* The kitchen, or servants’ hall of an Irish countrygentleman, is open to all whom distress may lead to itsdoor. Professed indolent mendicants take advantage of thisindiscriminating hospitality, enter without ceremony, seatthemselves by the fire, and seldom (indeed never) departwith their demands unsatisfied, by the misappliedbenevolence of an old Irish custom, which in many instanceswould 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.
“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’sboudoir. 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 ownEloisa, 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 thepaper markcaught 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 thatmyfriendship, like gold, though notsonorous, 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 thesybil leafwhen I heardGlorvinaapproach. 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 ofSt. Preux, “The world, in my imagination, is divided into two regions—that whereshe is—and that where she is not.”
With an air of bewitching insinuation, she placed her hand on my shoulder, and with a faint blush and a little smile shook her head, and looked up in my face, with a glance half incredulous—half tender. I kissed the hand by whose pressure I was thus honoured, and said, “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 I said, in the irrascibility of my jealous heart, for, though too warm for another, oh! how cold for me! Glorviria started as I spoke, I thought changed colour! while at intervals she repeated, “strange!—nor is this the only coincidence!”
“Coincidence!” I eagerly repeated, but she affected not to hear me, and appeared busily engaged in selecting for herself a bouquet from the flowers which filled one of thosevasesI before noticed to you. “And is that beautiful vase,” said I, “another family antiquity? it looks as though it stole its elegant form from an Estrucan model: is this too an effort of ancient Irish taste!”
“No,” said she, I thought confusedly, “I believe it came from Italy.”
“Has it been long in the possession of the family?” said I, with persevering impertinence. “It was a present from a friend of my father’s,” she replied, colouring, “to me!” The bell at that moment rang for breakfast, away she flew, apparently pleased to be released from my importunities.
“A friend of her father’s!” and who can this friend be, whose delicacy of judgment so nicely adapts the gifts to the taste of her on whom they are lavished. For, undoubtedly, the same hand that made the offering of the vases, presented also those other portable elegancies which are so strongly contrasted by the rude original furniture of theBoudoir. The tastefuldonneurand author of that letter whose torn fragment betrayed the sentiment of no common mind, are certainly one and the same person. Yet, who visits the castle? scarcely any one; the pride and circumstances of thePrinceequally forbid it. Sometimes, though rarely, an old Milesian cousin, or poor relation will drop in, but those of them that I have seen, are mere commonplace people. I have indeed heard the Prince speak of a cousin in the Spanish service, and a nephew in the Irish brigades, now in Germany. But the cousin is an old man, and the nephew he has not seen since he was a child. Yet, after all, these presents may have come from one of those relatives; if so, as Glorvina has no recollection of either, how I should curse that jealous temper which has purchased for me some moments of torturing doubts. I remember you used often to say, that any woman couldpiqueme into love by affecting indifference, and that the native jealousy of my disposition would always render me the slave of any woman who knew how to play upon my dominant passion. The fact is, when my heart erects an idol for its secret homage, it is madness to think that another should even bow at the shrine, much less that his offerings should be propitiously received.
But it is the silence of Glorvina on the subject of this generous friend, that distracts me; if, after all—oh! it is impossible—it is sacrilege against heaven to doubt her! She practised in deception! she, whose every look, every motion betrays a soul that is all truth, innocence, and virtue! I have endeavoured to sound the priest on the subject, and affected to admire the vases; repeating the same questions with which I had teased Glorvina. But he, too, carelessly replied, “they were given her by a friend of her father’s.”
Just as I had finished my last, the Prince sent for me to his room; I found him alone, and sitting up in his bed! he only complained of the effects of years and sickness, but it was evident that some recent cause of uneasiness preyed on his mind. He made me sit by his bed-side, and said, that my good-nature, upon every occasion, induced him to prefer a request, he was induced to hope would not meet with a denial. I begged he would change that request to a command, and rely in every instance on my readiness to serve him. He thanked me, and told me in a few words, that the priest was going on a very particular, but not very pleasing business for him (the Prince) to thenorth; that the journey was long, and would be both solitary and tedious to his good old friend, whose health I might have observed was delicate and precarious, except I had the goodness to cheat the weariness of the journey by giving the priest my company. “I would not make the request,” he added, “but that I think your compliance will be productive of pleasure and information to yourself; in a journey of a hundred miles, many new sources of observation to your inquiring mind will appear. Besides, you who seem to feel so lively an interest in all which concerns this country, will be glad to have an opportunity of viewing the Irish character in a new aspect; or rather of beholding the Scotch character engrafted upon ours.”
“But,” said the Prince, with his usual nationality, “that exotic branch is not very distinguishable from the old stock.”
