SNIPPET: The following piece by Patrick COONEY w/ photos by Seamus MURPHY appeared in the Spring 1998 issue of now out of production "The World of Hibernia" magazine. The subjects - two gentleman tailors, Patrick MURPHY and Des LEECH - were members of that vanishing breed that once suited up Dublin's beau brummels -- "'Ah, the long and short of it is that we're the end of the line. When we die, to hell with it, it's gone.' Patrick MURPHY, all of 81 years old, and for the last 62 a tailor, pressed a button on the old iron, releasing cloud of steam that enveloped his presence completely. At that moment, it seemed as if he had gone back in time to another age. Indeed, in this room of ancient pattern books and bolts of exclusive cloth, with names like 'Keeper's Tweed' and 'Bedford Cord,' I felt as if I'd gone back too. Back to an age of hunt balls and dressing for dinner ... Here, in this basement room at Hawkins of Dublin, the remnants of that age are still catered to, along with an ever-growing number of converts jaded with the ethos of the throwaway shirt and self-destructing suit. Messrs. Des LEECH and Patrick MURPHY are the last of the great gentleman's tailors in Ireland. William HAWKINS established the shop in 1916; his son retired three years ago, but LEECH and MURPHY like to retain the name. One glance at the Hawkins client book proved that their reputation had spread far beyond their tiny shop near Dublin's Parnell Square. In recent months, several noted practitioners of that most panic-stricken of crafts, the costume designer, have descended into the calm womb that is the Hawkins workshop to experience LEECH and MURPHY's soothing smiles and deft skills. Dublin's Gate Theatre, long known for its high production values, has commissioned them to make costumes for its period productions, as have several of the current crop of Hollywood films being shot in Ireland. Liam NEESON ('A perfect gentleman,' said LEECH) was kitted out for 'Michael Collins' courtesy of their shop, and several other well-known Irish actors are also clients. With more than 100 years of tailoring experience between them, these sage-like gentleman constantly underplay the importance of their position. Unlike some of their British counterparts, there is no sense of stuffiness in their salon. There are no private fitting rooms, and the work room has the pleasing disorder that only the truly great encourage. When I suggested that their craftsmanship compares favorably with that of Savile Row, LEECH drew on his curved pipe and immediately threw the compliment back. 'I'd say our standards are far higher. An awful lot of them fellers are moving out with the overheads. I reckon they're charging twice the price for the stuff in Savile Row that we're making here. See the like of this?' -- he threw a half-finished riding coat onto the table and rubbed the white thread that crisscrossed the labels and pockets -- 'that's all canvassed by hand. It's the scaffolding and foundation of the coat. The suits you buy in the high street, well, they just iron a bit of fusible on and hope the bloody thing holds together. When we're gone, you'll get the professors looking at it on a scientific basis asking, 'How did they do this?' They'll be ripping coats apart to see the skill, because that's where it is -- hidden.' MURPHY's face suddenly emerged from the steam cloud. 'I've worked here for 30 years, ' he announced, 'and I've never seen a coat come back with the pocket ripped.' I knew he wasn't exaggerating. Clothes like this are an investment, and, looking at the prices, it would seem a sound one. A three-piece suit will set you back 550 pounds, a hacking jacket 350 pounds, and their renowned 'britches,' 200 pounds. And then there's the guarantee: 'Our stuff will last you a lifetime,' LEECH beamed. 'We have clients who pass them on to their kids. We have whole families ordering from us, fathers bringing in sons and the like. 'We have to be diplomatic, mind you. When I'm taking measurements and they get concerned with the few extra inches, I tell them it's only cutting measurements, not body measurements. I tell them it's a 39 when it's really a 41, and they're happy.' Who are these clients, these last fragments of the old Anglo-Irish ascendancy? 'Oh, they're the greatest bunch of characters you're ever likely to meet,' LEECH enthused. 'Horsey people, a lot of them. Some of them love the horse more than the missus ...' Any names to drop? 'Oh, I could drop a lot,' he frowned. 'But there's a kind of confidentiality. You can say that we make for the very top people.' MURPHY re-emerged from the steam. 'Ah, there's Lord MOYNE and the like of the GUINNESSES .... ' A fascinating double act to watch, they have an endearing unstudied comical air. LEECH has the slightly distracted air of a frayed Oxford don, while MURPHY, short and dapper, bustles around with sinister-looking implements of the trade. Yet all comedy is gone when they set to work, plotting lines on exquisite cloth like field marshals or railroad pioneers. Now it seems that their skills will die with them. There are no apprentices to carry on the art. 'You'd like to pass it on,' LEECH said, 'but who's going to come and work for you for buttons? Kids would make more stacking shelves in a supermarket -- and they wouldn't have the patience. I couldn't train a tailor in four years, it isn't possible. It'll be sad to see it die, because you know no one will ever have that kind of skill to take it up again.' So, before the shutter comes down and the dream is lost, what suit would LEECH choose for himself? 'A three -piece business suit, quite formal in cut, a three-button in worsted. And I like a pinstripe running through it.' And the craftsman to carry out the task? 'I'd choose meself.' He peered at me, slightly surprised. 'I wouldn't trust anyone else to make a coat for me. I'm a tailor's nightmare with my shape. Sloping shoulders, hollow chest.' MURPHY emerged through the steam with a doleful expression. 'Ah, the ravages of time.'"

