were of such repute in the 11th century, that a present of
them was sent to the famous Bishop Anselm, by a Bishop of
Limerick.
*** The author is indebted to Mr. Knox, barrister at law,
Dublin, for the sight of some beautiful amethysts, which
belonged to his female ancestors, and which many of the
lapidaries of London, after a diligent search, found it
impossible to match.
“I remember reading in the life of St. Bridget, that the King of
Leinster presented to her father a sword set with precious stones, which
the pious saint, more charitable than honest, devoutly stole, and sold
for the benefit of the poor; but it should seem that the sources of our
national treasures are now shut up like the gold mines of La Valais,
for the public weal, I suppose; for we now hear not of amethysts found,
pearls discovered, or gold mines worked; and it is to the caskets of
my female ancestors that I stand indebted that my dress or hair is not
fastened or adorned like those of my humbler countrywomen, with a wooden
bodkin.”
“That, indeed,” said I, “is a species of ornament I have observed very
prevalent with your fair ‘_paysannes_; and of whatever materials it is
made, when employed in such a happy service as I _now_ behold it, has
an air of simple, useful elegance, which in my opinion constitutes the
great art of female dress.”
“It is at least,” replied she, “the most ancient ornament we know
here--for we are told that the celebrated palace of Emania, * erected
previous to the Christian era, was sketched by the famous Irish Empress
Macha, with the bodkin.
* The resident palace of the Kings of Ulster, of which
Colgan speaks as “rendolens splendorum.”
“I remember a passage from a curious and ancient romance in the Irish
language, that fastened wonderfully upon my imagination when I read it
to my father in my childhood, and which gives to the bodkin a very
early origin:--it ran thus, and is called the ‘_Interview between Fionn
M’Cnmhal and Cannan_.’
“‘Cannan, when he said this, was seated at table; on his right hand
was seated his wife, and upon his left his beautiful daughter, so
exceedingly fair, that the snow driven by the winter storms surpassed
not her in fairness, and her cheeks wore the blood of a young calf; her
hair hung in curling ringlets, and her teeth were like pearl--a spacious
veil hung from her lovely head down her delicate form, and the veil was
fastened by a goldenbodkin.’” “The bodkin, you know, is also an ancient
Greek ornament, and mentioned by Vulcan, as among the trinkets he was
obliged to forge.” *
* See Iliad, 13, 17.
By the time she had finished this curious quotation in favour of the
antiquity of her dress, her harp was tuned, and she began another
exquisite old Irish air called the “Dream of the Young Man,” which she
accompanied rather by a plaintive _murmur_, than with her voice’s full
melodious powers. It is thus this creature winds round the heart, while
she enlightens the mind, and entrances the senses.
I had finished the sketch in the meantime, and just beneath the figure,
and above her flattering inscription of my name, I wrote with my
pencil,
“’Twas thus Apelles bask’d in beauty’s blaze,
Nor felt the danger of the steadfast gaze;”
while she, a few minutes after, with that restlessness that seemed to
govern all her actions to-day arose, put her harp aside and approached
me with, “Well, Mr. Mortimer, you are very indulgent to my insufferable
indolence--let me see what you have done for me;” and looking over my
shoulder, she beheld not the ruins of her castle, but a striking likeness
of her blooming self; and sending her head close to the paper, read the
lines, and that name honoured by the inscription of her own fair hand.
For the world I would not have looked her full in the face; but from
beneath my downcast eye I stole a transient glance: the colour did
not rush to her cheek, (as it usually does under the influence of any
powerful emotion) but rather deserted its beautiful standard, as she
stood with her eyes riveted on the picture, as though she dreaded by
their removal she should encounter those of the artist.
After about three minutes endurance of this mutual confusion, (could you
believe me such a blockhead?) the priest, to our great relief, entered
the room.
Glorvina ran and shook hands with him, as though she had not seen him in
an age, and flew out of the room; while I effacing the quotation but not
the honoured inscription, asked Father John’s opinion of my effort at
portrait painting. He acknowledged it was a most striking resemblance,
and added, “Now you will indeed give a _coup de grace_ to the partiality
of the Prince in your favour, and you will rank so much the higher in
his estimation, in proportion as his daughter is dearer to him than his
_ruins_.”
