CHAPTER IV,

Newry,

THIS town is but indifferently situated, being almost surrounded by rocks and mountains. It owes its rise to Sir Nicholas Bagnal, knight, Marshal of Ireland in the reign of Edward the Sixth, It has been twice burned down, first by the rebels in 1641, and afterwards by the Duke of Berwick, on his retreat to Dundalk from the English who, on their approach, found it in flames,

It contains about fifteen thousand inhabitants,of whom one half I should suppose are Presbyterians.

The largest half, my host (who is himself a presbyterian) said, and the best. He was driving me down a steep and narrow street in his gig, at the time he made the observation., It was Sunday, and we were going to dine, and stay the night with a friend of his, in the neighbourhood. of Dundalk.

A man rode fast past us-I called to him to stop lest he should do some mischief. I do not know that mine is the voice of wisdom, but certainly, it had one of the properties of it on this occasion; it called out in the streets, and no one regarded it." Folly, however, as generally happens,

had but a short race. The horse fell with the poor creature a few paces further on-He was hurt, but not severely.

"You could expect no better" said my companion, "for riding so fast in sermon time."

"D-n your sermons and long prayers," replied the other, "there's neither sense nor grace in them, I never had luck yet, where a Presbyterian was, I lay six months in the Castle of Edinburgh, and the half of the time I was in the guard-house."

He then rode away as fast as before. A poor countryman who had come up to help him on horseback, looked after him in astonishment.

"The soldiers" said he to me, "fear neither man nor Deevil-poor body, he need na gallop so fast, he's sure enough o' getting to him at last."

A rigid observance of Sunday has always been a feature of the presbyterian religion, and perhaps is a great reason why it has made so little progress. A very good reason I must confess I think it. People who labour six days in the week, may, I think, without a crime be merry on Sunday.

I viewed, therefore, with feelings very different from those of my friend, the festive scene which the road presented, when we came near Dundalk. The fields were swarming with people, men, women, and children, running, wrestling, throwing long bullets, and dancing. This latter was fully as

violent an exercise as any of the others, and con-sisted in a continued and violent agitation of the limbs and body. I could have wished it had been done in a better style, for the manners of a people may be judged of by their dancing, and what a favourable impression does not the French opera dancing give of that light, airy, and elegant people.

I stopped upwards of half an hour looking on, and was at length reluctantly drawn away. I was detained only by the animation of the scene, and its expression of happiness; for the music was no better than the dancing. But what harmony equals, or, alas! is so rare, as that of happy human faces?

The instrument was the bag-pipes. It has always been a favourite of the vulgar. Pan, the meanest of the ancient deities, is often represented playing on it; and Nero, whose taste was as vulgar as his dispositions were corrupt, (vulgar taste and corrupt dispositions, indeed, generally go together) was no mean performer on it. It was the music of the Irish Kerns in the time of Edward the Third, and is still the Irish festive music. They probably got it from the Scotch, but they improved upon it. It was they who took it from the mouth, and gave it its present complicated form-that is, two short drones and a long one, with a chanter, all of

which are filled by a pair of short bellows, inflated by a compressive motion of the arm-the chanter has eight holes, beginning with the lower Din the treble-the short drones sound in unison to the fundamental E, and the large drone an octave below it. This instrument is constructed on the chromatic system; it is therefore the only one, now that the harp is so much disused, on which the native Irish music, all of which is in that system, can be played to advantage.

We arrived between three and four at the house where we were to dine. It was a large old fashioned one, with a spacious court in front, surrounded by high walls. The instant I saw the owner, I knew he had been a long time in France. He was dressed in a faded purple coat, white small clothes and waistcoat, and his head was powdered still whiter than they. His accent, gestures, and manners were equally foreign, and altogether gave him the exact appearance of an ancient Frenchman. He was a Catholic, and I believe had been educated for a Priest.

His family consisted of his wife and three fine lively girls, his daughters.

A plentiful collation was served us; for dinner was to be at a no less fashionable hour than six. Fashionable hours may do well in cities, but they are sadly misplaced in woods and wilds. I did not however regret them on this particular occasion.

The young ladies when they learned my profession, insisted upon carrying me with them to visit the sick-it was hardly possible to have a more delightful walk, or more delightful companions— they laughed, chatted, sung, and jumped over hedge and ditch with the activity of wood nymphs. We went into several poor people's houses, and to every one they met they had something kind to say, or something gracious to do. A mutual sympathy unites the Catholic gentry and commonality into an intercourse as familiar and affectionate, as that of the Protestant gentry and commonality, is distant and indifferent.

Our conversation was mostly in French, though unlike the father, the daughters spoke with an English accent.

"You prefer French to English," said I, to the eldest.

"Sans doute," she replied.

"May I ask why?" I enquired.

re

Parceque," said she, "c'est le langage de

l'amour."

She had no idea of the obvious interpretation of these words. She simply meant it was the language of kindness and affection. And she had reason to say it was so-while others admire the light graces of this beautiful language, to me its great charm is its overflowing tenderness. Innu- merable instances might be given. I take two at