who is willing to offer up his national prejudices at the Altar of
Truth, and expiate the crime of an unfounded but habitual antipathy,
by an impartial examination, and an unbiassed inquiry. In short, I have
actually began to study the language; and though I recollect to have
read the opinion of Temple, “that the Celtic dialect used by the native
Irish is the purest and most original language that now remains yet I
never suspected that a language spoken _par routine_, and chiefly by the
lower classes of society, could be acquired upon _principle_, until the
other day, when I observed in the Prince’s truly national library some
philological works, which were shown me by Father John, who has offered
to be my preceptor in this wreck of ancient dialect, and who assures me
he will render me master of it in a short time--provided I study _con
amore_.
“And I will assist you,” said Glorvina.
“We will _all_ assist him,” said the Prince.
“Then I shall study _con amore_ indeed!” returned I.
Behold me then, buried amidst the monuments of past ages!--deep in
the study of the language, history, and antiquities of this
ancient nation--talking of the invasion of Henry II, as a recent
circumstance--of the Phoenician migration hither from Spain, as though
my grandfather had been delegated by Firbalgs to receive the Milesians
on their landing--and of those transactions passed through
“The dark posterns of time long elapsed,”
as though their existence was but freshly registered in the annate of
recollection.
In short, infected by my antiquarian conversation with the Prince, and
having fallen in with some of those monkish histories which, on the
strength of Druidical tradition, trace a series of wise and learned
Irish monarchs before the flood, I am beginning to have as much faith
in antediluvian records as Dr. Parsons himself, who accuses _Adam of_
authorship, or Thomas Bangius, who almost gives _fac similies_ of the
hand-writing of Noah’s progenitors.
Seriously, however, I enter on my new studies with avidity, and read
from the morning’s first dawn till the usual hour of breakfast, which is
become to me as much the banquet of the heart, as the Roman supper was
to the Agustan wits “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,”--for it
is the only meal at which Glorvina presides.
Two hours each day does the kind priest devote to my philological
pursuits, while Glorvina, who is frequently present on these occasions
makes me repeat some short poem or song after her, that I may catch the
pronunciation, (which is almost unattainable,) then translates them into
English, which I word for word write down. Here then is a specimen
of Irish poetry, which is almost always the effusion of some blind
itinerent bard, or some rustic minstrel, into whose breast the genius of
his country has breathed inspiration, as he patiently drove the plough,
or laboriously worked in the bog. *
CATHBEIN NOLAN.
I.
“My love, when she floats on the mountain’s brow, is like the dewy cloud
of the summer’s loveliest evening. Her forehead is asa pearl; her spiral
locks are of gold; and I grieve that I cannot banish her from my memory.”
II.
“When she enters the forest like the bounding doe, dispersing the dew
with her airy steps, her mantle on her arm, the axe in her hand to cut
the branches of flame; I know not which is the most noble--the King of
the Saxons, ** or Cathbein Nolan.”
* Miss Brooks, in her elegant version of the works of some
of the Irish Bards, says, “’Tis scarcely possible that any
language can be more adapted to lyric poetry than the Irish;
so great is the smoothness and harmony of its numbers; it is
also possessed of a refined delicacy, a descriptive power,
and an exquisite tender simplicity of expression: two or
three little artless words, or perhaps a single epithet,
will sometimes convey such an image of sentiment or
suffering to the mind, that one lays down the book to look
at the picture.”
** The King of England is called by the common Irish “Riagh
Sasseanach.”
This little song is of so ancient a date, that Glorvina assures
me, neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitely
beautiful) nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if we
may judge of the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must have
been of a very humble degree; for it is evident that the fair Cathbein,
whose form is compared, in splendour, to that of the Saxon monarch, is
represented as cutting wood for the fire.
The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modern
Irish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composed
them, possess the _arioso_ elegance of Italian music, united to the
heartfelt pathos of Irish melody.
