by Lady Morgan
LETTER IX.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I have already given two lessons to my pupil, in an art in which, withall due deference to the judgment of her quondam tutor, she was neverdestined to excel.
Not, however, that she is deficient in talent--very far from it; but itis too progressive, too tame a pursuit for the vivacity of her genius.It is not sufficiently connected with those lively and vehement emotionsof the soul she is so calculated to feel and to awaken. She was createdfor a musician--there she is borne away by the magic of the art in whichshe excels, and the natural enthusiasm of her impassioned character: shecan sigh, she can weep, she can smile over her harp. The sensibilityof her soul trembles in her song, and the expression of her raptcountenance harmonizes with her voice. But at her drawing-desk, herfeatures lose their animated character--the smile of rapture ceasesto play, and the glance of inspiration to beam. And with the transientextinction of those feelings from which each touching charm is derived,fades that all pervading interest, that energy of admiration which sheusually excites.
Notwithstanding, however, the pencil is never out of her hand; herharp lies silent, and her drawing-book is scarcely ever closed. Yetshe limits my attendance to the first hour after breakfast, and thenI generally lose sight of her the whole day, until we all meet_en-famille_ in the evening. Her improvement is rapid--her fatherdelighted, and she quite fascinated by the novelty of her avocation thepriest congratulates me, and I alone am dissatisfied.
But from the natural impatience and volatility of her character, (bothvery obvious,) this, thank Heaven! will soon be over. Besides, evenin the hour of tuition, from which I promised myself so much, I do notenjoy her society--the priest always devotes that time to reading out toher; and this too at her own request:--not that I think her innocent andunsuspicious nature cherishes the least reserve at her being left_tete-a-tete_ with her less venerable preceptor; but that her everactive mind requires incessant exercise; and in fact, while I am hangingover her in uncontrolled emotion, she is drawing, as if her livelihooddepended on the exertions of her pencil, or commenting on the subjectsof the priest’s perusal, with as much ease as judgment; while she mindsme no more than if I were a well organized piece of mechanism, by whosemotions her pencil was to be guided.
What if, with all her mind, all her genius, this creature had noheart!--And what were it to me, though she had?------
The Prince fancies his domestic government to be purely patriarchal,and that he is at once the “Law and the Prophet” to his family; neversuspecting that he is all the time governed by a girl of nineteen, whosesoul, notwithstanding the playful softness of her manner, containsa latent ambition, which sometimes breathing in the grandeur of hersentiment, and sometimes sparkling in the haughtiness of her eye, seemsto say, “I was born for empire!”
It is evident that the tone of her mind is naturally stronger than herfather’s, though to a common observe, _he_ would appeal a man ofnervous and masculine understanding; but the difference between them isthis--his energies are the energies of the passions--hers of the mind!
Like most other Princes, _mine_ is governed much by _favoritism_; and itis evident I already rank high on the list of partiality.
I perceive, however, that much of his predilection in my favour,arises from the coincidence of my present curiosity and taste with hisfavourite pursuits and national prejudices. Newly awakened, (perhapsby mere force of novelty,) to a lively interest for every thing thatconcerns a country I once thought so little worthy of considerationin short, convinced by the analogy of existing habits, with recordedcustoms, of the truth of those circumstances so generally ranked inthe apocryphal tales of the history of this vilified country; I havedetermined to resort to the witness of time, the light of truth, and thecorroboration of living testimony, in the study of a country which I ambeginning to think would afford to the mind of philosophy a rich subjectof analysis, and to the powers of poetic fancy a splendid series ofromantic detail.
“Sir William Temple,” says Dr. Johnson, “complains that Ireland isless known than any other country, as to its ancient state, because thenatives have little leisure, and less encouragement for enquiry; andthat a stranger, not knowing its language, has no ability.”