Hi Renee - There is a Lislee Civil Parish in Co. Cork, also a townland called Lisleecourt of 420 acres in Lislee CP. (Perhaps even a town called Lislee). The Poor Law Union (nearest large town/registration district) is Clonakilty. There are actually 33 townland areas in Lislee CP, which you can find by checking the all-Ireland townland search engine at the Leitrim-Roscommon website. All are found in the PLU/registration district of Clonakilty. You can also set the search for Cork and "starts with" L, it will bring up those and other (less likely) possibilities. Also "google" Lislee Cork see what come up. Jean xx ----- Original Message ----- From: <[email protected]> To: <[email protected]> Sent: Wednesday, February 14, 2007 11:53 AM Subject: [IGW] Laslee, Lasleeg? Cork Ireland >I am trying to find a town in Cork Ireland around the 1840's to 1860's > called Laslee or Lasleeg or some similar variant, that it was recorded my > Barry > ancestors were born in. I know that it was listed on their Wales census > records > as well. Either the town? changed its name or there is a spelling error. > If > anyone can help please let me know. [email protected]_ > (mailto:[email protected]) > Renee

Laoiseach Mac an Bhaird was a Monaghan poet of the late 16th century. In this poem criticism is aimed at one of two brothers who has apparently chosen Tudor ways, while the other has taken to the hills in revolt. TWO SONS You follow foreign ways and shave your thick-curled head: O slender fist, my choice! you are no good son of Donnchadh. If you were, you would not yield your hair to a foreign fashion -- the fairest feature in Fodla's land -- and your head done up in a crown. Little you think of your yellow hair, but that other detests their locks and going cropped in the foreign way. Your manners are little like. He loved no foreign ways, our ladies' darling, Eogan Ban, nor bent his will to the stranger, but took to the wilds instead. Eogan Ban thinks little of your views. He would give his britches gladly and accept a rag for a cloak and ask no coat nor hose. He hates the jewelled spur on his boot at the narrow of his foot, or stockings in the foreign style, nor allows their locks upon him. A blunt rapier wouldn't kill a fly holds no charm for Donnchadh's son, nor a bodkin weighing at his rump as he climbs to the gathering place. Little his wish for a gold cloak or a high Holland collar; a golden bangle would only annoy or a satin scarf to the heel. He has no thought for a feather bed but would rather lie on rushes, more at ease -- Donnchadh's good son -- in a rough-wattled hut than a tower top. Throng of horse in the mouth of a gap, foot-soldiers' fight, the hard fray, are some of Donnchadh's son's delights, and looking for fight with the foreigner. You are not like Eogan Ban. They laught as you step to the mounting block. A pity you cannot see your fault, as you follow foreign ways. -- Laoiseach Mac an Bhaird - translation, Thomas Kinsella

BADAI NA SCADAN The Herring Boats The crew of the best boat that left Inis Fraoigh Making their way to the place where the herring boats were at anchor On a submerged rock they ended up and they were not rescued alas And my nice fair-haired boy who would play the fiddle and the pipe I have more regard for Eoghan than a score of the men of this world It is he who could provide and his death has greatly saddened the land Poor Macan is sad and so is wee Nora and their daughter And I feel certain that his wife's sorrow will last for a very long time. Feargal, my friend, if you are in Heaven of the Saints Ask the High King for help for them to be found on the shore here below If their bones were found - were it only on the rocks by his father's side That wretched man would be satisfied and his life would be greatly changed I wouldn't like your eye, alas!, to be afflicted and lost to joy Or your youthful white body to be tossed about on top of the waves The oars that you plied you used to bend away back past you Your hand was on the helm and you were expecting to be in heaven soon If you saw Big Eoghan as he searched shores and holes Looking for a sign of the boys who were stolen away out on the wave He walked (sought out) the harbours but he was not likely to find the like there Till news of them was got down at An Iomaire Cam (The Crooked Ridge) -- Translated by Eamonn O Donaill. Badai na Scadan is a song from Donegal which was composed by a grief stricken father whose sons were killed in a shipwreck near Inisfree Island . Their boat crashed on a rock which was usually submerged but suddenly broke water. The entire crew was lost and the distraught father is searching all the local harbours for the bodies of his drowned sons. This version was collected from Maire John McGarvey of Ranafast, Donegal, and it was found in a book called 'Twenty-Five Irish Songs." This song (in Gaelic) appeared on the beautiful "Celtic Requiem" CD (Windham Hill Records 1998) featuring Mary McLaughlin and William Coulter.

AN OLD TUNE Mongst the green Irish hills I love dearly, At the close of the bright summer day, I heard an old tune lilted clearly, That soothed half my sorrows away. And far o'er the wide-rolling ocean Methinks I am hearing it now, As a farewell of tender emotion -- 'The Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.' Next day was the last look of Erin; 'Twas almost like death to depart; And since, in my foreign wayfaring, That tune's like a thread round my heart. Still back to the dear old Green Island It draws me, I cannot tell how -- The whisper in music of my land -- 'The Pretty Girl Milking her Cow.' -- William Allingham (1824-1899)

