which joined the peninsula to the main land had been cut away, and
a curious danger-threatening bridge was rudely thrown across the
intervening gulf, flung from the rocks on one side to an angle of the
mountain on the other, leaving a yawning chasm of some fathoms deep
beneath the foot of the wary passenger. This must have been a very
perilous pass in the days of civil warfare; and in the intrepidity of
my daring ancestor, I almost forgot his crime. Amidst the interstices
of the rocks which skirted the shores of this interesting peninsula,
patches of the richest vegetation were to be seen, and the trees which
sprung wildly among its venerable ruins, were bursting into all the
vernal luxuriancy of spring. In the course of my descent, several cabins
of a better description than I had yet seen, appeared scattered beneath
the shelter of the mountain’s innumerable projections; while in the air
and dress of the inhabitants (which the sound of my horse’s feet brought
to their respective doors,) I evidently perceived a something original
and primitive, I had never noticed before in this class of persons here.
They appeared to me, I know not why, to be in their holiday garb,
and their dress, though grotesque and coarse, was cleanly and
characteristic. I observed that round the heads of the elderly dames
were folded several wreaths of white or coloured linen, * and others
had hand kerchiefs ** lightly folded round their brows, and curiously
fastened under the chin; while the young wore their hair fastened up
with wooden bodkins. They were all enveloped in large shapeless mantles
of blue frieze, and most of them had a rosary hanging on their arm, from
whence I inferred they were on the point of attending vespers at the
chapel of Inismore.
* “The women’s ancient headdress so perfectly resembles that
of the Egyptian Isis, that it cannot be doubted but that the
modes of Egypt were preserved among the Irish.”--Walker on
the Ancient Irish dress, p. 62.
** These handkerchiefs they call “Binnogues,” it is a remnant
of a very ancient mode.
I alighted at the door of a cabin a few paces distant from the Alpine
bridge, and entreated a shed for my horse, while I performed my
devotions. The man to whom I addressed myself, seemed the only one of
several who surrounded me that understood English, and appeared much
edified by my pious intention, saying, “that God would prosper my
Honour’s journey, and that I was welcome to a shed for my horse, and a
night’s lodging for myself into the bargain.” He then offered to be my
guide, and as we crossed the drawbridge, he told me I was out of luck by
not coming earlier, for that high mass had been celebrated that morning
for the repose of the soul of a Prince of Inismore, who had been
murdered on this very day of the month. “And when this day comes
round,” he added, “we all attend dressed in our best; for my part, I
never wear my poor old grandfather’s _berrad_ but on the like occasion,”
taking off a curious cap of a conical form, which he twirled round his
hand and regarded with much satisfaction. *
* A few years back, Hugh Dugan, a peasant of the county of
Kilkenny, who affected the ancient Irish dress, seldom
appeared without his berrad.
By heavens! as I breathed this region of superstition, so strongly was
I infected, that my usual scepticism was scarcely proof against my
inclination to mount my horse and gallop off, as I shudderingly
pronounced, “I am then entering the castle of Inismore on the
anniversary of that day on which my ancestors took the life of its
venerable Prince!”
You see, my good friend, how much we are the creatures of situation and
circumstance, and with what pliant servility the mind resigns itself to
the impressions of the senses, or the illusions of the imagination.
We had now reached the ruined cloisters of the chapel, I paused to
examine their curious but dilapidated architecture when my guide,
hurrying me on, said, “if I did not quicken my pace, I should miss
getting a good view of the Prince,” who was just entering by a door
opposite to that we had passed through. Behold me then mingling among
a group of peasantry, and, like them, straining my eyes to that magnet
which fascinated every glance.
And sure, fancy, in her boldest flight, never gave to the fairy vision
of poetic dreams, a combination of images more poetically fine, more
strikingly picturesque, or more impressively touching. Nearly one half
of the chapel of Inismore has fallen into decay, and the ocean breeze
as it rushed through the fractured roof, wafted the torn banners of
the family which hung along its dismantled walls. The red beams of the
sinking sun shone on the glittering tabernacle which stood on the altar,
and touched with their golden light the sacerdotal vestments of the two
officiating priests, who ascended its broken steps at the moment that
the Prince and his family entered.
