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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: The Wild Irish Girl, Vol. I and II - A National Tale, In Two Volumes - -Author: (AKA Sydney Owenson) Lady Sydney Morgan - -Release Date: May 8, 2017 [EBook #54683] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD IRISH GIRL, VOL. I AND II *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE WILD IRISH GIRL - </h1> - <h2> - By Lady Sydney Morgan - </h2> -<h3> - In Two Volumes, Vol. I - </h3> - <h4> - New York: P. M. Haverty. - </h4> - <h3> - 1879 - </h3> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0007.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <h3> - INTRODUCTORY LETTERS. - </h3> - <h3> - THE EARL OF M———— - </h3> - <h3> - TO THE HONORABLE HORATIO M————, KING’S BENCH. - </h3> - <h4> - Castle M————, Leicestershire, - </h4> - <h5> - Feb. ——, 17———. - </h5> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f there are - certain circumstances under which a fond father can address an imprisoned - son without suffering the bitterest heart-rendings of paternal agony, such - are not those under which I now address you. To sustain the loss of the - most precious of all human rights, and forfeit our liberty at the shrine - of virtue, in defence of our country abroad, or of our public integrity - and principles at home, brings to the heart of the sufferer’s dearest - sympathising friend a soothing solace, almost concomitant to the poignancy - of his afflictions; and leaves the decision difficult, whether in the - scale of human feelings, triumphant pride or affectionate regret - preponderate. - </p> - <p> - “I would not,” said the old earl of Ormond, “give up my dead son for - twenty living ones.” Oh! how I envy such a father the possession, and even - the <i>loss</i> of such a child: with what eagerness my heart rushes back - to that period when <i>I</i> too triumphed in my son; when I beheld him - glowing in all the unadulterated virtues of the happiest nature, flushed - with the proud consciousness of superior genius, refined by a taste - intuitively elegant, and warmed by an enthusiasm constitutionally ardent; - his character indeed tinctured with the bright colouring of romantic - eccentricity, but marked by the indelible traces of innate rectitude, and - ennobled by the purest principles of native generosity, the proudest sense - of inviolable honour, I beheld him rush eagerly on life, enamoured of its - seeming good, incredulous of its latent evils, till fatally fascinated by - the magic spell of the former, he fell an early victim to the successful - lures of the latter. The growing influence of his passions kept pace with - the expansion of his mind, and the moral powers of the <i>man of genius</i>, - gave way to the overwhelming propensities of the <i>man of pleasure</i>. - Yet in the midst of those exotic vices (for as such even yet I would - consider them,) he continued at once the object of my parental partiality - and anxious solicitude; I admired while I condemned, I pitied while I - reproved. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The rights of primogeniture, and the mild and prudent cast of your - brother’s character, left me no cares either for his worldly interest or - moral welfare: born to titled affluence, his destination in life was - ascertained previous to his entrance on its chequered scene; and equally - free from passions to mislead, or talents to stimulate, he promised to his - father that series of temperate satisfaction which, unillumined by those - coruscations, <i>your</i> superior and promising genius flashed on the - parental heart, could not prepare for its sanguine feelings that mortal - disappointment with which <i>you</i> have destroyed all its hopes. On the - recent death of my father I found myself possessed of a very large but - incumbered property: it was requisite I should make the same establishment - for my eldest son, that my father had made for me; while I was conscious - that my youngest was in some degree to stand indebted to his own - exertions, for independence as well as elevation in life. - </p> - <p> - You may recollect that during your first college vacation, we conversed on - the subject of that liberal profession I had chosen for you, and you - agreed with me, that it was congenial to your powers, and not inimical to - your taste; while the part I was anxious you should take in the - legislation of your country, seemed at once to rouse and gratify your - ambition; but the pure flame of laudable emulation was soon extinguished - in the destructive atmosphere of pleasure, and while I beheld you, in the - visionary hopes of my parental ambition, invested with the crimson robe of - legal dignity, or shining brightly conspicuous in the splendid galaxy of - senatorial luminaries, <i>you</i> were idly presiding as the high priest - of libertinism at the nocturnal orgies of vitiated dissipation, or - indolently lingering out your life in elegant but unprofitable pursuits. - </p> - <p> - It were as vain as impossible to trace you through every degree of error - on the scale of folly and imprudence, and such a repetition would be more - heart wounding to me than painful to you, were it even made under the most - extenuating bias of parental fondness. - </p> - <p> - I have only to add, that though already greatly distressed by the - liquidation of your debts, at a time when I am singularly circumstanced - with respect to pecuniary resources, I will make a struggle to free you - from the chains of this your present <i>iron</i>-hearted creditor, through - the retrenchment of my <i>own</i> expenses, and my temporary retreat to - the solitute of my Irish estate must be the result; provided that by this - sacrifice I purchace your acquiescence to my wishes respecting the destiny - of your future life, and an unreserved abjuration of the follies which - have governed your past. - </p> - <p> - Yours, &c. &c. - </p> - <h3> - M———. - </h3> - <h3> - TO THE EARL OF M———— - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y Lord, - </p> - <p> - Suffer me, in the fullness of my heart, and in the language of one - prodigal and penitent as myself, to say, “I have sinned against Heaven and - thee, and am no longer worthy to be called thy son.” Abandon me then, I - beseech you, as such; deliver me up to the destiny, that involves me to - the complicated tissue of errors and follies I have so industriously woven - with my own hands; for though I am equal to sustain the judgment my own - vices have drawn down upon me, I cannot support the cruel mercy with which - your goodness endeavours to avert its weight. - </p> - <p> - Among the numerous catalogues of my faults, a sordid selfishness finds no - place. Yet I should deservedly incur its imputation, were I to accept of - freedom on such terms as you are so generous to offer. No, my Lord, - continue to adorn that high and polished circle in which you are so - eminently calculated to move; nor think so lowly of one, who, with all his - faults, is <i>your son</i>, as to believe him ready to purchase <i>his</i> - liberty at the expense of <i>your</i> banishment from your native country. - </p> - <p> - I am, &c. &c. - </p> - <p> - <i>King’s Bench</i>. H. M. - </p> - <h3> - TO THE HON. HORATIO M————. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>n act to which the - exaggeration of <i>your</i> feelings gives the epithet of banishment, I - shall consider as a voluntary sequestration from scenes of which I am - weary, to scenes which, though thrice visited, still preserve the poignant - charms of novelty and interest. Your hasty and undigested answer to my - letter (written in the prompt emotion of the moment, ere the probable - consequence of a romantic rejection to an offer not unreflectingly made, - could be duly weighed or coolly examined) convinces me experience has - contributed little to the modification of your feelings, or the prudent - regulation of your conduct. It is this promptitude of feeling, this - contempt of prudence, that formed the predisposing cause of your errors - and your follies. Dazzled by the brilliant glare of the splendid virtues, - you saw not, you would not see, that prudence was among the first of moral - excellences; the director, the regulator, the standard of them all; that - it is in fact the corrector of virtue herself; for even <i>virtue</i>, - like the <i>sun</i>, has her <i>solstice</i>, beyond which she ought not - to move. - </p> - <p> - If you would retribute what you seem to lament, and unite restitution to - penitence, leave this country for a short time, and abandon with the - haunts of your former blameable pursuits, those associates who were at - once the cause and punishment of your errors. I myself will become your - partner in exile, for it is to my estate in Ireland I <i>banish</i> you - for the summer. You have already got through the “first rough brakes” of - your profession: as you can now serve the last term of this season, I see - no cause why <i>Coke upon Lyttleton</i> cannot be as well studied amidst - the wild seclusion of Connaught scenery, and on the solitary shores of the - “steep Atlantic,” as in the busy bustling precincts of the Temple. - </p> - <p> - I have only to add, that I shall expect your undivided attention will be - given up to your professional studies; that you will for a short interval - resign the fascinating pursuits of polite literature and belles lettres, - from which even the syren spell of pleasure could not tear you, and which - snatched from vice many of those hours I believed devoted to more serious - studies. I know you will find it no less difficult to resign the elegant - theories of your favourite <i>Lavater</i>, for the dry facts of law - reports, than to exchange your duodecimo editions of the amatory poets, - for heavy tomes of cold legal disquisitions; but happiness is to be - purchased, and labour is the price; fame and independence are the result - of talent united to great exertion, and the elegant enjoyments of literary - leisure are never so keenly relished as when tasted under the shade of - that flourishing laurel which our own efforts have reared to mature - perfection. Farewell! My agent has orders respecting the arrangement of - your affairs. You must excuse the procrastination of our interview till we - meet in Ireland, which I fear will not be so immediate as my wishes would - incline. I shall write to my banker in Dublin to replenish your purse on - your arrival in Ireland, and to my Connaught steward, to prepare for your - reception at M———— house. Write to me by return. - </p> - <p> - Once more farewell! - </p> - <h3> - M————. - </h3> - <h3> - TO THE EARL OF M———— - </h3> - <p> - My Lord, - </p> - <p> - He who agonized on the bed of Procrostus reposed on a couch of down, - compared to the sufferings of him who in the heart he has stabbed, beholds - the pulse of generous affection still beating with an invariable throb for - the being who has inflicted the wound. - </p> - <p> - I shall offer you no thanks, my Lord, for the generosity of your conduct, - nor any extenuation for the errors of mine. - </p> - <p> - The gratitude the one has given birth to—the remorse which the other - has awakened, bid equal defiance to expression. I have only (fearfully) to - hope, that you will not deny my almost forfeited claim to the title of - your son. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D., ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - <i>Holyhead.</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e are told in the - splendid Apocrypha of ancient Irish fable, that when one of the learned - was missing on the Continent of Europe, it was proverbially said, - </p> - <p> - “<i>Amandatus est ad disciplinum in Hibernia</i>” - </p> - <p> - But I cannot recollect that in its fabulous or veracious history, Ireland - was ever the mart of voluntary exile to the man of pleasure; so that when - you and the rest of my precious associates miss the track of my footsteps - in the oft trod path of dissipation, you will never think of tracing its - pressure to the wildest of the Irish shores, and exclaim, “<i>Amandatus - est ad, &c. &c. &c.</i>” - </p> - <p> - However, I am so far advanced in the land of <i>Druidism</i>, on my way to - the “Island of Saints,” while you, in the emporium of the world, are - drinking from the cup of conjugal love a temporary oblivion to your past - sins and wickedness, and revelling in the first golden dreams of - matrimonial illusion. - </p> - <p> - I suppose an account of my high crimes and misdemeanours, banishment, - &c. &c. have already reached your ears; but while my brethren in - transportation are offering up their wishes and their hopes on the shore, - to the unpropitious god of winds, indulge me in the garrulity of egotism, - and suffer me to correct the overcharged picture of that arch charicature - <i>report</i>, by giving you a correct <i>ebauche</i> of the recent - circumstances of my useless life. - </p> - <p> - When I gave you convoy as far as Dover, on your way to France, I returned - to London, to - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Surfeit on the same - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - and yawn my joys——” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - And was again soon plunged in that dreadful vacillation of mind from which - your society and conversation had so lately redeemed me. - </p> - <p> - Vibrating between an innate propensity to <i>rights</i> and an habitual - adherence to <i>wrong</i>; sick of pursuits I was too indolent to - relinqush, and linked to vice, yet still enamoured of virtue; weary of the - useless, joyless inanity of my existence, yet without energy, without - power to regenerate my worthless being; daily losing ground in the minds - of the inestimable few who were still interested for my welfare; nor - compensating for the loss, by the gratification of any one feeling in my - own heart, and held up as an object of fashionable popularity for - sustaining that character, which of all others I most despised; my taste - impoverished by a vicious indulgence, my senses palled by repletion, my - heart chill and unawakened, every appetite depraved and pampered into - satiety, I fled from myself, as the object of my own utter contempt and - detestation, and found a transient pleasurable inebriety in the well - practised blandishments of Lady C——. - </p> - <p> - You who alone know me, who alone have <i>openly</i> condemned, and <i>secretly</i> - esteemed me, you who have wisely culled the blossom of pleasure, while I - have sucked its poison, know that I am rather a <i>méchant par air</i>, - than from any irresistible propensity to indiscriminate libertinism. In - fact, the <i>original sin</i> of my nature militates against the hackneyed - modes of hackneyed licentiousness; for I am too profound a voluptuary to - feel any exquisite gratification from such gross pursuits as the “<i>swinish - multitude</i>” of fashion ennoble with that name of little understood, <i>pleasure</i>. - Misled in my earliest youth by “passion’s meteor ray,” even then my heart - called (but called in vain,) for a thousand delicious refinements to give - poignancy to the mere transient impulse of sense. - </p> - <p> - Oh! my dear friend, if in that sunny season of existence when the ardours - of youth nourish in our bosom a thousand indescribable emotions of - tenderness and love, it had been <i>my</i> fortunate destiny to have met - with a being, who—but this is an idle regret, perhaps an idle - supposition;—-the moment of ardent susceptibility is over, when - woman becomes the sole spell which lures us to good or ill, and when her - omnipotence, according to the bias of her own nature, and the organization - of those feelings on which it operates, determines, in a certain degree - our destiny through life—leads the mind through the medium of the - heart to the noblest pursuits, or seduces it through the medium of the - passions to the basest career. - </p> - <p> - That I became the dupe of Lady C——, and her artful - predecessor, arose from the want of that “something still unpossessed,” to - fill my life’s dreadful void. I sensibly felt the want of an object to - interest my feelings, and laboured under that dreadful interregnum of the - heart, reason and ambition; which leaves the craving passions open to - every invader. Lady C—— perceived the situation of my mind, - and—but spare me the detail of a connexion which even in memory, - produces a <i>nausea</i> of every sense and feeling. Suffice it to say, - that equally the victim of the husband’s villainy as the wife’s artifice, - I stifled on its birth a threatened prosecution, by giving my bond for a - sum I was unable to liquidate: it was given as for a gambling debt, but my - father, who had long suspected, and endeavoured to break this fatal - connexion, guessed at the truth, and suffered me to become a guest (<i>mal - voluntaire</i>) in the King’s Bench. This unusual severity on his part, - lessened not on mine the sense of his indulgence to my former boundless - extravagance, and I determined to remain a prisoner for life, rather than - owe my liberty to a new imposition on his tenderness, by such solicitings - as have hitherto been invariably crowned with success, though answered - with reprehension. - </p> - <p> - I had been already six weeks a prisoner, deserted by those gay moths that - had fluttered round the beam of my transient prosperity; delivered up to - all the maddening meditation of remorse, when I received a letter from my - father (then with my brother in Leicestershire,) couched in his usual - terms of reprehension, and intervals of tenderness; ascertaining every - error with judicial exactitude, and associating every fault with some - ideal excellence of parental creation, alternately the father and the - judge; and as you once said, when I accused him of partiality to his - eldest born, “talking <i>best</i> of Edward was <i>most</i> of me.” - </p> - <p> - In a word, he has behaved like an Angel. So well, that by Heavens! I can - scarcely bear to think of it. A spurious half-bred generosity—a - little tincture of illiberality on his side, would have been Balm of - Gillead to my wounded conscience; but with unqualified goodness he has - paid all my debts, supplied my purse beyond my wants, and only asks in - return, that I will retire for a few months to Ireland, and this I believe - merely to wean me from the presence of an object which he falsely believes - still hangs about my heart with no moderate influence. - </p> - <p> - And yet I wish his mercy had flowed in any other channel, even though more - confined and less liberal. - </p> - <p> - Had he banished me to the savage desolations of Siberia, my exile would - have had some character; had he even transported me to a South Sea Island, - or threw me into an Esquimaux hut, my new species of being would have been - touched with some interest; for in fact, the present relaxed state of my - intellectual system requires some strong transition of place, - circumstance, and manners, to wind it up to its native tone, to rouse it - to energy, or awaken it to exertion. - </p> - <p> - But sent to a country against which I have a decided prejudice—which - I suppose semi-barbarous, semi-civilized; has lost the strong and hardy - features of savage life, without acquiring those graces which distinguish - polished society—I shall neither participate in the poignant - pleasure of awakened curiosity and acquired information, nor taste the - least of those enjoyments which courted my acceptance in my native land. - Enjoyments did I say! And were they indeed enjoyments? How readily the - mind adopts the phraseology of habit, when the sentiment it once clothed - no longer exists. Would that my past pursuits were even in <i>recollection</i>, - the aspect of enjoyments. But even my memory has lost its character of - energy, and the past, like the present, appears one unwearied scence of - chill and vapid existence. No sweet point of reflection seizes on the - recollective powers. No actual joy woos my heart’s participation, and no - prospect of future felicity glows on the distant vista of life, or awakens - the quick throb of hope and expectation; all is cold, sullen and dreary. - </p> - <p> - <i>Laval</i> seems to entertain no less prejudice against this country - than his master, he has therefore begged leave of absence until my father - comes over. Pray have the goodness to send me by him a box of Italian - crayons, and a good thermometer; for I must have something to relieve the - <i>tedium vitae</i> of my exiled days; and in my articles of stipulation - with my father, chemistry and belles lettres are <i>specially</i> - prohibited. It was a useless prohibition, for Heaven knows, chemistry - would have been the last study I should have flown to in my present state - of mind. For how can he look minutely into the intimate structure of - things, and resolve them into their simple and elementary substance, whose - own disordered mind is incapable of analyzing the passions by which it is - agitated, of ascertaining the reciprocal relation of its incoherent ideas, - or combining them in different proportions (from those by which they were - united by chance,) in order to join a new and useful compound for the - benefit of future life? As for belles lettres! so blunted are all those - powers once so - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Active and strong, and feelingly alive, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - To each fine impulse,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - that not <i>one “pansee coleur de rose”</i> lingers on the surface of my - faded imagination, and I should turn with as much apathy from the - sentimental sorcery of <i>Rosseau</i>, as from the volumnious verbosity of - an High German doctor; yawn over “The Pleasures of Memory,” and run the - risk of falling fast asleep with the brilliant <i>Madame de Sevigne</i> in - my hand. So send me a Fahrenheit, that I may bend the few coldly - mechanical powers left me, to ascertain the temperature of my wild western - <i>territories</i>, and expect my letters from thence to be only filled - with the summary results of metoric instruments, and synoptical views of - common phenomena. - </p> - <p> - Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h1> - THE WILD IRISH GIRL. - </h1> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER I. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - <i>Dublin, March</i>, ——, 17—— - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> remember, when I - was a boy, meeting somewhere with the quaintly written travels of <i>Moryson</i> - through Ireland, and being particularly struck with his assertion, that so - late as the days of Elizabeth, an Irish chieftain and his family were - frequently seen seated round their domestic fire in a state of perfect - nudity. This singular anecdote (so illustrative of the barbarity of the - Irish, at a period when civilization had made such a wonderful progress - even in its sister countries,) fastened so strongly on my boyish - imagination, that whenever the <i>Irish</i> were mentioned in my presence, - an <i>Esquimaux</i> group circling round the fire which was to dress a - dinner, or broil an enemy, was the image which presented itself to my - mind; and in this trivial source, I believe, originated that early formed - opinion of Irish ferocity, which has since been nurtured into a <i>confirmed - prejudice</i>. So true it is, that almost all the erroneous principles - which influence our maturer being, are to be traced to some fatal - association of ideas received and formed in early life. But whatever maybe - the <i>cause</i>, I feel the strongest objection to becoming a resident in - the remote part of a country which is still shaken by the convulsions of - an anarchical spirit; where for a series of ages the olive of peace has - not been suffered to shoot forth <i>one</i> sweet blossom of national - concord, which the sword of civil dissension has not cropt almost in the - germ; and the natural character of whose factious sons, as we are still - taught to believe, is turbulent, faithless, intemperate, and cruel; - formerly destitute of arts, letters, or civilization, and still but slowly - submitting to their salutary and ennobling influence. - </p> - <p> - To confess the truth, I had so far suffered prejudice to get the start of - unbiassed liberality, that I had almost assigned to these rude people - scenes appropriately barbarous; and never was more pleasantly astonished, - than when the morning’s dawn gave to my view one of the most splendid - spectacles in the scene of picturesque creation I had ever beheld, or - indeed ever conceived—the bay of Dublin. - </p> - <p> - A foreigner on board the packet compared the view to that which the bay of - Naples affords: I cannot judge of the justness of the comparison, though I - am told one very general and commonplace; but if the scenic beauties of - the Irish bay are exceeded by those of the Neapolitan, my fancy falls - short in a just conception of its charms. The springing up of a contrary - wind kept us for a considerable time beating about this enchanting coast; - the weather suddenly changed, the rain poured in torrents, a storm arose, - and the beautiful prospect which had fascinated our gaze, vanished in the - mists of impenetrable obscurity. - </p> - <p> - As we had the mail on board, a boat was sent out to receive it, the oars - of which were plied by six men, whose statures, limbs, and features - declared them the lingering progeny of the once formidable race of Irish - giants, Bare headed, they “bided the pelting of the pitiless storm,” with - no other barrier to its fury, than what tattered check trousers, and - shirts open at neck, and tucked above the elbows afforded; and which thus - disposed, betrayed the sinewy contexture of forms, which might have - individually afforded a model to sculpture, for the colossal statue of an - Hercules, under all the different aspects of strength and exertion. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This little marine sketch is by no means a fancy picture; - it was actually copied from the life, in the summer of 1806. -</pre> - <p> - A few of the passengers proposing to venture in the boat, I listlessly - followed, and found myself seated by one of these sea monsters, who, in an - accent that made me startle, addressed me in English at least as pure and - correct as a Thames’ boatman would use; and with so much courtesy, - cheerfulness, and respect, that I was at a loss to reconcile such - civilization of manner to such ferocity of appearance; while his - companions as they stemmed the mountainous waves, or plied their heavy - oars, displayed such a vein of low humour and quaint drollery, and in a - language so curiously expressive and original, that no longer able to - suppress my surprise, I betrayed it to a gentleman who sat near me, and by - whom I was assured that this species of colloquial wit was peculiar to the - lower class of the Irish, who borrowed much of their curious phraseology - from the peculiar idiom of their own tongue, and the cheeriness of manner - from the native exility of their temperament; “and as for their - courteousness.” he continued, “you will find them on a further - intercourse, civil even to <i>adulation</i>, as long as you treat them - with apparent kindness, but an opposite conduct will prove their manner - proportionably uncivilized.” - </p> - <p> - “It is very excusable,” said I, “they are of a class in society to which - the modification of the feelings are unknown, and to be sensibly alive to - <i>kindness or to unkindness</i>, is, in my opinion, a noble trait in the - national character of an unsophisticated people.” - </p> - <p> - While we spoke, we landed, and for the something like pleasurable emotion, - which the first on my list of Irish acquaintance produced in my mind, I - distributed among these “sons of the waves,” more silver than I believe - they expected Had I bestowed a principality on an Englishman of the same - rank, he would have been less lavish of the <i>eloquence</i> of gratitude - on his benefactor, though he might equally have felt the <i>sentiment</i>.—So - much for my voyage <i>across the Channel!</i> - </p> - <p> - This city is to London like a small temple of the Ionic order, whose - proportions are delicate, whose character is elegance, compared to a vast - palace, whose Corinthian pillars at once denote strength and magnificence. - </p> - <p> - The wondrous extent of London excites our amazement; the compact - uniformity of Dublin our admiration. But a dispersion is less within the - <i>coup-d’oil</i> of observance, than aggregation, the small, but - harmonious features of Dublin sieze at once on the eye, while the - scattered but splendid traits of London, excite a less immediate and more - progressive admiration, which is often lost in the intervals that occur - between those objects which are calculated to excite it. - </p> - <p> - In London, the miserable shop of a gin seller, and the magnificent palace - of a Duke, alternately create disgust, or awaken approbation. - </p> - <p> - In Dublin the buildings are not arranged upon such democratic principles. - The plebian hut offers no foil to the patrician edifice, while their - splendid and beautiful public structures are so closely connected, as with - <i>some</i> degree of policy to strike <i>at once</i> upon the eye in the - happiest combination. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Although in one point of view, there may be a policy in - this close association of splendid objects, yet it is a - circumstance of general and just condemnation to all - strangers who are not confined to a partial survey of the - city. -</pre> - <p> - In other respects this city appears to me to be the miniature copy of our - imperial original, though minutely imitative in show and glare. Something - less observant of life’s prime luxuries, order and cleanliness, there are - a certain class of wretches who haunt the streets of Dublin, so emblematic - of vice, poverty, idleness, and filth, that disgust and pity frequently - succeed in the minds of the stranger to sentiments of pleasure, surprise, - and admiration. For the origin of this evil, I must refer you to the - supreme police of the city; but whatever may be the cause, the effects (to - an Englishman especially) are dreadful and disgusting beyond all - expression. - </p> - <p> - Although my father has a large connexion here, yet he only gave me a - letter to his banker, who has forced me to make his house my home for the - few days I shall remain in Dublin, and whose cordiality and kindness - sanctions all that has ever been circulated of Irish hospitality. - </p> - <p> - In the present state of my feelings, however, a party on the banks of the - <i>Ohio</i>, with a tribe of Indian hunters, would be more consonant to my - inclinations than the refined pleasures of the most polished circles in - the world. Yet these warm-hearted people, who find in the name of stranger - an irresistible lure to every kind attention, will force me to be happy in - despite of myself, and overwhelm me with invitations, some of which it is - impossible to resist. My prejudices have received some mortal strokes, - when I perceived that the natives of this barbarous country have got goal - for goal with us, in every elegant refinement of life and manners; the - only difference I can perceive between a London and a Dublin <i>rout</i> - is, that here, amongst the first class, there is a warmth and cordiality - of address, which, though perhaps not more sincere than the cold formality - of British ceremony, is certainly more fascinating. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Every unprejudiced traveller who visits them [the Irish] - will be as much pleased with their cheerfulness as obliged - by their hospitality; and will find them a brave, polite, - and liberal people.”—Philosophical Survey through Ireland - by Mr. Young. -</pre> - <p> - It is not, however, in Dublin I shall expect to find the tone of national - character and manner; in the first circles of all great cities (as in - courts) the native features of national character are softened into - general uniformity, and the genuine feelings of nature are suppressed or - exchanged for a political compliance with the reigning modes and customs, - which hold their tenure from the sanction and example of the seat of - government. Before I close this, I must make one observation, which I - think will speak more than volumes for the refinement of these people. - </p> - <p> - During my short residence here, I have been forced, in true spirit of - Irish dissipation, into three parties of a night; and I have upon these - occasions observed that the most courted objects of popular attention, - were those whose talents alone endowed them with distinction. Besides - amateurs, I have met with many professional persons, whom I knew in London - as public characters, and who are here incorporated in the first and most - brilliant circles, appearing to feel no other inequality, than what their - own superiority of genius confers. - </p> - <p> - I leave Dublin to-morrow for M———— house. It is - situated in the county of ——————, on - the northwest coast of Connaught, which I am told is the classic ground of - Ireland. The native Irish, pursued by religious and political bigotry, - made it the asylum of their sufferings, and were separated by a provincial - barrier from an intercourse with the rest of Ireland, until after the - Restoration; so I shall have a fair opportunity of beholding the Irish - character in all its <i>primeval</i> ferocity. - </p> - <p> - Direct your next to Bally————, which I find is the - nearest post town to my <i>Kamskatkan palace</i>, where with no other - society than that of Black stone and Co. I shall lead such a life of - animal existence, as Prior gives to his Contented Couple— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “They ate, and drank, and slept—what then? - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Why, slept, and drank, and ate again.”— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Adieu. H. M. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER II. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - <i>M———— House</i>. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n the various - modes of penance invented by the various <i>penance mongers</i> of pious - austerity, did you ever hear the travelling in an <i>Irish postchaise</i> - enumerated as a punishment, which by far exceeds horse-hair shirts and - voluntary flagelation? - </p> - <p> - My first day’s journey from Dublin being as wet a one as this moist - climate and capricious season ever produced, my berlin answered all the - purposes of a <i>shower bath</i>, while the ventillating principles on - which the windows were constructed, gave me all the benefit to be derived - from the <i>breathy</i> influence of the four cardinal points. - </p> - <p> - Unable any longer to sit tamely enduring the “<i>penalty of Adam, the - season’s change</i>,” or to sustain any longer the “hair-breadth ’scapes,” - which the most dismantled of vehicles afforded me, together with delays - and stoppages of every species to be found in the catalogue of - procrastination and mischance, I took my seat in a mail coach which I met - at my third stage, and which was going to a town within twenty miles of - Bally————. These twenty miles, by far the most - agreeable of my journey, I performed as we once (in days of boyish - errantry) accomplished a tour to Wales—on foot. - </p> - <p> - I had previously sent my baggage, and was happily unincumbered with a - servant, for the fastidious delicacy of Monsieur Laval would never have - been adequate to the fatigues of a pedestrian tour through a country wild - and mountainous as his own native <i>Savoy</i>. But to me every difficulty - was an effort of some good <i>genius</i> chasing the demon of lethargy - from the usurpations of my mind’s empire. Every obstacle that called for - exertion was a temporary revival of latent energy; and every unforced - effort worth an age of indolent indulgence. - </p> - <p> - To him who derives gratification from the embellished labours of art, - rather than the simple but sublime operation of nature, <i>Irish</i> - scenery will afford little interest; but the bold features of its varying - landscape, the stupendous attitude of its “cloud capt” mountains, the - impervious gloom of its deep embosomed glens, the savage desolation of its - uncultivated heaths, and boundless bogs, with those rich veins of a - picturesque champaigne, thrown at intervals into gay expansion by the hand - of nature, awaken in the mind of the poetic or pictoral traveller, all the - pleasures of tasteful enjoyment, all the sublime emotions of a rapt - imagination. And if the glowing fancy of Claude Loraine would have dwelt - enraptured on the paradisial charms of English landscape, the superior - genius of Salvator Rosa would have reposed its eagle wing amidst those - scenes of mysterious sublimity, with which the wildly magnificent - landscape of Ireland abounds. But the liberality of nature appears to me - to be here but frugally assisted by the donations of art. Here <i>agriculture</i> - appears in the least felicitous of he! aspects. The rich treasures of - Ceres seldom wave their golden heads over the earth’s fertile bosom; the - verdant drapery of young plantations rarely skreens out the coarser - features of a rigid soil, the cheerless aspect of a gloomy bog; while the - unvaried surface of the perpetual pasturage which satisfies the eye of the - interested grazier, disappoints the glance of the tasteful spectator. - </p> - <p> - Within twenty miles of Bally———— I was literally - dropt by the stage at the foot of a mountain, to which your native <i>Wrekin</i> - is but a hillock. The dawn was just risen, and flung its gray and reserved - tints on a scene of which the mountainous region of Capel Cerig will give - you the most adequate idea. - </p> - <p> - Mountain rising over mountain, swelled like an amphitheatre to those - clouds which, faintly tinged with the sun’s prelusive beams, and rising - from the earthly summits where they had reposed, incorporated with the - kindling æther of a purer atmosphere. - </p> - <p> - All was silent and solitary—a tranquility tinged with terror, a sort - of “delightful horror,” breathed on every side.—I was alone, and - felt like the presiding genius of desolation! - </p> - <p> - As I had previously learned my route, after a minute’s contemplation of - the scene before me, I pursued my solitary ramble along a steep and - trackless path, which wound gradually down towards a great lake, an almost - miniature sea, that lay embosomed amidst those stupendous heights whose - rugged forms, now bare, desolate, and barren, now clothed with yellow - furze and creeping underwood, or crowned with misnic forests, appeared - towering above my head in endless variety. The progress of the sun - convinced me that <i>mine</i> must have been slow, as it was perpetually - interrupted by pauses of curiosity and admiration, and by long and many - lapses of thoughtful reverie; and fearing that I had lost my way (as I had - not yet caught a view of the village, in which, seven miles distant from - the spot where I had left the stage, I was assured I should find an - excellent breakfast,) I ascended that part of the mountain where, on one - of its vivid points, a something like a human habitation hung suspended, - and where I hoped to obtain a <i>carte du pays</i>: the exterior of this - <i>hut</i>, or <i>cabin</i>, as it is called, like the few I had seen - which were not built of mud, resembled in one instance the magic palace of - Chaucer, and was erected with loose stones, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Which, cunningly, were without mortar laid.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - thinly thatched with straw; an aperture in the roof served rather to <i>admit</i> - the air than <i>emit</i> the smoke, a circumstance to which the wretched - inhabitants of those wretched hovels seem so perfectly naturalized, that - they live in a constant state of fumigation; and a fracture in the side - wall (meant I suppose as a substitute for a casement) was stuffed with - straw, while the door, off its hinges, was laid across the threshhold, as - a barrier to a little crying boy, who sitting within, bemoaned his - captivity in a tone of voice not quite so mellifluous as that which Mons. - Sanctyon ascribes to the crying children of a certain district in Persia, - but perfectly in unison with the vocal exertions of the companion of his - imprisonment, a large sow. I approached—removed the barrier: the boy - and the animal escaped together, and I found myself alone in the centre of - this miserable asylum of human wretchedness—the residence of an <i>Irish - peasant</i>. To those who have only contemplated this useful order of - society in England, “where every rood of ground maintains its man,” and - where the peasant liberally enjoys the <i>comforts</i> as well as the - necessaries of life, the wretched picture which the interior of an <i>Irish</i> - cabin presents, would be at once an object of compassion and disgust. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Sometimes excavated from a hill, sometimes erected with - loose stones, but most generally built of mud, the cabin is - divided into two apartments, the one littered with straw and - coarse rugs, and sometimes, (but very rarely) furnished with - the luxury of a chaff bed, serves as a dormitory not only - to the family of both sexes, but in general to any animal - they are so fortunate as to possess; the other chamber - answers for every purpose of domesticity, though almost - destitute of every domestic implement, except the iron pot - in which the potatoes are boiled, and the stool on which - they are flung. From those wretched hovels (which often - appears amidst scenes that might furnish the richest models - to poetic imitation) it is common to behold a group of - children rush forth at the sound of a horse’s foot, or - carriage wheel, regardless of the season’s rigours, in a - perfect state of nudity, or covered with the drapery of - wretchedness, which gives to their appearance a still - stronger character of poverty; yet even in these miserable - huts you will seldom find the spirit of urbanity absent—the - genius of hospitality never. I remember meeting with an - instance of both, that made a deep impression on my heart; - in the autumn of 1804, in the course of a morning ramble - with a charming Englishwoman, in the county of Sligo, I - stopped to rest myself in a cabin, while she proceeded to - pay a visit to the respectable family of the O’H———s, of - Nymph’s Field: when I entered I found it occupied by an old - woman and her three granddaughters; two of the young women - were employed scutching flax, the other in some domestic - employment. I was instantly hailed with the most cordial - welcome; the hearth was cleared, the old woman’s seat forced - on me, eggs and potatoes roasted, and an apology for the - deficiency of bread politely made, while the manners of my - hostesses betrayed a courtesy that almost amounted to - adulation. They had all laid by their work on my entrance, - and when I requested I might not interrupt their avocations, - one of them replied “I hope we know better—we can work any - day, but we cannot any day have such a body as you under our - roof.” Surely this was not the manners of a cabin but a - court. -</pre> - <p> - Almost suffocated, and not surprised that it was deserted <i>pro tempo</i>, - I hastened away, and was attracted towards a ruinous barn by a full chorus - of female voices—where a group of young females were seated round an - old hag who formed the centre of the circle; they were all busily employed - at their <i>wheels</i>, which I observed went merrily round in exact time - with their song, and so intently were they engaged by both, that my - proximity was unperceived. At last the song ceased—the wheel stood - still—and every eye was fixed on the old <i>primum mobile</i> of the - circle, who, after a short pause, began a <i>solo</i> that gave much - satisfaction to her young auditors, and taking up the strain, they again - turned their wheels round in unison.—The whole was sung in Irish, - and as soon as I was observed, suddenly ceased; the girls looked down and - tittered—and the old woman addressed me <i>sans ceremonie</i>, and - in a language I now heard for the first time. - </p> - <p> - Supposing that some one among the number must understand English, I - explained with all possible politeness the cause of my intrusion on this - little harmonic society. The old woman looked up in my face and shook her - head; I thought contemptuously—while the young ones, stifling their - smiles, exchanged looks of compassion doubtlessly at my ignorance of their - language. - </p> - <p> - “So many languages a man knows,” said Charles V., “so many times is he a - man,” and it is certain I never felt myself less invested with the dignity - of one, than while I stood twirling my stick, and “biding the encounter of - the eyes,” and smiles of these “spinners in the sun.” Here you will say - was prejudice opposed to prejudice with a vengeance; but I comforted - myself with the idea that the natives of Greenland, the most gross and - savage of mortals, compliment a stranger by saying, “he is as well bred as - a Greenlander.” - </p> - <p> - While thus situated, a sturdy looking young fellow with that figure and - openness of countenance so peculiar to the young Irish peasants, and with - his hose and brogues suspended from a stick over his shoulder, approached - and hailed the party in Irish: the girls instantly pointed his attention - towards me; he courteously accosted me in English, and having learnt the - nature of my dilemma, offered to be my guide—“it will not take me - above a mile out of my way, and if it did <i>two</i>, it would make no <i>odds</i>,” - said he. I accepted his offer, and we proceeded together over the summit - of the mountain. - </p> - <p> - In the course of our conversation (which was very fluently supported on - his side,) I learnt, that few strangers ever passing through this remote - part of the province, and even very many of the gentry here speaking - Irish, it was a rare thing to meet with any one wholly unacquainted with - the language, which accounted for the surprise, and I believe contempt, my - ignorance had excited. - </p> - <p> - When I enquired into the nature of those choral strains I had heard, he - replied—“O! as to that, it is according to the old woman’s fancy and - in fact I learnt that Ireland, like Italy, has its <i>improvisatores</i>, - and that those who are gifted with the impromptu talent are highly - estimated by their rustic compatriots;” and by what he added, I discovered - that their inspirations are either drawn from the circumstances of the - moment, from one striking excellence or palpable defect in some of the - company present, or from some humourous incident, or local event generally - known. - </p> - <p> - As soon as we arrived at the little <i>auberge</i> of the little village, - I ordered my courteous guide his breakfast, and having done all due honour - to my own, we parted. - </p> - <p> - My route from the village to Bally———— lay partly - through a desolate bog, whose burning surface, heated by a vertical sun, - gave me no inadequate idea of <i>Arabia Deserta</i>; and the pangs of an - acute headache, brought on by exercise more violent than my still delicate - constitution was equal to support, determined me to defer my journey until - the meridian ardours were abated; and taking your Horace from my pocket, I - wandered into a shady path, “impervious to the noontide ray.” Throwing my - “listless length” at the foot of a spreading beech, I had already got to - that sweet ode to Lydia, which Scaliger in his enthusiasm declares he - would rather have written than to have possessed the monarchy of Naples, - when somebody accosted me in Irish, and then with a “God save you, Sir!” I - raised my eyes, and beheld a poor peasant, driving, or rather soliciting, - a sorry lame cow to proceed. - </p> - <p> - “May be,” said he, taking off his hat, “your Honour would be after telling - me what’s the hour?” “Later than I supposed, my good friend,” replied I, - rising, “it is past two.” He bowed low, and stroking the face of his - companion, added, “well, the day is yet young, but you and I have a long - journey before us, my poor Driminduath.” - </p> - <p> - “And how far are you going, my friend?” - </p> - <p> - “Please your Honour, two miles beyond Bally———-.” - </p> - <p> - “It is my road exactly, and you, Driminduath, and I, may perform the - journey together.” The poor fellow seemed touched and surprised by my - condescension, and profoundly bowed his sense of it, while the curious <i>triumviri</i> - set off on their pedestrian tour together. - </p> - <p> - I now cast an eye over the person of my <i>compagnon de voyage</i>. It was - a tall, thin, athletic figure, “bony and gaunt,” with an expressive - countenance, marked features, a livid complexion, and a quantity of coarse - black hair hanging about the face; the drapery was perfectly appropriate - to the wearer—an under garment composed of “<i>shreds</i> and <i>patches</i>,” - was partially covered with an old great coat of coarse frieze, fastened on - the breast with a large wooden skewer, the sleeves hanging down on either - side unoccupied, * and a pair of yarn hose which scarcely reached <i>midleg</i>, - left the ankle and foot naked. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This manner of wearing the coat, so genera, among the - peasantry, is deemed by the natives of the county of Galway - a remnant of the Spanish mode. -</pre> - <p> - <i>Driminduath</i> seemed to share in the obvious poverty of her master—she - was almost an anatomy, and scarcely able to crawl. “Poor beast!” said he, - observing I looked at her, “Poor beast! little she dreamed of coming back - the road she went, and little able is she to go it, poor soul; not that I - am <i>overly</i> sorry I could not get nobody to take her off my hands at - all at all; though to-be-sure ’tis better to lose one’s cow than - one’s wife, any day in the year.” - </p> - <p> - “And had you no alternative?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Anan!” exclaimed he, starting. - </p> - <p> - “Were you obliged to part with one or the other?” Sorrow is garrulous, and - in the natural selfishness of its suffering, seeks to lessen the weight of - its woe by participation. In a few minutes I was master of Murtoch - O’Shaughnassey’s story: * he was the husband of a sick wife; the father of - six children, and a labourer, or <i>cotter</i>, who worked daily - throughout the year for the hut that sheltered the heads, and the little - potatoe rick which was the sole subsistence of his family. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Neither the rencontre with, nor the character or story of - Murtoch, partakes in the least degree of fiction. -</pre> - <p> - He had taken a few acres of ground, he said, from his employer’s steward, - to set grass potatoes in, by which he hoped to make something handsome; - that to enable himself to pay for them he had gone to work in Leinster - during the last harvest, “where, please your Honour,” he added, “a poor - man gets more for his labour than in Connaught; * but there it was my luck - (and bad luck it was) to get the shaking fever upon me, so that I returned - sick and sore to my poor people without a cross to bless myself with, and - then there was an end to my fine grass potatoes, for devil receive the - sort they’d let me dig till I paid for the ground; and what was worse, the - steward was going to turn us out of our cabin, because I had not worked - out the rent with him as usual, and not a potatoe had I for the children; - besides finding my wife and two boys in a fever: the boys got well, but my - poor wife has been decaying away ever since; so I was fain to sell my poor - Driminduath here, which was left me by my gossip, in order to pay my rent - and get some nourishment for my poor woman, who I believe is just weak at - heart for the want of it; and so, as I was after telling your Honour, I - left home yesterday for a <i>fair</i> twenty-five good miles off, but my - poor Driminduath has got such bad usage of late, and was in such sad - plight, that nobody would bid nothing for her, and so we are both - returning home as we went, with full hearts and empty stomachs.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It is well known that within these last thirty years the - Connaught peasant laboured for <i>threepence</i> a day and two - meals of potatoes and milk, and four pence when he - maintained himself; while in Leinster the harvest hire rose - from eight pence to a shilling. Riding out one day near the - village of Castletown Delvin, in Westmeath, in company with - the younger branches of the respectable family of the F——ns, - of that county, we observed two young men lying at a - little distance from each other in a dry ditch, with some - lighted turf burning near them; they both seemed on the - verge of eternity, and we learned from a peasant who was - passing, that they were Connaught men who had come to - Leinster to work; that they had been disappointed, and owing - to want and fatigue, had been first attacked with ague and - then with fevers of so fatal a nature, that no one would - suffer them to remain in their cabins: owing to the - benevolent exertions of my young friends, we however found - an asylum for these unfortunates, and had the happiness of - seeing them return comparatively well and happy to their - native province. -</pre> - <p> - This was uttered with an air of despondency that touched my very soul, and - I involuntarily presented him some sea biscuit I had in my pocket. He - thanked me, and carelessly added, “that it was the first morsel he had - tasted for twenty-four hours; * not,” said he, “but I can fast with any - one, and well it is for me I can.” He continued brushing an intrusive tear - from his eye; and the next moment whistling a lively air, he advanced to - his cow, talking to her in Irish, in a soothing tone, and presenting her - with such wild flowers and blades of grass as the scanty vegetation of the - bog afforded, turned round to me with a smile of self-satisfaction and - said, “One can better suffer themselves a thousand times over, than see - one’s poor dumb beast want: it is next, please your Honour, to seeing - one’s child in want—God help him who has witnessed both!” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The temperance of an Irish peasant in this respect is - almost incredible; many of them are satisfied with one meal - a day—none of them exceed two—breakfast and supper; which - invariably consists of potatoes, sometimes with, sometimes - without milk. One of the rules observed by the Finian Band, - an ancient militia of Ireland, was to eat but once in the - twenty-four hours.—See Keating’s History of Ireland. -</pre> - <p> - “And art thou then (I mentally exclaimed) that intemperate, cruel, idle - savage, an Irish peasant? with a heart thus tenderly alive to the finest - feelings of humanity; patiently labouring with daily exertion for what can - scarcely afford thee a bare subsistence; sustaining the unsatisfied wants - of nature without a murmur; nurtured in the hope (the <i>disappointed hope</i>) - of procuring nourishment for <i>her</i>, dearer to thee than thyself, - tender of thy animal as thy child, and suffering the consciousness of <i>their</i> - wants to absorb all consideration of thy own; and resignation smooths the - furrow which affliction has traced upon thy brow, and the national exility - of thy character cheers and supports the natural susceptibility of thy - heart.” In fact, he was at this moment humming an Irish song by my side. - </p> - <p> - I need not tell you that the first village we arrived at, I furnished him - with the means of procuring him a comfortable dinner for himself and - Driminduath, and advice and medicine from the village apothecary for his - wife. Poor fellow! his surprise and gratitude was expressed in the true - hyperbola of Irish emotion. - </p> - <p> - Meantime I walked on to examine the ruins of an abbey, where in about half - an hour I was joined by Murtoch and his patient companion, whom he assured - me he had regaled with some hay, as he had himself with a glass of whisky.—What - a dinner for a famishing man! - </p> - <p> - “It is a dreadful habit, Murtoch,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “It is so, please your Honour,” replied he, “but then it is meat, drink, - and clothes to us, for we forget we have but little of one and less of the - other, when we get <i>the drop</i> within us; Och, long life to them that - lightened the tax on the whiskey, for by my safe conscience, if they had - left it on another year we should have forgotten how to drink it.” - </p> - <p> - I shall make no comment on Murtoch’s unconscious phillippic against the - legislature, but surely a government has little right to complain of those - popular disorders to which in a certain degree it may be deemed accessory, - by removing the strongest barrier that confines within moral bounds the - turbulent passions of the lower orders of society. - </p> - <p> - To my astonishment, I found that Murtoch had only purchased for his sick - wife a little wine and a small piece of bacon: * both, he assured me, were - universal and sovereign remedies, and better than any thing the <i>phisicianers</i> - could prescribe, to keep the disorder <i>from the heart</i> ** The spirits - of Murtoch were now quite afloat, and during the rest of our journey the - vehemence, pliancy, and ardour of the Irish character strongly betrayed - itself in the manners of this poor unmodified Irishman; while the natural - facetiousness of a temperament “complexionably pleasant,” was frequently - succeeded by such heartrending accounts of poverty and distress, as shed - involuntary tears on those cheeks which but a moment before were distended - by the exertions of a boisterous laugh. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It is common to see them come to gentlemen’s houses with a - little vial bottle to beg a table spoonful of wine (for a - sick relative,) which they esteem the elixir of life. - - ** To be able to keep any disorder from the heart, is - supposed, (by the lower orders of the Irish,) to be the - secret of longevity. -</pre> - <p> - Nothing could be more wildly sweet than the whistle or song of the - ploughman or labourer as we passed along; it was of so singular a nature, - that I frequently paused to catch it; it is a species of voluntary - recitative, and so melancholy, that every plaintive note breathes on the - heart of the auditor a tale of hopeless despondency or incurable woe. By - heavens! I could have wept as I listened, and found a luxury in tears. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Mr. Walker, in his Historical Memoir of the Irish Bards, - has given a specimen of the Irish plough-tune? and adds, - “While the Irish ploughman drives his team, and the female - peasant milks her cow, they warble a succession of wild - notes which bids defiance to the rules of composition, yet - are inexpressibly sweet.” - </pre> - <p> - The evening was closing in fast, and we were within a mile of Bally————, - when, to a day singularly fine, succeeded one of the most violent storms - of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, who seemed only to regard - it on my account, insisted on throwing his great coat over me, and pointed - to a cabin at a little distance, where, he said, “if my Honour would - demean myself so far, I could get good shelter for the night.” - </p> - <p> - “Are you sure of that, Murtoch?” said I. - </p> - <p> - Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something in - Irish; which at my request he translated—the words were—“Happy - are <i>they</i> whose roof shelters the head of the traveller. - </p> - <p> - “And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?” - </p> - <p> - Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it <i>was</i>, even upon a <i>selfish</i> - principle: “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a stranger - sleep beneath one’s roof.” - </p> - <p> - If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reason - herself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of the - cabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered—“May - God and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house!” The family, who - were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthen hearth, - replied, “Come in, and a thousand welcomes”—for Murtoch served as - interpreter, and translated as they were spoken these warm effusions of - Irish cordiality. The master of the house, a venerable old man, perceiving - me, made a low bow, and added, “You are welcome, and ten thousand - welcomes, <i>gentleman.</i>” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Failte augus cead ro ag duine nasal.” The term gentleman, - however, is a very inadequate version of the Irish nasal, - which is an epitthet of superiority that indicates more than - mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite - is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and - St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former - relates the combat between Oscar and Ilian, St, Patrick - solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “Ossian uasal, - a mhic Fionne”, “Ossian the Noble—the son of Fingal.” - </pre> - <p> - So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my countenance, for I - had not yet divested myself of Murtoch’s costume—while in the act, - the best stool was wiped for me, the best seat at the fire forced on me, - and on being admitted into the social circle, I found its central point - was a round oaken stool heaped with smoking potatoes thrown promiscuously - over it. - </p> - <p> - To partake of this national diet I was strongly and courteously solicited, - while as an incentive to an appetite that needed none, the old dame - produced what she called a <i>madder</i> of sweet milk, in - contradistinction to the sour milk of which the rest partook; while the - cow that sup plied the luxury slumbered most amicably with a large pig at - no great distance from where I sat, and Murtoch glancing an eye at <i>both</i>, - and then looking at me, seemed to say, “You see into what snug quarters we - have got.” While I (as I sat with my damp clothes smoking by the turf - fire, my madder of milk in one hand, and hot potatoe in the other) assured - him by a responsible glance, that I was fully sensible of the comforts of - our situation. - </p> - <p> - As soon as supper was finished the old man said grace, the family piously - blessed themselves, and the stool being removed, the hearth swept, and the - fire replenished from the bog, Murtoch threw himself on his back along a - bench, * and unasked began a song, the wild and plaintive melody of which - went at once to the soul. - </p> - <p> - When he had concluded, I was told it was the lamentation of the poor Irish - for the loss of their <i>glibbs</i> or long tresses, of which they were - deprived by the arbitrary will of Henry VIII.—The song (composed in - his reign) is called the <i>Coulin</i> ** which I am told is literally, - the fair ringlet. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This curious vocal position is of very ancient origin in - Connaught, though by no means prevalent. Formerly the - songster not only lay on his back, but had a weight pressed - on his chest. The author’s father recollects having seen a - man in the county of Mayo, of the name of O’Melvill, who - sung for him in this position some years back. - - ** The Cualin is one of the most popular and beautiful - Irish airs estant. -</pre> - <p> - When the English had drawn a pale round their conquests in this country, - such of the inhabitants as were compelled to drag on their existence - beyond the barrier, could no longer afford to cover their heads with - metal, and were necessitated to rely on the resistance of their matted - locks. At length this necessity became “the fashion of their choice.” - </p> - <p> - The partiality of the ancient Irish to long hair is still to be traced in - their descendants of both sexes, the women in particular; for I observed - that the young ones only wore their “native ornament of <i>hair</i>,” - which sometimes flows over their shoulders, sometimes is fastened up in - tresses, with a pin or bodkin. A fashion more in unison with grace and - nature, though less in point of formal neatness, than the round-eared caps - and large hats of our rustic fair of England. - </p> - <p> - Almost every word of Murtoch’s lamentation was accompanied by the sighs - and mournful lamentations of his auditors, who seemed to sympathize as - tenderly in the sufferings of their progenitors, as though they had - themselves been the victims of the tyranny which had caused them. The arch - policy of “the ruthless king,” who destroyed at once the records of a - nation’s woes, by extirpating “the tuneful race,” whose art would have - perpetuated them to posterity, never appeared to me in greater force than - at that moment. - </p> - <p> - In the midst, however, of the melancholy which involved the mourning - auditors of Murtoch, a piper entered and seated himself by the fire, <i>sans - façon</i>, drew his pipes from under his coat, and struck up an Irish lilt - of such inspiring animation, as might have served St. Basil of Limoges, - the merry patron of dancing, for a jubilate. - </p> - <p> - In a moment, in the true pliability of Irish temperament, the whole - pensive group cheered up, flung away their stools, and as if bit to merry - madness by a tarantula, set to dancing jigs with all their hearts, and all - their <i>strength</i> into the bargain. Murtoch appeared not less skilled - in the dance than song; and every one (according to the just description - of Goldsmith, who was a native of this province,) seemed - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “To seek renown, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - By holding out to tire each other down.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Although much amused by this novel style of devotion at the shrine of - Terpsichore, yet as the night was now calm, and an unclouded moon - dispersed the gloom of twilight obscurity, I arose to pursue my journey. - Murtoch would accompany me, though our hospitable friends did their utmost - to prevail on both to remain for the night. - </p> - <p> - When I insisted on my host receiving a trifle, I observed poverty - struggling with pride, and gratitude superior to both: he at last - reluctantly consented to be prevailed on, by my assurance of forgetting to - call on them again when I passed that way, if I were now denied. I was - followed for several paces by the whole family, who parted <i>with</i>, as - they <i>received</i> me, with blessings,—for their courtesy upon all - occasions, seems interwoven with their religion, and not to be pious in - their forms of etiquette, is not to be polite. - </p> - <p> - Benevolent and generous beings! whose hard labour - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Just gives what life requires, but gives no more,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - yet who, with the ever ready smile of heart-felt welcome, are willing to - share that hard earned little, with the weary traveller whom chance - conducts to your threshold, or the solitary wanderer whom necessity throws - upon your bounty. How did my heart smite me, while I received the cordial - rites of hospitality from your hands, for the prejudices I had hitherto - nurtured against your characters. But your smiling welcome, and parting - benediction, retributed my error—in the feeling of remorse they - awakened. - </p> - <p> - It was late when I reached Bally————, a large, - ugly, irregular town, near the sea coast; but fortunately meeting with a - chaise, I threw myself into it, gave Murtoch my address, (who was all - amazement at discovering I was son to the Lord of the Manor,) and arrived - without further adventure at this antique <i>chateau</i>, more gratified - by the result of my little pedestrian tour, than if (at least in the - present state of my feelings,) I had performed it Sesostris-like, in a - triumphal chariot, drawn by kings; for “so weary, stale, flat, and - unprofitable,” appear to me the tasteless pleasures of the world I have - left, that every sense, every feeling, is in a state of revolt against its - sickening joys, and their concomitant sufferings. - </p> - <p> - Adieu! I am sending this off by a courier extraordinary, to the next - post-town, in the hope of receiving one from you by the same hand. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER III. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> perceive my - father emulates the policy of the British Legislature, and delegates - English ministers to govern his Irish domains. Who do you think is his <i>fac - totum</i> here? The rascally son of his cunning Leicestershire steward, - who unites all his father’s artifice to a proportionable share of roguery - of his own, I have had some reason to know the fellow; but his servility - of manner, and apparent rigid discharge of his duties, has imposed on my - father; who, with all his superior mind, is to be imposed on, by those who - know how to find out the clew to his fallibility: his noble soul can never - stoop to dive into the minute vices of a rascal of this description. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Clendinning was absent from M———— house when I - arrived, but attended me the next morning at breakfast, with that fawning - civility of manner I abhor, and which, contrasted with the manly - courteousness of my late companion, never appeared more grossly obvious. - He endeavoured to amuse me with a detail of the ferocity, cruelty, and - uncivilized state of those among whom (as he hinted,) I was banished for - my sins. He had now, he said, been near five years among them, and had - never met an individual of the lower order, who did not deserve a halter - at least: for his part, he had kept a tight hand over them, and he was - justified in so doing, or his lord would be the sufferer; for few of them - would pay their rents till their cattle were driven, or some such measure - was taken with them. And as for the labourers and workmen, a slave-driver - was the only man fit to deal with them; they were all rebellious, idle, - cruel, and treacherous; and for his part, he never expected to leave the - country with his life. - </p> - <p> - It is not possible a better defence for the imputed turbulence of the - Irish peasantry could be made, than that which lurked in the unprovoked - accusations of this narrow-minded sordid steward, who, it is evident, - wished to forestall the complaints of those on whom he had exercised the - native tyranny of his disposition (even according to his own account,) by - every species of harrassing oppression within the compass of his ability. - For if power is a dangerous gift even in the regulated mind of elevated - rank, what does it be come in the delegated authority of ignorance, - meanness, and illiberality? * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * A horde of tyrants exist in Ireland, in a class of men - that are unknown in England, in the multitude of agents of - absentees, small proprietors, who are the pure Irish - squires, middle men, who take large farms, and squeeze out a - forced kind of profit by letting them in small parcels; - lastly, the little farmers themselves, who exercise the same - insolence they receive from their superiors, on those - unfortunate beings who are placed at the extremity of the - scale of degradation—the Irish peasantry.—An Enquiry into - the Causes of Popular Discontents in Ireland. -</pre> - <p> - My father, however, by frequent visitations to his Irish estates (within - these few years at least,) must afford to his suffering tenantry an - opportunity of redress; for who that ever approached him with a <i>tear</i> - of suffering, but left his presence with a tear of gratitude! But many, - very many of the English nobility who hold immense tracts of land in this - country, and draw from hence in part the suppliance of their luxuries, - have never visited their estates, since conquest first put them in the - possession of their ancestors. Ours, you know, fell to us in the - Cromwellian wars, but since the time of General M————, - who earned them by the sword, my father, his lineal descendant, is the - first of the family who ever visited them. And certainly, a wish to - conciliate the affections of his tenantry, could alone induce him to spend - so much of his time here as he has done; for the situation of this place - is bleak and solitary, and the old mansion, like the old manor houses of - England, has neither the architectural character of an antique structure, - nor the accommodation of a modern one. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “<i>Ayant l’air delabri, sans l’air antique</i>.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - On enquiring for the key of the library, Mr. Clendinning informed me his - lord always took it with him, but that a box of books had come from - England a few days before my arrival. - </p> - <p> - As I suspected, they were all law books—well, be it so; there are - few sufferings more acute than those which forbid complaint, because they - are self-created. - </p> - <p> - Four days have elapsed since I began this letter, and I have been - prevented from continuing it merely for want of something to say. - </p> - <p> - I cannot now sit down, as I once did, and give you a history of my ideas - or sensations, in the deficiency of fact or incident; for I have survived - my sensations, and my ideas are dry and exhausted. - </p> - <p> - I cannot now trace my joys to their source, or my sorrows to their spring, - for I am destitute of their present, and insensible to their former - existence. The energy of youthful feeling is subdued, and the vivacity of - warm emotion worn out by its own violence. I have lived too fast in a - moral as well as a physical sense, and the principles of my intellectual, - as well as my natural constitution are, I fear, fast hastening to decay I - live the tomb of my expiring mind, and preserve only the consciousness of - my wretched state, without the power, and almost without the wish to be - otherwise than what I am. And yet, God knows, I am nothing less than - contented. - </p> - <p> - Would you hear my journal? I rise late to my solitary breakfast, because - it is solitary; then to study, or rather to yawn over <i>Giles</i> versus - <i>Haystack</i>, until (to check the creeping effects of lethargy) I rise - from my reading desk, and lounge to a window, which commands a boundless - view of a boundless bog; then, “with what appetite I may,” sit down to a - joyless dinner. Sometimes, when seduced by the blandishments of an even - ing singularly beautiful, I quit my <i>den</i> and <i>prowl</i> down to - the sea shore where, throwing myself at the foot of some cliff that - “battles o’er the deep,” I fix my vacant eye on the stealing waves that - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Idly swell against the rocky coast, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And break—as break those glittering shadows, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Human joys.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Then wet with the ocean spray and evening dew, return to my bed, merely to - avoid the intrusive civilities of Mr. Clendinning. Thus wear the hours - away.” - </p> - <p> - I had heard that the neighbourhood about M———— - house was good: I can answer for its being populous. Although I took every - precaution to prevent my arrival being known, yet the natives have come - down on me in hordes, and this in all the form of <i>haut ton</i>, as the - innumerable cards of the clans of Os and Macs evince. I have, however, - neither been visible to the visitants, nor accepted their invitations: for - “man delights me not, nor woman either.” Nor woman either! Oh! uncertainty - of all human propensities! Yet so it is, that every letter that composes - the word <i>woman!</i> seems cabalistical, and rouses every principle of - aversion and disgust within me; while I often ask myself with Tasso, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Se pur ve nelle amor alcun dileito.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - It is certain, that the diminutive body of our worthy steward, is the - abode of the transmigrated soul of some <i>West Indian</i> planter. I have - been engaged these two days in listening to, and retributing those - injuries his tyranny has inflicted, in spite of his rage, eloquence, and - threats, none of which have been spared. The victims of his oppression - haunt me in my walks, fearful lest their complaints should come to the - knowledge of this puissant <i>major domo</i>. - </p> - <p> - “But why,” said I to one of the sufferers, after a detail of seized geese, - pounded cows, extra labour cruelly extorted, ejectments, &c. &c.. - given in all the tedious circumlocution of Irish oratory,—“why not - complain to my father when he comes among you?” - </p> - <p> - “Becaise, please your Honour, my Lord stays but a few days at a time here - together, nor that same neither; besides, we be loth to trouble his - Lordship, for feard it would be after coming to Measther Clendinning’s - ears, which would be the ruination of us all; and then when my Lord is at - the Lodge, which he mostly is, he is always out amongst the quality, so he - is.” - </p> - <p> - “What Lodge?” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Why, please your Honour, where my Lord mostly takes up when he comes - here, the place that belonged to Measther Clendinning, who call ed it the - <i>Lodge</i>, becaise the good old Irish name that was upon it did not - suit his fancy.” - </p> - <p> - In the evening I asked Mr. Clendinning if my father did not sometimes - reside at the Lodge? He seemed surprised at my information, and said, that - was the name he had given to a ruinous old place which, with a few acres - of indifferent land, he had purchased of his hard labour, and which his - Lord having taken an unaccountable liking to, rented from him, and was - actually the tenant of his own steward. - </p> - <p> - O! what arms of recrimination I should be furnished with against my - rigidly moral father, should I discover this remote <i>Cassino</i>, (for - remote I understand it is) to be the <i>harem</i> of some wild Irish <i>Sultana</i>; - for I strongly suspect “that metal more attractive” than the cause he - assigns, induces him to pay an annual visit to a country to which, till - within these few years, he nurtured the strongest prejudices. You know - there are but nineteen years between him and my brother; and his feelings - are so unblunted by vicious pursuits, his life has been guided by such - epicurian principles of enjoyment, that he still retains much of the first - warm flush of juvenile existence, and has only sacrificed to time, its - follies and its ignorance. I swear, at this moment he is a younger man - than either of his sons; the one chilled by the coldness of an icy - temperament into premature old age, and the other!!!———Murtoch - has been to see me. I have procured him a little farm, and am answerable - for the rent. I sent his wife some rich wine; she is recovering very fast. - Murtoch is all gratitude for the wine, but I perceive his faith still lies - in the <i>bacon!