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Chapter 2: Vectors and Matrices

Exercises

1) If a variable has the dimensions 3 x 4, could it be considered to be (bold all that

apply):
a matrix
a row vector
a column vector
a scalar

2) If a variable has the dimensions 1 x 5, could it be considered to be (bold all that

apply):
a matrix
a row vector
a column vector
a scalar

3) If a variable has the dimensions 5 x 1, could it be considered to be (bold all that

apply):
a matrix
a row vector
a column vector
a scalar

4) If a variable has the dimensions 1 x 1, could it be considered to be (bold all that

apply):
a matrix
a row vector
a column vector
a scalar

5) Using the colon operator, create the following row vectors

3 4 5 6 7 8

1.3000 1.7000 2.1000 2.5000

9 7 5 3

>> 3:8
ans =
3 4 5 6 7 8
>> 1.3: 0.4: 2.5
ans =
1.3000 1.7000 2.1000 2.5000
 >> 9: -2: 3
ans =
9 7 5 3

6) Using a built-in function, create a vector vec which consists of 30 equally spaced
points in the range from –2*pi to +pi.

>> vec = linspace(-2*pi, pi, 30)

7) Write an expression using linspace that will result in the same as 1:0.5:3

>> 1: 0.5: 3
ans =
1.0000 1.5000 2.0000 2.5000 3.0000
>> linspace(1,3,5)
ans =
1.0000 1.5000 2.0000 2.5000 3.0000

8) Using the colon operator and also the linspace function, create the following row
vectors:

-4 -3 -2 -1 0

9 7 5

4 6 8

>> -4:0
ans =
-4 -3 -2 -1 0
>> linspace(-4, 0, 5)
ans =
-4 -3 -2 -1 0
>> 9:-2:5
ans =
9 7 5
>> linspace(9, 5, 3)
ans =
9 7 5
>> 4:2:8
ans =
4 6 8
>> linspace(4,8,3)
ans =
4 6 8

9) How many elements would be in the vectors created by the following expressions?
 linspace(3,2000)

100 (always, by default)

logspace(3,2000)

50 (always, by default – although these numbers

would get very large quickly; most would be
represented as Inf)

10) Create a variable myend which stores a random integer in the inclusive range from
5 to 9. Using the colon operator, create a vector that iterates from 1 to myend in steps
of 3.

>>myend = randi([5, 9])

myend =
8
>> vec = 1:3:myend
vec =
1 4 7

11) Create two row vector variables. Concatenate them together to create a new row
vector variable.

>> rowa = 2:4

rowa =
2 3 4
>> rowb = 5:2:10
rowb =
5 7 9
>> newrow = [rowa rowb]
newrow =
2 3 4 5 7 9
>>

12) Using the colon operator and the transpose operator, create a column vector
myvec that has the values -1 to 1 in steps of 0.5.

>> rowVec = -1: 0.5: 1;

>> rowVec'
ans =
-1.0000
-0.5000
0
0.5000
1.0000
13)Explain why the following expression results in a row vector, not a column vector:

colvec = 1:3’

Only the 3 is transposed; need to put in [] to get a column

vector

14) Write an expression that refers to only the elements that have odd-numbered
subscripts in a vector, regardless of the length of the vector. Test your expression on
vectors that have both an odd and even number of elements.

>> vec = 1:8;

>> vec(1:2:end)
ans =
1 3 5 7

>> vec = 4:12

vec =
4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
>> vec(1:2:end)
ans =
4 6 8 10 12

15) Generate a 2 x 4 matrix variable mat. Replace the first row with 1:4. Replace the
third column (you decide with which values).

>> mat = [2:5; 1 4 11 3]

mat =
2 3 4 5
1 4 11 3
>> mat(1,:) = 1:4
mat =
1 2 3 4
1 4 11 3
>> mat(:,3) = [4;3]
mat =
1 2 4 4
1 4 3 3

16) Generate a 2 x 4 matrix variable mat. Verify that the number of elements is equal to
the product of the number of rows and columns.

>> mat = randi(20,2,4)

mat =
1 19 17 9
 13 15 20 16
>> [r c] = size(mat);
>> numel(mat) == r * c
ans =
1

17) Which would you normally use for a matrix: length or size? Why?

Definitely size, because it tells you both the number of

rows and columns.

18) When would you use length vs. size for a vector?

If you want to know the number of elements, you’d use

length. If you want to figure out whether it’s a row or
column vector, you’d use size.

19) Generate a 2 x 3 matrix of random

• real numbers, each in the range (0, 1)
• real numbers, each in the range (0, 5)
• integers, each in the inclusive range from 10 to 50

>> rand(2,3)
ans =
0.5208 0.5251 0.1665
0.1182 0.1673 0.2944

>> rand(2,3)*5
ans =
1.9468 2.3153 4.6954
0.8526 2.9769 3.2779

>> randi([10, 50], 2, 3)

ans =
16 20 39
12 17 27

20) Create a variable rows that is a random integer in the inclusive range from 1 to 5.
Create a variable cols that is a random integer in the inclusive range from 1 to 5.
Create a matrix of all zeros with the dimensions given by the values of rows and cols.

>> rows = randi([1,5])

rows =
3
>> cols = randi([1,5])
cols =
2
 >> zeros(rows,cols)
ans =
0 0
0 0
0 0

21) Create a vector variable vec. Find as many expressions as you can that would
refer to the last element in the vector, without assuming that you know how many
elements it has (i.e., make your expressions general).

>> vec = 1:2:9

vec =
1 3 5 7 9
>> vec(end)
ans =
9
>> vec(numel(vec))
ans =
9
>> vec(length(vec))
ans =
9
>> v = fliplr(vec);
>> v(1)
ans =
9

22) Create a matrix variable mat. Find as many expressions as you can that would
refer to the last element in the matrix, without assuming that you know how many
elements or rows or columns it has (i.e., make your expressions general).

>> mat = [12:15; 6:-1:3]

mat =
12 13 14 15
6 5 4 3
>> mat(end,end)
ans =
3
>> mat(end)
ans =
3
>> [r c] = size(mat);
>> mat(r,c)
ans =
3
23) Create a 2 x 3 matrix variable mat. Pass this matrix variable to each of the following
functions and make sure you understand the result: flip, fliplr, flipud, and rot90. In
how many different ways can you reshape it?

>> mat = randi([1,20], 2,3)

mat =
16 5 8
15 18 1
>> flip(mat)
ans =
15 18 1
16 5 8
>>fliplr(mat)
ans =
8 5 16
1 18 15
>> flipud(mat)
ans =
15 18 1
16 5 8
>> rot90(mat)
ans =
8 1
5 18
16 15
>> rot90(rot90(mat))
ans =
1 18 15
8 5 16
>> reshape(mat,3,2)
ans =
16 18
15 8
5 1
>> reshape(mat,1,6)
ans =
16 15 5 18 8 1
>> reshape(mat,6,1)
ans =
16
15
5
18
8
1

24) What is the difference between fliplr(mat) and mat = fliplr(mat)?

 The first stores the result in ans so mat is not changed; the second changes mat.

25) Fill in the following:

The function flip is equivalent to the function fliplr for a row vector.
The function flip is equivalent to the function flipud for a column vector.
The function flip is equivalent to the function flipud for a matrix.

26) Use reshape to reshape the row vector 1:4 into a 2x2 matrix; store this in a variable
named mat. Next, make 2x3 copies of mat using both repelem and repmat.

>> mat = reshape(1:4,2,2)

mat =
1 3
2 4
>> repelem(mat,2,3)
ans =
1 1 1 3 3 3
1 1 1 3 3 3
2 2 2 4 4 4
2 2 2 4 4 4
>> repmat(mat,2,3)
ans =
1 3 1 3 1 3
2 4 2 4 2 4
1 3 1 3 1 3
2 4 2 4 2 4

27) Create a 3 x 5 matrix of random real numbers. Delete the third row.

