* Item.—That no Irish minstrels, rhymers, thanaghsnebards, be messengers to desire any goods of any mandwelling within the English pale, upon pain of forfeiture ofall their goods, and their bodies to be imprisoned at theking’s will.—Harris’s Hibernica, p. 98.
“‘In our neighbouring country,’ says he, ‘where truly learning grows very bare, yet are their poets held in devout reverence.’ But Elizabeth, jealous of that influence which the bardic order of Ireland held over the most puissant of her chiefs, not only enacted laws against them, but against such as received or entertained them: for Spenser informs us that, eventhen, ‘their verses were taken up with a general applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings.’ Of the spirited, yet pathetic manner in which the genius of Irish minstrelsy addressed itself to the soul of the Irish chief, many instances are still preserved in the records of traditional lore. A poem of Fearflatha, family bard to the O’Nials of Clanboy, and beginning thus:—‘O the condition of our dear countrymen, how languid their joys, how acute their sorrows, &c., &c.,’ the Prince of Inismore takes peculiar delight in repeating. But in the lapse of time, and vicissitude of revolution, this order, once so revered, has finally sunk into the casual retention of a harper, piper, or fiddler, which are generally, but not universally to be found in the houses of the Irish country gentlemen; as you have yourself witnessed in the castle of Inismore and the hospitable mansion of the O’D————s. One circumstance, however, I must mention to you. Although Ulster was never deemed poetic ground, yet when destruction threatened the bardic order in the southern and western provinces, where their insolence, nurtured by false indulgence, often rendered them an object of popular antipathy, hither they fled for protection, and at different periods found it from the northern princes: and Ulster, you perceive, is now the last resort of the most ancient of the survivors of the ancient Irish bards, who, after having imbibed inspiration in the classic regions of Connaught, and effused his national strains through every province of his country, draws forth the last feeble tones of his almost silenced harp amidst the chilling regions of the north; almost unknown and undistinguished, except by the few strangers who are led by chance or curiosity to this hut, and from whose casual bounties he chiefly derives his subsistence.â€
We had now reached the door of our auberge; and the dog of the house jumping on me as I alighted, our hostess exclaimed, “Ah sir! our wee doggie kens ye uncoo weel†Is not this the language of the Isle of Sky? The priest left me early this morning on his evidently unpleasant embassy. On his return we visit the Giant’s Causeway, which I understand is but sixteen miles distant. Of this pilgrimage to the shrine of Nature in her grandest aspect, I shall tell you nothing; but when we meet will put into your hands a work written on the subject, from which you will derive equal pleasure and instruction. At this moment the excellent priest appears on his little nag; the rain no longer beats against my casement; the large drops suspended from the foliage of the trees sparkle with the beams of the meridian sun, which bursting forth in cloudless radiancy, dispels the misty shower, and brilliantly lights up the arch of heaven’s promise. Would you know the images now most buoyant in my cheered bosom; they are Ossian and Glorvina: it is forhimto describe, forherto feel the renovating charms of this interesting moment.
Adieu! I shall grant you a reprieve till we once more reach the dear ruins of Inismore.
Plato compares the soul to a small republic, of which the reasoning and judging powers are stationed in the head as in a citadel, and of which the senses are the guards or servants.
Alas! my dear friend, this republic is with me all anarchy and confusion, and its guards, disordered and overwhelmed, can no longer afford it protection. I would be calm, and give a succinct account of my return to Inismore; but impetuous feelings rush over the recollection of trivial circumstances, and all concentrate on that fatal point which transfixes every thought, every motion of my soul.
Suffice it to say, that our second reception at the mansion of the O’D’s had lost nothing of that cordiality which distinguished our first; but neither the cheerful kindness of the parents, nor the blandishments of the charming daughters could allay that burning impatience which fired my bosom to return to Glorvina, after the tedious absence of five long days. All night I tossed on my pillow in the restless agitation of expected bliss, and with the dawn of that day on which I hoped once more to taste “the life of life,†I arose and flew to the priests room to chide his tardiness. Early as it was I found he had already left his apartment, and as I turned from the door to seek him, I perceived a written paper lying on the floor. I took it up, and, carelessly glancing my eye over it, discovered that it was a receipt from the Prince’s inexorable creditor, who (as Father John informed me) refused to take the farm off his hands: but what was my amazement to find that this receipt was an acknowledgment for those jewels which I had so often seen stealing their lustre from Glorvina’s charms; and which were now individually mentioned, and given in lieu of the rent for this very farm, by which the Prince was so materially injured. The blood boiled in my veins, I could have annihilated this rascally cold-hearted landlord; I could have wept on the neck of the unfortunate Prince; I could have fallen at the feet of Glor-vina and worshipped her as the first of the Almighty’s works. Never in the midst of all my artificial wants, my boundless and craving extravagance, did I ever feel the want of riches as at this moment, when a small part of what I had so worthlessly flung away, would have saved the pride of a noble, an indignant spirit from a deep and deadly wound and spared the heart of filial solicitude and tender sensibility, many a pang or tortured feelings. The rent of the farm was a hundred pounds per annum. The Prince, I understood, was three years in arrear; yet, though there were no diamonds, and not many pearls, I should suppose the jewels were worth more than the sum for which they were given. *
While I stood burning with indignation, the paper still trembling in my hand, I heard the footstep of the priest; I let fall the paper; he advanced, snatched it up, and put it in his pocket-book, with an air of self-reprehension that determined me to conceal the knowledge so accidentally acquired. Having left our adieux for our courteous hosts with one of the young men, we at last set out for Inismore. The idea of so soon meeting my soul’s precious Glorvina, banished every idea less delightful.
* I have been informed that a descendant of the provincialkings of Connaught parted not many years back with hisgolden crown which for so many ages encircled the royalbrows of his ancestors.
