The Wild Irish Girl: A National Tale

by Lady Morgan

  LETTER VI.

  TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.

  I have already passed four days beneath this hospitable roof. On thethird, a slight fever with which I had been threatened passed off, myhead 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 beingswill not suffer me to leave my room, and still the nurse at intervalsgives me the pleasure of her society, and hums old _cronans_, or amusesme with what she calls a little _shanaos_, * as she plies her distaff;while the priest frequently indulges me with his interesting andintelligent conversation. The good man is a great logician, and fondof displaying his metaphysical prowess, where he feels that he isunderstood, and we diurnally go over _infinity, space_, and _duration_,with innate, simple, and complex idea, until our own are exhausted inthe discussion and then we generally relax with Ovid, or trifle withHorace and Tibullus, for nothing can be less austerely pious than thischeerful gentle being: nothing can be more innocent than his life;nothing more liberal than his sentiments.

  * A term in very general use in Ireland, and is applied to a kind of genealogical chit chat, or talking over family antiquity, family anecdotes, descent, alliances, &c., to which the lower, as well as the higher order of Irish in the provincial parts are much addicted.

  The Prince, too, has thrice honoured me with a visit. Althoughhe possesses nothing of the erudition which distinguishes hisall-intelligent chaplain, yet there is a peculiar charm, a spell in hisconversation, that is irresistibly fascinating; and chiefly arising, Ibelieve, from the curious felicity of his expressions, the originalityof the ideas they clothe, the strength and energy of his delivery, andthe enthusiasm and simplicity of his manners.

  He seems not so much to speak the English language, as literally totranslate the Irish; and he borrows so much and so happily from thepeculiar idiom of his vernacular tongue, that though his conversationwas deficient in matter, it would still possess a singular interest fromits manner. But it is far otherwise, there is indeed in the uncultivatedmind of this man, much of the _vivida vis anima_ of native genius, whichneither time nor misfortune has wholly damped, and which frequentlyflings the brightest coruscations of thought over the generally pensivetone that pervades his conversation. The extent of his knowledge onsubjects of national interest is indeed wonderful; his memory is rich inoral tradition, and most happily faithful to the history and antiquitiesof his country, which notwithstanding peevish complaints of itsdegeneracy, he still loves with idolatrous fondness. On these subjectshe is always borne away, but upon no subject does he speak with coolnessor moderation he is always in extremes, and the vehemence of hisgestures and looks ever corresponds to the energy of his expressions orsentiments. Yet he possesses an infinite deal of that _suavito in modo_,so prevailing and insinuating even among the lower classes ofthis country; and his natural, or I should rather say his nationalpoliteness, frequently induces him to make the art in which he supposesme to excel, the topic of our conversation. While he speaks in raptureof the many fine views this country affords to the genius of thepainter, he dwells with melancholy pleasure on the innumerable ruinedpalaces and abbeys which lay scattered amidst the richest scenes ofthis romantic province: he generally thus concludes with a melancholyapostrophe:

  “But the splendid dwelling of princely grandeur, the awful asylum ofmonastic piety, are just mouldering into oblivion with the memory ofthose they once sheltered. The sons of little men triumph over thosewhose arm was strong in war, and whose voice breathed no impotentcommand; and the descendant of the mighty chieftain has nothing left todistinguish him from the son of the peasant, but the decaying ruinsof his ancestor’s castle; while the blasts of a few storms, and thepressure of a few years, shall even of them leave scarce a wreck to tellthe traveller the mournful tale of fallen greatness.”

  When I showed him a sketch I had made of the castle of Inismore, on theevening I had first seen it from the mountain’s summit, he seemed muchgratified, and warmly commended its fidelity, shaking his head as hecontemplated it, and impressively exclaiming.

  “Many a morning’s sun has seen me climb that mountain in my boyishdays, to contemplate these ruins, accompanied by an old follower of thefamily, who possessed many strange stories of the feats of my ancestors,with which I was then greatly delighted. And then I dreamed of my armwielding the spear in war, and my hall resounding to the song of thebard, 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 rapidconvalescence) is no impediment to the exertions of my right, we havealready talked over the various views I am to take, and he enters intoevery little plan with that enthusiasm, which childhood betrays in thepursuit of some novel object, and seems wonderfully gratified in theidea of thus perpetuating the fast decaying features of this “timehonoured” edifice.

