* Miss Brooks, in her elegant version of the works of someof the Irish Bards, says, “’Tis scarcely possible that anylanguage can be more adapted to lyric poetry than the Irish;so great is the smoothness and harmony of its numbers; it isalso possessed of a refined delicacy, a descriptive power,and an exquisite tender simplicity of expression: two orthree little artless words, or perhaps a single epithet,will sometimes convey such an image of sentiment orsuffering to the mind, that one lays down the book to lookat the picture.”** The King of England is called by the common Irish “RiaghSasseanach.”
This little song is of so ancient a date, that Glorvina assures me, neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitely beautiful) nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if we may judge of the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must have been of a very humble degree; for it is evident that the fair Cathbein, whose form is compared, in splendour, to that of the Saxon monarch, is represented as cutting wood for the fire.
The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modern Irish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composed them, possess theariosoelegance of Italian music, united to the heartfelt pathos of Irish melody.
* He was born in the village of Nobber, county of Westmeath,in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted the loss ofsight, but used gaily to say, “my eyes are only transplantedinto my ears.” Of his poetry, the reader may form somejudgment from these examples. Of his music, it has been saidby O’Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew himintimately, “so happy, so elevated was he in some of hiscompositions, that he excited the wonder, and obtained theapprobation of a great master who never saw him, I meanGeminiani.” His execution on the harp was rapid andexpressive—far beyond that of all the professionalcompetitors of the age in which he lived. The charms ofwomen, the pleasures of conviviality, and the power of poesyand music, were at once his theme and inspiration; and hislife was an illustration of his theory, for until his lastardour was chilled by death, he loved, drank and sung. Hewas a welcome guest to every house, from the peasant to theprince; but in the true wandering spirit of his profession,he never staid to exhaust that welcome.
“I must sing of the youthful plant of gentlest mien—Fanny, the beautiful and warm soul’d—the maid of the amber twisted ringlets; the air lifted and light footed virgin—the elegant pearl and heart’s treasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour—let us enjoy it in drinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.”
“It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of the shore—for whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful, whose tresses are like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like the blackbird’s morning song: O, may I never leave the world until dancing in the air (this expression in the Irish is beyond the power of translation) at her wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking to Fanny, the daughter of David.” *
* She was daughter to David Power, Esq., of the countyGalway, and mother to the late Lord Cloncarty. The epithetbestowed on her of “Swan of the shore,” arose from herfather’s mansion being situated on the edge of Lough Leah,or the grey lake, of which many curious legends are told.
“I delight to talk of thee! blossom of fairness! Gracy, the most frolicsome of the young and lovely—who from the fairest of the province bore away the palm of excellence—happy is he who is near her, for morning nor evening grief, nor fatigue, cannot come near him; her mien is like the mildness of a beautiful dawn; and her tresses flow in twisted folds—she is the daughter of the branches.—Her neck has the whiteness of alabaster—the softness of the cygnet’s bosom is hers; and the glow of the summer’s sunbeam is on her countenance. Oh! blessed is he who shall obtain thee, fair daughter of the blossoms—maid of the spiry locks!”
“Sweet is the word of her lip, and sparkling the beam of her blue rolling eye; and close round her neck cling the golden tresses of her head: and her teeth are arranged in beautiful order. I say to the maid of youthful mildness, thy voice is sweeter than the song of birds; every grace, every charm play round thee; and though my soul delights to sing thy praise, yet I must quit the theme—to drink with a sincere heart to thy health, Gracy of the soft waving ringlets.”
Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fair Gracy, recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, in his beautiful epithalamium on her marriage?—
“She is like the rising of the golden morning, when the night departeth, and when the winter is over and gone—she resembleth the cypress in the garden, the horse in the chariot of Thessaly.”
While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure which breathes over the termination of every verse, glows with the festive spirit of the Tean bard.
When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between the early Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with a smile, “In drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter my national vanity; but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesian poetry to a higher source than the spring of Grecian genius; for many figures in Irish song are of Oriental origin; and the bards who ennobled the train of our Milesian founders, and who awakened the soul of song here, seem, in common with the Greek poets, ‘to have kindled their poetic fires at those unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb of oriental genius.’ Let me, however, assure you, that no adequate version of an Irish poem can be given; for the peculiar construction of the Irish language, the felicity of its epithets, and force of its expressions, bid defiance to all translation.”
