‘So saying, the seneschal leads you up a winding stair in one of the

turrets, past one little dark chamber and another, without a fireplace,

without rushes (how different from the stately houses of Nonsuch or

Audley End!), and, leading you through another vast chamber above the

baronial hall, similar in size, but decorated with tapestries and rude

carvings, you pass the little chapel (“Marry,” says the steward, “many

would it not hold, and many do not come!”), until at last you are

located in the little cell appropriated to you. Some rude attempts have

been made to render it fitting for the stranger; but, though more neatly

arranged than the hundred other little chambers which the castle

contains, in sooth ‘tis scarce fitted for the serving-man, much more for

Sir Reginald, the English knight.

‘While you are looking at a bouquet of flowers, which lies on the

settle--magnolias, geraniums, the blue flowers of the cactus, and in the

midst of the bouquet, _one lily_; whilst you wonder whose fair hands

could have culled the flowers--hark! the horns are blowing at the

drawbridge and the warder lets the portcullis down. You rush to your

window, a stalwart knight rides over the gate, the hoofs of his black

courser clanging upon the planks. A host of wild retainers wait round

about him: see, four of them carry a stag, that hath been slain, no

doubt, in the aboriginal forest of Carclow. By my fay! (say you), ‘tis a

stag of ten.

‘But who is that yonder on the grey palfrey, conversing so prettily, and

holding the sportive animal with so light a rein?--a light green

riding-habit and ruff, a little hat with a green plume--sure it must be

a lady, and a fair one. She looks up. O blessed Mother of Heaven, that

look! those eyes that smile, those sunny golden ringlets! It is--_it is_

the Lady Adela: the lily of Bunrat----’

If the reader cannot finish the other two volumes for him or herself, he

or she never deserves to have a novel from a circulating library again;

for my part, I will take my affidavit the English knight will marry the

Lily at the end of the third volume, having previously slain the other

suitor at one of the multifarious sieges of Limerick. And I beg to say

that the historical part of this romance has been extracted carefully

from the Guide-book: the topographical and descriptive portion being

studied on the spot. A policeman shows you over it, halls, chapels,

galleries, gibbets, and all. The huge old tower was, until late years,

inhabited by the family of the proprietor, who built himself a house in

the midst of it: but he has since built another in the park opposite,

and half a dozen ‘peelers,’ with a commodity of wives and children, now

inhabit Bunratty. On the gate where we entered were numerous placards

offering rewards for the apprehension of various country offenders; and

a turnpike, a bridge, and a quay have sprung up from the place which Red

Redmond (or anybody else) burned.

* * * * *

On our road to Galway the next day, we were carried once more by the old

tower, and for a considerable distance along the fertile banks of the

Fergus lake, and a river which pours itself into the Shannon. The first

town we came to is Castle Clare, which lies conveniently on the river,

with a castle, a good bridge, and many quays and warehouses, near which

a small ship or two were lying. The place was once the chief town of the

county, but is wretched and ruinous now, being made up for the most

part of miserable thatched cots, round which you see the usual dusky

population. The drive hence to Ennis lies through a country which is by

no means so pleasant as that rich one we have passed through, being

succeeded ‘by that craggy, bleak, pastoral district which occupies so

large a portion of the limestone district of Clare.’ Ennis, likewise,

stands upon the Fergus--a busy little narrow-streeted, foreign-looking

town, approached by half a mile of thatched cots, in which I am not

ashamed to confess that I saw some as pretty faces as over any half-mile

of country I ever travelled in my life.

A great light of the Catholic church, who was of late a candlestick in

our own communion, was on the coach with us, reading devoutly out of a

breviary, on many occasions, along the road. A crowd of black coats and

heads, with that indescribable look which belongs to the Catholic

clergy, were evidently on the look-out for the coach; and as it stopped

one of them came up to me with a low bow, and asked if I was the

Honourable and Reverend Mr. S----? How I wish I had answered him I was!

It would have been a grand scene. The respect paid to this gentleman’s

descent is quite absurd--the papers bandy his title about with pleased

emphasis--the Galway paper calls him the _very_ Reverend. There is

something in the love for rank almost childish: witness the adoration of

George IV.; the pompous joy with which John Tuam records his

correspondence with a great man; the continual my-lording of the

Bishops, the Right-Honourabling of Mr. O’Connell--which title his

party-papers delight on all occasions to give him--nay, the delight of

that great man himself when first he attained the dignity; he figured in

his robes in the most good-humoured simple delight at having them, and

went to church forthwith in them, as if such a man wanted a title before

his name!

At Ennis, as well as everywhere else in Ireland, there were of course

the regular number of swaggering-looking buckeens, and shabby-genteel

idlers, to watch the arrival of the mail-coach. A poor old idiot, with

his grey hair tied up in bows, and with a ribbon behind, thrust out a

very fair soft hand with taper fingers, and told me, nodding his head

very wistfully, that he had no father nor mother: upon which score he

got a penny. Nor did the other beggars round the carriage who got none

seem to grudge the poor fellow’s good fortune. I think when one poor

wretch has a piece of luck, the others seem glad here: and they promise

to pray for you just the same if you give as if you refuse.

The town was swarming with people; the little dark streets, which twist

about in all directions, being full of cheap merchandise and its

vendors. Whether there are many buyers, I can’t say. This is written

opposite the market-place in Galway, and I have watched a stall a

hundred times in the course of the last three hours and seen no money

taken: but at every place I come to, I can’t help wondering at the

numbers; it seems market-day everywhere--apples, pigs, and potatoes

being sold all over the kingdom. There seem to be some good shops in

those narrow streets: among others, a decent little library, where I

bought, for eighteenpence, six volumes of works strictly Irish, that

will serve for a half-hour’s gossip on the next rainy day.

The road hence to Gort carried us at first by some dismal,

lonely-looking, reedy lakes, through a melancholy country; an open

village standing here and there, with a big chapel in the midst of it,

almost always unfinished in some point or other. Crossing at a bridge

near a place called Tubbor, the coachman told us we were in the famous

county of Galway, which all readers of novels admire in the warlike

works of Maxwell and Lever; and, dismal as the country had been in

Clare, I think on the northern side of the bridge it was dismaller

still--the stones not only appearing in the character of hedges, but

strewing over whole fields, in which sheep were browsing as well as they

could.

We rode for miles through this stony, dismal district, seeing more lakes

now and anon, with fellows spearing eels in the midst. Then we passed

the plantations of Lord Gort’s Castle of Loughcooter, and presently came

to the town which bears his name, or _vice versâ_. It is a

regularly-built little place, with a square and street: but it looked as

if it wondered how the deuce it got into the midst of such a desolate

country, and seemed to _bore_ itself there considerably. It had nothing

to do, and no society.

A short time before arriving at Oranmore, one has glimpses of the sea,

which comes opportunely to relieve the dulness of the land. Between Gort

and that place we passed through little but the most woeful country, in

the midst of which was a village, where a horse-fair was held, and where

(upon the word of the coachman) all the bad horses of the country were

to be seen. The man was commissioned, no doubt, to buy for his

employers, for two or three merchants were on the look-out for him, and

trotted out their cattle by the side of the coach. A very good,

neat-looking, smart-trotting chestnut horse, of seven years old, was

offered by the owner for £8; a neat brown mare for £10, and a better (as

I presume) for £14; but all _looked_ very respectable, and I have the

coachman’s word for it that they were good serviceable horses. Oranmore,

with an old castle in the midst of the village, woods, and park

plantations round about, and the bay beyond it, has a pretty and

romantic look; and the drive of about four miles thence to Galway, the

most picturesque part, perhaps, of the fifty miles’ ride from Limerick.

The road is tolerably wooded. You see the town itself, with its huge old

church-tower, stretching along the bay, ‘backed by hills linking into

the long chain of mountains which stretch across Connemara and the Joyce

country.’ A suburb of cots that seems almost endless has, however, an

end at last among the houses of the town: and a little fleet of a couple

of hundred fishing-boats was manœuvring in the bright waters of the

bay.

CHAPTER XV

GALWAY--KILROY’S HOTEL--GALWAY NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENTS--FIRST NIGHT: AN

EVENING WITH CAPTAIN FREENY

When it is stated that, throughout the town of Galway, you cannot get a

cigar which costs more than twopence, Londoners may imagine the

strangeness and remoteness of the place. The rain poured down for two

days after our arrival at Kilroy’s Hotel. An umbrella under such

circumstances is a poor resource: self-contemplation is far more

amusing, especially smoking, and a game at cards, if any one will be so

good as to play.

But there was no one in the hotel coffee-room who was inclined for the

sport. The company there, on the day of our arrival, consisted of two

coach passengers,--a Frenchman who came from Sligo, and ordered

mutton-chops and _fraid potatoes_ for dinner by himself, a turbot which

cost two shillings, and in Billingsgate would have been worth a guinea;

and a couple of native or inhabitant bachelors who frequented the _table

d’hôte_.

By the way, besides these there were at dinner two turkeys (so that Mr.

Kilroy’s two-shilling ordinary was by no means ill supplied); and, as a

stranger, I had the honour of carving these animals, which were

dispensed in rather a singular way. There are, as it is generally known,

to two turkeys four wings. Of the four passengers, one ate no turkey,

one had a pinion, another the remaining part of the wing, and the fourth

gentleman took the other three wings for his share. Does everybody in

Galway eat three wings when there are two turkeys for dinner? One has

heard wonders of the country,--the dashing, daring, duelling,

desperate, rollicking, whisky-drinking people: but this wonder beats

all. When I asked the Galway turkiphagus (there is no other word, for

turkey was invented long after Greece) ‘if he would take a third wing?’

with a peculiar satiric accent on the words _third wing_, which cannot

be expressed in writing, but which the occasion fully merited, I thought

perhaps that, following the custom of the country where everybody,

according to Maxwell and Lever, challenges everybody else,--I thought

the Galwagian would call me out; but no such thing. He only said, ‘If

you plase, sir,’ in the blandest way in the world; and gobbled up the

limb in a twinkling.

As an encouragement, too, for persons meditating that important change

of condition, the gentleman was a teetotaller: he took but one glass of

water to that intolerable deal of bubblyjock. Galway must be very much

changed since the days when Maxwell and Lever knew it. Three

turkey-wings and a glass of water! But the man cannot be the

representative of a class, that is clear: it is physically and

arithmetically impossible. They can’t _all_ eat three wings of two

turkeys at dinner: the turkeys could not stand it, let alone the men.

These wings must have been ‘non usitatæ (nec tenues) pennæ.’ But no more

of these flights; let us come to sober realities.

The fact is, that when the rain is pouring down in the streets, the

traveller has little else to remark except these peculiarities of his

fellow-travellers and inn-sojourners; and, lest one should be led into

further personalities, it is best to quit that water-drinking

gormandiser at once, and, retiring to a private apartment, to devote

one’s self to quiet observation and the acquisition of knowledge, either

by looking out of the window and examining mankind, or by perusing

books, and so living with past heroes and ages.

As for the knowledge to be had by looking out of window, it is this

evening not much. A great wide, blank, bleak, water-whipped square lies

before the bedroom window; at the opposite side of which is to be seen

the Opposition Hotel, looking even more bleak and cheerless than that

over which Mr. Kilroy presides. Large dismal warehouses and private

houses form three sides of the square; and in the midst is a bare

pleasure-ground surrounded by a growth of gaunt iron railings, the only

plants seemingly in the place. Three triangular edifices that look

somewhat like gibbets stand in the paved part of the square, but the

victims that are consigned to their fate under these triangles are only

potatoes, which are weighed there; and, in spite of the torrents of

rain, a crowd of barefooted, red-petticoated women, and men in grey

coats and flower-pot hats, are pursuing their little bargains with the

utmost calmness. The rain seems to make no impression on the males; nor

do the women guard against it more than by flinging a petticoat over

their heads, and so stand bargaining and chattering in Irish, their

figures indefinitely reflected in the shining, varnished pavement.

Donkeys and pony carts innumerable stand around, similarly reflected;

and in the baskets upon these vehicles you see shoals of herrings lying.

After a short space this prospect becomes somewhat tedious, and one

looks to other sources of consolation.

The eighteen-pennyworth of little books purchased at Ennis in the

morning came here most agreeably to my aid; and indeed they afford many

a pleasant hour’s reading. Like the _Bibliothèque Grise_, which one sees

in the French cottages in the provinces, and the German _Volksbuecher_,

both of which contain stores of old legends that are still treasured in

the country, these yellow-covered books are prepared for the people

chiefly; and have been sold for many long years before the march of

knowledge began to banish Fancy out of the world, and give us, in place

of the old fairy tales, Penny Magazines, and similar wholesome works.

