By Mary E. Smith Irish wit is proverbial. Ireland is sometimes called, "The Land of Ter-na-nog," which means the "Land of the Young." practice the precept that "Cleanliness is next to godliness," as is shown by the following anecdote. Granny, "the thimble-man," was a woman, who lived near have who lived near a ditch. She was once offered a shilling to wash herself. "I've heerd ov' washin' a corpse, but never ov' washin' a live wan,' was her indignant response. Saint Patrick is said to have expelled toads and snakes from the "Island of Saints," but he did not expel wit and repartee. Hours are long, work hard, and wages low. We all know the privation and poverty caused by the landlord system and England's oppressive laws. In spite of these conditions the Irish are a merry, warm-hearted people, indulging in many a jest to cheer their weary way along. They do not talk for effect. Their wit is not studied. It is not tinctured with sarcasm, but is permeated by good humor, and provokes mirth, not anger. An Irishman occasionally uses the best words possible in explaining a thing. A man named "Martin" had a precise way of measuring his syllables. A friend described his method of speaking thus: "It's a quare sort of a way Martin talks. It's as if he took the words our of his mouth and looked at them before he gives them to yez." To fully enjoy these precious morsels of everyday life one must live among the people and be of them. A doctor who lived in Ireland tells this story. A vicar asked a woman, a great grumbler, "How are you, Mrs. Neale?" "Ah! very, very bad. 'Tis degestion, your reverence, like a hive of bees a-buzzin' an' a-buzzin' in my buzzum." "Is it always the same?" asked the vicar. "Nay, not always, your reverence. 'Tis often like a load of bricks a-poundin' an' aa-poundin', that's when the bees ain't a-buzzin'. But (the wrinkled old face brightened), but, the doctor -God bless him-is after givin' me a description an' if it don't cure me, he'll describe me again." Some of the Irish people do not A doctor was once obliged by illhealth to leave Ireland. When he returned to his native land after several years absence his hair was threaded with silver. A "bhoy" of eighty (every man is a "bhoy" until he is married) met him and accosted him thus: "An' your honor never got married beyant." "Never once, Henry, I'll give my word," answered the doctor. Old Henry lifted his arms thankfully. "And hadn't you great luck, doctor, dear, that you didn't get yourself implicated with a family," was his cordial comment as he shook hands with the doctor. "I Irish humor is not entirely confined to the humbler class. A gentleman was on the witness stand in a case being tried in Dublin. The prosecuting attorney asked him, "Did you go to the public house?" did, sir." "And did you take something there, sir?" "I did," answered the witness. "Gentlemen, you hear the witness admit that he went to this public house and took something" (the attorney thinking that the gentleman had imbibed a fiery beverage there). "And what did you take?" he asked the witness. "I took a chair to sit on" was the reply, which convulsed the court with laughter. In Samuel Lovel's novel of Irish life, "Handy Andy," is a striking illustration of the Irishman's keenness and readiness of wit. Father Blake, otherwise known as Father Phil, was one of the two priests who celebrated mass in a dilapidated chapel, which leaked badly. Father Phil wished to raise a subscription to A big woman was elbowing her way toward the rails of the altar, when Father Phil interrupted his appeal to Heaven to address her thus: "Agnus, you'd better jump over the rails of the althar, I think. Go along o' that, there's plenty of room in the chapel below there." Then he would proceed with the service. While he prayed the shuffling of feet edging out of the rain disturbed him, and he cried, "I hear you there-can't you be quiet and not be disturbin' the mass, you haythens?" faces, and behind your backs, too, for don't I see this minit a strame o' wather, that might turn a mill, running down Micky Mackavoy's back, between the collar of his coat and shirt." Here a laugh ensued at the expense of Micky Mackavoy who certainly was under a very heavy drip from the imperfect roof. "And is it laughing you are, you haythens?" said Father Phil, reproving the merriment, which he himself had purposely created, that he might reprove it. "Laughing is it you are, at your backslidings and insensibilities to the honor of God; laughing, because when you come here to be saved you are lost intirely with the wet. And how, I ask you, are my words of comfort to enter your hearts, when the rain is pouring down your backs. at the same time? Sure, I have no chance of turning your hearts while you are undher rain that might turn a mill; but once put a good roof on the house, and I will inundate you with piety! Maybe it's Father Dominick you would like to have coming among you, who would grind your hearts to powdher with his heavy words." (Here a low murmur of dissent ran through the throng.) "Ha! Ha! so you wouldn't like it, I see. Very well, very well,-take care then, for if I find you insensible to my moderate reproofs, you hard He addressed the congregation regarding the subscription thus: "Here it is and no denying it-down in black and white, but