SKETCHES
OF

HISTORY, POLITICS AND MANNERS,
TAKEN IN

DUBLIN,
AND

THE NORTH OF IRELAND,
IN THE AUTUMN OF 1810.

Long from a country ever hardly used,
At random censured, wantonly abused,
Have Britons drawn their sport with no kind view ;
A^id judged the many, by the rascal few._
CHURCHILL*.

LONDON:
PUBLISHED

BY C. CRADOCK AND W. JOY 32,

PATERNOSTER-

ROW.

G. SIDNEY, Printer, Northumberland^street, Strand,

1811.

SKETCHES,
8Cc.

CHAP. I.
L I V E R P O O L , August 18 10,
J L J X H A U S T E D with sickness I left London, in hope of
finding in distant and rural scenes some relief from pain, and
some alleviation of suffering; whether I shall have my expectations realized, or whether a work undertaken under such
circumstances can afford much amusement to the reader, is, I
fear, a problematical business.—Books of Travels have multiplied in proportion as the countries where travellers could
resort to have diminished; and have left nothing new either
to see or to say. In former times, when tile desire of change,
\r the love of amusement, influenced a person to travel, he
ha! the whole continent of Europe to resort to ; where, amidst
the feitive scenes of Paris, or the romantic scenery of Switzerland, on the top of Vesuvius, or amidst the ruins of the
Capitol, tti the Rhone, the Tiber, or the Brenta; names
endeared to the imagination, not only by the grand ideas annexed to trr*1, but by fond association with the days in which
these j^eas were first acquired, he might find a remedy for a
« mind diseased/9 and sick of the world as it is, riot in ?m
imaginary one, the glittering offspring of his own fancy; but
thanks to the ambition of the great ones of the earth, who
have kept the world in a pretty constant state of warfu-e for
the last twenty years, and may, perhaps, for twenty years to
come, the British tourist has now a narrower range. Spider
B

%
like he must spin his web out of the materials of the
British empire only—with bird-eye prospects of Cadiz and
Lisbon, as long as we are permitted to occupy them. There
is no evil, however, without its good—one advantage attending this is, that it brings Englishmen better acquainted with
their own country; every nook and corner of which have been so
often described, that they are now as well known as HydePark Corner. Should a similar knowledge of Ireland ever
come to be generally diffused, it would be attended with infinite advantages to that ill-fated country; as many of the
evils under which it has so long laboured, may be traced to
the ignorance in which Englishmen have lived of its true character; with which, until lately, they were as much unacquainted as with Thibet or Japan—most happy should I feel
myself, could my feeble production remove one abuse, correct one error, or soften one prejudice, that keeps asunder two
nations whose interests are so inseparable, and which, united
by God and nature, it will never, I trust, be in the power of
man to put asunder.
I left London at six o'clock on Monday evening, the 29th
of July/in the heavy coach, for Liverpool, from ^wfeiefa place
I knew I could have a speedy conveyance to Dublin. ^Nothing remarkable happened during our journey ; for it wuid
be almost as wearisome to the reader, as it was at the tine to
myself, to recount all the jolts and hardships of an overloaded
coach during a journey of upwards of two hundred tales.—
My fellow-travellers were mighty common-placestfeofele,they
had neither sense to instruct, beauty to charm, or wft to enliven. Our principal speakers were a smart LiverpOu&niiJJiner,
a little addicted to Methodism, and, I suspect, more \han a
little addicted to love; and a Greenock shop-keeper wholiad
been in London for the first time, and left it with a firm conviction of its inferiority to the part of the world of which he
was a native. The streets, he said, were nothing to those of
Glasgow; the London porteF was not to be compared with

3

Bell's beer, one bottle of which (this was the highest panegyric he could bestow on it) would make a man drunk at any
time—some brick-kilns we passed gave him an opportunity of
remarking that the bricks about Glasgow were of a much better colour. The vice of London, particularly its ill observance of Sunday, which they termed the Sabbath, called forth
severe animadversions from him and the fair Methodist. I
verily believe they considered it another Gomorrah, devoted
to immediate destruction; and as I endeavoured to soften the
asperity of their censures, and besides, took a wishful look
of it from Highgate Hill, I presume they found in me the
pillar of salt, necessary to complete the picture. Sick
of their unmeaning conversation I took refuge in sullen
silence, though I could not forbear smiling as I surveyed the
little group around me, and contrasted the present scene with
the picture which, in early youth, my romantic imagination
had drawn of a stage coach; where the most uncommon adventures were to happen, and where some forlorn damsel, fly-*
ing for the sake of love, was to be met and comforted by some
graceful and interesting personage—like myself; but this is but
the stage coach of a novelist or a poet; an English one at
present (so much are commerce and romance at variance)
gives yotrlaughing, not crying heroines, who c$$J£: as little for
refinement as they do for Epietetus, and sedate male passengers, (grave and sober men) who talk about the price of stacks,
and the comforts of a good dinner, and care a.great deal & \
>
about a leg of lamb, or breast of veal, than either pretty legs
or panting bosoms,, were they even aided by^" the lightning
of the* eye, the clustering tresses, the white and rounded arms
of Miss Owenson herself.5' The company on the outside, as
isiisualon Liverpool coaches, consisted of a number of seamen,
who drank, sung, and quarrelled during the whole of the journey ; I do not suppose there ever was a more noisy coach,
since coaches were first invented. A mill was the temple of
£ 2

4

silence in comparison; one of them, an old Irishman, had
been in the navy upwards of twenty years, and was then returning with a pension of sixteen pounds a year to his wife,
who kept a small shop in Liverpool; he had three guineas,
and a seven-shilling-piece, which he showed with great exultation, and seemed to consider an inexhaustible mine*—
with the generosity natural to his profession and country, he
insisted upon treating every one, both in and on the coach:
and by way of doing the honours of it the better, and setting
his company a good example, he got so drunk, that in crawling
round the top in pursuit of his brandy bottle, he tumbled off,
and narrowly escaped being killed; he was very much stunned
with the fall: the first use fee made of his tongue, was, to
inquire after the unlucky bottle which had caused his overthrow : and, on the Scotchman's telling him he should rather
return thanks to Heaven for his deliverance"; he poured forth
a volley of execrations at his ill luck in returning (after so long
an absence) to his wife, with a face covered with scars; he
was hoisted, (not without some difficulty) on the top of the coach;
and as he Continued very outrageous at the thoughts of his lost
beauty, as well as brandy bottle, the coachman thought it
prudent to secure him with a large chain to the roof, where he
sat grmnifigflm terrific majesty: when he got sober he was
released, and I could not help being struck with the courage
he displayed in a very dangerous situation in which we were
placed, by the partial overturning of the coach—the company
inside scrambled out as well as they could, the outside passengers jumped offhand he only remained. While the coachman
was engaged in getting up the fallen horse, he managed the
reins with admirable coolness, and succeeded in extricating
the coach from a situation, in which the slightest error would
have overturned it and himself along with it.
We arrived about five o'clock on Wednesday evening, having
been forty-seven hours on the road; the coach stops at the

5
Talbot Inn, in Water Street: a house, which however well it
may be adapted to the man of business, is rather too noisy for
a studious man, and too slow in its attendance for a hungry
one. After a fatiguing journey, we naturally look forward to
the comforts of a good dinner ; I had regaled myself with the
thoughts of it for the last twenty miles—it was lucky I had so
well feasted in imagination, as I was doomed to experience
the reverse in reality: the dinner was bad, and the wine execrable, the fish was too little, and a mutton chop was too
much done; the mustard was sour, and had I tasted the vinegar, I dare say I should have found it sweet; besides all this
I was obliged to wait a couple of hours for it, because the
whole house, mistress, servants and all, were engaged in preparing a dinner for a great gentleman ; I was curious to know
who this great personage was, who thus caused me to fast
without any religious merit: he was no less a person than a
great Birmingham gunsmith, and, as the waiter told me, worth
upwards of fifty thousand pounds—wealth being the only standard by which a man is estimated here ; seeing me, however,
look rather disconsolate, he admitted, with great candour, I
had some reason to complain, but requested I would suspend
my opinion till the next day at four o'clock,^hen, at the
travellers' ordinary, I should get a dinner (to use hisoS/vn words)
fit for a prince, and wine, worthy, no doubt the Birmingham
gunsmith himself; my opinion, however, was already formed—
I did not choose to sleep in a mill, nor to eat in a caravansera,
I therefore removed the next day to the Crown, in Red-Cross
Street, where I now am, andfindmyself much more comfortable.
As I am fond of the theatre, I asked the chamber-maid at
the Talbot, immediately on my arrival, if Mr. Young was performing there ? she answered no; but after hesitating a moment,
said the drunken man was: I had no difficulty in understanding
who she meant, and had this night a very rich, though not a
spirited feast, in his performance of Shylock—his excellence

e
in that part, however, is too well known to require any comment of mine; I was very much pleased with the appearance
of the house, and with the performers in general. The Liverpool actors were very respectable, and besides Mr. Cooke
and Mr. Simmons, there were some female performers from
London: Miss Bolton was highly interesting in Jessica, and
sung several songs with great taste and feeling: Mrs. H .
Johnston played Portia with great propriety, though I should
suppose it a part to which she is not much accustomed—her
manner of speaking those beautiful lines beginning with
" The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
" It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven
" Upon the place beneath/'
Was correct and impressive; though a rigid critic might object
to its being too artificial and studied. The part in which she
pleased me the least, was that in which she laboured the most,
I mean in the last scene of the last act, where Portia torments
Bassanio for having given away her ring;
"
"
"
"
"
"
u

Let not that Doctor e'er come near rriy house
Sy^e he hath got the >jewel that I lov'd,
llfrfot deny him any thing I have,
No, not my body, nor my husband's bed$
Lie not a night from home, watch me like Argus,
If you do not, if I be left alone,
Y\\ have the Doctor for my bed- fellow."

Indeed I have remarked, that in the expression of humour, this
lady almost always fails; a circumstance the more extraordinary, if it be true, as I have heard reported by those who
know her, that the character of her own disposition is gaiety ;
this is a proof, among many others, how little connexion there is
between the real and artificial character of a performer, and
should serve to check an opinion, too prevalent (which, for the

7
sake of my friend Cooke, I trust is unjust) that to pourtray
successfully a villain, one must be a villain himself. Mr.
Young, in whose disposition tenderness and all the milder virtues predominate, is most generally admired in parts of energy
and force : though I have good reasons for believing he conceives his strength is in the pathetic; but in this instance (no
uncommon thirig with the greatest men) he has mistaken his
own character; his Beverley, though a good, is an inferior performance to many of his others; his element is the sublime,
the gloomy and terrific, the gigantic that appals, the sorrow
that rends, but does not soften the heart; in the struggle of
contending passions, the horror of remorse, the agony of guilt,
and phrensy of despair, this actor stands unrivalled ; nor can
any age or country, in my opinion, boast of a superior performance to his Sir Edward Mortimer, in the Iron Chest; a
piece rejected and neglected as a feeble and spiritless composition, till he embodied himself with it, giving light to darkness,
order to_ chaos, converting a dry and sterile sketch, into a rich
arid finished picture, and giving to the lofty, but indistinct conceptions, the grand but half-formed ideas of the poet,,
" A local habitation and a name."
I sat during the play in the pit, but afterward^gpnt to the
upper boxes, where I witnessed a scene fully as farcical as any
that could be performed on the stage.—It seems it is essential
in this theatre, to keep the clean and unclean, the modest and
immodest parts of the female sex, as much apart as possible :
whether the virtuous are improved by this deviation from the
London mode, I shall not take on me to determine, but I am
sure the other description are injured by it; as they displayed
an immodesty and indelicacy that was disgusting: a parent
might have brought his children there for the same reason that
made the Spartans make their Helotes drunk before theirs—
If, as Mr. Burke (with more attention to good breeding than

3
morality) remarks, the great sting of vice is its grossness^ the
Cyprians of Liverpool are the most envenomed creatures alive0
I was accosted by several: whether I am to attribute it to any
thing particularly prepossessing in my physiognomy, I shall not
take on me to determine; but I received several hearty embraces, while, to my shame be it spoken, I remained perfectly
neuter 5 reversing thus the order of the sexes, or if for a moment active, struggling to save myself from the gripe of these
Lancashire amazons—seeing a crape round my hat, they recommended me to drown sorrow in the arms of a fair one.
and one of them having said she supposed I was an Irishman,
another would allow me no claim to what among females
is thought such an honour.—The lobby exhibited tumult,
riot, and drunkenness—sailors, mates, and captains of vessels,
uncoated, unshaved, covered with tilth and tar, " with all
their imperfections on their head," walked about drinking
grog, and smoking tobacco— I could not forbear remarking
to the friend who accompanied me, the miserable situ&fiion
of an elegant female like Miss
—- obliged to twist her
* arms and legs, and make faces, for the entertainment of such
Hottentots, adding, that if I was a young woman, I would
rather throwmyself into orie of their own docks—" La f&te
la * premieaHp-I retired from the fair syrens I had been
conversing with, without feeling any inclination to break the
vow of chastity I |>ad taken on going among them, though
from the shoving and pulling I experienced, I was very near?
Joseph like, leaving my skirt behind me.

9

CHAP. It.

LIVERPOOL,

August*

I A M still here, and as the wind continues obstinately in the
K . W . here I am likely to remain. I learn from the waiter,
who, seeing me chagrined, kindly undertook to comfort me ?
that he has known instances of this wind blowing for weeks together—a comfortable prospect truly. But this is not a solitary instance of my ill luck-—the same evil fortune has followed
me in almost every journey I ever undertook; I never went to
sea, no matter at what season, or however fine the weather
was before, that a storm did not rise immediately afterwards—
I hapdly ever got on horseback that I did not run the risk of
having my neck broke, nor did I ever set off on a walking
party, that the rain did not set off along with me. I remember
in one of those excursions through Wales, I had three ferries
to cross; I was detained a day each at two of therrr) and was
nearly drowned in crossing the triird. Some pe«fflfe says the
proverb*, are born with a silver spoon in their mouth, and others
with a wooden ladle—I fear I am of the latter description;
L am sure at least I am none of those who (as I have read in
some old French play or other) if they were thrown naked into
,the sea, would rise up again with a bag-wig and sword.
Of all things, I detest a sea-port the most; and here I am
like a tortoise turned on its back, unable to move any thing but
its fins, left in this great bustling place, where every one seems
busy but myself, with hardly a single acquaintance; for I cannot
reckon as such the stupid drones [ meet with in the public room
of my inn, whose whole conversation is the price of sugar and

10

rum, Manchester cottons, and Sheffield hardware, with occasional digressions on the scarcity of corn, and the price of
black cattle—" How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford
Fair?"
After the declaration I have just made, that I have hardly an
acquaintance in this town, it would be absurd to give an opinion of it; I shall therefore barely remark, that it appears to
me a mere sea-port—a respectable Wapping, or Rotherhithe*
The smell of tar assails one in every quarter—in Castle Street,
and the squares, as well as in the docks ; and, as we are told
from high authority, there is no touching tar without being
defiled, it is no wonder we perceive it in the manners of the
men, and the faces of the women. The streets in general
are narrow, crooked, and irregular, though there are some good
houses in the town, and still more in the neighbourhood. The
house of a celebrated medicine-vender, about two miles off, on
the London road, is particularly distinguished for its neatness
and elegance—a happy monument of his own craft, and the
folly of the good people of England, who in this, as in various
other instances, have proved themselves, " whatever he may
be" no Solomons.—I have tried the medicine, and find it pleasant to thj|g&ste, and harmless in its effects, which is more
than can W K i d for many medicines highly vaunted ; but had
it been as nauseous as asafoetida, and as deadly as night-shade,
there would have been found people enough to have swallowed
it.—-The credulity of John Bull is as great as the adventurers
are numerous who prey on it; he is the great Leviathan of
the ocean, whose blubber gives food to all the smaller fish—his
is the true ostrich stomach, and, luckily for politicians and
quack-doctors, will digest any thing.
I am just returned from the theatre—the play was King
Lear, the part of King Lear by Mr; Cooke, Cordelia by Mrs.
H . Johnston. Mr. Cooke and Mrs. H . Johnston are the
great load-stones of attraction at present; they are coupled

11
together in large characters on the play~bills,_ and always appear hand in hand like the two kings of Brentford. T h e last
evening I witnessed a pleasant, this evening an extraordinary
performance: when the good old king made his first appearance, I was at a loss to know what to think of him—it was too
soon for him to lose his wits from sorrow, I therefore feared
he had from brandy; I feared that the natural had been too
strong for the artificial character, and that the actor was sunk
in the excesses of the man—I soon perceived, however, that I
was mistaken, and that he was perfectly sober: I then imagined, that, despising his amphibious audience, and not liking
to " cast his pearls before swine," he was burlesquing the p a r t ;
nor am I yet recovered from the astonishment I was thrown
into on this occasion. His performance was not only faint, flat,
and spiritless, which-might be attributed to illness; but he
seemed to have no conception of his author's meaning; out
of every hundred men in the habit of reading Shakespeare,
ninety-nine I have little doubt would read the part better than
he played it.-—The other performers did not do a jot better
than their venerable chief—they were truly
" Cantare pares, et respondere parati."
Poor T o m played the fool to be sure, but it was in undertaking a part for which he was so ill qualified—he ran about
crying " poor Tom's a-cold," until, as the weather was warm,
he threw himself into a profuse perspiration. I do not know
whether it proceeded from his, or the ladies' exertions, but I
was obliged oftener than once, to put lavender on my handkerchief, to sweeten an atmosphere, which assuredly bore little
resemblance to the " sweet south,"
" When it breathes over a bank of violets."
Regan

and Goneril, with

their inflamed eyes,

daubed

,1$

eheeks, and red noses, might have been mistaken for a couple
of enraged landladies, quarrelling with an unlucky guest after
having robbed him of his half-crown each; while the pious,
the gentle, the soul-subduing Cordelia, with her smart air,
cocked-up hat, cotton stockings, and short petticoat, looked
more like a country lass, decked out for a village fair, than
a king's daughter. To mend the matter, they were all imperfect in their parts, and after the prompter was heard first,
came halting and hesitating the performer, a second or two afterwards. In short, a more miserable performance I believe
was never witnessed in the barn of a country town—having
" neither the accent of christians, nor the gait of christian,
pagan, nor man, they so strutted and bellowed, that they
looked as if Bonaparte, or some of his journeymen, had made
them kings and queens, and not made them well, they imitated
royalty so abominably."
I am just now summoned, as the wind is becoming favourable ; I cannot quit Liverpool, however, without paying the
humble tribute of my respect to a man whose virtues and talents are an honour, not to this town only, but to his country
and to hurhan nature ; every reader I am sure will anticipate who
I mean—^he. reviver of Italian literature, the mild advocate of
irQedomjffre enemy JPSlavery, the friend ot man—the humane and benevolent Roscoe. Born in an humble station,
with no other inheritance than the sacred fire of genius, he has
given himself wealth, and rank, and consideration; he has done
more—he has given refinement to grossness, knowledge to ignorance, taste and humanity to cumbersome and over-grown
riches ; he has transfused a portion of his own spirit into the
heavy matter that surrounded him. Orpheus-like, his soft and
harmonious soul has softened the rugged nature of brutes; and
a stranger of sensibility may contemplate Liverpool with some
satisfaction, gracefully as he has thrown the rosy wreath of his
own brilliant imagination round the massy pillar of rough and
barbarous wealth. He has been the promoter of almost

13

every institution (and it has many) that this town has to boast
of—of societies to save, of hospitals to prolong, and of libraries to gladden and instruct life ; nor are his private charities
less numerous, and would fill a much larger volume than this—
they are written in the breast of the widow and the orphan, in
the heart that melts, in the eye that overflows at his approach—" When the ear heard him, then it blessed him; and
when the eye saw him, then it gave witness to him.—The
blessing of him that was ready to perish was on him; and he
caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. He was a father to
the poor; and the cause which he knew not,' he searched
out."

CHAP. III.
DUBLIN,

August,

W E sailed about an hour after I went on board, and for
once Fortune has been propitious to me; our passage
was of the most favourable kind, and breezes, soft as the breath
of love, wafted us gently to the emerald isle. The distance
from Liverpool to Dublin^ is about forty leagues, which we
ran in something more than twenty-six hours. I passed the
greatest part, of the day on deck, and contemplated with all the
security an unruffled sea affords, the rough and lofty coast
along which our vessel glided—illuminated as they were by a
cheering sun, these gigantic and craggy rocks inspired no terror, though it required little stretch of the imagination, to picture them blackened with tempest^ and threatening destruction
to the mariner struggling," often vainly struggling/' to avoid their
fatal shock. The wrbole of this coast isdangerous;,evento a pro-

14

verb ; and many sea captains have declared, they felt more
anxiety in going from Holyhead to Liverpool, than in their
passage from the West Indies to England. I would recommend
every person who goes to sea for the first time, to keep upon
deck as much as possible, it is the most effectual method of
avoiding sickness, and, if at length he is obliged to yield to it,
the tone and refreshment which the pure and cold air has given
him, shortens its duration, and weakens its violence. It is, I
think, impossible to enter the cabin of a packet without feeling
nausea and disgust, the air is so confined and suffocating;
the society in a Liverpool one is generally of the lowest kind,
and the fair sex, the delight of man in every other situation,
ceases to be so in this one. Ovid gives rules for the cure of
love—he has omitted, or perhaps did not know the most effectual of all. But I will draw a veil over this subject; I have
no pleasure in dwelling on the dark side of a fair picture, and
the fairest picture, alas! has its dark side. The writer of
romance has great advantages over us humble authors of tours
and voyages—in the calenture of his working brain, he is not,
like us, confined to sober realities—he dips his pencil in the
glittering dew-drops of fancy, and decks, with all the colours
of the rainbow^poor, naked, shivering human nature—his head
is in lalTOr, and like Minerva of old, a full-grown goddess*
with no human failings, and subject to no human weaknesses,
bursts forth, ready dressed, and armed at all points: he conducts her, weeping and wailing, with a cambric handkerchief
to her eyes, through four, sometimes six thick volumes of distress, " through antres vast, and deserts idle," with no money
in her 5pocket, often without a shoe to her foot, or a shift to
her back! But, such are the happy privileges of a poet's
offspring, she is never a jot the less lovely, or the less attractive—she is still an overflowing fountain of sweets, a hill of
perpetual love ; her food is ambrosia, and she transudes frank*

15

incense! Would some such had been in our cahin^ for I am
sure it wanted sweetening prodigiously.
Sir George Staunton, in his learned ("'learned and dull are
frequently synonymous terms") account of the embassy to China,
has defined the nature of sea-sickness with great precision, and
describes it with so much justice and minuteness, that it almost
made me sick to read it.—(I have here to acknowledge the favours I owe this worthy author, for the many sound sleeps his
valuable work procured me last winter, when I was afflicted
with a severe rheumatism, and every other opiate had failed.)
As I am, however, no writer of folios, I bave no pretensions
to make my readers either sick or sleepy; I shall not, therefore,
meddle with the history of this nauseous disease, but say a few
words of the method of treatment only.—-When a person is
compelled by sea-sickness to quit the deck, and betake himself to his birth, he should stretch himself as much at length as
possible, with his head low, and firmly pressed to the pillow,
endeavouring to lose all motion of his own, and to accommodate himself to the ship's. Wine or spirits is bad; though, of
the two, the latter, diluted with water, is preferable. The
drink I would recommend, is highly-taken bottled porter, soda
or seltzer water; I have derived great benefit from a teaspoonful of aether taken in a glass of the latter; and once prevented it altogether by a small opiate plaister, applied to the
pit of the stomach.
We got into Dublin Bay about four in the morning—the
beauty of this bay has been often noticed—some person who
was a great traveller, or was willing to be thought so, remarked
that it bore a striking likeness to the Bay of Naples, and hundreds have echoed the observation who know no more of Naples than the Streights of Thermopylae—a brother tourist, who
visited this country last summer, is of a different opinion, and
says, they are no more to be compared together than Brentford
and Bath—I am sorry I cannot decide this important ques-

16
tion—I never was in the Bay of Naples; and though I have
just sailed through that of Dublin, I must candidly confess I
did not see it—I was in a sound sleep at the time, but had I been
even broad awake, and on deck, the matter I fear would not
have been much mended—for I must take this opportunity of
mentioning, though only a poor author, I have one essential
qualification of a man of fashion; I am remarkably short
sighted—not so much so perhaps as the gentleman who ran
against a ladder in the street, and then took off his hat, saying,
I beg your pardon, mistaking it for a lady, but tooltauch so for
distinguishing prospects—were t to attempt to describe the
present one, I fear I should so confuse earth, sky, and water>
that it would be impossible for the reader to tell the hill of
Mowth from the silver cloud that rests on its head, or the blue
waves that break on its base: I must therefore pass through
this bay as quietly as our vessel did, nor has he any reason to
regret that I do so $ a description would be unnecessary for
him who has seen it, and the best description would be unintelligible to him who has not: but if he is still unsatisfied, I
beg leave to refer him to any of Mrs. RadclifiVs novels, where
he will get descriptions of all sizes, " ready cut and dried,"
both for sea and land: admirable ones truly, which, with slight
alteration, will do as well for every other place as those for
which they were written: we went ashore at a small custom-house near the pigeon-house, lately erected for the examination
of passengers' luggage—I had two or three steps to ascend to
the pier; in an instant a couple of stout fellows in ragged great
coats started forward to assist me, and helped me up with as
much caution as if I was bent under the burthen of fourscore
years: they kindly followed me to the custom-house, wishing
me health and long life and a happy sight of my friends: unlike the bishop in the fable, they did not choose, however, to
give their blessings for nothing—they hoped I would remember
poor Pat, and begged a tin-penny or two, just to drink my

17
honour's health: the examination of the trunks was a mere
form, and over in a few minutes—mine was just looked into
and closed again. I concluded that the gentlemen of the custom-house sold their civility much dearer than my late supporters did their blessings, and had my purse ready to comply
with the demand which I expected—I was disappointed, however; there was no fee either asked for or expected: a traveller
sometimes sees strange sights, and always says he has seen them;
I have travelled a good deal myself, but never till this morning
did I witness the novelty of a disinterested custom-house.—I
stepped out of it into the long coach, which was waiting for
us; it was completely filled inside and out: it carried thirty
passengers with all their luggage—there was little danger of
being run away with even with mettlesome horses; do ours
justice they were not of that description: from their steady
and venerable appearance, they might have drawn the archbishop of Dublin himself—as may well be conceived, the air
in the inside was unsufferably close and oppressive; from the
paleness of many of the faces around me, it was easy to see
that sickness had not subsided—one gentleman remarked that
he was always sea-sick in a stage coach: I regret I did not
find out which of the countries be belonged t o ; his speech was
what is termed Irish, but I think his accent was English—this,
however, is not a certain criterion to judge by; most travellers
returning from England, to prove they have been there, and to
display their superiority over their untravelled countrymen,
affect an English accent and pronunciation. As they are generally ignorant of the rules, they make ridiculous mistakes ac«
cordingly; pronouncing, hei and hend, for hat and hand ; teeble
and steeble, for table and stable,—We passed through Rings**
end, a small village almost in ruins; though it is only a mile and
a half from Dublin, we were more than half an hour in get-?
ting to the Mail-Coach Hotel, in Dawson Street, where the
coach stops,—The distance from the pigeon-house is four
0

18
miles: our fare for our ourselves and luggage was three shillings
and four-pence each. The Mail-Coach Hotel, I think is a
good house; I am sure it is a dear one: we were charged three
shillings English (three shillings and three-pence) each for
breakfast: it is fair to acknowledge, however, that it was a sumptuous one—tea, coffee, eggs, ham, &c. &e.: and I dare say
some of the company, whose bowels were empty after their late
evacuation, took the full value of their money.—This was too
expensive a place for me; authors have little money, and what
they have they earn dearly; I therefore took private lodgings.
I called in the course of the morning on some people I formerly knew; they received me with all the kindness so congenial
to the hearts of Irishmen.—I had two invitations to dinner for
that day, but declined them ; both the gentlemen who gave them
were married, and Dublin dames, I knew, no more than London ones, like to be taken unawares: besides, the motion
of the vessel was still in my head, and wine and whisky
punch I feared would not make it steadier; I preferred, therefore, dining in silence and solitude in the Ormond Tavern,
Capel Street. The last of these expectations was in some
degree realized, for I had abox to myself, and I should have
known better than to expect the former—silence is no more the
virtue of man in this, than it is of woman in any country; there
were about twenty people in the room, all eating, all speaking,
and, except myself, nobody listening.—I repeat verbatim
and literatim, a conversation which a gentleman held with an
acquaintance in an opposite box:—" Is this Doctor B. there,
I didn't see you before, because I didn't look that way; I drink
your health sir." " I pledge you, sir, in porter: here, waiter, you
damned wriggled-eyed bastard, why dont yoii bring me my
wine, I say." " Well, and how do you get your health my honey ?"
" Troth but middling, playing at cards with you, and a drop
of the native has done it no good. Bad luck to your own
soul for the head-ache you gave me yesterday, with laughing

19
at your old stories, and drinking your new wine."—" And how
did you like the play the other night I (It was Love in a Village,
and Mrs.Dickons sung)" " In troth I would have liked it better,
only for you: you said you would meet me at the Cock, and so
I went away to look for you before the singing began, but the
devil a cock or hen could I find you at." " How do like Mrs*
Dickons ?" " How should I tell that, that had only set my
two looking eyes on her, and went away, just as she was
opening her throat like a lark in a summer's morning; but I
can tell you one thing, by J—s, she has damned black-looking
gums of her own."—In addition to this treat of calves-head, I
had a comfortable dinner of fish and stewed veal; (I must here
mention, as an inducement to Epicures to visit this country,
that Dublin has fish in much greater perfection, perhaps, than
any other capital in Europe;) the wine was excellent; I drank
more than I intended on going in, but the conviviality was so
general, that I thought it did not become me to be an exception to it.—Foote was once asked if he had ever been at
Cork, during his residence in Ireland ? No, he said, but he had
seen many drawings of it.—I witnessed a good number in the
course of this evening, and actually finished a bottle myself;
no bad libation to the Zephyrs, who bore me in safety among
a people who unite so gracefully,
" The myrtle of Venus, with Bacchus's vine."

c%

m

C H A P . IV.
DUBLIN,

1 WALKED about the streets for some hours this morning;,
and saw little alteration in them since I was here last; it was
predicted by some of its violeut opposers, that the Union
would cause grass to grow in the streets of Dublin-—these
political prophecies have not yet been fulfilled; I see nothing
green in the streets, though I do a number of geraniums in
the windows, which gives a delightful fragrance to the air, and
breathes the perfume of Arabia on the banks of the Liffy :•—
there is something inexpressibly graceful in the appearance
of this town to a stranger; he is forcibly struck with the strong
likeness it bears to London, of which it is a beautiful c o p y far more beautiful in miniature, than the gigantic original—
like a watch set in a ring, it charms with its fairy distinctness,
its light and airy construction: the streets are wide and commodious, the houses uniform, lofty and elegant: Sackville
Street is a noble, avenue, a hundred and twenty feet wide,
terminated by the rotunda, and public gardens—nor do I
know any square in London, that equals Merrion Square for
beauty and uniformity of appearance : the river is open to the
view, in the whole of its course through the city, and the
quays, when properly embanked, will form a walk superior,
perhaps, to any thing of the kind in the universe.—The Liffy,
however, is but an inconsiderable stream, and only remarkable
for having the metropolis seated on its banks—it rises in the
County Wicklow, and discharges itself into Dublin Bay, a little
below the city, and is navigable for vessels of three hundred

£1
tons up to the new custom-house at Carlisle Bridge ; this bridge
is a very fine one; it cousists of three arches,—the centre is fortyeight feet wide, and the two extreme arches, seventy feet, six inches—the breadth of this bridge is remarkably spacious, beingsixty feet between the ballustrades; it is therefore wider by ten
feet than that of Westminster:—there are several other bridges,
none of which have anything to recommend them, except Essex
Bridge, first built in ] 676, but taken down in 1753, and rebuilt in
an elegant form, after the model of Westminster Bridge.—Dublin
is a place of great antiquity: Ptolemy, who flourished in the reign
of Antonius Pius, about the year 140, says it was anciently called
Aschiied. In 155, Alpinus, whose daughter Auliana was drowned
in the Liffy, changed the name from Aschiied to Auliana; it was
afterwards named Dublaiia, and Ptolemy calls it Eblana.
Dublanaf whence conies DubJinum and Dublin, is evidently
derived from Dub-leana, " the place of the black harbour
or lake," or rather "• the lake of the sea,"—the bay of D u b lin being frequently so called. T h e Irish call it Dromchollcoil, " the brow of a hazle wood;"—and in 181, Eogan,
king of Minister, being on a royal tour, paid a visit to this
place, which was then called Atha Cliath—Dubb-Line, " the
passage of the ford of hurdles over the black pool:" king
Edgar, in the preface to his charter, dated 964, mentions
Ireland, with its most noble city (nobilissima civitas) of D u b lin. By the Fingallians, it is called Divelin, and by the
Welch Dinas-Dulin, or the City of D>ullin.—In 448, Alpin
M a c Eachard, king of Dublin, and all his subjects, were
converted to Christianity by St. Patrick. In the year 4Q8,
the Ostmen or Danes, having entered the Liffy with a fleet
of sixty sail, made themselves masters of Dublin and the
adjacent country, and soon after environed the city with
walls. About 1170, Dermot M a c Murrough, king of
Leinster, having quarrelled with the other princes of the
kingdom, a confederacy was formed against him, by Rode-

24
illustrious writers and literary characters, executed in white
marble, by the ablest masters; and on the shelves are to be
found an admirable collection of the best writers on every
subject, in number exceeding forty-six thousand volumes, which
is also daily increasing. At its further end, in the eastern pavilion, is the manuscript room, fifty-two feet long, twentysix broad, and twenty-two high, wherein are many most valuable
manuscripts, particularly those relative to Irish history; and
some of high estimation in the Greek, Arabic, and Persian
languages; among the former, are the celebrated Montfortian
manuscript^ and a copy of the four gospels, with a continued
Greek commentary, written in the ninth century. Under this
library is a spacious piazza of equal extent, out of which a
gate opens into the Fellows' Garden. This college, as is well
known, was founded in the reign of Queen Elizabeth—it is
termed in the charter, " the College of the Holy and undivided
Trinity near Dublin;"—it is now almost in the centre of i t :
so much has Dublin increased in size, in little better than
two centuries.—-It is governed by the provost and senior
fellows, from whose decisions there is an appeal to the visitors, which are the chancellor of the University, or his
vice-chancellor, and the archbishop of Dublin. The number of fellowships fixed at present is twenty-two; seven
senior, and fifteen junior. T h e emoluments of a senior fellowship are supposed at present to exceed seven hundred
pounds yearly; the eldest of the juniors, if no objection lies
against him, is elected by the provost and seniors, to a senior fellowship, within three days after a vacancy is known:
but to a junior fellowship, admission is obtained only by
sustaining publicly one of the severest trials of the human
faculties, of which we have any modern experience, or even
knowledge from history.—The candidates are examined in
Logic and Metaphysics, in all branches of the Mathematics,, in Natural Philosophy and Ethics, in History, Chro-

£5
nology, the Greek, Latin, and Hebrew . languages.—The
examination is in Latin, and the days appointed for it, are
the four days immediately preceding Trinity Sunday:—none
but young men of the brightest parts ever think of standing
for a fellowship; they generally read from fourteen to
eighteen hours a day, for a period of five, often of seven years,
before venturing to undergo an examination: such intense
application, as may well be conceived, has ruined the constitution of hundreds—many have become blind, many have
lost their lives and reason, from the fatal effects of such continued mental exertion ; nor is there perhaps a solitary instance
of a fellow, whose health has not been injured, and talents
impaired by it.—The brain, like every other organ, after
violent motion, requires long rest; after a great degree of
excitement, it sinks into as low a state of collapse : and the,
high wrought fever of youth and hope, which sustains the
mind through such gigantic and incredible efforts, the moment
they are crowned with success, subsides into all the lethargy
and imbecility of old age. A Dublin fellow, fainting and
exhausted, from the wilderness of dry and unprofitable study,
has no longer either talent or inclination for i t ; like a painter
seated before a difficult and dazzling picture, his eye seeks
relief from the soft shade of light reading, and agreeable
society.—It is little to be wondered at, therefore, we have so
few works from himself, or the learned body to which he
belongs; though it is deeply to be lamented, that a course
of study should still be persisted in, which benumbs genius
and paralyses effort; which makes knowledge useless, and
learning contemptible; which puts the burden of Atlas on
the gristly shoulders of youth, and plunges the present generation into the miry gulph of scholastic divinity, which has
swallowed up so many preceding ones. T h e ^ present provost, Doctor Hall, has the character of a learned and pious
m a n : the chancellor is the Duke of Cumberland, who, for
aught I know, may be a learned and pious man also.

£6

CHAP. V.

DUBLIN,

X D I N E D with the gentleman who had accompanied me
to the castle and college; he was a practitioner of medicine
in town, and a fellow-student of my own at Edinburghthere were two other gentlemen, medical men likewise: we
had a most excellent dinner; I questiori whether the provost,
or even the chancellor himself, (with ail due respect I speak
it) had a better:—the fish was delicious; though not a Roman
Catholic, I actually kept Lent, in this instance I fear with no
religious merit.-—-Our conversation was mostly medical; it
is as impossible for four men of the same profession to meet
without talking of it, as for four ladies to get together without a little scandal. The bottle circulated freely among us,
but there was no constraint; every one was at liberty to
drink as much or as little as he pleased, and, as is commonly the case when the liquor is good, every one pleased to
drink a great deal:—Dublin physicians do not forget that
they are men, and Irishmen—they converse, laugh, and drink,
and have thrown aside the grave airs and formal manners,
with the large wigs and gold-headed canes of their predecessors : they have a candour and openness of address, an
ease and dignity of deportment, far superior to their London
brethren—the truth is, a physician here is almost at the pinnacle of greatness: there are few resident nobility or gentry
since the Union, and the professors of law and medicine may
&£ said to form the aristocracy o f % e place. They have,
therefore, all the advantages of manner, which a lofty sense

£7
of superiority, along with much association with mankind, never fail to produce. A London practitioner is little better than
a bon bourgois, whom people of rank call in when they are
sick, but have no intercourse with when they are well—the
only exception I am acquainted with, was, the late Sir John
Hayes, who was a highly amusing companion, and very much
in company, certainly; but he was an Irishman, and patronized
and brought forward by an Irishman, «" Lord M o i r a : " I
suspect he was confided in less, as he was associated with
more ; and, though his jokes were always relished, his physic
was often given to the dogs.—Doctor Johnson has remarked,
that a book might be made on the fortunes of physicians in large towns'; my own experience abundantly proves
the truth of the observation : some of the stupidest fellows of
my acquaintance have been highly successful; while many
young men of the brightest parts, have been compelled to relh>
quish the profession entirely;—having gradually journeyed from
the first floor to the garret, they were obliged to go higher still,
and from their airy " Gradus ad Parnassum," to soar to the
lofty regions of song: Apollo is the god of poetry as well as
medicine, and when his votaries fail in the one, they naturally
turn to the other; to speak seriously, I hardly know a more
pitiable situation than that of some of my young medical friends;
compared to whom, a shoe-maker or a cobbler, is a happy and
independent character—without money to defray the necessary
expenses of a gentleman, they linger out the best years of their
life in penury and sorrow ; in the most galling penury, which
must display the appearance of riches; and in sorrow, which
must wear the face of joy ; living in a state of constant dissimulation, talking of fees they never received, of patients
they never had, and though last, not least, forced to watch the
humours and listen to the nauseating complaints of some antiquated, toothless beldam, who has undertaken to ^recommend them to her friends, and whose party they durst no more

28

desert at cassino or whist, than a soldier his colours in the
field of battle.
1 have mentioned above, that the gentleman with whom I
dined was a fellow-student of mine at Edinburgh, about \6 or
17 years ago—it is a melancholy proof of the uncertainty of
human life, even in extreme youth, that of twenty-five young
men, I was in habits of intimacy with, he and two others only
survive—nor was the manner of many of their deaths less melancholy ; some were drowned, some lost their lives in the yellow fever, others in duels, and another because he could not
get leave to fight one—he was a young high-spirited West Indian :—a short time after his return to the island, (I forget
which) of which he was aViative, he was grossly insulted by a
gentleman at a dance—he retired, and sent him a message—
the offender, with the unanimous approbation of his brother
(gentlemen shall I call them) refused meeting him, because his
father, (who, though a respectable man, was organist to the
church) was no gentleman—the poor young man in a frenzy,
rushed into the ball-room, and in the presence of these enlightened judges, blew his brains out. Had he turned his pistol on any of them, instead of himself, this consequence could
not have followed—for surely they had no brains to lose.—
The fate of another was still more distressing, and as it may
furnish a lesson to presumptuous youth to move in the orbit
which nature assigned it, I shall mention it here :—his name
was Colclough—he took afterwards a distinguished part in the
Irish rebellion, and was executed—he was a young man of
considerable talents and great gentleness of manners; but he
had great vanity, and great ambition also—vanity and ambition, more than conviction, have made many young men republicans.—He who thinks /himself qualified to govern, does
not like to obey, and the youth who, in the glowing visions of
imagination, wields a truncheon, and hearkens to the trumpet,
can have little relish for the pestle and mortar's more peaceful

29
sound. Among the debating societies of the students, there
was one in which general subjects were discussed, to the exclusion only of medical ones—Mr. Colclough was a great speaker
there, and often displayed no mean oratorical powers. I recollect well one subject of discussion was the assassination of
Caesar.—" Was it a justifiable act on the part of Brutus and
the other conspirators ?"—As may be supposed, he took the
part of the great martyr of freedom ; he made a long and brilliant speech which was greatly admired and rapturously applauded by all who heard it. I have very little doubt that the
praise he received that night, gave a bias to his future life, and
that the destiny of Brutus involved his own equally unfortunate one. He resolved to quit the profession of medicine, and
betake himself to the bar, as a field where his abilities would
have greater room. In the interval, however, a small fortune
was left him, and he married. Shortly afterwards the Irish
rebellion broke out—the stage was now erected on which so
many thousands were doomed to perish; he flattered himself,
no doubt> with being able to play a distinguished part, and
was among the foremost who appeared on its reeking boards.
He had talents, youth, and courage, which, well directed,
might have given him the rank and consideration he so much
coveted; but, abused and misapplied, served only to conduct
him to the gallows—to excite some sympathy in the hearts of
others, and probably in his last moments to embitter his own.
At the age of twenty-six his course was finished. After the recapture of Wexford, he retired with his wife and child to one
of the Sal tee Islands, of which he was landlord, and chose for
his temporary abode a cave, which he furnished with provisions, and hoped to remain concealed till the fervour of prosecution should abate—but Mr. Bagenal Harvey, knowing his
place of retreat, followed him so incautiously, as to afford a
foundation for conjecture and discovery :—they surrendered
without resistance; though from the nature of the place they

30

might have made for some time a defence. At his trial he displayed a calm intrepidity and dignity, tempered with mildness,
which commanded the admiration and esteem of the spectators ;•
at the place of execution he did not evince less fortitude; he
called, it is said, for a glass of wine, and drank his Majesty's
health. I hope this is not true. About to be launched into
eternity, the most outrageous royalist troubles himself little
about kings; but in a man of his prejudices and opinions, such
a toast could only be dissimulation, and if ever given, must
have proceeded from some faint hope, and lingering expectation of mercy. Mr. Colclough was a remarkably handsome
man, elegantly made, though rather heavy in the limbs, as
Irishmen generally are—his face was round and fair, with an
expression of great sweetness; he was a Catholic, though, when
I knew him, ashamed to acknowledge it—he thought it degrading as a philosopher and republican, to wear the shackles of
so contracted a religion; yet so difficult are early habits to be
rooted out, so much do the tales of the nursery influence the
man, that what he denied with his tongue, he venerated in his
heart; and he has been often known to steal privately to the
only Catholic place of worship Edinburgh afforded; he was
then very young, however, and his religious opinions might have
undergone many changes previous to his death—little did I imagine at that period it should be his fate to undergo such a one,
or that it should be mine thus to record it.
After our party broke up I went to the play—it was the
Free Knights, which I was desirous to see; not, as will readily
be believed, on its own account; but as I had seen its first representation at Covent Garden, to compare the Dublin and
London performers. The first act was over when I went in;
this was so far convenient, that it gave me an opportunity of
surveying the house and audience:—as a public building, Crow
Street has little in its external or internal appearance to recommend it to notice; there were some allegorical paintings

31
on the ceiling, of which I did not fully comprehend the
meaning, nor did I think it worth while to inquire—the audience was brilliant and numerous : as we are now in the dogdays, the atmosphere was not over and above salubrious ; all
the foreheads around me glistened with dew—one very large
gentleman seemed completely in the melting mood, and, as
he either had no handkerchief^ or could not get at it, " the
big round drops/'
" CoursM one another down his rubicund nose
" In piteous chase ;"
I could not help looking on the audience with pity, not unmixed
with contempt; nor can I conceive how a number of beings,
pretending to be rational, could forego the beauties of a delicious summer's evening, to sit for hours in a heated atmosphere, unfit for respiration arid injurious to health, listening
to a wild farrago of absurdity, in comparison of which, Guy,
Earl of Warwick, or Jack the Giant-Killer are rational productions—but such is the force of fashion: this play was
approved of by a London manager, and ^vas received as
the news-papers were pleased to tell us, " by a brilliant and
everflowing audience, with the most unbounded applause.—"
The good people of Dublin, were therefore earnest to see
and applaud likewise; and to prove themselves as profound
critics as their sapient brethren of London. In justice to the
latter, however, I must observe they displayed in this instance,
more taste and judgment than the managers did—they listened
with indifference to the sentimental click-clack of Ravensburgh and Agnes; they hissed the notable wit of " there's a
Rowland for your Oliver" and the little twaddling butler, and
were, 1 am certain, on the point of condemning the piece,
when the .good genius of Mr. Reynolds, in the person of
Mr. Young, saved him from damnation.—With all the energy

32
which characterizes his manner, he delivered two or three
happily conceived, and not ill written speeches ; their effect
on the audience was like electricity ; they drove away the
gloom and discontent that were ready to burst forth, and substituted harmony and good humour in their place;—like Balaam's ass of old, (I beg pardon for the comparison) the
critics in the pit opened their mouths to curse, and could
only pronounce blessings. Of the Dublin performers I shall
at present say little, it would be illiberal to judge them harshly,
labouring up hill as they were this night, against love without
interest, song without music, comedy without humour, and
dialogue without wit.—Mr. Duff, who performed the Prince
Palatine, appears a decent, though affected player; the abbot
of M r . Wheatly was a respectable, though unequal performance.
I was forcibly struck with the appearance of
Miss Smith, and highly gratified by the manner in which she
supported her part—she is, indeed, a great and superior actress,
and gave Agnes every support abilities could bestow.—The
after-piece was the Budget of Blunders, a farce which met
with much illiberal opposition last winter in London, for no
other reason, I believe, but the opinions its author was supposed to entertain on the riots which a short time before had
disgraced Covent Garden ;—it was highly and deservedly
applauded h e r e : M r , Farron exerted his talents with much
effect, in D r . Smugface; I should have seen him I dare say
with more pleasure, had I not seen Liston in the same p a r t ;
but his humour is of so truly comic and original a nature, that
every actor of his parts sinks in the comparison—in a particular sort of dry and quaint humour, in simplicity pretending
to cunning, in vivacity that affects to be grave, in vacuity that
seems to think, in the wisdom of folly, and the folly of wisdom, this actor stands unrivalled.—Their excellencies the Lord
and Lady Lieutenant were present; they came in before the
commencement of the play, and I understand were received

33

with the highest applause: the duchess is a plain looking
middle-aged woman* The duke I did not distinctly.see,
nor did he, I fancy, much of what was going on —he seemed
little taken " with the cunning of the scene ;" indeed, from
the posture he sat in, I thought he was sleeping; but this is
no imputation on his grace's taste ; I know by experience
the Three Knights is a very powerful narcotic. He brightened up, however, at the farce, and laughed so heartily, (in
which the audience, as in duty bound, accompanied him)
that the author himself, had he been present, would have
been satisfied, and pronounced him a most judicious critic
and enlightened lord lieutenant. This was a day of meeting with great people ; in the morning, as I was walking with
a friend in Dame-street, he desired me to look at a man
who was coming towards us : I looked both at* him and after
him—"I)o you see any thing remarkable there ?" asked he.
« Very," I replied; "heis remarkably ugly, and remarkably mean
looking." " He is remarkably clever/' said my companion ;
" that is Mr. G—^-, the celebrated advocate !" Bodily and
mental beauty, (though I have known some instances to the
contrary,) seldom go together. If Mr. C
*s talents are
as great as his face is ugly, he must begone of the brightest
men in the world: he is little, and dark complexioned; but
as he was dressed in a full suit of black, probably looked
less than he really is. Notwithstanding his unprepossessing
appearance, he is said to be a great favorite of the ladies,
who find in him, I dare say, more substantial qualifications
than mere beauty, and select him, like captain Bobadil, upon
i(
an in tinct" they have got.
Mr. C
brought an action of: damages some years ago against a gentleman for criminal conversation with his wife; it is reported he compelled his son to come forward as an evidence, to substantiate his mothers guilt.—Let us hope, for the honour of genius, that this story is either not true, or greatly exaggerated*
i)

S4

A few moments afterwards I was lucky enough to meet
with Mr. Grattan, who, though I had heard once or twice
before in the House of Commons, I might be now said to
see for the first time. I viewed, with mingled sentiments
of respect and admiration, the man, whose" transcendent
abilities reflect such lustre on the country which gave him
"birth; which his talents have ennobled, and his eloquence
free'd; and who, during a period of thirty years, has proved
himself the steady and inflexible patriot, faithful to his
country, but loyal to his king. During his long political life,
Sir. Grattan has often experienced the uncertainty of popular favour—an turn praised and abused-*--he was pronounced
the Saviour, and afterwards the betrayer of his country: his
picture was put up with shouts and acclamations in the common4iall of this city, and afterwards taken down with curses and execrations. Regardless of ephemeral and evanescent
popularity, he still held the even tenor of his way; unterrifled by the frowns of government, and unseduced by the
erroneous judgments of the mob> He acted from the dictates of his own conscience, and found in the approbation
of his own heart, -the best reward of virtuous deeds.
" All praise is foreign but of true desert,
Plays round the head but enters not the heart;
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid gazers and of loud huzzas.
And more true joy exiled Marcellus feels,
Than Caesar with a senate at his heels.
As an orator he is in the foremost class 5 he is not only the
first at present in the House of Commons, but, perhaps, the
greatest who ever had a seat there; he is not It frequent speaker
however—-he is neither a fluent nor eloquent haranguer on
the comfnon business and details of parliament—on such
occasions his manner seems trifling and insignificant; his
action ungraceful, and his words studiously sought, and ob-

35
tained with difficulty—but on a grand question of justice or
morality, which involves the existence and security of government, the happiness of the present and of succeeding
generations, his'mind grows with the subject; he is wrapt
and carried away as it were out of himself; and he seems
to his astonished hearers, something more than human.—
Like Achilles his arguments scatter death upon his opponents \ the fire of his eloquence dries up and withers opposition, like the lightning of heaven—the power of generalizing, which Mr. Grattan possesses, is most extraordinary,
and is the true criterion of the orator, as well as the poet,
" Who are of imagination both compact." Every sentence
is an aphorism on which pages might be written; a text on
which sermons might be preached; he reviews the past, he
dives into the future, which he foretells with almost prophetic
exactness; and in the bold frenzy of his oratory, as he pours
forth the heavy denunciations of impending punishment on
folly and mis-rule, he seems rather an oracle in the act of
inspiration, than a public speaker. I remember well on the
speech he made about two years ago on the Catholic question—-{a speech which in my opinion might have impressed
conviction even on Boeotian stupidity,) the whole gallery
stood up as a spontaneous and involuntary tribute of admiration, Mr, Grattan is a thfn and delicate-looking little man,
but his eye is full of genius and fire—he is, I believe, considerably upwards of sixty, though his step has all the lightness and elasticity of youth: he lives at a beautiful place
about nine or ten miles from Dublin: he is, I learn, an ex, cellent husband and father, and as distinguished for his private as his public virtues.
I would strongly recommend, to the perusal of my reader
his letter to the citizens of Dublin, published in the year
1797f
It is almost as interesting at the present as at that
period, and to England as to Ireland.
B 2

36
Mr. Grattan by this eloquent letter subjected himself to
much obloquy and some danger—as a composition it was
severely criticised; and by many pronounced as deficient in
reasoning as in loyalty.—In the glowing language of oratory,
which stops not to examine, he had said, " a naked man, oppressed by the state, is an armed post;" this was pronounced
an absolute bull ; and certainly though a strong, it is a singular expression ;—-this, however, if we are to credit Mr. Boswell, is not the first instance of the same imputation being
fixed upon him—-some person repeated with enthusiasm,
before Dr. Johnson, the following passage from one of his
earliest speeches— ul will persevere in my efforts until there
is not one link remaining of the chain of English slavery
to clank on the rags of the meanest peasant in Ireland."—-?
" Nay, Sir," said Dr. Johnson, " that is a bull; if there is
only one link how should it clank ?"

CHAR VL

DUBLIN.

