The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 12,
September 19, 1840, by Various

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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 12, September 19, 1840

Author: Various

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Language: English

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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

      NUMBER 12.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1840.      VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE TOWN OF ANTRIM.]

Travellers whose only knowledge of our towns is that derived in passing
through the principal street or streets, will be very apt to form an
erroneous estimate of the amount of picturesque beauty which they often
possess, and which is rarely seen save by those who go out of their way
expressly to look for it. This is particularly the case in our smaller
towns, in which the principal thoroughfare has usually a stiff and formal
character, the entrance on either side being generally a range of mud
cabins, which, gradually improving in appearance, merge at length into
houses of a better description, with a public building or two towards
the centre of the town. In these characteristics the highway of one town
is only a repetition of that of another, and in such there is rarely any
combination of picturesque lines or striking features to create a present
interest in the mind, or leave a pleasurable impression on the memory.
Yet in most instances, if we visit the suburbs of these towns, and more
particularly if they happen, as is usually the case, to be placed upon
a river, and we get down to the river banks, we shall most probably be
surprised and gratified at the picturesque combinations of forms, and the
delightful variety of effects, presented to us in the varied outline of
their buildings, contrasted by intervening masses of dark foliage, and
the whole reflected on the tranquil surface of the water, broken only by
the enlivening effect of those silvery streaks of light produced by the
eddies and currents of the stream.

Our prefixed view of the town of Antrim may be taken as an illustration
of the preceding remarks. As seen by the passing traveller, the town
appears situated on a rich, open, but comparatively uninteresting plain,
terminating the well-cultivated vale of the Six-mile-water towards the
flat shore of Loch Neagh; and with the exception of its very handsome
church and castellated entrance into Lord Ferrard’s adjoining demesne,
has little or no attraction; but viewed in connection with its river,
Antrim appears eminently picturesque from several points as well as from
that selected for our view--the prospect of the town looking from the
deer-park of Lord Massarene.

In front, the Six-mile-water river flowing placidly over a broad gravelly
bed, makes a very imposing appearance, not much inferior to that of the
Liffey at Island-bridge. The expanse of water at this point, however,
forms a contrast to the general appearance of the stream, which, although
it brings down a considerable body of water, flows in many parts of its
course between banks of not more than twenty feet asunder. The vale
which it waters is one of the most productive districts of the county,
and towards Antrim is adorned by numerous handsome residences rising
among the enlivening scenery of bleach-greens, for which manufacture
it affords a copious water-power. Scenes of this description impart a
peculiar beauty to landscapes in the north of Ireland. The linen webs of
a snowy whiteness, spread on green closely-shaven lawns sloping to the
sun, and generally bounded by a sparkling outline of running water, have
a delightfully _fresh_ and cheerful effect, seen as they usually are with
their concomitants of well-built factories and handsome mansions; and in
scenery of this description the neighbourhood of Antrim is peculiarly
rich. The Six-mile-water has also its own attraction for the antiquary,
being the _Ollarbha_ of our ancient Irish poems and romances, and flowing
within a short distance of the ancient fortress of Rathmore of Moylinny,
a structure which boasts an antiquity of upwards of 1700 years.

In our view the river appears crossed by a bridge, which through the
upper limbs of its lofty arches affords a pretty prospect of the river
bank beyond. In building a bridge in the same place, a modern county
surveyor would probably erect a less picturesque but more economical
structure, for the arches here are so lofty, that the river, to occupy
the whole space they afford for its passage, must rise to a height that
would carry its waters into an entirely new channel.

But the principal feature in our prospect is the church, the tower and
steeple of which are on so respectable a scale, and of such excellent
proportions, as to render it a very pleasing object as seen from any
quarter or approach of the town. It would be difficult to say in what the
true proportions of a spire consist, whether in its obvious and practical
utility as a penthouse roofing the tower, or in its emblematic aptitude
aspiring to and pointing towards heaven. Still, every cultivated eye will
remark how much more dignified and imposing is the effect of a spire
which is only moderately lofty, as compared with the breadth of its base,
than that of one which is extremely slender. We would point out the spire
of St Patrick’s Cathedral, for example, or that before us, on a smaller
scale, as instances of the former sort. Any one acquainted with the
proportions of those attenuated pinnacles which we so often find perched
on the roofs of churches erected within the last ten years, cannot be
at a loss for examples of the latter. The church itself at Antrim is,
however, rather defective in point of size, as compared with its nobly
proportioned tower and spire.

The suburb of the town, on this side of the bridge, runs up to the
demesne wall of Lord Ferrard’s residence, Antrim Castle, an antique
castellated mansion, seated boldly over the river in a small park laid
out in the taste of Louis XIV., from the terraced walks and stately
avenues of which there are many beautiful views of the surrounding
scenery.

In point of historical interest, there are but two events connected with
Antrim worthy of any particular note--the defeat of the insurgents here
in the rebellion of 1798, on which occasion the late Earl O’Neill lost
his life; and a great battle between the English and native Irish, in the
reign of Edward III., hitherto little spoken of in history, but forming
one in a series of events which exercised a great influence over the
destinies of this country.

Very soon after the first invasion of Ulster by John de Courcy, the
English power was established not only throughout the counties of
Down and Antrim, but even over a large portion of the present county
of Londonderry, then called the county of Coleraine. We find sheriffs
regularly appointed for these counties, and the laws duly administered,
down to the time of Edward III. The native Irish, who had been pushed out
by the advance of this early tide of civilization, took up their abode
west of the Bann, and in the hilly county of Tyrone, from whence they
watched the proceedings of their invaders, and, as opportunities from
time to time presented themselves, crossed the intervening river and
“preyed” the English country. The district around Antrim was from its
situation the one chiefly exposed to these incursions, and the duty of
defending it mainly devolved on the powerful sept of the Savages, who at
that time had extensive possessions in the midland districts of Antrim,
as well as in Down.

The most formidable of these incursions was that which took place
immediately after the murder of William de Burgho, Earl of Ulster, who
was assassinated by some malcontent English at the fords of Belfast, A.
D. 1333. The earl had been a strenuous asserter of the English law, and
had rendered himself obnoxious to the turbulent nobles of the country by
the severity with which he prohibited their adoption of Irish customs,
which, strange to say, had always great charms for the feudal lords of
the English pale, arising probably from the greater facilities which
the Brehon law afforded for exacting exorbitant rents and services from
their tenants. The immediate object of the assassins of the earl was to
prevent him carrying the full rigour of the law into operation against
one of his own _hibernicised_ kinsmen; but the ultimate consequences of
their act were felt throughout all Ireland for two centuries after. For
the Irish, taking advantage of the consternation attendant on the death
of the chief officer of the crown in that province, crossed the Bann
in unexampled numbers, and after a protracted struggle, in which they
were joined by some of the degenerate English, succeeded at length in
recovering the whole of the territory conquered by De Courcy, with the
exception only of Carrickfergus in Antrim, and a portion of the county
of Down, which the Savages with difficulty succeeded in holding after
being expelled from their former possessions at the point of the sword.
It was during this struggle that the battle to which we have alluded was
fought at Antrim. The story is told at considerable length and with much
quaintness by Hollinshed; but want of space obliges us to present it to
our readers in the more concise though still very characteristic language
of Cox:--

“About this time lived Sir Robert Savage, a very considerable gentleman
in Ulster, who began to fortifie his house with strong walls and
bulwarks; but his son derided his father’s prudence and caution,
affirming that “a castle of _bones_ was better than a castle of
_stones_,” and thereupon the old gentleman put a stop to his building.
It happened that this brave man with his neighbours and followers were
to set out against a numerous rabble of Irish that had made incursions
into their territories, and he gave orders to provide plenty of good
cheer against his return; but one of the company reproved him for doing
so, alleging that he could not tell but the enemy might eat what he
should provide; to which the valiant old gentleman replied, that he hoped
better from their courage, but that if it should happen that his very
enemies should come to his house, ‘he should be ashamed if they should
find it void of good cheer.’ The event was suitable to the bravery of the
undertaking: old Savage had the killing of three thousand of the Irish
near Antrim, and returned home joyfully to supper.”

