Galway was chiefly built by the Spaniards. Some descendants of the ancient families still exist, as do several very curious houses of that period. It struck me as characteristic, that in a town of forty thousand inhabitants there was not a single bookseller’s shop or circulating library to be found. The suburbs and all the villages through which we passed on our way, were of a kind which I should vainly attempt to liken to any thing ever seen before:—pigsties are palaces in comparison; and I often saw numerous groups of children (for the prolificness of the Irish people seems to keep pace with their wretchedness), naked as they came into the world, roll and paddle about with the ducks in the filthy kennels, with the greatest delight.
Athenrye, Sept. 10th: Morning.
I write to you this morning from the house of one of the sweetest women I ever saw in my life: an African too,—and as she tells me, by birth a Mademoiselle H——. ‘Que dites vous de cela?’ But more of her hereafter. You must now accompany me to the ‘race-course,’ and see the running and leaping from the beginning. It is a remarkable sight of its kind, and exactly suited to a half-savage nation. I confess that it far exceeded my expectations, and kept me in a state of intense anxiety; only one must leave pity and humanity at home, as you will see from what follows.—The race-course is an elongated circle. On the left side is the starting post; opposite to it, on the right, is the goal. Between them, at the opposite points of the circumference, are built walls of stone without mortar, five feet high and two broad. The course, two English miles in length, is run over once and a half. You see then, from my description, that the first wall must be leaped twice, the second only once in each heat. Many horses run, but none is declared winner till he has beaten the others in two heats; so that this is often repeated three, four, or even five times, if a different horse comes in a-head each time. To-day they ran four times; so that the winner, in a space of less than two hours, reckoning the intervals, ran twelve English miles at full speed and leaped the high wall twelve times!—a fatigue which it is difficult to conceive how any horse can stand. Six gentlemen in elegant jockey dresses of coloured silk jackets and caps, leather breeches and top-boots, rode the ‘race.’ I had an excellent hunter belonging to the son of my host, and could, therefore, by crossing the course, keep up perfectly well, and be present at every leap.
It is impossible not to have a favourite on such occasions. Mine, and indeed that of the public, was an extremely beautiful dark bay, called Gamecock, ridden by a gentleman in yellow,—a handsome young man of good family, and a most admirable rider.
After him the horse which pleased me the most was a dark brown mare called Rosina, ridden by a cousin of Captain B——; a bad rider, in sky blue. The third in goodness, in my opinion, Killarney, was a strong, but not very handsome horse, ridden by a young man who showed more power of endurance than perfect horsemanship: his dress was crimson. The fourth gentleman, perhaps the most skilful, though not the strongest of the riders, rode a brown horse, not remarkable in its appearance, and was dressed in brown. The other two deserve no mention, as they were ‘hors du jeu’ from the beginning: they both fell at the first leap; the one sustained a severe injury on the head, the other came off with a slight contusion, but was disabled from riding again. Gamecock, who darted off with such fury that his rider could hardly hold him in, and flew, rather than leapt, over the walls, with incredible bounds, won the first heat with ease. Immediately after him came Rosina without her rider, whom she had thrown, and took the remaining leaps of her own accord with great grace. Gamecock was now so decidedly the favourite that the bets were five to one upon him: but the result was far different from these expectations, and very tragical. After this noble animal had distanced the other two in two successive heats, and had achieved the two first leaps in the most brilliant manner, he set his foot, in the third, on a loose stone which one of the less skilful horses had pushed down as he fell, and whichit was not permitted to remove out of the course. He fell backward upon his rider with such violence that both lay motionless, when the other riders came up, took not the slightest notice of them, and accomplished the leap. After a few seconds Gamecock got up, but his rider did not recover his senses. A surgeon present soon pronounced his state to be hopeless; both his breast-bone and skull were fractured. His old father, who stood by when the accident happened, fell senseless on the ground, and his sister threw herself with heart-rending cries on the yet palpitating though unconscious body. But the general sympathy was very slight. After the poor young man had been repeatedly bled, so that he lay on the turf weltering in his blood, he was taken away, and the race began again at the appointed time as if nothing had happened.
The brown rider had been the first in the preceding heat, and hoped to win the last and decisive one. It was what the English call ‘a hard race.’ Both horses and men did their part admirably, they ran and leaped almost in rank. Killarney at last won only by a quarter of a head:—it was necessary therefore to run again. This last contest was of course the most interesting, since one of the two running must of necessity win everything. There was a great deal of betting, which at first was even. Twice did the victory appear decided, and yet at last terminated on the contrary side. At the first leap the horses were together; before they reached the second it was evident that the brown was exhausted, and Killarney gained so much upon him that he reached the second wall more than a hundred paces before him. But here, contrary to all expectations, he refused to leap, and the rider had lost all power over him. Before he could be brought to obey, the brown came up,—made his leapwell; and now putting out all his strength, was so much a-head that he seemed sure of winning. Bets were now ten to one. But the last wall was yet to cross, and this was fatal to him. The tired animal, who had exhausted his last remaining strength in fast running, tried the leap willingly enough indeed, but had no longer power to effect it; and half breaking down the wall, he rolled bleeding over and over, burying his rider under him so that it was impossible for him to rise. Killarney’s rider had in the mean time brought his refractory horse into subjection, achieved the two remaining leaps amid the cheers of the multitude, and then rode at a foot pace, perfectly at his ease and without a rival, to the goal. He was so exhausted, however, that he could scarcely speak.
In the intervals between the preceeding heats I was introduced to many ladies and gentlemen, all of whom most hospitably invited me to their houses. I however preferred following my young host, who promised to show me the fairest of the fair, if I would give myself up to his guidance, and not object to riding ten miles in the dark. On the way he told me that this lady was called Mrs ——, and was the daughter of the late Dutch governor of ——, that she had had a complaint in the lungs, and was now staying in the solitary village of Athenrye, on account of the salubrity of its air.
We did not arrive till ten; and surprised her in her little cottage (for the place is miserable) at tea.
I wish I could describe this sweet and lovely being to you in such a manner as to place her visibly before you; certain that you, like me, would love her at the first glance. But I feel that here all description falls short:—all about her is heart and soul, and that is not to be described;—she was dressed in black, with the greatest simplicity, her dress up to the neck, but fitting closely to her beautiful form. Her person is slender and extremely youthful, full of gentle grace, and yet not without animation and fire in her movements. Her complexion is of a pure and clear brown, and has the soft polish of marble. More beautiful and brilliant black eyes, or teeth of more dazzling whiteness, I never beheld. Her mouth too, with the angelic, childlike character of her smile, is enchanting.
Her refined unaffected good-breeding, the sportive graces of her gay and witty conversation, were of that rare sort which are innate, and must therefore please, whether in Paris or in Pekin, in town or country. The greatest experience of society could not give more ease or address, and no girl of fifteen could blush more sweetly, or jest more joyously. And yet her life had been the most simple and uniform, and her youth was rather the unfading spring of the soul than that of the body; for she was mother of four children, near thirty, and but just recovered from an attack on the lungs which had threatened to prove fatal. But the fire of all her movements, the lightning-flashes of her conversation, had all the freshness and all the power of youth, imparting a resistless charm to the gentleness of her nature. One felt that this was the child of a warmer and kindlier sun, of a more luxuriant soil, than are to be found in our misty climes. And indeed she felt the most melancholy longings after her native land, and a painful expression passed over all her lovely features as she said, she should never more breathe that balmy air charged with sweet odours. I was too much absorbed in looking at her to think of food, had she not, with all the kind activity of a good housewife, made preparations for entertaining us as well as she couldin her little cabin. A table was set in the room in which we sat; so that our frugal meal caused no interruption to the conversation, and it was long after midnight ere we separated.