I need not tell you that I complied with this request withseemingreadiness, but with real reluctance.
In the evening, as we circled round the fire in the great hall, I proposed toFather Johnto accompany him on his journey the following day.
The poor man was overjoyed at the offer while Glorvina betrayed neither surprise nor regret at my intention, but looked first at her father, and then at me, with kindness and gratitude.
Were my heart more at ease, were my confidence in the affections of Glorvina something stronger, I should greatly relish this little tour, but as it is, when I found every thing arranged for my departure, without the concurrence of my own wishes, I could not check my pettishness, and for want of some other mode of venting it, I endeavoured to ridicule a work on the subject ofancient Irishhistory which the priest was reading aloud, while Glorvina worked, and I was trifling with my pencil.
“What,” said I, after having interrupted him in many different passages, which I thought savoured of natural hyperbole, “what can be more forced than the very supposition of your partial author, thatAlbion, the most ancient name of Britain, was given it as though it were another orsecond Ireland, because Banba was one of the ancient names of your country?”
“It may appear to you a forced etymology,” said the priest, “yet it has the sanction ofCamden, who first risked the supposition. But it is the fate of our unhappy country to receive as little credit in the present day, for its former celebrity, as for its great antiquity, * although the former is attested byBede, and many other early British writers, and the latter is authenticated by the testimony of the most ancient Greek authors. ForJervisis mentioned in theArgonauticaofOrpheus, long before the name of England is anywhere to be found in Grecian literature. And surely it had scarcely been first mentioned, had it not been first known.”
* It has been the fashion to throw odium on the modernIrish, by undermining the basis of their ancient history,and vilifying their ancient national character. If ahistorian professes to have acquired his information fromthe records of the country whose history he writes, hisaccounts are generally admitted as authentic, as thecommentaries of Garcilasso de Vega are considered as thechief pillars of Peruvian history, though avowed by theirauthor to have been compiled from the old national balladsof the country; yet the old writers of Ireland, (the Psalterof Cashel in particular) though they refer to these ancientre cords of their country, authenticated by existing mannersand existing habits, are plunged into the oblivion ofcontemptuous neglect, or read only to be discredited.
“Then you really suppose,” said I, smiling incredulously, “we are indebted to you for the name of our country?”
“I know,” said the priest, returning my smile, “the fallacies in general of all etymologists, but the only part of your island anciently called by any name that bore the least affinity toAlbion, wasScotland, then calledAlbin, a word ofIrishetymology,Albinsignifying mountainous, from Alb, a mountain.”
“But, my dear friend,” I replied, “admitting the great antiquity of your country, allowing it to be early inhabited by a lettered and civilized people, and that it was theNido paternoof western literature when the rest of Europe was involved in darkness; how is it that so few monuments of your ancient learning and genius remain? Where are your manuscripts, your records, your annals, stamped with the seal of antiquity to be found?”
“Manuscripts, annals, and records are not the treasures of a colonized or conquered country,” said the priest; “it is always the policy of the conqueror, or the invader, to destroy those mementi of ancient national splendour which keep alive the spirit of the conquered or the invaded; * the dispersion at various periods ** of many of the most illustrious Irish families into foreign countries, has assisted the depredations of time and policy, in the plunder of her literary treasures; many of them are now mouldering in public and private libraries on the Continent, whither their possessors conveyed them from the destruction which civil war carries with it, and many of them (even so far back as Elizabeth’s day) were conveyed to Denmark. The Danish monarch applied to the English court for some learned men to translate them, and oneDonald O’Daly, a person eminently qualified for the task, was actually engaged to perform it, until the illiberality of the English court prevented the intention on the poor plea of its prejudicing the English interest.”
* Sir George Carevy, in the reign of Elizabeth, was accusedof bribing the family historian of the McCarthies to conveyto him some curious MSS. “But what,” says the author of theAnalect, “Carevy did in one province [Munster] Henry Sidney,and his predecessors did all over the kingdom, being chargedto collect all the manuscripts they could, that they mighteffectually destroy every vestige of antiquity and lettersthroughout the Kingdom.” And St. Patrick, in his apostoliczeal, committed to the flames several hundred druidicalvolumes.** Fourteen thousand Irish took advantage of the articles ofLimerick, and bade adieu to their native country forever.