“But while your days and nights are thus devoted to Milesian literature,” you will say, “what becomes of Blackstone and Coke?”
Faith, e’en what may for me—the mind, the mind, like the heart, is not to be forced in its pursuits; and, I believe, in an intellectual, as in a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason may condemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana; and my present studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate the appetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to a profession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature revolts; and if my father persists in his determination, why, as adernier resort, I must turn historiographer to the prince of Inismore.——— Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “vital in every part:”
“All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear.
All intellect, all sense.”
The more I know of this singular girl, the more the happydiscordia consorsof her character awakens my curiosity and surprise. I never beheld such a union of intelligence and simplicity, infantine playfulness and profound reflection as her character exhibits. Sometimes when I think I am trifling with a child, I find I am conversing with a philosopher; and sometimes in the midst of the most serious and interesting conversation, some impulse of the moment seizes on her imagination, and a vein of frolic humour and playful sarcasm is indulged at the expense of my most sagacious arguments or philosophic gravity. Her reserve (unknown to herself) is gradually giving way to the most bewitching familiarity.
When the priest is engaged, I am suffered to tread with her the “pathless grass,” climb the mountain’s steep, or ramble along the sea-beat coast, sometimes followed by her nurse, and sometimes by a favourite little dog only.
Of nothing which concerns her country is she ignorant; and when a more interesting, a more soul-felt conversation, cannot be obtained, I love to draw her into a little national chit-chat.
Yesterday, as we were walking along the base of that mountain from which I first beheld her dear residence, (and sure I may say with Petrarch, “Benedetto sia il giorno e’l mese e’lanno,”) several groups of peasants (mostly females,) passed us, with their usual courteous salutations, and apparently dressed in their holiday garbs.
“Poor souls!” said Glorvina—“this is a day of jubilee to them, for a great annual fair is held in the neighbourhood.”
“But from whence,” said I “do they draw the brightness of those tints which adorn their coarse garments; those gowns and ribbons, that rival the gay colouring of that heath hedge; those bright blue and scarlet mantles? Are they, too, vestiges of ancient modes and ancient taste?”
“Certainly they are,” she replied, “and the colours which the Irish were celebrated for wearing and dyeing a thousand years back, are now most prevalent. In short, the ancient Irish, like the Israelites, were so attached to this many colouredcostume, that it became the mark by which the different classes of the people were distinguished. Kings were limited to seven colours in their royal robes; and six were allowed the bards. What an idea does this give of the reverence paid to superior talent in other times by our forefathers! But that bright yellow you now behold so universally worn, has been in all ages their favourite hue. Spenser thinks this custom came from the East; and Lord Bacon accounts for the propensity of the Irish to it, by supposing it contributes to longevity.”
“But where,” said I, “do these poor people procure so expensive an article as saffron, to gratify their prevailing taste?”
“I have heard Father John say,” she returned, “that saffron, as an article of importation, could never have been at any time cheap enough for general use. And I believe formerly, asnow, they communicated this bright yellow tinge with indigenous plants, with which this country abounds.
“See,” she added, springing lightly forward, and culling a plant which grew from the mountain’s side—“see this little blossom, which they call here, ‘yellow lady’s bed straw,’ and which you, as a botanist, will better recognize as theGalieens borum; it communicates a beautiful yellow; as does theLichen juniperinus, or ‘cypress moss,’ which you brought me yesterday; and I think therésida Leuteola, or ‘yellow weed,’ surpasses them all.” *
* Purple, blue, and green dyes, were introduced by Tighwmasthe Great, in the year of the world 2814. The Irish alsopossessed the art of dyeing a fine scarlet; so early as theday of St. Bennia, a disciple of St. Patrick, scarletclothes and robes high embroidered, are mentioned in thebaok of Glandelogh.
“In short, the botanical treasures of our country, though I dare say little known, are inexhaustible.