SNIPPET: Hand-knitting is a very old craft in Ireland. At one time hand-knitted sweaters, caps, stockings, shawls and even trousers were commonly worn. The hand-knitted sweaters of Donegal and the Aran Islands are known all over the world. The traditional fisherman's sweater was made of heavy, oiled wool, to keep out wind and weather; modern sweaters are lighter, not oily; but the designs are still the same. And many people will tell you that the stitches used in an Aran or a Donegal sweater had a story to tell, perhaps about the lives of the people wearing them, their marriages, the number of children they had. Some patterns are said to have a religious significance, some are said to represent the western landscape, some the nets of the fishermen, some their ropes. In John Millington SYNGE's play, 'Riders to the Sea,' a girl identifies the body of her drowned fisherman brother by the stockings he wore, and which she had knitted for him. Not only hand-knitting, but tweed has always been associated with Donegal, and the names of McNUTT and McGEE are synonymous with hand-woven tweed. An article called "The Textile Story," by Marion FITZGERALD appeared in Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine nearly 20 years ago (Mar-Apr 1985) containing insight into textiles in Ireland and the names of artisans working in 1985 may be familiar today. There is a photo of a smiling, grey-haired woman, Mrs. Theresa McGETTIGAN. knitting a sweater at home "for the firm of John MOLLOY of Ardara, Co. Donegal." A handweaver by tradition and training, MOLLOY was running an international business producing traditional and fashion knitwear. His traditional designs were knitted in thousands of home all around Donegal and he claimed to employ more home-knitters than anyone else in the country. In the modern factory he had set up four years earlier he also produced garments which were hand-fashioned on hand-operated machines in a variety of styles. Not far away, in Bruckless, Co. Donegal, Teresa GILLESPIE was sending beautiful lace and crochet and embroidered linens and knitwear to markets all over the world. Some 450 women worked for her, in their own houses and cottages all over Donegal. The lace was made by only a small number - 10 - as it was very delicate, it required great skill and much time going into one small piece. The pieces were used as inserts into hand-embroidered tablecloths. About 70 women did hand-embroidery, or "sprigging "as it is called in Donegal, and a hand-embroidered tablecloth passed through a number of hands before it reached its pristine finished state in the box that said that it came from Teresa's Cottage in the Hills of Donegal. One worker would do the lace, another would insert it, another would do the embroidery, a fourth would complete the cloth with a lace edging. The back again to Teresa, to be washed, washed again, bleached, washed once more, starched, spun, dried flat, and hand-ironed. Teresa's workers also made fine white lace crochet collars, gloves and blouses. A crochet blouse would take at least 90 hours to make, by several people, and carefully shaped and fashioned.

AT THE WELLHEAD Your songs, when you sing them with your two eyes closed As you always do, are like a local road We've known every turn of in the past -- That midge-veiled, high-hedged side-road where you stood Looking and listening until a car Would come and go and leave you lonelier Than you had been to begin with. So, sing on, Dear shut-eyed one, dear far-voiced veteran, Sing yourself to where the singing comes from, Ardent and cut off like our blind neighbour Who played the piano all day in her bedroom. Her notes came out to us like hoisted water Ravelling off a bucket at the wellhead Where next thing we'd be listening, hushed and awkward. That blind-from-birth, sweet-voiced, withdrawn musician Was like a silver vein in heavy clay. Night water glittering in the light of day. But also just our neighbour, Rosie Keenan. She touched our cheeks. She let us touch her braille In books like books wallpaper patterns come in. Her hands were active and her eyes were full Of open darkness and a watery shine. She knew us by our voices. She'd say she 'saw' Whoever or whatever. Being with her Was intimate and helpful, like a cure You didn't notice happening. When I read A poem with Keenan's well in it, she said, 'I can see the sky at the bottom of it now.' -- Seamus HEANEY, b. 1939 Co. Derry

A HAZEL STICK FOR CATHERINE ANN The living mother-of-pearl of a salmon just out of the water is gone just like that, but your stick is kept salmon-silver. Seasoned and bendy, it convinces the hand that what you have you hold to play with and pose with and lay about with. But then too it points back to cattle and spatter and beating the bars of a gate -- the very stick we might cut from your family tree. The living cobalt of an afternoon dragonfly drew my eye to it first and the evening I trimmed it for you you saw your first glow-worm -- all of us stood round in silence, even you gigantic enough to darken the sky for a glow-worm. And when I poked open the grass a tiny brightening den lit the eye in the blunt pared end of your stick. -- Seamus Heaney, from "Opened Ground, Selected Poems of 1966-1996," (pub. 1998)

SNIPPET: Edmund RICE, born in Callan, Co. Kilkenny, Ireland, 1762, is credited with founding two teaching religious orders, the Christian Brother and the Presentation Brothers, and their schools are to be found all over the world. His father farmed 182 acres and their long, low, thatched room cottage was typical of the "strong farmer class," with four bedrooms, a parlour, a kitchen and a small hall. Though the walls were made of mud, it has survived in a remarkable state of preservation right down to the present day. Edmund's uncle, Michael RICE, maintained a thriving provisioning trade in Waterford City, Co. Waterford. As a young man, Edmund came to the bustling port city and worked with his uncle. He was talented and energetic and soon became a very wealthy man. Within 20 years, through trade and investments, he had amassed a fortune. Details of Edmund's personal life are sparse. His genuine modesty and reticence make him an elusive subject for a biographer, and he left no diaries or memoirs. Only after much persuasion did he allow his portrait to be painted. His letters tend to be practical and business-like. In 1785, he married Mary ELLIOTT. Little is known of his wife but that she died in 1789, leaving Edmund to care for their handicapped daughter. This shattering experience marked a decisive turning point in Edmund's life. From this date his religious faith and the practical expression of it became the dominant feature of his life as he spent more time in prayer and helping a great number of people in Waterford who suffered poverty and injustice. His concerns at this period included the plight of the sick, orphans and prisoners. He considered joining the Augustinian Order and leading a contemplative life in a monastery, but he was dissuaded by his friends who convinced him that his calling was to the poor of Waterford City rather than the seclusion of the monastic cloister. In 1802 he established a free school for poor young people. Having provided for his daughter, Mary, who was cared for by his family, he left his comfortable house and lived over the school. He was joined by two Callan, Co. Kilkenny men, and they formed a religious community dedicated to "raising up the poor." For the first time, poor Catholic boys were given the opportunity of an education with no interference with their religious beliefs. The poorer pupils received a daily meal of bread and milk and a tailor was employed to provide suits and repair the boys tattered clothing. Less than 40 years later, the Brothers had almost 8,000 pupils on their rolls and had six schools in England catering for the children of Irish emigrants. They instilled in these pupils the virtues of discipline, hard work and sobriety. The curriculum was constructed so as to meet the employment demands of a 19th century industrial society and particular emphasis was placed on literacy in English and bookkeeping was one of the practical subjects taught. Many were attracted by his vision and generosity and the educational mission of the Brothers spread throughout Ireland and to many parts of the world. It may be possible to locate and obtain genealogical information in an annual publication that began in 1887 called "The Necrology." Produced by the Christian Brothers, these contained brief biographies of Christian Brothers who had died in the previous year and others who had joined the order and stayed until their death. It is believed that some of these books were shredded or burned when some of the monasteries subsequently closed down. Perhaps some family history societies have been able to salvage sets of these valuable publications. Perhaps other religious orders have similar collections. Edmund RICE died on August 29, 1844, at Mount Sion, the site of his first monastery, and he was beatified in Rome on October 6, 1996. Excerpts from Cork's "Irish Roots," periodical 1996, #4.

