LETTER XIX.

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

All the life-giving spirit of spring, mellowed by the genial glow of summer, shed its choicest treasures on the smiling hours which yesterday ushered in the most delightful of the seasons.

I arose earlier than usual; the exility of my mind would not suffer me to rest, and the scented air, as it breathed its odours through my open casement, seduced me abroad. I walked as though I scarcely touched the earth, and my spirit seemed to ascend like the lark which soared over my head to hail the splendour of the dewy dawn. There is a fairy vale in the little territories of Inismore, which is almost a miniature _Tempe_, and which is indeed the only spot on the peninsula where the luxuriant charms of the most bounteous nature are evidently improved by taste and cultivation. In a word, it is a spot sacred to the wanderings of Glorvina. It was there our theological discourse was held on the evening of my return, and thither my steps were now with an irresistible impulse directed.

I had scarcely entered this Eden, when the form of the Eve, to whose picturesque fancy it owes so many charms presented itself. She was standing at a little distance _en profile_--with one hand she supported a part of her drapery filled with wild flowers, gathered ere the sun had kissed off the tears which night had shed upon their bosom; with the other she seemed carefully to remove some branches that entwined themselves through the sprays of a little hawthorn hedge richly embossed with the firstborn blossoms of May.

As I stole towards her, I exclaimed, as Adam did when he first saw Eve--

“---Behold her,

Such as I saw her in my dream adorned,

With all that earth or heaven could bestow.

She started and turned round, and in her surprise let fall her flowers, yet she smiled, and seemed confused--but pleasure, pure, animated, life-breathing pleasure, was the predominant expression of her countenance. The Deity of Health was never personified in more glowing colours--her eye’s rich blue, her cheek’s crimson blush, her lip’s dewy freshness, the wanton wildness of her golden tresses, the delicious langour that mellowed the fire of her beamy glance--I gazed, and worshipped! but neither apologized for my intrusion, nor had the politeness to collect her scattered flowers.

“If Nature,” said I, “had always such a priestess to preside at her altar, who would worship at the shrine of Art?”

“I am her votarist only,” she replied, smiling, and, pointing to a wild rose which had just begun to unfold its blushing breast amidst the snowy blossoms of the hedge--added, “see how beautiful! how orient its hue appears through the pure crystal of the morning dew-drop! It is nearly three weeks since I first discovered it in the germ, since when I have screened it from the noonday ardours, and the evening’s frost, and now it is just bursting into perfection to reward my cares.”

At these words, she plucked it from the stem. Its crimson head drooped with the weight of the gems that spangled it. Glorvina did not shake them off, but imbibed the liquid fragrance with her lip; then held the flower to me!

“Am I to pledge you?” said I.

She smiled, and I quaffed off the fairy nectar, which still trembled on the leaves her lip had consecrated.

“We have now,” said I, “_both_ drank from the same cup; and if the delicious draught which Nature has prepared for us, circulates with mutual effect through our veins--If”--I paused, and cast down my eyes. The hand which still sustained the rose, and was still clasped in mine, seemed to tremble with an emotion scarcely inferior to that which thrilled through my whole frame.

After a minute’s pause--“Take the rose,” said Glorvina, endeavouring to extricate the precious hand which presented it--“Take it; it is the first of the season! My father has had his snowdrop--the confessor his violet--and it is but just you should have your _rose_.”

At that moment the classical remark of the priest rushed, I believe, with mutual influence, to both our hearts. I, at least, was borne away by the rapturous feelings of the moment, and knelt to receive the offering of my lovely votarist.

I kissed the sweet and simple tribute with pious ardour; but with a devotion more fervid, kissed the hand that presented it. I would not have exchanged that moment for the most pleasurable era of my existence. The blushing radiance that glowed on her cheek, sent its warm suffusion even to the hand I had violated with my unhallowed lip; while the sparkling fluid of her eyes, turned on mine in almost dying softness, beamed on the latent powers of my once-chilled heart, and awakened there a thousand delicious transports, a thousand infant wishes and chaste desires, of which I lately thought its worn-out feelings were no longer susceptible.

