The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 50, June 12, 1841
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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 50, June 12, 1841

Author: Various

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THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

Number 50. | SATURDAY, JUNE 12, 1841. | Volume I.

THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN.
BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

The individual to whom the heading of this article is uniformly applied, stands, among the lower classes of his countrymen in a different light and position from any of those previous characters that we have already described to our readers. The intercourse which they maintain with the people is one that simply involves the means of procuring subsistence for themselves by the exercise of their professional skill, and their powers of contributing to the lighter enjoyments and more harmless amusements of their fellow-countrymen. All the collateral influences they possess, as arising from the hold which the peculiar nature of this intercourse gives them, generally affect individuals only on those minor points of feeling that act upon the lighter phases of domestic life. They bring little to society beyond the mere accessories that are appended to the general modes of life and manners, and consequently receive themselves as strong an impress from those with whom they mingle, as they communicate to them in return.

Now, the Prophecy Man presents a character far different from all this. With the ordinary habits of life he has little sympathy. The amusements of the people are to him little else than vanity, if not something worse. He despises that class of men who live and think only for the present, without ever once performing their duties to posterity, by looking into those great events that lie in the womb of futurity. Domestic joys or distresses do not in the least affect him, because the man has not to do with feelings or emotions, but with principles. The speculations in which he indulges, and by which his whole life and conduct are regulated, place him far above the usual impulses of humanity. He cares not much who has been married or who has died, for his mind is, in point of time, communing with unborn generations upon affairs of high and solemn import. The past, indeed, is to him something, the future every thing; but the present, unless when marked by the prophetic symbols, little or nothing. The topics of his conversation are vast and mighty, being nothing less than the fate of kingdoms, the revolution of empires, the ruin or establishment of creeds, the fall of monarchs, or the rise and prostration of principalities and powers. How can a mind thus engaged descend to those petty subjects of ordinary life which engage the common attention? How could a man hard at work in evolving out of prophecy the subjugation of some hostile state, care a farthing whether Loghlin Roe’s daughter was married to Gusty Given’s son, or not? The thing is impossible. Like fame, the head of the Prophecy Man is always in the clouds, but so much higher up as to be utterly above the reach of any intelligence that does not affect the fate of nations. There is an old anecdote told of a very high and a very low man meeting. “What news down there?” said the tall fellow. “Very little,” replied the other: “what kind of weather have you above?” Well indeed might the Prophecy Man ask what news there is below for his mind seldom leaves those aërial heights from which it watches the fate of Europe and the shadowing forth of future changes.

The Prophecy Man—that is, he who solely devotes himself to an anxious observation of those political occurrences which mark the signs of the times, as they bear upon the future, the principal business of whose life it is to associate them with his own prophetic theories—is now a rare character in Ireland. He was, however, a very marked one. The Shanahus and other itinerant characters had, when compared with him, a very limited beat indeed. Instead of being confined to a parish or a barony, the bounds of the Prophecy Man’s travels were those of the kingdom itself; and indeed some of them have been known to make excursions to the Highlands of Scotland, in order if possible to pick up old prophecies, and to make themselves, by cultivating an intimacy with the Scottish seers, capable of getting a clearer insight into futurity, and surer rules for developing the latent secrets of time.

One of the heaviest blows to the speculations of this class was the downfall and death of Bonaparte, especially the latter. There are still living, however, those who can get over this difficulty, and who will not hesitate to assure you, with a look of much mystery, that the real “Bonyparty” is alive and well, and will make his due appearance when the time comes; he who surrendered himself to the English being but an accomplice of the true one.

The next fact, and which I have alluded to in treating of the Shanahus, is the failure of the old prophecy that a George the Fourth would never sit on the throne of England. His coronation and reign, however, puzzled our prophets sadly, and indeed sent adrift for ever the pretensions of this prophecy to truth.

But that which has nearly overturned the system, and routed the whole prophetic host, is the failure of the speculations so confidently put forward by Dr Walmsey in his General History of the Christian Church, vulgarly called Pastorini’s Prophecy, he having assumed the name Pastorini as an incognito or nom de guerre. The theory of Pastorini was, that Protestantism and all descriptions of heresy would disappear about the year eighteen hundred and twenty-five, an inference which he drew with considerable ingenuity and learning from Scriptural prophecy, taken in connexion with past events, and which he argued with all the zeal and enthusiasm of a theorist naturally anxious to see the truth of his own prognostications verified. The failure of this, which was their great modern standard, has nearly demolished the political seers as a class, or compelled them to fall back upon the more antiquated revelations ascribed to St Columkill, St Bridget, and others.

Having thus, as is our usual custom, given what we conceive to be such preliminary observations as are necessary to make both the subject and the person more easily understood, we shall proceed to give a short sketch of the only Prophecy Man we ever saw who deserved properly to be called so, in the full and unrestricted sense of the term. This individual’s name was Barney M’Haighery, but in what part of Ireland he was born I am not able to inform the reader. All I know is, that he was spoken of on every occasion as The Prophecy Man; and that, although he could not himself read, he carried about with him, in a variety of pockets, several old books and manuscripts that treated upon his favourite subject.

Barney was a tall man, by no means meanly dressed; and it is necessary to say that he came not within the character or condition of a mendicant. On the contrary, he was considered as a person who must be received with respect, for the people knew perfectly well that it was not with every farmer in the neighbourhood he would condescend to sojourn. He had nothing of the ascetic and abstracted meagreness of the Prophet in his appearance. So far from that, he was inclined to corpulency; but, like a certain class of fat men, his natural disposition was calm, but at the same time not unmixed with something of the pensive. His habits of thinking, as might be expected, were quiet and meditative; his personal motions slow and regular; and his transitions from one resting-place to another never of such length during a single day as to exceed ten miles. At this easy rate, however, he traversed the whole kingdom several times; nor was there probably a local prophecy of any importance in the country with which he was not acquainted. He took much delight in the greater and lesser prophets of the Old Testament: but his heart and soul lay, as he expressed it, “in the Revelations of St John the Divine.”

His usual practice was, when the family came home at night from their labour, to stretch himself upon two chairs, his head resting upon the hob, with a boss for a pillow, his eyes closed, as a proof that his mind was deeply engaged with the matter in hand. In this attitude he got some one to read the particular prophecy upon which he wished to descant; and a most curious and amusing entertainment it generally was to hear the text, and his own singular and original commentaries upon it. That he must have been often hoaxed by wags and wits, was quite evident from the startling travesties of the text which had been put into his mouth, and which, having been once put there, his tenacious memory never forgot.

The fact of Barney’s arrival in the neighbourhood soon went abroad, and the natural consequence was, that the house in which he thought proper to reside for the time became crowded every night as soon as the hours of labour had passed, and the people got leisure to hear him. Having thus procured him an audience, it is full time that we should allow the fat old Prophet to speak for himself, and give us all an insight into futurity.

