Cause the mind to recall the sad times we have pass'd,
To reflect that all goes to one ruin at last.

At least, all that is earthly that man has amass'd,
That the pride and vain glory of former days o'er,
Empty praise has no pulse left to throb to it more.*

The halls of MacMurrough are by humbler men held,
And the too reckless Irish too often expelled.

But an era has risen in IERNE's blest land,

Her beauties and bounties vast treasure command.
Her lands are unlocked, skill will have now its way,
The blind squires and the wild Irish chiefs had their day.

"So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more."

"Moore's Melodies," 1st number.

'They all came in their turn, and they all found relief."

NOTE REFERRED TO, p. 265.-It was too much the fashion of the day to protect aggressors against the law, on the principle of the adage "that the fox seldom preys at home," and I believe it is not denied, that a Lady Carrick saved the life of the notorious robber Freney,—but he had robbed those that had plundered her ladyship and carriage on the high road, and restored her her property.

66

A great forensic orator, speaking to evidence, produced in favour of a prisoner, one of those high-way robbers on trial at Kilkenny, declared that the character of the county then was Eager after prey, and Flooded with iniquity, while every Bush concealed a robber. Three of the most influential families in the county being those of Agar, Flood, and Bushe.

CHAPTER XIX.

PADDY AND THE PRUSSIANS; OR, FREDERICK WILLIAM

OUT-WITTED.

Ir is some twenty-five years since, in one of my professional rambles in a remote and sequestered part of the county of Carlow, in Ireland, known as the Barony of St. Mullin's, that I was favoured with the company of an accomplished member of one of the fine old Irish families, who trace their descent from the kings of Leinster.

We were taking a preliminary view of the country in which my equestrian companion inherited large possessions, with the object in some measure of opening up its resources. We had left the magnificently wooded demesne of the Kavanagh's of Borris behind us, and as we rode southward in that compartively narrow part of Carlow, between the counties of Kilkenny and Wexford, to our left lay a chain of mountains, or rather stupendous hills, not less than twenty miles in length, designated mount Leinster, Black Stairs, and the White Mountain, and of singularly irregular outline, rising in some places to nearly three thousand feet, an apparently Alpine height, springing, as they do, almost from the tidelevel, from which their most southern base is not very far removed.

On our immediate right as we travelled, the ancient, or more western road nearest to it, in a valley of surpassing

beauty, and almost entirely wooded, flowed the noble and navigable River Barrow-its forty miles of tide-way, fringed more or less, with the pointed pine, the clustering fir, or the ever-changing and graceful larch climbing to the skies, whlle descending to, and dipping in the stream, was the natural growth of the golden-teinted, venerable oak. Then ever and anon, some fairy-looking fortalice of the olden time, or grander castle structure, frowned from a jutting rock in a commanding position, no doubt to bid defiance to further progress; when this now peaceful region was torn with the civil wars, which are unfortunately too much the history of the country.

But there they stand, as stands a lofty mind,
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd,
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind;
Or holding dark communion with the cloud.
There was a day when they were young and proud
Banners on high, and battles passed below;
But they who fought, are in a bloody shroud,

And those which waved, are shredless dust ere now.

And many a tower for some fair mischief won,

Saw the discolour'd stream beneath its ruin run.*

Infinitesimally small, from distance down from whence we rode, and almost beyond the human ken, were the native skiffs or cots paddled along in pairs on the glassy surface of the river, with their fishing lines or nets between them, the hardy skippers rewarded for their patient industry by the occasional capturing of a noble salmon. Against the modern fishery laws I believe, but the cots and the wild-looking Irish propellers, of them, often, if not always, added not only to

* Byron's Childe Harold.

THE VALE OF ST. MOLING."

269

the beauty of our picture, but I must admit to the solidity of

our supper.

Beyond this gorgeously beautiful glen, the bottom of which was occupied, as I have said, by the noble river, there, almost a tidal estuary, rose up nearly two thousand feet in height, the somewhat isolated and picturesque Brandon mountain on the Kilkenny side, with its subordinate adjuncts, as seen in the distance behind Dick Lang (page 236). From its middle down, clothed with timber, and its very base washed by the ample and transparent flood. From its woody belt, the grey peak seemed upward to push its

"Form,

To swell from the vale, and mid-way leave the storm." Although, as it were, in mute defiance of the sombre giants of Mount Leinster, and the Black Stairs opposite.

Thus flanked on either side by mountains, wood, and water, across which for many miles, there not being a practicable pass for vehicles either way, the sequestered grandeur of this great solitude, with only a little farm-stead dotted here and there, was then, and almost still is, quite undisturbed by the bustle of modern traffic or thoroughfare. But as the smoking iron horse is destined to work his way even there, it may be desirable that the intending traveller should know that a railway is in steady progress, intended to form not only a valuable connexion with the metropolis, but to open to the busy ports of Wexford and New Ross, the but half-developed resources of that terra incognita.*

While we thus contemplate with pleasuse the certain advance of a high er degree of civilization into this rural and

* See note at end of the chapter, p. 280.

romantic region, it may afford a passing smile to dwell for a moment, as it were, amongst its inhabitants of even the last century, one of the most remarkable of whom was a farmer's son, named Morgan Kavanagh. Pointing to a grove at the opening of a valley, where

"I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms that a cottage was near,"

"There," said my affable and truly noble friend, "there lived MORGAN KAVANAGH."

The mansion of this celebrity, almost entirely concealed by trees, was placed in the opening of a dell, formed by a babbling stream, forcing its way in its passage from the adjacent mountains, between the lingering skirts, or bastions from the hills that there ran far out into the plain. The charm of the situation, and the emphasis with which the name of its former occupant was pronounced, exciting my curiosity, my distinguished companion proceeded to gratify it by the following sketch of the adventures of a man, he said "he well remembered to have seen," and which I have written up chiefly from recollection of his animated delivery.

Morgan Kavanagh being in his earlier days a handy, smart youth, got employment about the "Big house," a palatial residence of the Kavanaghs of Borris, which: I am proud to record, is still preserved in all its natural and acquired beauty; there our hero was not long in learning many ways of making himself useful, and while waiting for errands, being none of your idlers, he had always a ready hand to help the groom, the coachman, or the pantry-boy, in their various occupations; and an opportunity soon offering for bettering his condition, Morgan availed himself of it to reach the summit of his