CHAPTER XXXII

DUBLIN AT LAST

A wedding-party that went across Derry Bridge to the sound of bell and cannon, had to flounder through a thick coat of frozen snow, that covered the slippery planks, and the hills round about were whitened over by the same inclement material. Nor was the weather, implacable towards young lovers and unhappy buck-skinned postillions shivering in white favours, at all more polite towards the passengers of her Majesty’s mail that runs from Derry to Ballyshannon.

Hence the aspect of the country between those two places can only be described at the rate of nine miles an hour, and from such points of observation as may be had through a coach window, starred with ice and mud. While horses were changed we saw a very dirty town called Strabane; and had to visit the old house of the O’Donnels in Donegal during a quarter of an hour’s pause that the coach made there--and with an umbrella overhead. The pursuit of the picturesque under umbrellas let us leave to more venturesome souls: the fine weather of the finest season known for many long years in Ireland was over, and I thought with a great deal of yearning of Pat the waiter, at the Shelbourne Hotel, Stephen’s Green, Dublin, and the gas-lamps, and the covered cars, and the good dinners to which they take you.

Farewell, then, O wild Donegal! and ye stern passes through which the astonished traveller windeth! Farewell, Ballyshannon, and thy salmon-leap, and thy bar of sand, over which the white head of the troubled Atlantic was peeping! Likewise, adieu to Lough Erne, and its numberless green islands, and winding river-lake, and wavy fir-clad hills! Good-bye, moreover, neat Enniskillen, over the bridge and churches whereof the sun peepeth as the coach starteth from the inn! See, how he shines now on Lord Belmore’s stately palace and park, with gleaming porticoes and brilliant grassy chases: now, behold he is yet higher in the heavens, as the twanging horn proclaims the approach to beggarly Cavan, where a beggarly breakfast awaits the hungry voyager. Snatching up a roll wherewith to satisfy the pangs of hunger, sharpened by the mockery of breakfast, the tourist now hastens in his arduous course, through Virginia, Kells, Navan, by Tara’s threadbare mountain, and Skreen’s green hill; day darkens, and a hundred thousand lamps twinkle in the grey horizon--see above the darkling trees a stumpy column rise, see on its base the name of Wellington (though this, because ‘tis night, thou canst not see), and cry, ‘It is the _Phaynix_!’--On and on, across the iron bridge, and through the streets (dear streets, though dirty, to the citizen’s heart how dear you be!), and, lo, now with a bump, the dirty coach stops at the seedy inn, six ragged porters battle for the bags, six wheedling carmen recommend their cars, and (giving first the coachman eighteenpence) the cockney says, ‘Drive, car-boy, to the Shelbourne.’

And so having reached Dublin--and seeing the ominous 565 which figures upon the last page, it becomes necessary to curtail the observations which were to be made upon that city: which surely ought to have a volume to itself--the humours of Dublin at least require so much space. For instance, there was the dinner at the Kildare Street Club, or the Hotel opposite,--the dinner in Trinity College Hall,--that at Mr.----, the publisher’s, where a dozen of the literary men of Ireland were assembled,--and those (say fifty) with Harry Lorrequer himself, at his mansion of Templeogue. What a favourable opportunity to discourse upon the peculiarities of Irish character! to describe men of letters, of fashion, and university dons! Sketches of these personages may be prepared, and sent over, perhaps, in confidence to Mrs. Sigourney in America (who will of course not print them)--but the English habit does not allow of these happy communications between writers and the public; and the author who wishes to dine again at his friend’s cost, must needs have a care how he puts him in print.

Suffice it to say, that at Kildare Street we had white neckcloths, black waiters, wax-candles, and some of the best wine in Europe; at Mr.----, the publisher’s, wax-candles, and some of the best wine in Europe; at Mr. Lever’s, wax-candles, and some of the best wine in Europe; at Trinity College--but there is no need to mention what took place at Trinity College; for on returning to London, and recounting the circumstances of the repast, my friend B----, a Master of Arts of that University, solemnly declared the thing was impossible:--no stranger _could_ dine at Trinity College; it was too great a privilege--in a word, he would not believe the story, nor will he to this day; and why, therefore, tell it in vain? I am sure if the Fellows of Colleges in Oxford and Cambridge were told that the Fellows of T. C. D. only drink beer at dinner, they would not believe _that_. Such, however, was the fact: or may be it was a dream, which was followed by another dream of about four-and-twenty gentlemen seated round a common-room table after dinner; and, by a subsequent vision of a tray of oysters in the apartments of a tutor of the University, some time before midnight. Did we swallow them or not?--the oysters are an open question.

