H. M
LETTER XXVI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
Can you recollect who was that rational, moderate youth, who exclaimed in the frenzy of passion, “O gods! annihilate both time and space, and make two lovers happy.”
For my part, I should indeed wish the hours annihilated till I again behold Glorvina; but for the space which divides us, it was requisite I should be fifty miles from her, to be no more entirely with her; to appreciate the full value of her society; and to learn the nature of those wants my heart must ever feel when separated from her. The priest and I arose this morning with the sun. Our lovely hostess was ready at the breakfast-table to receive us. I was so selfish as to observe without regret the air of langour that invested her whole form, and the heaviness that weighed down her eyelids, as though the influence of sleep had not renovated the lustre of those downcast eyes they veiled. Ah! if I dared believe that these wakeful hours were given to me. But I fear at that moment her heart was more occupied by her father than her lover: for I have observed, in a thousand instances, the interest she takes in his affairs; and indeed the priest hinted to me, that her good sense has frequently retrieved those circumstances the imprudent speculations of her father have as constantly deranged.
During breakfast she spoke but little, and once I caught her eyes turned full on me, with a glance in which tenderness, regret, and even something of despondency were mingled. Glorvina despond! So young, so lovely, so virtuous, and so highly gifted! Oh! at that moment had I been master of worlds! but, dependent myself on another’s will, I could only sympathize in the sufferings while I adored the sufferer.
When we arose to depart, Glorvina said, “If you will lead your horses I will walk to the drawbridge with you.”
Delighted at the proposal, we ordered our horses to follow us; and with an arm of Glorvina drawn through either of ours, we left the castle. “This (said I, pressing the hand which rested on mine,) is commencing a journey under favourable auspices.”
“God grant it may be so,” said Glorvina, fervently.
“Amen!” said the priest.
“Amen!” I repeated; and looking at Glorvina, read all the daughter in her eyes.
“We shall sleep to-night, (said the priest, endeavouring to dissipate the gloom which hung over us by indifferent chit-chat;) we shall sleep to-night at the hospitable mansion of a true-born Milesian, to whom I have the honour to be distantly allied; and where you will find the old Brehon law, which forbids that a sept should be disappointed of the expected feast, was no fabrication of national partiality.”
“What then, (said I,) we shall not enjoy ourselves in all the comfortable unrestrained freedom of an inn.”
“We poor Irish, (said the priest,) find the unrestrained freedom of an inn not only in the house of a friend, but of every acquaintance, however distant; and indeed if you are at all known, you may travel from one end of a province to another, without entering a house of public entertainment; * the host always considering himself the debtor of the guest, as though the institution of the Beataghs ** were still in being. And besides a cordial welcome from my hospitable kinsman, I promise you an introduction to his three handsome daughters. So fortify your heart, for I warn you it will run some risk before you return.”
* “Not only have I been received with the greatest kindness,
but I have been provided with everything which could promote
the execution of my plan. In taking the circuit of Ireland,
I have been employed eight or nine months; during which time
I have been everywhere received with a hospitality which is
nothing surprising in Ireland: that in such a length of time
I have been but six times at an inn, will give a better idea
of this hospitality than could be done by the most laboured
praise.”—M. de Latocknay.
** In the excellent system of the ancient Milesian
government, the people were divided into classes; the
Literati holding the next rank to royalty itself, and the
Beataghs the fourth; so that, as in China, the state was so
well regulated, that every one knew his place, from the
prince to the peasant. “These Beataghs (says Mr. O’Halloran)
were keepers of open houses for strangers, or poor
distressed natives; and as honourable stipends were settled
on the Literati, so were particular tracts of land on the
Beataghs, to support, with proper munificence, their
station; and there are lands and villages in many places to
this day, which declare by their names their original
appointment.”
“Oh!” said Glorvina, archly, “I dare say that, like St. Paul, he will ‘count it all joy to fall into divers temptations.’”
“Or rather, (returned I) I shall court them like the saints of old, merely to prove my powers of resistance; for I bear a charmed spell about me; and now ’none of woman born can harm Macbeth.’”
“And of what nature is your spell?” said Glorvina, smiling, while the priest remained a little behind us talking to a peasant. “Has Father John given you a gospel? or have you got an amulet, thrice passed through the thrice blessed girdle of St. Bridget, our great Irish charm?” *
* On St Bridget’s day it is usual for the young people to
make a long girdle rope of straw, which they carry about to
the neighbouring houses, and through it all those persons
who have faith in the charm pass nine times, uttering at
each time a certain form of prayer in Irish, which they thus
conclude: “If I enter this thrice-blessed girdle well, may I
come out of it nine times better.”
