The next morning found us, with the indomitable pluck of Englishmen,
once more upon an outside car, as doggedly determined as two old Whigs
never to resign our seats. First, we drove to Merrion Square, where we
had a call to make, and where, each side of the square being numbered
alike, we spent a good deal of time in pulling at the wrong bells, and
in unnecessarily evoking several servants, whose easy mission it was to
take care of “number one.” Of this Square and of St. Stephen's Green we
thought that, though as to extent and pleasant situation they were quite
equal to anything in London, the houses themselves were by no means so
handsome or commodious.
The University of Dublin, to us who study among the chapels and the
cloisters of mediaeval Oxford, does not resemble a university at all,
but is more like a series of Government offices, or any other spacious
public buildings.
[Illustration: 036]
Why do the porters wear velvet hunting caps? Frank would keep inquiring,
“where the hounds met” (it was a broiling day early in August),
“why they didn't have top boots?” &c., &c., &c. The museum is a very
interesting one; and our cicerone in the cap pointed out the harp of
Brian Boroimhe--that “Bryan the Brave,” who was so devoted to threshing
the Danes and music; the enormous antlers of an Irish elk, which placed
upon wheels would make a glorious outside car, the passengers sitting
among the tines; eagles, and other native birds, galore; and numberless
antiquities and curiosities. There were some awful instruments, which we
gazed upon with intense interest, as being the most cruel shillelaghs
we had ever seen, until the guide happened to mention that they were
“weapons of the South-Sea Islanders.”
The Chapel of Trinity College, like some in our English Universities, is
more suggestive of sleep than supplication, gloomy without being solemn,
and the light dim without being religious. There was a sacrifice of two
inverted hassocks upon the altar, but the idol of the place, a gigantic
pulpit, indignantly turned his back on them, and I was not slow to
follow his example, with a sigh for
“The good old days, when nought of rich or rare.
Of bright or beautiful, was deem'd a gift
Too liberal to Him who giveth all.”
Indeed, I felt much more impressed, and inclined to take off my hat in
the Examination and Dining Halls, as I stood in the pictured presence of
Irish worthies, and thought of them, and of others not there portrayed,
in all their young power and promise. I thought of Archbishop _Ussher_,
who, a boy of eighteen, contended with Jesuit, Fitz-Symonds, and was
designated by his opponent as “acatholicorum doctissimus.” I thought of
_Swift_, as well I might, having recently read, for the third time,
that most touching essay on his life and genius from the master hand of
Thackeray. 1 I could cry over that lecture any time; there is so much
noble sympathy in it of one great genius with another--such a tender
yearning not to condemn, and, all the while, such a grand, honest
resolution to take side with what is right and true. I thought of Swift,
“wild and witty,” in the happiest days of his unhappy life, getting his
degree, “_speciali gratia_” (as a most particular favour), and going
forth into the world to be a disappointed, miserable man--to fight
against weapons which himself had welded, a hopeless, maddening fight.
All must pity, as Johnson and Thackeray pity, but who can love? He put
on the surplice for mere earthly views, and it was to him as the shirt
of Hercules!
1 The English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century, three of
whom, Swift, Steele, and Goldsmith, were Irishmen.
And next (could two men differ more?) of _Goldsmith_. I thought of him
shy and silent (for he was a dull boy, we read, and never learned the
art of conversation), chaffed by his fellow-students, and saluted by
them, doubtless, in the exuberance of their playful wit, as Demosthenes,
Cicero, &c., &c., until he might have felt himself, like his own
“_Traveller_”
“Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,”
had there not been the “eternal sunshine” of genius, and the manifold
soft chimes of poesy, to make his heart glad. “He was chastised by
his tutor, for giving a dance in his room.” (was it a prance _à la
Spurgeon_, and for gentlemen only, or was there a brighter presence of
“sweet girl-graduates with their golden hair?”) “and took the box on his
ear so much to his heart, that he packed up his all, pawned his books
and little property, and disappeared from college.” 1 Horace Walpole
speaks of him as “an inspired idiot,” and Garrick describes him as one
“for shortness call'd _Noll_,
Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll:”
but I take leave to think that the “Deserted Village,” a tale told by
this idiot, will be read when Walpole is forgotten; and I believe the
author to have been as deep as Garrick.
1 Thackeray.
Blessed be the art that can immortalise, as Sir Joshua has immortalised,
features so sublime and beautiful, because so bright with noble power
and purpose, as those of _Edmund Burke_. Scholar, statesman, orator,
author, linguist, lawyer, earnest worshipper of nature and of art, what
a mine of purest gold thy genius! and how the coin stamped with the
impress of thine own true self enriches all the world! “The mind of that
man,” says Dr. Johnson, “was a perennial stream; no one grudges Burke
the first place,” and Sir Archibald Alison speaks of him, as “the
greatest political philosopher, and most far-seeing statesman of modern
times.”