It was not till I was in bed that I learned that, finding it impossible to get us beds in a place consisting of only a few cabins, this kind-hearted and unceremonious woman had quitted her own for me, and gone to sleep with her eldest daughter.
Concerning her family, whose name was necessarily so striking to me, Mrs —— herself could tell me but little. She had married Mr ——, then a captain in the British army, in her twelfth year: immediately afterwards she lost her father, and embarked with her husband for Ireland, which she has never left. She had heard, indeed that she had relations in Germany, but never corresponded with them. Three years ago she received a business letter from a cousin in A——, announcing that her father’s brother had died and had left her heir to his whole property. The indifference of this African child of nature went so far, that she had not only up to the present time left this letter unanswered, but, as she told me, had never been able to decypher the whole of it, as it was written in Dutch, and she had almost entirely forgotten the language. “I don’t know the man,” added she innocently, “and the money affairs I left to my husband.”
This bathing-place, Athenrye, is also one of the curiosities of Ireland. From what I have already said, you will conclude that no Polish village can have a more wretched aspect. The cluster of cabins is on a bare hill rising out of the bog, without tree or bush, without an inn, without any convenience, inhabited only by ragged beggars, and by the few invalids who bring with them everything they want, and must send for even the most trifling article of food to Galway, a distance of twelve miles. Once it was otherwise; and it saddens one to see at the further extremity of this wretched village the proud ruins of better times. Here stood a rich abbey, now overgrown with ivy: the arches which once protected the sanctuary lie in fragments amid the unsheltered altars and tombstones. Further on is a castle, with walls ten feet thick, in which King John held his court of justice when he came over to Ireland.
I visited these ruins with a most numerous company: I do not exaggerate when I say that at least two hundred half-naked beings, two-thirds of whom were children, had collected round my carriage at a very early hour in the morning, doing nothing: they now thronged round me, all begging, and shouting, “Long life to your honour!” Every individual among them stuck faithfully by me, leaping over stones and brambles. The strangest compliment now and then resounded from the midst of the crowd: at last some called out, “Long life to the King!” On my return I threw two or three handfuls of copper among them; and in a minute half of them, old and young, lay prostrate in the sand, while the others ran with all speed into a whiskey-shop, fighting furiously all the way.
Such is Ireland! Neglected or oppressed by the government, debased by the stupid intolerance of the English priesthood, and marked by poverty and the poison of whiskey, for the abode of naked beggars!—I have already mentioned that even among the educated classes of this province, the ignorance appears, with our notions of education, perfectly unequalled: I will only give you one or two examples. To-day something was said about magnetism, and no onepresent had ever heard the slightest mention of it. Nay, in B——m, in a company of twenty persons, nobody knew that such places as Carlsbad and Prague existed. The information that they were situated in Bohemia did not mend the matter:—Bohemia was not less unknown; and in short, everything out of Great Britain and Paris was a country in the moon.[129]“And where do you come from?” asked one. “From Brobdignag,” said I in jest. “O! is that on the sea? Have they whiskey there?” asked another. The son of my host, whom I have repeatedly mentioned, asked me one day very seriously as we met some asses, whether there were any such animals in my country? “Ah! but too many,” replied I.
B——m, Sept. 12th.
Yesterday we returned home, tearing ourselves away from the lovely African, who however had promised soon to follow us. To-day I took advantage of a leisure day to ride to Castle Hackett, a solitary hill in the neighbourhood, believed by the people to be a favourite resort of the fairies, or ‘good people’ as they call them. No nation is more poetical, or more richly endowed with fancy. An old man who has the care of the woods of Castle Hackett, and has the reputation of knowing more than other men about the ‘good people,’ told us these circumstances connected with the death of his son, in the style of a romance.
“I knew it,” said he, “four days before—I knew he would die; for as I was going home that evening about twilight, I saw them scouring in a wild chase over the plain: their red dresses fluttered in the wind; and the lakes turned to ice as they came near, and walls and trees bowed themselves to the earth before them; and they rode over the tops of the thicket as if it were over the green grass. In front rode the queen, on a white stag-like horse; and by her I saw, with a shudder, my son, whom she smiled upon and caressed; while he, with a fevered eye, looked wistfully at her, till all were past Castle Hackett. Then I knew it was all over with him;—that same day he took to his bed;—on the third I carried him to the grave. There was not a handsomer or a better lad in Connemara, and it was for that the queen chose him.”
The old man seemed so firmly and unaffectedly convinced of the truth of his story, that it would only have offended him to express the least doubt of it. He replied to our inquiries for further details with great readiness, and I promise myself the pleasure of giving you the most accurate description of the dress of the fairy queen for your next masked ball. At the foot of this hill is a pretty country-seat; and the hill itself is covered to its summit with young and thriving plantations. On the top is a sort of artificial ruin, made of loose stones piled together,—laborious and almost dangerous to climb. The view from it is, however, worth the exertion. On two sides the eye wanders over the almost immeasurable plain; on the other two lies Lough Corrib, a lake thirty miles in length, behind which are the mountains of Clare; and in still remoter distance the romantic ridge of Connemara. The lake just at its middle bends inland like a river, and its waters gradually lose themselves between the lofty mountains, which seem to form a gateway for their entrance. Just at this point the sun set; and Nature, who often rewards my love for her, displayed one of her most wondrous spectacles. Black clouds hung over the mountains, and the whole heavenswere overcast. Only just at the point where the sun looked out from beneath the dusky veil, issued a stream of light which filled the whole ravine with a sort of unearthly splendour. The lake glittered beneath it like molten brass; while the mountains had a transparent, steel-blue lustre, like the gleam of diamonds. Single streaks of rose-coloured cloud passed slowly across this illumined picture over the mountains; while on both sides of the opened heavens, distant rain fell in torrents, and formed a curtain which shut out every glimpse of the remaining world. Such is the magnificence which Nature has reserved for herself alone, and which even Claude’s pencil could never imitate.
On our way home my young friend discoursed largely on the perfections of Mrs L——. Among other things, he said, “Never with all her vivacity did I see, even for an instant, the least trace of impatience or ill-humour about her; never had a woman a sweeter temper.” This word is, like ‘gentle,’ untranslatable. Only the nation which invented ‘comfort’ was capable of conceiving ‘good temper,’ for ‘good temper’ is to the moral what ‘comfort’ is to the physical man. It is the most contented, the mostcomfortablestate of the soul: the greatest happiness both for those who possess it, and for those who feel its influence. Perhaps it is found in perfection in woman alone; for it is rather a passive than an active quality: and yet we must by no means confound it with mere apathy, which is either tedious, or exasperates one’s anger and contempt; whereas ‘good temper’ soothes and tranquillizes all who approach it. It is a truly kind, loving and cheerful principle; mild and balmy as a cloudless Mayday. With ‘gentleness’ in his own character, ‘comfort’ in his house, and ‘good temper’ in his wife, the earthly felicity of man is complete. ‘Good temper,’ in the highest sense, is doubtless one of the rarest qualities;—the consequence of an absolute harmony, or equilibrium of the moral powers,—the most perfecthealth of the soul. Great and striking single qualities cannot therefore be combined with it; for wherever one quality is predominant, the equilibrium is destroyed. It is possible to be most captivating, to inspire passionate love, admiration or esteem, without ‘good temper;’—to beperfectlyand lastingly amiable without it, it is impossible. The contemplation of harmony in all things has a salutary effect on the mind; often unconscious of the cause, the soul is gladdened and refreshed by it, whatever be the sense through which it is communicated. A person therefore who is gifted with ‘good temper,’ affords us continual enjoyment, without ever awakening our envy, or exciting any vehement emotion. We gain strength from his tranquillity, courage from his cheerfulness, comfort from his resignation; we feel our anger vanish before his loving patience, and are finally the better and the happier for listening to the spiritual music of his harmony.