SNIPPET: Kilkenny is truly a city of medieval charm. Built in the 12th century by William the MARSHALL, Kilkenny Castle became the home of the earls of Ormonde in 1392, remaining so until 1967. Canice's Cathedral was built in the 13th century on the site of a monastic settlement founded in the 6th century. Today, all that remains of the monastery is the tall Irish round tower. Contained within the cathederal are a number of sepulchral monuments, carved out of black marble in memory of members of the BUTLER family, dating back to the middle ages. Kilkenny city is home to approximately 52 pubs of which the Marble City Bar, established in 1709, is one of the oldest and best known, having appeared on numerous postcards over the years. Visitors to the area might be interested in 'The Long Cantwell' a carved upright (human) effigy which dates from about 1320 and is thought to be the lid of the burial chamber of Thomas CANTWELL, the head of the Anglo-Norman CANTWELL family who were local landowners around the town of Kilfane, where the effigy now stands. . Kilkenny is, in essence a medieval town, with a great castle, a magnificent cathedral, well-preserved merchant house and abbeys, churches and inns from the Norman period. By size it is a market town; by ancient charter, and from its cathedral status, it is a city. Its location made it a convenient place for the holding of parliaments. One of these (1336) introduced the 'Statutes of Kilkenny,' an early form of 'apartheid' which aimed to separate the Irish from the Normans. Intermarriage was forbidden, the use of Irish surnames and dress. Clerics and monks of Irish origin were refused admittance to churches and monasteries under Norman control. The ancient Irish game of hurling was expressly prohibited. These drastic measures were taken because of fears that the Norman colonists were becoming overly Hibernicized in dress and tongue and recreation. By the time the statues were introduced, however, the process of assimilation had advanced to such a stage that most of the Norman inhabitants had Irish blood and many Irish were part-Norman and it became impossible to distinguish between one race and the other. The futility of this attempt at racial separation is apparent today when one sees young men and boys walking through the city's medieval streets with their hurleys tucked under their arms. In Kilkenny, a county which has won the All-Ireland Hurling Championship more than 20 times, the game has acquired an almost religious fervour among its players and supporters. The failure of the statutes has produced in Kilkenny a unique cross-fertilization between old Irish and Norman which is epitomized in the city itself, a place in which more medieval architecture and lore is compressed into such a small area than in any other town in Ireland. Built in 1172, Kilkenny Castle has been altered significantly since its original construction by STRONGBOW, the first Norman conqueror of Ireland. On his death, his nephew, William the MARSHALL, replaced the original structure with a stone fortress. The BUTLERs, one of whom had been made Chief BUTLER of Ireland, took over the castle in 1391, from which time Kilkenny became an Anglo-Irish town with his original inhabitants clustered around St. Canice's Cathedral in a small area which is still known today as Irishtown. For the next six centuries, the BUTLERs, who later became the earls of Ormonde, kept their eye on their lands by establishing Catholic and Protestant branches. If the regime in London favoured Protestant ownership, there were Protestant BUTLERs to fit the bill; if, as it did on occasions, Catholic ownership found favour, there were Catholic BUTLERs on hand to take over. The castle and some of the grounds were finally handed over to the Irish state by the 6th MARQUESS OF ORMONDE in 1967. At the bottom of the gently sloping hill from the castle, the old city begins at Shee's Almshouse, which was built in the Rose Inn Street in 1588 by Sir Richard SHEE and his wife as an institution for the relief of the poor in the town. Nearby in St. Mary 's Lane is the 13th century church of St. Mary and, close at hand, St. Kieran's Lane which is famous for its inns and hostelries. The 'Slips,' a collection of narrow alleyway which run up from St. Kieran's to High Steet, were the principal thoroughfares of the medieval town. Today, modern shopfronts mask much older facades. Close to 'The Ring,' once a centre of medieval bull baiting, stands the remains of the Franciscan Friary, built in 1232, where Friar John CLYN was an annalist in 1348 and 1349 when the Black Death devastated the city. Friar CLYN's annals end; 'I leave parchment to carry out the work if perchance any man survives...' After that entry, the annals continue in a different hand. The Friary now stands in the grounds of SMITHWICK's Brewery, a GUINNESS subsidiary, famous for Kilkenny Beer. Towering over the town, is the magnificent St. Canice's Cathedral which was built by Bishop de MAPPLETON in 1251-56. The second largest medieval church in Ireland (after St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin) St. Canice's stands on the site of an ancient monastic settlement founded by St. Cainneach (anglicized as Canice or Kenny) the only remnant of which is its 100 foot tower. During CROMWELL's brief stay in Kilkenny, in 1650, he left his iconoclastic mark on the cathedral, destroying the 'idols' and using the nave as a stable for his horses. Just to the south is Kilkenny College or 'the Grammar School,' built by the 1st DUKE of ORMONDE in 1666. Among its famous alumni are Jonathan SWIFT, the great satirist and later Dean of St. Patrick's in Dublin; poet and playright William CONGREVE. George BERKELEY, philosopher and Bishop of Cloyne, who gave his name to the university city of Berkeley in CA. Kilkenny, the unique city in which they received their secondary education before moving to Trinity College, Dublin and onwards, undoubtedly played a part in developing their imaginations and preparing them for their internationally-renowned careers. -- Excerpts, "Irish Counties," ed. J. J. Lee - (London) 1997

