Thus kindly I scatter Thy globe o'er the street, In a not unjustified protest against the acceptance. of Irish songs manufactured for the English market, he comments on the rhyming of 'girls' and 'bells :' The rhyme here marks this brute [the author] to be a bestial Cockney.' The Berkeley Castle review not merely calls the novel 'in conception the most impertinent, in execution about the stupidest it has ever been our misfortune to read,' and comments on its horribly vulgar and ungrammatical writing;' but on the moral side speaks of 'looseness and dirt and these bestialities towards the ladies of England;' asks (by name) the peer to whose wife the novel was dedicated if he could not borrow a horsewhip to avenge such an insult; and to emphasise the bad taste of the author's family pride in naming the novel, dwells on the fact that the author's mother lived with his father as his mistress before she was married to him. From 'Bob Burke's Duel.' a 'The day of that hunt was the very day that led to my duel with Brady. He was a long, straddling, waddlemouthed chap, who had no more notion of riding a hunt than a rhinoceros. He was mounted on a showyenough-looking mare, which had been nerved by Rodolphus Bootiman, the horse-doctor, and though good un to look at, was a rum 'un to go;" and before she was nerved, all the work had been taken out of her by long Lanty Philpot, who sold her to Brady after dinner for fifty pounds, she being not worth twenty in her best day, and Brady giving his bill at three months for the fifty. My friend the ensign was no judge of a horse, and the event showed that my cousin Lanty was no judge of a bill-not a cross of the fifty having been paid from that day to this, and it is out of the question now, it being long past the statute of limitations, to say nothing of Brady having since twice taken the benefit of the Act. So both parties jockeyed one another, having that pleasure, which must do them instead of profit. 'She was a bay chestnut, and nothing would do Brady but he must run her at a little gap which Miss Dosy was going to clear, in order to show his gallantry and agility; and certainly I must do him the credit to say that he did get his mare on the gap, which was no small feat, but there she broke down, and off went Brady, neck and crop, into as fine a pool of stagnant green mud as you would ever wish to see. He was ducked regularly in it, and he came out, if not in the jacket, yet in the colours, of the Rifle Brigade, looking rueful enough at his misfortune, as you may suppose. But he had not much time to think of the figure he cut, for before he could well get up, who should come right slap over him but Miss Dosy herself upon Tom the Devil, having cleared the gap and a yard beyond the pool in fine style. Brady ducked, and escaped the horse, a little fresh daubing being of less consequence than the knocking out of his brains, if he had any; but he did not escape a smart rap from a stone which one of Tom's heels flung back with such unlucky accuracy as to hit Brady right in the mouth, knocking out one of his eye-teeth (which I do not recollect). Brady clapped his hand to his mouth, and bawled, as any man might do in such a case, so loud that Miss Dosy checked Tom for a minute, to turn round, and there she saw him making the most horrid faces in the world, his mouth streaming blood, and himself painted green from head to foot with as pretty a coat of shining slime as was to be found in the province of Munster. "That's the gentleman you just leapt over, Miss Dosy," said I, for I had joined her, "and he seems to be in some confusion." "I am sorry," said she, "Bob, that I should have in any way offended him or any other gentleman by leaping over him, but I can't wait now. Take him my compliments, and tell him I should be happy to see him at tea at six o'clock this evening, in a different suit." Off she went, and I rode back with her message (by which means I was thrown out), and, would you believe it, he had the ill manners to say 66 the h- -;" but I shall not repeat what he said. It was impolite to the last degree, not to say profane, but perhaps he may be somewhat excused under his peculiar circumstances. There is no knowing what even Job himself might have said immediately after having been thrown off his horse into a green pool, with his eye-tooth knocked out, his mouth full of mud and blood, on being asked to a tea-party. 