</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER IV. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> can support this - wretched state of non-existence, this <i>articula mortis</i>, no longer. I - cannot read—I cannot think—nothing touches, nothing interests - me; neither is it permitted me to indulge my sufferings in solitude. These - hospitable people still weary me with their attentions, though they must - consider me as a sullen misanthropist, for I persist in my invisibility. I - can escape them no longer but by flight—professional study is out of - the question, for a time at least. I mean, therefore, to “take the wings - of” some fine morning, and seek a change of being in a change of place; - for a perpetual state of evaga-tion alone, keeps up the flow and ebb of - existence in my languid frame. My father’s last letter informs me he is - obliged by business to postpone his journey for a month; this leaves me so - much the longer master of myself. By the time we meet, my mind may have - regained its native tone. <i>Laval</i> too, writes for a longer leave of - absence, which I most willingly grant. It is a weight removed off my - shoulders; I would be savagely free. - </p> - <p> - I thank you for your welcome letters, and will do what I can to satisfy - your antiquarian taste; and I would take your advice and study the Irish - language, were my powers of comprehension equal to the least of the - philological excellences of <i>Tom Thumb</i> or <i>Goody Two Shoes</i>,—but - alas! - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Se perchetto a me Stesso quale acquisto, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Firo mai che me piaccia.” * - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Torquatto Tasso.” - </pre> - <p> - <i>Villa di Marino, Atlantic Ocean</i> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>aving told Mr. - Clendinning, that I should spend a few days in wandering about the - country, I mounted my horse. So I determined to roam free and unrestrained - by the presence of a servant, to Mr. Clendinning’s utter amazement, I - ordered a few changes of linen, my drawing-book, and pocket escritoire, to - be put in a small valice, which, with all due humility, I had strapped on - the back of my steed, whom, by the bye, I expect will be as celebrated as - the <i>Rozinante</i> of Don Quixote, or the <i>Beltenbros L’Amadis de Gaul</i>; - and thus accoutred set off on my peregrination, the most listless knight - that ever entered on the lists of errantry. - </p> - <p> - You will smile, when I tell you my first point of attraction was the <i>Lodge</i>; - to which (though with some difficulty) I found my way; for it lies in a - most wild and unfrequented direction, but so infinitely superior in - situation to M——— house, that I no longer wonder at my - father’s preference. Every feature that constitutes either the beauty or - sublime of landscape, is here finely combined. Groves druidically - venerable—mountains of Alpine elevation—expansive lakes, and - the boldest and most romantic sea-coast I ever beheld, alternately - diversify and enrich its scenery; while a number of young and flourishing - plantations evince the exertion of taste in my father, he certainly has - not betrayed in the disposition of his hereditary domains. I found this <i>Tusculum</i> - inhabited only by a decent old man and his superannuated wife. Without - informing them who I was, I made a feigning wish to make the place a - pretext for visiting it. The old man smiled at the idea, and shook his - head, presuming that I must be indeed a stranger in the country, as my - accent denoted, for that this spot belonged to a great <i>English Lord</i>, - whom he verily believed would not resign it for his own fine place some - miles off; but when, with some jesuitical artifice I endeavoured to trace - the cause of this attachment, he said it was his Lordship’s fancy, and - that there was no accounting for people’s fancies. - </p> - <p> - “That is all very true,” said I, “but is it the house only that seized on - your Lord’s fancy?” - </p> - <p> - “Nay, for the matter of that,” said he, “the lands are far more finer; the - house, though large, being no great things.” I begged in this instance to - judge for myself, and a few shillings procured me not only free egress, - but the confidence of the ancient <i>Cicerone</i>. - </p> - <p> - This fancied <i>harem</i>, however, I found not only divested of its - expected fair inhabitant, but wholly destitute of furniture, except what - filled a bedroom occupied by my father, and an apartment which was <i>locked</i>. - The old man with some tardiness produced the key, and I found this - mysterious chamber was only a study; but closer inspection discovered that - almost all the books related to the language, history, and antiquities of - Ireland. - </p> - <p> - So you see, in fact, my father’s <i>Sultana</i> is no other than the <i>Irish - Muse</i>; and never was son so tempted to become the rival of his father, - since the days of Antiochus and Stratonice. For, at a moment when my - taste, like my senses, is flat and palled, nothing can operate so strongly - as an incentive, as novelty. I strongly suspect that my father was aware - of this, and that he had despoiled the temple, to prevent me becoming a - worshipper at the same shrine. For the old man said he had received a - letter from his Lord, ordering away all the furniture (except that of his - own bed-room and study) to the manor house; the study and bed-room, - however, will suffice me, and here I shall certainly pitch my - head-quarters until my father’s arrival. - </p> - <p> - I have already had some occasions to remark, that the warm susceptible - character of the Irish is open to the least indication of courtesy and - kindness. - </p> - <p> - My <i>politesse</i> to this old man, opened every sluice of confidence in - his breast, and, as we walked down the avenue together, having thrown the - bridle over my horse’s neck, and offered him my arm, for he was lame, I - enquired how this beautiful farm fell into the hands of Lord M————, - still concealing from him that it was his son who demanded the question. - </p> - <p> - “Why, your Honour,” said he, “the farm, though beautiful is small; - however, it made the best part of what remained of the patrimony of the - Prince, when————” - </p> - <p> - “What Prince?” interrupted I, amazed. - </p> - <p> - “Why, the Prince of Inismore, to be sure, jewel, whose great forefathers - once owned the half of the barony, from the Red Bog to the sea-coast. Och! - it is a long story, but I heard my grandfather tell it a thousand times, - how a great Prince of Inismore in the wars of Queen Elizabeth, had here a - castle and a great tract of land on the <i>borders</i>, of which he was - deprived, as the story runs, becaise he would neither cut his <i>glibbs</i>, - shave his upper lip, nor shorten his shirt; * and so he was driven, with - the rest of us beyond the <i>pale</i>. The family, however, after a while, - flourished greater nor ever. Och, and it is themselves that might, for - they were true Milesians bread and born, every mother’s soul of them. O - not a drop of <i>Strongbonean</i> flowed in their Irish veins, agrah! - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * From the earliest settlement of the English in this - country, an inquisitorial persecution had been carried on - against the national costume. In the reign of Henry V. there - was an act passed against even the English colonists wearing - a whisker on the upper lip, like the Irish; and in 1616, the - Lord Deputy, in his instructions to the Lord President and - Council, directed, that such as appeared in the Irish robes - or mantles, should be punished by fine and imprisonment. -</pre> - <p> - “Well, as I was after telling your Honour, the family flourished, and beat - all before them, for they had an army of <i>galloglasses</i> at their - back, * until the Cromwellian wars broke out, and those same cold-hearted - Presbyterians, battered the fine <i>old ancient</i> castle of Inismore, - and left in the condition it now stands; and what was worse nor that, the - poor old Prince was put to death in the arms of his fine young son, who - tried to save him, and that by one of Cromwell’s English Generals, who - received the town lands of Inismore, which lie near Bally————, - as his reward. Now this English General who murdered the Prince, was no - other than the ancestor of my Lord, to whom these estates descended from - father to son. Ay, you may well start, Sir, it was a woful piece of - business; for of all their fine estates, nothing was left to the Princes - of Inismore, but the ruins of their old castle, and the rocks that - surround it; except this tight little bit of an estate here, on which the - father of the present Prince built this house; becaise his Lady, with whom - he got a handsome fortune, and who was descended from the Kings of - Connaught, took a dislike to the castle; the story going that it was - haunted by the murdered Prince; and what with building of this house, and - living like an Irish Prince, as he was every inch of him, and spending - 3000 l. a year out of 300 l., when he died (and the sun never shone on - such a funeral; the whiskey ran about like <i>ditch water</i>, and the - country was stocked with pipes and tobacco for many a long year after. For - the present Prince, his son, would not be a bit behind his father in any - thing, and so signs on him, for he is not worth one guinea this blessed - day, Christ save him;)—well, as I was saying, when he died, he left - things in a sad way, which his son is not the man to mend, for he was the - spirit of a king, and lives in as much state as one to this day.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The second order of military in Ireland. -</pre> - <p> - “But where, where does he live?” interrupted I, with breathless - impatience. - </p> - <p> - “Why,” continued this living chronicle, in the true spirit of Irish - replication, “he did live there in that Lodge, as they call it now, and in - that room where my Lord keeps his books, was our young Princess born; her - father never had but her, and loves her better than his own heart’s blood, - and well he may, the blessing of the Virgin Mary and the Twelve Apostles - light on her sweet head. Well, the Prince would never let it come near - him, that things were not going on well, and continued to take at great - rents, farms that brought him in little; for being a Prince and a - Milesian, it did not become him to look after such matters, and every - thing was left to stewards and the like, until things coming to the worst, - a rich English gentleman, as it was said, come over here and offered the - Prince, through his steward, a good round sum of money on this place, - which the Prince, being harrassed by his <i>spalpeen</i> creditors, and - wanting a little ready money more than any other earthly thing, consented - to receive; the gentleman sending him word he should have his own time; - but scarcely was the mortgage a year old, when this same Englishman, (Oh, - my curse lie about him, Christ pardon me,) foreclosed it, and the fine old - Prince not having as much as a shed to shelter his gray hairs under, was - forced to fit up part of the old ruined castle, and open those rooms which - it had been said were haunted. Discharging many of his old servants, he - was accompanied to the castle by the family steward, the <i>fosterers</i>, - the <i>nurse</i> * the harper, and Father John, the chaplain. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The custom of retaining the nurse who reared the - children, has ever been, and is still in force among the - most respectable families in Ireland, as it is still in - modern, and was formerly in ancient Greece, and they are - probably both derived from the same origin. We read, that - when Rebecca left her father’s house to marry Isaac at - Beersheba, the nurse was sent to accompany her. But in - Ireland, not only the nurse herself, but her husband and - children are objects of peculiar regard and attention, and - are called fosterers. The claims of these fosterers - frequently descend from generation to generation, and the - tie which unite? them is indissoluble. -</pre> - <p> - “Och, it was a piteous sight the day he left this: he was leaning on the - Lady Glorvina’s arm as he walked out to the chaise, ‘James Tyral,’ says he - to me in Irish, for I caught his eye; ‘James Tyral,’ but he could say no - more, for the old tenants kept crying about him, and he put his mantle to - his eyes and hurried into the chaise; the Lady Glorvina kissing her hand - to us all, and crying bitterly till she was out of sight. But then, Sir, - what would you have of it; the Prince shortly after found out that this - same Mr. <i>Mortgagee</i>, was no other than a spalpeen steward of Lord M————‘s. - It was thought he would have run mad when he found that almost the last - acre of his hereditary lands was in the possession of the servant of his - hereditary enemy; for so deadly is the hatred he bears to my Lord, that - upon my conscience, I believe the young Prince who held the bleeding body - of his murdered father in his arms, felt not greater for the murderer, - than our Prince does for that murder’s descendant. - </p> - <p> - “Now my Lord is just such a man as God never made better, and wishing with - all the veins in his heart to serve the old Prince, and do away all - difference between them, what does he do, jewel, but writes him a mighty - pretty letter, offering this house and a part of the lands a present. O! - divil a word of lie I’m after telling you; but what would you have of it, - but this offer sets the Prince madder than all; for you know that this was - an insult on his honour, which warmed every drop of Milesian blood in his - body for he would rather starve to death all his life, than have it - thought he would be obligated to any body at all at all for wherewithal to - support him; so with that the Prince writes him a letter: it was brought - by the old steward, who knew every line of the contents of it, though - divil a line in it but two, and that same was but one and a half, as one - may say, and this it was, as the old steward told me: - </p> - <p> - “The son of the son of the son’s son of Bryan, Prince of Inismore, can - receive no favour from the descendant of his ancestor’s murderer.” - </p> - <p> - “Now it was plain enough to be seen, that my Lord took this to heart, as - well he might, faith; however, he considered that it came from a - misfortunate Prince, he let it drop, and so this was all that ever passed - between them; however, he was angry enough with his steward, but Measther - Clendinning put his <i>comehither</i> on him, and convinced him that the - biggest rogue alive was an honest man.” - </p> - <p> - “And the Prince!” I interrupted eagerly. - </p> - <p> - “Och, jewel, the prince lives away in the old Irish fashion, only he has - not a Christian soul now at all at all, most of the old Milesian gentry - having quit the country; besides, the Prince being in a bad state of - health, and having nearly lost the use of his limbs, and his heart being - heavy, and his purse light; for all that he keeps up the old Irish customs - and dress, letting nobody eat at the same table but his daughter, * not - even his Lady when she was alive.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * M’Dermot, Prince of Coolavin, never suffered his wife to - sit at table with him; although his daughter-in-law was - permitted to that honour, as she was the descendant from the - royal family of the O’Connor. -</pre> - <p> - “And do you think the son of Lord M———— would have - no chance of obtaining an audience from the Prince?” - </p> - <p> - “What the young gentleman that they say is come to M———— - house? why about as much chance as his father, but by my conscience, - that’s a bad one.” - </p> - <p> - “And your young Princess, is she as implacable as her father?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, faith! I cannot well tell you what the Lady Glorvina is, for she is - like nothing upon the face of God’s creation but herself. I do not know - how it comes to pass, that every mother’s soul of us loves her better nor - the Prince; ay, by my conscience, and fear her too; for well may they fear - her, on the score of her great learning, being brought up by Father John, - the chaplain, and spouting Latin faster nor the priest of the parish: and - we may well love her, for she is a saint upon earth, and a great <i>physicianer</i> - to boot; curing all the sick and maimed for twenty miles round. Then she - is so proud, that divil a one soul of the quality will she visit in the - whole barony, though she will sit in a smoky cabin for hours together, to - talk to the poor: besides all this, she will sit for hours at her Latin - and Greek, after the family are gone to bed, and yet you will see her up - with the dawn, running like a doe about the rocks; her fine yellow hair - streaming in the wind, for all the world like a mermaid. - </p> - <p> - “Och! my blessing light on her every day she sees the light, for she is - the jewel of a child.” - </p> - <p> - “A child! say you!” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to be sure I think her one; for many a time I carried her in these - arms, and taught her to bless herself in Irish; but she is no child - either, for as one of our old Irish songs says, ‘Upon her cheek we see - love’s letter sealed with a damask rose.’ * But if your Honour has any - curiosity you may judge for yourself; for matins and vespers are - celebrated every day in the year, in the old chapel belonging to the - castle, and the whole family attend.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This is a line of a song of one Dignum, who composed in - his native language, but could neither read nor write nor - spoke any language but his own. “I have seen,” said the - celebrated Edmund Burke (who in his boyish days had known - him) “some of his effusions translated into English, but was - assured, by judges, that they fell far short of the - originals; yet they contained some graces, ‘snatched beyond - the reach of ark’ “—Vide Life of Burke. -</pre> - <p> - “And are strangers also permitted?” - </p> - <p> - “Faith and it’s themselves that are; but few indeed trouble them, though - none are denied. I used to get to mass myself sometimes, but it is now too - far to walk for me.” - </p> - <p> - This was sufficient, I waited to hear no more, but repaid my communicative - companion for his information, and rode off, having inquired the road to - Inismore from the first man I met. - </p> - <p> - It would be vain, it would be impossible to describe the emotion which the - simple tale of this old man awakened. The descendant of a murderer! The - very scoundrel steward of my father revelling in the property of a man who - shelters his aged head beneath the ruins of those walls where his - ancestors bled under the uplifted sword of mine. - </p> - <p> - Why this, you will say, is the romance of a novel-read schoolboy. Are we - not all, the little and the great, descended from assassins; was not the - first born man a fratricide? and still, on the field of unappeased - contention, does not “man the murderer, meet the murderer, man?” - </p> - <p> - Yes, yes, ‘tis all true; humanity acknowledges it and shudders. But still - I wish <i>my</i> family had never possessed an acre of ground in this - country, or possessed it on other terms. I always knew the estate fell - into our family in the civil wars of Cromwell, and, in the world’s - language, was the well-earned meed of my progenitor’s valour; but I seemed - to hear it now for the first time. - </p> - <p> - I am glad, however, that this old Irish chieftain is such a ferocious - savage; that the pity his fate awakens is qualified by aversion for his - implacable, irascible disposition. I am glad his daughter is <i>red headed</i>, - a pedant, and a romp; that she spouts Latin like the priest of the parish, - and cures sore fingers; that she avoids genteel society, where her ideal - rank would procure her no respect, and her unpolished ignorance, by force - of contrast, make her feel her real inferiority; that she gossips among - the poor peasants, over whom she can reign liege Lady; and, that she has - been brought up by a jesuitical priest, who has doubtlessly rendered her - as bigoted and illiberal as himself. All this soothes my conscientous - throes of feeling and compassion; for oh! if this savage chief was - generous and benevolent, as he is independent and spirited; if this - daughter was amiable and intelligent, as she must be simple and - unvitiated! But I dare not pursue the supposition, It is better as it is. - </p> - <p> - You would certainly never guess that the <i>Villa di Marino</i>, from - whence I date the continuation of my letter, was simply a <i>fisherman’s - hut</i> on the seacoast, half way between the Lodge and Castle of - Inismore, that is, seven miles distant from each. Determined on attending - vespers at Inismore, I was puzzling my brain to think where or how I - should pass the night, when this hut caught my eye, and I rode up to it to - inquire if there was any inn in the neighbourhood, where a <i>chevalier - errant</i> could shelter his adventurous head for a night; but I was - informed the nearest inn was fifteen miles distant, so I bespoke a little - fresh straw, and a clean blanket which hung airing on some fishing tackle - outside the door of this <i>marine hotel</i>, in preference to riding so - far for a bed, at so late an hour as that in which the vespers would be - concluded. - </p> - <p> - This mine host of the Atlantic promised me, pointing to a little board - suspended over the door, on which was written: - </p> - <p> - “Good Dry Lodging.” - </p> - <p> - My landlord, however, convinced me his hotel afforded something better - than good dry lodging; for entreating me to alight, till a shower passed - over which was beginning to fall, I entered the hut, and found his wife, a - sturdy lad their eldest son, and two naked little ones, seated at their - dinner, and enjoying such a feast, as Apicius, who sailed to Africa from - Rome to eat good oysters, would gladly have voyaged from Rome to Ireland - to have partaken of; for they were absolutely dining on an immense turbot - (whose fellow-sufferers were floundering in a boat that lay anchored near - the door.) A most cordial invitation on their part, and a most willing - compliance on mine, was the ceremony of a moment; and never did an English - alderman on turtle day, or Roman emperor on lampreys and peacocks’ livers, - make a more delicious repast, than the chance guest of these good people, - on their boiled turbot and roasted potatoes, which was quaffed down by the - pure phalernian of a neighbouring spring. - </p> - <p> - Having learnt that the son was going with the compeers of the demolished - turbot to Bally————, - </p> - <p> - I took out my little escritoire to write you an account of the first - adventure of my chivalrous tour; while one of spring’s most grateful sunny - show ers, is pattering on the leaves of the only tree that shades this - simple dwelling, and my <i>Rosinante</i> is nibbling a scanty dinner from - the patches of vegetation that sprinkle the surrounding cliffs. Adieu! the - vesper hour arrives. In all “my orisons thy sins shall be remembered.” The - spirit of adventure wholly possesses me, and on the dusky horizon of life, - some little glimmering of light begins to dawn. - </p> - <p> - Encore adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER V. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - <i>Castle of Inismore, Barony of ————</i>. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>y, ‘tis even so—point - your glasses—and rub your eyes, ‘tis all one; here I am, and here I - am likely to remain for some time, but whether a prisoner of war, taken up - on a suspicion of espionage, or to be offered as an appeasing sacrifice to - the <i>manes</i> of the old Prince of Inismore, you must for a while - suspend your patience to learn. - </p> - <p> - According to the <i>carte du pays</i> laid out for me by the fisherman, I - left the shore and crossed the summit of a mountain that “battled o’er the - deep,” and which after an hour’s ascension, I found sloped almost - perpendicularly down to a bold and rocky coast, its base terminating in a - peninsula, that advanced for near half a mile into the ocean. Towards the - extreme western point of this peninsula, which was wildly romantic beyond - all description, arose a vast and grotesque pile of rocks, which at once - formed the site and fortifications of the noblest mass of ruins on which - my eye ever rested. Grand even in desolation, and magnificent in decay—it - was the Castle of Inismore. The setting sun shone brightly on its - mouldering turrets, and the waves which bathed its rocky basis, reflected - on their swelling bosoms the dark outlines of its awful ruins. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Those who have visited the Castle of Dunluce, near the - Giant’s Causeway, may, perhaps, have some idea of its - striking features in this rude draught of the Castle of - Inismore. -</pre> - <p> - As I descended the mountain’s brow I observed that the little isthmus - which joined the peninsula to the main land had been cut away, and a - curious danger-threatening bridge was rudely thrown across the intervening - gulf, flung from the rocks on one side to an angle of the mountain on the - other, leaving a yawning chasm of some fathoms deep beneath the foot of - the wary passenger. This must have been a very perilous pass in the days - of civil warfare; and in the intrepidity of my daring ancestor, I almost - forgot his crime. Amidst the interstices of the rocks which skirted the - shores of this interesting peninsula, patches of the richest vegetation - were to be seen, and the trees which sprung wildly among its venerable - ruins, were bursting into all the vernal luxuriancy of spring. In the - course of my descent, several cabins of a better description than I had - yet seen, appeared scattered beneath the shelter of the mountain’s - innumerable projections; while in the air and dress of the inhabitants - (which the sound of my horse’s feet brought to their respective doors,) I - evidently perceived a something original and primitive, I had never - noticed before in this class of persons here. - </p> - <p> - They appeared to me, I know not why, to be in their holiday garb, and - their dress, though grotesque and coarse, was cleanly and characteristic. - I observed that round the heads of the elderly dames were folded several - wreaths of white or coloured linen, * and others had hand kerchiefs ** - lightly folded round their brows, and curiously fastened under the chin; - while the young wore their hair fastened up with wooden bodkins. They were - all enveloped in large shapeless mantles of blue frieze, and most of them - had a rosary hanging on their arm, from whence I inferred they were on the - point of attending vespers at the chapel of Inismore. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “The women’s ancient headdress so perfectly resembles that - of the Egyptian Isis, that it cannot be doubted but that the - modes of Egypt were preserved among the Irish.”—Walker on - the Ancient Irish dress, p. 62. - - ** These handkerchiefs they call “Binnogues,” it is a remnant - of a very ancient mode. -</pre> - <p> - I alighted at the door of a cabin a few paces distant from the Alpine - bridge, and entreated a shed for my horse, while I performed my devotions. - The man to whom I addressed myself, seemed the only one of several who - surrounded me that understood English, and appeared much edified by my - pious intention, saying, “that God would prosper my Honour’s journey, and - that I was welcome to a shed for my horse, and a night’s lodging for - myself into the bargain.” He then offered to be my guide, and as we - crossed the drawbridge, he told me I was out of luck by not coming - earlier, for that high mass had been celebrated that morning for the - repose of the soul of a Prince of Inismore, who had been murdered on this - very day of the month. “And when this day comes round,” he added, “we all - attend dressed in our best; for my part, I never wear my poor old - grandfather’s <i>berrad</i> but on the like occasion,” taking off a - curious cap of a conical form, which he twirled round his hand and - regarded with much satisfaction. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * A few years back, Hugh Dugan, a peasant of the county of - Kilkenny, who affected the ancient Irish dress, seldom - appeared without his berrad. -</pre> - <p> - By heavens! as I breathed this region of superstition, so strongly was I - infected, that my usual scepticism was scarcely proof against my - inclination to mount my horse and gallop off, as I shudderingly - pronounced, “I am then entering the castle of Inismore on the anniversary - of that day on which my ancestors took the life of its venerable Prince!” - </p> - <p> - You see, my good friend, how much we are the creatures of situation and - circumstance, and with what pliant servility the mind resigns itself to - the impressions of the senses, or the illusions of the imagination. - </p> - <p> - We had now reached the ruined cloisters of the chapel, I paused to examine - their curious but dilapidated architecture when my guide, hurrying me on, - said, “if I did not quicken my pace, I should miss getting a good view of - the Prince,” who was just entering by a door opposite to that we had - passed through. Behold me then mingling among a group of peasantry, and, - like them, straining my eyes to that magnet which fascinated every glance. - </p> - <p> - And sure, fancy, in her boldest flight, never gave to the fairy vision of - poetic dreams, a combination of images more poetically fine, more - strikingly picturesque, or more impressively touching. Nearly one half of - the chapel of Inismore has fallen into decay, and the ocean breeze as it - rushed through the fractured roof, wafted the torn banners of the family - which hung along its dismantled walls. The red beams of the sinking sun - shone on the glittering tabernacle which stood on the altar, and touched - with their golden light the sacerdotal vestments of the two officiating - priests, who ascended its broken steps at the moment that the Prince and - his family entered. - </p> - <p> - The first of this most singular and interesting group, was the venerable - Father John, the chaplain. Religious enthusiasm never gave to the fancied - form of the first of the patriarchs, a countenance of more holy expression - or divine resignation; a figure more touching by its dignified simplicity, - or an air more beneficently mild, more meekly good. He was dressed in his - pontificals, and, with his eyes bent to the earth, his hands spread upon - his breast, he joined his coadjutors. - </p> - <p> - What a contrast to this saintly being now struck my view; a form almost - gigantic in stature, yet gently thrown forward by evident infirmity; limbs - of herculean mould, and a countenance rather furrowed by the inroads of - vehement passions, than the deep trace of years. Eyes still emanating the - ferocity of an unsubdued spirit, yet tempered by a strong trait of - benevolence; which, like a glory, irradiated a broad expansive brow, a - mouth on which even yet the spirit of convivial enjoyment seemed to hover, - though shaded by two large whiskers on the upper lip, * which still - preserved their ebon hue; while time or grief had bleached the scattered - hairs which hung their snows upon the manly temple. The drapery which - covered this striking figure was singularly appropriate, and, as I have - since been told, strictly conformable to the ancient costume of the Irish - nobles. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “I have been confidently assured, that the granfather of - the present Rt. Hon. John O’Neal, (great grandfather to the - present Lord O’Neal) the elegant and accomplished owner of - Shane’s Castle, wore his beard after the prohibited Irish - mode.”—Walker, p. 62. -</pre> - <p> - The only part of the under garment visible, was the ancient Irish <i>truis</i>, - which closely adhering to the limbs from the waist to the ancle, includes - the pantaloon and hose, and terminates in a buskin not dissimilar to the - Roman <i>perones</i>. A triangular mantle of bright scarlet cloth, - embroidered and fringed round the edges, fell from his shoulders to the - ground, and was fastened at the breast with a large circular golden - brooch, of a workmanship most curiously beautiful; round his neck hung a - golden collar, which seemed to denote the wearer of some order of - knighthood, probably hereditary in his family; a dagger, called a <i>skiene</i> - (for my guide explained every article of the dress to me,) was sheathed in - his girdle, and was discerned by the sunbeam that played on its brilliant - haft. And as he entered the chapel, he removed from his venerable head a - cap or berrad, of the same form as that I had noticed with my guide, but - made of velvet, richly embroidered. - </p> - <p> - The chieftain moved with dignity—yet with difficulty—and his - colossal, but infirm frame, seemed to claim support from a form so almost - impalpably delicate, that as it floated on the gaze, it seemed like the - incarnation of some pure ethereal spirit, which a sigh, too roughly - breathed, would dissolve into its kindred air; yet to this sylphid - elegance of spheral beauty was united all that symmetrical <i>contour</i> - which constitutes the luxury of human loveliness. This scarcely “mortal - mixture of earth’s mould,” was vested in a robe of vestal white, which was - enfolded beneath the bosom with a narrow girdle embossed with precious - stones. - </p> - <p> - From the shoulder fell a mantle of scarlet silk, fastened at the neck with - a silver bodkin, while the fine turned head was enveloped in a veil of - point lace, bound round the brow with a band or diadem, ornamented with - the same description of jewels as encircled her arms. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This was, with a little variation, the general costume of - the female noblesse of Ireland from a very early period. In - the fifteenth century the veil was very prevalent, and was - termed fillag, or scarf; the Irish ladies, like those of - ancient and modern Greece, seldom appearing. As the veil - made no part of the Celtic costume, its origin was probably - merely oriental. - - The great love of ornaments betrayed by the Irish ladies of - other times, “the beauties of the heroes of old,” art thus - described by a quaint and ancient author:—“Their necks are - hung with chains and carkanets—their arms wreathed with - many bracelets.” - </pre> - <p> - Such was the <i>figure</i> of the Princess of Inis-more! But oh! not once - was the face turned round towards that side where I stood. And when I - shifted my position, the envious veil intercepted the ardent glance which - eagerly sought the fancied charms it concealed: for was it possible to - doubt the face would not “keep the promise that the form had made.” - </p> - <p> - The group that followed was grotesque beyond all powers of description. - The ancient bard, whose long white beard - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Descending, swept his aged breast,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - the incongruous costume—half modern, half antique, of the bare - footed domestics, the ostensible steward, who closed the procession—and - above all, the dignified importance of the <i>nurse</i>, who took the lead - in it immediately after her young lady; her air, form, countenance, and - dress, were indeed so singularly fantastic and <i>outre</i>, that the - genius of masquerade might have adopted her figure as the finest model of - grotesque caricature. - </p> - <p> - Conceive for a moment a form whose longitude bore no degree of proportion - to her latitude; dressed in a short jacket of brown cloth, with loose - sleeves from the elbow to the wrist, made of red camblet striped with - green, and turned up with a broad cuff—a petticoat of scarlet - frieze, covered by an apron of green serge, longitudinally striped with - scarlet tape, and sufficiently short to betray an ancle that sanctioned - all the libels ever uttered against the ancles of the Irish fair—true - national brogues set off her blue worsted stockings, and her yellow hair, - dragged over a high roll, was covered on the summit with a little coiff, - over which was flung a scarlet handkerchief, which fastened in a large bow - under her rubicund chin. - </p> - <p> - As this singular and interesting group advanced up the central aisle of - the chapel, reverence and affection were evidently blended in the looks of - the multitude which hung upon their steps; and though the Prince and his - daughter seeked to lose in the meekness of true religion all sense of - temporal inequality, and promiscuously mingled with the congregation, yet - that distinction they humbly avoided, was reverently forced on them by the - affectionate crowd, which drew back on either side as they advanced, until - the chieftain and his child stood alone in the centre of the ruined choir, - the winds of heaven playing freely amidst their garments, the sun’s - setting beam enriching their beautiful figures with its orient tints, - while he, like Milton’s ruined angel, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “Above the rest, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - In shape and feature proudly eminent, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Stood like a tower;” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - and she, like the personified spirit of Mercy hovered round him, or - supported more by tenderness than her strength, him from whom she could no - longer claim support. - </p> - <p> - Those gray headed domestics, too, those faith ful though but nominal - vassals, who offered that voluntary reverence with their looks, which his - repaid with fatherly affection, while the anguish of a suffering heart - hung on his pensive smile, sustained by the firmness of that indignant - pride which lowered on his ample brow! - </p> - <p> - What a picture! - </p> - <p> - As soon as the first flush of interest, curiosity, and amazement had - subsided, my attention was carried towards the altar; and then I thought - as I watched the impressive avocation of Father John, that had I been the - Prince, I would have been the <i>Caiphas</i> too. - </p> - <p> - What a religion is this! How finely does it harmonize with the weakness of - our nature, how seducingly it speaks to the senses; how forcibly it works - on the passions; how strongly it seizes on the imagination; how - interesting its forms; how graceful its ceremonies; how awful its rites. - What a captivating, what a <i>picturesque</i> faith! Who would not become - its proselyte, were it not for the stern opposition of reason, the cold - suggestions of philosophy! - </p> - <p> - The last strain of the vesper hymn died on the air as the sun’s last beam - faded on the casements of the chapel; and the Prince and his daughter., to - avoid the intrusion of the crowd, withdrew through a private door, which - communicated by a ruinous arcade with the castle. - </p> - <p> - I was the first to leave the chapel, and followed them at a distance as - they moved slowly along, their fine figures, sometimes concealed behind a - pillar, and again emerging from the transient shade, flushed with the deep - suffusion of the crimsoned firmament. - </p> - <p> - Once they paused, as if to admire the beautiful effect of the retreating - light, as it faded on the ocean’s swelling bosom; and once the Princess - raised her hand and pointed to the evening star, which rose brilliantly on - the deep cerulean blue of a cloudless atmosphere, and shed its fairy beam - on the mossy summit of a mouldering turret. - </p> - <p> - Such were the sublime objects which seemed to engage their attention, and - added their <i>sensible</i> inspiration to the fervour of those more - abstracted devotions in which they were so recently engaged. At last they - reached the portals of the castle, and I lost sight of them. Yet still - spellbound, I stood transfixed to the spot from whence I had caught a last - view of their receding figures. - </p> - <p> - While I felt like the victim of superstitious terror when the spectre of - its distempered fancy vanishes from its strained and eager gaze, all I had - lately seen revolved in my mind like some pictured story of romantic - fiction. I cast round my eyes; all still seemed the vision of awakened - imagination. Surrounded by a scenery grand even to the boldest majesty of - nature, and wild even to desolation—the day’s dying splendours - Awfully involving in the gloomy haze of deepening twilight—the gray - mists of stealing night gathering on the still faintly illumined surface - of the ocean, which, awfully spreading to infinitude, seemed to the - limited gaze of human vision to incorporate with the heaven whose last - glow it reflected—the rocks, which on every side rose to Alpine - elevation, exhibiting, amidst the soft obscurity, forms savagely bold or - grotesquely wild; and those finely interesting ruins which spread grandly - desolate in the rear, and added a moral interest to the emotions excited - by this view of nature in her most awful, most touching aspect. - </p> - <p> - Thus suddenly withdrawn from the world’s busiest haunts, its hackneyed - modes, its vicious pursuits, and unimportant avocations—dropped as - it were amidst scenes and mysterious sublimity—alone—on the - wildest shores of the greatest ocean of the universe; immersed amidst the - decaying monuments of past ages; still viewing in recollection such forms, - such manners, such habits (as I had lately beheld,) which to the worldly - mind may be well supposed to belong to a race long passed beyond the - barrier of existence, with “the years beyond the flood,” I felt like the - being of some other sphere newly alighted on a distant orb. While the - novel train of thought which stole on my mind, seemed to seize its tone - from the awful tranquillity by which I was surrounded, and I remained - leaning on the fragment of a rock, as the waves dashed idly against its - base, until their dark heads were silvered by the rising moon, and while - my eyes dwelt on her silent progress, the castle clock struck nine. Thus - warned, I arose to depart, yet not without reluctance. My soul, for the - first time, had here held commune with herself; the “lying vanities” of - life no longer intoxicating my senses, appeared to me for the first time - in their genuine aspect, and my heart still fondly loitered over those - scenes of solemn interest, where some of its best feelings had been called - into existence. - </p> - <p> - Slowly departing, I raised my eyes to the Castle of Inismore and sighed, - and almost wished I had been born the Lord of these beautiful ruins, the - Prince of this isolated little territory, and adored chieftain of these - affectionate and natural people. At that moment a strain of music stole by - me, as if the breeze of midnight stillness had expired in a manner on the - Eolian lyre. Emotion, undefinable emotion, thrilled on every nerve. I - listened. I trembled. A breathless silence gave me every note. Was it the - illusion of my now all-awakened fancy, or the professional exertions of - the bard of Inismore? Oh, no! for the voice it symphonized, the low, wild, - tremulous voice which sweetly sighed its soul of melody o’er the harp’s - responsive chords, was the voice of <i>a woman!</i> - </p> - <p> - Directed by the witching strain, I approached an angle of the building - from whence it seemed to proceed; and perceiving a light which streamed - through an open casement, I climbed with some difficulty the ruins of a - parapet wall which encircled this wing of the castle, and which rose so - immediately under the casement as to give me, when I stood on it, a - perfect view of the interior of that apartment to which it belonged. - </p> - <p> - Two tapers, which burned on a marble slab at the remotest extremity of - this vast and gloomy chamber, shed their dim blue light on the saintly - countenance of Father John, who, with a large folio open before him, - seemed wholly wrapped in studious meditation; while the Prince, reclined - on an immense Gothic couch, with his robe thrown over the arm that - supported his head, betrayed by the expression of his countenance those - emotions, which agitated his soul, while he listened to those strains - which spoke at once to the heart of the father, the patriot, and the man—breathed - from the chords of his country’s emblem—breathed in the pathos of - his country’s music—breathed from the lips of his apparently - inspired daughter! The white rising of her hands upon the harp the - half-drawn veil that imperfectly discovered the countenance of a seraph; - the moonlight that played round her fine form, and partially touched her - drapery with its silver beam—her attitude! her air! But how cold—how - inanimate—how imperfect this description! Oh! could I but seize the - touching features—could I but realize the vivid tints of this - enchanting picture, as they then glowed on my fancy! By heavens! you would - think the mimic copy fabulous; “the celestial visitant” of an overheated - imagination. Yet, as if the independent witchery of the lovely minstrel - was not in itself all, all-sufficient, at the back of her chair stood the - grotesque figure of her antiquated nurse. O! the precious contrast. And - yet it heightened, it finished the picture. - </p> - <p> - While thus entranced in breathless observation, endeavouring to support my - precarious tenement, and to prolong this rich feast of the senses and the - soul, the loose stones on which I tottered gave way under my feet, and - impulsively clinging to the wood work of the casement, it mouldered in my - grasp. I fell—but before I reached the earth I was bereft of sense. - With its return I found myself in a large apartment, stretched on a bed, - and supported in the arms of the Prince of Inismore! his hand was pressed - to my bleeding temple, while the priest applied a styptic to the wound it - had received; and the nurse was engaged in binding up my arm, which had - been dreadfully bruised and fractured a little above the wrist. Some - domestics, with an air of mingled concern and curiosity, surrounded my - couch; and at her father’s side stood the Lady Glorvina, her looks pale - and disordered—her trembling hands busily employed in preparing - bandages, for which my skilful doctress impatiently called. - </p> - <p> - While my mind almost doubted the evidence of my senses, and a physical - conviction alone <i>painfully</i> proved to me the reality of all I - beheld, my wandering, wondering eyes met those of the Prince of Inismore! - A volume of pity and benevolence was registered in their glance; nor were - mine, I suppose, inexpressive of my feelings, for he thus replied to them: - </p> - <p> - “Be of good cheer, young stranger; you are in no danger; be composed; be - confident; conceive yourself in the midst of friends; for you are - surrounded by those who would wish to be considered as such.” - </p> - <p> - I attempted to speak, but my voice faltered; my tongue was nerveless; my - mouth dry and parched. A trembling hand presented a cordial to my lips. I - quaffed the philtre, and fixed my eyes on the face of my ministering - angel. That angel was Glorvina! I closed them, and sunk on the bosom of - her father. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, he faints again!” cried a sweet and plaintive voice. - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary,” replied the priest, “the weariness of acute pain - something subsided, is lulling him into a soft repose; for see, the colour - reanimates his cheek, and his pulse quickens.” - </p> - <p> - “It indeed beats most wildly,” returned the sweet physician; for the pulse - which responded to her finger’s thrilling pressure moved with no languid - throb. - </p> - <p> - “Let us retire,” added the priest, “all danger is now, thank heaven, over; - and repose and quiet the most salutary requisites for our patient.” - </p> - <p> - At these words he arose from my bedside, and the Prince, gently - withdrawing his supporting arms, laid my head upon the pillow. In a moment - all was deathlike stillness, and stealing a glance from under my half - closed eyes, I found myself alone with my skilful doctress, the nurse, - who, shading the taper’s light from the bed, had taken her distaff and - seated herself on a stool at some distance. - </p> - <p> - This was a golden respite to feelings wound up to that vehement excess - which forbade all expression, which left my tongue powerless, while my - heart overflowed with emotion the most powerful. - </p> - <p> - Good God! I, the son of Lord M————, the hereditary - object of hereditary detestation, beneath the roof of my implacable enemy! - Supported in his arms; relieved from anguish by his charitable attention; - honoured by the solicitude of his lovely daughter; overwhelmed by the - charitable exertions of his whole family; and reduced to that bodily - infirmity that would of necessity oblige me to continue for some time the - object of their beneficent attentions. - </p> - <p> - What a series of emotions did this conviction awaken in my heart! Emotions - of a character, an energy, long unknown to my apathized feelings; while - gratitude to those who had drawn them into existence, combined with the - interest, the curiosity, the admiration they had awakened, tended to - confirm my irresistible desire of perpetuating the immunities I enjoyed, - as the guest and patient of the Prince and his daughter. And, while the - touch of this Wild Irish Girl’s hand thrilled on every sense, while her - voice of tenderest pity murmured on my ear, and I secretly triumphed over - the prejudices of her father, I would not have exchanged my broken arm and - wounded temple for the strongest limb and soundest head in the kingdom; - but the same chance which threw me in the supporting arms of the irascible - Prince, might betray to him in the person of his patient, the son of his - hereditary enemy: it was at least probable he would make some inquiries - relative to the object of his benevolence, and the singular cause which - rendered him such; it was therefore a necessary policy in me to be - provided against this scrutiny. - </p> - <p> - Already deep in adventure, a thousand seducing reasons were suggested by - my newly-awakened heart to go on with the romance, and to secure for my - farther residence in the castle, that interest, which, if known to be the - son of Lord M————, I must eventually have - forfeited, for the cold version of irreclaimable prejudice. The imposition - was at least innocent, and might tend to future and mutual advantage; and - after the ideal assumption of a thousand fictitious characters, I at last - fixed on that of an itinerant artist, as consonant to my most cultivated - talent, and to the testimony of those witnesses which I had fortunately - brought with me, namely my drawing-book, pencils, &c., &c., - self-nominated <i>Henry Mortimer</i>, to answer the initials on my linen, - the only proofs against me, for I had not even a letter with me. - </p> - <p> - I was now armed at all points for inspection; and as the Prince lived in a - perfect state of isolation, and I was unknown in the country, I - entertained no apprehensions of discovery during the time I should remain - at the castle; and full of hope, strong in confidence, but wearied by - incessant cogitation, and something exhausted by pain, I fell into that - profound slumber I did before but feign. - </p> - <p> - The mid-day beams shone brightly through the faded tints of my bed - curtains before I awakened the following morning, after a night of such - fairy charms as only float round the couch of - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Fancy trained in bliss.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The nurse, and the two other domestics, relieved the watch at my bedside - during the night; and when I drew back the curtain, the former - complimented me on my somniferous powers, and in the usual mode of - inquiry, but in a very unusual accent and dialect, addressed me with much - kindness and goodnatured solicitude. While I was endeavouring to express - my gratitude for her attentions, and, what seemed most acceptable to her, - my high opinion of her skill, the Father Director entered. - </p> - <p> - To the benevolent mind, distress or misfortune is ever a sufficient claim - on all the privileges of intimacy; and when Father John seated himself by - my bedside, affectionately took my hand, lamented my accident, and assured - me of my improved looks, it was with an air so kindly familiar, so - tenderly intimate, that it was impossible to suspect the sound of his - voice was yet a stranger to my ear. - </p> - <p> - Prepared and collected, as soon as I had expressed my sense of his and the - Prince’s benevolence, I briefly related my feigned story; and in a few - minutes I was a young Englishman, by birth a gentleman, by inevitable - misfortunes reduced to a dependence on my talents for a livelihood, and by - profession an artist. I added, that I came to Ireland to take views, and - seize some of the finest features of its landscapes; that, having heard - much of the wildly picturesque charms of the northwest coasts, I had - penetrated thus far into this remote corner of the province of Connaught; - that the uncommon beauty of the views surrounding the castle, and the - awful magnificence of its ruins, had arrested my wanderings, and - determined me to spend some days in its vicinity; that, having attended - divine service the preceding evening in the chapel, I continued to wander - along the romantic shores of Inismore, and, in the adventuring spirit of - my art, had climbed part of the mouldering ruins of the castle to catch a - fine effect of light and shade, produced by the partially veiled beams of - the moon, and had then met with the accident which now threw me on the - benevolence of the Prince of Innisinore; an unknown, in a strange country, - with a fractured limb, a wounded head, and a heart oppressed with the - sense of gratitude under which it laboured. - </p> - <p> - “That you were a stranger and a traveller, who had been led by curiosity - or devotion to visit the chapel of Inismore,” said the priest, “we were - already apprised of, by the peasant who brought to the castle last night - the horse and valise left at his cabin, and who feared, from the length of - your absence, some accident had befallen you. What you have yourself been - kind enough to detail, is precisely what will prove your best letter of - recommendation to the Prince. Trust me, young gentleman, that your - standing in need of his attention is the best claim you could make on it; - and your admiration of his native scenes, of that ancient edifice, the - monument of that decayed ancestral splendour still dear to his pride; and - your having so severely suffered through an anxiety by which he must be - flattered, will induce him to consider himself as even <i>bound</i> to - administer every attention that can meliorate the unpleasantness of your - present situation.” - </p> - <p> - What an idea did this give me of the character of him whose heart I once - believed divested of all the tender feelings of humanity. Everything that - mine could dictate on the subject I endeavoured to express, and, borne - away by the vehemence of my feelings, did it in a manner that more than - once fastened the eyes of Father John on my face, with that look of - surprise and admiration which, to a delicate mind, is more gratifying than - the most finished verbal eulogium. - </p> - <p> - Stimulated by this silent approbation, I insensibly stole the conversation - from myself to a more general theme: one thought was the link to an-other—the - chain of discussion gradually extended, and before the nurse brought up my - breakfast we had ranged through the whole circle of <i>sciences</i>. I - found that this intelligent and amiable being had trifled a good deal in - his young days with chemistry, of which he still spoke like a lover who, - in maturer life, fondly dwells on the charms of that object who first - awakened the youthful raptures of his heart. He is even still an - enthusiast in botany, and as free from monastic pedantry as he is rich in - the treasures of classical literature and the elegancies of belles - lettres. His feelings even yet preserve something of the ardour of youth, - and in his mild character evidently appears blended a philosophical - knowledge of human nature, with the most perfect worldly inexperience, and - the manly intelligence of a highly gifted mind, with the sentiments of a - recluse and the simplicity of a child. His still ardent mind seemed to - dilate to the correspondence of a kindred intellect, and two hours’ - bedside chit chat, with all the unrestrained freedom such a situation - sanctions, produced a more perfect intimacy than an age would probably - have effected under different circumstances. - </p> - <p> - After having examined and dressed the wounded temple, which he declared to - be a mere scratch, and congratulated me on the apparent convalescence of - my looks, he withdrew, politely excusing the length of his visit by - pleading the charms of my conversation as the cause of his detention. - There is, indeed, an evident vein of French suavity flowing through his - manners, that convinced me he had spent some years of his life in that - region of the graces. I have since learned that he was partly educated in - France; so that, to my astonishment, I have discovered the manners of a - gentleman, the conversation of a scholar, and the sentiment of a - philanthropist, united in the character of an Irish priest. - </p> - <p> - While my heart throbbed with the natural satisfaction arising from the - consciousness of having awakened an interest in those whom it was my - ambition to interest, my female Esculapius came and seated herself by me; - and while she talked of fevers, inflammations, and the Lord knows what, - insisted on my not speaking another word for the rest of the day. Though - by no means appearing to labour under the same Pythagorean restraint she - had imposed on me; and after having extolled her own surgical powers, her - celebrity as the best bone-setter in the barony, and communicated the long - list of patients her skill had saved, her tongue at last rested on the - only theme I was inclined to hear. - </p> - <p> - “Arrah! now, jewel,” she continued, “there is our Lady Glorvina now, who - with all her skill, and knowing every leaf that grows, why she could no - more set your arm than she could break it. Och! it was herself that turned - white when she saw the blood upon your face, for she was the first to hear - you fall, and hasten down to have you picked up; at first, faith, we - thought you were a robber; but it was all one to her, into the castle you - must be brought, and when she saw the blood spout from your temple, Holy - Virgin! she looked for all the world as if she was kilt dead herself.” - </p> - <p> - “And is she,” said I, in the selfishness of my heart, “is she always thus - humanely interested for the unfortunate?” - </p> - <p> - “Och! it is she that is tender hearted for man or beast,” replied my - companion. “I shall never forget till the day of my death, <i>nor then</i> - either, faith, the day that Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was bogged: you must - know, honey, that a bogged cow—” - </p> - <p> - Unfortunately, however, the episode of Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was cut - short, for the Prince now entered, leaning on the arm of the priest. - </p> - <p> - Dull indeed must be every feeling, and blunted every recollective faculty, - when the look, the air, the smile with which this venerable and benevolent - chieftain, approaching my bed, and kindly taking me by the hand, addressed - me in the singular idiom of his expressive language. - </p> - <p> - “Young man,” said he, “the stranger’s best gift is upon you, for the eye - that sees you for the first time, wishes it may not be the last; and the - ear that drinks your words, grows thirsty as it quaffs them. So says our - good Father John here, for you have made him your friend ere you are his - acquaintance; and as the <i>friend of my friend</i>, my heart opens to - you; you are welcome to my house as long as it is pleasant to you; when it - ceases to be so, we will part with you with regret, and speed your journey - with our wishes and our prayers.” - </p> - <p> - Could my heart have lent its eloquence to my lip—but that was - impossible; very imperfect indeed was the justice I did to my feelings; - but as my peroration was a eulogium on these romantic scenes and - interesting ruins, the contemplation of which I had nearly purchased with - my life, the Prince seemed as much pleased as if my gratitude had poured - forth with <i>Ciceronean</i> eloquence, and he replied: - </p> - <p> - “When your health will permit, you can pursue here uninterrupted your - charming art. Once the domains of Inismore could have supplied the - painter’s pencil with scenes of smiling felicity, and the song of the bard—with - many a theme of joy and triumph; but the harp can only mourn over the - fallen greatness of its sons; and the pencil has nothing left to delineate - but the ruins which shelter the gray head of the last of their - descendants.” - </p> - <p> - These words were pronounced with an emotion that shook the dilapidated - frame of the Prince, and the tear which dimmed the spirit of his eye, - formed an associate in that of his auditor. He gazed on me for a moment - with a look that seemed to say, “you feel for me, then—yet you are - an Englishman and taking the arm of Father John, he walked towards a - window which commanded a view of the ocean, whose troubled bosom beat - wildly against the castle cliffs. - </p> - <p> - “The day is sad,” said he, “and makes the soul gloomy: we will summon - O’Gallagher to the hall, and drive away sorrow with music.” Then turning - to me, he added, with a faint smile “the tones of the Irish harp have - still the power to breathe a spirit over the drooping soul of an Irishman; - but if its strains disturb your repose, command its silence: the pleasure - of the host always rests in that of his guest.” - </p> - <p> - With these words, and leaning on the arm of his chaplain, he retired; - while the nurse, looking affectionately after him, raised her hands and - exclaimed: - </p> - <p> - “Och! there you go, and may the blessing of the Holy Virgin go with you, - for it’s yourself that’s the jewel of a Prince!” - </p> - <p> - The impression made on me by this brief but interesting interview, is not - to be expressed. You should see the figure, the countenance, the dress of - the Prince; the appropriate scenery of the old Gothic chamber, the - characteristic appearance of the priest and the nurse, to understand the - combined and forcible effect the whole produced. - </p> - <p> - Yet, though experiencing a pleasurable emotion, strong as it was novel, - there was still one little wakeful wish throbbing vaguely at my heart. - </p> - <p> - Was it possible that my chilled, my sated misanthropic feelings, still - sent forth one sigh of wishful solicitude for woman’s dangerous presence? - No, the sentiment the daughter of the Prince inspired, only made a <i>part</i> - in that general feeling of curiosity, which every thing in this new region - of wonders continued to nourish into existence. What had I to expect from - the unpolished manners, the confined ideas of this Wild Irish Girl? - Deprived of all those touching allurements which society only gives; - reared in wilds and solitudes, with no other associates than her nurse, - her confessor, and her father; endowed indeed by nature with some personal - gifts, set off by the advantage of a singular and characteristic dress, - for which she is indebted to whim and natural prejudice, rather than - native taste:—I, who had fled in disgust even from those to whose - natural attraction the bewitching blandishments of education, the - brilliant polish of fashion, and the dazzling splendour of <i>real</i> - rank, contributed their potent spells. - </p> - <p> - And yet, the roses of Florida, though the fair est in the universe, and - springing from the richest soil, emit no fragrance; while the mountain - violet, rearing its timid form from a steril bed, flings on the morning - breeze the most delicious perfume. - </p> - <p> - While given up to such reflections as these—while the sound of the - Irish harp arose from the hall below, and the nurse muttered her prayers - in Irish over her beads by my side, I fell into a gentle slumber, in which - I dreamed that the Princess of Inismore approached my bed, drew aside the - curtains, and raising her veil, discovered a face I had hitherto rather - guessed at than seen. Imagine my horror—it was the face, the head of - a <i>Gorgon!</i> - </p> - <p> - Awakened by the sudden and terrific emotion it excited, though still - almost motionless, as if from the effects of a nightmare (which in fact, - from the position I lay in, had oppressed me in the form of the Princess) - I cast my eyes through a fracture in the old damask drapery of my bed, and - beheld—not the horrid spectre of my recent dream, but the form of a - cherub hovering near my pillow—it was the Lady Glorvina herself! Oh! - how I trembled lest the fair image should only be the vision of my - slumber: I scarcely dared to breathe, lest it should dissolve. - </p> - <p> - She was seated on the nurse’s little stool, her elbow resting on her knee, - her cheek reclined upon her hand: for once the wish of Romeo appeared no - hyperbela. - </p> - <p> - Some snowdrops lay scattered in her lap, on which her downcast eyes shed - their beams; as though she moralized over the modest blossoms, which, in - fate a delecacy, resembled herself. Changing her pensive attitude, she - collected them into a bunch, and sighed, and waved her head as she gazed - on them. The dew that trembled on their leaves seemed to have flowed from - a richer source than the exhalation of the morning’s vapour—for the - flowers are faded—-but the drops that gem’d them are fresh. - </p> - <p> - At that moment the possession of a little kingdom would have been less - desirable to me, than the knowledge of that association of ideas and - feelings which the contemplation of these honoured flowers awakened. At - last, with a tender smile, she raised them to her lip and sighed, and - placed them in her bosom; then softly drew aside my curtain. I feigned the - stillness of death—yet the curtain remained unclosed—many - minutes elapsed—I ventured to unseal my eyes, and met the soul - dissolving glance of my sweet attendant spirit, who seemed to gaze - intently on her charge. Emotion on my part the most delicious, on hers the - most modestly confused, for a moment prevented all presence of mind; the - beautiful arm still supported the curtain—my ardent gaze was still - riveted on a face alternately suffused with the electric flashes of red - and white. At last the curtain fell, the priest entered, and the vision, - the sweetest, brightest vision of my life, dissolved! - </p> - <p> - Glorvina sprung towards her tutor, and told him aloud, that the nurse had - entreated her to take her place, while she descended to dinner. - </p> - <p> - “And no place can become thee better, my child,” said the priest, “than - that which fixes thee by the couch of suffering and sickness.” - </p> - <p> - “However,” said Glorvina, smiling, “I will gratify you by resigning for - the present in your favour,” and away she flew speaking in Irish to the - nurse, who passed her at the door. - </p> - <p> - The benevolent confessor then approached, and seated himself beside my - bed, with that premeditated air of chit-chat sociality, that it went to my - soul to disappoint him. But the thing was impossible, to have tamely - conversed in mortal language on mortal subjects, after having held “high - communion” with an etherial spirit; when a sigh, a tear, a glance, were - the delicious vehicles of our souls’ secret intercourse—to stoop - from this “colloquy sublime!” I could as soon have delivered a logical - essay on identity and adversity, or any other subject equally interesting - to the heart and imagination. - </p> - <p> - I therefore closed my eyes, and breathed most sonorously: the good priest - drew the curtain and retired on tip-toe, and the nurse once more took her - distaff, and, for her sins, was silent. - </p> - <p> - These good people must certainly think me a second Epimenides, for I have - done nothing but sleep, or feign to sleep, since I have been thrown - amongst them. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER VI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have already - passed four days beneath this hospitable roof. On the third, a slight - fever with which I had been threatened passed off, my head was - disincumbered, and on the fourth I was able to leave my bed, and to - scribble thus far of my journal. Yet these kind solicitous beings will not - suffer me to leave my room, and still the nurse at intervals gives me the - pleasure of her society, and hums old <i>cronans</i>, or amuses me with - what she calls a little <i>shanaos</i>, * as she plies her distaff; while - the priest frequently indulges me with his interesting and intelligent - conversation. The good man is a great logician, and fond of displaying his - metaphysical prowess, where he feels that he is understood, and we - diurnally go over <i>infinity, space</i>, and <i>duration</i>, with - innate, simple, and complex idea, until our own are exhausted in the - discussion; and then we generally relax with Ovid, or trifle with Horace - and Tibullus, for nothing can be less austerely pious than this cheerful - gentle being: nothing can be more innocent than his life; nothing more - liberal than his sentiments. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * A term in very general use in Ireland, and is applied to a - kind of genealogical chit chat, or talking over family - antiquity, family anecdotes, descent, alliances, &c., to - which the lower, as well as the higher order of Irish in the - provincial parts are much addicted. -</pre> - <p> - The Prince, too, has thrice honoured me with a visit. Although he - possesses nothing of the erudition which distinguishes his all-intelligent - chaplain, yet there is a peculiar charm, a spell in his conversation, that - is irresistibly fascinating; and chiefly arising, I believe, from the - curious felicity of his expressions, the originality of the ideas they - clothe, the strength and energy of his delivery, and the enthusiasm and - simplicity of his manners. - </p> - <p> - He seems not so much to speak the English language, as literally to - translate the Irish; and he borrows so much and so happily from the - peculiar idiom of his vernacular tongue, that though his conversation was - deficient in matter, it would still possess a singular interest from its - manner. But it is far otherwise, there is indeed in the uncultivated mind - of this man, much of the <i>vivida vis anima</i> of native genius, which - neither time nor misfortune has wholly damped, and which frequently flings - the brightest coruscations of thought over the generally pensive tone that - pervades his conversation. The extent of his knowledge on subjects of - national interest is indeed wonderful; his memory is rich in oral - tradition, and most happily faithful to the history and antiquities of his - country, which notwithstanding peevish complaints of its degeneracy, he - still loves with idolatrous fondness. On these subjects he is always borne - away, but upon no subject does he speak with coolness or moderation; he is - always in extremes, and the vehemence of his gestures and looks ever - corresponds to the energy of his expressions or sentiments. Yet he - possesses an infinite deal of that <i>suavito in modo</i>, so prevailing - and insinuating even among the lower classes of this country; and his - natural, or I should rather say his national politeness, frequently - induces him to make the art in which he supposes me to excel, the topic of - our conversation. While he speaks in rapture of the many fine views this - country affords to the genius of the painter, he dwells with melancholy - pleasure on the innumerable ruined palaces and abbeys which lay scattered - amidst the richest scenes of this romantic province: he generally thus - concludes with a melancholy apostrophe: - </p> - <p> - “But the splendid dwelling of princely grandeur, the awful asylum of - monastic piety, are just mouldering into oblivion with the memory of those - they once sheltered. The sons of little men triumph over those whose arm - was strong in war, and whose voice breathed no impotent command; and the - descendant of the mighty chieftain has nothing left to distinguish him - from the son of the peasant, but the decaying ruins of his ancestor’s - castle; while the blasts of a few storms, and the pressure of a few years, - shall even of them leave scarce a wreck to tell the traveller the mournful - tale of fallen greatness.” - </p> - <p> - When I showed him a sketch I had made of the castle of Inismore, on the - evening I had first seen it from the mountain’s summit, he seemed much - gratified, and warmly commended its fidelity, shaking his head as he - contemplated it, and impressively exclaiming. - </p> - <p> - “Many a morning’s sun has seen me climb that mountain in my boyish days, - to contemplate these ruins, accompanied by an old follower of the family, - who possessed many strange stories of the feats of my ancestors, with - which I was then greatly delighted. And then I dreamed of my arm wielding - the spear in war, and my hall resounding to the song of the bard, and the - mirth of the feast; but it was only a dream!” - </p> - <p> - As the injury sustained by my left arm (which is in a state of rapid - convalescence) is no impediment to the exertions of my right, we have - already talked over the various views I am to take, and he enters into - every little plan with that enthusiasm, which childhood betrays in the - pursuit of some novel object, and seems wonderfully gratified in the idea - of thus perpetuating the fast decaying features of this “time honoured” - edifice. - </p> - <p> - The priest assures me, I am distinguished in a particular manner by the - partiality and condescension of the Prince. - </p> - <p> - “As a man of genius,” said he this morning, “you have awakened a stronger - interest in his breast, than if you had presented him with letters patent - of your nobility, except, indeed, you had derived them from <i>Milesius</i> - himself.” - </p> - <p> - “An enthusiastic love of talent is one of the distinguishing features of - the true ancient Irish character; and independent of your general - acquirements, your professional abilities, coinciding with his ruling - passion, secures you a larger portion of his esteem and regard than he - generally lavishes upon any stranger, and almost incredible, considering - you are an Englishman. But national prejudice ceases to operate when - individual worth calls for approbation; and an Irishman seldom asks or - considers the country of him whose sufferings appeal to his humanity, - whose genius makes a claim on his applause.” - </p> - <p> - But, my good friend, while I am thus ingratiating myself with the father, - the daughter (either self-wrapped in proud reserve, or determined to do - away that temerity she may have falsely supposed her condescension and - pity awakened) has not appeared even at the door of my chamber with a - charitable inquiry for my health, since our last silent, but eloquent - interview; and I have lived for these three days on the recollection of - those precious moments which gave her to my view, as I last beheld her, - like the angel of pity hovering round the pillow of mortal suffering. - </p> - <p> - Ah! you will say, this is not the language of an apathist, of one “whom - man delighteth not, nor <i>woman</i> either.” - </p> - <p> - But let not your vivid imagination thus hurry over at once the scale of my - feelings from one extreme to the other, forgetting the many intermediate - degrees that lie between the deadly chill of the coldest, and the burning - ardour of the most vehement of all human sentiments. - </p> - <p> - If I am less an apathist, which I am willing to confess, trust me, I am - not a whit more the lover.—Lover!—Preposterous! I am merely - interested for this girl on a philosophical principle, I long to study the - purely national, natural character of an Irish woman: In fine, I long to - behold any woman in such lights and shades of mind, temper, and - disposition, as nature has originally formed her in. Hitherto I have only - met servile copies, sketched by the finger of art and finished off by the - polished touch of fashion I fear, however, that this girl is already - spoiled by the species of education she has received. The priest has more - than once spoke of her erudition! <i>Erudition!</i> the pedantry of a - school-boy of the third class, I suppose. How much must a woman lose, and - how little can she gain, by that commutation which gives her our - acquirements for her own graces! For my part, you know, I have always kept - clear of the <i>basbleus</i>; and would prefer one playful charm of a <i>Ninon</i> - to all the classic lore of a <i>Dacier</i>. - </p> - <p> - But you will say, I could scarcely come off worse with the pedants than I - did with the dunces; and you will say right. And, to confess the truth, I - believe I should have been easily led to desert the standard of the pretty - <i>fools</i>, had female pedantry ever stole on my heart under such a form - as the little <i>soi-disant</i> Princess of Inis-more. ’Tis indeed, - impossible to look <i>less</i> like one who spouts Latin with the priest - of the parish than this same Glorvina. There is something beautifully wild - about her air and look, that is indescribable; and, without a very perfect - regularity of feature, she possesses that effulgency of countenance, that - bright <i>lumine purpureo</i>, which poetry assigns to the dazzling - emanations of divine beauty. In short, there are a thousand little - fugitive graces playing around her, which are not beauty, but the cause of - it; and were I to personify the word <i>spell</i>, she should sit for the - picture........ A thousand times she swims before my sight, as I last - beheld her; her locks of living gold parting on her brow of snow, yet - seeming to separate with reluctance, as they were lightly shaken off with - that motion of the head, at once so infantile and graceful; a motion twice - put into play, as her recumbent attitude poured the luxuriancy of her - tresses over her face and neck, for she was unveiled, and a small gold - bodkin was unequal to support the redundancy of that beautiful hair, which - I more than once apostrophized in the words of Petrarch: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Onde totse amor l’oro e di qual vena - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Per far due treccie bionde, &c. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I understand a servant is dispatched once a week to the next post town, - with and for letters; and this intelligence absolutely amazed me; for I am - astonished that these beings, who - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Look not like the inhabitants of the earth, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And yet are on it,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - should hold an intercourse with the world. - </p> - <p> - This is post day, and this packet is at last destined to be finished and - dispatched. On looking it over, the title of princes and princess so often - occur, that I could almost fancy myself at the court of some foreign - potentate, basking in the warm sunshine of regal favour, instead of being - the chance guest of a poor Irish gentleman, who lives on the produce of a - few rented farms, and, infected with a species of pleasant mania, believes - himself as much a prince as the heir apparent of boundless empire and - exhaustless treasures. - </p> - <p> - Adieu! Direct as usual: for though I certainly mean to accept the - invitation of a Prince, yet I intend, in a few days, to return home, to - obviate suspicion, and to have my books and wardrobe removed to the Lodge, - which now possesses a stronger magnet of attraction than when I first - fixed on it as my headquarters. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER VII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his is the sixth - day of my convalescence, and the first of my descent from my western - tower; for I find it is literally in a tower, or turret, which terminates - a wing of these ruins, I have been lodged. These good people, however, - would have persuaded me into the possession of a slow fever, and confined - me to my room another day, had not the harp of Glorvina, with - “supernatural solicitings,” spoken more irresistibly to my heart than all - their eloquence. - </p> - <p> - I have just made my <i>toilette</i>, for the first time since my arrival - at the castle; and with a black ribbon of the nurse’s across my forehead, - and a silk handkerchief of the priest’s supporting my arm, with my own - “customary suit of solemn black,” tintless cheek, languid eye, and pensive - air, I looked indeed as though “melancholy had marked me for her own or an - excellent personification of pining atrophy” in its last stage of decline. - </p> - <p> - While I contemplated my <i>memento mori</i> of a figure in the glass, I - heard a harp tuning in an underneath apartment. The Prince I knew had not - yet left his bed, for his infirmities seldom permit him to rise early; the - priest had rode out; and the venerable figure of the old harper at that - moment gave a fine effect to a ruined arch under which he was passing, led - by a boy, just opposite my window. “It is Glorwna then,” said I, “and - alone!” and down I sallied; but not with half the intrepidity that Sir - Bertram followed the mysterious blue flame along the corridors of the - enchanted castle. - </p> - <p> - A thousand times since my arrival in this transmundane region, I have had - reason to feel how much we are the creatures of situation; how insensibly - our minds and our feelings take their tone from the influence of existing - circumstances. You have seen me frequently the very prototype of <i>nonchalence</i>, - in the midst of a circle of birthday beauties, that might have put the - fabled charms of the <i>Mount Ida triumviri</i> to the blush of - inferiority. Yet here I am, groping my way down the dismantled stone - stairs of a ruined castle in the wilds of Connaught, with my heart - fluttering like the pulse of green eighteen, in the presence of its first - love, merely because on the point of appearing before a simple rusticated - girl, whose father calls himself <i>a prince</i>, with a <i>potatoe ridge - for his dominions!</i> O! with what indifference I should have met her in - the drawingroom, or at the opera!—there she would have been merely a - woman!—here she is the fairy vision of my heated fancy. - </p> - <p> - Well, having finished the same circuitous journey that a squirrel - diurnally performs in his cage, I found myself landed in a stone passage, - which was terminated by the identical chamber of fatal memory already - mentioned, and through the vista of a huge folding door, partly thrown - back, beheld the form of Glorvina! She was alone, and bending over her - harp; one arm was gracefully thrown over the instrument, which she was - tuning; with the other she was lightly modulating on its chords. - </p> - <p> - Too timid to proceed, yet unwilling to retreat, I was still hovering near - the door, when turning round, she observed me, and I advanced. She blushed - to the eyes, and returned my profound bow with a slight inclination of the - head, as if I were unworthy a more marked obeisance. - </p> - <p> - Nothing in the theory of sentiment could be more diametrically opposite, - than the bashful indication of that crimson blush, and the haughty spirit - of that graceful bow. What a logical analysis would it have afforded to - Father John on innate and acquired ideas! Her blush was the effusion of - nature; her bow the result of inculcation—the one spoke the native - woman; the other the <i>ideal</i> princess. - </p> - <p> - I endeavoured to apologize for my intrusion; and she, in a manner that - amazed me, congratulated me on my recovery; then drawing her harp towards - her, she seated herself on the great Gothic couch, with a motion of the - hand, and a look, that seemed to say, “there is room for you too.” I bowed - my acceptance of the silent welcome invitation. - </p> - <p> - Behold me then seated <i>tete-a-tete</i> with this Irish Princess!—my - right arm thrown over her harp, and her eyes riveted on my left. - </p> - <p> - “Do you still feel any pain from it?” said she, so naturally, as though we - had actually been discussing the accident it had sustained. - </p> - <p> - Would you believe it! I never thought of making her an answer; but - fastened my eyes on her face. For a moment she raised her glance to mine, - and we both coloured, as if she read there—I know not what! - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” said I, recovering from the spell of this magic - glance—“you made some observation, Madam?” - </p> - <p> - “Not that I recollect,” she replied, with a slight confusion of manner, - and running her finger carelessly over the chords of the harp, till it - came in contact with my own, which hung over it. The touch circulated like - electricity through every vein. I impulsively arose, and walked to the - window from whence I had first heard the tones of that instrument which - had been the innocent accessory to my present unaccountable emotion. As if - I were measuring the altitude of my fall, I hung half my body out of the - window, thinking, Heaven knows, of nothing less than <i>that</i> fall, of - nothing more than its fair cause, until abruptly drawing in my dizzy head, - I perceived her’s (such a cherub head you never beheld!) leaning against - her harp, and her eye directed towards me. I know not why, yet I felt at - once confused and gratified by this observation. - </p> - <p> - “My fall,” said I, glad of something to say, to relieve my school-boy - bashfulness, “was greater than I suspected.” - </p> - <p> - “It was dreadful!” she replied shuddering “What could have led you to so - perilous a situation?”——— - </p> - <p> - “That,” I returned, “which has led to more certain destruction, senses - more strongly fortified than mine—the voice of a syren!” - </p> - <p> - I then briefly related to her the rise, decline, and fall of my physical - empire; obliged, however, to qualify the gallantry of my <i>debut</i> by - the subsequent plainness of my narration, for the delicate reserve of her - air made me tremble, lest I had gone too far. - </p> - <p> - By heavens I cannot divest myself of a feeling of inferiority in her - presence, as though I were actually that poor, wandering, unconnected - being I have feigned myself. - </p> - <p> - My compliment was received with a smile and a blush; and to the eulogium - which rounded my detail on the benevolence and hospitality of the family - of Inismore, she replied, that “had the accident been of less material - consequence to myself, the family of Inismore must have rejoiced at the - event which enriched its social circle with so desirable an acquisition.” - </p> - <p> - The <i>matter</i> of this little <i>politesse</i> was nothing; but the <i>manner</i>, - the air, with which it was delivered! Where can she have acquired this - elegance of manner?—reared amidst rocks, and woods, and mountains! - deprived of all those graceful advantages which society confers—a - manner too that is at perpetual variance with her looks, which are so <i>naif</i>—-I - had almost said so wildly simple—that while she speaks in the - language of a court, she looks like the artless inhabitant of a cottage:—a - smile, and a blush, rushing to her cheek, and her lip, as the impulse of - fancy or feeling directs, even when smiles and blushes are irrevalent to - the etiquette of the moment. - </p> - <p> - This elegance of manner, then, must be the pure result of elegance of - soul; and if there is a charm in woman, I have hitherto vainly sought, and - prized beyond all I have discovered, it is this refined, celestial, native - elegance of soul, which effusing its spell through every thought, word, - and motion, of its enviable possessor, resembles the peculiar property of - gold, which subtilely insinuates itself through the most minute and - various particles, without losing any thing of its own intrinsic nature by - the amalgamation. - </p> - <p> - In answer to the flattering observation which had elicited this digression - I replied: - </p> - <p> - That far from regretting the consequences, I was emamoured of an accident - that had procured me such happiness as I now enjoyed (even with the risk - of life itself;) and that I believed there were few who, like me, would - not prefer peril to security, were the former always the purchase of such - felicity as the latter, at least on me, had never bestowed. - </p> - <p> - Whether this reply savoured too much of the world’s commonplace gallantry, - or that she thought there was more of the head than the heart in it, I - know not; but, by my soul, in spite of a certain haughty motion of the - head not unfrequent with her, I thought she looked wonderfully inclined to - laugh in my face, though she primed up her mouth, and fancied she looked - like a nun, when her lip pouted with the smiling archness of a Hebe. - </p> - <p> - In short, I never felt more in all its luxury the comfort of looking like - a fool; and to do away the no very agreeable sensation which the - conviction of being laughed at awakens, as a <i>pis-aller</i>, I began to - examine the harp, and expressed the surprise I felt at its singular - construction. - </p> - <p> - “Are you fond of music?” she asked with <i>naivette</i>. - </p> - <p> - “Sufficiently so,” said I, “to risk my life for it.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled, and cast a look at the window, as much as to say, “I - understand you.” - </p> - <p> - As I now was engaged in examining her harp, I observed that it resembled - less any instrument of that kind I had seen, than the drawing of the - Davidic lyre in Montfaucon. - </p> - <p> - “Then,” said she, with animation, “this is another collateral proof of the - antiquity of its origin, which I never before heard adduced, and which - sanctions that universally received tradition among us, by which we learn, - that we are indebted to the first Milesian colony that settled here for - this charming instrument, although some modern historians suppose that we - obtained it from Scandinavia.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It is reserved for the national Lyre of Erin only, to - claim a title independent of a Gothic origin. For “Clar- - seach,” is the only Irish epithet for the harp, a name more - in unison with the cithera of the Greeks, and even the - chinor of the Hebrew, than the Anglo-Saxon harp. “I cannot - but think the clarseach, or Irish harp, one of the most - ancient instruments we have among us, and had perhaps its - origin in remote periods of antiquity.”—Dr. Bedford’s Essay - on the construction, &c. of the Irish Harp. -</pre> - <p> - “And is this, Madam,” said I, “the original ancient Irish harp?” - </p> - <p> - “Not exactly, for I have strung it with gut instead of wire, merely for - the gratification of my own ear; but it is, however, precisely the same - form as that preserved in the Irish university, which belonged to one of - the most celebrated of our heroes, Brian Boni; for the warrior and the - bard often united in the character of our kings, and they sung the - triumphs of those departed chiefs whose feats they emulated.” - </p> - <p> - “You see,” she added with a smile, while my eager glance pursued the - kindling animation of her countenance as she spoke,—“you see, that - in all which concerns my national music, I speak with national enthusiasm; - and much indeed do we stand indebted to the most charming of all the - sciences for the eminence it has obtained us; for in <i>music only</i>, do - <i>you</i> English allow us poor Irish any superiority; and therefore your - King, who made the <i>harp</i> the armorial bearing of Ireland, - perpetuated our former musical celebrity beyond the power of time or - prejudice to destroy it.” - </p> - <p> - Not for the world would I have annihilated the triumph which this fancied - superiority seemed to give to this patriotic little being, by telling her, - that we thought as little of the music of her country, as of every thing - else that related to it; and that all we knew of the style of its - melodies, reached us through the false medium of comic airs, sung by some - popular actor, who in coincidence with his author, caricatures those - national traits he attempts to delineate. - </p> - <p> - I therefore simply told her, that though I doubted not the former musical - celebrity of her country, yet that I perceived the <i>Bardic</i> order in - Wales seemed to have survived the tuneful race of <i>Erin</i>; for that - though every little Cambrian village had its harper, I had not yet met - with one of the profession in Ireland. - </p> - <p> - She waved her head with a melancholy air, and replied—“the rapid - decline of the Sons of Song, once the pride of our country, is indeed very - evident; and the tones of that tender and expressive instrument which gave - birth to those which now survive them in happier countries, no longer - vibrates in our own; for of course you are not ignorant that the - importation of Irish bards and Irish instruments into Wales, * by <i>Griffith - ap Conan</i>, formed an epocha in Welch music, and awakened there a genius - of style in composition, which still breathes a kindred spirit to that - from whence it derived its being, and that even the invention of Scottish - music is given to Ireland.”! ** - </p> - <p> - “Indeed,” said I, “I must plead ignorance to this singular fact, and - almost to every other connected with this <i>now</i> to me most - interesting country.” - </p> - <p> - “Then suffer me,” said she, with a most insinuating smile, “to indulge - another little national triumph over you, by informing you, that we learn - from musical record, that the first piece of music ever seen in <i>score</i>, - in Great Britain, is an air sung time immemmorial in this country on the - opening of summer—an air, which though animated in its measure, yet - still, like all the Irish melodies, breathes the very soul of melancholy.” - *** - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Cardoc (of Lhancarvan) without any of that illiberal - partiality so common with national writers, assures us that - the Irish devised all the instruments, tunes, and measures, - in use among the Welsh. Cambrensis is even more copious in - its praise, when he peremptorily declares that the Irish, - above any other nation, is incomparably skilled in symphonal - music.—Walker’s Hist. Mem. of the Irish Bards - - ** See Doctor Campbell’s Phil Surv. L. 44; and Walker’s - Hist. Irish Bards, p. 131,32. - - *** Called in Irish, “Ta an Samradth teacht,” or, “We - brought Summer along with us.” - </pre> - <p> - “And do your melodies then, Madam, breathe the soul of melancholy?” said - I. - </p> - <p> - “Our national music,” she returned, “like our national character, admits - of no medium in sentiment: it either sinks our spirit to despondency, by - its heartbreaking pathos, or elevates it to wildness by its exhilarating - animation. - </p> - <p> - “For my own part, I confess myself the victim of its magic—an Irish - planxty cheers me into maddening vivacity; an Irish lamentation depresses - me into a sadness of melancholy emotion, to which the energy of despair - might be deemed comparative felicity.” - </p> - <p> - Imagine how I felt while she spoke—but you cannot conceive the - feelings unless you beheld and heard the object who inspired them—unless - you watched the kindling lumination of her countenance, and the varying - hue of that mutable complexion, which seemed to ebb and flow to the - impulse of every sentiment she expressed; while her round and sighing - voice modulated in unison with each expression it harmonized. - </p> - <p> - After a moment’s pause she continued: - </p> - <p> - “This susceptibility to the influence of my country’s music, discovered - itself in a period of existence when no associating sentiment of the heart - could have called it into being; for I have often wept in convulsive - emotion at an air, before the sad story it accompanied was understood: but - now—now—that feeling is matured, and understanding awakened. - Oh! you cannot judge—cannot feel—for you have no national - music; and your country is the happiest under heaven!” - </p> - <p> - Her voice faltered as she spoke—her fingers seemed impulsively to - thrill on the chords of the harp—her eyes, her tear swollen, - beautiful eyes, were thrown up to heaven, and her voice, “low and mournful - as the song of the tomb,” sighed over the chords of her national lyre, as - she faintly murmured Campbell’s beautiful poem to the ancient Irish air of - <i>Erin go brack!</i> - </p> - <p> - Oh! is there on earth a being so cold, so icy, so insensible, as to have - made a comment, even an <i>encomiastic</i> one, when this song of the soul - ceased to breathe! God knows how little I was inclined or empowered to - make the faintest eulogium, or disturb the sacred silence which succeeded - to her music’s dying murmur. On the contrary, I sat silent and motionless, - with my head unconsciously leaning on my broken arm, and my handkerchief - to my eyes: when at last I withdrew it, I found her hurried glance fixed - on me with a smile of such expression! Oh! I could weep my heart’s most - vital drop for such another glance—such another smile!—they - seemed to say, but who dares to translate the language of the soul, which - the eye only can express? - </p> - <p> - In (I believe) equal emotion, we both arose at the same moment and walked - to the window. Beyond the mass of ruins which spread in desolate confusion - below, the ocean, calm and unruffled, expanded its awful bosom almost to - infinitude; while a body of dark, sullen clouds, tinged with the partial - beam of a meridian sun, floated above the summits of those savage cliffs - which skirt this bold and rocky coast; and the tall spectral figure of - Father John, leaning on a broken pediment, appeared like the embodied - spirit of philosophy moralizing amidst the ruins of empires, on the - instability of all human greatness. - </p> - <p> - What a sublime assemblage of images. - </p> - <p> - “How consonant,” thought I, gazing at Glorvina, “to the sublimated tone of - our present feelings.” Glorvina waved her head in accidence to the idea, - as though my lips had given it birth. - </p> - <p> - How think you I felt, on this sweet involuntary acknowledgment of a mutual - intelligence? - </p> - <p> - Be that as it may, my eyes, too faithful I fear to my feelings, covered - the face on which they were passionately riveted with blushes. - </p> - <p> - At that moment Glorvina was summoned to dinner by a servant, for she only - is permitted to dine with the Prince, as being of royal descent. The - vision dissolved—she was again the proud Milesian Princess, and I - the poor wandering <i>artist</i>—the eleemosynary guest of her - hospitable mansion. - </p> - <p> - The priest and I dined <i>tete-a-tete</i>; and, for the first time, he had - all the conversation to himself; and got deep in Locke and Malbranche, in - solving quidities, and starting hypothesis, to which I assented with great - gravity, and thought only of Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - I again beheld her gracefully drooping over her harp—I again caught - the melody of her song, and the sentiment it conveyed to the soul; and I - entered fully into the idea of the Greek painter, who drew <i>Love</i>, - not with a bow and arrow, but a lyre. - </p> - <p> - I could not avoid mentioning with admiration her great musical powers. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he, “she inherits them from her mother, who obtained the - appellation of <i>Glorvina</i>, from the sweetness of her voice, by which - name our little friend was baptized at her mother’s request.” - </p> - <p> - Adieu! Glorvina has been confined in her father’s room during the whole of - the evening—to this circumstance you are indebted for this long - letter. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER VIII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he invitation I - received from the hospitable Lord of these ruins, was so unequivocal, so - cordial, that it would have been folly, not delicacy to think of turning - out of his house the moment my health was re-established. But then, I - scarcely felt it warranted that length of residence here, which, for a - thousand reasons, I am now anxious to make. - </p> - <p> - To prolong my visit till the arrival of my father in this country was my - object; and how to effect the desired purpose, was the theme of my - cogitation during the whole of the restless night which succeeded my - interview with Glorvina; and to confess the truth, I believe this - interview was not the least potent spell which fascinated me to Inismore. - </p> - <p> - Wearied by my restlessness, rather than refreshed by my transient - slumbers, I arose with the dawn, and carrying my <i>port-feuille</i> and - pencils with me, descended from my tower, and continued to wander for some - time among the wild and romantic scenes which surround these interesting - ruins, while - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “La sainte recueihnent la paisible innocence - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Sembler de ces lieus habiter le silence.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - until almost wearied in the contemplation of the varying sublimities which - the changes of the morning’s seasons shed over the ocean’s boundless - expanse, from the first gray vapour that arose from its swelling wave, to - that splendid refulgence with which the risen sun crimsoned its bosom, I - turned away my dazzled eye, and fixed it on the ruins of Inismore. Never - did it appear in an aspect so picturesquely felicitous: it was a golden - period for the poet’s fancy or the painter’s art; and in a moment of - propitious genius, I made one of the most interesting sketches my pencil - ever produced. I had just finished my successful <i>ebauche</i>, when - Father John, returning from matins, observed, and instantly joined me. - When he had looked over and commended the result of my morning’s - avocation, he gave my port-folio to a servant who passed us, and taking my - arm, we walked down together to the seashore. - </p> - <p> - “This happy specimen of your talent,” said he, as we proceeded, “will be - very grateful to the Prince. In him, who has no others left, it is a very - innocent pride, to wish to perpetuate the fading honours of his family—for - as such the good Prince considers these <i>ruins</i>. But, my young - friend, there is another and a surer path to the Prince’s heart, to which - I should be most happy to lead you.” - </p> - <p> - He paused for a moment, and then added: - </p> - <p> - “You will, I hope, pardon the liberty I am going to take; but as I boast - the merit of having first made your merit known to your worthy host, I - hold myself in some degree (smiling and pressing my hand) accountable for - your confirming the partiality I have awakened in your favour. - </p> - <p> - “The daughter of the Prince, and my pupil, of whom you can have yet formed - no opinion, is a creature of such rare endowments, that it should seem - Nature, as if foreseeing her isolated destiny, had opposed her own - liberality to the chariness of fortune; and lavished on her such intuitive - talents, that she almost sets the necessity of education at defiance. To - all that is most excellent in the circle of human intellect, or human - science, her versatile genius is constantly directed; and it is my real - opinion, that nothing more is requisite to perfect her in any liberal or - elegant pursuit, but that method or system which even the strangest native - talent, unassisted, can seldom attain (without a long series of practical - experience) and which is unhappily denied her; while her doating father - incessantly mourns that poverty, which withholds from him the power of - cultivating those shining abilities that would equally enrich the solitude - of their possessor, or render her an ornament to that society she may yet - be destined to grace. Yet the occasional visits of a strolling - dancing-master, and a few musical lessons received in her early childhood - from the family bard, are all the advantages these native talents have - received. - </p> - <p> - “But who that ever beheld her motions in the dance, or listened to the - exquisite sensibility of her song, but would exclaim—‘here is a - creature for whom Art can do nothing—Nature has done all!’ - </p> - <p> - “To these elegant acquirements, she unites a decided talent for drawing, - arising from powers naturally imitative, and a taste early imbibed (from - the contemplation of her native scenes) for all that is most sublime and - beautiful in nature. But this, of all her talents, has been the least - assisted, and yet is the most prized by her father, who, I believe, - laments his inability to detain you here as her preceptor; or rather, to - make it worth your while to forego your professional pursuits, for such a - period as would be necessary to invest her with such rudiments in the art, - as would form a basis for her future improvement. In a word, can you, - consistently with your present plans, make the castle of Inismore your - headquarters for two or three months, from whence you can take frequent - excursions amidst the neighbouring scenery, which will afford to your - pencil subjects rich and various as almost any other part of the country?” - </p> - <p> - Now, in the course of my life, I have had more than one occasion to remark - certain desirable events brought about by means diametrically opposite to - the supposition of all human probability;—but that this worthy man - should (as if infected with the intriguing spirit of a French Abbe reared - in the purlieus of the <i>Louvre</i>) thus forward my views, and effect - the realization of my wishes, excited so strong an emotion of pleasurable - surprise, that I with difficulty repressed my smiles, or concealed my - triumph. - </p> - <p> - After, however, a short pause, I replied with great gravity, that I always - conceived with Pliny, that the dignity we possess by the good offices of a - friend, is a kind of sacred trust, wherein we have his judgment as well as - our own character to maintain, and therefore to be guarded with peculiar - attention; that consequently, on his account, I was as anxious as on my - own, to confirm the good opinion conceived in my favour through the medium - of his partiality; and with very great sincerity I assured him, that I - knew of no one event so coincident to my present views of happiness, as - the power of making the Prince some return for his benevolent attentions, - and of becoming his (the priest’s) coadjutor in the tuition of his highly - gifted pupil. - </p> - <p> - “Add then, my dear Sir,” said I, “to all the obligations you have forced - on me, by presenting my respectful compliments to the Prince, with the - offer of my little services, and an earnest request that he will - condescend to accept of them; and if you think it will add to the delicacy - of the offer, let him suppose that it voluntarily comes from the heart - deeply impressed with a sense of his kindness.” - </p> - <p> - “That is precisely what I was going to propose,” returned this excellent - and unsuspecting being. “I would even wish him to think you conceive the - obligation all on your own side; for the pride of fallen greatness is of - all others the most sensitive.” - </p> - <p> - “And God knows so I do,” said I, fervently,—then carelessly added, - “do you think your pupil has a decided talent for the art?” - </p> - <p> - “It may be partiality,” he replied; “but I think she has a decided talent - for every elegant acquirement. If I recollect right, somebody has defined - <i>genius</i> to be ‘the various powers of a strong mind directed to one - point:’ making it the <i>result</i> of combined force, not the vital - source, whence all intellectual powers flow; in which light, the genius of - Glorvina has ever appeared to me as a beam from heaven, an emanation of - divine intelligence, whose nutritive warmth cherishes into existence that - richness and variety of talent which wants only a little care to rear it - to perfection. - </p> - <p> - “When I first offered to become the preceptor to this charming child, her - father, I believe, never formed an idea that my tuition would have - extended beyond a little reading and writing; but I soon found that my - interesting pupil possessed a genius that bore all before it—that - almost anticipated instruction by force of its tuitive powers, and prized - each task assigned it, only in proportion to the difficulty by which it - was to be accomplished. - </p> - <p> - “Her young ambitious mind even emulated rivalry with mine, and that study - in which she beheld me engaged seldom failed to become the object of her - desires and her assiduity. Availing myself, therefore, of this innate - spirit of emulation—this boundless thirst of knowledge, I left her - mind free in the election of its studies, while I only threw within its - power of acquisition, that which could tend to render her a rational, and - consequently a benevolent being; for I have always conceived an informed, - intelligent, and enlightened mind, to be the best security for a good - heart; although the many who mistake talent for intellect, and - unfortunately too often find the former united to vice, and led to suppose - that the heart loses in goodness what the mind acquires in strength, as if - (as a certain paradoxical writer has asserted) there was something in the - natural mechanism of the human frame necessary to constitute a fine genius - that is not altogether favourable to the heart. - </p> - <p> - “But here comes the unconscious theme of our conversation.” - </p> - <p> - And at that moment Glorvina appeared, springing lightly forward, like - Gresset’s beautiful personification of health: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “As Hebe swift, as Venus fair, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Youthful, lovely, light as air.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - As soon as she perceived me she stopt abruptly, blushed, and returning my - salutation, advanced to the priest, and twining her arm familiarly in his, - said, with an air of playful tenderness, - </p> - <p> - “O! I have brought you something you will be glad to see—here is the - spring’s first violet, which the unusual chilliness of the season has - suffered to steal into existence: this morning as I gathered herbs at the - foot of the mountain, I inhaled its odour ere I discovered its purple - head, as solitary and unassociated it was drooping beneath the heavy - foliage of a neighbouring plant. - </p> - <p> - “It is but just you should have the first violet as my father has already - had the first snowdrop. Receive, then, my offering,” she added with a - smile; and while she fondly placed it in his breast with an air of - exquisite <i>naivette</i>, to my astonishment she repeated from B. Tasso, - those lines so consonant to the tender simplicity of the act in which she - was engaged: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Poiche d’altro honorate - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Non dosso, prendi lieta - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Queste negre viole - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Dall umor rugiadose.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The priest gazed at her with looks of parental affection, and said, - </p> - <p> - “Your offering, my dear, is indeed the - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ‘Incense to the heart;’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - and more precious to the receiver, than the richest donation that ever - decked the shrine of Loretto. How fragrant it is!” he added, presenting it - to me. - </p> - <p> - I took it in silence, but raised it no higher than my lip—the eye of - Glorvina met mine, as my kiss breathed upon her flower: Good God! what an - undefinable, what a delicious emotion thrilled through my heart at that - moment! and the next—yet I know not how it was, or whether the - motion was made by her, or by me, or by the priest—but somehow, - Glorvina had got between us, and while I gazed at her beautiful flower, I - personified the blossom, and addressed to her the happiest lines that form - “<i>La Guirlande de Julie</i>” while, as I repeated. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Mais si sur votre front je peux briller un jour, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - La plus humble des fleurs sera la plus superbe - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I reposed it for a moment on her brow in passing it over to the priest. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” said she, with an arch smile, “I perceive you too will expect a - tributary flower for these charming lines; and the summer’s first rose”—she - paused abruptly; but her eloquent eye continued, “should be thine, but - that thou mayst be far from hence when the summer’s first rose appears.” I - thought too—but it might be only the fancy of my wishes, that a sigh - floated on the lip, when recollection checked the effusion of the heart. - </p> - <p> - “The <i>rose</i>,” (said the priest, with simplicity, and more engaged - with the classicality of the idea, than the inference to be drawn from - it,) “the rose is the flower of Love.” - </p> - <p> - I stole a look at Glorvina, whose cheek now emulated the tint of the theme - of our conversation; and plucking a thistle that sprung from a broken - pediment, she blew away its down with her balmy breath, merely to hide her - confusion. - </p> - <p> - Surely she is the most sentient of all created beings! - </p> - <p> - “I remember,” continued the priest, “being severely censured by a rigid - old priest, at my college in St. Omer’s, who found me reading the Idylium - of Ausonius, in which he so beautifully celebrates the rose, when the good - father believed me deep in St. Augustin.” - </p> - <p> - “The rose,” said I, “has always been the poet’s darling theme. The - impassioned lyre of Sappho has breathed upon its leaves. Anacreon has - wooed it in the happiest effusions of his genius; and poesy seems to have - exhausted her powers in celebrating the charms of the most beautiful and - transient of flowers. - </p> - <p> - “Among its modern panegyrists, few have been more happily successful than - Monsieur de Barnard, in that charming little ode beginning: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Tendre fruits des pleurs d’aurore, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Objets des baisers du zephyrs, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Reine de l’empire de Flore, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Hate toi d’epanoir.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “O! I beseech you go on,” exclaimed Glor-vina; and at her request, I - finished the poem. - </p> - <p> - “Beautiful, beautiful!” said she, with enthusiasm. “O! there is a certain - delicacy of genius in elegant trifles of this description, which I think - the French possess almost exclusively: it is a language formed almost by - its very construction <i>a’eterniser la bagatelle</i>, and to clothe the - fairy effusions of fancy in the most appropriate drapery. - </p> - <p> - “I thank you for this beautiful ode; the rose was always my idol flower; - in all its different stages of existence, it speaks a language my heart - understands; from its young bud’s first crimson glow, to the last sickly - blush of its faded blossom. It is the flower of sentiment in all its sweet - transitions; it breathes a moral, and seems to preserve an undecaying soul - in that fragrant essence which still survives the bloom and symmetry of - the fragile form which every beam too ardent, every gale too chill, - injures and destroys.” - </p> - <p> - “And is there,” said I, “no parallel in the moral world for this lovely - offspring of the natural?”—— - </p> - <p> - Glorvina raised her humid eyes to mine, and I read the parallel there. - </p> - <p> - “I vow,” said the priest, with affected pettishness, “I am half tempted to - fling away my violet, since this <i>idol</i> flower has been decreed to - Mr. Mortimer; and to revenge myself, I will show him your ode on the - rose.” - </p> - <p> - At these words, he took out his pocket-book, laughing at his gratified - vengeance, while Glorvina coaxed, blushed, and threatened; until snatching - the book out of his hand, as he was endeavouring to put it into mine, away - she flew like lightning, laughing heartily at her triumph, in all the - exility and playfulness of a youthful spirit. - </p> - <p> - “What a <i>Hebe!</i>” said I, as she kissed her hand to us in her airy - flight. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said he, “she at least illustrates the possibility of a woman - uniting in her character the extremes of intelligence and simplicity: you - see, with all her information and talent, she is a mere child.” - </p> - <p> - When we reached the castle, we found her waiting for us at the breakfast - table, flushed with her race—all animation, all spirits! her reserve - seemed gradually to vanish, and nothing could be more interesting, yet - more <i>enjouee</i>, than her manner and conversation. While the fertility - of her imagination supplied incessant topic of conversation, always new, - always original, I could not help reverting in idea to those languid <i>tete-a-tetes</i>, - even in the hey-dey of our intercourse, when Lady C.——— - and I have sat yawning at each other, or biting our fingers, merely for - want of something to say, in those intervals of passion, which every - connexion even of the tenderest nature, must sustain—she in the - native dearth of her mind, and I in the habitual apathy of mine. - </p> - <p> - But here is a creature who talks of a violet or a rose with the artless - air of infancy, and yet fascinates you in the simple discussion, as though - the whole force of intellect was roused to support it. - </p> - <p> - By Heaven! if I know my own heart, I would not love this being for a - thousand worlds; at least as I have hitherto loved. As it is, I feel a - certain commerce of the soul—a mutual intelligence of mind and - feeling with her, which a look, a sigh, a word is sufficient to betray—a - sacred communion of spirit, which raises me in the scale of existence - almost above mortality; and though we had been known to each other by - looks only, still would this amalgamation of soul (if I may use the - expression) have existed. - </p> - <p> - What a nausea of every sense does the turbulent agitation of gross - commonplace passion bring with it. But the sentiment which this seraph - awakens, “brings with it no satiety.” There is something so pure, so - refreshing about her, that in the present state of my heart, feelings, and - constitution, she produces the same effect on me as does the health-giving - breeze of returning spring to the drooping spirit of slow convalescence! - </p> - <p> - After breakfast she left us, and I was permitted to kiss his Highness’s - hand, on my instalment in my new and enviable office. He did not speak - much on the subject, but with his usual energy. However, I understood I - was not to waste my time, as he termed it, for nothing. - </p> - <p> - When I endeavoured to argue the point (as if the whole business was not a - <i>farce,</i>) the Prince would not hear me; so behold to all intents and - purposes a hireling tutor. Faith, to confess the truth, I know not whether - to be pleased or angry with this wild romance: this too, in a man whose - whole life has been a laugh at romancers of every description. - </p> - <p> - What if my father learns the extent of my folly, in the first era too of - my probation! Oh! what a spirit of <i>bizarte</i> ever drives me from the - central point of common sense, and common prudence! With what tyranny does - impulse rule my wayward fate! and how imperiously my heart still takes the - lead of my head! yet if I could ever consider the “meteor ray” that has - hitherto mis led my wanderings, as a “light from heaven,” it is now, when - virtue leads me to the shrine of innocent pleasure; and the mind becomes - the better for the wanderings of the heart. - </p> - <p> - “But what,” you will say, with your usual foreseeing prudence—“what - is the aim, the object of your present romantic pursuit?” - </p> - <p> - Faith, none; save the simple enjoyment of present felicity, after an age - of cold, morbid apathy; and a self resignation to an agreeable illusion, - after having sustained the actual burthen of real sufferings (sufferings - the more acute as they were self created,) succeeded by that dearth of - feeling and sensation which in permitting my heart to lie <i>fallow</i> - for an interval, only rendered it the more genial to those exotic seeds of - happiness which the vagrant gale of chance has flung on its surface. But - whether they will take deep root, or only wear “the perfume and suppliance - of a moment,” is an unthought of “circumstance still hanging in the - stars,” to whose decision I commit it. - </p> - <p> - Would you know my plans of meditated operation, they run thus:—In a - few days I shall avail myself of my professional vocation, and fly home, - merely to obviate suspicion in Mr. Clendinning, receive and answer - letters, and get my books and wardrobe sent to the Lodge, previous to my - own removal there, which I shall effect under the plausible plea of the - dissipated neighbourhood of M———— house being - equally inimical to the present state of my constitution and my studious - pursuits; and, in fact, I must either associate with, or offend these - hospitable Milesians—an alternative by no means consonant to my - inclinations. - </p> - <p> - From Inismore to the Lodge, I can make constant sallies, and be in the way - to receive my father, whose arrival I think I may still date at some - weeks’ distance; besides, should it be necessary, I think I should find no - difficulty in bribing the old steward of the Lodge to my interest. His - evident aversion to Clendinning, and attachment to the Prince, renders him - ripe for any scheme by which the latter could be served, or the former - outwitted: and I hope in the end to effect both: for, to unite this old - chieftain in bonds of amity with my father, and to punish the rascality of - the worthy Mr. Clendinning, is a double “consummation devoutly to be - wished.” In short, when the heart is interested in a project, the - stratagems of the imagination to forward it are inexhaustible. - </p> - <p> - It should seem that the name of M———— is - interdicted at Inismore: I have more than once endeavoured (though - remotely) to make the residence of our family in this country a topic of - conversation; but every one seemed to shrink from the subject, as though - some fatality was connected with its discussion. To avoid speaking ill of - those of whom we have but little reason, speak well, is the temperance of - aversion, and seldom found but in great minds. - </p> - <p> - I must mention to you another instance of liberality in the sentiments of - these isolated beings:—I have only once attended the celebration of - divine service here since my arrival; but my absence seemed not to be - observed, or my attendance noticed; and though, as an Englishman, I may be - naturally supposed to be of the most popular faith, yet, for all they know - to the contrary, I may be Jew, Mussulman, or Infidel; for, before me at - least, religion is a topic never discussed. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, - </p> - <h3> - H. M - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER IX. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have already - given two lessons to my pupil, in an art in which, with all due deference - to the judgment of her quondam tutor, she was never destined to excel. - </p> - <p> - Not, however, that she is deficient in talent—very far from it; but - it is too progressive, too tame a pursuit for the vivacity of her genius. - It is not sufficiently connected with those lively and vehement emotions - of the soul she is so calculated to feel and to awaken. She was created - for a musician—there she is borne away by the magic of the art in - which she excels, and the natural enthusiasm of her impassioned character: - she can sigh, she can weep, she can smile over her harp. The sensibility - of her soul trembles in her song, and the expression of her rapt - countenance harmonizes with her voice. But at her drawing-desk, her - features lose their animated character—the smile of rapture ceases - to play, and the glance of inspiration to beam. And with the transient - extinction of those feelings from which each touching charm is derived, - fades that all pervading interest, that energy of admiration which she - usually excites. - </p> - <p> - Notwithstanding, however, the pencil is never out of her hand; her harp - lies silent, and her drawing-book is scarcely ever closed. Yet she limits - my attendance to the first hour after breakfast, and then I generally lose - sight of her the whole day, until we all meet <i>en-famille</i> in the - evening. Her improvement is rapid—her father delighted, and she - quite fascinated by the novelty of her avocation; the priest congratulates - me, and I alone am dissatisfied. - </p> - <p> - But from the natural impatience and volatility of her character, (both - very obvious,) this, thank Heaven! will soon be over. Besides, even in the - hour of tuition, from which I promised myself so much, I do not enjoy her - society—the priest always devotes that time to reading out to her; - and this too at her own request:—not that I think her innocent and - unsuspicious nature cherishes the least reserve at her being left <i>tete-a-tete</i> - with her less venerable preceptor; but that her ever active mind requires - incessant exercise; and in fact, while I am hanging over her in - uncontrolled emotion, she is drawing, as if her livelihood depended on the - exertions of her pencil, or commenting on the subjects of the priest’s - perusal, with as much ease as judgment; while she minds me no more than if - I were a well organized piece of mechanism, by whose motions her pencil - was to be guided. - </p> - <p> - What if, with all her mind, all her genius, this creature had no heart!—And - what were it to me, though she had?——— - </p> - <p> - The Prince fancies his domestic government to be purely patriarchal, and - that he is at once the “Law and the Prophet” to his family; never - suspecting that he is all the time governed by a girl of nineteen, whose - soul, notwithstanding the playful softness of her manner, contains a - latent ambition, which sometimes breathing in the grandeur of her - sentiment, and sometimes sparkling in the haughtiness of her eye, seems to - say, “I was born for empire!” - </p> - <p> - It is evident that the tone of her mind is naturally stronger than her - father’s, though to a common observe, <i>he</i> would appeal a man of - nervous and masculine understanding; but the difference between them is - this—his energies are the energies of the passions—hers of the - mind! - </p> - <p> - Like most other Princes, <i>mine</i> is governed much by <i>favoritism</i>; - and it is evident I already rank high on the list of partiality. - </p> - <p> - I perceive, however, that much of his predilection in my favour, arises - from the coincidence of my present curiosity and taste with his favourite - pursuits and national prejudices. Newly awakened, (perhaps by mere force - of novelty,) to a lively interest for every thing that concerns a country - I once thought so little worthy of consideration; in short, convinced by - the analogy of existing habits, with recorded customs, of the truth of - those circumstances so generally ranked in the apocryphal tales of the - history of this vilified country; I have determined to resort to the - witness of time, the light of truth, and the corroboration of living - testimony, in the study of a country which I am beginning to think would - afford to the mind of philosophy a rich subject of analysis, and to the - powers of poetic fancy a splendid series of romantic detail. - </p> - <p> - “Sir William Temple,” says Dr. Johnson, “complains that Ireland is less - known than any other country, as to its ancient state, because the natives - have little leisure, and less encouragement for enquiry; and that a - stranger, not knowing its language, has no ability.” - </p> - <p> - This impediment, however, shall not stand in the way of <i>one</i> - stranger, who is willing to offer up his national prejudices at the Altar - of Truth, and expiate the crime of an unfounded but habitual antipathy, by - an impartial examination, and an unbiassed inquiry. In short, I have - actually began to study the language; and though I recollect to have read - the opinion of Temple, “that the Celtic dialect used by the native Irish - is the purest and most original language that now remains yet I never - suspected that a language spoken <i>par routine</i>, and chiefly by the - lower classes of society, could be acquired upon <i>principle</i>, until - the other day, when I observed in the Prince’s truly national library some - philological works, which were shown me by Father John, who has offered to - be my preceptor in this wreck of ancient dialect, and who assures me he - will render me master of it in a short time—provided I study <i>con - amore</i>. - </p> - <p> - “And I will assist you,” said Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - “We will <i>all</i> assist him,” said the Prince. - </p> - <p> - “Then I shall study <i>con amore</i> indeed!” returned I. - </p> - <p> - Behold me then, buried amidst the monuments of past ages!—deep in - the study of the language, history, and antiquities of this ancient nation—talking - of the invasion of Henry II, as a recent circumstance—of the - Phoenician migration hither from Spain, as though my grandfather had been - delegated by Firbalgs to receive the Milesians on their landing—and - of those transactions passed through - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “The dark posterns of time long elapsed,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - as though their existence was but freshly registered in the annate of - recollection. - </p> - <p> - In short, infected by my antiquarian conversation with the Prince, and - having fallen in with some of those monkish histories which, on the - strength of Druidical tradition, trace a series of wise and learned Irish - monarchs before the flood, I am beginning to have as much faith in - antediluvian records as Dr. Parsons himself, who accuses <i>Adam of</i> - authorship, or Thomas Bangius, who almost gives <i>fac similies</i> of the - hand-writing of Noah’s progenitors. - </p> - <p> - Seriously, however, I enter on my new studies with avidity, and read from - the morning’s first dawn till the usual hour of breakfast, which is become - to me as much the banquet of the heart, as the Roman supper was to the - Agustan wits “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,”—for it is - the only meal at which Glorvina presides. - </p> - <p> - Two hours each day does the kind priest devote to my philological - pursuits, while Glorvina, who is frequently present on these occasions - makes me repeat some short poem or song after her, that I may catch the - pronunciation, (which is almost unattainable,) then translates them into - English, which I word for word write down. Here then is a specimen of - Irish poetry, which is almost always the effusion of some blind itinerent - bard, or some rustic minstrel, into whose breast the genius of his country - has breathed inspiration, as he patiently drove the plough, or laboriously - worked in the bog. * - </p> - <h3> - CATHBEIN NOLAN. - </h3> - <h3> - I. - </h3> - <p> - “My love, when she floats on the mountain’s brow, is like the dewy cloud - of the summer’s loveliest evening. Her forehead is asa pearl; her spiral - locks are of gold; and I grieve that I cannot banish her from my memory.” - </p> - <h3> - II. - </h3> - <p> - “When she enters the forest like the bounding doe, dispersing the dew with - her airy steps, her mantle on her arm, the axe in her hand to cut the - branches of flame; I know not which is the most noble—the King of - the Saxons, ** or Cathbein Nolan.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Miss Brooks, in her elegant version of the works of some - of the Irish Bards, says, “’Tis scarcely possible that any - language can be more adapted to lyric poetry than the Irish; - so great is the smoothness and harmony of its numbers; it is - also possessed of a refined delicacy, a descriptive power, - and an exquisite tender simplicity of expression: two or - three little artless words, or perhaps a single epithet, - will sometimes convey such an image of sentiment or - suffering to the mind, that one lays down the book to look - at the picture.” - - ** The King of England is called by the common Irish “Riagh - Sasseanach.” - </pre> - <p> - This little song is of so ancient a date, that Glorvina assures me, - neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitely beautiful) - nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if we may judge of - the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must have been of a very - humble degree; for it is evident that the fair Cathbein, whose form is - compared, in splendour, to that of the Saxon monarch, is represented as - cutting wood for the fire. - </p> - <p> - The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modern - Irish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composed - them, possess the <i>arioso</i> elegance of Italian music, united to the - heartfelt pathos of Irish melody. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * He was born in the village of Nobber, county of Westmeath, - in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted the loss of - sight, but used gaily to say, “my eyes are only transplanted - into my ears.” Of his poetry, the reader may form some - judgment from these examples. Of his music, it has been said - by O’Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew him - intimately, “so happy, so elevated was he in some of his - compositions, that he excited the wonder, and obtained the - approbation of a great master who never saw him, I mean - Geminiani.” His execution on the harp was rapid and - expressive—far beyond that of all the professional - competitors of the age in which he lived. The charms of - women, the pleasures of conviviality, and the power of poesy - and music, were at once his theme and inspiration; and his - life was an illustration of his theory, for until his last - ardour was chilled by death, he loved, drank and sung. He - was a welcome guest to every house, from the peasant to the - prince; but in the true wandering spirit of his profession, - he never staid to exhaust that welcome. -</pre> - <h3> - I. - </h3> - <p> - “I must sing of the youthful plant of gentlest mien—Fanny, the - beautiful and warm soul’d—the maid of the amber twisted ringlets; - the air lifted and light footed virgin—the elegant pearl and heart’s - treasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour—let us enjoy it - in drinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.” - </p> - <h3> - II. - </h3> - <p> - “It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of the shore—for - whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful, whose tresses are - like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like the blackbird’s morning - song: O, may I never leave the world until dancing in the air (this - expression in the Irish is beyond the power of translation) at her - wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking to Fanny, the daughter of - David.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * She was daughter to David Power, Esq., of the county - Galway, and mother to the late Lord Cloncarty. The epithet - bestowed on her of “Swan of the shore,” arose from her - father’s mansion being situated on the edge of Lough Leah, - or the grey lake, of which many curious legends are told. -</pre> - <h3> - GRACY NUGENT. - </h3> - <h3> - I. - </h3> - <p> - “I delight to talk of thee! blossom of fairness! Gracy, the most - frolicsome of the young and lovely—who from the fairest of the - province bore away the palm of excellence—happy is he who is near - her, for morning nor evening grief, nor fatigue, cannot come near him; her - mien is like the mildness of a beautiful dawn; and her tresses flow in - twisted folds—she is the daughter of the branches.—Her neck - has the whiteness of alabaster—the softness of the cygnet’s bosom is - hers; and the glow of the summer’s sunbeam is on her countenance. Oh! - blessed is he who shall obtain thee, fair daughter of the blossoms—maid - of the spiry locks!” - </p> - <h3> - II. - </h3> - <p> - “Sweet is the word of her lip, and sparkling the beam of her blue rolling - eye; and close round her neck cling the golden tresses of her head: and - her teeth are arranged in beautiful order. I say to the maid of youthful - mildness, thy voice is sweeter than the song of birds; every grace, every - charm play round thee; and though my soul delights to sing thy praise, yet - I must quit the theme—to drink with a sincere heart to thy health, - Gracy of the soft waving ringlets.” - </p> - <p> - Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fair Gracy, - recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, in his - beautiful epithalamium on her marriage?— - </p> - <p> - “She is like the rising of the golden morning, when the night departeth, - and when the winter is over and gone—she resembleth the cypress in - the garden, the horse in the chariot of Thessaly.” - </p> - <p> - While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure which breathes - over the termination of every verse, glows with the festive spirit of the - Tean bard. - </p> - <p> - When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between the early - Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with a smile, “In - drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter my national vanity; - but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesian poetry to a higher - source than the spring of Grecian genius; for many figures in Irish song - are of Oriental origin; and the bards who ennobled the train of our - Milesian founders, and who awakened the soul of song here, seem, in common - with the Greek poets, ‘to have kindled their poetic fires at those - unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb of oriental genius.’ Let - me, however, assure you, that no adequate version of an Irish poem can be - given; for the peculiar construction of the Irish language, the felicity - of its epithets, and force of its expressions, bid defiance to all - translation.” - </p> - <p> - “But while your days and nights are thus devoted to Milesian literature,” - you will say, “what becomes of Blackstone and Coke?” - </p> - <p> - Faith, e’en what may for me—the mind, the mind, like the heart, is - not to be forced in its pursuits; and, I believe, in an intellectual, as - in a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason may - condemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana; and my - present studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate the - appetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to a - profession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature revolts; and - if my father persists in his determination, why, as a <i>dernier resort</i>, - I must turn historiographer to the prince of Inismore.——— - Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “vital in - every part:” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - All intellect, all sense.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER X. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he more I know of - this singular girl, the more the happy <i>discordia consors</i> of her - character awakens my curiosity and surprise. I never beheld such a union - of intelligence and simplicity, infantine playfulness and profound - reflection as her character exhibits. Sometimes when I think I am trifling - with a child, I find I am conversing with a philosopher; and sometimes in - the midst of the most serious and interesting conversation, some impulse - of the moment seizes on her imagination, and a vein of frolic humour and - playful sarcasm is indulged at the expense of my most sagacious arguments - or philosophic gravity. Her reserve (unknown to herself) is gradually - giving way to the most bewitching familiarity. - </p> - <p> - When the priest is engaged, I am suffered to tread with her the “pathless - grass,” climb the mountain’s steep, or ramble along the sea-beat coast, - sometimes followed by her nurse, and sometimes by a favourite little dog - only. - </p> - <p> - Of nothing which concerns her country is she ignorant; and when a more - interesting, a more soul-felt conversation, cannot be obtained, I love to - draw her into a little national chit-chat. - </p> - <p> - Yesterday, as we were walking along the base of that mountain from which I - first beheld her dear residence, (and sure I may say with Petrarch, - “Benedetto sia il giorno e’l mese e’lanno,”) several groups of peasants - (mostly females,) passed us, with their usual courteous salutations, and - apparently dressed in their holiday garbs. - </p> - <p> - “Poor souls!” said Glorvina—“this is a day of jubilee to them, for a - great annual fair is held in the neighbourhood.” - </p> - <p> - “But from whence,” said I “do they draw the brightness of those tints - which adorn their coarse garments; those gowns and ribbons, that rival the - gay colouring of that heath hedge; those bright blue and scarlet mantles? - Are they, too, vestiges of ancient modes and ancient taste?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly they are,” she replied, “and the colours which the Irish were - celebrated for wearing and dyeing a thousand years back, are now most - prevalent. In short, the ancient Irish, like the Israelites, were so - attached to this many coloured <i>costume</i>, that it became the mark by - which the different classes of the people were distinguished. Kings were - limited to seven colours in their royal robes; and six were allowed the - bards. What an idea does this give of the reverence paid to superior - talent in other times by our forefathers! But that bright yellow you now - behold so universally worn, has been in all ages their favourite hue. - Spenser thinks this custom came from the East; and Lord Bacon accounts for - the propensity of the Irish to it, by supposing it contributes to - longevity.” - </p> - <p> - “But where,” said I, “do these poor people procure so expensive an article - as saffron, to gratify their prevailing taste?” - </p> - <p> - “I have heard Father John say,” she returned, “that saffron, as an article - of importation, could never have been at any time cheap enough for general - use. And I believe formerly, as <i>now</i>, they communicated this bright - yellow tinge with indigenous plants, with which this country abounds. - </p> - <p> - “See,” she added, springing lightly forward, and culling a plant which - grew from the mountain’s side—“see this little blossom, which they - call here, ‘yellow lady’s bed straw,’ and which you, as a botanist, will - better recognize as the <i>Galieens borum</i>; it communicates a beautiful - yellow; as does the <i>Lichen juniperinus</i>, or ‘cypress moss,’ which - you brought me yesterday; and I think the <i>résida Leuteola</i>, or - ‘yellow weed,’ surpasses them all.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Purple, blue, and green dyes, were introduced by Tighwmas - the Great, in the year of the world 2814. The Irish also - possessed the art of dyeing a fine scarlet; so early as the - day of St. Bennia, a disciple of St. Patrick, scarlet - clothes and robes high embroidered, are mentioned in the - baok of Glandelogh. -</pre> - <p> - “In short, the botanical treasures of our country, though I dare say - little known, are inexhaustible. - </p> - <p> - “Nay,” she continued, observing, I believe, the admiration that sparkled - in my eyes, “give me no credit, I beseech you, for this local information, - for there is not a peasant girl in the neighbourhood, but will tell you - more on the subject.” - </p> - <p> - While she was thus dispensing knowledge with the most unaffected - simplicity of look and manner, a group of boys advanced towards us, with a - car laden with stones, and fastened to the back of an unfortunate dog, - which they were endeavouring to train to this new species of canine - avocation, by such unmerciful treatment as must have procured the wretched - animal a speedy release from all his sufferings. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina no sooner perceived this, than she flew to the dog, and while the - boys looked all amaze, effected his liberation, and by her caresses, - endeavoured to soothe him into forgetfulness of his late sufferings; then, - turning to the ringleader, she said: - </p> - <p> - “Dermot, I have so often heard you praised for your humanity to animals, - that I can scarcely believe it possible that you have been accessory to - the sufferings of this useful and affectionate animal; he is just as - serviceable to society in his way, as you are in yours, and you are just - as well able to drag a loaded cart as he is to draw that little car. Come - now, I am not so heavy as the load you have destined him to bear, and you - are much stronger than your dog, and now you shall draw me home to the - castle; and then give me your opinion on the subject.” - </p> - <p> - In one moment his companions, laughing vociferously at the idea, had the - stones flung out of the little vehicle, and fastened its harness on the - broad shoulders of the half pouting, half smiling Dermot; and the next - moment this little agile sylph was seated in the car. - </p> - <p> - Away went Dermot, dragged on by the rest of the boys, while Glorvina, - delighted as a child with her new mode of conveyance, laughed with all her - heart, and kissed her hand to me as she flew along; while I, trembling for - her safety, endeavoured to keep pace with her triumphal chariot, till her - wearied, breathless Phaeton, unable to run any further with his lovely, - laughing burthen, begged a respite. - </p> - <p> - “How!” said she, “weary of this amusement, and yet you have not at every - step been cruelly lashed like your poor dog.” - </p> - <p> - The panting Dermot hung his head, and said in Irish, “the like should not - happen again.” - </p> - <p> - “It is enough,” said Glorvina, in the same language—“we are all - liable to commit a fault, but let us never forget it is in our power to - correct it. And now go to the castle where you shall have a good dinner, - in return for the good and pleasant exercise you have procured me.” - </p> - <p> - The boys were as happy as kings. Dermot was unyoked, and the poor dog, - wagging his tail in token of his felicity, accompanied the gratified group - to the castle. - </p> - <p> - When Glorvina had translated to me the subject of her short dialogue with - Dermot, she added, laughing, “Oh! how I should like to be dragged about - this way for two or three hours every day: never do I enter into any - little folly of this kind, that I do not sigh for those sweet hours of my - childhood when I could play the fool with impunity.” - </p> - <p> - “Play the fool!” said I—“and do you call this playing the fool—this - dispensation of humanity, this culture of benevolence in the youthful - mind, these lessons of truth and goodness, so sweetly, so simply given?” - </p> - <p> - “Nay,” she returned, “you always seem inclined to flatter me into - approbation of myself! but the truth is, I was glad to seize on the - opportunity of lecturing that urchin Dermot, who, though I praised his - humanity, is the very beadle to all the unfortunate animals in the - neighbourhood. But I have often had occasion to remark, that, by giving a - virtue to these neglected children which they do not possess, I have - awakened their emulation to attain it.” - </p> - <p> - “To say that you are an angel,” said I, “is to say a very commonplace - thing, which every man says to the woman he either does, or affects to - admire; and yet”—— - </p> - <p> - “Nay,”—interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm, and looking up - full in my face with that arch glance I have so often caught revelling in - her eloquent eye—“I am not emulous of a place in the angelic choir; - canonization is more consonant to my <i>papistical</i> ambition; then let - me be your saint—your tutelar saint, and”— - </p> - <p> - “And let me,” interrupted I, impassionately, “let me, like the members of - the Greek church, adore my saint, not by prostration, but by a kiss;”—and, - for the first time in my life, I pressed my lips to the beautiful hand - which still rested on my arm, and from which I first drew a glove that has - not since left my bosom, nor been re-demanded by its charming owner. - </p> - <p> - This little freedom (which, to another, would have appeared nothing) was - received with a degree of blushing confusion, that assured me it was the - first of the kind ever offered; even the fair hand blushed its sense of my - boldness, and enhanced the pleasure of the theft by the difficulty it - promised of again obtaining a similar favour. - </p> - <p> - By heaven there is infection in the sensitive delicacy of this creature, - which even my hardened confidence cannot resist. - </p> - <p> - No <i>prieux Chevalier</i>, on being permitted to kiss the tip of his - liege lady’s finger, after a seven years’ seige, could feel more - pleasantly embarrassed than I did, as we walked on in silence, until we - were happily relieved by the presence of the old garrulous nurse, who came - out in search of her young lady—for, like the princesses in the - Greek tragedies, <i>my</i> Princess seldom appears without the attendance - of this faithful representative of fond maternity. - </p> - <p> - For the rest of the walk she talked mostly to the nurse in Irish, and at - the castle gate we parted—she to attend a patient, and I to retire - to my own apartment, to ruminate on my morning’s ram ble with this - fascinating <i>lusus naturo</i>. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he drawing which I - made of the castle is finished—the Prince is charmed with it, and - Glorvina insisted on copying it. This was as I expected—as I wished; - and I took care to finish it so minutely, that her patience (of which she - has no great store) should soon be exhausted in the imitation, and I - should have something more of her attention than she generally affords me - at my drawing-desk. - </p> - <p> - Yesterday, in the absence of the priest, I read to her as she drew. After - a thousand little symptoms of impatience and weariness—“here,” said - she, yawning—“here is a straight line I can make nothing of—do - you know, Mr. Mortimer, I never could draw a perpendicular line in my - life. See now my pencil <i>will</i> go into a curve or an angle; so you - must guide my hand, or I shall——” - </p> - <p> - I “guide her hand to draw a straight line!” - </p> - <p> - “Nay then,” said I, with the ostentatious gravity of a pedagogue master, - “I may as well do the drawing myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Well then,” said she, playfully, “<i>do</i> it yourself.” - </p> - <p> - Away she flew to her harp; while I, half lamenting, half triumphing, in my - forbearance, took her pencil and her seat. I perceived, however, that she - had not even drawn a single line of the picture, and yet her paper was not - a mere <i>carte-blanche</i>—for close to the margin was written in a - fairy hand, ‘<i>Henry Mortimer</i>, April 2d, 10 o’clock,’—the very - day and hour of my entrance into the castle; and in several places, the - half defaced features of a face evidently a copy of my own, were still - visible. - </p> - <p> - If any thing could have rendered this little circumstance more deliciously - gratifying to my heart, it was, that I had been just reading to her the - anecdote of “the <i>Maid of Corinth</i>.” - </p> - <p> - I raised my eyes from the paper to her with a look that must have spoken - my feelings; but she, unconscious of my observation began a favourite air - of her favourite Carolan’s, and supposed me to be busy at the <i>perpendicular - line</i>. - </p> - <p> - Wrapt in her charming avocation, she seemed borne away by the magic of her - own numbers, and thus inspired and inspiring as she appeared, faithful, as - the picture formed was interesting, I took her likeness. Conceive for a - moment a form full of character, and full of grace, bending over an - instrument singularly picturesque—a profusion of auburn hair - fastened up to the top of the finest formed head I ever beheld, with a - golden bodkin—an armlet of curious workmanship glittering above a - finely turned elbow, and the loose sleeves of a flowing robe drawn up - unusually high, to prevent this drapery from sweeping the chords of the - instrument. The expression of the divinely touching countenance breathed - all the fervour of genius under the influence of inspiration, and the - contours of the face, from the peculiar uplifted position of the head, - were precisely such, as lends to painting the happiest line of feature, - and shade of colouring. Before I had near finished the lovely picture, her - song ceased; and turning towards me, who sat opposite her, she blushed to - observe how intensely my eyes were fixed on <i>her</i>. - </p> - <p> - “I am admiring,” said I, carelessly, “the singular elegance of your - costume: it is indeed to me a never failing source of wonder and - admiration.” - </p> - <p> - “I am not sorry,” she replied, “to avail myself of my father’s prejudices - in favour of our ancient national costume, which, with the exception of - the drapery being made of modern materials (on the antique models,) is - absolutely drawn from the wardrobes of my great grand dames. This armlet, - I have heard my father say, is near four hundred years old, and many of - the ornaments and jewels you have seen me wear, are of a date no less - ancient.” - </p> - <p> - “But how,” said I, while she continued to tune her harp, and I to ply the - pencil, “how comes it that in so remote a period, we find the riches of - Peru and Golconda contributing their splendour to the magnificence of - Irish dress?” - </p> - <p> - “No!” she replied, smiling, “we too had our Peru and Golconda in the bosom - of our country—for it was once thought rich not only in gold and - silver mines, but abounded in pearls, * amethysts, and other precious - stones: even a few years back, Father John saw some fine pearls taken out - of the river Ban; ** and Mr. O’Halloran, the celebrated Irish historian, - declares that within his memory, amethysts of immense value were found in - Ireland.”! *** - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “It should seem.” says Mr. Walker, in his ingenious and - elegant essay on Ancient Irish Dress—“that Ireland teemed - with gold and silver, for as well as in the laws recited, we - find an act ordained 34th, Henry VIII, ‘that merchant - strangers should pay 40 pence custom for every pound of - silver they carried out of Ireland; and Lord Stratford, in - one of his letters from Dublin to his royal master, says, - ‘with this I land you an ingot of silver of 300 oz.’” - - ** Pearls abounded, and still are found in this country and - were of such repute in the 11th century, that a present of - them was sent to the famous Bishop Anselm, by a Bishop of - Limerick. - - *** The author is indebted to Mr. Knox, barrister at law, - Dublin, for the sight of some beautiful amethysts, which - belonged to his female ancestors, and which many of the - lapidaries of London, after a diligent search, found it - impossible to match. -</pre> - <p> - “I remember reading in the life of St. Bridget, that the King of Leinster - presented to her father a sword set with precious stones, which the pious - saint, more charitable than honest, devoutly stole, and sold for the - benefit of the poor; but it should seem that the sources of our national - treasures are now shut up like the gold mines of La Valais, for the public - weal, I suppose; for we now hear not of amethysts found, pearls - discovered, or gold mines worked; and it is to the caskets of my female - ancestors that I stand indebted that my dress or hair is not fastened or - adorned like those of my humbler countrywomen, with a wooden bodkin.” - </p> - <p> - “That, indeed,” said I, “is a species of ornament I have observed very - prevalent with your fair ‘<i>paysannes</i>; and of whatever materials it - is made, when employed in such a happy service as I <i>now</i> behold it, - has an air of simple, useful elegance, which in my opinion constitutes the - great art of female dress.” - </p> - <p> - “It is at least,” replied she, “the most ancient ornament we know here—for - we are told that the celebrated palace of Emania, * erected previous to - the Christian era, was sketched by the famous Irish Empress Macha, with - the bodkin. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The resident palace of the Kings of Ulster, of which - Colgan speaks as “rendolens splendorum.” - </pre> - <p> - “I remember a passage from a curious and ancient romance in the Irish - language, that fastened wonderfully upon my imagination when I read it to - my father in my childhood, and which gives to the bodkin a very early - origin:—it ran thus, and is called the ‘<i>Interview between Fionn - M’Cnmhal and Cannan</i>.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Cannan, when he said this, was seated at table; on his right hand was - seated his wife, and upon his left his beautiful daughter, so exceedingly - fair, that the snow driven by the winter storms surpassed not her in - fairness, and her cheeks wore the blood of a young calf; her hair hung in - curling ringlets, and her teeth were like pearl—a spacious veil hung - from her lovely head down her delicate form, and the veil was fastened by - a goldenbodkin.’” “The bodkin, you know, is also an ancient Greek - ornament, and mentioned by Vulcan, as among the trinkets he was obliged to - forge.