Of the Catholic College of Maynooth, I must likewise speak briefly, for the reason that an accurate description of that establishment would be of necessity so disagreeable, that it is best to pass it over in a few words. An Irish union-house is a palace to it. Ruin so needless, filth so disgusting, such a look of lazy squalor, no Englishman who has not seen can conceive. Lecture-room and dining-hall, kitchen and students’ room, were all the same. I shall never forget the sight of scores of shoulders of mutton lying on the filthy floor in the former, or the view of a bed and dressing-table that I saw in the other. Let the next Maynooth grant include a few shillings’-worth of whitewash and a few hundred-weights of soap; and if to this be added a half-score of drill-sergeants, to see that the students appear clean at lecture, and to teach them to keep their heads up and to look people in the face, Parliament will introduce some cheap reforms into the seminary, which were never needed more than here. Why should the place be so shamefully ruinous and foully dirty? Lime is cheap, and water plenty at the canal hard by. Why should a stranger, after a week’s stay in the country, be able to discover a priest by the scowl on his face, and his doubtful downcast manner? Is it a point of discipline that his reverence should be made to look as ill-humoured as possible? And I hope these words will not be taken hostilely. It would have been quite as easy, and more pleasant, to say the contrary, had the contrary seemed to me to have been the fact; and to have declared that the priests were remarkable for their expression of candour, and their college for its extreme neatness and cleanliness.

This complaint of neglect applies to other public institutions besides Maynooth. The Mansion-house, when I saw it, was a very dingy abode for the Right Honourable Lord Mayor, and that Lord Mayor Mr. O’Connell. I saw him in full council, in a brilliant robe of crimson velvet, ornamented with white satin bows and sable collar, in an enormous cocked-hat, like a slice of an eclipsed moon--in the following costume in fact.

The Aldermen and Common Council, in a black oak parlour and at a dingy green table, were assembled around him, and a debate of thrilling interest to the town ensued. It related, I think, to water-pipes. The great man did not speak publicly, but was occupied chiefly at the end of the table, giving audiences to at least a score of clients and petitioners.

The next day I saw him in the famous Corn Exchange. The building without has a substantial look, but the hall within is rude, dirty, and ill kept. Hundreds of persons were assembled in the black, steaming place; no inconsiderable share of frieze-coats were among them; and many small Repealers, who could but lately have assumed their breeches, ragged as they were. These kept up a great chorus of shouting, and ‘hear, hear!’ at every pause in the great Repealer’s address. Mr. O’Connell was reading a report from his Repeal-wardens; which proved that when Repeal took place, commerce and prosperity would instantly flow into the country; its innumerable harbours would be filled with countless ships, its immense water-power would be directed to the turning of myriads of mills: its vast energies and resources brought into full action. At the end of the report three cheers were given for Repeal, and in the midst of a great shouting Mr. O’Connell leaves the room.

‘Mr. Quiglan! Mr. Quiglan!’ roars an active _aide-de-camp_ to the doorkeeper, ‘a covered kyar for the Lard Mayre.’ The covered car came; I saw his Lordship get into it. Next day he was Lord Mayor no longer; but Alderman O’Connell in his state-coach, with the handsome greys whose manes were tied up with green ribbon, following the new Lord Mayor to the right honourable inauguration. Javelin-men, city-marshals (looking like military undertakers), private carriages, glass coaches, cars, covered and uncovered, and thousands of yelling ragamuffins, formed the civic procession of that faded, worn-out, insolvent old Dublin Corporation.

The walls of this city had been placarded with huge notices to the public, that O’Connell’s rent-day was at hand; and I went round to all the chapels in town on that Sunday (not a little to the scandal of some Protestant friends), to see the popular behaviour. Every door was barred, of course, with plate-holders; and heaps of pence at the humble entrances, and bank-notes at the front gates, told the willingness of the people to reward their champion. The car-boy who drove me had paid his little tribute of fourpence at morning mass; the waiter who brings my breakfast had added to the national subscription with his humble shilling; and the Catholic gentleman with whom I dined, and between whom and Mr. O’Connell there is no great love lost, pays his annual donation, out of gratitude for old services, and to the man who won Catholic Emancipation for Ireland. The piety of the people at the chapels is a sight, too, always well worthy to behold. Nor indeed is this religious fervour less in the Protestant places of worship: the warmth and attention of the congregation, the enthusiasm with which hymns are sung and responses uttered, contrast curiously with the cool formality of worshippers at home.