What a troublous, impressive sight that must have been, when he and Fox,
both of them in tears, gave up the friendship of five-and-twenty years,
because they loved each other too well to cry “Peace,” where there was
no peace.
Out of all the grand music he wrote and spoke, let me select one air
and leave him. And are not his words on Marie Antoinette, like music,
martial music, “like a glorious roll of drums,” and the sound of a
trumpet to knightly hearts? “I thought,” he says, “ten thousand swords
must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look, which
threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone.”
But no, I cannot leave him, it would not be honest to leave him, without
the confession that there was a flaw in the statue, one note of this
grand instrument out of tune, and that this giant had his weakness.
It must be sorrowfully owned that he had low and unsound views on the
subject of the pursuit of game; he said it was “a trivial object with
severe sanctions;” and his most devoted admirers can never emancipate
his memory from the stern and sad suspicion, that he could not have been
a first-rate shot.
I thought of _Grattan_, who distinguished himself within these
walls,--the brave unswerving patriot, whose fiery eloquence Moore
terms “the very music of freedom” (music, by the way, which would very
summarily be stopped in our day by Mr. Speaker _Denison_); of _Moore_
himself, with his head upon his hands, “sapping” at those Latin verses,
which he hated with all his heart, ever and anon disgusted to find the
second syllable of some favourite dactyl _long_, or the first of some
pet spondee _short_; finally (as the chroniclers tell), tearing up the
performance, and sending to the Dons some English verse in lieu, for
which, to their glory be it written, they gave him praise and a prize.
Here, too, he commenced his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, (a
labour of _Love_, if ever there was one); and here, doubtless, oft in
the stilly night, he sang some of those touching melodies, which were so
soon to “witch the world.”
Lastly, I thought (for our jockey in undress was getting rather restive)
of genial, jovial _Curran_, of whom Dan O'Connell said, “there never was
so honest an Irishman,” and of whom there is one of the most charming
biographies extant in the “_Curran and his Contemporaries_,” by Mr.
Commissioner Philips.
We could not see the very large and valuable Library, as it is closed
during Vacations; and so having admired the exterior of the New Museum,
and taken a general survey of the college, we made our bow to the _Alma
Mater_ of Ireland.
It must be exquisitely gratifying to a large majority of the inhabitants
to contemplate King William III. riding, gilt and bronzed, upon College
Green, to be kept in constant recollection of the Boyne, and of the
immunities and privileges which resulted from it. Everybody knows that
he was a fine horseman, but the sculptor has not given him a hunting
seat; and I think we could improve him, if we had him at Oxford, by
painting him in a cutaway and buckskins.
There is no fault to be found with the statues of Nelson and of Moore,
the former being very effective, and the latter (though suggestive in
the distance of a gentleman hailing an omnibus) being impressive and
pleasing on a nearer view.
The public buildings which we saw, the Bank of Ireland (once the Houses
of its Lords and Commons), the Four Courts, College of Surgeons,
Post Office, Barracks, &c., are all handsome, chiefly of Grecian
architecture, and interesting to those who fancy this style of
sight-seeing.
We were rather disappointed with Sackville-Street. It wants length; and
it wants (Heaven send it soon!) the animation of business and opulence,
gay equipages, and crowded pavements.
The Phoenix Park is delightful, _rus in urbe_--some 1700 acres of
greensward and trees. We met several regiments, returning from a review;
(the carman told us there were two reviews weekly, and we, of course,
said something brilliant about the _Dublin Review_ being _monthly_);
and were, consequently, in an admirable frame of mind to appreciate the
monument, grim and granite, in honour of the Iron Duke. What men this
Dublin has given to the world--Swift, Steele, Burke, Grattan, Moore,
_Wellington_. The names of his great battles are graven on the obelisk,
_Waterloo_ being, of course, omitted. I say “of course,” because there
is something so delightfully Irish in this small oversight, that it
seems quite natural and appropriate; and I should as little dream of
being surprised or vexed by it, as if in an Irish edition of Milton I
could find no “Paradise Lost.”