>> mat = rand(3,5)

mat =
0.5226 0.9797 0.8757 0.0118 0.2987
0.8801 0.2714 0.7373 0.8939 0.6614
0.1730 0.2523 0.1365 0.1991 0.2844

>> mat(3,:) = []
mat =
0.5226 0.9797 0.8757 0.0118 0.2987
0.8801 0.2714 0.7373 0.8939 0.6614

28) Given the matrix:

>> mat = randi([1 20], 3,5)
mat =
6 17 7 13 17
17 5 4 10 12
 6 19 6 8 11
Why wouldn’t this work:

mat(2:3, 1:3) = ones(2)

Because the left and right sides are not the same dimensions.

29) Create a three-dimensional matrix with dimensions 2 x 4 x 3 in which the first

“layer” is all 0s, the second is all 1s and the third is all 5s. Use size to verify the
dimensions.

>> mat3d = zeros(2,4,3);

>> mat3d(:,:,2) = 1;
>> mat3d(:,:,3) = 5;
>> mat3d
mat3d(:,:,1) =
0 0 0 0
0 0 0 0
mat3d(:,:,2) =
1 1 1 1
1 1 1 1
mat3d(:,:,3) =
5 5 5 5
5 5 5 5
>> size(mat3d)
ans =
2 4 3

30) Create a vector x which consists of 20 equally spaced points in the range from – to
+. Create a y vector which is sin(x).

>> x = linspace(-pi,pi,20);
>> y = sin(x);

31) Create a 3 x 5 matrix of random integers, each in the inclusive range from -5 to 5.
Get the sign of every element.

>> mat = randi([-5,5], 3,5)

mat =
5 4 1 -1 -5
4 4 -1 -3 0
5 -2 1 0 4
>> sign(mat)
ans =
1 1 1 -1 -1
1 1 -1 -1 0
 1 -1 1 0 1

32) Find the sum 2+4+6+8+10 using sum and the colon operator.

>> sum(2:2:10)
ans =
30

33) Find the sum of the first n terms of the harmonic series where n is an integer
variable greater than one.
1 1 1 1
1 + + + + +…
2 3 4 5

>> n = 4;
>> sum(1./(1:n))
ans =
2.0833

34) Find the following sum by first creating vectors for the numerators and
denominators:

3 5 7 9
+ + +
1 2 3 4

>> num = 3:2:9

num =
3 5 7 9
>> denom = 1:4
denom =
1 2 3 4
>> fracs = num ./ denom
fracs =
3.0000 2.5000 2.3333 2.2500
>> sum(fracs)
ans =
10.0833

35) Create a matrix and find the product of each row and column using prod.

>> mat = randi([1, 30], 2,3)

mat =
11 24 16
5 10 5

>> prod(mat)
 ans =
55 240 80

>> prod(mat,2)
ans =
4224
250

36) Create a 1 x 6 vector of random integers, each in the inclusive range from 1 to 20.
Use built-in functions to find the minimum and maximum values in the vector. Also
create a vector of cumulative sums using cumsum.

>> vec = randi([1,20], 1,6)

vec =
12 20 10 17 15 10
>> min(vec)
ans =
10
>> max(vec)
ans =
20
>> cvec = cumsum(vec)
cvec =
12 32 42 59 74 84

37) Write a relational expression for a vector variable that will verify that the last value in
a vector created by cumsum is the same as the result returned by sum.

>> vec = 2:3:17

vec =
2 5 8 11 14 17
>> cv = cumsum(vec)
cv =
2 7 15 26 40 57
>> sum(vec) == cv(end)
ans =
1

38) Create a vector of five random integers, each in the inclusive range from -10 to 10.
Perform each of the following:

• subtract 3 from each element

• count how many are positive
• get the cumulative minimum

>> vec = randi([-10, 10], 1,5)

vec =
 1 8 3 -7 7
>> vec - 3
ans =
-2 5 0 -10 4
>> sum(vec>0)
ans =
4
>> cummin(vec)
ans =
1 1 1 -7 -7

39) Create a 3 x 5 matrix. Perform each of the following:

• Find the maximum value in each column.

• Find the maximum value in each row.
• Find the maximum value in the entire matrix.
• Find the cumulative maxima.

>> mat = randi([-10 10], 3,5)

mat =
1 -5 0 -2 10
2 1 1 6 -3
-6 10 -3 5 2
>> max(mat)
ans =
2 10 1 6 10
>> max(mat, [], 2)
ans =
10
6
10
>> max(mat')
ans =
10 6 10
>> max(max(mat))
ans =
10
>> cummax(mat)
ans =
1 -5 0 -2 10
2 1 1 6 10
2 10 1 6 10

40) Find two ways to create a 3 x 5 matrix of all 100s (Hint: use ones and zeros).

ones(3,5)*100
 zeros(3,5)+100

41) Create variables for these two matrices:

A B
é 1 2 3 ùé
ê 2 4 1 ù
ú ê ú
ë 4 -1 6 û ë 1 3 0 û

Perform the following operations:

A + B
é3 6 4 ù
ê ú
ë5 2 6 û
A – B
é -1 -2 2 ù
ê ú
ë 3 -4 6 û
A .* B

é2 8 3 ù
ê ú
ë 4 -3 0 û

42) A vector v stores for several employees of the Green Fuel Cells Corporation their
hours worked one week followed for each by the hourly pay rate. For example, if the
variable stores
>> v
v =
33.0000 10.5000 40.0000 18.0000 20.0000 7.5000
that means the first employee worked 33 hours at $10.50 per hour, the second worked
40 hours at $18 an hour, and so on. Write code that will separate this into two vectors,
one that stores the hours worked and another that stores the hourly rates. Then, use
the array multiplication operator to create a vector, storing in the new vector the total
pay for every employee.

>> hours = v(1:2:length(v))

hours =
33 40 20

>> payrate = v(2:2:length(v))

payrate =
10.5000 18.0000 7.5000

>> totpay = hours .* payrate

totpay =
346.5000 720.0000 150.0000
43) Write code that would count how many elements in a matrix variable mat are
negative numbers. Create a matrix of random numbers, some positive and some
negative, first.

>> mat
mat =
1 -5 0 -2 10
2 1 1 6 -3
-6 10 -3 5 2
>> sum(sum(mat < 0))
ans =
5

44) A company is calibrating some measuring instrumentation and has measured the
radius and height of one cylinder 8 separate times; they are in vector variables r and h.
Find the volume from each trial, which is given by Πr2h. Also use logical indexing first to
make sure that all measurements were valid (> 0).

>> r = [5.499 5.498 5.5 5.5 5.52 5.51 5.5 5.48];

>> h = [11.1 11.12 11.09 11.11 11.11 11.1 11.08 11.11];

>> all(r>0 & h>0)

ans =
1
>> vol = pi * r.^2 .* h

45) For the following matrices A, B, and C:

2 1 3
1 4   3 2 5
A=   B = 1 5 6  C=  
3 2 3 6 0 4 1 2 

• Give the result of 3*A.

3 12
 
9 6 

• Give the result of A*C.

19 6 13
 
17 8 19

• Are there any other matrix multiplications that can be performed? If so, list them.
 C*B

46) Create a row vector variable r that has 4 elements, and a column vector variable c
that has 4 elements. Perform r*c and c*r.

>> r = randi([1 10], 1, 4)

r =
3 8 2 9
>> c = randi([1 10], 4, 1)
c =
4
9
7
8
>> r*c
ans =
170
>> c*r
ans =
12 32 8 36
27 72 18 81
21 56 14 63
24 64 16 72

47) The matrix variable rainmat stores the total rainfall in inches for some districts for
the years 2014-2017. Each row has the rainfall amounts for a given district. For
example, if rainmat has the value:

>> rainmat
ans =
25 33 29 42
53 44 40 56
etc.

district 1 had 25 inches in 2014, 33 in 2015, etc. Write expression(s) that will find the
number of the district that had the highest total rainfall for the entire four year period.

>> rainmat = [25 33 29 42; 53 44 40 56];

>> large = max(max(rainmat))
large =
56
>> linind = find(rainmat== large)
linind =
8
>> floor(linind/4)
ans =
 2

48) Generate a vector of 20 random integers, each in the range from 50 to 100. Create
a variable evens that stores all of the even numbers from the vector, and a variable
odds that stores the odd numbers.

