We witnessed at the railway station, on our arrival at _Galway_, a most
painful and touching scene,--the departure of some emigrants, and their
last separation, here on earth, from dear relations and friends. The
train was about to start, and the platform was crowded with men, women,
and children, pressing round to take a last fond look. Ever and anon,
a mother or a sister would force a way into the carriages, flinging her
arms around her beloved, only to be separated by a superior strength,
and parting from them with such looks of misery as disturbed the soul
with pity. And then, for the first time, we heard the wild Irish “cry,”
beginning with a low, plaintive wail, and gradually rising in its tone
of intense sorrow, until
“Lamentis, gemituque et fæmineo ululatu Tecta fremunt.”
Nor was this great grief simulated, as by hired _keeners_ at a wake, the
_mulieres proficae_ of the Irish _Feralia_, but came gushing with its
waters of bitterness from the full fountain of those loving hearts.
There were faces there no actor could assume--faces which would have
immortalised the painter who could have traced them truly, but were
beyond the compass of art. Two, especially, I shall never forget. A
youth of eighteen or nineteen, who had a cheerful word and pleasant
smile for all, though you could see the while, in his white cheek and
quivering lip, how grief was gnawing his brave Spartan heart (Ah,
“What a noble thing it is To suffer and be strong!”)
and the other, an elderly man, who stood somewhat aloof from the rest,
with his arms folded, and his head bent, motionless, speechless, with
a face on which despair had written, _I shall smile no more until I
welcome death!_
I thought of those beautiful lines which begin,
“Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well;” 1
1 Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
and I thought, also, what great hearts beat under coats of frieze,
and how bounden we are, with all our might, to avert from them these
overwhelming sorrows, or, at the least, and if fall they must, to prove
our sympathy as best we can.
Many of the emigrants had bunches of wild flowers and heather, and one
of them a shamrock in a broken flowerpot, as memorials of dear ould
Ireland. Nor does this fond love of home and kindred decline in a
distant land; no less a sum than 7,520,000 L. having been sent from
America to Ireland, in the years 1848 to 1854, inclusive, according to
the statement of the Emigration Commissioners.
It was a strange recollection during this scene of sorrow, (and how
strangely our thoughts will sometimes set themselves at variance with
what is passing before us!) that, all the while, the Great Jig was going
on at _Leenane_, and the fiddlers fiddling, and the hundred and fifty
couple footing it, right merrily! Well,
“Let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play;
For some must laugh,
And some must weep--
So runs the world away!”
And I, accordingly, having sorrowed, and that heartily, with the poor
emigrants and their friends, shall venture to refresh myself, and, I
hope, my readers, with a small historical incident, suggested to
my memory by the wild Irish cry. When _Richard de Clare_, surnamed
_Strongbow_, invaded Ireland in 1171, one of his sons was so exceedingly
astonished at the awful howlings, which the enemy raised, by way of
_overture_ to the fight, that he became prematurely “tired of war's
alarms,” and set forth without loss of time in search of more peaceful
scenes;--colloquially speaking, he cut and run. But hearing, soon
afterwards, that the Governor had silenced these disagreeable vocalists,
and that the conquerors were having no end of fun, Master Strongbow
returned to the bosom of his family--where he must have been
inexpressibly surprised and disgusted at the abrupt and ungentlemanly
behaviour of Papa, who no sooner caught sight of him, than he rushed at
him, and--_cut him in two_. 1
1 Moore's History of Ireland, vol. ii., p. 290.
We left Galway at four p.m., and reached _Athlone_ in a couple of hours.
If the Widow Malone, och hone, still lives in the town of Athlone, och
hone, I do not admire her choice of residence, for its aspect is cold
and cheerless. So at least it appeared, as we saw it, on a day that was
dark, and dull, and dreary, with rain. We read in “_Wanleys Wonders_“(one
of the most carefully-collated and painstaking books of lies extant)
that the inhabitants of _Catona_ were wont to make their king swear, at
his coronation, that it should not rain immoderately, in any part of
his dominions, so long as he remained on the throne; and one sighs for a
similar dynasty in Ireland, (if the promise was really fulfilled), where
that ancient monarch, “_King O'Neill, of the Showers_,” seems still
perpetually to reign.
