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.”