Thus encouraged, I devoted the rest of the day to copying out this
sketch: and I have finished the picture in that light tinting, so
effective in this kind of characteristic drawings. That beautifully
pensive expression which touches the countenance of Glorvina, when
breathing her native strains, I have most happily caught; and her
costume, attitude, and harp, form as happy a combination of traits, as a
single portrait perhaps ever presented.
When it was shown to the Prince, he gazed on it in silence, till tears
obscured his glance; then laying it down he embraced me, but said
nothing. Had he detailed the merits of the picture in all the technical
farago of _cognoscenti_ phrase, his comments would not have been half
so eloquent as this simple action, and the silence which accompanied it.
Adieu,
H. M.
LETTER XI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
Here is a _bonne bouche_ for your antiquarian taste, and _Ossianic_
palate! Almost every evening after vesper, we all assemble in a spacious
hall, * which had been shut up for near a century and first opened by
the present prince when he was driven for shelter to his paternal ruins.
* “Amidst the ruins of Buan Ratha, near Limerick, is a
princely hall and spacious chambers; the fine stucco in many
of which is yet visible, though uninhabitable for near a
century.”--O’Halloran’s Introduction to the Study of the
History and Antiquities of Ireland, p 8.
In every town, every village, every considerable tract of
land, the spacious ruins of princely residence or religious
edifices, the palace, the castle, or the abbey, are to be
seen.
This _Vengolf_, this _Valkhalla_, where the very spirit of Woden seems
to preside, runs the full length of the castle as it now stands (for the
centre of the building only, has escaped the delapidations of time,)
and its beautifully arched roof is enriched with numerous devices which
mark the spirit of that day in which it was erected. This very curious
roof is supported by two rows of pillars of that elegant spiral
lightness which characterises the Gothic order in a certain stage of its
progress. The floor is a finely tessellated pavement; and the ample but
ungrated hearths which terminate it at either extremity, blaze every
evening with the cheering contributions of a neighbouring bog. The
windows which are high, narrow, and arched, command on one side a noble
view of the ocean, on the other they are closed up.
When I enquired of Father John the cause of this singular exclusion of a
very beautiful landview, he replied, “that from those windows were to be
seen the greater part of that rich tract of land which once formed
the territory of the Princes of Inismore; * and since,” said he, “the
possessions of the present Prince are limited to a few hereditary acres
and a few rented farms, he cannot bear to look on the domains of his
ancestors nor ever goes beyond the confines of this little peninsula.”
* I understand that it is only a few years back, since the
present respectable representatives of the M’Dermot family
opened those windows which the Prince of Coolavin closed up,
upon a principle similar to that by which the Prince of
Inismore was actuated.
This very curious apartment is still called the banquetting hall--where
“Stately the feast, and high the cheer.
Girt with many a valiant peer,”
was once celebrated in all the boundless extravagance and convivial
spirit of ancient Irish hospitality. But it now serves as an armory, a
museum, a cabinet of national antiquities and national curiosities.
In short, it is the receptacle of all those precious relics, which the
Prince has been able to rescue from the wreck of his family splendour.
Here, when he is seated by a blazing hearth in an immense arm-chair,
made, as he assured me, of the famous wood of _Shilelah_, his daughter
by his side, his harper behind him, and his _domestic altar_ not
destitute of that national libation which is no disparagement to
princely taste, since it has received the sanction of imperial
approbation; * his gratified eye wandering over the scattered insignia
of the former prowess of his family; his gratified heart expanding
to the reception of life’s sweetest ties--domestic joys and social
endearments;--he forgets the derangement of his circumstances--he
forgets that he is the ruined possessor of a visionary title; he feels
only that he is a man--and an Irishman! While the transient happiness
that lights up the vehement feelings of his benevolent breast, effuses
its warmth over all who come within its sphere.
* Peter the Great, of Russia was fond of whiskey, and used
to say, “Of all wine, Irish wine is the best.”
Nothing can be more delightful than the evenings passed in this
_vengolf_---this hall of Woden; where my sweet Glorvina hovers round us,
like one of the beautiful _valkyries_ of the Gothic paradise, who bestow
on the spirit of the departed warrior that heaven he eagerly rushes on
death to obtain. Sometimes she accompanies the old bard on her harp,
or with her voice; and frequently as she sits at her wheel (for she is
often engaged in this simple and primitive avocation,) endeavours to
lure, her father to speak on those subjects most interesting to him or
to me; or, joining the general conversation, by the playfulness of
her humour, or the original whimsicality of her sallies, materially
contributes to the “_molle at que facetum!_” of the moment.
On the evening of the day of the picture-scene, the absence of Glorvina
(for she was attending a sick servant) threw a gloom over our little
circle. The Prince, for the first time, dismissed the harper, and taking
me by the arm, walked up and down the hall in silence, while the priest
yawned over a book.
I have already told you that this curious hall is the _emporium_ of
the antiquities of Inismore, which are arranged along its walls, and
suspended from its pillars.--As much to draw the Prince from the gloomy
reverie into which he seemed plunged, as to satisfy my own curiosity and
yours, I requested his highness to explain some characters on a collar
which hung from a pillar, and appeared to be plated with gold.
Having explained the motto, he told me that this collar had belonged to
an order of knighthood hereditary in his family--of an institution more
ancient than any in England, by some centuries.
“How,” said I, “was chivalry so early known in Ireland? and rather, did
it ever exist here?”
“Did it!” said the Prince, impatiently, “I believe, young gentleman, the
origin of knighthood may be traced in Ireland upon surer ground than in
any other country whatever.” *
* Mr. O’Halloran, with a great deal of spirit and ingenuity,
endeavours to prove that the German Knighthood (the earliest
we read of in chivalry) was of Irish origin; with what
success we leave it to the impartial reader to judge. It is,
however, certain, that the German ritter or knight, bears a
very close analogy to the Irish riddaire. In 1394, Richard
II, in his tour through Ireland, offered to knight the four
provincial kings who came to receive him in Dublin. But they
excused themselves, as having received that honour from
their parents at seven years old--that being the age in
which the kings of Ireland knighted their eldest sons.--See
Froissart.
Long before the birth of Christ, we had an hereditary order of
knighthood in Ulster, called the Knights of the _Red Branch_. They
possessed, near the royal palace of Ulster, a seat, called the _Academy
of the Red Branch_; and an adjoining hospital, expressively termed the
_House of the Sorrowful Soldier_.
“There was also an order of chivalry hereditary in the royal families
of Munster, named the _Sons of Deagha_, from a celebrated hero of that
name, probably their founder. The Connaught knights were called the
_Guardians of Jorus_, and those of Leinster, _the Clan of Boisgna_. So
famous, indeed, were the knights of Iceland, for the elegance, strength,
and beauty of their forms, that they were distinguished, by way of
pre-eminence, by the name of _the Heroes of the Western Isle_.
“Our annals teem with instances of this romantic bravery and scrupulous
honour. My memory, though much impaired, is still faithful to some
anecdotes of both. During a war between the Connaught and Munster
monarchs, in 192, both parties met in the plains of Lena, in this
province; and it was proposed to Goll M’Morni, chief of the Connaught
Knights, to attack the Munstei army at midnight, which would have
secured him victory. He nobly and indignantly replied: ‘On the day the
arms of a knight were put into my hands, I swore never to attack my
enemy at night, by surprise, or under _any kind of disadvantage_; nor
shall that vow now be broken.’
“Besides those orders of knighthood which I have already named, there
are several others * still hereditary in noble families, and the
honorable titles of which are still preserved: such as the _White
Knights of Kerry_, and the _Knights of Glynn_: that hereditary in my
family was the _Knights of the Valley_; and this collar, ** an ornament
never dispensed with, was found about fifty years back in a neighbouring
bog, and worn by my father till his death.
“This gorget,” he continued, taking down one which hung on the wall, and
apparently gratified by the obvious pleasure evinced in the countenance
of his auditor,--“This gorget was found some years after in the same
bog.” ***
* The respectable families of the Fitzgeralds still bear the
title of their ancestors, and are never named but as the
Knights of Kerry and of Glynn.
** One of these collars was in the possession of Mr.
O’Halloran.
*** In the Bog of Cullen, in the county of Tipperary, some
golden gorgets were discovered, as were also some corslets
of pure gold in the lands of Clonties, county of Kerry---See
Smith’s History of Ireland.
“And this helmet?” said I--
“It is called in Irish,” he replied, “_salet_ and belonged, with this
coat of mail, to my ancestor who was murdered in this castle.”
I coloured at this observation, as though I had been myself the
murderer.
“As you refer, Sir,” said the priest, who had flung by his book and
joined us, “to the ancient Irish for the origin of knighthood, * you
will perhaps send us to the Irish _Mala_, for the derivation of the word
mail.”
* At a time when the footstep of an English invader had not
been impressed upon the Irish coast, the celebrity of the
Irish knights was sung by the British minstrels. Thus in the
old romantic tale of Sir Cauline:
In Ireland, ferr over the sea,
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge,
And with him a young and comlye knight,
Men call him Syr Cauline.
“Undoubtedly,” said the national Prince, “I should; but pray, Mr.
Mortimer, observe this shield. It is of great antiquity. You perceive it
is made of wicker, as were the Irish shields in general; although I have
also heard they were formed of silver, and one was found near Slimore,
in the county of Cork, plated with gold, which sold for seventy
guineas.”
“But here,” said I, “is a sword of curious workmanship, the hilt of
which seems of gold.”
Sir Cauline’s antagonist, the Eldridge knight, is described as being “a
foul paymin” which places the events, the romantic tale delineates, in
the earliest era of Christianity in Ireland.
“It is in fact so,” said the priest--“Golden hilted swords have been
in great abundance through Ireland; and it is a circumstance singularly
curious, that a sword found in the bog of Cullen, should be of the exact
construction and form of those found upon the plains of Canæ. You may
suppose that the advocates of our Milesian origin gladly seize on
this circumstance, as affording new arms against the sceptics to the
antiquity of our nation.”
“Here too is a very curious haubergeon, once perhaps impregnable! And
this curious battle-axe,” said I--
“Was originally called,” returned the Prince, “_Tuath Catha_, or axe of
war, and was put into the hands of our Galloglasses, or second rank of
military.”
“But how much more elegant,” I continued, “the form of this beautiful
spear; it is of course of a more modern date.”
“On the contrary,” said the Prince, “this is the exact form of the
cranuil or lance, with which Oscar is described to have struck Art to
the earth.”
“Oscar!” I repeated, almost starting--but added--“O, true, Mr.
Macpherson tells us the Irish have some wild improbable tales of
Fingal’s heroes among them, on which they found some claim to their
being natives of this country.”
“Some claim!” repeated the Prince, and by one of those motions which
speak more than volumes, he let go my arm, and took his usual station by
the fireside, repeating, _some claim!_
While I was thinking how I should repair my involuntary fault, the good
natured priest said, with a smile, “You know, my dear Sir, that by one
half of his English readers, Ossian is supposed to be a Scottish bard of
ancient days; by the other he is esteemed the legitimate offspring of
Macpherson’s own muse. But here,” he added, turning to me, “we are
certain of his Irish origin, from the testimony of tradition, from
proofs of historic fact, and above all, from the internal evidences of
the poems themselves, even as they are given us by Mr. Macpherson.
“We, who are from our infancy taught to recite them, who bear the
appellations of their heroes to this day, and who reside amidst those
very scenes of which the poems, even according to their _ingenious_, but
not always _ingenuous_ translator, are descriptive--_we_ know, believe,
and assert them to be translated from the fragments of the Irish bards,
or seanachies, whose surviving works were almost equally diffused
through the Highlands as through this country. Mr. Macpherson combined
them in such forms as his judgment (too classically correct in this
instance) most approved; retaining the old names and events, and
altering the dates in his originals as well as their matter and form,
in order to give them a higher antiquity than they really possess;
suppressing many proofs which they contain of their Irish origin, and
studiously avoiding all mention of St Patrick, whose name frequently
occurs in the original poems; only occasionally alluding to him under
the character of a _Culdee_; conscious that any mention of the
_Saint_ would introduce a suspicion that these poems were not the true
compositions of Ossian, but those of _Fileas_ who, in an after day,
committed to verse the traditional details of one equally renowned in
song and arms.” *
* Samuir, daughter of Fingal, having married Cormac Cas,
their son (says Keating) Modk Corb, retained as his friend
and confidant his uncle Ossian, contrary to the orders of
Cairbre Liffeachair, the then monarch, against whom the
Irish militia had taken up arms. Ossian was consequently
among the number of rebellious chiefs.