“Barney, ahagur,” the good man his host would say, “here’s a lot o’ the neighbours come to hear a whirrangue from you on the Prophecies; and, sure, if you can’t give it to them, who is there to be found that can?”

“Throth, Paddy Traynor, although I say it that should not say it, there’s truth in that, at all evints. The same knowledge has cost me many a weary blisthur an’ sore heel in huntin’ it up an’ down, through mountain an’ glen, in Ulsther, Munsther, Leinsther, an’ Connaught—not forgettin’ the Highlands of Scotland, where there’s what they call the ‘short prophecy,’ or second sight, but wherein there’s afther all but little of the Irish or long prophecy, that regards what’s to befall the winged woman that flown into the wilderness. No, no—their second sight isn’t thrue prophecy at all. If a man goes out to fish, or steal a cow, an’ that he happens to be drowned or shot, another man that has the second sight will see this in his mind about or afther the time it happens. Why, that’s little. Many a time our own Irish drames are aiqual to it; an’ indeed I have it from a knowledgeable man, that the gift they boast of has four parents—an empty stomach, thin air, a weak head, an’ strong whisky, an’ that a man must have all these, espishilly the last, before he can have the second sight properly; an’ it’s my own opinion. Now, I have a little book (indeed I left my books with a friend down at Errigle) that contains a prophecy of the milk-white hind an’ the bloody panther, an’ a forebodin’ of the slaughter there’s to be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as foretould by Beal Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who never was known to speak but when he prophesied, or to prophesy but when he spoke.”

“The Lord bless an’ keep us!—an’ why was he called the Man wid the Red Mouth, Barney?”

“I’ll tell you that: first, bekase he always prophesied about the slaughter an’ fightin’ that was to take place in the time to come; an’, secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that what he foretould was true.”

“Glory be to God! but that’s wondherful all out. Well, well!”

“Ay, an’ Beal Derg, or the Red Mouth, is still livin’.”

“Livin’! why, is he a man of our own time?”

“Our own time! The Lord help you! It’s more than a thousand years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this: he an’ the ten thousand witnesses are lyin’ in an enchanted sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains.”

“An’ how is that known, Barney?”

“It’s known. Every night at a certain hour one of the witnesses—an’ they’re all sogers, by the way—must come out to look for the sign that’s to come.”

“An’ what is that, Barney?”

“It’s the fiery cross; an’ when he sees one on aich of the four mountains of the north, he’s to know that the same sign’s abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal Derg an’ his men are then to waken up, an’ by their aid the Valley of the Black Pig is to be set free for ever.”

“An’ what is the Black Pig, Barney?”

“The Prospitarian church, that stretch from Enniskillen to Darry, an’ back again from Darry to Enniskillen.”

“Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing to be sure! Only think of men livin’ a thousand years!”

“Every night one of Beal Derg’s men must go to the mouth of the cave, which opens of itself, an’ then look out for the sign that’s expected. He walks up to the top of the mountain, an’ turns to the four corners of the heavens, to thry if he can see it; an’ when he finds that he can not, he goes back to Beal Derg, who, afther the other touches him, starts up, an’ axis him, ‘Is the time come?’ He replies, ‘No; the man is, but the hour is not!’ an’ that instant they’re both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an’ any one may go in that might happen to see it. One man it appears did, an’ wishin’ to know from curiosity whether the sogers were dead or livin’, he touched one of them wid his hand, who started up an’ axed him the same question, ‘Is the time come?’ Very fortunately he said ‘No;’ that minute the soger was as sound in his trance as before.”

“An’, Barney, what did the soger mane when he said, ‘The man is, but the hour is not?’”

“What did he mane? I’ll tell you that. The man is Bonyparty; which manes, when put into proper explanation, the right side; that is, the true cause. Larned men have found that out.”

“Barney, wasn’t Columkill a great prophet?”

“He was a great man entirely at prophecy, and so was St Bridget. He prophesied ‘that the cock wid the purple comb is to have both his wings clipped by one of his own breed before the struggle comes.’ Before that time, too, we’re to have the Black Militia, an’ afther that it is time for every man to be prepared.”

“An’, Barney, who is the cock wid the purple comb?”

“Why, the Orangemen to be sure. Isn’t purple their colour, the dirty thieves?”

“An’ the Black Militia, Barney, who are they?”

“I have gone far an’ near, through north an’ through south, up an’ down, by hill an’ hollow, till my toes were corned an’ my heels in griskins, but could find no one able to resolve that, or bring it clear out o’ the prophecy. They’re to be sogers in black, an’ all their arms an’ ’coutrements is to be the same colour; an’ farther than that is not known as yet.”

“It’s a wondher you don’t know it, Barney, for there’s little about prophecy that you haven’t at your finger ends.”

“Three birds is to meet (Barney proceeded in a kind of recitative enthusiasm) upon the saes—two ravens an’ a dove—the two ravens is to attack the dove until she’s at the point of death; but before they take her life, an eagle comes and tears the two ravens to pieces, an’ the dove recovers.

There’s to be two cries in the kingdom; one of them is to rache from the Giants’ Causeway to the centre house of the town of Sligo; the other is to rache from the Falls of Beleek to the Mill of Louth, which is to be turned three times with human blood; but this is not to happen until a man with two thumbs an’ six fingers upon his right hand happens to be the miller.”

“Who’s to give the sign of freedom to Ireland?”

“The little boy wid the red coat that’s born a dwarf, lives a giant, and dies a dwarf again! He’s lightest of foot, but leaves the heaviest foot-mark behind him. An’ it’s he that is to give the sign of freedom to Ireland!”

“There’s a period to come when Antichrist is to be upon the earth, attended by his two body servants Gog and Magog. Who are they, Barney?”

“They are the sons of Hegog an’ Shegog, or in other words, of Death an’ Damnation, and cousin-jarmins to the Devil himself, which of coorse is the raison why he promotes them.”

“Lord save us! But I hope that won’t he in our time, Barney!”

“Antichrist is to come from the land of Crame o’ Tarthar (Crim Tartary, according to Pastorini), which will account for himself an’ his army breathin’ fire an’ brimstone out of their mouths, according’ to the glorious Revelation of St John the Divine, an’ the great prophecy of Pastorini, both of which beautifully compromise upon the subject.

The prophet of the Black Stone is to come, who was born never to prognosticate a lie. He is to be a mighty hunter, an’ instead of riding to his fetlocks in blood, he is to ride upon it, to the admiration of his times. It’s of him it is said ‘that he is to be the only prophet that ever went on horseback!’