The first of this most singular and interesting group, was the venerable
Father John, the chaplain. Religious enthusiasm never gave to the
fancied form of the first of the patriarchs, a countenance of more
holy expression or divine resignation; a figure more touching by its
dignified simplicity, or an air more beneficently mild, more meekly
good. He was dressed in his pontificals, and, with his eyes bent to the
earth, his hands spread upon his breast, he joined his coadjutors.
What a contrast to this saintly being now struck my view; a form almost
gigantic in stature, yet gently thrown forward by evident infirmity;
limbs of herculean mould, and a countenance rather furrowed by the
inroads of vehement passions, than the deep trace of years. Eyes still
emanating the ferocity of an unsubdued spirit, yet tempered by a strong
trait of benevolence; which, like a glory, irradiated a broad expansive
brow, a mouth on which even yet the spirit of convivial enjoyment seemed
to hover, though shaded by two large whiskers on the upper lip, * which
still preserved their ebon hue; while time or grief had bleached the
scattered hairs which hung their snows upon the manly temple. The
drapery which covered this striking figure was singularly appropriate,
and, as I have since been told, strictly conformable to the ancient
costume of the Irish nobles.
* “I have been confidently assured, that the granfather of
the present Rt. Hon. John O’Neal, (great grandfather to the
present Lord O’Neal) the elegant and accomplished owner of
Shane’s Castle, wore his beard after the prohibited Irish
mode.”--Walker, p. 62.
The only part of the under garment visible, was the ancient Irish
_truis_, which closely adhering to the limbs from the waist to the
ancle, includes the pantaloon and hose, and terminates in a buskin not
dissimilar to the Roman _perones_. A triangular mantle of bright scarlet
cloth, embroidered and fringed round the edges, fell from his shoulders
to the ground, and was fastened at the breast with a large circular
golden brooch, of a workmanship most curiously beautiful; round his neck
hung a golden collar, which seemed to denote the wearer of some order
of knighthood, probably hereditary in his family; a dagger, called a
_skiene_ (for my guide explained every article of the dress to me,) was
sheathed in his girdle, and was discerned by the sunbeam that played on
its brilliant haft. And as he entered the chapel, he removed from his
venerable head a cap or berrad, of the same form as that I had noticed
with my guide, but made of velvet, richly embroidered.
The chieftain moved with dignity--yet with difficulty--and his colossal,
but infirm frame, seemed to claim support from a form so almost
impalpably delicate, that as it floated on the gaze, it seemed like
the incarnation of some pure ethereal spirit, which a sigh, too roughly
breathed, would dissolve into its kindred air; yet to this sylphid
elegance of spheral beauty was united all that symmetrical _contour_
which constitutes the luxury of human loveliness. This scarcely “mortal
mixture of earth’s mould,” was vested in a robe of vestal white, which
was enfolded beneath the bosom with a narrow girdle embossed with
precious stones.
From the shoulder fell a mantle of scarlet silk, fastened at the neck
with a silver bodkin, while the fine turned head was enveloped in a veil
of point lace, bound round the brow with a band or diadem, ornamented
with the same description of jewels as encircled her arms. *
* This was, with a little variation, the general costume of
the female noblesse of Ireland from a very early period. In
the fifteenth century the veil was very prevalent, and was
termed fillag, or scarf; the Irish ladies, like those of
ancient and modern Greece, seldom appearing. As the veil
made no part of the Celtic costume, its origin was probably
merely oriental.
The great love of ornaments betrayed by the Irish ladies of
other times, “the beauties of the heroes of old,” art thus
described by a quaint and ancient author:--“Their necks are
hung with chains and carkanets--their arms wreathed with
many bracelets.”
Such was the _figure_ of the Princess of Inis-more! But oh! not once
was the face turned round towards that side where I stood. And when
I shifted my position, the envious veil intercepted the ardent glance
which eagerly sought the fancied charms it concealed: for was it
possible to doubt the face would not “keep the promise that the form had
made.”
The group that followed was grotesque beyond all powers of description.
The ancient bard, whose long white beard
“Descending, swept his aged breast,”
the incongruous costume--half modern, half antique, of the bare footed
domestics, the ostensible steward, who closed the procession--and above
all, the dignified importance of the _nurse_, who took the lead in it
immediately after her young lady; her air, form, countenance, and dress,
were indeed so singularly fantastic and _outre_, that the genius
of masquerade might have adopted her figure as the finest model of
grotesque caricature.
