And I, accordingly, having sorrowed, and that heartily, with the poor emigrants and their friends, shall venture to refresh myself, and, I hope, my readers, with a small historical incident, suggested to my memory by the wild Irish cry. When Richard de Clare, surnamed Strongbow, invaded Ireland in 1171, one of his sons was so exceedingly astonished at the awful howlings, which the enemy raised, by way of overture to the fight, that he became prematurely “tired of war's alarms,” and set forth without loss of time in search of more peaceful scenes;—colloquially speaking, he cut and run. But hearing, soon afterwards, that the Governor had silenced these disagreeable vocalists, and that the conquerors were having no end of fun, Master Strongbow returned to the bosom of his family—where he must have been inexpressibly surprised and disgusted at the abrupt and ungentlemanly behaviour of Papa, who no sooner caught sight of him, than he rushed at him, and—cut him in two. 1
1 Moore's History of Ireland, vol. ii., p. 290.
We left Galway at four p.m., and reached Athlone in a couple of hours. If the Widow Malone, och hone, still lives in the town of Athlone, och hone, I do not admire her choice of residence, for its aspect is cold and cheerless. So at least it appeared, as we saw it, on a day that was dark, and dull, and dreary, with rain. We read in “Wanleys Wonders”(one of the most carefully-collated and painstaking books of lies extant) that the inhabitants of Catona were wont to make their king swear, at his coronation, that it should not rain immoderately, in any part of his dominions, so long as he remained on the throne; and one sighs for a similar dynasty in Ireland, (if the promise was really fulfilled), where that ancient monarch, “King O'Neill, of the Showers,” seems still perpetually to reign.
So the streets were looking their narrowest and dingiest, and the Castle and Barracks their greyest and grimmest, as we saw them from under our umbrellas; and we were glad to return to Mr. Rourke's comfortable hotel, where papered walls and carpeted floors, and practicable windows, and duplicate towels, again welcomed us to the lap of luxury. But I felt little disposition to sit down in it, mourning for Connamara, gazing sadly through the windows of our coffee-room, and esteeming the Post-office opposite but a poor substitute for the great hills of Bina Beola, and the lakes to be very feebly represented by Mr. Pym's establishment for the diffusion of Dublin ales. Nor did sweet solace come, until we beheld once more—a real beef-steak. Frank's eyes, in their normal state of a mild, benevolent blue, glowed with a fiery greed; and I do not suppose that six Van Amburghs could have taken away our food with hot irons.
After dinner we communicated to each other the little we knew with regard to the old town of Athlone:—how that—the Shannon, which flows through it, being here fordable,—it had always been a place of great military importance; how that William III. had, in the first instance, failed to take it,—or rather to receive it, 1 as he would have said, with the exquisite humour, for which he was remarkable,—and lost for a time that amiability of temper, which, according to the historian, 2 was so conspicuous in time of war; how that Ginkel, his General, (why does not history salute him by his more euphonious designation as first Earl of Athlone?) had much better luck next time, to wit, on the 1st of July, 1691, when, differing in opinion with the supercilious Frenchman, St. Ruth, who declared the thing to be impossible, even after it was done, he boldly crossed the river, attacked, and took the place.
1 His motto was, “Recepi non rapui,” which Swift happily
translated, “the receiver is as bad as the thief.”
2 Smollett, who says, “His conversation was dry, and his
manners disgusting, except in battle!”—Hume Continued,
vol. i., p. 442.
Here, feebly murmuring something about “the new bridge, which spans the noble stream, being a handsome structure,” we came to a decided check, Frank making a cast by ringing the bell, and requesting the waiter to “bring in a large dish of startling incidents, connected with the history of Athlone,”—an order, which seemed to amuse three good-looking priests, (en route for a Consecration at Ballinasloe, to be presided over by Cardinal Wiseman), and who were discussing, (and why not?—I'm not the man, at all events, to write and tell the Pope,) a small decanter of whiskey.
The Shannon is a glorious river, broad and deep, and brimming over, extending, from source to sea, a distance of two hundred miles, and “making its waves a blessing as they flow” to ten Irish counties. I should think that hay for the universe might be grown upon its teeming banks, and we saw a goodly quantity studding the fields with those (to us) quaint-looking tumuli, which, like the “hobbledehoy, neither man nor boy,” are too large for haycocks, and too small for stacks. Six miles from Athlone, we pass the Seven Churches of Clonmacnoise, (once, as its name signifies, the Eton of Ireland, “the school of the sons of the nobles,”) by whom despoiled and desecrated we English need not pause to inquire; and close to these a brace of those famous Round Towers, which have so perplexed the archaeological world, and which, according to Frank, were, “most probably Lighthouses, which had come ashore at night for a spree, and had forgotten the way back again.” The scenery, which at first is flat and uninteresting, except to an agricultural eye, increases in attraction, as you progress towards Limerick, and is exceedingly beautiful about Lough Derg. There are delightful residences on either side, of which we admired particularly Portumna, my Lord Clanricarde's 1 and a place called Derry. The view from the upper windows of this latter home must be “a sight to make an old man young.” The mountains, inclosed and cultivated, have a tame unnatural look, as though they had been brought here from Connamara, and been broken to carry corn; and they wear a strange uncomfortable aspect, like some Cherokee Chief in the silk stockings and elegant attire of our Court.
1 Would that his motto were the watchword of every
Irishmen:—“Un g foy, ung roy, ung loy!”