Sir Henry Savage’s “castles of bones” were found insufficient in the end
to resist the multitudes of the Irish; and the English colonists, as we
have mentioned, notwithstanding their victory at Antrim, were finally
obliged to cede the valley of the Six-mile-water to the victorious arms
of the Clan-Hugh-Buide, whose representative, the present Earl O’Neill,
still holds large possessions in the territory thus recovered by his
ancestors.

With respect to the origin of the place, there is little to be said
beyond the fact, that, like that of most of our provincial towns, it
was ecclesiastical. The only remnant of the ancient foundation is the
round tower, which still stands in excellent preservation about half a
mile north of the town. The name is properly “Aen-druim” signifying “the
single hill,” or “one mount.”




A CHAPTER ON CURS.


Without doubt I am a benevolent character: the grudge gratuitous to
my nature is unknown: I never take offence where no offence is given.
Hence, on most animals I look with complacency--for most animals never
intermeddle with my comfort--and on only a few with antipathy, for only
a few so behave as to excite it. High up on the list of the latter--I
was going to say at the very top, but that pestering, pertinacious fly
impudently alighting, through pure mischief alone, on the tickle-tortured
tip of--but he’s gone--no, he’s back--there now I have him under my hat
at last--tut! he’s out again under the rim--up with the window and away
with him! At the head, then, ay, at the very head--how my grievances come
crowding on my brain!--I unhesitatingly place that thrice-confounded
breed of curs, colleys, mongrels, or whatever else they may be called,
with which the rural regions of this therein much-afflicted country are
infested. The milk of my humanity--yea, I may say the cream, for such
it was with me--has in respect to them been changed to very gall--an
unmitigable hostility has possessed me, which--did not the scars of
the wofully-remembered salting, scrubbing, scarifying, and frying (to
say nothing of two months’ maintenance of an hospital establishment of
poultices and plasters), to which my better leg was twice submitted,
counsel me to mingle discretion with my ire--would absolutely make me
turn Don Quixote for their extirpation.

Let flighty philosophers frolic as they list with the flimsy phantasies
no optics save their own can spy--let political economists prate about
public problems, till other people’s pates are nearly as addled as their
own--let flaming patriots propound and placid placemen promise this,
that, and t’other, as grievous burdens or great concessions; but let men
of sense give heed to things of substance--let them exclaim with me,
“Out upon all abstract gammon--out upon all squabbling about what we can
only hear, but neither see nor feel, taste nor smell--bodily boons--real
redress--and first and foremost, ‘to the lamp-post’ with the curs!” I
have suffered more at their teeth, both in blood and broad-cloth, than
all the benefactions I have ever received at the hands of any government
would balance. The inviolable independence of British subjects, forsooth!
the parental guardianship of the constitution, the security for life
and person--faugh!--away with the big inanities, so long as a peaceful
pedestrian cannot take an airing along a highway, much less adventure
on a devious ramble, without exposing person and personalities to the
cruel mercies of a tribe of half-starved tykes issuing from every cabin,
scrambling over every half-door, and almost throttling themselves in
their emulous ambition to be the first to tatter the ill-starred wight
who has stumbled on their haunts. Let no one urge in their behalf
that they are faithful to the misguided men who own them: so much the
worse, since in their small system, fidelity to one must needs manifest
itself in malice, hatred, and uncharitableness to every creature else,
dead or alive. No, there is no redeeming trait--they are _curs_,
essentially biting, barking, cantankrous, crabbed, sneaking, snarling,
treacherous, bullying, cowardly _curs_, and nothing else. This, under all
circumstances, I undertake to maintain against all gainsayers, though
at the same time I am free to confess that I write under considerable
excitement, having just returned from the country (whither--besotted
mortal not to be content with the flag way of a street, and the scenery
of brick and mortar--I had repaired, forsooth, for air, exercise, and
rural sketching) with a couple of new coats, to say nothing of trousers,
curtailed beyond recovery, a bandaged shin smarting beyond description,
and a host of horrid hydrophobic forebodings consequent thereon. It
chanced that in an evil hour I made an engagement with an ailing friend,
whose house was situate in what I may emphatically term a most _canine_
locality, which constrained me to make several calls upon him. Unhappily
it was only approachable by one road, the sides of which were here and
there dotted with a clutch of cabins, in each of which was maintained a
standing force of the aforesaid pests. This ambushed defile, about three
miles in length, dire necessity compelled me to traverse thrice, and
never did general more considerately undertake a march through a hostile
country, or an enemy more vigilantly guard a pass therein, than did I
and they respectively. On each and all of these occasions have I debated
with myself whether I should not fetch a secure though sinuous compass
through the fields, even with the addition of a few miles and other
discomforts to my walk; but as often--with honest, though, as I look upon
my leg, with melancholy pride I write it--did my pluck preserve me from
so disgraceful a detour. What! my indignant manhood would exclaim, shall
I, one of the lords of the creation--shall I, who have dared and have
accomplished so and so--recalling some of my most notable exploits by
flood and field, in crossing the Channel and cantering in the Park--shall
I, one of her majesty’s liege subjects, a grand jury cess-payer and a
freeholder to boot, be driven from the highway which I pay to support,
and obliged to skulk like a criminal from view, scramble over walls and
splutter through swamps, daub my boots, rend mayhap my tights, and risk
other contingencies, and all by reason of such vile scrubs? No, perish
the thought!--though their name be Legion, and their nature impish, I
will face them, ay, and write the fear of me upon their hides too, if
they dare molest me--that I will. Thus spoke the man within me, as I
fiercely griped my cane; and if, as I cooled, an occasional shrinking of
the calves of my legs in fancied supposition of a tooth inserted therein,
betokened aught like quailing, I recalled Marlborough’s saying on the
eve of battle, “How this little body trembles at what this great soul is
about to perform!” and felt that I too was exemplifying that loftiest
courage in which the infirmity of the flesh succumbs to the vigour of the
spirit.

Decided by some such discipline to run the gauntlet, and in a state of
temper alternating between war and peace, inclining, as I remarked,
strange contradiction! to the former when the latter was in prospect, and
to the latter when the former, I proceeded in guarded vigilance. “Hope
deferred maketh the heart sick,” no doubt, but in my case evil deferred
doth oftentimes as much. The substantial presence of danger for me,
before its fearful imminence--the real onset of a canine crew, before the
terrible suspense of passing the open den in which haply they lay wait,
the shrill gamut of attack splitting your ear worse in apprehension than
in action. But attention! yonder is the first position. Egad! I’m in luck
to-day; the coast seems clear, and--the pacific now prevails amain--poor
devils, I won’t make any ruction.