'He-Brady, not Job-went, nevertheless-for, on our return to Miss Dosy's lodgings we found a triangular note, beautifully perfumed, expressing his gratitude for her kind invitation, and telling her not to think of the slight accident which had occurred. How it happened, he added, he could not conceive, his mare never having broken down with him before-which was true enough, as that was the first day he ever mounted her-and she having been bought by himself at a sale of the Earl of Darlington's horses last year, for two hundred guineas. She was a great favourite, he went on to say, with the Earl, who often rode her, and ran at Doncaster by the name of Miss Russell. All this latter part of the note was not quite so true, but then it must be admitted that when we talk about horses we are not tied down to be exact to a letter. If we were, God help Tattersal's! 'To tea, accordingly, the ensign came at six, wiped clean, and in a different set-out altogether from what he appeared in on emerging from the ditch. He was, to make use of a phrase introduced from the ancient Latin into the modern Greek, togged up in the most approved style of his Majesty's Forty-eighth foot. Bright was the scarlet of his coat-deep the blue of his facings.' 'I beg your pardon,' said Antony Harrison, here interrupting the speaker; 'the Forty-eighth are not royals, and you ought to know that no regiment but those which are royal sport blue facings. I remember, once upon a time, in a coffee-shop, detecting a very smart fellow, who wrote some clever things in a Magazine published in Edinburgh by one Blackwood, under the character of a military man, not to be anything of the kind, by his talking about ensigns in the fusileers-all the world knowing that in the fusileers there are no ensigns, but in their place second lieutenants. Let me set you right there, Bob; the facings your friend Brady exhibited to the wondering gaze of the Mallow tea-table must have been buff-pale buff.' 'Buff, black, blue, brown, yellow, Pompadour, brickdust, no matter what they were,' continued Burke, in no wise pleased by the interruption, 'they were as bright as they could be made, and so was all the lace, and other traps which I shall not specify more minutely, as I am in presence of so sharp a critic. He was, in fact, in full dress-as you know is done in country quarters-and being not a bad plan and elevation of a man, looked well enough. Miss Dosy, I perceived, had not been perfectly ignorant of the rank and condition of the gentleman over whom she had leaped, for she was dressed in her purple satin body and white skirt, which she always put on when she wished to be irresistible, and her hair was suffered to flow in long ringlets down her fair neck--and, by Jupiter! it was fair as a swan's, and as majestic too-and no mistake. Yes! Dosy Macnamara looked divine that evening. 'Never mind! Tea was brought in by Mary Keefe, and it was just as all other teas have been and will be. Do not, however, confound it with the wafer-sliced and hot watered abominations which are inflicted, perhaps justly, on the wretched individuals who are guilty of haunting soirées and conversaziones in this good and bad city of London. The tea was congou or souchong, or some other of these Chinese affairs, for anything I know to the contrary; for, having dined at the house, I was mixing my fifth tumbler when tea was brought in, and Mrs Macnamara begged me not to disturb myself; and she being a lady for whom I had a great respect, I complied with her desire; but there was a potato-cake, an inch thick and two feet in diameter, which Mrs Macnamara informed me in a whisper was made by Dosy after the hunt. "Poor chicken," she said, "if she had the strength, she has the willingness; but she is so delicate. If you saw her handling the potatoes to-day." "Madam," said I, looking tender and putting my hand on my heart, "I wish I was a potato!" 'I thought this was an uncommonly pathetic wish, after the manner of the Persian poet Hafiz, but it was scarcely out of my mouth when Ensign Brady, taking a cup of tea from Miss Dosy's hand, looking upon me with an air of infinite condescension, declared that I must be the happiest of men, as my wish was granted before it was made. I was preparing to answer, but Miss Dosy laughed so loud that I had not time, and my only resource was to swallow what I had just made. The ensign followed up his victory without mercy.' See the Life by R. W. Montagu, prefixed to Maginn's Miscel lanies (2 vols. 1885). The Gallery was republished in 1874 and, edited by Bates, in 1883. Francis Sylvester Mahony (1804-66), the creator of Father Prout and the Oliver Yorke of Fraser's Magazine, was, like Maginn, a native of Cork, and even more scholarly, accomplished, versatile, witty, and gifted with facile and felicitous utterance in prose and verse. He was educated at St Acheul, the Jesuit college at Amiens, and in Paris; among the Jesuits he lived, as he said, in an atmosphere of Latin, and became a first-rate Latin scholar. He was admitted to the Society, taught in an Irish college, but for extraordinarily unconventional irregularities in a seminarist (including coursing and deep drinking) was pronounced to be no longer a Jesuit in 1830, and, obtaining with some difficulty