How many words, you will say, to describe one! And yet, dear Julia, I have very imperfectly expressed what ‘good temper’ is.
September 13th.
The beautiful view of yesterday evening enticed me to take a nearer survey of what I had beheld at a distance. My obliging friend speedily fitted out an equipage for this purpose, a little ‘char à banc,’ which was drawn by two horses ‘tandem’ (one horse before another). We determined to visit Lake Corrib, Cong and its caverns, and to return in the night. After four hours smart trotting, andsome little accidents to our frail tackle, we reached Cong, at a distance of twenty miles, where we ate a breakfast we had brought with us, of lobster prepared after the Irish fashion.[130]Knives and forks were not to be had, so that we adopted the Chinese mode of eating. We then set out to the caverns, accompanied as usual by a half-nakedcortège.
Every one of them was on the watch to do us some service: if I stooped to pick up a stone, ten or a dozen scrambled for it, and then asked for money; if there was a gate to open, twenty rushed to it, and expected a like reward. After I had given away all my small money, came one who affirmed that he had shown me some trifle or other. I unwillingly refused him, and told him my purse was empty. “Oh,” said he, “a gentleman’s purse can never be empty!”—no bad answer; for under the form of a compliment lurks a sort of reproach. “You look too much like a ‘gentleman’ not to have money, but if you are so ungenerous as not to give any, you are not a true gentleman; and, if you really have none, still less are you one.” The crowd felt this, and laughed till I bought my deliverance from him.
But to return to the ‘Pigeon-hole.’ It lies in the middle of a field, bare, and treeless, which, although flat, is covered with masses of limestone of a peculiar form, between which the scanty soil is with difficulty cultivated. These pieces of rock are as smooth as if polished by art, and look like stones regularly piled and half prepared for some colossal building. In this rocky plain, at about half a mile from Lough Corrib, is the entrance of the cave, like a broad dark well, in which thirty or forty steps, roughly hewn in the rock, lead down to the stream, which here flows subterraneously, making its way through long and romantic arches, till at length it rises into day, and turns a mill. It then buries itself a second time in the earth, and at length appears again as a broad, deep, and crystal river, and thus flows on till it falls into the lake.
Not far from the cave before which we were now standing lives a ‘Donna del Lago’ who pays the lord of the soil four pounds a-year for the privilege of showing the ‘Pigeon-hole’ to strangers. She was admirably fitted for the porteress of such an entrance to the nether world, and indeed the whole scene could not be better ‘in character,’ as the English say. We had descended the steps in the dark, and heard the rush of invisible waters, when the gigantic, haggard old woman, with a scarlet cloak loosely thrown around her, long streaming white hair, and a firebrand in each hand, came down—the living original of Meg Merrilies. It was a wild scene! Her flickering torches threw fitful gleams on the rolling water, and the lofty vaulted roof bristling with stalactites; and now and then brought out the pale and squalid figures behind her with a broad red glare. She took some bundles of straw, and with words which sounded like an incantation, lighted them and threw them blazing into the stream. As they floated rapidly away, they disclosed new grottoes, more grotesque forms, and at length, after a hundred windings, disappeared in the distance like small tapers. We followed them, scrambling over the slippery stones as far as we could, and discovered here and there a trout in the ice-cold water. They have this peculiarity, that whatever bait may be offered them, no attempt to catch one has ever succeeded. The people of course think them enchanted.
On emerging from the darkness to the spot where daylight breaks faintly, as down a shaft, you see the ivy and creeping plants hangaround the rocks in the most picturesque festoons and garlands. Here flocks of wild pigeons roost, whence the cave has its name. The popular superstition permits no sportsmen to molest them in this spot, so that they are fearless as in a dove-cote.
We quitted this gloomy region, where all is close and oppressive, and wandered down to the broad sea-like lake, where all seems to lose itself in boundless space. This majestic body of water fills a basin of twelve German miles long, and at its widest point, three broad. It contains just as many islands as the year days; at least so the natives assert,—I did not count them. It is bounded on two sides by the high mountains of Connemara; on the others its waters are nearly level with the plain: the approach to it opposite to the mountains was, therefore, more beautiful than the return. The navigation of this lake is very dangerous from its numerous rocks and islands, and the sudden squalls which often arise upon it. We saw in a newspaper a short time ago, that a boat, having on board a butcher and his sheep, had gone down, and man and beast perished. We had a very calm, though not a bright day. When we landed, my companion went before to give some orders; while as the sun was setting, I visited the ruins of an abbey, which contained some striking remains of architectural and sculptural beauty.
Ireland is studded with ruins of old castles and monasteries more thickly than any country in Europe, though they do not present such enormous masses as those in England. Theseoldruins (for unfortunately even here are many new ones) are constantly used by the people as places of burial,—a poetical idea, peculiar, I believe, to this nation. As there are none of those tasteless modern monuments which deform English churches, and the grave is marked only by a mound of earth, or at most a flat stone, the touching picture of human frailty is enhanced, not impaired, by this custom. The impression is, however, sometimes heightened into horror by the little heed paid by those who dig the graves to the earlier buried, whose skeletons are thrown out without ceremony as soon as there is a want of room. The ruins are consequently filled with heaps of skulls and bones thrown confusedly together, and sometimes placed in pyramids or other forms by children at play. I climbed over a heap of mingled stones and bones, and crawled up into a ruinous chamber of the first story, where I feasted myself on the strange romantic picture. On my left the wall had fallen in, and opened to the eye the beautiful landscape which surrounds the lake, with its bright-green foreground, the mountains in the distance, and on one side the house and the high trees in the park of the Macnamaras, who reside here. Before me was a window in good preservation, surrounded with carvings like ‘point d’Alençon;’ above it hung large bunches of deep purple blackberries pendant from their luxuriant branches, which crept in one continuous mass along the open wall. On the right, where the wall of the chamber remained perfect, was a low niche, which no doubt formerly contained a saint, but was now occupied by a skull; the empty eye-sockets were directed exactly towards the beautiful landscape spread before it, as if its brilliancy and freshness had power to gladden even death itself. Following the same direction, I discovered a grated window just above the ground, which I had till then overlooked: it gave light to a spacious cellar, in which I descried a vast heap of bones, all arranged in the way I have mentioned, in various forms. The sunny landscape above, the dark charnel-house below,in which childhood sported with death,—it was a glance at once into life and the grave,—the joys of the one, and the unsympathizing calm of the other; while the rays of the setting sun threw a cheering glow over the living and dead, like messengers from a fairer world.
Our return in a dark night, with incessant rain, was fatiguing and unpleasant; we broke several springs of our carriage, and had all sorts of calamities to endure. We arrived at B—— after midnight, and to my real dismay found the good old Captain and the whole family still up, and waiting supper for us. The prodigal attentions and the infinite kindness of these excellent people daily put me to shame, and I continually admire to see that their cordial hospitality is not deformed by the slightest trace of ostentation.
That my letter may not be too large, and cost too much postage, (for I have to pay some pounds sterling to the English post-office for my voluminous packets,) I close it before I leave B——m. You will know me safe and well up to this point, and in the care of people whose hearts are like your own, however inferior to you they may be in mind and cultivation.—Heaven bless and preserve you.
Your most faithful L.——.
B——m Sept 14th, 1828.