Where are the little harlequin-backed story-books that used to be read

by children in England some thirty years ago? Where such authentic

narratives as _Captain Bruce’s Travels_, _The Dreadful Adventures of

Sawney Bean_, etc., which were commonly supplied to little boys at

school by the same old lady who sold oranges and alycompayne?--they are

all gone out of the world, and replaced by such books as _Conversations

on Chemistry_, _The Little Geologist_, _Peter Parley’s Tales about the

Binomial Theorem_, and the like. The world will be a dull world some

hundreds of years hence, when Fancy shall be dead, and ruthless Science

(that has no more bowels than a steam-engine) has killed her.

It is a comfort, meanwhile, to come on occasions on some of the good old

stories and biographies. These books were evidently written before the

useful had attained its present detestable popularity. There is nothing

useful _here_, that’s certain; and a man will be puzzled to extract a

precise moral out of the _Adventures of Mr. James Freeny_; or out of the

legends in the _Hibernian Tales_; or out of the lamentable tragedy of

the _Battle of Aughrim_, writ in most doleful Anglo-Irish verse. But,

are we to reject all things that have not a moral tacked to them? ‘Is

there any moral shut within the bosom of the rose?’ And yet, as the same

noble poet sings (giving a smart slap to the utility people the while),

‘useful applications lie in art and nature,’ and every man may find a

moral suited to his mind in them; or, if not a moral, an occasion for

moralising.

Honest Freeny’s adventures (let us begin with history and historic

tragedy, and leave fancy for future consideration), if they have a

moral, have that dubious one which the poet admits may be elicited from

a rose; and which every man may select according to his mind. And surely

this is a far better and more comfortable system of moralising than that

in the fable-books, where you are obliged to accept the story with the

inevitable moral corollary that _will_ stick close to it.

Whereas, in Freeny’s life, one man may see the evil of drinking, another

the harm of horse-racing, another the danger attendant on early

marriage, a fourth the exceeding inconvenience as well as hazard of the

heroic highwayman’s life--which a certain Ainsworth, in company with a

certain Cruikshank, have represented as so poetic and brilliant, so

prodigal of delightful adventure, so adorned with champagne, gold lace,

and brocade.

And the best part of worthy Freeny’s tale is the noble _naïveté_ and

simplicity of the hero as he recounts his own adventures, and the utter

unconsciousness that he is narrating anything wonderful. It is the way

of all great men, who recite their great actions modestly, and as if

they were matters of course; as indeed to them they are. A common tyro,

having perpetrated a great deed, would be amazed and flurried at his own

action; whereas I make no doubt the Duke of Wellington, after a great

victory, took his tea and went to bed just as quietly as he would after

a dull debate in the House of Lords. And so with Freeny,--his great and

charming characteristic is grave simplicity; he does his work; he knows

his danger as well as another; but he goes through his fearful duty

quite quietly and easily; and not with the least air of bravado, or the

smallest notion that he is doing anything uncommon.

It is related of Carter, the Lion-King, that when he was a boy, and

exceedingly fond of gingerbread-nuts, a relation gave him a parcel of

those delicious cakes, which the child put in his pocket just as he was

called on to go into a cage with a very large and roaring lion. He had

to put his head into the forest-monarch’s jaws, and leave it there for a

considerable time, to the delight of thousands: as is even now the case;

and the interest was so much the greater, as the child was exceedingly

innocent, rosy-cheeked, and pretty. To have seen that little flaxen head

bitten off by the lion would have been a far more pathetic spectacle

than that of the decapitation of some grey-bearded, old, unromantic

keeper, who had served out raw meat and stirred up the animals with the

pole, any time these twenty years; and the interest rose in consequence.

While the little darling’s head was thus enjawed, what was the

astonishment of everybody to see him put his hand into his little

pocket, take out a paper--from the paper a gingerbread-nut--pop that

gingerbread-nut into the lion’s mouth, then into his own, and so finish

at least twopennyworth of nuts!

The excitement was delirious: the ladies, when he came out of Chancery,

were for doing what the lion had not done, and eaten him up--with

kisses. And the only remark the young hero made was, ‘Uncle, them nuts

wasn’t so crisp as them I had t’other day.’ He never thought of the

danger,--he only thought of the nuts.

Thus it is with FREENY. It is fine to mark his bravery, and to see how

he cracks his simple philosophic nuts in the jaws of innumerable lions.

At the commencement of the last century, honest Freeny’s father was

house-steward in the family of Joseph Robbins, Esq., of Ballyduff; and,

marrying Alice Phelan, a maid-servant in the same family, had issue

JAMES, the celebrated Irish hero. At a proper age James was put to

school; but being a nimble, active lad, and his father’s mistress taking

a fancy to him, he was presently brought to Ballyduff, where she had a

private tutor to instruct him, during the time which he could spare from

his professional duty, which was that of pantry-boy in Mr. Robbins’s

establishment. At an early age he began to neglect his duty; and

although his father, at the excellent Mrs. Robbins’s suggestion,

corrected him very severely, the bent of his genius was not to be warped

by the rod, and he attended ‘all the little country dances, diversions,

and meetings, and became what is called a good dancer, his own natural

inclinations hurrying him (as he finely says) into the contrary

diversions.’

He was scarce twenty years old when he married (a frightful proof of the

wicked recklessness of his former courses), and set up in trade in

Waterford; where, however, matters went so ill with him, that he was

speedily without money, and £50 in debt. He had, he says, not any way of

paying the debt, except by selling his furniture or his _riding-mare_,

to both of which measures he was averse; for where is the gentleman in

Ireland that can do without a horse to ride? Mr. Freeny and his

riding-mare became soon famous, insomuch that a thief in gaol warned the

magistrates of Kilkenny to beware of a _one-eyed man with a mare_.

These unhappy circumstances sent him on the highway to seek a

maintenance, and his first exploit was to rob a gentleman of fifty

pounds; then to attack another, against whom he ‘had _a secret disgust_,

because this gentleman had prevented his former master from giving him a

suit of clothes!’

Urged by a noble resentment against this gentleman, Mr. Freeny, in

company with a friend by the name of Reddy, robbed the gentleman’s

house, taking therein £70 in money, which was honourably divided among

the captors.

‘We then,’ continues Mr. Freeny, ‘quitted the house with the booty, and

came to Thomastown; but not knowing how to dispose of the plate, left it

with Reddy, who said he had a friend from whom he would get cash for it.

In some time afterwards I asked him for the dividend of the cash he got

for the plate, but all the satisfaction he gave me was, that it was

lost, which occasioned me _to have my own opinion of him_.’

Mr. Freeny then robbed Sir William Fownes’ servant of £14, in such an

artful manner that everybody believed the servant had himself secreted

the money; and no doubt the rascal was turned adrift, and starved in

consequence--a truly comic incident, and one that could be used so as to

provoke a great deal of laughter, in an historical work of which our

champion should be the hero.

The next enterprise of importance is that against the house of Colonel

Palliser, which Freeny thus picturesquely describes. Coming with one of

his spies close up to the house, Mr. Freeny watched the Colonel lighted

to bed by a servant; and thus, as he cleverly says, could judge ‘of the

room the Colonel lay in.’

‘Some time afterwards,’ says Freeny, ‘I observed a light upstairs, by

which I judged the servants were going to bed, and soon after observed

that the candles were all quenched, by which I assured myself they were

all gone to bed. I then came back to where the men were, and appointed

Bulger, Motley, and Commons to go in along with me; but Commons answered

that he never had been in any house before where there were arms; upon

which I asked the coward what business he had there, and swore I would

as soon shoot him as look at him, and at the same time cocked a pistol

to his breast; but the rest of the men prevailed upon me to leave him at

the back of the house, where he might run away when he thought proper.

‘I then asked Grace where did he choose to be posted; he answered “That

he would go where I pleased to order him,” for which I thanked him; we

then immediately came up to the house, lighted our candles, put Houlahan

at the back of the house, to prevent any person from coming out that

way, and placed Hacket on my mare, well armed, at the front; and I then

broke one of the windows with a sledge, whereupon Bulger, Motley, Grace,

and I got in; upon which I ordered Motley and Grace to go upstairs, and

Bulger and I would stay below, where we thought the greatest danger

would be; but I immediately, upon second consideration, for fear Motley

or Grace should be daunted, desired Bulger to go up with them, and when

he had fixed matters above, to come down, as I judged the Colonel lay

below. I then went to the room where the Colonel was, and burst open the

door; upon which he said, “Odds-wounds! who’s there?” to which I

answered, “A friend, sir;” upon which he said, “You lie; by G--d, you

are no friend of mine!” I then said that I was, and his relation also,

and that if he viewed me close he would know me, and begged of him not

to be angry; upon which I immediately seized a bullet-gun and case of

pistols, which I observed hanging up in his room. I then quitted his

room, and walked round the lower part of the house, thinking to meet

some of the servants, _whom_ I thought would strive to make their escape

from the men who were above, and meeting none of them, I immediately

returned to the Colonel’s room; where I no sooner entered than he

desired me to go out for a villain, and asked why I bred such

disturbance in his house at that time of night; at the same time I

snatched his breeches from under his head, wherein I got a small purse

of gold, and said that abuse was not fit treatment for me who was his

relation, and that it would hinder me of calling to see him again. I

then demanded the key of his desk which stood in his room; he answered

he had no key; upon which I said I had a very good key; at the same time

giving it a stroke with the sledge, which burst it open, wherein I got a

purse of ninety guineas, a four-pound piece, two moidores, some small

gold, and a large glove, with twenty-eight guineas in silver.

‘By this time Bulger and Motley came downstairs to me, after rifling the

house above; we then observed a closet inside his room, which we soon

entered, and got therein a basket wherein there was plate to the value

of three hundred pounds.’

And so they took leave of Colonel Palliser, and rode away with their

earnings.

The story, as here narrated, has that simplicity which is beyond the

reach of all except the very highest art; and it is not high art

certainly which Mr. Freeny can be said to possess, but a noble nature

rather, which leads him thus grandly to describe scenes wherein he acted

a great part. With what a gallant determination does he inform the

coward Commons that he would shoot him ‘_as soon as look at him_’; and

how dreadful he must have looked (with his one eye) as he uttered that

sentiment! But he left him, he says, with a grim humour, at the back of

the house, ‘where he might run away when he thought proper.’ The Duke of

Wellington must have read Mr. Freeny’s history in his youth (his Grace’s

birthplace is not far from the scene of the other gallant Irishman’s

exploit), for the Duke acted in precisely a similar way by a Belgian

Colonel at Waterloo.

It must be painful to great and successful commanders to think how their

gallant comrades and lieutenants, partners of their toil, their

feelings, and their fame, are separated from them by time, by death, by

estrangement, nay sometimes by treason. Commons is off, disappearing

noiseless into the deep night, whilst his comrades perform the work of

danger; and Bulger,--BULGER, who in the above scene acts so gallant a

part, and in whom Mr. Freeny places so much confidence--actually went

away to England, carrying off ‘some plate, some shirts, a gold watch,

and a diamond ring’ of the Captain’s; and, though he returned to his

native country, the valuables did not return with him, on which the

Captain swore he would blow his brains out. As for poor Grace, he was

hanged, much to his leader’s sorrow, who says of him that he was ‘the

faithfullest of his spies.’ Motley was sent to Naas gaol for the very

robbery: and though Captain Freeny does not mention his ultimate fate,

‘tis probable he was hanged too. Indeed, the warrior’s life is a hard

one, and over misfortunes like these the feeling heart cannot but sigh.

But, putting out of the question the conduct and fate of the Captain’s

associates, let us look to his own behaviour as a leader. It is

impossible not to admire his serenity, his dexterity, that dashing

impetuosity in the moment of action, and that aquiline _coup d’œil_

which belongs to but few generals. He it is who leads the assault,

smashing in the window with a sledge; he bursts open the Colonel’s door,

who says (naturally enough), ‘Odds-wounds! who’s there?’ ‘A friend,

sir,’ says Freeny. ‘You lie! by G--d, you are no friend of mine!’ roars

the military blasphemer. ‘I then said that I was, _and his relation

also_, and that if he viewed me close he would know me, and begged of

him not to be angry: _upon which I immediately seized_ a brace of

pistols which I observed hanging up in his room.’ That is something like

presence of mind: none of your brutal braggadocio work, but neat,

wary--nay, sportive bearing in the face of danger. And again, on the

second visit to the Colonel’s room, when the latter bids him ‘go out for

a villain, and not breed a disturbance,’ what reply makes Freeny? ‘_At

the same time I snatched his breeches_ from under his head.’ A common

man would never have thought of looking for them in such a place at

all. The difficulty about the key he resolves in quite an Alexandrian

manner; and, from the specimen we already have had of the Colonel’s

style of speaking, we may fancy how ferociously he lay in bed and swore,

after Captain Freeny and his friends had disappeared with the ninety

guineas, the moidores, the four-pound piece, and the glove with

twenty-eight guineas in silver.

As for the plate, he hid it in a wood; and then, being out of danger, he

sate down and paid everybody his deserts. By the way, what a strange

difference of opinion is there about a man’s _deserts_! Here sits

Captain Freeny with a company of gentlemen, and awards them a handsome

sum of money for an action which other people would have remunerated

with a halter. Which are right? perhaps both: but at any rate it will be

admitted that the Captain takes the humane view of the question.