The service at St. Patrick’s is finely sung; and the shameless English custom of retreating after the anthem, is properly prevented by locking the gates, and having the music after the sermon. The interior of the cathedral itself, however, to an Englishman who has seen the neat and beautiful edifices of his own country, will be anything but an object of admiration. The greater part of the huge old building is suffered to remain in gaunt decay, and with its stalls of sham Gothic, and the tawdry old rags and gimcracks of the ‘most illustrious order of St. Patrick’ (whose pasteboard helmets, and calico banners, and lath swords, well characterise the humbug of chivalry which they are made to represent), looks like a theatre behind the scenes. ‘Paddy’s Opera,’ however, is a noble performance; and the Englishman may here listen to a half-hour sermon, and in the anthem to a bass singer whose voice is one of the finest ever heard.

The Drama does not flourish much more in Dublin than in any other part of the country. Operatic stars make their appearance occasionally, and managers lose money. I was at a fine concert, at which Lablache and others performed, where there were not a hundred people in the pit of the pretty theatre, and where the only encore given was to a young woman in ringlets and yellow satin, who stepped forward and sung ‘Coming through the rye,’ or some other scientific composition, in an exceedingly small voice. On the nights when the regular drama was enacted, the audience was still smaller. The theatre of Fishamble Street was given up to the performances of the Rev. Mr. Greg and his Protestant company, whose soirées I did not attend; and, at the Abbey Street Theatre, whither I went in order to see, if possible, some specimens of the national humour, I found a company of English people ranting through a melodrama, the tragedy whereof was the only laughable thing to be witnessed.

Humbler popular recreations may be seen by the curious. One night I paid twopence to see a puppet-show--such an entertainment as may have been popular a hundred and thirty years ago, and is described in the _Spectator_. But the company here assembled were not, it scarcely need be said, of the genteel sort. There were a score of boys, however, and a dozen of labouring men, who were quite happy and contented with the piece performed, and loudly applauded. Then in passing homewards of a night, you hear, at the humble public-houses, the sound of many a fiddle, and the stamp of feet dancing the good old jig, which is still maintaining a struggle with Teetotalism, and, though vanquished now, may rally some day and overcome the enemy. At Kingstown, especially, the old ‘fire-worshippers’ yet seem to muster pretty strongly; loud is the music to be heard in the taverns there, and the cries of encouragement to the dancers.

Of the numberless amusements that take place in the _Phaynix_, it is not very necessary to speak. Here you may behold garrison races, and reviews; lord-lieutenants in brown greatcoats; _aides-de-camp_ scampering about like mad in blue; fat colonels roaring ‘charge’ to immense heavy dragoons; dark riflemen lining woods and firing; galloping cannoneers banging and blazing right and left. Here comes his Excellency the Commander-in-Chief, with his huge feathers, and white hair, and hooked nose; and yonder sits his Excellency the Ambassador from the republic of Topinambo in a glass coach, smoking a cigar. The honest Dublinites make a great deal of such small dignitaries as his Excellency of the glass coach; you hear everybody talking of him, and asking which is he; and when presently one of Sir Robert Peel’s sons makes his appearance on the course, the public rush delighted to look at him.

They love great folks, those honest Emerald Islanders, more intensely than any people I ever heard of, except the Americans. They still cherish the memory of the sacred George IV. They chronicle genteel small beer with never-failing assiduity. They go in long trains to a sham court--simpering in tights and bags, with swords between their legs. O heaven and earth, what joy! Why are the Irish noblemen absentees? If their lordships like respect, where would they get it so well as in their own country?

The Irish noblemen are very likely going through the same delightful routine of duty before their real sovereign--in _real_ tights and bagwigs, as it were, performing their graceful and lofty duties, and celebrating the august service of the throne. These, of course, the truly loyal heart can only respect; and I think a drawing-room at St. James’s the grandest spectacle that ever feasted the eye or exercised the intellect. The crown, surrounded by its knights and nobles, its priests, its sages, and their respective ladies; illustrious foreigners, men learned in the law, heroes of land and sea, beef-eaters, gold-sticks, gentlemen-at-arms, rallying round the throne and defending it with those swords which never knew defeat (and would surely, if tried, secure victory): these are sights and characters which every man must look upon with a thrill of respectful awe, and count amongst the glories of his country. What lady that sees this will not confess that she reads every one of the drawing-room costumes, from Majesty down to Miss Anna Maria Smith; and all the names of the presentations, from Prince Baccabocksky (by the Russian Ambassador) to Ensign Stubbs on his appointment?