Conceive for a moment a form whose longitude bore no degree of
proportion to her latitude; dressed in a short jacket of brown cloth,
with loose sleeves from the elbow to the wrist, made of red camblet
striped with green, and turned up with a broad cuff--a petticoat of
scarlet frieze, covered by an apron of green serge, longitudinally
striped with scarlet tape, and sufficiently short to betray an ancle
that sanctioned all the libels ever uttered against the ancles of the
Irish fair--true national brogues set off her blue worsted stockings,
and her yellow hair, dragged over a high roll, was covered on the summit
with a little coiff, over which was flung a scarlet handkerchief, which
fastened in a large bow under her rubicund chin.
As this singular and interesting group advanced up the central aisle of
the chapel, reverence and affection were evidently blended in the looks
of the multitude which hung upon their steps; and though the Prince and
his daughter seeked to lose in the meekness of true religion all sense
of temporal inequality, and promiscuously mingled with the congregation,
yet that distinction they humbly avoided, was reverently forced on
them by the affectionate crowd, which drew back on either side as they
advanced, until the chieftain and his child stood alone in the centre
of the ruined choir, the winds of heaven playing freely amidst their
garments, the sun’s setting beam enriching their beautiful figures with
its orient tints, while he, like Milton’s ruined angel,
“Above the rest,
In shape and feature proudly eminent,
Stood like a tower;”
and she, like the personified spirit of Mercy hovered round him, or
supported more by tenderness than her strength, him from whom she could
no longer claim support.
Those gray headed domestics, too, those faith ful though but nominal
vassals, who offered that voluntary reverence with their looks, which
his repaid with fatherly affection, while the anguish of a suffering
heart hung on his pensive smile, sustained by the firmness of that
indignant pride which lowered on his ample brow!
What a picture!
As soon as the first flush of interest, curiosity, and amazement had
subsided, my attention was carried towards the altar; and then I thought
as I watched the impressive avocation of Father John, that had I been
the Prince, I would have been the _Caiphas_ too.
What a religion is this! How finely does it harmonize with the weakness
of our nature, how seducingly it speaks to the senses; how forcibly it
works on the passions; how strongly it seizes on the imagination; how
interesting its forms; how graceful its ceremonies; how awful its rites.
What a captivating, what a _picturesque_ faith! Who would not become
its proselyte, were it not for the stern opposition of reason, the cold
suggestions of philosophy!
The last strain of the vesper hymn died on the air as the sun’s last
beam faded on the casements of the chapel; and the Prince and his
daughter., to avoid the intrusion of the crowd, withdrew through a
private door, which communicated by a ruinous arcade with the castle.
I was the first to leave the chapel, and followed them at a distance as
they moved slowly along, their fine figures, sometimes concealed behind
a pillar, and again emerging from the transient shade, flushed with the
deep suffusion of the crimsoned firmament.
Once they paused, as if to admire the beautiful effect of the retreating
light, as it faded on the ocean’s swelling bosom; and once the Princess
raised her hand and pointed to the evening star, which rose brilliantly
on the deep cerulean blue of a cloudless atmosphere, and shed its fairy
beam on the mossy summit of a mouldering turret.
Such were the sublime objects which seemed to engage their attention,
and added their _sensible_ inspiration to the fervour of those more
abstracted devotions in which they were so recently engaged. At last
they reached the portals of the castle, and I lost sight of them. Yet
still spellbound, I stood transfixed to the spot from whence I had
caught a last view of their receding figures.
While I felt like the victim of superstitious terror when the spectre of
its distempered fancy vanishes from its strained and eager gaze, all I
had lately seen revolved in my mind like some pictured story of romantic
fiction. I cast round my eyes; all still seemed the vision of awakened
imagination. Surrounded by a scenery grand even to the boldest majesty
of nature, and wild even to desolation--the day’s dying splendours
Awfully involving in the gloomy haze of deepening twilight--the gray
mists of stealing night gathering on the still faintly illumined surface
of the ocean, which, awfully spreading to infinitude, seemed to the
limited gaze of human vision to incorporate with the heaven whose last
glow it reflected--the rocks, which on every side rose to Alpine
elevation, exhibiting, amidst the soft obscurity, forms savagely bold or
grotesquely wild; and those finely interesting ruins which spread
grandly desolate in the rear, and added a moral interest to the emotions
excited by this view of nature in her most awful, most touching aspect.