As I arose, I plucked off a small branch of that myrtle which here grows wild, and which, like my rose, was dripping in dew, and putting it into the hand I still held, said, “This offering is indeed less beautiful, less fragrant, than that which you have made; but remember, it is also less _fragile_--for the sentiment of which it is an emblem, carries with it an eternity of duration.”

Glorvina took it in silence and placed it in her bosom; and in silence we walked together towards the castle; while our eyes, now timidly turned on each other, now suddenly averted (O, the insidious danger of the abruptly downcast eye!) met no object but what breathed of love, whose soul seemed

“--Sent abroad,

Warm through the vital air, and on the heart

Harmonious seiz’d.”

The morning breeze flushed with etherial fervour; the luxury of the landscape through which we wandered, the sublimity of those stupendous cliffs which seemed to shelter two hearts from the world, to which their profound feelings were unknown, while

--Every copse

Deep tangled, but irregular, and bush,

Bending with dewy moisture o’er the head,

Of the coy choiristers that lodged within,

Were prodigal of harmony,”

and crowned imagination’s wildest wish, and realized the fancy’s warmest vision.

“Oh! my sweet friend!” I exclaimed, “since now I feel myself entitled thus to call you--well indeed might your nation have held this day sacred; and while the heart, which now throbs with an emotion to which it has hitherto been a stranger, beats with the pulse of life, on the return of this day will it make its offering to that glorious orb, to whose genial nutritive beams this precious rose owes its existence.”

As I spoke, Father John suddenly appeared. Vexed as I was at this unseasonable intrusion, yet in such perfect harmony was my spirit with the whole creation, that, in the true hyperbola of Irish cordiality, I wished him a thousand happy returns of this season!

“Spoken like a true-born Irishman!” said the priest, laughing, and shaking me heartily by the hand--“While with something of the phlegm of an Englishman, I wish you only as many returns of it as shall bring health and felicity in their train.”

Then looking at the myrtle which reposed on the bosom of Glorvina, and the rose which I so proudly wore, he added--“So, I perceive you have both been sacrificing to _Beal_; and like the priests and priestesses of this country in former times, are adorned with the flowers of the season. For you must know, Mr. Mortimer, _we_ had our Druidesses as well as our Druids; and both, like the ministers of Grecian mythology, were crowned with flowers at the time of sacrifice.”

At this apposite remark of the good priest, I stole a glance at _my_ lovely priestess. Hero, at the altar of the deity she rivalled, never looked more attractive to the enamoured Leander.

We had now come within a few steps of the portals of the castle, and I observed that since I passed that way, the path and entrance were strewed with green flags, rushes, and wild crocuses; * while the heavy framework of the door was hung with garlands, and bunches of flowers, tastefully displayed.

* “Seeing the doors of the Greeks on the first of May, profusely ornamented with flowers, would certainly recall to your mind the many descriptions of that custom which you have met with in the Greek and Latin poets.--Letters on Greece, by Moniseur Da Guys, vol i. p. 153.

“This, madam,” said I to Glorvina, “is doubtless the result of your happy taste.”

“By no means,” she replied--“this is a custom prevalent among the peasantry time immemorial.”

“And most probably was brought hither,” said the priest, “from Greece by our Phonician progenitors: for we learn from Athenæus, that the young Greeks hung garlands on the doors of their favourite mistresses on the first of May. Nor indeed does the Roman _floralia_ differ in any respect from ours.”

“Those, however, which you now admire,” said Glorvina, smiling, “are no offerings of rustic gallantry; for every hut in the country, on this morning, will bear the same fanciful decorations. The wild crocus, and indeed every flower of that rich tint, is peculiarly sacred to this day.”

And, in fact, when, in the course of the day, I rambled out alone, and looked into the several cabins, I perceived not only their floors covered with flags and rushes, but a “Maybush,” as they call it, or small tree, planted before all the doors, covered with every flower the season affords.