We are bound to read these accounts. It is our pride, our duty as Britons. But though one may honour the respect of the aristocracy of the land for the sovereign, yet there is no reason why those who are not of the aristocracy should be aping their betters; and the Dublin Castle business has, I cannot but think, a very high-life-below-stairs look. There is no aristocracy in Dublin. Its magnates are tradesmen--Sir Fiat Haustus, Sir Blacker Dosy, Mr. Serjeant Bluebag, or Mr. Counsellor O’Fee. Brass plates are their titles of honour, and they live by their boluses or their briefs. What call have these worthy people to be dangling and grinning at lord-lieutenants’ levees, and playing sham aristocracy before a sham sovereign? Oh that old humbug of a Castle! It is the greatest sham of all the shams in Ireland.

Although the season may be said to have begun, for the courts are opened, and the _noblesse de la robe_ have assembled, I do not think the genteel quarters of the town look much more cheerful. They still, for the most part, wear their faded appearance and lean half-pay look. There is the beggar still dawdling here and there. Sound of carriages or footmen do not deaden the clink of the burly policeman’s boot-heels. You may see, possibly, a smutty-faced nursemaid leading out her little charges to walk; or the observer may catch a glimpse of Mick the footman lolling at the door, and grinning as he talks to some dubious tradesman. MICK and JOHN are very different characters externally and inwardly;--profound essays (involving the history of the two countries for a thousand years) might be written regarding Mick and John, and the moral and political influences which have developed the flunkeys of the two nations. The friend, too, with whom Mick talks at the door is a puzzle to a Londoner. I have hardly ever entered a Dublin house without meeting with some such character on my way in or out. He looks too shabby for a dun, and not exactly ragged enough for a beggar--a doubtful, lazy, dirty family vassal--a guerilla footman. I think it is he who makes a great noise, and whispering, and clattering, handing in the dishes to Mick from outside of the dining-room door. When an Irishman comes to London he brings Erin with him; and ten to one you will find one of these queer retainers about his place.

London one can only take leave of by degrees: the great town melts away into suburbs, which soften, as it were, the parting between the cockney and his darling birthplace. But you pass from some of the stately fine Dublin streets straight into the country. After No. 46 Eccles Street, for instance, potatoes begin at once. You are on a wide green plain, diversified by occasional cabbage-plots, by drying-grounds white with chemises, in the midst of which the chartered wind is revelling; and though in the map some fanciful engineer has laid down streets and squares, they exist but on paper; nor, indeed, can there be any need of them at present, in a quarter where houses are not wanted so much as people to dwell in the same.

If the genteel portions of the town look to the full as melancholy as they did, the downright poverty ceases, I fear, to make so strong an impression as it made four months ago. Going over the same ground again, places appear to have quite a different aspect; and, with their strangeness, poverty and misery have lost much of their terror. The people, though dirtier and more ragged, seem certainly happier than those in London.

Near to the King’s Court, for instance (a noble building, as are almost all the public edifices of the city), is a straggling green suburb, containing numberless little shabby, patched, broken-windowed huts, with rickety gardens dotted with rags that have been washed, and children that have not; and thronged with all sorts of ragged inhabitants. Near to the suburb, in the town, is a dingy, old, mysterious district, called Stoneybatter, where some houses have been allowed to reach an old age, extraordinary in this country of premature ruin, and look as if they had been built some six score years since. In these and the neighbouring tenements, not so old, but equally ruinous and mouldy, there is a sort of vermin swarm of humanity: dirty faces at all the dirty windows; children on all the broken steps; smutty slipshod women clacking and bustling about, and old men dawdling. Well, only paint and prop the tumbling gates and huts in the suburb, and fancy the Stoneybatterites clean, and you would have rather a gay and agreeable picture of human life--of workpeople and their families reposing after their labours. They are all happy, and sober, and kind-hearted,--they seem kind, and playing with the children--the young women having a gay good-natured joke for the passer-by; the old seemingly contented, and buzzing to one another. It is only the costume, as it were, that has frightened the stranger, and made him fancy that people so ragged must be unhappy. Observation grows used to the rags as much as the people do, and my impression of the walk through this district, on a sunshiny, clear autumn evening, is that of a fête. I am almost ashamed it should be so.

Near to Stoneybatter lies a group of huge gloomy edifices--an hospital, a penitentiary, a madhouse, and a poorhouse. I visited the latter of these, the North Dublin Union-house, an enormous establishment, which accommodates two thousand beggars. Like all the public institutions of the country, it seems to be well conducted, and is a vast, orderly, and cleanly place, wherein the prisoners are better clothed, better fed, and better housed than they can hope to be when at liberty. We were taken into all the wards in due order--the schools and nursery for the children; the dining-rooms, day-rooms, etc., of the men and women. Each division is so accommodated, as also with a large court or ground to walk and exercise in.

