applying on his own account, not as the agent of a charity, the general pretence when English milordi are addressed, we entered into conversation. The "illustrious prince" then became quite confidential, informing us frankly that he had a palace and establishment in addition to the equipage we saw, but no ways and means, not even ready cash enough to supply maccaroni and water melons. He gave us so many "Eccelenzas," and so many compliments to England in general, and King George in particular, that we in return bestowed on him a dollar each, our companion declaring that he did it for the fun of the thing; whereupon the noble mendicant skipped into his carriage, and vanished with the alacrity of the ghost of disconsolate Miss Bailey in the song, when gratified with the unexpected one pound note. We saw him again soon after in the Mall, exchanging bland salutes on all sides with hundreds of his order, many of whom had similar equipages and revenues, perhaps, in the same flourishing condition. In morals, we grieve to say, the Sicilians are sadly latitudinarian, though still above the average of their continental neighbours, who have more opportunities of knowing better; while their religion is not so openly a pretence and mockery. They are imaginative and quick in perception, but somewhat given to be of fended at trifles; ready on slight provocations to fight duels with the small sword, but generally abhorrent of the pistol, with an idea that all Englishmen are unerring shots. Their regard for British customs and institutions is unaffectedly genuine, and they firmly believe we are entitled to take the lead we so ambitiously assume, always reserving, with a sigh of regret, that although this world is ours, we have but a poor chance in the next, from our stubborn heresy. They are also terribly given to litigation, and will enter a suit for the recovery of a pin's head. A recent traveller tells us there are, in the single city of Palermo, 4,000 gentlemen of the long robe, all of whom contrive to make out a living-advocates and attorneys being included in the same category. If the disciples of Galen and Hippocrates are in the same proportion, the bills of mortality must be something awful to think of. In no country in the world does the Cenobitic life flourish so luxuriantly. The monasteries have never been suppressed, neither have the Capuchin Friars, as in Northern Italy in 1796 and 1797, been converted into stalwart dragoons. It has been computed that there are 80,000 monks and secular clergy on the island, a fearful disproportion to the aggregate number of souls; in fact, an incubus on society, and a formidable barricade against improvement. But they too, with some few eminent exceptions, share in the general ignorance, more particularly in the rural districts, and are apathetic rather than subtle, or zealous to slaying in the article of conversion. One reason for this may be, and far from a bad one, that there is no one to convert, no Mortara to abduct, or lapsed infidel to terrify-neither Jew nor Protestant. The whole population are unmitigated Romanists, after the old fashion, without leaven of sect or synod. The prevailing style of worship is what we understand by the term Mariolatry, or substitution of the Madonna for the Saviour. "If we enter the churches," says the author of Pictures from Sicily, "the choicest shrines are occupied by statues of the Virgin, crowned and sceptred as the Queen of Heaven; if we perambulate the streets, every corner exhibits the same tutelary image; while on the walls of cemeteries are representations of souls in purgatory looking up imploringly to her to save them by her all-powerful intercession. Jesus, in short, seems dethroned from His peculiar office as mediator between God and man, and Mary everywhere substituted in His room. To her the devout Catholics confide their wants and prefer their petitions, as relying more on her sympathy with their distresses, and, peradventure, also, indulgence for their frailties." The Sicilians, also, are prodigiously given to believe in miracles. Prince Hohenlohe would have been canonized amongst them while yet alive. In 1811, there were several smart shocks of earthquake at Messina, in rapid succession. Consternation prevailed; many elders remembered the terrible catastrophe of 1783, which laid the city in ruins, and expected a repetition. The inhabitants, generally, brought their mattresses into the streets and squares, and slept for nights in the open air. A general report arose that a statue of the Virgin Mary in one of the churches was weeping bitterly in anticipation of some terrible calamity. Such crowds thronged to the sacred building, that they were in danger of