whose every gift to me must be the result of a sensible deprivation to
themselves; be obliged to extort (even from the altar where I presided
as the minister of the Most High) the trivial contributions for my
support, in a language which, however appropriate to the understandings
of my auditors, sunk me in my own esteem to the last degree of
self-degradation; or to receive from the religious affection of my
flock such voluntary benefactions as, under the pressure of scarcity
and want, their rigid economy to themselves enabled them to make to
the pastor whom they revered. * In a word, after three years miserable
dependence on those for whose poverty and wretchedness my heart bled, I
threw up my situation, and became chaplain to the Prince of Inismore,
on a stipend sufficient for my little wants, and have lived with him for
thirty years, on such terms as you have witnessed for these three weeks
back.
* “Are these men supposed to have no sense of justice that,
in addition to the burthen of supporting their own
establishment exclusively, they should be called on to pay
ours; that, where they pay sixpence to their own priest,
they should pay a pound to our clergymen; that, while they
can scarce afford their own a horse, they should place ours
in his carriage; and that when they cannot build a mass-
house to cover their multitudes, they should be forced to
contribute to build sumptuous churches for half a dozen
Protestants to pray under a shed--Inquiry into the Causes of
Popular Discontents, &c. page 27.
“While my heart felt compassion, my tenderest sympathy is given to those
of my brethren who are by birth and education divested of that scale
of thought, and obtuseness of feeling, which distinguish those of the
order, who, reared from the lowest origin upon principles the most
servilizing, are callous to the innumerable humiliations of their
dependent state----”
Here an old man mounted on a mule, rode up to the priest, and with tears
in his eyes informed him that he was just going to the castle to humbly
entreat his reverence would visit a poor child of his, who had been
looked on with “_an evil eye_,” a few days back, * and who had ever
since been pining away.
* It is supposed among the lower order of Irish, as among
the Greeks, that some people are born with an evil eye,
which injures every object on which it falls, and they will
frequently go many miles out of their direct road, rather
than pass by the house of one who has “an evil eye.” To
frustrate its effects, the priest hangs a consecrated charm
around the necks of their children, called “a gospel;” and
the fears of the parents are quieted by their faith.
“It was our misfortune,” said he, “never to have tied a gospel about her
neck, as we did round the other children’s, or this heavy sorrow would
never have befallen us. But we know if your reverence would only be
pleased to say a prayer over her, all would go well enough!”
The priest gave me a significant look, and shaking me cordially by
the hand, and pressing my speedy return to Inismore, rode off with the
suppliant.
Thus, in his duty, “prompt at every call,” after having passed the night
in acts of religious benevolence, his humanity willingly obeyed the
voice of superstitious prejudice which endowed him with the fancied
power of alleviating fancied evils.
As I rode along, reflecting on the wondrous influence of superstition,
and the nature of its effects, I could not help dwelling on the strong
analogy which in so many instances appears between the vulgar errors of
this country and that of the ancient as well as modern Greeks.
St. Chrysostom, * relating the bigotry of his own times, particularly
mentions the superstitious horror which the Greeks entertained against
“_the evil eye_.” And an elegant modern traveller assures us, that even
in the present day they “combine cloves of garlic, talismans, and other
charms, which they hang about the necks of their infants, with the same
intention of keeping away _the evil eye_.”
* “Some write on the hand the names of several rivers, while
others make use of ashes, tallow, salt for the like
purposes--all this being to divert the ‘evil eye.’”
Adieu.
H. M.
END OF VOL. 1.
WILD IRISH GIRL,
A National Tale.
By Lady Morgan,
Author Of St. Clair, The Novice Of St. Dominic, etc.
“Questa gente benche mostra selvagea
E pur gli monte la con trad a accierba
Nondimeno l’e dolce ad cui l’assagia.”
This race of men, though s&vage they may seem,
The country, too, with many a mountain rough,
Yet are they sweet to him who tries and tastes them.”
_Uberties Travels thro’ Ireland, 14th Century_
In Two Volumes, Vol. II
New York: P. M. Haverty.
1879.
LETTER XVI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I wish you were to have seen the look with which the worthy Mr.
Clendinning met me, as I rode up the avenue to M-------- house.