“My charm (returned I) in some degree, certainly partakes of your religious and national superstitions; for since it was presented me by your hand, I could almost believe that its very essence has been changed by a touch!” And I drew from my breast the withered remains of my once blooming rose. At that moment the priest joined us; and though Glorvina was silent, I felt the pressure of her arm more heavily on mine, and saw her pass the drawbridge without a recollection on her part that it was to have been the boundary of her walk. We had not, however, proceeded many paces, when the most wildly mournful sounds I ever heard rose on the air, and slowly died away.
“Hark! (said Glorvina) some one is going to ‘that bourne from whence no traveller returns.’” As she spoke a hundred voices seemed to ascend to the skies; and as they subsided, a fainter strain lingered on the air, as though this truly savage choral sympathy was reduced to a recitative, chaunted by female voices. All that I had heard of the Irish howl, or funeral song, now rushed to my recollection; and turning at that moment the angle of the mountain of Inismore, I perceived a procession advancing towards a little cemetery, which lay by a narrow pathway to the left of the road.
The body, in a plain deal coffin, covered with a white shirt, was carried by four men, immediately preceded by several old women covered in their mantles, and who sung at intervals in a wild and rapid tone. * Before them walked a number of young persons of both sexes, each couple holding by a white handkerchief, and strewing flowers along the path. An elderly woman, with eyes overflown with tears, dishevelled hair, and distracted mien, followed the body, uttering many passionate exclamations in Irish; and the procession was filled up by upwards of three hundred people; the recitative of the female choristers relieved at intervals by the combined howlings of the whole body. In one of the pauses of this dreadful death-chorus, I expressed to Glorvina my surprise at the multitude which attended the funeral of a peasant, while we stood on a bank as they passed us.
* Speaking of the ancient Irish funeral, Mr. Walker
observes;—“Women, whose voices recommended them, were taken
from the lower classes of life, and instructed in music, and
cursios, or eligiac measure, that they might assist in
heightening the melancholy which that ceremony was
calculated to inspire. This custom prevailed among the
Hebrews, from whom it is not improbable we had it
immediately.”
Dr. Campbell is of opinion that the Ululate or hullalor of
the choral burden of the Caoine, and the Greek word of the
same import, have a strong affinity to each other.—Phil.
Sur. South of Ireland, Letters 2, 3.
“The lower order of Irish,” she returned, “entertain a kind of posthumous pride respecting their funerals; and from sentiments that I have heard them express, I really believe there are many among them who would prefer living neglected to the idea of dying unmourned, or unattended, by a host to their last home.” To my astonishment she then descended the bank, and, accompanied by the priest, mingled with the crowd.
“This will surprise you,” said Glorvina; “but it is wise to comply with those prejudices which we cannot vanquish. And by those poor people it is not only reckoned a mark of great disrespect not to follow a funeral (met by chance) a few paces, but almost a species of impiety.”
“And mankind, you know,” added the priest, “are always more punctilious with respect to ceremonials than fundamentals. However, you should see an Irish Roman Catholic funeral; to a Protestant and a stranger it must be a spectacle of some interest.
“With respect to the attendant ceremonies on death,” he continued, “I know of no country which the Irish at present resemble but the modern Greeks. In both countries when the deceased dies unmarried, the young attendants are chiefly dressed in white, carrying garlands, and strewing flowers as they proceed to the grave. Those old women who sing before the body are professional improvisatori; they are called Caoiners or Keeners, from the Canine or death song, and are hired to celebrate the virtues of the deceased. Thus we find St. Chrysostom censuring the Greeks of his day, for the purchased lamentations and hireling mourners that attend their funerals. And so far back with us as in the days of druidical influence, we find it was part of the profession of the bards to perform the funeral ceremonies, to sing to their harps the virtues of the dead, and call on the living to emulate their deeds. * This you may remember as a custom frequently alluded to in the poems of Ossian. ** Pray observe that frantic woman who tears her hair And beats her bosom: ’tis the mother of the deceased. She is following her only child to an early grave; and did you understand the nature of her lamentations you would compare them to the complaints of the mother of Euriales, in the Æneid: the same passionate expressions of sorrow, and the same wild extravagance of grief. They even still most religiously preserve here that custom never lost among the Greeks, of washing the body before interment, and strewing it with flowers.”
