Transcriber’s Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
The following are possible misspellings:
benshees
combated
controul
empassioned/impassioned
encrease/increase
Glenaa/Glanaa
innoxtious
Mounteagle/Monteagle
Mowbrey/Mowbray
overweaning/overweening
pretentions
Trelawny/Trelawney
Chapter IX is missing in the numbering sequence.
“beaten tract” should possibly be “beaten track”
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
GLENARVON.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
1816.
London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
13, Poland Street.
Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme
Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.
CHAPTER I.
In the town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived a learned physician of the
name of Everard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, misled by a fine
but wild imagination, which raised him too far above the interests of
common life, had squandered away his small inheritance; and had long
roved through the world, rapt in poetic visions, foretelling, as he
pretended, to those who would hear him, that which futurity would more
fully develop.—Camioli was the name he had assumed.
It was many years since Sir Everard last beheld his brother, when one
night Camioli, bearing in his arms Elinor his child, about five years of
age, returned, after his long absence to his native town, and knocked
at Sir Everard’s door. The doctor was at the castle hard by, and his
lady refused admittance to the mean-looking stranger. Without informing
her of his name, Camioli departed, and resolved to seek his sister the
Abbess of Glenaa. The way to the convent was long and dreary: he climbed,
therefore, with his lovely burthen to the topmost heights of Inis Tara,
and sought temporary shelter in a cleft of the mountain known by the
name of the “Wizzard’s Glen.” Bright shone the stars that night, and
to the exalted imagination of the aged seer, it seemed in sleep, that
the spirits of departed heroes and countrymen, freed from the bonds of
mortality, were ascending in solemn grandeur before his eyes;—the song of
the Banshees, mourning for the sorrows of their country, broke upon the
silence of night;—a lambent flame distinguished the souls of heroes, and,
pointing upwards, formed a path of light before them;—the air resounded
with the quivering of wings, as with one accord innumerable spirits
arose, fanning the breeze with their extended plumes, and ascending like
a flight of birds toward the heavens.
Then, for the first time, Camioli beheld, in one comprehensive view, the
universal plan of nature—unnumbered systems performing their various but
distinct courses, unclouded by mists, and unbounded by horizon—endless
variety in infinite space! Then first he seemed to hear the full
harmonious cadences of the angelic choirs—celestial music, uttered by
happy spirits in praise of the great Author of Existence, as directing
their flight onwards from sphere to sphere, from world to world, they
felt joyful in themselves, and rejoiced in the wonders and variety of
creation.
From visions so wild, yet delightful, the soft sweet voice of his child
awoke him.—“How cold and dreary it is, dear father; how lone these
hills. I am weary unto death, yet I fear to sleep.”—“My comforter, my
delight, my little black-eyed darling,” said Camioli (enveloping his
child in his long dark mantle), “why do I thus sully the purity of
your nature by leading you to the abode of misery, and shewing you the
haunts of men! They are but as the flowers that blossom and wither, or
as the clouds that pass along to shade for a moment the brightness of
the heavens:—all here on earth is desolation and woe. But I will soon
take you, my lovely one, to a place of safety. My sister, the Abbess of
Glenaa, lives in the valley beneath the mountain: she will protect my
Elinor; and, in her mansion, my child shall find an asylum. I shall leave
you but for a short time; we shall meet again, Elinor;—yes, we shall meet
again.—Continue to live with St. Clara your aunt: obey her in all things,
for she is good: and may the God of Mercy avert from you the heaviest
of all my calamities, the power of looking into futurity.”—He spoke,
and descending the rugged mountain path, placed his Elinor according to
promise, under the protection of his sister the Abbess of Glenaa, and
bidding her farewell, walked hastily away.
The morning sun, when it arose, shone bright and brilliant upon the
valley of Altamonte—its gay castle, and its lake. But a threatening
cloud obscured the sky, as Camioli raised his eyes and turned them
mournfully upon the ruined priory of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls
of Belfont.—“Woe to the house of Glenarvon!” he said. “Woe to the house
of my patron and benefactor! Desolation and sorrow have fallen upon
the mighty. Mourn for the hero who is slain in battle. Mourn for the
orphan who is left destitute and in trouble.... Bright shone the sun
upon thy battlements, O Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade thee a
last adieu. Cold are thy waters, Killarney; and many a tree has been
hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair mountain Glenaa, since the hour
in which he parted. But not so cold, nor so barren is thy bosom, as is
that of the widow who is bereft of every joy.... Mourn for the house
of Glenarvon, and the orphan who is destitute! No mother—no companion
of boyish sports and pleasures yet lives to greet him with one cheering
smile.—There is not left one tongue to welcome him to his native land;
or, should he fall, one friend to shed a tear upon his grave!”
Thus sung the Bard, while the red deer were browsing upon the hills,
and the wind whistled through the arches and colonades of the Castle of
Belfont, as if in hollow murmurs for times which were long past.—“Woe
to the house of our patron,” said the frenzied old man, as with bitter
tears he departed:—“even in this moment of time, the fairest star of
Belfont sets for ever: the widowed Countess of Glenarvon is dead—dead
in a foreign country; and strangers hands alone perform her obsequies.”
He spoke, and looked, for the last time, upon the land that he loved,
then turned from it for ever.... Previous, however, to his departure
from Ireland, Camioli again sought his brother, (who was then an inmate
in the family of the Duke of Altamonte,) for the purpose of commending
Elinor to his care.
Castle Delaval, the property of that nobleman, was situated in a valley
sheltered from every keen blast by a dark wood of fir and elm. The
river Elle, taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, flowed through
the park, losing by degrees the character of a mountain torrent, as it
spread itself between its rich and varied banks in front of the castle,
till it joined the sea beyond the Wizzard’s Glen. The town of Belfont
stands close upon the harbour, and from one of the highest cliffs, the
ruins of the convent of St. Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be seen,
whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, raising their lofty summits, capped with
snow, soar above the clouds.
The abbey of Belfont, and the priory of St. Alvin, both the property
of the Glenarvon family, were now, in consequence of the forfeiture of
the late Earl of that name, transferred to Lord de Ruthven, a distant
relation. The deserted priory had fallen into ruin, and Belfont abbey,
as yet unclaimed by its youthful master, and pillaged by the griping
hand of its present owner, exhibited a melancholy picture of neglect and
oppression.—No cheerful fires blaze in its ancient halls; no peasants
and vassals feast under its vaulted roofs.—Glenarvon, the hero, the lord
of the demesne is dead:—he fell on the bloody field of Culloden:—his
son perished in exile:—and Clarence de Ruthven, his grandson, an orphan,
in a foreign land, has never yet appeared to petition for his attainted
titles and forfeited estates.—Of relations and of friends he has never
heard.
Where are they who claim kindred with the unfortunate? Where are they who
boast of friendship for the orphan that is destitute and in trouble? The
Duke of Altamonte, whose domains were contiguous, and whose attachment
extended to the son of his ancient friend, had ofttimes written to
his sister enquiring into the fate of the child; but Lady Margaret had
answered her brother’s letters with coldness and indifference.