To put an end at once to his impertinent surmises, curiosity, and
suspicion, which I evidently saw lurking in his keen eye, I made
a display of my fractured arm, which I still wore in a sling; and
naturally enough accounted for my absence, by alleging that a fall
from my horse, and a fractured limb had obliged me to accept the humane
attentions of a gentleman, near whose house the accident had happened,
and whose guest and patient I had since been. Mr. Clendinning affected
the tone of regret and condolence, with some appropriate suppositions of
what his lord would feel when he learnt the unfortunate circumstance.
“In a word, Mr. Clendinning,” said I, “I do not choose my father’s
feelings should be called in question on a matter which is now of no
ill consequence; and as there is not the least occasion to render him
unhappy to no purpose, I must insist that you neither write nor mention
the circumstance to him on any account.”
Mr. Clendinning bowed obedience, and I contrived to ratify his promise
by certain inuendoes; for, as he is well aware many of his villanies
have reached my ear, he hates and fears me with all his soul.
My first inquiry was for letters. I found two from my father, and one,
only one, from you.
My father writes in his usual style. His first is merely an epistle
admonitory; full of prudent axioms, and fatherly solicitudes. The second
informs me that his journey to Ireland is deferred for a month or six
weeks, on account of my brother’s marriage with the heiress of the
richest banker in the city. It is written in his best style, and a
brilliant flow of spirit pervades every line. In the plenitude of his
joy all _my_ sins are forgiven; he even talks of terminating my exile
sooner than I had any reason to suspect: and he playfully adds, “of
changing my banishment into slavery”--“knowing from experience that
provided my shackles are woven by the rosy fingers of beauty, I can wear
them patiently and pleasurably enough. In short,” he adds, “I have a
connexion in my eye, for you, not less brilliant in point of fortune
than that your brother has made; and which will enable you to forswear
your Coke, and burn your Blackstone.”
In fact, the spirit of matrimonial establishment seems to have taken
such complete possession of my speculating _dad_, that it would by no
means surprise me though he were on the point of sacrificing at the
Hymenial altar himself. You know he has more than once, in a frolic,
passed for my elder brother; and certainly has more sensibility than
should belong to _forty-five_. Nor should I at all wonder if some
insinuating coquette should one day or other _sentimentalize_ him into
a Platonic passion, which would terminate _in the old way_. I have,
however, indulged in a little triumph at his expense, and have answered
him in a strain of apathetic content--that habit and reason have
perfectly reconciled me to my present mode of life, which leaves me
without a wish to change it.
Now for your letter. With respect to the advice you demand, I have only
to repeat the opinion already advanced that------ But with respect to
that you give me--
“Go bid physicians preach our veins to health,
And with an argument new set a pulse.”
And as for your prediction--of this be certain, that I am too hackneyed
in _les affaires du cour_, ever to fall in love beyond all redemption
with any woman in existence. And even this little Irish girl, with all
her witcheries, is to me a subject of philosophical analysis, rather
than amatory discussion.
You ask me if I am not disgusted with her brogue? If she had one, I
doubt not but I should? but the accent to which we English apply that
term, is here generally confined to the lower orders of society; and
I certainly believe, that purer and more grammatical English is spoken
generally through Ireland than in any part of England whatever; for here
you are never shocked by the barbarous unintelligible dialect peculiar
to each shire in England. As to Glorvina, an aptitude to learn languages
is, you know, peculiar to her country; but in her it is a decided and
striking talent: even her Italian is, “_la lingua Toscana nel bocca
Romana,”_ and her English, grammatically correct, and elegantly pure, is
spoken with an accent that could never denote her country. But it
is certain, that in _that_ accent there is a species of langour very
distinct from the brevity of ours. Yet (to me at least) it only renders
the lovely speaker more interesting. A simple question from her lip
seems rather tenderly to solicit, than abruptly to demand. Her every
request is a soft supplication; and when she stoops to entreaty, there
is in her voice and manner such an energy of supplication, that while
she places _your_ power to grant in the most ostensible light to
yourself, you are insensibly vanquished by that soft persuasion whose
melting meekness bestows your fancied exaltation. Her sweet-toned
mellifluous voice, is always sighed forth rather below than above its
natural pitch, and her mellowed, softened, mode of articulation is but
imperfectly expressed by the _susaro susingando_, or _coaxy murmurs_ of
Italian persuasion.
