260 Walks i» Ireland : [Sept. 



of all classes, and in fact, during the course of its week of existence, you 

 may meet with specimens of every rank and station of Irish society 

 amongst its motley groups : peers, horse-jockeys, aldermen, sheriffs, 

 pickpockets, showmen, peasants, strolling players, Dublin jackeens, 

 barristers, thieves, orangemcn, and liberators, all mingled in an universal 

 saturnalia, all confounded in a mazy labyrinth of headlong joUity, with- 

 out distinction of rank, fortune, or avocation. 



Rows of tents of every shape and description, disposed in streets, 

 afford accommodation to the endless succession of visitors ; and during 

 the day-time, the unaffected genuine fun of the scene, would win a laugh 

 from a puritan, but as night approaches, the lovers of quiet and eschewers 

 of broken heads gradually retire ; the strains of the emulous fiddlers 

 and pipers grow fast and furious ; the tents are lighted up ; dancing, 

 drinking, and fighting, commence their joint and riotous reign, and then 

 begins a scene of uproarious merriment, to which the polyglott revelry 

 of the workmen of Babel, if we could imagine them drunk with Irish 

 whiskey, would be a modulated harmony. In the dim recesses of one 

 booth, may be seen a group of thieves, " making a hartley," which being 

 translated, means sharing the produce of a successfid adventure ; under 

 the ample canopy of the next, all unsuspicious of their dangerous 

 proximity to the votaries of St. Nicholas, a knot of well-fed corporators 

 are purifying their faculties with whiskey punch, the rays of the " tallow 

 dips" glancing on their shining faces and twinkling eyes, like moon- 

 beams on a tranquil lake, as Leigh Hunt, or Rosa Matilda, I forget 

 which, beautifully remarks, when speaking of a farthing rushlight, 

 reflected in a wash-hand basin ; while in a third, poles tremble, and 

 glasses jingle with the vigorous bounds of the rival dancers, to the tune 

 of " The Coultn," or " The Exile of Erin," or some equally pathetic air, 

 played in jig time, the blind minstrel encouraging the performers all the 

 while, with " who's on the fleuer ? — yer sowls to glory, let a body hear 

 yez ;" the beauty of the performance consisting in beating audible time 

 to every note of the tune, with heel and toe. 



But in spite of all that yet remains, it must be admitted with a sigh, 

 that the glory of Donnybrook has departed in the person of the renowned 

 Daniel Donnelly, better known among his admiring followers, by the 

 sounding title of " Sir Dan Dann'ly, the Irish haroe." Of course if you 

 know anything of the glorious science of self-defence, a necessary accom- 

 plishment which I hope you have not neglected amidst the general 

 diffusion of knowledge which distinguishes this happy age, of course if 

 you have cultivated that noble art, that true V't^Si cnaviov, which teaches 

 us the superiority of practical demonstration over theoretical induction, 

 the recollection of that celebrated champion must fill your mind with 

 reverence for his exploits, mingled with regret that he was snatched so 

 soon from the path of glory. 



I was fortunate enough to possess the friendship of that great man, 

 and I esteem among the happiest days of my life, that on which I was 

 lucky enough to attract his attention : it was during a row at Donnybrook 

 Fair. I was defending myself with whatever energy I possess, against 

 overwhelming odds, when suddenly, as if Mars himself had listened to 

 my invocation, and descended to the fray, Dan rushed from his tent to 

 shew fair play, and in an instant my cowardly assailants fled, as if scat- 

 tered by a whirlwind. From that hour, gratitude on my part, and a 

 consciousness of protection on his, cemented an intimacy between us- 



