LETTER IX.

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

I have already given two lessons to my pupil, in an art in which, with all due deference to the judgment of her quondam tutor, she was never destined to excel.

Not, however, that she is deficient in talent--very far from it; but it is too progressive, too tame a pursuit for the vivacity of her genius. It is not sufficiently connected with those lively and vehement emotions of the soul she is so calculated to feel and to awaken. She was created for a musician--there she is borne away by the magic of the art in which she excels, and the natural enthusiasm of her impassioned character: she can sigh, she can weep, she can smile over her harp. The sensibility of her soul trembles in her song, and the expression of her rapt countenance harmonizes with her voice. But at her drawing-desk, her features lose their animated character--the smile of rapture ceases to play, and the glance of inspiration to beam. And with the transient extinction of those feelings from which each touching charm is derived, fades that all pervading interest, that energy of admiration which she usually excites.

Notwithstanding, however, the pencil is never out of her hand; her harp lies silent, and her drawing-book is scarcely ever closed. Yet she limits my attendance to the first hour after breakfast, and then I generally lose sight of her the whole day, until we all meet _en-famille_ in the evening. Her improvement is rapid--her father delighted, and she quite fascinated by the novelty of her avocation; the priest congratulates me, and I alone am dissatisfied.

But from the natural impatience and volatility of her character, (both very obvious,) this, thank Heaven! will soon be over. Besides, even in the hour of tuition, from which I promised myself so much, I do not enjoy her society--the priest always devotes that time to reading out to her; and this too at her own request:--not that I think her innocent and unsuspicious nature cherishes the least reserve at her being left _tete-a-tete_ with her less venerable preceptor; but that her ever active mind requires incessant exercise; and in fact, while I am hanging over her in uncontrolled emotion, she is drawing, as if her livelihood depended on the exertions of her pencil, or commenting on the subjects of the priest’s perusal, with as much ease as judgment; while she minds me no more than if I were a well organized piece of mechanism, by whose motions her pencil was to be guided.

What if, with all her mind, all her genius, this creature had no heart!--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; never suspecting that he is all the time governed by a girl of nineteen, whose soul, notwithstanding the playful softness of her manner, contains a latent ambition, which sometimes breathing in the grandeur of her sentiment, and sometimes sparkling in the haughtiness of her eye, seems to say, “I was born for empire!”

It is evident that the tone of her mind is naturally stronger than her father’s, though to a common observe, _he_ would appeal a man of nervous and masculine understanding; but the difference between them is this--his energies are the energies of the passions--hers of the mind!

Like most other Princes, _mine_ is governed much by _favoritism_; and it is 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 his favourite pursuits and national prejudices. Newly awakened, (perhaps by mere force of novelty,) to a lively interest for every thing that concerns a country I once thought so little worthy of consideration; in short, convinced by the analogy of existing habits, with recorded customs, of the truth of those circumstances so generally ranked in the apocryphal tales of the history of this vilified country; I have determined to resort to the witness of time, the light of truth, and the corroboration of living testimony, in the study of a country which I am beginning to think would afford to the mind of philosophy a rich subject of analysis, and to the powers of poetic fancy a splendid series of romantic detail.

“Sir William Temple,” says Dr. Johnson, “complains that Ireland is less known than any other country, as to its ancient state, because the natives have little leisure, and less encouragement for enquiry; and that 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 of Truth, and expiate the crime of an unfounded but habitual antipathy, by an impartial examination, and an unbiassed inquiry. In short, I have actually began to study the language; and though I recollect to have read the opinion of Temple, “that the Celtic dialect used by the native Irish is the purest and most original language that now remains yet I never suspected that a language spoken _par routine_, and chiefly by the lower classes of society, could be acquired upon _principle_, until the other day, when I observed in the Prince’s truly national library some philological works, which were shown me by Father John, who has offered to be my preceptor in this wreck of ancient dialect, and who assures me he will render me master of it in a short time--provided I study _con amore_.

“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 in the study of the language, history, and antiquities of this ancient nation--talking of the invasion of Henry II, as a recent circumstance--of the Phoenician migration hither from Spain, as though my grandfather had been delegated by Firbalgs to receive the Milesians on 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 of recollection.

In short, infected by my antiquarian conversation with the Prince, and having fallen in with some of those monkish histories which, on the strength of Druidical tradition, trace a series of wise and learned Irish monarchs before the flood, I am beginning to have as much faith in antediluvian records as Dr. Parsons himself, who accuses _Adam of_ authorship, or Thomas Bangius, who almost gives _fac similies_ of the hand-writing of Noah’s progenitors.

Seriously, however, I enter on my new studies with avidity, and read from the morning’s first dawn till the usual hour of breakfast, which is become to me as much the banquet of the heart, as the Roman supper was to the Agustan wits “the feast of reason and the flow of soul,”--for it is the only meal at which Glorvina presides.

Two hours each day does the kind priest devote to my philological pursuits, while Glorvina, who is frequently present on these occasions makes me repeat some short poem or song after her, that I may catch the pronunciation, (which is almost unattainable,) then translates them into English, which I word for word write down. Here then is a specimen of Irish poetry, which is almost always the effusion of some blind itinerent bard, or some rustic minstrel, into whose breast the genius of his 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 cloud of the summer’s loveliest evening. Her forehead is asa pearl; her spiral locks 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 dew with her airy steps, her mantle on her arm, the axe in her hand to cut the branches of flame; I know not which is the most noble--the King of the 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 assures me, neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitely beautiful) nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if we may judge of the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must have been 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, is represented as cutting wood for the fire.

The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modern Irish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composed them, possess the _arioso_ elegance of Italian music, united to the heartfelt 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, the beautiful and warm soul’d--the maid of the amber twisted ringlets; the air lifted and light footed virgin--the elegant pearl and heart’s treasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour--let us enjoy it in drinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.”

II.

“It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of the shore--for whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful, whose tresses are like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like the blackbird’s morning song: O, may I never leave the world until dancing in the air (this expression in the Irish is beyond the power of translation) at her wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking to Fanny, 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 most frolicsome of the young and lovely--who from the fairest of the province bore away the palm of excellence--happy is he who is near her, for morning nor evening grief, nor fatigue, cannot come near him; her mien is like the mildness of a beautiful dawn; and her tresses flow in twisted folds--she is the daughter of the branches.--Her neck has the whiteness of alabaster--the softness of the cygnet’s bosom is hers; and the glow of the summer’s sunbeam is on her countenance. Oh! blessed is he who shall obtain thee, fair daughter of the blossoms--maid of the spiry locks!”

II.

“Sweet is the word of her lip, and sparkling the beam of her blue rolling eye; and close round her neck cling the golden tresses of her head: and her teeth are arranged in beautiful order. I say to the maid of youthful mildness, thy voice is sweeter than the song of birds; every grace, every charm play round thee; and though my soul delights to sing thy praise, yet I must quit the theme--to drink with a sincere heart to thy health, Gracy of the soft waving ringlets.”

Does not this poetical effusion, awakened by the charms of the fair Gracy, recal to your memory the description of Helen by Theocritus, in his 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 the garden, the horse in the chariot of Thessaly.”

While the invocation to the enjoyment of convivial pleasure which breathes over the termination of every verse, glows with the festive spirit of the Tean bard.

When I remarked the coincidence of style, which existed between the early Greek writers and the bards of Erin, Glorvina replied, with a smile, “In drawing this analogy, you think, perhaps, to flatter my national vanity; but the truth is, we trace the spirit of Milesian poetry to a higher source than the spring of Grecian genius; for many figures in Irish song are of Oriental origin; and the bards who ennobled the train of our Milesian founders, and who awakened the soul of song here, seem, in common with the Greek poets, ‘to have kindled their poetic fires at those unextinguished lamps which burn within the tomb of oriental genius.’ Let me, however, assure you, that no adequate version of an Irish poem can be given; for the peculiar construction of the Irish language, the felicity of its epithets, and force of its expressions, bid defiance to all translation.”

“But while your days and nights are thus devoted to Milesian literature,” you will say, “what becomes of Blackstone and Coke?”

Faith, e’en what may for me--the mind, the mind, like the heart, is not to be forced in its pursuits; and, I believe, in an intellectual, as in a physical sense, there are certain antipathies which reason may condemn, but not vanish. Coke is to me a dose of ipecacuhana; and my present studies, like those poignant incentives which stimulate the appetite without causing repletion. It is in vain to force me to a profession, against which my taste, my habits, my very nature revolts; and if my father persists in his determination, why, as a _dernier resort_, I must turn historiographer to the prince of Inismore.------ Like the spirit of Milton, I feel myself, in this new world, “vital in every part:”

“All heart I live, all head, all eye, all ear.

All intellect, all sense.”