“Our meeting (said I) will be attended with a new and touching interest, the sweet result of thatperfectintelligence which now for the first time subsisted between us, and which stole its birth from that tender and delicious glance which love first bestowed on me beneath the cypress tree of the rustic cemetery.â€
Already I beheld the “air-lifted†figure of Glorvina floating towards me. Already I felt the soft hands tremble in mine, and gazed on the deep suffusion of her kindling blushes, the ardent welcome of her bashful eyes, and all that dissolving and impassioned langour, with which she would resign herself to the sweet abandonment of her soul’s chastened tenderness, and the fullest confidence in that adoring heart which had now unequivocally assured her of its homage and eternal fealty. In short, I had resolved to confess my name and rank to Glorvina, to offer her my hand, and to trust to the affection of our fond and indulgent fathers for forgiveness.
Thus warmed by the visions of my heated fan cy I could no longer stifle my impatience; and when we were within seven miles of the castle I told the priest, who was ambling slowly on, that I would be hisavant-courier, and clapping spurs to my horse soon lost sight of my tardy companion.
At the draw-bridge I met one of the servants to whom I gave the panting animal, and flew, rather than walked, to the castle. At its portals stood the old nurse; she almost embraced me, and I almost returned the caress; but with a sorrowful countenance she informed me that the Prince was dangerously ill, and had not left his bed since our departure;that things altogether were going on but poorly; and that she was surethe sightof me would do her young lady’s heart good, for that she did nothing but weep all day, and sit by her father’s bed all night. She then informed me that Glorvina was alone in the boudoir. With a thousand pulses fluttering at my breast, full of the idea of stealing on the melancholy solitude of my pensive love, with a beating heart and noiseless step, I approached the sacred asylum of innocence. The door lay partly open; Glorvina was seated at a table, and apparently engaged in writing a letter, I paused a moment for breath ere I advanced. Glorvina at the same instant raised her head from the paper, read over what she had written, and wept bitterly; then wrote again—paused, sighed, and drew a letter from her bosom—(yes, her bosom) which she perused, often waving her head, and sighing deeply, and wiping away the tears that dimmed her eyes, while once a cherub smile stole on her lip (that smileI once thoughtallmy own;) then folding up the letter, she pressed it to her lips, and consigning it to her bosom, exclaimed, “First and best of men!†What else she murmured I could not distinguish; but as if the perusal of this prized letter had renovated every drooping spirit, she ceased to weep, and wrote with greater earnestness than before.
Motionless, transfixed, I leaned for support against the frame of the door, until Glorvina, having finished her letter and sealed it, arose to depart; then I had the presence of mind to steal away and conceal myself in a dark recess of the corridor. Yet, though unseen, I saw her wipe away the traces of her tears from her cheek, and pass me with a composed and almost cheerful air. I softly followed, and looking down the dark abyss of the steep well stairs, which she rapidly descended, I perceived her put her letter in the hands of the little post-boy, who hurried away with it. Impelled by the impetuous feelings of the moment I was—yes, I was so far forgetful of myself, my principle, and pride, of every sentiment save love and jealousy, that I was on the point of following the boy, snatching the letter, and learning the address of this mysterious correspondent, this “First and best of men.†But the natural dignity of my vehement, yet undebased mind, saved me a meanness I should never have forgiven: for what right had I forcibly to possess myself of another’s secret? I turned back to a window in the corridor and beheld Glor-vina’s little herald mounted on his mule riding off, while she, standing at the gate, pursued him with that impatient look so strongly indicative of her ardent character. When he was out of sight she withdrew, and the next minute I heard her stealing towards her father’s room. Unable to bear her presence, I flew to mine; that apartment I had lately occupied with a heart so redolent of bliss—a heart that now sunk beneath the unexpected blow which crushed all its new-born hopes, and I feared annihilated forever its sweet but shortlived felicity. “And is this, then,†I exclaimed, “the fond re-union my fancy painted in such glowing colours?†God of heaven! at the very moment when my thoughts and affections, forced for a tedious interval from the object of their idolatry, like a compressed spring set free, bounded with new vigour to their native bias. Yet was not the disappointment of my own individual hope scarcely more agonizing than the destruction of that consciousness which, in giving one perfect being to my view, redeemed the species in my misanthropic opinion.
“O Glorvina!†I passionately added, “if even thou, fair being, reared in thy native wilds and native solitudes art deceptive, artful, imposing, deep, deep in all the wiles of hypocrisy, then is the original sin of our nature unredeemed; vice the innate principle of our being—and those who preach the existence of virtue but idle dreamers who fancy that in others to themselves unknown And yet, sweet innocent, if thou art more sinned against than sinning if the phantoms of a jealous brain—oh! ’tis impossible! The ardent kiss impressed upon the senseless paper, which thy breast enshrined!!! Was the letter of a friend thus treasured? When was the letter of a friend thus answered with tears, with smiles, with blushes, and with sighs? This, this is love’s own language. Besides, Glorvina is not formed for friendship; the moderate feelings of her burning soul are already divided in affection for her father, and grateful esteem for her tutor; and she who, when loved, must be loved to madness, will scarcely feel less passion than she inspires.â€
While thought after thought thus chased each other down, like the mutinous billows of a stormy ocean, I continued pacing my chamber with quick and heavy strides; forgetful that the Prince’s room lay immediately beneath me. Ere that thought occurred, some one softly opened the door. I turned savagely round—it was Glorvina! Impulsively I rushed to meet her; but impulsively recoiled: while she, with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, sprung towards me, and by my sudden retreat would have fallen at my feet, but that my willing arms extended involuntarily to receive her. Yet, it was no longer the almost sacred person of the once all-innocent, all-ingenuous Glorvina they encircled; but still they twined round the loveliest form, the most charming, the most dangerous of human beings The enchantress!—With what exquisite modesty she faintly endeavoured to extricate herself from my embrace, yet with what willing weakness, which seemed to triumph in its own debility, she panted on my bosom, wearied by the exertion which vainly sought her release. Oh! at that moment the world was forgotten—the whole universe was Glorvina! My soul’s eternal welfare was not more precious at that moment than Glorvina! while my passion seemed now to derive its ardour from the overflowing energy of those bitter sentiments which had preceded its revival. Glorvina, with an effort, flung herself from me. Virtue, indignant yet merciful, forgiving while it arraigned, beamed in her eyes. I fell at her feet;
I pressed her hand to my throbbing temples and burning lips. “Forgive me,†I exclaimed, “for I know not what I do.†She threw herself on a seat, and covered her face with her hands, while the tears trickled through her fingers. Oh! there was a time when tears from those eyes—but now they only recalled to my recollection the last I had seen her shed. I started from her feet and walked towards the window, near that couch where her watchful and charitable attention first awakened the germ of gratitude and love which has since blown into such full, such fatal existence. I leaned my head against the window-frame for support, its painful throb was so violent; I felt as though it were lacerating in a thousand places; and the sigh which involuntarily breathed from my lips seemed almost to burst the heart from whence it flowed.
