LETTER XVIII.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
“La solitude est certainement une belle chose, mais il-y-a plaisird’avoir quelqu’une qui en sache repondre, a qui on puis dire, lasolitude est une belle chose.”
So says Monsieur de Balsac, and so repeats my heart a thousand times aday. In short, I am devoured by _ennui_, by apathy, by discontent! Whatshould I do here? Nothing. I have spent but four days here, and allthe symptoms of my old disease begin to re-appear: in short, like otherimpatient invalids, I believed my cure was effected when my disease wasonly on the decline.
I must again fly to sip from the fountain of intellectual health atInismore, and receive the vivifying drops from the hand of the presidingpriestess, or stay here, and fall into an incurable atrophy of the heartand mind!
Having packed up a part of my wardrobe, and a few books, I sent themby a young rustic to the little _Villa di Marino_, and in about anhour after I followed myself. The old fisherman and his dame seemedabsolutely rejoiced to see me, and having laid my valise in their cabin,and dismissed my attendant, I requested they would permit their son tocarry my luggage as far as the next _cabaret_, where I expected a manand horse to meet me. They cheerfully complied, and I proceeded withmy _compagnon de voyage_ to a hut which lies half way between thefisherman’s and the castle. This hut they call a _Sheebin House_, and issomething inferior to a certain description of Spanish inn.
Although a little board informs the weary traveller he is only to expect“good dry lodgings,” yet the landlord contrives to let you know in an_entre nous_ manner, that he keeps some real _Inishone_, (or spirits,smuggled from a tract of country so called) for his particular friends.So having dismissed my second courier, and paid for the whiskey I didnot taste, and the potatoes I did not eat, I sent my host forward,mounted on a sorry mule, with my travelling equipage, to the cabin atthe foot of the drawbridge; and by these precautions obviated allpossibility of discovery.
As I now proceeded on my route, every progressive step awakened somenew emotion while my heart was agitated by those unspeakable littleflutterings which are alternately excited and governed by the ardour ofhope, or the timidity of fear. “And shall I, or shall I not be welcome?” was the problem which engaged my thoughts during the rest of my littlejourney.
As I descended the mountain, at whose base the peninsula of Inismorereposes, I perceived a form at some distance, whose drapery (“_nebulam lineam_”) seemed light as the breeze on which it floated. It isimpossible to mistake the figure of Glorvina, when its graces are calledforth by motion. I instantly alighted, and flew to meet her. She toosprang eagerly forward. We were almost within a few paces of each other,when she suddenly turned back and flew down the hill with the boundingstep of a fawn. This would have mortified another--I was charmed. Andthe bashful consciousness which repelled her advances, was almost asgrateful to my heart as the warm impulse which had nearly hurriedher into my arms.--How freshly does she still wear the first gloss ofnature!
In a few minutes, however, I perceived her return, leaning on the arm ofthe Father Director. You cannot conceive what a festival of the feelingsmy few days absence had purchased me. Oh! he knows nothing of thedoctrine of enjoyment, who does not purchase his pleasure at the expenseof temporary restraint. The good priest, who still retains something ofthe etiquette of his foreign education, embraced me _a la Française_.Glorvina, however, who _malhereusement_, was not reared in France,only offered me her _hand_, which I had not the courage to raise to myunworthy lip, although the cordial _cead mille a falta_ of her countryrevelled in her shining eyes, and and her effulgent countenance was litup with an unusual blaze of animation.
When we reached the castle the Prince sent for me to his room, andtold me, as he pressed my hand, that “his heart warmed at my sight.” Inshort, my return seems to have produced a carnival in the whole family.
You who know, that notwithstanding my late vitiated life, the simplepleasures of the heart were never dead to mine, may guess how highlygratifying to my feelings is this interest, which, independent of alladventitious circumstances of rank and fortune, I have awakened in thebosoms of these cordial, ingenuous beings.
The late insufferable reserve of Glorvina has given way to the mostbewitching (I had almost said _tender_) softness of manner.
As I descended from paying my visit to the Prince, I found her and thepriest in the hall.
“We are waiting for you,” said she--“there is no resisting the finenessof the evening.”
And as we left the door, she pointed towards the west and added--
“See--
“The weary sun hath made a golden set,
And by yon ruddy brightness of the clouds,
Gives tokens of a goodly day to-morrow.”