“Nay,” she continued, observing, I believe, the admiration that sparkled in my eyes, “give me no credit, I beseech you, for this local information, for there is not a peasant girl in the neighbourhood, but will tell you more on the subject.”
While she was thus dispensing knowledge with the most unaffected simplicity of look and manner, a group of boys advanced towards us, with a car laden with stones, and fastened to the back of an unfortunate dog, which they were endeavouring to train to this new species of canine avocation, by such unmerciful treatment as must have procured the wretched animal a speedy release from all his sufferings.
Glorvina no sooner perceived this, than she flew to the dog, and while the boys looked all amaze, effected his liberation, and by her caresses, endeavoured to soothe him into forgetfulness of his late sufferings; then, turning to the ringleader, she said:
“Dermot, I have so often heard you praised for your humanity to animals, that I can scarcely believe it possible that you have been accessory to the sufferings of this useful and affectionate animal; he is just as serviceable to society in his way, as you are in yours, and you are just as well able to drag a loaded cart as he is to draw that little car. Come now, I am not so heavy as the load you have destined him to bear, and you are much stronger than your dog, and now you shall draw me home to the castle; and then give me your opinion on the subject.”
In one moment his companions, laughing vociferously at the idea, had the stones flung out of the little vehicle, and fastened its harness on the broad shoulders of the half pouting, half smiling Dermot; and the next moment this little agile sylph was seated in the car.
Away went Dermot, dragged on by the rest of the boys, while Glorvina, delighted as a child with her new mode of conveyance, laughed with all her heart, and kissed her hand to me as she flew along; while I, trembling for her safety, endeavoured to keep pace with her triumphal chariot, till her wearied, breathless Phaeton, unable to run any further with his lovely, laughing burthen, begged a respite.
“How!” said she, “weary of this amusement, and yet you have not at every step been cruelly lashed like your poor dog.”
The panting Dermot hung his head, and said in Irish, “the like should not happen again.”
“It is enough,” said Glorvina, in the same language—“we are all liable to commit a fault, but let us never forget it is in our power to correct it. And now go to the castle where you shall have a good dinner, in return for the good and pleasant exercise you have procured me.”
The boys were as happy as kings. Dermot was unyoked, and the poor dog, wagging his tail in token of his felicity, accompanied the gratified group to the castle.
When Glorvina had translated to me the subject of her short dialogue with Dermot, she added, laughing, “Oh! how I should like to be dragged about this way for two or three hours every day: never do I enter into any little folly of this kind, that I do not sigh for those sweet hours of my childhood when I could play the fool with impunity.”
“Play the fool!” said I—“and do you call this playing the fool—this dispensation of humanity, this culture of benevolence in the youthful mind, these lessons of truth and goodness, so sweetly, so simply given?”
“Nay,” she returned, “you always seem inclined to flatter me into approbation of myself! but the truth is, I was glad to seize on the opportunity of lecturing that urchin Dermot, who, though I praised his humanity, is the very beadle to all the unfortunate animals in the neighbourhood. But I have often had occasion to remark, that, by giving a virtue to these neglected children which they do not possess, I have awakened their emulation to attain it.”
“To say that you are an angel,” said I, “is to say a very commonplace thing, which every man says to the woman he either does, or affects to admire; and yet”——
“Nay,”—interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm, and looking up full in my face with that arch glance I have so often caught revelling in her eloquent eye—“I am not emulous of a place in the angelic choir; canonization is more consonant to mypapisticalambition; then let me be your saint—your tutelar saint, and”—
“And let me,” interrupted I, impassionately, “let me, like the members of the Greek church, adore my saint, not by prostration, but by a kiss;”—and, for the first time in my life, I pressed my lips to the beautiful hand which still rested on my arm, and from which I first drew a glove that has not since left my bosom, nor been re-demanded by its charming owner.
This little freedom (which, to another, would have appeared nothing) was received with a degree of blushing confusion, that assured me it was the first of the kind ever offered; even the fair hand blushed its sense of my boldness, and enhanced the pleasure of the theft by the difficulty it promised of again obtaining a similar favour.
By heaven there is infection in the sensitive delicacy of this creature, which even my hardened confidence cannot resist.