* The Caoine, or funeral song was, composed by the Filea of
the departed, set to music by one of his oirfidegh, and sung
over the grave by the racasaide, or rhapsodist, who
accompanied his “song of the tomb” with the mourning murmur
of his harp, while the inferior order of minstrels mingled
their deep-toned chorus with the strain of grief, and the
sighs of lamenting relatives breathed in unison to the
tuneful sorrow. Thus was “the stones of his fame,” raised
over the remains of the Irish chief with a ceremony
resembling that with which the death of the Trojan hero was
lamented,=
“A melancholy choir attend around,
With plaintive sighs and music’s solemn sound.”
But the singular ceremonies of the Irish funeral, which are
even still in a certain degree extant, may be traced to a
remoter antiquity than Grecian o right, for the pathetic
lamentations of David for the friend of his soul, and the
conclamatio breathed over the Phoenician Dido, has no faint
coincidence to the Caoine or funeral song of the Irish.
** Thus over the tomb of Cucullin vibrated the song of the
bard, “Blessed be thy soul, son of Semo! thou wert mighty in
battle; thy strength was like the strength of the stream,
thy speed like the speed of the eagle’s wing, thy path in
battle was terrible, the steps of death were behind thy
sword; blessed be thy soul son of Semo! Carborne ohicf of
Dunscaith. The mighty were dispersed at Timo-ra—there is
none in Cormac’s hall. The king mourns in his youth, for he
does not behold thy coming; the sound of thy shield is
ceased, his foes are gathering around, Soft be thy rest in
thy cave, chief of Erin’s wars.”
“And have you also,” said I, “the funeral feast, which among the Greeks composed so material a part of the funeral ceremonies?”
“A wake, as it is called among us,” he replied, “is at once the season of lamentation and sorrow, and of feasting and amusement. The immediate relatives of the deceased sit near the body, devoted to all the luxury of woe, which revives into the most piercing lamentations at the entrance of every stranger, while the friends, acquaintances, and guests give themselves up to a variety of amusements; feats of dexterity and even some exquisite pantomimes are performed; though in the midst of all their games should any one pronounce an Ave Maria, the merry group are in a moment on their knees; and the devotional impulse being gratified, they recommence their sports with new vigour. The wake, however, is of short duration; for here, as in Greece, it is thought an injustice to the dead to keep them long above ground; so that interment follows death with all possible expedition.”
We had now reached the burial ground; near which the funeral was met by the parish priest, and the procession went three times round the cemetry, preceded by the priest, who repeated the De profundis as did all the congregation.
“This ceremony,” said Father John, “is performed by us instead of the funeral service, which is denied to the Roman Catholics. For we are not permitted, like the Protestant ministers, to perform the last solemn office for our departed fellow creatures.”
While he spoke we entered the churchyard, and I expressed my surprise to Glorvina, who seemed wrapt in solemn meditation, at the singular appearance of this rustic little cemetery, where, instead of the monumental marble,
“The storied urn, or animated bust,”
an osier, twisted into the form of a cross, wreathed with faded foliage, garlands made of the pliant sally, twined with flowers; alone distinguished the “narrow house,” where
“The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.”
Without answering, she led me gently forward towards a garland which seemed newly planted. We paused. A young woman who had attended the funeral, and withdrawn from the crowd, approached the garland at the same moment, and taking some fresh gathered flowers from her apron, strewed them over the new made grave, then kneeling beside it wept and prayed.
“It is the tomb of her lover,” said I.—“Of her father!” said Glorvina, in a voice whose affecting tone sunk to my heart, while her eyes, raised to heaven, were suffused with tears. The filial mourner now arose and departed, and we approached the simple shrine of her sorrowing devotion. Glorvina took from it a sprig of rosemary—its leaves were humid! “It is not all dew,” said Glorvina, with a sad smile, while her own tears fell on it, and she presented it to me.
“Then you think me worthy of sharing in these divine feelings,” I exclaimed, as I kissed off the sacred drops; while I was now confirmed in the belief that the tenderness, the sufferings, and declining health of her father, rendered him at that moment the sole object of her solicitude and affection. And with him only, could I, without madness, share the tender, sensible, angelic heart of this sweet interesting being.
