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1
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Folio from the original manuscript of the alliterative Homecoming of Beorhtnoth (MS Tolkien 5 folio

86r)

3
THE BATTLE OF MALDON

4
 THE BATTLE OF MALDON

together with

The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son

and

‘The Tradition of Versification in Old English’

Edited by Peter Grybauskas

5
 Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.tolkien.co.uk

www.tolkienestate.com

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023

All materials by J.R.R. Tolkien Copyright © The Tolkien Estate Limited

1953, 2023

Introduction, notes and commentary Copyright © Peter Grybauskas 2023

Illustrations Copyright © Bill Sanderson 2023

® ®
and ‘Tolkien’ are registered trademarks of The Tolkien Estate

Limited

Jacket design by Mike Topping © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2023

Jacket photographs: Shutterstock.com

The Tolkien Estate Limited and Peter Grybauskas have asserted their

respective moral rights in this work.

The facsimile manuscript page that appears as the frontispiece to this book is

reproduced courtesy of The Bodleian Library, University of Oxford, and is

selected from their holdings labelled MS Tolkien 5 folio 86r

6
 A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents

portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the

non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-

book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-

loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any

information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented,

without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008465827

eBook Edition © March 2023 ISBN: 9780008465841

Version: 2023-02-21

7
 Dedication

For Marie, Bruno, and Flavia

8
 CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Foreword

Introduction

PART ONE: THE HOMECOMING OF BEORHTNOTH

BEORHTHELM’S SON

(I) Beorhtnoth’s Death

(II) The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Beorhthelm’s Son

(III) Ofermod

Notes

PART TWO: THE BATTLE OF MALDON

Introductory Note

The Battle of Maldon, translated by J.R.R. Tolkien

Notes

PART THREE: THE TRADITION OF VERSIFICATION IN OLD

ENGLISH

APPENDICES

I ‘Old English Prosody’

II ‘The Tradition of Versification in Old English’ [continued]

III Alliteration on ‘g’ in The Battle of Maldon

IV An Early Homecoming in Rhyme

V Noteworthy Developments in the Drafts of The Homecoming

VI Proofing the Pudding: The Homecoming in Dialogue with the

Legendarium

9
Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Footnotes

Works by J.R.R. Tolkien

About the Publisher

10
 FOREWORD

‘Coming home dead without a head (as Beorhtnoth did) is not very

delightful’. So Tolkien quipped to his publishers Allen & Unwin in 1961,

quite aptly capturing the gist of The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth (hereafter

referred to as The Homecoming), while voicing his frustration about a glib

description of the poem as a treatment of ‘another famous homecoming’, one

of several misrepresentations of his work by the first Swedish translator of

The Lord of the Rings.

Mis-readings like the one alluded to above are not uncommon where The

Homecoming is concerned; the text has for many years maintained

something of a reputation as an obscurity in the Tolkien canon. We might say

that the precedent was set from the start. Its first publication came in a 1953

volume of the academic journal Essays and Studies – despite the fact that

The Homecoming is, at its titular heart, a play in alliterative verse. Its

awkward fit in the journal was certainly not lost on Tolkien, who issues a

kind of sheepish apology in the opening lines of ‘Ofermod’, the critical essay

that follows his verse drama. While this scholarly endnote, which probably

earned The Homecoming its place in the journal, has gained considerable

traction (first among scholars of The Battle of Maldon, and later those

interested in Tolkien’s own tales) the rest of the text has been, when not

terribly misunderstood, largely neglected. To cite one egregious example: the

stock blurb on some online booksellers for Tree and Leaf, the latest

collection to include a reprint of The Homecoming, even today erroneously

claims that readers will be ‘treated to the translation of Tolkien’s account of

the Battle of Maldon, known as The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth’.

This new edition of The Homecoming, on the verge of the 70th

anniversary of its first publication, aims to clear up such confusion and to let

11
shine its unique poetic and scholarly qualities: as the rare completed

specimen of Tolkien’s mastery of alliterative verse in modern English, and

the site of some of the author’s most illuminating reflections on heroism,

war, and poetic tradition.

To better achieve this goal, I am pleased to present here alongside The

Homecoming two closely-related but previously unpublished works:

Tolkien’s prose translation of The Battle of Maldon, the anonymous poem

which inspired the events of his verse drama, with select notes and

commentary; and ‘The Tradition of Versification in Old English’, a wide-

ranging essay on the nature of poetic and artistic tradition and Maldon’s

place within the early English canon. For readers wishing to delve further,

appendices provide additional excerpts from Tolkien’s scholarly engagements

with Maldon, an early version of The Homecoming in rhyming dialogue with

an overview of The Homecoming’s creative development, and (in my own

hand) a short reflection on the ways in which the text might be said to

converse with the stories of Tolkien’s legendarium. I hope that readers old

and new will find something of interest here.

12
 INTRODUCTION

POTTING THE HOMECOMING OF BEORHTNOTH

The Homecoming defies easy categorization. It can be read as scholarship,

alliterative verse drama, or historical fiction; it has been described as coda,

epilogue, sequel, and prequel to The Battle of Maldon – all of which is pretty

much true. Some readers may prefer to eschew or at least put off introductory

discussion and come at the text fresh; but for those who require a short

primer, I offer a bare summary of The Homecoming’s contents in the

following three paragraphs.

The text comprises three parts. At its centre is a dramatic dialogue in

alliterative verse (The Homecoming proper) that recounts the fictional

journey of two of the Ealdorman (or Duke) Beorhtnoth’s servants, Torhthelm

(Totta) and Tídwald (Tída), sent by the Abbot of Ely to recover their lord’s

body on the night after a battle between English and viking forces near

Maldon in 991, which is commemorated in The Battle of Maldon, an extant

fragment of Old English verse. Totta ‘is a youth, son of a minstrel; his head

is full of old lays’ about the legends of the North; Tída, on the other hand, is

an old ‘farmer who had seen much fighting’, though neither of the two

fought in the previous day’s battle.

As this odd couple wanders through the muck and gore of the battlefield,

searching in the dark for the headless body of Beorhtnoth, their conversation

explores the tensions between youth and age, romance and realism, pagan

and Christian worldview. After much toil, and a scuffle with desperate

scavengers that leaves one more needlessly dead, the two men succeed in

loading the duke’s body onto their waggon and then hit the long road to Ely

Abbey. Totta, half-asleep in the cart, has a dream vision in which he mutters

13
the most famous lines of the (as yet unwritten) Old English Maldon,

suggesting that he may one day go on to compose that poem. His dream is

interrupted by a jolt from the bumpy road, and the curtain falls with the

monks of Ely chanting the Latin Office for the Dead. Their chant, briefly

interrupted by a mysterious voice in the dark, closes out the sombre story of

Beorhtnoth’s homecoming.

This dramatic-poetic core is bracketed on the front end by ‘Beorhtnoth’s

Death’, a prefatory historical note on the battle and its outcome; and on the

back end by ‘Ofermod’, an essay exploring the treatment of heroism in the

Old English poem, arguing (with aplomb, and against the grain) that the

anonymous poet expresses severe criticism of Beorhtnoth’s gallant blunder in

allowing the much greater viking force to cross to the mainland via a

strategic causeway and join in a ‘fair’ fight. These two essays were plainly

written to provide context for the verse drama and to accommodate the

academic audience of Essays and Studies, and they have been retained in

subsequent reprints (the present volume included).

The hybrid nature of the text makes for a challenge in placing The

Homecoming on the Tolkien bookshelf. Taken as a whole, it may be the

finest demonstration of the ways Tolkien’s ‘scholarly studies fertilized his

imagination’, producing what Alan Bliss calls his ‘unique blend of

philological erudition and poetic imagination’ (‘Canute and Beorhtnoth’ 335;

Finn and Hengest preface). The verse drama itself might sit cosily alongside

other examples of Tolkien’s experiments in reviving the Old English

alliterative metre in modern English. Some of these, like The Fall of Arthur,

seem to share The Homecoming’s interest in engaging the primary world

traditions and legend cycles that Tolkien loved and studied. But many

noteworthy examples also find their way into his legendarium, including his

massive early unfinished Lay of the Children of Húrin (in the Lays of

Beleriand) as well as shorter verses like ‘The Song of the Mounds of

Mundburg’ in The Lord of the Rings. Read as an imaginative coda to the

Battle of Maldon – or origin story for the poem that commemorates the

battle – it bears likeness to other creative ‘reconstructions’ like his Sellic

14
Spell, the kind of fairy tale source that Tolkien supposes might lie beneath

the Beowulf that we know. With greater emphasis on the ‘Ofermod’ essay,

the text finds a place beside ‘Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics’ and

other works of literary criticism. And, like seemingly any work of Tolkien’s

– scholarly or creative – published before 1954, it will inevitably be judged

in part by what small light it sheds on the nature or development of The Lord

of the Rings, undoubtedly Tolkien’s masterpiece. In this sense, The

Homecoming invites added scrutiny for its publication less than a year prior

to The Fellowship of the Ring.