suffocation in pressing in and out. The excite ment called for the interference of the authorities, who requested the bishop to decide the question. The prelate went in state. Being a very old man, a commodious staircase was erected by which he ascended to the elevation of the statue. There a white cambric handkerchief was handed to him, with which he delicately wiped the eyes and face of the figure. He then turned solemnly round, and declared, "My children, we are deceived there is no miracle." Great was the disappointment, and loud the murmurs of complaint, but there was no appeal from such an orthodox decision. When the British forces occupied the island, our surgeons were in great request. The natives always endeavoured to obtain their aid in all difficult cases. If the patient recovered, a painting (generally a most frightful daub) was made to commeinorate "the miracle." In this the sufferer was depicted in bed, with the weeping family on one side, and on the other a spruce-looking gentleman, in red uniform, feeling the pulse of the sick maiden or youth, as the case might be. Above, hovered in clouds and glory, the patron saint or saintess of the family. This painting was placed on one of the altars of their church, a traditionary reminiscence or revival of the old pagan custom of affixing a votive offering in the temple of Neptune after escape from shipwreck. A This extremely low scale of popular education, this Cimmerian ignorance and utter blindness are, perhaps, more promising foundations for the introduction of light than the bewildering half instruction, the mere glimmering of letters which flounders in a mass of crotchets and theories, and so confounds truth and falsehood that they can with difficulty be separated or distinguished. Let us remember, also, how long and helplessly the energies of Sicily have been kept down and trampled upon by the most bigoted and iniquitous of the old rotten despotisms of the Continent. They have shaken it off with the energy of the roused lion, and every change must improve their condition. great opportunity, an advancing destiny seems opening to them at last. Most sincerely do we hope that they will neither throw it away themselves, nor suffer it to be wrested from them through meddling interference or hollow concessions dictated by fear. When nations liberate themselves by the sword, they have passed beyond the necessity of temporizing expedients. Sicily is entitled to the respect and sympathy of the civilized world, from her classical associations, her long suffering, her struggles for emancipation; and of England, above all other states, from our close intimacy during many years of the late war, the promises we held out to them, and the friendship and affection which the inhabitants evinced towards us, though so thoroughly opposed in habits, manners, morals, and religion. Darker countries have won their way into sunlight, and no one can calculate the progress of the stone now rolling onward with such an elastic bound. amidst those lovely but unnoticed wilds. And we feel a painful certainty, that amidst the great amount of the travelling and touring population of these kingdoms, not ten in a hundred have ever heard of the sublime and tinted sea-walls of Slieve League, or the solitary and green valley of Malin Glen, whose wilds once gave refuge to "Prince Charlie," according to the tradition of the peasantry, and whose silent hills are rife with the grey ruins of remote antiquity, and full of ecclesiastical and historical interest. WE are going to write something dence of those who reside on the spot, about Kilcar and Glencolumbkille, two wild parishes in the mountainous barony of Bannagh, in the county of Donegal; and in treating of any district so little known, we have need to borrow the pen of a Murray or a Fraser, and assume for the nonce something of the guide-book style of narrative, in order to enable our reader to gain the spot; assuring him at the same time that any trouble he may be put to, or any length of way he may have to endure, will be amply repaid him by the enjoyment of the rare and romantic scenery which will meet him everywhere in these remote regions. Glencolumbkille, and its next-door neighbour, Kilcar, are accessible to travellers, either by reaching Enniskillen per train, from whence the journey can be effected, via Ballyshannon and Donegal, by cheap and comfortable vans: or else by holding on to the rail till you arrive at Strabane, from which the traveller may descend on Donegal through the Gap of Barnesmore, and by the mountain Lough of Mourne-a wild and solitary drive. And surely we shall not be accused of any thing of a Hibernicus Furor if we express astonishment, mingled