The Wild Irish Girl

Volume III

VOLUME I

VOLUME II

VOLUME III
Letter XXIV
Letter XV
Letter XXVI
Letter XXVII
Letter XXVIII
Letter XXIX
Letter XXX
Conclusion

LETTER XXIV

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

'Tout s'evanouit sous les cieux,
Chaque instant varie ΰ nos yeux
Le tableau mouvant de la vie.'

Alas! that even this solitude, where all seems

'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'

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 boudoir. 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 Eloisa, 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 paper mark 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 my friendship, like gold, though not sonorous 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 sibyl leaf when I heard Glorvina approach. I never was mistaken in her little feet's light bound; for she seldoms walks, and hastily replacing the book, I appeared deeply engaged in looking over a fine Atlas that lay open on the table. She seemed surprized at my appearance, so much so, that I felt the necessity of 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.'

Without noticing my innuendo 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.'

I placed my finger on that point of the north-west shores of Ireland, where we then stood, and said in the language of St Preux, 'The world in my imagination is divided into two regions – that where she is – and that where she is not.'

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.'

This I said, in the irascibility of my jealous heart, for, though too warm for another, oh! how cold for me! Glorvina started as I spoke, I thought changed colour! while at intervals she repeated, 'strange! – nor is this the only coincidence!' '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 vases 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 Etruscan model: is this too an effort of ancient Irish taste?' 'No,' said she, I thought confusedly, 'I believe it came from Italy.'

'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 the importunities.

'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 boudoir. The tasteful doneur and the 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 Prince 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 more common-place 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 these 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 pique 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.

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.'

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXV

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

Just 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 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 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 north; 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 by 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 an 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. But,' said the Prince, with his usual nationality, 'that exotic branch is not very distinguishable from the old stock.'

I need not tell you that I complied with this request with seeming readiness, but with real reluctance.

In the evening, as we circled round the fire in the great hall, I proposed to Father John to accompany him on his journey the following day. The poor man was overjoyed at the offer, while Glorvina betrayed neither surprize nor regret at my intention, but looked first at her father, and then at me, with kindness and gratitude.

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 ancient Irish history which the priest was reading aloud, while Glorvina worked, and I was trifling with my pencil.

'What,' said I, after having interrupted him in many different passages, which I thought savoured of natural Hyperbole, 'what can be more forced than that very supposition of your partial author that Albion, the most ancient name of Britain, was given it as though it were another, or second Ireland because Banba was one of the ancient names of your country?'

'It may appear to you a FORGED etymology,' said the priest, 'yet it has the sanction of Camden, 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 Bede, and many other early British writers, and the latter is authenticated by the testimony of the most ancient Greek authors. For Jervis is mentioned in the Argonautica of Orpheus, long before the name of England is any where to be found in Grecian literature. And surely it had scarcely been first mentioned, had it not been first known.'

[*It has been the fashion to throw an odium on the modern Irish, by undermining the basis of their ancient history, and vilifying their ancient national character. If an 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 Garcilorsso de Vega are considered as the chief pillars of Peruvian history, though avowed by their authorship 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 those ancient records of their country, authenticated by existing manners and existing habits, are plunged into the oblivion of contemptuous neglect, or read, only to be discredited.]

'Then you really suppose,' said I, smiling incredulously, 'we are indebted to you for the name of our country.' '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 Albion, was Scotland, then called Albin, a word of Irish etymology, Albin signifying mountainous, from Alb a mountain.'

'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 Nido paterno 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.'

'Manuscripts, annals, and records, are not the treasures of a colonized or a 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 the Elizabeth day) were conveyed to Denmark. The Danish monarch applied to the English court for some learned man to translate them, and one Donald O'Daly, 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. 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.'***

[*Sir George Carew, in the reign of Elizabeth, was accused of bribing the family historian of the M'CARTHIES, to convey to him some curious MSS. 'But what,' says the author of the 'Analect' 'CAREW did in one province (Munster) Henry Sidney, and his predecessors, did all over the kingdom, being charged to collect all the MSS 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.']

[***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, Mem. of Irish Bards, p. 141.) 'that he lately got in a collection from Rome, several poems of the most eminent bards of the two last centuries.']

'But,' said I, 'are not many of those MSS supposed to be Monkish impositions?' 'Yes,' replied the Priest, 'by those who never saw them, and if they did were too ignorant of the Irish language to judge of their authenticity by the internal evidences they contain.'

'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 circumstances it received its title of Island of Saints. 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 truth of their histories, than that the fiction of those histories simply consists in ascribing natural phenomena to super-natural agency.'

'But,' returned I, 'granting that your island was the Athens of a certain age, how is the barbarity of the present to be reconciled with the civilization of the enlightened past?'

'When you talk of our barbarity,' said the Priest, 'you do not speak as you feel, but as you hear.' I blushed at this mild reproof, and said, 'what I now feel for this country, it would not be easy to express, but I have always been taught to look upon the inferior Irish as beings forming an humbler link than humanity in the chain of nature.' '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 discover uncommon gentleness, kindness, and affection; they are so far from possessing natural 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: but it has been the fashion to judge of them by their outcasts."'