Noprieux Chevalier, on being permitted to kiss the tip of his liege lady’s finger, after a seven years’ seige, could feel more pleasantly embarrassed than I did, as we walked on in silence, until we were happily relieved by the presence of the old garrulous nurse, who came out in search of her young lady—for, like the princesses in the Greek tragedies,myPrincess seldom appears without the attendance of this faithful representative of fond maternity.
For the rest of the walk she talked mostly to the nurse in Irish, and at the castle gate we parted—she to attend a patient, and I to retire to my own apartment, to ruminate on my morning’s ram ble with this fascinatinglusus naturo.
Adieu,
The drawing which I made of the castle is finished—the Prince is charmed with it, and Glorvina insisted on copying it. This was as I expected—as I wished; and I took care to finish it so minutely, that her patience (of which she has no great store) should soon be exhausted in the imitation, and I should have something more of her attention than she generally affords me at my drawing-desk.
Yesterday, in the absence of the priest, I read to her as she drew. After a thousand little symptoms of impatience and weariness—“here,” said she, yawning—“here is a straight line I can make nothing of—do you know, Mr. Mortimer, I never could draw a perpendicular line in my life. See now my pencilwillgo into a curve or an angle; so you must guide my hand, or I shall——”
I “guide her hand to draw a straight line!”
“Nay then,” said I, with the ostentatious gravity of a pedagogue master, “I may as well do the drawing myself.”
“Well then,” said she, playfully, “doit yourself.”
Away she flew to her harp; while I, half lamenting, half triumphing, in my forbearance, took her pencil and her seat. I perceived, however, that she had not even drawn a single line of the picture, and yet her paper was not a merecarte-blanche—for close to the margin was written in a fairy hand, ‘Henry Mortimer, April 2d, 10 o’clock,’—the very day and hour of my entrance into the castle; and in several places, the half defaced features of a face evidently a copy of my own, were still visible.
If any thing could have rendered this little circumstance more deliciously gratifying to my heart, it was, that I had been just reading to her the anecdote of “theMaid of Corinth.”
I raised my eyes from the paper to her with a look that must have spoken my feelings; but she, unconscious of my observation began a favourite air of her favourite Carolan’s, and supposed me to be busy at theperpendicular line.
Wrapt in her charming avocation, she seemed borne away by the magic of her own numbers, and thus inspired and inspiring as she appeared, faithful, as the picture formed was interesting, I took her likeness. Conceive for a moment a form full of character, and full of grace, bending over an instrument singularly picturesque—a profusion of auburn hair fastened up to the top of the finest formed head I ever beheld, with a golden bodkin—an armlet of curious workmanship glittering above a finely turned elbow, and the loose sleeves of a flowing robe drawn up unusually high, to prevent this drapery from sweeping the chords of the instrument. The expression of the divinely touching countenance breathed all the fervour of genius under the influence of inspiration, and the contours of the face, from the peculiar uplifted position of the head, were precisely such, as lends to painting the happiest line of feature, and shade of colouring. Before I had near finished the lovely picture, her song ceased; and turning towards me, who sat opposite her, she blushed to observe how intensely my eyes were fixed onher.
“I am admiring,” said I, carelessly, “the singular elegance of your costume: it is indeed to me a never failing source of wonder and admiration.”
“I am not sorry,” she replied, “to avail myself of my father’s prejudices in favour of our ancient national costume, which, with the exception of the drapery being made of modern materials (on the antique models,) is absolutely drawn from the wardrobes of my great grand dames. This armlet, I have heard my father say, is near four hundred years old, and many of the ornaments and jewels you have seen me wear, are of a date no less ancient.”
“But how,” said I, while she continued to tune her harp, and I to ply the pencil, “how comes it that in so remote a period, we find the riches of Peru and Golconda contributing their splendour to the magnificence of Irish dress?”
