TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

I wish you were to have seen the look with which the worthy Mr Clendinning met me, as I rode up the avenue to M— House.

To put an end at once to his impertinent surmises, curiosity, and suspicion, which I evidently saw lurking in his keen eye, I made a display of my fractured arm, which I still wore in a sling; and naturally enough accounted for my absence, by alleging that a fall from my horse, and a fractured limb, had obliged me to accept the humane attentions of a gentleman, near whose house the accident had happened, and whose guest and patient I had since been. Mr Clendinning affected the tone of regret and condolence, with some appropriate suppositions of what his Lord would feel when he learnt the unfortunate circumstance.

‘In a word, Mr Clendinning,’ said I, ‘I do not choose my father’s feelings should be called in question on a matter which is now of no ill consequence; and as there is not the least occasion to render him unhappy to no purpose, I must insist that you neither write or mention the circumstance to him on any account.’

Mr Clendinning bowed obedience, and I contrived to ratify his promise by certain innuendoes; for as he is well aware many of his villanies have reached by ears, he hates and fears me with all his soul.

My first inquiry was for letters. I found two from my father and one, only one, from you.

My father writes in his usual style. His first is merely an epistle admonitory; full of prudent axioms, and fatherly solicitudes. The second informs me, that his journey to Ireland is deferred for a month or six weeks, on account of my brother’s marriage with the heiress of the richest banker in the city. It is written in his best style, and a brilliant flow of spirit pervades every line. In the plentitude of his joy, all my sins are forgiven: he even talks of terminating my exile sooner than I had any reason to expect: and he playfully adds, ‘of changing my banishment into slavery,’ — ‘knowing, from experience, that provided my shackles are woven by the rosy fingers of beauty, I can wear them patiently and pleasurably enough. In short,’ he adds, ‘I have a connexion in my eye for you, not less brilliant in point of fortune than that your brother has made; and which will enable you to forswear your Coke, and burn your Blackstone.’

In fact, the spirit of matrimonial establishment seems to have taken such complete possession of my good speculating dad, that it would by no means surprize me though he were on the point of sacrificing at the Hymeneal altar himself. You know he has more than once, in a frolic, passed for my elder brother; and certainly has more sensibility than should belong to forty-five. Nor should I at all wonder if some insinuating coquette should one day or other sentimentalize him into a Platonic passion, which would terminate in the old way. I have, however, indulged in a little triumph at his expence; and have answered him in a strain of apathetic content — that habit and reason have perfectly reconciled me to my present mode of life, which leaves me without a wish to change it.

Now for your letter. With respect to the advice you demand, I have only to repeat the opinion already advanced, that...

But with respect to that you give me —

‘Go big physician preach our veins to health,
And with an argument new set a pulse.’

And as for your prediction — of this be certain, that I am too hackneyed in les affaires du cour, ever to fall in love beyond all redemption with any woman in existence. And even this little Irish girl, with all her witcheries, is to me a subject of philosophical analysis, rather than amatory discussion.

You ask me if I am not disgusted with her brogue? If she had one, I doubt not but I should; but the accent to which we English apply that term, is here generally confined to the lower orders of society; and I certainly believe, that purer and more grammatical English is spoken generally through Ireland, than in any part of England whatever; for here you are never shocked by the barbarous and unintelligible dialect peculiar to each shire in England. As to Glorvina, an aptitude to learn languages is, you know, peculiar to her country; but in her it is a decided and striking talent: even her Italian is, ‘ la langua Toscana, nel’ bocca Romana; and her English, grammatically correct, and elegantly pure, is spoken with an accent that could never denote her country. But it is certain that in that accent there is a species of languor very distinct from the brevity of ours. Yet (to me at least) it only renders the lovely speaker more interesting. A simple question from her lip seems rather tenderly to solicit, than abruptly to demand. Her every request is a soft supplication; and when she stoops to entreaty, there is in her voice and manner such an energy of supplication, that while she places your power to grant in the most ostensible light to yourself, you are insensibly vanquished by that soft persuasion whose melting meekness bestows your fancied exaltation. Her sweet-toned mellifluous voice, is always sighed forth rather below than above its natural pitch, and her mellowed softened mode of articulation is but imperfectly expressed by the susaro susingando, or coaxy murmurs, of Italian persuasion.

To Father John, who is the first and most general linguist I ever met, she stands highly indebted; but to Nature, and her own ambition to excell, still more.

I am now but six hours in this solitary and deserted mansion, where I feel as though I reigned the very king of desolation. Let me hear from you by return.

Adieu!

LETTER XVII

TO J.D. ESQ. M.P.