[*To endeavour to efface from the Irish character the odium of cruelty; by which the venom of prejudiced aversion has polluted its surface, would be to retrace a series of complicated events from the first period of British invasion to a recent day. And by the exposition of CAUSES accomplish the extenuation of EFFECTS. To such a task neither the limits of this little work, nor the abilities of its author are competent; much indeed has been already said, and finely said, on the subject by those whose powers were adequate to the task, and who were induced by the mere principle of national affection, to the noble effort of national defence. But the champions were Irish men, and the motive of the patriotic exertion became its sole reward.

'In the parliament held by king James, after the abdication, the Irish solemnly complained, that the injustice and misrepresentations of their governors had forced them to those unwilling acts of violence by which the Irish gentry had attempted to maintain their security and honour, in the numerous conflicts which took place before and subsequent to that period; the national character of Ireland never deserved the disgraceful epithets of sanguinary: had we affixed it to the transactions of the civil war, we should only conclude that, roused by a series of wrongs too great for human patience, a desperate and desponding people had submitted, in a wild paroxysm of rage, to the fierce impulse of nature on their untutored minds, and sacrificed to their feelings those men whom they regarded as the authors or the instruments of their misfortunes; even on this hypothesis, which the concurring testimony of history and probability compel us to reject, we might palliate, though we could not justify, the frenzy.']

'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 every where, and by all, justly famed for our patriotism, ardor 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 Milesian, rising from his seat with all his native vehemence – 'as if the moral world was subject to those convulsions which shake the natural 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 choak 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.'

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.

'If we are to believe Doctor 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 wars of several centuries 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.'

Wearied by a conversation in which my heart now took little interest, I made the palinode of my prejudices, 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 oppose, until nothing further can be obtained by opposition.'

The prince, who was getting a little testy at my 'heresy and schism,' 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 uninterrupted. 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 to me, but oftener on her father, seemed humid with a tear, as she contemplated his lately much altered appearance. Yet when the debility of a 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.

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 log journey before us for that the house of the nobleman to whom we were going lay in a remote part of the province of Ulster; they 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: the surly-looking fellow who dined with us the other day is his steward; and if the master is an inexorable as the servant, we shall undertake this journey to very little purpose.'

Adieu – I endeavour to write and think on every subject but that nearest my heart, yet there Glorvina and her mysterious friend still awaken the throb of jealous doubt and anxious solicitude. I shall drop this for you in the post-office of the first post-town I pass through; and probably endeavour to forget myself, and my anxiety to return hither, at your expence, by writing to you in the course of my journey.

Adieu,

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXVI

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

Can you recollect who was that rational moderate youth who exclaimed in the frenzy of passion, 'O Gods! annihilate both time and space, and make two lovers happy.'

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 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 languor that invested her whole form, and the heaviness that weighed down her eye-lids, as though the influence of sleep had not renovated the luster 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.

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 was 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.

When we arose to depart, Glorvina said, 'If you will lead your horses I will walk to the draw-bridge with you.'

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.'

'God send it may be so!' said Glorvina fervently.

'Amen!' said the priest.

'Amen!' I repeated; and looking at Glorvina, read all the daughter in her eyes.

'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 Milesian, to whom I have the honour to be distantly allied; and where you will find the old Brehon law, which forbids that a sept should suddenly break up lest the traveller should be disappointed of the expected feast, was no fabrication of national partiality.'

'What, then,' said I, 'we shall not enjoy ourselves in all the comfortable unrestrained freedom of an inn?

'We poor Irish,' said the priest, 'find the unrestrained freedom of an inn not only in the house of every 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 Beataghs** 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.'

[* 'Not only have I been received with greatest kindness, but I have been provided with every thing 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 every where received with an hospitality which is nothing surprizing 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 M. O'Halleran, 'were keepers of open houses for strangers or poor distressed natives; and as honorable 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.']

'Oh!' said Glorvina archly, 'I dare say that, like St Paul, he will "count it all joy to fall into divers temptations."'

'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 now "none of woman born can harm Macbeth."'

'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 thrice blessed girdle of St Bridget, or great Irish charm?'*

[*On St Bridget's day it is usual for the young people to make a long girdle or rope of straw, which they carry about to the neighbouring houses, and through which all 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.']

'My charm,' returned I, 'in some degree certainly partakes of your religious and national superstitions; for since it was presented me by YOUR 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 draw-bridge 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.

'Hark!' said Glorvina, 'some one is going to "that bourne from whence no traveller returns."' As she spoke an 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 symphony was reduced to a recitativo, chanted by female voices. All that I heard of the Irish howl, 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 path-way to the left of the road.

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, disheveled 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 surprize at the multitude which attended the funeral of a peasant, while we stood on a bank as they passed us.