Beloved Friend,
Your sermon is excellent; your reasons are unanswerable;—but I happen to believe the contrary; and belief is, as you know, a thing which not only removes mountains, but often builds up such as it is impossible to see over. No conversion can consequently be effectual, be the subject what it may, till the opposite belief has already begun to totter. Till that point is reached, though you speak with the wisdom of Plato, and act with the purity of Jesus, every man will retain his belief, on which reason and good sense have ordinarily little influence. He who wishes to produce any sudden change in the minds of men before they are already disposed to it, will either be confined as a madman, or stoned and crucified as a martyr. History teaches us this in every page. What is applicable universally, is also applicable individually,—and now, ‘parlez-moi raison si vous l’osez.’—But, seriously speaking, a man who has the misfortune to be born with a too independent spirit, and who cares little for common opinion, merely because it is common, should remain unchanged all his life. The consequences of such a turn of mind, and the hostilities it excites, becomes painful, and at length dangerous, only when he grows weak and ceases to be self-sustained; when instead of despising, as before, the opinions of others, he begins to fear them. The multitude are quick to perceive the change, and instantly begin a steady and vigorous pursuit of the game which flees before them, and which, so long as it stood at bay and looked them boldly in the face, they dared not openly attack. For getting on in the world, there is no better maxim than this, ‘Bouche riante, et front d’airain, et vous passez par tout.’ We Germans are almost always too earnest as well as too timid, and are capable of only momentary struggles against these defects, which, like all such attempts, generally overshoot the mark. This makes us so fond of retirement and of converse with our own fancy,—our best and faithfullest companion;—we are sovereign lords of the regions of air, as Madame de Staëlsays. The world, as it is, does not please us, and we are just as little fitted to please the world. Retirement, and with it freedom, are therefore what we love best.
We have had a strange accomplishment of a prophecy.—Miss Kitty, one of my host’s daughters, and a very nice girl, had her fortune told yesterday by gipseys. I was by, and heard the woman say to her, among many common-place predictions, “Be upon your guard; for a shot will be fired in at your window, and your stay in B—— will not be long after that.” We thought the prediction rather serious, and communicated it to the family on our return, but were only laughed at. The next morning early, we were all alarmed by the firing of two shots; Miss Kitty rushed down stairs half dressed, and nearly fainting from terror; and every one in the house ran to see what was the matter. We found that two of Kitty’s younger brothers, who had been on a visit to Mrs. M——, had returned quite unexpectedly to fetch their sister, had played the silly trick of firing their fowling-pieces up at her window, and had done it so awkwardly that they had broken it. They were soundly rated, and then drove off with Miss Kitty; so that everything happened precisely as the old woman,—Heaven only knows how!—had seen in the lines of her hand.
September 15th.
I was a little hypochondriacal and dull yesterday, but to-day I am better in health, and consequently full of philanthropical sentiments,—virtuous, ‘faute d’occasion de pêcher,’ and merry, because I can laugh at myself ‘faute de trouver quelque chose de plus ridicule.’
Meanwhile the scene here has altered. The fair African is arrived, and we immediately set out, ten in number, on a ride; in the course of which the old Captain showed us his bog cultivation and his draining with all the ardour of a young man. He was as much enchanted by a field of potatoes as I by my fair companion. Pointing to a good crop, he cried out with enthusiasm, “Is not that a magnificent sight?” it certainly never came into his head that we could be thinking of other things, and that we assented only out of civility. I found some peasants for my plan of colonization; they were all eager to go, but unfortunately had not a penny in the world in furtherance of such a scheme. One runs no risk in promising them that they will find everything better than they have here, where a man must subsist from half an acre of land; and if he be ever so willing to seek work abroad, cannot find it. Those of them who are best off live in dwellings which our peasants would think too bad for their cows or horses. I visited one of these cabins and found the walls built of rude blocks of stone, with moss stuffed into the interstices, and a roof covered partly with straw, partly with turf. The floor consisted of the bare earth; there was no ceiling, and the roof admitted the light in many places. Chimneys seem to be esteemed a useless luxury. The smoke ascended from the open hearth, and found its way through the holes, which served as windows. A lower shed on the right was the bed-room of the whole family; a similar one on the left, the habitation of the pig and the cow. The house stood in the middle of a field, without garden, and utterly bare, and this they all called anexcellenthouse.
When we got home our pretty visitor’s hands were nearly frozen, even at this season. They were perfectly white and insensible, and were rubbed a quarter of an hour before the blood and life returned to them. ‘C’est le sang Africain.’ She is in perfect comfort onlywhen seated close to a glowing turf fire, which would scorch any body else; then she recovers her child-like freedom and sportiveness, which sometimes carries even me away with it.
September 17th.
To-day Mr L—— came to visit us. How strangely are the good things of this world distributed! * * *
He is a furious Orangeman: it was to be expected that such a character as his would range itself on the side of injustice, and delight in party rage. But on what principles! As this is a specimen of the height to which the spirit of party has reached, and the shamelessness with which it dares to avow itself, I will give you the quintessence of his conversation.
“I have served my king for nearly thirty years in almost every part of the world, and want rest. Nevertheless, it is my most ardent wish, which I daily pray God to grant, that I may live to see a ‘good sound rebellion’ in Ireland. If I were called out to serve again, or if I were to lay down my life the very day it broke out, I should make the sacrifice willingly, could I but be sure that the blood of five millions of Catholics would flow at the same time with my own. Rebellion!—that’s the point at which I want to see them, at which I wait for them, and to which they must be led on, that we may make an end of them at once; for there can be no peace in Ireland till the whole race is exterminated, and nothing but an open rebellion, and an English army to put it down, can effect this!”—Would it not be right to confine such a wicked madman for life, dear Julia, and give his sweet wife to some one more worthy of her? The youthful and uncorrupted hearts of the sons of my host were roused as much as my own: they manfully combatted these diabolical principles; but this exasperated the maniac Orangeman still more, till at length all were silent. Several had early dropped off from table to escape from such revolting conversation.
September 18th.
Mr L——’s visit fortunately lasted only a few days, and we are once more alone. We took advantage of our recovered freedom to make an excursion of twenty miles to Mount B——, the beautiful residence of a nobleman, and did not get back till late at night. The park at Mount B—— affords a perfect study for the judicious distribution of masses of water, to which it is so difficult to give the character of grandeur and simplicity that ought always to belong to them. It is necessary to study the forms of nature for the details; but the principal thing is never to suffer an expanse of water to be completely overlooked, or seen in its whole extent. It should break on the eye gradually, and if possible lose itself at several points at the same time, in order to give full play to the fancy,—the true art in all landscape gardening. The lord of the demesne, who is rich, possesses a numerous collection of pictures, some of which are excellent. There is a winter landscape of Ruysdaal’s, the only one of its kind which I remember to have seen by that master. The character of the cold foggy air, and the crisp frozen snow, are so perfectly given, that I almost shivered before it; I felt at least that the flickering blaze in the fire-place beneath had a double charm. A fine and undoubted Rubens, the ‘Miraculous Draught of Fishes,’ is chiefly remarkable for a strange singularity. St Peter has a scarlet wig, and yet the general expression of the picture is not injured. Ithas the effect of a glory, and seems to shed light around. I should think it was a trial of skill, perhaps undertaken by the painter in consequence of some jest, ‘pour prouver la difficulté vaincue.’ A very laborious landscape on wood, by an unknown hand, was formerly in the private collection of Charles I., whose cipher and name, with the crown above, are branded on the back. The gem of the collection appeared to me a picture of Rembrandt’s, supposed to be the portrait of an Asiatic Jew; it is, at any rate, the ideal of one. The reality of the eyes and their blighting look is almost terrific; the dark and sinister, yet sublime expression of the whole is increased by the inky blackness of the rest of the picture, out of which the fiery eyes and satanic mouth look as if peeping forth frightfully from the midst of Egyptian night.