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * See Iliad, 13, 17. -</pre> - <p> - By the time she had finished this curious quotation in favour of the - antiquity of her dress, her harp was tuned, and she began another - exquisite old Irish air called the “Dream of the Young Man,” which she - accompanied rather by a plaintive <i>murmur</i>, than with her voice’s - full melodious powers. It is thus this creature winds round the heart, - while she enlightens the mind, and entrances the senses. - </p> - <p> - I had finished the sketch in the meantime, and just beneath the figure, - and above her flattering inscription of my name, I wrote with my pencil, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “’Twas thus Apelles bask’d in beauty’s blaze, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Nor felt the danger of the steadfast gaze;” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - while she, a few minutes after, with that restlessness that seemed to - govern all her actions to-day arose, put her harp aside and approached me - with, “Well, Mr. Mortimer, you are very indulgent to my insufferable - indolence—let me see what you have done for me;” and looking over my - shoulder, she beheld not the ruins of her castle, but a striking likeness - of her blooming self; and sending her head close to the paper, read the - lines, and that name honoured by the inscription of her own fair hand. - </p> - <p> - For the world I would not have looked her full in the face; but from - beneath my downcast eye I stole a transient glance: the colour did not - rush to her cheek, (as it usually does under the influence of any powerful - emotion) but rather deserted its beautiful standard, as she stood with her - eyes riveted on the picture, as though she dreaded by their removal she - should encounter those of the artist. - </p> - <p> - After about three minutes endurance of this mutual confusion, (could you - believe me such a blockhead?) the priest, to our great relief, entered the - room. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina ran and shook hands with him, as though she had not seen him in - an age, and flew out of the room; while I effacing the quotation but not - the honoured inscription, asked Father John’s opinion of my effort at - portrait painting. He acknowledged it was a most striking resemblance, and - added, “Now you will indeed give a <i>coup de grace</i> to the partiality - of the Prince in your favour, and you will rank so much the higher in his - estimation, in proportion as his daughter is dearer to him than his <i>ruins</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Thus encouraged, I devoted the rest of the day to copying out this sketch: - and I have finished the picture in that light tinting, so effective in - this kind of characteristic drawings. That beautifully pensive expression - which touches the countenance of Glorvina, when breathing her native - strains, I have most happily caught; and her costume, attitude, and harp, - form as happy a combination of traits, as a single portrait perhaps ever - presented. - </p> - <p> - When it was shown to the Prince, he gazed on it in silence, till tears - obscured his glance; then laying it down he embraced me, but said nothing. - Had he detailed the merits of the picture in all the technical farago of - <i>cognoscenti</i> phrase, his comments would not have been half so - eloquent as this simple action, and the silence which accompanied it. - Adieu, - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>ere is a <i>bonne - bouche</i> for your antiquarian taste, and <i>Ossianic</i> palate! Almost - every evening after vesper, we all assemble in a spacious hall, * which - had been shut up for near a century and first opened by the present prince - when he was driven for shelter to his paternal ruins. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Amidst the ruins of Buan Ratha, near Limerick, is a - princely hall and spacious chambers; the fine stucco in many - of which is yet visible, though uninhabitable for near a - century.”—O’Halloran’s Introduction to the Study of the - History and Antiquities of Ireland, p 8. - - In every town, every village, every considerable tract of - land, the spacious ruins of princely residence or religious - edifices, the palace, the castle, or the abbey, are to be - seen. -</pre> - <p> - This <i>Vengolf</i>, this <i>Valkhalla</i>, where the very spirit of Woden - seems to preside, runs the full length of the castle as it now stands (for - the centre of the building only, has escaped the delapidations of time,) - and its beautifully arched roof is enriched with numerous devices which - mark the spirit of that day in which it was erected. This very curious - roof is supported by two rows of pillars of that elegant spiral lightness - which characterises the Gothic order in a certain stage of its progress. - The floor is a finely tessellated pavement; and the ample but ungrated - hearths which terminate it at either extremity, blaze every evening with - the cheering contributions of a neighbouring bog. The windows which are - high, narrow, and arched, command on one side a noble view of the ocean, - on the other they are closed up. - </p> - <p> - When I enquired of Father John the cause of this singular exclusion of a - very beautiful landview, he replied, “that from those windows were to be - seen the greater part of that rich tract of land which once formed the - territory of the Princes of Inismore; * and since,” said he, “the - possessions of the present Prince are limited to a few hereditary acres - and a few rented farms, he cannot bear to look on the domains of his ancestors - nor ever goes beyond the confines of this little peninsula.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * I understand that it is only a few years back, since the - present respectable representatives of the M’Dermot family - opened those windows which the Prince of Coolavin closed up, - upon a principle similar to that by which the Prince of - Inismore was actuated. -</pre> - <p> - This very curious apartment is still called the banquetting hall—where - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Stately the feast, and high the cheer. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Girt with many a valiant peer,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - was once celebrated in all the boundless extravagance and convivial spirit - of ancient Irish hospitality. But it now serves as an armory, a museum, a - cabinet of national antiquities and national curiosities. In short, it is - the receptacle of all those precious relics, which the Prince has been - able to rescue from the wreck of his family splendour. - </p> - <p> - Here, when he is seated by a blazing hearth in an immense arm-chair, made, - as he assured me, of the famous wood of <i>Shilelah</i>, his daughter by - his side, his harper behind him, and his <i>domestic altar</i> not - destitute of that national libation which is no disparagement to princely - taste, since it has received the sanction of imperial approbation; * his - gratified eye wandering over the scattered insignia of the former prowess - of his family; his gratified heart expanding to the reception of life’s - sweetest ties—domestic joys and social endearments;—he forgets - the derangement of his circumstances—he forgets that he is the - ruined possessor of a visionary title; he feels only that he is a man—and - an Irishman! While the transient happiness that lights up the vehement - feelings of his benevolent breast, effuses its warmth over all who come - within its sphere. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Peter the Great, of Russia was fond of whiskey, and used - to say, “Of all wine, Irish wine is the best.” - </pre> - <p> - Nothing can be more delightful than the evenings passed in this <i>vengolf</i>—-this - hall of Woden; where my sweet Glorvina hovers round us, like one of the - beautiful <i>valkyries</i> of the Gothic paradise, who bestow on the - spirit of the departed warrior that heaven he eagerly rushes on death to - obtain. Sometimes she accompanies the old bard on her harp, or with her - voice; and frequently as she sits at her wheel (for she is often engaged - in this simple and primitive avocation,) endeavours to lure, her father to - speak on those subjects most interesting to him or to me; or, joining the - general conversation, by the playfulness of her humour, or the original - whimsicality of her sallies, materially contributes to the “<i>molle at - que facetum!</i>” of the moment. - </p> - <p> - On the evening of the day of the picture-scene, the absence of Glorvina - (for she was attending a sick servant) threw a gloom over our little - circle. The Prince, for the first time, dismissed the harper, and taking - me by the arm, walked up and down the hall in silence, while the priest - yawned over a book. - </p> - <p> - I have already told you that this curious hall is the <i>emporium</i> of - the antiquities of Inismore, which are arranged along its walls, and - suspended from its pillars.—As much to draw the Prince from the - gloomy reverie into which he seemed plunged, as to satisfy my own - curiosity and yours, I requested his highness to explain some characters - on a collar which hung from a pillar, and appeared to be plated with gold. - </p> - <p> - Having explained the motto, he told me that this collar had belonged to an - order of knighthood hereditary in his family—of an institution more - ancient than any in England, by some centuries. - </p> - <p> - “How,” said I, “was chivalry so early known in Ireland? and rather, did it - ever exist here?” - </p> - <p> - “Did it!” said the Prince, impatiently, “I believe, young gentleman, the - origin of knighthood may be traced in Ireland upon surer ground than in - any other country whatever.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Mr. O’Halloran, with a great deal of spirit and ingenuity, - endeavours to prove that the German Knighthood (the earliest - we read of in chivalry) was of Irish origin; with what - success we leave it to the impartial reader to judge. It is, - however, certain, that the German ritter or knight, bears a - very close analogy to the Irish riddaire. In 1394, Richard - II, in his tour through Ireland, offered to knight the four - provincial kings who came to receive him in Dublin. But they - excused themselves, as having received that honour from - their parents at seven years old—that being the age in - which the kings of Ireland knighted their eldest sons.—See - Froissart. -</pre> - <p> - Long before the birth of Christ, we had an hereditary order of knighthood - in Ulster, called the Knights of the <i>Red Branch</i>. They possessed, - near the royal palace of Ulster, a seat, called the <i>Academy of the Red - Branch</i>; and an adjoining hospital, expressively termed the <i>House of - the Sorrowful Soldier</i>. - </p> - <p> - “There was also an order of chivalry hereditary in the royal families of - Munster, named the <i>Sons of Deagha</i>, from a celebrated hero of that - name, probably their founder. The Connaught knights were called the <i>Guardians - of Jorus</i>, and those of Leinster, <i>the Clan of Boisgna</i>. So - famous, indeed, were the knights of Iceland, for the elegance, strength, - and beauty of their forms, that they were distinguished, by way of - pre-eminence, by the name of <i>the Heroes of the Western Isle</i>. - </p> - <p> - “Our annals teem with instances of this romantic bravery and scrupulous - honour. My memory, though much impaired, is still faithful to some - anecdotes of both. During a war between the Connaught and Munster - monarchs, in 192, both parties met in the plains of Lena, in this - province; and it was proposed to Goll M’Morni, chief of the Connaught - Knights, to attack the Munstei army at midnight, which would have secured - him victory. He nobly and indignantly replied: ‘On the day the arms of a - knight were put into my hands, I swore never to attack my enemy at night, - by surprise, or under <i>any kind of disadvantage</i>; nor shall that vow - now be broken.’ - </p> - <p> - “Besides those orders of knighthood which I have already named, there are - several others * still hereditary in noble families, and the honorable - titles of which are still preserved: such as the <i>White Knights of Kerry</i>, - and the <i>Knights of Glynn</i>: that hereditary in my family was the <i>Knights - of the Valley</i>; and this collar, ** an ornament never dispensed with, - was found about fifty years back in a neighbouring bog, and worn by my - father till his death. - </p> - <p> - “This gorget,” he continued, taking down one which hung on the wall, and - apparently gratified by the obvious pleasure evinced in the countenance of - his auditor,—“This gorget was found some years after in the same - bog.” *** - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The respectable families of the Fitzgeralds still bear the - title of their ancestors, and are never named but as the - Knights of Kerry and of Glynn. - - ** One of these collars was in the possession of Mr. - O’Halloran. - - *** In the Bog of Cullen, in the county of Tipperary, some - golden gorgets were discovered, as were also some corslets - of pure gold in the lands of Clonties, county of Kerry—-See - Smith’s History of Ireland. -</pre> - <p> - “And this helmet?” said I— - </p> - <p> - “It is called in Irish,” he replied, “<i>salet</i> and belonged, with this - coat of mail, to my ancestor who was murdered in this castle.” - </p> - <p> - I coloured at this observation, as though I had been myself the murderer. - </p> - <p> - “As you refer, Sir,” said the priest, who had flung by his book and joined - us, “to the ancient Irish for the origin of knighthood, * you will perhaps - send us to the Irish <i>Mala</i>, for the derivation of the word mail.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * At a time when the footstep of an English invader had not - been impressed upon the Irish coast, the celebrity of the - Irish knights was sung by the British minstrels. Thus in the - old romantic tale of Sir Cauline:= -</pre> - <p class="indent15"> - In Ireland, ferr over the sea, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - There dwelleth a bonnye kinge, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And with him a young and comlye knight, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Men call him Syr Cauline. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Undoubtedly,” said the national Prince, “I should; but pray, Mr. - Mortimer, observe this shield. It is of great antiquity. You perceive it - is made of wicker, as were the Irish shields in general; although I have - also heard they were formed of silver, and one was found near Slimore, in - the county of Cork, plated with gold, which sold for seventy guineas.” - </p> - <p> - “But here,” said I, “is a sword of curious workmanship, the hilt of which - seems of gold.” - </p> - <p> - Sir Cauline’s antagonist, the Eldridge knight, is described as being “a - foul paymin” which places the events, the romantic tale delineates, in the - earliest era of Christianity in Ireland. - </p> - <p> - “It is in fact so,” said the priest—“Golden hilted swords have been - in great abundance through Ireland; and it is a circumstance singularly - curious, that a sword found in the bog of Cullen, should be of the exact - construction and form of those found upon the plains of Canæ. You may - suppose that the advocates of our Milesian origin gladly seize on this - circumstance, as affording new arms against the sceptics to the antiquity - of our nation.” - </p> - <p> - “Here too is a very curious haubergeon, once perhaps impregnable! And this - curious battle-axe,” said I— - </p> - <p> - “Was originally called,” returned the Prince, “<i>Tuath Catha</i>, or axe - of war, and was put into the hands of our Galloglasses, or second rank of - military.” - </p> - <p> - “But how much more elegant,” I continued, “the form of this beautiful - spear; it is of course of a more modern date.” - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary,” said the Prince, “this is the exact form of the cranuil - or lance, with which Oscar is described to have struck Art to the earth.” - </p> - <p> - “Oscar!” I repeated, almost starting—but added—“O, true, Mr. - Macpherson tells us the Irish have some wild improbable tales of Fingal’s - heroes among them, on which they found some claim to their being natives - of this country.” - </p> - <p> - “Some claim!” repeated the Prince, and by one of those motions which speak - more than volumes, he let go my arm, and took his usual station by the - fireside, repeating, <i>some claim!</i> - </p> - <p> - While I was thinking how I should repair my involuntary fault, the good - natured priest said, with a smile, “You know, my dear Sir, that by one - half of his English readers, Ossian is supposed to be a Scottish bard of - ancient days; by the other he is esteemed the legitimate offspring of - Macpherson’s own muse. But here,” he added, turning to me, “we are certain - of his Irish origin, from the testimony of tradition, from proofs of - historic fact, and above all, from the internal evidences of the poems - themselves, even as they are given us by Mr. Macpherson. - </p> - <p> - “We, who are from our infancy taught to recite them, who bear the - appellations of their heroes to this day, and who reside amidst those very - scenes of which the poems, even according to their <i>ingenious</i>, but - not always <i>ingenuous</i> translator, are descriptive—<i>we</i> - know, believe, and assert them to be translated from the fragments of the - Irish bards, or seanachies, whose surviving works were almost equally - diffused through the Highlands as through this country. Mr. Macpherson - combined them in such forms as his judgment (too classically correct in - this instance) most approved; retaining the old names and events, and - altering the dates in his originals as well as their matter and form, in - order to give them a higher antiquity than they really possess; - suppressing many proofs which they contain of their Irish origin, and - studiously avoiding all mention of St Patrick, whose name frequently - occurs in the original poems; only occasionally alluding to him under the - character of a <i>Culdee</i>; conscious that any mention of the <i>Saint</i> - would introduce a suspicion that these poems were not the true - compositions of Ossian, but those of <i>Fileas</i> who, in an after day, - committed to verse the traditional details of one equally renowned in song - and arms.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Samuir, daughter of Fingal, having married Cormac Cas, - their son (says Keating) Modk Corb, retained as his friend - and confidant his uncle Ossian, contrary to the orders of - Cairbre Liffeachair, the then monarch, against whom the - Irish militia had taken up arms. Ossian was consequently - among the number of rebellious chiefs. -</pre> - <p> - Here, you will allow, was a blow furiously aimed at all my opinions - respecting these poems, so long the objects of my enthusiastic admiration: - you may well suppose I was for a moment quite stunned. However, when I had - a little recovered, I went over the arguments used by Macpherson, Blair, - &c., &c., &c., to prove that Ossian was a Highland bard, whose - works were handed down to us by <i>oral</i> tradition, through a lapse of - fifteen hundred years. - </p> - <p> - “And yet,” said the priest, having patiently heard me out—“Mr. - Macpherson confesses that the ancient language and traditional history of - the Scottish nation became confined to the natives of the Highlands, who - falling, from several concurring circumstances, into the last degree of - ignorance and barbarism, left the Scots so destitute of historic facts, - that they were reduced to the necessity of sending Fordun to Ireland for - their history, from whence he took the entire first part of his book. For - Ireland, owing to its being colonized from Phoenicia, and consequent early - introduction of letters there, was at that period esteemed the most - enlightened country in Europe: and indeed Mr. Macpherson himself avers, - that the Irish, for ages antecedent to the Conquest, possessed a competent - share of that kind of learning which prevailed in Europe; and from their - superiority over the Scots, found no difficulty in imposing on the - ignorant Highland seanachies, and establishing that historic system which - afterwards, for want of any other, was universally received. - </p> - <p> - “Now, my dear friend, if historic fact and tradition did not attest the - poems of Ossian to be Irish, probability would establish it. For if the - Scotch were obliged to Ireland, according to Mr. Macpherson’s own account, - not only for their history but their tradition, so remote a one as Ossian - must have come from the Irish; for Scotland, as Dr. Johnson asserts, when - he called on Mr. Macpherson to show his originals, had not an Erse - manuscript two hundred years old. And Sir George M’Kenzie, though himself - a Scotchman, declares, “that he had in his possession, an Irish manuscript - written by Cairbre Lifteachair, * monarch of Ireland, who flourished - before St Patrick’s mission. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Mr O’Halloran, in his Introduction to the study of Irish - History, &c.. quotes some lines from a poem still extant, - composed by Torna Ligis, chief poet to Niai the Great, who - flourished in the fourth century. -</pre> - <p> - “But,” said I, “even granting these beautiful poems to be the effusions of - Irish genius, it is strange that the feats of your own heroes could not - supply your bards with subjects for their epic verse.” - </p> - <p> - “Strange indeed it would have been,” said the priest, “and therefore they - have chosen the most renowned chiefs in their annals of national heroism, - as their Achilleses, their Hectors, and Agamemnons.” - </p> - <p> - “How!” exclaimed I, “Is not Fingal a Caledonian chief? Is he not expressly - called King of Morven?” - </p> - <p> - “Allowing he were in the originals, which he is not,” returned the priest, - “give me leave to ask you where Morven lies?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, I suppose of course in Scotland,” said I, a little unprepared for - the question. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Macpherson supposes so too,” replied he, smiling, “though certainly - he is at no little pains to discover where in Scotland. The fact is, - however, that the epithet of <i>Riagh Mor Fhionne</i>, which Mr. - Macpherson translates King of Morven, is literally King or Chief of the - Fhians, or Fians, a body of men of whom Mr. Macpherson makes no mention, - and which, indeed, either in the annals of Scottish history or Scottish - poetry, would be vainly sought. Take then their history as extracted from - the book of Howth into the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, in - 1786. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Fionn, the son of Cumhal, [from whom, says Keating, the - established militia of the kingdom were called Fion Erinne,] - was first married to Graine, daguhter to Cormac, king of - Ireland, and afterwards to her sister, and descended in a - sixth degree from Nuagadh Neacht, king of Leinster. The - history, laws, requisites, &c., of the Fionna Erin, are to - be found in Keating’s History of Ireland, p. 269. - - Cormac, at the head of the Fion, and attended by Fingal, - sailed to that part of Scotland opposite Ireland, where he - planted a colony as an establishment for Carbry Riada, his - cousin-german. This colony was often protected from the - power of the Romans by the Fion, under the command of - Fingal, occasionally stationed in the circumjacent country - “Hence,” says Walker, “the claims of the Scots to Fin.” In - process of time this colony gave monarchs to Scotland, and - their posterity at this day reign over the British empire. - Fingal fell in an engagement at Rathbree, on the banks of - the Boyne, A. D. 294; from whence the name of Rathbree was - changed to Killeen, or Cill-Fhin, the tomb of Fin. -</pre> - <p> - “In Ireland there were soldiers called <i>Fynne Erin</i>, appointed to - keep the sea-coast, fearing foreign invasion, or foreign princes to enter - the realm; the names of these soldiers were Fin M’Cuil, Coloilon, Keilt, - Oscar, M’Ossyn, Dermot, O’Doyne, Collemagh, Morna, and divers others. - These soldiers waxed bold, as shall appear hereafter, and so strong, that - they did contrary to the orders and institutions of the Kings of Ireland, - their chiefs and governors, and became very strong and stout, and at - length would do thing without license of the King of Ireland, &c., - &c—It is added, that one of these heroes was alive till the - coming of St. Patrick, who recited the actions of his compeers to the - Saint. This hero was Ossian, or, as we pronounce it, <i>Ossyn</i>; whose - dialogues with the Christian missionary is in the mouth of every peasant, - and several of them preserved in old Irish manuscripts. Now the Fingal of - Mr. Macpherson (for it is thus he translates <i>Fin M’Cuil</i>, sometimes - pronounced and spelled Fionne M’Cumhal, or <i>Fion</i> the son of Cumhal) - and his followers appear like the earth-born myrmidons of Deucalion, for - they certainly have no human origin; bear no connexion with the history of - their country; are neither to be found in the poetic legend or historic - record * of Scotland, and are even furnished with appellations which the - Caledonians neither previously possessed nor have since adopted. They are - therefore abruptly introduced to our knowledge as living in a barbarous - age, yet endowed with every perfection that renders them the most refined, - heroic, and virtuous of men. So that while we grant to the interesting - poet and his heroes our boundless admiration, we cannot help considering - them as solecisms in the theory of human nature. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * I know but of one instance that contradicts the assertion - of Father Johu, and that I borrow from the allegorical - Palace of Honour of Gavvin Douglass, Bishop of Dunkeld, who - places Gaul, son of Morni, and Fingal, among the - distinguished characters in the annals of legendary romance; - yet even <i>he</i> mentions them not as the heroes of Scottish - celebrity, but as the almost fabled demi-gods of Ireland.= -</pre> - <p class="indent20"> - “And now the wran cam out of Ailsay, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And Piers Plowhman, that made his workmen few - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Great Gow Mac Morne and Fin M’Cowl, and how - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - It is remarkable, that the genius of Ossianic style still - prevails over the wild effusions of the modern and - unlettered bards of Ireland; while even the remotest lay of - Scottish minstrelsy respires nothing of that soul which - breathes in “the voice of Cona;” and the metrical flippancy - which betrays its existence, seems neither to rival, or cope - with that touching sublimity of measure through whose - impressive medium the genius of Ossian effuses its - inspiration, and which, had it been known to ihe early bards - of Scotland, had probably been imitated and adopted. In - Ireland, it has ever been and is still the measure in which - the Sons of Song breathe “their wood notes wild.” - </pre> - <p> - “But with <i>us</i>, Fingal and his chiefs are beings of real existence, - their names, professions, rank, characters, and feats, attested by - historic fact as well as by poetic eulogium. Fingal is indeed romantically - brave, benevolent, and generous, but he is turbulent, restless, ambitious: - he is a man as well as a hero; and both his virtues and his vices bear the - stamp of the age and country in which he lived. His name and feats, as - well as those of his chief officers, bear an intimate connexion with our - national history. - </p> - <p> - “Fionne, or Finnius, was the grandsire of Mile-sius; and it is not only a - name to be met with through every period of our history, but there are few - old families even at this day in Ireland, who have not the appellative of - Finnius in some one or other of its branches; and a large tract of the - province of Leinster is called <i>Fingal</i>; a title in possession of one - of our most noble and ancient families. - </p> - <p> - “Nay, if you please, you shall hear our old nurse run through the whole - genealogy of Macpherson’s hero, which is frequently given as a theme to - exercise the memory of the peasant children.” * - </p> - <p> - “Nay,” said I, nearly overpowered, “Macpher-son assures us the Highlanders - also repeat many of Ossian’s poems in the original Erse: nay, that even in - the Isle of Sky, they still show a stone which bears the form and name of - Cuchullin’s dog.” ** - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * They run it over thus: Oscar Mac Ossyn, Mac Fion, MacCuil, - Mac Cormic, Mac Arte, Mac Fiervin, &c., &c. That is, Oscar - the son of Ossian, the son of Fion, &c. - - ** There is an old tradition current in Connaught, of which - Bran, the favourite dog of Ossian is the hero. In a war - between the king of Lochlin and the Fians, a battle - continued to be fought on equal terms for so long a period, - that it was at last mutually agreed that it should be - decided in a combat between Ossian’s Bran and the famous - Cudubh, or dark greyhound, of the Danish monarch. This - greyhound had already performed incredible feats, and was - never to be conquered until his name was found out. The - warrior dogs fought in a space between the two armies, and - with such fury, says the legend, in a language absolutely - untranslatable, that they tore up the stony bosom of the - earth, until they rendered it perfectly soft, and again - trampled on it with such force, that they made it of a rocky - substance. The Cudubh had nearly gained the victory, when - the baldheaded Conal, turning his face to the east, and - biting his thumb, a ceremony difficult to induce him to - perform, and which always endowed him with the gift of - divination, made a sudden exclamation of encouragement to - Bran, the first word of which found the name of the - greyhound, who lost at once his prowess and the victory. -</pre> - <p> - “This is the most flagrant error of all,” exclaimed the Prince, abruptly - breaking his sullen silence—“for he has scynchronized heroes who - flourished in two distant periods; both Cuchullin and Conal Cearneath are - historical characters with us; they were Knights of the <i>Red Branch</i>, - and flourished about the birth of Christ. Whereas Fingal, with whom he has - united them, did not flourish till near three centuries after. It is - indeed Macpherson’s pleasure to inform us that by the Isle of Mist is - meant the Isle of Sky, and on that circumstance alone to rest his claim on - <i>Cuchullin’s</i> being a Caledonian; although, through the whole poems - of Fingal and Temora, he is not once mentioned as such; it is by the - translator’s notes only we are informed of it.” - </p> - <p> - “It is certain,” said the priest—“that in the first mention made of - <i>Cuchullin</i> in the poem of Fingal, he is simply denominated ‘the son - of Se-mo,’ ‘the Ruler of High Temora,’ ‘Mossy Tura’s Chief.’” * So called, - says Macpherson, from his castle on the coast of Ulster, where he dwelt - before he took the management of the affairs of Ireland into his hands; - though the singular cause which could induce the lord of the Isle of Sky - to reside in Ireland previous to his political engagements in the Irish - state, he does not mention. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The groves of Tura, or Tuar, are often noticed in Irish - song. Emunh Acnuic, or Ned of the Hill, has mentioned it in - one of his happiest and most popular poems. It was supposed - to be in the county of Armagh, province of Ulster. -</pre> - <p> - “In the same manner we are told, that his <i>three</i> nephews came from - Streamy Etha, one of whom married an Irish lady; but there is no mention - made of the real name of the place of their nativity, although the - translator assures us in another note, that they also were Caledonians. - But, in fact, it is from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, - not from the notes of Mr. Macpherson, nor indeed altogether from his - beautiful but unfaithful translation, that we are to decide on the nation - to which these poems belong. In Fingal, the first and most perfect of the - collection, that hero is first mentioned by Cuchullin as Fingal, <i>King - of Desarts</i>—in the original—-<i>Inis na bf hiodhuide</i>, - or <i>Woody Island</i>; without any allusion whatever to his being a - Caledonian. And afterwards he is called King of Selma, by Swaran, a name, - with little variation given to several castles in Ireland. Darthula’s - castle is named Selma; and another, whose owner I do not remember, is - termed Selemath. <i>Slimora</i>, to whose fir the spear of Foldath is - compared, is a mountain in the province of Munster, and through out the - whole, even of Mr. Macpherson’s translation, the characters, names, - allusions, incidents and scenery are all Irish. And in fact, <i>our Irish - spurious ballads</i>, as Mr. Macpherson calls them, are the very originals - out of which he has spun the materials for his version of Ossian. * - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Johnson, who strenuously opposed the idea of <i>Ossian</i> being the - work of a Scotch bard of the third century, asserts that the ‘Erse never - was a written language, and that there is not in the world a written Erse - manuscript a hundred years old.’ He adds, ‘The Welsh and Irish are - cultivated tongues, and two hundred years back insulted their English - neighbours for the instability of their orthography.’ Even the ancient - Irish <i>letter</i> was unknown in the Highlands in 1690, for an Irish - version of the Bible being given there by Mr. Kirk, was printed in the - Roman character. - </p> - <p> - “When Dr. Young, ** led by tasteful enterprize, - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Some of the remaining footsteps of these old warriors are - known by their first names at this time [says Keating] as - for instance, Suidhe Finn, or the, Palace of Fin, at Sliabh - na Mann, &c., &c.” There is a mountain in Donegal still - called Alt Ossoin, surrounded by all that wild sublimity of - scenery so exquisitely deliniated through the elegant medium - of Macpherson’s translation of Ossian; and in its environs - many Ossianic tales are still extant. - - In an extract given by Camden from an account of the manners - of the native Irish in the sixteenth century—“they think, - [says the author] the souls of the deceased are in communion - with the famous men of those places, of whom they retain - many stories and sonnets—as of the giants Fin, Mac Huyle, - Osker, Mac Osshin, &c., &c., and they say, through illusion, - they often see them.” - - ** Dr. Young, and Bishop of Clonfert, who united in his - character the extremes of human perfection; the most - unblemished virtue to the most exalted genius. -</pre> - <p> - visited the Highlands (on an Ossianic research) in 1784, he collected a - number of Gællic poems respecting the race of the Fiens, so renowned in - the annals of Irish heroism, * and found, that the orthography was less - pure than that among us; for, he says, “the Erse being only a written - language within these few years, no means were yet afforded of forming a - decided orthographic standard.” But he augurs, from the improvement which - had lately taken place, that we soon may expect to see the Erse restored - to the original purity which it possesses in the <i>mother</i> country. - And these very poems, whence Mr. Macpherson has chiefly constructed his - Ossian, bear such strong internal proof of their Irish origin, as to - contain in themselves the best arguments that can be adduced against the - Scottish claimants on the poems of the bard. But in their translation, ** - many passages are perverted, in order to deprive Ireland of being the - residence of Fingal’s heroes.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * See Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, 1786. - - ** “From the remotest antiquity we have seen the military - order distinguished in Ireland, codes of military laws and - discipline established, and their dress and rank in the - state ascertained. The learned Keating and others, tell us - that these militia were called Fine, from Fion Mac Cum-hal; - but it is certainly a great error; the word fine, strictly - implying a military corps. Many places in the island retain - to this day the names of some of the leaders of this body of - men, and whole volumes of poetical fictions have been - grafted upon their exploits. The manuscripts which I have, - after giving a particular account of Finn’s descent, his - inheritance, his acquisitions from the king of Leinster and - his great military command, immediately adds, ‘but the - reader must not expect to meet here with such stories of him - and his heroes as the vulgar Irish have.’”—Dr. Warner. -</pre> - <p> - “I remember,” said the Prince, “when you read to me a description of a sea - fight between Fingal and Swaran, in Macpherson’s translation, that I - repeated to you, in Irish, the very poem whence it was taken, and which is - still very current here, under the title of <i>Laoid Mhanuis M’hoir</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “True,” returned the priest, “a copy of which is deposited in the - University of Dublin, with another Irish MS. entitled, ‘<i>Oran cadas - Ailte agus do Maronnan</i>’ whence the battle of Lora is taken.” - </p> - <p> - The Prince then, desiring Father John to give him down a bundle of old - manuscripts which lay on a shelf in the hall dedicated to national tracts, - after some trouble produced a copy of a poem, called “The Conversation of - Ossian and St. Patrick,” the original of which, Father John assured me, - was deposited in the library of the Irish University. - </p> - <p> - It is to this poem that Mr. Macpherson alludes, when he speaks of the - dispute reported to have taken place between Ossian and a Culdee. - </p> - <p> - At my request he translated this curious controversial tract. The dispute - was managed on both sides with a great deal of polemic ardour. St. - </p> - <p> - Patrick, with apostolic zeal, shuts the gates of mercy on all whose faith - differs from his own, and, with an unsaintly vehemence extends the - exclusion in a pointed manner, to the ancestors of Ossian, who, he - declares, are suffering in the <i>limbo</i> of tortured spirits. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Notwithstanding the sceptical obstinacy that Ossian here - displays, there is a current tradition of his having been - present at a baptismal ceremony performed by the Saint, who - accidentally struck the sharp point of his crozier through - the bard’s foot, who, supposing it part of the ceremony, - remained transfixed to the earth without a murmer. -</pre> - <p> - The bard tenderly replies, “It is hard to believe thy tale, O man of the - white book! that Fion, <i>or one so generous</i>, should be in captivity - with God or man.” - </p> - <p> - When, however, the saint persists in the assurance, that not even the - generosity of the departed hero could save him from the house of torture, - the failing spirit of “the King of Harps” suddenly sends forth a lingering - flash of its wonted fire; and he indignantly declares, “that if the Clan - of Boisgno were still in being, they would liberate their beloved general - from this threatened hell.” - </p> - <p> - The Saint, however, growing warm in the argument, expatiates on the great - difficulty of <i>any</i> soul entering the court of God: to which the - infidel bard beautifully replies:—“Then he is not like <i>Fionn - M’Cuil</i>, or chief of the Fians; for every man upon the earth might - enter <i>his</i> court without asking his permission.” - </p> - <p> - Thus, as you perceive, fairly routed, I however artfully proposed terms of - capitulation, as though my defeat was yet dubious. - </p> - <p> - “Were I a Scotchman,” said I, “I should be furnished with more effectual - arms against you; but as an Englishman, I claim an armed neutrality, which - I shall endeavour to preserve between the two nations. At the same time - that I feel the highest satisfaction in witnessing the just pretentions of - that country (which now ranks in my estimation next to my own) to a work - which would do honour to <i>any</i> country so fortunate as to claim its - author as her son.” - </p> - <p> - The Prince, who seemed highly gratified by this avowal, shook me heartily - by the hand, apparently flattered by his triumph; and at that moment - Glorvina entered. - </p> - <p> - “O, my dear!” said the Prince, “you are just come in time to witness an - amnesty between Mr. Mortimer and me.” - </p> - <p> - “I should much rather witness the amnesty than the breach,” returned she, - smiling. - </p> - <p> - “We have been battling about the country of Ossian,” said the priest, - “with as much vehemence as the claimants on the birthplace of Homer.” - </p> - <p> - “O! I know of old,” cried Glorvina, “that you and my father are natural - allies on that point of contention; and I must confess, it was ungenerous - in both to oppose your united strength against Mr. Mortimer’s single - force.” - </p> - <p> - “What, then,” said the Prince, good humouredly, “I suppose you would have - deserted your national standard, and have joined Mr. Mortimer, merely from - motives of compassion.” - </p> - <p> - “Not so, my dear sir,” said Glorvina, faintly blushing, “but I should have - endeavoured to have compromised between you. To you I would have accorded - that Ossian was an Irishman, of which I am as well convinced as of any - other self-evident truth whatever, and to Mr. Mortimer I would have - acknowledged the superior merits of Mr. Macpherson’s poems, as - compositions, over those wild effusions of our Irish bards, whence he - compiled them. - </p> - <p> - “Long before I could read, I learned on the bosom of my nurse, and in my - father’s arms, to recite the songs of our national bards, and almost since - I could read, the Ossian of Macpherson has been the object of my - enthusiastic admiration. - </p> - <p> - “In the original Irish poems, if my fancy is sometimes dazzled by the - brilliant flashes of native genius, if my heart is touched by the strokes - of nature, or my soul elevated by sublimity of sentiment, yet my interest - is often destroyed, and my admiration often checked, by relations so - wildly improbable, by details so ridiculously grotesque, that though these - stand forth as the most undeniable proofs of their authenticity and the - remoteness of the day in which they were composed, yet I reluctantly - suffer my mind to be convinced at the expense of my feeling and my taste. - But in the soul-stealing strains of ‘the Voice of Cona,’ as breathed - through the refined medium of Macpherson’s genius, no incongruity of - style, character, or manner disturbs the profound interest they awaken. - For my own part, when my heart is coldly void, when my spirits are sunk - and drooping, I fly to my English Ossian, and then my sufferings are - soothed, and every desponding spirit softens into a sweet melancholy, more - delicious than joy itself; while I experience in its perusal a similar - sensation as when, in the stillness of an autumnal evening, I expose my - harp to the influence of the passing breeze, which faintly breathing on - the chords, seems to call forth its own requiem as it expires.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Macpherson!” I exclaimed, “be thy spirit appeased, for thou hast - received that apotheosis thy talents have nearly deserved, in the eulogium - of beauty and genius, and from the lip of an Irishwoman.” - </p> - <p> - This involuntary and impassioned exclamation extorted from the Prince a - smile of gratified parental pride, and overwhelmed Glorvina with - confusion. She could, I believe, have spared it before her father, and - received it with a bow and a blush. Shortly after she left the room. - </p> - <p> - Adieu! I thought to have returned to M————house, - but I know not how it is—— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Mais un invincible contraint - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Maigre, moi fixe ici mes pas, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Et tu sais que pour aller a Corinth, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Le désir seul ne suffit pas.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Adieu, H. M. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XIII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he conduct of this - girl is inexplicable. Since the unfortunate picture scene three days back, - she has excused herself twice from the drawing desk; and to-day appeared - at it with the priest by her side. Her playful familiarity is vanished, - and a chill reserve, uncongenial to the native ardour of her manner has - succeeded. Surely she cannot be so vain, so weak, as to mistake my - attentions to her as a young and lovely woman, my admiration of her - talents, and my surprise at the originality of her character, for a - serious passion. And supposing me to be a wanderer and a hireling, affect - to reprove my temerity by haughtiness and disdain. - </p> - <p> - Would you credit it! by Heavens, I am sometimes weak enough to be on the - very point of telling her who and what I am, when she plays off her little - airs of Milesian pride and female superciliousness. You perceive, - therefore, by the conduct of this little Irish recluse, that on the - subject of love and vanity, woman is everywhere, and in all situations the - same. For what coquette reared in the purlieus of St. James’s, could be - more a <i>portée</i> to those effects which denote the passion, or more - apt to suspect she had awakened it into existence, than this - inexperienced, unsophisticated being! who I suppose never spoke to ten men - in her life, save the superanuated inhabitants of her paternal ruins. - Perhaps, however, she only means to check the growing familiarity of my - manner, and to teach me the disparity of rank which exists between us; - for, with all her native strength of mind, the influence of invariable - example and precept has been too strong for her, and she has unconsciously - imbibed many of her father’s prejudices respecting antiquity of descent - and nobility of birth. She will frequently say, “O! such a one is a true - Milesian!”—or, “he is a descendant of the <i>English</i> Irish;” or, - “they are new people—we hear nothing of them till the wars of - Cromwell,” and so on. Yet at other times, when reason lords it over - prejudice, she will laugh at that weakness in others, she sometimes - betrays in herself. - </p> - <p> - The other day, as we stood chatting at a window together, pointing to an - elderly man who passed by, she said, “there goes a poor Connaught - gentleman, who would rather starve than work—he is a <i>follower</i> - of the family and has been just entertaining my father with an account of - our ancient splendour. We have too many instances of this species of <i>mania</i> - among us. - </p> - <p> - “The celebrated Bishop of Cloyne relates an anecdote of a kitchen-maid, - who refused to carry out cinders, because she was of Milesian descent. And - Father John tells a story of a young gentleman in Limerick, who, being - received under the patronage of a nobleman going out as governor general - of India, sacrificed his interest to his <i>national pride</i>; for having - accompanied his lordship on board of the vessel which was to convey them - to the East, and finding himself placed at the foot of the dining table, - he instantly arose, and went on shore, declaring that ‘as a <i>true - Milesian</i>, he would not submit to any indignity, to purchase the riches - of the East India Company. - </p> - <p> - “All this,” continued Glorvina, “is ridiculous, nay, it is worse, for it - is highly dangerous and fatal to the community at large. It is the source - of innumerable disorders, by promoting idleness, and consequently vice. It - frequently checks the industry of the poor, and limits the exertions of - the rich, and perhaps is not among the least of those sources whence our - national miseries flow. At the same time, I must own, I have a very high - idea of the virtues which exalted birth does or ought to bring with it. - Marmontel elegantly observes, ‘nobility of birth is a letter of credit - given us on our country, upon the security of our ancestors, in the - conviction that at a proper period of life we shall acquit ourselves with - honour to those who stand engaged for us.’” - </p> - <p> - Observe, that this passage was quoted in the first person, but not, as in - the original, in the second, and with an air of dignity that elevated her - pretty little head some inches. - </p> - <p> - “Since,” she continued, “we are all the beings of education, and that its - most material branch, example, lies vested in our parents, it is natural - to suppose that those superior talents or virtues which in early stages of - society are the purchase of worldly elevation, become hereditary, and that - the noble principles of our ancestors should descend to us with their - titles and estates.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said I, smiling, “these are the ideas of an Irish Princess, reared - in the palace of her ancestors on the shores of the Atlantic ocean.” - </p> - <p> - “They may be,” she returned, “the ideas of an inexperienced recluse, but I - think they are not less the result of rational supposition, strengthened - by the evidence of internal feeling; for though I possessed not that - innate dignity of mind which instinctively spurned at the low suggestion - of vicious dictates, yet the consciousness of the virtues of those from - whom I am descended, would prevent me from sullying by an unworthy action - of mine, the unpolluted name I had the honour to bear.” - </p> - <p> - She then repeated several anecdotes of the heroism, rectitude, and virtue - of her ancestors of both sexes, adding, “this was once the business of our - Bards, Fileas, and Seanachps; but we are now obliged to have recourse to - our own memories, in order to support our own dignity. But do not suppose - I am so weak as to be dazzled by a <i>sound</i>, or to consider mere title - in any other light than as a golden toy judiciously worn to secure the - respect of the vulgar, who are incapable of appreciating that ‘which - surpassed show,’ * which, as my father says, is sometimes given to him who - saves, and sometimes bestowed on him who betrays his country. O! no; for I - would rather possess <i>one</i> beam of that genius which elevates <i>your</i> - mind above all worldly distinction, and those principles of integrity - which breathe in your sentiments and ennoble your soul, than——” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “He feels no ennobling principles in his own heart, who - wishes to level all the artificial institutes which have - been adopted for giving body to opinion, and per manence to - future esteem.”—Burke. -</pre> - <p> - Thus hurried away by the usual impetuosity of her feelings, she abruptly - stopped, fearful, perhaps, that she had gone too far. And then, after a - moment added—“but who will dare to bring the soul’s nobility in - competition with the shortlived elevation which man bestows on man!” - </p> - <p> - This was the first direct compliment she ever paid me; and I received it - with a silent bow, a throbbing heart, and a colouring cheek. - </p> - <p> - Is she not an extraordinary creature! I meant to have given you an - unfavourable opinion of her prejudices; and in transcribing my documents - of accusation, I have actually confirmed myself in a better opinion of her - heart and understanding than I ever before indulged in. For to think well - of <i>her</i>, is a positive indulgence to my philanthropy, after having - thought so ill of all her sex. - </p> - <p> - But her virtues and her genius have nothing to do with the ice which - crystalizes round her heart; and which renders her as coldly indifferent - to the talents and virtues with which her fancy has invested me, as though - they were in possession of a hermit of fourscore. Yet, God knows, nothing - less than cold does her character appear. That mutability of complexion - which seems to flow perpetually to the influence of her evident feelings - and vivid imagination, that ethereal warmth which animates her manners; - the force and energy of her expressions, the enthusiasm of her - disposition, the uncontrollable smile, the involuntary tear, the - spontaneous sigh!—Are these indications of an icy heart? And yet, - shut up as we are together, thus closely associated, the sympathy of our - tastes, our pursuits! But the fact is, I begin to fear that I have - imported into the shades of Inismore some of my London presumption: and - that, after all, I know as little of this charming <i>sport of Nature</i>, - as when I first beheld her—possibly my perceptions have become as - sophisticated as the objects to whom they have hitherto been directed; and - want refinement and subtilty to enter into all the delicate <i>minutiae</i> - of her superior and original character, which is at once both <i>natural</i> - and <i>national</i>. Adieu! - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XIV. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>o day I was - present at an interview granted by the Prince to two contending parties, - who came to <i>ask law of him</i>, as they term it. This, I am told, the - Irish peasantry are ready to do upon every slight difference; so that they - are the most litigious, or have the nicest sense of <i>right</i> and <i>justice</i> - of any people in the world. - </p> - <p> - Although the language held by this little judicial meeting was Irish, it - was by no means necessary it should be understood to comprehend, in some - degree, the subject of discussion; for the gestures and countenances both - of the judge and the clients were expressive beyond all conception: and I - plainly understood, that almost every other word on both sides was - accompanied by a species of <i>local oath</i>, sworn on the first object - that presented itself to their hands, and strongly marked the vehemence of - the national character. - </p> - <p> - When I took notice of this to Father John, he replied, - </p> - <p> - “It is certain, that the habit of confirming every assertion with an oath, - is as prevalent among the Irish as it <i>was</i> among the ancient, and <i>is</i> - among the modern Greeks. And it is remarkable, that even at this day, in - both countries, the nature and form of their adjurations and oaths are - perfectly similar: a Greek will still swear by his parents, or his - children; an Irishman frequently swears ‘by my father, who is no more!’ - ‘by my mother in the grave!’ Virgil makes his pious Æneas swear by his - head. The Irish constantly swear ‘by my hand,’—‘by this hand,’—or, - ‘by the hand of my gossip!’ * There is one who has just sworn by <i>the - Cross</i>; another by the blessed stick he holds in his hand. In short, no - intercourse passes between them where confidence is required, in which - oaths are not called in to confirm the transaction.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The mention of this oath recalls to my mind an * anecdote - of the bard Carolan, as related by Mr. Walker, in his - inimitable Memoir of the Irish Bards. “He (Carolan) went - once on a pilgrimage to St. Patrick’s Purgatory, a cave in - an island in Lough Dergh, (county of Donegal) of which more - wonders are told than even the Cave of Triphonius. On his - return to shore, he found several pilgrims waiting the - arrival of the boat, which had conveyed him to the object of - his devotion. In assisting some of those devout travellers - to get on board, he chanced to take a lady’s hand, and - instantly exclaimed ‘dar lamh mo Chardais Criost, [i. e. by - the hand of my gossip] this is the hand of Bridget Cruise.’ - His sense of feeling did not deceive him—it was the hand of - her who he once adored.” - </pre> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - I am at this moment returned from my <i>Vengolf,</i> after having declared - the necessity of my absence for some time, leaving the term, however, - indefinite; so that in this instance, I can be governed by my inclination - and convenience, without any violation of promise. The good old Prince - looked as much amazed at my determination, as though he expected I were - never to depart; and I really believe, in the old fashioned hospitality of - his Irish heart, he would be better satisfied I never should. He said many - kind and cordial things in his own curious way; and concluded by pressing - my speedy return, and declaring that my presence had created a little - jubilee among them. - </p> - <p> - The priest was absent; and Glorvina, who sat at her little wheel by her - father’s side, snapped her thread, and drooped her head close to her work, - until I casually observed, that I had already passed above three weeks at - the castle—then she shook back the golden tresses from her brow, and - raised her eyes to mine with a look that seemed to say, “can that be - possible!” Not even by a glance did I reply to the flattering question; - but I felt it not the less. - </p> - <p> - When we arose to retire to our respective apartments, and I mentioned that - I should be off at dawn, the Prince shook me cordially by the hand, and - bid me farewell with an almost paternal kindness. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina, on whose arm he was leaning, did not follow his example—she - simply wished me “a pleasant journey.” - </p> - <p> - “But where,” said the Prince, “do you sojourn to?” - </p> - <p> - “To the town of Bally————,” said I, “which has - been hitherto my head quarters, and where I have left my clothes, books, - and drawing utensils. I have also some friends in the neighbourhood, - procured me by letters of introduction with which I was furnished in - England.” - </p> - <p> - You know that a great part of this neighbourhood is my father’s property, - and once belonged to the ancestors of the Prince. He changed colour as I - spoke, and hurried on in silence. - </p> - <p> - Adieu! the castle clock strikes twelve! What creatures we are! when the - tinkling of a bit of metal can affect our spirits. Mine, however, (though - why, I know not,) were prepared for the reception of sombre images. This - night may be, in all human probability, the last I shall sleep in the - castle of Inismore; and what then—it were perhaps as well I had - never entered it. A generous mind can never reconcile itself to the - practices of deception; yet to prejudices so inveterate, I had nothing but - deception to oppose. And yet, when in some happy moment of parental - favour, when all my past sins are forgotten, and my present state of - regeneration only remembered—I shall find courage to disclose my - romantic adventure to my father, and through the medium of that strong - partiality the son has awakened in the heart of the Prince, unite in bonds - of friendship these two worthy men but <i>unknown</i> enemies—then I - shall triumph in my impositions, and, for the first time, adopt the maxim, - that good consequences may be effected by means not strictly conformable - to the rigid laws of truth. - </p> - <p> - I have just been at my window, and never beheld so gloomy a night—not - a star twinkles through the massy clouds that are driven impetuously along - by the sudden gusts of a rising storm—not a ray of light partially - dissipates the profound obscurity, save what falls on a fragment of an - opposite tower, and seems to issue from the window of a closet which joins - the apartment of Glorvina. She has not yet then retired to rest, and yet - ’tis unusual for her to sit up so late. For I have often watched - that little casement—its position exactly corresponds with the angle - of the castle where I am lodged. - </p> - <p> - If I should have any share in the vigils of Glorvina!!! - </p> - <p> - I know not whether to be most gratified or hurt at the manner in which she - took leave of me. Was it indifference, or resentment, that marked her - manner? She certainly was surprised, and her surprise was not of the most - pleasing nature—for where was the magic smile, the sentient blush, - that ever ushers in and betrays every emotion of her ardent soul! Sweet - being! whatever may be the sentiments which the departure of the supposed - unfortunate wanderer awakens in thy bosom, may that bosom still continue - the hallowed asylum of the dove of peace! May the pure heart it enshrines - still throb to the best impulses of the happiest nature, and beat with the - soft palpitation of innocent pleasure and guileless transport, veiled from - the rude intercourse of that world to which thy elevated and sublime - nature is so eminently superior; long amidst the shade of the venerable - ruins of thy forefathers mayest thou bloom and flourish in undisturbed - felicity! the ministering angel of thy poor compatriots, who look up to - thee for example and support—thy country’s muse, and the bright - model of the genuine character of her daughters, when unvitiated by - erroneous education and by those fatal prejudices which lead them to seek - in foreign refinements for those talents, those graces, those virtues - which are no where to be found more flourishing, more attractive than in - their native land. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XV. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - M———— House. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t certainly - requires less nicety of perception to distinguish differences in kind than - differences in degree; but though my present, like my past situation, is - solitudinous in the extreme, it demands no very great discernment to - discover that my late life was a life of solitude—my present, of - desolation. - </p> - <p> - In the castle of Inismore I was estranged from the world: here I am - estranged from myself. Yet so much more sequestered did that sweet - interesting spot appear to me, that I felt, on arriving at this vast and - solitary place (after having passed by a few gentlemen’s seats, and caught - a distant view of the little town of Bally——,) as though I - were returning to the world—but felt as if that world had no longer - any attraction for me. - </p> - <p> - What a dream was the last three weeks of my life! But it was a dream from - which I wished not to be awakened. It seemed to me as if I had lived in an - age of primeval virtue. My senses at rest, my passions soothed to - philosophic repose, my prejudices vanquished, all the powers of my mind - gently breathed into motion, yet calm and unagitated—all the - faculties of my taste called into exertion, yet unsated even by boundless - gratification.—My fancy restored to its pristine warmth, my heart to - its native sensibility. The past given to oblivion, the future - unanticipated, and the present enjoyed with the full consciousness of its - pleasurable existence. Wearied, exhausted, satiated by a boundless - indulgence of hackneyed pleasures, hackneyed occupations, hackneyed - pursuits, at a moment when I was sinking beneath the lethargic influence - of apathy, or hovering on the brink of despair, a new light broke upon my - clouded mind, and discovered to my inquiring heart, something yet worth - living for. What that mystic something is, I can scarcely yet define - myself; but a magic spell now irresistibly binds me to that life which but - lately, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Like a foul and ugly witch, did limp - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - So tediously away.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The reserved tints of a gray dawn had not yet received the illuminating - beams of the east, when I departed from the castle of Inismore. None of - the family were risen, but the hind who prepared my <i>rosinante</i>, and - the nurse, who made my breakfast. - </p> - <p> - I rode twice round that wing of the castle where Glorvina sleeps: the - curtain of her bedroom casement was closely drawn: but as I passed by it a - second time, I thought I perceived a shadowy form at the window of the - adjoining casement. As I approached it seemed to retreat; the whole, - however, might have only been the vision of my wishes—my <i>wishes!!</i> - But this girl piques me into something of interest for her. - </p> - <p> - About three miles from the castle, on the summit of a wild and desolate - heath, I met the good Father Director of Inismore. He appeared quite - amazed at the rencontre. He expressed great regret at my absence from the - castle, insisting that he should accompany me a mile or two of my journey, - though he was only then returning after having passed the night in - ministering temporal as well as spiritual comfort to an unfortunate family - at some miles distance. - </p> - <p> - “These poor people,” said he “were tenants on the skirts of Lord M’s - estate, who, though by all accounts a most excellent and benevolent man, - employs a steward of a very opposite character. This unworthy delegate - having considerably raised the rent on a little farm held by these - unfortunate people, they soon became deeply in arrears, were ejected, and - obliged to take shelter in an almost roofless hut, where the inclemency of - the season, and the hardships they endured, brought on disorders by which - the mother and two chil dren are now nearly reduced to the point of death; - and yesterday, in their last extremity, they sent for me.” - </p> - <p> - While I commiserated the sufferings of these unfortunates (and cursed the - villain Clendinning in my heart,) I could not avoid adverting to the - humanity of this benevolent priest. - </p> - <p> - “These offices of true charity, which you so frequently perform,” said I, - “are purely the result of your benevolence, rather than a mere observance - of your duty.” - </p> - <p> - “It is true,” he replied, “I have no parish; but the incumbent of that in - which these poor people reside is so old and infirm, as to be totally - incapacitated from performing such duties of his-calling as require the - least exertion. The duty of one who professes himself the minister of - religion, whose essence is charity, should not be confined within the - narrow limitation of prescribed rules; and I should consider myself as - unworthy of the sacred habit I wear, should my exertions be confined to - the suggestions of my interest and my duty only. - </p> - <p> - “The faith of the lower order of Catholics here in their priest,” he - continued, “is astonishing: even his presence they conceive is an antidote - to every evil.—When he appears at the door of their huts, and blends - his cordial salutation with a blessing, the spirit of consolation seems to - hover at its threshhold—pain is alleviated, sorrow soothed; and - hope, rising from the bosom of strengthening faith, triumphs over the - ruins of despair. To the wicked he prescribes penitence and confession, - and the sinner is forgiven; to the wretched he asserts, that suffering - here, is the purchase of felicity hereafter, and he is resigned; and to - the sick he gives a consecrated charm, and by the force of faith and - imagination he is made well.—Guess then the influence which this - order of men hold over the aggregate of the people; for while the Irish - peasant, degraded, neglected, despised, * vainly seeks one beam of - conciliation in the eye of overbearing superiority; condescension, - familiarity and kindness win his gratitude to him whose spiritual - elevation is in his mind above all temporal rank.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “The common people of Ireland have no rank in society— - they may be treated with contempt, and consequently are with - inhumanity.”—An Enquiry into the Causes, &c. -</pre> - <p> - “You shed,” said I, “a patriarchal interest over the character of - priesthood among you here; which gives that order to my view in a very - different aspect from that in which I have hitherto considered it. To what - an excellent purpose might, this boundless influence be turned!” - </p> - <p> - “If,” interrupted he, “priests <i>were not men</i>—men too, - generally speaking, without education, (which is in fact, character, - principle, everything) except such as tends rather to narrow than enlarge - the mind—men in a certain degree shut out from society, except of - the lower class; and men who, from their very mode of existence (which - forces them to depend on the eleemosynary contributions of their flock,) - must eventually in many instances imbibe a degradation of spirit which is - certainly not the parent of the liberal virtues.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” said I, surprised, “and this from one of their own order!” - </p> - <p> - “These are sentiments I never should have hazarded,” returned the priest, - “could I not have opposed to those natural conclusions, drawn from well - known facts, innumerable instances of benevolence, piety, and learning - among the order. While to the whole body let it be allowed as <i>priests</i>, - whatever may be their failings as <i>men</i>, that the activity of their - lives, * the punctilious discharge of their duty, and their ever ready - attention to their flock, under every moral and even under every physical - suffering, renders them deserving of that reverence and affection which, - above the ministers of any other religion, they receive from those over - whom they are placed.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “A Roman Catholic clergyman is the minister of a very - ritual religion; and by his profession, subject to many - restraints; his life is full of strict observances, and his - duties are of a laborious nature towards himself, and of the - highest possible trust towards others.”—Letter on the - Penal Laws against the Irish Catholics, by the Right - Honourable Edmund Burke. -</pre> - <p> - “And which,” said I, “if opposed to the languid performance of periodical - duties, neglect of the moral functions of their calling, and the habitual - indolence of the ministers of other sects, they may certainly be deemed - zealots in the cause of the faith they profess, and the charity they - inculcate!” - </p> - <p> - While I spoke, a young lad, almost in a state of nudity, approached us; - yet in the crown of his leafless hat were stuck a few pens, and over his - shoulder hung a leathern satchel full of books. - </p> - <p> - “This is an apposite rencontre,” said the priest—“behold the first - stage of <i>one</i> class of Catholic priesthood among us; a class however - no longer very prevalent.” - </p> - <p> - The boy approached, and, to my amazement, addressed us in Latin, begging - with all the vehement eloquence of an Irish mendicant, for some money to - buy ink and paper. We gave him a trifle, and the priest desired him to go - on to the castle, where he would get his breakfast, and that on his return - he would give him some books into the bargain. - </p> - <p> - The boy, who solicited in Latin, expressed his gratitude in Irish; and we - trotted on. - </p> - <p> - “Such,” said Father John, “formerly was the frequent origin of our Roman - Catholic priests This is a character unknown to you in England, and is - called here ‘<i>a poor scholar</i>.’ If a boy is too indolent to work and - his parents too poor to support him, or, which is more frequently the - case, if he discovers some natural talents, or, as they call it, <i>takes - to his learning</i>, and that they have not the means to forward his - improvement, he then becomes by profession a <i>poor scholar</i>, and - continues to receive both his mental and bodily food at the expense of the - community at large. - </p> - <p> - “With a leathern satchel on his back, containing his portable library, he - sometimes travels not only through his own province, but frequently over - the greater part of the kingdom. * No door is shut against the poor - scholar, who, it is supposed, at a future day may be invested with the - apostolic key of Heaven. The priest or schoolmaster of every parish - through which he passes, receives him for a few days into his barefooted - seminary, and teaches him bad Latin and worse English; while the most - opulent of his schoolfellows eagerly seize on the young peripatetic - philosopher and provide him with maintenance and lodging; and if he is a - boy of talent or <i>humour</i> (a gift always prized by the naturally - laughter-loving Milesians) they will struggle for the pleasure of his - society. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It has been justly said, that, “nature is invariable in - her operations; and that the principles of a polished people - will influence even their latest posterity.” And the ancient - state of letters in Ireland, may be traced in the love of - learning and talent even still existing among the inferior - class of the Irish to this day. On this point it is observed - by Mr. Smith, in his History of Kerry, “that it is well - known that classical reading extends itself even to a fault, - among the lower and poorer kind of people in this country, - [Munster,] many of whom have greater knowledge in this way - than some of the better sort in other places. He elsewhere - observes, that Greek is taught in the mountainous parts of - the province. And Mr. O’Halloran asserts, that classical - reading has most adherents in those retired parts of the - kingdom where strangers had least access, and that as good - classical scholars were found in most parts of Connaught, as - in any part of Europe. -</pre> - <p> - “Having thus had the seeds of dependence sown <i>irradically</i> in his - mind, and furnished his perisatetic studies, he returns to his native - home, and with an empty satchel to his back, goes about raising - contributions on the pious charity of his poor compatriots: each - contributes some necessary article of dress, and assists to fill a little - purse, until completely equipped; and, for the first time in his life, - covered from head to foot, the divine embryo sets out for some sea-port, - where he embarks for the colleges of Douay or St. Omer’s; and having - begged himself, <i>in forma pauperis</i>, through all the necessary rules - and discipline of the seminary, he returns to his own country, and becomes - the minister of salvation to those whose generous contributions enable him - to assume the sacred profession. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The French Revolution, and the foundation of the Catholic - college at Maynooth, has put a stop to these pious - emigrations. -</pre> - <p> - “Such is the man by whom the minds opinions, and even actions of the - people are often influenced; and, if man is but a creature of education - and habit, I leave you to draw the inference. But this is but <i>one</i> - class of priesthood, and its description rather applicable to twenty or - thirty years back than to the present day. The other two may be divided - into the sons of tradesmen and farmers, and the younger sons of Catholic - gentry. - </p> - <p> - “Of the latter order am I; and the interest of my friends on my return - from the continent procured me what was deemed the best parish in the - diocese. But the good and the evil attendant on every situation in life, - is rather to be estimated by the feelings and sensibility of the objects - whom they affect, than by their own intrinsic nature. It was in vain I - endeavoured to accommodate my mind to the mode of life into which I had - been forced by my friends. It was in vain I endeavoured to assimilate my - spirit to that species of exertion necessary to be made for my livelihood. - </p> - <p> - “To owe my subsistence to the precarious generosity of those wretches, - whose every gift to me must be the result of a sensible deprivation to - themselves; be obliged to extort (even from the altar where I presided as - the minister of the Most High) the trivial contributions for my support, - in a language which, however appropriate to the understandings of my - auditors, sunk me in my own esteem to the last degree of self-degradation; - or to receive from the religious affection of my flock such voluntary - benefactions as, under the pressure of scarcity and want, their rigid - economy to themselves enabled them to make to the pastor whom they - revered. * In a word, after three years miserable dependence on those for - whose poverty and wretchedness my heart bled, I threw up my situation, and - became chaplain to the Prince of Inismore, on a stipend sufficient for my - little wants, and have lived with him for thirty years, on such terms as - you have witnessed for these three weeks back. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Are these men supposed to have no sense of justice that, - in addition to the burthen of supporting their own - establishment exclusively, they should be called on to pay - ours; that, where they pay sixpence to their own priest, - they should pay a pound to our clergymen; that, while they - can scarce afford their own a horse, they should place ours - in his carriage; and that when they cannot build a mass- - house to cover their multitudes, they should be forced to - contribute to build sumptuous churches for half a dozen - Protestants to pray under a shed—Inquiry into the Causes of - Popular Discontents, &c. page 27. -</pre> - <p> - “While my heart felt compassion, my tenderest sympathy is given to those - of my brethren who are by birth and education divested of that scale of - thought, and obtuseness of feeling, which distinguish those of the order, - who, reared from the lowest origin upon principles the most servilizing, - are callous to the innumerable humiliations of their dependent state——” - </p> - <p> - Here an old man mounted on a mule, rode up to the priest, and with tears - in his eyes informed him that he was just going to the castle to humbly - entreat his reverence would visit a poor child of his, who had been looked - on with “<i>an evil eye</i>,” a few days back, * and who had ever since - been pining away. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It is supposed among the lower order of Irish, as among - the Greeks, that some people are born with an evil eye, - which injures every object on which it falls, and they will - frequently go many miles out of their direct road, rather - than pass by the house of one who has “an evil eye.” To - frustrate its effects, the priest hangs a consecrated charm - around the necks of their children, called “a gospel;” and - the fears of the parents are quieted by their faith. -</pre> - <p> - “It was our misfortune,” said he, “never to have tied a gospel about her - neck, as we did round the other children’s, or this heavy sorrow would - never have befallen us. But we know if your reverence would only be - pleased to say a prayer over her, all would go well enough!” - </p> - <p> - The priest gave me a significant look, and shaking me cordially by the - hand, and pressing my speedy return to Inismore, rode off with the - suppliant. - </p> - <p> - Thus, in his duty, “prompt at every call,” after having passed the night - in acts of religious benevolence, his humanity willingly obeyed the voice - of superstitious prejudice which endowed him with the fancied power of - alleviating fancied evils. - </p> - <p> - As I rode along, reflecting on the wondrous influence of superstition, and - the nature of its effects, I could not help dwelling on the strong analogy - which in so many instances appears between the vulgar errors of this - country and that of the ancient as well as modern Greeks. - </p> - <p> - St. Chrysostom, * relating the bigotry of his own times, particularly - mentions the superstitious horror which the Greeks entertained against “<i>the - evil eye</i>.” And an elegant modern traveller assures us, that even in - the present day they “combine cloves of garlic, talismans, and other - charms, which they hang about the necks of their infants, with the same - intention of keeping away <i>the evil eye</i>.