H. M.
LETTER XXVII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
The priest is gone on his embassy. The rain which batters against the casement of my little hotel prevents me enjoying a ramble. I have nothing to read, and I must write or yawn myself to death.
Yesterday, as we passed the imaginary line which divides the province of Connaught from that of Ulster, the priest said, “As we now advance northward, we shall gradually lose sight of the genuine Irish character, and those ancient manners, modes, customs, and language with which it is inseparably connected. Not long after the chiefs of Ireland had declared James the First universal monarch of their country, a sham plot was pretended, consonant to the usual ingratitude of the House of Stuart, by which six entire counties of the north became forfeited, which James with a liberal hand bestowed on his favorites; * so that this part of Ireland may in some respects be considered as a Scottish colony; and in fact, Scotch dialect, Scotch manners, Scotch modes, and the Scotch character almost universally prevail. Here the ardour of the Irish constitution seems abated if not chilled. Here the ceadmile falta of Irish cordiality seldom lends its welcome home to a stranger’s heart. The bright beams which illumine the gay images of Milesian fancy are extinguished; the convivial pleasures, dear to the Milesian heart, scared at the prudential maxims of calculating interest, take flight to the warmer regions of the south; and the endearing socialities of the soul, lost and neglected amidst the cold concerns of the counting-house and the bleach-green, droop and expire in the deficiency of the nutritive warmth on which their tender existence depends.
* “The pretext of rebellion was devised as a specious
prelude to predetermined confiscations, and the inhabitants
of six counties, whose aversion to the yoke of England the
show of lenity might have disarmed, were compelled to
encounter misery in deserts, and, what is perhaps still mote
mortifying to human pride, to behold the patrimony of their
ancestors, which force had wrested from their hands,
bestowed the prey of a more favoured people. The substantial
view of providing for his indigent countrymen might have
gratified the national partiality of James; the favourite
passion of the English was gratified by the triumph of
Protestantism, and the downfall of its antagonists: men who
professed to correct a system of peace did not hesitate to
pursue their purpose through a scene of iniquity which
humanity shudders to relate; and by an action more criminal,
because more deliberate, than the massacre of St.
Bartholomew, two-thirds of an extensive province were
offered up in one great hecatomb, on the altar of false
policy and theological prejudice. Here let us survey with
wonder the mysterious operations of divine wisdom, which,
from a measure base in its means, and atrocious in its
execution, has derived a source of fame, freedom, and
industry to Ireland.”—Vide a Review of some interesting
periods of Irish History.
“So much for the shades of the picture, which, however, possesses its lights, and those of no dim lustre. The north of Ireland may be justly esteemed the palladium of Irish industry and Irish trade, where the staple commodity of the kingdom is reared and manufactured; and while the rest of Ireland is devoted to that species of agriculture, which, in lessening the necessity of human labour, deprives man of subsistence; while the wretched native of the southern provinces (where little labour is required, and consequently little hire given) either famishes in the midst of a helpless family, or begs his way to England, and offers those services there in harvest time, which his own country rejects. Here, both the labourer and his hire rise in the scale of political consideration; here more hands are called for than can be procured; and the peasant, stimulated to exertions by the reward it reaps for him, enjoys the fruits of his industry, and acquires a relish for the comforts and conveniences of life. Industry, and this taste for comparative luxury, mutually react; and the former, while it bestows the means, enables them to gratify the suggestions of the latter; while their wants, nurtured by enjoyment, afford fresh allurement to continued exertion, In short, a mind not too deeply fascinated by the florid virtues, the warm overflowings of generous and ardent qualities, will find in the northerns of this island much to admire and more to esteem; but on the heart they make little claims, and from its affections they receive but little tribute.” *
* Belfast cannot be deemed the metropolis of Ulster, but may
almost be said to be the Athens of Ireland. It is at least
the cynosure of the province in which it stands; and those
beams of genius which are there concentrated, send to the
extremest point of the hemisphere in which they shine no
faint ray of lumination.
“Then, in the name of all that is warm and cordial,” said I, “let us hasten back to the province of Connaught.”