with indignation, that of the many who run through Ireland, and then "make a book," all seem to tread the same via trita, and tramway of unalterable dull travel, to which they cleave as closely as an excursion train to the rail; and thus we have "Tours in Connemara," and "Trips to the Donegal, then, is the starting point Giant's Causeway," and "Wander- or frontier town of this district: it is ings through Wicklow" perpetrated a wonderfully small metropolis, or rain fact, and then paraded from the ther micropolis, yet it has its notaPress; while few are to be found who, bilities and points of renown. It can turning aside from the beaten path, boast natural beauties in the river Esk, deviate into the more distant Irish which runs between its high, green scenery we would now describe-banks, into Donegal Bay, a most noble that such is the fact, we have the evi- and majestic sheet of water, across VOL. LVI.-NO, CCCXXXIII. 17* whose broad bosom Bundoran bathers and Killybegs cockle-gatherers might seek to gaze at each other, and probably succeed in so doing, if the air were but clear, and the telescope de la prémière force. In respect of antiquities, Donegal can show a mouldering monastery of Franciscan friars in ruins, and a fine old castle, well preserved by Lord Arran, which the O'Donels built, and held as their summer residence, until their conquest and attaint, when it passed into the hands of Sir Basil Brooke, armiger, who held it for Queen Elizabeth; the knight's Cheshire scutcheon and ugly crest, viz., a badger passant proper, being carved on the chimney-piece, and plainly discernible. And in regard of things useful, this small town can exhibit a spa, which every one talks of, and nobody drinks; a branch office of the Ulster Banking Company; a neat little church; and a somewhat dilapidated gentlemanly old hotel, from whose door the Killybegs van starts in good time to break the neck of the journey, before the summer sun kisses the western wave. For seventeen winding miles the road follows, for the most part, the sinuosities of the sea-board; the van, on the occasion of our travel, was uncrowded and commodious; the driver obliging and communicative; the weather delicious; and the views on all sides charming and diversified. Presently we came to a schoolhouse built upon around, green hill, in the neatest and very best taste, resembling more such a "cottage ornée" as you would meet in an English nobleman's pleasure-grounds, than a literary forge to hammer dull head-bolts into educational shape. This edifice, the driver told me, was on the estate of Mr. Murray Stewart, a Scotch gentleman, who qualifies, or rather ignores, the charge of absenteeism, which might be preferred against him, by having as his substitute a resident agent of extraordinary excellence, activity, and intelligence. This gentleman, Mr. George Venables Wilson, resides in a beautiful villa on the sea at Killybegs. All around his house betrays the hand of taste, and betokens the care of a provident manager over a large estate and needy tenantry. Here are attached to the offices a first-rate forge, and a complete carpenter's shop, where gates, ploughs, carts, and farming im plements of every kind are made for the tenants; and better than all, here is a really magnificent schoolhouse, just completed in all its parts, and built at Mr. Murray Stewart's expense. In this building every thing is constructed to meet the good and the comfort of scholar as well as teacher. the same liberal hand is visible everywhere. Indeed one may reasonably guess that a large proportion of the rental received is thrown back again on the estate in the shape of improvements, for much of the country about Killybegs and Kilcar is dotted with comfortable slated houses; gates are put up, pathways opened, the mud hovels are disappearing, and the genius of comfort and of neatness exhibits his presence, and asserts his sway. Against these beneficent innovations are opposed the Irish inertness, and the hereditary and vicious conservatism, which make our countrymen cling, like limpets on a rock, to old habits and ancestral usages, and resist the introduction of what they regard as novelties; but when the landlord is manifestly so generous, and the agent seconds him so determinately and intelligently, one must hope that ignorance and sloth will give way eventually, and that the people will see their own advantage in adopting the system of improvement which their landlord so kindly offers them. In our route from Donegal to Killybegs we passed through many a league of dreary mountain moorland, diversified with bright and piquant scenery; now we had a view of the sea on the left, and St. John's Point far running out