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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 41, April 10, 1841

Author: Various

Release date: July 23, 2017 [eBook #55182]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Brownfox and the Online Distributed Proofreading
        Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
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                        THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

       NUMBER 41.       SATURDAY, APRIL 10, 1841.       VOLUME I.

[Illustration: KILLYMOON, COUNTY OF TYRONE, THE RESIDENCE OF
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL W. STEWART]

The subject which we have chosen as an embellishment to our present
number, is a view of one of the most aristocratic residences in the
province of Ulster, or, as we might perhaps say, in all Ireland. It is
therefore deserving of a place in our topographical illustrations from
its own importance; but we confess that it is not on that account only
that we have thus selected it for illustration, and that, even if its
attraction had been less, it would still have paramount claims on our
notice, as the residence, when delicate health permits, of one of the
best of landlords, and most estimable and accomplished gentlemen in his
native province. Such, at least, is the impression made on our mind from
all that we have ever heard of Colonel Stewart’s private character; and
it is only, therefore, in harmony with what might be expected of such
a proprietor, that the enjoyment of the beauty and magnificence which
nature and art have conjointly contributed to create at Killymoon should
not be restricted to himself or friends, but be freely extended without
solicitation to all ranks of the community, whom indeed he may justly and
proudly class under the same denomination.

Killymoon House, or Castle, as it is popularly called, is situated in the
immediate vicinity of Cookstown, and on the north bank of the Ballinderry
or Kildress river, a beautiful stream which winds through the demesne. It
was erected for the father of the present proprietor by the celebrated
English architect Mr Nash, and cost, it is said, no less a sum than
£80,000.

Like that of most architectural compositions of Mr Nash, the general
effect of Killymoon is at once imposing and picturesque. Its form is that
of a parallelogram; the north and east sides, which are the principal
architectural fronts, and contain the chief apartments, being but little
broken in their surfaces, and forming two sides of the square; while
the remaining sides, which contain the offices, are of an irregular
ground-plan, and are much hidden by trees. The east, or principal front,
which is that represented in our wood-cut, has a large circular tower
nearly at its centre, and is terminated at its northern angle by an
octagon tower of inferior height, but otherwise equal dimensions; and
the north front, extending from the octagon tower above mentioned, has a
square tower at its west extremity, with which is connected, in a nearly
continuous line, a structure in the style of a Gothic chapel, having
stained glass windows, and buttresses intervening, and a belfry at its
western termination: this portion of the building, however, is used as
a library, and is the only part remaining of the original mansion which
existed on the estate when the ancestor of Colonel Stewart purchased
it from the Earl of Tyrone, and which was subsequently destroyed by an
accidental fire. The north or entrance front is adorned with a porch
leading into a small vestibule, and thence into the hall, which is of
great size, and is terminated by a stone staircase having two return
flights leading to a corridor which communicates with the bed-chambers.
This hall also communicates by doors with the several portions of the
building below, those on the west side leading to the servants’ rooms,
and those on the east to the state apartments, which consist of a
breakfast parlour, dining-room, ante-room, and drawing-room, all of which
are of noble proportions, and their woodwork of polished oak.

It will be seen from the preceding description that the general character
of this building is that of a castle; and we may add, that the details of
its architecture are for the most part those popularly but erroneously
called Saxon. But, like most modern structures of this kind, it has
but little accurate resemblance to an ancient military fortress, and
its architectural details present that capricious medley of styles of
various ages, ecclesiastical, domestic, and military, so commonly found
in modern buildings of this description. Such an incongruous amalgamation
of styles, however, in an architectural composition, is, it must be
confessed, not very consistent with refined taste, and cannot be too
strongly reprobated; but it has existed for a considerable time, and will
unfortunately continue till architects become skilful antiquaries as
well as tasteful artists, and their employers acquire such an accurate
judgment and knowledge of art as will enable them to form a correct
opinion of the capabilities of those they employ, and not take their
estimate of them, as now, from fashion or popular reputation.

The demesne attached to this noble residence ranks second to none in
Tyrone in extent, the beauty of many of its features, and the fineness
of its timber. The Kildress river, which passes through it, is crossed
about the centre of the demesne by a picturesque bridge of five arches;
and from this point the most favourable views of the surrounding scenery
are to be had. Looking northwards, the sloping banks of the river, at
the opposite sides of an extensive meadow, are thickly planted with
larch, fir, beech, and ash, from the midst of which, an aged oak is here
and there seen to rise above its younger and less aspiring companions;
and, looking westward, the turrets of the castle overtop the deep
masses of foliage which cluster round it on every side. In like manner,
to the east, the river winds its way through a tract of rich meadow
land, the banks of which are fringed with sallows and thorn trees; and
to the south, the grounds slope gently up from the river, and present
detached groups of elms and oaks of the most luxuriant character. The
views in this demesne are indeed such as might naturally be expected in
conjunction with a mansion of such magnificence, and will, as we are
persuaded, not create a feeling of disappointment in the minds of any,
whether artist or pleasure tourist, who may be led by our remarks to
visit them.

                                                                       P.




THE SPANISH MOTHER.


During that dark and ill-recorded period in which Spain was little
more than a field of battle between the Moors and the Christians, the
Sanchos of Navarre held the most conspicuous rank among the peninsular
potentates, and Sanchez “el Mayor” was the most conspicuous of the
Sanchos. Besides the throne of Navarre, he had succeeded to the royalty
of Arragon, and the sovereignty of Castile was the dower of his queen. He
had married the beauteous Elvira Muna early in life; and before he had
reached the full prime of manhood, two of his sons, Garcia and Gonsalo,
were able to bear the panoply of a knight; and a third, Fernando, a boy
of thirteen, was sighing for the day to come when he too should have the
spur upon his heel and the sword upon his thigh. Another son, also, King
Sancho boasted of, but not by Donna Elvira. In his very first battle he
had been taken prisoner by a Moorish captain of high rank, and confined
in a dreary dungeon many days and nights, until at length his escape was
effected by means of the daughter of his conqueror, a maiden of exquisite
beauty named Caya, who had seen him, and fallen in love with him. This
Moorish girl the generous young prince would gladly have married, if the
political or religious laws of Navarre would have permitted him; but
he tried to persuade himself and her, that, under such circumstances,
the tie which bound them together after their flight from her father’s
fortress would be nearly as sacred as if it were a conjugal one. The
offspring of their love was a boy, whom Sancho named Ramiro, and who grew
up with the king’s legitimate children. Caya too--it was the custom of
those days--lived at court, and was paid respect and honour besides, as
the deliverer of the country’s hope. She had abjured, at least outwardly,
her Moslem creed, and, for the sake of her son, whom she tenderly loved,
conformed in all respects to the customs of her adopted one. In truth,
however, she was a quiet, unpretending creature, who never said or did
anything to the injury of anyone with malice prepense, and not being
feared, was not hated. Even Elvira herself, hateful to Caya for giving
her no reasonable cause for jealousy since her marriage with Sancho
(which was a mere matter of state policy), made the Moorish woman the
confidante of most of her joys and sorrows. And many were the sorrows
of that gentle queen. Sancho had ever been indifferent towards her,
though she repaid his coldness with devoted attachment. He was, besides,
continually away at the wars, in imminent danger from the chances of
battle, while she, at home, was ever mourning over the neglect of her
lord and the disobedience of her children. Garcia had made, before his
twentieth year, no fewer than three different attempts to excite a revolt
in Ribagorza during the absence of the king, impatient as he was to seize
the reins of command. Gonsalo, cunning as a fox, and darkly-working as
a mole, was continually endeavouring, by secret machinations, to render
the people of Navarre discontented with the government of his mother
and her councillors; and even the child Fernando had exhibited signs
of a rebellious nature, and was but too apt to listen to the dangerous
instructions of his brothers. Elvira, therefore, was greatly to be
pitied, debarred, as she thus found herself, from all the joys which she
naturally yearned for as a wife and a mother. If Caya was an ambitious
woman, as most of her nation were, or if she had cherished, under an
outward show of meekness and contentedness, thoughts and purposes of
bringing about by means of her opportunities the establishment of the
Moorish dynasty in Christian Spain, she might have drawn hope of success
in her schemes from the dissensions of the royal family; at least she
might have sought in them some excuse for making her darling Ramiro a
sharer in one of those arbitrary partitions of the Spanish kingdoms which
the barbarous notions of the times rendered of frequent recurrence. But
Caya was gifted with too noble a mind to seek any advantage, however
tempting, by unworthy means. She still fondly loved the chivalrous
prince with whom she fled from a cruel father’s roof, and with whom, for
a few happy, happy years, she had forgotten the pleasant olive groves
of Grenada, under the wild pine forests and glaciers of the Pyrenees.
She sincerely compassionated the sorrows of Elvira, and therefore the
afflicted queen had a safe and steady friend in her generous rival. Let
the reader “judge with knowledge” these two women in their affection for
one another--

