Many who knew and loved Rose Kavanagh during her short life, and who still after many years cherish her memory, think that a memorial of her ought to be added to the growing Irish literature to which she was passionately devoted. Her kinsfolk have been good enough to entrust me with this pious task. The name I had chosen for this little collection of her poems was White Moss Roses, linking it with an anecdote which I can guarantee as authentic, for I have cross-examined the only survivor of the persons concerned. I mention this, because one is apt to be suspicious of the brilliant impromptus fathered upon noted wits like Sydney Smith or Father James Healy. It is of the latter of these that there is question now.