in a perfect state of isolation, and I was unknown in the country,
I entertained no apprehensions of discovery during the time I should
remain at the castle; and full of hope, strong in confidence, but
wearied by incessant cogitation, and something exhausted by pain, I fell
into that profound slumber I did before but feign.
The mid-day beams shone brightly through the faded tints of my bed
curtains before I awakened the following morning, after a night of such
fairy charms as only float round the couch of
“Fancy trained in bliss.”
The nurse, and the two other domestics, relieved the watch at my
bedside during the night; and when I drew back the curtain, the former
complimented me on my somniferous powers, and in the usual mode of
inquiry, but in a very unusual accent and dialect, addressed me with
much kindness and goodnatured solicitude. While I was endeavouring
to express my gratitude for her attentions, and, what seemed most
acceptable to her, my high opinion of her skill, the Father Director
entered.
To the benevolent mind, distress or misfortune is ever a sufficient
claim on all the privileges of intimacy; and when Father John seated
himself by my bedside, affectionately took my hand, lamented my
accident, and assured me of my improved looks, it was with an air so
kindly familiar, so tenderly intimate, that it was impossible to suspect
the sound of his voice was yet a stranger to my ear.
Prepared and collected, as soon as I had expressed my sense of his and
the Prince’s benevolence, I briefly related my feigned story; and in
a few minutes I was a young Englishman, by birth a gentleman, by
inevitable misfortunes reduced to a dependence on my talents for a
livelihood, and by profession an artist. I added, that I came to Ireland
to take views, and seize some of the finest features of its landscapes;
that, having heard much of the wildly picturesque charms of the
northwest coasts, I had penetrated thus far into this remote corner
of the province of Connaught; that the uncommon beauty of the views
surrounding the castle, and the awful magnificence of its ruins, had
arrested my wanderings, and determined me to spend some days in its
vicinity; that, having attended divine service the preceding evening in
the chapel, I continued to wander along the romantic shores of Inismore,
and, in the adventuring spirit of my art, had climbed part of the
mouldering ruins of the castle to catch a fine effect of light and
shade, produced by the partially veiled beams of the moon, and had
then met with the accident which now threw me on the benevolence of the
Prince of Innisinore; an unknown, in a strange country, with a fractured
limb, a wounded head, and a heart oppressed with the sense of gratitude
under which it laboured.
“That you were a stranger and a traveller, who had been led by curiosity
or devotion to visit the chapel of Inismore,” said the priest, “we were
already apprised of, by the peasant who brought to the castle last night
the horse and valise left at his cabin, and who feared, from the length
of your absence, some accident had befallen you. What you have yourself
been kind enough to detail, is precisely what will prove your best
letter of recommendation to the Prince. Trust me, young gentleman, that
your standing in need of his attention is the best claim you could
make on it; and your admiration of his native scenes, of that ancient
edifice, the monument of that decayed ancestral splendour still dear to
his pride; and your having so severely suffered through an anxiety by
which he must be flattered, will induce him to consider himself as
even _bound_ to administer every attention that can meliorate the
unpleasantness of your present situation.”
What an idea did this give me of the character of him whose heart I once
believed divested of all the tender feelings of humanity. Everything
that mine could dictate on the subject I endeavoured to express, and,
borne away by the vehemence of my feelings, did it in a manner that more
than once fastened the eyes of Father John on my face, with that look
of surprise and admiration which, to a delicate mind, is more gratifying
than the most finished verbal eulogium.
Stimulated by this silent approbation, I insensibly stole the
conversation from myself to a more general theme: one thought was the
link to an-other--the chain of discussion gradually extended, and before
the nurse brought up my breakfast we had ranged through the whole circle
of _sciences_. I found that this intelligent and amiable being had
trifled a good deal in his young days with chemistry, of which he still
spoke like a lover who, in maturer life, fondly dwells on the charms of
that object who first awakened the youthful raptures of his heart. He is
even still an enthusiast in botany, and as free from monastic pedantry
as he is rich in the treasures of classical literature and the
elegancies of belles lettres. His feelings even yet preserve something
of the ardour of youth, and in his mild character evidently appears
blended a philosophical knowledge of human nature, with the most perfect
worldly inexperience, and the manly intelligence of a highly gifted
mind, with the sentiments of a recluse and the simplicity of a child.