A T the house where I breakfasted this morning, I was
enquiring after curiosities—" I will shew you one," said ihe
gentleman, " and a very wonderful one too—the very hous^
where Earl Strongbow lived, and, for aught I can tell, built,
for houses made of stone and lime were not very much the
fashion, when he came first amongst us."—This was something worth looking at, and we set off jmmediately after
breakfast to see it: he took me to the street which contained
this rare treasure 5 we .walked several times up and down,

37
but saw neither castle nor palace, neither shattered column
nor decayed gateway^-The houses were mean and old lo6king enough ; but after surveying them all, with more exactness than they deserved, we could trace no more resemblance to a Gothic edifice, than a Chinese pagoda.—We stopt
every passenger to enquire after the house Earl Strongbow
built; nobody could give us any information about it ; we
enquired at several shops ; they were not a whit better antiquarians than the passengers ;—we might as well have asked
after the house that Jack built-—My friend, in a passion,
swore he would stay there to doomsday, or he Would find it
out—He might have stayed to doomsday, and been no nearer
his purpose—there was no such house there, though there
had been au old one taken down some time before.—It appeared, however, from an inscription on one of the beams,
that k was not of earlier date than Queen Elizabeth—so that
not even poetic licence could make it the residence of Earl
Strongbow.
Disappointed ki the purpose we came for, we were resolved, as we could not see the house in which this great warrior had lived, to see at least the one in which he was laid \
and went to Christ church accordingly. The monument of
Earl Strongbow has a lofty and venerable appearance, and
bears all the marks of great antiquity; the statue of the Son
is continued only to the middle, with the bowels open and
supported by the hands:—He was a youth of seventeen, and,
as tradition records, s# terrified at the first onset of the Irish
army, that he fled to Dublin in the utmost consternation,
declaringthat his father and all his forces had perished; that,
when convinced of his mistake, he appeared before the Earl,
and congratulated him on his victory; the father rigidly condemned him to death for cowardice, and executed it with
his own hand, by cutting him in two—-There is the utmost
reason to suspect, however, that this narrative has no other

38
foundation than the fiction of some Irish Bard, who invented
it for a people delighting in the marvellous and affecting ;
and who would readily credit any evil story of a man, who had
inflicted so much evil on themselves.
After having completed our survey, my friend proposed
going to Palmerston fair ; I readily consented.—I have
more pleasure in contemplating the moving picture of man,
than the stationary one of statues and monuments.—-At the fair
where we were going, many, no doubt, in the words of Shakespeare, would " put an enemy in their mouths to steal away
their brains/'But clowns, even without brains, are better than
heroes without bowels.—As the day was fine, we resolved to
w7alk,-~to avoid the crowd, we passed through the Barrack
squares, and from thence into Phoenix Park. The Barracks
are esteemed the largest and most commodious in Europe—
They consist of four squares, situated at the west end of the
town, on the north side of the river; three or four regiments
are constantly quartered here.—The Dublin mob have at
all times been rather unruly, sand now more than ever a
watchful eye is kept over them j a regiment of dragoons is
always stationed in the neighbourhood, whose formidable
appearance is a peculiar object of their terror. The nerves
of a London mob seem to possess similar sensibility: though
armed so strong with zeal for the worthy Baronet and the
cause of freedom, on a recent occasion, they immediately
dispersed at the sight of the immense sabres, and large
ioek'd hats, of the horse guards,—the most vociferous clamourer took to flight, and I know one instance of activity in
a courageous and unwieldy friend of mine, that would reflect
credit on Capt. Barclay himself:— he was a great admirer of
Sir Francis, drank his health, and wore his colours ; damned
his enemies^ and swore let others do as they chose, 'but he
would never forsake him.—He was huzzaing with great
strength of lungs, in Piccadilly, when one of the Dragoons

S9
gave him a smart blow with the flat side of his sabre across
the shoulders :—all his zeal, like Acres/s courage, oozed out
of his fingers ends ; and he ran, without stopping or looking'
behind him, to his lodgings in Holborn:—for some evenings
after, he drank his porter with a much less warlike air than
formerly ; though now, I understand, he gives himself great
credit for the desperate battle he fought with an armed
Dragoon.
The day was fine, and we had a delightful walk through
the park, where there is a charming assemblage of rural
beauty—I was glad to be in it for that and other reasons—I
wished to hear my friend's voice and my own, which, in the
streets of Dublin, is impossible; the wheel-carrs follow each
other in a long line like a flock of wild geese, with a nasty
kind of teazing and jingling noise that is insufferable; the
heavy sound of a London cart is not half so bad? and commands something like respect;—a Dublin carr is not much
larger than a wheel-barrow: we endure the barking of a
mastiff, but lose, all patience at the yelping of a cur.—My
companion is surgeon to a regiment which has been stationed in Ireland for several years ; he has been in all parts of it,
and speaks in the most favourable terms of the kindness of
heart he has met with every where; obscured as it too often
is in the lower classes by poverty and ignorance, and in the
higher tyy habits of dissipation and the want of a good education.—In the course of his peregrinations he has been very
much employed in his profession ; the country surgeons in
Ireland being in general no iEsculapius's—In the unfortunate duel which took place about three years ago at Wexford, between Mr. Colclough and Mr. Allcock, he was engaged to attend as surgeon by the latter": he told vqv the
whole business exactly as it happened ; and as it contains
some circumstances not uninteresting, and to a certain degree illustrates the present state of manners in Ireland^ I

40

shall mention the heads of it:—Mr. Colclough was a young
- and amiable man, a relation of the Colclough I mentioned
in a former chapter; he was m a delicate state of health, and
strongly attached to a life of rural retirement; his friends,
however, overcame the reluctance he felt at becoming a public man, and compelled him, by their importunities, to stand
candidate for the county of Wexford, at the last general
election.—As he was of a catholic family, and whatever his
outward professions might be, supposed to be in his heart and
prejudices one himself, he was supported by the catholic
interest—Mr. Alleock was the protectant member. When
religious and party spirit was thus added to the irritation of election, the contest, as may be supposed, was violent,
and carried on with great bitterness on both sides 5—there
was an estate of a Mrs. Chimeny, generally resident in England, of which Mr. Alleock was certain, as she had given
directions to her agent to make all her tenants vote for him;
they were mostly Catholics, and the influence of party was
stronger than the fears of a landlord: at the instigation of
their priests, who were the most active partizans of Mr.
Colclough, they all gave their votes to him ; this Mr, Allcock considered a dishonourable interference of Mr. Colclough, and spoke to him with great asperity about it;—the
other denied, with the utmost solemnity, having ever tampered with any of his voters.—Mr. Alcock said he considered
him accountable for the conduct of his agents, and becoming
more outrageous, appointed a meeting in half an hour, to
decide the quarrel. His committee, however, when he reported
what had happened, disapproved highly of his behaviour,
and insisted on his sending an apology:—-this part of the
business is involved in darkness, but it would appear that
he did comply to a certain extent, and that Lord Valentia
was sent with an apology : he was refused all access to Mr.
Colclough, by the friends who managed his election; his

41
lordship repeatedly said, " I am the bearer of an apology,
which I think ought to satisfy/——The gentleman, who was
afterwards Mr. Colclough'ssecond,pullingout his watch, said
" No, Mr. Allcock gave Mr. Colclough half an hour, and we
will keep him to his time/'—They met exactly at the time
appointed, in a field near the town^—the business had now
become known, and several thousands, of both sexes, and all
-descriptions, assembled to see it. Doctor P
• thinks
there were no less than fourteen or fifteen magistrates pre*
sent, who stood unmoved spectators of this open violation of
law.—When the ground was measuring, Mr, Colclough's
friend objected to Mr. Allcock's wearing glasses, and re~
quested him to take them off: this he refused, saying,;"I am
.known to be very short sighted,, arid even now am not on a
footing with other men/'—It had been previously agreed that
in case of either party being killed, the other should not
prosecute ; Mr. Colclough's friend, in a loud tone of voice,
then said, "In that case, Sir,Ibeg of you to understand, I consider the agreement lately made broken." Mr. Allcock bowed
his head as if in token of assent, but said nothing,—The
parties now took their places at twelve paces asunder*
Mr. Colclough's second squared him in the attitude he
should stand in^ and putting a pistol in one hand, bade him
adieu by shaking the other—an eternal adieu—for^he next
instant Mr. Allcock fired, and Mr. Colclough fell lifeless j
he fell on one side, and then rolled round on the f#ee.
Doctor P
ran forward ; with difficulty he got off a
tight high-crowned hat ; he felt all over the head^ thinking,
from its instantaneous effect, that the wound was there :
finding it unhurt, he ran his hand under the shirt* and got
hold of the ball under the left breast; at that moment the
blood* came rushing like a torrent even from the tops of his
boots, staining the earth on which he lay, "making the
green one red/'—The ball passed right through the body,

42

wounding some of the great blood-vessels, probably the.,
aorta, or the heart itself; which, in a few seconds, poured
forth all its crimson contents. An awful silence and stillness
for some moments pervaded the immense multitude \ they
"were overwhelmed with the suddenness of the shock:
when they recovered their recollection, there was an almost
universal cry of anguish ^md sorrow.—He had no longer any
enemies, and the spirit of party faded before this melancholy
scene ; the Protestant now acknowledged his virtues—the
Catholic bewailed his advocate, patron, and friend \ and
the poor, with clamorous sorrow, their humane and gene«
rous benefactor-r-Mr, Allcock was removed from the
ground by his friends ; they feared the rage of the people $
but there was no reason, sorrow had subdued and softened
their hearts; nor did sweeter incense ever embalm
departed worth, than the tears which bedewed the body
of this virtuous man, from hearts which perhaps never
softened, and from eyes which never wept before. He
was carried to his own house, and the body laid on a marble
slab in the parlour, which was preparing for a grand entertainment, to be given on his election, of which he was assured. By a singular coincidence he was carried there in his
own gig, gracefully decorated with flowers and oak leaves^
for a far different purpose.
" Flowers meant to deck his triumph ;
And not to strew his grave."
Mr. Allcock was afterwards tried and acquitted; the
.judge conceived the rashness of the original provocation
in a great degree expiated by the subsequent apology $
while he commented with the greatest severity on the conduct of Mr. Colclough's second, whom he considered
as in reality the murderer of his friend, by the obstinacy
with which he resisted all accommodation. Sir Jonah

43

Barrington, as counsel for the prosecution, after alluding
to Mr. Allcock's well-known excellence as a shot, reprobated in the strongest manner his putting on glasses*
" Gentlemen of the jury," said he, " he levelled his pistol
with murderous exactness, against the bosom-of my unfortunate friend, who, until that fatal hour, had never raised
his arm in enmity against man, bird, or beast/' It is
reported that Mr. Allock is now in a private mad-house in
London.
We passed through Chapelizod, a large handsome village,
two miles from the Castle of Dublin, on the banks of
the Liffey, with a barrack, formerly occupied by the artillery, but noW by a regiment of Infantry. We now recognized the wisdom of our choice in taking the park rather than
the great road: we got here into the very thick of the throng,
and were surrounded by an immense number of people,
mostly of the lower class, proceeding in carts, cars, and
gingles, on horseback, and on foot, to the happy spot.
We were very much annoyed by the dust, and still more
by the beggars, who were seated on the road side, and exhibited the most disgusting sores to excite compassion.
The address of an Irish beggar, is much more poetical and
animated than that of an English one ; his phraseology
is as peculiar as the recitative in which it is delivered: he
conjures you, for the love and honour of God, to throw something to the poor famished sinner,—by your father and
mother's soul, to cast an eye of pity on his sufferings ;-^he is equally liberal in his good wishes, whether you give
him any thing or not; " may you live a hundred years,
may you pass unhurt through fire and water, may the gates of
Paradise be ever open to receive you;" are common modes
of expression, which he utters with a volubility that is
inconceivable.

44

Palnierston is a small village of a mean appearance,
which, however, is amply compensated by the beauty of the
surrounding scenery ; the fair is held in the town, and some
surrounding fields. The people on the ground were mostly
of the lower class ; yet the tents were laid out with a
neatness, and even elegance, that bespoke the expectation
of better company : long tables, covered with cloths, of
the most perfect whiteness, and plates, knives, and forks,
laid out with all the regularity of a tavern. Beef, ham,
and fowls were exposed in a little larder in front; wine
and spirits, in goodly decanters, were ranged by their side,
presenting a very tempting spectacle to the hungry and
thirsty traveller, I was not of the former description }
I had swallowed too much dust on the road : but I was
very weary and very thirsty ; we therefore sat down and
called for some wine and water, which was either excellent,
or we thought it so, which is the same thing : nor was our
gratification confined to the sense of taste only, our eyes
and our ears were equally delighted. We saw pas de deux
and de trois innumerable; not done with the grace of
Vestris or Angiolini perhaps, but to the full with as much
spirit. As the dancing was on the declivity of the hill,
little accidents sometimes occurred ; the fair one stumbled,
and displayed in her fall a stout pair of limbs, not easily
tired, I guess, in any kind of exercise:—the music in front
of our tent was a pair of bag-pipes ; another party was
dancing to the sound of a fiddle.—Igot up and went nearer,
to hear it more distinctly—It would have been as well
for me, however, had I remained where I was—these Palnierston figurantes did not " trip it on the light fantastic
toe ;" one huge fellow laid his great heel, stuck round with
hob nails, as heavy as a cart-horse, on my foot, and
almost crushed it to a mummy.—He danced on, and I
hopt back to my tent, where I took another glass of wine

45
and water to lull pain, and listened to the drone of the
bag-pipes with the same intention. The men and women
in general were decently dressed; the women in stuff
and flowered cotton gowns, with ribbands and mob caps:
They almost universally wore white thread stockings : when
a poor Irish woman wears shoes and stockings, she is always
dressed; worsted ones, therefore, are seldom used.—The
men wore coarse coats of a blue or brown colour $ several
danced in great coats of grey cloth or frize \ though the
weather was unusually warm, they did not seem inconvenienced either by them or the exercise they were taking.—The lower Irish are spare and thin-—they are generally
dark complexioned, with black hair, and often with thick
bushy eye-brows ; this gives an expression. of countenance;
very different from that of an English peasant.—There is an
air 6f vivacity and restlessness, of intelligence and, per-*
haps, of mischief in the former^ totally unlike the fat,
contented ignorance of the latter—though not more so.
than his harsh and disagreeable tones in speaking, to
the soft and musical ones of a London accent. We staid
about an hour longer, and then went away—the scene which
pleased at first by its novelty, lost all its charms along
with it:—we were kindly pressed to stay dinner by the
good lady of the tent where we were sitting—ic We should
have a hot loin of mutton (she said,) with a cut of salmon,
and a rice pudding along with it, in half an hour : as
to the wine we had tasted it, and she need say nothing
about i t ; and the whiskey, when we came to try it, would
equally speak for itself/*—It did speak for itself at that
instant, and in very striking language too—a couple of
fellows, who were drinking in the tent, quarrelled and came
to blows—our hostess was in terrible trepidation for "her
plates and glasses ; a more mischievous place could hardly
fee conceived for two men to fight in-—she implored them.

4G
for the love of the sweet Jesus to be quiet, and not to
destroy the credit of her tent, which was always undetf
a good character*—the supplications and even tears of this
fair vender of whisky, had no effect in softening their
hard hearts. We therefore joined our strength to her
eloquence, and shoved them into the field, where they
boxed it very fairly out—" Didn't I tip it to him neatly in the
bread basket ?" said the successful combatant, to a friend
who was congratulating him on his victory. " I could have
fhut up his peepers an hour before, but wanted to try
what sort of game he was; and, by the Blessed Virgin, he is
jiothing but dunghill."-—I was anxious to see the kitchen
from whence the roast mutton and rice pudding were to issue;
the landlady, who was full of curtsies and blessings for the
service we had rendered her, shewed us it:—it was a large
hole made in the ground, directly behind the tent—there
was a blazing turf fire large enough to roast an ox, covered
with pots, and several spits before it.—I am assured, had we
stayed, we should have got an excellent dinner; but as
there is often in the evening a course of fightingr the
de$s.ei%t might not have been so agreeable—-TJie custom
of lighting, however, is not near so universal as it
was—it is now pretty much confined to single combats with the fist, and does not, as formerly, involve the whole field in a general battle with
Shillalahs, made of their native oak; which, in an
Irishman's hand, is not a very gentle weapon, and has no
pretensions to one property of a joke—namely, breaking no
bones. I am told in proportion as the influence of Mars
has diminished, Venus has become the favourite divinity;
an Irishman's love, like his appetite, is satisfied with plain
food, and does not stand in need of piquante-sauce to
make it relishing—he is as careless about place as
about person; he requires no couch of state, or costly

47
bed of down; the sky is his canopy—the verdant mead,
or daisied bank, the scene of his joys ; where, in the sweet
delirium of love, he forgets his labours and his cares—his
sorrows and his wants—by a happy dispensation of nature.—
" The cordial drop which makes the bitter cup of life
go down," h found in most exquisite concentration, in
the cup of him who stands the most in need of it.
Returning home we looked into the hospital-fields burying ground—this is the burial place of the lower class : of
the poor, the artizan, and the stranger; of the unfortunate
who ends his days in an hospital, the wretch who perishes
on the highway, and the criminal who dies by the execu
ti-oner; the outcast whahad no friend, the wanderer who had
no habitation,
i(

Who found no spot of all the world his own j "
here find at length an everlasting abode. We walked over
their mouldering remains, which a little earth loosely scattered hardly concealed from our view: in some places it did
not conceal them. Whetherfrom the carelessness of interment,
or the ravages of animals, the graves of several were open, and
the coffins exposed; through the broken boards of which
we saw their decaying bodies in every progressive state of
putrefaction; in some the knees were falling from their
sockets, and the eyes melting in their eye-balls, the worms
crept along their fingers, and the body arid face was
one great mass of corruption: in others an unshapen heap
of bones and ashes only remained. We turned in horror
from a spectacle so hideous and revolting; from a sight so
dreadful and disgusting, so mortifying and shocking to mortality ; nor can I conceive how such a violation of decency
and humanity could be permitted. I did not even stop to
look at the tomb of Brian Barome, monarch of all Ireland,
who was killed by the Danes at the battle of Clontarf, and
is said to be .buried here. I fled with precipitation from this

48
C-rolgotha, where the air is contaminated with the exhalations of deaths ftor did I seem to myself to breathe freely
till I was some distance from it. A little further we met the
lord and lfldy lieutenant, with their attendants and some
other company.
Imagination could hardly form a greater contrast than this
gay and gallant party, to the quiet and silent group we just
had quitted; yet they once were active and animated,
though not so splendid as these a r e ; who in a few years,
perhaps a few months, will be mute likewise in their turn.
Oh ! could the wand of enchantment touch the slumbering
bones, arid raise before them these inhabitants of the grave;
could they gaze on their fleshless arms, their putrid lips,
their hollow cheeks, their eye-less sockets, where- the worm
has now taken its abode; could they behold as in a magic
glass, the reflection of what all that lives must be, how
would they start affrighted and dismayed ; how would their
mirth and gaiety vanish, their pomp and consequence subside ; how would the frivolous pursuits, the transient pleasures, the restless wishes, and busy cares, of this fleeting
scene sink into the insignificance they deserve.

.

" The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'i%
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour 5
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.**

These are melancholy reflections, and little in unison with
other parts of this chapter : I have only to say, I did not
seek them—they lay in my way, and I stumbled over them*
T h e odd coincidence of encountering splendour and equipage
as I issued from the mansions of the dead, forced them from
rae with impulse irresistible-—nor are such reflections without their Use—they teach us to think and to enter into ourselves* u They are no flatterers hut feelingly persuade us

49

what we are."-—They teach us how to live, when they tell
us we must die.

CHAP. VII.

DUBLIN.

T H E Lord Lieutenant of Ireland is one of the greatest
officers under the crown. He is the only viceroy in
the king's dominions^ and has the privilege Of conferring
knighthood and otfier lesser vice-regal ones. He is always
now art English nobleman of high rank: there are no instances of a Scotchman being appointed, and I believe but
one or two of an Irishman. Yet the exalted virtues, and incorruptible integrity of one of these, might have warranted
a repetition of the experiment. Every person acquainted
with Irish history, will know I allude to the great Marquis of
Ormond, as he was generally called : with inflexible fidelity he
supported, for several years, the falling fortunes of his unhappy
master: after his execution he shared in like manner the
misfortunes of his son, and lived abroad in poverty and
exile along with him. He was so much at times straitened
in his circumstances, that it is reported on having occasion to
send his peruke to the peruke-maker, he was obliged to borrow, and appear in publie,. with a large and unseemly one,
until his own was repaired. On the restoration of King
Charles, he was created a Duke, and sent over Lord Lieutenant of this kingdom; where he was as much distinguished
for the uprightness of his conduct as the splendour of his
government. Jle was doomed, however, to share the fate of
£

50
ail the Faithful and virtuous servants of the royal libertine,—
In turn, in favour and disgrace, flattered and neglected, he
never lost the equanimity of his temper; Discoursing once
of the ingratitude of king Charles, he jocularly added, "Well,
nothing of this shall yet break my heart—for, however it
may fare with me at court, I am resolved to be well in
the chronicle." A gentleman who had solicited some favour
of the king, implored the duke's assistance,— a All my dependence/' said he, "is on God and your Grace/'—"Then I
fear your case is desperate $" said the other, laughing, " I know
no two who have less interest at court at present." He
outlived his son, the gallant Earl of Ossery, who was killed in
the engagement with the Dutch fleet in the 46th year of his
age: " I would not exchange my dead son," exclaimed the duke,
with exultation, "for ever a living son in Christendom." Notwithstanding the tempered mildness of his latter years, he
was in early life remarkable for the impetuosity of his disposition. In 1634, Earl Stafford, then deputy of Ireland^
gave an order, that no person should enter either House of
Parliament witli a sword: this order was universally complied with both by Peers and Commoners.—-The Usher of the
Black Rod attending at the door of the House of Lords, insisted on Lord Ormond's compliance likewise—this he positively
refused, adding, with a thieatening air, if he must deliver
his sword, the usher must receive it in his body.—He was
summoned before the council to answer for this breach of
order—he boldly defended himself, saying, he had received
the investiture of his earldom, per cincturam gladii, and was
bound by the royal patent to attend his duty in parliament,
gladio ductus : lord Stafford, awed by the dignity and spirit
he evinced, did not think it prudent to carry the matter further. This unfortunate nobleman was characterized by
great inflexibility himself, which, carried often to head-long
obstinacy, was in a great measure the cause of his melan-

51
choly end. Though in many respects a valuable chief governor, he was guilty of some acts of harshness and injustice. Much allowance, however, must be made for the age in
which he Jived, and the existing state of things in Ireland,
where strong measures only could probably be efficacious.
The Irish parliament, which was his most servile flatterer in
his prosperity, was the first, as flatterers generally are, to
desert him in his adversity:—it entered strenuously into the
prosecution against him, and sent several of its members to
assist the committee of the English House of Commons in
conducting it. Lord Stafford's defence was a very able one ;
the concluding part of itwras highly pathetic, and would be
pronounced eloquent even at the present day. " Bat, my
Lords, I have troubled you too long—longer than I should have
done, but for the sake of these dear pledges, which a saint
in heaven has left me.—" Upon this he paused—dropped a
tear—looked upon his children—and proceeded : " What
I forfeit for myself is a trifle—that my indiscretions should
reach my posterity, wounds me tc^ the heart—Pardon my
infirmity—Something I should have added, but I am not
able—.--and therefore I let it pass.—And now, my lords, for
myself—-I have long been taught, that the afflictions of this
life are overpaid^ by that ^eternal weight of glory, which
awaits the innocent. And so, my Lords, even so, with the
utmost tranquillity, I submit myself to your judgment, whether that judgment be life or death :—not my will, but
thine, O God, be done!"
The King, whose cause he had supported, and whose
orders Jie had obeyed, exhausted and overcome by clamour,
signed reluctantly the warrant for his execution.—The Earl,
when the fatal and unexpected intelligence was communicated to him, started from his seat exclaiming, " Pu
not your trust in princes, or in any of the sons of men,
for they wpl certainly deceive you."
B 2

52
The kih£ could never fbrgive himself for his pusillanimity let
thus giving up so faithful a servant;—in the hour of his own
sorrow he remembered it in bitterness and anguish of heart :-*•
'* I suffer, "said he, "by an unjust sentence, for having allowed
an unjust sentence to take effect on an innocent man.
The presentLord Lieutenant is rather a tall and dark-complexioned man, about fifty years of age, or upwards. In earty
life he was well known by the name of Colonel Lennox, and
the duel he fought with the Duke of York—the Duke had a
very narrow escape, as the ball carried away part of his side
curl. Whatever doubts were entertained of the reasonable^
hess of his conduct, there were none of his couragehe displayed in this instance, as in every other, all thfe
courage which is hereditary in the Royal family:—-the
Duke of Richmond is highly popular; his affability, and
condescension, are the theme of universal praise; h6
throws aside, whenever he* can, the cumbersome caparison
of office, and rides, walks about, and converses with
all the plainness of a private individual.—-Though appointed
by an obnoxious ministry, the Catholics, in their dislike to
it, mingle nothing offensive against him;—in this they
shew their good sense—a lord lieutenant of Ireland has.
now no more to do with the measures of gdvernmehty
than the postman with the incendiary letter he is the bearer
of;—he is a mere chair of state, and has little more real
power than a village magistrate, or parish constable : all he
has to do is to fall in with the temper of the people, and
keep them in good humour if he can.—The Duke possesses
the indispensable qualification in a very eminent degree,
and isj by a bottle at the least, the best lord lieutenant that
has been in this country foi" half a century:—he has taken
several excursions to the country parts of the kingdom^
where he is as famous for his conviviality as his high rank;-*he is what is called a five-bottle man, and after supper

53
drinks grog and smokes tobacco like a West InjHa planter.~
Many stories are told of him, the trutfy or falsehood of
which J have no means of ascertaining. I select one without
vouching for its authenticity :-*~he was spending a few day§ $t
a. gentleman's house in the south of Ireland ;•—there was
a good deal of other company, all great topers, and invited
for that reason ;—they were milksops, however, compared
to his excellency, who, having soon laid them under the
table, was reduced to the unpleasant alternative of either
dririking by himself, or not drinking at all.—In this melancholy predicament, his host dispatched a messenger for a
young curate of good family, in high estimation for the
strength of his head, who lived a few miles distant;—he
begged of him, for the love of the Lord, the credit of
the county, and the honour of his country, to come
to him immediately, and strive to keep corhpany with
his excellency .—-The clerical Bacchus did not refuse so
agreeable a summons, mi next day was seated at table
opposite the vice-regal one :—after the rest of the party
were dispersed or fallen, the two champions were left
alone.---*' This is poor pitiful work, your grace," said the
Chimte J f ' the wine is getting cold on my stomach; what
do you tJynk of a bumper of brandy ?"-—His grace had
no objection to so spirited a proposition, and two large
glasses were instantly § wallowed—two others were as
instantly filled up ; Mr..——— drank a part of his, but
coiuld proceed no further; his jaw became fixed, and he
rolled motionless on the floor :~-the Duke coolly finished
his ovmglass* and* smiling on hi$ prostrate antagonist,
talked steadily to his ehamber.™Next day he drank his
health by the ti#e of Dean—had he overcome the Duke, I
suppose he would have been a Bishop. This method of
drinking Mmself into the hearts q£ the Irish, is, however, not
original with his gmce; the Duke of Rutland silenced'

54
opposition in a similar manner ; but unfortunately did not
live to enjoy the fruits of his labour ; he fell a martyr
to his exertions for his country, and died of a fever, brought
on by carousing and hard drinking:-—in his cups he had
a good-najured propensity to making knights. As respectable men generally declined his favours, they were
lavished on people of a different description, and many
of his knights still sell soap and tobacco, noggins of whisky,
and farthing candles, in different parts of the kingdom.
These poor knights have long been a subject of merriment
in Ireland—ridiculed and jee,red at by the men, and not
much thought of by the women,
'f Things that love night,"
<f
Love not such Knights as these."
The Duke of Rutland possessed all the munificence of
his noble sire; and, with all his faults, was the phoenix of
modern Lord Lieutenants. I have looked into the history
of several, but find nothing worth recording-^the most of
them were grave and formal courtiers, wlio wore bag-wigs
and swords, turned out their toes, danced minuets, arid
laughed as seldom as they thought.—Wit does not seem in-rs
digerious in the castle of Dublin, more than in the palace;
of St. James's.—I suspect there is something in the air of
courts unfriendly to it; as the air of this country is said to
be to venomous animals, and that wit can no more thrive in
the one, than serpents in the other. There is no rule without an exception, however ; and 1 just now recollect a very
particular one. The Earl of Chesterfield was a scholar,
and a man of wit, as well as an elegant courtier ;—his government of this country proves him not only a man of an
enlightened understanding,,but of the most benevolent dispositions :--rhe came over in the year 1745, a period remark-

55
able for the rebellion which ragedi in Scotland, and made it
necessary to have an able and prudent Statesman at the
head of affairs in Ireland. By the wisdom and lenity of his
measures, the Catholics remained perfectly quiet; before
his arrival, those in power had shut up their chapels in
Dublin, and their priests were commanded to leave the kingdom by proclamation.
These severities were offensive to
lord Chesterfield; convinced that harsh treatment alienates
the heart, but that gentle usage inspires confidence, and
gains the affections, he permitted them the undisturbed exercise of their religion; to accusations to their prejudice,
resulting from dislike, he paid no regard—rumours of plots
and insurrections were listened to by him with calm indifference.—One morning prior to the battle of Culloden, Mr.
Gardiner, the vice treasurer, abruptly entered his bed chainber with tidings that the papists were rising—" Rising." said
his lordship, looking on his watch, "it is time for every honest
man to rise; it is past nine o'clock, and I will rise myself..
Lord Chesterfield, the day he embarked for England, was
followed to the shore by the prayers and good wishes of a
crowd of attending spectators;-—and to perpetuate his virtues
ana the gratitude of the nation, his bust was placed in the
Castle of Dublin, at the public expense. Lord Carteret,
Who governed Ireland for several years, was likewise a man
of knowledge and a scholar;—in 1729 he issued a proclamation for apprehending the author of Draper's letters—^Swift
afterwards expostulated with his excellency on the propriety
of this proclamation; when lord Carteret, with classic elegance, thus replied--*-" Res dura, et regni novitas, me talia
cogunt moliri."
Swift, prior to this interview, wrote on a pane of the win*
dow of the audience chamber in the Castle,
My very good Lord, tis a very hard task,
That I should wait here who have nothing to ask.

56
The Lord Lieutenant wrote underneath.
My very good dean, there is none who come here
But have something to ask, or something to fear.
Swift at that time was violently in opposition; under the
simile of the legion club, he thus describes the first session
of the Irish parliament, held in the late parliament-house.
College Green.
Not a stone's throw from the College,
Half the globe, from sense and knowledge,
Near the Church—you know the rest $
Making good my grandame's jest
Out they flew with horrid squall,
Beloved hy few, accurs'd by all.
We never know the value of any thing, however, till w£
have lost it; the people of Dublin, who thought very little
of their parliament when they had it, are now extremely
clamorous to have it back again: it only loaded their shoulders, but the United parliament, they swear, breaks their
backs with the weight of its burdens—whether with or
without reason, they are at present in a state of great fermentations—the storm which lately raised the billows of the
Thames, did not much exceed that which now agitates the
Liffey. It is not here, however, on account of a speculative
question but one or paramount consideration—the heavy
taxes laid on at the close of the last session of parliament—-*
they are principally additional duties on wine, and a considerable augmentation of the hearth and window tax—as
they have retrospective power, they are reprobated not only
as oppressive but unjust, not only as taxation but robbery:—several persons have refused paying them, and vestries are
.summoned in many parishes, to arrange the most effectual

57
means of opposing their operation. This is a very unequal
struggle, and it is not necessary to be a prophet to foretel
the event-—the government will conquer, and the vestries
will yield \ the inhabitants of Dublin may give their choler
vent in words, but they must end where they ought to have
begun—by opening their purses.—Mr. Foster, Chancellor
of the Exchequer for Ireland, is considered the author of
these obnoxious regulations—he is the universal subject of
conversation and——benediction—
" The blessings
of the evil one, which are curses, are upon him."
-Hfe
is placarded and caricatured in print shops \ and the fancy
of Dublin displays itself in as many grotesque delineations
as that of London on similar occasions. I meet with him
as I walk along on old walls and gateways; sometimes hanging, and sometimes roasting ; and lest it should be supposed
it was temporal suffering only, some kind-hearted commentator on this flaming text, writes underneath, in large characters, D — n to Foster for ever.-^-Popular commotion is
like the hysterics y one person is affected, and thousands
take it by imitation.—The (Common council of Dublin has
not escaped this wide-spreading contagion: —at a turbulent
meeting which took place a few days ago, his picture, which
had been put up in the hall for his opposition to the Union,
was ordered to be taken down—a member who did not
think this mark of contumely sufficient, proposed it should
receive a kick from each person in its journey to the lumber
room—another greater genius said, it should be kicked by
every man in the nation. This playing at foot-ball with
pictures, is a harmless way of displaying resentment, and
though not so well at present, is no bad amusement for cold
weather 5 it would shew the world likewise; that the common council of Dublin does not want for understanding.
Dublin, however, must be allowed to be at present in a distressed situation 5 several thousand manufacturers are out of

58
employment; and bankruptcies are so numerous, that credit is almost at a stand.—Some of these evils, doubtless, are
occasioned by the union.—The talent and integrity of the
Irish parliament, can hardly, I believe, be under-rated) but
frugality was not among its faults;—it was bribed liberally,
but it spent freely;—^-its patriotism could never, I fear, much
benefit the city of Dublin, but its money did.—Three hundred Bacchanals, whose sun daily set in claret—spending six
months every year with their wives and children in Dublin,
must have been of infinite service 5 and their loss would for
a time be severely felt.
-Something must likewise be
attributed to the improvident disposition of the Dublin
merchants, and shop-keepers, who live in great luxury and
profusion—who too often adapt their expenditure to their
highest income, and^lay up nothing in a year of plenty, for
a year of famine 5—but the effect of both these causes would
Jiave been transient; nor would the taxes have been severely
felt, but for the almost universal stagnation of trade, occasioned by the present perplexed and complicated state of
commerce in Europe.—The people of Dublin, however,
whose vanity has been wounded still more than their interest
injured by the union, persist in attributing to it all their
misfortunes ; and in private company, as well as at public
meetings, vent their fury on it, and its infamous authors, as
they term them,—At the common council just mentioned, an
orator exultingly asked, where was Lord Clare now—where
was Marquis Cornwall is—where was Mr. Pitt—nobody
answeredhim, nor did he answer himself; but as he pronounced them unworthy of life, and roundly asserted that their
deaths was God's judgment upon them, for the murder of the
immaculate Irish parliament, it is to be supposed he meant
they had taken the broad road of destruction, rather than the
narrow path of life.—Mr, Pitt, though not much a fighter
himself, was the cause of fighting enough in others—he had

59
lived in ablaze; and fire, perhaps, this orator thought, was his
natural element.—A certain Colonel, to commemorate the
peace of Ryswick, let off some fire-works, which were greatly
admired.—Being in company a fewTdays afterwards, the conversation turned on the monument just erected in W e s t m i n ster Abbey, to Pitrcell the celebrated musician;-—the colonel
particularly admired the beauty of the inscription, " He is
gone to that place where only his own harmony can be exceeded. " — " Lord, Colonel," saida lady who was present, " t h e
same tfeing may be said at your own death of you.—-He is
gone to that place where only his own fire-works can be
exceeded."
In genera!^ howevei*, the common council of Dublin is on
the side of government; it is mostly, or I believe entirely,
composed of protestants ;—- protestant and loyalist are in this
country synonymous terms.—Independent of the natural
prejudice which attaches him to England, his own safety and
supremacy depends, he thinks, on the connexion $ nothing,
therefore, but some grand question which at once wounds his
prejudices, and attacks his interest, rouses him to opposition,
nor does it ever last long.
" He carries anger as the flint bears fire ;
Which, much enforced, shews a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again."
There are few good speakers in the common council of
Dublin—it is the collusion of opinions only which emits
eloquence, and there can be little argument where almost all
are of one mind:—several of the members, however, express
themselves with fluency ; and one of them with m©re vehemence and force than is usual among English orators—his
name is Gifford, well known in this city by his high protestant ascendency principles, and violent and indecorous
invectives against the Catholics:—-his conduct has been stig-

60
snatized ail the Consequence of sordid. considerations only}
he is called a tool of governmerit, qr, in iQcal phrase-i~a
eastlehack.—IWfr, Grattan, in his strong and sarcastic Ian*
guage, thus characterized him:—-In the city a fire brand* in
the court a bully, in the field a coward; and who is only in*dured by the party to which he belongs, because he doe$
those vile acts which the less vile refuse to execute.-r-But
We must allow for exaggeration in an orator as well as in %
poet.—-Mr. Gifford, I am told, is an amiable man in private
life; probably not blind to his own interest; a regard to that
may influence his public conduct as it does most other men'??
—but though interest does something, principle, perhaps
prejudice, does more.-—A thousand a year may make him
speak more violently against the catholics ; but ten thousand
a year probably would not bribe him to desert the protectant
£ause.-*—-^-Government either is, or affects to be, alarmed
£t the irritation of the public mind—some movements have
been observed among the military, and private orders, it is
said> have been given to the yeomanry to hold themselves in
yeadihess^-^gossipping people, frdm the love of the marvel-*
lous, recount frightful tales of nocturnal meetings and large
assemblies of men, that have no existence but in their own
imaginations—-timbrous ones frighten themselves and
endeavour to frighten others, with ridiculous accounts of
placards that are every night thrown into the castle yard,
inscribed, Catholic emancipation---repeal of the union^-?-or
rebellion—and hold these boyish tricks decisive evidence of
an approaching insurrection; as if when men are knaves
enough to rebel, they would be fools enough to tell the
world of it before hand.—These poor hen-rhearted creatures
who go about croaking about plots,* and pikes, and the
church, and papists, like East^cheap fishmongers after the
city was burnt, are not all old women as one should suppose $
some of them are men of good education, little use as they

61
sSfefia to have inade of it.—In reality, there -h no danger
either of rebellion or insurrection.-—Government knows fc,
and every rational nian who thinks for a moment must know
it likewise : the protestant will not rebel surely; no fears
ate fcatertaihed of him 5 nor will the Catholic-—the memory
of the late rebellion is too recent—-his sufferings are too
fresh] his wounds are too green;—he may harangue, he may
threaten, he rrray revile. Like Hamlet, he may speak
daggers, but he will Use none.—A suppressed rebellion
(as it is proverbially expressed) strengthens government
---it cuts off the active and ambitious, it frightens the
timorou , it sickens the humane, and for a time lays the
feojple prostrate at the feet of governments—Reconciled to
lessetevil^ bythe recotlectiofi of greater, legal subjection, or
even oppression, is scarcely felt by those who have just
escaped from the insolence of military dominion ;—the fury
of lawless and unbridled will. Independent of all personal
consideratibnsj the horrors of the late rebellion must operate
oft the heart of every humane and thinking man ; and deter
him fromrashly venturing on another.—Was I a subject of
Turkey, I would live contented under its government rather
than run the risk of making it better by a rebellion, of even
half its tetrors.—I happened, being then a very young man, to
be in this town at the period of its breaking out 5 and was I
id liVe to patriarchal age, I shall not forget the impression it
inade on me; nor the gloomy and sepulchral appearance
Publin presented— when all business and pleasure were
suspended, when every man was a tyrant or a slave 3 a rebel
that was suspected, a spy that suspected,, or an executioner
that punished; when malice ahd hatred, terror an^ doubfy
fear and distrust, were on every face* and all the tender phari*
ties of nature withered and perished before th§ poisoned
breath of party ; which made no allowance for £rfor, had nd
recollection of ftfenidshi^ felt no jgratStuie for-kl*idaess>

62
no sympathy for age, sex, sickness or sorrow—when almost
every house was a barrack, every public building a prison,
and every street a golgotha, or a shambles, on the lamp posts
of which some wretched fellow creature was daily suspende d ; who, while his limbs quivered in the agonies of death,
was the subject of brutaljoke and unfeeling exultation.—Itis
some faint pleasure, however, to remember.---though there is
so much to lament and reprobate, there is something likewise
to admire,—Gentleness, mutual forbearance, and compassion,
were ' consumed in the hot caldron of discord, so fatally
working; but magnanimity, unshaken fortitude, and contempt of death, were still to be found; in the contemplation
of which we may strive to lose the recollection of the savage
excesses, and mid-night murders, of the rebels ; the vindictive and unrelenting vengeance, the floggings and torturings
of the opposite side ; as the Roman senate, when Terentius
Varropresented himself before it, after the fatal battle of Cannase, overlooked his pride, his errors, andhis obstmancy, on account of his unsubdued and inflexible spirit—they thanked
him for the fortitude he had displayed in his misfortunes, for
the confidence with which he still hoped for success—
*5 Quia de Respublica non desperasset" were their remarkable words.—The Jrish parliament, in the midst of universal
conflagration, continued its sittings undaunted \ it is likewise
to the praise of this assembly, it rejected the proposition of
some of its violent members, to order the prisoners to military tribunals, and instant execution.—These unfortunate
men, however, did not meet death with less "certainty, though
more slowly on that account: almost universally they met it
with a courage which was never excelled.—The two Sheares
w.er.e, perhaps, the only exception; and as they were brothers,
had an aged mother, and the eldest a wife and several .children, a deep sense of their wretched situation was natural and
excusable—when, the jury brought in the fatal verdict^
they burst into tears, and clasped each other in their arms^

6$

presenting a scene of distress, which subdued even.the
court itself, and melted hearts steeled by habit and prejudice
against them. Mr. Q'Byrne met death not only with composure but cheerfulness—he was confined in the same cell
with Mr. Oliver Bond^—a gentleman, unaccustomed to such
scenes, passed the night previous to his execution along with
him—he declares, that on his entrance into the prison, the
clanking of chains, the brutal and ferocious aspect of the
keepers, the heavy and grating sound of the doors as the
locks were opened, and the bolts slowly withdrawn ; the
gloomy and forlorn appearance of every thing around, so
disordered his frame, that his teeth chattered, his knees
bent under him, and his hair literally stood an end.—Mr.
O'Byrne during the night conversed with the utmost gaiety
and indifference—he took a hearty breakfast, and eat a
couple of eggs-^-when summoned to execution, he did not
by the least variation of voice or countenance, display even
a transient uneasiness: he shook Mr. Bond affectionately by
the hand, saying, " God Almighty bless you—you have but a
day or two longer, and then your sufferings will be over as
mine nearly are."—It is reported, so complete was his selfpossession, that in passing to the scaffold by the window of
an apartment where Mrs. Bond was waiting to see her
husband, he stooped so low as not to be seen by her, lest he
should alarm her feelings, at that moment trembling for all
she held dear.—-Though considerably prior to the period I
am writing of, I shall mention the fate of/ another of these
unfortunate sons of rebellion; on account of the firmnesshe displayed.—-He was a clergyman of the name of Jackson
—he was tried and found guilty, but contrived to escape the
penalties of the law, by swallowing a large dose of arsenic—
the intrepidity with which he bore the excruciating pains
of that poison was remarkable.—A motion in arrest of
judgment was made—-He concealed the pangs he was suf-

64
Bering so well, that when he was called upon to know what
he had to say, why sentence should not pass upon him,
though at the time actually unable to speak, with a smiling
air he bowed and pointed to his counsel:—his fortitude did
not fail him to the last, for it was scarcely suspected that
he was ill, until he fell down in the agonies of death, in the
midst of his counsel's argument.—The following anecdote
is related of him in a work lately published by Dr. Mc
Nevin—while he was preparing for his trial, and was fully
apprised of what would be its result, a friend was, by the kindness of the gaoler, permittee! to remain with him until a very
late hour at night on business.—After the consultation had
Winded, Mr. Jackson accompanied his friend to the outer
dobr of the prison, which was locked, the key remaining in
the door, and the keeper in a very profound sleep, probably
oppressed with wine.—There could have been no difficulty
in his escaping, - even subsequent to the departure of his
friend, and without his consent;—but he adopted a different
conduct, he locked the door after his guest, awoke the
keeper, gave! him the key, and retired to his apartment.—
This is recorded by Dr. Mc Nevin to prove he had a high
sense of honour;—-the honour which remains to be hanged,
When by opening a door escape is certain, appears to me
Romantic and unnatural 5 nor do I conceive such a feeling
would operate,in such a situation, upon any human being.—
JMr. Jackson was probably bewildered and confused by the
unexpectedness of the occurrence; and, stupified and infatuated, had not presence of mind to seize the critical moment
of escaping, from death, though afterwards he had fortitude to
meet it undaunted,—But of all the victims of this unfortunate
rebellion, Lprd; Edward Fitzgerald was the most generally
deplored.-*—A warrant had been issued against him, but he
escaped, and remained undiscovered upwards of two months^
in tfye city of Dublin: he was discovered, however, on-the,

6'5

nineteenth of May, at the house of one Murphy, a dealer in
feathers, who resided near St. James's ^gate. On the police
officers entering the room, the unhappy nobleman made a
desperate defence: though he had no other weapon than a
dagger, he wounded two of the principal of them; Mr. Justice Swan and Captain Ryan;—the latter died of his wounds
shortly afterwards, and the former still feels, at intervals, the
effects of his. Lord Edward himself expired in great agony
on the. third of the following month, from the effects of this
furious conflict, as he had been wounded in the shoulder,
by the shot of a pistol from Major Sirr. Lord Edward who
was brother to the Duke of Leinster, and married to a
French lady, supposed to be a natural daughter of the late
puke of Orleans, was eminently qualified for the direction
of revolutionary commotion; being a 'man of daring courage, a most active spirit, and of a family highly respected,
for its ancient greatness, by the lower classes of the Irish.-—
He had served in his Majesty's army, where he had been
highly esteemed for his courage and military conduct, his honour, humanity, and candour. Mr. Cobbett, as is well known,
was serjeant-major of the regiment to which his lordship
belonged:---in a work lately published, he gives him the character of being a young man of the most perfect integrity.
Mr. Cobbett does not do more honour to Lord Edward, than
he does to himself, by this manly tribute of respect to
the memory of a man, who did not become a rebel from self^ish or ambitious motives, but a warm, though mistaken zeal
for the good of his country, and of human kind.—Whatever
maybe said of the other conspirators,
" H^ only, in a general honest thought,
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixt in him, that nature might stand up,
And say to all the world,c This was a mm I ! "

€$

CHAP. VIII.

DUBLIN,

I T has been often a subject of wonder, that in a city of
such extent as Dublin, there should be so few places of
public amusement:—but one theatre, not very large, nor
in general well-filled: that it is not well filled, however,
is not want of taste in the public, but want of good conduct in the managers. Monopoly is unfavourable to
exertion, and where there is only one Theatre, or one
manufacture, the article is seldom good: The management
of the Dublin Theatre has been long complained of,—
the managers were generally players;—players are seldom
men of business in any country, as seldom, perhaps, in
this, as any other one./ Mr. Daly, for many years the
potentate of Crow street, was an admirable man of pleasure, but an indifferent actor: he performed the lover
both on and off the Stage; on it with little applause-rbut off it with the greatest:—he always rehearsed with the
handsomest actresses, and acquitted himself (it is reported)
to the perfect satisfaction of these consummate judges:—these
rehearsals, however, were more agreeable than profitable •
he was obliged to resign his sceptre, to extricate himself
from his involvements ; and, like the Mark Antony he had
often mimicked, lost his little world for hue. Mr. Frederick Jones succeeded him, and I believe hasriotsucceeded
.much better 3—he was a man of pleasure also, but whether
Venus or Bacchus was his favourite divinity, I have never
learned;— instructed by the fate of his predecessor, he

67
probably avoided the former, and so got ship-wrecked on
the latter.
" Incidit in Scyllam cupiens evitare Charybdem,"
Uiitil lately Mr. Holman was acting manager—he is a
gentleman and a good player; (and, what players either good
or bad seldom are,) a man of sen^e and education likewise :
he was educated at Oxford, and intended for the church. In
early youth, captivated with its beauty at a distance, and ignorant of the snake that lurked in the grass, he plunged
into the wilderness of a theatre, and forsook the sober consideration and steady lustre of a respectable profession, for the
ephemeral reputation and transient blaze of a player's life.
Mr. Holman is likewise an author, and has written a
comedy of no inconsiderable merit.—Notwithstanding these
advantages, he was far from giving satisfaction in the discharge of his office; and lately relinquished his situation
in favour of a Mr. Crampton, a gentleman distinguished as
a private actor at the Kilkenny Theatre. Mr. Crampton
is only now in the commencement of his reign, and, as is
common at the commencement of all reigns, great things
are expected of him:—he has promised much; (as is likewise common;) I hope he will keep his word,—The golden
age of Thespis will, I hope, be restored, for the sake of the
poor actors, who have hitherto lived under a brazen, or at
the best a silver one ;—-literally they have been half starved 5
but I trust this foul stain will soon be removed, and that
these mimic Kings and Queens, and Princesses, " these
walking shadows," '* these poor players" who fume and strut
their hour upon the stage," will be able to purchase victuals,
to fill up the folds of their robes, and give them the look of
" true counterfeits."—I have been at two or three plays since
the representation of the Free Knights,—the house was

68
badly filled every night.—Crow-street is somewhat larger
than the Hay-market Theatre, and bears a strong resemblance to it j—-the actors, in general, are not above mediocrity \ nor are they below it:—with the exception of a few5
they are equal, I think, to the present Covent Garden Company.—I wished to see them in genteel comedy, and went
to the Belles Stratagem—the part of Flutter was done by
Mr. Lewis, son of the late performer of that name ; he does
not possess all the abilities of his father, but he does much of
his vivacity, and all his restless and fidgety manner on the
stage,—I would advise him to reform that latter part; if he
cannot imitate his father's beauties, he should not copy his
defects.—The Doricourt of Mr. Dunn, was not worse, perhaps^
than the Doricourt of any performer now on the London
boards \ but it did not come up to my conception of the part.
It is a difficult matter for players, little accustomed in early
life to the society of gentleman, to assume their manners
and appearance ; they almost always fail, therefore, and substitute the tricks of a fop, or a petit maitre, in their room.
Mr. Fulham in old Hardy, made me laugh heartily—his
humour was chaste and correct; he is no caricaturist, like
Munden; who, in the same part, I am sure, would have disgusted by Lis vulgar farce and extravagant mummery.—I do
not deny that this gentleman has merit as a comic actor—it
is not to his acting, I object, but the excess of it;—above all,
I object to his abominable contorsions of countenance,
which make acting contemptible, and the human face
hideous.—J am told he never allows any of his family to go
to the theatre the night he performs: he has reason—no
man could command the respect of his children, if they
saw him make such a fool of himself. The actresses are still
better than the actors—Miss Walstein is a charming performer—herLetitia Hardy was an admirable piece of
actings-she had all the airy graces, the playful ele-

69
gance of the original—she was really a syren, who
sung and danced men out of their senses.—She would
be a great acquisition to the London stage; where there is
no good actress in this description of parts, now that Miss
Duncan appears so seldom ; and over Miss Duncan she has
the advantage of greater youth, and greater beauty. Miss
Walstein, I believe, plays tragedy likewise; -and her countenance is undoubtedly cast in a tragic mould; a witty writer
objects to her smile in comedy, which he terms a sepulchral one, and compares to plating on a coffins—he accuses
her of having a great deal of vanity, which he attributes to
the success she had in the character in which I had the good
fortune to see her. I wish, (he proceeds to say) she could
get some of her male acquaintance to translate for her use,
this excellent precept of Horace;
<e

Memento—servare mentem,
" Ab insolenti temperatam
" Lcetitid:*
Miss Smith I have again seen, for the third time; and am
more and more confirmed in the opinion I first formed of her;
she is a great tragic actress; such as Mrs. Siddbns perhaps
was, but is no longer.—-When Mr, Clifford and his committee undertook to correct the abuses of Covent Garden, I
wonder they never asked the reason of her exclusion from
it; —she would be an acquisition, I will venture to assert, to
it, or to any theatre in the universe. There may be said, at
present, to be no tragic actress at Covent Garden, Mrs. Siddons is no longer one; her powers are consumed, and her
talents decayed, from the all-powerful hand of time; which
overturns palaces and temples, as well as human intellect,
and has no more mercy on empires than actresses.^—No person, I will venture to assert, could see Mrs. Siddons with
pleasure now, who saw her for the first time;—she please*

70
from the force of habit only; which reconciles us to the
most nauseous things, and attaches us to ugliness, because
when we knew it first it was beauty:—This force of habit
is of service to some of her near relations, as well as
to herself, t i k e old Transfer; in the novel of Zeluco, a
London audience find nothing agrees with them so well as
what they are accustomed to j-—could any thing else render
tolerable a large unwieldy woman, Upwards of sixty years of
age, counterfeiting the appearance, and mimicking the
light and airy tread of lovely and fascinating youth.—Could
she even be endured with her face to the audience? must not
the delusion vanish the moment she turns her back? yet the
fcack is not the least prominent part of Mrs. Siddohs, and
her friends .may argue, with much plausibility, she is still a
great actress at bottom;—fcven her face, though so generally
admired, never pleased me—it is cast in too antique a
mould—it does not show to advantage on a modern stage,
or a woman's shoulders, though it might in front of a Romaiv
Legion.
To a lover of the drama, Crow-street has one great advantage over Covent-Garden—-which, perhaps, more than compensates for the greater ihagnificehce and decorations of the
latter—there is much more variety—the appetite is not pair
led with disgusting repetition—a new piece seldom runs
longer than a few nights, and pantomimes are rarely brought
forward.—^In Covent-Garden, last winter, that most
intolerably vile, of this vile tribe, Harlequin Pedlar, wa#
performed every night for six weeks together.—1 wonder
what an enlightened foreigner would think, or say, of the
English nation, if he judged it by its amusements?—-he could
not think us philosophers, and his politeness would hot allow
him to say, he found us ideots.—Another advantage which
the Dublin theatre has, is its size :—the immense builds
irigs, Tvhieh the avarice of London managers lias induced

71
them to raise, is as unfavourable, to comfort as to natural
acting;—they are too large either for hearing or seeing
distinctly;—the actor must raise his voice, and distort his
countenance, and action, to be seen or heard at any distance : his picture, like the scenes, must be larger than the
life,, or it will not be visible—if he wants to express surprize, a start will not suffice; he must Jump two paces back,
like a fencing master: if he wishes to display horror, he
must throw his face out of all human likeness-—if he
speaks in anger, it must be in thunder \ and even love, and
sorrow, must be unheard, or delivered on the key of rage:—
the consequence of this is, that the actor is deteriorated—his attention is diverted from his part to his person, from
the natural display of passion, to the artificial display of
action—like a lady at court in her long train and hoop, or,
rather, like the felons* dance in the Beggars Opera, the
shackles he wears are equally destructive to activity and
grace. Nor is the effect it has had on the audience less
considerable ; the, taste of the public is vitiated—unable
to enjoy the wholesome food of the legitimate drama, they
have lost, with the small houses of former times, all relish
for the plays of better days: Mr. Kemble himself is no
mean sufferer by this.—I will venture to assert, he never
was half so rapturously applauded, as the little fairy Dewdrop in the pantomime I have just mentioned.—He was
obliged to yield even to more despicable rivals—the flutes
and clarionets of his own theatre.—I saw him one night last
winter in Macbeth—he makes his first appearance, as is
generally known, at the head of his army, accompanied
by Banquo, and the music playing a march.—As he
was beginning to speak, a gentleman near me damned his
noisy tongue for putting a stop to that beautiful Scotch tune
he had been listening to.—I observed, indeed, a very general impatience that rjight, to have both him arid Mrs, Siddons

72
off the stage, in order to have the witches on, whose singing, and grotesque appearance, seemed to delight the house
prodigiously,—In truth, we seem fast approaching to the
state of ancient Rome, when actors wore masks, and used
speaking-trumpets—-when spectacle, and pantomime, were
alone considered, and the public sat wKble nights looking
at them.—This was an important period in the Roman
history, and well deserves the attention of every thinking
man—dramatic representations, of little moment in themselves, are of consequence, as they denote the state of the
public mind.—--Rome, with her taste for the ancient drama,
lost her ancient virtues likewise ;—a nation, which loses its
virtues, soonN loses its freedom j~-she was destroyed by
luxury first, and then by the enemy.—The period of pantomime was the period of her fall.
I forgot to mention that I visited this morning the exhibition of paintings, lately opened for the benefit of the
distressed manufacturers—the price of admission was a
shilling; and I met with a number of well-dressed persons,
of both sexes,—Though a few capital pictures by some
eminent artists have been exhibited, the arts still appear
in their infancy in this country.—Comerford, as a miniature
painter, is in high repute both here and in London; and an
artist of the name of Dunn, who is at present in London,
has made veiy near approaches to the firm and characteristic
style of the former, with a much greater delicacy of pencil,—Mr. Dunn, I understand, is at present employed in
painting the likeness of her royal highness the Princess
Charlotte of Wales,—r-Cummiri is esteemed an excellent
portrait painter, and the landscapes of Gabrielli, an Italian
artist, are remarkably fine; possessing all that richness and
glow of tint, in his skies and distances, so much admired
in the works of Claude Lorrain, and many of his countrymen,— Several of the portraits appeared to me to possess

73
great excellence, but that of Sir Henry Jebb (a celebrated
accoucher) by Robinson, an artist now no more, particularly attracted my observation.-—The impression it made
upon me, was not, however, so much occasioned by its merits,
though the face was said to be painted by the late G. Romney,
as by a witty epigram I met with, on his being knighted by
the late Duke of Rutland—which, if I recollect right, is as,
follows :
« You made Sir Henry Jebb a knight,
He should have been a Lord by right -,
And then the ladies' cry might be,
Oh ! Lord, good Lord, deliver me."
These exhibitions, which heretofore, as I am informed,
were supported by the casual contributions of individual artists, have lately been put on a more permanent, footing;
by the establishment of a society of artists, for the purpose
of promoting the study of this delightful art,-*--but what may
be its final success time only ©an discover.

CHAP. IX.

