about in chaises with you all over the country; so come, no nonsense, give us your arm.” "My dear friend," said Hull, "good day-good day-don't come any further ;-I-really-that's the worst of travelling with one's relations." "Don't talk stuff, Tommy," said the lady: "you have been gallivanting about-just like you-and I'm left to eat cold rump-steaks-". "Galli what?" said Hull-" pooh, pooh!-hold your tongue." Seeing the state of affairs, and having realized the suspicions which had, during the latter part of our walk, grown up in my mind, I thought it but fair to accede to his wish, and leave him in the quiet possession of his amiable friend; and accordingly I shook hands with him just at the mile-stone, and was bidding him farewell and bowing with the greatest ceremony to his travelling companion, when Wells, and his wife, and Bessy, made their appearance by emerging from a gate which opened to the Town-field, and actually cut off the descending pair from the possibility of reaching their destination without passing them. "Ha!" said I," here's my father-in-law." "Good bye," said Hull; "good bye-some other time-eh? My aunt is hungry-he!-I happen to know-pooh, pooh!" Saying which he fidgeted past the coming trio, and, although he might have been extremely intimate with Wells's relations, neither the time nor circumstances seemed at all suitable to a furtherance of the acquaintance, although I found as usual that Hull had spoken the whole truth when he claimed a recollection of the Rector, who perfectly well remembered his name, and having been much edified by the reports of some of his dissertations upon the productions of the venerable Caxton and Co. many years before. I really was sorry, after what did actually occur, that I had so resolutely "stuck to his skirts" in the walk. Whatever might be the relationship between the little gentleman and the large lady it was nothing to me, and I admit I should not have liked, under similar circumstances, to have suffered a similar interruption, and, as misfortunes never come alone, the inopportune appearance of the Rector and his family did not much mend the matter. It may naturally be supposed that Wells was by no means sparing in his jokes and remarks upon what he had witnessed; however, the subjects of greater importance which occupied our attention somewhat diverted him from his full play, and, having resolved to say nothing to Harriet or her mother of the news that Hull had brought of Cuthbert, we waited, as may naturally be supposed, with the deepest anxiety for further intelligence from Nubley. LETTERS FROM IRELAND.-NO. V.* IN THE SUMMER AND AUTUMN OF 1837. IN the road from Macroom to Killarney, we rested a couple of hours at the village of Ballivourney, in the midst of a waste, where its cottages, large paper-mill, police-station, wild stream, and wilder hills beyond, form a welcome picture. The interior of the shebeen, or village inn, was dreary and dirty, and we quickly left it for the little street, containing about a score of dwellings, now emptied of most of their tenants, who were all full of the success of the election for Cork county. Several were gathered round a decent man, who was conversing calmly with the landlord of the shebeen; several women, who stood near, were earnestly regarding him, and talking to each other in tones of reproach and sorrow, with every now and then an uplifted hand and warning shake of the head. But he was not unsupported: on the other side was an old woman, dancing and singing in surpassing joy; applauding to the skies the man's rash deed, and exclaiming that he was a true patriot, he was the boy who was a lover of his country! Inquiring into the cause of all this excitement, they pointed to an adjacent spot, all blackened by a recent fire. There, on the previous evening, had stood a neat cottage, a rick of hay, a store of potatoes, in whose possession their owner might laugh at poverty and want, and bid them turn to other homes. Yet his own hand laid desolate the comfort of the present, the hope of the future: the tale would seem incredible, had we not verified its truth on the spot. On the preceding evening the Killarney coach brought the news of the result of the county election, which he no sooner heard, than he cut a caper several feet high in the air, and, crying and laughing at once for joy, ran to his cottage, and, taking a wisp of straw, set fire to his hay-rick. The sale of this hay was his only resource for the ensuing winter: he saw it burn with a martyr's calmness and loftiness of feeling; "it was for liberty he did it," he said. His neighbours ran together to behold the sight, and danced and shouted round the pile, that, burning fiercely, threw the glare of its flames on the cabins and the enraptured patriots, men, women, and children. Not Bourbon, when he gave his jewels and last possessions to his troops on marching to the sack of Rome, felt more gloriously free of this world than the farmer of Ballivourney, as his whole year's produce went to ashes. He next brought out his furniture-chair, table, dresser, and stool-all were thrown, one by one, upon the glowing pile, and each sacrifice to patriotism drew forth a fresh shout of wonder and admiration. Then a second thought struck him, an Irish thought, which is quicker and odder than that of any brain: he brought forth all his