THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE, LONDON, E.C.
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,
153–157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
1908.
CONTENTS.
| PAGE | |
|---|---|
| Introduction | [xi] |
| Exorcising the Demon of Voracity—From the Irish | [1] |
| The Roman Earl—From the Irish | [7] |
| The Fellow in the Goat-Skin—Folk-Tale | [9] |
| Often-who-Came and Seldom-who-Came—From the Irish | [22] |
| The Old Crow and the Young Crow—From the Irish | [23] |
| Roger and the Grey Mare—Folk-Poem | [23] |
| Will o’ the Wisp—Folk-Tale | [25] |
| Epigrams and Riddles—From the Irish | [32] |
| Donald and his Neighbours—Folk-Tale | [34] |
| The Woman of Three Cows—From the Irish | [39] |
| In Praise of Digressions—Jonathan Swift | [41] |
| A Rhapsody on Poetry—Jonathan Swift | [45] |
| Letter from a Liar—Sir Richard Steele | [50] |
| Epigrams—John Winstanley | [55] |
| A Fine Lady—George Farquhar | [56] |
| The Borrower—George Farquhar | [60] |
| Widow Wadman’s Eye—Laurence Sterne | [67] |
| Bumpers, Squire Jones—Arthur Dawson | [70] |
| Jack Lofty—Oliver Goldsmith | [73] |
| Beau Tibbs—Oliver Goldsmith | [84] |
| The Friar of Orders Grey—John O’Keeffe | [93] |
| The Tailor and the Undertaker—John O’Keeffe | [94] |
| Tom Grog—John O’Keeffe | [97] |
| Bulls—Sir Boyle Roche | [101] |
| The Monks of the Screw—J. P. Curran | [102] |
| Ana—J. P. Curran | [103] |
| The Cruiskeen Lawn—Anonymous | [105] |
| The Scandal-Mongers—R. B. Sheridan | [108] |
| Captain Absolute’s Submission—R. B. Sheridan | [115] |
| Ana—R. B. Sheridan | [124] |
| My Ambition—Edward Lysaght | [126] |
| A Warehouse for Wit—George Canning | [127] |
| Conjugal Affection—Thomas Cannings | [130] |
| Whisky, Drink Divine!—Joseph O’Leary | [130] |
| To a Young Lady Blowing a Turf Fire with her Petticoat—Anonymous | [132] |
| Epigrams, etc.—Henry Luttrell | [133] |
| Letter from Miss Betty Fudge—Thomas Moore | [134] |
| Montmorenci and Cherubina—E. S. Barrett | [137] |
| Modern Mediævalism—E. S. Barrett | [141] |
| The Night before Larry was Stretched—William Maher(?) | [145] |
| Darby Doyle’s Voyage to Quebec—Thomas Ettingsall | [148] |
| St. Patrick of Ireland, my Dear!—Dr. William Maginn | [160] |
| The Last Lamp of the Alley—Dr. William Maginn | [164] |
| Thoughts and Maxims—Dr. William Maginn | [166] |
| The Gathering of the Mahonys—Dr. William Maginn | [173] |
| Daniel O’Rourke—Dr. William Maginn | [175] |
| The Humours of Donnybrook Fair—Charles O’Flaherty | [184] |
| The Night-Cap—T. H. Porter | [187] |
| Kitty of Coleraine—Anonymous | [188] |
| Giving Credit—William Carleton | [190] |
| Brian O’Linn—Anonymous | [198] |
| The Turkey and the Goose—J. A. Wade | [200] |
| Widow Machree—Samuel Lover | [202] |
| Barney O’Hea—Samuel Lover | [204] |
| Molly Carew—Samuel Lover | [206] |
| Handy Andy and the Postmaster—Samuel Lover | [209] |
| The Little Weaver of Duleek Gate—Samuel Lover | [213] |
| Bellewstown Hill—Anonymous | [228] |
| The Peeler and the Goat—Jeremiah O’Ryan | [231] |
| The Loquacious Barber—Gerald Griffin | [234] |
| Nell Flaherty’s Drake—Anonymous | [239] |
| Elegy on Himself—F. S. Mahony (“Father Prout”) | [242] |
| Bob Mahon’s Story—Charles Lever | [243] |
| The Widow Malone—Charles Lever | [253] |
| The Girls of the West—Charles Lever | [255] |
| The Man for Galway—Charles Lever | [256] |
