r ' . ■ • OF THE U N I VERS ITY Of ILLINOIS 5)25 M82'3w \s>aa ► 7 - Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/wildirishgirlnatOOmorg UBRARy ; r UNiVERSilY UF ILLINOIS UREaNA WE I'Ll® 1' -ii E // Aiitlior of S’!" Clair, Ac. Ac. HEVV TOBK: PrTBLI.SHED ‘BY P.M.HAVERTI THE WILD lEiSH &IEL A NATIONAL TALE. BY LADY MORGAN AUTHOR OF ST. CLAIR, THE NOVICE OF ST. DOMINIC, ETC. “Questa gente benche mostra selvagea E piir gif monte la contrada accierba Nondimeno I’e dolce ad cui I’assagia.” “This race of men, though savage they may seem, The country, too, with many a mountain rough, Yet are they sweet to him who tries and tastes them.’’ Uberti^s Travels thro* Ireland^ 14tA Centwr^ IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. L NEW YORK : P. J. KENEDY, EXCELSIOR CATHOLIC PUBLISHING HOUSE, 5 Barclay Street. 1888. WILD IRISH GIRL * INTRODUCTORY LETTERS. THE EARL OF M TO THE HONORABLE HORATIO M , king’s bench. Castle M , Leicestershire^ Feb, — , 17—. If there are certain circumstances under which a fond father can address an imprisoned son. without suffering the bitterest heart-rendings of paternal agony, such are not those under which I now address you. To sustain the loss of the most precious of all human rights, and forfeit our liberty at the shrine ol virtue, in defence of our country abroad, or of our public integrity and principles at home, brings to the heart of the sufferer’s dearest sympathising friend a soothing solace, almost concomitant to the poignancy of his afflictions; and leaves the decision difficult, !• 6 INTRODUCTORY LETTERS. whether in the scale of human feelings, triumphant pride or afiecti-onate regret preponderate. I would not,” said the old earl of Ormond, “ give up my dead son for Uventy living ones.” Oh! how I envy such a father the possession,, and even the loss of such a child: with what eagerness my heart rushes back to that period when I too triumphed in my son ; when I beheld him glowing in all the unadulterated virtues of the happiest nature, flushed with the proud con- sciousness of superior genius, refined by a taste intuitively elegant, and warmed by an enthusiasm constitutionally ardent ; his character indeed tinc- tured with the bright colouring of romantic ec- centricity, but marked by the indelible traces of innate rectitude, and ennobled by the purest prin- ciples of native generosity, the proudest sense of inviolable honour, I beheld him rush eagerly on life, enamoured of its seeming good, incredulous of its latent evils, till fatally fascinated by the magic spell of the former, he fell an early victim to the successful lures of the latter. The grow- ing influence of his passions kept pace with the expansion of his mind, and the moral powers of the man of genius, gave way to the overwhelming propensities of the man of pleasure. Yet in the midst of those exotic vices (for as such even yet I would consider them,) he continued at once the object of my parental partiality and anxious soli- citude; 1 admired while I condemned, I pitied while I reproved. ****** pyTRODUCTORY LETTERS. 7 The rights of primogeniture, and the mild and prudent cast of your brother’s character, left me no cares either for his worldly interest or moral welfare : born to titled affluence, his destination in life was ascertained previous to his entrance on its chequered scene ; and equally free from passions to mislead, or talents to stimulate, he promised to his father that series of temperate satisfaction which, unillumined by those corusca- tions, your superior and promising genius flashed on the parental heart, could not prepare for its sanguine feelings that mortal disappointment with which you have destroyed all its hopes. On the recent death of my father I found myself pos- sessed of a very large but incumbered property : it was requisite I should make the same estab- lishment for my eldest son, that my father had made for me; while I was conscious that my youngest was in some degree to stand indebted to his own exertions, for independence as well as elevation in life. You may recollect that during your first col- lege vacation, we conversed on the subject of that liberal profession I had chosen for you, and you agreed with me, that it was congenial to your powers, and not inimical to your taste ; while the part I was anxious you should take in the legi- slation of your country, seemed at once to rouse and gratify your ambition; but the pure flame of laudable emulation was soon extinguished in the iestrucdve atmosphere of plea^re, and while 8 INTRODUCTORY LETTERS. beheld you, in the visionary hopes of rny parental ambition, invested with the crimson robe of legal dignity, or shining brightly conspicuous in the splendid galaxy of senatorial luminaries, you were idly presiding as the high priest of libertin- ism at the nocturnal orgies of vitiated dissipation, or indolently lingering out your life in elegant but unprofitable pursuits. It were as vain as impossible to trace you through every degree of error on the scale of folly and imprudence, and such a repetition would be more heart wounding to me than painful to you, were it even made under the most extenuating bias of parental fondness. I have only to add, that though already greatly distressed by the liquidation of your debts, at a time when I am singularly circumstanced with respect to pecuniary resources, I will make a struggle to free you from the chains of this your present eVo;i-hearted creditor, through the re- trenchment of my own expenses, and my tempo- rary retreat to tho solitute of my Irish estate must be the result ; provided that by this sacri- fice I purchace your acquiescence to my wishes respecting the destiny of your future life, and an unreserved abjuration of the follies which have governed your past. Yours, THE WILD IRISH GIRL. that early formed opinion of Irish ferocity, which has since been nurtured into a confirmed preju* dice. So true it is, that almost ail the erroneous principles which influenco our maturer being, are to be traced to some fatal association of ideas received and formed in early life. But whatever may be the cause^ I feel the strongest objection to becoming a resident in the remote part of a coun- tiy which is still shaken by the convulsions of an anarchical spirit ; where for a series of ages the olive of peace has not been suffered to shoot forth one sweet blossom of national concord, which the sword of civil dissension has not cropt almost in the germ; and the natural character of whose factious sons, as we are still taught to believe, is turbulent, faithless, intemperate, and cruel ; for- merly destitute of arts, letters, or civilization, and still but slowly submitting to their salutary and ennobling influence. To confess the truth, I had so far suffered pre- judice to get the start of unbiassed liberality, that I had almost assigned to these rude people scenes appropriately barbarous ; and never was more plea- santly astonished, than when the morning’s dawn gave to my view one of the most splendid spec- tacles in the scene of picturesque creation I had ever beheld, or indeed ever conceived — the bay of Dublin. A foreigner on board the packet compared the view to that which the bay of Naples affords : I cannot judge of the justness of the comparison, THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 23 thoiigli I am told one very general and common- place ; but if the scenic beauties of the Irish bay are exceeded by those of the Neapolitan, my fancy falls short in a just conception of its charms. The springing up of a contrary wind kept us for a considerable time beating about this enchanting coast; the weather suddenly changed, the rain poured in torrents, a storm arose, and the beauti- ful prospect which had fascinated our gaze, van- ished in the mists of impenetrable obscurity. As we had the mail on board, a boat was sent out to receive it, the oars of which were plied by six men, whose statures, limbs, and features de- clared them the lingering progeny of the once formidable race of Irish giants. Bare headed, they “ bided the pelting of the pitiless storm,” with no other barrier to its fury, than what tatter- ed check trousers, and shirts open at neck, and tucked above the elbows afforded ; and which thus disposed, betrayed the sinewy contexture of forms, which might have individually afforded a model to sculpture, for the colossal statue of an Hercules, under all the different aspects of strength and exertion.* A few of the passengers proposing to venture in the boat, I listlessly followed, and found myself seated by one of these sea monsters, who, in an accent that made me startle, addressed me in ♦This little marine sketch is by no means a fancy picture ; it was actually copied from the life, in the summer of 1806 24 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. English at least as pure and correct as a Thames’ boatman would use ; and with so much courtesy, cheerfulness, and respect, that I was at a loss to reconcile such civilization of manner to such fe- rocity of appearance ; while his companions as they stemmed the mountainous waves, or plied their heavy oars, displayed such a vein of low hu- mour and quaint drollery, and in a language so cu- riously expressive and original, that no longer able to suppress my surprise, I betrayed it to a gentleman who sat near me, and by whom I was assured that this species of colloquial wit was pe- culiar to the lower class of the Irish, who bor- rowed much of their curious phraseology from the peculiar idiom of their own tongue, and the cheeriness of manner from the native exility of their temperament ; “ and as for their courteous- ness.” he continued, “ you will find them on a further intercourse, civil even to adulation, as long as you treat them with apparent kindness, but an opposite conduct will prove their manner propor- tionably uncivilized.” * “ It is very excusable,” said I, “ they are of a class in society to which the modification of the feelings are unknown, and to be sensibly alive to kindness or to unkindness, is, in my opinion, a noble trait in the national character of an unsO' phisticated people.” While we spoke, we landed, and for the some- thing like pleasurable emotion, which the first on my list of Irish acquaintance produced in my THE WILD IRISH GIRL 2d mind, -I distributed among these “ sons of the waves,” more silver than 1 believe they expected Had I bestowed a principality on an Englishman of the same rank, he would have been less lavish of the eloquence of gratitude on his benefactor, though he might equally have felt the sentiment . — So much for iiiy voyage across the Channel I This city is to London like a small temple of the Ionic order, whose proportions are delicate, whose character is elegance, compared to a vast palace, whose Corinthian pillars at once denote strength and magnificence. The wondrous extent of London excites our amazement ; the compact uniformity of Dublin our admiration. But a dispersion is less within the coup-d^ceil of observance, than aggregation, the small, but harmonious features of Dublin sieze at once on the eye, while the scattered but splen- did traits of London, excite a less immediate and more progressive admiration, which is often lost in the intervals that occur between those objects 'vhich are calculated to excite it. In London, the miserable shop of a gin seller, iud the magnificent palace of a Duke, alternately • reate disgust, or awaken approbation. In Dublin the buildings are not arranged upon ';ch democratic principles. The plebian hut of- rs no foil to the patrician edifice, while their ^ ;>lendid and beautiful public structures are so - ‘Osely connected, as with some de^ee of policy a 26 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. to Strike at once upon the eye in the happiest combination.* In other respects this city appears to me to be the miniature copy of our imperial original, though minutely imitative in show and glare. Something less observant of life’s prime luxuries, order and cleanliness, there are a certain class of wretches v/ho haunt the streets of Dublin, so emblematic of vice, poverty, idleness, and filth, that disgust and pity frequently succeed in the minds of the stranger to sentiments of pleasure, surprise, and admiration. For the origin of this evil, I must refer you to the supreme police of the city ; but whatever may be the cause, the effects (to an Englishman especially) are dreadful and disgust- ing beyond all expression. Although my father has a lage connexion here, yet he only gave me a letter to his banker, who has forced me to make his house my home for the few days I shall remain in Dublin, and whose cordiality and kindness sanctions all that has ever been circulated of Irish hospitality. In the present state of my feelings, however, a party on the banks of the Ohio, with a tribe of Indian hunters, would be more consonant to my inclinations than the refined pleasures of the most polished circles in the world. Yet these warm- * Although in one point of view, there may be a policy in this close association of splendid objects, yet it is a cir« cuinstance of general and just condemnation to all stranr gers who are not confined to a partial survey of the city. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 27 hearted people, who find in the name of stranger an irresistible lure to every kind attention, will force me to be happy in despite of myself, and overwhelm me with invitations, some of which it is impossible to resist. My prejudices have re- ceived some mortal strokes, when I perceived that the natives of this barbarous country have got goal for goal with us, in every elegant refinement of life and manners ; the only difference I can perceive between a London and a Dublin rout is, that Lere, amongst the first class, there is a warmth and cordiality of address, which, though perhaps not more sincere than the- cold formality of British ceremony, is certainly more fasci- nating.* It is not, however, in Dublin I shall expect to find the tone of national character and manner ; in the first circles of all great cities (as in courts) the native features of national character are sof- tened into general uniformity, and the genuine feelings of nature are suppressed or exchanged for a political compliance with the reigning modes and customs, which hold their tenure from the sanction and example of the seat of government. Before I close this, I must make one observation, which I think will speak more than volumes for the refinement of these people. ♦ Every unprejudiced traveller who visits them [the Irish] will be as much pleased with their cheerfuiness aa obliged by their hospitality; and will find them a Drave, polite, and liberal people.” — Philosophical Survey through Ireland by Mr. Young. 28 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. During my short residence here, I ha\e been forced, in true spirit of Irish dissipation, into three parties of a night ; and I have upon these occa- sions observed that the most courted objects of popular attention, were those whose talents alone endowed them with distinction. Besides ama- teurs, I have met with many professional persons, whom I knew in London as public characters, and who are here incorporated in the first and most brilliant circles, appearing to feel no other inequality, than what their own superiority of ge- nius confers I leave Dublin to-morrow for M house. It is situated in the county of , on the north- west coast of Connaught, which I am told is the classic ground of Ireland. The native Irish, pur- sued by religious and political bigotry, made it the asylum of their sufferings, and were separated by a provincial barrier from an intercourse with the rest of Ireland, until after the Restoration ; so I shall have a fair opportunity of beholding the Irish character in all its primeval ferocity. Direct your next to Bally , which I find is the nearest post town to my Kamskatkan palace , where* with no other society than that of Black stone and Co. I shall lead such a life of animal existence, as Prior gives to his Contented Cou- ple — ** They ate and drank, and slept — what then? Why, slep‘ and drank, and ale again.” — A.dieu. H. M. ▼HE ^ILD IRISH GIRL. 29 LETTER 11. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. M HcMse. In the various modes of penance invented by the various penance mongers of pious austerity, did you ever hear the travelling in an Irish post- chaise enumerated as a punishment, which by far exceeds horse-hair shirts and voluntary flagela- tion ? My first day’s journey from Dublin being as wet a one as this moist climate and capricious season ever produced, my berlin answered all the purposes of a shower hath^ while the ventillating principles on which the windows were construct- ed, gave me all the benefit to be derived from the breathy influence of the four cardinal points. Unable any longer to sit tamely enduring the penalty of Adam, the season^ s change f or to sus- tain any longer the “ hair-breadth ’scapes,” which the most dismantled of vehicles afforded me, to- gether with delays and stoppages of every spe- cies to be found in the catalogue of procrastina- tion and mischance, I took my seat in a mail coach which I met at my third stage, and which was going to a town within twenty miles of Bal- ly . These twenty miles, by far the most agreeable of my journey, I performed as we once (in days of boyish errantry) accomplished a toui to Wales— on foot. 30 THE WILD n ISH GIRL. I had previously sent my baggage, and was happily unincumbered with a servant, for the fas- tidious delicacy of Monsieur Laval would never have been adequate to the fatigues of a pedestri- an tour through a country wild and mountainous as his own native Savoy. But to me every diffi- culty was an effort of some good genius chasing the demon of lethargy from the usurpations of my mind’s empire. Every obstacle that called for exertion was a temporary revival of latent energy ; and every unforced effort worth an age of indolent indulgence. To him who derives gratification from the em- bellished labours of art, rather than the simple but sublime operation of nature, Irish scenery will afford little interest ; but the bold features of its varying landscape, the stupendous attitude of its “ cloud capt” mountains, the impervious gloom of its deep embosomed glens, the savage desolation of its uncultivated heaths, and bound- less bogs, with those rich veins of a picturesque champaigne, thrown at intervals into gay expan- sion by the hand of nature, awaken in the mind of the poetic or pictoral traveller, all the pleasures of tasteful enjoyment, all the sublime emotions of a rapt imagination. And if the glowing fancy of Claude Loraine would have dwelt enraptured on the paradisial charms of English landscape, the superior genius of Salvator Rosa would have re- posed its eagle wing amidst those scenes of mys- terious sublimity, with which the wildly magnifi- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 31 cent landscape of Ireland abounds. But the lib- erality of nature appears to me to be here but frugally assisted by the donations of art. Here agriculture appears in the least felicitous of hel aspects. The rich treasures of Ceres seldom wave their golden heads over the earth’s fertile bosom ; the verdant drapery of young plantations rarely skreens out the coarser features of a rigid soil, the cheerless aspect of a gloomy bog ; while the unvaried surface of the perpetual pasturage which satisfies the eye of the interested grazier, disappoints the glance of the tasteful spectator. Within twenty miles of Bally I was liter- ally dropt by the stage at the foot of a mountain, to which your native Wrekin is but a hillock. The dawn was just risen, and flung its gray and reserved tints on a scene of which the mountain- ous region of Capel Cerig will give you the most adequate idea. Mountain rising over mountain, swelled like an amphitheatre to those clouds which, faintly tinged with the sun’s prelusive beams, and rising from the earthly summits where they had reposed, in- corporated with the kindling aether of a purer atmosphere. All was silent and solitary — a tranquility tinged with terror, a sort of “ delightful horror,” breath- ed on every side. — I was alone, and felt like the presiding genius of desolation ! As I had previously learned my route, after a minute’s contemplation of the scene before me, I 32 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. pursued my solitary ramble along a steep and trackless path, which wound gradually down to- wards a great lake, an almost miniature sea, that lay embosomed amidst those stupendous heights whose rugged forms, now bare, desolate, and barren, now clothed with yellow furze and creep- ing underwood, or crowned with misnic forests, appeared towering above my head in endless va- riety. The progress of the sun convinced me that mine must have been slow, as it was perpetu- ally interrupted by pauses of curiosity and admi- ration, and by long and many lapses of thoughtful reverie ; and fearing that I had lost my way (as I had not yet caught a view of the village, in which, seven miles distant from the spot where I had left the stage, I was assured I should find an excel- lent breakfast,) I ascended that part of the moun- tain where, on one of its vivid points, a something like a human habitation hung suspended, and where I hoped to obtain a carte du 'pays: the ex- terior of this hut^ or cahin^ as it is called, like the few I had seen which were not built of mud, re- sembled in one instance the magic palace of Chaucer, and was erected with loose stones, “ Which, cunningly, were without mortar laid.” thinly thatched with straw ; an aperture in the roof served rather to admit the air than emit the smoke, a circumstance to which the wretched in- habitants of those wretched hovels seem so per- fectly naturalized, that they live in a constant state THE WILD IRISH OIRL. 33 of fumigation ; and a fracture in the side \s r\\ (meant 1 suppose as a substitute for a casement) was stuffed with straw, while the door, olf its hinges, was laid across the threshhold, as a bar- rier to a little crying boy, who sitting within, be- moaned his captivity in a tone of voice not quite so mellifluous as that which Mons. Sanctyon ascribes to the crying children of a certain dis- trict in Persia, but perfectly in unison with the vocal exertions of the companion of his imprison- ment, a large sow. I approached — removed the barrier : the boy and the animal escaped together, and I found myself alone in the centre of this miserable asylum of human wretchedness — the residence of an Irish peasant. To those who have only contemplated this useful order of socie- ty in England, “ where every rood of ground maintains its man,” and where the peasant liber- ally enjoys the comforts as well as the necessaries of life, the wretched picture which the interior of an Irish cabin presents, would be at once an object of compassion and disgust.* * Sometimes excavated from a hill, sometimes erected with loose stones, but most generally built of mud, the cabin is divided into two apartments, the one littered with straw and coarse rugs, and sometimes, (but very rarely) furnished with the luxury of a chaff bed, serves as a dor mitory not only to the family of both sexes, but in general to any animal they are so fortunate as to posses-s ; the other chamber answers for every purpose of domesticity, though almost destitufe of every domestic im.plement, except the iron pot in which the potatoes are boiled, and the stool on which they are flung. From those wretched hovels C 34 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Almost siiflbcated, and not surprised that it was deserted pro tempo, I hastened away, and was at- tracted towards a ruinous barn by a full chorus of female voices — where a group of young females were seated round an old hag who formed the centre of the circle ; they were all busily em- ployed at their wheels, which I observed went (which often appears amidst scenes that might furnish the richest models to poetic imitation} it is common to behold a group of children rush forth at the sound of a horse’s foot, or carriage wheel, regardless of the season’s rigours, in a perfect state of nudity, or covered with the drapery of wretchedness, which gives to their appearance a still stronger character of poverty ; yet even in these misera- ble huts you will seldom find the spirit of urbanity absent — the genius of hospitality never. I remember meeting with an instance of both, that made a deep impression on my heart; in the autumn of 1804, in the course of a mor- ning ramble with a charming Knglishwoman, in the coun- ty of Sligo, I stopped to rest myself in a cabin, while she proceeded to pay a visit to the respectable family of the O’H — ^s, of Nymph’s Field: when I entered I found it occupied by an old woman and her three granddaughters ; two of the young women were employed scutching flax, the other in some domestic employment. I was instantly hailed with tiie most cordial welcome ; the hearth was cleared, the old woman’s seat forced on me, eggs and po tatoes roasted, and an apology for the deficiency of bread politely made, while the manners of my hostesses betrayed a courtesy that almost amounted to adulation. They had all laid by their work on my entrance, and when I request- ed 1 might not interrupt their avocations, one of them re- plied “ I hope we know better — we can work any day, but we cannot any day have such a body as you under our roof.” Surely this was not the manners of a cabin but a court. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 3^ merrily round in exact time with their song, and so intently were they engaged by both, that my proximity was unperceived. At last the song ceased — the wheel stood still — and every eye was fixed on the oldpnmwm mohile of the circle, who, after a short pause, began a solo that gave much satisfaction to her young auditors, and/taking up the strain, they again turned their wheels round in unison. — The whole was sung in Irish and as soon as I was observed, suddenly ceased ; the girls looked down and tittered — and the old woman addressed me sans ceremonie^ and in a language I now heard for the first time. Supposing that some one among the number must understand English, I explained with all possible politeness the cause of my intrusion on this little harmonic society. The old woman looked up in my face and shook her head ; 1 thought contemptuously — while the young ones, stifling their smiles, exchanged looks of compas- sion doubtlessly at my ignorance of their lan- guage. “ So many languages a man knows,” said Charles V., “ so many times is he a man,” and it is certain I never felt myself less invested with the dignity of one, th^n while I stood twirling my stick, and “ biding the encounter of the eyes,” and smiles of these “ spinners in the sun.” Here you will say was prejudice opposed to prejudice with a vengeance ; but I comforted myself with the idea that the natives of Greenland, the mosi 3<> THE WILD IRISH GIRL. gross and savage of mortals, compliment n stranger by saying, “ he is as well bred as 9 Greenlander.” While thus situated, a sturdy looking young fellow with that figure and openness of counte* nance so peculiar to the young Irish peasants, and with his hose and brogues suspended from a stick over his shoulder, approached and hailed the par- ty in Irish : the girls instantly pointed his atten- tion towards me; he courteously accosted me in English, and having learnt the nature of my di- lemma, offered to be my guide — “ it will not take me above a mile out of my way, and if it did two, it would make no odds,^' said he. I accepted his offer, and we proceeded together over the summit of the mountain. In the course of our conversation (which was very fluently supported on his side,) I learnt, that few strangers ever passing through this remote part of the province, and even very many of the gentry here speaking Irish, it was a rare thing to meet with any one wholly unacquainted with the language, which accounted for the surprise, and I believe contempt, my ignorance had excited. When I enquired into the nature of those choral strains I had heard, he replied — “ 0 ! as to that, it is according to the old woman’s fancy and in fact I learnt that Ireland, like Italy, has its improvisatores, and that those who are gifted with the impromptu talent are highly estimated by theii rustic compatriots ; and by what he added, I dis- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 37 covered that their inspirations are either drawn from the circumstances of the moment, from one striking excellence or palpable defect in some of the company present, or from some humourous incident, or local event generally known. As soon as we arrived at the little auherge of the little village, I ordered my courteous guide his breakfast, and having done all due honour to my own, we parted. My route from the village to Bally- lay part- ly through a desolate bog, whose burning surface, heated by a vertical sun, gave me no inadequate idea of Arabia Deserta; and the pangs of an acute headache, brought on by exercise more violent than my still delicate constitution was equal to support, determined me to defer my jour- ney until the meridian ardours were abated ; and taking your Horace from my pocket, I wandered into a shady path, “ impervious to the noontide ray.” Throwing my “ listless length” at the foot of a spreading beech, I had already got to that sweet ode to Lydia, which Scaliger in his enthu- siasm declares he would rather have written than to have possessed the monarchy of Naples, when somebody accosted me in Irish, and then with a; God save you, Sir!” I raised my eyes, and beheld a poor peasant, driving, or rather solicit- ing, a sorry lame cow to proceed. “ May be,” said he, taking off his hat, “ your Honour would be after telling me what’s the hour ?” ‘ Later than I supposed, my good friend,” 4 38 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. replied I, rising, “ it is past two.” He bowed low, and stroking the face of his companion, added, “ well, the day is yet young, but you and I hav^e a long journey before us, my poor Driminduath.” “ And how far are you going, my friend ?” “ Please your Honour, two miles beyond Bal- ly ” “It is my road exactly, and you, Driminduath, and I, may perform the Journey together.” The poor fellow seemed touched and surprised by my condescension, and profoundly bowed his sense of it, while the curious triumviri set off on their pedestrian tour together. I now cast an eye over the person of my compagnon de voyage. It was a tall, thin, athletic figure, “ bony and gaunt,” with an expressive countenance, marked features, a livid complexion, and a quantity of coarse black hair hanging about the face ; the drapery was perfectly appropriate to the wearer — an under garment composed of ' “ shreds and patches,''* was partially covered with an old great coat of coarse frieze, fastened on the breast with a large wooden skewer, the sleeves hanging down on either side unoccupied,* and a pair of yarn hose which scarcely reached mid-- leg, left the ankle and foot naked. Driminduath seemed to share in the obvious * This manner of wearing the coat, so genera, amonc the peasantry, is deemed by the natives of the county o? Galway a remnant of the Spanish mode. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 39 poverty of her master — she was almost an anato- my, and scarcely able to crawl. “ Poor beast said he, observing I looked at her, ‘‘ Poor beast* little she dreamed of coming back the road she went, and little able is she to go it, poor soul ; not that I am overly sorry I could not get nobody to take her off my hands at all at all ; though to- be-sure ’tis better to lose one’s cow than one’® wife, any day in the year.” “ And had you no alternative ?” I asked. “ Anan !” exclaimed he, starting. “ Were you obliged to part with one or the other?” Sorrow is garrulous, and in the natural selfishness of its suffering, seeks to lessen the weight of its woe by participation. In a few minutes I was master of Murtoch O’Shaughnas- sey’s story :* he was the husband of a sick wife the father of six children, and a labourer, or cot- ter^ who worked daily throughout the year for the hut that sheltered the heads, and the little potatoe rick which was the sole subsistence of his family. He had taken a few acres of ground,, he said, from his employer’s steward, to set gras® potatoes in, by which he hoped to make some- thing handsome ; that to enable himself to pay for them he had gone to work in Leinster during the last harvest, “ where, please your Honour,” he added, “ a poor man gets more for his labour mug ♦ Neither the rencontre with, nor the character or fitor5» of Murtoch, partakes in the least degree of fiction. 40 THE WILD IRISH GIRL than in Connaught;* but there it was my luck (and bad luck it was) to get the shaking fever upon me, so that I returned sick and sore to my poor people without a cross to bless myself with, and then there was an end to my fine grass pota- toes, for devil receive the sort they’d let me dig till I paid for the ground; and what was worse, the steward was going to turn us out of our cabin, because I had not worked out the rent with him as usual, and not a potatoe had I for the children ; besides finding my wife and two boys in a fever: the boys got well, but my poor wife has been de- caying away ever since ; so I was fain to sell my * It is well known that within these last thirty years the Connaught peasant laboured for three pence a day and two meals of potatoes and milk, and four pence when he main- tained himself; while in Leinster the harvest hire rose from eight pence to a shilling. Riding out one day near the vil- lage of Castletown Delvin, in Westmeath, in company with the younger branches of the respectable family of the F ns, of that county, we observed two young men lying ata little distance from each other in adry ditch, with some lighted turf burning near them; they both seemed on the verge of eternity, and we learned from a peasant who was passing, that they were Connaught men who had come to Leinster to work; that they had been disappointed, and owing to want and fatigue, had been first attacked with ague and then with fevers of so fatal a nature, that no one would suffer them to remain in their cabins: owing to the benev- olent exertions of my young friends, we however found an asylum for these unfortunates, and had the happiness of seeing them return contparatively well and happy to their native province-. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 41 poor Driminduath here, which was left me by my gossip, in order to pay my rent and get some nourishment for my poor woman, who I believe is just weak at heart for the want of it ; and so, as I was after telling your Honour, I left home yes- terday for a fair twenty-five good miles off, but my poor Driminduath has got such bad usage of late, and was in such sad plight, that nobody would bid nothing for her, and so we are both returning home as we went, with full hearts and empty stomachs.” ' This was uttered with an air of despondency that touched my very soul, and I involuntarily presented him some sea biscuit I had in my pocket. He thanked me, and carelessly added, “ that it was the first morsel he had tasted for twenty-four hours ;* not,” said he, “ but I can fast with any one, and well it is for me I can.” He continued brushing an intrusive tear from his eye ; and the next moment whistling a lively air, he advanced to his cow, talking to her in Irish, in a soothing tone, and presenting her with such wild flowers and blades of grass as the scanty vegeta- ♦ The temperance of an Irish peasant in this respect is almost incredible ; many of them are satisfied with cne meal a day — none of them exceed two — breakfast and supper; which invariably consists of potatoes, sometimes with, sometimes without milk. One of the rules observed by the Finian Band, an ancient militia of Ireland, was to eat but once in the twenty-four hours. — Sen Keating^s History of Ireland. 