and ran second to Giles for the Riddlesworth-but so she was, and a better-bred mare never leaped the pound in Ballinasloe. Well, I brought her to Dublin, and used to ride her out two or three times a week, making little matches sometimes to trot-and for a thoroughbred she was a clipper at trotting-to trot a mile or so on the grass; another day to gallop the length of the Nine Acres opposite the Lodge; and then sometimes back her for a ten-pound note to jump the biggest furze bush that could be found-all of which she could do with ease, nobody thinking all the while that the cocktailed pony was out of Scroggins by a "Lamplighter"

mare.

As every fellow that was beat to-day was sure to come back to-morrow with something better, either of his own or a friend's, I had matches booked for every day in the week-for I always made my little boy that rode win by half a neck, or a nostril, and so we kept on day after day pocketing from ten to thirty pounds or thereabouts.

'It was mighty pleasant while it lasted, for besides winning the money, I had my own fun laughing at the spoonies that never could book my bets fast enough. Your infantry officers and the junior bar-they were for the most part mighty men to look at, but very raw about racing. How long I might have gone on in this way I can't say; but one morning I fell in with a fat elderly gentleman, in shorts and gaiters, mounted on a dun cob pony that was very fidgety and hot-tempered, and appeared to give his rider a great deal of uneasiness.

"He's a spicy hack you 're on, sir,” said I, “and has a go in him, I'll be bound."

"I rayther think he has," said the old gentleman, half testily.

"And can trot a bit, too?"

"Twelve Irish miles in fifty minutes with my weight." Here he looked down at a paunch like a sugar hogshead.

"Maybe he's not bad across country," said I, rather to humour the old fellow, who, I saw, was proud of his pony.

"I'd like to see his match, that's all." Here he gave a rather contemptuous look at my hack.

'Well, one word led to another, and it ended in our booking a match, with which one party was no less pleased than the other. It was this: each was to ride his own horse, starting from the school in the Park, round the Fifteen Acres, outside the Monument, and back to the start-just one heat, about a mile and a half, the ground good, and only soft enough. In consideration, however, of his greater weight, I was to give odds in the start; and, as we could not well agree on how much, it was at length decided that he was to get away first, and I to follow as fast as I could after drinking a pewter quart of Guinness's double stoutdroll odds, you'll say, but it was the fellow's own thought; and, as the match was a soft one, I let him have his way.

'The next morning the Phoenix was crowded, as if for a review. There were all the Dublin notorieties swarming in barouches and tilburies and outside jaunting-cars; smart clerks in the Post-Office, mounted upon kicking devils from Dycer's and Lalouette's stables; attorneys' wives and daughters from York Street; and a stray doctor or so on a hack that looked as if it had been lectured on for the six winter months at the College

on,

of Surgeons. My antagonist was half-an-hour late, which time I occupied in booking bets on every side of me-offering odds of ten, fifteen, and at last, to tempt the people, twenty-five to one against the dun. At last the fat gentleman came up on a jaunting-car, followed by a groom leading the cob. I wish you heard the cheer that greeted him on his arrival, for it appeared he was a well-known character in town, and much in favour with the mob. When he got off the car he bundled into a tent, followed by a few friends, where they remained for about five minutes, at the end of which time he came out in full racing costume-blue-and-yellow striped jacket, blue cap, and leathers looking as funny a figure as ever you set eyes upon. I now thought it was time to throw off my white surtout and show out in pink and orange, the colours I had been winning in for two months past. While some of the party were sent on to station themselves at different places round the Fifteen Acres, to mark out the course, my fat friend was assisted into his saddle, and gave a short preliminary canter of a hundred yards or so that set us all a-laughing. The odds were now fifty to one in my favour, and I gave them wherever I could find takers. "With you, sir, if you please in pounds; and the gentleman in the red whiskers too, if he likes-very well, in half-sovereigns, if you prefer it?" So I went betting on every side till the bell rang to mount. As I knew I had plenty of time to spare, I took little notice, and merely giving a look to my girths, I continued leisurely booking my bets. At last the time came, and at the word "Away!" off went the fat gentleman on the dun, at a spluttering gallop, that flung the mud on every side of us, and once more threw us all a-laughing. I waited patiently till he got near the upper end of the park, taking bets every minute; and now that he was away every one offered to wager. At last, when I had let him get nearly half round, I called out to his friends for the porter, and, throwing myself into the saddle, gathered up the reins in my hand. The crowd fell back on each side, while from the tent I have already mentioned came out a thin fellow with one eye, with a pewter quart in his hand; he lifted it up towards me, and I took it; but what was my fright to find that the porter was boiling, and the vessel so hot that I could barely hold it. I endeavoured to drink, however; the first mouthful took all the skin off my lips and tongue, the second half choked, and the third nearly threw me into an apoplectic fit-the mob cheering all the time like devils. Meantime the old fellow had reached the furze, and was going along like fun. Again I tried the porter, and a fit of coughing came on that lasted five minutes. The pewter was now so hot that the edge of the quart took away a piece of my mouth at every effort. I ventured once more, and with the desperation of a madman I threw down the hot liquid to its last drop. My head reeled, my eyes glared, and my brain was on fire. I thought I beheld fifty fat gentlemen galloping on either side of me, and all the sky raining jackets in blue and yellow. Half mechanically I took the reins and put spurs to my horse; but before I got well away a loud cheer from the crowd assailed me. I turned and saw the dun coming in at a floundering gallop, covered with foam, and so dead blown that neither himself nor the rider could have