      In those old, romantic days,
    Mighty were the soul’s commandments
      To support, restrain, or raise!

Their rivalry was of the forbearing kind which existed between the two
wives of that old crusader mentioned in the Orlandus of Kenelin Henry
Digby, and which the first poet of our day[1] has thought it worth his
while to embalm for all eternity in his “Armenian Lady’s Love.” But
Elvira had another trusty friend in Sancho’s “master of the horse,” whom
he was wont to leave behind him as deputy when he went to the wars. Don
Pedro Sesse was a faithful minister and a merciful viceroy. A gallant
soldier in his youth, he was an enemy to treachery and to everything that
tended to infringe the laws of chivalry. He it was who had frustrated the
designs of Garcia and Gonsalo, and had therefore earned their hatred.
Elvira looked to him as her best guide and protector amidst the sorrows
of her lot.

In this state was the kingdom of Navarre, when the news came of a great
victory gained by Sancho over the Moors of Corduba, a place at that time
the metropolis of Moorish Spain. As this event was considered a decisive
blow to the hopes entertained by the Moors of obtaining possession of
Castile, which was their principal object, Sancho’s speedy return, after
an absence of several years, was anticipated at home, and great were the
preparations made for his triumphal entry to the fortress of Najara,
where was the royal palace and the residence of the chief nobility. In
the midst of these preparations, however, matters took place which turned
the palace into a scene of mourning and dismay.

Don Pedro had a beautiful daughter named Blanca, whom the unprincipled
Garcia had long but vainly tried to influence by his dishonourable
proposals. The virtuous Blanca repelled his advances with proper scorn;
and when at length he found that he could not obtain her willing consent,
he determined to carry her off by violence. An opportunity soon arrived.
Blanca was sitting alone one day in her garden, enjoying the loveliness
of the prospect that stretched from the terrace-foot to the summits of
the distant mountains, when Garcia, who had been waiting for a favourable
moment, seized her in his arms, and bore her away towards a spot where he
had horses and attendants ready for the accomplishment of his villanous
project. Before the maiden was out of the reach of aid from such as might
be disposed to assist her, her shrieks were heard by Ramiro, who happened
to be sauntering near the place. He was at her side in an instant with
his drawn sword in his hand.

“Ruffian, desist!” exclaimed he, with wrath in his voice and eye, as,
passing his left arm round the waist of Blanca, he waved his armed right
hand before the ravisher’s face; “though thou bearest my father’s blood
in thy degenerate veins, it shall dye the turf at our feet, if thou
loosest not hold of this maiden.”

“Away! base-born hound--half-Spaniard, away! and dare not to thwart me in
my pleasure,” cried Garcia, foaming with rage and disappointment.

Ramiro answered not, but, freeing the frighted girl by a dexterous
manœuvre from the grasp of Garcia, and placing himself between them, he
struck the latter with the flat side of his weapon, as if he thought him
unworthy of a severer blow, though the fire of his royal blood tingled in
his cheeks at the insult.

Garcia quailed before the lofty scorn of Ramiro, and he shouted to his
attendants to come to his aid.

“Now, for my father’s kingdom I would not let thee escape, dastard as
thou art!” said Ramiro, as he strode up to Garcia and forced him to
defend himself. In a moment Ramiro was standing over his prostrate and
bleeding antagonist with his sword lifted for the death-blow. As he was
about to strike in self-defence, hearing the rapid step of Garcia’s
assistants, he saw that they were already panic-struck at the sight of
their fallen master, and were turning back in flight. Staying his hand,
he said,

“Rise, Garcia--for thy father’s sake I spare thee. Thou wilt henceforth
avoid the son of the Moorish Caya.” Then taking the lady Blanca, who was
fainting with the effects of her terror, once again in his arms, he bore
her into the house of Don Pedro, and left the vanquished ravisher in pain
of body and mortification of heart.

“Tell me, lady,” said Ramiro, as he leant over the form of the reviving
Blanca, “how art thou? Assure me that I leave thee well and happy.”

“Leave me not yet, noble Ramiro,” said Blanca sweetly. “How can I
sufficiently repay thee for thy valiant protection?--all I can imagine
would be too poor a recompense!”

“Oh, not too poor, dear Blanca,” said Ramiro passionately, “is the gift
thou canst bestow: give me thy love, if one who hath the stain of Moorish
lineage may hope to deserve it, and I will bless the opportunity that
gave thee to my arms.”

Blanca only blushed in answer. She knew Ramiro had loved her long before,
and that he was honoured and esteemed by her father. The lovers plighted
their troth to each other that hour, and felt themselves worthy of one
another.

The ferocious temper and evil heart of Garcia left him no repose until
he had matured a scheme of vengeance to effect the ruin of Ramiro, if
possible, before the return of his father. All the more violent means he
rejected, as he was unwilling to compass so important an event except by
plausible pretexts. He therefore determined to work upon the fears of
Elvira, and as far as possible to arouse her jealousies. Having first
simulated a show of repentance for his past ill treatment, which he
did so well as effectually to deceive the unsuspicious queen, he next
informed her that a secret correspondence had been carried on between
Caya and the king during the whole period of the last expedition, forged
proofs of which he showed her; and insinuated that Caya had succeeded
in making the king promise to put Ramiro in possession of the fairest
portion of his dominions, to the exclusion of Elvira’s offspring. This
latter stratagem did not succeed so well with Elvira, and she openly told
him she had too great faith in Caya’s friendship for her to believe she
would seek to deprive her of her queenly prerogative, or her children of
their just rights. Garcia for a long time continued to follow up his plan
by these insinuations and others of a similar kind, but when he found
he was playing a wrong game, he could no longer conceal his rage, and he
warned Elvira not to oppose him in his attempts to get rid of Ramiro,
with a sincerity which the unhappy woman well knew was unaffected.