  The priest assures me, I am distinguished in a particular manner by thepartiality and condescension of the Prince.

  “As a man of genius,” said he this morning, “you have awakened astronger interest in his breast, than if you had presented him withletters patent of your nobility, except, indeed, you had derived themfrom _Milesius_ himself.”

  “An enthusiastic love of talent is one of the distinguishing featuresof the true ancient Irish character; and independent of your generalacquirements, your professional abilities, coinciding with his rulingpassion, secures you a larger portion of his esteem and regard than hegenerally lavishes upon any stranger, and almost incredible, consideringyou are an Englishman. But national prejudice ceases to operate whenindividual worth calls for approbation and an Irishman seldom asks orconsiders 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 ingratiating myself with thefather, the daughter (either self-wrapped in proud reserve, ordetermined to do away that temerity she may have falsely supposed hercondescension and pity awakened) has not appeared even at the door of mychamber with a charitable inquiry for my health, since our last silent,but eloquent interview; and I have lived for these three days on therecollection of those precious moments which gave her to my view, asI last beheld her, like the angel of pity hovering round the pillow ofmortal suffering.

  Ah! you will say, this is not the language of an apathist, of one “whomman delighteth not, nor _woman_ either.”

  But let not your vivid imagination thus hurry over at once the scaleof my feelings from one extreme to the other, forgetting the manyintermediate 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 amnot a whit more the lover.--Lover!--Preposterous! I am merely interestedfor this girl on a philosophical principle, I long to study the purelynational, natural character of an Irish woman: In fine, I long to beholdany woman in such lights and shades of mind, temper, and disposition, asnature has originally formed her in. Hitherto I have only met servilecopies, sketched by the finger of art and finished off by the polishedtouch of fashion I fear, however, that this girl is already spoiled bythe species of education she has received. The priest has more than oncespoke of her erudition! _Erudition!_ the pedantry of a school-boy of thethird class, I suppose. How much must a woman lose, and how little canshe gain, by that commutation which gives her our acquirements for herown graces! For my part, you know, I have always kept clear of the_basbleus_; and would prefer one playful charm of a _Ninon_ to all theclassic lore of a _Dacier_.

  But you will say, I could scarcely come off worse with the pedantsthan I did with the dunces; and you will say right. And, to confess thetruth, I believe I should have been easily led to desert the standardof the pretty _fools_, had female pedantry ever stole on my heart undersuch a form as the little _soi-disant_ Princess of Inis-more. ’Tisindeed, impossible to look _less_ like one who spouts Latin withthe priest of the parish than this same Glorvina. There is somethingbe
autifully wild about her air and look, that is indescribable; and,without a very perfect regularity of feature, she possesses thateffulgency of countenance, that bright _lumine purpureo_, which poetryassigns to the dazzling emanations of divine beauty. In short, thereare a thousand little fugitive graces playing around her, which are notbeauty, but the cause of it; and were I to personify the word _spell_,she should sit for the picture........ A thousand times she swims beforemy sight, as I last beheld her; her locks of living gold parting onher brow of snow, yet seeming to separate with reluctance, as they werelightly shaken off with that motion of the head, at once so infantileand graceful; a motion twice put into play, as her recumbent attitudepoured the luxuriancy of her tresses over her face and neck, for she wasunveiled, and a small gold bodkin was unequal to support the redundancyof that beautiful hair, which I more than once apostrophized in thewords of Petrarch:

  “Onde totse amor l’oro e di qual vena

  Per far due treccie bionde, &c.

  I understand a servant is dispatched once a week to the next post town,with and for letters; and this intelligence absolutely amazed me; for Iam 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 destined to be finishedand dispatched. On looking it over, the title of princes and princessso often occur, that I could almost fancy myself at the court of someforeign potentate, basking in the warm sunshine of regal favour, insteadof being the chance guest of a poor Irish gentleman, who lives on theproduce of a few rented farms, and, infected with a species of pleasantmania, believes himself as much a prince as the heir apparent ofboundless empire and exhaustless treasures.

  Adieu! Direct as usual: for though I certainly mean to accept theinvitation 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 theLodge, which now possesses a stronger magnet of attraction than when Ifirst fixed on it as my headquarters.