His still ardent mind seemed to dilate to the correspondence of a
kindred intellect, and two hours’ bedside chit chat, with all the
unrestrained freedom such a situation sanctions, produced a more perfect
intimacy than an age would probably have effected under different
circumstances.
After having examined and dressed the wounded temple, which he declared
to be a mere scratch, and congratulated me on the apparent convalescence
of my looks, he withdrew, politely excusing the length of his visit by
pleading the charms of my conversation as the cause of his detention.
There is, indeed, an evident vein of French suavity flowing through his
manners, that convinced me he had spent some years of his life in that
region of the graces. I have since learned that he was partly educated
in France; so that, to my astonishment, I have discovered the manners
of a gentleman, the conversation of a scholar, and the sentiment of a
philanthropist, united in the character of an Irish priest.
While my heart throbbed with the natural satisfaction arising from the
consciousness of having awakened an interest in those whom it was my
ambition to interest, my female Esculapius came and seated herself by
me; and while she talked of fevers, inflammations, and the Lord knows
what, insisted on my not speaking another word for the rest of the
day. Though by no means appearing to labour under the same Pythagorean
restraint she had imposed on me; and after having extolled her own
surgical powers, her celebrity as the best bone-setter in the barony,
and communicated the long list of patients her skill had saved, her
tongue at last rested on the only theme I was inclined to hear.
“Arrah! now, jewel,” she continued, “there is our Lady Glorvina now, who
with all her skill, and knowing every leaf that grows, why she could
no more set your arm than she could break it. Och! it was herself that
turned white when she saw the blood upon your face, for she was the
first to hear you fall, and hasten down to have you picked up; at first,
faith, we thought you were a robber; but it was all one to her, into the
castle you must be brought, and when she saw the blood spout from your
temple, Holy Virgin! she looked for all the world as if she was kilt
dead herself.”
“And is she,” said I, in the selfishness of my heart, “is she always
thus humanely interested for the unfortunate?”
“Och! it is she that is tender hearted for man or beast,” replied my
companion. “I shall never forget till the day of my death, _nor then_
either, faith, the day that Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was bogged: you must
know, honey, that a bogged cow--”
Unfortunately, however, the episode of Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was cut
short, for the Prince now entered, leaning on the arm of the priest.
Dull indeed must be every feeling, and blunted every recollective
faculty, when the look, the air, the smile with which this venerable and
benevolent chieftain, approaching my bed, and kindly taking me by the
hand, addressed me in the singular idiom of his expressive language.
“Young man,” said he, “the stranger’s best gift is upon you, for the eye
that sees you for the first time, wishes it may not be the last; and the
ear that drinks your words, grows thirsty as it quaffs them. So says our
good Father John here, for you have made him your friend ere you are his
acquaintance; and as the _friend of my friend_, my heart opens to you;
you are welcome to my house as long as it is pleasant to you; when
it ceases to be so, we will part with you with regret, and speed your
journey with our wishes and our prayers.”
Could my heart have lent its eloquence to my lip--but that was
impossible; very imperfect indeed was the justice I did to my feelings;
but as my peroration was a eulogium on these romantic scenes and
interesting ruins, the contemplation of which I had nearly purchased
with my life, the Prince seemed as much pleased as if my gratitude had
poured forth with _Ciceronean_ eloquence, and he replied:
“When your health will permit, you can pursue here uninterrupted your
charming art. Once the domains of Inismore could have supplied the
painter’s pencil with scenes of smiling felicity, and the song of the
bard--with many a theme of joy and triumph; but the harp can only mourn
over the fallen greatness of its sons; and the pencil has nothing left
to delineate but the ruins which shelter the gray head of the last of
their descendants.”