Here, you will allow, was a blow furiously aimed at all my opinions
respecting these poems, so long the objects of my enthusiastic
admiration: you may well suppose I was for a moment quite stunned.
However, when I had a little recovered, I went over the arguments used
by Macpherson, Blair, &c., &c., &c., to prove that Ossian was a Highland
bard, whose works were handed down to us by _oral_ tradition, through a
lapse of fifteen hundred years.
“And yet,” said the priest, having patiently heard me out--“Mr.
Macpherson confesses that the ancient language and traditional history
of the Scottish nation became confined to the natives of the Highlands,
who falling, from several concurring circumstances, into the last degree
of ignorance and barbarism, left the Scots so destitute of historic
facts, that they were reduced to the necessity of sending Fordun to
Ireland for their history, from whence he took the entire first part of
his book. For Ireland, owing to its being colonized from Phoenicia,
and consequent early introduction of letters there, was at that
period esteemed the most enlightened country in Europe: and indeed Mr.
Macpherson himself avers, that the Irish, for ages antecedent to the
Conquest, possessed a competent share of that kind of learning which
prevailed in Europe; and from their superiority over the Scots, found
no difficulty in imposing on the ignorant Highland seanachies, and
establishing that historic system which afterwards, for want of any
other, was universally received.
“Now, my dear friend, if historic fact and tradition did not attest the
poems of Ossian to be Irish, probability would establish it. For if
the Scotch were obliged to Ireland, according to Mr. Macpherson’s own
account, not only for their history but their tradition, so remote a one
as Ossian must have come from the Irish; for Scotland, as Dr. Johnson
asserts, when he called on Mr. Macpherson to show his originals, had
not an Erse manuscript two hundred years old. And Sir George M’Kenzie,
though himself a Scotchman, declares, “that he had in his possession, an
Irish manuscript written by Cairbre Lifteachair, * monarch of Ireland,
who flourished before St Patrick’s mission.
* Mr O’Halloran, in his Introduction to the study of Irish
History, &c.. quotes some lines from a poem still extant,
composed by Torna Ligis, chief poet to Niai the Great, who
flourished in the fourth century.
“But,” said I, “even granting these beautiful poems to be the effusions
of Irish genius, it is strange that the feats of your own heroes could
not supply your bards with subjects for their epic verse.”
“Strange indeed it would have been,” said the priest, “and therefore
they have chosen the most renowned chiefs in their annals of national
heroism, as their Achilleses, their Hectors, and Agamemnons.”
“How!” exclaimed I, “Is not Fingal a Caledonian chief? Is he not
expressly called King of Morven?”
“Allowing he were in the originals, which he is not,” returned the
priest, “give me leave to ask you where Morven lies?”
“Why, I suppose of course in Scotland,” said I, a little unprepared for
the question.
“Mr. Macpherson supposes so too,” replied he, smiling, “though certainly
he is at no little pains to discover where in Scotland. The fact is,
however, that the epithet of _Riagh Mor Fhionne_, which Mr. Macpherson
translates King of Morven, is literally King or Chief of the Fhians, or
Fians, a body of men of whom Mr. Macpherson makes no mention, and which,
indeed, either in the annals of Scottish history or Scottish poetry,
would be vainly sought. Take then their history as extracted from the
book of Howth into the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy,
in 1786. *
* Fionn, the son of Cumhal, [from whom, says Keating, the
established militia of the kingdom were called Fion Erinne,]
was first married to Graine, daguhter to Cormac, king of
Ireland, and afterwards to her sister, and descended in a
sixth degree from Nuagadh Neacht, king of Leinster. The
history, laws, requisites, &c., of the Fionna Erin, are to
be found in Keating’s History of Ireland, p. 269.