[*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 the cur sios or elegiac 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 improbably we had it immediately.']

'The lower order of Irish,' she returned, 'entertain a kind of post-humous 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.

'This will surprize 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.' 'And mankind, you know,' added the priest, 'are always more punctilious with respect to ceremonials than fundamentals. However you should see an Irish Roman Catholic funeral; to a protestant and a stranger it must be a spectacle of some interest.

'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 improvisatori; they are called Caoiners or Keeners, from the Caione or death song, and are hired to celebrate the virtues of the deceased. Thus we find St Chysostom censuring the Greeks of his day, for the purchased lamentations and hireling mourners that attended 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 to call on the living to emulate their deeds.* This you may remember is a custom frequently alluded to in the poems of Ossian.** Pray observe that frantic woman who tears her hair and beats her bosom: – It is 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 Eneid: – 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 internment, and strewing it with flowers.'

[*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 at intervals 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:

[**Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the sound of the bard: – 'Blest 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 the battle was terrible, the steps of death were behind thy sword; bless be thy soul, son of Semo! Car-borne chief of Dunscaith. The mighty were dispersed at Temora – 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 round. Soft be thy rest in thy cave, chief of Erin's wars.']

'And have you also,' said I, 'the funeral feast, which among the Greeks composed so material a part of the funeral ceremonies?'

'A wake, 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 Ave Maria, the merry groupe are in a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified, they recommence their sports with new vigour. The wake, 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.'

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 cemetery, preceded by the priest, who repeated the De profundis, as did all the congregation.

'This ceremony,' said Father John, 'is performed by us instead of the funeral service, which is denied to the Roman Catholics. For we are not permitted, like the protestant ministers, to perform the last solemn office for our departed fellow creatures.'

While he spoke we entered the church yard, and I expressed my surprize to Glorvina, who seemed wrapt in solemn meditation, at the singular appearance of this rustic little cemetery, where instead of the monumental marble,

'The storied urn, or animated bust,'

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

'The rude forefathers of the hamlet slept.'

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. 'It is the tomb of her lover,' said I. – 'Of her Father!' 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 all dew,' said Glorvina with a sad smile, while her own tears fell on it, and she presented it to me.

'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.

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 my solitary tomb; for haply ere that period arrive, my trembling hand shall have placed the cypress on the tomb of him who alone loved me living, and would lament me dead."'

'Alone!' 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 love 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.'

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 pressed to my heart, her head almost touched my shoulders, her lips almost effused their balmy sighs on mine. A glance was all I required – a glance was all I received.

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.

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.

'The first of those 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 for 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!'

'Then you do not,' said I, looking earnestly at her, ' you do not receive all the doctrines of your church as infallible?'

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,'

'The bright effluence of bright essence uncreate.'

When she observed my surprize 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 beast. Of the many who are the inheritors of our persuasion, all 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 tye of temporal interest, not by the bond of speculative opinion; they are united as men, not as sectaries; and once incorporated into 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 individual adherents of an alienated body.'

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 usual 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.'

Our horses now coming up to the gate of the cemetery, we insisted on walking back as far as the draw-bridge 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.

When we 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 groupes of peasantry of both sexes, laden with their implements of husbandry, and already beginning the labours of the day. I expressed my surprize 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, sow 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 at a lower price 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.'

'And yet,' said I, 'idleness is the chief vice laid to the account of your peasantry.'

'It is certain,' returned he, 'that there is not, generally speaking, that active spirit of industry among the inferior orders here, which distinguished the same rank in England. But neither have they the same encouragement to awaken their exertions. "The laziness of the Irish," says St William Petty, "seems rather to proceed from want of employment, and encouragement to work, than the constitution of their bodies." And 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 the 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 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.'

[* 'Si le pauvre voyait clariement que la travail pouvoit ameliorer sa situation, il abandonneroir bientot cette apathie, cette indifference qui au fait n'est que l'habitude du desespoir.' M. de la Tocknay.]

'But surely,' said I, 'the most ignorant among them must be well aware that all could not have been proprietors?'

'The fact is,' said the priest, 'the followers of many a great family having anciently 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 enterprize, and open to the impositions of the artful or ambitious. But a brave, though misguided, people is 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."

[*Although ignorance and interest may cherish this erroneous opinion, its existence is only to be traced among some of the lower orders of Irish, but its influence seldom extends to a superior rank, among many of whom are to be found the real descendants of those whose estates were forfeited shortly after the English invasion, and during the reigns of James the First, Oliver Cromwell and William the Third, particularly. They consider that 'The property has now been so long vested in the hands of the present proprietors that the interests of justice and utility would be more offended by dispossessing them than they could be advanced by reinstating the original owners.' And that a 'term of prescription is always paramount to the rights of lineal descent.']

[**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.']

'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 400 years could not effect, the accession of one 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 English origin from natural tenderness, and those of the true old stock, from the firm conviction that they were then governed by a Prince 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 three kingdoms united.'

'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.'