Thus suddenly withdrawn from the world’s busiest haunts, its hackneyed
modes, its vicious pursuits, and unimportant avocations--dropped as
it were amidst scenes and mysterious sublimity--alone--on the wildest
shores of the greatest ocean of the universe; immersed amidst the
decaying monuments of past ages; still viewing in recollection such
forms, such manners, such habits (as I had lately beheld,) which to the
worldly mind may be well supposed to belong to a race long passed beyond
the barrier of existence, with “the years beyond the flood,” I felt like
the being of some other sphere newly alighted on a distant orb. While
the novel train of thought which stole on my mind, seemed to seize
its tone from the awful tranquillity by which I was surrounded, and I
remained leaning on the fragment of a rock, as the waves dashed idly
against its base, until their dark heads were silvered by the rising
moon, and while my eyes dwelt on her silent progress, the castle clock
struck nine. Thus warned, I arose to depart, yet not without reluctance.
My soul, for the first time, had here held commune with herself; the
“lying vanities” of life no longer intoxicating my senses, appeared to
me for the first time in their genuine aspect, and my heart still fondly
loitered over those scenes of solemn interest, where some of its best
feelings had been called into existence.
Slowly departing, I raised my eyes to the Castle of Inismore and sighed,
and almost wished I had been born the Lord of these beautiful ruins, the
Prince of this isolated little territory, and adored chieftain of these
affectionate and natural people. At that moment a strain of music stole
by me, as if the breeze of midnight stillness had expired in a manner on
the Eolian lyre. Emotion, undefinable emotion, thrilled on every nerve.
I listened. I trembled. A breathless silence gave me every note. Was it
the illusion of my now all-awakened fancy, or the professional exertions
of the bard of Inismore? Oh, no! for the voice it symphonized, the low,
wild, tremulous voice which sweetly sighed its soul of melody o’er the
harp’s responsive chords, was the voice of _a woman!_
Directed by the witching strain, I approached an angle of the building
from whence it seemed to proceed; and perceiving a light which streamed
through an open casement, I climbed with some difficulty the ruins of a
parapet wall which encircled this wing of the castle, and which rose
so immediately under the casement as to give me, when I stood on it, a
perfect view of the interior of that apartment to which it belonged.
Two tapers, which burned on a marble slab at the remotest extremity of
this vast and gloomy chamber, shed their dim blue light on the saintly
countenance of Father John, who, with a large folio open before him,
seemed wholly wrapped in studious meditation; while the Prince, reclined
on an immense Gothic couch, with his robe thrown over the arm that
supported his head, betrayed by the expression of his countenance those
emotions, which agitated his soul, while he listened to those strains
which spoke at once to the heart of the father, the patriot, and the
man--breathed from the chords of his country’s emblem--breathed in the
pathos of his country’s music--breathed from the lips of his apparently
inspired daughter! The white rising of her hands upon the harp the
half-drawn veil that imperfectly discovered the countenance of a seraph;
the moonlight that played round her fine form, and partially touched her
drapery with its silver beam--her attitude! her air! But how cold--how
inanimate--how imperfect this description! Oh! could I but seize
the touching features--could I but realize the vivid tints of this
enchanting picture, as they then glowed on my fancy! By heavens! you
would think the mimic copy fabulous; “the celestial visitant” of an
overheated imagination. Yet, as if the independent witchery of the
lovely minstrel was not in itself all, all-sufficient, at the back of
her chair stood the grotesque figure of her antiquated nurse. O! the
precious contrast. And yet it heightened, it finished the picture.
