The "Rock of Cashel," with its celebrated noble ruin is one of the
greatest lions of Ireland, and was mentioned to me by Walter Scott
himself as the most worth visiting after the Abbey of Holy Cross. It is
a rock standing isolated in the midst of the plain. It is odd enough,
that in one of the distant mountains there is a cavity of just the same
size as the rock:--according to the legend, the devil bit it out in a
rage at losing a soul he was carrying off to hell. As he flew over
Cashel he spit the bit out again. Upon this rock M'Cormack, king and
archbishop of Cashel, built a castle and a chapel, which are both in
remarkable preservation. In the twelfth century, I think, Donald O'Brien
added the church and abbey. The whole forms a most magnificent ruin, in
which all the details of Saxon architecture may be studied in the most
interesting manner. This has been greatly facilitated by the labours of
the son-in-law of the present archbishop, Dr. Cotton, who some months
ago had M'Cormack's chapel entirely cleared of the accumulations of dirt
and rubbish, and has, at considerable expense, rendered the whole ruin
accessible. Nothing can be more strange,--I might say, more barbarically
elegant,--than these grotesque, fantastic, but often admirably executed
ornaments. Many sarcophagi and monuments found buried under rubbish or
earth, suggests curious and interesting speculations. One is tempted to
think that the frightful images, like Indian idols, must have belonged
to some earlier religion, did we not know how slowly Paganism gave way
to Christianity, how obstinately it still lingers. I have in my
possession a little bell, which one of my ancestors brought with him
from the prisons of the Inquisition, and on which the Virgin is
surrounded with apes instead of angels, some playing the violin, while
others are making somersets in the clouds!
I examined the whole ruin minutely, and climbed to the highest
accessible point just as the sun was setting over the Devil's Bite. The
archbishop had had the kindness to send his librarian to show me the
ruin. From this gentleman I learned that the celebrated and often cited
Psalter, written in the Irish language, which is mentioned in every
Traveller's Guide as the standing wonder of Cashel, is a mere fable; at
least, that no such thing was ever known to exist here. This interested
me little; but I was really alarmed at hearing that the Catholics
entertain the idea of restoring and rebuilding the church, if they could
get possession of the ground. Heaven preserve the sacred ruin from their
pious designs!
On a plain in front of the church stands an extremely ancient and
mutilated statue of St. Patrick, on a pedestal of granite. Near this was
formerly to be seen the coronation-seat, said to have been brought from
Portugal hither, and afterwards sent to the coronation of the Scottish
king, Fergus, at Scone, whence Edward I. brought it to
Westminster-abbey, where it now is.
At the foot of the Rock of Cashel stand the very curious ruins of Hore
Abbey, which, it is asserted, were formerly connected with the castle by
subterranean passages. The beautiful proportions and perfect ornaments
of a great window are particularly striking.
_October 11th._
One of the gentlemen whose acquaintance I made yesterday, a man of good
family and engaging manners, offered me his horse to visit the ruins of
the Abbey of Athassil, and the park and seat of the wealthy Earl of
Llandaff. The excellent hunters soon carried us to the spot: the object,
however, was not equal to my expectations. The abbey is certainly a
beautiful and extensive ruin; but its situation, in a bog surrounded by
ploughed fields without tree or shrub, is so unfavourable as to deprive
it of all picturesque effect. Lord Llandaff's park is likewise of great
extent, two thousand eight hundred acres, but has no distinguishing
beauties. The trees are not fine, water almost entirely wanting, and the
modern Gothic house, painted light blue, appear to me hideous. The
possessor is a still handsome and interesting man of seventy, who has
the great, and in Ireland the rare merit of residing on his property. We
found a person who is distinguished in society by the foreign polish of
his manners, in the character of a plain farmer, in marsh-boots and
waterproof cloak, standing in the rain directing his labourers. This
pleased me greatly, for reasons you can guess.
On our return, Captain S---- gave me a great many interesting details
respecting the really atrocious and crying injustice and oppression
under which the Irish Catholics labour: it is more intolerable than that
which the Greeks suffer from their Turkish masters. The Catholics are
not allowed to call their places of worship churches, only chapels; they
must have no bells in them,--things inconsiderable in themselves, but
degrading and insulting in their intent. No Catholic can, as you know,
sit in Parliament, nor be general in the army, minister of state, judge,
&c.[140] Their priests cannot perform the ceremony of marriage, in cases
where one party is Protestant, and their titles are not recognised by
the law. The most scandalous thing however is, that the Catholics are
forced to pay enormous sums to the Protestant clergy, while they have
entirely to maintain their own, of whom the state takes no notice. This
is manifestly one great cause of the incredible poverty of the people.
