* Samuir, daughter of Fingal, having married Cormac Cas,their son (says Keating) Modk Corb, retained as his friendand confidant his uncle Ossian, contrary to the orders ofCairbre Liffeachair, the then monarch, against whom theIrish militia had taken up arms. Ossian was consequentlyamong the number of rebellious chiefs.
Here, you will allow, was a blow furiously aimed at all my opinions respecting these poems, so long the objects of my enthusiastic admiration: you may well suppose I was for a moment quite stunned. However, when I had a little recovered, I went over the arguments used by Macpherson, Blair, &c., &c., &c., to prove that Ossian was a Highland bard, whose works were handed down to us byoraltradition, through a lapse of fifteen hundred years.
“And yet,” said the priest, having patiently heard me out—“Mr. Macpherson confesses that the ancient language and traditional history of the Scottish nation became confined to the natives of the Highlands, who falling, from several concurring circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and barbarism, left the Scots so destitute of historic facts, that they were reduced to the necessity of sending Fordun to Ireland for their history, from whence he took the entire first part of his book. For Ireland, owing to its being colonized from Phoenicia, and consequent early introduction of letters there, was at that period esteemed the most enlightened country in Europe: and indeed Mr. Macpherson himself avers, that the Irish, for ages antecedent to the Conquest, possessed a competent share of that kind of learning which prevailed in Europe; and from their superiority over the Scots, found no difficulty in imposing on the ignorant Highland seanachies, and establishing that historic system which afterwards, for want of any other, was universally received.
“Now, my dear friend, if historic fact and tradition did not attest the poems of Ossian to be Irish, probability would establish it. For if the Scotch were obliged to Ireland, according to Mr. Macpherson’s own account, not only for their history but their tradition, so remote a one as Ossian must have come from the Irish; for Scotland, as Dr. Johnson asserts, when he called on Mr. Macpherson to show his originals, had not an Erse manuscript two hundred years old. And Sir George M’Kenzie, though himself a Scotchman, declares, “that he had in his possession, an Irish manuscript written by Cairbre Lifteachair, * monarch of Ireland, who flourished before St Patrick’s mission.
* Mr O’Halloran, in his Introduction to the study of IrishHistory, &c.. quotes some lines from a poem still extant,composed by Torna Ligis, chief poet to Niai the Great, whoflourished in the fourth century.
“But,” said I, “even granting these beautiful poems to be the effusions of Irish genius, it is strange that the feats of your own heroes could not supply your bards with subjects for their epic verse.”
“Strange indeed it would have been,” said the priest, “and therefore they have chosen the most renowned chiefs in their annals of national heroism, as their Achilleses, their Hectors, and Agamemnons.”
“How!” exclaimed I, “Is not Fingal a Caledonian chief? Is he not expressly called King of Morven?”
“Allowing he were in the originals, which he is not,” returned the priest, “give me leave to ask you where Morven lies?”
“Why, I suppose of course in Scotland,” said I, a little unprepared for the question.
“Mr. Macpherson supposes so too,” replied he, smiling, “though certainly he is at no little pains to discover where in Scotland. The fact is, however, that the epithet ofRiagh Mor Fhionne, which Mr. Macpherson translates King of Morven, is literally King or Chief of the Fhians, or Fians, a body of men of whom Mr. Macpherson makes no mention, and which, indeed, either in the annals of Scottish history or Scottish poetry, would be vainly sought. Take then their history as extracted from the book of Howth into the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, in 1786. *
* Fionn, the son of Cumhal, [from whom, says Keating, theestablished militia of the kingdom were called Fion Erinne,]was first married to Graine, daguhter to Cormac, king ofIreland, and afterwards to her sister, and descended in asixth degree from Nuagadh Neacht, king of Leinster. Thehistory, laws, requisites, &c., of the Fionna Erin, are tobe found in Keating’s History of Ireland, p. 269.Cormac, at the head of the Fion, and attended by Fingal,sailed to that part of Scotland opposite Ireland, where heplanted a colony as an establishment for Carbry Riada, hiscousin-german. This colony was often protected from thepower of the Romans by the Fion, under the command ofFingal, occasionally stationed in the circumjacent country“Hence,” says Walker, “the claims of the Scots to Fin.” Inprocess of time this colony gave monarchs to Scotland, andtheir posterity at this day reign over the British empire.Fingal fell in an engagement at Rathbree, on the banks ofthe Boyne, A. D. 294; from whence the name of Rathbree waschanged to Killeen, or Cill-Fhin, the tomb of Fin.