To Father John, who is the first and most general linguist I ever met,
she stands highly indebted; but to Nature, and her own ambition to
excel, still more.
I am now but six hours in this solitary and deserted mansion, where I
feel as though I reigned the very king of desolation. Let me hear from
you by return.
Adieu.
H. M
LETTER XVII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I forgot to mention to you in my last, that to my utter joy and
surprise, our _premier_ here has been recalled. On the day of my return,
he received a letter from his lord, desiring his immediate attendance in
London, with all the rents he could collect; for I suppose the necessary
expenditure requisite for my brother’s matrimonial establishment, will
draw pretty largely on our family treasury.
This change of things in our domestic politics has changed all my plans
of operation. This arch spy being removed, obviates the necessity of
my retreat to the Lodge. My establishment here consists only of two
females, who scarcely speak a word of English; an old gardener, who
possesses not one _entire sense_, and a groom, who, having nothing to
do, I shall discharge: so that if I should find it my pleasure to return
and remain any time at the castle of Inismore, I shall have no one here
to watch my actions, or report them to my father.
There is something Boeotian in this air. I can neither read, write,
or think. Does not Locke assert, that the soul sometimes dozes? I
frequently think I have been bit by a torpedo, or that I partake in
some degree of the nature of the seven sleepers, and suffer a transient
suspension of existence. What if this Glorvina has an _evil eye_, and
has overlooked me? The witch haunts me, not only in my dreams, but when
_I fancy myself_ at least, awake. A thousand times I think I hear the
tones of her voice and harp. Does she feel my absence at the accustomed
hour of tuition, the fire-side circle in the _Vengolf_ the twilight
conversation, the noontide ramble?--Has my presence become a want to
her? Am I missed, and missed with regret? It is scarcely vanity to
say, _I am--I must be_. In a life of so much sameness, the most trivial
incident, the most inconsequent character obtains in interest in a
certain degree.
One day I caught her weeping over a pet robin, which died on her bosom.
She smiled, and endeavoured to hide her tears. “This is very silly I
know,” said she, “but one must feel even the loss of a _bird_ that has
been the _companion of one’s solitude!_”
To-day I flung down my book in downright deficiency of comprehension to
understand a word in it, though it was a simple case in the Reports of
-------; and so, in the most _nonchalante_ mood possible, I mounted
my _rosinante_, and throwing the bridle over her neck, said, “please
thyself;” and it was her pious pleasure to tread on consecrated ground:
in short, after a ride of half an hour, I found myself within a few
paces of the parish mass-house, and recollected that it was the Sabbath
day; so that you see my mare reproved me, though in an oblique manner,
with little less gravity than the ass of Balaam did his obstinate rider.
The mass-house was of the same order of architecture as the generality
of Irish cabins, with no other visible mark to ascertain its sacred
designation than a stone cross, roughly hewn, over its entrance. I will
not say that it was merely a sentiment of piety which induced me to
enter it; but it certainly required, at first, an effort of energy to
obtain admittance, as for several yards round this simple tabernacle
a crowd of _devotees_ were prostrated on the earth, praying over their
beads with as much fervour as though they were offering up their orisins
in the golden-roofed temple of Soliman.
When I had fastened my horse’s bridle to a branch of a hawthorn, I
endeavoured to make my way through the pious crowd, who all arose the
moment I appeared--for the _last mass_, I learned, was over, and those
who had prayed _par hazard_, without hearing a word the priest said
within, departed. While I pressed my way into the body of the chapel, it
was so crowded that with great difficulty I found means to fix myself
by a large triangular stone vessel filled with holy water, where I
fortunately remained (during the sermon) unnoticed.
This sermon was delivered by a little old mendicant, in the Irish
language. Beside him stood the parish priest in pontifiealibus, and with
as much self-invested dignity as the _dalai lama_ of Little Thibet could
assume before his votarists. When the shrivelled little mendicant had
harangued them some time on the subject of Christian charity, for so his
countenance and action indicated, a general _secula seculorum_ concluded
his discourse; and while he meekly retreated a few paces, the priest
mounted the steps of the little altar; and after preparing his lungs, he
delivered an oration, to which it would be impossible to do any justice.
