The Life and Times of Davy Stephens, newsman!

A long time ago Andy McGlynn, who, having retired from the hotel industry because of a heart condition, became a photographer with Southside (there’s a much longer story which one day may be told), gave me a negative of Davy Stephens. This was odd, because Andy is one of the world’s great sellers.  But, as my wife reminds me, I’ve bought more than enough from him over the years. Recently I bought a hand-drawn postcard of “Sir” Davy Stephens. It prompted me to search him out and I found that he had allowed a (very awful) ghost-written account of his life to be published. Here it is. Who’s “Sir” Stephens? Read on … [KF August 2002]

**The Life and Times of Davy Stephens

The Renowned Kingstown Newsman**

The object of the present sketch is so well known to all who visit Ireland by the mail route, that it seems superfluous to introduce him.

But he is such a unique personality that his biography is sure to prove interesting to more than those who have caught a fleeting glimpse of him as they landed on Irish soil.

As everyone is aware, Kingstown, or Dunleary, as it was formerly designated, is the port of arrival and departure of the Cross-Channel mails, and also a favourite seaside resort for the citizens of Dublin, as well as for shoals of holiday folk from all quarters. And no matter from where the visitor comes he is greeted on arrival by Davy.

Enveloped in a perennial atmosphere of good humour and jollity, and with a desire to please emanating from the heart, no difference in class is recognised by Davy Stephens. His sympathies are universal, and the same hearty reception is accorded to every passenger as he scrambles up the gangway from the mail packet-immediately followed by a request to purchase some of his stock of “Irish Times,” “Freeman,” and “The Lady of the House,” that cannot be denied. And thus the acquaintance is made of the Kingstown “masher,” the familiar friend of princes and of great men: for the arrival and departure of the mail boats are never missed by him. His laugh is bright and cheery, and his whole appearance comforting after the dejected visages of one’s fellow-passengers.

His usual post, however, is on the steps of the Railway Station, or a little within the doorway, if the weather is inclement, and he has a merry jest on the top of his tongue for every comer, for he is as great in his way as Sam Weller, or Dick Swiveller, and bandies his jokes with a Cabinet Minister just as freely as with a railway porter.

His exterior is peculiar but prepossessing. Standing a little below the usual height for the proverbial Irishman, this point is quickly lost sight of in a deep well of wit, not yet completely sounded, beaming forth in his eyes. No one can say whether it is in the merry glance of his eye or in the quick repartee that issues from his lips, never for a moment sealed, that Davy’s fortune lies. The corners of his mouth are turned up in a perpetual smile which his clean shaven chin tends to emphasise. His age may be taken at anything from 30 to 60 - nothing more definite can be given judging from his youthful appearance. But this juvenile has celebrated his 73rd birthday, and, like “Charley’s Aunt,” is still going strong. His hair hangs down over his shoulders in long strings, reminding one of that of Ulysses when tossed by the sea at the feet of the charming Nausicaa, and the fresh breezes of the Channel has reduced his complexion to a compromise between red and brown. In a black frieze overcoat and a soft “Trilby” hat he braves the cross-Channel gales in winter as readily as be broils beneath the portico of the railway station when the temperature is only 88 degrees in the shade. Atmospheric variations seemingly exert no influence on the perfect constitution of Davy. The scent of the briny and the glint of the sunshine are alike to him. Add to these particulars a fine rich brogue and the man is complete.

“Davy hath a beaming eye,

On all his customers it beameth;

Everyone who passes by

Thinks that for himself it gleameth.

But there’s an eye that’s brighter far,

And shines behind this jovial quizziness,

Leading like a guiding star,

And that is Davy’s eye to business.”

His father died when “Davy” was very young, and at six years old the enterprising youth started on what he calls his “literary ” career, selling “Saunder’s News Letter,” a then Dublin newspaper, and at the time the oldest newspaper in Europe, at fourpence a copy, and a penny a read to those who could not afford to buy it. By this means he supported himself, his mother, and sister. Though his literary tastes are now more universal, and his wares more diverse, his memory still hearkens back to those early days when, surrounded by a class of young and old not troubled with a superabundance of this world’s wealth, the latest news “from Parliament, of Election and War,” was read out to an interested audience. Time has worked many changes since then, and his young friends of generations back are scattered far and wide; yet many a foreign postmarked envelope finds its way to 5 Anglesea Buildings, Kingstown, bearing the meagre address: “Davy Stephens, Ireland” - an address which the Post Office officials deem sufficiently explicit. That was half a century ago, and he is still following the same calling. As he himself says, he has attended to the newspaper wants of the passengers of three generations of mail steamers, the first steam packets, then the paddle steamers, and now the palatial twin-screw mail boats, and during his time he has had the honour of supplying a newspaper and introducing himself to amongst shoals of celebrities - The late Queen Victoria and the late Prince Albert, the late King Edward, King George and Queen Mary, the ex-Emperor of Brazil, the Prince of Wales, the Dukes of Edinburgh and Connaught, and their Royal Consorts, the Duke of Cambridge, Duke and Duchess of Teck, the Crown Prince of Austria the Shah of Persia, the late Napoleon III., and the Prince Imperial, the late Lords Beaconsfield and Tennyson, the poet Longfellow, Mr Gladstone, Lord Salisbury, Mr Arthur Balfour, Mr. Asquith, Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, Lord Wolseley, Lord Roberts, Lord Kitchener, the Empress Eugenie, and hosts of other “notabilities shook me by the hand and bought my book.”

Chapter II

Davy’s Grievance

For over 60 years he had attended the mail boats on their arrival and departure, until one Derby Day, Davy, as was his wont, tripped across the witness the great race. On his arrival home what was his consternation to find his place, “Davy Stephens’ own heritage,” at the cabin door of the incoming and outgoing mail boat, occupied by a boy with the gold letters of the great Dublin newsagents on his cap, and he (Davy) warned off the quarter deck to a position on the forecastle, where, as he says himself, he can do as much business as if he were ordered to the mast-head.

On the matter being raised in Parliament, the late Mr. Michael Davitt asked was it not cruel to turn him out after such a long period, and Sir Thomas Esmonde inquired if Mr. Stephens could not, in face of the competition which had been introduced, be at least allowed to retain his old position on the gangway when the boats when the boats arrived? Mr. Hanbury said he would do the best he could under the circumstances. And so the matter remained.

About this time Davy was interviewed by a Dublin journalist, to whom he stated his case, which thus gained more widespread circulation than it otherwise would have attained.