if they who give are down in black, how much blacker are those who have not given at all; but I hope they will be ashamed of themselves, when I howld up those to honor who have been contributing to the uphowlding of the house of God. And isn't it ashamed of yourselves hearted haythens, you malefacthors you ought to be, to leave His house and cruel persecuthors, that won't in such a condition and doesn't it put your hands in your pockets, rain a'most every Sunday, as if He because your mild and quiet poor fool wished to remind you of your duty? of a pasthor has no tongue in his head! Aren't you wet to the skin a'most I say your mild, quiet, poor fool of a every Sunday? Oh, God is good to pasthor (for I know my own faults, giving you such betther coulds that spake to you as you deserve, you hardYou are coughing and sneezin' every living vagabonds, that are as insensiSunday to that degree that you can't ble to your duties as you are to the hear the blessed mass for a comfort weather. I wish it was sugar or and go on sneezin' until you put a good might melt you, if I couldn't; but thatch on the place and prevent the appearance of the evidence from no-them naked rafters grin in your face to no purpose; you chate the Heaven against you every Sunday, house of God; but take care, maybe which is condemning you before your "Ha! (here there was a sensation). "Ha! ha, that makes you open your ears, does it? More shame for you; you ought to despise that dirty enemy of men, and depend on something betther-but I see I must call you to a sense of your situation with the bottomless pit under you, and no roof over you. "Oh, dear, dear, dear, I'm ashamed of you-troth. If I had time and sthraw enough, I'd rather thatch the place myself than lose any time talking to you, sure the place is more like a stable than a chapel. Oh, think of that! The house of God to be like a stable! for though our Redeemer, in his humility, was born in a stable, that is no reason why you are to keep his house in one." He proceeded to read the list of subscribers and the amount given by each, awarding due praise to those who had given what they were able, and scolding those who had been niggardly in their donations. The required sum was raised and the chapel repaired. These bitter lines as an epitaph on a "bad pay" were written by a Dublin medical wit of high repute: "Here lies O'Grady, that cantankerous creature, Who paid, as all must pay, the debt of nature; We are all familiar with Peter F. Dunne's writings. An uneducated Irishman, Mr. Dooley by name, gives his opinion on current events and customs to his friend, Mr. Hennessey. Underlying the exaggeration, ludicrousness, and seeming ignorance of Mr. Dooley's remarks is much trenchant sense. I quote the following from "Mr. Dooley on Card Playing among Women" (this paragraph treats of smoking). "I didn't read what ye'er good friend said, but I know what he said just th' same. He's sure Women ar-re not what they were. An' no more they ar-re. Th' women I see to-day ar-re not the same women I knew a hundred years ago or more whin I was on the turf. They're alive. Look at th' way th' women iv th' day smoke cigareets. 'Tis true I niver see thim, but I don't have to preach about thim. Th' vice iv cigareet-smokin' is desthroyin' th' nation. In countless cities, towns, villages, an' hamlets in this unhappy land, wretched women ar-re bein' sthrangled an' gettin' the smoke in their eyes fr'm these turr'ble inimies iv society. I know it f'r th' preachers tells me so. They was no cigareet smokin' in my day. Th' varchous women iv me gin'ration, gin'ration, th' faithful wives, th' affectionate sisters, th' lovin' mothers, smoked pipes. Those were th' simple times, an' thrue. I raymimber seein' th' vin'rable mothers iv fam'lies settin' around th' open fire which sildom wud burn an' hittin' up their little clays while they discussed th' roomatism that was so common in the merry days now past. How much betther it wud be to see thim, instead iv runnin' home to smoke a little cigareet secretly out th' window, get on a sthreet car, haul a dhudeen out iv th' shoppin' bag, fill it up with kinikinick an' get a light fr'm the conductor." The character of the Irish people has been to some extent misrepresented, as ludicrous, full of brogue and blunder. On the contrary, they are by no means inferior in any respect to the people of any nation. Perhaps their most pronounced traits are their cordiality and hospitality, which proceed from a warm heart. Many of our brightest, most intellectual people trace their descent back to one of Erin's children. We cannot fail to see what a prominent element the Irish have become in the political life of our great cities, and they will be in the future an important factor in our national life. They are just as patriotic citizens as we are, for they are Americans too, though a few generations nearer the Old World than we. FAITH FOREVER By Stewart Everett Rowe Oft' times this world is dark and drear to me This world is not so bad, and later on Life's darksome night will lift-life's day will dawnAnd all my clouds of doubt will fade and flee! I can but feel that all is for the best, And that the right will surely win at last; I can but feel that when I'm laid at rest My sorrows and my griefs will all be past; THE MOUNTAIN