While thus entranced in breathless observation, endeavouring to support
my precarious tenement, and to prolong this rich feast of the senses and
the soul, the loose stones on which I tottered gave way under my feet,
and impulsively clinging to the wood work of the casement, it mouldered
in my grasp. I fell--but before I reached the earth I was bereft of
sense. With its return I found myself in a large apartment, stretched on
a bed, and supported in the arms of the Prince of Inismore! his hand was
pressed to my bleeding temple, while the priest applied a styptic to the
wound it had received; and the nurse was engaged in binding up my arm,
which had been dreadfully bruised and fractured a little above the
wrist. Some domestics, with an air of mingled concern and curiosity,
surrounded my couch; and at her father’s side stood the Lady Glorvina,
her looks pale and disordered--her trembling hands busily employed in
preparing bandages, for which my skilful doctress impatiently called.
While my mind almost doubted the evidence of my senses, and a physical
conviction alone _painfully_ proved to me the reality of all I beheld,
my wandering, wondering eyes met those of the Prince of Inismore! A
volume of pity and benevolence was registered in their glance; nor were
mine, I suppose, inexpressive of my feelings, for he thus replied to
them:
“Be of good cheer, young stranger; you are in no danger; be composed;
be confident; conceive yourself in the midst of friends; for you are
surrounded by those who would wish to be considered as such.”
I attempted to speak, but my voice faltered; my tongue was nerveless; my
mouth dry and parched. A trembling hand presented a cordial to my lips.
I quaffed the philtre, and fixed my eyes on the face of my ministering
angel. That angel was Glorvina! I closed them, and sunk on the bosom of
her father.
“Oh, he faints again!” cried a sweet and plaintive voice.
“On the contrary,” replied the priest, “the weariness of acute pain
something subsided, is lulling him into a soft repose; for see, the
colour reanimates his cheek, and his pulse quickens.”
“It indeed beats most wildly,” returned the sweet physician; for the
pulse which responded to her finger’s thrilling pressure moved with no
languid throb.
“Let us retire,” added the priest, “all danger is now, thank heaven,
over; and repose and quiet the most salutary requisites for our
patient.”
At these words he arose from my bedside, and the Prince, gently
withdrawing his supporting arms, laid my head upon the pillow. In a
moment all was deathlike stillness, and stealing a glance from under
my half closed eyes, I found myself alone with my skilful doctress,
the nurse, who, shading the taper’s light from the bed, had taken her
distaff and seated herself on a stool at some distance.
This was a golden respite to feelings wound up to that vehement excess
which forbade all expression, which left my tongue powerless, while my
heart overflowed with emotion the most powerful.
Good God! I, the son of Lord M--------, the hereditary object of
hereditary detestation, beneath the roof of my implacable enemy!
Supported in his arms; relieved from anguish by his charitable
attention; honoured by the solicitude of his lovely daughter;
overwhelmed by the charitable exertions of his whole family; and reduced
to that bodily infirmity that would of necessity oblige me to continue
for some time the object of their beneficent attentions.
What a series of emotions did this conviction awaken in my heart!
Emotions of a character, an energy, long unknown to my apathized
feelings; while gratitude to those who had drawn them into existence,
combined with the interest, the curiosity, the admiration they had
awakened, tended to confirm my irresistible desire of perpetuating the
immunities I enjoyed, as the guest and patient of the Prince and his
daughter. And, while the touch of this Wild Irish Girl’s hand thrilled
on every sense, while her voice of tenderest pity murmured on my ear,
and I secretly triumphed over the prejudices of her father, I would not
have exchanged my broken arm and wounded temple for the strongest limb
and soundest head in the kingdom; but the same chance which threw me in
the supporting arms of the irascible Prince, might betray to him in the
person of his patient, the son of his hereditary enemy: it was at least
probable he would make some inquiries relative to the object of his
benevolence, and the singular cause which rendered him such; it was
therefore a necessary policy in me to be provided against this scrutiny.
Already deep in adventure, a thousand seducing reasons were suggested by
my newly-awakened heart to go on with the romance, and to secure for my
farther residence in the castle, that interest, which, if known to be
the son of Lord M--------, I must eventually have forfeited, for the
cold version of irreclaimable prejudice. The imposition was at least
innocent, and might tend to future and mutual advantage; and after the
ideal assumption of a thousand fictitious characters, I at last fixed on
that of an itinerant artist, as consonant to my most cultivated talent,
and to the testimony of those witnesses which I had fortunately brought
with me, namely my drawing-book, pencils, &c., &c., self-nominated
_Henry Mortimer_, to answer the initials on my linen, the only proofs
against me, for I had not even a letter with me.