    “Ever follow peace
    If you’d live at ease,”

saith the tuneful proverb, and I’ll pass inoffensively if I can. Ay,
i’faith, I may well say _if I can_, for if my eyes are worth a turnip,
yonder is an outpost stretched before that sty. No, I’m wrong, it is a
young pig--worthy little fellow, would I had the craft of Circe to change
every cur in the land into your similitude! A grunt before a snarl, a
snore before a snap any day. But what am I gabbling about?--there is
evil at hand indeed, for yonder is a lurching devil squatted behind
that stone, and no mistake. But softly: he seems asleep, and I may
perchance steal past unnoticed--about as probable, my present experience
assures me, as that you could ring my well-bred friend Piggie without
an acknowledgment--he is sole sentry, and if I can but bilk him, I’ll
do. Vain hope--he is waking, he is giving a preparatory stretch to his
limbs and to his jaws, and, miserable sinner that I am! I’m in for it.
But there is yet a single chance--I’ll try the magic of the human eye:
there is wonder-working majesty, they say, in it. Did I not myself see
Van Amburgh’s brutes blench before it?--am not I too a man?--ay, and
I’ll let them see it. Whereupon, with the most astounding corrugation
of my brows I could accomplish, I fixed my grim regards upon the cur,
expecting to see him sneak in awe away as I drew nigh. But, alas! for
the majesty of man, in a pinch like this let me tell him it is but a
sorry safeguard--the veriest whelp in the land will bandy surly looks,
and haply something worse, in its despite: a cudgel or a “hardy,” I now
say, on such an emergency, before the most confounding countenance that
ever frowned beneath a diadem. The foe, then, recking but little my
display of the tremendous, gave a fierce alarm, while in the vehemence
of his wrath he described three circles, his hind legs being the centre,
which brought the whole posse of aids and abettors fast and furious into
view. And now commenced the fray in earnest: beleaguered on every side,
my blood, not to speak boastfully, rose with the great occasion: my
tongue gave vigorous utterance to my fury, and my cane swept gallantly
from right to left and from left to right, though from the wariness
with which, ’mid all their fuss and clamour, the war was waged by my
assailants, it was but seldom that a shrill yelp piercing through the
din announced its collision with flesh and blood. Never was man more
thoroughly put to it. As I made a dash forward upon one, my unprotected
rear was promptly invested by another: my only security lay in the
rapidity of my evolutions, and considering I am a man five feet five
in height and fifteen stone in weight, I fairly take credit to myself
for performances in this line, which poor Joe Grimaldi himself were he
alive could not eclipse. But a man’s sinews are not of steel, nor are
his lungs as tough as a pair of bellows, and under my extraordinary
exertions I speedily began to think of vacating a field whereon nothing
but a barren display of prowess without satisfaction was to be reaped.
Accordingly, all my craft in strategy was put in practice, and by a
most dexterous combination of manœuvres--now advancing, now receding,
now stooping _as if_ to seize a stone (incomparable among expedients in
canine encounters), for the road here of course was as bare of them as a
barn-floor, and now feigning to fling it--I at length contrived to draw
the battle from their own ground, and their pugnacity being inversely
as their distance from home, had the relief, for by this time I was
blowing like a grampus, of seeing them retire in detachments, giving
volleys in token of triumph and defiance so long as I remained in view.
This brisk affair concluded with the loss only of a mouthful or two of
my coat-tails, and the gain of a few trifling transparencies in the
legs of my trousers--thank my boots, I have not to add in those of my
person--I proceeded to the scene of my next “passage at arms,” about half
a mile off. So ruffled was I that at first, after a few score peghs and
puffs restorative, I bustled bravely on, desiring nothing so much as an
opportunity of wreaking my wrath on some of the odious race, to which
purpose I providently deposited a few pretty pebbles in my pocket.

But I am pre-eminently a reasoning man, in whom the reign of passion is
but brief, and discretion had so far recovered its rightful ascendency
as I drew nigh the next “picket,” that I began to think it more prudent,
more benevolent I mean, to bottle up, or repress I should say, my
indignation, and try what the “gentle charities,” a benign demeanour and
a pleasant salutation, might avail in the way of securing a peaceful
transit. With this aim I threw a prodigious amount of amiability (if
somewhat more than I felt, Heaven forgive the hypocrisy) into my
countenance, and accompanied a few familiar fillips of my finger with a
most honied, and, as I thought, captivating phraseology of address, to
a sinister-faced wretch who lay recumbent on the nearest threshold. But
it would not do: up bounced the vile ingrate with obstreperous bay; his
myrmidons were forthcoming on the instant, and in a jiffey I, a grave,
reserved, and middle-aged man, a short, stout, and not very well-winded
man, was in the melée once more, yerking my heels out fore and aft,
whacking right and left, puffing, blowing, and altogether cutting such
uncouth capers as verily it shames me now to think upon. Whether or
not it was that my resentment, and proportionably thereto my prowess,
were aggravated by the flagrant ingratitude displayed, I distributed
my “dissuaders” on this occasion with such distinguished emphasis as
well as science, as speedily to create a considerable diversion in my
favour, and make more than one repentant sinner yelp out “devil take the
hindmost,” in such vigorous style as to bring a bevy of grandam fogies
in wrath from their chimney corners. “An what are yees abusin’ the poor
craythurs for, that wouldn’t harm nobody in the world at all at all,
barrin’ a pig or so? It’s a wonder yees been’t ashamed to treat the poor
dumb (!) brutes that way, that niver did an ill hand’s turn to us nor one
belonging to us, an’ it’s longer we’re acquaint with them than you. Come
here, Trig--come here, Daisy--in there, Snap--down there, Peerie,” and so
forth. Recrimination on such opponents was out of the question; and this
brush over in rather creditable style, I made all speed from the united
clamour of the offended crones and their injured innocents.

The next sore point I happily passed in the company of an iron-nerved,
long-thonged carman, whom I providently engaged in conversation at the
crisis. This fellow minded them no more than if they had been so many
sods of turf, nor in truth did they, having probably tasted erewhile the
crusty quality of such a customer, pay much regard to him, although not
a few ill-favoured glances were cast askew at my poor self, as under his
lee I stoutly stumped along; and some ill-suppressed growls and spiteful
grins gave me to understand that I owed my safety solely to my company. A
jolly beggarman--alack-a-day! that I should ever stand in need of such a
convoy--to whose nimble fictions I gave ear for the nonce with singular
philanthropy, was my next protector, and a sixpence paid for the safe
conduct, at which rate I am pretty confident, had he seen how matters
lay, he would have offered to trudge it at my elbow far enough, for the
sturdy rogue cared not a snuff for them had they been twice as numerous;
and in a few seconds after, I saw him with a flourish of his duster enter
a hut in the midst of them all.