SNIPPET: On St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1996, Ms. S. COPPS, Minister of Canadian Heritage, announced her plans for the national historical site at Grosse Ile, a small island in the St. Lawrence river, 48 kilometers downstream from Quebec City. Gross Ile is the burial site of thousands of Irish immigrants who died of cholera in 1832, and of typhus, ship fever and starvation while fleeing from the Great Hunger in 1847. "From now on," said the Minister,"it will be called Grosse Ile and the Irish Memorial." The only remaining hospital building from 1847, is a long wooden shed called the Lazaretto. White crosses mark the graves of some of the thousands of Irish famine victims buried on the island. A tall Celtric Cross was erected in 1909. Ms. COPPS stated that the department of Canadian Heritage would clear away the brush that had overgown the mass graves to create a place of tranquility and reflection. Equally important, she said, was that it was to pay homage to the welcome, generosity and devotion of the local population who comforted the afflicted. In 1832, Grosse Ile witnessed a full-scale calamity when thousands of Irish died of cholera. In 1847, worse was to happen as 110,000 Irish Famine refugees sailed up the St. Lawrence. The mortality rate on the coffin ships - merchant vessels used in the timber trade, carrying Irish passengers as paying ballast - was one in four. Many of the dead were buried at sea,but thousands died on the ships, while they were anchored in quarantine in the St. Lawrence at Grosse Ile, or in the vastly overcrowded hospital sheds and tents on the island. Despite heroic efforts by the medical authorities at Grosse Ile, particularly Dr. George DOUGLAS, the Medical Superintendent,the suffering was dreadful. At least 5,000 and perhaps as many as 15,000 Famine victms are buried in the mass graves on Grosse Isle. The story of Grosse Ile is not just one of suffering. Just as impressive and memorable is the remarkable generosity of spirit of the Canadians. In addition to Dr. DOUGLAS - who contracted typhus from the Irish Famine victims and was seriously ill for several weeks - the story of 1847 abounds with Canadian heroism. Four other doctors, five Catholic priests, three Anglican clergymen, and 42 lay workers died tending the sick at Grosse Ile. The Anglican and Catholic bishops and their clergy volunteered to assist on the island. In Montreal, all the nuns of the Grey Sisters who tended the Irish came down with fever, and the Mayor, John MILLS, died of typhus. The same fate befell Michael POWER, the first Catholic Archbishop of Toronto. The most astonishing part of the story, however, continues to echo in Quebec where Grosse Ile is still known as "I'ile des Irlandais - the Irish island." The Catholic clergy arranged for the adoption of more than 2,000 children orphaned that summer. In many cases, the children were adopted into French Canadian familes who allowed them to keep their own Irish family names. Which explains, in part, how so many Irish names can still be found in completely French-speaking areas of Quebec. When Mary ROBINSON, President of Ireland, visited Canada in August, 1994,the first place on her itinerary was Grosse Ile. In a moving speech, under canvas in the pouring rain, she said that while the failure of the potatowas a natural disaster across Europe, "in Ireland it took place in a political, economic and social framework that was oppressive and unjust." Ms.ROBINSON spoke for us all when she said of Grosse Ile: "This is a hallowed place." -- Excerpt, "Irish America" magazine

GRAMMUDDER for Ann McCardy Murphy 1943. You hummed "Over There" absently, but another war throbbed in memory You poured Irish tea into white enamel cups steaming pale rinds of smoke into casks of afternoon silence. I ate scones and heard pipers, Robert Emmett's last speech on the dock. Fenians, republicans lined up, your brother Jack beaten with a horse crop, bleeding in his own velvet fields, the brocade lands of Mullingar. Your stories held onto that world, useless as the blind collie sleeping at your feet. You gave stories like hidden tongues that might speak later on, might wake a partisan heart I have always remained Irish, missing something I cannot name. It has given me an edge. -- "Grammudder" by Renny Golden, from "The Next Parish Over," ed. Patricia Monaghan, pub. New Rivers Press. (Note - Mullingar is in Co. Westmeath).