‘Beorhtnoth we bear not Béowulf here’, cautions Tídwald to his young

companion in the verse drama, but he may well be speaking to us, too. After

all, the later, shorter, mostly historical Battle of Maldon can hardly compare

to Beowulf, that lodestone to Tolkien’s imagination, a seemingly

inexhaustible source for his scholarly speculation and creative inspiration.

But Beowulf excepted, The Battle of Maldon may well have been ‘the Old

English poem that most influenced Tolkien’s fiction’ (Holmes in The J.R.R.

Tolkien Encyclopedia). I take up the subject in the final appendix to this

volume.

MANUSCRIPT AND PUBLICATION HISTORY

A substantial collection of undated manuscripts and typescripts pertaining to

The Homecoming are held in MS. Tolkien 5 at Oxford’s Bodleian Library.

Thomas Honegger, in a 2007 article for Tolkien Studies, labels the eleven

texts in Bodleian MS. Tolkien 5 chronologically from A – K, and uses the

Greek α to denote the early fragment published by Christopher Tolkien in

The Treason of Isengard. The drafts trace the work’s transformation –

sometimes subtle, sometimes radical – from a short rhyming dialogue (as in

version A) to the full-blown alliterative verse drama with accompanying

scholarly apparatus in the final typescript Tolkien sent away to the printers

(version K). Other, perhaps earlier, fragments are found here and there.

Christopher Tolkien describes a rough text scribbled on the back of a version

of Tolkien’s poem ‘Errantry’, and notes that a still earlier text may be found

15
with Tolkien’s artwork held in the Bodleian Library, on the verso of a pencil

sketch of a countryside landscape (TD 88, fol. 24). The Tolkien-Gordon

Archive at Leeds University also maintains an early draft of the dialogue in

rhyme, which seems to slot in between the Bodleian versions B and C.

According to Christopher Tolkien, these earliest extant fragments date as

far back as the early 1930s, preceding by more than twenty years the eventual

publication in 1953. The stages in the text’s lengthy gestation have not been

dated with much clarity; Tolkien’s biographer Humphrey Carpenter noted

only that it was ‘in existence by 1945’. The significance of this date is

clarified by Christopher Tolkien’s remark in the Note on the Text published

with The Lay of Aotrou and Itroun: ‘My father visited Aberystwyth as an

examiner in June 1945 and left with his friend Professor Gwyn Jones several

unpublished works, Aotrou and Itroun, The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth, and

Sellic Spell’. What state The Homecoming had reached by 1945 remains

unclear. But it would eight years later end up sharing a place with Jones’s

‘Language, Style, and the Anglo-Welsh’ in the same volume of Essays and

Studies.

Following its initial publication in October 1953, The Homecoming has

since been reprinted in various anthologies, including The Tolkien Reader

(1966), Poems and Stories (1980), and later editions of Tree and Leaf. Apart

from a limited-run booklet in 1991, celebrating the 1000th anniversary of the

Battle of Maldon, the present edition is the first standalone publication of

The Homecoming.

PERFORMANCES AND RECORDING

The first footnote to the ‘Ofermod’ essay declares that the verse drama was

‘intended as a recitation for two persons, two shapes in “dim shadow”’,

though it ‘has, of course, never been performed’. But this ceased to be true

soon after The Homecoming’s publication: the BBC Third Programme

produced a radio performance that was first broadcast on 3 December 1954,

and was then repeated on 17 June of the following year. Some record of

Tolkien’s correspondence with Rayner Happenstall of the BBC survives

16
from this time – he was ultimately displeased by the production. Tolkien

actually produced his own rendering of the drama during the build-up to this

BBC performance; he ‘recorded the whole thing on tape’, complete with

sound effects conjured up in his study. This recording was packaged on

cassette, alongside Christopher Tolkien’s reading of ‘Beorhtnoth’s Death’

and ‘Ofermod’, and gifted to attendees of the Tolkien Centenary Conference

held in Oxford in 1992.

TOLKIEN’S ENGAGEMENT WITH THE BATTLE OF MALDON

As the present volume will show, The Homecoming is only a choice late fruit

of Tolkien’s much longer engagement with The Battle of Maldon. Thus it

seems appropriate to close this introduction with a few words on what is

known about Tolkien’s encounters with the poem he describes as ‘the last

surviving fragment of ancient English heroic minstrelsy’.

Such encounters certainly stretch back at least as far as his undergraduate

days (1911–1915) in Exeter College, Oxford, when The Battle of Maldon

would have been a small but inescapable part of the English curriculum – as

it is today for students of Old English. Stuart Lee notes that Tolkien’s

personal copy of Henry Sweet’s Anglo-Saxon Reader, inscribed and dated to

the Michaelmas term of 1911, contains various marginal annotations on The

Battle of Maldon (‘Lagustreamas’ 158). Years later, the poem naturally

formed part of his repertoire as a professor, particularly during the period in

which he was Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon (1925–

1945) at Pembroke College, where his scheduled lectures on Maldon are

recorded at least twice, in 1928 and 1930 (Chronology 156, 165). In 1937,

Tolkien’s friend and former University of Leeds colleague E.V. Gordon

published what became for many years the standard edition of Maldon.

While this was not, as in their 1925 co-edition of Sir Gawain and the Green

Knight, an official collaboration, Gordon’s preface nonetheless thanks

Tolkien for his ‘many corrections and contributions’, and notes that Tolkien,

‘with characteristic generosity, gave [him] the solution to many of the textual

and philological problems discussed’ in the edition (vi).

17
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 THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
Number 51. SATURDAY, JUNE 19, 1841. Volume I.
 SAINT SENAN’S WELL, COUNTY OF CLARE.
There are perhaps no objects in our own dear Ogygia, or Sacred Island, as it was also
anciently called, which strike the minds of strangers with greater surprise, and excite
them to more meditative reflection, than the holy wells which are so numerous in it, and
the religious observances—to them so strange—which they see practised at them. By the
devout of the reformed creeds, among such observers, these sacred fountains, with their
adjacent and almost equally sacred trees, covered with bits of rag and other votive
offerings of propitiation or gratitude to the presiding spirit of the spot, who is generally
the patron saint of the district, are usually regarded with horror, as objects closely allied
to pagan idolatry; and the religious devotions which they see practised at them excite
only feelings of pity or contempt for what they consider the debased intellect of the
votaries who frequent them. By the painter, poet, and the mere man of taste, however,
they are viewed in a spirit of greater toleration, and with a more pleasing interest,
particularly in the western portions of our island, where the wild scenery amid which they
are generally to be met with, the symmetrical forms and often beautiful faces of the
devotees, and the brilliant colours of their ancient national costumes, impart that interest
and picturesqueness to the spectacle of which our own great national painter Burton has
so admirably availed himself, and made familiar to the world, in his picture of the Blind
Girl at the Holy Well. It is, however, by the antiquary and the philosopher that they are
viewed with the deepest interest, for to the one they present in all their vividness the still
existing images of customs which originated in the earliest period of the history of our
race, while to the other they supply the most touching evidences of the strength of that
devotional instinct, however blind and misapplied, that humble faith in the existence and
omnipotence of a Divine Intelligence, which are among the loftiest feelings of our nature,
and which, when properly directed, must lead to the noblest results. In the minds of such
philosophers, a contemplation of the usages to which we have referred will be apt to
excite, not feelings of depression and despondency, but rather cheering anticipations of
hope for the future prospects and ultimate happiness of the human race; and they who
practise those usages will be regarded, even in their present meanness of garb, and
concomitant vulgarity of habits, not as degraded outcasts from society, grovelling in the
mire of ignorance and superstition, but as members of the universal human family, to be
tolerated and cherished in all kindliness; while, with respect to their peculiar devotion, for
which so many censure them, it can still be said,

——“This may be superstition, weak or wild,

But even the faintest relicts of a shrine
Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine.”

