be glory and distinction enough for a moderately ambitious man!"

MICHAEL ANGELO MERIGI, commonly called DA CARAVAGGIO, from a village in the Milanese in which he was born in the year 1569, was a selftaught painter, who rendered himself famous by an original manner, extremely strong, true, and of great effect, which he invented without any assistance but his own genius. He invariably painted in a room where the light descended from above. He followed his models so exactly, that he imitated their defects as well as their beauties, having no other idea than to represent living nature as it stood before him. He frequently remarked that those pictures which were not drawn exactly after nature were but so many rags, and the figures of which they were composed but as painted cards. This style being new, was followed by several painters of his time, and drew after him almost the whole school of the Caracci. Guido and Dominichino adopted it for a time, but soon repented of their heresy. His pieces are to be met with in most of the leading cabinets of Europe. There are several at Rome and Naples, and one is in the Dominican Church at Antwerp, which Rubens used to call his master. Caravaggio adopted the evil practice of abusing his contemporaries and companions, which involved him in continual scrapes. Of Gioseppino, in particular, he made a public jest. One day the dispute between them ran so high that Michael Angelo drew his sword, and killed a young man called Tomasino, who being Gioseppino's friend, endeavoured to part them. Upon this, Michael Angelo was forced to fly to the Marquis Justiniani

for protection.

While concealed in

his house, he painted for him two of his best pieces-St. Thomas's Unbelief, and a Cupid. Justiniani obtained his pardon, and reproved him severely for being so outrageous; but the irascible artist, unable to command his passion, as soon as he was at liberty, went straight to Gioseppino, and challenged him to mortal combat. The latter answered that he was a knight, and as such not called upon to measure swords with an inferior. Caravaggio, nettled at this answer, and determined not to be baulked of his purpose, hastened to Malta, performed his vows and all the prescribed exercises, and received the order of knighthood as a serving brother. While he was there, he painted the decollation of St. John the Baptist, which still adorns the cathedral, and the portrait of the Grand Master, De Vigna-Court. Being dismissed with the order of Malta, he returned to Rome, intending to force Gioseppino to fight him, but happily for his competitor, a fever put an end to the dangerous dispute, with his life, in the year 1609. The often-repeated story of Caravaggio stabbing a man, that he might catch the agonies of death from nature, while engaged on a Crucifixion, is not to be received as authentic, although Dr. Young, of the "Night Thoughts," has written verses on the subject. This appears to be a modern application of the legend of Parrhasius, who was said to have purchased a very old man offered for sale amongst the Olynthian captives of Philip of Macedon; and when he brought him home put him to death with protracted torture, the better to express the passions of his Prometheus chained to the rock, which he was then beginning to paint. J. W. C.

2 F

VOL. XLIV.-NO. CCLXII.

DEAR MR. POPLAR,-Few things have proved more difficult to a simple itinerator like myself than the power of obtaining any authentic and continued history of the parties and places of the particular region through which I wend my way.

The fountains of in

formation are numerous and varied, but often unattainable. If you apply to the heads of houses long resident in the county, you are generally referred to a genealogical tree from "Betham" to pick your fruit among its branches; or to "The Landed Gentry," from

66

Burke," to find your way amidst its leaves; or you are directed to the ancestral pictures on the wall, or the well-conned "Peerage" on the table, for the information which, for lack of special family record, they cannot produce. On the contrary, if you go amongst the peasantry you will find much interesting and individual history of the spot, for tradition is the cherished literature of the uneducated Irish poor; but all you hear is so blended up with national and ecclesiastical prejudices, that you must riddle it well through an iron sieve of discrimination before you can pick the nuggets of truth out of the debris and dust of legendary inaccuracy, and positive and unmistakable myth. Again, if you look for help to parochial documents, you will, probably, in nine cases out of ten, receive an answer such as the following, with which I often have been favoured:-"Dear, sir,-I should be delighted, &c., &c., to forward your antiquarian researches, &c., &c., but unfortunately all the Church books and registers were destroyed in the year 1798," &c., &c. And lastly, if you turn to municipal records, with a good many striking exceptions, you may probably meet the same fate which betided an old friend of yours and mine, Mr. Poplar, who one day inquiring from the parish priest why the town of Athenry, though so famous in Irish history, yet was so meagre in antiquities, received for answer "The place was so often taken and retaken by English and Irish, that

it would be hard to expect any remains, except the skulls you see piled in the abbey; for, on every one of these occasions the town was burnt and the inhabitants put to the sword." And, how strikingly does this agree with what Edmund Burke says in his "Tracts on the Penal Laws":-" No country, I believe, since the world began, has suffered so much on account of religion as Ireland, or has been so variously harassed, both for Popery and Protestantism."