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Some write on the hand the names of several rivers, while - others make use of ashes, tallow, salt for the like - purposes—all this being to divert the ‘evil eye.’” - </pre> - <p> - Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <h3> - END OF VOL. 1. - </h3> - <h3> - WILD IRISH GIRL, - </h3> - <p> - A National Tale. - </p> - <p> - By Lady Morgan, - </p> - <p> - Author Of St. Clair, The Novice Of St. Dominic, etc. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Questa gente benche mostra selvagea - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - E pur gli monte la con trad a accierba - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Nondimeno l’e dolce ad cui l’assagia.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - This race of men, though s&vage they may seem, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - The country, too, with many a mountain rough, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yet are they sweet to him who tries and tastes them.” - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - <i>Uberties Travels thro’ Ireland, 14th Century</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - In Two Volumes, Vol. II - </p> - <p> - New York: P. M. Haverty. - </p> - <h3> - 1879. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XVI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> wish you were to - have seen the look with which the worthy Mr. Clendinning met me, as I rode - up the avenue to M———— house. - </p> - <p> - To put an end at once to his impertinent surmises, curiosity, and - suspicion, which I evidently saw lurking in his keen eye, I made a display - of my fractured arm, which I still wore in a sling; and naturally enough - accounted for my absence, by alleging that a fall from my horse, and a - fractured limb had obliged me to accept the humane attentions of a - gentleman, near whose house the accident had happened, and whose guest and - patient I had since been. Mr. Clendinning affected the tone of regret and - condolence, with some appropriate suppositions of what his lord would feel - when he learnt the unfortunate circumstance. - </p> - <p> - “In a word, Mr. Clendinning,” said I, “I do not choose my father’s - feelings should be called in question on a matter which is now of no ill - consequence; and as there is not the least occasion to render him unhappy - to no purpose, I must insist that you neither write nor mention the - circumstance to him on any account.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Clendinning bowed obedience, and I contrived to ratify his promise by - certain inuendoes; for, as he is well aware many of his villanies have - reached my ear, he hates and fears me with all his soul. - </p> - <p> - My first inquiry was for letters. I found two from my father, and one, - only one, from you. - </p> - <p> - My father writes in his usual style. His first is merely an epistle - admonitory; full of prudent axioms, and fatherly solicitudes. The second - informs me that his journey to Ireland is deferred for a month or six - weeks, on account of my brother’s marriage with the heiress of the richest - banker in the city. It is written in his best style, and a brilliant flow - of spirit pervades every line. In the plenitude of his joy all <i>my</i> - sins are forgiven; he even talks of terminating my exile sooner than I had - any reason to suspect: and he playfully adds, “of changing my banishment - into slavery”—“knowing from experience that provided my shackles are - woven by the rosy fingers of beauty, I can wear them patiently and - pleasurably enough. In short,” he adds, “I have a connexion in my eye, for - you, not less brilliant in point of fortune than that your brother has - made; and which will enable you to forswear your Coke, and burn your - Blackstone.” - </p> - <p> - In fact, the spirit of matrimonial establishment seems to have taken such - complete possession of my speculating <i>dad</i>, that it would by no - means surprise me though he were on the point of sacrificing at the - Hymenial altar himself. You know he has more than once, in a frolic, - passed for my elder brother; and certainly has more sensibility than - should belong to <i>forty-five</i>. Nor should I at all wonder if some - insinuating coquette should one day or other <i>sentimentalize</i> him - into a Platonic passion, which would terminate <i>in the old way</i>. I - have, however, indulged in a little triumph at his expense, and have - answered him in a strain of apathetic content—that habit and reason - have perfectly reconciled me to my present mode of life, which leaves me - without a wish to change it. - </p> - <p> - Now for your letter. With respect to the advice you demand, I have only to - repeat the opinion already advanced that——— But with - respect to that you give me— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Go bid physicians preach our veins to health, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And with an argument new set a pulse.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - And as for your prediction—of this be certain, that I am too - hackneyed in <i>les affaires du cour</i>, ever to fall in love beyond all - redemption with any woman in existence. And even this little Irish girl, - with all her witcheries, is to me a subject of philosophical analysis, - rather than amatory discussion. - </p> - <p> - You ask me if I am not disgusted with her brogue? If she had one, I doubt - not but I should? but the accent to which we English apply that term, is - here generally confined to the lower orders of society; and I certainly - believe, that purer and more grammatical English is spoken generally - through Ireland than in any part of England whatever; for here you are - never shocked by the barbarous unintelligible dialect peculiar to each - shire in England. As to Glorvina, an aptitude to learn languages is, you - know, peculiar to her country; but in her it is a decided and striking - talent: even her Italian is, “<i>la lingua Toscana nel bocca Romana,”</i> - and her English, grammatically correct, and elegantly pure, is spoken with - an accent that could never denote her country. But it is certain, that in - <i>that</i> accent there is a species of langour very distinct from the - brevity of ours. Yet (to me at least) it only renders the lovely speaker - more interesting. A simple question from her lip seems rather tenderly to - solicit, than abruptly to demand. Her every request is a soft - supplication; and when she stoops to entreaty, there is in her voice and - manner such an energy of supplication, that while she places <i>your</i> - power to grant in the most ostensible light to yourself, you are - insensibly vanquished by that soft persuasion whose melting meekness - bestows your fancied exaltation. Her sweet-toned mellifluous voice, is - always sighed forth rather below than above its natural pitch, and her - mellowed, softened, mode of articulation is but imperfectly expressed by - the <i>susaro susingando</i>, or <i>coaxy murmurs</i> of Italian - persuasion. - </p> - <p> - To Father John, who is the first and most general linguist I ever met, she - stands highly indebted; but to Nature, and her own ambition to excel, - still more. - </p> - <p> - I am now but six hours in this solitary and deserted mansion, where I feel - as though I reigned the very king of desolation. Let me hear from you by - return. - </p> - <p> - Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XVII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> forgot to mention - to you in my last, that to my utter joy and surprise, our <i>premier</i> - here has been recalled. On the day of my return, he received a letter from - his lord, desiring his immediate attendance in London, with all the rents - he could collect; for I suppose the necessary expenditure requisite for my - brother’s matrimonial establishment, will draw pretty largely on our - family treasury. - </p> - <p> - This change of things in our domestic politics has changed all my plans of - operation. This arch spy being removed, obviates the necessity of my - retreat to the Lodge. My establishment here consists only of two females, - who scarcely speak a word of English; an old gardener, who possesses not - one <i>entire sense</i>, and a groom, who, having nothing to do, I shall - discharge: so that if I should find it my pleasure to return and remain - any time at the castle of Inismore, I shall have no one here to watch my - actions, or report them to my father. - </p> - <p> - There is something Boeotian in this air. I can neither read, write, or - think. Does not Locke assert, that the soul sometimes dozes? I frequently - think I have been bit by a torpedo, or that I partake in some degree of - the nature of the seven sleepers, and suffer a transient suspension of - existence. What if this Glorvina has an <i>evil eye</i>, and has - overlooked me? The witch haunts me, not only in my dreams, but when <i>I - fancy myself</i> at least, awake. A thousand times I think I hear the - tones of her voice and harp. Does she feel my absence at the accustomed - hour of tuition, the fire-side circle in the <i>Vengolf</i> the twilight - conversation, the noontide ramble?—Has my presence become a want to - her? Am I missed, and missed with regret? It is scarcely vanity to say, <i>I - am—I must be</i>. In a life of so much sameness, the most trivial - incident, the most inconsequent character obtains in interest in a certain - degree. - </p> - <p> - One day I caught her weeping over a pet robin, which died on her bosom. - She smiled, and endeavoured to hide her tears. “This is very silly I - know,” said she, “but one must feel even the loss of a <i>bird</i> that - has been the <i>companion of one’s solitude!</i>” - </p> - <p> - To-day I flung down my book in downright deficiency of comprehension to - understand a word in it, though it was a simple case in the Reports of - ———-; and so, in the most <i>nonchalante</i> mood - possible, I mounted my <i>rosinante</i>, and throwing the bridle over her - neck, said, “please thyself;” and it was her pious pleasure to tread on - consecrated ground: in short, after a ride of half an hour, I found myself - within a few paces of the parish mass-house, and recollected that it was - the Sabbath day; so that you see my mare reproved me, though in an oblique - manner, with little less gravity than the ass of Balaam did his obstinate - rider. - </p> - <p> - The mass-house was of the same order of architecture as the generality of - Irish cabins, with no other visible mark to ascertain its sacred - designation than a stone cross, roughly hewn, over its entrance. I will - not say that it was merely a sentiment of piety which induced me to enter - it; but it certainly required, at first, an effort of energy to obtain - admittance, as for several yards round this simple tabernacle a crowd of - <i>devotees</i> were prostrated on the earth, praying over their beads - with as much fervour as though they were offering up their orisins in the - golden-roofed temple of Soliman. - </p> - <p> - When I had fastened my horse’s bridle to a branch of a hawthorn, I - endeavoured to make my way through the pious crowd, who all arose the - moment I appeared—for the <i>last mass</i>, I learned, was over, and - those who had prayed <i>par hazard</i>, without hearing a word the priest - said within, departed. While I pressed my way into the body of the chapel, - it was so crowded that with great difficulty I found means to fix myself - by a large triangular stone vessel filled with holy water, where I - fortunately remained (during the sermon) unnoticed. - </p> - <p> - This sermon was delivered by a little old mendicant, in the Irish - language. Beside him stood the parish priest in pontifiealibus, and with - as much self-invested dignity as the <i>dalai lama</i> of Little Thibet - could assume before his votarists. When the shrivelled little mendicant - had harangued them some time on the subject of Christian charity, for so - his countenance and action indicated, a general <i>secula seculorum</i> - concluded his discourse; and while he meekly retreated a few paces, the - priest mounted the steps of the little altar; and after preparing his - lungs, he delivered an oration, to which it would be impossible to do any - justice. It was partly in Irish, partly in English; and intended to - inculcate the necessity of contributing to the relief of the mendicant - preacher, if they hoped to have the benefit of his prayers; addressing - each of his flock by their name and profession, and exposing their faults - and extolling their virtues, according to the nature of their - contributions While the friar, who stood with his face to the wall, was - with all human diligence piously turning his beads to two accounts—with - one half he was making intercession for the souls of his good subscribers, - and with the other diligently keeping count of the sum total of their - benefactions. As soon as I had sent in mine, almost stifled with heat, I - effected my escape. - </p> - <p> - In contrasting this parish priest with the chaplain of Inismore, I could - not help exclaiming with Epaminondas—“It is the <i>man</i> who must - give dignity to the situation—not the situation to the man.” Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XVIII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - “La solitude est certainement une belle chose, mais il-y-a plaisir d’avoir - quelqu’une qui en sache repondre, a qui on puis dire, la solitude est une - belle chose.” - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>o says Monsieur de - Balsac, and so repeats my heart a thousand times a day. In short, I am - devoured by <i>ennui</i>, by apathy, by discontent! What should I do here? - Nothing. I have spent but four days here, and all the symptoms of my old - disease begin to re-appear: in short, like other impatient invalids, I - believed my cure was effected when my disease was only on the decline. - </p> - <p> - I must again fly to sip from the fountain of intellectual health at - Inismore, and receive the vivifying drops from the hand of the presiding - priestess, or stay here, and fall into an incurable atrophy of the heart - and mind! - </p> - <p> - Having packed up a part of my wardrobe, and a few books, I sent them by a - young rustic to the little <i>Villa di Marino</i>, and in about an hour - after I followed myself. The old fisherman and his dame seemed absolutely - rejoiced to see me, and having laid my valise in their cabin, and - dismissed my attendant, I requested they would permit their son to carry - my luggage as far as the next <i>cabaret</i>, where I expected a man and - horse to meet me. They cheerfully complied, and I proceeded with my <i>compagnon - de voyage</i> to a hut which lies half way between the fisherman’s and the - castle. This hut they call a <i>Sheebin House</i>, and is something - inferior to a certain description of Spanish inn. - </p> - <p> - Although a little board informs the weary traveller he is only to expect - “good dry lodgings,” yet the landlord contrives to let you know in an <i>entre - nous</i> manner, that he keeps some real <i>Inishone</i>, (or spirits, - smuggled from a tract of country so called) for his particular friends. So - having dismissed my second courier, and paid for the whiskey I did not - taste, and the potatoes I did not eat, I sent my host forward, mounted on - a sorry mule, with my travelling equipage, to the cabin at the foot of the - drawbridge; and by these precautions obviated all possibility of - discovery. - </p> - <p> - As I now proceeded on my route, every progressive step awakened some new - emotion; while my heart was agitated by those unspeakable little - flutterings which are alternately excited and governed by the ardour of - hope, or the timidity of fear. “And shall I, or shall I not be welcome?” - was the problem which engaged my thoughts during the rest of my little - journey. - </p> - <p> - As I descended the mountain, at whose base the peninsula of Inismore - reposes, I perceived a form at some distance, whose drapery (“<i>ne bulam - lineam</i>”) seemed light as the breeze on which it floated. It is - impossible to mistake the figure of Glorvina, when its graces are called - forth by motion. I instantly alighted, and flew to meet her. She too - sprang eagerly forward. We were almost within a few paces of each other, - when she suddenly turned back and flew down the hill with the bounding - step of a fawn. This would have mortified another—I was charmed. And - the bashful consciousness which repelled her advances, was almost as - grateful to my heart as the warm impulse which had nearly hurried her into - my arms.—How freshly does she still wear the first gloss of nature! - </p> - <p> - In a few minutes, however, I perceived her return, leaning on the arm of - the Father Director. You cannot conceive what a festival of the feelings - my few days absence had purchased me. Oh! he knows nothing of the doctrine - of enjoyment, who does not purchase his pleasure at the expense of - temporary restraint. The good priest, who still retains something of the - etiquette of his foreign education, embraced me <i>a la Française</i>. - Glorvina, however, who <i>malhereusement</i>, was not reared in France, - only offered me her <i>hand</i>, which I had not the courage to raise to - my unworthy lip, although the cordial <i>cead mille a falta</i> of her - country revelled in her shining eyes, and and her effulgent countenance - was lit up with an unusual blaze of animation. - </p> - <p> - When we reached the castle the Prince sent for me to his room, and told - me, as he pressed my hand, that “his heart warmed at my sight.” In short, - my return seems to have produced a carnival in the whole family. - </p> - <p> - You who know, that notwithstanding my late vitiated life, the simple - pleasures of the heart were never dead to mine, may guess how highly - gratifying to my feelings is this interest, which, independent of all - adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune, I have awakened in the - bosoms of these cordial, ingenuous beings. - </p> - <p> - The late insufferable reserve of Glorvina has given way to the most - bewitching (I had almost said <i>tender</i>) softness of manner. - </p> - <p> - As I descended from paying my visit to the Prince, I found her and the - priest in the hall. - </p> - <p> - “We are waiting for you,” said she—“there is no resisting the - fineness of the evening.” - </p> - <p> - And as we left the door, she pointed towards the west and added— - </p> - <p> - “See— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The weary sun hath made a golden set, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And by yon ruddy brightness of the clouds, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Gives tokens of a goodly day to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “O! apropos, Mr. Mortimer, you are returned in most excellent time—for - to-morrow is the <i>first of May</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “And is the arrival of a guest,” said I, “on the <i>eve</i> of that day a - favourable omen?” - </p> - <p> - “The arrival of such a guest,” said she, “must be at least ominous of - happiness. But the first of May is our great national festival; and you, - who love to trace modern customs to ancient origins, will perhaps feel - some curiosity and interest to behold some of the rites of our heathen - superstitions still lingering among our present ceremonies.” - </p> - <p> - “What then,” said I, “have you, like the Greeks, the festivals of the - spring among you?” - </p> - <p> - “It is certain,” said the priest, “that the ancient Irish sacrificed on - the <i>first of May to Beal</i>, or the <i>Sun</i>; and that day, even at - this period, is called <i>Beal</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “By this idolatry to the god of Light and Song,” said I, “one would almost - suppose that Apollo was the tutelar deity of your island.” - </p> - <p> - “Why,” returned he, “Hecatæus tells us that the Hyperborean Island was - dedicated to Apollo, and that most of its inhabitants were either priests - or bards, and I suppose you are not ignorant that we claim the honour of - being those happy Hyperboreans, which were believed by many to be a - fabulous nation. - </p> - <p> - “And if the peculiar favour of the god of Poetry and Song may be esteemed - a sufficient proof, it is certain that our claims are not weak. For surely - no nation under heaven was ever more enthusiastically attached to poetry - and music than the Irish. Formerly every family had its poet or bard, - called Filea Crotaire; and, indeed, the very language itself, seems most - felicitously adapted to be the vehicle of poetic images; for its energy, - strength, expression, and luxuriancy, never leave the bard at a loss for - apposite terms to realize ‘the thick coming fancies of his genius.’” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Mr. O’Halloran informs us, that in a work entitled - “Uiraceacht na Neaigios,” or Poetic Tales, above an hundred - different species of Irish verse is exhibited. O’Molloy, in - his Irish and Latin Grammar, has also given rules and - specimens of our modes of versification, which may be seen - in Dr. Linud’s Achaeologia. -</pre> - <p> - “But,” said Glorvina, “the first of May was not the only festival held - sacred by the Irish to their tutelar deity; on the 24th of June they - sacrificed to the Sun, to propitiate his influence in bringing the fruit - to perfection; and to this day those lingering remains of heathen rites - are performed with something of their ancient forms. ‘<i>Midsummer’s Night</i>,’ - as it is called, is with us a night of universal lumination—the - whole country olazes: from the summit of every mountain, every hill, - ascends the flame of the bonfire, while the unconscious perpetuators of - the heathen ceremony dance round the fire in circles, or holding torches - to it made of straw, run with the burning brands wildly through the - country with all the gay frenzy of so many Bacchantes. But though I adore - our aspiring <i>Beal</i> with all my soul, I worship our popular deity <i>Samhuin</i> - with all my heart—he is the god of the heart’s close knitting - socialities, for the domesticating month of November is sacred to him.” - </p> - <p> - “And on its eve,” said the priest, “the great fire of <i>Samhuin</i> was - illuminated, all the culinary fires in the kingdom being first - extinguished, as it was deemed sacrilege to awaken the winter’s social - flame, except by a spark snatched from this sacred fire, * and so deep - rooted are the customs of our forefathers among us, that the present Irish - have no other name for the month of November than <i>Samhuin</i>. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * To this day, the inferior Irish look upon bonfires as - sacred; they say their prayers walking round them; the young - dream upon their ashes, and the old steal away the fire to - light up their domestic hearths with. -</pre> - <p> - “Over our mythological accounts of this <i>winter god</i>, an almost - impenetrable obscurity seems to hover; but if <i>Samhuin</i> is derived - from <i>Samhfhuin</i>, as it is generally supposed, the term literally - means the gathering or closing of summer; and, in fact, on the eve of the - first of November we make our offerings round the domestic altar, (the - fireside) of such fruits as the lingering season affords, besides playing - a number of curious gambols, and performing many superstitious ceremonies, - in which our young folk find great pleasure, and put great faith.” - </p> - <p> - “For my part,” said Glorvina, “I love all those old ceremonies which force - us to be periodically happy, and look forward with no little impatience to - the gay-hearted pleasures which to-morrow will bring in its train.” - </p> - <p> - The little post-boy has this moment tapped at my door for my letter, for - he tells me he sets off before dawn, that he may be back in time for the - sport. It is now past eleven o’clock, but I could not resist giving you - this little scrap of Irish mythology, before I wished you good night. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XIX. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ll the life-giving - spirit of spring, mellowed by the genial glow of summer, shed its choicest - treasures on the smiling hours which yesterday ushered in the most - delightful of the seasons. - </p> - <p> - I arose earlier than usual; the exility of my mind would not suffer me to - rest, and the scented air, as it breathed its odours through my open - casement, seduced me abroad. I walked as though I scarcely touched the - earth, and my spirit seemed to ascend like the lark which soared over my - head to hail the splendour of the dewy dawn. There is a fairy vale in the - little territories of Inismore, which is almost a miniature <i>Tempe</i>, - and which is indeed the only spot on the peninsula where the luxuriant - charms of the most bounteous nature are evidently improved by taste and - cultivation. In a word, it is a spot sacred to the wanderings of Glorvina. - It was there our theological discourse was held on the evening of my - return, and thither my steps were now with an irresistible impulse - directed. - </p> - <p> - I had scarcely entered this Eden, when the form of the Eve, to whose - picturesque fancy it owes so many charms presented itself. She was - standing at a little distance <i>en profile</i>—with one hand she - supported a part of her drapery filled with wild flowers, gathered ere the - sun had kissed off the tears which night had shed upon their bosom; with - the other she seemed carefully to remove some branches that entwined - themselves through the sprays of a little hawthorn hedge richly embossed - with the firstborn blossoms of May. - </p> - <p> - As I stole towards her, I exclaimed, as Adam did when he first saw Eve— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “—-Behold her, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Such as I saw her in my dream adorned, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With all that earth or heaven could bestow. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - She started and turned round, and in her surprise let fall her flowers, - yet she smiled, and seemed confused—but pleasure, pure, animated, - life-breathing pleasure, was the predominant expression of her - countenance. The Deity of Health was never personified in more glowing - colours—her eye’s rich blue, her cheek’s crimson blush, her lip’s - dewy freshness, the wanton wildness of her golden tresses, the delicious - langour that mellowed the fire of her beamy glance—I gazed, and - worshipped! but neither apologized for my intrusion, nor had the - politeness to collect her scattered flowers. - </p> - <p> - “If Nature,” said I, “had always such a priestess to preside at her altar, - who would worship at the shrine of Art?” - </p> - <p> - “I am her votarist only,” she replied, smiling, and, pointing to a wild - rose which had just begun to unfold its blushing breast amidst the snowy - blossoms of the hedge—added, “see how beautiful! how orient its hue - appears through the pure crystal of the morning dew-drop! It is nearly - three weeks since I first discovered it in the germ, since when I have - screened it from the noonday ardours, and the evening’s frost, and now it - is just bursting into perfection to reward my cares.” - </p> - <p> - At these words, she plucked it from the stem. Its crimson head drooped - with the weight of the gems that spangled it. Glorvina did not shake them - off, but imbibed the liquid fragrance with her lip; then held the flower - to me! - </p> - <p> - “Am I to pledge you?” said I. - </p> - <p> - She smiled, and I quaffed off the fairy nectar, which still trembled on - the leaves her lip had consecrated. - </p> - <p> - “We have now,” said I, “<i>both</i> drank from the same cup; and if the - delicious draught which Nature has prepared for us, circulates with mutual - effect through our veins—If”—I paused, and cast down my eyes. - The hand which still sustained the rose, and was still clasped in mine, - seemed to tremble with an emotion scarcely inferior to that which thrilled - through my whole frame. - </p> - <p> - After a minute’s pause—“Take the rose,” said Glorvina, endeavouring - to extricate the precious hand which presented it—“Take it; it is - the first of the season! My father has had his snowdrop—the - confessor his violet—and it is but just you should have your <i>rose</i>.” - </p> - <p> - At that moment the classical remark of the priest rushed, I believe, with - mutual influence, to both our hearts. I, at least, was borne away by the - rapturous feelings of the moment, and knelt to receive the offering of my - lovely votarist. - </p> - <p> - I kissed the sweet and simple tribute with pious ardour; but with a - devotion more fervid, kissed the hand that presented it. I would not have - exchanged that moment for the most pleasurable era of my existence. The - blushing radiance that glowed on her cheek, sent its warm suffusion even - to the hand I had violated with my unhallowed lip; while the sparkling - fluid of her eyes, turned on mine in almost dying softness, beamed on the - latent powers of my once-chilled heart, and awakened there a thousand - delicious transports, a thousand infant wishes and chaste desires, of - which I lately thought its worn-out feelings were no longer susceptible. - </p> - <p> - As I arose, I plucked off a small branch of that myrtle which here grows - wild, and which, like my rose, was dripping in dew, and putting it into - the hand I still held, said, “This offering is indeed less beautiful, less - fragrant, than that which you have made; but remember, it is also less <i>fragile</i>—for - the sentiment of which it is an emblem, carries with it an eternity of - duration.” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina took it in silence and placed it in her bosom; and in silence we - walked together towards the castle; while our eyes, now timidly turned on - each other, now suddenly averted (O, the insidious danger of the abruptly - downcast eye!) met no object but what breathed of love, whose soul seemed - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “—Sent abroad, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Warm through the vital air, and on the heart - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Harmonious seiz’d.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The morning breeze flushed with etherial fervour; the luxury of the - landscape through which we wandered, the sublimity of those stupendous - cliffs which seemed to shelter two hearts from the world, to which their - profound feelings were unknown, while - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - —Every copse - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Deep tangled, but irregular, and bush, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Bending with dewy moisture o’er the head, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Of the coy choiristers that lodged within, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Were prodigal of harmony,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - and crowned imagination’s wildest wish, and realized the fancy’s warmest - vision. - </p> - <p> - “Oh! my sweet friend!” I exclaimed, “since now I feel myself entitled thus - to call you—well indeed might your nation have held this day sacred; - and while the heart, which now throbs with an emotion to which it has - hitherto been a stranger, beats with the pulse of life, on the return of - this day will it make its offering to that glorious orb, to whose genial - nutritive beams this precious rose owes its existence.” - </p> - <p> - As I spoke, Father John suddenly appeared. Vexed as I was at this - unseasonable intrusion, yet in such perfect harmony was my spirit with the - whole creation, that, in the true hyperbola of Irish cordiality, I wished - him a thousand happy returns of this season! - </p> - <p> - “Spoken like a true-born Irishman!” said the priest, laughing, and shaking - me heartily by the hand—“While with something of the phlegm of an - Englishman, I wish you only as many returns of it as shall bring health - and felicity in their train.” - </p> - <p> - Then looking at the myrtle which reposed on the bosom of Glorvina, and the - rose which I so proudly wore, he added—“So, I perceive you have both - been sacrificing to <i>Beal</i>; and like the priests and priestesses of - this country in former times, are adorned with the flowers of the season. - For you must know, Mr. Mortimer, <i>we</i> had our Druidesses as well as - our Druids; and both, like the ministers of Grecian mythology, were - crowned with flowers at the time of sacrifice.” - </p> - <p> - At this apposite remark of the good priest, I stole a glance at <i>my</i> - lovely priestess. Hero, at the altar of the deity she rivalled, never - looked more attractive to the enamoured Leander. - </p> - <p> - We had now come within a few steps of the portals of the castle, and I - observed that since I passed that way, the path and entrance were strewed - with green flags, rushes, and wild crocuses; * while the heavy framework - of the door was hung with garlands, and bunches of flowers, tastefully - displayed. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Seeing the doors of the Greeks on the first of May, - profusely ornamented with flowers, would certainly recall to - your mind the many descriptions of that custom which you - have met with in the Greek and Latin poets.—Letters on - Greece, by Moniseur Da Guys, vol i. p. 153. -</pre> - <p> - “This, madam,” said I to Glorvina, “is doubtless the result of your happy - taste.” - </p> - <p> - “By no means,” she replied—“this is a custom prevalent among the - peasantry time immemorial.” - </p> - <p> - “And most probably was brought hither,” said the priest, “from Greece by - our Phonician progenitors: for we learn from Athenæus, that the young - Greeks hung garlands on the doors of their favourite mistresses on the - first of May. Nor indeed does the Roman <i>floralia</i> differ in any - respect from ours.” - </p> - <p> - “Those, however, which you now admire,” said Glorvina, smiling, “are no - offerings of rustic gallantry; for every hut in the country, on this - morning, will bear the same fanciful decorations. The wild crocus, and - indeed every flower of that rich tint, is peculiarly sacred to this day.” - </p> - <p> - And, in fact, when, in the course of the day, I rambled out alone, and - looked into the several cabins, I perceived not only their floors covered - with flags and rushes, but a “Maybush,” as they call it, or small tree, - planted before all the doors, covered with every flower the season - affords. - </p> - <p> - I saw nothing of Glorvina until evening, except for a moment, when I - perceived her lost over a book, (as I passed her closet window) which, by - the Morocco binding, I knew to be the Letters of the impassioned Heloise. - Since her society was denied me, I was best satisfied to resign her to - Rosseau. <i>Apropos!</i> it was among the books I brought hither; and they - were all precisely such books as Glorvina had <i>not</i> yet <i>should</i> - read, that she may know herself, and the latent sensibility of her soul. - They have, of course, all been presented to her, and consist of “<i>La - Nouvelle Hel oise</i>” de Rosseau—the unrivalled “<i>Lettres sur la - Mythologie</i>” de Moustier—the “<i>Paul et Virginie</i>” of St. - Pierre—the <i>Werter</i> of Goethe—the <i>Dolhreuse</i> of - Lousel, and the <i>Attilla</i> of Chateaubriand. Let our English novels - carry away the prize of morality from the romantic fictions of every other - country; but you will find they rarely seize on the imagination through - the medium of the heart; and as for their heroines, I confess, that though - they are the most perfect beings, they are also the most stupid. Surely, - virtue would not be the less attractive for being united to genius and the - graces. - </p> - <p> - But to return to the never-to-be-forgotten <i>first of May!</i> Early in - the evening the Prince, his daughter, the priest, the bard, the old nurse, - and indeed all the household of Inismore, adjourned to the vale, which - being the only level ground on the peninsula, is always appropriated to - the sports of the rustic neighbours. It was impossible I should enter this - vale without emotion; and when I beheld it crowded with the vulgar throng, - I felt as if it were profanation for the - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Sole of unblest feet!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - to tread that ground sacred to the most refined emotions of the heart. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina, who walked on before the priest and me, supporting her father, - as we entered the vale stole a glance at me; and a moment after, as I - opened the little wicket through which we passed, I murmured in her ear—<i>La - val di Rosa!</i> - </p> - <p> - We found this charming spot crowded with peasantry of both sexes and all - ages. * Since morning they had planted a Maybush in the centre, which was - hung with flowers, and round the seats appropriated to the Prince and his - family, the flag, crocus, and primrose, were profusely scattered. Two - blind fiddlers, and an excellent piper, ** were seated under the shelter - of the very hedge which had been the nursery of my precious rose; while - the old bard, with true druidical dignity sat under the shade of a - venerable oak, near his master. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * In the summer of 1802, the author was present at a rural - festival at the seat of a highly respected friend in - Tipperary, from which this scene is partly copied. - - ** Although the bagpipe is not an instrument indigenous to - Ireland, it holds a high antiquity in the country. It was - the music of the Kearns, in the reign of Edward the Third. - [See Smith’s History of Cork, page 43.] It is still the - favourite accompaniment of those mirthful exertions with - which laborious poverty crowns the temporary cessation of - its weekly toil, and the cares and solicitudes of the Irish - peasant ever dissipate to the spell which breathes in the - humorous drones of the Irish pipes. To Scotland we are - indebted for this ancient instrument, who received it from - the Romans; but to the native musical genius of Ireland are - we indebted for its present form and improved state. ‘That - at present in use in Ireland,’ says Dr. Burney, in a letter - to J. C. Walker, Esq., is an improved bagpipe, on which I - have heard some of the natives play very well in two parts, - without the drone, which, I believe, is never attempted in - Scotland The tone of the lower notes resembles that of an - hautboy or clarionet, and the high notes, that of a German - flute: and the whole scale of one I heard lately was very - well in tune, which has never been the case of any Scottish - bagpipe that I have yet heard.” - </pre> - <p> - The sports began with a wrestling match; * and in the gymnastic exertions - of the youthful combatants there was something, I thought, of Spartan - energy and hardihood. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The young Irish peasantry particularly prize themselves on - this species of exertion: they have almost reduced it to a - science, by dividing it into two distinct species—the one - called “sparnaight,” engages the arms only; the other, - “carriaght,” engages the whole body. -</pre> - <p> - But as “breaking of ribs is no sport for ladies,” Glorvina turned from the - spectacle in disgust; which I wished might have been prolonged, as it - procured me (who leaned over her seat) her undivided attention; but it was - too soon concluded, though without any disagreeable consequences, for - neither of the combatants were hurt, though one was laid prostrate. The - victorious wrestler was elected King of the May; and, with “all his - blushing honours thick upon him,” came timidly forward, and laid his rural - crown at the feet of Glorvina. Yet he evidently seemed intoxicated with - his happiness, and though he scarcely touched the hand of his blushing, - charming nueen, yet I perceived a thousand saucy triumphs basking in his - fine black eyes, as he led her out to dance. The fellow was handsome too. - I know not why, but I could have knocked him down with all my heart. - </p> - <p> - “Every village has its Cæsar,” said the priest, “and this is ours. He has - been elected King of the May for these five years successively He is - second son to our old steward, and a very worthy, as well as a very fine - young fellow.” - </p> - <p> - “I do not doubt his worth,” returned I, peevish ly, “but it certainly - cannot exceed the condescension of his young mistress.” - </p> - <p> - “There is nothing singular in it, however,” said the priest. “Among us, - over such meetings as these, inequality of rank holds no <i>obvious</i> - jurisdiction, though in fact it is not the less regarded; and the - condescension of the master or mistress on these occasions, lessens - nothing of the respect of the servant upon every other; but rather secures - it, through the medium of gratitude and affection.” The piper had now - struck up one of those lilts, whose mirth-inspiring influence it is almost - impossible to resist.* The Irish jig, above every other dance, leaves most - to the genius of the dancer; and Glorvina, above all the women I have ever - seen, seems most formed by nature to exce in the art. Her little form, - pliant as that of an Egyptian <i>alma</i>, floats before the eye in all - the swimming langour of the most graceful motion, or all the gay exility - of soul-inspired animation. She even displays an exquisite degree of comic - humour in some of the movements of her national dance: and her eyes, - countenance, and air express the wildest exhilaration of pleasure, and - glow with all the spirit of health, mirth, and exercise. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Besides the Irish jig, tradition has rescued from that - oblivion which time has hung over the ancient Irish dance, - the <i>rinceadh fada</i>, which answers to the festal dance of - the Greeks; and the <i>rinceadh</i>, or war dance, “which seems,” - says Mr. Walker, “to have been of the nature of the armed - dance, which is so ancient, and with which the Grecian youth - amused themselves during the seige of Troy.” Previous to the - adoption of the French style in dancing, Mr. O’Halloran - asserts, that both our private and public balls always - concluded with the “rinceadh-fada.” On the arrival of James - the Second at Kinsale, his adherents received the - unfortunate prince on the shore with this dance, with whose - taste and execution he was infinitely delighted: and even - still, in the county of Limerick and many other parts of - Ireland, the “rinceadh-fada” is danced on the eve of May. -</pre> - <p> - I was so struck with the grace and elegance of her movements, the delicacy - of her form, and the play of her drapery gently agitated by the air, that - I involuntarily gave to my admiration an audible existence. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said the priest, who overheard me, “she performs her national dance - with great grace and spirit. But the Irish are all dancers; and, like the - Greeks, we have no idea of any festival here which does not conclude with - a dance; * old and young, rich and poor, all join here in the sprightly - dance.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “The passion of the Greeks for dancing is common to both - sexes, who neglect every other consideration when they have - an opportunity of indulging that passion.” - </pre> - <p> - Glorvina, unwearied, still continued to dance with unabated spirit, and - even seemed governed by the general principle which actuates all the Irish - dancers—of not giving way to any competitor in the exertion; for she - actually outdanced her partner, who had been jigging with all his <i>strength</i>, - while she had only been dancing with all her <i>soul</i>; and when he - retreated, she dropped a simple curtsey (according to the laws of - jig-dancing here) to another young rustic, whose seven league brogues - finally prevailed, and Glorvina at last gave way, while he made a scrape - to a rosy cheeked, barefooted damsel, who out jigged him and his two - successors; and thus the chain went on. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina, as she came panting and glowing towards me, exclaimed, “I have - done my duty for the evening;” and threw herself on a seat, breathless and - smiling. - </p> - <p> - “Nay,” said I, “more than your duty; for you even performed a work of - supererogation.” And I cast a pointed look at the young rustic who had - been the object of her election. - </p> - <p> - “O!” she replied, eagerly—“it is the custom here, and I should be - sorry, for the indulgence of an overstrained delicacy, to violate any of - those established rules to which, however trifling, they are devotedly - attached. Besides, you perceive,” she added, smiling, “this condescension - on the part of the females, who are thus ‘won unsought,’ does not render - the men more presumptuous. You see what a distance the youth of both sexes - preserve—a distance which always exists in these kind of public - meetings.” - </p> - <p> - And, in fact, the lads and lasses were ranged opposite to each other, with - no other intercourse than what the communion of the eyes afforded, or the - transient intimacy of the jig bestowed. * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * This custom, so prevalent in some parts of Ireland, is of - a very ancient origin. We read in Keating’s History of - Ireland, that in the remotest periods, when the Irish - brought their children to the fair of Tailtean, in order to - dispose of them in marriage, the strictest order was - observed; the men and women having distinct places assigned - them at a certain distance from each other. -</pre> - <p> - “And will you not dance a jig?” asked Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - “I seldom dance,” said I—“Ill health has for some time back - coincided with my inclination, which seldom led me to try my skill at the - <i>Poetry of motion?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Poetry of motion!” repeated Glorvina—“What a beautiful idea!” - </p> - <p> - “It is so,” said I, “and if it had been my own, it must have owed its - existence to you; for your dancing is certainly the true poetry of motion, - and <i>Epic</i> poetry too.” - </p> - <p> - “I love dancing with all my heart,” she replied: “when I dance I have not - a care on earth—every thing swims gaily before me; and I feel as - swiftly borne away in a vortex of pleasurable sensation.” - </p> - <p> - “Dancing,” said I, “is the talent of your sex—that pure grace which - must result from a symmetrical form, and that elixity of temperament which - is the effect of woman’s delicate organization, creates you dancers. And - while I beheld your performances this evening, I no longer wondered that - the gravity of Socrates could not resist the spell which lurked in the - graceful motions of Aspasia, but followed her in the mazes of the dance.” - </p> - <p> - She bowed, and said, I “flattered too agreeably, not to be listened to - with <i>pleasure</i>, if not with <i>faith</i>.” - </p> - <p> - In short, I have had a thousand occasions to observe, that while she - receives a decided compliment with the ease of almost <i>bon ton - nonchalance</i>, a look, a broken sentence, a word, has the power of - overwhelming her with confusion, or awakening all the soul of emotion in - her bosom. All this I can understand. - </p> - <p> - As the dew of the evening now began to fall, the invalid Prince and his - lovely daughter arose to retire. And those who had been rendered so happy - by their condescension, beheld their retreat with regret, and followed - them with blessings. Whiskey, milk, and oaten bread were now distributed - in abundance by the old nurse and the steward; and the dancing was - recommenced with new ardour. - </p> - <p> - The priest and I remained behind, conversing with the old and jesting with - the young—he in Irish, and I in English, with such as understood it. - The girls received my little gallantries with considerable archness, and - even with some point of repartee; while the priest rallied them in their - own way, for he seems as playful as a child among them, though evidently - worshipped as a sakit. And the moon rose resplendently over the vale, - before it was restored to its wonted solitary silence. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Glorvina has made the plea of a headache these two mornings back, for - playing the truant at her drawing desk; but the fact is, her days and - nights are devoted to the sentimental sorcery of Rosseau, and the effects - of her studies are visible in her eyes. When we meet, her glance sinks - beneath the ardour of mine in soft confusion; her manner is no longer - childishly playful, or carelessly indifferent, and sometimes a sigh, - scarce breathed, is discovered by the blush which glows on her cheek for - the inadvertency of her lip. Does she, then, begin to feel she has a - heart? Does “<i>Le besoin de l’ame tendre</i>,” already throb with vague - emotion in her bosom? Her abstracted air, her delicious melancholy, her - unusual softness, betray the nature of the feelings by which she is - overwhelmed—they are new to herself; and sometimes I fancy, when she - turns her melting eyes on me, it is to solicit their meaning. O! if I - dared become the interpreter between her and her heart—if I dared - indulge myself in the hope, the belief that—— and what then? - ’Tis all folly, ’tis madness, ’tis worse! But whoever - yet rejected the blessing for which his soul thirsted?—And in the - scale of human felicities, if there is one in which all others is summed - up—above all others supremely elevated—it is the consciousness - of having awakened the first sentiment of the sweetest, the sublimest of - all passions, in the bosom of youth, genius, and sensibility. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, H. M. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XX. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had just finished - my last by the beams of a gloriously setting sun, when I was startled by a - pebble being thrown in at my window. I looked out, and perceived Father - John in the act of flinging up another, which the hand of Glorvina (who - was leaning on his arm) prevented. - </p> - <p> - “If you are not engaged in writing to your mistress,” said he, “come down - and join us in a ramble.” - </p> - <p> - “And though I were,” I replied, “I could not resist your challenge.” And - down I flew—Glorvina laughing, sent me back for my hat, and we - proceeded on our walk. - </p> - <p> - “This is an evening,” said I, looking at Glorvina, “worthy of the morning - of the first of May, and we have seized it in that happy moment so - exquisitly described by Collins: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “While now the bright hair’d sun - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Sits on yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With brede etherial wove, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - O’erhang his wavy bed.’”=> - </p> - <p> - “O! that beautiful ode!” exclaimed Glorvina, with all her wildest - enthusiasm—“never can I read—never hear it repeated but with - emotion. The perusal of Ossian’s ‘Song of Other Times,’ the breezy - respiration of my harp at twilight, the last pale rose that outlives its - season, and bears on its faded breast the frozen tears of the wintry dawn, - and Collins’s ‘Ode to Evening,’ awaken in my heart and fancy the same - train of indescribable feeling, of exquisite, yet unspeakable sensation. - Alas! the solitary pleasure of feeling thus alone the utter impossibility - of conveying to the bosom of another those ecstatic emotions by which our - own is sublimed.” - </p> - <p> - While my very soul followed this brilliant comet to her perihelion of - sentiment and imagination, I fixed my eyes on her “mind-illumin’d face,” - and said, “And is expression then necessary for the conveyance of such - profound, such exquisite feeling? May not the similarity of a refined - organization exist between souls, and produce that mutual intelligence - which sets the necessity of cold, verbal expression at defiance? May not - the sympathy of a kindred sensibility in the bosom of another, meet and - enjoy those delicious feelings by which yours is warmed, and, sinking - beneath the inadequacy of language to give them birth, feel like you, in - silent and sacred emotion?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps,” said the priest, with his usual simplicity, “this sacred - sympathy, between two refined and elevated souls, in the sublime and - beautiful of the moral and natural world, approaches nearest to the - rapturous and pure emotions which uncreated spirits may be supposed to - feel in their heavenly communion, than any other human sentiment with - which we are acquainted.” - </p> - <p> - For all the looks of blandishment which ever flung their spell from - beauty’s eye, I would not have exchanged the glance which Glorvina at that - moment cast on me. While the priest, who seemed to have been following up - the train of thought awakened by our preceding observations, abruptly - added, after a silence of some minutes— - </p> - <p> - “There is a species of metaphorical taste, if I may be allowed the - expression, whose admiration for certain objects is not deducible from the - established rules of beauty, order, or even truth; which <i>should</i> be - the basis of our approbation; yet which ever brings with it a sensation of - more lively pleasure; as for instance, a chromatic passion in music will - awaken a thrill of delight which a simple chord could never effect.” - </p> - <p> - “Nor would the most self-evident truth,” said I, “awaken so vivid a - sensation, as when we find some sentiment of the soul illustrated by some - law or principle in science. To an axiom we announce our assent, but we - lavish our most enthusiastic approbation when Rosseau tells us that ‘Les - ames humaines veulent etre accomplies pour valoir toute leurs prix, et la - force unie des ames <i>comme celles des l’armes d’un aimant artificiel</i>, - est incomparablement plus grands que la somme de leurs force - particulier.’” - </p> - <p> - As this quotation was meant <i>all</i> for Glorvina, I looked earnestly at - her as I repeated it. A crimson torrent rushed to her cheek, and convinced - me that she felt the full force of a sentiment so applicable to us both. - </p> - <p> - “And why,” said I, addressing her in a low voice, “was Rosseau excluded - from the sacred coalition with Ossian, Collins, your twilight harp, and - winter rose?” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina made no reply; but turned full on me her “eyes of dewy light.” - Mine almost sunk beneath the melting ardour of their soul-beaming o o - glance. - </p> - <p> - Oh! child of Nature! child of genius and of passion! why was I withheld - from throwing myself at thy feet; from offering thee the homage of that - soul thou hast awakened; from covering thy hands with my kisses, and - bathing them with tears of such delicious emotion, as thou only hast power - to inspire? - </p> - <p> - While we thus “<i>buvames a longs traits le philtre de l’amour,</i>” - Father John gradually restored us to commonplace existence, by a - commonplace conversation on the fineness of the weather, promising aspect - of the season, &c., until the moon, as it rose sublimely above the - summit of the mountain, called forth the melting tones of my Glorvina’s - syren voice. - </p> - <p> - Casting up her eyes to that Heaven whence they seem to have caught their - emanation, she said, “I do not wonder that unenlightened nations should - worship the moon. Our ideas are so intimately connected with our senses, - so ductilely transferable from cause to effect, that the abstract thought - may readily subside in the sensible image which awakens it. When, in the - awful stillness of a calm night, I fix my eyes on the mild and beautiful - orb, the <i>created</i> has become the awakening medium of that adoration - I offered to the <i>Creator</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said the priest, “I remember that even in your childhood, you used - to fix your eyes on the moon, and gaze and wonder. I believe it would have - been no difficult matter to have plunged you back into the heathenism of - your ancestors, and to have made it one of the gods of your idolatry.” - </p> - <p> - “And was the chaste Luna in the <i>album sanctorum</i> of your Druidical - mythology?” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Undoubtedly,” said the priest, “we read in the life of our celebrated - saint, St. Columba, that on the altar-piece of a Druidical temple, the - sun, moon, and stars were curiously depicted; and the form of the ancient - Irish oath of allegiance, was to swear by the sun, moon, and stars, and - other deities, celestial as well as terrestrial.” - </p> - <p> - “How,” said I, “did your mythology touch so closely on that of the Greeks? - Had you also your Pans and your Daphnes, as well as your Dians and - Apollos?” - </p> - <p> - “Here is a curious anecdote that evinces it,” returned the priest—“It - is many years since I read it in a black-letter memoir of St. Patrick. The - Saint, says the biographer, attended by three bishops, and some less - dignified of his brethren, being in this very province, arose early one - morning, and with his pious associates, placed himself near a fountain or - well, and began to chant a hymn. In the neighbourhood of this honoured - fountain stood the palace of <i>Cruachan</i>, where the two daughters of - the Emperor Laogare were educating in retirement; and as the saints sung - by no means <i>sotto voce</i>, * their pious strains caught the attention - of the royal fair ones, who were enjoying an early ramble, and who - immediately sought the sanctified choristers. Full of that curiosity so - natural to the youthful recluses, they were by no means sparing of - interrogations to the Saint, and among other questions demanded, ‘and who - is your God? Where dwells he, in heaven or on the earth, or beneath the - earth, or in the mountain, or in the valley, or the sea, or the stream?’—And - indeed, even to this day, we have Irish for a river god, which we call <i>Divona</i>.—You - perceive, therefore, that our ancient religion was by no means an - unpoetical one.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * A musical voice was an indispensable quality in an Irish - Saint, and “lungs of leather” no trivial requisite towards - obtaining canonization. St. Columbkill, we are told, sung so - loud, that, according to an old Irish poem, called “Amhra - Chioluim chille,” or The Vision of Columbkill, “His hallow’d - voice beyond a mile was heard.” - </pre> - <p> - While we spoke, we observed a figure emerging from a coppice towards a - small well, which issued beneath the roots of a blasted oak. The priest - motioned us to stop, and be silent—the figure (which was that of an - ancient female wrapped in a long cloak,) approached, and having drank of - the well out of a little cup, she went three times round it on her knees, - praying with great fervency over her beads; then rising after this painful - ceremony, she tore a small part of her under garb, and hung it on the - branch of the tree which shaded the well. - </p> - <p> - “This ceremony, I perceive,” said the priest, “surprises you; but you have - now witnessed the remains of one of our ancient superstitions. The ancient - Irish, like the Greeks, were religiously attached to the consecrated - fountain, the <i>Vel expiatoria</i>; and our early missionaries, - discovering the fondness of the natives for these sanctified springs, - artfully diverted the course of their superstitious faith, and dedicated - them to Christian saints.” - </p> - <p> - “There is really,” said I, “something truly classic in this spot; and here - is this little shrine of Christian superstition hung with the same votive - gifts as Pausanius informs us obscured the statue of Hygeia in Secyonia.” - </p> - <p> - “This is nothing extraordinary here,” said the priest; “these consecrated - wells are to be found in every part of the kingdom. But of all our <i>Acquo - Sanctificato</i>, Lough Derg is the most celebrated. It is the <i>Loretto</i> - of Ireland, and votarists from every part of the kingdom resort to it. So - great, indeed, is the still-existing veneration among the lower orders for - these holy wells, that those who live at too great a distance to make a - pilgrimage to one, are content to purchase a species of amulet made of a - sliver of the tree which shades the well, (and imbued with its waters,) - which they wear round their necks. These curious amulets are sold at - fairs, by a species of sturdy beggar, called a <i>Bacagh</i>, who stands - with a long pole, with a box fixed at the top of it, for the reception of - alms; while he alternately extols the miraculous property of the amulet, - and details his own miseries; thus at once endeavouring to interest the - faith and charity of the always benevolent, always credulous multitude.” - </p> - <p> - “Strange,” said I, “that religion in all ages and in all countries should - depend so much on the impositions of one half of mankind, and the - credulity and indolence of the other. Thus the Egyptians (to whom even - Greece herself stood indebted for the principles of those arts and - sciences by which she became the most illustrious country in the world) - resigned themselves so entirely to the impositions of their priests, as to - believe that the safety and happiness of life itself depended on the - motions of an ox, or the tameness of a crocodile.” - </p> - <p> - “Stop, stop,” interrupted Father John, smiling; “you forget, that though - you wear the <i>San-Benito</i>, or robe of heresy yourself, you are in the - company of those who——” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly think on <i>certain points</i>,” interrupted I, “even as my - heretical self.” - </p> - <p> - This observation led to a little controversial dialogue, which, as it - would stand a very poor chance of being read by you, will stand none at - all of being transcribed by me. - </p> - <p> - When we returned home we found the Prince impatiently watching for us at - the window, fearful lest the dews of heaven should have fallen too heavily - on the head of his heart’s idol, who finished her walk in silence; either, - I believe, not much pleased with the turn given to the conversation by the - priest, or not sufficiently interested in it. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - I know not how it is, but since the morning of the first of May, I feel as - though my soul had entered into a covenant with hers; as though our very - beings were indissolubly interwoven with each other. And yet the freedom - which once existed in our intercourse is fled. I approach her trembling; - and she repels the most distant advances with such dignified softness, - such chastely modest reserve, that the restraint I sometimes labour under - in her presence, is almost concomitant to the bliss it bestows. - </p> - <p> - This morning, when she came to her drawing-desk, she held a volume of <i>De - Moustier</i> in her hand—“I have brought this,” said she, “for ou <i>bon - Pere Directeur</i> to read out to us.” - </p> - <p> - “He has commissioned me,” said I, “to make his excuses; he is gone to - visit a sick man on the other side of the mountain.” - </p> - <p> - At this intelligence she blushed to the eyes; but suddenly recovering - herself, she put the book into my hands, and said with a smile, “then you - must officiate for him.” - </p> - <p> - As soon as she was seated at the drawing-desk, I opened the book, and by - chance at the beautiful description of the <i>Boudoir</i>: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “J’amie une boudoir étroite qu’un demi jour eclaire, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - La mon cour est chez lui, le premier demi jour - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Fruit par la volupté, menage pour l’amour, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - La discrete amitié, veut aussi du mystère, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Cluand de nos bons amis dans un lieu limitie, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Le cercle peu nombreux près de nous rassemble - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Le sentiment, la paix, la franche liberté - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Preside en commun,” &c. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I wish you could see this creature, when anything is said or read that - comes home to her heart, or strikes in immediate unison with the exquisite - tone of her feelings. Never sure was there a finer commentary than her - looks and gestures passed on any work of interest which engages her - attention. Before I had finished the perusal of this charming little - fragment, the pencil had dropped from her fingers; and often she waved her - beautiful head and smiled, and breathed a faint exclamation of delight; - and when I laid down the book, she said, while she leaned her face on her - clasped hands—— - </p> - <p> - “And I too have a boudoir!—but even a <i>bou-doir</i> may become a - dreary solitude, except”——she paused; and I added, from the - poem I had just read, “except that within its social little limits - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “La confidence ingénu rapproche deux amis.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Her eyes, half raised to mine, suddenly cast down, beamed a tender - acquiescence to the sentiment. - </p> - <p> - “But,” said I, “if the being worthy of sharing the bliss such an - intercourse in such a place must confer, is yet to be found, is its - hallowed circle inviolable to the intrusive footstep of an inferior, - though perhaps not less ardent votarist?” - </p> - <p> - “Since you have been here,” said she, “I have scarcely ever visited this - once favourite retreat myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Am I to take that as a compliment or otherwise?” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Just as it is meant,” said she—“as a fact;” and she added, with an - inadvertent simplicity, into which the ardour of her temper often betrays - her—“I never can devote myself partially to anything—I am - either all enthusiasm or all indifference.” - </p> - <p> - Not for the world would I have made her <i>feel</i> the full force of this - avowal; but requested permission to visit this now deserted boudoir. - </p> - <p> - “Certainly,” she replied—“it is a little closet in that ruined - tower, which terminates the corridor in which your apartment lies.” - </p> - <p> - “Then, I am privileged?” said I. - </p> - <p> - “Undoubtedly,” she returned; and the Prince who had risen unusually early, - entered the room at that moment, and joined us at the drawing-desk. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - The absence of the good priest left me to a solitary dinner. Glorvina (as - is usual with her) spent the first part of the evening in her father’s - room; and thus denied her society, I endeavoured to supply its want—its - soul-felt want, by a visit to her boudoir. - </p> - <p> - There is a certain tone of feeling when fancy is in its acme, when - sentiment holds the senses in subordination, and the visionary joys which - float in the imagination shed a livelier bliss on the soul, than the best - pleasures cold reality ever conferred. Then, even the presence of a - beloved object is not more precious to the heart than the spot consecrated - to her memory; where we fancy the very air is impregnated with her - respiration; every object is hallowed by her recent touch, and that all - around breathes of her. - </p> - <p> - In such a mood of mind, I ascended to Glor-vina’s boudoir; and I really - believe, that had she accompanied, I should have felt less than when alone - and unseen I stole to the asylum of her pensive thoughts. It lay as she - had described; and almost as I passed its threshold, I was sensibly struck - by the incongruity of its appearance—it seemed to me as though it - had been partly furnished in the beginning of one century, and finished in - the conclusion of another. The walls were rudely wainscotted with oak, - black with age; yet the floor was covered with a Turkey carpet, rich, new, - and beautiful—better adapted to cover a Parisian dressing-room than - the closet of a ruined tower. The casements were high and narrow, but - partly veiled with a rich drapery of scarlet silk: a few old chairs, heavy - and cumbrous, were interspersed with stools of an antique form; one of - which lay folded upon the ground, so as to be portable in a travelling - trunk. On a ponderous Gothic table (which seemed a fixture coeval with the - building) was placed a silver <i>escritoire</i>, of curious and elegant - workmanship, and two small, but beautiful antique vases (filled with - flowers) of Etrurian elegance. Two little book-shelves, elegantly - designed, but most clumsily executed, (probably by some hedge-carpenter) - were filled with the best French, English, and Italian poets; and, to my - utter astonishment, not only some new publications scarce six months old, - but two London newspapers of no distant date, lay scattered on the table, - with some MS. music, and some unfinished drawings. - </p> - <p> - Having gratified my curiosity, by examining the singular incongruities of - this paradoxical boudoir, I leaned for some time against one of the - windows, endeavouring to make out some defaced lines cut on its panes with - a diamond, when Glorvina herself entered the room. - </p> - <p> - As I stood concealed by the silken drapery, she did not perceive me. A - basket of flowers hung on her arm, from which she replenished the vases, - having first flung away their faded treasures. As she stood thus engaged - and cheering her sweet employment with a murmured song, I stole softly - behind her, and my breath disturbing the ringlets which had escaped from - the bondage of her bodkin, and seemed to cling to her neck for protection, - she turned quickly round, and with a start, a blush, and a smile, said, - “Ah! <i>so soon</i> here!” - </p> - <p> - “You perceive,” said I, “your immunity was not lost on me! I have been - here this half hour!” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed!” she replied, and casting round a quick inquiring glance, hastily - collected the scattered papers, and threw them into a drawer; adding, “I - intended to have made some arrangements in this deserted little place, - that you might see it in its best garb; but had scarcely begun the - necessary reform this morning, when I was suddenly called to my father, - and could not till this moment find leisure to return hither.” - </p> - <p> - While she spoke I gazed earnestly at her. It struck me there was a - something of mystery over this apartment, yet wherefore should mystery - dwell where all breathes the ingenuous simplicity of the golden age? - Glorvina moved towards the casement, threw open the sash, and laid her - fresh gathered flowers on the seat. Their perfume scented the room; and a - new fallen shower still glittered on the honeysuckle which she was - endeavouring to entice through the window round which it crept. - </p> - <p> - The sun was setting with rather a mild than a dazzling splendour, and the - landscape was richly impurpled with its departing beams, which, as they - darted through the scarlet drapery of the curtain, shed warmly over the - countenance and figure of Glorvina “<i>Love’s proper hue</i>.” - </p> - <p> - We both remained silent, until her eye accidentally meeting mine, a more - “celestial rosy red” invested her cheek. She seated herself in the window, - and I drew a chair and sat near her. All within was the softest gloom—all - without the most solemn stillness. The gray vapours of twilight were - already stealing amidst the illumined clouds that floated in the - atmosphere—the sun’s golden beams no longer scattered round their - rich suffusion; and the glow of retreating day was fading even from the - horizon where its parting glories faintly lingered. - </p> - <p> - “It is a sweet hour,” said Glorvina, softly sighing. - </p> - <p> - “It is a <i>boudoirizing</i> hour,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “It is a golden one for a poetic heart,” she added. - </p> - <p> - “Or an enamoured one,” I returned. “It is the hour in which the soul best - knows itself; when every low-thoughted care is excluded, and the pensive - pleasures take possession of the dis solving heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Ces douces lumières - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Ces sombre certes - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Sont les jours de la volupté.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - And what was the <i>voluptas</i> of Epicurus, but those refined and - elegant enjoyments which must derive their spirit from virtue and from - health; from a vivid fancy, susceptible feelings, and a cultivated mind; - and which are never so fully tasted as in this sweet season of the day; - then the influence of sentiment is buoyant over passion; the soul, alive - to the sublimest impression, expands in the region of pure and elevated - meditation: the passions, slumbering in the soft repose of Nature, leave - the heart free to the reception of the purest, warmest, tenderest - sentiments—when all is delicious melancholy, or pensive softness; - when every vulgar wish is hushed, and a rapture, an indefinable rapture, - thrills with sweet vibration on every nerve.” - </p> - <p> - “It is thus I have felt,” said the all-impassioned Glorvina, clasping her - hands and fixing her humid eyes on mine—“thus, in the dearth of all - <i>kindred</i> feeling, have I felt. But never, oh! till <i>now—never!</i>”—and - she abruptly paused, and drooped her head on the back of my chair, over - which my hand rested, and felt the soft pressure of her glowing cheek, - while her balmy sigh breathed its odour on my lip. - </p> - <p> - Oh had not her celestial confidence, her angelic purity, sublimed every - thought, restrained every wish; at that moment; that too fortunate; too - dangerous moment!!!—Yet even as it was, in the delicious agony of my - soul, I secretly exclaimed with the legislator of Lesbos—“<i>It is - too difficult to be always virtuous!</i>” while I half audibly breathed on - the ear of Glorvina— - </p> - <p> - “Nor I, O first of all created beings! never, never till I beheld thee, - did I know the pure rapture which the intercourse of a kindred soul - awakens—of that sacred communion with a superior intelligence, - which, while it raises me in my own estimation, tempts me to emulate that - excellence I adore.” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina raised her head—her melting eyes met mine, and her cheek - rivalled the snow of that hand which was pressed with passionate ardour on - my lips. Then her eyes were bashfully withdrawn; she again drooped her - head—not on the chair, but on my shoulder. What followed, angels - might have attested—but the eloquence of bliss is silence. - </p> - <p> - Suffice it to say, that I am now certain of at least being understood; and - that in awakening her comprehension, I have roused my own. In a word, I <i>now</i> - feel I love!!—for the first time I feel it. For the first time my - heart is alive to the most profound, the most delicate, the most ardent, - and most refined of all human passions. I am now conscious that I have - hitherto mistaken the senses for the heart, and the blandishments of a - vitiated imagination for the pleasures of the soul. In short, I now feel - myself in that state of beatitude, when the fruition of all the heart’s - purest wishes leaves me nothing to desire, and the innocence of those - wishes nothing to fear. You know but little of the sentiment which now - pervades my whole being, and blends with every atom of my frame, if you - suppose I have formally told Glorvina I loved her, or that I appear even - to suspect that I am (rapturous thought!) beloved in return. On the - contrary, the same mysterious delicacy, the same delicious reserve still - exist. It is a sigh, a glance, a broken sentence, an imperceptible motion, - (imperceptible to all eyes but our own) that betrays us to each other. - Once I used to fall at the feet of the “<i>Cynthia of the moment</i>,” - avow my passion, and swear eternal truth. Now I make no genuflection, - offer no vows, and swear no oaths; and yet feel more than ever.—More!—dare - I then place in the scale of comparison what I now feel with what I ever - felt before? The thought is sacrilege! - </p> - <p> - This child of Nature appears to me each succeeding day, in a <i>phasis</i> - more bewitchingly attractive than the last. She now feels her power over - me, (with woman’s <i>intuition</i>, where the heart is in question!) and - this consciousness gives to her manners a certain roguish tyranny, that - renders her the most charming tantalizing being in the world. In a - thousand little instances she contrives to teaze me; most, when most she - delights me! and takes no pains to conceal my simple folly from others, - while she triumphs in it herself. In short, she is the last woman in the - world who would incur the risk of satiating him who is best in her love; - for the variability of her manner, always governed by her ardent, though - volatilized feelings, keeps suspense on the eternal <i>qui vive!</i> and - the sweet assurance given by the eyes one moment, is destroyed in the next - by some arch sally of the lip. - </p> - <p> - To-day I met her walking with the nurse. The old woman, very properly, - made a motion to retire as I approached. Glorvina would not suffer this, - and twined her arm round that of her fostermother. I was half inclined to - turn on my heel, when a servant came running to the nurse for the keys. It - was impossible to burst them from her side, and away she hobbled after the - barefooted <i>laquais</i>. I looked reproachfully at Glorvina, but her - eyes were fixed on an arbutus tree rich in blossom. - </p> - <p> - “I wish I had that high branch,” said she, “to put in my vase.” In a - moment I was climbing up the tree like a great school-boy, while she, - standing beneath, received the blossoms in her extended drapery; and I was - on the point of descending, when a branch, lovelier than all I had culled, - attracted my eye: this I intended to present in <i>propria persona</i>, - that I might get a kiss of the hand in return. With my own hands - sufficiently engaged in effecting my descent, I held my Hesperian branch - in my teeth, and had nearly reached the ground, when Glorvina playfully - approached her lovely mouth to snatch the prize from mine. We were just in - contact—I suddenly let fall the branch—and—Father John - appeared walking towards us; while Glorvina, who, it seems, had perceived - him before she had placed herself in the way of danger, now ran towards - him, covered with blushes and malignant little smiles. In short, she makes - me feel in a thousand trivial instances the truth of Epictetus’s maxim, - that to <i>bear</i> and <i>forbear</i>, are the powers that constitute a - wise man: to <i>forbear</i>, alone, would, in my opinion, be a sufficient - test. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, H. M. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> cannot promise - you any more Irish history. I fear my <i>Hiberniana</i> is closed, and a - volume of more dangerous, more delightful tendency, draws towards its - bewitching subject every truant thought. To him who is deep in the <i>Philosophia - Amatoria</i>, every other science is cold and vapid. - </p> - <p> - The oral legend of the Prince, and the historic lore of the priest, all go - for nothing! I shake my head, look very wise, and appear to listen, while - my eyes are riveted on Glorvina—who, not unconscious of the ardent - gaze, sweeps with a feathery touch the chords of her harp, or plies her - fairy wheel with double vigilence. Meantime, however, I am making a rapid - progress in the Irish language, and well I may; for besides that I now - listen to the language of Ossian with the same respect a Hindoo would to - the Sanscrit of the Bramins, the Prince, the priest, and even Glorvina, - contribute their exertions to my progress. The other evening, as we - circled round the evening fire in the great hall, the Prince would put my - improvements to the test, and taking down a grammar, he insisted upon my - conjugating a verb. The verb he chose was, “<i>to love</i>”—? - “Glorvina,” said he, seeing me hesitate, “go through the verb.” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina had it at her fingers’ ends; and in her eyes swam a thousand - delicious comments on the text she was expounding. - </p> - <p> - The Prince, who is as unsuspicious as an infant, would have us repeat it - together, that I might catch the pronunciation from her lip! - </p> - <p> - “<i>I love</i>,” faintly articulated Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - “<i>I love</i>,” I more faintly repeated. - </p> - <p> - This was not enough—the Prince would have us repeat the plural twice - over: and again and again we murmured together—“<i>we love!</i>” - </p> - <p> - Heavens and earth! had you at that moment seen the preceptress and the <i>pupil!</i>The - attention of the simple Prince was riveted on Valancy’s grammar: he grew - peevish at what he called our stupidity, and said we knew nothing of the - verb to love, while in fact we were running through all its moods and - tenses with our eyes and looks. - </p> - <p> - Good God! to how many delicious sensations is the soul alive, for which - there is no possible mode of expression.. - </p> - <p> - Adieu.—The little post-boy is at my elbow. I observe he goes more - frequently to the post than usual; and one morning I perceived Glorvina - eagerly watching his return from the summit of a rock. Whence can this - solicitude arise? Her father may have some correspondence on business—she - can have none. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>his creature is - deep in the metaphysics of love. She is perpetually awakening ardour by - restraint, and stealing enjoyment from privation. She still persists in - bringing the priest with her to the drawing-desk; but it is evident she - does not the less enjoy that casual absence which leaves us sometimes - alone; and I am now become such an epicure in sentiment, that I scarcely - regret the restraint the presence of the priest imposes; since it gives a - keener zest to the transient minutes of felicity his absence bestows—even - though they are enjoyed in silent confusion. For nothing can be more - seducing than her looks, nothing can be more dignified than her manners. - If, when we are alone, I even offer to take her hand, she grows pale, and - shrinks from my touch. Yet I regret not that careless confidence which - once prompted the innocent request that I would guide her hand to draw a - perpendicular line. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “Solitude (says the Spectator) with the person beloved, even to a woman’s - mind, has a pleasure beyond all the pomp and splendour in the world.” - </p> - <p> - O! how my heart subscribes to a sentiment I have so often laughed at, when - my ideas of pleasure were very different from what they are at present. I - cannot persuade myself that three weeks have elapsed since my return - hither; and still less am I willing to believe that it is necessary I - should return to M———— house. In short, the rocks - which embosom the peninsula of Inis-more bound all my hopes, all my - wishes; and my desires, like the <i>radii of a circle</i>, all point - towards one and the same centre. This creature grows on me with boundless - influence; her originality, her genius, her sensibility, her youth, and - person! In short, her united charms in this profound solitude thus closely - associated, is a species of witchcraft. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - It was indispensibly necessary I should return to M———house, - as my father’s visit to Ireland is drawing near; and it was requisite I - should receive and answer his letters. At last, therefore, I summoned up - resolution to plead my former excuses to the Prince for my absence; who - insisted on my immediate return—which I promised should be in a day - or two—while the eyes of Glorvina echoed her father’s commands, and - mine looked implicit obedience. With what different emotions I now left - Inismore, to those which accompanied my last departure! My feelings were - then unknown to myself—now I am perfectly aware of their nature. - </p> - <p> - I found M———— house, as usual, cold, comfortless, - and desolate—with a few wretched-looking peasants working languidly - about the grounds. In short, everything breathed the deserted mansion of - an <i>absentee</i>. - </p> - <p> - The evening of my arrival I answered my father’s letters—one from - our pleasant but libertine friend D———n,—read over - yours three times—went to bed—dreamed of Glorvina—and - set off for Inismore the next morning. I rode so hard that I reached the - castle about that hour which we usually devoted to the exertions of the - pencil. I flew at once to that vast and gloomy room which her presence - alone cheers and illumines. Her drawing-desk lay open; she seemed but just - to have risen from the chair placed before it; and her work-basket hung on - its back. - </p> - <p> - Even this well-known little work-basket is to me an object of interest. I - kissed the muslin it contained; and, in raising it, perceived a small book - splendidly bound and gilt. I took it up, and read on its cover, marked in - letters of gold, “<i>Brevaire du Sentiment</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Impelled by the curiosity which this title excited, I opened it—and - found beneath its first two leaves several faded snowdrops <i>stained with - blood</i>. Under them was written in Glorvina’s hand, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Prone to the earth he bowed our pallid flowers— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And caught the drops divine, the purple dyes - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Tinging the lustre of our native hues.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - A little lower in the page was traced, “Culled from the spot where he fell—April - the 1st, 17— - </p> - <p> - Oh! how quickly my bounding heart told me who was that <i>he</i>, whose - vital drops had stained these <i>treasured</i> blossoms, thus “tinging the - lustre of their native hues.” While the sweetest association of ideas - convinced me that these were the identical flowers which Glorvina had - hallowed with a tear as she watched by the couch of him with whose blood - they were polluted. - </p> - <p> - While I pressed this sweet testimony of a pure and lively tenderness to my - lips, she entered. At sight of <i>me</i>, pleasurable surprise invested - every feature; and the most innocent joy lit up her countenance, as she - sprang forward and offered me her hand. While I carried it eagerly to my - lips, I pointed to the snowdrops. Glorvina, with the hand which was - disengaged, covered her blushing face, and would have fled. But the look - which preceded this natural motion discovered the wounded feelings of a - tender but proud heart. I felt the indelicacy of my conduct, and, still - clasping her struggling hand, exclaimed— - </p> - <p> - “Forgive, forgive the vain triumph of a being intoxicated by your pity<—transported - by your condescension.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Triumph!</i>” repeated Glorvina, in an accent tenderly reproachful, - yet accompanied by a look proudly indignant—“<i>Triumph!</i>” - </p> - <p> - How I cursed the coxcomical expression in my heart, while I fell at her - feet, and kissing the hem of her robe, without daring to touch the hand I - had relinquished, said, “Does this look like triumph, Glorvina?” Glorvina - turned towards me a face in which all the witcheries of her sex were - blended—playful fondness, affected anger, animated tenderness, and - soul-dissolving languishment. Oh! she should not have looked thus, or I - should have been more or less than man. - </p> - <p> - With a glance of undeniable supplication, she released herself from that - glowing fold, which could have pressed her forever to a heart where she - must forever reign unrivalled. I saw she wished I should think her very - angry, and another pardon was to be solicited, for the transient - indulgence of that passionate impulse her own seducing looks had called - into existence. The pardon, after some little pouting playfulness, <i>was</i> - granted, and I was suffered to lead her to that Gothic sofa where our - first <i>tete-a-tete</i> had taken place; and partly by artifice, partly - by entreaty, I drew from her the little history of the treasured - snow-drops, and read from her eloquent eyes more than her bashful lip - would dare to express. - </p> - <p> - Thus, like the <i>assymtotes</i> of a hyperbola, without absolutely - rushing into contact, we are, by a sweet impulsion, gradually - approximating closer and closer towards each other. - </p> - <p> - Ah! my dear friend, this is the golden age of love; and I sometimes think, - with the refined Weiland, in certain degree, with the first kiss—mine, - therefore, is now in its climacteric. - </p> - <p> - The impetuosity with which I rush on every subject that touches her, often - frustrates the intention with which I sit down to address you. I left this - letter behind me unfinished, for the purpose of filling it up, on my - return, with answers to those I expected to receive from you. The - arguments which your friendly foresight and prudent solicitude have - furnished you, are precisely such as the understanding cannot refute, nor - the heart subscribe to. - </p> - <p> - You say my <i>wife</i> she <i>cannot</i> be—and my mistress! perish - the thought! What! I repay the generosity of the father by the destruction - of the child! I steal this angelic being from the peaceful security of her - native shades, with all her ardent, tender feelings thick upon her: I, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - ‘“Crop this fair rose, and rifle all its sweetness!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - No; you do me but common justice when you say, that though you have - sometimes known me <i>affect</i> the character of a libertine, yet never, - even for a moment, have you known me forfeit that of a man of honour. I - would not be understood to speak in the mere commonplace worldly - acceptation of the word, but literally, according to the text of moral and - divine laws. - </p> - <p> - “Then, what,” you ask me, “is the aim, the object, in pursuing this <i>ignus - fatuus</i> of the heart and fancy?” - </p> - <p> - In a word, then, virtue is my object—felicity my aim; or, rather, I - am lured towards the former through the medium of the latter. And whether - the tie which binds me at once to moral and physical good, is a fragile - texture and transient existence, or whether it will become “close twisted - with the fibres of the heart, and breaking break it,” time only can - determine—to time, therefore, I commit my fate; but while thus led - by the hand of virtue, I inebriate at the living spring of bliss; - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “While reeling through a wilderness of joy,"= can you wonder that I fling - off the goading chain of prudence, and, in daring to be <i>free</i>, at - once be virtuous and happy. - </p> - <p> - My father’s letter is brief, but pithy. My brother is married, and has - sold his name and <i>title</i> for a hundred thousand pounds; and <i>his</i> - brother has a chance of selling his happiness forever for something about - the same sum. And who think you, is to be the purchaser? Why our old - sporting friend D————. In my last grousing visit - at his seat, you may remember the <i>pert</i> little girl, his only - daughter, who, he assured us, was that day <i>unkennelled</i> for the - first time, in honour of our success, and who rushed upon us from the - nursery in all the bloom of fifteen, and all the boldness of a hoyden; - whose society was the house-keeper, and the chamber-maid, whose ideas of - pleasure extended no farther than a blind-man’s-buff in the servant’s - hall, and a game of hot cockles with the butler and footman in the pantry. - I had the good fortune to touch her heart at cross-purposes, and - completely vanquished her affection by a romping match in the morning; and - so it seems the fair <i>susceptible</i> has pined in thought ever since, - but not “let concealment prey on her damask cheek,” for she told her love - to an old maiden aunt, who told it to another confidential friend, until - the whole neighbourhood was full of the tale of the <i>victim of constancy</i> - and the <i>fatal deceiver</i>. - </p> - <p> - The father, as is usual in such cases, was the last to hear it; and - believing me to be an excellent shot, and a keen sportsman, all he - requires in a son-in-law, except a good family, he proposed the match to - my father, who gladly embraced the offer, and fills his letters with - blossoms, blushes, and unsophisticated charms; congratulates me on my - conquest, and talks either of recalling me shortly to England, or bringing - the fair <i>fifteen</i> and old <i>Nimrod</i> to Ireland on a visit with - him. But the former he will not easily effect, and the latter I know - business will prevent for some weeks, as he writes that he is still up to - his ears in parchment deeds, leases, settlements, jointures. Mean time, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy, this group - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise as yet unforfeit,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - crown my golden hours of bliss; and whatever may be my destiny, I will at - least rescue one beam of unalloyed felicity from its impending clouds—for, - oh! my good friend, there is a prophetic something which incessantly - whispers me, that in clouds and storms will the evening of my existence - expire. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, H. M. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXIII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is certain, that - you men of the world are nothing less than men of <i>pleasure</i>:—would - you taste it in all its essence, come to Inismore. Ah! no, pollute not - with your presence the sacred <i>palladium</i> of all the primeval - virtues; and attempt not to participate in those pure joys of the soul it - would be death in me to divide even with you - </p> - <p> - Here Plato might enjoy, and Epicurus revel: here we are taught to feel - according to t. doctrine of the latter, that the happiness of mankind - consists in <i>pleasure</i>, not such as arises from gratification of the - senses, or the pursuits of vice—but from the enjoyments of the mind, - the pleasures of the imagination, the affections of the heart and the - sweets of virtue. And here we learn, according to the precepts of the - former, that the summit of human felicity may be attained, by removing - from the material, and approaching nearer to the intellectual world; by - curbing and governing the passions, which are so much oftener inflamed by - imaginary than real objects; and by borrowing from temperance, that zest - which can alone render pleasure forever poignant and forever new. Ah! you - will say, like other lovers, you now see the moral as well as the natural - world through a prism; but would this unity of pleasure and virtue be - found in the wilds of Inismore, if Glorvina was no longer there? - </p> - <p> - I honestly confess to you I do not think it would, for where yet was - pleasure ever found where woman was not? and when does the heart so warmly - receive the pure impressions of virtue, as when its essence is imbibed - from woman’s lip? - </p> - <p> - My life passes away here in a species of delectability to which I can give - no name; and while, through the veil of delicate reserve which the pure - suggestions of the purest nature have flung over the manners of my sweet - Glorvina, a thousand little tendernesses unconsciously appear. Her amiable - preceptor clings to me with a parent’s fondness; and her father’s - increasing partiality for his hereditary enemy, is visible in a thousand - instances; while neither of these excellent, but inexperienced men, - suspect the secret intelligence which exists between the younger tutor and - his lovely pupil. As yet, indeed, it has assumed no determinate character. - With me it is a delightful dream, from which I dread to be awakened, yet - feel that it is but a dream; while she, bewildered, amazed at those vague - emotions which throb impetuously in her unpractised heart, resigns herself - unconsciously to the sweetest of all deliriums, and makes no effort to - dissolve the vision! - </p> - <p> - If, in the refined epicurism of my heart, I carelessly speak of my - departure for England in the decline of summer, Glorvina changes colour; - the sainted countenance of Father John loses its wonted smile of - placidity; and the Prince replies by some peevish observation on the - solitude of their lives, and the want of attraction at Inis more to detain - a man of the world in its domestic circle. - </p> - <p> - But he will say, “it was not always thus—this hall once echoed to - the sound of mirth and the strain of gaiety; for the day was, when none - went sad of heart from the castle of Inismore!” - </p> - <p> - I much fear that the circumstances of this worthy man are greatly - deranged, though it is evident his pride would be deeply wounded if it was - even suspected. Father John, indeed, hinted to me, that the Prince was a - great agricultural speculator some few years back; “and even still” said - he, “likes to hold more land in his hands than he is able to manage.” - </p> - <p> - I have observed, too, that the hall is frequently crowded with importunate - people whom the priest seems endeavouring to pacify in Irish; and twice, - as I passed the Prince’s room last week, an ill-looking fellow appeared at - the door whom Glorviria was showing out. Her eyes were moist with tears, - and at the sight of me she deeply coloured, and hastily withdrew. It is - impossible to describe my feelings at that moment! - </p> - <p> - Notwithstanding, however, the Prince affects an air of grandeur, and - opulence—he keeps a kind of open table in his servants’ hall, where - a crowd of labourers, dependants, and mendicants are daily entertained; * - and it is evident his pride would receive a mortal stab, if he supposed - that his guest, and that guest an Englishman, suspected the impoverished - state of his circumstances. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The kitchen, or servants’ hall of an Irish country - gentleman, is open to all whom distress may lead to its - door. Professed indolent mendicants take advantage of this - indiscriminating hospitality, enter without ceremony, seat - themselves by the fire, and seldom (indeed never) depart - with their demands unsatisfied, by the misapplied - benevolence of an old Irish custom, which in many instances - would be—“more honoured in the breach than the observance.” - </pre> - <p> - Although not a man of very superior understanding, yet he evidently - possesses that innate grandeur of soul, which haughtily struggles with - distress, and which will neither yield to, nor make terms with misfortune; - and when, in the dignity of that pride which scorns revelation of its - woes, I behold him collecting all the forces of his mind, and asserting a - right to a better fate, I feel my own character energize in the - contemplation of his, and am almost tempted to envy him those trials which - call forth the latent powers of human fortitude and human greatness. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXIV. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="indent20"> - “Tous s’évanouit sous les cieux, - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Chaque instant varie a nos yeux - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Le tableau mouvant de la vie.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>las! that even - this solitude where all seems - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The world forgetting, by the world forgot.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - should be subject to that mutability of fate which governs the busiest - haunts of man. Is it possible, that among these dear ruins, where all the - “life of life” has been restored to me, the worst of human pangs should - assail my full all-confiding heart. And yet I am jealous only on surmise: - but who was ever jealous on conviction; for where is the heart so weak, so - mean as to cherish the passion when betrayed by the object? I have already - mentioned to you the incongruities which so forcibly struck me in - Glorvina’s <i>boudoir</i>. Since the evening, the happy evening in which I - first visited it, I have often stolen thither when I knew her elsewhere - engaged, but always found it locked till this morning, when I perceived - the door standing open. It seemed as though its mistress had but just left - it, for a chair was placed near the window, which was open, and her book - and work-basket lay on the seat. I mechanically took up the book, it was - my own <i>Eloisa</i>, and was marked with a slip of paper in that page - where the character of Wolmar is described; I read through the passage, I - was throwing it by, when some writing on the <i>paper mark</i> caught my - eye; supposing it to be Glorvina’s, I endeavoured to decypher the lines, - and read as follows: “Professions, my lovely friend, are for the world. - But I would at least have you believe that <i>my</i> friendship, like - gold, though not <i>sonorous</i>, is indestructible.” This was all I could - make out—and this I read a hundred times—the hand-writing was - a man’s—but it was not the priest’s—it could not be her - father’s. And yet I thought the hand was not entirely unknown to me, - though it appeared disguised. I was still engaged in gazing on the <i>sybil - leaf</i> when I heard <i>Glorvina</i> approach. I never was mistaken in - her little feet’s light bound, for she seldom walks; and hastily replacing - the book, I appeared deeply engaged in looking over a fine atlas that lay - open on the table. She seemed surprised at my appearance, so much so, that - I felt the necessity for apologizing for my intrusion. “But,” said I, “an - immunity granted by you is too precious to be neglected, and if I have not - oftener availed myself of my valued privileges, I assure you the fault was - not mine.” - </p> - <p> - Without noticing my inuendo she only bowed her head, and asked me with a - smile, “what favourite spot on the globe I was tracing with such - earnestness,” when her entrance had interrupted my geographic pursuits. - </p> - <p> - I placed my finger on that point of the northwest shores of Ireland, where - we then stood, and said in the language of <i>St. Preux</i>, “The world, - in my imagination, is divided into two regions—that where <i>she is</i>—and - that where she is not.” - </p> - <p> - With an air of bewitching insinuation, she placed her hand on my shoulder, - and with a faint blush and a little smile shook her head, and looked up in - my face, with a glance half incredulous—half tender. I kissed the - hand by whose pressure I was thus honoured, and said, “professions, my - lovely friend, are for the world, but I would at least have you believe, - that my friendship, like gold, though not sonorous, is indestructible.” - </p> - <p> - This I said, in the irrascibility of my jealous heart, for, though too - warm for another, oh! how cold for me! Glorviria started as I spoke, I - thought changed colour! while at intervals she repeated, “strange!—nor - is this the only coincidence!” - </p> - <p> - “Coincidence!” I eagerly repeated, but she affected not to hear me, and - appeared busily engaged in selecting for herself a bouquet from the - flowers which filled one of those <i>vases</i> I before noticed to you. - “And is that beautiful vase,” said I, “another family antiquity? it looks - as though it stole its elegant form from an Estrucan model: is this too an - effort of ancient Irish taste!” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said she, I thought confusedly, “I believe it came from Italy.” - </p> - <p> - “Has it been long in the possession of the family?” said I, with - persevering impertinence. “It was a present from a friend of my father’s,” - she replied, colouring, “to me!” The bell at that moment rang for - breakfast, away she flew, apparently pleased to be released from my - importunities. - </p> - <p> - “A friend of her father’s!” and who can this friend be, whose delicacy of - judgment so nicely adapts the gifts to the taste of her on whom they are - lavished. For, undoubtedly, the same hand that made the offering of the - vases, presented also those other portable elegancies which are so - strongly contrasted by the rude original furniture of the <i>Boudoir</i>. - The tasteful <i>donneur</i> and author of that letter whose torn fragment - betrayed the sentiment of no common mind, are certainly one and the same - person. Yet, who visits the castle? scarcely any one; the pride and - circumstances of the <i>Prince</i> equally forbid it. Sometimes, though - rarely, an old Milesian cousin, or poor relation will drop in, but those - of them that I have seen, are mere commonplace people. I have indeed heard - the Prince speak of a cousin in the Spanish service, and a nephew in the - Irish brigades, now in Germany. But the cousin is an old man, and the - nephew he has not seen since he was a child. Yet, after all, these - presents may have come from one of those relatives; if so, as Glorvina has - no recollection of either, how I should curse that jealous temper which - has purchased for me some moments of torturing doubts. I remember you used - often to say, that any woman could <i>pique</i> me into love by affecting - indifference, and that the native jealousy of my disposition would always - render me the slave of any woman who knew how to play upon my dominant - passion. The fact is, when my heart erects an idol for its secret homage, - it is madness to think that another should even bow at the shrine, much - less that his offerings should be propitiously received. - </p> - <p> - But it is the silence of Glorvina on the subject of this generous friend, - that distracts me; if, after all—oh! it is impossible—it is - sacrilege against heaven to doubt her! She practised in deception! she, - whose every look, every motion betrays a soul that is all truth, - innocence, and virtue! I have endeavoured to sound the priest on the - subject, and affected to admire the vases; repeating the same questions - with which I had teased Glorvina. But he, too, carelessly replied, “they - were given her by a friend of her father’s.” - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXV. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">J</span>ust as I had - finished my last, the Prince sent for me to his room; I found him alone, - and sitting up in his bed! he only complained of the effects of years and - sickness, but it was evident that some recent cause of uneasiness preyed - on his mind. He made me sit by his bed-side, and said, that my - good-nature, upon every occasion, induced him to prefer a request, he was - induced to hope would not meet with a denial. I begged he would change - that request to a command, and rely in every instance on my readiness to - serve him. He thanked me, and told me in a few words, that the priest was - going on a very particular, but not very pleasing business for him (the - Prince) to the <i>north</i>; that the journey was long, and would be both - solitary and tedious to his good old friend, whose health I might have - observed was delicate and precarious, except I had the goodness to cheat - the weariness of the journey by giving the priest my company. “I would not - make the request,” he added, “but that I think your compliance will be - productive of pleasure and information to yourself; in a journey of a - hundred miles, many new sources of observation to your inquiring mind will - appear. Besides, you who seem to feel so lively an interest in all which - concerns this country, will be glad to have an opportunity of viewing the - Irish character in a new aspect; or rather of beholding the Scotch - character engrafted upon ours.” - </p> - <p> - “But,” said the Prince, with his usual nationality, “that exotic branch is - not very distinguishable from the old stock.” - </p> - <p> - I need not tell you that I complied with this request with <i>seeming</i> - readiness, but with real reluctance. - </p> - <p> - In the evening, as we circled round the fire in the great hall, I proposed - to <i>Father John</i> to accompany him on his journey the following day. - </p> - <p> - The poor man was overjoyed at the offer while Glorvina betrayed neither - surprise nor regret at my intention, but looked first at her father, and - then at me, with kindness and gratitude. - </p> - <p> - Were my heart more at ease, were my confidence in the affections of - Glorvina something stronger, I should greatly relish this little tour, but - as it is, when I found every thing arranged for my departure, without the - concurrence of my own wishes, I could not check my pettishness, and for - want of some other mode of venting it, I endeavoured to ridicule a work on - the subject of <i>ancient Irish</i> history which the priest was reading - aloud, while Glorvina worked, and I was trifling with my pencil. - </p> - <p> - “What,” said I, after having interrupted him in many different passages, - which I thought savoured of natural hyperbole, “what can be more forced - than the very supposition of your partial author, that <i>Albion</i>, the - most ancient name of Britain, was given it as though it were another or <i>second - Ireland</i>, because Banba was one of the ancient names of your country?” - </p> - <p> - “It may appear to you a forced etymology,” said the priest, “yet it has - the sanction of <i>Camden</i>, who first risked the supposition. But it is - the fate of our unhappy country to receive as little credit in the present - day, for its former celebrity, as for its great antiquity, * although the - former is attested by <i>Bede</i>, and many other early British writers, - and the latter is authenticated by the testimony of the most ancient Greek - authors. For <i>Jervis</i> is mentioned in the <i>Argonautica</i> of <i>Orpheus</i>, - long before the name of England is anywhere to be found in Grecian - literature. And surely it had scarcely been first mentioned, had it not - been first known.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * It has been the fashion to throw odium on the modern - Irish, by undermining the basis of their ancient history, - and vilifying their ancient national character. If a - historian professes to have acquired his information from - the records of the country whose history he writes, his - accounts are generally admitted as authentic, as the - commentaries of Garcilasso de Vega are considered as the - chief pillars of Peruvian history, though avowed by their - author to have been compiled from the old national ballads - of the country; yet the old writers of Ireland, (the Psalter - of Cashel in particular) though they refer to these ancient - re cords of their country, authenticated by existing manners - and existing habits, are plunged into the oblivion of - contemptuous neglect, or read only to be discredited. -</pre> - <p> - “Then you really suppose,” said I, smiling incredulously, “we are indebted - to you for the name of our country?” - </p> - <p> - “I know,” said the priest, returning my smile, “the fallacies in general - of all etymologists, but the only part of your island anciently called by - any name that bore the least affinity to <i>Albion</i>, was <i>Scotland</i>, - then called <i>Albin</i>, a word of <i>Irish</i> etymology, <i>Albin</i> - signifying mountainous, from Alb, a mountain.” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear friend,” I replied, “admitting the great antiquity of your - country, allowing it to be early inhabited by a lettered and civilized - people, and that it was the <i>Nido paterno</i> of western literature when - the rest of Europe was involved in darkness; how is it that so few - monuments of your ancient learning and genius remain? Where are your - manuscripts, your records, your annals, stamped with the seal of antiquity - to be found?” - </p> - <p> - “Manuscripts, annals, and records are not the treasures of a colonized or - conquered country,” said the priest; “it is always the policy of the - conqueror, or the invader, to destroy those mementi of ancient national - splendour which keep alive the spirit of the conquered or the invaded; * - the dispersion at various periods ** of many of the most illustrious Irish - families into foreign countries, has assisted the depredations of time and - policy, in the plunder of her literary treasures; many of them are now - mouldering in public and private libraries on the Continent, whither their - possessors conveyed them from the destruction which civil war carries with - it, and many of them (even so far back as Elizabeth’s day) were conveyed - to Denmark. The Danish monarch applied to the English court for some - learned men to translate them, and one <i>Donald O’Daly</i>, a person - eminently qualified for the task, was actually engaged to perform it, - until the illiberality of the English court prevented the intention on the - poor plea of its prejudicing the English interest.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Sir George Carevy, in the reign of Elizabeth, was accused - of bribing the family historian of the McCarthies to convey - to him some curious MSS. “But what,” says the author of the - Analect, “Carevy did in one province [Munster] Henry Sidney, - and his predecessors did all over the kingdom, being charged - to collect all the manuscripts they could, that they might - effectually destroy every vestige of antiquity and letters - throughout the Kingdom.” And St. Patrick, in his apostolic - zeal, committed to the flames several hundred druidical - volumes. - - ** Fourteen thousand Irish took advantage of the articles of - Limerick, and bade adieu to their native country forever. -</pre> - <p> - “I know myself that many of our finest and most valuable MSS. are in - libraries in France, and have heard, that not a few of them enrich the - Vatican at Rome.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * In a conversation which passed in Cork between the - author’s father and the celebrated Dr. O’Leary, the latter - said he had once intended to have written a history of - Ireland. And added, “but, in truth, I found, after various - researches, that I could not give such a history as I would - wish should come from my pen, without visiting the - Continent, more particularly Rome, where alone the best - documents for the history of Ireland are to be had. But it - is now too late in the day for me to think of such a journey - or such exertions as the task would require.” - - “Mr. O’Halloran informs me [says Mr. Walker, in his Memoirs of the - Irish Bards, p. 141], that he lately got in a collection - from Rome, several poems of the most eminent Bards of last - centuries.” - </pre> - <p> - “But,” said I, “are not many of those MSS. supposed to be monkish - impositions?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” replied the priest, “by those who <i>never saw them</i>, and if <i>they - did</i>, were too ignorant of the Irish language to judge of their - authenticity by the internal evidences they contain.” - </p> - <p> - “And if they were the works of monks,” said the priest, “Ireland was - always allowed to possess at that era the most devout and learned - ecclesiastics in Europe, from which circumstance it received its title of - <i>Island of Saints</i>. By them, indeed, many histories of the ancient - Irish were composed in the early ages of Christianity, but it was - certainly from Pagan records and traditions they received their - information; besides, I do not think any arguments can be advanced more - favourable to the histories, than that the fiction of those histories - simply consists in ascribing natural phenomena to supernatural agency.” - </p> - <p> - “But,” returned I, “granting that your island was the <i>Athens</i> of a - certain age, how is the barbarity of the present day to be reconciled with - the civilization of the enlightened past?” - </p> - <p> - “When you talk of our <i>barbarity</i>,” said the priest, “you do not - speak as you <i>feel</i>, but as you <i>hear</i>.” I blushed at this mild - reproof, and said, “what I <i>now</i> feel for this country, it would not - be easy to express, but l have always been taught to look upon the <i>inferior</i> - Irish as beings forming an humbler link than humanity in the chain of - nature.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” said the priest, “in your country it is usual to attach to that - class of society in ours a ferocious disposition amounting to barbarity; - but this, with other calumnies, of national indolence, and obstinate - ignorance, of want of principle, and want of faith, is unfounded and - illiberal; * ‘cruelty,’ says Lord Sheffield, ‘is not in the nature of - these people more than of other men, for they have many customs among them - which disprove of unnatural indolence, that they are constitutionally of - an active nature, and capable of the greatest exertions; and of as good - dispositions as any nation in the same state of improvement; their - generosity, hospitality, and bravery are proverbial; intelligence and zeal - in whatever they undertake will never be wanting:—? <i>It has been - the fashion to judge of them by their outcasts</i>.’” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * When nature is wounded through all her dearest ties, she - must turn on the hand that stabs, and endeavour to wrest the - poignard from the grasp that aims at the life-pulse of her - heart. And this she will do in obedience to that immutable - law, which blends the instinct of self-preservation with - every atom of human existence. And for this, in less - felicitous times, when oppression and sedition succeeded - alternately to each other, was the name of Irishman, blended - with the horrible epithet of cruel But when the sword of the - oppressor was sheathed, the spirit of the oppressed reposed, - and the opprobrium it had drawn down on him was no longer - remembered, until the unhappy events of a late anarchial - period, 1798 revived the faded characters in which that - opprobrium had been traced. The events alluded to were the - atrocities which chiefly occurred in the county of Wexford, - and its adjoining and confederate district. Wexford is an - English colony, planted by Henry the Second, where scarcely - any feature of the original Irish character, or any trace of - the Irish language is to be found. While in the barony of - Forth, not only the customs, manners, habits, and costume, - of the ancient British settlers still prevail, but the - ancient Celtic language, has been preserved with infinitely - less corruption than in any part of Britain, where it has - been interwoven with the Saxon, Danish, and French - languages. In fact, here may be found a remnant of an - ancient. British colony, more pure and unmixed than in any - other part of the world. And here were committed those - barbarities, which have recently attached the epithet of - cruel to the name of Irishman! -</pre> - <p> - “It is strange (said the Prince,) that the earliest British writers should - be as diffuse in the praise, as the moderns are in calumniating our - unhappy country. Once we were everywhere, and by all, justly famed for our - patriotism, ardour of affection, love of letters, skill in arms and arts, - and refinement of manners; but no sooner did there arise a connexion - between us and a sister country, than the reputed virtues and well-earned - glory of the Irish sunk at once into oblivion: as if (continued this - enthusiastic <i>Milesian</i>, rising from his seat with all his native - vehemence,)—as if the moral world was subject to those convulsions - which shake the <i>natural</i> to its centre, burying by a single shock - the monumental splendours of countless ages. Thus it should seem, that - when the bosom of national freedom was rent asunder, the national virtues - which derived their nutriment from its source sunk into the abyss; while - on the barren surface which covers the wreck of Irish greatness, the hand - of prejudice and illiberality has sown the seeds of calumny and - defamation, to choke up those healthful plants, indigenous to the soil, - which still raise their oft-crushed heads, struggling for existence, and - which, like the palm-tree, rise, in proportion to those efforts made to - suppress them.” - </p> - <p> - To repeat the words of the Prince is to deprive them of half their effect: - his great eloquence lies in his air, his gestures, and the forcible - expression of his dark-rolling eye. He sat down exhausted with the - impetuous vehemence with which he had spoken. - </p> - <p> - “If we were to believe Dr. Warner, however,” (said the priest) “the modern - Irish are a degenerated race, comparatively speaking, for he asserts, that - even in the days of Elizabeth, ‘the old natives had degenerated, and that - the <i>wars of several centuries</i> had reduced them to a state far - inferior to that in which they were found in the days of Henry the - Second.’ But still, like the modern Greeks, we perceive among them strong - traces of a free, a great, a polished, and an enlightened people.” - </p> - <p> - Wearied by a conversation in which my heart now took little interest, I - made the <i>palinod</i> of my <i>prejudices</i>, and concluded by saying, - “I perceive that on this ground I am always destined to be vanquished, yet - always to win by the loss, and gain by the defeat; and therefore I ought - not in common policy to cease to <i>oppose</i>, until nothing further can - be obtained by opposition.” - </p> - <p> - The Prince, who was getting a little testy at my “<i>heresy</i> and <i>schism</i>,” - seemed quite appeased by this avowal; and the priest, who was gratified by - a compliment I had previously paid to his talents, shook me heartily by - the hand, and said, I was the most generous opponent he had ever met with. - Then taking up his book, was suffered to proceed in its perusal - uninterupted. During the whole of the evening, Glorvina maintained an - uninterrupted silence; she appeared lost in thought, and unmindful of our - conversation, while her eyes, sometimes turned on me, but oftener on her - father, seemed humid with a tear, as she contemplated his lately much - altered appearance. - </p> - <p> - Yet when the debility of the man was for a moment lost in the energy of - the patriot, I perceived the mind of the daughter kindling at the sacred - fire which illumined the father’s; and through the tear of natural - affection sparkled the bright beam of national enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - I suspect that the embassy of the good priest is not of the most pleasant - nature. To-night as he left me at the door of my room, he said that we had - a long journey before us; for that the house of the nobleman to whom we - are going lay in a remote part of the province of Ulster; that he was a - Scotchman, and only occasionally visited this country (where he had an - immense property) to receive his rents. “The Prince (said he) holds a - large but unprofitable farm from this Highland chief, the lease of which - he is anxious to throw up: that surly looking fellow who dined with us the - other day, is a steward; and if the master is as inexorable as the - servant, we shall undertake this journey to very little purpose.” - </p> - <p> - Adieu.—I endeavour to write and think on every subject but that - nearest my heart, yet <i>there</i> Glorvina and her mysterious friend - still awaken the throb of jealous doubt and anxious solicitude. I shall - drop this for you in the postoffice of the first post-town I pass through; - and probably endeavour to forget myself, and my anxiety to return hither, - at your expense, by writing to you in the course of my journey. - </p> - <h3> - H. M - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXVI. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">C</span>an you recollect - who was that rational, moderate youth, who exclaimed in the frenzy of - passion, “O gods! annihilate both <i>time</i> and <i>space</i>, and make - two lovers happy.” - </p> - <p> - For my part, I should indeed wish the hours annihilated till I again - behold Glorvina; but for the space which divides us, it was requisite I - should be fifty miles from her, to be no more entirely with her; to - appreciate the full value of her society; and to learn the nature of those - wants my heart must ever feel when separated from her. The priest and I - arose this morning with the sun. Our lovely hostess was ready at the - breakfast-table to receive us. I was so selfish as to observe without - regret the air of langour that invested her whole form, and the heaviness - that weighed down her eyelids, as though the influence of sleep had not - renovated the lustre of those downcast eyes they veiled. Ah! if I dared - believe that these wakeful hours were given to me. But I fear at that - moment her heart was more occupied by her father than her lover: for I - have observed, in a thousand instances, the interest she takes in his - affairs; and indeed the priest hinted to me, that her good sense has - frequently retrieved those circumstances the imprudent speculations of her - father have as constantly deranged. - </p> - <p> - During breakfast she spoke but little, and once I caught her eyes turned - full on me, with a glance in which tenderness, regret, and even something - of despondency were mingled. Glorvina despond! So young, so lovely, so - virtuous, and so highly gifted! Oh! at that moment had I been master of - worlds! but, dependent myself on another’s will, I could only sympathize - in the sufferings while I adored the sufferer. - </p> - <p> - When we arose to depart, Glorvina said, “If you will lead your horses I - will walk to the drawbridge with you.” - </p> - <p> - Delighted at the proposal, we ordered our horses to follow us; and with an - arm of Glorvina drawn through either of ours, we left the castle. “This - (said I, pressing the hand which rested on mine,) is commencing a journey - under favourable auspices.” - </p> - <p> - “God grant it may be so,” said Glorvina, fervently. - </p> - <p> - “Amen!” said the priest. - </p> - <p> - “Amen!” I repeated; and looking at Glorvina, read all the daughter in her - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “We shall sleep to-night, (said the priest, endeavouring to dissipate the - gloom which hung over us by indifferent chit-chat;) we shall sleep - to-night at the hospitable mansion of a true-born <i>Milesian</i>, to whom - I have the honour to be distantly allied; and where you will find the old - <i>Brehon</i> law, which forbids that a sept should be disappointed of the - expected feast, was no fabrication of national partiality.” - </p> - <p> - “What then, (said I,) we shall not enjoy ourselves in all the comfortable - unrestrained freedom of <i>an inn</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “We poor Irish, (said the priest,) find the unrestrained freedom of an inn - not only in the house of a friend, but of every acquaintance, however - distant; and indeed if you are at all known, you may travel from one end - of a province to another, without entering a house of public - entertainment; * the host always considering himself the debtor of the - guest, as though the institution of the <i>Beataghs **</i> were still in - being. And besides a cordial welcome from my hospitable kinsman, I promise - you an introduction to his three handsome daughters. So fortify your - heart, for I warn you it will run some risk before you return.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “Not only have I been received with the greatest kindness, - but I have been provided with everything which could promote - the execution of my plan. In taking the circuit of Ireland, - I have been employed eight or nine months; during which time - I have been everywhere received with a hospitality which is - nothing surprising in Ireland: that in such a length of time - I have been but six times at an inn, will give a better idea - of this hospitality than could be done by the most laboured - praise.”—M. de Latocknay. - - ** In the excellent system of the ancient Milesian - government, the people were divided into classes; the - Literati holding the next rank to royalty itself, and the - Beataghs the fourth; so that, as in China, the state was so - well regulated, that every one knew his place, from the - prince to the peasant. “These Beataghs (says Mr. O’Halloran) - were keepers of open houses for strangers, or poor - distressed natives; and as honourable stipends were settled - on the Literati, so were particular tracts of land on the - Beataghs, to support, with proper munificence, their - station; and there are lands and villages in many places to - this day, which declare by their names their original - appointment.” - </pre> - <p> - “Oh!” said Glorvina, archly, “I dare say that, like St. Paul, he will - ‘count it all joy to fall into divers temptations.’” - </p> - <p> - “Or rather, (returned I) I shall court them like the saints of old, merely - to prove my powers of resistance; for I bear a charmed spell about me; and - <i>now </i>’none of <i>woman born</i> can harm <i>Macbeth</i>.’” - </p> - <p> - “And of what nature is your spell?” said Glorvina, smiling, while the - priest remained a little behind us talking to a peasant. “Has Father John - given you a gospel? or have you got an amulet, thrice passed through the - <i>thrice blessed</i> girdle of St. Bridget, our great Irish charm?” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * On St Bridget’s day it is usual for the young people to - make a long girdle rope of straw, which they carry about to - the neighbouring houses, and through it all those persons - who have faith in the charm pass nine times, uttering at - each time a certain form of prayer in Irish, which they thus - conclude: “If I enter this thrice-blessed girdle well, may I - come out of it nine times better.” - </pre> - <p> - “My charm (returned I) in some degree, certainly partakes of your - religious and national superstitions; for since it was presented me by <i>your</i> - hand, I could almost believe that its very essence has been changed by a - touch!” And I drew from my breast the withered remains of my once blooming - rose. At that moment the priest joined us; and though Glorvina was silent, - I felt the pressure of her arm more heavily on mine, and saw her pass the - drawbridge without a recollection on her part that it was to have been the - boundary of her walk. We had not, however, proceeded many paces, when the - most wildly mournful sounds I ever heard rose on the air, and slowly died - away. - </p> - <p> - “Hark! (said Glorvina) some one is going to ‘<i>that bourne from whence no - traveller returns</i>.’” As she spoke a hundred voices seemed to ascend to - the skies; and as they subsided, a fainter strain lingered on the air, as - though this truly savage choral sympathy was reduced to a recitative, - chaunted by female voices. All that I had heard of the <i>Irish howl</i>, - or funeral song, now rushed to my recollection; and turning at that moment - the angle of the mountain of Inismore, I perceived a procession advancing - towards a little cemetery, which lay by a narrow pathway to the left of - the road. - </p> - <p> - The body, in a plain deal coffin, covered with a white shirt, was carried - by four men, immediately preceded by several old women covered in their - mantles, and who sung at intervals in a wild and rapid tone. * Before them - walked a number of young persons of both sexes, each couple holding by a - white handkerchief, and strewing flowers along the path. An elderly woman, - with eyes overflown with tears, dishevelled hair, and distracted mien, - followed the body, uttering many passionate exclamations in Irish; and the - procession was filled up by upwards of three hundred people; the - recitative of the female choristers relieved at intervals by the combined - howlings of the whole body. In one of the pauses of this dreadful - death-chorus, I expressed to Glorvina my surprise at the multitude which - attended the funeral of a peasant, while we stood on a bank as they passed - us. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Speaking of the ancient Irish funeral, Mr. Walker - observes;—“Women, whose voices recommended them, were taken - from the lower classes of life, and instructed in music, and - cursios, or eligiac measure, that they might assist in - heightening the melancholy which that ceremony was - calculated to inspire. This custom prevailed among the - Hebrews, from whom it is not improbable we had it - immediately.” - - Dr. Campbell is of opinion that the Ululate or hullalor of - the choral burden of the Caoine, and the Greek word of the - same import, have a strong affinity to each other.—Phil. - Sur. South of Ireland, Letters 2, 3. -</pre> - <p> - “The lower order of Irish,” she returned, “entertain a kind of posthumous - pride respecting their funerals; and from sentiments that I have heard - them express, I really believe there are many among them who would prefer - living neglected to the idea of dying unmourned, or unattended, by a host - to their last home.” To my astonishment she then descended the bank, and, - accompanied by the priest, mingled with the crowd. - </p> - <p> - “This will surprise you,” said Glorvina; “but it is wise to comply with - those prejudices which we cannot vanquish. And by those poor people it is - not only reckoned a mark of great disrespect not to follow a funeral (met - by chance) a few paces, but almost a species of impiety.” - </p> - <p> - “And mankind, you know,” added the priest, “are always more punctilious - with respect to ceremonials than fundamentals. However, <i>you should</i> - see an Irish Roman Catholic funeral; to a Protestant and a stranger it - must be a spectacle of some interest. - </p> - <p> - “With respect to the attendant ceremonies on death,” he continued, “I know - of no country which the Irish at present resemble but the modern Greeks. - In both countries when the deceased dies unmarried, the young attendants - are chiefly dressed in white, carrying garlands, and strewing flowers as - they proceed to the grave. Those old women who sing before the body are - professional <i>improvisatori</i>; they are called <i>Caoiners</i> or <i>Keeners</i>, - from the <i>Canine</i> or death song, and are <i>hired</i> to celebrate - the virtues of the deceased. Thus we find St. Chrysostom censuring the - Greeks of his day, for the purchased lamentations and hireling mourners - that attend their funerals. And so far back with us as in the days of - druidical influence, we find it was part of the profession of the bards to - perform the funeral ceremonies, to sing to their harps the virtues of the - dead, and call on the living to emulate their deeds. * This you may - remember as a custom frequently alluded to in the poems of Ossian. ** Pray - observe that frantic woman who tears her hair And beats her bosom: ’tis - the mother of the deceased. She is following her only child to an early - grave; and did you understand the nature of her lamentations you would - compare them to the complaints of the mother of Euriales, in the Æneid: - the same passionate expressions of sorrow, and the same wild extravagance - of grief. They even still most religiously preserve here that custom never - lost among the Greeks, of washing the body before interment, and strewing - it with flowers.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The Caoine, or funeral song was, composed by the Filea of - the departed, set to music by one of his oirfidegh, and sung - over the grave by the racasaide, or rhapsodist, who - accompanied his “song of the tomb” with the mourning murmur - of his harp, while the inferior order of minstrels mingled - their deep-toned chorus with the strain of grief, and the - sighs of lamenting relatives breathed in unison to the - tuneful sorrow. Thus was “the stones of his fame,” raised - over the remains of the Irish chief with a ceremony - resembling that with which the death of the Trojan hero was - lamented,= -</pre> - <p class="indent15"> - “A melancholy choir attend around, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - With plaintive sighs and music’s solemn sound.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - But the singular ceremonies of the Irish funeral, which are - even still in a certain degree extant, may be traced to a - remoter antiquity than Grecian o right, for the pathetic - lamentations of David for the friend of his soul, and the - conclamatio breathed over the Phoenician Dido, has no faint - coincidence to the Caoine or funeral song of the Irish. - - ** Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the song of the - bard, “Blessed be thy soul, son of Semo! thou wert mighty in - battle; thy strength was like the strength of the stream, - thy speed like the speed of the eagle’s wing, thy path in - battle was terrible, the steps of death were behind thy - sword; blessed be thy soul son of Semo! Carborne ohicf of - Dunscaith. The mighty were dispersed at Timo-ra—there is - none in Cormac’s hall. The king mourns in his youth, for he - does not behold thy coming; the sound of thy shield is - ceased, his foes are gathering around, Soft be thy rest in - thy cave, chief of Erin’s wars.” - </pre> - <p> - “And have you also,” said I, “the funeral feast, which among the Greeks - composed so material a part of the funeral ceremonies?” - </p> - <p> - “A <i>wake</i>, as it is called among us,” he replied, “is at once the - season of lamentation and sorrow, and of feasting and amusement. The - immediate relatives of the deceased sit near the body, devoted to all the - luxury of woe, which revives into the most piercing lamentations at the - entrance of every stranger, while the friends, acquaintances, and guests - give themselves up to a variety of amusements; feats of dexterity and even - some exquisite pantomimes are performed; though in the midst of all their - games should any one pronounce an <i>Ave Maria</i>, the merry group are in - a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified, they - recommence their sports with new vigour. The <i>wake</i>, however, is of - short duration; for here, as in Greece, it is thought an injustice to the - dead to keep them long above ground; so that interment follows death with - all possible expedition.” - </p> - <p> - We had now reached the burial ground; near which the funeral was met by - the parish priest, and the procession went three times round the cemetry, - preceded by the priest, who repeated the <i>De profundis</i> as did all - the congregation. - </p> - <p> - “This ceremony,” said Father John, “is performed by us instead of the - funeral service, which is denied to the Roman Catholics. For <i>we</i> are - not permitted, like the Protestant ministers, to perform the last solemn - office for our departed fellow creatures.” - </p> - <p> - While he spoke we entered the churchyard, and I expressed my surprise to - Glorvina, who seemed wrapt in solemn meditation, at the singular - appearance of this rustic little cemetery, where, instead of the - monumental marble, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “The storied urn, or animated bust,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - an osier, twisted into the form of a cross, wreathed with faded foliage, - garlands made of the pliant sally, twined with flowers; alone - distinguished the “narrow house,” where - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Without answering, she led me gently forward towards a garland which - seemed newly planted. We paused. A young woman who had attended the - funeral, and withdrawn from the crowd, approached the garland at the same - moment, and taking some fresh gathered flowers from her apron, strewed - them over the new made grave, then kneeling beside it wept and prayed. - </p> - <p> - “It is the tomb of her lover,” said I.—“<i>Of her father!</i>” said - Glorvina, in a voice whose affecting tone sunk to my heart, while her - eyes, raised to heaven, were suffused with tears. The filial mourner now - arose and departed, and we approached the simple shrine of her sorrowing - devotion. Glorvina took from it a sprig of rosemary—its leaves were - humid! “It is not <i>all</i> dew,” said Glorvina, with a sad smile, while - her own tears fell on it, and she presented it to me. - </p> - <p> - “Then you think me worthy of sharing in these divine feelings,” I - exclaimed, as I kissed off the sacred drops; while I was now confirmed in - the belief that the tenderness, the sufferings, and declining health of - her father, rendered him at that moment the sole object of her solicitude - and affection. And with him only, could I, without madness, share the - tender, sensible, angelic heart of this sweet interesting being. - </p> - <p> - Observing her emotion increase, as she stood near the spot sacred to - filial grief, I endeavoured to draw away her attention by remarking, that - almost every tomb had now a votarist. “It is a strong instance,” said - Glorvina, “of the sensibility of the Irish, that they repair at intervals - to the tombs of their deceased friends to drop a tender tear, or heave a - heart-breathed sigh, to the memory of those so lamented in death, so dear - to them in life. For my own part, in the stillness of a fine evening, I - often wander towards this solemn spot, where the flowers newly thrown on - the tombs, and weeping with the tears of departed day, always speak to my - heart a tale of woe it feels and understands. While, as the breeze of - evening mourns softly round me, I involuntarily exclaim, ‘And when I shall - follow the crowd that presses forward to eternity, what affectionate hand - will scatter flowers over <i>my</i> solitary tomb? for haply, ere that - period arrive, <i>my</i> trembling hand shall have placed the cypress on - the tomb of him who alone loved me living, and would lament me dead.’” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Alone</i>,” I repeated, and pressing her hand to my heart, - inarticulately added, “Oh! Glorvina, did the pulses which now throb - against each other, throb in unison, you would understand, that even <i>love</i> - is a cold, inadequate term for the sentiments you have inspired in a soul, - which would claim a closer kindred to yours than even parental affinity - can assert; if (though but by a glance) yours would deign to acknowledge - the sacred union.” - </p> - <p> - We were standing in a remote part of the cemetery, under the shade of a - drooping cypress—we were alone—we were unobserved. The hand of - Glorvina was pressed to my heart, her head almost touched my shoulder, her - lips almost effused their balmy sighs on mine. A glance was all I required—a - glance was all I received. - </p> - <p> - In the succeeding moments I know not what passed; for an interval all was - delirium. Glorvina was the first to recover presence of mind; she released - her hand which was still pressed to my heart, and, covered with blushes, - advanced to Father John. I followed, and found her with her arm entwined - in his, while those eyes, from whose glance my soul had lately quaffed the - essence of life’s richest bliss, were now studiously turned from me in - love’s own downcast bashfulness. - </p> - <p> - The good Father Director now took my arm: and we were leaving this (to me) - interesting spot—when the filial mourner, who had first drawn us - from his side, approached the priest, and taking out a few shillings from - the corner of her handkerchief, offered them to him, and spoke a few words - in Irish; the priest returned her an answer and her money at the same - time: she curtseyed low, and departed in silent and tearful emotion. At - the same moment another female advanced towards us, and put a piece of - silver and a little fresh earth into the hand of Father John; he blessed - the earth and returned the little offering with it. The woman knelt and - wept, and kissed his garment; then addressing him in Irish, pointed to a - poor old man, who, apparently overcome with weakness, was reposing on the - grass. Father John followed the woman, and advanced to the old man, while - I, turning towards Glorvina, demanded an explanation of this extraordinary - scene. - </p> - <p> - “The first of these poor creatures (said she) was offering the fruits of - many an hour’s labour, to have a mass said for the soul of her departed - father, which she firmly believes will shorten his sufferings in - purgatory: the last is another instance of weeping humanity stealing from - the rites of superstition a solace from its woes. She brought that earth - to the priest, that he might bless it ere it was flung into the coffin of - a dear friend, who, she says, died this morning; for they believe that - this consecrated earth is a substitute for those religious rites which are - denied them on this awful occasion. And though these tender cares of - mourning affection may originate in error, who would not pardon the - illusion that soothes the sufferings of a breaking heart? Alas! I could - almost envy these ignorant prejudices, which lead their possessors to - believe, that by restraining their own enjoyments in this world, they can - alleviate the sufferings, or purchase the felicity of the other for the - objects of their tenderness and regret. Oh! that I could thus believe!” - </p> - <p> - “Then you do not, (said I, looking earnestly at her,) you do not receive - all the doctrines of your church as infallible?” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina approached something closer towards me, and in a few words - convinced me, that on the subject of religion, as upon every other, her - strong mind discovered itself to be an emanation of that divine - intelligence, which her pure soul worships “in spirit and in truth,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The bright effulgence of bright essence uncreate.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - When she observed my surprise and delight, she added, “believe me, my dear - friend, the age in which religious error held her empire undisputed is - gone by. The human mind, however slow, however opposed its progress, is - still, by a divine and invariable law, propelled towards truth, and must - finally attain that goal which reason has erected in every breast. Of the - many who are the inheritors of <i>our</i> persuasion, <i>all</i> are not - devoted to its errors, or influenced by its superstitions. If its - professors are coalesced, it is in the sympathy of their destinies, not in - the dogmas of their belief. If they are allied, it is by the tie of - temporal interest, not by the bond of speculative opinion; they are united - as <i>men</i>, not as sectaries; and once incorporated in the great mass - of general society, their feelings will become diffusive as their - interests; their affections, like their privileges, will be in common; the - limited throb with which their hearts now beat towards each other, under - the influence of a kindred fate, will then be animated to the nobler - pulsation of universal philanthropy; and, as the acknowledged members of - the first of all human communities they will forget they had ever been the - <i>individual</i> adherents of an alienated body.” - </p> - <p> - The priest now returned to us, and was followed by the multitude, who - crowded round this venerable and adored pastor: some to obtain his - benediction for themselves, others his prayers for their friends, and all - his advice or notice: while Glorvina, whom they had not at first - perceived, stood like an idol in the midst of them, receiving that - adoration which the admiring gaze of some, and the adulatory exclamations - of others, offered to her virtues and her charms. While those personally - known to her she addressed with her usually winning sweetness in their - native language, I am sure that there was not an individual among this - crowd of ardent and affectionate people, that would not risk their lives - “to avenge a look that threatened her with danger.” - </p> - <p> - Our horses now coming up to the gate of the cemetry, we insisted on - walking back as far as the drawbridge with Glorvina. When we reached it, - the priest saluted her cheek with paternal freedom, and gave her his - blessing, while I was put off with an offer of the hand; but when, for the - first time, I felt its soft clasp return the pressure of mine, I no longer - envied the priest his cold salute; for oh! cold is every enjoyment which - is unreciprocated. Reverberated bliss alone can touch the heart. - </p> - <p> - When we had parted with Glorvina, and caught a last view of her receding - figure, we mounted our horses, and proceeded a considerable way in - silence. The morning though fine was gloomy; and though the sun was - scarcely an hour high, we were met by innumerable groups of peasantry of - both sexes, laden with their implements of husbandry, and already - beginning the labours of the day. I expressed my surprise at observing - almost as many women as men working in the fields and bogs. “Yes,” said - the priest, “toil is here shared in common between the sexes, the women as - well as the men cut the turf, plant the potatoes, and even assist to - cultivate the land; both rise with the sun to their daily labour; but his - repose brings not theirs; for, after having worked all day for a very - trivial remuneration, (as nothing here is rated lower than human labour,) - they endeavour to snatch a beam from retreating twilight, by which they - labour in that little spot of ground, which is probably the sole support - of a numerous family.” - </p> - <p> - “And yet,” said I, “idleness is the chief vice laid to the account of your - peasantry.” - </p> - <p> - “It is certain,” returned he, “that there is not, generally speaking, that - active spirit of industry among the inferior orders here, which - distinguishes the same rank in England. But neither have they the same - encouragement to awaken their exertions. ‘The laziness of the Irish,’ says - Sir William Petty, ‘seems rather to proceed from want of employment and - encouragement to work, than the constitution of their bodies.’ An - intelligent and liberal countryman of yours, Mr. Young, the celebrated - traveller, is persuaded that, circumstances considered, the Irish do not - in reality deserve the character of indolence; and relates a very - extraordinary proof of their great industry and exertion in their method - of procuring lime for manure, which the mountaineers bring on the backs of - their little horses many miles distance, to the foot of the steepest - acclivities, and from thence to the summit on their own shoulders while - they pay a considerable rent for liberty to cultivate a barren, waste, and - rigid soil. In short, there is not in creation a more laborious animal - than an Irish peasant, with less stimulus to exertion, or less reward to - crown his toil. He is indeed, in many instances, the mere creature of the - soil, and works independent of that hope which is the best stimulus to - every human effort, the hope of reward. And yet it is not rare to find - among these oft misguided beings, some who really believe themselves the - hereditary proprietors of the soil they cultivate.” - </p> - <p> - “But surely,” said I, “the most ignorant among them must be well aware - that all could not have been proprietors.” - </p> - <p> - “The fact is,” said the priest, “the followers of many a great family - having accidentally adopted the name of their chiefs, that name has - descended to their progeny, who now associate to the name an erroneous - claim on the confiscated property of those to whom their progenitors were - but vassals or dependants. And this false, but strong rooted opinion, - co-operating with their naturally active and impetuous characters, renders - them alive to every enterprise, and open to the impositions of the artful - or ambitious. But a brave, though misguided people, are not to be - dragooned out of a train of ancient prejudices, nurtured by fancied - interest and real ambition, and confirmed by ignorance, which those who - deride have made no effort to dispel. It is not by physical force, but - moral influence, the illusion is to be dissolved. The darkness of - ignorance must be dissipated before the light of truth can be admitted; - and though an Irishman may be argued out of an error, it has been long - proved he will never be forced. His understanding may be convinced, but - his spirit will never be subdued. He may culminate to the meridian of - loyalty * or truth by the influence of kindness, or the convictions of - reason, but he will never be forced towards the one, nor oppressed into - the other by the lash of power, or ‘the insolence of office.’ - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Speaking of the people of Ireland, Lord Minto thus - expresses himself: “In these (the Irish) we have witnessed - exertions of courage, activity, perseverance, and spirit, as - well as fidelity and honour in fulfilling the engagements of - their connexion with us, and the Protection and defence of - their own country, which challenges the thanks of Great - Britain, and the approbation of the world.” - </pre> - <p> - “This has been strongly evinced by the attachment of the Irish to the - House of Stuart, by whom they have always been so cruelly, so ungratefully - treated. For what the coercive measures of four hundred years could not - effect, the accession of <i>one</i> prince to the throne accomplished. - Until that period, the unconquered Irish, harassing and harassed, - struggled for that liberty which they at intervals obtained, but never - were permitted to enjoy. Yet the moment a prince of the royal line of - Milesius placed the British diadem on his brow, the sword of resistance - was sheathed, and those principles which force could not vanquish, yielded - to the mild empire of national and hereditary affection: the Irish of <i>English</i> - origin from natural tenderness, and those of the <i>true old stock</i>, - from the conviction that they were <i>then</i> governed by a <i>Prince</i> - of their own blood. Nor is it now unknown to them, that in the veins of - his present majesty, and his ancestors, from James the First, flows the - royal blood of the <i>three</i> kingdoms united.” - </p> - <p> - “I am delighted to find,” said I, “the lower ranks of a country, to which - I am now so endeared, thus rescued from the obloquy thrown on them by - prejudiced illiberality; and from what you have said, and indeed from what - I have myself observed, I am convinced, that were endeavours for their - improvement more strictly promoted, and their respective duties obviously - made clear, their true interests fully represented by reason and common - sense, and their unhappy situations ameliorated by justice and humanity, - they would be a people as happy, contented and prosperous, in a political - sense, as in a natural and a national one. They are brave, hospitable, - liberal and ingenious.” - </p> - <p> - We now continued to proceed through a country rich in all the boundless - extravagance of picturesque beauty, where Nature’s sublimest features - everywhere present themselves, carelessly disposed in wild magnificence; - unimproved, and indeed, almost unimproveable by art. The far-stretched - ocean, mountains of Alpine magnitude, heaths of boundless desolation, - vales of romantic loveliness, navigable rivers, and extensive lakes, - alternately succeeding to each other, while the ruins of an ancient - castle, or the mouldering remains of a desolated abbey, gave a moral - interest to the pleasure derived from the contemplation of Nature in her - happiest and most varied aspect. - </p> - <p> - “Is it not extraordinary,” said I, as we loitered over the ruins of an - abbey, “that though your country was so long before the introduction of - Christianity inhabited by a learned and ingenious people, yet, that among - your Gothic ruins, no traces of a more ancient and splendid architecture - are to be discovered. From the ideas I have formed of the primeval - grandeur of Ireland, I should almost expect to see a Balbec or Palmyra - arising amidst these stupendous mountains and picturesque scenes.” - </p> - <p> - “My dear sir,” he replied, “a country may be civilized, enlightened, and - even learned and ingenious, without attaining to any considerable - perfection in those arts, which give to posterity <i>sensible</i> - memorials of its past splendour. The ancient Irish, like the modern, had - more <i>soul</i>, more genius than worldly prudence, or cautious, - calculating forethought. The feats of the hero engrossed them more than - the exertions of the mechanist; works of imagination seduced them from - pursuing works of utility. With an enthusiasm bordering on a species of - mania, they were devoted to poetry and music; and to ‘<i>Wake the soul of - song</i>’ was to them an object of more interesting importance, than to - raise that edifice which would betray to posterity their ancient grandeur - Besides, at that period to which you allude, the Irish were in that era of - society, when the iron age was yet distant, and the artist confined his - skill to the elegant workmanship of gold and brass, which is ascertained - by the number of warlike implements and beautiful ornaments of dress of - those metals, exquisitely worked, which are still frequently found in the - bogs of Ireland.” - </p> - <p> - “If, however, (said I) there are no remnants of a Laurentinum, or Tusculum - to be discovered, I perceive that at every ten or twelve miles, in the - fattest of the land, the ruins of an abbey and its granaries are - discernable.