The greatest enemy Captain Freeny had was Counsellor Robbins, a son of

his old patron, and one of the most determined thief-pursuers the

country ever knew. But though he was untiring in his efforts to capture

(and of course to hang) Mr. Freeny, and though the latter was strongly

urged by his friends to blow the Counsellor’s brains out; yet, to his

immortal honour it is said he refused that temptation, agreeable as it

was, declaring that he had eaten too much of that family’s bread ever to

take the life of one of them, and being besides quite aware that the

Counsellor was only acting against him in a public capacity. He

respected him, in fact, like an honourable though terrible adversary.

How deep a stratagem-inventor the Counsellor was, may be gathered from

the following narration of one of his plans:--

‘Counsellor Robbins finding his brother had not got intelligence that

was sufficient to carry any reasonable foundation for apprehending us,

walked out as if merely for exercise, till he met with a person whom he

thought he could confide in, and desired the person to meet him at a

private place appointed for that purpose, which they did; and he told

that person he had a very good opinion of him, from the character

received from his father of him, and from his own knowledge of him, and

hoped that the person would then show him that such opinion was not ill

founded. The person assuring the Counsellor he would do all in his power

to serve and oblige him, the Counsellor told him how greatly he was

concerned to hear the scandalous character that part of the country

(which had formerly been an honest one) had lately fallen into. That it

was said that a gang of robbers who disturbed the country lived

thereabouts; the person told him he was afraid what he said was too

true; and, on being asked whom he suspected, he named the same four

persons Mr. Robbins had, but said he dare not, for fear of being

murdered, be too inquisitive, and therefore could not say anything

material; the Counsellor asked him if he knew where there was any

private ale to be sold; and he said Moll Burke, who lived near the end

of Mr. Robbins’s avenue, had a barrel or half a barrel. The Counsellor

then gave the person a moidore, and desired him to go to Thomastown and

buy two or three gallons of whisky, and bring it to Moll Burke’s, and

invite as many as he suspected to be either principals or accessories to

take a drink, and make them drink very heartily, and when he found they

were fuddled, and not sooner, to tell some of the hastiest, that some

other had said some bad things of them, so as to provoke them to abuse

and quarrel with each other; and then, probably, in their liquor and

passion, they might make some discoveries of each other, as may enable

the Counsellor to get some one of the gang to discover and accuse the

rest.

‘The person accordingly got the whisky and invited a good many to drink;

but the Counsellor being then at his brother’s, a few only went to Moll

Burke’s, the rest being afraid to venture while the Counsellor was in

the neighbourhood; among those who met, there was one Moll Brophy, the

wife of Mr. Robbins’s smith, and one Edmund or Edward Stapleton,

otherwise Gaul, who lived thereabouts; and when they had drank

plentifully, the Counsellor’s spy told Moll Brophy, Gaul had said she

had gone astray with some persons or other; she then abused Gaul, and

told him he was one of Freeny’s accomplices, for that he, Gaul, had told

her he had seen Colonel Palliser’s watch with Freeny, and that Freeny

had told him, Gaul, that John Welsh and the two Graces had been with him

at the robbery.

‘The company on their quarrel broke up, and the next morning the spy met

the Counsellor at the place appointed, at a distance from Mr. Robbins’s

house, to prevent suspicion, and there told the Counsellor what

intelligence he had got; the Counsellor not being then a justice of the

peace, got his brother to send for Moll Brophy to be examined; but when

she came, she refused to be sworn or to give any evidence, and thereupon

the Counsellor had her tied and put on a car in order to be carried to

jail on a mittimus from Mr. Robbins, for refusing to give evidence on

behalf of the Crown. When she found she would really be sent to jail,

she submitted to be sworn, and the Counsellor drew from her what she had

said the night before, and something further, and desired her not to

tell anybody what she had sworn.’

But if the Counsellor was acute, were there not others as clever as he?

For when, in consequence of the information of Mrs. Brophy, some

gentlemen who had been engaged in the burglarious enterprises in which

Mr. Freeny obtained so much honour, were seized and tried, Freeny came

forward with the best of arguments in their favour. Indeed, it is fine

to see these two great spirits matched one against the other,--the

Counsellor, with all the regular force of the country to back him--the

Highway General, with but the wild resources of his gallant genius, and

with cunning and bravery for his chief allies.

‘I lay by for a considerable time after, and concluded within myself to

do no more mischief till after the assizes, when I would hear how it

went with the men who were then in confinement. Some time before the

assizes Counsellor Robbins came to Ballyduff, and told his brother that

he believed Anderson and Welsh were guilty, and also said he would

endeavour to have them both hanged, of which I was informed.

‘Soon after, I went to the house of one George Roberts, who asked me if

I had any regard for those fellows who were then confined (meaning

Anderson and Welsh). I told him I had a regard for one of them: upon

which he said, he had a friend who was a man of power and

interest,--that he would save either of them, provided I would give him

five guineas. I told him I would give him ten, and the first gold watch

I could get; whereupon he said that it was of no use to speak to his

friend without the money or value, for that he was a mercenary man; on

which I told Roberts I had not so much money at that time, but that I

would give him my watch as a pledge to give his friend. I then gave him

my watch, and desired him to engage that I would pay the money which I

promised to pay, or give value for it in plate, in two or three nights

after; upon which he engaged that his friend would act the needful; when

we appointed a night to meet, and we accordingly met; and Roberts told

me that his friend agreed to save Anderson and Welsh from the gallows;

whereupon I gave him a plate tankard, value £10, a large ladle, value

£4, with some tablespoons; and the assizes of Kilkenny, in spring 1748,

coming on soon after, Counsellor Robbins had Welsh transmitted from Naas

to Kilkenny, in order to give evidence against Anderson and Welsh; and

they were tried for Mrs. Mounford’s robbery, on the evidence of John

Welsh and others. The physic working well, six of the jury were for

finding them guilty, and six more for acquitting them; and the other six

finding them peremptory, and that they were resolved to starve the

others into compliance, as they say they may do by law, were for their

own sakes obliged to comply with them, and they were acquitted; on which

Counsellor Robbins began to smoke the affair, and suspect the operation

of gold dust, which was well applied for my comrades, and thereupon

left the court in a rage, and swore he would for ever quit the country,

since he found people were not satisfied with protecting and saving the

rogues they had under themselves, but must also show that they could and

would oblige others to have rogues under them whether they would or no.’

Here Counsellor Robbins certainly loses that greatness which has

distinguished him in his former attack on Freeny; the Counsellor is

defeated and loses his temper. Like Napoleon, he is unequal to reverses,

but in adverse fortune his presence of mind deserts him.

But what call had he to be in a passion at all? It may be very well for

a man to be in a rage because he is disappointed of his prey: so is the

hawk, when the dove escapes, in a rage; but let us reflect that, had

Counsellor Robbins had his will, two honest fellows would have been

hanged; and so let us be heartily thankful that he was disappointed, and

that these men were acquitted by a jury of their countrymen. What right

had the Counsellor, forsooth, to interfere with their verdict? Not

against Irish juries at least does the old satire apply, ‘And culprits

hang that jurymen may dine.’ At Naas, on the contrary, the jurymen

starved in order that the culprits might be saved--a noble and humane

act of self-denial.

In another case, stern justice, and the law of self-preservation,

compelled Mr. Freeny to take a very different course with respect to one

of his ex-associates. In the former instance we have seen him pawning

his watch, giving up tankard, tablespoons--all, for his suffering

friends; here we have his method of dealing with traitors.

One of his friends, by the name of Anderson, was taken prisoner, and

condemned to be hanged, which gave Mr. Freeny, he says, ‘a great shock’;

but presently this Anderson’s fears were worked upon by some traitors

within the gaol, and--

‘He then consented to discover; but I had a friend in gaol at the same

time, one Patrick Healy, who daily insinuated to him that it was of no

use or advantage to him to discover anything, as he received sentence of

death; and that, after he had made a discovery, to leave him as he was,

without troubling themselves about a reprieve. But notwithstanding, he

told the gentleman that there was a man _blind of an eye, who had a bay

mare_, that lived at the other side of Thomastown Bridge, _whom_ he

assured them would be very troublesome in that neighbourhood after his

death. When Healy discovered what he told the gentleman, he one night

took an opportunity, and made Dooling fuddled, and prevailed upon him

to take his oath he never would give the least hint about me any more.

He also told him the penalty that attended infringing upon his oath; but

more especially as he was at that time near his end, which had the

desired effect; for he never mentioned my name, nor even anything

relative to me,’ and so went out of the world repenting of his meditated

treason.

What further exploits Mr. Freeny performed may be learned by the curious

in his history: they are all, it need scarcely be said, of a similar

nature to that noble action which has already been described. His

escapes from his enemies were marvellous; his courage in facing them

equally great. He is attacked by whole ‘armies,’ through which he makes

his way; wounded, he lies in the woods for days together with three

bullets in his leg, and in this condition manages to escape several

‘armies’ that have been marched against him. He is supposed to be dead,

or travelling on the Continent, and suddenly makes his appearance in his

old haunts, advertising his arrival by robbing ten men on the highway in

a single day: and, so terrible is his courage, or so popular his

manners, that he describes scores of labourers looking on while his

exploits were performed, and not affording the least aid to the roadside

traveller whom he vanquished.

But numbers always prevail in the end; what could Leonidas himself do

against an army? The gallant band of brothers led by Freeny were so

pursued by the indefatigable Robbins and his myrmidons, that there was

no hope left for them, and the Captain saw that he must succumb.

He reasoned, however, with himself (with his usual keen logic), and

said:--

‘My men must fall,--the world is too strong for us, and, to-day or

to-morrow,--it matters scarcely when they must yield. They will be

hanged for a certainty, and thus will disappear the noblest company of

knights the world has ever seen.

‘But as they will certainly be hanged, and no power of mine can save

them, is it necessary that I should follow them too to the tree; and

will James Bulger’s fate be a whit more agreeable to him, because James

Freeny dangles at his side? To suppose so, would be to admit that he was

actuated by a savage feeling of revenge, which I know belongs not to his

generous nature.’

In a word, Mr. Freeny resolved to turn king’s evidence; for though he

swore (in a communication with the implacable Robbins) that he would

rather die than betray Bulger, yet when the Counsellor stated that he

must then die, Freeny says, ‘I promised to submit, and _understood that

Bulger should be set_.’

Accordingly some days afterwards (although the Captain carefully avoids

mentioning that he had met his friends with any such intentions as those

indicated in the last paragraph) he and Mr. Bulger came together: and,

strangely enough, it was agreed that the one was to sleep while the

other kept watch; and, while thus employed, the enemy came upon them.

But let Freeny describe for himself the last passages of his history:--

‘We then went to Welsh’s house, with a view not to make any delay there;

but, taking a glass extraordinary after supper, Bulger fell asleep.