“That you may be sure we shall,” returned Father John: “for I know none of these sons of trade; and until we once more find ourselves within the pale of Milesian hospitality, we must put up at a sorry inn, near a tract of the sea-coast, called the Magilligans, and where one solitary fane is raised to the once tutelar deity of Ireland; in plain English, where one of the last of the race of Irish bards shelters his white head beneath the fractured roof of a wretched hut. Although the evening sun was setting on the western wave when we reached the auberge, yet, while our fried eggs and bacon were preparing, I proposed to the priest that we should visit the old bard before we put up our horses. Father John readily consented, and we enquired his address.
“What, the mon wi the twa heads?” said our host. I confessed my ignorance of this hydra epithet, which I learned was derived from an immense wen on the back of his head.
“Oh!” continued our host, “A wull be telling you weel to gang tull the auld Kearn, and one o’ our wains wull show ye the road. Ye need nae fear trusting yoursels to our wee Wully, for he is an uncommon canie chiel.” Such was the dialect of this Hibernian Scot, who assured me he had never been twenty miles from his “aine wee hame.”
We, however, dispensed with the guidance of wee Wully, and easily found our way to the hut of the man “wi the twa heads.” It stood on the right hand by the road side. We entered it without ceremony, and as it is usual for strangers to visit this last of the “Sons of Song,” his family betrayed no signs of surprise at our appearance. His ancient dame announced us to her husband When we entered he was in bed; and when he arose to receive us (for he was dressed, and appeared only to have lain down from debility,) we perceived that his harp had been the companion of his repose, and was actually laid under the bed-clothes with him. We found the venerable bard cheerful * and communicative, and he seemed to enter even with an eager readiness on the circumstances of his past life, while his “soul seemed heightened by the song,” with which at intervals he interrupted his narrative. How strongly did those exquisitely beautiful lines of Ossian rush on my recollection: “But age is now on my tongue, and my mind has failed me; the sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains like a blast that roars loudly on a sea-surrounded rock after the winds are laid, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.”
So great was my veneration for this “Bard of other times,” that I felt as though it would have been an indelicacy to have offered him any pecuniary reward for the exertions of his tuneful talent; I therefore made my little offering to his wife, having previously, while he was reciting his “unvarnished tale,” taken a sketch of his most singularly interesting and striking figure, as a present for Glorvina on my return to Inismore.
While my heart a thousand times called on hers to participate in the sweet but melancholy pleasure it experienced, as I listened to and gazed on this venerable being.
The following account of the Bard of the Magilligans was
taken from his own lips, July 3, 1805, by the Rev. Mr.
Sampson, of Magilligan, and forwarded to the author,
(through the medium of Dr. Patterson of Derry,) previous to
her visit to that part of the north, which took place a few
weeks after.
Umbro, July 3, 1805.
Magilligan.
“I made the survey of the ‘man with the two heads,’
according to your desire; but not till yesterday, on
account of various impossibilities.
“Here is my report.—
“Dennis Hampson, or the ‘man with the two heads,’ is a
native of Craigmore, near Garvah, county Derry; his father,
Brian Dorrogher Hampson, held the whole town-land of
Tyrcrevan; his mother’s relations were in possession of the
Wood-town (both considerable farms in Magilligan.) He lost
his sight at the age of three years by the smallpox; at
twelve years he began to learn the harp under Bridget
O’Cahan: ‘For,’ he said, ‘in those times, women as well
as men were taught the Irish harp in the best families; and
every old Irish family had harps in plenty.’
“His next master was John C. Gairagher, a blind travelling
harper, whom he followed to Buncranagh, where his master
used to play for Colonel Vaughan; he had afterwards
Laughlan Hanning and Patrick Connor in succession as
masters.
“‘All these were from Connaught, which was,’ he added, ‘the
best part of the kingdom for Irish music and for harpers.’