| How Con Cregan’s Father Left Himself a Bit of Land—Charles Lever | [257] |
| Katey’s Letter—Lady Dufferin | [264] |
| Dance Light, for my Heart it lies under your Feet, Love—Dr. J. F. Waller | [266] |
| Father Tom’s Wager with the Pope—Sir Samuel Ferguson | [267] |
| The Ould Irish Jig—James McKowen | [271] |
| Molly Muldoon—Anonymous | [273] |
| The Quare Gander—J. S. Lefanu | [279] |
| Table-Talk—Dr. E. V. H. Kenealy | [288] |
| Advice to a Young Poet—R. D. Williams | [290] |
| Saint Kevin and King O’Toole—Thomas Shalvey | [291] |
| The Shaughraun—Dion Boucicault | [294] |
| Rackrenters on the Stump—T. D. Sullivan | [298] |
| Lanigan’s Ball—Anonymous | [306] |
| The Widow’s Lament—Anonymous | [308] |
| Whisky and Wather—Anonymous | [310] |
| The Thrush and the Blackbird—C. J. Kickham | [314] |
| Irish Astronomy—C. G. Halpine | [320] |
| Paddy Fret, the Priest’s Boy—J. F. O’Donnell | [322] |
| O’Shanahan Dhu—J. J. Bourke | [329] |
| Shane Glas—J. J. Bourke | [332] |
| An Irish Story-Teller—Patrick O’Leary | [333] |
| The Haunted Shebeen—C. P. O’Conor | [337] |
| Fan Fitzgerl—A. P. Graves | [341] |
| Father O’Flynn—A. P. Graves | [343] |
| Philandering—William Boyle | [344] |
| Honied Persuasion—J. De Quincey | [345] |
| The First Lord Liftinant—W. P. French | [347] |
| The American Wake—F. A. Fahy | [355] |
| How to become a Poet—F. A. Fahy | [358] |
| The Donovans—F. A. Fahy | [368] |
| Petticoats down to my Knees—F. A. Fahy | [371] |
| Musical Experiences and Impressions—G. B. Shaw | [373] |
| From Portlaw to Paradise—Edmund Downey | [382] |
| The Dance at Marley—P. J. McCall | [393] |
| Fionn MacCumhail and the Princess—P. J. McCall | [397] |
| Tatther Jack Welsh—P. J. McCall | [403] |
| Their Last Race—Frank Mathew | [405] |
| In Blarney—P. J. Coleman | [409] |
| Bindin’ the Oats—P. J. Coleman | [411] |
| Selected Irish Proverbs, etc. | [414] |
| Biographical Index | [423] |
| Notes | [433] |
INTRODUCTION.
That the Irish people have a wide reputation for wit and humour is a fact which will not be disputed. Irish humour is no recent growth, as may be seen by the folk-lore, the proverbs, and the other traditional matter of the country. It is one of Ireland’s ancient characteristics, as some of its untranslated early literature would conclusively prove. The curious twelfth-century story of “The Vision of McConglinne” is a sample of this early Celtic humour. As the melancholy side of older Celtic literature has been more often emphasised and referred to, it is usually thought that the most striking features of that literature is its sadness. The proverbs, some of which are very ancient, are characteristic enough to show that the early Irish were of a naturally joyous turn, as a primitive people should be, for sadness generally comes with civilisation and knowledge; and the fragments of folk-lore that have so far been rescued impress us with the idea that its originators were homely, cheerful, and mirthful. The proverbs are so numerous and excellent that a good collection of them would be very valuable—yet to judge by Ray’s large volume, devoted to those of many nations, Ireland lacks wise sayings of this kind. He only quotes seven, some of which are wretched local phrases, and not Irish at all. The early humour of the Irish Celts is amusing in conception and in expression, and, when it is soured into satire, frequently of marvellous power and efficacy.