Welsh, in the meantime, told me his house was the safest place I could

get in that neighbourhood, and while I remained there I would be very

safe, provided that no person knew of my coming there (I had not

acquainted him that Breen knew of my coming that way). I told Welsh

that, as Bulger was asleep, I would not go to bed till morning: upon

which Welsh and I stayed up all night, and in the morning Welsh said

that he and his wife had a call to Callen, it being market-day. About

nine o’clock I went and awoke Bulger, desiring him to get up and guard

me whilst I slept, as I guarded him all night; he said he would, and

then I went to bed charging him to watch close, for fear we should be

surprised. I put my blunderbuss and two cases of pistols under my head,

and soon fell fast asleep. In two hours after, the servant-girl of the

house, seeing an enemy coming into the yard, ran up to the room where we

were, and said that there were an hundred men coming into the yard; upon

which Bulger immediately awoke me, and, taking up my blunderbuss, he

fired a shot towards the door, which wounded Mr. Burgess, one of the

sheriffs of Kilkenny, of which wound he died. They concluded to set the

house on fire about us, which they accordingly did; upon which I took my

fusee in one hand, and a pistol in the other, and Bulger did the like,

and as we came out of the door, we fired on both sides, imagining it to

be the best method of dispersing the enemy, who were on both sides of

the door. We got through them, but they fired after us, and as Bulger

was leaping over a ditch he received a shot in the small of the leg,

which rendered him incapable of running; but, getting into a field,

where I had the ditch between me and the enemy, I still walked slowly

with Bulger, till I thought the enemy were within shot of the ditch, and

then wheeled back to the ditch and presented my fusee at them; they all

drew back and went for their horses to ride round, as the field was wide

and open, and without cover except the ditch. When I discovered their

intention I stood in the middle of the field, and one of the gentlemen’s

servants (there were fourteen in number) rode foremost towards me; upon

which I told the son of a coward I believed he had no more than five

pounds a year from his master, and that I would put him in such a

condition that his master would not maintain him afterwards. To which he

answered that he had no view of doing us any harm, but that he was

commanded by his master to ride so near us; and then immediately rode

back to the enemy, who were coming towards him. They rode almost within

shot of us, and I observed they intended to surround us in the field,

and prevent me from having any recourse to the ditch again. Bulger was

at this time so bad with the wound, that he could not go one step

without leaning on my shoulder. At length, seeing the enemy coming

within shot of me, I laid down my fusee and stripped off my coat and

waistcoat, and running towards them, cried out, “You sons of cowards,

come on, and I will blow your brains out;” on which they returned back,

and then I walked easy to the place where I left my clothes, and put

them on, and Bulger and I walked leisurely some distance farther. The

enemy came a second time, and I occasioned them to draw back as before,

and then we walked to Lord Dysart’s deer-park wall. I got up the wall

and helped Bulger up. The enemy, who still pursued us, though not within

shot, seeing us on the wall, one of them fired a random shot at us to no

purpose. We got safe over the wall, and went from thence into my Lord

Dysart’s wood, where Bulger said he would remain, thinking it a safe

place; but I told him he would be safer anywhere else, for the army of

Kilkenny and Callen would be soon about the wood, and that he would be

taken if he stayed there. Besides, as I was very averse to betraying him

at all, I could not bear the thoughts of his being taken in my company

by any party but Lord Carrick’s. I then brought him about half a mile

beyond the wood, and left him there in a brake of briars, and looking

towards the wood I saw it surrounded by the army. There was a cabin near

that place where I fixed Bulger: he said he would go to it at night, and

he would send for some of his friends to take care of him. It was then

almost two o’clock, and we were four hours going to that place, which

was about two miles from Welsh’s house. Imagining that there were spies

fixed on all the fords and by-roads between that place and the mountain,

I went towards the bounds of the county Tipperary, where I arrived about

nightfall, and going to a cabin, I asked whether there was any drink

sold near that place? The man of the house said there was not; and as I

was very much fatigued, I sat down, and there refreshed myself with what

the cabin afforded. I then begged of the man to sell me a pair of his

brogues and stockings, as I was then barefooted, which he accordingly

did. I quitted the house, went through Kinsheenah and Poulacoppal, and

having so many thorns in my feet, I was obliged to go barefooted, and

went to Sleedelagh, and through the mountains, till I came within four

miles of Waterford, and going into a cabin, the man of the house took

eighteen thorns out of the soles of my feet, and I remained in and about

that place for some time after.

‘In the meantime a friend of mine was told that it was impossible for me

to escape death, for Bulger had turned against me, and that his friends

and Stack were resolved upon my life; but the person who told my friend

so, also said, that if my friend would set Bulger and Breen, I might get

a pardon through the Earl of Carrick’s means and Counsellor Robbins’s

interest. My friend said that he _was sure I would not consent to such a

thing, but the best way was to do it unknown to me_; and my friend

accordingly set Bulger, who was taken by the Earl of Carrick and his

party, and Mr. Fitzgerald, and six of Counsellor Robbins’s soldiers, and

committed to Kilkenny jail. He was three days in jail before I heard he

was taken, being at that time twenty miles distant from the

neighbourhood; nor did I hear from him or see him since I left him near

Lord Dysart’s wood, _till a friend_ came and told me it was to preserve

my life and to fulfil my articles that Bulger was taken.’

* * * * *

‘Finding I was suspected, I withdrew to a neighbouring wood and

concealed myself there till night, and then went to Ballyduff to Mr.

Fitzgerald and surrendered myself to him, till I could write to my Lord

Carrick, which I did immediately, and gave him an account of what I

escaped, or that I would have gone to Ballilynch and surrendered myself

there to him, and begged his lordship to send a guard for me to conduct

me to his house, which he did, and I remained there for a few days.

‘He then sent me to Kilkenny jail; and at the summer assizes following,

James Bulger, Patrick Hacket, otherwise Bristeen, Martin Millea, John

Stack, Felix Donnelly, Edmund Kenny, and James Larrassy were tried,

convicted, and executed; and at spring assizes following, George Roberts

was tried for receiving Colonel Palliser’s gold watch, knowing it to be

stolen, but was acquitted on account of exceptions taken to my pardon,

which prevented my giving evidence. At the following assizes, when I had

got a new pardon, Roberts was again tried for receiving the tankard,

ladle, and silver spoons from me, knowing them to be stolen, and was

convicted and executed. At the same assizes, John Reddy, my instructor,

and Martin Millea were also tried, convicted, and executed.’

And so they were all hanged: James Bulger, Patrick Hacket or Bristeen,

Martin Millea, John Stack and Felix Donnelly, and Edmund Kenny and James

Larrassy, with Roberts, who received the Colonel’s watch, the tankard,

ladle, and the silver spoons, were all convicted and all executed. Their

names drop naturally into blank verse. It is hard upon poor George

Roberts too: for the watch he received was no doubt in the very

inexpressibles which the Captain himself took from the Colonel’s head.

As for the Captain himself, he says that, on going out of jail,

Counsellor Robbins and Lord Carrick proposed a subscription for him--in

which, strangely, the gentlemen of the county would not join, and so

that scheme came to nothing; and so he published his memoirs in order to

get himself a little money. Many a man has taken up the pen under

similar circumstances of necessity.

But what became of Captain Freeny afterwards does not appear. Was he an

honest man ever after? Was he hanged for subsequent misdemeanours? It

matters little to him now; though, perhaps, one cannot help feeling a

little wish that the latter fate may have befallen him.

Whatever his death was, however, the history of his life has been one of

the most popular books ever known in this country. It formed the

class-book in those rustic universities which are now rapidly

disappearing from among the hedges of Ireland. And lest any English

reader should, on account of its lowness, quarrel with the introduction

here of this strange picture of wild courage and daring, let him be

reconciled by the moral at the end, which, in the persons of Bulger and

the rest, hangs at the beam before Kilkenny jail.

CHAPTER XVI

MORE RAIN IN GALWAY--A WALK THERE--AND THE SECOND GALWAY NIGHT’S

ENTERTAINMENT

‘Seven hills has Rome, seven mouths has Nilus’ stream,

Around the Pole seven burning planets gleam.

Twice equal these is Galway, Connaught’s Rome:

Twice seven illustrious tribes here find their home.[24]

Twice seven fair towers the city’s ramparts guard,

Each house within is built of marble hard.

With lofty turret flanked, twice seven the gates,

Through twice seven bridges water permeates.

In the High Church are twice seven altars raised,

At each a holy saint and patron’s praised.

Twice seven the convents, dedicate to Heaven,--

Seven for the female sex--for godly fathers seven.’[25]

Having read in Hardiman’s History the quaint inscription in Irish Latin,

of which the above lines are a version, and looked admiringly at the old

plans of Galway which are to be found in the same work, I was in hopes

to have seen in the town some considerable remains of its former

splendour, in spite of a warning to the contrary which the learned

historiographer gives.

The old city certainly has some relics of its former stateliness; and,

indeed, is the only town in Ireland I have seen, where an antiquary can

find much subject for study, or a lover of the picturesque an occasion

for using his pencil. It is a wild, fierce, and most original old town.

Joyce’s Castle in one of the principal streets, a huge square grey

tower, with many carvings and ornaments, is a gallant relic of its old

days of prosperity, and gives one an awful idea of the tenements which

the other families inhabited, and which are designed in the interesting

plate which Mr. Hardiman gives in his work. The Collegiate Church, too,

is still extant, without its fourteen altars, and looks to be something

between a church and a castle, and as if it should be served by Templars

with sword and helmet, in place of mitre and crosier. The old houses in

the Main Street are like fortresses; the windows look into a court

within; there is but a small low door, and a few grim windows peering

suspiciously into the street.

Then there is Lombard Street, otherwise called Deadman’s Lane, with a

raw-head and cross-bones and a ‘memento mori’ over the door where the

dreadful tragedy of the Lynches was acted in 1493. If Galway is the Rome

of Connaught, James Lynch Fitzstephen, the Mayor, may be considered as

the Lucius Junius Brutus thereof. Lynch had a son who went to Spain as

master of one of his father’s ships, and being of an extravagant wild

turn, there contracted debts, and drew bills, and alarmed his father’s

correspondent, who sent a clerk and nephew of his own back in young

Lynch’s ship to Galway, to settle accounts. On the fifteenth day, young

Lynch threw the Spaniard overboard. Coming back to his own country, he

reformed his life a little, and was on the point of marrying one of the

Blakes, Burkes, Bodkins, or others: when a seaman who had sailed with

him, being on the point of death, confessed the murder in which he had

been a participator.

Hereon the father, who was chief magistrate of the town, tried his son,

and sentenced him to death; and when the clan Lynch rose in a body to

rescue the young man, and avert such a disgrace from their family, it is

said that Fitzstephen Lynch hanged the culprit with his own hand. A

tragedy called ‘The Warden of Galway’ has been written on the subject,

and was acted a few nights before my arrival.

[Illustration]

The waters of Lough Corrib, which ‘permeate’ under the bridges of the

town, go rushing and roaring to the sea with a noise and eagerness only

known in Galway; and along the banks you see all sorts of strange

figures washing all sorts of wonderful rags, with red petticoats and

redder shanks standing in the stream. Pigs are in every street, the

whole town shrieks with them: and I saw the pair of lovers in the

frontispiece;[26] the girl with the little Galway _pet_ in her lap.

There are numbers of idlers on the bridges, thousands in the streets,

humming and swarming in and out of dark old ruinous houses; congregated

round numberless apple-stalls, nail-stalls, bottle-stalls,

pigsfoot-stalls; in queer old shops, that look to be two centuries old;

loitering about warehouses, ruined or not; looking at the washerwomen

washing in the river, or at the fish-donkeys, or at the potato-stalls,

or at a vessel coming into the quay, or at the boats putting out to sea.

That boat at the quay, by the little old gate, is bound for Arranmore;

and one next to it has a freight of passengers for the cliffs of Mohir,

on the Clare coast; and as the sketch is taken, a hundred of people have

stopped in the street to look on, and are buzzing behind in Irish,

telling the little boys in that language--who will persist in placing

themselves exactly in the front of the designer--to get out of his way;

which they do for some time; but at length curiosity is so intense that

you are entirely hemmed in, and the view rendered quite invisible. A

sailor’s wife comes up--who speaks English--with a very wistful face,

and begins to hint, that them black pictures are very bad likenesses,

and very dear too for a poor woman, and how much would a painted one

cost, does his honour think? And she has her husband that’s going to sea

to the West Indies to-morrow, and she’d give anything to have a picture

of him. So I made bold to offer to take his likeness for nothing. But he

never came, except one day at dinner, and not at all on the next day,

though I stayed on purpose to accommodate him. It is true that it was

pouring with rain; and as English waterproof cloaks are not waterproof

in _Ireland_, the traveller who has but one coat must of necessity

respect it, and had better stay where he is, unless he prefers to go to

bed while he has his clothes dried at the next stage.

The houses in the fashionable street where the club-house stands (a

strong building, with an agreeable Old Bailey look) have the appearance

of so many little Newgates. The Catholic chapels are numerous,

unfinished, and ugly. Great warehouses and mills rise up by the stream,

or in the midst of unfinished streets here and there; and handsome

convents with their gardens, justice-houses, barracks, and hospitals

adorn the large, poor, bustling, rough-and-ready-looking town. A man who

sells hunting-whips, gunpowder, guns, fishing-tackle, and brass and iron

ware, has a few books on his counter; and a lady in a by-street, who

carries on the profession of a milliner, eked out her stock in a similar

way. But there were no regular book-shops that I saw, and when it came

on to rain, I had no resource but the Hedge-School volumes again. They,

like Patrick Spelman’s sign (which was faithfully copied in the town),

present some very rude flowers of poetry and ‘entertainment’ of an

exceedingly humble sort; but such shelter is not to be despised when no

better is to be had; nay, possibly its novelty may be piquant to some

readers, as an admirer of Shakespeare will occasionally condescend to

listen to Mr. Punch, or an epicure to content himself with a homely dish

of beans and bacon.

[Illustration]

When Mr, Kilroy’s waiter has drawn the window-curtains, brought the hot

water for the whisky-negus, and a pipe and a ‘screw’ of tobacco, and two

huge old candlesticks that were plated once, the audience may be said to

be assembled, and after a little overture performed on the pipe, the

second night’s entertainment begins with the historical tragedy of the

‘Battle of Aughrim.’

Though it has found its way to the West of Ireland, the ‘Battle of

Aughrim’ is evidently by a Protestant author, a great enemy of Popery

and wooden shoes: both of which principles, incarnate in the person of

St. Ruth, the French General commanding the troops sent by Louis XIV. to

the aid of James II., meet with a woeful downfall at the conclusion of

the piece. It must have been written in the reign of Queen Anne, judging

from some loyal compliments which are paid to that sovereign in the

play, which is also modelled upon Cato.

The ‘Battle of Aughrim’ is written from beginning to end in decasyllabic

verse of the richest sort; and introduces us to the chiefs of William

and James’s army. On the English side we have Baron de Ginckle, three

Generals, and two Colonels; on the Irish, Monsieur St. Ruth, two

Generals, two Colonels, and an English gentleman of fortune, a

volunteer, and son of no less a person than Sir Edmonbury Godfrey.