Then there’s Bardolphus, who, as there was a prophet wid the red mouth, is called ‘the prophet wid the red nose.’ Ireland was, it appears from ancient books, undher wather for many hundred years before her discovery; but bein’ allowed to become visible one day in every year, the enchantment was broken by a sword that was thrown upon the earth, an’ from that out she remained dry, an’ became inhabited. ‘Woe, woe, woe,’ says Bardolphus, ‘the time is to come when we’ll have a second deluge, an’ Ireland is to be undher wather once more. A well is to open at Cork that will cover the whole island from the Giants’ Causeway to Cape Clear. In them days St Patrick will be despised, an’ will stand over the pleasant houses wid his pasthoral crook in his hand, crying out Cead mille failtha in vain! Woe, woe, woe,’ says Bardolphus, ‘for in them days there will be a great confusion of colours among the people; there will be neither red noses nor pale cheeks, an’ the divine face of man, alas! will put forth blossoms no more. The heart of the times will become changed; an’ when they rise up in the morning, it will come to pass that there will be no longer light heads or shaking hands among Irishmen! Woe, woe, woe, men, women, and children will then die, an’ their only complaint, like all those who perished in the flood of ould, will be wather on the brain—wather on the brain! Woe, woe, woe,’ says Bardolphus, ‘for the changes that is to come, an’ the misfortunes that’s to befall the many for the noddification of the few! an’ yet such things must be, for I, in virtue of the red spirit that dwells in me, must prophesy them. In those times men will be shod in liquid fire an’ not be burned; their breeches shall be made of fire, an’ will not burn them; their bread shall be made of fire, an’ will not burn them; their meat shall be made of fire, an’ will not burn them; an’ why?—Oh, woe, woe, wather shall so prevail that the coolness of their bodies will keep them safe; yea, they shall even get fat, fair, an’ be full of health an’ strength, by wearing garments wrought out of liquid fire, by eating liquid fire, an’ all because they do not drink liquid fire—an’ this calamity shall come to pass,’ says Bardolphus, the prophet of the red nose.

Two widows shall be grinding at the Mill of Louth (so saith the prophecy); one shall be taken and the other left.”

Thus would Barney proceed, repeating such ludicrous and heterogeneous mixtures of old traditionary prophecies and spurious quotations from Scripture as were concocted for him by those who took delight in amusing themselves and others at the expense of his inordinate love for prophecy.

“But, Barney, touching the Mill o’ Louth, of the two widows grindin’ there, whether will the one that is taken or the one that is left be the best off?”

“The prophecy doesn’t say,” replied Barney, “an’ that’s a matther that larned men are very much divided about. My own opinion is, that the one that is taken will be the best off; for St Bridget says ‘that betune wars an’ pestilences an’ famine, the men are to be so scarce that several of them are to be torn to pieces by the women in their struggles to see who will get them for husbands.’[1] That time they say is to come.”

“But, Barney, isn’t there many ould prophecies about particular families in Ireland?”

“Ay, several: an’ I’ll tell you one of them, about a family that’s not far from us this minute. You all know the hangin’ wall of the ould Church of Ballynasaggart, in Errigle Keeran parish?”

“We do, to be sure; an’ we know the prophecy too.”

“Of coorse you do, bein’ in the neighbourhood. Well, what is it in the mean time?”

“Why, that it’s never to fall till it comes down upon an’ takes the life of a M’Mahon.”

“Right enough; but do you know the raison of it?”

“We can’t say that, Barney; but, however, we’re at home when you’re here.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. St Keeran was, may be, next to St Patrick himself, one of the greatest saints in Ireland, but any rate we may put him next to St Columkill. Now, you see, when he was building the church of Ballynasaggart, it came to pass that there arose a great famine in the land, an’ the saint found it hard to feed the workmen where there was no vittles. What to do, he knew not, an’ by coorse he was at a sad amplush, no doubt of it. At length says he, ‘Boys, we’re all hard set at present, an’ widout food bedad we can’t work; but if you observe my directions, we’ll contrive to have a bit o’ mate in the mean time, an’, among ourselves, it was seldom more wanted, for, to tell you the thruth, I never thought my back an’ belly would become so well acquainted. For the last three days they haven’t been asunder, an’ I find they are perfectly willing to part as soon as possible, an’ would be glad of any thing that ’ud put betune them.’

Now, the fact was, that, for drawin’ timber an’ stones, an’ all the necessary matayrials for the church, they had but one bullock, an’ him St Keeran resolved to kill in the evening, an’ to give them a fog meal of him. He accordingly slaughtered him with his own hands, ‘but,’ said he to the workmen, ‘mind what I say, boys: if any one of you breaks a single bone, even the smallest, or injures the hide in the laste, you’ll destroy all; an’ my sowl to glory but it’ll be worse for you besides.’

He then took all the flesh off the bones, but not till he had boiled them, of coorse; afther which he sewed them up again in the skin, an’ put them in the shed, wid a good wisp o’ straw before them; an’ glory be to God, what do you think, but the next mornin’ the bullock was alive, an’ in as good condition as ever he was in during his life! Betther fed workmen you couldn’t see, an’, bedad, the saint himself got so fat an’ rosy that you’d scarcely know him to be the same man afther it. Now, this went on for some time: whenever they wanted mate, the bullock was killed, an’ the bones an’ skin kept safe as before. At last it happened that a long-sided fellow among them named M’Mahon, not satisfied wid his allowance of the mate, took a fancy to have a lick at the marrow, an’ accordingly, in spite of all the saint said, he broke one of the legs an’ sucked the marrow out of it. But behold you!—the next day when they went to yoke the bullock, they found that he was useless, for the leg was broken an’ he couldn’t work. This, to be sure, was a sad misfortune to them all, but it couldn’t be helped, an’ they had to wait till betther times came; for the truth is, that afther the marrow is broken, no power of man could make the leg as it was before until the cure is brought about by time. However, the saint was very much vexed, an’ good right he had. ‘Now, M’Mahon,’ says he to the guilty man, ‘I ordher it, an’ prophesy that the church we’re building will never fall till it falls upon the head of some one of your name, if it was to stand a thousand years. Mark my words, for they must come to pass.’

An’ sure enough you know as well as I do that it’s all down long ago wid the exception of a piece of the wall, that’s not standin’ but hangin’, widout any visible support in life, an’ only propped up by the prophecy. It can’t fall till a M’Mahon comes undher it; but although there’s plenty of the name in the neighbourhood, ten o’ the strongest horses in the kingdom wouldn’t drag one of them widin half a mile of it. There, now, is the prophecy that belongs to the hangin’ wall of Ballynasaggart church.”

“But, Barney, didn’t you say something about the winged woman that flewn to the wildherness?”

“I did; that’s a deep point, an’ it’s few that undherstands it. The baste wid seven heads an’ ten horns is to come; an’ when he was to make his appearance, it was said to be time for them that might be alive then to go to their padareens.”

“What does the seven heads and ten horns mane, Barney?”

“Why, you see, as I am informed from good authority, the baste has come, an’ it’s clear from the ten horns that he could be no other than Harry the Eighth, who was married to five wives, an’ by all accounts they strengthened an’ ornamented him sore against his will. Now, set in case that each o’ them—five times two is ten—hut! the thing’s as clear as crystal. But I’ll prove it betther. You see the woman wid the two wings is the church, an’ she flew into the wildherness at the very time Harry the Eighth wid his ten horns on him was in his greatest power.”

“Bedad that’s puttin’ the explanations to it in great style.”

