing countenance whenever it may be convenient — hence the well-known phrase of "Blarney." The grounds attached to the castle, as I before observed, though so little attended to, are still beautiful. Walks, which a few years since were neat and trim, are now so overrun with brambles and wild flowers as to be passed with difficulty. Much wood has also been cut down, and the statues, so ridiculously enumerated in a popular song, removed. A picturesque bridge too, which led to the castle, has been swept away by the wintry floods, and, with the exception of a small dell called the Rock Close, every thing seems changed for the worse. In this romantic spot nature and art (a combination rather uncommon in pleasure grounds) have gone hand in hand. Advantage has been taken of accidental circumstances to form tasteful and characteristic combinations; and it is really a matter of difficulty at first to determine what is primitive, and what the produce of design. The delusion is even heightened by the present total neglect. You come most unexpectedly into this little shaded nook, and stand upon a natural terrace above the river, which glides as calmly as possible beneath. Here, if you feel inclined for contemplation, a rustic couch of rock, all festooned with moss and ivy, is at your service; but if adventurous feelings urge you to explore farther, a discovery is made of an almost concealed, irregularly excavated passage through the solid rock, which is descended by a rude flight of stone steps, called the "Witches' Stairs," and you emerge sul margine d'un rio, over which depend some light and graceful trees. It is indeed a fairy scene, and I know of no place where I could sooner imagine these little elves holding their moon-light revelry.



From The Dublin Penny Journal, 8th September 1832.

The Stolen Sheep

Our readers are all familiar with Sir Walter Scott's "Heart of Mid Lothian," and will recollect the truly touching scene where Jeanie Deans cannot and will not utter what she knows to be false, to save the life of a sister whom she loves as her own soul. It is one of the most masterly of the descriptions of the great "magician of the north," and if a single individual can read it without having every sympathy of his heart aroused, he must be dull if not dead to the finer sensibilities of the soul. But at the same time, we think the "Stolen Sheep," which appeared in the annual for last year called "Friendship's Offering," not unworthy of being placed side by side with the scene in the "Heart of Mid Lothian." There is not an Irishman, at least, who will not feel a strong desire to give the preference to this story, of which we here present an abstract.

Michaul Carroll was a poor and honest peasant, whose family were visited with famine and typhus fever at a time when the wide-spread misery of the country rendered assistance from the neighbours nearly hopeless. His wife and a young child died — he himself was attacked by the disease, and on recovering, his weak state and sallow look totally prevented even the possibility of him getting employment. His old father and infant son are starving at home, in their wretched cabin — Michaul, desperate, and broken down, steals a sheep, which he kills, and conceals in an out house. It was discovered — Michaul was arrested — and his poor old father was taken as a witness against his son!

The assizes soon came on. Michaul was arraigned; and, during his plea of "not guilty," his father appeared, unseen by him, in the gaoler's custody, at the back of the dock, or rather in an inner dock. The trial excited a keen and painful interest in the court, the bar, the jury-box, and the crowd of spectators. It was universally known that a son had stolen a sheep, partly to feed a starving father; and that out of the mouth of that father it was now sought to condemn him. "What will the old man do?" was the general question which ran through the assembly; and while few of the lower orders could contemplate the possibility of his swearing to the truth, many of their betters scarce hesitated to make for him a case of actual necessity to swear falsely.

The trial began. The first witness, the herdsman, proved the loss of the sheep, and the finding the dismembered carcass in the old barn. The policemen and steward followed to the same effect, and the latter added the allusions which he had heard the father make to the son, upon the morning of the arrest of the latter. The steward went down from the table, There was a pause, and complete silence, which the attorney for the prosecution broke by saying to the crier, deliberately, "Call Peery Carroll."

"Here, sir," immediately answered Peery, as the gaoler led him by a side-door, out of the back dock to the table. The prisoner started round; but the new witness against him had passed for an instant into the crowd.

The next instant, old Peery was seen ascending the table, assisted by the gaoler, and by many other commiserating hands, near him. Every glance was fixed on his face. The barristers looked wistfully up from their seats round the table; the judge put a glass to his eye, and seemed to study his features attentively. Among the audience, there ran a low but expressive murmur of pity and interest.

Though much emaciated by confinement, anguish, and suspense, Peery's cheeks had a flush, and his weak blue eyes glittered. The half-gaping expression of his parched and haggard lips was miserable to see. And yet, he did not tremble much, nor appear so confounded as upon the day of his visit to the magistrate.

The moment he stood upright on the table he turned himself fully to the judge, without a glance towards the dock.

"Sit down, sit down, poor man," said the judge,

"Thanks to you, my lord, I will," answered Peery, "only, first, I'd ax you to let me kneel, for a little start;" and he accordingly did kneel, and after bowing his head, and forming the sign of the cross on his forehead, he looked up and said — "My Judge in heaven above, 'tis you I pray to keep me in my duty, afore my earthly judge, this day; — amen:" — and then repeating the sign of the cross, he seated himself.

The examination of the witness commenced, and humanely proceeded as follows — (the council for the prosecution taking no notice of the superfluity of Peery's answers.)

"Do you know Michaul, or Michael, Carroll, the prisoner, at the bar?"

"Afore that night, Sir, I believe I knew him well; every thought of his mind, every bit of the heart of his body: afore that night, no living cratur could throw a word at Michaul Carroll, or say he ever forgot his father's renown, or his love of his good God; — an' sure the people are after telling you by tins time how it came about that night — an' you, my lord, — an' ye gintlemen, — an' all good Christians that hear me; — here I am to help to hang him — my own boy, and my only one — but, for all that, gintlemen, ye ought to think of it: it was for the weenock aud the old father that he done it; indeed, an' deed we had'nt a pyratee in the place; an the sickness was amongst us, a start afore; it took the wife from him, and another babby; an' id had himself down a week or so beforehand; an' all that day he was looking for work but could'nt get a hand's turn to do; an' that's the way it was; not a mouthful for me an' little Peery; an', more betoken, he grew sorry for id, in the mornin', an' promised me not to touch a scrap of what was in the barn, — ay, long afore the steward an the peelers came on us, — but was willin' to go among the neighbours an' beg our breakfast, along wid myself, sooner than touch it.

"It is my painful duty," resumed the barrister, when Peery would at length cease, — "to ask you for further information. You saw Michael Carroll in the barn that night? —"

"Musha — The Lord pity him and me — I did, Sir."

"Doing what?" —

"The sheep between his hands," answered Peery, dropping his head, and speaking inaudibly.

"I must still give you pain, I fear; stand up; take the crier's rod; and if you see Michael Carroll in court, lay it on his head."

"Och, musha, musha, Sir, don't ax me to do that!" pleaded Peery, rising, wringing his hands, and, for the first time, weeping — "och, don't my lord, don't, and may your own judgment be favourable, the last day."

"I am sorry to command you to do it, witness, but you must take the rod," answered the judge, bending his head close to his own notes, to hide his own tears; and at the same time many a veteran barrister rested his forehead on the table. In the body of the court were heard sobs.

"Michael, avich, Michael, a corra-ma-chree!" exclaimed Peery, when at length he took the rod, and faced round to his son, — "is id your father they make to do it, ma-bouchal.

"My father does what is right," answered Michaul, in Irish. The judge immediately asked to have his words translated; and when he learned their import regarded the prisoner with satisfaction.

"We rest here," my lords, said the counsel, with the air of a man free from a painful task.

The judge instantly turned to the jury-box.

"Gentlemen of the jury. That the prisoner at the bar stole the sheep in question, there can be no shade of moral doubt. But you have a very peculiar case to consider. A son steals a sheep that his own famishing father, and his own famishing son may have food. His aged parent is compelled to give evidence against him here for the act. The old man virtuously tells the truth, and the whole truth, before you, and me. He sacrifices his natural feelings — and we have seen that they are lively — to his honesty, and to his religious sense of the sacred obligations of an oath. Gentlemen, I will pause to observe, that the old man's conduct is strikingly exemplary and even noble. It teaches all of us a lesson. Gentlemen it is not within the province of a judge to censure the rigour of the proceedings which have sent him before us. But I venture to anticipate your pleasure that, notwithstanding all the evidence given, you will be enabled to acquit that old man's son, the prisoner at the bar. I have said there cannot be the shade of a moral doubt that he has stolen the sheep, and I repeat the words. But, gentlemen, there is a legal doubt, to the full benefit of which he is entitled. The sheep has not been identified. The herdsman could not venture to identify it (and it would have been strange if he could) from the dismembered limbs found in the barn. To his mark on its skin, indeed, he might have positively spoken; but no skin has been discovered. Therefore, according to the evidence, and yon have sworn to decide by that alone, the prisoner is entitled to your acquittal. Possibly, now that the prosecutor sees the case in its full bearing, he may be pleased with the result."

While the jury, in evident satisfaction, prepared to return their verdict, Michael's landlord who had but a moment before returned home, entered the court, and becoming aware of the concluding words of the judge, expressed his sorrow aloud, that the prosecution had ever been undertaken; that circumstances had kept him uninformed of it, though it had gone on in his name; and he begged leave to assure his lordship that it would be his future effort to keep Michael Carroll in his former path of honesty, by finding him honest and ample employment, and as far as in him lay, to reward the virtue of the old father.

While Peery Carroll was laughing and crying in one breath in the arms of his delivered son, a subscription, commenced by the bar, was mounting into a considerable sum for his advantage.


From The Dublin Penny Journal, 11th August, 1832.

Royal College of Surgeons (1832)

Of the institutions for public instruction in Ireland, accidental circumstances happen to direct our attention first to the Royal College of Surgeons: an institution which, without meaning to disparage any other, we venture to assert, has attained a higher degree of celebrity, and secured a greater portion of public confidence, than any similar one in these kingdoms. This college was established by Royal Charter in 1784, and in 1796 was entrusted by the legislature with the duty of inquiring into the qualifications of surgeons, seeking to be appointed to the care of County Infirmaries. In 1806, the college buildings in Stephen's Green were erected at the public expense, and in 1825, the front was remodelled, enlarged, and improved, and the present museum and examination-hall built, at an expense of seven thousand pounds, the accumulated surplus income of several years. On this occasion, the foundation stone was laid by the Marquis of Wellesley, accompanied by the Commander of the Forces, and many other persons of distinction. In 1828, a new charter was granted to the college, for the purpose of enabling it to adapt its system of education and government to those changes which had taken place in the state of the country, and of society, in half a century. The system of education adopted by the college is distinguished from that of London and other places by the extent of the exercises, the long period of study enjoined, and the severe public examination to which the candidates are subjected.

