CHAPTER XVI

MORE RAIN IN GALWAY--A WALK THERE--AND THE SECOND GALWAY NIGHT’S ENTERTAINMENT

‘Seven hills has Rome, seven mouths has Nilus’ stream, Around the Pole seven burning planets gleam. Twice equal these is Galway, Connaught’s Rome: Twice seven illustrious tribes here find their home.[24] Twice seven fair towers the city’s ramparts guard, Each house within is built of marble hard. With lofty turret flanked, twice seven the gates, Through twice seven bridges water permeates. In the High Church are twice seven altars raised, At each a holy saint and patron’s praised. Twice seven the convents, dedicate to Heaven,-- Seven for the female sex--for godly fathers seven.’[25]

Having read in Hardiman’s History the quaint inscription in Irish Latin, of which the above lines are a version, and looked admiringly at the old plans of Galway which are to be found in the same work, I was in hopes to have seen in the town some considerable remains of its former splendour, in spite of a warning to the contrary which the learned historiographer gives.

The old city certainly has some relics of its former stateliness; and, indeed, is the only town in Ireland I have seen, where an antiquary can find much subject for study, or a lover of the picturesque an occasion for using his pencil. It is a wild, fierce, and most original old town. Joyce’s Castle in one of the principal streets, a huge square grey tower, with many carvings and ornaments, is a gallant relic of its old days of prosperity, and gives one an awful idea of the tenements which the other families inhabited, and which are designed in the interesting plate which Mr. Hardiman gives in his work. The Collegiate Church, too, is still extant, without its fourteen altars, and looks to be something between a church and a castle, and as if it should be served by Templars with sword and helmet, in place of mitre and crosier. The old houses in the Main Street are like fortresses; the windows look into a court within; there is but a small low door, and a few grim windows peering suspiciously into the street.

Then there is Lombard Street, otherwise called Deadman’s Lane, with a raw-head and cross-bones and a ‘memento mori’ over the door where the dreadful tragedy of the Lynches was acted in 1493. If Galway is the Rome of Connaught, James Lynch Fitzstephen, the Mayor, may be considered as the Lucius Junius Brutus thereof. Lynch had a son who went to Spain as master of one of his father’s ships, and being of an extravagant wild turn, there contracted debts, and drew bills, and alarmed his father’s correspondent, who sent a clerk and nephew of his own back in young Lynch’s ship to Galway, to settle accounts. On the fifteenth day, young Lynch threw the Spaniard overboard. Coming back to his own country, he reformed his life a little, and was on the point of marrying one of the Blakes, Burkes, Bodkins, or others: when a seaman who had sailed with him, being on the point of death, confessed the murder in which he had been a participator.

Hereon the father, who was chief magistrate of the town, tried his son, and sentenced him to death; and when the clan Lynch rose in a body to rescue the young man, and avert such a disgrace from their family, it is said that Fitzstephen Lynch hanged the culprit with his own hand. A tragedy called ‘The Warden of Galway’ has been written on the subject, and was acted a few nights before my arrival.

The waters of Lough Corrib, which ‘permeate’ under the bridges of the town, go rushing and roaring to the sea with a noise and eagerness only known in Galway; and along the banks you see all sorts of strange figures washing all sorts of wonderful rags, with red petticoats and redder shanks standing in the stream. Pigs are in every street, the whole town shrieks with them: and I saw the pair of lovers in the frontispiece;[26] the girl with the little Galway _pet_ in her lap. There are numbers of idlers on the bridges, thousands in the streets, humming and swarming in and out of dark old ruinous houses; congregated round numberless apple-stalls, nail-stalls, bottle-stalls, pigsfoot-stalls; in queer old shops, that look to be two centuries old; loitering about warehouses, ruined or not; looking at the washerwomen washing in the river, or at the fish-donkeys, or at the potato-stalls, or at a vessel coming into the quay, or at the boats putting out to sea.

That boat at the quay, by the little old gate, is bound for Arranmore; and one next to it has a freight of passengers for the cliffs of Mohir, on the Clare coast; and as the sketch is taken, a hundred of people have stopped in the street to look on, and are buzzing behind in Irish, telling the little boys in that language--who will persist in placing themselves exactly in the front of the designer--to get out of his way; which they do for some time; but at length curiosity is so intense that you are entirely hemmed in, and the view rendered quite invisible. A sailor’s wife comes up--who speaks English--with a very wistful face, and begins to hint, that them black pictures are very bad likenesses, and very dear too for a poor woman, and how much would a painted one cost, does his honour think? And she has her husband that’s going to sea to the West Indies to-morrow, and she’d give anything to have a picture of him. So I made bold to offer to take his likeness for nothing. But he never came, except one day at dinner, and not at all on the next day, though I stayed on purpose to accommodate him. It is true that it was pouring with rain; and as English waterproof cloaks are not waterproof in _Ireland_, the traveller who has but one coat must of necessity respect it, and had better stay where he is, unless he prefers to go to bed while he has his clothes dried at the next stage.

The houses in the fashionable street where the club-house stands (a strong building, with an agreeable Old Bailey look) have the appearance of so many little Newgates. The Catholic chapels are numerous, unfinished, and ugly. Great warehouses and mills rise up by the stream, or in the midst of unfinished streets here and there; and handsome convents with their gardens, justice-houses, barracks, and hospitals adorn the large, poor, bustling, rough-and-ready-looking town. A man who sells hunting-whips, gunpowder, guns, fishing-tackle, and brass and iron ware, has a few books on his counter; and a lady in a by-street, who carries on the profession of a milliner, eked out her stock in a similar way. But there were no regular book-shops that I saw, and when it came on to rain, I had no resource but the Hedge-School volumes again. They, like Patrick Spelman’s sign (which was faithfully copied in the town), present some very rude flowers of poetry and ‘entertainment’ of an exceedingly humble sort; but such shelter is not to be despised when no better is to be had; nay, possibly its novelty may be piquant to some readers, as an admirer of Shakespeare will occasionally condescend to listen to Mr. Punch, or an epicure to content himself with a homely dish of beans and bacon.

