Macroom, October 5th, 1828.
Dearest One,
The parting was hard; but you who wish me in a very different place, will say that I have staid quite long enough. I tore myself away from these excellent people and their romantic dwelling. It was Sunday; and the worthy lady, in spite of her manifest regard for me, could not help exclaiming reproachfully, “But how is it possible that a good man like you can set out upon a journey on a Sunday?” You know that the English have stamped this day with a sort of death-like character; dancing, music and singing are forbidden; indeed, the severely pious hang their canary-birds in some remote corners, that no voice of song may offend their ears during these holy hours. This idolatry of the Sunday began in the time of James the First, and was the cause of furious dissentions. No bread must be baked, and no useful work performed; but drunkenness and other vices thrive more luxuriantly than on the week-days. I have observed that the streets are never so bestrewed with drunken people as on Sunday evenings; nor, as is well known to the police, are the resorts of vice ever so filled. Many English people think dancing on a Sunday unquestionably a greater crime than a little theft or so; and I lately read in print a history of Whitby, in which it was seriously affirmed, that the rich abbey there was doubtless destroyed because the monks did not only indulge in every possible crime, rape and murder not excepted, but their sinful abbot had permitted the repairs of the abbey and other labours to go on on a Sabbath-day.
The worthy Mrs. W—— was infected with this same strange conceit; and it was somewhat difficult for me to excuse my half-committed sin on the ground of urgent necessity. To appease her, I went first with the whole family along the bay to B—— church, which was quite out of my way. In going along, I related to her the strange vision of one of the sons of my former excellent host, Captain B——, by which he had been induced to go over to the Catholic church. He was, as he himself told me, a most zealous Protestant and Orangeman, and went one day into a Catholic chapel in Dublin, rather with the intention of making himself merry at the ceremonies than from any better motive. But the beautiful music touched him against his will; and as he raised his eyes to the high altar, the Redeemer stood bodily before him, his eyes fixed intently on him with an expression of angelic mildness. The divine vision smiled upon him, beckoned with his hand, and then slowly ascended, still looking fixedly at him, till at length it disappeared, borne by angels through the dome. From this moment B—— was persuaded he was an especial object of the divine favour; and in a few days he became a member of another church which has the exclusive privilege of ensuring salvation, (for the orthodox English Protestants also believe that they enjoy this monopoly.) How philosophically did my pious friends reason on this conversion! “Is it possible!” exclaimed they. “What superstition! Without doubt this was either a feverish delirium, or the man is a hypocrite, and has good reasons for what he does. Either he is mad, or he invented the story for his own profit.”
Oh, men, men! How justly does Christ say, “Ye behold the mote in the eye of another; ye cannot see the beam in your own!” No doubt this is the case with us all, more or less; and be assured I make no exception in favour of your poor friend.
We parted at last, not without emotion; and I seated myself on a mountain car, drawn by a horse whose appearance was by no means brilliant. The young ladies were greatly delighted at my eccentric mode of travelling. The journey I had to accomplish was thirty miles, and began most tediously. After a little time the wretched horse was so restive at going up hill, that I was obliged to alight, rather than run the risk of being dashed down a precipice. The stubborn beast was now forced to be constantly led, without which he would not advance a single step. For a long while the driver trotted sturdily on by his side, but at length could go no further; and Heaven knows what would have become of us, had we not luckily met a man on horseback, who consented to harness in his horse instead of ours. I reached Macroom late in the evening. Nothing struck me much in the way but a long and deep glen, in which at the time of the White Boy conspiracies, Lord B—— and Colonel W—— were attacked by a party who were posted on the heights, and had a narrow escape for their lives. The White Boys had taken their measures extremely well, and during the night had loosened a great mass of rock, which they suddenly rolled down directly across the road through which the troops were marching. By this means the detachment of cavalry was not only prevented from advancing, but was cut off in its rear, and thus placed in a desperate situation. A great many were killed; the two gentlemen, who rode capital hunters, luckily escaped. Their good steeds climbed up the almost inaccessible side of a rock, amidst an incessant shower of musketry. Colonel W—— was slightly wounded in the right arm; Lord B—— escaped quite unhurt.
In this extremely wild region, not far from hence, lies a large lake with a woody island in its centre. Here stands a chapel of great sanctity, to which numerous pilgrimages are yearly made. It was too late for me to see it more nearly.
Macroom is a cheerful pretty place, with a handsome house belonging to the uncle of the beautiful African, or rather of her husband. She gave me a letter to him, but I had not time to use it.
Cork, Oct. 6th.
I left Macroom very early in a ‘gingle,’ a sort of covered stage with two horses. It rained and blew again; for, dear Julia, I find that I am no longer, as the Irish prettily say, ‘on the sunny side of life.’