4 * 42 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. tion of the bog afforded, turned round to me with a smile of self-satisfaction and said, “ One can better suffer themselves a thousand times over, than see one’s poor dumb beast want : it is next, please your Honour, to seeing one’s child in want — God help him who has witnessed both !” “ And art thou then (I mentally exclaimed) that intemperate, cruel, idle savage, an Irish peasant ? with a heart thus tenderly alive to the finest feelings of humanity ; patiently labouring with daily exertion for what can scarcely afford thee a bare subsistence ; sustaining the unsatisfied wants of nature without a murmur ; nurtured in the hope (the disappointed hope) of procuring nourishment for her^ dearer to thee than thyself, tender of thy animal as thy child, and suffering the conscious- ness of their wants to absorb all consideration of thy own; and resignation smooths the furrow which affliction has traced upon thy brow, and the national exility of thy character cheers and sup- ports the natural susceptibility of thy heart.” In fact, he was at this moment humming an Irish song by my side. I need not tell you that the first village we ar- rived at, I furnished him with the means of pro- curing him a comfortable dinner for himself and Driminduath, and advice and medicine from fhe i^llage apothecary for his wife. Poor fellow ! nis surprise and gratitude was expressed in the true hyperbola of Irish emotion. Meantime I walked on to examine the ruins of THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 43 tn abbey, where in about half an hour I was joined by Murtoch and his patient companion, whom he assured me he had regaled with some hay, as he had himself with a glass of whisky. — What a dinner for a famishing man! “ It is a dreadful habit, Murtoch, ’ said I. “ It is so, please your Honour,” replied he, ‘ but then it is meat, drink, and clothes to us, for we forget we have but little of one and less of the other, when we get the drop within us ; Och, long life to them that lightened the tax on the whiskey, for by my safe conscience, if they had left it on another year we should have forgotten how to drink it.” I shall make no comment on Murtoch’s uncon- scious phillippic against the legislature, but surely a government has little right to complain of those popular disorders to which in a certain degree it may be deemed accessory, by removing the strongest barrier that confines within moral bounds the turbulent passions of the lower orders- of so- ciety. To my astonishment, I found that Murtoch had only purchased for his sick wife a little wine and a small piece of bacon:* both, he assured me, were universal and sovereign remedies, and bet- ter than any thing the phisicianers could pre- ua ♦ It is common to see them come to gentlemen’s houses with a little vial bottle to beg a table spoonful of wine (fof i sicK relative,) which they esteem the elixir of life. 44 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. scribe, to keep the disorder from the heart.^ The spirits of Murtoch were now quite afloat, and during the rest of our journey the vehemence, pliancy, and ardour of the Irish character strong- ly betrayed itself in the manners of this poor un- modified Irishman ; while the natural facetious- ness of a temperament “ complexionably pleas- ant,” was frequently succeeded by such heart- rending accounts of poverty and distress, as shed involuntary tears on those cheeks which but a moment before were distended by the exertions of a boisterous laugh. Nothing could be more wildly sweet than the whistle or song of the ploughman or labourer as we passed along; it was of so singular a nature, that I frequently paused to catch it ; it is a species of voluntary recitative, and so melancholy, that every plaintive note breathes on the heart of the auditor a tale of hopeless despondency or incura- ble wo.e. By heavens ! I could have wept as I listened, and found a luxury in tears. t The evening was closing in fast, and we were ♦ To be able to keep any disorder from the heart, is supposed, (by the lower orders of the Irish,) to be the secret of longevity. t Mr. Walker, in his Historical Memoir of the Irish Bards, has given a specimen of the Irish plough-tune; and adds, “ While the Irish ploughman drives his team, and the female peasant milks her cow, they warble a succes- sion of wild notes which bids defiance to the rules of com- position, yet are inexpressibly sweet.** THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 45 within a miie of Bally , when, to a day singu- larly fine, succeeded one of the most violent storms of rain and wind I had ever witnessed. Murtoch, who seemed only to regard it on my ac- count, insisted on throwing his great coat over me, and pointed to a cabin at a little distance, where, he said, if my Honour would demean myself so far, I could get good shelter for the night.” “ Are you sure of that, Murtoch ?” said I. Murtoch shook his head, and looking full in my face, said something in Irish ; which at my request he translated — the words were — “ Hap- py are they whose roof shelters the head of the traveller. “ And is it indeed a source of happiness to you, Murtoch?” Murtoch endeavoured to convince me it was^ even upon a selfish principle : “For (said he) it is thought right lucky to have a stranger sleep beneath one’s roof.” If superstition was ever thus on the side of benevolence, even reason herself would hesitate to depose her. We had now reached the door of the cabin, which Murtoch opened without ceremony, saying as he entered — “ May God and the Virgin Mary pour a blessing on this house !” The family, who were all circled round a fine turf fire that blazed on the earthen hearth, replied, “ Come in, and a thousand welcomes” — for Mur- toch served as interpreter, ard translated as they 46 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. were spoken these warm effusions of Irish cor diaJity. The master of the house, a venerable old man, perceiving me, made a low bow, and added, “ You are welcome, and ten thousand welcomes, gentleman.^^* So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my c’oimteiiance, for I had_not yet divested myself of Murtoch’s costume — while in the act, the best stool was wiped for me, the best seat at the fire forced on me, and on being admitted into the social circle, 1 found its central point was a round oaken stool heaped with smoking potatoes thrown promiscuously over it. To partake of this national diet I was strongly and courteously solicited, while as an incentive to an appetite that needed none, the old dame produced what she called a madder of sweet milk, in contradistinction to the sour milk of which the rest partook ; while the cow that sup plied the luxury slumbered most amicably with a large pig at no great distance from where I sat, and Murtoch glancing an eye at hothy and then ♦ Fallte avgus cead ro ag duine uasal'* The term gentle- man, liovvever, is a very inadequate version of the Irish uasal, which is an epitlhet of superiority that indicatea more than mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former relates the combat between Oscar and Ulan, St. Patrick solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “ Osffian uasal, a mhic Fionne,*^ Ossian tlie Noblo-^ tlie son of Fin |al.” THE WILD IRIISH GIRL 47 looking at me, seemed to say, “ You see into wnat snug quarters we have got.” While I (as I sat with my damp clothes smoking by the turf fire, my madder of milk in one hand, and hot potatoe in the other) assured him by a responsi- ble glance, that I was fully sensible of the com- forts of our situation. As soon as supper was finished the old man said grace, the family piously blessed themselves, and the stool being removed, the hearth swept, and the fire replenished from the bog, Murtoch threw himself on his back along a bench,* and unasked began a song, the wild and plaintive melody of which went at once to the soul. When he had concluded, I was told it was the lamentation of the poor Irish for the loss of their glibhs or long tresses, of which they were deprived by the arbitrary will of Henry VIII. — The song (composed in his reign) is called the Caulir^ which I am told is literally, the fair ringlet. When the English had drawn a pale round their conquests in this country, such of the in- habitants as were compelled to drag on their ex- istence beyond the barrier, could no longer afford * This curious vocal position is of very ancient origin in Connaught, though by no means prevalent Formerly the songster not only lay on his back, but had a weight pressed on his chest. The aut‘hor’s father recollects having seen a man in the county of Mayo, of the name of O'Mel* vill, who sung for him in this position some years back. fThe Cualin is one of the most popular and beautiful Irish airs extant. 48 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. to cover their heads with metal, and were nece« sitated to rely on the resistance of their matted locks. At length this necessity became “the fashion of their choice.” , The partiality of the ancient Irish to long hair is still to be traced in their descendants of both sexes, the women in particular ; for I observed that the young ones only wore their “ native or- nament of which sometimes flows over their shoulders, sometimes is fastened up in tresses, with a pin or bodkin. A fashion more in unison with grace and nature, though less in point of formal neatness, than the round-eared caps and large hats of our rustic fair of England. Almost every word of Murtoch’s lamentation was accompanied by the sighs and mournful lamentations of his auditors, who seemed to sym- pathize as tenderly in the sufferings of their progenitors, as though they had themselves been the victims of the tyranny which had caused them. The arch policy of “ the ruthless king,” who destroyed at once the records of a nation’s woes, by extirpating “ the tuneful race,” whose art would have perpetuated them to posterity, never appeared to me in greater force than at that moment. In the midst, however, of the melancholy which involved the mourning auditors of Mur- toch, a piper entered and seated himself by the fire, sans facon, drew his pipes from under his coat, and struck up an Irish lilt of such inspiring THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 49 animation, as might have served St. Basil of Limoges, the merry patron of dancing, for a ju- bilate.. , In a moment, in the true pliability of Irish temperament, the whole pensive group cheered up, flung away their stools, and as if bit to merry madness by a tarantula, set to dancing jigs with all their hearts, and all their strength into the bargain. Murtoch appeared not less skilled in the dance than song; and every one (according to the just description of Goldsmith, who was a native of this province,) seemed To seek renown, By holding out to tire each other down.*' Although much amused by this noveFstyle of devotion at the shrine of Terpsichore, yet as the night was now calm, and an unclouded moon dispersed the gloom of twilight obscurity, I arose to pursue my journey. Murtoch would accom- pany me, though our hospitable friends did their utmost to prevail on both to remain for the night. When I insisted on my host receiving a trifle, I observed poverty struggling with pride, and gratitude superior to both : he at last reluctantly consented to be prevailed on, by my assurance of forgetting to call on them again when I passed that way, if I were now denied. I was follow-^ ed for several paces by the whole family, whQ0 parted with^ as they received me, with blessings ^ D 5 50 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. — for their courtesy upon all occasions, sueiufi interwoven with their religion, and not to be pious in their forms of etiquette, is not to be polite. Benevolent and generous beings ! whose hard labour ** Just gives what life requires, but gives no more,” yet who, with the ever ready smile of heart-felt welcome, are willing to share that hard earned little, with the weary traveller whom chance con- ducts to your threshold, or the solitary wanderer whom necessity throws upon your bounty. How did my heart smite me, while I received the cor- dial rites of hospitality from your hands, for the prejudices I had hitherto nurtured against youi characters. But your smiling welcome, and part- ing benediction, retributed my error — in the feel- ing of remorse they awakened. It was late when I reached Bally , a large, ugly, irregular town, near'the sea coast ; but for- tunately meeting with a chaise, I threw myself into it, gave Murtoch my address, (who was all amazement at discovering I was son to the Lord of the Manor,) and arrived without further ad- venture at this antique chateau, more gratified by ■the result of my little pedestrian tour, than if (at 'least in the present state of my feelings,) I had iperformed it Sesostris-like, in a triumphal chariot, .drawn by kings ; for “ so weary, stale, flat, and ‘Unprofitable,” appear to me the tasteless pleasures THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 51 of the world I have left, that every sense, e%ery feeling, is in a state of revolt against its sicken- ing joys, and their concomitant sufferings. Adieu ! I am sending this off by a courier ex- traordinary, to the next post-town, in the hope of receiving one from you by the same hand. H. M. LETTER III. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. I PERCEIVE my father emulates the policy of the British Legislature, and delegates English ministers to govern his Irish domains. Who do you think is his fac totum here ? The rascally son of his cunning Leicestershire steward, who unites all his father’s artifice to a proportionable share of roguery of his own, I have had some reason to know the fellow ; but his servility of manner, and apparent rigid discharge of his du- ties, has imposed on my father ; who, with all his superior mind, is to be imposed on, by those who know how to find out the clew to his falli- bility : his noble soul can never stoop to dive into the minute vices of a rascal of this description. Mr. Clendinning was absent from M house when I arrived, but attended me the next mom ing at breakfast, with that fawning civility of 52 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. manner I abhor, and which, contrasted with the manly courteousness of my late companion, never appeared more grossly obvious. He endeavour- ed to amuse me with a detail of the ferocity, cruelty, and uncivilized state of those among whom (as he hinted,) I was banished for my sins. He had now, he said, been near five years among them, and had never met an individual of the lower order, who did not deserve a halter at least : for his part, he had kept a tight hand over them, and he was justified in so doing, or his Lord would be the sufferer ; for few of them would pay their rents till their cattle were driven, or some such measure was taken with them. And as for the labourers and workmen, a slave- drive-r was the only man fit to deal with them ; they were all rebellious, idle, cruel, and treacher- ous ; and for his part, he never expected to leave the country with his life. It is not possible a better defence for the im- puted turbulence of the Irish peasantry could be made, than that which lurked in the unprovoked accusations of this narrow-minded sordid steward, who, it is evident, wished to forestall the com- plaints of those on whom he had exercised the native tyranny of his disposition (even according to his own account,) by every species of harras- sing oppression within the compass of his ability. For if power is a dangerous gift even in the re* gulalcd mind of elevated rank, what does it be THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 53 come in the delegated authority of ignorance, meanness, and illiberality My father, however, by frequent visitations to his Irish estates (within these few years at least,) must afford to his suffering tenantry an opportu- nity of redress ; for who that ever approached him with a tear of suffering, but left his presence with a tear of gratitude ! But many, very many of the English nobility who hold immense tracts of land in this country, and draw from hence in part the suppliance of their luxuries, have never visited their estates, since conquest first put them in the possession of their ancestors. Ours, you know, fell to us in the Cromwellian wars, but since the time of General M , who earned them by the sword, my father, his lineal de- scendant, is the first of the family who ever visit- ed them. And certainly, a wish to conciliate the affections of his tenantry, could alone induce him to spend so much of his time here as he has done ; for the situation of this place is bleak and solitary, and the old mansion, like the old manor * A horde of tyrants exist in Ireland, in a class of men Uiat are unknown in England, in the multitude of agents of absentees, small proprietors, who are the pure Irish squires, middle men, who take large farms, and squeeze out a forced kind of profit by letting them in small par- cels; lastly, the little farmers themselves, who exercise the same insolence they receive from their superiors, on those unfortunate beings who are placed at the extremity of the scale of degradation — the Irish peasantry. — ^An Enquiry into the Causes of Popular Discontents in Ireland. 5 * M THE WILD IRISH GIRL. houses ol’ England, has neither the architectural character of an antique structure, nor the accoin- modation of a modern one. “ Ayant Vair delahri^ sans Vair antique.^'* On enquiring for the key of the library, Mr. Clendinning informed me his lord always took it with him, but that a box of books had come from England a few days before my arrival. As I suspected, they were all law books — well, oe it so ; there are few sufferings more acute than those which forbid complaint, because they are self-created. Four days have elapsed since I began this let- ter, and I have been prevented from continuing it merely for want of something to say. I cannot now sit down, as I once did, and give you a history of my ideas or sensations, in the deficiency of fact or incident ; for I have sur- vived my sensations, and my ideas are dry and exhausted. I cannot now trace my joys to their source, or my sorrows to their spring, for I am destitute of their present, and insensible to their former exist- ence. The energy of youthful feeling is sub- dued, and the vivacity of warm emotion worn out by its own violence. I have lived too fast in a moral as well as a physical sense, and the prin- ciples of my intellectual, as well as my natural constitution are, I fear, fast hastening to decay THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 55 I live the tomb of my expiring mind, and pre- serve only the consciousness of my wretched state, without the power, and almost without the wish to be otherwise than what I am. And yet, God knows, I am nothino^ less than contented. Would you hear my journal ? I rise late to my solitary breakfast, because it is solitary ; then to study, or rather to yawn over Giles versus Haystack, until (to check the creeping effects of lethargy) I rise from my reading desk, and lounge to a window, which commands a boundless view of a boundless bog ; then, “ with what appetite I may,” sit down to a joyless dinner. Sometimes, when seduced by the blandishments of an even ing singularly beautiful, I quit my den and prowl down to the sea shore where, throwing myself at the foot of some cliff that “ battles o’er the deep,” I fix my vacant eye on the stealing waves that ** Idly swell against the rocky coast, And break — as break those glittering shadows, Human joys.’* I’lien wet with the ocean spray and evening dew, return to my bed, merely to avoid the intrusive civilities of Mr. Clendinning. •• Thus wear the hours away.” J had heard that the neighbourhood about M house was good : I can answer for its being populous. Although I took every precau- tion to prevent my arrival being known, yet the 56 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. natives have come down on me in hordes, and this in all the form of haul ton, as the innumera- ble cards of the clans of Os and Macs evince. 1 have, however, neither been visible to the visi- tants, nor accepted their invitations : for “ man delights me not, nor woman either.” Nor wo- man either ! Oh ! uncertainty of all human pro- pensities ! Yet so it is, that every letter that composes the word woman! seems cabalistical, and rouses every principle of aversion and dis- gust within me; while I often ask myself with Tasso, “ Se pur ve nelle amor alcun dileito.” It is certain, that the diminutive body of our worthy steward, is the abode of the transmigra- ted soul of some West Indian planter. I have been engaged these two days in listening to, and retributing those injuries his tyranny has inflicted, in spite of his rage, eloquence, and threats, none of which have been spared. The victims of his oppression haunt me in my walks, fearful lest their complaints should come to the knowledge of this puissant major domo. “ But why,” said I to one of the suflerers, af- ter a detail of seized geese, pounded cows, extra labour cruelly extorted, ejectments, &c. Slc. given in all the tedious circumlocution of Irish oratory, — “ why not complain to my father when he comes among you?” THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 57 “ Hfcaise, please your Honour, my I.ordstays Dut a few days at a time here together, nor that game neither ; besides, we be loth to trouble his Lordship, for feard it would be after coming to Measther Clendinning’s ears, which would be the ruination of us all ; and then when my Lord is at the Lodge, which he mostly is, he is always out amongst the quality, so he is.” “ What Lodge ?” said I. “ Why, please your Honour, where my Lord mostly takes up when he comes here, the place that belonged to Measther Clendinning, who call ed it the Lodge, becaise the good old Irish name lhat was upon it did not suit his fancy.” In the evening I asked x\lr. Clendinning if my father did not sometimes reside at the I.odge ? He seemed surprised at my information, and said, that was the name he had given to a ruinous old place which, with a few acres of indifferent land, he had purchased of his hard labour, and which his Lord having taken an unaccountable liking to, rented from him, and was actually the tenant of his^ own steward. O ! what arms of recrimination I should be furnished with against my rigidly moral father, should I discover this remote Cassino, (for remote I understand it is) to be the harem of some wild Irish Sultana; for L strongly suspect “ that metal inore attractive” than the cause he assigns, in- duces him to pay an annual visit to a country to which, till within these few years, he nurtured 56 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. ihe strongest prejudices. You know there ai( but nineteen years between him and my brother; and his feelings are so unblunted by vicious pur- suits, his life has been guided by such epicurian principles of enjoyment, that he still retains much of the first warm flush of juvenile exist- ence, and has only sacrificed to time, its follies and its ignorance. I swear, at this moment he is a younger man than either of his sons ; the one chilled by the coldness of an icy temperament into premature old age, and the other Mj******=»=»* Murtochhas been to see me. I have procured him a little farm, and am answerable for the rent. I sent his wife some rich wine ; she is recovering very fast. Murtoch is all gratitude for the wine, but I perceive his faith still lies in the bacon ! LETTER IV. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. I CAN support this wretched state of non-exist- ence, this articula mortis^ no longer. I cannov read — I cannot think — nothing touches, nothing interests me ; neither is it permitted me to in- dulge my sufferings in solitude. These hospita- ble people still weary me with their attentions, Jhough they must consider me as a sullen misan- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 59 thropist, for I p( rsist in my invisibility. I car escape them no linger but by flight — profession- al study is out of the question, for a time at least. I mean, therefoie, to “ take the wings of” some fine morning, and seek a change of being in a change of place. ; for a perpetual state of evaga- tion alone, keeps up the flow and ebb of exist- ence in my languid frame. My father’s last let- ter informs me he is obliged by business to post- pone his journey for a month ; this leaves me so much the longer master of myself. By the time we meet, my mind may have regained its na- tive tone. Laval too, writes for a longer leave of absence, which I most willingly grant. It is a weight removed off my shoulders ; 1 would be savagely free. I thank you for your welcome letters, and will do what I can to satisfy your antiquarian taste , and I would take your advice and study the Irish language, were my powers of comprehension equal to the least of the philological excellences of Tom Thumb or Goody Two Shoes , — ^but alas ! Se perchetto a me Stesso quale acqiiisto, Fsro mai che me piaccia.”^ • Torqnatto Tasso.” THE WILD IRISH GIRL. M Villa di Marino, Atlantic Ocean Having told Mr. Clendinning, that I should spend a few days in wandering about the country, I mounted my horse. So I determined to roam free and unrestrained by the presence of a ser- vant, to Mr. Clendinning’s uuer amazement, I or- dered a few changes of linen, my drawing-book, and pocket escritoire, to be put in a small valice, which, with all due humility, I had strapped on the back of my steed, whom, by the bye, I expect will be as celebrated as the Rozinante of Don Quixote, or the Beltenhros UAmadis de Gaul; and thus accoutred set off on my -peregrination, the most listless knight that ever entered on the lists of errantry. You will smile, when I tell you my first point of attraction was the Lodge; to which (though with some difficulty) I found my way ; for it lies in a most wild and unfrequented direction, but so infinitely superior in situation to M house, that I no longer wonder at my father’s prefer- ence. Every feature that constitutes either the beauty or sublime of landscape, is here finely combined. Groves druidic ally venerable— moun- tains of Alpine elevation — expansive lakes, and the boldest and most romantic sea-coast I ever beheld, alternately diversify and enrich its scene- ry; while a number of young and flourishing plantations evince the exertion of taste in ray THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 61 Catlier, be certainly has not betrayed in the dispo- sition of his hereditary domains. I found this Tusculum inhabited only bv a decent old man and his superannuated wife. Without informing them who I was, I made a feigidng wish to make the place a pretext for visiting it. The old man smiled at the idea, and shook his head, presum- ing that I must be indeed a stranger in the coun- try, as my accent denoted, for that this spot be- longed to a great English Lord, whom he verily believed would not resign it for his own fine place some miles off ; but when, with some Jesuitical artifice I endeavoured to trace the cause of this attachment, he said it was his Lordship’s fancy, and that there 'was no accounting for people’s fancies. “ That is all very true,” said I, “ but is it the house only that seized on your Lord’s fancy?” “Nay, for the matter of that,” said he, “the lands are far more finer; the house, though large, being no great things.” I begged in this instance to judge for myself, and a few shillings procured me not only free egress, but the confidence of the ancient Cicerone, This fancied harem, however, I found not only divested of its expected fair inhabitant, but whol- ly destitute of furniture, except what filled a bed- room occupied by my father, and an apartment which was locked. The old man with some tar- diness produced the key, and I found this mys- terious chamber was only a study ; but closer 62 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. inspection discovered that almost ah the book« related to the language, history, and antiquities of Ireland. So you see, in fact, my father’s Sultana is no other than the Irish Muse ; and never was son so tempted to become the rival of his father, since the days of Antiochus and Stratonice. For, at a moment when my taste, like my senses, is flat and palled, nothing can operate so strongly as an incentive, as novelty. I strongly suspect that my father was aware of this, and that he had despoiled the temple, to prevent me becoming a worshipper at the same shrine. • For the old man said he had received a letter from his Lord, or- dering away all the furniture (except that of his own bed-room and study) to the manor house ; the study and bed-room, however, will suffice me, and here I shall certainly pitch my head-quarters until my father’s arrival. I have already had some occasions to remark, that the warm susceptible character of the Irish is open to the least indication of courtesy and kindness. My politesse to this old man, opened every sluice of confidence in his breast, and, as we walked down the avenue together, having thrown the bridle over my horse’s neck, and offered him my arm, for he was lame, I enquired how this Deautiful farm fell into the hands of Lord M •, still concealing from him that it was his son who demanded the question. THE WILD IRISH GIRU^ 6;i Why, your Honour,” said he , “ the farm, though beautiful is small ; however, it made the best part of what remained of the patrimony of the Prince, when ” “ What Prince ?” interrupted I, amazed. “ Why, the Prince of Inismore, to be sure, jewel, whose great forefathers once owned the half of the barony, from the Red Bog to the sea- coast. Och ! it is a long story, but I heard my grandfather tell it a thousand times, how a great Prince of Inismore in the wars of Queen Eliza- beth, had here a castle and a great tract of land on the borders, of which he was deprived, as the story runs, becaise he would neither cut his glibhs, shave his upper lip, nor shorten his shirt f and so he was driven, with the rest of us beyond the pale. The family, however, after a while flourished greater nor ever. Och, and it is them- selves that might, for they were true Milesians bread and born, every mother’s soul of them. O ‘ not a drop of Strongbonean flowed in their Irish veins, agrah ! Well, as I was after telling youi Honour, the family flourished, and beat all before ♦From the earliest settlement of the English in this country, an inquisitorial persecution had been carried on against the national costume. In the reign of Henry V. there was an act passed against even the English colonists wearing a whisker on the upper lip, like the Irish ; and in 1616 , the Lord Deputy, in his instructions to the Lord President and Council, directed, that such as appeared in the Irish robes or mantles, should be punished by fine and mprisonment. 64 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. them, for they had an army of galloglasses at their back.^'imtil the Cromwellian wars broke out, and those same cold-hearted Presbyterians, bat- tered the fine old ancient castle of Inismore, and left in the condition it now stands ; and what was worse nor that, the poor old Prince was put to death in the arms of his fine young son, who tried to save him, and that by one of Cromwell’s Eng- lish Generals, who received the town lands of Inismore, which lie near Bally , as his re- ward. Now this English General who murdered the Prince, was no other than the ancestor of my Lord, to whom these estates descended from father to son. Ay, you may well start. Sir, it was a woful piece of business ; for of all their fine estates, nothing was left to the Princes of Inismore, but the ruins of their old castle, and the rocks that surround it; except this tight little bit of an estate here, on which the father of the present Prince built this house ; becaise his Lady, with whom he got a handsome fortune, and who was descended from the Kings of Connaught, took a dislike to the castle ; the story going that it was haunted by the murdered Prince ; and what with building of this house, and living like an Irish Prince, as he w^as every inch of him, and spending 3000/. a year out of 300/., when he died (and the sun never shone on such a funeral ; the whiskey ran about like ditch water, and the ♦ Tlie second order of military in Ireland. THE W*LD IRISH GIRL. 65 country was stocked with pipes and tobacco for many a long year after. For the present Prince, his son, would not be a bit behind his father in any thing, and so signs on him, for he is not worth one guinea this ble&sed day, Christ save him;) — well, as I was saying, when he died, he left things in a sad way, which his son is not the man to mend, for he was the spirit of a king, and lives in as much state as one to this day.” “ But where, where does he live ?” interrupted I, with breathless impatience. “ Why,” continued this living chronicle, in the true spirit of Irish replication, “ he did live there in that Lodge, as they call it now, and in that room where my Lord keeps his books, was our young Princess born ; her father never had but her, and loves her better than his own heart’s blood, and well he may, the blessing of the Virgin Mary and the Twelve Apostles light on her sweet head. Well, the Prince would never let it come near him, that things were not going on well, and con- tinued to take at great rents, farms that brought him in little ; for being a Prince and a Milesian, it did not become him to look after such matters, and every thing was left to stewards and the like, until things coming to the worst, a rich English gentleman, as it was said, come over here and offered the Prince, through his steward, a good round sum of money on this place, which the Prince, being harrassed by his spalpeen creditors, fend wanting a little ready money moie thaF E 6* 66 THK WILD IRISri GIRL. any other earthly thing, consented to receive ; the» gentleman sending him word he should have his own time ; but scarcely was the mortgage a year old, when this same Englishman, (Oh, my curse lie about him, Christ pardon me,) foreclosed it, and the fine old Prince not havinor as much as a O ^ shed to shelter his gray hairs under, was forced to fit up part of the old ruined castle, and open those rooms which it had been said were haunt- ed. Discharging many of his old servants, he was accompanied to the castle by the family steward, the fosterers, the nurse f the harper, and Father John, the chaplain. “ Och, it was a piteous sight the day he left this: he was leaning on the Lady Glorvina’s arm as he walked out to the chaise, ‘ James Tyral,’ says he to me in Irish, for I caught his eye; * James Tyral,’ but he could say no more, for the old tenants kept crying about him, and he put his mantle to his eyes and hurried into the ♦The custom of retaining the nurse who reared the chil- dren, has ever been, and is still in force among the most respectable families in Ireland, as it is still in modern, and was formerly in ancient Greece, and they are probably both derived from the same origin. We read, that when Re- becca left her father’s house to marry Isaac at Beersheba, the nurse was sent to accompany her. But in Ireland, not only the nurse herself, but her husband and children are objects of peculiar regard and attention, and are called fos- ^erers. The claims of these fosterers frequently descend from generation to generation, and Ihe tie which iinitav them is indissoluble. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 67 chaise ; the Lady Glorvina kissing her hand to us all, and crying bitterly till she was out of sight. But then, Sir, what would you have of it; the Prince shortly after found out that this same Mr. Mortgagee^ was no other than a spalpeen steward of Lord M ’s. It was thought he would have run mad when he found that almost the last acre of his hereditary lands was in the possession of the servant of his hereditary ene- my ; for so deadly is the hatred he bears to my Lord, .that upon my conscience, I believe the young Prince who held the bleeding body of his murdered father in his arms, felt not greater for the murderer, than our Prince does for that mur- der’s descendant. “ Now my Lord is just such a man as God never made better, and wishing with all the veins in his heart to serve the old Prince, and do away ail difference between them, what does he do, jewel, but writes him a mighty pretty letter, of- fering this house and a part of the lands a pres- ent. O ! divil a word of lie I’m after tellinor o you ; but what would you have of it, but this offer sets the Prince madder than all ; for you know that this was an insult on his honour, which warmed every drop of Milesian blood in his body for he would rather starve to death all his life, than have it thought he would be obligated to any body at all at all for wherewithal to support him ; so with that the Prince writes him a letter : it was brought by the old steward, who knew every 68 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. liiu of the contents of it, though divil a line in it but two, and that same was but one and a half, as one may say, and this it was, as the old steward told me: “ The son of the son of the son’s son of Bryan, Prince of Inismore, can receive no favour from the descendant of his ancestor’s murderer.” “ Now it was plain enough to be seen, that my Lord took this to heart, as well he might, faith; however, he r onsidered that it came from a mis- fortunate Priiice, he let it drop, and so this was all that ever passed between them ; however, he was angry enough with his steward, but Meas- ther Clendinning put his comehiiher on him, and convinced him that the biggest rogue alive was an honest man.” “ And the Prince !” I interrupted eagerly. “ Och, jewel, the prince lives away in the old Irish fashion, only he has not a Christian soul now at all at all, most of the old Milesian gentry having quit the country ; besides, the Prince be- ing in a bad state of health, and having nearly lost the use of his limbs, and his heart being heavy, and his purse light ; for all that he keeps up the old Irish customs and dress, letting no- body eat at the same table but his daughter,* not even his Lady when she was alive.” ♦M’Dermot, Prince of Coolavin, never suffered his wife to sit at table with him ; although his daughter-in-law was permitted to that honour, as she was the descendant from the K^yal family of the O^Conor. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 63 " And do you think the son of Lord M frouid have no chance of obtaining an audience from the Prince ?” “ What the young gentleman that they say is come to M — house ? why about as much chance as his father, but by my conscience, that’s a bad one.” And your young Princess, is she as implaca- ble as her father?” “ Why, faith ! I cannot well tell you what the Lady Glorvina is, for she is like nothing upon the face of God’s creation but herself. I do not know how it comes to pass, that every mother’s soul of us loves her better nor the Prince ; ay, by my conscience, and fear her too ; for well may they fear her, on the score of her great learning, being brought up by Father John, the chaplain, and spouting Latin faster nor the priest of the parish : and we may well love her, for she is a saint upon earth, and a great physicianer to boot ; curing all the sick and maimed for twenty miles round. Then she is so proud, that divil a one soul of the quality will she visit in the whole bar- ony, though she will sit in a smoky cabin for hours together, to talk to the poor : besides all this, she will sit for hours at her Latin and Greek, after the family are gone to bed, and yet you will see her up with the dawn, running like a doe about the rocks ; her fine yellow hair streaming 111 the wind, for all the world like a mermaid 70 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Och ! my blessing light on her every day she sees the light, for she is the jev^ el of a child.” “ A child ! say you !” “ Why, to be sure I think her one ; for many a time I carried her in these arms, and taught her to bless herself in Irish ; but she is no child either, for as one of our old Irish songs says, ‘ Upon her cheek we see love’s letter sealed with a damask rose.’* But if your Honour has any curiosity you may judge for yourself ; for matins and vespers are celebrated every day in the year, in the old chapel belonging to the castle, and the whole family attend.” “ And are strangers also permitted ?” “ Faith and it’s themselves that are ; but few indeed trouble them, though none are denied. I used to get to mass myself sometimes, but it is now too far to walk for me.” This was sufficient, I waited to hear no more, but repaid my communicative companion for his information, and rode off, having inquired the road to Inismore from the first man I met. It would be vain, it would be impossible to de- *This is a line of a song of one Dignum, who compos ed in his native language, but could neither read nor write nor spoke any language but his own. “ I have seen,” said the celebrated Edmund Burke (who in his boyish days had known him) “ some of his elFu- sions translated into English, but was assured, by judges, that they fell far short of the originals ; yet they contained some graces, ‘snatched beyond die reach of art.’” — Vide Life of Burke. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 71 acribe the emotion which the simple tale of this old man awakened. The descendant of a mur- derer ! The very scoundrel steward of my father revelling in the property of a man who shelters his aged head beneath the ruins of those walls where his ancestors bled under the uplifted sword of mine. Why this, you will say, is the romance of a novel-read schoolboy. Are we not all, the lit- tle and the great, descended from assassins ; was not the first born man a fratricide ? and still, on the field of unappeased contention, does not man the murderer, meet the murderer, man ?’* Yes, yes, ’tis all true ; humanity acknowledges it and shudders. But still I wish my family had never possessed an acre of ground in this coun- try, or possessed it on other terms. I always knew the estate fell into our family in the civil wars of Cromwell, and, in the world’s language, was the well-earned meed of my progenitor’s valour ; but I seemed to hear it now for the first time. I am glad, however, that this old Irish chief- tain is such a ferocious savage ; that the pity his fate awakens is qualified by aversion for his im- placable, irascible disposition. I am glad his daughter is red headed^ a pedant, and a romp ; that she spouts Latin like the priest of the parish, and cures sore fingers; that she avoids genteel society, where her ideal rank would procure her QO respect, and her unpolished ignorance, by force 72 THi’ WILD IRISH GIKL, of contrast, make her feel her real inferiority; tDai she gossips among the poor peasants, over whom she can reign liege Lady ; and, that she has been brought up by a Jesuitical priest, who has doubt- lessly rendered her as bigoted and illiberal as himself. All this soothes my conscientous throes of feeling and compassion ; for oh ! if this sav- age chief was generous and benevolent, as he is independent and spirited ; if this daughter was amiable and intelligent, as she must be simple and unvitiated ! But I dare not pursue the sup- position, It is better as it is. You would certainly never guess that the Vil- la di Marino, from whence I date the continua- tion of my letter, was simply a Jisherman^s hut on the seacoast, half way between the Lodge and Castle of Inismore, that is, seven miles distant from each. Determined on attending vespers at Inismore, I was puzzling my brain to think where or how I should pass the night, when this hut caught my eye, and 1 rode up to it to inquire if there was any inn in the neighbourhood, where a chevalier errant could shelter his adventurous head for a night; but I was informed the nearest inn was fifteen miles distant, so I bespoke a little fresh straw, and a clean blanket which hung air- inor on some fishing tackle outside the door of this marine hotel, in preference to riding so far for a bed, at so late an hour as that in which the vespers would be concluded. This mine host of the Atlantic promised me, THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 73 pointing to a little board suspended over the door, on which was written “ Good Dry Lodging, My landlord, however, convinced me his hotel afforded something better than good dry lodging ; for entreating me to alight, till a shower passed over which was beorinninor to fall, I entered the hut, and found his wife, a sturdy lad their eldest son, and two naked little ones, seated at their dinner, and enjoying such a feast, as Apicius, who sailed to Africa from Rome to eat good oys- ters, would gladly have voyaged from Rome lo Ireland to have partaken of ; for^ they were ab- solutely dining on an immense turbot (whosci fellow-sufferers were floundering in a boat that lay anchored near the door.) A most cor- dial invitation on their part, and a most willing compliance on mine, we^s the ceremony of a mo- ment ; and never did an English alderman on turtle day, or Roman emperor on lampreys and peacocks’ livers, make a more delicious repast, than the chance guest of these good people, on their boiled turbot and roasted potatoes, which was quaffed down by the pure phalernian of a neighbouring spring. Having learnt that the son was going with the compeers of the demolished turbot to Bally , I took out my little escritoire to write you an ac- count of the first adventure of my chivalrous tour; 7 T4 THE WILD IRISH OIUI,. while one of spring’s most grateful sunny show ers, is pattering on the leaves of the only tree that shades this simple dwelling, and my Rosi- nante is nibbling a scanty dinner from the patch- es of vegetation that sprinkle the surrounding cliffs. Adieu ! the vesper hour arrives. In all “ my orisons thy sins shall be remembered.” The spirit of adventure wholly possesses me, and on the dusky horizon of life, some little glim- mering of light begins to dawn. ' Encore adieu. H. M. LETTER V. ro J. D, ESQ., M. P. Castle of Inismore, Barony of . Ay, ’tis even so — point your glasses — and rub your eyes, ’tis all one ; here I am, and here I am likely to remain for some time, but whether a prisoner of war, taken up on a suspicion of es- pionage, or to be offered as an appeasing sacri- fice to the manes of the old Prince of Inismore, you must for a while suspend your patience to learn. According to the earte du pays laid out for me by the fisherman, I left the shore and crossed the summit of a mountain that “ battled o’er the THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 75 deep,” and wldch after an hour’s ascension, I found sloped almost perpendicularly down to a hold and rocky coast, its base terminating in a peninsula, that advanced for near half a mile in- to the ocean. Towards the extreme western point of this peninsula, which was wildly roman- tic beyond all description, arose a vast and gro- tesque pile of rocks, which at once formed the scite and fortifications of the nobles-t mass of ruins on which my eye ever rested. Grand even in desolation, and magnificent in decay — it was the Castle of Inismore. The settinor sun shone O brightly on its mouldering turrets, and the waves which bathed its rocky basis, reflected on their swelling bosoms the dark outlines of its awful ruins.* As I descended the mountain’s brow I observ- ed that the little isthnuis which joined the penin^ sula to the main land had been cut away, and a curious danger-threatening bridge was rudely thrown across the intervening gulf, flung from the rocks on one side to an ansfle of the mountain on o the other, leaving a yawning chasm of some fathome deep beneath the foot of the wary pas- senger. This must have been a very perilous pass in the days of civil warfare ; and in the in- trepidity of my daring ancestor, I almost forgot mus ♦ Those who have visited the Castle of Dunluce, near the Giant’s Causeway, may, perhaps, have some idea of its striking features in this rude draught of the Castle of [tiismore. 76 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. his crime. Amidst the interstices of the rocks wliich skirted the shores of this interesting pen- insula, patclies of the richest vegetation were to 1)6 seen, and the trees which sprung wildly ainonof its venerable ruins, were burstinor into all the vernal luxuriancy of spring. In the course of my descent, several cabins of a better descrip- tion than I had yefseen, appeared scattered be- neath the shelter of the mountain’s innumerable projections ; while in the air and dress of the in- habitants (which the sound of my horse’s feet brought to their respective doors,) I evidently perceived a something original and primitive, I had never noticed before in this class of persons here. They appeared to me, I know not why, to be in their holiday garb, and their dress, though grotesque and coarse, was cleanly and character- istic. I observed that round the heads of the elderly dames were folded several wreaths of white or coloured linen,* and others had hand kerchiefsf lightly folded round their brows, and curiously fastened under the chin ; while the young wore their hair fastened up with wooden bodkins. They were all enveloped in large ^ The women’s ancient headdress so perfectly resem- bles that of the Egyptian Isis, that it cannot he doubled but that the modes of Egypt were preserved among the Irish.” • — Walker on the Ancient Irish dress, p. 62. f These liandkerchiefs they call “ Binnogues:’* it is a reinnaiil of a very ancient mode. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 77 shapeless mantles of blue frieze, and most of them had a rosary hanging on their arm, from whence I inferred they were on the point of at- tending vespers at the chapel of Inismore. I alighted at the door of a cabin a few paces dis- tant from the Alpine bridge, and entreated a shed for my horse, while I performed my devotions. The man to whom I addressed myself, seemed the only one of several who surrounded me that understood English, and appeared much edified by my pious intention, saying, “ that God would prosper my Honour’s journey, and that I was welcome to a shed for my horse, and a night’s lodging for myself into the bargain.” He then offered to be my guide, and as we crossed the drawbridge, he told me I was out of luck by not coming earlier, for that high mass had been cel- ebrated that morning for the repose of the soul of a Prince of Inismore, who had been murder- ed on this very day of the month. “ And when this day comes round,” he added, “ we all attend dressed in our best ; for my part, I never wear my poor old grandfather’s berrad but on the like occasion,” taking off a curious cap of a conical form, which he twirled round his hand and re- garded with much satisfaction.* By heavens ! as I breathed this region of su- perstition, so strongly was I infected, that my ♦A few years back, Hugh Dugan, a peasant of tb< county of Kilkenny, who affected the ancient Irish dresa, ■eldom appeared without his berrad. 7 * T8 THE ’W'ILD IRISH GIRL. usual scepticism was scarcely proof against my inclination to mount my horse and gallop off*, as I shudderingly pronounced, “ I am then entering the castle of Inismore on the anniversary of that day on which my an- cestors took the life of its venerable Prince !” You see, my good friend, how much we are the creatures of situation and circumstance, and with what pliant servility the mind resigns itself to the impressions of the senses, or the illusions of the imao^ination. We had now reached the ruined cloisters of the chapel, I paused to examine their curious but dilapidated architecture when my guide, hurry- ing me on, said, “ if I did not quicken my pace, I should miss getting a good view of the Prince,” who was just entering by a door opposite to that we had passed through. Behold me then ming- ling among a group of peasantry, and, like them, straining my eyes to that magnet which fascina- ted every glance. And sure, fancy, in her boldest flight, never gave to the fairy vision of poetic dreams, a com- bination of images more poetically fine, more stri- kingly picturesque, or more impressively touch- ing. Nearly one half of the chapel of Inismore has fallen into decay, and the ocean breeze as it rushed through the fractured roof, wafted the tom banners of the family which hung along its dis- mantled walls. The red beams of the sinking sun shone on the glittering tabernacle which THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 7 ^ stood on the altar, and touched with theii golden light the sacerdotal vestments of the two officia- ting priests, who ascended its broken steps at the moment that the Prince and his family entered. The first of this most singular and interesting group, was the venerable Father John, the chap- lain. Religious enthusiasm never gave to the fancied form of the first of the patriarchs, a countenance of more holy expression or divine resignation ; a figure more touching by its digni- fied simplicity, or an air more beneficently mild, more meekly good. He was dressed in his pon- tificals, and, with his eyes bent to the earth, his hands spread upon his breast, he joined his co- adjutors. What a contrast to this saintly being now struck my view ; a form almost gigantic in stat- ure, yet gently thrown forward by evident infir- mity ; limbs of herculean mould, and a counte- nance rather furrowed by the inroads of vehement passions, than the deep trace of years. Eyes still emanating the ferocity of an unsubdued spir- it, yet tempered by a strong trait of benevolence ; which, like a glory, irradiated a broad expansive brow, a mouth on which even yet the spirit of convivial enjoyment seemed to hover, though sha- ded by two large whiskers on the upper lip,* * I have been confidently assured, that the granfather of IIh) present Rt. Hon. John O’Neal, (great grandfather to the present Lord O’Neal) the elegant and accomplished owner of Shane’s Castle, wore his beard after the prohib- ited Irish mode.” — Walker, p. 62. 80 THE WILD IRISH OIRL. which still preserved their ebon hut ; m hilft time or grief had bleached the scattered hairs which hung their snows upon the manly temple. The drapery which covered this striking figure was singularly appropriate, and, as I have since been told, strictly conformable to the ancient cos- tume of the Irish nobles. The only part of the under garment visible, was the ancient Irish truis, which closely adhe- ring to the limbs from the waist to the ancle, in- cludes the pantaloon and hose, and terminates in a buskin not dissimilar to the Roman perones, A triangular mantle of bright scarlet cloth, em- broidered and fringed round the edges, fell from his shoulders to the ground, and was fastened at the breast with a large circular golden brooch, of a workmanship most curiously beautiful ; round his neck hung a golden collar, which seemed to denote the wearer of some order of knight- hood, probably hereditary in his family ; a dag- ger, called a skiene (for my guide explained every article of the dress to me,) was sheathed in his girdle, and was discerned by the sunbeam that played on its brilliant haft. And as he entered the chapel, he removed from his venerable head a cap or berrad, of the same form as that I had noticed with my guide, but made of velvet, richly embroidered. The chieftain moved with dignity — yet with difficulty — and his colossal, but infirm frame, seemed to claim support from a form so almost THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 81 impalpab! / delicate, that as it floated on the gaze, it seemed like the incarnation of some pure ethe- real spirit, which a sigh, too roughly breathed, would dissolve into its kindred air ; yet to this syjphid elegance of spheral beauty was united all that symmetrical contour which constitutes the luxury of human loveliness. This scarcely “ mor- tal mixture of earth’s mould,” was vested in a robe of vestal white, which was enfolded beneath the bosom with a narrow girdle embossed with pre cious stones. From the shoulder fell a mantle of scarlet silk, fastened at the neck wdth a silver bodkin, while the fine turned head was enveloped in a veil of point lace, bound round the brow with a band or diadem, ornamented with the same description of jewels as encircled her arms.* Such was the Jigure of the Princess of Inis- more ! But oh ! not once was the face turned round towards that side where I stood. And ♦This was, with a little variatioii, the general costume of the female noblesse of Ireland from a very early period. In the fifteenth century the veil was very prevalent, and was termed fillag, or scarf ; the Irish ladies, like those of ancient and modern Greece, seldom appearing. As the veil made no part of the Celtic costume, its origin was pro- bably merely oriental The great love of ornaments betrayed by the Irish ladies of other times, ‘‘ the beauties of the heroes of old,” ar« thus described by a quaint and ancient author ; — “ Their necks are hung with chains and carkanets — their arms wreathed with many bracelets.” F 82 THE. WILD IRISH GIRL. when I shifted my position, the envious veil im tercepted the ardent glance Avhich eagerly sought the fancied charms it concealed : for was it pos- sible to doubt the face would not “ keep the pro- mise that the form had made.” The group that followed was grotesque beyond ail powers of description. The ancient bard, whose long white beard ‘‘ Descending, swept his aged breast/^ the incongruous costume — half modern, half an- tique, of the bare footed domestics, the ostensi- ble steward, vfho closed the procession — and above all, the dignified importance of the nurse^ who took the lead in it immediately after her young lady ; her air, form, countenance, and dress, were indeed so singularly fantastic and outre ^ that the genius of masquerade might have adopted her figure as the finest model of gro- tesque caricature. Conceive for a moment a form v«^hose longi- tude bore no degree of proportion to her latitude ; dressed in a short jacket of brown cloth, with loose sleeves from the elbow to the wrist, made of red camblet striped with green, and turned up with a broad cuff — a petticoat of scarlet frieze, covered by an apron of green serge, longitudi- nally striped with scarlet tape, and sufficiently short to betray an ancle that sanctioned all the libels ever uttered against the ancles of the Irish THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 83 fair — ^true national brogues set off her blue wors- ted stockings, and her yellow hair, dragged over a high roll, was covered on the summit with a little coiff, over which was flung a scarlet hand- kerchief, which fastened in a large bow under her rubicund chin. As this singular and interesting group advan- ced up the central aisle of the chapel, reverence and affection were evidently blended in the looks of the multitude which hung upon their steps ; and though the Prince and his daughter seeked to lose in the meekness of true religion all sense of temporal inequality, and promiscuously ming- led with the congregTttion, yet that distinction they humbly avoided, was reverently forced on them by the affectionate crowd, which drew back on either side as they advanced, until the chief- tain and his child stood alone in the centre of the ruined choir, the winds of heaven playing freely amidst their garments, the sun’s setting beam en- riching their beautiful figures with its orient tints, while he, like Milton’s ruined angel, “ Above the rest, In shape and feature proudly eminent, Stood like a tower and she, like the personified spirit of Mercy hovered round him, or supported more by ten- derness than her strength, him from whom she rould no longer claim support. Those gray headed domestics, too, those faith 84 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. fill though hut nominal vassals, whc offered thal voluntary reverence with their looks, which his repaid with fatherly affection, while the anguish of a suffering heart hung on his pensive smile, sustained by the firmness of that indignant pride which lowered on his ample brow ! What a picture ! As soon as the first flush of interest, curiosity, and amazement had subsided, my attention was carried towards the altar ; and then I thought as I watched the impressive avocation of Father John, that had I been the Prince, I would have been the Caiphas too. What a religion is this ! How finely does it harmonize with the weakness of our nature , how seducingly it speaks to the senses ; how forcibly it works on the passions ; how strongly it seizes on the imagination ; how interesting its forms ; how graceful its ceremonies ; how awful its rites. What a captivating, what a picturesque faith ! Who would not become its proselyte, were it not for the stern opposition of reason, the cold suggestions of philosophy ! ' The last strain of the vesper hymn died on the air as the sun’s last beam faded on the casements of the chapel ; and the Prince and his daughter to avoid the intrusion of the crowd, withdrew through a private door, which communicated by a ruinous arcade with the castle. I was the first to leave the chapel, and followed them at a distance as they moved slowly along THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 85 Their fine figures, sometimes concealed behind sl pillar, and again emerging from the transieiU shade, flushed with the deep suffusion of the crimsoned firmament. Once they paused, as if to admire the beautiful effect of the retreating light, as it faded on the ocean’s swelling bosom ; and once the Princess raised her hand and pointed to the evening star, which rose brilliantly on the deep cerulean blue of a cloudless atmosphere, and shed its fairy beam on the mossy summit of a mouldering turret. Such were the sublime objects which seemed to enixao^e their attention, and added their sensible inspiration to the fervour of those more abstract- ed devotions in which they were so recently en- gaged. At last they reached the portals of the castle, and I lost sight of them. Yet still spell- bound, I stood transfixed to the spot from whence 1 had caught a last view of their receding figures. While I felt like the victim of superstitious terror when the spectre of its distempered fancy vanishes from its strained and eager gaze, all I had lately seen revolved in my mind like some pictured story of romantic fiction. I cast round my eyes ; all still seemed the vision of awaken- ed imagination. Surrounded by a scenery grand even to the boldest majesty of nature, and wild even to desolation — the day’s dying splendours, awfully involving in the gloomy haze of deepen^ tug twilight — ^the gray mists of stealing nighi 9 86 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. gathering on the still faintly illumined, surface of the ocean, whmh, awfully spreading to infinitude, seemed to the limited gaze, of human vision to incorporate with the heaven whose last glow it reflected — ^the rocks, which on every side rose to Alpine elevation, exhibiting, amidst the soft ob- scurity, forms savagely bold or grotesquely wild ; and those finely interesting ruins which spread grandly desolate in the rear, and added a moral interest to the emotions excited by this view of nature in her most awful, most touching aspect. Thus suddenly withdrawn from the world’s busiest haunts, its hackneyed modes, its vicious pursuits, and unimportant avocations — dropped as it were amidst scenes and mysterious sublimity — alone — on the wildest shores of the greatest ocean of the universe ; immersed amidst the de- caying monuments of past ages ; still viewing in recollection such forms, such manners, such hab- its (as I had lately beheld,) which to the worldly mind may be well supposed to belong to a race long passed beyond the barrier of existence, with “the years beyond the flood,” I felt like the being of some other sphere newly alighted on a distant orb. While the novel train of thought which stole on my mind, seemed to seize its tone from the awful tranquillity by which I was sur- rounded, and I remained leaning on the fragment lof a rock, as the waves dashed idly against its hase, until their dark heads were silvered by the ‘?i6ing moon, and while my eyes dwelt on her si- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 87 lent progress, the castle clock struck Line. Thus warned, I arose to depart, yet not without reluc- tance. My soul, for the first time, had here held commune with herself ; the “ lying vanities” of life no longer intoxicating my senses, appeared to me for the first time in their genuine aspect, and iny heart still fondly loitered over those scenes of solemn interest, where some of its best feelinors had been called into existence. O Slowly departing, 1 raised my eyes to the Cas- tle of Inismore and sighed, and almost wished I had been born the Lord of these beautiful ruins, the Prince of this isolated little territory, and adored chieftain of these affectionate and natural people. At that moment a strain of music stole by me, as if the breeze of midnight stillness had expired in a manner on the Eolian lyre. Emo- tion, undefinable emotion, thrilled on every nerve. I listened. I trembled. A breathless silence gave me every note. W as it the illusion of my now all-awakened fancy, or the professional exertions of the bard of Inismore 1 Oh, no! for the voice it symphonized, the low, wild, tremulous voice which sweetly sighed its soul of melody o’er the harp’s responsive chords, was the voice of a woman ! Directed by the witching strain, I approached an angle of the building from whence it seemed to proceed ; and perceiving a light which stream^ ed through an open casement,' I climbed with Bome difficulty the ruins of a parapet wall which 88 THE WILD IRISH GIRL en'circled this wing of the castle, and which rose so immediately under the casement as to give me, when I stood on it, a perfect view of the interior of that apartment to which it be- longed. Two tapers, which burned on a marble slab at the remotest extremity of this vast and gloomy chamber, shed their dim blue light on the saintly countenance of Father John, who, with a large folio open before him, seemed wholly wrap- ped in studious meditation ; while the Prince, re- clined on an immense Gothic couch, with his robe thrown over the arm that supported his head, be- trayed by the expression of his countenance those emot'ions which agitated his soul, while he listened to those strains which spoke at once to the heart of the father, the patriot, and the man — breathed from the chords of his country’s em- blem — breathed in the pathos of his country’s music — breathed from the lips of his apparently inspired daughter ! The “ white rising of her hands upon the harp the half-drawn veil that imperfectly discovered the countenance of a ser- aph ; the moonlight that played round her fine form, and partially touched her drapery with its silver beam — her attitude ! her air ! But how cold — how inanimate — how imperfect this de- scription ! Oh ! could I but seize the touching features — could I but realize the vivid tints of this enchanting picture, as they then glowed on my £a:icy ! By heavens ! you would think the mimic THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 89 copy fabulous ; “ the celestial visitant” of an over- heated imagination. Yet, as if the independent witchery of the lovely minstrel was not in itself all, all-sufficient, at the back of her chair stood the grotesque figure of her antiquated nurse. O ! the precious contrast. And yet it heightened, it finished the picture. While thus entranced in breathless observation, endeavouring to support my precarious tenement, and to prolong this rich feast of the senses and the soul, the loose stones on which I tottered gave way under my feet, and impulsively clinging to the wood work of the casement, it mouldered in my grasp. I fell — but before 1 reached the earth I was bereft of sense. With its return I found myself in a large apartment, stretched on - a bed, and supported in the arms of the Prince of Inismore ! his hand was pressed to my bleeding temple, while the priest applied a styptic to the wound it had received ; and the nurse was enga- ged in binding up my arm, which had been dread- fully bruised and fractured a little above the wrist. Some domestics, with an air of mingled concern and curiosity, surrounded my couch ; and at hei father’s side stood the Lady Glorvina, her looks pale and disordered — her trembling hands busily employed in preparing bandages, for which ray skilful doctress impatiently called. While my mind almost doubted the evidence of my senses, and a physical conviction alone pairi’* fvlly proved to me the reality of all I beheld, my / 9 # 90 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. wandering, wondering eyes met those ol’ the Prince of Inismore ! A volume of pity and be- nevolence was registered in their glance ; nor were none, I suppose, inexp 'essive of my feel- ings, tor he thus replied to tliom : “Pc of good cheer, young stranger ; you are in no danger ; be composed ; be confident ; con- ceive yourself in the midst of friends ; for you are surrounded by those who would wish to be con-^idered as such.” I attempted to speak, but my voice faltered ; my tongue was nerveless ; my mouth dry and parched. A trembling hand presented a cordial to my lips. I qualfed the philtre, and fixed my eyes on the face of my ministering angel. That angel was Glorvina ! 1 closed them, and sunk on the bosom of her father. “ Oh, he faints again !” cried a sweet and plaintive voice. “ On the contrary,” replied the priest, “ the weariness of acute pain something subsided, is lulling him into a soft repose ; for see, the colour reanimates his cheek, and his pulse quickens.” “ It indeed beats most wildly,” returned the sweet physician ; for the pulse which responded to her finger’s thrilling pressure moved with no languid throb. “ Let us retire,” added the priest, “ all danger is now’ thank heaven, over ; and repose and quiet the most salutary requisites for our patient.” At these w ords he arose from my bedside, and THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 9l Aie Prince, gently withdrawing his supporting arms, laid my head upon the pillow. In a mo- ment all was deathlike stillness, and stealing a glance from under my half closed eyes, I found myself alone with my skilful doctress, the nurse, who, shading the taper’s light from the bed, had taken her distaff and seated herself on a stool at some distance. This was a golden respite to feelings wound up to that vehement excess which forbade ail expression, which' left my tongue powerless, while my heart overflowed with emotion the most powerful. Good God ! I, the son of Lord M—- , the hereditary object of hereditary detestation, be- neath the roof of my implacable enemy! Sup- ported in his arms ; relieved from anguish by his charitable attention ; honoured by the solici- tude of his lovely daughter ; overwhelmed by the charitable exertions of his whole family; and reduced to that bodily infirmity that would of ne- cessity oblige me to continue for some time the object of their beneficent attentions. What a series of emotions did this conviction awaken in my heart ! Emotions of a character, an energy, long unknown to my apathized feel- ings ; while gratitude to those who had drawn them into existence, combined with the interest, the curiosity, the admiration they had awakened, tended to confirm my irresistible desire of per- petuating the immunities I enjoyed, as the guest THE WILD IRiSH GIRL. 9*J and patieiit of the Prince and his daughter. An»J, while the touch of this Wild Irish Girl’s hand thrilled on every sense, while her voice of ten- derest pity muriniired on my ear, and I secretlv triumphed over the prejudices of her father, I would not have exchanged my broken arm and _ wounded temple for the strongest limb and sound- est head in the kingdom ; but the same chance which threw me in the supporting arms of the irascible Prince, might betray to him in the per- son of his patient, the son of his hereditary ene- my : it was at least probable he would make some inquiries relative to the object of his be- nevolence, and the singular cause which render- ed him such ; it was therefore a necessary policy in me to be provided against this scrutiny. Already deep in adventure, a thousand sedu- cing reasons were suggested by my newly-awa- kened heart to go on with the romance, and to secure for my farther residence in the castle, that interest, which, if known to be the son of Lord M , I must eventually have forfeited, for the cold version of irreclaimable prejudice. The imposition was at least innocent, and mighi tend to future and mutual advantage ; and aftei the ideal assumption of a thousand fictitious char- acters, 1 at last fixed on that of an itinerant artist, as consonant to my most cultivated talent, and to the testimony of those witnesses which 1 had fortunately brought with me, namely my draw- ing-book, pencils, &c., &c., self-nominated//enry THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 93 Mortimer, to answer the initials on my linen, the only proofs against me, for 1 had not even a let- ter with me. I was now armed at all points for inspection ; and as the Prince lived in a perfect state of iso- lation, and I was unknown in the country, I en- tertained no apprehensions of discovery during the time I should remain at the castle ; and full of hope, strong in confidence, but wearied by in- cessant cogitation, and something exhausted by |)ain, I fell into that profound slumber I did be- fore but feign. 'Pile mid-day beams shone brightly through the faded tints of my bed curtains before I awa- kened the following morning, after a night of such fairy charms as only float round the couch of “ Fancy trained in bliss.’