LETTER II.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
_M-------- House_.
In the various modes of penance invented by the various _penancemongers_ of pious austerity, did you ever hear the travelling in an_Irish postchaise_ enumerated as a punishment, which by far exceedshorse-hair shirts and voluntary flagelation?
My first day’s journey from Dublin being as wet a one as this moistclimate and capricious season ever produced, my berlin answered all thepurposes of a _shower bath_, while the ventillating principles on whichthe windows were constructed, gave me all the benefit to be derived fromthe _breathy_ influence of the four cardinal points.
Unable any longer to sit tamely enduring the “_penalty of Adam,the season’s change_,” or to sustain any longer the “hair-breadth’scapes,” which the most dismantled of vehicles afforded me, togetherwith delays and stoppages of every species to be found in the catalogueof procrastination and mischance, I took my seat in a mail coach which Imet at my third stage, and which was going to a town within twenty milesof Bally--------. These twenty miles, by far the most agreeable ofmy journey, I performed as we once (in days of boyish errantry)accomplished a tour to Wales--on foot.
I had previously sent my baggage, and was happily unincumbered with aservant, for the fastidious delicacy of Monsieur Laval would never havebeen adequate to the fatigues of a pedestrian tour through a countrywild and mountainous as his own native _Savoy_. But to me everydifficulty was an effort of some good _genius_ chasing the demon oflethargy from the usurpations of my mind’s empire. Every obstacle thatcalled for exertion was a temporary revival of latent energy; and everyunforced effort worth an age of indolent indulgence.
To him who derives gratification from the embellished labours of art,rather than the simple but sublime operation of nature, _Irish_ scenerywill afford little interest; but the bold features of its varyinglandscape, the stupendous attitude of its “cloud capt” mountains, theimpervious gloom of its deep embosomed glens, the savage desolation ofits uncultivated heaths, and boundless bogs, with those rich veins ofa picturesque champaigne, thrown at intervals into gay expansion by thehand of nature, awaken in the mind of the poetic or pictoral traveller,all the pleasures of tasteful enjoyment, all the sublime emotions of arapt imagination. And if the glowing fancy of Claude Loraine would havedwelt enraptured on the paradisial charms of English landscape, thesuperior genius of Salvator Rosa would have reposed its eagle wingamidst those scenes of mysterious sublimity, with which the wildlymagnificent landscape of Ireland abounds. But the liberality of natureappears to me to be here but frugally assisted by the donations of art.Here _agriculture_ appears in the least felicitous of he! aspects. Therich treasures of Ceres seldom wave their golden heads over the earth’sfertile bosom; the verdant drapery of young plantations rarely skreensout the coarser features of a rigid soil, the cheerless aspect of agloomy bog; while the unvaried surface of the perpetual pasturage whichsatisfies the eye of the interested grazier, disappoints the glance ofthe tasteful spectator.
Within twenty miles of Bally-------- I was literally dropt by thestage at the foot of a mountain, to which your native _Wrekin_ is but ahillock. The dawn was just risen, and flung its gray and reserved tintson a scene of which the mountainous region of Capel Cerig will give youthe most adequate idea.
Mountain rising over mountain, swelled like an amphitheatre to thoseclouds which, faintly tinged with the sun’s prelusive beams, and risingfrom the earthly summits where they had reposed, incorporated with thekindling æther of a purer atmosphere.
All was silent and solitary--a tranquility tinged with terror, a sort of“delightful horror,” breathed on every side.--I was alone, and felt likethe presiding genius of desolation!
As I had previously learned my route, after a minute’s contemplationof the scene before me, I pursued my solitary ramble along a steep andtrackless path, which wound gradually down towards a great lake, analmost miniature sea, that lay embosomed amidst those stupendous heightswhose rugged forms, now bare, desolate, and barren, now clothed withyellow furze and creeping underwood, or crowned with misnic forests,appeared towering above my head in endless variety. The progress of thesun convinced me that _mine_ must have been slow, as it was perpetuallyinterrupted by pauses of curiosity and admiration, and by long and manylapses of thoughtful reverie; and fearing that I had lost my way (as Ihad not yet caught a view of the village, in which, seven miles distantfrom the spot where I had left the stage, I was assured I should find anexcellent breakfast,) I ascended that part of the mountain where, on oneof its vivid points, a something like a human habitation hung suspended,and where I hoped to obtain a _carte du pays_: the exterior of this_hut_, or _cabin_, as it is called, like the few I had seen which werenot built of mud, resembled in one instance the magic palace of Chaucer,and was erected with loose stones,
“Which, cunningly, were without mortar laid.”
