The vestments of these juveniles again attracted our notice, reminding us--
“Of love, that never found its earthly close?”
for some of them must have been about as cool as Cupid, and suggesting that impatience, with regard to apparel, which characterised of old even the Kings of Ireland.
_Henry Castide_, selected on account of his knowledge of the language to teach and Anglicise four Irish Kings, who had sworn allegiance to Richard, relates in a conversation with _Froissart_, that these royal personages “had another custom, which I knew to be common in this country, which was the not wearing breeches. I had, in consequence, plenty of breeches made of linen and cloth, which I gave to the Kings and their attendants, and accustomed them to wear them. I took away many rude articles as well in their dress as other things, and had great difficulty at the first to induce them to wear robes of silken-cloth, trimmed with squirrel-skin, or minever, for the Kings only wrapped themselves up in an Irish cloak.” 1
This cloak, no doubt, very much resembled the garment worn by that Irish chieftain, of whom _Sir Walter Scott_, when in Ireland, related an anecdote, very highly-seasoned, to the Squireen, and who, during one of the rebellions against _Queen Elizabeth_, was honoured by a visit from a French Envoy. “This comforter of the rebels was a Bishop, and his union of civil and religious dignity secured for him all possible respect and attention. The Chief, receiving him in state, was clad in a yellow mantle ['to wit, a dirty blanket,' interposes the Squireen), but this he dropt in the interior, and sat upon it, mother-naked, in the midst of his family and guests by the fire.” 2 After this aristocratic pattern was fashioned, I suppose, the mantle of _Thady Quirk_, of which he tells us (in “_Castle Rackrent_”), “it holds on by a single button round my throat, cloak fashion,” so that _Thady_ could as promptly prepare himself for repose, as that heroine of whom the poet sings,--
“One single pin at night let loose The robes which veiled her beauty.”
There is magnificent mountain scenery, naked as the chieftain, but much more interesting, between Kenmare and Glengarriff, so wild and stern, and desolate exceedingly, a solitude so complete and drear, that, were _Prometheus_ bound upon these craggy rocks, he would be relieved to see the cruel vulture hungrily stooping for his _foie-gras._ Honour and thanks to the genius which designed, and to the patient energy which perfected, a way over these rugged Alps. Ireland must acknowledge her obligation to the stranger, for a Scotchman, _Nimmo_, made her most difficult roads, and an Italian, _Bianconi_, carries us over them.