among its green waves; now, on the right, a blue mountain would upheave into sight, or a hill-side torrent come raving and tumbling down its gully, making music midst the solitude of the scene. We strained up the hill at Mount Charles, passed the church and bridge of Inver, leaving that water-logged locality on the left-a place which always looks as if it was just recovering from being drowned; and as we mounted a fine breezy hill a little further on, a noble range of purple mountains rose before us on the south and east. There were Blue Stack and his neighbour Belshade, at whose base the bright lake sleeps; there were Silverhill, which frowns over Lough Anarget: and Binbane; and Croaghnageer far to the right; and wild Liegnafania, towards Lough Derg; and northward, great Glendowan, with all their swelling and connecting uplands and hollows, where the shadows lie dark and tender. Now the road becomes wilder, and presently we reach Dunkaneely, standing higli, and graced with a neat church and parsonage; and we had a view of M'Swine's Bay, and the distant Island of Innisduff, and an old ruin on the shores of the bay called M'Swine's Castle. These M'Swines were secondary chiefs of Donegal under the O'Donels for many a rude year, till the coldhearted Saxon came with a sword by his side and money in his pocket, to destroy Romance and Feudalism, and introduce security and Civilization. This family is, I believe, now almost extinct, or at least existing in poverty and decadency of condition. It is related of them, that in disloyal times they preserved their loyalty; and this idea is confirmed by a reference to "Pynnar's Survey of the Ulster Settlement in 1610," where we find that Walter M'Loughlin M'Swine was the "original patentee" under the Crown of near 1,000 acres in Ragh and Bellycanny, county of Donegal, of which his family were in possession in 1619; and "that the said Walter had built a good strong house of lime and stone, and was a justice of the peace in the county, and was conformable to His Majesty's laws, and a true subject," &c., &c. The descendants of this man complain heavily of some unfair usage: and they still preserve their ancient papers in the vain hope of one day regaining their right. One of them was a fine and noble-looking old man, who, about thirty years ago, used to make the circuit of the gentry's houses as "The M'Swine," and was always hospitably entertained, and had the glass of claret" which he demanded as befitting his chieftain's rank. His sons were mere peasants, and resided in an island in the lovely Lake of Glenveagh, where they lived as they best could by cheating the excise and eluding the gauger. Yet, doubtless, they once had high place and power, for both sea and land bore their name, and the old maps still exhibit "M'Swine's Country" and "M'Swine's Gun," &c. We had always conjectured the name to have been originally Scandinavian, from "Swino"-the English nomenclature is Sweeny; but Edmund Spenser, in his "State of Ireland," asserts that the name was originally De Vere, and the family Norman, and that they were_descended from Robert De Vere, Earl of Oxford, the favourite of Richard II., who was banished to Ireland by the jealousy of the peers, and through hatred to the English cast off his name, and assumed the less mellifluous cognomen of M'Swine. This story, Spenser says, he had "by the report of the Irish themselves." With De Vere, he affirms on the same authority, came his kinsman Fitz Ursula, or Fitz Urse, who changed his name to MacMahon, both words signifying the "son of a bear:" so that Marshal MacMahon, the victor at Magenta, must, on this showing, be a descendant of Reginald Fitz Urse, one of the four noblemen who slew St. Thomas A'Becket at the altar of Canterbury! This pedigree of the MacMahons is denied and disputed by some, but Spenser had it, three hundred years ago, "from the Irish themselves," and it is asserted, also, by Edmund Campion, the Jesuit, whose "Historie of Ireland" was written A.D. 1571,* some years before Spenser's work on Ireland appeared. As we approached Killybegs, the road like a gray spectre seeming to run over the hills before us, we rounded Brockless Bay, and crossed the Corker river, and soon after stopped at Rogers' hotel, which stands facing the lovely bay which bases the little old town of Killybegs. Here the great Atlantic waves which come rolling in from the west are cooped up among serrated rocks and green undulating hills of the greatest beauty, and lie in calm repose like the waters of a large inland lake. Killybegs can boast of some historical interest. It belonged to the O'Donels, and has a few royalties attached to it. The town is # "Campion's Historie," chap. 2. |