>> nums = randi([50, 100], 1, 20);

>> evens = nums(rem(nums,2)==0);
>> odds = nums(rem(nums,2)~=0);

49) Assume that the function diff does not exist. Write your own expression(s) to
accomplish the same thing for a vector.

>> vec = [5 11 2 33 -4]

vec =
5 11 2 33 -4
>> v1 = vec(2:end);
>> v2 = vec(1:end-1);
>> v1-v2
ans =
6 -9 31 -37

50) Create a vector variable vec; it can have any length. Then, write assignment
statements that would store the first half of the vector in one variable and the second
half in another. Make sure that your assignment statements are general, and work
whether vec has an even or odd number of elements (Hint: use a rounding function
such as fix).

>> vec = 1:9;

>> fhalf = vec(1:fix(length(vec)/2))
fhalf =
1 2 3 4
>> shalf = vec(fix(length(vec)/2)+1:end)
shalf =
5 6 7 8 9
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
principle—for two, at least, of the poems which he published as his
own, were written by others. One, commencing, "My life is like the
summer rose," is the composition of R. H. Wilde, a distinguished
American man of letters; and another, beginning "On beds of snow
the moonbeams slept," has been conveyed from the early poems of
a writer named—Thomas Moore. There is cool intrepidity in pilfering
from a poet so universally known as Moore. When Scott visited
Ireland, he was waited on by O'Kelly with the same "extempore
impromptu" he had inflicted on George IV., years before, and
(Lockhart relates) compelled the Ariosto of the North to pay the
usual tribute—by subscribing to his poems.
There are scores of Irishmen now in New York, who were personally
acquainted with O'Kelly, and can testify to the accuracy—I might
even say the moderation, of my description of him.
 FATHER PROUT.

Those who have perused that polyglot of wisdom and wit, learning
and fun, wild eccentricity and plain sense, 'yclept "The Prout Papers,"
which originally appeared in Fraser's Magazine, during the editorship
of Dr. Maginn, may feel some curiosity respecting the individual
whose name has thus been preserved (not unlike the fly in amber)
through all literary time. They would naturally think, after admiring
the rare facility of versification, the playfulness, the fancy, the wit,
the impetuous frolic, the deep erudition which distinguishes the said
"Papers," that Father Prout must have been a wonderful man, gifted
in an extraordinary manner.
What is there in the language more spirited than the Prout
translations from Béranger? As was said of Goethe's Faust,
translated by Anster, the fact was transfused into our vernacular.
What wondrous flexibility is given to the old Latin tongue, by the
versions of Moore into that language! What charming mastery of
learning, as exhibited in the translations of "The Groves of Blarney"
into a variety of tongues! What grave humour in treating that
original song as if it were only a translation! Two wits—who not only
belonged to Cork, but had seen a great many drawings of it in their
time—were the perpetrators of this literary mystification. Frank
Mahony and Frank Murphy—a priest and a lawyer. On their own
hook, to use a common phrase, they have done nothing worth
particular mention; but some plants, we know, produce flowers,
while others yield fruit.
For a long time, in England, the full credit of the Fraserian articles
was given to Father Prout. Then set in a spring-tide of disbelief, and
the very existence of such a man was doubted. Erroneous doubt! for
I have seen him—spoken to him—dined with him. The Father Prout,
however, of real life was very different from him of the Prout Papers.
He was parish-priest of Watergrass-hill, midway between the city of
Cork and the town of Fermoy—a locality known as the highest arable
land in Ireland. Prout was one of the old priests who, when it was
penal for a Catholic clergyman to exist in Ireland, picked up the
elements of his education how he could, completed it at a foreign
university, and came back to Ireland, a priest, to administer the
consolations of religion to the peasantry of his native land.
Sometimes, the Catholic priest evidenced to the last, in conduct and
manners, that his youth had been passed in countries in which social
civilization had extended further than in Ireland. Sometimes, the
learning and the polish which had been acquired abroad were
forgotten at home—as the sword loses its brightness from disuse—
and, living much among the peasantry, the priest lost a part of the
finer courtesy of the gentleman, and assumed the roughness of the
bulk of his parishioners. Wherever there was a resident Protestant
landowner, the Priest of the olden time instinctively formed friendly
relations with him—for, at that time, the priestly order was not
invariably supplied from the peasantry, and tolerance was more
declared and practiced by members of all persuasions, in Ireland, at
that time than it is now. Prout was literally a "round, fat, oily man of
God." He had a hand small as a woman's, and was very proud of it.
He had an unconquerable spirit of good-humour, and it was utterly
impossible for any one to be in his company for ten minutes without
feeling and basking in the sunshine of his buoyant and genial good-
nature. Of learning he had very little. I do not know what his share
might have been half a century before, when he was fresh from
Douay or the Sorbonne, but few traces were left in his latter years.
In the society of his equals or his superiors, Prout could keep up the
shuttlecock of conversation as well as any one, and in the fashion of
the place and class, but he was equally at home amid the festivities
of a country wedding, or the genialities of the hospitable
entertainment which followed the holding of a country Station at a
rich farmer's domicile.
What the world has received as "The Reliques of Father Prout," owes
nothing to the little padrone. He had a strong sense of the
humourous, and, when the fancy seized him, was not very particular
how or where he indulged it.
Prout, residing only nine miles from Cork, frequently visited that city,
where he had a great many acquaintances, at all times glad to see
him. In one Protestant family with which he was intimate, there
were several very handsome daughters, full of life and high spirits,
who especially delighted in drawing out the rotund priest. He had
repeatedly urged them to "drop in" upon him, some day; and when
the spirit of fun was strong, early on a Sunday morning in June, they
ordered out the carriage, and directed their Jehu to drive them to
Watergrass-hill.