“Well, Davy,” said he, “what about the latest Irish grievance7 and how did it all begin?”

“Faix,” replied Davy, “that’s more than I can tell.”

“Well, did they serve a notice to quit on you, or how was it?”

“It was like this. After I came back from the Derby, I went as usual with my papers down the Carlisle Pier, and what was the first thing I saw but a chap with gold lace on his cap selling papers in my place. ‘What brings him here?’ thought I, but I said nothing, and began selling my papers as usual.

“But up steps the Captain and says: ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to go up higher.’ ‘Up higher,’ says I, not rightly understanding him - ‘is it up the mast he wants me to go,’ ‘No, up to the other gangway,’ he replied, ‘there’s only one allowed down here.’ ‘What’s that, Captain, said I, ‘is it turn me away after all these years.’ ‘Well, I’m very sorry,’ said he, ‘but those are my directions.’ So there was nothing for it but to go to the for’ard gangway, where they bring in the luggage, and I might as well have been up the mast as try to sell papers to the trunks as they passed on the men’s backs.”

“And why did they do that?”

“Oh, jealousy, jealousy!” replied Davy. “They won’t let one poor man alone, but they must be meddling and pushing themselves everywhere. It’s the day of companies, and fighting, and pushing and cutting prices. It’s a shame, that’s what it is!”

“It is a shame. And how long have you been selling newspapers?”

“Fifty-two years,” replied Davy. ” I have been selling papers at the mail boat every morning, saving only the week I spend at the Derby every year. Sure I remember the time when the mail boat only carried six bags of letters and started from the jetty beyond (the Carlisle Pier wasn’t heard of then); and now they carry 300 bags night and morning, aye, and 1,500 sometimes. Bit of a difference, isn’t it? I suppose I’ve met everyone of note that came over all that time. I remember when the late Queen Victoria first came over, 63 years ago. She landed at the jetty. They had planking and red carpeting all the way up to the station. She went in at one door, for, faith, there was a drink shop near the other door. D’ye see the Town Hall there? Well, that wasn’t there, then; nothing but a blank wall, and, if I remember right, a little bit of a tumble down cottage. Aye, there have been a lot of changes in my time,” he continued. Pleasant, though, that my friends don’t forsake me, even though I am pushed out of the way. There was the Duke of Connaught the last time he was over would not buy a paper from anyone but me. He came right over to where I was at the top gangway. ‘I thank your Royal Highness,’ said I, ‘and how is Her Majesty the Queen?’ ‘Very well,’ replied he with nod, and right glad I was to hear it.”

“Have you lost by this?”

“That I have; my trade went down for a while, but grit tells, and I have good loyal friends, and I am going to stick to it as strongly as ever.”

Chapter III.

The “Philosopher” intercedes for Davy.

Some time subsequent another Press correspondent took the matter up and described it in a fashion that will bear repeating. “For the past several weeks the greatest excitement has prevailed in Kingstown and elsewhere. There is the Transvaal crisis, which excites everyone interested in blue diamonds and primrose gold. There is the Niger Company deal. The Fillipinos hold their own. Captain Dreyfus has come back from his cage to life and liberty. The German Emperor wafts a kiss to the Paris Exhibition. But above all, as far as Kingstown and Dublin are concerned, there is the Davy Stephens crisis overshadowing the above list. All honour to the Members of Parliament, the nobility, and gentry who have taken up the case. But see what I have done!

“I don’t want to blow my own trumpet, although when necessary I can blare a solo on it. But not at the expense of my old and valued comrade in literature, David Stephens. Nevertheless, I feel proud of the action I have taken in the matter, dictated as it has been by the sympathy for a comrade of the pen. Because though David Stephens cannot write an article like this, he can disseminate it, he can force you, with his winning smile and ready wit, to buy the journal in which it is enclosed, and if you do not read it, it is your own loss. David and I have done our best.

“Let me relate my action in the simplest language. I went to the Lord Lieutenant. He said he was of opinion that Davy should be reinstated (you know Davy, after 50 years or thereabouts of service on the saloon deck of the cross-Channel boats, has been evicted), but added that he had no official discretion in the matter. I was astounded. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said I, ‘you can do nothing?’ His Excellency shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘I have every sympathy with Davy. But he does not come under the Local Government Act or even the Curfew Act. Go to the Prince.’

“I took up my hat. ‘Well, really, said I, ‘you surprise me very much. However, I know you’d do it if you could. Good day.’ I went straight to the Prince. I passed Davy on the Carlisle Pier, looking forlorn, crushed, unutterably wretched. But I did not breathe a syllable to him of my mission. What was the use? It might only raise hopes in that unhappy bosom perhaps to be dashed to the lowest depths of despair. I stepped on board and in due course arrived at Marlborough House. The Prince was out for a bicycle spin, but I waited in the drawingroom until his return.

“I never saw a man so cut up as the Prince when I told him of Davy’s misfortune. The general public, the vulgar majority, think that the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward VII.) is a world-worn cynic, a mere State ornament without a heart. So far from this being the case, he is one of the kindest men I have ever met. ‘Why, bless me,’ said he, ‘this is a bad business. Poor Davy. I am awfully sorry for him. Let me see.’ He sat on the table, swinging his leg about for a while, then jumped down. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he observed, ‘come along to mother.’

“We took a hansom and drove to the Queen’s house. Fortunately, Her Majesty was at home. I apologised for coming so late. ‘Oh, not at all,’ said she. ‘Sit down and make yourself at home. What can I do for you?’ The Prince here intervened with his usual kindness, and told her all about Davy and his misfortunes. The Queen listened with the tip of a finger to her chin, and seemed interested. But when the narrative was finished I was startled by her first remark. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘who on earth is Davy Stephens?’

“Fortunately, most fortunately, indeed, I had Davy’s photograph in the breast pocket of my overcoat. So I hurried out to the hall to fetch it. When I returned, without a word I placed the photograph in the Queen’s hands. Her Majesty looked at it intently, then glanced up, a little puzzled. ‘But this,’ said she, ‘this is Mr. William Field, M.P., from Blackrock.’ ‘No, madam,’ I replied, ‘there is, no doubt, a certain resemblance in the outline of the face and hair, but that is Davy Stephens, the man for whom I solicit your Majesty’s benevolence.’