At eighteen years of age he began to play for himself, and
was taken into the house of Counseller Canning, at Garvah,
for half a year; his host, with Squire Gage and Doctor
Bacon, bought him a harp. He travelled nine or ten years
through Ireland and Scotland, and tells facetious stories of
gentlemen in both countries: among others, that in passing
near the place of Sir J. Campbell, at Aghanbrack, he learn-
ed that this gentleman had spent a great deal, and was
living on so much per week of allowance. Hampson through
delicacy would not call, but some of the domestics were sent
after him; on coming into the castle, Sir J. asked him why
he had not called, adding, ‘Sir, there was never a harper
but yourself that passed the door of my father’s house to
which Hampson answered that ‘he had heard in the
nighbourhood that his honor was not often at home.’ with
which delicate evasion Sir J. was satisfied. He adds, ‘that
this was the highest bred and stateliest man he ever knew;
if he were putting on a new pair of gloves, and one of them
dropped on the floor, (though ever so clean) he would order
the servant to bring him another pair.’ He says that in that
time he never met with but one laird that had a harp, and
that was a very small one, played on formerly by the laird’s
father; that when he had tuned it with new strings, the
laird and his lady both were so pleased with his music that
they invited him back in these words: ‘Hampson, as soon as
you think this child of ours (a boy of three years of age)
is fit to learn on his grandfather’s harp, come back to
teach him, and you shall not repent it:’—but this he never
accomplished.
“He told me a story of the laird of Strone with a great deal
of comic relish. When he was playing at the house, a message
came that a large party of gentlemen were coming to grouse,
and would spend some days with him (the laird;) the lady
being in great distress turned to her husband, saying ‘what
shall we do, my dear, for so many in the way of beds?’ ‘Give
yourself no vexation,’ replied the laird, ‘give us enough to
eat, and I will supply the rest; and as to beds, believe
me, every man shall find one for himself;’ (meaning that
his guests would fall under the table.) In his second trip
to Scotland, in the year 1745, being at Edinburgh when
Charley the Pretender, was there, he was called into the
great hall to play; at first he was alone, afterwards four
fiddlers joined: the tune called for was, ‘The king shall
enjoy his own again;’—he sung here part of the words
following:—=
‘I hope to see the day
When the whigs shall run away,
And the king shall enjoy his own again.’
“I asked him if he heard the Pretender speak; he replied—
‘I only heard him ask, Is Sylvan there? on which some one
answered, he is not here, please your royal highness, but he
shall be sent for.’ ‘He meant to say Sullivan,’ continued
Hampson, ‘but that was the way he called the name.’ He says
that Captain Mac Donnell, when in Ireland, came to see him,
and that he told the captain that Charley’s cockade was in
his father’s house.
“Hampson was brought into the Pretender’s presence by
Colonel Kelly, of Roscommon, and Sir Thomas Sheridan, and
that he, (Hampson) was then about fifty years old. He played
in many Irish houses, among others, those of Lord de
Courcey, Mr. Fortesque, Sir P. Belew, Squire Roche, and in
the great towns, Dublin, Cork, &c., &c. Respecting all which
he interspersed pleasant anecdotes with surprising gaiety
and correctness; he mentioned many anecdotes of my
grandfather and grand-aunt, at whose houses he used to be
frequently. In fact, in this identical harper, whom you sent
me to survey, I recognized an acquaintance, who, as soon
as he found me out, seemed exhilarated at having an old
friend of (what he called) ‘the old stock,’ in his poor
cabin. He even mentioned many anecdotes of my own boyhood,
which, though by me long forgotten, were accurately true.
These things show the surprising power of his recollection
at the age of one hundred and eight years. Since I saw him
last, which was in 1787, the wen on the back of his head is
greatly increased; it is now hanging over his neck and
shoulders, nearly as large as his head, from which
circumstance he derives his appellative, ‘the man with two
heads.’ General Hart, who is an admirer of music, sent a
limner lately to take a drawing of him, which cannot fail to
be interesting, if it were only for the venerable expression
of his meagre, blind countenance, and the symmetry of his
tall, thin, but not debilitated person. I found him lying on
his back in bed near the fire of his cabin; his family
employed in the usual way; his harp under the bed-clothes,
by which his face was covered also. When he heard my name he
started up (being already dressed) and seemed rejoiced to
hear the sound of my voice, which, he said, he began to
recollect. He asked for my children, whom I brought to see
him, and he felt them over and over;—then, with tones of
great affection, he blessed God that he had seen four
generations of the name, and ended by giving the children
his blessing. He then tuned his old time-beaten harp, his
solace and bed-fellow, and played with astonishing justness
and good taste.
