‘count it all joy to fall into divers temptations.’”
“Or rather, (returned I) I shall court them like the saints of old,
merely to prove my powers of resistance; for I bear a charmed spell
about me; and _now _‘none of _woman born_ can harm _Macbeth_.’”
“And of what nature is your spell?” said Glorvina, smiling, while the
priest remained a little behind us talking to a peasant. “Has Father John
given you a gospel? or have you got an amulet, thrice passed through the
_thrice blessed_ girdle of St. Bridget, our great Irish charm?” *
* On St Bridget’s day it is usual for the young people to
make a long girdle rope of straw, which they carry about to
the neighbouring houses, and through it all those persons
who have faith in the charm pass nine times, uttering at
each time a certain form of prayer in Irish, which they thus
conclude: “If I enter this thrice-blessed girdle well, may I
come out of it nine times better.”
“My charm (returned I) in some degree, certainly partakes of your
religious and national superstitions; for since it was presented me
by _your_ hand, I could almost believe that its very essence has been
changed by a touch!” And I drew from my breast the withered remains of
my once blooming rose. At that moment the priest joined us; and though
Glorvina was silent, I felt the pressure of her arm more heavily on
mine, and saw her pass the drawbridge without a recollection on her part
that it was to have been the boundary of her walk. We had not, however,
proceeded many paces, when the most wildly mournful sounds I ever heard
rose on the air, and slowly died away.
“Hark! (said Glorvina) some one is going to ‘_that bourne from whence no
traveller returns_.’” As she spoke a hundred voices seemed to ascend to
the skies; and as they subsided, a fainter strain lingered on the air,
as though this truly savage choral sympathy was reduced to a recitative,
chaunted by female voices. All that I had heard of the _Irish howl_, or
funeral song, now rushed to my recollection; and turning at that
moment the angle of the mountain of Inismore, I perceived a procession
advancing towards a little cemetery, which lay by a narrow pathway to
the left of the road.
The body, in a plain deal coffin, covered with a white shirt, was
carried by four men, immediately preceded by several old women covered
in their mantles, and who sung at intervals in a wild and rapid tone. *
Before them walked a number of young persons of both sexes, each couple
holding by a white handkerchief, and strewing flowers along the path.
An elderly woman, with eyes overflown with tears, dishevelled hair,
and distracted mien, followed the body, uttering many passionate
exclamations in Irish; and the procession was filled up by upwards of
three hundred people; the recitative of the female choristers relieved
at intervals by the combined howlings of the whole body. In one of
the pauses of this dreadful death-chorus, I expressed to Glorvina my
surprise at the multitude which attended the funeral of a peasant, while
we stood on a bank as they passed us.
* Speaking of the ancient Irish funeral, Mr. Walker
observes;--“Women, whose voices recommended them, were taken
from the lower classes of life, and instructed in music, and
cursios, or eligiac measure, that they might assist in
heightening the melancholy which that ceremony was
calculated to inspire. This custom prevailed among the
Hebrews, from whom it is not improbable we had it
immediately.”
Dr. Campbell is of opinion that the Ululate or hullalor of
the choral burden of the Caoine, and the Greek word of the
same import, have a strong affinity to each other.--Phil.
Sur. South of Ireland, Letters 2, 3.
“The lower order of Irish,” she returned, “entertain a kind of
posthumous pride respecting their funerals; and from sentiments that I
have heard them express, I really believe there are many among them
who would prefer living neglected to the idea of dying unmourned, or
unattended, by a host to their last home.” To my astonishment she then
descended the bank, and, accompanied by the priest, mingled with the
crowd.
“This will surprise you,” said Glorvina; “but it is wise to comply with
those prejudices which we cannot vanquish. And by those poor people it
is not only reckoned a mark of great disrespect not to follow a funeral
(met by chance) a few paces, but almost a species of impiety.”
“And mankind, you know,” added the priest, “are always more punctilious
with respect to ceremonials than fundamentals. However, _you should_ see
an Irish Roman Catholic funeral; to a Protestant and a stranger it must
be a spectacle of some interest.