Glorvina arose: with an air tenderly compassionate, yet reproachful, she advanced and took one of my hands. “My dear friend,†she exclaimed, “what is the matter? has anything occurred to disturb you, or to awaken this extraordinary emotion? Father John! where is he? why does he not accompany you? Speak!—does any new misfortune threaten us? does it touch my father? Oh! in mercy sayit does not!but release me from the torture of suspense.â€
“No, no,†I peevishly replied; “set your heart at rest, it is nothing; nothing at least that concerns you; it is me, me only it concerns.â€
“And therefore, Mortimer, is it nothing to Glorvina,†she softly replied, and with one of those natural motions so incidental to the simplicity of her manners, she threw her hand on my shoulder, and leaning her head on it raised her eloquent, her tearful eyes to mine. Oh! while the bright drops hung upon her cheek’s faded rose, with what difficulty I restrained the impulse that tempted me to gather them with my lips; while she, like a ministering angel, again took my hand, and applying her fingers to my wrist, said, with a sad smile, “You know I am a skilful little doctress.â€
The feelings I experienced when those lovely fingers first applied their pressure to my arm, rushed on my recollection: her touch had lost nothing of its electric power: my emotions at that moment were indescribable.
“Oh, good God, how ill you are!†she exclaimed. “How wild your pulse; how feverish your looks! You have overheated yourself; you were unequal to such a journey in such weather; you who have been so lately an invalid. I beseech you to throw yourself on the bed, and endeavour to take some repose; meantime I will send my nurse with some refreshment to you. How could I be so blind as not to see at once how ill you were!â€
Glad, for the present, of any pretext to conceal the nature of my real disorder, I confessed I was indeed ill, (and, in fact, I wasphysicallyas well as morally so; for my last day’s journey brought on that nervous headach I have suffered so much from;) while she, all tender solicitude and compassion, flew to prepare me a composing draught. But I was not now to be deceived: this was pity, mere pity. Thus a thousand times have I seen her act by the wretches who were first introduced to her notice through the medium of that reputation which her distinguished humanity had obtained for her among the diseased and the unfortunate.
I had but just sunk upon the bed, overcome by fatigue and the vehemence of my emotions, when the old nurse entered the room. She said she had brought me a composing draught from the lady Glorvina, who had kissed the cup, after the old Irish fashion, * and bade me to drink it for her sake.
* To this ancient and general custom Goldsmith allude in hisDeserted Village:—=
“And kissed the cup to pass it to the rest.â€
“Then I pledge her,†said I, “with the same truth she did me,†and I eagerly quaffed off the nectar her hand had prepared. Meantime the nurse took her station by the bed-side with some appropriate reference to her former attendance there, and the generosity with which that attendance was rewarded; for I had imprudently apportioned my donation rather to my real than apparent rank.
While I was glad that this talkative old woman had fallen in my way; for though I knew I had nothing to hope from that incorruptible fidelity which was grounded on her attachment to her beloved nursling, and her affection for the family she had so long served, yet I had everything to expect from the garrulous simplicity of her character, and her love of what she callsSeanachus, or telling long stories of the Inismore family; and while I was thinking how I should put my Jesuitical scheme into execution, and she was talking as usual I know not what, the beautiful “Breviare du Sentiment†caught my eye lying on the floor:—Glorvina must have dropped it on her first entrance. I desired the nurse to bring it to me; who blessed her stars, and wondered how her child could be so careless: a thing too she valued so much. At that moment it struck me that thisBrevaire, the furniture of theboudoir, the vases, and the fragment of a letter, were all connected with this mysterious friend, this “first and best of men.†I shuddered as I held it, and forgot the snow-drops it contained; yet, assuming a composure as I examined its cover, I asked the nurse if she thought I could procure such another in the next market town.
The old woman held her sides while she laughed at the idea; then folding her arms on her knees with that gossiping air which she always assumed when in a mood peculiarly loquacious, she assured me that such a book could not be got in all Ireland; for that it had come from foreign parts to her young lady.
“And who sent it?†I demanded.
“Why, nobody sent it, (she simply replied,) he brought it himself.â€
“Who?†said I.
She stammered and paused.
“Then, I suppose,†she added, “of course, you never heardâ€â€”—-
“What?†I eagerly asked, with an air of curiosity and amazement. As these are two emotions a common mind is most susceptble of feeling and most anxious to excite, I found little difficulty in artfully leading on the old woman by degrees, till at last I obtained from her, almost unawares to herself, the following particulars:
On a stormy night, in the spring of 17——, during that fatal period when the scarcely cicatrised wounds of this unhappy country bled afresh beneath the uplifted sword of civil contention; when the bonds of human amity were rent asunder, and every man regarded his neighbour with suspicion or considered him with fear; a stranger of noble stature, muffled in a long, dark cloak, appeared in the great hall of Inismore, and requested an interview with the Prince. The Prince had retired to rest, and being then in an ill state of health, deputed his daughter to receive the unknown visitant, as the priest was absent. The stranger was shown into an apartment adjoining the Prince’s, where Glorvina received him, and having remained for some time with him retired to her father’s room; and again, after a conference of some minutes, returned to the stranger, whom she conducted to the Prince’s bedside. On the same night, and after the stranger had passed two hours in the Prince’s chamber, the nurse received orders to prepare the bed and apartment which I now occupy for this mysterious guest, who from that time remained near three months at the castle; leaving it only occasionally for a few days, and always departing and returning under the veil of night.
The following summer he repeated his visit; bringing with him those presents which decorate Glorvina’s boudoir, except the carpet and vases, which were brought by a person who disappeared as soon as he had left them. During both these visits he gave up his time chiefly to Glorvina; reading to her, listening to her music, and walking with her early and late, but never without the priest or nurse, and seldom during the day.
