by the dragoon led to the arrest of McL, who was tried for the murder, and executed in Naas. At the earnest request of Messrs. Crampton and Kerin, I attended the execu tion, and, being provided with letters of introduction to the Sheriff, and to the surgeon of the county infirmary, to whom (as the law then existed) the body was delivered for dissection, I readily obtained permission to make a postmortem examination. I discovered at once the opening in the bone of the pelvis through which the ball entered, but, after the most searching trial, was unable to trace its further course. The bladder had not been wounded, nor could I discover any opening in the bones by which the ball could have escaped. Finally, however, its lodgment in the integuments on the inside of the right knee was ascertained through the information of a warder, who heard McL. complain frequently of a pain in that spot.

I have thus far related duels exemplifying displays of courage, chivalry, and presence of mind; but bearing in memory my intention, expressed at the outset, to describe duels fought in the nineteenth century, I cannot forbear to record, however reluctantly, the circumstances of two intended contests that presented absolute departure from the vital principles of honor. Being professionally engaged on both occasions, I had full opportunity for observation. Resulting from an encounter on the stairs of the Theatre Royal, wherein Sir R. O'D. received a blow from Mr. W., a meeting took place on the Fifteen Acres, Phoenix Park, where, being present as Sir R.'s surgeon, I witnessed the following burlesque. Sir R. took his place on the measured ground, but Mr. W. remained in a carriage close by, and obstinately refused to leave it, without assigning a reason for such perseverance. The vehicle was then surrounded by a crowd of spectators, who, in turns, peeped through the windows, and with expressions of mockery, mingled with insulting inquiry, suggested the forcible transfer of the occupant to the post marked on the ground for him. When all efforts failed to induce a change of mind, Mr. M., Sir R.'s second, rode up to the carriage and discharged a pistol across the windows, jocosely exclaiming, "Surely the dread of that sound created your want of courage!" At length a most abject apology was drawn up, and, when signed by Mr. W., was read aloud to the assemblage by Mr. M.

The second contest referred to collapsed in a manner not less inappropriate to the principles of honor. Mr. B., having learned that a military officer quartered in Dublin had spoken disparagingly of a near relative, demanded an explanation from that officer when he met him dressed in uniform. An evasive, insolent reply provoked a quarrel, during which Mr. B. horsewhipped the officer, who, in return, drew his sword, but his attempt to use it on Mr. B. was prevented by casual passengers. Happening to ride up at the moment, I witnessed the entire affair, which occurred in Grafton Street, at the corner of Wicklow Street, then called Exchequer Street. A hostile meeting was soon arranged, but was frustrated by the arrest of Mr. B., who lost no time, when released on bail, in communicating to the officer his anxiety to renew the duel. It was then fixed that both parties should proceed to France, and I was engaged by Mr. B. to accompany him as his surgeon. The journey was, however, rendered unnecessary by a compromise that included the officer's consent to accept a written apology from Mr. B., which was delivered in the presence of military and other gentlemen.

It is very unpleasant to refer to such displays of the white feather, particularly to that shown by an officer who drew his sword upon an unarmed. gentleman, and afterwards, eschewing a fight with him on equal terms, felt satisfied to accept an apology in exchange for a public horsewhipping inflicted while he wore his Majesty's uniform. It is, however, more consonant to my feelings to testify that upon no other occasion have I noticed in duellists the least glimmer of inclination to forget their unyielding fealty to the national banner, with its indomitable motto," Mors ante dedecus.'

The undignified conclusion of the affair between Mr. B. and the officer gave rise to much caustic public commentary,