JDUBLIN,

I AM. come here at an unlucky period—visiting Dublin,
in August, is as bad as going to the country at Christmas—
the town is as bare of company now, as the trees are then
of leaves, or the earth of verdure.-—Fashion has prodigious influence in this metropolis ; and the gentry, merchants,
and tradesmen, think it incumbent on them to pass the

n
summer out of town, because the fashionables of London
go at that season to watering places.
-Notwithstanding
the gaiety of Dublin, 1 do not think a stranger would find it
a pleasant residence, after its novelty had subsided ;-r-there
is, no doubt, rnuch hospitality, and, on slightintroduction, he
may get many dinners y—but as ostentation mingles in its
full proportion with kindness of heart, in these invitations,
this hospitality is rather a holiday suit, than a plain jacket;
it is drawn forth on state occasions, but is too costly for
every day's wear.—The usages of Dublin make it necessary
to give dinners, often beyond the income of the entertainer $
who, in his ordinary mode of living, probably pays the penalty of his occasional profusion.—He never wishes, therefore, to be taken unawares, or to expose himself to the
chance of being caught at his humble meal of mutton
and whisky punch, by the man who a few days before had
feasted with him on venison and claret;—-a stranger, therefore, does not find his hospitality a resource at the time he
wants it most—in the hour of languor and lassitude, when
it would be so agreeable to have a house to step into on the
footing of unreserved intercourse.
Nor does the public
life perform what the private, denies—the savoir vivre is
but moderately advanced in Dublin—there are none of
those comfortable eating-houses in which London so much
abounds, where one often meets rational and agreeable
society, and has a good dinner at a reasonable price \ without being obliged to swallow a quantity of sloe-juice, which
the courtesy of England denominates wine.—The taverns in
Dublin are either so miserably low, that a respectable
person cannot be seen going into them, or are equally extravagant with the most expensive London ones—the lodging »houses, with some exceptions, and I have been lucky
enough to get into one, are liable to the same objection-—
they are either barracks, which the mop seems never to have

75
tisited, or beyond all reason extravagant. In all these5 and
various other conveniences, London abounds to a degree
that makes it of all other places the most agreeable residence for a man of small fortune—-nor is there, perhaps, a
town in the world, where a man who hangs loosely by society, can glide more gently down the stream of time, or
where, if he cannot greatly enjoy, he can endure life better.
•••-Dublin has another great disadvantage—paradoxical
as it may appear, it is too small for retirement; a stranger
can never long remain so-—curiosity busies itself about his
profession, his fortune, and manner of living, until every
thing about him becomes known: he may be said, therefore,
tobetoonmch on his good behaviour .—This, as faras morality
is concerned, is perhaps an advantage; but in various minor
matters of econohiy it is attended with many evils 3—a mart
Watched by eyes more numerous and wakeful than those of
Argus, can neither eat, drink, nor dress, as he likes—he
cannot live for himself, but the world.—-Places of amusement are not numerous here—until lately there was but
one theatre;—even that resource will not continue many
days longer, as it shortly closes for the summer.—Drinkirig
will then be the only amusement; and it is not half so good
a summer as a winter one. The weather just now is insufferably Warm, and wine is by no means so agreeable a
beverage as Water.—I shall, therefore, leave this in a day or
two, to breathe the cooler air of the Northern mountains,
where excessive heat is as rare as adultery.—*A traveller can
no more quit a town, however, than he can turn off a servant^ without giving it a character,—like an epilogue, after
a new play, it is always expected of him.-—In conformity,
therefore, to immemorial usage, I shall say a few words of
the general state of society and manners in Dublin $
though when I speak, I had better perhaps remain silent;
when I seeni to mdve, I may make little progress j and when

7
&
I flatter myself v/ith giving a group, I may onl
sketch a few individuals.—-There are few residen
nobility in Dublin—Irish Nobility is a sickly and delicat
plant—like the myrtle it does not do, in this northern cli
mate j it thrives only in the sun-shine of court favour—-it
is not a noun-substantive kind of greatness; it cannot stand
by itself; it leans for support on the minister, who often
finds the propping up of this tender vine an embarrassing
and expensive species of gardening.—People of large landed
property are equally rare ; these gentry, like swallows, take
an annual flight to England, where they hop about from
London to Weymouth, from Bath to Cheltenham, till their
purses are as empty as their heads, when they return to
wring further sums from the hard hands of their wretched
tenants, who seldom see them but on such occasions.
The learned professions may be therefore said to form the
aristocracy of Dublin—law, physic, and gospel, take the
/lead here, and give the ton in manners, as well as morals
and literature.—-These three professions go hand-in-hand $
though haud passibus sequis; law is always the foremost—a
physician can be but a knight, or at the best, physician to
the Lord-Lieutenant,—a lawyer may be Lord Chancellor,
and rule the Lord-Lieutenant himself:—the wool-sack is
a very comfortable seat, far softer than the bench of a bishop,
and therefore much higher in public estimation.
The Irish bar contains many men of shining abilities;
the eloquence of Mr. Curran is well known and generally
admired; Mr. Bushe, the Solicitor-General, is considered an
able reasoner and sound lawyer ; and Mr. Plunkett, the late
Attorney-General, is an admirable public speaker, either at
the bar or in parliament—This gentleman, however, was
severely reprobated for his conduct on the trial of Mr.
Emmet, for high treason, about seven years ago.—Mr.
Plunkett, who was then only King's Counsel, conducted the

n
prosecution against this unfortunate young man, with a
rancour and virulence which shocked and surprised every
person acquainted with his obligations to his father and
family.—Mr. Plunkett's reasons fortius conduct have never
been made known, though it injured him very much in public
estimation. Crown lawyers have at all times been of the bloodhound tribe ; they seldom loose scent of their prey, either
from considerations of gratitude or humanity ; we have a
striking instance of this in the prosecution of Lord Essex,
on whom the celebrated Bacon, then Attorney-General, exhausted every opprobious term in the English language,
though this amiable nobleman had been his greatest benefactor and constant and unalterable friend.—The style of the
Irish bar is different from the English—it is less solemn
and decorous, but more lively and animated, more glowing
and figurative, more witty and sarcastic—it reasons
less, it instructs less, it convinces less, but it amuses
more; it is more ornamented, more dramatic j it rises
to the sublime, it sinks to the humourous, it attempts
the pathetic—but in all this there is too much the
tricks of a juggler. I dont say that an Irish advocate
thinks less of his client than an English one, but he appears
to think less j he appears to think most of himself-—of his
own reputation, of the approbation of his brethren, the applause of the spectators, and the admiration of the Court.
-——I dare say I should be most gratified by specimens of
eloquence taken at the Irish bar, but was either my life or
fortune at stake, I should like to be defended—at an
English one.
In society the Irish lawyer is equally amusing ; there is a
mixture of gentlemanly manners and professional acuteness;
of gay repartee and classic allusion which makes him
often an instructive^ arid always an agreeable companion.—
Yet even 4iere it is easy to remark the traces of the defects

78
I have mentioned—a rage to shine, and disposition to
dazzle—his wit cloys by .repetition, and his allusions are
often forced, and far-fetched—difficultly found, and not
worth the trouble of seeking :—he is too fond of antithesis,
likewise, and says smart, rather than sensible things; specious rather than solid things.—This disposition, however,
to be witty rather than wise, is not confined to the gentlemen of the bar, but is universal through the city—in
every party I have been in, talkers were many, and listeners
were few; and wit, or what was meant to be such, was bandied about with the bottle, or the cards.—As many of these
would-be-wits had little pretensions to it, we had often
laugh, when there was no joke, and much merriment when
there was little reason for it.—They are great punners, and,
to do them justice, I heard some excellent ones.—I would recommend the editor of the Morning Post, who seems so
partial to this species of humour, to import a quantity for
the use of his paper, as the stock on hand is of the vilest
kind.—I am not clear, however, but this constant effo
$fter wit, produces beneficial effects in Dublin society—it
animates the man and sharpens his faculties, and makes him
alive to the approbation of those about him;—he is the complete reverse, therefore, of the lazy, lounging, man of
fashion, in London ; who holds it the essence of ton to be
haughty, silent, supercilious, and indifferent; who, unlike
Falstaff, is not only not witty himself, but a damper of it
in others—who sits by the side of genius without a wish
to be instructed by it, by the side of venerable old age, without a desire to contribute to its comforts, and by the side of
beauty, which he surveys with the scrutinizing look of a
jockey at a horsehair, without the smallest effort to make
himself agreeable.
The lower classes of the inhabitants of this city hav§
afforded abundant materials to the dramatist, as well as the

7$
tourist-—they are represented as a wrong-headed, and warmhearted, a whimsical and eccentric kind of people ; who
get drunk and make bulls, and who cannot open their
mouths that something funny and witty does not cpme
tumbling out, like pearls, every time she spoke, from the lips
of the fair princess Parizade, in the Arabian Nights Entertainments. I do not deny that there may be some foundation for this character; but if I am to judge from what I
fyave seen myself, it is greatly exaggerated.—A Dublin
black-guard, like a "London one, may sometimes utter a
quaint or witty saying, which the uncouthness of his appearance, and the singularity of his accent, may render
more striking; but I should suppose most of the stories
told of him are without any foundation; and that their authors
give as recollection, what is only invention.
Luxury has made as great progress among people in business
here, as in any other place I ever visited.—-A shop-keeper
gives splendid entertainments, and his wife elegant routs, inx
which her own manner and appearance, that of the females
she invites, and the costliness and embellishments of her
furniture, would bear comparison with persons of a much
higher rank; nor does her husband acquit himself with less
propriety at the foot of his table, or in the drawing-room,
Jn this respect the Dublin shop-keeper has infinite advantage over the London one—in morals he is not, I believe, inferior, but in manners decidedly superior; he is cheerful and
easy, frank, and unembarrassed-—in conversation he is lively
and pleasing—he may not Have much to say, but the manner is excellent; his ideas, from the nature of his profession^
are not numerous; but, like the goods in his shop, he possesses the art of shewing them off to advantage. The universal prevalence of good breeding, among all descriptions
of respectable people in Dublin, must strike the most unobservant spectator-—to assign a plausible reason for it^

80

would not be easy. I would attribute it in a great measure
to vanity; to a slavish imitation, and servile admiration of
fashion and rank, which leads them to adopt their prejudices, to echo their opinions, to copy their manners, and to
boast of their acquaintance. Vanity, indeed, seems the prominent feature of every inhabitant of Dublin-—he is vain
of himself, vain of his city, of its beauty, of the splendour of its public buildings, and of its vast superiority over
London, in this respect. Doubtless, he is deserving of
praise, which he would get more readily, if he did not demand it so imperiously;—the difference between a citizen of
London and Dublin seems to be this—the latter is vain, and
the former is proud;—he has a lofty opinion of his country
and himself; he never dreams that this can be disputed;
and, satisfied with it himself, is indifferent even if it should:
the latter is not so assured of a ready acquiescence to his
claims, either for his city or himself; perhaps he is not so
well assured of them himself; nor if he was, could he exist
so well on his own resources. His advantages, and superiority, must be reflected from the eyes, the tongue, and
consideration of others, to make them truly valuable to
himself. In this observation, however, I do not deny but
I may be refining too much, and that Dublin vanity only
strikes me more, because I am accustomed to it less. In
the account I have just been giving, I beg leave to be understood I only comprise the Protestants; I have not seen a
sufficient number of Catholics to form a decided opinion of
their character; though I have seen enough to be convinced
that there is a considerable difference between them and
Protestants.—In their air and manner, in their ready acqui •
eseence, and smiling civility, I think I perceive the traces
of the thraldom in which they have so long been held;
while in the erect and upright step of the- Protestant, we
recognize the freeman.

81
T h e citizens of Dublin (Catholics I believe as well as
Protestants) are hospitable ; how much of this is benevolence, how much ostentation, is an ungracious point for a
man who has benefited by it to decide; nor does it admit of
easy decision. I should be tempted, however, to give them
credit for a considerable portion of the former; if some
•alloy mixes with the gold ; if the statue is partly brass, and
.partly clayy it is the same, perhaps, with most of our virtues,
and most of our actions.
This hospitality, however, compared to what it was in former times, is much on the
decline :—writers like me, who cheerfully eat their dinners,
and allow them no credit for giving them, may have some
share in this,—but the increasing pressure of the times,
which makes it every year more difficult to support a family,
is probably the great reason:—-along with this, hospitality is
seldom to be met in excess in any town, when it comes to a
certain magnitude, or in any community, at a certain point
of civilization. B u t if hospitality has diminished, charity
remains; were the faults of the inhabitant of Dublin ten
times greater than I have described his foibles, he has
charity enough to cover them a l l ; his foibles he has in
common with others, his charity is peculiarly his own. I
know of no spot in existence, of the size of the city of D u b lin, where there is such unbounded munificence : in London,
no doubt, there are many valuable institutions for the relief
*)f distress,—and God forbid I should undervalue them*—
but still it must be remembered, that much is compulsory,
and not meritorious $ much the mere consequence of boundless wealth—the man who rolls on guineas, may well bastow farthings o n the poor.
But the charity of Dublin is
not strained—it is not founded on acts of Parliament; it is
not weighed and measured by the standard of law ; nor is it
the gilded offering, the filleted and garlanded sacrifice of
wealth.
It gives not on compulsion, it gives not from a
horad.
The waters of the Liffey do not bear, like the
G

82

waves of the Thames, the riches of the two hemispheres—
the inhabitants of its banks have no Eastern mines of gold;
but they have what is better still,—they have humane and
benevolent hearts.
The number of beggars in Dublin is remarked by all travellers, and is said to prove its poverty—Admirable reasbners,
who see nothing but on one side !—Does it not prove its charity likewise ?—There are few beggars in London—what is
the reason—there is little poverty, perhaps, will be the
answer!—Is that so?—is that indeed so?—is there reallylittle
poverty in London ?—Alas! there^ is much; much suffering, much sorrow, much want—in every quarter, in every
lane, and in every street—but there are few beggars—
if there were many they would starve.

CHAP. X.
DROGHEDA.

I Left Dublin at eight this morning in the Drogheda coach;
Itookmyseat the day before—and was desired to be there by
seven precisely : they hoped I would not take it amiss, but
they assured me they would not wait a moment longer for
King George himself.—I was punctual, and came at seven
precisely.—Though they would not wait for King George, they
did for a little\ hunch-backed passenger \ and did not set
off for an hour afterwards.—We were surrounded by a number of beggars—every person, both on and in the coach,
gave them something—-a venerable old fellow, without a
hat^ and with a beard as long as a Jewish Rabbi's, divided it
among the others.-—No doubt he made a fair division, for
we heard no complaints.—The country we drove through
was level and tolerably fertile ; the houses of the peasants

88
ha'd all the external marks of comfort; there were not rrany
gentlemen's seats, but a hjimber of gay little boxes, which
looked like the summer retreats of the tradesmen of Dublin.
We stopped a few moments at Swords, an inconsiderable
place about seven miles from town—I got out to see it
better. 1 was surveying it with more attention than it
deserved^ when a gentleman came up and accosted me by
my name.-—I did not at first recollect him; but when he
&sked me if I had not come over from Holland in the year
17993 on board a transport^ with two wounded officers, I
immediately recognized him;—he was then recovering
from the effects of two dreadful wounds, and was as thin
as a skeleton:—the hospitality of Ireland had now given him
the lookof an Alderman, or a Chur ch~ warden;—no wonder;
therefore, I did not at first recollect him—he was a very
young man then/ and had been newly appointed a captain
in the 17th Foot.—In the battle of the 19th September,
a party which he commanded attacked a French redoubt;
they were -on the point of carrying it, when some confusion
•took place, and several began to run: he was endeavouring to raly them, when he received a shot in the body and
fell, but instantly got up again; his men were still retreating, and he was calling to them to stop, when he was shot
a second time a little below the knee ;—as the bone was
broken, he was then uaable to move himself: he begged
some of the soldiers to take him on their shoulders, but,
regardless of his intreaties, they tan on without giving him
assistance,—A moment afterwards, the French were on him;
*hey tore his gorget rudely from his breast, his sword from
his side, they even felt his pockets for money, and took his
hat from his head; in which situation they carried him into
the redoubt and laid him on the ground.—-About an hour
afterwards, the medoubt was attacked by a fresh party—
who forced their way i n ; and a short but desperate conG 2

u
flict ensued; during which he was trampled on, both by
French and English—he thinks he must have been
inevitably killed, but luckily a French soldier, mortally
wounded, fell over him and protected him from the tread of
others. He was at length in the hands of his countrymen ;
by whom he was put into an hospital cart, and sent about
two miles back to the Surgeons—all his sufferings during
the day were trifling compared to the anguish he endured
from the motion of the cart—he fainted with the pain several times. The surgeon, after surveying his broken bone,
pronounced the necessity of amputation, which was performed that instant, at Captain G.'s own request .—During the
operation, he vomited blood several times, which poured
likewise from the orifices in his back and breast. His recovery was long despaired of; a mortification was apprehended in his thigh, and it was evident he was shot through the
lungs:—youth and a good constitution, however, prevailed,
and when I met him first, he was almost convalescent.—
Government appointed him some years afterwards Barrack
Master to this little town, where lie lives very comfortably.
This rencontre revived the memory of the time I passed in
Holland, and I amused myself on my return to the coach
with the recollection of various incidents that occurred during that^period. I landed in Holland the day after the
Duke of York—-I hope his R. H . found firmer footing
than I did—the beach was a perfect puddle, and, without
a bull, I might be said (i to have stepped upon land to my
waist up in water."—What the interior of Holland may be
I cannot pretend to say, not having penetrated far into the
country 5 but I did not like its first appearance—there was
too much water in the landscape-—for, not to mention the
sea and the earth, the sky was pouring down rain in
torrents. There was^ some novelty, however, in a regiment
pf Cossacks, which was encamped a little higher up oti the

85
beach ; the sentinels on duty, in fjpont of their tents, in
blankets fastened over their breasts with pins or skewers ;—though this had a comfortable, it could not be
siaid to have a very warlike appearance.^—It is unnecessary, I believe, to mention that I did not belong to the fighting part of the army,—an author is seldom a warrior ; his
pen is his weapon; and, like the two literary heroes who
fought in London some time ago, his bullets are always paper
ones.—IiWas one of a numerous corps of young surgeons,
sent over at the requisition of Sir Ralph Abercombie—heroes
might inflict the wound; mine was the humbler task to
find the plaster.—I spent some weeks at Hunesden, where
the general hospital was; I had plenty of employment, hardly time, indeed, to take my meals : this was of less consequence, however, as they were very easily taken.—The world
has been called a great sepulchre—with equal propriety,
the village of Hunesden might have been termed one vast
hospital—Churches and stables, houses and barns, were
filled with sick and wounded soldiers;—1 was quartered in the
house of an old fisherman.—I did not, however, fare much
the better for this; whether it was that «Englishmen were
plenty, or fish were scarce, I seldom tasted any,—On the
26th of September, I was ordered up to the army with
several others—a great battle was daily expected, and a
number of additional surgeons was necessary.—We were put
into an old Cow-house, where, having got our tournequets
and bandages in order, u we hovelled us like swine and
rogues forlorn/' in short and musty straw,—eat mutton
when we could get it, and drank gin, and smoked tobacco,
when we could get none.—On the 1st of October, general
orders were issued for the battle, which was to take place
next day. About two o'clock the Duke of York, attended by a
groom, and accompanied by a single aid-de-camp, passed
by were we were stationed ; he conversed for some time

86
with us, and displayed the most humane consideration about
the means to be used for the alleviation of the sufferings oi
the wounded.-—Early the next morning the army took up
its position—I was attached to the right wing—it was not
yet day-light, and I walked for some time backwards and
forwards behind the ranks;—at seven in the morning day
slowly broke—it was a dark and dreary morning, the rain
came drizzlinig down, and every thing wore a look of desolation—nature seemed to mourn the folly of her sons, who thus
inflict such misery on each other.
" And for a fantasy, and trick of fame,
*' Go to their graves like beds."
For some moments before the commencement of the
action, the scene was a most awful and impressive one ; all
was solemn, silent, and sad—there was neither sound of
trumpet, drum, or fife—a universal stillness prevailed,
slightly interrupted by the commands of the officers, delivered almost in a whisper, and the sighs that burst forths involuntary from some of the men; reflecting no doubt on the
change which a few moments might produce.—This Ian-*
guor, however, was soon dissipated by a most tremendous discharge from an immense number of pieces of cannon ; and
the line slowly advanced loading and discharging their muskets—-to describe the noise and disorder, confusion and
uproar, that followed, would be impossible ; nor was I any
longer permitted to be a witness of it.—1 was summoned to
my station some distance in the rear ; a prudent man migh*
still have found it not distant enough—a curious one would
probably have thought it too distant-—my curiosity was
perfectly satisfied, and I found it quite near enough—the
wounded were now brought in, in considerable numbers,
and our part in the bloody drama commenced—we were
principally employed in putting on tournequets, to suppress

S7
hemorrhages, which were sometimes so excessive that the*patients died in our hands:—the fate of one poor little drummer was particularly distressing—he had a leg and a part of
the thigh shot away by a cannon ball ; he was instantly carried to us, the drum still suspended from his neck ; he was
a fine-looking boy, about fourteen years of age; he looked as
if he could cry, but thought it unmanly, and endeavoured
tolaugh.—-" This would be a poor sight for my father, (said he,
looking up in my face,) but lam a soldier now, and must not
mind it."—I was busied about him, when, leaning his little
head on his drum, he expired.—Some of those brought in to
us were wounded in the intestines. I know no part of the
profession of a surgeon more afflicting than this :—soldiers
, are generally aware that wounds in these parts are mortal,
and their inquiring looks, as they gaze on the surgeon's
face, and seek to read the fate they are afraid to hear from
his tongue, must distress every heart of sensibility.—Between one and two the firing slackened, and we had the
pleasure of hearing that the enemy were defeated.—I ran
out of my tent to enjoy, for a few moments, the welcome
sight; the day was now fine—the smoke which, like a cloud,
had enveloped the two armies, was cleared away ; asd I had
a distinct view of both of them.-*—I do not know how it was
in other parts of the French lines 5 but opposite me they retreated in the most perfect order and regularity, their music
was playing, and colours flying, and the whole struck me
with the appearance of men returning from a review.—This
was a hot day's work for the British army, and it was followed by as cold a night:—it was judged adviseable not to take
possession of Alkmaar till next morning, and they were
obliged to lay all night on the field of battle.—Towards evening I walked over a part of it, which was covered with the
dead of both armies—French and English, Russians and
Dutch, lay mingled together ; and the storm, which lately

88

^raged so violently in their bosoms,
everlasting calm of death.-^-I could not contemplate such
a scene without feeling melancholy, and soon turned from
it in sorrow and disgust.—--I was returning slowly tentwards,
when I was eagerly accosted hy a womanb in an accent that
left me no doubt of her country— u Qugh, sweet Saviour of
the world ! who ever thought of seeing you in this purgatory
of a place ; and were you too in that devil of a battle; and
did you escape without either scrape or scratch?"—I assured
her I was alive and well, which she was very much rejoiced
to hear ; she had been an attendant at -a lying-in-hospital,
where I had studied, and afterwards married a soldier.—I
fancy she was then looking round for what she could pick
up ; as her pockets seemed very much stuffed.—I did not
dive into them, but I can pronounce the contents of
her bosom excellent ; she drew from it a bottle of excellent
gin, which she insisted on my taking a mouthful of.—I
swallowed three, and never did spirits come at a better
season, for I was very much out of them before—
Albeit, little disposed to the laughing mood, I could not
forbear smiling at the strange contrast between the
hospital where we parted, and the field where we met 5—
in the one we were employed, in bringing people into the
world, in the other, they were as busy, and certainly not
less successful, in sending them out of it. Of the
subsequent proceedings of the army I am unable to give
any account; as I was sent on the sixth, down to the
Helder, and from thence on board the Aid transport, to
take charge of 63 wounded soldiers, and two officers, to
England :—one of them was Captain G
, whom I have
already mentioned; the other was a Lieutenant-Colonel,
and a man of rank and fortune—»he was a highly agreeable
companion, as he had not only received a liberal education,
but possessed the most perfect elegance of manners;---on

sy

the latter he perhaps valued himself too much—he had
been educated^ abroad, and the coarse and clownish air,
the awkward manners, and embarrassed address of a mere
Englishman, were often the subjects of his ridicule—we
had frequent disputes on the subject; for which we had
abundant leisure, as we lay three weeks in the Texel, waiting for other ^vessels.—On our arrival at Harwich, he asked
me to dine with him, which I mention for the sake of a
characteristic circumstance which occurred :—the house was
so crowded with company, that we were obliged to dine in a
bed-room-—the colonel was inditing a letter, which I was
writing for him, to some of his friends ; when Mr. Bull,
the landlord, came in, saying that Lord Hawkesbury, who
was then in town with his regiment of militia, would pay
his respects to him in a few minutes, if he had no objection.*-.-When the landlord retired, I said I think I had better
leave you—he answered no, it is a mere visit of compliment, and will beoverinafew minutes—"besides/'continued
he smiling, " we may, perhaps, bring our everlasting argument to a conclusion; and you may have an opportunity
of judging between the untravelled English lord, and the
tavelled English gentleman."—A few moments afterwards
Mr. Bull returned, and throwing the door open, said, " My
Lord Hawkesbury/ 5 —Unluckily for his lordship, as well
as for my argument, there was a step into the room,
which was completely thrown into shade, by a large
bed that stood between it and the window :—his Lordship
flounced into the room like an elephant, and his sword,
which he probably was not much accustomed to, getting
entangled between his legs, added still more to his confusion,—his bow, therefore, was certainly not one on which
Lord Chesterfield, (had he been present) would have bestowed much commendation \ while the courtier from
Vienna, was as easy and unembarrassed as a Bishop at his

90

prayers.-—We may readily pardon Lord Hawkes miry,, how;
ever, a false step at Harwich, if he never makes one in th<
situation which he now holds.
-I cannot have dom
with this digression without saying a few wrords of a man
on whose character of late much obloquy has been thrown—
of the recent investigation held on the Duke of York, it it
not my intention tospeafc—the public has heard and decided
aud we owe it respect even in its errors—yet the fu
ture historian will not judge harshly, the Commander
in-Chief, of whom nothing worse can be said, than tha
he yielded some times to the influence of a woman
while he will do justice to the magnanimity of the Prince
who so readily relinquished his honours at the expres
sion of the public will. That his conduct in Hollan<
was most exemplary and correct, I can pronounce, as wel
from my own observation, as the concurrent testimony o
every officer with whom I have conversed : his attention wa
extended to every department in the army; and while thi
wants of the soldiers were as liberally supplied as thei
situation would admit of> the most perfect discipline wa
preserved—The people of Holland only knew there was ;
British army among them, by the advantages they derivec
from it5 by the articles it consumed, and the money it laic
out;—they suffered neither injury nor insult, oppression no
annoyance of the slightest kind.—I have little doubt1 that ;
single regiment of militia, at the period of its being firs
embodied in Ireland, annoyed the inhabitants of any towi
where it was quartered, more than the whole British arm;
did the people of Holland. To the department with whicl
I was more immediately connected, his attention was unbounded—the comforts of the sick and wounded, were the
objects of his unwearied assiduity, and their wants were provided for, to a degree that would exceed belief.—In the hospitals, and on board the transports, the greatest regularity

91
and cleanliness were observed; there was better food, and
better attendance than sickness often experiences in private
houses.—-Often when the Col. Commandant of Helder had
nothing better to eat than salt beef and biscuit; and nothing
better to drink than rum or gin-grog, they had an abundant
supply of fresh meat, fermented bread, and wine.—-There was
a positive order of his R. JL, that no officer, whatsoever,
should have any bread from the ovens, up til the hospitals
were first supplied ; and I believe this order was never deviated from.—Every person acquainted with the construction of
hospitals, will know how to appreciate the merits of such conduct—if contrast is necessary to enhance its value, the unmedical readerwill find it in the history of our former campaigns. That our expedition to Holland was a most disastrous
one, nobody, I believe, will venture to dispute.—lam thoroughly aware, likewise, that, captivated with the glare of success,
the world almost always pronounces an unfortunate general,
an undeserving one.—In justice, however, to the Duke of
York, we would do well to consider what insurmountable
obstacles were opposed to him; not only from the opposition of man, but from climate and soil, and even the
visitation of heaven; which" poured unusual moisture on a
country, of which moisture is at all times the defect—obstacles which, it appears to me, neither human abilities, nor
courage, could overcome.—If human understanding could
have foreseen them, be it remembered, it was not the Duke
of York who planned this expedition; nor did he select
either the time or the place of its debarkment;—yet he was
vilified and traduced, while the " author of our adventures
in Holland" lost neither character nor reputation ;—like
Antaeus, he rose more vigorous from his fall, and, for the
misfortune of these kingdoms, was allowed to continue,
unchecked, his mischievous career.—Be it likewise remem-

.92

hered, that most of our expeditions to the continent of Europe, have experienced a similar fate to this unfortunate
one 5—that our troops have been sent to contend for unattainable objects, to struggle against nature and the elements—against the course and order of things;—the tide
of human affairs and opinions, and even against the decrees
of heaven. The British army in Holland (as I fear it has often
been since) was placed in a situation where victory was unavailing, and defeat destruction—where its valour, like a
gladiator on an amphitheatre, might be admired and wondered at, but could be of no real utility ;—like a sword in the
hands of a madman, it gleamed terrific in the eyes of the
bye-'stander, but had no particular object on which to
fall.—That was the age of chivalry with the British Ministry—they loved fighting for fighting's sake ; and when
they had no/other enemies to encounter, Jike Don Quixotte, they attacked—windmills.—I hope the heaven-born
minister, on his ascent to his native sky, did not bequeath
his flaming mantle to any of the present ones.
It was now 11 o'clock ) we had rolled over hills and dales
upwards of three hours, and had feasted our eyes on the
beauties of nature ; we became, therefore, impatient for a
feast of a different kind, and breakfast was looked forward to
as a most delectable occurrence.—A young lady called out to
the coachman to know how many miles it was to the place
where we were to get it.—" Something better than two;" he
answered.—cc Oh then, dear Sir," exclaimed she, " drive as fast
as ever you can, for I am very hungry, and want breakfast
very bad.—I could eat (said she pulling in her head and
turning round tome) a, young foal, or a child in the smallpox."—A few moments afterwards she asked me if I did not
feel hungrymyself.—"NQ," I said, "my stomach was very delicate in afmorning, and the young foal, and the other dish
she ha4 b!6n so kind tp mention^ had taken away my

93
appetite."---We stopped at the Man of War, a large
house about half-way between Dublin and Drc
Whether it was long fasting, or the goodness of th<
but I thought it one of the best breakfasting houses
was in.—The bread and butter^ tea, sugar, and crearr
excellent.—-In this country Is. 7|d.is the regular cha
breakfast, and includes every thing, eggs, ham, &
latter, however, is not generally called for, eggs bei
favourite dish of the country, as well as potatoes.—-I e
some ladies eat one also ; the gentlemen, however, toe
none should be lost; some eat four, and one eat six,
proportionable quantity of bread and butter.—In I
toast is never brought in swimming in greasy butter,
disgusting manner too common at an English inncut into thin slices, and laid on the table with fresh
which every one puts on for himself.—On our return
coach we became much more conversible than before
fast i good cheer generally puts people into good hui
it not only made us good humoured, but what it seldon
it made us learned also. We had much ingenious speci
about the name of the house we just had quitted—01
said she heard a man had been murdered ' ' luri
Irish wars, and haunted it for several yeai
wax
might do very well to breakfast in, but she :
mfc
would not like to sup or to sleep in it.-—This fair beli<
hobgoblins was neither young nor handsome; and m my
opinion might have slept in a church-yard without fear of
molestation, either from man or ghost—One of the gentle-,
men said he remembered hearing a story, when he was a
youngster, of the mistress of the house being a very large
woman—rwith a stately air and majestic wralk^ for which
reason the neighbours all called her the Man of War.—Another ingenious personage conceived it was called so by way
of a joke, because one met with so much good cheer in it. If

94

this i^e war said the wit, (slapping one of the ladies oh the
Jtnee) may we never have peace.—I ventured, with great
deference to these superior critics, to throw out the idea that
the sign perhaps was formerly a ship ; but this was rejected
with contempt, as too easy arid obvious a solution. -*-Like true
commentators they persisted in diving to the bottom for
what, probably, lay upon the surface.—-We talked afterwards
of Ireland, which was unanimously allowed to be of wonderful antiquity, and a full grown nation when the Surrounding'
ones were scarcely out of their cradle :—a grave black little
man in the corner, said it was recorded by tradition that
Ireland was peopled a short time after the deluge by a
grandson or great grandson of Noah.-—He admitted, however that this hypothesis did not rest on the most unquestionable authority, and for his part he questioned whether
they had at that day the knowledge necessary for sailing on
a troubled ocean, or a sufficient skill in constructing vessels
large enough to venture on i t ) — he modestly, therefore, demanded no higher antiquity for, his country than fifteen
hundred years before Christ, when a colony of Phoenicians
came over from Spain, and having peopled Ireland, spread
themselves into England and Scotland. —I did not choose to
say much in opposition to this, as I knew it would not be
very patiently borne—if all nations have affected to deduce
their history from the earliest periods, the old Irish have
particularly indulged in this vanity—nor can this be much
wondered at, by any person who reflects seriously on what
has long been their situation—depressed -*£6r many ages,
stung with the reproaches, the contempt, an4 the injurious
slander of their neighbours, they passionately recur to the
monuments of their ancient glory; and speak of the noble
actions of their ancestors, in the glowing style of indignation
which would ill brook them to be questioned.—Nor is it to
be denied, that from the species of honour which has its

95
source in antiquity, Ireland fairly ckims at least an adequate*
portion-*-The title* of Lord of Ireland gave precedence to
Henry the fifth, at the council of Constance,- in preference to
the Ambassador of France—nor is the evidence which the
Irishadduce in defence of their Phoenician origin, easily
answered, nor does it admit of ready refutation.—-There
are still remaining large pillars of rude stones placed erect,
on the top of which there are fixed others in an inclined and
horizontal position, resembling the altars raised by the
Phoenicians m honour of their God Balus.---In several
parts of the kiugctam there are to be seen other monuments,
and even to this day, certain customs are retained among
the native Irish, which seem to point out their ancient
connection with this nation.-—The opinion of their annalists,
concerning this point, is strengthened by Sir Isaac Newton,
who informs us in his chronology, that a nation of Iberians^
from the borders of the Euxine and Caspian Sea, settled
anciently in Spain, that the Phoenicians, who first introduced
arts and letters into Europe, had an early intercourse with
the Iberian Spaniards, a colony of whom, by the name of
Scots, settled in Ireland in the fourth age of the world.—
To Ireland, Scotland was indebted for its first inhabitants.—
Of the latter kingdom^ Edward the first, as has been often
mentioned, destroyed the 'historical records.—This shameful act of tyranny obliged the Scotch Antiquaries to have
recourse to the records of this country, which taught them to
acknowledge it as their parent state..—At an early period,
Ireland^ from the Iberian Scots was called Scotia—some
ihave asserted that the use of letters was not known in
Iceland until the time of St. Patrick.-—This opinion is unsupported by any convincing .evidence.-—The Irish is
altogether different from the Roman alphabet, with respect
to the powers, the number, and the structure of its letters.—
U claims for its origin the Celtae, from whom, as we are

96
told by Aristotle, the Greeks borrowed their Alphabet.—Df*
Raymond asserts, that it is exactly the same with the
ancient Celtic.—He has given a specimen of the Lord's
prayer in both, where even a superficial observer must perceive a striking similarity.—Sir William Temple says that
the Celtic dialect, used by the natives of Ireland, is the most
original and unmixt language that yet remains in any
part of Europe.—Nothing can be said with certainty in
respect to their early writings, as no traces of them remain, except in monumental inscriptions.—It appear^
however, that a few centuries after the christian sera,
when the ravages of the Goths and Vandals had extinguished, elsewhere, the means of knowledge, and involved the other nations of Europe in the thickest darkness^
Ireland, like Athens of old, was resorted to by foreigners
as the only surviving repository of learning.—At that period, seminaries of knowledge were erected in several parts
of the kingdom.—Learning was encouraged and cultivated,
more especially by the clergy, with a zeal almost approaching to enthusiasmr—the salutary effects of this were experienced beyond the limits of their own country—Their
missionaries passed over to the continent, were they were
received with grateful approbation, and their labours
crowned with success—Henrick of Saint ^Germaine, who
flourished in the reign of Charles the Bald, writing on
this subject, gives this flattering testimony, " Why," asks
he, " should I mention Ireland—almost the whole nation,
despising the dangers of the sea, resort to gur coasts, with
a numerous train of philosophers / ' - - W e have the authority
of Bede, that Oswald, the Anglo-Saxon King, applied to
Ireland, for learned men to teach his people the principles
of Christianity.—In the seventh century, the learning of the
Irish was celebrated so highly in Europe, that the Emperor,
Charles the Great, honoured them, very particularly^ with

87
liis alliance and friendship; a memorial of which was pre*
Iserved until lately,, and probably may be to this day> in the
paintings of* the late royal palace at Versailles.—-It was
about this period that Ireland attained, through Europe, the
apellation of the Island of Saints, and sometimes the Island
of Scholars 5—the latter she has long lost $ the former she
istill retains, and probably has as good claims to it as any of
her neighbours, though I do not deny but there may be, (as
Is the case in every assemblage of Saints,) many sinners
femong' them.
We changed horses at Balbriggen, a fishing town about
eight miles from Drogheda ; it is a pretty little place, and I
am told has an excellent quay, where large vessels can load
and unload.—The cotton manufactory was carried on here
to a great extent; but has now declined so much, that they
have converted some of their principal mills into flour
ones.
We arrived in Drogheda about twoVclock—-the appearance of the town pleased me as we drove through it; it was
market day* and the country-people in general seemed comfortably, though not very finely, dressed. The women, however, were almost all ugly*—they were sallowT, pale, and thin;
and at thirty had the look of old age.—Scanty nourishment,
hard labour, and much exposure to the air, are doubtless
the causes of this 1—they wore short cloaks of a coarse grey
cloth, with green or yellow stuff petticoats* The men
almost universally wore great coats of the same colour with
the women's cloaks ; they wore them to keep out the heat,
probably. It could not be for the sake of heat, for the
weather was remarkably warm.—1 did not see either man or
woman without shoes and stockings.—The distance from
Dublin to Drogheda, is twentyjfour Irish miles*—The fare
on the outside was 6s* £d. in the inside 8s. 8d.—It carried
ten inside, and I believe a still greater number of outside
u

98
passengers.—-The coachman got lOd. from each of the former, and probably from a number of the latter ; as many
of them had in all respects the appearance of gentlemen,
—The people of Ireland have in this respect less vanity, or
more economy, than the people of England. It is much
more common to see gentlemen on the outside 5 and they
mix at breakfast and dinner with the other passengers,
without any risk of being objected to.—The coachman was
decently clad, civil, and attentive \ he had none of the impudence of manner, so common among his brethren in England, who nowas generally assume the air of gentlemen, as the
gentlemen do the air and look of coachmen.—The coach,
though not an elegant, was a comfortable vehicle ; fully
equ,al to any coach carrying the same number of passengers
in England.—I could only wish it had been a little less musical—there was a good deal of loose iron work about it,
which kept a jingling kind of sound, like Dr. Slop's instru--.
ments about the neck of Obadiah,—I am as fond of conVersing, as he was of whistling, and would have given
something to a smith to have silenced this troublesome
music——I had an introduction to a shop-keeper in the
town, on whom I called immediately after quitting the
coach.—I was received by him and his wife with the utmost
civility.—They insisted on my living with them, and even
taking a bed at their house.Some poet has remarked that
he^ always found, " his warmest welcome in an inn ;" this
is rather extraordinary, as poets, in general, do not possess
much of what gives men welcome there.—Had he travelled
to Ireland, however, he would often, I am sure, have experienced the contrary.-; -I devoted a part of this day to
asking questions of my host, whom I found an amiable and
intelligent young man.—I suspect, however, his answers,
on some points, are to be taken," cum grano salis."—He is
a protectant, and a very zealous one; of course, not partial

99
to the Catholics,* to whose claims, of what is termed emancipation, he is a bitter enemy,—He has the same idea of the
superiority of Protestants over Catholics, that an Englishman has of his over a Frenchman:—he piously believes
that one Protestant is a match for two Catholics\ and the
consequence of this persuasion, which is common to the
Protestants of Ireland, perhaps is, that two are equal to
three.Drogheda is situated on the river Boyne, which
carries vessels, of 150 tons, as high as the bridge of the
town ; inclosing within its old and ruinous walls, the
uneven shelving banks of the river on both sides.—-The two
principal streets are large and handsome ; but much of the
ground within the walls is unoccupied by buildings; and the
mud-walled cabins outside of these, give no very favourable
impression in the approach; though the spire of one of
the churches is a conspicuous and beautiful object.—
Drogheda contains about twelve thousand inhabitants, and
is a place of considerable trade, which must increase with
the advancement of the inland navigation—It was formerly
called Tre-dagh, and is a place of great antiquity.—There
are many ordinances in Prynne, in the reign of Edward the
Third, by which it appears that it was even then of some
note.—rlt is remarkable for the great battle fought near it,
in the year 1689,between the English and Catholic armies.
It stood two sieges prior to this period, which reduced
the walls to the ruined and shattered condition in which they
now are.—The first of these sieges lasted nearly three
months; though the town was neither strong in itself, nor
well supplied with provisions.—It was at the commencement
of the great rebellion, in the year 1641, and as it was the
only barrier to Dublin on the northern frontier, it was placed
under the command of Sir Henry Tichbourne, an active
and gallant officer, who was ordered to use every possible
means for its preservation.-—The Irish, who though very
H 2

100
numerous, were, from their situation, unable to surround
the town by a regular encampment, could not, with their
utmost vigilance, prevent some supplies from getting into
it.—-These being soon consumed, the citizens and garrison
were reduced to great distress—Sir Phelim O'Neale, who
commanded the Irish, made several attacks, but was repulsed.
The garrison, inspired by the example of their governor, was
determined tp endure every extremity, rather than surrender a
place of so much importance.—One of these attacks was
made in the night:-—some of the rebels had penetrated into
the town, which was only preserved by an accidental circumstance, which is thus related by Sir Henry Tichbourne,
in a letter to his wife," God's workings are wonderful, and
oftentimes, especially in matters of war, produces great effects
out of small and contemptible means :—this night, my man
following me hastily 6ut of my lodgings with my horse, the
horse being unruly at the best, suddenly broke loose, and|made
such a noise in running and gallopping madly upon the
stones, in the dark, that it put the rebels to a stand, believing we were better prepared tp meet them than in truth
we were 5 arid thereby afforded us something the greater
leisure to entertain them, as by God's blessing we did."—
The town, however, must at length have surrendered, had not
the Earl of Ormond arrived at the head of three thousand
foot, and five hundred horse.- —On the news of which O'Neale
instantly raised the siege and retired into the north.- —
About ten years afterwards Drogheda was belrieged a second
time, when it experienced one of the most dreadful calamities which ever befel any city:—the cause of royalism,
which was completely subdued in England, was kept alive in
some degree in Ireland, by the exertions of Lord Ormond—-he had formed a numerous a r ^
of catholics and protestants-—united together, not so much by
their zeal for the king, as their dread of the commoa^

101
enemy the Puritans.—-An army composed of such disordant
and heterogenous particles, had little principle of attraction,
but much of repulsion-—difficultly combined and easily
separated, it could afford but feeble resistance against the
parliamentary troops, whose courage was heightened by
fanaticism, and directed by discipline.-—On the 15th of
August, 1649, fifteen thousand men, with a formidable
train of artillery, and all other necessaries of war, landed in
Dublin, sent by parliament for the chastisement of Popish
rebels, and the relief of their godly brethren.—-Cromwell
was the leader of this formidable force—he contrived, by
Ins intrigues, to be chosen Lord Lieutenant, by an unanimous
vote of parliament.—Having appointed a governor of Dublin,
and adjusted such matters as required his immediate attention, he put his army in motibn, and laid siege to Drog^
heda.—Ormond, being aware of this, had taken care to
repair the fortifications of that city, to furnish it with
necessaries, and a garrison of two thousand foot, and three
hundred horse, which he placed under the command of
Sir Arthur Aston, an officer of distinguished reputation.—He had likewise strengthened his little remaining army,
with which he advanced to the neighbourhood, to be ready,
if an opportunity offered, to give assistance to the town.-^But these precautions were useless—Cromwell led his
artillery to the walls, in which he in two days made a sufficient breach.—The assault was given, and his men twice
repulsed;—in the third attempt, led by Cromwell himself,
the town was gained:—quarter had been promised to all
who would lay down their arms : notwithstanding, by order
of their most inhuman general, the conquerors put the
garrison to the sword, without regard to sex, age, or condition.—-The governor, and all his gallant officers, were
massacred without mercy—mothers were butchered witjx
the infants at their breasts, and the infants torn from the%

102
nipples and dashed on the floor.—A number of ecclesiastics,
of the Romish persuasion, were found within the walls.—Cromwell instantly ordered his soldiers to plunge their
weapons into these helpless wretches.—For five days this
hideous execution was continued, with every circumstance
of horror—thirty persons only remained unslaughtered, by
an enemy glutted by carnage; and these were transported
to the Island of Barbadoes.—Ormond, in one of his letters,
on the subject of this horrid scene, says, " the cruelties,
committed by Cromwell, on this occasion, would make
as many several pictures of inhumanity, as are to be found
in the book of martyrs, or in the relation of the massacre
of Amboyna."—The effect produced on the minds of the
Irish catholics, by this infernal transaction, was indelible—
the general who commanded it was an Englishman; the
troops who perpetrated it, were protestants and Englishmen
likewise: to Englishmen, therefore, they associated the idea
of all that was horrid, brutal, and barbarous;—they considered them no longer as enemies to contend with, but as
fiends and executioners, whose delight was in torturing,
and whom it was their duty, therefore, to torture in return.—
The blood-stained Englishman, who shut his ears to mercy,,
.who stabbed the suppliant who kneeled before him, and
plunged his weapon into subdued, and undefended bosoms,
was, for upwards of a century, the [never-ending theme of
wonder and conversation among the lower Irish—their
imaginations were overpowered and disordered, by the
recollection of his tortures and butchery \ and everjr tale of
horror was eagerly received, and every suggestion of
melancholy believed implicitly. The superstition natural
to an ill iterate people, contributed to heighten, and
continue the impression ; and the most marvellous stories
were - propagated and received as incontestable.--JLakes and rivers of blood, visions of spirits in flowing
robes, and ghosts rising from rivers, and shrieking

103
REVENGE, were said to be seen and heard, by every lonely
traveller.—-The Irish and English have mutually much to
forgive each other™each party condemns the conduct of
the other, and a dispassionate man will find enough to
condemn in the conduct of both.—Englishmen of the
present clay, who pronounce the Irish cruel, barbarous, and
disloyal, will do well to recollect, what the conduct of their
own ancestors has been;—in the contemplation of their excesses, they may learn indulgence for the excesses of
others.— Often has the earth groaned with the wickedness
and folly of her sons; but I know of nothing, in modern
times, equal to the sacking of Drogheda, or in ancient
history superior to it, except, perhaps, the destruction of
Jerusalem by Titus;—nor did the sufferings of the Jews
exceed those of the ill-fated inhabitants of Drogheda, except by being of longer duration.—Sorry am I to have it to
say, that such a parallel is to be found in Ireland, and that
the actors in it were—ENGLISHMEN.

CHAP. XI.
DROGHEDA.

I AROSE on Sunday at six o'clock; it was a beautiful
morning, and the sun shone in cloudless brightness. I
wandered into a delicious meadow behind the house; which,
from its silence and solitude, might have been a hundred
miles from the habitations of men. It was bordered by a
row of lofty trees; the violet and daisy enamelled the surface, and mingled their light tints with the rich verdure of
the grass : a little brook gurgled through one extremity of
it, and I seated myself by its side. It was the place a poet

104
would have chosen for the visit of his muse; and though
not a poet, it inspired rhe with the wish of becoming one.
I had full in view the ruined towers of Drogheda; its fallen
porches, its dilapidated, and moss-grown walls. I invoked
the assistance, therefore, of the Dryades jind Hamadryades
of the grove, and commenced my ode. Like other holiday
friends, however, they o*mie but slowly, and I had got but
four lines forward, when a more powerful divinit} came, uninvited, and threw a whole arm full of poppies oyer my
eye-lids. Whether the reader is a gainer, or loser, by*this,
interruption, it does not become me to decide ; but it isi
not impossible that niy sleep has saved him from one.—I
was awoke by my friend hallooing to me to come to breakfast. J told him I meant to write an ode on the destruction of Drogheda^ and $s he was the only inhabitant I was
acquainted with, I would dedicate it to him.—If it was in
flavour of King William, and the Protestants, he said, he
would be glad to listen to i t ; but if it was on the other side,
&s, from the sentiments I delivered the night before, he
feared it might possibly be, he begged to be excused having
Ji|s nam$ in it; m it would do him no credit among his re<lotions, who hated the Papists, and cared no more about the
sieg$ of proglieda, titi^n the destruction of Troy.—
Though no admirer of $ome of the doctrinal points of the
Komish church I like its external form of worship ; I have
been several times at the celebration^ of high mass, which I
look upon as a lofty and magnificent spectacle, which efe*
v&tes the soul, in some degree, to the Deity }t addresses.™I
h<ave been equally struck with the less glaripg pomp, the
chastened dignity, the plaintive melody, and exquisite harmony, of their Evening service.—-It is impossible, I think, for
any. person of sensibility to be present at vespers^ without
feeling his affections kindled, and hh heart humanized.—
I do not wonder th^t Cathplics, whose worship is endeay|d to

105
them, not only by its beauty, but by habit and association
with the early days in which it was first heard, remain so
unalterably attached to their religion \ and turn with so
much disgust from our cold and less ornamented ones.—
It would not be much unlike what we sometimes experience
in dreams, when we think to clasp swelling and voluptuous
beauty, and find a hideous skeleton, a mass of dry and withered bones, in our arms.—As Drogheda is a great Catholic
town, I expected to hear mass in perfection: I asked
Mr. •..,,
to go along with me to some place of worship
of that persuasion.-He started as if a culverih had been
let off at his ear—He is a proper-conducted man, fond of his
wife and children ; yet, had I asked hirn to go to a house of
ill fame in church time, it could not have astonished him
more. He would do much to gratify me, (he said) but to be
^een in a mass-house was a species of degradation no protectant should be guilty of.—The protestants of Drogheda
are mostly the descendants of Oliver Cromwell's soldiers,
and detain much of the zeal, though I hope they do not the
other bad qualities of Oliver himself.—-My next proposal,
being a truly protestant one, was readily acceded t o ; it was
to visit the obelisk, erected on the river Boyne, in commemoration of king William, and the glorious victory he obtained there.-*--1 had no reason to regret not going to mass;
the day was charming, the country beautiful, and the com~
pany, which consisted of my host and his two brothers, highly agreeable.---They seemed all to have that necessary
qualification for a companion, as well as a wife- —perfect
good humour.^—They had likewise in no mean degree the
qualification necessary for guides, an acquaintance with the
place we were going to visit 3— they know every dell and
valley, every height and hollow, of this ever-memorable
field ; which is the classic ground of Ireland, and as high in
reputation as the plains of Pharsalia,™They pointed out to

106
me the ground which was occupied by each army, and described the whole progress of the battle with a minuteness
that would have astonished Duke Schomberg himself; they
led me to the spot where king William was wounded the
evening before the battle j and shewed me the distant hill,
from which the wretched James, in alternate hope and fear,
beheld the tide of war, alternately advance and recede,
and from which, with a soul subdued to his fortunes, he fled
the moment he saw the battle declare against him.—I am
afraid, however, my friends are partial historians—not only
was the river deepened, but little hills were swelled to
mighty mountains, and superficial bogs to immense morasses, all to do the more honour' to the great protestant hero,
who has so long been the idol of every loyal Irishman.—
With a license more a-kin to poetry than history, they
diminished his army to twenty thousand men ; while they
augmented that of James to sixty thousand, exactly double
their real number.—It kmstbe admitted, however, in excuse
for their partiality, that the conduct of James, that day, was
as contemptible and dastardly, as that of his rival was
magnanimous and deserving the crown he contended for.—
When wounded, he lost neither his fortitude nor presence of
mind,—every bullet, coolly remarked he, to those that
surrounded him, has its billet.—-William, it is well known,
was a predestinarian ; a doctrine, whether true or false, as
comfortable to the soldier, as the Catholic belief of the
absolution of sins is to the dying sinner.—^James stood trembling and disrnayed ; a timid spectator of the varied and
animated scene which extended beneath hini.—-" Oh, spare my
•English subjects! "exclainied he once or twice, as divisions of
his rival's army were repulsed, and driven back on the river.-*James possessed no real sensibility ; the man who could
admit his nephew, the son of his deceased brother, into his
presence, when under sentence of death j could hear his

107
passionate appeals for mercy; could see him prostrate on
the earth, and feel the eager grasp of his trembling' hands
about his knees—the man who could hear, and see all this;
unmoved, must have been devoid of all humanity.—Misfortune,1 however, had now overtaken him, and softened his
stern and gloomy soul; he thought he felt for his English
subjects, but he only felt for himself.---The whole of his
conduct, indeed, in Ireland, was a series of blunders, and
marked by that sort of infatuation said to characterize individuals, and nations, devoted to destruction :—-he retreated
When he should have advanced ; and he stood still when he
should have retreated. He loitered in Ireland with a large
army unemployed, when he should have appeared in England at the he*ad of i t ; and he persisted (in opposition to the
advice of his wisest officers,) to stand the shock of William's
regular troops, with his raw and undisciplined ones.---In
the council of war held the evening before the battle, Hamilton recommended that eight regiments should be sent
immediately to secure the important pass of Slane*v—James
proposed to employ fifty dragoons in this service : the astonished general bowed and was silent.—" Had your Majesty
ten kingdoms," exclaimed St. Ruth," you would loose them
all."-—Earl}? on * the morning of the first of July, King
William advanced to the banks of the Boynev-—The Irish
army was encamped on the opposite side ; tp their right lay
Drogheda, which James occupied by a garrison : on their
left a difficultniorass, which communicated by a narrow'
pass with the bridge of Slaine, that lay three miles higher
up the river. The English advanced in three divisions ; that
on the, right was commanded by Count Schomberg, the
centre by Duke Schomberg, and the left by King William 5
the river had been carefully examined, and in the places
pointed out, was to be crossed separately, by each of these
divisions,—Count Schomberg, with the right wing, set off

108
rapidly up the river, James saw this movement from the
heights of Donore, arid sent off large detachments to the
opposite banks of the river.—Count Schomberg pressed on
with so much expedition, that before they could get forward
to intercept him, he reached the ford which he intended to
pass, crossed it, and led his men down the river with intrepidity. Encouraged by this success, the part of the centre
composed of the Dutch Guards, and Brandenburghers, the
former leading the van, advanced to the Boyne, which thej
passed with considerable difficulty, dislodged the enemy,
and made good their ground on the opposite bank. Here
they formed, and advanced forwards, supported by a body of
English, and by the French Hugonots, and the Danes, who
hy this time had passed the river. Upon their approach,
General Hamilton, who, with the horse and a part of the
Irish infantry, had been posted on the rising grounds,
attacked them with impetuosity.—Unable to withstand
the shock, they broke and retreated in confusion* Here
Caillemot, the leader of the Hugonots, received a
ftiortal wound. As his soldiers were carrying him
bleeding off the field of battle, he exerted his utmost
strength, and exclaimed," A la gloire, mes enfans!
a la gloire \" The rapidity of the Irish horse, the
flight of the Danes, and the disorder of the French, spread
a general alarm; and the want of cavalry struck the minds,
even of the peasants, who were but spectators of the battle,
so forcibly, that a general cry of " Horse \ horse !5> was sud-*
denly raised ; was mistaken for an order to " Halt!:" surprised and confounded the centre, was conveyed to the right
wing, and for a while retarded the pursuit,
In this moment of disorder, Duke Schomberg rushed through* the
river, and placing himself at the head of the Hugonot forces,,
pointed to some French regiments in their front, and cried',
u
Allons, messieurs ; voila vos persecuteurs."—These were

109
his last words.-—The Irish horse, who had broken the French
J>rotestants, wheeled through Old Bridge, in order to joiii
their main body, but were here cut down by the Dutch
^ndEnniskillenerSi—About sixteen of their squadron escaped,
;and returning furiously from the slaughter of their companions, were mistaken by the Hugonots for some of theiif
awn friends, and suffered to pass.—-They Wounded Schomherg m the head, and were hurrying him forward, when
his own men fired and killed hirii;
William had now
crossed the rfoer, at the head of the Dutch, Danish^ and
English cavalry, through a dangerous and difficult passy
where his horse, floundering in the mud, obliged him to
dismount, and accept the assistance of his attendant—
The Irish retreated towards Donore, where James stood during
the engagement; surrounded by his guards,—and here,,
drawing up in good order, they faced about, and charged
with such success that the English cavalry, though led on
by their king, was forced from their ground.—William, with
some peevish exclamations at the want of courage of the
English, rode up to a large body of Irish Protestants, well
known, both then and since by. the name of Enniskilleners,
and asked, u What they would do for him."—Their officer
informed them who he was—they advanced with himj and
received the enemy's fire.—The battle was now maintained
an each side with equal ardour, and with variety of fortune.
The king who, mingled in the hottest part of the engagement, was constantly exposed to danger,—One of the Enniskillen dragoons mistaking him for an enemy, presented,
a pistol to his head.—William calmly put it by, (i What/'
said he, " do you not know your friends ?" The presence
of such a prince gave double vigour to his jsoldiers. The
Irish infantry were finally repulsed. Hamilton made one
desperate effort to turn the fortune of the day, at the head of
Ms horse. Their shock was furious, but neither orderly

no
not steady. They were routed, and their general conveyed
a prisoner to William. The king asked him whether the
Irish would fight more. " Upon my honour," said Hamilton, " I believe they will; for they have yet a good body
of horse."——-William surveyed this man, who he thought
had betrayed him on some former transactions, with contempt; and in a sullen tone exclaimed," Honour!" your
" honour!"——The right wing of King William's army,
had by this time pursued the enemy close to Duleek,—
James, who still continued at Donore, commenced his retreat immediately;—he marched to Duleek, at the head of
Sarsfield's regiment; his army followed, and poured through
the pass.-—When they reached the open ground, they drew
up, and canonaded their pursuers.—Their officers ordered
all things for a retreat, which they made in such order, as
was commended by their enemies—Their loss in this engagement was computed at fifteen hundred; that of King
William's army did not much exceed one third of this
number.——By this memorable and decisive battle, the
hopes of James to ascend the throne of these kingdoms
were finally crushed;—he fled to Dublin, and a few days
afterwards to France, followed by the scorn and contempt
even of his partisans.—" Exchange kings," said SirTeague
O'Regan, after he was taken prisoner, " arid we will fight the
battle over again."—The Irish Catholics might now be said
to be completely subdued—and happy would it have been
for these kingdoms, had the victory, gained by magnanimity,
been used with moderation.—But moderation is seldom the
virtue of any government.—A series of barbarous and prescriptive laws were issued, from which the eye of humanity
turns in horror and disgust.—The Irish Catholic, who
was no rebel, who had contended for his natural king, and
obeyed the orders of his own parliament, was stigmatized
as the most vile, the most obstinate, and irreclaimable of

Ill
beings.—He was excluded from the pale of society, he Was
scarcely permitted to reside in a town; he was debarred
the exercise of his religion, he was trampelled on, abused,
and outraged-—he was chained, not as an enemy, that was
conquered, but a wild beast it was dangerous to let loose.—
Many of the laws, passed at this period, bear a strong resemblance to the edicts of a Nero, or Caesar Borgies.—It must,
however, be admitted, in extenuation of government, that
had it even been disposed to moderation, it is doubtful
whether the prejudices of Protestants would have permitted it.—They held popery a horrible idolatry, whose
touch was contamination, and which, like the Israelites of
old, it was their duty jo root out.—I have little doubt that
many of them would have done it, precisely in the same
manner, by the extirpation of the wretched inhabitants.—
The consequences of this shocking state of things have
been long, and are still felt in Ireland. The wholesome
tree of society has been poisoned at its root ; and its
branches, like those of the baneful upas, have scattered pes*
tilence and death.-—The warm and overflowing affections
of the Irish Catholic haveN become stagnate; the milk of
human kindness is curdled in his breast; his spirits are
depressed, his'energies'subdued, and disappointment, and
oppression, have rendered him a listless idler, or a fell misanthrope.—Nor are the eflects of it less perceptible in the
Protestant.—Living, as he supposed, in the midst of his
enemies, he viewed his neighbours, and servants, with
distrust. Imagining that he was hated, he soon deserved to
be so; and fear, which made Nero and Domitian cruel, too
often taught the Protestant to be a tyrant, and to treat the
Catholic as a slave.—He arrogated to himself all title,
advancement, and even advantage, as an exclusive right; and
in the meanest situation, regarded the Catholic, " the most
distinguished by wealth or talent," as a fitr inferior being to

112
himself.—~To this diseased and vitiated state, andriotto itf*
herent disposition, I would attribute the haughtiness and?
arrogance, the impatience of controul, the restlessness
and turbulence, of which the Irish, when abroad, are so
often, and, perhaps, so justly accused.—God be near me, as
I speak the firm belief of my heart, that Ireland has suffered more misery since the reformation, than ever befel
any nation, in the same spslee of time.-—I have been more
circumstantial in relating the battle of the Boyne, because
the fate not only of Ireland, but of England^ and the family
seated at present on the Throne, depended on it/—From
the then critical situation of affairs, there is every reason
to suppose, that had James been victorious, he would have
been reinstated on the throne.—Irritated by opposition, triumphant over all his enemies, and free from every restraint,
nothing else could have been expected, but that he would have
trampled upon the rights of the people, and adopted the
most arbitrary designs, as the ruling principles of his government*—It is likewise deserving of attention, from the
number of troops engaged on each side \ which was greater
than in any battle fought in these kingdoms, since the time
of the Romans.—The army of William Consisted of thirty£ix-thousand men ; that of James, only of thirty-three
thousand.—I have taken pains to ascertain this fact, to
correct the prevalent opinion, that the army of William
wasthe least numerous.—-It was not only the most numerous,
but consisted for the most part of veteran troops, who had
followed him from the continent.-—The Irish were raw
levies, hastily raised, and little accustomed to the use of fire-^
arms. That they did not conquer, therefore, is not half so
wonderful, as that they fought the time they did*—Yet his-'
torians, on the evidence of this battle, have gravely asserted, that the Irish fight badly in their own country )
and that there is a natural inferiority in them to th$

113

English—If either of these propositions be true, the proof
of them must be sought elsewhere.—The Irish did not
fight badly; they fought well; and they fought long; nor did
they fight against the English.—King William's army was
no more an English, than it was a Turkish one.—They
formed but an inconsiderable part of it; nor did William,
*' who had but a mean opinion of their military prowess,"
allow any of his divisions to be led by an Englishman.—-It
consisted of a motley group of Dutch, Danes, and Branden~
burgers-—of French Hugonots, and Irish Protestants; to
the gallantry of the latter, after the English cavalry, had
retired discomfited, is in a great measure to be attributed
the success of the day.
In order to see some prospect, my friends wished to
point out to me it was necessary to cross the river, which
we did exactly at the same ford the Dutch guards did 3 and
exactly in the same manner.—I dont mean exposed to a
heavy discharge of grape arid round shot, but on horseback;
a number; of horses were grazing about ; each of us mounted one, and having rode over, turned our steeds loose and
allowed them either to stray on the more verdant meads
of the Eastern bank, or return to their ancient habitations.—
A little higher up we saw some people crossing over in a
particular kind of boa called Corragh; it is made of wicker
work, and does not seem larger than a basket: some sort of a
hide was drawn over it, which renders it impervious to the
water: it holds one person, who directs it with a paddle, in
the management of which he must preserve the most perfect steadiness, as the slightest movement on his seat would
overturn the nut-shellthat carries him.—We passed the seat
of a Mr. Cottington, whose eTdest son was unfortunately
drowned a few years ago in crossing the Boyne, in the
manner just mentioned,—His grounds are highly improved
and beautifully planted—he has dug up an immense number
1

114
of balls that had lodged there, on the ever memorable day I
have related—-his house was attacked and nearly carried by
the rebels in 1798.—Had it been completely so, these balls,
carefully preserved as trophies of the triumph of protestants,
might have been hurled back in vengeance against them j
and, after the lapse of more than a century, have visited on
them a portion of those ills they formerly inflicted on others.
— W e returned to town by a delightful road ; on the right
was the hill of Donore, clad in summer's fairest garb, and
decked with a rich tuft of trees \—the Boyne, full to overflowing its green-margined banks, was on our left; and in
our front, on a gentle eminence, was the town of Brogheda,
with her lofty spires raising their heads above the grove
that surrounded theni. Short-sighted as I am, the sight gave
me pleasure ; perhaps, so strangely are we formed, the more
pleasure for being short-sighted—it hid apart, while it allowed
the imagination to fill up the rest to its mind $ to raise the
little, to conceal the mean, to heighten the mountain, to deepen the vale; to give more verdure to the fields, more
brightness to the sky, and more radiance to the sun.—-Alas ! to
practise the deception which man practises on himself, as
he views afar off the lofty mountain of life ; which, sanguine
in youth, and cheated by hope, he clothes with verdure,
shadows with myrtles, and strews with roses; soon to experience the contrary, when in riper years he has tried it, and
found it, as it is—bleak, dreary, and comfortless ; howling
with tempests, broken with precipices, and planted with
thorns. *
-We arrived about four o'clock in town, after a walk of
somewhat more than eight Irish miles, a little fatigued with
our journey, and perfectly ready to do justice to the hospitable meal the younger brother of my friend had invited us to.
~--Beside our walking party, two other gentlemen were
asked.—-I dont pretend to say there was much wit among

115
us ; but I am sure there was a great deal of laughter, which
is, perhaps, a much safer companion:---our dinner was good,
and the wine and punch still better.—The company swallowed them in large potations, which may in some degree
account for the laughter.—Whether from the force of sympathy or whiskey, I became infected also, and laughed as
vehemently as the loudest.—Though a stranger, I was no
restraint on them ; I was introduced as an author, a being I
fancy the most of them were in company with for the first
time :—but their laughs were neither less frequent, nor less
noisy on that account——happy in distant obscurity, they
were ignorant or indifferent, that a snake was in the grass;
that a spy was in the house, like another James Boswell, pen
in hand, and ink-horn at breast; ready to take down each
unguarded sally, or inaccurate expression.—Our party consisted of sevenr—rassuredly it was not the feast of the seven"
wise men—-none of our sayings, I fear, will be ever recorded
in a book of wisdom ; yet I do solemnly declare, of all that
was spoken, and much was spoken, " for we were all more
speakers than listeners/' I did not hear a single sentence
that could be construed into a bull.—-My readers will no
doubt be as much astonished as I was, to have an Irish
drunken party without either a bull or a quarrel in it.—The
truth is, of what passed in the latter part of the evening, I
have very indistinct recollection,—We had swallowed :so
many bumpers to great men, beginning with the great man,
the scene of whose exploits we just had visited :—this is
always a bumper toast, and drank sitting, standing, orkneeling, according to the zeal of the company.—It is rather an
awkward one, however, to kneel at, as it is almost as long as a
fashionable sermon; a part of it, if I recollect right, is as follows.— " The glorious and immortal memory of the good
king William, who saved us from popery and slavery, brass
money, and wooden shoes."-—If any sober person takesoffence
I 2

115
at my getting tipsy, I have only to say in my own excuse, I
was not so cold-blooded a protestant as to view the waters of
the Boyfie without emotion; and the glorious and immortal
memory has been an excuse for drunkenness upwards of a
century.