It was partly in Irish, partly in English; and intended to inculcate the
necessity of contributing to the relief of the mendicant preacher, if
they hoped to have the benefit of his prayers; addressing each of
his flock by their name and profession, and exposing their faults and
extolling their virtues, according to the nature of their contributions
While the friar, who stood with his face to the wall, was with all human
diligence piously turning his beads to two accounts--with one half he
was making intercession for the souls of his good subscribers, and
with the other diligently keeping count of the sum total of their
benefactions. As soon as I had sent in mine, almost stifled with heat, I
effected my escape.
In contrasting this parish priest with the chaplain of Inismore, I could
not help exclaiming with Epaminondas--“It is the _man_ who must give
dignity to the situation--not the situation to the man.” Adieu.
H. M.
LETTER XVIII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
“La solitude est certainement une belle chose, mais il-y-a plaisir
d’avoir quelqu’une qui en sache repondre, a qui on puis dire, la
solitude est une belle chose.”
So says Monsieur de Balsac, and so repeats my heart a thousand times a
day. In short, I am devoured by _ennui_, by apathy, by discontent! What
should I do here? Nothing. I have spent but four days here, and all
the symptoms of my old disease begin to re-appear: in short, like other
impatient invalids, I believed my cure was effected when my disease was
only on the decline.
I must again fly to sip from the fountain of intellectual health at
Inismore, and receive the vivifying drops from the hand of the presiding
priestess, or stay here, and fall into an incurable atrophy of the heart
and mind!
Having packed up a part of my wardrobe, and a few books, I sent them
by a young rustic to the little _Villa di Marino_, and in about an
hour after I followed myself. The old fisherman and his dame seemed
absolutely rejoiced to see me, and having laid my valise in their cabin,
and dismissed my attendant, I requested they would permit their son to
carry my luggage as far as the next _cabaret_, where I expected a man
and horse to meet me. They cheerfully complied, and I proceeded with
my _compagnon de voyage_ to a hut which lies half way between the
fisherman’s and the castle. This hut they call a _Sheebin House_, and is
something inferior to a certain description of Spanish inn.
Although a little board informs the weary traveller he is only to expect
“good dry lodgings,” yet the landlord contrives to let you know in an
_entre nous_ manner, that he keeps some real _Inishone_, (or spirits,
smuggled from a tract of country so called) for his particular friends.
So having dismissed my second courier, and paid for the whiskey I did
not taste, and the potatoes I did not eat, I sent my host forward,
mounted on a sorry mule, with my travelling equipage, to the cabin at
the foot of the drawbridge; and by these precautions obviated all
possibility of discovery.
As I now proceeded on my route, every progressive step awakened some
new emotion; while my heart was agitated by those unspeakable little
flutterings which are alternately excited and governed by the ardour of
hope, or the timidity of fear. “And shall I, or shall I not be welcome?”
was the problem which engaged my thoughts during the rest of my little
journey.
As I descended the mountain, at whose base the peninsula of Inismore
reposes, I perceived a form at some distance, whose drapery (“_ne
bulam lineam_”) seemed light as the breeze on which it floated. It is
impossible to mistake the figure of Glorvina, when its graces are called
forth by motion. I instantly alighted, and flew to meet her. She too
sprang eagerly forward. We were almost within a few paces of each other,
when she suddenly turned back and flew down the hill with the bounding
step of a fawn. This would have mortified another--I was charmed. And
the bashful consciousness which repelled her advances, was almost as
grateful to my heart as the warm impulse which had nearly hurried
her into my arms.--How freshly does she still wear the first gloss of
nature!
In a few minutes, however, I perceived her return, leaning on the arm of
the Father Director. You cannot conceive what a festival of the feelings
my few days absence had purchased me. Oh! he knows nothing of the
doctrine of enjoyment, who does not purchase his pleasure at the expense
of temporary restraint. The good priest, who still retains something of
the etiquette of his foreign education, embraced me _a la Française_.
Glorvina, however, who _malhereusement_, was not reared in France,
only offered me her _hand_, which I had not the courage to raise to my
unworthy lip, although the cordial _cead mille a falta_ of her country
revelled in her shining eyes, and and her effulgent countenance was lit
up with an unusual blaze of animation.