and it was bruited about that other officers felt that, with regard to the honor of the regiment, it was placed in a very unpleasant dilemma. That impression was materially strengthened by a most unfortunate transaction which immediately afterwards created a painful sensation in Dublin. Captain Roland Smyth, of the same corps, while driving his cabriolet in Nassau Street, accompanied by a brother officer, approached directly against the horse ridden by Mr. Standish O'Grady, and thus compelled that gentleman to raise his whip in order to divert the horse driven by Captain Smyth, who thereupon applied his driving whip unsparingly upon Mr. O'Grady's person and horse. (I heard at the time the account now given of that incident from a gentleman who witnessed its occurrence from Morrison's Hotel.) An immediate challenge was followed by a duel on 18th March, 1830, near Dolphin's Barn, and Mr. O'Grady fell, mortally wounded. That fatal result aroused an expression of universal reprobation, especially when it transpired that the fight took place in a small field bordered by hedges converging to an apex behind which there stood a large haystack, and that Mr. O'Grady, placed in the angle, presented a favorable target for Captain Smyth. All the circumstances of this melancholy affair, so rashly and wantonly provoked by Captain Smyth, were elicited at the inquest, when Captain Smyth and his second, Captain Markham, were committed to the prison of Kilmainham, "for killing Mr. Standish S. O'Grady in a duel." These officers were tried for that offence on the 24th of August, 1830, before Lord Plunket and Judge Vandeleur, and sentenced to twelve months' confinement in Kilmainham prison.

The following occurrence forcibly exemplifies the influence that can be exercised over the mind when acutely sensible to the dictates of honor, however erroneously indulged. Being in professsional attendance upon a young gentleman when he fought a duel near Phibsborough, in which two rounds were exchanged, I closely observed the courage and coolness exhibited by him on the ground; yet he shortly afterwards committed suicide with an equal display of courage and determination. Having learned that a lady to whom he was greatly attached,.and on whose reciprocal affection he had every reason to rely, was married to another person, he took a huge dose of laudanum, and, in order to ensure the accomplishment of his design, subsequently swallowed arsenic. When discovered laboring under the effects of the narcotic, he was conveyed to Richmond Hospital and relieved by the stomach-pump, but the arsenic produced effects that could not be neutralized, and he very soon expired. Here was an individual of unmistakable courage, who feared not to face death when defending his honor, yet with equal fortitude secured that end though laboring under a fatal apprehension that he was dishonored and precluded from obtaining satisfaction for that stigma. He verily and practically proved his faith in the adage, malo mori quam fœdari.

The rapid stride of civilization that leads certainly to humanity; the growing influence of public opinion evinced by opposition to hostile meetings, as contrasted with the crowded attendance of enthusiastic spectators in former days; the excitement created by some of the conflicts to which I referred, and by others in various parts of the kingdom, gradually undermined the propensity for duelling. The decline and fall of the practice was hastened by the duel between the Duke of Wellington and Lord Winchelsea, to which Jeremy Bentham thus alluded in a letter to the Dukef: "Ill-advised man, think of the confusion into which government would have been thrown had you been killed or hurt, and your trial for the murder of another been substituted in the House of Lords for the passing of the Emancipation Act." It thus became known beyond dispute that duelling in the United Kingdom was illegal and subject to the ordinary process of the Criminal Courts, a most salutary change from the legal protection that previously surrounded those contests. That important change was subsequently confirmed in Ireland by the punishment of the military officers engaged in a fatal duel.

Nevertheless the fine old Celtic pride has not departed,

Un

ries we want time; to a child it is scarcely possible. fortunately, the eagerness after their profits exhibited by too many of our college Principals, gives a child but a poor opinion of human nature; and soon he comes to see nothing but a group of greedy speculators in those whom he ought to acknowledge to be his best friends.

An additional reason for this blot on the reputation of the men who are entrusted with the important charge of education in our smaller colleges is their wretched position. Is it fair to expect devotion to their profession from men who have not enough to live upon-who are unable to obtain from the state the means of maintaining the superior social rank to which their learning and the importance of their functions entitle them? But you may be sure that, at that early period in my history, I did not trouble my head about such speculations; and if I put forward these views now, it is only because I consider it the duty of every conscientious man to think and express himself in this way.

In a couple of hours from our departure from Saarstadt, we reached the foot of the rocky hill which lies before Richepierre. The pace slackened, Grisette was panting, my father was encouraging her with his voice -"Hue! hue!" I thoughtfully set my eyes again upon our old village, with my heart stirred up with the memories of childhood, and the pleasure of meeting again those whom I loved best in the world.