CHAP. XIL
DROGHEDA.

I AWOKE this morning with a head-ache and sick stomach j
I took a walk along the Dublin road to dissipate it; returning,
I was overtaken by a middle-aged woman of decent appearance.—She accosted me first, asking how many miles it was
to Drogheda. I told her something more than one, and asked
her if she had travelled far that morning. " Ay, and all night
too (said she j) many a weary mile, and many a sorrowful one
too ; and God he knows I had enough of that before."—" My'
good woman (I said) we have all enough of that \ sorrow
wears every garb, and is as often found under a silk pelisse,
as this grey cloak of your's \ and when death comes, it is a
sad thing to quit that fine Castle yonder | (pointing to a
large house that was in sight) but It is nothing to leave your
clay-built cabin---be that your consolation" " Ak, Sir \" said
she,'" gentlefolks have many blessings $ so many people to
care for them,.and to watch over them, and to love thero 3
but I'have nobody to care for me now, nobody m all the
wide world to trouble 'their heads about me. Ogli hone, ogh
hone, (wringing her hands, and rocking her bo<cfy backwards
and forwards, and from one side to another,)-Jemmy, darling,,
in, sorrow I bore you. many a bitter taunt, and onany a

117
heavy blow, I suffered for you ; ay, man, many a heavy blow
and broken heart; you might have let me alone surely/'—I
had no difficulty in obtaining her story from her,—her
heart was full, and no niggard of its tale—overflowing with
its woes, it found relief in the voice that soothed, in the ear
that listened to them.
gf

" The grief that does not speak,
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break."

I regret I cannot tell it in her own words,—yet they
would be nothing without the tones and action which accompanied them. Whenever, however, I recollect her
expressions, I will make use of them—Early in life, she
had been courted by a young man of her own age,—she
was fond of him, and he pretended to be fond of her; nor
had she any reason to doubt it, she said—cc for I had
another guess face then, than now, that crying has brought
wrinkles into i t ; and when I had on my stuff gown and
calamanco petticoat, though I say it, that should not, was
a comely enough lass to look at; and though I wrought hard
all the week, I made myself clean when I went to prayers
upon Sundays, and went to confession, though nothing had
I to confess at all, at all,—for I was innocent then, and
knew nothing of man or their wicked ways—and the
neighbours pointed me out, as a pattern, and said there is
Jenny Cassidy, nobody ever saw her taken with liquor, or
heard her ill-word ; and my heart became puffed up with
vanity, and I went to wakes, and hurling matches, and
trusted in my own strength, and the bUssid virgin forsook
me, and left me to myself^ and I found my strength was
nothing but weakness."
At one of these merry meetings, her lover contrived to
make her swallow a larger portion of liquor than she was
accustomed to $ into which> it seemsj he infused a medicine

118
purchased in ail apothecary's shop, which he thought had
the property of making loving, those who took it.—Returning home by an unfrequented road, he decoyed her into
a lonely field, where, partly by force, and partly by intreaty,
amidst tears of sorrow, and of pleasure \ amidst struggles
of shame, and of rapture 5 amidst the lamentations of lost
innocence, and the sighs and ejaculations of new found
joy; to make use of her own words, he obtained his
-wicked purposes.—At their next meeting he comforted her,
by telling her she had committed no crime 5 that they had
broken a sixpence together, and were, therefore, man and
wife in the sight of Heaven,—and that he Would marry
her, before men and devils, in holy church, whenever his
service was out, which would be in three or four months.—
Lulled by his fair promises, she delivered herself without
restraint to the sweet delirium of love ; and in a summer's
evening, under the hawthorn hedge, scented with fragrance,
on a green bank, covered with daisies, and spangled with
dew drops, while the birds carolled around them in unison
with their joys, she tasted pleasures, which greatness
seldom knows on its softest bed of down.—Nature is a
great leveller, and is pretty uniform in her blessings, as
well as her gifts.—What she gives in continuance to some,
she makes up in intensity of enjoyment to others; bloated
and unwieldy wealth, often dozes through life with less real
gratification than tlnY poor country lass experienced in a
few moments of stolen interview with the man she loved.
JVTan may be proud of the adventitious gifts of fortune;
but in the weakness of birth, the period of sleep, at the
hour of death, and on the soft bed of love, all are equal—
cc
The great and the little are there, arid the servant is
free from his master." •
Her love continued unabated,
iC
and seemed
to grow with what it fed on."-—With the
lover it was otherwise—satiety goon followed enjoyment

119
--his visits became less frequent, and at length ceased
altogether.—It was her turn now to be a suppliant, and an
unsuccessful one.—In vain she followed him with tears and
supplications, in vain she reminded him of his broken
sixpence, of all the oaths he had sworn, and all the promises he had made—the rustic Lothario heard her with
an indifference that w7ould not have disgraced his brother
Libertines in a higher station of life.—The hour of delivery
approached—her secret was still her own—again she
sought him out, and found him with difficulty—she fell
upon her knees before him,-—she clasped her arms round
his, and bathed them with her tears,—she implored his
pity, his forgiveness ; by sinners in purgatory, by blessed
souls in paradise, by the great God by whom one day they
were to be judged—she implored him, while yet it was in
his power, to save her from ruin and shame.—Sorrow
made her eloquent, and the poor and illiterate Irishwoman
spoke the language of poetry, because she spoke the language of the heart.—" Look upon me," said s h e , u look upon
me, look upon my pale face, and altered body, and think
who is the cause of it.-—I was happy till you knew me; I
was innocent till you seduced me; till I knew you I was
nothing but good \ ough, dont you be my punishment for
being bad !—What is this world even to the longest liver—*
you are young now, but you will soon be old—your green
head will soon be grey; and then you would give the
world not to have such a sin on your soul."
- H e endeavoured to get away, but she held him fast.— a By the
happy hours we have known together, by the sorrowful ones
I have known since, save me ! save me ! or kill me on this
spot, and I will bliss you for it, and count you my best friend,
though you have been my sorest enemy .—-You know you have.'*
*—The hardened ruffian now spoke in his turn,—He

120
reviled, he abused, he cursed her ;-—he did not kill, but he
wounded her more deeply—"he was not so far gone/' he said,
" as to take a whore for his wife, and to have his first born a
bastard."—This last insult was too much—reason, which had
been totteriftg before, now forsook her entirely—Convulsions followed, in which labour took place, and, stretched
upon the floor of her destroyer's cabin, she brought forth a
son.—Of what passed for several years, she had but little recollection;—her thoughts were all dark and gloomy ;she sat
for days together in the large building, where she was confined, counting the straws, unable to speak, or to sing, or
even to cry,—when she could do either she felt happy—
" and often, and often," said she," when the whole world was
asleep, and the moon shone bright, I stood at the -bars of
my window, and sung to my Saviour., the live-long night,
the story of my woes \ and he heard me in pity, and sent
little doves down from heaven to comfort me, and to tell
me not to mind the persecutions of man, for they had persecuted him also/'—At times, however, she was more outrageous, and then the keeper treated her with great harshness,
and she had still, she said, the marks of the blows he gave
her.—On one of those occasions, in which she was tamed
into quietness, a woman was permitted to see her.—Her
lovers conscience was at length awakened, and he began to
feel compunction for the wrongs he had done her,—he
begged her to take comfort, he promised to tnany her
the moment she came out, and besought her, to send him,
by his messenger, some token of forgivenesss.—" Did you
send'any answer/' I asked her.— 6i I did not," shereplied, "X
could not send any.—But I opened my breast, that she
might tell him of the marks that were on it ; and I tore a
handful of my hair for her to give him.—It was almost grey
then; it was black when he knew me first."-~Madness, as
well as sorrow^ often breaks forth in unpremeditated sub-

121
lime—I, was struck with the resemblance, which this simple contrast of her present and former situation bore to the
answer of the celebrated Marius, to the order of the proconsul of Utica, instantly to quit his province.—He was
proscribed and a wanderer ; a price was on his head,
and he was in the most squalid garb.---" What shall I say to
the pro-consul ?" said the lictor who delivered the message.
"Tell him," replied the other, surveying him with dignity,
" that you saw Caius Marius in exile, seated on the ruins of
Carthage."—From this deplorable state, after a lapse of many
years, she recovered, and her father, softened by her sufferings, took her again into his house.—Her seducer was
long dead; he had his skull fractured at a neighbouring
fair, in a drunken fray, in which the inhabitants of two
town-lands were matched against each other.—Her son
in the mean time grew up, and was her only consolation—
the affection which had met with so barbarous a! return
from his father was centered in him, and when he was at
her side, her former sufferings were forgot ; and a better
youth, she said, never broke bread, nor a kinder heart-rand I thought my troubles were all over, and that he would
be the staff of my old age, and would close my eyes, and
be always near me.—In this, however, she was disappointed—the consequences of her transgression pursued her,
where she could be wounded the most—her son was dispised on her account—the young women slighted him, the
young men would not keep company with him, and all
descriptions fastened on him that, in Ireland, most opprobrious of all appellations—bastard. The young man
having coolly weighed his situation, took an affectionate
leave of his mother by letter, and early one morning left
his native village, to seek, among strangers, the sympathy
and kindness the prejudices of his neighbours denied him.—H e enlisted in a regiment, then stationed at Drogheda,

122

from whence his mother had frequent accounts of him.—In
consideration of his good conduct, he was made a corporal,
and she was beginning to recover from the distress his
leaving home had caused her, when she received the dreadful news, which occasioned her present journey, as well as
sorrow.—All her former ones were nothing, compared to
it—when her lover deceived her first, and then deserted
her, when her friends renounced, when the world frowned,
and her reason forsook her—in the faint glimmerings
of it, with which she was visited, she still had comfort—
she had no joy in life, but she had hope in death—in her
Saviour who died on the cross, who was a man of sorrows
himself, in whose blood she' would be washed clean from
all her transgressions; but now she said, she had no joy*
no comfort, no hope:—he had turned his face from her in
wrath ; the punishment of her sin was on her, in the person of the son, to whom that sin had given birth.—Oh!
had she died a year ago, she would have been happy, for
then she would not have known it—-or had it been his
deatb only, had it been fair death, from the hand of
God, she would have followed him with pleasure to the
church-yard^ and when the last sod was laid on his
coffin, she would have stretched herself beside it, and
prayed to God that she might never see the morning.—
But it was the death of his soul that she lamented,—the
Church had disowned him, the priest had cursed him, the
eurse of God was on him, and her wickedness was the
cause.—The son of sin had allied himself to the daughter
of perdition.—He had married—a Protestant.—I endeavoured to reason her out of so unfortunate a prejudice, but the
attempt was unavailing, and even injurious—her eye
became phrenzied, and her whole franre so agitated, that it
threatened a return of the madness from which, it is possible, she had never entirely recovered.—We were now at
the end of the town, I therefore took a hasty leave of her,

123
riot the less sincerely lamenting her sorrow, because the
cause of it was imaginary.—I have related this story, not
only because I think that readers of a certain description
will be gratified with it, but as it shews how religious prejudice, which had for a while lain dormant in Ireland,
is again unhappily revived.—I have seen several instances
already, and from all I can learn, shall see many more.—I
shall therefore say little on this subject at present; deploring, however, as I most sincerely do, that what was given
for a blessing, should have become a curse ; that the folly
of man, should convert the wholesome food of religion into
a deadly poison, and that the inhabitants of a country, who
possess kindness of heart, to a greater degree perhaps than
those of any other, should be drawn forth like hostile armies, arrayed-for mutual destruction ; or rather like enraged
tygers, ready to tear each others bowels out.—This story,
likewise, shews the peculiar habits of thinking, of the Irish
peasantry, with whom loss of chastity is a crime of the
deepest die; partly dependent on their strong sense of religion, still more, perhaps, on their lively sensibility \ which
renders them painfully alive to the opinions of others,—This
prevalence of opinion must strike every person who has
opportunities of observing the domestic manners of the
Irish.—What would the neighbours say to such a thing ? is
the question, which people even of the middle class ask
themselves on every little, as well as great occasion.—Very
often considerable sacrifices are made to this voluntary bondage they impose on themselves. A young lady was
courted by a gentleman of excellent character, and independent fortune—she refused him, (as she said) by the
directions of her mother.—A friend, who well knew her
straitened circumstances, remonstrated with the old lady:—
<f
Is he not (he asked) a .liberal man, as well as a rich one \
and might he Hot be of great use to your younger chit-

124
dren?"—She admitted he might.—" Is he not abetter offer
than you can ever expect for your daughter again?"—•" She
feared he was."—What madeyou refuse him, then ?"~"On account of his name, to be sure," replied this judicious parent—
"fifty years have I lived in the town of
— , and never kept
any but the best company—I have people enow to envy
me : and with God's help they shall never turn their noses
up at Mrs. G
.
This inquisitorial power of opinion would have great
efficacy, in keeping the community virtuous, if it was
uniformly exerted, or had any rational standard to refer
itself to :—But in every country the progress of reason is
«low; in Ireland, from unfortunate causes, it is peculiarly
so.—Much of what is really vice, is not deemed so,-—Drunkenness is not a sin, quarrelling is not a sin—they flatter
sometimes their pride, but never wound it:—but breach of
chastity is the sin never to be forgiven, because it is
shame—it is degradation.-—A name of the highest reproach
in France, would be none here—because it would be unintelligible ] they have two however—one for each of the
sexes—-that for the woman, I need not name—that for
the man, is—bastard.
I stood an hour in my friend's shop this morning, after
breakfast, and was highly amused with the manner of
doing business.—The number of people that came in was
very great, and so was the trouble they gave; stuffs, dimities, and cottons, were tossed about, with as much indifference to the trouble given the shopman, as a fashionable
lady in Bor d street feels on a similar occasion :—one or
two women bought gowns, and I observed that the colours
they preferred, were all different shades of green—a very
elegant stuff, of a pale yellow was shown them—the
youngest seemed pleased with it, but the other whispered
something in Irish, and then laid it aside,—--I remarked

125
the shopman smiled, and asked him what she said:
ic
Dont have any thing to do with it, it is a protestant
colour." Green, in all its shades, is catholic—Orange
is protestant:—Green is not-only the most beautiful,
but it is the national colour.—All the attachments, indeed,
and prejudices of the Catholic, have a reference to the
country, to the soil, to the sod, as he affectionately terms it;
—this is a more natural feeling, and therefore bids fair to be
^
more lasting than the protestant one, which is artificial and
factitious, founded on recollections that time must infallibly
weaken, and on attachments that are extrinsic and adventitious,—Very few of these poor people could speak English
—my friend's pride won't allow him to learn Irish.—
In this instance, as pride often does, he pays for its
gratification—he is obliged to keep a shopman at a large
salary, who acts as an interpreter, and who, I suppose, can
speak Irish very well, for he spoke English very badly ;-—he
translated for me one or two Irish jokes, which he said would
make me laugh heartily. This is always an unfortunate
exordium; whether it was it, or that he allowed the wit to
evaporate in the translation, but I felt more inclination to
yawn. If the jokes were good ones in the Irish language, there
they should have been allowed to remain, for they were
very dull ones in English.-—The grand article purchased by
the men, is a very essential part of human clothing—I
mean breeches—though the Irish peasantry have been stigmatized as republicans, they do not deserve the name of
Sans-culottes; on the contrary, this part of their dress claims
much of their attention ; they pride themselves, on having
them large, and clean, and whole,-—the coat and waistcoat
seem much less thought of, and are often in rags—why they
should be the objects of such honourable preference, I shall
not attempt to conjecture:'but as a hero in romance dis*
covers himself by throwing open luVcloak a.nd displaying

126
his embroidered vest, so we may always judge of an Irish
peasant's riches, by the Condition of his small-clothes.—A
run-a-way couple went to be married by one of those degraded clergymen, called in Ireland Buckle-beggars. The
bridegroom had some money, and was in love ; but he had
more prudence than either—he disguised himself in an old
wig and ragged great coat, and counterfeited poverty, to
have the business done the cheaper.—The ceremony was
pretty far advanced, when the divine's daughter called to him
to stop:—''Father,father,"saidshe|"theman'saknave, and
can afford to pay you—-only look at his honey-comb breeches."—-The bridegroom's ingenuity did not fail him in this
emergency.—« In troth, lass, gin I man tell you the truth,
they are borrowed breeks"
Notwithstanding the great superiority of the Catholics of
this town, both in numbers and riches, the protestants were
able, at the last election, to bring in their favourite, Col.
Foster, to the exclusion of Mr. Ogle, who was supported by
the opposite party.—The contest was very severe, and for
some time the event was doubtful-—the priests used their
best endeavoures—the ladies, too, exerted themselves to the
utmost—a woman and a priest one should have thought
might have gained any election;—they failed, however, on
this occasion.*—The orange triumphed over the green; protestant Ascendency was ascendant—though I am told more
tricks were practised than were very honourable, or very
1ionest.—^My friend related with great glee^ various instances
©fthezealof his acquaintances, who flew from the most
remote parts of the three kingdoms, who encountered storms
by land, and by watery toss in gs on ship-board, and shakings
in stage-coaches, all to give their votes for Mr. Foster.—It
would seem, however, that the zeal of some of these itinerant protestants was not altogether disinterested.—r-Mr. Foster, the father, has so many good things to dispose of, which

127
he always gives to electioneering merit, in preference to
any other.-—The conduct of one of these worthy patriots was
described as particularly noble—he had been in business,
but failed, and had taken refuge in the Isle of Man, from
his creditors—strong insinuations were thrown out against
his character-—he was a speculatist and a gambler; in
shuffling the cards, he was suspected to have more tricks
than honours.—One unfortunate night, suspicion was converted into certainty, and he was detected in the act of
changing a card—his process was very summary—-Irish
justice, in her first transports, is not only blind but deaf; he
was obliged to leave the room more expeditiously .than he
came into it—he would have chosen the door, but his companions preferred the window, and out he flew, luckily, with
no other injury than the dislocation of one of his ankles.
Though a knave, this man was a staunch protestant $ he ha'd
little property, and it would seem less morality, but his zeal
for religion was unbounded—he thought it would be endangered, and the character of his native town degraded, if the
catholics prevailed in the contest—though he ran considerable risk from his creditors, he travelled day and night,
gave his vote for Mr. Foster, and instantly returned to the
Isle; of Man. A#^§rfieial observer, would pronounce this man
a hypocrite, who acted from motives of interest he did not
choose to acknowledge; ainore careful studier of human nature, who is therefore aware of its odd mixture, and wretched
inconsistency, would hesitate before he formed a decided
opinion; a man acquainted with Irish nature,marked as it is
by prejudice, and tinged and discoloured by party, would
readily believe that this person's motives, were what he professed them to be, and that his affairs were so desperate he
could hardly have any other.—Love for one's religion, in
Ireland, by no means implies religion in the common acceptation of the word; it is not devotion, it is not benevolence,

128
nor even morality.—-It is pride,s it is vanity in its cool, it is
delirium, it is phrensy in its heated moments.
It mingles
with their amusements, and floats on their cups ; it is felt by
the drunkard and blackguard, as much as by the most orderly
and sedate.—The concluding line of each verse of a song
I once heard in a company of drunken Orange-men, was as
follows: " And to H
with the breed forever."—By the
breed was meant the catholics, or papists as they are most
commonly termed here ; it is almost needless to add, that
whenever the musician got the length of this benevolent
line, the whole party joined rapturously in the chorus.—
We must not, however, conclude hastily from this, that the
character of Irishmen is radically worse than that of other
men ; extrinsic circumstances only have moulded it into a
form different indeed from its real one ; the same, perhaps
worse prejudices would exist in any other country, where a
Struggle for preponderance between two sects had existed
for so great a length of time—where the mass was. the
conquered, and the handful the conqueror, where the
nation was the oppressed, and a colony the oppressors;
which preserved its hard earned supremacy by ever-wakeful
exertion and vigilant, perhaps necessary severity.—In England, during the civil war, the people went religiously, as
they have often since gone politically, mad™happily, it was
only a remittent, while in Ireland it has been a continued
fever.—During the time it lasted, iowever, it was egually
ridiculous,and equally contemptible.—The presbyterian hated
lawn sleeves, surplices, and set forms of prayer; the puritan
had causes for sorrow no less important; he abominated
music, and could not abide an organ ; the altar was in the
east end of the church, instead of the middle ; he was obliged to bow his head at the name of Jesus, to keep fasts and
feasts, to be mortified in Lent, and to eat plumb-pudding,
and mince pies at Christmas. There was no enduring

such formidable exaction^ and so he went to war to get

129
rid -of them.—In proportion as it was assailed by the waves
of fanaticism, tke Church of England man became more
and more attached to the holy ark, " as he thought it/' of
his own religion : his affections were kindled, his pride
was wTounded, his feelings wrere roused, and, as long as the
Church wranted repose, he could take none of his own,
Hume, in his history of that period, gives many ludicrous
instances of those passing follies:—I shall mention on,e,
not as the most apposite, but as the only one which just now
occurs to my recollection.—-" Stand u p / ' said a drunken
soldier, of the Royal army, as he cam e one night rolling
"home; " stand up," said he, to a church against which he
staggered, {C you drunken b—h,—I will stand by you to
the last."
Mr. Foster's country residence is a few miles from this
towrn; it is highly improved, and delightfully situated : like
the demesnes of almost all the Irish gentlemen, it is open
to every stranger, Whatever difference of opinion may
exist on his public character, there can be none on his
private;—-he is entitled to the highest praise, as a landlord,
and a resident country gentleman.
He has introduced
several valuable improvements in agriculture; he has
bettered tile appearance of the country; and greatly amended the,condition of the surrounding peasantry. The shady
groves, the neat cottage-houses, and rural walks, in the
neighbourhood of Cullen, form an assemblage of pastoral
beauty^ not exceeded by any thing I have seen in England
or elsewhere.—The roads he has made, for many miles
round, are superior, in grandeur and durability, to any I
have ever travelled over.—In consequence of judicious alterations in the corn laws, Ireland, who some years ago had
not grain enough for her own consumption, has now a
large quantity for exportation. He was for several years
afterwards very popular;—particularly at the period of
K

160
the union, which, unawed by the threats, and unsedueed by
the promises, of Mr. Pitt, he opposed most strenuously*
He appears now, however, as universally reprobated, as he
was then admired.—Many causes, no doubt, have com-*
bined to produce this effect^—the immediate one, however*
appears to be the weight of the new taxes^-^Laying on
taxes, at the best of times, is but an ungracious business |
but when commerce had received such a shock, and people
were smarting under thev irritation of their losses, the very
name of a tax was an injury ; and ingenious indeed must
the compounder of it have been, so to disguise the nauseous draughty as to make it grateful to the stomach, or palatable to the taste. In his speech in the House of Com-*
mons, in moving those taxes, he depicted, in glowing
colours, the increasing prosperity of Ireland. In general
he is little of an orator, and less of a poet; but £ plairi
matter of fact man. It would seemf^however, that he did
not confine hlm$elf to facts oil this occasion :—memory
would not serve jiiis purpose, and so he betook himself to
invention^ The people of Dublin, without circumlocution*
accuse him of telling a parcel of monstrous lies^ and assert
that their distress is very great, and that it must fye apparent even to the most heedless observer. In thi& nunlber
I fear I must be reckoned. Distress was not apparent to
me 3 on the contrary, the general aspect of Dublin ap*
peared much improved since I had seen it last. There
was less splendour, perhaps, less frequency of routs, and
less brilliancy of equipage. I do not know that this is an
evil.—But there was less of that hideous contrast of disgusting rags, and squalid misery, which pained the eye
before,—This I am sure is a-good. The lower classes were
cleaner and better clad, more decorous in their manners,
and, whether ft was fancy or not, I thought they had acquired something of an English accent. At every table
to which I was invited I saw nothing but abundance;—a

131
dinner, given to a large company by a reputable merchant,
was a most sumptuous one :—an epicure could have desired
nothing either in food or wine beyond it.—Our entertainer
was a mighty well spoken man ;—at least he thought so
himself, and a party is always of the same opinion with a
man who gives good dinners. After the ladies were withdrawn, he drew a most eloquent picture of the misery of
the times; stagnation of trade, and universal bankruptcy:
in a short time, he said with a sigh, we shouldn't have a
shoe to our foot*, or a bit of bread to put into our mouths.
u
They must be different times from the present, then,**
said I, " glancing my eye on the decanters, with which the
table was covered.". My remark did not interrupt the flow
of his observations ;—he became more eloquent, and more
pathetic \ and one large, elderly gentleman, who, I suspect,
was little accustomed to starvation, looked as if he was
going to cry. Sorrow is always dry, and we swallowed such
large bumpers of claret, that when we joined the ladies,
we had all the visages of Benedictines. I was seated beside
a very elegant young woman ; that was no novelty; all the
young women I met with in Dublin were so ;---she was
very chatty; that was still less so ; all the women I ever
met with, whether old or young, were so. I felt my situation rather awkward;—-she accosted me immediately,
and it was with great difficulty I could answer her: that
which made my host eloquent, made me silent.—I was
tongue tied, or rather wine bound:—not that I wanted
ideas, but they were so confused.—We managed better,
however, than could have been expected ;---the young
lady spoke with such vivacity, that it was quite a treat to
hear her; particularly after the dismal ditty I had jmst
been listening to. She had been only a month in Dublin,
and found it so charming—-walking, and paying visits
every morning, and every night at some party or other.
K2

132
She was not like the good man of the house $—--she had
no fears of being ruined. She described the beauty of the
Rotunda gardens, " where she had been a few nights before," in the glowing colours of enthusiastic and undisappointed youth,——It was quite a fairy scene, she said,
and when she listened to the soft notes of the music, as
they died away upon the breeze, and gazed on the gay assembly who wandered through the delicious shades, illuminated by the coloured lamps that hung in gay festoons
from the branches, she could have fancied herself in Elysium. , I contrived to tell her that her description pleased
me so much that I should certainly visit her Elysium next
evening.— u Oh^'do," said she, " I will be there myself, with my aunt and a large party; I will introduce you
to them, and I am sure you will acknowledge it is a
thousand times prettier than Vauxhall." *' In ycur company, I am sure it would be so/' This is probably what I
should have said, had I been sober—I was tipsy, and began
a fine speech on the occasion.—Nonsensical enough, I
have no doubt, could I remember i t ; something I do recollect about verdant meads, and purling streams, and the
moon's pale beams. At that particular part, however, she
unkindly withdrew her light, and left me in utter darkness :
in plain language, I got confused in my speech, and was
unable to proceed any further. Claret, I find, is but a poor
Helicon to draw inspiration from: the chrystal stream is ten
times better;—probably, because, like most other authors,
it is a drink I am more accustomed to.
Even in this remote place the progress of refinement begins to be felt, aridj within the last four years, two cases of
adultery have occurred—the last of which was attended
with circumstanced rather peculiar—the lady's name was
N-~-—— | the gallant's, Colonel S
—-, nephew and heir
to Lord A————.The husband, who was suspicious of an:

133
Intrigue, forbade his wife to speak to him :—meeting them
a few days afterwards conversing on the road, he gave the
Colonel a severe horsewhipping—a duel followed, but, after
the first shot, the magistrates arrived and put them under
an arrest,—-the Colonel was himself married to an amiable
woman who had borne him four children.—After a short,
but severe struggle, between duty and inclination, he gave
up his commission, and fled, with his gentle Desdemona, to
the Isle of Man—the receptacle of run aways, from this
country, of every description.—The lady fearful, however,
that when passion subsided, his fondness for his youngest
son might cause him to return, contrived to decoy the child
from his mother, and carried him along with them.—Candour
obliges me here to mention, that this lady was not a native
of Drogheda, nor even of Ireland—she was the daughter of a
merchant in London; where j if there are some vicious, there
are a much greater number of virtuous women.—In
ancient times, parliaments were frequently held in Drogheda, one of which attainted the great Earl of Desmond, who
was beheaded in consequence, the fifteenth of February, 1467
—report makes his crime to be extorting coyne and livery
—which means free quarter for horse and man, and money
besides.—Tradition, however, tells a different story, and
says that the real cause of his death was not the ostensible
one :-—he despised the king, for his marriage with the lady
Elizabeth Grey, and often said she was a tailor's widow.—
This was an affront it was hardly in female nature to forgive)
and,though the poor Earl was so distant, her Majesty con«
trived to reach him with her shears.—-King Edward^ it is
said, was willing to forgive him, but the Queen stole the
privy signet, and put it to an order for his execution.* -The
irritability of tailors, to insinuations thrown out against their
profession, seems at all times to have been very great.---The
fraternity in London, luckily for Mr. Dowton^ had not so

134
ihuch power as this Atropos of a queen—he advertized a
farce for his benefit which exposed them to ridicule—they
made a riot to prevent its representation—-had they held
the scissars of fate, they would have cut the actor as well
as his comedy short.

CHAP, XIII.
DROGHEDA.

T H E R E are several pretty walks about this'town, which
however seem to be little frequented-—the weather was
charming, and the sea-breeze, which breathed on one of
them, made it delightful; yet it was silent and solitary as the
deserts, of Arabia.—Walking for amusement seems much
less common than in England—the females, I suppose,
are more domestic ; this, doubtless, is a great blessing to
their lovers, and husbands, but it is monstrous inconvenient to the traveller, who soon tires of the most beautiful
landscape that is not brightened " by the human face divine.".
The view from the Castle-mount, as it is called, is very
fine; it was erected a short time before the late unfortunate
rebellion, and a battery planted on it, which commands the
whole town ; whether in consequence of this, or other prudent precautions, Drogheda remained tolerably quiet, though
the number of the disaffected was supposed to be very great
—lenient measures, however, were as little had recourse to
as in other places.—The yeomanry corps of the neighbourhood were assembled in the town, and billeted on the inhabitants—they were all staunch protestants, and of course
outrageously loyal.— -Loyalty, like charity, covers a multitude
of sins 3—they all drank and caroused, swallowed wine and

135
whisky in pail fulls, and, in their zeal for the good old cause,
I fear, committed a number of bad actions.—The Catholics
of Drogheda were to the protestants in the proportion of
eight to one ; and every catholic was a rebel of course, who
aimed at nothing short of the extirpation of the protestant
religion, by the destruction of these its pious and learned
defenders.—Their powers were unlimited, their prejudices
were strong, and their fears were great:—when present fear
was added J > former recollection, it was hardly to be exx
pected they would bear their faculties very meekly-—fear
has ever been the parent of the most horrid deeds.—-Nero
and Domitian were capricious, brutal, and malicious, almost
from their first accession to the throne ; but they were not
decidedly cruel, until they knew they were hated : fear, then,
saw an assasin in every form, and a dagger in every hand;
and the most atrocious deeds, were considered only necessary acts of self preservation.—The Catholic hated the
protestant.—Alas ! that is not wonderful—he had suffered
much, and had sufferedlong,—he was beatdown, and oppressed-—he was despised, reviled, and persecuted—a stranger in
his native land, he could obtain no honour, and gain no distinction :—-even the land which gave him birth, which to him
was nothing but a cradle and a grave—the religion to which
he so fondly clung, which enabled him to bear his misfortunes upon earth, and pointed out to him happiness hereafter in heaven, were terms of contempt and reproach.
The protestant hated the catholic—wherefore—his revenge
might have been satiated—he had inflicted misery enough,
his vanity might have been gratified—his was the triumph
---his avarice might have been appeased-—his was the
gain.—Wherefore,, then, did he hate him,—because he feared
* him—because though disarmed^ he was not helpless,
because though cast down he was struggling to rise, and,
Antaeus like, might rise stronger from the touch of his

136*
parent e a r t h : — h e hated himhecausehe had inflicted misery,
because his was the triumph, because his was the gain.
" Forgiveness to the injured does belong,
But he ne'er pardons, who has done the wrong.'*
The conduct of the yeomanry, however, on the following
occasion, was highly meritorious. A party of the W e x ford rebels, closely pressed by the army, separated themselves from the main body, and, without any apparent
object, except the temporary one of avoiding the force
that pursued them, or the vague expectation of being
joined by the country people of the places through
which they passed, traversed in a wild and rapid manner,
a distance of upwards of a hundred miles; and, at length,
by chance, rather than design, arrived in the neighbourhood of Drogheda.---The intelligence of this, as may be
supposed, threw the royalists into considerable confusion |
their force was inferior to the rebels, who, instructed by the
warfare they had carried on for several weeks against the
King's troops, were now become veterans in the art of war,
—-The volunteers, however, leaving a small force for the
defence of the town, marched out with great courage to
meet them;—courage was universally displayed by all the
yeomanry corps, and would have entitled them to the
highest praise, had it been oftener than it was connected
with humanity. On their arrival at the spot where the rebels
were posted, they immediately attacked and dispersed them
in every direction. These unfortunate wretches made, it would
appear, but a poor resistance, unworthy of their former reputation.T-rThis will not be wondered at, by those who understand the character of the lower Irish—-who are, beyond all
others, governed by wild and unsettled emotion, and are
often as helpless in depression, as they are bold and enterprizing under less desperate circumstances,—An immense

137
distance of country lay between them and their home,—
their, bodies were exhausted by fatigue and want of food,-—
and their minds dispirited by the disappointment of their
hopes of being joined by great numbers.—few joined
them, and those who did were of no use,—unaccustomed to
face danger, at the first approach of it they ran away;—their
situation was desperate therefore,—of success they had no
hope, and of mercy they had no chance. The courage of the
Irish peasant, like all his other virtues, is headlong, violent,
and unreflecting—Furious in attack, cheered by example,
and animated by hope, regardless of consequences, he rushes
boldly into the cannon's mouth; but in hopeless danger,
which he has leisure coolly to survey, his fortitude almost
always forsakes him,~^despair, which often gives courage
to others, who never possessed it before, softens and relaxes
his-—he looks round upon the world he is so soon about to
leave,—he thinks upon his father, his mother, his wife, his
children; he calls them by their names, he addresses them as
if they were present; the field which he laboured, the cottage which gave him birth, the tree which gave him shelter,
all are present to his imagination,
Dulces
Moriens reminiscitur Argos,
The waves of passion subside, and tenderness possesses him
solely—The lion's heart feels all a woman's weakness, and he
who the moment before would have met death undaunted,
melts into tears and unavailing lamentations. Every person who lias seen the Irish and Englishman in circumstances of peril, would, perhaps, remark the superior dai*jngness of the former ; but he would equally be struck with
admiration, at the manly resolution and stern stoicism with
which the latter meets death when it is inevitable. " God
have mercy on us ! (exclaimed I) sitting at the open win-

138

dowof an East Indiaman, on seeing a man struggling in
the waves, who had fallen overboard; " nothing can save
him—-he must die, he must die l" " That was what I was
born for !" said the poor fellow, as he turned his manly countenance towards me. The waves bore him so close to me
that I thought I could have touched him with my hand had I
Extended it—the next was of more fatal consequence, and
buried him in its bosom for ever.
I should, perhaps, apologize for the following; yet it is so
characteristic that I cannot bring myself to suppress it,
* I walked through: the town this morning to form a more
"
accurate ideathan I yet had done of its appearance and dimensions. I was accosted by a woman. I thought she was a
beggar, and was preparing to give her some trifle; when she
Was pleased to make me acquainted with the real nature
of her profession.—I looked at her with astonishment, not
\vithout some mixture of horror ;— this Drogheda Cyprian
was, I think, above six feet high; her matted and sandy locks,
strayed over her immense shoulders and forehead—her
cloak, wiiicjh was of the same colour as her hair, flew in
tatters behind her, and through the innumerable crevices of her
petticoat, the wind of heaven, visited her limbs full roughly.—Jt was a real Spartan one, and Ly curgus himself might have
been satisfied with the slit that ran up the front of it.—Though
she invited me courteously to the bower of love, I declined
it; civilly, however, for I wished to -avoid all kind of engagement with so v formidable an amazon.—I was gently
moving off when she caught hold of my arm, and swore I
should not part with her in that manner,—had'nt she come
the whole, way across the street, and was I going to give her
all .that trouble for nothing ?—In England, every foreigner
is a Frenchman,—In Ireland, every person, whose accent differs from the national one, is in like manner an
Englishman.~She had been with many Englishmen, but
they were not half-men, she politely said; an Irishman was

139
the man for the ladies, " He must be a man indeed/' said
I, parodying Shakespeare,
" That dare look on that
" Which might appal the devil."
It would have been as well for me to have reserved my
quotation for some other occasion,—my fair companion did
not quote* in return, she was too great a genius for that;
she addressed me in a style of eloquence altogether original •>
there was information in it too.—I was an English hog, my
belly was my God ; some Yorkshire rider who had run away
with his master's bags, and was now setting up for a gentleman ; or a Londpn hair-dresser, perhaps, who had stolen
the parson's best coat, and was now come abroad to shew
himself. When a girl of the town gets abusive in the
street, there is only one method of stopping it, that, however,
is an effectual one, and succeeds as, well with her as with
members of parliament.—I gave her some money; the effect
was instantaneous.-—a War smoothed his wrinkled front,"—
u
I was an honourable, nay, a most honourable gentleman.'/
There was something in my face that struck her the first
moment she saw me,—Ogh, and wasn't that the reason she
had come over to me, though one of her best customers was
waiting for her under a gateway.—She swore by the holy
crook of St. Patrick, and the Missed toe of St.—I beg the
Saint's pardon, but I really have forgot the name,—that she
would go that instant and drink my health in a bumper of
whiskey.—She prayed the sweet Jesus to guard me by
land and by water, on shipboard and-on horseback, and
finally wished me a happy sight of my friends in Yorkshire,
of which country she persisted in thinking me a native,—
though I should have supposed my giving , her money,
without getting any thing in return, might have convinced
her of the contrary.
We never (it is said) know the full value of good, until

140

we have experienced evil.—I am sure I never knew the worth
of silence so much as on parting with this loquacious dame.
To enjoy it to perfection, I sauntered into the church-yard,
the door of which stood charitably open :—in general, howeyer, Irish church-yards, different from English ones, are
rigidly appropriated to their proper purposes,—they are
receptables for the dead only,—the living are excluded)
and the tour writer is deprived, by this arrangement, of an
easy method of shewing his wit, as well as filling up a few
pages by the insertion of quaint epitaphs, and ill-spelt
inscriptions.—In Drogheda church-yard, however, I saw
nothing of this sort; the inscriptions were modestly written.—
In general they expressed the day of death and the age only.
The characters were remarkably well formed, and cut so
deeply that they promised equal durability with the stone
itself.-—One epitaph I insert, on account of the lofty panegyric a mourning husband passes on his wife;—few husbands I am afraid can say as much for a living one.-—
u
Her body and mind immaculate, without one stain of
filth or sin,—justice held her balance in her breast—truth
its temple—taught of God, her religion was in spirit,
not in mode. Faithful, benevolent, lovely and beloved,
her face the emblem of her mind, would you have her
fellow, you must follow her to Heaven."-—>
It is
likewise recorded, with great triumph, that this lady,
(Mrs. A. Fisher) was lineally descended from the great
Earl of Clarendon—She is not the only native of Drogheda, however, for whom a kindred with a great man has
been claimed.-—There lived here about sixty years ago,
one Guy Harrison, who boasted of his deseentirom Shakespeare;—he said he was his grand nephew, and delighted in
speaking of his uncle. This anecdote is mentioned by a
gentleman who often conversed with him ; but who was
then too young to take much interest in any thing that
related to our immortal bard.-—Harrison kept a little shop3

141
in which he sold thread,, tape, lace, and other small haberdashery—his circumstances were indigent.-—Should not
some enquiry be made concerning his family?—^Perhaps, if
he had any children some of them may be still in being,
1 have likewise heard, that within these few years, a lineal
descendent and namesake of the celebrated Spenser, was
resident in this neighbourhood—that he was in possession
of an original portrait of the poet; which he valued so
highly, as to refuse five hundred pounds which had been
offered for it™with many curious papers and records,
concerning his venerable ancestor.—The church is a neat
and elegant building, shadowed by lofty elms,, which give
an air of suitable solemnity to it—this is the burial
ground of the Protestant—-not that the Catholic is excluded—but so strong is the hatred they bear each other, that
there seems a disinclination, even that their ashes should
mingle—evil passions keep them apart during life—they
disturb even the repose of the tomb.
The Catholic
burying place is about half a mile distant, in a field on which
a monastery of Dominican Friars once stood.—A small
portion of it is still standing, and no doubt serves to give
greater sanctity to the spot.—There was less order and
neatness here than in the other, but more of wildness and
fancy;—-the thistle grew unchecked, the grass waved slow
and solemn, and the wild flower breathed its perfume on
the chill mansions of the dead. A rude heap of stones,
often, was the only covering, while in others, the earth raised
into a mound, and bedecked with a green sod, secured from
outrage the bones that slumbered underneath,—at the
head of all of them, however, a small stone was placed,
in a perpendicular direction, on which the name, and age
of the deceased was marked, under a black cross, and the
following initials
—
I. S. M . —
Jesus Salvator
Mundi.—On a great number was likewise inscribed, Gloria
in excelsis deo.—One monument struck me, as well by its

142
beauty, as the singularity of its inscription :—It was a light
and graceful pillar, somewhat higher than a man, crowned
with an Urn. The lady to whom it was erected, died in
child-birth at the age of twenty-seven : after enumerating:
her good qualities, and bewailing her early fate, the author,who was her husband, concludes thus.-.*--" Wrapt in EVERLASTING sleep lies buried here/'—-—This is the first instance of tlae kind I ever met with in a church-yard, and I
trust it will be the last,—A tomb stone, is surely of alt
places the most unfit to record ones infidelity on.—It robs
man of comfort, at the hour, and on the spot where of
all other$ he wants it the most.—The belief of a future
state of existence, is at all times and seasons a delightful
one—in rosy youth and health, in the lap of prosperity,' or
the soft bed of love 3—but in the day of adversity, on the
bed of sickness, and in the abode of sorrow, where else
can man seek for consolation,—-its blessings then are felt
vvhen all other blessings fail us.—It comforts those that
mourn, it binds up the broken in heart, it gilds the walls
of the prison, and makes the straw bed of poverty, a couch
of softest down;—and at the last solemn hour, when we
behold the parting struggles of him we love, when the bed
rocks with his convulsions, wh£n we look on his changed
face, on his eye, fixt and glassy ; when the cold damp of
death stands on his forehead, and its icy hand presses on
his labouring heart, even then we do not mourn, as those
who are without hope.
-" I know that my Redeemer
liveth, and that in the latter, day he will stand upon this
earth, and though after my death, worms destroy my
body, yet in my flesh shall I see God."———Comfortable doctrine, cheering words, delightful delusion ;—
should it even prove to be one.—Stop then, Barbarian, hold
thy profane tongue, drop thy infidel pen j—not for the
sake of the dead, they are past your power ; but in mercy
to the living.—Spare poverty its little hoard, spare the

14S
;rey hairs of declining age 3—rob not the widow, who lanents a husband,, rob not the mother who mourns over
, darling child, of her last hope., and only consolation*
3ast your imagination into the grave in which he is lying,
md behold her, who, with a countenance of unutterable woe,
3ends over it;—-who, with tongue that speaks not, with
*yes that weep not, contemplates the last sad receptacle of
ill her hopes, the pride and joy of her life, thus laid low.
Behold her convulsed frame, as the earth falls heavy on his
coffin,-—hearken to her frantic scream, when it hides it for
ever from her view.
-Hear, then, God of mercy, her
fervent, her heart-rending prayer.—Softly mayst thou rest
in transient sleep, happily may we meet in life everlasting.

CHAP. XlVc
MoNAGHAN.

IMMEDIATELY after writing the above, I took my seat
in. the London deny mail, for this town. I proposed
Reaving Drogheda a day sooner, but found it impossible.—•
An Irishman's house, like Polyphemus's den, is of easy
access ; the difficulty is in getting out of it.—My friend
qould not speak Irish, and hated the Papists ; but in all
other respects he was a genuine Irishman. He loved his
acquaintance, and valued his Whiskey only as he could
have one to share it with him—he would have had me partake liberally of it the night of my departure y—but as
the sickness of a coach is quite enough, without drunken
sickness into the bargain, I excused myself with some difficulty.The coach came in from Dublin about one
ill the morning.—On entering it, I found two wojpQes

\44
seated on one side; I took the opposite one, and flattered myself with the " hope of undisturbed sleep
till morning.—I was stretching myself on the seat for the
purpose, when the return of three stout fellows to their
places made me sit upright.—-I was squeezed in between
two of them, muffled up in great coats, though the night was
insufferably close.—The weakest, says the Proverb, goes to
the wall.—The last comer into a Coach, is in like manner
thrust into the middle.-—One of the women, who complained
of rheumatism, kept chewing something, which, from its
horrible smell, I think was garlic—the men's breaths were
reeking with Punch like a furnace:—-Whiskey and garlic together, could not form a very delectable atmosphere.-—I verily
believe it was heated above eighty—The perspiration stood
in large drops on my forehead, and even trickled down my
Face.
I thought of going on the outside, but the night, though
warm, was wret, and it likewise seemed full.—-I had no alternative, therefore, but to remain STEWING where I was j praying, as I most anxiously did, for the morning.—To mend the
matter, after travelling a few miles, the man on my left hand
fell asleep, and began snoring like a Rhinoceros:-—his head
every instant came bump up against me, though I drove it
back with a violence that would have awoke any man who had
swallowed a less powerful opiate.—-Never did I pass a more
unpleasant night; for I had not only the annoyance of this
SLEEPING BEAUTY on the one side, but of his companion on the other :—drunkenness, which made the one
sleep, set the other singing; and, in a uniform, monotonous
tone, like the drone of a pair of Bag-pipes, he gave us
bright

CHANTICLEER,

GRAMMACHREB, a n d

LISTEN TO

LOVE.—Never did the soft notes of the latter
breathe from more discordant lips. He afterwards laboured
through another, which had, I think, upwards of forty verses:
I recollect two of them.
THE VOICE OF

145
** You are welcome from the stormy ocean,
I'm glad to see you return'd again 3
I hope kind fortune sent you promotion,
While you were plo h ng the raging main,
To you, my jewel, my friends prov'd cruel,
Which caused me many a silent tear ;
'Twas for your sake my heart did ache,
Whenfirstyou parted your Molly dear."
Prudence kept me for some time silent. The musician
had the fist of an ox, and looked very well cut out for boxing, whatever he might for singing.—At length, finding his
songs, like the Sultaness' Scheherazade stories, were inexhaustible, I lost all patience, and asked him angrily how he
thought people could sleep, if he kept disturbing them
in that manner.—-•" And is it sleep that you are talking about,
my honey) (said he with the most perfect unconcern ;) faith,
and if its that you want, you should have staid at home in
your neat comfortable bed, and laid yourself snug between
your two sheets; the devil a soul here would have thought of
Wakening you."-—Though I did not much relish the freedom
t)f his address, I thought it as well not to pursue the argument any further, and, after a moment or two's pause, he
changed his song into a whistle.—He was not more fortunate
here than in the of her: exhausted with fatigue, at length
1 fell asleep, and left him in the middle of Rule Britannia,
after having gone through the Coolan with its thirteen variations.—I was awoke by the stopping of the coach in
Carrickmacross, about seven in the morning.—I got out,
and sauntered a little about the town, while the horses were
changing.—I think it consists of one street only, which is
a very broad one • but whether It Is situated on a hill or in a
valley I am sure I have no recollection—that terrible fellow's song still rung in my ears. Had I been iu Pluto's

146
place> I would have given him not only Euridice, but half:
the women in my dominions, to be rid of his piping. Happily he went no further than this town, of which he was a
native.—Notwithstanding the altercation of the preceding
night, he came up to me in the street, and invited me into
his house to have a drop of something, warm, just to keep
the damp out of my stomach this cold morning.—I answered
him dryly, that I never drank in a morning—then come over
said he, and have a comfortable cup of tea, the Mistress
will boil the kettle in an instant.-—I should have been a
brute to have retained resentment against so worthy a creature.-—I was obliged to decline his offer, however, for the
coach Was preparing to set off.
On returning to it, I found it almost entirely deserted—-one
of the women only remained—she who had the rheumatism
and chewed garlic—I felt no inclination to enter into conversation with her,—it is but a poor pun, but as I conceived
it, I will bring it forth:—-she probably would have given
me foul words; I therefore threw myself into the corner occupied by the ci-devant snorer, and betook myself to follow his
example.—The distance from Carrickmacross to Castleblayney is thirteen miles ; when we had got about half way,
I awoke and looked out. The morning was wet, the road was
rough, and the country was dreary. Within, the landscape
was not more cheering—-1 shut my eyes a second time, nor
did I awake till the guard's horn announced our arrival in
jCastleblaney.
Mr. J, Han way, I think It was, who wrote a long pamphlet on the injurious effects of tea ; the people read> and
wondered, and, as is usual when told to give up what they
like, drank it more than ever : had he been jolted all night
in a stage coach, and then experienced the good effects
jrom it that I did, he would, I dare say, have given it a better
character.—I sat down sick and weary, and Morpheus^ with

.147
his leaden hand, pressed heavy on my eye-lids. Had I taken
Up my pen to have written, nothing, I am sure, but laudanum,
wouldhave flown from it—but no sooner had I swallowed a few
cups of this delicious fluid, than drowsiness and ill-humour,
black children of the night, flew away as fast as the Tfojans did
at the sight of Achilles. Castle Blayney is a poor-looking place,
and contains probably a hundred houses 2—-it takes its
name from the noble family of Blayney, to whom it belongs.
The demesne joins the town ; the present Lord had the old
house taken down, and the present expensive one erected in
its stead. I have never seen it, but am told it is a most fantas^
tic building. The Inn where I breakfasted was likewise built
by his Lordship—it is a large and handsome house, and seems
^ery well kept. There was a smaller house a little distance
from it, but it was unfortunately burned down a few months
ago !-— The Landlord saved himself and one of his children;
but his wife, two infants, a woman servant, and two soldiers,
who were billeted on him, perished.—The Grand Jury, at the
last Assizes, laid the amount of the damage done him on the
county, so that he will not be a pecuniary sufferer* Some
years ago, the inferiority of Ireland to England was in nothing more remarkable than in the state of her Inns; they
were wretched and miserable hog-styes, rather than the
habitations of men; they had abundance of meat and drink,
it is true \ but filthy and disgusting, it was the abundance
of a shambles, or a distillery:-—a great alteration has takenplaeein this respect, partly from the increase of civilization,
partly, as in the present instance, from the exertions of the
gentlemen who had towns on their estates.—Englishmen sometimes travelled into Ireland—good eating and
drinking, are essential points with them,—they value the
comforts of a tavern, life, more, perhaps, than any other people ; and, accustomed to a high degree of it at home, they
3-2

148
edlild ill-brook the want of them in the sister kingdom,--~
the more especially as they were always charged a very good
price for very bad cheer.—Irish Inn-keepers did not trouble
tlieir heads much about the improvements of their English
brethren j but they adopted their prices. They returned, therefore, dissatisfied and discontehted, and* in their catalogue of;
Irish wretchedness, the state of the Inns was the most prominent grievance. When the Irish gentlemen awoke from the
slothful slumber or* ages, and seriously set about introducing
improvement, they began with these evils, which, though not
the greatest, were the most talked about—which met the
eye of the traveller and stranger, and wounded their own
vanity by exposing their country and themselves to derision.—
Good Inns were therefore built, and the management of them
intrusted to discreet and sober men.—It is but justice to
their labours to say* that they have in general produced very
beneficial effects.—Irish Inns, as far as I have seen, are
now only second to English ones—in some respects not
second.—The same spirit of assimilating the appearance of
this country* to that of England, Jias dictated many other
of Lord Blayney's improvements in this neighbourhood.—
Direction posts have been put up at the different cross-roads*
decently executed, and of a convenient height; not like
many I have seen in England and Wales, so high as to be
only visible to Hawks and Eagles.---the people of Ireland
do not exclusively make bulls,—It seems no bad practical
one* to construct Finger-posts of such a height as to be
illegible.
The white-washing of cottages* on and near the great
road, which has been done by his lordship's order* and I
believe* at his expense* gratifies the stranger's eye* and
tends to give him a favourable idea of the country.—It is
deeply to be lamented* however* that in this* as m other
parts of Ireland, the showey and ornamental, should be so
much more attended to* than the useful* though' less gla-