Her Majesty walked about thinking, holding the photograph behind her back. After some minutes she stopped and faced round. ‘Why, of course,’ she exclaimed. ‘I remember now. Let me see. I have been once or twice in Ireland. Yes, I remember when the late Prince Consort and I landed at Kingstown we were met by Mr. Stephens. Oh, indeed,’ she added, with quick motherly sympathy, I am sorry to hear he is in trouble.’

She then sat down to write a despatch on the subject, having first told the Prince to show me the album. After this she called in one of her grand-daughters and made her sit at the piano and play ‘Silvery Waves’ and ‘The Battle of Waterloo.’ ‘Old fashioned things,’ said the Queen to me with tears in her eyes. But I like them.’ We had tea then, and the conversation became general. The Queen asked me how I thought the Prince was looking, and I said I thought I had never seen him look so well.

Ah,’ said Her Majesty, ‘you have no idea what a trouble he was to rear. Teeth, measles, and whooping cough. But, dear me, what a delight when he first began to talk. He used to say “dardoo” for “garden,” “everybodoo ” for “everybody,” and “bun ee” for “come here.” The Queen went on relating some very interesting reminiscences, but the Prince was not very pleased. ‘Mother,’ he protested, ‘don’t go on about my childhood. It makes me look such a fool.’ With instinctive tact the Queen changed the subject, and finally - when she rose - and we all stood up - she said a last word about Davy.

“‘I shall look into the matter,’ she said, as she gave me her han4 to kiss, ‘and you may tell him from me to cheer up. I would make him a peer only that they have three piers already in Kingstown. Well, well. Good afternoon. The Prince will see you to the door.’ I backed out from the presence of the greatest lady in the land, and hied me across to old Ireland, to tell the greatest newsvendor the welcome news.”

Chapter IV.

Kingstown Connections.

1905 hand-drawn postcard of "Sir Davy Stephens,There are many things in Kingstown worth seeing. There is the harbour; there are the new mail boats; the ruins of the burnt out Pavilion; the Kingstown Commissioners; but there is one object more striking and attractive than any or all together, and that is Davy Stephens! And the best of it is you have not to go far to see him. You need neither train nor tram, nor car nor bus, he is always to the fore and always in evidence. He is not one of those mock modest people who hide their light under a bushel. He is the very prince of newspaper agents, as indeed is perhaps fitting, seeing that he resides in the Premier Township.

Take away Mr. Stephens from Kingstown and what will remain? Take away the East Pier and who cares? The West one is still there to walk on. The Pavilion has been burned down, but still there is lots of fun at Kingstown - for Stephens the irrepressible is at “the landing.” Take away the mail boats; no matter - the letters will come somehow. Take away the Town Commissioners, and, dear knows, if popular talk be true, they might be taken out to the Man-of-War Roads, and made the subject of one of those Noyades so dear to the hearts of the turbulent Lyonese in the stormy times of ‘89 and leave withal an enormous lot of dry eyes behind them among the shopkeepers of Kingstown! But take away Davy Stephens - take away Davy Stephens - and “see the vacuum the hiatus” that will be left in Kingstown popular life! Why, it would not look - nor actually be - the same place at all.

That Davy has arrived at such a high point of popularity is sufficient evidence of the days of strenuous work he has to endure. Morning after morning at the pier-head at four o’clock, and never too much hurried that he could not spare some minutes to scatter a supply of breadcrumbs for his flock of tame sparrows that know him so well.

It will be interesting to hear what Davy has to say about his early years

“Thrown on my own resources by the death of my father a surveyor and civil engineer, who once had a lucrative business in Kingstown and Dublin, having surveyed a large portion of the Irish Capital and the whole of Kingstown, I began life at the age of six as a vendor of newspapers and periodicals. I had to support my mother and sister, an elder brother having taken to a searfaring life. He got on remarkably well, attaining the rank of captain, and subsequently becoming an owner and retiring on a competency, having become possessed of a large number of sailing craft and also of a tender in South Shields. At the time of which I speak, Kingstown was called ‘Old Dunleary,’ or ‘King O’Leary’s Fort,’ and the mail packets arrived from Holyhead at Victoria Wharf, Carlisle Pier being then in embryo. I then, as now, worked hard, and with the old-time passengers to and fro I soon became a favourite.

“I also remember when, even for ships of low tonnage, there was no quayage except at a little creek, called ‘Pig Bank,’ where the fishing fleets and smuggling boats came as close as the rock-bound coast would permit. My only experience of drinking and smoking is confined to those happy days of my early boyhood, when a pipe, or a quid of rum-steeped tobacco, with a wee drop of contraband potheen from Kerry or Clare, or cognac from Dunkerque, delighted my heart.”

One of Davy’s brothers was “master” of a large steamer which trades between Newcastle and Down. It runs in the family to supply the needs of Ireland, for only recently the relative in question arrived at Kingstown with 14,000 quarters of grain in the screw steamer which he commands.

Chapter. V.

Memories of a pleasant life.

As a raconteur Davy Stephens has few equals, and I fear none who can hold out for such a long period with a continual flow of merriment and good-humoured fun.

He recalls with a merry glance in his ever beaming eye a visit he made to Micky Free’s Theatre in Fishamble Street, “many and many a year ago,” and of how he aroused the jealousy of some of the gods by his comfortable appearance as he sat in one of the” State” boxes, and the consequent assault and battery on his person by means of a ready supply of eggs which, at that time, was what an evening paper is to the restless occupier of the Seventh Heaven

Davy remembers when the Royal St George Yacht Club boycotted some leading Dublin merchants in consequence of which Dan O’Connell, with his usual energy, secured a “stone in the sea,” on which was built the splendid house of the Royal Irish Yacht Club - which if anything excels its aristocratic rival. These were the days before the Royal Alfred and the Dublin Bay Sailing Club kept the grand clean sport of sailing before the wind of popularity.

It would not at this time be inappropriate to mention that Davy won several races in his little water-wag, the “Mary Jane.”

Davy Stephens, by his quality of always being in first, would put many a New York journalist to the blush, if one so yellow could blush. Never outdone, he welcomed the late Mr. W. E., Mrs. and Miss Gladstone On their arrival at Kingstown, and presented them with “Pat” (the Irish comic paper then engaged in blowing up the Government, but now deceased), and all the Dublin papers, Whig and Tory. -

Tom Thumb invited Davy to take a drive with him through the Phoenix Park, but the diminutive carriage was not constructed to sustain so great a weight, and it collapsed when near Knockmaroon, consequently the pigmy hero and the renowned newsman were compelled to carry the coach to Parkgate Street, where they put it on the top of an omnibus, and conveyed it to Hutton’s Coach Factory for repairs.

