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.']
[**Fourteen thousand Irish took advantage of the articles of Limerick, and bade
adieu to their native country for ever.]
[***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.
Had the Historiographer of MONTEZUMA or ATALIBA defended the
resistance of his countrymen, or recorded the woes from whence it sprung,
though his QUIPAS was bathed in their blood, or embued with their tears, he would have
unavailingly recorded them; for the victorious Spaniard was insensible to the
woes he had created, and called the resistance it gave birth to CRUELTY. But when
nature is wounded through all her dearest ties, she must turn on the hand
that stabs, and endeavour to wrest the poniard from the grasp that aims at the life-
pulse of her heart. And this she will do in obedience to that immutable law,
which blends the instinct of self-preservation with every atom of human existence. And
for this in less felicitious times, when oppression and sedition succeeded
alternately to each other, was the name, Irishman, blended with the horrid epithet
of cruel. But when the sword of the oppressor was sheathed, the spirit of
the oppressed reposed, and the opprobrium it had drawn down on him was no
longer remembered, until the unhappy events of a late anarchical period, revived the
faded characters in which that opprobrium had been traced. The events alluded to were
the atrocities which chiefly occurred in the county of Wexford, and his adjoining,
and confederate district. Wexford is an English colony planted by Henry the second,
where scarcely any feature of the original Irish character, or any trace of the Irish
language is to be found. While in the Barony of Forth, not only the customs,
manners, habits, and costume, of the ancient British settlers still prevail, but the
ancient Celtic language has been preserved with infinitely less corruption than in any part
of Britain, where it has been interwoven with the Saxon, Danish, and French
languages. In fact, here many be found a remnant of an ancient British Colony,
more pure and unmixed, than in any other part of the world. And here were committed
those barbarities, which have recently attached the epithet of cruel to the name of
Irishman! Strongly as the ancient British character may be found extant in the
natives of Wexford and its environs, equally pure will the primitive character of
the Irish be met with in the provinces of Connaught and Munster, yet if the
footstep of resistance was sometimes impressed on that soil, which had been the asylum
of ancient Irish independence, its track was bloodless; if the energy of a
once oppressed, but ever unsubdued spirit, sometimes burst beyond the
boundary of prudent restraint and politic submission, mercy still hung upon its perilous
enterprize, and the irritated vehemence of that soul which dared to oppose, was
tempered by the generous feelings of that heart which distained to oppress!
'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:
'A melancholy choir attend around,
With plaintive sighs and music's solemn sound.'
But the singular ceremonies of the Irish funeral, which are even still in a certain
degree extant, may be traced to a remoter antiquity than Grecian origin; for the pathetic
lamentations of David for the friend of his soul, and the conclamatio breathed
over the Phoenician Dido, has no faint coincidence to the Caoine or funeral song
of the Irish.]
[**Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the 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.'] P>
[**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'Ds 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.
Umbrae, July 3d, 1805,
Magilligan.
'I made the survey of the man with two heads, according to your desire; but not till
yesterday on account of various impossibilities. Here is my report
'Dennis Hampson, or the man with two heads, is a native of Craigmore, near
Garvagh, county Derry; his father, Bryan Darrogher (blackish complexion) Hampson,
held the whole town-land of Tyrcrevan; his mother's relations were in possession of the
wood-town (both considerable farms in Magilligan). He lost his sight at the age of three
years by the small-pox; at twelve years he began to learn to play the harp under Bridget
O'Cahan: "For," as he said, "in those old times, women as well as men were
taught the Irish harp in the best families; and every old Irish family had harps in plenty."
His next master was John C. Garragher, a blind travelling harper, whom he followed to
Buncranagh, where his master used to play for Colonel Vaughan: he had afterwards
Laughlin Hanning and Pat Connor in succession as masters.
'All these were from Connaught, which was, as he added, "the best part of the
kingdom for Irish music and for harpers." At eighteen years of age he began to play for
himself, and was taken into the house of counsellor Canning, at Garvagh, for half a year;
his host, with Squire Gage and Doctor Bacon, found and bought him an harp. He
travelled nine or ten years through Ireland and Scotland, and tells facetious stories of
gentlemen in both countries: among others, that in passing near the place of Sir J.
Campbell, at Aghanbrack, he learned, that this gentleman had spent a great deal, and was
living on so much per week of allowance. Hampson through delicacy would not call, but
some of the domestics were sent after him; on coming into the castle, Sir J. asked him
why he had not called, adding. "Sir, there was never a harper but yourself that passed the
door of my father's house;" to which Hampson answered that, "he had heard in the
neighbourhood that his honour was not often at home;" with which delicate
evasion Sir J. was satisfied. He adds, "that this was the highest bred and stateliest man he
ever knew; if he were putting on a new pair of gloves, and one of them dropped on the
floor, (though ever so clean), he would order the servant to bring him another pair." He
says that, in that time he never met but one laird that had a harp, and that was a very
small one, played on formerly by the laird's father; that when he had tuned it with new
strings the laird and his lady both were so pleased with his music that they invited him
back in these words: "Hampson, as soon as you think this child of ours (a boy of three
years of age), is fit to learn on his grandfather's harp, come back to teach him, and you
shall not repent it;" but this he never accomplished.