* The nurse, and the two other domestics, re- lieved the watch at my bedside during the night; and when I drew back the curtain, the former complimented me on my somniferous powers, and in the usual mode of inquiry, but- in a very unu- sual accent and dialect, addressed me with much kindness and goodnatured solicitude. While 1 was endeavouring to express my gratitude for her attentions, and, what seemed most acceptable to her, my high opinion of her skill, the Father Director entered. To the benevolent mind, distress or misfortune 94 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. is ever a sufficient claim on all the privileges o1 intimacy; and when hather John seated himself by my bedside, affectionately took my hand, la- mented my accident, and assured me of my im- proved looks, it was with an air so kindly famil- iar, so tenderly intimate, that it was impossible to suspect the sound of his voice was yet a stranger to my ear. Prepared and collected, as soon as I had ex- pressed my sense of his and the Prince’s benev- olence, I briefly related my feigned story ; and in a few minutes I was a young Englishman, by birth a gentleman, by inevitable misfortunes re- duced to a dependence on my talents for a liveli- hood, and by profession an artist. I added, that I came to Ireland to take views, and seize some of the finest features of its landscapes ; that, hav- ing heard much of the wildly picturesque charms of the northwest coasts, I had penetrated thus far into this remote corner of the province of Con- naught ; that the uncommon beauty of the views surrounding the castle, and the awful magnificence of its ruins, had arrested my wanderings, and de- termined me to spend some days in its vicinity ; that, having attended divine service the preceding evening in the chapel, I continued to wander along the romantic shores of Inismore, and, in the adventuring spirit of my art, had climbed part of the mouldering ruins of the castle to catch a fine effect of light and shade, produced by tlte partial- ly veiled beams of the moon, and had then met THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 95 with the accident which now threw me on the benevolence of the Prince of Innismore ; an un- known, in a strange country, with a fractured limb, a wounded head, and a heart oppressed with the sense of gratitude under which it laboured. o “ That you were a stranger and a traveller, who had been led by curiosity or devotion to visit the chapel of Tnismore,” said the priest, “ we were already apprised of, by the peasant who brought to the castle last night the horse and valise left at his cabin, and who feared, from the length of your absence, some accident had befallen you. What you have yourself been kind enough to detail, is precisely what will prove your best letter of rec- ommendation to the Prince. Trust me, young gentleman, that your standing in need of his at- tention is the best claim you could make on it ; and your admiration of his native scenes, of that ancient edifice, the monument of that decayed an- cestral splendour still dear to his pride ; and your having so severely suffered through an anxiety by which he must be flattered, will induce him to consider himself as even hound to administer ev- ery attention that can meliorate the unpleasantness of your present situation. What an idea did this give me of the character of him whose heart I once believed divested of all the tender feelings of humanity. -Everything that mine could dictate on the subject I endeav- oured to express, and, borne away ly the vehe- mence of my feelings, did it in a manner that 96 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. more than once fastened the eyes of Father John on my face, with that look of surprise and admi- ration which, to a delicate mind, is more gratify- ing than the most finished verbal eiilooinm. Stimulated by this silent approbation, I insen- sibly stole the conversation from myself to a more general theme : one thought was the link to an- other — the chain of discussion gradually extend- ed, and before the nurse brought up my breakfast we had ranged through the whole circle of set- ences, I found that this intelligent and amiable being had trifled a good deal in his young days with chemistry, of which he still spoke like a lov- er who, in maturer life, fondly dwells on the charms of that object who first awakened the youthful raptures of his heart. He is even still an enthusiast in botany, and as free from monastic pedantry as he is rich in the treasures of classic- al literature and the elegancies of belles lettres. His feelings even yet preserve something of the ardour of youth, and in his mild character evi- dently appears blended a philosophical knowl- edge of human nature, with the most perfect worldly inexperience, and the manly intelligence of a highly gifted mind, with the sentiments of a recluse and the simplicity of a child. His still ardent mind seemed to dilate to the correspond- ence of a kindred intellect, and two hours’ bed- side chit chat, with all the unrestrained freedom such a situation sanctions, produced a more per- THE WILD IRISH GiRL. 97 lect intimacy than an age would probably have ef* lected under ditterent circumstances. . After havinor examined and dressed the wound- O ed tem'ple, which he declared to be a mere scratch, and congratulated me on the apparent convales- cence of my looks, he withdrew, politely excusing the length of his visit by pleading the charms of my conversation as the cause of his detention. There is, indeed, an evident vein of French su- avity flowing through his manners, that convinced me he had spent some years of his life in that re- gion of the graces. I have since learned that he was partly educated in France; so that, to my as- tonishment, I have discovered the manners of a gentleman, the conversation of a scholar, and the sentiment of a philanthropist, united in the character of an Irish priest. While my heart throbbed with the natural sat isfaction arising from the consciousness of hav- ing awakened an interest in those w^hom it was o . . ^ ^ my ambition to interest, my female Esculapius came and seated herself by me ; and while she talked of fevers, inflammations, and the Lord knows what, insisted on my not speaking another word for the rest of the day. Though by no means appearing to labour under the same Pyth- agorean restraint she had imposed on me ; and after having extolled her own surgical pow'ers, her celebrity as the best bone-setter in the bar- ony, and communicated the long list of patients G 9 98 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. her skill had saved, her tongue at last rested on the only theme I was inclined to hear. Arrah ! now, jevv^el,” she continued, “ there is our Lady Glorvina now, who with all her skill, and knowing every leaf that grows, why she could no more set your arm than she could break it. Och! it was herself that turned white when she saw the blood upon your face, for she was the first to hear you fall, and hasten down to have you picked up ; at first, faith, we thought you were a robber ; but it was all one to her, into the castle you must be brought, and when she saw the blood spout from your temple. Holy Vir- gin ! she looked for all the world as if she was kilt dead herself.” “ And is she,” said I, in the selfishness of my heart, “ is she always thus humanely interested for the unfortunate ?” “ Och! it is she that is tender hearted for man or beast,” replied my companion. “ I shall nev- er forget till the day of my death, nor then either, faith, the day that Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was bogged: you must know, honey, that a bogged cow ” Unfortunately, however, the episode of Kitty Mulrooney’s cow was cut short, for the Prince now entered, leaning on the arm of the priest. Dull indeed must be every feeling, and blunted every recollective faculty, when the look, the air, the smile with which this venerable and benevo- lent chieftain, approaching ray bed, and kindly THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 99 taking me by the hand, addressed me in the sin- gular idiom of his expressive language. “ Young man,’^ said he, “the stranger’s oest gift is upon you, for the eye that sees you for the first time, wishes it may not be the last ; and the ear that drinks your words, grows thirsty as i’. quads them. So says our good Father John here, for you have made him your friend ere you are his acquaintance ; and as the friend of my friend, my heart opens to you; you are welcome to my house as long as it is pleasant to you ; when it ceases to be so, we will part with you with regret, and speed your journey with our wishes and our prayers.” Could my heart have lent its eloquence to my lip — but that was impossible ; very imperfect in- deed was the justice I did to my feelings ; but as my peroration was a eulogium on these roman- tic scenes and interesting ruins, the contemplation of which I had nearly purchased with my life, the Prince seemed as much pleased as if my gratitude had poured forth with Ciceronean elo- quence, and he replied, “ When your health will permit, you can pur- sue here uninterrupted your charming art. Once the domains of Inismore could have supplied the painter’s pencil with scenes of smiling felicity, and the song of the bard — with many a theme of joy and triumph ; but the harp can only mourn over the fallen greatness of its sons ; and the pencil has nothing left to delineate but the ruinM 100 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. wliich shelter the gray head of the last of theii descendants.” These words were pronounced with an emo- tion that shook the dilapidated frame of the Prince, and the tear which dimmed the spirit of his eye, formed an associate in that of his audi- tor. He gazed on me for a moment with a look that seemed to say, “you feel for me, then — yet you are an Englishman and taking the arm of Father John, he walked towards a window which commanded a view of the ocean, whose troubled bosom beat wildly against the castle cliffs. “ The day is sad,” said he, “ and makes the soul gloomy : we will summon O’Gallagher to the hall, and drive away sorrow with music.” Then turning to me, he added, with a faint smile “the tones of the Irish harp have still the power to breathe a spirit over the drooping soul of an Irishman ; but if its strains disturb your repose, command its silence : the pleasure of the host always rests in that of his guest.” With these words, and leaning on the arm of his chaplain, he retired ; while the nurse, looking affectionately after him, raised her hands and exclaimed, “ Och ! there you go, and may the blessing of the Holy Virgin go with you, for it’s yourself that’s the jewel of a Prince !” The impression made on me by this brief but interesting interview, is not to be expressed. You should see the figure, the countenance, the THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 101 dress of the Prince ; the appropriate scenery of the old Gothic chamber, the characteristic ap* pearance of the priest and the nurse, to under* stand the combined and forcible effect the whole produced. Yet, though experiencing a pleasurable emo- tion, strong as it was novel, there was still one little wakeful wish throbbing vaguely at my heart. Was it possible that my chilled, my sated mis- anthropic feelings, still sent forth one sigh of wishful solicitude for woman’s dangerous pres- ence ? No, the sentiment the daughter of the Prince inspired, only made di. part in that general feeling of curiosity, which every thing in this new region of wonders continued to nourish into existence. What had I to expect from the un- polished manners, the confined ideas of this Wild Irish Girl ? Deprived of alUthose touching allurements which society only gives ; reared in wilds and solitudes, with no other associates than her nurse, her confessor, and her father ; endow- ed indeed by nature with some personal gifts, set off by the advantage of a singular and character- istic dress, for which she is indebted to whim and natural prejudice, rather than native taste : — I, who had fled in disgust even from those to whose natural attraction the bewitching blandish- ments of education, the brilliant polish of fashion, and the dazzling splendour of real rank, contribu* led their potent spells. And yet, the roses of Florida, though the fair 102 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. est in the universe, and springing from the richest soil, emit no fragrance ; while the mountain violet, rearing its timid form from a steril bed, flings on the morning breeze the most delicious perfume. While given up to such reflections as these — while the sound of the Irish harp arose from the hall below, and the nurse muttered her prayers in Irish over her beads by my side, I fell into a gentle slumber, in which I dreamed that the Princess of Inismore approached my bed, drew aside the curtains, and raising her veil, discover- ed a face I had hitherto rather guessed at than seen. Imagine my horror — it was the face, the head of a Gorgon! Awakened by the sudden and terrific emotion it excited, though sti’ll almost motionless, as if from the eflecj^s of a nightmare (which in fact, from the position I lay in, had oppressed me in the form of the Princess) I cast my eyes through a fracture in the old damask drapery of my bed, and beheld — not the horrid spectre of my recent dream, but the form of a cherub hovering near my pillow — it was the Lady Glorvina herself! Oh ! how I trembled lest the fair image should only be the vision of my slumber : I scarcely dared to breathe, lest it should dissolve. She was seated on the nurse’s little stool, her elbow resting on her knee, her cheek reclined u[)on her hand : for once the wish of Romeo appeared no hyperbcla. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 103 Some snowdrops lay scattered in her lap, on which her downcast eyes shed their beams ; as thoii2:h she moralized over the modest blossoms, which, in fate a delecacy, resembled herself. Changing her pensive attitude, she collected them into a bunch, and sighed, and waved her head as she gazed on them. The dew that tremb- led on their leaves seemed to have flowed from a richer source than the exhalation of the morn- ing’s vapour — for the flowers are faded — but the drops that gem’d them are fresh. At that moment the possession of a little king- dom would have been less desirable to me, than the knowledge of that association of ideas and feelings which the contemplation of these honour- ed flowers awakened. At last, with a tender smile, she raised them to her lip and sighed, and placed them in her bosom ; then softly drew aside my curtain. I feigned the stillness of death — yet the curtain remained unclosed— many minutes elapsed — I ventured to unseal my eyes, and met the soul dissolving glance of my sweet attendant spirit, who seemed to gaze intently on her charge. Emotion on my part the most delicious, on hers the most modestly confused, for a moment pre- vented all presence of mind; the beautiful arm still supported the curtain — my ardent gaze was still riveted on a face alternately suffused with the electric flashes of red and white. At last ihe curtain fell, the priest entered, and the vision, the sweetest, brightest vision of my life, dissolved ! 104 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Glorvina sprung towards her tutor, and told him aloud, that the nurse had entreated her to take her place, while she descended to dinner. “ And no place can become thee better, my child,” said the priest, “ than that which fixes thee by the couch of suffering and sickness.” “ However,” said Glorvina, smiling, I will gratify you by resigning for the present in your favour ;” and away she flew speaking in Irish to the nurse, who passed her at the door. The benevolent confessor then approached, and seated himself beside my bed, with that pre- meditated air of chit-chat sociality, that it went to my soul to disappoint him. But the thing was impossible, to have tamely conversed in mortal lan- guage on mortal subjects, after having held ‘‘ high communion” with an etherial spkit ; when a sigh, a tear, a glance, were the delicious vehicles of our souls’ secret intercourse — to stoop from this colloquy sublime !” I could as soon have deliv- ered a logical essay on identity and adversity, or any other subject equally interesting to the heart and imagination. I therefore closed my eyes, and breathed most sonorously : the good priest drew the curtain and retired on tip-toe, and the nurse once more took her distaff, and, for her sins, was silent. These good people must certainly think me a second Epimenides, for I have done nothing but sleep, or feign to sleep, since I have been thrown amongst them. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. , 105 LETTER VI. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. I HAVE already passed four days beneath this hospitable roof. On the third, a slight fever with which I had been threatened passed off, my head was disincumbered, and on the fourth I was able to leave my bed, and to scribble thus far of my journal. Yet these kind solicitous beings will not suffer me to leave my room, and still the nujse at intervals gives me the pleasure of her society, and hums old cronans, or amuses me with what she calls a little shanaos* as she plies her distaff ; while the priest frequently indulges me with his interesting and intelligent conversation. The good man is a great logician, and fond of displaying his metaphysical prowess, where he feels that he is understood, and we diurn allv go over infinity, space, and duration, with innate, simple, and complex idea, until our own are ex- hausted in the discussion ; and then we general- ly relax with Ovid, or trifle with Horace and Ti- bullus, for nothing can be less austerely pious than this cheerful genile being : nothing can be ♦ A term in very general use in Ireland, and is applied to a kind of geneaiogiail chit chat, or talking over family antiquity, family anecdotes, descent, alliances, '&c., to wiiich the lower, as well as the higher order of Irish in the provincial parts are much adr'irted. !06 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. more innocent than his life ; nothing more liberal than his sentiments. The Prince, too, has thrice honoured me with a visit. Although he possesses nothing of the erudition which distinguishes his all-intelligent chaplain, yet there is a peculiar charm, a spell in his conversation, that is irresistibly fascina- ting ; and chiefly arising, I believe, from the curi- ous felicity of his expressions, the originality of the ideas they clothe, the strength and energy of his delivery, and the enthusiasm and simplicity of his manners. He seems not so much to speak the English language, as literally to translate the Irish ; and he borrows so much and so happily from the pe- culiar idiom of his vernacular tongue, that though his conversation was deficient in matter, it would still possess a singular interest from its manner. But it is far otherwise, there is indeed in the uncul- tivated mind of this man, much of the vivida vis anima of native genius, which neither time nor misfortune has wholly damped, and which fre- quently flings the brightest coruscations of thought over the generally pensive tone that pervades his conversation. The extent of his knowledge on subjects of national interest is indeed wonderful ; his memory is rich in oral tradition, and most happily faithful to the history and antiquities of his country, which notwithstanding peevish com- plaints of its degeneracy, he still loves with idolatrous fondness. On these subjects he is al- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. i07 ways borne away, but upon no subject does he speak with coolness or moderation ; he is always in extremes, and the vehemence of his gestures and looks ever corresponds to the energy of Ids expressions or sentiments. Yet he possesses an infinite deal of that suamto in modo, so prevailing and insinuating even among the lower classes of this country ; and his natural, or I should rather say his national politeness, frequently in duces him to make the art in which he supposf/s me to excel, the topic of our conversation. While he speaks in rapture of the many fine views this country afibrds to the genius of the painter, he dwells with melancholy pleasure on the innumer- able ruined palaces and abbeys which lay scat- tered amidst the richest scenes of this romantic province: he generally thus concludes with a melancholy apostrophe : “ But the splendid dwelling of princely gran- deur, the awful asylum of monastic piety, are just mouldering into oblivion with the memory of those they once sheltered. The sons of little men triumph over those whose arm was strong in war, and whose vfice breathed no irnpotem command ; and the descendant of the mighty chieftain has nothing left to distinguish him from the son of the peasant, but the decaying ruins of his ancestor’s castle ; while the blasts of a few storms, and the pressure of a few years, shall even of them leave scarce a wreck to tell the traveller the mournful tale of fallen oreatness.” o 108 THE W LD IRISH GIRL. When I showed him a sketch 1 had made of the castle of Inismore, on the evening I had first seen it from the mountain’s summit, he seemed much gratified, and warmly commended its fideli- ty, shaking his head as he contemplated it, and impressively exclaiming. “ Many a morning’s sun has seen me climb that ^ mountain in my boyish days, to contemplate these , ruins, accompanied by an old follower of the family, who possessed many strange stories of the feats of my ancestors, with which I was then greatly delighted. And then I dreamed of my arm wielding the spear in war, and my hall re- sounding to the song of the bard, and the mirth of the feast ; but it was only a dream !” As the injury sustained by my left arm (which is in a state of rapid convalescence) is no im- pediment to the exertions of my right, we have already talked over the various views 1 am to take, and he enters into every little plan with that enthusiasm, which childhood betrays in the pursuit of some novel object, and seems wonder- fully gratified in the idea of thus perpetuating the fast decaying features of this “ time honour- ed” edifice. The priest assures me, I am distinguished in a particular manner by the partiality and conde- scension of the Prince. “ As a man of genius,” said he this morning, “ you have awakened a stronger interest in his breast, than if you had presented him with letters THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 109 patent of your nobility, except, indeed, you had deri\ ed them from Milesius himself.” “ An enthusiastic love of talent is one of the dis- tinguishing features of the true ancient Irisluchar- acter ; and independent of your general acquire- ments, your professional abilities, coinciding with his ruling passion, secures you a larger portion of his esteem and regard than he generally lav- ishes upon any stranger, and almost incredible, considering you are an Englishman. But nation- al prejudice ceases to operate when individual worth calls for approbation; and an Irishman sel- dom asks or considers the country of him whose sufferings appeal to his humanity, whose genius makes a claim on his applause.” But, my good friend, while I am thus ingra- tiating myself with the father, the daughter (either self-wrapped in proud reserve, or deter- mined to do away that temerity she may have falsely supposed her condescension and pity awak- ened) has not appeared even at the door of my chamber with a charitable inquiry for my health, since our last silent, but eloquent interview ; and I have lived for these three days on the recollec- tion of those precious moments which gave her to my view, as I last beheld her, like the angel of pity hovering round the pillow of mortal suf- fering. Ah ! you will say, this is not tlie language of an apathist, of one “ whom man delighteth not, nor woman either.” 10 110 THE W:LD IRISH GIRI.. But let. not your vivid imagination thus hnny over at once the scale of my feelings from one extreme to the other, forgetting the many inter- mediate degrees that lie between the deadly chill of the coldest, and the burning ardour of the most vehement of all human sentiments. If I am less an apathist, which I am willing to confess, trust me, I am not a whit more the lover. — Lover ! — Preposterous ! I am merely in- terested for this girl on a philosophical principle. I long to study the purely national, natural char- acter of an Irish woman: In fine, I long to be- hold any woman in such lights and shades of mind, temper, and disposition, as nature has originally formed her in. Hitherto I have only met servile copies, sketched by the finger of art and finished off by the polished touch of fashion I fear, however, that this girl is already spoiled by the species of education she has received. I’he priest has more than once spoke of her eru- dition ! Erudition ! the pedantry of a school-boy of the third class, I suppose. How much must a woman lose, and how little can she gain, by that commutation which gives her our acquirements for her own graces! For my part, you know, I have always kept clear of the hashleus ; and would prefer one playful charm of a Ninon to all the classic lore of ? Dacier, But you will say, I could scarcely come off worse with the pedants than I did with the dunces •, and you will say right. And, to confess THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 11] the truth, I believe I should have been easily led to desert the standard of the pretty fools, had fe- male pedantry ever stole on iny heart under such a form as tbe liiUe sm-disant Princess of Inis- inore. ’Tis indeed, impossible to look less like one who spouts Latin with the priest of the parish than this same Glorvina. There is something beautifully wild about her air and look, that is in- describable ; and, without a very perfect regulari- ty of feature, she * possesses that effulgency of countenance, that bright lumine purpureo, which poetry assigns to the dazzling emanations of di- vine beauty. In short, there are a thousand little fugitive graces playing around her, which are not beauty, but the cause of it ; and were I to per- sonify the word spell, she should sit for the pic- ture A thousand times she swims before my sight, as I last beheld her ; her locks of living gold parting on her brow of snow, yet seeming to separate with reluctance, as they were lightly shaken off with that motion of the heady at once so infantile and graceful ; a motion twice put into play, as her recumbent attitude poured the luxuriancy of her tresses over her face and neck, for she was unveiled, and a small gold bod- kin was unequal to support the redundancy of that beautiful hair, which I more than once apostro phized in the words of Petrarch: ** Onde totse amor I’oro e di qual vena Per far due treccio bionde. Az.c. 1 12 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 1 understand a servant is dispatched once a «veek to the next post town, with and for letters j and this intelligence absolutely amazed me ; foi I am astonished that these beings, who “ Look not like the inhabitants of the earth, And yet are on it,’' should hold an intercourse with the world. This is post day, and this packet is at last des- tined to be finished and dispatched. On looking it over, the title of princes and princess so often occur, that I could almost fancy myself at the court of some foreign potentate, basking in the warm sunshine of regal favour, instead of being the chance guest of a poor Irish gentleman, who lives on the produce of a few rented --farms, and, infected with a species of pleasant mania, be- lieves himself as much a prince as the heir apparent of boundless empire and exhaustless treasures. Adieu ! Direct as usual : for though I certain- ly mean to accept the invitation of a Prince, yet I intend, in a few days, to return home, to obviate suspicion, and to have my books and wardrobe removed to the Lodge, which now possesses a stronger magnet of attraction than when I first fixed bn it as my headquarters. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 113 LETTER VII. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. This is the sixth day of my convalescence, and tho first of my descent from my western tower; for I find it is literally in a tower, or turret^ which terminates a wing of these ruins, I have been lodged. These good people, however, would have persuaded me into the possession of a slow fever, and confined me to my room another day, had not the harp of Glorvina, with “ supernatural solicitings,” spoken more irresistibly to my heart than all their eloquence. I have just made my toilette, for the first time since my arrival at the castle ; and with a black ribbon of the nurse’s across my forehead, and a silk handkerchief of the priest’s supporting my arm, with my own “ customary suit of solemn black,” tintless cheek, languid eye, and pensive air, I looked indeed as though “ melancholy had marked me for her own or an excellent per- sonification of “ pining atrophy” in its last stage of decline. While I contemplated my memento mori of a figure in the glass, I heard a harp tuning in an underneath apartment. The Prince I knew hid not yet left his bed, for his infirmities seldom pei- mit him to rise early ; the priest had rode out ; and the venerable figure of the old harper at that H 10* 114 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. moment gare a fine effect to a ruined arcli imdei which he was passing, led by a boy, just oj)po- site my window. “ It is Glor\Hna then,” said - I, “ and alone !” and down I sallied ; but not with half the intrepidity that Sir Bertram follow- ed the mysterious blue flame along the corridors of the enchanted castle. A thousand times since my arrival in this trans- mundane region, I have had reason to feel how much we are the creatures of situation ; how in- sensibly our minds and our feelings take their tone from the influence of existinof circumstances. You have seen me frequently the very prototype of nonchalence, in the midst of a circle of birth- day beauties, that might have put the fabled charms of the Mount Ida triumviri to the blush of inferiority. Yet here I am, groping my way down the dismantled stone stairs of a ruined castle in the wilds of Connaught, with my heart fluttering like the pulse of green eighteen, in the presence of its first love, merely because on the point of appearing before a simple rusticated girl, whose father calls himself a prince^ with a pota- toe ridge for his dominions ! O ! with what in- difference I should have met her in the drawing- room, or at the opera ! — there she would have been merely a woman ! — here she is the fairy vision of my heated fancy. Well, having finished the same circuitous jour ney that a squirrel diurnally performs in his cage I found myself landed in a stone p^ «Niaye, which THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 115 was terniinated by the identical chamler ol’ fatal memory already mentioned, and through the vista of a huge folding do‘3r, partly thrown back, beheld the form of Glorvina ! She was alone, and bending over her harp ; one arm was gracefully thrown over the instrument, which she was tuning"; with the other she was lightly modulating on its chords. Too timid to proceed, yet unwilling to retreat, I was still hovering near the door, when turning round, she observed me, and I advanced. She blushed to the eyes, and returned my profound bow with a slight inclination of the head, as if I were unworthy a more marked obeisance. Nothing in the theory of sentiment could be more diametrically opposite, than the bashful in- dication of that crimson blush, and the haughty spirit of that graceful bow. What a logical ana- lysis would it have aftbrded to Father John on innate and acquired ideas ! Her blush was the effusion of nature ; her bow the result of inculca- tion — the one spoke the native woman ; the other the ideal princess. I endeavoured to apologize for my intrusion ; and she, in a manner that amazed me, congratu- lated me on my recovery ; then drawing her harp towards her, she seated herself on the great Gothic couch, with a motion of the hand, and a look, that seemed to say, “ there is room for you too.” I bowed my acceptance of the silent wel- come invitation. 116 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Behold me then seated tete-a-tete with this Irish Princess ! — my right arm thrown over hei harp, and her eyes riveted on my left. “ Do you still feel any pain from it said she, so naturally, as though we had actually been dis- cussing the accident it had sustained. Would you believe it! 1 never thought of ma- king her an answer ; but fastened my eyes on her face. For a moment she raised her glance to mine, and we both coloured, as if she read there — I know not what ! “ I beg your pardon,” said T, recovering from the spell of this magic glance — “ you made some observation. Madam “ Not that I recollect,” she replied, with a slight confusion of manner, and running her finger care- lessly over the chords of the harp, till it came in contact with my own, which hung over it. The touch circulated like electricity through every vein. I impulsively arose, and walked to the window from whence I had first heard the tones of that in- strument which had been the innocent accessory to my present unaccountable emotion. As if I were measuring the altitude of my fall, I hung half my body out of the window, thinking. Hea- ven knows, of nothing less than that fall, of no- thing more than its fair cause, until abruptly drawing in my dizzy head, 1 perceived her’s (such a cherub head you never beheld !) leaning against her harp, and her eye directed towards THE WILD IRISH GIRL 117 me. I know not why, yet I felt at once confused and gratified by this observation. “ My fall,” said I, glad of something to say, to relieve my school-boy hashfulness, “ was greater than I suspected.” “ It was dreadful !” she replied shuddering “ What could have led you to so perilous a situ- ation ?” — “ That,” 1 returned, “ which has led to more certain destruction, senses more strongly fortified than mine — the voice of a syren !” I then briefly related to her the rise, decline, and fall of my physical empire ; obliged, however, to qualify the gallantry of my debut by the subse- quent plainness of my narration, for the delicate reserve of her air made me tremble, lest I had gone too far. By heavens I cannot divest myself of a feeling of inferiority in her presence, as though I were actually that poor, wandering, unconnected being I have feigned myself. My compliment was received with a smile and a blush ; and to the eulogium which rounded my detail on the benevolence and hospitality of the family of Inismore, she replied, that “ had the accident been of less material consequence to my- self, the family of Inismore must have rejoiced at the event which enriched its social circle \\ ith so desirable an acquisition.” The matter of this little politesse was nothing ; but the mam er^ the air, wi h which it was deliv- JI8 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. ered ! Wheie can she have acquired this ele gance of manner ? — reared amidst rocks, and woods, aiid mountains ! deprived of all those graceful advantages which society confers — a manner too that is at perpetual variance with her looks, which are so naif - — I had almost said so wildly simple — that while she speaks in the lan- guage of a court, she looks like the artless inhab- itant of a cottage : — a smile, and a blush, rushing to her cheek, and her lip, as the impulse of fancy or feeling directs, even when smiles and blushes are irrevalent to the etiquette of the moment. This elegance of manner, then, must be the pure result of elegance of soul ; and if there is a charm in woman, I have hitherto vainly sought, and prized beyond all I have discovered, it is this refined, celestial, native elegance of soul, which effusing its spell through every thought, word, and motion, of its enviable possessor, resembles the peculiar property of gold, which subtilely in- sinuates itself throuoh the most minute and vari- ous particles, without losing any thing of its own intrinsic nature by the amalgamation. In answer to the flattering observation which had elicited this digression I replied : That far from regretting the consequences, I was emamoured of an accident that had procured me such happiness as I now enjoyed (even with the risk of life itself ;) and that I believed there were few who, like me, would not prefer peril to security, were the former always the pur- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 119 chase of such fa icity as the latter, at least on me, had never bestowed. Whether this reply savoured too much of the world’s commonplace gallantry, or that she thought there was more of the head than the heart in it, 1 know not ; but, by my soul, in spite of a certain haughty motion of the head not un- frcquent with her, I thought she looked won- derfully inclined to laugh in my face, though she primed up her mouth, and fancied she looked like a nun, when her lip pouted with the smiling arch- ness of a Hebe. In short, I never felt more in all its luxury the comfort of looking like a fool ; and to do away the no very agreeable sensation which the con- viction of being laughed at awakens, as a pis- aller^ I began to examine the harp, and expressed the surprise I felt at its singular construction. “ Are you fond of music she asked with naivette. “ Sufficiently so,” said I, “to risk my life for it.” She smiled, and cast a look at the window, as much as to say, “ I understand you.” As I now was engaged in examining her harp, I observed that it resembled less any instrument of that kind I had seen, than the drawing of the Davidic lyre in Montfaucon. “ Then,” said she, with animation, “ this is another collateral proof of the antiquity of its origin, which I never before heard adduced, and 120 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. which sanctions that universally received tradi lion among us, by which we learn, that we are indebted to the first Milesian colony that settled here for this charming instrument, although some modern historians suppose that we obtained it from Scandinavia.”