“But the woman wid the wings is only to be in the wildherness for a time, times, an’ half a time, that’s exactly three hundred an’ fifty years, an’ afther that there’s to be no more Prodestans.”

“Faith that’s great!”

“Sure Columkill prophesied that until H E M E I A M should come, the church would be in no danger, but that afther that she must be undher a cloud for a time, times, an’ half a time, jist in the same way.”

“Well, but how do you explain that, Barney?”

“An’ St Bridget prophesied that when D O C is uppermost, the church will be hard set in Ireland. But, indeed, there’s no end to the prophecies that there is concerning Ireland an’ the church. However, neighbours, do you know that I feel the heat o’ the fire has made me rather drowsy, an’ if you have no objection, I’ll take a bit of a nap. There’s great things near us, any how. An’ talkin’ about DOC brings to my mind another ould prophecy made up, they say, betune Columkill and St Bridget; an’ it is this, that the triumph of the counthry will never be at hand till the DOC flourishes in Ireland.”

Such were the speculations upon which the harmless mind of Barney M’Haighery ever dwelt. From house to house, from parish to parish, and from province to province, did he thus trudge, never in a hurry, but always steady and constant in his motions. He might be not inaptly termed the Old Mortality of traditionary prophecy, which he often chiselled anew, added to, and improved, in a manner that generally gratified himself and his bearers. He was a harmless kind man, and never known to stand in need of either clothes or money. He paid little attention to the silent business of ongoing life, and was consequently very nearly an abstraction. He was always on the alert, however, for the result of a battle; and after having heard it, he would give no opinion whatsoever until he had first silently compared it with his own private theory in prophecy. If it agreed with this, he immediately published it in connection with his established text; but if it did not, he never opened his lips on the subject.

His class has nearly disappeared, and indeed it is so much the better, for the minds of the people were thus filled with antiquated nonsense that did them no good. Poor Barney, to his great mortification, lived to see with his own eyes the failure of his most favourite prophecies, but he was not to be disheartened even by this; though some might fail, all could not; and his stock was too varied and extensive not to furnish him with a sufficient number of others over which to cherish his imagination and expatiate during the remainder of his inoffensive life.

[1] There certainly is such a prophecy.

ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

BY JOHN O’DONOVAN.

Fifth Article.

According to Mabillon, hereditary surnames were first established in Italy in the tenth and eleventh centuries; but Muratori shows that this statement cannot be correct, as in the MSS. of the tenth century in the Ambrosian Library of Milan, no trace can be found of surnames. In the ninth and tenth centuries, to distinguish persons, their profession or country is added to the Christian name, as Johannes Scotus Erigena, Dungallus Scotus, Johannes Presbyter, Johannes Clericus; the dignity is also sometimes added, as Comes Marchio, without stating of what place. In the tenth century, “A, the son of B, the son of C,” was another mode of designation. It is said that the Venetians in the beginning of the eleventh century adopted hereditary surnames, a custom which they borrowed from the Greeks, with whom they carried on a great trade. The Lombards adopted the same practice after the fashion of the Venetians, and accordingly the great family of Monticuli took that name from their castle in Lombardy called Montecuculi, it being on the top of a hill. The great house of Colonna took its name from the town and castle of Columna about the year 1156; and about the same time the noble family of Ursini derived its name from an ancestor nicknamed Ursus, or Orso, on account of his ferocity. Other noble families adopted names from the nickname given to an ancestor, as the illustrious family of Malaspina (the bad thorn) of Pavia, and the family of Malatesta (the bad head). The family of Frangipani, so formidable to the Popes, took that name in the twelfth century. The Rangones of Rome took their name from an estate of theirs in Germany. The Viscontes of Milan were so called from their title of Viscount, which was borne by one of the family. These names appear for the first time in the latter end of the twelfth century. I consider it but proper to observe, that for this information on the subject of Italian surnames we are indebted to the antiquary whose name I have already mentioned, the accurate and laborious Muratori.

To resume the history of surnames in Ireland. We have seen in the last article that in the year 1682 the inferior classes in Ireland, especially in Westmeath and the adjoining counties, were very forward in accommodating themselves to the English usages, particularly in their surnames, “which by all manner of ways they strove to make English or English-like.” This was more particularly the case after the defeat of the Irish at the Boyne and Aughrim, when the Irish chieftains were conquered, and the pride of the Irish people was humbled. At this period, the Irish people, finding that their ancient surnames sounded harshly in the ears of their conquerors and new English masters, found it convenient to reduce them as much as possible to the level of English pronunciation: and they accordingly rejected in almost every instance the O’ and Mac, and made various other changes in their names, so as to give them an English appearance. Thus a gentleman of the O’Neills in Tyrone changed his old name of Felim O’Neill to Felix Neele, as we learn from an epigram written in Latin on the subject by a witty scholar of the name of Conway or Mac Conwy, whose Irish feeling had not been blunted by the misfortunes of the times. The following translation of this epigram is perhaps worth preserving:—

All things has Felix changed, he has changed his name;

Yea, in himself he is no more the same.

Scorning to spend his days where he was reared,

To drag out life among the vulgar herd,

Or trudge his way through bogs in bracks and brogues,

He changed his creed and joined the Saxon rogues

By whom his sires were robbed; he laid aside
The arms they bore for centuries with pride,
The Ship, the Salmon, and the famed Red Hand,

And blushed when called O’Neill in his own land!

Poor, paltry skulker from thy noble race,

Infelix Felix, weep for thy disgrace!

Many others even of the most distinguished family names were anglicised in a similar manner, as O’Conor to Conors and Coniers, O’Brien to Brine, Mac Carthy to Carty, &c. The respectability of the O’s and Macs, however, was kept up on the Continent by the warriors of the Irish Brigade, who preserved every mark that would prove them to be of Irish origin; the Irish having at this period become so illustrious for their military skill, valour, and politeness, that they were sought after by all the powers on the Continent of Europe. Thus we find O’Donnell made Field Marshal, Chief General of Cavalry, Governor-General of Transylvania, and Grand Croix of the Military Order of St Theresa. The O’Flanigan of Tuaraah (John), in the county of Fermanagh, became Colonel in the imperial service; and his brother James O’Flanigan was Lieutenant-General of Dillon’s regiment in France. O’Mahony became a Count and Lieutenant-General of his Catholic Majesty’s forces, and his Ambassador Plenipotentiary at the Court of Vienna; Mac Gawley of the county of Cork became Colonel of a regiment in Spain; O’Neny of Tyrone settled at Brussels, and became Count of the Roman Empire, Councillor of State to her Imperial Majesty, and Chief President of the Privy Council at Brussels. A branch of the family of O’Callaghan, who followed the fortunes of King James II, became Baron O’Callaghan, and Grand Veneur (chasseur) to his Serene Highness the Prince Margrave of Baden-Baden. The head of the O’Mullallys, or O’Lallys of Tulach na dala, two miles to the west of Tuam, in the county of Galway, settled in France and became Count Lally-Tollendal and a General in the French service. O’Conor Roe became Governor of Civita Vecchia, a sea-port of great trust in the Pope’s dominions, &c., &c.