One of the earliest acts of the college, was the establishment of its school of surgery, a department of the institution which has been eminently successful, and to which Dublin is principally indebted for the advantages the inhabitants enjoy from an annual expenditure by students resorting to the schools for instruction, amounting to a sum little less than one hundred thousand pounds.

In this school every branch of medical science is taught by the respective professors, except botany, the funds not being at present sufficient to support the expense of a garden. This is, however, an object to which the in embers look forward with every hope of its attainment. The buildings appropriated by the college to the accommodation of the school, are, a theatre capable of containing four hundred persons, a chemical laboratory and smaller theatre attached to it, a museum for the illustration of the daily lectures, and a theatre for anatomical demonstrations, with extensive apartments for the study of practical anatomy. A new chemical laboratory has just been erected to accommodate the great increase of students in this department, and it is proposed to devote the present chemical laboratory and theatre to the accommodation of the professors of materia medica aud medical jurisprudence.

The apartments appropriated to other purposes in the college, are contained in that part of the building which fronts Stephen's Green. They consist of a large room in which the meetings of the college are held, a library, a museum, examination-hall, and various apartments for the accommodation of the officers of the college. The meeting-room is a finely proportioned apartment: it contains a portrait of Dr. Renny, a memorial of the gratitude of the college for his most disinterested exertions in forwarding the interests of the institution; and also one of the venerable secretary, Mr. Henthorn, who, for nearly half a century, has devoted his time and efforts to the service of the college. The library, which was greatly enlarged a few years ago, by the expenditure of two thousand pounds from the funds of the college, consists of a valuable collection of books in every department of medical science, and the collateral branches of knowledge; it is particularly rich in books on natural history, and in transactions of learned societies. The museum is a beautiful room, and the collection one of great value. The compartments in the gallery are occupied by a regular series of beautiful preparations illustrative of the different organs subservient to vital existence, with another series, illustrative of the changes to which these organs are liable from disease. The lower compartments are occupied by an excellent collection of skeletons. This museum, which has been created within the last twelve years, is highly creditable, as well to the college as to the two gentlemen, by whose exertions it has been brought to its present state of perfection. In the museum there is a bust of Mr. Shekleton, the late curator, who lost his life in the discharge of his duty, which he executed with unexampled zeal, perseverance, and industry. He died from the consequences of a wound inflicted in dissection. In a smaller adjoining museum is a collection of admirably executed anatomical models in wax, procured in Paris, at an expense of five hundred pounds; the munificent present of the Duke of Northumberland, who frequently visited the museum of the college, and took great pleasure in examining the preparations, respecting which he possessed a degree of information seldom to be met with among persons not educated to the profession.

We regret that our limits do not permit us to give a fuller account of this valuable institution than the above hasty sketch, but we hope that it will have the effect of inducing our readers to visit it, and learn what may and has been done in Ireland by steady perseverance, judicious arrangements, public spirit, and an honest application of funds to the purposes for which they were destined.

H.



From The Dublin Penny Journal, 3rd November 1832.

Carlingford (1832)

We think our wood-cut well calculated to catch the eye of a Dublinian. For lives there man, woman or child, in our good city, that has not heard of Carlingford, though but few have seen it. Carlingford — so renowned for its delicious oysters — oysters known as well to the poor mendicant who is tasked to crush their shells, as to the rich merchant who gobbles down their delicious insides — oysters as far superior to every other testaceous creature that open its bivalve to the tide, as to an Englishman is plum-pudding when compared with flummery — oysters, that give luxurious suppers to man, and open his heart as the knife opens the shell! In vain may the Parisian boast of his Carcale, the Londoner of his Colchester, or even our western shores of their green-finned Burrin, exquisite Pooldoody, or delicious Lisadill — who dare compare them to a rale Carlingford? Ye Aldermen of Dublin, and all who have experienced night after night the indescribable delights of a feast of oysters, and a flow of punch, come and give us all due credit for presenting you with a picture of that dear spot from whence your delights do come, and for giving "a local habitation and a name" to the birth-place of what your souls desire!

But Carlingford is not only worthy of regard as contributing to our creature-comforts, and causing us to rejoice both at snack and supper, but it is also noted for its scenic beauties and recollections. In all Ireland there is not (oh! we beg pardon, there is at Glengariff,) a bay so beautiful as Carlingford. Reader, if you were sitting on a fine soft sunny evening on one of the towers of that ancient castle built by King John, and looking westward and northward, you would enjoy a prospect which, if you pretended to taste, would cause you to cry out, "Magnificent," but if you really possessed it, would make you hold your tongue, and be all eyes. Under you the noble land-locked bay — before you and a few miles across the water, a distance which owing to the translucency of the atmosphere peculiar to the western wind, is only calculated to make objects more softly picturesque — yes — before you is the loveliest village in Ireland — Rostrevor. Its cottages embosomed in trees, its sun-lit villas, its pretty church, its obelisk, the honoured cenotaph of a brave soldier, who fell in his country's cause, leading Irishmen to victory. Then above the village, the wood-covered hills, swelling upwards until the green slopes mingle in the dark gorges of the Mourne mountains, over which Slieve Donald rises as lord of the range in pyramidal majesty. The western sun is gilding its crest; a feathery cloud all on fire with the sun's rays has rested on its topmost peak, and turbanned it with glory. Eastward, the mountain masses of shade flung upon the sleeping sea! Oh! for such a splendid scene, happy season, and felicitous atmosphere, — it would almost be well to be a Carlingford fisherman or even a Carlingford oyster, provided that as an oyster one could see through the sea and be susceptible of the picturesque, without the consciousness of being liable to be dredged for and gobbled up by voracious Dublinians.

But Carlingford is not alone remarkable for its oysters and its scenery, it is also worthy of an Irishman's regard, as the retreat, and its mountain country the fastness of the notorious Redmond O'Hanlon, the far-famed Rapparee, who about 120 years ago, played the part of Rob Roy in Ireland. The Irish gatherer of black-rent was quite a match for the Scotch rogue; as valiant in fight, as expert in flight, as terrible to the oppressor, as generous to the oppressed, as the Caledonian Kiltander. But poor Ireland has not got a Sir Walter Scott to cast a halo of renown about his name — "vate caret." She wants a poet to immortalize a cow stealer; and poor Redmond sleeps without his glory! Alas, that notable record of his exploits is out of print — the History of the Irish Rogues and Rapparees. Worthy Mr. Cross of Cook-street is now no more, a coffin maker occupies the shop where, in days gone by, we used to purchase these admirable effusions of the Irish press — "The Life of Captain James Freney, the Robber," "Laugh and be Fat," "The History of Moll Flanders," but above all, the most spirit-stirring, the one best calculated to teach the young Hibernian idea how to shoot in rale earnest, the "Irish Rogues and Rapparees," a book which has had as great an effect in Ireland as Schiller's play of the Robbers in Germany, namely, leading many a bold youth to take freedoms with others too often tending to the abridgment of his own — but we are rambling: we beg leave to drop our sportive strain, and introduce the "Annals of Cavlingford," furnished by a gentleman to whom not only we, but Ireland, lies under many obligations. — ED.

This little town is situated in the barony of Dundalk and county of Louth, near the foot of an extensive range of mountains, and on the S.E. side of a spacious bay. It was a station of considerable importance during the early ages of the English ascendancy in Ireland, and its first formation was consequent to the erection of a castle, which tradition attributes to the policy of King John. The town was never relguarly walled or fortified, but as it was exposed to continual dangers by being situated on the frontiers of the Pale, every principal domestic building was designed on the model of a fortress or castle. The remains of such structures were very numerous there not more than "sixty years since," and even at the present day three very interesting remains of that character invite the attention of the antiquarian. That pre-eminently termed King John's castle is an extensive and imposing ruin, "moored on a rifted rock," the sides of which are laved at the east by the sea, while to the inland is a narrow pass overhung by wild and lofty mountains. To command this pass the building appears to have been erected, and its form was necessarily adapted to the natural circumstances of its site, enclosing various baronial halls and apartments, a court-yard surrounded with traces of galleries and recesses, &c. The walls are in some places eleven feet in thickness, while the prospect from its summit over the hay, the Cooley, the mountains of Mourne, &c. is grand beyond description.

On the southern side of the town are the ruins of the Dominican Monastery. This still extensive and picturesque ruin exhibits in the long aisle and central belfry, traces of the pointed architecture of the fourteenth century. About midway between it and King John's castle are the ruins of a square building, with windows of an ecclesiastical character, curiously ornamented with carvings of animals, human heads, and sundry fancy wreathings. Near this on an adjoining eminence is a church of ancient foundation, with a large burial ground, in which may be seen a curiously carved stone and several monuments to the families of Moore and Millar. There is a glebe of about three acres lying about a mile from this church. The benefice is a vicarage in the archdiocese of Armagh, and patronage of the Primate. A small portion of the eastern part of the parish is all that has been preserved in the Down survey.

Carlingford formerly gave the title of Earl to the family of Taaffe, but the honour becoming, as it is supposed, extinct in the person of Theobald, the fourth earl of that name without issue, in 1738, his late Majesty George III. conferred the title of Viscount Cariingford on the family of Carpenter, together with the Earldom of Tyrconnel. The population of this ancient town is estimated at upwards of 1300. The bay is spacious, and the water deep; but unfortunately the navigation is rendered dangerous by hidden rocks. The scenery that surrounds it is of the most enchanting description, its shores being decorated with the most attractive villages, numerous bathing lodges ami agreeable cottages, behind which some mountains rise infinitely varied through all their elevation, here waving with ornamental woods, there glowing with heath or verdure, on the one side battlemented with a grey expanse of rocks, on the other exhibiting the industrious extensions of cultivation.