“No!” she replied, smiling, “we too had our Peru and Golconda in the bosom of our country—for it was once thought rich not only in gold and silver mines, but abounded in pearls, * amethysts, and other precious stones: even a few years back, Father John saw some fine pearls taken out of the river Ban; ** and Mr. O’Halloran, the celebrated Irish historian, declares that within his memory, amethysts of immense value were found in Ireland.”! ***
* “It should seem.” says Mr. Walker, in his ingenious andelegant essay on Ancient Irish Dress—“that Ireland teemedwith gold and silver, for as well as in the laws recited, wefind an act ordained 34th, Henry VIII, ‘that merchantstrangers should pay 40 pence custom for every pound ofsilver they carried out of Ireland; and Lord Stratford, inone of his letters from Dublin to his royal master, says,‘with this I land you an ingot of silver of 300 oz.’”** Pearls abounded, and still are found in this country andwere of such repute in the 11th century, that a present ofthem was sent to the famous Bishop Anselm, by a Bishop ofLimerick.*** The author is indebted to Mr. Knox, barrister at law,Dublin, for the sight of some beautiful amethysts, whichbelonged to his female ancestors, and which many of thelapidaries of London, after a diligent search, found itimpossible to match.
“I remember reading in the life of St. Bridget, that the King of Leinster presented to her father a sword set with precious stones, which the pious saint, more charitable than honest, devoutly stole, and sold for the benefit of the poor; but it should seem that the sources of our national treasures are now shut up like the gold mines of La Valais, for the public weal, I suppose; for we now hear not of amethysts found, pearls discovered, or gold mines worked; and it is to the caskets of my female ancestors that I stand indebted that my dress or hair is not fastened or adorned like those of my humbler countrywomen, with a wooden bodkin.”
“That, indeed,” said I, “is a species of ornament I have observed very prevalent with your fair ‘paysannes; and of whatever materials it is made, when employed in such a happy service as Inowbehold it, has an air of simple, useful elegance, which in my opinion constitutes the great art of female dress.”
“It is at least,” replied she, “the most ancient ornament we know here—for we are told that the celebrated palace of Emania, * erected previous to the Christian era, was sketched by the famous Irish Empress Macha, with the bodkin.
* The resident palace of the Kings of Ulster, of whichColgan speaks as “rendolens splendorum.”
“I remember a passage from a curious and ancient romance in the Irish language, that fastened wonderfully upon my imagination when I read it to my father in my childhood, and which gives to the bodkin a very early origin:—it ran thus, and is called the ‘Interview between Fionn M’Cnmhal and Cannan.’
“‘Cannan, when he said this, was seated at table; on his right hand was seated his wife, and upon his left his beautiful daughter, so exceedingly fair, that the snow driven by the winter storms surpassed not her in fairness, and her cheeks wore the blood of a young calf; her hair hung in curling ringlets, and her teeth were like pearl—a spacious veil hung from her lovely head down her delicate form, and the veil was fastened by a goldenbodkin.’” “The bodkin, you know, is also an ancient Greek ornament, and mentioned by Vulcan, as among the trinkets he was obliged to forge.” *
* See Iliad, 13, 17.
By the time she had finished this curious quotation in favour of the antiquity of her dress, her harp was tuned, and she began another exquisite old Irish air called the “Dream of the Young Man,” which she accompanied rather by a plaintivemurmur, than with her voice’s full melodious powers. It is thus this creature winds round the heart, while she enlightens the mind, and entrances the senses.
I had finished the sketch in the meantime, and just beneath the figure, and above her flattering inscription of my name, I wrote with my pencil,
“’Twas thus Apelles bask’d in beauty’s blaze,
Nor felt the danger of the steadfast gaze;”
while she, a few minutes after, with that restlessness that seemed to govern all her actions to-day arose, put her harp aside and approached me with, “Well, Mr. Mortimer, you are very indulgent to my insufferable indolence—let me see what you have done for me;” and looking over my shoulder, she beheld not the ruins of her castle, but a striking likeness of her blooming self; and sending her head close to the paper, read the lines, and that name honoured by the inscription of her own fair hand.
For the world I would not have looked her full in the face; but from beneath my downcast eye I stole a transient glance: the colour did not rush to her cheek, (as it usually does under the influence of any powerful emotion) but rather deserted its beautiful standard, as she stood with her eyes riveted on the picture, as though she dreaded by their removal she should encounter those of the artist.
After about three minutes endurance of this mutual confusion, (could you believe me such a blockhead?) the priest, to our great relief, entered the room.