store of potatoes, and throwing them on the ashes, they afforded in a short time an excellent supper to the crowd, every one of whom plucked them hot and crisp from the bonfire, and eat them with a fulness of heart and relish which the disinterestedly happy alone can know. Was ever a potato roasted in a nobler cause, on more illustrious ashes? The man was perfectly sober during all this; and, when he retired to * Continued from p. 320, No. ccvii. his desolated home to sleep, one might suppose that regret, and perhaps despair, would come during the watches of the night; or when morning broke, and he saw himself bereaved of everything. But it was not so he rejoiced in his desolation, and said that he would do the deed over again for the love of his country. His features and voice were calm as he said this: many of his neighbours, now that their excitement was over, condemned him, for they saw that he was a ruined man. Perhaps in no country is a little independence so exquisite a blessing as in this. Between the furnished cottage and its store of corn or hay, and the squalid cabins of most of the peasantry, there is a great gulf fixed. This man's home was no longer a place for him; unable to pay his rent, he must go forth as a day-labourer: his furniture burned, he had no money wherewith to replace it; nor could he afford to pay the rent of his now desolate cottage-every hope of comfort for his future life was gone. Although he had no wife or children to share his lot, he was not wholly alone. "There's the pig," said a woman, who, with many others, was looking on the blackened spot; "the poor cratur's wandering here and there, as if he didn't know his own home, now the master is gone: he'll never have so sweet a home agin." The Macroom road to Killarney is for the last few miles through a wild valley, whose bare mountainous sides, closing gloomily on either hand, form a noble approach to the lakes. Ireland seems in all things to be a land of extremes: there is but a step from the villa and castle to the dismal cabin; from the sad voices and sights of the "valley of shadows" to the tables of luxury and the sound of the harp and the viol. Killarney is like a little exquisite land of rest and joy, beyond whose bounds all is barren. The first sight of its purple mountains, the Turk and Glena a mass of forest, the others naked; the lesser hills, the splendid foreground of about two miles in extent, covered with the noblest single trees, was one of the most indelible we ever beheld in any land. On a bold hill on the left, the castle of Mr. Colman, an English gentleman, is enviably situated on a site whose singular and commanding beauty first tempted him to settle here. On the right are at intervals some fine villas, which continue quite to the town of Killarney, which you approach through a squalid street of cabins, where dirt and misery seem to have taken up their abode. The town consists of two principal streets; is very populous; has three large inns, which, with numerous lodging-houses, are in the season full of strangers from all parts of the world-French, Italian, German, Scotch, with innumerable English. The Irish have but little habit or love of visiting their own country. Will it be believed that there are affluent families, several of whom we knew, who keep their carriages, and have lived twenty or thirty years within a few hours' drive of Killarney, and have never yet seen it! On the high road from Cork, within view of their windows, were vehicles filled with tourists of all ranks and nations, driving eagerly to the lakes, to which shore their own chariot-wheels were not driven. The distance of Killarney from the lakes is a great inconvenience, and induced us to drive two miles distant to the village of Cloghereen, which is almost at the water's edge, and close to the gate of Mucruss. This abbey was founded, in 1440, for Conventual Franciscans; there was a religious house on the same site before this period, as appears from a MS. in Trinity College, Dublin, wherein it is stated that "the church of Irrelagh was burned in 1192." The abbey consisted of a nave, choir, transept, and cloisters, with every apartment necessary to render it a complete and comfortable residence for the venerable inmates who once dwelt there. It is even now so perfect that, were it more entire, the beauty of the ruin would be diminished. The interior of the choir, as well as the cemetery without, is a favourite place of sepulture with the people. In general they bury in Ireland in such very shallow graves, and the soil being of a nature that decomposes very fast, and the coffins slightly made, the boards as well as their contents are frequently exposed to public view. Even here, in this most beautiful ruin, the sight as well as smell are revolting: you seem to be trampling on the dead, above whom the wild flowers and the foliage are of rank luxuriance. There is even an ingenuity in exposing the sad relics in various fantastic forms. The cloister is very entire; its corridor supported by small Ionic pillars; its gloom is deepened by a noble yewtree, two centuries old and thirty feet in height, whose sheltering branches are flung across the battlements. This tree is held in great veneration by every one who approaches it, not only for its age and splendid form, but for the peculiar situation in which