The mountain already alluded to as overhanging King John's castle, rises in height about 1850 feet, and is for more than two-thirds of its elevation composed of a succession of stairs formed of trap, passing towards the summit from a homogeneous, to a porphorytic texture. From the position and height of this eminence the inhabitants of Carlingford, during a great part of the summer season lose sight of the sun several hours before he sets in the horizon.

The following are a few of the more interesting annals connected with this town.

A.D. 432.	St. Patrick's second landing in Ireland was according to some authorities effected here.
1184.	John de Courcy granted the ferry of Carlingford to the Abbey of Downpatrick.
1210.	The castle called King John's was erected.
1301.	Matilda de Lacy, widow of David, baron of Naas, granted the advowson of the church of Carlingford to the priory of Kilmainham.
1305.	Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster, founded a monastery for Dominicians here, under the invocation of St. Malachy.
1326.	The king committed the custody of the castle of Carlingford to Geoffry le Blound, to hold during the royal pleasure. And in the same year the bailiffs, &c. of this town had letters patent, conferring certain privileges and allowances for six years as an aid towards walling and otherwise strengthening their town.
1332.	William de Burgh was found seized, amongst other possessions, of the castle of Drogheda, the town of Cooley appertaining thereto, the manor of Rath, &c.
1346.	The prior of Kilmainham was found seized, and his successors so continued, of the tithes of Carlingford.
1357.	The king granted to his son Lionel, Earl of Ulster, license to hold a weekly market, and one yearly fair in his town of Carlingford. From this Lionel the property descended to Edward de Mortimer.
1388.	Edmund Loundres was appointed constable of the castle of Carlingford, with certain allowances for its repairs, as it was stated to be then much out of order and unsafe.
1400.	The king granted to Stephen Gernon, constable of the castles of Green Castle aud Carlingford, licence to take the corn and tithes within the lordship of Cooley for the victualling of said castles.
1404.	The manor of Carlingford and town of Irish Grange, which had previously belonged to the abbey and convent of Newry, vested by forfeiture in the king, who thereupon granted it in fee to Richard Sedgrave.
1408.	Lord Thomas of Lancaster, the king's son, landed here as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
1425.	By a record of this date it appears that certain rights in the fishery of the bay appertained to the castle of Curlingford.
1467.	A mint was established here by act of Parliament.
1495.	It was enacted that only able and sufficient persons of the realm of England should be henceforward constables of the castle of Carlingford.
1501.	In consequence of this town having been repeatedly burned by the Scots and Irish, the king granted to its provost, bailiffs, and commonalty; certain tolls and customs towards enclosing it with a stone wall.
1538.	The inhabitants of Clontarf, near Dublin, had licence to fish, without charge or toll, within the bay of Carlingford.
1539.	This vicarage was valued to the First Fruits at £3. 13s. 8d.
1548.	The king granted to Sir Nicholas Bagnal, Knight, the manors of Omee and Carlingford, with the Lordship of Cooley, &c.
1560.	Sir Henry Raddiffe and John Neill were members for the borough of Carlingford in this year.
1596.	Henry Oge, the son-in-law of Tyrone, made incursions into the English pale, and endeavoured to surprise the castle of Carlingford.
1642.	Sir Henry Fishburn took possession of the town, not however till it had suffered considerable injury by fire from the adherents of Sir Phelim O'Neill.
1646.	Perfect freedom of trade conferred on Carlingford.
1649.	The castle surrendered to Lord Inchiquin.
1650.	The castle was delivered to Sir Charles Coote and Colonel Venables.
1669.	The tithes of this parish, which had been vested in the crown, were granted to the incumbent and his successors for ever.
1689.	Some of the Duke of Berwick's party set fire to this town, soon after which the sick soldiers of Schomberg's army were removed thither. In king James's parliament of this year, Christopher Peppard and Bryan Dermod, Esq. were the sitting members for Carlingford.
1750.	The celebrated Thurot passed this year here, and during that iuterval acquired his knowledge of the English language.

D.

Source: The Dublin Penny Journal, 21st July 1832.

The Giant's Causeway

Our readers, perhaps, may be apt, in the words of an Irish tourist, to exclaim, when they see our wood-cut — "this Causeway, that every tourist has trampled on, that has been sketched, etched, and lithographed, described by antiquarians, geologists and poets, system-builders and book makers, and what not" — why show us and tell us what everybody knows?

In lately travelling from Dublin to Belfast, we happened to enjoy, as companions, a "traveller" for a Manchester firm, and a rough, ruddy-faced farmer from the black north. The conversation turned on the Causeway. "Oh!" exclaimed the "Rider" for Messrs. Twist, Bobbin, Bale, and Co. "I was there last Spring. I just looked at it, on my way from Coleraine to Ballycastle — never was so disappointed in life, 'pon honor — terrible cold dreary coast — wind from the northeast enough to cut me in two — dreadful hungry place, I assure you, gentlemen — not a morsel to satisfy the cravings of nature — not being a geologist, saw nothing to gratify my curiosity, and can't, for the life of me, conceive why people should go to stare at ugly promontories, jutting out into the sea, and that ere sea is troublesome enough, I daresay, when the wind is high — not even a tree to shelter the poor goats that were glad to hide themselves under basaltic rocks and frowning precipices — Irishmen should come and see our Giant's Causeway, the magnificent Railway — that's a stupendous work, gentlemen — it goes between Liverpool and Manchester, and facilitates prodigiously the transaction of business — but that useless stupid affair — ha! ha! ha!"

The wrath of the man of Antrim was aroused. "You Englishmen," said he to the dealer in soft goods, "are all for business and the making of money. Why, man alive, if a dacent place that I know about, is paved with goold, some of yees would he after getting a pickaxe to pocket the paving stones! Did'nt ould Fin Mc Coul all as one as make that Causeway for the honour and glory of Ireland? And what the use o' talking about your dirty bit o' a Railway? Sure, arn't they going to have one from Dublin to Dunleary? We'll bate the conceit out o' yees, by and bye!"

Mr. Trussellbags adjusted his neckcloth, and with a knowing wink to me rejoined, "And pray, my good fellow, for what purpose did this Fin Mc Coul make the Causeway? Perhaps you can tell us."

"With all my heart. You see, Sir, a big Scotch giant, one Benandonner, used to brag that he would lick Fin Mc Coul any day. And he used to go over the Highlands, crowing like a cock on its own dunghill, that all he wanted was a fair field and no favour. So, by my souks, Fin c Coul went to the King of Ireland — ould Cormac may'be ye've heerd o' him — there was no grand jury presentments in them days — and he says to his majesty, says he, I wunt to let Benandonner come over to Ireland widout wetting the sole o' his shoe, and if I don't lather him as well as ever he was lathered in his life, its not myself that's in it! So Fin Mc Coul got lave to build the Causeway, and sure he did, all the road clane and nate, to Scotland — and Benandonner came over wid his broad sword and his kilt, and right glad he was to get a dacent excuse for laving his own country. He was bate, of coorse, though he stuck up like a Trojan; and then he settled in the place, and became obedient to King Cormac, and got a purty dacent girl to his wife; and they say that the great earls of Antrim are descended from them."

"Well, now, but what became of the bridge? We just see an abutment, if I may so express myself, of it at Bengore, and I am told that at Staffa, a prodigious way across the sea, another abutment may be seen — but the bridge, what became of the bridge?"

"Is it the bridge your after spaking about? Sure, that's neither your concarn nor mine: but I'll tell you a bit o' a secret, Mr. Englishman — when you are travelling through Ireland, just keep your tongue in your cheek, and don't be after sneering at what you see, and it will be all the better for ye!"

Our readers will perhaps have no objection to drop the Englishman leaving him to chew the cud with the last observation.

The vast collection of basaltic pillars, termed the Giants' Causeway, is situated in the vicinity of Ballimoney, County of Antrim, The principal, or grand causeway, (there being several less considerable and scattered fragments of a similar nature) consists of an irregular arrangement of many hundred thousands of columns, formed of a dark rock, nearly as hard as marble. The greater part of them are of a pentagon figure, but so closely compacted together, that though the pillars are perfectly distinct, the very water which falls upon them will scarcely penetrate between. There are some of the pillars which have six, seven, and a few have eight sides; a few also have four, but only one has been found with three. Not one will be found to correspond exactly with the other, having sides and angles of the same dimensions; while at the same time, the sum of the angles of any one of them are found to be equal to four right angles — the sides of one corresponding exactly to those of the others which lie next to it, although otherwise differing completely in size and form. Each pillar is formed of several distinct joints, closely articulated into each other, the convex end of the one closely fitting into the concave of the next—sometimes the concavity, sometimes the convexity being uppermost. This is a very singular circumstance. In the entire Causeway it is computed there are from 30,000 to 40,000 pillars the tallest measuring about thirty-three feet. Among other wonders, there is also the Giant's Well, a spring of pure fresh water forcing its way up between the joints of two of the columns — the Giant's Chair, the Giant's Bagpipes, the Giant's Theatre, and the Giant's Organ, the latter a beautiful colonnade of pillars, 120 feet long — so called from the resemblance it seems to have to the pipes of an organ.

About two miles from the Causeway is Dunluce Castle, one of the finest ruins to be met with in Ireland. For a great many particulars connected with this remarkable place and remarkable coast, we must refer such of our readers as are anxious about it, and have more than a penny in their pocket, to the "Northern Tourist;" a valuable work published by Messrs. Curry and Co. and conclude our sketch with a condensed extract from a visit to the Causeway by the author of "Sketches in the North and South of Ireland."