SNIPPET: Richard LOVETT's impressions of Ireland were first published in 1888 by the Religious Tract Society. Observant and genuinely interested in Ireland's history and its people, LOVETT left us a fascinating glimpse of the Emerald Isle during the great age of railway travel, before the coming of the motorcar and aeroplane. His itinerary follows the leisurely style the Victorian traveller - by steamer, train, carriage and on foot: Some of his observations: "Lisdoonvarna is a spa, and those wishful to do so can there partake of either chalybeate or sulphur water ... but most visitors, after seeing Moher, prefer to leave these tamer beauties for the more rugged scenes of the north, and make all speed to Galway. Or, if coming from Dublin, they will take the comfortable and, for Ireland, fast express of the Midland Great Western Railway. By this route the visitor runs across the great central plain of the country, and over the extensive dreary tracts of the Bog of Allen, which at parts extends for miles along both sides of the railway. But even here the dark brown colouring, the dead level, the evidences of peat cutting, and the accentuated monotomy of the landscape, combine to interest those who see them for the first time. These peat bogs make up a very considerable proportion of the soil of the country, occupying no less than 2,830,000 acres, and they arouse curiosity as to their origin. Since, like coal, they exhibit no marine fossils, they are not due to the action of the sea. but the evidence shows that they have been formed by mossy growths either in forests or upon the sediment deposited in hollows or fresh-water lakes. The continuous growth and decay during the lapse of ages has slowly built up the peat, which now varies from 20 to 40 feet in thickness, and which supplies over a great part of Ireland the lack of coal. The great bog district over which the railroad to Galway runs is believed to be due to the growth of peat-producing plants destroying the original oak forest, this being succeeded by first, and these also perishing in turn. Peat-cutting is one of the commonest and more characteristic occupations in Ireland ... the commoner method is to cut the peat from above, the operator with the spade standing upon the portion to be cut away, and detaching the blocks vertically, not horizontally. The peat is cut into pieces much the size and shape of a brick ... piled loosely ... when sufficiently dried, stacked and then carried or carted by horses, ponies or donkeys to the place where it is to be sold or consumed. Most travellers in Ireland at some stage of their journeyings have reason to, and very readily can, assure themselves of the heat-giving qualities of peat. Passing first Mullingar, that Mecca of anglers, then Athlone, one of the most important and noted of Irish inland towns, a busy market town, a great military centre, possessing also a valuable salmon fishery, and finally Athenry, with its ruined castle, ancient gateway, and if seen on market day, picturesque throng of Galway peasants, the train steams into the spacious Galway terminus, adjoining which is the huge hotel built in the hope that Galway would become, what it doubtless ought to be, a great port for the American trade."

SNIPPET: Stella LYNCH from Mullingar, Co. Westmeath was announced as the national winner of the Failte Ireland Irish Welcome Awards 2006, presented by the Minister for Arts, Sport and Tourism, Mr. John O'DONOGHUE, TD, at a ceremony in Dublin late last year. Stella LYNCH, owner of 'Just Books' in Mullingar, Co. Westmeath, was nominated for the award by Michael WILLIAMS of England following her extraordinary kindness to him. Michael was travelling around Europe during the summer with his dog and was finding it particularly difficult to find accommodation that would allow his dog to stay with him. After a chance meeting in her bookshop Stella tried to help find accommodation that was pet friendly. Unfortunately this didn't work out and so Stella gave him accommodation in her own home for the night. She even organised a welcome barbecue and had her brother take him to his first hurling match. Describing events Mr. WILLIAMS said, "Stella exemplifies raw hospitality. She went out of her way to help us find a room for the night and then went an extra mile to make my stay more memorable and to help me make a new friend." -- Excerpt, Mar-April 2007 issue, Dublin's "Ireland of the Welcomes" magazine.

LINES WRITTEN ON A SEAT ON THE GRAND CANAL, DUBLIN O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water preferably, so stilly Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother Commemorate me thus beautifully. Where by a lock niagarously roars The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence Of mid-July. No one will speak in prose Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands. A swan goes by head low with many apologies, Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges -- And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy And other far-flung towns mythologies. O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb -- just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by. -- Patrick KAVANAGH

MEMORY OF MY FATHER Every old man I see Reminds me of my father when he had fallen in love with death One time when sheaves were gathered. That man I saw in Gardiner Street Stumble on the kerb was one, He stared at me half-eyed, I might have been his son. And I remember the musician Faltering over his fiddle In Bayswater, London, He too set me the riddle. Every old man I see In October-coloured weather Seems to say to me: 'I was once your father'. -- Patrick Kavanagh

SNIPPET: Per Willie O'KANE in the 1998 #2 issue of "Irish Roots" magazine published in Cork, County Monaghan is a landlocked county, having boundaries with four other Ulster counties - Tyrone, Armagh, Fermanagh and Cavan - as well as Louth and Meath. Monaghan is part of the Republic of Ireland portion of the province of Ulster, along with Cos. Donegal and Cavan. (Counties in the Northern Ireland portion of the province of Ulster are Antrim, Armagh, Derry/Londonderry, Down, Fermanagh and Tyrone). Co. Monaghan's name derives from "Muineachan," the place of the thickets. Much of the county is a mix of rounded hills and poorly drained uplands interspersed with more fertile and manageable soils on the lower parts where limestone predominates. The highest hills are the Slieve Beagh range in the NW, along the Tyrone border. Reaching around 1,200 feet in height, the range is somewhat isolated and featureless. Other mountains are Cairmore, with its deep upland lake, and Crieve Mountain overlooking the southern part of the county. The Blackwater is the chief river in Monaghan, and today most of the county is given to pasture and beef farming with sheep on the higher farmland. Nearer the main towns, potatoes and cabbage are grown, while in the northern part, near Tyrone, there is a concentration of mushroom-growing industries. Monaghan is the county town, being the episcopal seat of Clogher diocese and noted for St. Macartan's Roman Catholic cathedral. The town has long served a relatively prosperous mixed-farming area, and despite a decline in local industries over the past few decades, evidence of its former solidity remains in buildings like the Market House, dating from the 1790s, the Westenra Hotel and the nearby printing works producing the "Northern Standard" newspaper. Clones, 12 miles west of Monaghan, possesses a fine high cross in the market place and several notable Georgian houses. The chief GAA playing field in Ulster is located here, and provincial matches regularly attract tens of thousands to the town. Castleblaney, at the head of Lough Mucknoo, one of the largest of Monaghan's many lakes, is the hometown of 'Big Tom' McBRIDE, pioneer exponent of the hybrid musical form known as 'Country and Irish.' Other towns include Newbliss, Emyvale and Ballybay. Carrickmacross, in the SW of the county, is noted for its fine lace, a tradition stretching back several centuries and in today carried on by a dedicated co-operative movement. Just NE of Carrickmacross is the hamlet of Iniskeen, near which Patrick KAVANAGH (1904-67) was born in the townland of Mucker. His poetry, increasingly recognised as among the best of any Irish writer, celebrated the dignity of life amid the small farms and country people he knew so well. It also poignantly records the price exacted by the ties of land and kinship, and the anguish of struggling to establish identity and purpose in a society that had little appreciation for artistic values. His work has influences later Irish writers. There is a great variety of family names in Co. Monaghan, mainly of native Ulster origin, although in the Ulster Plantation many Scots and English settlers arrived in the county. Prominent Monaghan names include McMAHON, McKENNA, HUGHES, McCABE, SMITH, KELLY, MAGUIRE, MURRAY, WOODS, O'CONNOLLY, DUFFY, LESLIE, HAMILTON, SHIRLEY and TREANOR. Of note - The surname MONAGHAN (also spelt MONAHAN) has no connection to Co. Monaghan. It is chiefly to be found in the Cos. of Galway, Mayo, and Fermanagh, all of which are not far away from the original home of the O'MONAGHANs in Co. Roscommon. The Annals of the Four Masters record O'MONAGHAN as Lord of the Three Tuathas of Roscommon in 1287, about the time they were displaced from the lordship by the O'HANLEYs. The surname derives from a famous Connacht warrior of the ninth century. 'Manachain' also denotes a monk and the name is often translated as MONK or MONKS. Dick MONK, who was one of the 1798 rebels, was also known as Richard MONAGHAN, per surname expert Edward MacLYSAGHT.