got twenty yards farther. The race was, however, won. My odds were lost to every man on the field, and worse than all, I was so laughed at that I could not venture out in the street without hearing allusions to my misfortune. (From Harry Lorrequer.)

Mickey Free.

Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my own servant Michael, or, as he was better known, 'Mickey Free.' Now, had Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would not have hung so heavily; for, among Mike's manifold gifts, he was possessed of a very great flow of gossiping conversation; he knew all that was doing in the country, and never was barren in his information wherever his imagination came into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero of Father Jack Walsh' in a way that charmed more than one soft heart beneath a red wolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy, devil-may-care kind of off-hand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and cunning fellow all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.

He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion, and, growing daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honours of the kitchen and the prerogative of cast clothes, without ever having been actually engaged as a servant, and while thus no warrant officer, as in fact he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among the ship's company; though no one could ever say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became a gay butterfly, with cords and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing prig hat, who stalked about the stableyard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike; he had made his fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he had made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me: Mike informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn't go out, and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of partridge quicker than the Morning Post does of a noble family from the Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately; but his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for miles round, and, as I took no small pleasure in those very national pastimes, the information was of great value to

me.

To conclude this brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic, in the same sense that he was enthusiastic about everything—that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness; beyond that his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience, and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such in short was my valet, Mickey Free.

(From Charles O'Malley.)

The Life of Charles Lever, by W. J. Fitzpatrick (1879; new ed. 1896), the only formal biography of Lever, is not at all an adequate picture of the novelist. The principal novels have been collected and reprinted in a handsome and elaborate edition (18 vols. 1898-99).