Glorvina ran and shook hands with him, as though she had not seen him in an age, and flew out of the room; while I effacing the quotation but not the honoured inscription, asked Father John’s opinion of my effort at portrait painting. He acknowledged it was a most striking resemblance, and added, “Now you will indeed give acoup de graceto the partiality of the Prince in your favour, and you will rank so much the higher in his estimation, in proportion as his daughter is dearer to him than hisruins.”
Thus encouraged, I devoted the rest of the day to copying out this sketch: and I have finished the picture in that light tinting, so effective in this kind of characteristic drawings. That beautifully pensive expression which touches the countenance of Glorvina, when breathing her native strains, I have most happily caught; and her costume, attitude, and harp, form as happy a combination of traits, as a single portrait perhaps ever presented.
When it was shown to the Prince, he gazed on it in silence, till tears obscured his glance; then laying it down he embraced me, but said nothing. Had he detailed the merits of the picture in all the technical farago ofcognoscentiphrase, his comments would not have been half so eloquent as this simple action, and the silence which accompanied it. Adieu,
Here is abonne bouchefor your antiquarian taste, andOssianicpalate! Almost every evening after vesper, we all assemble in a spacious hall, * which had been shut up for near a century and first opened by the present prince when he was driven for shelter to his paternal ruins.
* “Amidst the ruins of Buan Ratha, near Limerick, is aprincely hall and spacious chambers; the fine stucco in manyof which is yet visible, though uninhabitable for near acentury.”—O’Halloran’s Introduction to the Study of theHistory and Antiquities of Ireland, p 8.In every town, every village, every considerable tract ofland, the spacious ruins of princely residence or religiousedifices, the palace, the castle, or the abbey, are to beseen.
ThisVengolf, thisValkhalla, where the very spirit of Woden seems to preside, runs the full length of the castle as it now stands (for the centre of the building only, has escaped the delapidations of time,) and its beautifully arched roof is enriched with numerous devices which mark the spirit of that day in which it was erected. This very curious roof is supported by two rows of pillars of that elegant spiral lightness which characterises the Gothic order in a certain stage of its progress. The floor is a finely tessellated pavement; and the ample but ungrated hearths which terminate it at either extremity, blaze every evening with the cheering contributions of a neighbouring bog. The windows which are high, narrow, and arched, command on one side a noble view of the ocean, on the other they are closed up.
When I enquired of Father John the cause of this singular exclusion of a very beautiful landview, he replied, “that from those windows were to be seen the greater part of that rich tract of land which once formed the territory of the Princes of Inismore; * and since,” said he, “the possessions of the present Prince are limited to a few hereditary acres and a few rented farms, he cannot bear to look on the domains of his ancestors nor ever goes beyond the confines of this little peninsula.”
* I understand that it is only a few years back, since thepresent respectable representatives of the M’Dermot familyopened those windows which the Prince of Coolavin closed up,upon a principle similar to that by which the Prince ofInismore was actuated.
This very curious apartment is still called the banquetting hall—where
“Stately the feast, and high the cheer.
Girt with many a valiant peer,”
was once celebrated in all the boundless extravagance and convivial spirit of ancient Irish hospitality. But it now serves as an armory, a museum, a cabinet of national antiquities and national curiosities. In short, it is the receptacle of all those precious relics, which the Prince has been able to rescue from the wreck of his family splendour.
Here, when he is seated by a blazing hearth in an immense arm-chair, made, as he assured me, of the famous wood ofShilelah, his daughter by his side, his harper behind him, and hisdomestic altarnot destitute of that national libation which is no disparagement to princely taste, since it has received the sanction of imperial approbation; * his gratified eye wandering over the scattered insignia of the former prowess of his family; his gratified heart expanding to the reception of life’s sweetest ties—domestic joys and social endearments;—he forgets the derangement of his circumstances—he forgets that he is the ruined possessor of a visionary title; he feels only that he is a man—and an Irishman! While the transient happiness that lights up the vehement feelings of his benevolent breast, effuses its warmth over all who come within its sphere.
* Peter the Great, of Russia was fond of whiskey, and usedto say, “Of all wine, Irish wine is the best.”