But it is needless to dive any farther into the budget of adventures
which then and there befell me, except to mention, as a sort of set-off,
a notable retaliation that I right happily achieved on one of my
tormentors. After a scuffle, contested on both sides with considerable
toughness, I was retiring from a sort of drawn battle, when I espied a
short-legged, long-backed, crook-knee’d, lumpish-looking rascal scuttling
along through a field at a prodigious pace. He had heard the well-known
gathering-note when at a distance with some turf-cutters in a bog, and,
eager for sport, namely, a pluck at my inexpressibles, lost no time in
making for the scene. The affair was, however, over before he arrived
upon the ground; but determined that his “trevally” should not be for
nought, he gave me immediate chase up the road, reserving his fire as
if intent on close combat alone, and altogether showing such an earnest
business-like way with him, as made me set him down as a singularly
crabbed customer. On he came at a rate that soon left me nothing for
it, was I ever so much disinclined, but to face about and stand at
bay. Hereupon, however--so conversant with currish character was I now
become--a much increased ostentation of action upon his part, accompanied
with a much diminished rate of progression, and a most superfluous
discharge of barks, let me into a gratifying little secret. “Ha, my
gentleman,” thought I, “Is this the way the land lies? You’re not just
so stout a hero as you would fain be thought; and as, i’faith, I have
no notion of being made sport of by such small ware as you, I’ll just
try if I cannot give you a lesson worth the learning.” With that I again
showed him my heels, which relieved him of his rather awkward suspense,
and, turning round a corner, dexterously managed in a few moments to
have my lad ensconced in a pretty angle, with a deep pool behind him,
and a high stone wall on either side. Even in the height of my triumph
and wrath, I could not help noticing the extraordinary mutations the
outwitted ettercap underwent at this astounding juncture. The last yelp
perished incomplete: a dismal wonder-what-ails-him bewilderment, horror,
cowardice, despair, supplied a sort of prelibation of “the condign” my
injured honour and outraged rights craved in expiation. Before him I
flourished my cane in a fashion that made the very thought of contact
therewith terrible--behind him lay the expectant plunge-bath of which
he, in common with all his tribe, entertained a most hydrophobic horror.
Thrice he seemed to contemplate an eruption, and thrice my waving weapon
turned him to the watery gulf behind, and in mortal misery he appeared
to balance their respective terrors. A cogent persuasive delivered
rearward in handsome style, created a partial preponderance in favour
of the latter. One paw was passed over the fearful brim; a timely
reiteration sent the other after; the avenging rod was upraised to give
the grand finale, when his outstretched tail suggested a device, which I
rapturously seized on to prevent that gradual fulfilment of inevitable
fate which the cowardly caitiff seemed to meditate. In the fervour of my
career I even laid hands on this appendage of my once so dreaded foe,
and swinging him aloft, to give him a proper elevation, as well as a
momentary view of the murky abyss to which a few aërial evolutions were
to bring him, dismissed him by a most righteous retribution to his fate.
A gurgling yelp announced the crisis of the plump, and a few moments
after, snorting and kicking, wriggling and splashing, in a perfect
frenzy of amaze, the culprit emerged, and made way like mad for the
bank. Tempering justice with mercy, with a noble magnanimity I allowed
him to scramble up to the road, which he did with most astonishing
alacrity, and, without even a shake to his bedraggled coat, or more than
a glance of horror at myself, scurried homeward at a rate with which
even his pursuit could not compare: _he_ never troubled me again. With
this beautiful illustration of retributive justice--oh, that I could but
make it universal!--I will wind up the relation of my misfortunes and
feats on this plaguy but memorable day, which I have selected--may my
vanity be pardoned--as exhibiting myself, though I say it who shouldn’t
say it, in rather a distinguished point of view, as being devoid of
certain humiliating circumstances with which on most other occasions my
lot was accompanied, and as being at the same time sufficient, without
wanton trifling with my own feelings and those of others, to make the
resentment of all who are susceptible of sympathy with their kind burn
fierce against these pestiferous persecutors of our race. I have said
enough to show, that if we care to maintain that native supremacy which
these contumacious rebels make but light of questioning, if we wish to
rescue our order from the disgrace and contumely from such vile sources
cast upon it, the time for action, systematic, conjoint, national action,
has now arrived. “Union,” say the sages of the rostrum with admirable
discernment, “Union is strength.” Let us act on the profound discovery;
let combination be the order of the day; let the cry of “Down with the
cynocracy!” ring resistless through the land; let pistol pellets and
pounded glass be in every one’s possession; let the legislature be
simultaneously bombarded; let the squire whose game is incontinently
gobbled up in embryo, the wayfarer whose person and all that hangs
thereon is supinely compromised, the philanthropist who would augment
human happiness, the humanist who would diminish dumb-brute suffering,
the vindicator of the pig, the cat, the donkey, and all the tribe of
cur-bebitten animals, ay, even the friends (if such besotted beetleheads
there be) of the detested breed themselves, who hold it better “not to
be” than “to be” in semi-starvation, in mangy malevolence, in spiteful
pugnacity, in the perpetual distribution of snarls, bites, and barks,
and receipt of cuffs, kicks, and cudgels--let all and every of these
great and various parties agitate, agitate, agitate, petition, petition,
petition, that such comprehensive measures as the enormity of the
case demands be forthwith adopted for the correction, abatement, or
abolition of this national scourge, by taxation, suspension, submersion,
decapitation, or deportation, as to the “collective wisdom” may most
advisable appear.

                                                                   A MAN.




LUOIGH NA SEALGA.

POEM OF THE CHASE.


There are many poems of great beauty and interest in the Irish language,
several of which have become known to the English reader through the
medium of a translation. Of those poems there is a particular class known
to Irish scholars by the name of the “Fenian Tales”--an appellation
which they derive from Finn, or Fionn, the son of Cumhail (the Fingal of
Macpherson), and his heroes the FIONNA EIRONN. Fionn, renowned for his
martial exploits, flourished about the beginning of the third century,
under Cormac,[1] of whose forces he was the commander-in-chief. He has
been to the Milesian bards what King Arthur was to the Britons, the
theme of many a marvellous achievement and poetic fiction. Oisin, his
son, was equally celebrated as a warrior and a poet; and of him it might
be said, as of Achilles, Æschylus, Alfred, Camoens, Cervantes, and many
another, that “one hand the sword and one the harp employed.” Numerous
poems have been ascribed to him; but there is no proof that he has a
legitimate claim to any composition extant. As for the impostures of
Macpherson, they have been sufficiently exposed; and no one who has taken
pains to investigate the subject, or who has the least knowledge of Irish
history, antiquities, or language, will pretend that he is worthy of the
slightest credence. The date and origin of the Fenian Tales, from which
he drew many of the materials of his centos, are altogether uncertain.
It may seem, however, not unreasonable, from slight internal evidence,
to conjecture that some of them may have been composed soon after the
introduction of Christianity, though they must since have suffered many
changes and modifications.[2] In few countries, if in any, did the
Christian religion win its way more easily than in Ireland; and yet it
can scarcely be supposed that its triumph became universal without some
reluctance on the part of the people, whose habits it condemned, and to
whose superstitions it was strenuously opposed. It attempted to produce
such a complete revolution in their tastes and occupations, that it would
be surprising had not various objections been started to its reception.
The quiet and devotion of the monastic life formed a melancholy contrast
to the spirit-stirring excitements of the chase, and to those games of
strength and skill in which the heroes of the Ossianic age delighted.
They who rejoiced in the clash of arms, in the music of hounds and horns,
and in the feast and the revel, could have small taste for the chiming of
bells in the services of religion, for the singing of psalms, and still
less for fasting--

                        ----the waster gaunt and grim,
    That of beauty and strength robs feature and limb.