At last the first house on the hill came in sight. Grisette resumed her former pace, and we drove down the long street, bordered on each side by barns, dunghills, and cartsheds. My mother was waiting at the door, my brothers and sisters were looking out for me.

"Ha ha! There he is! I see him! There's Jean Paul!"

And all our neighbors were at their windows.

Before the conveyance stopped, I had jumped down, and kissed my mother over and over again. My brothers and sisters hung upon my neck, and in we went, all in a heap, into the large sitting-room, where dinner was awaiting us. What more can I say? That fortnight passed away as swiftly as one day.

All my old schoolfellows at Magnus' came to see me. Gourdier and Dabsec passed, night and morning, barefooted and bare-chested, with their burdens of wood upon their shoulders; they stopped, throwing back their long ragged locks off their brown faces, and gazed upon me without speaking.

"How do you do, Gourdier?" I cried one day, to one that Monsieur Magnus used to proclaim the best boy in the school.

A flash of intelligence darted from his hazel eyes. "How are you?" he replied abruptly, pulling up his burden, with the handle of his axe beneath it, and recommencing his toilsome journey to the fort.

I had become less proud than I used to be; but he had not forgotten that I had once called him a beggar, and he could not forgive me.

Perhaps he was thinking that if he had but had money enough, he too might have carried on his education; and he was feeling indignant at having been obliged to stay his progress. I cannot tell; but it is quite likely, for he was very ambitious at school. Not having oil for his lamp at home, he used to sit at night before the mouth of the oven to read his books, with his head down between his knees; and when he came to school in the morning, his eyes were red with the heat of the fire. I believe, then, that he was angry with me for having been more fortunate than he, and being able to study at my ease.

Monsieur le Curé also came once or twice to dine with us during these holidays; he examined me, and seemed satisfied, especially with my improvement in sacred history.

Then I had to leave home again, and return to join my class at Monsieur Gradus'; and I felt a great depression. Still I kept up my spirits better than the first time, and I said to myself," After all, one does get away."

On the 29th of April, my father took me back to school, and the classes opened the very next morning.

The worst trouble at the small colleges, in that day, was

the perpetual traffic in school-books carried on by the Principals.

These conscientious workers did not content themselves with the legitimate profits which they derived from the board of the pupils. Every year, and sometimes at intervals of only six months, immense heavy parcels came, full of French, Greek, and Latin grammars, dictionaries, histories, sacred and Roman, on a new plan, which the professors immediately adopted in order to procure the Principal a prompt sale of his goods.

All the old grammars, arithmetics, and primers were flung into the basket; Lhomond being out of date, Noël and Chapsal took his place. Noël and Chapsal died in their turn, and Burnouf was ready to fill the gap; and so

on.

And so it came to pass that, to enable the Principal to gain a profit of five sous, a crowd of boys never knew their grammar nor their rules even after five or six years of constant application, because they were put on new books upon old subjects every year. I do not believe that in any business the greed of gain displayed itself more shamelessly. Under the pretext of perfecting the method of teaching, the pupils learnt nothing thoroughly.

This is exactly what happened that year. Before Easter we had had the rudiments of Lhomond, his grammar, and his catechism of history. On our return, Monsieur Gradus put into all our hands the books of a certain gentleman who refined and improved upon Lhomond; and now we had to commit everything to memory, always by heart: new rules, new examples, new primitive and derivative tenses, etc., etc. Of course, everything was left unexplained. Those who had imagined they knew something, because they had stuffed a lot of words into their memories, now found that they knew nothing. The same thing had to be begun over again with fresh words, and with a fresh arrangement. For my part, I confess that those two grammars never ceased to make war upon each other in my poor brain, until my college-days were over; I could never tell which to go to. But Monsieur le Principal had got a profit of two or three francs out of every scholar, the parents had paid fifteen or twenty, and the transaction was closed.

Do let us pass on.

The old Alsacians having with their long strides passed out of Monsieur Gradus' class, after Easter a new batch of boarders and day-scholars, the best in the seventh class, came in to take their places; these were Masse, Marchal, the brothers Martin, Baudouin, Moll, etc.