The lustre derived from the renown of these warriors kept up the respectability of the O’s and Macs on the Continent, and induced many of the Irish at home to resume these prefixes, especially the O’. Thus in our own time the name O’Conor Don was assumed by Owen O’Conor, Esq. of Belanagare, whose line was seven generations removed from the last ancestor who had borne the name; and the name of the O’Grady has also been assumed by Mr O’Grady of Kilballyowen, in our own time, though none of his ancestors had borne it since the removal of that family from Tomgraney, in the county of Clare. Myles John O’Reilly, late of the Heath House, Queen’s County, was at one time disposed to style himself the O’Reilly, but I regret to say that his circumstances prevented him. Daniel O’Connell, Esq. of Derrynane Abbey, prefixed the O’ after it had been dropped for several generations; and I have heard it constantly asserted that he has no title to the O’, because his father, who did not know his pedigree, never prefixed it; but such assertions have no weight with us, for we know that O’Connell’s father never mentioned his own name in the original Irish without prefixing O’, because it would be imperfect without it. And whether O’Connell can trace his pedigree with certainty up to Conall, chief of the tribe in the tenth century, we know not, but we know that he ought to be able to do so.

In like manner, Morgan William O’Donovan, of Mountpelier, near Cork, has not only re-assumed the O’ which his ancestors had rejected for eight generations, but also has styled himself the O’Donovan, chief of his name, being the next of kin to the last acknowledged head of that family, the late General Richard O’Donovan of Bawnlahan, whose family became extinct in the year 1829. His example has been followed by Timothy O’Donovan, of O’Donovan’s Cove, head of a respectable branch of the family. We like this Irish pride of ancestry, and we hope that it will become general before many years shall have passed.

There are other heads of families who retain their Irish names with pride, as Sir Lucius O’Brien of Dromoland, in Clare; Mac Dermot Roe of Alderford, in the county of Roscommon; Mac Dermot of Coolavin, who is the lineal descendant of the chief of Moylurg, and whose pedigree is as well known as that of any royal family in Europe; O’Hara of Leyny, in the county of Sligo; O’Dowda of Bunyconnellan, near Ballina, in the county of Mayo; O’Loughlin of Burren, in the north of the county of Clare; Mac Carthy of Carrignavar, near Cork, who represents one of the noblest families in Ireland; Mac Gillicuddy of the Reeks, in the county of Kerry, a collateral branch of the same great family; O’Kelly of Ticooly, in the county of Galway; O’Moore of Clough Castle, in the King’s County; More O’Ferrall, M. P. O’Fflahertie, of Lemonfield, in the same county; and John Augustus Mageoghegan O’Neill, of Bunowen Castle, in the west of Connamara, in the same county. We are not aware that any of the old families of Leinster have preserved their ancient names unadulterated. Of these, the Cavanaghs of Borris, in the county of Carlow, are the most distinguished; and we indulge a hope that the rising generation will soon resume the name of Mac Murrogh Cavanagh, a name celebrated in Irish history for great virtues as well as great vices.

Among the less distinguished families, however, the translation and anglicising of names have gone on to so great a degree as to leave no doubt that in the course of half a century it will be difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish many families of Irish name and origin from those of English name and origin, unless, indeed, inquirers shall be enabled to do so by the assistance of history and physiognomical characteristics. The principal cause of the change of these names was the difficulty which the magistrates and lawyers, who did not understand the Irish language, found in pronouncing them, and in consequence their constant habit of ridiculing them. This made the Irish feel ashamed of all such names as were difficult of pronunciation to English organs, and they were thus led to change them by degrees, either by translating them into what they conceived to be their meanings in English, by assimilating them to local English surnames of respectable families, or by paring them in such a manner as to make them easy of pronunciation to English organs.

The families among the lower ranks who have translated, anglicised, or totally changed their ancient surnames, are very numerous, and are daily becoming more and more so. Besides the cause already mentioned, we can assign two reasons for this rage which prevails at present among the lower classes for the continued adoption of English surnames. First, the English language is becoming that universally spoken among these classes, and there are many Irish surnames which do not seem to sound very euphoniously in that modern language; and, secondly, the names translated or totally changed are, with very few exceptions, of no celebrity in Irish history; and when they do not sound well in English, the bearers naturally wish to get rid of them, in order that they should not be considered of Atticotic or plebeian Irish origin. As this change is going on rapidly in every part of Ireland, I shall here, for the information, if not for the amusement, of the reader, give some account of the Milesian or Scotic names that have thus become metamorphosed.

And first, of names which have been translated correctly or incorrectly. In the county of Sligo the ancient name of O’Mulclohy has been metamorphosed into Stone, from an idea that clohy, the latter part of it, signifies a stone, but it is a mere guess translation; so that in this instance this people may be said to have taken a new name. In the county of Leitrim, the ancient and by no means obscure name of Mac Connava has been rendered Forde, from an erroneous notion that ava, the last part of it, is a corruption of atha, of a ford. This is also an instance of false translation, for we know that Mac Connava, chief of Munter Kenny, in the county of Leitrim, took his name from his ancestor Cusnava, who flourished in the tenth century. In Thomond the ancient name of O’Knavin is now often anglicised Bowen, because Knavin signifies a small bone. This change was first made by a butcher in Dublin, who should perhaps be excused, as he conformed so well to the act of 5 Edward IV. In Tirconnell the ancient name of O’Mulmoghery is now always rendered Early, because moch-eirghe signifies early rising. This version, however, is excusable, though not altogether correct. In Thomond, O’Marcachain is translated Ryder by some, but anglicised Markham by others; and in the same territory O’Lahiff is made Guthrie, which is altogether incorrect. In Tyrone the ancient name of Mac Rory is now invariably made Rogers, because Roger is assumed to be the English Christian name corresponding to the Irish Ruaidhri or Rory. In Connamara, in the west of the county of Galway, the ancient name of Mac Conry is now always made King, because it is assumed that ry, the last syllable of it, is from righ, a king; but this is a gross error, for this family, who are of Dalcassian origin, took their surname from their ancestor Curoi, a name which forms Conroi in the genitive case, and has nothing to do with righ, a king; and the Kings of Connamara would therefore do well to drop their false name, a name to which they have no right, and re-assume their proper ancient and excellent name of Mac Conry, through which alone their pedigree and their history can be traced.

These examples, selected out of a long list of Irish surnames, erroneously translated, are sufficient to show the false process by which the Irish are getting rid of their ancient surnames. I shall next exhibit a few specimens of Irish surnames which have been assimilated to English or Scotch ones, from a fancied resemblance in the sounds of both.

