A TRIP TO KILKENNY.

AN HIBERNIAN WAITER-BEGGARS AND BLARNEY-THE COMFORTS

OF AN IRISH SHAY.-CROSS

COUNTRY ROADS.

SPORTSMAN'S HALL, AND THE BALLYRAGGET HOUNDS.

BY WILLIAM COLLIER.

AUTHOR OF KATE KEARNEY.'

READER, if you have never been in Ireland, you have a treat in store, and one that will amply repay you for your time and trouble. After an absence of several years from poor old Erin, the land of my birth, I returned to it for a short visit, in the winter of 1841, with all my feelings of nationality freshly awakened, and full of that highlywrought expectation with which, when the mysterious interest of the 'Great Unknown,' was in its zenith, we used to open his last 'just published' novel, anticipating, from the pleasure its predecessors had afforded us, a rich and varied treat. Memory gave back to me the scenes of my youth, the frolics I had shared in, and the kind-hearted characters I had encountered; and imagination, viewing the past through the gauzy medium which old father Time throws over all he touches, gave to the retrospect a tinge of that romance which heightens feeling, but too frequently blinds the judgment.

Imbued with this sentiment, I looked forward to my visit as a source of unmixed pleasure and agreeable excitement. I calculated upon encountering at every turn humour, wit, ludicrous adventure, and droll character,-in short, I prepared my note-book after the fashion of the day, with the determination of totally eclipsing all that Mrs. Hall, or all the other ladies of the creation, had done towards the portraiture of the sons of the Emerald Isle; and more particularly that portion of them known as The Boys of Kilkenny.' But, alas! I had yet to learn what my slumbering judgment should at once have suggested, that Time had been busy with all that I was about to revisit; and, amidst the manifold changes he had effected, the temperament of my own mind had not escaped his magic influence; and that I could no longer clothe reality with the beauteous but deceitful robe of fancy, as in early youth 1 was wont.

Those scenes so charming,

My young heart warming,

How oft in some beautiful vision I've seen;

Thy valleys and mountains,

Broad lakes and bright fountains,

Seem'd brilliants surrounded by emerald green.

A very brief experience served to dispel all my enthusiastic feeling; where I looked for fun. frolic, and drollery, I saw but sadness, poverty, and squalid misery. I could not look upon the truly dull reality, and think of humour, so I threw aside my note-book more in sorrow than in anger.' Enough, however, of what occurred during my short ramble through the country lives in my recollection to fur

nish some entertainment, lenten' though it may be; and for my own satisfaction, if not for that of my reader, I will throw together some few scraps and facts from the materiel which should have formed my diary.

I steamed away by land to Liverpool, and by sea to Dublin; found the overland conveyance rapid but uninteresting, the sea-trip delightful. Cannot help railing against railroad travelling, as compared to the good old-fashioned stage-coach and four. In the capital I found, notwithstanding the many changes in the circle of my former acquaintances, the same warm-hearted, never-dying hospitality which has ever characterized the nation. Invitations came in thick and fast as hail, so that I was fairly bothered, not knowing which to take, or which to refuse ; in short, my chief embarrassment arose from the fact of my being unable to take the fair Capulet's hint, and 'cut me up in little stars; or, like Sir Boyle Roache's bird, to be in two places at once. I am not an alderman, nor the son of one, yet I hope I may be excused saying, that it was vexatious, though unavoidable, my not being able to do ample justice to all the invitations that were heaped upon me. My time, too, was limited, and I could scarcely do more than shake my old friends by the hand, being obliged to set out for the south; but I promise them I will soon take another trip, and then won't I stay more than a little while. In Dublin I was joined by the friend who was to accompany me to Kilkenny. He was an excellent fellow, an actor who had done the stage some service; full of noble and exalted feeling, wholly exempt from selfishness, and that professional pride of person which is the besetting sin of half that tribe.