Garcia’s first step was a demand that a council of the nobility should
be held to determine upon a matter to be brought forward by him, at
which council the queen should preside in person. This being granted, he
formally accused Ramiro of having attempted his assassination, exhibited
his wound, and produced his attendants, who had been suborned by him,
to testify to the truth of the accusation. Ramiro was then summoned to
answer to the grave charge of having attempted the life of the heir to
the crown--a crime for which death by torture was the punishment in
Navarre. Ramiro defended himself by narrating the circumstance of his
encounter with Garcia simply as it occurred, along with the cause which
led to it; and the beautiful Blanca shrank not from appearing before the
court and the nobles, to bear witness for her betrothed. Several of the
nobles, however, who were in the interest of Garcia and the abettors of
his projects, declared that the testimony of Blanca was not sufficient
to clear Ramiro of the imputation, and demanded that judgment should be
given against him. Don Pedro, who had been aware of the true facts of the
case, burning as he was with resentment against Garcia, besought of the
queen, for the sake of justice, and as a punishment due to a rebellious
and unnatural son, that Garcia, on the contrary, should be made to plead
against the charge of having offered violence to the daughter of the
king’s vicegerent. Elvira was about to decree that Garcia’s charge had
not been substantiated, when she caught the eye of the accusant fixed
upon her with a look of demoniac malignity which chased the blood from
her cheek, and made her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth. Her
fortitude was nearly deserting her, and her love of justice giving way to
her fear of Garcia’s cruel revenge, when a stir was heard at the entrance
of the court, and Caya, with disordered dress, dishevelled hair, and eyes
of fire, rushed up to the foot of the tribunal, and throwing herself on
her knees on the marble step, clasped the feet of Elvira, and looked up
into the queen’s face without speaking a word.

“What does this Moorish devil in our hall of justice?” said Garcia, in a
stern voice: “remove her.”

No one stirred, for all were intently watching the scene. Caya still
knelt without speaking, looking up to the queen’s face; but now the large
tears were gathering in her eyes, under their jet-black lashes, and now
they rolled down upon her dark cheek, which was no longer lustrous with
the hue which Sancho in his youthful years had loved to look upon.

Elvira gently stooped her head towards the suppliant, and was about to
speak to her, when Garcia, with increased vehemence in his tone, again
demanded her removal, and Elvira, shudderingly, drew back.

“Oh, listen not to him!” at length gasped Caya; “heed not his cruel
voice. Thou wilt not give my boy to his bloody vengeance; thou wilt not
put his precious limbs upon the wheel; thou wilt not tear his manly
sinews with red-hot pincers! Oh, queen, give me back my Ramiro!”

“Nay, Caya, what will become of me?--there is misery before me whichever
way I turn!” said Elvira, as she saw Garcia approaching.

“Stand back!” shouted Caya, springing to her feet, and speaking to
Garcia; then turning to Elvira,

“I charge thee let him not touch me--if thou valuest the life of thy son,
admonish him to beware of hurting a hair of the Moorish woman’s head, or
of that of her child: and not of _my_ child alone--of the child of Sancho
of Navarre. And thee, too, Elvira. I charge to beware how thou givest
over to judgment the offspring of thy lord! Hast thou no pity, Elvira?
Look not to Garcia--look to _me_. Dear Elvira (and here Caya ventured to
take the queen’s hand), pity thy poor Caya, thy servant, and Sancho’s
servant, who never willingly offended thee. Thou wilt--I see thou wilt.
I am thy friend once more--thy _sister_!” she whispered, as her tears
flowed upon the neck of the subdued Elvira, and she clasped her to her
bosom.

The queen, then, confirmed in her decision by the assenting looks and
murmurs of the lord deputy and the majority of the council, declared
Ramiro guiltless of the crime imputed to him, and the assembly broke up.

“Caya,” said Elvira, as they retired together, “I have done much for
thee this day. I have leaned towards thy child against my own. I have
made an enemy of the fruit of my own womb for the sake of a rival in my
husband’s love.”

“For the sake of truth and justice thou hast done it,” replied Caya, “and
thou shalt have thy reward.”

“Thou knowest not what it is to fight against the temptations which
nature puts in our path--pray that thou mayest not know them.”

“I have had a victory many times over such,” said Caya, “or thou wouldst
not now be queen. Perchance other such temptations may arise--and oh,
Elvira, be sure they shall not overcome me.”

Caya spoke prophetically, but even _she_ could not have guessed how soon
or to what an extent her constancy was to be tried.

Garcia left the council maddened with rage, and burning with thoughts of
vengeance, not only against Ramiro, who had supplanted him in his love,
and Pedro, who had been made deputy, principally with the intent that
he should watch and counteract his villanies, but against Elvira and
Caya, and even Blanca. Some faint outlines of a design either to cut off
Sancho himself, and usurp the whole of his father’s possessions, or at
least compel him to share the sovereignty with him, began also to connect
themselves together in his thoughts. In short, he was determined that he
should accomplish the ruin of all, and that some blow should be struck
instantly, for Sancho was already on his way to Navarre.

A circumstance, of trifling moment in itself, furnished him with
sufficiently plausible means of entering at once upon his plan. Sancho
had taken in fight from a Moorish chieftain a most beautiful horse,
which in a short time became such a favourite with him, that, fearing
some accident would deprive him of the noble steed amidst the perils of
war, he had sent him home to Elvira, with strict injunctions that no
one should be suffered to mount him in his absence. These injunctions
were forgotten by the queen, who suffered Don Pedro to use the animal
occasionally. This fact Garcia laid hold of to sustain him in accusing
the queen of adultery with Don Pedro, and he announced to the nobles his
intention of so doing on the arrival of his father.

Sancho had been six years away, and had heard of nothing in the interim
from Navarre that was not calculated to diminish the little love he ever
felt for Elvira, and increase the romantic attachment he felt towards
Caya. Ramiro, the offspring of that attachment, he loved beyond all his
sons for his nobleness of nature and person, and he secretly wished for
some excuse for distinguishing him above the others. For those six years
he had been sojourning in the scenes of Caya’s childhood, where every
thing reminded him of her, and of his early amour; and as it would only
have been of a piece with the practices of royalty in even later and
more civilised times to have divorced himself from Elvira, he must not
be over-harshly dealt with if he confessed to himself that he would be
happier to find her dead than living on his return. What his thoughts
were, therefore, may be guessed, when, as the gates of Najara were flung
open for his entrance, he was met with the intelligence that his queen
and her alleged paramour were conspiring against his honour, his kingdom,
and his life!