The Pagan origin of well-worship is now established beyond the possibility of

contradiction, and its extreme antiquity is lost in the night of time. This has been
satisfactorily shown in a very interesting essay, written with a view to the annihilation of
its remains in Ireland, by a Roman Catholic clergyman of distinguished abilities and
learning, the late Dr Charles O’Conor. This learned writer attributes its introduction into
the British islands, and Ireland in particular, to the Phœnicians, and quotes several
authorities to show that if it had not its origin with the Chaldeans, it can at least be
traced as far back as to them, and that from Chaldea and Persia it passed into Arabia,
thence into Egypt and Lybia, and lastly into Greece, Italy, Spain, and Ireland. In all these
countries its vestiges are still to be found, but in none of them at this day so numerous
as in Ireland; and it is remarkable that its usages are still identical in the far distant
regions of the east with those in our own Ultima Thule of the west. This identity is clearly
evidenced by Hanway, in his “Travels in Persia,” in which he says, “We arrived at a
desolate caravanserai, where we found nothing but water. I observed a tree with a
number of rags to the branches. These were so many charms which passengers coming
from Ghilan, a province remarkable for agues, had left there in a fond expectation of
leaving their disease also in the same spot.” Similar instances have been adduced by later
travellers in the east, in reading whose descriptions we might almost suppose that they
were depicting scenes in Ireland; and if all other evidences were wanting, these facts
alone would be sufficient to establish the conclusion that the worship of fountains in
Ireland was of Pagan origin. But we have in our ancient manuscripts the most
satisfactory historical evidences to establish the fact. Thus, in Tirechan’s Life of St Patrick,
preserved in the Book of Armagh, and St Evin’s Life as published by Colgan, it is stated,
in detailing the progress of the Irish Apostle through Ireland, that he came to the
fountain called Slan [that is, health], “because it was indicated to him that the Magi
honoured this fountain, and made donations to it as gifts to God.” This fountain was
square, and there was a square stone in the mouth of it, and the water came over the
stone, that is, through the interstices; and the Pagans told him that a certain Magus, who
worshipped water as a divinity, and considered fire as a destroyer, when dying, made a
shrine for his bones in the water beneath the stone, in order that they might be
preserved. Patrick told the assembled congregation that it was not true that the king of
the waters was in the fountain, and bade them raise up the stone, remarking that the
bones of a man were not beneath it, but that he thought there was some gold and silver
appearing through the joinings from their impious offerings; no such valuable offerings
were, however, found; and Patrick consecrated the stone so raised to the true Divinity. It
may not be unworthy of remark, that the well of Finnmagh is still, as in the time of St
Patrick, equally reverenced, though under a different name and with a different faith. It is
now called Tober Brighde, or Bride’s Well, having been subsequently dedicated to that
saint as well as all the churches in the plain of Finnmagh, and under this name the
Druidical well of Slan is one of the most frequented and honoured in the whole of the
county of Roscommon.
Several authorities of the same character as that now adduced may be found in the lives
of other early Irish saints, but it is not necessary to our purpose to quote them.
Dr O’Conor shows from various evidences that on the firm establishment of Christianity in
various parts of Europe the most severe ordinances of the church were promulgated
against the continuance of well-worship in any form. “I have already stated,” he
observes, “that well-worshipping has been utterly abolished by the Catholic religion in
Italy. The Fontinalia exist no longer; the fountain of Egeria, which I have seen near
Rome, is known only to the learned; and I have seen the common peasantry of Castel
Gandolfo and Marino washing their linen in the sacred waters of the Ferentine Assemblies
of Latium and of Rome!”
In reference to its abolition in England, he adduces a canon made in the reign of Edgar,
A.D. 960, by which it was ordained “that every priest do forbid the worship of fountains,
and necromancy, and auguries, and enchantments, and soothsayings, and false worship,
and legerdemain, which carry men into various impostures, and to groves and Ellens, and
also many trees of divers sorts, and stones.”
He also shows that similar ordinances appear in the Capitularies of Charlemagne, and
that amongst the laws of the reign of Ecgbright, A.D. 740, the 148th canon is:—“If any
man, following the custom of the Pagans, introduce diviners or sorcerers into his house,
or attend the lustrations of Pagans, let him do penance for five years.”
It may be asked, then, how has it happened that the veneration paid to wells has
continued in Ireland even to the present day, and to this question it is not very easy to
give a satisfactory answer. It may be remarked, however, that no evidences have yet
been discovered to show that similar local ordinances were made to destroy their
continuance in Ireland, and that it may hence be inferred that the attachment of the Irish
People generally to their ancient usages in this instance, as well as in their funeral
lamentations, May-fires, and many other ceremonies of a religious character derived from
the same eastern and Pagan origin, was too strong even for the power of the clergy to
eradicate or greatly diminish. Certain it is, that the pilgrimages to Lough Derg, which,
there is every reason to believe, derive their origin from the same source, were abolished
by an order of Pope Alexander VI, in 1497, and yet the people returned to them again,
and they are at the present moment as numerously made, if not more so than ever. And,
in like manner, the pilgrimages to wells, even where discountenanced and punished by
the Roman Catholic clergy, as they are now in almost every part of Ireland, are still
continued in secrecy, with a tenacity to ancient usages singularly characteristic of the
Irish race, and which will ensure their existence for a considerable time longer.
St Senan’s Well, which we have selected as a characteristic example of the holy wells of
Ireland, is situated near the west bank of the Shannon, near Dunass, in the county of
Clare. There is nothing very peculiar to distinguish this well from a thousand other
fountains of the same kind, but the unusual character of the votive offerings made at it,
which, as our engraving exhibits, consist chiefly of wooden bowls, tea-cups whole and
broken, blacking-pots, and similar odd offerings of gratitude to St Seanan Liath, or
Seanan the Hoary, the patron saint of the parish.
P.
 A FAIR-DAY IN NORMANDY,
BY MARTIN DOYLE.