Those who possessed the gift of saying galling things were much dreaded, and it is not absolutely surprising that Aengus O’Daly and other satirists met with a retribution from those whom they had rendered wild with rage. In the early native literature the Saxon of course came in for his share of ridicule and scorn; but there is much less of it than might have been fairly expected, and if the bards railed at the invader, they quite as often assailed their own countrymen. One reason for the undoubted existence of a belief that the old Celts had little or no humour is that the reading of Irish history suggests it, and people may perhaps be forgiven for presuming it to be impossible to preserve humour under the doleful circumstances recorded by historians. And indeed if there was little to laugh at even before the English invasion, there was assuredly less after it. Life suddenly became tragic for the bards and the jesters. In place of the primitive amusements, the elementary pranks of the first ages, more serious matters were forced upon their attention, but appearances notwithstanding, the humorist thrived, and probably improved in the gloom overcasting the country; at any rate the innate good humour of the Irish refused to be completely stifled or restricted. Personalities were not the most popular subjects for ridicule, and the most detested characters, though often attacked in real earnest, were not the favourite themes with the wits. Cromwell’s name suggested a curse rather than a joke, and it is only your moderns—your Downeys and Frenches—who make a jest of him.
It being impossible to define humour or wit exactly, it is hardly wise to add another to the many failures attached to the attempt. But Irish humour, properly speaking, is, one may venture to say, more imaginative than any other. And it is probably less ill-natured than that of any other nation, though the Irish have a special aptness in the saying of things that wound, and the most illiterate of Irish peasants can put more scorn into a retort than the most highly educated of another race. There is sometimes a half-pathetic strain in the best Irish humorous writers, and just as in their saddest moments the people are inclined to joke, so in many writings where pathos predominates, the native humour gleams. If true Irish humour is not easily defined with precision, it is at least easily recognisable, there is so much buoyancy and movement in it, and usually so much expansion of heart. An eminent French writer described humour as a fusion of smiles and tears, but clearly that defines only one kind, and there are many varieties, almost as many, one might say, as there are humorists. The distinguishing between wit and humour is not so simple a matter as it looks, but one might hazard the opinion that while the one expresses indifference and irreverence, the other is redolent of feeling and sincerity. Humour and satire are extremes—the more barbed and keen a shaft, the more malicious and likely to hurt, whereas the genuine quality of humour partakes of tenderness and gentleness. Sheridan is an admirable example of a wit, while Lover represents humour in its most confiding aspect. There are intermediate kinds, however, and the malice of Curran’s repartees is not altogether akin to the rasping personalities of “Father Prout.” Irish humour is mainly a store of merriment pure and simple, without much personal taint, and does not profess to be philosophical. Human follies or deformities are rarely touched upon, and luckily Irish humorous writers do not attempt the didactic. In political warfare, however, many bitter taunts are heard, and it is somewhat regrettable that Irish politics should have absorbed so great a part of Irish wit, and turned what might have been pleasant reading into a succession of biting sarcasms. The Irish political satirists of the last and present centuries have often put themselves out of court by the ephemeral nature of their gibes no less than by the extra-ferocious tone they adopted. There is no denying the verve and point in the writings of Watty Cox, Dr. Brenan, William Norcott, and so on, but who can read them to-day with pleasure? Eaton Stannard Barrett’s “All the Talents,” after giving a nickname to a ministry, destroyed it; it served its purpose, and would be out of place if resurrected and placed in a popular collection, where the student of political history—to whom alone it is interesting and amusing—will hardly meet with it. Consequently political satire finds no place in this work, and even T. D. Sullivan, who particularly excels in personal and political squibs in verse, is shown only as the author of a prose sketch of more general application. Besides what has been wasted in this way, from a literary point of view, a good deal of the native element of wit has been dissipated as soon as uttered. After fulfilling its mission in enlivening a journey or in circling the festive board, it is forgotten and never appears in print. How many of Lysaght’s and Curran’s best quips are passed beyond recall? It cannot be that men like these obtained their great fame as wits on the few sample witticisms that have been preserved for us. Their literary remains are so scanty and inconsiderable, and their reputation so universal, that one can only suppose them to have been continuously coining jokes and squandering them in every direction.