Among the men, there are very few able-bodied; the most of them, the keeper said, having gone out for the harvest-time, or as soon as the potatoes came in. If they go out, they cannot return before the expiration of a month: the guardians have been obliged to establish this prohibition, lest the persons requiring relief should go in and out too frequently. The old men were assembled in considerable numbers in a long day-room that is comfortable and warm. Some of them were picking oakum by way of employment, but most of them were past work; all such inmates of the house as are able-bodied being occupied upon the premises. Their hall was airy and as clean as brush and water could make it: the men equally clean, and their grey jackets and Scotch caps stout and warm. Thence we were led, with a sort of satisfaction, by the guardian, to the kitchen--a large room, at the end of which might be seen certain coppers, emitting, it must be owned, a very faint inhospitable smell. It was Friday, and rice-milk is the food on that day, each man being served with a pint-canful, of which cans a great number stood smoking upon stretchers--the platters were laid, each with its portion of salt, in the large clean dining-room hard by. ‘Look at that rice,’ said the keeper, taking up a bit; ‘try it, sir, it’s delicious.’ I’m sure I hope it is.

The old women’s room was crowded with, I should think, at least four hundred old ladies--neat and nice, in white clothes and caps--sitting demurely on benches, doing nothing for the most part; but some employed, like the old men, in fiddling with the oakum. ‘There’s tobacco here,’ says the guardian, in a loud voice; ‘who’s smoking tobacco?’ ‘Fait, and I wish dere _was_ some tabacky here,’ says one old lady, ‘and my service to you, Mr. Leary, and I hope one of the gentlemen has a snuff-box, and a pinch for a poor old woman.’ But we had no boxes; and if any person who reads this visit, goes to a poorhouse or lunatic asylum, let him carry a box, if for that day only--a pinch is like Dives’s drop of water to those poor limboed souls. Some of the poor old creatures began to stand up as we came in--I can’t say how painful such an honour seemed to me.

There was a separate room for the able-bodied females; and the place and courts were full of stout, red-cheeked, bouncing women. If the old ladies looked respectable, I cannot say the young ones were particularly good-looking; there were some Hogarthian faces amongst them--sly, leering, and hideous. I fancied I could see only too well what these girls had been. Is it charitable or not to hope that such bad faces could only belong to bad women?

‘Here, sir, is the nursery,’ said the guide, flinging open the door of a long room. There may have been eighty babies in it, with as many nurses and mothers. Close to the door sat one with as beautiful a face as I almost ever saw: she had at her breast a very sickly and puny child, and looked up, as we entered, with a pair of angelical eyes, and a face that Mr. Eastlake could paint--a face that _had_ been angelical that is; for there was the snow still, as it were, but with the footmark on it. I asked her how old she was--she did not know. She could not have been more than fifteen years, the poor child. She said she had been a servant--and there was no need of asking anything more about her story. I saw her grinning at one of her comrades as we went out of the room; her face did not look angelical then. Ah, young master or old, young or old villain, who did this!--have you not enough wickedness of your own to answer for, that you must take another’s sins upon your shoulders; and be this wretched child’s sponsor in crime?...

But this chapter must be made as short as possible; and so I will not say how much prouder Mr. Leary, the keeper, was of his fat pigs than of his paupers--how he pointed us out the burial-ground of the family of the poor--their coffins were quite visible through the niggardly mould; and the children might peep at their fathers over the burial-ground-playground wall--nor how we went to see the Linen Hall of Dublin--that huge, useless, lonely, decayed place, in the vast windy solitudes of which stands the simpering statue of George IV., pointing to some bales of shirting, over which he is supposed to extend his august protection.

The cheers of the rabble hailing the new Lord Mayor were the last sounds that I heard in Dublin: and I quitted the kind friends I had made there with the sincerest regret. As for forming ‘an opinion of Ireland,’ such as is occasionally asked from a traveller on his return--that is as difficult an opinion to form as to express; and the puzzle which has perplexed the gravest and wisest, may be confessed by a humble writer of light literature, whose aim it only was to look at the manners and the scenery of the country, and who does not venture to meddle with questions of more serious import.