These words were pronounced with an emotion that shook the dilapidated
frame of the Prince, and the tear which dimmed the spirit of his eye,
formed an associate in that of his auditor. He gazed on me for a moment
with a look that seemed to say, “you feel for me, then--yet you are an
Englishman and taking the arm of Father John, he walked towards a window
which commanded a view of the ocean, whose troubled bosom beat wildly
against the castle cliffs.
“The day is sad,” said he, “and makes the soul gloomy: we will summon
O’Gallagher to the hall, and drive away sorrow with music.” Then turning
to me, he added, with a faint smile “the tones of the Irish harp
have still the power to breathe a spirit over the drooping soul of an
Irishman; but if its strains disturb your repose, command its silence:
the pleasure of the host always rests in that of his guest.”
With these words, and leaning on the arm of his chaplain, he retired;
while the nurse, looking affectionately after him, raised her hands and
exclaimed:
“Och! there you go, and may the blessing of the Holy Virgin go with you,
for it’s yourself that’s the jewel of a Prince!”
The impression made on me by this brief but interesting interview, is
not to be expressed. You should see the figure, the countenance, the
dress of the Prince; the appropriate scenery of the old Gothic chamber,
the characteristic appearance of the priest and the nurse, to understand
the combined and forcible effect the whole produced.
Yet, though experiencing a pleasurable emotion, strong as it was novel,
there was still one little wakeful wish throbbing vaguely at my heart.
Was it possible that my chilled, my sated misanthropic feelings,
still sent forth one sigh of wishful solicitude for woman’s dangerous
presence? No, the sentiment the daughter of the Prince inspired, only
made a _part_ in that general feeling of curiosity, which every thing in
this new region of wonders continued to nourish into existence. What had
I to expect from the unpolished manners, the confined ideas of this Wild
Irish Girl? Deprived of all those touching allurements which society
only gives; reared in wilds and solitudes, with no other associates than
her nurse, her confessor, and her father; endowed indeed by nature
with some personal gifts, set off by the advantage of a singular and
characteristic dress, for which she is indebted to whim and natural
prejudice, rather than native taste:--I, who had fled in disgust even
from those to whose natural attraction the bewitching blandishments of
education, the brilliant polish of fashion, and the dazzling splendour
of _real_ rank, contributed their potent spells.
And yet, the roses of Florida, though the fair est in the universe, and
springing from the richest soil, emit no fragrance; while the mountain
violet, rearing its timid form from a steril bed, flings on the morning
breeze the most delicious perfume.
While given up to such reflections as these--while the sound of the
Irish harp arose from the hall below, and the nurse muttered her prayers
in Irish over her beads by my side, I fell into a gentle slumber, in
which I dreamed that the Princess of Inismore approached my bed, drew
aside the curtains, and raising her veil, discovered a face I had
hitherto rather guessed at than seen. Imagine my horror--it was the
face, the head of a _Gorgon!_
Awakened by the sudden and terrific emotion it excited, though still
almost motionless, as if from the effects of a nightmare (which in
fact, from the position I lay in, had oppressed me in the form of the
Princess) I cast my eyes through a fracture in the old damask drapery of
my bed, and beheld--not the horrid spectre of my recent dream, but
the form of a cherub hovering near my pillow--it was the Lady Glorvina
herself! Oh! how I trembled lest the fair image should only be the
vision of my slumber: I scarcely dared to breathe, lest it should
dissolve.
She was seated on the nurse’s little stool, her elbow resting on her
knee, her cheek reclined upon her hand: for once the wish of Romeo
appeared no hyperbela.
Some snowdrops lay scattered in her lap, on which her downcast eyes shed
their beams; as though she moralized over the modest blossoms, which, in
fate a delecacy, resembled herself. Changing her pensive attitude, she
collected them into a bunch, and sighed, and waved her head as she gazed
on them. The dew that trembled on their leaves seemed to have flowed
from a richer source than the exhalation of the morning’s vapour--for
the flowers are faded---but the drops that gem’d them are fresh.
At that moment the possession of a little kingdom would have been less
desirable to me, than the knowledge of that association of ideas and
feelings which the contemplation of these honoured flowers awakened. At
last, with a tender smile, she raised them to her lip and sighed, and
placed them in her bosom; then softly drew aside my curtain. I feigned
the stillness of death--yet the curtain remained unclosed--many minutes
elapsed--I ventured to unseal my eyes, and met the soul dissolving
glance of my sweet attendant spirit, who seemed to gaze intently on her
charge. Emotion on my part the most delicious, on hers the most modestly
confused, for a moment prevented all presence of mind; the beautiful arm
still supported the curtain--my ardent gaze was still riveted on a face
alternately suffused with the electric flashes of red and white. At
last the curtain fell, the priest entered, and the vision, the sweetest,
brightest vision of my life, dissolved!
Glorvina sprung towards her tutor, and told him aloud, that the nurse
had entreated her to take her place, while she descended to dinner.
“And no place can become thee better, my child,” said the priest, “than
that which fixes thee by the couch of suffering and sickness.”
“However,” said Glorvina, smiling, “I will gratify you by resigning for
the present in your favour,” and away she flew speaking in Irish to the
nurse, who passed her at the door.
The benevolent confessor then approached, and seated himself beside my
bed, with that premeditated air of chit-chat sociality, that it went to
my soul to disappoint him. But the thing was impossible, to have tamely
conversed in mortal language on mortal subjects, after having held “high
communion” with an etherial spirit; when a sigh, a tear, a glance, were
the delicious vehicles of our souls’ secret intercourse--to stoop from
this “colloquy sublime!” I could as soon have delivered a logical essay
on identity and adversity, or any other subject equally interesting to
the heart and imagination.
I therefore closed my eyes, and breathed most sonorously: the good
priest drew the curtain and retired on tip-toe, and the nurse once more
took her distaff, and, for her sins, was silent.
These good people must certainly think me a second Epimenides, for I
have done nothing but sleep, or feign to sleep, since I have been thrown
amongst them.
LETTER VI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I have already passed four days beneath this hospitable roof. On the
third, a slight fever with which I had been threatened passed off, my
head was disincumbered, and on the fourth I was able to leave my bed,
and to scribble thus far of my journal. Yet these kind solicitous beings
will not suffer me to leave my room, and still the nurse at intervals
gives me the pleasure of her society, and hums old _cronans_, or amuses
me with what she calls a little _shanaos_, * as she plies her distaff;
while the priest frequently indulges me with his interesting and
intelligent conversation. The good man is a great logician, and fond
of displaying his metaphysical prowess, where he feels that he is
understood, and we diurnally go over _infinity, space_, and _duration_,
with innate, simple, and complex idea, until our own are exhausted in
the discussion; and then we generally relax with Ovid, or trifle with
Horace and Tibullus, for nothing can be less austerely pious than this
cheerful gentle being: nothing can be more innocent than his life;
nothing more liberal than his sentiments.
* A term in very general use in Ireland, and is applied to a
kind of genealogical chit chat, or talking over family
antiquity, family anecdotes, descent, alliances, &c., to
which the lower, as well as the higher order of Irish in the
provincial parts are much addicted.
The Prince, too, has thrice honoured me with a visit. Although
he possesses nothing of the erudition which distinguishes his
all-intelligent chaplain, yet there is a peculiar charm, a spell in his
conversation, that is irresistibly fascinating; and chiefly arising, I
believe, from the curious felicity of his expressions, the originality
of the ideas they clothe, the strength and energy of his delivery, and
the enthusiasm and simplicity of his manners.
