LETTER XVIII.

TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.

“La solitude est certainement une belle chose, mais il-y-a plaisir d’avoir quelqu’une qui en sache repondre, a qui on puis dire, la solitude est une belle chose.”

So says Monsieur de Balsac, and so repeats my heart a thousand times a day. In short, I am devoured by _ennui_, by apathy, by discontent! What should I do here? Nothing. I have spent but four days here, and all the symptoms of my old disease begin to re-appear: in short, like other impatient invalids, I believed my cure was effected when my disease was only on the decline.

I must again fly to sip from the fountain of intellectual health at Inismore, and receive the vivifying drops from the hand of the presiding priestess, or stay here, and fall into an incurable atrophy of the heart and mind!

Having packed up a part of my wardrobe, and a few books, I sent them by a young rustic to the little _Villa di Marino_, and in about an hour after I followed myself. The old fisherman and his dame seemed absolutely rejoiced to see me, and having laid my valise in their cabin, and dismissed my attendant, I requested they would permit their son to carry my luggage as far as the next _cabaret_, where I expected a man and horse to meet me. They cheerfully complied, and I proceeded with my _compagnon de voyage_ to a hut which lies half way between the fisherman’s and the castle. This hut they call a _Sheebin House_, and is something 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 did not 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 at the foot of the drawbridge; and by these precautions obviated all possibility of discovery.

As I now proceeded on my route, every progressive step awakened some new emotion; while my heart was agitated by those unspeakable little flutterings which are alternately excited and governed by the ardour of hope, 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 little journey.

As I descended the mountain, at whose base the peninsula of Inismore reposes, I perceived a form at some distance, whose drapery (“_ne bulam lineam_”) seemed light as the breeze on which it floated. It is impossible to mistake the figure of Glorvina, when its graces are called forth by motion. I instantly alighted, and flew to meet her. She too sprang eagerly forward. We were almost within a few paces of each other, when she suddenly turned back and flew down the hill with the bounding step of a fawn. This would have mortified another--I was charmed. And the bashful consciousness which repelled her advances, was almost as grateful to my heart as the warm impulse which had nearly hurried her into my arms.--How freshly does she still wear the first gloss of nature!

In a few minutes, however, I perceived her return, leaning on the arm of the Father Director. You cannot conceive what a festival of the feelings my few days absence had purchased me. Oh! he knows nothing of the doctrine of enjoyment, who does not purchase his pleasure at the expense of temporary restraint. The good priest, who still retains something of the 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 my unworthy lip, although the cordial _cead mille a falta_ of her country revelled in her shining eyes, and and her effulgent countenance was lit up with an unusual blaze of animation.

When we reached the castle the Prince sent for me to his room, and told me, as he pressed my hand, that “his heart warmed at my sight.” In short, my return seems to have produced a carnival in the whole family.

You who know, that notwithstanding my late vitiated life, the simple pleasures of the heart were never dead to mine, may guess how highly gratifying to my feelings is this interest, which, independent of all adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune, I have awakened in the bosoms of these cordial, ingenuous beings.

The late insufferable reserve of Glorvina has given way to the most bewitching (I had almost said _tender_) softness of manner.

As I descended from paying my visit to the Prince, I found her and the priest in the hall.

“We are waiting for you,” said she--“there is no resisting the fineness of 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--for to-morrow is the _first of May_.”

“And is the arrival of a guest,” said I, “on the _eve_ of that day a favourable omen?”

“The arrival of such a guest,” said she, “must be at least ominous of happiness. But the first of May is our great national festival; and you, who love to trace modern customs to ancient origins, will perhaps feel some curiosity and interest to behold some of the rites of our heathen superstitions still lingering among our present ceremonies.”

“What then,” said I, “have you, like the Greeks, the festivals of the spring among you?”

“It is certain,” said the priest, “that the ancient Irish sacrificed on the _first of May to Beal_, or the _Sun_; and that day, even at this period, is called _Beal_.”

“By this idolatry to the god of Light and Song,” said I, “one would almost suppose that Apollo was the tutelar deity of your island.”

“Why,” returned he, “Hecatæus tells us that the Hyperborean Island was dedicated to Apollo, and that most of its inhabitants were either priests or bards, and I suppose you are not ignorant that we claim the honour of being those happy Hyperboreans, which were believed by many to be a fabulous nation.

“And if the peculiar favour of the god of Poetry and Song may be esteemed a sufficient proof, it is certain that our claims are not weak. For surely no nation under heaven was ever more enthusiastically attached to poetry and music than the Irish. Formerly every family had its poet or bard, called Filea Crotaire; and, indeed, the very language itself, seems most felicitously adapted to be the vehicle of poetic images; for its energy, strength, expression, and luxuriancy, never leave the bard at a loss for apposite terms to realize ‘the thick coming fancies 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 held sacred by the Irish to their tutelar deity; on the 24th of June they sacrificed to the Sun, to propitiate his influence in bringing the fruit to perfection; and to this day those lingering remains of heathen rites are performed with something of their ancient forms. ‘_Midsummer’s Night_,’ as it is called, is with us a night of universal lumination--the whole country olazes: from the summit of every mountain, every hill, ascends the flame of the bonfire, while the unconscious perpetuators of the heathen ceremony dance round the fire in circles, or holding torches to it made of straw, run with the burning brands wildly through the country with all the gay frenzy of so many Bacchantes. But though I adore our aspiring _Beal_ with all my soul, I worship our popular deity _Samhuin_ with all my heart--he is the god of the heart’s close knitting socialities, for the domesticating month of November is sacred to him.”

“And on its eve,” said the priest, “the great fire of _Samhuin_ was illuminated, all the culinary fires in the kingdom being first extinguished, as it was deemed sacrilege to awaken the winter’s social flame, except by a spark snatched from this sacred fire, * and so deep rooted are the customs of our forefathers among us, that the present Irish 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 almost impenetrable obscurity seems to hover; but if _Samhuin_ is derived from _Samhfhuin_, as it is generally supposed, the term literally means the gathering or closing of summer; and, in fact, on the eve of the first of November we make our offerings round the domestic altar, (the fireside) of such fruits as the lingering season affords, besides playing a number of curious gambols, and performing many superstitious ceremonies, in which our young folk find great pleasure, and put great faith.”

“For my part,” said Glorvina, “I love all those old ceremonies which force us to be periodically happy, and look forward with no little impatience to the gay-hearted pleasures which to-morrow will bring in its train.”

The little post-boy has this moment tapped at my door for my letter, for he tells me he sets off before dawn, that he may be back in time for the sport. It is now past eleven o’clock, but I could not resist giving you this little scrap of Irish mythology, before I wished you good night.

H. M.