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, (returned the priest, laughing) you would not have the good father - abbots advise the dying, but generous sinner, to leave the worst of his - lands to God! that would be sacrilege—but besides the voluntary - donation of estates from rich penitents, the regular monks of Ireland had - landed properties attached to their convents. Sometimes they possessed - immense tracts of a country, from which the officiating clergy seldom or - never derived any benefit; and, I believe, that many, if not <i>most</i> - of the bishops’ leases now existing, are the confiscated revenues of these - ruined abbeys.” - </p> - <p> - “So, (said I) after all, it is only a transfer of property from one - opulent ecclesiastic to another; * and the great difference between the - luxurious abbot of other times, and the rich church dignitary of the - present, lies in a few speculative theories, which, whether they are or - are not consonant to reason and common sense, have certainly no connexion - with <i>true</i> religion or <i>true</i> morality. While the bishopricks - now, like the abbeys of old, are estimated rather by the profit gained to - the temporal, than the harvest reaped to the heavenly Lord. However, I - suppose, they borrow a sanction from the perversion of scriptural - authority, and quote the Jewish law, not intended for the benefit of <i>individuals</i> - to the detriment of a whole body, but which extended to the whole tribe of - Levi, and, doubtlessly, strengthen it by a sentiment of St. Paul: ‘If we - sow unto you spiritual things, is it not just we reap your carnal?’ &c. - It is, however, lucky for your country, that your abbots are not as - numerous in the present day as formerly.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * For instance, the Abbey of Raphoe was founded by St. - Columkill, who was succeeded in it by St. Eanon. The first - Bishop of Raphoe having converted the abbey into a cathedral - see. It is now a protestant bishoprick. -</pre> - <p> - “Numerous, indeed, as you perceive (said the priest) by these ruins; for - we are told in the Life of St. Ramoloi, that there were a greater number - of monks and superb monasteries in Ireland than in any other part of - Europe. St. Co-lumkill and his contemporaries alone erected in this - kingdom upwards of two hundred abbeys, if their biographers are to be - credited; and the luxury of their governors kept pace with their power and - number. - </p> - <p> - “In the abbey of Enis, a sanctuary was provided for the cowls of the - friars and the veils of the nuns, which were costly and beautifully - wrought. We read that (knights excepted) the prelates only were allowed to - have gold bridles and harness; and that among the rich presents bestowed - by Bishop Snell, in 1146, on a cathedral, were gloves, pontificals, - sandals, and silken robes, interwoven with golden spots, and adorned with - precious stones. - </p> - <p> - “There is a monument of monkish luxury still remaining among the - interesting ruins of Sligo abbey. This noble edifice stands in the midst - of a rich and beautiful scenery, on the banks of a river, near which is a - spot still shown, where, as tradition runs, a box or weir was placed, in - which the fish casually entered, and which contained a spring, that - communicated by a cord with a bell hung in the refectory. The weight of - the fish pressed down the spring; the cord vibrated; the bell rung; and - the unfortunate captive thus taken suffered martyrdom, by being placed on - a fire alive.” - </p> - <p> - “And was served up,” said I, “I suppose on a fast day, to the <i>abstemious</i> - monks, who would, however, have looked upon a morsel of flesh meat thrown - in this way, as a lure to eternal perdition.” - </p> - <p> - Already weary of a conversation in which my heart took little interest, I - now suffered it to die away; and while Father John began a parley with a - traveller who socially joined us, I gave up my whole soul to love and to - Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - In the course of the evening we arrived at the house of our destined host. - Although it was late, the family had not yet gone to dinner, as the - servant who took our horses informed us, that his master had but that - moment returned from a fair. We had scarcely reached the hall, when, the - report of our arrival having preceded our appearance, the whole family - rushed out to receive us. What a group!—the father looked like the - very Genius of Hospitality, the mother like the personified spirit of a - cordial welcome; three laughing Hebe daughters; two fine young fellows - supporting an aged grandsire, a very Silenus in appearance, and a pretty - demure little governess, with a smile and a hand as ready as the others. - </p> - <p> - The priest, according to the good old Irish fashion, saluted the cheeks of - the ladies, and had his hands nearly shaken off by the men; while I was - received with all the cordiality that could be lavished on a friend, and - all the politeness that could be paid to a stranger. A welcome shone in - every eye; ten thousand welcomes echoed from every lip; and the arrival of - the unexpected guests seemed a festival of the social feelings to the - whole warm-hearted family. If this is a true specimen of the first rites - of hospitality, among the <i>independent country gentlemen of Ireland</i>, - * it is to me the most captivating of all possible ceremonies. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * To those who have witnessed [as I so often have] the - celebration of these endearing rites, this picture will - appear but a very cold and languid sketch. -</pre> - <p> - When the first interchange of our courtesies had passed on both sides, we - were conducted to the refreshing comforts of a dressing-room; but the - domestics were not suffered to interfere, all were in fact our servants. - </p> - <p> - The plenteous dinner was composed of every luxury the season afforded; - though only supplied by the demesne of our host and the neighbouring - sea-coast, and though served up in a style of perfect elegance, was yet so - abundant, so over plenteous, that, compared to the compact neatness, and - simple sufficiency of English fare in the same rank of life, it might have - been thought to have been “more than hospitably good.” But to my surprise, - and indeed, not much to my satisfaction, during dinner the door was left - open for the benefit of receiving the combined efforts of a very - indifferent fiddler and a tolerable piper, who, however, seemed to hold - the life and spirits of the family in their keeping. The ladies left us - early after the cloth was removed; and though besides the family there - were three strange gentlemen, and that the table was covered with - excellent wines, yet conversation circulated with much more freedom than - the bottle; every one did as he pleased, and the ease of the guest seemed - the pleasure of the host. - </p> - <p> - For my part, I rose in less than an hour after the retreat of the ladies, - and followed them to the drawing-room. I found them all employed; one at - the piano, another at her needle-work, a third reading; mamma at her - knitting, and the pretty little duenna copying out music. - </p> - <p> - They received me as an old acquaintance, and complimented me on my - temperance in so soon retiring from the gentlemen, for which I assured - them they had all the credit. It is certain that the frank and open - ingenuousness of an Irishwoman’s manners, forms a strong contrast to that - placid, but distant reserve which characterises the address of my own - charming countrywomen. For my part, since I have Glorvina, I shall never - again endure that perpetuity of air, look, and address, which those who - mistake formality for good-breeding are apt to assume. Manners, like the - graduated scale of the thermometer, should betray, by degrees, the - expansion or contraction of the feeling, as they are warmed by emotion or - chilled by indifference. They should <i>breathe</i> the soul in order to - <i>win</i> it. - </p> - <p> - Nothing could be more animated yet more modest than the manners of these - charming girls, nor should I require any stronger proof of that pure and - exquisite chastity of character which, from the earliest period, has - distinguished the women of this country, than that ingenuous candour and - enchanting frankness which accompanies their every look and word. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “The soul as sure to be admired as seen, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Boldly steps forth, nor keeps a thought within. - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - But, although the Miss O’D————s are very charming - girls, although their mother seems a very rational and amiable being, and - although their governess appears to be a young woman of distinguished - education and considerable talent; yet I in vain sought in their - conversation for that soul-seizing charm which, with a magic, undefinable - influence breathes round the syren <i>Princess of Inismore</i>. O! it was - requisite I should mingle, converse with other women to justly appreciate - all I possess in the society of Glorvina; for surely she is <i>more</i>, - or every other woman is <i>less</i> than mortal! - </p> - <p> - Before the men joined us in the drawing-room, I was quite <i>boudoirized</i> - with these unaffected and pleasing girls. One wound her working-silk off - my hands, another would try my skill at battledore, and the youngest, a - charming little being of thirteen, told me the history of a pet dove that - was dying in her lap; while all in-treated I would talk to them of the - Princess of Inismore. - </p> - <p> - “For my part,” said the youngest girl, “I always think of her as of the - ‘Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,’ or some other princess in a fairy tale.” - </p> - <p> - “We know nothing of her, however,” said - </p> - <p> - Mrs. O’D————-, “but by report; we live at too - great a distance to keep up any connexion with the Inismore family; - besides, that it is generally understood to be Mr. O’Melville’s wish to - live in retirement.” - </p> - <p> - This is the first time I ever heard my soi-disant Prince mentioned without - his title; but I am sure I should never endure to hear my Glorvina called - Miss O’Melville. For to me, too, does she appear more like the Roganda of - a fairy tale, than “any mortal mixture of earth’s mould.” - </p> - <p> - The gentlemen now joined us, and as soon as tea was over, the piper struck - up in the hall, and in a moment every one was on their feet. My long - journey was received as a sufficient plea for my being a spectator only; - but the priest refused the immunity, and led out the lady mother; the rest - followed, and the idol amusement of the gay-hearted Irish, received its - usual homage. But though the women danced with considerable grace and - spirit, they did not, like Glorvina, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Send the soul upon a jig to heaven.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - The dance was succeeded by a good supper; the supper by a cheerful song, - and every one seemed unwilling to be the first to break up a social - compact over which the spirit of harmony presided. - </p> - <p> - As the priest and I retired to our rooms, “You have now,” said he, “had a - specimen of the mode of living of the Irish gentry of a certain rank in - this country; the day is devoted to agricultural business, the evening to - temperate festivity and innocent amusement; but neither the avocations of - the morning nor the engagements of the evening suspend the rites of - hospitality.” - </p> - <p> - Thus far I wrote before I retired that night to rest, and the next morning - at an early hour we took our leave of these courteous and hospitable - Milesians; having faithfully promised on the preceding night to repeat our - visit on our return from the north. - </p> - <p> - We are now at a sorry little inn, within a mile or two of the nobleman’s - seat to whom the priest is come, and on whom he waits to-morrow, having - just learned that his lordship passed by here to-day on his way to a - gentleman’s house in the neighbourhood where he dines. The little postboy - at this moment rides up to the door; I shall drop this in his bag, and - begin a new journal on a fresh sheet. - </p> - <p> - Adieu, - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXVII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he priest is gone - on his embassy. The rain which batters against the casement of my little - hotel prevents me enjoying a ramble. I have nothing to read, and I must - write or yawn myself to death. - </p> - <p> - Yesterday, as we passed the imaginary line which divides the province of - Connaught from that of Ulster, the priest said, “As we now advance - northward, we shall gradually lose sight of the genuine Irish character, - and those ancient manners, modes, customs, and language with which it is - inseparably connected. Not long after the chiefs of Ireland had declared - James the First universal monarch of their country, a sham plot was - pretended, consonant to the usual ingratitude of the House of Stuart, by - which six entire counties of the north became forfeited, which James with - a liberal hand bestowed on his favorites; * so that this part of Ireland - may in some respects be considered as a Scottish colony; and in fact, - Scotch dialect, Scotch manners, Scotch modes, and the Scotch character - almost universally prevail. Here the ardour of the Irish constitution - seems abated if not chilled. Here the <i>ceadmile falta</i> of Irish - cordiality seldom lends its welcome home to a stranger’s heart. The bright - beams which illumine the gay images of Milesian fancy are extinguished; - the convivial pleasures, dear to the Milesian heart, scared at the - prudential maxims of calculating interest, take flight to the warmer - regions of the south; and the endearing socialities of the soul, lost and - neglected amidst the cold concerns of the counting-house and the <i>bleach-green</i>, - droop and expire in the deficiency of the nutritive warmth on which their - tender existence depends. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * “The pretext of rebellion was devised as a specious - prelude to predetermined confiscations, and the inhabitants - of six counties, whose aversion to the yoke of England the - show of lenity might have disarmed, were compelled to - encounter misery in deserts, and, what is perhaps still mote - mortifying to human pride, to behold the patrimony of their - ancestors, which force had wrested from their hands, - bestowed the prey of a more favoured people. The substantial - view of providing for his indigent countrymen might have - gratified the national partiality of James; the favourite - passion of the English was gratified by the triumph of - Protestantism, and the downfall of its antagonists: men who - professed to correct a system of peace did not hesitate to - pursue their purpose through a scene of iniquity which - humanity shudders to relate; and by an action more criminal, - because more deliberate, than the massacre of St. - Bartholomew, two-thirds of an extensive province were - offered up in one great hecatomb, on the altar of false - policy and theological prejudice. Here let us survey with - wonder the mysterious operations of divine wisdom, which, - from a measure base in its means, and atrocious in its - execution, has derived a source of fame, freedom, and - industry to Ireland.”—Vide a Review of some interesting - periods of Irish History. -</pre> - <p> - “So much for the shades of the picture, which, however, possesses its - lights, and those of no dim lustre. The north of Ireland may be justly - esteemed the palladium of Irish industry and Irish trade, where the staple - commodity of the kingdom is reared and manufactured; and while the rest of - Ireland is devoted to that species of agriculture, which, in lessening the - necessity of human labour, deprives man of subsistence; while the wretched - native of the southern provinces (where little labour is required, and - consequently little hire given) either famishes in the midst of a helpless - family, or begs his way to England, and offers those services <i>there</i> - in harvest time, which his own country rejects. Here, both the labourer - and his hire rise in the scale of political consideration; here more hands - are called for than can be procured; and the peasant, stimulated to - exertions by the reward it reaps for him, enjoys the fruits of his - industry, and acquires a relish for the comforts and conveniences of life. - Industry, and this taste for comparative luxury, mutually react; and the - former, while it bestows the <i>means</i>, enables them to gratify the - suggestions of the latter; while their wants, nurtured by enjoyment, - afford fresh allurement to continued exertion, In short, a mind not too - deeply fascinated by the florid virtues, the warm overflowings of generous - and ardent qualities, will find in the northerns of this island much to - admire and more to esteem; but on the heart they make little claims, and - from its affections they receive but little tribute.” * - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Belfast cannot be deemed the metropolis of Ulster, but may - almost be said to be the Athens of Ireland. It is at least - the cynosure of the province in which it stands; and those - beams of genius which are there concentrated, send to the - extremest point of the hemisphere in which they shine no - faint ray of lumination. -</pre> - <p> - “Then, in the name of all that is warm and cordial,” said I, “let us - hasten back to the province of Connaught.” - </p> - <p> - “That you may be sure we shall,” returned Father John: “for I know none of - these sons of trade; and until we once more find ourselves within the pale - of Milesian hospitality, we must put up at a sorry inn, near a tract of - the sea-coast, called the Magilligans, and where one <i>solitary fane</i> - is raised to the once tutelar deity of Ireland; in plain English, where - one of the last of the race of <i>Irish bards</i> shelters his white head - beneath the fractured roof of a wretched hut. Although the evening sun was - setting on the western wave when we reached the auberge, yet, while our - fried eggs and bacon were preparing, I proposed to the priest that we - should visit the old bard before we put up our horses. Father John readily - consented, and we enquired his address. - </p> - <p> - “What, the <i>mon wi the twa heads?</i>” said our host. I confessed my - ignorance of this hydra epithet, which I learned was derived from an - immense wen on the back of his head. - </p> - <p> - “Oh!” continued our host, “A wull be telling you weel to gang tull the - auld Kearn, and one o’ our wains wull show ye the road. Ye need nae fear - trusting yoursels to our wee Wully, for he is an uncommon canie chiel.” - Such was the dialect of this Hibernian Scot, who assured me he had never - been twenty miles from his “aine wee hame.” - </p> - <p> - We, however, dispensed with the guidance of <i>wee Wully</i>, and easily - found our way to the hut of the man “<i>wi the twa heads</i>.” It stood on - the right hand by the road side. We entered it without ceremony, and as it - is usual for strangers to visit this last of the “Sons of Song,” his - family betrayed no signs of surprise at our appearance. His ancient dame - announced us to her husband When we entered he was in bed; and when he - arose to receive us (for he was dressed, and appeared only to have lain - down from debility,) we perceived that his harp had been the companion of - his repose, and was actually laid under the bed-clothes with him. We found - the venerable bard cheerful * and communicative, and he seemed to enter - even with an eager readiness on the circumstances of his past life, while - his “soul seemed heightened by the song,” with which at intervals he - interrupted his narrative. How strongly did those exquisitely beautiful - lines of Ossian rush on my recollection: “But age is now on my tongue, and - my mind has failed me; the sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains - like a blast that roars loudly on a sea-surrounded rock after the winds - are laid, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.” - </p> - <p> - So great was my veneration for this “Bard of other times,” that I felt as - though it would have been an indelicacy to have offered him any pecuniary - reward for the exertions of his tuneful talent; I therefore made my little - offering to his wife, having previously, while he was reciting his - “unvarnished tale,” taken a sketch of his most singularly interesting and - striking figure, as a present for Glorvina on my return to Inismore. - </p> - <p> - While my heart a thousand times called on hers to participate in the sweet - but melancholy pleasure it experienced, as I listened to and gazed on this - venerable being. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - The following account of the Bard of the Magilligans was - taken from his own lips, July 3, 1805, by the Rev. Mr. - Sampson, of Magilligan, and forwarded to the author, - (through the medium of Dr. Patterson of Derry,) previous to - her visit to that part of the north, which took place a few - weeks after. - - Umbro, July 3, 1805. - - Magilligan. - - “I made the survey of the ‘man with the two heads,’ - according to your desire; but not till yesterday, on - account of various <i>impossibilities</i>. - - “Here is my report.— - - “Dennis Hampson, or the ‘man with the two heads,’ is a - native of Craigmore, near Garvah, county Derry; his father, - Brian Dorrogher Hampson, held the whole town-land of - Tyrcrevan; his mother’s relations were in possession of the - Wood-town (both considerable farms in Magilligan.) He lost - his sight at the age of three years by the smallpox; at - twelve years he began to learn the harp under Bridget - O’Cahan: ‘For,’ he said, ‘in those times, <i>women</i> as well - as men were taught the Irish harp in the best families; and - every old Irish family had harps in plenty.’ - - “His next master was John C. Gairagher, a blind travelling - harper, whom he followed to Buncranagh, where his master - used to play for Colonel Vaughan; he had afterwards - Laughlan Hanning and Patrick Connor in succession as - masters. - - “‘All these were from Connaught, which was,’ he added, ‘the - best part of the kingdom for Irish music and for harpers.’ - At eighteen years of age he began to play for himself, and - was taken into the house of Counseller Canning, at Garvah, - for half a year; his host, with Squire Gage and Doctor - Bacon, bought him a harp. He travelled nine or ten years - through Ireland and Scotland, and tells facetious stories of - gentlemen in both countries: among others, that in passing - near the place of Sir J. Campbell, at Aghanbrack, he learn- - ed that this gentleman had spent a great deal, and was - living on so much per week of allowance. Hampson through - delicacy would not call, but some of the domestics were sent - after him; on coming into the castle, Sir J. asked him why - he had not called, adding, ‘Sir, there was never a harper - but yourself that passed the door of my father’s house to - which Hampson answered that ‘he had heard in the - <i>nighbourhood</i> that his honor was not often at home.’ with - which delicate evasion Sir J. was satisfied. He adds, ‘that - this was the highest bred and stateliest man he ever knew; - if he were putting on a new pair of gloves, and one of them - dropped on the floor, (though ever so clean) he would order - the servant to bring him another pair.’ He says that in that - time he never met with but one laird that had a harp, and - that was a very small one, played on formerly by the laird’s - father; that when he had tuned it with new strings, the - laird and his lady both were so pleased with his music that - they invited him back in these words: ‘Hampson, as soon as - you think this child of ours (a boy of three years of age) - is fit to learn on his grandfather’s harp, come back to - teach him, and you shall not repent it:’—but this he never - accomplished. - - “He told me a story of the laird of Strone with a great deal - of comic relish. When he was playing at the house, a message - came that a large party of gentlemen were coming to grouse, - and would spend some days with <i>him</i> (the laird;) the lady - being in great distress turned to her husband, saying ‘what - shall we do, my dear, for so many in the way of beds?’ ‘Give - yourself no vexation,’ replied the laird, ‘give us enough to - eat, and I will supply the rest; and as to beds, believe - me, <i>every man shall find one for himself</i>;’ (meaning that - his guests would fall under the table.) In his second trip - to Scotland, in the year 1745, being at Edinburgh when - <i>Charley</i> the Pretender, was there, he was called into the - great hall to play; at first he was alone, afterwards four - fiddlers joined: the tune called for was, ‘The king shall - enjoy his own again;’—he sung here part of the words - following:—= -</pre> - <p class="indent30"> - ‘I hope to see the day - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - When the whigs shall run away, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And the king shall enjoy his own again.’ - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “I asked him if he heard the Pretender speak; he replied— - ‘I only heard him ask, Is Sylvan there? on which some one - answered, he is not here, please your royal highness, but he - shall be sent for.’ ‘He meant to say <i>Sullivan</i>,’ continued - Hampson, ‘but that was the way he called the name.’ He says - that Captain Mac Donnell, when in Ireland, came to see him, - and that he told the captain that Charley’s cockade was in - his father’s house. - - “Hampson was brought into the Pretender’s presence by - Colonel Kelly, of Roscommon, and Sir Thomas Sheridan, and - that he, (Hampson) was then about fifty years old. He played - in many Irish houses, among others, those of Lord de - Courcey, Mr. Fortesque, Sir P. Belew, Squire Roche, and in - the great towns, Dublin, Cork, &c., &c. Respecting all which - he interspersed pleasant anecdotes with surprising gaiety - and correctness; he mentioned many anecdotes of my - grandfather and grand-aunt, at whose houses he used to be - frequently. In fact, in this identical harper, whom you sent - me to <i>survey</i>, I recognized an acquaintance, who, as soon - as he found me out, seemed exhilarated at having an old - friend of (what he called) ‘the old stock,’ in his poor - cabin. He even mentioned many anecdotes of my own boyhood, - which, though by me long forgotten, were accurately true. - These things show the surprising power of his recollection - at the age of one hundred and eight years. Since I saw him - last, which was in 1787, the wen on the back of his head is - greatly increased; it is now hanging over his neck and - shoulders, nearly as large as his head, from which - circumstance he derives his appellative, ‘the man with two - heads.’ General Hart, who is an admirer of music, sent a - limner lately to take a drawing of him, which cannot fail to - be interesting, if it were only for the venerable expression - of his meagre, blind countenance, and the symmetry of his - tall, thin, but not debilitated person. I found him lying on - his back in bed near the fire of his cabin; his family - employed in the usual way; his harp under the bed-clothes, - by which his face was covered also. When he heard my name he - started up (being already dressed) and seemed rejoiced to - hear the sound of my voice, which, he said, he began to - recollect. He asked for my children, whom I brought to see - him, and he felt them over and over;—then, with tones of - great affection, he blessed <i>God</i> that he had <i>seen</i> four - generations of the name, and ended by giving the children - his blessing. He then tuned his old time-beaten harp, his - solace and bed-fellow, and played with astonishing justness - and good taste. - - “The tunes which he played were his favourites; and he, - with an elegance of manner, said at the same time, ‘I - remember you have a fondness for music, and the tunes you - used to ask for I have not forgotten, which were Cualin, The - Dawning of the Day, Elleen-a-roon, Ceandubhdilis, &c. - - These, except the third, were the first tunes, which, - according to regulation, he played at the famous meeting of - harpers at Belfast, under the patronage of some amateurs of - Irish music. Mr. Bunton, the celebrated musician of that - town, was here the year before, at Hampson’s, noting his - tunes and his manner of playing, which is in the best old - style. He said with the hottest feeling of self-love, ‘When - I played the old tunes not another of the harpers would play - after me.’ He came to Magilligan many years ago, and at the - age of eighty-six, married a woman of Innishowen, whom he - found living in the house of a friend. ‘I can’t tell,’ quoth - Hampson, ‘if it was not the devil buckled us together; she - being lame and I blind.’ By this wife he has one daughter, - married to a cooper, who has several children, and maintains - them all, though Hampson (in this alone seeming to doat) - says that his son-in-law is a spendthrift and that he - maintains them; the family humour his whim, and the old man - is quieted. He is pleased when they tell him, as he thinks - is the case, that several people of character, for musical - taste, send letters to invite him; and he, though incapable - now of leaving the house, is planning expeditions never to - be attempted, much less realized; these are the only traces - of mental debility; as to his body, he has no inconvenience - but that arising from a chronic disorder: his habits have - ever been sober; his favourite drink, once beer, now milk - and water; his diet chiefly potatoes. I asked him to teach - my daughter, but he declined: adding, however, that it was - too hard for a young girl, but that nothing would give him - greater pleasure if he thought it could be done. - - “Lord Bristol, while lodging at the bathing house of Mount - Salut, near Magilligan, gave three guineas and ground rent - free, to build the house where Hampson now lives. At the - house-warming, his lordship with his lady and family came, - and the children danced to his harp; the bishop gave three - crowns to the family, and in the <i>dear</i> year, his lordship - called in his coach and six, stopped at the door, and gave a - guinea to buy meal. - - “Would it not be well to get up a subscription for poor old - Hampson? It might be sent to various towns where he is - known. - - “Ever yours, - - “C. V. SAMPSON.” - </pre> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - ADDENDA. -</pre> - <p class="indent15"> - “In the time of Noah I was green, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - After his flood I have not been seen, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Until seventeen hundred and two. I was found - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - By Cormac Kelly, under ground; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Who raised me up to that degree; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Queen of music they call me.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “The above lines were sculptured on the old harp, which is - made, the sides and front of white sally, the back of fir, - patched with copper and iron plates, his daughter now - attending him is only thirty-three years old. - - “I have now given you an account of my visit, and even thank - you (though my fingers are tired) for the pleasure you - procured to me by this interesting commission. - - Once more ever yours, - - C. Y. S. - - In February, 1806, the author, being then but eighteen miles - distant from the residence of the bard, received a message - from him, intimating that as he heard she wished to purchase - his harp, he would dispose of it on very moderate terms. He - was then in good health and spirits though in his hundred - and ninth year. -</pre> - <p> - Whenever there was a revel of the feelings, a joy of the imagination, or a - delicate fruition of a refined and touching sentiment, how my soul misses - her! I find it impossible to make even the amiable and intelligent priest - enter into the nature of my feelings; but how naturally, in the - overflowing of my heart, do I turn towards her, yet turn in vain, or find - her image only in my enamoured soul, which is full of her. Oh! how much do - I owe her. What a vigorous spring has she opened in the wintry waste of a - desolated mind. It seems as though a seal had been fixed upon every bliss - of the senses and the heart, which her breath alone could dissolve; that - all was gloom and chaos until she said “let there be light.” - </p> - <p> - As we rode back to our auberge by the light of a cloudless but declining - moon, after some conversation on the subject of the bard whom we had - visited, the priest exclaimed, “Who would suppose that that wretched hut - was the residence of one of that order once so revered among the Irish; - whose persons and properties were held sacred and inviolable by the common - consent of all parties, as well as by the laws of the nation, even in all - the vicissitudes of warfare, and all the anarchy of intestine commotion; - an order which held the second rank in the state; and whose members, in - addition to the interesting duties of their profession, were the heralds - of peace, and the donors of immortality? Clothed in white and flowing - robes, the bards marched to battle at the head of the troops, and by the - side of the chief; and while by their martial strains they awakened - courage even to desperation in the heart of the warrior, borne away by the - furor of their own enthusiasm, they not unfrequently rushed into the thick - of the fight themselves, and by their maddening inspirations decided the - fate of the battle; or when victory descended on the ensanguined plain, - they hung over the warrior’s funeral pile, and chaunted to the strains of - the national lyre the deeds of the valiant, and the prowess of the hero; - while the brave and listening survivors envied and emulated the glory of - the deceased, and believed that this tribute of inspired genius at the - funeral rites was necessary to the repose of the departed soul.” - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * The genuine history and records of Ireland abound with - incidents singularly romantic, and of details exquisitely - interesting. In the account of the death of the celebrated - hero Conrigh, as given by Demetrius O’Connor, the following - instance of fidelity and affection of a family bard is - given. “When the beautiful but faithless Blanaid, whose hand - Conrigh had obtained as the reward of his valour, armed a - favourite lover against the life of her husband, and fled - with the murderer; Fierchiertne, the poet and bard of - Conrigh, in the anguish of his heart for the loss of a - generous master, resolved upon sacrificing the criminal - Blanaid to the manes of his murdered lord. He therefore - secretly pursued her from the palace in Kerry to the court - of Ulster, whither she had fled with her homicide paramour. - On his arrival there, the first object that saluted his eyes - was the king of that province, walking on the the edge of - the steep rocks of Rinchin Beara, surrounded by the - principal nobility of his court; and in the splendid train - he soon perceived the lovely, but guilty Blanaid and her - treacherous lover. The bard concealed himself until he - observed his mistress withdraw from the brilliant crowd, and - stand at the edge of a steep cliff; then courteously and - flatteringly addressing her, and clasping her firmly to his - breast, threw himself headlong with his prey down the - precipice. They were both dashed to pieces.” - </pre> - <p> - “And from what period,” said I, “may the decline of these once potent and - revered members of the state be dated?” - </p> - <p> - “I would almost venture to say,” returned the priest, “so early as in the - latter end of the sixth century; for we read in an Irish record, that - about <i>that</i> period the <i>Irish monarch</i> convened the princes, - nobles, and clergy of the kingdom, to the parliament of <i>Drumceat</i>; - and the chief motive alleged for summoning this vast assembly was to - banish the Fileas or bards.” - </p> - <p> - “Which might be deemed then,” interrupted I, “a league of the <i>Dunces</i> - against <i>Wit</i> and <i>Genius</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Not altogether,” returned the priest. “It was in some respects a - necessary policy. For, strange to say, nearly the third part of Ireland - had adopted a profession at once so revered, and privileged, so honoured - and so caressed by all ranks of the state. Indeed, about this period, such - was the influence they had obtained in the kingdom, that the inhabitants - without distinction were obliged to receive and maintain them from - November till May, if it were the pleasure of the bard to become their - guest; nor were there any object on which their daring wishes rested that - was not instantly put into their possession. And such was the ambition of - one of their order, that he made a demand on the golden broach or clasp - that braced the regal robe on the breast of royalty itself, which was - unalienable with the crown, and descended with the empire from generation - to generation.” - </p> - <p> - “Good God!” said I, “what an idea does this give of the omnipotence of - music and poetry among those refined enthusiasts, who have ever borne with - such impatience the oppressive chain of power, yet suffer themselves to be - soothed into slavery by the melting strains of the national lyre.” - </p> - <p> - “It is certain,” replied the priest, “that no nation, not even the Greeks, - were ever attached with more passionate enthusiasm to the divine arts of - poesy and song, than the ancient Irish, until their fatal and boundless - indulgence to their professors became a source of inquietude and - oppression to the whole state. The celebrated St. Columkill, who was - himself a poet, became a mediator between the monarch, already mentioned - and the ‘<i>tuneful throng</i>;’ and by his intercession, the king changed - his first intention of banishing the whole college of bards, to limiting - their numbers; for it was an argument of the liberal saint that it became - a great monarch to patronize the arts; to retain about his person an - eminent bard and antiquary; and to allow to his tributary princes or - chieftains, a poet capable of singing their exploits, and of registering - the genealogy of their illustrious families. This liberal and necessary - plan of reformation, suggested by the saint, was adopted by the monarch; - and these salutary regulations became the prominent standard for many - succeeding ages: and though the severity of those regulations against the - bards, enforced in the tyrannic reign of Henry VIII, as proposed by Baron - Finglas, considerably lessened their power; * yet until the reign of - Elizabeth their characters were not stripped of that sacred <i>stole</i>, - which the reverential love of their countrymen had flung over them. The - high estimation in which the bard was held in the commencement of the - empire of Ireland’s archenemy is thus attested by Sir Philip Sidney: - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * Item.—That no Irish minstrels, rhymers, thanaghs - nebards, be messengers to desire any goods of any man - dwelling within the English pale, upon pain of forfeiture of - all their goods, and their bodies to be imprisoned at the - king’s will.—Harris’s Hibernica, p. 98. -</pre> - <p> - “‘In our neighbouring country,’ says he, ‘where truly learning grows very - bare, yet are their poets held in devout reverence.’ But Elizabeth, - jealous of that influence which the bardic order of Ireland held over the - most puissant of her chiefs, not only enacted laws against them, but - against such as received or entertained them: for Spenser informs us that, - even <i>then</i>, ‘their verses were taken up with a general applause, and - usually sung at all feasts and meetings.’ Of the spirited, yet pathetic - manner in which the genius of Irish minstrelsy addressed itself to the - soul of the Irish chief, many instances are still preserved in the records - of traditional lore. A poem of Fearflatha, family bard to the O’Nials of - Clanboy, and beginning thus:—‘O the condition of our dear - countrymen, how languid their joys, how acute their sorrows, &c., - &c.,’ the Prince of Inismore takes peculiar delight in repeating. But - in the lapse of time, and vicissitude of revolution, this order, once so - revered, has finally sunk into the casual retention of a harper, piper, or - fiddler, which are generally, but not universally to be found in the - houses of the Irish country gentlemen; as you have yourself witnessed in - the castle of Inismore and the hospitable mansion of the O’D————s. - One circumstance, however, I must mention to you. Although Ulster was - never deemed poetic ground, yet when destruction threatened the bardic - order in the southern and western provinces, where their insolence, - nurtured by false indulgence, often rendered them an object of popular - antipathy, hither they fled for protection, and at different periods found - it from the northern princes: and Ulster, you perceive, is now the last - resort of the most ancient of the survivors of the ancient Irish bards, - who, after having imbibed inspiration in the classic regions of Connaught, - and effused his national strains through every province of his country, - draws forth the last feeble tones of his almost silenced harp amidst the - chilling regions of the north; almost unknown and undistinguished, except - by the few strangers who are led by chance or curiosity to this hut, and - from whose casual bounties he chiefly derives his subsistence.” - </p> - <p> - We had now reached the door of our auberge; and the dog of the house - jumping on me as I alighted, our hostess exclaimed, “Ah sir! our wee - doggie kens ye uncoo weel” Is not this the language of the Isle of Sky? - The priest left me early this morning on his evidently unpleasant embassy. - On his return we visit the Giant’s Causeway, which I understand is but - sixteen miles distant. Of this pilgrimage to the shrine of Nature in her - grandest aspect, I shall tell you nothing; but when we meet will put into - your hands a work written on the subject, from which you will derive equal - pleasure and instruction. At this moment the excellent priest appears on - his little nag; the rain no longer beats against my casement; the large - drops suspended from the foliage of the trees sparkle with the beams of - the meridian sun, which bursting forth in cloudless radiancy, dispels the - misty shower, and brilliantly lights up the arch of heaven’s promise. - Would you know the images now most buoyant in my cheered bosom; they are - Ossian and Glorvina: it is for <i>him</i> to describe, for <i>her</i> to - feel the renovating charms of this interesting moment. - </p> - <p> - Adieu! I shall grant you a reprieve till we once more reach the dear ruins - of Inismore. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXVIII. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">P</span>lato compares the - soul to a small republic, of which the reasoning and judging powers are - stationed in the head as in a citadel, and of which the senses are the - guards or servants. - </p> - <p> - Alas! my dear friend, this republic is with me all anarchy and confusion, - and its guards, disordered and overwhelmed, can no longer afford it - protection. I would be calm, and give a succinct account of my return to - Inismore; but impetuous feelings rush over the recollection of trivial - circumstances, and all concentrate on that fatal point which transfixes - every thought, every motion of my soul. - </p> - <p> - Suffice it to say, that our second reception at the mansion of the O’D’s - had lost nothing of that cordiality which distinguished our first; but - neither the cheerful kindness of the parents, nor the blandishments of the - charming daughters could allay that burning impatience which fired my - bosom to return to Glorvina, after the tedious absence of five long days. - All night I tossed on my pillow in the restless agitation of expected - bliss, and with the dawn of that day on which I hoped once more to taste “<i>the - life of life</i>,” I arose and flew to the priests room to chide his - tardiness. Early as it was I found he had already left his apartment, and - as I turned from the door to seek him, I perceived a written paper lying - on the floor. I took it up, and, carelessly glancing my eye over it, - discovered that it was a receipt from the Prince’s inexorable creditor, - who (as Father John informed me) refused to take the farm off his hands: - but what was my amazement to find that this receipt was an acknowledgment - for those jewels which I had so often seen stealing their lustre from - Glorvina’s charms; and which were now individually mentioned, and given in - lieu of the rent for this very farm, by which the Prince was so materially - injured. The blood boiled in my veins, I could have annihilated this - rascally cold-hearted landlord; I could have wept on the neck of the - unfortunate Prince; I could have fallen at the feet of Glor-vina and - worshipped her as the first of the Almighty’s works. Never in the midst of - all my artificial wants, my boundless and craving extravagance, did I ever - feel the want of riches as at this moment, when a small part of what I had - so worthlessly flung away, would have saved the pride of a noble, an - indignant spirit from a deep and deadly wound and spared the heart of - filial solicitude and tender sensibility, many a pang or tortured - feelings. The rent of the farm was a hundred pounds per annum. The Prince, - I understood, was three years in arrear; yet, though there were no - diamonds, and not many pearls, I should suppose the jewels were worth more - than the sum for which they were given. * - </p> - <p> - While I stood burning with indignation, the paper still trembling in my - hand, I heard the footstep of the priest; I let fall the paper; he - advanced, snatched it up, and put it in his pocket-book, with an air of - self-reprehension that determined me to conceal the knowledge so - accidentally acquired. Having left our adieux for our courteous hosts with - one of the young men, we at last set out for Inismore. The idea of so soon - meeting my soul’s precious Glorvina, banished every idea less delightful. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * I have been informed that a descendant of the provincial - kings of Connaught parted not many years back with his - golden crown which for so many ages encircled the royal - brows of his ancestors. -</pre> - <p> - “Our meeting (said I) will be attended with a new and touching interest, - the sweet result of that <i>perfect</i> intelligence which now for the - first time subsisted between us, and which stole its birth from that - tender and delicious glance which love first bestowed on me beneath the - cypress tree of the rustic cemetery.” - </p> - <p> - Already I beheld the “air-lifted” figure of Glorvina floating towards me. - Already I felt the soft hands tremble in mine, and gazed on the deep - suffusion of her kindling blushes, the ardent welcome of her bashful eyes, - and all that dissolving and impassioned langour, with which she would - resign herself to the sweet abandonment of her soul’s chastened - tenderness, and the fullest confidence in that adoring heart which had now - unequivocally assured her of its homage and eternal fealty. In short, I - had resolved to confess my name and rank to Glorvina, to offer her my - hand, and to trust to the affection of our fond and indulgent fathers for - forgiveness. - </p> - <p> - Thus warmed by the visions of my heated fan cy I could no longer stifle my - impatience; and when we were within seven miles of the castle I told the - priest, who was ambling slowly on, that I would be his <i>avant-courier</i>, - and clapping spurs to my horse soon lost sight of my tardy companion. - </p> - <p> - At the draw-bridge I met one of the servants to whom I gave the panting - animal, and flew, rather than walked, to the castle. At its portals stood - the old nurse; she almost embraced me, and I almost returned the caress; - but with a sorrowful countenance she informed me that the Prince was - dangerously ill, and had not left his bed since our departure; <i>that - things altogether were going on but poorly</i>; and that she was sure <i>the - sight</i> of me would do her young lady’s heart good, for that she did - nothing but weep all day, and sit by her father’s bed all night. She then - informed me that Glorvina was alone in the boudoir. With a thousand pulses - fluttering at my breast, full of the idea of stealing on the melancholy - solitude of my pensive love, with a beating heart and noiseless step, I - approached the sacred asylum of innocence. The door lay partly open; - Glorvina was seated at a table, and apparently engaged in writing a - letter, I paused a moment for breath ere I advanced. Glorvina at the same - instant raised her head from the paper, read over what she had written, - and wept bitterly; then wrote again—paused, sighed, and drew a - letter from her bosom—(yes, her bosom) which she perused, often - waving her head, and sighing deeply, and wiping away the tears that dimmed - her eyes, while once a cherub smile stole on her lip (<i>that smile</i> I - once thought <i>all</i> my own;) then folding up the letter, she pressed - it to her lips, and consigning it to her bosom, exclaimed, “First and best - of men!” What else she murmured I could not distinguish; but as if the - perusal of this prized letter had renovated every drooping spirit, she - ceased to weep, and wrote with greater earnestness than before. - </p> - <p> - Motionless, transfixed, I leaned for support against the frame of the - door, until Glorvina, having finished her letter and sealed it, arose to - depart; then I had the presence of mind to steal away and conceal myself - in a dark recess of the corridor. Yet, though unseen, I saw her wipe away - the traces of her tears from her cheek, and pass me with a composed and - almost cheerful air. I softly followed, and looking down the dark abyss of - the steep well stairs, which she rapidly descended, I perceived her put - her letter in the hands of the little post-boy, who hurried away with it. - Impelled by the impetuous feelings of the moment I was—yes, I was so - far forgetful of myself, my principle, and pride, of every sentiment save - love and jealousy, that I was on the point of following the boy, snatching - the letter, and learning the address of this mysterious correspondent, - this “<i>First and best of men</i>.” But the natural dignity of my - vehement, yet undebased mind, saved me a meanness I should never have - forgiven: for what right had I forcibly to possess myself of another’s - secret? I turned back to a window in the corridor and beheld Glor-vina’s - little herald mounted on his mule riding off, while she, standing at the - gate, pursued him with that impatient look so strongly indicative of her - ardent character. When he was out of sight she withdrew, and the next - minute I heard her stealing towards her father’s room. Unable to bear her - presence, I flew to mine; that apartment I had lately occupied with a - heart so redolent of bliss—a heart that now sunk beneath the - unexpected blow which crushed all its new-born hopes, and I feared - annihilated forever its sweet but shortlived felicity. “And is this, - then,” I exclaimed, “the fond re-union my fancy painted in such glowing - colours?” God of heaven! at the very moment when my thoughts and - affections, forced for a tedious interval from the object of their - idolatry, like a compressed spring set free, bounded with new vigour to - their native bias. Yet was not the disappointment of my own individual - hope scarcely more agonizing than the destruction of that consciousness - which, in giving one perfect being to my view, redeemed the species in my - misanthropic opinion. - </p> - <p> - “O Glorvina!” I passionately added, “if even thou, fair being, reared in - thy native wilds and native solitudes art deceptive, artful, imposing, - deep, deep in all the wiles of hypocrisy, then is the original sin of our - nature unredeemed; vice the innate principle of our being—and those - who preach the existence of virtue but idle dreamers who fancy that in - others to themselves unknown And yet, sweet innocent, if thou art more - sinned against than sinning if the phantoms of a jealous brain—oh! - ’tis impossible! The ardent kiss impressed upon the senseless - paper, which thy breast enshrined!!! Was the letter of a friend thus - treasured? When was the letter of a friend thus answered with tears, with - smiles, with blushes, and with sighs? This, this is love’s own language. - Besides, Glorvina is not formed for friendship; the moderate feelings of - her burning soul are already divided in affection for her father, and - grateful esteem for her tutor; and she who, when loved, must be loved to - madness, will scarcely feel less passion than she inspires.” - </p> - <p> - While thought after thought thus chased each other down, like the mutinous - billows of a stormy ocean, I continued pacing my chamber with quick and - heavy strides; forgetful that the Prince’s room lay immediately beneath - me. Ere that thought occurred, some one softly opened the door. I turned - savagely round—it was Glorvina! Impulsively I rushed to meet her; - but impulsively recoiled: while she, with an exclamation of surprise and - pleasure, sprung towards me, and by my sudden retreat would have fallen at - my feet, but that my willing arms extended involuntarily to receive her. - Yet, it was no longer the almost sacred person of the once all-innocent, - all-ingenuous Glorvina they encircled; but still they twined round the - loveliest form, the most charming, the most dangerous of human beings The - enchantress!—With what exquisite modesty she faintly endeavoured to - extricate herself from my embrace, yet with what willing weakness, which - seemed to triumph in its own debility, she panted on my bosom, wearied by - the exertion which vainly sought her release. Oh! at that moment the world - was forgotten—the whole universe was Glorvina! My soul’s eternal - welfare was not more precious at that moment than Glorvina! while my - passion seemed now to derive its ardour from the overflowing energy of - those bitter sentiments which had preceded its revival. Glorvina, with an - effort, flung herself from me. Virtue, indignant yet merciful, forgiving - while it arraigned, beamed in her eyes. I fell at her feet; - </p> - <p> - I pressed her hand to my throbbing temples and burning lips. “Forgive me,” - I exclaimed, “for I know not what I do.” She threw herself on a seat, and - covered her face with her hands, while the tears trickled through her - fingers. Oh! there was a time when tears from those eyes—but now - they only recalled to my recollection the last I had seen her shed. I - started from her feet and walked towards the window, near that couch where - her watchful and charitable attention first awakened the germ of gratitude - and love which has since blown into such full, such fatal existence. I - leaned my head against the window-frame for support, its painful throb was - so violent; I felt as though it were lacerating in a thousand places; and - the sigh which involuntarily breathed from my lips seemed almost to burst - the heart from whence it flowed. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina arose: with an air tenderly compassionate, yet reproachful, she - advanced and took one of my hands. “My dear friend,” she exclaimed, “what - is the matter? has anything occurred to disturb you, or to awaken this - extraordinary emotion? Father John! where is he? why does he not accompany - you? Speak!—does any new misfortune threaten us? does it touch my - father? Oh! in mercy say <i>it does not!</i> but release me from the - torture of suspense.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no,” I peevishly replied; “set your heart at rest, it is nothing; - nothing at least that concerns you; it is me, me only it concerns.” - </p> - <p> - “And therefore, Mortimer, is it nothing to Glorvina,” she softly replied, - and with one of those natural motions so incidental to the simplicity of - her manners, she threw her hand on my shoulder, and leaning her head on it - raised her eloquent, her tearful eyes to mine. Oh! while the bright drops - hung upon her cheek’s faded rose, with what difficulty I restrained the - impulse that tempted me to gather them with my lips; while she, like a - ministering angel, again took my hand, and applying her fingers to my - wrist, said, with a sad smile, “You know I am a skilful little doctress.” - </p> - <p> - The feelings I experienced when those lovely fingers first applied their - pressure to my arm, rushed on my recollection: her touch had lost nothing - of its electric power: my emotions at that moment were indescribable. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, good God, how ill you are!” she exclaimed. “How wild your pulse; how - feverish your looks! You have overheated yourself; you were unequal to - such a journey in such weather; you who have been so lately an invalid. I - beseech you to throw yourself on the bed, and endeavour to take some - repose; meantime I will send my nurse with some refreshment to you. How - could I be so blind as not to see at once how ill you were!” - </p> - <p> - Glad, for the present, of any pretext to conceal the nature of my real - disorder, I confessed I was indeed ill, (and, in fact, I was <i>physically</i> - as well as morally so; for my last day’s journey brought on that nervous - headach I have suffered so much from;) while she, all tender solicitude - and compassion, flew to prepare me a composing draught. But I was not now - to be deceived: this was pity, mere pity. Thus a thousand times have I - seen her act by the wretches who were first introduced to her notice - through the medium of that reputation which her distinguished humanity had - obtained for her among the diseased and the unfortunate. - </p> - <p> - I had but just sunk upon the bed, overcome by fatigue and the vehemence of - my emotions, when the old nurse entered the room. She said she had brought - me a composing draught from the lady Glorvina, who had kissed the cup, - after the old Irish fashion, * and bade me to drink it for her sake. - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - * To this ancient and general custom Goldsmith allude in his - Deserted Village:—= -</pre> - <p class="indent20"> - “And kissed the cup to pass it to the rest.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “Then I pledge her,” said I, “with the same truth she did me,” and I - eagerly quaffed off the nectar her hand had prepared. Meantime the nurse - took her station by the bed-side with some appropriate reference to her - former attendance there, and the generosity with which that attendance was - rewarded; for I had imprudently apportioned my donation rather to my real - than apparent rank. - </p> - <p> - While I was glad that this talkative old woman had fallen in my way; for - though I knew I had nothing to hope from that incorruptible fidelity which - was grounded on her attachment to her beloved nursling, and her affection - for the family she had so long served, yet I had everything to expect from - the garrulous simplicity of her character, and her love of what she calls - <i>Seanachus</i>, or telling long stories of the Inismore family; and - while I was thinking how I should put my Jesuitical scheme into execution, - and she was talking as usual I know not what, the beautiful “<i>Breviare - du Sentiment</i>” caught my eye lying on the floor:—Glorvina must - have dropped it on her first entrance. I desired the nurse to bring it to - me; who blessed her stars, and wondered how her child could be so - careless: a thing too she valued so much. At that moment it struck me that - this <i>Brevaire</i>, the furniture of the <i>boudoir</i>, the vases, and - the fragment of a letter, were all connected with this mysterious friend, - this “first and best of men.” I shuddered as I held it, and forgot the - snow-drops it contained; yet, assuming a composure as I examined its - cover, I asked the nurse if she thought I could procure such another in - the next market town. - </p> - <p> - The old woman held her sides while she laughed at the idea; then folding - her arms on her knees with that gossiping air which she always assumed - when in a mood peculiarly loquacious, she assured me that such a book - could not be got in all Ireland; for that it had come from foreign parts - to her young lady. - </p> - <p> - “And who sent it?” I demanded. - </p> - <p> - “Why, nobody sent it, (she simply replied,) he brought it himself.” - </p> - <p> - “Who?” said I. - </p> - <p> - She stammered and paused. - </p> - <p> - “Then, I suppose,” she added, “of course, you never heard”——- - </p> - <p> - “What?” I eagerly asked, with an air of curiosity and amazement. As these - are two emotions a common mind is most susceptble of feeling and most - anxious to excite, I found little difficulty in artfully leading on the - old woman by degrees, till at last I obtained from her, almost unawares to - herself, the following particulars: - </p> - <p> - On a stormy night, in the spring of 17——, during that fatal - period when the scarcely cicatrised wounds of this unhappy country bled - afresh beneath the uplifted sword of civil contention; when the bonds of - human amity were rent asunder, and every man regarded his neighbour with - suspicion or considered him with fear; a stranger of noble stature, - muffled in a long, dark cloak, appeared in the great hall of Inismore, and - requested an interview with the Prince. The Prince had retired to rest, - and being then in an ill state of health, deputed his daughter to receive - the unknown visitant, as the priest was absent. The stranger was shown - into an apartment adjoining the Prince’s, where Glorvina received him, and - having remained for some time with him retired to her father’s room; and - again, after a conference of some minutes, returned to the stranger, whom - she conducted to the Prince’s bedside. On the same night, and after the - stranger had passed two hours in the Prince’s chamber, the nurse received - orders to prepare the bed and apartment which I now occupy for this - mysterious guest, who from that time remained near three months at the - castle; leaving it only occasionally for a few days, and always departing - and returning under the veil of night. - </p> - <p> - The following summer he repeated his visit; bringing with him those - presents which decorate Glorvina’s boudoir, except the carpet and vases, - which were brought by a person who disappeared as soon as he had left - them. During both these visits he gave up his time chiefly to Glorvina; - reading to her, listening to her music, and walking with her early and - late, but never without the priest or nurse, and seldom during the day. - </p> - <p> - In short, in the furor of the old woman’s garrulity, (who, however, - discovered that her own information had not been acquired by the most - justifiable means, having, she said, by chance, overheard a conversation - which passed between the stranger and the Prince,) I found that this - mysterious visitant was some unfortunate gentleman who had attached - himself to the rebellious faction of the day, and who being pursued nearly - to the gates of the castle of Inismore, had thrown himself on the mercy of - the Prince; who, with that romantic sense of honour which distinguishes - his chivalrous character, had not violated the trust thus forced on him, - but granted an asylum to the unfortunate refugee; who, by the most - prepossessing manners and eminent endowments, had dazzled the fancy and - won the hearts of this unsuspecting and credulous family; while over the - minds of Glorvina and her father he had obtained a boundless influence. - </p> - <p> - The nurse hinted that she believed it was still unsafe for the stranger to - appear in this country for that he was more cautious of concealing himself - in his last visit than his first; that she believed he lived in England; - that he seemed to have money enough, “<i>for he threw it about like a - prince</i>.” Not a servant in the castle, she added, but knew well enough - how it was; but there was not one but would sooner <i>die</i> than betray - him. His name she did not know; he was only known by the appellation of - the gentleman. He was not young, but tall and very handsome. He could not - speak Irish, and she had reason to think he had lived chiefly in America. - She added, that <i>I</i> often reminded her of him, especially when I - smiled and looked down. She was not certain whether he was expected that - summer or not; but she believed the Prince frequently received letters - from him. - </p> - <p> - The old woman was by no means aware how deeply she had been betrayed by - her insatiate passion for hearing herself speak; while the curious and - expressive idiom of her native tongue gave me more insight into the whole - business than the most laboured phrase or minute detail could have done. - By the time, however, she had finished her narrative, she began to have - some “compunctious visitings of conscience.” she made me pass my honour I - would not betray her to her young lady; for, she added, that if it got air - it might come to the ears of Lord M———— who was - the prince’s bitter enemy; and that it might be the ruin of the Prince; - with a thousand other wild surmises suggested by her fears. I again - repeated my assurances of secrecy; and the sound of her young lady’s bell - summoning her to the Prince’s room, she left me, not forgetting to take - with her the “<i>Breviare du Sentiment</i>.” - </p> - <p> - Again abandoned to my wretched self, the succeeding hour was passed in - such a state of varied perturbation, that it would be as torturing to - retrace my agonizing and successive reflections as it would be impossible - to express them. In short, after a thousand vague conjectures, many to the - prejudice, and a lingering few to the advantage of their object, I was led - to believe (fatal conviction!) that the virgin rose of Glorvina’s - affection had already shed its sweetness on a former, happier lover; and - the partiality I had flattered myself in having awakened, was either the - result of natural intuitive coquetry, or, in the long absence of her - heart’s first object, a transient beam of that fire, which once illumined, - is so difficult to extinguish, and which was nourished by my resemblance - to him who had first fanned it into life.—What! <i>I</i> receive to - my heart the faded spark, while another has basked in the vital flame! <i>I</i> - contentedly gather this after-blow of tenderness, when another has inhaled - the very essence of the nectarious blossoms? No! like the suffering - mother, who wholly resigned her bosom’s idol rather than divide it with - another, I will, with a single effort, tear this late adored image from my - heart, though that heart break with the effort, rather than feed on the - remnant of those favours on which another has already feasted. Yet to be - thus deceived by a recluse, a child, a novice!—<i>I</i> who, turning - revoltingly from the hackneyed artifices of female depravity in that world - where art forever reigns, sought in the tenderness of secluded innocence - and intelligent simplicity that heaven my soul had so long, so vainly - panted to enjoy! Yet, even there—No! I cannot believe it She! - Glofvina, false, deceptive! Oh, were the immaculate spirit of <i>Truth</i> - embodied in a human form, it could not wear upon its radient brow a - brighter, stronger trace of purity inviolable, and holy innocence than - shines in the seraph countenance of Glorvina! - </p> - <p> - Besides, she never <i>said</i> she loved me. <i>Said!</i>—God of - heaven! were words then necessary for such an <i>avowal!</i> Oh, Glorvina! - thy melting glances, thy insidious smiles, thy ardent blushes, thy tender - sighs, thy touching softness, and delicious tears; these, these are the - sweet testimonies to which my heart appeals. These at least will speak for - me, and say it was not the breath of vain presumption that nourished those - hopes which now, in all their vigour, perish by the chilling blight of - well-founded jealousy and mortal disappointment. - </p> - <p> - Two hours have elapsed since the nurse left me, supposing me to be asleep; - no one has intruded, and I have employed the last hour in retracing to you - the vicissitudes of this eventful day. You, who warned me of my fate, - should learn the truth of your fatal prophecy. My father’s too; but he is - avenged! and I have already expiated a deception, which, however innocent, - was still <i>deception</i>. - </p> - <h3> - IN CONTINUATION. - </h3> - <p> - I had written thus far, when some one tapped at my door, and the next - moment the priest entered: he was not an hour arrived, and with his usual - kindness came to inquire after my health, expressing much surprise at its - alteration, which he said was visible in my looks. “But, it is scarcely to - be wondered at,” he added: “a man who complains for two days of a nervous - disorder, and yet gallops, as if for life, seven miles in a day more - natural to the torrid zone than our polar clime, may have some chance of - losing his life, but very little of <i>losing his disorder</i>.” He then - endeavoured to persuade me to go down with him and take some refreshment, - for I had tasted nothing all day, save Glorvina’s draught; but finding me - averse to the proposal, he sat with me till he was sent for to the - Prince’s room. As soon as he was gone, with that restlessness of body - which ever accompanies a wretched mind, I wandered through the deserted - rooms of this vast and ruinous edifice, but saw nothing of Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - The sun had set, all was gloomy and still, I took my hat and in the - melancholy maze of twilight, wandered I knew not, cared not whither. I had - not, however, strayed far from the ruins, when I perceived the little - postboy galloping his foaming mule over the drawbridge, and the next - moment saw Glorvina gliding beneath the colonnade (that leads to the - chapel) to meet him. I retreated behind a fragment of the ruins, and - observed her to take a letter from his hand with an eager and impatient - air: when she had looked at the seal, she pressed it to her lips: then by - the faint beams of the retreating light, she opened this welcome packet, - and putting an enclosed letter in her bosom, endeavoured to read the - envelope; but scarcely had her eye glanced over it, than it fell to the - earth, while she, covering her face with her hands, seemed to lean against - the broken pillar near which she stood for support. Oh! was this an - emotion of overwhelming bliss, or chilling disappointment? She again took - the paper, and still holding it open in her hand, with a slow step and - thoughtful air, returned to the castle; while I flew to the stables under - pretence of inquiring from the post-boy if there were any letters for me. - The lad said there was but one, and that, the postmaster had told him was - an English one for the lady Glorvina. This letter, then, though it could - not have been an answer to that I had seen her writing, was doubtless from - the mysterious friend, whose friendship, “<i>like gold, though not - sonorous, was indestructible</i>.” - </p> - <p> - My doubts were now all lost in certain conviction; my trembling heart no - longer vibrated between a lingering hope and a dreadful fear. I was <i>deceived</i> - and another was <i>beloved</i>. That sort of sullen firm composure, which - fixes on man when he knows the worst that can occur, took possession of - every feeling, and steadied that wild throb of insupportable suspense - which had agitated and distracted my veering soul; while the only - vacillation of mind to which I was sensible, was the uncertainty of - whether I should or should not quit the castle that night. Finally, I - resolved to act with the cool determination of a rational being, not the - wild impetuosity of a maniac. I put off my departure till the following - morning, when I would formally take leave of the Prince, the priest, and - even Glorvina herself, in the presence of her father. Thus firm and - decided, I returned to the castle, and mechanically walked towards that - vast apartment where I had first seen her at her harp, soothing the - sorrows of parental affliction; but now it was gloomy and unoccupied; a - single taper burned on a black marble slab before a large folio, in which - I suppose the priest had been looking; the silent harp of Glorvina stood - in its usual place. I fled to the great hall, once the central point of - all our social joys, but it was also dark and empty; the whole edifice - seemed a desert. I again rushed from its portals, and wandered along the - sea-beat shore, till the dews of night and the spray of the swelling tide, - as it broke against the rocks, had penetrated through my clothes. I saw - the light trembling in the casement of Glorvina’s chamber long after - midnight. I heard the castle clock fling its peal over every passing hour; - and not till the faintly awakening beam of the horizon streamed on the - eastern wave, did I return through the castle’s ever open portals, and - steal to that room I was about to occupy (not to sleep in) for the last - time: a light and some refreshment had been left there for me in my - absence. The taper was nearly burned out, but by its expiring flame I - perceived a billet lying on the table. I opened it tremblingly. It was - from Glor-vina, and only a simple inquiry after my health, couched in - terms of commonplace courtesy. I tore it—it was the first she had - ever addressed to me, and yet I tore it in a thousand pieces. I threw - myself on the bed, and for some time busied my mind in conjecturing - whether her father sanctioned or her preceptor suspected her attachment to - this fortunate rebel. I was almost convinced they did not. The young, the - profound deceiver; she whom I had thought - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “So green in this old world.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Wearied by incessant cogitation, I at last fell into a deep sleep, and - arose about two hours back, harassed by dreams and quite unrefreshed, - since when I have written thus far. My last night’s resolution remains - unchanged. I have sent my compliments to inquire after the Prince’s - health, and to request an interview with him. The servant has this moment - returned, and informs me the Prince has just fallen asleep after having - had a very bad night, but that when he awakens he shall be told of my - request. I dared not mention Glorvina’s name, but the man informed me she - was then sitting by her father’s bedside, and had not attended matins. At - breakfast I mean to acquaint the excellent Father John of my intended - departure. Oh! how much of the woman at this moment swells in my heart. - There is not a being in this family in whom I have not excited, and for - whom I do not feel an interest. Poor souls! they have almost all been at - my room door this morning to inquire after my health, owing to the nurse’s - exaggerated account: she too, kind creature, has already been twice with - me before I arose, but I affected sleep. Adieu! I shall despatch this to - you from M———— house. I shall then have seen the - castle of Inismore for the last time—the last time!! - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXIX. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - M———— House. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t is all over—the - spell is dissolved, and the vision forever vanished: yet my mind is not - what it was, ere this transient dream of bliss “wrapt it in Elysium.” Then - I neither suffered nor enjoyed: now—! - </p> - <p> - When I folded my letter to you, I descended to breakfast, but the priest - did not appear, and the things were removed untouched. I ordered my horse - to be got ready, and waited all the day in expectation of a message from - the Prince, loitering, wandering, unsettled, and wretched, the hours - dragged on; no message came: I fancied I was impatient to receive it, and - to be gone; but the truth is, my dear friend, I was weak enough almost to - rejoice at the detention. While I walked from room to room with a book in - my hand, I saw no one but the servants, who looked full of mystery; save - once, when, as I stood at the top of the corridor, I perceived Glorvina - leave her father’s room; she held a handkerchief to her eyes, and passed - on to her own apartment. Oh! why did I not fly and wipe away those tears, - inquire their source, and end at once the torture of suspense? but I had - not power to move. The dinner hour arrived; I was sum moned to the - parlour; the priest met me at the table, shook me with unusual cordiality - by the hand, and affectionately inquired after my health. He then became - silent and thoughtful, and had the air of a man whose heart and office are - at variance; who is deputed with a commission his feelings will not suffer - him to execute. After a long pause, he spoke of the Prince’s illness, the - uneasiness of his mind, the unpleasant state of his affairs, his - attachment and partiality to me, and his ardent wish always to have it in - his power to retain me with him; then paused again, and sighed, and again - endeavoured to speak, but failed in the effort. I now perfectly understood - the nature of his incoherent speech; my pride served as an interpreter - between his feelings and my own, and I was determined to save his honest - heart the pang of saying, “Go, you are no longer a welcome guest.” - </p> - <p> - I told him then in a few words, that it was my intention to have left the - castle that morning for Bally————, on my way to - England; but that I waited for an opportunity of bidding farewell to the - Prince: as that, however, seemed to be denied me, I begged that he (Father - John) would have the goodness to say for me all———. Had - my life depended on it, I could not articulate another word. The priest - arose in evident emotion. I, too, not unagitated, left my seat: the good - man took my hand, and pressed it affectionately to his heart, then turned - aside, I believe, to conceal the moisture of his eyes; nor were mine dry, - yet they seemed to burn in their sockets. The priest then put a paper in - the hand he held, and again pressing it with ardour, hurried away. I - trembled as I opened it; it was a letter from the Prince, containing a - bank note, a plain ring which he constantly wore, and the following lines - written with the trembling hand of infirmity or emotion: - </p> -<pre xml:space="preserve"> - “Young and interesting Englishman, farewell! Had I not known - thee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me with - a son. - - “O’Melville, - - “Prince of Inismore.” - </pre> - <p> - I sunk, overcome in a chair. When I could sufficiently command myself, I - wrote with my pencil on the cover of the Prince’s letter the following - incoherent lines: - </p> - <p> - “You owe <i>me</i> nothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and - all that could <i>once</i> render life desirable. With existence only will - the recollection of your kindness be lost; yet though generously it was - unworthily bestowed; for it was lavished on an <i>Impostor</i>. I am not - what I seem: To become an inmate in your family, to awaken an interest in - your estimation, I forfeited the dignity of truth, and stooped for the - first time to the meanness of deception. Your money, therefore, I return, - but your ring—that ring so often worn by you—worlds would not - tempt me to part with. - </p> - <p> - “I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my heart! - but since I have been your guest, <i>he</i>, the whole world was - forgotten. The first tie of nature was dissolved; and from your hands I - seemed to have received a new existence. Best and most generous of men, be - this recollection present to your heart: Should some incident as yet - unforeseen discover to you who and what I am, remember this—and then - forgive him, who, with the profoundest sense of your goodness, bids you a - last farewell.” - </p> - <p> - When I had finished these lines written with an emotion that almost - rendered them illegible, I rung the bell and inquired (from the servant - who answered) for the priest: he said he was shut up in the Prince’s room. - </p> - <p> - “Alone, with the Prince?” said I. - </p> - <p> - “No,” he returned, “for he had seen the lady Glorvina enter at the same - time with Father John.” I did not wish to trust the servant with this open - billet, I did not wish the Prince to get it till I was gone: in a word, - though I was resolved to leave the castle that evening, yet I did not wish - to go, till, for the last time, I had seen Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. “Suffer me - to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore forever.” As I was - putting the billet into the man s hand, the stable-boy passed the window; - I threw up the sash and ordered him to lead round my horse. All this was - done with the agitation of mind which a criminal feels who hurries on his - execution, to terminate the horrors of suspense. - </p> - <p> - I continued walking up and down the room in such agony of feeling, that a - cold dew, colder than ice, hung upon my aching brow. I heard a footstep - approach—I became motionless; the door opened, and the priest - appeared, leading in Glorvina. God of Heaven! The priest supported her on - his arm, the veil was drawn over her eyes; I could not advance to meet - them, I stood spellbound,—they both approached; I had not the power - to raise my eyes. “You sent for me,” said the priest, in a faltering - accent. I presented him my letter for the Prince; suffocation choked my - utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom, and taking - my hand, said, “You must not think of leaving this evening; the Prince - will not hear of it.” While he spoke my horse passed the window; I - summoned up those spirits my pride, my wounded pride, retained in its - service. “It is necessary I should depart immediately,” said I, “and the - sultriness of the weather renders the evening preferable.” I abruptly - paused—I could not finish the sentence, simple as it was. - </p> - <p> - “Then,” said the priest, “<i>any</i> evening will do as well as this.” But - Glorvina spoke not; and I answered with vehemence, that I should have been - off long since: and my determination is now fixed. - </p> - <p> - “If you are thus <i>positive</i>,” said the priest, surprised by a manner - so unusual, “your friend, your pupil here, who came to second her father’s - request, must change her solicitations to a last farewell.” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina’s head reposed on his shoulder; her face was enveloped in her - veil; he looked on her with tenderness and compassion, and I repeated, a - “last farewell!” Glorvina, you will at least then say, “<i>Farewell</i>.” - The veil fell from her face. God of Heaven, what a countenance! In the - universe I saw nothing but Glorvina; such as I had once believed her, my - own, my loving and beloved Glorvina, my tender friend, and impassioned - mistress. I fell at her feet; I seized her hands and pressed them to my - burning lips. I heard her stifled sobs; her tears of soft compassion fell - upon my cheek; I thought them tears of love, and drew her to my breast; - but the priest held her in one arm, while with the other he endeavoured to - raise me, exclaiming in violent emotion, “O God, I should have foreseen - this! I, I alone am to blame. Excellent and unfortunate young man, dearly - beloved child!” and at the same moment he pressed us both to his paternal - bosom. The heart of Glorvina throbbed to mine, our tears flowed together, - our sighs mingled. The priest sobbed over us like a child. It was a - blissful agony; but it was insupportable. - </p> - <p> - Then to have died would have been most blessed The priest dispelled the - transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He stifled the voice of - nature and pity in his breast. His air was sternly virtuous—“Go,” - said he, but he spoke in vain. I still clung to the drapery of Glorvina’s - robe; he forced me from her, and she sunk on a couch. “I now,” he added, - “behold the fatal error to which I have been an unconscious accessary. - Thank God, it is retrievable; go, amiable, but imprudent young man; it is - honour, it is virtue commands your departure.” - </p> - <p> - While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall. “Stay,” said I, in a - faint voice, “let me but speak to her.” - </p> - <p> - “It is in vain,” replied the inexorable priest, “for she can <i>never</i> - be yours; then spare <i>her</i>, spare <i>yourself</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Never!” I exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “Never,” he firmly replied. - </p> - <p> - I burst from his grasp and flew to Glorvina. I snatched her to my breast - and wildly cried, “Glorvina, is this then a last farewell?” She answered - not, but her silence was eloquent. “Then,” said I, pressing her more - closely to my heart, “<i>farewell forever!</i>” - </p> - <h3> - IN CONTINUATION. - </h3> - <p> - I mounted the horse that waited for me at the door, and galloped off; but - with the darkness of the night I returned, and all night I wandered about - the environs of Inismore: to the last I watched the light of Glorvina’s - window. When it was extinguished, it seemed as though I parted from her - again. A gray dawn was already breaking to the mists of obscurity. Some - poor peasants were already going to the labours of the day. It was - requisite I should go. Yet when I ascended the mountain of Inismore I - involuntarily turned, and beheld those dear ruins which I had first - entered under the influence of such powerful, such prophetic emotion. What - a train of recollections rushed on my mind, what a climax did they form! I - turned away my eyes, sick, <i>sick</i> at <i>heart</i>, and pursued my - solitary journey. Within twelve miles of M———— - house, as I reached an eminence, I again paused to look back, and caught a - last view of the mountain of Inismore. It seemed to float like a vapour on - the horizon. I took a last farewell of this almost loved mountain. Once it - had risen on my gaze like the pharos to my haven of enjoyment; for never, - until this sad moment, had I beheld it but with transport. - </p> - <p> - On my arrival here I found a letter from my father, simply stating that by - the time it reached me he would probably be on his way to Ireland, - accompanied by my intended bride, and her father, concluding thus: “In - beholding you honourably and happily established, thus secure in a - liberal, a noble independence, the throb of incessant solicitude you have - hitherto awakened will at last be <i>stilled</i>, and your prudent - compliance in this instance will bury in eternal oblivion the sufferings, - the anxieties which, with all your native virtue and native talent, your - imprudence has hitherto caused to the heart of an affectionate and - indulgent father.” - </p> - <p> - This letter, which even a few days back would have driven me to - distraction, I now read with the apathy of a stoic. It is to me a matter - of indifference how I am disposed of. I have no wish, no will of my own. - </p> - <p> - To the return of that mortal torpor from which a late fatally cherished - sentiment had roused me, is now added the pang of my life’s severest - disappointment, like the dying wretch who is only roused from total - insensibility, by the quivering pains which, at intervals of fluttering - life, shoot through his languid frame. - </p> - <h3> - IN CONTINUATION. - </h3> - <p> - It is two days since I began this letter, yet I am still here; I have not - power to move, though I know not what secret spell detains me. But whither - shall I go, and to what purpose? the tie which once bound me to physical - and moral good, to virtue and felicity, is broken, for ever broken. My - mind is changed, dreadfully changed within these few days. I am ill too, a - burning fever preys upon the very springs of life; all around me is - solitary and desolate. Sometimes my brain seems on fire, and hideous - phantoms float before my eyes; either my senses are disordered by - indisposition, or the hand of heaven presses heavily on me. My blood rolls - in torrents through my veins. Sometimes I think it <i>should</i>, it <i>must</i> - have vent. I feel it is in vain to think that I shall ever be fit for the - discharge of any duty in this life. I shall hold a place in the creation - to which I am a dishonour. I shall become a burthen to the few who are - obliged to feel an interest in my welfare. - </p> - <p> - It is the duty of every one to do that which his situation requires, to - act up to the measure of judgment bestowed on him by Providence. Should I - continue to drag on this load of life, it would be for its wretched - remnant a mere animal existence. A moral death! What! I become again like - the plant I tread under my feet; endued with a vegetative existence, but - destitute of all sensation of all feeling. I who have tasted heaven’s own - bliss; who have known, oh God! that even the recollection, the simple - recollection should diffuse through my chilled heart, through my whole - languid frame such cheering renovating ardour. - </p> - <p> - I have gone over calmly, deliberately gone over every circumstance - connected with the recent dream of my life. It is evident that the object - of my heart’s first election is that of her father’s choice. Her passion - for me, for I swear most solemnly she loved me: Oh, in that I could not be - deceived; every look, every word betrayed it; her passion for me was a - paroxysm. Her tender, her impassioned nature required some object to - receive the glowing ebullitions of its affectionate feelings; and in the - absence of another, in that unrestrained intimacy by which we were so - closely associated; in that sympathy of pursuit which existed between us, - they were lavished on me. I was the substituted toy of the moment. And - shall I then sink beneath a woman’s whim, a woman’s infidelity, unfaithful - to another as to me? I who, from my early days, have suffered by her arts - and my own credulity? But what were all my sufferings to this? A drop of - water to “the multitudinous ocean.” Yet in the moment of a last farewell - she wept so bitterly! tears of pity! Pitied and deceived! - </p> - <p> - I am resolved I will offer myself an expiatory sacrifice on the altar of - parental wrongs. The father whom I have deceived and injured shall be - retributed. This moment I have received a letter from him, the most - affectionate and tender; he is arrived in Dublin, and with him Mr. D———, - and his daughter! It is well! If he requires it the moment of our meeting - shall be that of my immolation. Some act of desperation would <i>be</i> - now most consonant to my soul! - </p> - <p> - Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M. - </h3> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - LETTER XXX. - </h3> - <h3> - TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. - </h3> - <p> - <i>Dublin</i>. - </p> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> am writing to you - from the back-room of a noisy hotel in the centre of a great and bustling - city: my only prospect the gloomy walls of the surrounding houses. What a - contrast! Where now are those refreshing scenes on which my rapt gaze so - lately dwelt—those wild sublimities of nature—the stupendous - mountain, the Alpine cliff, the boundless ocean, and the smiling vale - Where are those original and simple characters, those habits, those - manners, to me at least so striking and so new?— All vanished like a - dream!— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “The baseless fabric of a vision!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - I arrived here late in the evening, and found my father waiting to receive - me. Happily the rest of the party were gone to the theatre; for his - agitation was scarcely less than my own. You know that, owing to our late - misunderstanding, it is some months since we met. He fell on my neck and - wept. I was quite overcome. He was shocked at my altered appearance, and - his tenderest solicitudes were awakened for my health. I was so vanquished - by his goodness, that more than once I was on the point of confessing all - to him. It was my good angel checked the imprudent avowal: for what - purpose could it now serve, but to render me more contemptible in his - eyes, and to heighten his antipathy against those who have been in some - degree the unconscious accessaries to my egregious folly and incurable - imprudence. But <i>does</i> he feel an antipathy against the worthy - Prince? Can it be otherwise? Have not all his conciliatory offers been - rejected with scorn?—Yet to me he never mentioned the Prince’s name; - this silence surprises me—long may it continue. I dare not trust - myself. In your bosom only is the secret safely reposed. - </p> - <p> - As I had rode day and night since I left M————house, - weariness and indisposition obliged me almost on my arrival to go to bed: - my father sat by my side till the return of the party from the theatre. - What plans for my future aggrandizement and happiness did his parental - solicitude canvass and devise! the prospect of my brilliant establishment - in life seems to have given him a new sense of being. On our return to - England, I am to set up for the borough of —————. - My talents are calculated for the senate: fame, dignity, and emolument, - are to wait upon their successful exertion. I am to become an object of - popular favour and royal esteem; and all this time, in the fancied triumph - of his parental hopes, he sees not that the heart of their object is - breaking. - </p> - <p> - Were you to hear him! were you to see him. What a father! what a man! Such - intelligence—such abilities. A mind so dignified—a heart so - tender! and still retaining all the ardour, all the enthusiasm of youth. - In what terms he spoke of my elected bride! He indeed dwelt chiefly on her - personal charms, and the simplicity of her unmodified character. Alas! I - once found both united to genius and sensibility. - </p> - <p> - “How delightful, (he exclaimed) to form this young and ductile mind, to - mould it to your desires, to breathe inspiration into this lovely image of - primeval innocence, to give soul to beauty, and intelligence to - simplicity; to watch the rising progress of your grateful efforts, and - finally clasp to your heart that perfection you have yourself created.” - </p> - <p> - And this was spoken with an energy, an enthusiasm, as though he had - himself experienced all the pleasure he now painted for me. Happily, - however, in the warmth of his own feelings, he perceived not the coldness, - the torpidity of his son’s. - </p> - <p> - They are fast weaving for me the web of my destiny. I look on and take no - part in the work. It is over—I have been presented in form. They say - she is beautiful—it may be so;—but the blind man cannot be - persuaded of the charms of the rose, when his finger is wounded by its - thorns. She met me with some confusion, which was natural, considering she - had been “won unsought.” Yet I thought it was the bashfulness of a <i>hoyden</i>, - rather than that soul-born delicate bashfulness which I have seen - accompanied with every grace. How few there are who do or can distinguish - this in woman; yet in nature there is nothing more distinct than the - modesty of sentiment and of constitution. - </p> - <p> - The father was, as usual, boisterously good-humoured, and vulgarly - pleasant; he talked over our sporting adventures last winter, as if the - topic were exhaustless. For my part, I was so silent, that my father - looked uneasy, and I then made amends for my former taciturnity by talking - incessantly, and on every subject, with vehemence and rapidity. A woman of - common sense or common delicacy, would have been disgusted; but she is a - child. They would fain drag me after them into public, but my plea of ill - health has been received by my indulgent father. My gay young mistress - seems already to consider me as her husband, and treats me accordingly - with indifference. In short, she finds that love in the solitude of the - country, and amidst the pleasures of the town, is a very different - sentiment; yet her vanity, I believe, is piqued by my neglect; for to-day - she said, when I excused myself from accompanying her to a morning - concert, Oh! I should much rather have your father with me, he is the - younger man of the two: I indeed never saw him in such health and spirits; - he seems to tread on air. Oh! that he were my rival, my successful rival! - In the present morbid state of my feelings I give in to every thing; but - when it comes to a crisis, will this stupid acquiescence still befriend - their wishes? Impossible! - </p> - <h3> - IN CONTINUATION. - </h3> - <p> - I have had a short but extraordinary conversation with my father. Would - you believe it? he has for some time back cherished an attachment of the - tenderest nature; but to his heart, the interests of his children have - ever been an object of the first and dearest concern. Having secured their - establishment in life, and as he hopes and believes, effected their - happiness, he now feels himself warranted in consulting his own. In short, - he has given me to understand that there is a probability of his marriage - with a very amiable and deserving person, closely following after my - brother’s and mine. The lady’s name he refused to mention, until every - thing was finally arranged; and whoever she is, I suspect her rank is - inferior to her merits, for he said, “The world will call the union - disproportioned—disproportioned in every sense; but I must in this - instance, prefer the approval of my own heart to the world’s opinion.” He - then added, (equivocally) that had he been able to follow me immediately - to Ireland, as he had at first proposed, he would have related to me some - circumstances of peculiar interest, but that <i>I should yet know all</i> - and seemed, I thought, to lament that disparity of character between my - brother and him, which prohibited that flow of confidence his heart seems - panting to indulge in. You know Edward takes no pains to conceal that he - smiles at those ardent virtues in his father’s character, to which the - phlegmatic temperament of his own gives the name of <i>romance</i>. - </p> - <p> - The two fathers settle every thing as they please. A property which fell - to my father a few weeks back, by the death of a rich maiden aunt, with - every thing not entailed, he has made over to me, even during his life. - Expostulation was in vain, he would not hear me:—for himself he has - retained nothing but his purchased estates in Connaught, which are - infinitely more extensive than that he possesses by inheritance. What if - he resides at the Lodge, in the very neighbourhood of———? - Oh! my good friend, I fear I am deceiving myself: I fear I am preparing - for the heart of the best of fathers, a mortal disappointment. When the - throes of wounded pride shall have subsided, when the resentments of a - doat-ing, a deceived heart, shall have gradually abated, and the - recollection of former blisses shall have soothed away the pangs of recent - suffering; will I then submit to the dictates of an imperious duty, or - resign myself unresisting to the influence of morbid apathy? - </p> - <p> - Sometimes my father fixes his eyes so tenderly on me, yet with a look as - if he would search to the most secret folds of my heart. He has never once - asked my opinion of my elected bride, who, gay and happy as the first - circles of this dissipated city can make her, cheerfully receives the plea - which ill health affords (attributed to a heavy cold) of not attending her - in her pursuit of pleasure. The fact is, I am indeed ill; my mind and body - seem declining together, and nothing in this world can give me joy, but - the prospect of its delivery. - </p> - <p> - By this I suppose the mysterious friend is arrived. It was expedient, - therefore, that I should be dismissed. By this I suppose she is.... - </p> - <p> - So closely does my former weakness cling round my heart, that I cannot - think of it without madness. - </p> - <p> - After having contemplated for a few minutes the sun’s cloudless radiancy, - the impression left on the averted gaze is two dark spots, and the dazzled - organ becomes darkened by a previous excess of lumination. It is thus with - my mind; its present gloom is proportioned to its former light. Oh! it was - too, too much! Rescued from that moral death, that sickbed satiety of - feeling, that state of chill, hopeless existence, in which the torpid - faculties were impalpable to every impression, when to breathe, to move, - constituted all the powers of being: and then suddenly, as if by - intervention of Providence (and what an agent did it appoint for the - execution of its divine will!) raised to the summit of human thought, - human feeling, human felicity, only again to be plunged in endless night. - It was too much. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - Good God! would you believe it! My father is gone to M———house, - to prepare for the reception of the bridal party. We are to follow, and he - proposes spending the summer there; there too, he says, my marriage with - Miss D——— is to be celebrated; he wishes to conciliate - the good will, not only of the neighbouring gentry, but of his tenantry in - general, and thinks this will be a fair occasion. Well be it so; but I - shall not hold myself answerable for the consequences: my destiny is in - their hands—let them look to the result. - </p> - <p> - Since my father left us, I am of necessity obliged to pay some attention - to <i>his friends</i>; but I should be a mere automaton by the side of my - gay mistress, did I not court an artificial flow of spirits, by means to - me the most detestable. In short, I generally contrive to leave my senses - behind me at the drinking table; or rather my reason and my spirits, - profiting by its absence, are roused to boisterous anarchy: my bride (<i>my</i> - bride!) is then quite charmed with my gaiety, and fancies she is receiving - the homage of a lover, when she is insulted by the extravagance of a - maniac; but she is a simple child, and her father is an insensible fool. - God knows how little of my thoughts are devoted to either. Yet the girl is - much followed for her beauty, and the splendid figure which the fortune of - the father enables them to make, has procured them universal attention - from persons of the first rank. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - A thousand times the dream of short slumbers gives her to my arms as I - last beheld her. A thousand times I am awakened from a heavy unrefreshing - sleep by the fancied sound of her harp and voice. There was one old Irish - air she used to sing like an angel, and in the idiom of her national music - sighed out certain passages with a heart-breaking thrill, that used to - rend my very soul! Well, this song I cannot send from my memory; it - breathes around me, it dies upon my ear, and in the weakness of emotion I - weep—weep like a child. Oh! this cannot be much longer endured. I - have this moment received your letter; I feel all the kindness of your - intention, but I must insist on your not coming over; it would now answer - no purpose. Besides, a new plan of conduct has suggested itself. In a - word, my father shall know all: my unfortunate adventure may come to his - ears: it is best he should know it from myself. I will then resign my fate - into his hands: surely he will not forget I am still his son. Adieu. - </p> - <h3> - H. M - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CONCLUSION. - </h2> - <p> - A few days after the departure of the Earl of M. from Dublin, the intended - father-in-law of his son, weary of a town-life, to which he had hitherto - been unaccustomed, proposed that they should surprise the earl at M———— - house, without waiting for that summons which was to have governed their - departure for Connaught. - </p> - <p> - His young and thoughtless daughter, eager only after novelty, was charmed - by a plan which promised a change of scene and variety of life. The - unfortunate lover of Glorvina fancied he gave a reluctant compliance to - the proposal which coincided but too closely with the secret desires of - his soul. - </p> - <p> - This inconsiderate project was put into execution almost as soon as - formed. Mr. D. and his daughter went in their own carriage; Mr. M. - followed on horseback. On their arrival, they found M———— - house occupied by workmen of every description, and the Earl of M———— - absent. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Clendinning, his lordship’s agent, had not returned from England; and - the steward, who had been but lately appointed to the office, informed the - travellers that Lord M. had only been one day at M——— - house, and had removed a few miles up the country to a hunting-lodge until - it should be ready for the reception of the family. Mr. D. insisted on - going on to the hunting-lodge. Mr. M. strenuously opposed the intention, - and with difficulty prevailed on the thoughtless father and volatile - daughter to stop at M———— house, while he went in - search of its absent lord. It was early in the day when they had arrived, - and when Mr. M. had given orders for their accommodation, he set out for - the Lodge. - </p> - <p> - From the time the unhappy M. had come within the sight of those scenes - which recalled all the recent circumstances of his life to memory, his - heart had throbbed with a quickened pulse; even the scenery of M———— - house had awakened his emotion; his enforced return thither; his brief and - restless residence there; and the eager delight with which he flew from - the desolate mansion of his father to the endearing circle of Inismore all - rushed to his memory, and awakened that train of tender recollection he - had lately endeavoured to stifle. Happy to seize on an occasion of - escaping from the restraints the society of his insensible companions - imposed, happier still to have an opportunity afforded him of visiting the - neighbourhood of Inismore, every step of his journey to the Lodge was - marked by the renewed existence of some powerful and latent emotion; and - the latent agitation of his heart and feelings had reached their <i>acme</i> - by the time he had arrived at the gate of that avenue from which the - mountains of Inismore were discernible. - </p> - <p> - When he had reached the Lodge, a young lad, who was working in the - grounds, replied to his inquiries, that an old woman was its only - resident, that the ancient steward was dead, and that Lord M. had only - remained there an hour. - </p> - <p> - This last intelligence overwhelmed Mr. M. with astonishment. To his - further inquiries the boy only said, that as the report went that M———— - house was undergoing some repair, it was probable his lord had gone on a - visit to some of the <i>neighbouring quality</i>. He added that his lord - ship’s own gentleman had accompanied him. - </p> - <p> - Mr. M. remained for a considerable time lost in thought; then throwing the - bridle over his horse’s neck, folded his arms, and suffered it to take its - own course: it was the same animal which had so often carried him to - Inismore. When he had determined on following his father to the Lodge he - had ordered a fresh horse; that which the groom led out was the same which - Mr. M. had left behind him, and which, by becoming the companion of his - singular adventure, had obtained a peculiar interest in his affections. - When he had passed the avenue of the Lodge, the animal instinctively took - to that path he had been accustomed to go; his instinct was too favourable - to the secret wishes of the heart of his unhappy master; he smiled sadly, - and suffered him to proceed. The evening was far advanced the sun had sunk - in the horizon, as from an eminence he perceived the castle of Inismore. - His heart throbbed with violence—a thousand hopes, a thousand - wishes, a thousand fears agitated his breast: he dared not for a moment - listen to the suggestions of either. Lost in the musings of his heart and - imagination, he was already within a mile of Inismore. The world now - disappeared—he descended rapidly to a wild and trackless shore, - screened from the high road by a range of inaccessible cliffs. Twilight - faintly lingered on the summit of the mountains only: the tide was out; - and, crossing the strand, he found himself beneath those stupendous cliffs - which shelter the western part of the peninsula of Inismore from the - ocean. The violence of the waves had worn several defiles through the - rocks, which commanded a near view of the <i>ruined castle</i>: it was - involved in gloom and silence—all was dark, still, and solemn!—No - lights issued from the windows—no noise cheered at intervals the - silence of desolation. - </p> - <p> - A secret impulse still impelled the steps of Mr. M————, - and the darkness of the night favoured his irresistible desire to satisfy - the longings of his enamoured heart, by taking a last look at the shrine - of its still worshipped idol. He proceeded cautiously through the rocks, - and alighting, fastened his horse near a patch of herbage; then advanced - towards the chapel—its gates were open—the silence of death - hung over it. The rising moon, as it shone through the broken casements, - flung round a dim religious light, and threw its quivering rays on <i>that</i> - spot where he had first beheld Glorvina and her father engaged in the - interesting ceremonies of their religion. And to think that even at that - moment he breathed the air that she respired, and was within a few paces - of the spot she inhabited!—Overcome by the conviction, he resigned - himself to the delirium which involved his heart and senses; and, governed - by the overpowering impulse of the moment, he proceeded along that - colonade through which he had distinctly followed her and the Prince on - the night of his first arrival at the castle. It seemed to his heated - brain as though he still pursued those fine and striking forms which - almost appeared but the phantoms of fancy’s creation. - </p> - <p> - On every mourning breeze he thought the sound of Glorvina’s voice was - borne; and starting at the fall of every leaf, he almost expected to meet - at each step the form of Father John, if not that of his faithless - mistress; but the idea of her lover occurred not. The review of scenes so - dear awakened only a recollection of past enjoyments; and in the fond - dream of memory his present sufferings were for an interval suspended. - </p> - <p> - Scarcely aware of the approximation, he had already reached the lawn which - fronted the castle, and which was strewed over with fragments of the - mouldering ruins, and leaning behind a broken wall which screened him from - observation, he indulged himself in contemplating that noble but decayed - edifice where so many of the happiest and most blameless hours of his life - had been enjoyed. His first glance was directed towards the casement of - Glorvina’s room, but there nor in any other did the least glimmering of - light appear. With a faultering step he advanced from his concealment - towards the left wing of the castle, and snatched a hasty glance through - the window of the banquetting hall. It was the hour in which the family - were wont to assemble there. It was now impenetrably dark—he - ventured to approach still closer, and fixed his eye to the glass; but - nothing met the inquiry of his eager gaze save a piece of armour, on whose - polished surface the moon’s random beams faintly played. His heart was - chilled; yet, encouraged by the silent desolation that surrounded him, he - ventured forward. The gates of the castle were partly open; the hall was - empty and dark—he paused and listened—all was silent as the - grave. His heart sunk within him—he almost wished to behold some - human form, to hear some human sound. On either side, the doors of two - large apartments stood open: he looked into each; all was chill and dark. - </p> - <p> - Grown desperate by gloomy fears, he proceeded rapidly up the stone stairs - which wound through the centre of the building. He paused; and, leaning - over the balustrade, listened for a considerable time; but when the echo - of his footsteps had died away, all was again still as death. - Horror-struck, yet doubting the evidence of his senses, to find himself - thus far advanced in the interior of the castle, he remained for some time - motionless—a thousand melancholy suggestions struck on his soul. - With an impulse almost frantic he rushed to the corridor. The doors of the - several rooms on either side lay open, and he thought by the moon’s - doubtful light they seemed despoiled of their furniture. - </p> - <p> - While he stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound of - Glorvina’s harp, born on the blast which sighed at intervals along the - passage. At first he believed it was the illusion of his fancy disordered - by the awful singularity of his peculiar situation; to satisfy at once his - insupportable doubts he flew to that room where the harp of Glorvina - always stood: like the rest it was unoccupied and dimly lit up by the moon - beams. The harp of Glorvina, and the couch on which he had first sat by - her, were the only articles it contained: the former was still breathing - its wild melody when he entered, but he perceived the melancholy vibration - was produced by the sea breeze (admitted by the open casement) which swept - at intervals along its strings. Wholly overcome he fell on the couch—his - heart seemed scarcely susceptible of pulsation—every nerve of his - brain was strained almost to bursting—he gasped for breath. The gale - of the ocean continued to sigh on the cords of the harp, and its plaintive - tones went to his very soul, and roused those feelings so truly in unison - with every sad impression. A few burning tears relieved him from an agony - he was no longer able to endure; and he was now competent to draw some - inference from the dreadful scene of desolation by which he was - surrounded. The good old Prince was no more!—or his daughter was - married! In either case it was probable the family had deserted the <i>ruins</i> - of Inismore. - </p> - <p> - While absorbed in this heart-rending meditation, he saw a faint light - gleaming on the ceiling of the room, and heard a footstep approaching. - Unable to move, he sat breathless with expectation. An ancient female - tottering and feeble, with a lantern in her hand, entered; and having - fastened down the window, was creeping slowly along and muttering to - herself: when she perceived the pale and ghastly figure of the stranger, - she shrieked, let fall the light, and endeavoured to hobble away. Mr. M———— - followed, and caught her by the arm: she redoubled her cries—it was - with difficulty he could pacify her—while, as his heart fluttered on - his lips, he could only say, “The lady Glorvina!—the Prince!—speak!—where - are they?” - </p> - <p> - The old woman had now recovered her light, and holding it up to the face - of Mr. M————, she instantly recognized him; he had - been a popular favourite with the poor followers of Inismore: she was - among the number; and her joy at having her terrors thus terminated, was - such as for an interval to preclude all hope of obtaining any answer from - her. With some difficulty the distracted and impatient M———— - at last learnt from a detail interrupted by all the audible testimonies of - vulgar grief, that an execution had been laid upon the Prince’s property, - and another upon his person; that he had been carried away to jail out of - a sick bed, accompanied by his daughter, Father John, and the old nurse; - and that the whole party had set off in the old family coach, which the - creditors had not thought worthy taking away, in the middle of the night, - lest the country people should rise to rescue the Prince, which the - officers who accompanied him apprehended. - </p> - <p> - The old woman was proceeding in her narrative, but her auditor heard no - more; he flew from the castle, and, mounting his horse, set out for the - town where the Prince was imprisoned. He reached it early next morning, - and rode at once to the jail. He alighted and inquired for Mr. O’Melville, - commonly called Prince of Inismore. - </p> - <p> - The jailor, observing his wild and haggard appearance, kindly asked him - into his own room and then informed him that the Prince had been released - two days back; but that his weak state of health did not permit him to - leave the jail till the preceding evening, when he had set off for - Inismore. “But,” said the jailor, “he will never reach his old castle - alive, poor gentleman! which he suspected himself; for he received the - last ceremonies of the church before he departed, thinking, I suppose, - that he would die on the way.” - </p> - <p> - Overcome by fatigue and a variety of overwhelming emotions, Mr. M———— - sunk motionless on a seat; while the humane jailor, shocked by the - wretchedness of his looks, and supposing him to be a near relative, - offered some words of consolation, and informed him there was then a - female domestic of the Prince’s in the prison, who was to follow the - family in the course of the day, and who could probably give him every - information he might require. This was welcome tidings to Mr. M————; - and he followed the jailor to the room where the Prince had been confined, - and where the old nurse was engaged in packing up some articles, which - fell out of her hands when she perceived her favourite and patient, whom - she cordially embraced with the most passionate demonstrations of joy and - amazement. - </p> - <p> - The jailor retired; and Mr. M————, shuddering as - he contemplated the close and gloomy little apartment, its sorry - furniture, and grated windows, where the suffering Glorvina had been - imprisoned with her father, briefly related to the nurse that, having - learnt the misfortunes of the Prince, he had followed him to the prison, - in the hope of being able to give him some assistance, if not to effect - his liberation. - </p> - <p> - The old woman was as usual garrulous and communicative; she wept - alternately the Prince’s sufferings and tears of joy for his release; - talked sometimes of the generosity of the good friend, who had, she said, - “been the saviour of them all,” and sometimes of the Christian fortitude - of the Prince; but still dwelt most on the virtues and afflictions of her - young lady, whom she frequently termed <i>a saint out of heaven</i>, a - suffering-angel, and a martyr. She then related the circumstances of the - Prince’s imprisonment in terms so affecting, yet so simple, that her own - tears dropt not faster than those of her auditor. She said that she - believed they had looked for assistance from their concealed friend until - the last moment, when the Prince, unable to struggle any longer, left his - sick bed for the prison of ————; that Glorvina had - supported her father during their melancholy journey in her arms, without - suffering even a tear, much less a complaint to escape her; that she had - supported his spirits and her own as though she were more than human, - until the physician who attended the Prince gave him over; that then her - distraction (when out of the presence of her father) knew no bounds; and - that once they feared her senses were touched. - </p> - <p> - When, at a moment when they were all reduced to despair, the mysterious - friend arrived, paid the debt for which the Prince was confined, and had - carried them off the evening before, by a more tedious but less rugged - road than that she supposed Mr. M———— had taken, - by which means he had probably missed them. “For all this, (continued the - old woman weeping) my child will never be happy: she is sacrificing - herself for her father, and he will not live to enjoy the benefit of it. - The gentleman is indeed good and comely to look at; and his being old - enough to be her father matters nothing; but then love is not to be - commanded, though duty may.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. M. struck by these words fell at her feet, conjured her not to conceal - from him the state of her lady’s affections, confessed his own secret - passion, in terms as ardent as it was felt. His recent sufferings and - suspicions, and the present distracted state of his mind, his tears, his - entreaties, his wildly energetic supplications, his wretched but - interesting appearance, and above all the adoration he professed for the - object of her own tenderest affection, finally vanquished the small - portion of prudence and reserve interwoven in the unguarded character of - the simple and affectionate old Irish woman, and she at last confessed, - that the day after his departure from the castle of Inismore, Glorvina was - seized with a fever, in which, after the first day, she became delirious; - that during the night, as the nurse sat by her, she awakened from a deep - sleep and began to speak much of Mr. Mortimer, whom she called her <i>friend</i>, - her <i>preceptor</i>, and her <i>lover</i>; talked wildly of her having - been <i>united to him by God in the vale of Inismore</i>, and drew from - her bosom a sprig of withered myrtle, which, she said, had been a bridal - gift from her beloved, and that she often pressed it to her lips and - smiled, and began to sing an air which, she said, was dear to him; until - at last she burst into tears, and wept herself to sleep again. “When she - recovered,” continued the nurse, “which, owing to her youth and fine - constitution, she did in a few days, I mentioned to her some of these - sayings, at which she changed colour, and begged that as I valued her - happiness I would bury all I had heard in my own breast; and above all bid - me not mention your name, as it was now her duty to forget you; and last - night I heard her consent to become the wife of the good gentleman; but - poor child it is all one, for she will die of a broken heart. I see - plainly she will not long survive her father, nor will ever love any but - you!” At these words the old woman burst into a passion of tears, while - Mr. M———— catching her in his arms, exclaimed, “I - owe you my life, a thousand times more than my life;” and throwing his - purse into her lap, flew to the inn, where having obtained a hack horse, - given his own in care to the master, and taken a little refreshment which - his exhausted frame, long fasting, and extraordinary fatigue required, he - again set out for the Lodge. His sole object was to obtain an interview - with Glorvina, and on the result of that interview to form his future - determination. - </p> - <p> - To retrace the wild fluctuations of those powerful and poignant feelings - which agitated a mind alternately the prey of its wishes and its fears, - now governed by the impetuous impulses of unconquerable love, now by the - sacred ties of filial affection, now sacrificing every consideration to - the dictates of duty, and now forgetting everything in the fond dreams of - passion, would be an endless, an impossible task; when still vibrating - between the sweet felicities of new-born hope, and the gloomy suggestions - of habitual doubt. The weary traveller reached the peninsula of In-ismore - about the same hour that he had done the preceding day. At the drawbridge - he was met by a peasant whom he had known and to whom he gave his horse. - The man, with a countenance full of importance, was going to address him, - but he sprung eagerly forward and was in a moment immersed in the ruins of - the castle; intending to pass through the chapel as the speediest and most - private way, and to make his arrival first known to Father John, to - declare to the good priest his real name and rank, his passion for - Glorvina, and to receive his destiny from her lips only. - </p> - <p> - He had scarcely entered the chapel when the private door by which it - communicated with the castle flew open. He screened himself behind a - pillar, from whence he beheld Father John proceeding with a solemn air - towards the altar, followed by the Prince, carried by three servants in an - arm chair, and apparently in the last stage of mortal existence. Glorvina - then appeared wrapt in a long veil and supported on the arm of a stranger, - whose figure and air was lofty and noble, but whose face was concealed by - the recumbent attitude of his head, which drooped towards that of his - apparently feeble companion, as if in the act of addressing her. This - singular procession advanced to the altar; the chair of the Prince re - posed at his feet. The priest stood at the sacred table—Glorvina and - her companion knelt at its steps. The last red beams of the evening sun - shone through a stormy cloud on the votarists all was awfully silent; a - pause solemn and affecting ensued; then the priest began to celebrate the - marriage rites; but the first words had not died on his lips, when a - figure, pale and ghastly, rushed forward, wildly exclaiming, “Stop, I - charge you, stop! you know not what you do! it is a sacrilege!” and - breathless and faint the seeming maniac sunk at the feet of the bride. - </p> - <p> - A convulsive shriek burst from the lips of Glorvina. She raised her eyes - to heaven, then fixed them on her unfortunate lover, and dropped lifeless - into his arms—a pause of indiscribable emotion succeeded. The - Prince, aghast, gazed on the hapless pair; thus seemingly entwined in the - embrace of death. The priest transfixed with pity and amazement let fall - the sacred volume from his hands. Emotions of an indescribable nature - mingled in the countenance of the bridegroom. The priest was the first to - dissolve the spell, and to recover a comparative presence of mind; he - descended from the altar and endeavoured to raise and extricate the - lifeless Glorvina from the arms of her unhappy lover, but the effort was - vain. Clasping her to his heart closer than ever, the almost frantic M———— - exclaimed, “She is mine! mine in the eye of heaven! and no human power can - part us!” - </p> - <p> - “Merciful providence!” exclaimed the bridegroom faintly, and sunk on the - shoulders of the priest. The voice pierced to the heart of his rival; he - raised his eyes, fell lifeless against the railing of the altar, faintly - uttering, “God of Omnipotence! my father!” Glorvina released from the - nerveless clasp of her lover, sunk on her knees between the father and the - son, alternately fixed her wild regard on both, then suddenly turning them - on the now apparently expiring Prince, she sprang forward, and throwing - her arms round his neck, frantically cried, “It is my father they will - destroy and sobbing convulsively, sunk, overcome, on his shoulder.” - </p> - <p> - The Prince pressed her to his heart, and looking round with a ghastly and - inquiring glance for the explanation of that mystery no one had the power - to unravel, and by which all seemed overwhelmed. At last, with an effort - of expiring strength, he raised himself in his seat, entwined his arm - round his child, and intimated by his eloquent looks, that he wished the - mysterious father and his rival son to approach. The priest led the former - towards him: the latter sprang to his feet, and hid his head in his - mantle: all the native dignity of his character now seemed to irradiate - the countenance of the Prince of Inismore; his eyes sparkled with a - transient beam of their former fire; and the retreating powers of life - seemed for a moment to rush through his exhausted veins with all their - pristine vigour. With a deep and hollow voice he said: “I find I have been - deceived, and my child, I fear, is to become the victim of this deception. - Speak, mysterious strangers, who have taught me at once to <i>love</i> and - to <i>fear</i> you—what, and who are you? and to what purpose have - you mutually, but apparently unknown to each other, stolen on our - seclusion, and thus combined to embitter my last hours, by threatening the - destruction of my child?” - </p> - <p> - A long and solemn pause ensued, which was at last interrupted by the Earl - of M. With a firm and collected air he replied: “That youth who kneels at - your feet, is my son; but till this moment I was ignorant that he was - known to you: I was equally unaware of those claims which he has now made - on the heart of your daughter. If he has deceived you he also, has - deceived his father! For myself, if imposition can be extenuated, mine - merits forgiveness, for it was founded on honourable and virtuous motives. - To restore to you the blessings of independence; to raise your daughter to - that rank in life, her birth, her virtues, and her talents merit; and to - obtain your assistance in dissipating the ignorance, improving the state, - and ameliorating the condition of those poor unhappy compatriots, who, - living immediately within your own sphere of action, are influenced by - your example, and would best be actuated by your counsel. Such were the - wishes of my heart; but <i>prejudice</i>, the enemy of all human virtue - and human felicity, forbade their execution. My first overtures of amity - were treated with scorn; my first offers of service rejected with disdain; - and my crime was that in a distant age an ancestor of mine, by the fortune - of war, had possessed himself of those domains, which, in a more distant - age, a remoter ancestor of yours won by similar means. - </p> - <p> - “Thus denied the open declaration of my good intents, I stooped to the - assumption of a fictitious character; and he who as a hereditary enemy was - forbid your house, as an unknown and unfortunate stranger, under affected - circumstances of peculiar danger, was received to your protection, and - soon to your heart as its dearest friend. The influence I obtained over - your mind, I used to the salutary purpose of awakening it to a train of - ideas more liberal than the prejudices of education had hitherto suffered - it to cherish; and the services I had it in my power to render you, the - fervour of your gratitude so far over-rated, as to induce you to repay - them by the most precious of all donations—your child. But for the - wonderful and most unexpected incident which has now crossed your designs, - your daughter had been by this the wife of the Earl of M.” - </p> - <p> - With a strong convulsion of expiring nature, the Prince started from his - chair; gazed for a moment on the Earl with a fixed and eager look and - again sunk on his seat; it was the last convulsive throe of life roused - into existence by the last violent feeling of mortal emotion. With an - indefinable expression, he directed his eyes alternately from the father - to the son, then sunk back and closed them: the younger M. clasped his - hand, and bathed it with tears; his daughter, who hung over him, gazed - intently on his face, and though she tremblingly watched the extinction of - that life in which her own was wrapped up, her air was wild, her eye - beamless, her cheek pale; grief and amazement seemed to have bereft her of - her senses, but her feelings had lost nothing of their poignancy: the Earl - of M. leaned on the back of the Prince’s chair, his face covered with his - hand: the priest held his right hand, and wept like an infant: among the - attendants there was not one appeared with a dry eye. - </p> - <p> - After a long and affecting pause, the Prince heaved a deep sigh, and - raised his eyes to the crucifix which hung over the altar: the effusions - of a departing and pious soul murmured on his lips, but the powers of - utterance were gone; every mortal passion was fled, save that which - flutters with the last pulse of life in the heart of a doating father, - parental solicitude and parental love. Religion claimed his last sense of - duty, nature his last impulse of feeling; he fixed his last gaze on the - face of his daughter; he raised himself with a dying effort to receive her - last kiss: she fell on his bosom, their arms interlaced. - </p> - <p> - In this attitude he expired. - </p> - <p> - Glorvina, in the arms of the attendants, was conveyed lifeless to the - castle. The body of the Prince was carried to the great hall, and there - laid on a bier. The Earl of M. walked by the side of the body, and his - almost lifeless son, supported by the arm of the priest (who himself stood - in need of assistance,) slowly followed. - </p> - <p> - The elder M. had loved the venerable Prince as a brother and a friend: the - younger as a father. In their common regret for the object of their mutual - affection, heightened by that sadly affecting scene they had just - witnessed, they lost for an interval a sense of that extraordinary and - delicate situation in which they now stood related towards each other; - they hung on either side in a mournful silence over the deceased object of - their friendly affliction; while the concourse of poor peasants, whom the - return of the Prince brought in joyful emotion to the castle, now crowded - into the hall, uttering those vehement exclamations of sorrow and - amazement so consonant to the impassioned energy of their national - character. To still the violence of their emotions, the priest kneeling at - the foot of the bier began a prayer for the soul of the deceased. All who - were present knelt around him: all was awful, solemn, and still. At that - moment Glorvina appeared; she had rushed from the arms of her attendants; - her strength was resistless, for it was the energy of madness; her senses - were fled. - </p> - <p> - A dead silence ensued; for the emotion of the priest would not suffer him - to proceed. Regardless of the prostrate throng, she glided up the hall to - the bier, and gazing earnestly on her father, smiled sadly, and waved her - hand; then kissing his cheek, she threw her veil over his face, and - putting her finger on her lip, as if to impose silence, softly exclaimed, - “Hush! he does not suffer now! he sleeps! it was I who lulled him to - repose with the song his heart loves!” and then kneeling beside him, in a - voice scarcely human, she breathed out a soul-rending air she had been - accustomed to sing to her father from her earliest infancy. The silence of - compassion, of horror, which breathed around, was alone interrupted by her - song of grief, while no eye save hers was dry. Abruptly breaking off her - plaintive strains, she drew the veil from her father’s face, and suddenly - averting her gaze from his livid features, it wandered from the Earl of M. - to his son; while with a piercing shriek she exclaimed, “Which of you - murdered my father?” then looking tenderly on the younger M. (whose eyes - not less wild than her own had followed her every motion,) she softly - added, “It was not you, my love!” and with a loud convulsive laugh she - fell lifeless into the priest’s arms, who was the first who had the - presence of mind to think of removing the still lovely maniac. The rival - father and his unhappy son withdrew at the same moment; and when the - priest (having disposed of his unfortunate charge) returned to seek them, - he found them both in the same apartment, but at a considerable distance - from each other, both buried in silent emotion—both labouring under - the violence of their respective feelings. The priest attempted some words - expressive of consolation to the younger M. who seemed most the victim of - uncontrollable affliction; but with a firm manner the earl interrupted - him:—“My good friend,” said he, “this is no time for words; nature - and feeling claim their prerogative, and are not to be denied. Your - venerable friend is no more, but he has ceased to suffer: the afflicted - and angelic being, whose affecting sorrows so recently wrung our hearts - with agony, has still, I trust, many years of felicity and health in store - to compensate for her early trials; from henceforth I shall consider her - as the child of my adoption. For myself, the motives by which my - apparently extraordinary conduct was governed were pure and disinterested; - though the means by which I endeavoured to effect my laudable purpose were - perhaps not strictly justifiable in the eye of rigid, undeviating - integrity. For this young man!” he paused, and fixing his eyes on his son - till they filled with tears, the strongest emotions agitating his frame; - Mr. M. rushed forward, and fell on his father’s breast. The earl pressed - him to his heart, and putting his hands in those of Father John, he said, - “To your care and tenderness I commend my child; and from you,” he added, - addressing his son, “I shall expect the developement of that mystery, - which is as yet dark and unfathomable. Remain here till we fully - understand each other. I depart to night for M———— - house. It is reserved for you to assist this worthy man in the last solemn - office of friendship and humanity. It is reserved for you to watch over - and cherish that suffering angel, for whose future happiness we both - mutually stand accountable.” With these words Lord M. again embraced his - almost lifeless son, and pressing the hand of the priest withdrew. Father - John followed him; but importunities were fruitless; his horses were - ordered, and having put a bank-note of considerable amount into his hands - to defray the funeral expenses, he departed from Inismore. - </p> - <p> - In the course of four days, the remains of the Prince were consigned to - the tomb. Glorvina’s health and fine constitution were already prevailing - over her disorder and acute sensibility; her senses were gradually - returning, and only appeared subject to wander when a sense of her recent - suffering struck on her heart. The old nurse was the first who ventured to - mention to her that her unhappy lover was in the house; but though she - appeared struck and deeply affected by the intelligence, she never - mentioned his name. - </p> - <p> - Meantime Mr. M., owing to his recent sufferings of mind and body, was - seized with a slow fever and confined for many days to his bed. A - physician of eminence in the country had taken up his residence at - Inismore, and a courier daily passed between the castle and M———— - house, with his reports of the health of the two patients to the Earl. In - a fortnight they were both so far recovered, as to remove from their - respective bedrooms to an adjoining apartment. The benevolent priest, who - day and night had watched over them, undertook to prepare Glorvina for the - reception of Mr. M. whose life seemed to hang upon the restoration of - hers. When she heard that he was still in the castle, and had just escaped - from the jaws of death, she shuddered and changed colour; and with a faint - voice inquired for his father. When she learnt he had left the castle on - the night when she had last seen him, she seemed to feel much - satisfaction, and said, “What an extraordinary circumstance! What a - mystery!—the father and the son!” She paused, and a faint hectic - coloured her pale cheek; then added, “unfortunate and imprudent young man! - Will his father forgive and receive him?” - </p> - <p> - “He is dearer than ever to his father’s heart,” said the priest, “the - first use he made of his returning health, was to write to his inestimable - parent, confessing without the least reservation every incident of his - late extraordinary adventure.” - </p> - <p> - “And when does he leave the castle!” inarticulately demanded Glorvina. - </p> - <p> - “That rests with you,” replied the priest. - </p> - <p> - She turned aside her head and sighed heavily then bursting into tears, - flung her arms affectionately round her beloved preceptor, and cried, “I - have now no father but you—act for me as such.” The priest pressed - her to his heart, and, drawing a letter from his bosom, said, “This is - from one who pants to become your father in the strictest sense of the - word; it is from Lord M., but though addressed to his son, it is equally - intended for your perusal. That son, that friend, that lover, whose life - and happiness now rests in your hands, in all the powerful emotions of - hope, doubt, anxiety, and expectation, now waits to be admitted to your - presence.” - </p> - <p> - Glorvina, gasping for breath, caught hold of the priest’s arm, then sunk - back upon her seat, and covered her face with her hands. The priest - withdrew, and in a few minutes returned, leading in the agitated invalid; - then placing the hands of the almost lifeless Glorvina in his, retired. He - felt the mutual delicacy of their situation, and forbore to heighten it by - his presence. - </p> - <p> - Two hours had elapsed before the venerable priest again sought the two - objects dearest to his heart; he found Glorvina overwhelmed with soft - emotion, her cheek covered with blushes, and her hand clasped in that of - the interesting invalid, whose flushing colour and animated eyes spoke the - return of health and happiness; not indeed confirmed, but fed by sanguine - hope; such hope as the heart of a mourning child could give to the object - of her heart’s first passion, in that era of filial grief, when sorrow is - mellowed by reason, and soothed by religion into a tender but not - ungracious melancholy. The good priest embraced and blessed them - alternately, then, seated between them, read aloud the letter of Lord M. - </p> - <h3> - TO THE HON. HORATIO M. - </h3> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ince human - happiness, like every other feeling of the human heart, loses its - poignancy by reiteration, its fragrance with its bloom; let me not (while - the first fallen dew of pleasure hangs fresh upon the flower of your - existence) seize on those precious moments which <i>Hope</i>, rescued from - the fangs of despondency, and bliss, succeeding to affliction, claim as - their own. Brief be the detail which intrudes on the hour of newborn joy, - and short the narrative which holds captive the attention, while the - heart, involved in its own enjoyments, denies its interest. - </p> - <p> - It is now unnecessary for me fully to explain all the motives which led me - to appear at the castle of Inismore in a fictitious character. Deeply - interested for a people whose national character I had hitherto viewed - through the false medium of prejudice; anxious to make it my study in a - situation, and under circumstances, which as an English landholder, as the - Earl of M———, was denied me, and to turn the stream of - my acquired information to that channel which would tend to the promotion - of the happiness and welfare of those whose destiny, in some measure, was - consigned to my guidance:—solicitous to triumph over the hereditary - prejudices of my hereditary enemy; to seduce him into amity, and force him - to <i>esteem</i> the man he <i>hated</i>; while he unconsciously became - his accessary in promoting the welfare of those of his humble compatriots - who dwelt within the sphere of our mutual observation. Such were the <i>motives</i> - which principally guided my late apparently romantic adventure; would that - the <i>means</i> had been equally laudable. - </p> - <p> - Received into the mansion of the generous but incautious Prince, as a - proscribed and unfortunate wanderer, I owed my reception to his humanity - rather than his prudence; and when I told him that I threw my life into - his power, his <i>honour</i> became bound for its security, though his - principles condemned the conduct which he believed had effected its just - forfeiture. - </p> - <p> - For some months, in two succeeding summers, I contrived to perpetuate, - with plausive details, the mystery I had forged; and to confirm the - interest I had been so fortunate at first to awaken into an ardent - friendship, which became as reciprocal as it was disinterested. Yet it was - still <i>my</i> destiny to be loved identically as myself; as myself - adventitiously to be <i>hated</i>. And the name of the Earl of M———— - was forbidden to be mentioned in the presence of the Prince, while he - frequently confessed that the happiest of his hours were passed in Lord M————‘s - society. - </p> - <p> - Thus singularly situated, I dared not hazard a revelation of my real - character, lest I should lose by the discovery all those precious - immunities with which my fictitious one had endowed me. - </p> - <p> - But while it was my good fortune thus warmly to ingratiate myself with the - father, can I pass over in silence my prouder triumph in that filial - interest I awakened in the heart of his daughter. Her tender commiseration - for my supposed misfortunes; the persevering goodness with which she - endeavoured to rescue me from those erroneous principles she believed the - efficient cause of sufferings, and which I appeared to sacrifice to her - better reason. The flattering interest she took in my conversation; the - eagerness with which she received those instructions it was my supreme - pleasure to bestow on her; and the solicitude she incessantly expressed - for my fancied doubtful fate; awakened my heart’s tenderest regard and - liveliest gratitude. But though I admired her genius and adored her - virtues, the sentiment she inspired never for a moment lost its character - of parental affection; and even when I formed the determination, the - accomplishment of which you so unexpectedly, so providentially frustrated, - the gratification of any selfish wish, the compliance with any passionate - impulse, held no influence over the determination. No, it was only - dictated by motives pure as the object that inspired them; it was the wish - of snatching this lovely blossom from the desert where she bloomed unseen, - of raising her to that circle in society her birth entitled her to, and - her graces were calculated to adorn; of confirming my amity with her - father by the tenderest unity of interests and affection; of giving her a - legally sanctioned claim on that part of her hereditary property which the - suspected villany of my steward had robbed her of; and of retributing the - parent through the medium of the child. - </p> - <p> - Had I had a son to offer her, I had not offered her myself; but my eldest - was already engaged, and for the worldly welfare of my second an alliance - at once brilliant and opulent was necessary; for, dazzled by his real or - supposed talents, I viewed his future destiny through the medium of - parental ambition, and thought only of those means by which he might - become great, without considering the more important necessity of his - becoming happy. Yet, well aware of the phlegmatic indifference of the one, - and the romantic imprudence of the other, I denied them my confidence, - until the final issue of the adventure would render its revelation - necessary. Nor did I suspect the possibility of their learning it by any - other means; for the one never visited Ireland, and the other, as the son - of Lord M————, would find no admittance to the - castle of Inismore. - </p> - <p> - When a fixed determination succeeded to some months of wavering - indecision, I wrote to Glorvina, with whom I had been in habits of - epistolary correspondence, distantly touching on a subject I yet - considered with timidity, and faintly demanding her sanction of my wishes - before I unfolded them to her father, which I assured her I would not do - until I could claim her openly in my own character. - </p> - <p> - In the interim, however, I received a letter from her, written previous to - her receipt of mine. It began thus:—“In those happy moments of - boundless confidence, when the pupil and the child hung upon the - instructive accents of the friend and the father, you have often said to - me, ‘I am not altogether what I seem; I am not only <i>grateful</i>, but I - possess a power stronger than words of convincing those to whom I owe so - much of my gratitude; and should the hour of affliction ever reach <i>thee</i>, - Glorvina, call on me as the friend who would fly from the remotest corner - of the earth to serve, to <i>save</i> thee.’ - </p> - <p> - “<i>The hour of affliction is arrived—I call upon you!</i>” She then - described the disordered state of her father’s affairs, and painted his - sufferings with all the eloquence of filial sorrow, requesting my advice, - and flatteringly lamenting the destiny which placed us at such a distance - from each other. - </p> - <p> - It is needless to add, that I determined to answer this letter in person, - and I only waited to embrace my loved and long estranged son on my arrival - in Ireland. When I set out for Inismore I found the castle deserted, and - learned, (with indescribable emotions of pity and indignation,) that the - Prince and his daughter were the inhabitants of a <i>prison</i>. I flew to - this sad receptacle of suffering virtue, and effected the liberation of - the Prince. There <i>was</i> a time when the haughty spirit of this proud - chieftain would have revolted against the idea of owing a pecuniary - obligation to any man: but those only who have laboured under a long and - continued series of mental and bodily affliction, can tell how the mind’s - strength is to be subdued, the energies of pride softened, and the - delicacy of refined feelings blunted, by the pressure of reiterated - suffering, of harassing and incessant disappointment. While the surprise - of the Prince equalled his emotion, he exclaimed in the vehemence of his - gratitude—“Teach me at least how to thank you, since to repay you is - impossible.” Glorvina was at that moment weeping on my shoulder, her hands - were clasped in mine, and her humid eyes beamed on me all the grateful - feelings of her warm and susceptible soul. I gazed on her for a moment,—she - cast down her eyes, and I thought pressed my hand; thus encouraged I - ventured to say to the Prince, “You talk in exaggerated terms of the - little service I have done you,—would indeed it had been sufficient - to embolden me to make that request which now trembles on my lips.” - </p> - <p> - I paused—the Prince eagerly replied, “there is nothing you can ask I - am not anxious and ready to comply with.” - </p> - <p> - I looked at Glorvina—she blushed and trembled. I felt I was - understood, and I added, “then give me a legal claim to become the - protector of your daughter, and through her to restore you to that - independence necessary for the repose of a proud and noble spirit. In a - few days I shall openly appear to the world, with honour and with safety, - in my own name and character. Take this letter, it is addressed to the - Earl of M————, whom I solemnly swear is not more - your enemy than mine, and who consequently cannot be biased by partiality: - from him you shall learn who and what I am; and until that period I ask - not to receive the hand of your inestimable daughter.” - </p> - <p> - The Prince took the letter and tore it in a thousand pieces; exclaiming, - “I cannot indeed equal, but I will at least endeavour to imitate your - generosity. You chose me as your protector in the hour of danger, when - confidence was more hazardous to him who reposed than him who received it. - You placed your life in my hands with no other bond for its security than - my <i>honour!</i> In the season of my distress you flew to save me: you - lavished your property for my release, not considering the improbability - of its remuneration! Take my child; her esteem, her affections, have long - been yours; let me die in peace, by seeing her united to a worthy man!—<i>that</i> - I <i>know</i> you are; what else you may be I will only learn from <i>the - lips of a son-in-law</i>. Confidence at least shall be repaid by - confidence.” At these words the always generous, always vehement and - inconsiderate Prince rose from his pillow and placed the hand of his - daughter in mine, confirming the gift with a tear of joy and a tender - benediction. Glorvina bowed her head to receive it—her veil fell - over her face—the index of her soul was concealed: how then could I - know what passed there? She was silent—she was obedient—and I - was—— deceived. - </p> - <p> - The Prince, on his arrival at the castle of In-ismore, felt the hour of - dissolution stealing fast on every principle of life. Sensible of his - situation, his tenderness, his anxiety for his child survived every other - feeling; nor would he suffer himself to be carried to his chamber until he - had bestowed her on me from the altar. I knew not then what were the - sentiments of Glorvina. Entwined in the arms of her doating, dying father, - she seemed insensible to every emotion, to every thought but what his fate - excited; but however gratified I might have been at the intentions of the - Prince, I was decidedly averse to their prompt execution. I endeavoured to - remonstrate: a <i>look</i> from the Prince silenced every objection: and——. - But here let me drop the veil of oblivion over the past: let me clear from - the tablets of memory those records of extraordinary and recent - circumstances to which my heart can never revert but with a pang vibrating - on its tenderest nerve. It is, however, the true spirit of philosophy to - draw from the evil which cannot be remedied all the good of which in its - tendency it is yet susceptible; and since the views of my parental - ambition are thus blasted in the bloom, let me at least make him happy - whom it was once my only wish to render eminent: know then, my imprudent - but still dear son, that the bride chosen for you by your father’s policy - has, by an elopement with a more ardent lover (who followed her hither,) - left your hand as free as your heart towards her ever was. - </p> - <p> - Take then to thy bosom <i>her</i> whom heaven seems to have chosen as the - intimate associate of thy soul, and whom national and hereditary prejudice - would in vain withhold from thee. In this the dearest, most sacred, and - most lasting of all human ties, let the names of Inismore and M———— - be inseparably blended, and the distinctions of English and Irish, of - Protestant and Catholic, for ever buried. And, while you look forward with - hope to this family alliance being prophetically typical of a national - unity of interests and affections between those who may be actually - severed, but who are naturally allied, end your <i>own individual efforts</i> - towards the consummation of an event so devoutly to be wished by every - liberal mind, by every benevolent heart. - </p> - <p> - During my life, I would have you consider those estates as yours, which I - possess in this country; and at my death such as are not entailed. But - this consideration is to be indulged conditionally, on your spending eight - months out of every twelve on that spot from whence the very nutrition of - your existence is to be derived; and in the bosom of those from whose - labour and exertion your independence and prosperity are to flow. Act not - with the vulgar policy of vulgar greatness, by endeavouring to exact - respect through the medium of self-wrapt reserve, proudly shut up in its - own self-invested grandeur; nor think it can derogate from the dignity of - the <i>English landholder</i> openly to appear in the midst of his Irish - peasantry, with an eye beaming complacency, and a countenance smiling - confidence, and inspiring what it expresses. Show them you do not distrust - them, and they will not betray you, give them reason to believe you feel - an interest in their welfare, and they will endeavour to promote yours - even at the risk of their lives; for the life of an Irishman weighs but - light in the scale of consideration with his feelings; it is immolated - without a murmur to the affections of his heart; it is sacrificed without - a sigh to the suggestions of his honour. - </p> - <p> - Remember that you are not placed by despotism over a band of slaves, - creatures of the soil and as such to be considered; but by Providence, - over a certain portion of men, who, in common with the rest of their - nation, are the descendants of a brave, a free, and an enlightened people. - Be more anxious to remove <i>causes</i> than to punish <i>effects</i>; for - trust me that it is only to - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “Scotch the snake—not kill it,” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - to confine error, and to awaken vengeance. - </p> - <p> - Be cautious how you condemn; be more cautious how you deride, but be ever - watchful to moderate that ardent impetuosity which flows from the natural - tone of the national character, which is the inseparable accompaniment of - quick and acute feelings, which is the invariable concomitant of - constitutional sensibility: and remember that the same ardour of - disposition, the same vehemence of soul, which inflames their errors - beyond the line of moderate failing, nurtures their better qualities - beyond the growth of moderate excellence. - </p> - <p> - Within the influence then of your own bounded circle, pursue those means - of promoting the welfare of the individuals consigned to your care and - protection, which lies within the scope of all those in whose hands the - destinies of their less fortunate brethren are placed. Cherish by kindness - into renovating life those national virtues, which though so often - blighted in the full luxuriance of their vigorous blow by the fatality of - circumstances, have still been ever found vital at the root, which only - want the nutritive beam of encouragement, the genial glow of confiding - affection, and the refreshing dew of tender commiseration, to restore them - to their pristine bloom and vigour: place the standard of support within - their sphere; and like the tender vine which has been suffered by neglect - to waste its treasures on the sterile earth, you will behold them - naturally turning and gratefully twining round the fostering stem, which - rescues them from a cheerless and grovelling destiny: and when by justly - and adequately rewarding the laborious exertions of that life devoted to - your service, the source of their poverty shall be dried up, and the - miseries that flowed from it shall be forgotten; when the warm hand of - benevolence shall have wiped away the cold dew of despondency from their - brow; when reiterated acts of tenderness and humanity shall have thawed - the ice which chills the native flow of their ardent feelings; and when - the light of instruction shall have dispelled the gloom of ignorance and - prejudice from their neglected minds, and their lightened hearts shall - again throb with the cheery pulse of national exility;—then, <i>then, - and not till then</i>, will you behold the day-star of national virtue - rising brightly over the horizon of their happy existence; while the - felicity which has awakened to the touch of reason and humanity, shall - return back to, and increase the source from which it originally flowed: - as the elements, which in gradual progress brighten into flame, terminate - in a liquid light, which, reverberating in sympathy to its former kindred, - genially warms and gratefully cheers the whole order of universal nature. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wild Irish Girl, Vol. I and II, by -(AKA Sydney Owenson) Lady Sydney Morgan - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WILD IRISH GIRL, VOL. 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