In short, in the furor of the old woman’s garrulity, (who, however, discovered that her own information had not been acquired by the most justifiable means, having, she said, by chance, overheard a conversation which passed between the stranger and the Prince,) I found that this mysterious visitant was some unfortunate gentleman who had attached himself to the rebellious faction of the day, and who being pursued nearly to the gates of the castle of Inismore, had thrown himself on the mercy of the Prince; who, with that romantic sense of honour which distinguishes his chivalrous character, had not violated the trust thus forced on him, but granted an asylum to the unfortunate refugee; who, by the most prepossessing manners and eminent endowments, had dazzled the fancy and won the hearts of this unsuspecting and credulous family; while over the minds of Glorvina and her father he had obtained a boundless influence.
The nurse hinted that she believed it was still unsafe for the stranger to appear in this country for that he was more cautious of concealing himself in his last visit than his first; that she believed he lived in England; that he seemed to have money enough, “for he threw it about like a prince.†Not a servant in the castle, she added, but knew well enough how it was; but there was not one but would soonerdiethan betray him. His name she did not know; he was only known by the appellation of the gentleman. He was not young, but tall and very handsome. He could not speak Irish, and she had reason to think he had lived chiefly in America. She added, thatIoften reminded her of him, especially when I smiled and looked down. She was not certain whether he was expected that summer or not; but she believed the Prince frequently received letters from him.
The old woman was by no means aware how deeply she had been betrayed by her insatiate passion for hearing herself speak; while the curious and expressive idiom of her native tongue gave me more insight into the whole business than the most laboured phrase or minute detail could have done. By the time, however, she had finished her narrative, she began to have some “compunctious visitings of conscience.†she made me pass my honour I would not betray her to her young lady; for, she added, that if it got air it might come to the ears of Lord M———— who was the prince’s bitter enemy; and that it might be the ruin of the Prince; with a thousand other wild surmises suggested by her fears. I again repeated my assurances of secrecy; and the sound of her young lady’s bell summoning her to the Prince’s room, she left me, not forgetting to take with her the “Breviare du Sentiment.â€
Again abandoned to my wretched self, the succeeding hour was passed in such a state of varied perturbation, that it would be as torturing to retrace my agonizing and successive reflections as it would be impossible to express them. In short, after a thousand vague conjectures, many to the prejudice, and a lingering few to the advantage of their object, I was led to believe (fatal conviction!) that the virgin rose of Glorvina’s affection had already shed its sweetness on a former, happier lover; and the partiality I had flattered myself in having awakened, was either the result of natural intuitive coquetry, or, in the long absence of her heart’s first object, a transient beam of that fire, which once illumined, is so difficult to extinguish, and which was nourished by my resemblance to him who had first fanned it into life.—What!Ireceive to my heart the faded spark, while another has basked in the vital flame!Icontentedly gather this after-blow of tenderness, when another has inhaled the very essence of the nectarious blossoms? No! like the suffering mother, who wholly resigned her bosom’s idol rather than divide it with another, I will, with a single effort, tear this late adored image from my heart, though that heart break with the effort, rather than feed on the remnant of those favours on which another has already feasted. Yet to be thus deceived by a recluse, a child, a novice!—Iwho, turning revoltingly from the hackneyed artifices of female depravity in that world where art forever reigns, sought in the tenderness of secluded innocence and intelligent simplicity that heaven my soul had so long, so vainly panted to enjoy! Yet, even there—No! I cannot believe it She! Glofvina, false, deceptive! Oh, were the immaculate spirit ofTruthembodied in a human form, it could not wear upon its radient brow a brighter, stronger trace of purity inviolable, and holy innocence than shines in the seraph countenance of Glorvina!
Besides, she neversaidshe loved me.Said!—God of heaven! were words then necessary for such anavowal!Oh, Glorvina! thy melting glances, thy insidious smiles, thy ardent blushes, thy tender sighs, thy touching softness, and delicious tears; these, these are the sweet testimonies to which my heart appeals. These at least will speak for me, and say it was not the breath of vain presumption that nourished those hopes which now, in all their vigour, perish by the chilling blight of well-founded jealousy and mortal disappointment.
Two hours have elapsed since the nurse left me, supposing me to be asleep; no one has intruded, and I have employed the last hour in retracing to you the vicissitudes of this eventful day. You, who warned me of my fate, should learn the truth of your fatal prophecy. My father’s too; but he is avenged! and I have already expiated a deception, which, however innocent, was stilldeception.
I had written thus far, when some one tapped at my door, and the next moment the priest entered: he was not an hour arrived, and with his usual kindness came to inquire after my health, expressing much surprise at its alteration, which he said was visible in my looks. “But, it is scarcely to be wondered at,†he added: “a man who complains for two days of a nervous disorder, and yet gallops, as if for life, seven miles in a day more natural to the torrid zone than our polar clime, may have some chance of losing his life, but very little oflosing his disorder.†He then endeavoured to persuade me to go down with him and take some refreshment, for I had tasted nothing all day, save Glorvina’s draught; but finding me averse to the proposal, he sat with me till he was sent for to the Prince’s room. As soon as he was gone, with that restlessness of body which ever accompanies a wretched mind, I wandered through the deserted rooms of this vast and ruinous edifice, but saw nothing of Glorvina.