“With respect to the attendant ceremonies on death,” he continued, “I
know of no country which the Irish at present resemble but the modern
Greeks. In both countries when the deceased dies unmarried, the young
attendants are chiefly dressed in white, carrying garlands, and strewing
flowers as they proceed to the grave. Those old women who sing before
the body are professional _improvisatori_; they are called _Caoiners_ or
_Keeners_, from the _Canine_ or death song, and are _hired_ to celebrate
the virtues of the deceased. Thus we find St. Chrysostom censuring the
Greeks of his day, for the purchased lamentations and hireling mourners
that attend their funerals. And so far back with us as in the days of
druidical influence, we find it was part of the profession of the bards
to perform the funeral ceremonies, to sing to their harps the virtues of
the dead, and call on the living to emulate their deeds. * This you may
remember as a custom frequently alluded to in the poems of Ossian. **
Pray observe that frantic woman who tears her hair And beats her bosom:
’tis the mother of the deceased. She is following her only child to an
early grave; and did you understand the nature of her lamentations you
would compare them to the complaints of the mother of Euriales, in the
Æneid: the same passionate expressions of sorrow, and the same wild
extravagance of grief. They even still most religiously preserve here
that custom never lost among the Greeks, of washing the body before
interment, and strewing it with flowers.”
* The Caoine, or funeral song was, composed by the Filea of
the departed, set to music by one of his oirfidegh, and sung
over the grave by the racasaide, or rhapsodist, who
accompanied his “song of the tomb” with the mourning murmur
of his harp, while the inferior order of minstrels mingled
their deep-toned chorus with the strain of grief, and the
sighs of lamenting relatives breathed in unison to the
tuneful sorrow. Thus was “the stones of his fame,” raised
over the remains of the Irish chief with a ceremony
resembling that with which the death of the Trojan hero was
lamented,
“A melancholy choir attend around,
With plaintive sighs and music’s solemn sound.”
But the singular ceremonies of the Irish funeral, which are
even still in a certain degree extant, may be traced to a
remoter antiquity than Grecian o right, for the pathetic
lamentations of David for the friend of his soul, and the
conclamatio breathed over the Phoenician Dido, has no faint
coincidence to the Caoine or funeral song of the Irish.
** Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the song of the
bard, “Blessed be thy soul, son of Semo! thou wert mighty in
battle; thy strength was like the strength of the stream,
thy speed like the speed of the eagle’s wing, thy path in
battle was terrible, the steps of death were behind thy
sword; blessed be thy soul son of Semo! Carborne ohicf of
Dunscaith. The mighty were dispersed at Timo-ra--there is
none in Cormac’s hall. The king mourns in his youth, for he
does not behold thy coming; the sound of thy shield is
ceased, his foes are gathering around, Soft be thy rest in
thy cave, chief of Erin’s wars.”
“And have you also,” said I, “the funeral feast, which among the Greeks
composed so material a part of the funeral ceremonies?”
“A _wake_, as it is called among us,” he replied, “is at once the season
of lamentation and sorrow, and of feasting and amusement. The immediate
relatives of the deceased sit near the body, devoted to all the luxury
of woe, which revives into the most piercing lamentations at the
entrance of every stranger, while the friends, acquaintances, and guests
give themselves up to a variety of amusements; feats of dexterity and
even some exquisite pantomimes are performed; though in the midst of all
their games should any one pronounce an _Ave Maria_, the merry group are
in a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified,
they recommence their sports with new vigour. The _wake_, however, is
of short duration; for here, as in Greece, it is thought an injustice to
the dead to keep them long above ground; so that interment follows death
with all possible expedition.”
We had now reached the burial ground; near which the funeral was met
by the parish priest, and the procession went three times round the
cemetry, preceded by the priest, who repeated the _De profundis_ as did
all the congregation.
“This ceremony,” said Father John, “is performed by us instead of the
funeral service, which is denied to the Roman Catholics. For _we_ are
not permitted, like the Protestant ministers, to perform the last solemn
office for our departed fellow creatures.”