But to our more immediate subject. If we turn from the living to the dead, and seek for information on Irish matters in what Jean Paul Richter calls "the sweet, kind, good world of books," we have Hibernian histories in abundance; but how hard to reach the happy "Via media" amidst their opposing records, and how all but impossible it is to steer the good ship Impartiality, whose figure-head you would desire to be TRUTH, along the tortuous channel of their conflicting testimonies the deep Scylla of English intolerance and scorn, and the Charybdis of Irish bigotry and violence.

Thus, you have old Camden exube. rantly learned, always interesting, mostly correct, yet, because his gråphic quill was plucked from English goose, O'Flaherty fires off a doubleshotted charge at him, in the shape of two doggrel Latin lines :

"Perlustras Anglos oculis Camdene duobus Uno oculo Scotos:-Cacus Hibernigensis."

Then you have Philip O'Sullivan Beare, and his "Brief Relation," whom our great Archbishop Ussher, the "Dulce Decus" of our land's learning and piety, in his "Religion of the Ancient Irish," designates "as an egregious a liar as any, I verily think, that this day breatheth in Christendom." Then appears Gerald Barry, the Welsh apologist for English invasion — elo. quent, yet pompous, a philo-math and a philo-myth; delighting in learning as in legend, in fable as in fact; now satirising the monks of Britain, and now

---

exu

and gave to the world his "State of Ireland," in a dialogue between Irenæus and Eudoxus-speculative, yet graceful; conjectural, yet most interesting in its soft, graphic, flowing, yet antithetical style. His description of the uses and abuses of the "Irish Cloke" is a picture perfect in its nature, and might have been a production from the pen of Shakspeare, in one of his happiest inspirations. Then we have the " berant Keatinge," and Vallancey, and O'Flaherty-three generous Celticminded writers, and full of the old grand days of romance; and by their side, the unbelieving, matter-of-fact, yet inconsistent Ledwich, with his mind's motto, "Incredulus Odi," and his desire that the three had but one neck that, Nero-like, he might decapitate them at a blow. Then we have Hibernian Curry true to the " green flag," and, no doubt, sincere; and Anglican Ware, overflowing with fact, solid, satisfying, and suggestive, but a veritable Englishman. Then appear on the tapis Jacobite Carte, loyal and landatory, very busy whitewashing King Charles I., side by side with Gilbert Burnet, who, with whig paste and gold leaf is equally industrious in lacquering up King William of immortal memory. Then we have the indignant Taafe, ready to break a spear in Erin's cause with any Saxon; and English Borlace, cool and quaint. We have Hanmer and Marleburrough, with their "Chronicles," of which the

former is delicious reading. Then appears Sir John Davis, whom James I. called "Nosce Teipsum," from a poem on the Trinity which that worthy had composed in the days of his youth. He is an able writer on the English side, and had something for his pains, having been constituted by the royal gossip, Knight, Serjeant-at-Law, Attorney-General, Judge of Assize, Chief Justice, and Speaker of the House of Commons. We hope that his poetry was better than his admirer's, Sir James Ware's, of which we append in a note, a most ludicrous specimen.† And near him we would place a history of Ireland, A.D. 1571, written by Edmund Campion, Fellow of St. John's, Oxford-a man of learning and imagination, but who being a Jesuit, and behaving as such politically and clerically, was persecuted in England, and hounded to the gallows by Walsingham, who hung and dismembered him along with other Popish priests at Tyburn, December 1, 1581, which is a blot on the fair Protestant shield of Queen Elizabeth. His "Historie" is delightful, quaint, rich, and erudite. Then we have old Sir Richard Coxe, with his chancellor's bag, of genuine English barragon, bursting out with facts, and so full that he had no room for anything of fancy-the historic baronet being, unlike Mr. Willet, sen., in "Barnaby Rudge," strangely deficient in imagination; while after him trudges his shadow, Dr. Leland, who, though occasionally wearing Sir Richard's old clothes, is a historian of weight. Then appears Mr. Thomas Moore, of whose Irish history we would say, as of him who compiled it, "Nil de mortuis nisi bonum." Then there is Sylvester O'Halloran-frank, free, and fiery; with a fine Catholic and candid spirit, like a high-bred and gallant Iberian courser, bestrid alike by both parties, and admired by all; while, like voltigeurs in the historical army, come in the Young Ireland