Nothing can be more delightful than the evenings passed in thisvengolf—-this hall of Woden; where my sweet Glorvina hovers round us, like one of the beautifulvalkyriesof the Gothic paradise, who bestow on the spirit of the departed warrior that heaven he eagerly rushes on death to obtain. Sometimes she accompanies the old bard on her harp, or with her voice; and frequently as she sits at her wheel (for she is often engaged in this simple and primitive avocation,) endeavours to lure, her father to speak on those subjects most interesting to him or to me; or, joining the general conversation, by the playfulness of her humour, or the original whimsicality of her sallies, materially contributes to the “molle at que facetum!” of the moment.
On the evening of the day of the picture-scene, the absence of Glorvina (for she was attending a sick servant) threw a gloom over our little circle. The Prince, for the first time, dismissed the harper, and taking me by the arm, walked up and down the hall in silence, while the priest yawned over a book.
I have already told you that this curious hall is theemporiumof the antiquities of Inismore, which are arranged along its walls, and suspended from its pillars.—As much to draw the Prince from the gloomy reverie into which he seemed plunged, as to satisfy my own curiosity and yours, I requested his highness to explain some characters on a collar which hung from a pillar, and appeared to be plated with gold.
Having explained the motto, he told me that this collar had belonged to an order of knighthood hereditary in his family—of an institution more ancient than any in England, by some centuries.
“How,” said I, “was chivalry so early known in Ireland? and rather, did it ever exist here?”
“Did it!” said the Prince, impatiently, “I believe, young gentleman, the origin of knighthood may be traced in Ireland upon surer ground than in any other country whatever.” *
* Mr. O’Halloran, with a great deal of spirit and ingenuity,endeavours to prove that the German Knighthood (the earliestwe read of in chivalry) was of Irish origin; with whatsuccess we leave it to the impartial reader to judge. It is,however, certain, that the German ritter or knight, bears avery close analogy to the Irish riddaire. In 1394, RichardII, in his tour through Ireland, offered to knight the fourprovincial kings who came to receive him in Dublin. But theyexcused themselves, as having received that honour fromtheir parents at seven years old—that being the age inwhich the kings of Ireland knighted their eldest sons.—SeeFroissart.
Long before the birth of Christ, we had an hereditary order of knighthood in Ulster, called the Knights of theRed Branch. They possessed, near the royal palace of Ulster, a seat, called theAcademy of the Red Branch; and an adjoining hospital, expressively termed theHouse of the Sorrowful Soldier.
“There was also an order of chivalry hereditary in the royal families of Munster, named theSons of Deagha, from a celebrated hero of that name, probably their founder. The Connaught knights were called theGuardians of Jorus, and those of Leinster,the Clan of Boisgna. So famous, indeed, were the knights of Iceland, for the elegance, strength, and beauty of their forms, that they were distinguished, by way of pre-eminence, by the name ofthe Heroes of the Western Isle.
“Our annals teem with instances of this romantic bravery and scrupulous honour. My memory, though much impaired, is still faithful to some anecdotes of both. During a war between the Connaught and Munster monarchs, in 192, both parties met in the plains of Lena, in this province; and it was proposed to Goll M’Morni, chief of the Connaught Knights, to attack the Munstei army at midnight, which would have secured him victory. He nobly and indignantly replied: ‘On the day the arms of a knight were put into my hands, I swore never to attack my enemy at night, by surprise, or underany kind of disadvantage; nor shall that vow now be broken.’
“Besides those orders of knighthood which I have already named, there are several others * still hereditary in noble families, and the honorable titles of which are still preserved: such as theWhite Knights of Kerry, and theKnights of Glynn: that hereditary in my family was theKnights of the Valley; and this collar, ** an ornament never dispensed with, was found about fifty years back in a neighbouring bog, and worn by my father till his death.
“This gorget,” he continued, taking down one which hung on the wall, and apparently gratified by the obvious pleasure evinced in the countenance of his auditor,—“This gorget was found some years after in the same bog.” ***
* The respectable families of the Fitzgeralds still bear thetitle of their ancestors, and are never named but as theKnights of Kerry and of Glynn.** One of these collars was in the possession of Mr.O’Halloran.*** In the Bog of Cullen, in the county of Tipperary, somegolden gorgets were discovered, as were also some corsletsof pure gold in the lands of Clonties, county of Kerry—-SeeSmith’s History of Ireland.