In Ulster, Mac Mahon, the name of the celebrated chiefs of Oriel, a name which, as we have already seen, the poet Spenser attempted to prove to be an Irish form of Fitzursula, is now very frequently anglicised Matthews; and Mac Cawell, the name of the ancient chiefs of Kinel Ferady, is anglicised Camphill, Campbell, Howell, and even Cauldfield. In Thomond, the name O’Hiomhair is anglicised Howard among the peasantry, and Ivers among the gentry, which looks strange indeed! And in the same county, the ancient Irish name of O’Beirne is metamorphosed to Byron; while in the original locality of the name, in Tir-Briuin na Sinna, in the east of the county of Roscommon, it is anglicised Bruin among the peasantry; but among the gentry, who know the historical respectability of the name, the original form O’Beirne is retained. In the province of Connaught we have met a family of the name of O’Heraghty, who anglicised their old Scotic name to Harrington, an innovation which we consider almost unpardonable. In the city of Limerick, the illustrious name of O’Shaughnessy is metamorphosed to Sandys, by a family who know their pedigree well; for no other reason, perhaps, than to disguise the Irish origin of the family; but we are glad to find it retained by the Roman Catholic Dean of Ennis, and also by Mr O’Shaughnessy of Galway, who, though now reduced to the capacity of a barber in the town of Galway, is the chief of his name, and now the senior representative of Guaire Aidhne, king of Connaught, who is celebrated in Irish history as the personification of hospitality. Strange turn of affairs! In the county of Londonderry, the celebrated old name O’Brollaghan is made to look English by being transmuted to Bradley, an English name of no lustre, at least in Ireland. In the county of Fermanagh, the O’Creighans have changed their name to Creighton, for no other reason than because a Colonel Creighton lives in their vicinity; and in the county of Leitrim, O’Fergus, the descendant of the ancient Erenachs of Rossinver, has, we are sorry to say, lately changed his name to Ferguson. Throughout the province of Ulster generally, very extraordinary changes have been made in the names of the aborigines; as, Mac Teige, to Montague; O’Mulligan, to Molyneaux; Mac-Gillycuskly, to Cosgrove; Mac Gillyglass, to Greene; O’Tuathalain, to Toland and Thulis; O’Hay, to Hughes; O’Carellan, to Carleton, as, for instance, our own William Carleton, the depicter of the manners, customs, and superstitions of the Irish, who is of the old Milesian race of the O’Cairellans, the ancient chiefs of Clandermot, in the present county of Londonderry; O’Howen, to Owens; Mac Gillyfinen, to Leonard; Mac Shane, to Johnson, and even Johnston; O’Gneeve, to Agnew; O’Clery, to Clarke; Mac Lave, to Hande; Mac Guiggin, to Goodwin; O’Hir, to Hare; O’Luane, to Lamb; Mac Conin, to Canning; O’Haughey, to Howe; O’Conwy, to Conway; O’Loingsy, to Lynch; Mac Namee, to Meath, &c., &c.

In Connaught, O’Greighan is changed to Graham; O’Cluman, to Coalman; O’Naghton, to Norton; Mac Rannal, to Reynolds; O’Heosa, to Hussey; Mac Firbis, to Forbes; O’Hargadon, to Hardiman (the learned author of the History of Galway, and compiler of the Irish Minstrelsy, is of this name, and not of English origin, as the present form of his name would seem to indicate); O’Mulfover, to Milford; O’Tiompain, to Tenpenny; O’Conagan, to Conyngham; O’Heyne, to Hindes and Hynes; O’Mulvihil, to Melville; O’Rourke, to Rooke; Mac Gillakilly, to Cox and Woods. In Munster, O’Sesnan is changed to Sexton; O’Shanahan, to Fox; O’Turran, to Troy; O’Mulligan, to Baldwin; O’Hiskeen, to Hastings; O’Nia, to Neville (in every instance!); O’Corey, to Curry; O’Sheedy, to Silke; O’Mulfaver, to Palmer; O’Trehy, to Foote; O’Honeen, to Greene; O’Connaing, to Gunning; O’Murgaly, to Morley; O’Kinsellagh, to Kingsley and Tinsly; Mac Gillymire, to Merryman; O’Hehir, to Hare; O’Faelchon, to Wolfe; O’Barran, to Barrington; O’Keatey, to Keating; O’Connowe, to Conway; O’Credan, to Creed; O’Feehily, to Pickley; O’Ahern, to Heron, &c., &c.

Scores of similar instances might be given, but the number exhibited is sufficient to show the manner in which the Irish are assimilating their names with those of their conquerors.

SCRAP FROM THE NORTHERN SCRIP.

Translated for the Irish Penny Journal, from the publications of the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries, Copenhagen.

NO. II.—AN IRISH HERDSMAN’S DOG.

After King Olave had married his Irish spouse Gyda, he dwelt partly in England, partly in Ireland. While King Olave was in Ireland, it so happened that he was engaged in a certain expedition attended by a great naval force. When they were short of plunder, they went ashore, and drove off a great multitude of cattle. Then a certain peasant followed them, begging that they would return him the cows which belonged to him in the herd they were driving away. King Olave answered, “Drive off your cows, if you know them, and can separate them from the herd of oxen, so as not to delay our journey; but I believe that neither you nor any one else can do this, from among so many hundreds of oxen as we are driving.” The peasant had a large herdsman’s dog, which he ordered to sort the herds of oxen that were collected. The dog ran about through all the herds of oxen, and drove off as many oxen as the peasant had said he wanted; all these oxen were marked in the same manner, from which they inferred that the dog had rightly distinguished them. Then the king says, “Your dog is very sagacious, peasant! will you give me the dog?” He answered, “I will, with pleasure.” The king immediately gave him a large gold ring, and promised him his friendship. This dog was named Vigins, and he was of all dogs the most sagacious and the best; that dog was long in King Olave’s possession.

G. D.

ANIMAL HEAT.

First Article.

A few years ago a conjuror made his appearance in London, whose performances were so wonderful that his audience, instead of being confined to the foolish and thoughtless people who usually encourage such exhibitions, included many of the most eminent philosophers and scientific men of the day. It may naturally be supposed that his feats must have been more than usually ingenious, to attract persons of such consequence; and indeed many of them were so wonderful, that, had he ventured to exhibit them a century or two ago, they would inevitably have led him to the stake or the scaffold, for having too intimate an acquaintance with a certain disreputable personage whom it is not necessary to particularize by name. This great conjuror defied all the ordinary laws of nature. He would not condescend to exhibit such vulgar mountebank tricks as crunching red-hot coals in his mouth, and dining on tenpenny nails; but he struck the faculty with the greatest horror, by making poison of all kinds his common food; breakfasting on a strong solution of arsenic, and taking a short drachm of prussic acid before dinner, as a whet for his appetite. More wonderful still was his manner of preparing this dinner: he used to have an oven heated intensely, every day, into which he walked, or crawled, with the greatest composure, taking with him a raw beef-steak, which in the course of seven or eight minutes was well cooked by the intense heat of the place, whilst the only effect of its high temperature on him was to quicken his pulse a little, and produce a gentle perspiration. Fire, indeed, appeared his element, and so perfectly could he control and master it, that he received almost by acclamation the title of “the Fire King.”