149
ring 5—-that benevolence, not vanity, had presided ;—that
the stranger and his opinion, had been considered less,
and the country and its inhabitants more 5—that those
efforts which were excited by the dread of ridicule, to
escape from the sneer of pride, from the contempt of
unfeeling prosperity, had not sprung from nobler motives,
and been directed to valuable objects.—To make the outside of an Irish cabin, resemble an English cottage, might
gratify the landlord's pride, but could add nothing to its
owner's comfort:—the improvement should have commenced within, by giving habits of industry and employment to himself; by giving food arid raiment, to his halfstarved, and not always half-clad wife and children;—
teaching the vine to bend gracefully round his little abode
of wretchedness, and scenting his clay-built walls with
the honeysuckle's perfume, was little better than an insult—
it was the sun shining through the bars of a prison, and
playing on the wretched prisoner's face, in mockery as it
were of his woes—it was painting a skeleton, it was
ornamenting a sepulchre:—" Which, fair without, is all
bones and rottenness within."
1 amused myself with
these refiectibns, standing at the inn door, till the coach
was ready \ I was at lengthy -roused from my meditations,
by the clamorous solicitations of a number of beggars,
who gathered round me;—I surveyed the little group with
attention,—it consisted of ten persons, men, women, and
children ; where they all came from, I am at a loss to conjecture ;—the street was perfectly empty a minute before ;-•*•beggars, like robbers, smell travellers' money afar off. They
had, in general, the appearance of being well fed, nor were
they very badly clad; their dress bore evident marks of
industry, as it was patched over with different colours, like
a home-made quilt, or Joseph's garment 2—they were not
so mild or unobtrusive as English beggars, but with that
exception, I saw little difference. I gave them some tri-

iSo
fling change, and in return they gave me a world, of blessings. Ireland is the best country in the world for an
economical man to be charitable in, for he always gets the
full value of his money in praises, to say nothing of the
prayers for his future happiness.—A chaise driving up to
the door, with two ladies/and an elderly gentleman, one of
the women asked for something :—^ I-11 not give you anything," said the gentleman, a and I'll tell you the reason, you
are drunk." "And!tell you," said the woman, " that if you
were not a gentleman, and stepping out of your coach, I would
say, by C—st you are a liar."——Lord Blayney resides very
little on his estate;— he has been in the army from his
earliest youth, and is at present with his regiment in
Gibraltar;—the profession of arms seems as hereditary
in his family as nobility;-—he is the eleventh Lord, and
was born November, 1770;-—he is a brave soldier, though,
if all I have heard of his conduct in the late rebellion be
true, he has but little pretensions to the character of a
humane one;-—he commanded a body of light infantry, in the
year 1797* which generally lay in the fields, and moved
with great rapidity from place to place, as insubordination
made it necessary. He was not only distinguished for
the celerity of his movements, but the decision of his conduct ;—the fame of his exploits preceded himself, and,
wherever he and his little army came, he found the place
deserted. A soldier is seldom a logician, and what was
most likely fear, he denominated treason.—--In his zeal, he
probably forgot that the soldier and loyalist must eat as
well as the rebel, and that the famine his conduct might
give birth to, would involve them in equal destruction.'
To authorize the burning of houses, appears to me equally
inhuman and impolitic :—-these burnings, doubtless, caused
no small terror and consternation to the disaffected, but
they caused also a loss to the epmmunity at large; rendered

151
many quite desperate, who were deprived of all \ and aug-*
mented the violence of hatred in those among whom these
houseless people took refuge.—The destruction of corn
and other provisions, was likewise a most unjustifiable
measure, and its effects were felt in dearth and famine,
for two years afterwards; probably in this, as in other cases,
the lower actors in the political scene, often exceeded the
limits, within which administration would Irave confined
them, if that had been practicable, after they had been
once vested with authority. It is said that in early life,
Lord Blayney evinced the same spirit he displayed in riper,
years:—one of his boyish amusements was of so singular
a nature, I cannot forbear mentioning it:—he delighted in
slaughtering cattle, and often gave the butchers in"'his
neighbourhood money, for leave to knock down the devoted
ox: the great dexterity he displayed on such occasions,
was highly applauded by the regular professors, and he
became as renowned a cow killer, as Guy, Earl of Warwick,
The old people augured favourably of his military prowess^
Irom his proficiency in this kindred art, as well as the expression of his countenance, which I am told is more akin
to that of Mars, than of Addnis ;-—he seldom spoke in the
Irish House of Lords ; his talent was action;—-his knockme-down arguments would be but little relished in that
Illustrious Assembly, where reason, as is well known, was
only attended to.
About nine miles .from Castleblayney, is the little town of
Castleshane; it belongs to a gentleman of the name of
Lucas; the house is a mean and wretched edifice;—if the
family is as ancient as the mansion house, he must be hard
to please, who is not satisfied with its antiquity.
The coach arrived at Monaghan, about two o'clock; I had
an introduction to a gentleman of the town, who insisted
on my spending a day at his house.—-I confess I complied

152
with little reluctance 5 I was tired of the coach, and glad
t a exchange it for a comfortable night's sleep, warm room,
and good dinner, During the interval, I amused myself with
walking about the town; it had ceased raining, and an
indifferent morning was succeeded by a very fine day,
Monaghan, is the assize town of the county, and was formerly a place of some strength; Sir John Davies, in a
letter to the Earl of Salisbury, says, he visited it in the
suite of the Lord Deputy, in July, 1606. They travelled
with a small escort of eight score foot, and the same number of horse, which is an argument, he says, of a good
time, and a confident deputy. It did not, then, deserve the
name of a town, and consisted of a few scattered cabins
round the fort;—it belonged, with large tracts of the
country, to Hugh Roe M'Mahon, chief of his name; who
petitioned the deputy to be settled in his inheritance, and
the Irish say it cost him six hundred cows to get a promise
of it;*-—if such a promise was made, it was never performed:-—he was tried, condemned, and executed, for
levying forces two years before, to distrain for rent he pretended due to him* The Irish say he had hard measure,
and that his great crime was his large possessions. His son,
or grandson, took an active part in the grand rebellion(1641);
the very morning that it broke out, he surprized the castle
of Monaghan, garrisoned by a company of foot, commanded by one of the Lord Blaney's. After a fortnight's
confinement, his lordship was taken to his own orchard,
hanged, stripped, and thrown into a ditch. M'Mahon
indulged himself in the gratification of his revenge:—
<( Do you remember (said he to him) how you hanged my
brother, and made me fly my country for several years, but
I will hang yoii before I go ; but if you will, you shall have
a priest." To which the other answered, " I am of the true
church, and so assured of my salvation, that though you

15S
would spare my life, yet I will not alter my faith. Monaghan is a neat little place ; it has a thriving trade in linen,
and other articles;—-the inhabitants are mostly presbyterians ; their meeting-house is a large and unornamented
building. I was forcibly struck with the contrast between
this town, and the one I quitted the night before,—--it was
as if one had fallen asleep in London, and awoke in Edinburgh : the 'accent, looks, and manners of the people
were so different. Monaghan may be considered the boundary of the north in this direction, and here its peculiarities, and strongly-marked Scottish character, begin
to be distinguished. I, who am acquainted with the Northern Irish accent, know it the instant I hear it—an Englishman almost always takes it for Scotch; but he is deceived,
it is neither Scotch nor Irish, but a mixture of both, as are
tne people.—A great proportion of the inhabitants of this
part of the kingdom, are the descendants of Scotchmen,
settled here after the accession of James the First, to the
throne of England.—-It would appear incredible, how pertinaciously they retain the customs and usages of their
ancestors, was it not considered, they were settled among
a people they detested, whose talents they despised, and
whose religion they abhorred.—In some of the maritime
counties opposite Scotland, the Irish were almost entirely
expelled; the inhabitants, therefore, retain their Scotch manners in more primitive freshness.—In Monaghan, subjugation of the unfortunate native, was equally complete,
but expulsion was by no means so general; the new comers
took possession only of the valleys and fertile spots, and
kindly left the native, the bogs and mountains.—By degrees,
as fear abated, and rancour subsided^ he crept slowly down>
and the lowly presbyterian, who was now become of consequence enough to have another to do for him, what he was
once happy to have to do himself, allowed him to labour

154
the land he once possessed, and when his spirit was fairljr
broke to his fortunes, treated his humble hewer of wood*
and drawer of water, with something that resembled kindness. He still, however, regarded him with distrust ;---he
rarely admitted him into the house where he slept, and
when he did, a large door, double locked, separated their
.apartments :---*( Never trust an Eerishman, gude troth he's
a foul chap—gin ye tak him in at your boosom, he'el be
oot at your sleeve ."—-The presbyterian farmer often spoke
thus, many generations after he had become an Irishman
himself.—-In the progress of time, the ' two nations were
in some degree intermingled;—Irish vivacity, enlivened
Scotch gravity;*--Irish generosity, blended with Scotch
frugality, and a third character was formed, better, probably, than either, but certainly different from both.—But
still be it remembered, that the intrinsic character was
Scotch; the adventitious matter only Irish ;•—the picture
still retained the mark of the ancient master, it was the
ornament and drapery, the gilding and frame only, that
was the work of a modern hand. The first appearance of
the northern, his shrewd, and penetrating air, his steady
gait, his plain and unassuming manner and accent, are all
Scotch; it is on closer inspection only, as the character
developes itself, as the folds of the drapery become more
open, that we perceive the changes, the progress of time,
the influence of air and of soil, association with the
native, and some slight intermixture of blood, have produced in it. I shall enter on this subject, however, more
fully hereafter j I thought it necessary merely to touch on
it here, that the reader may have some idea of the'
people I propose introducing him to.—I give him fair
warning, they "are different from his pre-conceived opinion
of them—Though' born in Ireland, they make few bulls
to excite his mirth, nor do they commit many blunders, ta

155
gratify his pride by the contemplation of his own superiority. They are a sagacious, a prudent, and a virtuous
people; not inferior in these respects to the English, or
any nation under the sun—They saved Ireland, to England, at a season of great jeopardy and peril; should she
ever again be assailed by rebellion, and insurrection, their
talents, their energies, and their courage, would, I have no
doubt, be exerted for the same purpose.—Would to God
I could say, I had no doubt, with the same degree of success. —But I do not think this, and therefore it would
be criminal to say it.The gaol is a paltry building;—it
speaks, however, favourably for the morality of the c o u n t y it is too small to hold many prisoners, and too weak to
retain desperate ones. I was looking up at the beam from
which criminals are suspended, when a man, suddenly bolting out of the door, asked me if I would hop in and
have a peep at the prisoners.—-I gazed at him, not thoroughly understanding his meaning,—he repeated the
question," What shall I see there?" I asked. "See," repeated
he r in great exultation, (thinking, I suppose, he had got a
country novice, who would reward him handsomel y,) (i you
will see prisoners of all sizes, and two fellows who are to
be tried at the next assizes for life and death"—As I had
nothing better to do, I thought I would step in for an
instant and have a look at those blood-thirsty felons. The
turnkey, however, gave them a higher character than they
deserved—-they were only shop-lifters, and the worst that
could befal them was transportation;—the number of prisoners did not seem to exceed ten or a dozen;—they had
almost all yellow and sickly countenances. The men had
long beards, probably not shaved from their first coming
into prison. Human misery is always a melancholy, often
a revolting spectacle.—The misery of a gaol, beyond all'
others, is squalid, filthy, wretched, and forbidding) yet

15S
within these dreary abodes of vice and wretchedness, do
our humane laws immure the youth who is forming, as well
as the man who is formed ; the fool who is cheated, as well
as the knave who cheats ; the unfortunate who owes a few
pounds, as well as the ruffian, who deprives a fellow creature of life.——A short time afterwards, as I wras standing
in the street, a man asked charity;—I offered him a penny.
Ci
I canna tak it;" said he, "gentlefolks aways gie me siller."
I was driving him from me in some anger, when a person
near me told me he was an ideot.—It may be North-country idiotism; but it is very like South-country wisdom, to
refuse halfpence and take silvery and to stick so close to
me that I was obliged to comply with the requisition. One
should think that ideots are as much respected in Ireland
as in Turkey, where they are looked on as inspired;—
there is hardly a country town, in which there are not two
or three real or pretended ones, who jest with the inhabitants in rude familiarity, and freely enter their habitations.
This, perhaps, is the strongest proof that can be adduced,
of Ireland being yet but in a moderately advanced state
of civilization, It is evidently a remnant of the custom of
barbarous times, when every castle had its dwarf, and every
great man his jester. The poor wretch who addressed me,
has free access to the kitchen of Colonel Leslie, (one of
the county members) when he is at Glaslough.—The
colonel sometimes gives him shoes, stockings, and other
articles of wearing apparel,—About a year ago his stock
was nearly exhausted, and the colonel was not arriving to
replace them :—he set off early one morning, without
giving any intimation of where he was going, walked to
Dublin^ crossed over to Holyhead, and from that begged
his way to London; where, though an ideot, he had sense
enough to find out his friend's lodgings. On his return
by Liverpool he put his foot into the first vessel that was

157
feady to Sail for Ireland;-—the captain refused him a passage and turned him out,—he kneeled down upon the beach
and prayed for curses on it, and all that were in it. Great
powers are attributed to these curses, by persons even above
the rank of the vulgar^ and what would be denied to charity,
is often given from the apprehension of them.—By one
of those singular coincidences, which sometimes occur to
strengthen superstition, the vessel was cast aWay, and a
number of those on board perished :—the triumphant Idiot5
returned in safety to Monaghan, by the way of Scotland.
Since I am on this subject I shall relate a short story a gentleman told me in Dublin: he had taken his passage in a
Liverpool packed which was to sail the same evening.
He did not omit taking his dinner, and still less
-taking his punch; he thought drunken sickness would
prevent sea sickness, and that to shorten the passage, it
would be a wise plan to get more than half seas, over
before he began the voyage:—he sallied forth after it
was dark, and, by good luck, took the wrong side of the
bay; when the mistake was discovered, it was too late to
correct the error, as the vessel had sailed with his baggage
and servant on board : " Never was there such an escape,
Sir/' said he, " nor can I ever be sufficiently thankful to
Heaven, for interposing with such a miracle to save me.—
I that knew the way to the Pigeon-house, as well as to my
wife's bed-room, to miss it that terrible night, of all nights in
the year."—" Then the vessel was lost, [ suppose/' saidL—
" Bump she came against a rock," he replied, " and went
down like a mill-stone."
My friend's piety seems fully
equal to his understanding ; what he attributed to providence, a less devout man might lay to the door of JFIiiskey.
The country about Monaghan is beautiful and highly cultivated.—Here are none of those dreary mountains, so

15$
common in other parts of the North of Ireland; whose
sulleii grandeur compensates not, in my estimation,
for their look of desolation; nor is the eye wearied by
the monotonous view of a continued plain, which,
however, like an untroubled sea, it may at first fill us
with admiration, soon oppresses by its uniformity, and
palls by its rich and cloying sweetness. The ground is
broken, by gentle eminences, covered with the verdure
of spring, intermingled with the yellow honours of
autumn—-on the top of several, are planted tufts of trees^
whichcast an air of reverence around, and like the sacred
groves of the Druids, seem the sweet abodes of piety and
innocence ; nor are the valleys less delightful.—I wandered
through a sweet sequestered one; enamelled with the
Primrose and Daisy, and spread with a carpet of nature's
softest green. Often I was obliged to stop, to remove the
bramble, and long-matted grass which obstructed my path; nor
did I regret the interruption, which detained me in this northern Elysium.—I could not forbear contrasting its peaceful
stillness with the turbulent deeds which had often disturbed
its repose.—The honeysuckle breathed its fragrance on my
Senses; 1 listened to the Lark's sweet notes as it carolled
on high ; I looked upwards on the blue expanse of Heaven,
and downwards on the chrystal stream, which, sparkling with
sun-beams meandered at my feet.—Alas! the shrieks of death
had often drowned the sound of melody, the steam of
war had often dimmed that bright and glorious sun, and tortents of human blood, had polluted that clear and pellucid
stream.—I was told on leaving the house, that dinner would
be ready at four o'clock,—as I knew they expected more company, and that punctuality is not an Irish virtue, I allowed
them till five, at which hour I exactly attended, expecting
to have dinner as ready for me, as I was for it .—In this, how-

US
«ver, 1 reckoned without my host, or rather without my hostess ;—-she had been in the kitchen, baking, boiling, and
stewing, and had just stept up stairs to cool and dress herself.
I spent the intervening tirrie in the shop, which, by the bye,
was an apothecary's. I tumbled over Quincy's Lexicon,
and looked into the drawers and bottles, for amusement only,
—A hungry man has no occasion for medicine, nor does he
much relish the sight of it.—Senna and Salts, are poor substitutes for Salmon fish, and roast Beef, which was what was
promised me:—no wonder I quitted them with alacrity the
instant I was summoned to dinner.—Beside our worthy
Apothecary, who, if I may judge by his jolly figure, relishes
medicine, no more than I do, two other gentlemen were
present, whom I took for clergymen : one of them was asked
to say grace,—which he did with great apparent devotion,
—even a hungry man could not have thought it too long j
though a fashionable one might have objected to the want
of indifference with which it was delivered. I found, by
their conversation, they were not clergymen, but shopkeepers, in Clones, a small town, about eight miles from
Monaghan -.-—though not very abundant in worldly wealth, it
seems it is prodigious rich in Gospel grace.—In Ninevah or
Gomorrah, I don't recollect which, five righteous persons
could not be found to save it from destruction:—here the
inhabitants set judgments by fire and water, pillars of
salt, and lakes of sulphur, at defiance—for they are all
righteous, or methodists—-which is the same thing. The
above-mentioned two, were mild and unassuming men—•
no person could have suspected them to be either Scotchmen
or Irishmen ; their manners and accent were entirely English.
— I understand, the same similarity is to be found among
all the inhabitants of Clones. The reason of this, upon a
little reflection, will be obvious-*-a number of their preach-

160
ers are Englishmen j~-Methodists hear more of their preachers than other sects—for not to mention Sunday, which is
entirely passed in preaching, and praying, they have sermons two or three times a week, and associate more with
them in private,—The Methodists of Clones regard Dn
Coke, (the great Apostle of their sect) with peculiar reverence—he visits them frequently, and both in conversation*
and his works, has mentioned them in terms of the highest
praise.—It is natural, therefore, they should acquire much
of his manner, nor (when the high opinion they entertain of
him is considered) would it be very unnatural if they even
strove to acquire it—in the hopes, that with the short hair,
combed sleek behind the ears, the sanctified look, and musical tones, they would likewise possess the piety and godliness of their reverend teacher.—It is far from my intention,
however, to talk lightly of Methodists, or to undervalue
their labours.-—They have been productive of much benefit,
by the introduction of religion among the most uncivilized
members of the community, to whom they have given a
decency of deportment, a decorum of manner, and freedom
from gross rice^ which laws, could never have effected.—
The Edinburgh reviewers lament the rapid progress of Methodism in England—I am not of their opinion.—I consider it a blessing, and not an evil.—It may be enthusiasm,
it may be fanaticism, and its tendency in its remote consequences may (as they say) be licentiousness and disordershould it ever terminate in these, a remedy will doubtless
he found in the ever-flowing stream of human affairs;—but
to reject its present benefit, from such considerations, appears
to me as unwise as not to eat our dinner to-day, because
We may be hungry to morrow.—If religion is necessary to
the people of England, methodism is necessary, for if they
Sad not that, they would have none at all j—their eyes must

161
be dazzled, their senses captivated, their hearts touched, and
their imaginations inflamed—to address their judgments is as
absurd as to ask a blind man's opinion of colours.—As
long as the clergy of the established Church dose and yawn
over sober reason, and cold morality, they will have heedless
auditors, and thin congregations.—-The people will go elsewhere for their religion, and frequent Methodist meetings,
or Jewish synagogues,-as whim and caprice may determine.
-—In this country, the beneficial effects of methodism were
evident during the late rebellion—with very few exceptions,
Methodists took no part in it, or in the party disputes that
preceded, and accompanied it:—their kingdom was of a
higher and better world; in the contemplation of which,
the paltry squabbles of men, the pitiful objects and wretched
cares, of these poor helpless insects of an hour, were swallowed and absorbed.
After sitting a reasonable time I left those gentlemen over
their bottle, and went to take another walk :—though methodists, they were no anchorites, but partook freely of the good
tilings- which were set before them.—Punch was what they
drank, though wine was on the table: I suspect more for
ornament than use: like the guinea given the Vicar of
Wakefield's daughters, it was not to be broken.—When I
Teturned I found the scene shifted—-the Methodists, and
whiskey bottle, had disappeared from the stage, and given
place to gay young ladies, with sandy locks and freckled
faces ; glittering china, and a stately tea-urn, with pyramids of muffin, biscuit, and slim-cake.—Doctor Johnson
says, let an epicure dine, or slip where he may, coulii he
transport himself with a wish, he would always breakfast
in Scotland.—In like manner I would always choose to
drink tea m Ireland.—I passed a delightful evening, though,
at times, to my shame be it spoken, I was near falling asleep.
—That would have been unpardonable in the society pf
M

162
youth and beauty; I, therefore* got up, .walked about the
room, drank my tea as strong as mustard, and took snuff
out of an old lady's box; but with very indifferent success \
*—yawning gained upon me, and as it is well known to be
catching, extended itself to the jaws of some of the misses,
-*-To travel all the way from London, only to set ladies
yawning, was mortifying: luckily for me, however, one of
them was anxious to hear a particular account of the riots at
the opening of Co vent-Garden. I gratified her curiosity
as well as I could; and as action is better than narration,
sung several songs^ and danced the O, P. dance, to the
great, entertainment of my fair audience; who very fairly
concluded, that though the people of London were richer
and greater, they were not a bit wiser than themselves.
-—Praise, I suspect, is gratifying to every man; nor does it
lose any of its charms, when it issues from ruby lips, and
coral teeth.—The pleasure I communicated returned, (as
such pleasure always does) with tenfold usury to myself, and
banished all thoughts of sleep.—My rehearsal of the O. P.
dance was as effectual a cure for it in me, as the. actual
performance ever was, to Mr. Harris, Mr. Kemble, or any
other of the heroes, or heroines of that theatre.—We sat
down to a plentiful supper at ten o'clock, to which, notwithstanding the excellent meal we had made at tea, we did
ample justice:—we ate an;d drank, and though last, not
least, laughed heartily.:—Good eheer is a great promoter of
good humour, and either inspired us with good jokes, or,
what was just as well, made us laugh at bad ones.—-I suspect
that ours were of the latter description; and as I cannot give
the reader the sauce which made them so relishing to us, I
shall not trouble him with them. I got up the, next morning, entirely recovered from the fatigue of my journey, and
as the family had not assembled for breakfast, amused
myself with writing the following particulars of it:—The

163

distance from Drogheda to Monaglian is about fifty-four
miles ; the roads about Cullen and Ardee, were smooth and
level; for the remainder of the way, rough and mountai^
nous, but well made and in good repair. The fare was 11.
2s; Irish, which is nine-pence less than a guinea^ and cannot
be considered unreasonable.—-Were I again to travel in it,
however, I would prefer giving something more to have
four* instead of six inside passengers*—-This is a great
nuisance, and should never be allowed in a mail coach.—-It
was a good and strong vehicle^ lined with grey cloth; the
windows, (as I found to my sorrow) in perfect repair j I
could have wished there had not been a sound 'pane in eithei*
of them, even though the pains of my rheumatic fellow
traveller had been quadrupled by it. We changed coachmen
only twice,' they seemed steady and obliging men,—-they
got ten-pence from each passenger, with which they were
perfectly satisfied. The change of the silver coin in Ireland,
has been as unfavourable to the coachmen, as the flight of
gold in England has been to the lawyers. Where they had
a thirteet% before, they now only have ten-pence, as the latter
only gets a pound note, where he formerly got a guinea.
— T h e guard w*as as well clad as an English one, with a
greater degree of good humoured and officious civility. I
gave him twenty-pence on leaving the coach; he took leave
of me with great politeness, regretting he had not the
pleasure of my company further down.—We travelled nearly
at the rate of five miles an hour including stops, which I
think, in a heavy-laden coach, and on an uneven road, was
fair travelling.—More particularly as an Irish coach stops
longer for meals, arid is more tedious in changing horses
than an English one.—-In the former of these respects the
Irish is a much more civil vehicle than the English.—-You
are not obliged to devout your food like a cannibal, and at
length to run away like a debtor pursued by bailiffs,— You
M 2

164
are allowed a decent time for dinner; and should the goodness of the wine induce you to wish to extend it for a few
minutes, the guard is seldom inexorable. His majesty's
,mail can wait, you may finish your meal at leisure.—I recollect once at Shrewsbury breakfasting with the company of
the Hdlyhead coach; there were several ladies and gentlemen; the men, as usual, eat, drank, and helped themselves,
without attending to the ladies: a good-humoured Swiss,
shocked at this English proceeding, was all politeness, pouring out tea, and handing about toast and muffin; his tongue
all the while going like the clapper of a mill—he was very
jocular on the English method of preparing coffee: just as
he had a cup manufactured to his mind, the fatal horn was
sounded, and the instant afterwards the guard made his
appearance:—the poor foreigner looked aghast, and instead
of gulping down a few mouthfuls of the precious fluid, lost
his time in appealing to the company whether he had eat a
mouthful, and in swearing he would not stir without his
breakfast.—The guard said he might sit breakfasting there
till doomsday, or the day after, if he liked it, but for his
part he would set off that moment.—It was not the least
part of the mortification of pauvre monsieur, to have the
attendant bowing to him, with-—" I hope you wont forget
the waiter, Sir?"— Ci Forget you !" exclaimed he in a rage,
"cot dV—n you, I will never forget you, nor de guard, nor de
house,— nor de nation," (in a lower tone as if speaking to
himself.)—He then began whistling Mallbrook with great
earnestness, and, until dinner put him into good humour,
was as inattentive to the ladies as any Englishman cpuld
have been.—The great dispatch of an English mail, sometimes has great advantages,—many men travel whose
business, no doubt, does not admit of delay; but they
certainly are the smallest number.—A large proportion of
Englishmen travel for the sake of mere locomotion^ they

165
go post haste, starve themselves on the road, fume, and fretj
and run the risk of their own necks, as well as of the wiser
animals who draw them, merely to arrive at a place where
theyhave no business, and from which they return, perhaps,
the next day with equal rapidity.—--The Irishman travels to
get rid of his business only, and seldom to get rid of himself; he is more gay, more lively, than the Englishman;
—his mind is more cheerful, and, therefore, his body is less
active :—in every situation and rank of life, he makes less
use of exercise, as a matter of mere amusement—he
enjoys the present moment, the present spot, the present
company.—"An Englishman enjoys none of these,—unfortunately he expects too much of life,—his real blessings
are disregarded, because they fall short of imaginary
ones,—he lives only in the future, in the distant, in the
absent— in the dreams of hope, in the visions of ideal
happiness—in the country he sees her in town—in the
fertile valley, on the craggy mountain; amidst the peaceful
security of his family—in the gloomy desert, among barbae
rous nations, in the sound of the cataract's roar—he often
is where she was, he never comes where she is. In
giving an account of my visit to the gaol, I forgot to relate
an anecdote which my conductor told me :~»-two of his best
chaps were tried, and condemned at the last assizes, for
stealing pigs and horses;—one of them was a tight cpck^
and died game; the other was dunghill, to make use of the
elegant language of my tender-hearted companion.™As no
executioner could be found, the latter was pardoned on
condition of hanging the other.-—When the two friends met
each other on the fatal morning, they saluted with unceremonious greeting :-—" You ha brought your pigs to a fine
market," said the hangman, probably without meaning to
be witty.—« I think you ha brought your aintoa better;"
replied the other; " but you were always gude at driving a

166
bargain; tak care that the devil is'rit too hard for you at
last : wait till Fm cauld," however, continued he, " and
then you shall ha my shoes, for I see your ain are nam of
the best;—gude troth its plain ye ha^na been long in office
by your being so ill shod.

CHAR XV,
COOTEHIIX,

AFTER breakfast I prepared for an excursion to Coote-*
hill, a town about fourteen miles distant, where the mother
of an old acquaintance resided,—There is no coach goes
this road, and as the weather continued fair, I resolved
upon a more primitive mode of travelling—namely, walk*
ing:-r-the worthy compounder of medicine objected strongly
to such an exertion—it would give me a fever to a certainty,
he said, and be the death of me—and, besides, what would
the people say—they would be talking.-^-" That they would,"
said I, " whether I go or stay—whether I walk or roll in a
chariot.—There are many diseases peculiar to Ireland,
brother Doctor, but I dare say you never found a lockedjaw
in the number/'—He wanted me very much to take his horse,
but that was impossible—he was not only a Pbarmacopolist
but Accoucheur, or, to make use of the concise and glittering inscription of a sign-post. Surgeon, Apothecary, and
Man Midwife.—A Man Midwife in the country, without
Ms hor$e? is as useless as a fiddler without a fiddle, or a
general without his army—-he might as well want his
fi ceps, orhis instrument bag, or any other BAG, or ap»
p e n i - p to his profession.—I therefore declined the offer

167
^of this friendly son of Galen, with many thanks, and having
taken teave of him, proceeded on my pilgrimage, with a
change of linen in my pocket, and as a pilgrim should,
with a staff in my hand.—A little distance from Monaghan,
the road winds through a beautiful glen, watered by a silver
brook, whose gurgling noise inspires pleasing sensations,
and shadowed by rows of lofty trees, whose thick branches
exclude the fervent rays of the sun.—I seated myself on a.
large stone, and, for want of something better to do, contemplated my visage in the mirror that floated before me.—
I ran no risk of sharing the fate of Narcissus; what with
the sun beams by day, and potations of whiskey by night,
my countenance was as inflamed as. an Alderman's at a
city feast.—An old beggar woman who passed, was kinder
to me, however, than my looking glass.— u Ah ! bless your
sweet face," said she, <( will you give an old woman something?"—There was no resisting so judicious an appeal—I
gave her some trifle, and as it was time for me to prosecute
my journey, we parted, mutually satisfied with each other.
—The road was excellent, particularlyfor foot passengers—
it was hard and dry like a rock—formed, in some parts, of small
pebbles of variegated'colours, and in others of a deep red colour—my spirits were raised by the fineness of the day, and
the luxuriance of the landscape, which now swelling into
eminences, and again deepening into valleys, winding
round hills, or following the meandering stream, ever
changing, but ever beautiful, surrounded and accompanied
me.—I sung, I composed, I recited; I dare say, the
country people who passed me took me for a madman, or
a strolling player,—no wonder, therefore, that the mile-stones
flew unnoticed by me, and that I was filled with astonishment, on looking down on the village of Rockcury, from
the hill over it, to find I had walked upwards of eight Irish
miles,-—This is a poor little place, containing about e

168
\ozen indifferent houses—drinking must be highly prized
here; for out of the dozen, five or six were public ones.—I
went into one, which, from its appearance, I judged the best,
and called for half a pint of wine, and some water,-—I was
shewn into a room, with the size of which I had no reason
to be dissatisfied ;—there was no ceiling, and as it extended
to the top of the house, the watling was bare—a couple
of beds were in one corner, covered with rugs in place of
quilts—the floor was earthern, neither so hard, nor so dry,
as the r#ad I just had quitted—-the; furniture was of a
piece with the apartment, and seemed all in disorder—*there had been a dance there the night before, the maid told
me, as an excuse for the littered state of the room.
-" A
dance here, my good girl," said I ; " what kind of Cyclops's
were they to choose this Polyphemus's den, when they had
the green fields about them, where they might have tripped
it, like so many fairies by the light of the moon."—Their
country people were no sky-hops* she rather sulkily said,
they had enough of green fields in day time, and therefore
danced in the house, like civil christians, with good candlelight.—I sat down at a large deal table, which bore evident marks of the orgies of these county Monaghan Bacchanals.—I poured out a glass of the wine, in no very good
humour—I expected to find it half whiskey-—I was most
agreeably disappointed:—I never would wish to drink better
wine, nor did I ever, in a coffee house in London, drink
any so good.—The distance from Rockcury to Cootehill
is five miles—it was near three o'clock, and as I knew the
lady, to whose house I was going, would wait dinner for me,
it was necessary to be expeditious—the wine likewise
quickened my appetite—I walked at a good round pace
—nobody, I am sure, could have suspected I came to make
observations on the country.—-The shady groves of Dawson's grove, waved in gloomy grandeur on, my left hand 3

169
the house and demesne of Fremount, in gay ana smiling
beauty, rose to my right.—I looked neither on one side nor
the other—I looked straight forward—-to the flesh-pots of
Cootehill.—When I was a little distance from the town,
a voice from behind halloed to me, " How far to Gootehill V*
I made no answer—it was repeated—" I say, Mr. how far to
Cootehill ?"—" You had better," I replied, "lift up your eyes
and look at it,and save yourself the trouble of asking questions/'
—" Native of the place, Sir, Iimrsume"—u Of what consequence, my good fellow, is it to you," said I, "whether lam a
native here or not?"—" Ask pardon, Sir ; am a stranger in
these here parts, and want to make out the best
Inn —always like to sleep warm at nights."—" You
seem to like to travel warm," I replied; " a great coat in such
weather must be rather annoying to walk in."—-" Wager,
Wager, Sir; two of my friends left Monaghan in a chaise,
same time I did,—demned rumbling machine, and spavined horses,—betted rump and dozen, would be in Cootehill, and order dinner before they came up,—win my wager
easily, are not yet in sight."—" I dare say they are not,"
said I, " but you did*nt bet to carry weights, I suppose ?--*.
you might as well have thrown your bundle into your friend's
chaise."-—This seemed a little to abate his effrontery, and he
continued for some moments silent, though he still walked
along side of me.—Under his great coat he wore a light
green one with black waistcoat and small clothes, and white
cotton stockings, which bore evident marks of the dust of
the road ; he had a bundle tied up in a handkerchief, which
he carried on a stick over his shoulders.—I set him down in
my mind for a dancing-master, puppet-show man, or player.-—
" The country people," he resumed, "are demnetioned brutes
in this here place; I stept into a cabine,l think you call it, and
asked for a glass of water;—the stupid brute brought me a
noggin full of buttermilk."—" I dare say, fellow traveller,"

i;o
said I, laughing, " the noggin suited your mouth fully as
well as the glass, and is what you have been most accustomed to; I think you owe thanks, however, to the man
who gave you milk, when you only asked for water."— - " In
England, Sir, a man always gets what he calls for,—nobody
pretends to think for you there; but these poor creatures are
always cramming you with kindness ; and then they have
such a lingo that a parson can't understand the half of what
they say."—" Their accent, (I replied, losing all patience)
is a natural one, and will, therefore, never be disagreeable
to any man of sense or reason; but your's is an affected
one, equally ridiculous and contemptible,—you are no
Englishman, nor can you ever persuade any person that you
are;—if you wish to counterfeit one, imitate his virtues,
and not his defects ;—imitate his sobriety, attention to
business, and love of truth; but don't meddle with his
superciliousness and arrogance; they are bad enough in
the original, but they are still more dispicable at second
hand.—-The Irishman, who, because he has lived a few
months among Englishmen, affects to adopt their narrow
^and illiberal prejudices, who despises as uncivilized his
untravelled countrymen, is a more contemptible character,
than those he thinks most contemptible :--*you have often,
I dare say, thought it hard in England, that your accent
and country should be treated with derision; yet you, the
instant you arrive in it are mean and foolish enough to imagine
that lowering your country's consequence adds to your
own.—Leave me, I wish to have no further conversation
with you.—I quickened my pace, and he shewed no incli*
nation to follow me.—I learned afterwards that he had lived
about eighteen months in England, and was a journeyman
printer.—-I have mentioned above that the lady to whom I
was going, was the mother of an old and intimate friend,
---he was indeed a friend, such as is seldom to be found.

171
—-His kindness had gladdened life in its gay, had cheered it
in its melancholy, and sustained it in its sinking moments
-—he was now no more.—In the flower of youth, in the
enjoyment of comfort, he had been summoned from this
life,~*-from the banquet he scarcely had tasted, from the
cup that was just raised to his lips,—-from his mother's
house, where last I had seen him, the abode of plenty and
happiness, to the cold mansions of the grave !—She received
me with pleasure;—She strove to tell me so, but her heart
was full.—-Welcome was in her eye, but she could not
speak it with her tongue 5—she made the attempt, however,
but her words were drowned in her sobs and her tears.—She
looked on me, but she thought of her son,—of the days
we had passed together, our convivial nights.—The years
that elapsed were forgot, and her son seemed to stand
before her in the person of his friend. I strove to console
her, but I wanted consolation myself;—twelve years had
rolled their heavy course since I had seen her last on this
spot;—what changes had since taken place in her life and
my own.- —The dreams of youth were vanished, the brainspun web of romantic happiness was broken, and the
flowers, with which fancy graced its border, torn away.
—This, perhaps, is but ideal misery,*—her's, alas! was
real;—she was old, she was solitary, she was a widow, she
was childless;—one of her sons had died abroad, in a
distant land, among strangers, in the island of Malta.—The
other, he whom I knew,—-at home,—on the eve of marriage, in her arms ;-*•-she closed the eyes of him who she
hoped would have closed her's, and she had not one relation
remaining in the wide world;—like the North American
chief she might sorrowfully exclaim,—-" There is not a
idrop of my blood runs in the veins of any human being. 0
^—After some time she grew more composed,—and we'
passed the evening in melancholy, but not unpleasing

172
conversation.—We talked of times that were long past, and
of persons I had once well known—there was not one
family among whom great changes had not taken place;
and so much I fear does misery predominate over happiness, that not even in one of them was the change for the
better,—many whom I left children were grown up to men
and women, and had turned out ill; many whom I left old
and infirm, were alive still, a burden to others, as well as
themselves ;—while the healthy and vigorous, in the bloom
of youth and fullness of manhood, had been snatched
away, and now mouldered in the tomb.—^There had been
considerable emigration to America, a desire of change had
taken some \ poverty and drunkenness more.—This latter
vice had made great progress among the youth, and several
promising young men were destroyed by it.-—I begged
Mrs.—
to contrast her situation with that of their
wretched parents who mourned worse than the death of
their sons,—the death of their good name, of their talents,
©f their virtues, of their respectability •—-whose vile bodies
walked abroad, while the souls, which should have ennobled
tfeem*, were shrivelled, and sunk, and degraded into idiotIsm, by the abuse of ardent spirits, which, was I a believer
in the doctrine of the Maniehaeans, I should suppose some
malevolent deity had showered on the earth for the destruction of man. She told me several stories of individuals, it
would be improper to mention here,—nor is it necessary.
Misery was the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and ending of them all,—misery is an often-told tale, and well may
Jt be so, for it is the history of man.
t(

'Gainst the foul fiend what can relief afford ?
** Onr bed he climbs, participates oar board %
" Fly as we may o'er earth's extensive round,
" He follows still, and at our heels is found,
" From rnVfell looks each joy a blast acquires.,
u
And life itself beneath his grasp expires."

173

CHAP. XVI.
CoOTBHtLt.

C O O T E H I L L , as the name implies, is situated on a hill,
along the ridge of which it runs for nearly half a mile.
The street is wide and spacious, and the houses good.
— I t is in the county of Cavan, but near the extremity
where it touches the county of Monaghan.—Cootehill is on the
estate, and takes its name, from the noble family of Coote,
which is now extinct, by the death of the late Earl of B
.—The estate was bequeathed, by his lordship's will, to
his natural son, S. C
, Esq. and handsome legacies were
left to his other natural children, of whom he had as long a
list as king Priam.---He was a decendant of Sir C. C
•, a
puritan officer who came over to this country in the year
1630. Lord B
inherited none of the austerity or
moroseness of his reverend ancestor—he was a man of the
highest refinement, and most perfect elegance of manners; :
at one period he was the very mirror of fashion, " Th*
observ'd of all observers V—though the latter part of his
life was passed in great seclusion, and his name was almost
forgot in those circles where once he shone the gayest of the
gay.—He was educated at Geneva, where he imbibed liberal
ideas of government, little in unison with his courtier-like
appearance, and the excessive and almost dazzling polish of
his manners ;^-\he spent several years abroad, and returned
to Irelandji^finlstied petit maitre. Accustomed to the elegancies of the continent, he could ill brook the roughness of
Irish manners ^their rude, though hearty welcomes, and above
all their everlasting drunkenness.—He used to express the
utmost horror, and dread, of the Irish Hottentots, as he

174
termed the jovial generation of gentlemen, who then lived in
Ireland.—In speaking of the county of Cavan, of which he
was a native, he thus characterized it.— u It is all acclivity
and declivity, without the intervention of one horizontal
plain, the hills are all rocks, and the people are all savages.0
—Something of this excessive refinement, which shrunk
like the sensitive plant from the touch of vulgarity; perhaps
was real, it is probable more was affected----he delighted in
resembling a Frenchman, nor could he be paid a higher
compliment, than to take him for one. In the middle of
one of his earliest speeches in the Irish House of Lords, he
hesitated, he stammered like a country miss, and at length
stopt short.—Bashfulness is not a French vice, nor was it
his lordship's—his audience were at a loss to understand
what all this blushing meant—he thus explained it—he
had been so long out of the kingdom—had associated so
little with any British person ; that he was really, he was
sorry, he was ashamed, but he could not express himself in
English, if the noble Lords would favour him so far as to
allow him to speak in French.—The noble Lords did
favour him, but it was with a loud laugh at such miserable
affectation. For once he was ashamed, and ever afterwards,
(when in the house) spoke English like his neighbours.—A
short time before, he had made a similar display to an old
barrow-woman who sold potatoes, " Pray my good woman,
(said he) is dis deyay to Ca-peZ-street?"—"And is it a praty
you want?" my lord, said she, looking up at him with contempt,
and thrusting one into his hand; "go home and ait it, it will
be of more service to you, than frogs or soup-maigre."—
Notwithstanding this affectation (which as the fault of early
youth probably subsided with it) Lord B—••
possessed
great personal courage y though like many other of his
shining qualities, it was often rendered ridiculous by its
misapplication; his duel with LordT • .,,. was a strong

175
proof of the singular mixture of diseased feeling, and erroneous reasoning which characterised all his actions.—He
was remarkably temperate in eating and drinking.—Seldom
exceeded a pint of Claret, and drank tea strong and green,
in as great quantities as Doctor Johnson himself.—His
ruling passion, was an inordinate love of women—to which
he sacrificed every consideration of character, morality^
and even humanity.—Like Mark Antony, had he the
world, he would have lost it, and, perhaps, not
thought it ill lost.—It is not my intention to follow him
through the long catalogue of his seductions; many
of which have found their way into Magazines, and
other periodical publications.—The first of them was the
most black and nefarious of any,—the name of the female
was Miss D
, daughter to a Roman Catholic on his
own estate.—I do not sufficiently recollect the particulars
to mention them here ; but I believe they are tolerably
faithfully recorded in the Adventures of a Guinea.—She
lived many years in a state of helpless and melancholy
idiotism.—I have heard some of the old inhabitants of
Cootehill say, they have seen her, weltering in the little
garden of the cottage where she was kept, with no other
covering than an apron before her, tearing up the earth with,
her hands, and swallowing it in mouthfuls.—His lordship
married a sister of the late Duke of L— , who bore him
several daughters, but no son.—As this was a match of
convenience, rather than affection, he soon got tired of her
society, and leaving her in B
F
with his children, went over to England, in quest of some connexion, in
which his heart could have a share.—So strangely are we
formed, and so near a kin are our virtues to our vices, that
Lord B
*s excessive refinement and delicacy, and
his excessive admiration of them in others, were the causes
of his worst actions— he shrunk with horror from the
grossness of mercenary prostitution ; from the touch of a

176
female who had even once admitted the embraces of another
man*—The objects of modern gallantry, therefore, high kept
women of the town, opera dancers, and actresses, were
beneath his attention—youth and beauty, loveliness and
innocence, only could excite it—--like Satan he contemplated paradise, and only entered it to destroy.—Chance was
so far favourable to him on this journey, that it shewed him
an object he could love—perhaps the only woman he ever
really loved—she was the daughter of a respectable tradesman of the name of Johnson. The heroine of a novel is
always adorned, with all that the author can bestow to
make her amiable.—I do not write a novel; yet, if I am ta
credit the accounts I have heard of this unfortunate young
woman, she was lovely beyond even Poet's fondest dreams.-—
Lord B
was introduced to her and her family, under the disguised name of Oswald,—--he soon made an
impression on her heart, and as soon perceived he had,—
The magic of his address was irresistible even by women of
the highest rankj no wonder, therefore, it made a strong impression on an elegant young woman, in an humble walk of
life, whose cultivated mind would probably shrink from
the vulgar ignorance, and pert flippancy, of the young men
she was doomed to associate with.—Accustomed to the society
of London shop-keepers, the mild, the tender, the fascinating
Lord B
would appear to her a being of a higher
world ; an object she might have contemplated in dreams,
or in the fairy reveries of imagination, but never could
have hoped to have met with in reality.—-He prevailed upon
her to elope with him, and they were married by a servant
of his own, disguised as a Clergyman.—-For several months
they led a life of the greatest happiness ; time, which weakens other attachments, seemed only to strengthens theirs— Lord B—
— was dead to the world, and lived only to
love*-—His friends, his country, his wife, and his children.

177
were forgot; nor did any person in Ireland know what had become of him. It is painful to think that so much happiness
was not founded in virtue, and that it was now drawing to a
conclusion. He had lived almost entirely in the house, for fear
of being recognised by some of his acquaintances in London ;
confinement seemed to injure the lady's health, and as she
was likewise pregnant, gentle exercise was recommended
her—they drove out sometimes to the environs of London,
but always in a close carriage.—On the last of those
occasions, the coach met with some obstruction in one of
the streets near Hyde Park corner; his lordship put his
head out of the window, to see what caused it, when a
gentleman from the North of Ireland unluckily passed at
the instant;-—he flew up to the coach ; he was too full of
what he had to say himself, to listen to" another:—" Good
God, my lord B
, how glad I am to see you,—in
Ireland we all thought you dead and buried, many a long
day ago;—there is my lady B
-, your poor wife,
has been weeping and wailing, dispatching messengers,
and advertizing you in all the papers in the'kingdom." The
suddenness of this address disconcerted his lordship, and
took from him all power of dissimulation:——the gentle
victim of his perfidy, in an instant perceived the full extent
of her misfortune :—" I am not your wife, then, it appears,"
said she, putting her hand on his shoulder, " but your mistress ;—-" triumph now, but you will not triumph long."
Touched by the sacred spear of truth, the fiend was now
seen in his true colours, and shrunk dismayed from the
Seraph's glance. He fell at her feet and implored forgiveness :---" I forgive you," she said, " but I never, never,
will forgive myself."—That very evening she was taken ill,
and about half an hour after having given birth to a son,
she expired. Lord B — - — was inconsolable; he clasped.
N

178
the lifeless body in his arms, and it was only after several,
days, when its removal became absolutely necessary, he
could be separated from it.—When violent grief had subsided into softer melancholy, he returned into Ireland, when
a separation topk place between him and lady B—•—*——;
her ladyship and her amiable daughters, have since,
1 believe, resided pretty constantly in England: his lordship plunged into business, and quaffed the bowl of pleasure even to the dregs, but he never tasted happiness-—by
ruining another's, he had for ever destroyed his own. He
was latterly unpopular among his tenantry, from the mis-,
management of an agent, to whom he entrusted the conduct of his affairs : this wounded him deeply, as he was
desirous of the character of a good landlord, and was in
reality one : he seldom visited Cootehill, therefore, where,
instead of the acclamations he was formerly received with,
he knew he would only meet
" Curses, not loud^but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
<c
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not."
He had, indeed,
t€
Fallen into the sear, the yellow leat,
" And that which should accompany old age:
iS
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
" He could not look to have,"
Justice, however, to his memory, obliges me to declare,
he had many amiable qualities y he was a most excellent
father, and the deep compunction he felt for the wrongs
of the above-mentioned unfortunate lady, did honour to his
sensibility. Even after a lapse of many years, the casual
recollection of her would distort his face with agony; and
in the gathering gloom of his eye, it was easy to read the
anguish which preyed on his soul.—If, in the social hour,
her image stood thus before him, no wonder it haunted
faim in the solitude of his chamber, in the gloom of mid-

m
bight, that it should drive sleep from his pillow, and strew
it with thorns ;—if it poisoned even his joys, no wonder
that it poured more bitter gall into the cup of his declining
years. " Knowest thou not this of old, since man was
placed upon earth,, that the triumphing of the wicked is
short, and his joy but for a moment." The libertine had
ishot his dart, but it recoiled on himself, it grazed the cheek
Jit which it was thrown> but rankled in his own heart; if
he had inflicted misery on her, he had inflicted more on
himself; the worst pang which racked her mind, at the
discovery of his perfidy, which shook her frame in the hour
of premature labour, were less than he had felt a thousand
times5—which covered his face with wrinkles; which
bent his body down with a greater weight than that of
years.—-She had felt sorrow only,—he felt remorse*
Opposite to Beliamount forest, is the beautiful demesne
of R, Dawson, Esq.: he does not reside here at present,
nor has the house been inhabited for some years> ever
since the death of the late Mr. Dawson, a gentleman universally regretted, and well known in Ireland by the affectionate appellation of honest Dick Dawson. When a
young man, he was remarkably handsome; even when I saw
him, though inclining to be fat, he was still so—gifted with
beauty, good humour, and the most winning aifability of
manners, it was natural he should be a great favourite of
the ladies 5—his intrigue with Mrs.
-*, now lady
—^
was at one time much talked of; to stop the tale of malice^
he brought her down, with other ladies, to Dawson's grove5
where she remained several months, as can readily be
conceived^ to the great mortification of Mrs. Dawson,—to be
obliged to behave with civility to the woman she hated, who
she knew possessed her husband's affections, and shared
(the Lion's share) his favours, was a hard trial of a female's
temper, and might have overset the patience, even of the
N 2

180
patient Grizzle herself. Nature was often too strong for
art, and instead of smiles and courtesies, and other fashionable displays of hatred, Mrs. Dawson met her fair guest
with frowns and abuse.—In these, however, she was a poor
proficient compared to her rival, who retorted on her with
interest. The elegant inhabitant of Dublin .castle, the
favourite of the lord L——-t, burst forth in the tropes of
Billingsgate, accompanied with the gestures of Mendoza.
Court ladies put on their court manners as they do their
hoops, throw them of as easily, and, probably, are as impatient to get rid of them; this is the only instance of harshness I ever heard Mr. Dawson was guilty of j he, probably,
was ashamed of it, as, soona fter, he gave up M r s . - — — , :
entirely. Bacchus became now his favourite divinity;
Venus friget, (says the Latin proverb) sine Baccho; but
this only applys to its moderate use ; four bottles of claret
is rather too profuse a libation to the Cyprian queen, who
no more relishes drunken, than she does drowsy votaries.
Mr. Dawson represented the county of Monaghan in parliament, for many years before and after the union: nor
could it have had a more upright or independent one ;—iii
every instance he voted according to his conscience; he
was steady in his imposition to the union, which he thought
an injurious measurejfce-ireland, nor could the most tempting promises of the minister, QX the threats of lord Cremorne* to disinherit him, influence him to deviate from the,
line of his duty—the nobleness of such conduct can only
be fully appreciated by those who know the state of embar^
rassment in which his affairs then were. Lord Cremorne was
at cards with the Royal family, at Windsor, when the dis-*
patches came in, which contained the proceedings of th$
Irish parliament, on this grand question, and the names
of the members who voted on it.—Lord Cremorne was so
much shocked at seeing his nephew's name pn the obnox^

182
lous list, that he fainted—that one of his family should
cause any uneasiness to so good a king, who not only asked
him to cards, but gave him supper into the bargain, was
the most terrible of misfortunes.—It is but justice to him,
however, to state, that upon consideration, he had sensibility enough to perceive the rectitude of his nephew's conSuet, and the magnanimity to pardon him—his disregard
of his orders.—Unsolicited, he wrote him a friendly and
affectionate letter, nor was the olive branch of peace less
acceptable for being accompanied with a thousand pounds.
-—Mr. Dawson's estate was only 30001. a year ; but as Lord
Cremorne was very old and infirm, his expenses were
calculated on the scale of what he expected, rather than
of wrhat he possessed—if his munificent heart ever knew
what it was to calculate.—He was son to Lord Cremorne's
younger brother; a gentleman well known in the hunting
world.—He was the, Irish Nimrod of his day, and his
exploits were the theme of many a ballad and song.—He
lived in the same thoughtless profusion as his son; and.
for the same reason—expectation of the death of his elder
brother, who was subject in youth to violent attacks, of
inflammation of his lungs, and was obliged to reside, for
several years, in the south of France, to avoid a consumption .--Some jocular lines of his are preserved in the recollection of some of the old inhabitants here.—I insert a stanza,
to shew the humour of the man, rather than from any
merit it possesses:—
"
«
"
"

Don't you think at length, I have a good chance,
For Tommy can live, no where but in France ?
Dick'k avgood Father, and Tom's a good brother,
Pray Heaven in thy mercy., take both one and t'other/*

Lord Cremorne is still alive, and is upwards of ninety
-r-The vigorous Fox-hunter, whose swelling chest, and

182

Herculean frame, promised many years of duration, has long
mouldered into dust.—When I was last at Dawson's grove,
it was the seat of gaiety and festivity—Mr. Dawson's hospitality was unbounded—and every person whom he had
once seen, found a ready welcome at his board; where
his princely spirit always provided the best cheer, while
his wit and good humour, would have given a relish to the
worst.
" A merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
" I never spent an hour's talk withal."
ce

He was a great improver of his demesne, on which he
expended several thousand pounds,—The appearance of
neglect is now visible—the eye that watched over it, is
closed—rubbish covers the path, the ground is over-run
by the bramble, and the weed grows unmolested, by the
side of the rose.—•" Something too much of this."-—I fear I
have some Aristocratic leaning; I stay too long in great men's
castles, and don't visit the poor man's cottage, where the
manners of a country are best to be learned 5 -—the season
is rapidly advancing likewise—and it will be a long while
before I get to the giant's causeway, if I travel with these
fairy steps.
The people about Cootehill are outrageously loyal—
disagreeably so I was about to say—but checked myself.—
The bulk of mankind will always be in extremes—in the
cellar or the garret—and it is better to be outrageously
Joyal than the reverse.—The inhabitants of the town, in
1797> were supposed to have rather a democratic tendency
-—assuredly they were not loyal no more than they were
righteous overmuch. A friend of mine settled among
them as a physician, and had difficulty enough to know

183
how to conduct himself—-he was very moderate in his
political opinions, and not over and above rich—his object,
therefore, like the sun, was to shine on the just and the
unjust, to physick both the Aristocrat, and the Democrat;
and to eat the dinners of both, when invited to them.—
This system, however excellent in theory (like many other
excellent theories) succeeded very indifferently in p r a c t i c e each party insisted he belonged to the other—like Mahomet's tomb, he hung half-way between heaven and earth,
and of consequence had no support from either.-—The
Aristocrats set him down a Democrat for four admirable
reasons—he was a presbyterian, he wore his hair short, he
drank nothing but water, and was, oftener than once,
detected in the fact—of walking with some ladies, who
were said to be united Irishwomen.—United Irishwomen
were more obnoxious than united Irishmen, because they
were the grand missionaries for making proselytes—for
putting men up, in technical phrase.-—It is needles to add,
the ladies most successful in putting men up, were young
ones—Why the republicans took him for an Aristocrat,
will appear presently.—Among other introductions, he had
one to a respectable gentleman, who resided a short distance from the town—he insisted on his staying at his
house, until he could accommodate himself with a lodging
—the morning after his arrival, the son, who was a lad
about sixteen years of age, invited him out to the garden,
to have a few moments conversation with him.—When
they were arrived at the most retired part of it, his young
conductor, drawing himself up with great dignity, proceeded to inform him, that the county regiment was complete in men—the subordinate officers were all appointed,
but a leader was wanted—the situation had been offered
him, but he thought himself too young, for so important a
charge.—His maiden sword had not been flushed in any

184
species of combat-—but he believed he had interest enough
to procure it for him-—he was a physician—a man of
sense, and understood Latin and Greek no doubt; which
was, above all things, what the troops desired the most.—(The
rebels, it seems, in order to be in all respects as different from his Majesty's forces as possible, wished to have
men of learning at their head.)—-If, therefore, he would
take the united Irishman's oath, the situation of colonel
was very much at his service.—My friend stared at him for
some time, thinking he was jesting, but finding he was
perfectly serious, declined the favour, with as much
gravity as it was offered : — h e returned him many thanks,
for the opinion he entertained of his talents, and the speedy
promotion which might soon be followed by still higher, he
meant to honour him with—he never could discover, however,
that he had any military qualifications—-they had all heard of
heaven-born statesmen, and generals, but he was afraid he
was not a heaven-born colonel—he had never fired a gun
but once in his life, at a flock of sparrows, about ten paces
distant, and then he missed them—his genius (if he had
any) lay in another way—-his ideas were grovelling—to his
jshame he must confess, he preferred the ringing of a pestle
and mortar, to the sound of a trumpet, and writing recipes,
to flourishing a pike—with his good leave, therefore, he
would stick to his profession—concluding with nearly a
similar sentiment to that of Othello.
" Though in my trade I may perhaps slay men,
Yet do I hold it very stuff o* the conscience
To do no contriv'd murder."
T h e conference here ended 5 my friend went in to breakfast,and the young colonel maker sallied forth in questof some
man who spoke Latin, and had more enterprise, and feweu