[* 'Connomara (says Mr de la Tocknay in his Travels through Ireland,) a district in the county of Galway, sixty miles long, and forty broad, is less known than the islands in the Pacific Ocean; and, consequently, the people remain much in their natural uncultivated state. But it is an error to suppose, that even in this sequestered spot the peasants are either ignorant or stupid. On the contrary, I never saw any class of men better disposed to serve their country; and though their huts are miserable, and their general situation comparatively wretched, they are humane and would be industrious, if they found that labour and industry produced advantage or amelioration.']

We now continued to proceed through a country, rich in all the boundless extravagance of picturesque beauty, where Nature's sublimest features every where 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.

'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 chrisitianity 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 rising amidst these stupendous mountains, and picturesque scenes.'

'My dear Sir,' he replied, 'a country may be civilized, enlightened, and even learned and ingenious, without attaining to any considerable memorials of its passed splendour. The ancient Irish, like the modern, had more soul, 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, were they devoted to poetry and music; and to "Wake the soul of song" 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.'

'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 discernible.'

'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 of ever derived any benefit; and I believe that many, if not most, of the bishops' leases now existing are the confiscated revenues of these ruined abbeys.'

'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 true 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 individuals 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, etc." It is, however, lucky for your country that your abbots are not as numerous in the present day as formerly.'

[*For instance, the abbey of Raphoe was founded by St Columbkill, 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.]

'Numerous, indeed, as you perceive,' said the priest, 'by these ruins; for we are told in the Life of St Rumoloi, that there were a greater number of monks and superb monasteries in Ireland than in any other part of Europe. St Columbkill, and his contemporaries, alone erected in this kingdom upwards of 200 abbeys, if their biographers are to be credited; and the luxury of their governors kept pace with their power and number.

'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 harnesses; 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.

'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 shewn, where (as the 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 the fire alive.'

'And was served up,' said I, 'I suppose on a fast day, to the abstemious monks, who would, however, have looked upon a morsel of flesh meat thrown in this way as a lure to eternal perdition.'

Already weary of 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.

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 looking 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 ready as the others.

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 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 independent country gentlemen of Ireland,* it is to me the most captivating of all possible ceremonies.

[*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.]

When the first interchange of 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.

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 surprize, 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 greater freedom than the bottle; every one did as he pleased, and the ease of the guest seemed the pleasure of the host.* For my part, I arose 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 work, a third reading; mamma at her knitting, and the pretty little duenna copying out music.

[* 'Drunkenness ought no longer to be a reproach to them; for any table I was at in Ireland I saw a perfect freedom reign, every person drank as little as they pleased, nor have I ever been asked to drink a single glass more than I had an inclination for. I may go farther, and assert, that hard drinking is very rare among people of fortune; yet it is certain that they sit much longer at table than in England.' Young's Tour through Ireland, etc.]

They received me as an old acquaintance, and complimented me on my temperance is 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 characterizes the address of my own charming countrywomen. For my part, since I have known Glorvina, I shall never again endure that perpetuity of air, look, and address, which those who mistake formality for good-breeding are so apt to assume. Manners, like the graduated scale of the thermometer, should betray, by degrees, the expansion or contraction of the feelings, as they are warmed by emotion of chilled by indifference. They should breathe the soul in order to win it.

Nothing could be more animated yet more modest than the manners of these 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 the ingenuous candour and enchanting frankness which accompanies their ever look and word.

'The soul as sure to be admired as seen,
Boldly steps forth, nor keeps a thought within.'

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 princess of Inismore. 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 more, or every other woman is less, than mortal!

Before them men joined us in the drawing-room, I was quite boudoirized 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 intreated I would talk to them of the princess of Inismore.

'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.'

'We know nothing of her, however,' said 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.'

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.'

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; 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,

'Send the soul upon a jig to heaven.'

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.

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.'

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.

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 today on his way to a gentleman's house in the neighbourhood, where he dines. The little post-boy at this moment rides up to the door; I shall drop this in his bag, and begin a new journal on a fresh sheet.

Adieu,

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXVII

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

The priest is gone on his embassy. The rain which batters against the casement of my little hotel prevents my enjoying a ramble. I have nothing to read, and I must write or yawn myself to death.

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 favourites;* 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 ardor of the Irish constitution seems abated, if not chilled. Here the cead-mile falta of Irish cordiality seldom lends its welcome home to the 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 bleach green, droop and expire in the deficiency of that nutritive warmth on which their tender existence depends. 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 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 an helpless family, or begs his way to England, and offers those services there 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 rewards 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 re-act; and the former, while it bestows the means, 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.'**

[* '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 shew of lenity might have disarmed, were compelled to encounter misery in desarts, and, what is perhaps will more 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 downfal 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.]

[**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.]

'Then in the name of all that is warm and cordial,' said I, 'let us hasten back to the province of Connaught.'

'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 with the pale of Milesian hospitality, we must set up at a sorry inn, near a tract of the sea coast, called the Magilligans, and where one solitary fane is raised to the once tutelar deity of Ireland; in plain English, where one of the last of the race of Irish bards 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.