When we reached the castle the Prince sent for me to his room, and
told me, as he pressed my hand, that “his heart warmed at my sight.” In
short, my return seems to have produced a carnival in the whole family.
You who know, that notwithstanding my late vitiated life, the simple
pleasures of the heart were never dead to mine, may guess how highly
gratifying to my feelings is this interest, which, independent of all
adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune, I have awakened in the
bosoms of these cordial, ingenuous beings.
The late insufferable reserve of Glorvina has given way to the most
bewitching (I had almost said _tender_) softness of manner.
As I descended from paying my visit to the Prince, I found her and the
priest in the hall.
“We are waiting for you,” said she--“there is no resisting the fineness
of the evening.”
And as we left the door, she pointed towards the west and added--
“See--
“The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And by yon ruddy brightness of the clouds,
Gives tokens of a goodly day to-morrow.”
“O! apropos, Mr. Mortimer, you are returned in most excellent time--for
to-morrow is the _first of May_.”
“And is the arrival of a guest,” said I, “on the _eve_ of that day a
favourable omen?”
“The arrival of such a guest,” said she, “must be at least ominous of
happiness. But the first of May is our great national festival; and you,
who love to trace modern customs to ancient origins, will perhaps feel
some curiosity and interest to behold some of the rites of our heathen
superstitions still lingering among our present ceremonies.”
“What then,” said I, “have you, like the Greeks, the festivals of the
spring among you?”
“It is certain,” said the priest, “that the ancient Irish sacrificed
on the _first of May to Beal_, or the _Sun_; and that day, even at this
period, is called _Beal_.”
“By this idolatry to the god of Light and Song,” said I, “one would
almost suppose that Apollo was the tutelar deity of your island.”
“Why,” returned he, “Hecatæus tells us that the Hyperborean Island
was dedicated to Apollo, and that most of its inhabitants were either
priests or bards, and I suppose you are not ignorant that we claim the
honour of being those happy Hyperboreans, which were believed by many to
be a fabulous nation.
“And if the peculiar favour of the god of Poetry and Song may be
esteemed a sufficient proof, it is certain that our claims are not
weak. For surely no nation under heaven was ever more enthusiastically
attached to poetry and music than the Irish. Formerly every family had
its poet or bard, called Filea Crotaire; and, indeed, the very language
itself, seems most felicitously adapted to be the vehicle of poetic
images; for its energy, strength, expression, and luxuriancy, never
leave the bard at a loss for apposite terms to realize ‘the thick coming
fancies of his genius.’” *
* Mr. O’Halloran informs us, that in a work entitled
“Uiraceacht na Neaigios,” or Poetic Tales, above an hundred
different species of Irish verse is exhibited. O’Molloy, in
his Irish and Latin Grammar, has also given rules and
specimens of our modes of versification, which may be seen
in Dr. Linud’s Achaeologia.
“But,” said Glorvina, “the first of May was not the only festival held
sacred by the Irish to their tutelar deity; on the 24th of June they
sacrificed to the Sun, to propitiate his influence in bringing the fruit
to perfection; and to this day those lingering remains of heathen rites
are performed with something of their ancient forms. ‘_Midsummer’s
Night_,’ as it is called, is with us a night of universal
lumination--the whole country olazes: from the summit of every mountain,
every hill, ascends the flame of the bonfire, while the unconscious
perpetuators of the heathen ceremony dance round the fire in circles, or
holding torches to it made of straw, run with the burning brands wildly
through the country with all the gay frenzy of so many Bacchantes. But
though I adore our aspiring _Beal_ with all my soul, I worship our
popular deity _Samhuin_ with all my heart--he is the god of the heart’s
close knitting socialities, for the domesticating month of November is
sacred to him.”
“And on its eve,” said the priest, “the great fire of _Samhuin_
was illuminated, all the culinary fires in the kingdom being first
extinguished, as it was deemed sacrilege to awaken the winter’s social
flame, except by a spark snatched from this sacred fire, * and so deep
rooted are the customs of our forefathers among us, that the present
Irish have no other name for the month of November than _Samhuin_.
* To this day, the inferior Irish look upon bonfires as
sacred; they say their prayers walking round them; the young
dream upon their ashes, and the old steal away the fire to
light up their domestic hearths with.