The sky was blue and cloudless, the grass filled with flowers, a soft breeze -all fragrance-waving the boughs of the trees, and swift and shining lizards darting along the mossy walls where we sat, while glittering butterflies and humming bees flitted round us. A chain of high mountains hemmed in the prospect. The entrance to the castle was before us, but there were no longer gates or defences as of yore; heaps of ruined walls, covered with weeds, shrubs, and luxuriant ivy, had usurped their place; towers rose irregularly from point to point, and the gigantic keep peered over the rest in dark and frowning majesty. We climbed the slippery ascent of velvet turf for some time, and then sat down under the walls of a monstrous tower in a court where now grew enormous trees which threw their grateful shade over the spot. A low arch at one side conducted to an inner court higher up, through which the sunlight streamed. Our host professed himself perfectly comfortable, as he seated himself on the bank and began conversing. "We need not tire ourselves," said he; "we have the whole day before us, and I have ordered you some fine saumon du Loire at your dinner when you return. It is very good, and you will like it. But when we have seen the ruins we will go to my cousin's, who is the poor woman below there, and have some of her brown bread and milk. I never enjoy any thing like that, and always recommend it when I bring strangers here. She is not well to do, poor thing, but is an honest woman and I like to serve her; and please myself at the same time. Pleasant, as is this place now, it is the scene of a sad tragedy, which you would hardly suppose to see how tranquil and pretty every thing looks." As we saw he wished to tell us the story and had some inclination to hear it, we begged M. Mouillard to indulge our curiosity. "Poor Emile !" said he; "he was a promising young artist-I got him several sitters, and he did my wife's portrait and my own, which you shall see in our room at home. He would, no doubt, have got on well in his profession if he had given himself time, but just at the beginning he unluckily fell in love with a very pretty young girl at Le Puy, who was an orphan, and lived by working at her needle. You never saw such a pretty little foot as she had, and he was never weary of praising it. As they had neither of them any thing, and his family was proud, they would not hear of his marrying her. They were quite young enough to have waited a year or two, but young folks are so impatient. They agreed to make, each of them, a last appeal to their relations, and if they were refused, had fixed on a means of escaping from their tyranny. All their eloquence could not soften the obduracy of the old people, who knew that nothing but hardships and poverty were before them if they took such a step. They appeared therefore to be content. Emile went on with his drawing, though he got but little employment, and Julie worked with a heavy heart, and began to grow pale and look sad enough. It was on the Fete of Notre Dame du Puy, just at this time, when they both got a holyday, and came out to Polignac, as many do, to spend the day together. They sat under this towerjust where we are sitting-and several parties passing by remarked them talking earnestly, when all on a sudden, the echoes of these old towers were startled by the report of a pistol, and immediately afterwards another. Some of the visitors ran down from the heights, and there they found the lovers lying side by side-both dead. Emile had shot his poor Julie through the head and himself afterwards. "I am told these things often happen in England, so it will not so much surprise you; and yet it is very odd, all the English I have ever seen are cheerful, happy people. We have had many at our hotel-and the ladies are all so handsome-not but what we are famous at Le Puy for beauty, as you may have observed." Not sorry to forget the story of the lovers, we were glad when our volatile host had passed to another subject. We commended the beauty of his wife, who was a magnificent specimen of Puy beauty. "Oh, she is a Burgundian, from Maçon," said he, "where they wear smaller hats, even more gentil, than they do here: she will show you one she brought back on her last visit to her relations. We take it by turns every year or two-she goes home to her friends for a few weeks, and I take a little trip pour me désennuyer; last year I went to Lyons and Marseilles-where I recommend you to go; there you will see a beautiful country, different from this, and very well to see after it, though we have features here to be found no where else in the world. For geology no place approaches usall the men of science in Europe declare we are the richest any where. Your Professor Lyall was here some time back with his family. How he did enjoy himself roaming about the mountains with his hammer! He lived upon tea only, and was out from daybreak till sunset-almost wild with delight at what he found. He said Le Velay was a mine of treasure. I can show you some precious stones which I found myself in the bed of one of our rivers they are called zircons -and my wife wears a ring made of one. The common people think they are cut into their