“In Ireland there were soldiers calledFynne Erin, appointed to keep the sea-coast, fearing foreign invasion, or foreign princes to enter the realm; the names of these soldiers were Fin M’Cuil, Coloilon, Keilt, Oscar, M’Ossyn, Dermot, O’Doyne, Collemagh, Morna, and divers others. These soldiers waxed bold, as shall appear hereafter, and so strong, that they did contrary to the orders and institutions of the Kings of Ireland, their chiefs and governors, and became very strong and stout, and at length would do thing without license of the King of Ireland, &c., &c—It is added, that one of these heroes was alive till the coming of St. Patrick, who recited the actions of his compeers to the Saint. This hero was Ossian, or, as we pronounce it,Ossyn; whose dialogues with the Christian missionary is in the mouth of every peasant, and several of them preserved in old Irish manuscripts. Now the Fingal of Mr. Macpherson (for it is thus he translatesFin M’Cuil, sometimes pronounced and spelled Fionne M’Cumhal, orFionthe son of Cumhal) and his followers appear like the earth-born myrmidons of Deucalion, for they certainly have no human origin; bear no connexion with the history of their country; are neither to be found in the poetic legend or historic record * of Scotland, and are even furnished with appellations which the Caledonians neither previously possessed nor have since adopted. They are therefore abruptly introduced to our knowledge as living in a barbarous age, yet endowed with every perfection that renders them the most refined, heroic, and virtuous of men. So that while we grant to the interesting poet and his heroes our boundless admiration, we cannot help considering them as solecisms in the theory of human nature.
* I know but of one instance that contradicts the assertionof Father Johu, and that I borrow from the allegoricalPalace of Honour of Gavvin Douglass, Bishop of Dunkeld, whoplaces Gaul, son of Morni, and Fingal, among thedistinguished characters in the annals of legendary romance;yet evenhementions them not as the heroes of Scottishcelebrity, but as the almost fabled demi-gods of Ireland.=
“And now the wran cam out of Ailsay,
And Piers Plowhman, that made his workmen few
Great Gow Mac Morne and Fin M’Cowl, and how
They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say.”
It is remarkable, that the genius of Ossianic style stillprevails over the wild effusions of the modern andunlettered bards of Ireland; while even the remotest lay ofScottish minstrelsy respires nothing of that soul whichbreathes in “the voice of Cona;” and the metrical flippancywhich betrays its existence, seems neither to rival, or copewith that touching sublimity of measure through whoseimpressive medium the genius of Ossian effuses itsinspiration, and which, had it been known to ihe early bardsof Scotland, had probably been imitated and adopted. InIreland, it has ever been and is still the measure in whichthe Sons of Song breathe “their wood notes wild.”
“But withus, Fingal and his chiefs are beings of real existence, their names, professions, rank, characters, and feats, attested by historic fact as well as by poetic eulogium. Fingal is indeed romantically brave, benevolent, and generous, but he is turbulent, restless, ambitious: he is a man as well as a hero; and both his virtues and his vices bear the stamp of the age and country in which he lived. His name and feats, as well as those of his chief officers, bear an intimate connexion with our national history.
“Fionne, or Finnius, was the grandsire of Mile-sius; and it is not only a name to be met with through every period of our history, but there are few old families even at this day in Ireland, who have not the appellative of Finnius in some one or other of its branches; and a large tract of the province of Leinster is calledFingal; a title in possession of one of our most noble and ancient families.
“Nay, if you please, you shall hear our old nurse run through the whole genealogy of Macpherson’s hero, which is frequently given as a theme to exercise the memory of the peasant children.” *
“Nay,” said I, nearly overpowered, “Macpher-son assures us the Highlanders also repeat many of Ossian’s poems in the original Erse: nay, that even in the Isle of Sky, they still show a stone which bears the form and name of Cuchullin’s dog.” **
* They run it over thus: Oscar Mac Ossyn, Mac Fion, MacCuil,Mac Cormic, Mac Arte, Mac Fiervin, &c., &c. That is, Oscarthe son of Ossian, the son of Fion, &c.** There is an old tradition current in Connaught, of whichBran, the favourite dog of Ossian is the hero. In a warbetween the king of Lochlin and the Fians, a battlecontinued to be fought on equal terms for so long a period,that it was at last mutually agreed that it should bedecided in a combat between Ossian’s Bran and the famousCudubh, or dark greyhound, of the Danish monarch. Thisgreyhound had already performed incredible feats, and wasnever to be conquered until his name was found out. Thewarrior dogs fought in a space between the two armies, andwith such fury, says the legend, in a language absolutelyuntranslatable, that they tore up the stony bosom of theearth, until they rendered it perfectly soft, and againtrampled on it with such force, that they made it of a rockysubstance. The Cudubh had nearly gained the victory, whenthe baldheaded Conal, turning his face to the east, andbiting his thumb, a ceremony difficult to induce him toperform, and which always endowed him with the gift ofdivination, made a sudden exclamation of encouragement toBran, the first word of which found the name of thegreyhound, who lost at once his prowess and the victory.