VOICE From the German of Heine, by Ellen M. Mason A knight rode through the mountain vale, "Ah! ride I to my love's embrace? Or ride I to the grave? The voice answer gave: "To the dark grave!" Still onward rode the knight, Sore sorrow in his heart; "Must I sink in the grave so soon? Ah, well, the grave is rest." Echoed the low voice blest; The horseman dried away his tears, "If in the grave be rest for me, The grave will make all well! Echoed in bell-like swell DR. JAMES A. LEET James A. Leet, M. D., a prominent physician of Grafton County, long practising in Enfield, died at the hospital in Hanover, after a long illness, November 11, 1911. He was born in Claremont, April 12, 1855, the son of George H. and Sarah F. Leet. He was the youngest of three sons who were of the seventh generation from Gov. William Leet of Connecticut. He was educated in the public schools, studied medicine three years with Dr. O. B. Way of Claremont, spent a year at the Taunton, Mass., hospital, and graduated from the Dartmouth Medical School in 1883. He located in practice first in Marlboro, but soon removed to Enfield, where he continued. He was eminently successful in tyhoid fever treatment, and was for many years the physician for the Enfield Shakers. He was a member of the Methodist Church at Enfield and active in its affairs; a Mason and an Odd Fellow, being specially prominent in the latter order. He married in 1884, Miss Jennie Farnum of Claremont, who survives. He also leaves one brother, Dr. George E. Leet of Concord. HON. BENJAMIN M. FERNALD Benjamin Marvin Fernald, a native of Somersworth, N. H., born February 14, 1847, died at his home in Melrose, Mass., October 30, 1911. He was educated at Phillips Exeter Academy and Harvard University, graduating from the latter in 1870. He studied law with Judge Joseph F. Wiggin of Malden, (formerly of Exeter) was admitted to the bar in 1873, and immediately formed a partnership with his tutor, in Boston practice, which continued for many years. He had for some years past been an Associate Justice of the Malden district court, and was prominent in the affairs of Melrose. He was a Republican in politics and served on the city and state committees of his party. He represented Melrose in the Massachusetts legislature in 1881 and 1882 and was a member of the State Senate in 1891 and 1892. For three years past he had been Associate Justice of the Malden District Court. He was a prominent Mason, a member of the Middlesex Club and of the Melrose Congregational church. In 1874 Judge Fernald married Miss Grace Fuller of Cambridge, who survives him with two daughters, Misses Ethel and Margaret Fernald of Melrose. DR. DAVID P. GOODHUE David P. Goodhue, M. D., long a successful medical practitioner in the town of Springfield, died at his home there, November 5, 1911. He was the youngest son of Jacob and Mary Goodhue of Dunbarton, born in that town January 10, 1838. His family removed, in his childhood, to Wilmot, and later to Boscawen where he attended the Elmwood Institute. At the age of 21 he commenced the study of medicine with Dr. E. H. Webster of Boscawen. He attended medical lectures at the University of Vermont and Dartmouth Medical College, receiving his degree at the latter in 1863, and continuing his studies in Philadelphia. He served as Acting Assistant Surgeon in the U. S. Navy from January, 1864, to October, 1865, and in February, 1866, bought the practice of Dr. Valentine Manahan in Springfield where he remained through life, winning universal respect and esteem as a skilled and devoted practitioner and a worthy and public spirited citizen. Politically he was a staunch Democrat. He held numerous town and county offices, including those of representative, member of the school board, town clerk and county auditor. He was a member, and had been president of the Center District and the New Hampshire Medical Societies and of the Sullivan County Medical and Surgical Society, and was a member of the U. S. Board of examining surgeons at Newport. On November 14, 1867, he was united in marriage with Abbie J. Davis of Springfield. Four children were born to them, of whom two-David H. and Libbie A.-survive, with their mother. LORENZO W. DOW Lorenzo W. Dow, a native of that part of the town of Meredith now Laconia, born July 27, 1815, but who had lived in Somerville, Mass., for the last seventy years, died at his home in the Clarendon Hill District of that city January 5, 1912. Mr. Dow was a farmer, with a large holding in the Clarendon Hill region, when he built the house in which he died, nearly sixty years ago. At that time there were only two other houses on the hill, but one store in town, and a wide expanse of farm land met the eye in every direction. Many years ago the building boom had enabled him to dispose of most of his land at large profit, but in the midst of the city he continued the simple habits of farm life, after long experience as the largest market gardener in Middlesex County. He was universally known "Honest Ware Dow" and the "Grand Old Man of Clarendon Hill." He is survived by two sons-Walter A. and Henry Ware Dow. THOMAS S. PULSIFER as Thomas Scott Pulsifer, a leading citizen of Campton and one of the most widely known agriculturists of Grafton County died at his home in that town, November 20, 1911. |