To have ‘an opinion about Ireland,’ one must begin by getting the truth; and where is it to be had in the country? Or rather, there are two truths, the Catholic truth and the Protestant truth. The two parties do not see things with the same eyes. I recollect, for instance, a Catholic gentleman telling me that the Primate had forty-three thousand _five hundred_ a year; a Protestant clergyman gave me, chapter and verse, the history of a shameful perjury and malversation of money on the part of a Catholic priest; nor was one tale more true than the other. But belief is made a party business; and the receiving of the archbishop’s income would probably not convince the Catholic, any more than the clearest evidence to the contrary altered the Protestant’s opinion. Ask about an estate, you may be sure almost that people will make misstatements, or volunteer them if not asked. Ask a cottager about his rent, or his landlord: you cannot trust him. I shall never forget the glee with which a gentleman in Munster told me how he had sent off MM. Tocqueville and Beaumont ‘with _such_ a set of stories.’ Inglis was seized, as I am told, and mystified in the same way. In the midst of all these truths, attested with ‘I give ye my sacred honour and word,’ which is the stranger to select? And how are we to trust philosophers who make theories upon such data?

Meanwhile it is satisfactory to know, upon testimony so general as to be equivalent almost to fact, that, wretched as it is, the country is steadily advancing, nor nearly so wretched now as it was a score of years since; and let us hope that the _middle class_, which this increase of prosperity must generate (and of which our laws have hitherto forbidden the existence in Ireland, making there a population of Protestant aristocracy and Catholic peasantry), will exercise the greatest and most beneficial influence over the country. Too independent to be bullied by priest or squire--having their interest in quiet, and alike indisposed to servility or to rebellion; may not as much be hoped from the gradual formation of such a class, as from any legislative meddling? It is the want of the middle class that has rendered the squire so arrogant, and the clerical or political demagogue so powerful; and I think Mr. O’Connell himself would say that the existence of such a body would do more for the steady acquirement of orderly freedom, than the occasional outbreak of any crowd, influenced by any eloquence from altar or tribune.

THE END

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FOOTNOTES:

[1] Translated for the benefit of country gentlemen:

‘By your angel flown away just like a dove, By the royal infant, that frail and tender reed, Pardon yet once more! Pardon in the name of the tomb! Pardon in the name of the cradle!’

[2] In order to account for these trivial details, the reader must be told that the story is, for the chief part, a fact; and that the little sketch in this page was _taken from nature_. The letter was likewise a copy from one found in the manner described.

[3] This reply, and indeed the whole of the story, is historical. An account, by Charles Nodier, in the _Revue de Paris_, suggested it to the writer.

[4] These countries are, to be sure, inundated with the productions of our market, in the shape of ‘Byron Beauties,’ reprints from the ‘Keepsakes,’ ‘Books of Beauty,’ and such trash; but these are only of late years, and their original schools of art are still flourishing.

[5] Almost all the principal public men had been most ludicrously caricatured in the _Charivari_: those mentioned above were usually depicted with the distinctive attributes mentioned by us.

[6] It is not necessary to enter into descriptions of these various inventions.

[7] We have given a description of a genteel Macaire in the account of _M. de Bernard’s_ novels.

[8] He always went to mass; it is in the evidence.

[9] This sentence is taken from another part of the ‘acte d’accusation.’

[10] ‘Peytel,’ says the act of accusation, ‘did not fail to see the danger which would menace him, if this will (which had escaped the magistrates in their search for Peytel’s papers) was discovered. He, therefore, instructed his agent to take possession of it, which he did, and the fact was not mentioned for several months afterwards. Peytel and his agent were called upon to explain the circumstance, but refused, and their silence for a long time interrupted the “instruction” (getting up of the evidence). All that could be obtained from them was an avowal that such a will existed, constituting Peytel his wife’s sole legatee; and a promise, on their parts, to produce it before the court gave its sentence.’ But why keep the will secret? The anxiety about it was surely absurd and unnecessary: the whole of Madame Peytel’s family knew that such a will was made. She had consulted her sister concerning it, who said--‘If there is no other way of satisfying him, make the will;’ and the mother, when she heard of it, cried out--‘Does he intend to poison her?’

[11] M. Balzac’s theory of the case is, that Rey had intrigued with Madame Peytel; having known her previous to her marriage, when she was staying in the house of her brother-in-law, Monsieur de Montrichard, where Rey had been a servant.

[12] The italics are the author’s own.

[13] It is fine to think that, in the days of his youth, his Majesty Louis XIV. used to _powder his wig with gold-dust_.

[14] I think it is in the amusing _Memoirs of Madame de Créqui_ (a forgery, but a work remarkable for its learning and accuracy) that the above anecdote is related.

[15] They made a Jesuit of him on his death-bed.

[16] Saint Simon’s account of Lauzun, in disgrace, is admirably facetious and pathetic; Lauzun’s regrets are as monstrous as those of Raleigh when deprived of the sight of his adorable queen and mistress, Elizabeth.