thinly thatched with straw; an aperture in the roof served rather to_admit_ the air than _emit_ the smoke, a circumstance to which thewretched inhabitants of those wretched hovels seem so perfectlynaturalized, that they live in a constant state of fumigation anda fracture in the side wall (meant I suppose as a substitute for acasement) was stuffed with straw, while the door, off its hinges, waslaid across the threshhold, as a barrier to a little crying boy, whositting within, bemoaned his captivity in a tone of voice not quite somellifluous as that which Mons. Sanctyon ascribes to the crying childrenof a certain district in Persia, but perfectly in unison with thevocal exertions of the companion of his imprisonment, a large sow.I approached--removed the barrier: the boy and the animal escapedtogether, and I found myself alone in the centre of this miserableasylum of human wretchedness--the residence of an _Irish peasant_.To those who have only contemplated this useful order of society inEngland, “where every rood of ground maintains its man,” and where thepeasant liberally enjoys the _comforts_ as well as the necessariesof life, the wretched picture which the interior of an _Irish_ cabinpresents, would be at once an object of compassion and disgust. *
* Sometimes excavated from a hill, sometimes erected with loose stones, but most generally built of mud, the cabin is divided into two apartments, the one littered with straw and coarse rugs, and sometimes, (but very rarely) furnished with the luxury of a chaff bed, serves as a dormitory not only to the family of both sexes, but in general to any animal they are so fortunate as to possess; the other chamber answers for every purpose of domesticity, though almost destitute of every domestic implement, except the iron pot in which the potatoes are boiled, and the stool on which they are flung. From those wretched hovels (which often appears amidst scenes that might furnish the richest models to poetic imitation) it is common to behold a group of children rush forth at the sound of a horse’s foot, or carriage wheel, regardless of the season’s rigours, in a perfect state of nudity, or covered with the drapery of wretchedness, which gives to their appearance a still stronger character of poverty; yet even in these miserable huts you will seldom find the spirit of urbanity absent--the genius of hospitality never. I remember meeting with an instance of both, that made a deep impression on my heart; in the autumn of 1804, in the course of a morning ramble with a charming Englishwoman, in the county of Sligo, I stopped to rest myself in a cabin, while she proceeded to pay a visit to the respectable family of the O’H------s, of Nymph’s Field: when I entered I found it occupied by an old woman and her three granddaughters; two of the young women were employed scutching flax, the other in some domestic employment. I was instantly hailed with the most cordial welcome; the hearth was cleared, the old woman’s seat forced on me, eggs and potatoes roasted, and an apology for the deficiency of bread politely made, while the manners of my hostesses betrayed a courtesy that almost amounted to adulation. They had all laid by their work on my entrance, and when I requested I might not interrupt their avocations, one of them replied “I hope we know better--we can work any day, but we cannot any day have such a body as you under our roof.” Surely this wa
s not the manners of a cabin but a court.
Almost suffocated, and not surprised that it was deserted _pro tempo_, Ihastened away, and was attracted towards a ruinous barn by a full chorusof female voices--where a group of young females were seated roundan old hag who formed the centre of the circle; they were all busilyemployed at their _wheels_, which I observed went merrily round in exacttime with their song, and so intently were they engaged by both, thatmy proximity was unperceived. At last the song ceased--the wheel stoodstill--and every eye was fixed on the old _primum mobile_ of the circle,who, after a short pause, began a _solo_ that gave much satisfaction toher young auditors, and taking up the strain, they again turned theirwheels round in unison.--The whole was sung in Irish, and as soon as Iwas observed, suddenly ceased; the girls looked down and tittered--andthe old woman addressed me _sans ceremonie_, and in a language I nowheard for the first time.
Supposing that some one among the number must understand English, Iexplained with all possible politeness the cause of my intrusion on thislittle harmonic society. The old woman looked up in my face and shookher head; I thought contemptuously--while the young ones, stifling theirsmiles, exchanged looks of compassion doubtlessly at my ignorance oftheir language.
“So many languages a man knows,” said Charles V., “so many times is hea man,” and it is certain I never felt myself less invested with thedignity of one, than while I stood twirling my stick, and “biding theencounter of the eyes,” and smiles of these “spinners in the sun.” Hereyou will say was prejudice opposed to prejudice with a vengeance; but Icomforted myself with the idea that the natives of Greenland, the mostgross and savage of mortals, compliment a stranger by saying, “he is aswell bred as a Greenlander.”