I saw nothing of Glorvina until evening, except for a moment, when I perceived her lost over a book, (as I passed her closet window) which, by the Morocco binding, I knew to be the Letters of the impassioned Heloise. Since her society was denied me, I was best satisfied to resign her to Rosseau. _Apropos!_ it was among the books I brought hither; and they were all precisely such books as Glorvina had _not_ yet _should_ read, that she may know herself, and the latent sensibility of her soul. They have, of course, all been presented to her, and consist of “_La Nouvelle Hel oise_” de Rosseau--the unrivalled “_Lettres sur la Mythologie_” de Moustier--the “_Paul et Virginie_” of St. Pierre--the _Werter_ of Goethe--the _Dolhreuse_ of Lousel, and the _Attilla_ of Chateaubriand. Let our English novels carry away the prize of morality from the romantic fictions of every other country; but you will find they rarely seize on the imagination through the medium of the heart; and as for their heroines, I confess, that though they are the most perfect beings, they are also the most stupid. Surely, virtue would not be the less attractive for being united to genius and the graces.

But to return to the never-to-be-forgotten _first of May!_ Early in the evening the Prince, his daughter, the priest, the bard, the old nurse, and indeed all the household of Inismore, adjourned to the vale, which being the only level ground on the peninsula, is always appropriated to the sports of the rustic neighbours. It was impossible I should enter this vale without emotion; and when I beheld it crowded with the vulgar throng, I felt as if it were profanation for the

“Sole of unblest feet!”

to tread that ground sacred to the most refined emotions of the heart.

Glorvina, who walked on before the priest and me, supporting her father, as we entered the vale stole a glance at me; and a moment after, as I opened the little wicket through which we passed, I murmured in her ear--_La val di Rosa!_

We found this charming spot crowded with peasantry of both sexes and all ages. * Since morning they had planted a Maybush in the centre, which was hung with flowers, and round the seats appropriated to the Prince and his family, the flag, crocus, and primrose, were profusely scattered. Two blind fiddlers, and an excellent piper, ** were seated under the shelter of the very hedge which had been the nursery of my precious rose; while the old bard, with true druidical dignity sat under the shade of a venerable oak, near his master.

* In the summer of 1802, the author was present at a rural festival at the seat of a highly respected friend in Tipperary, from which this scene is partly copied.

** Although the bagpipe is not an instrument indigenous to Ireland, it holds a high antiquity in the country. It was the music of the Kearns, in the reign of Edward the Third. [See Smith’s History of Cork, page 43.] It is still the favourite accompaniment of those mirthful exertions with which laborious poverty crowns the temporary cessation of its weekly toil, and the cares and solicitudes of the Irish peasant ever dissipate to the spell which breathes in the humorous drones of the Irish pipes. To Scotland we are indebted for this ancient instrument, who received it from the Romans; but to the native musical genius of Ireland are we indebted for its present form and improved state. ‘That at present in use in Ireland,’ says Dr. Burney, in a letter to J. C. Walker, Esq., is an improved bagpipe, on which I have heard some of the natives play very well in two parts, without the drone, which, I believe, is never attempted in Scotland The tone of the lower notes resembles that of an hautboy or clarionet, and the high notes, that of a German flute: and the whole scale of one I heard lately was very well in tune, which has never been the case of any Scottish bagpipe that I have yet heard.”

The sports began with a wrestling match; * and in the gymnastic exertions of the youthful combatants there was something, I thought, of Spartan energy and hardihood.

* The young Irish peasantry particularly prize themselves on this species of exertion: they have almost reduced it to a science, by dividing it into two distinct species--the one called “sparnaight,” engages the arms only; the other, “carriaght,” engages the whole body.