"It was as fine a morning as ever fell from heaven when we landed at Dunluce, not a cloud in the sky, not a wave on the water; the brown basaltic rock, with the towers of the ancient fortress that capped and covered it; all its grey bastions and pointed gables lay pictured on the incumbent mirror of the ocean: every thing was reposing — every thing was still, and nothing was heard but the flash of our oars, and nothing but the song of Alick M'Mullen, our guide, to break the silence of the sea. We vowed round this peninsular fortress, and then entered the fine cavern that so curiously perforates the rock, and opens its dark arch to admit our boat. He must, indeed, have a mind cased up in all the common-place of dull existence, who would not, while within this cavern and under this fortress, enter into the associations connected with the scene; who could not hold communings with the "genius loci." Fancy, I know, called up for me the war-boats and the foemen, who either issued from, or took shelter in this sea-cave — I imagined, as the tide was growling amidst the far recesses, that I heard the moanings of chained captives, and the huge rocks around must be bales of plunder landed and lodged here: and I took an interest, and supposed myself a sharer in the triumphs of the fortunate, and the helplessness of the captive, while suffering under the misery that bold bad men inflicted in troubled times. Landing in this cavern, we passed up through its land side entrance towards the ruin; the day laid become exceedingly warm, and going forth from the coolness of the cave into the sultry atmosphere, we felt doubly the force of the sun's power: the sea-birds had retreated to their distant rocks — the goats were panting under the shaded ledges of the cliffs — the rooks and choughs, with open beaks and drooping wings, were scattered over the downs, from whose surface the air arose with a quivering undulating motion; we were all glad, for a time, to retire to where, under the shade of the projecting cliff, a clear cold spring offered its refreshing waters."

Passing by some capital legends and anecdotes, connected with Dunluce Castle, but which we may give again, we will take up our author at the Causeway.

"We had now arrived at the promontories of the Causeway. Port Coan, Port na Spania, Pleaskin, and Bengore, all stood out before us, arresting our admiration and attention. I have certainly seen caves much more capacious, and promontories much grander than Pleaskin or Bengore; but beyond a doubt, Pleaskin is the prettiest thing in nature in the way of a promontory; it looks as if it was painted for effect, its general form so beautiful — its storied pillars, tier over tier so architecturally graceful — its curious and varied stratifications supporting the columnar ranges; here the dark brown amorphos basalt, there the red ochre, and below that again the slender but distinct black lines of the wood-coal, and all the ledges of its different stratifications tastefully variegated, by the hand of vegetable nature, with grasses, and ferns, and rock-plants. I certainly could form in my imagination some conception of what the platform, specially called the Giant's Causeway, was; and think a picture or print may convey a very fair representation of what it is; conceive a pavement of pillars set together, just like the comb of a bee-hive, or rather that of a wasp's nest. But nothing I have ever seen, I think, so much exceeded my expectation for very beauty as the promontory of Pleaskin.

"Rowing along towards the Causeway, we noticed, as we slowly sailed along, whin-dykes, and pillars, and massive basalts. The whin-dykes, as geologists call those perpendicular walls that separate the stratifications on either side protrude to form the respective promontories of this line of coast, and, where they meet the sea, present many curious forms — here resembling a battered castle, there a stack of chimneys, and here again the head and hat of a man, with a large hooked nose and wide mouth, the ocherous rock giving him withal a red face, very like the later busts of George the Third. As we passed along, it struck me that the kelp fires greatly added to the interest of the picture — the smoke wreathing up from a hundred places on this stilly day, and in pillared beauty endeavouring to rival the basaltic columns around. We were shown women ascending an almost perpendicular path, towards the top of the cliff, with large loads of kelp on their heads; they looked like mice creeping up the walls of a barn — the toil of the ascent must be enormous. Our guide told of a poor girl who was betrothed to one she loved, and who was likely to make her happy. In order to procure for themselves some little household stuff, and a few conveniences, wherewithal to begin the world, they devoted themselves for a time to avarice, here consecrated by love, so as to be indeed auri SACRA fames. Young William was out at sea in all weathers, and Peggy, though fair and delicate, carried the kelp along that terrible path. One day, just as she had got to the steepest point of the peak, her strength failed her, and down she came, the load to which she was tied hurrying her along — and before she came to the bottom, poor Peggy was a mangled and a lifeless corpse!"



Source: The Dublin Penny Journal, 28th July 1832.

The Bank of Ireland, Dublin (1832)

This truly beautiful and magnificent building, which, as all our readers know, was originally the Parliament House of Ireland, though considerably changed by the internal adaptations necessary for its present purpose, is fully entitled to the character given of it in 1791, by the very talented James Malton — "that it is no hyperbole to advance, that this edifice in the entire, is the grandest, most convenient, and most extensive of the kind in Europe;" and with equal truth he observed, that "it derives all its beauty from a simple impulse of fine art; and is one of the few instances of form only, expressing true symmetry." Indeed, so truly classical is this fine edifice in its proportions, so grand in its simplicity, that it is not saying too much of it, that it would have done honor to the best days of grecian art; and with such an example before us — one which gives delight to all persons imbued even with the slightest sentiments of taste — it is strange that it should hitherto have had so little effect on the architectural taste of our country, and that nothing comparable to it, and very little of a similar refined character, has been ever raised in the country since the period of its erection.

The foundation of the Parliament House was laid in 1729, during the administration of Lord Carteret, and was executed under the inspection of Sir Edward Lovet Pearce, engineer and surveyor-general; but completed by Arthur Dobbs, Esq., who succeeded him in that office, about the year 1739. The expense amounted to above £40,000. The building being found insufficient in extent to accommodate the Lords and Commons, in 1785, an eastern front, leading to the House of Lords, was designed and executed by the late eminent architect, James Gandon, at an expense of £25,000. In 1787, a western front and entrance, joined to the centre portico by a circular colonade, were added, from the design of Mr. Parke, architect, for about £30,000. The edifice thus perfected for its original purposes, was purchased by the Company of the Bank of Ireland, in 1802, from the Government, for the sum of £40,000, subject to a ground rent of £240 per annum. It is singular enough that the name of the original architect is not certainly known.

The centre portico of this magnificent structure, which is the subject of our present illustration, consists of one grand colonnade of the Ionic order, occupying three sides of a court-yard, and resting on a flight of steps continued entirely round, and to the extremities of the colonnade, where are entrances under two lofty archways. The four central columns support a pediment, whose tympanum is ornamented by the Royal Arms, and on its apex is placed a statue of Hibernia, with one of Fidelity, on her right, and another of Commerce, on her left. These statues were executed by our fellow citizen, John Smyth, that of Hibernia being modelled by his father, and the other two by the celebrated Flaxman. This magnificent centre is connected with the eastern and western fronts, which almost contend with it in beauty, by circular screen walls the height of the building, enriched with dressed niches and a rusticated basement. The western front, which is a beautiful portico of four Ionic columns surmounted by a pediment, preserves an uniformity of style with the centre; but the eastern one, which was originally the entrance to the House of Lords, is of a different style, being of the Corinthian order, and consisting of six columns, crowned by a pediment with a plain tympanum, on which stand three fine statues by the elder Smyth, emblematic of Justice, Fortitude, and Liberty. Though this portico is in itself of the most exquisite proportions and beauty, the difference of its style from the other parts of the huilding is justly objected to, inasmuch as it destroys the symmetrical uniformity of the building as a whole. The defect, however, was accidental, and not attributable to any want of judgment on the part of its accomplished architect, but caused by a desire on the part of the Lords to have their entrance of a different and more ornamental character than that appropriated to the Commons; and it is related as an instance of the ready wit of Mr. Gandon, that a gentleman passing while the workmen were placing the Corinthian capitals on the columns, struck with the incongruity, having asked "What order is that?" the architect, who was present, replied, "It is a very substantial order, for it is an order of the House of Lords!"

P.

Dublin Penny Journal, 15th December, 1832


 
 

Punctuation or The importance of getting it write

Grammar and punctuation... two words that split the nation. From the Philistines at one extreme who say "Who cares? Whats the point?" (pun intended) to the Purists at the other who shiver at the thought of using a hyphen instead of a dash and endlessly debate the use of the Oxford comma.

Most of us do our best to muddle through but the advent of text messaging – removing most of the vowels making a few words of English look like ancient Klingon – has done much for tipping the scales in favour of the Philistine cause.

And whether you are asking hunters to "Please Use Caution When Hunting Pedestrians Using Walk Trails", informing the public that "No Trespassing Violators Will Be Prosecuted" or reading that the latest celebrity will tell us how they "find inspiration in cooking their family and their dog", remember, they are two powerful words that could change your life. (Ducks as the Purists throw a fit at starting that sentence with a conjunction!)

Knowing just where to put that little mark could make a big difference as the tale below, related in the Dublin Penny Journal over 180 years ago, shows:

Want of Point, a Nice Point.

An ingenious expedient was devised to save a prisoner charged with robbery, in the Criminal Court at Dublin. The principal thing that appeared in evidence against him was a confession alleged to have been made by him at the police office. The document purporting to contain this self-criminating acknowledgment, was produced by the officer, and the following passage was read from it.

"Mangan said he never robbed but twice
 Said it was Crawford."

This it will he observed has no mark of the writer's having any notion of punctuation, but the meaning he attached to it was that

"Mangan said he never robbed but twice:
 Said it was Crawford."

Mr. O'Gorman, the counsel for the prisoner, begged to look at the paper. He perused it, and rather astonished the peace officer by asserting, that so far from its proving the man's guilt it established his innocence. "This," said the learned gentleman, "is the fair and obvious reading of the sentence:

"Mangan said be never robbed;
 But twice said it was Crawford."

This interpretation had its effect on the jury, and the man was acquitted.

Irish Proverbs

The Milesian Irish believe that their ancient Kings, Brehons, and Fileas were men of great intelligence and wisdom, — that the sayings of Ollamh-fodhla, Fithil the wise, Moran, and Cormac Mac Art, were so many lessons of human wisdom, — that the venerable dicta of Finghin, Kicran, Columbkille, &c. were so many maxims of sacred truth, and their actions so many examples of virtue; and the wit of Goban Saér, the celebrated Deadalus of Ireland, is yet remembered and told with vivacity.