Sancho could imagine no possible motive by which Garcia might be actuated
in preferring his accusation, ignorant as the king was of what had lately
occurred, so he at once ordered the queen to be arrested, and to be
brought to trial in the Cortes of the kingdom. The unhappy Elvira was
not allowed even to see her lord on his return, but was thrown into a
dungeon, as was also Pedro, until the preparations for the trial were
complete.

When the day arrived, Elvira and Pedro were led prisoners into that
hall of justice in which they had so lately sat as judges. Elvira cast
a mournful and reproachful look towards Sancho, who sat cold and severe
upon his chair of state, but he did not notice her. She was so thin, and
pale, and wretched-looking, that the very officials of the court wept
at the sight of her; while those to whom she had been kind and merciful
in her day of power, groaned audibly as they surmised the event of the
trial. She was placed on a seat in the centre of the hall, and the
preliminaries were at once proceeded with.

Garcia first came forward, and repeated his accusation, adding a tissue
of circumstances calculated to confirm his statement. When he had
finished, an officer desired the queen to defend herself against his
testimony.

“If I had been unfaithful to Sancho,” said she, “it was before thy birth,
Garcia; for neither a gleam of Sancho’s goodness, nor a feature of his
face, has descended to thee! Some devil betrayed me in my dreams, and
left me his image to nurse at my bosom, and bring up at my knee.”

“Is this thy answer?” said Garcia, with a bitter smile; “this reviling of
the first-born of thy king will not save thee from the stake.”

“The stake!” shrieked Elvira, “and is it to this thou bringest me?” And
then rising, and standing before Garcia, she continued--“Man--for son I
cannot call thee now--how canst thou be so cruel? Is there no voice in a
mother’s misery to touch thy heart?”

Garcia answered not, but desired the officer to proceed and summon the
next witness. The officer called out the name of Gonsalo!

Not alone Elvira, but the whole court were surprised to see the king’s
second son presenting himself as his mother’s accuser. Gonsalo had a
new series of alleged facts to produce. He had been allured by the
promises of Garcia, and his avarice and love of power outweighed whatever
feelings of reluctance he might otherwise have experienced. His courage
failed him, however, as he perceived those looks of aversion among
the spectators which it required more firmness than he possessed to
disregard; and having closed his testimony, he was slinking away, in
order to escape the glance of Elvira, when she called him back, and
catching his hand, addressed him:--

“What have I done to thee, Gonsalo, that thou shouldst blast my fame and
take away my life? I would not injure a hair of _thy_ head! Three times
I snatched thee from the grave before thy childhood was past, when thou
wert ailing. I lost strength and sleep and beauty while bending over thy
cradle. I would I had been in my grave before thou sawest the light! I
will not curse thee--I will not even beg thy pity; but when thou hast
children of thine own, thou mayest guess what thou hast made me suffer,
and that will be curse enough--go!”

“The infante Don Fernando, appear!” cried the officer.

A pang, as if her brain had been pierced with a fiery needle, smote
the wretched mother as the boy answered to his name. A loud buzz of
disapprobation ran through the assembly, and Sancho himself seemed as
if he could bear the unnatural scene no longer; but intense curiosity
now prevailed with all, and overcame every other feeling. A dead silence
ensued while Fernando stood confronting the queen.

He was a pale, light-haired lad, with exceedingly soft blue eyes, which
he inherited from the pure stock of the Gothic sovereigns of Spain,
descending to him unbroken from that glorious time when Pelayo swayed
the strongest European sceptre, before Tarik led his conquering bands
from Africa. His ringlets streamed down his shoulders as he bent his
head and crossed his small white hands upon his breast in token of
reverence towards the king. As he appeared there in the graceful dress
suited to his years, he looked more like a creature of dreams, when holy
imaginations colour them, than a false witness against his own mother.
Elvira looked at him for full a minute without moving or speaking, until
at length his innocent-looking beauty gave birth to some vague confidence
in her that he was not coming to destroy her, but perhaps the contrary.
The moment this feeling took possession of her, she bounded forward
with a shriek of delight, and flinging herself on the ground before
him, she clasped his knees, and letting her head sink between her arms,
she endeavoured to stay so, while she wept for the first time since she
entered the hall. Fernando, however, drew back violently, and disengaged
himself from her embrace. The queen looked up at him half-vacantly as he
did so; and then she arose, and in a solemn though flattering voice she
said,

“What art thou going to do or to say, Fernando? They may take me away
to the stake and burn me, if thou beliest me now, for thy crime will be
worse torture to me than any they can inflict!”

“Speak, Fernando,” said the king.

Fernando trembled and hesitated, but a motion from Garcia caught his eye
and emboldened him to go on. He told that he had seen Elvira giving to
Don Pedro Sesse, from the royal stables, that favourite steed which the
king had ordered should be ridden by none but himself.

Sancho’s brow flushed with sudden anger when he heard this. “Elvira!
Pedro!” said he, “is this true?”

“It is true,” said Elvira, “but I alone am guilty! Pedro knew not of thy
command. As I live, he did not. Let me suffer, oh, Sancho, for this one
fault, but pardon the innocent!”

“She prays for pardon for her paramour!” cried Garcia, exultingly; “what
other proof is needful?”

“Hast thou aught more to declare?” said the king to Fernando, in a tone
of displeasure.

Again the boy trembled, and looked towards Garcia, whose eagle eye was
like a guilty spell upon him.

“Let him look at the queen as he speaks,” said Sancho.

The boy turned towards his mother, but his cheek reddened as he did so,
and he cast his eyes towards the ground without speaking.

“Speak on!” said the king.

“He will not speak!” said Elvira; “he will not make a liar of Nature, who
is telling the truth for him in his cheeks and eyes! Look, monsters, the
tears are coming to his eyes. Oh holy drops, ye should be treasured among
saintly relics--ye shall be balm to these parched and thirsty lips!” And
here the queen bent to the earth, and _kissed_ the tear-drops on the
ground, which had fallen from Fernando’s eyes.

“Fernando, speak!” said Garcia.

In a voice broken by sobs and terror, Fernando began to say that he had
seen Don Pedro stealing by night to the queen’s chamber, when he was
interrupted by Elvira, who again clung to him with frantic earnestness.

“Thou sawest it not! Oh, say thou sawest it not! My boy, the heavy wrath
of God will fall upon thee if thou dost not unsay this fearful falsehood.
I am not cursing thee, but I would avert the curse. Thou MUST unsay it.
It is not possible mine own flesh could _all_ rebel against me. What is
it has bewitched thee, Fernando, to do what devils would leave undone?
Dost thou know what thou art doing to me? They will burn thy poor mother
in the market-place for an adulteress! Thou wilt give thy mother to die
in the torments of the damned--thy mother, that never crossed thee in thy
ways--that fed thee with the milk of her breasts--that rejoiced in thy
beauty. Oh, my God! oh, my God! have pity upon me, and soften this boy’s
heart!” said she, looking up for a moment, and then coaxingly fawning
upon Fernando, with a faint smile upon her features. She continued--“My
child! my pretty boy Fernando! wilt thou not unsay those wicked words?
Ah, let me kiss thee, and say I forgive thee, and we shall be mother and
son together for the rest of our days in some far off place out of the
ways of these people. I will love thee better than they, Fernando. They
are killing thy soul now, and they will kill thy body after, as they are
killing mine, if thou dost not hearken to me. Oh, that I might have life
and length of days, only to be away with thee where I could look into thy
blue eyes and play with thy golden curls from morning till night. Oh,
child, have mercy upon me!”