“The tunes which he played were his favourites; and he,
with an elegance of manner, said at the same time, ‘I
remember you have a fondness for music, and the tunes you
used to ask for I have not forgotten, which were Cualin, The
Dawning of the Day, Elleen-a-roon, Ceandubhdilis, &c.
These, except the third, were the first tunes, which,
according to regulation, he played at the famous meeting of
harpers at Belfast, under the patronage of some amateurs of
Irish music. Mr. Bunton, the celebrated musician of that
town, was here the year before, at Hampson’s, noting his
tunes and his manner of playing, which is in the best old
style. He said with the hottest feeling of self-love, ‘When
I played the old tunes not another of the harpers would play
after me.’ He came to Magilligan many years ago, and at the
age of eighty-six, married a woman of Innishowen, whom he
found living in the house of a friend. ‘I can’t tell,’ quoth
Hampson, ‘if it was not the devil buckled us together; she
being lame and I blind.’ By this wife he has one daughter,
married to a cooper, who has several children, and maintains
them all, though Hampson (in this alone seeming to doat)
says that his son-in-law is a spendthrift and that he
maintains them; the family humour his whim, and the old man
is quieted. He is pleased when they tell him, as he thinks
is the case, that several people of character, for musical
taste, send letters to invite him; and he, though incapable
now of leaving the house, is planning expeditions never to
be attempted, much less realized; these are the only traces
of mental debility; as to his body, he has no inconvenience
but that arising from a chronic disorder: his habits have
ever been sober; his favourite drink, once beer, now milk
and water; his diet chiefly potatoes. I asked him to teach
my daughter, but he declined: adding, however, that it was
too hard for a young girl, but that nothing would give him
greater pleasure if he thought it could be done.
“Lord Bristol, while lodging at the bathing house of Mount
Salut, near Magilligan, gave three guineas and ground rent
free, to build the house where Hampson now lives. At the
house-warming, his lordship with his lady and family came,
and the children danced to his harp; the bishop gave three
crowns to the family, and in the dear year, his lordship
called in his coach and six, stopped at the door, and gave a
guinea to buy meal.
“Would it not be well to get up a subscription for poor old
Hampson? It might be sent to various towns where he is
known.
“Ever yours,
“C. V. SAMPSON.”
ADDENDA.
“In the time of Noah I was green,
After his flood I have not been seen,
Until seventeen hundred and two. I was found
By Cormac Kelly, under ground;
Who raised me up to that degree;
Queen of music they call me.”
“The above lines were sculptured on the old harp, which is
made, the sides and front of white sally, the back of fir,
patched with copper and iron plates, his daughter now
attending him is only thirty-three years old.
“I have now given you an account of my visit, and even thank
you (though my fingers are tired) for the pleasure you
procured to me by this interesting commission.
Once more ever yours,
C. Y. S.
In February, 1806, the author, being then but eighteen miles
distant from the residence of the bard, received a message
from him, intimating that as he heard she wished to purchase
his harp, he would dispose of it on very moderate terms. He
was then in good health and spirits though in his hundred
and ninth year.
Whenever there was a revel of the feelings, a joy of the imagination, or a delicate fruition of a refined and touching sentiment, how my soul misses her! I find it impossible to make even the amiable and intelligent priest enter into the nature of my feelings; but how naturally, in the overflowing of my heart, do I turn towards her, yet turn in vain, or find her image only in my enamoured soul, which is full of her. Oh! how much do I owe her. What a vigorous spring has she opened in the wintry waste of a desolated mind. It seems as though a seal had been fixed upon every bliss of the senses and the heart, which her breath alone could dissolve; that all was gloom and chaos until she said “let there be light.”