Observing her emotion increase, as she stood near the spot sacred to filial grief, I endeavoured to draw away her attention by remarking, that almost every tomb had now a votarist. “It is a strong instance,” said Glorvina, “of the sensibility of the Irish, that they repair at intervals to the tombs of their deceased friends to drop a tender tear, or heave a heart-breathed sigh, to the memory of those so lamented in death, so dear to them in life. For my own part, in the stillness of a fine evening, I often wander towards this solemn spot, where the flowers newly thrown on the tombs, and weeping with the tears of departed day, always speak to my heart a tale of woe it feels and understands. While, as the breeze of evening mourns softly round me, I involuntarily exclaim, ‘And when I shall follow the crowd that presses forward to eternity, what affectionate hand will scatter flowers over my solitary tomb? for haply, ere that period arrive, my trembling hand shall have placed the cypress on the tomb of him who alone loved me living, and would lament me dead.’”
“Alone,” I repeated, and pressing her hand to my heart, inarticulately added, “Oh! Glorvina, did the pulses which now throb against each other, throb in unison, you would understand, that even love is a cold, inadequate term for the sentiments you have inspired in a soul, which would claim a closer kindred to yours than even parental affinity can assert; if (though but by a glance) yours would deign to acknowledge the sacred union.”
We were standing in a remote part of the cemetery, under the shade of a drooping cypress—we were alone—we were unobserved. The hand of Glorvina was pressed to my heart, her head almost touched my shoulder, her lips almost effused their balmy sighs on mine. A glance was all I required—a glance was all I received.
In the succeeding moments I know not what passed; for an interval all was delirium. Glorvina was the first to recover presence of mind; she released her hand which was still pressed to my heart, and, covered with blushes, advanced to Father John. I followed, and found her with her arm entwined in his, while those eyes, from whose glance my soul had lately quaffed the essence of life’s richest bliss, were now studiously turned from me in love’s own downcast bashfulness.
The good Father Director now took my arm: and we were leaving this (to me) interesting spot—when the filial mourner, who had first drawn us from his side, approached the priest, and taking out a few shillings from the corner of her handkerchief, offered them to him, and spoke a few words in Irish; the priest returned her an answer and her money at the same time: she curtseyed low, and departed in silent and tearful emotion. At the same moment another female advanced towards us, and put a piece of silver and a little fresh earth into the hand of Father John; he blessed the earth and returned the little offering with it. The woman knelt and wept, and kissed his garment; then addressing him in Irish, pointed to a poor old man, who, apparently overcome with weakness, was reposing on the grass. Father John followed the woman, and advanced to the old man, while I, turning towards Glorvina, demanded an explanation of this extraordinary scene.
“The first of these poor creatures (said she) was offering the fruits of many an hour’s labour, to have a mass said for the soul of her departed father, which she firmly believes will shorten his sufferings in purgatory: the last is another instance of weeping humanity stealing from the rites of superstition a solace from its woes. She brought that earth to the priest, that he might bless it ere it was flung into the coffin of a dear friend, who, she says, died this morning; for they believe that this consecrated earth is a substitute for those religious rites which are denied them on this awful occasion. And though these tender cares of mourning affection may originate in error, who would not pardon the illusion that soothes the sufferings of a breaking heart? Alas! I could almost envy these ignorant prejudices, which lead their possessors to believe, that by restraining their own enjoyments in this world, they can alleviate the sufferings, or purchase the felicity of the other for the objects of their tenderness and regret. Oh! that I could thus believe!”
“Then you do not, (said I, looking earnestly at her,) you do not receive all the doctrines of your church as infallible?”
Glorvina approached something closer towards me, and in a few words convinced me, that on the subject of religion, as upon every other, her strong mind discovered itself to be an emanation of that divine intelligence, which her pure soul worships “in spirit and in truth,”
“The bright effulgence of bright essence uncreate.”
When she observed my surprise and delight, she added, “believe me, my dear friend, the age in which religious error held her empire undisputed is gone by. The human mind, however slow, however opposed its progress, is still, by a divine and invariable law, propelled towards truth, and must finally attain that goal which reason has erected in every breast. Of the many who are the inheritors of our persuasion, all are not devoted to its errors, or influenced by its superstitions. If its professors are coalesced, it is in the sympathy of their destinies, not in the dogmas of their belief. If they are allied, it is by the tie of temporal interest, not by the bond of speculative opinion; they are united as men, not as sectaries; and once incorporated in the great mass of general society, their feelings will become diffusive as their interests; their affections, like their privileges, will be in common; the limited throb with which their hearts now beat towards each other, under the influence of a kindred fate, will then be animated to the nobler pulsation of universal philanthropy; and, as the acknowledged members of the first of all human communities they will forget they had ever been the individual adherents of an alienated body.”