* “ Ail'd is this, Madam,” said I, ‘‘ the original ancient Irish harp ?” “ Not exactly, for I have strung it with gut in- stead of wire, merely for the gratification of my own ear ; but it is, however, precisely the same form as that preserved in the Irish university, which belonged to one of the most celebrated of our heroes, Brian Boru ; for the warrior and the bard often united in the character of our kings, and they sung the triumphs of those departed chiefs whose feats they emulated.” “ You see,” she added with a smile, while my eager glance pursued the kindling animation of her countenance as she spoke, — ‘‘you see, that in all which concerns my national music^ I speak with national enthusiasm ; and much indeed do * It is reserved for the national Lyre of Erin only, to claim a title independent of a Gothic origin. For “ Clar- seach,” is the only Irish epithet for the harp, a name more in unison with the cithera of the Greeks, and even the ckinor of the Hebrew, than the Anglo-Saxon harp. I cannot but think the clarseach, or Irish harp, one of the most ancient instrumentB we have among us, and had per- haps its origin in remote periods of antiquity.”- -Dr. Bed- ford’s Essay on the construction, &o. of the Irish Harp. THE WILD IRISH GIRL, 121 we stand indebted to the most charming of all the sciences for the eminence it has obtained us ; for in music only^ do you English allow us poor Irish any superiority; and therefore your King, who made the har]^ the armorial bearing of Ire- land, perpetuated our former musical celebrity beyond the power of time or prejudice to destroy it.'- Not for the world would I have annihilated the triumph which this fancied superiority seemed to give to this patriotic little being, by telling her, that we thought as little of the music of her country, as of every thing else that related to it; and that all we knew of the style of its melodies, reached us through the false medium of comic airs, sung by some popular actor, who in coinci- dence with his author, caricatures those national traits he attempts to delineate. I therefore simply told her, that though I doubt- ed not the former musical celebrity of her coun- try, yet that I perceived the Bardic order in Wales seemed to have survived the tuneful race of Erin ; for that though every little Cambrian village had its harper, I had not yet met with one of the profession in Ireland. She waved her head with a melancholy air, and replied — the rapid decline of the Sons of Song, once the pride of our country, is indeed very evident ; and the tones of that tender and expressive instrument which gave birth to tnose^ 11 122 TRE WILD IRISH GIRL. which now survive them in hj;ppier countries, no longer vibrates in our own ; for of course you are not igi>oraDt that the importation of Irish bards and Irish instruments, into Wales,* by Grijfith ap Conan, formed an epocha in Welch music, and awakened there a genius of style in composi- tion, which still breathes a kindred spirit to that from whence it derived its being, and that even the invention of Scottish music is given to Ire- land.”! “ Indeed,” said I, “ I must plead ignorance to this singular fact, and almost to every other con- nected with this now to me most interesting country.” “ Then suffer me,” said she, with a most in- sinuating smile, “ to indulge another little nation- al triumph over you, by informing you, that we learn from musical record, that the first piece of music ever seen in score, in Great Britain, is an air sung time immemmorial in this country on the opening of summer — an air, which though anima- ted in its measure, yet still, like all the Irish melo- dies, breathes the very soul of melancholy.”^ ♦ Cardoc (of Lhancarvan) without any of *hat illiberal partiality so common with national writers, assures us that tlie Irish devised all the instruments, tunes, and measures, in use among the Welsh. Cambrensis is even more copi- waving ringlets.^^ Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fair Gracy, recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, in his beautifu'l epithalamium on her marriage ? — “ She is like the rising of the golden morn- ing, when the night departeth, and when the win- ter is over and gone — she resembleth the cypress in the garden, the horse in the chariot of Thes- saly.” While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure which breathes over the ter- mination of every verse, glows with the festive spirit of the Tean bard. When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between the early Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with a smile, “ In drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter my national vanity ; but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesian poetry to a higher source than the spring of Grecian genius ; for many figures in Irish song are of Oriental origin ; and the bards who ennobled the train of our Mile- sian founders, and who awakened the soul of song here, seem, in common with the Greek poets, ‘ to have kindled their poetic fires at those unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb 152 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. of oriental genius.’ Let me, however, assure you, that uo adequate version of an Irish poem can be given ; for the peculiar construction of the Irish language, the felicity of its epithets, and force of its expressions, bid defiance to all translation.” “ But while your days and nights are thus de- voted to Milesian literature,” you will say, “ what becomes of Blackstone and Coke ?” Faith, e’en what may for me — the mind, the mind, like the heart, is not to be forced in its pur- suits ; and, I believe, in an intellectual, as in a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason may condemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana ; and my present studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate the appetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to a profession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature re- volts ; and if my father persists in his determina- tion, why, as a dernier resort^ I must turn historio- grapher to the prince of Inismore. ******** Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “ vital in every part ** All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear. Ail intellect, all senso.^’ THE WILD IRISH GIRL 153 LETTER X. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. Thi more T know of this singular girl, the more the happy discordia consors of her charac- ter awakens my curiosity and surprise. I never beheld such a union of intelligence and simplici- ty, infantine playfulness and profound reflecticii as her character exhibits. Sometimes when 1. think I am trifling with a child, I find I am con- versing with a philosopher ; and sometimes in the midst of the most serious and interesting con- versation, some impulse of the moment seizes on her imagination, and a vein of frolic humour and playful sarcasm is indulged at the expense of my most sagacious arguments or philosophic gravity. Her reserve (unknown to herself) is gradually giving way to the most bewitching familiarity. When the priest is engaged, I am suflfered to tread with her the “ pathless grass,” climb the mountain’s steep, or ramble along the sea-beat coast, sometimes followed by her nurse, and sometimes by a favourite little dog only. Of nothing which concerns her country is she ignorant ; and when a more interesting, a more soul-felt conversation, cannot be obtained, 1 love to draw her into a little national chit-chat. Yesterday, as we were walking along the base of that mountain from which I first beheld hei 154 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. dear residence, (and sure I may say with Petrarch, “ Benedetto sia il giorno e’i mese e’lanno,”) sev- eral groups of peasants (mostly females,) passed us, with their usual courteous salutations, and ap- parently dressed in their holiday garbs. “ Poor souls !” said Glorvina — this is a day ot jubilee to them, for a great annual fair is held in the neighbourhood.” ‘‘ But from whence,” said I “do they draw the brightness of those tints which adorn their coarse garments ; those gowns and ribbons, that rival the gay colouring of that heath hedge ; those bright blue and scarlet mantles ? Are they, too, vestiges of ancient modes and ancient' taste ?” “ Certainly they are,” she replied, “ and the colours which the Irish were celebrated for wear- ing and dyeing a thousand years back, are now most prevalent. In short, the ancient Irish, like the Israelites, were so attached to this many coloured costume, that it became the mark by which the different classes of the people were distinguished. Kings were limited to seven colours in their royal robes ; and six were allowed the bards. What an idea does this give of the rev- erence paid to superior talent in other times by Dur forefathers ! But that bright yellow you now behold so universally worn, has been in all ages their favourite hue. Spenser thinks this custom came from th 3 East ; and Lord Bacon accounts for the propensity of the Irish'to it, by supposing it contributes to longevity.” THE WILE IRAati “ But where,” said I, “do these poor people procure so expensive an article as saffron, to gratify their prevailing taste ?” “ I have heard Father John say,” she returned, “ that saffron, as an article of importation, could never have been at any time cheap enough for general use. And I believe formerly, as 7iow, they communicated this bright yellow tinge with indigenous plants, with which this country abounds. “ See,” she added, springing lightly forward, and culling a plant which grew from the moun- tain’s side — “ see this little blossom, which they call here, ‘ yellow lady’s bed straw,’ and which you, as a botanist, will better recognize as the Galieens horum; it communicates a beautiful yel- low ; as does the Lichen juniperinus, or ‘ cypress moss,’ which you brought me yesterday ; and I think the resida Leuteola, or ‘ yellow weed,’ sur- passes them all.* “ In short, the botanical treasures of our coun- try, though I dare say little known, are inex- haustible. “ Nay,” she continued, observing, I believe, the admiration that sparkled in my eyes, “ give me * Purple, blue, and green dyes, were introduced by Tighwmas the Great, in the year of the world 2814. The Irish also possessed the art of dyeing a fine scarlet; so early as the day of St. Bennia, a disciple of St. Patrick, scarlet clot! es and robes high embroidered, are mentioned in the ^Dok of Glaiidelogh. 156 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. no credit, 1 beseech you, for this local informa tion, for there is not a peasant girl in the neighs bourhood, but will tell you more on the subject.” While she was thus dispensing knowledge with the most unaffected simplicity of look and man- ner, a group of boys advanced towards us, with a car laden with stones, and fastened to the back of an unfortunate dog, which they were endeav- ouring to train to this new species of canine avocation, by such unmerciful treatment as must have procured the wretched animal a speedy re- lease from all his sufferings. Glorvina no sooner perceived this, than she flew to the dog, and while the boys looked all amaze, effected his liberation, and by her caress- es, endeavoured to soothe him into forgetfulness of his late sufferings ; then, turning to the ring- leader, she said : “ Dermot, I have so often heard you praised for your humanity to animals, that I can scarcely believe it possible that you have been accessory to the sufferings of this useful and affectionate animal ; he is just as serviceable to society in his way, as you are in yours, and you are just as well able to drag a loaded cart as he is to draw that little car. Come now, I am not so heavy as the load you have destined him to bear, and you are much stronger than your dog, and now you shall draw me home to the castle^ and then give me your opinion on the subject.” In one moment his companions, laughing vo- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 157 dferously at the idea, had the stones fiung out of the little vehicle, and fastened its harness on the broad shoulders ol the half pouting, half smiling Dermot ; and the next moment this little agile sylph was seated in the car. Away went Dermot, dragged on by the rest of the boys, while Glorvina, delighted as a child with her new mode of conveyance, laughed with all her heart, and kissed her hand to me as she tiew along; while I, trembling for her safety, en- deavoured to keep pace with her triumphal chari- ot, till her wearied, breathless Phaeton, unable to run any further with his lovely, laughing burthen, begged a respite. “ How !” said she, “ weary of this amusement, and yet you have not at every step been cruelly lashed like your poor dog.” The panting Dermot hung his head, and said in Irish, “ the like should not happen again.” “ It is enough,” said Glorvina, in the same lan- guage — we are all liable to commit a fault, but let us never forget it is in our power to correct it. And now go to the castle where you shall have a good dinner, in return for the good and pleasant exercise you have procured me.” The boys were as happy as kings. Dermot was unyoked, and the poor dog, wagging his tail in token of his felicity, accompanied the gratified group to the castle. When Glorvina had translated to me the sub-i \ 14 158 THE WIL1> IRISH GIRL. jecl of her short dialogue with Dermot, she ad^ ded, laughing, “ Oh how I should like to be dragged about this way for two or three hours every day : never do I enter into any little folly of this kind, that I do not sigh for those sweet hours of my childhood when I could play the fool with impunity.” “ Play the fool !” said I — “ and do you call this playing the fool— this dispensation of humanity, this culture of benevolence in the youthful mind, these lessons of truth and goodness, so sweetly, so simply given “ Nay,” she returned, “ you always seem in* dined to flatter me into approbation of myself ] but the truth is, I was glad to seize on the oppor- tunity of lecturing that urchin Dermot, who, though I praised his humanity, is the very beadle to all the unfortunate animals in the neighbour- hood. But I have often had occasion to remark, that, by giving a virtue to these neglected children which they do not possess, I have awakened their emulation to attain it.” “ To say that you are an angel,” said I, “ is to say a very commonplace thing, which every man says to the woman he either does, or affects to admire ; and yet” ‘‘Nay,” — interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm, and looking up full in my face with that .arch glance I have so often caught revelling in her eloquent eye — “ I am not emulous of a place in the angelic choir ; canonization is more conso- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 159 nant to my papistical ambition ; then let me be your saint — your tutelar saint, and” — ‘‘And let me,” interrupted I, impassionately, “ let me, like the members of the Greek church, adore my saint, not by prostration, but by a kiss — and, for the first time in my life, I pressed my lips to the beautiful hand which still rested on my arm, and from which I first drew a glove that has not since left my bosom, nor been re-demand- ed by its charming owner. This little freedom (which, to another, would have appeared nothing) was received with a de- gi'ee of blushing confusion, that assured me it was the first of the kind ever olfered , even the fair hand blushed its sense of my boldness, and enhanced the pleasure of the theft by the difficul- ty it promised of again obtaining a similar favour. By heaven there is infection in the sensitive delicacy of this creature, which even my harden- ed confidence cannot resist. No prieux Chevalier, on being permitted to kiss the tip of his liege lady’s finger, after a seven years’ seige, could feel more pleasantly embar- rassed than I did, as we walked on in silence, until we were happily relieved by the presence of the old garrulous nurse, who came out in search of her young lady — for, like the princesses in the Greek tragedies, my Princess seldom ap- pears without the attendance of this faithful repre- sentative of fond maternity. Foi ffie rest of the walk she talked mostly to 160 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. the nurse in Irish, and at the castle gate we part- ed — she to attend a patient, and I to retire to my own apartment, to ruminate on my morning’s ram ble with this fascinating lusus natures. Adieu, H. M. LETTER XI. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. The drawing which I made of the castle is finished — the Prince is charmed with it, and Glorvina insisted on copying it. This was as I expected — as I wished ; and I took care to finish it so minutely, that her patience (of which she has no great store) should soon be exhausted in the imitation, and I should have something more of her attention than she generally affords me at my drawing-desk. Yesterday, in the absence of the priest, I read to her as she drew. After a thousand little symp- toms of impatience and weariness — “ here,” said she, yawning — “ here is a straight line I can make nothing of — do you know, Mr. Mortimer, I never could draw a perpendicular line in my life. See now my pencil will go into a curve or an angle ; so you must guide my hand, or J shall draw it all zig-zag.” THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 161 I “ cruide her hand to draw a straight line !” “Nay then,” said I, with the ostentatious gravity of a pedagogue master, “ I may as well do the drawing myself.” “Well then,’^said she, playfully, “ do it your- self.” Away she flew to her harp ; while I, half la- menting, half triumphing, in my forbearance, took her pencil and her seat. I perceived, however, that she had not even drawn a single line of the picture, and yet her paper was not a mere carte- hlanche — for close to the margin was written in a fairy hand, ‘ Henry Mortimer, April 2d, 10 o’clock,’ — the very day and hour of my entrance into the castle ; and in several places, the half defaced features of a face evidently a copy of my own, were still visible. If any thing could have rendered this little circumstance more deliciously gratifying to my heart, it was, that I had been just reading to her the anecdote of “ the Maid of Corinth?'* I raised my eyes from the paper to her with a look that must have spoken my feelings ; but she, unconscious of my observatk)n began a favourite air of her favourite Carolan’s, and supposed me to be busy at the perpendicular line. Wrapt in her charming avocation, she seemed borne away by the magic of her own numbers, and thus inspired and inspiring as she appeared, faithful, as the picture formed was interesting, I took her likeness. Conceive for a moment a L 14* 162 THE WILD II ISH GIRL. loriD full of character, a.ncl full of gi:ace, bend mg ov'er an instrumerit singularly picturesque — a pro- fusion of auburn hair fastened up to the top of the finest formed head I ever beheld, with a golden bodkin — an armlet of curious workman- ship glittering above a finely turned elbow, and the loose sleeves of a flowing robe drawm up un- usually high, to prevent this drapery from sweep- ing the chords of the instrument. The expres- sion of the divinely touching countenance breath- ed all the fervour of genius under the influence of inspiration, and the contours of the face, from the peculiar uplifted position of the head, were precisely such, as lends to painting the happiest line of feature, and shade of colouring. Before I had near finished the lovely picture, her song ceased ; and turning towards me, who sat oppo- site her, she blushed to observe how intensely my eyes were fixed on her. “ I am admiring,” said T, carelessly, “ the sin- gular elegance of your costurne : it is indeed to me a never failing source of wonder and admiration.” “ I am not sorry,” she replied, “ to avail myself of my father’s prejudices in favour of our ancient national costume, which, with the exception of the drapery being made of modern materials (on the antique model.,) is absolutely drawn from the wardrobes of my great grand dames. This armlet, I have heard my father say, is near four hundred years old, and many of the ornaments and jewels THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 163 you have seen me wear, are of»a date no less ancient.” “But how,” said I, while she continued to tune her harp, and I to ply the pencil, “ how comes it that in so remote a period, we find the riches of Peru and Golconda contributing their splen- dour to the magnificence of Irish dress ?” “ O !” she replied, smiling, “ we too had our Peru and Golconda in the bosom of our country — for it was once thought rich not only in gold and silver mines, but abounded in pearls,* amethysts, and other precious stones : even a few years back. Father John saw some fine pearls taken out of the river Ban ;t and Mr. O’Halloran, the cele- brated Irish historian', declares that within his memory, amethysts of immense value were found in Ireland.”! * “ It should seem/’ says Mr. Walker, in his ingenious and elegant essay on Ancient Irish Dress — that Ireland teemed with gold and silver, for as well as in the laws re- cited, we find an act ordained 34th, Henry VIII, that mer- chant strangers should pay 40 pence custom for every pound of silver they carried out of Ireland ; and Lord Stratford, in one of his letters from Dublin to his royal mas- ter, says, ‘ with this I land you an ingot of silver of 300 oz.’ t Pearls abounded, and still are found in this country and were of such repute in the 11th century, that a pres ent of them was sent to the famous Bishop Anselm, by a Bishop of Limerick. tj: The author is indebted to Mr. Knox, barrister at law, Dublin, for the sight of some beautiful amethysts, which belonged to his female ancestors, and which many of th« lapidaries of London, after a diligent search, found it im possible to match. 164 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. “ I remjmbe# reading in the life of St. Bridget, that the King of Leinster presented to her father a sword set with precious stones, which the pious saint, more charitable than honest, devoutly stole, and sold for the benefit of the poor; but it should seem that the sources of our national treasures are now shut up like the gold mines of La Valais, for the public weal, I suppose ; for we now hear not of amethysts found, pearls discovered, or gold mines worked; and it is to the caskets of my fe- male ancestors that I stand indebted that my dress or hair is not fastened or adorned like those of my humbler countrywomen, with a wooden bodkin.” “ That, indeed,” said I, “ is a species of orna- ment 1 have observed very prevalent with your fair paysannes ; and of whatever materials it is made, • when employed in such a happy service as I now behold it, has an air of simple, useful elegance, which in my opinion constitutes the great art of female dress.” “ It is at least,” replied she, “ the most ancient ornament we know here — for we are told that the celebrated palace of E mania,* erected previous to the Christian era, was sketched by the famous Irish Empress Macha, with the bodkin. “ I remember a passage from a curious and ancient romance in the Irish language, that fasten- ed wonderfully upon my imagination when I read it to my father in my childhood, and which gives ♦ The resident palace of the Kings of Ulster, of which Colgan speaks as “ rendolens splendorum.” THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 165 lo the bodkin a very early origin : — it ran thus^ and is called the ‘ Interview between Fionn M^Cnm- hal and Cannan' Cannan, when he said this, was seated at table; on his rialit hand was seated his wile, and upon his left his beautiful daughter, so. exceeding- ly fair, that the snow driven by the winter storms surpassed not her in fairness, and her cheeks wore tlie blood of a young calf ; her hair hung in curling ringlets, and her teeth were like pearl — a spacious veil hung from her lovely head down her delicate form, and the veil was fastened by a golden bodkin.’ “ The bodkin, you know, is also an ancient Greek ornament, and mentioned by Vulcan, as among the trinkets he was obliged to forge.”* By the time she had finished this curous quo- tation in favour of the antiquity of her dress, her harp was tuned, and she began another exquisite old Irish air called the “ Dream of the Yountj Man,” which she accompanied rather by a plain- tive murmur^ than with her voice’s full melodious powders. It is thus this creature winds round the heart, while she enlightens the mind, and en- trances the senses. 1 had finished the sketch in the meantime, and just beneath the figure, and above her flattering inscription of my name, I wrote with my pencil, “ ’Twas thus Apelles bask’d in beauty’s blaze, Nor felt ;he danger of the steadfast gazef^ while she, a few minutes after, with that restless ♦ See Iliad, 13, 17. /66 THE WILD IRISH GIRL ness that seemed to govern all her actions to-day arose, put her harp aside and approached me with “Well, Mr. Mortimer, you are very indulgent to my insullerable indolence — let me see what you have ' done for me ; and looking over my shoifder, she beheld not the ruins of her castle, but a striking likeness of her blooming self ; and sending her head close to the paper, read the lines, and that name honoured by the inscription of her own fair hand. For the world I would not have looked her full in the face ; but from beneath my downcast eye I stole a transient glance : the colour did not rush to her cheek, (as it usually does under the influence of any powerful emotion) but rather deserted its beautiful standard, as she stood with her eyes riveted on .the picture, as though she dreaded by their removal she should encounter those of the artist. After about three minutes endurance of this mu- tual confusion, (could you believe me such a block- head ?) the priest, to our great relief, entered the room. Glorvina ran and shook hands with * him, as though she had not seen him in an age, and flew out of the room ; while 1 effacing the quotation but not the honoured inscription, asked Father John’s opinion of my effort at portrait painting. He acknowledged it was a most striking resem- blance, and added, “ Now you will indeed give a coup de grace to THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 167 th« partiality of the Prince in your favour, and you will rank so much the higher in his estima- tion in proportion as his daughter is dearer to him than his ruinsr Thus encouraged, I devoted the rest of the day to copying out this sketch : and I have finished the picture in that light tinting, so effective in ^his kind of charactG#istic drawings. That beautifully pen- sive expression which touches the countenance of Glorvina, when breathing her native strains, I have most happily caught ; and her costume, atti- tude, and harp, form as happy a combination of traits, as a single portrait perhaps ever presented. When it was shown to the Prince, he gazed on it in silence, till tears obscured his glance; then laying it down he embraced me, but said nothing. Had he detailed the merits of the picture in all the technical farago of cognoscenti phrase, his comments would not have been half so eloquent as this simple action, and the silence which ac- companied it Adieu, H. M. LETTER XI TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. Here is a honne houche for your antiquarian taste, and Ossianic palate ! Almost every even- ing after ves] er, wo* all assemble in a spacious 168 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. hall,* which had been shut up for near a century and first opened by the present prince when he was driven for shelter to his paternal ruins. This Vengolf^ this Valk-halla^ where the very spirit of Woden seems to preside, runs the full length of the castle as it now stands (for the cen- tre of the building only, has escaped the delapi- dations of time,) and its beautifully arched roof is enriched with numerous devices which mark the spirit of that day in which it was erect- ed. This very curious roof is supported by two rows of pillars of that elegant spiral lightness which characterises the Gothic order in a certain stage of its progress. The floor is a finely tes- sellated pavement ; and the ample but ungrated hearths which terminate it at either extremity, blaze every evening with the cheering contribu- tions of a neighbouring bog. The windows which are high, narrow, and arched, command on one side a noble view of the ocean, on the other they are closed up. When I enquired of Father John the cause of this singular exclusion of a very beautiful land * Amidst the ruins of Buan Ratha, near Limerick, is a princely hall and spacious chambers ; the fine stucco in many of which is yet visible, though uiiiiihabitable for near a century.” — O’Halloraii^s Introduction to the Study of the History and Antiquities of Ireland, p 8. In every town, every village, every considerable tract of land, the spacious ruins of princely residence or re ligious edifices, the palace, the castle, or tlie abbey, are to be seen. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. J69 ne\f, he replied, ‘‘that from those windows were to be seen the g-reater part of that rich tract of land which once formed the territory of the Princes of Inismore and since,” said he, “ the possessions of the present Prince are limited to a few hereditary acres and a few rented farms, he cannot bear to look on the domains of his an- cestors nor ever goes beyond the confines of this little peninsula.” This very curious apartment is still called the banquetting hall — where ** Stately the feast, and high the cheer Girt witli iiiany'a valiant peer,’’ was once celebrated in all the boundless extrava- gance and convivial spirit of ancient Irish hospi- tality. But it now .serves as an armory, a mu- seum, a cabinet of national antiquities and na- tional curiosities. In short, it is the receptacle ^f all those precious relics, which the Prince has been able to rescue from the wreck of his fami- ly splendour. Here, when he is seated by a blazing hearth in an immense arm-chair, made, as he assured me, of the famous wood of Shilelah, his daughter by his side, his harper behind him, and his domestic altar not destitute of that national libation which ♦ I understand that it is only a few years back, since the present respectable representatives of the M'Dermot family opened those windows which the Prince of Coolavin closed up, upon a principle similar to that by which the Prince of Inismore was actuated. 15 170 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. is no disparagement to princely taste, since it has received the sanction of imperial approbation '* his gratified eye wandering over the scattered insignia of the former prowess of his family ; his gratified heart expanding to the reception of life’s sweetest ties — domestic joys and social endear- ments ; — he forgets the derangement of his cir- cumstances — he forgets that he is the ruined possessor of a visionary title ; he feels only that he is a man — and an Irishman ! While the tran- sient happiness that lights up the vehement feel- ings of his benevolent breast, effuses its warmth over all who come within its sphere. Nothing can be more delightful than the even- ings passed in this vengolf - — this hall of Woden ; where my sweet Glorvina hovers round us, like one of the beautiful valkyries of the Gothic para- dise, who bestow on the spirit of the departed warrior that heaven he eagerly rushes on death to obtain. Sometimes she accompanies the old bard on her harp, or with her voice ; and frequent- ly as she sits at her wheel (for she is often en- gaged in this simple and primitive avocation,) endeavours to lure her father to speak on those subjects most interesting to him or to me ; or, joining the general conversation, by the playful- ness of her humour, or the original whimsicality of her sallies, materially contributes to the “ molle atque faceturn!'’ of the moment. ♦Peter the Great, of Russia was fond of whiskey, find used to say, ** Of all wine, Irish wine is the besL^' THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 171 -On the evening of the day of the picture-scene, the absence of Glorvina (for she was attending a silk servant) threw a gloom over our little circle. The Prince, for the first time, dismissed the harper, and taking me by the arm, walked up and down the hall in silence, while the priest yawned over a book. I have already told you that this curious hall is the emporium of the antiquities of Inismore, which are arranged along its walls, and suspend- ed from its pillars. — As much to draw the Prince from the gloomy reverie into which he seemed plunged, as to satisfy my own curiosity and yours, 1 requested his highness to explain some characters on a collar which hung from a pillar, and appeared to be plated with gold. Having explained the motto, he told' me that this collar had belonged to an order of kniohthood hereditary in his family — of an institution more ancient than any in England, by some centuries. “ How,” said I, “ was chivalry so early known in Ireland ? and rather, did it ever exist here ?” “ Did it !” said the Prince, impatiently, “ I be- lieve, young gentleman, the origin of knighthood may be traced in Ireland upon surer ground than -in any other country whatever.* Long before ♦ Mr. O^Halloran, with a great deal of spirit and inge- nuity, endeavours to prove that the Gennaii Knighthood (the earliest we read of in chivalry) was of Irisli origin; with what success we leave it to the impartial reader to udge. It is, however, certain, that the German ritter 172 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. the birth of Christ, we had an hereditary ordet of.knighthGod in Ulster, called the Knights of the Red Branch. They possessed, near the" royal palace of Ulster, a seat, called the Academy of the Red Branch ; and an adjoining hospital, ex- pressively termed the House of the Sorrowful Soldier. “ There was also an order of chivalry here- ditary in the ro 3 ^al families of Munster, named the Sons of Deagha., from a celebrated hero of that name, probably their founder. The Con- naught knights were called the Guardians of Jorus, and those of Leinster, the Clan of Boisgna. So famous, indeed, were the knights of Ireland, for the elegance, strength, and beauty of their forms, that they were distinguished, by way of pre-eminence, by the name of the Heroes of the Western Isle. “ Our annals teem with instances of this ro- mantic bravery and scrupulous honour. My memory, though much impaired, is still faithful to some anecdotes of both. During a war between the Connaught arid Munster monarchs, in 192, both parties met in the plains of Lena, in this province ; and it was proposed to Goll M‘Morni, or knight, bears a very close analogy to the Irish riddaire. In 1394, Richard II, in his tour through Ireland, offered to knight the four provinidal kings who came to receive him in Dublin. But tliey excused themselves, as having re- ceived that honour from their parents at seven years old— that being the age in which the kings of Ireland knightod Iheir eldest sons. — See Froissart. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 173 chief ot the Connaught Knights, to attack the Munstei army at midnight, which would have secured him victory. He nobly and indignantly replied : ‘ On the day the arms of a knight were put into my hands, I swore never to attack my enemy at night, by surprise, or under any kind of disadvantage ; nor shall that vow now be bro- ken.’ « “ Besides those orders of knighthood which I ' have already named, there are several others* still hereditary in noble families, and the honora- ble titles of which are still preserved : such as the White Knights of Kerry, and the Knights of Glynn : that hereditary in my family was the Knights of the Valley ; and this collar,! an orna- ment never dispensed with, was found about fifty years back in a neighbouring bog, and worn by my father till his death. “ This gorget,” he continued, taking down one which hung on the wall, and apparently gratified by the obvious pleasure evinced in the counte- nance of his auditor, — “ This gorget was found some years after in the same bog.” J ♦ The respectable families of the Fitzgeralds still bear the title of their ancestors, and are never named but as the Kniglits of Kerry and of Glynn. t One of these collars was in the possession of Mr. O’Hal- loran. t In the Bog of Cullen, in the county of Tipperary, some golden gorgets were discovered, as were also some cors lets of pure gold in the lands of Clonties, county of Kerry — See Smith’s History of Ireland. 15 * 174 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. “ And this helmet ?” said I — “It' is called in Irish,” he replied, salet^ and belonged, with this coat of mail, to my an- cestor who was murdered in this castle.” 