In the Phoenix Park are the Constabulary Barracks, and the men were at
drill as we drove by. There is no exaggeration in stating, that if a
regiment could be formed from the Irish constables, it would be the
finest regiment in arms See them wherever you may, they are, almost
without exception, handsome, erect, heroic. Picked men, and admirably
trained, they are as smart, and clean, lithe, and soldier-like, as the
severest sergeant could desire. They do credit to him whose name they
bear, for they are still called “_Peelers_” after their godfather Sir
Robert, who originated the force, when Secretary for Ireland. Fifty of
them had left Dublin for Kilkenny that morning, to expostulate with
the bould pisantry on the impropriety of smashing some reaping-machines
recently introduced among them. The Irishman is not quick to appreciate
agricultural improvements. It required an Act of Parliament to prevent
him from attaching the plough to the _tails of his horses_; he was very
slow to acknowledge that the plough itself was better, when made of iron
than of wood; he esteemed a bunch of thorns, with a big stone a-top, as
the most efficient harrow going; and he denounced the winnowing-machine,
as a wicked attempt to oppose the decree of a good Providence, which
sent the wind of heaven “to clane the whate and oats.”
A short time afterwards, we were surprised to see in a letter from
one of these constables to _The Galway Express_, that their pay, after
twenty years' service, is only two shillings per diem; and low as the
remuneration for labour still is in this country, one cannot help but
sympathise with the complainant.
These lions, from whose manes and tails we have ventured to extract a
few memorial hairs, were inspected before luncheon; immediately after
that refection, we set forth per rail, and _via_ Kingston, to Killiney.
We had ample time, as we went, to contemplate the surrounding objects,
which were not “rendered invisible from extreme velocity,” the nine
miles occupying forty-five minutes; but we saw nothing of especial
interest until we had reached the station, and began to ascend the hill.
Then we exulted, eye and heart. The hill itself is worthy of a visit,
the massive blocks of “its cold grey stones” contrasting admirably with
the rosy heaths (I never saw ericas in greenhouse or garden with such a
fresh, vivid brightness, 1) and with the glowing, golden furze. Ah,
how poor and formal are statues, and terraces, and vases, and
“ribbon-patterns,” and geometrical designs, and “bedding out,” when
compared with nature's handiwork! And though, perhaps, never since the
days of “the grand old gardener” has ornate horticulture attained so
great a splendour, what true lover of flowers is really _satisfied_
with our gorgeous modern gardens? We treat them, for the most part, as
a child, with a new box of paints, his pictures--all the most glaring
colours are crowded together; and the eye, dazzled and bewildered,
yearns for that repose and harmony which, in nature, whether in the few
flowerets of some hidden nook, or in the fiery autumnal grandeur of some
mighty forest, diffuse perpetual peace.
1 This applies throughout Ireland. See “Inglis's Tour,” vol.
ii., p. 42.
There is an extraordinary structure at the top of Killiney Hill, which
could only have been devised by an Irish architect. It is not a tower,
nor a lighthouse, nor a summer-house: nay, the builder himself confesses
he knows not what it is, in the following inscription:--“Last year being
hard with the poor, the walls about these hills, and This, &c. &c.,
erected by John Mapas, Esq., June, 1742.”
Hard by, a young Duke of Dorset was thrown and killed, while hunting.
It must have been a very Irish fox that led hound and horse into such
a perilous position, and the only wonder is that any of the riders came
down alive. A monumental pillar perpetuates the sorrowful history, and
warns enthusiastic sportsmen from galloping over the broken ground and
hidden fissures of misty mountain tops.
Apropos of mountain and of mist, we saw a sight which reminded us of
Anne of Geierstein, as she appeared to Arthur Philipson, “perched upon
the very summit of a pyramidical rock.” For among the works executed
by the benevolent behest of Mapas, there is one, hewn in stone, a
four-sided staircase, leading to an apex, intended, doubtless, for a
statue. But this was wanting when we first arrived; for the design, like
so many others in poor old Ireland, had never been completed, and there
were no
“statues gracing,
This noble place in.”
But by the goddess Vanus, just as Frank and I were lamenting this sad
omission, the loveliest--at all events one of the loveliest--girls I
ever remember to have seen, tripped lightly up the steps, laughing at
a dear old clerical papa, who pretended to be alarmed, but wasn't; and
something, beating violently under my left brace, told me that my heart
had returned from Crewe, as a traveller comes home for a day or so, to
prepare himself for another tour. It stayed with me four seconds, and
then 'twas hers. “Behold,” I said,
“'Car les beaux yeux Sont les deux sceptres de l'amour,'
the enthronement of the Queen of Beauty.” And the sea-breeze forsook the
jealous waves to woo her; the sunlight beamed on her with golden smiles;
and the very swallow, turning from his favourite fly, flew past her,
twittering admiration. Rough sailors out at sea that day caught sight
of this fair vision through the glass, and ceased for half an hour to
swear. There she stood, as
“jocund day Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain top;”
like Byron's Mary, on the hill of Annesley, awaiting that mighty hunter,
the gallant, handsome Musters, when
“on the summit of that hill she stood
Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.”