“This is the most flagrant error of all,” exclaimed the Prince, abruptly breaking his sullen silence—“for he has scynchronized heroes who flourished in two distant periods; both Cuchullin and Conal Cearneath are historical characters with us; they were Knights of theRed Branch, and flourished about the birth of Christ. Whereas Fingal, with whom he has united them, did not flourish till near three centuries after. It is indeed Macpherson’s pleasure to inform us that by the Isle of Mist is meant the Isle of Sky, and on that circumstance alone to rest his claim onCuchullin’sbeing a Caledonian; although, through the whole poems of Fingal and Temora, he is not once mentioned as such; it is by the translator’s notes only we are informed of it.”
“It is certain,” said the priest—“that in the first mention made ofCuchullinin the poem of Fingal, he is simply denominated ‘the son of Se-mo,’ ‘the Ruler of High Temora,’ ‘Mossy Tura’s Chief.’” * So called, says Macpherson, from his castle on the coast of Ulster, where he dwelt before he took the management of the affairs of Ireland into his hands; though the singular cause which could induce the lord of the Isle of Sky to reside in Ireland previous to his political engagements in the Irish state, he does not mention.
* The groves of Tura, or Tuar, are often noticed in Irishsong. Emunh Acnuic, or Ned of the Hill, has mentioned it inone of his happiest and most popular poems. It was supposedto be in the county of Armagh, province of Ulster.
“In the same manner we are told, that histhreenephews came from Streamy Etha, one of whom married an Irish lady; but there is no mention made of the real name of the place of their nativity, although the translator assures us in another note, that they also were Caledonians. But, in fact, it is from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, not from the notes of Mr. Macpherson, nor indeed altogether from his beautiful but unfaithful translation, that we are to decide on the nation to which these poems belong. In Fingal, the first and most perfect of the collection, that hero is first mentioned by Cuchullin as Fingal,King of Desarts—in the original—-Inis na bf hiodhuide, orWoody Island; without any allusion whatever to his being a Caledonian. And afterwards he is called King of Selma, by Swaran, a name, with little variation given to several castles in Ireland. Darthula’s castle is named Selma; and another, whose owner I do not remember, is termed Selemath.Slimora, to whose fir the spear of Foldath is compared, is a mountain in the province of Munster, and through out the whole, even of Mr. Macpherson’s translation, the characters, names, allusions, incidents and scenery are all Irish. And in fact,our Irish spurious ballads, as Mr. Macpherson calls them, are the very originals out of which he has spun the materials for his version of Ossian. *
“Dr. Johnson, who strenuously opposed the idea ofOssianbeing the work of a Scotch bard of the third century, asserts that the ‘Erse never was a written language, and that there is not in the world a written Erse manuscript a hundred years old.’ He adds, ‘The Welsh and Irish are cultivated tongues, and two hundred years back insulted their English neighbours for the instability of their orthography.’ Even the ancient Irishletterwas unknown in the Highlands in 1690, for an Irish version of the Bible being given there by Mr. Kirk, was printed in the Roman character.
“When Dr. Young, ** led by tasteful enterprize,
* “Some of the remaining footsteps of these old warriors areknown by their first names at this time [says Keating] asfor instance, Suidhe Finn, or the, Palace of Fin, at Sliabhna Mann, &c., &c.” There is a mountain in Donegal stillcalled Alt Ossoin, surrounded by all that wild sublimity ofscenery so exquisitely deliniated through the elegant mediumof Macpherson’s translation of Ossian; and in its environsmany Ossianic tales are still extant.In an extract given by Camden from an account of the mannersof the native Irish in the sixteenth century—“they think,[says the author] the souls of the deceased are in communionwith the famous men of those places, of whom they retainmany stories and sonnets—as of the giants Fin, Mac Huyle,Osker, Mac Osshin, &c., &c., and they say, through illusion,they often see them.”** Dr. Young, and Bishop of Clonfert, who united in hischaracter the extremes of human perfection; the mostunblemished virtue to the most exalted genius.
visited the Highlands (on an Ossianic research) in 1784, he collected a number of Gællic poems respecting the race of the Fiens, so renowned in the annals of Irish heroism, * and found, that the orthography was less pure than that among us; for, he says, “the Erse being only a written language within these few years, no means were yet afforded of forming a decided orthographic standard.” But he augurs, from the improvement which had lately taken place, that we soon may expect to see the Erse restored to the original purity which it possesses in themothercountry. And these very poems, whence Mr. Macpherson has chiefly constructed his Ossian, bear such strong internal proof of their Irish origin, as to contain in themselves the best arguments that can be adduced against the Scottish claimants on the poems of the bard. But in their translation, ** many passages are perverted, in order to deprive Ireland of being the residence of Fingal’s heroes.”