* He was born in the village of Nobber, county of Westmeath,
in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted the loss of
sight, but used gaily to say, “my eyes are only transplanted
into my ears.” Of his poetry, the reader may form some
judgment from these examples. Of his music, it has been said
by O’Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew him
intimately, “so happy, so elevated was he in some of his
compositions, that he excited the wonder, and obtained the
approbation of a great master who never saw him, I mean
Geminiani.” His execution on the harp was rapid and
expressive--far beyond that of all the professional
competitors of the age in which he lived. The charms of
women, the pleasures of conviviality, and the power of poesy
and music, were at once his theme and inspiration; and his
life was an illustration of his theory, for until his last
ardour was chilled by death, he loved, drank and sung. He
was a welcome guest to every house, from the peasant to the
prince; but in the true wandering spirit of his profession,
he never staid to exhaust that welcome.
I.
“I must sing of the youthful plant of gentlest mien--Fanny, the
beautiful and warm soul’d--the maid of the amber twisted ringlets;
the air lifted and light footed virgin--the elegant pearl and heart’s
treasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour--let us enjoy it in
drinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.”
II.
“It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of the
shore--for whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful,
whose tresses are like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like the
blackbird’s morning song: O, may I never leave the world until dancing
in the air (this expression in the Irish is beyond the power of
translation) at her wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking to
Fanny, the daughter of David.” *
* She was daughter to David Power, Esq., of the county
Galway, and mother to the late Lord Cloncarty. The epithet
bestowed on her of “Swan of the shore,” arose from her
father’s mansion being situated on the edge of Lough Leah,
or the grey lake, of which many curious legends are told.
GRACY NUGENT.
I.
“I delight to talk of thee! blossom of fairness! Gracy, the most
frolicsome of the young and lovely--who from the fairest of the province
bore away the palm of excellence--happy is he who is near her, for
morning nor evening grief, nor fatigue, cannot come near him; her
mien is like the mildness of a beautiful dawn; and her tresses flow in
twisted folds--she is the daughter of the branches.--Her neck has the
whiteness of alabaster--the softness of the cygnet’s bosom is hers; and
the glow of the summer’s sunbeam is on her countenance. Oh! blessed is
he who shall obtain thee, fair daughter of the blossoms--maid of the
spiry locks!”
II.
“Sweet is the word of her lip, and sparkling the beam of her blue
rolling eye; and close round her neck cling the golden tresses of her
head: and her teeth are arranged in beautiful order. I say to the maid
of youthful mildness, thy voice is sweeter than the song of birds;
every grace, every charm play round thee; and though my soul delights to
sing thy praise, yet I must quit the theme--to drink with a sincere
heart to thy health, Gracy of the soft waving ringlets.”
Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fair
Gracy, recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, in
his beautiful epithalamium on her marriage?--
“She is like the rising of the golden morning, when the night departeth,
and when the winter is over and gone--she resembleth the cypress in the
garden, the horse in the chariot of Thessaly.”
While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure which
breathes over the termination of every verse, glows with the festive
spirit of the Tean bard.
When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between the
early Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with a
smile, “In drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter my
national vanity; but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesian
poetry to a higher source than the spring of Grecian genius; for many
figures in Irish song are of Oriental origin; and the bards who ennobled
the train of our Milesian founders, and who awakened the soul of song
here, seem, in common with the Greek poets, ‘to have kindled their
poetic fires at those unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb of
oriental genius.’ Let me, however, assure you, that no adequate version
of an Irish poem can be given; for the peculiar construction of the
Irish language, the felicity of its epithets, and force of its
expressions, bid defiance to all translation.”
“But while your days and nights are thus devoted to Milesian
literature,” you will say, “what becomes of Blackstone and Coke?”
Faith, e’en what may for me--the mind, the mind, like the heart, is not
to be forced in its pursuits; and, I believe, in an intellectual, as
in a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason may
condemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana; and my
present studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate the
appetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to a
profession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature revolts;
and if my father persists in his determination, why, as a _dernier
resort_, I must turn historiographer to the prince of Inismore.------
Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “vital in
every part:”
“All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear.
All intellect, all sense.”
LETTER X.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
The more I know of this singular girl, the more the happy _discordia
consors_ of her character awakens my curiosity and surprise. I
never beheld such a union of intelligence and simplicity, infantine
playfulness and profound reflection as her character exhibits. Sometimes
when I think I am trifling with a child, I find I am conversing with
a philosopher; and sometimes in the midst of the most serious and
interesting conversation, some impulse of the moment seizes on her
imagination, and a vein of frolic humour and playful sarcasm is indulged
at the expense of my most sagacious arguments or philosophic gravity.