While thus situated, a sturdy looking young fellow with that figure andopenness of countenance so peculiar to the young Irish peasants, andwith his hose and brogues suspended from a stick over his shoulder,approached and hailed the party in Irish: the girls instantly pointedhis attention towards me; he courteously accosted me in English, andhaving learnt the nature of my dilemma, offered to be my guide--“it willnot take me above a mile out of my way, and if it did _two_, it wouldmake no _odds_,” said he. I accepted his offer, and we proceededtogether over the summit of the mountain.
In the course of our conversation (which was very fluently supported onhis side,) I learnt, that few strangers ever passing through this remotepart of the province, and even very many of the gentry here speakingIrish, it was a rare thing to meet with any one wholly unacquainted withthe language, which accounted for the surprise, and I believe contempt,my ignorance had excited.
When I enquired into the nature of those choral strains I had heard, hereplied--“O! as to that, it is according to the old woman’s fancy andin fact I learnt that Ireland, like Italy, has its _improvisatores_, andthat those who are gifted with the impromptu talent are highly estimatedby their rustic compatriots;” and by what he added, I discovered thattheir inspirations are either drawn from the circumstances of themoment, from one striking excellence or palpable defect in some ofthe company present, or from some humourous incident, or local eventgenerally known.
As soon as we arrived at the little _auberge_ of the little village, Iordered my courteous guide his breakfast, and having done all due honourto my own, we parted.
My route from the village to Bally-------- lay partly through a desolatebog, whose burning surface, heated by a vertical sun, gave me noinadequate idea of _Arabia Deserta_; and the pangs of an acute headache,brought on by exercise more violent than my still delicate constitutionwas equal to support, determined me to defer my journey until themeridian ardours were abated; and taking your Horace from my pocket, Iwandered into a shady path, “impervious to the noontide ray.” Throwingmy “listless length” at the foot of a spreading beech, I had already gotto that sweet ode to Lydia, which Scaliger in his enthusiasm declares hewould rather have written than to have possessed the monarchy of Naples,when somebody accosted me in Irish, and then with a “God save you,Sir!” I raised my eyes, and beheld a poor peasant, driving, or rathersoliciting, a sorry lame cow to proceed.
“May be,” said he, taking off his hat, “your Honour would be aftertelling me what’s the hour?” “Later than I supposed, my good friend,” replied I, rising, “it is past two.” He bowed low, and stroking the faceof his companion, added, “well, the day is yet young, but you and I havea long journey before us, my poor Driminduath.”
“And how far are you going, my friend?”
“Please your Honour, two miles beyond Bally-------.”
“It is my road exactly, and you, Driminduath, and I, may perform thejourney together.” The poor fellow seemed touched and surprised by mycondescension, and profoundly bowed his sense of it, while the curious_triumviri_ set off on their pedestrian tour together.
I now cast an eye over the person of my _compagnon de voyage_. It wasa tall, thin, athletic figure, “bony and gaunt,” with an expressivecountenance, marked features, a livid complexion, and a quantity ofcoarse black hair hanging about the face; the drapery was perfectlyappropriate to the wearer--an under garment composed of “_shreds_ and_patches_,” was partially covered with an old great coat of coarsefrieze, fastened on the breast with a large wooden skewer, the sleeveshanging down on either side unoccupied, * and a pair of yarn hose whichscarcely reached _midleg_, left the ankle and foot naked.
* This manner of wearing the coat, so genera, among the peasantry, is deemed by the natives of the county of Galway a remnant of the Spanish mode.
_Driminduath_ seemed to share in the obvious poverty of her master--shewas almost an anatomy, and scarcely able to crawl. “Poor beast!” saidhe, observing I looked at her, “Poor beast! little she dreamed of comingback the road she went, and little able is she to go it, poor soul; notthat I am _overly_ sorry I could not get nobody to take her off my handsat all at all; though to-be-sure ’tis better to lose one’s cow thanone’s wife, any day in the year.”
“And had you no alternative?” I asked.
“Anan!” exclaimed he, starting.
“Were you obliged to part with one or the other?” Sorrow is garrulous,and in the natural selfishness of its suffering, seeks to lessen theweight of its woe by participation. In a few minutes I was master ofMurtoch O’Shaughnassey’s story: * he was the husband of a sick wife; thefather of six children, and a labourer, or _cotter_, who worked dailythroughout the year for the hut that sheltered the heads, and the littlepotatoe rick which was the sole subsistence of his family.