The priest now returned to us, and was followed by the multitude, who crowded round this venerable and adored pastor: some to obtain his benediction for themselves, others his prayers for their friends, and all his advice or notice: while Glorvina, whom they had not at first perceived, stood like an idol in the midst of them, receiving that adoration which the admiring gaze of some, and the adulatory exclamations of others, offered to her virtues and her charms. While those personally known to her she addressed with her usually winning sweetness in their native language, I am sure that there was not an individual among this crowd of ardent and affectionate people, that would not risk their lives “to avenge a look that threatened her with danger.”
Our horses now coming up to the gate of the cemetry, we insisted on walking back as far as the drawbridge with Glorvina. When we reached it, the priest saluted her cheek with paternal freedom, and gave her his blessing, while I was put off with an offer of the hand; but when, for the first time, I felt its soft clasp return the pressure of mine, I no longer envied the priest his cold salute; for oh! cold is every enjoyment which is unreciprocated. Reverberated bliss alone can touch the heart.
When we had parted with Glorvina, and caught a last view of her receding figure, we mounted our horses, and proceeded a considerable way in silence. The morning though fine was gloomy; and though the sun was scarcely an hour high, we were met by innumerable groups of peasantry of both sexes, laden with their implements of husbandry, and already beginning the labours of the day. I expressed my surprise at observing almost as many women as men working in the fields and bogs. “Yes,” said the priest, “toil is here shared in common between the sexes, the women as well as the men cut the turf, plant the potatoes, and even assist to cultivate the land; both rise with the sun to their daily labour; but his repose brings not theirs; for, after having worked all day for a very trivial remuneration, (as nothing here is rated lower than human labour,) they endeavour to snatch a beam from retreating twilight, by which they labour in that little spot of ground, which is probably the sole support of a numerous family.”
“And yet,” said I, “idleness is the chief vice laid to the account of your peasantry.”
“It is certain,” returned he, “that there is not, generally speaking, that active spirit of industry among the inferior orders here, which distinguishes the same rank in England. But neither have they the same encouragement to awaken their exertions. ‘The laziness of the Irish,’ says Sir William Petty, ‘seems rather to proceed from want of employment and encouragement to work, than the constitution of their bodies.’ An intelligent and liberal countryman of yours, Mr. Young, the celebrated traveller, is persuaded that, circumstances considered, the Irish do not in reality deserve the character of indolence; and relates a very extraordinary proof of their great industry and exertion in their method of procuring lime for manure, which the mountaineers bring on the backs of their little horses many miles distance, to the foot of the steepest acclivities, and from thence to the summit on their own shoulders while they pay a considerable rent for liberty to cultivate a barren, waste, and rigid soil. In short, there is not in creation a more laborious animal than an Irish peasant, with less stimulus to exertion, or less reward to crown his toil. He is indeed, in many instances, the mere creature of the soil, and works independent of that hope which is the best stimulus to every human effort, the hope of reward. And yet it is not rare to find among these oft misguided beings, some who really believe themselves the hereditary proprietors of the soil they cultivate.”
“But surely,” said I, “the most ignorant among them must be well aware that all could not have been proprietors.”
“The fact is,” said the priest, “the followers of many a great family having accidentally adopted the name of their chiefs, that name has descended to their progeny, who now associate to the name an erroneous claim on the confiscated property of those to whom their progenitors were but vassals or dependants. And this false, but strong rooted opinion, co-operating with their naturally active and impetuous characters, renders them alive to every enterprise, and open to the impositions of the artful or ambitious. But a brave, though misguided people, are not to be dragooned out of a train of ancient prejudices, nurtured by fancied interest and real ambition, and confirmed by ignorance, which those who deride have made no effort to dispel. It is not by physical force, but moral influence, the illusion is to be dissolved. The darkness of ignorance must be dissipated before the light of truth can be admitted; and though an Irishman may be argued out of an error, it has been long proved he will never be forced. His understanding may be convinced, but his spirit will never be subdued. He may culminate to the meridian of loyalty * or truth by the influence of kindness, or the convictions of reason, but he will never be forced towards the one, nor oppressed into the other by the lash of power, or ‘the insolence of office.’