Her reserve (unknown to herself) is gradually giving way to the most
bewitching familiarity.
When the priest is engaged, I am suffered to tread with her the
“pathless grass,” climb the mountain’s steep, or ramble along the
sea-beat coast, sometimes followed by her nurse, and sometimes by a
favourite little dog only.
Of nothing which concerns her country is she ignorant; and when a more
interesting, a more soul-felt conversation, cannot be obtained, I love
to draw her into a little national chit-chat.
Yesterday, as we were walking along the base of that mountain from which
I first beheld her dear residence, (and sure I may say with Petrarch,
“Benedetto sia il giorno e’l mese e’lanno,”) several groups of peasants
(mostly females,) passed us, with their usual courteous salutations, and
apparently dressed in their holiday garbs.
“Poor souls!” said Glorvina--“this is a day of jubilee to them, for a
great annual fair is held in the neighbourhood.”
“But from whence,” said I “do they draw the brightness of those tints
which adorn their coarse garments; those gowns and ribbons, that rival
the gay colouring of that heath hedge; those bright blue and scarlet
mantles? Are they, too, vestiges of ancient modes and ancient taste?”
“Certainly they are,” she replied, “and the colours which the Irish were
celebrated for wearing and dyeing a thousand years back, are now most
prevalent. In short, the ancient Irish, like the Israelites, were so
attached to this many coloured _costume_, that it became the mark by
which the different classes of the people were distinguished. Kings were
limited to seven colours in their royal robes; and six were allowed the
bards. What an idea does this give of the reverence paid to superior
talent in other times by our forefathers! But that bright yellow you now
behold so universally worn, has been in all ages their favourite hue.
Spenser thinks this custom came from the East; and Lord Bacon accounts
for the propensity of the Irish to it, by supposing it contributes to
longevity.”
“But where,” said I, “do these poor people procure so expensive an
article as saffron, to gratify their prevailing taste?”
“I have heard Father John say,” she returned, “that saffron, as an
article of importation, could never have been at any time cheap enough
for general use. And I believe formerly, as _now_, they communicated
this bright yellow tinge with indigenous plants, with which this country
abounds.
“See,” she added, springing lightly forward, and culling a plant which
grew from the mountain’s side--“see this little blossom, which they
call here, ‘yellow lady’s bed straw,’ and which you, as a botanist, will
better recognize as the _Galieens borum_; it communicates a beautiful
yellow; as does the _Lichen juniperinus_, or ‘cypress moss,’ which you
brought me yesterday; and I think the _résida Leuteola_, or ‘yellow
weed,’ surpasses them all.” *
* Purple, blue, and green dyes, were introduced by Tighwmas
the Great, in the year of the world 2814. The Irish also
possessed the art of dyeing a fine scarlet; so early as the
day of St. Bennia, a disciple of St. Patrick, scarlet
clothes and robes high embroidered, are mentioned in the
baok of Glandelogh.
“In short, the botanical treasures of our country, though I dare say
little known, are inexhaustible.
“Nay,” she continued, observing, I believe, the admiration that
sparkled in my eyes, “give me no credit, I beseech you, for this local
information, for there is not a peasant girl in the neighbourhood, but
will tell you more on the subject.”
While she was thus dispensing knowledge with the most unaffected
simplicity of look and manner, a group of boys advanced towards us, with
a car laden with stones, and fastened to the back of an unfortunate
dog, which they were endeavouring to train to this new species of
canine avocation, by such unmerciful treatment as must have procured the
wretched animal a speedy release from all his sufferings.
Glorvina no sooner perceived this, than she flew to the dog, and while
the boys looked all amaze, effected his liberation, and by her caresses,
endeavoured to soothe him into forgetfulness of his late sufferings;
then, turning to the ringleader, she said:
“Dermot, I have so often heard you praised for your humanity to animals,
that I can scarcely believe it possible that you have been accessory
to the sufferings of this useful and affectionate animal; he is just as
serviceable to society in his way, as you are in yours, and you are just
as well able to drag a loaded cart as he is to draw that little car.
Come now, I am not so heavy as the load you have destined him to bear,
and you are much stronger than your dog, and now you shall draw me home
to the castle; and then give me your opinion on the subject.”
In one moment his companions, laughing vociferously at the idea, had the
stones flung out of the little vehicle, and fastened its harness on the
broad shoulders of the half pouting, half smiling Dermot; and the next
moment this little agile sylph was seated in the car.
Away went Dermot, dragged on by the rest of the boys, while Glorvina,
delighted as a child with her new mode of conveyance, laughed with
all her heart, and kissed her hand to me as she flew along; while I,
trembling for her safety, endeavoured to keep pace with her triumphal
chariot, till her wearied, breathless Phaeton, unable to run any further
with his lovely, laughing burthen, begged a respite.
“How!” said she, “weary of this amusement, and yet you have not at every
step been cruelly lashed like your poor dog.”
The panting Dermot hung his head, and said in Irish, “the like should
not happen again.”
“It is enough,” said Glorvina, in the same language--“we are all liable
to commit a fault, but let us never forget it is in our power to correct
it. And now go to the castle where you shall have a good dinner, in
return for the good and pleasant exercise you have procured me.”
The boys were as happy as kings. Dermot was unyoked, and the poor dog,
wagging his tail in token of his felicity, accompanied the gratified
group to the castle.
When Glorvina had translated to me the subject of her short dialogue
with Dermot, she added, laughing, “Oh! how I should like to be dragged
about this way for two or three hours every day: never do I enter into
any little folly of this kind, that I do not sigh for those sweet hours
of my childhood when I could play the fool with impunity.”
“Play the fool!” said I--“and do you call this playing the fool--this
dispensation of humanity, this culture of benevolence in the youthful
mind, these lessons of truth and goodness, so sweetly, so simply given?”
“Nay,” she returned, “you always seem inclined to flatter me into
approbation of myself! but the truth is, I was glad to seize on the
opportunity of lecturing that urchin Dermot, who, though I praised
his humanity, is the very beadle to all the unfortunate animals in the
neighbourhood. But I have often had occasion to remark, that, by giving
a virtue to these neglected children which they do not possess, I have
awakened their emulation to attain it.”
“To say that you are an angel,” said I, “is to say a very commonplace
thing, which every man says to the woman he either does, or affects to
admire; and yet”----
“Nay,”--interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm, and looking up full
in my face with that arch glance I have so often caught revelling in
her eloquent eye--“I am not emulous of a place in the angelic choir;
canonization is more consonant to my _papistical_ ambition; then let me
be your saint--your tutelar saint, and”--
“And let me,” interrupted I, impassionately, “let me, like the members
of the Greek church, adore my saint, not by prostration, but by a
kiss;”--and, for the first time in my life, I pressed my lips to the
beautiful hand which still rested on my arm, and from which I first drew
a glove that has not since left my bosom, nor been re-demanded by its
charming owner.
This little freedom (which, to another, would have appeared nothing) was
received with a degree of blushing confusion, that assured me it was the
first of the kind ever offered; even the fair hand blushed its sense of
my boldness, and enhanced the pleasure of the theft by the difficulty it
promised of again obtaining a similar favour.
By heaven there is infection in the sensitive delicacy of this creature,
which even my hardened confidence cannot resist.
No _prieux Chevalier_, on being permitted to kiss the tip of his liege
lady’s finger, after a seven years’ seige, could feel more pleasantly
embarrassed than I did, as we walked on in silence, until we were
happily relieved by the presence of the old garrulous nurse, who came
out in search of her young lady--for, like the princesses in the Greek
tragedies, _my_ Princess seldom appears without the attendance of this
faithful representative of fond maternity.
For the rest of the walk she talked mostly to the nurse in Irish, and at
the castle gate we parted--she to attend a patient, and I to retire
to my own apartment, to ruminate on my morning’s ram ble with this
fascinating _lusus naturo_.