'He told me a story of the laird of Strone with a great deal of comic relish. When he
was playing at the house, a message came that a large party of gentlemen were coming to
grouse, and would spend some days with him (the laird); the lady being in great
distress turned to her husband, saying "What shall we do, my dear, for so many in the
way of beds." "Give yourself no vexation," replied the laird, "give us enough to eat, and
I will supply the rest; and as to beds, believe me every man shall find one for
himself;" (meaning that his guests would fall under the table). In his second trip to
Scotland, in the year 1745, being at Edinburgh, when Charley the Pretender was
there, he was called into the great hall to play; at first he was alone, afterwards four
fiddlers joined: the tune called for was, "The king shall enjoy his own again:" he sung
here part of the words following
"I hope to see the day
When the Whigs shall run away,
And the king shall enjoy his own again."
'I asked him if he heard the Pretender speak; he replied I only heard him ask, "Is
Sylvan there;" on which some one answered, "He is not here please your royal highness,
but he shall be sent for." He meant to say Sullivan, continued Hampson, but that
was the way he called the name. He says that Captain Mc.Donnell, when in Ireland,
came to see him, and that he told the captain that Charley's cockade was in his fathers
house.
'Hampson was brought into the Pretender's presence by Colonel Kelly, of
Roscomon, and Sir Thomas Sheridan, and that he (Hampson) was then above fifty years
old. He played in many Irish houses; among others, those of Lord de Courcey, Mr
Fortescue, Sir P. Belew, Squire Roche; and in the great towns, Dublin, Cork, etc. etc.
Respecting all which he interspersed pleasant anecdotes with surprising gaiety and
correctness. As to correctness, he mentioned many anecdotes of my grandfather and
grand-aunt, at whose houses he used to be frequently. In fact, in this identical harper,
whom you sent me to survey, I recognized an acquaintance, who, as soon as he
found me out, seemed exhilarated at having an old friend of (what he called) "the old
stock," in his poor cabin. He even mentioned many anecdotes of my own boyhood,
which, though be me long forgotten, were accurately true. These things shew the
surprising power of his recollection at the age of a hundred and eight years. Since I saw
him last, which was in 1787, the wen on the back of his head is greatly increased; it is
now hanging over his neck and shoulders, nearly as large as his head, from which
circumstance he derives his appellative, "the man with two heads." General Hart, who is
an admirer of music, sent a limner lately to take a drawing of him, which cannot fail to be
interesting, if it were only for the venerable expression of his meager blind countenance,
and the symmetry of his tall, thin, but not debilitated, person. I found him lying on his
back in bed near the fire of his cabin; his family employed in the usual way; his harp
under the bed clothes, by which his face was covered also. When he heard my name he
started up (being already dressed), and seemed rejoiced to hear the sound of my voice,
which, he said, he began to recollect. He asked for my children, whom I brought to see
him, and he felt them over and over; - then, with tones of great affection, he blessed
God that he had seen four generations of the name, and ended by giving
the children his blessing. He then tuned his old time-beaten harp, his solace and
bedfellow, and played with astonishing justness and good taste.
'The tunes which he played were his favourites; and he, with an elegance of manner,
said at the same time, I remember you have a fondness for music, and the tunes you used
to ask for I have not forgotten, which were Cualin, The Dawning of the Day, Elleen-a-
roon, Ceandubhdilis, etc. These, except the third, were the first great tunes, which,
according to regulation, he played at the famous meeting of harpers at Belfast, under the
patronage of some amateurs of Irish music. Mr Bunton, the celebrated musician of that
town, was here the year before, at Hampson's, noting his tunes and his manner of
playing, which is in the best old style. He said, with the honest feeling of self love,
"When I played the old tunes, not another of the harpers would play after me." He came
to Magilligan many years ago, and at the age of eighty-six, married of woman of
Innisowen, whom he found living in the house of an old friend. "I can't tell," quoth
Hampson, "if it was not the devil buckled us together, she being lame and I blind." By
this wife he has one daughter, married to a cooper, who has several children, and
maintains them all, though Hampson (in this alone seeming to doat), says, that his son-in-
law is a spendthrift and that he maintains them; the family humour his whim, and the old
man is quieted. He is pleased when they tell him, as he thinks is the case, that several
people of character, for musical taste, send letters to invite him; and he, though incapable
now of leaving the house, is planning expeditions never to be attempted, much less
realized; these are the only traces of mental debility; as to his body, he has no
inconvenience but that arising from a chronic disorder: his habits have ever been sober;
his favourite drink, once beer, now milk and water; his diet chiefly potatoes. I
asked him to teach my daughter, but he declined; adding, however, that it was too hard
for a young girl, but that nothing would give him greater pleasure, if he thought it could
be done.
'Lord Bristol, when lodging at the bathing house of Mount Salut, near Magilligan,
gave three guineas, and ground rent free, to build the house where Hampson now lives.
At the house warming his lordship with his lady and family came, and the children
danced to his harp; the bishop gave three crowns to the family, and in the dear
year, his lordship called in his coach and six, stopped at the door, and gave a guinea to
buy meal.
'Would it not be well to get a subscription for poor old Hampson? It might be sent to
various towns where he is known.
Once more ever yours,
G.V.S.'
ADDENDA
'In the time of Noah I was green,
After his flood I have not been seen,
Until seventeen hundred and two. I was found,
By Cormac Kelly, under ground;
He raised me up to that degree;
Queen of music they call me.'
'The above lines are sculptured on the old harp, which is made, the sides and front of
white sally, the back of fir, patched with copper and iron plates. His daughter now
attending him is only thirty-three years old.
'I have now given you an account of my visit, and even thank you (though my
fingers are tired), for the pleasure you procured to me by this interesting
commission.
Ever yours,
G.V. SAMPSON.'
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'Ds. 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:
'And kissed the cup to pass it to the
rest.' ]
'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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