“Mother!” cried Fernando, throwing himself upon the queen’s neck,
“forgive me, and I will unsay all!”

Elvira wound her arms about the infante’s form, kissed him without saying
a word, and fainted at his feet.

“Her artifices have prevailed with the boy,” said Garcia, with
ill-dissembled rage, “but the testimony of others is not to be thus
overborne.”

“Wilt thou enter the lists against her champion, if any dare to defend
her with his sword?” said the king.

Garcia was silent.

“If thou wilt not,” said Sancho, “Elvira shall be declared innocent, and
her accusers traitors.”

“Let her champion appear, then,” replied Garcia. “What my tongue asserts,
my sword shall ever prove. There lies my guage,” and he threw his glove
into the centre of the floor.

But in all that crowded assembly there was not one who came forward to
take up the guage of Garcia. They all pitied the queen, and believed her
innocent, but the dread of the future tyrant was too powerful a motive to
keep them, so far at least, on his side.

“At the end of three days,” said the king, “if no champion appear for
the queen, she shall perish by the flames, and with her, her alleged
paramour.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The lists were prepared, and at the noon of the second day a knight in
bright silver armour, whose name was unknown, appeared in the queen’s
defence. His vizor was drawn over his face, and his device gave no clue
to the curious. The whole court was assembled to witness the combat,
and Elvira occupied a seat nearest to the side at which her champion
appeared. The signal was given, and the contest commenced. It was soon
decided. The unknown knight quickly unhorsed his antagonist, and after
a brief struggle with the sword, Garcia fell to the earth desperately
wounded.

“Confess the innocence of the queen,” said the unknown knight, in a
voice which struck Garcia to the soul, “or thou diest on the spot.”

“She is innocent!” feebly articulated Garcia, as he writhed in the agony
of his wounds.

Taking up the sword of his vanquished adversary, the unknown cavalier
brought it to the feet of Elvira, and then, gracefully bending on one
knee, he lifted the vizor from his casque, and for the first time the
queen knew that she had been indebted for life and the preservation of
her fair fame to the son of the king by her Moorish rival.

“Madam,” said Ramiro, “not to me alone, but to Caya thy friend, thy
thanks are due. Thou hast been a sister to her--let me be a son to thee.”

Elvira could only weep her thanks.

       *       *       *       *       *

We find in Mariana, and also in Rodrigo of Toledo, that Sancho of
Navarre, at his death, partitioned his kingdom thus:--To his eldest son
Garcia he left Navarre and Biscay; to Gonsalo he left Ribagorza; to
Fernando, Castile; and Arragon to a natural son named Ramiro. This was
that Ramiro of whom mention is made in the preceding narrative. But we
do not find in any of the old authors (and much we wonder that any event
connected with so curious and touching a piece of history could have
escaped them) that this same Ramiro enjoyed the lordship of Arragon with
Blanca, the beautiful and virtuous daughter of the cavalier Don Pedro
Sesse.

                                                                    R. M.

[1] Wordsworth.




ON THE IMPORTANCE OF SELECTING CLEAN FLAX SEED.


In recent numbers of the Penny Journal, Martin Doyle has published
two valuable papers upon the necessity of selecting good seed, and I
would wish to call the attention of the cultivators of flax, who form
so numerous a body amongst the small farmers of the north and west of
Ireland, to the absolute necessity of attending to the seed of that
plant, and not to purchase the cheaper seed that is sometimes offered to
them, in preference to that which, although rather more expensive, is
yet free from the seeds of a very noxious weed which are usually mixed
with the cheaper flax-seed. The weed to which I refer is one of those
curious plants, which, from their peculiar structure, are unable to
draw their nourishment directly from the earth, but are obliged to feed
themselves by sucking the juices of other plants, and thus destroying
them, or weakening them so greatly as to prevent their producing a crop
that will repay the cultivator for his labour and expense. In the case
of the flax, the weed grows from seeds deposited in the earth with the
seed of the flax, and at first appears as a slender pale thread, twisting
about in different directions until it meets with one of the stems of the
flax, when it immediately twists itself round it, and produces curious
little knobs upon its inner side, which pierce the outer coat or bark of
the stalk of the flax, and suck from it the juices which it has drawn
from the ground, and prepared for its own nourishment. The root of the
weed then withers away, but the weed itself commences its most rigorous
growth, for until it had obtained a victim upon which to feed, it had
been unable to produce any thing except the slender fibre that I have
already mentioned, and would have soon died if it had not succeeded
in seizing upon the flax. Its stem then increases in thickness, and,
twisting round all the flax plants that it can reach, it receives enough
of nourishment to produce its flowers, which form pretty little yellowish
white heads, of about half the size of a nut, consisting of numerous
small flowers so placed together as closely to resemble a small mulberry
in form and appearance, although not in colour. This weed is called
Dodder, or by botanists _Cuscuta epilinum_, and is commonly to be found
in flax-fields in several parts of England and Scotland, but is happily
less frequent in Ireland, although I have seen it (in 1840) in the county
of Mayo. In England it often quite destroys the crop, and I understand
that such was the case a few years since in the neighbourhood of Westport
and Newport, county Mayo.

I have now to point out the way to avoid this pest. It is found that
the seed of flax obtained from America is quite free from it, but that
it is nearly always very plentiful in seed from Odessa and other parts
of Russia. Now, the Russian seed is cheaper than that from America, and
so the poor people are tempted to buy the former in preference to the
latter, although, by following an opposite course, they would escape the
risk of loss which results from the use of seed which is mixed with seeds
of the dodder.

This I consider as a remarkable proof of the necessity of obtaining clean
seed rather than cheap, and deserves in my opinion to be made generally
known throughout Ireland by means of the Penny Journal. I conclude by
saying to all cultivators of flax, When buying your seed, always ask for
that from America, and do not be tempted by the cheaper but dirty seed
from Russia, as by doing this you will avoid the most destructive weed to
which the crop is liable.

                                                                 C. C. B.




ORIGIN AND MEANINGS OF IRISH FAMILY NAMES.

BY JOHN O’DONOVAN.

First Article.


It has for a long time appeared to me a desirable object, as regards
the history of Ireland and the information of the Irish people,
to communicate to the public a correct account of the origin and
signification of the proper names, tribe names, and surnames of the
people of Ireland; more especially as some of the popular writers of the
last century have misled them generally into the most erroneous notions
with regard to these classes of names. The errors of these writers have
not only been adopted by the usually shallow compilers of county surveys,
county histories, and other topographical works down to the present time,
but also to some extent by writers of a higher order and greater learning
and research, as Lanigan and Moore. Indeed, strange as the fact may seem,
it is nevertheless unquestionable that there are very few in the country
whose ideas upon this subject are consonant with the truth; and hence,
upon most occasions on which an Irishman adopts an anglicised form of
his Christian name and surname, the effect of the alteration is such
as completely to conceal, and not unfrequently to misrepresent, their
original orthography and meaning. On this account it becomes unavoidably
necessary for me, before I enter upon the series of articles which I
propose furnishing on this subject, to exhibit and expose the ignorance
of those writers to whom I have alluded, and whose theories have produced
so erroneous an impression upon the minds of the Irish people; and to
this object I purpose to devote the present introductory paper.

