Yesterday, as we passed the imaginary line which divides the province of Connaught from that of Ulster, the priest said, “As we now advance northward, we shall gradually lose sight of the genuine Irish character, and those ancient manners, modes, customs, and language with which it is inseparably connected. Not long after the chiefs of Ireland had declared James the First universal monarch of their country, a sham plot was pretended, consonant to the usual ingratitude of the House of Stuart, by which six entire counties of the north became forfeited, which James with a liberal hand bestowed on his favorites; * so that this part of Ireland may in some respects be considered as a Scottish colony; and in fact, Scotch dialect, Scotch manners, Scotch modes, and the Scotch character almost universally prevail. Here the ardour of the Irish constitution seems abated if not chilled. Here the ceadmile falta of Irish cordiality seldom lends its welcome home to a stranger’s heart. The bright beams which illumine the gay images of Milesian fancy are extinguished; the convivial pleasures, dear to the Milesian heart, scared at the prudential maxims of calculating interest, take flight to the warmer regions of the south; and the endearing socialities of the soul, lost and neglected amidst the cold concerns of the counting-house and the bleach-green, droop and expire in the deficiency of the nutritive warmth on which their tender existence depends.
* “The pretext of rebellion was devised as a specious
prelude to predetermined confiscations, and the inhabitants
of six counties, whose aversion to the yoke of England the
show of lenity might have disarmed, were compelled to
encounter misery in deserts, and, what is perhaps still mote
mortifying to human pride, to behold the patrimony of their
ancestors, which force had wrested from their hands,
bestowed the prey of a more favoured people. The substantial
view of providing for his indigent countrymen might have
gratified the national partiality of James; the favourite
passion of the English was gratified by the triumph of
Protestantism, and the downfall of its antagonists: men who
professed to correct a system of peace did not hesitate to
pursue their purpose through a scene of iniquity which
humanity shudders to relate; and by an action more criminal,
because more deliberate, than the massacre of St.
Bartholomew, two-thirds of an extensive province were
offered up in one great hecatomb, on the altar of false
policy and theological prejudice. Here let us survey with
wonder the mysterious operations of divine wisdom, which,
from a measure base in its means, and atrocious in its
execution, has derived a source of fame, freedom, and
industry to Ireland.”—Vide a Review of some interesting
periods of Irish History.
“So much for the shades of the picture, which, however, possesses its lights, and those of no dim lustre. The north of Ireland may be justly esteemed the palladium of Irish industry and Irish trade, where the staple commodity of the kingdom is reared and manufactured; and while the rest of Ireland is devoted to that species of agriculture, which, in lessening the necessity of human labour, deprives man of subsistence; while the wretched native of the southern provinces (where little labour is required, and consequently little hire given) either famishes in the midst of a helpless family, or begs his way to England, and offers those services there in harvest time, which his own country rejects. Here, both the labourer and his hire rise in the scale of political consideration; here more hands are called for than can be procured; and the peasant, stimulated to exertions by the reward it reaps for him, enjoys the fruits of his industry, and acquires a relish for the comforts and conveniences of life. Industry, and this taste for comparative luxury, mutually react; and the former, while it bestows the means, enables them to gratify the suggestions of the latter; while their wants, nurtured by enjoyment, afford fresh allurement to continued exertion, In short, a mind not too deeply fascinated by the florid virtues, the warm overflowings of generous and ardent qualities, will find in the northerns of this island much to admire and more to esteem; but on the heart they make little claims, and from its affections they receive but little tribute.” *
* Belfast cannot be deemed the metropolis of Ulster, but may
almost be said to be the Athens of Ireland. It is at least
the cynosure of the province in which it stands; and those
beams of genius which are there concentrated, send to the
extremest point of the hemisphere in which they shine no
faint ray of lumination.
“Then, in the name of all that is warm and cordial,” said I, “let us hasten back to the province of Connaught.”
“That you may be sure we shall,” returned Father John: “for I know none of these sons of trade; and until we once more find ourselves within the pale of Milesian hospitality, we must put up at a sorry inn, near a tract of the sea-coast, called the Magilligans, and where one solitary fane is raised to the once tutelar deity of Ireland; in plain English, where one of the last of the race of Irish bards shelters his white head beneath the fractured roof of a wretched hut. Although the evening sun was setting on the western wave when we reached the auberge, yet, while our fried eggs and bacon were preparing, I proposed to the priest that we should visit the old bard before we put up our horses. Father John readily consented, and we enquired his address.
“What, the mon wi the twa heads?” said our host. I confessed my ignorance of this hydra epithet, which I learned was derived from an immense wen on the back of his head.
“Oh!” continued our host, “A wull be telling you weel to gang tull the auld Kearn, and one o’ our wains wull show ye the road. Ye need nae fear trusting yoursels to our wee Wully, for he is an uncommon canie chiel.” Such was the dialect of this Hibernian Scot, who assured me he had never been twenty miles from his “aine wee hame.”
We, however, dispensed with the guidance of wee Wully, and easily found our way to the hut of the man “wi the twa heads.” It stood on the right hand by the road side. We entered it without ceremony, and as it is usual for strangers to visit this last of the “Sons of Song,” his family betrayed no signs of surprise at our appearance. His ancient dame announced us to her husband When we entered he was in bed; and when he arose to receive us (for he was dressed, and appeared only to have lain down from debility,) we perceived that his harp had been the companion of his repose, and was actually laid under the bed-clothes with him. We found the venerable bard cheerful * and communicative, and he seemed to enter even with an eager readiness on the circumstances of his past life, while his “soul seemed heightened by the song,” with which at intervals he interrupted his narrative. How strongly did those exquisitely beautiful lines of Ossian rush on my recollection: “But age is now on my tongue, and my mind has failed me; the sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains like a blast that roars loudly on a sea-surrounded rock after the winds are laid, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.”
So great was my veneration for this “Bard of other times,” that I felt as though it would have been an indelicacy to have offered him any pecuniary reward for the exertions of his tuneful talent; I therefore made my little offering to his wife, having previously, while he was reciting his “unvarnished tale,” taken a sketch of his most singularly interesting and striking figure, as a present for Glorvina on my return to Inismore.