Now, though that terminus was only nine (Irish11) miles distant, the
greater part of the way—certainly all from Glanmire—was terribly
up-hill. The result was that, instead of reaching Father Prout's about
ten o'clock, as they had anticipated, they did not draw up at his door
until an hour and a half later, and were there informed that "his
Reverence had be off to last mass." They determined to follow him,
partly from curiosity to see in what manner divine worship was
performed in a Catholic chapel.
The chapel in which Father Prout officiated was by no means a
building of pretension. At that time the roof was out of repair, and,
in wet weather, acted as a gigantic shower-bath. The floor, then,
consisted of beaten earth, which was somewhat of a puddle
whenever the rains descended and the winds blew. The Cork ladies
soon found the chapel, entered it, and (accustomed to the rich
churches of their own persuasion) gazed in wonder on the humble,
unadorned place of worship in which they stood. It may literally be
said "in which they stood," for there were no pews, no chairs, not
even a solitary stool.
Presently the chapel began to fill, and "the pressure from without"
gradually drove the ladies nearer and yet nearer to the altar. At
length Father Prout entered in his clerical attire, and commenced the
service. In Catholic churches the priest officiates, during the early
part of the service, with his face to the altar, and his back to the
congregation. Thus, it happened that Prout never saw his Cork
friends until the time when he turned round to the congregation.
Then he beheld them, handsomely and fashionably attired, standing
up (for the floor was too puddled to allow them to soil their vesture
by kneeling, as every one else did), the gazed-at by all beholders,
looking and feeling the reverse of comfortable.
Father Prout immediately looked at his clerk, Pat Murphy,—an
original in his way,—caught his eye and his attention, and gently
inclining towards him, whispered, "send for three chairs for the
ladies." Pat, who was a little deaf, imperfectly caught his master's
words, and turned round to the congregation and roared out, "Boys!
his Reverence says, 'Three cheers for the ladies.'" The congregation,
obedient and gallant, gave three tremendous shouts, to the surprise
of the ladies and the horror of the priest. There was a good deal of
merriment when the mistake was explained, but to his dying day
Father Prout was reminded, whenever he visited Cork, of the "Three
cheers for the ladies."
Pat Murphy, his clerk, was quite a character. He affected big words,
and was mortally offended whenever any one called him clerk or
sexton. "I pity the weakness of your intellectual organization," he
would contemptuously exclaim. "If you had only brains enough to
distinguish B from a bull's foot, you would appreciate my peculiar
and appropriate official designation. The words 'clerk' and 'sexton'
are appellations which distinctify the menial avocations of persons
employed in heretical places of worship. My situation is that of
Sacristan and my responsible duty is to act as custodian of the
sacred utensils and vestments of the chapel."
Murphy had an exaggerated idea of the abilities of his principal, and
stoutly maintained that if the Pope knew what was good for the
Church, he would long since have elevated Father Prout to the
episcopal dignity. His chief regret, when dying, was, that he did not
survive to see this consummation.
Sometimes Pat Murphy would condescend to enter into a vivâ voce
controversy with one of the "heretics," (as he invariably designated
the Protestants,) on the comparative merits of the rival churches. His
invariable wind-up, delivered gravely and authoritatively, as a
clincher, to which he would permit no reply, was as follows:—"I
commiserate your condition, which is the result of your miserable
ignorance. Unfortunate individual! out of the New Testament itself I
can prove that your religion is but a thing of yesterday. With you
Protestants the Apostle Paul had not the most distant acquaintance,
whereas he corresponded with us of the Holy Roman Church. You
doubt it? Know you not that, from Corinth, he wrote an Epistle to the
Romans, and if the Protestants were in existence then, and known
to him, why did he not as well send an Epistle unto them?"
Father Prout was short and rotund. His Sacristan was tall and thin.
Immemorial usage permits the clerical cast-off garments to descend,
like heirlooms, to the parish clerk. Pat Murphy, in the threadbare
garments which erst had clothed the rotundity of Father Prout, was a
ludicrous looking object. The doctrine of compensation used to be
carried out, on such occasions, with more truth than beauty. The
waist of the priest's coat would find itself under Murphy's arms, the
wristbands would barely cover his elbows, and the pantaloons,
sharing the fate of the other garments, would end at his knees,
leaving a wide interval of calf visible to public gaze. On the other
hand, by way of equivalent, the garments would voluminously wrap
around him, in folds, as if they were intended to envelope not one
Pat Murphy, but three such examples of the mathematical definition,
"length without breadth." On one occasion I had the double
satisfaction of seeing Father Prout, like Solomon, in all his glory, with
Pat Murphy in full costume. It happened in this wise:
There was pretty good shooting about Watergrass-hill, and the
officers of an infantry regiment, who were quartered at Fermoy, at
the period to which I refer, had made Prout's acquaintance, while
peppering away at the birds, and had partaken of a capital
impromptu luncheon which he got up on the moment. Prout, it may
be added, was in the habit of receiving presents of game, fish and
poultry from his friends in Cork, (the mail-coaches and other public
conveyances passing his door several times every day,) and as long
as Dan Meagher, of Patrick-street, was in the wine-trade, be sure
that his friend, Father Prout, did not want good samples of the
generous juice of the grape. Of course, he also had a supply of real
potheen. Cellar and larder thus provided for, Prout was fond of
playing the host.
A great intimacy speedily sprung up between Prout and his military
friends, and he partook of numerous dinners at their mess in Fermoy
Barracks. At last, determined to return the compliment, he invited
them all to dine with him at Watergrass-hill. One of my own cousins,
who happened to be one of the guests, took me with him—on the
Roman plan, I presume, which permitted an invited guest to bring
his shade. I was a youngster at the time, but remember the affair as
if it were of yesterday.
If there was any anticipation of a spoiled dinner, it was vain. Prout,
who was on intimate terms with all his neighbours for half a dozen
miles round, had been wise enough to invoke the aid of the
Protestant rector of Watergrass-hill, who not only lent him plate,
china, and all other table necessaries, but—what was of more
importance—also spared him the excellent cook who, it was said,
could compose a dinner, in full variety, out of any one article of food.
Each of the officers was attended at table by his own servant, and
Pat Murphy, in full dress, officiated as servitor, at the particular
disposal of Father Prout himself.
The dinner was excellent,—well-cooked, well-served, and worthy of
praise for the abundance, variety, and excellence of the viands.
There was everything to be pleased with—nothing to smile at.
I beg to withdraw the last four words. There was Pat Murphy, in an
ex-suit of Prout's, looking such a figure of fun, that, on recalling the
scene now, I wonder how, one and all, we did not burst into a shout
of laughter when he first was presented to view. He looked taller,
and scraggier, and leaner than usual—his clothes appearing greater
misfits than ever! Prout, who kept his countenance remarkably well,
evidently saw and enjoyed the ludicrous appearance of his man. On
the other hand, the man, taking on himself the duties of Major
Domo, ordered the other attendants about in all directions,
muttering curses between his teeth whenever they did not do
exactly as he commanded. But everything went off gaily, and Prout's
rubicund face became redder and more radiant under the influence
of this success.
In the course of the entertainment, Father Prout, addressing his
attendant, said, "Pat, a glass of porter, if you please." The liquor was
poured, and, as it frothed in the glass, Prout raised it to his lips with
the words, "Thank you, Pat." Waiting until he had completed the
draught, Pat, in a tone of earnest remonstrance, said, "Ah, then,
your Reverence, why should you thank me for what's your own? It
would be decent for these genteels who are dining here, to thank
me for the good drink, but you've no right to do anything of the sort,
seeing that the liquor is your own. It is my supplication that you will
not do so again; there is an incongruity in it which I disrelish." We
had some difficulty in not laughing, but contrived to keep serious
faces during this colloquy.
The liberality of the little Padre had provided us with three courses,
and just as Pat Murphy was in the act of relieving a noble roasted
haunch of mutton, before his master, by a dish of snipe, he
happened to look out of the window and see one of his own familiar
associates passing along the street. Hastily flinging down the dish,
he threw up the window, and, kneeling down, with his long arms
resting on the sill, loudly hailed his friend, "Where are ye going,
Tom?" The answer was that a dance was expected in the
neighbourhood, and at which, of course, Pat would be "to the fore."
Now, the said Pat, very much like Ichabod Crane in figure, had a sort
of sneaking desire, like him, to be wherever pretty women were to
be seen. "No," said Pat, "I do not anticipate to be relieved in any
thing like proper time from attendance here this evening. His
Reverence, who has been ating and drinking, with remarkable
avidity, on the military officers down in Fermoy, is hospitable to-day,
and entertains the whole squad of them at dinner. To see them ate,
you'd think they had just got out of a hard Lent. 'Tisn't often, I dare
say, that they get such a feast. There's the mutton sent by
Chetwood of Glanmire; and the poultry by Cooper Penrose of Wood-
hill; and the lashings of game by Devonshire of Kilshanneck; and the
fruit by Lord Riversdale of Lisnegar—that is, by his steward, for 'tis
little his Lordship sees of the place that gives him a good six
thousand a year;—and the barrel of porter from Tommy Walker of
Fermoy; and the wine from red-faced Dan Meagher of Cork; and
everything of the best. Depend on it, the officers won't stir until they
have made fools of all the provender. By-and-bye, that the poor
mightn't have a chance of the leavings, they will be calling for grilled
bones, and devilled legs and gizzards. No, Tom, my mind misgives
me that I can't go to the dance this evening. Here's the officers, bad
'cess to them, that are sedentary fixtures until midnight."
This oration delivered,—and every one had been silent while Pat
Murphy was thus unburthening his mind,—he arose from his knees,
closed the window, and resumed his place behind Father Prout, with
"a countenance more of sorrow than of anger," calm and
unconcerned as if nothing had occurred out of the ordinary routine.
At that moment, Prout threw himself back on his chair, and laughed
until the tears rolled down his cheeks, and thus encouraged, the
company followed his example, and laughed also. When the mirth
had subsided, it was almost renewed by the solemn countenance of
Pat Murphy, grave rather than severe—a sort of domestic Marius
sitting, in sad contemplation, amid the ruins of Carthage.
Father Prout had rather a rough set of parishioners to deal with. He
could be, and was, very much of the gentleman, but it pleased him
to appear plain and unpolished to those among whom his lot was
cast. At times, when nothing else would do, he would address them,
in an exhortation, very much in the spirit of Swift's "if you like the
conditions, down with the dust!" At such times, Rabelais, "in his easy
chair," would have smiled, and Swift himself would have hailed Prout
as a congenial spirit.
I have a memorandum of one of these sermons. The object was to
collect some arrears of "dues" from certain non-paying parishioners,
(constituting rather a large portion of his congregation,) and I have
been told that the discourse was much to this effect:
 FATHER PROUT'S SERMON.