The fallacies which I have to expose were unknown to the Irish people
until towards the close of the last century; the writers of an earlier
period having been too well informed to lead their readers into error.
But their works being for the most part in a dead language, and very
rarely to be met with, they ceased to have an influence on the public
mind, and left the way open for a new race of writers, very ignorant
of the ancient language and history of Ireland, to impose their crude
theories upon the uninstructed reader. A society of such persons, of whom
General Vallancey, Mr Beauford,[2] and Dr Ledwich, were the most active,
was formed for the purpose of giving to the public a series of essays on
the antiquities, ancient literature, and topography of Ireland; and the
result of their joint labours made its appearance in a work published
periodically under the title of “_Collectanea de Rebus Hibernicis_,”
and since popularly called Vallancey’s Collectanea. These gentlemen,
however, after a time found that their systems had nothing in common,
each considering the other as insufficiently informed on the subjects
treated of, and I think, with justice; for, as I trust I shall be able
to show on a future occasion, all were alike ignorant of the matters
they professed perfectly to understand. But though the labours of these
gentlemen contributed generally to the propagation of erroneous theories
on the subject, it was a work of Mr Beauford’s, published in No. II of
the Collectanea, which, treating more immediately of this subject, has
had the greatest influence on the popular mind; an influence less owing
to any celebrity attached to his own name than to that of Vallancey,
whose sanction and approbation this work is generally supposed to have
received. With this writer originated the novel theory that the names of
tribes and families in Ireland, as usual among the Saxons and Normans,
were derived from earlier appellations of the territories and localities
which they occupied. To establish this hypothesis he adopts a process of
etymological investigation unparalleled in the annals of antiquarian
research. In the first place, he takes the liberty of dividing the words
into as many parts as he thinks proper; secondly, he makes such changes
in the vocables thus obtained as he finds convenient to his purpose;
thirdly, he gives each of these words new meanings of his own; and
lastly, he places the tribes whose names he thus explains in localities
which many of them never occupied.

As the errors of this writer, though so long before the public, have
never been sufficiently exposed, I shall here undertake the task, by
the exhibition of a few examples of his process of investigation, taken
without selection, and given as a fair specimen of the whole. It will be
necessary for me, however, in fairness, to quote in the first instance
the author’s own account of the theory which he has put forward to
account, in his novel manner, for the origin of the names of men and
tribes in Ireland.

“On the increase of population and the introduction of agriculture, these
wandering tribes were under the necessity of confining themselves to
certain permanent districts; which districts were generally denominated
either from their situation or quality of the soil, and from which also
the inhabitants obtained their collective appellation; whence, in the
most ancient Irish poems and histories, we frequently find _clan_ and
_slioght_ added to the _name of the country_, to signify the inhabitants;
as _clan Cuilean_, _slioght Breoghain_, and _slioght Gae_; wherefore _the
children and race of any division_ were the invariable names by which the
ancient Hibernian septs were distinguished from the remotest antiquity,
and not, as frequently asserted, the children and descendants of their
respective leaders.”

Again, “The chiefs of every district were elected from the elder branches
of the dynasts; and the kings of the principalities from the senior chief
of the subordinate districts, who on their advancement to the dignity
obtained the name of the district or clan over which they presided; it
being an universal custom amongst all the Celtic tribes to denominate
the noblesse, with their other appellations, from the place of their
residence; a custom in some measure yet retained in the Highlands of
Scotland. The variety of names used by the ancient Irish have occasioned
great confusion in their history; for before the tenth century surnames
were not hereditary, and prior to the establishment of the Christian
religion in this country no person was distinguished by one permanent
nomination. It is true, during their pagan state every child at his birth
received a name generally from some imaginary divinity _under whose
protection he was supposed to be; but this name_ was seldom retained
longer than the state of infancy, from which period it was generally
changed for others arising from some perfection or imperfection of the
body, the disposition and qualities of the mind, achievements in war
or the chace, the place of birth, residence, &c. so that it frequently
happened that the same person was distinguished by several appellations.
Our ancient historians, not properly attending to this, have committed
great errors in relating the transactions of early periods, by asserting
the same action to be performed by several different people, which
in reality was performed by one only, thereby throwing their history
and antiquities into too distant a period. A similar error has also
been committed by not considering the dignitary names of the chiefs,
who on their election to the government constantly obtained the name
appertaining to the clan over whom they presided, or rather that of the
district. These dignitary names becoming in the tenth century hereditary
and family distinctions, created new difficulties to genealogists of
latter ages.”--Collectanea, vol. iii, p. 257.

Now, it will be very easy to prove that these assertions are wholly
erroneous, and are mere conjectures, unsupported either by history
or etymology. In the first place, the three instances above given to
show that the words _clan_ and _slioght_ were prefixed to the names
of territories among the Irish, instead of supporting the author’s
assumption, go to prove the very contrary, for in the first two instances
the names adduced are not names of territories, but of men; and with
regard to the third instance, there was no such name among the ancient
Irish, and it is a pure fabrication of Beauford’s own imagination! As
for his assertion that in the time of paganism every child at his birth
received a name generally from some imaginary divinity under whose
protection he was supposed to be, it is another pure fabrication; there
is no authority in any of our ancient documents that men were called
after their pagan deities, except in three instances, in the darkest
period of Irish history; and even from these it does not appear that
such names were given immediately after the birth of the individuals
referred to, but that they assumed them after having arrived at the age
of maturity. These instances are to be met with in ancient Irish MSS.
concerning the history of the Tuatha De Dananns, a colony said to have
preceded the Scoti in Ireland, at a period now generally believed to be
beyond the reach of authentic history; but granting that what has been
handed down to us concerning this colony is authentic, it does not follow
from any thing stated that even among them every child at his birth
received a name from a divinity under whose protection he was placed;
for the sum of what has been handed down to us on this subject is, that
on the arrival of the Scotic or Milesian colony in Ireland the Tuatha De
Dananns were governed by three kings, who were distinguished by surnames
derived from the names of the gods whom they worshipped. Thus, one of
those kings, whose real name was _Eochy_, was, it is said, usually styled
_Mac Greine_, because he worshipped the sun; the second, whose proper
name was _Eathur_, was called _Mac Cuill_, because he worshipped the
hazel tree, for I suppose men generally lived on nuts in his time; and
the third, whose proper name was _Teathur_, was called _Mac Ceachta_,
_i.e._ son of the plough, for he worshipped that useful implement as his
god! We have no instance of men having been named after pagan deities
but these three, and I venture to say that they are not sufficient to
establish Beauford’s hypothesis. But a stronger argument than this can
be urged against his theory, namely, that among all the pagan names of
men which have been preserved by our authentic annalists, not one appears
to be called after a pagan deity; and if it had been a general custom
to call children after such deities, it might be expected that at least
a few of them would have been transmitted. Since, then, they have not
been transmitted, how, I would ask, did Mr Beauford discover that such
a custom had ever existed? It is true that after the establishment of
Christianity in the fifth century, the descendants of the pagan Irish who
entered into holy orders, or into the monastic state, had their pagan
names sometimes changed, as we learn from the lives of the saints of the
primitive Irish church, but no documents now remain to prove, or even
suggest, that such a change had been made previous to the introduction of
Christianity. It is undeniable that cognomens, epithets, or sobriquets,
were frequently added to the first name from some warlike exploit,
or from some perfection or imperfection of body, colour of hair, or
disposition of mind; but this continued to be the custom in Christian
times, and still continues so, but no authority has been discovered
even to suggest that any change of the original pagan name had occurred
previous to the introduction of Christianity; and we find that even long
after that period many distinguished Irish bishops, abbots, and other
ecclesiastics, bore the names of their pagan ancestors.