* Neither the rencontre with, nor the character or story of Murtoch, partakes in the least degree of fiction.
He had taken a few acres of ground, he said, from his employer’ssteward, to set grass potatoes in, by which he hoped to make somethinghandsome; that to enable himself to pay for them he had gone to work inLeinster during the last harvest, “where, please your Honour,” he added,“a poor man gets more for his labour than in Connaught; * but there itwas my luck (and bad luck it was) to get the shaking fever upon me, sothat I returned sick and sore to my poor people without a cross to blessmyself with, and then there was an end to my fine grass potatoes, fordevil receive the sort they’d let me dig till I paid for the ground;and what was worse, the steward was going to turn us out of our cabin,because I had not worked out the rent with him as usual, and not apotatoe had I for the children; besides finding my wife and two boys ina fever: the boys got well, but my poor wife has been decaying away eversince; so I was fain to sell my poor Driminduath here, which was leftme by my gossip, in order to pay my rent and get some nourishment for mypoor woman, who I believe is just weak at heart for the want of it;and so, as I was after telling your Honour, I left home yesterday for a_fair_ twenty-five good miles off, but my poor Driminduath has got suchbad usage of late, and was in such sad plight, that nobody would bidnothing for her, and so we are both returning home as we went, with fullhearts and empty stomachs.”
* It is well known that within these last thirty years the Conna
ught peasant laboured for _threepence_ a day and two meals of potatoes and milk, and four pence when he maintained himself; while in Leinster the harvest hire rose from eight pence to a shilling. Riding out one day near the village of Castletown Delvin, in Westmeath, in company with the younger branches of the respectable family of the F----ns, of that county, we observed two young men lying at a little distance from each other in a dry ditch, with some lighted turf burning near them; they both seemed on the verge of eternity, and we learned from a peasant who was passing, that they were Connaught men who had come to Leinster to work; that they had been disappointed, and owing to want and fatigue, had been first attacked with ague and then with fevers of so fatal a nature, that no one would suffer them to remain in their cabins: owing to the benevolent exertions of my young friends, we however found an asylum for these unfortunates, and had the happiness of seeing them return comparatively well and happy to their native province.
This was uttered with an air of despondency that touched my very soul,and I involuntarily presented him some sea biscuit I had in my pocket.He thanked me, and carelessly added, “that it was the first morsel hehad tasted for twenty-four hours; * not,” said he, “but I can fastwith any one, and well it is for me I can.” He continued brushing anintrusive tear from his eye; and the next moment whistling a lively air,he advanced to his cow, talking to her in Irish, in a soothing tone, andpresenting her with such wild flowers and blades of grass as the scantyvegetation of the bog afforded, turned round to me with a smile ofself-satisfaction and said, “One can better suffer themselves a thousandtimes over, than see one’s poor dumb beast want: it is next, please yourHonour, to seeing one’s child in want--God help him who has witnessedboth!”
* The temperance of an Irish peasant in this respect is almost incredible; many of them are satisfied with one meal a day--none of them exceed two--breakfast and supper; which invariably consists of potatoes, sometimes with, sometimes without milk. One of the rules observed by the Finian Band, an ancient militia of Ireland, was to eat but once in the twenty-four hours.--See Keating’s History of Ireland.
“And art thou then (I mentally exclaimed) that intemperate, cruel, idlesavage, an Irish peasant? with a heart thus tenderly alive to the finestfeelings of humanity; patiently labouring with daily exertion for whatcan scarcely afford thee a bare subsistence; sustaining theunsatisfied wants of nature without a murmur; nurtured in the hope (the_disappointed hope_) of procuring nourishment for _her_, dearer tothee than thyself, tender of thy animal as thy child, and suffering theconsciousness of _their_ wants to absorb all consideration of thy own;and resignation smooths the furrow which affliction has traced upon thybrow, and the national exility of thy character cheers and supports thenatural susceptibility of thy heart.” In fact, he was at this momenthumming an Irish song by my side.
I need not tell you that the first village we arrived at, I furnishedhim with the means of procuring him a comfortable dinner for himself andDriminduath, and advice and medicine from the village apothecary for hiswife. Poor fellow! his surprise and gratitude was expressed in the truehyperbola of Irish emotion.
Meantime I walked on to examine the ruins of an abbey, where in abouthalf an hour I was joined by Murtoch and his patient companion, whom heassured me he had regaled with some hay, as he had himself with a glassof whisky.--What a dinner for a famishing man!
“It is a dreadful habit, Murtoch,” said I.