While he spoke we entered the churchyard, and I expressed my surprise
to Glorvina, who seemed wrapt in solemn meditation, at the singular
appearance of this rustic little cemetery, where, instead of the
monumental marble,
“The storied urn, or animated bust,”
an osier, twisted into the form of a cross, wreathed with faded
foliage, garlands made of the pliant sally, twined with flowers; alone
distinguished the “narrow house,” where
“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”
Without answering, she led me gently forward towards a garland which
seemed newly planted. We paused. A young woman who had attended the
funeral, and withdrawn from the crowd, approached the garland at the
same moment, and taking some fresh gathered flowers from her apron,
strewed them over the new made grave, then kneeling beside it wept and
prayed.
“It is the tomb of her lover,” said I.--“_Of her father!_” said
Glorvina, in a voice whose affecting tone sunk to my heart, while her
eyes, raised to heaven, were suffused with tears. The filial mourner now
arose and departed, and we approached the simple shrine of her sorrowing
devotion. Glorvina took from it a sprig of rosemary--its leaves were
humid! “It is not _all_ dew,” said Glorvina, with a sad smile, while her
own tears fell on it, and she presented it to me.
“Then you think me worthy of sharing in these divine feelings,” I
exclaimed, as I kissed off the sacred drops; while I was now confirmed
in the belief that the tenderness, the sufferings, and declining health
of her father, rendered him at that moment the sole object of her
solicitude and affection. And with him only, could I, without madness,
share the tender, sensible, angelic heart of this sweet interesting
being.
Observing her emotion increase, as she stood near the spot sacred to
filial grief, I endeavoured to draw away her attention by remarking,
that almost every tomb had now a votarist. “It is a strong instance,”
said Glorvina, “of the sensibility of the Irish, that they repair at
intervals to the tombs of their deceased friends to drop a tender tear,
or heave a heart-breathed sigh, to the memory of those so lamented in
death, so dear to them in life. For my own part, in the stillness of a
fine evening, I often wander towards this solemn spot, where the flowers
newly thrown on the tombs, and weeping with the tears of departed day,
always speak to my heart a tale of woe it feels and understands.
While, as the breeze of evening mourns softly round me, I involuntarily
exclaim, ‘And when I shall follow the crowd that presses forward to
eternity, what affectionate hand will scatter flowers over _my_ solitary
tomb? for haply, ere that period arrive, _my_ trembling hand shall have
placed the cypress on the tomb of him who alone loved me living, and
would lament me dead.’”
“_Alone_,” I repeated, and pressing her hand to my heart, inarticulately
added, “Oh! Glorvina, did the pulses which now throb against each other,
throb in unison, you would understand, that even _love_ is a cold,
inadequate term for the sentiments you have inspired in a soul, which
would claim a closer kindred to yours than even parental affinity can
assert; if (though but by a glance) yours would deign to acknowledge the
sacred union.”
We were standing in a remote part of the cemetery, under the shade of
a drooping cypress--we were alone--we were unobserved. The hand of
Glorvina was pressed to my heart, her head almost touched my shoulder,
her lips almost effused their balmy sighs on mine. A glance was all I
required--a glance was all I received.
In the succeeding moments I know not what passed; for an interval all
was delirium. Glorvina was the first to recover presence of mind; she
released her hand which was still pressed to my heart, and, covered with
blushes, advanced to Father John. I followed, and found her with her arm
entwined in his, while those eyes, from whose glance my soul had lately
quaffed the essence of life’s richest bliss, were now studiously turned
from me in love’s own downcast bashfulness.
The good Father Director now took my arm: and we were leaving this (to
me) interesting spot--when the filial mourner, who had first drawn us
from his side, approached the priest, and taking out a few shillings
from the corner of her handkerchief, offered them to him, and spoke a
few words in Irish; the priest returned her an answer and her money at
the same time: she curtseyed low, and departed in silent and tearful
emotion. At the same moment another female advanced towards us, and put
a piece of silver and a little fresh earth into the hand of Father John;
he blessed the earth and returned the little offering with it. The woman
knelt and wept, and kissed his garment; then addressing him in Irish,
pointed to a poor old man, who, apparently overcome with weakness, was
reposing on the grass. Father John followed the woman, and advanced to
the old man, while I, turning towards Glorvina, demanded an explanation
of this extraordinary scene.