At the end of our first day's journey (for my friend the actor liked journeying by easy stages,) we found ourselves comfortably seated formint a cheerful turf-fire, in the most respectable inn of the town of Portarlington; supplied with all that moderation could require in the way of comfort, which is at all times meant to include some excellent whiskey, parliamentary or potteen; and most admirably attended by old Mike Dolan, the head-waiter. Now, Mike was a bit of a character in his way. He could tell the traveller all about everybody of any consequence, or of the nobodys of no consequence, for miles round about him, and, accordingly, the offices which his duty required him to perform, were very agreeably relieved by conversation amusing and instructive.' Mike was a mighty good waiter, but he had one weakness upon him, and who has not? He could not bear to see the good things of this life wasted, so, after the parlour-guests were gone to bed, if he found any whiskey left in a stray bottle, or decanter, he would for very grief and shame at their want of taste, sit down by the fire, and endeavour to make amends for their remissness. This amiable weakness of Mike's, however, sometimes led him into particularly unpleasant scrapes, for, if the guests had been so devoid of good taste as to leave much whiskey after them, Mike had a great deal to encounter, and, consequently, he was often found the next morning alone in his glory; stretched before the ashes of the turf fire, arranging in his dream, not a repeal of the Union, but a repeal of the bitter-bad laws that prevent the small still, or potteen' distillation. This was the case on the occasion of our visit; Mike, like a pig refreshed from a muddy slumber, rose, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of the grate, which, by location, were sty-led his own. Aroused, when morning dawned, by the gentle remonstrances of the household, and renovated

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by the extra glass which he would have taken in the night, had he not fallen asleep, he was able to get our breakfast with a tolerable grace. Our morning meal over, our chaise was brought round in style to the door, and we prepared to beat a safe retreat. At the door of the inn stood Mike (outside) napkin in hand, shivering and shaking in the cold December blast, like a pup drinking half-frozen butter-milk. The cold was so intense, that not all the caloric my friend had imbibed the night before could fortify him against it: his light, and long, but scanty hair streamed wildly in the wind, like the fringe of tatters which flutters on the edge of a faded and well-worn union-jack, which for years had braved the battle and the breeze;' his little grey eyes just peeping knowingly from amidst the long labyrinth of wrinkles in which they were imbedded; his nose of fine expanse, and variegated hue, giving evidence of the struggle that was going on between the heat within and the cold without; and his shrunk shank' looking still more slender for the hose, which were a world too wide.' Behind this interesting specimen of an Hibernian waiter stood the buxom chambermaid, bobbing and blushing like a peony in the summerbreeze, by turns all simpers and smiles, or curtsys and grins; and in advance of both, as became his station, was the landlord, a sedate and sober-looking person, all bows and blarney. Forming a semi-circle in front of the door were ranged a posse of squalid and ragged, but finelimbed beggars-chiefly females-miserable in person, yet merry in humour; clamouring for alms, and pleading their causes with alternate touches of pathos and of wit, of entreaty and of expostulation. In the distance on either side and around, were assembled the idlers of the town, the Vulgi stante corona,' collected by the news of the important fact, that two gentlemen-one a great actor-were about to set out in a post-chaise! Such is generally the scene on similar occasions in an Irish provincial town. Tormented into impatience by the importunity of the beggars, who assailed us on every side, I exclaimed rather hastily,

'I wish you would not persecute me so.'

'Parsicute ye!' cried a woman, who seemed the boldest of the bold group-a sort of dux femina facti,'-' is it parsicute, you mane ?— Sure, then, who would the poor parsicute, in Heaven's name, if they wouldn't parsicute them that has got something more than a thrifle to give away. Arrah! then, it's hard times these is for the poor craturs, and a cold day it is anyhow, as our bones know; and we nothing to warm us within or without, not even the value of a drop of whiskey; and wouldn't your honour's glory be afther laving us a thrifle to remimber you by; and to pray for your honour's father's and mother's souls that's in blessed purgatory; and that your honour might have a safe journey this cold day?'

'But,' said my friend, it is impossible to give to all. What can we do amongst so many?

Good look to your elegant happy face this blessed mornin', it's yourself that will lave a light heart in our bussoms before you go, for it's your honour that's kind and good to the misfortunate; and won't we divide among us whatever your honour gives, if it's ever such a thrifle ?

Here, thinking to puzzle the old one, I said,

'How can that be, if I only give you a halfpenny ? With the quickness of lightning she answered me,

'Sure, then, isn't it a hap'orth of turf we 'll buy, and divide it among us; and won't it warm the poor dark woman yonder, who can't see that your face is as sweet as your voice, and that would wheedle the very birds out o' the bushes ?""

I have always prided myself upon being a 'kindly-spoken man,'how, then, could I resist this home-thrust? I could no longer hold out; and, throwing a trifle among them, I converted the scene into a scramble, in which the lame and blind joined with equal activity, and I freed myself for a moment from the annoyance. By this time my fellow-traveller was comfortably seated in the chaise, the post-boy was mounted, and my foot was on the step, when I recollected that it was necessary to stipulate for the advantage of being driven to some good posting-house, when it should become requisite to change chaise and horses. Having expressed my anxiety on this very impor.ant point to travellers in Ireland, Mike cried.