priest's orders in 1832, officiated at Cork. But erelong he quarrelled with his bishop, and, settling in London, became one of the writers in Fraser's Magazine; and during 1834-36 he contributed a series of papers, afterwards collected as The Reliques of Father Prout. From the gay tavern life of the 'Fraserians,' Mahony went abroad and travelled, 1837-41, in Hungary, Greece, and Asia Minor. He became in 1846 Roman correspondent of the Daily News, and his letters were in 1847 collected and published as Facts and Figures from Italy, by Don Jeremy Savonarola, Benedictine Monk. For the last eight years of his life-quite Bohemian, though latterly his wit became more caustic and his ways less sociable-he lived chiefly in Paris, and was the correspondent of the Globe, his letters forming the chief attraction of that journal. He died reconciled to the Church. A volume of Final Memorials of Father Prout, published in 1876 by Blanchard Jerrold, sufficiently illustrated Mahony's wonderful facility in Latin composition, his wit, quaint sayings, genial outbursts of sentiment, pathos, absurdity and satire jumbled together, and a certain reverence for religion among all his convivialities. James Hannay said of him: 'Mahoney's fun is essentially Irish-fanciful, playful, odd, irregular, and more grotesque than Northern fun. In one of his own phrases, he is an Irish potato, seasoned with Attic salt.' Much of the fun of the Reliques arises out of Father Prout's regretful proof that the best songs of some of the most admired modern authors are the merest plagiarisms or translations from ancient Greek, mediæval Latin, or old French originals, which he solemnly produces with dates and all necessary particulars to authenticate them-the poems and the facts all alike out of his own head. And he often pursued his jest beyond the limits prescribed by piety to the dead and by good taste, and the fun evaporates in tedium or annoyance. Father Prout declares himself to have been the son of Dean Swift by Stella, to whom the Dean had been privately married; and the Dean's madness was wholly occasioned, not by the causes usually alleged, but by the kidnapping of this (purely supposititious) son by William Wood, the halfpenny hero whom Swift denounced. In the article Wolfe (Vol. II. p. 788) we have given a verse of Father Prout's French original for 'The Burial of Sir John Moore.' 'John Anderson, my jo,' was a mere translation by Burns into Scotch of the Latin original, duly produced by the Admirable Crichton-the Scotch version is even extended to The good Father had special joy in proving Moore's 'Irish Melodies' to be the merest translations from Greek, Latin, or French, as the case might be. This is part of a chapter of the Reliques: seven verses. From 'The Rogueries of Tom Moore.' The Blarney-stone in my neighbourhood has attracted hither many an illustrious visitor; but none has been so assiduous a pilgrim in my time as Tom Moore. While he was engaged in his best and most unexceptionable work on the melodious ballads of his country, he came regularly every summer, and did me the honour to share my humble roof repeatedly. He knows well how often he plagued me to supply him with original songs which I had picked up in France among the merry troubadours and carol-loving inhabitants of that once happy land, and to what extent he has transferred these foreign inventions into the Irish Melodies.' Like the robber Cacus, he generally dragged the plundered cattle by the tail, so as that, moving backwards into his cavern of stolen goods, the foot-tracks might not lead to detection. Some songs he would turn upside down, by a figure in rhetoric called ὕστερον πρότερον ; others he would disguise in various shapes; but he would still worry me to supply him with the productions of the Gallic muse; 'for, d'ye see, old Prout,' the rogue would say, 'The best of all ways To lengthen our lays, Is to steal a few thoughts from the French, "my dear." Now I would have let him enjoy unmolested the renown which these Melodies' have obtained for him; but his last treachery to my round-tower friend [a bogus plagiarism from an Irish antiquary] has raised my bile, and I shall give evidence of the unsuspected robberies: 'Abstractæque boves abjuratæque rapinæ It would be easy to point out detached fragments and stray metaphors, which he has scattered here and there in such gay confusion that every page has within its limits a mass of felony and plagiarism sufficient to hang him. For instance, I need only advert to his 'Bard's Legacy.' Even on his dying bed this 'dying bard' cannot help indulging his evil pranks; for, in bequeathing his heart' to his 'mistress dear,' and recommending her to borrow' balmy drops of port wine to bathe the relic, he is all the while robbing old Clement Marot, who thus disposes of his remains : 'Quand je suis