But as “breaking of ribs is no sport for ladies,” Glorvina turned from the spectacle in disgust; which I wished might have been prolonged, as it procured me (who leaned over her seat) her undivided attention; but it was too soon concluded, though without any disagreeable consequences, for neither of the combatants were hurt, though one was laid prostrate. The victorious wrestler was elected King of the May; and, with “all his blushing honours thick upon him,” came timidly forward, and laid his rural crown at the feet of Glorvina. Yet he evidently seemed intoxicated with his happiness, and though he scarcely touched the hand of his blushing, charming nueen, yet I perceived a thousand saucy triumphs basking in his fine black eyes, as he led her out to dance. The fellow was handsome too. I know not why, but I could have knocked him down with all my heart.

“Every village has its Cæsar,” said the priest, “and this is ours. He has been elected King of the May for these five years successively He is second son to our old steward, and a very worthy, as well as a very fine young fellow.”

“I do not doubt his worth,” returned I, peevish ly, “but it certainly cannot exceed the condescension of his young mistress.”

“There is nothing singular in it, however,” said the priest. “Among us, over such meetings as these, inequality of rank holds no _obvious_ jurisdiction, though in fact it is not the less regarded; and the condescension of the master or mistress on these occasions, lessens nothing of the respect of the servant upon every other; but rather secures it, through the medium of gratitude and affection.” The piper had now struck up one of those lilts, whose mirth-inspiring influence it is almost impossible to resist.* The Irish jig, above every other dance, leaves most to the genius of the dancer; and Glorvina, above all the women I have ever seen, seems most formed by nature to exce in the art. Her little form, pliant as that of an Egyptian _alma_, floats before the eye in all the swimming langour of the most graceful motion, or all the gay exility of soul-inspired animation. She even displays an exquisite degree of comic humour in some of the movements of her national dance: and her eyes, countenance, and air express the wildest exhilaration of pleasure, and glow with all the spirit of health, mirth, and exercise.

* Besides the Irish jig, tradition has rescued from that oblivion which time has hung over the ancient Irish dance, the _rinceadh fada_, which answers to the festal dance of the Greeks; and the _rinceadh_, or war dance, “which seems,” says Mr. Walker, “to have been of the nature of the armed dance, which is so ancient, and with which the Grecian youth amused themselves during the seige of Troy.” Previous to the adoption of the French style in dancing, Mr. O’Halloran asserts, that both our private and public balls always concluded with the “rinceadh-fada.” On the arrival of James the Second at Kinsale, his adherents received the unfortunate prince on the shore with this dance, with whose taste and execution he was infinitely delighted: and even still, in the county of Limerick and many other parts of Ireland, the “rinceadh-fada” is danced on the eve of May.

I was so struck with the grace and elegance of her movements, the delicacy of her form, and the play of her drapery gently agitated by the air, that I involuntarily gave to my admiration an audible existence.

“Yes,” said the priest, who overheard me, “she performs her national dance with great grace and spirit. But the Irish are all dancers; and, like the Greeks, we have no idea of any festival here which does not conclude with a dance; * old and young, rich and poor, all join here in the sprightly dance.”

* “The passion of the Greeks for dancing is common to both sexes, who neglect every other consideration when they have an opportunity of indulging that passion.”

Glorvina, unwearied, still continued to dance with unabated spirit, and even seemed governed by the general principle which actuates all the Irish dancers--of not giving way to any competitor in the exertion; for she actually outdanced her partner, who had been jigging with all his _strength_, while she had only been dancing with all her _soul_; and when he retreated, she dropped a simple curtsey (according to the laws of jig-dancing here) to another young rustic, whose seven league brogues finally prevailed, and Glorvina at last gave way, while he made a scrape to a rosy cheeked, barefooted damsel, who out jigged him and his two successors; and thus the chain went on.

Glorvina, as she came panting and glowing towards me, exclaimed, “I have done my duty for the evening;” and threw herself on a seat, breathless and smiling.

“Nay,” said I, “more than your duty; for you even performed a work of supererogation.” And I cast a pointed look at the young rustic who had been the object of her election.

