H. M.
LETTER XI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
Here is a bonne bouche for your antiquarian taste, and Ossianic palate! 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 a
princely hall and spacious chambers; the fine stucco in many
of which is yet visible, though uninhabitable for near a
century.”—O’Halloran’s Introduction to the Study of the
History and Antiquities of Ireland, p 8.
In every town, every village, every considerable tract of
land, the spacious ruins of princely residence or religious
edifices, the palace, the castle, or the abbey, are to be
seen.
This Vengolf, this Valkhalla, 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 the
present respectable representatives of the M’Dermot family
opened those windows which the Prince of Coolavin closed up,
upon a principle similar to that by which the Prince of
Inismore 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 of Shilelah, his daughter by his side, his harper behind him, and his domestic altar not 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 used
to say, “Of all wine, Irish wine is the best.”
Nothing can be more delightful than the evenings passed in this vengolf—-this hall of Woden; where my sweet Glorvina hovers round us, like one of the beautiful valkyries of 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 the emporium of 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 earliest
we read of in chivalry) was of Irish origin; with what
success we leave it to the impartial reader to judge. It is,
however, certain, that the German ritter or knight, bears a
very close analogy to the Irish riddaire. In 1394, Richard
II, in his tour through Ireland, offered to knight the four
provincial kings who came to receive him in Dublin. But they
excused themselves, as having received that honour from
their parents at seven years old—that being the age in
which the kings of Ireland knighted their eldest sons.—See
Froissart.
Long before the birth of Christ, we had an hereditary order of knighthood in Ulster, called the Knights of the Red Branch. They possessed, near the royal palace of Ulster, a seat, called the Academy of the Red Branch; and an adjoining hospital, expressively termed the House of the Sorrowful Soldier.
“There was also an order of chivalry hereditary in the royal families of Munster, named the Sons of Deagha, from a celebrated hero of that name, probably their founder. The Connaught knights were called the Guardians 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 of the 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 under any 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 the White Knights of Kerry, and the Knights of Glynn: that hereditary in my family was the Knights 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 the
title of their ancestors, and are never named but as the
Knights 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, some
golden gorgets were discovered, as were also some corslets
of pure gold in the lands of Clonties, county of Kerry—-See
Smith’s History of Ireland.
“And this helmet?” said I—
“It is called in Irish,” he replied, “salet and 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 Irish Mala, for the derivation of the word mail.”
* At a time when the footstep of an English invader had not
been impressed upon the Irish coast, the celebrity of the
Irish knights was sung by the British minstrels. Thus in the
old 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 their ingenious, but not always ingenuous translator, are descriptive—we know, 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 a Culdee; conscious that any mention of the Saint would introduce a suspicion that these poems were not the true compositions of Ossian, but those of Fileas who, in an after day, committed to verse the traditional details of one equally renowned in song and arms.” *
* Samuir, daughter of Fingal, having married Cormac Cas,
their son (says Keating) Modk Corb, retained as his friend
and confidant his uncle Ossian, contrary to the orders of
Cairbre Liffeachair, the then monarch, against whom the
Irish militia had taken up arms. Ossian was consequently
among 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 by oral tradition, 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 Irish
History, &c.. quotes some lines from a poem still extant,
composed by Torna Ligis, chief poet to Niai the Great, who
flourished 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 of Riagh 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, the
established militia of the kingdom were called Fion Erinne,]
was first married to Graine, daguhter to Cormac, king of
Ireland, and afterwards to her sister, and descended in a
sixth degree from Nuagadh Neacht, king of Leinster. The
history, laws, requisites, &c., of the Fionna Erin, are to
be 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 he
planted a colony as an establishment for Carbry Riada, his
cousin-german. This colony was often protected from the
power of the Romans by the Fion, under the command of
Fingal, occasionally stationed in the circumjacent country
“Hence,” says Walker, “the claims of the Scots to Fin.” In
process of time this colony gave monarchs to Scotland, and
their posterity at this day reign over the British empire.
Fingal fell in an engagement at Rathbree, on the banks of
the Boyne, A. D. 294; from whence the name of Rathbree was
changed to Killeen, or Cill-Fhin, the tomb of Fin.