Amongst a people who entertain so high an opinion of the talent of their predecessors, it should be expected that some trace of this wisdom would still remain, and that a few at least of these proverbial sayings should be discovered; but whoever makes the enquiry, through the medium of books, will find that, amongst all the nations of the world, the proverbs of the Irish are the most vulgar, awkward, incoherent, and ridiculous, indicating a lowness of sentiment, and a total lack of mental refinement.

Proverbs owe their origin to the sayings of wise men, allusions of ancient poets, the customs and manners of nations, they are adapted to common use as ornaments of speech, set rules of instruction, arguments of wisdom, to which time has given assent, and maxims of undeniable truth. The peculiar veneration which the Irish have for their ancient proverbs, has given rise to a well known assertion: Ni feider an sean-fhocal do sharúghadh. It is impossible to contradict the old word (proverb.)
From this it will, I think, be granted, that a perfect list of the proverbs of any people is, as it were, an index to the national character, or the elements of the moral notions, customs, and manners of a people.

In Ray's splendid collection of English, Scotch, Italian, Spanish, Danish, and Oriental Proverbs, the following list of Irish ones are given, which shows how Ireland has been made known to the world, by the circulation of that learned and excellent work, as a nation of blunderers and blockheads!! And no Irishman has ever since come forward to defend the wisdom of Ollav Fodhla, by translating and publishing a list of genuine Irish proverbs!! Shame Ireland!

Ray says, "The following proverbs are presumed to be Irish:"

1.	"She is like a Mullingar heifer, beef to the heels.
2.	"He is like a Waterford merchant, up to the -------- in business.
3.	"His eyes are like two burnt holes in a blanket.
4.	"Full of fun and foustre, like Mooney's goose.
5.	"He looks as angry as if he were vexed.
6.	"'Tis as bad as cheating the devil in the dark, and two farthing candles for a halfpenny.
7.	"He'd skin a louse, and send the hide and fat to market."

These are, without doubt, modern English-IRISH proverbs of the lowest order, and rudest nature, but they have no more to do with the wise sayings of the ancient Milesian Irish, than with the proverbs of Solomon, or the wise savings of the Brahmins; the following list of genuine Irish proverbs, translated principally from Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, will satisfy the philosophic enquirer of national character, on this head:

1.	An t-scod dofhaghála's i is áilne. The rare jewel is the most beautiful.
2.	Air li ni breith fear gan suilibh. A blind man is no judge of colours.
3.	Annair a bhidheann an cat a muigh bidheann na lacha a g rainnceadh. When the cat is out, the mice dance.
4.	Annair is cruadh dón chailligh caithfidh si rith. When the old hag is in danger she must run.
5.	Bidh ádh air Amadán. Even a fool has luck.
6.	Beul eidhin a's croidhe cuilinn. A mouth of ivy, a heart of holly. [The leaves of ivy are soft and smooth, those of holly rough and prickly — a metaphorical proverb.]
7.	Beatha an Staraidhe firinne. The historian's food is truth.
8.	Bidh borb fo sgeimh. Fierceness is often hidden under beauty.
9.	Bidh boirbeacht i n-geal ghaire. There is often anger in a laugh.
10.	Bidh cluanaidhe a n-deagh-chulaidh. A good dress often hides a deceiver.
11.	Buaine clá na saoghal. Fame is more lasting than life.
12.	Briathar baoth baothantacht. A foolish word is folly.
13.	Bocht an Eaglais bhios gan cheol. The church that has no music is poor indeed.
14.	Cnuasaigh an am oireamhmach. Lay up in time.
15.	Caoin re ccannsa. Mild to the meek.
16.	Briseann an duthchas tre shíalibh an chait. Cat after kind. "Da mheid Eolais, radhare is foghlaim "Do gheibheann an cóbach, mac an Daoi "Briseann an duthchas tres an m-bruid "Tar eis gach cúrsa do chur a g-crích. Whatever knowledge, education, or learning. The clown, son of the low-bred man, acquires. His own congenial nature still appears, After passing through every course.
17.	Claoidheann neart ceart. Force overcomes justice.
18.	Caomhnann dochas ant-ingreamach. Hope consoles the persecuted.
19.	Ni thuigeann an Sáthach an seang. The satiated forget the hungry.
20.	Codlda fada spaideann leanbh. Long sleep renders a child inert.
21.	Deineacht gan luas. Hurry without haste.
22.	Dearbhralhair leadranachta olachán. Drunkenness is the brother of robbery.
23.	Dóchas liagh gach anró. Hope is the physician of each misery.
24.	Duilghe an t-uaibhreach do cheannsughadh. It is difficult to tame the proud.
25.	Diomhaoineas mian amadain. Idleness is the desire of a fool.
26.	Dearc sul leimir. Look before you leap.
27.	Dearbh caraid roimh riachtanas. Prove a friend before necessity (poverty.)
28.	Eadtrom ór ag Amadan. Gold is light with a fool.
29.	Feárr deire fleidhe 'ná tus bruighne. The end of a feast is better than the beginning of a quarrel.
30.	Feárr dreoilin i n-dorn 'ná corr air cairde. A wren in the hand is better than a crane out of it.
31.	An te Chidheann amiúgh fuaruigheann a chuid. He who is out, his supper cools.
32.	Fada cuimhne sein-leinbh. The memory of an old child is long.
33.	Foillsighthear gach nidh re haimsir. Every thing is revealed by time.
34.	Féadann Cat dearcadh for righ. A cat can look at a king.
35.	Foighid leigheas sean-ghalair. Patience is the cure of an inveterate disease.
36.	Foghlaim mian gach Eagnaidhe. Learning is the desire of the wise.
37.	Fearŕ clú 'ná conach. Character is better than wealth.
38.	Gan oileamhain, gan mhodh. Without education, without manners, i.e. he who is without education, is also &c.
39.	Gan lon, gan charaid. Without treasure, without friends.
40.	Gan chiste is fuar an chlu. Without treasure, character is cold.
41.	Gach nidh ghabhthar go holc imthigheam go holc. Whatever is ill acquired, passes away ill; or whatever is got on the devil's back, falls under his belly.
42.	Gnidheann bladar caradas. Flattery procures friendship.
43.	Gnath ocrach fiochmhar. A hungry man is angry, (peevish.)
44.	Gach am ni h-eagnach savi. No man is wise at all times.
45.	Gach ni daor mian gach mná. Every dear article is woman's desire.
46.	Is treise gliocas 'ná neart. Wisdom exceeds strength.
47.	Is milis fion, is scarbh a ioc. Wine is sweet; to pay for it bitter.
48.	Iomhaigh am bháis codhla. Sleep is the image of death.
49.	Is sodh daochain. Enough is a feast.
50.	Is Dall an gradh baoth. Foolish love is blind.
51.	Is fearr an mhaith a ta 'na an mhaith a bhi. Present good is better than past good.
52.	Is eagnach deaghdhuine. A good man is a wise man.
53.	Loiteann aoradh mor-chlá. Satire wounds a great character.
54.	Lnidheann proimpeallan for otrach. A BETTLE buries himself in DUNG.
55.	Luidheann cruadhtan for dhiomhaoineas. Hardship attends idleness.
56.	Liagh gach boicht bas. Death is the physician of the poor.
57.	Mairg dárb ceilc baothan borb. Woe to her whose husband is a surly fool.
58.	Mairg fheallas air a charaid. Woe to him who betrays his friend.
59.	Mairg a threigeas a thighearna. Woe to him who abandons his lord.
60.	Má's maith leat a bheith buan caith fuar agus TEITH. If you wish to be long-lived eat cold and hot; or if you wish to be long-lived eat cold and flee. (fuge.) The ambiguity lies in the last word, which signifies either the adjective hot, or the imperative form of the verb to fly. [This is not properly speaking a proverb; but we must admit it affords a striking instance of the happy inventive powers, comprehension, and shrewdness, of the lower classes of the Irish: perhaps few instances could be adduced more happy in conception, or successful in application than this sentence, as will appear from the circumstance from which it is said to have originated. It was given as a friendly advice, a long time since, to a celebrated Irish freebooter in the town of Naas. The freebooter it appears called at an inn and ordered a hot dinner to be prepared for him, but the innkeeper recognized the freebooter, and, as a good member of the community, he deemed it his duty to send for the authorities in order to have him secured; fortunately for the freebooter, it happened that the waiter, who was preparing the dinner, had been heretofore his intimate friend and companion in many a desperate and perilous enterprize of misguided valour, but as the master was present, the waiter was afraid to inform the freebooter in plain terms that his enemies were at hand; he therefore gave him the hint as conveyed in the above ambiguous sentence, which the freebooter (being a man of the quickest apprehension) immediately comprehending, mounted his horse, which had on many previous occasions borne him in safety from his pursuers, and flying with the swiftness of the Arabian steed escaped, for that time, the strong arm of justice.]
61.	Ni fhuil gaol ag aon re saoi gan seun. No one is related to a man without prosperity.
62.	Ni car gach bladaire. Every flatterer is not a friend.
63.	Ni uaisleacht gan subhailce. There is no nobility without virtue.
64.	Ni fhuil ro aosta re foghuim crionachta. Never too old to learn wisdom.
65.	Ni fhuil saoi gan locht. There is no one without fault. Nemo sine crimine visit.
66.	Or iodhal na santach. Gold is the idol of the covetous.
67.	Olc síon nach maith d'aon. That weather is bad which is not good for some person.
68.	Otracht sodh an Liaigh. Sickness is the physician's feast.
69.	Righ miofhoghlamtha is asal corónta. An ignorant king is a crowned ass.
70.	Saruigheann Eagna gach saidhbhreas. Wisdom exceeds riches.
71.	Soightheach folamh is mo torann. An empty vessel makes most noise. [Applied to a talkative man.]
72.	Saidhbhreas sior subhailce. Virtue is eternal wealth.
73.	Sgeitheann fion firinne. In vino veritas. Wine pours out the truth. [Applied to a drunken man who foolishly blabs out his secrets.]
74.	Tig grian a n-diaidh na fearthana. Sunshine follows rain; i.e. joy succeeds affliction.
75.	Tig iomchar re foghlaim From education comes conduct.
76.	Tos mhaith leath na h-oibre. A good beginning is half the work.
77.	Tosach coille a's deirc móna. The beginning of a wood; the end of a bog.
78.	Umhlacht d' uaisleacht. Obedience to nobility.
79.	Fion a n-diu, uisge amarach. Wine to-day, water to-morrow.
80.	Buail an ceann a's seachain an muineul. Strike the head, but touch not the neck; i.e. there are two ways for killing a man.
OF WEATHER.
81.	Dearg aniar is ionann a's Grian. Red in the west portends sunshine; i.e. when, after the setting of the sun, the west appears red, it portends that the next day will be fine.
82.	Dearg anoir is ianann a's sioc. Red in the east is a sign of frost.
83.	Bogha fliuch na maidne, bogha tirm na trathnona. Rainbow in the morning is a sign of rain; in the evening, of dry weather.*
84.	"Mathair eatha oigh. "A thair sailla sneachta. "Tuarfola fleacha. "Tuar teadma tart. "Deach do sionuibh ceb' "Acht do mhuir ni torthach torann."                               Cormac Mac Art. Frost favours the growth of corn; (i.e. it prepares the earth for its production.) Snow favours the growth of trees.† Much rain is an omen of blood. Drought is an omen of plague. Fog is good for the seasons. Thunder destroys the fertility of the sea.                             JOHN O'DONOVAN.