Translated by James Ware.

party, Mac Nevin, Duffy, and Davis, full of talent and freshness; wearing high their verdant shamrocks in their caps, and seeing all things tinted with the hue of their fierce national grassgreen spectacles. And, finally, at the close of the procession, appear two sober ones: Christopher Anderson, Secretary to the Society for Highland Schools a Scotchman, but a warm lover of Ireland, a Christian scholar, and a thorough philanthropist. His little work, entitled "The Native Irish," is replete with graceful knowledge and generous philo-Hibernicism. And beside him in "confraternal feeling strong," is Robert King, A.B., Scholar of Trinity College, Dublin-at present a poor curate in the North of Ireland, yet affluent, and enriching others, in the wealth of Irish learning

the lore and the ore which he has dug with accuracy and with labour from the dark mine of national antiquity. He is the author of "A Primer of the History of the Holy Catholic Church of Ireland," a work opulent in facts, hardly anything escaping the large sweep of the author's historical ken. It is a pleasure to find such a work quoted more than once by the Young Ireland writers, as granting that sympathy for the author's learning and truth which possibly they would be slow to accord to his political and religious sentiments.

In this most imperfect list and sketch of Irish writers I plead guilty to omitting ancient and venerable names, such as the courtly Temple, the graphic Stafford, author of the Pacata ;" the Gallic M'Geoghegan, O'Driscoll, and Warner; the noble O'Conor; the ingenious Beaufort; the erudite Colgan; and Moryson, who accompanied Lord Mountjoy to Ireland - cum multis aliis; while I appear to have forgot ten others of modern days, whom Fame must still remember, such as our own Petries, and Hardimans, and Walkers, and Daltons, and Wildes, and O'Donovans, &c. &c. I merely wished to establish my argument by giving my list, and to show the discrepancy in opinion which exists among the great authorities of Irish mediæval history, who have observed her conquest, and commented on her condition from headlands of view so utterly diverse and distinct, that like Schiller's diver, one must seek for the golden goblet of Truth amidst eddies

which flow and whirl between opposing rocks. Au fin. For my part, as an Irishman-a veritable Erigena-I am free to confess I feel myself continually inclining to espouse the conquered side, like our old dull friend of Utica

"Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni ;"

and to say, sing, and truly feel of my poor country, in the words of our national poet, that she is to me

"More dear in her sorrow, her gloom, and her showers, Than the rest of the world in its happiest hours."

On descending from the train at Portarlington, a high mound with trees is visible on the left hand. This is " Spire Hill," thickly planted by some dendrological philanthropist, for the good of the Portarlington public; and here, when "shaws are green and skies are blue, the old people walk, the young pic-nic, and the boys and girls gather nuts and play at hide-and-seek, which, no doubt, is all very interesting to the parties concerned. A short half mile's walk brings you to the hotel, which is in the midst of the town. It is kept by a Mr. Fleming, whose bills belied his name, as they did not illustrate a "Flemish reckoning," and whose manners in no

wise resembled those of "mine host" in Fleming-lande, which Herr Philipson suffered from, and Erasmus satirises. Here I met two friends-one a young antiquarian, a youth of talent and great agreeableness; we called him Dryasdust, jun., from his consanguinity in tastes to the great and arid doctor of that name. The other friend was an English officer, a lover of the angle, and a reader of Izaac Walton; him we called Captain Basil, from his continually quoting Keats's "Pot of Basil." Another habit of his was a perpetual and sentimental reference on all occasions to Byron's fine and sad lines commencing with