Human greatness, however is but transitory, and even the laurels of the Fire King were wrested from him by the envious doctors of the metropolis, who wished him to drink prussic acid of their own manufacture, an invitation which he very politely and prudently declined. But though on this account suspicion was cast on his pretensions as a poison-drinker, yet his reputation as a “Fire King” remained untarnished. He could continue in an oven heated above the temperature at which water boils, and he did so daily. There was no trick in this performance, for he used to take raw eggs into the oven with him, and send them out to the company, well done by the heat of the place alone. It was thought no man could imitate his example. But however wonderful the feats of this conjuror may appear to persons unacquainted with science, and while it must be confessed they were performed with an appearance of daring and temerity which certainly entitled the exhibitor to some degree of praise, yet his performances were merely a striking illustration of the power which every individual possesses of regulating the temperature of his own body; and there was scarcely one person of his audience but might himself have been the exhibitor, with very little training and with very little courage.

Of all the functions of the human body one of the most wonderful is that by which it maintains in every climate, and in every variety of season, an almost equal temperature. It would appear to be necessary for the due performance of the vital functions that this temperature should never suffer any great degree of variation, and nature has accordingly provided the means by which, when exposed to cold, the body can generate heat; and when exposed to heat, so reduce its temperature that no inconvenience shall result. Before considering the manner in which these very different though equally necessary results are produced, it will not be uninteresting to notice a few examples of the power of endurance shown by human beings and the lower animals in regard to extremes of temperature. In another paper we will endeavour to explain the cause.

One of the most striking and familiar of the laws of heat is what is termed by philosophers “its tendency to an equilibrium.” For instance, if a heated iron ball is suspended nearly in contact with one quite cold, the former in a short time will have imparted so much of its heat to the latter that they will soon become almost of equal temperature. If a penny piece is thrown into a kettle of boiling water it will soon become as hot as the boiling water itself. If a cup of water is exposed to a temperature below 32 degrees, it parts with so much of its natural heat, to come into a state of equilibrium with the medium in which it is placed, that it is converted into ice. These and many more familiar instances might be mentioned as illustrating the law of heat above alluded to. In short, it may be received as one of the best established facts in philosophy, that any substance, no matter what may be its texture or natural qualities, provided it does not possess life, will soon acquire and maintain the same temperature as that of the medium in which it is placed, so long as it continues in that medium. A piece of the metal platinum in the furnace of a glass-house may be kept at a white heat for years; a similar piece of metal, in an ice-house, will remain below 32 degrees so long as it is kept there.

It would be unnecessary to notice so particularly these well-known facts, but that they will tend to render more striking the power which living bodies possess of resisting the law to which all unorganized bodies are subject. Any thing possessing life can maintain a different temperature to the medium in which it lives. The natural heat of fishes is two or three degrees above that of the water in which they live; the natural heat of creatures which live within the bowels of the earth, like the earth-worm for example, is as much above the usual temperature of the earth; while man himself maintains the heat of his body, as shown by the thermometer placed under the tongue or armpits, at about 98 degrees, under every variety of season, and in every climate under the sun. Were a human being to be kept imprisoned in an ice-house, the heat of his body could never sink to 32 degrees (the freezing point) while life remained. In these mighty reservoirs of ice and cold, the arctic regions, the blood of the rude creatures who exist there is as warm as that of ourselves; and at the torrid zone, where the heat of the sun is almost insupportable, the animal heat of the human frame is only one or two degrees higher than it is at the frozen poles.

The power of the superior animals, and especially of man, to resist high degrees of temperature, is very extraordinary. The account of the performances of the “Fire King” already noticed, is a sufficient proof of this. Dr Southwood Smith, in his excellent treatise on “Animal Physiology,” gives a far more interesting description, however, of the accidental discovery of this property of life, from which we quote the following particulars:—“In the year 1760, at Rochefoucault, Messrs Du Hamel and Tillet, having occasion to use a large public oven on the same day in which bread had been baked in it, wished to ascertain with precision its degree of temperature. This they endeavoured to accomplish by introducing a thermometer into the oven at the end of a shovel. On being withdrawn, the thermometer indicated a degree of heat considerably above that of boiling water; but M. Tillet, convinced that the thermometer had fallen several degrees on approaching the mouth of the oven, and appearing to be at a loss how to rectify this error, a girl, one of the attendants on the oven, offered to enter and mark with a pencil the height at which the thermometer stood within the oven. The girl smiled at M. Tillet’s appearing to hesitate at this strange proposition, and entering the oven, marked with a pencil the thermometer as standing at 260 degrees of Fahrenheit’s scale. M. Tillet began to express his anxiety for the welfare of his female assistant, and to press her return. This female salamander, however, assuring him that she felt no inconvenience from her situation, remained there ten minutes longer, when at length, the thermometer standing at that time at 288 degrees, or 76 degrees above that of boiling water, she came out of the oven, her complexion indeed considerably heightened, but her respiration by no means quick or laborious. The publication of this transaction exciting a great degree of attention, several philosophers repeated similar experiments, amongst which the most accurate and decisive were those performed by Doctors Fordyce and Blagden. The rooms in which these celebrated experimenters conducted their researches were heated by flues in the floor. There was neither any chimney in them, nor any vent for the air, excepting through the crevice at the door. Having taken off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and being furnished with wooden shoes tied on with lint, Dr Blagden went into one of the rooms as soon as the thermometer indicated a degree of heat above that of boiling water. The first impression of this heated air upon his body was exceedingly disagreeable, but in a few minutes his uneasiness was removed by a profuse perspiration. At the end of twelve minutes he left the room, very much fatigued, but no otherwise disordered. The thermometer had risen to 220 degrees; the boiling point is 212 degrees. In other experiments it was found that a heat even of 260 degrees could be borne with tolerable ease. At these high temperatures every piece of metal about the body of the experimenters became intolerably hot; small quantities of water placed in metallic vessels quickly boiled. Though the air of this room, which at one period indicated a heat of 264 degrees, could be breathed with impunity, yet of course the finger could not be put into the boiling water, which indicated only a heat of 212 degrees; nor could it bear the touch of quicksilver heated only to 120 degrees, nor scarcely that of spirits of wine at 110 degrees. But in a physiological view, the most curious and important point to be noticed is, that while the body was thus exposed to a temperature of 264 degrees, the heat of the body itself never rose above 101 degrees, or at most 102 degrees. In one experiment, while the heat of the room was 202 degrees, the heat of the body was only 99½ degrees; its natural temperature in a state of health being 98 degrees.”