mort, je veux qu'on m'entère Le corps sous un tonneau de Madère, But I won't strain at a gnat when I can capture a camel-a huge dromedary laden with pilfered spoil; for, would you believe it if you had never learned it from Prout, the very opening and foremost song of the collection, 'Go where glory waits thee,' is but a literal and servile translation of an old French ditty which is among my papers, and which I believe to have been composed by that beautiful and interesting ladye,' Françoise de Foix, Comtesse de Chateaubriand, born in 1491, and the favourite of Francis I., who soon abandoned her; indeed, the lines appear to anticipate his infidelity. They were written before the battle of Pavia. Chanson de la Comtesse de Chateaubriand à François I. Ce cœur, qu'il pense à moi ! Pense encore à moi ! Regnera sur toi ; Mais quand ta lèvre presse Méchant, pense à moi ! . Tom Moore's Translation of this Song in the 'Irish Melodies." Go where glory waits thee; Oh, still remember me! Oh, then remember me ! Oh, then remember me ! . A page or two later he gives the Latin original of 'Lesbia hath a beaming eye,' as written originally by himself, and sung by him to Moore in his parsonage of Watergrasshill ('Lesbia semper hic et inde Oculorum tela movit'). Mahony either in his own character or as Father Prout made really brilliant and melodious verse renderings from the classics and from the French and Italian; his renderings from Horace are in a wonderful and apt variety of rhyme and measure. Thus he renders the first verse of the Second Ode: Since Jove decreed in storms to vent The winter of his discontent, Thundering o'er Rome impenitent With red right hand, The flood-gates of the firmament Have drenched the land. And Ode Ninth begins thus: See how the winter blanches Groan from the weight of snow! Rivers within their channels. And he translated English songs, as we have seen, into most plausible Latin and French. His translation of Gresset's Vert-Vert, the Parrot, reads wonderfully like an Ingoldsby Legend. His chapter on Modern Latin Poets' contains articles on and translations from Vida, Sarbiewski, Beza, Sannazar, Fracastoro, George Buchanan, and others. It is not always easy to know whether the Father is citing historical fact or giving pure imagination with circumstantial details, as in the case of the celebrated poem, De Connubiis Florum,' by Diarmid M'Encroe from Kerry, published at Paris in 1727, which was the sole original of Erasmus Darwin's Loves of the Plants. 'The Groves of Blarney' would seem to exist in Greek, Latin, French, and old Irish MSS., FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY. From a Photograph. if we believe this veracious authority. He may, like one of his protégés, be said to have defied the Royal Irish Academy, a learned assembly which, alas! has neither a body to be kicked nor a soul to be damned.' 'The Shandon Bells' was one of the songs sung by Father Prout to Tom Moore, and on it, we are told, the ungracious guest, without acknowledgment, rings the changes in his 'Evening Bells.' The Shandon Bells. I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee; I've heard bells chiming, Cathedral shrine; Brass tongues would vibrate- Spoke nought like thine; Its bold notes free, Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling From the Vatican; Of Notre Dame. But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly O the bells of Shandon Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk O, In Saint Sophia, The Turkman gets; And loud in air Calls men to prayer, Of the river Lee. Besides the volume of Final Reliques, there is an edition of The Works of Father Prout by Charles Kent (1881). Pierce Egan (1772-1849), a Londoner by birth, and the most popular sporting journalist of his day, is remembered as the author of Life in London, or the Days and Nights of Jerry Hawthorne and his elegant friend Corinthian Tom, a tale, or rather a series of sketches, which is said to have taken town and country by storm when it appeared in 1821. Thackeray has immortalised it in one of the best of his Roundabout Papers, where, however, he very fairly indicates its literary worth by confessing that on reperusal he found it 'a little vulgar,' and as a description of the sports and amusements of London in the Regency days, 'more curious than amusing.' Not a little of its interest is due to Cruikshank's illustrations. Its author, who spent his life in frequenting and reporting all the more notable races, prize-fights, cock-fights, cricket-matches, and executions in England, produced many other ephemeral works of a similar kind, among which Boxiana (1818) and The Loves of Florizel and Perdita (the Prince Regent and Mary Robinson, 1814) may be mentioned. He also published in 1828 a continuation of Life in London (republished in 1871), moralising its theme