This impediment, however, shall not stand in the way of _one_ stranger,who is willing to offer up his national prejudices at the Altar ofTruth, and expiate the crime of an unfounded but habitual antipathy,by an impartial examination, and an unbiassed inquiry. In short, I haveactually began to study the language; and though I recollect to haveread the opinion of Temple, “that the Celtic dialect used by the nativeIrish is the purest and most original language that now remains yet Inever suspected that a language spoken _par routine_, and chiefly by thelower classes of society, could be acquired upon _principle_, until theother day, when I observed in the Prince’s truly national library somephilological works, which were shown me by Father John, who has offeredto be my preceptor in this wreck of ancient dialect, and who assures mehe will render me master of it in a short time--provided I study _conamore_.
“And I will assist you,” said Glorvina.
“We will _all_ assist him,” said the Prince.
“Then I shall study _con amore_ indeed!” returned I.
Behold me then, buried amidst the monuments of past ages!--deep inthe study of the language, history, and antiquities of thisancient nation--talking of the invasion of Henry II, as a recentcircumstance--of the Phoenician migration hither from Spain, as thoughmy grandfather had been delegated by Firbalgs to receive the Milesianson their landing--and of those transactions passed through
“The dark posterns of time long elapsed,”
as though their existence was but freshly registered in the annate ofrecollection.
In short, infected by my antiquarian conversation with the Prince, andhaving fallen in with some of those monkish histories which, on thestrength of Druidical tradition, trace a series of wise and learnedIrish monarchs before the flood, I am beginning to have as much faithin antediluvian records as Dr. Parsons himself, who accuses _Adam of_authorship, or Thomas Bangius, who almost gives _fac similies_ of thehand-writing of Noah’s progenitors.
Seriously, however, I enter on my new studies with avidity, and readfrom the morning’s first dawn till the usual hour of breakfast, which isbecome to me as much the banquet of the heart, as the Roman supper wasto the Agustan wits “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,”--for itis the only meal at which Glorvina presides.
Two hours each day does the kind priest devote to my philologicalpursuits, while Glorvina, who is frequently present on these occasionsmakes me repeat some short poem or song after her, that I may catch thepronunciation, (which is almost unattainable,) then translates them intoEnglish, which I word for word write down. Here then is a specimenof Irish poetry, which is almost always the effusion of some blinditinerent bard, or some rustic minstrel, into whose breast the genius ofhis country has breathed inspiration, as he patiently drove the plough,or laboriously worked in the bog. *
CATHBEIN NOLAN.
I.
“My love, when she floats on the mountain’s brow, is like the dewy cloudof the summer’s loveliest evening. Her forehead is asa pearl; her spirallocks are of gold; and I grieve that I cannot banish her from my memory.”
II.
“When she enters the forest like the bounding doe, dispersing the dewwith her airy steps, her mantle on her arm, the axe in her hand to cutthe branches of flame; I know not which is the most noble--the King ofthe Saxons, ** or Cathbein Nolan.”
* Miss Brooks, in her elegant version of the works of some of the Irish Bards, says, “’Tis scarcely possible that any language can be more adapted to lyric poetry than the Irish; so great is the smoothness and harmony of its numbers; it is also possessed of a refined delicacy, a descriptive power, and an exquisite tender simplicity of expression: two or three little artless words, or perhaps a single epithet, will sometimes convey such an image of sentiment or suffering to
the mind, that one lays down the book to look at the picture.”
** The King of England is called by the common Irish “Riagh Sasseanach.”
This little song is of so ancient a date, that Glorvina assuresme, neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitelybeautiful) nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if wemay judge of the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must havebeen of a very humble degree; for it is evident that the fair Cathbein,whose form is compared, in splendour, to that of the Saxon monarch, isrepresented as cutting wood for the fire.
The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modernIrish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composedthem, possess the _arioso_ elegance of Italian music, united to theheartfelt pathos of Irish melody.