The sun had set, all was gloomy and still, I took my hat and in the melancholy maze of twilight, wandered I knew not, cared not whither. I had not, however, strayed far from the ruins, when I perceived the little postboy galloping his foaming mule over the drawbridge, and the next moment saw Glorvina gliding beneath the colonnade (that leads to the chapel) to meet him. I retreated behind a fragment of the ruins, and observed her to take a letter from his hand with an eager and impatient air: when she had looked at the seal, she pressed it to her lips: then by the faint beams of the retreating light, she opened this welcome packet, and putting an enclosed letter in her bosom, endeavoured to read the envelope; but scarcely had her eye glanced over it, than it fell to the earth, while she, covering her face with her hands, seemed to lean against the broken pillar near which she stood for support. Oh! was this an emotion of overwhelming bliss, or chilling disappointment? She again took the paper, and still holding it open in her hand, with a slow step and thoughtful air, returned to the castle; while I flew to the stables under pretence of inquiring from the post-boy if there were any letters for me. The lad said there was but one, and that, the postmaster had told him was an English one for the lady Glorvina. This letter, then, though it could not have been an answer to that I had seen her writing, was doubtless from the mysterious friend, whose friendship, “like gold, though not sonorous, was indestructible.â€
My doubts were now all lost in certain conviction; my trembling heart no longer vibrated between a lingering hope and a dreadful fear. I wasdeceivedand another wasbeloved. That sort of sullen firm composure, which fixes on man when he knows the worst that can occur, took possession of every feeling, and steadied that wild throb of insupportable suspense which had agitated and distracted my veering soul; while the only vacillation of mind to which I was sensible, was the uncertainty of whether I should or should not quit the castle that night. Finally, I resolved to act with the cool determination of a rational being, not the wild impetuosity of a maniac. I put off my departure till the following morning, when I would formally take leave of the Prince, the priest, and even Glorvina herself, in the presence of her father. Thus firm and decided, I returned to the castle, and mechanically walked towards that vast apartment where I had first seen her at her harp, soothing the sorrows of parental affliction; but now it was gloomy and unoccupied; a single taper burned on a black marble slab before a large folio, in which I suppose the priest had been looking; the silent harp of Glorvina stood in its usual place. I fled to the great hall, once the central point of all our social joys, but it was also dark and empty; the whole edifice seemed a desert. I again rushed from its portals, and wandered along the sea-beat shore, till the dews of night and the spray of the swelling tide, as it broke against the rocks, had penetrated through my clothes. I saw the light trembling in the casement of Glorvina’s chamber long after midnight. I heard the castle clock fling its peal over every passing hour; and not till the faintly awakening beam of the horizon streamed on the eastern wave, did I return through the castle’s ever open portals, and steal to that room I was about to occupy (not to sleep in) for the last time: a light and some refreshment had been left there for me in my absence. The taper was nearly burned out, but by its expiring flame I perceived a billet lying on the table. I opened it tremblingly. It was from Glor-vina, and only a simple inquiry after my health, couched in terms of commonplace courtesy. I tore it—it was the first she had ever addressed to me, and yet I tore it in a thousand pieces. I threw myself on the bed, and for some time busied my mind in conjecturing whether her father sanctioned or her preceptor suspected her attachment to this fortunate rebel. I was almost convinced they did not. The young, the profound deceiver; she whom I had thought
“So green in this old world.â€
Wearied by incessant cogitation, I at last fell into a deep sleep, and arose about two hours back, harassed by dreams and quite unrefreshed, since when I have written thus far. My last night’s resolution remains unchanged. I have sent my compliments to inquire after the Prince’s health, and to request an interview with him. The servant has this moment returned, and informs me the Prince has just fallen asleep after having had a very bad night, but that when he awakens he shall be told of my request. I dared not mention Glorvina’s name, but the man informed me she was then sitting by her father’s bedside, and had not attended matins. At breakfast I mean to acquaint the excellent Father John of my intended departure. Oh! how much of the woman at this moment swells in my heart. There is not a being in this family in whom I have not excited, and for whom I do not feel an interest. Poor souls! they have almost all been at my room door this morning to inquire after my health, owing to the nurse’s exaggerated account: she too, kind creature, has already been twice with me before I arose, but I affected sleep. Adieu! I shall despatch this to you from M———— house. I shall then have seen the castle of Inismore for the last time—the last time!!
M———— House.
It is all over—the spell is dissolved, and the vision forever vanished: yet my mind is not what it was, ere this transient dream of bliss “wrapt it in Elysium.†Then I neither suffered nor enjoyed: now—!
When I folded my letter to you, I descended to breakfast, but the priest did not appear, and the things were removed untouched. I ordered my horse to be got ready, and waited all the day in expectation of a message from the Prince, loitering, wandering, unsettled, and wretched, the hours dragged on; no message came: I fancied I was impatient to receive it, and to be gone; but the truth is, my dear friend, I was weak enough almost to rejoice at the detention. While I walked from room to room with a book in my hand, I saw no one but the servants, who looked full of mystery; save once, when, as I stood at the top of the corridor, I perceived Glorvina leave her father’s room; she held a handkerchief to her eyes, and passed on to her own apartment. Oh! why did I not fly and wipe away those tears, inquire their source, and end at once the torture of suspense? but I had not power to move. The dinner hour arrived; I was sum moned to the parlour; the priest met me at the table, shook me with unusual cordiality by the hand, and affectionately inquired after my health. He then became silent and thoughtful, and had the air of a man whose heart and office are at variance; who is deputed with a commission his feelings will not suffer him to execute. After a long pause, he spoke of the Prince’s illness, the uneasiness of his mind, the unpleasant state of his affairs, his attachment and partiality to me, and his ardent wish always to have it in his power to retain me with him; then paused again, and sighed, and again endeavoured to speak, but failed in the effort. I now perfectly understood the nature of his incoherent speech; my pride served as an interpreter between his feelings and my own, and I was determined to save his honest heart the pang of saying, “Go, you are no longer a welcome guest.â€
I told him then in a few words, that it was my intention to have left the castle that morning for Bally————, on my way to England; but that I waited for an opportunity of bidding farewell to the Prince: as that, however, seemed to be denied me, I begged that he (Father John) would have the goodness to say for me all———. Had my life depended on it, I could not articulate another word. The priest arose in evident emotion. I, too, not unagitated, left my seat: the good man took my hand, and pressed it affectionately to his heart, then turned aside, I believe, to conceal the moisture of his eyes; nor were mine dry, yet they seemed to burn in their sockets. The priest then put a paper in the hand he held, and again pressing it with ardour, hurried away. I trembled as I opened it; it was a letter from the Prince, containing a bank note, a plain ring which he constantly wore, and the following lines written with the trembling hand of infirmity or emotion:
“Young and interesting Englishman, farewell! Had I not knownthee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me witha son.“O’Melville,“Prince of Inismore.â€
I sunk, overcome in a chair. When I could sufficiently command myself, I wrote with my pencil on the cover of the Prince’s letter the following incoherent lines:
“You owemenothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and all that couldoncerender life desirable. With existence only will the recollection of your kindness be lost; yet though generously it was unworthily bestowed; for it was lavished on anImpostor. I am not what I seem: To become an inmate in your family, to awaken an interest in your estimation, I forfeited the dignity of truth, and stooped for the first time to the meanness of deception. Your money, therefore, I return, but your ring—that ring so often worn by you—worlds would not tempt me to part with.