As we rode back to our auberge by the light of a cloudless but declining moon, after some conversation on the subject of the bard whom we had visited, the priest exclaimed, “Who would suppose that that wretched hut was the residence of one of that order once so revered among the Irish; whose persons and properties were held sacred and inviolable by the common consent of all parties, as well as by the laws of the nation, even in all the vicissitudes of warfare, and all the anarchy of intestine commotion; an order which held the second rank in the state; and whose members, in addition to the interesting duties of their profession, were the heralds of peace, and the donors of immortality? Clothed in white and flowing robes, the bards marched to battle at the head of the troops, and by the side of the chief; and while by their martial strains they awakened courage even to desperation in the heart of the warrior, borne away by the furor of their own enthusiasm, they not unfrequently rushed into the thick of the fight themselves, and by their maddening inspirations decided the fate of the battle; or when victory descended on the ensanguined plain, they hung over the warrior’s funeral pile, and chaunted to the strains of the national lyre the deeds of the valiant, and the prowess of the hero; while the brave and listening survivors envied and emulated the glory of the deceased, and believed that this tribute of inspired genius at the funeral rites was necessary to the repose of the departed soul.”
* The genuine history and records of Ireland abound with
incidents singularly romantic, and of details exquisitely
interesting. In the account of the death of the celebrated
hero Conrigh, as given by Demetrius O’Connor, the following
instance of fidelity and affection of a family bard is
given. “When the beautiful but faithless Blanaid, whose hand
Conrigh had obtained as the reward of his valour, armed a
favourite lover against the life of her husband, and fled
with the murderer; Fierchiertne, the poet and bard of
Conrigh, in the anguish of his heart for the loss of a
generous master, resolved upon sacrificing the criminal
Blanaid to the manes of his murdered lord. He therefore
secretly pursued her from the palace in Kerry to the court
of Ulster, whither she had fled with her homicide paramour.
On his arrival there, the first object that saluted his eyes
was the king of that province, walking on the the edge of
the steep rocks of Rinchin Beara, surrounded by the
principal nobility of his court; and in the splendid train
he soon perceived the lovely, but guilty Blanaid and her
treacherous lover. The bard concealed himself until he
observed his mistress withdraw from the brilliant crowd, and
stand at the edge of a steep cliff; then courteously and
flatteringly addressing her, and clasping her firmly to his
breast, threw himself headlong with his prey down the
precipice. They were both dashed to pieces.”
“And from what period,” said I, “may the decline of these once potent and revered members of the state be dated?”
“I would almost venture to say,” returned the priest, “so early as in the latter end of the sixth century; for we read in an Irish record, that about that period the Irish monarch convened the princes, nobles, and clergy of the kingdom, to the parliament of Drumceat; and the chief motive alleged for summoning this vast assembly was to banish the Fileas or bards.”
“Which might be deemed then,” interrupted I, “a league of the Dunces against Wit and Genius.”
“Not altogether,” returned the priest. “It was in some respects a necessary policy. For, strange to say, nearly the third part of Ireland had adopted a profession at once so revered, and privileged, so honoured and so caressed by all ranks of the state. Indeed, about this period, such was the influence they had obtained in the kingdom, that the inhabitants without distinction were obliged to receive and maintain them from November till May, if it were the pleasure of the bard to become their guest; nor were there any object on which their daring wishes rested that was not instantly put into their possession. And such was the ambition of one of their order, that he made a demand on the golden broach or clasp that braced the regal robe on the breast of royalty itself, which was unalienable with the crown, and descended with the empire from generation to generation.”
“Good God!” said I, “what an idea does this give of the omnipotence of music and poetry among those refined enthusiasts, who have ever borne with such impatience the oppressive chain of power, yet suffer themselves to be soothed into slavery by the melting strains of the national lyre.”