The bards, it may well be imagined, who were always not only welcome but
necessary guests at all the high festivals of the chiefs and princes,
would be among the first to lament a change of manners by which their
pleasures and honours were abridged or abolished; and to give more effect
to their complaint, as well as to conceal its real authors, they put it
into the mouth of Oisin, their great master, by poetic licence, though
in violation of chronology. They ascribed to him those sentiments which
they thought he would have expressed, had he really been the contemporary
of Saint Patrick.[3] At the same time it must be admitted, that in the
Poem of the Chase at least, such a description of the creative power of
the Deity is given by the saint, as is worthy of a Christian missionary,
though he is obliged to succumb to the stern indignation of the “Warrior
Bard.”

Leaving the further consideration of this subject for the present,
I proceed to give an analysis of the Poem of the Chase, from which
the reader may be enabled in some degree to judge how far Spenser is
justifiable in affirming that the poems of the Irish bards “savoured of
sweet wit and good invention.”

The poem commences by Oisin asking St Patrick if he had ever heard
the tale of the chase; and on receiving an answer in the negative,
accompanied with a request that it may be told truly, he feels indignant
at the suspicion that he or any of the Fionna Eironn could ever deviate
from the strictest veracity, and retaliates by declaring how much he
prized his former friends, whose virtues he records, beyond Patrick and
all his psalm-singing fraternity. Patrick, in reply, exhorts him not to
indulge a strain of panegyric which borders on blasphemy, and extols
the power of that great Being by whom all the Fenian race had been
destroyed. The mention of his friends’ extinction calls forth a fresh
burst of indignation from Oisin, and leads him to compare the pleasures
of the days gone by with the melancholy occupations of psalm-singing and
fasting. Patrick requests him to cease, and not incur the impiety of
comparing Finn with the Creator of the universe. Oisin replies in a style
more indignant, and after reciting a number of the glorious exploits of
the Fenians, asks by what achievements of Patrick’s Deity they can be
matched. The saint, justly shocked by such daring, accuses him of frenzy,
and tells him that Finn and his host have been doomed to hell-fire by
that God whom he blasphemes: but this only provokes Oisin to make a
comparison between Finn’s generosity and the divine vengeance; and as for
himself, it is a sufficient proof of his sanity that he allows Patrick
and his friends to wear their heads. Patrick, as if tacitly admitting
the validity of his argument, pays him a compliment, and requests him
to proceed with the promised tale. Oisin complies, and informs him that
while the Fenian heroes were feasting in the tower of Almhuin, Finn
having withdrawn from the company and spied a young doe, pursued her
with his two hounds Sceolan and Bran as far as Slieve Guillin, where she
suddenly disappeared. While he and his hounds are left in perplexity,
he hears a sound of lamentation, and looking round espies a damsel of
surpassing beauty, whom he accosts, and with friendly solicitude asks the
cause of her grief. She replies that she had dropped her ring into the
adjoining lake, and adjures him as a true knight to dive into the water
to find and restore the lost treasure. He complies, and succeeds; and
while handing her the ring, is suddenly metamorphosed into a withered old
man.

Mean time the absence of their chief begins to create some fears for his
safety in the breasts of the Fenians. Caoilte expresses his apprehension
that he is irrecoverably lost, when bald Conan, the Thersites of the
Fenian poems, rejoicing at the idea, boasts that he will in future be
their chief. The Fenians having indulged in a laugh of scorn to hear such
arrogance from one they contemned, proceed in quest of Finn, and discover
the old man, who whispers in the ear of Caoilte the story of his strange
metamorphosis. Conan, on hearing it, waxes valiant, and utters some
bitter reproaches against Finn and the Fenians. He is rebuked by Caoilte;
but still continuing to vituperate and boast, he is answered at last
by the sword of Osgar. The Fenians interfere, and having put an end to
the strife, and learned the cause of Finn’s misfortune, they search the
secret recesses of Slieve Guillin, and at length find the enchantress,
who presents a cup to Finn, of which he drinks, and is restored to his
former strength and beauty.

Miss Brooke, a lady to whose genius and taste Irish literature is greatly
indebted, has given a translation of this poem in her “Reliques of Irish
Poetry,” published in 1788. Every Irish scholar is bound to speak with
respect of her patriotic literary labours, and the present writer would
be among the last to pluck a single leaf from the chaplet which adorns
her brows--

          ----neque ego illi detrahere ausim
    Hærentem capiti multa cum laude coronam.--HOR.

    Not from her head shall I presume to tear
    The sacred wreath she well deserves to wear.--FRANCIS.

To Miss Brooke is due the well-merited praise of having been the first
to introduce the English reader to a knowledge of these compositions.
But that province of translation into which she led the way is open to
all, and no one has a right to claim it as his exclusive property.
Chapman translated Homer: he was followed by Hobbes, Hobbes by Pope, Pope
by Cowper, Cowper by Sotheby. Who will be the next competitor in this
fair field of fame? How many translators have we of Virgil, of Horace,
of Anacreon, and of all the most eminent Greek and Latin poets, each
advancing a claim to some kind of superiority over his rivals? Would
that we had more such honourable rivalship in translations from the
Irish! Miss Brooke has been faithful to the sense of her originals; but
it appears to the present writer that she not unfrequently errs by being
too diffuse, that several passages are weakened by unnecessary expansion,
and that the spirit of the whole can be better preserved in a more varied
form of versification than in the monotonous quatrains which she adopted.
The prevalent fault of most poetical translations is diffuseness or
amplification, by which the thoughts are weakened and their spirit lost.
Much allowance, however, must be granted to those who attempt to clothe
in English verse such compositions as the Irish Fenian tales; and any one
who makes the experiment will feel the difficulty of preserving a just
medium between a loose paraphrase and a strict verbal translation. It is
almost if not altogether impossible to translate into rhyme without an
occasional accessory idea or epithet on the one hand, and the omission
of some unimportant adjunct on the other. The great object should be to
preserve the spirit of the original--to be “true to the sense, but truer
to his fame”--_nec verbum verbo reddere fidus_. Some passages could not
be understood, others would not be endured by any reader of taste or
refinement if rendered word for word.

In my next communication I shall send you a translation of the first
part of the Poem of the Chase--namely, the introductory dialogue between
Patrick and Oisin. This shall be followed by the succeeding part of the
poem, should you deem such compositions suited to the pages of your
“Journal,” which I hope will be eminently useful in promoting both the
literary and moral taste of the people of Ireland.

                                                                       D.

[1] Cormac Ulfada, grandson of “Con of the hundred battles.” He reigned
forty years, and was honoured as a wise statesman and a philosopher.