There are two ladies--Jemima, the Irish Colonel Talbot’s daughter, in

love with Godfrey; and Lucinda, lady of Colonel Herbert, in love with

her lord. And the deep nature of the tragedy may be imagined when it is

stated that Colonel Talbot is killed, Colonel Herbert is killed, Sir

Charles Godfrey is killed, and Jemima commits suicide, as resolved not

to survive her adorer. St. Ruth is also killed, and the remaining Irish

heroes are taken prisoners or run away. Among the supernumeraries there

is likewise a dreadful slaughter.

The author, however, though a Protestant, is an Irishman (there are

peculiarities in his pronunciation which belong only to that nation),

and as far as courage goes, he allows the two parties to be pretty

equal. The scene opens with a martial sound of kettle-drums and trumpets

in the Irish camp, near Athlone. That town is besieged by Ginckle, and

Monsieur St. Ruth (despising his enemy with a confidence often fatal to

Generals) meditates an attack on the besiegers’ lines, if, by any

chance, the besieged garrison be not in a condition to drive them off.

After discoursing on the posture of affairs, and letting General

Sarsfield and Colonel O’Neil know his hearty contempt of the English and

their General, all parties, after protestations of patriotism, indulge

in hopes of the downfall of William. St. Ruth says he will drive the

wolves’ and lions’ cubs away. O’Neil declares he scorns the Revolution,

and, like great Cato, smiles at persecution. Sarsfield longs for the day

‘when our Monks and Jesuits shall return, and holy incense on our altars

burn.’ When

‘_Enter_ a Post.

_Post._ With important news I from Athlone am sent,

Be pleased to lead me to the General’s tent.

_Sars._ Behold the General there. Your message tell.

_St. Ruth._ Declare your message. Are our friends all well?

_Post._ Pardon me, sir, the fatal news I bring

Like vulture’s poison every heart shall sting.

Athlone is lost without your timely aid,

At six this morning an assault was made,

When, under shelter of the British cannon,

Their grenadiers in armour took the Shannon,

Led by brave Captain Sandys, who _with fame_,

_Plunged to his middle in the rapid stream_.

He led them through, and with undaunted ire

He gained the bank in spite of all our fire;

Being bravely followed by his grenadiers

Though bullets flew like hail about their ears,

And by this time they enter uncontrolled.

_St. Ruth._ Dare all the force of England be so bold

T’ attempt to storm so brave a town, when I

With all Hibernia’s sons of war am nigh?

Return: and if the Britons dare pursue,

Tell them St. Ruth is near, and _that will do_.

_Post._ Your aid would do much better than your name.

_St. Ruth._ Bear back this answer, friend, from whence you came. [_Exit_ Post.’

The picture of brave Sandys, ‘who with fame plunged to his middle in the

rapid stream,’ is not a bad image on the part of the Post; and St.

Ruth’s reply, ‘Tell them St. Ruth is near, and _that will do_,’

characteristic of the vanity of his nation. But Sarsfield knows Britons

better, and pays a merited compliment to their valour:

‘_Sars._ Send speedy succours and their fate prevent,

You know not yet what Britons dare attempt.

I know the English fortitude is such,

To boast of nothing, though they hazard much.

No force on earth their fury can repel,

Nor would they fly from all the devils in hell.’

Another officer arrives--Athlone is really taken, St. Ruth gives orders

to retreat to Aughrim, and Sarsfield, in a rage, first challenges him,

and then vows he will quit the army. ‘A _gleam_ of horror does my vitals

_damp_,’ says the Frenchman (in a figure of speech more remarkable for

vigour than logic); ‘I fear Lord Lucan has forsook the camp!’ But not

so: after a momentary indignation, Sarsfield returns to his duty, and

ere long is reconciled with his vain and vacillating chief.

And now the love intrigue begins. Godfrey enters--and states Sir Charles

Godfrey is his lawful name: he is an Englishman, and was on his way to

join Ginckle’s camp, when Jemima’s beauty overcame him: he asks Colonel

Talbot to bestow on him the lady’s hand. The Colonel consents, and in

Act II., on the plain of Aughrim, at five o’clock in the morning, Jemima

enters and proclaims her love. The lovers have an interview, which

concludes by a mutual confession of attachment, and Jemima says, ‘Here,

take my hand. ‘Tis true the gift is small, but when I can, I’ll give you

heart and all.’ The lines show finely the agitation of the young person.

She meant to say, Take _my heart_, but she is longing to be married to

him, and the words slip out as it were unawares. Godfrey cries in

raptures--

‘Thanks to the gods! who such a present gave:

Such radiant graces ne’er could man _receive_ (_resave_);

For who on earth has e’er such transports known?

What is the Turkish monarch on his throne,

Hemmed round _with rusty swords_ in pompous state?

Amidst his court no joys can be so great.

Retire with me, my soul, no longer stay!

In public view, the General moves this way.’

‘Tis, indeed, the General; who, reconciled with Sarsfield, straightway,

according to his custom, begins to boast about what he will do:--

‘Thrice welcome to my heart, thou best of friends!

The rock on which our holy faith depends!

May this our meeting as a tempest make

The vast foundations of Britannia shake,

Tear up their orange plant, and overwhelm

The strongest bulwarks of the British realm!

Then shall the Dutch and Hanoverian fall,

And James shall ride in triumph to Whitehall;

Then to protect our faith he will maintain

An inquisition here like that in Spain.

_Sars._ Most bravely urged, my Lord! your skill, I own,

Would be _unparalleled_--had you saved Athlone.’

--‘Had you saved Athlone!’ Sarsfield has him there. And the contest of

words might have provoked quarrels still more fatal, but alarms are

heard: the battle begins, and St. Ruth (still confident) goes to meet

the enemy, exclaiming, ‘Athlone was sweet, but Aughrim shall be sour.’

The fury of the Irish is redoubled on hearing of Talbot’s heroic death.

The Colonel’s corpse is presently brought in, and to it enters Jemima,

who bewails her loss in the following pathetic terms:--

‘_Jemima._ Oh!--he is dead!--my soul is all on fire,

Witness ye gods!--he did with fame expire;

For Liberty a sacrifice was made,

And fell, like Pompey, by some _villain’s_ blade.

There lies a breathless corse, whose soul ne’er knew

A thought but what was always just and true;

Look down from heaven, God of peace and love,

Waft him with triumph to the throne above;

And oh! ye winged guardians of the skies!

Tune your sweet harps, and sing his obsequies!

Good friends, stand off----whilst I embrace the ground

Whereon he lies--------and bathe each mortal wound

With brinish tears, that like to torrents run

From these sad eyes. Oh heavens! I’m undone [_Falls down on the body._

_Enter_ SIR CHARLES GODFREY. _He raises her._

_Sir Char._ Why do these precious eyes like fountains flow,

_To drown the radiant heaven that lies below_?

Dry up your tears, I trust his soul ere this

Has reached the mansions of eternal bliss.

Soldiers! bear hence the body out of sight. [_They bear him off._

_Jem._ Oh, stay--ye murderers, cease to kill me quite:

See how he glares!----and see again he flies!

The clouds fly open, and he mounts the skies.

Oh! see his blood, it shines refulgent bright,}

I see him yet--I cannot lose him quite,}

But still pursue him on--and--_lose my sight_.’}

The gradual disappearance of the Colonel’s soul is now finely indicated,

and so is her grief, when showing the body to Sir Charles, she says,

‘Behold the mangled cause of all my woes.’ The sorrow of youth, however,

is but transitory; and when her lover bids her dry her _gushish_ tears,

she takes out her pocket-handkerchief with the elasticity of youth, and

consoles herself for the father in the husband.

Act III. represents the English camp: Ginckle and his Generals

discourse; the armies are engaged. In Act IV. the English are worsted in

spite of their valour, which Sarsfield greatly describes. ‘View,’ says

he--

‘View how the foe like an impetuous flood

Breaks through the smoke, the water, and--the mud!’

It becomes exceedingly hot. Colonel Earles says--

‘In vain Jove’s lightnings issues from the sky,

For death more sure from British _ensigns_ fly.

Their messengers of death much blood have spilled,

And full three hundred of the Irish killed.’

A description of war (Herbert):--

‘Now bloody colours wave in their pride,

_And each proud hero does his beast bestride_.’

General Dorrington’s description of the fight is, if possible, still

more noble:--

‘_Dor._ Haste, noble friends, and save your lives by flight,

For ‘tis but madness if you stand to fight.

Our cavalry the battle have forsook,

And death appears in each dejected look;

Nothing but dread confusion can be seen,

For severed heads and trunks o’erspread the green;

The fields, the vales, the hills, and vanquished plain,

For five miles round are covered with the slain.

Death in each quarter does the eye alarm,

Here lies a leg, and there a shattered arm.

There heads appear, which, cloven by mighty bangs,

And severed quite, on either shoulder hangs:

This is the awful scene, my Lords! Oh, fly

The impending danger, for your fate is nigh!’

Which party, however, is to win--the Irish or English? Their heroism is

equal, and young Godfrey especially, on the Irish side, is carrying all

before him--when he is interrupted in the slaughter by _the ghost of his

father_: of old Sir Edmonbury, whose monument we may see in Westminster

Abbey. Sir Charles, at first, doubts about the genuineness of this

venerable old apparition; and thus puts a case to the ghost:--

‘Were ghosts in heaven, in heaven they there would stay,

Or if in hell, _they could not get away_.’

A clincher, certainly, as one would imagine; but the ghost jumps over

the horns of the fancied dilemma, by saying that he is not at liberty to

state where he comes from.

‘_Ghost._ Where visions rest, or souls imprisoned dwell,

By Heaven’s command, we are forbid to tell;

But in the obscure grave--where corpse decay,

Moulder in dust and putrify away,--

No rest is there; for the immortal soul

Takes its full flight and flutters round the pole;

Sometimes I hover over the Euxine sea--

From pole to sphere, until the judgment day--

Over the Thracian Bosphorus do I float,

And pass the Stygian lake in Charon’s boat,

O’er Vulcan’s fiery court and sulph’rous cave,

And ride like Neptune on a briny wave;

List to the blowing noise of Etna’s flames,

And court the shades of Amazonian dames;

Then take my flight up to the gloomy moon:

Thus do I wander till the day of doom.

Proceed I dare not, or I would unfold

A horrid tale would make your blood run cold,

Chill all your nerves and sinews in a thrice,

Like whispering rivulets congealed to ice.

_Sir Char._ Ere you depart me, ghost, I here demand

You’d let me know your last divine command!’

The ghost says that the young man must die in the battle; that it will

go ill for him if he die in the wrong cause; and, therefore, that he had

best go over to the Protestants--which poor Sir Charles (not without

many sighs for Jemima) consents to do. He goes off then, saying--

‘I’ll join my countrymen, and yet proclaim

Nassau’s great title to the _crimson plain_.’

In Act V., that desertion turns the fate of the day. Sarsfield enters

with his sword drawn, and acknowledges his fate. ‘Aughrim,’ exclaims

Lord Lucan,

‘Aughrim is now no more, St. Ruth is dead,

And all his guards are from the battle fled.

As he rode down the hill he met his fall,

_And died a victim to a cannon ball_.’

And he bids the Frenchman’s body to

‘----lie like Pompey in his gore,

Whose hero’s blood encircles the Egyptian shore.’

‘Four hundred Irish prisoners we have got,’ exclaims an English General,

‘and seven thousand lyeth on the spot.’ In fact, they are entirely

discomfited, and retreat off the stage altogether; while, in the moment

of victory, poor Sir Charles Godfrey enters, wounded to death, according

to the old gentleman’s prophecy. He is racked by bitter remorse; he

tells his love of his treachery, and declares ‘no crocodile was ever

more unjust.’ His agony increases, the ‘optic nerves grow dim and lose

their sight, and all his veins are now exhausted quite;’ and he dies in

the arms of his Jemima, who stabs herself in the usual way.

And so every one being disposed of, the drums and trumpets give a great

peal, the audience huzzas, and the curtain falls on Ginckle and his

friends exclaiming--

‘May all the gods th’ auspicious evening bless,

Who crowns Great Britain’s _arrums_ with success!’

And questioning the prosody, what Englishman will not join in the

sentiment?

In the interlude the band (the pipe) performs a favourite air. Jack the

waiter and candle-snuffer looks to see that all is ready: and after the

dire business of the tragedy, comes in to sprinkle the stage with water

(and perhaps a little whisky in it). Thus all things being arranged, the

audience takes its seat again, and the afterpiece begins.

* * * * *

Two of the little yellow volumes purchased at Ennis are entitled _The

Irish and the Hibernian Tales_. The former are modern, and the latter of

an ancient sort; and so great is the superiority of the old stories over

the new, in fancy, dramatic interest, and humour, that one can’t help

fancying Hibernia must have been a very superior country to Ireland.