“I know myself that many of our finest and most valuable MSS. are in libraries in France, and have heard, that not a few of them enrich the Vatican at Rome.” *
* In a conversation which passed in Cork between theauthor’s father and the celebrated Dr. O’Leary, the lattersaid he had once intended to have written a history ofIreland. And added, “but, in truth, I found, after variousresearches, that I could not give such a history as I wouldwish should come from my pen, without visiting theContinent, more particularly Rome, where alone the bestdocuments for the history of Ireland are to be had. But itis now too late in the day for me to think of such a journeyor such exertions as the task would require.”“Mr. O’Halloran informs me [says Mr. Walker, in his Memoirs of theIrish Bards, p. 141], that he lately got in a collectionfrom Rome, several poems of the most eminent Bards of lastcenturies.”
“But,” said I, “are not many of those MSS. supposed to be monkish impositions?”
“Yes,” replied the priest, “by those whonever saw them, and ifthey did, were too ignorant of the Irish language to judge of their authenticity by the internal evidences they contain.”
“And if they were the works of monks,” said the priest, “Ireland was always allowed to possess at that era the most devout and learned ecclesiastics in Europe, from which circumstance it received its title ofIsland of Saints. By them, indeed, many histories of the ancient Irish were composed in the early ages of Christianity, but it was certainly from Pagan records and traditions they received their information; besides, I do not think any arguments can be advanced more favourable to the histories, than that the fiction of those histories simply consists in ascribing natural phenomena to supernatural agency.”
“But,” returned I, “granting that your island was theAthensof a certain age, how is the barbarity of the present day to be reconciled with the civilization of the enlightened past?”
“When you talk of ourbarbarity,” said the priest, “you do not speak as youfeel, but as youhear.” I blushed at this mild reproof, and said, “what Inowfeel for this country, it would not be easy to express, but l have always been taught to look upon theinferiorIrish as beings forming an humbler link than humanity in the chain of nature.”
“Yes,” said the priest, “in your country it is usual to attach to that class of society in ours a ferocious disposition amounting to barbarity; but this, with other calumnies, of national indolence, and obstinate ignorance, of want of principle, and want of faith, is unfounded and illiberal; * ‘cruelty,’ says Lord Sheffield, ‘is not in the nature of these people more than of other men, for they have many customs among them which disprove of unnatural indolence, that they are constitutionally of an active nature, and capable of the greatest exertions; and of as good dispositions as any nation in the same state of improvement; their generosity, hospitality, and bravery are proverbial; intelligence and zeal in whatever they undertake will never be wanting:—?It has been the fashion to judge of them by their outcasts.’”
* When nature is wounded through all her dearest ties, shemust turn on the hand that stabs, and endeavour to wrest thepoignard from the grasp that aims at the life-pulse of herheart. And this she will do in obedience to that immutablelaw, which blends the instinct of self-preservation withevery atom of human existence. And for this, in lessfelicitous times, when oppression and sedition succeededalternately to each other, was the name of Irishman, blendedwith the horrible epithet of cruel But when the sword of theoppressor was sheathed, the spirit of the oppressed reposed,and the opprobrium it had drawn down on him was no longerremembered, until the unhappy events of a late anarchialperiod, 1798 revived the faded characters in which thatopprobrium had been traced. The events alluded to were theatrocities which chiefly occurred in the county of Wexford,and its adjoining and confederate district. Wexford is anEnglish colony, planted by Henry the Second, where scarcelyany feature of the original Irish character, or any trace ofthe Irish language is to be found. While in the barony ofForth, not only the customs, manners, habits, and costume,of the ancient British settlers still prevail, but theancient Celtic language, has been preserved with infinitelyless corruption than in any part of Britain, where it hasbeen interwoven with the Saxon, Danish, and Frenchlanguages. In fact, here may be found a remnant of anancient. British colony, more pure and unmixed than in anyother part of the world. And here were committed thosebarbarities, which have recently attached the epithet ofcruel to the name of Irishman!
“It is strange (said the Prince,) that the earliest British writers should be as diffuse in the praise, as the moderns are in calumniating our unhappy country. Once we were everywhere, and by all, justly famed for our patriotism, ardour of affection, love of letters, skill in arms and arts, and refinement of manners; but no sooner did there arise a connexion between us and a sister country, than the reputed virtues and well-earned glory of the Irish sunk at once into oblivion: as if (continued this enthusiasticMilesian, rising from his seat with all his native vehemence,)—as if the moral world was subject to those convulsions which shake thenaturalto its centre, burying by a single shock the monumental splendours of countless ages. Thus it should seem, that when the bosom of national freedom was rent asunder, the national virtues which derived their nutriment from its source sunk into the abyss; while on the barren surface which covers the wreck of Irish greatness, the hand of prejudice and illiberality has sown the seeds of calumny and defamation, to choke up those healthful plants, indigenous to the soil, which still raise their oft-crushed heads, struggling for existence, and which, like the palm-tree, rise, in proportion to those efforts made to suppress them.”