Adieu,
H. M.
LETTER XI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
The drawing which I made of the castle is finished--the Prince is
charmed with it, and Glorvina insisted on copying it. This was as I
expected--as I wished; and I took care to finish it so minutely, that
her patience (of which she has no great store) should soon be exhausted
in the imitation, and I should have something more of her attention than
she generally affords me at my drawing-desk.
Yesterday, in the absence of the priest, I read to her as she drew.
After a thousand little symptoms of impatience and weariness--“here,”
said she, yawning--“here is a straight line I can make nothing of--do
you know, Mr. Mortimer, I never could draw a perpendicular line in my
life. See now my pencil _will_ go into a curve or an angle; so you must
guide my hand, or I shall----”
I “guide her hand to draw a straight line!”
“Nay then,” said I, with the ostentatious gravity of a pedagogue master,
“I may as well do the drawing myself.”
“Well then,” said she, playfully, “_do_ it yourself.”
Away she flew to her harp; while I, half lamenting, half triumphing, in
my forbearance, took her pencil and her seat. I perceived, however, that
she had not even drawn a single line of the picture, and yet her paper
was not a mere _carte-blanche_--for close to the margin was written in a
fairy hand, ‘_Henry Mortimer_, April 2d, 10 o’clock,’--the very day and
hour of my entrance into the castle; and in several places, the half
defaced features of a face evidently a copy of my own, were still
visible.
If any thing could have rendered this little circumstance more
deliciously gratifying to my heart, it was, that I had been just reading
to her the anecdote of “the _Maid of Corinth_.”
I raised my eyes from the paper to her with a look that must have spoken
my feelings; but she, unconscious of my observation began a favourite
air of her favourite Carolan’s, and supposed me to be busy at the
_perpendicular line_.
Wrapt in her charming avocation, she seemed borne away by the magic
of her own numbers, and thus inspired and inspiring as she appeared,
faithful, as the picture formed was interesting, I took her likeness.
Conceive for a moment a form full of character, and full of grace,
bending over an instrument singularly picturesque--a profusion of auburn
hair fastened up to the top of the finest formed head I ever beheld,
with a golden bodkin--an armlet of curious workmanship glittering above
a finely turned elbow, and the loose sleeves of a flowing robe drawn up
unusually high, to prevent this drapery from sweeping the chords of the
instrument. The expression of the divinely touching countenance breathed
all the fervour of genius under the influence of inspiration, and the
contours of the face, from the peculiar uplifted position of the head,
were precisely such, as lends to painting the happiest line of feature,
and shade of colouring. Before I had near finished the lovely picture,
her song ceased; and turning towards me, who sat opposite her, she
blushed to observe how intensely my eyes were fixed on _her_.
“I am admiring,” said I, carelessly, “the singular elegance of your
costume: it is indeed to me a never failing source of wonder and
admiration.”
“I am not sorry,” she replied, “to avail myself of my father’s
prejudices in favour of our ancient national costume, which, with the
exception of the drapery being made of modern materials (on the antique
models,) is absolutely drawn from the wardrobes of my great grand dames.
This armlet, I have heard my father say, is near four hundred years old,
and many of the ornaments and jewels you have seen me wear, are of a
date no less ancient.”
“But how,” said I, while she continued to tune her harp, and I to ply
the pencil, “how comes it that in so remote a period, we find the riches
of Peru and Golconda contributing their splendour to the magnificence of
Irish dress?”
“No!” she replied, smiling, “we too had our Peru and Golconda in the bosom
of our country--for it was once thought rich not only in gold and silver
mines, but abounded in pearls, * amethysts, and other precious stones:
even a few years back, Father John saw some fine pearls taken out of
the river Ban; ** and Mr. O’Halloran, the celebrated Irish historian,
declares that within his memory, amethysts of immense value were found
in Ireland.”! ***
* “It should seem.” says Mr. Walker, in his ingenious and
elegant essay on Ancient Irish Dress--“that Ireland teemed
with gold and silver, for as well as in the laws recited, we
find an act ordained 34th, Henry VIII, ‘that merchant
strangers should pay 40 pence custom for every pound of
silver they carried out of Ireland; and Lord Stratford, in
one of his letters from Dublin to his royal master, says,
‘with this I land you an ingot of silver of 300 oz.’”