“In Ireland there were soldiers called Fynne 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 translates Fin M’Cuil, sometimes pronounced and spelled Fionne M’Cumhal, or Fion the 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 assertion
of Father Johu, and that I borrow from the allegorical
Palace of Honour of Gavvin Douglass, Bishop of Dunkeld, who
places Gaul, son of Morni, and Fingal, among the
distinguished characters in the annals of legendary romance;
yet even he mentions them not as the heroes of Scottish
celebrity, 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 still
prevails over the wild effusions of the modern and
unlettered bards of Ireland; while even the remotest lay of
Scottish minstrelsy respires nothing of that soul which
breathes in “the voice of Cona;” and the metrical flippancy
which betrays its existence, seems neither to rival, or cope
with that touching sublimity of measure through whose
impressive medium the genius of Ossian effuses its
inspiration, and which, had it been known to ihe early bards
of Scotland, had probably been imitated and adopted. In
Ireland, it has ever been and is still the measure in which
the Sons of Song breathe “their wood notes wild.”
“But with us, 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 called Fingal; 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, Oscar
the son of Ossian, the son of Fion, &c.
** There is an old tradition current in Connaught, of which
Bran, the favourite dog of Ossian is the hero. In a war
between the king of Lochlin and the Fians, a battle
continued to be fought on equal terms for so long a period,
that it was at last mutually agreed that it should be
decided in a combat between Ossian’s Bran and the famous
Cudubh, or dark greyhound, of the Danish monarch. This
greyhound had already performed incredible feats, and was
never to be conquered until his name was found out. The
warrior dogs fought in a space between the two armies, and
with such fury, says the legend, in a language absolutely
untranslatable, that they tore up the stony bosom of the
earth, until they rendered it perfectly soft, and again
trampled on it with such force, that they made it of a rocky
substance. The Cudubh had nearly gained the victory, when
the baldheaded Conal, turning his face to the east, and
biting his thumb, a ceremony difficult to induce him to
perform, and which always endowed him with the gift of
divination, made a sudden exclamation of encouragement to
Bran, the first word of which found the name of the
greyhound, 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 the Red 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 on Cuchullin’s being 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 of Cuchullin in 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 Irish
song. Emunh Acnuic, or Ned of the Hill, has mentioned it in
one of his happiest and most popular poems. It was supposed
to be in the county of Armagh, province of Ulster.
“In the same manner we are told, that his three nephews 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, or Woody 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 of Ossian being 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 Irish letter was 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 are
known by their first names at this time [says Keating] as
for instance, Suidhe Finn, or the, Palace of Fin, at Sliabh
na Mann, &c., &c.” There is a mountain in Donegal still
called Alt Ossoin, surrounded by all that wild sublimity of
scenery so exquisitely deliniated through the elegant medium
of Macpherson’s translation of Ossian; and in its environs
many Ossianic tales are still extant.
In an extract given by Camden from an account of the manners
of the native Irish in the sixteenth century—“they think,
[says the author] the souls of the deceased are in communion
with the famous men of those places, of whom they retain
many 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 his
character the extremes of human perfection; the most
unblemished 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 the mother country. 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 military
order distinguished in Ireland, codes of military laws and
discipline established, and their dress and rank in the
state ascertained. The learned Keating and others, tell us
that these militia were called Fine, from Fion Mac Cum-hal;
but it is certainly a great error; the word fine, strictly
implying a military corps. Many places in the island retain
to this day the names of some of the leaders of this body of
men, and whole volumes of poetical fictions have been
grafted upon their exploits. The manuscripts which I have,
after giving a particular account of Finn’s descent, his
inheritance, his acquisitions from the king of Leinster and
his great military command, immediately adds, ‘but the
reader must not expect to meet here with such stories of him
and 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 of Laoid 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 the limbo of tortured spirits. *
* Notwithstanding the sceptical obstinacy that Ossian here
displays, there is a current tradition of his having been
present at a baptismal ceremony performed by the Saint, who
accidentally struck the sharp point of his crozier through
the 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 of any soul entering the court of God: to which the infidel bard beautifully replies:—“Then he is not like Fionn M’Cuil, or chief of the Fians; for every man upon the earth might enter his court 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 to any country 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.
LETTER XIII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
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 a portée to 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 the English Irish;” 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 a follower of the family and has been just entertaining my father with an account of our ancient splendour. We have too many instances of this species of mania among 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 his national 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 a true 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 a sound, 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 possess one beam of that genius which elevates your mind 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, who
wishes to level all the artificial institutes which have
been adopted for giving body to opinion, and per manence to
future 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 of her, 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 charming sport 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 delicate minutiae of her superior and original character, which is at once both natural and national. Adieu!