“O! apropos, Mr. Mortimer, you are returned in most excellent time--forto-morrow is the _first of May_.”
“And is the arrival of a guest,” said I, “on the _eve_ of that day afavourable omen?”
“The arrival of such a guest,” said she, “must be at least ominous ofhappiness. But the first of May is our great national festival; and you,who love to trace modern customs to ancient origins, will perhaps feelsome curiosity and interest to behold some of the rites of our heathensuperstitions still lingering among our present ceremonies.”
“What then,” said I, “have you, like the Greeks, the festivals of thespring among you?”
“It is certain,” said the priest, “that the ancient Irish sacrificedon the _first of May to Beal_, or the _Sun_; and that day, even at thisperiod, is called _Beal_.”
“By this idolatry to the god of Light and Song,” said I, “one wouldalmost suppose that Apollo was the tutelar deity of your island.”
“Why,” returned he, “Hecatæus tells us that the Hyperborean Islandwas dedicated to Apollo, and that most of its inhabitants were eitherpriests or bards, and I suppose you are not ignorant that we claim thehonour of being those happy Hyperboreans, which were believed by many tobe a fabulous nation.
“And if the peculiar favour of the god of Poetry and Song may beesteemed a sufficient proof, it is certain that our claims are notweak. For surely no nation under heaven was ever more enthusiasticallyattached to poetry and music than the Irish. Formerly every family hadits poet or bard, called Filea Crotaire; and, indeed, the very languageitself, seems most felicitously adapted to be the vehicle of poeticimages; for its energy, strength, expression, and luxuriancy, neverleave the bard at a loss for apposite terms to realize ‘the thick comingfancies of his genius.’” *
* Mr. O’Halloran informs us, that in a work entitled “Uiraceacht na Neaigios,” or Poetic Tales, above an hundred different species of Irish verse is exhibited. O’Molloy, in his Irish and Latin Grammar, has also given rules and specimens of our modes of versification, which may be seen in Dr. Linud’s Achaeologia.
“But,” said Glorvina, “the first of May was not the only festival heldsacred by the Irish to their tutelar deity; on the 24th of June theysacrificed to the Sun, to propitiate his influence in bringing the fruitto perfection and to this day those lingering remains of heathen ritesare performed with something of their ancient forms. ‘_Midsummer’sNight_,’ as it is called, is with us a night of universallumination--the whole country olazes: from the summit of every mountain,every hill, ascends the flame of the bonfire, while the unconsciousperpetuators of the heathen ceremony dance round the fire in circles, orholding torches to it made of straw, run with the burning brands wildlythrough the country with all the gay frenzy of so many Bacchantes. Butthough I adore our aspiring _Beal_ with all my soul, I worship ourpopular deity _Samhuin_ with all my heart--he is the god of the heart’sclose knitting socialities, for the domesticating month of November issacred to him.”
“And on its eve,” said the priest, “the great fire of _Samhuin_was illuminated, all the culinary fires in the kingdom being firstextinguished, as it was deemed sacrilege to awaken the winter’s socialflame, except by a spark snatched from this sacred fire, * and so
deeprooted are the customs of our forefathers among us, that the presentIrish have no other name for the month of November than _Samhuin_.
* To this day, the inferior Irish look upon bonfires as sacred; they say their prayers walking round them; the young dream upon their ashes, and the old steal away the fire to light up their domestic hearths with.
“Over our mythological accounts of this _winter god_, an almostimpenetrable obscurity seems to hover; but if _Samhuin_ is derived from_Samhfhuin_, as it is generally supposed, the term literally means thegathering or closing of summer; and, in fact, on the eve of the first ofNovember we make our offerings round the domestic altar, (the fireside)of such fruits as the lingering season affords, besides playing a numberof curious gambols, and performing many superstitious ceremonies, inwhich our young folk find great pleasure, and put great faith.”
“For my part,” said Glorvina, “I love all those old ceremonies whichforce us to be periodically happy, and look forward with no littleimpatience to the gay-hearted pleasures which to-morrow will bring inits train.”
The little post-boy has this moment tapped at my door for my letter, forhe tells me he sets off before dawn, that he may be back in time for thesport. It is now past eleven o’clock, but I could not resist giving youthis little scrap of Irish mythology, before I wished you good night.
H. M.