* See Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, 1786.** “From the remotest antiquity we have seen the militaryorder distinguished in Ireland, codes of military laws anddiscipline established, and their dress and rank in thestate ascertained. The learned Keating and others, tell usthat these militia were called Fine, from Fion Mac Cum-hal;but it is certainly a great error; the word fine, strictlyimplying a military corps. Many places in the island retainto this day the names of some of the leaders of this body ofmen, and whole volumes of poetical fictions have beengrafted upon their exploits. The manuscripts which I have,after giving a particular account of Finn’s descent, hisinheritance, his acquisitions from the king of Leinster andhis great military command, immediately adds, ‘but thereader must not expect to meet here with such stories of himand his heroes as the vulgar Irish have.’”—Dr. Warner.
“I remember,” said the Prince, “when you read to me a description of a sea fight between Fingal and Swaran, in Macpherson’s translation, that I repeated to you, in Irish, the very poem whence it was taken, and which is still very current here, under the title ofLaoid Mhanuis M’hoir.”
“True,” returned the priest, “a copy of which is deposited in the University of Dublin, with another Irish MS. entitled, ‘Oran cadas Ailte agus do Maronnan’ whence the battle of Lora is taken.”
The Prince then, desiring Father John to give him down a bundle of old manuscripts which lay on a shelf in the hall dedicated to national tracts, after some trouble produced a copy of a poem, called “The Conversation of Ossian and St. Patrick,” the original of which, Father John assured me, was deposited in the library of the Irish University.
It is to this poem that Mr. Macpherson alludes, when he speaks of the dispute reported to have taken place between Ossian and a Culdee.
At my request he translated this curious controversial tract. The dispute was managed on both sides with a great deal of polemic ardour. St.
Patrick, with apostolic zeal, shuts the gates of mercy on all whose faith differs from his own, and, with an unsaintly vehemence extends the exclusion in a pointed manner, to the ancestors of Ossian, who, he declares, are suffering in thelimboof tortured spirits. *
* Notwithstanding the sceptical obstinacy that Ossian heredisplays, there is a current tradition of his having beenpresent at a baptismal ceremony performed by the Saint, whoaccidentally struck the sharp point of his crozier throughthe bard’s foot, who, supposing it part of the ceremony,remained transfixed to the earth without a murmer.
The bard tenderly replies, “It is hard to believe thy tale, O man of the white book! that Fion,or one so generous, should be in captivity with God or man.”
When, however, the saint persists in the assurance, that not even the generosity of the departed hero could save him from the house of torture, the failing spirit of “the King of Harps” suddenly sends forth a lingering flash of its wonted fire; and he indignantly declares, “that if the Clan of Boisgno were still in being, they would liberate their beloved general from this threatened hell.”
The Saint, however, growing warm in the argument, expatiates on the great difficulty ofanysoul entering the court of God: to which the infidel bard beautifully replies:—“Then he is not likeFionn M’Cuil, or chief of the Fians; for every man upon the earth might enterhiscourt without asking his permission.”
Thus, as you perceive, fairly routed, I however artfully proposed terms of capitulation, as though my defeat was yet dubious.
“Were I a Scotchman,” said I, “I should be furnished with more effectual arms against you; but as an Englishman, I claim an armed neutrality, which I shall endeavour to preserve between the two nations. At the same time that I feel the highest satisfaction in witnessing the just pretentions of that country (which now ranks in my estimation next to my own) to a work which would do honour toanycountry so fortunate as to claim its author as her son.”
The Prince, who seemed highly gratified by this avowal, shook me heartily by the hand, apparently flattered by his triumph; and at that moment Glorvina entered.
“O, my dear!” said the Prince, “you are just come in time to witness an amnesty between Mr. Mortimer and me.”
“I should much rather witness the amnesty than the breach,” returned she, smiling.
“We have been battling about the country of Ossian,” said the priest, “with as much vehemence as the claimants on the birthplace of Homer.”
“O! I know of old,” cried Glorvina, “that you and my father are natural allies on that point of contention; and I must confess, it was ungenerous in both to oppose your united strength against Mr. Mortimer’s single force.”
“What, then,” said the Prince, good humouredly, “I suppose you would have deserted your national standard, and have joined Mr. Mortimer, merely from motives of compassion.”
“Not so, my dear sir,” said Glorvina, faintly blushing, “but I should have endeavoured to have compromised between you. To you I would have accorded that Ossian was an Irishman, of which I am as well convinced as of any other self-evident truth whatever, and to Mr. Mortimer I would have acknowledged the superior merits of Mr. Macpherson’s poems, as compositions, over those wild effusions of our Irish bards, whence he compiled them.
“Long before I could read, I learned on the bosom of my nurse, and in my father’s arms, to recite the songs of our national bards, and almost since I could read, the Ossian of Macpherson has been the object of my enthusiastic admiration.