C. LITTON FALKINER.

While

Sir Samuel Ferguson (1810-86) was born in Belfast of parents who were of Scottish extraction, and having received his school education at the Academical Institution in that city, passed to Trinity College, Dublin. His university studies were interrupted, however, and he never graduated, though in 1865 he received from the university the degree of LL.D. honoris causa. In 1838 he was called to the Irish Bar, at which he practised with success, becoming a Queen's Counsel in 1859, and remaining in the active pursuit of his profession until his appointment, in 1867, to the position of Deputy-keeper of the newly created Irish Record Office. In 1878, in recognition of his efficient service in this position as well as of his literary eminence, he received a knighthood. Ferguson was thus far from leading the life of a mere man of letters, letters were in fact his constant interest, and, it may even be said, the main preoccupation of his thoughts. As early as 1832 he had made, in a visit to Edinburgh, the acquaintance of William Blackwood, Professor Wilson, and others. This was the beginning of an enduring connection with Maga,' to which he contributed the first and most popular of his poems, The Forging of the Anchor, written at one-and-twenty, as well as a humorous prose extravaganza called Father Tom and the Pope (1838), which won wide popularity. He was also a diligent contributor, both in prose and verse, to the Dublin University Magazine, drawing his subjects almost invariably from Celtic history and the bardic chronicles of Ireland. Ferguson's earlier poems, first published in this way, were collected by him in 1865 in Lays of the Western Gael, while his prose stories were posthumously republished in Hibernian Nights Entertainments (1887). In 1872 appeared Congal, an Epic Poem in Five Books; and in 1880 a further volume of Poems, which was really a second series of Lays of the Western Gael. Of the poems in this volume, 'Dairdre' and 'Conary' have been enthusiastically praised by Irish critics. Of the former, Allingham said that 'its peculiar form of unity is perfectly managed, while its general effect recalls nothing so much as a Greek play.' Of the latter, Aubrey de Vere wrote that it 'caught thoroughly that epic character so remarkable in the bardic legends of Ireland.' In 1882 Ferguson was elected President of the Royal Irish Academy, an institution largely concerned with fostering the studies in which he was most interested. Throughout his busy career he was a zealous promoter of the fame of Ireland in every department of intellectual effort, and did much to stimulate the intelligent study of her history and antiquities, her ancient laws and learning. In this respect he evinced throughout his career the ardent national spirit which in his earlier days had allied him temporarily with the 'Young Ireland' movement in politics, an alliance which had its best fruit in the noble Lament for Thomas Davis, in which he has

embalmed the memory of that patriot. Ferguson occupies, by reason of his influence upon what is now known as the 'Gaelic revival' in Irish literature, a position among Irish poets considerably higher than the intrinsic merit of his work won for him in his lifetime. It was in his writings,' says a very competent authority, that the great work of restoring to Ireland the spiritual treasure it had lost in parting with the Gaelic tongue was decisively begun.' Yet though Ferguson was an accomplished Irish scholar, and drew largely upon Irish bardic sources for the subjects of his poems, it may be doubted whether he ever consciously identified himself with the revival which is ascribed to him.

With a clangorous cry of wrath and lamentation
That filled the wide mountain hall,

O'er the bare deserted place of his plundered eyry ;
And I said, as he screamed and soared,
'So callest thou, thou wrathful-soaring Thomas Davis,
For a nation's rights restored!'

And, alas! to think but now, and thou art lying,
Dear Davis, dead at thy mother's knee;
And I, no mother near, on my own sick-bed,
That face on earth shall never see;

I may lie and try to feel that I am not dreaming,
I may lie and try to say, 'Thy will be done'-
But a hundred such as I will never comfort Erin
For the loss of her noble son !

Young husbandman of Erin's fruitful seed-time,
In the fresh track of danger's plough!
Who will walk the weary, toilsome, perilous furrow
Girt with freedom's seed-sheets now?

Who will banish with the wholesome crop of knowledge
The flaunting weed and the bitter thorn,

Now that thou thyself art but a seed for hopeful planting Against the Resurrection morn?

Young salmon of the flood-tide of freedom

That swells round Erin's shore !

Thou wilt leap against their loud oppressive torrent
Of bigotry and hate no more:

Drawn downward by their prone material instinct,

Let them thunder on their rocks and foam--
Thou hast leaped, aspiring soul, to founts beyond their
Where troubled waters never come! [raging,

But I grieve not, eagle of the empty eyry,
That thy wrathful cry is still;

And that the songs alone of peaceful mourners
Are heard to-day on Erin's hill ;

Better far, if brothers' war be destined for us,
(God avert that horrid day, I pray !)
That ere our hands be stained with slaughter fratricidal
Thy warm heart should be cold in clay.

But my trust is strong in God, who made us brothers,
That He will not suffer those right hands
Which thou hast joined in holier rites than wedlock
To draw opposing brands.

Oh, many a tuneful tongue that thou mad'st vocal
Would lie cold and silent then;

And songless long once more, should often-widowed Erin
Mourn the loss of her brave young men.

Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise, 'Tis on you my hopes are set,

In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,
To make Erin a nation yet.

Self-respecting, self-relying, self-advancing,

In union, or in severance, free and strong,

And if God grant this, then, under God, to Thomas Davis Let the greater praise belong.

The Fair Hills of Ireland.