regular shape by the fairies, and say they may be heard at work in the rocks above Espaly on still moonlight nights." Our talkative guide now conducted us through the postern to the next court, overgrown with shrubs and trees; and we went on, climbing, till we reached a broad plateau, where a little hut was constructed in the walls. We were not a little thankful for a glass of the cold sparkling water, presented us here by a poor woman, who draws it from the castle well, at that immense height. On this spot the enormous castle keep towers in infinite majesty, and at its base is a confused mass of time-worn ruins-walls and chambers, towers and turrets. Through their wide rents and loopholes the distant mountains are seen, as in a frame; and many are the perilous seats, placed under apparently tottering arches, which, nevertheless, have stood the storms of ages. fearful spot we dreaded to approach, for the stone seat in the embrasure of a window, seemed kept in its place only by a single block, which rested on a crumbling mass beneath; but we were assured it had remained in that state as long as the memory of any one could reach, and was as firm as possible. One Along the interior surface of one hollow tower runs a cornice, to climb to which is the great ambition of adventurous travellers, who frequent these ruins; and the feat is one of extreme peril. M. Mouillard, in spite of the bulk of his person, was half inclined to convince us it was not difficult; but the timely recollection of a vow, made to his wife, (of whom he evidently stood in awe,) relieved us from our anxiety on the subject. The young Prince Esterhazy, by his account, not having any such salutary check, it appears accomplished the whole tour, with infinite agility, much to the admiration of an assembled party of gay friends, who came here, invited by the young Vicomte Armand de Polignac, to a fête champêtre, only a month before the three glorious days of 1830 deprived him and his father for ever of their French possessions. We enjoyed the splendid panorama spread out before us, from this stupendous height, as we sat for an hour in the shade of the ruins, on a projecting portion of the buildings, and many were the nooks and corners into which we ventured. We did not fail to peep down the huge well, from whence once came the Oracle of Apollo; for above this rose the temple of the god. The huge stone mask, carved on a stone which is said to have covered the mouth of this enormous opening, lies in a shed hard by. But all these wonders I have described elsewhere, in speaking more at large on the subject. From this commanding height, the tyrants of Le Velay for centuries looked down on the surrounding country, and sallied forth, when they saw fit, to overwhelm all that opposed them. How strange, that of their power, their pride, and their grandeur, nothing is left but these mouldering ruins, on this barren rock, and that late circumstances should even have deprived the last descendants of the mighty line of Polignac of the few stones which excite the wonder of the passing traveller! Our promised repast, at the foot of the lower tower, was an extremely agreeable episode in our day's adventure; and we took our seats, under the shade of trees, at a wooden table, with much satisfaction, while the cousin of our host bustled about to bring us refreshment. A loaf of gigantic size, of very dark rye bread, was divided for us, and enormous earthen bowls of new milk paraded before us; as if we really intended to exhaust the whole dairy of the good woman, whose pretty, sunburnt, shy children, stood at a distance, looking on, while she remained conversing, in Auvergnat patois, to her relation, who was doing the most ample justice to her good cheer, and seemed an especial favourite with the whole party. We judged by his looks that we were the theme of inquiry; and at an exclamation of the woman, which elicited his hearty laugh, we begged to know what she was saying : "She says," said he, "in her patois, that madame (glancing at my companion) has a hand as white as the skin of the Blessed Virgin herself! We are not used to English complexions here, though her children are fair enough, too, only that the sun has burnt them to a cinder." We left our hospitable entertainer, charmed with a few francs with which we rewarded her, and the little russet babes equally so with some sous we put into their dark hands; and, declining to venture down the steep in our carriage, we went on in advance, while M. Mouillard finished his bowl, almost as large as that "duly set" for the hairy fiend who had threshed the corn "Which ten day-labourers could not end." We rejoiced that we had chosen a pedestrian descent, when we saw, floundering behind us, coming from the farm, a waggon, drawn by bullocks, in a path scarcely wide enough for two vehicles to pass. We retreated to an opening, where stood the curious cross I have mentioned, while the train passed by; and our walk was long, and somewhat fatiguing, till we again thought it safe to mount. Our dinner, of Loire salmon, considered a great delicacy, was not forgotten on our return to the hotel, nor did M. Mouillard forget to present us with some zircons, as a souvenir of Le Puy. They are crystals of a fine crimson colour, formed in the volcanic rocks by the action of the fire once within them, and are really brilliant and pretty. We were also favoured with a view of the portraits done by the unfortunate lover, which possessed considerable merit. We found our hostess in some tribulation at the sudden illness of one of her children, who was in bed, crying with the head-ache. We recommended a little dose; but were told, that they had never taken any medicine in their lives, and never meant to do so. I offered my salts for the boy to smell to, but found, by the trial M. Mouillard himself had made of their properties, that he considered them little less than murderous. The mother, however, anxious to procure some relief to her suffering child, persuaded him to inhale them, but the tremendous scream which followed, almost startled them all out of their wits. As, however, he felt better after the application, the bottle was gratefully accepted, and locked up by the mother, with great reverence, in case of future necessity. We were greatly amused at all this simplicity and childlike conduct, as well as pleased with the extreme good humour and wish to oblige manifested during our stay at Le Puy; and it deserves to be told, as a phenomenon in inn-keeping annals, that on our requesting to know what we had to pay for all our excursions, and the time of M. Mouillard, he altogether refused to be paid a sous. "Mon Dieu!" said he, "it is a thing unheard of! To wish to pay for that which gave me so much pleasure! I always take all my visitors out this way, and if they are pleased I am satisfied. As for the horse, it is a good one, and my own; the carriage is just as it comes; I take whatever I find in my stable, provided it is not wanted by the owner on that day." This manner of arrangement we could not dissent from, and the only means of returning his civility we could think of was, by making his wife happy by the present of a shawl, of English manufacture, which we fortunately found amongst our baggage. Whatever traveller happens to pass through Le Puy, on their way to or from the south of France, we cannot do better than recommend him to the care of the hospitable famille Mouillard, at the hotel du Palais Royal. IRISH CHARACTER. BY AN ANGLO-HIBERNIAN. PREFIXED to the new edition, now in course of publication, of Mr. Carleton's truthful and graphic stories of the Irish peasantry, there are some remarks upon Irish character, which may, usefully perhaps, be made the subject of further consideration. Of the excellence of Mr. Carleton's stories, no one who is thoroughly acquainted with Ireland can doubt.* In no other book will be found such minute and faithful-sometimes painfully faithful portraitures of the habits and strange humours of the Irish peasantry. To the new and illustrated edition, now publishing in monthly numbers, he prefixes the essay to which reference has already been made, because, as he states, "it will naturally be expected upon a new issue of works which may be said to treat exclusively of a people who form such an important and interesting portion of the empire as the Irish peasantry do, that the author should endeavour to prepare the minds of his readers-especially those of the English and Scotch-for understanding more clearly their general character, habits of thought, and modes of feeling, as they exist and are depicted in the subsequent volumes." Having stated this design, Mr. Carleton scarcely allows himself sufficient scope to carry it out, and the result is-as in so many cases where Irishmen undertake to write of Irish character-that he gives us rather a vindication than a statement rather an eulogium than an analysis. I really know not why this should be; for even a patriot may afford to admit the dark and unfavourable spots in Irish character, since he may so easily restore the brightness of the picture, without in the least violating veracity. Mr. Carleton is displeased with the crowd of writers who have introduced Irish character, because they have so frequently chosen to re present it as full of blunders and burlesque. Very possibly this may have led to a generally-erroneous impression among the English vulgar, who, being somewhat dull and heavy in themselves, are glad to find any thing lively and laughable in others, though they are at the same time ungrateful for the amusement afforded them, and certainly do not regard those who have been in this way their benefactors, with much respect. But educated Englishmen and Scotchmen are not generally unconscious of the better parts of Irish character, nor unwilling to acknowledge them. They know that the writers for the stage, who are chiefly those that have represented Irish personages in an exclusively burlesque aspect, had no serious object of developing national character. Their aim was merely to amuse the audience of a theatre, and they picked out that part of Irish character which was most likely to provoke a laugh. No doubt there is so much more of the odd and humorous in the Irish than in the English or Scotch, that an author seeking materials for mirth, might naturally turn to the richest mine, not troubling himself to seek the serious passion and the melting pathos, which he would have found as easily had that been his object. As I think that one may tell the truth about Irish character without being immoral, it is intended, in a few pages following, to set down in no very methodical manner, the results of some thought and various reading, bearing upon this really curious subject. Some philosopher-I don't remember the name-has described man as a bundle of contradictions. This is more true in Ireland than in any other country under the sun. Another philosopher, whose name or names I do recollect to wit, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, says that if man is not rising Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry. By William Carleton. A new edition with Introductory Preface and Notes by the Author. 8vo. Dublin: 1842. "But now I'm going to be immoral; now I mean to show things really as they are, Not as they ought to be."-LORD BYRON. upwards to be an angel, he is assuredly sinking downwards to be a devil. He ought to have said, (saving his favour,) that if an Irish man is not rising upwards, &c. The dictum is specially true in Ireland; but it is only in an abstract and high-flying philosophical sense, that it can be said to be true in Great Britain. At all events this may be said that whereas in Britain men are uniformly good, or uniformly bad, or uniformly a sort of hum-drum something, between good and bad, in Ireland no such uniformity must be looked for. The same man is an angel to-day, or that way tending, and a devil to-morrow, or that way tending. Nay, in the morning he will, perhaps, be engaged in doing that which no man could do, unless he were generous, affectionate, and gentle; but the shadows of night fall not more darkly upon the earth than upon his soul, and he will then exhibit himself a very demon of revenge and cruel ferocity. This is what makes the great peculiarity of Irish character-its want of uniformity-its exhibition of opposites in the same individual or multitude. In English people generally the good and evil principle are not existing sepa rately-now leading a man one way, and now another. They have united together, and formed a new homogeneous, somewhat selfish and formal, but prudent, punctual, and, upon the whole, respectable. It is not a mingling of the good and bad in irregular veins and streaks, as when two metals having no chemical affinity are fused together. It is rather like that chemical combination of an acid and an alkali, the result of which is not a mixture, but an entirely new substance-a neutral salt. But such combination of bad and good, and such neutral formation as its results, does not take place in the ordinary Irish character. The good and the bad are there, each acting by turns, with its own full unmitigated vigour, and the same individual, Pat, (I say nothing of Sheelah,) is angelic, or devilish, as the one spirit or other happens to rule. While you are admiring the wings of Paradise, they fade away before your sight, and haply the hoof and horn of the fiend reveal themselves! * Inglis's Ireland. Vol. i pp. 2, 3. This it is which makes the Irish so difficult to be understood-a difficulty which I think is often alluded to by the brilliant and joyous Harry Lorrequer, who understands the whole matter so well himself, and which Inglis with some naiveté acknowledges, when he says, that "during his journey through Ireland he found more to correct in his previous impressions and opinions, than in any journey he ever made through any other country." And again he says, that when he was in Ireland" he was every where informed that it is a country difficult to know; that in case of attempting to glean opinions on all hands, their contrariety would bewilder him, or that if in endeavouring to avoid this cause of wilderment, his inquiries took a more limited range, it would in that case be difficult, if not impossible, to escape the influence of the peculiar opinions of those amongst whom he might be thrown."* Inglis was here alluding in some degree to politics, or to matters connected with political considerations; but the difficulty of understanding the Irish belongs to every thing which passion, feeling, and an acute reasoning power can place in different and opposite positions. For all these agencies are in constant operation; and the same individual reasons fairly one hour, the next allows his mind to run riot under the influence of passion, and the next again he is swept away by the tide of feeling into the land of pathos, and he sheds tears with almost feminine weakness. ter. Even the above disposition leads them to speak most favourably when ́ speaking in general terms of the Irish, but they no sooner come into details than they seem to contradict themselves, by stating something which is altogether at variance with general good characThus O'Driscol, after an eulogium, which tasks the utmost powers of his florid eloquence, upon Ireland and the Irish, admits that "there is an evil spirit in the lower classes of the people, and an intractable obstinacy; and there is often a want of sufficient zeal for the task they have undertaken amongst those who would moralise and improve them." But † Views of Ireland, by John O'Driscol―vol. i. p. 30. |