A similar power of withstanding extreme degrees of temperature is one of the peculiar properties of every thing possessing life. It is well known that an egg containing the living principle possesses the power of self-preservation for several weeks, although exposed to a degree of heat which would occasion the putrifaction of dead animal matter. During the period of incubation (hatching) the egg is kept at a heat of 103 degrees, the hen’s egg for three, that of the duck for four weeks; yet when the chick is hatched, the entire yolk is found perfectly sweet, and that part of the white which has not been expended in the nourishment of the young bird is also quite fresh. It is found that if the living principle be destroyed, as it may be instantaneously, by passing the electric fluid through the egg, it becomes putrid in the same time as other dead animal matter. The power of the egg in resisting cold is proved to be equally great by several curious experiments of Hunter, the celebrated physiologist, which were so managed as to show at the same time both the power of the vital principle in resisting the physical agent, and the influence of the physical agent in diminishing the energy of the vital principle. Thus he exposed an egg to the temperature of 17 degrees of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, he found that it took about half an hour to freeze it. When thawed, and again exposed to a cold atmosphere, it was frozen in one half the time, and when only at the temperature of 25 degrees. He then put a fresh egg, and one that had previously been frozen and again thawed, into a cold mixture at 15 degrees: the dead egg was frozen twenty-five minutes sooner than the fresh one. It is obvious that in the one case the undiminished vitality of the fresh egg enabled it to resist the low temperature for so long a period; in the other case the diminished or destroyed vitality of the frozen egg occasioned it speedily to yield to the influence of the physical agent.

Animals can withstand the effects of heat far better than the severity of cold. The human frame suffers comparatively little even in the burning deserts of Arabia, compared with what it endures in those wastes of ice and snow which form the polar regions. Here the body is stunted in its growth; there is no energy of mind or character; and life itself is only preserved by extraordinary care and attention. When a person is exposed to intense cold, it produces partial imbecility; he neglects even those precautions which may enable him to withstand its severity. He refuses to exercise his limbs, without which they become torpid; and, unable to resist the drowsiness that seizes on his frame, he resigns himself to its influence, becomes insensible, and dies. Even in our own climate this is not an unfrequent occurrence; and we cannot conclude this paper better than by quoting the expressive lines of Thomson, describing the death of an unhappy peasant from the severity of a winter storm:—

As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce,

All winter drives along the darkened air;
In his own loose revolving fields, the swain
Disaster’d stands; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:
Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on

From hill to dale, still more and more astray,

Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,

Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!

What black despair, what horror fills his breast!

When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’d
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste
Far from the track and blest abode of man,
While round him might resistless closes fast,
And every tempest, howling o’er his head,
Renders the savage wildness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of covered pits unfathomably deep,
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost;
Of faithless bogs; Of precipices huge

Smoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown,

What water of the still unfrozen spring,

In the loose marsh or solitary lake,

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.

These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks

Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,
Thinking o’er all the bitterness of death,
Mix’d with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man—
His wife—his children—and his friends unseen.
In vain for him the officious wife prepares

The fire, fair, blazing, and the vestment warm.

In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold—
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense,
And, o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffened corse,

Stretch’d out, and bleaching in the northern blast.

J. S. D.

Gravity.—Gravity is an arrant scoundrel, and one of the most dangerous kind too, because a sly one; and we verily believe that more honest, well-meaning people are bubbled out of their goods and money by it in one twelvemonth, than by pocket-picking and shop-lifting in seven. The very essence of gravity is design, and consequently deceit; it is in fact a taught trick to gain credit with the world for more sense and knowledge than a man is really worth.

WAR.

War, it is said, kindles patriotism; by fighting for our country we learn to love it. But the patriotism which is cherished by war, is ordinarily false and spurious, a vice and not a virtue, a scourge to the world, a narrow unjust passion, which aims to exalt a particular state on the humiliation and destruction of other nations. A genuine enlightened patriot discerns that the welfare of his own country is involved in the general progress of society; and in the character of a patriot, as well as of a Christian, he rejoices in the liberty and prosperity of other communities, and is anxious to maintain with them the relations of peace and amity.

It is said that a military spirit is the defence of a country. But it more frequently endangers the vital interests of a nation, by embroiling it with other states. This spirit, like every other passion, is impatient for gratification, and often precipitates a country into unnecessary war. A people have no need of a military spirit. Let them be attached to their government and institutions by habit, by early associations, and especially by experimental conviction of their excellence, and they will never want means or spirit to defend them.

War is recommended as a method of redressing national grievances. But unhappily the weapons of war, from their very nature, are often wielded most successfully by the unprincipled. Justice and force have little congeniality. Should not Christians everywhere strive to promote the reference of national as well as of individual disputes to an impartial umpire? Is a project of this nature more extravagant than the idea of reducing savage hordes to a state of regular society? The last has been accomplished. Is the first to be abandoned in despair?

It is said that war sweeps off the idle, dissolute, and vicious members of the community. Monstrous argument! If a government may for this end plunge a nation into war, it may with equal justice consign to the executioner any number of its subjects whom it may deem a burden on the state. The fact is, that war commonly generates as many profligates as it destroys. A disbanded army fills the community with at least as many abandoned members as at first it absorbed.

It is sometimes said that a military spirit favours liberty. But how is it, that nations, after fighting for ages, are so generally enslaved? The truth is, that liberty has no foundation but in private and public virtue; and virtue, as we have seen, is not the common growth of war.

But the great argument remains to be discussed. It is said that without war to excite and invigorate the human mind, some of its noblest energies will slumber, and its highest qualities, courage, magnanimity, fortitude, will perish. To this I answer, that if war is to be encouraged among nations because it nourishes energy and heroism, on the same principle war in our families, and war between neighbourhoods, villages, and cities, ought to be encouraged; for such contests would equally tend to promote heroic daring and contempt of death. Why shall not different provinces of the same empire annually meet with the weapons of death, to keep alive their courage? We shrink at this suggestion with horror; but why shall contests of nations, rather than of provinces or families, find shelter under this barbarous argument?

I observe again: if war be a blessing, because it awakens energy and courage, then the savage state is peculiarly privileged; for every savage is a soldier, and his whole modes of life tend to form him to invincible resolution. On the same principle, those early periods of society were happy, when men were called to contend, not only with one another, but with beasts of prey; for to these excitements we owe the heroism of Hercules and Theseus. On the same principle, the feudal ages were more favoured than the present; for then every baron was a military chief, every castle frowned defiance, and every vassal was trained to arms. And do we really wish that the earth should again be overrun with monsters, or abandoned to savage or feudal violence, in order that heroes may be multiplied? If not, let us cease to vindicate war as affording excitement to energy and courage.—Channing.

Suffer not your spirit to be subdued by misfortunes, but, on the contrary, steer right onward, with a courage greater than your fate seems to allow.

Printed and published every Saturday by Gunn and Cameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London; Simms and Dinham, Exchange Street, Manchester; C. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool; John Menzies, Prince’s Street, Edinburgh; and David Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.

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Table of Contents

- THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

- THE IRISH PROPHECY MAN. BY WILLIAM CARLETON.

- ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

- Fifth Article.

- SCRAP FROM THE NORTHERN SCRIP.

- NO. II.—AN IRISH HERDSMAN’S DOG.

- ANIMAL HEAT.

- First Article.

- WAR.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE