more bewitchingly attractive than the last. She now feels her power over
me, (with woman’s _intuition_, where the heart is in question!) and
this consciousness gives to her manners a certain roguish tyranny,
that renders her the most charming tantalizing being in the world. In a
thousand little instances she contrives to teaze me; most, when most she
delights me! and takes no pains to conceal my simple folly from others,
while she triumphs in it herself. In short, she is the last woman in the
world who would incur the risk of satiating him who is best in her love;
for the variability of her manner, always governed by her ardent, though
volatilized feelings, keeps suspense on the eternal _qui vive!_ and the
sweet assurance given by the eyes one moment, is destroyed in the next
by some arch sally of the lip.
To-day I met her walking with the nurse. The old woman, very properly,
made a motion to retire as I approached. Glorvina would not suffer this,
and twined her arm round that of her fostermother. I was half inclined
to turn on my heel, when a servant came running to the nurse for the
keys. It was impossible to burst them from her side, and away she
hobbled after the barefooted _laquais_. I looked reproachfully at
Glorvina, but her eyes were fixed on an arbutus tree rich in blossom.
“I wish I had that high branch,” said she, “to put in my vase.” In a
moment I was climbing up the tree like a great school-boy, while she,
standing beneath, received the blossoms in her extended drapery; and I
was on the point of descending, when a branch, lovelier than all I
had culled, attracted my eye: this I intended to present in _propria
persona_, that I might get a kiss of the hand in return. With my own
hands sufficiently engaged in effecting my descent, I held my Hesperian
branch in my teeth, and had nearly reached the ground, when Glorvina
playfully approached her lovely mouth to snatch the prize from mine. We
were just in contact--I suddenly let fall the branch--and--Father
John appeared walking towards us; while Glorvina, who, it seems, had
perceived him before she had placed herself in the way of danger, now
ran towards him, covered with blushes and malignant little smiles. In
short, she makes me feel in a thousand trivial instances the truth of
Epictetus’s maxim, that to _bear_ and _forbear_, are the powers that
constitute a wise man: to _forbear_, alone, would, in my opinion, be a
sufficient test.
Adieu, H. M.
LETTER XXI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I cannot promise you any more Irish history. I fear my _Hiberniana_ is
closed, and a volume of more dangerous, more delightful tendency, draws
towards its bewitching subject every truant thought. To him who is deep
in the _Philosophia Amatoria_, every other science is cold and vapid.
The oral legend of the Prince, and the historic lore of the priest, all
go for nothing! I shake my head, look very wise, and appear to listen,
while my eyes are riveted on Glorvina--who, not unconscious of the
ardent gaze, sweeps with a feathery touch the chords of her harp, or
plies her fairy wheel with double vigilence. Meantime, however, I am
making a rapid progress in the Irish language, and well I may; for
besides that I now listen to the language of Ossian with the same
respect a Hindoo would to the Sanscrit of the Bramins, the Prince, the
priest, and even Glorvina, contribute their exertions to my progress.
The other evening, as we circled round the evening fire in the great
hall, the Prince would put my improvements to the test, and taking down
a grammar, he insisted upon my conjugating a verb. The verb he chose
was, “_to love_”--? “Glorvina,” said he, seeing me hesitate, “go through
the verb.”
Glorvina had it at her fingers’ ends; and in her eyes swam a thousand
delicious comments on the text she was expounding.
The Prince, who is as unsuspicious as an infant, would have us repeat it
together, that I might catch the pronunciation from her lip!
“_I love_,” faintly articulated Glorvina.
“_I love_,” I more faintly repeated.
This was not enough--the Prince would have us repeat the plural twice
over: and again and again we murmured together--“_we love!_”
Heavens and earth! had you at that moment seen the preceptress and the
_pupil!_The attention of the simple Prince was riveted on Valancy’s
grammar: he grew peevish at what he called our stupidity, and said we
knew nothing of the verb to love, while in fact we were running through
all its moods and tenses with our eyes and looks.
Good God! to how many delicious sensations is the soul alive, for which
there is no possible mode of expression..
Adieu.--The little post-boy is at my elbow. I observe he goes more
frequently to the post than usual; and one morning I perceived Glorvina
eagerly watching his return from the summit of a rock. Whence can
this solicitude arise? Her father may have some correspondence on
business--she can have none.
LETTER XXII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
This creature is deep in the metaphysics of love. She is perpetually
awakening ardour by restraint, and stealing enjoyment from privation.
She still persists in bringing the priest with her to the drawing-desk;
but it is evident she does not the less enjoy that casual absence
which leaves us sometimes alone; and I am now become such an epicure
in sentiment, that I scarcely regret the restraint the presence of the
priest imposes; since it gives a keener zest to the transient minutes
of felicity his absence bestows--even though they are enjoyed in silent
confusion. For nothing can be more seducing than her looks, nothing can
be more dignified than her manners. If, when we are alone, I even offer
to take her hand, she grows pale, and shrinks from my touch. Yet I
regret not that careless confidence which once prompted the innocent
request that I would guide her hand to draw a perpendicular line.
*****
“Solitude (says the Spectator) with the person beloved, even to a
woman’s mind, has a pleasure beyond all the pomp and splendour in the
world.”
O! how my heart subscribes to a sentiment I have so often laughed at,
when my ideas of pleasure were very different from what they are at
present. I cannot persuade myself that three weeks have elapsed since
my return hither; and still less am I willing to believe that it is
necessary I should return to M-------- house. In short, the rocks which
embosom the peninsula of Inis-more bound all my hopes, all my wishes;
and my desires, like the _radii of a circle_, all point towards one and
the same centre. This creature grows on me with boundless influence;
her originality, her genius, her sensibility, her youth, and person!
In short, her united charms in this profound solitude thus closely
associated, is a species of witchcraft.
*****
It was indispensibly necessary I should return to M------house, as my
father’s visit to Ireland is drawing near; and it was requisite I
should receive and answer his letters. At last, therefore, I summoned up
resolution to plead my former excuses to the Prince for my absence; who
insisted on my immediate return--which I promised should be in a day or
two--while the eyes of Glorvina echoed her father’s commands, and mine
looked implicit obedience. With what different emotions I now left
Inismore, to those which accompanied my last departure! My feelings were
then unknown to myself--now I am perfectly aware of their nature.
I found M-------- house, as usual, cold, comfortless, and desolate--with
a few wretched-looking peasants working languidly about the grounds. In
short, everything breathed the deserted mansion of an _absentee_.
The evening of my arrival I answered my father’s letters--one from our
pleasant but libertine friend D------n,--read over yours three
times--went to bed--dreamed of Glorvina--and set off for Inismore the
next morning. I rode so hard that I reached the castle about that hour
which we usually devoted to the exertions of the pencil. I flew at once
to that vast and gloomy room which her presence alone cheers and
illumines. Her drawing-desk lay open; she seemed but just to have risen
from the chair placed before it; and her work-basket hung on its back.
Even this well-known little work-basket is to me an object of interest.
I kissed the muslin it contained; and, in raising it, perceived a small
book splendidly bound and gilt. I took it up, and read on its cover,
marked in letters of gold, “_Brevaire du Sentiment_.”
Impelled by the curiosity which this title excited, I opened it--and
found beneath its first two leaves several faded snowdrops _stained with
blood_. Under them was written in Glorvina’s hand,
“Prone to the earth he bowed our pallid flowers--
And caught the drops divine, the purple dyes
Tinging the lustre of our native hues.”
A little lower in the page was traced, “Culled from the spot where he
fell--April the 1st, 17--
Oh! how quickly my bounding heart told me who was that _he_, whose vital
drops had stained these _treasured_ blossoms, thus “tinging the lustre
of their native hues.” While the sweetest association of ideas convinced
me that these were the identical flowers which Glorvina had hallowed
with a tear as she watched by the couch of him with whose blood they
were polluted.
While I pressed this sweet testimony of a pure and lively tenderness to
my lips, she entered. At sight of _me_, pleasurable surprise invested
every feature; and the most innocent joy lit up her countenance, as she
sprang forward and offered me her hand. While I carried it eagerly to
my lips, I pointed to the snowdrops. Glorvina, with the hand which was
disengaged, covered her blushing face, and would have fled. But the look
which preceded this natural motion discovered the wounded feelings of a
tender but proud heart. I felt the indelicacy of my conduct, and, still
clasping her struggling hand, exclaimed--
“Forgive, forgive the vain triumph of a being intoxicated by your
pity<--transported by your condescension.”
“_Triumph!_” repeated Glorvina, in an accent tenderly reproachful, yet
accompanied by a look proudly indignant--“_Triumph!_”
How I cursed the coxcomical expression in my heart, while I fell at her
feet, and kissing the hem of her robe, without daring to touch the hand
I had relinquished, said, “Does this look like triumph, Glorvina?”
Glorvina turned towards me a face in which all the witcheries of her sex
were blended--playful fondness, affected anger, animated tenderness, and
soul-dissolving languishment. Oh! she should not have looked thus, or I
should have been more or less than man.
With a glance of undeniable supplication, she released herself from that
glowing fold, which could have pressed her forever to a heart where she
must forever reign unrivalled. I saw she wished I should think her
very angry, and another pardon was to be solicited, for the transient
indulgence of that passionate impulse her own seducing looks had called
into existence. The pardon, after some little pouting playfulness, _was_
granted, and I was suffered to lead her to that Gothic sofa where our
first _tete-a-tete_ had taken place; and partly by artifice, partly
by entreaty, I drew from her the little history of the treasured
snow-drops, and read from her eloquent eyes more than her bashful lip
would dare to express.
Thus, like the _assymtotes_ of a hyperbola, without absolutely rushing
into contact, we are, by a sweet impulsion, gradually approximating
closer and closer towards each other.
Ah! my dear friend, this is the golden age of love; and I sometimes
think, with the refined Weiland, in certain degree, with the first
kiss--mine, therefore, is now in its climacteric.
The impetuosity with which I rush on every subject that touches her,
often frustrates the intention with which I sit down to address you. I
left this letter behind me unfinished, for the purpose of filling it up,
on my return, with answers to those I expected to receive from you.
The arguments which your friendly foresight and prudent solicitude have
furnished you, are precisely such as the understanding cannot refute,
nor the heart subscribe to.
You say my _wife_ she _cannot_ be--and my mistress! perish the thought!
What! I repay the generosity of the father by the destruction of the
child! I steal this angelic being from the peaceful security of her
native shades, with all her ardent, tender feelings thick upon her: I,
‘“Crop this fair rose, and rifle all its sweetness!”
No; you do me but common justice when you say, that though you have
sometimes known me _affect_ the character of a libertine, yet never,
even for a moment, have you known me forfeit that of a man of honour.
I would not be understood to speak in the mere commonplace worldly
acceptation of the word, but literally, according to the text of moral
and divine laws.
“Then, what,” you ask me, “is the aim, the object, in pursuing this
_ignus fatuus_ of the heart and fancy?”
In a word, then, virtue is my object--felicity my aim; or, rather, I am
lured towards the former through the medium of the latter. And whether
the tie which binds me at once to moral and physical good, is a fragile
texture and transient existence, or whether it will become “close
twisted with the fibres of the heart, and breaking break it,” time only
can determine--to time, therefore, I commit my fate; but while thus led
by the hand of virtue, I inebriate at the living spring of bliss;
“While reeling through a wilderness of joy,” can you wonder that I
fling off the goading chain of prudence, and, in daring to be _free_, at
once be virtuous and happy.
My father’s letter is brief, but pithy. My brother is married, and
has sold his name and _title_ for a hundred thousand pounds; and _his_
brother has a chance of selling his happiness forever for something
about the same sum. And who think you, is to be the purchaser? Why our
old sporting friend D--------. In my last grousing visit at his seat,
you may remember the _pert_ little girl, his only daughter, who, he
assured us, was that day _unkennelled_ for the first time, in honour of
our success, and who rushed upon us from the nursery in all the bloom
of fifteen, and all the boldness of a hoyden; whose society was the
house-keeper, and the chamber-maid, whose ideas of pleasure extended no
farther than a blind-man’s-buff in the servant’s hall, and a game of
hot cockles with the butler and footman in the pantry. I had the good
fortune to touch her heart at cross-purposes, and completely vanquished
her affection by a romping match in the morning; and so it seems
the fair _susceptible_ has pined in thought ever since, but not “let
concealment prey on her damask cheek,” for she told her love to an old
maiden aunt, who told it to another confidential friend, until the whole
neighbourhood was full of the tale of the _victim of constancy_ and the
_fatal deceiver_.