After breakfast several hunters and racers were brought out, and we exhibited our feats of horsemanship to the ladies. The hunters of this country are not, perhaps, quite so swift as the best English ones, but they are unequalled at leaping, to which they are trained from their youth. They go up to a wall with the most perfect composure, and mount it with their fore and hind feet like a dog. If there is a ditch on the other side, they leap that also by giving themselves a fresh ‘élan’ on the top of the wall. The less the rider attempts to help a well trained horse the better. If he keeps a steady light rein upon him he may safely leave him to himself.
I don’t know whether these details of horsemanship are very interesting to you, but as my letters are at the same time my journal (for how should I find time to keep any other?) you must be so kind as to receive with indulgence whatever has any interest, not only for you, but for myself.
Galway, Sept. 19th, Evening.
You know that my determinations are often of a very sudden nature,—my pistol-shots, as you used to call them. I have just discharged one. You may think that I did not quit such cordial friends without great regret, but I had resolved to go, and adhered steadily to my resolution. To avoid the delay of sending for post-horses, I rode with James for the last time on ‘Doctor,’ his admirable hunter, to Tuam, leaving all needful arrangements to my servant. I intended to leave Tuam by the mail, but it was not its day for going, and no species of conveyance to Galway was to be had, except the little two-wheeled cart of the man who carries the letter-bags, in which there is room for two passengers. I did not deliberate long, but giving James a last shake by the hand, sprang into this frail vehicle, and ‘clopin-clopant,’ away rattled the old horse with us through the streets. The other passenger was a fine athletic young man, well dressed, with whom I soon got into an interesting conversation on the beauties and wonders of his country, and the character of his countrymen. He was not long without affording me a fresh proof of the hearty kindness and civility of the latter. I was very lightly dressed, and heated with riding, so that I suffered from the cold wind. I offered the driver some money to surrender his cloak to me: on a nearer view, however, this appeared so fearfully dirty and disgusting, that I could not bring myself to put it on. The young man immediately took off a magnificent great-coat of vast dimensions, and almost forced me to take it, protesting that he never caught cold, that he could sleep in the water without taking any harm, and that he had put on the great-coat only because he did notknow what to do with it. This friendly act of his made us more quickly acquainted than we should otherwise have been; and the time passed away, amid all sorts of talk, much more rapidly than I had ventured to hope; for the distance was six German miles, the road very rough, the equipage as bad as possible, the seat uneasy, the country monotonous and dreary. Not a hill, not a tree to be seen; only a network of walls drawn over the whole surface. Every field is enclosed within walls of loose stones without mortar, but so well constructed, that unless violently shaken they stand very firm. Many ruins of castles were visible, but in such a flat, desert plain, without one bush or bough to break it, they produced no romantic effect.
We found the ragged potatoe-eating people everywhere gay and joyous. They always beg, to be sure, but they beg laughing, with wit, humour, and the drollest expressions, without importunity, and without ‘rancune’ if they get nothing. Most striking, amid such singular poverty, is the no less singular honesty of these people; perhaps, however, the one arises out of the other, for luxury makes us covetous, and the poor man can often bear the privation of necessaries more easily than the rich of superfluities.
We saw a number of labourers sitting by the road-side on heaps of stone, which they were breaking. My companion said, “Those are conquerors; their whole business is to break in pieces and destroy, and they rise on the ruins they make.” Meanwhile our driver blew his horn to announce the post, for which, as with us, everything must make way: the tone, however, came forth with such difficulty and sounded so piteously, that we all laughed. A pretty boy, of about twelve, looking like a personification of happiness and joy, though half naked, was sitting on a heap of stones, hammering. He shouted with mischievous glee, and called out to the angry driver, “Oh ho, friend! your trumpet has caught cold; it is as hoarse as my old grandmother: cure it directly with a glass of potheen, or it will die of a consumption before you reach Galway!” A loud laugh from all the labourers followed as chorus. “There,” said my companion, “there you see our people,—starvation and laughter,—that is their lot. Would you believe that, from the number of labourers and the scarcity of labour, not one of these men earns enough to buy sufficient food; and yet every one of them will spare something to his priest: and if you go into his cabin, will give you half of his last potatoe and a joke into the bargain.”
We now approached the Galway mountains, over which the sun was setting magnificently. This is a spectacle which I can never behold unmoved; it always enchants me, and leaves a feeling of calm and security, arising from the certainty that this language, which God himself speaks to us, cannot lie, though human revelations be but piece-meal, differently understood by every different interpreter, and often abused to the purposes of cunning and selfishness.
We alighted at the same inn at which I had been during the races; and to make some return for my young friend’s civility, I invited him to sup with me. It was late when we separated,—probably forever; but such acquaintanceships I like; they leave no time for dissembling: ignorant of each other’s social relations, each values in the other onlythe man. Whatever each obtains from the other of kind feeling or good opinion, he owes to himself alone.
Sept. 20th, Morning.
I had hoped my carriage would have arrived during the night, but it is not yet come; and I therefore employed my leisure in taking a more perfect survey of this ancient city. I was greatly assisted by some fragments of an old Chronicle, which I accidentally picked up in a grocer’s shop, where I made some inquiries. In an obscure corner of the town stands a house of extreme antiquity, over the door of which are still to be seen a skull and cross-bones, remarkably well sculptured, in black marble. This house is called “The Cross-bones,” and its tragical history is as follows.
In the fifteenth century, James Lynch, a man of old family and great wealth, was chosen mayor of Galway for life;—an office which was then nearly equal to that of a sovereign in power and influence. He was reverenced for his inflexible rectitude, and loved for his condescension and mildness. But yet more beloved,—the idol of the citizens and their fair wives,—was his son, according to the Chronicle, one of the most distinguished young men of his time. To perfect manly beauty and the most noble air, he united that cheerful temper, that considerate familiarity, which subdues while it seems to flatter,—that attaching grace of manner, which conquers all hearts without an effort, by its mere natural charm. On the other hand, his oft-proved patriotism, his high-hearted generosity, his romantic courage, and complete mastery in all warlike exercises, forming part of an education singular in his age and country, secured to him the permanency of an esteem which his first aspect involuntarily bespoke.
So much light was not without shadow. Deep and burning passions, a haughty temper, jealousy of all rival merit, rendered all his fine qualities only so many sources of danger to himself and others. Often had his stern father, although proud of such a son, cause for bitter reproof, and for yet more anxious solicitude about the future. But even he could not resist the sweetness of the youth,—as quick to repent as to err, and who never for a moment failed in love and reverence to himself. After his first displeasure was past, the defects of his son appeared to him as they did to all others, only spots on the sun. He was soon still further tranquillized by the vehement and tender attachment which the young man appeared to have conceived for Anna Blake, the daughter of his best friend, and a girl possessing every lovely and attaching quality. He looked forward to their union as the fulfilment of all his wishes. But fate had willed it otherwise.
While young Lynch found more difficulty in conquering the heart of the present object of his love than he had ever experienced before, his father was called by business to Cadiz;—for the great men of Galway, like the other inhabitants of considerable sea-ports in the middle ages, held trade on a large scale to be an employment nowise unworthy even men of noble birth. Galway was at that time so powerful and so widely known, that, as the Chronicle relates, an Arab merchant, who had long traded to these coasts from the East, once inquired “in what part of Galway Ireland lay?”