[17] A pair of diamond earrings, given by the King to La Vallière, caused much scandal; and some lampoons are extant, which impugn the taste of Louis XIV. for loving a lady with such an enormous mouth.

[18] In the diamond-necklace affair.

[19] He was found hanging in his own bedroom.

[20] Among the many lovers that rumour gave to the Queen, poor Ferscu is the most remarkable. He seems to have entertained for her a high and perfectly pure devotion. He was the chief agent in the luckless escape to Varennes; was lurking in Paris during the time of her captivity; and was concerned in the many fruitless plots that were made for her rescue. Ferscu lived to be an old man, but died a dreadful and violent death. He was dragged from his carriage by the mob, in Stockholm, and murdered by them.

[21] The two men were executed pursuant to sentence, and both persisted solemnly in denying their guilt. There can be no doubt of it: but it appears to be a point of honour with these unhappy men to make no statement which may incriminate the witnesses who appeared on their behalf, and on their part perjured themselves equally.

[22] The only instance of intoxication that I have heard of as yet, has been on the part of two ‘cyouncillors,’ undeniably drunk and noisy yesterday after the bar dinner at Waterford.

[23] The suspicion turned out to be very correct. The gentleman is the respected cook of C----, as I learned afterwards from a casual Cambridge man.

[24] By the help of an Alexandrine, the names of these famous families may also be accommodated to verse.

‘Athey, Blake, Bodkin, Browne, Deane, Dorsey, Frinche, Joyce, Morech, Skereth, Fonte, Kirowan, Martin, Lynche.’

[25] If the rude old verses are not very remarkable in quality, in _quantity_ they are still more deficient, and take some dire liberties with the laws laid down in the Gradus and the Grammar:--

‘Septem ornant montes Romam, septem ostia Nilum, Tot rutilis stellis splendet in axe Polus. Galvia, Polo Niloque bis æquas. Roma Conachtæ, Bis septem illustres has colit illa tribus. Bis urbis septem defendunt mœnia turres, Intus et en duro est marmore quæque domus. Bis septem portæ sunt, castra et culmina circum, Per totidem pontum permeat unda vias. Principe bis septem fulgent altaria templo, Quævis patronæ est ara dicata suo. Et septem sacrata Deo cœnobia, patrum, Fœminei et sexus, tot pia tecta tenet.’

[26] First edition “_The Irish Sketch Book_, 1843.”

An allusion has been made in the first chapter of this volume to a frontispiece which was originally intended for it. But an accident happened to the plate, which has compelled the author to cancel it, and insert that which at present appears.

[27] This epithet is applied to the party of a Colonel somebody, in a Dublin paper.

[28] Here is an extract from one of the latter--

‘Hasten to some distant isle, In the bosom of the deep, Where the skies for ever smile, _And the blacks for ever weep_.’

Is it not a shame that such nonsensical false twaddle should be sung in a house of the Church of England, and by people assembled for grave and decent worship?

[29] It must be said, for the worthy fellow who accompanied us, and who acted as cicerone previously to the great Willis, the great Hall, the great Barrow, that though he wears a ragged coat his manners are those of a gentleman, and his conversation evinces no small talent, taste, and scholarship.

[30] ‘Boarders are received from the age of eight to fourteen at £12 per annum, and £1 for washing, paid quarterly in advance.

‘Day Scholars are received from the age of ten to twelve at £2, paid quarterly in advance.

‘The Incorporated Society have abundant cause for believing that the introduction of Boarders into their Establishments has produced far more advantageous results to the public than they could, at so early a period, have anticipated; and that the election of boys to their Foundations _only_ after a fair competition with others of a given district, has had the effect of stimulating masters and scholars to exertion and study, and promises to operate most beneficially for the advancement of religious and general knowledge.