“It is so, please your Honour,” replied he, “but then it is meat, drink,and clothes to us, for we forget we have but little of one and less ofthe other, when we get _the drop_ within us; Och, long life to them thatlightened the tax on the whiskey, for by my safe conscience, if they hadleft it on another year we should have forgotten how to drink it.”
I shall make no comment on Murtoch’s unconscious phillippic against thelegislature, but surely a government has little right to complain ofthose popular disorders to which in a certain degree it may be deemedaccessory, by removing the strongest barrier that confines within moralbounds the turbulent passions of the lower orders of society.
To my astonishment, I found that Murtoch had only purchased for his sickwife a little wine and a small piece of bacon: * both, he assured me,were universal and sovereign remedies, and better than any thing the_phisicianers_ could prescribe, to keep the disorder _from the heart_ **The spirits of Murtoch were now quite afloat, and during the rest ofour journey the vehemence, pliancy, and ardour of the Irish characterstrongly betrayed itself in the manners of this poor unmodifiedIrishman; while the natural facetiousness of a temperament“complexionably pleasant,” was frequently succeeded by such heartrendingaccounts of poverty and distress, as shed involuntary tears on thosecheeks which but a moment before were distended by the exertions of aboisterous laugh.
* It is common to see them come to gentlemen’s houses with a little vial bottle to beg a table spoonful of wine (for a sick relative,) which they esteem the elixir of life.
** To be able to keep any disorder from the heart, is supposed, (by the lower orders of the Irish,) to be the secret of longevity.
Nothing could be more wildly sweet than the whistle or song of theploughman or labourer as we passed along; it was of so singular anature, that I frequently paused to catch it; it is a species ofvoluntary recitative, and so melancholy, that every plaintive notebreathes on the heart of the auditor a tale of hopeless despondency orincurable woe. By heavens! I could have wept as I listened, and found aluxury in tears. *
* Mr. Walker, in his Historical Memoir of the Irish Bards, has given a specimen of the Irish plough-tune? and adds, “While the Irish ploughman drives his team, and the female peasant milks her cow, they warble a succession of wild notes which bids defiance to the rules of composition, yet are inexpressibly sweet.”
The evening was closing in fast, and we were within a mile ofBally--------, when, to a day singularly fine, succeeded one of themost violent storms of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, whoseemed only to regard it on my account, insisted on throwing his greatcoat over me, and pointed to a cabin at a little distance, where, hesaid, “if my Honour would demean myself so far, I could get good shelterfor the night.”
“Are you sure of that, Murtoch?” said I.
Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something inIrish; which at my request he translated--the words were--“Happy are_they_ whose roof shelters the head of the traveller.
“And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?”
Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it _was_, even upon a _selfish_principle: “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a strangersleep beneath one’s roof.”
If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reasonherself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of thecabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered--“MayGod and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house!” The family,who were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthenhearth, replied, “Come in, and a thousand welcomes”--for Murtoch servedas interpreter, and translated as they were spoken these warm effusionsof Irish cordiality. The master of the house, a venerable old man,perceiving me, made a low bow, and added, “You are welcome, and tenthousand welcomes, _gentleman._” *
* “Failte augus cead ro ag duine nasal.” The term gentleman, however, is a very inadequate version of the Irish nasal, which is an epitthet of superiority that indicates more than mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former relates the combat between Oscar and Ilian, St, Patrick solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “Ossian uasal, a mhic Fionne”, “Ossian the Noble--the son of Fingal.”
So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my countenance, for Ihad not yet divested myself of Murtoch’s costume--while in the act, thebest stool was wiped for me, the best seat at the fire forced on me, andon being admitted into th
e social circle, I found its central point wasa round oaken stool heaped with smoking potatoes thrown promiscuouslyover it.
To partake of this national diet I was strongly and courteouslysolicited, while as an incentive to an appetite that needed none,the old dame produced what she called a _madder_ of sweet milk, incontradistinction to the sour milk of which the rest partook; while thecow that sup plied the luxury slumbered most amicably with a large pigat no great distance from where I sat, and Murtoch glancing an eye at_both_, and then looking at me, seemed to say, “You see into what snugquarters we have got.” While I (as I sat with my damp clothes smokingby the turf fire, my madder of milk in one hand, and hot potatoe in theother) assured him by a responsible glance, that I was fully sensible ofthe comforts of our situation.
As soon as supper was finished the old man said grace, the familypiously blessed themselves, and the stool being removed, the hearthswept, and the fire replenished from the bog, Murtoch threw himselfon his back along a bench, * and unasked began a song, the wild andplaintive melody of which went at once to the soul.