After James Lynch had delegated his authority to trusty hands, and prepared every thing for a distant journey, with an overflowing heart he blessed his son, wished him the best issue to his suit, and sailed for his destination. Wherever he went, success crowned his undertakings. For this he was much indebted to the friendly services of a Spanish merchant named Gomez, towards whom his noble heart conceived the liveliest gratitude.
It happened that Gomez also had an only son, who, like Edward Lynch, was the idol of his family, and the darling of his native city, though in character, as well as in external appearance, entirely different from him. Both were handsome; but Edward’s was the beauty of the haughty and breathing Apollo; Gonsalvo’s of the serene and mild St. John. The one appeared like a rock crowned with flowers; the other like a fragrant rose-covered knoll, threatened by the storm. The Pagan virtues adorned the one; Christian gentleness and humility the other. Gonsalvo’s graceful person exhibited more softness than energy; his languid dark blue eyes, more tenderness and love than boldness and pride; a soft melancholy overshadowed his countenance, and an air of voluptuous suffering quivered about his smiling lips, around which a timid smile rarely played, like a gentle wave gliding over pearls and coral. His mind corresponded to such a person: loving and endearing, of a grave and melancholy serenity, of more internal than external activity, he preferred solitude to the bustle and tumult of society, but attached himself with the strongest affection to those who treated him with kindness and friendship. His inmost heart was thus warmed by a fire, which, like that of a volcano buried too deep to break out at the surface, is only seen in the increased fertility of the soil above, which it clothes in the softest green, and decks with the brightest flowers. Thus captivating, and easily captivated, was it a wonder if he stole the palm even out of the hand of Edward Lynch? But Edward’s father had no such anticipations. Full of gratitude to his friend, and of affection for his engaging son, he determined to propose to the old Gomez a marriage between Gonsalvo and his daughter. The offer was too flattering to be refused. The fathers were soon agreed; and it was decided that Gonsalvo should accompany his future father-in-law to the coast of Ireland, and if the inclinations of the young people favoured the project, their union should take place at the same time with Edward’s, after which they should immediately return to Spain. Gonsalvo, who was just nineteen, accompanied the revered friend of his father with joy. His young romantic spirit enjoyed in silent and delighted anticipation the varying scenes of strange lands which he was about to see; the wonders of the deep which he would contemplate; the new sort of existence of unknown people with whom he was to be connected; and his warm heart already attached itself to the girl, of whose charms her father gave him, perhaps, a too partial description.
Every moment of the long voyage, which at that time abounded with dangers and required a much longer period than now, increased the intimacy and mutual attachment of the travellers: and when at length they descried the port of Galway, the old Lynch congratulated himself not only on the second son which God had sent him, but on the beneficial influence which the unvarying gentleness of the youth would have on Edward’s darker and more vehement character.
This hope appeared likely to be completely fulfilled. Edward, who found all in Gomez that was wanting in himself, felt his own nature as it were completed by his society; and as he had already learned from his father that he was to regard him as a brother, their friendship soon ripened into the warmest and most sincere affection.
But not many months had passed before some uneasy feelings arose in Edward’s mind to trouble this harmony. Gonsalvo had become the husband of his sister, but had deferred his return to Spainfor an indefinite time. He was become the object of general admiration, attention, and love. Edward felt that he was less happy than formerly. For the first time in his life neglected, he could not conceal from himself that he had found a successful rival of his former universal and uncontested popularity. But what shook him most fearfully, what wounded his heart no less than his pride, what prepared for him intolerable and restless torments, was the perception, which every day confirmed, that Anna, whom he looked upon ashis,—though she still refused to confess her love,—thathisAnna had ever since the arrival of the handsome stranger grown colder and colder towards himself. Nay, he even imagined that in unguarded moments he had seen her speaking eyes rest, as if weighed down with heavy thoughts, on the soft and beautiful features of Gomez, and a faint blush then pass over her pale cheek; but if his eye met hers, this soft bloom suddenly become the burning glow of fever. Yes, he could not doubt it; her whole deportment was altered: capricious, humoursome, restless, sometimes sunk in deep melancholy, then suddenly breaking into fits of violent mirth, she seemed to retain only the outward form of the sensible, clear-minded, serene, and equal tempered girl she had always appeared. Everything betrayed to the quick eye of jealousy that she was the prey of some deep-seated passion,—and for whom?—for whom could it be but for Gomez! for him, at whose every action it was evident the inmost cords of her heart gave out their altered tone. It has been wisely said, that love is more nearly akin to hate than to liking. What passed in Edward’s bosom was a proof of this. Henceforth it seemed his sole enjoyment to give pain to the woman he passionately loved: and now, in the bitterness of his heart, held guilty of all his sufferings. Wherever occasion presented itself, he sought to humble and to embarrass her, to sting her by disdainful pride, or to overwhelm her with cutting reproaches; till, conscious of her secret crime, shame and anguish overpowered the wretched girl, and she burst into torrents of tears, which alone had power to allay the scorching fever of his heart. But no kindly reconciliation followed these scenes, and, as with lovers, resolved the dissonance into blessed harmony. The exasperation of each was only heightened to desperation: and when he at length saw enkindled in Gomez,—so little capable of concealment,—the same fire which burnt in the eyes of Anna; when he thought he saw his sister neglected and himself betrayed by a serpent whom he had cherished in his bosom,—he stood at that point of human infirmity, of which the All-seeing alone can decide whether it be madness, or the condition of a still accountable creature.
On the same night in which suspicion had driven Edward from his couch, a restless wanderer, it appears that the guilty lovers had for the first time met in secret. According to the subsequent confession of Edward, he had concealed himself behind a pillar, and had seen Gomez, wrapped in his mantle, glide with hurried steps out of a well-known side-door in the house of Anna’s father, which led immediately to her apartments.—At the horrible certainty which now glared upon him, the fury of hell took possession of his soul: his eyes started from their sockets, the blood rushed and throbbed as if it would burst his veins, and as a man dying of thirst pants for a draught of cooling water, so did his whole being pant for the blood of his rival. Like an infuriate tiger he darted upon the unhappy youth, who recognized him, and vainly fled. Edward instantlyovertook him, seized him, and burying his dagger a hundred times, with strokes like lightning-flashes, in the quivering body, gashed with satanic rage the beautiful features which had robbed him of his beloved, and of peace. It was not till the moon broke forth from behind a dark cloud, and suddenly lighted the ghastly spectacle before him,—the disfigured mass, which retained scarcely a feature of his once beloved friend, the streams of blood which bathed the body and all the earth around it,—that he waked with horror as from some infernal dream. But the deed was done, and judgment was at hand.
Led by the instinct of self-preservation, he fled, like Cain, into the nearest wood. How long he wandered there he could not recollect. Fear, love, repentance, despair, and at last madness, pursued him like frightful companions, and at length robbed him of consciousness,—for a time annihilating the terrors of the past in forgetfulness; for kind nature puts an end to intolerable sufferings of mind, as of body, by insensibility or death.
Meanwhile the murder was soon known in the city; and the fearful end of the gentle youth, who had confided himself, a foreigner, to their hospitality, was learned by all with sorrow and indignation. A dagger, steeped in blood, had been found lying by the velvet cap of the Spaniard, and not far from it a hat, ornamented with plumes and a clasp of gems, showed the recent traces of a man who seemed to have sought safety in the direction of the wood. The hat was immediately recognized as Edward’s; and as he was nowhere to be found, fears were soon entertained that he had been murdered with his friend. The terrified father mounted his horse, and, accompanied by a crowd of people calling for vengeance, swore solemnly that nothing should save the murderer, were he even compelled to execute him with his own hands.