SNIPPET: Co. Louth/Boyne Valley area north of Dublin -- Mellifont, the first Cistercian abbey in Ireland (Diocese of Armagh) was established by French monks who came to Ireland in 1142 to bring the Irish monks more in line with Rome. This essentially European foundation was part of the wider 12th-century reform of the Irish church which led to the eventual demise of traditional Irish monasticism. In its first years the community was composed of a mixture of French and Irish monks trained at the mother house of Clairvaux. In its layout and planning the unusual architecture of the abbey demonstrated considerable French influence. Cistercians lived isolated, rural lives; lay monks worked the land, allowing the more educated monks to devote all their energy to prayer. After Henry VIII dissolved the abbey in 1539, centuries of locals used it as a handy quarry. Consequently, little survives beyond the octagonal lavabo, where the monks would ceremonially wash their hands before entering the refectory to eat. Even so, the lavabo does gives one a sense of the grandeur that once was. The lavabo (c. 1210), the chapter house (c. 1220), and the late medieval gate house remain partly intact; the form of the other buildings can been seen from foundations revealed during excavation. Visitor Centre contains exhibitions of the work of masons in the middle ages with excellent examples of their craft on display. Excellent tours available upon request, May-Oct daily, no tours Nov-April where site is free to explore on your own.

SNIPPET: "Hibernia, Insula Sanctorum et Doctorum," Island of Saints and Scholars, was the title the Irish missionary monks won for their country during the 6th and 7th centuries This period in the history of Ireland has been hailed as its Golden Age, the "Irish miracle.' At this time, wave after wave of learned, truly humble and holy Irish monks felt compelled to become 'peregrini,' or 'wanderers for Christ.' Such had been the total success of the conversion of the pagan Celtic Irish to Christianity by Saint Patrick that the people of Ireland had not only accepted the teachings of Christ, but had also shown an astounding enthusiasm to share their newly found faith with the pagans of Europe. Irish monk-scribes also recorded the natural world around them in depictions of leaping salmon, an otter with a fish in his mouth, or the play of light and shadow in the margins of books. 'Pleasant is the glint of the sun today upon these margins, because it flickers so.' A glimpse of a monk in his cell working on an illuminated manuscript can be seen in a poem by an anonymous Irish monk which, in one English translation, says: 'I and Pangur Ban, my cat/'Tis a like task we are at/Hunting mice is his delight/Hunting words I sit all night/Better far than praise of men/'Tis to sit with book and pen/Pangur bears me no ill-will/He, too, plies his simple skill...' One of the most splendid relics of Irish monastic life is the monastery of bee-hive cells still standing on the most isolated rock in Europe, Skellig Michael. This island is one of three little pinnacles known as the Skelligs that lie off the coast of County Kerry. Skellig Michael is difficult to approach in heavy seas - the huge mass of steep, slate rock, less than a half-mile long and a quarter-of-a-mile wide, rises sheer out of the water to over 700 feet in height. The runs of the Abbey stand over 500 feet up from the crude landing stage. There is one small, green patch around the stark, grey rocks called 'Christ's Saddle'. On a second plateau above are five bee-hive-shaped stone cells and a tiny oratory perched on top of the precipitous cliff. At a lower level stands a sixth bee-hive cell, a second little chapel, stone crosses, some burial places of the monks and a holy well. In the end, the Vikings in their long boats came and murdered the monks and pillaged their chapels - and yet, ironically, it is said that the Norse king, Olaf, was baptised by a monk on Skellig Michael. Today the island is uninhabited by human souls, a haunt of myriad rare seabirds, including fulmar petrels, kittiwake gulls, puffins, choughs, guillemots, peregrine falcons and even stormy petrels. Sir Kenneth CLARK at the beginning of his television series 'Civilisation' remarked, "Looking back from the giant civilisations of 12th-century France or 17th-century Rome, it is hard to believe that for quite a long time Western Christianity survived by clinging on to places like Skellig Michael." A sharp contrast to life on the Skelligs in the turbulent waters of the Atlantic Ocean was to be found in the vast monastic universities on the mainland, such as those at Kells, Bangor and Clonmacnoise. Here hundreds of bee-hive cells housed the monk-students and teachers. Equipped with simple stone chapels and kitchens, these monasteries also had an unique Celtic architectural defence against the raiding Vikings, the 100-foot-high round tower. With its entrance many feet above the ground, this served as both a watch tower and an alarm tower when the dreaded longboats of the Vikings were seen coming up the estuaries on hit-and-run plundering raids. On these occasions, the monks would scatter, and their precious altar pieces and illuminated manuscripts would be stored in the tower, the entrance ladder being pulled in to await the departure of the raiders. As it had no corners it was impossible for the raiders to breach the tower. The monks of Skellig Michael and of the mainland monastic universities had a deep love of nature. Like the hero Finn of the ancient Irish saga, the 'Fianna," they loved music, which, to him and to them, was the song of blackbird, the scream of an