“In the original Irish poems, if my fancy is sometimes dazzled by the brilliant flashes of native genius, if my heart is touched by the strokes of nature, or my soul elevated by sublimity of sentiment, yet my interest is often destroyed, and my admiration often checked, by relations so wildly improbable, by details so ridiculously grotesque, that though these stand forth as the most undeniable proofs of their authenticity and the remoteness of the day in which they were composed, yet I reluctantly suffer my mind to be convinced at the expense of my feeling and my taste. But in the soul-stealing strains of ‘the Voice of Cona,’ as breathed through the refined medium of Macpherson’s genius, no incongruity of style, character, or manner disturbs the profound interest they awaken. For my own part, when my heart is coldly void, when my spirits are sunk and drooping, I fly to my English Ossian, and then my sufferings are soothed, and every desponding spirit softens into a sweet melancholy, more delicious than joy itself; while I experience in its perusal a similar sensation as when, in the stillness of an autumnal evening, I expose my harp to the influence of the passing breeze, which faintly breathing on the chords, seems to call forth its own requiem as it expires.”
“Oh, Macpherson!” I exclaimed, “be thy spirit appeased, for thou hast received that apotheosis thy talents have nearly deserved, in the eulogium of beauty and genius, and from the lip of an Irishwoman.”
This involuntary and impassioned exclamation extorted from the Prince a smile of gratified parental pride, and overwhelmed Glorvina with confusion. She could, I believe, have spared it before her father, and received it with a bow and a blush. Shortly after she left the room.
Adieu! I thought to have returned to M————house, but I know not how it is——
“Mais un invincible contraint
Maigre, moi fixe ici mes pas,
Et tu sais que pour aller a Corinth,
Le désir seul ne suffit pas.”
Adieu, H. M.
The conduct of this girl is inexplicable. Since the unfortunate picture scene three days back, she has excused herself twice from the drawing desk; and to-day appeared at it with the priest by her side. Her playful familiarity is vanished, and a chill reserve, uncongenial to the native ardour of her manner has succeeded. Surely she cannot be so vain, so weak, as to mistake my attentions to her as a young and lovely woman, my admiration of her talents, and my surprise at the originality of her character, for a serious passion. And supposing me to be a wanderer and a hireling, affect to reprove my temerity by haughtiness and disdain.
Would you credit it! by Heavens, I am sometimes weak enough to be on the very point of telling her who and what I am, when she plays off her little airs of Milesian pride and female superciliousness. You perceive, therefore, by the conduct of this little Irish recluse, that on the subject of love and vanity, woman is everywhere, and in all situations the same. For what coquette reared in the purlieus of St. James’s, could be more aportéeto those effects which denote the passion, or more apt to suspect she had awakened it into existence, than this inexperienced, unsophisticated being! who I suppose never spoke to ten men in her life, save the superanuated inhabitants of her paternal ruins. Perhaps, however, she only means to check the growing familiarity of my manner, and to teach me the disparity of rank which exists between us; for, with all her native strength of mind, the influence of invariable example and precept has been too strong for her, and she has unconsciously imbibed many of her father’s prejudices respecting antiquity of descent and nobility of birth. She will frequently say, “O! such a one is a true Milesian!”—or, “he is a descendant of theEnglishIrish;” or, “they are new people—we hear nothing of them till the wars of Cromwell,” and so on. Yet at other times, when reason lords it over prejudice, she will laugh at that weakness in others, she sometimes betrays in herself.
The other day, as we stood chatting at a window together, pointing to an elderly man who passed by, she said, “there goes a poor Connaught gentleman, who would rather starve than work—he is afollowerof the family and has been just entertaining my father with an account of our ancient splendour. We have too many instances of this species ofmaniaamong us.
“The celebrated Bishop of Cloyne relates an anecdote of a kitchen-maid, who refused to carry out cinders, because she was of Milesian descent. And Father John tells a story of a young gentleman in Limerick, who, being received under the patronage of a nobleman going out as governor general of India, sacrificed his interest to hisnational pride; for having accompanied his lordship on board of the vessel which was to convey them to the East, and finding himself placed at the foot of the dining table, he instantly arose, and went on shore, declaring that ‘as atrue Milesian, he would not submit to any indignity, to purchase the riches of the East India Company.
“All this,” continued Glorvina, “is ridiculous, nay, it is worse, for it is highly dangerous and fatal to the community at large. It is the source of innumerable disorders, by promoting idleness, and consequently vice. It frequently checks the industry of the poor, and limits the exertions of the rich, and perhaps is not among the least of those sources whence our national miseries flow. At the same time, I must own, I have a very high idea of the virtues which exalted birth does or ought to bring with it. Marmontel elegantly observes, ‘nobility of birth is a letter of credit given us on our country, upon the security of our ancestors, in the conviction that at a proper period of life we shall acquit ourselves with honour to those who stand engaged for us.’”