Having a strong desire to procure some of the small compact Norman draught horses for
my farm-work, I ventured last year to visit Normandy, for the purpose of making the
desired selections. I took with me a young friend, who had been partly educated in
France, as my interpreter with the French horse-dealers, and to arrange every particular
for me during my intended hasty intercourse with the foreigners. But previously we went
for passports to the office in Poland-street, where the Consul filled up the documents
without ever looking at our faces, and I believe very incorrectly as to portraiture. “Your
profession?” inquired he in French, as he was scribbling down the length of my nose, the
colour of my hair and eyes, &c. “Homme de lettres,” responded my companion for me. I
nodded my head in acquiescence, without knowing anything about the matter; but I was
quite satisfied when my friend explained it afterwards to me, and assured me that Lord
Brougham, when Lord Chancellor, had from sheer modesty sunk his rank and other
artificial honours on going to Paris, and simply designated himself as “Avocat, et homme
de lettres.” “Does not all the world,” said my companion, “know perfectly well that you
are, in the first place, one of the props of the Irish Penny Journal?” “Enough,” said I,
somewhat tickled by the reference to Lord Brougham; “be it as you please—though I
think that, as a farmer going to France merely to buy horses, I might as well have been
written down under the useful character of ‘agriculturist.’” My passport, however, was by
this time in my pocket, and any alteration in it was out of the question.
I had ascertained that a fair would be held on a particular day at Falaise, and having time
enough to make a long journey by land, and much curiosity to see Calais, I determined
to go there: we reached that port early in the day.
“Well, then, I am in France,” said I, as we landed from the steamer on the pier; “here I
am, actually on the Continent, looking at French soldiers, who won’t shoot me, stab me,
nor take me prisoner, and on fishwomen, with kerchiefs tastily arranged on their heads,
large ear-rings, and brown faces, and hearing a language altogether strange to me.” After
staring about me there for half a day, and eating a very nice dinner in a very grand hotel,
fitted up as if there was never any winter in that part of France, we moved onwards in a
most extraordinary kind of coach: such a lumbering machine!—less than an entire troop
of cavalry appeared to me insufficient to move its prodigious wheels; yet five miserable-
looking horses, with dirty half rotten harness, were compelled to pull it along towards
Boulogne at the rate of more than four miles an hour.
I know not how it happened—perhaps it was fatigue—possibly a dose of claret, which
caused me to fall asleep in the cuppy[1] soon after I had passed the barriers of Calais. Be
this as it may, while I was dreaming of home, there was a sudden stop, which aroused
me. I could have sworn at the moment that I was upon a dreary part of the road
between Wexford and Dungarvan; for, besides the general features of the locality, I saw
on the door of a very Irish-like looking public-house, these words—“John Cullen sells beer
and brandy.” “Where am I?” said I to myself; “surely not in France.” The matter was
explained to me. There are several hundred families of English manufacturers, principally
from Nottingham, employed at their trade in Calais and its vicinity; and John Cullen, who
says he is a Yorkshireman, and has certainly been for more than twenty years established
where he now is, and has married a Frenchwoman, finds it his interest to brew good
beer, and to keep a public-house for the entertainment of his neighbours and the
operatives of Calais, although the town is three miles distant. But at the moment I was
fully impressed with the notion that John Cullen and his house were in the barony of
Bargy, or in that of Forth.
As the horses at this place were not disposed to run away with the diligence, and the
conductor had no indisposition to a glass of brandy, I contrived to enter John Cullen’s
house, which certainly has nothing English about it, and asked for the landlord, who soon
appeared—an apparently thoroughbred Irishman, and with a fry of half-bred youngsters
at his heels, speaking the oddest jargon that ever man heard. At first I hoped that it
might have been the old dialect of the barony of Forth, but I was grievously disappointed.
Though John Cullen brews very good beer, which he sends regularly into Calais, and sells
very fair brandy, it would be no harm, from what I could learn, if Father Mathew could
spare time to make a morning visit to his neighbourhood.
The greater part of the way from Calais to Boulogne is bleak, open, and ill drained, and
altogether more of a snipe-shooting country than a farmer would desire to see, with a
good deal of wheat, however, here and there, but not in the regularly formed ridges
which I had seen in England.
We reached Boulogne that night, and fixed ourselves quietly in an English kind of hotel,
after having been well tormented, before we were fairly housed, by emissaries from half
a dozen establishments, pressing us in French, English, and German, to patronise their
respective employers. We started at five o’clock the next morning from a coach-office
very like one of our own in its arrangement of desks, clerks, way-bills, and weighing
machines.
On some parts of my journey, as we receded from the coast, the drill husbandry, the
garden-like culture, and the open country entirely under tillage, resembled portions of
England, especially in those districts where the rural population is confined to villages
very distant from each other, and concealed from the road. The French peasants are very
early risers; I saw many of them at their various labours at four o’clock in the morning;
some women at that hour were leading cows by a string—three very frequently
connected together—or a few wretched-looking sheep, to pasture on the margin of the
road. The dresses of these people, and the appearance of the sheep, in those spots,
informed me very unmistakeably that I was no longer in England. Sometimes, however,
an entire flock of sheep met our observation. One of these, under the care of a shepherd,
and two dogs which showed remarkable sagacity, we particularly noticed. The sheep,
when I caught the first view of them, were huddled together in a fallow field, looking
wistfully at, but not presuming to touch, a compartment of luxuriant clover within a few
feet of them. The shepherd, leaving one of the dogs with the flock, and having the other
at his heels, paced off a square of ten or twelve yards, slightly marking the limits with his
foot; he then made a signal to the sentry dog, which at once allowed the sheep to pass
on to the clover, while the other dog perambulated the prescribed limits, and prevented
them from encroaching a single foot.
As I do not mean to trouble the reader with all the details of my journey, I need only say
that I reached in safety the very heart of Normandy; and on the way, while admiring the
woods, rivers, meadows, and undulating scenery through which we passed, I perceived a
resemblance to the county of Wicklow, and many other well-wooded and fertile parts of
Ireland.
I had been unable to reach Falaise the night before the fair, but I was there in time for an
early breakfast; and certainly this breakfast was of an extraordinary kind. We had broth
well thickened with vegetables; the bouilli from which the juices had been extracted
made its appearance as a matter of course, and the whole company took a bit of it. Then
came the liver of a sheep fried in oil, a dish of white beans well mashed and buttered,
cheese, cider, and (though last not least appropriately to the breakfast table) coffee and
boiled milk, with eggs and bread and butter. Many of the company, including some lady-
like looking females, dipped their well-buttered bread into their coffee, and swallowed it
in this nasty greasy manner with great apparent relish, and several of the party pocketed
the lumps or sugar which they did not use with their coffee. But every country has its
own fashions; and if people are here put upon an allowance in the article of sugar, and
pay for a fixed quantity, why should they not take away that for which they pay, if they
please?
I hastened away from the breakfast table to the place where the fair was held, and was
surprised at the similarity of the scene before me to those which I have so often
witnessed at home. It had nothing of the English character, excepting some wooden
drinking-booths and caravans for showmen; there were no smart-looking horse-jockeys,
no well-dressed grooms, not a white smock-frock, a laced buskin, a well-trimmed bonnet,
nor a neatly appointed tax-cart or gig in view; but a crowd of men generally dressed in
blue jackets and trousers and glazed hats, among whom were interspersed some wearing
the blue blouse, and a cloth cap or red worsted nightcap, and a great number of women
in their striped woollens, and high white linen or muslin coifs—nay some of these (on the
heads of the rich farmers’ wives) were of lace, and worth scores of pounds sterling. The
whole assemblage (combining with it groups of country fellows mounted on hardy
ponies, with here and there a woman en croupe, or independently on a pad, with bags
behind and before her, kicking away at the ribs of their horses with their heavy sabots)
reminded me of what we see on a market-day in several parts of Ireland. Then, to render
the similitude more striking, there were the clamour and jargon of persons buying and
selling; and now and then a half drunken fellow singing in the lightness of his heart, or
very noisy in argument; but generally courteous, and never daring to strike a blow, and a
pedlar selling beads and almanacks amidst a din of oaths and imprecations, and the
embarrassments occasioned by the movements of a team of four bullocks and three little
horses in single file, dragging each other along with a huge tonneau of cider for the
refreshment of the thirsty crowd, on a two-wheeled waggon, in the rear. We had passed
this rude and very dirty vehicle, when the roll of a drum startled me. Thinks I to myself,
“war is about to commence in earnest,” but it was only the preliminary flourish of a
drummer, who immediately afterwards read out a notice that a celebrated dentist was
about to appear in his voiture, for the purpose of relieving sufferers from those ailments
which, alas! are incidental to us in every stage of life. Having raised his hat from respect
to the majesty of the sovereign people, he moved off to an adjacent street, while the
great operator himself appeared at hand in a showy kind of cab drawn by two horses
(one in the shafts and the other in the outrigger style), with a tawdrily dressed postilion
to guide them. Being in haste to reach the open square where the horse fair was held, I
had little time for witnessing the operations of the tooth-drawer, who was flourishing his
case of instruments in a most attractive way. When he had trapped his victim, he blew a
long loud blast upon a horn to intimate that he was going to operate before the crowd,
and after keeping the sufferer in an agony of suspense and nervousness, he pulled out
one or more teeth with a large nail (sometimes a screw) in the twinkling of an eye, and
with a degree of dexterity which I had conceived impossible. I was afterwards told that
he had several patients in succession, from whom as they sat backwards in the cab,
within view of hundreds of spectators, he extracted teeth at the rate of sixpence each.
This practitioner, however, was not without a rival: another dentist was mounted on a
high, raw-boned horse, with his case of instruments, and some physic for curing the
rheumatism, in a leathern portmanteau strapped upon the pommel of his saddle: his