'What the mon wi the twa heads? said our host. I confessed my ignorance of this hyrdra epithet, which I learnt was derived from an immense wen on the back of his head.

'O!' continued our host, 'A wull be telling you weel to gang tull the auld Kearn, and one of our wains wull shew the road. Ye need nae fear trusting yoursels to our wee Willy, for he os 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.'

We however dispensed with the guidance of wee Wully, and easily found our way to the hut of the man 'wi the twa heads.' 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 surpize 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.'

[*The following account of the Bard of the Magilligans was taken from his own lips, July 3d, 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.

In February 1806 the author, being then but eighteen miles 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.]

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. 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.

Whenever there is 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.'

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, 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.'

[*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 favoured lover against the life of her husband, and fled with the murderer; Feirchiertne, the poet and bard of Conrigh, in the anguish of his heart for the loss of a generous master, resolved on sacrificing the criminal Blanaid to the manes of her murdered lord. He therefore secretly pursued her from her 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 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, as he approached her presence, he at last threw his arms round her, and clasping her firmly to his breast, threw himself headlong with his prey down the precipice. They were both dashed to pieces.]

'And from what period,' said I, 'may the decline of these once potent and revered members of the state be dated?'

'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 that period the Irish monarch convened the princes, nobles, and clergy, of the kingdom, to the parliament of Drumceat; and the chief motive alleged for summoning this vast assembly was to banish the Fileas or bards.'

'Which might be deemed then,' interrupted I, 'a league of the Dunces against Wit and Genius.'

'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 so 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.'

'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 their national lyre.'

'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 Columbkill, who was himself a poet, became a mediator between the monarch already mentioned and the "tuneful throng;" 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's, that it became a great monarch to patronise 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 stript of that sacred stole, 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 arch-enemy is thus attested by Sir Phillip Sydney: "In our neighbour country," says he, "where truly learning goes 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 then, "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, etc. etc." 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 an harper, piper, or fiddler, which are generally, but not universatlly, 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 surviving of the 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 his hut, and from whose casual bounties he chiefly derives his subsistence.'

[*Item – That noe Irish minstralls, rhymers, thanaghs, ne bards, 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 be imprisoned at the king's will. Harris' Hibernica, p. 98]

We had now reached the door of our auberge; and dog of the house jumping on me as I alighted, our hostess exclaimed, 'Ah Sir! our wee doggie kens you uncoo.' 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 Giants' 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 him to describe, for her to feel, the renovating charms of this interesting moment. Adieu! I shall grant you a reprieve till we once more reach the dear ruins of Inismore.

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXVIII

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

Plato 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.

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 you 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 emotion of my soul.

Suffice 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 'the life of life,' I arose and flew to the priest's 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 that 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 Glorvina 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 of tortured feelings. The prince, I understood, was three years in arrear; yet, though there were no diamonds, and not many pearls, I should suppose the jewels worth more than the sum for which they were given.*

[*I have been informed that a descendant of the provincial kings of Connaught parted not many years back with the golden crown which, for so many ages, encircled the royal brows of his ancestors.]

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.

'Our meeting,' said I, 'will be attended with a new and touching interest, the sweet result of that perfect 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.'

Already I beheld the 'air-lifted' figure of Glorvina floating towards me. Already I felt her 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 languor, 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.

Thus warmed by the visions of my heated fancy 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 avant-courier, and clapping spurs to my horse soon lost sight of my tardy companion.

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; that things altogether were going on but poorly; and that she was sure the sight 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 ideal 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, and 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 (that smile I once thought all 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 it the perusal of this prized letter had renovated every drooping spirit, she ceased to weep, and wrote with greater earnestness than before.

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 to put the 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 principles and pride, of every sentiment save love and jealously, that I was on the point of following the boy, snatching the letter, and learning the address of this mysterious correspondent, this 'First and best of men.' But the natural dignity of a 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 Glorvina's little herald mounted on his mule riding off, while she, standing at the gate, pursused 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 an heart so redolent of bliss – an heart that now sunk beneath the unexpected blow which crushed all its new born hopes, and I feared annihilated for ever its sweet but short-lived 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 renewed vigour to their native bias. Yet was not the disappointment of my own individual hopes 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.

'Oh, 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 against that 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.'

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 around – it was Glorvina! Impulsively I rushed to meet her; but not impulsively recoiled: while she, with an exclamation of surpize 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 all 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 that 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; 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.

Glorvina arose: with an air tenderly compassionate, yet reproachful, she advance and took one of my hands. 'My dear friend,' she exclaimed, 'what is the matter? has any thing 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 it does not! but release me from the torture of suspense.'

'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.'

'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.'

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 physically as well as morally so; for my last day's journey brought on that nervous head-ache 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 I have 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.

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 drink it for her sake.