* A rainbow can only occur when the clouds, containing or depositing the rain, are opposite to the sun, and in the evening the rainbow in the east, and in the morning in the west; and as our heavy [--?--] this climate, are usually brought by the westerly wind, a rainbow in the west indicates that the bad weather is on the road, by [--?--] us; whereas the rainbow in the east, proves that rain in thes[--?--] passing from us. -- Salmonia.
† La nieve per otto di é madre allaterra da indi in la é matrig[--?--] Snow for a se'ennight is a mother to the earth, for ever after a step-mother.


Source: The Dublin Penny Journal, Vol. 1, No. 20 (Nov. 10, 1832), pp. 158-159

King O'Toole and St. Kevin - A Legend of Glendalough

"By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er.
Where the cliff hangs high and steep
Young St. Kevin stole to sleep. – Moore.

Who has not read of St. Kevin, celebrated as he has been by Moore in the melodies of his native land, with whose wild and impassioned music he has so intimately entwined his name? Through him, in the beautiful ballad, whence the epigraph of this story is quoted, the world already knows that the sky-lark, through the intervention of the saint, never startles the morning with its joyous note in the lonely valley of Glendalough. In the same ballad, the unhappy passion which the saint inspired, and the "unholy blue" eyes of Kathleen, and the melancholy fate of the heroine, by the saint's being "unused to the melting mood," are also celebrated; as well as the superstitious finale of the legend, in the spectral appearance of the love-lorn maiden.

"And her ghost was seen to glide
Gently o'er the fatal tide."

Thus has Moore given, within the limits of a ballad, the spirit of two legends of Glendalough, which otherwise the reader might have been put to the trouble of reaching after a more round-about fashion. But luckily for those coming after him, one legend he has left to be

"------ touched by a hand more unworthy" –

and instead of a lyrical essence, the raw material in prose is offered, nearly verbatim as it was furnished to me by that celebrated guide and bore, Joe Irwin, who traces his descent in a direct line from the old Irish kings, and warns the public in general that "there's a power of them spalpeens sthravaigin' about, 'sthrivin' to put their comether upon the quality, [quality – the Irish gentry generally call the higher orders 'quality,'] and callin' themselves Irwin, (knowin', the thieves o' the world, how his name had gone far and near, as the rale guide,) for to deceive dacent people; but never to b'lieve the likes – for it was only mulvatherin people they wor." For my part, I promised never to put faith in any but himself; and the old rogue's self-love being satisfied, we set out to explore the wonders of Glendalough. On arriving at a small ruin, situated on the south-eastern side of the lake, my guide assumed an air of importance, and led me into the ivy-covered remains, through a small square door-way, whose simple structure gave evidence of its early date; a lintel of stone lay across two upright supporters, after the fashion of such religious remains in Ireland.

"This, Sir," said my guide, puttiug himself into an attitude, "is the chapel of King O'Toole – av coorse y'iv often heerd o' King O'Toole, your honor?"

"Never," said I.

"Musha, thin, do you tell me so?" said he, "I thought all the world far and near, heerd o' KiDg O'Toole – well, well!! but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, Sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was wonst a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that ownded the churches in the airly days."

"Surely," said I, "the churches were not in King O'Toole's time?"

"Oh, by no manes, yer honour – troth, it's yourself that's right enough there; but you know the place is called 'The Churches,' bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o' the churches iver more; and therefore, av coorse, the place bein' so called, I say that the king ownded the churches – and why not Sir, seein' 'twas his birth-right, time out o' mind, beyant the flood? Well, the king you see was the right sort – he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer: and the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin, aye throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that's the way it was with the king, from the crow o' the cock to the song o' the redbreast."

"In this counthry, Sir," added he, speaking parenthetically in an under tone, "we think it onlooky to kill the redbreast, for the robin is God's own bird."

Then, elevating his voice to its former pitch he proceeded. –

"Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse o' time, the king grewn owld, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a huntin', no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him."

Here an involuntary smile was produced by this regal mode of recreation, "the royal game of goose."

"Oh, you may laugh, if you like," said he, half affronted, "but it's truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used for to swim across the lake, and go down divin' for throut, (and not finer throut in all Ireland than the same throut,) and cotch fish an a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor king, that you'd think he'd break his sides laughin' at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so in coorse o' time the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and diverted the king to no end, and the poor king was as happy as the day was long. So that's the way it was; and all went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the king, and grewn stiff in his limbs, like her masther, and could'nt divert him no longer; and then it was that the poor king was lost complete, and did'nt know what in the wide world to do, seein' he was done out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blume.

"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' thiukin' o' drownin' himself, that could'nt got 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 civil-spoken gintleman, 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.'

"'Thrue for you,' says the king, 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and plennypounytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem you to know that?' says he.

"'O, never mind,' says Saint Kavin.

"For you see," said old Joe, in his under tone again, and looking very knowingly, "it was Saint Kavin, sure enough – the saint himself in disguise, and no body 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 Kavin, '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 polite.

"'Troth you may say that,' says Saint Kavin. '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.

"'O, no matther; I was given to undherstand it,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Oh, that's a folly to talk,' says the king; 'bekase myself and my goose is private frinds,' says he; 'and no one could tell you,' says he, 'barrin the fairies.'

"'Oh thin, it was'nt the fairies,' says Saint Kavin; 'for I'd have you to know,' says he, 'that I don't keep the likes of 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 Kavin, 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 Kavin.

"'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 Kavin.

"'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; Ive 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'mankin' 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 Kavin.

"'Faith then, I'm thinkin' a thrifle o' change would do you no harm,' says the king, lookin' up sly at the ould caubeen that Saint Kavin had an 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 thrifle you can't help,' says the king, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face.

"'You just hot it,' says Saint Kavin; 'but though I can't take money,' says he, 'I could take a few acres o' land, if you'd give them to me.'

"'With all the veins o' my heart,' says the king, 'if you can do what you say.'

"'Thry me!' says Saint Kavin. '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, waddlin' up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pups. The minute the saint clapped 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, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.'

"'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor 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 St. Kavin.

"'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 afther I make her as good as new?'

"'I will,' says the king.

"'You won't go back o' your word,' says Saint Kavin.

"'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist.

"'Honor bright,' says Saint Kavin, back agin, 'its a bargin.' says he. 'Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose – 'come here you unfortunate ould cripple,' says he, 'and its I that 'ill make you the sportin' bird.'

"With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings – 'criss o' my crass an you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute – and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew!' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her: and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, fly-in' like one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she wint down there, right foreninst you, along the side o' the clift, and flew over St. Kavin's bed, (that is where St. Kavin's bed is now, but was not thin, by raison it was'nt made, but was conthrived after by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might lave him alone,) and on with her under Lugduff, and round the end iv the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall, (though indeed it's no watherfall at all now, but only a poor dhribble iv a thing; but if you seen it in the winther, it id do your heart good, and it roaring like mad, and as white as the dhriven snow, and rowlin' down the big rocks before it, all as one as childher playing marbles,) – and on with her thin right over the lead mines o' Luganure, (that is where the lead mines is now, but was not thin, by raison they wor'nt discovered, but was all goold in Saint Kanin's time.) Well over the ind o' Luganure she flew, stout and sturdy, and round the other ind ay the little lake, by the churches, (that is, av coorse where the churches is now, but was not thin, by raison they wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin,) and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift; (and that clift in the mountain was made by Fin Ma Cool, where he cut it across with a big sword, that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o' Rathdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant [giant] that darr'd him an the Curragh o' Kildare; and he thried the sword first an the mountain, and cut it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it's the same sauce he sarv'd the joyant, soon and suddent, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and owld Ireland;) well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttherin' over the wood there at Poulanass, (where I showed you the purty watherfall; and by the same token, last Thursday, was a twelve-month sence, a young lady, Miss Rafferty by name, fell into the same watherfall, and was nigh hand drownded; and indeed would be to this day, but for a young man that jumped in afther her; indeed a smart slip iv a young man he was; he was out o' Francis-street, I hear, and coorted her sence, and they wor married, I'm given to undherstand; and indeed a purty couple they wor.) Well, as I said, afther flutterin' over the wood a little bit, to place herself, the goose flew down, and lit at the fut o' the king, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin' roun' his dominions, just as if she had'nt flew three perch. Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when she lit at his fut, he patted her an' the head, and 'ma vourneen,' says he, 'but you are the darlint o' the world.'

"'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the like?' 'I say,' says the king, 'that nothin' bates the art o' man, burrin' the bees.' 'And do you say no more nor that?' says St. Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. 'But will you gie me all the ground the goose flewn over?' says St. Kavin. 'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.' 'It's well for you,' says St. Kavin, mighty sharp, 'for if you did'nt say that word, the devil receave the bit o' your goose id ever fly again!' says St. Kavin.