Somewhere in the Scriptures it is written, that whoever gives to the

poor lends to the Lord. There are three reasons why I don't tell you
exactly where this may be found. In the first place, poor creatures
that you are, few of you happen to have the authorized Douay
edition, printed and published by Richard Coyne of Dublin, and
certified as correct by Archbishop Troy, and the other heads of the
Church in Ireland—few among you, I say, have that, though I know
that there is not a house in the parish without a loose song-book, or
the History of the Irish Rogues. In the second place, if ye had it, 'tis
few of ye could read it, ignorant haythens that ye are. And in the
third place, if every man-jack of ye did possess it, and could read it,
(for the Church still admits the possibility of miracles,) it would not
much matter at this present moment, because it happens that I
don't quite remember in what part of it the text is to be found;—for
the wickedness of my flock has affected my memory, and driven
many things clean out of my head, which it took me a deal of
trouble to put into it when I was studying in foreign parts, years
ago. But it don't matter. The fault is not mine, but yours, ye
unnatural crew, and may-be ye won't find it out, to your cost, before
ye have been five minutes quit of this life. Amen.
"He who gives to the poor."—Ye are not skilled in logic, nor indeed in
anything that I know except playing hurley in the fields, scheming at
cards in public-houses for half gallons of porter, and defrauding your
clergy of their lawful dues. What is worse, there's no use in trying to
drive logic into your heads, for indeed that would be the fulfilment of
another text that speaks of throwing pearls before pigs. But if ye did
know logic—which ye don't—ye would perceive at once that the
passage I have just quoted naturally divides itself into two branches.
The first involves the giving; that is, rationally and syllogistically
considered, what ye ought to do. And the second involves the poor;
that is, the receivers of the gifts, or the persons for whom ye ought
to do it.
First, then, as to the giving. Now it stands to reason that, as the
Scripture says in some other place, the blind can't lead the blind,
because maybe they'd fall into the bog-holes, poor things, and get
drowned. And so, though there really is wonderful kindness to each
other among them, it is not to be expected that the poor can give to
the poor. No, the givers must be people who have something to
give, which the poor have not. Some of ye will try and get off on this
head, and say that 'tis gladly enough ye'd give, but that really ye
can't afford it. Can't ye? If you make up your minds, any one of you,
to give up only a single glass of spirits, every day of your lives, see
what it will come to in the course of a year, and devote that to the
Church—that is to the Clergy—and it will be more than some of the
well-to-do farmers, whom I have in my eye at this blessed moment,
have had the heart to give me during the last twelve months. Why,
as little as a penny a day comes to more than thirty shillings in the
year, and even that insignificant trifle I have not had from some of
you that have the means and ought to know better. I don't want to
mention names, but, Tom Murphy of the Glen, I am afraid I shall be
compelled to name you before the whole congregation, some day
before long, if you don't pay up your lawful dues. I won't say more
now on that subject, for, as St. Augustine says, "A nod's as good as
a wink to a blind horse."
Now, the moral of the first part being clearly shown, that all who can
give ought to give, the next branch is to whom should it be given?
The blessed text essentially states and declares "to the poor." Then
follows the inquiry, who's "the poor." The whole matter depends on
that.
I dare say, ignorant as ye are, some of you will think that it's the
beggars, and the cripples, and the blind travellers who contrive to
get through the length and breadth of the country, guided by
Providence and a little dog tied to their fingers by a bit of string. No,
I don't want to say one mortal word against that sort of cattle, or
injure them in their honest calling. God help them. It's their trade,
their estate, their occupation, their business to beg—just as much as
'tis Pat Mulcahy's business to tailor, or Jerry Smith's to make carts, or
Tom Shine's to shoe horses, or Din Cotter's to make potheen, and
my business to preach sermons, and save your souls, ye heathens.
But these ain't "the poor" meant in the text. They're used to
begging, and they like to beg, and they thrive on begging, and I, for
one, wouldn't be the man to disturb them in the practice of their
profession, and long may it be a provision to them and to their heirs
for ever. Amen.
May-be, ye mean-spirited creatures, some among you will say that
it's yourselves is "the poor." Indeed, then, it isn't. Poor enough and
niggardly ye are, but you ain't the poor contemplated by holy Moses
in the text. Sure 'tis your nature to toil and to slave—sure 'tis what
ye're used to. Therefore, if any one were to give anything to you, he
would not be lending to the Lord in the slightest degree, but
throwing away his money as completely as if he lent it upon the
security of the land that's covered by the lakes of Killarney. Don't
flatter yourselves, any of you, for a moment, that you are "the poor."
I can tell you that you're nothing of the sort.
Now, then, we have found out who should be the givers. There's no
mistake about that—reason and logic unite in declaring that every
one of you, man, woman and child—should give, and strain a point
to do it liberally. Next, we have ascertained that it's "the poor" who
should receive what you give. Thirdly, we have determined who are
not "the poor." Lastly, we must discover who are.
Let each of you put on his considering cap and think.—Well, I have
paused that you might do so. Din Cotter is a knowledgeable man
compared with the bulk of you. I wonder whether he has discovered
who are "the poor." He shakes his head—but there is not much in
that. Well, then, you give it up. You leave it to me to enlighten you
all. Learn, then, to your shame, that it's the Clergy who are "the
poor."
Ah! you perceive it now, do you? The light comes in through your
thick heads, does it? Yes, it's I and my brethren is "the poor." We get
our bread—coarse enough and dry enough it usually is—by filling
you with spiritual food, and, judging by the congregation now before
me, its ugly mouths you have to receive it. We toil not, neither do
we spin, but if Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed better than
we are, instead of being clothed in vermin and fine linen, 'tis many a
time he'd be wearing a thread-bare black coat, white on the seams,
and out at the elbows. It's the opinion of the most learned scholars
and Doctors in Divinity, as laid down before the Council of Trent, that
the translation is not sufficiently exact in regard of this text. And
they recommend that for the words "the poor," we should substitute
"the clergy." Thus corrected, then, the text would read "he who
gives to the Clergy, lends to the Lord," which, no doubt, is the
proper and undiluted Scripture.
The words of the text are thus settled, and you have heard my
explanation of it all. Now for the application. Last Thursday was a
week since the fair of Bartlemy, and I went down there to buy a
horse, for this is a large parish, and mortification and fretting has
puffed me up so, that, God help me, 'tis little able I am to walk
about to answer all the sick calls, to say nothing of stations,
weddings, and christenings. Well, I bought the horse, and it cost me
more than I expected, so that there I stood without a copper in my
pocket after I had paid the dealer. It rained cats and dogs, and as I
am so poor that I can't afford to buy a great coat, I got wet to the
skin, in less than no time. There you were, scores of you, in the
public houses, with the windows up, that all the world might see you
eating and drinking as if it was for a wager. And there was not one
of you who had the grace to ask, "Father Prout, have you got a
mouth in your face?" And there I might have stood in the rain until
this blessed hour (that is, supposing it had continued raining until
now), if I had not been picked up by Mr. 'Mun Roche, of Kildinan, an
honest gentleman, and a hospitable man I must say, though he is a
Protestant.12 He took me home with him, and there, to your eternal
disgrace, you villains, I got as full as a tick, and 'Mun had to send
me home in his own carriage—which is an everlasting shame to all
of you, who belong to the true Church.
Now, I ask which has carried out the text? You who did not give me
even a poor tumbler of punch, when I was like a drowned rat at
Bartlemy, or 'Mun Roche, who took me home, and filled me with the
best of eating and drinking, and sent me to my own house, after
that, in his own elegant carriage? Who best fulfilled the Scripture?
Who lent to the Lord, by giving to his poor Clergy? Remember, a
time will come when I must give a true account of you:—what can I
say then? Won't I have to hang down my head in shame, on your
account? 'Pon my conscience, it would not much surprise me, unless
you greatly mend your ways, if 'Mun Roche and you won't have to
change places on that occasion: he to sit alongside of me, as a
friend who had treated the poor Clergy well in this world, and you in
a certain place, which I won't particularly mention now, except to
hint that 'tis little frost or cold you'll have in it, but quite the contrary.
However, 'tis never too late to mend, and I hope that by this day
week, it's quite another story I'll have to tell of you all.—Amen.
 IRISH DANCING-MASTERS.
Five-and-twenty years ago, when I left Ireland, the original or
aboriginal race of country dancing-masters was nearly extinct. By
this time, I presume, it has almost died out. Here and there a few
may be seen,