It is also a groundless assumption that the chief changed his name for
that of the territory after his election to the government, or that the
names of either the clan or district became surnames or family names in
the tenth century. Can any one believe that Brian was the name of the
territory of the O’Briens before the establishment of the name O’Brien?
Was Donnell the name of the territory of the O’Donnells previous to the
tenth century? Was Niall the name of the principality of the O’Neills?

So much then for Mr Beauford’s general theory as put forward in the
introduction to his work. I shall now proceed to show the equal fallacy
of the etymological processes by which he attempts to sustain his
theoretical assumptions in the work itself; namely, that the names of
Irish tribes and families were derived from the situations and natural
features of the territories they inhabited.

1. “CLANN CUILEAN, or the race or children of the corner of the water;
called also _Hy na mor_, or the district of the sea; the chiefs of which
were denominated _Mac na mor aois_, the sons of the elders of the sea, by
contraction Macnamara,” &c.

Now, what will be thought of all this etymological induction, when it
can be proved from history that _clann Cuileain_ signifies the race of
_Cullen_?

The _Cuilean_ or Cullen from whom this tribe took their name is found in
the pedigree of Mac Namara, within the authentic period of Irish history,
for he flourished in the eighth century, a period to which our authentic
annals reach with perfect historical certainty. Let us then see how
this meaning “children of the corner of the water” is obtained from the
compound _clann Cuileain_. Apparently by a very simple process, thus;
_clann_ means descendants, _cuil_ means _corner_, and _ean_ water; but
regular as this process appears, it is nevertheless utterly fallacious,
for the word _clann_ means children or descendants relatively to an
ancestor, not to a _locality_; and though the name _Cuileain_ (now
anglicised Cullen or Collins) when cut in two, would apparently make the
words _cuil_ and _ean_, still the word is not compounded of _cuil_, a
corner, and _ean_, water, for the first syllable is short, and the last
syllable is a diminutive termination of the same power with the Latin
_ulus_, as in the compounds _campulus_, _colliculus_, _catulus_; and the
word _cuilean_, whether taken as a common noun substantive or as a proper
name, is synonymous with the Latin _catulus_, or _Catullus_.

The next assertion above made, that _clann Cuileain_ was also called _Hy
na mor_, is untrue, for the name _Hy na mor_ had never any existence
except in Mr Beauford’s fancy; and even if it had, the meaning given for
it would not be correct, for _hy_ does not properly mean district, nor
does _mor_ mean sea. The assertion that the chiefs of _clann Cuileain_
were called _Mac na mor aois_ is also untrue, for the name was never so
written by any one except Mr Beauford. They were uniformly called _Mic
Conmara_, as being the descendants of _Cu-mara_, who was chief of the
_clann Cuileain_ in the tenth century; and the name _Cumara_, signifying
_hero of the sea_, was first given to a chief of this family, from his
being an expert seaman, not from his dwelling on the sea, for the _clann
Cuileain_ or Mac Namaras were not located on the sea, or near the sea,
but in an inland territory in the south-east of the county of Clare.

2. “CINEAL EOGHEAN, or _Cean all Eoghain_, from _cean thuath oll
Eogh-an_, pronounced Connal Owen, or the principal division of the
northern county of the Oll or Bolgæ, an ancient district in the province
of Ulster, comprehending originally the present counties of Tyrone,
Armagh, Donegal, and part of the county of Derry, being the ancient
divisions of Eirgal or Orgall,” &c.

Here the name _Cineal Eoghain_, which had been translated _genus
Eoghain_, _i.e._, race or progeny of _Eoghan_, by all the early Irish
writers, is made to signify the principal division of the northern
county of the Oll or Bolgæ. Let us examine how this interpretation has
been wrested from _Cineal Eoghain_. In the first place, he spells the
name incorrectly, though we cannot see that he gains any point by doing
so; next he takes asunder what he conceives to be its component parts,
first metamorphosing the word _Cineal_, which is cognate with the Latin
_genus_ and the English _kind_, _kindred_, into _Cean all_, which he
made to signify “principal division,” and resolving _Eoghan_, a man’s
name, into _Eogh-an_, to make it signify I know not what; but as the four
vocables thus obtained would not answer his purpose, he took the liberty
of adding one more of his own coining, thus making five distinct words
of the two original ones. But even allowing that these five vocables are
legitimately obtained from the two original ones, I have still a further
objection to them, for they do not grammatically coalesce, or bear the
meaning he affixes to them, as there is no word among the five to express
_principal division_ or _county_. And granting further that the five
words thus formed could really bear the signification he gives them, it
would not follow that the name _Cineal Eoghain_ is so compounded, while
in opposition to the testimony of all authentic history; and we have
the testimony of all the authentic Irish annals, the lives of the Irish
apostle, and of the most ancient genealogical books, to prove that the
great northern race called _Cineal Eoghain_ took that appellation from
their great ancestor _Eoghan_ (the son of Niall of the Nine Hostages),
who was contemporary with St Patrick, as did a neighbouring race that of
_Cineal Conaill_, from Eoghan’s brother, Conall Gulban.

But the supporters of Mr Beauford’s system may say that although it may
be true that the _Cineal Eoghain_ took their appellation from their
ancestor Eoghan, still that this EOGHAN may have taken his name from the
territory over which he ruled. I answer, that this does not bear even the
semblance of probability, for we have the authority of Cormac’s Glossary
for asserting that the proper name _Eoghan_ (still used as a man’s name
in every part of Ireland, and anglicised Owen and Eugene) was understood
by the ancient Irish literati to signify the _good offspring_, or the
_goodly born_, and this looks much more probable than the signification
which Mr Beauford wrings from it, for the Irish had many other names
similarly compounded, as _Finghin_ (now Florence), meaning the fair
offspring; _Coemhghin_ (now Kevin), the beautiful offspring, &c. Thus it
appears that Beauford’s derivation of the tribe name of _Cineal Eoghain_
is a mere etymological phantasy, unsupported by history or etymology. I
have also to mention that the extent he gives to the territory of this
tribe is too great, for it never comprised the one-fourth part of the
present county of Donegal, or any part of Armagh.