“The first of these poor creatures (said she) was offering the fruits of
many an hour’s labour, to have a mass said for the soul of her departed
father, which she firmly believes will shorten his sufferings in
purgatory: the last is another instance of weeping humanity stealing
from the rites of superstition a solace from its woes. She brought that
earth to the priest, that he might bless it ere it was flung into the
coffin of a dear friend, who, she says, died this morning; for they
believe that this consecrated earth is a substitute for those religious
rites which are denied them on this awful occasion. And though these
tender cares of mourning affection may originate in error, who would
not pardon the illusion that soothes the sufferings of a breaking heart?
Alas! I could almost envy these ignorant prejudices, which lead their
possessors to believe, that by restraining their own enjoyments in this
world, they can alleviate the sufferings, or purchase the felicity of
the other for the objects of their tenderness and regret. Oh! that I
could thus believe!”
“Then you do not, (said I, looking earnestly at her,) you do not receive
all the doctrines of your church as infallible?”
Glorvina approached something closer towards me, and in a few words
convinced me, that on the subject of religion, as upon every other,
her strong mind discovered itself to be an emanation of that divine
intelligence, which her pure soul worships “in spirit and in truth,”
“The bright effulgence of bright essence uncreate.”
When she observed my surprise and delight, she added, “believe me, my
dear friend, the age in which religious error held her empire undisputed
is gone by. The human mind, however slow, however opposed its progress,
is still, by a divine and invariable law, propelled towards truth, and
must finally attain that goal which reason has erected in every breast.
Of the many who are the inheritors of _our_ persuasion, _all_ are not
devoted to its errors, or influenced by its superstitions. If its
professors are coalesced, it is in the sympathy of their destinies, not
in the dogmas of their belief. If they are allied, it is by the tie of
temporal interest, not by the bond of speculative opinion; they are
united as _men_, not as sectaries; and once incorporated in the great
mass of general society, their feelings will become diffusive as their
interests; their affections, like their privileges, will be in common;
the limited throb with which their hearts now beat towards each other,
under the influence of a kindred fate, will then be animated to the
nobler pulsation of universal philanthropy; and, as the acknowledged
members of the first of all human communities they will forget they had
ever been the _individual_ adherents of an alienated body.”
The priest now returned to us, and was followed by the multitude, who
crowded round this venerable and adored pastor: some to obtain his
benediction for themselves, others his prayers for their friends, and
all his advice or notice: while Glorvina, whom they had not at first
perceived, stood like an idol in the midst of them, receiving
that adoration which the admiring gaze of some, and the adulatory
exclamations of others, offered to her virtues and her charms. While
those personally known to her she addressed with her usually winning
sweetness in their native language, I am sure that there was not an
individual among this crowd of ardent and affectionate people, that
would not risk their lives “to avenge a look that threatened her with
danger.”
Our horses now coming up to the gate of the cemetry, we insisted on
walking back as far as the drawbridge with Glorvina. When we reached
it, the priest saluted her cheek with paternal freedom, and gave her his
blessing, while I was put off with an offer of the hand; but when, for
the first time, I felt its soft clasp return the pressure of mine, I
no longer envied the priest his cold salute; for oh! cold is every
enjoyment which is unreciprocated. Reverberated bliss alone can touch
the heart.
When we had parted with Glorvina, and caught a last view of her receding
figure, we mounted our horses, and proceeded a considerable way in
silence. The morning though fine was gloomy; and though the sun was
scarcely an hour high, we were met by innumerable groups of peasantry
of both sexes, laden with their implements of husbandry, and already
beginning the labours of the day. I expressed my surprise at observing
almost as many women as men working in the fields and bogs. “Yes,” said
the priest, “toil is here shared in common between the sexes, the women
as well as the men cut the turf, plant the potatoes, and even assist to
cultivate the land; both rise with the sun to their daily labour; but
his repose brings not theirs; for, after having worked all day for a
very trivial remuneration, (as nothing here is rated lower than human
labour,) they endeavour to snatch a beam from retreating twilight, by
which they labour in that little spot of ground, which is probably the
sole support of a numerous family.”