[*To this ancient and general custom Goldsmith alludes in his Deserted Village: –

'Then I pledge her,' said I, 'with the same truth she did me,' and I eagerly quaffed off the nectoar her hand had prepared. Meantime the nurse took her station by my bed side, with some appropriate references 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.

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 every thing to expect from the garrulous simplicity of her character, and her love of what she calls Seanachus, of 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 'Breviare du Sentiment' caught my eye lying on the ground: 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 Breviare, the furniture of the boudoir, the vases, and the fragment of the 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 at the next market town.

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.

'And who sent it?' I demanded.

'Why, nobody sent it,' she simply replied; 'he brought it himself.'

'Who?' said I.

She stammered and paused. –

'Then, I suppose,' she added, 'of course you never heard' –

'What?' I eagerly asked with an air of curiosity and amazement. As these are two emotions a common mind is most susceptible 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:

On a stormy night, in the spring of 17—, during that fatal period when the scarcely cicatrized 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 cloke, appeared in the great hall of Inismore, and requested an interview with the prince. The prince having 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 shewn 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.

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 of the nurse, and seldom during the day.

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.

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; and that he seemed to have money enough, 'for he threw it about like a prince.' Not a servant in the castle, she added, but knew well enough how it was; but there was not one but would sooner die 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 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.

The old woman was by no means aware how deeply she had been betrayed by her insatiate passion of 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 of 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 the 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 to the prince's room, she left me, not forgetting to take with her the 'Breviare du Sentiment.'

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; that 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 to life. – What! I to receive to my heart the faded spark, while another has basked in the vital flame? 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 the 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 who, turning revoltingly from the hackneyed artifices of female depravity in that world where art for ever 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! Glorvina, false, deceptive! Oh! were the immaculate spirit of Truth embodied in a human form, it could not wear upon its radiant brow a brighter, stronger trace of purity inviolable, and holy innocence, than shines in the seraph countenance of Glorvina! Besides, she never said she loved me. Said! – God of heavens! were words then necessary for such an avowal? Oh, Glorvina! 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.

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 prophesy. My father's too; but he is avenged! and I have already expiated a deception, which, however innocent, was still deception.

In continuation

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 enquire 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 mils in a day more natural to the torrid zone than our polar climate, may have some chance of losing his life, but very little of losing his disorder.' 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. 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 post-boy galloping his foaming mule over the draw-bridge, 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 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 inclosed 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 enquiring from the post-boy if there were any letters for me. The lad said there was but one, and that, the post-master 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, 'like gold, though not sonorous, was indestructible.'

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 deceived, and another was beloved. That sort of sullen firm composure, which fixes 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 resolved to act with the cool dertermination of a rational being, not the wild impetuosity of a maniac, I put off my departure till the following morning, when I could 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 when I had first seen her at her harp, soothing the sorrows of parental affliction; but now it was gloomy and unoccupied; a single taper burnt 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 desart. 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 long after midnight. I heart the castle clock fling its peal o'er 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 sleep in) for the last time: a light and some refreshment had been left there for me in my absence. The taper was nearly burnt out, but by its expiring flame I perceived a billet lying on the table. I opened it tremblingly. It was from Glorvina, and only a simple enquiry after my health, couchd in terms of common-place 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 buried 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

'So green in this old world.'

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 bed-side, 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, for whom I do not feel, an interest. Poor souls! they have almost all been at my room door this morning to inquire for 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 dispatch this to you from M. House. I shall then have seen the castle of Inismore for the last time – the last time!!

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXIX

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

M— House

It is all over – the spell is dissolved, and the vision for ever vanished: yet my mind is not what it was, ere this transient dream of bliss 'wrapt it in Elysium.' Then I neither suffered or enjoyed: now – !

When I had 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 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 her 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 the power to move. The dinner hour arrived: I was summoned to the parlour; the priest met me at table, shook me with unusual cordiality by the hand, and affectionately enquired 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.'

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 farewel 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; not 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 gold ring which he constantly wore, and the following lines written with the trembling hand of infirmity or emotion:

'Young and interesting Englishman, farewel! Had I not known thee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me with a son.

O'MELVILLE,

Prince of Inismore.'

I sunk overcome on 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:

'You owe me nothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and all that could once 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 Imposter. I am not what I seem: to become an inmate of 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.

'I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my heart! but since I have been your guest, he, the whole world was forgotten. The first tye 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 all your goodness, bids you a last farewel!'

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.

'Alone, with the prince!' said I.

'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.

I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. 'Suffer me to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore for ever.' 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.

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 Glorvina. God of Heaven! The priest supported her on his arm, her veil was drawn over her eyes; I could not advance to meet them, I stood spell bound, – they both approached; I had not the power even to raise my eyes. 'You sent for me,' said the priest in a faultering accent. I presented him my letter for the prince; suffocation choaked my utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom, and taking my hand, said, 'You must not think of leaving us 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.

'Then,' said the priest, 'any 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.

'If you are thus positive,' 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.'