[2] The reader who feels an interest in this subject, and in the Ossianic
controversy, is referred to the essays by the Rev. Dr. Drummond and Mr
O’Reilly in the fifteenth volume of the Transactions of the Royal Irish
Academy. In the Transactions of the Hiberno-Celtic Society Mr O’Reilly
observes, that “many beautiful poems are extant that bear the name of
Oisin, but there are no good reasons to suppose that they are the genuine
compositions of that bard. If ever they were composed by Oisin, they
have since suffered a wonderful change in their language, and have been
interpolated so as to make the poet and St Patrick contemporaries, though
the latter did not commence his apostolic labours in Ireland until the
middle of the fifth century, when by the course of nature Oisin must have
lain in his grave about one hundred and fifty years.”

Since this paper was sent to the press, the author has been assured by a
most competent Irish scholar that there are manuscript poems attributed
to Oisin not less than a thousand years old in the Library of the Dublin
University. It is much to be wished, for the honour of ancient Irish
literature and for the light which these poems may throw on some dark and
disputed topics of Irish history, that they may before long be properly
analysed and presented to the public.

[3] Thus Horace exposes the arts of the parasites and fortune-hunters of
Rome in a dialogue between Tiresias and Ulysses.




DEAF AND DUMB--A MOUNTAIN SKETCH.

BY MRS S. C. HALL.


It has been a general and certainly a well-founded complaint against
Ireland, that the arts, whose influence has extended so much over England
and Scotland during the last half century, have made but little progress
in “the Emerald Isle.” It “has sent forth painters, but encouraged none.”
This I fear is true, though lately I have been delighted to observe some
very happy exceptions to the rule.

There are many reasons why art and artists have not flourished in
Ireland. The greater number of those who have the means to patronise
talent are absentees, spending in foreign lands the produce of the riches
bestowed by the Almighty on their own--while the minds of the residents
are usually so pre-occupied by religious or political controversies,
that they have no time to bestow, or attention to give to anything
else. Another reason I would urge, even at the hazard of being charged
with national pride, is, the country so overflows with natural beauty,
that in the matter of landscape painting the Irish gentry are hard to
please. To those who doubt this, I would simply say, come and see; and
if any English artist does not discover good cause why they should be
fastidious, all I can observe is, that I shall be very much astonished.
Even the highways are crowded with antiquarian and picturesque beauty;
but road-makers do not seek these so much as convenience; nor are the
most-talked-of places those where a “landskipper,” as I heard an artist
called in Kerry, will reap the richest harvest.

There are hills and lakes, rivers and glades, of most exquisite beauty,
profusely scattered over the country--far away from the highroads, in the
fastnesses of the mountains--and even within hearing of the roar of the
wild ocean are dells and little valleys, cascades, lawns of greenest hue
and softest grass, where Druids’ altars hang upon their mysterious points
of rest, and the breeze whispers amid mouldering towers--memorials of
the troubled past. Still, eyes accustomed from their opening to really
fine scenery are not likely to be satisfied with aught that falls short
of perfection; and, as I have said, I find such of my countrymen as
really love art very hard to please in landscape, particularly in Irish
landscape: they have become familiar with the same scenes from many
points of view--the artist can only record one, and it is at least likely
that _the_ one he has chosen is not the favourite.

Still, I fear, the _chief_ cause why art has not flourished hitherto,
must be attributed to the continued excitement of religion and politics;
to judge from collateral evidence, the influence of this excitement
is happily on the decrease, for I have seen framed prints in several
cottages, and observed in many dwellings, where paintings would be an
extravagance, volumes of beautiful engravings displayed as the chief
treasures of their country homes.

On our late pilgrimage through the beautiful and romantic “Kingdom of
Kerry” we encountered a native artist, who beguiled us of an hour,
and interested us deeply. We had lingered long in the beautiful vale
of Glengariff, and still longer on the mountain road which commands
a view of the magic bay and its golden islands, that seem lifted by
earth towards heaven as a peace-offering; and when we passed through
the tunnel, which is still regarded by the mountaineers with evident
astonishment, the sun was sinking behind the huge range of Kerry
mountains, which looked the more bleak when contrasted with the memory
of the exceeding fertility of Glengariff. We were then literally _amid_
both clouds and mountains, and the only sound that disturbed the awful
stillness of the scene was the scream of an eagle, which issued from
behind a tower-like assemblage of barren rocks, where most probably
the eyrie of the royal bird was placed; the sound added greatly to the
effect of the scenery, and we drew up that we might listen to it more
attentively; it was several times repeated, and almost at the same
instant a fresh breeze dispersed the mists which had in some degree
obscured the glory of the departing sun; and the valley beneath the
pass became literally illuminated wherever the breaks or fissures in
the opposite mountains permitted the brightness of the sun, as it were,
to pass through. I had never seen such an effect of light and shade
before, for the mountain shadows were heavy as night itself; I feel I
cannot describe either the brightness of the one or the intenseness of
the other. I am sure the scene could not be painted so as to convey any
idea of its reality. Any attempt to depict the extravagance of nature is
always deemed unnatural.

We are weak enough to bound the Almighty’s works by what has come within
the sphere of our own finite observations. How paltry this must seem to
those who dwell amongst the mountains, and read the book of ever varying
nature amid the silent places of the earth!

I had been gazing so earnestly upon the scene below and around us, that I
had not noted the sudden appearance of a lad upon a bank, a little to the
left of the place on which we stood; but my attention was attracted by
his clasping his hands together, and laughing, or rather shouting loudly,
in evident delight at the scene. There was nothing in his appearance
different from that of many young goatherds we had passed, and who
hardly raised their heads from the purple heath to gaze at our progress.
His sun-burnt limbs were bare below the knee; but his long brown hair
had been cared for, and flowed beneath a wide-leafed hat, which was
garnished, not untastefully, with a couple of wreaths of spreading fern.
His garments were in sufficient disorder to satisfy the most enthusiastic
admirer of “the picturesque;” and although we called to him repeatedly,
it was not until a sudden diffusion of cloud had interfered between him
and the sunset, so as to diminish the light, and of course lessen the
effect of the shadows, that he noticed us in the least; indeed, I do not
think he would have done so at all, but for the unexpected appearance of
another “child of the mist,” in the person of a little _tangled-looking_,
bright-eyed girl--literally one mass of tatters--who sprang to where the
boy stood, and seizing his hand, pointed silently to us. He descended
immediately, followed by the little girl, and after removing his hat,
stood by the side of our carriage, into which he peered with genuine
Irish curiosity.

To our question of “Where do you live?” the mountain maid replied, “Neen
English,” which experience had previously taught us signified that she
did not understand our language. We then addressed ourselves to the boy,
when the girl placed her hands on her lips, then to her ears, and finally
shook her head. “Deaf and dumb?” I said. Upon which she replied, “Ay, ay,
deaf, dumb--deaf, dumb.” The little creature having so said, regarded him
with one of those quick looks so eloquent of infant love; and seizing
his hand, lifted up her rosy face to be kissed. He patted her head
impatiently, but was too occupied examining the contents of our carriage
to heed her affectionate request. His eye glanced over our packages
without much interest, until they rested upon a small black portfolio,
and then he leaped, and clapped his hands, making us understand he wanted
to inspect _that_. His little companion had evidently some idea that
this was an intrusion, and intimated so to the boy; but he pushed her
from him, determined, with true masculine spirit, to have his own way.
Nothing could exceed his delight while turning over a few sketches and
some engravings. He gave us clearly to understand that he comprehended
their intent--looking from our puny outlines to the magnificent mountains
by which we were surrounded, and smiling thereat in a way that even
our self-love could not construe into a compliment; he evinced more
satisfaction at a sketch of Glengariff, pointed towards the district,
and intimated that he knew it well; but his decided preference was given
to sundry most exquisite drawings, from the pencil of Mr Nicoll, of the
ruins of Aghadoe, Mucross Abbey, and a passage in the gap of Dunloe. I
never understood before the power of “mute eloquence.” I am sure the boy
would have knelt before the objects of his idolatry until every gleam of
light had faded from the sky, if he had been permitted so to do.