* Speaking of the people of Ireland, Lord Minto thus
expresses himself: “In these (the Irish) we have witnessed
exertions of courage, activity, perseverance, and spirit, as
well as fidelity and honour in fulfilling the engagements of
their connexion with us, and the Protection and defence of
their own country, which challenges the thanks of Great
Britain, and the approbation of the world.”
“This has been strongly evinced by the attachment of the Irish to the House of Stuart, by whom they have always been so cruelly, so ungratefully treated. For what the coercive measures of four hundred years could not effect, the accession of one prince to the throne accomplished. Until that period, the unconquered Irish, harassing and harassed, struggled for that liberty which they at intervals obtained, but never were permitted to enjoy. Yet the moment a prince of the royal line of Milesius placed the British diadem on his brow, the sword of resistance was sheathed, and those principles which force could not vanquish, yielded to the mild empire of national and hereditary affection: the Irish of English origin from natural tenderness, and those of the true old stock, from the conviction that they were then governed by a Prince of their own blood. Nor is it now unknown to them, that in the veins of his present majesty, and his ancestors, from James the First, flows the royal blood of the three kingdoms united.”
“I am delighted to find,” said I, “the lower ranks of a country, to which I am now so endeared, thus rescued from the obloquy thrown on them by prejudiced illiberality; and from what you have said, and indeed from what I have myself observed, I am convinced, that were endeavours for their improvement more strictly promoted, and their respective duties obviously made clear, their true interests fully represented by reason and common sense, and their unhappy situations ameliorated by justice and humanity, they would be a people as happy, contented and prosperous, in a political sense, as in a natural and a national one. They are brave, hospitable, liberal and ingenious.”
We now continued to proceed through a country rich in all the boundless extravagance of picturesque beauty, where Nature’s sublimest features everywhere present themselves, carelessly disposed in wild magnificence; unimproved, and indeed, almost unimproveable by art. The far-stretched ocean, mountains of Alpine magnitude, heaths of boundless desolation, vales of romantic loveliness, navigable rivers, and extensive lakes, alternately succeeding to each other, while the ruins of an ancient castle, or the mouldering remains of a desolated abbey, gave a moral interest to the pleasure derived from the contemplation of Nature in her happiest and most varied aspect.
“Is it not extraordinary,” said I, as we loitered over the ruins of an abbey, “that though your country was so long before the introduction of Christianity inhabited by a learned and ingenious people, yet, that among your Gothic ruins, no traces of a more ancient and splendid architecture are to be discovered. From the ideas I have formed of the primeval grandeur of Ireland, I should almost expect to see a Balbec or Palmyra arising amidst these stupendous mountains and picturesque scenes.”
“My dear sir,” he replied, “a country may be civilized, enlightened, and even learned and ingenious, without attaining to any considerable perfection in those arts, which give to posterity sensible memorials of its past splendour. The ancient Irish, like the modern, had more soul, more genius than worldly prudence, or cautious, calculating forethought. The feats of the hero engrossed them more than the exertions of the mechanist; works of imagination seduced them from pursuing works of utility. With an enthusiasm bordering on a species of mania, they were devoted to poetry and music; and to ‘Wake the soul of song’ was to them an object of more interesting importance, than to raise that edifice which would betray to posterity their ancient grandeur Besides, at that period to which you allude, the Irish were in that era of society, when the iron age was yet distant, and the artist confined his skill to the elegant workmanship of gold and brass, which is ascertained by the number of warlike implements and beautiful ornaments of dress of those metals, exquisitely worked, which are still frequently found in the bogs of Ireland.”
“If, however, (said I) there are no remnants of a Laurentinum, or Tusculum to be discovered, I perceive that at every ten or twelve miles, in the fattest of the land, the ruins of an abbey and its granaries are discernable.”
“Why, (returned the priest, laughing) you would not have the good father abbots advise the dying, but generous sinner, to leave the worst of his lands to God! that would be sacrilege—but besides the voluntary donation of estates from rich penitents, the regular monks of Ireland had landed properties attached to their convents. Sometimes they possessed immense tracts of a country, from which the officiating clergy seldom or never derived any benefit; and, I believe, that many, if not most of the bishops’ leases now existing, are the confiscated revenues of these ruined abbeys.”
“So, (said I) after all, it is only a transfer of property from one opulent ecclesiastic to another; * and the great difference between the luxurious abbot of other times, and the rich church dignitary of the present, lies in a few speculative theories, which, whether they are or are not consonant to reason and common sense, have certainly no connexion with true religion or true morality. While the bishopricks now, like the abbeys of old, are estimated rather by the profit gained to the temporal, than the harvest reaped to the heavenly Lord. However, I suppose, they borrow a sanction from the perversion of scriptural authority, and quote the Jewish law, not intended for the benefit of individuals to the detriment of a whole body, but which extended to the whole tribe of Levi, and, doubtlessly, strengthen it by a sentiment of St. Paul: ‘If we sow unto you spiritual things, is it not just we reap your carnal?’ &c. It is, however, lucky for your country, that your abbots are not as numerous in the present day as formerly.”
* For instance, the Abbey of Raphoe was founded by St.
Columkill, who was succeeded in it by St. Eanon. The first
Bishop of Raphoe having converted the abbey into a cathedral
see. It is now a protestant bishoprick.
“Numerous, indeed, as you perceive (said the priest) by these ruins; for we are told in the Life of St. Ramoloi, that there were a greater number of monks and superb monasteries in Ireland than in any other part of Europe. St. Co-lumkill and his contemporaries alone erected in this kingdom upwards of two hundred abbeys, if their biographers are to be credited; and the luxury of their governors kept pace with their power and number.
“In the abbey of Enis, a sanctuary was provided for the cowls of the friars and the veils of the nuns, which were costly and beautifully wrought. We read that (knights excepted) the prelates only were allowed to have gold bridles and harness; and that among the rich presents bestowed by Bishop Snell, in 1146, on a cathedral, were gloves, pontificals, sandals, and silken robes, interwoven with golden spots, and adorned with precious stones.
“There is a monument of monkish luxury still remaining among the interesting ruins of Sligo abbey. This noble edifice stands in the midst of a rich and beautiful scenery, on the banks of a river, near which is a spot still shown, where, as tradition runs, a box or weir was placed, in which the fish casually entered, and which contained a spring, that communicated by a cord with a bell hung in the refectory. The weight of the fish pressed down the spring; the cord vibrated; the bell rung; and the unfortunate captive thus taken suffered martyrdom, by being placed on a fire alive.”
“And was served up,” said I, “I suppose on a fast day, to the abstemious monks, who would, however, have looked upon a morsel of flesh meat thrown in this way, as a lure to eternal perdition.”
Already weary of a conversation in which my heart took little interest, I now suffered it to die away; and while Father John began a parley with a traveller who socially joined us, I gave up my whole soul to love and to Glorvina.
In the course of the evening we arrived at the house of our destined host. Although it was late, the family had not yet gone to dinner, as the servant who took our horses informed us, that his master had but that moment returned from a fair. We had scarcely reached the hall, when, the report of our arrival having preceded our appearance, the whole family rushed out to receive us. What a group!—the father looked like the very Genius of Hospitality, the mother like the personified spirit of a cordial welcome; three laughing Hebe daughters; two fine young fellows supporting an aged grandsire, a very Silenus in appearance, and a pretty demure little governess, with a smile and a hand as ready as the others.
The priest, according to the good old Irish fashion, saluted the cheeks of the ladies, and had his hands nearly shaken off by the men; while I was received with all the cordiality that could be lavished on a friend, and all the politeness that could be paid to a stranger. A welcome shone in every eye; ten thousand welcomes echoed from every lip; and the arrival of the unexpected guests seemed a festival of the social feelings to the whole warm-hearted family. If this is a true specimen of the first rites of hospitality, among the independent country gentlemen of Ireland, * it is to me the most captivating of all possible ceremonies.
* To those who have witnessed [as I so often have] the
celebration of these endearing rites, this picture will
appear but a very cold and languid sketch.
When the first interchange of our courtesies had passed on both sides, we were conducted to the refreshing comforts of a dressing-room; but the domestics were not suffered to interfere, all were in fact our servants.