185
scruples, than he had,—Tlgat very evening, however,
this military Roscius was obliged to walk off the stage—his
friends found it necessary to send him privately away, and
afterwards got him smuggled to America, where he now
is :—as he since got his head broke at a large party for
damning the Americans for a parcel of* outlandish savages ;
and was near losing his life on another occasion, in a duel
he fought with a French emigrant, in defence of the reputation of lady Pamela Fitzgerald, and, moreover, has got a
wife and three children, it is to be presumed his fire is
pretty well spent, and that he is now a peaceful member of
society. This gallant officer, like Dionisius, retired to
Corinth, condescended for some time to teach a school, in
one of the back settlements :—he has since emerged from
that lowly calling, and$ I understand, keeps a pork*and
sausage shop in New York, or Boston.
Some time after this conversation, Doctor
was
invited to a grand entertainment, given by a gentleman a
few miles from the town. It was Christmas time, and the
season of jollity—dinners were plenty, though fees were
scarce—physicians, like lawyers, take whatever they can
get—my friend had no patient at the tinie, he therefore
accepted the invitation :—-there was a brilliant assemblage
of both sexes: It was what is called a house warming, and
there was a dinner, a ball, and a supper.—-There were a
great number of beautiful young women, smiling like
Hebes, and verdant as spring, for they all wore her livery
—green, ribbons, green gowns, green shoes, and, for aught
he could tell, green garters.—May lingered in the lap of
December^ and he literally thought himself in clover-—mirth
and music, politics and pastime, flew about like a pack of
cards.—The company were all of one mind; ladies old and
young—youth which sat at a side table, as well as the grave
personage who said grace,—Erin-go-brach, Unite and be

186
free, and Paddy's resource, were sung with rapture; and
my friend, who had ah eye to the young ladies* custom, perhaps, when they became wives, or was intoxicated with
their charms, chorussed as loudly as if he had been Napper
Tandy himself:—he was no enemy to government, but, probably, thought itwould not fall a whit the sooner for the weapons they were then attacking it with. A gentleman, of a saturnine appearance, who sat in a corner, and sung the least,
though he drank the most of any one in company, was of the
same opinion—He addressed them on their improper levity;
—heexpected to have heard some rational conversation, he
said,—some plan for delivering them from their domestic
enemies——the vile magistrates who oppressed—-the viler
spies who informed upon them—drinking and toasting was
not the way—even if they toasted and drank to doomsday;
—but let every person single out an enemy, dispatch him
in the best manner he could—so glorious an example,
would be followed by their countrymen, applauded by the
world—and Ireland would be free. Dr.
heard
this modest proposal of assassination, amidst the festivities of
of the table, with astonishment. Every one was silent:
—?5 This is the first time," whispered he, to his right hand
neighbour, '$' that I ever heard butchering men, more than
breaking their bones, was sport for the ladies." "When they
are enemies to their country," replied this humane and judicious young lady, what better can they expect ?" He looked
at her stedfastly—-at the faces of the men and other
women—he had mistaken the cause of their silence—-it
was not wonder—it was not horror—]ie would not say it was
approbation ;--*•with the warmth of an unc6ntaminated
rnind, he reprobated the infamy of assassination, and the
iniquity of such an advice—which was not more odious
than absurd—not more shocking to humanity, than opposite
to policy—which would detach every thinking man from

18?
their cause, and for every enemy taken ofi^ would raise up
a hundred in his room.^--The grave gentleman looked at him
without making any reply<r-^ Who is that fellow/' whispered
he (to the gentleman who sat next him) c* that has been
preaching there. Is he a parson ?"r--'f No," the other
answered, " he is a young physician,"^-^ Ecod, then/*
replied the other, " he will never live to be an
old one—he is a damned aristocrat,"—In the course
of the evening he danced with a lady of a mild and
prepossessing appearance—-he did not talk politics to her, he
was discouraged by his unsuccessful whisper to his fair
neighbour at table:—she entered on the subject, however,
herself—" I should never have thought you were an
aristocrat, if I hadn't heard it from your own lips !"—"My
own lips, then/' he replied, "must have uttered false words ;
for I assure you I am no aristocrat, but a friend to the rights
and happiness of man."-—" You take a wrong method of
shewing it then," said she, " by pleading the cause of his
oppressors- —vile wretches—I am sure death is too good
for them-—they Reserve worse if worse is possible"—" It
is not so much what they deserve we should consider, as
what is proper for ourselves—I am sure assassination i£ not
a fit subject for a girl, nor I trust will it ever find an advocate
in you."—"Ah!" saidshe, shaking her head," you are no true
croppy—(the united Irishmen wore their hair short, and
were therefore designated by the loyalists, in derision, crop*
pies—persons wfeo for convenience adopted this fashion,
often experienced, therefore, insult, and sometimes inj ury,
from the zealots of loyalty, who carefully preserved their
own long and flowing locks, as if Irjsh loyalty, like Samson's
strength,; lay in the hair)—-you may wear your hair close,
you may sing what songs, and dance what tunes you please,
but I tell you, you are no true croppy—you reason, but a
^republican," said she with animation, "feels—for his bleeding
country—for the exile in a foreign land,—for the prisoner in

188
a dungeon,—for the victim on the scaffold;—for the wretched
wanderer without habitation or nanie; whose house has been
burned, whose wife has been outraged, and property
destroyed, by the vile agents of lawless and brutal power
-—and because I am a woman, I am not to think of this—
I am not to feel for their sorrows, because I cannot relieve
their distresses ;—I am not to pursue with curses, their
low-minded, and 30on I hope, to be low-laid oppressors,
because I am a woman—because I am weak—because I
am a girl, as you were pleased to call me ; but if I am weak,
God is strong, and will soon I trust exterminate such
monsters from the iace of the earth, I would not, added
she, after a pause* and in a more moderate tone, strike a
dagger into one of their hearts, but I would bless and pray
for the man who did it, ?.ad would take liis chance of
Heaven, far sooner than, the cold-blooded preachers who
talk t)f virtue, but encourage vice, and trample on, and
outrages innocence, by affording impunity to guilt."—No
reply was made to this violent speech—to have answered
it with ridicule would have been cruel; ari& reason would
have been unavailing, to lay those terrific images her fancy
conjured up; and which caused her, like Hamlet, to speak
daggers, though, like him, she said, she would use none.
Spite of his prudence, the cold-blooded doctor confessed
he was struck with respect and admiration, for the feelings
that dictated those sentiments ; that sparkled in the eye,
and illuminated the countenance of the fair enthusiast;
and when he took hold of her hand, which still ^ trembled
with the vehemence with which she had spoken, and dried
the tear which trickled down her glowing cheek, he found
his feelings, in favour of the exile, the prisoner, and the
wanderer, stronger than they had ever been before—-Like
Festus in ^the Apostles, he could have exclaimed,'' almost
thou persuadest me to be a republican."—««-At a period

189
subsequent to this, I knew her myself.—She was then married, and I never was in company with a more amiable
woman. The enthusiasm of the hour had passed away,
and given place to the sober business of human life. Occupied with domestic employment, and domestic happiness,
she thought little of those evils she once thought great,—
which are incidental to all insurrections, and which interference, however well meant, hardly ever fails to exasperate. The fault she fell into, is one very common to persons of great sensibility,—whose feelings are strong and
judgments weak—-who have good hearts but weak heads.
In the strong sympathy they feel for distress, all minor considerations are swallowed up—they never reflect how much
of it is folly, and brought on by itself;—-how much of it is
guilt, and deserving of punishment.-—Become sanguinary,
even by the excess of their humanity—become oppressors,
from their abhorrence of oppression, they inflict misery
from the hatred they bear it—their love of virtue makes
them unjust, their horror of cruelty, makes them cruel,
and sullen hatred, and demoniac malice, are not productive of greater ills in society, than their noble and generous,
but romantic and ill-regulated emotions.
The English
character itself is a strong and unfortunate illustration of
this j—without going back to any distant period of our history, we have only to refer to the causes which led to the
war in which we have been engaged, with slight interruption, for upwards of seventeen years. What Mr. Pitt's
motives for entering into it were, I shall not attempt to determine,—the man is at rest, which is more than he would
allow the world to be—but of this I am certain, the humanity of the people of England, which made them tremblingly alive to the excesses perpetrated in France, could
alone have engaged them so warmly in it—nor do I know
.whether most to admire, or execrate, the characteristic

190
cunning of this wonderful man, which enabled him, with
such fatal adroitness, to convert the honest prejudices of
the English nation, in favour of good order and humanity,
into the deadly weapon of destruction, of all they most
revered.—Ministers would never have dared to avow the
design of starving twenty-four millions of men, if they
had not previously intoxicated the people of England, and
like the fable of Circe, prepared them, by their artificial
declamations, by their pathetic and tragic speeches, for
the perpetration of acts as brutal as those they thought
v most brutal.
p—The French people were guilty of great
excesses, which excited the abhorrence of the English ; —
It is to their credit that they did excite it, yet happy would
it have been for the peace of man, had we been,
" Duller than the fat weed
" That rots itself in ease, on Lithe's wharf,
<c
Ere we had stirred in this."
For to our interference, I fear, is to be, ascribed many of
the miseries of the war, as well as the fiend-like character
it displays*-—This might have been foreseen by any person
who witnessed the shock our declaration of it, in the year
1793, gave public, as well as individual feeling in France.
That Austrian, and Prussian despots, should endeavour to
crush the infant republic, was not wondered at. The
French relied on the superiority of their strength, and as
they had little fear, they could not long feel much resentment, whatever (from motives of policy) they might affect
to feel.—But the interference of England, her gigantic power,
her immense resources, put in imminent jeopardy the frail
bark of freedom, assailed as it was by dangers of other kinds
—nor wrasitmore overwhelming than unexpected. England 5
the seat of freedom, of humane feeling, of just reasoning:
England 5 whom they venerated, whose opinions they
adopted/ whose example they thought they followed, whose

m
prejudices they cherished $—that she should regard those
efforts, (for which she expected praise) with horror; that
she should repay her veneration, with insult and unkindness*
were injuries too great, too aggravated, eyer to be forgiven.
Love was converted into hatred,-—the milk of English,
kindness was curdled in their breasts 3 and the unsteady
Frenchman, became the steady and irreconcileable enemy
of England.—He met, he imagined, no kindness in the
day of his sorrow, no allowance for the excesses of his
madness, no mercy in the hour of his weakness ; and we
may be well assured, he will shew none in the hour of his
strength.—I have said, perhaps, too much on this subject;
yet my feelings are so strong, I cannot forbear saying a few
words more. The French revolution was a great but a
fleeting evil—it was a transient cloud that would soon have
passed away ; our interference fixed it and drew down that
fatal storm, which has desolated Europe, arid inundated her
plains with blood, French atheism overturned the altars
of religion^ Vanished and murdered her priests ;—English
religion forged assignats, and preached up a crusade of
blood—r-French ambition, overran countries, overturned governments ;—- English humanity, encouraged nations to
unavailing resistance^ and sent her own |troops to hopeless
combat•$ or to moulder in infected climes, and unwholesome marshes, from the effects of slow, though not less
certain disease. French action, and English reaction^
French barbarity, and English humanity, have inflicted as
much misery on mankind these last seventeen years, as
«ver befel them in the same space of time—-not even
excepting the civil wars between Csssar and Pompey, or the
proscriptions of Augustus or Mark Antony. The case of
Europe, God knows, was desperate enough ; we need not
have miade it worse by intermedling-—could she have
spoken, she might have said to us, as one Doctor did to

192
another, of whose judgment he had but an indifferent
opinion:—" Good Mr. John Bull, give me a chance for
recovery, by forbearing to prescribe for me."

CHAP XVIL

OMAGH,

I HAD now spent several days in Cootehill, and it was time
to think of quitting it 5—I have said so much of the people, that I have not left myself room to say any thing of
the place; no great misfortune either, as I know nothing
remarkable in it, except the extreme neatness of the shambles : the meat sold there, I am told, is excellent, but of
this I can only speak by hear say j I abominate the sight of
raw meat, as much as I do that of a butcher; it reminds
a man too forcibly of what a cannibal he is.—I took leave
of my venerable friend, with a melancholy pre-sentiment
We should never meet again in this life, nor was I disappointed ; the very day I left her she was suddenly taken ill,
and died after a few hours illness:—I do not know that
at any age, death should be considered an evil;—I should
think it a blessings when it summons us at seventy-two.
" Lusisti satis,, edisti satis, atque bibisti;
" Tempus abire tibi est."
I dined at her house the evening before I went away,
in company with a rich farmer, who lived some miles distant ;—when he understood that my route was pretty much
the same as his own, he invited me, with great civility, to

193
take a seat in his gig, and stop and pass the day at his house—
I complied with cheerfulness :—I was accustomed to Irish
hospitality, and liked it—at the worst, it could only give
me a sick stomach and head-ache, and I was sure of them,
if J. ventured into a stage coach.—We had a pleasantenough drive, as the day was very fine, and my companion
good-humoured ; but the country was dreary, with high hills*
which we clambered up at a snail's-pace, and ran the risk
of breaking our necks in going down. The witty Editor
of the Morning Post observed, on Sir Francis Burdett's leaving the tower by water, that he might now boast of having
gone through both fire and water for his country.—Were
I to avail myself of this most exquisite pun, I might say
I did the same for the benefit of my reader. For the greatest part of the way there were turf bogs on one side, and
'lakes on the other;—turf, as is generally known, is the
firing of the Irish, and a most delightful fire it makes;—it
appears to advantage in a grate, but certainly is no improvement to a landscape.—In some parts of Ireland
the bogs are very extensive, and a traveller may readily go
astray in them; as the footing is not very firm, he is often
not able to extricate himself without assistance, and, therefore, is often not extricated at all. When the ignis fatuus
of whiskey has decoyed the poor peasant, returning from
fair or market, into one of theseimmense morasses, he is generally found lifeless the next morning; A man is metaphorically lost in a bog, (in Irish phrase) when he gets so
entangled in an argument, as to be unable to move either
backwards or forwards.
The house where we were going was surrounded by trees, and
looked very well at a distance; like many men and women,
however, it did not improve upon nearer acquaintance :—we
drove up to the door, and stepping incautiously out, I was half
way up my leg in a large puddle of dirty water, which stag-

194
Hated at the very threshold-—rny nankeen pantaloons, arid
white stockings, Were little improved by the immersion*
" Evil betide me, (said my conductor) not to t^ll you to step
on the board."—-On looking down, I found there was a
board, on which, as on a bridge, I entered the house. " You
iriust be fond of water indeed, (said I) to keep a lake in
front of your house ; one should think you Jiad enough of
them ifi the neighbourhood; but I would recommend a4
boat to you, instead of that Alpine bridge, rriade' of a sirigfe
plank; your visitors would pass over in greater security.^
" $ever mind the water, my honey, (said he) take a drop
of the cratur to keep it out of your stomach, and I warrant
you it will do ybu rio harm 3-—my sarvants are so busy* sd.
Busy, but if ybu happen to cdme this way about Christmas^
yoti shall have a hearty v welcome, and dry footing into the
bargain.—As most farm-houses in the North of Ireland
are similar in construction to the one I was now in, I shall
describe it exactly:—- It was two stories highy white-washed*
ahd thatched;—on entering the hall^ I found it likewise
the kitchen, where a large fire was blazing—on the right
lianct was the parlour, off which there was a smali bed-room;
th£ apartments above- corresponded in size to those, but
Were mere lumber rooms;—they resembled the worst half
of Noah's ark; they were a receptable for all unclean
things—the apartments on the left hand I reserve for bed
firhe.---A length of time elapsed before the mistress of
the house made her appearance. I judged, by the great
bristle that prevailed, by the opening and shutting of doors,
that she was either dressing herself, or the dinner;—unfortunately, it proved the former,—she sailed in, clad in an
old-fashioned lutestring; gown, that swept the ground behind her. After some time spent in conversation, which
I every moment expected to have interrupted by a sumRiam to dinner, the husband observed to his fair spoiise.*

1%
it wa:s time to give orders about dinner,—c< Then it will be
some time before it is. ready," (said L)—Ci Oh, not more than
half an hour, (she replied;) the goose will be put on the
spit in an instant."—It was too true, the goose had to be
put on the spit 3 but there was much preliminary matter
before he could be brought that length,—he had to be
drawn, and skewered* and plucked;—-he had to be killed, for
he was actually, at that instant, sailing like a stately swan
on the pond, where I had so unfortunately made shipwreck.
Dinner was so long in coming, that I lost my patience
first, and then my appetite.—It made its appearance, at
length, however ; it was tolerably well dressed, and we had a
bottle of excellent wine. After I had eat of something else,
I asked for a slice of the goose; my host flourished his knife
and fork with great dexterity ; but, instead of drawing the
knife across the breast of the goose, as he intended, drew
it across his own fingers, from which the blood poured
down in a copious stream, on the dish before him.—There
was no eating goose with such sanguinary sauce ; I therefore
sentaway my plate, being perfectly satisfied.—My host's kind
heart was not so easily contented ; he had returned to the
table with his fingers tied up, in a clout that was none of
the cleanest: he said I had made no dinner, and that I must
positively eat a wing of the goose, which he swore the blood
had not touched. u But what, though it had man," said he,
with a cordial slap of his sound hand on my knee, " it is
neither Jew's, nor Papist's blood, but a good old Protestant's,
who never did a dishonest, or disloyal action; who loves
God, and honours the King." "And hates the Pope," said
L " P-~-n the Pope," said he, "and all that takes his
p<art j if I had the trial of them, I would hang them all up
without judge or jury;—an outlandish vagrant, seated
cross-legged on his seven hills, like a scarlet whore, as he

r

Q

2

196
is." « fie has quit the hills/' said I, " his French Physician
thought the air of them too keen for his constitution, and
ordered him down to the valley/' " He should have ordered
him to the Devil," said my host, (who had swallowed a
bumper or two of grog, before dinner, and was now a little
elevated,) " he and all his breed.—Come/' said he, " I'll
give you a toast, that I am sure you won't object to, for you
have a good Protestant face ; come, bumper, bumper I say,
nosky-lights—here's to H—with them all for ever!"—" For
ever" said I, " is surely too long ; a thousand or two years
might satisfy."—" Thil'spurgatory," said h e , " and the Papist's
doctrine.—I dont believe in it.—Ah, master of mine, (drawteg his cbair closer, and speaking lower, as if afraid of
being over heard) you don't know thim as I do; you hiv'nt
lived among them, and can't tell what sort of varmin they
are : Why, man, my own sarvants would murder me in my
bed, if they durst 5 and so I told them on Friday last, being
the first of August old stile, of all days in the year ; yoii
ungrateful vipers you," said I, " I feed and nurrisli you, and
yet if the French landed to-morrow, you would turn taib,
and cut off my head, for a present to some French Captain
or other, to make yourselves more welcome." " French Captains," said I/* care very little about men's heads, whatever they
may about their purses; there is gold sometimes in them.—*And lead in the poor Irishmen's skulls," said he, with a laugh.
** thank you, thank you, master; come, that's a good one too*
I love my joke, and I love my friend, and I love my glass,
and I love—dang it, thit's well thought on too—I say, fill your
rglass, I'll give you my wife's health—a better sowl never
broke bread \ doesn't cross the threshold from week's end to
-week's end, and yet you see, in company, she-his quite the
look of a lady r -she's of a grate family, in the county Armagh—her father's a tip-top man there—keeps a large Tanyardj and is hand in glove with Squire Vemer, and all the

197
rest of the gentry.—Orange and Blue for ever, my jewel,"
said he,—" King William, for ever,—King George,—God
bless him." "And the Princess Charlotte/' said I, "and the
Prince of Wales, and the Royal family—That's what the
prayer-book says." " The Prince of Wales is a good man's
son, and thirefore we'll drink reformation to him,"
said he, " if you plase. Can you tell me if he keeps
company with Mrs. F
yet ?" " Its very likely,"
said I, " for I am told she is still a handsome woman,"—
" She's old," said he.—" No woman is old in London," said I.
" There is a grate many of them," said he, " that are older
than they are good, I'll be bound for it \ but you can't deny
that Mrs. F is a Papist." " Why, man," said I,
" the Papists are a great trouble to you.—Do you think the
Princeof Wales goes to Mrs. F — — t o talkreligion to her ?"
" I don't know what the devil he goes to her for," said he5
" nor, not to give you an ill answer, do I care j—but* this I
know, simple as I sit tiere, I would'nt go to a
Popish W——when aprotestantonewas to be got, for love or
money: but I suppose, its all owing to that damned fellow
Mac——, who, if hehad his good will, would not let a Protestant dog near him, for fear of his barking some truth into
his ear."—Good wits jurrip; nearly a similar thought occurred
to a noble Lord, in the reign of Charles the second: In
the debajtes on the exclusion bill, as it was called, he was
pleased to fjnfsh his speech in the following manner : a I
would not have (said this admirable legislator,) so much as
a Popish dog to bark, or a Popish cat to mew, or pur about
theKing;—"ColonelMac——"said I, "is no Catholic;" he
is a member of Parliament, and goes to Church,"—" He be
damned," said he3 " he is a rank Papist in his heart, if he
was to swear till he was black in the face, to the contrary;—
Mac, of the county Monaghan go to Church— ha,ha!—a
fine name to go to Church with, truly:—ah, thim things may
go down with John Bull; but we know better, and take

im
care of him, when he does nothihg but fill his fat guts,
and go to 6leep :—ha, ha ! people are wise nbw-a-days; they
laugh at old times and notions—they will emancipate the
parishes, will they-—they will make them friends of England,
—by doing that!warrant—they will stand by them at the
pinch, and keep out Buonaparte.—Ogh-hone, but they know
them well—and they'll soon know them better; but by my
Svwl they'll pay dear for their laming.—Emancipate the
Catholics, to make friends of them! J——s, what fools
our great people be—if they were to give them the crown
of England to-day, they would be quarreling for the
(diamond, (that I'm tould once dropped but of it) tomorrow." In this manner we continued drinking,
and conversing to a late hour. My worthy host was as
hospitable as communicative, and no more a churl of his
liquor than of his talk;—>he was, in truth, a kind-hearted
creature, who hated nothing buj: papists and those who took
their part:—his house seemed the abode of plenty, but
slovenly and djrty^-his brain bore a good deal of resemblance
to it—he had ideas enough, such as they were, but like the
furniture of the apartment, a little topsy-turvy.—I have
relating this conversation, because,
f been particular in
though apparently frivolous, it is in reality not so—though
delivered in coarse and vulgar phrase, it contains a faithful
picture of orange feeling, on the subjects on which it turned;
—.his sentiments were those of a class, though his language
was that of an individualj his phrases, his ejaculations, his
vivacity, were his own- ^but his opinions, his prejudices,
and liis hatreds, were those of his tribe.—The uniformity of
opinion which pervades almost all the individuals of the two
grand classes into which Ireland is divided, is most
wonderful; nor can any thing be more instantaneous, than
the sympathetic feeling which vibrates from the highest to
"the lowest^ and, making allowance for the difference of
education, makes the peer and peasant speak nearly a.

1S9
similar language.—The Prince of Wales as not so popular
among the Orange men as he deserves to be; inconsequence
of the disposition they think he has manifested in favour of
the catholics—which, as they are willing to lighten him as
much,as possible/from the ignominy of such degradation,
as they conceive it, they attribute to the influence of Mrs.
JF--—-—, whose e&igy I wonder they never thought of burning, along with the Pope, and Guy Fawkes.—We had some
supper, the exact nature of which I was at great pains to
verify yso much had the bloody goose taken possession of
my imagination, that I saw it in every thing I touched, as
the unfortunate hydrophobic is said to see the image of the
.dog.-:who bit him, in the drink he attempts to swallow.—
When I was shewn to the room, in which I was to sleep, I
CQuld not help being struck with its dreary and forlorn appearance.—It was large enough for a barrack, and seemed
# barn metamorphosed into a bed chamber.—The wind
whistled through the broken panes, as melancholy, if not as
musical, as an Eolian harp—it would have been an invaluable treasure to Mr. Monk Lewis, who has so happily revived the raw-head and bloody-bone stories of our infancy,
to frighten the grown children of England—it only wanted
a gang of banditti, a couple or three skeletons, a ghost, and
a lady, to have made it a jewel of an apartment.—I surveyed
it with wonder, if not with terror, and had I not been armed
so strong with whiskey punch, (which, as an admirable
weapon for parrying fear, I would recommend to all my
fair readers, who sleep in large and lonely apartments) I
might have imagined I saw airy figures ascend out of the
earth, and glide intov the remote obscurity of the room;
dimly illuminated, as God knows it was, by the farthing
candle I had placed on a large meal chest, by way of a table.
-^Where is the good of reading history, somebody says, if
we do not benefit by the examples it contains-.--my reading

200

has been mostly confined to romances-—in humble imitation
therefore, of heroines in similar situations, I looked under
the bed, and behind the meai-chest, lest an enemy might
be lurking there.—-1 would have peeped into it, for, like the
Trojan horse, it was large enough to hold robbers in its
belly, but it was double locked.—I walked up and down the
room in pensive meditation; but as there was no looking
glass, I eould not start affrighted at the reflection of my
own image, as the custom is on such occasions,—I could
have wished greatly to have opened the casement, and gazed
at the moon, but the casement would not open, and there
was no moon light.—I therefore, to do the best I could,
popt my head out of one of the'broken panes, and looked at
the stars. Of all the planets, the heroine of a romance
owes the greatest obligations to the moon-—the sun, like
other holiday friends, seldom shines when he is wanted; but
tlie moon never refuses her pale beams to her votaries.—
She is always at hand to light them on their way, when they
sally forth at midnight in pursuit of adventures, with their
little bundles tied up in a handkerchief, like milliners' apprentices, Thed, at length, of star-gazing, I took off my clothes,
and went to bed—such is the advantage a hero possesses
over a heroine. Neither Mrs. Radcliffe, nor Mrs. Roach,
would have allowed one of theirs to have taken their clothes
off for the universe,—The utmost length they could go, (if
I am correct in my recollection) would be to unpin their
hair, and throw themselves on the bed.—-Whatever the
reason may be, a heroine has as great an aversion to getting between a pair of sheets, as a knight errant of old had ;
one advantage, however, she possesses over him, and a great
one it is, considering the expense of washing, that though
she changes her linen as seldom as he does, it is always of
a dazzling whiteness^this is indispensable ; her chemise,
though worn a month, rnust look as white as if just purchased

201
at a ready-made linen warehouse.—Another essential feature
of a true heroine is, that she never sleeps until the first
rays of the morning gild the hills, and play on the bars of
the window—she may be then allowed a few moments of
troubled repose, (it is well for Mrs. Roach that she wasn't
an Irishwoman) with her head reclined on her lily hand,
(a heroine can sleep in no other attitude) while the other
grasps some part of her drapery—to guard against surprize,
I suppose—It would have been well for me had I had the
clinophobia of those ladies,—I should have escaped a great
fright, which was not the less real for being a ludicrous one.
— I had enjoyed, for about an hour, the blessings of slumber,
when I was awoke by a noise more tremendous than thunder; to my terrified imagination it seemed like the roaring of
the fiercest lion—I started up, and struck my head against
Something that felt rough and warm, and extending my arms
(in an agony of fear I must confess,) got hold of ears of
what I supposed a ferocious animal.-—It is inconceivable the
ideas of horror that rushed through my mind™I thought it
was a mad dog, who had some way or other found his way
to the bed—the bellowing, however, which was in an instant
repeated, made me change my opinion, and I took it for a
wild bull, who had broke loose, and would devour me, as the
red cow did Tom Thumb.-—I jumped out of bed, and
endeavoured to escape by the door, but could not find it-*-I called loudly for light and assistance—the bellowing continued, though it did not seem to quit the spot where I first
had heard it—between us we made a noise that might
have broken any sleep, except what the last trump
will waken us from.—My host at length made his
appearance, followed by his wife, bearing a candle—he
was in his shirt and red night cap, like a Turkish turban—
the fair torch-bearer was in her chemise—though assuredly
it was n o t " une chemise blanche/'—The husband thrust

202

the muzzle of a fowling piece, (which he carried cocked)
into the room, before he entered himself—-so that between
the mad bull in my Tear, and the orange party in front, I
thought myself in a perilous situation.—When I had explained the nature of my alarm, we advanced in-a body
to the bed, to discover the cause.—The roaring, which was
incessant, proceeded from the mouth of a red cow* with horns
as long as a deer's—but the head only was visible ; how at
came there, or where the body was, was to me totally uninitelUgibleT-?my3host^fter rolling on the bed same instants in
:® hearty fit 6£laughter, explained it to me.—With the carelessness that marked all his domestic arrangements, a cow
?
was sometimes turned into the chamber that communicated
with mine, to save the trouble of taking her to the. stable :-rOne he had purchased a few days before, at a neighbouring
fair, had been confined there ever since ;—as she was probably notmuch accustomed to live in a parlour, it was not
wonderful she wished to make her escape out of it—by dint
ofiperseverance, she forced apassage for her head, through
^the partition of lath and plaster which separated her from
the; side o£ my bed.-~Unable to draw her body forwards, or
her head backwards, she stuck fast in this pillory of her
tmn creation, arid broke out into the noise I have just been
meAtioning.^By enlarging the orifice, we set the prisoner
at? liberty, and released her from her disagreeable neckclothi-^The lights were withdrawn, and I was once more
left in solitude—-I endeavoured to sleep, but it wa$ impossible~-the red cow had ^murdered sleep/'—The moment
the first rays of the morning were visible from my windows, I
got up, dressed myself, arid sallied forth—I opened the door
jgently, lest my host should awake, and attempt to detain
me,''•'till rafter breakfast.—There was no mistaking the road,
as it ran quite close to the house; but had it been as difii^ult as the labyrinth of Crete, I should have ventured on

203

it, without even a clue to direct me \ so heartily sick was
I of the sign of the red cow.—Getting up at the dawn of
day is what I have seldom practised—for a few moments, I
yawned and stretched myself without ceasing—every feeling
of lassitude, however, was soon absorbed in the contemplation of the sublime spectacle before me.—-Light and darkness
still struggled for mastery—the former was on the top of
the hills—the latter rolled its grey mist like a troubled
ocean, over the valleys:—It gradually receded—-Chaos gave
place to creation—the features of the landscape became
more distinct—the rays of the sun gilded the sides of the
mountains---a few moments afterwards, he shot up into
view like a pyramid of fire—all nature felt his influence,
the dew-drops bespangled the trees—-the hawthorn perfumed the air—innumerable birds poured forth their gratitude from their little throats—it was the incense of sacrifice from the earth, to the being who gave it birth,—
It was the sleep of the tomb bursting into the resurrection of
life.
u

- The saffron morn, with early blushes spread,
Now rose refulgent from Tithonus' bed $
With new-born day, to gladden mortal sight.
And gild the courts of heaven with sacred light"

CHAP. XVIII.
0MAGH.

1 WALKED upwards of five hours without stopping, or
meeting any person—I was considering that breakfast would
be no unacceptable occurrence, when I came to a little

204

village, of four or five houses—it is called Cross-roads, probably because it is situated where several roads meet:—the
appearance of the public house, though humble, was neat,
and I resolved to enter and have some refreshment.—I was
now in the north, and knew I could have whiskey and sweet
milk, oaten cake, and fresh butter in abundance.-—I asked
the good dame, who came curtsying to meet me, if she
could let me have some breakfast—" To be sure, I can,
Sir," said she, bustling before me into alittle room off the kitchen; " what would you choose, tea or coffee ? My fears now
all subsided. I found I had a choice, when I expected
neither; to make amends, therefore, I ordered both; there
was no necessity to mention eggs ; they always come in as a
matter of course; a breakfast without them, would be
thought as preposterous, as a dance without a fiddle, or a
dinner without potatoes. I was delighted with my little
apartment; not only from the gratification that cleanliness
always gives, but from the satisfaction I felt at finding
English neatness, and little pastoral ornaments, transplanted to, the bleak mountains of the North of Ireland. Pots
of geranium were in the window; the bed in the corner
was nicely made up, and covered with its many-coloured
garment.
" The broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row."
The weather was now warm, and the hearth beneath was
(to make use of the words of the same charming poet)
" with aspin boughs, with flowers and fennel, gay/' I
turned over some books that were on a table, in the Latin,
Greek, and Irish languages. In the lattej were several rituals
of the Romish worship. I asked Mrs. A—
, if they
belonged to her. She laughed, and said no; she had some-

205
thing else to do, than mind reading; I declare to my God,"
said the good dame, unpinning her flowered cotton gown,
and smoothing it over her pe?-green petticoat, " except a
chapter or two in the testament; one of Blair's sermons, or
a look into Hervey's Meditations,I don't open a book from
one week's end to the other." I had no occasion to question
her about her religion ; I knew now Very well what she was.
—I had supped with a member of the established church
the evening before—I was breakfasting, in the house of a
Presbyterian. " I thought you might have been a catholic,
by the books I saw there/' a No, she was a Presbyterian (she
said) and so were all her fore-bearers: the books belonged
to the priest of the parish, who lodged in the house; he
gave her thirty good pounds a year, for diet and lodgiag:
and, what with his fast-days, when he would eat nothing, and
feast-days, when he dined abroad, she seemed to
think she had a good bargain." I found this good dame
the most liberal protestant I yet had met with. (c Why
should she hate the catholics, (she said in answer to a question I asked her) God made them as well as her ;—for certain
their religion was the eldest, and nobody could tell, but it
might turn out the best;—if they were in an arror, that was>
their own affair^ and nobody had a right to meddle with it.
The catholics were good customers of her's; many a good
pound she had got of their money, and it had thriven
with her as well as the protestant's." I had on a black coat,
and my hair was cut short; it is not unlikely therefore she
took me for a priest, and what I considered liberality was
only compliment. My manner of eating would probably
undeceiveher;—I kept no fast—beside tea, coffee, toast, and
eggs, drank two bowls of cream, and eat a large quantity of
honey. I paid twenty-pence, and gave a trifle to a comely
servant-maid who attended me, I suspect the priest had
other employment here beside counting his beads^ oc

m
fading his ritual; St Chrysostom would sometimes he exchanged for the Art of Love*
About a mile from Crossroads is the village of Emma- ¥ale* s The country round it is level;— i the fields appear to
he well cultivated, and are agreeably intersected with
hedges j in most parts of the north of Ireland, the fences
are formed of - stones. This village was formerly called
Scarnageragh, an Irish word, of which I don't know the.
meaning.;-—but which signifies, I suppose, something iof
which the town is famous. All Irish names of places, 1
believe, are compound^epithets;~-it is famous* however,
at present, for nothing except Its races, which are annually
held, and continue several days : I should suppose they are
mostly attended by the neighbouring farmers, and rustic
jockies, who run for bridles and saddles i it draws together ia considerable concourse of people, I learn ;—a very
drunfeea assemblage, I have no doubt, it generally proves to
be:-—some years ago, it was likewise a very quarrelsome
one; every5 man, on leaving home, drew from its hiding place,
his trusty shilelah; and, as Bacchus, not Venus, was his,
divinity, the club of Hercules never became in his hands
a woman's distafiv The custom of carrying shilelahs is
still continued; but the use of them is almost entirely
abandoned—except a few boxing matches, no other quarrels
occur. The magistrates of this, and, I believe, of every
other part of the north of Ireland, have been unremitting
in their exertions, to put down club law, and to put law in
its place. As the country becomes refined, Irish names become obsolete; they are too rough " for ears polite." I.wasieurious, howeyer, to learn the etymology of Scarnageragh;
J overtook a middle-aged man, decently dressed, and asked
}iim if he could inform me. " I dinna ken," said he ; " I
eanna spake Erish—I would never fash myself with it;
for, to tell you a secret, I neither love it, nor the breed

207
that spokes it.iJ>—" That's a secret/' I replied, « I should
nevex have suspected ; are you not an Irishman yourself ?"
" In troth, and I'm nanej I, and aw my generation, ha gone
to meeting this foivr hundred years."—(C They must have
been a clever generation indeed," said I " to have gone to
meeting a hundred years before there was any.—Where was
you bom ?" " in yon wee hoose," said he, ic on the tap o'the
hrae, with the auld tree our it y—gin ye hae time to step
up, the auld wife will be able, to gie us a hunnoclq and a
drap of buttermilk* By the Erish he meant the native
Irish, or the catholics :--- his ancestors probably fte-fg
settled a century among them \ yet he spoke and thought
of them, exactly as a Scotchman would have done* The
manner of his expression involved what may be termed a
bull—yet it is a bull grave and sober Englishmen have
committed. Sir John Davis, speaking of the city of Kilkenny, says, " there are more Englishmen born in it, than in any
other city in Ireland/'—-The protestant coal merchants of
Dublin, about one hundred years ago, presented a petition
to the Irish house of lords, complaining of the hardships
their trade sustained, by the means of one Darby Molony,
who drew all their customers from them—though he was a
notorious papist and Irishman. The house of lords took
this notable grievance into serious deliberation j what
decision their ivisdom came to on the subject, I have never
learned, I Was overtaken about half a mile beyond the
town by a gentleman's servant driving a jaunting car*—after
bidding me good-morrow, which is a ceremony never
omitted on an Irish road, he offered me a seat, which I
readily accepted—-I was not fatigued with the road, but I
was with myself; I was tired of my own thoughts, and
wanted company. The servant, with the usual courtesey
of the Irish, gave me much information about himself,
before he ventured on asking me any questions j I expected

208
then, to have to give a full, true, and particular account of
my birth, parentage, and education—I was disappointed^
he asked me only one question about myself—where I
lived ? I told him, the most of my time in London :-—then
I had seen Sir Francis Burdett, he supposed; I told him
I had, several times ; * and had I seen him the day he came
out of the Tower ? I expected it, I said, and took a stand
for that purpose upon land; but the weather was warm,
and he went by water—as no doubt you have heard—Good
man, good man,—-he had heard it—he wouldn't risk
the peace of the city-—he wouldn't endanger the lives of
the people, naugh, not even of his enemies—though they
had done what they could to take away his; and had shut
Jiim up, for eight long weeks, in a narrow Tower where he
hadn't room to turn himself. Had I ever spoke to him, he
asked—^Never, I said, I had no acqtiaintance with him.
_.«.-« What a that, what a that, wasn't I in the same town
with him-—oh gemine, getnine, if I was within forty miles,
Wouldn't I walk them barefooted, only to set my two eyes
on.him:"'—He then asked me a number of minute questions
about his height, age, person, drqss, with an eagerness
which shewed the enthusiasm with which he cherished
the idea of this popular baronet.—" The ladies are all for
Mm, to a man/' said I ; " he is very handsome, therefore, of
course; you know they never take,the side of ugly fellows."
— " Handsome is, that handsome does," said h e ; " and if
he was as ugly as Black Bess, that I'm driving here, I would
take his side."—"He is lucky in having such a friend,"said I,
"but as he says he is the friend of the people, it is natural you
shouldbe his."—"I think," said he, drawing himself up with
dignity, " he is the friend of the poor, and can't bear to see how
they are ill Used—and that's what I love him for, because few
of your gentle-folks think about them. Now here's myself;
as long as Fm stout and hearty, and can drive the car^

209
and do my work, I have a livery put ori me, and get
something to eat, but if I was to become ouM and useless, my
master would turn me out to rot in the fields, as he yesterday
did the ould bay Hunter, that carried him over ditch and
gate for so many years 4 "~- a Your master was a brute,
then/* said I, " not half so valuable a one as the animal
that carried him."*—ic He has three thousand a year, and
drinks claret like a Son of Mars; but Sir Francis has twenty
thousand, I warrant ye, and drinks no claret, but lays out
hi& money in buying shoes and books, and giving porter,
and bread and cheese, to the poor people about him : did
you read the story of his goodness* to his wife's waiting
maid, who had an oald mother to support ?"-— I told him
I had. " There's a gentleman for you," proceeded he,
with exultation :—(I cautioned him to sit steady lest he
should tumble off)-*-" there's a gentleman worth fighting
for; by the Holy Father, (his very oath, as I have in
relating this conversation made use of his own words, as
far as I could recollect them) I would wade up to my
knees in blood for him ; but these London capons have no
spirit, or they would'nt have given him up so donsily !
(easily)—ogh, ogh, if some of our barony boys had been1
there, we would have shewn them the difference; we
would'nt have hung our tails and ran away* as those roast
beef and plumb-pudding fellows did." « National vanity
is a perfect Proteus : it founds itself in some countries on
those properties which are the most despised in others:—art.
Englishman looks down with contempt on his ill-clad,
and* as he thinks, worse-fed, brother Pat ; nor are his
ibulls, and his blunders, greater subjects of merriment to
him, than his potatoes and buttermilk. All Pat's jests,
on the other hand, are levelled at, what he thinks, the
shades in his brother John's character—his gluttony,
and unwieldiness—-his roast beef, fat pork* and strong

210
ale-—his red face, and big belly:" he despises tiim as an 6v&v~
fed and inanimate hog5 who is afraid to face danger, and
unable to bear fatigue ; and attributes the successes of the
navy atid army, to his own courage and exertions. We
conversed afterwards on a variety of political occurrences,
With the most minute circumstances of which I found
him thoroughly acquainted.—If his information was peculiar to himself, he was an extraordinary young man \ if
it is general among the Catholics, there is some extraordinary system at work among them ^—curious to know how
he acquired it, I asked him a number of questions, some
of which he answered, and others he did not:—I asked him
what newspaper he read ?—-" The devil a newspaper do I
iread, (said he) Or paper of any kind, for I don't know a B
fjFdm a bull's foot, thanks to my father for it, who is now
under the sod, rest his sowl:---but I listen when I wait at
table, to what the gentlemen are saying, and Barney Gal-*
laghar reads the paper to us at nights, at the Smith's forge^
and gets tvyo ten>pennys a week for reading, beside the
papers into the bargain.^-—" What does your friend Barney
think of the times," said !«-—"Think/* exclaimed he, "what
can any sensible man think ? but they are as bad, as bad,
can be:-^-when things are at the ,worst>:. they'll mendV
however: it is a long lane that has no turning,—-its queer
corn that's never cut down.r—Arrah Billy, my darling, you
weather'd the storm did'nt you3—-you put the croppies,
down didn't you,-—you hanged and flogged and transported them,—-you should have choaked their children^
too, in the cradle 5 but *never mind, my jewel, you are now
Sn your grave, and some of us may live to dance upon it."
We had now travelled about five or six miles together,
find were\ to separate.---1 offered him some money,
Which he rejected with impatience.—-" He had'nt asked
me to ride* for any thing he would make by me, but for the

211
pleasure of my company."—"At all events, my lad," said
I, " w e must not part with dry'lips; let us step into this
house and have a glass of somewhat." He agreed readily
to this proposition.—I poured out a glass of whiskey,
*' Come/'said I, " here's the health of Sir Francis; you won't
refuse to drink it ?"—« If it was salts, down it would go in a
bumper, (said he;) here's his health by land and by water,
on hill and in valley; may he never be worse than I wish
him.—Ough, when you go back to London, if ever you,
meet with him, will you tell him that our boys are all on
his side ?—the gentry, to" be sure,—but he lives among
them, as well as I do, and knows what kind of stuff they're
made of,—-they're poor blood, — muckle cry, and little
wull, as the saying is :—-if it ever comes to that, I would
drive half a dozen of them before me, as easily as I drive
my master's carriage."-—We parted with great kindness,—
he went the left hand road, which led to Augher,—I walked
to Aughnacloy, which was about a mile distant.—Aughnacloy
is situated on an eminence, as most north country towns
are:—'this is equally conducive to health and beauty.—It is
probable, however, it had not its origin in those considerations, but in the more paramount ones of necessity
and security."—In the barbarous times, when the foundations of these towns were laid, the country was a prey
to anarchy and disorder, and peaceful men erected their
habitations, as near as possible to the forts and castles,
from which they looked for safety and protection.—From the
neglect of agriculture, likewise, the natural consequence
of perpetual warfare, the rains of so many ages subsiding
on the lower grounds, converted many of the extensive
plains into mossy morasses, as incapable of giving nourishment, as sustaining the habitations of men.—So general
lias this been, that near a tenth part of this beautiful
island is become a repository for stagnated waters;-—a sad
P 2

212

hut faithful memorial of the woes she has undergone s***
there is a linen market held here on Wednesdays,—the
inhabitants are mostly presbyterians, it is unnecessary to add,
therefore, that they are industrious, and live very comfortably.—There are two inns, one of them lately built;—a
stately mansion, so bespangled with windows, that as the
sun shone oa them, it resembled a great looking glass,—
there was an immense sign in front, so gay and so gaudy, so
covered with gilding, that it looked like an angel in a puppet
show, or a patron saint, dressed out for a procession.-r-This
was too fine a house for me, I therefore walked into one
of a less pretending appearance; there was not so much
tinsel without, and I expected more substance within :-—1
was shewn into a decent parlour, and on my enquiring
what I could have for dinner, the lady of the house made
her appearance:—I asked her a number of questions abouf
the country:—she was a woman, and a widow; it is not
wonderful, therefore, she was not averse to conversation,—?
but what is wonderful, she told me nothing but good of
her neighbours. The people of Aughnacloy are all angels,
if I am to judge them by her character: an English landlady, I suspect, would not have given her townspeople so
much " con amore." I conversed with her till dinner was
ready, it consisted of fish, roast lamb, and swreatmeats : I was,
charged two shillings, and the same lor a pint of port,—rl wa*
not astonished at finding it good,—-the wine in Ireland is universally so. : — I remember dining at a celebrated tavern in.
London, in April last; I had a pint of something they were
pleased to term port, though like Hayes's prologue, it would
have suited any other name as well. " Which of these decanters is the vinegar?" said I to the waiter. " T h i s is it, Sir,"
answered he, impudently adding, " you see it is much
clearer coloured than the wine," " And to do the wine justice,
my lad," said I, c6 it is much sourer than the vinegar."
The principal land proprietor about Aughnacloy., is the

213
Earl of Caledon; he is, at present, at the cape of Good
Hope, of which he is governor; he is a young man of
amiable dispositions, and, I am told, an excellent landlord :
he was colonel of the Tirone militia, and lived very much
with his regiment, by whom he was greatly beloved: his
father was the son of a respectable man in the middle rank
of life, in the county of Deny.—At an early age he went
to India, where he amassed an immense fortune : whether
his peerage was purchased by a part of it, or was given
him as a reward for his services there, I have never learned.
Mr. H . Alexander, late chairman of the committee of ways
. and means, is a cousin of his lordship's, and accompanied
him to the Cape; he is a man of great goodness of heart,
and in conjunction with Lord Castlereagh, was the means
of procuring, a few years ago, for the Presbyterian clergymen of Ireland, an augmentation of their salary from
government:—this was a measure of good policy, as well
as of justice, and was not thrown away on that reverend
body. I amused myself with my wine, till the distant horn
announced the approach of the coach I was waiting for:
I wished to get to Omagh that night, but was disappointed,
the coach was completely filled in the inside, and nearly
so outside. Had the company, however, been of a more
prepossessing appearance, I should have squeezed myself
among them, but they were noisy and drunken, and seemed
to have been quarrelling. The roof of a coach is almost
as perilous a place to quarrel on, as the yards of a ship,
where I once saw a desperate battle between two sailors;
I avoid it in general,—I shrink from the rude familiarity it
subjects one to, and I candidly confess I am apprehensive,
when seated on this lofty pinnacle of greatness, (as is to be
.apprehended on every seat of greatness) of coming head.Jong down.
The instant the coach moved away, I moved after it;-,-

214
the horses feet made a prodigious clatter, and the outside
passengers tongues a still greater than they;—- they had
called for some whiskey,—to drink it was easy,-—payment
was the difficulty,—they disputed it so long, that the coachman lost his patience, and the woman of the house her
money $ he cut the bill, as well as the argument short, by
driving away.
I arrived at Balligawly, a little town where I meant to
stop for the night, about seven in the evening. I had no
difficulty in finding out the Inn, for there was only one,
and a shabby looking one it was.-—Inns, no more, however,
than men or women, are to be judged by outside appear^
&nce. It was a little Eden within, or my fatigue made me
find it so, which is just the same thing.—A man who rolls
thirty miles in his chariot, is generally fastidious—a man
who walks them, hardly ever so,-—he is fatigued, and finds
a deal chair a luxury—he is thirsty, and whiskey and water
is nectar; he is hungry, and a boiled goose with onion sauce
(my supper) is more delicious than venison;—-greatness
would do well sometimes to think on this.—The furniture
©f the little room was decent, and every thing perfectly
clean.
Geraniums were in the windows, whose mild
beauty, and gentle fragrance, gave a rural appearance to
the place;—There were some ludicrous prints round the
room—one of Parson Adams, and Parson Trulliber—
another of Sophia, fallen from horseback, taken from
TTom Jones :—There was a capital display of limbs in this
print—Angiolirii could not have exceeded it, when she
capers the highest. It was harmless, however,—the legs
were as thick as a citizen's in a dropsy, and the face as
frightful as Medusa's.—It would have been impossible to
have recognised the lovely Sophia, but for the kind information of the engraver—-I requested the loan of a book
from the landlord—he sent me up two, Baxter's call

215
to the unconverted, and Willison on the sacrament— which
were his whole library, except the Bible, and Psalm book,
A little afterwards the maid brought me in another,—it stood
to reason, the good man of the house said, that after so
longawalk, I would prefer something langhey (entertaining,)
and, besides, gentlemen in the army never read godly books.
It seemed he took me for a captain of horse.—Why he
should do so I am at a loss to determine-—It could not be
because I came on foot-—I was willing to exchange the
work in my hand for the one brought me. It was a volume
*of Clarissa Harlowe-^-a book as universally met with, as
Tom Jones, or Don Quixotte.—-An ingenious author of
letters, I recollect reading when a boy, gives the preference
in pathos to the English, above all other writers : He says,
$i
I do not believe any language, ancient or modern, can
shew three traits equal to the following—the first is, the
answer of Juliet, to the tyrannical Capulet."
" Is there no pity sitting in the cloulds,
**' That sees into, the bottom of my grief ?
ec
Oh ! sweet, my mother, cast me not away."
The next is from Otway. When Jaffier gives Belvidera
to Renault, and gives him with her a dagger/ desiring him
when she proves unworthy, to strike it to her heart, Belvidera answers.
" O thou unkind one J
" . . . . Have I deserved this from you )
<f
Look on me, tell me,
" Why am I separated from thy love ?
\c If I am false, accuse me $ but if true,
" Don't, prithee don't, in poverty forsake me,
*' But pity the sad heart that's torn with parting."
The third is from Clarissa. After she has escaped from
Jjovelace, and is lodged at a glove shop, King-street, Coven*
garden, slje writes a letter to her nurse, Mrs, Norton, in
which are these words : " I am afraid my poor, as I used

216
to call the good creatures to whose necessities I was wont
to administer by your faithful hands, have missed me of
late. But now, alas ! I am poor myself."
In the volume before me, which contains Belford's account of the prison scene, which Clarissa, in one of her
subsequent letters, calls a large death stride,—still more
striking instances I think might be found.—I will not injure their beauty by quoting t h e m . — I t would be impossible
to judge them fairly without the context ; — T h e following
however, should be engraved in letters of gold, and hung
u p in the chambers of all calculating statesmen, and bar4?
barous conquerors,—they have no feeling for others ; it
might teach them to have some for themselves.—— If God
will judge us, (as we are taught to believe) in a great measure, by our good, or our evil actions, one to another, O
wretch, bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great must
be thy condemnation, 5 '
T h e tragedy of Lear, abounds;
likewise in the pathetic. I have never read without emotion, the last scene of the fourth act, where Lear is brought
in sleeping in a chair, to Cordelia. W h e n he awakes, his
intellects are still wavering, and Cordelia exclaims,— ( ( Still,
still, far wide. Lear says,
" Pray do not mock me,
For,as I am a man, I think this lady
« To be my child Cordelia.
Cor.
" And so I am, 1 am.
Lear.
Be your tears wet ? Yes, failb-r-I pray, weep not:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not Jove me ; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong ;
You have some cause, they have not,
Cor.
No cause, No cause.
The heart-rending repetition of full-fraught grief, in the
answers of Cordelia, must strike every person of sensibility;
yet I have never seen an actress in the part who seemed
to comprehend it, but mumbled it over with as much
u

217
indifference as she does her prayers—if she ever says ?ny.
It is in the display of pathos, indeed, I think both actors
and actresses generally fail. In rage, in terror, in horror,
in loud-tongued distress, in the broad light and shade of the
passions, they are often successful copyists; but in the
more delicate, and less obtrusive touches of sorrow, thej
seldom are so : the reason of this I fear is obvious; and I
am sorry for it, for the sake of a profession I am attached to
from prejudice, perhaps, more than reason: a player is
seldom a man of sensibility, and as seldom a man of
genius : nature is pretty uniform in her gifts to her sons,
and very opposite qualities are seldom united in the
same person;—where she gives great delicacy of some
organs, she gives great obtuseness of others; where she gives
great powers of mind, she counterbalances them, by great
irritability of temperament* and great bodily disadvantages.
Almost all men of genius are sickly, deformed, melancholy, awkward, and unaccommodating: Men of great
beauty, great strength, great agility, as seldom possess great
mental powers—an admirable Crichton is a phcenomenon,
that does not occur once in ten centuries.
The essence of
a player is flexibility of feature and voice, the powrer of
imitation, the power of mimickry. A player is a mimic—
he is not a person who feels, a poet who conceives, but
a painter who copies—-an Artist who puts the
rule and line to passion, and by a happy knack of
imitation, gives an idea of it to others—he gives fairly what
he catches, but innumerable little beauties, the varied tints
of hope and fear, of joy and sorrow, as like the changing
colours of a lutestring, they blend and mingle with each
other, he does not give, because he does not perceive
them; his imitative powers are great, his perceptive ones are
small—his mental eye is not acute, it is not microscopic-—
he is a telescope, through which we only look at large and
distant objects. Garrick, with all his imitative powers, has

218
hot one line in the numerous productions of his pen, a mast
of sensibility would wish to claim for his own. Even in the
expression of those passions he imitates the best, how fa£
does the player fall short of nature itself—how far is the
counterfeit from the reality, the copy from the original; how
poor seems his sorrow, his frenzy, to him who has seen real
sorrow, real frenzy! how poor is the covering of the drawfag-room, to nature's own carpet of green—how poor is the
*ose of the Artist, to the rose that grows on the stalk ; how
poor is the counterfeit nightingale, to him who has heard
the nightingale itself* Some years ago, when in this country last, I was requested by a Surgeon of my acquaintance,
to go along with him, to see a young gentleman, who was
#ounded by the accidental going off of a fowling-piece: on
investigation we found the wound mortal; the shot had
penetrated the abdomen, and lodged in the intestines—he
w ^ a mosi excellent young nto— -a most excellent son; he
had Refused many tempting offers of preferment abroad^ tor
itay at home with his mother; she was a widow-r-he was
heir ohly son—-he was all she had dear upon earth; she
rusBedintothe room where we were consulting—her hair was
dishevelled---her eye was fixed—she could not speak—she
emM not sigh—-^hardly she seemed to breathe; she came
dose up to us, she fell on her knees before us—With her
liaMs clasped, she looked up in our faces—.doubtless to
enquire the fate of her son. O ! what a face was there---What a countenance for the player to contemplate* could anyx
have been found cool enough to contemplate it; even its
transient glance, (I could take no other) was a volume of _
Sorrow : neveir, never, may I view such another, I would
have given the world, had I possessed it, could I nave raised
the wretched mourner—could I have spoke hope—-where
there was no hope; she saw it in my look, though she heard
it not from my tongue. She threw herself on the earth™*

219
she bit the ground—she raised herself up again; she beat
her breast, she tore her hair; she called to her husband by his
name—happy, happy, happy! you are in your grave, and
did not live to see this : she looked up to Heaven, as if appealing to its justice; God, God, you would not; no, no,
n o ; surely you would not be so cruel—you will not take the
Widow's Son*

CHAP. XIX.
DJMTAGH.

1 AWOKE the next morning, after twelve hours of undisturbed repose; I had wandered so long over heath and mountain^
that my beard was as long as a Greek patriarch's : I sent for
a barber to extricate me from it; an elderly man, lame of a
leg, and with a defect in one of his eyes, like a full-grown
Cupid, made his appearance a few moments afterwards : " A
Clergyman I pursume, Sur," said he, " by the colour of your
cloth."—- "Yes/' I said, "I was of that trade for want of a better."
" And afcratrade it is, Sur9" said he, " a borne trade; a man's
respected in this world, and he has as fair a chance to be weel of
in the next, as any of his neighbours : there's our ain clergyman (continued he) as guid a sowl as ^ver broke bread;
preaches twa hours together without ever drawing bridle,
and has aa the ould and new Testament at his fingers' ends,
from Genesis to the Revelations; lectures on the seven
churches, and on the sevea candlesticks, as pat as if it was
the gospel o St. Luke; has but one fault in the world; he's
our fond of the wee drap." " That's a great fault in a Clergyman/'
I said. "Guid man, guid man, it was mthing to the congregation, if it was na for the sligiits of others—they would
na mind it gin he was to be drunk, till he was near bursting;
but then it was what other Sacts said—Ogh aye man, the pa-

220

pists, and the high kirk, hold out their fingers at us, and
gibe us sore, sore, on his account." I ordered a glass of
Jwhiskey to comfort this tender-hearted Presbyterian, and
sent him away perfectly happy—gin I ever preached within
ten miles o that, he would come a the way on foot to hear
me. The mention he made of the Revelations recalled to
my mind a story I heard of an unfortunate enthusiast of
the name of Russell, who was executed at Downpatrick, in
the year 1803, for being concerned in the Insurrection of
that period; before the judge passed sentence on him, he
requested leave to say a few words—he did not expect life
he said, he did not desire it—but he had been long engaged
in writing a commentary on the Revelations, and had now
brought it near a conclusion ; if his lordship would allow
him a few weeks to'finish it, he would be obliged to him.—
Had his lordship allowed him, till he had succeeded in maMtrg this portion of Scripture intelligible, he probably
.would have lived as long as any person in court. A terrible
misfortune had like to nave befallen me in this place, whicfy
if after travelling so long together, the reader djG^not regret,
I should have a very ill opinion, either of him, or myself: I
had walked about half a mile, when I heard a voice, calling
from the hill I had just descended—Captain, Captain; an
instant afterwards, your Reverence, stop, stop; I could not
conceive to what Reverend Captain all this bawling was
addressed 5 when the girl of the house I just had quitted,
came up all out of breath, and I found it was to myself •
she had formed a compound idea of me, from the united
ideasdf her master and the barber : "Sir, Sir," said she, <?you
forgot your pocket-book; but whether it houlds gold, or
bank-notes, aas, safe—its na the lighter for me."-—"ThatI am
sure it is not, my good girl," said I.—The book did not contain
the kind of treasure she imagined; the keeping it would
have nought enriched her, but made me poor indeed. It

221
contained neither Bank ofx England or Bank of Ireland
notes,—but notes and observations, infant thoughts, and
half-formed ideas, for the book I am writing,—-I am right
glad no wag found MY POCKET BOOK. My intention, on
leaving Balligawly, was to walk to this town; after I had
walked a mile, however, my old enemy, the rain, came in
sueh torrents, as to put that promenade out of the question t
-—where it came from, I am at a loss to conjecture, as the
sky was as bright as a looking glass about five minutes
before.—My road lay through a turf bog, probably at the
best of times, not very dry; a few moments continuance
of the shower made it almost impassable.—-A turf bog
never stands in need of rain; it is like sending coals to
Newcastle. I stept into a cabin which, by good luck, was
on the road side.—It was really good luck, for there was a
large dunghill in front, which nearly hid it from view.—By
making a detour, however, and stooping very low at the
threshold I got into the house.-—" I am come," I said, " to
seek some shelter till the rain is over/'-—" And why not ?
and tin thousand welcomes into the bargain ;" said the man,
of the house, starting u p ; — " . shusy, draw his honour a
creepy/- (a small stool.)—I knew now I was the guest
of a catholic—-The dunghill was suspicious:—-your honour,
was decisive. A Protestant never gives this appellation
lightly,-—a presbyterian never gives it at all.-—The cabin
consisted of -a kitchen, and room off it.—It was not
cleanly certainly,—nor was it squalidly dirty: there was
a good turf fire blazing on the hearth, and several noggins,
porrbgers, and a few plates were on the dresser.—Stools in
abundance, likewise, and one chair. The latter was crazy,
however, and seemed an article of state, rather than utility.
-—Yet this was the habitation of a peasant of the
lowest order.
The man's name was Mc Laughlin^
Mac, I believe, in ancient times, prefixed to a name.