"But ever and anon of grief subdued ;"

and these he would repeat, looking extremely good-humoured and happy all the time. He was an inveterate story-teller, and seemed to possess a power of associating everything he heard with some narrative, sportive or sad, which he had cupboarded up in his memory, and could produce at a moment's warning, as quickly as a grocer would band a pound of tea or sugar, ready corded and made up, to a

you

customer from behind his counter. We will give the reader a specimen of one or two of these narratives before we part, only premising, as Eschines in his banishment said to his auditory, after he had repeated a speech of Demosthenes for them, "Ah! I wish had heard himself speak it." The Captain was a literary and lively companion, and we were glad to associate him with us in a walk to see the old Castle of Leix, which is the chief lion of Portarlington. It well repays the trouble of a stroll to its ruins, which lie about a mile and a-half north of the town. On our way we called at the post-office, when the Captain, who had exploded like a cracker, or rather a Roman candle, in some half-dozen anecdotes and narratives during the morning, related to us the following, which he called a fiscal fact:

"My cousin, Mr. T. was staying at a retired glebe-house with the vicar of the parish, and came down to breakfast one fine morning with a gigantic packet, which he had been writing half the night with a truly uxorious pen, to his fair young wife, and for which he now requested the old vicar to lend him a postage-stamp. Now, that dignitary, though otherwise a very generous man, had a decided antipathy, as many good men have — nay, a perfect horror of lending pos tage-stamps, considering them as umbrellas or articles unreturnable and lost for ever. So after lecturing T—— soundly on the excessive impropriety of his not carrying them with him, he was obliged to produce, not one only, but four postage-stamps, which as wings were to waft T's bulky letter to the bosom of his Beatrice. They lunched, the vicar decidedly cross, and T awkward; however, presently he had to ask his reverend host a second request before he went, and this was to change him a sovereign. To his amazement the vicar at once, and cheerfully, acceded to this, and going to his escrutoire returned with a roguish smile upon his lip, and his hand full of change, being just twenty shillings in silver, minus fourpence, which he had deducted as the cost of the stamps-thus losing nothing by the transaction but his equanimity for half an hour; giving his young friend an excellent lesson for the time to come; and, above all, gratifying his own eccentric humour in creating what he

conceived to be a good story, and which was regularly told and retold by him till the year of his death."

On leaving Portarlington by the Dublin road, we soon reached the Grand Canal, along whose bank we now turned abruptly to the left, Leix Castle looming loftily on our vision about a mile off-a very fine object in the distance, and, unlike the visions of hope, more than realising our expectations as we came near it. It stands on the Barrow, surrounded by callows, or river meadows, which were sometimes inundated from the river, and at other times being neutral land, formed hunting grounds, where the neighbouring chief's rendezvoused to chase deer, wolves, and wild hogs. Hither no doubt often resorted O'Connor and O'Coghlan, from Offalia, or the King's County; O'Dun from his woods, and O'Regan from Ibh-Regan; hither came O'More, the Lord of Laviseach and King of Leix; hither came O'Dempsie, of Glanmaliero; and the great Mac-Gillia-Phadruig, or FitzPatrick, from his ancient Ossorian lands, rich and verdant; and other noble Irish chiefs; and surely now and then a Butler would be there from Ormond; or a stately Geraldine would merge for a time the national quarrel, in the enjoyment and good feeling arising from the common sport. There are faithful prints of this Castle in "Grose's Antiquities," where the measurements of the courts, foss, and ballium are accurately given, which scarce would prove interesting in a sketchy pilgrimage like this. The history of the Castle is more likely to be enjoyed, and this I shall endeavour to give briefly.

At the arrival of the English, under Henry II., in 1170, the whole of Leix was under the dominion of Dermot M'Murrough, King of Leinster, whose daughter, Eva, married Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, commonly called Strongbow; their daughter, Isabel, married William Maxfield, Marshal of England, commonly called Earl Mareschal (because descended from Walter Maxfield, who had been Marshal to William the Conqueror). This William, Earl Mareschal, had by Isabel five sons-William, Richard, Gilbert, Walter, Anselm—all of whom were earls, and died childless, according to some curious prophecy of the Lady Isabel, their mother; "and so the noble