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, 'Farewell.' 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, 'Oh 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. Then to have died would have been to have died most blest. The priest, the cruel priest, dispelled the transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He stifled the voice of nature and of pity in his breast. His air was sternly virtuous – 'Go,' said he, but spoke still 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 accessory. Thank God, it is retrievable; go, amiable but imprudent young man; it is honour, it is virtue commands your departure.'

While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall.

'Stay,' said I, in a faint voice, 'let me but speak to her.'

'It is in vain,' replied the inexorable priest, 'for she can never be yours; then spare her, spare yourself.'

'Never!' I exclaimed.

'Never,' he firmly replied.

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, 'farewell for ever.'

In continuation

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 grey dawn was 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 recollection rushed on my mind! What a climax did they form! I turned away my eyes, sick, sick at heart, and pursued my solitary journey. Within twelve miles of M. House, as I readed 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.

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 least be stilled, and your prudent compliance in this instance will bury in eternal oblivion the suffering, 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.'

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.

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.

In continuation

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 I shall go, and to what purpose? the tye 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 should, it must 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.

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 so lately revelled in the purest wildest joys of spiritual felicity. I who have tasted of 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 vital warmth, such cheering renovating ardour.

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 her 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 paroxism. 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!

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 receieved 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 desparation would be now most consonant to my soul! Adieu.

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LETTER XXX

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

Dublin

I 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. The 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 characters; those habits, those manners, to me at least so striking and so new? All vanished like a dream! –

'The baseless fabric of a vision!'

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 accessories to my egregious folly and incurable imprudence. But does 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.

As I 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 canvas 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, diginity, and emolument, are to wait upon their successful exertion. I am to become an object of popular favor 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.

Were you to hear him! were you to see him! What a father! what a man! Such intelligence – such abilities. A mind so dignified, an heart so tender; and still retaining all the ardour, all the enthusiam 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.

'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 ripening progress you have yourself created.'

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.

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 hoyden, 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.

The father was as usual boisterously good-humoured, and vulgarly pleasant; he talked over our sporting adventures last winter, as if the topic was 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 a 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 into every thing but when it comes to a crisis, will this stupid acquiescence still befriend their wishes? Impossible!

In continuation

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 had given me to understand that there is a probability if 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 (but in an equivocal manner), 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 should yet know all! 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 romance.

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 doating, a deceived heart shall have gradually abated, and the recollection of former bliss 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?

Sometimes my father fixes his eyes so tenderly on me, yet with a look as if he would search 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 my ill health affords (attributed to a heavy cold), of not attending her in her pursuits of pleasure. The fact is, I am indeed ill; my mind and body seem declining together, and nothing in this life can give me joy but the prospect of its delivery.

By this I suppose the mysterious friend is arrived. It was expedient, therefore, that I should be dismissed. By this I suppose she is… So closely does my former weakness cling round my heart, that I cannot think of it without madness.

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 sicklied 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 an 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.

* * * * *

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 Mss 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.

Since my father left us, I am of necessity obliged to pay some attention to his friends; but I should be a mere automaton by the side of my gay mistress, did I not count 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 (my 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 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.

* * * * *

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 an 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 an 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.

H.M.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CONCLUSION

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.

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 desire of his soul.

The inconsiderate project was put into execution almost as soon as it was 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. 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 accomadation, he set out for the lodge.

From the time the unhappy M. had come within 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 restraint 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 little journey to the lodge was marked by the renewed existence of some powerful and latent emotion; and the agitation of his heart and feelings had reached their acme by the time he had arrived at the gate of that avenue from which the mountains of Inismore were discernible.

When he reached the lodge, a young lad, who was working in the grounds, replied to his enquiries, that an old woman was its only resident, that the ancient steward was dead, and that Lord M. had only remained there an hour.

This last intelligence overwhelmed Mr M— with astonishment. To his further enquiries 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 neighbouring quality. – He added, that his lordship's own gentleman had accompanied him.

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 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. The world now disappeared – he descended rapidly to a wild and trackless shore, skreened 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 ruined castle: 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.

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 that 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 colonnade through which he had distantly 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 for Fancy's creation.

On every mourning breeze he thought the sound of Glorvina's voice was borne; and staring 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 recollection of past enjoyments; and in the fond dream of memory his present sufferings were for an interval suspended.

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 skreened 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 an 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 sank 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.

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 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 several rooms on either side lay open, and he thought by the moon's doubtful light they seemed despoiled of their furniture.

While he stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound of Glorvina's harp, borne 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 ws surrounded. The good old prince was no more! – or his daughter was married! In either case it was probable the family had deserted the ruins of Inismore.

While absorbed in this heart-rending mediation 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 latern 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?'

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 wassuch 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 worth 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.

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 the next morning, and rode at once to the jail. He alighted and enquired for Mr O'Melville, commonly called Prince of Inismore.

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.'

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. 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 of 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.

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 a saint out of heaven, 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 the 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. When, at a moment when they were all reduced to despair, the mysterious friend arrived, paid off 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.'