$2%
signified great man, or lord, as O did prince, or a lord of
the highest class. Some of his ancestors, probably, held
the land on which he now lived a poor cotter. The change
of, property in Ireland is almost inconceivable. The
descendants of the ancient inhabitants, are now only the
dregs of the people. The wheel of human affairs, however, is perpetually turning, and no person can tell where
its revolution may bring them again. He was smoking
when I entered 5 after wiping the pipe, he civilly offered
It to me, and on my declining it, handed it to his wife. I
asked for a drink of water: "Slimy"
said he, Ci hand the
gentleman a noggin of milk," " I wish>" said the poor
Woman, as she brought it to me, it was butter, for your
sake.—This is a strange, but it is a pastoral idea. Job,
though he did not drink butter, made almost as singular
a use of it. ^O that I were,'* exclaimed he, " a s in months
past, as in the days when God preserved me* When
I washed ray steps with butter, and the rocks poured me
out rivers.,of oil.* " These mountains of your's," said I>
u
are very dreary and solitary; many a robbery has been,
committed in them, I dare say/' " Many a one I trow,
said he, " b u t not just of young days : (he meant lately)
I have heard my father tell many along story of what
happened, when he was a boy." J endeavoured to get him
to recollect some of them ; but he said he could na/ they
had aOi escaped his recollection. There was a torpor and
listlessness about this poor creature, not unusual among
Irish peasants. Travellers have often met with it, and
with the pert flippancy of presumptuous ignorance, have
tailed at it as inherent, and constitutional laziness. It is
not laziness, however, in the common acceptation of the
"Wmi j it is melancholy, it is hopelessness, it is desponden*
cy^—It is a singular recollection of ancient sufferings and
blHailiations, It is the heart sinking of the prisoner, t^

%m
whom the act of cleaning himself, heebrhes at length a.
burthen.—The day was again fine, and finding that my
host was not likely-—" ex fumo dare lueem," I continued
my journey. I gave him some trifle on quitting him $ a
stranger, by his blessings, and his wife's, might have
thought it great 3 and, perhaps, such was their poverty,
that a trifle was great. Balligawly mountains* in ancient
tirnes, were the scene of rapine and murder.—-They were
haunted by a gang of robbers, at the head of which was
one Redmond O'Hanlan, celebrated in provincial story$
as the Cartouche* or Robin Hood of the north of
Ireland. The most marvellous tales are told of his courage,
his exploits, and generosity; robbing the rich only, and
sharing his spoils with the poor.
Redmond O'Hanlan was among the last of that obnoxious body of men, distinguished by the title of Rapparrees
from the Irish name of their half pike \ a weapon easily
procured by the most barbarous* They roved about in
bodies, in search of subsistence, without any certain
abode, or destination, and plundering every district they
visited, were dreaded and detested by the country. They
Were well known, during the reign of Charles the Second,
under the name of Tories; and served to give a nickname
to a body of men holding certain political opinions, which
name they retain to this day. The Irish Rapparees were
long a subject of popular terror and wonder, to the English \
&nd to the idle and exaggerated tales, which were propagated
of them, are to be, in a great degree attributed, the
abhorrence with which too many of them still regard the
Irish. Yet many of these unfortunate men were driven,
by necessity, to this wretched course of life. They were
robbed themselves, before they became robbers; plundered
by the miscreants of those armies, which so often ravaged
and desolated Ireland, " they had no alternative but to plunder
and rob in their turn^ or to starve—to be murderers, or to

224

perish: they assembled at the dead of night in solitary places*
projected their excursions, rushed suddenly oh their prey, va*
nished at the first appearance of opposition, and were again
readily collected.—They hung about the army on its
march; every straggling soldier they killed; even for the
sake of his arms or clothing. In the rage of national
hatred,,they frequently mangled his dead body, and returned
on their invaders' heads, a portion of those woes, so dreadfully inflicted on themselves. After walking a couple of
miles from my last halting place, I was overtaken,, by the
Deny coach; there were only three inside passengers, and
I was happy to make the fourth; By a whimsical coincidence
for the north of Ireland, (where strangers are not numerous)
they were all of different countries. One was. an Englishman, the other a Scotchman, and the third a Frenchman.
The country we passed through, was forlorn and dreary ; a
bleak and dismal bog was on one side, on the other wild
and barren mountains covered with heath, and destitute of inhabitants.—But the evening was beautiful;
the parting rays of the sun, played on the streams, thatpoured down from the craggy cliifs that hung over
us, and the soft notes of a clarionet, on which the guard
was playing, intermingled wTith the sound of the waters,
and made it most delightful. Our music, however, was
doomed to suffer a melancholy interruption. The guard,
having placed himself incautiously on the roof, was, by a
sudden motion of the coach, thrown to the ground, and
killed on the spot.—The body was left in a cabin near the
place where the accident happened ; nor could I on driving away, restrain a sigh of commiseration for the unhappy
man, whose wild notes an instant before had given me such
pleasure^ and who thus
" Did play the swan,
*' And die in music/*

22*

We got into Omagh about seven o'clock ;-~-The coach
stops at a house, of which I have forgot the sign. I pre*
ferred the Abercorns Arms directly opposite ; which, for
cleanliness and civility, I found equal to any house I have
ever been in.—The landlord's name is Jenkins ; he is a civil,
obliging little fellow—-he shewed me every thing that was
curious in the town and neighbourhood : and performed the
part of Ciceroni with great success, considering it was his
first appearance in that character. He assured me I was
the only traveller, who ever thought it worth his while to
ask him a single question about Omagh, during five years
he had lived in it. The approach to this town is pretty ; it is
situated on arising ground.—The country round is highly cuU
tivated, intersected with hedges, and tolerably well planted.
The church spire, and a small cupola erected on the session house, give it a gay, and somewhat of theatric appearance.—The interior of the town, however, destroys the
delusion.—The streets are dirty, and irregular, and though
there are some good houses, they are by no means so numerous, as those of an opposite description—yet I saw none
of those hovels, which are described by travellers, as forming
the entrance to an Irish country town.—In general the
cabins were tolerably decent;—-what I allude to is the external state of the habitations of many, who no doubt belonged to the better order of inhabitants ; and which indi->
cated negligence and indolence, more than poverty and
want.—A number of the houses were thatched:—
being repaired at different periods, as necessity required,
the roofs often presented a grotesque appearance, and
were decked in all the colours of the year ;—the fresh
straw of autumn, on the part lately done, and the green
verdure of spring in the plentiful crop of weeds which grew
on the more ancient.---At a distance one might have taken
it for the city of Babylon, with its gardens and green fields,

226

on the tops of the houses*—Omagh (pronounced Omay^
as being softer,) is the assfze town of the County Tyrone—
a dignity it owes more to its central situation, than to any
other advantage it possesses.—There is a degree of gloom
about it, which it is more easy to feel than describe.—If
I was confined to a country town, I should not chuse
Omagh for my prison. It was formerly the property of the
O'Neils, and takes its name from them—A learned Etymologist tells me, it signifies the field of the O.'s—A small
portion of their ancient castle still remains near the town *,
a large bird like an eagle, curiously cut on stone, was taken
down some years ago, from off one of the pillars of the
grand portal.—This eagle attracted great crowds of visitors to the yard into which he was thrown, and as he had
no power to defend himself, he was very roughly handled;
his beak was broken, his claws were clawed off, and his
wings so clipped, that when I visited him, I could not tell
whether he was an eagle, or an ancient Irish warrior. The
Austrian eagle, has not been more roughly handled by the
French Emperor, than this Omagh one by its curious visitors. The only other remnant of antiquity, is the remains
of an old abbey, but this, like the Eagle, may be any thing
else as well. At Omagh, like other places, antiquarians see
things invisible to commqn sight—It stood to reason, a man
said (who dame out of a house to give me its history) it
should be a friary, for from the shape of, it, it could be no
other building; I don't say it could be no other, but certainly it resembled a friory as much as any other building
--.-he told me he recollects when part of the roof was on it.
Over the front gate, likewise, there were two holes for cannon
to guard it.—It would appear, by his account, they did it
most effectually:—at the wars of Ireland, a regiment came
forward to take possession of i t ; at this time the friars had
gll fled, and only the old porter, an old woman,, and a cat

227
remained.—As soon as they perceived the soldiers n.ear
enough, the old man began a brisk fire upon them, (he old
woman assisting all the time to load the cannon :—what
the employment of the cat was, my narrator could not
inform me.—Having lost many of his best men, the colonel came forward and demanded a parley; he begged of
the old man to allow him to go in, and gave his word and
honour, he would do him no injury, nor suffer any one to
enter but himself.—The old man consented, and let him
in.--'-The colonel asked where all the people were, who
had prevented his men from entering. " There was no one
here at all at all," says the old man, i( but that old woman^
myself, and that grey cat/' u I suppose,^ said I, " the grey
cat was a witch, and was the life and soul of the little gar-*
rison." " Witch, or warlock, I cannot say," said the man, a but
the story is as true as you stand there, for I have heard my
father tell it twenty, and twenty-times, when I was a little'
boy."*———The colonel, as was natural, was struck with
the heroism of this gallant Triumvirate, (I beg pardon for
the bull) and assured thein, that no unhallowed thing
should pollute these holy-wall$,—He was as good as his
word, or rather heaven took care of them.—No heretic
ever had power to enter. The ark of holy Noah, was
never profaned by the tread of Protestant feet.—When the
three brave centinels above mentioned were relieved by the
course of nature, another no less formidable one started up—
a ghost in a red cloak—well known in Omagh to this day,
by the name of Auld red cloak.-*—-~The only p-Hce of
worship in Omagh is the church, which is pretty well attened. The presbyterians, who fornl the bulk of the inhabitants, have their meeting hdusea little way out of town—both
protestants and presbyterians, lam sorry to remark, are equally
rooted in their prejudices against the Catholics, as in other
places I have gone through—-their religion is one of hatred
and not of love,—They seem to view the papists (as they

228

tefm them) with the same eye, that some chaste dames, dcf
ladies of a different description, • •
" Who think the nation ne*er will thrive,
" Till all the W~—& are burnt alive.'*
A. melancholy proof of this diseased state of publi^
feeling will be found in the following narrative.—In July,
I809j the protectant, or orange party, met to commemorate
the battle of the Boyne 5 and, as is customary, were decked,
with orange ribbons, and orange lilies, in honour of their
great deliverer.*—King William, as is well know I was
called the Prince of Orange, before he ascended the throng
of England 3 and, by a whimsical species of association,
arrange has since been the favourite Protestant colour.--—r
Unluckily, a party of volunteers from a regiment of militia^
came irito town that day, on their way to England, They
-wore still the uniform of the regiment they hail quitted, and
had green facings and feathers-—(Jreen is a most obnoxious
colour to the orangemen, and obtruded on th£m thus, in the
prudst of rejoicings, made it still more odious, Nor is it unlikely ^
as they do not detest the Catholics, more than the Catho«r
lies detest them, that the militia-men made an ostentatious
dkplapgf it. They had received their bounty money, and
whiskey waspl^ntyon the road. &,soldier who has money to
purchase liquor, and,can get it to purchase, is seldom
aober. The prarjgemen had met to commemorate a grand
wmt—"
It was a day of fun and jollity." It is to be
presurned, therefore, they drank as freely as the soldiers.
Whether it was the frenzy of party, or of liquor, or of
ftoth, a quarrel soon ensued;-—several severe blows were
|»iven on each side; bu1^%t length, the militia were driven
off the field'.—The orangemen^ however, had but a short
tirne to eyjoy their triumph ;—their. antagonists returnecj
in a few instant?, with muskets they had borrowed fron^

22$
the soldiers of a company quartered in town—They fired
promiscuously on the group of orangemen, and inhabitants
that covered the street.-—Five men, I believe, were killed,
and a much greater number wounded: of the men killed,
on the spot not one was an orangeman.—They were merely
spectators attracted by curiosity.—The death of a person
of the name of Hervey, was attended with some extraordi-*
nary circumstances.—--He was endeavouring to prevent a
friend from going out to join the orangemen; as they were
struggling on the threshold a shot struck him on the knee,
and he died shortly afterwards.—By the exertions of the
magistrates, this unfortunate business was at length put a
£top to, and the volunteers lodged in prison,—eight of
them were tried at the next assizes, but acquitted,
I
mention this to the honour of the jury who tried thenru
They were, doubtless, almost all presbyterians j they had
therefore, strong prejudices to struggle against j but their
Sense of the obligation of an oath, was stronger even
than their hatred of Catholics. About two miles from
Omagh is Rash, the beautiful demesne of Lord Mountjoy„
The house is a mean cottage, but I am told conveniently
fitted up in the inside. The late Lord Mountjoy was a
benevolent character; was fond of agriculture himself,
and encouraged it in others. He commanded the Dublin
regiment of militia, and was killed at the battle of Ne.w
Ross, in 1798, Lord O'Neille, another northern Lord,
was killed at Antrim a few days afterwards. It is melan^
choly that two of the most amiable men, among the
Irish peerage, should have been the victims of this
unfortunate rebellion.
There were many others who
could have been much better spared. The present Lord
is a military man likewise :—-he commands a legion of
volunteers, or yeomen, and if not one of the most
experienced, is certainly one of the FINEST officers m

230

his majesty's service.
His jacket and pantaloons are
loaded with gold, and stars, and jewels, if I am to credit
popular report:-—his bridle, saddle, and saddle-cloth,
are equally ornamented.—" Smr^y said my informant^
f(
even his stirrup irons are gold J* This is a bull, but it is
an exeuseable one;—-it is a hit], but not a palpable one,
•—•Iron is the substance of which stirrups are generally
made ;-~-.stirrup irons, therefore, are supposed to denote
the thing only, and not the thing and the substance com*
bined. In England a similar mode of expression is not
uncommon :~—delicate ladies will say, " I am sick of
mornings, if I do not eat a few mouthfuls of somewhat
before breakfast."-*-And I have heardnot ill-educated people
say 3 * no; J never drink the common sort;—my tea is
always warm water with a little cream in it, and sweetened
with sugar. His lordship is not only a fine officer, but a
fine player likewise,~*-another Irish Roscnis,-*-^ new
northern light, or dramatic luminary j---aets tragedy, comedy,
and farce j and what is a rare merit, and proves the man of
genius,^-he is equally great in them all,—farce, however*
I am told, is his own favourite ; he is fond of recurring to it,
and something of it is to be seen even in his tragedy.—He
has erected a neat little theatre in his demesne;--r-sent for
# scene painter to London, to paint gods and goddesses,
heathen temples, and Chinese pagodas, green fields, and
fat cows, with other scenic decorations. A summer or
two ago, he brought down a shoal of actors and actresses
from Dublin $ quartered them on his tenants, and hutted
them through his grounds, like travelling gypsies; and
opened his theatre, having previously issued cards of
invitation, to all the neighbouring gentry, It is needless
to say he was loudly applauded, particularly by the ladies :
:
#—when a man has the good fortune to be rich, youngj,
feaftdsQmej and though last, not least, a lord, they rnust be

2B1
hard-hearted ladies indeed, who would not be delighted
with his performance, He had something too, to please
all palates ;—tragedy is melancholy work, and his lordship
did not wish to send his hearers weeping to their beds,
•*--tender souls might cry at the play, but every body
brightened up at the after-piece,—-There was always an
excellent supper, and wine for the audience.—The
gentlemen with one accord pronounced him a spirited,
and the ladies a most ravishing performer. He is, I learn,
a good-humoured, and amiable man; not a philosopher,
perhaps, but that is not wonderful. Lords seldom are
philosophers, and to do our government justice, they seldom
make philosophers lords. I dined with the people of the
inn—I found them pleasant and agreeable. When we
were at table the waiter came in, and asked for paper, pen,
and ink.—This is completely a Scotch mode of expression,
—in the same manner they say here, butter and bread? or
cheese and bread, instead of bread and butter,—bread
and cheese. One of the young men played on the fiddle,
—not so well as Mr. Ware, perhaps, but well enough for
Omagh,—Among other tunes he played the Highland
JLaddie:—a Scotch officer in the next room heard it, he
came in where we were sitting, apologized for the intrusion,
and begged leeve to tak a tumbler with us.—"My hert
warmed to that tune whenever a heard it, for ye man ken,
I was borne near Inverary, and am a highland laddie
myself,"-r-He was about fifty years of age, and upwards of,
six-feet high. If he was a highland laddie, I wonder what
highland men and women are. " Can ye play the waaking,
of the fauls>" said he, to the musician ?"—« No f the
Other answered, " Eh 1 mon, that's a pity,—its a deevil
®i' a guid tune,—I could listen a whole night to it; it
puts me so muckle in mind of a lang syne.—-Here Sandy,
.Sandy, (starting up and calling to his servant) devil tak

232
the chap, he's neer to be got when he's wanted,—^Hem
Sandy, whistle that gentleman the waaking of the fauh9
may be he can catch it with his fiddle/'—The servant, who
Seemed, to have more sense than his master, felt awkward,
and did not immediately begins—^ Why dinna ye begin,
ye mule ye," said the other; " ye would hae been whistling
it by the oor, gin I had na asked for it."—The boy then put
himself in a military attitude, like Trim reading the sermon, and began whistling the waaking of the fauls so vociferously, that I walked off as precipitately as I should have done
from a pair of bag-pipes. The morals of the Scotch have been
justly and highly applauded.-?—Their manners would not
be thought so favourably of, if they were to be judged by
some of the Scotch officers who come to this country. The
Tay-Side fencibles were quartered here some years ago. A
gentleman said, jocularly, to one of the lieutenants; '< What
did you do captain before you turned soldier ?" " In troth
then poor enough," said the other, " if the truth were to be
tauld:—my fether was a tailor, and had a wee bit o land, and
so I wrought sometimes on the board, and sometimes at the
tak." I was soon known to be a doctor, and as soon got a
patient.—Travelling doctors are greatly prized in Ireland,
because they are a kind of God-send, and never take fees.—It would be very unreasonable if they did, for the patients
never take their prescriptions :—my present one was a farmer, who lived about a mile out of town.—The young
man who played the fiddle, walked along with me. I w,as
shewn into the room where the sick man lay.—It was a very
sultry evening, he lay under a treble load of blankets, and
an immense fire blazed on the hearth.—I moved to the
-window, to try to open it, but it was nailed down. Irish
farmers think they have air enough in the open fields, and
Seldom admit it into their apartments ;—they would thieve--

233
fore be reservoirs of disease, hut happily, the same careless*
ness which slmts it out, sometimes lets it in.—Panes when
once broken, are seldom mended, and even a hole in the
roof is seldom hastily repaired.—-I felt the man's pulse.and
looked at his tongue^—he was in a high fever—his situation
would have caused some degree of it to every human, being,
J desired the guid wife (a§ she is called) to take off some of
the blankets,'—" I durs na, Surr^" she said, " h e is in a great
heetj-jgid would tak his death of cau1d."—~" My good woman,"
I said, " if he takes his death (which is not unlikely) it
Wotft be from cold I assure you-—why do you keep such a
,fire on this warm evening ?" " In troth, SUIT, and I will just
tell ye: he has a grate weight about his heart, and the
nVbowrs advised me to put it on,.and now and then, to gie
him a wee drap of Whiskey, just to strike it out."*--*" And then
my guid ni'bours, come in ©'evenings," said the sick man,
" to ask how lam, and Crack a bit—one must have something
to make them comfortable you know." " I know," said I, "if I was
in a fever, I would think of myself, and not of those who, from
idle curiosity, came in to visit me; and who run the risk of
taking an infectious disease, and propagating it through the
country.—Do you wish I should order you any medicine ?" " I
canna say I dp^ Sun*; not that I would hast ony slur on your
judgment, but I am in the hands of Providence, and he is the
best Doctor :^~he knows what is guid for me^ better than I
do myself, and gin it be leefe, or death, I submit myself to
his will/' " Providence allows second means to be made use
of," I said; " a s he gives corn to satisfy hunger, and water
to quench thirst, so he gives medicine to cure disease. You
had better let me order something."—I canna, Surr,I canna;
dinna be angry with me, but it would be tempting ProvHU
dence. Affliction does na rise from the dust, nor sorrow
frorn the ground.—-Whom tliv.' Lord loveth lie chasteneth ; lie

234
gives and he talcs away ; he makes sick and he makes well |
blessed for ever be his holy name/' " Tell me, then," I said,
(I assure you I am not angry) " why were you so anxious to see
me, I am no magician j you don't suppose I work miracles
T~-I can't cure you by a look/' a "Na, na, na, Surr, I know ye
canna; but I just wished ye to spend your opinion on me.
I have a son, abra laddie, just out of his time, who works at
thq carpenter trade, in Armagh—-gin I thought I would dee,
I would send for him to give him my blessing, and a wee bit
of advice 3 youth is never the worse of it, and I would wish
him to see, what he man one day come to himsel. But gin
I am to live,! would na chooseto tak him so long off his work."
< My good friend/' I said, I admire your fortitude, and
*
resignation, though I cannot say I think much of your wisdom—-I will tell you honestly, therefore, my opinion: If
you do not resolve to throw off a portion of these clothes, to
extinguish that fire, to quit cracking with your ni hours, and
taking their prescriptions; the sooner you send for your son
the better ; and as he is a carpenter, he may bring a coffin
with him."-——I believe I have said in a former part of this
work, that the belief of predestination is a comfortable doctrine for the soldier, I am sure it is not so for the Doctor—
how many sleek heads would be rough \ how many who now
roll in chariots, would mend shoes, for want of genius to
make them, if the fine ladies and gentlemen of London
were to become Calvinists, ^ Gin I was to do the one
half of what ye tauld me, and my husband to die," said
t t e woman, as she followed me to the door, <f I could neevex
lift up my heed again;— the ni'bours would say I murdered
him." " At all events," I said," you can put a clean shirt on
him 3 the one lie has on is scandalously dirty," "Its na dirty,
Surr, I assure ye, J put it on him the day he was taken ill, that
winnabe a week till to-morrow,"—This good woman's idea
of clean linen, reminds me of the following instance given
by Doctor G—-—— in his lectures, of what he jocularly

235
lerms Scotch cleanliness.—He was attending a young lady
W a fever—he several times desired the mother to change
her linen ; she repeatedly said she would, and at length
though reluctantly, complied.—"Doctor," said she to him one
morning, " I have done as you directed me; I have put a
clean shift on Maria, and she finds it very refreshing/'—
<(
I hope," answered he, a you took care to have it well aired.'*
a
Oh! don't be under any uneasiness about that," replied the
careful parent,—^before I put it on her, I wore it two days
myself."—I cannot forbear mentioning another instance Ihave
heard of Scotch cleanliness ; though possibly it is a fabricated*
rather than a real story. An English gentleman travelled
pnce in Scotland, who was very fastidious—he disliked the
cookery, and was disgusted with the dirty manner in which
every thing was served up to him. He tried several Inns,
but found them all alike—they could give him nothing that
was clean, or nothing that he could be brought to think was
so.—He stopt once at a little public house—he asked what
he could have for dinner; the woman said she had a nice
goose egg? which could be dressed in an instant.—The poor
traveller thought, at length, he had a fair chance of something
cleanly ; he ordered her to put it down in the ashes to roast,
$nd sat down by the fire side to watch it.—" I think," said he,
*c I have at length got a dish the devil himself can't spoil in the
cookery.*--'* I fancy it must be done now, " said he, to the
landlady, who was sittingbeside him. " I l l soon tell you that,'*
said she, pulling a large pin out of her mouth, with which
she had been picking her teeth, and thrusting it into the side
offhe egg:— u ah weel-a-wot, Surr, its as weel done an egg as
ony in Christendom." A few years ago, the Presbyterian*
in the country parts of this kingdom, were not much cleanlier than their Scottish ancestors. The inside of a vessel was
seldom washed, and the outside hardly ever,-*-I have heard
a worthy man who lived very much among them, (when ia

236
early life he travelled as a pedlar?) say, that the oat bread
and tetter, handed about at tea, was generally spread
with the thumb and fingers of the good woman of the house.
—The man who would have refused to eat it on that account^
would have been thought a conceited coxcomb, or in the phrase
of the country, more nice than wise.—A small distance
from the house where I had been visiting, is Drumra Bridge,
an edifice of great antiquity ; built over a beautiful winding river, called the Gammon (which is the Irish word for
crooked)—at the far side of the bridge, are the remains of
Drumra old church, founded by no less a personage than St*
Patrick himself.—-St. Patrick was a great benefactor of
Irishmen—he not only made them christians^ and chased
all venomous creatures from their Island, but he levelled
mountains, overthrew rocks, and built churches*--•-This at
least is the Catholic account of him.——The Protestants, it
must be confessed, hold him, and the whole of his fraternity,
in contempt, swearing they were more sinners than saints—
u kind of spiritual jugglers, who threw dust into people's
eyes, and cheated them with tricks of legerdemain*
and slight ^of hand.—This has been for ages a very
gentle place,—I was at a loss
to understand the
meaning of gentle, thus applied, and askeel an explanation.™ This was easily given; it has long been a
favourite haunt of the fairies.—-Soft music is frequently
heard here in summer evenings, and at midnight they
generally begin their dancing, Near the church there is a.
small cabin, the owner of which took it into his head, a
few months since, to cut down some old hawthorn trees.
Which grew in a field behind his house. They had not
been cut down many nights, when his house became
disturbed with uncommon noises, and turf, clay, and sand
were thrown about in an extraordinary manner: one of his
neighbours (our.informant) can safely swear, he saw a sod

237
loosening itself, rising gradually from the lower part of the
wall, behind the bed, and then just as if it had been blown
from the mouth of a bast, struck him plump on the breast,
over several people's heeds. It did not do him the least
injury;-~had any thing human thrown it, it certainly
would have knocked him down.—He had scarcely time to
bliss himself, before his wife was struck on the side of her
head with a lump of clay; and though her cap was as white
as snow, (being not more than three or four days washed) it
was not in the least soiled. She blessed herself and ran home
as quick as possible, and the good man, from his care of
her (for he was'nt in the least afeard) followed her immediately. The next morning they sent for the man to whom
the house belonged, advised with him, and raisoned with him
to iak back the hawthorn trees to the place he had brought
them from, but all to no purpose.-—He said, that now the
deed was done, there would be no use in taking them backj
—^besides, that he had always said, that the gentry were
gude folkj and he never intended to harm them by taking
away the trees ; but all his good speeches behind their back,
had no effect on the gentry, as the throwing about turf,
clay, &c. had still continued. They at last sent for the priest
who read prayers in the house. The gentry had so much
respect for his holy function, as to keep tolerably quiet
while he was present, but the moment his back was turned,
became more noisy and obstreperous than ever. The man
who gave us all this information was decently enough
dressed:—he said,* " That gin he was to die the next
morning, he would tak it to death with him that every word
he spoke was as true as the bible." Whether he was
deceiving or deceived, I will not take on me to determine,
perhaps he was both:—a part he thought true, and endeavoured to strengthen it, by feigning the remainder. We
ar« too fond of simplifying, in judging the actions of men*

238

We think of one cause only, when there are many. The
mixture of simplicity and cunning, folly and knavery, is
more frequent than people are aware of.
How else
should we have so many miracles, saints, quack-doctors,
and methodist-preachers.

CHAP. XX.
NJSWTOWN STEWART.

the coach last night. I
by easy
I CAME here in Stewart is only eight miles travel Omagh.
stages—Newtown
from
It was dark when I took my seat. I could not see rny
fellow travellers, but I heard them. Young ladies, we arfe
told, should be seen before they are heard. In Ireland
both young ladies, and old gentlemen, are generally heard
before they are seen. They were talking of the Jews. A,
man in a corner said, it was an observation made by Grotius^
that the Jews were probably scattered over the earth, by a
'wise dispensation of providence, to make them the means
of propagating the gospel, to the remotest parts of the
universe.—He quoted two lines of Homer, I suppose, i a
illustration of this :—how he came to procure1 his authority
for the conversion of the Jews first^ and then the Pagans,
I am at a loss to conjecture ;—perhaps it would puzzle
Grotius himself, if he was alive, to explain it. I said, I
had no doubt they would be successful missionaries,—if
they circulated the gospel as extensively as they now do
English guineas, christians would be as plenty on the
£arth, as gold is now scarce in England, A young man
told us of a great affront put on him in London, some
we.ekfc before. He went (from curiosity) to the Jewisk

239

Synagogue. A person asked him some questions ahout the
nature of the worship,—" D—n ye/' I said, " do you
take me for a Jew?" " If he had looked in your face," said
a female, I am sure he neVer could have made that mistake."
" Oh, mam, much obliged to you>—damned hog of an
Englishman 5 if it had not been in a place of worship, I,
would have beat his snub nose as flat as a pancake. A few
days afterwards (he proceeded) he was invited to a Jewish
wedding. There were a great number of fine girls, and the
bride could not listen to the Rabbi for looking at him."
" You would have had no objection," said I, " I suppose, to
have taken the form of the humblest of the tribe of Issachar
if it had been a more effectual means of recommending
you to these black, but comely daughters of Jerusalem?"
**' A gentleman of his appearance (the modest dame again
observed,) " required no other shape than his own, to
please either Jew or Christian." I record this silly chitchat, merely to shew how cautious a traveller should be in
forming his opinion of a country, from loose observation, or
casual conversation. Not one of these three persons was a
native of the north of Ireland. He who quoted Greek was
a priest, and educated at the university of Salamanca.
The young man was a citizen of New York, and the lady
was a strolling player, and an Englishwoman. A little
distance from Newtown Stewart, a bag of dollars,
that was loosely fastened on the top, fell off, and
poured a portion of its precious contents on the ground. We
got out to assist the guard in picking them up. It was his
own fault that he had not more numerous helpers. The
country people came flocking, to see what was the matter;
-and when they found a harvest of dollars was to be gathered, they were all willing to become labourers; what was so
kindly offered, however, was most ungraciously rejected.
The guard levelled his musket, and desired them to keep

i&ft
&t a distance. It was his majesty's diver/' he said, u and if
one of them dared to touch a copper of it, he would blow
his brains out."—The poor people retired as expeditiously
as they came: whatever relish they might have for silver,
they did not seem to have any for lead^—We continued
our search so long for his majesty's stray silver, that I do
hot believe we left a single copper for any person who came
after us.—I supped most deliciously on bacon and eggs, I
would recommend this dish to any of my readers who may
travel in Ireland, for two reasons :-—in the first place, he
will generally find it excellent; and in the next, it is the
best relish for Whiskey punch I am acquainted with. I
quaffed the latter off in full streams, as clear as if they had
issued from Mount Helicon. They did not give inspiration,
perhaps, but they did happiness, which is to the full as
good a travelling companion. I don't know that f ever
saw a more beautiful village than Newtown Stewart j
situated on the declivity, and nearly at the bottom of a
lofty hill, the eye ranges with delight over the fairy mansions, extended in gay theatric pride before it. A pretty
little spire has been lately erected on the church, which is
at the head of the town, and forms a conspicious ornament,
as it elevates its glittering head among the green branches
of the surrounding trees. A poet would here delight to
place his imaginary Arcadia ;—surrounded by lofty hills,
far removed from the busy haunts of folly and vice, sheltered
from the stormy blast of life.—
" Here reigns content
" And nature's child simplicity, long sines
" Exiled from polished realms."
/But the region of a poet is proverbially fiction, and Newtown Stewart will afford no objection to the justice of the
observation.—I believe, as in most country towns, mow

241

cuiinirig arid trick, more envy and jealousy, more heartburnings and dissensions, more hatred and malice, more
meanj pitiful^ and paltry contentions, will be found h:re,
than in ten times its size in the largest town in Christendom,
—The man who wishes for pastoral innocence, and
simplicity of manners^ must seek them in the country, not in a country town.
There are several old
castles on the adjacent hills, but in general they appear to
have never been of much consequence, or of any considerable strength \ many of them, however, are partly composed of a very strong cement, and almost impossible to
reduce, even with gun-powder.—-One hear the town, circularly built, is said to be of great antiquity ; it is called
Harry Avery's castle^ and I am informed was formerly the
residence of the Kings of Ulster.—Part of this old castle
projects eight feet beyond its base, and has the appearance
of being suspended in the air, so great, is the strength of
the cement^ which keeps the stones together;—---Souie
time since, there was a review of volunteers at Newtown
Stewart—as the greater number of them were orangemen^
they attended in the colours of their order;—This was
one of their grand gala days, and they came ornamented in
their very best mariner^ as they meant, after th^ review was
over, to treat themselves with a walk to Strabane, a town
about eight miles off:—Strabane was very obnoxious
to them—orangeism had made little progress t h e r e trie inhabitants had good sense, and, what is fully as
rare,—the magistrates had good sense likewise. They
wished to discountenance, or at least to prevent the public
display of those odious distinctior;s, which separate the
people of Ireland so fatally from one another ^—-Beyond all
other things, orange processions are offensive to the Catholics ; they remind them forcibly of their ancient misfortunes, and what they think their present degradation They

242

regard them not only as injuries but insults, and writhe at
the sight of them, with such agony as a wretch might be
supposed to do, at the sight of the rack on which he was
to be extended.—The magistrates, therefore, would allow no
orange procession to march through the town, and when
some individuals attempted it, they threatened to read the
riot act, if they did not immediately disperse.
-The
orangemen were now assembled in such numbers, as to be
indifferent about' opposition, and bid defiance both to
magistrates and riot-acts.-—They could at once display their
strength, gratify their revenge, and enjoy their triumph.
The people of Strabane were worse than Catholics.—They
had protestant faces, (in this country a man's religion is seen
in his face as well as in his actions) but they were mere
renegadoes, who had deserted the good old cause, and cared
no more about King William, than King Priam—poor
grovelling souls, who remained at home all day, stuck fast
to their counters, like bad shillings, instead of stalking
about, like may-poles dtzened with flowers, for the good of
their country—a solemn procession might reclaim them
from the evil of their Nvays, and teach them a more exalted
manner of thinking—rWhen the review was finished, the
general addressed the volunteers with compliments on their
appearance, and day's performance—he hoped, he said, that
such of the gentlemen as were orangemen, would return
quietly home, and give up the idea of marching to Strabane.
They took his praise as their due, but rejected his advice
with as much contempt as if it had been a doctor's : —he
spoke to them more peremptorily; he reminded them that
obedience was the great duty of a soldier.—It was a duty
they had never much thought of, or if they had, they chose
to forget it on this occasion—After consulting a few monutes together, they laid down their arms, aud one of them
thus spoke in the name of the rest— u There are our guns,
General," said h e , " and here we/ axe pursets, and deel tak our

24%

sauls, gin we irna allowed to march to Strahane, if we
will ever tak them up again."—The general knew what kind
of people he had to deal with—They might not he men of
obedience, but they were of truth :—They had protested
too much, but he knew—they would keep their word.
He prudently rode off, therefore, to avoid witnessing a breach
of discipline, he would not encourage, and could not
prevent. The troops being now their own masters, resumed
their arms, and began their march.—Consternation and
dismay preceded them ; and when they arrived on the
little hill that overlooks Strabane, the inhabitants thought
they were to be overun by a worse plague than any that
befel Egypt.—-They did these poor orange missionaries
injustice, however:—-they came to reclaim, not to punish
sinners.—They passed through town as harmless, though
not so silent, as mourners at a funeral—Except annoying
a few people who had delicate ears, by their hideous yelling,
opposite the door of the most obnoxious magistrate, it does
not appear they did any other mischief—It can hardly be
called such, their getting drunk and robbing a few orchards
on their return homewards.—They had marched and huzzaed themselves into a fever, for the good of their country ;
they surely had a right to pluck a few apples to cool it.
Standing at the Inn door this morning, I counted no less
than twenty wheel cars, laden with goods, going downwards
from Dublin—These paltry wheel-barrows (as some Englishmen who visited this country have termed them) have
been a never-failing subject of merriment and ridicule—
yet they are admirably adapted to the local situation of
Ireland.-—An Englishman might as well despise Irishmen
for having bogs, and rocks, and mountains, while he has
dead fiats, and unvaried plains, as laugh at them for their
small horses, and humble wheels-cars, while he has teams
of elephants and gigantic waggons.—In every country, what
R 2

244

is universally practised must have some foundation in nature
and reason.—But pride will not be instructed, and indolence will not enquire.—Flippancy gives itself the airs of
wisdom, and to prove it, finds fault with every thing it sees.
Men listen with complacency to the tale of others disadvantages, and rejoice in the advantages they themselves possess.
Censure, therefore, will always find more readers than panegyric, and a sneer will be more relished than an argument.
An Englishman is too obstinately attached to his own habits
to make sufficient allowance for the habits of others ; or
even to be a competent judge of them—he forms his ideas
from the standard of London, and whatever is different is
wrong; he feels no comforts in other countries, and caricatures, and exaggerates, all their defects '.—whatever is not
abundance is want—whatever is not perfect cleanliness is
the extreme of filthiness—whatever is not costliness is rags :—
haricot of mutton, is not roast beef—Italian macaroni, is not
Cheshire cheese—and French claret, is not London Porter.
— I dined about two years ago in a French coffee-house, in
Nassau-street, in company with a friend from Shropshire.—
There was a bill of fare before us as long as my arm—the
only thing my companion would eat, however, was not in
it :—He kept raging and bellowing for beef-steak and oystersauce, to the great amusement of a number of foreigners who
were in the room.—I hung down my head in confusion—It
struck me as a brutal thing in him, to be so desirous of
cow's meat 5 for I'm sure at that instant I thought him a
great calf. This unfortunate arrogance in the English character has been productive of many ill consequences.—It
has given foreigners an erroneous idea of it—like the sun
seen through a mist, its rays were dusky as the veil thrown
over it. It is neither loved, nor esteemed, nor valued—It
is not amiable, and therefore, it is thought not estimable.—
€i
I have now seen and mixed much Avith the world, (said once

245
an enlightened Italian to me)-—I owe many obligations to
Englishmen, and surely my prejudices, if they are not for,
are not against them—-yet, God so help me, as I declare my
firm opinion, they are beyond all other men the most disagreeable—the most unaccommodating—the mostarrogant—
the most supercilious—-the most selfish, and the most unamiable;-—I do not say that I have not met with many exceptions—and when I did meet with them, they were of the
noblest kind; but the bulk of the nation are as I have described them."---A Scotch officer lodged some years ago, at
the house of a good-humoured Dutch woman, at the Cape of
Good Hope,—" I no like the English officers, (said she to
him,) half so well as the French—Frenchman lodge in my
house—he be very civil, he talk to me, he say how do do
Madam—how is Monsieur votre Mari—how is [Mademoiselle, votre Charmante Fille?—But Englishman come in the
morning—stalk, stalk; he no speak to me, he no speak to my
daughter—he drinks off two great cups of tea, and then
says, c me was d
d drunk last night.' "
—There is
hardly a nation in Europe which has not taken English
money, for which they have given nothing in return, not
even their affection or esteem—Even those who were the
longest defended by it, would, I fear, exult in our mortifications, rejoice in our distresses, and triumph in our overthrow. This may be great ingratitude in them j but is it
not a two-edged sword, which wounds either side ?—does it
not likewise prove great mismanagement in us ?

546

CHAP. XXL
STUABANE.

J DID not leave Newtown Stewart till the day was pretty far
advanced.—It was Sunday. The people were going to
meeting and church, as I was turning my back on them—
the day was beautjful~-the earth was clad in the garment
of summer—the heavens were without a cloud ;>.—I was in
the great temple of nature, and worshipped the being
whose bounty gave it birth—I had but a few miles
to go; I sauntered, therefore, rather than walked.—I
was overtaken by a boy driving a car, with a chest and some
furniture on it.—~U ^ as followed by a good-lqpking young
man and woman—their eyes were red, and their faces inflamed—I thought they had been drinking, or quarrelling—they were crying—the man turned his head round,
as if ashamed of his grief—the girl did not turn her's, she
seemed even to inyite my glance,—In a woman's tears there
is a softness that seeks sympathy—in a man's there is a sternness that rejects it.—I asked her if they travelled far:—"I clo
not," she said, " he does/"—" Do, Peggy darling, do, turn
now (said the man,) ye ha gone far enough—we man part,
andis'nt it best to have it our ?"•—" I'll just gang the length
of that auld tree, on the tap of the hill—many a sorrowful
parting has been at it, and we'el put ours to the number."
—-" The best friends must sometimes part," I said,, "you will
soon, I trust, have a happy meeting."—," Never, never, $urr}

247
in this leefe," said the girl, " when we pert now, my heri
tells me it is for ever-—ah! man, man, gin ye had na
been prude, gin ye had trusted to providence, and staid at
hame—what though wre could na get the ferm—what
though we could na live in a stane house—they could na
keep us out of a scraiv one—-I would have wrought for ye,
and slaved late and early—and gin we could na ha got bread
-—we could have died together."---" Dinna Peggy," said
the man, " dinna break my hert, it has enough to bear already \
dinna make me shame myself, (again turning his head to
conceal his tears 3) it is a braave country I'm ganging to,
woman/' resumed he—-^ there's nae hard landlords nor
prude vicars there to tak the poor man's mite—I war'nt
ye, I ivinna be slothful, and whene'er I earn the price of your
passage, I'll send it our, and then ivha will pert us?"—"You
are going to America, I presume,"saidl.—" Yes, Surr, please
God—this is no country for a poor man to leeve in.-r-I
thought for a wee bit land—but its nae matter—God forgive them that wronged me, is the worst that I wish them."
You have been wronged then, I said."—A, Stirr, its nae
to seek that I could say—but we winna talk o' that now,
for I wish to gang in peace with all men.—I wrouldna hae
cared for myself—a know that man is born to trouble, as
the sparks fly upwards; and wee God's help, I dinna fear
either hertship or difficulty—but that poor lassie—she was
aa to me in the world—and to pert with her is a sore tug
—I man own it—but it was my fate, and I could na get
our it;" beginning to whistle, for fear he should ciy.—The
poor lassie walked by his side, apparently unconscious of
what he was sayings—she moved mechanically forward,
for the large drops that every instant gathered in her eyes,
and fell on the ground as she walked, must have prevented
her from seeing.---"' Now, Peggy, honey/' said he, ic we
are at the tap o* the hill-?—the road is rugged, ye hae a king

248

way hame, and ye hae na me too."—Here the tears thai:
were dropping fast, prevented his proceeding—-" I
will never, never, leave ye," said she, starting from her
reverie, and clasping him in her arms j " I will never
leave ye— I will go barefooted our the world-—I will beg
with ye, sterve with ye, dee with ye—-one ship will carry
us, one grave will JiQidde us -—nothing but death now shall
'pert us".—Is it that passion is uniform, and makes use of
similar modes of expression, in every age and clime; or
that the foundation of this thought, was laid in ideas that
were not original, but acquired.—-This woman was a pres^
byterian, and of course had read the scriptures—its express
sions probably floated in her memory, and she used them
without being conscious of it.—It is impossible not to be
struck with the resemblance her speech bears to the beautiful and pathetic address of Ruth to her mother in-law:
• ~ ?? Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from
following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go;
and where thou lpdgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be
my people, and thy god my god : where thou diest, will I
die, and there will I t>e buried: the Lord do so to me,
and more also, if ought but death part thee and me."—.
Her grief was too highly wrought to admit of reasoning,
and both she and her companion seemed exhausted by
wrant of nourishment, as well as affliction.-—I therefore
took them into a little public house, on the road side, and
got them some oat-bread and butter, and whiskey and
water—I easily convinced her, how absurd it would be to
think of going, in that unprepared condition, to America;
I remarked to her that her lover was an active young man,
would have a few pounds in his pocket when he landed,
and probably would soon earn enough to take her over
decently.—They grew more composed, and parted, though
with deep, yet with less frantic sorrow,—I walked a few

249
paces on, the young man soon overtook me :---cc See what a
beautiful day this is/' I said—-^ the sun shines on your setting
off."—" Let him shine on her I left behind," said h , " and
he may spare his beems to me-—mony and mony a time we
ha seen him set, from the hawthorn bush, in my father's
garden j but that's over now, as well as every thing else.'*
?—" It is not oyer, I hope/' I said, ••" you will, I trust,
have as happy hours, as you have now sorrowful ones ;
)but if you should not, remember, that affliction is the
common lot, and that you have no right to expect to
escape it—you have health, you have youth, you have the
testimony of a good conscience ; you have the approbation
of your own mind, for manfully acting your part in life.—
Of these your enemies cannot deprive you—they will
follow you to America, and gladden the wilderness where
you may chance to reside—they will swreeten the rude
morsel that labour procures \ou—they will lull you to sleep,
in the sound of the torrent's roar,—while greatness, that
wants them, will iind its costly viands insipid, and seek in
vain [repose on its gilded sofas, and beds of down—you
think the rich are to be envied—-I tell you they are more
to be pitied than you —they have the miseries of lassitude*
of intemperance and vice—of ill-health, that folly
engenders, oi' vice that gives no enjoyment, and of the
greatest of all wants, that of having something to do; leave
them their diseases and riches—take you your poverty and
health—-leave them their sensuality, their gluttony, and
drunkenness—take you temperance and content—leave
them their close apartments, their midnight revels, their
burning tapers, their gilded canopies, their luxuriant
carpets—take you ihi- air which breathes so sweetly on
you-—the sun which cheers you, these birds which sing
around us—-this immense apartment of the universe—this
green and verdant earth, which heaven itself has fitted

250

up for the gratification of man"-—Having thus spoken, we
cordially shook hands and parted.
-Emigration from
the North of Ireland to America has of late years greatly
diminished—This is not'so much, I fear, the consequence
of any melioration of the condition of the people, as of
arrangements of government ; they became terrified at
the extent of the evil, and devised various means to stop, or
at least to moderate it* —I do not wonder they should have
been alarmed—some years it amounted to twenty, and
never I believe was under ten thousand—a great proportion
of these were protestants—the catholic hardly ever
emigrates—fondly aftached to his country, to his friends,
to his parents, he seldom leaves them, when he can at all
live among them.—When obliged by want or imprudence to
quit his native place, he goes into the militia, or perhaps
wanders as far as London,—The people of England judge
the Irish nation by his character, with equal fairness, as if
a foreigner would form his opinion of English men and
women, by the sailors and prostituted on Portsmouth
Point) or, as a sagacious captain of an Indiaman judges
the empire of China, by the suburbs of Canton—It is most
singular, indeed, the predilection of the Irish Catholic for
the spot which gave him birth ; and the reluctance and
sorrow with which he quits it.—--One might suppose that
the physical evils of his situation attached him more
strongly to it,
<(

Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms $
Arid as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So, the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar*
But bind him to his native mountains more/'

251
The Presbyterian, like the Scotchman, wanders wherever
he thinks he can best earn a livelihood,
" All places that the eye of heaven visits,
" Are to the wise man ports and happy havens."
His attachment to the country is not half so strong
as the Catholic's; his energy is more, and his sensibility
less. Oppressed by his landlord, whose exactions hardly
allow him the necessaries of life, he seeks, most commonly
in America^ what Ireland denies him; where his perseverance and industry soon give him independence and
affluence. The departure of these men is of infinite
disadvantage to their country—Active and enterprising,
sober and reflecting, reading and reasoning—estimable
even in their prejudices, for they are all on the side of
morality and religion, they are the best friends of a good
government, as they are the bitterest enemies of a bad one—
Their loss? I fear, will e/very year be more and more sensibly
felt/
iC

Princes and lords mayflourishor may fade,
A breath can make them, as a breath has made 5
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd.
The population of Ireland is rapidly becoming more Catholic. This (however I may have written, with what many will
term, an undue predilection in their favour) I consider a great
evil. In every form of religion, there are many dogmas
-to which I cannot subscribe ; but I think Presbyterianism,
as it now exists in the North of Ireland, is beyond all others
the religion of reason. The proportion which Protestants
bear to Catholics, however, is not diminishing from emigration alone, but from various other causes. The Protestant

252
in general does not marry so young. He has more the
ideas of an Englishman, and likes to have some sort of
Settlement before he takes a wife—In consequence, he is
often thirty before he marries—-At thirty the passions cool—and he seldom has a very numerous offspring.
The
Catholic, more thoughtless, more improvident, more amorous, perhaps, takes a wife when he is yet a lad ; piles up a
heap of sods into a cabin, eats potatoes, and gets children like
a patriarch of old. It is no unusual thing for his wife to bear
ten or twelve children, before she ever thinks of stopping.
How these poor infants are supported is the wonder.
Heaven sends meat, where it sends mouths, is a common
saying with the Catholic, and it must be owned he relies
pretty much on the observation. We may see here how
simple, and unspphiscated is nature, and how little it
Tequires.
a

Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast's."

These poor, naked, ill-fed, and neglected children,,
grow up hardy, stout and vigorous men, capable of enduring
fatigue, and facing danger; apparently regardless of cold,
or wet, or hunger, or thirst. What a contrast to the sickly
and delicate sons of fashion, who are nursed, and pampered,
and dandled into effeminacy—which may sail on the
smooth current of prosperity, but is too frail and fragile
a substance to encounter the rough and inevitable storms
that agitate the ocean of human life
The whole of
my walk to-day was delightful. A northern landscape
changes so frequently its forms, that the pencil has difficulty
to catch i t ; — i t would be impossible therefore for the pen
to do it justice—my descriptive powers are not great, nor
am I a great admirer of the descriptions of others ] yet I
should be glad to give my London reader an idea of the

253
country I travelled through; it is so different from any
thing he is accustomed t o ; here are no dead unvaried
flats, whose dull uniformity wearies the eye, and oppresses
the traveller. The landscape was varied by a beautiful
distribution of gentle undulations, and graceful eminences.
By a fine river,, that meandered through verdant fields on
the left, and by lofty mountains which bounded the horizon
in every direction. The appearance of these mountains
was at once awful and pleasing; the hand of industry
had crept up their sides, overcoming heath and rock;
giving heat to coldness, drought to moisture, and fertility
to steril barrenness; with the touch of a magician.,
converting dreary bogs into waving fields of corn, while
their tops, enveloped in mist, bleak and dreary, in primitive
barrenness, reared their heads in gloomy, but faithful
evidence of the toil and labour of the men who could
overcome such difficulties, and convert a dismal waste
into a smiling Eden. The approach to this town is
likewise very fine—about half a mile from it, you ascend
a steep hill, on which there is a neat little village, and
some orchards—On emerging from the village you catch a
partial view of the river underneath, and the opposite
bank, which gradually swells into a gentle eminence^
or rather chain of eminences, which run in a parallel direction to the hill on which I was walking; proceeding a
little farther, the town opens to the view, extending upwards
of a mile along the banks of the river—It was evening—The setting sun shed his rays on the hill which was
opposite me, and threw a ray of glory on the distant
mountains. The lower part of the town, surrounded
by water, appeared like a city in a lake, or like a Venice
in miniature. The neat little cottages of the upper part,
as I* caught a partial view of them through the trees^
realized the visions of the poet, and transported me, as

254
it were, to Arcadia—I do not say that Strabane will appear
so to every body; short-sighted persons have a kind of
second sight. They do not see what others see, but to
make amends, often see what others do not. Much of
this magic colouring, however, dissolves on entering the
town—What was beautiful in perspective, loses its charms^
contemplated at hand.—Strabane, like most pictures,
many men, and some women, appears to most advantage
at a distance.—The streets are mean and narrow,—the
houses, (with a few exceptions,) very indifferent; in
the extremities of the town, carelessness and want,
misery and neglect, are too apparent. This only applies
to the habitations.—The police of the town, as far as
its power extends, seems to be excellent; and reflects credit
on the magistrate who presides over it. About the centre
of the town is the market-house; a neat plain building,
erected about a hundred years ago. There is a large clock
placed on the top of it, which proclaims the hour with more
noise than veracity; as it is universally known over the
country by the title of the lying clock of Strabane. Considerably lower down, and nearly opposite each other, are the two
principal inns. They were formerly gentlemen's houses, but
have now shared what Goldsmith calls^ " The usual fate
of a large mansion,"—Having first ruined the master by
good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions
as an Inn. —They are both, I believe, good houses; but of
this I can only speak by hearsay. When in Strabane, I do
not live at an Inn.