Observe, that this passage was quoted in the first person, but not, as in the original, in the second, and with an air of dignity that elevated her pretty little head some inches.
“Since,” she continued, “we are all the beings of education, and that its most material branch, example, lies vested in our parents, it is natural to suppose that those superior talents or virtues which in early stages of society are the purchase of worldly elevation, become hereditary, and that the noble principles of our ancestors should descend to us with their titles and estates.”
“Ah,” said I, smiling, “these are the ideas of an Irish Princess, reared in the palace of her ancestors on the shores of the Atlantic ocean.”
“They may be,” she returned, “the ideas of an inexperienced recluse, but I think they are not less the result of rational supposition, strengthened by the evidence of internal feeling; for though I possessed not that innate dignity of mind which instinctively spurned at the low suggestion of vicious dictates, yet the consciousness of the virtues of those from whom I am descended, would prevent me from sullying by an unworthy action of mine, the unpolluted name I had the honour to bear.”
She then repeated several anecdotes of the heroism, rectitude, and virtue of her ancestors of both sexes, adding, “this was once the business of our Bards, Fileas, and Seanachps; but we are now obliged to have recourse to our own memories, in order to support our own dignity. But do not suppose I am so weak as to be dazzled by asound, or to consider mere title in any other light than as a golden toy judiciously worn to secure the respect of the vulgar, who are incapable of appreciating that ‘which surpassed show,’ * which, as my father says, is sometimes given to him who saves, and sometimes bestowed on him who betrays his country. O! no; for I would rather possessonebeam of that genius which elevatesyourmind above all worldly distinction, and those principles of integrity which breathe in your sentiments and ennoble your soul, than——”
* “He feels no ennobling principles in his own heart, whowishes to level all the artificial institutes which havebeen adopted for giving body to opinion, and per manence tofuture esteem.”—Burke.
Thus hurried away by the usual impetuosity of her feelings, she abruptly stopped, fearful, perhaps, that she had gone too far. And then, after a moment added—“but who will dare to bring the soul’s nobility in competition with the shortlived elevation which man bestows on man!”
This was the first direct compliment she ever paid me; and I received it with a silent bow, a throbbing heart, and a colouring cheek.
Is she not an extraordinary creature! I meant to have given you an unfavourable opinion of her prejudices; and in transcribing my documents of accusation, I have actually confirmed myself in a better opinion of her heart and understanding than I ever before indulged in. For to think well ofher, is a positive indulgence to my philanthropy, after having thought so ill of all her sex.
But her virtues and her genius have nothing to do with the ice which crystalizes round her heart; and which renders her as coldly indifferent to the talents and virtues with which her fancy has invested me, as though they were in possession of a hermit of fourscore. Yet, God knows, nothing less than cold does her character appear. That mutability of complexion which seems to flow perpetually to the influence of her evident feelings and vivid imagination, that ethereal warmth which animates her manners; the force and energy of her expressions, the enthusiasm of her disposition, the uncontrollable smile, the involuntary tear, the spontaneous sigh!—Are these indications of an icy heart? And yet, shut up as we are together, thus closely associated, the sympathy of our tastes, our pursuits! But the fact is, I begin to fear that I have imported into the shades of Inismore some of my London presumption: and that, after all, I know as little of this charmingsport of Nature, as when I first beheld her—possibly my perceptions have become as sophisticated as the objects to whom they have hitherto been directed; and want refinement and subtilty to enter into all the delicateminutiaeof her superior and original character, which is at once bothnaturalandnational. Adieu!
To day I was present at an interview granted by the Prince to two contending parties, who came toask law of him, as they term it. This, I am told, the Irish peasantry are ready to do upon every slight difference; so that they are the most litigious, or have the nicest sense ofrightandjusticeof any people in the world.
Although the language held by this little judicial meeting was Irish, it was by no means necessary it should be understood to comprehend, in some degree, the subject of discussion; for the gestures and countenances both of the judge and the clients were expressive beyond all conception: and I plainly understood, that almost every other word on both sides was accompanied by a species oflocal oath, sworn on the first object that presented itself to their hands, and strongly marked the vehemence of the national character.
When I took notice of this to Father John, he replied,
“It is certain, that the habit of confirming every assertion with an oath, is as prevalent among the Irish as itwasamong the ancient, andisamong the modern Greeks. And it is remarkable, that even at this day, in both countries, the nature and form of their adjurations and oaths are perfectly similar: a Greek will still swear by his parents, or his children; an Irishman frequently swears ‘by my father, who is no more!’ ‘by my mother in the grave!’ Virgil makes his pious Æneas swear by his head. The Irish constantly swear ‘by my hand,’—‘by this hand,’—or, ‘by the hand of my gossip!’ * There is one who has just sworn bythe Cross; another by the blessed stick he holds in his hand. In short, no intercourse passes between them where confidence is required, in which oaths are not called in to confirm the transaction.”