Never fear, your honour; it's an elegant chaise, and magnificent horses, fit to take a judge to the assizes, you'll get in Abbeyleix: and that's the place you must change in. So, Darby, you devil! mind and dhrive the real gintlemin to the best inn, and it isn't out o' pocket you'll be, for it's none of the mushroom gintry that's travellin'.

With this assurance, and showers of blessings, pointed, pleasant, and poetic, I took my place, and we were driven off with all the eclat that might be expected from the scene I have described.

Our route was by cross-country roads, along which a public conveyance never passes; we were, therefore, wholly dependant on such postchaise accommodation as we might meet with. Our post-boy had a musical turn, and chanted away right merrily, not forgetting to sound his own praises, which he did to the tune of the 'Groves of Blarney,' and in words somewhat after the following style:

The only place in the line of our journey at which such an accommodation as a chaise was to be met with, lay full seventeen miles (Irish) before us. But what of that? Mike had assured us that all would be right; and, dismissing anxiety, we looked forward to a speedy arrival at Abbeyleix, and anticipated the comfort of a lunch. there. However, to make all sure, when we drew near the town, the name of which had so much comfort and music in its sound, I charged our post-boy to be sure to drive to the best inn.

"Your honour may depend on it,' he exclaimed, 'I'll take care of ye.'

At length we entered the town Abbeyleix; and, as we passed through the suburbs, 1 observed that our charioteer quickened the pace of his steeds, and that when he entered the main street, he had, by dint of voice and whip, established a rapidity of motion which quite astonished me, and which I considered altogether inconsistent with the work the horses had already done. I, however, settled the matter in my own mind, by supposing that it was merely a bit of professional pride in the post-boy, that induced him

To rattle our bones over the stones,

To astonish the natives, and 'waken the drones.

We passed a tolerably decent-looking inn, outside of which stood a respectable-looking chaise, as if on the look-out for a tenant. Here we doubled our speed, and I could have no doubt that this was the second-rate inn, and that it was necessary for our dignity to pass it in a most slashing and triumphant manner. On we drove as if the devil

was hot-foot after us, to the great admiration of the loiterers, and astonishment of the paving stones. I looked anxiously around for the 'Head Inn,' but could discover nothing claiming that title, although we had passed through the heart of the town. At last our post-boy drew up, with a magnificent flourish, opposite a wretched-looking shebean, or small public-house.

'Tim Nolan,' he shouted, as he threw the ribands on the backs of his panting steeds, 'Tim, my darlint, is the horses at home?'

A brief pause ensued, during which Tim seemed considerably flabbergasted at the question; it was, however, soon terminated by some masonic or telegraphic sign from our post-boy, and Tim, as if newlyenlightened, exclaimed, To be sure they is where would they

be?

Orther them out, then, for the gintlemin's in haste,' said our postboy, as he leaped to the ground. The door was opened, and we alighted. I inquired for the inn, and was informed it was hard-by.' A chaise of most exceptionable appearance stood near, and to it some half-dozen fellows began to transfer our luggage, without waiting for orders. I was too hungry to parley, so I suffered the transfer of our travelling-stock to proceed, and begged to be conducted to the house. A gossoon led the way, and we were ushered into the aforesaid shebean. We were a little astounded, but,

'To be nice about trifles, is not over wise.'

An uncultivated-looking damsel, rough-headed and barefooted, was rocking herself backwards and forwards before a good turf-fire; she rose on our entrance, and presented herself to wait on us. She was a perfect representation of the fair one described in the following old Irish ditty:

'My shining daisy,

You're black and greasy,
And always lazy,
To spin your wheel;
'Tis in the mornin'
When you rise early
It's in the ashes

You stick your heel.'

To our demand of what we could have for lunch, she answered, anything we wished.' After divers inquiries, however, this 'anything' resolved itself into one thing, and that, nothing like what it was intended to represent; for, by the shade of the great kitchener, it was a beefsteak, as tough and tasteless as a blacksmith's apron, and about the same colour! However, necessity has no law-we contrived to swallow, though we could not masticate, so that, by dint of hard labour, we managed to bolt a sort of lunch. This operation being over,