dress was of a military character—his coat being braided like an undress frock; his bridle
and saddle of the cavalry form; his headpiece, a forage cap; and his boots and spurs like
those of a dragoon in the days of the Duke of Marlborough; a coronet hung from his
saddle-bow; and whenever the other dentist sounded his bugle, this man blew from
beneath the overhanging cover of thick hair on his upper lip, a longer and a louder strain.
But the peculiarity of his style of operating was really striking: instead of dismounting and
removing the tooth, he remained steadily in his saddle, examined the mouths of the
patients who presented themselves for relief, and from his vantage ground pulled or
rather pushed out the diseased grinder. While I was looking on, he poked out three with
a hooked nail for one sous, saying, successively, as he drew them in a few seconds (as
my companion translated his expressions for me), “Here’s a long one; here’s a longer;
and here’s the longest of all.”
A quack doctor in a huge caravan drawn by four horses, appeared next, and apparently
with much profitable practice, among the dupes who crowded about him to read his puffs
and buy his physic. A pedlar in another part of the place where the crowd was
considerable, without coat or waistcoat (the wind was at north-east), and labouring very
hard with his hands and lungs, was disposing of coloured cotton handkerchiefs by a sort
of auction form. He took a piece from a lot of the same pattern, tied it round his waist or
on his head as an indication that the handkerchiefs he was about to put up for sale were
of the same sort, and then named a price, lowering the amount, perhaps, from twenty to
fourteen sous, until he heard such an amount bid as satisfied him; then with the rapidity
of a conjuror he flung the article to the bidder. Another and another purchaser followed
as fast as he could unfold and throw the handkerchiefs at their faces, stopping
occasionally for a few seconds to receive payments from many customers; then he
opened a fresh lot, and thus perpetually exhibited varieties, selling all the time at a rate
of rapidity which I had never seen equalled, and which could only occur where every
individual in the little crowd is strictly honest.
Little bags of silver and copper were, in the open booths, carelessly slipped into unlocked
boxes, from which any clever rogue might easily have helped himself; but such an
occurrence is almost unknown in the provincial parts of France. These latter exhibitions
were certainly neither English nor Irish.
It would afford no interest to any of my readers to inform them of the number of horses
which I purchased, nor of the prices which I paid, nor of the arrangements which I made
for sending them to Liverpool. It is enough to tell them that out of the many strings of
horses which had been conducted to the fair in the English way by ropes from the head
to the tail, and the tail to the head, in succession, and were now drawn up in rank and
file under the shade of a wall for inspection, I bought some of those which were most
free from the characteristic defects of the Norman horses, and had them safely stabled.
I returned to the scene of gaiety and confusion. There was a young woman there, bare-
headed, but decently dressed in the main, playing upon a violin, while her male partner
blew a terrible blast upon a bugle at intervals, at the conclusion of each, announcing a
grand spectacle for the evening. The female had given a finishing scrape, and in a
moment was on the ground, flat upon her back, but fortunately without injury to herself
or her fiddle. I looked about and perceived the cause of the disaster: a horse had been
pressed forward very rudely through the crowd, with a calf dangling from each of his
sides, and one of these coming into violent contact with the fair musician, had thrown
her down.
The mode by which those wretched animals had been conveyed to the fair was truly
horrible. The four legs of each being bound, a rope connecting the poor creatures
together by their tortured limbs was passed over the back of the horse, keeping them in
equilibrio, and with the heads hanging downwards in agony, while the ligatures confining
the legs by which they were suspended were impressed, by the weight of the body
below, into the very bone! Oh, for a Humane Society in France to prevent such
monstrous cruelty, taking for their motto the sentiment of her own Montaigne: “even
theology enjoins kindness to brute animals; and considering that the same Master has
given us our dwelling-place with them, and that they like ourselves are of his family, we
should have a fellow feeling for them!”
Attracted by a concourse of children in another spot, I soon found myself standing close
to an old woman who was dealing out small thin cakes in a curious kind of manner.
Before her was placed what appeared to be a small round table, but with an index,
which, after being set in motion by a boy, stopped suddenly, and pointed like the hand of
a clock to one of twelve numbers described in a circle. The perpetual invitation was,
“Play, play! twelve cakes for a halfpenny;” and the little urchins, preferring the chance of
twelve cakes for a halfpenny to the certainty of perhaps only three or four from a regular
vender elsewhere, came up in rapid succession and with eager eyes to the game. Joy
sparkled in the countenance of the juvenile speculator if the hand pointed to a high
number; disappointment lowered upon his brow if a unit or two was the number which
fortune assigned to him, while the hearty laugh of the spectators increased the acrimony
of his temper.
I tried my own luck, and had one cake for my share, to the unrestrained delight of the
little folk.
“Cakes for a halfpenny!” said I to myself. “What a good subject for a moral reflection!”
Here we have the seeds of gambling sown at an early season in the lively soil, and the
systematic culture of this baneful and vivacious principle subsequently ensures its
establishment in the human heart through the length and breadth of the land; it finds its
congenial bed every where, from the child of the poorest mechanic to the grey-headed
gamester in the polished societies of higher life. The avaricious principle thus
precociously introduced into the youthful heart among the many natural weeds which are
but too ready to spring up there, has its own distinctive fruits; and though it may be
urged by those who think not deeply on the effects of early impressions on the ductile
mind of childhood, that the disappointment which the little gamester experiences in his
play of “twelve cakes for a halfpenny” counterbalances (as a trial of temper) the evils
arising on the other hand from success in his object, this defence is really untenable in its
general points.
In the little party before me I saw the willing and prepared pupils of a higher order of
play—of rouge-et-noir, and hazard, and ecarté—by which so many of our own
countrymen are infatuated, and sometimes ruined, when they take up their residence in
France, heedless of the value of that time and those opportunities for the right use of
which they are responsible to the bountiful Giver of them.
We now entered a low kind of café, in which the next scene of the serious drama of
“twelve cakes for a sous” was exhibited. In one room was a billiard-table, at which two
common-looking fellows were playing, at the rate of threepence an hour for the tables,
for a cup of coffee and a glass of brandy. In a corner sat a bloated, half-drunken looking
old man in a blouse and nightcap, while his bustling wife discharged all the labours of the
establishment.
In walked a burly-looking customer, who ordered a glass of brandy for himself, and
another for the landlord Nicole. Immediately afterwards—and this was a daily practice
with old Nicole—a game of cards was proposed, which terminated in favour of the
customer, who walked off scot free.
In several instances the old man played in this way—double or quits with his customers—
for the amount of coffee, wine, cider, or brandy, consumed in his company (he himself
copiously partaking of all), and no one seemed without some play for it, to pay for what
he had ordered. At several tables there were many parties playing in this way at different
rates; and certainly if some of them had seen the contortions of their faces in a mirror,
they would have been disgusted with a vice which so agitates the human frame, and
unfits for every wise and rational pursuit.
Having only played “spoil-five” and “five-and-forty” in my youth, I neither understood nor
wished to learn the game which was played around me. My young friend and I went to
our hotel, and there found the chambermaid and the waiter, while they were awaiting our
arrival, playing ecarté together on the dinner table for the amount of their morning’s
gratuities. “Twelve cakes for a halfpenny!” said I to myself again.
It only remains for me to tell how I got back to England.
I had reached Havre, by the beautiful Seine from Rouen, in the evening, without any
particular adventure, and gone to an hotel kept by an Englishman, just as a waiter was
cursing an unlucky boy, who had broken a wine-glass, in true English style. I heartily
regretted that I had not gone to a French house, in which, if the waiter had cursed for a
month in his own language, I should not have understood him.
An accident had happened to the regular steamer for London, and there appeared no
chance of my getting off for three days; I was in despair, especially as my horses had
preceded me from another port, and I wished to be in Liverpool contemporaneously with
their arrival there.
In the course of the night I was informed that a steam-vessel had just arrived in Havre
from Gibraltar, with some of the Braganza family on their way to Paris, and that she was
going on to London at day-break. I tucked up my portmanteau under my arm, and my
young friend and I sallied out to the part of the quay where the steamer lay, in profound
darkness and the most perfect silence. “Qui vive?” said a watchman, as he put his lantern
to my face and a hand upon my throat, while I was advancing to the gangboard. My
companion explained; and as I had the prudence to give a franc to the watchman, he
lighted us carefully to the side of the vessel.
Down we groped our way to the cabin; all was darkness there, and every one on board
was asleep. The vessel was so full that the steward and his wife were lying on the floor
(in a heavy slumber), and directly in my way. I spoke: no one answered. I caught the
stewardess by the nose, and could not conceive what it was that I had in my hand. She
screamed, and gave her husband a smart blow on the head, thinking that he was the
assailant. “Pordonnez,” said I, trying to speak civilly in French, and supposing they could
not understand English. “Who the deuce is there?” roared out the steward. “Oh, English,”
said I to myself. I explained, and slipped a five-franc piece into the man’s hand, and
apologized at the same time to his wife for having pulled her nose instead of the bell-
handle.
“The captain is asleep,” said he, “but I shall awake him.” “Good fellow,” said I.
My interpreter and I followed him, and the captain, who had heard the bustle, opened his
cabin door. I repeated the purport of my unseasonable visit, telling him, by way of a
clincher, that the Irish Penny Journal, to which I contributed by far the best articles (“and
which,” said I, “you of course take for the gratification of your passengers”), could not
flourish during my absence from home.
“Come on board, both of you,” said he, “if you like, but don’t bother me with any more
talk at this unseasonable hour of the night.”
“An Irishman!” thought I to myself.
He banged the door, and I suppose was instantly asleep again.
I was soon in the same condition, and did not awake until we had made considerable
progress with the very next tide towards London.