“It is certain,” replied the priest, “that no nation, not even the Greeks, were ever attached with more passionate enthusiasm to the divine arts of poesy and song, than the ancient Irish, until their fatal and boundless indulgence to their professors became a source of inquietude and oppression to the whole state. The celebrated St. Columkill, who was himself a poet, became a mediator between the monarch, already mentioned and the ‘tuneful throng;’ and by his intercession, the king changed his first intention of banishing the whole college of bards, to limiting their numbers; for it was an argument of the liberal saint that it became a great monarch to patronize the arts; to retain about his person an eminent bard and antiquary; and to allow to his tributary princes or chieftains, a poet capable of singing their exploits, and of registering the genealogy of their illustrious families. This liberal and necessary plan of reformation, suggested by the saint, was adopted by the monarch; and these salutary regulations became the prominent standard for many succeeding ages: and though the severity of those regulations against the bards, enforced in the tyrannic reign of Henry VIII, as proposed by Baron Finglas, considerably lessened their power; * yet until the reign of Elizabeth their characters were not stripped of that sacred stole, which the reverential love of their countrymen had flung over them. The high estimation in which the bard was held in the commencement of the empire of Ireland’s archenemy is thus attested by Sir Philip Sidney:
* Item.—That no Irish minstrels, rhymers, thanaghs
nebards, be messengers to desire any goods of any man
dwelling within the English pale, upon pain of forfeiture of
all their goods, and their bodies to be imprisoned at the
king’s will.—Harris’s Hibernica, p. 98.
“‘In our neighbouring country,’ says he, ‘where truly learning grows very bare, yet are their poets held in devout reverence.’ But Elizabeth, jealous of that influence which the bardic order of Ireland held over the most puissant of her chiefs, not only enacted laws against them, but against such as received or entertained them: for Spenser informs us that, even then, ‘their verses were taken up with a general applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings.’ Of the spirited, yet pathetic manner in which the genius of Irish minstrelsy addressed itself to the soul of the Irish chief, many instances are still preserved in the records of traditional lore. A poem of Fearflatha, family bard to the O’Nials of Clanboy, and beginning thus:—‘O the condition of our dear countrymen, how languid their joys, how acute their sorrows, &c., &c.,’ the Prince of Inismore takes peculiar delight in repeating. But in the lapse of time, and vicissitude of revolution, this order, once so revered, has finally sunk into the casual retention of a harper, piper, or fiddler, which are generally, but not universally to be found in the houses of the Irish country gentlemen; as you have yourself witnessed in the castle of Inismore and the hospitable mansion of the O’D————s. One circumstance, however, I must mention to you. Although Ulster was never deemed poetic ground, yet when destruction threatened the bardic order in the southern and western provinces, where their insolence, nurtured by false indulgence, often rendered them an object of popular antipathy, hither they fled for protection, and at different periods found it from the northern princes: and Ulster, you perceive, is now the last resort of the most ancient of the survivors of the ancient Irish bards, who, after having imbibed inspiration in the classic regions of Connaught, and effused his national strains through every province of his country, draws forth the last feeble tones of his almost silenced harp amidst the chilling regions of the north; almost unknown and undistinguished, except by the few strangers who are led by chance or curiosity to this hut, and from whose casual bounties he chiefly derives his subsistence.”
We had now reached the door of our auberge; and the dog of the house jumping on me as I alighted, our hostess exclaimed, “Ah sir! our wee doggie kens ye uncoo weel” Is not this the language of the Isle of Sky? The priest left me early this morning on his evidently unpleasant embassy. On his return we visit the Giant’s Causeway, which I understand is but sixteen miles distant. Of this pilgrimage to the shrine of Nature in her grandest aspect, I shall tell you nothing; but when we meet will put into your hands a work written on the subject, from which you will derive equal pleasure and instruction. At this moment the excellent priest appears on his little nag; the rain no longer beats against my casement; the large drops suspended from the foliage of the trees sparkle with the beams of the meridian sun, which bursting forth in cloudless radiancy, dispels the misty shower, and brilliantly lights up the arch of heaven’s promise. Would you know the images now most buoyant in my cheered bosom; they are Ossian and Glorvina: it is for him to describe, for her to feel the renovating charms of this interesting moment.
Adieu! I shall grant you a reprieve till we once more reach the dear ruins of Inismore.