But I am exceeding the space allowed me for this article, and must defer
the remaining examples till next number.

[2] Let not the reader confound this Beauford with the author of the
ecclesiastical map of Ireland, for the latter was Dr Beaufort, and his
works are distinguished for their accuracy.




LETHE: AN ALLEGORY.

BY J. U. U.


    Has it e’er crossed thy fancy to explore
    The mystery of that old forgetful river
    In which the Shade, permitted to renew
    Its servitude to clay, went down to drink
    Oblivion of itself and all it was;
    A dread completion of the work of Death!

    Now lend a patient hearing, and I’ll tell thee
    --Thou wilt receive it as a wayward dream--
    The course of this old river. Know it glides
    Beneath thy steps, with lapse invisible,
    For but by glimpses mortals may behold it;
    And these seem far too glorious for one thought
    Of dull oblivion ever to intrude
    On the rapt vision. Not a shadow there
    From gloomy Hades clouds the living light
    That glances gaily down the rippling stream.
    But past description’s power, ’tis loud and bright
    With trumpet voices, and with silken sails
    Full-blown with Fortune’s breath; while from the bank
    Hope lifts her siren strain, and bids them speed
    For ever on to happy isles afar.
    And every ripple teems with springing thoughts--
    In one sense faithful to the Samian’s creed--
    A constant iteration of old fancies
    As if the wise and fools of time came back
    With their old dreams; forgetful of experience.
    There system swells on system, bubbles gay,
    Conventions, empires, powers, authorities,
    Song’s intellectual fabric, pictures, modes,
    Those myriad lights, the glory and the glitter
    Which make that current gaily beautiful.
    And so it rolls, in its magnificence
    Tumbling and sparkling up into the sun
    Like an eternal thing: buoyant and bright
    Beneath the airs of Heaven that murmur mirth
    And hope, and life, and pauseless interest.
    While on its living course no spot is seen
    That is not far too bright and glorious
    For the approach of grim decay, or that
    More mighty and more terrible shadow Death
    To find a cave to lurk in…
                            … Thou wilt say,
    This is not Lethe, whose dull waters glide
    Sunless among the silent fields of death,
    Oblivion’s formless valley. Yet attend--
    Mark well the course of each bright-crested wave:--
    As it rolls by, the gallant barks it bore
    Are vanished, and have left no trace, as if
    They never had existence. Though for ever
    New shadows fast emerge into the Sun
    (So like the last, that scarce one notes the change),
    And take a look of immortality,
    Incredulous of the Past, blind to the Future;
    Not knowing whence they come, from what they are,
    Or whither tend. Alas, the stream
    With all that went before, is lost below
    In dim Oblivion’s world: It were a dream
    Most fleeting and fantastic, were there not
    A chain of awful consequence that binds
    What has been, with what must be. Death and Life,
    The Past, the Present, and the Future, are
    But names bestowed on one perpetual stream,
    In different provinces beneath the Crown
    Of Him who is the source from whence all comes
    And to whom all returns--we see no more
    But as the gazer from some narrow bridge
    Looks down upon the waters, when beneath
    They come from far, and so pass, and are gone.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE DOMESTIC MAN.--There is no being of the masculine gender whom “the
sex” so heartily despise as the domestic man. He is an anomaly--a sort
of half-way house between the sexes--a concentration of weaknesses--a
poor driblet of humanity--a vile caudle-drinker--an auditor of
laundress’s bills--an inquisitor of the nursery--a fellow that likes
his bed warmed, and takes note of the decay of carpets--a reader of
works on “cookery” and a “treatise on teething”--a pill bolter--a man
that buys his wife’s gowns and his children’s dresses--a scolder of
maid-servants--a frequenter of the kitchen--a person who can tell you the
price of treacle, and how long a mop should last--a gazer at butchers’
windows--a consumer of ginger wine--a slop eater--a market visitor--a
tea maker--Faugh! He looks like the aborigine of a bed-room. He is lean
and bilious--delights in black gaiters and a brown greatcoat. He gives
his little bandy-legged child a walk in the Park, where he is taken for
a brother of one of the nursery maids in delicate health. He entertains
his visitors with his discoveries of the tricks of bakers and the
machinations of grocers--_ennuies_ them to death with long stories about
bad bread, and “coffee without adulteration.” He always knows what is
to be for dinner, what remains in the larder--and employs his gigantic
intellect in considering the best mode of cooking it. He is naturally
fretful and peevish, and in cold weather has a helplessness of aspect
peculiar to himself. These men never look like Englishmen. They never
acquire that manly bluff appearance which is the character of our nation.
God knows what is the matter with them, but they always seem out of
sorts. Their features are sharp--their voices are effeminate, and they
are nearly all of them “troubled with colds.” The business of life with
them is to regulate the affairs of housekeeping--their tastes, habits,
thoughts, and rivalries, are womanish. Their conversation is about “poor
Mrs” this, and “poor Lady” that--antiquated matrons, with whom they
occasionally compare notes in matters of condolence--yet who have enough
of the spirit of their sex in them to despise their male coadjutor, and
in their souls they think “poor Mr” so-and-so the greatest bore alive.
They are always complaining; if not positively unwell themselves--a case
of rare occurrence--some of their family is sure to be so--or, if all
that should fail, then, at least, a dish has been broken, and there is
always a number of standing grievances ready to be produced when occasion
requires. “Well, heaven help them!” as Shakspeare says, “for they are sad
fools.” They live a long time, these fellows, but they die at last--all
the pills and possets in the world will not avert death. The passenger
who sees the hearse and mutes, thinks some rational being has died--the
stranger, who reads the tombstone, thinks that a man moulders below. But
are they deceived? We think so.--COURT GAZETTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

PETRARCH’S OPINION OF MONEY.--He who expends it properly, is its master;
he who lays it up, its keeper; he who loves it, a fool; he who fears it,
a slave; and he who adores it, an idolator.

       *       *       *       *       *

The whole of human virtue may be reduced to speaking the truth always,
and doing good to others.

Many an acknowledged truth was once a controverted dogma; the basis of
every science has been considered a fundamental error.

Truth is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the
speedy dispatch of business. It creates confidence in those we have to
deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to issue
in a few words.--_Spectator._

       *       *       *       *       *

Let us hope the best rather than fear the worst, and believe that there
never was a right thing done, or a wise one spoken in vain, although the
fruit of them may not spring up in the place designated, or at the time
expected.

       *       *       *       *       *

George II., being informed that an impudent printer was to be punished
for having published a spurious King’s speech, replied, that he hoped the
punishment would be of the mildest sort, because he had read both, and
as far as he _understood_ either of them, he liked the spurious speech
better than his own.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Printed and published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
    the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane,
    College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--R. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer Alley,
    Paternoster Row, London; SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange Street,
    Manchester; C. DAVIES, North John Street, Liverpool; SLOCOMBE &
    SIMMS, Leeds, JOHN MENZIES, Prince’s Street, Edinburgh; & DAVID
    ROBERTSON, Trongate, Glasgow.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 41, APRIL 10, 1841 ***


    

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