1 coloured at this observation, as though I had been myself the murderer. “ As you refer, Sir,” said the priest, who had dung by his book and joined us, “ to the ancient Irish for the origin of knighthood,* you will perhaps send us to the Irish Mala, for the deri- vation of the word mail.” “ Undoubtedly,” said the national Prince, “ I should ; but pray, Mr. Mortimer, observe this shield. It is of great antiquity. You perceive it is made of wicker, as were the Irish shields in general ; although I have also heard they were formed of silver, and one was found near Slimore, in the county of Cork, plated with gold, which sold for seventy guineas.” “ But here,” said I, “ is a sword of curious -workmanship, the hilt of which seems of gold.” ♦ At a time when the footstep of an English invader had not been impressed upon the Irish coast, the celebrity of the Irish knights was sung by the British minstrels. Thus \nthe old romantic tale of Sir Cauline: In Ireland, /c)T over the sea, There dwelleth a bonnye kinge, And with him a yoinig and comiye knight, Men call him Syr Cauline. Sir Cauline’s antagonist, theEldridge knight, is described as being “ a foul payniin,^’ which places the events, the romantic tale delijf sates, in the earliest era of Christianity in Ireland. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 175 “ It is in fact sj,” said the priest — “ Golden hiked swords have been in sreat abundance throush Ireland; and it is a circumstance singularly curi- ous, that a sword found in the bog of Cullen, should be of the exact construction and form of those found upon the plains of Canae. You may suppose that the advocates of our Milesian origin gladly seize on this circumstance, as affording new arms against the sceptics to the antiquity of our nation.” “ Here too is a very curious haubergeon, once perhaps impregnable ! And this curious battle- axe,” said I — “Was originally called,” returned the Prince, “ Tuath Catha^ or axe of war, and was put into the hands of our Galloglasses, or second rank of military.” “ But how much more elegant,” I continued, “ the form of this beautiful spear ; it is of course of a more modern date.” “ On the contrary,” said the Prince, “ this is the exact form of the cranuil or lance, with which Oscar is described to have struck Art to the earth.” “ Oscar !” I repeated, almost starting — but ad- ded — “ O, true, Mr. Macpherson tells us the Irish have some wild improbable tales of Fingafs he- roes among them, on which they found some claim to their being natives of this country.” “ Some claim !” repeated the Prince, and by one of those motions which speak more than volumes, he let go my arm, and took his usual station I)y the fireside, repeating, some claim ! i76 THE WILD IRISH GIRL Whi e I was thiriiving how 1 should repair ray involuntary fault, the good natured priest said, with a smile, “ You know, my dear Sir, that by one half of his English readers, Ossian is supposed to be a Scottish bard of ancient days ; by the other he is esteemed the legitimate offspring of Macpher- son’s own muse. But here,” he added, turning to me, “ we are certain of his Irish origin, from the testimony of tradition, from proofs of historic fact, and above all, from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, even as they are given us by Mr. Macpherson. “ We, who are from our infancy taught to re- cite them, who bear the appellations of their he- roes to this day, and who reside amidst those very scenes of which the poems, even according to their ingenious, but not always ingenuous trans- lator, are descriptive — we know, believe, and as- sert them to be translated from the fragments of the Irish bards, or seanachies, whose surviving works were almost equally diffused through the Highlands as through this country. Mr. Mac- pherson combined them in such forms as his judgment (too classically correct in this instance) most approved ; retaining the old names and events, and altering the dates in his originals as well as their matter and form, in order to give them a higher antiquity than they really possess ; sup- pressing many proofs which they contain of their Irish origin, and studiously avoiding all mention THE AH’ILD IRISH GIRL. 17T of St Patrick, whose name frequently occurs in the original poems ; only occasionally alluding to him under the character of a Culdee ; conscious ihat any mention of the Saint would introduce a suspicion that these poems were not the true compositions of Ossian, but those of Fileas who, in an after day, committed to verse the traditional details of one equally renowned iii song and arms.”* Here, you will allow, was a blow furiously aimed at all my opinions respecting these poems, so long the objects of my enthusiastic admiration: you may well suppose I was for a moment quite stunned. However, when I had a little recover- ed, I went over the arguments used by Macpher- son, Blair, &c., &c., &c., to prove that Ossian was a Highland bard, whose works 'were handed down to us by oral tradition, through a lapse of fifteen hundred years. “ And yet,” said the priest, having patiently he?trd me out — Mr. Macpherson confesses that the ancient language and traditional history of the Scottish nation became confined to the natives of the Highlands, who falling, from several con- curring circumstances, into the last degree of ignorance and barbarism, left the Scots so desti- * Samiiir, danghter of Fingal, having married Cormae Gas, tlieir son (says Keating) Modk Corb, retained as his friend and confidant his uncle Ossian, contrary to the or- ders of Cairbre Liffeachair, the then monarch, against whom the Irish militia had taken up arms. Ossian wai consequently among the number of rebellious chiefs. M 278 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. lute of liistoric facts, that thev were reduced to ihe ne 3essity of sending Fordvm to Ireland for their h* story, from whence he took the entire first part of his book. For Ireland, owing to its be- ing colonized from Phoenicia, and consequent early introduction of letters there, was at that pe- riod esteemed the most enlightened' country in Europe : and indeed Mr. Macpherson himself avers, that the Irish, for ages antecedent to the Conquest, possessed a competent share of that kind of learning which prevailed in Europe ; and from their superiority over the Scots, found no difficulty in imposing on the ignorant Highland seanachies, and establishing that historic system which afterwards, for want of any other, was universally received. “ Now, my dear friend, if historic fact and tra- dition did not attest the poems of Ossian to be Irish, probability would establish it. For if the Scotch were obliged to Ireland, according to Mr. Macphyson’s own account, not only for their history but their tradition, so remote a one as Ossian must have come from the Irish ; for Scot- land, as Dr. Johnson asserts, when he called on Mr. Macpherson to show his originals, had not an Erse manuscript two hundred years old. Ar.d Sir George McKenzie, though himself a Scotch- man, declares, “ that he had in his possession, an Irish manuscript written by Cairbre Lifieachair.'*' ♦Mr O’Hallorari, in his Introduction to the study of Irish History, . quotes some lines from a poem still ex- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 179 monarch of Ireknd, who flourished before St Patrick’s mission. “ But,” said J, “ even granting these beautiful poems to be the eflusions of Irish genius, it is strange that the feats of your own heroes could not supply your bards with subjects for their epic verse.” “ Strange indeed it would have been,” said the priest, “and therefore they have chosen the most renowned chiefs in their annals of national hero- ism, as their Achilleses, their Hectors, and Aga- memnons.” “ How !” exclaimed I, “ Is not Fingal a Cale- donian chief ? Is he not expressly called King of Morven?” “ Allowing he were in the originals, which he is not,” returned the priest, “ give me leave to ask you where Morven lies ?” “ Why, I suppose of course in Scotland,” said I, a little unprepared for the question. “ Mr. Macpherson supposes so too,” replied he, smiling, “ though certainly he is at no little pains to discover where in Scotland. The fact is, however, that the epithet of Riagh Mor Fhionne^ which Mr. Macpherson translates King of Mor- ven, is literally King or Chief of the Fhians, or Fians, a body of men of whom Mr. Macpherson makes no mention, and which, indeed, either in the annals of Scottish history or Scottish poetry, tiiKt, composed by Torna Ligis, chief po«l to Nial thu Great, wlio flourished in the fourth century. 180 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. would be vainly sought. Take then their history as extracted from the book of Howth into the Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, in 1786 .* “ In Ireland there were soldiers called Fynjie Erin, appointed to keep the sea-coast, fearing foreign invasion, or foreign princes to enter the realm ; the names of these soldiers were Fin IVFCuil, Coloilon, Keilt, Oscar, M‘Ossyn, Dermot, O’Doyne, Collemagh, Morna, and divers others. These soldiers waxed bold, as shall appear here- after, and so strong, that they did contrary to the orders and institutions of the Kings of Ireland, their chiefs and governors, and became very strong and stout, and at length would do thing ♦ Fionn, the son of Cuiiihal, [from whom, says Keating, the established militia of the kingdom were called Fion Erinne,] was first married to Graine, daguhter to Cormac, king of Ireland, and afterwards to her sister, and descend- ed in a sixth degree from Niiagadh Neacht, king of Lein- ster. The history, laws, requisites, &c., of the P'ion-na Erin, are to be found in Keating’s History of Ireland, p. 269. Cormac, at the head of the Fion, and attended by Fingal, sailed to that part of Scotland opposite Ireland, where he planted a colony as an establishment for Carbry Riada, his cousin-german. This colony was often protected from the power of the Romans by the Fion, under the command of P’ingal, occasionally stationed in the circumjacent country “ Hence,’’ says Walker, “ the claims of the Scots to Fin.” In process of time this colony gave monarchsto Scotland, and their posterity at this day reign over the British empire. Fingal fell in an engagement at Ratlibree, on the banks of die Boyne, A. D. 294 ; from whence the name of Rathbreo was changed to Killeen, or Cill-Fhiii, the tomb of Fin. THE \VILD IRISH GIRL. 181 without license of the King of Ireland, &c , &c — It is added, that one of these heroes was alive till the coming of St. Patrick, who recited the actions of his compeers to the Saint. This hero was Ossian, or, as we pronounce it, Ossyn; whose dialogues with the Christian missionary is in the mouth of every peasant, and several of them preserved in old Irish manuscripts. Now the Fingal of Mr. Macpherson (for it is thus he translates Fin M‘Cuil^ sometimes pronounced and spelled Fionne M‘Cumhal, or Fion the son of Cumhal) and his followers appear like the earth- born myrmidons of Deucalion, for they certainly have no human origin ; bear no connexion with the history of their country ; are neither to be found in the poetic legend or historic record* ** of * I know but of one instance that contradicts the asser- tion of Father John, and that I borrow from the allegori- cal Palace of Honour ofGawin Douglass, Bishop ofDun- keld, who places Gaul, son of Morni, aiid Fingal among the distinguisiied characters in the annals of legendary ro- mance; yet even he mentions them not as the heroes of Scottish celebrity, but as the almost fabled demi-gods of Ireland. ** And now the wran cam out of Ailsay, And Piers Plowhman, that made his workmen few Great Gow Mac Morne and Fin M‘Cowl, and how They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say.” It is remarkable, that the genius of Ossianic style still prevails over the wild effusions of the modern and unlet- tered bards of Ireland ; while even the remotest lay of Scottish minstrelsy respires nothing of that soul which breathes in “ the voice of Cona;” and the metrical flippan ]6 182 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Scotland, and are even furnished with appella- tions which the Caledonians neither previously possessed nor have since adopted. They are therefore abruptly introduced to our kitowledge as living in a barbarous age, yet endowed with every perfection that renders them the most re- tined, heroic, and virtuous of men. So that while we grant to the interesting poet and his heroes our boundless admiration, we cannot help considering them as solecisms in the theory of human nature. “ But with us, Fingal and his chiefs are beings of real existence, their names, professions, rank, characters, and feats, attested by historic fact as well as by poetic eulogium. Fingal is indeed ro- mantically brave, benevolent, and generous, but he is turbulent, restless, ambitious : he is a man as well as a hero ; and both his virtues and his vices bear the stamp of the age and country in which he lived. His name and feats, as well as those of his chief officers, bear an intimate con- nexion with our national history. “ Fionne, or Finnius, was the grandsire of Mile- sins ; and it is not only a name to be met with through every period of our history, but there are few old families even at this day in Ireland, cy which betrays its existence, seems neither to rival, or cope with that toiicliing sublimity of measure through whose impressive medium the genius of Ossiaii effuses iti inspiration, and which, had it been known to the eariji bards of Scotland, had probably been imitated and adopted, in Ireland, it has ever been and is still the measure in wiiich the ^ons of Song breathe “ their wood Jiotes wild * THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 183 who have not the appellative of Finnius in some one or other of its branches ; and a large tract of the province of I.einster is called Fingal ; a title in possession of one of our most noble and an- cient families. “ Nay, if you please, you shall hear our old nurse run through the whole genealogy of Mac- pherson’s hero, which is frequently given as a theme to exercise the memory of the peasant children.”* “ Nay,” said I, nearly overpowered, “ Macpher- son assures us the Highlanders also repeat many of Ossian’s poems in the original Erse : nay, that even in the Isle of Sky, they still show a stone which bears the form and name of Cuchullin’s dog.”t * They run it over thus : Oscar Mac Ossyn, Mac Fioii^ MacCuil, Mac Cormic, Mac Arte, Mac Fiervin, &-c., &c. That is, Oscar the son of Ossiaii, the son of Fion, &c. t There is an old tradition current in Connaught, of which Bran, the favourite dog of Ossian is the hero. In a war between the king of Loclilin and the Fians, a battle continued to be fought on equal terms for so long a period,, that it was at last mutually agreed that it should be decided! in a combat between Ossian’s Bran and the famous Cudubh,. or dark greyhound, of the Danisli monarch. This grey- hound had already performed incredible feats, and wa» never to be conquered until his name was found out. The warrior dogs fought in a space between the two armies,, and with such fury, says the legend, in a language absolute- ly untranslatable, that they tore up the stony bosom of tbe earth, until they rendered it perfectly soft, and again tramps led on it with such force, that they made it a of rocky sub- itance. The Cudubh had nearly gained the victory, whet9 184 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. “ This is the most flagrant error of all,” ex- claimed the Prince, abruptly breaking his sullen silence — “ for he has scynchronized heroes who flourished in two distant periods ; both Cuchullin and Conal Cearneath are historical characters with us ; they were Knights of the Red Branch, and flourished about the birth of Christ. Where- as Fingal, with whom he has united them, did not flourish till near three centuries after. Tt is indeed Macpherson’s pleasure to inform us that by the Isle of Mist is meant the Isle of Sky, and on that circumstance alone to rest his claim on Cuchullin^ s being a Caledonian ; although, through the whole poems of Fingal and Temora, he is not once mentioned as such; it is by the transla- tor’s notes only we are informed of it.” “ It is certain,” said the priest — “ that iii .he first mention made of Cuchullin in the poem of Fingal, he is simply denominated ‘the son of Se- mo,’ ‘the Ruler of High Temora,’ ‘ Mossy Tura’s Chief.‘’* So called, says Macpherson, from his the baldheaded Cona'., mriiing his face to the east, and biting his thumb, a ceremony difficult to induce him to perform, and which always endowed him with the gift of divination, made a sudden exclamation of encouragement to Bran, the first word of which found the name of the greyhound, who lost at once his prowess and the victory. * The groves of Tnra, or Tnar, are often noticed in Irish song. Emiinh Acnuic, or Ned of the Hill, has men- tioned it ill one of his happiest and most popular poems. It was supposed to be in the county of Armagh, province of IMsten THE WILD IRISH GIRL. iS5 castle on the coast of Ulster, where he dwelt he^ fore he took the management of the affairs of Ireland into his hands ; though the singular cause which could induce the lord of the Isle of Sky to reside in Ireland previous to his political engage- ments in the Irish state, he does not mention. “ In the same manner we are told, that his three nephews came from Streamy Etna, one of whom married an Irish lady ; but there is no mention made of the real name of the place of their natiyity, although the translator assures us, in another note, that they also were Caledonians. But, in fact, it is from the internal evidences of the poems themselves, not from the notes of Mr. Macpherson, nor indeed altogether from his beautiful but unfaitl/ul translation, that we are to decide on the nation to which these poems be- long. In Fingal, the first and most perfect of the collection, that hero is first mentioned by Cuchul- lin as Fingal, King of Desarts — in the original — • Inis na hf hiodhuide, or Woody Island ; without any allusion whatever to his being a Caledonian. And afterwards he is called King of Selma, by Swaran, a name, with little variation given to several castles in Ireland. Darthula’s castle is named Selma; and another, whose owner I do not remember, is termed Selemath. Slimora, to w'hose fir the spear of Foldath is compared, is a mountain in the province of Munster, and through out the whole, even of Mr. Macpherson’s transla hon, the characters, names, allusions, incidents 16 * 166 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. and scenery are all Irish. And in fact, our Irish spurious ballads^ as Mr. Macpherson calls them, are the very originals out of which he has spun the materials for his version of Ossian.* “ Dr. Johnson, who strenuously opposed the idea of Ossian beino^ the work of a Scotch bard of the third century, asserts that the ‘ Erse never was a written language, and that there is not in the world a written Erse manuscript a hundred years old.’ He adds, ‘ The Welsh and Irish are cultivated tongues, and two hundred years back insulted their English neighbours for the instabil- ity of their orthography.’ Even the ancient Irish letter was unknown in the Highlands in 1690, for an Irish version of the Bible being given there by Mr. Kirk, was printed in the Roman character. “ When Dr. Young, f led by tasteful enterprize, * “ Some of the remaining footsteps of these old warriors are known by their first names at this time [says Keating] as for instance, Suidhe Finn, or the. Palace of Fin, at Sliabh na Mann, &c., &c ” There is a mosnitain in Done- gal still called Alt Ossoin, surrounded by all that wild sub- limity of scenery so exquisitely deliniated through the ele- gant medium of Macpherson’s translation of Ossian; and in its environs many Ossianic tales are still extant. In an extract given by Camden from an account of the manners of the native Irish in the sixteenth century — “they think, [says the author] the souls of the deceased are in communion with the famous men of those places, of whom they retain many stories and sonnet.s — as of’ the giants Fin, Mac Huyle, Osker, Mac Osshin, &c., (See., and they say, through illusion, they often see them.” t Dr Yonng, ate Bishop of Clonfert, who united in hif THE WILD IRISH OIRL 187 vdsited the Highlands (on an Ossianic research) in 1784, he collected a number of Gaellic poems respecting the race of the Fieris, so renowned in the annals of Irish heroism,* and found, that the orthography was less pure than that among us ; for, he says, “ the Erse being only a written language within these few years, no means were yet afforded of forming a decided orthographic standard,” But he augurs, from the improvement which had lately taken place, that we soon may expect to see the Erse restored to the original purity which it possesses in the mother country. And these very poems, whence Mr. Macpherson has chiefly constructed his Ossian, bear such strong internal proof of their Irish origin, as to contain in themselves the best arguments that can be adduced agrainst the Scottish claimants on the poems of the bard. But in their translation,! ch.'iracter the extremes of human perfection ; the most un- blemished virtue to the most exalted genius. * See Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy, 1786. t From the remotest antiquity we have seen the mili- tary order distinguished in Ireland, codes of piilitary laws and discipline established, and their dress and rank in the state ascertained. The learned Keating and others, tell us that these militia were called Fine, from Fion Mac Cum- hal ; but it is certainly a great error ; the word fine, strictly implying a military corps. Many places in the island re- tain to this day the names of some of the leaders ofthis body of men, and whole volumes of poetical fictions have been grafted upon their exploits. The manuscripts which I have, after giving a particular account of Filings descent, his inheritance, his acquisitions from the king of Leinster »nd hii great military command, immediately adds, ^ bik 188 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. many passages are perverted, in order to deprive Ireland of being the residence of Finga'l’s heroes.^’ “ I remember,” said the Prince, ‘‘ when you read to me a description of a sea fight between hhngal and Swaran, in Macpherson’s translation, that I repeated to you, in Irish, the very poem whence it was taken, and which is still very cur- rent here, under the title of Laoid Mhanuis IWhoirr “ True,” returned the priest, “ a copy of which :s deposited in the University of Dublin, with another Irish MS. entitled, ‘ Oran eadas Ailte agus do Maronnan^ whence the battle of Lora is taken.” The Prince then, desiring Father John fb give him down a bundle of old manuscripts which lay on a shelf in the hall dedicated to national tracts, after some trouble produced a copy of a poem, called “ The Conversation of Ossian and St. Pat- rick,” the original of which, Father John assured me, was deposited in the library of the Irish University. It is to this poem that Mr. Macpherson alludes, when he speaks of the dispute reported to have taken place between Ossian and a Culdee. At my request he translated this curious contro- versial tract. The dispute was managed on both sides with a great deal of polemic ardour. St. the reader must not expect to meet here with such .storiea of him and his heroes as the vulgar Irish hfve.'*^ — Dr. Warner THE W LD IRISH GIRL. 189 Patrick, with apostolic zeal, shuts tlie gates of mercy on all whose faith differs from his own, and, with an unsaintly vehemence extends the exclusion in a pointed manner, to the ancestors of Oss^-tn, who, he declares, are suffeiing in the limbo of tortured spirits.* The bard tenderly replies, “ It is hard to be- lieve thy tale, O man of the white book ! that Fion, or one so generous^ should be in captivity with God or man.” When, however, the saint persists in the as- surance, that not even the generosity of the de- parted hero could save him from the house of torture, the failing spirit of “ the King of Harps” suddenly sends forth a lingering flash of Its wont-^ ed fire ; and he indignantly declares, “ that if the Clan of Boisgno were still in being, they would liberate their beloved general from this threaten- ed hell.” The Saint, however, growing warm in the ar- gument, expatiates on the great difficulty of any soul entering the court of God : to which the in- fidel bard beautifully replies : — Then he is not like Fionn M^Cuil, or chief of the Fians ; for every * Notwithstaiidiiig the sceptical obstinacy that Os&ian here displays, there is a current tradition of his having been present at a baptismal ceremony performed by the Saint, who accidentally struck the siiarp point of his cro- eier thr3ugh the hard’s foot, who, supposing it part of the ceremony, remained transfixed to the earth without a mmr iner. 190 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. man upon the earth might enter his court withou asking his permission.” Thus, as you perceive, fairly routed, I however artfully proposed terms of capitulation, as though my defeat was yet dubious. ‘‘ Were I a Scotchman,” said I, “ I should be furnished with more effectual arms against you ; but as an Englishman, I claim an armed neutrali- ty, which I shall erideavour to preserve between the two nations. At the same time that I feel the highest satisfaction in witnessing the just pretentions of that country (which now ranks in my estimation next to my own) to a work which would do hoiiour to an^ country so fortunate as to claim its’author as her son.” The Prince, who seemed highly gratified by this avowal, shook me heartily by the hand, ap- parently flattered by his triumph ; and at that mo- ment Glorvina entered. “ O, my dear!” said the Prince, “ you are just come in time to witness an amnesty between Mr. Mortimer and me.” “ I should much rather witness the amnesty than the breach,” returned she, smiling. “We have been battling about the country of Ossian,” said the priest, “ with as much ve- hemence as the claimants on the birthplace of Homer.” “ O ! I know of ol I,” cried Glorvina, “ that you and my father are natural allies on that point of contention and I must confess, it was ungen- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 191 erous in both to oppose your united strength against Mr. Mortimer’s single force.” “ What, then,” said the Prince, good humour- edly, “ I suppose you would have deserted your national standard, and have joined Mr. Mortimer, merely from motives of compassion.” “ Not so, my dear sir,” said Glorvina, faintly blushing, “ but I should have endeavoured to have compromised betw'een you. To you I would have accorded that Ossian was an Irishman, of which 1 am as well convinced as of any other self-evident truth whatever, and to Mr. Mortimer I would have acknowledged the superior merits of Mr. Macpherson’s poems, as compositions, over those wild effusions of our Irish bards, whence he compiled them. “ Long before I could read, I learned on the bosom of my nurse, and in my father’s arms, to recite the songs of our national bards, and almost since I could read, the Ossian of Macpherson has been the object of my enthusiastic admiration. ‘‘ In the original Irish poems, if my fancy is sometimes dazzled by the brilliant flashes of na- tive genius, if my heart is touched by the strokes of nature, or my soul elevated by sublimity of sentiment, yet my interest is often destroyed, and my admiration often checked, by relations so wildly improbable, by details so ridiculously gro- tesque, that though these stand forth as the most undeniable proofs of their authenticity and the remoteness of the day in which they were com* 192 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. posed, yet I reluctantly suffer my mind to be con* vinced at the expense of my feeling and my taste. But in the soul-stealing strains of “ the Voice of Cona,” as breathed throu-^h the refined medium of Macpherson’s genius, no incongruity of style, character, or manner disturbs the pro- found interest they awaken. P^or my own part, when my heart is coldly void, when my spirits are sunk and drooping, I fly to my English Ossian, and then my sufferings are soothed, and every desponding spirit softens into a sweet melancholy, more delicious than joy itself ; while I experi- ence in its perusal a similar sensation as when, in the stillness of an autumnal evening, I expose my harp to the influence of the passing breeze, which faintly breathing on the chords, seems to call forth its own requiem as it expires.” “ Oh, Macpherson !” I exclaimed, “ be thy spirit appeased, for thou hast received that apotheosis thy talents have nearly deserved, in the eulogium of beauty and genius, and from the lip of an Irish- woman.” This involuntary and impassioned exclama- tion extorted from the Prince a smile of gratified parental pride, and overwhelmed Glorvina with confusion. She could, I believe, have spared.it before her father, and received it with a bow and a blush. Shortly after she left the room. Adieu ! I thought to have returned to M— house, but I know not how it is THE WILD IRISH GIRL, m ^ Mais un iiiviiiciWe coiitraint I^alg re, mO'i fixe ici mes pas, Et til sais qiie pour aller a Corinth, Le desirseul lie sufiit pas.” Adieu, H, M. LETTER XIII. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. The conductor this girl is inexplicable. Since the unfortunate picture scene three days bs jk, she has excused herself twice from the drawing desk ; and to-day appeared at it with the priest by her side. Her playful familiarity is vanished, and a chill reserve, uncongenial to the native ardour of her maimer has succeeded. Surely she cannot be so vain, so weak, as to mistake my attentions to her as a young and lovely woman, my admiration of her talents, and my surprise at the originalityof her character, for a serious passion. And suppos ino- me to be a wanderer and a hirelino-, affect to reprove my temerity by haughtiness and disdain. Would you credit it! by Heavens, I am some- times weak enough to be on the very point of tell- ing her who and what I am, when she plays off her little airs of Milesian pride and female supercili- ousness. ' You perceive, therc5fore, by the con- duct of this little Irish recluse, that on the subject of love and vanity, wrman is everywhere, and i^ N 17 194 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. all situations the same. For what coquette reared in the purlieus of St. James’s, could be more a portee to those effects which denote the passion, or more apt to suspect she had awakened it into existence, than this inexperienced, unsophisticated being! who 1 suppose never spoke to ten men in her life, save the superanuated inhabitants of her pa- ternal ruins. Perhaps, however, she only means to check the growing familiarity of my manner, and to teach me the disparity of rank which ex- ists between us ; for, with all her native strength of mind, the influence of invariable example and precept has been too strong for her, and she has unconsciously imbibed many of her father’s pre- judices respecting antiquity of descent and nobili- ty of birth. She will frequently say, O ! such a one is a true Milesian!” — or, “ he is a descend- ant of the English Irish;” or, “ they are new peo- ple — we hear nothing of them till the wars of Cromwell,” and so on. Yet at other times, when reason lords it over prejudice, she will laugh at that weakness in others, she sometimes betrays in herself. The other day, as we stood chatting at a win- dow together, pointing to an elderly man who passed by, she said, “ there goes a poor Con- nauorht orentleman, who would rather starve than work — he is a follower of the family and has been just entertaining my father with an account of our ancient splendour. We have too many in- stances of this species of mania among us. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 195 “ The celebrated Bishop of Cl-oyne relates an anecdote of a kitchen-maid, who refused to carry out cinders, because she was of Milesian descent. And Father John tells a story of a young gentle- man in Limerick, who, being received under the patronage of a nobleman going out as governor general of India, sacrificed his interest to his national pride ; for having accompanied his lord- ship on board of the vessel which was to convey them to the East, and finding himself placed at the foot of the dining table, he instantly arose, and went on’^shore, declaring that ‘ as a true Mile- sian^ he would not submit to any indignity, to purchase the riches of the East India Company. “ All this,” continued Glorvina, “ is ridiculous, nay, it is worse, for it is highly dangerous and fatal to the community at large. It is the source of innumerable disorders, by promoting idleness, and consequently vice. It frequently checks the industry of the poor, and limits the exertions of the rich, and perhaps is not among the least of those sources whence our national miseries flow. At the same time, I must, own, I have a very high idea of the virtues which exalted birth does or ought to bring with it. Marmontel elegantly observes, ‘ nobility of birth is a letter of credit given us on our country, upon the security of our ancestors, in the conviction that at a proper period of life we shall acquit ourselves with honour to those who stand engaged for us.’ Observe, that this passage was quoted in th« 196 THE WILD IRISH GIRL first person, but not, as in the original, in the second, and with an air of dignity that elevated her pretty little head some inches. “ Since,” she continued, “ we are all the beings of education, and that its most material branch, example, lies vested in our parents, it is natural to suppose that those superior talents or virtues which in early stages of society are the purchase of worldly elevation, become hereditary, and that the noble principles of our ancestors should de- scend to us with their titles and estates.” Ah,” said I, smiling, “ these are the ideas of an Irish Princess, reared in the palace of her an- cestors on the shores of the Atlantic ocean.” ‘‘ They may be,” she returned, “ the ideas of an inexperienced recluse, but I think they are not less the result of rational supposition, strength- ened by the evidence of internal feeling; for though I possessed not that innate dignity of mind which instinctively spurned at the low sug- gestion of vicious dictates, yet the consciousness of the virtues of those from whom I am descended, would prevent me from sullying by an unworthy action of mine, the unpolluted name I had the honour to bear.” She then repeated several anecdotes of the he- roism, rectitude, and virtue of her ancestors of noth sexes, adding, “ this was once the business of our Bards, Fileas, and Seanaclh ^s; but we are now oblijred to have recourse to our own memo ries, in order to support our own dignity. THE WILD IRISH GIRl . 197 ‘ But do not suppose I am so weak as to be dazzled by a sound, or to consider mere title in any other light than as a oolden toy judiciously worn to secure the respect of the vulgar, who are incapable of appreciating that ‘ which surpass- eth show,’* which, as my father says, is some- times given to him who saves, and sometimes bestowed on him who betrays his country. O ! no ; for I would rather possess one beam of that genius which elevates your mind above all world- ly distinction, and those principles of integrity which breathe in your sentiments and ennoble your soul, than ” Thus hurried away by the usual impetuosity of her feelings, she abruptly stopped, fearful, perhaps, that she had gone too far. And then, af- ter a moment added — “ but who 'will dare to bring the soul’s nobility in competition with the short- lived elevation which man bestows on man !” This was the first direct compliment she ever paid me ; and I received it with a silent bow, a throbbing heart, and a colouring cheek. Is she not an extraordinary creature ! I meant to have given you an unfavourable opinion of her prejudices ; and in transcribing my documents of accusation, I have actually confirmed myself in a better opinion of her heart and understanding than * “ He feels no ennobling principles in his owl heart, who wishes to level all the artificial institutes which have been adopted for giving body to opinion, and per inanencG to future esteem.’^ — Burke. 17 * 198 THE WILD IRISH GIRL I ever before indulged in. For to think w(dl of her, is a positive indulgence to iny philanthropy, after having thought so ill of all her sex. But her virtues and her genius have nothing to do with the ice which crystalizes round her heart; and which renders her as coldly inditierent to the talents and virtues with which her fancy has invested me, as though they were in posses- sion of a hermit of fourscore. Yet, God knows, nothing less than cold does her character appear. That mutability of complexion which seems to flow perpetually to the influence of her evident feel- ings and vivid imagination, that ethereal warmth which animates her manners ; the force and en- ergy of her expressions, the enthusiasm of her disposition, the uncontrolable smile, the involun- tary tear, the spontaneous sigh — Are these indi- cations of an icy heart ? And yet, shut up as we are together, thus closely associated, the sympa- thy of our tastes, our pursuits ! But the fact is, I begin to fear that I have imported into the shades of Inismore some of my London presump- tion : and that, after all, I know as little of this charming sport of Nature, as when I first beheld her — possibly my perceptions have become as sophisticated as the objects to whom they have hitherto been directed; and want refinement and subtilty to enter into all the delicate minutm of her superior and original character, which is at imce both natural and national. Adieu ! H. M. THE WILD IRISH GIRL. m LETTER XIV. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. To DAY I was present at an interview grantee! oy the Prince to two contending parties, who came to ask law of him^ as they term it. This, I am told, the Irish peasantry are ready to do upon every slight difference ; so that they are the most litigious, or have the nicest sense of right and justice of any people in the world. Although the language held by this little judi- cial meeting was Irish, it was by no means neces- sary it should be understood to comprehend, in some degree, the subject of discussion ; for the gestures and countenances both of the judge and the clients were expressive beyond all concep- tion : and I plainly understood, that almost every other word on both sides was accompanied by a species of local oath, sworn on the first object that presented itself-to their hands, and strongly mark- ed the vehemence of the national character. When I took notice of this to Father John, he replied, “ It is certain, that the habit of confirming every assertion with an oath, is as prevalent among the Irish as it was among the ancient, and is among the modern Greeks. And it is remarkable, that even at this day, in both countries, the nature and form of their adjurations and oaths are perfectly TtiE WILD IRISH GIRL. similar : a Greek will still swear by his pareiits, oi his children; an Irishman frequently swears ‘ bv iny father, who is no more !’ ‘ by my mother in the grave !’ Virgil makes his pious iEneas swear by his head. The Irish constantly swear ‘ by my hand,’ — ‘ by this hand,’ — or, ‘ by the hand of my gossip !’* There is one who has just sworn by the Cross ; another by the blessed stick he holds in his hand. In short, no intercourse passes be- tween them where confidence is required, in which oaths are not called in to confirm the trans- action.” I am at this moment returned from my Vengolf, after having declared the necessity of my absence for some time, leaving the term, however, indefi- nite ; so that in this instance, I can be governed by my inclination and convenience, without any ♦ The mention of this oath recalls to my mind an anecdote of the bard Carolan, as related by Mr. Walker. ^ in his itiimitable Memoir of the Irish Bards. “ He(Caro- lan) 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 Triphonins. On his return to shore, lie found several pilgrims waiting the arrival of the boat, which had con- veyed him to the object of his devotion. In assisting Home 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 ot feeling did not deceive him — it was the hand of her who he once adored.” T-^E WILD IRISH GIRL. 201 violation of promise The good old Prince look- ed 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 alrea- dy 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 202 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. has been hitherto my head quarters, and where I have left my clothes, books, and drawing utensils. J have also some friends in the neighbourhood, procured me by letters of introduction with which 1 was furnished in England.” You know that a great part of this neighbour- hood is my father’s property, and once belonged to the ancestors of the Prince. He changed colour as 1 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. 'Fhis 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 in- veterate, 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 remember- ed — 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 friend- ship these two worthy men but unknown enemies — then I shall triumph in my impositions, and, for the first time, adopt the maxim, that good con- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 203 sequences may be effected by means not strictly conformable to the rigid laws of truth. I have just been at my window, and never be- held so gloomy a night — not a star twinkles through the massy clouds that are driven impetu- ously along by the sudden gusts of a rising storm — not a ray of light partially dissipates the pro- found obscurity, save what falls on a fragment of an opposite tower, and seems to issue from the window of a closet which joins the apartment of Glorvina. She has not yet then retired to rest, and yet ’tis unusual for her to sit up so late. For _ I have often watched that little casement — its position exactly corresponds with the angle of the castle where I am lodged. If I should have any share in the vigils of Glorvina ! ! ! I know not whether to be most gratified or hurt at the manner in which she took leave of me. Was it indifference, or resentment, that marked her manner ? She certainly was surprised, and her surprise was not of the most pleasing nature — for where was the magic smile, the sentient blush, that ever ushers in and betrays every emo- tion of her ardent soul ! Sweet being ! w’’hatever m'ay be the sentiments which the departure of the supposed unfortunate wanderer awakens in thy bosom, may that bosom still continue the hal- lowed asylum of the dove of peace! May the pure heart it enshrines still throb to the best im- pulses of the happiest, nature, and beat with th< 204 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. soft palpitation of innocent pleasure and guileless transport, veiled from the rude intercourse of that world to which thy elevated and sublime nature IS so eminently superior ; long amidst the shade of the venerable ruins of thy forefathers mayest thou bloom and flourish in undisturbed felicity ! the ministering angel of thy poor compatriots, who look up to thee for example and support — •. thy country’s muse, and the bright model of the genuine character of her daughters, when unvi- tiated by erroneous education and by those fatal prejudices which lead them to seek in foreign re- finements for those talents, those graces, those vir- tues which are no where to be found more flour- ishing^ more attractive than in their native land. H. M. LETTER XV. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P. M House, It certainly requires less nicety of perception to distinguish differences in kind than differences in degree ; but though my present, like my past situation, is solitudinous in the extreme, it demands no very great discernment to discover that my late life was a life of solitude — my .present, of deso- lation. I n the castle of Inismore I was estranged from THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 2oa the world , here I am estranged from m’ self. Yet BO much more sequestered did that sweet inter- esting spot appear to me, that I felt, on arriving at this vast and solitary place (after having pass- ed by a few gentlemen’s seats, and caught a dis- tant view of the little town of Bally — ,) as though I were returning to the world — but felt as if that world had no longer any attraction for me. What a dream was the last three weeks of my life ! But it was a dream from which I wished not to be awakened. It seemed to me as if I had lived in an age of primeval virtue. My senses at rest, my passions soothed to philosophic repose, my prejudices vanquished, all the powers of my mind gently breathed into motion, yet calm and unagitated — all the faculties of my taste called into exertion, yet unsated even by boundless grati- fication. — My fancy restored to its pristine warmth, my heart to its native sensibility. The past given to oblivion, the future unanticipated, and the present enjoyed with the full conscious- ness of its pleasurable existence. Wearied, ex- hausted, satiated by a boundless indulgence of hackneyed pleasures, hackneyed occupations, hackneyed pursuits, at a moment when I was sinking beneath the lethargic influence of apathy, or hovering on the brink of despair, a new light broke upon my clouded mind, and discovered to my inquiring heart, something yei worth living for. Wiiat that mystic something is, I can. scarce!) 18 206 THE WILD IRISH GIRL yet define myself; but a magic spell now irresist- ibly binds m-e to that life which but lately, “ Like a foul and ugly witch, did limp So tediously away.” The reserved tints of a gray dawn had not yet received the illuminating beams of the east, when I departed from the castle of Inismore. None of the family were risen, but the hind who prepared my rosinante^ and the nurse, who made my breakfast. I rode twice round that wing of the castle where Glorvina sleeps : the curtain of her bed- room casement was closely drawn : but as I pass- ed by it a second time, I thought I perceived a shadowy form at the window of the adjoining case- ment. As I approached it seemed to retreat ; the whole, however, might have only been the vision of my wishes — my wishes ! ! But this girl piques me into something of interest for her. - About three miles from the castle, on the sum- mit of a wild and desolate heath, I met the good Father Director of Inismore. He appeared quite amazed at the rencontre. He expressed great regret at my absence from the castle, insisting that he should accompany me a mile or two of my journey, though he was only then returning after having passed the night in ministering tem- poral as well as spiritual comfort to an unfortu- nate family at some miles distance. “ These poor people,’’ said he “ were tenant? f)n the skirts of Lord M’s estate, who, though by THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 207 all accounts a most excellent and benevolent man, employs a steward of a very opposite character. This unworthy delegate having considerably rais- ed the rent on a little farm held by these unfortu- nate people, they soon became deeply in arrears, were ejected, and obliged to take shelter in an almost roofless hut, where the inclemency of the season, and the hardships they endured, brought on disorders by which the mother and two chil dren are now nearly reduced to the point of death ; and yesterday, in their last extremity, they sent for me.” While I commiserated the sufferings of these unfortunates (and cursed the villain Clendinning in my heart,) I could not avoid adverting to the humanity of this benevolent priest. “ These offices of true charity, which you so frequently perform,” said I, are purely the re- sult of your benevolence, rather than a mere ob- servance of your duty.” “ It is true,” he replied, I have no parish ; but the incumbent of that in which these poor people reside is so old and infirm, as to be totally incapacitated from performing such duties of his , calling as require the least exertion. The duty of one who professes himself the minister of reli- gion, whose essence is charity, should not be confined within the narrow limitation of pre- scribed. rules ; and I should consider myself as unworthy of the sacred habit I wear, should my * 208 THE WILD IRISH GIRl. exertions be confined to the suggestions of my interes' and my duty only. “ The faith of the lower order of Catholics here in their priest,” he continued, “ is astonish- ing : even his presence they conceive is an anti- dote to every evil. — When he appears at the door of their huts, and blends his cordial salutation with a blessing, the spirit of consolation seems to hover at its threshhold — pain is alleviated, sorrow soothed; and hope, rising from the bosom of strengthening faith, triumphs over the ruins of despair. To the wicked he prescribes penitence and confession, and the sinner is forgiven ; to the wretched he asserts, that suffering here, is the purchase of felicity hereafter, and he is resign- ed ; and to the sick he gives a consecrated charm, and by the force of faith and imagination he is made well. — Guess then the influence which this order of men hold over the aggregate of the peo- ple ; for while the Irish peasant, degraded, ne« glected, despise_d,* vainly seeks one beam of con ciliation in the eye of overbearing superiority ; condescension, familiarity and kindness win his gratitude to him whose spiritual elevation is in his mind above all temporal rank.” “You shed,” said I, “ a patriarchal interest over the character of priesthood among you here ; which gives that order to my view in a very dif- , « The common people of Ireland have no rank in socle* ty — they may he treated with contempt, and consequently are with inhumanity.” — An Enquiry into the Causes, &c. THE ^ILD IRISH OIRL. 209 .erenl aspect from that in which I liave hitherto considered it. To what an excellent purpose might this boundless influence be turned !” “ If,” interrupted he, “ priests were not men — men too, generally speaking, without education^ (which is in fact, character, principle, everything,) except such as tends rather to narrow than en- large the mind — men in a certain degree shut out from society, except of the lower class ; and men who, from their very mode of existence (which forces them to depend on the. eleemosynary con- tributions of their flock,) must eventually in many instances imbibe a degradation of spirit which is certainly not the parent of the liberal virtues.” “ Good God!” said I, surprised, “and this from one of their own order !” “ These are sentiments I never should have hazarded,” returned the priest, “ could I not have opposed to those natural conclusions, drawn from well known facts, innumerable instances of be- nevolence, piety, and learning among the order. While to the whole body let it be allowed as priests^ whatever may be their failings as men, that the activity of their lives,* the punctilious discharge of their duty, and their ever ready at- * A Roman Catholic clergyman is the minister of a very ritual religion ; and by his profession, subject to many re- straints; his life is full of strict observances, and his duties are of a laborious nature towards himself, and of the high est possible trust towards others.’^ — Letter on the Penal Laws against the Irish Catholics, by the Right Honourably Edmund Burke. O 18 * &10 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. temion to their flock, under every moral and even under every physical suffering, renders them de- serving of that reverence and affection which, above the ministers of any other religion, they receive from those over whom they are placed.” “ And which,” said I, if opposed to the lan- guid performance of periodical duties, neglect of the moral functions of their calling, and the habit- ual indolence of the ministers of other sects, they may certainly be deemed zealots in the cause of the faith they profess, and the charity they inculcate !” While I spoke, a young lad, almost in a state of nudity, approached us ; yet in the crown of his leafless hat were stuck a few pens, and over his shoulder hung a leathern satchel full of books. “ This is an apposite rencontre,” said the priest — “ behold the first stage of one class of Catholic priesthood among us ; a class however no longer very prevalent.” The boy approached, and, to my amazement, addressed us in Latin, begging with all the ve- hement eloquence of an Irish mendicant, for some money to buy ink and paper. We gave him a trifle, and the priest desired him to go on to the castle, where he would get his breakfast, and that on his return he would give him some books into the bargain. The boy, who solicited in Latin, expressed his gratitude in Irish ; and we trotted on. ‘‘ Such,” said Father John, “ f(»rmerly was the THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 21 % frequent origin of our Roman Catholic priests This is a character unknown to you in England, and is called here ‘ a poor scholar.^ If a boy is too indolent to work and his parents too poor to support him, or, which is more frequently the case, if he discovers some natural talents, or, as they call it, takes to his learning, and that they have not the means to forward his improvement, he then becomes by profession a poor scholar, and continues to receive both his mental and bodily food at the expense of the community at large. “ With a leathern satchel on his back, contain- ing his portable library, he sometimes travels not only through his own province, but frequently over the greater part of the kingdom.* No door is shut against the poor scholar, who, it is sup- posed, at a future day may be invested with the * It hag been justly said, that, nature is invariable in her operations ; and that the principles of a polished peo- ple will influence even their latest posterity.” And the ancient state of letters in Ireland, may be traced in the love of learning and talent even still existing among the inferior class of the Irish to this day. On this point it is observed by Mr. Smith, in his History of Kerry, ‘‘that it is well known that classical reading extends itself even to a fault, among the lower and poorer kind of people in this coun- try, [Munster,] many of whom have greater knowledge in this way than some of the better sort in other places.’’ He elsewhere observes, that Greek is taught in the mountain- ous parts of the province. And Mr. O’Halloran asserts, that classical reading has most adherents in those retired parts of the kingdom where strangers had least access, and thaf as good classical scholars w'ere found in most part* •f Connaught, as in any part of Europe. %12 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. ftpostolic key of Heaven. ^Tho priest or school* master of every parish through which he passes, receives him for a few days into his barefooted seminary, and teaches him bad Latin and worse English ; while the most opulent of his school- fellows eagerly seize on the young peripatetic philosopher and provide him with maintenance and lodging; and if he is a boy of talent or humour (a gift always prized by the naturally laughter- loving Milesians) they will struggle for the plea- sure of his society. “ Having thus had the seeds of dependence sown irradically in his mind, and furnished his perisatetic studies, he returns to his native home, and with an empty satchel to his back, goes about raising contributions on the pious charity of his poor compatriots : each contributes some neces- sary article of dress, and assists to fill a little purse, until completely equipped ; and, for the first time in his life, covered from head to foot, the divine embryo sets out for some sea-port, where he em- barks for the corteges of Douay or St. Omer’s ; and having begged himself, in forma pauperis, through all the necessary rules and discipline of the seminary, he returns to his own country, and becomes the minister of salvation to those whose generous contributions enable him to assume the sacred profession.* ♦ The French Revolution, and the fo:3ndation of the Catholic college at Maynooth, has put a stop to these pious emigrations. THE WILD IRISH 51RL. 213 Such is the man by whom the minds opinions, And even actions of the people are often influ- enced ; and, if man is but a creature of education and habit, I leave you to draw the inference. But this is but one class of priesthood, and its description rather applicable to twenty or thirty years back than to the present day. The other two may be divided into the sons of tradesmen and farmers, and the younger sons of Catholic gentry. “ Of the latter order am I ; and the interest of my friends on my return from the continent pro- cured me what was deemed the best parish in the diocese. But the good and the evil attendant on every situation in life, is rather to be estimated by the feelings and sensibility of the objects whom they affect, than by their own intrinsic na-- ture. It was in vain I endeavoured to accommodate my mind to the mode of life into which I had been forced by my friends. It was in vain I en- deavoured to assimilate my spirit to that species of exertion necessary to be made for my livelihood. “ To owe my subsistence to the precarious generosity of those wretches, whose every gift to me must be the result of a sensible deprivation to themselves ; be obliged to extort (even from the altar where I presided as the minister of the^Most High) the trivial contributions for my support, in a language which, however appropiiate to the understandings of my auditors, sunk me in my own esteem to the last degree of self-degrada 214 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. tiou ; or to receive from the religious affection of my flock such voluntary benefactions as, under the pressure of scarcity and want, their rigid economy to themselves enabled them to make to the pastor whom they revered.* In a word, after three years - miserable dependence on those for whose poverty and wretchedness my heart bled, I threw up my situation, and became chaplain to the Prince of Inismore, on a stipend sufficient for my little wants, and have lived with him for thir- ty years, on such terms as you have witnessed for these three weeks back. “ While my heart felt compassion, my tender- est sympathy is given to those of my brethren who are by birth and education divested of that scale of thought, and obtuseness of feeling, which distinguish those of the order, who, reared from the lowest origin upon principles the most ser- vilizing, are callous to the innumerable humili- ations of their dependent state ” Here an old man mounted on a mule, rode up to the priest, and with tears in his eyes informed * “ Are these men supposed to have no sense of justice that, in addition to the burthen of supporting their own establishment exclusively, they should be called on to pay ours; that, where they pay sixpence to their own priest, they should pay a pound to our clergymen; that, vvliile they can scarce afford their own a horse, they should place ours in his carriage; and that when they cannot build a mass-house to cover their multitudes, they should be forced to contribute to build sumptuous churches for half a dozen Protestants to pray under a shed !’’ — Inquiry into thf Causes of Popular Discontents, &c., page 27, THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 215 him that he was just going to the castle to hum- bly entreat his reverence would visit a poor child of his, who had been looked on with “ an evil eye^'‘ a few days back,* and who had ever since * been pining away. “ It was our misfortune,’’ said he, “ never to have tied a gospel about her neck, as we did round the other children’s, or this heavy sonow would never have befallen us. But we know if your reverence would only be pleased to say a prayer over her, all would go well enough !” The priest gave me a significant look, and > diaking me cordially by the hand, and pressing my speedy return to Inismore, rode off with the suppliant. Thus, in his duty, “ prompt at every call,” after having passed the night in acts of religious benev- olence, his humanity willingly obeyed the voice of superstitious prejudice which endowed him with the fancied power of alleviating fancied evils'. As I rode along, reflecting on the wondrous influence of superstition, and the nature of its ef- * It is supposed among the lower order of Irish, as among the Greeks, that some people are born with an evil eye, which injures every object on which it falls, and they will frequently go many miles out of their direct road, ra- ther than pass by the house of one who has “ an evil eye.’’ To frustrate its effects, the priest hangs a consecrated charm around the necks of their children, called “a gos- pel;” and the fears of the parents are quieted by thei/ faith. 216 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. fects, I could not help dwelling on the strong analogy which in so many instances appears be- tween the vulgar errors of this country and that of the ancient as well as modern Greeks. St. Chrysostom,* relating the bigotry of his own times, particularly mentions the superstitious hor- ror which the Greeks entertained against “ the evil eyeP And an elegant modern traveller as- sures us, that even in the present day they “ com- bine cloves of garlic, talismans, and other charms, which they hang about the necks of their in- fants, with the same intention of keeping away the evil eyeP Adieu. H. M. ♦ “ Some write on the hand the names of several rivers, while others make use of ashes, tallow, salt for the lik« purposes — all this being to divert the * evil eye.^ ” sjip or VOL. 1. THE WILD IRISH GIRL A NATIONAL TALE. BY LADY MORGAN, AUTnOH OF ST. CLAIR, THE NOVICE OF ST. DOJtTNIC, BSC. “Qucsta gente benche raostra selvagea E pur gli monte la contrada accierba Nond'.meuo I’e dolce ad cui I’asaagia.” ‘This race of men, though savage they may seem, The country, too, with many a mountain rough, Yet are they sweet to him who tries and tastes them.” UbertVs Travels thro* Ireland^ 14 in his Deserted Village :-r- '^And kissed the cup to pass it to the rest.” 148 THE W LD IRISH GIRL. talking as usual I know not what, the beautiful Breviare du Sentiment caught my eye lying on the floor : — Glorvina must have dropped it on her first entrance. 1 desired the nurse to bring it to me ; who blessed her stars, and wondered how her child could be so careless : a thing too she valued so much. At that moment it struck me that this Brevaire, the furniture of the houdoir^ the vases, and the fragment of a letter, were all connected with this mysterious friend, this “first and best of men. I shuddered as I held it, and forgot the snow-drops it contained ; yet, assum- ing a composure as I examined its cover, I asked the nurse if she thought I could procure such an- other in the next market town. The old woman held her sides while she laughed at the idea ; then folding her arms on her knees with that gossiping air which she always assumed when in a mood peculiarly loquacious, she assured me that such a book could not be got in all Ireland ; for that it had come from foreign parts to her young lady. “ And who sent it ?” I demanded. “ Why, nobody sent it, (she simply replied,) he brought it himself.” “Who?” said I. She stammered and paused. “ Then, I suppose,” she added, “ of course, you never heard” “ What ?” I eagerly asked, with an air of curi- osity and amazement. As these are two emo- THE WILD IRISH GIRI^ 149 lions a common mind is most suscept.ble of feel- inm his concealment towards the left wing of the castle, and snatched a hasty glance through the window of the banquetting hall. It was the hour in which the family were wont to assemble there. It was now impenetra- bly dark — he ventured to approach still closer, and fixed his eye to the glass ; but nothing met the inquiry of his eager gaze save a piece of ar- mour, on whose polished surface the moon’s ran- dom beams faintly played. His heart was chilled ; yet, encouraged by the silent desolation that surrounded him, he ventured forward. The gates of the castle were partly open ; the hall was empty and dark — he paused and listened — - all was silent as the grave. His heart sunk within him — he almost wished to behold some human form, to hear some human sound. On either side, the doors of two large apartments stood open : he looked into each ; all was chill and dark. Grown desperate by gloomy fears, he proceed- ed rapidly up the stone stairs which wound through the centre of the building. He paused ; and, leaning over the balustrade, listened for a considerable time ; but when the echo of his footsteps had died away, all was again still as death. Horror-struck, yet doubting the evidence of his senses, to find himself thus far advanced in the interior of the castle, he remained for some time motionless — a thousand melancholy sug- gestions struck on his srul. With an impulse THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 185 almost frantic he rushed to the corridor. The doors of the several rooms on either side lay open, and he tiiought by the moon’s doubtful light they seemed despoiled of their furniture. While lie stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound of Grlorvina’s harp, borne on the blast which sighed at intervals along the pas- sage. At first lie believed it was the illusion of his fancy disordered by the awful singularity of his peculiar situation j to satisfy at once his in- supportable doubts he flew to that room where the harp of Glorvina always stood: like the rest it was unoccupied and dimly lit up by the moon- beams. The harp of Glorvina, and the couch on which he had first sat by her, were the only ar- ticles it contained : the former was still breath- ing its wild melody when he entered, but he perceived the melancholy vibration was produced by the sea breeze (admitted by the open case- ment) which swept at intervals along its strings.. Wholly overcome he fell on the couch — his heart seemed scarcely susceptible of pulsation — every nerve of Ids brain was strained almost to burst- ing— he gasped for breath. The gale <*f the oceaii! continued to sigli on the cords of the harp, and its plaintive tones went to his very soul, and rou^ed those feelings so truly in unison witli every sad impression. A few burning tears relieved him; from an agony he was no longer able to endure ; and he was now competent to draw some infer- ence from the dreadful scene of desolation by 16 186 THE WILD TRISI ^IRL. which he was surrounded. The ^ood old Prince was no irore ! — or his dau^liter was married ! In either case it was probable the family had de- serted the ruins of Inismore. While absorbed in this heart-rendin^ medita- tion, he saw a faint li^ht orleaming on the ceilincj of the room, and heard a footstep approaching. Unable to move, he sat breathless with expecta- tion. An ancient female tottcrint^ and feeble, with a lantern in her hand, entered ; and having fastened down the window, was creeping slowly along and muttering to herself : when she per- ceived the pale and ghastly figure of the stranger, she shrieked, let fall the light, and endeavoured to hobble away. Mr. M followed, and caught her by the arm : she redoubled her cries — it was with difficulty he could pacify her — while, as his heart fluttered on his lips, he could only say, “The lady Glorvina! — the Prince! — speak! — where are they The old woman had now' recovered her light, and holding it up to the face of Mr. M , she instantly recognized him ; he had been a popular favourite with the poor followers of Inismore : she was among the number ; and her joy at bav- ins: her terrors thus terminated, was such as for an interval to preclude all hope of obtaining any answei from her. With some difficulty the dis- 11 acted and impatient M at last learnt from a detail interrupted by all the audible testimonies «f vulgar grief., that an execution had been laid THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 187 upon the Prince’s property, and another upon his person ; that he had been carried away to jail out of a sick bed, accompanied by his daughter, Father John, and the old nurse ; and that the whole party had set off in the old family coach, which the creditors had not thought worthy ta- king away, in the middle of the night, lest the country people should rise to rescue the Prince, which the officers who accompanied him appre- hended. The old woman was proceeding in her narra- tive, but her auditor heard no more ; he flew from the castle, and, mounting his horse, set out for the town where the Prince was imprisoned. He reached it early next morning, and rode at once to the jail. He alighted and inquired for Mr. O’Melville, commonly called Prince of Inismore. The jailor, observing his wild and haggard ap- pearance, kindly asked him into his own room and then informed him that the Prince had been released two days back ; but that his weak state of health did not permit him to leave the jail till the preceding evening, when he had set off for Inismore. “ But,” said the jailor, “ he will never reach his old castle alive, poor gentleman ! which he suspected himself ; for he received the last ceremonies of the church before he departed, thinking, I suppose, that he would die on the way.” Overcome by fatigue and a variety of over- whelming emotions, Mr. M sunk motionloM 188 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. on a seat ; while the humane jailor, shocked by the wretchedness of his looks, and supposing him to be a near relative, offered some words of con- solation, and informed him there was then a fe- male domestic of the Prince’s in the prison, whc was to follow the family in the course of the day, and who could probably give him every informa- tion he might require. This was welcome ti- dings to Mr. M ; and he followed the jailor to the room where the Prince had been confined, and where the old nurse was engaged in packing up some articles, which fell out of her hands when she perceived her favourite and patient, whom she cordially embraced with the most pas- sionate demonstrations of joy and amazement. The jailor retired ; and Mr. M , shuddering as he contemplated the close and gloomy little apartment, its sorry furniture, and grated win- dows, where the suffering Glorvina had been imprisoned with her father, briefly related to the nurse that, having learnt the misfortunes of the Prince, he had followed him to the prison, in the hope of being able to give him some assistance, if not to eflect his liberation. The old woman was as usual garrulous and communicative ; she wept alternately the Prii ce’s sufferings and tears of joy for his release ; talked sometimes of the generosity of the good friend, who had, she said, “ been the saviour of them all,’ and sometimes of the Christian fortitude of the Prince ; but still dwelt most on the virtues THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 189 and afflictions of her young lady, whom she fre- quently termed a saint out of heaven^ a suffering angel, and a martyr. She then related the cir- cumstances of the Prince’s imprisonment in terms so affecting, yet so simple, that her own tears dropt not faster than those of her auditor. She said that she believed they had looked for assist- ance from their concealed friend until the last moment, when the Prince, unable to struggle any longer, left his sick bed for the prison of ; that Glorvina had supported her father during their melancholy journey in her arms, without suffering even a tear, much less a complaint to escape her ; that she had supported his spirits and her own as though she were more than hu- man, until the physician who attended the Prince gave him over ; that then her distraction (when out of the presence of her father) knew no bounds ; and that once they feared her senses were touch- ed. When, at a moment when they were all re- duced to despair, the mysterious friend arrived, paid the debt for which the Prince was confined, and had carried them off the evening before, by a more tedious but less rugged road than that she supposed Mr. M had taken, by which means he had probably missed them. “ For all this, (continued the old woman weeping) my child will never be happy : she is sacrificing herself for her father, and he will not live to enjoy the benefit of it. The gentleman is indeed good and comely to look at ; and his being old enough to 190 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. be lier father matters nothing ; but then love is not to be commanded, though duty may.” Mr. M. struck by these words fell at her feet, onjured her not to conceal from him the state of her lady’s affections, confessed his own secret passion, in terms as ardent as it was felt. His recent sufferings and suspicions, and the present distracted state of his mind, his tears, his entrea- ties, his wildly energetic supplications, his wretched but interesting appearance, and above all the adoration he professed for the object of her own tenderest affection, finally vanquished the small portion of prudence and reserve inter- woven in the unguarded character of the simple and affectionate old Irish woman, and she at last confessed, that the day after his departure from , the castle of Inismore, Glorvina was seized with a fever, in which, after the first day, she became delirious ; that during the night, as the nurse sat by her, she awakened from a deep sleep and began to speak much of Mr. Mortime'r, whom she called her friend, her preceptor, and her lover ; talked wildly of her having been united to him hy God in the vale of Inismore, and drew from her bosom a sprig of withered myrtle, which, she said, had been a bridal gift from her beloved, and that she often pressed it to her lips and smiled, and began to sing an air which, she said, was dear to him; until at last she burst into tears, and wept herself to sleep again. “ When she recov- ered,” continued the nurse, “ which, owing to hei THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 191 youth and line constitution, she did in a few days, I mentioned to her some of tliese sayings, at wliich she chanjred colour, and beo;ored that as I valued her happiness I would bury all I had heard in my own breast ; and above all bid me not mention your name;, as it was now her duty to forget you ; and last night I heard her consent to become the wife of the good gentleman ; but poor chiW it is all one, for she will die of a bro- ken heart. 