These Hibernian novels, too, are evidently intended for the Hedge-School

universities. They have the old tricks and some of the old plots that

one has read in many popular legends of almost all countries, European

and Eastern: successful cunning is the great virtue applauded; and the

heroes pass through a thousand wild extravagant dangers, such as could

only have been invented when art was young and faith was large. And as

the honest old author of the tales says, ‘they are suited to the meanest

as well as the highest capacity, tending both to improve the fancy and

enrich the mind,’ let us conclude the night’s entertainment by reading

one or two of them, and reposing after the doleful tragedy which has

been represented. The ‘Black Thief’ is worthy of the _Arabian Nights_, I

think,--as wild and odd as an Eastern tale.

It begins, as usual, with a king and a queen who lived once on a time in

the south of Ireland, and had three sons: but the queen being on her

death-bed, and fancying her husband might marry again, and unwilling

that her children should be under the jurisdiction of any other woman,

besought his majesty to place them in a tower at her death, and keep

them there safe until the young princes should come of age.

The queen dies: the king of course marries again, and the new queen, who

bears a son too, hates the offspring of the former marriage, and looks

about for means to destroy them.

‘At length the queen, _having got some business with the hen-wife_, went

herself to her, and after a long conference passed, was taking leave of

her, when the hen-wife prayed that if ever she should come back to her

again she might break her neck. The queen, greatly incensed at such a

daring insult from one of her meanest subjects, to make such a prayer on

her, demanded immediately the reason, or she would have her put to

death. “It was worth your while, madam,” says the hen-wife, “to pay me

well for it, for the reason I prayed so on you concerns you much.” “What

must I pay you?” asked the queen. “You must give me,” says she, “the

full of a pack of wool: and I have an ancient crock which you must fill

with butter; likewise a barrel which you must fill for me full of

wheat.” “How much wool will it take to the pack?” says the queen. “It

will take seven herds of sheep,” said she, “and their increase for seven

years.” “How much butter will it take to fill your crock?” “Seven

dairies,” said she, “and the increase for seven years.” “And how much

will it take to fill the barrel you have?” says the queen. “It will take

the increase of seven barrels of wheat for seven years.” “That is a

great quantity,” says the queen, “but the reason must be extraordinary,

and before I want it, I will give you all you demand.”’

The hen-wife acquaints the queen with the existence of the three sons,

and giving her majesty an enchanted pack of cards, bids her to get the

young men to play with her with these cards, and on their losing, to

inflict upon them such a task as must infallibly end in their ruin. All

young princes are set upon such tasks, and it is a sort of opening of

the pantomime, before the tricks and activity begin. The queen went

home, and ‘got speaking’ to the king ‘in regard of his children, and

_she broke it off_ to him in a very polite and engaging manner, so that

he could see no muster or design in it.’ The king agreed to bring his

sons to court, and at night, when the royal party ‘began to sport, and

play at all kinds of diversions,’ the queen cunningly challenged the

three princes to play cards. They lose, and she sends them in

consequence to bring her back the Knight of the Glen’s wild steed of

bells.

On their road (as wandering young princes, Indian or Irish, always do)

they meet with the Black Thief of Sloan, who tells them what they must

do. But they are caught in the attempt, and brought ‘into that dismal

part of the palace where the Knight kept a furnace always boiling, in

which he threw all offenders that ever came in his way, which in a few

minutes would entirely consume them. “Audacious villains!” says the

Knight of the Glen, “how dare you attempt so bold an action as to steal

my steed? See now the reward of your folly: for your greater punishment,

I will not boil you all together, but one after the other, so that he

that survives may witness the dire afflictions of his unfortunate

companions.” So saying, he ordered his servants to stir up the fire. “We

will boil the eldest-looking of these young men first,” says he, “and so

on to the last, which will be this _old champion_ with the black cap. He

seems to be the captain, and looks as if he had come through many

toils.”--I was as near death once as this prince is yet,” says the

Black Thief, “and escaped: and so will he too.” “No, you never were,”

said the Knight, “for he is within two or three minutes of his latter

end.” “But,” says the Black Thief, “I was within one moment of my death,

and I am here yet.” “How was that?” says the Knight. “I would be glad to

hear it, for it seems to be impossible.” “If you think, Sir Knight,”

says the Black Thief, “that the danger I was in surpassed that of this

young man, will you pardon him his crime?” “I will,” says the Knight,

“so go on with your story.”

‘“I was, sir,” says he, “a very wild boy in my youth, and came through

many distresses; once in particular, as I was on my rambling, I was

benighted, and could find no lodging. At length I came to an old kiln,

and being much fatigued, I went up and lay on the ribs. I had not been

long there, when I saw three witches coming in with three bags of gold.

Each put their bags of gold under their heads, as if to sleep. I heard

the one say to the other, that if the Black Thief came on them while

they slept, he would not leave them a penny. I found by their discourse

that everybody had got my name into their mouth, though I kept silent as

death during their discourse. At length they fell fast asleep, and then

I stole softly down, and seeing some turf _convenient_, I placed one

under each of their heads, and off I went with their gold, as fast as I

could.

‘“I had not gone far,” continued the Thief of Sloan, “until I saw a

greyhound, a hare, and a hawk in pursuit of me, and began to think it

must be the witches that had taken that metamorphose, in order that I

might not escape them unseen either by land or water. Seeing they did

not appear in any formidable shape, I was more than once resolved to

attack them, thinking that with my broadsword I could easily destroy

them. But considering again that it was perhaps still in their power to

become so, I gave over the attempt, and climbed with difficulty up a

tree, bringing my sword in my hand, and all the gold along with me.

However, when they came to the tree they found what I had done, and,

making further use of their hellish art, one of them was changed into a

smith’s anvil, and another into a piece of iron, of which the third one

soon made a hatchet. Having the hatchet made, she fell to cutting down

the tree, and in course of an hour it began to shake with me.”’

This is very good and original. The ‘boiling’ is in the first

fee-faw-fum style, and the old allusion to ‘the old champion in the

black cap’ has the real Ogresque humour. Nor is that simple contrivance

of the honest witches without its charm; for if, instead of wasting

their time, the one in turning herself into an anvil, the other into a

piece of iron, and so hammering out a hatchet at considerable labour and

expense--if either of them had turned herself into a hatchet at once,

they might have chopped down the Black Thief before cock-crow, when they

were obliged to fly off, and leave him in possession of the bags of

gold.

The eldest prince is ransomed by the Knight of the Glen, in consequence

of this story; and the second prince escapes on account of the merit of

a second story; but the great story of all is of course reserved for the

youngest prince.

‘I was one day on my travels,’ says the Black Thief, ‘and I came into a

large forest, where I wandered a long time, and could not get out of it.

At length I came to a large castle, and fatigue obliged me to call in

the same, where I found a young woman, and a child sitting on her knee,

and she crying. I asked her what made her cry, and where the lord of the

castle was, for I wondered greatly that I saw no stir of servants, or

any person about the place. “It is well for you,” says the young woman,

“that the lord of this castle is not at home at present; for he is a

monstrous giant, with but one eye on his forehead, who lives on human

flesh. He brought me this child,” says she--I do not know where he got

it--and ordered me to make it into a pie, and I cannot help crying at

the command.” I told her that if she knew of any place convenient, that

I could leave the child safely, I would do it, rather than that it

should be buried in the bowels of such a monster. She told of a house a

distance off, where I would get a woman who would take care of it. “But

what will I do in regard of the pie?” “Cut a finger off it,” said I,

“and I will bring you in a young wild pig out of the forest, which you

may dress as if it was the child, and put the finger in a certain place,

that if the giant doubts anything about it, you may know where to turn

it over at first, and when he sees it he will be fully satisfied that

it is made of the child.” She agreed to the plan I proposed; and,

cutting off the child’s finger, by her direction, I soon had it at the

house she told me of, and brought her the little pig in the place of it.

She then made ready the pie; and, after eating and drinking heartily

myself, I was just taking my leave of the young woman when we observed

the giant coming through the castle gates. “Lord bless me!” said she,

“what will you do now? Run away and lie down among the dead bodies that

he has in the room” (showing me the place); “and strip off your clothes

that he may not know you from the rest if he has occasion to go that

way.” I took her advice, and laid myself down among the rest, as if

dead, to see how he would behave. The first thing I heard was him

calling for his pie. When she set it down before him, he swore it smelt

like swine’s flesh; but, knowing where to find the finger, she

immediately turned it up, which fairly convinced him of the contrary.

The pie only served to sharpen his appetite, and I heard him sharpen his

knife, and saying he must have a collop or two, for he was not near

satisfied. But what was my terror when I heard the giant groping among

the bodies, and, fancying myself, cut the half of my hip off, and took

it with him to be roasted. You may be certain I was in great pain; but

the fear of being killed prevented me from making any complaint.

However, when he had eat all, he began to drink hot liquors in great

abundance, so that in a short time he could not hold up his head, but

threw himself on a large creel he had made for the purpose, and fell

fast asleep. _Whenever_ I heard him snoring, bad as I was, I went up and

caused the woman to bind my wound with an handkerchief; and taking the

giant’s spit, I reddened it in the fire, and ran it through the eye, but

was not able to kill him. However, I left the spit sticking in his head,

and took to my heels; but I soon found he was in pursuit of me, although

blind; and, having an enchanted ring, he threw it at me, and it fell on

my big toe and remained fastened to it. The giant then called to the

ring, where it was, and to my great surprise it made him answer on my

foot; and he, guided by the same, made a leap at me, which I had the

good luck to observe, and fortunately escaped the danger. However, I

found running was of no use in saving me as long as I had the ring on my

foot; so I took my sword and cut off the toe it was fastened on, and

threw both into a large fish-pond that was convenient. The giant called

again to the ring, which, by the power of enchantment, always made

answer; but he, not knowing what I had done, imagined it was still on

some part of me, and made a violent leap to seize me, when he went into

the pond, over head and ears, and was drowned. “Now, Sir Knight,” says

the Thief of Sloan, “you see what dangers I came through and always

escaped; but, indeed, I am lame for want of my toe ever since.”’

And now remains but one question to be answered, viz. How is the Black

Thief himself to come off? This difficulty is solved in a very dramatic

way, and with a sudden turn in the narrative that is very wild and

curious.

‘My lord and master,’ says an old woman that was listening all the time,

‘that story is but too true, as I well know, _for I am the very woman

that was in the giant’s castle, and you, my lord, the child that I was

to make into a pie_, and this is the very man that saved your life,

which you may know by the want of your finger that was taken off, as you

have heard, to deceive the giant.’

That fantastical way of bearing testimony to the previous tale, by

producing an old woman who says the tale is not only true, but she was

the very old woman who lived in the giant’s castle, is almost a stroke

of genius. It is fine to think that the simple chronicler found it

necessary to have a proof for his story, and he was no doubt perfectly

contented with the proof found.

‘The Knight of the Glen, greatly surprised at what he had heard the old

woman tell, and knowing he wanted his finger from his childhood, began

to understand that the story was true enough. “And is this my dear

deliverer?” says he. “O brave fellow, I not only pardon you all, but I

will keep you with myself while you live; where you shall feast like

princes, and have every attendance that I have myself.” They all

returned thanks on their knees, and the Black Thief told him the reason

they attempted to steal the steed of Bells, and the necessity they were

under in going home. “Well,” says the Knight of the Glen, “if that’s the

case, I bestow you my steed rather than this brave fellow should die; so

you may go when you please; only remember to call and see me betimes,

that we may know each other well.” They promised they would, and with

great joy they set off for the King their father’s palace, and the Black

Thief along with them. The wicked Queen was standing all this time on

the tower, and, hearing the bells ringing at a great distance off, knew

very well it was the Princes coming home, and the steed with them, and

through spite and vexation precipitated herself from the tower, and was

shattered to pieces. The three Princes lived happy and well during their

father’s reign, always keeping the Black Thief along with them; but how

they did after the old King’s death is not known.’

Then we come upon a story that exists in many a European language, of

the man cheating Death; then to the history of the Apprentice Thief,

who of course cheated his masters; which, too, is an old tale, and may

have been told very likely among those Phœnicians who were the

fathers of the Hibernians for whom these tales were devised. A very

curious tale is there, concerning Manus O’Malaghan and the fairies:--‘In

the parish of Ahoghill lived Manus O’Malaghan. _As he was searching for

a calf that had strayed_, he heard many people talking. Drawing near, he

distinctly heard them repeating, one after the other, “Get me a horse,

get me a horse”; and “Get me a horse too,” says Manus. Manus was

instantly mounted on a steed surrounded with a vast crowd, who galloped

off, taking poor Manus with them. In a short time they suddenly stopped

in a large wide street, asking Manus if he knew where he was? “Faith,”

says he, “I do not.” “You are _in Spain_,” said they.’

Here we have again the wild mixture of the positive and the fanciful.