The circumstances of Davy’s Knighthood are most amusing. By mischance he remained too long on the outgoing boat to Holyhead and was carried away When he reached the deck (he had been disposing of his literary wares below in the* *saloon) the steamer was rounding the East Pier head and Davy, throwing his stock-in-trade abaft the binnacle, quickly divested himself of his great surtout coat and plunged into the briny. Great was the alarm of those on board and the steamer having laid to, a boat was lowered, and despite Davy’s efforts to swim to shore, he was hoisted on deck much against his will The crew having provided him with dry “duds,” he made the best of a bad job, and went down to the saloon where the Lord Lieutenant and a party were enjoying the best the ship could afford. Davy was invited to join the company, and, being teetotaller, he indulged in hop bitters and lemon squash, not so His Excellency, who, becoming very merry with frequent quaffing of “Fizz” and other sorts of dairy produce, asked Davy to favour him with a song, which the worthy newsman not alone tendered, but also delighted all present by performing his flip-flap knockabout gyration dance, which pleased his Lordship so much that he commanded Davy to kneel that he might confer the order of Knighthood on him. With great alacrity Davy responded, and in the absence of a sword, His Excellency took an umbrella from a rack near by, and having administered a sound whack across the renowned newsman’s shoulders, called out in stentorian tones, “Arise, Sir Davy!” So that there is no doubt about Davy being a real live Knight.

Davy, when at the great French exhibition, stood on the summit of the Eiffel Tower, and, not knowing the lie of his native land, asked one of the monsieurs to put him facing the land of the Shamrock, which being done, Daly apostrophised his dear land in most poetic style, and sang “Oh! Erin, my Country!” to the great delight of the hundreds assembled in mid air.

Davy remembers the late Mr. Isaac Butt, who, when Mr. Parnell stood for the County of Dublin, said to the electors: “He’s a young man, but he will do you credit.” Mr Parnell was at the time a very nervous young man, with no whiskers - in fact, quite a political stripling. His first speech, which was a dead failure,’ was delivered in the small concert room at the Rotunda in the presence of only about eighty people.

The great storm of February 1862 at Kingstown is one of Davy’s early recollections, and he tells very vividly how Captain Boyd lst his life outside the harbour, and how there was general consternation at the unparalleled violence of the gale, which did enormous damage to shipping, and was the cause of unutterable misery to those who lost their relations at sea

The great storm of November, 1916, when the Pavilion was burned down, is also, of course, in the recollection of Davy. Fearful damage was done to the two piers, and the Boyd monument, that memorial of the former terrible storm was badly damaged.

The old stock companies of the Old Royal and Queen’s were much admired by Davy. He met Sir Henry Irving and J. L. Toole when playing at the Queen’s; “Bandy” Saunders, Vivash, Agnes Markham, Mr. Burkenshaw, Mr. Tom King, Mr. and Mrs. Huntley, Mr. Rignold, Mr. Marsden, Dion Boucicault in the days of “‘The Colleen Bawn,” “Daddy” Granby, the famous stage manager, and a host of others, who exist in name only to the present generation, were well known to him.

Davy Stephens, during one of his visits to London, was the honoured guest of the late Sir Henry Irving to dinner, where he met the chief lights of the dramatic and operatic world. His irrepressible good humour was a source of much interest to those of the assembly, who had never previously met the accomplished “literary giant.” In ignorance of the real cause and origin of his ever rippling laughter, his merriment was excused by a few as the result of his indulgence in the native spirit. Explanations were quickly forthcoming that Davy was a strict nephalist, and besides, as the temperance advocate puts it, a most conscientious teetotaller, and the mirth and gaiety grew apace until the time for departure arrived, when the jovial representative of the Green Isle was toasted in a farewell glass.

When Davy was introduced to the late Dan Leno, many of those present at the ceremony said that the jester was not looking or feeling up to the mark. Possibly he had feared the advent of a rival - the discovery of a “more brilliant star in his bedecked firmament.” Certainly he gave expression to the vain wish that, if he were to begin live over again, he would desire no worse lot than to be born an Irishman and sell papers at the Kingstown pier; by this means procuring a better training by Nature’s own unerring process for his future career.

Davy is liberal enough to bestow the greatest of praise on any endeavour no matter how slight, to ameliorate the condition of his favourite township. He never tires talking of the latest addition to the many attractions of Kingstown - the Pavilion Gardens, and is lavish in his praise of those who achieved such a most magnificent success. He mentions with special pride Mr Kaye Parry Sir Thomas Robinson, the late Mr Adam Findlater, the late Sir Thomas Brown, J P and many others.

Chapter VI

Gleaning from Davy’s Harvest of Humour.

There is a story about the late Mr James McNeill Whistler that gained such currency. It is said that he accused Oscar Wilde of stealing his epigrams and “bon mots” and disposing of them as his own creations. “He dines at our tables,” Whistler remarked, “and picks from our platters the plums for the puddings he peddles in the provinces! He has the courage of the conviction of others!” And the story of the two walking together. Whistler said a smart thing, and Wilde cried how he wished he had said that. “Never mind, my friend,” said the painter, with bitter irony, “you will!”

All this goes to show that artists and other great men have to put up with plagiarisms of their friends as well as our Kingstown newsman And indeed “Sir Davy,” as we should have called him all this time, has suffered gross indignities, and has had his choicest epigrams and “Kodak picture words ” foisted about in very unenviable company.

However, Davy has still a few good things in store and better still he is evolving more in odd moments when anything strikes him. Here aye a few amusing stories from his endless budget of fun.

Mr. John Morley, when Chief Secretary for Ireland, on getting ashore one morning, spoke, as usual, to Davy.

“Good morning, Davy.”

“‘Good morning, sir.”

“Any news this morning, Davy?”’

Yes, sir; all under my arm here.”

One time, at the landing of the Duke of Edinburgh, who was a frugal soul, Davy expected to receive at least half-a-sovereign in return for his papers, but instead got 3d. An old lady was standing near, and offered Davy half-a-sovereign for what was in his hand. “Done,” said Davy, and the poor creature had “like to faint” when the exchange was effected.

“Yaw, yaw,” drawled an undecided young nincompoop, “give me - yaw, yaw.”