When he had concluded, I was told it was the lamentation of the poorIrish for the loss of their _glibbs_ or long tresses, of which they weredeprived by the arbitrary will of Henry VIII.--The song (composed in hisreign) is called the _Coulin_ ** which I am told is literally, the fairringlet.
* This curious vocal position is of very ancient origin in Connaught, though by no means prevalent. Formerly the songster not only lay on his back, but had a weight pressed on his chest. The author’s father recollects having seen a man in the county of Mayo, of the name of O’Melvill, who sung for him in this position some years back.
** The Cualin is one of the most popular and beautiful Irish airs estant.
When the English had drawn a pale round their conquests in this country,such of the inhabitants as were compelled to drag on their existencebeyond the barrier, could no longer afford to cover their heads withmetal, and were necessitated to rely on the resistance of their mattedlocks. At length this necessity became “the fashion of their choice.”
The partiality of the ancient Irish to long hair is still to be tracedin their descendants of both sexes, the women in particular; forI observed that the young ones only wore their “native ornament of_hair_,” which sometimes flows over their shoulders, sometimes isfastened up in tresses, with a pin or bodkin. A fashion more in unisonwith grace and nature, though less in point of formal neatness, than theround-eared caps and large hats of our rustic fair of England.
Almost every word of Murtoch’s lamentation was accompanied by the sighsand mournful lamentations of his auditors, who seemed to sympathizeas tenderly in the sufferings of their progenitors, as though they hadthemselves been the victims of the tyranny which had caused them. Thearch policy of “the ruthless king,” who destroyed at once the records ofa nation’s woes, by extirpating “the tuneful race,” whose art would haveperpetuated them to posterity, never appeared to me in greater forcethan at that moment.
In the midst, however, of the melancholy which involved the mourningauditors of Murtoch, a piper entered and seated himself by the fire,_sans façon_, drew his pipes from under his coat, and struck up an Irishlilt of such inspiring animation, as might have served St. Basil ofLimoges, the merry patron of dancing, for a jubilate.
In a moment, in the true pliability of Irish temperament, the wholepensive group cheered up, flung away their stools, and as if bit tomerry madness by a tarantula, set to dancing jigs with all their hearts,and all their _strength_ into the bargain. Murtoch appeared not lessskilled in the dance than song; and every one (according to the justdescription of Goldsmith, who was a native of this province,) seemed
“To seek renown,
By holding out to tire each other down.”
Although much amused by this novel style of devotion at the shrineof Terpsichore, yet as the night was now calm, and an unclouded moondispersed the gloom of twilight obscurity, I arose to pursue my journey.Murtoch would accompany me, though our hospitable friends did theirutmost to prevail on both to remain for the night.
When I insisted on my host receiving a trifle, I observed povertystruggling with pride, and gratitude superior to both: he at lastreluctantly consented to be prevailed on, by my assurance of forgettingto call on them again when I passed that way, if I were now denied. Iwas followed for several paces by the whole family, who parted _with_,as they _received_ me, with blessings,--for their courtesy upon alloccasions, seems interwoven with their religion, and not to be pious intheir forms of etiquette, is not to be polite.
Benevolent and generous beings! whose hard labour
“Just gives what life requires, but gives no more,”
yet who, with the ever ready smile of heart-felt welcome, are willingto share that hard earned little, with the weary traveller whom chanceconducts to your threshold, or the solitary wanderer whom necessitythrows upon your bounty. How did my heart smite me, while I received thecordial rites of hospitality from your hands, for the prejudices I hadhitherto nurtured against your characters. But your smiling welcome, andparting benediction, retributed my error--in the feeling of remorse theyawakened.
It was late when I reached Bally--------, a large, ugly, irregulartown, near the sea coast; but fortunately meeting with a chaise, Ithrew myself into it, gave Murtoch my address, (who was all amazementat discovering I was son to the Lord of the Manor,) and arrived withoutfurther adventure at this antique _chateau_, more gratified by theresult of my little pedestrian tour, than if (at least in the presentstate of my feelings,) I had performed it Sesostris-like, in a triumphalchariot, drawn by kings; for “so weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,” appear to me the tasteless pleasures of the world I have left, thatevery sense, every feeling, is in a state of revolt against itssickening joys, and their concomitant sufferings.
Adieu! I am sending this off by a courier extraordinary, to the nextpost-town, in the hope of receiving one from you by the same hand.
H. M.