Nor was his enthusiasm less extraordinary than the purity of his taste;
for he turned over several coloured engravings, brilliant though they
were, of ladies’ costumes, after a mere glance at each, while he returned
again and again to the drawings that were really worthy of attention.

While he was thus occupied, his little companion, struck by some sudden
thought, bounded up the almost perpendicular mountain with the grace
and agility of a true-born Kerry maiden, until she disappeared; but she
soon returned, springing from rock to rock, and holding the remnants of
her tattered apron together with evident care. When she descended, she
displayed its contents, which interested us greatly, for they were her
brother’s sketches, five or six in number, made on the torn-out leaves
of an old copy-book in pale ink, or with a still paler pencil. Two were
tinged with colour extracted from plants that grew upon the mountain; and
though rude, there were evidences of a talent the more rare, when the
circumstances attendant upon its birth were taken into consideration. The
lad could have had no instruction--he had never been to school, though
schools, thank God! are now to be found in the fastnesses of Kerry--the
copy-book was the property of his eldest brother, and he had abducted the
leaves to record upon them his silent observations of the magnificence
of Nature, whose power had elevated and instructed his mind, closed
as it was by the misfortune of being born deaf and dumb, against such
knowledge as he could acquire in so wild a district. We should not have
read even this line of his simple history, but for the opportune passing
of a “Kerry dragoon”--a wild, brigand-looking young fellow, mounted
between his market-panniers on his rough pony--who proved to be the lad’s
brother, although he did not at first tell us so.

“We all,” he said, “live high up in de mountain; but I can’t trust Mogue
to look after de goats by himself. His whole delight is puttin’ down upon
a bit of paper or a slate whatever he sees. I’d ha’ broke him off it long
agone; but he was his mother’s darlin’, and she’s wid de blessed Vargin
these seven years, so I don’t like to cross his fancy; besides, de Lord’s
hand has been heavy on him already, and it does no harm, no more than
himself, except when any of de childre brake what he do be doing; den
he goes mad intirely, and strays I dunna where; though, to be sure, de
Almighty has his eye over him, for he’s sure to come back well and quiet.”

The lad at last closed our portfolio with a heavy sigh, and did not
perceive until he had done so that his little sister had spread out his
own productions on the heather which grew so abundantly by the road-side.
He pointed to them with something of the exaltation of spirit which
is so natural to us all when we think our exertions are about to be
appreciated, and he bent over them as a mother would over a cherished
child. His triumph, however, was but momentary--it was evident that his
having seen better things rendered him discontented with his own, for
while gathering them hastily together, he burst into tears.

Poor mountain boy! I do not think his tears were excited by envy, for he
returned to our folio in a few moments with the same delight as before;
but his feelings were the more intense because he could not express them;
and he had been taught his inferiority, a bitter lesson, the remembrance
of which nothing but hope, all-glorious hope, that manifestation of
immortality, can efface.

We gave him some paper and pencils, together with a few engravings,
and had soon looked our last at Mogue Murphy, as he stood, his little
sister clinging to his side, waving his hat on a promontory, while we
were rapidly descending into the valley. I thought the memory of such a
meeting in the mountains was worthy of preservation.




IMPROPER CONDUCT IN PUBLIC PLACES.


There is scarcely anything by which a stranger is more forcibly struck
on visiting Paris and other continental cities, than meeting at the
museums, libraries, palaces, menageries, and other places of exhibition,
crowds of private soldiers, artizans, and persons of inferior degree,
who with the greatest attention, and in the most decorous and orderly
manner, inspect the various objects presented to their notice; and who,
judging from the intelligent manner in which they discuss the merits of
these objects, would appear to derive the greatest possible advantage
from the privileges they enjoy. Amongst this crowd of people it was not
an unfrequent sight, a year or two since, to observe some well-dressed
individual poking at a picture with his fingers, as if his eyes were on
the points of them, teasing the animals in the menagerie, or possibly
inscribing his worthless name on some pillar or statue. You might have
safely addressed the person whom you saw thus employed in English as one
from our own dominions; and if you looked around, you would have seen
an expression of anger in the countenances of the native spectators,
or have heard them muttering their just contempt of the ignorance and
rudeness displayed in thus wantonly injuring or defacing that which,
being publicly exhibited for general advantage, becomes so far public
property as to appeal strongly to the _honour_ of all well-thinking
individuals for its protection. In our own country, a few years since, it
required no ordinary generosity, and no little sacrifice of selfishness,
to place within the reach of our people any works of art or curiosity
in the shape of exhibitions; and our government contributed very little
assistance towards forwarding the great work of national improvement by
such means. Truly melancholy was it then to see the mischief wantonly
done to the property of the few liberal individuals who offered to
share their pleasures with their less fortunate fellows; one instance
of which (probably one that has wrought much to induce good conduct)
may perhaps be worth narrating here. In certain beautiful pleasure
grounds, freely opened to the public, there was to be seen, a few
years since, a board bearing the following inscription:--“This mound
was planted with evergreens three times, and as often trampled down
by thoughtless individuals admitted to walk in the grounds: it is now
planted a fourth time.” This was the delicate but touching reproof of
the worthy proprietor, who may now, however (having suffered in a good
cause), congratulate himself on the amended habits of the people, brought
about by the increasing enlightenment on the subject of the necessity
and utility of admitting the humbler orders to places of rational and
instructive recreation, aided by their improved education and temperate
habits, which hold forth great encouragement to those who possess the
power to extend the privileges still too scantily accorded. We are indeed
satisfied that a most decided improvement in the habits and feelings of
the humbler classes of the community has really taken place within the
last few years, and that under judicious arrangements they might now be
admitted safely even to exhibitions of objects of great intrinsic value;
and in proof of this opinion we may state, that about two years since,
when, on the occasion of the Queen’s coronation, the Royal Hibernian
Academy opened the doors of their annual exhibition to the public
gratuitously for one day, though thousands took advantage of this free
admission, not the slightest accident to the property or impropriety of
any kind whatever occurred.