When Mr, Kilroy’s waiter has drawn the window-curtains, brought the hot water for the whisky-negus, and a pipe and a ‘screw’ of tobacco, and two huge old candlesticks that were plated once, the audience may be said to be assembled, and after a little overture performed on the pipe, the second night’s entertainment begins with the historical tragedy of the ‘Battle of Aughrim.’

Though it has found its way to the West of Ireland, the ‘Battle of Aughrim’ is evidently by a Protestant author, a great enemy of Popery and wooden shoes: both of which principles, incarnate in the person of St. Ruth, the French General commanding the troops sent by Louis XIV. to the aid of James II., meet with a woeful downfall at the conclusion of the piece. It must have been written in the reign of Queen Anne, judging from some loyal compliments which are paid to that sovereign in the play, which is also modelled upon Cato.

The ‘Battle of Aughrim’ is written from beginning to end in decasyllabic verse of the richest sort; and introduces us to the chiefs of William and James’s army. On the English side we have Baron de Ginckle, three Generals, and two Colonels; on the Irish, Monsieur St. Ruth, two Generals, two Colonels, and an English gentleman of fortune, a volunteer, and son of no less a person than Sir Edmonbury Godfrey.

There are two ladies--Jemima, the Irish Colonel Talbot’s daughter, in love with Godfrey; and Lucinda, lady of Colonel Herbert, in love with her lord. And the deep nature of the tragedy may be imagined when it is stated that Colonel Talbot is killed, Colonel Herbert is killed, Sir Charles Godfrey is killed, and Jemima commits suicide, as resolved not to survive her adorer. St. Ruth is also killed, and the remaining Irish heroes are taken prisoners or run away. Among the supernumeraries there is likewise a dreadful slaughter.

The author, however, though a Protestant, is an Irishman (there are peculiarities in his pronunciation which belong only to that nation), and as far as courage goes, he allows the two parties to be pretty equal. The scene opens with a martial sound of kettle-drums and trumpets in the Irish camp, near Athlone. That town is besieged by Ginckle, and Monsieur St. Ruth (despising his enemy with a confidence often fatal to Generals) meditates an attack on the besiegers’ lines, if, by any chance, the besieged garrison be not in a condition to drive them off.

After discoursing on the posture of affairs, and letting General Sarsfield and Colonel O’Neil know his hearty contempt of the English and their General, all parties, after protestations of patriotism, indulge in hopes of the downfall of William. St. Ruth says he will drive the wolves’ and lions’ cubs away. O’Neil declares he scorns the Revolution, and, like great Cato, smiles at persecution. Sarsfield longs for the day ‘when our Monks and Jesuits shall return, and holy incense on our altars burn.’ When

‘_Enter_ a Post.

_Post._ With important news I from Athlone am sent, Be pleased to lead me to the General’s tent.

_Sars._ Behold the General there. Your message tell.

_St. Ruth._ Declare your message. Are our friends all well?

_Post._ Pardon me, sir, the fatal news I bring Like vulture’s poison every heart shall sting. Athlone is lost without your timely aid, At six this morning an assault was made, When, under shelter of the British cannon, Their grenadiers in armour took the Shannon, Led by brave Captain Sandys, who _with fame_, _Plunged to his middle in the rapid stream_. He led them through, and with undaunted ire He gained the bank in spite of all our fire; Being bravely followed by his grenadiers Though bullets flew like hail about their ears, And by this time they enter uncontrolled.

_St. Ruth._ Dare all the force of England be so bold T’ attempt to storm so brave a town, when I With all Hibernia’s sons of war am nigh? Return: and if the Britons dare pursue, Tell them St. Ruth is near, and _that will do_.

_Post._ Your aid would do much better than your name.

_St. Ruth._ Bear back this answer, friend, from whence you came. [_Exit_ Post.’

The picture of brave Sandys, ‘who with fame plunged to his middle in the rapid stream,’ is not a bad image on the part of the Post; and St. Ruth’s reply, ‘Tell them St. Ruth is near, and _that will do_,’ characteristic of the vanity of his nation. But Sarsfield knows Britons better, and pays a merited compliment to their valour:

‘_Sars._ Send speedy succours and their fate prevent, You know not yet what Britons dare attempt. I know the English fortitude is such, To boast of nothing, though they hazard much. No force on earth their fury can repel, Nor would they fly from all the devils in hell.’

Another officer arrives--Athlone is really taken, St. Ruth gives orders to retreat to Aughrim, and Sarsfield, in a rage, first challenges him, and then vows he will quit the army. ‘A _gleam_ of horror does my vitals _damp_,’ says the Frenchman (in a figure of speech more remarkable for vigour than logic); ‘I fear Lord Lucan has forsook the camp!’ But not so: after a momentary indignation, Sarsfield returns to his duty, and ere long is reconciled with his vain and vacillating chief.

And now the love intrigue begins. Godfrey enters--and states Sir Charles Godfrey is his lawful name: he is an Englishman, and was on his way to join Ginckle’s camp, when Jemima’s beauty overcame him: he asks Colonel Talbot to bestow on him the lady’s hand. The Colonel consents, and in