* The mention of this oath recalls to my mind an * anecdoteof the bard Carolan, as related by Mr. Walker, in hisinimitable Memoir of the Irish Bards. “He (Carolan) wentonce on a pilgrimage to St. Patrick’s Purgatory, a cave inan island in Lough Dergh, (county of Donegal) of which morewonders are told than even the Cave of Triphonius. On hisreturn to shore, he found several pilgrims waiting thearrival of the boat, which had conveyed him to the object ofhis devotion. In assisting some of those devout travellersto get on board, he chanced to take a lady’s hand, andinstantly exclaimed ‘dar lamh mo Chardais Criost, [i. e. bythe hand of my gossip] this is the hand of Bridget Cruise.’His sense of feeling did not deceive him—it was the hand ofher who he once adored.”
I am at this moment returned from myVengolf,after having declared the necessity of my absence for some time, leaving the term, however, indefinite; so that in this instance, I can be governed by my inclination and convenience, without any violation of promise. The good old Prince looked as much amazed at my determination, as though he expected I were never to depart; and I really believe, in the old fashioned hospitality of his Irish heart, he would be better satisfied I never should. He said many kind and cordial things in his own curious way; and concluded by pressing my speedy return, and declaring that my presence had created a little jubilee among them.
The priest was absent; and Glorvina, who sat at her little wheel by her father’s side, snapped her thread, and drooped her head close to her work, until I casually observed, that I had already passed above three weeks at the castle—then she shook back the golden tresses from her brow, and raised her eyes to mine with a look that seemed to say, “can that be possible!” Not even by a glance did I reply to the flattering question; but I felt it not the less.
When we arose to retire to our respective apartments, and I mentioned that I should be off at dawn, the Prince shook me cordially by the hand, and bid me farewell with an almost paternal kindness.
Glorvina, on whose arm he was leaning, did not follow his example—she simply wished me “a pleasant journey.”
“But where,” said the Prince, “do you sojourn to?”
“To the town of Bally————,” said I, “which has been hitherto my head quarters, and where I have left my clothes, books, and drawing utensils. I have also some friends in the neighbourhood, procured me by letters of introduction with which I was furnished in England.”
You know that a great part of this neighbourhood is my father’s property, and once belonged to the ancestors of the Prince. He changed colour as I spoke, and hurried on in silence.
Adieu! the castle clock strikes twelve! What creatures we are! when the tinkling of a bit of metal can affect our spirits. Mine, however, (though why, I know not,) were prepared for the reception of sombre images. This night may be, in all human probability, the last I shall sleep in the castle of Inismore; and what then—it were perhaps as well I had never entered it. A generous mind can never reconcile itself to the practices of deception; yet to prejudices so inveterate, I had nothing but deception to oppose. And yet, when in some happy moment of parental favour, when all my past sins are forgotten, and my present state of regeneration only remembered—I shall find courage to disclose my romantic adventure to my father, and through the medium of that strong partiality the son has awakened in the heart of the Prince, unite in bonds of friendship these two worthy men butunknownenemies—then I shall triumph in my impositions, and, for the first time, adopt the maxim, that good consequences may be effected by means not strictly conformable to the rigid laws of truth.
I have just been at my window, and never beheld so gloomy a night—not a star twinkles through the massy clouds that are driven impetuously along by the sudden gusts of a rising storm—not a ray of light partially dissipates the profound obscurity, save what falls on a fragment of an opposite tower, and seems to issue from the window of a closet which joins the apartment of Glorvina. She has not yet then retired to rest, and yet ’tis unusual for her to sit up so late. For I have often watched that little casement—its position exactly corresponds with the angle of the castle where I am lodged.
If I should have any share in the vigils of Glorvina!!!
I know not whether to be most gratified or hurt at the manner in which she took leave of me. Was it indifference, or resentment, that marked her manner? She certainly was surprised, and her surprise was not of the most pleasing nature—for where was the magic smile, the sentient blush, that ever ushers in and betrays every emotion of her ardent soul! Sweet being! whatever may be the sentiments which the departure of the supposed unfortunate wanderer awakens in thy bosom, may that bosom still continue the hallowed asylum of the dove of peace! May the pure heart it enshrines still throb to the best impulses of the happiest nature, and beat with the soft palpitation of innocent pleasure and guileless transport, veiled from the rude intercourse of that world to which thy elevated and sublime nature is so eminently superior; long amidst the shade of the venerable ruins of thy forefathers mayest thou bloom and flourish in undisturbed felicity! the ministering angel of thy poor compatriots, who look up to thee for example and support—thy country’s muse, and the bright model of the genuine character of her daughters, when unvitiated by erroneous education and by those fatal prejudices which lead them to seek in foreign refinements for those talents, those graces, those virtues which are no where to be found more flourishing, more attractive than in their native land.