If proofs of the utility of thus disposing of the spare time of the
people be required, one answer will be, that they are thus at least “kept
out of harm’s way;” and in accomplishing this (quite a sufficient object
for exertion when man’s propensities to evil are taken into account),
a great deal more of good is achieved, for a spirit of inquiry is thus
induced, and a talent for observation cultivated, which are the parents
of true knowledge, and which, combined with the habit of concentrating
thought and reflection, must open up the sources of wisdom, and produce
an enlargement of understanding in the fortunate possessor, which older
and still too prevalent methods of education are eminently calculated to
repress. It has been observed, until the observation has become trite,
that “knowledge is power,” and it is therefore the duty of all who are
sensible of the value of mental development to encourage whatever tends
to promote it; though, unfortunately, there still exists a class of men
who seek to maintain undeserved superiority, by keeping all persons
subordinate to them in ignorance, instead of generously extending to them
such help as would enable them to advance in intelligence. How different
was the feeling of him who said, that if permitted to have his wishes
accomplished he would ask but for two: the first, that he might possess
all knowledge that man in his finite nature can or ought to possess; and
the second, that having attained this knowledge, all his fellow-creatures
might be admitted to a participation of it.

The value of observation as an accessible source of information to all,
must be obvious; the infant observes before he reasons, and reason
advances with the powers of observing. When the man becomes a sage, he
may theorise; but he must first test his wisdom by observation, which
would thus appear to be the fulcrum on which mind must depend to raise
itself; and as opportunities of observation are now daily increasing, it
becomes a matter of importance to aid those who are inclined, by showing
them how to observe, and to draw out the latent talent in those who,
having eyes, yet see not; and there is no mode in which this can be more
effectually and agreeably done than by drawing their attention to those
natural objects by which they are surrounded. The sacred writers were
well aware of the value of thus directing the mind; and our poets have
in many instances derived applause and celebrity from their power of
accurately observing and faithfully describing the phenomena of nature.

To aid the people in the acquirement of knowledge so desirable, our best
efforts shall not be wanting, and we propose to ourselves accordingly to
give a series of papers on Natural History, pointing out, in a popular
manner, what all who have eyes may see, and, seeing, profit by.

                                                                       B.




ANSALDO AND THE CATS.


Everybody, we presume, has heard or read the story of “Whittington and
his Cat,” which is an especial favourite with the worthy citizens of
“London town,” where it is matter of history that the once poor and
friendless little boy rose to be thrice Lord Mayor; but from the tale
quoted below, it would seem that the Italians are not without a version
of their own on the subject. Which of the two is the most ancient or
original, we confess our inability to decide, but it is a matter of
very little consequence, as the moral in each is similar, namely, that
perseverance and industry will generally meet their just reward, while
the endeavours of an idle and improvident man to realise a great fortune
all at once, by some wild and desperate speculation, pretty much the same
as gambling, or even, as we may add, by that detestable and degrading
vice itself, rarely fails to involve the rash projector in ruin and
disgrace. However, without fatiguing the reader with further preface, we
will present him with the following literal translation from the Italian
of Lorenzo Magaletti:--

“About the time when our Amerigo Vespucci discovered the new world,
there was a merchant in our town whose name was Messer Ansaldo degli
Ormani, who, though he had become very rich, but yet desirous to double
his wealth, chartered a very large ship, and began to trade with his
merchandise in the newly-discovered regions of the West. Having already
made two or three prosperous voyages, he wished to return thither once
more; but scarcely had he left Cadiz when there arose a most furious
gale, which drove him along for several days, without his knowing where
he was; but at length fortune was so kind as to enable him to reach an
island called Canaria. He had no sooner done so than the king, being
informed of the arrival of a vessel, went down to the port with all his
nobles, and gave Messer Ansaldo a kind reception: he then conducted
him to the royal palace, to show his joy at his arrival. Dinner was
then prepared in the most sumptuous style, and he sat down with Messer
Ansaldo, who was surprised to see a great number of youths who held in
their hands long sticks, similar to those used by penitents; but no
sooner were the viands served up than he understood fast enough the
meaning of such attendance, for

    ‘Not Xerxes led so many into Greece,
    Nor numerous thus the myrmidonic bands,
    As on the scene their countless hosts appeared!’

                                                    BERNI.

In fact, so many and so large were the rats which came in from all
quarters, that it was really wonderful to see them. Thereupon the youths
aforesaid took to their sticks, and with great labour defended the dish
from which the king and Messer Ansaldo were eating. When the latter
had heard and seen the multitudes of those filthy animals which were
innumerable in that island (nor had any means been found to extirpate
them), he sought to make the king understand by signs that he wished to
provide him with a remedy by means of which he might be freed from such
horrid creatures; and running quickly to the ship, he took two very fine
cats, male and female, and brought them to the king, saying that on the
next occasion they should be put upon the table. As soon therefore as the
smell of the meat began to diffuse itself, the usual procession made its
appearance, when the cats seeing it began to scatter them so bravely that
there was very soon a prodigious slaughter of the enemy.

On seeing this, the delighted king, wishing to remunerate Ansaldo, sent
for many strings of pearls, with gold, silver, and rare precious stones,
which he presented to Messer Ansaldo, who, thinking he had made a good
profit of his merchandise, spread his sails to the wind, prosecuted his
voyage, and returned home immensely rich.

Some time afterwards, he was relating what had occurred between himself
and the King of Canaria to a circle of his friends, when one of them,
named Giocondo dé Finfali, was seized with a desire to make the voyage
to Canaria himself, to try his fortune also; and in order to do so, sold
an estate he had in the Val d’Elsa, and invested the money in a great
quantity of jewels, together with rings and bracelets of immense value;
and having given out that he intended to go to the Holy Land, lest any
should blame his resolution, he repaired to Cadiz, where he embarked, and
soon arrived at Canaria. He presented his riches to the king, reasoning
in this manner--‘If Messer Ansaldo got so much for a paltry pair of cats,
how much more will be my just recompence for what I have brought his
majesty!’ But the poor man deceived himself, because the King of Canaria,
who highly esteemed the present of Giocondo, did not think he could make
him a fairer exchange than by giving him _a cat_; so having sent for a
very fine one, son to those which Ansaldo had given him, he presented
it to Giocondo; but he, thinking himself insulted, returned miserably
poor to Florence, continually cursing the King of Canaria, the rats, and
Messer Ansaldo and his cats; but he was wrong, because that good king,
in making him a present of a cat, gave him what he considered the most
valuable thing in his dominions.”

                                                                 W. S. T.




INSCRIPTION ON A TOMBSTONE IN THE CHURCHYARD OF YOUGHAL, OF ANNE MARIA
CAREW, AGED 24.


    ’Tis ever thus, ’tis ever thus, when hope hath built a bow’r
    Like that of Eden, wreathed about with many a thornless flow’r,
    To dwell therein securely, the self-deceivers trust--
    A whirlwind from the desert comes, and all is in the dust.

    ’Tis ever thus, ’tis ever thus, that when the poor heart clings
    With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings,
    That goodly thing it cleaveth to so fondly and so fast,
    Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast.

    ’Tis ever thus, ’tis ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss,
    With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this,
    One moment round about us their angel light wings play;
    Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all is passed away.

    ’Tis ever thus, ’tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair,
    Too finely formed to bear the brunt more earthly natures bear--
    A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love,
    Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their homes above.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; J.
    DRAKE, Birmingham; M. BINGHAM, Broad Street, Bristol; FRASER
    and CRAWFORD, George Street, Edinburgh; and DAVID ROBERTSON,
    Trongate, Glasgow.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No.
12, September 19, 1840, by Various

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