“I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my heart! but since I have been your guest,he, the whole world was forgotten. The first tie of nature was dissolved; and from your hands I seemed to have received a new existence. Best and most generous of men, be this recollection present to your heart: Should some incident as yet unforeseen discover to you who and what I am, remember this—and then forgive him, who, with the profoundest sense of your goodness, bids you a last farewell.â€
When I had finished these lines written with an emotion that almost rendered them illegible, I rung the bell and inquired (from the servant who answered) for the priest: he said he was shut up in the Prince’s room.
“Alone, with the Prince?†said I.
“No,†he returned, “for he had seen the lady Glorvina enter at the same time with Father John.†I did not wish to trust the servant with this open billet, I did not wish the Prince to get it till I was gone: in a word, though I was resolved to leave the castle that evening, yet I did not wish to go, till, for the last time, I had seen Glorvina.
I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. “Suffer me to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore forever.†As I was putting the billet into the man s hand, the stable-boy passed the window; I threw up the sash and ordered him to lead round my horse. All this was done with the agitation of mind which a criminal feels who hurries on his execution, to terminate the horrors of suspense.
I continued walking up and down the room in such agony of feeling, that a cold dew, colder than ice, hung upon my aching brow. I heard a footstep approach—I became motionless; the door opened, and the priest appeared, leading in Glorvina. God of Heaven! The priest supported her on his arm, the veil was drawn over her eyes; I could not advance to meet them, I stood spellbound,—they both approached; I had not the power to raise my eyes. “You sent for me,†said the priest, in a faltering accent. I presented him my letter for the Prince; suffocation choked my utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom, and taking my hand, said, “You must not think of leaving this evening; the Prince will not hear of it.†While he spoke my horse passed the window; I summoned up those spirits my pride, my wounded pride, retained in its service. “It is necessary I should depart immediately,†said I, “and the sultriness of the weather renders the evening preferable.†I abruptly paused—I could not finish the sentence, simple as it was.
“Then,†said the priest, “anyevening will do as well as this.†But Glorvina spoke not; and I answered with vehemence, that I should have been off long since: and my determination is now fixed.
“If you are thuspositive,†said the priest, surprised by a manner so unusual, “your friend, your pupil here, who came to second her father’s request, must change her solicitations to a last farewell.â€
Glorvina’s head reposed on his shoulder; her face was enveloped in her veil; he looked on her with tenderness and compassion, and I repeated, a “last farewell!†Glorvina, you will at least then say, “Farewell.†The veil fell from her face. God of Heaven, what a countenance! In the universe I saw nothing but Glorvina; such as I had once believed her, my own, my loving and beloved Glorvina, my tender friend, and impassioned mistress. I fell at her feet; I seized her hands and pressed them to my burning lips. I heard her stifled sobs; her tears of soft compassion fell upon my cheek; I thought them tears of love, and drew her to my breast; but the priest held her in one arm, while with the other he endeavoured to raise me, exclaiming in violent emotion, “O God, I should have foreseen this! I, I alone am to blame. Excellent and unfortunate young man, dearly beloved child!†and at the same moment he pressed us both to his paternal bosom. The heart of Glorvina throbbed to mine, our tears flowed together, our sighs mingled. The priest sobbed over us like a child. It was a blissful agony; but it was insupportable.
Then to have died would have been most blessed The priest dispelled the transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He stifled the voice of nature and pity in his breast. His air was sternly virtuous—“Go,†said he, but he spoke in vain. I still clung to the drapery of Glorvina’s robe; he forced me from her, and she sunk on a couch. “I now,†he added, “behold the fatal error to which I have been an unconscious accessary. Thank God, it is retrievable; go, amiable, but imprudent young man; it is honour, it is virtue commands your departure.â€
While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall. “Stay,†said I, in a faint voice, “let me but speak to her.â€
“It is in vain,†replied the inexorable priest, “for she canneverbe yours; then spareher, spareyourself.â€
“Never!†I exclaimed.
“Never,†he firmly replied.
I burst from his grasp and flew to Glorvina. I snatched her to my breast and wildly cried, “Glorvina, is this then a last farewell?†She answered not, but her silence was eloquent. “Then,†said I, pressing her more closely to my heart, “farewell forever!â€
I mounted the horse that waited for me at the door, and galloped off; but with the darkness of the night I returned, and all night I wandered about the environs of Inismore: to the last I watched the light of Glorvina’s window. When it was extinguished, it seemed as though I parted from her again. A gray dawn was already breaking to the mists of obscurity. Some poor peasants were already going to the labours of the day. It was requisite I should go. Yet when I ascended the mountain of Inismore I involuntarily turned, and beheld those dear ruins which I had first entered under the influence of such powerful, such prophetic emotion. What a train of recollections rushed on my mind, what a climax did they form! I turned away my eyes, sick,sickatheart, and pursued my solitary journey. Within twelve miles of M———— house, as I reached an eminence, I again paused to look back, and caught a last view of the mountain of Inismore. It seemed to float like a vapour on the horizon. I took a last farewell of this almost loved mountain. Once it had risen on my gaze like the pharos to my haven of enjoyment; for never, until this sad moment, had I beheld it but with transport.
On my arrival here I found a letter from my father, simply stating that by the time it reached me he would probably be on his way to Ireland, accompanied by my intended bride, and her father, concluding thus: “In beholding you honourably and happily established, thus secure in a liberal, a noble independence, the throb of incessant solicitude you have hitherto awakened will at last bestilled, and your prudent compliance in this instance will bury in eternal oblivion the sufferings, the anxieties which, with all your native virtue and native talent, your imprudence has hitherto caused to the heart of an affectionate and indulgent father.â€
This letter, which even a few days back would have driven me to distraction, I now read with the apathy of a stoic. It is to me a matter of indifference how I am disposed of. I have no wish, no will of my own.