and killing off or converting its characters. His son, Pierce Egan the younger (1814-80), an etcher who illustrated his own and his father's works, was also a diligent journalist, and wrote more than twenty indifferent novels, one of which, The Snake in the Grass, published first in 1858, was reprinted in 1887. George Combe (1788–1858), phrenologist, was born, a brewer's son, in Edinburgh, and, bred a Writer to the Signet, practised till 1837, when he devoted himself to popularising his views on phrenology and education. A disciple of Spurzheim, he wrote two works on phrenology (1819 and 1824), one of which passed through a dozen editions ; but his most important was The Constitution of Man (1828; 12th ed. 1900), which was violently opposed as materialist, subversive of the belief in immortality, and inimical to revealed religion. He laboured earnestly to reform education on rational and scientific principles; travelled and lectured at home, on the Continent, and in the United States; and published books on popular education, moral philosophy, criminal legislation, currency questions, and the relation between science and religion. Combe's ideas on popular education, anticipating modern methods, were carried out for some years in a secular school which he founded in Edinburgh in 1848, where the sciences were systematically taught, including physiology-and, as was inevitable, phrenology. was inevitable, phrenology. He was an intimate friend of Robert Chambers, Richard Cobden, and George Eliot; and his wife was a daughter of the great Mrs Siddons. There is a Life by Charles Gibbon (1878); and Combe's views and articles on Education were collected by Jolly (1879). George Combe wrote also a Life of his brother Andrew (1797-1847), physician to the king of the Belgians and to Queen Victoria, and author of a successful work on physiology. A Combe lectureship seeks to awaken public interest in the importance of physiology and hygiene in education and morals. Thomas Erskine (1788–1870) of Linlathen was admitted advocate in 1810, but ceased to practise after his elder brother's death gave him the estate of Linlathen near Dundee. He was a man of a warmly devotional religious temperament, and the main aim of his half-dozen theological works, next to the promotion of pure religion and undefiled, was to insist on the ultimate universal salvation of mankind, and to argue that the conscience, and not miracle, was the chief evidence for a divine revelation. He strongly supported Macleod Campbell, deposed by the Church of Scotland for his doctrine of universal pardon and atonement through Christ; and amongst his intimate friends were men so unlike in their theological sympathies as F. D. Maurice, Dean Stanley, Carlyle, PrévostParadol, Vinet, and the Monods. See Erskine's Letters, edited by Dr Hanna (1877–78). Sir Francis Palgrave (1788-1861) was long deputy-keeper of the Public Records, and an indefatigable student of our early history. He was the son of Meyer Cohen, a Jewish stockbroker in London; but at his marriage (1823), having become a Christian, he assumed his mother's maiden name of Palgrave. He was articled to a solicitor; in 1827 was called to the Bar, pleading mainly in pedigree cases before the House of Lords; was a frequent contributor to the reviews ; and in 1831 contributed to Murray's 'Family Library' a History of England in the AngloSaxon period. Next year appeared his Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth—a work which contains a mass of information regarding the most obscure part of our annals, with original records concerning the political institutions of ancient Europe. He afterwards wrote a more elaborate history, the last two volumes of which were published after his death-The History of Normandy and England (4 vols. 1851-64), which brings down the history to the death of Rufus. England owes him a debt of gratitude for the light he threw on the origin of its people and institutions. Hallam and Freeman, though dissenting from some of his conclusions, both highly praised his great achievement-that of making mediæval history intelligible. He insisted, rightly, as Freeman says, that European society and civilisation depended on the influence of Rome long after the fifth century, even when she had fallen and was 'tattered, sordid, and faded as was her imperial robe;' the chiefs of the barbarian dynasties assumed the semblance of the Cæsars, and employed their titles and symbols. Sir Francis, who was knighted in 1832 and was F.R.S., carefully arranged heretofore inaccessible piles of national documents, reported on them as deputy-keeper, and edited for the Record Commission Calendars of the Treasury, Documents illustrative of the History of Scotland, &c., wrote on the feudal system, Truths and Fictions of the Middle Ages, and a Hand-book for Travellers in |