So the streets were looking their narrowest and dingiest, and the Castle
and Barracks their greyest and grimmest, as we saw them from under our
umbrellas; and we were glad to return to Mr. Rourke's comfortable hotel,
where papered walls and carpeted floors, and practicable windows, and
duplicate towels, again welcomed us to the lap of luxury. But I felt
little disposition to sit down in it, mourning for Connamara, gazing
sadly through the windows of our coffee-room, and esteeming the
Post-office opposite but a poor substitute for the great hills of
Bina Beola, and the lakes to be very feebly represented by Mr. Pym's
establishment for the diffusion of Dublin ales. Nor did sweet solace
come, until we beheld once more--a real beef-steak. Frank's eyes, in
their normal state of a mild, benevolent blue, glowed with a fiery
greed; and I do not suppose that six Van Amburghs could have taken away
our food with hot irons.
After dinner we communicated to each other the little we knew with
regard to the old town of _Athlone_:--how that--the Shannon, which flows
through it, being here fordable,--it had always been a place of great
military importance; how that _William III._ had, in the first instance,
failed to take it,--or rather to _receive_ it, 1 as he would have said,
with the exquisite humour, for which he was remarkable,--and lost for a
time that amiability of temper, which, according to the historian, 2 was
so conspicuous in time of war; how that _Ginkel_, his General, (why does
not history salute him by his more euphonious designation as first _Earl
of Athlone?_) had much better luck next time, to wit, on the 1st of
July, 1691, when, differing in opinion with the supercilious Frenchman,
_St. Ruth_, who declared the thing to be impossible, even after it was
done, he boldly crossed the river, attacked, and took the place.
1 His motto was, “_Recepi non rapui_,” which Swift happily
translated, “the receiver is as bad as the thief.”
2 Smollett, who says, “His conversation was dry, and his
manners disgusting, _except in battle!_”--Hume Continued,
vol. i., p. 442.
Here, feebly murmuring something about “the new bridge, which spans the
noble stream, being a handsome structure,” we came to a decided check,
Frank making a cast by ringing the bell, and requesting the waiter
to “bring in a large dish of startling incidents, connected with
the history of _Athlone_,”--an order, which seemed to amuse three
good-looking priests, (en route for a Consecration at Ballinasloe, to
be presided over by Cardinal Wiseman), and who were discussing, (and
why not?--I'm not the man, at all events, to write and tell the Pope,) a
small decanter of whiskey.
_The Shannon_ is a glorious river, broad and deep, and brimming over,
extending, from source to sea, a distance of two hundred miles, and
“making its waves a blessing as they flow” to ten Irish counties. I
should think that hay for the universe might be grown upon its teeming
banks, and we saw a goodly quantity studding the fields with those (to
us) quaint-looking tumuli, which, like the “hobbledehoy, neither man nor
boy,” are too large for haycocks, and too small for stacks. Six miles
from _Athlone_, we pass _the Seven Churches of Clonmacnoise_, (once, as
its name signifies, the _Eton_ of Ireland, “the school of the sons of
the nobles,”) by whom despoiled and desecrated we English need not pause
to inquire; and close to these a brace of those famous Round Towers,
which have so perplexed the archaeological world, and which, according
to Frank, were, “most probably Lighthouses, which had come ashore at
night for a spree, and had forgotten the way back again.” The scenery,
which at first is flat and uninteresting, except to an agricultural
eye, increases in attraction, as you progress towards _Limerick_, and
is exceedingly beautiful about _Lough Derg_. There are delightful
residences on either side, of which we admired particularly _Portumna_,
my _Lord Clanricarde's_ 1 and a place called _Derry_. The view from the
upper windows of this latter home must be “a sight to make an old man
young.” The mountains, inclosed and cultivated, have a tame unnatural
look, as though they had been brought here from Connamara, and been
broken to carry corn; and they wear a strange uncomfortable aspect,
like some Cherokee Chief in the silk stockings and elegant attire of our
Court.
1 Would that his motto were the watchword of every
Irishmen:--“_Un g foy, ung roy, ung loy!_”
[Illustration: 152]
Here and there, in mid-stream, are beacons of an original pattern. The
cormorants flew heavily away before us, but the heron moved not from
the sighing sedge,--still and grey as the stone on which he stood,--nor
seemed to note the seething waters, which swelled around him as the
steamer passed.
