LETTER XVII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I forgot to mention to you in my last, that to my utter joy andsurprise, our _premier_ here has been recalled. On the day of my return,he received a letter from his lord, desiring his immediate attendance inLondon, with all the rents he could collect; for I suppose the necessaryexpenditure requisite for my brother’s matrimonial establishment, willdraw pretty largely on our family treasury.
This change of things in our domestic politics has changed all my plansof operation. This arch spy being removed, obviates the necessity ofmy retreat to the Lodge. My establishment here consists only of twofemales, who scarcely speak a word of English; an old gardener, whopossesses not one _entire sense_, and a groom, who, having nothing todo, I shall discharge: so that if I should find it my pleasure to returnand remain any time at the castle of Inismore, I shall have no one hereto watch my actions, or report them to my father.
There is something Boeotian in this air. I can neither read, write,or think. Does not Locke assert, that the soul sometimes dozes? Ifrequently think I have been bit by a torpedo, or that I partake insome degree of the nature of the seven sleepers, and suffer a transientsuspension of existence. What if this Glorvina has an _evil eye_, andhas overlooked me? The witch haunts me, not only in my dreams, but when_I fancy myself_ at least, awake. A thousand times I think I hear thetones of her voice and harp. Does she feel my absence at the accustomedhour of tuition, the fire-side circle in the _Vengolf_ the twilightconversation, the noontide ramble?--Has my presence become a want toher? Am I missed, and missed with regret? It is scarcely vanity tosay, _I am--I must be_. In a life of so much sameness, the most trivialincident, the most inconsequent character obtains in interest in acertain degree.
One day I caught her weeping over a pet robin, which died on her bosom.She smiled, and endeavoured to hide her tears. “This is very silly Iknow,” said she, “but one must feel even the loss of a _bird_ that hasbeen the _companion of one’s solitude!_”
To-day I flung down my book in downright deficiency of comprehension tounderstand a word in it, though it was a simple case in the Reports of-------; and so, in the most _nonchalante_ mood possible, I mountedmy _rosinante_, and throwing the bridle over her neck, said, “pleasethyself;” and it was her pious pleasure to tread on consecrated ground:in short, after a ride of half an hour, I found myself within a fewpaces of the parish mass-house, and recollected that it was the Sabbathday; so that you see my mare reproved me, though in an oblique manner,with little less gravity than the ass of Balaam did his obstinate rider.
The mass-house was of the same order of architecture as the generalityof Irish cabins, with no other visible mark to ascertain its sacreddesignation than a stone cross, roughly hewn, over its entrance. I willnot say that it was merely a sentiment of piety which induced me toenter it; but it certainly required, at first, an effort of energy toobtain admittance, as for several yards round this simple tabernaclea crowd of _devotees_ were prostrated on the earth, praying over theirbeads with as much fervour as though they were offering up their orisinsin the golden-roofed temple of Soliman.
When I had fastened my horse’s bridle to a branch of a hawthorn, Iendeavoured to make my way through the pious crowd, who all arose themoment I appeared--for the _last mass_, I learned, was over, and thosewho had prayed _par hazard_, without hearing a word the priest saidwithin, departed. While I pressed my way into the body of the chapel, itwas so crowded that with great difficulty I found means to fix myselfby a large triangular stone vessel filled with holy water, where Ifortunately remained (during the sermon) unnoticed.
This sermon was delivered by a little old mendicant, in the Irishlanguage. Beside him stood the parish priest in pontifiealibus, and withas much self-invested dignity as the _dalai lama_ of Little Thibet couldassume before his votarists. When the shrivelled little mendicant hadharangued them some time on the subject of Christian charity, for so hiscountenance and action indicated, a general _secula seculorum_ concludedhis discourse; and while he meekly retreated a few paces, the priestmounted the steps of the little altar; and after preparing his lungs, hedelivered an oration, to which it would be impossible to do any justice.It was partly in Irish, partly in English; and intended to inculcate thenecessity of contributing to the relief of the mendicant preacher, ifthey hoped to have the benefit of his prayers; addressing each ofhis flock by their name and profession, and exposing their faults andextolling their virtues, according to the nature of their contributionsWhile the friar, who stood with his face to the wall, was with all humandiligence piously turning his beads to two accounts--with one half hewas making intercession for the souls of his good subscribers, andwith the other diligently keeping count of the sum total of theirbenefactions. As soon as I had sent in mine, almost stifled with heat, Ieffected my escape.
In contrasting this parish priest with the chaplain of Inismore, I couldnot help exclaiming with Epaminondas--“It is the _man_ who must givedignity to the situation--not the situation to the man.” Adieu.
H. M.