This time we were all about the same age, a very lucky circumstance, for the mind of a boy of fifteen is not the same as that of a boy of ten or twelve; the professor who speaks to the one cannot be understood by the other. The tail will in that case always be sacrificed to the head.

I do not mean to tire you out by telling you about our new grammar. I suffered enough from it myself, and I will inflict none of it upon you.

But there was an odd circumstance at that time, which used to puzzle me excessively during the first few days. In summer time our windows stood open, on account of the overpowering heat which prevailed between the walls of the old cloisters. Whilst reciting conjugations, or the fables of La Fontaine, we used to hear a loud and singular voice rising from time to time, giving out a most melancholy note, with wonderful cadences :

66 Kai-i-i! Kai-i-i! Kaï-ï—i!”

From two o'clock till four, we heard this cry at least a hundred times, and I said to myself, "That's a bird. But what bird is there with a note like that? I never heard such a strange cry for a bird as that."

Well would you believe it? - it was Greek! It was the cry of Monsieur Laperche, professor in the fourth class, in the next class-room, teaching his pupils Greek, which he did not know himself! I found that out by and by, when I had the pleasure of entering his class. He used gravely to pace up and down the room, carefully measuring his steps with his long heron's legs, and with much importance followed the lesson of the boy who was trans

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absolute license of speech and conduct. He becomes their spoiled child," his excesses are promptly applauded, and even his offences against good taste are speedily pardoned.

Of early gagging comedians one of the most noted appears to have been Will Pinkethman, who flourished under William and Mary, and won honorable mention from Sir Richard Steele, in the Tatler. Cibber describes Pinkethman as an imitator of Leigh, an earlier actor of superior and more legitimate powers. Pinkethman's inclination for "gamesome liberties" and "uncommon pleasantries" was of a most extravagant kind. Davies says of him that he "was in such full possession of the galleries that he would hold discourse with them for several minutes." Nor could he be induced to amend his method of performance. It was in vain the managers threatened to fine him for his exuberances; he was too surely a public favorite to be severely treated. At one time he came to a "whimsical agreement" with Wilks, the actor, who suffered much from his playfellow's eccentricities, that "whenever he was guilty of corresponding with the gods he should receive on his back three smart strokes of Bob Wilks's cane." But even this penalty, it would seem, Wilks was too good-natured to enforce. On one occasion, however, as Davies relates, Pinkethman so persisted in his gagging as to incur the displeasure of the audience. The comedy was Farquhar's "Recruiting Officer;" Wilks played Captain Plume, and Pinkethman one of the recruits. The captain, enlisting him, inquired his name. Instead of giving the proper answer, Pinkethman replied: "Why, don't you know my name, Bob? I thought every fool knew that." Wilks angrily whispered to him the name of the recruit, Thomas Appleton. "Thomas Appleton?" he cried, aloud. "No, no, my name's Will Pinkethman!" Then addressing himself to the gallery, he said, "Hark ye, friends; you know my name up there, don't you?" "Yes, Master Pinkey," was the answer, "we know your name well enough." The house was now in an uproar. At first the audience enjoyed the folly of Pinkethman, and the distressed air of Wilks; but soon the joke grew tiresome, and hisses became distinctly audible. By assuming as melancholy an expression as he could, and exclaiming with a strong nasal twang, "Odds, I fear I'm wrong," Pinkethman was enabled to restore the good-humor of his patrons. It would seem that on other occasions he was compelled to make some similar apology for his misdemeanors. "I have often thought," Cibber writes, "that a good deal of the favor he met with was owing to this seeming humble way of waiving all pretences to merit, but what the town would please to allow him." A satiric poem, called "The Players," published in 1733, contains the following reference to Pinketh

At this time, Pinkethman had been dead some years, and it is explained in a note, that no "invidious reflection upon his memory was intended; but merely a caution to others, who, less gifted, should presume to initate conduct which had not escaped censure even in his case. With all his irregularities, Pinkethman was accounted a serviceable actor, and was often entrusted with characters of real importance, such as Doctor Caius, Feeble, Abel Drugger, Beau Clincher, Humprey Gubbin, and Jerry Blackacre.