The chronicler is careful to tell us why Manus went out searching for a

calf, and this positiveness prodigiously increases the reader’s wonder

at the subsequent events. And the question and answer of the mysterious

horsemen is fine: ‘Don’t you know where you are? _In Spain._’ A vague

solution, such as one has of occurrences in dreams sometimes.

The history of Robin the Blacksmith is full of these strange flights of

poetry. He is followed about ‘by a little boy in a green jacket,’ who

performs the most wondrous feats of the blacksmith’s art, as follows:--

‘Robin was asked to do something, who wisely shifted it, saying he would

be very sorry not to give the honour of the first trick to his

lordship’s smith; at which he was called forth to the bellows. When the

fire was well kindled, to the great surprise of all present he blew a

great shower of wheat out of the fire, which fell through all the shop.

They then demanded of Robin to try what he could do. “Pho!” said Robin,

as if he thought nothing of what was done. “Come,” said he to the boy,

“I think I showed you something like that.” The boy goes then to the

bellows and blew out a great flock of pigeons, who soon devoured all the

grain, and then disappeared.

‘The Dublin smith, sorely vexed that such a boy as him should outdo him,

goes a second time to the bellows, and blew a fine trout out of the

hearth, who jumped into a little river that was running by the shop

door, and was seen no more at that time.

‘Robin then said to the boy, “Come, you must bring us yon trout back

again, to let the gentlemen see we can do something.” Away the boy goes,

and blew a large otter out of the hearth, who immediately leaped into

the river, and in a short time returned with it in his mouth, and then

disappeared. All present allowed that it was a folly to attempt a

competition any further.’

The boy in the green jacket was one ‘of a kind of small beings called

Fairies’; and not a little does it add to the charm of these wild tales

to feel, as one reads them, that the writer must have believed in his

heart a great deal of what he told. You see the tremor, as it were, and

a wild look of the eyes, as the story-teller sits in his nook, and

recites, and peers wistfully round, lest the beings he talks of be

really at hand.

Let us give a couple of the little tales entire. They are not so

fanciful as those before mentioned, but of the comic sort, and suited to

the first kind of capacity mentioned by the author in his preface.

Donald and his Neighbors

‘Hudden and Dudden, and Donald O’Neary, were near neighbours in the

barony of Ballinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two

former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill

his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured,

that, going back in the world, he might be induced to sell his lands,

which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock

killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing his skin over his shoulder,

with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose

of it to the best advantage. Going along the road a magpie flew on the

top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering all the time. This

bird had been taught to speak and imitate the human voice, and Donald,

thinking he understood some words it was saying, put round his hand and

caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his

greatcoat, and so went on to the town. Having sold the hide, he went

into an inn to take a dram; and, following the landlady into the cellar,

he gave the bird a squeeze, which caused it to chatter some broken

accents that surprised her very much. “What is that I hear?” said she to

Donald: “I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.” “Indeed,”

said Donald, “it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always

carry it with me to know when there is any danger. Faith,” says he, “it

says you have far better liquor than you are giving me.” “That is

strange,” said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking

him if he would sell the bird. “I will,” said Donald, “if I get enough

for it.” “I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me.”

Donald was glad to hear the news, and, taking the silver, set off,

rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long home when he met with

Hudden and Dudden. “Ha!” said he, “you thought you did me a bad turn,

but you could not have done me a better; for, look here, what I have got

for the hide,” showing them the hatful of silver. “You never saw such a

demand for hides in your life as there is at present.” Hudden and Dudden

that very night killed their bullocks, and set out the next morning to

sell their hides. On coming to the place they went through all the

merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to

take what they could get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing

revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would

turn out; and his bed being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they

would rob him, or perhaps kill him when asleep; and on that account,

when he was going to bed, he left his old mother in his bed, and lay

down in her place, which was in the other side of the house; and, taking

the old woman for Donald, choked her in the bed; but he making some

noise, they had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which

grieved them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on

his back, and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his

mother, with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then

went into a public-house convenient, and called for a dram. “I wish,”

said he to a woman that stood near him, “you would tell my mother to

come in; she is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard in

hearing; if she does not observe you, give her a little shake, and tell

her that I want her.” The woman called her several times, but she seemed

to take no notice: at length she went to her and shook her by the arm;

but when she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well,

and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in great fear and surprise

at the accident, told Donald what had happened. “O, mercy,” said he,

“what is this?” He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and

lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would

imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was

far worse than Donald; for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined

herself to be the cause of the old woman’s death. The inhabitants of the

town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of

money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place; and Donald

brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They

buried Donald’s mother; and as soon as he saw Hudden and Dudden, he

showed them the last purse of money he had got. “You thought to kill me

last night,” said he, “but it was good for me it happened on my mother,

for I got all that purse for her, to make gunpowder.”

‘That very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next

morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their

burthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, “Who will buy old

wives for gunpowder?” so that every one laughed at them, and the boys at

last clodded them out of the place. They then saw the cheat, and, vowing

revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him.

Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and

seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some

distance. As they were going along the highway, they raised a hare,

which they saw had but three feet, and, throwing off the sack, ran after

her, thinking by appearance she would be easily taken. In their absence

there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack,

wondered greatly what could be the matter. “What is the reason,” said

he, “that you are singing, and you confined?” “Oh, I am going to

heaven,” said Donald; “and in a short time I expect to be free from

trouble.” “Oh dear,” said the drover, “what will I give you if you let

me to your place?” “Indeed I do not know,” said he; “it would take a

good sum.” “I have not much money,” said the drover, “but I have twenty

head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me.”

“Well, well,” says Donald, “I don’t care if I should; loose the sack and

I will come out.” In a moment the drover liberated him, and went into

the sack himself; and Donald drove home the fine heifers and left them

in his pasture.

‘Hudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the

sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the

river, and threw him in, where he immediately sunk. They then marched

home, intending to take immediate possession of Donald’s property; but

how great was their surprise, when they found him safe at home before

them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none

before. “Donald,” said they, “what is all this? We thought you were

drowned, and yet you are here before us?” “Ah!” said he, “if I had but

help along with me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job

ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was

seen, is there, and no one to own them; but I was not able to manage

more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might

get hundreds.” They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald

accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifting up a

stone, “Now,” said he, “watch this,” throwing it into the stream. “There

is the very place, and go in one of you first, and if you want help, you

have nothing to do but call.” Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the

bottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise as those do that are

drowning, attempting to speak, but could not. “What is that he is saying

now?” says Dudden. “Faith,” says Donald, “he is calling for help--don’t

you hear him? Stand about,” said he, running back, “till I leap in; I

know how to do better than any of you.” Dudden, to have the advantage of

him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden. And this

was the end of Hudden and Dudden.’

The Spaeman

‘A poor man in the North of Ireland was under the necessity of selling

his cow, to help to support his family. Having sold his cow, he went

into an inn, and called for some liquor. Having drank pretty heartily,

he fell asleep, and when he awoke he found he had been robbed of his

money. Poor Roger was at a loss to know how to act; and, as is often the

case, when the landlord found that his money was gone, he turned him out

of doors. The night was extremely dark, and the poor man was compelled

to take up his lodgings in an old uninhabited house at the end of the

town.

‘Roger had not remained long here until he was surprised by the noise of

three men, whom he observed making a hole, and, depositing something

therein, closed it carefully up again, and then went away. The next

morning, as Roger was walking towards the town, he heard that a cloth

shop had been robbed to a great amount, and that a reward of thirty

pounds was offered to any person who could discover the thieves. This

was joyful news to Roger, who recollected what he had been witness to

the night before. He accordingly went to the shop, and told the

gentleman that for the reward he would recover the goods, and secure the

robbers, provided he got six stout men to attend him. All which was

thankfully granted him.

‘At night Roger and his men concealed themselves in the old house, and

in a short time after the robbers came to the spot for the purpose of

removing their booty; but they were instantly seized and carried into

the town, prisoners, with the goods. Roger received the reward and

returned home, well satisfied with his good luck. Not many days after,

it was noised over the country that this robbery was discovered by the

help of one of the best Spaemen to be found, insomuch that it reached

the ears of a worthy gentleman of the county of Derry, who made strict

inquiry to find him out. Having at length discovered his abode, he sent

for Roger, and told him he was every day losing some valuable article,

and, as he was famed for discovering lost things, if he could find out

the same he should be handsomely rewarded. Poor Roger was put to a

stand, not knowing what answer to make, as he had not the smallest

knowledge of the like. But recovering himself a little, he resolved to

humour the joke; and, thinking he would make a good dinner and some

drink of it, told the gentleman he would try what he could do, but that

he must have a room to himself for three hours, during which time he

must have three bottles of strong ale and his dinner. All which the

gentleman told him he should have. No sooner was it made known that the

Spaeman was in the house than the servants were all in confusion,

wishing to know what would be said.

‘As soon as Roger had taken his dinner, he was shown into an elegant

room, where the gentleman sent him a quart of ale by the butler. No

sooner had he set down the ale than Roger said, “There comes one of

them”; intimating the bargain he had made with the gentleman for the

three quarts, which the butler took in a wrong light, and imagined it

was himself. He went away in great confusion, and told his wife. “Poor

fool,” said she, “the fear makes you think it is you he means; but I

will attend in your place, and hear what he will say to me.” Accordingly

she carried the second quart; but no sooner had she opened the door than

Roger cried, “There comes two of them.” The woman, no less surprised

than her husband, told him the Spaeman knew her too. “And what will we

do?” said he; “we will be hanged.” “I will tell you what we must do,”

said she: “we must send the groom the next time, and if he is known, we

must offer him a good sum not to discover on us.” The butler went to

William and told him the whole story, and that he must go next to see

what he would say to him, telling him at the same time what to do, in

case he was known also. When the hour was expired, William was sent with

the third quart of ale, which, when Roger observed, he cried out, “There

is the third and last of them”; at which he changed colour, and told him

“that if he would not discover on them, they would show him where they

were all concealed, and give him five pounds besides.” Roger, not a

little surprised at the discovery he had made, told him “if he recovered

the goods, he would follow them no further.”

‘By this time the gentleman called Roger to know how he had succeeded.

He told him “he could find the goods, but that the thief was gone.” “I

will be well satisfied,” said he, “with the goods, for some of them are

very valuable.” “Let the butler come along with me, and the whole shall

be recovered.” He accordingly conducted Roger to the back of the

stables, where the articles were concealed--such as silver cups, spoons,

bowls, knives, forks, and a variety of other articles of great value.

‘When the supposed Spaeman brought back the stolen goods, the gentleman

was so highly pleased with Roger, that he insisted on his remaining with

him always, as he supposed he would be perfectly safe as long as he was

about his house. Roger gladly embraced the offer, and in a few days took

possession of a piece of land, which the gentleman had given to him in

consideration of his great abilities.

‘Some time after this, the gentleman was relating to a large company the

discovery Roger had made, and that he could tell anything. One of the

gentlemen said he would dress a dish of meat, and bet for fifty pounds

that he could not tell what was in it, and he would allow him to taste

it. The bet being taken and the dish dressed, the gentleman sent for

Roger, and told the bet that was depending on him. Poor Roger did not

know what to do; at last he consented to the trial. The dish being

produced, he tasted it, but could not tell what it was. At last, seeing

he was fairly beat, he said, “Gentlemen, it is folly to talk: the fox

may run awhile, but he is caught at last”--allowing with himself that he

was found out. The gentleman that had made the bet then confessed that

it was a fox he had dressed in the dish; at which they all shouted out

in favour of the Spaeman--particularly his master, who had more

confidence in him than ever.

‘Roger then went home, and so famous did he become, that no one dared

take anything but what belonged to them, fearing that the Spaeman would

discover on them.’

* * * * *

And so we shut up the Hedge-School Library, and close the Galway Nights’

Entertainments. They are not quite so genteel as Almack’s, to be sure;

but many a lady who has her opera-box in London has listened to a piper

in Ireland.

[Illustration]

_Apropos_ of pipers: here is a young one that I caught and copied

to-day. He was paddling in the mud, shining in the sun careless of his

rays, and playing his little tin-music as happy as Mr. Cooke with his

oboe.

Perhaps the above verses and tales are not unlike my little Galway

musician. They are grotesque and rugged; but they are pretty and

innocent-hearted too; and as such, polite persons may deign to look at

them for once in a way. While we have Signor Costa in a white neckcloth,

ordering opera-bands to play for us the music of Donizetti, which is not

only sublime but genteel; of course such poor little operatives as he

who plays the wind-instrument yonder, cannot expect to be heard often;

but is not this Galway? and how far is Galway from the Haymarket?

CHAPTER XVII

FROM GALWAY TO BALLYNAHINCH

The Clifden car, which carries the Dublin letters into the heart of

Connemara, conducts the passenger over one of the most wild and

beautiful districts that it is ever the fortune of a traveller to

examine; and I could not help thinking, as we passed through it, at how

much pains and expense honest English Cockneys are, to go and look after

natural beauties far inferior, in countries which, though more distant,

are not a whit more strange than this one. No doubt, ere long, when

people know how easy the task is, the rush of London tourism will come

this way; and I shall be very happy if these pages shall be able to

awaken in one bosom, beating in Tooley Street or the Temple, the desire

to travel towards Ireland next year.