"Rari nantes in gurgite vasto,"

but the light-heeled, light-hearted, jovial, genial fellows who were

actual Masters of the Revels in the district to which they respectively
belonged, are nowhere.
There used to be as much pride (and property) in a village dancing-
master as in a village schoolmaster, in my young days, and I have
heard of "many accidents by flood and field," caused by attempts to
remove a dancing-master or a pedagogue, of high reputation, from
one district to another. In such cases, the very abduction being the
strongest possible compliment to his renown, the person who was
"enticed away by force," always made a point of offering no
resistance, and would passively and proudly await the result.
Indeed, care was always taken that such removal should be actual
preferment, as, to ameliorate his condition, the residence provided
for him in the new village, township, or barony, was always better
than that from which he was removed.
As a general rule, the abduction, of schoolmasters was a favorite
practice in Kerry—where every man and boy is supposed to speak
Latin13—while stolen dancing-masters did not abound in the
neighbouring counties of Cork and Limerick. The natural inference is
that the County Kerry-men preferred the culture of the head, while
the others rather cared for the education of the heels.
To have a first-rate hedge-schoolmaster was a credit to any parish.
To have engrossed the services of an eminent maître de danse was
almost a matter of considerable pride and boasting, but to possess
both of these treasures was indeed a triumph.
There was more pride, perhaps, in having a schoolmaster of great
repute—more pleasure in owning a dancer of high renown. The
book-man was never known to dance, and the village Vestris was
rarely able to write his name. Thus they never clashed. One ruled by
day, and the other had unquestioned sovereignty in the hours
between dusk and dawn.
Such a being as a youthful dancing-master I never saw—never heard
of. They were invariably middle-aged men, at the youngest; but
professors of "the poetry of motion," who were about seventy,
appeared the greatest favourites. It was dreaded, perhaps, that the
attraction of youth and good dancing combined would be too much
for the village beauties to resist. On the same system, in all
probability, it was a sine quâ non that the dancing-master should be
married.
The Irish peasantry used to have a sort of passion for dancing.
Hence the necessity for a teacher. On stated evenings during the
winter, no matter what obstacles wet weather or dirty roads might
present, a large company of pupils, from the age of ten to forty
years, would assemble, in some roomy barn, possessing a smooth
and hard floor of closely-pounded clay, to receive instructions in the
saltatory art. Sometimes, when the teacher was ambitious, he would
flourishingly open the proceedings with what was called "a bit of a
noration,"—the oratory principally consisting of sesquipedalian words
and mythological allusions, being composed by the schoolmaster—
utterly unintelligible, but sounding largely, and delivered in an ore
rotundo manner and with "a laudable voice," as if the dancing-
master really understood the words he uttered. Not taking particular
pains to follow "copy," and frequently putting in words of his own
when those written down for him had slipped out of his memory,
these orations were amusingly absurd. They invariably commenced
with an allusion to Miriam dancing before Moses, after the passage
of the Red Sea, (on which occasion, no doubt, was first heard "the
piper who played before Moses," familiarly named in Irish colloquy,)
and, passing down, through Homer and the classics, always ended
with a warm eulogy on the antiquity of the dance.
In those days, the favourite exhibitions were the jig, the reel, the
hornpipe, and the country-dance. The last-named was considered
dreadfully genteel—too aristocratic, in fact, for the multitude—and
was learned and practiced (as courting and kissing often are) on the
sly! The reel was countenanced—and no more. It was rather Scotch
than Irish. Every one was expected to be able to go that laborious
piece of amusement called "The Sailor's Hornpipe,"—faint vestiges of
which are extant, to this hour, in nautical scenes,—as represented on
the stage. Words cannot describe the evolutions of this remarkable
dance, when exhibited with all the scientific varieties of which it was
capable. The shuffles, cross-shuffles, jumps, hops, leaps, cuttings,
slides, and so on, which were introduced, I am unable to describe.
The manner in which "heel-and-toe" was employed and varied, some
abler historian may record.
That the hours passed away on swift pinions at these dancing
academies, may well be imagined. There was any quantity of
flirtation at all times, and about half the marriages in the country
owed their origin to these réunions. It is creditable to the proverbial
good conduct of my countrywomen, that loss of character rarely, if
ever, resulted from these free-and-easy meetings.
The real glory of the evening, however, was when the dancing-
master, after a world of solicitation, would "take the flure," in order
to give his admiring pupils a touch of his quality. On such an
occasion, the door of the house would be lifted off its hinges, and
placed in the centre of the floor. Abandoning the little kit (a small-
sized violin) which was his companion at all other exhibitions, he
would allow a blind piper to "discourse most excellent music," and,
on the door, would commence that wondrous display of agility,
known, in my time, as "cover the buckle;"—a name probably derived
from the circumstance that the dancing-master, while teaching,
always wore large buckles in his shoes, and by the rapidity of motion
with which he would make his "many twinkling feet" perpetually
cross, would seem to "cover" the appendages in question. The great
effort was to exhibit all varieties of steps and dances, without once
quitting the prostrate door on which the exhibitor took his stand.
The jumps, the "cuttings" in the air, the bends, the dives, the
wrigglings, the hops—these were all critically regarded by his
audience, and sometimes rewarded with such exclamations as
"That's the way,"—"now for a double cut,"—"cover-the-buckle, ye
divel,"—"Oh, then, 'tis he that handles his feet nately." At the
conclusion, when he literally had danced himself almost off his legs,
he would bow to the company, and—if he were very much a
favourite, or had eclipsed all former displays—one of the prettiest
girls in the room would go round, plate in hand, and make a
collection for him. How the ten-penny and five-penny bits would
tumble in, on those occasions—particularly if the fair collector could
be induced to announce, with a blush and a smile, that she would
take an extra donation on the usual terms, which meant that, for
five shillings into the plate, any gallant swain might brush the dew
from her own coral lips, on that occasion only and by particular
desire. Can you doubt, for a moment, that the likely "boy" who had
been sitting by her side all the evening, making babies on her eyes
(as the saying is), and with his arm round her waist, just to steady
her in her seat, would jump up and fling his crown-piece into the
treasury—though the pecuniary sacrifice would probably involve his
being obliged to dispense, for a few weeks more, with "the new
Carline hat" on which his dandyism had set its mind, for his Sunday
adorning!
It was difficult for "an outsider" to become a spectator of the
peculiar modes of teaching adopted and practiced by these masters.
At a small extra rate, they would undertake to give instructions in
that "deportment," of which the late Mr. Turvey-drop was such an
illustrious exemplar. I never witnessed anything of this sort, but have
conversed on the subject with some who did. From what I could
learn, the whole course of tuition in this particular branch must have
been ludicrous in the extreme. Besides lessons in standing, walking,
sitting, and even leaning with grace and ease, more recondite points
were considered. Such were "how to slide out of a room backwards"