“And this helmet?” said I—
“It is called in Irish,” he replied, “saletand belonged, with this coat of mail, to my ancestor who was murdered in this castle.”
I coloured at this observation, as though I had been myself the murderer.
“As you refer, Sir,” said the priest, who had flung by his book and joined us, “to the ancient Irish for the origin of knighthood, * you will perhaps send us to the IrishMala, for the derivation of the word mail.”
* At a time when the footstep of an English invader had notbeen impressed upon the Irish coast, the celebrity of theIrish knights was sung by the British minstrels. Thus in theold romantic tale of Sir Cauline:=
In Ireland, ferr over the sea,
There dwelleth a bonnye kinge,
And with him a young and comlye knight,
Men call him Syr Cauline.
“Undoubtedly,” said the national Prince, “I should; but pray, Mr. Mortimer, observe this shield. It is of great antiquity. You perceive it is made of wicker, as were the Irish shields in general; although I have also heard they were formed of silver, and one was found near Slimore, in the county of Cork, plated with gold, which sold for seventy guineas.”
“But here,” said I, “is a sword of curious workmanship, the hilt of which seems of gold.”
Sir Cauline’s antagonist, the Eldridge knight, is described as being “a foul paymin” which places the events, the romantic tale delineates, in the earliest era of Christianity in Ireland.
“It is in fact so,” said the priest—“Golden hilted swords have been in great abundance through Ireland; and it is a circumstance singularly curious, that a sword found in the bog of Cullen, should be of the exact construction and form of those found upon the plains of Canæ. You may suppose that the advocates of our Milesian origin gladly seize on this circumstance, as affording new arms against the sceptics to the antiquity of our nation.”
“Here too is a very curious haubergeon, once perhaps impregnable! And this curious battle-axe,” said I—
“Was originally called,” returned the Prince, “Tuath Catha, or axe of war, and was put into the hands of our Galloglasses, or second rank of military.”
“But how much more elegant,” I continued, “the form of this beautiful spear; it is of course of a more modern date.”
“On the contrary,” said the Prince, “this is the exact form of the cranuil or lance, with which Oscar is described to have struck Art to the earth.”
“Oscar!” I repeated, almost starting—but added—“O, true, Mr. Macpherson tells us the Irish have some wild improbable tales of Fingal’s heroes among them, on which they found some claim to their being natives of this country.”
“Some claim!” repeated the Prince, and by one of those motions which speak more than volumes, he let go my arm, and took his usual station by the fireside, repeating,some claim!
While I was thinking how I should repair my involuntary fault, the good natured priest said, with a smile, “You know, my dear Sir, that by one half of his English readers, Ossian is supposed to be a Scottish bard of ancient days; by the other he is esteemed the legitimate offspring of Macpherson’s own muse. But here,” he added, turning to me, “we are certain of his Irish origin, from the testimony of tradition, from proofs of historic fact, and above all, from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, even as they are given us by Mr. Macpherson.
“We, who are from our infancy taught to recite them, who bear the appellations of their heroes to this day, and who reside amidst those very scenes of which the poems, even according to theiringenious, but not alwaysingenuoustranslator, are descriptive—weknow, believe, and assert them to be translated from the fragments of the Irish bards, or seanachies, whose surviving works were almost equally diffused through the Highlands as through this country. Mr. Macpherson combined them in such forms as his judgment (too classically correct in this instance) most approved; retaining the old names and events, and altering the dates in his originals as well as their matter and form, in order to give them a higher antiquity than they really possess; suppressing many proofs which they contain of their Irish origin, and studiously avoiding all mention of St Patrick, whose name frequently occurs in the original poems; only occasionally alluding to him under the character of aCuldee; conscious that any mention of theSaintwould introduce a suspicion that these poems were not the true compositions of Ossian, but those ofFileaswho, in an after day, committed to verse the traditional details of one equally renowned in song and arms.” *