After leaving the quaint old town behind us, and ascending one or two

small eminences to the north-westward, the traveller, from the car, gets

a view of the wide sheet of Lough Corrib shining in the sun, as we saw

it, with its low dark banks stretching round it. If the view is gloomy,

at least it is characteristic; nor are we delayed by it very long; for

though the lake stretches northwards into the very midst of the Joyce

country (and is there in the close neighbourhood of another huge lake,

Lough Mask, which again is near to another sheet of water), yet from

this road henceforth, after keeping company with it for some five miles,

we only get occasional views of it, passing over hills and through

trees, by many rivers and smaller lakes, which are dependent upon that

of Corrib. Gentlemen’s seats, on the road from Galway to Moycullen, are

scattered in great profusion--perhaps there is grass growing on the

gravel walk, and the iron gates of the tumble-down old lodges are rather

rickety; but for all that, the places look comfortable, hospitable, and

spacious; and as for the shabbiness and want of finish here and there,

the English eye grows quite accustomed to it in a month; and I find the

bad condition of the Galway houses by no means so painful as that of the

places near Dublin. At some of the lodges, as we pass, the mail-carman,

with a warning shout, flings a bag of letters. I saw a little party

looking at one which lay there in the road, crying, Come, take me! but

nobody cares to steal a bag of letters in this country, I suppose, and

the carman drove on without any alarm. Two days afterwards, a gentleman

with whom I was in company left on a rock his book of fishing-flies; and

I can assure you there was a very different feeling expressed about the

safety of _that_.

In the first part of the journey, the neighbourhood of the road seemed

to be as populous as in other parts of the country,--troops of

red-petticoated peasantry peering from their stone-cabins,--yelling

children following the car, and crying, ‘Lash, lash!’ It was Sunday, and

you would see many a white chapel among the green bare plains to the

right of the road, the courtyard blackened with a swarm of cloaks. The

service seems to continue (on the part of the people) all day. Troops of

people, issuing from the chapel, met us at Moycullen, and ten miles

farther on, at Oughterard, their devotions did not yet seem to be

concluded.

A more beautiful village can scarcely be seen than this. It stands upon

Lough Corrib, the banks of which are here, for once at least,

picturesque and romantic; and a pretty river, the Feogh, comes rushing

over rocks and by woods, until it passes the town and meets the lake.

Some pretty buildings in the village stand on each bank of this stream,

a Roman Catholic chapel with a curate’s neat lodge, a little church, on

one side of it; a fine court-house of grey stone on the other. And here

it is that we get into the famous district of Connemara, so celebrated

in Irish stories, so mysterious to the London tourist. ‘It presents

itself,’ says the Guide-book, ‘under every possible combination of

heathy moor, bog, lake, and mountain. Extensive mossy plains, and wild

pastoral valleys, lie embosomed among the mountains, and support

numerous herds of cattle and horses, for which the district has been

long celebrated. These wild solitudes, which occupy by far the greater

part of the centre of the country, are held by a hardy and ancient race

of grazing farmers, who live in a very primitive state, and, generally

speaking, till little beyond what supplies their immediate wants. For

the first ten miles the country is comparatively open; and the mountains

on the left, which are not of great elevation, can be distinctly traced

as they rise along the edge of the heathy plain.

‘Our road continues along the Feogh River, which expands itself into

several considerable lakes, and at five miles from Oughterard we reach

Lough Bofin, which the road also skirts. Passing in succession

Lough-a-preaghan, the lakes of Anderran and Shindella, at ten miles from

Oughterard we reach Slyme and Lynn’s Inn, or Halfway House, which is

near the shore of Loughonard. Now, as we advance towards the group of

Binabola, or the Twelve Pins, the most gigantic scenery is displayed.’

But the best guide-book that ever was written cannot set the view before

the mind’s eye of the reader, and I won’t attempt to pile up big words

in place of these wild mountains, over which the clouds as they passed,

or the sunshine as it went and came, cast every variety of tint, light,

and shadow; nor can it be expected that long, level sentences, however

smooth and shining, can be made to pass as representations of those calm

lakes by which we took our way. All one can do is to lay down the pen

and ruminate, and cry ‘Beautiful!’ once more; and to the reader say,

‘Come and see!’

Wild and wide as the prospect around us is, it has somehow a kindly,

friendly look, differing in this from the fierce loneliness of some

similar scenes in Wales that I have viewed. Ragged women and children

come out of rude stone-huts to see the car as it passes. But it is

impossible for the pencil to give due raggedness to the rags, or to

convey a certain picturesque mellowness of colour that the garments

assume. The sexes, with regard to raiment, do not seem to be particular.

There were many boys on the road in the national red petticoat, having

no other covering for their lean, brown legs. As for shoes, the women

eschew them almost entirely; and I saw a peasant trudging from mass, in

a handsome scarlet cloak, a fine blue cloth gown, turned up to show a

new lining of the same colour, and a petticoat quite white and neat, in

a dress of which the cost must have been at least £10; and her husband

walked in front carrying her shoes and stockings.

The road had conducted us for miles through the vast property of the

gentleman to whose house I was bound, Mr. Martin, the Member for the

county; and the last and prettiest part of the journey was round the

Lake of Ballynahinch, with tall mountains rising immediately above us on

the right, pleasant woody hills on the opposite side of the lake, with

the roofs of the houses rising above the trees; and in an island in the

midst of the water a ruined old castle, that cast a long, white

reflection into the blue waters where it lay. A land-pirate used to live

in that castle, one of the peasants told me, in the time of ‘Oliver

Cromwell.’ And a fine fastness it was for a robber, truly; for there

was no road through these wild countries in his time--nay, only thirty

years since, this lake was at three days’ distance of Galway. Then comes

the question, What, in a country where there were no roads and no

travellers, and where the inhabitants have been wretchedly poor from

time immemorial,--what was there for the land-pirate to rob? But let us

not be too curious about times so early as those of Oliver Cromwell. I

have heard the name many times from the Irish peasant, who still has an

awe of the grim, resolute Protector.

The builder of Ballynahinch House has placed it to command a view of a

pretty, melancholy river that runs by it, through many green flats and

picturesque rocky grounds; but from the lake it is scarcely visible. And

so, in like manner, I fear it must remain invisible to the reader too,

with all its kind inmates, and frank, cordial hospitality, unless he may

take a fancy to visit Galway himself, when, as I can vouch, a very small

pretext will make him enjoy both.

It will, however, be only a small breach of confidence to say, that the

major-domo of the establishment (who has adopted accurately the voice

and manner of his master, with a severe dignity of his own, which is

quite original) ordered me on going to bed ‘not to move in the morning

till he called me,’ at the same time expressing a hearty hope that I

should ‘want nothing more that evening.’ Who would dare, after such

peremptory orders, not to fall asleep immediately, and in this way

disturb the repose of Mr. J--n M--ll--y!

There may be many comparisons drawn between English and Irish

gentlemen’s houses; but perhaps the most striking point of difference

between the two is the immense following of the Irish house, such as

would make an English housekeeper crazy almost. Three comfortable,

well-clothed, good-humoured fellows walked down with me from the car,

persisting in carrying--one a bag, another a sketching-stool, and so on;

walking about the premises in the morning, sundry others were visible in

the courtyard, and near the kitchen door. In the grounds a gentleman, by

name Mr. Marcus C--rr, began discoursing to me regarding the place, the

planting, the fish, the grouse, and the Master, being himself,

doubtless, one of the irregulars of the house. As for maids, there were

half a score of them skurrying about the house; and I am not ashamed to

confess that some of them were exceedingly good-looking. And if I might

venture to say a word more, it would be respecting Connemara breakfasts;

but this would be an entire and flagrant breach of confidence, and, to

be sure, the dinners were just as good.

One of the days of my three days’ visit was to be devoted to the lakes;

and as a party had been arranged for the second day after my arrival, I

was glad to take advantage of the society of a gentleman staying in the

house, and ride with him to the neighbouring town of Clifden.

The ride thither from Ballynahinch is surprisingly beautiful; and as you

ascend the high ground from the two or three rude stone-huts which face

the entrance-gates of the house, there are views of the lake and the

surrounding country which the best parts of Killarney do not surpass, I

think, although the Connemara lakes do not possess the advantage of wood

which belongs to the famous Kerry landscape.

But the cultivation of the country is only in its infancy as yet, and it

is easy to see how vast its resources are, and what capital and

cultivation may do for it. In the green patches among the rocks, and the

mountain-sides, wherever crops were grown, they flourished; plenty of

natural wood is springing up in various places; and there is no end to

what the planter may do, and to what time and care may effect. The

carriage-road to Clifden is but ten years old; as it has brought the

means of communication into the country, the commerce will doubtless

follow it; and in fact, in going through the whole kingdom, one can’t

but be struck with the idea that not one-hundredth part of its

capabilities are yet brought into action, or even known perhaps, and

that by the easy and certain progress of time, Ireland will be poor

Ireland no longer. For instance, we rode by a vast green plain, skirting

a lake and river, which is now useless almost for pasture, and which a

little draining will convert into thousands of acres of rich productive

land. Streams and falls of water dash by one everywhere--they have only

to utilise this water-power for mills and factories; and hard by are

some of the finest bays in the world, where ships can deliver and

receive foreign and home produce. At Roundstone especially, where a

little town has been erected, the bay is said to be unexampled for size,

depth, and shelter; and the Government is now, through the rocks and

hills on their wild shore, cutting a coast-road to Bunown, the most

westerly part of Connemara, whence there is another good road to

Clifden. Among the charges which the Repealers bring against the Union,

they should include at least this: they would never have had these roads

but for the Union, roads which are as much at the charge of the London

tax-payer as of the most ill-used Milesian in Connaught.

A string of small lakes follow the road to Clifden, with mountains on

the right of the traveller for the chief part of the way. A few figures

at work in the bog-lands--a red petticoat passing here and there--a

goat or two browsing among the stones--or a troop of ragged whitey-brown

children, who came out to gaze at the car, form the chief society on the

road. The first house at the entrance to Clifden is a gigantic

poorhouse--tall, large, ugly, comfortable, it commands the town, and

looks almost as big as every one of the houses therein. The town itself

is but of a few years’ date, and seems to thrive in its small way.

Clifden Castle is a fine château in the neighbourhood, and belongs to

another owner of immense lands in Galway--Mr. D’Arcy.

Here a drive was proposed along the coast to Bunown, and I was glad to

see some more of the country, and its character. Nothing can be wilder.

We passed little lake after lake, lying a few furlongs inwards from the

shore. There were rocks everywhere, some patches of cultivated land here

and there, nor was there any want of inhabitants along this savage

coast. There were numerous cottages, if cottages they may be called, and

women and, above all, children in plenty. Here is one of the former--her

attitude as she stood gazing at the car. To depict the multiplicity of

her rags would require a month’s study.

[Illustration]

At length we came in sight of a half-built edifice, which is approached

by a rocky, dismal grey road, guarded by two or three broken gates,

against which rocks and stones were piled, which were to be removed to

give an entrance to our car. The gates were closed so laboriously, I

presume to prevent the egress of a single black consumptive pig, far

gone in the family way--a teeming skeleton--that was cropping the thin

dry grass that grew upon a round hill which rises behind this most

dismal castle of Bunown.

If the traveller only seeks for strange sights, this place will repay

his curiosity. Such a dismal house is not to be seen in all England, or,

perhaps, such a dismal situation. The sea lies before and behind; and on

each side, likewise, are rocks and copper-coloured meadows, by which a

few trees have made on attempt to grow. The owner of the house had,

however, begun to add to it, and there, unfinished, is a whole apparatus

of turrets, and staring raw stone and mortar, and fresh ruinous

carpenters’ work. And then the courtyard!--tumble-down outhouses,

staring empty pointed windows, and new-smeared plaster cracking from the

walls--a black heap of turf, a mouldy pump, a wretched old coal-scuttle

emptily sunning itself in the midst of this cheerful scene! There was an

old Gorgon, who kept the place, and who was in perfect unison with

it--Venus herself would become bearded, blear-eyed, and haggard if left

to be the housekeeper of this dreary place.

In the house was a comfortable parlour, inhabited by the priest who has

the painful charge of the district. Here were his books and his

breviaries, his reading-desk with the cross engraved upon it, and his

portrait of Daniel O’Connell the Liberator, to grace the walls of his

lonely cell. There was a dead crane hanging at the door on a gaff; his

red fish-like eyes were staring open, and his eager grinning bill--a

rifle-ball had passed through his body. And this was doubtless the only

game about the place; for we saw the sportsman who had killed the bird,

hunting vainly up the round hill for other food for powder. This

gentleman had had good sport, he said, shooting seals upon a

neighbouring island, four of which animals he had slain.

Mounting up the round hill, we had a view of the Sline Lights--the most

westerly point in Ireland.