* The mention of this oath recalls to my mind an * anecdote
of the bard Carolan, as related by Mr. Walker, in his
inimitable Memoir of the Irish Bards. “He (Carolan) went
once on a pilgrimage to St. Patrick’s Purgatory, a cave in
an island in Lough Dergh, (county of Donegal) of which more
wonders are told than even the Cave of Triphonius. On his
return to shore, he found several pilgrims waiting the
arrival of the boat, which had conveyed him to the object of
his devotion. In assisting some of those devout travellers
to get on board, he chanced to take a lady’s hand, and
instantly exclaimed ‘dar lamh mo Chardais Criost, [i. e. by
the hand of my gossip] this is the hand of Bridget Cruise.’
His sense of feeling did not deceive him—it was the hand of
her who he once adored.”
I am at this moment returned from my Vengolf, after having declared the necessity of my absence for some time, leaving the term, however, indefinite; so that in this instance, I can be governed by my inclination and convenience, without any violation of promise. The good old Prince looked as much amazed at my determination, as though he expected I were never to depart; and I really believe, in the old fashioned hospitality of his Irish heart, he would be better satisfied I never should. He said many kind and cordial things in his own curious way; and concluded by pressing my speedy return, and declaring that my presence had created a little jubilee among them.
The priest was absent; and Glorvina, who sat at her little wheel by her father’s side, snapped her thread, and drooped her head close to her work, until I casually observed, that I had already passed above three weeks at the castle—then she shook back the golden tresses from her brow, and raised her eyes to mine with a look that seemed to say, “can that be possible!” Not even by a glance did I reply to the flattering question; but I felt it not the less.
When we arose to retire to our respective apartments, and I mentioned that I should be off at dawn, the Prince shook me cordially by the hand, and bid me farewell with an almost paternal kindness.
Glorvina, on whose arm he was leaning, did not follow his example—she simply wished me “a pleasant journey.”
“But where,” said the Prince, “do you sojourn to?”
“To the town of Bally————,” said I, “which has been hitherto my head quarters, and where I have left my clothes, books, and drawing utensils. I have also some friends in the neighbourhood, procured me by letters of introduction with which I was furnished in England.”
You know that a great part of this neighbourhood is my father’s property, and once belonged to the ancestors of the Prince. He changed colour as I spoke, and hurried on in silence.
Adieu! the castle clock strikes twelve! What creatures we are! when the tinkling of a bit of metal can affect our spirits. Mine, however, (though why, I know not,) were prepared for the reception of sombre images. This night may be, in all human probability, the last I shall sleep in the castle of Inismore; and what then—it were perhaps as well I had never entered it. A generous mind can never reconcile itself to the practices of deception; yet to prejudices so inveterate, I had nothing but deception to oppose. And yet, when in some happy moment of parental favour, when all my past sins are forgotten, and my present state of regeneration only remembered—I shall find courage to disclose my romantic adventure to my father, and through the medium of that strong partiality the son has awakened in the heart of the Prince, unite in bonds of friendship these two worthy men but unknown enemies—then I shall triumph in my impositions, and, for the first time, adopt the maxim, that good consequences may be effected by means not strictly conformable to the rigid laws of truth.