[1] Mr Doyle probably means the coupée.—Editor.

 ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY
NAMES.
BY JOHN O’DONOVAN.

Sixth Article.
In my last article I gave examples of the process now in progress in the several provinces
of Ireland among the people generally in changing their original names into names
apparently English or Scottish: there are others in Ireland among the genteeler classes
who have changed their old Milesian names in such a manner as to give them a French
or Spanish appearance; and the adopters of these names now wish to be deemed as of
French or Spanish origin (any thing but Irish!) These, it is true, are few in number, but
some of them are respectable; and their effort at concealing their origin is not to be
recommended. We shall therefore exhibit a few instances of this mode of rendering Irish
names respectable-looking by giving them a foreign aspect, which the bearers cannot by
any effort give their own faces. The most remarkable of these changes has been made
by the family of O’Dorcy, in the west of the county of Galway, who have assumed not
only the name of D’Arcy, but also the arms of the D’Arcys of England. But it is well known
that the D’Arcys of Galway are all descended from James Reagh Darcy, of Galway,
merchant, whose pedigree I know to be traced by Duald Mac Firbis, not to the D’Arcys of
Meath, who are of Anglo-Norman origin, but to the Milesian O’Dorcys of West Connaught,
who were the ancient chiefs of Partree, a well-known territory extending from the lakes
of Lough Mask and Lough Carra, westwards, in the direction of Croaghpatrick.
The next instance of this kind of change which I shall adduce, is found in the adjacent
county of Mayo, where a gentleman of the ancient and celebrated family of O’Malley
wishes all his friends to call him not O’Malley, for that is Irish, but De Maillet; but though
his friends condescend sometimes to call him by this name, they can scarcely refrain
from laughter while pronouncing it, for they know very well that he descends from Owen
O’Malley, the father of the famous heroine Grania Wael, and chief of Umallia or the
Owles, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
The third instance I have met with of this false Irish vanity is in the far-famed Thomond,
where a gentleman of the O’Malronies has followed the plebeian corruption of that name,
by which it is metamorphosed to Moroni, by which he affects to pass as one not of Irish
but of Spanish descent; but he cannot prevent his neighbours from calling him
O’Murruana when they speak the native language, for by a strange corruption in that part
of Ireland, where the Irish language is in most other instances very correctly pronounced,
when the prefix maol is followed by r, the l is itself pronounced r, as in the instance
under consideration, and in O’Mulryan, a well-known name in Munster, which they now
pronounce O’Murryan. Thus an accidental corruption in the pronunciation of a consonant
is taken advantage of to metamorphose a famous old Irish name into a Spanish one. It is
indeed most lamentable to see the native Irish think so little of their names and of their
own natural country.
I have many other instances of this audacious kind of change of surnames at hand, but I
refrain from enlarging on them, from the apprehension of exceeding my limits without
being enabled to bring this subject to a close in the stipulated space. A few others,
however, are necessary to be exhibited to public scorn. The next instance, then, which
has come under my notice, is in the province of Connaught, where the family of
O’Mulaville have all changed their name to Lavelle, and where those who know nothing of
the history of that family are beginning to think that they are of French descent. But it is
the constant tradition in the county of Mayo that they are of Danish origin, and that they
have been located in Iarowle since the ninth century. Of this name was the late Editor of
the Freeman’s Journal: a man of great abilities and extensive learning, who among other
ancient languages had acquired a profound knowledge of his own native dialect. This
name is scotticised Mac Paul in the province of Ulster.
Another name which some people are apt to take for a French or Anglo-Norman name, is
Delany, as if it were De Lani; but the Irish origin of this family cannot be questioned, for
the name is called O’Dulainé in the original language, and the family were originally
located at the foot of Slieve Bloom in Upper Ossory. Another instance is found in the
change of O’Dowling to DuLaing, but this is seldom made, and never by any but people
of no consequence.
Some individuals of the name of Magunshinan, or Magilsinan, upon leaving their original
localities in Cavan and Meath, have assumed, some the name of Nugent, and others that
of Gilson. Of this family was Charles Gilson, the founder and endower of the public school
of Old Castle, a man of great benevolence, who found it convenient on his removal to
London to shorten his name to Gilson.
Other individuals of Irish name and origin, upon settling in London and other parts of
England, have changed their surnames altogether, as the ancestor of the present Baron
of Lower Tabley, whose name was Sir Peter Byrne, but who was obliged to change his
name to Leycester, to conform to the will of his maternal grandfather, who had
bequeathed him large estates in England, on condition of his dropping his Irish name and
adopting that of the testator. He is the most distinguished man of the O’Byrne race now
living, and we regret that his Irish origin is entirely disguised in his present name of
Warren. He descends from Daniel, the second son of Loughlin Duff of Ballintlea, in the
county of Wicklow, a chief of great distinction, and is related to the Byrnes of Fallybeg,
near Stradbally, in the Queen’s County, who descended from the first son of this Loughlin
—a fact with which his lordship is altogether unacquainted; and the writer of these
remarks has often regretted that his lordship has not been made acquainted with this
fact, as it might be in his power to serve the sons of the late venerable Laurence Byrne of
Fallybeg.
Other changes have been made in Irish surnames by abbreviation; but though we regret
this, we are not willing to condemn it altogether, especially when the changes are made
for the purpose of rendering such names easy of pronunciation in the mouths of
magistrates and lawyers, who could not, in many cases, bring their organs of speech to
pronounce them in their original Irish form. Of these we could give a long list, but we
shall content ourselves with a selection.
In the province of Connaught the name Mac Eochy has been shortened to M’Keogh, and
latterly to Keogh; O’Mulconry to Conry and Conroy. In Ossory, Mac Gillapatrick has been
manufactured into Fitzpatrick. In the county of Galway, and throughout the province of
Connaught generally, Mac Gillakelly has been manufactured into Kilkelly; O’Mullally to
Lally; Mac Gillakenny, to Kilkenny; Mac Gillamurry, to Kilmurry; Mac Gilladuff to Kilduff;
Mac Geraghty, to Geraghty and Gearty; Mac Phaudeen, to Patten; O’Houlahan, to Nolan.
This last change is not to be excused, for it entirely disguises the origin of the family; and
we would therefore recommend the Nolans of the county of Galway to reject their false
name, and re-assume that of O’Houlahan. This family were removed from Munster into
Connaught by Oliver Cromwell, under the name of O’Houlahan, and they have therefore
no just right to assume the name of another Irish family to whom they bear no relation
whatsoever. The real Nolans of Ireland are of Leinster origin, and were the ancient chiefs
of the barony of Forth, in the now county of Carlow, anciently called Foharta Fea, where
they are still numerous; but the Connaught Nolans are not Nolans at all, but
O’Houlahans, and are a family who bore the dignity of chieftains in ancient times, though
it happens, that, not knowing their history, or taking a dislike to the sound of the name,
they have, with questionable propriety, assumed the name of a Leinster family, which
seems to sound somewhat better in modern ears. In the province of Ulster, the name
Mac Gillaroe has been shortened to Gilroy and Kilroy; Mac Gillabride, to Mac Bride; Mac
Gillacuskly, to Cuskly, and impertinently to Cosgrove and even Costello! Mac Gilla-Finnen,
to Linden and Leonard; Mac Gennis, to Ennis and Guinness; Mac Blosky, to Mac Closky. In
Munster the noble name of Mac Carthy (or, as it is pronounced in the original Irish, Maw
Caurhă) has dwindled to Carty (a vile change!); O’Mulryan, to O’Ryan and Ryan; Mac
Gilla-Synan, to Shannon; Mac Gillaboy, to Mac Evoy, &c. &c. In Leinster, all the O’s and
Macs have been rejected; and though a few of them are to be met there now, in
consequence of the influx of poor strangers of late into that province, it is certain that
there is not a single instance in which the O’ or Mac has been retained by any of the
aboriginal inhabitants of that province, I mean the ancient Irish Leinster, not including
Meath. The most distinguished of these was Mac Murrogh, but there is not a single
individual of that name now living in Leinster; the descendants of Donnell Mac Murrogh
Cavanagh, who, although illegitimate, became by far the most distinguished branch of
that great family, having all changed their surnames to Cavanagh, and the other
branches having, as the present writer has strong reasons to believe, changed it to
Murphy. The writer has come to this latter conclusion from having ascertained that in the
territory of the Murrows, in the county of Wexford, once the country of a great and
powerful sept of the Mac Murroghs, the greater number of the inhabitants, who are
perhaps the finest race of men in Ireland, are now called Murphy. He has therefore come
to the conclusion, and he hopes not too hastily, that the Murphys of this territory are all
Mac Murroghs. At the same time, however, he is well aware that the name generally
anglicised Murphy is not Mac Murrogh, but O’Murchoo, which was that of a branch or
offshoot of the regal family of Leinster, who became chiefs of the country of Hy-Felimy,
and whose chief seat was at Tullow, in the now county of Carlow. The writer is well
aware that the Murphys of the county of Carlow and Kilkenny are of this latter family, but
he cannot get rid of the conviction that the Murphys of the Murrowes, in the east of the
county of Wexford, are Mac Murroghs. On the subject of the difference between these
two families, we find the learned Roderic O’Flaherty thus criticising Peter Walsh towards
the close of the seventeenth century:—
“An O’ or a Mac is prefixed in Irish surnames to the proper names of some of their
ancestors, intimating that they were the sons, grandsons, or posterity of the person
whose name they adopted; but it was not proper to use one name promiscuously in the
place of another, as he writes O’Murphy, king of Leinster, instead of Mac Murphy, or
rather Mac Murchadh; but the family of O’Murchadha, which in English is Murphy, is very
different from and inferior to this family.”—Ogygia, Part III, cap. xxvii.
There are also some few instances to be met with, in which the O’ has been changed to
Mac, and vice versa, as in the remarkable instance of O’Melaghlin, chief of the Southern
Hy-Niall race, to Mac Loughlin; also in those instances in which O’Duvyerma has been
changed to Mac Dermot, O’Donoghy to Mac Donogh, O’Knavin to Mac Nevin, O’Heraghty
to Mac Geraghty, and a few others.
These latter changes are not calculated to disguise the Irish origin of the families who
have made them, but they are still to be regretted, as they tend to disguise the origin,
race, and locality of the respective families, and we should therefore like to see the
original names restored.
Similar changes have been made in the family names among the Welsh, as Ap-John into
Jones, Ap-Richard into Prichard and Richards, Ap-Owen into Owens, Ap-Robert into
Probert and Roberts, Ap-Gwillim into Williams, &c. &c.
Having thus treated of the alterations the Irish have made in their surnames, or family
names, for the purpose of making them appear English, I shall next proceed to point out
the changes which they have likewise made in their Christian or baptism names, for the
same purpose. Many of their original names they have altogether rejected, as not
immediately reducible to any modern English forms; but others they have retained,
though they have altered them in such a manner as to make them appear English. The
writer could furnish from the authentic Irish annals and pedigrees a long list of proper
names of men which were in use in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and which have been
for a long time laid aside; but the limits of this Journal would not afford room for such a
list: he must therefore content himself by pointing out the original forms of such names
as have been retained in an anglicised shape. These changes in the Christian names have
been made, not only by those families who have adopted English surnames, but also by
those who have retained the Milesian O’s and Macs; but these families have assumed that
the English forms which they have given this class of names are perfectly correct. This
was assumed to be true so early as the year 1689, in which we find Sir Richard Cox
writing on the subject as follows:—
“The Christian names of the Irish are as in England; Aodh i. e. Hugh, Mahoone i. e.
Matthew, Teige i. e. Timothy, Dermond i. e. Jeremy, Cnogher i. e. Cornelius, Cormac i. e.
Charles, Art i. e. Arthur, Donal i. e. Daniel, Goron i. e. Jeofry, Magheesh i. e. Moses.”
Now, I absolutely deny that these names are identical, though I acknowledge that they
are at present universally received and used as such. In the first place, the name Aodh,
which has been metamorphosed to Hugh, is not synonymous with it, for the name Aodh
signifies fire, but Hugh, which has been borrowed from the Saxon, signifies high or lofty.
Since, then, they bear not the same meaning, and are not made up of the same letters,
in what, may it be asked, does their identity consist? It is quite obvious that they have
nothing in common with each other. In the second place, Mahon, or, as Sir Richard Cox
writes it, Mahoone, is not Matthew; for if we believe Spenser and some Irish
glossographists, Mahon signifies a bear; and if they be correct, it cannot be identical,
synonymous, or cognate with the Scriptural name Matthew, which does not signify a
bear, but a gift, or a present. In the third instance, the Irish name Teige, which according
to all the Irish glossaries signifies a poet, is not synonymous with Timothy, which means
the God-fearing, and therefore is not identical or cognate with it; and I therefore doubt
that the Irish people have any right to change Teige into Timothy. It was first anglicised
Thady, and the writer is acquainted with individuals who have rendered it Thaddæus,
Theophilus, and Theodosius.
In the fourth instance, Dermod, or, as Sir Richard Cox writes it, Dermond, is not identical
with Jeremy, nor is it synonymous or even cognate with it. On this name, which was first
very incorrectly anglicised Darby, the learned Dr O’Brien writes as follows:—“Diarmaid,
the proper name of several great princes of the old Irish. This name [which had its origin
in Pagan times] is a compound of Dia, god, and armaid, the genitive plural of the Irish
word arm, Latin arma, armorum, so that Dia-armaid literally signifies the same as Deus
armorum, the god of arms. Such is the exalted origin of this Irish name, which does not
screen it from being at times a subject of ridicule to some of our pretty gentlemen of the
modern English taste.”
It must, however, in candour be acknowledged that this is not the meaning of the name
Dermod, and that Dr O’Brien invented this explanation to gain what he considered
respectability for a name common in his own illustrious family, and which was considered
vulgar by the fashionable people of the period at which he wrote. We have the authority
of the Irish glossaries to show that Diarmaid, which was adopted at a remote period of
Irish history, as the proper name of a man, signifies a freeman; and though this meaning
does not sound as lofty as the Deus armorum of Dr O’Brien, still it is sufficiently
respectable to show that Dermod is not a barbarous name, and that the Irish people
need not be ashamed of it; but they will be ashamed of every Irish name in despite of all
that can be said, as the writer has very strong grounds for asserting. The reason is
obvious—because they have lost their nationality.
In the fifth instance, Concovar, or, as Sir Richard Cox writes it, Cnogher, is not identical,
synonymous, or even cognate with Cornelius; for though it has been customary with
some families to latinize it to Cornelius, still we know from the radices of both names that
they bear not the slightest analogy to each other, for the Irish name is compounded of
Conn, strength, and Cobhair, aid, assistance; while the Latin Cornelius is differently
compounded. It is, then, evident that there is no reason for changing the Irish Concovar
or Conor to Cornelius, except a fancied resemblance between the sounds of both; but
this resemblance is very remote indeed.
In the sixth instance, the name Cormac has nothing whatsoever to do with Charles
(which means noble-spirited), for it is explained by all the glossographers as signifying
“Son of the Chariot,” and it is added, “that it was first given as a sobriquet, in the first
century, to a Lagenian prince who happened to be born in a chariot while his mother was
going on a journey, but that it afterwards became honourable as the name of many great
personages in Ireland.” After the accession of Charles the First, however, to the throne,
many Irish families of distinction changed Cormac to Charles, in order to add dignity to
the name by making it the same with that of the sovereign—a practice which has been
very generally followed ever since.
In the seventh instance, Sir Richard is probably correct. I do not deny that Art may be
synonymous with Arthur; indeed I am of opinion that they are both words of the same
original family of language, for the Irish word Art signifies noble, and if we can rely on
the British etymologists, Arthur bears much of a similar meaning in the Gomraeg or Old
British.
With respect to the eighth instance given by Sir Richard Cox, I have no hesitation in
asserting that the Irish proper name Domhnall, which was originally anglicised Donnell
and Donald, is not the same with the Scriptural name Daniel, which means God is judge.
I am at least certain that the ancient Irish glossographers never viewed it as such, for
they always wrote it Domhnall, and understood it to mean a great or proud chieftain.
This explanation may, however, be possibly incorrect; but the m in the first syllable shows
that the name is formed from a root very different from that from which the Scriptural
name Daniel is derived.
With respect to the names Goron (which is but a mistake for Searoon), Jeofry, and
Magheesh, Moses, the two last instances furnished by Sir Richard Cox, they were never
borne by the ancient Irish, but were borrowed from the Anglo-Normans, and therefore I
have nothing to do with them in this place. What I have said is sufficient to show that the
Christian names borne by the ancient Irish are not identical, synonymous, or even
cognate with those substituted for them in the time of Sir Richard Cox.