"Well, whin the king was as good as his word, St. Kavin was plazed with him, and says he, 'King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, I only came here to thry you. You don't know me,' says he, 'I'm deceavin' you all out, I'm not myself at all!' 'Blur-an-agers thin,' says the king, 'if you are not yourself, who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,' said the saint, blessin' himself. 'Oh, queen iv heaven,' says the king, makin' the crass betume his eyes, and fallin' down an his kness before the saint, 'is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that I've been discoorsin' all this time, without knowing it,' says he, 'all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon? and so you're a saint,' says the king. 'I am,' says Saint Kavin, 'the greatest of all the saints!' For Saint Kavin, you must know, Sir,' said Joe, 'is counted the greatest of all the saints, bekase he went to school with the prophet Jeremiah.

"Well, my dear, that's the way that the place came all at wanst into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flewn round every individyal acre o' King O'Toole's property, bein' let into the saycret by St. Kavin, who was mighty cute; and the king had his goose as good as new, and the saint supported him, afther he kern into his property, antil the day av his death; and when he was gone, Saint Kavin gave him an illigant wake and a beautiful berrin;' and more betoken, he said mass for his sowl, an' tuk care av his goose."


Source: The Dublin Penny Journal, Vol. 1, No. 1 (Jun. 30, 1832)
Image: St. Kevin’s Bed and the Church of the Rock, Upper Lake Glendalough

The Poteen

Ireland has long been famous, or, as the Temperance Society men would say, infamous, for her love of the bottle. Now, without declaring ourselves on the side of the abstinent folks — without saying that we ought never to take a drop, and without binding ourselves never to be hearty over a tumbler of whiskey punch — we may venture to say, that it would be decidedly better for Ireland, in the long run, if she never had a distillery in the island. We say this on looking at the mischief which ardent spirits have always created in our isle. The misery, the degradation, the fightings, and even the murders, which it has been the fatal origin of, may well justify such a wish — if our countrymen could be brought just to take it temperately. A great alteration for the better has already taken place in this respect; and we sincerely trust that the improvement will be progressive. We extract the following account of a visit to a Poteen Distiller from "Sketches in Ireland," published by Curry and Co. of Dublin, and printed in 1827.

"One morning in July, as I was dressing myself to walk out before breakfast, I heard a noise at my back door, and observed one of my people remonstrating with a man who was anxiously pressing into the house. I went down and met the man whose demi-genteel dress and peculiar cut marked him to be a guager. 'O! for mercy's sake,' cried the man when he saw me, 'let me into your house; lock me up somewhere; hide me, save me, or my life is lost.' So I brought him in, begged of him to sit down, and offering him some refreshment, requested him to recover his courage, and come to himself, for there was no danger. While I was speaking, an immense crowd came up to the house, and surrounded it; and one man more forward than the rest, came up to the door, and demanded admission. On my speaking to him out of the window, and inquiring what his business was, he replied, 'We find you have got Mr.---------, the guager, in your house: you must deliver him up to us; we want him.'
'What do you want him for?' 'Oh, Doctor, that's no business for you to meddle in; we want him and must have him.' "Indeed that I cannot allow; he is under my roof; he has come, claiming my hospitality, and I must and will afford it to him.' 'Doctor there are two words to that bargain: you ought to have consulted us before you promised; but to be plain with you, we really respect you very much; you are a quiet and a good man, and mind your own business; and we would make the man sore and sorry that would touch the hair of your head. But you must give us the guager; to be at a word with you doctor, we must tear open, or tear down your house, or get him.' What was I to do? What could I do? — nothing, I had not a gun or pistol in my house; 'so,' says I, 'boys, you must, it seems, do as you like, and mind I protest against what you are about; but since you must have your own way, as you are Irishmen, I demand fair play at your hands. The man had ten minutes law of you when he came to my house: let him have the same law still; let him not be the worse of the shelter he has taken here; do you, therefore, return to the hill at the rere of the house; and I will let him out at the hall door, and let him have his ten minutes law.' I thought that in those ten minutes, as he was young and healthy, that he would reach the river Lennan, about a quarter of a mile off, in front of the house, and swimming over it, escape. So they all agreed that the proposal was a fair one; at any rate, they promised to abide by it; and the man seeing the necessity of the case, consented to leave the house; I enlarged him at the hall door, the pursuers all true to their pledged honour, stood on a hill about two hundred yards in the rere of the house, a hanging lawn sloped down towards a small river that in all places at that season of the year was fordable; about a quarter of a mile further off still, in front of the house, the larger river, Lennan, ran deep and broad between high and rocky banks. The guager started off, like a buck, and as a hunted deer he ran his best, for he ran for his life, he passed the little river in excellent style, and just as he had ascended its further bank and was rising the hilly ridge that divided the smaller from the broader stream, his pursuers broke loose, all highland men, tall, loose, agile, young; with breast and sinews strong to breast a mountain; men who many a time and oft, over bog and brae, had run from the guager, and now they were after him with fast foot and full cry. From the hall door the whole hunt could be seen — they helter skelter down the lawn rushing — he toiling up the opposite hill and straining to crown its summit; at length he got but of sight, he passed the ridge and rushed down to the Lennan; here, out of breath, without time to strip, without time to choose a convenient place, he took the soil in the hunting phrase, and made his plunge, — at all times a had swimmer — now out of breath, encumbered with his clothes, the water rushing dark, deep, and rapid, amidst surrounding rocks; through whirls and currents, and drowning holes, the poor man struggled for life; in another minute he would have sunk for ever, when his pursuers came up, and two or three of the most active and hast swimmers rushed in and saved him from a watery grave. The whole party immediately got about him, they rolled him about until they got the water out of his stomach, wiped him with their frize coats: twenty warm hands were employed rubbing him into warmth, they did every thing humanity could suggest to bring him to himself. Reader, please to recollect, that we are not describing the feats or fortunes of Captain Rock or his myrmidons; we are not about to detail the minutiae of a cold-blooded, long calculated murder; we are not describing the actions of men who are more careful of the life of a pig than of a human creature. No, the Donegal mountaineers had a deed to do, but not of death; they were about a deliberate work, but not of murder. The moment the guager was restored to himself, and in order to contribute to it an ample dose of the poteen that he had persecuted was poured down his throat, they proceeded to tie a bandage over his eyes, and they mounted him on a rahery, or mountain pony, and off they set with their captive towards the mountains. For a whole day they paraded him up and down, through glens and defiles, and over mountain sides, and at length, towards the close of a summer's evening, they brought him to the solitary and secluded Glen Veagh; here they embarked him in a curragh, or wicker boat, and after rowing him up and down for some hours in the lake they landed him on a little island where was a hut that had often served as a shelter for the fowler, as he watched his aim at the wild water birds of the lake, and still oftener as the still-house for the manufacture of irrepressible, unconquerable poteen; and here, under the care of two trusty men was he left, the bandage carefully kept on his eyes, and well fed on trout, grouse, hares, and chickens; plenty of poteen mixed with the pure water of the lake was his portion to drink, and for six weeks was he thus kept cooped in the dark like a fattening fowl, and at the expiration of that time his keepers one morning took him under the arm, and desired him to accompany them; then brought him to a boat, rowed him up and down, wafted him from island to island, conveyed him to shore, mounted him on the pony, brought him as before for the length of a day here and there through glen and mountain, and towards the close of night, the liberated guager finds himself alone on the high road to Letterkenny. The poor man returned that night to his family, who had given him over as either murdered, or gone to America. But he stood not as a grimly ghost at the door, but as fat and sleek, and as happy as ever.

Now wherefore all this trouble; why all those pains to catch a guager, fatten him, and let him loose? Oh, it was of much and important consequence to these poor mountaineers. A lawless act it surely was; but taking into view that it was an act big with consequences affecting their future ruin or prosperity, it might almost be pardonable. Amidst the numerous parliamentary enactments that the revenue department of the country caused to he passed in order to repress the system of illicit distillation in Ireland, one was a law as contrary to the spirit of the British legislation as to the common principles of equity and conventional right — a law punishing the innocent in substitution for the guilty. This law made the townland in which the still was found, or any part of the process of distillation detected, liable to a heavy fine, to be levied indiscriminately on all its landholders. the consequence of this law was, that the whole North of Ireland was involved in one common confiscation. It was the fiscal triumph of guagers and informers over the landlords and proprietors of the country. They were reaping their harvest of ruin, under a bonus offered for avarice, treachery, and perjury. Acting on this anti-social system, the guager of the district in question had informations to the amount of £7,000 against the respective townlands of which it was composed. These informations were to be passed or otherwise at the approaching assizes, and there was no doubt but that the guager could substantiate them according to the existing law — and thus effect the total ruin of the people.

Under those circumstances the plot for the seizure and abduction of the revenue-officer was laid. It was known that on a certain day about a month prior to the assizes he was to pass through the district on his way to the coast — it was known that he kept those informations about his person, and therefore they waylaid him, and succeeded in keeping him out of sight until the assizes were over, and shortly after this imprudent and unconstitutional law was repealed.

But to return to Glen Veagh: as we were rambling along its rocky strand, admiring the stillness of its waters — the sublime solitariness of its mountain shore; here a ravine, climbing up amongst the hills; its chasms and its dancing waterfalls, fringed with birch and stunted oak; there a white silicious peak, protruding itself on high, over which the hawk cowered, as if priding itself on its inaccessible nest; before us the sleeping lake, extended itself —

"Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle."

and these isles' set like precious gems, with just enough of trees for ornament: the birch, the rowan ash, the service, the holly; and high from the central, largest, and most distant island, arose a blue and wreathed smoke, that bespoke the manufacture of mountain dew; the smoke certainly added much to the picturesque accompaniment of the scene, and we could just discern a small cabin or shading in the island, half concealed amidst the copsewood in which it was enveloped.