* He was born in the village of Nobber, county of Westmeath, in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted the loss of sight, but used gaily to say, “my eyes are only transplanted into my ears.” Of his poetry, the reader may form some judgment from these examples. Of his music, it has been said by O’Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew him intimately, “so happy, so elevated was he in some of his compositions, that he excited the wonder, and obtained the approbation of a great master who never saw him, I mean Geminiani.” His execution on the harp was rapid and expressive--far beyond that of all the professional competitors of the age in which he lived. The charms of women, the pleasures of conviviality, and the power of poesy and music, were at once his theme and inspiration and his life was an illustration of his theory, for until his last ardour was chilled by death, he loved, drank and sung. He was a welcome guest to every house, from the peasant to the prince; but in the true wandering spirit of his profession, he never staid to exhaust that welcome.
I.
“I must sing of the youthful plant of gentlest mien--Fanny, thebeautiful and warm soul’d--the maid of the amber twisted ringlets;the air lifted and light footed virgin--the elegant pearl and heart’streasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour--let us enjoy it indrinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.”
II.
“It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of theshore--for whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful,whose tresses are like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like theblackbird’s morning song: O, may I never leave the world until dancingin the air (this expression in the Irish is beyond the power oftranslation) at her wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking toFanny, the daughter of David.” *
* She was daughter to David Power, Esq., of the county Galway, and mother to the late Lord Cloncarty. The epithet bestowed on her of “Swan of the shore,” arose from her father’s mansion being situated on the edge of Lough Leah, or the grey lake, of which many curious legends are told.
GRACY NUGENT.
I.
“I delight to talk of thee! blossom of fairness! Gracy, the mostfrolicsome of the young and lovely--who from the fairest of the provincebore away the palm of excellence--happy is he who is near her, formorning nor evening grief, nor fatigue, cannot come near him; hermien is like the mildness of a beautiful dawn; and her tresses flow intwisted folds--she is the daughter of the branches.--Her neck has thewhiteness of alabaster--the softness of the cygnet’s bosom is hers; andthe glow of the summer’s sunbeam is on her countenance. Oh! blessed ishe who shall obtain thee, fair daughter of the blossoms--maid of thespiry locks!”
II.
“Sweet is the word of her lip, and sparkling the beam of her bluerolling eye; and close round her neck cling the golden tresses of herhead: and her teeth are arranged in beautiful order. I say to the maidof youthful mildness, thy voice is sweeter than the song of birds;every grace, every charm play round thee; and though my soul delights tosing thy praise, yet I must quit the theme--to drink with a sincereheart to thy health, Gracy of the soft waving ringlets.”
Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fairGracy, recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, inhis beautiful epithalamium on her marriage?--
“She is like the rising of the golden morning, when the night departeth,and when the winter is over and gone--she resembleth the cypress in thegarden, the horse in the chariot of Thessaly.”
While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure whichbreathes over the termination of every verse, glows with the festivespirit of the Tean bard.
When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between theearly Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with asmile, “In drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter mynational vanity; but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesianpoetry to a higher source than the spring of Grecian genius; for manyfigures in Irish song are of Oriental origin; and the bards who ennobledthe train of our Milesian founders, and who awakened the soul of songhere, seem, in common with the Greek poets, ‘to have kindled theirpoetic fires at those unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb oforiental genius.’ Let me, however, assure you, that no adequate versionof an Irish poem can be given; for the peculiar construction of theIrish language, the felicity of its epithets, and force of itsexpressions, bid defiance to all translation.”
“But while your days and nights are thus devoted to Milesianliterature,” you will say, “what becomes of Blackstone and Coke?”
Faith, e’en what may for me--the mind, the mind, like the heart, is notto be forced in its pursuits; and, I believe, in an intellectual, asin a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason maycondemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana; and mypresent studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate theappetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to aprofession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature revolts;and if my father persists in his determination, why, as a _dernierresort_, I must turn historiographer to the prince of Inismore.------Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “vital inevery part:”
“All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear.
All intellect, all sense.”