1 see plainly she will not long sur- vive her father, nor will ever love any but you !” At these words the old woman burst into a pas- sion of tears, while Mr. M catching her in his arms, exclaimed, “ I owe you my life, a thousand times more than my life ; and throwing his purse into her lap, flew to the inn, where having obtained a hack horse, given his own in care to the master, and taken a little refreshment which his exhausted frame, long fasting, and ex- traordinary fatigue required, he again set out for the Lodge. His sole object was to obtain an in- t(;rview with Glorvina, and on the result of that interview to form his future determination. To retrace the wild fluctuations of those pow- erful and poignant feelings which agitated a mind alternately the prey of its wishes and its fears, now governed by the impetuous impulses of un- conquerabh love now by the sacred ties of filial aflection, now sacrificing eyery consideration to the dictates of duty, and now forgetting every- thing in the fond dr# ams of passion, would be an 192 THE WILD IR SH GIRL. endless, an impassible task ; when still ribraf in« between the sweet felicities af new-born hope, and the gloomy suggestions of habitual doubt. The weary traveller reached the peninsula of In- ismore about the same hour that he had done the preceding day. At the drawbridge he was met by a peasant whom he had known and to whom he gave his horse. The man, with a countenance full of importaime, was going to address him, but he sprung eagerly forward and was in a moment immersed in the ruins of the castle ; intending to pass through the chapel as the speediest and most private way, and to make his arrival first knov/n to Father John, to declare to the good priest his real name and rank, his passion for Glorvina, and to receive his destiny from her lips ordy. He had scarcely en^tered the chapel when the private door by which it communicated with the castle dew open. He screened himself behind a pillar, from whence he beheld Father John pro- ceeding with a solemn air towards the altar, fol- lowed by the Prince, carried by three- servants in an arm chair, and apparently in the last stage of mortal existence. Glorvii>a then appeared wrapt in a long veil and supported on the arm of a stran- ger, whose figure and air was lofty and noble, but whose face was concealed by the recumbent atti- tude of his head, which drooped towards that of his apparently feeble companion, as if in the act □f addressing her. Ibis singular procession ad- vanced to the altar ; the chair of the Prince THE WILD IRISH OIRL. 193 posed at his feet. The priest stood at the sacred table — Glor ina and her companion knelt at its steps. The last red beams of the evening sun shone through a stormy cloud on the votarists all was awfully silent; a pause solemn and affect ing ensued ; then the priest began to celebrate the maraiage rites ; but the first words had not died on his lips, when a figure, pale and ghastly, rushed forward, wildly exclaiming, “ Stop, I charge you, stop ! you know not what you do ! it is a sacrilege !” and breathless and faint the seeming maniac sunk at the feet of the bride. A convulsive shriek burst from the lips of Glor- vina. She raised her eyes to heaven, then fixed them on her unfortunate lover, and dropped life- less into his arms — a pause of indiscribable emo- tion succeeded. The Prince, aghast, gazed on the hapless pair ; thus seemingly entwined in the embrace of death. The priest transfixed with pity and amazement let fall the sacred volume from his hands. Emotions of an indescribable nature mingled in the countenance of the bridegroom. The priest was the first to dissolve the spell, and to recover a comparative presence of mind ; he descended from the altar and endeavoured to raise and extricate the lifeless Glorvina from the arms of her unhappy lover, but the effort was vain. Clasping her to his heart closer than ever, the almost frantic M exclaimed, “ She is mine ! mine in the eye o ’ heaven ! and no human power can part us !” N 17 t 194 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. “ Mprciful providence !” exclaimed the bride- groom faintly, and sunk on the shoulders of the priest. The voice pierced to the heart of his ri- val ; he raised his eyes, fell lifeless against the railing of the altar, faintly uttering, “ God of Om- nipotence ! my father !” Glorvina released from the nerveless clasp of her lover, sunk on her knees between the father and the son, alternately fixed her wild regard on both, then suddenly turn- ing them on the now apparently expiring Prince, she sprang forward, and throwing her arms round his neck, frantically cried, “ It is my father they will destroy and sobbing convulsively, sunk, overcome, on his shoulder. The Prince pressed her to his heart, and look- ing round with a ghastly and inquiring glance for the explanation of that mystery no one had the power to unravel, and by which all seemed over- whelmed. At last, with an effort of expiring strength, he raised himself in his seat, entwined his arm round his child, and intimated by his elo- quent looks, that he wished the mysterious father and his rival son to approach. The priest led the former towards him : the latter sprang to his feet, and hid his head in his mantle : all the native dignity of his character now seemed to irradiate the countenance of the Prince of Inismore ; iiis eyes sparkl 3d with a transient beam of theii former fire ; and the retreating powers of life seemed for a moment to rush through his ex* haus.ed veins with all their pristine vigour. With THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 195 a deep and hollow voice he said : “ I find I have been deceived, and my child, I fear, is to become the vii tim of this deception. Speak, mysterious strangrers, who have taught me at once to love and to fear you — what, and who are you ? and to what purpose have you mutually, but apparently unknown to each other, stolen on our seclusion, and thus combined to embitter my last hours, by threatening the destruction of my child ?” A long and solemn pause ensued, which was at last interrupted by the Karl of M. With a firm and collected air he replied : “ That youth who kneels at your feet, is my son ; but till this mo- ment I was ignorant that he was known to you : 1 was equally unaware of those claims which he has now made on the heart of vour daughter. If he has deceived you he also has deceived his lather ! For myself, if imposition can be extenua- ted, mii^ merits forgiveness, for it was founded on honourable and virtuous motives. To restore to you the blessings of independence ; to raise your daughter to that rank in life, her birth, her virtues, and her talents merit ; and to obtain your assistance in dissipating the ignorance, improv- ing the state, and ameliorating the condition of those poor unhappy compatriots, who, living im- mediately within your own sphere of action, are influenced by your example, and would best be actuated by your counsel. Such were the wishes of my heart ; but prejudice^ the enemy of all hu^ man virtue and human felicity, forbade their exe'* \96 THE WILD mrSFT GIRZ. eiition. My first overtures of amity were treated with scorn ; my first offers of service rejected witli disdairi ; and my crime was that in a dis-* taut age an ancestor of mine, by the fortune of war, bad possessed himself of those domains^ which, in a more distant age, a remoter ancestor of yonrs won by similar means. “ Thus denied the open declaration of my good intents, I stooped to the assumption of a fktitious character ; and he who as a hereditary enemy was forbid your house, as an unknown and unfor- lunate stranger, under affected circumstances of peculiar danger, was received to your protection ^ and soon to yoitr heart as its dearest friend. The influeivce I obtained over your mind, I used to the salutary purpose of awakening it to a train of ideas more iiberal than the prejudices of edu- cation bad hitherto suffered it to cherish ; and the services I had it in my power to render you^ the fervour of your gratitude so far over-rated,, as to induce you to repay them by the most pre- cious of all donations — ^y our child. But for the wonderful and most unexpected incident which has now crossed your designs, your daughter had been by this the wife of the Earl of M.” With a strong convulsion of expiring nature, the Prince started from his chair ; gazed for a moment on the Earl with a fixed and eager look and again sunk on his seat; it was the last con vulsive throe of life roused into existence by the ast violent feeling of mortal emotion. With au THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 197 indefinable expression, be directed his eyes alter- nately from the father to the son, then sunk back and closed them : the younger M. clasped his hi nd, and bathed it with tears ; his daughter, who hung over him, gazed intently on his face, and though she tremblingly watched the extinc- tion of that life in wjiich her own was wrapped up, her air was wild, her eye beamless, her cheek pale ; grief and amazement seemed to have bereft her of her senses, but her feelings had lost no- thing of their poignancy: the Earl of M. leaned on the back of the Prince’s chair, his face cov- ered with his hand : the priest held his right hand, and wept like an infant : among the at- tendants there was not one appeared with a dry eye. After a long and affecting pause, the Prince heaved a deep sigh, and raised his eyes to the crucifix which hunor over the altar : the effusions O of a departing and pious soul murmured on his lips, but the powers of utterance were gone ; every mortal passion was fled, save that which flutters with the last pulse of life in the heart of a floating father, parental solicitude and parental love. Religion claimed his last sense of duty, nature his last impulse of feeling ; he fixed his last gaze on the face of his daughter ; he raised himself with a dying effort to receive her last kiss: she fell on his bosom, their arms intei- la»:5ed. In this attitude he expired. Glorvina, in the arms of the attendants, was 17 * 198 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. conveyed lifeless to the castle. The body of ihfl Prince was jarried to the great hall, and there laid on a bier. The Earl of M. walked by the side of the body, and his almost lifeless son, sup- ported by the arm of the priest (who himself stood in need of assistance,) slowly followed. The elder M. had loved the venerable Prince as a brother and a friend : the younger as a father. In their common regret for the object of their mutual affection, heightened by that sadly affecting scene they had just witnessed, they lost for an interval a sense of that extraordinary and delicate situation in which they now stood rela- ted towards each other ; they hung on either side in a mournful silence over the deceased object of their friendly affliction ; while the concourse of poor peasants, whom the return of the Prince brought in joyful emotion to the castle, now crowded into the hall, uttering those vehement exclamations of sorrow and amazement so conso- nant to the impassioned energy of their national character. To still the violence of their emotions, the priest kneeling at the foot of the bier began a prayer for the soul of the deceased. All who were present knelt around him : all was awful, solemn, and still. At that moment Glorvina ap- peared: she had rushed from the arms of hei at tendants ; her strength was resistless, for it was the energy of madness ; her senses were fled. A dead silence ensued ; for the emotion of the priest would not suffer him to proceed. Regard- THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 199 less of ihe prostrate throng, she glided up the hall to the bier, and gazing earnestly on her fa- ther, smiled sadly, and waved her hand ; then kissing his cheek, she threw her veil over his face, and putting her finger on her lip, as if to impose silence, softly exclaimed, “ Hush ! he does not suffer now! he sleeps! it was 1 who lulled him to repose with the song his heart loves !” and then kneeling beside him, in a voice scarcely human, she breathed out a soul-rending air she had been accustomed to sing to her father from her earliest infancy. The silence of com- passion, of horror, which breathed around, was alone interrupted by her song of grief, while no eye save hers was dry. Abruptly breaking off her plaintive strains, she drew the veil from her father’s face, and suddenly averting her gaze from his livid features, it wandered from the Earl of M. to his son ; while with a piercing shriek she exclaimed, “ Whioh of you murdered my father ?” then looking tenderly on the younger M. (whose eyes not less wild than her own had followed her every motion,) she softly added, ‘‘ It was not you, my love !” and with a loud convul- sive laugh she fell lifeless into the priest’s arms, who was the first who had the presence of mind to think of removing the still lovely maniac. The rival father and his unhappy son withdrew at the same moment ; and when the priest (having dis- posed of his unfortunate charge) returned to seek them, he found them both in the same apartment, 200 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. but at a considerable distance from each other, both buried in silent emotion — both labouring under the violence of their respective feelings. The priest attempted some words expressive of consolation to the younger M. who seemed most the victim of uncontrollable affliction ; but with a firm manner the earl interrupted him : — “ My good friend,” said he, “ this is no time for words; nature and feeling claim their prerogative, and are not to be denied. Your venerable friend is no more, but he has ceased to suffer : the afflict- ed and angelic being, whose affecting sorrows so recently wrung our hearts with agony, has still, I trust, many years of felicity and health in store to compensate for her early trials ; from hence- forth I shall consider her as the child of my adop- tion. For myself, the motives by which my apparently extraordinary conduct was governed were pure and disinterested ; though the means by which I endeavoured to effect my laudable purpose were perhaps not strictly justifiable in the eye of rigid, undeviating integrity. For this young man !” he paused, and fixing his eyes on his son till they filled with tears, the strongest emotions agitating his frame ; Mr. M. rushed for- ward, and fell on his father’s breast. The eari pressed him to his heart, and putting his hands in those of Father John, he said, “ To your care and tenderness I commend my child ; and from you,” he added, addressing his son, “ I shall ex- pect the developement of that mystery, which is THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 201 US yet (lark and unfathomable. Remain here till we fully understand each other. 1 depart to night for M — house. It is reserved for you to assist this worthy man in the last solemn office of friendship and humanity. It is reserved for you to watch over and cherish that suffering angel, for whose future happiness we both mutually stand accountable.” With these words Lord M. again embraced his almost lifeless son, and press- ing the hand of the priest withdrew. Father John followed him ; but importunities were fruit- less ; his horses were ordered, and having pul a bank-note of considerable amount into his hands to defray the funeral expenses, he departed from Inismore. In the course of four days, the remains of the Prince were consioned to the tomb. Glorvina’s C5 health and fine constitution were already prevail- ing over her disorder and acute sensibility ; her senses were gradually returning, and only ap- peared subject to wander when a sense of her recent suffering struck on her heart. The old nurse was the first who ventured to mention to her that her unhappy lover was in the house ; but though she appeared struck and deeply af- fected by the intelligence, she never mentioned his name. Meantime Mr. M., owing to his recent suffer- ings of mind and body, was seized with a slow fever and confined for many days to his bed. A physician of eminence in the country had taken 202 THE WIl D IRISH GIRL. up his residence at Inismore, and a courier daily passed between the castle and M — — house, with his reports of the health of the two patients to the Earl. In a fortnight they were both so far recov- ered, as to remove from their respective bed rooms to an adjoining apartment. The benevo- lent priest, who day and night had watched over them, undertook to prepare Glorvina for the re- ception of Mr. M. whose life seemed to hang upon the restoration of hers. When she heard that he was still in the castle, and had just es- caped from the jaws of death, she shuddered and changed colour ; and with a faint voice inquired for his father. When she learnt he had left the castle on the night when she had last seen him, she seemed to feel much satisfaction, and said, “ What an extraordinary circumstance ! What a mystery ! — the father and the son !” She paused, and a faint hectic coloured her pale cheek ; then added, “ unfortunate and imprudent young man ! Will his father forgive and receive him “ He is dearer than ever to his father’s heart said the priest, “ the first use he made of his re- turning health, was to write to his inestimable parent, confessing without the least reservation every incident of his late extraordinary adven- ture.” “And when does he leave the castle!” inarticu- lately demanded Glorvina. “ That rests with you replied the priest. She turned aside her head and sigh^-d heavily THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 203 then bursting into tears, flung her arms affection- ately round her beloved preceptor, and cried, I have ;iovv no fath u* but you — act for me as such The priest pressed her to his heart, and, draw ing a letter from his bosom, said, “ This is from one who pants to become your father in the strict- est sense of the word ; it is from Lord M., but though addressed to his son, it is equally intend- ed for your perusal. That son, that friend, that lover, whose life and happiness now rests in your hands, in all the powerful emotions of hope, doubt, anxiety, and expectation, now waits to be admitted to your presence.” Glorvina, gasping for breath, caught hold of the priest’s arm, then sunk back upon her seat, and covered her face with her hands. The priest withdrew, and in a few minutes returned, leading in the agitated invalid ; then placing the hands of the almost lifeless Glorvina in his, retired. He felt the mutual delicacy of their situation, and for- bore to heighten it by his presence. Two hours had elapsed before the venerable priest again sought the two objects dearest to his heart ; he found Glorvina overwhelmed with soft emotion, her cheek covered with blushes, and her hand clasped in that of the interesting invalid, whose flushing colour and animated eyes spoke the return of health and happiness ; not indeed confirmed, but fed by sanguine hope ; such hope as the heart of a mourning child could give to the object of her heart’s first passion, in that era of 204 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. filial grief, when sorrow is mellowed by reason, and soothed by religion into a tender but not un- gracious melancholy. The good priest embraced and blessed them alternately, then, seated between them, read aloud the letter of Lord M. TO THE HON. HORATIO M. Since human happiness, like every other feel- ing of the human heart, loses its poignancy by reiteration, its fragrance with its bloom ; let me not (while the first fallen dew of pleasure hangs fresh upon the flower of your existence) seize on those precious moments which Hope, rescued from the fangs of despondency, and bliss, suc- ceeding to affliction, claim as their own. Brief be the detail which intrudes on the hour of new- born joy, and short the narrative which holds captive the attention, while the heart, involved in its own enjoyments, denies its interest. It is now unnecessary for me fully to explain all the motives which led me to appear at the castle ofTnismore in a fictitious character. Deep ly interested for a people whose national charac- ter I had hitherto viewed through the false me- dium of prejudice ; anxious to make it my study in a situation, and under circumstances, which as an English landholder, as the Earl of M — , was denied me, and to turn the stream of my acquired information to that channel which would tend to the promotion of the happiness and welfare of THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 205 those whose destiny, in some measure, was con signed to my guidance : — solicitous to triumph over the hereditary prejudices of my hereditary enemy; to seduce him into amity, and force him to esteem the man he hated; while he uncon- sciously became his accessary in promoting the welfare of those of his humble compatriots who dwelt within the sphere of our mutual observa- tion. Such w^ere the motives which principally guided my late apparently romantic adventure ; would that the means had been equally laudable. Received into the mansion of the generous but incautious Prince, as a proscribed and unfortu- nate wanderer, I owed my reception to his hu- manity rather than his prudence ; and when I told him that I threw my life into his power, his honour became bound for its security, though his principles condemned the conduct which he be- lieved had effected its just forfeiture. For some months, in two succeeding summers, I contrived to perpetuate, with plausive details, the mystery I had forged ; and to confirm the in- terest I had been so fortunate at first to awaken into an ardent friendship, which became as recip- rocal as it was disinterested. Yet it was still my destiny to be loved identically as myself ; as my- self adventitiously to be hated. And the name of the Earl of M was forbidden to be mentioned in the presence of the Prince, while he frequently confessed that the happiest of his liours were passed in Lord M ’s society. VOL. II. 18 206 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. Thus singularly situated, I dared not hazard a revelation of my real character, lest I should lose by the discovery all those precious immuni- ties with which my fictitious one had endow- ed me. But while it was my good fortune thus warmly to ingratiate myself with the father, can I pass over in silence my prouder triumph in that filial interest I awakened in the heart of his daughter. Her tender commiseration for my supposed mis- fortunes; the persevering goodness with which she endeavoured to rescue me from those erro- neous principles she believed the efficient cause of sufferings, and which I appeared to sacrifice to her better reason. The flattering interest she took in my conversation ; the eagerness with which she received those instructions it was my supreme pleasure to bestow on her ; and the soli- citude she incessantly expressed for my fancied doubtful fate ; awakened my heart’s tenderest re- gard and liveliest gratitude. But though I ad- mired her genius and adored her virtues, the sentiment she inspired never for a moment lost itjs character of parental affection ; and even when I formed the determination, the accom- plishment of which you so unexpectedly, so pro- videntially frustrated, the gratification of any selfish wish, the compliance with any passionate impulse, held no influence over the determina- tion. No, it was only dictated by motives pure a« the object that inspired them ; it was the wish THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 207 0. snatching this lovely blossom from the desert IV here she bloomed unseen, of raising her to that c.rcle in society her birth entitled her to, and her , "graces were calculated to adorn ; of confirming Jiiy amity with ner father by the tenderest unity .)f interests and affection ; of giving her a legally sanctioned claim on that part of her hereditary property which the suspected villany of my steward had robbed her of ; and of retributing the parent through the medium of the child. Had I had a son to offer her, 1 had not offered her myself ; but my eldest was already engaged, and for the worldly welfare of my second an al- liance at once brilliant and opulent was neces- sary ; for, dazzled by his real or supposed talents, J. viewed his future destiny through the medium of parental ambition, and thought only of those means by which he might become great, with- out considering the more important necessity of his becoming happy. Yet, well aware of the phlegmatic indifference of the one, and the ro- mantic imprudence of the other, I denied them my confidence, until the final issue of the adven- ture would render its revelation necessary. Nor did I suspect the possibility of their learning it by any other means ; for the one never visited Ireland, and the other, as the son of Lord M — , ivould find no admittance to the castle of Inis- iiiore. When a fixed determination succeeded to some months of wavering indecision, I wrote to Glor* 208 THE WILD IRISH GIRL. villa, with whom I had been in habits of episto lary correspondence, distantly touching on a sub ject I yet considered with timidity, and faintly demanding her sanction of my wishes before i unfolded them to her father, which I assured her I would not do until I could claim her openly in my own character. In the interim, however, I received a letter from her, written previous to her receipt of mine. It began thus : — “ In those happy moments of boundless confidence, when the pupil and the child hung upon the instructive accents of the friend and the father, you have often said to me, ‘ I am not altogether what I seem ; I am not only grateful, but 1 possess a power stronger than words of convincing those- to whom I owe so much of my gratitude ; and should the hour of affliction ever reach thee, Glorvina, call on me as the friend who would fly from the remotest cor- ner of the earth to serve, to save thee.’ “ The hour of affliction is arrived — I call upo you She then described the disordered state of her father’s affairs, and painted his sufferings with all the eloquence of filial sorrow, requesting my advice, and flatteringly lamenting the destiny which placed us at such a distance from each other. It is needless to add, that I determined to an- swer this letter in person, and I only waited to embrace my loved and long estranged son on my arrival m Ireland. When I set out for Inismore I THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 209 found the castle deserted, and learned, (with in- describable emotions of pity and indignation,) that the Prince and his daughter were the inhabitants of a prison. 1 flew to this sad receptacle of suf- fering virtue, and effected the liberation of the Prince. There was a time when the haughty spirit of this proud chieftain would have revolted against the idea of owing a pecuniary obligation to any man : but those only who have laboured under a long and continued series of mental and bodily affliction, can tell how the mind’s strength is to be subdued, the energies of pride softened, and the delicacy of refined feelings blunted, by the pressure of reiterated suffering, of harassing and incessant disappointment. While the sur- prise of the Prince equalled his emotion, he ex- claimed in the vehemence of his gratitude — “Teach me at least how to thank you, since to repay you is impossible.” Glorvina was at that moment weeping on my shoulder, her hands were clasped in mine, and her humid eyes beamed on me all the grateful feelings of her warm and sus- ceptible soul. I gazed on her for a moment, — * she cast down her eyes, and I thought pressed my hand ; thus encouraged I ventured to say to the Prince, “ You talk in exaggerated terms of the little service I have done you, — would indeed it had been sufficient to embolden me to make that request wfflich now trembles on my lips.” I paused — ^the Prince eagerly replied, “ there 0 18 * tiO THE WILD IRISH GIKL, is nothing you can ask I am not anxious and ready to comply with.” I looked at Glorvina — she blushed and trem- bled. 1 felt 1 was understood, and I added, “ then give me a legal claim to become the protector of your daughter, and through her to restore you to that independence necessary for the repose of a proud and noble spirit. In a few days I shall openly appear to the world, with honour and with safety, in my own name and character. Take this letter, it is addressed to the Earl of M — whom I solemnly swear is not more your enemy than mine, and who consequently cannot be biased by partiality : from him _ you shall learn who and what I am ; and until that period I ask not to receive the hand of your inestimable daughter.” The Prince took the letter and tore it in a thousand pieces ; exclaiming, “ I cannot indeed equal, but I will at least endeavour to imitate your generosity. You chose me as your pro- tector in the hour of danger, when confidence was more hazardous to him who reposed than him who received it. You placed your life in my hands with no other bond for its security than my honour ! In the season of my distress you flew to save me : you lavished your property for my re- lease, not considering the improbability of its re- muneration ! Take my child ; her esteem, heir affections, have long been yours ; let me die ir peace, by seeing her united to a worthy man THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 211 that I knoio you are ; what else you may be 1 will only learn from the Ups of a son-in-law. Con- fidence at least shall be repaid by confidence.” At these words the always generous, always vehe- ment and inconsiderate Prince rose from his pil- low and placed the hand of his daughter in mine, confirming the gift with a tear of joy and a tender benediction. Glorvina bowed her head to receive it — her veil fell over her face — ^the index of her soul was concealed : how then could I know what passed there ? She was silent — she was obedient — and I was deceived. The Prince, on his arrival at the castle of In- ismore, felt the hour of dissolution stealing fast on every principle of life. Sensible of his situation, his tenderness, his anxiety for his child survived every other feeling; nor would he suffer himself -o be carried to his chamber until he had bestow- ed her on me from the altar. I knew not then what were the sentiments of Glorvina. Entwined in the arms of her doating, dying father, she seemed insensible to every emotion, to every thought but what his fate excited ; but however gratified I might have been at the intentions of the Prince, I was decidedly averse to their prompt execution. I endeavoured to remon- strate : a look from the Prince silenced every ob- lection : and — . But here let me drop the veil of oblivion over the past : let me clear from the tablets of memory those records of ex- traordinary and rccer.t circumstances to which 212 THE WILD IRISH 0.1RL. my heart can never revert brt with a pang vibra- ting on its tenderest nerve. It is, however, the true spirit of philosophy to draw from the evil which cannot be remedied all the g^ood of which in its tendency it is yet susceptible ; and since the views of my parental ambition are thus □lasted in the bloom, let me at least make him happy whom it was once my only wish to ren- der eminent : know then, my imprudent but still dear son, that the bride chosen for you by your father’s policy has, by an elopement with a more ardent lover (who followed her hither,) left your hand as free as your heart towards her ever was. Take then to thy bosom her whom heaven seems to have chosen as the intimate associate of thy soul, and whom national and hereditary prejudice would in vain withhold from thee. In this the dearest, most sacred, and most lasting of all human ties, let the names of Inismore and M be inseparably blended, and the distinc tions of English and Irish, of Protestant and Catholic, for ever buried. And, while you look forward with hope to this family alliance being prophetically typical of a national unity of inter- ests and affections between those who may be ‘actiously severed, but who are naturally allied, 'end your own indwidual efforts towards the con* summation of an event so devoutly to be wished by every liberal mind, by every benevolent heart. During my life, I would have you consider those estates as yours, which I possess in this THE WILD IRISH OIRL. 313 country ; and at my death such as are not entail- ed. But this consideration is to be indulged con- ditionally, on your spending eight months out of every twelve on that spot from whence the very nutrition of your existence is to be derived ; and in the bosom of those from whose labour and ex- ertion your independence and prosperity are to flow. Act not with the vulgar policy of vulgar greatness, by endeavouring to exact respect through the medium of self-wrapt reserve, proudly shut up in its own self-invested gran- deur ; nor think it can derogate from the dig- nity of the English landholder openly to appear in the midst of his Irish peasantry, with an eye beaming complacency, and a countenance smi- ling confidence, and inspiring what it expresses. Show them you do not distrust them, and they will not betray you, give them reason to believe you feel an interest in their welfare, and they will endeavour to promote yours even at the risk of their lives ; for the life of an Irishman weighs but light in the scale of consideration with his feelings; it is immolated without a murmur to the affections of his heart ; it is sacrificed with- out a sigh to the suggestions of his honour. Remember that you are not placed by despot- ism over a band of slaves, creatures of the soil and as such to be considered ; but by Provi- dence, over a certain portion of men, who, in common with the rest of their nation, are the de- scendants of a brave^ a free, and an enlightened JI4 THE WILD IRISH OIRL^ people. Be more anxious to remove ccmses than to punish effexts ; for trust me that it is only to “ Scotch the snake — not kill it,’’ to confiQ3 error,, and to awaken vengeance. Be cautious how you condemn ; be more cau* tious how you deride, but be ever watchful to moderate that ardent impetuosity which flows from the natural tone of the national character, which is the inseparable accompaniment of quick and acute feelings, which is the invariable concom- itant of constitutional sensibility : and remember that the same ardour of disposition, the same vehe- mence of soul, which indames their errors beyond the line of moderate failing, nurtures their better qualities beyond the growth of moderate excellence. Within the induence then of your own bound- ed circle, pursue those means of promoting the welfare of the individuals consigned to your care and protection, which lies within the scope of all those in whose hands the destinies of their less fortunate brethren are placed. Cherish by kind- ness into renovating life those national virtues, which though so often blighted in the full luxuri- ance of their vigorous blow by the fatality of cir- cumstances, have still been ever found vital at the root, which only want the nutritive beam of encouragement, the genial glow of condding af- fection, and the refreshing dew of tender com- miseration, to restore them to their pristine bloom and vigour: place the standard of support within their sphere ; and like the tender vine which has THE WILD IRISH GIRL. 215 been suffered bj neglect to waste its treasures on the sterile earth, you will behold them naturally turning and gratefully twining round the foster- ing stem, which rescues them from a cheerless and grovelling destiny: and when by justly and adequately rewarding the laborious exertions of that life devoted to your service, the source of their poverty shall be dried up, and the miseries that flowed from it shall be forgotten ; when the warm hand of benevolence shall have wiped away the cold dew of despondency from their brow j when reiterated acts of tenderness and humanity shall have thawed the ice which chills the native flow of their ardent feelings ^ and when the light of instruction shall have dispelled the gloom of ignorance and prejr.dice from their ne- glected minds, and their lightened hearts shall again throb with the cheery pulse of national •xility j — then, tlienij and not till then, will you behold the day star of national virtue rising brightly over the horizon of their happy exist- ence; while the felicity which has awakened to the touch of reason and humanity shall return back to, and increase the source from which it originally flowed : as the elements, which in gradual progress brighten into flame, terminate in a liquid light, which, reverberating in sympathy to its former kindred, genially warms and grate- fully cheers the whole order of universal nature. 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