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.'"