This change of things in our domestic politics has changed all my plans of operation. This arch spy being removed, obviates the necessity of my retreat to the Lodge. My establishment here consists only of two females, who scarcely speak a word of English; an old gardener, who possesses not one entire sense, and a groom, who, having nothing to do, I shall discharge: so that if I should find it my pleasure to return and remain any time at the castle of Inismore, I shall have no one here to watch my actions, or report them to my father.
There is something Boeotian in this air. I can neither read, write, or think. Does not Locke assert, that the soul sometimes dozes? I frequently think I have been bit by a torpedo, or that I partake in some degree of the nature of the seven sleepers, and suffer a transient suspension of existence. What if this Glorvina has an evil eye, and has overlooked me? The witch haunts me, not only in my dreams, but when I fancy myself at least, awake. A thousand times I think I hear the tones of her voice and harp. Does she feel my absence at the accustomed hour of tuition, the fire-side circle in the Vengolf the twilight conversation, the noontide ramble?—Has my presence become a want to her? Am I missed, and missed with regret? It is scarcely vanity to say, I am—I must be. In a life of so much sameness, the most trivial incident, the most inconsequent character obtains in interest in a certain degree.
One day I caught her weeping over a pet robin, which died on her bosom. She smiled, and endeavoured to hide her tears. “This is very silly I know,” said she, “but one must feel even the loss of a bird that has been the companion of one’s solitude!”
To-day I flung down my book in downright deficiency of comprehension to understand a word in it, though it was a simple case in the Reports of ———-; and so, in the most nonchalante mood possible, I mounted my rosinante, and throwing the bridle over her neck, said, “please thyself;” and it was her pious pleasure to tread on consecrated ground: in short, after a ride of half an hour, I found myself within a few paces of the parish mass-house, and recollected that it was the Sabbath day; so that you see my mare reproved me, though in an oblique manner, with little less gravity than the ass of Balaam did his obstinate rider.
The mass-house was of the same order of architecture as the generality of Irish cabins, with no other visible mark to ascertain its sacred designation than a stone cross, roughly hewn, over its entrance. I will not say that it was merely a sentiment of piety which induced me to enter it; but it certainly required, at first, an effort of energy to obtain admittance, as for several yards round this simple tabernacle a crowd of devotees were prostrated on the earth, praying over their beads with as much fervour as though they were offering up their orisins in the golden-roofed temple of Soliman.
When I had fastened my horse’s bridle to a branch of a hawthorn, I endeavoured to make my way through the pious crowd, who all arose the moment I appeared—for the last mass, I learned, was over, and those who had prayed par hazard, without hearing a word the priest said within, departed. While I pressed my way into the body of the chapel, it was so crowded that with great difficulty I found means to fix myself by a large triangular stone vessel filled with holy water, where I fortunately remained (during the sermon) unnoticed.
This sermon was delivered by a little old mendicant, in the Irish language. Beside him stood the parish priest in pontifiealibus, and with as much self-invested dignity as the dalai lama of Little Thibet could assume before his votarists. When the shrivelled little mendicant had harangued them some time on the subject of Christian charity, for so his countenance and action indicated, a general secula seculorum concluded his discourse; and while he meekly retreated a few paces, the priest mounted the steps of the little altar; and after preparing his lungs, he delivered an oration, to which it would be impossible to do any justice. It was partly in Irish, partly in English; and intended to inculcate the necessity of contributing to the relief of the mendicant preacher, if they hoped to have the benefit of his prayers; addressing each of his flock by their name and profession, and exposing their faults and extolling their virtues, according to the nature of their contributions While the friar, who stood with his face to the wall, was with all human diligence piously turning his beads to two accounts—with one half he was making intercession for the souls of his good subscribers, and with the other diligently keeping count of the sum total of their benefactions. As soon as I had sent in mine, almost stifled with heat, I effected my escape.
In contrasting this parish priest with the chaplain of Inismore, I could not help exclaiming with Epaminondas—“It is the man who must give dignity to the situation—not the situation to the man.” Adieu.