+ ARRANGEMENT OF SCHOOL BUSINESS IN DUNDALK INSTITUTION | ---------------+--------------------+--------------------+--------------------+ Hours | Monday, Wednesday, | Tuesday | Saturday. | | and Friday. | and Thursday. | | ---------------+--------------------+--------------------+--------------------+ 6 to 7 | Rise, wash, etc. | Rise, wash, etc. | Rise, wash, etc. | | | | | 7 “ 7-1/2 |{Scripture by the |{Scripture by the |{Scripture by the | |{Master, and prayer.|{Master, and prayer.|{Master and prayer. | | | | | 7-1/2 “ 8-1/2 |{Reading, History, |{Reading, History, |{Reading, History, | |{etc. |{etc. |{etc. | | | | | 8-1/2 “ 9 | Breakfast. | Breakfast. | Breakfast. | | | | | 9 “ 10 | Play. | Play. | Play. | | | | | 10 “ 10-1/2 | English Grammar. | Geography. |}10 to 11 | 10-1/2 “ 11-1/4| Algebra. | Euclid. |}repetition. | | | | | | |{Lecture on |}11 to 12, | 11-1/4 “ 12 | Scripture. |{principles |}Use of | | |{of Arithmetic. |}Globes. | | | | | 12 “ 12-3/4 | Writing. | Writing. |{12 to 1, Catechism | | | |{and Scripture | |{Arithmetic at | |{by the Catechist. | 12-3/4 “ 2 |{Desks, and | Mensuration. | | |{Bookkeeping. | | | | | | | 2 “ 2-1/2 | Dinner. | Dinner. | Dinner. | | | | | 2-1/2 “ 5 | Play. | Play. |{The remainder of | | | |{this day is devoted| |{Spelling, Mental |{Spelling, Mental |{to exercise till | 5 “ 7-1/2 |{Arithmetic, and |{Arithmetic, and |{the hour of Supper,| |{Euclid. |{Euclid. |{after which the | | | |{Boys assemble in | 7-1/2 “ 8 | Supper. | Supper. |{the Schoolroom | | | |{and hear a portion | 8 “ 8-1/2 | Exercise. | Exercise. |{of Scripture read | | | |{and explained by | |{Scripture by the |{Scripture by the |{the Master, as on | 8-1/2 “ 9 |{Master, and prayer |{Master, and prayer |{other days, and | |{in Schoolroom. |{in Schoolroom. |{conclude with | | | |{prayer. | 9 | Retire to bed. | Retire to bed. | | ---------------+--------------------+--------------------+--------------------+ The sciences of Navigation and practical Surveying are taught in the | Establishment; also a selection of the Pupils, who have a taste for it, are | instructed in the art of Drawing. | ------------------------------------------------------------------------------+ DIETARY | | =Breakfast=.--Stirabout and Milk, every Morning. | | =Dinner=.--On Sunday and Wednesday, Potatoes and Beef; 10 ounces of the | latter to each boy. On Monday and Thursday, Bread and Broth; 1/2 lb. of the | former to each boy. On Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, Potatoes and Milk; | 2 lbs. of the former to each boy. | | =Supper=.--1/2 lb. of Bread with Milk, uniformly, except on Monday and | Thursday; on these days, Potatoes and Milk. | ------------------------------------------------------------------------------+

‘The districts for eligible Candidates are as follow:--

‘Dundalk Institution embraces the counties of Louth and Down, because the properties which support it lie in this district.

‘The Pococke Institution, Kilkenny, embraces the counties of Kilkenny and Waterford, for the same cause.

‘The Ranelagh Institution, the towns of Athlone and Roscommon, and three districts in the counties of Galway and Roscommon, which the Incorporated Society hold in fee, or from which they receive impropriate tithes.

(_Signed_) CÆSAR OTWAY, _Secretary_.’

[31] The Proprietary Schools of late established have gone far to protect the interests of parents and children; but the masters of these schools take boarders, and of course draw profits from them. Why make the learned man a beef and mutton contractor? It would be easy to arrange the economy of a school so that there should be no possibility of a want of confidence, or of peculation, to the detriment of the pupil.

[32] ‘I want to go into a coal-mine,’ says Tom Sheridan, ‘in order to say I have been there.’ ‘Well, then, say so,’ replied the admirable father.

[33] The late Mr. Pope represents Camilla as ‘_scouring the plain_,’ an absurd and useless task. Peggy’s occupation with the kettle is much more simple and noble. The second line of this poem (whereof the author scorns to deny an obligation) is from the celebrated “Frithiof” of Esaias Tigner. A maiden is serving warriors to drink, and is standing by a shield--Und die Runde des Schildes ward wie das Mägdelein roth,”--perhaps the above is the best thing in both poems.

[34] And then, how much Latin and Greek does the public schoolboy know? Also, does he know anything else, and what? Is it history, or geography, or mathematics, or divinity?

* * * * *

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

holdiug converse with each other.=> holding converse with each other. {pg 176}

philosophic apophthegms=> philosophic apothegms {pg 367}

so pulled to the middle or Turk lake=> so pulled to the middle of Turk lake {pg 375}

Does it strenghten a man=> Does it strengthen a man {pg 500}

scolloped sleeves=> scalloped sleeves {pg 504}

in throuble in England=> in trouble in England {pg 517}

middle in the rapid strame=> middle in the rapid stream {footnote pg 424}