Irish humour has been and is so prevalent, however, that in spite of many losses, there is abundant material for many volumes. It is imported into almost every incident and detail of Irish life—it overflows in the discussions of the local boards, is bandied about by carmen (who have gained much undeserved repute among tourists), comes down from the theatre galleries, is rife in the law courts, and chronic in the clubs, at the bar-dinners, and wherever there is dulness to be exorcised. Jokes being really as plentiful as blackberries, no one cares to hoard so common a product. A proof of the contempt into which the possession of wit or humour has fallen may be observed in the fact that no professedly comic paper has been able to survive for long the indifference of the Irish public. There have been some good ones in Dublin—notably, Zoz, Zozimus, Pat, and The Jarvey—but they have pined away in a comparatively short space of time, the only note of pathos about their brief existence being the invariable obituary announcement in the library catalogues—“No more published.” But their lives, if short, were merry ones. It was not their fault if the people did not require such aids to vivacity, being in general able to strike wit off the corners of any topic, no matter how unpromising it might appear. Naturally enough, the chief themes of the Irish humorist have been courting and drinking, with the occasional relief of a fight. The amativeness of the poets is little short of marvellous. Men like Lover (who has never been surpassed perhaps as a humorous love-poet) usually confined their humour in that groove; others, like Maginn, kept religiously to the tradition that liquor is the chief attraction in life, and the only possible theme for a wit after exhausting his pleasantries about persons. Maginn, however, was very much in earnest and did not respect the tradition simply because it was one, but solely on account of his belief in its wisdom. There can be no question, it seems to me, of Ireland’s supremacy in the literature devoted to Bacchus. It is another affair, of course, whether any credit attaches to the distinction. All the bards were not so fierce as Maginn in their likes and dislikes when the liquor was on the table. It may indeed be said of them in justice that their enthusiasm for the god of wine was often enough mere boastfulness. It is difficult to believe Tom Moore in his raptures about the joys of the bowl. He was no roysterer, and there is wanting in his Bacchanalian effusions, as in others of his light and graceful school, that reckless abandon of the more bibulous school. A glance at the lives of the Irish poets shows that a goodly number of them lived up to their professions. The glorification of the joys of the bottle by so many of our poets, their implication that from no other source is genius to be drawn, suggests that the Irish inclination to wit was induced by drinking long and deep. Sallies flowed therefrom, and the taciturn man without an idea developed under the genial influence into a delightful conversationalist. Yet as the professional humorist is often pictured as a very gloomy personage, gnawed by care and tortured by remorse, his pleasantries probably strike more in consequence of their vivid contrast to his dismal appearance. But to return to the bards’ love of liquor. One and all declare of the brown jug that “there’s inspiration in its foaming brim,” and what more natural than that they should devote the result to eulogy of the source. It may be somewhat consoling to reflect that often they were less reckless than they would have us believe. Something else besides poetic inspiration comes from the bowl, which, after all, only brings out the natural qualities.
As a rule, Irish poets have not extracted a pessimistic philosophy from liquor; they are “elevated,” not depressed, and do not deem it essential to the production of a poem that its author should be a cynic or an evil prophet. One of the best attributes of Irish poetry is its constant expression of the natural emotions. Previous to the close of the seventeenth century, it is said, drunkenness was not suggested by the poets as common in Ireland—the popularity of Bacchanalian songs since that date seems to prove that the vice soon became a virtue. Maginn is the noisiest of modern revellers, and easily roars the others down.