it grows. On this solitary yew, on the gloomy cloisters around it, and nine skulls placed in a row on the edge of the stone-work, the last light of day was feebly falling. Nearly in the middle of the churchyard is an immense ash-tree, whose branches almost canopy the ruinous places: around its trunk a large ivy, whose stem is of the thickness of a man's body, had wound itself with great beauty; in the body of this ivy, and so firmly imbedded that they seem part of the tree, are several human bones; they could not be extracted without the destruction of the tree. Long ago a large heap of bones was thrown on this spot to the height of several feet; the strong ivy in its growth forced its way through them, and even appropriated some within its own bosom. The abbey is approached through a gloomy avenue of trees, and is almost hidden by their foliage; it is a very solemn place, and so very beautiful is its domain, that, in spite of its uncharnelled bones and coffins, we returned to it again and again. On the first evening there chanced to be a funeral here: the wail, heard at some distance, led our steps to the spot, where a little group of mourners had just placed the bier in the grave, round which they were standing, and a young man, the husband as he seemed to be, was in the ruined chapel, raising the ullagone with all his might: the poor fellow wept as he mourned: there is a depth of feeling in this lament, of which the following translation can give but a faint idea : "Oh! it is I that have great cause to shed my heavy tears, But since death yet has not got leave to lay me in the clay, The walk that leads from the abbey along the shore, a distance of three miles, is a very lovely one, passing above the lower lake and beneath the trees, with which shrubs are intermingled so that there is a verdure throughout the whole year; the arbutus, the mountain ash, the holly, laurel, silver ash, and mountain poplar. This demesne of Mucruss is jointly possessed by Lord Kenmare and Mr. Herbert. When the sun is setting on the lower lake, its isles, and mountains, this walk has an inexpressible beauty. The cicerone of the abbey is now a respectable man, who was formerly a soldier, but the little old woman who used to show it to strangers was a more characteristic guide. As she stood on a grassy mound, with one hand extended, her snow-white kerchief pinned over her muslin cap, her short printed calico gown, black mittens, and neat shoes and stockings, forming a striking contrast with the general appearance of her countrywomen of the same rank in life. Her figure was, for her advanced age, surprisingly upright, and seemed to become straighter and taller as she descanted on the relics of time and mortality. "All Killarney, since I was young, lie there," she said, pointing to the burial-ground. She was ninety-four years old. She was accustomed to pause beneath the famous yew-tree, from which, in spite of the veneration paid it, many bits have been picked off from time to time; for it is said that, while a bit of it is kept next the heart, there is no fear of sudden death. "No doubt," said the old woman, "it is a blessed tree, having been planted by holy men, but there was before my own eyes long ago, standing where you are now, a gentleman- -a fine young man; he cut with his knife a bit of the bark, and laughed as he put it into his bosom, saying he could face death now; and, in a few minutes after, he went upon the lake. A fine calm day it was; there were many boats out to see the stag hunted; all was joy and gladness, but the poor mute animal for their diversionlittle joy was in its heart to be sure, for how could there? But, as I was saying, about the poor young gentleman; just near the tunnel rock, whether the boatman had sipped too much of the whisky, or how it happened, no one knows, but the boat upset: all escaped but the gentleman. Some say that he was hit on the forehead by an oar which was put out to save him, but he was taken up cold and dead; and sure enough the slip of bark was found in his bosom, and the watch in his pocket, that never stopped going though he was gone for ever." About half a century ago a kind of recluse or hermit came and dwelt here, of whose habits and mortifications stories are still told by a few, who never, however, saw him face to face. The aged guide loved to lead the way up some narrow stone stairs into what appeared to have been the monk's principal apartment, from its ample hearth and high stone chimneypiece, round which the ivy had now woven its own garniture. "Here I stood," she said, " many a time with the hermit of Mucruss, of whom you may have heard speak. There was his bed-room," pointing to a recess in the wall; "he made a kind of platform for his bed to rest on with old coffins, and the same served him for shelves to put his books upon. Some say he had committed a mortal crime in foreign parts, and came here to do penance: certain it is that he used to be seen upon the lake when even a sea-gull wouldn't venture out, and that in a bit of a boat made of the coffins. He was for ever questioning me about the abbey and its history, but I daren't hint a word as to himself, for he would be black and silent in a minute. People used to wonder at me for having the courage to go near him, but I couldn't keep away, doing this Sept.-VoI. LIV. NO. CCXIII. C |