To the return of that mortal torpor from which a late fatally cherished sentiment had roused me, is now added the pang of my life’s severest disappointment, like the dying wretch who is only roused from total insensibility, by the quivering pains which, at intervals of fluttering life, shoot through his languid frame.
It is two days since I began this letter, yet I am still here; I have not power to move, though I know not what secret spell detains me. But whither shall I go, and to what purpose? the tie which once bound me to physical and moral good, to virtue and felicity, is broken, for ever broken. My mind is changed, dreadfully changed within these few days. I am ill too, a burning fever preys upon the very springs of life; all around me is solitary and desolate. Sometimes my brain seems on fire, and hideous phantoms float before my eyes; either my senses are disordered by indisposition, or the hand of heaven presses heavily on me. My blood rolls in torrents through my veins. Sometimes I think itshould, itmusthave vent. I feel it is in vain to think that I shall ever be fit for the discharge of any duty in this life. I shall hold a place in the creation to which I am a dishonour. I shall become a burthen to the few who are obliged to feel an interest in my welfare.
It is the duty of every one to do that which his situation requires, to act up to the measure of judgment bestowed on him by Providence. Should I continue to drag on this load of life, it would be for its wretched remnant a mere animal existence. A moral death! What! I become again like the plant I tread under my feet; endued with a vegetative existence, but destitute of all sensation of all feeling. I who have tasted heaven’s own bliss; who have known, oh God! that even the recollection, the simple recollection should diffuse through my chilled heart, through my whole languid frame such cheering renovating ardour.
I have gone over calmly, deliberately gone over every circumstance connected with the recent dream of my life. It is evident that the object of my heart’s first election is that of her father’s choice. Her passion for me, for I swear most solemnly she loved me: Oh, in that I could not be deceived; every look, every word betrayed it; her passion for me was a paroxysm. Her tender, her impassioned nature required some object to receive the glowing ebullitions of its affectionate feelings; and in the absence of another, in that unrestrained intimacy by which we were so closely associated; in that sympathy of pursuit which existed between us, they were lavished on me. I was the substituted toy of the moment. And shall I then sink beneath a woman’s whim, a woman’s infidelity, unfaithful to another as to me? I who, from my early days, have suffered by her arts and my own credulity? But what were all my sufferings to this? A drop of water to “the multitudinous ocean.†Yet in the moment of a last farewell she wept so bitterly! tears of pity! Pitied and deceived!
I am resolved I will offer myself an expiatory sacrifice on the altar of parental wrongs. The father whom I have deceived and injured shall be retributed. This moment I have received a letter from him, the most affectionate and tender; he is arrived in Dublin, and with him Mr. D———, and his daughter! It is well! If he requires it the moment of our meeting shall be that of my immolation. Some act of desperation wouldbenow most consonant to my soul!
Adieu.
Dublin.
Iam writing to you from the back-room of a noisy hotel in the centre of a great and bustling city: my only prospect the gloomy walls of the surrounding houses. What a contrast! Where now are those refreshing scenes on which my rapt gaze so lately dwelt—those wild sublimities of nature—the stupendous mountain, the Alpine cliff, the boundless ocean, and the smiling vale Where are those original and simple characters, those habits, those manners, to me at least so striking and so new?— All vanished like a dream!—
“The baseless fabric of a vision!â€
I arrived here late in the evening, and found my father waiting to receive me. Happily the rest of the party were gone to the theatre; for his agitation was scarcely less than my own. You know that, owing to our late misunderstanding, it is some months since we met. He fell on my neck and wept. I was quite overcome. He was shocked at my altered appearance, and his tenderest solicitudes were awakened for my health. I was so vanquished by his goodness, that more than once I was on the point of confessing all to him. It was my good angel checked the imprudent avowal: for what purpose could it now serve, but to render me more contemptible in his eyes, and to heighten his antipathy against those who have been in some degree the unconscious accessaries to my egregious folly and incurable imprudence. Butdoeshe feel an antipathy against the worthy Prince? Can it be otherwise? Have not all his conciliatory offers been rejected with scorn?—Yet to me he never mentioned the Prince’s name; this silence surprises me—long may it continue. I dare not trust myself. In your bosom only is the secret safely reposed.
As I had rode day and night since I left M————house, weariness and indisposition obliged me almost on my arrival to go to bed: my father sat by my side till the return of the party from the theatre. What plans for my future aggrandizement and happiness did his parental solicitude canvass and devise! the prospect of my brilliant establishment in life seems to have given him a new sense of being. On our return to England, I am to set up for the borough of —————. My talents are calculated for the senate: fame, dignity, and emolument, are to wait upon their successful exertion. I am to become an object of popular favour and royal esteem; and all this time, in the fancied triumph of his parental hopes, he sees not that the heart of their object is breaking.
Were you to hear him! were you to see him. What a father! what a man! Such intelligence—such abilities. A mind so dignified—a heart so tender! and still retaining all the ardour, all the enthusiasm of youth. In what terms he spoke of my elected bride! He indeed dwelt chiefly on her personal charms, and the simplicity of her unmodified character. Alas! I once found both united to genius and sensibility.
“How delightful, (he exclaimed) to form this young and ductile mind, to mould it to your desires, to breathe inspiration into this lovely image of primeval innocence, to give soul to beauty, and intelligence to simplicity; to watch the rising progress of your grateful efforts, and finally clasp to your heart that perfection you have yourself created.â€
And this was spoken with an energy, an enthusiasm, as though he had himself experienced all the pleasure he now painted for me. Happily, however, in the warmth of his own feelings, he perceived not the coldness, the torpidity of his son’s.
They are fast weaving for me the web of my destiny. I look on and take no part in the work. It is over—I have been presented in form. They say she is beautiful—it may be so;—but the blind man cannot be persuaded of the charms of the rose, when his finger is wounded by its thorns. She met me with some confusion, which was natural, considering she had been “won unsought.†Yet I thought it was the bashfulness of ahoyden, rather than that soul-born delicate bashfulness which I have seen accompanied with every grace. How few there are who do or can distinguish this in woman; yet in nature there is nothing more distinct than the modesty of sentiment and of constitution.