“Don’t keep it, sir,” said Davy, “but I’ve ‘Town Topics,’ ‘Tit-Bits, ‘Answers,’ and ‘Pearson’s,’ or here’s the ‘Daily Mirror,’ a real ha’porth of wisdom.”

The late Dr. Tanner, M.P., was one of Davy’s regular patrons, and as he was landing one evening, “How’s yourself, Doctor?” said Davy.

“Very well; and how are you, Davy? I see you haven’t had your hair cut lately.”

“‘No,” said Davy, “but I believe Mr. Balfour (then Chief Secretary for Ireland) is waiting to cut yours.”

Dr. Tanner was arrested the next day, and Davy had heard that the warrant for his arrest had been issued, which the Doctor had not, hence the point of the joke.

Party feeling, as everyone knows, runs very high in Ireland, and in your estimate of your next-door neighbour, or the gentleman who retails your bacon or candles over the counter, you generally take his political sympathies into consideration in making your purchase. Of course, there are exceptions, and in fact the contrary is the case at the present time, but the statement will hold for the story’s sake.

An old lady who used to purchase the “Christian World” and other “good” papers was trying “to pump” the inimitable Davy as to his religious and political opinions.

“Well, Davy, and what might you be?”

“A newsagent and stationer, ma’am,” was the prompt and crushing reply.

Davy made a great score some time back when the late Mr. Joseph Chamberlain was leaving, after receiving the degrees conferred on him by Trinity College. Naturally, the large crowd that watched his departure thought of him only as a great statesman, the Colonial Secretary, the first Cormmoner of England,” the man of the hour,” and other cognate titles, but the literary education of 50 years was not lost on the “denizen of the Carlisle pier,” and as Mr. Chamberlain was passing he received the strange but very welcome salutation of “Good night, Doctor, and good luck,” a specimen of Davy’s thoughtfulness that was very well received, as evidenced by the hearty handshake given.

One day Davy found himself summoned on a jury at the Four Courts in a case to be tried before the late Lord Chief Justice O’Brien, better known as “Peter the Packer,” a name Mr. Tim Healy fastened upon him when he was at the bar, because of his great handiness in selecting a jury.

Davy dashed into the Court in his usual impetuous style, “carrying all before him except the seat of his pants,” as an American gentle-man then present elegantly said.

“Me Lord, me Lord,” wailed Davy, “who is to sell me papers on the Carlisle Pier, an’ me away here handin’ out Justice. Me Lord, me Lord, I haven’t yet had a bit of breakfast today, me Lord.”

“Oh, he is excused – he is excused; he is an eccentric character,” said “Peter” with a start, as though he had been stung. The “Packer” ought, with his long experience of the selection of juries, to have been a good judge of a juror, but he failed to show it when he labelled the shrewd Kingstown man as an “eccentric.” That was Davy’s first and last appearance at the Four Courts.

Amongst the great artists who have drawn or cartooned Davy Stephens was Mr. Harry Furniss in “Punch,” reproduced, by kind permission of the proprietors of “Punch,” on page 5 of this booklet; the late Phil May in “St. Stephen’s Review”; Mr. J. F. O’Hea in “Pat,” “Zoz,” and ” Ireland’s Eye,” and the late Mr. Thomas Fitzpatrick in the “Lepracaun.”

When Lady Pole Carew was passing through Kingstown, she presented her young son to Davy for inspection and congratulations.

Davy, not to be outdone, remarked: “What a brave little man, my lady!”

“But, Davy, he is only a minor yet,” said the lady.

“Sure that’s all, my lady, for a while; but then he’ll be a Major before you know it, and a General in no time,” a reply that settled the question finally.

Davy’s visit to Paris, some few years ago, was the means of supplying him with much humorous conversation for some time past, but he does not like the Paris bourgeoisie very much. After his famous apostrophe of his native country from the heights of the Eiffel Tower, he was judged a spring poet of the new Celtic School, and this, he avers, would undoubtedly injure him morally in the eyes of all peace-loving people. The Paris “missies” he does not reckon half as dainty or good-looking as his own Irish colleens, and there’s not a view in France that he thinks comparable with the view from the Royal Marine Hotel Gardens in dear old Kingstown. As Tennyson truly says, “that man’s the best cosmopolite who loves his native country best.” -

Chapter VI.

Davy goes racing and visits London.

Davy Stephens has an Irishman’s love for a horse, and the only holidays Davy ever knows are the few days which he spends each year visiting Punchestown and the Derby.

Punchestown always sees Davy; rain or shine he is sure to get there. In all his years of recollection, he thinks the most eventful Punchestown day was in 1867, when the Prince of Wales (afterwards King Edward VII.) visited the course, an event which an Irish artist, Mr. J. F. O’Hea, preserved in his famous picture. Davy went down to the course by road, on an Irish jaunting car, and about halfway one of the wheels of the “outsider” collapsed,” and pitched Davy and his party into a ditch. When they crawled out they were not in the pink of condition, but a kindly Irishwoman took them to her thatched cottage near by, and they had a much-needed brush up and wash. The throng on the course was tremendous, and Ireland gave her future King a right royal welcome. Ah! those were happy days. The journey home was made by Davy on the top of a railway carriage, and at the stations on the way home the passengers got out to see Davy dancing an Irish jig on the roof. These were the times, but they are gone now, like the days of the Kingstown Regatta, which used to attract 30,000 people to the “premier township ” to see the sailing, the fireworks, the dancing tents, the shooting galleries, the thimble riggers, the riding ponies and what else - why, the days used to go like a flash.

Davy Stephens has seen no fewer than 42 Derbys run, and he has given his recollections of them in his own racy reminiscent way.

“I have seen a White Derby, a Black Derby, an Umbrella Derby, and a Suffragette Derby. One year I thought I’d see no Derby run. Day was nearly turned into night that time; there was a thunderstorm, and the lightning was terrific. The horses were greatly agitated and frightened - not to mention the ladies, too.

This year, on account of the war, I had to go racing at Newmarket instead of on Epsom Downs, and it was nothing to the grand old Derby days of yore.

“I have seen the great Fred Archer, Morny Cannon, G. Barrett, Danny Maher, Jones, and Wooton ride in the Derby, and I have seen Ard Patrick, Galtee More, Isinglass, Diamond Jubilee, Flying Fox, Persimmon, and Ormonde win it; but the greatest Derby I ever saw was when King Edward won with Minoru.