We may imagine the shouts of joy, and the feelings of the father, when at break of day Edward Lynch was found sunk under a tree, living, and although covered with blood, yet apparently without any dangerous wound. We may imagine the shudder that ran through the crowd,—but the feelings of the father wecannotimagine,—when, restored to sense, he embraced his father’s knees, declared himself the murderer of Gonsalvo, and earnestly implored instant punishment.
He was brought home bound, tried before a full assembly of the magistrates, and condemned to death by his own father. But the people would not lose their darling. Like the waves of the tempest-troubled sea, they filled the market-place and the streets, and forgetting the crime of the son in the relentless justice of the father, demanded with threatening cries the opening of the prison and the pardon of the criminal. During the night, though the guards were doubled, it was with great difficulty that the incensed mob were withheld from breaking in. Towards morning, it was announced to the mayor that all resistance would soon be vain, for that a part of the soldiers had gone over to the people;—only the foreign guard held out, and all demanded with furious cries the instant liberation of the criminal.
At this, the inflexible magistrate took a resolution, which many will call inhuman, but whose awful self-conquest certainly belongs to the rarest examples of stoical firmness.—Accompanied by a priest, he proceeded through a secret passage to the dungeon of his son; and when, with newly-awakened desire of life, excited by the sympathy of his fellow-citizens, Edward sunk at his feet, and askedeagerly if he brought him mercy and pardon? The old man replied with unfaultering voice, “No, my son, in this world there is no mercy for you: your life is irrevocably forfeited to the law, and at sunrise you must die. One-and-twenty years have I prayed for your earthly happiness,—but that is past,—turn your thoughts now to eternity; and if there be yet hope there, let us now kneel down together and implore the Almighty to grant you mercy hereafter;—but then I hope my son, though he could not live worthy of his father, will at least know how to die worthy of him.” With these words he rekindled the noble pride of the once dauntless youth, and after a short prayer, he surrendered himself with heroic resignation to his father’s pitiless will.
As the people, and the greater part of the armed men mingled in their ranks, now prepared, amidst more wild and furious menaces, to storm the prison, James Lynch appeared at a lofty window; his son stood at his side with the halter round his neck. “I have sworn,” exclaimed the inflexible magistrate, “that Gonsalvo’s murderer should die, even though I must perform the office of the executioner myself. Providence has taken me at my word; and you, madmen, learn from the most wretched of fathers that nothing must stop the course of justice, and that even the ties of nature must break before it.”
While he spoke these words he had made fast the rope to an iron beam projecting from the wall, and now suddenly pushing his son out of the window, he completed his dreadful work. Nor did he leave the spot till the last convulsive struggles gave certainty of the death of his unhappy victim.
As if struck by a thunder-clap, the tumultuous mob had beheld the horrible spectacle in death-like silence, and every man glided as if stunned to his own house. From that moment the mayor of Galway resigned all his occupations and dignities, and was never beheld by any eye but those of his own family. He never left his house till he was carried from it to his grave. Anna Blake died in a convent. Both families in course of time disappeared from the earth; but the skull and cross-bones still mark the scene of this fearful tragedy.
Limerick, Sept. 21st.
At ten o’clock my carriage arrived, and I immediately quitted Galway. As long as the country remained monotonous, I beguiled the time by reading. At Gort it becomes more interesting. Not far from it flows a river, which, like that at Cong, looses itself several times in the earth. One of the deepest basins which it forms is called “The Punch-bowl.” To fill such a bowl would require a larger tun than that at Heidelberg.
You now begin to approach the Clare mountains: and Nature decks herself in more picturesque attire. A park belonging to Lord Gort broke upon me like a magnificent picture: it is bounded by a broad lake, in which are thirteen beautiful wooded islands; these, with the mountains in the back-ground, and the expanse of water, which the eye never completely embraces, in front, produced a grand and striking effect. One of the most miserable post-horses seemed to participate so intensely in my delight, that it was impossible to make him stir. After many vain attempts to induce him to change his position, during which the postilion repeatedly protested that it was only this one spot to which he was so attached, but that if we could once get him away from it, he would go like the devil himself, we were obliged to unharness him;—he had begun to kick and tobreak our crazy equipage. In comparison with the Irish post establishment, that of Saxony, erst so celebrated, might fairly be called excellent. Bleeding skeletons, galled all over, starved and superannuated, are fastened by rotten harness to your carriage, and if you ask your postilion (whose dress consists of a few rags,) if he thinks that such cattle can go a mile, much more a stage of twelve or fifteen, he answers very seriously, “Sure there’s no better equipage in England; I shall take your honour there in less than nothing.” Scarcely, however, have you gone twenty steps, when something breaks, one horse is restive, and the other falls down exhausted: this does not put him the least out of countenance, he has always some admirable excuse ready, and at last, if nothing else will do, he declares himself bewitched.
This was the course of things to-day. We must probably have passed the night in the park of Gort, had not assistance and horses been most hospitably despatched to us from the house. Notwithstanding this, our stay was so long that it was ten before I reached Limerick. My letter is so thick that I must send it away before its corpulence becomes ‘impayable.’ You will not hear of me again in less than a fortnight, as I am determined to plunge into those wild regions, which foreign foot has seldom trod. Pray for a prosperous journey for me; and above all, love me with the same tenderness as ever.
Your faithful L——.
Limerick, Sept. 22d, 1828.
Dearest Friend,
Limerick is the third city in Ireland, and of the kind of cities I like, old and venerable, adorned with Gothic churches and moss-covered ruins; with dark narrow streets, and curious houses of various dates; a broad river flowing through its whole length, and crossed by several antique bridges; lastly, a busy market-place, and cheerful environs. Such a city has for me a charm like that of a wood, whose dark branches, now low, now high, afford sylvan streets of various forms, and frequently over-arch the way like a Gothic roof. Modern regular cities are like a trimly cut French garden: they do not suit my romantic taste.
I was not quite well, and returned after a little walk in the town to my inn. I found a sexton of one of the Catholic churches waiting for me; he told me that they had rung the bells as soon as they knew of my arrival, and hoped I would give them ten shillings as a gratuity. ‘Je l’envoyai promener.’ In a few minutes a Protestant functionary of the same sort was announced. I asked him what he wanted. “Only to warn your royal highness against the impositions of the Catholics, who annoy strangers in the most shameless manner, and to beg that your royal highness will not give them anything:—at the same time I take the liberty to ask a small contribution to the Protestant poor-house.” (You must observe that the people of this country are extremely lavish of titles to anybody who travels with four horses.) “Go to the d——l, Protestants and Catholics,” said I in a rage, and flung the door in his face.
But this was not all; I was soon waited upon by a deputation of the catholics, consisting of the French Consul (an Irishman,) a relation and namesake of O’Connell, and some others, who harangued me, and begged to present me with the Order of the Liberator. Ihad the greatest possible difficulty in excusing myself from this honour, and in declining an invitation to dine with their club. We compromised the matter by my accepting the offer of two of them to accompany me all over the town as ciceroni.
I resigned myself very patiently, and was first conducted to the cathedral, a building of great antiquity, more in the style of a fortress than of a church; the architecture solid and rude, but imposing by its massiveness. In the interior I admired a carved chair of the most exquisite workmanship; it is five hundred years old, and made of bog-oak, which time has rendered black as ebony. Its rich ornaments consisted of beautiful arabesques and most curious masks, which were different on every side. The grave of Thomond, King of Ulster and Limerick, though mutilated and defaced by modern additions, is a very interesting monument. Descendants of this royal line are still in existence. The head of the family bears the title of Marquis of Thomond, a name which you will remember to have seen in my letters from London, where its possessor was distinguished for the excellence of his dinners. Ireland has many families of great antiquity, who pique themselves on never having contracted a ‘mésalliance,’ a practice so common among the English and French nobility, that pure unmixed blood (stiftsfähiges Blut,[131]as we call it in Germany) is no longer to be found in either of those kingdoms. The French nobles called these marriages for money ‘mettre du fumier sur ses terres,’ a joke not very flattering to the bride.—And many an English lord owes all the present splendour of his family to such ‘fumier.’