“O!” she replied, eagerly--“it is the custom here, and I should be sorry, for the indulgence of an overstrained delicacy, to violate any of those established rules to which, however trifling, they are devotedly attached. Besides, you perceive,” she added, smiling, “this condescension on the part of the females, who are thus ‘won unsought,’ does not render the men more presumptuous. You see what a distance the youth of both sexes preserve--a distance which always exists in these kind of public meetings.”

And, in fact, the lads and lasses were ranged opposite to each other, with no other intercourse than what the communion of the eyes afforded, or the transient intimacy of the jig bestowed. *

* This custom, so prevalent in some parts of Ireland, is of a very ancient origin. We read in Keating’s History of Ireland, that in the remotest periods, when the Irish brought their children to the fair of Tailtean, in order to dispose of them in marriage, the strictest order was observed; the men and women having distinct places assigned them at a certain distance from each other.

“And will you not dance a jig?” asked Glorvina.

“I seldom dance,” said I--“Ill health has for some time back coincided with my inclination, which seldom led me to try my skill at the _Poetry of motion?_”

“Poetry of motion!” repeated Glorvina--“What a beautiful idea!”

“It is so,” said I, “and if it had been my own, it must have owed its existence to you; for your dancing is certainly the true poetry of motion, and _Epic_ poetry too.”

“I love dancing with all my heart,” she replied: “when I dance I have not a care on earth--every thing swims gaily before me; and I feel as swiftly borne away in a vortex of pleasurable sensation.”

“Dancing,” said I, “is the talent of your sex--that pure grace which must result from a symmetrical form, and that elixity of temperament which is the effect of woman’s delicate organization, creates you dancers. And while I beheld your performances this evening, I no longer wondered that the gravity of Socrates could not resist the spell which lurked in the graceful motions of Aspasia, but followed her in the mazes of the dance.”

She bowed, and said, I “flattered too agreeably, not to be listened to with _pleasure_, if not with _faith_.”

In short, I have had a thousand occasions to observe, that while she receives a decided compliment with the ease of almost _bon ton nonchalance_, a look, a broken sentence, a word, has the power of overwhelming her with confusion, or awakening all the soul of emotion in her bosom. All this I can understand.

As the dew of the evening now began to fall, the invalid Prince and his lovely daughter arose to retire. And those who had been rendered so happy by their condescension, beheld their retreat with regret, and followed them with blessings. Whiskey, milk, and oaten bread were now distributed in abundance by the old nurse and the steward; and the dancing was recommenced with new ardour.

The priest and I remained behind, conversing with the old and jesting with the young--he in Irish, and I in English, with such as understood it. The girls received my little gallantries with considerable archness, and even with some point of repartee; while the priest rallied them in their own way, for he seems as playful as a child among them, though evidently worshipped as a sakit. And the moon rose resplendently over the vale, before it was restored to its wonted solitary silence.

*****

Glorvina has made the plea of a headache these two mornings back, for playing the truant at her drawing desk; but the fact is, her days and nights are devoted to the sentimental sorcery of Rosseau, and the effects of her studies are visible in her eyes. When we meet, her glance sinks beneath the ardour of mine in soft confusion; her manner is no longer childishly playful, or carelessly indifferent, and sometimes a sigh, scarce breathed, is discovered by the blush which glows on her cheek for the inadvertency of her lip. Does she, then, begin to feel she has a heart? Does “_Le besoin de l’ame tendre_,” already throb with vague emotion in her bosom? Her abstracted air, her delicious melancholy, her unusual softness, betray the nature of the feelings by which she is overwhelmed--they are new to herself; and sometimes I fancy, when she turns her melting eyes on me, it is to solicit their meaning. O! if I dared become the interpreter between her and her heart--if I dared indulge myself in the hope, the belief that---- and what then? ’Tis all folly, ’tis madness, ’tis worse! But whoever yet rejected the blessing for which his soul thirsted?--And in the scale of human felicities, if there is one in which all others is summed up--above all others supremely elevated--it is the consciousness of having awakened the first sentiment of the sweetest, the sublimest of all passions, in the bosom of youth, genius, and sensibility.

Adieu, H. M.