How intolerable must it appear in a country like Ireland, where more
than two-thirds of the whole population are most zealously devoted to
the Catholic religion! In the South the proportion is much larger. In
the county of Tipperary there are about 400,000 Catholics, and only
10,000 Protestants: nevertheless, the Protestant clergy costs the
inhabitants the following sums yearly:
The Archbishop £25,000
The Dean 4,000
For about 50 parishes, on an average, each 1,500
which charge, of course, falls mainly on the Catholics. Most of the
parsons do not even live in Ireland, but put some poor devil with a
salary of £50 or £60 a year to perform their duties: these are the
far-famed curates: the duties are indeed soon performed, as there are
parishes which do not contain more than ten Protestants; and, indeed,
there is one in this neighbourhood in which _not one_ is to be found;
and not even a church,--only an old ruin, in which the 'farce' of divine
worship is once a year acted to empty walls, during which a Catholic,
hired for the occasion, performs the office of clerk! Meanwhile, the
clergy are year after year wearing away the pavement of London and
Paris, and living as unspiritual a life as possible. I lately read in an
English newspaper, that a clergyman in Boulogne had lost a large sum at
play; that an affair had ensued in which he had shot his antagonist, and
had been obliged immediately to quit the place and _return to his
living_. Even the higher clergy, who must at least reside at certain
stated periods in their episcopal and archiepiscopal sees, suffer none
of their ill-gotten gains, (for what else can money so acquired be
called?) to return back again to the poor people from whom they have
wrung it, but save all they can, that they may enrich their families.
Can anybody wonder that such institutions have frequently goaded the
unhappy people to despair and rebellion? and yet at every struggle their
chains are riveted tighter, and eat more deeply into the bleeding flesh.
Wherever you see a beautiful estate and fertile land, if you ask who is
the proprietor, you are generally told "It is forfeited land," once
belonging to Catholics, now to Protestants. O'Connell told me, that not
long ago a law was in force, ordaining that no Catholic should hold
landed property in Ireland; and if a Protestant could prove before a
court of justice that this was in any instance the case, the property
was taken from the Catholic and given to him: the only remedy lay in a
feigned conversion. But in spite of this bounty on hypocrisy and deceit,
land to the value of millions of pounds was transferred into the hands
of Protestants by this atrocious process. Is it not marvellous that
Protestants, who in a barbarous age severed themselves from the Romish
church on account of her intolerance and rapacity, should now, in an
enlightened one, cherish the very same vices,--thus incurring a far
greater comparative load of guilt than they would have had to bear
before. Will this monstrosity, the offspring of despotism and hypocrisy,
which has so long been nourished by the tears and blood of the world,
never be destroyed by more enlightened generations! If ever it is, they
will look back upon us with the same sort of pity as we do upon the
darkness of the middle ages.
In the afternoon I visited the Catholic dean, an extremely agreeable
man, who lived a long time on the continent, and was chaplain to the
late Pope. His frank and enlightened conversation excited my surprise;
for we are accustomed to think that every Catholic must of necessity be
a superstitious bigot. Among other things, he said to me, "Believe me,
this country is devoted to misfortune. We have scarcely such a thing as
a Christian among us: Catholics and Protestants have one common
religion,--that of hatred."
Some time afterwards, Captain S---- brought me the latest newspaper, in
which my visit to the meeting was mentioned: the few words I said there,
and the other speeches, were dressed up with the accustomed
charlatanerie, and filled three or four columns of the paper. To give
you a specimen of this 'genre,' and at the same time to cut a figure in
your eyes by my eloquence, I translate the beginning of the article, in
which I am puffed in the same style as that in which a quack doctor sets
forth the unparalleled virtues of his pills, or a horse-dealer those of
his horses:--listen.
"As soon as the arrival of the * * * * was known, the president,
accompanied by a deputation, repaired to his apartment, to invite him to
honour our feast with his presence. Shortly afterwards, the * * * *
entered the room. His air is 'commanding and graceful.' He wore
moustaches, and although very pale, his countenance is 'exceedingly
pleasing and expressive.' He took his seat at the upper end of the
table, and, bowing to the company, spoke distinctly and 'with proper
emphasis,' though with a foreign accent, the following
words:--'Gentlemen,--Although ill and very tired, I feel myself too much
flattered by your kind invitation not to accept it with thanks, and to
express to you personally the lively interest I take in your struggles
on behalf of your country. May God bless this beautiful and
richly-gifted land! which offers to every foreigner such manifold
enjoyments; but in which I, especially, have reason to acknowledge with
the deepest gratitude, the kindness and hospitality which I have every
where experienced. May Heaven, I repeat, bless this sorely-tried
country, and every true Irishman, whether Catholic or Protestant, who
desires the welfare not of any exclusive sect or party, but of
Ireland!--a welfare that can be attained only by peace, forbearance, and
'civil and religious liberty,' (a standing phrase in these islands.)
Gentlemen, fill your glasses and allow me to give you a toast:--'The
King, and Erin go bragh!' (This is the old Irish motto, which is on the
medal of the order of the Liberator, and signifies 'Erin for ever!')
"The President:--'Gentlemen, I beg you to participate in my feelings,
and to receive the expression of them from me. May our 'illustrious
guest,' to whose health we now fill our glasses,--if ever he return
among us,--find us in the enjoyment of equal laws and equal privileges,
and in the possession of that internal tranquillity which alone we have
combined to obtain. Three times three:--The '* * * *.'" I repeated my
thanks for the honour done me, and added, "That nothing could make me
happier than to be an eye-witness of the fulfilment of their and my
wishes, in a country which I loved as my own, and quitted with extreme
regret."
Now, dear Julia, what do you think of me? Cannot I string common-places
as well as another upon occasion? What is no common-place, though
reiterated at the end of every one of my letters, is, the assurance of
the tender affection with which I am, and ever shall be,
Your Friend L----.