intended that I would reside within a short distance of Knockgriffin, at the place bequeathed to me by my grandfather, which adjoins my brother’s property. You see, therefore, that my husband, should I ever accept one, must either be a thorough Tipperary man, or resigned to make himself one. You know enough of our unhappy county, Captain Stapleton, to understand how little I could venture to urge anyone to reside within its boundaries”
“Anywhere, anywhere with you!” I murmured, interrupting her energetically. “To the end of the earth; in a desert; anywhere, so that I may call you mine!”
“This is only the first ardour of passion, Captain Stapleton. Reflect a little upon what I have said. It is usual for women to follow their husband’s fortunes, and leave their own homes and countries for those that are strange to them; but I will never abandon Tipperary as a place of residence, and I can ask no man to live there with me.”
“Better and braver men than I am, God knows, are living in Tipperary!” I exclaimed, ardently. “Wherever you wish to reside, there will be my home also. And, oh that I had thousands upon thousands to purchase such an estate in this county as would be worthy of such a mistress!”
“I am quite satisfied with what I possess; and if you can really become reconciled to remaining among us here, then I will indeed be proud to be your wife—proud to know that I have the bravest and most generous of men for my husband.”
And so we were betrothed, reader. I had won my beautiful Tipperary bride easy enough, Heaven knows, as far as sacrifice on my part went: and I rejoice to say that Sir Denis was perfectly satisfied with his sister’s choice, though at the time I proposed and was accepted I had but a small income beyond my military pay. However, three years after we were married I came in for the baronetcy which I had considered myself cut out of by the marriage of my elderly uncle, who died six months after his son and heir was carried off by scarlatina; and then I had a fortune worthy of my wife. Yet I kept my promise of residing in Tipperary for the greater part of every year; and added to our property there, speedily gaining the hearty good-will of our tenants, with whom I never had a disagreement; nor was Sir Denis ever again fired at, at home or abroad, since the memorable evening that I received the shot intended for him, and which I have often returned thanks for as the most fortunate accident of my life.
Louisa is becoming less and less alarmed on her brother’s account as time goes on; and as there is a prospect of his marriage, I think she will soon agree to our living more in England. With all its drawbacks, and the failings of the people, I have learned to love my Tipperary home, and to deplore very bitterly the late outrages committed in other parts of the county, praying sincerely that civilisation may increase, that true Christianity be established, and that landlord and tenant may learn to live together in peace and unity.
TWO SWISS LAKES.
The lakes of Brienz and Thun, those twin basins of the Aar, between which lies the lazy, loafing, picturesque lounge of Interlaken, whose genius is, as it were, the Calypso of Swiss tourists, bidding men stride and climb no longer, beckoning ladies to quit the rough saddle and rougher chaise à porteur, and betake themselves to croquêt and gossip in the shade—these two lakes are very charming in their way, and form some of the very pleasantest Swiss memories in the minds of travellers who have neither been tied by remorseless Time, nor bitten by the more intense furore of Alpine climbing. Brienz is the lake of the Giessbach Falls; Thun is the lake of the fine pyramidal height known as the Niesen. The village of Brienz is barely more than five minutes distant by the steamer from the point where the great gush of the falls troubles the tranquil surface of the lake. But before we go across to that famous cataract, let us take a look at the delicious little hamlet itself. Here in four lines is an excellent miniature of the scene:—
Slope after slope the pastures dip
With ribbon’d waterfalls, and make
Scant room for just a village strip,
The setting of a sapphire lake.
So sings the accomplished author of Ionica, who has caught and immortalised that plaintive wistful way that strikes one so often in the filles and garçons of remote inns, who look a gentle rebuke at English restlessness and hurry, and seem ready to plead for some little sojourn at their quarters, were it not that experience has taught them to despair of success in any such effort. At Brienz in particular
Travellers rest not, only dine,
Then driven by Furies, onward go.
For pilgrims of the pointed stick,
With passport case for scallop-shell,
Scramble for worshipped Alps too quick
To care for vales where mortals dwell.
