WE witnessed at the railway station, on our arrival at Galway, a most painful and touching1 scene,—the departure of some emigrants2, and their last separation, here on earth, from dear relations and friends. The train was about to start, and the platform was crowded with men, women, and children, pressing round to take a last fond look. Ever and anon, a mother or a sister would force a way into the carriages, flinging her arms around her beloved, only to be separated by a superior strength, and parting from them with such looks of misery3 as disturbed the soul with pity. And then, for the first time, we heard the wild Irish “cry,” beginning with a low, plaintive4 wail5, and gradually rising in its tone of intense sorrow, until
“Lamentis, gemituque et fæmineo ululatu Tecta fremunt.”
Nor was this great grief simulated, as by hired keeners at a wake, the mulieres proficae of the Irish Feralia, but came gushing6 with its waters of bitterness from the full fountain of those loving hearts. There were faces there no actor could assume—faces which would have immortalised the painter who could have traced them truly, but were beyond the compass of art. Two, especially, I shall never forget. A youth of eighteen or nineteen, who had a cheerful word and pleasant smile for all, though you could see the while, in his white cheek and quivering lip, how grief was gnawing7 his brave Spartan8 heart (Ah,
“What a noble thing it is To suffer and be strong!”)
and the other, an elderly man, who stood somewhat aloof9 from the rest, with his arms folded, and his head bent10, motionless, speechless, with a face on which despair had written, I shall smile no more until I welcome death!
I thought of those beautiful lines which begin,
“Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not
More grief than ye can weep for. That is well;” 1
1 Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
and I thought, also, what great hearts beat under coats of frieze11, and how bounden we are, with all our might, to avert12 from them these overwhelming sorrows, or, at the least, and if fall they must, to prove our sympathy as best we can.
Many of the emigrants had bunches of wild flowers and heather, and one of them a shamrock in a broken flowerpot, as memorials of dear ould Ireland. Nor does this fond love of home and kindred decline in a distant land; no less a sum than 7,520,000 L. having been sent from America to Ireland, in the years 1848 to 1854, inclusive, according to the statement of the Emigration Commissioners13.
It was a strange recollection during this scene of sorrow, (and how strangely our thoughts will sometimes set themselves at variance14 with what is passing before us!) that, all the while, the Great Jig15 was going on at Leenane, and the fiddlers fiddling16, and the hundred and fifty couple footing it, right merrily! Well,
“Let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play;
For some must laugh,
And some must weep—
So runs the world away!”
And I, accordingly, having sorrowed, and that heartily17, 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 overture18 to the fight, that he became prematurely19 “tired of war's alarms,” and set forth20 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 conquerors21 were having no end of fun, Master Strongbow returned to the bosom22 of his family—where he must have been inexpressibly surprised and disgusted at the abrupt23 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 dreary24, with rain. We read in “Wanleys Wonders”(one of the most carefully-collated and painstaking25 books of lies extant) that the inhabitants of Catona were wont26 to make their king swear, at his coronation, that it should not rain immoderately, in any part of his dominions27, 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 monarch28, “King O'Neill, of the Showers,” seems still perpetually to reign29.
So the streets were looking their narrowest and dingiest30, 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 disposition31 to sit down in it, mourning for Connamara, gazing sadly through the windows of our coffee-room, and esteeming32 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 diffusion34 of Dublin ales. Nor did sweet solace35 come, until we beheld36 once more—a real beef-steak. Frank's eyes, in their normal state of a mild, benevolent37 blue, glowed with a fiery38 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 exquisite39 humour, for which he was remarkable,—and lost for a time that amiability40 of temper, which, according to the historian, 2 was so conspicuous41 in time of war; how that Ginkel, his General, (why does not history salute42 him by his more euphonious43 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 supercilious44 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 decided45 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 Consecration46 at Ballinasloe, to be presided over by Cardinal47 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 blessing48 as they flow” to ten Irish counties. I should think that hay for the universe might be grown upon its teeming33 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 despoiled49 and desecrated50 we English need not pause to inquire; and close to these a brace51 of those famous Round Towers, which have so perplexed52 the archaeological world, and which, according to Frank, were, “most probably Lighthouses, which had come ashore53 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 delightful54 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 unnatural55 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 attire56 of our Court.
1 Would that his motto were the watchword of every
Irishmen:—“Un g foy, ung roy, ung loy!”
Here and there, in mid-stream, are beacons57 of an original pattern. The cormorants58 flew heavily away before us, but the heron moved not from the sighing sedge,—still and grey as the stone on which he stood,—nor seemed to note the seething59 waters, which swelled60 around him as the steamer passed.
Ay, and how touchingly61 that silent bird, with his keen gaze, steadfastly62 fixed63, and his every thought concentrated, upon one object reminded me (if, for a moment, I may assimilate the Queen of my soul to a gudgeon) of myself; for alas64, I was again in love! As soon as ever I set foot on the steamer, I knew it was all over, though she was a long way off.
“It would have been well,” writes Mr. Froude, “for Henry VIII. if he could have lived in a world, in which women could have been dispensed65 with;” and it would be better no doubt for the susceptible66 tourist, if there were fewer pretty girls in Ireland. In vain, I groaned67
“O intermissa, Venus, diu,
Rursus bella moves!
Parce, precor, precor!”
for she wouldn't parce at any price; and by the time we arrived at Clonmacnoise, I was in a state of most abject68 infatuation. Frank proposed to bleed me with a large fishing-knife, and would keep feeling my pulse, with his watch in his hand, in an exceedingly frivolous69 manner. But I suffered severely70, in spite of frequent beer, until a late period of the evening, when my wounded spirit, in the smoke-room at Limerick, at last found relief in song.
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1
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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14
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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16
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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17
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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27
dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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30
dingiest
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| adj.暗淡的，乏味的( dingy的最高级 )；肮脏的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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32
esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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33
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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34
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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35
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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36
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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37
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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38
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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39
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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40
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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41
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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42
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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43
euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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44
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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45
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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48
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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49
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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52
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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53
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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54
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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56
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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64
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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67
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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