To repeat the words of the Prince is to deprive them of half their effect: his great eloquence lies in his air, his gestures, and the forcible expression of his dark-rolling eye. He sat down exhausted with the impetuous vehemence with which he had spoken.
“If we were to believe Dr. Warner, however,” (said the priest) “the modern Irish are a degenerated race, comparatively speaking, for he asserts, that even in the days of Elizabeth, ‘the old natives had degenerated, and that thewars of several centurieshad reduced them to a state far inferior to that in which they were found in the days of Henry the Second.’ But still, like the modern Greeks, we perceive among them strong traces of a free, a great, a polished, and an enlightened people.”
Wearied by a conversation in which my heart now took little interest, I made thepalinodof myprejudices, and concluded by saying, “I perceive that on this ground I am always destined to be vanquished, yet always to win by the loss, and gain by the defeat; and therefore I ought not in common policy to cease tooppose, until nothing further can be obtained by opposition.”
The Prince, who was getting a little testy at my “heresyandschism,” seemed quite appeased by this avowal; and the priest, who was gratified by a compliment I had previously paid to his talents, shook me heartily by the hand, and said, I was the most generous opponent he had ever met with. Then taking up his book, was suffered to proceed in its perusal uninterupted. During the whole of the evening, Glorvina maintained an uninterrupted silence; she appeared lost in thought, and unmindful of our conversation, while her eyes, sometimes turned on me, but oftener on her father, seemed humid with a tear, as she contemplated his lately much altered appearance.
Yet when the debility of the man was for a moment lost in the energy of the patriot, I perceived the mind of the daughter kindling at the sacred fire which illumined the father’s; and through the tear of natural affection sparkled the bright beam of national enthusiasm.
I suspect that the embassy of the good priest is not of the most pleasant nature. To-night as he left me at the door of my room, he said that we had a long journey before us; for that the house of the nobleman to whom we are going lay in a remote part of the province of Ulster; that he was a Scotchman, and only occasionally visited this country (where he had an immense property) to receive his rents. “The Prince (said he) holds a large but unprofitable farm from this Highland chief, the lease of which he is anxious to throw up: that surly looking fellow who dined with us the other day, is a steward; and if the master is as inexorable as the servant, we shall undertake this journey to very little purpose.”
Adieu.—I endeavour to write and think on every subject but that nearest my heart, yetthereGlorvina and her mysterious friend still awaken the throb of jealous doubt and anxious solicitude. I shall drop this for you in the postoffice of the first post-town I pass through; and probably endeavour to forget myself, and my anxiety to return hither, at your expense, by writing to you in the course of my journey.
Can you recollect who was that rational, moderate youth, who exclaimed in the frenzy of passion, “O gods! annihilate bothtimeandspace, and make two lovers happy.”
For my part, I should indeed wish the hours annihilated till I again behold Glorvina; but for the space which divides us, it was requisite I should be fifty miles from her, to be no more entirely with her; to appreciate the full value of her society; and to learn the nature of those wants my heart must ever feel when separated from her. The priest and I arose this morning with the sun. Our lovely hostess was ready at the breakfast-table to receive us. I was so selfish as to observe without regret the air of langour that invested her whole form, and the heaviness that weighed down her eyelids, as though the influence of sleep had not renovated the lustre of those downcast eyes they veiled. Ah! if I dared believe that these wakeful hours were given to me. But I fear at that moment her heart was more occupied by her father than her lover: for I have observed, in a thousand instances, the interest she takes in his affairs; and indeed the priest hinted to me, that her good sense has frequently retrieved those circumstances the imprudent speculations of her father have as constantly deranged.
During breakfast she spoke but little, and once I caught her eyes turned full on me, with a glance in which tenderness, regret, and even something of despondency were mingled. Glorvina despond! So young, so lovely, so virtuous, and so highly gifted! Oh! at that moment had I been master of worlds! but, dependent myself on another’s will, I could only sympathize in the sufferings while I adored the sufferer.
When we arose to depart, Glorvina said, “If you will lead your horses I will walk to the drawbridge with you.”
Delighted at the proposal, we ordered our horses to follow us; and with an arm of Glorvina drawn through either of ours, we left the castle. “This (said I, pressing the hand which rested on mine,) is commencing a journey under favourable auspices.”
“God grant it may be so,” said Glorvina, fervently.
“Amen!” said the priest.
“Amen!” I repeated; and looking at Glorvina, read all the daughter in her eyes.
