“Spoken like a true-born Irishman!” said the priest, laughing, and shaking me heartily by the hand—“While with something of the phlegm of an Englishman, I wish you only as many returns of it as shall bring health and felicity in their train.”
Then looking at the myrtle which reposed on the bosom of Glorvina, and the rose which I so proudly wore, he added—“So, I perceive you have both been sacrificing to Beal; and like the priests and priestesses of this country in former times, are adorned with the flowers of the season. For you must know, Mr. Mortimer, we had our Druidesses as well as our Druids; and both, like the ministers of Grecian mythology, were crowned with flowers at the time of sacrifice.”
At this apposite remark of the good priest, I stole a glance at my lovely priestess. Hero, at the altar of the deity she rivalled, never looked more attractive to the enamoured Leander.
We had now come within a few steps of the portals of the castle, and I observed that since I passed that way, the path and entrance were strewed with green flags, rushes, and wild crocuses; * while the heavy framework of the door was hung with garlands, and bunches of flowers, tastefully displayed.
* “Seeing the doors of the Greeks on the first of May,
profusely ornamented with flowers, would certainly recall to
your mind the many descriptions of that custom which you
have met with in the Greek and Latin poets.—Letters on
Greece, by Moniseur Da Guys, vol i. p. 153.
“This, madam,” said I to Glorvina, “is doubtless the result of your happy taste.”
“By no means,” she replied—“this is a custom prevalent among the peasantry time immemorial.”
“And most probably was brought hither,” said the priest, “from Greece by our Phonician progenitors: for we learn from Athenæus, that the young Greeks hung garlands on the doors of their favourite mistresses on the first of May. Nor indeed does the Roman floralia differ in any respect from ours.”
“Those, however, which you now admire,” said Glorvina, smiling, “are no offerings of rustic gallantry; for every hut in the country, on this morning, will bear the same fanciful decorations. The wild crocus, and indeed every flower of that rich tint, is peculiarly sacred to this day.”
And, in fact, when, in the course of the day, I rambled out alone, and looked into the several cabins, I perceived not only their floors covered with flags and rushes, but a “Maybush,” as they call it, or small tree, planted before all the doors, covered with every flower the season affords.