“Faith and sure, what a glorious time it was, with the cheers, and the tall hats, the bowler hats, the caps, and the walking sticks flying! And when his Majesty led in Minoru the people could not restrain themselves; they cheered until the very ground seemed to rock, and even the ladies in the grand stand joined in when they sang, ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.’ And, sure it was a great day for me. Lord Marcus Beresford said to me:

‘Come, Davy, I want to present you to the King.’ And so he did.

“‘Your Majesty,’ says he, ‘this is Davy, the famous Kingstown newsman,’ and the King smiled and shook hands with me. Sure, I was a proud man that day. As one noble lord remarked, ‘There were two kings shaking hands together - the King of England and the King of Irish newsmen.’

“The ‘Minoru’ Derby, ‘when King Edward won his first Derby (he was Prince of Wales when Persimmon carried off the Epsom Stakes), was a famous race. Colonel Hall Walker owned Minoru, and leased him to the King. The Colonel kindly presented me with a painting of Minoru, and this valued memento of a great horse and a great sportsman is amongst my greatest treasures. An owner who has done extraordinarily well since he came on the Turf is Colonel W. Hall-Walker. It is said that when at the Derby, about the year 1902, Mrs. Hall-Walker asked her husband how soon they would be able to breed a Derby winner at the Tully Stud, Kildare, Colonel Hall-Walker replied that the thing might be done within eight or nine years. It was a shrewd and highly conservative estimate, for the Tully-bred ‘Minorn won the Derby in 1909, but, of course, the colt was at the time leased to the King. Colonel Hall-Walker has yet to see his own pretty check jacket borne to victory in the greatest of all ‘classic’ races. He has, however, won the One Thousand twice and the Oaks once. He has headed the list of winning owners in 1905 and 1907, and altogether he must have derived a considerable amount of pleasure and profit from his participation in racing. Tully is generally acknowledged to be the premier stud in Ireland; and Davy Stephens, the Kingstown newsman, joins the great general public in thanking Colonel Ha1l-Walker, M.P., on his noble generosity in giving the sum of £100,000 to the hospitals for wounded soldiers. Col. Hall-Walker, Lord Lonsdale, the late Lord Londonderry, Lord Rosebery, Engrossing Competitions and Sir Richard Bartlett were standing by and were highly-pleased when King Edward shook hands with me after Minoru’s great win.

“But, sure how times have changed since I went to my first-Derby! Then I used to go down to Epsom in a four-in-hand coach, ‘Tally-Ho! Tally-Ho’!’ all’ the - way, and the merry gentlemen in the coaches used to wear veils over their faces, and to tie children’s dolls round their hats; while the lads and lassies used to pelt us with bags of flour from the tops of houses. It was all in the day’s fun, but you don’t have that sort of thing now-a-days.

“I remember seeing, in 1891,’ -the Derby won by Common, a horse which also gained the St. Leger and the Two Thousand Guineas that year. Sure, Common sent me home from Epsom with a light heart and a heavy pocket.

“The Derby of 1885 was a great race. Paradox, ridden by F. Webb, seemed to be winning, but suddenly Melton (Fred Archer “up”) swooped down and just won on the post by a short head. The excitement was tremendous, and Archer was a great hero.

At the ‘Umbrella Derby’ it rained as it never rained before. It was a sight - such a sea of ‘gamps’!,

“‘Take down that umbrella!’ roared the people who hadn’t any umbrellas, ‘but what came down most was the rain.

“I think the things that always struck me most on Epsom Downs, of course, excepting the Derby, were the gipsy caravans; they used to travel about the course, and the gipsys who owned and lived in them took our money and told our fortunes. I got mine told one day to the delight of the crowd. The gipsy told me I would have a long life - a mighty shrewd guess, this, of the Soothsayer, for, at the time, I had turned 71 years of age - and a very prosperous one. Perhaps she mistook me for Lord Rothschild, for I was quite in the pink - with a frock coat built by Messrs. J. H. Webb & Co., Dublin, and a beautiful black silk tie from Messrs. Morgan who; for over 100 years, have made hats for fashionable Dublin. It wasn’t for nothing that clever Mr. Edwin Hamilton, Ireland’s greatest pantomime writer, christened me ‘The Kingstown Masher.’

Sure, when Mr. ‘Boss’ Croker won the Derby with Orby it was a, great day for Ireland. All the boys had their shirts on Orby, and there were bonfires on the hills that night when he won. Now Mr. Croker has sold his Glencairn stud, and more is the pity, for his withdrawal will he a sad loss to raci4g in Ireland.

“Among those I met racing was the celebrated Irish jockey, Stephen Donohue, who has placed all the world’s greatest races to his credit. What a seat, what hands, what an ‘eye” that marvellous horseman has, to be sure. A marvel in the saddle, and a happy genial gentleman under all circumstances.”

Once the racing was over, off to the theatre. Davy took his cue to “Follow the Crowd” to the Empire, and there he got a warm welcome from Mr. Davidson and the manager, Mr. Oscar Barrett, junr. Another night it was the Coliseum, where the assistant manager, Mr. H. Pryme, made him comfortable. In one of the best seats in that grand house, and he was delighted with Mdlle, Adelina Gende’s dancing. The manager at His Majsty’s Theatre kindly put Davy in the dress, circle to see Mr. Martin Harvey playing Henry V.; then off to the Savoy to call on and shake hands with that famous actor, Mr. H. B. Irving, whose father, the great Sir Henry Irving, was Davy’s fast friend in the old days, and who gave Davy his autographed portrait as “Beckett” inscribed, “with kind wishes to Davy Stephens.”

When in London, Davy never fails to visit the House of Commons. The first time he was in the House he was talking to the late Mr. E. Dwyer Gray, M.P., then owner of the ” Freeman’s Journal,” and up came Mr. Henry Labouchere, M.P. for Northampton, and then owner of “Truth.”

“Whose your distinguished friend, Gray?”; says Mr. Labouchere.

“This is Davy Stephens from Ireland,” says Mr. Gray.

“And what are you, Mr. Stephens?” asked the Editor of “Truth.”

“Oh, I’m a newspaperman like yourself.”

“And where are you a member for Davy?” says Mr. Labouchere.

“Rotten Row, sir,” says Davy.

“Take your seat then,” says Mr. Labouchere.

Davy never boasts, as he could give a long list of the distinguished men who have secured for him admission to the Strangers’ Gallery. They represent all parties and are, or were, the foremost men in them, too.