255

CHAP. XXII.
STRABANE*

1 SPENT the evening of my arrival in a solemn, but
pleasing manner. A few years ago, Sunday, in the north
of Ireland, was a day of gloom and mortification. The
morning was passed in listening to long sermons, and the
evening in saying long prayers. To smile was criminal,
or even to chat on indifferent subjects.—This has passed
away, and a decent observance of Sunday only remains.
After tea, which is always drank at seven o'clock, one of
the family read a sermon of Dr. Blair's j after which we
had some psalms. About a year ago, a travelling psalmsinger set up a school here, under the patronage of the
Bishop of Deny.—When a man has the good fortune to be
patronised by a bishop, he seldom fails of success.—He
got a prodigeous number of scholars, of all ages and
sexes,—-grey age and youth,-—people who had voices, and
others who had none;—psalm-singing became a kind of
rage;—Grammachree Granua Uile, and the Blue bells of
Scotland, were no longer remembered. The milliner at
her cap, the tailor on his board, and the smith at his anvil,
chaunted hymns and anthems.—-The choristers of Wesminster, one should have thought, had emigrated to the
north of Ireland. This, however, was a temporary frenzy.
The rage of psalm-singing seems to have given way to the
• rage of cards. Strabane consists of one very long street,
two or three short ones, and a few lanesj, of such unpromising aspect, that I contented myself with viewing them
at a distance. In the upper part of the town, it will admit

256
of no greater extension; as it is bounded on the east-side/
by a steep ridge of hill, and on the west by the precipice
which overhangs the river. Building in the lower part has
long been discontinued, on account of the floods, to which
it is exposed. Strabane, therefore, may be literally said to
be in a thriving way; like a breeding lady it is increasing
about the middle. The name is compounded of two Irish
words, Stragh, and Ban, which signifies white-home or
level. Why is was called white, I cannot conjecture, unless
it was christened when the snow was on the ground.—It i#
now lucus a non lucendo. It is a town of some antiquity,
and was.burned in the grand rebellion (1641) by Sir Phelim
O'Neile. The Protestant inhabitants were cruelly massacred.*-—A number fled for protection into the castle, and
defended it for some time.—The barbarous ruffian ordered
it to be set on fire, and these unfortunate Protestants were
consumed. The lady of Strabane, as she was called, by
some extraordinary means alone escaped.—She lived to
appear afterwards in evidence against Sir Phelim, who was
justly executed for his innumerable atrocities.—He was a
inan of violent , passions, mean parts, and little education.
He communicated much of his own diabolical disposition
to the rebellion which he guided:—perhaps, however, this
was unavoidable.—Men of humane dispositions will seldom
be at the head of revolutions.—-I am sure they will never
be at the head of them long. The ground on which the
castle stpod was long considered unhallowed and accursed.—-Imagination peopled the spot with spirits, which
murder had deprived of men,—shrieks of woe were heard
in the blast, as it past sullen over the roofless walls; apparitions, clad in white, wringing their hands, and breathing the
soft notes of sorrow, were seen gliding amortg the ruins :—angels, in flowing robes, and crowns of glory, were seen descend$pfj to console them; and the spectres of the blood-stained

257
daemons, who had inflicted such misery, fled howling at
their approach. The houses o the respectable inhabitants
are generally two stories, nor are any higher than three.
They do not inherit, therefore, the predilection of their
Scottish ancestors, in favour of lofty houses-—the post of
honour in an Edinburgh house, is well known to be the
fourth or fifth story. A Scotchman once said, he ken'd
vary weel what gentility was,-—he had lived all his life on a
sixth story, and was na come to London, to leeve on the
ground. Though many of these houses are old, they have
a modern appearance; leaded windows have given place
to sash ones ; — a n d the projecting buttresses, and oldfashioned turrets, have disappeared like the hands that
reared them. It is curious to remark the thickness of the
walls, as well as the timber.—-Our ancestors built for
posterity ;-—the present generation build, (as they live) for
themselves.—They trouble themselves little about those
who are to follow, who in return, I suppose, will trouble
themselves as little about t h e m , — I t was customary formerly
to put the date, carved on a large stone, over the door.—It
is astonishing to what perfection this must have been
brought, in early times in Ireland.-—The letters on one I
have seen, are exquisitely well cu{, and in perfect preservation; the date is 1646. In a perodical publication the inhabitants of this town are made to amount to five thousand \
this strikes me as a mistake, as well as the number of
houses. I might inform myself with tolerable accuracy,
but do not think it worth my while to enquire. Counting
heads, and reckoning houses, is an equally wise method of
giving an idea of a country, as that of the man of old, who
had a house to dispose of, and carried a brick of it in his
pocket as a specimen. The proportion of Catholics and
Protestants is of more importance.
I should suppose
more than the half axe Presbyterians, T h e remainder are

258

Catholics, and members of the established church, in
nearly equal numbers.—-As the weavers in the north of
Ireland seldom reside in towns, the lower class of inhabitants are mostly mechanics and labourers. I should suppose
when they are industrious they must earn nearly as much-as
people of the same description in England :—but whiskey,
and party, are the great banes of industry in Ireland :
though less, perhaps, in this town, than any other. It is I
fear, a rare occurrence, for any assemblage of Protestants
and Catholics to take place, without disputing about religion
first, and fighting afterwards.—On these occasions the
Protestant generally has the advantage.
Many reasons
concur to give him it> without attributing to him either
superior strength, or superior courage j—-he is of higher
rank and importance in the community; he has been
taught to value himself on his exertions in favour of
government;«— he prides himself on being a Protestant, and
a freeman. The Catholic is depressed and dispirited.—He
hates the Protestant, but he fears him,—for the party to
which he belongs, which is powerful, and which he thinks
is supported by the magistrate, and the state—but he fears
the Protestant for himself. By the force of habit, by the
tale of his ancestors' sufferings, his misfortunes, his bloody,
and everlasting defeats.—It would not be in human nature,
that such a combination of circumstances should not
produce some sense of inferiority. That opposed to him, it
should not operate to a certain degree, in relaxing his;
exertions, and damping his heart. A French sailor has
not less natural bravery than an English one; but he fights,
without hope, though not without courage. He is defeated
by his former defeats,—to speak in what would ill-naturedly,
be called the language of the country I am in,—the battle
is lost before it begins. It has been observed that an
Irishman (by which is meant a Catholic) opposed to a

259

Protestant or Englishman, seldom fights well in his own
country.—That he can fight well out of it, the history of
Europe is a bloody witness; as England has often experienced to her sorrow. At the battle of Fontenoy, the ever
memorable English column moved undaunted, through
hosts of surrounding foes—assailed by numerous batteries,
by the flower of the French army, it preserved itself
unbroken—but rehired at length discomfited by the charge
of the Irish brigade—the English, (observes lord Chesterfield,) had at least the satisfaction of being defeated by
their own countrymen—it should have been less their
satisfaction, than their shame, their sorrow, and remorse
-—shame for their folly in making such men their enemies,
remorse for the woes they had inflicted, and sorrow that
entire expiation could never be made.—Several complaints
were made to Louis the fifteenth, of the irregularities of
the Irish brigade-—Your countrymen (said he peevishly to
the general who commanded them,) give me more trouble
than all my other troops beside."—-cc Sire, (replied the officer
with* felicity of expression equal to the courage with which
his troops fought) all your majesty's enemies make the same
complaint."—I have had occasion to look into the habitations
of several mechanics, both Protestants and Catholics
— I am sorry I cannot bestow much praise on them
—They are confused and littered,—There is a species of
squalid wretchedness, more a-kin to neglect than poverty—for
in reality there was not poverty—they had the necessaries
of life ; and they who have the necessaries of life, cannot be
said to be poor.—I have seen them at their meals, which
were either of flesh meat, or salt herrings, with potatoes and
butter, or milk.—At one of these meals, the table was a
' large stool—the candle was stuck in a turf, and the potatoe
pot was lifted up and laid at its side.—The family were all
in different attitudes—one lying like an ancient Roman,
s 2

260

another sitting cross-legged like a Turk, and a third, (he
who said grace I suppose) kneeling.-—In their persons, however, they appear to be more cleanly—tbey shave tolerably
regular and change their linen, perhaps twice a week.—The upper class of inhabitants, are either merchants, or
shop-keepers—they carry on very considerable business—
and are a very industrious, and highly respectable body of
men.—I do not know that there is a town in his Majesty'*
dominions, where trade is conducted with greater integrity,
with more liberality, and less jealousy, than in Strabane.—
The Mourne, which flows past Strabane is a beautiful river,
winding through a romantic country, deepening into a dark
and solemn stream, overhung with wood, in some parts gurgling as a silver brook, over shallow fords, and pointed rocks,
in others.—It is subject, in winter, to frequent and sudden
floods, which often rise high in the town, to the material inconvenience and injury of the inhabitants.—A person who
lives in a level country, «an hardly conceive the sudden
change, the mountain floods, pouring down in innumerable
channels, produce in this river.—Touched as if by the
gloomy wand of a magician, the fairy brook of beauty
becomes a wizards murky well.—The clear and chrystal
stream becomes a bleak and troubled ocean—raised into
waves, roaring like thunder, and flowing with a rapidity that
dizzies the sight.—A flood which I saw some years ago,
w7as not more awful in its aspect, than destructive in its
effect; and the resistless and extended torrent, while it filled
every beholder with terror, carried desolation into every
habitation within its reach: from obvious causes the poorer
inhabitants of the town were most exposed to its influence,
and destitute of means to moderate its violence, or to avoid
its injuries, they were doomed to meet the utmost violence
of the storm—which, impetuous in its progress, as sudden in
its origin, burst upon them in all the fulness of accumulated

261

fury in a short space after the first wave had given warning
of its approach.—To make the calamity still greater, it
occurred amidst the gloom and silence of the night ; and
before aid could be offered all aid was vain—I was young
then, and had not seen much—slight distress appeared
great in my eyes.—I thought the mind could hardly conceive scenes of greater distress than those which the departure of the water exposed to my view.—The unhappy sufferers were found naked, and in want—with scarce a faggot
to heat their famished limbs, or to expel the moisture from
their damp and noisome floors—and many without a mouthful to support debilitated nature, or to cheer their spirits,
sinking under the load of miseries they had undergone.—I
record with pleasure, that the inhabitants of Strabane displayed, on this occasion, the same spirit of humanity by which
they have uniformly been actuated.—Large sums were col-*
lected, and liberal and immediate assistance was afforded.—
Nor was this generous disposition confined to Strabane, or
its neighbourhood—it spread in every direction, and contributions were received from very distant parts.—It appears
strange to the traveller, that so injudicious a situation
should have been chosen to build a town on—men seldom
think, and are too apt to judge preceding generations, by the
one in which they live—damp and unwholesomeness, were
not thought of by men accustomed to fatigue, and unacquainted with comfort.—Flood, fire, or the devouring pestilence, were little dreaded by those who lived in continual
apprehension of greater dangers.-—In the unfortunate times
in which the foundations of Irish towns were laid, man
had no evil so immediate, no danger so imminent, no enemy
so fierce, and barbarous,, as his fellow man.-—In Strabane,
therefore, he availed himself of the protection which the
Castle (built at the lower end of the town,) as well as the
confluence of the rivers Finn and Mourn e, into a rapid

262
stream, afforded him—-of the wretched state of society, at
that time in Ireland, some idea may be formed from the
following circumstances.—About a quarter of a mile from
this town, (on what is called the Woodend road,) there is
a small brook called the kissing tree burn.—-When a person
went on business to Deny, (only fourteen miles distance)
it was customary for his friends to accompany him this
length, and to take leave of him, often with tears and lamentations, as of one they, might never see again.—Even withirr
the last Rfty years, a shop-keeper going to Dublin, made a
will, and took a solemn leave of his acquaintances ; and was
welcomed back with feastings and acclamations.-—An
Englishman, who rolls over his peaceful land in a chariot, or
post chaise, without meeting, or dreaming of mischance, will
think that daemons, not men, were then the inhabitants of
Ireland.—Let him reflect, however, that the Irish were two
distinct nations—that they could never be said to be at
peace. It was either active war, or a hollow truce.—Let
us suppose (the supposition is not impossible) the French
had landed in England, and got partial possession of it.---^
That each party exhausted by the struggle, took a, few
months repose to enable them to renew the fatal contest—does he think that hatred and malice, fear and dread, would
repose likewise.—If the English were on Shooter's Hill,
and the French were at Canterbury—does he think that
a trip to Margate would be a jaunt of pleasure ?—I hope in
Almighty God, that such an event is never likely to happen.
—-Let us not be too confident however.—Nations, no
more than individuals, have all joy and no sorrow.—Drunk
with former prosperity, we do not think of the precipice on
which perhaps we stand.—Calamity has long been busy on
the earth, but it was not English calamity.—We have
heard the sound of war, but its rude din before it got our
length, was softened down to a gentle breeze.—We have

263

heard of countries ravaged, plains desolated, and thousands
massacred.—-But they were distant countries, distant plains,
distant thousands.—--Austria has fallen, Prussia has fallen,
Spain has fallen—did we ever ask ourselves whose turn may
come next I

CHAP. XXII.
STRABANB.

X R E Province of Ulster is encompassed on three sides by
the sea. It is about one hundred and sixteen miles in
length, and one hundred in breadth. It contains nine
counties, three hundred and sixty-five parishes, one Archbishoprick, and six bishopricks,—The air is temperate and
salubrious; being cooled by various winds in summer, and
qualified by frequent rains in winter. The temperature^
therefore, is milder than in England, both with respect to
cold and heat, especially the former. Snow of a month's
duration on the ground is a rare phenomenon;—and some
winters are see,n without it altogether. The seasons are
later than in England. The spring and autumn more tardy in
their approach, as also the winter. The fall of the leaf is later
here than in England. Tradition and history both inform us
that few countries of equal extent were better timbered than
Ulster. But the natives, repeatedly harassed liy the inroads
and encroachments of the English, frequently found asylum
in their forests, from the swords of their invaders.-—These
became, therefore, an object of equal jealousy and vengeance, and the destroying £xe generally accompanied the
sword, in the joint extirpation of woods and men. Ulster
then became denuded;—and the long continuance of civil

%64
discord, the fluctuation of property, and the hopeless despondency which hung over this devoted province, ha*ve left it
destitute of its ancient beauties for several ages. The aspect of Ulster, therefore, is dreary to the eye accustomed
to the shady groves, the extensive plantations, and ntfmerous forests of England.—-The want of hedges, the numerous bogs, the appearance of many of the habitations, and
of many of their inhabitants, no doubt heighten this; and
an Englishman, who seldom takes more than a cursory
glance of the countries he travels over, is apt to pronounce
it a spot for which nature has done little, and man has done
less. H e is wrong in both these conclusions j — n a t u r e has
been bountiful, and man has not ill-performed his part ; —
letter than could be expected, when the history of this illfated province is considered. T h e waves which break upon
its rocky shores, the tempests which howl over its lofty
mountains, are the peaceful circles of a lake, the soft
breezes of the south, compared to the storms, which avarice and ambition, hatred and malice, fanaticism and bigotry,
have raised,—and which are still felt in their consequences,
after a lapse of some hundred years.—The history of man
is said to be the history of his crimes and his woes. I hope
not in the former, but certainly in the latter, Ulster stands
in melancholy pre-eminence.—-I know of no equal extent
of country, where equal misery has been inflicted, for an
equal number of years:—--like the lightning-struck tree, on
a solitary common, it still bears in its withered trunk, and
leafless branches, the marks of the judgments with which
heaven, (no doubt for wise purposes), has visited i t . — I t
was first invaded in the year 1177* by Sir John Courcy, a
gallant knight who had served under King Henry the Second,
in his wars in England and F r a n c e . — H e set out from D u b lin in January, with twenty-two knights, fifty Esquires, and

265

about sevens hundred foot soldiers;—all chosen men, oft
whose courage he could depend :-—he marched through
Meath and Louth, and arrived at Down, without any
molestation : here he found provisions and other necessaries
for his small company, who had been half famished in Dub •
lin.—-O'Donnell, the Ulster chieftain, having assembled a
large army, purposed to besiege him in Down; when Sir
John, judging it better to adventure the fight in the field,
than to be shut up and famished in the town, came to an
engagement, and forced O'Donnell, after the loss of numbers, to retreat before him. After this successful introduc
tion* to his conquests, he fought four other great battles, in
all of which he was victorious j—-he penetrated as far
as Dunluce, in the most Northern part of the province,
overcame all opposition, and subdued the whole of Ulster, to
the .obedience of Henry the Second.—He was requited for
tlris service, by being the first Englishman dignified 'with
any title of honour in Ireland^ by a. formal creation .*-~The
king, in 1181, creating him Earl of Ulster, and annexing
thereto the Lordship of Connaught, with a grant by patent,
to him and his heirs, that they should enjoy all the land iii
Ireland he could gain by his sword, together with the donation of Bishopricks and Abbies, reserving tern him only homage and fealty. It was to this lord, and his successors,
the heirs male of his family, that King John granted the
extraordinary privilege, (their first obeisance being paid,) of
being covered in the royal presence of him, and Jhis successors, Kings of England.—The reader, unacquainted with
it, will find a curious account of this transaction, in Hannier's Chronicle, or Sir Richard Cox's history of Ireland.
The privilege of being covered in the king's presence, is to
this day enjoyed by the Lord Kinsale, as the lineal heir
male of his body. Almoricus, the twenty-third baron

2BG
asserted it by walking too and fro with his hat on his head,
in the presence chamber, before King William.—The king
observing him, sent one of his nobles to enquire the reason
of his appearing before him with his head covered.—To
whom he replied, he very well knew in whose presence he
stood, and the reason why he wore his hat that day was,
because he stood before the King of England.—This answer
being told the king, and his lordship approaching nearer the
throne, was required by his majesty to explain himself;
which he did to this effect:—" May it please your majesty,
my name is Courcy, and I am lord of Kinsale in your kingdom of Ireland ;—the reason of my appearing covered in
your majesty's presence, is to assert the ancient privilege of
my family, granted to Sir John de Courcy,| Earl of Ulster,
and his heirs, by John, King of England, for him and his
successors for ever."—The king replied, " that he rememoered he had such a nobleman, and believed the privilege he
asserted to be his right;—and, giving him his hand to kiss,
his lordship paid his obeisance, and remained uncovered.—
John the twenty-fifth lord, being presented in September,
1762, to his present majesty, by the Earl of Hertford, had
again the honour of asserting the ancient privilege of hi$
family, by wearing his hat in the royal presence. The submission of Ulster to the English government, as might be
expected, was short lived.—It was extorted by force, and
when that was removed the desire of independence returned.
—For upwards of four centuries after its nominal subjugation, it continued a prey to anarchy and confusion, to
slaughter and devastation. In turn the Irish and English prevailed and wreaked their vengeance oh each other.—Constant
contest engendered the most violent hatred—Constant danger, the mostdeadly malice—and constant slaughter, the most
ferocious cruelty.—It is hard to say which of the parties
was the worst, nor is it now of much consequence to en-

267
quire. By a singular refinement on misfortune, religion,
which should have been the healing balsam of these rancorous passions, was poured like molten lead upon their
scalding sores—Englishmen, and Irishmen, murdered each
others happiness on earth.
Protestants and Catholics,
like daemons, stopt not here.-—Witnessing the tortures of
their expiring victims, they rejoiced that those tortures were
but the beginning of those which should last for ever,
beyond the grave.-—The great fault of English dominion
in Ulster, and in every part of Ireland was, that a sufficient
number of men was not sent at once, effectually to subdue
the Island, and retain it in subjection, till its desire of
independence had passed away. The system pursued was
the most unfortunate that could have been devised,—-A
dwarf in mercy, but in cruelty a giant—alternately defeating and defeated,—ravaging and. ravaged, torturing
and tortured, it was too feeble to be manly, too poor to be
generous, too much injured to forget, and too much injuring to forgive.——An officer in Queen Elizabeth's service
acquaints us, that those placed in authority, would draw
together, perhaps, three or four hundred of the unsuspecting country people, under pretence of doing them service,
when soldiers would be ordered to make a sudden attack
upon them and cut them off.—The same author likewise
asserts, that if a man had done wrong, submitted and received pardon—upon being charged with a subsequent
offence, though he would voluntarily appear before a public
session, to answer to the accusation, he would, without
being admitted to trial, be executed for his former offence.
In the latter part of her reign* Queen Elizabeth became
fully sensible of the importance of Ireland to England—
She was a wise Princess, and as the reasons which impressed this conviction on her, liave even greater force at the
present day, it may not be unwise in us, to make ourselves

268
acquainted with t h e m . ™ P h i l i p the second. King of
Spain, was the most implacable enemy of Englanch—Partial invasions of Ireland were attempted by him, several
years before the sending out of his Invincible Armada.
The courage of the British Navy, with the assistance of a
storm having defeated this formidable armament, seventeen
of the ships that escaped, were forced, by tempestuous
weather, on the coast of Ulster. The intercourse of the
Spaniards with the natives, occasioned by this accident,
tended to increase their discontents against government,
and to prepare their minds for insurrection and rebellion.
To assist them in it, stores and money were given them
from the ships, and the most liberal assistance was promised from Spain.—Spain, of all foreign countries, is the
most favourably situated for an intercourse with Ireland.
The Spanish coast stretches so far out into the Atlantic
ocean, as to lie to the westward of most of the Irish harbours;—-Westerly winds/ which mostly prevail there, are
favourable for coming from Cape Finisterre to Cork, W a terford, &c. The northern Spanish shore in fact lies both
East and West of the Irish c o a s t ; — a n d Spain is better
situated for constant communication with Ireland, than
France, or perhaps than any English Harbour within the
British Channel.—-England thus found herself in danger of
being beset on East and West, by the power of Spain, and
of lying in the middle, between the land forces of the
Spaniards, then centered in the Netherlands, and their
Naval strength and armaments, which might be stationed
in the harbours of Ireland.—-These considerations determined Queen Elizabeth to make uncommon efforts to
secure the possession of Ireland.—An army of twenty
thousand men well provided, was sent, which, assisted by
successive reinforcements from England, effected a complete reduction of all the different Lords and Chiefs, who,

269
till then, had ruled in the Island, after a war that lasted
about seven years. The Province of Ulster was the last
in submitting. The war was carried on by Lord Essex,
and some generals who preceded him, with indifferent
success.-^-Charles Blunt, Lord Mount)oy was more fortunate ; less daring, but more cunning, he wielded a weapon
which the generous and noble Essex would have disdained.
The sword was slow and uncertain.-—He called in a powerful auxiliary which was effectual.—He destroyed the cultivated fields, and every thing which afforded the natives
the means of subsistence.—A famine ensued with its
shocking consequences—thousands of the wretched insurgents, driven from their desolated habitations, wandered
into woods and fastnesses, where, utterly destitute of the
means of subsistence, they perished for want.—The common
highways exhibited spectacles of misery, which the compassionate traveller could not behold, without feeling his
breast glow with indignation against those cruel passions
of pride, of avariee> and ambition, which produced effects
so shocking and disgraceful to humanity.—" N o spectacle," says Morrison, u in his history of Ireland, was more
frequent in the ditches of towns, and especially in wasted
countries, than to see multitudes of these poof people dead,
with their_mouths all coloured green by eating nettles, docks,
and all things they could rend up above g r o u n d / ' — M a n y
to appease the rage of hunger devoured human carcasses*
of which a horrid instance was witnessed by Sir Arthur
Chichester, Sir Richard Morrison, and other officers of the
Queen's troops, who beheld three children, the eldest of
whom was not above ten years of age, in the act of eating
the flesh of their deceased mother, with circumstances too
shocking for a particular statement here.—The most enthusiastic ardor for freedom and independence, could not
long support itself under such complicated wretchedness

270
411 opposition to the authority of the English government
was put an end to.—The spirit of Ulster resistance was
brayed, to use the expression of Sir John Da vies, as it
were in a mortar, with the .sword, famine, and pestilence
altogether.
The English government being now universally established by force of arms, there was a probability
that the enmities of former parties would be in time forgotten,—that those inhabitants who had been compelled
to adopt the English laws and customs, would gradually
accommodate themselves to them, and that a lasting peace
might prevail in Ulster j—but she bad not yet arrived at the
consummation of her suffering; and events unfortunately
took place, a few years afterwards, which gave rise to animosities and contests as obstinate and bloody as those
which had been lately terminated.—The peace which was
sown in blood, was not watered by mercy. The Catholics
were subdued by force, and no attempts were made to gain
them by kindness. They were outraged and insulted, plundered and persecuted,-—robbed of their lands and deprived
of the free exercise of their religion.-—That they did not
endeavour to soften the resentment of their conquerors, by
unqualified submission, rather than heighten it by desperate
but unavailing opposition, is deeply to be regretted, but
little to be wondered at. In the 1641, year availing themselves of the situation of England, which was distracted
by the dissensions between the King and Parliament, they
broke into a dreadful insurrection, well known by the name
of the Irish massacre.—A rebellion which, taken in all its
horrors, is almost unparalleled in the history of the world,
and has cast as foul a stain on this province as is to be met
with in the annals of any country whatsoever.—As the
Protestants were taken by surprise, they had no opportunity
of concerting measures for their mutual defenee.—Eadv
fjan separately endeavoured to protect himself, in coiise-

2?l
qitence of which the Catholics met with a very feeble resistance.—But when their fears subsided, they
united in' several places, under the command of the
gentlemen who had received commissions, and had been
speedily supplied with arms by government, and used
vigorous efforts for their preservation. They defeated the
insurgents upon one or two occasions. Enraged4 by this,
several of the catholic leaders gave themselves up without
restraint, to the impulse of sanguinary passions. Numbers
of helpless and unoffending protestants were put to death in
cold blood•;—others robbed of their property, and driven
from their habitations to the open fields, where they were
exposed to perish, by the accumulated evils of cold,
nakedness, famine, and sorrow. Such was the conduct of
the catholics :—in their ignorance, in their fears, in their
miseries and oppressions, some palliation may be found;
but what can be alleged in favour of the protestants, who
tortured and massacred the helpless and unoffending in
their turn.—Of the punishments inflicted in Dublin, by
order of government, I shall not speak,—because they are
but imperfectly known. I shall only mention what is on
record. Thet English parliament in their first indignation^
against the design of engaging catholic forces to fight
against them in England, voted that no quarter should be
given to these forces; or, in the less offensive language
of their own resolutions " that they should be tried by
martial; law, in the place where they should be taken,"
-^-Swanly,, a commander of one of their ships, took a
transport vessel, with one. hundred and fifty men, bound
for Bristol.—The merciless wretch selected seventy of his
captives, who were of Irish birth, and though they had faith fully served the king, instantly plunged them into the sea. The
Scottish soldiers, who had reinforced the garrison of Carrickfergus, issuedjout one fatal night, into an adjacent district^
called Island-Magee, where a number of the poorer catholics

27,2

resided, unoffending, and untainted by. the rebellion* If
wc may believe one of the leaders of this party, thirty
families were assailed by them in their beds, and massacred
with calm and deliberate cruelty.—A like desolation
followed this rebellion as the preceding one.-—Ci About the
year 1652 and 1653," says an author who was an ocular
witness of the state of things, * the plague and famine
5
Kad so swept away whole countries, that a man might
travel twenty or thirty miles, and not see a living creature.
Our soldiers would tell stories of the places where they saw
a smoke3---it was rare to see either smoke by day, or fire or
candle by night,—-and when we did meet with two or three
poor cabines, none but very aged men, and women and
children (and these with the prophet might have complained,
€
wet are become as a bottle in.the smoke, our skin is black
like an oven, because of the terrible famine') were found
in them. I have seen those miserable creatures plucking
stinking carrion out of a ditch, black and rotten,—arid
have been credibly informed that they digged corpses out of
the grave to eat."——-But, general misery makes little impression.—We read of thousands who perish without emotion,
because our minds have only general ideas, because all we
know of these thousands is, that they lived^ and that
they died. But let us take a group—the contemplation of misery is good for man, it softens and subdues
his hearty—-it abates somewhat of the pride and arrogance, which is the great source of his misfortunes, and
his crimes.—Let us take one family only, of that immense
iriultitude, of all ages and sexes, of husbands affd fathers, and sonSj of wives and mothers, and daughters, massacred, starved, violated, whose blanched bones, were they
brought together, would form a heap, from which, ambition
might attempt to scale the heavens, after having satiated its
fell appetite upoli earth,—rSee that little valley; a brook

273
flows through it,-—see that cabin shadowed by trees, it k
humble and mean, but it is the abode of sensibility and
happiness—a crowd dances before the door—it is a
wedding; the village lad takes a partner, gay and thoughtless
as himself,—he is just entering into life—joy sparkles in
his eye, his heart beats Jiigh with hope—his parents
partake his felicity, the bed-ridden grandmother crawls
out to view it, to bless him, and to die.—-This is happiness,
if happiness is to be found upon earth.
T u r n the picture : — T h e happiness is flown,—the daemons of war have
entered the valley of peace,—the crowd is dispersed,—the
murderers are at their heels,—the bridegroom too—look
at his bridal bed,—see her who sorrows over him,—who
alone does not fly,-—she is his bride,—she would have
shared his little cabin, and smoothed his cares,—she looked
forward to years of happiness,—but now curses, in the
bitterness of her heart, the barbarous authors of her woes,
—-but not long she curses,-—sorrow for the murdered, is
swallowed up in fear for herself,—for, lo ! the brutal crew
return,—another daemon rules them now—their rage of
blood, has given place to the rage of l u s t : — s h e calls to
him who loved her,—his ear is closed,—he hears not,—his
eye is dim,—-he sees not,—his heart is cold,—it beats
not;—happy insensibility, he sees not violation, which he
could not prevent,—he sees not expiring innocence, which
at length finds in death a welcome release from the
outrages of men,-—and which, even in death, casts a glance
to heaven, to ask why it permitted this.—Behold the
unfortunate father, and the remainder of his offspring who
gather round,—behold helpless innocence, that smiles in
the murderer's face^—-sickness that a few hours would have
destroyed,—inhumanly butchered. One solitary son, whom
chance, not humanity has saved, only remains,7—unhappy
chance which has reserved him for misery greater than
T

2?4
all,—the brook affords him water, but the earth gives him
no food,—the berries, the brambles, the leaves have already
been devoured by men :—O the days, the hours of famine,
of slow consuming death, which he spends,—how is his
frame wrecked with convulsions—how often does the heart
die within him,—how often does the cold damp of the
grave, stand in large drops upon his forehead, and again
disappear,—famine subdues affliction,—hunger triumphs
over piety, over nature ;-- the sorrowing mourner is become
a ravenous beast; in frenzy he gnaws his flesh, and sucks
his own blood : O horror! horror !—his father's corpse
too !—he drives away the flies that had settled on it, makes a
meal and expires !—-Ill-fated inhabitants of Ireland, how little
seems your guilt compared to your woes.—Never was misery
like your misery, never was sorrow like.your sorrow;—your
noble natures have been degraded,—your glowing hearts
have been chilled by the fiend's grasp,-—the milk of human
kindness has been curdled in your breasts, and the seeds of
all misery, and all vice, have been sown, even in the bosom
of virtue itself;—for endless years your harp has been
unstrung; few have been the notes to which it has vibrated,
and those were not the notes of joy:—O, what a wreck of hitman happiness have ambition and bigotry made;—-how have
they dimmed the emerald 5 how have they dyed your green
island with blood,™what misery have they not inflicted, oa
those whom they murdered; how much more on those who
survived !— O, what a record would that be, which contained one year of the misery of these long and dreary
years :—-could it trace the ferocity that curdled the blood,
that freezed the marrow in the bones of Irish happiness,
—that poisoned the fountain of your enjoyment, even in
the source.—An author of respectability wishes, that the
massacres I have mentioned should be buried in everlasting
©blivion.—I am,not of hi$ opinion,—I would hold them up

275
as a beacon, to the present and all succeeding generations,
to avoid the unfortunate rock, on which the prosperity of
Ulster has made such fatal shipwreck 5—for it is not, I
fear, in the nature of things that such a portentous comet,
should not drag a long tail of misery, (of which the end
is not yet come) after it. Is there a heart so obdurate that
does not feel compassion, for the woes I have described ?
—that does not shrink with horror, at the idea of a possibility of a repetition of them ?—Yet the repetition is not
possible only, but probable, if some means are not speedily
found to conciliate the catholics of Ireland : by concession
and kindness j—but (it would be useless to disguise it)
it must be great conciliation, great kindness. It is impossible in the present state of Europe, to govern them much
longer by force ; the advice of so humble an individual as I
am, will be little attended to. Yet for the sake of England,
of Ireland, and of humanity, I wish that I could communicate to the breasts of others of greater influence, the one
half of what presses on my heart at this instant. In the
deep stillness and gloom of the atmosphere, I see the
greatness of the gathering storm;—in the tremulous movements of the earth, I feel the N sullen approach of the
earthquake which is to overthrow Irish prosperity.—The
thunderbolt is forging, which is again to shiver the
rock of Irish happiness.—-May heaven avert the stroke.
Protestants, Catholics, (I fear I shall make this subject
tiresome—yet I cannot be done)—you are struggling on
the brink of a precipice which yawns to swallow you both
—You who guard so strongly your unnatural supremacy
~*-You who contend so strenuously for imagined rights
—You who view each other' with scowling eye—You
whose glance, had it the fabled basilisk's force, would strike
each other dead, think on the scenes I have described
—think on your suffering country 3—her ravaged plains.

276
her reeking houses, her overturned altars.- -Is all that yoi*
would withhold,™Is all that you could acquire, worth the risk
of one month's renewal of horrors such as these ?—-Mark,
I say it, Protestant,' if you do not conciliate, if you do not
forego your pride, your arrogance, your supremacy;
Catholic, if you do not abate your violence, if you do not
forget, if xyou do not forgive, if once you launch on the
hideous ocean of civil war, you will be a prey to the heavy
evils which afflicted your forefathers.—Your fields will
again be without living, and your ditches be filled with the
dead.—The air will be putrid with exhalations, the winds
of heaven will scatter pestilence, and the sun will be
dimmed with the steam of human woe.—Protestants, do
you think that four millions of people will live contented,
in submissive obedience to one ?-—Catholics, do you think
that protestants, whose energies you know, will be conquered without a struggle, and should you conquer ; (which
I do not deny is probable) will it be a bloodless victory ?
— W i l l you suffer no loss j—-will no catholic blood be
shed ?-—You cannot think this—will it be a joyful victory
even—no not joyful, for you are men, and when unwarped
by prejudice, have humane and benevolent hearts ?—You
would not rejoice over thousands, and tens of thousands
of your countrymen, whose livid corpses, whose streaming
blood, and gaping wounds, would rise up in judgment to
heaven against you.—Revenge'dies with what it feeds on
— H a t r e d would be buried in the graves of the protestants,
but remorse would survive to gnaw your own hearts,—Your
ancestors suffered much misery in the last c e n t u r y — I
regret as much as you that they d i d ; — b u t men were
barbarous then, you should be now more civilized.—It
would be no consolation to you, to inflict misery in your
t u r n . — T h e real evils of life are many, and we cannot
escape from the*m 3—-do not disquiet yourselves too muck

m
about artificial ones,---That you greatly exaggerate
yours, is to me evident;—they wound your pride, but
they do little other injury;—they would break little on
the sober current of life, if you would let it flow its
course ;—cultivate domestic virtues 5—-enjoy present
blessings;—forgive, if you cannot forget former wrongs,
Happy are they, if they knew their own happiness, who
have no greater misfortunes to complain of, than that they
cannot command armies, preside as j udges, or have seats m.
parliament.
" In every government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure^
That part which laws or kings can cause or. cure !
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd,,
Our own felicity we make or find :
With secret course which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy."

C H A P . XXIV,

STRABANJES.

FOR reasons it is unnecessary to mention, I stay longer
here than I originally proposed. Beside motives of propriety, I have some of inclination—Like the rich man in
the parable, I fare sumptuously every day: I hope there
the comparison ends, and that I am not to go fa ther and
fare worse.—The inhabitants of Stfabane possess, in an
eminent degree, the industry and probity of their Scottish
ancestors \ they possess likewise a virtue of genuine Irish

278
growth, more acceptable perhaps to the traveller than'
either ; they are as hospitable as if they were descended
from the ancient Milesians, or King Brian Borrome himself.
I have been frequently invited both to dinner and evening
parties—though the company sits long at table on those
occasions,! saw no disposition to excess,-—every person was
at liberty to drink as he pleased. The hour on such
occasions is five o'clock, and the dinner is in a profusion
that is extraordinary. This is the more astonishing, as
the men in general are very temperate eaters; many of
them dined off one dish, and very few tasted the confectionary, which was in a very great abundance-—Virtue and
vice, as welj as good and evil, are pretty equally balanced—
drunkenness is the vice of Irishmen, as gluttony is of
Englishmen—Which is the worst—an Englishman will
say drunkenness of course; but he is a party, and cannot
be admitted a judge—I do not say that gluttony is the
worst, but certainly it is the most degrading.
€<

The soul subsides and wickedly inclines,
To seem bat mortal e? en in sound divines.'*
The Wines on the table were, Teneriffe, Sherry, and
Port—yet very little of them was drank ; punch is the
national liquor. Wine is taken without pleasure, as a,
matter of course, but the approach of the punch is hailed
with rapture, as it makes its appearance immediately after
the cloth is removed. It is pleasing to find, that the
irritation of party, I have seen so much of elsewhere,
is hardly known in this town—yet it is but a short-lived
pleasure; for J alas ! of what avail is one grain of sense
in a bushel of folly; one pebble of beauty, on a strand of
deformity ?—-Like a fertile spot in the deserts of Arabia,
it only serves to make the surrounding wilderness mor^
hideous.

279
The people of Strabane are plain and unaffected in
their manners, and despise and ridicule affectation in
others.—It is, therefore, the worst place in the world for
a proud or a vain man to come to, as many proud and
vain men have experienced: The repeal of the union
(a question which so much agitates the public mind in
Dublin) is neither talked of, nor wished for here; nor I
believe in any other part of the north of Ireland.—The
Presbyterians of Ulster are, fond of England, fond of
Englishmen, fond of trade and of quietness ; beside this,
there is no community of feeling in Ireland y no continuity of substance.—The Catholic is one.—The Protestant is one.—Dublin is one.—They must be amalgamated
together, either by good government, or blood. I fear it is
to be the latter. Routs are frequent in Strabane, and, as
in London, the rooms are as full as they can hold. Folly
flies with the wings of an eagle, while wisdom travels
with the paces of a snail.
Turnpike roads and mail
coaches whirl the fashions of London, with their newest
gloss, to the most remote parts of these kingdoms; and
in a few years, if we wish to contemplate pastoral innocence, we must seek it in the wilds of America. There
are some sweet romantic walks about this town.—1
soon tire of the society of man, and wander for hours
amidst rocks and solitary glens ; I climb mountains, I dive
into valleys ;-1 overleap precipices,—I worship the great
Author of nature, who, shadowed in darkness, presides
over this gloomy and terrific sublime ; I was seated about
two hours ago in a deep glen, by the side of a sparkling
brook, and in sight of an^ immense cataract, which broke
into white foam on the rocks below—The projection of
rock, under which I sat, forms the covering, of what is
called Mavey Cann's Parlour. — Mavey in Irish signifies old Witch. Witches were formerly well known in

280

England, and are still in great vogue in this Country.
With the usual inaccuracy of village narration, Mavey
Cann is said to have drank tea here long before it was known
in Ireland.—I don't know what sort of tea she made, but I
am sure she has excellent water,—I stooped down and
quenched my thirst at the fountain in front of her abode.
About half a mile from Strabane, on the opposite side of the
river, is the beautifully-situated little town of Liflbrd.---It
would be called a village in England ; but by the courtesy of
Ireland, every assemblage of houses is a town 3 as almost
every woman is a lady, and every man, when written to, an
Esquire. This is an English colony, and some remains of the
accent may yet be found. Until a few years ago, they retained
the name of English, and frequent battles took place between
them and the Scotch laddies, as the young men of Strabane
were called. About three miles beyond Lifford is a little hill,
called Sturnpy's bray. A pedlar was murdered in a house
near this, with circumstances of the most atrocious cruelty;
he struggled long against the assassin, and the marks of his
fingers in blood were imprinted on the walls;—his legs were
cut off, and he was crammed into a box for the purpose of
concealment,---he haunted the murderer every where.—
" Go where you will," said the apparition, " I'll follow you ;
where you'll be to nighty I'll be to-morrow night!"—The
conscience-struck villain, appalled by the Spectre of his own
imagination, fled to America.—-The night after his arrival,
he looked fearfully through his bed curtains,—the mutilated
figure, pale as the tomb, in his blood-stained garments,
stood on the heanh : " Go where you will," said he u I'll
follow you; where you'll be to night, I'll be to-morrow
night." The man, the next morning, confessed his crime,
to a magisi rate, was sent over to Ireland, and executed.—
I went into a public house, near Lifford, to have some

281
spirits and water.—-An old woman was reading at the kitchen fire; she civilly took her spectacles off, and laid the book
down ; perhaps it was not so much civility, as the cacoethes
loquendi.—An old woman, who preferred reading to talking,
would indeed be a phenomenon,—-I threw my eyes over the
book; it was a London magazine, and, with a great deal of
other silly matter, contained the following b o l l ; — ' * After
the battle of Fontenoy, Louis the fifteenth observed to an
Irish officer, c Dillon's regiment behaved well; several were
wounded.'— i Y e s / said the-other, ' b u t Clarke's did heller
still £---for we were all killed.' Does the mventor of this
bull know that he is himself guilty of one, or at least ? hat
he labours under a most lamentable confusion of ideas ? —
From some peculiarity in his native language, the
low Irishman, in speaking English uses the word kil't, in
a ridiculous manner. But the King of Fiance, and the
Irish officer did not converse in English, surely, and the
mistake, which was barely possible in it, could never have
occurred in any other language.—That the Irish formerly,
more frequently made bulls than their neighbours, I think
is probable, as well from the universality of the observation,
as for the following reasons : the English was long to the
Irish a foreign language, acquired after they had arrived at
years of manhood;—spoken with difficulty, and reluctantly,—
they translated therefore :---they thought in one language,
and they expressed themselves in an other.—Every person
acquainted with French, knows how ridiculous an Englishman's mode of speaking it generally is ; but the construction
of the Irish differs much more from the English, than the
English does from the French. It is more poetical, more
animated, more glowing. It abounds in interrogation, and
hyperbole; almost universally, (it is said) the subject or
substantive is mentioned first, and the quality or attribute

282

afterwards ; this latter is one of the great beauties of the
Irish, as it is of the Latin and Greek languages, but it is
preposterous in English, and is called in derision of the
Irish, putting the cart before the horse. Independent of
language however, the peculiar disposition and temperament of the Irish, may make them more liable, than many
other nations, to commit blunders.—-They have great vivacity, acute feelings, and warm fancies. They may, therefore, be supposed to burst out in those quick sallies which overleap the regular concordance of wwds, oftener than their more
cold-blooded neighbours; but, having made these allowances, it is but justice to add, that there is much mischievous misrepresentation on this subject; and that welleducated Irishmen, at present, make bulls as seldom as the
English. English is the language which they speak from
infancy, and the warm tide of their boiling veins has been
cooled by the mixture of English blood; but when a particular character has been affixed to a country, or a town,
they hardly ever get rid of it; thus, Edinburgh is still described as dirty, though it is actually one of the cleanest
cities in Europe: Irishmen of all classes still make blunders,
because it is probable the lower class of them once did so.
Authors serve up the repast which suits the public taste,
and manufacture Irish bulls in their garrets, as vintners do
port in their cellars, as unlike Irish modes of expression, as
the latter is to the real wine of Oporto. I think I cannot use a
stronger simile. For a dramatic writer there is some
excuse; his trade is fiction, and his purpose is amusement.— " He lives to please, and therefore must
please to live." The audience come to see the Irishman they have been accustomed to, a being of the
stage and not of nature; and he must quarrel,

make love, make bulls, and swear by Jasus.^-JBut f
<

283

a tourist there is no such apology; 1 he must be a man
of some fortune, and, therefore, does not write from
mere necessity. He professes to give a picture, not
a caricature;—he comes abroad to observe men and
manners, and proposes to instruct, not to amuse ;—
he may be deceived in his judgment, but he is bound to
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. I am sorry to remark, that the conduct of most
Irish tourists has been very different from this. They
follow the lead of those who preceded them; they
find it easier to copy than inquire; more lucrative to
gratify prejudice, than to correct i t ; they go about,
therefore, twisting and perverting the most innocent
expressions, and when they cannot find bulls, they
make them. The effects of these misrepresentations
have been most mischievous; they have served to feed
the arrogance of the English; to increase their contempt
of Irishmen; to make them heedless of their clamours,
their wrongs, and their claims ; because they have rendered them blind to their talents, their virtues, and their
strength. On the other hand, they have wounded deeply,
the feelings of a proud and high-spirited people, who can
bear injury better than contempt.—This at all times would
be a very great evil, but it is particularly so at the present
time. England wages war for her existence; a great proportion of her army and navy, must necessarily be Irish;
kind treatment will make them subjects; ill usage, insult,
and contempt, will make them mercenaries.—What the
fate of all countries who depended on mercenaries lias been,
I nee4 not say. England and Ireland have inflicted much
misery on each other, and are probably nearly- equally to
blame. England was proud in strength, Ireland was
obstinate in independence; she struggled till she was ex-

284

liausted, and even then she bit at the hand which held
her to the ground. England inflicted misery, but she conferred kindness, and had Ireland consented to become
English, she would have given happiness,—but Ireland
forgot the kindness and only remembered the injury :---let
us hope however, that some means may speedily be found,
to make Ireland happy in her own way, since she will not
in the way England would have had her; let us hope that
concord may be attained, at this moment, when discord
may be ruin—of both the ruin;—for could Ireland succeed
in pulling down the edifice of English freedom, she may
rest assured, that, like Samson, she would herself be buried
in the ruins. O! what a pity, that two nations so well
adapted to each other,—-which were so cut and tallied, that
the protuberances of the one seemed to fit the notches of
the other, should thus, by unlucky circumstances, by
melancholy misconceptions, be repelled and alienated from
each other; that Ireland should be Catholic, when England
was Protestant ;—that Ireland should be royalist, when
England was republican;—that Ireland should be revolutionary, when England was steadily loyal. United by
nature like man and wife, to sweeten each others cup in
life; that they should have been always opposite, when they
should have agreed the most—that the virtues of one should
became vices to the other,—that the blessings of England
should be the curses of Ireland; and that now, when England struggles, (greatly and nobly struggles,) for her name
and independence as a nation,—that Ireland should hail
her wounds, as her own balsam,—-her danger as her own
escape, her present misery, as her own future happiness.
O ! what a pity!---0! what a pity!

285

CHAP. XXV.
A

:

felNCE writing my last I have met with a slight accident.
I must confine myself for a few weeks to my chamber, and
forego the pleasure I proposed to myself, in visiting the
giant's causewTay.~-1 hope to enjoy it9 however, on some
future occasion. As it is probable, therefore, 1 may again
resume this subject, I shall only make, (in addition to those
I have already made) a few general remarks on the inhabitants of the North of Ireland.
In other parts of
Ireland, it is to be lamented there are only two classes in
society, and that the third, which is the best, is wanting—it
is not wanting here. But there are not only three classes,
but it may likewise be said, three nations. The gentry
who are the English Irish.—-The merchants, shop-keepers,
and manufacturers, who are the Scotch Irish, and the
servants and labourers, who are mostly composed of the
native Irish.—The second class is by far the most rational,
the most enlightened, and the most industrious body—
equally removed from the extremes of want and wealth,
it is in the middle state between poverty and riches, in
which the Royal preacher wished to be placed.
-It must
be admitted, however, that profusion on the one hand, and
the exactions of landlords on the other, are inclining it
rather to the side of poverty. In most other countries the
gentry give the tone to society,—r-it is the middle class,
that gives it here—they are the link which unites the other
two—-to a certain degree, correcting their errors, and softening their hatreds—their gravity is the ballast, which
steadies the bark of Irish levity, and their placidity the oil

286
which tempers the rough edge of English arrogance—in
consequence of this, the gentry of the North are milder
in their manners, " and bear their faculties more meekly/*
than in the West and South of Ireland.—-It is, therefore,
among the Presbyterians of Ulster that the provincial character is to be sought \ and I am happy to be able to remark, that after attentive examination, I find their virtues
far more numerous than their defects. In general they are
great readers of the Bible,——It is the first book that h put
into their hands, and all their ideas take a tinge from it ;
and often their phrases—they arej accustomed to reflect,
and to talk on the doctrines it contains, and are, therefore,
great reasoners on theological, as well as other subjects. A
simple country man has been known to stand up in the
meeting house, and address the preacher, on what he called
false doctrine.—There are few great farmers—the country
people are mostly weavers, and have a few acres of land only.
This is the ancient, and almost patriarchal mode of life,
more favourable to happiness and morality-—to national
prosperity, though not perhaps to-bloated national greatness,
than any other—The character and appearance of the
English people have been materially injured, by crowding
such immense numbers of men and women, into vast manufactories in large towns.—The children of such people
are weak, ricketty, and generally as deformed in mind as
in body.-—I have remarked that ricketty people are almost
always malevolent. Envy, perhaps, may have some share in
this. The better class of country people live in great abundance—wine is not much used-—but they have great plenty
of what they like better, and what is better adapted to the
climate—which is Whiskey punch.—They are slovenly in
their habits, arid an Englishman would often feel disgust
at the state in which their houses are kept. They are in general large unhewn masses of stone—with little ornament

287
without, and little cleanliness within.—What is necessary
isonly attended to, utility alone is thought of, never beauty.
—A northern farm-house, therefore, is an"acc urate resemblance of the Northern character,-—It is a picture without a
frame—a bed without a curtain—a drawing-room without a
carpet. It is astonishing how little idea Presbyterians have of
pastoral beauty—the Catholic has a thousand times more
fancy—but a Presbyterian minds only the rrfain chance*
If he builds a cottage, it is a prison in miniature.—-If he
has a lawn, it is only grass,—the fence of his grounds is a
stone wall, seldom a hedge ;—his garden is kale but never
has flowers,—nature may give him the honey-suckle, but he
never plants the rose. —The truth is, that a Presbyterian
has a sluggish imagination :---it may be awakened by the
gloomy or terrific, but seldom revels in the beautiful.
The sweet delusions, therefore, with which fancy loves to
deck poor, weak, naked human nature, he is a stranger to.
For this reason works of poetry are little relished * by the
Northerns. I know of only one instance of a poet of any
eminence being born here : Farquahar, the author of the
Beaux Stratagem, and other esteemed dramatic works, and I
should suppose from the name, he was of an ancient Irish
family.—-This latter remark may appear fanciful, but it is
just. The ancient Irish retain with the names, much of the
ancient expression of feature, and much of the ancient character.—When a descendant of one of them marries a
^voman of Scottish blood, we see, in theChildren^ the varied
predominance of Scottish steadiness and frugality, or Irish
thoughtlessness and impetuosity, "as their features resemble
either of the parents.—This is a most curious circumstance, and a man of observation, who resided long enough
here, to collect a sufficient number of facts, might throw
much light on a very dark subject.—The natives of the
place never attend to this, and would laugh at it if it was
proposed to them,—Men iiever think strange what they are

2SS

long accustomed to, but they think strange, probably silly*
the man who thinks it so.—The peasant, perched on some
Alpine cliff, which overlooks the precipice, does not admire
' the wisdom of the Englishman, who forsakes his verdant
meads to climb those perilous rocks, and shiver in that
boundless snow.—-The fisherman, whose hut is on the strand,
sees no. grandeur in the ocean, feels no terror from the
tempest's roar.—In the Northern character there is much
probity, much integrity and friendliness, but it has few of
the lighter virtues which grace many other nations ;—It is
estimable, therefore, rather than amiable j—It is desirable
more as a friend than acquaintance;-—it is apiece of massy
plate, valued for its weight and solidity, but not for its fashion.
Man is here, more as he came from the hands of nature j
rough and headlong, boiling and bubbling from the rock, he
is like one of his own mountain torrents* which dashes
against immense stones, rude projections, and has not yet
formed to itself a passage and bed ;—he has not the mild
and mitigated tones, the gentle manners, which now characterise English society-—he is more peremptory in contradiction, more familiar in his address, and heartier in his laugh.
I do verily believe, paradoxial as;it may appear, that Irish
morals, (I mean Northern Irish,) are preferable to English,
but iri manners; they are far short of them.—But this,
perhaps, is unavoidable ; we cannot have the graces of perfect civilization, with the manly virtues of a less advanced
state.—We cannot at once smell the blossoms of Spring,
and gather the fruit of Autumn.—Nor, perhaps, is that very
high polish of civilization desirable.—Time, which mellows
the colours of the picture, destroys likewise the canvas on
which they are laid.:—Though Northerns possess so little
suavity of manners at home, I know no people who acquire
it sooner abroad or, who sooner get rid of their provincial features and accent.—They have been very successful in mak-

289
ing their way in England, by regular and combined effort.
Their conduct is orderly and proper; but as their original
accent is Scotch, and they soon acquire an English one, they
are seldom taken for natives of Ireland, nor when the prejudice against that country is considered, is it very wonderful
that they should not be in a hurry to claim connexion with
it.—Ireland is therefore in a great measure deprived of the
advantage of their good character.—Several most respectable physicians in London, are natives of this part of the
country, but hardly any of them are known there to be such.
Lord Castlereagh is another strong instance of the facility
with which they acquire the manners of Englishmen.
When Lord Melville, and other Scotchmen, were high in
office, even at the time their conduct was most approved of,
they were viewed with some jealousy by the people; but
Lord Castlereagh blended more naturally with them ;—his
politics might not be approved ©f, but there was no feeling
of national distinctness either in him to them, or in them to
him. Little as I approve of some parts of the public conduct
of this noble Lord, lam happy to bear testimony to the many
estimable qualities he displays in private life,—I know,
from unquestionable authority, that on more than one occasion, during the late rebellion, his humanity saved those
whom justice would have condemned.—-A poor lad, the
son of a blind harper, wandered barefooted and barelegged, a few years ago from the town of Strahane :—-he returned some time afterwards, a reverend Dean of the churchy
and is now a bishop.—Colonel T———•, Chief Secretary
to the Commander-in-Chief, is another fortunate Northern.
He went into the army at a very early period of life, unknown and unfriended—-The polish of his manners, the
elegance of his address, and the integrity of his conduct^
soon procured him patrons.—The Duke of York, in a particular manner, took an active share in promoting his inteu

290
rest.—He sent him, as military secretary, along with General Whitelock, to South America. After the unsuccessful
termination of that expedition;, he took him into his own
ofhce at the Horse-Guards.-—In the discharge of its duties,
ColonelThas given universal satisfaction 3 he presents a
fair picture of the northern character, modified no doubt,
by early association with the arm}', and people of rank.
He is not deficient in that judicious assentation, .without
which it is impossible long to please any great man—yet
with none of the servility of which the Scotch have been
accused.--The native Irish, from their want of this assentation, seldom make their way well in life—not that they are
incapable of flattery, but their habitual flightiness, makes it
liable to many interruptions,-—The folly or passion of an
hour, destroys the labour of years—-like a good cow which
. gives plenty of milk, but has a careless heel. Long before
the abolition of the slave-trade in the West Indies, it was
put a stop to in the island of St. Helena, by the indefatigable exertions of the governor, who is a native of the
county of Cavan, in this province; He had much misrepresentation, obloquy, and even danger to encounter ; but
his philanthropy, made him regardless of them all.—On
such conduct comments are unnecessary.—To the virtuous
belongs a reward superior to the praises of men—the approbation of their own hearts—yet I cannot forego the gratification of inscribing on those pages, the name of Colonel
Robert Brooke.-—Lor$ Moira, in one of his speeches in the
House of Lords, said, that there was more information in
the.province of Ulster, than in any other country in the
universe, of equal extent. > This, I think, is exaggerated
praise—they are (as far as my observation extends) a rational and thinking,rather;/ttian a reading people) their
"natural good sense, however, enables them to talk with
great propriety on most subjects of conversation.

291
They are workmen who do much, with few tools—they are
musicians whoring many changes on fewbells.-—1 know of
but one periodical publication in the whole province;—-a
magazine printed in Belfast—a work replete with sound
sense, and just observation, delivered in plain and perspicuous language.—In these respects it is a striking contrast
to the general run of Dublin compositions. The authors
of which, from their eager solicitude to please, often fail to
do it —they substitute tinsel for gold, and shadow for sub«
stance—the matter is overwhelmed with its ornaments—
the man is smothered in his amour.—--I have often, on reading a page of prodigious fine writing, in a Dublin newspaper, exclaimed^ with the Greeks of old, " what is all this
to Hercules !"—If my advice had any weight with these
gentlemen, I would recommend them, u more matter with
less art/'—The desire to be brilliant, and to dazzle, is too
obvious, and is almost universal. The judge on the bench,
and the bishop in the pulpit, are equally guilty of it. They
write and speak of a subject, but they think of themselves.
They resemble a handsome servant maid, who appears busy
in putting the flowers in her mistress's head? but is all the
time adjusting her own tucker in the mirror before her. It
would be unpardonable in a sketch of this kind, not to say
a few words of the ladies.—In general they are fair and welllooking —They are not unsuccessful copyists of English
fashions, and have a good deal the appearance of English
women. If there is a shade of difference, it is that their
features are harsher, and their persons rather more masculine.—They are very fond of dancing,-—in which they display more vivacity and rapidity of movement than elegance
or grace. This, perhaps, maybe no evil. Young women who
are taught the steps of opera dancers, are often apt to learn
their tricks. They are more acute and knowing than Engish women.—They have not (I think) by any means, so

292
much sensibility 5—their passions are not so easily inflamed.
-—They can play about a flame, therefore, which would
singe and consume an English woman.—They have probably more vanity, and they have certainly more pride.-—In
an Irish country town, there are four or five different degrees in female rank, and each class looks down with sovereign contempt on the one below i t . — T h e consequence of
this is, I fear, that Irish women are not so agreeable acquaintances as English women :---they have many virtues, but
pride is the rind that conceals t h e m . — A man accustomed
to English, manners, will seldom take the trouble to break it.
—Yet so strange a thing is human-nature—so admirably
are disadvantages balanced by corresponding advantages,
that I have doubts whether the negative qualities of this
very vice of pride, does not do as much good, as any positive v i r t u e ; — a t least, if female chastity is the essential virtue that people are disposed to think it. Irish pride
gives chastity to the females, in a degree that hardly any
country this day in Europe can boast of. Adultery or an intrigue even, is unknown among females in the middle class.
— A married woman may be violent, may be a termagant.—An unmarried one, may be pert, may be ignorant, may be
flippant,-—but they are,
" Chaste as the icicle,
That hangs on Dian's temple."
Climate no doubt has some influence in this;—religion
has s o m e ; but. pride, pride is the buckram and whalebone in the stays of Irish chastity, which enables it to walk
through life, as stately as a duchess at a coronation. As I
have already mentioned that 4he native Irish, in this province, are, almost entirely servjEMts and labourers, it would be
unfair to judge the general character, by men in their situation. They appear to me to have many of the good quali-

293

ties, and many of the bad ones, which have been attributed
to them. They are warm-hearted, friendly, cheerful, and
affectionate,—-but they are regarded with distrust: they
are, therefore, cunning; they are drunken, and in that condition, turbulent and quarrelsome.-—But even these faults
should not make Englishmen despise Irishmen, their virtues
are their own, their vices have been forced upon them.
Moreover, if there is much individual vice in Ireland, that
is not in England, there is vice in England that is unknown
in Ireland. I would put it to any rational and virtuous man,
whether the prevalence of the abominable crime, with the
account of which we are so often shocked, does not counterbalance, in the scale of relative morality, the advantages
England possesses over Ireland, were they ten times greater
than they are. What is drunkenness, or insubordination, or
turbulence, compared to vice, from which the eye of manhood
turns in horror and disgust} Which has imparted a portion of the abomination of the continent, (I hope in God
not extensively imparted) to the English character; and
which too often makes a London newspaper, in the notice it
is obliged to take of it, resemble less a modern publication, than a fragment saved from the destruction of Gomorrah. The employment of foreign servants, foreign tradesmen, opera dancers and singers, has been often reprobated $
if it has had a tendency, (as I think it has had,) to cause
this contamination,—how far short is the reprobation it has
ever met with, from what it deserves•——I shall conclude
this chapter with remarking,*that the presbyterians of Ulster, will, I have no doubt, be found by every traveller who
views them without prejudice, to be what I have described
them, a sedate and orderly people. Whether they are so
because they are presbyterians, gr are presbyterians, because
they are sedate, and orderly, I will not positively determine $

294
but I should suspect the latter. Men at length settle into the
religion the best suited to their temperaments, as eveiy man
after forty is said to be his own best doctor. Modes of religion are. modified by disposition and climate, and those
which are adopted by one people, would be rejected, and
with reason, by another. The cold and unadorned religion
of Scotchmen, would little suit the warm and glowing
imaginations of Italians or Greeks.—Religion is uniform,
and universal;—•-the modes of it partial, and as varied as our
countenances and complexions.—-Of no more importance,
(could men be brought to think so,) than the garment of the
preacher. The pure and benevolent heart, is the only
offering worthy of the deity, and equally acceptable, I trust,
whether it ascends from the Catholic chapel, or the Protestant cathedral,—-the Turkish mosque, or the Pagan temple
-—the gorgeous dome of civilization, the clay-built altar of
the savage, or the barbarous hut of the Esquimaux.

G.

SIDNEY,

Printer, Northumberland-Street* Strand*

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