The father, as is usual in such cases, was the last to hear it; and
believing me to be an excellent shot, and a keen sportsman, all he
requires in a son-in-law, except a good family, he proposed the match
to my father, who gladly embraced the offer, and fills his letters with
blossoms, blushes, and unsophisticated charms; congratulates me on
my conquest, and talks either of recalling me shortly to England, or
bringing the fair _fifteen_ and old _Nimrod_ to Ireland on a visit with
him. But the former he will not easily effect, and the latter I know
business will prevent for some weeks, as he writes that he is still up
to his ears in parchment deeds, leases, settlements, jointures. Mean
time,
“Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy, this group
Of bright ideas, flowers of Paradise as yet unforfeit,”
crown my golden hours of bliss; and whatever may be my destiny, I
will at least rescue one beam of unalloyed felicity from its impending
clouds--for, oh! my good friend, there is a prophetic something which
incessantly whispers me, that in clouds and storms will the evening of
my existence expire.
Adieu, H. M.
LETTER XXIII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
It is certain, that you men of the world are nothing less than men of
_pleasure_:--would you taste it in all its essence, come to Inismore.
Ah! no, pollute not with your presence the sacred _palladium_ of all the
primeval virtues; and attempt not to participate in those pure joys of
the soul it would be death in me to divide even with you
Here Plato might enjoy, and Epicurus revel: here we are taught to feel
according to t. doctrine of the latter, that the happiness of mankind
consists in _pleasure_, not such as arises from gratification of the
senses, or the pursuits of vice--but from the enjoyments of the mind,
the pleasures of the imagination, the affections of the heart and the
sweets of virtue. And here we learn, according to the precepts of the
former, that the summit of human felicity may be attained, by removing
from the material, and approaching nearer to the intellectual world; by
curbing and governing the passions, which are so much oftener inflamed
by imaginary than real objects; and by borrowing from temperance, that
zest which can alone render pleasure forever poignant and forever new.
Ah! you will say, like other lovers, you now see the moral as well as
the natural world through a prism; but would this unity of pleasure
and virtue be found in the wilds of Inismore, if Glorvina was no longer
there?
I honestly confess to you I do not think it would, for where yet was
pleasure ever found where woman was not? and when does the heart so
warmly receive the pure impressions of virtue, as when its essence is
imbibed from woman’s lip?
My life passes away here in a species of delectability to which I can
give no name; and while, through the veil of delicate reserve which the
pure suggestions of the purest nature have flung over the manners of my
sweet Glorvina, a thousand little tendernesses unconsciously appear.
Her amiable preceptor clings to me with a parent’s fondness; and her
father’s increasing partiality for his hereditary enemy, is visible in a
thousand instances; while neither of these excellent, but inexperienced
men, suspect the secret intelligence which exists between the
younger tutor and his lovely pupil. As yet, indeed, it has assumed no
determinate character. With me it is a delightful dream, from which
I dread to be awakened, yet feel that it is but a dream; while she,
bewildered, amazed at those vague emotions which throb impetuously in
her unpractised heart, resigns herself unconsciously to the sweetest of
all deliriums, and makes no effort to dissolve the vision!
If, in the refined epicurism of my heart, I carelessly speak of my
departure for England in the decline of summer, Glorvina changes
colour; the sainted countenance of Father John loses its wonted smile
of placidity; and the Prince replies by some peevish observation on
the solitude of their lives, and the want of attraction at Inis more to
detain a man of the world in its domestic circle.
But he will say, “it was not always thus--this hall once echoed to the
sound of mirth and the strain of gaiety; for the day was, when none went
sad of heart from the castle of Inismore!”
I much fear that the circumstances of this worthy man are greatly
deranged, though it is evident his pride would be deeply wounded if it
was even suspected. Father John, indeed, hinted to me, that the Prince
was a great agricultural speculator some few years back; “and even
still” said he, “likes to hold more land in his hands than he is able to
manage.”
I have observed, too, that the hall is frequently crowded with
importunate people whom the priest seems endeavouring to pacify
in Irish; and twice, as I passed the Prince’s room last week, an
ill-looking fellow appeared at the door whom Glorviria was showing
out. Her eyes were moist with tears, and at the sight of me she deeply
coloured, and hastily withdrew. It is impossible to describe my feelings
at that moment!
Notwithstanding, however, the Prince affects an air of grandeur, and
opulence--he keeps a kind of open table in his servants’ hall, where a
crowd of labourers, dependants, and mendicants are daily entertained; *
and it is evident his pride would receive a mortal stab, if he supposed
that his guest, and that guest an Englishman, suspected the impoverished
state of his circumstances.
* The kitchen, or servants’ hall of an Irish country
gentleman, is open to all whom distress may lead to its
door. Professed indolent mendicants take advantage of this
indiscriminating hospitality, enter without ceremony, seat
themselves by the fire, and seldom (indeed never) depart
with their demands unsatisfied, by the misapplied
benevolence of an old Irish custom, which in many instances
would be--“more honoured in the breach than the observance.”
Although not a man of very superior understanding, yet he evidently
possesses that innate grandeur of soul, which haughtily struggles
with distress, and which will neither yield to, nor make terms with
misfortune; and when, in the dignity of that pride which scorns
revelation of its woes, I behold him collecting all the forces of his
mind, and asserting a right to a better fate, I feel my own character
energize in the contemplation of his, and am almost tempted to envy him
those trials which call forth the latent powers of human fortitude and
human greatness.
H. M.
LETTER XXIV.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
“Tous s’évanouit sous les cieux,
Chaque instant varie a nos yeux
Le tableau mouvant de la vie.”
Alas! that even this solitude where all seems
“The world forgetting, by the world forgot.”
should be subject to that mutability of fate which governs the busiest
haunts of man. Is it possible, that among these dear ruins, where all
the “life of life” has been restored to me, the worst of human pangs
should assail my full all-confiding heart. And yet I am jealous only on
surmise: but who was ever jealous on conviction; for where is the heart
so weak, so mean as to cherish the passion when betrayed by the object?
I have already mentioned to you the incongruities which so forcibly
struck me in Glorvina’s _boudoir_. Since the evening, the happy evening
in which I first visited it, I have often stolen thither when I knew her
elsewhere engaged, but always found it locked till this morning, when I
perceived the door standing open. It seemed as though its mistress had
but just left it, for a chair was placed near the window, which was
open, and her book and work-basket lay on the seat. I mechanically took
up the book, it was my own _Eloisa_, and was marked with a slip of paper
in that page where the character of Wolmar is described; I read through
the passage, I was throwing it by, when some writing on the _paper mark_
caught my eye; supposing it to be Glorvina’s, I endeavoured to decypher
the lines, and read as follows: “Professions, my lovely friend, are for
the world. But I would at least have you believe that _my_ friendship,
like gold, though not _sonorous_, is indestructible.” This was all I
could make out--and this I read a hundred times--the hand-writing was a
man’s--but it was not the priest’s--it could not be her father’s. And
yet I thought the hand was not entirely unknown to me, though it
appeared disguised. I was still engaged in gazing on the _sybil leaf_
when I heard _Glorvina_ approach. I never was mistaken in her little
feet’s light bound, for she seldom walks; and hastily replacing the
book, I appeared deeply engaged in looking over a fine atlas that lay
open on the table. She seemed surprised at my appearance, so much so,
that I felt the necessity for apologizing for my intrusion. “But,” said
I, “an immunity granted by you is too precious to be neglected, and if I
have not oftener availed myself of my valued privileges, I assure you
the fault was not mine.”
Without noticing my inuendo she only bowed her head, and asked me with
a smile, “what favourite spot on the globe I was tracing with such
earnestness,” when her entrance had interrupted my geographic pursuits.
I placed my finger on that point of the northwest shores of Ireland,
where we then stood, and said in the language of _St. Preux_, “The
world, in my imagination, is divided into two regions--that where _she
is_--and that where she is not.”