Or she might have been “The Gardener's Daughter,” when,
“Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.”
But never mind what she might have been, there she was.
“Talk about Helen,
_That_ was a fiction, but _this_ is reality.”
[Illustration; 050]
And never shall I forget how painfully drear that pedestal seemed,
when the statue, descending, took her Papa's arm (Oh, that her beloved
Governor were mine also!), and was gone from our gaze, like a beautiful
star.
The view from the hill of Killiney is one of the loveliest in this land
of loveliness. Seated among the purple and golden flowers, you look
over its rocks and trees upon the noble Bay of Dublin with its waters
“bickering in the noontide blaze,” and the stately ships gliding to
and fro. Below is Kingstown, opposite the old hill of Howth, and in the
centre the metropolis of Ireland.
I do not think that one ever has such a happy feeling of entire
contentment, as when gazing upon beautiful scenery; and there we sat, in
silent admiration, and took no note of time, until the train by which we
had proposed to return, awoke us from our dreamy bliss, shrieking at us
in derision from below, and steaming off to Dublin. So that, some two
hours later, we found our dinners and ourselves a little overdone at
Morrisson's; and nothing but some very transcendental claret, and the
resilient spirit of roving Englishmen, could have induced us to sally
forth once more for the gardens of Porto-Bello.
Becoming acclimatised to the Outside Car, we began to enter into
conversation with the drivers, and found them, like all Irishmen,
quant and witty, though their humour, perhaps, does not lie so near the
surface as it did before the Famine and Father Mathew.1 Our charioteer
this evening was eloquently invective against a London cab which
preceded us, and which he designated as “a baste of a tub.”
“Sure, gintlemen,” said he, “and I'm for th'ould style intirely--it's
illigant. I tell ye what it is, yer onners,” (and he turned to us in
impressive confidence, and pointed contemptuously with his whip at the
offending vehicle) “I'd lep over the likes o' that with this little
mare;” but we earnestly begged he wouldn't.
[Illustration: 054]
We were so fortunate as to reach the Porto-Bello Gardens just in time
for “_The Siege and Capture of Delhi_.” We had both of us formed most
erroneous impressions on the subject, and it was a grand opportunity for
ascertaining truth. If the representation was correct, and there seems
no reason to mistrust it, as “no expense had been spared,” it is high
time for the English people to be told that the accounts which have
appeared in their newspapers (the graphic, glowing descriptions of Mr.
William Russell inclusive) are wickedly and superlatively false!
1 The priest can scarcely have been a descendant of his
namesake, the General, who, to the manifest delight of an
Irish Parliament, thus spake of _potheen_:--“The Chancellor
on the woolsack drinks it, the Judge on the bench drinks
it, the Peer in his robes drinks it, the Beggar with his
wallet drinks it, I drink it, every man drinks it.”
The city of Delhi is constructed of painted wood, and does not exceed in
dimensions a respectable modern residence. Before it, there is a pool
of water. The siege commenced with a tune on the key-bugle, and with
an appropriate illumination of _Bengal_ lights, which extended over
the entire scene of war, and was got up, as we supposed, at the joint
expense of the combatants. Then the Anglo-Indian army, which had taken
up a perilous position about four yards from the city, led off with
a Roman-candle, and the rebels promptly replied with a maroon. The
exasperated besiegers now went in, or rather went a long way over, with
rockets,--the Sepoys, with undaunted courage, defying them with blue
lights and crackers. For a time the battle was waged with extraordinary
spirit, steel-filings, &c., &c.; but, finally, the “awful explosion of
the Magazine,” admirably rendered by a “Jack-in-a-box,” threw the rebels
into sad distress, and they came running (all six of them) from the
city, trying the old dodge to give an idea of multitude, by rushing in
at one door and rushing out at another. The British soldiers, conversant
with this manouvre, which they had so often witnessed at Mr. Batty's
Hippodrome, immediately charged into the devoted city, lit a red light,
and all was over. The total silence, which immediately ensued within
the walls, impressively told the annihilation of the vanquished, and
the great fatigue (or, alas! it might be the abject intoxication) of
the victors, reminding one forcibly of the schoolboy's description, in
Latin, of the termination of a siege,--“_Dein victores, urbe capta, si
cut pisces bibunt, et, parvula, si ulla, itlis culpa, nullum bestiarum
finem ex seipsis faciunt_.”
Frank said it was _Delhicious!_ and to this atrocity, as well as to His
Excellency's absence from Dublin, I attribute the melancholy fact that
the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland never called upon us.