The father was, as usual, boisterously good-humoured, and vulgarly pleasant; he talked over our sporting adventures last winter, as if the topic were exhaustless. For my part, I was so silent, that my father looked uneasy, and I then made amends for my former taciturnity by talking incessantly, and on every subject, with vehemence and rapidity. A woman of common sense or common delicacy, would have been disgusted; but she is a child. They would fain drag me after them into public, but my plea of ill health has been received by my indulgent father. My gay young mistress seems already to consider me as her husband, and treats me accordingly with indifference. In short, she finds that love in the solitude of the country, and amidst the pleasures of the town, is a very different sentiment; yet her vanity, I believe, is piqued by my neglect; for to-day she said, when I excused myself from accompanying her to a morning concert, Oh! I should much rather have your father with me, he is the younger man of the two: I indeed never saw him in such health and spirits; he seems to tread on air. Oh! that he were my rival, my successful rival! In the present morbid state of my feelings I give in to every thing; but when it comes to a crisis, will this stupid acquiescence still befriend their wishes? Impossible!
I have had a short but extraordinary conversation with my father. Would you believe it? he has for some time back cherished an attachment of the tenderest nature; but to his heart, the interests of his children have ever been an object of the first and dearest concern. Having secured their establishment in life, and as he hopes and believes, effected their happiness, he now feels himself warranted in consulting his own. In short, he has given me to understand that there is a probability of his marriage with a very amiable and deserving person, closely following after my brother’s and mine. The lady’s name he refused to mention, until every thing was finally arranged; and whoever she is, I suspect her rank is inferior to her merits, for he said, “The world will call the union disproportioned—disproportioned in every sense; but I must in this instance, prefer the approval of my own heart to the world’s opinion.†He then added, (equivocally) that had he been able to follow me immediately to Ireland, as he had at first proposed, he would have related to me some circumstances of peculiar interest, but thatI should yet know alland seemed, I thought, to lament that disparity of character between my brother and him, which prohibited that flow of confidence his heart seems panting to indulge in. You know Edward takes no pains to conceal that he smiles at those ardent virtues in his father’s character, to which the phlegmatic temperament of his own gives the name ofromance.
The two fathers settle every thing as they please. A property which fell to my father a few weeks back, by the death of a rich maiden aunt, with every thing not entailed, he has made over to me, even during his life. Expostulation was in vain, he would not hear me:—for himself he has retained nothing but his purchased estates in Connaught, which are infinitely more extensive than that he possesses by inheritance. What if he resides at the Lodge, in the very neighbourhood of———? Oh! my good friend, I fear I am deceiving myself: I fear I am preparing for the heart of the best of fathers, a mortal disappointment. When the throes of wounded pride shall have subsided, when the resentments of a doat-ing, a deceived heart, shall have gradually abated, and the recollection of former blisses shall have soothed away the pangs of recent suffering; will I then submit to the dictates of an imperious duty, or resign myself unresisting to the influence of morbid apathy?
Sometimes my father fixes his eyes so tenderly on me, yet with a look as if he would search to the most secret folds of my heart. He has never once asked my opinion of my elected bride, who, gay and happy as the first circles of this dissipated city can make her, cheerfully receives the plea which ill health affords (attributed to a heavy cold) of not attending her in her pursuit of pleasure. The fact is, I am indeed ill; my mind and body seem declining together, and nothing in this world can give me joy, but the prospect of its delivery.
By this I suppose the mysterious friend is arrived. It was expedient, therefore, that I should be dismissed. By this I suppose she is....
So closely does my former weakness cling round my heart, that I cannot think of it without madness.
After having contemplated for a few minutes the sun’s cloudless radiancy, the impression left on the averted gaze is two dark spots, and the dazzled organ becomes darkened by a previous excess of lumination. It is thus with my mind; its present gloom is proportioned to its former light. Oh! it was too, too much! Rescued from that moral death, that sickbed satiety of feeling, that state of chill, hopeless existence, in which the torpid faculties were impalpable to every impression, when to breathe, to move, constituted all the powers of being: and then suddenly, as if by intervention of Providence (and what an agent did it appoint for the execution of its divine will!) raised to the summit of human thought, human feeling, human felicity, only again to be plunged in endless night. It was too much.
Good God! would you believe it! My father is gone to M———house, to prepare for the reception of the bridal party. We are to follow, and he proposes spending the summer there; there too, he says, my marriage with Miss D——— is to be celebrated; he wishes to conciliate the good will, not only of the neighbouring gentry, but of his tenantry in general, and thinks this will be a fair occasion. Well be it so; but I shall not hold myself answerable for the consequences: my destiny is in their hands—let them look to the result.
Since my father left us, I am of necessity obliged to pay some attention tohis friends; but I should be a mere automaton by the side of my gay mistress, did I not court an artificial flow of spirits, by means to me the most detestable. In short, I generally contrive to leave my senses behind me at the drinking table; or rather my reason and my spirits, profiting by its absence, are roused to boisterous anarchy: my bride (mybride!) is then quite charmed with my gaiety, and fancies she is receiving the homage of a lover, when she is insulted by the extravagance of a maniac; but she is a simple child, and her father is an insensible fool. God knows how little of my thoughts are devoted to either. Yet the girl is much followed for her beauty, and the splendid figure which the fortune of the father enables them to make, has procured them universal attention from persons of the first rank.
A thousand times the dream of short slumbers gives her to my arms as I last beheld her. A thousand times I am awakened from a heavy unrefreshing sleep by the fancied sound of her harp and voice. There was one old Irish air she used to sing like an angel, and in the idiom of her national music sighed out certain passages with a heart-breaking thrill, that used to rend my very soul! Well, this song I cannot send from my memory; it breathes around me, it dies upon my ear, and in the weakness of emotion I weep—weep like a child. Oh! this cannot be much longer endured. I have this moment received your letter; I feel all the kindness of your intention, but I must insist on your not coming over; it would now answer no purpose. Besides, a new plan of conduct has suggested itself. In a word, my father shall know all: my unfortunate adventure may come to his ears: it is best he should know it from myself. I will then resign my fate into his hands: surely he will not forget I am still his son. Adieu.
CONTENTS
CONCLUSION.