(on the chance, no doubt, of some of the rustics having to appear at
Court, before Royalty)—"how to accept a tumbler of punch from a
gentleman," touching the liquid with her lips, so as to leave a kiss
within the cup, as Ben Jonson advises,—"how to refuse a kiss," and
yet not destroy the hope of its being accepted, a little later in the
evening,—and, above all, "how to take a kiss," in the most genteel
and approved manner of politeness! These instructions, super-added
to a lesson that was called "the Grecian bend" (which was nothing
less than a coquettish way of leaning forward, with the eyes cast
down, while listening to soft nonsense from a favoured swain), were
peculiar and private. The only way in which the male sex could
obtain a glimpse at such Eleusinian mysteries was by taking a
recumbent position on the roof of the house, carefully removing a
small portion of the thatch, and using eyes and ears in that situation
to the best advantage. If detected by the irate maidens, the spy
would run a fair chance of a scratched face and well-boxed ears.
As might be expected, the country dancing-master sometimes had
stupid and refractory pupils. There was a common method of giving
them instruction, which, for its practical simplicity, may be worth
relating. When the pupil would persist in not recollecting which foot
was to be used, at particular periods, the dancing-master would take
a rope made of twisted hay, called a suggaun, and fasten it around
one of the delinquent's ankles. He would then take a similar bracelet
of twisted willow, denominated a gad, and put this on the other.
Then, instead of directing the pupil to the particular use or motion of
the right leg or the left, he would exclaim, "Rise upon suggaun," or
"Sink upon gad," and in this manner convey his instructions beyond
a possibility of mistake by even the most stupid!
Of course, where there was large company of young people, full of
life and spirit, under pupilage to a not young instructor, a variety of
practical jokes would be perpetrated, at his expense, every now and
then. They were almost invariably of a good-natured kind. One,
which might be considered as to "be repeated every night until
farther notice," generally came off towards the end of the evening. A
joyous, light-hearted damsel would suddenly start up, while the
music was playing, and, placing herself before the dancing-master,
with that particular description of curtsy called "a bob," silently
challenge him to dance with her. Now, under all circumstances,
except actual inability to move, the gentleman so challenged has
nothing to do but pick up the gauntlet, and "take the flure." Then,
challenger and challenged would commence an Irish jig—a dance so
violent that, writing in the dog-days as I do, the very recollection of
it makes me feel as if the barometer was some two hundred in the
shade. When the damsel had pretty well tired herself, one of her fair
friends would take her place, and so on until a round dozen or so
had had their turn. All this time, the doomed victim of a man had to
continue dancing—and the point of honour was to do so, without
giving in, as long as strength and wind lasted. The company would
gather round, forming a ring for the performers, and the word would
be, "On with the dance" (as it was, at Brussels, on the eve of
Waterloo), until, at last, some male spectator would pityingly dash
into the circle, take the tired man's place, and permit the breathless
and exhausted victim to totter to a seat, gasping out a protest, as he
did, that he could have held out for half an hour longer, and
wondered why any gentleman should interfere with another
gentleman's divarshun.
In the preceding story of "The Petrified Piper," mention is made of a
dancing-master commonly known as "Ould Lynch." He was an
original, in many respects, and, like many of his profession, was in a
constant flutter of faded finery and actual poverty. He was so much
a character that my father took rather a fancy to him, and had him
often at the house, as a teacher of dancing, in the well populated
town of Fermoy. He had small chance of earning what would keep
life and soul together. But he was a quiet, unassuming man, better
educated than most of his class, and full of anecdote. One social
virtue he eminently possessed:—he was one of the best
backgammon players I ever saw, and (I speak it modestly,) was very
fond of me as a pupil.
Lynch was a County Limerick man, on the confines of "the Kingdom
of Kerry," and informed me that, in the parish where he was brought
up, the natives had a passion for backgammon, and were wont, on
high-days and holidays, to hold tournaments (on their favourite
game) with the inhabitants of the next parish, in Kerry.
Unfortunately, one day when a great trial of skill was appointed to
come off, it turned out that no backgammon box was forthcoming.
Both parties had contrived to forget it. To send for the necessary
implements would have been a waste of time, when the combatants
had "their souls in arms," and were "eager for the fray." In this
dilemma, a lad who had a decided genius for expedients suggested
a plan by which, without delay, their mutual wishes could be
realized. Under his advice, one of the meadows was fixed upon as
the scene of action. The turf was removed at intervals, so as to
make the place present the semblance of a backgammon board, and
substitutes for men were readily found in the flat stones and slates
with which the ground abounded. The great difficulty was—the dice!
They could extemporize board and men, but how to raise the bits of
ivory? The lad was not to be baffled. He proposed that two men,
one selected from each party, should sit on the ditch opposite each
other, with "the board in the centre, with their respective backs
turned from the combatants, and, in turn, should call out the
numbers, as if they had been actually thrown by dice! This brilliant
idea was acted upon. A halfpenny was thrown up to decide who
should have first play, and the men on the ditch alternately called
out, at will, any of the throws which might have been actually cast
had the dice themselves been "to the fore."
Such primitive practice, I venture to say, had never before been
applied to the noble science of backgammon. I use the word
advisedly, because, with skill and judgment, what is called bad luck
does not very materially affect the game. The art is to conquer,
despite bad throwing.
Lynch succeeded a worthy named Hearne—a nom de guerre, his
enemies averred, for the less euphonious one of Herring. Whatever
his name, the man was quite a character. He fancied himself a poet,
and was particularly fond of taking his favourite pupils aside to
communicate to them in a confidential manner, sotto voce, the latest
productions of his muse,—it being expected that, a little later in the
evening, the favoured individuals should delicately draw him out and
solicit him to a public recital of his verses. After a good deal of
pressing on their part, and a show of resistance on his, (which every
one understood,) the little dancing-master would mount on a table,
deliver a flourishing preface in prose, and then go through the
recitation, in a manner which set description at defiance. At the
conclusion of this feat, which was duly encored, Hearne was wont to
distribute copies of his composition printed on whity-brown paper,
and the tribute of a five-penny bit was expected in acknowledgment
of the same—simply, as he said, "to pay for the printing." He had
such a peculiar system of orthography—spelling the words by the
sound—that I venture, with all due diffidence, to put forward his
claim to take precedence of the interesting and worthy founders of
the newspaper-nondescript, The Fonetic Nuz, at which the
Londoners laughed heartily a dozen years ago. By some accident, I
have preserved a copy of one of Hearne's poetical compositions, in
which his own mode of spelling is carefully preserved, and I subjoin
it as a curiosity,—a specimen of what emanated, some thirty years
ago, from one who belonged to the peculiar class (of which Grant
Thorburn is the head) worthy of being called The Illiterate Literati!