Gather up the pots and the old tin can; And the mash, and the corn, the barley, and the bran;
And then run like the devil from the excise man; Keep the smoke from rising, Barney

I could not help expressing a wish to see the process whereby this admired liquor was compounded, that in the estimation of avery Irishman — aye, and high born Englishmen too — is so superior in sweetness, salubrity, and gusto, to all that machinery, science and capital can produce in the legalized way, and which verifies the observation of the wise man, "that stolen waters are sweet." Just as we were conversing in this way, a man turning the point of a rock, stood unexpectedly within a few yards of us. He was one of the largest men I have ever seen amongst the Irish commonality. He was tall, that is not unusual; but he was lusty, his bones and muscles were covered with flesh; there was a trunk-like swell in his chest, and a massiveness in his body, a pillar-like formation of limbs bespeaking that he was a man moulded to be a giant, and was fed up to the full exercise and capability of his frame. He had a bull-like contour of head and neck short and crisp curls appeared from under a small hat which seemed unable to settle itself over his ears, from the full development of the organ of combativeness that protruded itself in this region of his cranium.

The man stood before us with the assured look of one who was prepared saucily to say, what business have you here; two grey hounds were at his heels, and a lurking grisly cur, half bull-dog, half terrier, shewed his white teeth and began to growl. 'Oh, how are you Teigue?' cried my friend (who, I believe, knows every one in Donegal) 'how are you, my gay fellow; I am glad to see you, for you are just the man in all these mountains that I wanted to see.' 'Why, then, your honour, I am entirely obliged to you; and in troth when I just came upon you now, I did not know your honour; for as I was just walking over the mountain, I saw some strange unco people, and I only slipt down to see the cut of their countenances.' 'Ah, Teigue,! I know rightly you do not like unco people, for fear that a guager might be amongst them.' 'Ah, then, now, is it I fear a guager? Teigue O'Gallagher fear a guager! — no, nor a commissioner from Dublin Customhouse, barring he had army and guns at his back — not I by my troth, for it's little I'd matter just taking one of them by the waistband of the breeches and filipping him, do you see, into the middle of the lake, and there leave him to keep company with the trouts — no, no; but the likes of you — no offence master, the likes of you I mean, not in the inside, but the teeth outwards, might come and give information, and put dacent people to trouble, and be after bringing the army here to this quiet place, and put us out of our way and all that.'

'Well, Teigue, you know me, don't you?' — 'I do, your honour, and am certain sure that you are true, and of the right sort, and every inch about you honest.' — 'Well, Teigue; I want to get this gentleman who is a friend of mine, on the lake; he desires to get into a boat to see its beauties more conveniently, besides he has a longing wish to see how the hearty drop is made, can you indulge him?' 'That I will, and a thousand welcomes;' so away he wint towards the point of the rock, which jutted out into the water, and putting his finger to his mouth, he sent forth a whistle that sounded over the lake, and thus reverberating, echoed from bay to bay, and multiplied itself through the glens and gorges of the mountains; at the same time he made some telegraphic signal, and in a minute we saw a boat push off from the island of Smoke, While Teigue was absent, I asked my friend who he was? — Why, says he, that is one of the most comfortable and independent follows in all this mountain district — he exerts a muscular and moral influence over the people; he has a great deal of sense, a great deal of determination; a constant view to his own interest and luckily he considers that interest best promoted, by keeping the country in peace. Those that fall out he beats into good humour, and when the weight of his argument cannot prevail, the weight of his fist enforces compliance with his wishes. Then he is the patron of illicit distillation — he is co-partner in the adventure, and is the watchful guardian over its process; there is not a movement of a gauger that he does not make himself acquainted with; there is not a detachment leaves a village or town that he has not under watch, and before a policeman or a red coat, comes within three miles of these waters, all would be prepared for them; still and worm sunk, malt buried, barrels and coolers disposed of, and the boat scuttled. There is not a man in Ireland lives better in his own way than Teigue: his chests are full of meal, the roof of his kitchen is festooned with bacon, his byre is full of cows, his sheep range on a hundred hills: as a countryman said to me the other day, "Teigue O'Gallagher is the only man of his sort in Donegal that eats white bread, toasted, buttered, and washed down with tea for his breakfast."

In the mean time the boat came near, and Teigue joined us, and after some difficulty in getting aboard from the rocks, and adjusting ourselves in proper trim in the most frail bark that perhaps was over launched on water, we rowed out into the lake; and here really the apparent peril of our situation, deprived me of the pleasure that might otherwise be enjoyed in the picturesque scenery around; the bottom of the boat was covered with water, which nosed in through a sod of turf, that served as a plug to the hole in its bottom, the size of my head; and Teigue O'Gallagher, who sat at the head of the boat surrounded by his dripping dogs, almost sunk it to the gunwale, and every now and then, the dogs uneasy at their confinement, tumbled about and disturbed our equilibrium; if a gust of wind had come, as often as it does on a sudden from the hills, we should have been in a perilous state. As it was, the two young men who rowed us, and who, it is to be supposed, could swim, enjoyed our nervous state, and out of fun told us stories of sudden hurricanes, and of the dangers and deaths that have happened to navigators on this lake; we, therefore, declined a protracted expedition, and only desired to he landed on the island, where we arrived in a short time, and then had opportunity of witnessing the arcana of illicit distillation. The island that at a distance looked so pretty with its copsewood, its sheeling, and its wreathing smoke, when we reached it, presented us ugly and disgusting a detail as possible; and a Teniers or a Cruikshank, could only do justice to the scene, and present a lively picture of its uncouth accompaniments.

A half roofed cabin, in which was a raging fire, over which was suspended the pot with its connected head and worm; two of the filthiest of human beings, half naked, squalid unhealthy looking creatures, with skins encrusted with filth, hair long, uncombed, and matted, whore vermin of all Borts seemed to quarter themselves and nidificate; and whore (as Burns says,) "horn or bone ne'er dare unsettle their thick plantations;" these were the operatives of the filthy process which seemed in all its details, to he carried on in nastiness.

John Barleycorn, though hero bold,
     Of noble enterprise;
When Irishman distil his blood.
     They cleanliness despise.

The whole area of the island was one dunghill composed of fermenting grains; there were about twenty immense hogs either feeding or snoring on the food that lay beneath them; and so alive with rats was the whole concern that one of the boatmen compared them in number and intrusiveness to flocks of sparrows on the side of a shelling-hill adjoining a corn-mill. I asked one of the boatmen where the men who attended the still slept. "Och, where should they sleep but on the grains with the pigs; they have never been off the island these six months, they have never changed their clothes, and, I believe, though they are convenient enough to the water, they have never washed themselves." "And are they not afraid?" "Why, who would they be afraid of but the rats." "And do they never go to divine worship?" "Ah, that they don't, it's little they care about religion — one of them is a Protestant, and he curses so much that it's enough to keep ghost, angel, or devil off the place — and in troth the Catholic is not much better, maybe the Priest wont have work enough with him yet."

I was truly disgusted with the whole scene, and anxious to quit it.* I was vexed and disappointed to find such a romantic and beautiful spot so defiled, so desecrated, I might say, by a manufacture that has proved of incalculable mischief to the peaceful habits, the moral character, and religious duties of the people of the country — but we would not be allowed to part before we partook of the produce of the pot. With all his faults, Pat is not deficient in generosity, and he is ever ready to share — yes, and often to waste the liquor which he has a peculiar delight in manufacturing: because, perhaps, the undertaking is attended with risk, and gives birth to adventurous engagements, and escapes; and, as the song says,

"An Irishman all in his glory is there,"

To the above description, we add a few reflections from Letters from the Irish Highlands:—

"Among all the striking peculiarities which arrest the attention of an English stranger, on his first visit to Ireland, there is none, I have often thought, that must at once excite such surprise, and lead the mind to such sad and sober reflections, as the hostile feelings of the majority of the people towards the law of the land. They will make use of its strong arm occasionally to oppress an inferior, or to wreak their vengence on an equal; but they never look to it with the feelings which an Englishman cherishes; they have not learned to regard it as the protector of their persons and properties, and the guardian of their dearest rights and liberties. From the rebellious code of Ribandism, which dooms him to destruction who ventures to appeal to the tribunals of justice against the hand of midnight violence, to the easy good nature of the peasant, who, without advantage to himself, assists his neighbour, in concealing the keg of illicit whiskey, or the bale of smuggled tobacco, the spirit is the same. The hand of the law has been against every man — and now, every man's hand is, in turn, raised against the law. But it is not for me to lead you back in the trodden path of history, to point out the wrongs which poor Ireland has received at the hands of her conquerors. You know that her sons were once limited like wild beasts, through the woods of Connaught; and where is the wonder then, if they failed to recognise a benefactor, when they beheld, it is true, law's and civilization in one hand, but in the other a frightful accompaniment of whips and scourges? Need I remind you that until the reign of James I. who, perhaps never more truly than on this point deserved the title of the English Solomon, the poor Irish pleaded in vain to be governed by the English law? This was a favour granted only to a few, while the majority of the natives, the mere Irish, as they were disdainfully termed, were denied a participation in the rights and privileges of English subjects, and were thus compelled to govern themselves by their own barbarous usages and customs, while they were exposed, almost without protection, to the outrages of their more favored neighbours.

A more enlightened policy has at length succeeded to these days of darkness; and let us hope that after a time the governors and the governed will form but one people. As they carried on a continual warfare against the law, and all its ministers, it became necessary that they should be acquainted with its intricacies, and estimate well the terrors of its sanctions. And this they have done. The lower orders of Irish, though an uneducated, are not an uninformed people, and upon this subject, which is of such vital importance to them they often show a knowledge, not only of the common points, but also of the technical niceties, which is far beyond any thing that would be met with in an English peasant. They understand exactly how far they may go without hazarding the animadversion of a magistrate; and often as they exceed the bounds of moderation, yet still oftener do they venture upon the very verge, and there stop short, to the surprise and admiration of all spectators."


* The the visit to Glen Veagh, took place some years ago. I have reason to believe, that in consequence of better arrangements in the revenue department, illicit distillation has ceased long ago in Glen Veagh.


Source: The Dublin Penny Journal, Vol. 1, No. 6 (Aug. 4, 1832)