Ay, and how touchingly that silent bird, with his keen gaze, steadfastly
fixed, and his every thought concentrated, upon _one object_ reminded me
(if, for a moment, I may assimilate the Queen of my soul to a gudgeon)
of myself; for alas, I was _again in love!_ As soon as ever I set foot
on the steamer, I knew it was all over, though she was a long way off.
“It would have been well,” writes Mr. Froude, “for Henry VIII. if he
could have lived in a world, in which women could have been dispensed
with;” and it would be better no doubt for the susceptible tourist, if
there were fewer pretty girls in Ireland. In vain, I groaned
“O intermissa, Venus, diu,
Rursus bella moves!
Parce, precor, precor!”
for she wouldn't _parce_ at any price; and by the time we arrived
at Clonmacnoise, I was in a state of most abject infatuation. Frank
proposed to bleed me with a large fishing-knife, and would keep feeling
my pulse, with his watch in his hand, in an exceedingly frivolous
manner. But I suffered severely, in spite of frequent beer, until a
late period of the evening, when my wounded spirit, in the smoke-room at
_Limerick_, at last found relief in song.
[Illustration: 155]
THE BELLE OF THE SHANNON. 1
1 The title and metre are suggested by Mahony's most musical
verses in praise of _The Bells of Shandon_.
I.
With swate sensashuns,
And palpitashuns,
And suspirashuns,
Which thrill me through!
Here in Limerick, city Of maidens pretty,
A tender ditty I'll chant to you.
II.
With maid and man on,
A stamer ran on,
Where silver Shannon In glory glames!
Shure, all big rivers He bates to shivers,
Rowling majestic,
This King o' Strames!
III.
There, blandly baming,
As we went staming,
Och, was I draming?
I first did note,
Such a swate fairy,
As _super mare_,
No, nor yet _in aere_,
Did iver float!
IV.
Her very bonnet
Desarves a sonnet,
And I'd write one on it,
If I'd the time.
But something fairer,
And dear, and rarer,
In coorse, the wearer,
Shall have my rhyme.
V.
With eyes like mayteors,
And parfect phaytures,
Which aisy bate yours,
Great Vanus, fair!
I'll ne'er forget her,
As first I met her,
On (what place betther?)
The cabin stair!
VI.
Her darlint face is
Beyond all praises,
And thin for graces,
There's not her like.
All other lasses
She just surpasses,
As wine molasses,
Or salmon pike!
VII.
Her hair's the brightest,
Her hand the whitest,
Her step the lightest,--
Ah me, those fate!
You need not tell a--bout
Cinderella,
For hers excel a-
ny boots you'll mate!
VIII.
With look the purest,
That ever tourist,
From eyes azurest,
Saw anywhere,
I met her blushing,
As I went rushing,
For bitter beer, down
The cabin stair.
IX.
Then she sat and smiled, where,
On luggage piled there, 1
She me beguiled,--ne'er
A smile like that!
And I began to Compose a canto
On Frank's portmanteau,
Whereon she sat.
X.
I've read in story,
What dades of glory,
Knights grand and gory,
For love have wrought.
But ne'er was duel,
Nor torture cruel,
I'd shun, my jewel,
If you besought!
XI.
For her voice is swatest,
Her shape the natest,
And she complatest
Of womankind.
And while that river,
In sunlight quiver,
Oh, sure, he'll niver
Her aqual find
XII.
Troth, since we've parted,
I've felt down-hearted,
And disconsarted,--
A cup too low!
And so I think, boys,
We'd better drink, boys,
Her health in whiskey,
Before we go.
1 This luggage included a long narrow box, and, from an
aperture at the top there emerged from time to time a
peacock's head, exhibiting (despite the presence of Juno) an
expression of sublime misery. I doubt whether that bird will
ever take heart to spread his tail again!
“He'll forget her to-morrow morning,” said Frank to his neighbour, in
a pretended whisper, which all could hear, “and it's better so, poor
fellow, for the girl's ridiculously fond of me, and I've got no end of
her hair in my pocket.”
Of course, there were plenty of fools to giggle; but I never could see
any wit in lies. I am quite positive, that, when we parted, she returned
my regretful gaze, and
“Phyllida amo ante alias; nam me discedere flevit.”