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

Author: Various

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 12, SEPTEMBER 19, 1840 ***

THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

Number 12. | SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1840. | Volume I.

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 THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 12, SEPTEMBER 19, 1840 ***

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Table of Contents

- THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

- THE TOWN OF ANTRIM.

- A CHAPTER ON CURS.

- LUOIGH NA SEALGA. POEM OF THE CHASE.

- DEAF AND DUMB—A MOUNTAIN SKETCH.

- IMPROPER CONDUCT IN PUBLIC PLACES.

- ANSALDO AND THE CATS.

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

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE