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Title: The Irish Penny Journal, Vol. 1 No. 03, July 18, 1840

Author: Various

Release date: August 21, 2013 [eBook #43528]

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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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 03, JULY 18, 1840 ***




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THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

    NUMBER 3.       SATURDAY, JULY 18, 1840.        VOLUME I.

[Illustration: THE ROCK OF CASHEL, AS SEEN FROM THE SOUTH.]


To such of our readers as have not had the good fortune to see the
ancient metropolis of Munster, our prefixed illustration will, it is
hoped, give some general idea of the situation and grandeur of a group of
ruins, which on various accounts claim to rank as the most interesting in
the British islands. Ancient buildings of greater extent and higher
architectural splendour may indeed be found elsewhere; but in no other
spot in the empire can there be seen congregated together so many
structures of such different characters and uses, and of such separate
and remote ages; their imposing effect being strikingly heightened by the
singularity and grandeur of their situation, and the absence from about
them of any objects that might destroy the associations they are so well
calculated to excite. To give an adequate idea, however, of this
magnificent architectural assemblage, would require not one, but a series
of views, from its various surrounding sides. These we shall probably
furnish in the course of our future numbers; and in the mean time we may
state, that the buildings of which it is composed are the following:--

1st, An Ecclesiastical Round Tower, in perfect preservation.

2d, Cormac's Chapel, a small stone-roofed church, with two side-towers,
in the Norman style of the eleventh and twelfth centuries--also in good
preservation.

3d, A Cathedral, with nave, choir, and transepts, in the pointed style of
the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, now in ruins, but which was
originally only second in extent and the magnificence of its architecture
to the cathedrals in our own metropolis.

4th, A strong Castle, which served as the palace of the Archbishops of
Cashel.

5th, The Vicar's Hall, and the mansions of the inferior ecclesiastical
officers of the Cathedral, which are also in ruins.

If, then, the reader will picture to himself such a group of buildings,
standing in solitary grandeur on a lofty, isolated, and on some sides
precipitous rock, in the midst of the green luxuriant plains of "the
Golden Vale," he may be able to form some idea of the various aspects of
sublimity and picturesqueness which it is so well calculated to assume,
and of the exciting interest it must necessarily create even in minds of
the lowest degree of intellectuality. Viewed from any point, it is,
indeed, such a scene as, once beheld, would impress itself on the memory
for ever.

It would appear from our ancient histories that the Rock of Cashel was
the site of the regal fortress of the Kings of Munster, from ages
anterior to the preaching of the gospel in Ireland; and it is stated in
the ancient lives of our patron Saint, that the monarch Ængus, the son of
Nathfraoich, was here converted, with his family, and the nobles of
Munster, by St Patrick in the fifth century. It would appear also from
the same authorities, that at this period there was a Pagan temple within
the fortress, which the Irish apostle destroyed; and though it is nowhere
distinctly stated, as far as we are able to discover, that a Christian
church was founded on its site in that age, the fact that it was so, may
fairly be inferred from the statement in the Tripartite Life of the
Saint, in which it is stated that no less than seventeen kings, descended
from Ængus and his brother Oilioll, being ordained monks, reigned at
Cashel, from the time of St Patrick to the reign of Cinngeoghan, who,
according to the Annals of Innisfallen, was deposed in the year 901,
Cormac MacCuilleanan being set up in his place. However this may be, it
can hardly admit of doubt that a church was erected, if not at that time,
at least some centuries afterwards, as appears from the existing round
tower, which is unquestionably of an age considerably anterior to any of
the other structures now remaining. It is said, indeed, and popularly
believed, that a cathedral church was erected here in the ninth century
by the King-Bishop Cormac MacCuilleanan; and if we had historical
authority for this supposition, we might conclude, with every
probability, that the round tower was of that age. But no such evidence
has been found, and Cashel is only noticed in our annals as a regal
residence of the Munster kings, till the beginning of the twelfth
century, when, at the year 1101, it is stated in the Annals of the Four
Masters, that "a convocation of the people of Leoth Mogha, or the
southern half of Ireland, was held at Cashel, at which Murtough O'Brien,
with the nobles of the laity and clergy, and O'Dunan, the illustrious
bishop and chief senior of Ireland, attended, and on which occasion
Murtough O'Brien made such an offering as king never made before him,
namely, Cashel of the Kings, which he bestowed on the devout, without the
intervention of a laic or an ecclesiastic, but for the use of the
religious of Ireland in general." The successor of this monarch, Cormac
MacCarthy, being deposed in 1127, as stated in the Annals of Innisfallen,
commenced the erection of the church, now popularly called "Cormac's
Chapel." He was, however, soon afterwards restored to his throne, and on
the completion of this church it was consecrated in 1134. This event is
recorded by all our ancient annalists in nearly the following words:--

"1134. The church built by Cormac MacCarthy at Cashel was consecrated
this year by the archbishop and bishops of Munster, at which ceremony the
nobility of Ireland, both clergy and laity, were present."

It can scarcely be doubted that this was the finest architectural work
hitherto erected in Ireland, but its proportions were small; and when, in
1152, the archbishopric of Munster was fixed at Cashel by Cardinal John
Paparo, the papal legate, it became necessary to provide a church of
greater amplitude. The present cathedral was in consequence erected by
Donald O'Brien, King of Limerick, and endowed with ample provisions in
lands, and the older church was converted into a chapel, or
chapter-house.

But though the present ruined cathedral claims this very early antiquity,
its existing architectural features chiefly belong to a later
age--namely, the commencement of the fifteenth century, when, as appears
from Wares's Antiquities, the cathedral was rebuilt by the archbishop,
Richard O'Hedian, or at least repaired, from a very ruinous condition in
which it then was. The Vicar's Hall, &c. was also erected by this
prelate; and it is not improbable that the castle was erected, or at
least re-edified, at the same period. It would appear, however, to have
been repaired as late as the sixteenth century, from the shields bearing
the arms of Fitzgerald and Butler, which are sculptured on it--prelates
of these names having governed the see in succession in the early half of
that century.

The interior of the cathedral is crowded with monuments of considerable
antiquity; and the tomb of Cormac MacCarthy is to be seen on one side of
the north porch, at the entrance to his chapel. It was opened above a
century since, and a pastoral staff, of exquisite beauty, and
corresponding in style with the ornaments of the chapel, was extracted
from it. It is now in the possession of Mr Petrie. The cemetery contains
no monument of any considerable age; but on the south side there is a
splendid but greatly dilapidated stone cross, which, there can be no
doubt, belongs to the twelfth century.

To give any detailed description of the architectural features of these
various edifices, would extend beyond the space prescribed by the limits
of our little Journal for a single paper; yet, as some description will
be expected of us, we shall briefly state a few particulars.

The round tower--the more ancient remain upon the Rock--is fifty-six feet
in circumference and ninety feet in height; it contains five stories, has
four apertures at top, and has its doorway twelve feet from the ground.

Cormac's Chapel consists of a nave and choir, but has neither transepts
nor lateral aisles. It is richly decorated in the Norman style of the
time, both exteriorly and interiorly; and the entire length of the
building is fifty-three feet. There are crypts between the arches of the
choir and nave and the stone roof; and there is a square tower on each
side of the building, at the junction of the nave and choir. Taken as a
whole, there is no specimen of its kind in the British empire so perfect
or curious.

The cathedral, as already stated, consists of a choir, nave, and
transepts, with a square tower in the centre. The greatest length, from
east to west, is about two hundred and ten feet, and the breadth in the
transepts is about a hundred and seventy feet. There are no side aisles,
and the windows are of the lancet form, usual in the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries. A century has not yet elapsed since this
magnificent pile was doomed to destruction, and that by one who should
have been its most zealous preserver. Archbishop Price, who succeeded to
this see in 1744, and died in 1752, not being able, as tradition states,
to drive in his carriage up the steep ascent to the church door, procured
an act of parliament to remove the cathedral from the Rock of Cashel into
the town, on which the roof was taken off for the value of the lead, and
the venerable pile was abandoned to ruin!

Of the remarkable historical events connected with these ruins, our space
will only permit us to state, that in 1495 the cathedral was burned by
Gerald, the eighth Earl of Kildare; for which act, being accused before
the king, his excuse was, that it was true, but that he would not have
done so but that he had supposed the archbishop was in it; and his
candour was rewarded with the chief governorship of Ireland!

In 1647, the cathedral--being filled with a vast number of persons, many
of whom were ecclesiastics, who had fled thither for refuge and
protection, a strong garrison having been placed in it by Lord Taafe--was
taken by storm by the Lord Inchiquin, with a considerable slaughter of
the garrison and citizens, including twenty ecclesiastics. It was again
taken by Cromwell in the year 1649.

In conclusion, we shall only remark, that the venerable group of ruins of
which we have attempted this slight sketch, considered as an object of
interest to pleasure tourists, and those of our own country in
particular, have not as yet been sufficiently appreciated; and that, as
Sir Walter Scott truly remarked, though the scenery of our lakes and
mountains may be rivalled in many parts of the sister islands, there is
nothing of their class, viewed as a whole, comparable in interest with
the ruins on the Rock of Cashel.

    P.




POETICAL PROPHECY OF BISHOP BERKELEY.--To our illustrious countryman.
Bishop Berkeley, may be with justice applied what he himself says of his
favourite, Plato, that "he has joined with an imagination the most
splendid and magnificent, an intellect fully as deep and clear." A morsel
of poetry from such a writer ought to be preserved as a literary
curiosity, and as a proof of the great variety of his talents; but when
we consider that the following was written almost in a prophetic spirit,
more than a century ago, and consequently long before the events to which
he seems to allude could well have been anticipated, it has an additional
claim upon our notice.


"AMERICA, 1730.

    There shall be sung another golden age,
      The rise of empires and of arts,
    The good and great inspiring epic rage,
      The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

    Not such as EUROPE breeds in her decay;
      Such as she bred when fresh and young,
    When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
      By future poets shall be sung.

    _Westward the course of empire bends its way_--
      The four first acts already past,
    A fifth shall close the drama and the day;
      Time's noblest offspring is the last."




THE SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES OF IRELAND ILLUSTRATED,

BY BARTLETT AND WILLIS.


"Know thyself," was the wise advice of the ancient Greek philosopher; and
it is certainly desirable that we should know ourselves, and take every
pains in our power to acquire self-knowledge. But the task is by no means
an easy one; and hence the poet Burns well exclaims,

    "Oh, wad some power the giftie gi'e us,
    To see oursells as others see us;
    It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
            And foolish notion.
    What airs in dress and gait wad lea' us,
            And e'en devotion!"

Determined, however, as we for own part always are, to acquire a
knowledge of ourselves, we felt no small gratification at the opportunity
which, we presumed, would be amply afforded us by the work of Messrs
Bartlett and Willis, the first an English artist, and the second an
American _litterateur_, who have left their homes, in a most commendable
spirit of philanthropy, to depict our scenery and antiquities, and to
tell us all that it behoves us to know about them and ourselves. We
accordingly lost not a moment in possessing ourselves of the precious
treasure that would, as we hoped, "the giftie gi'e us, to see oursells as
others see us;" and verily we must acknowledge that our wonderment during
its perusal has been excessive, and that it has convinced us that we
never knew ourselves before, or ever saw any thing about us with proper
eyes. Henceforward we shall be cautious how we trust to the evidence of
our senses for any thing we may see, for it is pretty plain that hitherto
they have been of no manner of use to us. They have deceived and
bamboozled us our whole lives long; and from the present moment we will
trust to none save those of Messrs Bartlett and Willis--at least we will
never trust to our own.

The very vignette on the title-page gave us some startling notification
of the fearful discovery that awaited us. We had flattered ourselves that
we were quite familiar with all the remarkable features of Irish scenery,
and should not fail at a glance to identify any delineation of them,
inasmuch as there is not a river or lake in Ireland of any extent that we
have not sailed on, not a mountain that we have not climbed, not a
headland or island on our coast that we have not visited. But here was a
subject of a striking and most remarkable character that appeared quite
new to us, nor should we ever have been able to guess at it, if a friend
to whom we applied for information had not assured us, to our utter
astonishment, that he was informed it was nothing less than our old
acquaintance the Giants' Causeway! The wonder at our blindness, however,
in some degree diminished when we perceived--if we can guess at the only
point from which such a view could be obtained--that the ingenious artist
had represented the sun setting in the north; for as often as we had been
at the Causeway, we never had the observation or good fortune to witness
such a sight. We must confess, moreover, that our feelings of
mortification at our ignorance were partly soothed, when we turned over
to the next vignette, which we at once recognised by its bridge to have
been intended for Poul-a-phuca, or, as Messrs Bartlett and Willis name
it, more correctly we presume, Phoula Phuca! We cannot, however, state
the impression left on our minds by each of the prints in succession; but
we shall take a glance at two or three of them; and when we have pointed
out the particulars that most confounded us in each, we can have little
doubt that such of our readers as have never seen the places they are
intended to represent, will concur in the conviction that has been forced
upon us by our inspection of them.

The first of them that astounded us beyond measure was that called
"Ancient Cross, Clonmacnoise." At this place we had erewhile spent some
of our happiest hours, meditating among its tombs, and admiring alike its
various ancient architectural remains, and the sublimely desolate but
appropriate character of its natural scenery. So familiar had we grown
with this most exciting scene, that we thought that we should have been
able to identify every stone in it blindfold; but that was all a mistake:
we had only a dim and erroneous vision of its features; we saw nothing
accurately. For instance, the stone cross which forms the principal
object in the foreground, and which gives name to this subject--this
cross, which we had often drawn and measured, and found to be just
fifteen feet in height, as Harris the antiquary had supposed before us,
here appears to be more than twenty feet! while the base of it, which to
our eyes always presented the appearance of a surface covered with a
sculptural design of a deer-hunt, by men, dogs, chariots, and horses, is
here an unadorned blank! The small round tower in the middle ground,
which, as we believed, stood on the very shore, nearly level with the
Shannon, has in this view mounted up the side of the hill. But what
struck us as furnishing the most remarkable proofs of our defect of
vision is, that the doorway of the great round tower, called O'Rourke's
Tower, which, according to our measurement, was five feet six inches in
height, and placed at the distance of eight feet from the ground, is here
represented as at least twenty feet from it; and the stone wall of the
cemetery, which, as it seemed to our perception, ran nearly from the
doorway of the tower to within a few yards of the cross, has no existence
whatever in the print, its place being occupied by some huge Druidical
monument which we never were able to see. The perspective in this view is
also of a novel kind, and well worthy of the attention of the Irish
artists, and all those in Ireland who may hitherto have supposed that
they knew something of this science. They will see that the level lines,
or courses, on circular buildings, instead of ascending to the horizontal
line when below it, descend to some horizontal line of their own; and
that in fact there is not one horizontal line only in the picture, but
perhaps a dozen, which fully proves that our previous notions on this
point were wholly erroneous.

But we must hurry on. What have we got next? "Clew Bay from West Port,"
or "Baie De Clew, vue de West Port." Well, we believe this is intended
for the beautiful Bay of Westport, called Clew Bay; but, if so, what has
become of the beautiful country of Murisk, renowned in Irish song, which
used to be situated at the base of Croagh Phadraig, or Croagh Patric? And
is this the noble Reek itself? Good heavens! but it must have suffered
from some strange convulsion since we saw it; it has been actually torn
into a perpendicular cliff from its very summit to its base. But what are
we thinking of? It was, we suppose, always so; and our not having
observed it, is only a proof that we were never able to look at it
correctly--and we should know better in future.

One peep more, and we shall have done. What is this? Scene from
Cloonacartin Hill, Connemara. Ay, that's a scene we have looked at for
many an hour. That group of jagged and pointed mountains to the left is
the glorious Twelve Pins of Binnabeola. We never indeed saw them grouped
so closely together, or standing so upright; but no matter: the hurricane
of last year perhaps has blown them together, and carried away their
sloping bases. But what do we see in the middle ground? The two lakes of
Derry Clare and Lough Ina joined in one; and the rapid and unnavigable
river which united them, or which we thought we saw there--where is it?
_Non est incentus_: alas! alas! it is not to be found. Most wonderful!
Lough Ina, with its three little wooded islands, no longer exists as a
separate lake. It has, however, now got ten islands instead of three;
but, then, they are all bare--all, all!--and the ancient ones have lost
their wood. In like manner the flat heathy grounds between the mountains
and the lakes to the right, have wholly disappeared, and nothing but
water is to be seen in their place.

But our limits will not permit us to notice any more of Mr Bartlett's
innumerable discoveries, which are equally remarkable in all his other
views; so, after making him our grateful bow, we turn to the labours of
his coadjutor, the celebrated author of "Pencillings by the Way," little
doubting that by his lucubrations we shall be equally edified and
astonished. Mr Willis does not attempt a description of the scenes
depicted by his co-labourer--it would, perhaps, be a difficult task for
him, as in the instance of the view from Cloonacartin Hill, which we have
noticed. But instead thereof, he treats us to pencillings of his own of a
very graphic character, and usually as little like nature, as we had
supposed it in Ireland, as even the drawings of Mr Bartlett. The chief
difference between them is, that while the sketches of the one are
landscape, those of the other are generally in the figure line; and after
the model of the Dutch masters, mostly consisting of hackney-car drivers,
waiters, chambermaids, and, what his principal forte lies in, beggars! In
his sketches of the latter he beats Callot himself; they are evidently
drawn for love of the thing. After witnessing "the splendid failure at
Eglintoun Castle," Mr Willis embarks at Port-Patrick, and lands at
Donaghadee. This he tells us he did in imitation of St Patrick, "who
evidently," like Mr Willis, "knew enough of geography to decide which
point of Scotland was nearest to the opposite shore." This was new to us;
but it should be noted in chronicles. He then travels on an Irish car to
Belfast, and, like more of our modern visitors who favour us with their
lucubrations, gives us a sketch of the said car, horse, and its driver,
which, of course, are all singular things in their way. The pencilling,
however, is a pleasant one enough, as it shows us that the car-driver
very soon smoked the character of the travellers he had to take care of,
and quizzed accordingly in a very proper and creditable Irish style.
After a dangerous journey Mr Willis arrives safely in Belfast, and
proceeds to give us his sketch of its inhabitants in the following
words:--

"It was market-day at Belfast, and the streets were thronged with the
country people, the most inactive crowd of human beings, it struck me,
that I had ever seen. The women were all crouching under their grey
cloaks, or squatting upon the thills of the potato-carts, or upon steps
or curb-stones; and the men were leaning where there was any thing to
lean against, or dragging their feet heavily after them, in a listless
lounge along the pavement. It was difficult to remember that this was the
most energetic and mercurial population in the world; yet a second
thought tells one that there is an analogy in this to the habits of the
most powerful of the animal creation--the lion and the leopard, when not
excited, taking their ease like the Irishman."

Men of Belfast, what think you of that? But hear him out--

"I had thought, among a people so imaginative as the Irish, to have seen
some touch of fancy in dress, if ever so poor--a bit of ribbon on the
women's caps, or a jaunty cock of the 'boy's' tile, or his jacket or coat
worn shapely and with an air. But dirty cloaks, ribbonless caps,
uncombed hair, and not even a little straw taken from the cart and put
under them when they sat on the dirty side-walk, were universal symptoms
that left no room for belief in the existence of any vanity whatsoever in
the women; many of them of an age, too, when such fancies are supposed to
be universal to the sex. The men could scarce be less ornamental in their
exteriors; but the dirty sugar-loaf hat, with a shapeless rim, and a
twine around it to hold a pipe; the coat thrown over the shoulders, with
the sleeves hanging behind; the shoes mended by a wisp of straw stuffed
into the holes, and their faces and bare breasts nearly as dirty as their
feet, were alike the uniform of old and young. Still those who were not
bargaining were laughing, and even in our flourishing canter through the
market I had time to make up my mind, that if they had taken a farewell
of vanity, they had not of fun."

Again we say, men of Belfast, what think you of that? Did you ever see
yourselves in this manner? If so, we must say that it is more than we
ever did, though we have spent many a gay week in your noble, thriving,
and most industrious town. "Neither a bit of ribbon on the women's caps,
nor a jaunty cock of the boy's tile;" no, "but the dirty sugar-loaf hat,
with a shapeless rim, and a twine round it to hold a pipe; and the shoes
mended by a wisp of straw stuffed into the holes," &c. This certainly
flogs; and we must look more attentively to the Belfastians in future.

Mr Willis proceeds to the hotel called the Donegal Arms, which he allows
is a handsome house, in a broad and handsome street; and then he adds,
"But I could not help pointing out to my companion the line of soiled
polish at the height of a man's shoulder on every wall and doorpost
within sight, showing, with the plainness of a high-water mark, the
average height as well as the prevailing habit of the people. We
certainly have not yet found time to acquire _that_ polish in America
[most civilized people!]; and if we must wait till the working classes
find time to lean, it will be a century or two at least before we can
show as polished an hotel as the Donegal Arms at Belfast, or (at that
particular line above the side walk) as polished a city altogether." Such
is Mr Willis's description of the Gresham's Hotel of Belfast, a house
which we had foolishly thought was remarkable for its cleanliness, order,
and good accommodation. Of course he got a miserable dinner of
"unornamented chops and potatoes," after which he proceeded to visit the
lions of Belfast. But we cannot follow him in all his wanderings, though
he tells us many things that are not a little amusing, as, for instance,
that the houses have a _noseless_ and flattened aspect; that he saw
Dubufe's pictures of Adam and Eve, and sagaciously remarks how curious
it is to observe how particularly clean they are (that is, Adam and Eve)
before they sinned, and how very dingy after--being dirtied by their
fall; and, what was very agreeable to him, the exhibitor of the pictures
actually called him by name, having remembered seeing the great penciller
in America! After having read the advertisements stuck on every wall, of
"vessels bound to New York," and having "_done_ that end of the town," he
returned towards the inn. He then sallied out again to _do_ the other
end, and tells us with great satisfaction of a successful petty larceny
of a very sentimental kind which he achieved in the Botanical
Gardens--namely, plucking a _heart's-ease_, as an expressive remembrance
of his visit--"in spite of a cautionary placard, and the keeper standing
under the porch and looking on." After this feat he returned to the inn,
and very wisely went to bed. "A bare-footed damsel, with very pink
heels"--recollect, reader, that this was in the Donegal Arms--"was

                    'My grim chamberlain,
    Who lighted me to bed:'

and in some fear of oversleeping the hour for the coach in the morning, I
reiterated, and 'sealed with a silver token,' my request to be waked at
six. Fortunately for a person who possesses Sancho's 'alacrity at sleep,'
the noise of a coach rattling over the pavement woke me just in time to
save my coffee and my place. I returned to my chamber the moment before
mounting the coach for something I had forgotten, and as the clock was
striking _eight_, the faithful damsel knocked at my door and informed me
that it was _past six_."

Mr Willis is a fortunate traveller. Often as we have stopped at the
Donegal Arms, we never had the good fortune to see the pink heels or bare
legs of a chambermaid; and the moral economy of the house must be greatly
changed also, when they allow the gentlemen to be called by the said
bare-legged damsels; a duty which, in our visits at it and all other
respectable hotels, always devolved on that useful personage called
Boots. We do not think, however, that this change of the system--leaving
the calling of the gentlemen to the chambermaids--would work well, except
in the case of American travellers. Still, however, as he says, he was in
time, and started off--no longer in St Patrick's track, but on King
William's route to the battle of the Boyne--and arrives in Drogheda to
dinner. He tells us that the country is very bare of wood, and then
proceeds in the following words to describe the habitations.

"But what shall I say of the _human habitations_ in this (so called) most
thriving and best-conditioned quarter of Ireland? If I had not seen every
second face at a hovel-door with a smile on it, and heard laughing and
begging in the same breath everywhere, I should think here were human
beings abandoned by their Maker. Many of the dwellings I saw upon the
roadside looked to me like the abodes of extinguished hope--forgotten
instincts--grovelling, despairing, nay, almost idiotic wretchedness. I
did not know there were such sights in the world. I did not know that men
and women, upright, and made in God's image, could live in styes, like
swine, _with_ swine--sitting, lying down, cooking and eating in such
filth as all brute animals, save the one 'unclean,' revolt from and
avoid. The extraordinary part of it, too, is, that it seems almost
altogether the result of choice. I scarce saw one hovel, the mud-floor of
which was not excavated several inches _below_ the ground-level without;
and as there is no sill, or raised threshold, there is no bar, I will not
say to the water, but to the liquid filth that oozes to its lower
reservoir within. A few miles from Drogheda, I pointed out to my
companions a woman sitting in a hovel at work, with the muddy water up to
her ancles, and an enormous hog scratching himself against her knee.
These disgusting animals were everywhere walking in and out of the hovels
at pleasure, jostling aside the half-naked children, or wallowing in the
wash, outside or in--the best-conditioned and most privileged inmates,
indeed, of every habitation. All this, of course, is matter of choice,
and so is the offal-heap, situated, in almost every instance, directly
before the door, and draining its putrid mass into the hollow, under the
peasant's table. Yet mirth _does_ live in these places--people _do_ smile
on you from these squalid abodes of wretchedness--the rose of health
_does_ show itself upon the cheeks of children, whose cradle is a
dung-heap, and whose play-fellows are hogs! And of the beings who live
thus, courage, wit, and quenchless love of liberty, are the undenied and
universal characteristics. Truly, that mysterious law of nature by which
corruption paints the rose and feeds the fragrant cup of the lily, is not
without its similitude! Who shall say what is clean, when the back of
the most loathsome of reptiles turns out, on examination, more beautiful
than the butterfly? Who shall say what extremes may not meet, when, amid
the filth of an Irish hovel, spring, like flowers, out of ordure, the
graces of a prince in his palace?"

All this, the reader will remark, was seen from the top of a stage-coach
on a drenching wet day! What wonderful powers of observation he must
have! The penciller next treats us to a song, descriptive of an Irish
cabin, which he tells us was sung for him by one of the most beautiful
women he saw in Ireland. His memorable arrival in Drogheda is thus
described:--

"As we drove into Drogheda, we entered a crowd, which I can only describe
as suggesting the idea of a miraculous advent of rags. It was market-day,
and the streets were so thronged that you could scarce see the pavement,
except under the feet of the horses; and the public square was a sea of
tatters. Here and all over Ireland I could but wonder where and how these
rent and frittered habiliments had gone through the preparatory stages of
wear and tear. There were no degrees--nothing above rags to be seen in
coat or petticoat, waistcoat or breeches, cloak or shirt. Even the hats
and shoes were in rags; not a whole covering, even of the coarsest
material, was to be detected on a thousand backs about us: nothing
shabby, nothing threadbare, nothing mended, except here and there a hole
in a beggar's coat, stuffed with straw. Who can give me the genealogy of
Irish rags? Who took the gloss from these coats, once broadcloth? who
wore them? who tore them? who sold them to the Jews? (for, by the way,
Irish rags are fine rags, seldom frieze or fustian). How came the tatters
of the entire world, in short, assembled in Ireland? for if, as it would
seem, they have all descended from the backs of gentlemen, the entire
world must contribute to maintain the supply."

Readers, such of you as have been in Drogheda, did you ever see any thing
like this? People of Drogheda, do you recognise yourselves in this
picture here drawn of you? We are sure you cannot. But he is not done
with you yet. He had been rather unlucky in the pursuit of his favourite
subjects for study in Belfast--namely, the beggars; but this
disappointment was atoned for in Drogheda. He describes them thus:--

"I had been rather surprised at the scarcity of beggars in Belfast, but
the beggary of Drogheda fully came up to the travellers' descriptions.
They were of every possible variety. At the first turn the coach made in
the town, we were very near running over a blind man, who knelt in the
liquid mud of the gutter (the calves of his legs quite covered by the
pool, and only his heels appearing above), and held up in his hands the
naked and footless stumps of a boy's legs. The child sat in a wooden box,
with his back against the man's breast, and ate away very unconcernedly
at a loaf of bread, while the blind exhibitor turned his face up to the
sky, and, waving the stumps slightly from side to side, kept up a
vociferation for charity that was heard above all the turmoil of the
market place. When we stopped to change horses, the entire population, as
deep as they could stand, at least with any chance of being heard, held
out their hands, and in every conceivable tone and mode of arresting the
attention, implored charity. The sight was awful: old age in shapes so
hideous, I should think the most horrible nightmare never had conceived.
The rain poured down upon their tangled and uncovered heads, seaming,
with its cleansing torrents, faces so hollow, so degraded in expression,
and, withal, so clotted with filth and neglect, that they seemed like
features of which the very owners had long lost, not only care, but
consciousness and remembrance; as if, in the horrors of want and idiotcy,
they had anticipated the corrupting apathy of the grave, and abandoned
every thing except the hunger which gnawed them into memory of existence.
The feeble blows and palsied fighting of these hag-like spectres for the
pence thrown to them from the coach, and the howling, harsh, and
unnatural voices in which they imprecated curses on each other in the
fury of the struggle, have left a remembrance in my mind, which deepens
immeasurably my fancied _nadir_ of human abandonment and degradation.
God's image so blasted, so defiled, so sunk below the beasts that perish,
I would not have believed was to be found in the same world with _hope_."

But we, and our readers too, have probably had enough of Mr Willis's
"Pencillings by the Way" in Ireland--pencillings which would seem to have
been sketched with a material to which he is apparently very partial,
namely, dirt. And now, in return for the favour which this gentleman and
his coadjutor have conferred upon us, by their exertions to enable us to
improve our acquaintance with ourselves, we shall communicate our own
opinion of them, and hope they will be equally benefited by the
knowledge. We think, then, that they are a pair of gentlemen who must
have a wonderfully good opinion of themselves, and that not altogether
without reason, inasmuch as they possess in common one quality, which
shall be nameless, but in which not even we, natives of the Emerald Isle
as we are, can pretend to compete with them. We do not think that there
are any two Irishmen living, who would travel into a foreign country to
represent its scenery like the one, or sketch the manners and
characteristics of its inhabitants like the other, and expect that they
should be rewarded by the purchase of their works by that people or in
that country. Mr Bartlett is but an indifferent artist, unacquainted even
with some of the rudiments of his art, who has acquired the trade-knack
of making pretty pictures by imitating the works of others, and by a
total disregard of the real features of the scenes which he undertakes to
depict. Mr Willis is a more accomplished sketcher in his line; and his
delineations might be of value, if his conceited ambition to produce
effect did not continually mar whatever intrinsic worth they might
otherwise possess; but as it is, he is little better than a pert and
flippant caricaturist. Neither one nor the other of these gentlemen, in
short, would seem qualified for the task which they have so daringly
undertaken; and we think it would have been well, if, before they
resolved upon going through with it, they had been mindful of the Eastern
proverb, "A lie, though it promise good, will do thee harm, and truth
will do thee good at the last." Applying this to ourselves as critics, we
feel in conclusion bound to acknowledge that the prints in this work,
considered as engravings, are deserving of the highest praise.

    X. Y.




SUNRISE.


            The night is past,
            And the mists are fast
    Receding before the morning blast;
            But still the light
            Of the Moon is bright,
    As reluctant she yields to the Sun his right;
            And the morning star
            Appears, afar,
    To announce the approach of Aurora's car.

            The silver sea
            Yet seems to be
    As calm as the rest of infancy;
            And the mountain steep
            Is still in the deep
    Profound repose of a giant's sleep;
            And the gurgling rill,
            That is never still,
    Seems to double its noise to arouse the hill.

            The Moon in the west
            Now sinks to rest,
    And the night-bird withdraws to its ivied nest
            In yon antique tower,
            Which shows how the power
    And pride of man pass away in an hour;
            And the carol--hark!
            Of the early lark,
    Proclaims the Sun to the dell still dark.

            A yellow ray,
            As if from the spray
    Of the ocean, springs with the stars to play;
            But they shrink away,
            As afraid to stay,
    And leave the rude beam to disport as it may;
            And, one by one,
            They all have gone,
    And the sky is bright where they lately shone.

            The surges roar
            On the sounding shore,
    As if to awaken the mountain hoar;
            But the morning light
            Has just touched the height
    Of his topmost crag, and awaked his sight,
            And twitched away,
            In mirthful play,
    His dew-soaked nightcap of misty grey.

            See yon green wood
            That o'erhangs the flood
    Of that beautiful river; it seems as it would
            Fain stoop to greet
            The water sweet,
    Which coquettishly glides away, as fleet
            As a mountain fay,
            In fairy play,
    And to the great ocean runs away.

            Now the zenith is white
            With a doubtful light,
    That is dulled with the dregs of the recent night;
            But 'tis fast giving way
            To the saffron ray,
    That can only be seen at dawn of day;
            And this is pushed on
            By the golden one
    Which precedes the car of the glorious Sun.

            Now, the fearful pride
            Of the mountain's side,
    Rocks and chasms and cliffs one by one are descried;
            And the brightening light
            Descends the height,
    With majestic step, to the plain now bright;
            And the golden vest
            Which adorns the east,
    Sends its searching rays to the dark, sullen west.

            The carpet of gold
            O'er his path's now unrolled,
    And all Nature's expectant its king to behold--
            And see! the first gem,
            The most brilliant of them
    That flash in the front of his diadem;
            And--majestic--slow,
            He uprises now,
    O'er rejoicing worlds, his radiant brow!




OLD PROVERBS.

"THERE'S LUCK IN LEISURE."

"DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS."


"James Scanlan wants to see you, sir. I told him you were hardly done
dinner, but he begged me to let you know he is waiting."

"Dear me," said my father, "what can he want? Show him in, Carey.--Well,
James, what is the matter?"

"Oh! your honour, sir, won't you come see my poor father? He'll speak to
you, but we can't get a word from him. He's dying of grief, my mother is
so bad."

"Your mother, James!--what has happened her?"

"She took a heavy cold, sir, on Friday last, from a wetting she got going
to Cashel; and when she came home, she took to her bed, and it's worse
and worse she has got ever since, and at last she began to rave this
morning; and as Dr M'Carthy was going past to the dispensary, Pat called
him in; and when he looked at her, he just shook his head and said he'd
send her something, but that we must be prepared for any thing that might
happen. Well, sir, when my father heard that, he went and sat down by the
bedside, and taking my mother's hand in his, says he, 'Ah, then, Mary,
a-cushla-machree, am I going to lose you? Are you going from me? Did I
ever think I'd see this day? Ah, Mary, avourneen, sure you won't leave
me?' And from that to this he has never stirred, nor spoken, nor taken
the least notice of any one--not even of me--not even of me."

The poor fellow burst into a flood of tears.

In a few minutes I was standing with my father by the bedside of Mrs
Scanlan. She was quite unconscious of what was passing around. Her
husband, who was my father's principal tenant, and a substantial farmer,
sat as his eldest and favourite son had described; and although the
object of my father's visit was to rouse him from his lethargy, it was
long ere he addressed himself to the task. It seemed almost sacrilegious
to disturb such hallowed grief.

At length he laid his hand upon Scanlan's shoulder. "Come, James," said
he, "look up, man; don't be so utterly cast down. You know the old
saying, 'Whilst there's life, there's hope.'"

"It's kind of your honour to try and comfort me; but yours was always the
good heart, and the kind one, and you never made the sight of your sunny
face a compliment. But it's no use--there's no hope. The death's on her
handsome countenance."

He groaned deeply, and rocked himself backwards and forwards.

"James," said my father, "we must be resigned to the will of God, but we
need not make ourselves miserable by anticipating evils."

"Your honour was but a slip of a gossoon when you danced at the bright
girl's wedding, and you're come now in time to see the last of the old
woman--the old woman, the old woman," repeated he, as if something struck
him in the sound of the words as strange. "Two-and-forty is not old, but
they called her 'the old woman' since the boys began to grow up. But she
never grew old to me; she's the same now that she was the first evening I
told her, that she was the only treasure on the face of the earth that my
heart coveted. Only, much as I loved her then, I love her more now. Oh!
Mary, Mary, pulse of my heart, would to God I could die before you!"

The younger son Pat, his mother's favourite, now entered the room in a
state of pitiable excitement. He had been at the dispensary to procure
the medicine prescribed by the doctor, and to his imagination every
person and every thing seemed to have conspired to delay him, whilst the
lookers on deemed his haste almost superhuman.

He immediately attempted to administer the draught he had brought, but
his mother could not be made to understand what was wanted of her; and at
length, as if teased by his importunities, she suddenly dashed the cup of
medicine from her.

The look of unutterable anguish with which he regarded her, as she
rejected and destroyed that upon the taking of which depended the last
hope, was indescribable.

The almost fierceness of his haste, which he now saw had been utterly
useless, had flushed his cheek and lighted up his countenance, and he
stood with his hands clasped, and raised as if in prayer, with firmly
shut lips, and his eyes, in which you could view the transition from
eager hope to utter despair, fixed upon her face, like a being that was
changing into stone.

At the other side of the bed was his father, who had resumed his former
attitude, and beside him stood his eldest son, whose utterly wretched
countenance, alternating from one parent to the other, showed that he
suffered that lowest state of misery, which anticipates still further and
greater woe as a consequence from that which overwhelms at present.

My father left the room. I looked upon the group one instant. I felt that
I could have resigned the possession of worlds to be permitted the luxury
of raising the load of grief from those afflicted hearts; but it could
not be, and I retired to relieve my surcharged feelings in solitude.

Ere morning dawned, nature had received another instalment of her debt.

My father and I attended the funeral, and were surprised at the apparent
fortitude of Mr Scanlan. We wished to bring him with us to the Hall after
the sad ceremony, but he would not come. We then accompanied him to his
own house. As we entered, I glanced at him: he was ghastly pale. He
looked slowly round, fixed his eyes one moment on the countenance of his
younger son, another on the elder, and sank upon a chair.

Since the period of which I now write, I have often witnessed the closing
scene of mortality, and various are the opinions I have heard, as to
which point of time, between the moment of death and the first appearance
abroad of the survivors in their mourning apparel, is the saddest, the
most afflicting, or the most trying--whether the moment of dissolution,
the first appearance of the undertaker, the laying out in the apparel of
death, the bringing of the coffin, the last frantic kiss and look, the
screwing down, the carrying out, the dull thud of the clay upon the
coffin lid. Oh! think not that I am coolly writing this, that I am
probing with the surgeon's calmness the deep, the sensitive (with many
bleeding) wounds that death has given.

I am but a young man, yet my brain reels, and my eyes burn, and my heart
swells to my throat, as memory holds the mirror to my view, and I see
depicted in it the scenes, and feel again the feelings, that have been
more than once or twice excited at the stages which I have just recounted
in order. But of all the stabs thus given to the heart, of all those
moments of anguish, the keenest is that felt when the survivor re-enters
the house, where the form and the voice and the cheerful laugh of the
departed one had made his home a little paradise, and feels that that
home is now for ever desolate! Is there a desert so deserted?

"James," said Mr Scanlan, after he had looked steadfastly at him for some
time, "you were the first she brought me; and when you came into the
world, I was almost beside myself with joy; and when I was allowed to
enter the room where she was sitting up in bed, with you in her arms, I
almost smothered you both with kisses; and I cried, and laughed, and
danced about, as if I was mad. Sure I need'nt be ashamed to own it, now
that she's gone. And when I told her that they said you were the image of
me, she answered me, 'So he ought, for sure you were always before my
eyes;' and when I said that I could'nt be 'always,' she said that 'twas
the eyes of her heart she meant. So, Pat, avourneen (addressing the
younger, who had been all this time crying bitterly), though you're the
living image of her that's dead, and though father could'nt love son more
than I do you, you're not surprised that I gave James the preference
sometimes, though I never loved you the less."

"Father dear," said Pat, "I was never jealous of Jem, nor he of me; we
both knew that our faces and tempers and dispositions took after you
both--Jem's after you, and mine after my mother. Oh! mother dear! mother
dear!" He burst into a paroxysm of grief, ran wildly into his mother's
room, and threw himself across the bed, roaring in a frenzied manner,
"James, honey, isn't the house terrible lonesome?" and a violent shudder
ran through poor Scanlan's frame. "Isn't there a great echo in it? It's
very chilly; I believe I had better go and lie down on the bed."

He stood up, and, continuing the forward movement of his body after he
had risen to a standing position, would have fallen, extended on his
face, but that I caught him just as his watchful son had sprung to save
him.

Poor Pat now mastered his feelings in some degree, and turned his entire
attention to assist his surviving parent. He was laid on the bed, and
shortly recovered himself, and addressed my father. "I know your honour
feels for my trouble, and will excuse the boys and me for not showing the
attention we ought to show for your goodness."

"Say nothing about attention to me, James; I am sorry for your trouble,
and, God knows, I wish I knew how to relieve and comfort you."

"I'm sure you do, sir.--Boys, I won't be long with you. The pulse of my
heart is gone. Look up to his honour, and never forget, that, though
there's no clanship in these times, and though many a shoneen holds a
higher head than his in the country now, you still owe him your love and
fealty, for he's one of the real old stock; and your forefathers followed
his forefathers in war and peace, when, if you stood on the highest crag
of the Bogaragh, you could'nt see to the bounds of their wide domains.
And while his honour is present, and I have my senses clear about me,
I'll lay my commands on you both, boys; and if ever you break through
them (though I am sure you never will), let his honour, and the young
master here bear witness against you."

He then delivered what was simply a verbal will, directing how they
should dispose of and divide his property and effects, and concluded as
follows:--

"When your mother and I were married, we were both of us full of old
sayings and proverbs, and we thought, like most others, that their
meaning should be taken in the plainest and fullest signification; and as
most of them are universally allowed to contain a great deal of wisdom
and good sense, we thought that whoever regulated his or her conduct
strictly according to their rule, would of necessity be the wisest person
in the world.

One of these sayings, that I had been taught to believe was one of the
wisest ever pronounced by man, was, 'there's luck in leisure,' and this
was my most favourite maxim; but when I got married, I found that your
mother--that your mother had a favourite one also--'delays are
dangerous.'

Well, the first year, when the corn was coming up, a corn factor came to
this part of the country, and offered a middling fair price for an
average crop. Mary bade me take it, as I'd have that much money certain,
and if the season should turn out bad, the factor would be the sufferer,
and I'd be safe.

'Take it at once,' said she; 'you know "delays are dangerous."'

I began to consider that if the season should be only middling, inclining
to bad, I might get as much money still, as the factor offered; and if it
should turn out fine, the crop would produce a great deal more, whilst
it would be only in the event of a bad season that I'd be apt to lose.
'There's luck in leisure,' said I; 'I'll wait.'

Well, the season was dreadful: most of the crops were totally destroyed,
and we suffered more than almost any of the neighbours. I was afraid to
look Mary in the face, when I had made out the extent of my loss, but she
only said, 'Come, Jemmy, it can't be helped; the worse luck now, the
better another time. You'll attend more to wise old sayings for the
future; they were made out of wiser heads than yours.'

'Ah, but, Mary, a-cushla, it was following an old saying that I was; sure
you have often heard say, "there's luck in leisure."' 'Poh,' said she,
'that's only a foolish saying, take my word for it.'

Next year the sky-farmer came again. He had lost nothing, for no one
would deal with him, on his terms, the year before; and to hear how
heartlessly he'd jeer and jibe them that had the sore hearts in their
bosoms, and calculate up for them how much they had lost, and then he'd
say, he supposed they would'nt refuse a good offer another time. Well, I
asked him was he going to make me a good offer, and he said he would'nt
care if he did, and he offered as much as would hardly pay the rent,
letting alone seed and labour. 'Why,' said I, 'you'll give as much as you
offered last year.' 'Not I indeed,' said he; 'I bought experience instead
of corn last year, and you paid for it;' and he laughed, and shook
himself with glee, and chuckled, and jingled the guineas in his pockets,
until I was hardly able to keep from knocking him down.

Well, I higgled and bargained, and tried to raise him, but not another
penny would he give; and at last he said that he was going away in the
morning, and so I might take it or leave it, as I liked--he would'nt
force his money on any man, not he. 'Delays are dangerous,' thought I;
and, though it was a certain loss, I agreed.

A finer season than that, never came from the heavens. The factor came to
see the crops, and such crops as they were! Several others had done like
me; and if he laughed at us the year before, he laughed ten times more
now. The year before he had lost nothing: this year he had made a
fortune. He had laughed at our losses before, but he now laughed over his
own gains. 'They may laugh who win.'

If he had taken it quieter, he might have done the same thing again; but
by acting as he did, he set every one against him, and he never after
could buy up growing crops here.

'Mary, my darling,' said I, 'we're almost ruined, in the second year, by
following old sayings. I'll never believe in them again.' 'Jemmy, dear,'
said she, 'I have been thinking the matter over, and I believe it's not
the sayings that are wrong, but the wrong use that's made of them; for if
we had said them the other way, we'd have made money instead of losing
it; and for the future we'll try to use the sense that God has given us,
and the acquirements such as they are that He has enabled us to obtain,
in directing us to the proper use and timely application of those
proverbs that are really wise and useful when properly applied.'

As it was the will of the Almighty, boys, that your dear mother should
not have had her senses about her when departing, and it's likely that
these are the last of her sensible words that I'll ever be able to tell
you, I'd have you take them, and think upon them as if they were her last
addressed to you, and let neither proverbs, however apparently wise in
themselves, nor superstitious remarks, ever guide your actions or sway
your conduct until you have applied to them the touchstone of your own
common sense.

May God bless and guide you, my darling boys; and now I have done with
the world and its affairs."

That day fortnight the funeral of James Scanlan was attended by

    NAISI.




IRISH BULLS.--On the first appearance of Miss Edgeworth's admirable
"Essay on Irish Bulls," the secretary of a celebrated agricultural
society in Ireland received orders from its committee to procure several
copies of the book, for the use of the members in their labours for
improving _the breed of cattle_!

AN AMBITIOUS HORSE AND ACCOMMODATING RIDER.--An Irishman was riding
through a bog, when his horse sank deeply into the mud, and in his
efforts to extricate himself, Pat got his foot into the stirrup. "Arrah,
musha!" exclaimed the rider, "if you are going to get _up_, it is time
for me to get _down_!" and he forthwith proceeded to dismount with all
reasonable speed.




NOVEL AND SINGULAR MODE OF RELIEVING NERVOUS COMPLAINTS.


In a London medical work entitled _The Doctor_, are given the particulars
of an interesting case of neuralgia, or _tic douleureux_, which, it
appears, after having been treated with the usual medicines for more than
two years, with little or no remission of the painful symptoms attending
it, yielded at length to a new and extraordinary remedy, in the shape of
a _metal magnet_. The experiments tried upon the occasion promise results
of such considerable interest and practical importance to the health
perhaps of thousands, that we shall offer no apology to our readers for
copying the history of the cure and the accompanying details into our
columns, premising only, that while we individually place every reliance
on the good faith of the witnesses who attest the facts recorded, we do
not consider ourselves bound to vouch for their statement authoritatively
to others, or draw any inference of a positive kind with respect to a
remedy, of the nature and effects of which, after all, it is properly the
province of the faculty alone to form a judgment.

     "Our readers (observes the writer) will remember the
     interesting case of neuralgia of the finger, at St Thomas's
     Hospital, upon which Dr Elliotson stated, in a clinical
     lecture, that he had exhausted his store of remedial agents,
     without developing a shade of improvement. [The remedies
     resorted to primarily were, carbonate of iron, cyanuret of
     potass, strychnine, croton oil, hydrocyanic acid, and extract
     of belladonna.] A more severe case, probably, was never
     subjected to treatment. The man left the hospital for a time,
     totally unrelieved, but soon afterwards returned, when, in
     accordance with a suggestion, as Dr Elliotson has since
     observed, of a correspondent of our own, the _colchicum
     autumnale_ was tried in the case, without, however, the
     slightest benefit being derived therefrom. The sedative powers
     of the _lobelia inflata_ then suggested to Dr Elliotson the
     propriety of giving the patient the chance of that medicine.
     The grounds on which it was employed proved to be in some
     measure correctly founded. The man took the _lobelia_, in
     increasing doses, every hour, beginning with seven drops of the
     tincture, and adding a drop to each progressive dose, until as
     large a quantity had been reached as could be taken without
     deranging the functions of the stomach. Some amelioration of
     the affection followed this treatment. The patient, who was
     before unable even to cross the ward, or bear without
     excruciating agony the slightest contact with his finger-nails,
     and had become emaciated to the extremest degree, from pain and
     sleeplessness, was now enabled to walk a little way and enjoy
     intervals of rest, partly recovered his good looks, and became
     comparatively cheerful.

     The relief, however, was very far from being either perfect or
     permanent. In fact, the continued exhibition of the medicine
     was demanded to secure any portion of rest.

     A short time since, however, a new remedial agent presented
     itself, in the form of the _magnet_. The hospital was visited,
     first by Dr Kyle, and subsequently by Dr Blundell, who followed
     up the application begun by Dr Kyle. The _lobelia inflata_ was
     allowed by Dr Elliotson to be suspended, and the effect of the
     magnet tried. That effect was, to the surprise of all who
     witnessed it, a most decided one; the pain was, on every
     application of the instrument, removed, and continued absent
     for several hours.

     On Tuesday last [in June 1833], Dr Blundell attended the
     hospital at the hour of Dr Elliotson's visit, when, in the
     presence of the pupils and our reporter, he drew forth the
     magnet, and commenced its application to the patient's finger.

     The instrument is of the horse-shoe form, about ten inches in
     its long axis, and five in its short, composed of five layers
     of metal, the central being the longest, and the whole bound
     with stout ribbon. The patient was at the time apparently
     suffering considerable pain, _and unable to use his hand_. The
     _north_ pole of the magnet was gently passed five or six times
     down the sides and back of the middle finger, and then rested
     on the central joint. The result was such an immediate
     cessation of suffering, that he could gnash his fingers into
     the palm of his hand with ease and comfort, and he declared
     himself to be entirely relieved. The power of the instrument,
     however, did not cease here. Dr Blundell showed that it
     possessed the means of reproducing the pain in the most intense
     form. The _south_ pole of the magnet was directed along the
     finger. At the third pass the patient began to bite his lip and
     close his eyes with an expression of pain. At a few passes
     more his chin was spasmodically buried in his breast, and his
     wrinkled features expressed the acutest suffering. This was
     allowed to continue for a few seconds, when the _north_ pole
     was again presented to the finger, and the agony speedily
     subsided. The spectators then left the man lying with a
     countenance perfectly tranquil.

     At the extremity of the ward lay an elderly lady, a martyr to
     _tic douleureux_ in the lower jaw, extending to the ear, and
     affecting a large portion of the head. The disease, she stated,
     was of more than nine years' duration, and had never ceased to
     afflict her for a day during that period, up to her entrance
     into the hospital. Her appearance was proportionably miserable.
     The magnet had also been applied in her case, and with similar
     advantage, as she stated. On the present occasion it was found,
     on approaching her bed, that she was in consequence free from
     pain on that morning, and the further aid of the magnet was not
     needed. 'But cannot you show its power by producing the pain?'
     inquired a bystander. The suggestion was acted on. The _south_
     pole of the magnet was passed from the centre of the chin along
     the lower jawbone up to the ear. At the third pass the poor
     woman indicated that the _tic_ was commencing, and in a few
     seconds more the affection was experienced intensely. The
     process was then stopped, as the experiment had been carried
     far enough to satisfy all present of its consummation; and
     after a brief space the presentation of the _north_ pole wholly
     freed the sufferer from pain. The operator subsequently stated,
     that by continuing the passes he could have carried the pain on
     to the production of delirium.

     There is a female patient in another ward, who had suffered
     intense toothache for three months, when, a fortnight since,
     according to her own evidence, which we have no reason to
     doubt, it was instantly cured by _one application_ of the
     magnet, through the medium of a key, and had not returned in
     the slightest degree up to the period of the visit of which we
     have given the details.

     These are very interesting facts. We submit them to our readers
     unaccompanied by comment. The specific name given to his
     instrument by Dr Blundell, is that of 'mineral magnet.' How far
     its application to disease admits of extension, we are at
     present ignorant."




A SOLVENT BANK.--The best _bank_ ever yet known is a bank of earth; it
never refuses to discount to honest labour; and the best _share_ is the
plough-share, on which dividends are always liberal.

AN IRISH BULL OF 1630.--Nowe that Ireland doth give birthe to strange
sortes of men, whose too greate quicknesse of thoughte doth impeede
theyre judgmente, this storye whiche I have heard, will shewe. A wealthie
lord of the countie of Corke there had a goodlie faire house new-built,
but the broken brickes, tiles, sande, lime, stones, and such rubbish, as
are commonlie the remnantes of such buildinges, lay confusedlie in
heapes, ande scattered here ande there; the lord therefore demanded of
his surveyor, wherefore the rubbish was not conveyed awaie; the surveyor
said, that hee proposed to hyre an hundred carts for the purpose. The
lord replied, that the charge of carts might be saved, for a pit might be
digged in the grounde, and soe burie it. "Then, my lord," said the
surveyor, "I pray you what will wee doe with the earth which wee digge
out of the said pitt?" "Why, you coxcombe," said the lord, "canst thou
not digge the pitt deepe enough to hold rubbish and all together?"--_From
the works of Taylor, the Water Poet._

CAROLAN'S LIBERALITY.--Carolan never prostituted his muse to party
politics or religious bigotry, though attachment to the ancient faith and
families of Ireland was the ruling principle of his heart; yet he could
discern the virtues and celebrate the praises of those who dissented from
the one, or claimed no connection with the other.--_Hardiman's Irish
Minstrelsy._

FULLER.--The well-known author of "British Worthies" wrote his own
epitaph, as it appears in Westminster Abbey. It consists of only _four_
words, but it speaks volumes, namely, "Here lies Fuller's earth."


     Printed and Published every Saturday by GUNN and CAMERON, at
     the Office of the General Advertiser, No 6. Church Lane,
     College Green, Dublin.--Agents:--London: K. GROOMBRIDGE, Panyer
     Alley, Paternoster Row. Manchester: SIMMS and DINHAM, Exchange
     Street. Liverpool: J. DAVIES, North John Street. Birmingham: J.
     DRAKE. Bristol: M. BINGHAM, Broad Street. Edinburgh: FRASER and
     CRAWFORD, George Street. Glasgow: DAVID ROBERTSON, Trongate.







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL, VOL. 1 NO. 03, JULY 18, 1840 ***


    

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