“And yet,” said I, “idleness is the chief vice laid to the account of
your peasantry.”
“It is certain,” returned he, “that there is not, generally speaking,
that active spirit of industry among the inferior orders here, which
distinguishes the same rank in England. But neither have they the same
encouragement to awaken their exertions. ‘The laziness of the Irish,’
says Sir William Petty, ‘seems rather to proceed from want of employment
and encouragement to work, than the constitution of their bodies.’ An
intelligent and liberal countryman of yours, Mr. Young, the celebrated
traveller, is persuaded that, circumstances considered, the Irish do
not in reality deserve the character of indolence; and relates a very
extraordinary proof of their great industry and exertion in their method
of procuring lime for manure, which the mountaineers bring on the backs
of their little horses many miles distance, to the foot of the steepest
acclivities, and from thence to the summit on their own shoulders while
they pay a considerable rent for liberty to cultivate a barren, waste,
and rigid soil. In short, there is not in creation a more laborious
animal than an Irish peasant, with less stimulus to exertion, or less
reward to crown his toil. He is indeed, in many instances, the mere
creature of the soil, and works independent of that hope which is the
best stimulus to every human effort, the hope of reward. And yet it
is not rare to find among these oft misguided beings, some who
really believe themselves the hereditary proprietors of the soil they
cultivate.”
“But surely,” said I, “the most ignorant among them must be well aware
that all could not have been proprietors.”
“The fact is,” said the priest, “the followers of many a great family
having accidentally adopted the name of their chiefs, that name has
descended to their progeny, who now associate to the name an erroneous
claim on the confiscated property of those to whom their progenitors
were but vassals or dependants. And this false, but strong rooted
opinion, co-operating with their naturally active and impetuous
characters, renders them alive to every enterprise, and open to the
impositions of the artful or ambitious. But a brave, though misguided
people, are not to be dragooned out of a train of ancient prejudices,
nurtured by fancied interest and real ambition, and confirmed by
ignorance, which those who deride have made no effort to dispel. It
is not by physical force, but moral influence, the illusion is to be
dissolved. The darkness of ignorance must be dissipated before the light
of truth can be admitted; and though an Irishman may be argued out of
an error, it has been long proved he will never be forced. His
understanding may be convinced, but his spirit will never be subdued. He
may culminate to the meridian of loyalty * or truth by the influence
of kindness, or the convictions of reason, but he will never be forced
towards the one, nor oppressed into the other by the lash of power, or
‘the insolence of office.’
* Speaking of the people of Ireland, Lord Minto thus
expresses himself: “In these (the Irish) we have witnessed
exertions of courage, activity, perseverance, and spirit, as
well as fidelity and honour in fulfilling the engagements of
their connexion with us, and the Protection and defence of
their own country, which challenges the thanks of Great
Britain, and the approbation of the world.”
“This has been strongly evinced by the attachment of the Irish to
the House of Stuart, by whom they have always been so cruelly, so
ungratefully treated. For what the coercive measures of four hundred
years could not effect, the accession of _one_ prince to the throne
accomplished. Until that period, the unconquered Irish, harassing and
harassed, struggled for that liberty which they at intervals obtained,
but never were permitted to enjoy. Yet the moment a prince of the royal
line of Milesius placed the British diadem on his brow, the sword of
resistance was sheathed, and those principles which force could
not vanquish, yielded to the mild empire of national and hereditary
affection: the Irish of _English_ origin from natural tenderness, and
those of the _true old stock_, from the conviction that they were _then_
governed by a _Prince_ of their own blood. Nor is it now unknown to
them, that in the veins of his present majesty, and his ancestors,
from James the First, flows the royal blood of the _three_ kingdoms
united.”