“This appears,” he says, “to represent the death of the young son of Dermod MacMurrough, who was delivered up to Roderick O’Connor, as a hostage for his father’s fidelity, and who, according to Cambrensis, and, we believe, to our own annalists, was abandoned by that inhuman and ambitious parent to his fate!”
After the flourish of trumpets, with which Mr. P—— had proclaimed independence of Dr. Ledwich, one would have expected a new ascription, or, at least, a different one, from him. This, however, is but a servile transcript from his predecessor’s work, and that, too, without having the candour to quote him as his authority!
“But let us view those things with closer eyes.”
Had MacMurrough’s son been put to death by O’Connor, in that awful manner above delineated, with such external parade, and such mysterious pomp, think you that Cambrensis, who never omitted even the most trivial feature of a narrative, would have been blind to a particular, which must have interested all his readers? Yet, as to the reality of this—Mr. P——’s insinuation notwithstanding—Cambrensis is silent and mute as the grave!
A fact which was thought worthy to be commemorated in fresco must have been equally eligible as a phenomenon in writing. The O’Connors, therefore, whom Mr. P—— would install as the authors of this device, must have retained some documentary register thereof: and, though it is well known, that there is not a family in the kingdom, who have preserved the records of their house with such industry or minuteness as they have, yet is there not so much as the semblance of an allusion to be traced amongst them, to this mysterious representation!
Nay, if O’Connor had put to death MacMurrough’s son, with such circumstances of torture and savage insensibility, is it probable that he would himself be the person to immortalise his disgrace, by depicting it upon such a chronicle? And if the virtue of the nation were not previously outraged by the hellishness of the crime itself, would it not now blaze forth in holy indignation at the infatuated vanity of the monster, who, not satisfied with the murder of his innocent victim, must deluge his country also in gore, by associating it, to forthcoming ages, with this outline of his barbarity?
Yes, sir, if they were silent as to the crime, they would be eloquent as to the painting! And it is not only that they would demolish the structure within which it was inscribed, but every quill within the realm would become a pen, every liquid be converted into ink, and every hand be made that of a writer to rescue the island’s fame from identity with the traitor’s cause; and confine to his own and his loathed head the withering execrations of posterity!
Instead of which, however, not a syllable is uttered, on paper or on parchment, allusive to the tragedy! Not a presage is imparted by mournful banshee! nor elegy sung by familiar mna-caointha! No historian records the heart-rending tale! nor does gipsy retail it in itinerant ditty! But the mystery of sorrow, and the sanctity of truth, that hallowed the scene which this temple commemorates, has, still further, exerted its protecting instrumentality, and besides the moving evidences imprinted upon its interior, has added those also of exclusion from without, and prevented the iniquity of profane appropriation, by the occurrence of any equivocal record!
The devices upon places of worship are always of a religious kind. Would the perpetration of a faithless infanticide be considered an act of religion? And, if not, why emblazon it within the tabernacle of prayer, with all the circumstances of grace and of grandeur around it?—solemnised by kings! superintended by gods! and executed by judges!
Oh! sir, a dire plague of astringent benightment has lain brooding over history! and spread, like the upas, its baleful emaciation over everything of culture that fell within its shadow! But truth is immortal: and, however momentarily suppressed, will ultimately recover.