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,
Uileacan dubh O!
Oh, sad lament!
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow
Uileacan dubh O!
[barley ear,
There is honey in the trees where the misty vales expand,
And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters
fanned;

There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the
On the fair hills of holy Ireland. [yellow sand

Curled he is and ringletted, and plaited to the knee,
Uileacan dubh O!

Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea,
Uileacan dubh O!

And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,
Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,
And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high
command,

For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,
Uileacan dubh O!

The butter and the cream do wondrously abound,
Uileacan dubh O!

The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland,
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the
forests grand

On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Sir Samuel Ferguson in the Ireland of his Day, by Lady Ferguson; Memoir by Miss Stokes in Blackwood's Magazine (1886). Besides the volumes mentioned above, some posthumously published works have appeared-Ogham Inscriptions in Ireland, Wales, and Scotland; The Remains of St Patrick; and Lays of the Red Branch.

wanting in technical perfection, their force, their passion, and their intensity were characteristic of the Celtic imagination at its strongest. The sources of Davis's power, the fascination he exerted upon the people to whom he dedicated his life, and the loftiness of his ideals are well indicated in Sir Samuel Ferguson's impressive Lament for Thomas Davis. My Land.

She is a rich and rare land;

Oh! she's a fresh and fair land; She is a dear and fair landThis native land of mine.

No men than hers are braver― Her women's hearts ne'er waver ; I'd freely die to save her,

And think my lot divine.

She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land-
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border-
No friend within it pine!

Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she's a true and rare land;
Yes! she's a rare and fair land—
This native land of mine.

The Sack of Baltimore.

The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred islesThe summer sun is gleaming through Gabriel's rough defiles

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ; The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play;

The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray

And full of love and peace and rest, its daily labour o'er, Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

All, all asleep within each roof, along that rocky street; And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet

A stifled gasp! a dreary noise! 'The roof is in a flame!' From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl

The yell of 'Allah' breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar

Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

'Tis two long years since sank the town beneath that bloody band,

And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,

Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen— 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he who steered the Algerine!

He fell amid a sudden shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there

Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er

Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-73) occupies a place by himself among Irish men of letters of the nineteenth century, for, though belonging in many respects to the school of Carleton, Lover, and Lever, he possessed imaginative qualities of a different and perhaps higher kind than they, though in characteristically Irish humour he is hardly their equal. Le Fanu was the son of a dean of the Irish Establishment, whose mother was a sister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. In 1833, after a private education, he entered Trinity College, Dublin. While at the university he began his literary career as a contributor to the Dublin University Magazine, with which he was for the rest of his career closely identified, ultimately becoming its proprietor, and it was in the pages of that periodical that most of his novels first appeared. In 1839 Le Fanu was called to the Bar, but becoming in the same year the owner and editor of a Dublin evening paper, he devoted himself thenceforward to letters and journalism. Le Fanu's early fame was won as the author of two extraordinarily successful Irish ballads, Phaudrig Croohoore and Shamus O'Brien, of which the latter was long attributed to Lover, who greatly contributed to its popularity by reciting it in America. But his poetical reputation rests almost exclusively on these pieces, for the Poems, posthumously collected in 1896, though more akin than these ballads to the qualities of his prose works, can hardly be said to have impressed the public. Le Fanu's earliest effort in prose was the Purcell Papers, a series of short tales; and this was followed by The Cock and Anchor (1845), a chronicle of old Dublin, and Torlogh O'Brien (1847). It was not, however, until many more years had elapsed that he won with The House by the Churchyard (1863) an acknowledged position. as a master of the mysterious and supernatural in prose fiction. The remaining ten years of Le Fanu's life were marked by a rapid succession of novels, of which Uncle Silas (1864), Guy Deverell (1865), The Tenants of Malory (1867), and In a Glass Darkly (1872) have perhaps proved the most popular. His last novel, Willing to Die, was published after his death. Besides the tragic elements of the terrible and the mysterious which give them a distinctive note, Le Fanu's novels are admirable for their constructive excellence and for their narrative vigour.

The Hour of Death.

It was a very still night and frosty. My candle had long burnt out. There was still a faint moonlight, which fell in a square of yellow on the floor near the window, leaving the rest of the room in what to an eye less accustomed than mine had become to that faint light would