"A few lions addressed in prease of Mr. Jon Anderson, Esquire,

by his humble servant, and votary of the Muses, Wm. Ahearne,
profesor of dancing.

"Who lives in this Eaden wich lyes to the easte

 Of Fermoy ould bridge and its pallasades;
He is the best man on the Blackwater's breast,
As thousans from povirty he has razed.

"There's no grand Pear in all Urop this day,

With him can compare most certinly,
In bilding a town of buty and sweay
As Fermoy and its gay sweet liberty.

"Now, weagh well the case betwin him and those

Who travel the globe and fair Itly,
After skroozhing their tinnants hard when at home,
And spinding their store most foulishly."
The most original idea in these "few lions," is the geographical
information that Italy is not a part of the globe. In the pen-ultimate
line, the poet may have hinted a little sly satire at the "at home" in
high life, where the crushing of hundreds into a space where tens
can scarcely sit in comfort is esteemed a great feat.
A wealthy attorney, named Henley, who had been kind to Hearne,
was the object of an eulogistic "pome." It ran somewhat thus:

There is a barrister of great fame

In Fermoy, I do declare,
Who administers strict justas
Without bribery or dessate.
May God prolong your days,
Your Court to reglate,
And force sly roges and villines
To pay their dews and rates.
 CHARLEY CROFTS.
In the immortal "Maxims of O'Doherty," written by the late Dr.
Maginn, mention is made of a dinner at the late Lord Doneraile's, in
the South of Ireland, in which a reproof was administered to his
Lordship's meanness in the article of—tippling. He says, "My friend,
Charley Crofts, was also of the party. The claret went lazily round
the table, and his Lordship's toad-eaters hinted that they preferred
punch, and called for hot water. My Lord gave in, after a humbug
show of resistance, and whiskey-punch was in a few minutes the
order of the night. Charley, however, to the annoyance of the host,
kept swilling away at the claret, on which Lord Doneraile lost all
patience, and said to him, 'Charley, you are missing quite a treat;
this punch is so excellent.' 'Thank ye, my Lord,' said Charley, 'I am a
plain man, who does not want trates; I am no epicure, so I stick to
the claret.'"
This free-and-easy gentleman, of whom I have some personal
recollection, belonged to a class of which, I suspect, he was the very
latest specimen. Charley Crofts, who had acquired no book-learning,
because he was born to a large landed property, was of a
respectable family in the west of the county Cork, and, even in his
decline, was highly honoured by the multitude, as coming from "the
good ould stock." Brought up, but not educated, by his mother,
Charley entered the world with very flattering prospects. He had a
good property, good looks, good temper, and (what he most prized)
good horses. Cursed with an easy disposition, he had never learned
how to utter the monosyllable "No," but had unfortunately learned
how to sign his name—his friends kindly giving him very frequent
opportunities of practicing that autograph, by obtaining it, across
narrow slips of stamped paper, ('yclept "bills" and "promissory
notes") underneath the words "Accepted, payable at the Bank of
James Delacour, Mallow." In the long run, these autographs ruined
him—as, bit-by-bit, all his property went to meet the sums to which
they pledged him, and Charley Crofts found himself, at the age of
thirty, without home or money. He had preserved one thing,
however—his personal character. He had committed a great many of
the frailties of his sex and youth, but the shadow of a disreputable
or doubtful action never rested on his name. He could proudly say,
like Francis the First, after the battle of Pavia, "All lost, except
honour."
The result was that, in his poverty, he was as highly thought of as in
his affluence, and was ever a welcome guest in the first houses of
his native county.
Like the rest of his class, (I mean the estated Irish gentlemen of the
last century,) Charley Crofts had learned to drink deeply. He used to
narrate, with great glee, an incident connected with his entrance
into vivacious habits. His mother, having occasion to leave their
country residence, in order to transact some business in Cork, left
her hopeful son in full possession of the house and full command of
the servants, for the fortnight she intended being absent. Charley,
who was then in his sixteenth year, determined that he would hold
no powerless sceptre of vice-royalty, and invited sundry
acquaintances to visit him, which they did. As a hogshead of fine
claret was always on tap, there was no difficulty in obtaining an
adequate supply of drink. One day, however, a guest happened to
express a desire to vary the post-prandial proceedings by the
introduction of a few bottles of port. Now, it happened that Mrs.
Crofts possessed (and was known to possess) some remarkably fine
port wine, which she carefully kept locked up, reserving it for "State
days and holidays." Charley had been left the key of the cellar, and,
considering that his hospitality was especially appealed to, by the
hint about the port, went down and had a supply brought up. That
afternoon's performance went rather hard against the port. Indeed,
so much of it was drank that Charley Crofts was puzzled how to
account for it, without making full confession. A few days after his
mother's return, she asked him to accompany her to the cellar, to
provide a suitable location for a supply of sherry which she expected
from Cork. The first thing which attracted her notice was the
remarkable diminution in the stock of her valued and nearly unique
port wine. Catching her eye, Charley anticipated her inquiry, by
remarking that, in her absence, a remarkable thunder-storm had
penetrated to the cellar and broken a quantity of the bottled wine.
Taking up two or three of the bottles, and fully aware that it would
be useless to repine or get angry over the mischief done, she drew
her hopeful son's attention to them, and only said, "A dreadful
storm, indeed! It has actually drawn the corks out of the necks of
the bottles, instead of bursting them in the usual way!"
For the last five-and-thirty years of his life, Charley Crofts may be
said to have literally lived all around. He had a number of tried
friends, who were glad to have him as their guest and boon
companion, for a month at a time. He could tell a good story, knew
the private history of every family in the county, was undoubted
authority on horseflesh and every subject connected with the sports
of the field, and could take any quantity of wine without its
apparently affecting him. Nature had endowed him with great
muscular power, immense physical strength, a temper which nothing
could cloud, and a mode of expression so terse as sometimes to be
almost epigrammatic. He was exactly qualified for the shifting sort of
life upon which he had fallen.
When I met him, the brighter portion of his career had passed. He
was but the wreck of what he once had been, I was assured by
every one; but one may judge, from the ruin, what the structure had
been in its pride. Numerous anecdotes were afloat as to his sayings
and doings, but it is difficult to realize their effect in our days, unless
you could imagine the person on whom they were affiliated. Though
I fear that I shall fail in the attempt, I shall endeavour to record two
or three.
As a four-bottle man, who could drink every one else under the
table, Charley Crofts was not so much of a favourite with wives as
with their husbands. They knew, by experience, that with Charley
Crofts in the van, a wet evening might be looked for—in the dining-
room.
Mr. Wrixon, of Ballygiblin, near Mallow, (father of Sir W. Wrixon-
Becher, who married Miss O'Neill, the eminent actress,) had only a
small hereditary property when he succeeded to vast estates, on
condition that he superadded the name of "Becher" to his own
patronymic. As plain Mr. Wrixon, with a small property, he had lived
unnoticed, but his circle of friends immensely increased when he
became Mr. Wrixon-Becher, and a man of "Ten Thousand a Year."
Soon after, he married an English lady, with some fortune, much
pride, a fair share of beauty, and a decided abhorrence of the
drinking habits of her husband's friends. She had heard of, and had
been cautioned against, the vivacious enormities of Charley Crofts,
and had actually declared to her husband (in private, of course) that
whenever Mr. Crofts took a seat at her table, she would immediately
relinquish hers.
One day, when Wrixon had been out with the Duhallow hounds, and
the run had been quick and long, the only man who was in with him
"at the death," was Charley Crofts, and under the circumstances—
the rain beginning to fall heavily, Crofts' place of sojourn being at
least ten miles distant, and Ballygiblin at hand,—Wrixon felt that he
must invite Charley home, or rest under the imputation of behaving
in an unsportsmanlike and inhospitable manner.
So, he told Charley that half a dozen other good fellows were to take
"pot-luck" with him that day, and that he must insist on Charley's
joining them. Without any pressing or denial, the invitation was
accepted.
Now, Charley Crofts knew, just as well as if he had been present
when the affair was discussed, how and why it was that, of all the
houses in the barony of Duhallow, the mansion of Ballygiblin was the
only one to which he had not a general invitation. Wrixon, the
moment he reached home, turning over his companion to the
friendly custody of a mutual acquaintance, who was to form one of
the party that day, hastened to "his lady's chamber," where he found
his wife dressed for dinner, and (as her glass told her) looking
remarkably well. A few well-expressed and well-timed compliments
on her appearance, a congratulation or two on her exquisite taste in
dress, a half-hint and half-promise as to the killing effect of a set of
pearl in contrast with her ebon looks, and more "blarney" of the
same sort, made the lady so very gracious that the husband
ventured to communicate under what circumstances he had been
compelled to invite Charley Crofts to her table. The lady took them,
as they sometimes do in French courts of justice, as "extenuating
circumstances," and consented to receive the dreaded Charley. This
done, she found her way into the drawing-room, where the guests
waited upon her—the most subdued and quiet of them being
Charley Crofts. At first, with his grave air and grave attire, she
thought that he might have been a clergyman.
As the only stranger in the party, Charley had to escort Mrs. Wrixon
to the dining-room, to sit next her, to perform the duties of carving
for her, to supply her with a little of the small change of
conversation. Nobody could behave more decorously, more unlike
the lady's fearful anticipations of the dreaded guest. Now and then,
when addressed by his friends, a quaint remark or a satiric witticism
would make her smile, and convince her that the dangerously
seductive companionable character of her guest had not been
undeservedly obtained. On the whole, she had every reason to think
him very much of a gentleman, and graciously smiled on him when
she quitted the table.
"You have conquered her, by Jove," exclaimed Wrixon. "Not yet,"
said Charley, "but in a fair way for it." The wine went round. The
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