“We shall sleep to-night, (said the priest, endeavouring to dissipate the gloom which hung over us by indifferent chit-chat;) we shall sleep to-night at the hospitable mansion of a true-bornMilesian, to whom I have the honour to be distantly allied; and where you will find the oldBrehonlaw, which forbids that a sept should be disappointed of the expected feast, was no fabrication of national partiality.”
“What then, (said I,) we shall not enjoy ourselves in all the comfortable unrestrained freedom ofan inn.”
“We poor Irish, (said the priest,) find the unrestrained freedom of an inn not only in the house of a friend, but of every acquaintance, however distant; and indeed if you are at all known, you may travel from one end of a province to another, without entering a house of public entertainment; * the host always considering himself the debtor of the guest, as though the institution of theBeataghs **were still in being. And besides a cordial welcome from my hospitable kinsman, I promise you an introduction to his three handsome daughters. So fortify your heart, for I warn you it will run some risk before you return.”
* “Not only have I been received with the greatest kindness,but I have been provided with everything which could promotethe execution of my plan. In taking the circuit of Ireland,I have been employed eight or nine months; during which timeI have been everywhere received with a hospitality which isnothing surprising in Ireland: that in such a length of timeI have been but six times at an inn, will give a better ideaof this hospitality than could be done by the most labouredpraise.”—M. de Latocknay.** In the excellent system of the ancient Milesiangovernment, the people were divided into classes; theLiterati holding the next rank to royalty itself, and theBeataghs the fourth; so that, as in China, the state was sowell regulated, that every one knew his place, from theprince to the peasant. “These Beataghs (says Mr. O’Halloran)were keepers of open houses for strangers, or poordistressed natives; and as honourable stipends were settledon the Literati, so were particular tracts of land on theBeataghs, to support, with proper munificence, theirstation; and there are lands and villages in many places tothis day, which declare by their names their originalappointment.”
“Oh!” said Glorvina, archly, “I dare say that, like St. Paul, he will ‘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; andnow’none ofwoman borncan harmMacbeth.’”
“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 thethrice blessedgirdle of St. Bridget, our great Irish charm?” *
* On St Bridget’s day it is usual for the young people tomake a long girdle rope of straw, which they carry about tothe neighbouring houses, and through it all those personswho have faith in the charm pass nine times, uttering ateach time a certain form of prayer in Irish, which they thusconclude: “If I enter this thrice-blessed girdle well, may Icome 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 byyourhand, 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 theIrish 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. Walkerobserves;—“Women, whose voices recommended them, were takenfrom the lower classes of life, and instructed in music, andcursios, or eligiac measure, that they might assist inheightening the melancholy which that ceremony wascalculated to inspire. This custom prevailed among theHebrews, from whom it is not improbable we had itimmediately.”Dr. Campbell is of opinion that the Ululate or hullalor ofthe choral burden of the Caoine, and the Greek word of thesame 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 shouldsee 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 professionalimprovisatori; they are calledCaoinersorKeeners, from theCanineor death song, and arehiredto 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 ofthe departed, set to music by one of his oirfidegh, and sungover the grave by the racasaide, or rhapsodist, whoaccompanied his “song of the tomb” with the mourning murmurof his harp, while the inferior order of minstrels mingledtheir deep-toned chorus with the strain of grief, and thesighs of lamenting relatives breathed in unison to thetuneful sorrow. Thus was “the stones of his fame,” raisedover the remains of the Irish chief with a ceremonyresembling that with which the death of the Trojan hero waslamented,=
“A melancholy choir attend around,
With plaintive sighs and music’s solemn sound.”
But the singular ceremonies of the Irish funeral, which areeven still in a certain degree extant, may be traced to aremoter antiquity than Grecian o right, for the patheticlamentations of David for the friend of his soul, and theconclamatio breathed over the Phoenician Dido, has no faintcoincidence to the Caoine or funeral song of the Irish.** Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the song of thebard, “Blessed be thy soul, son of Semo! thou wert mighty inbattle; thy strength was like the strength of the stream,thy speed like the speed of the eagle’s wing, thy path inbattle was terrible, the steps of death were behind thysword; blessed be thy soul son of Semo! Carborne ohicf ofDunscaith. The mighty were dispersed at Timo-ra—there isnone in Cormac’s hall. The king mourns in his youth, for hedoes not behold thy coming; the sound of thy shield isceased, his foes are gathering around, Soft be thy rest inthy 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?”
“Awake, 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 anAve Maria, the merry group are in a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified, they recommence their sports with new vigour. Thewake, 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 theDe profundisas 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. Forweare 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 notalldew,” 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 overmysolitary tomb? for haply, ere that period arrive,mytrembling 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 evenloveis 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 ofourpersuasion,allare 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 asmen, 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 theindividualadherents 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.’