We quitted the church, and were proceeding to visit the rock near the Shannon, upon which the English signed the treaty after the battle of the Boyne; a treaty which they have not been remarkably scrupulous in observing. I remarked that we were followed by an immense crowd of people, which increased like an avalanche, and testified equal respect and enthusiasm. All on a sudden they shouted “Long life to Napoleon and Marshal ——.” “Good God,” said I, “for whom do the people take me? As a perfectly unpretending stranger I cannot in the least degree understand why they seem disposed to do me so much honour.” “Was not your father the Prince of ——?” said O’Connell. “Oh no,” replied I; “my father was indeed a nobleman of rather an older date, but very far from being so celebrated.” “You must forgive us then,” said O’Connell incredulously; “for to tell you the truth, you are believed to be a natural son of Napoleon, whose partiality to your supposed mother was well known.” “You joke,” said I laughing: “I am at least ten years too old to be the son of the great emperor and the beautiful princess.” He shook his head, however, and I reached my inn amid reiterated shouts. Here I shut myself up, and shall not quit my retreat to-day. The people, however, patiently posted themselves under my windows, and did not disperse till it was nearly dark.
Tralee, Sept. 23rd.
This morning I was again received with cries of “Long life to Napoleon and your honour!” And while my servant, who was seated in my carriage, and passed for Napoleon’s son, drove off in the midst of cheers and acclamations, I slipped out at a back-door, witha lad who carried my travelling bag, and took my place in the stage, which was to convey me to the lake of Killarney. My people had orders to wait for me in Cashel, where I shall probably rejoin them in a fortnight.
With my present simple exterior no human being thought of assailing me with homage; and I could not help philosophizing on this public farce, and thinking how often the desire of glory and renown leads only to disguise and false assumption. Certainly of all the dreams of life this is the most shadowy! Love sometimes satisfies, knowledge tranquilizes, art gladdens and amuses; but ambition, ambition gives only the tormenting passion of a hunger which nothing can allay,—a chase after a phantom which is ever unattainable.
In a quarter of an hour I was comfortably established in the stage-coach. The passengers inside consisted of three women; one fat and jovial, another extremely lean, and a third pretty and well proportioned. There was also a man who had the air of a pedagogue, with a long face, and still longer nose. I sat entrenched between the two slender ladies, and conversed with the corpulent one, who was very talkative. On my letting down a window she told us that she had lately been nearlysea-sickin this very coach, because an ailing lady who sat opposite to her would not allow a window to be opened on any account. Thatshe, however, did not give it up; and after a quarter of an hour’s persuasion had succeeded in prevailing on the lady to admit of one inch of air; a quarter of an hour after another inch, and so on, till she manœuvered the whole window open. “Excellent,” said I; “that is exactly the way in which women manage to get all they wish; firstoneinch, and then—as much as they want. How differently do men act under similar circumstances,” continued I. “An English writer, in his directions to travellers, says, that if anybody in the mail should insist on keeping all the windows closed, you should not enter into any ‘pour parler’ with him, but immediately thrust your elbow through the window as if by accident, beg his pardon, and quietly enjoy the cool air.” The ruins of Adair now attracted our attention, and interrupted the conversation. Further on the Shannon appeared in all its grandeur. In some parts it is like an American river, nine miles broad, and its shores finely wooded. At Lisdowel, a little place where we dined, hundreds of beggars assembled as usual about the coach. One novelty struck me; they had little wooden cups fixed at the end of long sticks, which they reached in at the window, and thus more conveniently secured the desired ‘pence.’ One beggar had built himself a sort of sentry-box of loose stones in the road, in which he seemed to remain in a state of perpetual bivouac. I must conclude; for the mail drives off again in a few hours, and I want rest. More to-morrow.
Killarney, Sept. 24th.
In the course of to-day I saw twelve rainbows, a bad omen for the steadiness of the weather; but I receive it as a good one for me. It promises me a many-coloured journey. The company had dropped off, one by one, like ripe fruit, and I found myself alone with an Irish gentleman, a manafacturer from the north, when I entered the pretty cheerful town of Killarney, where the incessant resort of English tourists has almost introduced into the inns English elegance and English prices. We immediately inquired for boats, and for the best way of seeing the lake, but were told that it was imposible to go on in such a storm: no boat could ‘live on the lake,’ as the fisherman expressed it. An English dandy, who had joined us during breakfast,ridiculed these assurances; and as I, you know, am also rather incredulous aboutimpossibilities, we outvoted the manufacturer, who showed very little ardour for the undertaking, and embarked, ‘malgré vent et marée,’ near Ross Castle, an old ruin not far from Killarney.
We had a capital boat, an old characteristic-looking grey-headed steersman, and four sturdy rowers. The heaven was as if torn open; in some places blue, in others various shades of gray; but for the most part raven-black. Clouds of all forms rolled in wild disorder, now and then tinged by a rainbow, or lighted by a pale sunbeam. The high mountains scarcely appeared through their gloomy veil, and on the lake all was like night. The Black waves heaved in busy and ceaseless tumult; here and there one bore a crest of snow-white foam. As the motion was nearly as great as at sea, I was slightly sea-sick. The manufacturer was pale from fear; the young Englishman, proud of his amphibious nature, laughed at us both. Meanwhile the storm piped so loud that we could hardly hear each other speak; and when I asked the old steersman where we should land first, he said, “At the Abbey, if we can land anywhere.” This did not sound encouraging. Our boat, which was the only one on the lake, for even the fishermen would not venture out, danced so fearfully up and down without making the smallest way, in spite of all the efforts of the rowers, that the manufacturer began to think of wife, children and manufactory, and peremptorily insisted on returning, as he had no intention of sacrificing his life to a party of pleasure. The dandy on the other hand was ready to burst with laughter: he protested that he was a member of the Yacht Club, and had seen very different sort of danger from this; and promised the rowers, who would rather have been at home, money without end if they would but hold out. For my own part, I followed General Yermoloff’s maxim, “neither too rash nor too timid,” took no part in the contest, wrapped myself in my cloak, and awaited the issue in peace. It seems I had all the beauty of the scene to myself; one of my companions being prevented from seeing it by fear, the other by self-complacency. For some time we struggled with the waves, on which we floated like sea-birds in storm and darkness; till at last such a violent wind came upon us from a gorge in the mountains opposite to which we lay, that it grew rather too serious even for the ‘member of the Yacht Club,’ and he acceded to the request of the steersman, to row back with the wind, and land on an island till the storm abated a little, which was generally the case about noon.
This happened as he predicted: and after encamping for some hours in Innisfallen, a lovely little islet with beautiful groups of trees and ruins, we were able to continue our voyage. All the islands of this little lake, even to the smallest, called the Mouse, which is only a few yards long, are thickly clothed with arbutus, and other evergreens. They grow wild; and both in summer and in winter enliven the scene with the bright colours of their flowers and fruit. The forms of many of these islets are as curious as their names. They are generally called after O’Donaghue. Here is O’Donaghue’s ‘White Horse,’ on whose rocky hoofs the surf breaks; there, his ‘Library;’ further on, his ‘Pigeon-house,’ or his ‘Flower-garden;’ and so on. But you do not know how the lake of Killarney arose. Listen then.