“One day while walking along the Strand,” Davy states, “I heard my name called in a very well-known voice, and recognised the person of Mr. Frank Shorland, whom I knew so well as a champion of champions in the cycle days, and later as a well-known motorist. ‘And how are you, Davy?’ was his jovial remark, and ‘would you like to come and see how we make the shells, motor cars, and ambulances for the Front?’ ‘Well, indeed, I would, for everything doing for war interests me greatly; and why not. Has not my son fought all through the Boer War.

“Well, Mr. Shorland had me shown over the works, and afterwards entertained me at a splendid lunch, where I met no fewer than 40 airmen, and you can take it from me we were all flyers. We all enjoyed the lunch. I enjoyed Mr. Shorland’s company, and the airmen’s, and I really think the airmen enjoyed my memoirs. Well, you may accept it as a fact, I didn’t exactly make them cry.”

Then, combining business and pleasure, Davy does the round of Fleet Street and other journalistic centres to visit his professional friends, who, each and all, give him a hearty welcome. The “Daily Telegraph” is his first call, and Mr. Williamson is always glad to see him; “Tit-Bits,” of which Davy sold the first copies ever seen in Ireland in those early days, when its only edition was published in Manchester, and it had no cover, is next waited upon; then to “The Golden One,” as we all call “Answers,” the bright idea of that bright Dublin boy, Mr. Alfred Harmsworth, now Lord Northcliffe; “London Opinion,” too, always a prime favourite on the Irish side of the Channel; “Pearson’s Weekly,” that old reliable, yet always new, newsy, and up-to-date. The manager of “Pearson’s” was delighted to see Davy, and gave him a card of introduction to the noble institutions for those soldiers who were rendered blind in the war. It is a truly marvellous sight to observe the blind soldiers making baskets, book-binding, and typewriting. There are about 150 employed. Sir Arthur and Lady Pearson personally look after all these wounded workers, and Davy most heartily congratulated Lady Pearson on the great work. On next to the “Daily Mirror,” which Mr. Alex. Kenealy, son of the famous “Doctor,” and Irish through and through, ran into a great success for the Harmsworths after they had almost despaired of the paper doing any good; and then on to “John Bull,” the wonderful penny pulpit from which Mr. Horatio Bottomley addresses very considerably over a million readers weekly. Davy’s visits to one of the most successful papers of the day, “Town Topics,” was recently recorded in the pages of that live and lively journal, which is at present only in its fourth year of issue, and is splendidly popular:-

“The door of our office blew open the other day, and in burst (there is no other words for the process) that human dynamo, Davy Stephens, who needs no introduction. He is the greatest newsman in the civilised world. Never a man, be he Prince or Premier, gets to Kingstown Harbour but he meets the wonderful youth of 73. Davy is all bubbling joy and rollicking laughter. He is as full of blarney as ever - he carried away an advertisement of “Town Topics” - for his new “Life” - and is the same joyous cheery soul as the man who greeted King Edward and our King on their arrival in Ireland. Davy has no politics. If you talk about the Nationalists, he talks about racing; if you open out on Ulster, he describes Minoru’s Derby and Horatio Bottomley’s “tip.”

Seventy-three is the number of Davy’s years, and for 66 he has been selling newspapers on the same spot. His son is back from Australia fighting in the trenches, and Davy is the loyalist flower that ever bloomed in lreland. Seventy-three - and he kept us bubbling’ with laughter. Good luck to the great little Irishman.”

Chapter VII.

Davy and his Friends.

Davy truly is the first man you see* *when you come to Ireland, and the last to bid you God-speed when you leave it. The circle of Davy’s acquaintances is naturally very extensive. Meeting and making friends for half a generation, it is found that towards the turn near the end of the long road he is able to number a great many sterling friends who have stood by him in his troublesome times, and for whom he cherishes a deep regard in his heart.

Davy is in Royal favour, too, and received the following telegram from their Majesties the King and Queen at their Coronation: “Buckingham Palace. To Davy Stephens, Newsman, Kingstown. Their Majesties desire me to thank you for your telegram and good wishes. - Bigge.”

Davy is also well known in the younger Royal circles, and values very much the following letter from Prince Albert:

York Cottage, Sandringham,

December 16th.

Mr. H. P. Hansell is desired by Prince Albert to thank Mr. Davy Stephens very much for the card that he has sent. His Royal Highness has heard how Mr. Stephens has revived the spirits of many weary and seasick passengers with his cheery voice, and hopes that he may be spared for many years to continue his good work.

The late Queen Victoria presented Davy with a sovereign, and he loyally has it mounted in a gold clasp ready for inspection, and which he pins to his coat on special occasions.

From his friend, Lord Charles Beresford, Davy Stephens has got a goodly supply of correspondence, and we cannot refrain from giving one or two short and very much to the point.

Dear Davy Stephens - Many thanks for congratulations on my birthday.’ I wish you every luck.

Yours faithfully,

Charles Beresford.

Dear Davy - I am much obliged for good wishes on my taking up the command of the Channel Fleet.

Yours faithfully,

Charles Beresford.

And one from the late Lord William Beresford, who also wrote to Davy two days before he died.

Dear Mr. Stephens - Thank you very much for your kind Christmas card, which both my wife and myself much appreciate. It was very good of you thinking of us.

Wishing you a merry Christmas and many new years.

Believe me,

Faithfully yours;

William Beresford.

On receipt of Davy’s congratulations on his birthday, the late Sir Henry Irving wrote:-

Dear ” Sir” Davy - Many thanks for your congratulations, which are much appreciated.

Faithfully yours,

Henry Irving

For over 60 years Davy has attended the arrival and departure of all mail steamers at Kingstown, and during that long period has supplied the newspapers and periodicals to monarchs, princes, potentates, viceroys, all grades of the aristocracy, Lord Chancellors, Prime Ministers, Commanders-in-Chief, Cardinals, Archbishops, and the ecclesiastical dignitaries of every. church and sect, prima donna, and theatrical “stars,” naval and military heroes, poets, artists, authors, dramatists, lay preachers (including Bendigo, Dick Weaver, the “Converted Collier,” and Moody and Sankey), jockeys, prize-fighters, aeronauts, tight and slack rope-walkers and dancers, “lion kings,” “march kings,” “cannon queen,” and “long” and “short drop” hangman, including Calcraft, Marwood, Binns and Berry. Davy Stephens was equally at home when addressing, on South American politics, the late ex-Emperor of Brazil (who graciously offered Davy the post of Court jester), or getting the “straight tip” from the latest fashionable jockey for any big race that may be pending;

We need not go far to seek the secret of Davy Stephens’ success. A cheery word, even from a stranger, is seldom unwelcome, and especially so when the havoc of the sea is an actuality, either in experience or anticipation. Beneath a manner which is completely deferential, there is a breeziness, a crispness of salutation, which for all its directness and ease, is as far removed from impertinence, or presumption, as is the breeze that accompanies your embarkation. Add to this a readiness in repartee, which, never inappropriate, is oftimes wit, and an utter incompetency to recognise failure, or to be disorganised by despondency, and you have drawn the outlines of, an individuality which is capital to its possessor, and interest to his public.