eagle, the roar of a waterfall and the baying of hounds. The Irish monks did not merely remain content with ephemeral music. They believed, as did the poet and dreamer of dreams, Oisin, that the music which delighted them best was 'the music of the thing that happens,' for they were men of action as well as dreamers. We are reminded of their great artistry in a wealth of Irish manuscripts, such as those within the Book of Kells and the Book of Durrow, two of the most valuable books in the world. These are Byzantine in character, their iconography shot through with Eastern associations, reflecting the influence of Syria and the Egypt Coptic lands, but the unique Irish script was a cultural phenomenon. The oval-eyed saints gaze out at you from the pages of the Book of Kells. Written in Latin, it contains the four Gospels, plus prefaces to some of them. The pages are either of parchment or vellum, and originally were gloriously ragged. Experts consider it unlikely that the whole book was the work of one single monk, most likely four. The often-reproduced portrait of the barefoot Christ has purple and royal peacocks to the left and right of his shoulders, alongside chalices and vines. While the Book of Kells is thought to be of the 8th or 9th centuries, it is possible that it is of an earlier century. It was found in Kells in Co. Meath, where there was once a famous abbey. It is possible that the work was started by Irish monks in the monastery of Iona, and then brought to Kells from there by the followers of Saint Colmcille when the Vikings forced them to flee. Held in the safety of the parish church of Kells, the book was removed to the Libra ry of the College of the Holy and Undivided Trinity in Dublin for safe-keeping during the destructive rule of Cromwell. It can still be found there today. The bold calligraphy and illumination of books such as the Stowe Missal, the Book of the Dun Cow, or the Book of Armagh, like the Celtic Christianity they portrayed, were manuscripts clear, intense and definitive. Their sole purpose was to show the reader the Word of God, the Gospels, and the scribes had enjoyment in so doing. Spirals, trumpets, La Tene curvilinear motifs and patterns, and fantastic and exotic animals aboundin their texts of the Gospels. Snakes, eagles, calves, and lions are there, all depicted by the monks in the most beautiful colour combinations - those of the real world around them - vermilion red, green, yellow, brown and black. As a consequence, these Irish manuscripts are among the most original and animated in the history of calligraphy. The humanity of the illuminators and scribes is often evident in their work. One can see, for example, among the words on a line in the Book of Kells a 'doodle' of a bumble bee Here, within these pages of sacred texts, a monastic cat watches a monastic mouse, a dog stretches, a cock struts. Sometimes a little margin entry illuminates the history of the time. A note written during the days of the plundering of Irish monasteries by the Norse raiders reads: 'Fierce and wild is the wind tonight/It tosses the tresses of the sea to white/On such a night as this I take my ease/Fierce Norsemen only course the quiet seas." In the margins of some of the most beautiful Celtic manuscripts in the world are the musings of some of the Celtic scribes. 'A dinnerless Tuesday is a cold thing, Donall, and immediately before Christmas too.' - Another reads, 'My hand is weary with writing, my sharp quill is not steady, my slender, beaked pen juts forth a black draught of shining, dark blue ink, a stream of the wisdom of Blessed God.' -- Excerpts, "An Irish Moment," Terence J. Sheehy (1989)

SNIPPET: Pauline GUCKIAN recalls: "I was born and reared on a farm in County Roscommon and I remember how hard we all of nine children had to work, but it did none of us any harm. At times my parents had it difficult if there was a bad summer. This summer, which was lovely and warm, my daughter had a few days of her holidays left and we decided to drive to Arigna and see the museum and Arigna Experience. It is a wonderful place and if the weather is good, as it was this summer, the scenery and the views are just fantastic. It also brought back memories to us of the time when my father went to the coal mines for coal for the winter. He would tackle the horse and cart and set off at 2 o'clock in the middle of the night and drive to the mines. There he would get the coal on the cart and be careful not to put on too heavy a load or the horse would not be able to continue the long journey home. We were all delighted to see man and beast home safely with the coal as it was a long journey of fifteen miles or so. It was a great comfort to our parents to have fuel for the long winter months secured. We had lots of trees growing on our farm and after a storm, we had lots of storms in those days, we were sent out to gather "cipins" (sticks) for kindling the fire. We always had great fun collecting them. Well now we are in a modern world. Nobody would ask a child to collect "cipins" for a fire now. I have lived to see some massive changes happening on the land. In the long summer evenings we always milked the cows in the field and if they were quiet, as they always seemed to be in those days, it was the most enjoyable experience in the warm weather, and if you were out at hay making all day, I felt you were resting while sitting milking a cow." -- Pauline GUCKIAN, 'Winter's Coal', "2005 issue "Leitrim Guardian" annual magazine (with her photo). If you "google" Arigna you will find several websites including a very nice one by Ian GALLAGHER with photographs and history of that area.