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 intreaties, 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 Irishwoman, 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 frequently called her friend, her preceptor, and her lover; talked wildly of her having been united to him by God in the vale of Inismore, 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 obect was to obtain an interview with Glorvina, and on the result of that interview to form his future determination.

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 every thing 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 Inismore about the same hour that he had done the preceding day. At the draw-bridge 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.

He had scarcely entered the chapel when the private door by which it communicated with the castel flew open. He skreened 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 dropped 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 reposed at its feet. The priest stood at the sacred table – Glorvina and her companions 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 ensured; 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 sacrilege!' and breathless and faint the seeming maniac sunk at the feet of the bride.

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 indescribable emotions 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!'

'Merciful Providence!' exclaimed the bridegroom faintly, and sunk on the shoulder of the priest. The voice pierced to the heart of his rival; he raised his eyes, fell lifeless against the railing of he 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 fixing her regards on both, then suddenly turning them on the now apparently expiring prince, she sprung 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.

The prince pressed her to his heart, and looked round with a ghastly and enquiring 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 sprung to his feet, and hid his head in the 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 love and to fear 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?'

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 you to 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 situation of those of your 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 prejudice, the enemy of all human virtue and human felicity, forbad 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 your's won by similar means. Thus denied the open declaration of my good intents, I stooped to the assumption of a fictitious character; and he who as an 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 little 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 daugher had been by this the wife of the Earl of M.!'

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 his tears: his daughter, who hung over him, gazed intently on his face, as though she tremblingly watched the extinction of that life in which he 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.

After a long and affecting pause, the prince heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eys 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. In this attitude he expired.

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.

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 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 where 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.

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 her's was dry. Abruptly breaking off her plaintive strain, 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 uncontroulable 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 fixed his eyes on his son till they filled with tears, the strongest emotions agitating his frame; then extending his arms towards him, 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 development of that mystery, which is as yet to me 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.

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 sufferings 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.

Mean time, 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 bed rooms 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 enquired for his father. When she learnt that 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?'

'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.'

'And when does he leave the castle?' inarticulately demanded Glorvina.

'That rests with you;' replied the priest.

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 emotion of hope, doubt, anxiety, and expectation, now waits to be admitted to your presence.'

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 forebore to heighten it by his presence.

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 and not ungracious melancholy. The good priest embraced and blessed them alternately, then seated between them, read aloud the letter of Lord M.

TO THE HON. HORATIO M.

Since 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 Hope, 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 new-born joy, and short the narrative which holds captive the attention, while the heart, involved in its own enjoyments, denies its interest.

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 thro' the false medium of prejudice; anxious to make it my study in situation and under such 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 esteem the man he hated, while he unconsciously became his accessory in promoting the welfare of those of his humble compatriots who dwelt within the sphere of our mutual observation: such were the motives which principally guided my late romantic adventure; would that the means had been equally laudable.

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 honour became bound for its security, though his principles condemned the conduct which he believed had effected its just forfeiture.

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 my destiny to be loved indentically as myself; as myself adventitiously to be hated. 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.

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.

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 perservering goodness with which she endeavoured to rescue me from those erroneous principles she believed the efficient cause of my 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 desart 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 affections; 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.

Had I 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 my 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 my 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 fine no admittance to the castle of Inismore.

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.

In the interim, however, I received a letter from her, written previous to her receipt of mine. – It began thus: 'In those happy moment 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 grateful, 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 thee, Glorvina, call on me as the friend who would fly from the remotest corner of the earth to serve, to save thee."

'The hour of affliction is arrived – I call upon you!' She then described the disordered state of her father's affairs, and painted his sufferings with all the eloquence of filial tenderness and filial sorrow, requesting my advice and flatteringly lamenting the destiny which placed us at such a distance from each other.

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 prison. I flew to this sad receptacle of suffering virtue, and effected the liberation of the prince. There was 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 this prince equaled 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.'

I paused – the prince eagerly replied, 'There is nothing you can ask I am not anxious and ready to comply with.'

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.'

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 honour! 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 your's; let me die in peace, by seeing her united to a worthy man! – that I know you are; what else you may be I will only learn from the lips of a son-in-law. 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.

The prince, on his arrival at the castle of Inismore, 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 look 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 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.

Take then to thy bosom her 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 name 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 factiously severe, but who are naturally allied, lend your own individual efforts towards the consummation of an event so devoutly to be wished by every liberal mind, by every benevolent heart.

During my life, I would have you consider those estates as your's 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 indepenence 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 English landholder openly to appear in the midst of his Irish peasantry, with an eye beaming complacency, and a countenance smilling confidence, and inspiring what it expresses. Shew 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 your's 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 murmur to the affections of his heart; it is sacrificed without a sigh to the suggestions of his honour.

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 causes, than to punish effects; for trust me that is only to

'Scotch the snake – not kill it,'

to confine error, and to awaken vengeance.

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 consitutional 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.

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 groveling 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, and not till then, 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.

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