The most valuable part of every man’s education is that which he receives from himself,
especially when the active energy of his character makes ample amends for the want of a
more finished course of study.

“Would you know this boy to be my son from his resemblance to me?” asked a
gentleman. Mr Curran replied, “Yes, sir; the maker’s name is stamped upon the blade.”
 ELEGIAC STANZAS
ON A SON AND DAUGHTER.
In Merrion, by Eblana’s bay,
They sleep beneath a spreading tree;
No voices from the public way
Shall break their deep tranquillity.

Clontarf may bloom, and gloomy Howth

Behold the white sail passing by,
But never shall the spring-time growth
Or stately bark delight their eye.

Clontarf may live, a magic name,

To call up recollections dear—
But never shall great Brian’s fame
Delight the sleeper’s heedless ear.

They fell, ere reason’s dawn arose—

They, sinless, felt affliction’s rod;
Oh, who can tell their wordless woes
Before they reached the throne of God?

What being o’er the cradle leans,

Where innocence in anguish lies;
Writhing in its untold pains—
That feels not awful thoughts arise!

’Tis dreadful eloquence to all

Whose hearts are not of marble stone—
Such eloquence as could not fall
E’en from the tongue of Massillon.

Their ills are o’er—a father’s cares—

A mother’s throes—a mother’s fears—
A wily world with all its snares,
Shall ne’er begloom their joyless years.

They sleep in Merrion by the bay,

From passions, care, and sorrow free;
No voices from the public way
Shall break their deep tranquillity.