He seems not so much to speak the English language, as literally to
translate the Irish; and he borrows so much and so happily from the
peculiar idiom of his vernacular tongue, that though his conversation
was deficient in matter, it would still possess a singular interest from
its manner. But it is far otherwise, there is indeed in the uncultivated
mind of this man, much of the _vivida vis anima_ of native genius, which
neither time nor misfortune has wholly damped, and which frequently
flings the brightest coruscations of thought over the generally pensive
tone that pervades his conversation. The extent of his knowledge on
subjects of national interest is indeed wonderful; his memory is rich in
oral tradition, and most happily faithful to the history and antiquities
of his country, which notwithstanding peevish complaints of its
degeneracy, he still loves with idolatrous fondness. On these subjects
he is always borne away, but upon no subject does he speak with coolness
or moderation; he is always in extremes, and the vehemence of his
gestures and looks ever corresponds to the energy of his expressions or
sentiments. Yet he possesses an infinite deal of that _suavito in modo_,
so prevailing and insinuating even among the lower classes of
this country; and his natural, or I should rather say his national
politeness, frequently induces him to make the art in which he supposes
me to excel, the topic of our conversation. While he speaks in rapture
of the many fine views this country affords to the genius of the
painter, he dwells with melancholy pleasure on the innumerable ruined
palaces and abbeys which lay scattered amidst the richest scenes of
this romantic province: he generally thus concludes with a melancholy
apostrophe:
“But the splendid dwelling of princely grandeur, the awful asylum of
monastic piety, are just mouldering into oblivion with the memory of
those they once sheltered. The sons of little men triumph over those
whose arm was strong in war, and whose voice breathed no impotent
command; and the descendant of the mighty chieftain has nothing left to
distinguish him from the son of the peasant, but the decaying ruins
of his ancestor’s castle; while the blasts of a few storms, and the
pressure of a few years, shall even of them leave scarce a wreck to tell
the traveller the mournful tale of fallen greatness.”
When I showed him a sketch I had made of the castle of Inismore, on the
evening I had first seen it from the mountain’s summit, he seemed much
gratified, and warmly commended its fidelity, shaking his head as he
contemplated it, and impressively exclaiming.
“Many a morning’s sun has seen me climb that mountain in my boyish
days, to contemplate these ruins, accompanied by an old follower of the
family, who possessed many strange stories of the feats of my ancestors,
with which I was then greatly delighted. And then I dreamed of my arm
wielding the spear in war, and my hall resounding to the song of the
bard, and the mirth of the feast; but it was only a dream!”
As the injury sustained by my left arm (which is in a state of rapid
convalescence) is no impediment to the exertions of my right, we have
already talked over the various views I am to take, and he enters into
every little plan with that enthusiasm, which childhood betrays in the
pursuit of some novel object, and seems wonderfully gratified in the
idea of thus perpetuating the fast decaying features of this “time
honoured” edifice.
The priest assures me, I am distinguished in a particular manner by the
partiality and condescension of the Prince.
“As a man of genius,” said he this morning, “you have awakened a
stronger interest in his breast, than if you had presented him with
letters patent of your nobility, except, indeed, you had derived them
from _Milesius_ himself.”
“An enthusiastic love of talent is one of the distinguishing features
of the true ancient Irish character; and independent of your general
acquirements, your professional abilities, coinciding with his ruling
passion, secures you a larger portion of his esteem and regard than he
generally lavishes upon any stranger, and almost incredible, considering
you are an Englishman. But national prejudice ceases to operate when
individual worth calls for approbation; and an Irishman seldom asks or
considers the country of him whose sufferings appeal to his humanity,
whose genius makes a claim on his applause.”
But, my good friend, while I am thus ingratiating myself with the
father, the daughter (either self-wrapped in proud reserve, or
determined to do away that temerity she may have falsely supposed her
condescension and pity awakened) has not appeared even at the door of my
chamber with a charitable inquiry for my health, since our last silent,
but eloquent interview; and I have lived for these three days on the
recollection of those precious moments which gave her to my view, as
I last beheld her, like the angel of pity hovering round the pillow of
mortal suffering.
Ah! you will say, this is not the language of an apathist, of one “whom
man delighteth not, nor _woman_ either.”
But let not your vivid imagination thus hurry over at once the scale
of my feelings from one extreme to the other, forgetting the many
intermediate degrees that lie between the deadly chill of the coldest,
and the burning ardour of the most vehement of all human sentiments.