M———— House.
It certainly requires less nicety of perception to distinguish differences in kind than differences in degree; but though my present, like my past situation, is solitudinous in the extreme, it demands no very great discernment to discover that my late life was a life of solitude—my present, of desolation.
In the castle of Inismore I was estranged from the world: here I am estranged from myself. Yet so much more sequestered did that sweet interesting spot appear to me, that I felt, on arriving at this vast and solitary place (after having passed by a few gentlemen’s seats, and caught a distant view of the little town of Bally——,) as though I were returning to the world—but felt as if that world had no longer any attraction for me.
What a dream was the last three weeks of my life! But it was a dream from which I wished not to be awakened. It seemed to me as if I had lived in an age of primeval virtue. My senses at rest, my passions soothed to philosophic repose, my prejudices vanquished, all the powers of my mind gently breathed into motion, yet calm and unagitated—all the faculties of my taste called into exertion, yet unsated even by boundless gratification.—My fancy restored to its pristine warmth, my heart to its native sensibility. The past given to oblivion, the future unanticipated, and the present enjoyed with the full consciousness of its pleasurable existence. Wearied, exhausted, satiated by a boundless indulgence of hackneyed pleasures, hackneyed occupations, hackneyed pursuits, at a moment when I was sinking beneath the lethargic influence of apathy, or hovering on the brink of despair, a new light broke upon my clouded mind, and discovered to my inquiring heart, something yet worth living for. What that mystic something is, I can scarcely yet define myself; but a magic spell now irresistibly binds me to that life which but lately,
“Like a foul and ugly witch, did limp
So tediously away.”
The reserved tints of a gray dawn had not yet received the illuminating beams of the east, when I departed from the castle of Inismore. None of the family were risen, but the hind who prepared myrosinante, and the nurse, who made my breakfast.
I rode twice round that wing of the castle where Glorvina sleeps: the curtain of her bedroom casement was closely drawn: but as I passed by it a second time, I thought I perceived a shadowy form at the window of the adjoining casement. As I approached it seemed to retreat; the whole, however, might have only been the vision of my wishes—mywishes!!But this girl piques me into something of interest for her.
About three miles from the castle, on the summit of a wild and desolate heath, I met the good Father Director of Inismore. He appeared quite amazed at the rencontre. He expressed great regret at my absence from the castle, insisting that he should accompany me a mile or two of my journey, though he was only then returning after having passed the night in ministering temporal as well as spiritual comfort to an unfortunate family at some miles distance.
“These poor people,” said he “were tenants on the skirts of Lord M’s estate, who, though by all accounts a most excellent and benevolent man, employs a steward of a very opposite character. This unworthy delegate having considerably raised the rent on a little farm held by these unfortunate people, they soon became deeply in arrears, were ejected, and obliged to take shelter in an almost roofless hut, where the inclemency of the season, and the hardships they endured, brought on disorders by which the mother and two chil dren are now nearly reduced to the point of death; and yesterday, in their last extremity, they sent for me.”
While I commiserated the sufferings of these unfortunates (and cursed the villain Clendinning in my heart,) I could not avoid adverting to the humanity of this benevolent priest.
“These offices of true charity, which you so frequently perform,” said I, “are purely the result of your benevolence, rather than a mere observance of your duty.”
“It is true,” he replied, “I have no parish; but the incumbent of that in which these poor people reside is so old and infirm, as to be totally incapacitated from performing such duties of his-calling as require the least exertion. The duty of one who professes himself the minister of religion, whose essence is charity, should not be confined within the narrow limitation of prescribed rules; and I should consider myself as unworthy of the sacred habit I wear, should my exertions be confined to the suggestions of my interest and my duty only.
“The faith of the lower order of Catholics here in their priest,” he continued, “is astonishing: even his presence they conceive is an antidote to every evil.—When he appears at the door of their huts, and blends his cordial salutation with a blessing, the spirit of consolation seems to hover at its threshhold—pain is alleviated, sorrow soothed; and hope, rising from the bosom of strengthening faith, triumphs over the ruins of despair. To the wicked he prescribes penitence and confession, and the sinner is forgiven; to the wretched he asserts, that suffering here, is the purchase of felicity hereafter, and he is resigned; and to the sick he gives a consecrated charm, and by the force of faith and imagination he is made well.—Guess then the influence which this order of men hold over the aggregate of the people; for while the Irish peasant, degraded, neglected, despised, * vainly seeks one beam of conciliation in the eye of overbearing superiority; condescension, familiarity and kindness win his gratitude to him whose spiritual elevation is in his mind above all temporal rank.”