T.
 TESTIMONIALS.
Every one who has had any thing to do with the filling up of appointments for which
there has been any competition, must have been struck—taking the testimonials of
candidates as criteria to judge by—with the immense amount of talent and integrity that
is in the market, and available often for the merest trifle in the shape of annual salary. In
truth, judging by such documents as those just alluded to, one would think that it is the
able and deserving alone that are exposed to the necessity of seeking for employment. At
any rate, it is certain that all who do apply for vacant situations are without exception
persons of surpassing ability and incorruptible integrity—flowers of the flock, pinks of
talent, and paragons of virtue. How such exemplary persons come to be out of
employment, we cannot tell; but there they are.
The number of testimonials which one of these worthies will produce when he has once
made a dead set at an appointment, is no less remarkable than the warmth of the strain
in which they are written. Heaven knows where they get them all! but the number is
sometimes really amazing, a hatful, for instance, being a very ordinary quantity. We once
saw a candidate for an appointment followed by a porter who carried his testimonials,
and a pretty smart load for the man they seemed to be. The weight, we may add, of this
gentleman’s recommendations, as well it might carried the day.
In the case of regular situation-hunters of a certain class, gentlemen who are constantly
on the look-out for openings, who make a point of trying for every thing of the kind that
offers, and who yet, somehow or other, never succeed, it may be observed that their
testimonials have for the most part an air of considerable antiquity about them, that they
are in general a good deal soiled, and have the appearance of having been much
handled, and long in the possession of the very deserving persons to whose character
and abilities they bear reference. This seems rather a marked feature in the case of such
documents as those alluded to. How it should happen, we do not know; but you seldom
see a fresh, clean, newly written testimonial in the possession of a professed situation-
hunter. They are all venerable-looking documents, with something of a musty smell about
them, as if they had long been associated in the pocket with cheese crumbs and half-
burnt cigars.
A gentleman of the class to which we just now particularly refer, generally carries his
budget of testimonials about with him, and is ready to produce them at a moment’s
notice. Not knowing how soon or suddenly he may hear of something eligible, he is thus
always in a state of preparation for such chances as fortune may throw in his way. It is
commendable foresight.
As regards the general style of testimonials, meaning particularly that extreme warmth of
eulogium for which these documents are for the most part remarkable, it is perhaps in
the case of aspirants for literary situations that we find it in its greatest intensity. It is in
these cases we make the astounding discovery that the amount of literary talent known
is really nothing to that which is unknown; that in fact the brightest of those geniuses
who are basking in the sunshine of popular favour, and reaping fame and fortune from a
world’s applause, is a mere rushlight compared to hundreds whom an adverse fate has
doomed to obscurity, of whose merits the same untoward destiny has kept the world in
utter ignorance. As proof of this, we submit to the reader the testimonials of a couple of
candidates for the editorship of a certain provincial paper, with which, along with two or
three others, we had a proprietary connexion. There were in all one hundred and twenty
applicants, and each had somewhere about a score of different testimonials, bearing
witness to the brilliancy of his talents and the immaculateness of his character. We, the
proprietors, had thus, as the reader will readily believe, a pretty job of it. One hundred
and twenty candidates, with each, taking an average, 20 letters of recommendation; 20
times 120—2,400 letters to read!
In the present case we confine ourselves merely to one or two of the most remarkable,
although we cannot say that the difference between any of them was very material. They
were all in nearly one strain of unqualified, and, as regarded their subjects, no doubt
deserved laudation. The testimonials were for the most part addressed to the applicants
themselves, as in the following case:
“Dear Sir—In reply to your letter stating that you meant to apply for the editorship of a
provincial paper, and requesting my testimony to your competency for such an
appointment, I have sincere pleasure in saying that you possess, in an eminent degree,
every qualification for it. Your style of writing is singularly elegant, combining energy with
ease, and copiousness with concentration; nor is the delicacy and correctness of your
taste less remarkable than the force and beauty of your language. But your literary
achievements, my dear sir—achievements which, although they have not yet, will
certainly one day raise you to eminence—bear much stronger testimony to your merits
than any thing I can possibly say in your behalf; and to these I would refer all who are
interested in ascertaining what your attainments are. As an editor of a paper, you would
be invaluable; and I assure you, they will not be little to be envied who shall be so
fortunate as to secure the aid of your able services,” &c. &c. &c.
Well, this was one of the very first testimonials we happened to open, and we thought
we had found our man at the very outset, that it would be unnecessary to go farther, and
we congratulated ourselves accordingly. We were delighted with our luck in having thus
stumbled on such a genius at the first move. It is true, we did not know exactly what to
make of the reference to the candidate’s literary achievements, what they were, or where
to look for them; for neither of these achievements, nor of the candidate himself, had we
ever heard before; but as the writer of the letter was not unknown to us, we took it for
granted that all was right.
What, however, was our surprise, what our perplexity, when, on proceeding to the
testimonials of the next candidate, we found that he was a gentleman of still more
splendid talents than the first; that, in short, the light of the latter’s genius, compared to
that of the former’s, was but as the light of a lucifer match to the blaze of Mount Etna.
“Gentlemen,” said the first testimonial of this person’s we took up (we, the proprietors,
being addressed in this case), “Gentlemen, having learnt that you are on the look-out for
an editor for your paper, and learning from Mr Josephus Julius Augustus Bridgeworth that
he intends becoming a candidate for that appointment, I at his request most cheerfully
bear testimony to his competency, I might say pre-eminent fitness, for the situation in
question. Mr Bridgeworth is a young man of the highest literary attainments; indeed, I
should not be going too far were I to say that I know of no writer, ancient or modern,
who at all approaches him in force and beauty of style, or who surpasses him in
originality of thought and brilliancy of imagination: qualities which he has beautifully and
strikingly exhibited in his inimitable Essay on Bugs, which obtained for him the gold prize-
medal of the Royal Society of Entomologists, and admission to that Society as an
honorary member, with the right of assuming the title of F. R. S. In fine, gentlemen, I
would entreat of you, as much for your own sakes as for that of my illustrious young
friend Mr Bridgeworth, not to let slip this opportunity—one that may never occur again—
of securing the services of one of the most talented gentlemen of the day; one who, I
feel well assured, will one day prove not only an honour to his country, but an ornament
to the age in which he lives. With regard to Mr B.’s moral character, I have only to say
that it is every thing that is upright and honourable; that he is, in truth, not more
distinguished for the qualities of his head than of his heart.”
We have already said that the circumstance of finding in the bug essayist a greater
genius than in the candidate who preceded him, most grievously perplexed us. It did. But
what was this perplexity compared with that by which we were confounded, when, on
proceeding to look over the testimonials of the other candidates, we found that the
merits of every new one we came to surpassed those of him who had gone before, and
this so invariably, that it became evident that we had drawn around us all the talent and
character of the country; that in fact all the talent and character of the country was
striving for the editorship of our paper.
Thus placed as it were in the midst of a perfect galaxy of genius, thus surrounded by the
best and brightest men of the age, we had, as will readily be believed, great difficulty in
making a choice. A choice, however, we did at length make; fixing on the brightest of the
brilliant host by which we were mobbed. Need I tell the result? Need I say that this
luminary turned out, after all, but a farthing candle!—a very ordinary sort of person. He
did, indeed, well enough, but not better than a thousand others could have done.
While on this subject of testimonials, let us add that we had once, with one or two
others, the bestowal of an appointment to a situation of trust, and for which integrity was
the chief requisite. We had in this, as in the former case, an immense number of
applicants, and, as in the former case, each of these produced the most satisfactory
testimonials. We chose the most immaculate of these honest men—we appointed him. In
three weeks after, he decamped with £500 of his employer’s cash!
C.
Friendship.—Friendship derives all its beauty and strength from the qualities of the heart,
or from a virtuous or lovely disposition; or should these be wanting, some shadow of
them must be present; it can never dwell long in a bad heart or mean disposition. It is a
passion limited to the nobler part of the species, for it can never co-exist with vice or
dissimulation. Without virtue, or the supposition of it, friendship is only a mercenary
league, or a tie of interest, which must of course dissolve when that interest decays, or
subsists no longer. It is a composition of the noblest passions of the mind. A just taste
and love of virtue, good sense, a thorough candour and benignity of heart, and a
generous sympathy of sentiment and affections, are the essential ingredients of this
nobler passion. When it originates from love, and esteem is strengthened by habit, and
mellowed by time, it yields infinite pleasure, ever new and ever growing. It is the best
support amongst the numerous trials and vicissitudes of life, and gives a relish to most of
our engagements. What can be imagined more comfortable than to have a friend to
console us in afflictions, to advise with in doubtful cases, and share our felicity? What
firmer anchor is there for the mind, tossed like a vessel on the tumultuous waves of
contingencies, than this? It exalts our nobler passions, and weakens our evil inclinations;
it assists us to run the race of virtue with a steady and undeviating course. From loving,
esteeming, and endeavouring to felicitate particular people, a more general passion will
arise for the whole of mankind. Confined to the society of a few, we look upon them as
the representatives of the many, and from friendship learn to cultivate philanthropy.—Sir
H. Davy.

Humility.—An humble man is like a good tree; the more full of fruit the branches are, the
lower they bend themselves.

No dust affects the eyes so much as gold dust.

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.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY
JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 51, JUNE 19, 1841 ***

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