Amongst Davy’s friends and customers we must mention the late Queen Victoria, her great son, the late King Edward VII.; Their Most Gracious Majesties the King and Queen, Queen Alexandra, Duke of Connaught, Prince of Wales, Their Excellencies Lord and Lady Wimborne, Lord and Lady Dudley, Lord and Lady Londonderry, Lord and Lady Portarlington, Lord and Lady Powerscourt, Lord Iveagh, Lord and Lady Rossmore, Lord Charles and Lady Beresford, Lord Marcus Beresford, Lord Longford and Lady Longford, Lord and Lady Deasey, Lord and Lady Granard, Lord and Lady Northcliffe, Lord and Lady Plunkett, Lord and Lady Aberdeen, Lord and Lady Fingall, Lord and Lady Butler, Lord and Lady Bessborough, Lord Ffrench, Earl Derby and Lady Derby, the Duke and Duchess, of Manchester, the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, the Duke of Leinster, the Marquis and Marchioness of Ormonde, Lord and Lady Shaftesbury, Lord Lonsdale, Duke of Abercorn, Lord Lansdowne, Lord Castletown, the Earl of Kenmare, the Hon. Mr. Wynn, Lord Dunsany, Lord Drogheda, Lady Pole Carew, Lord Ardilaun, Duke of Devonshire, Earl Cadogan, Lord and Lady Erne, Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam, Lord and Lady Wicklow, Lord Miltown, Lord and Lady. Courtown, Lord Arthur Hill, Lord Claude Hamilton, Lord Portarlington, Earl of Pembroke, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Chief Justice Palles, Chief Justice O’Brien, Judge O’Brien, Sir John and Lady Arnott, Sir Horace Plunkett, Sir Maurice Dockrell, Sir Percy Grace, Sir Thomas Robinson, Sir Thomas Lipton, Sir John and Lady Nutting, Sir Thomas and Lady Power, the late Sir John Power, Sir Robert and Lady Matheson, Sir James and Lady Murphy, Mr. William Findlater, M.A.; Mr. Percv French, Sir Richard Bartlett; the great Irish painter, Mr. W. Orpen; Sir Beerbohm Tree (who is always glad to see Davy at his beautiful theatre in the Haymarket, to shake him by the hand, and place the best available seat in the house at his disposal); Mr. H. B. Irving, Sir Henry Robinson, the late Mr. Adam Findlater, the late Sir Talbot Power, Colonel Hall-Walker, Judge Barton, Capt. Dewhurst, Mr. Martin Harvey, Dr. Merrin, Dr. Corbett, Dr. McDermott, Dr. Monks, Dr. Roantree, Mr. Somerville, dentist; Mr. Ward, dentist; Mr. Harvey, dentist; Messrs. John and Major William Redmond, M.P.’s, and Mrs. W. Field, M.P.; Sir David Harrell, Mr. Seymour Bushe, K. C.; Mr. Cecil Harmsworth, M.P.; Mr. DuCros, Judge Barron, Judge Pim, Mr. Frank Jameson, Dr. F. F. McCabe, the late Mr. Gerald Byrne, solicitor; Mr. W. F. Dennehy, Editor of “The Irish Catholic”; Mr. T. P. O’Connor, M.P.; Mr. Horatio Bottomley, Editor of “John Bull”; the Editors of the Daily Mail,” “Daily Sketch,” “Daily Mirror,” and “Answers”; the Editors of “The Irish Times,” “Evening Mail,” “The Freeman’s Journal,” the Editor of “Tit-Bits,” Sir Arthur Pearson, Captain Newton, Captain Rogers, Sir Francis Newnes, the great aeronauts, Mr. and Mrs. John Dunville, Mr. Kavanagh, Messrs. Kelly Bros., Mr. E. Lee, Mr. M. O’Brien, Mr. Kennedy, Chairman, Kingstown U.D.C.; Dr. Brayden, Mr. Charles Eason, Mr. Crawford Hartnell, Mr. Pim, Mr. Asquith and Mrs. Asquith; Sir F. Farnham, dentist; Mr. Davidson, Manager, London Empire; Mr. Stanley Bertenshaw, of the London “Evening News”; Mr. Clement Shorter, Stephen Donoghue, the famous Irish jockey; Mr. Barney Armstrong, Empire Theatre, Dublin; the Right Hon. Mr. Duke, Chief Secretary of Ireland; William O’Brien, M.P.; Mr. Robert Siever, Editor of the Winning Post,” Mr. Simington, “Irish Time’s”; Mr. Sutton, Mr. P. La Touche, Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, Mr. Geo. Jameson, Mr. and Mrs. F. Jameson, Mr. Winston Churchill, Lord Rothermere, Sir Bryan Mahon, Joe Connors, the crack Irish jarvey, who used drive and amuse the Duke of Connaught; Mr. W Jameson, Captain and Mrs. Greer, Mr. H. Burgess, Captain Jones, the late Dr O’Donovan, Mr. A. Jones, Mr. James Hudson, Major Hewetth, Mr. Good, Mr. Williamson, “Daily Telegraph”; Mr. Quain Smith, Mr. Reddy, solicitor, and Miss Braddon, the author of ” Lady Audley’s Secret-,” whom Davy forced to purchase a copy of her own novel. When Mr. H. H. Asquith, the Prime Minister, visited Ireland after the lamentable Easter Rebellion, Davy supplied him with all the papers, and uttered the earnest hope that he woud be able, to settle the terrible business. The Prime Minister looked grave, as though the weight of the task weighed heavily on his mind, but when Davy inquired politely as to the well-being of Mrs. Asquith, the great man’s face was-wreathed in smiles, as he laughingly thanked the Kingstown newsman for his courtesy.

Davy has met, known, welcomed them all. He hails the arriving, speeds the parting guest. He now bids his reader a temporary farewell, and sincerely hopes they may both meet again.

General Index

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