H. M.
LETTER XI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
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 pencil will go 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, “do it 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 mere carte-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 “the Maid 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 the perpendicular 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 on her.
“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 and
elegant essay on Ancient Irish Dress—“that Ireland teemed
with gold and silver, for as well as in the laws recited, we
find an act ordained 34th, Henry VIII, ‘that merchant
strangers should pay 40 pence custom for every pound of
silver they carried out of Ireland; and Lord Stratford, in
one 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 and
were of such repute in the 11th century, that a present of
them was sent to the famous Bishop Anselm, by a Bishop of
Limerick.
*** The author is indebted to Mr. Knox, barrister at law,
Dublin, for the sight of some beautiful amethysts, which
belonged to his female ancestors, and which many of the
lapidaries of London, after a diligent search, found it
impossible 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 I now behold 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 which
Colgan 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 plaintive murmur, 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 a coup de grace to 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 his ruins.”
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 of cognoscenti phrase, his comments would not have been half so eloquent as this simple action, and the silence which accompanied it. Adieu,