The plenteous dinner was composed of every luxury the season afforded; though only supplied by the demesne of our host and the neighbouring sea-coast, and though served up in a style of perfect elegance, was yet so abundant, so over plenteous, that, compared to the compact neatness, and simple sufficiency of English fare in the same rank of life, it might have been thought to have been “more than hospitably good.” But to my surprise, and indeed, not much to my satisfaction, during dinner the door was left open for the benefit of receiving the combined efforts of a very indifferent fiddler and a tolerable piper, who, however, seemed to hold the life and spirits of the family in their keeping. The ladies left us early after the cloth was removed; and though besides the family there were three strange gentlemen, and that the table was covered with excellent wines, yet conversation circulated with much more freedom than the bottle; every one did as he pleased, and the ease of the guest seemed the pleasure of the host.
For my part, I rose in less than an hour after the retreat of the ladies, and followed them to the drawing-room. I found them all employed; one at the piano, another at her needle-work, a third reading; mamma at her knitting, and the pretty little duenna copying out music.
They received me as an old acquaintance, and complimented me on my temperance in so soon retiring from the gentlemen, for which I assured them they had all the credit. It is certain that the frank and open ingenuousness of an Irishwoman’s manners, forms a strong contrast to that placid, but distant reserve which characterises the address of my own charming countrywomen. For my part, since I have Glorvina, I shall never again endure that perpetuity of air, look, and address, which those who mistake formality for good-breeding are apt to assume. Manners, like the graduated scale of the thermometer, should betray, by degrees, the expansion or contraction of the feeling, as they are warmed by emotion or chilled by indifference. They should breathe the soul in order to win it.
Nothing could be more animated yet more modest than the manners of these charming girls, nor should I require any stronger proof of that pure and exquisite chastity of character which, from the earliest period, has distinguished the women of this country, than that ingenuous candour and enchanting frankness which accompanies their every look and word.
“The soul as sure to be admired as seen,
Boldly steps forth, nor keeps a thought within.
But, although the Miss O’D————s are very charming girls, although their mother seems a very rational and amiable being, and although their governess appears to be a young woman of distinguished education and considerable talent; yet I in vain sought in their conversation for that soul-seizing charm which, with a magic, undefinable influence breathes round the syren Princess of Inismore. O! it was requisite I should mingle, converse with other women to justly appreciate all I possess in the society of Glorvina; for surely she is more, or every other woman is less than mortal!
Before the men joined us in the drawing-room, I was quite boudoirized with these unaffected and pleasing girls. One wound her working-silk off my hands, another would try my skill at battledore, and the youngest, a charming little being of thirteen, told me the history of a pet dove that was dying in her lap; while all in-treated I would talk to them of the Princess of Inismore.
“For my part,” said the youngest girl, “I always think of her as of the ‘Sleeping Beauty in the Wood,’ or some other princess in a fairy tale.”
“We know nothing of her, however,” said
Mrs. O’D————-, “but by report; we live at too great a distance to keep up any connexion with the Inismore family; besides, that it is generally understood to be Mr. O’Melville’s wish to live in retirement.”
This is the first time I ever heard my soi-disant Prince mentioned without his title; but I am sure I should never endure to hear my Glorvina called Miss O’Melville. For to me, too, does she appear more like the Roganda of a fairy tale, than “any mortal mixture of earth’s mould.”
The gentlemen now joined us, and as soon as tea was over, the piper struck up in the hall, and in a moment every one was on their feet. My long journey was received as a sufficient plea for my being a spectator only; but the priest refused the immunity, and led out the lady mother; the rest followed, and the idol amusement of the gay-hearted Irish, received its usual homage. But though the women danced with considerable grace and spirit, they did not, like Glorvina,
“Send the soul upon a jig to heaven.”
The dance was succeeded by a good supper; the supper by a cheerful song, and every one seemed unwilling to be the first to break up a social compact over which the spirit of harmony presided.
As the priest and I retired to our rooms, “You have now,” said he, “had a specimen of the mode of living of the Irish gentry of a certain rank in this country; the day is devoted to agricultural business, the evening to temperate festivity and innocent amusement; but neither the avocations of the morning nor the engagements of the evening suspend the rites of hospitality.”
Thus far I wrote before I retired that night to rest, and the next morning at an early hour we took our leave of these courteous and hospitable Milesians; having faithfully promised on the preceding night to repeat our visit on our return from the north.
We are now at a sorry little inn, within a mile or two of the nobleman’s seat to whom the priest is come, and on whom he waits to-morrow, having just learned that his lordship passed by here to-day on his way to a gentleman’s house in the neighbourhood where he dines. The little postboy at this moment rides up to the door; I shall drop this in his bag, and begin a new journal on a fresh sheet.
Adieu,