But an actor who outdid even Pinkethman in impertinence of speech was John Edwin, a comedian who enjoyed great popularity late in the last century. A contemporary critic describes him "as one of those extraordinary productions that would do immortal honor to the sock, if his extravasations of whim could be kept within bounds, and if the comicality of his vein could be restrained by good taste." Reynolds, the dramatist, relates that on one occasion he was sitting in the front row of the balcony-box at the Haymarket, during the performance of O'Keeffe's

farce of The Son-in-Law," Parsons being the Cranky, and Edwin the Bowkitt of the night. In the scene of Cranky's refusal to bestow his daughter upon Bowkitt, on the ground of his being such an ugly fellow, Edwin coolly advanced to the foot-lights, and said: "Ugly! Now I submit to the decision of an enlightened British public, which is the ugliest fellow of us three; I, old Cranky, or that gentleman in the front row of the balcony-box?" Here he pointed to Reynolds, who hastened to abandon his position. Parsons was exceedingly angry at the interruption, but the audience appear to have tolerated, and even enjoyed the gag. As Reynolds himself leniently writes: Many performers before and since the days of Edwin have acquired the power, by private winks, irrelevant buffoonery, and dialogue, to make their fellow-players laugh, and thus confound the audience, and mar the scene; Edwin, disdaining this confined and distracting system, established a sort of entre-nous-ship (if I may venture to use the expression) with the audience, and made them his confidants; and though wrong in his principle, yet so neatly and skilfully did he execute it, that instead of injuring the business of the stage, he frequently enriched it."

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Edwin seems, indeed, to have been an actor of some genius, notwithstanding his "extravasations of whim," and an habitual intemperance which probably hastened the close of his professional career for the man was a shameless sot. "I have often seen him," writes Boaden, "brought to the stage door, senseless and motionless, lying at the bottom of a coach." Yet, if he could but be made to assume his stage-clothes, and pushed towards the lamps, he would rub his eyes for a moment, and then consciousness and extraordinary humor returned to him together, and his acting suffered in no way from the excesses which had overwhelmed him. Eccentricity was his forte, and it was usually found necessary to have characters expressly written for him but there can be no doubt that he was very highly esteemed by the playgoers of his time, who viewed his loss to the stage as quite irreparable.

But of the comedians it may be said, that they not only "gag," themselves, but they are the cause of "gagging" in others. Their interpolations are regarded as heirlooms in the Thespian family. It is the comic actor's constant plea, when charged with adding to some famous part, that he has only been true to the traditions of previous performers. One of the most notable instances of established gag is the burlesque sermon introduced by Mawworm, in the last scene of "The Hypocrite." This was originated by Mathews, who first undertook the part at the Lyceum, in 1809, and who designed a caricature of an extravagant preacher, of the Whitfield school, known as Daddy Berridge, whose strange discourses at the Tabernacle in Tottenham Court Road had grievously afflicted the actor in his youth. Mawworm's sermon met with extraordinary success; on some occasions it was even encored, and the comedy has never since been presented without this supreme effort of gag. Liston borrowed the address from Mathews, and gained for it so great an amount of fame, that the real contriver of the interpolation had reason to complain of being deprived of such credit as was due to him in the matter. The sermon is certainly irresistibly comical, and a fair outgrowth of the character of Mawworm; at the same time, it must be observed that Mawworm is himself an excrescence upon the comedy, having no existence in Cibber's "Non Juror," upon which "The Hypocrite" is founded, or in "Tartuffe," from whence Cibber derived the subject of his play.

In the same way, the additions made by the actors to certain of Sheridan's comedies such as Moses's redundant iterations of "I'll take my oath of that!" in the "School for Scandal," and Acres' misquotation of Sir Lucius's handwriting: "To prevent the trouble that might arise from our both undressing the same lady," in "The Rivals," are gags of such long standing, that they may date almost from the first production of those works. Sheridan himself supervised the rehearsals, and took great pains to perfect the representation; but, with other dramatists, he probably found himself much at the mercy of the players. He even withheld publication of the "School for Scandal,"