I forgot to mention to you in my last, that to my utter joy and surprize, our premier here has been recalled. On the day of my return, he received a letter from his Lord, desiring his immediate attendance in London, with all the rents he could collect; for I suppose the necessary expenditures requisite for my brother’s matrimonial establishment, will draw pretty largely on our family treasury.

This change of things in our domestic politics has changed all my plans of operation. This arch spy being removed, obviates the necessity of my retreat to the Lodge. My establishment here consists only of two females, who scarcely speak a word of English; an old gardener, who possesses not one entire sense; and a groom, who, having nothing to do, I shall discharge: so that if I should find it my pleasure to return, and remain any time at the castle of Inismore, I shall have no one here to watch my actions, or report them to my father.

There is something Bootian in this air. I can neither read, write, or think. Does not Locke assert, that the soul sometimes dozes? I frequently think I have been bit by a torpedo, or that I partake in some degree of the nature of the seven sleepers, and suffer a transient suspension of existence. What if this Glorvina has an evil eye, and has overlooked me? The witch haunts me, not only in my dreams, but when I fancy myself, at least, awake. A thousand times I think I hear the tones of her voice and harp. Does she feel my absence at the accustomed hour of tuition, the fire-side circle in the Vengolf, the twilight conversation, the noon-tide ramble? — Has my presence become a want to her? Am I missed, and missed with regret? It is scarcely vanity to say, I am — I must be. In a life of so much sameness, the most trivial incident, the most inconsequent character, obtains an interest in a certain degree.

One day I caught her weeping over a pet robin, which died on her bosom. She smiled, and endeavoured to hide her tears. ‘This is very silly, I know,’ said she, ‘but one must feel even the loss of a bird, that has been the companion of one’s solitude!’

To day I flung by my book, in down-right deficiency of comprehension to understand a word in it, though it was a simple case in the Report of — -; and so in the most nonchalante mood possible, I mounted my rosinante, and throwing the bridle over her neck, said ‘please thyself;’ and it was her pious pleasure to tread on consecrated ground: in short, after a ride of half an hour, I found myself within a few paces of the parish mass-house, and recollected that it was the Sabbath day; so that you see my mare reproved me, though in an oblique manner, with little less gravity than the ass of Balaam did his obstinate rider.

The mass-house was of the same order of architecture as the generality of Irish cabins; with no other visible mark to ascertain its sacred designation than a stone cross, roughly hewn, over its entrance. I will not say that it was merely a sentiment of piety which induced me to enter it; but it certainly required, at first, an effort of energy to obtain admittance, as for several yards round this simple tabernacle, a crowd of devotees were prostrated on the earth, praying over their beads with as much fervour as though they were offering up their orisons in the golden-roofed temple of Solyman.

When I had fastened my horse’s bridle to a branch of an hawthorn, I endeavoured to make my way through the pious crowd, who all arose the moment I appeared — for the last mass, I learnt, was over; and those who had prayed par hazard, without hearing a word the priest said within, departed. While I pressed my way into the body of the chapel, it was so crowded that with great difficulty I found means to fix myself by a large triangular stone vessel filled with holy water, where I fortunately remained (during the sermon) unnoticed.

This sermon was delivered by a little old mendicant, in the Irish language. Beside him stood the parish priest in pontificalibus, and with as much self-invested dignity as the dalai lama of Little Thibet could assume before his votarists. When the shriveled little mendicant had harangued them some time on the subject of Christian charity, for so his countenance and action indicated, a general secula seculorum concluded his discourse; and while he meekly retreated a few paces, the priest mounted the steps of the little altar, and after preparing his lungs, he delivered an oration, to which it would be impossible to do any justice. It was partly in Irish, partly in English; and intended to inculcate the necessity of contributing to the relief of the mendicant preacher, if they hoped to have the benefit of his prayers; addressing each of his flock by their name and profession, and exposing their faults and extolling their virtues, according to the nature of their contributions. While the friar, who stood with his face to the wall, was with all human diligence piously turning his beads to two accounts — with one hand he was making intercession for the souls of his good subscribers, and with the other diligently keeping count of the sum total of their benefactions. As soon as I had sent in mind, almost stifled with heat, I effected my escape.

In contrasting this parish priest with the chaplain of Inismore, I could not help exclaiming with Epaminondas — ‘It is the man who must give dignity to the situation — not the situation to the man.’

Adieu!

M.H.

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 my valise laid 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 Sheebeen House, and is something inferior to a certain description of a Spanish inn. Although a little board informs they 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 draw-bridge; 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 with 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 (’ nebulam 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 for me. Oh! he knows nothing of the doctrine of enjoyment, who does not purchase his pleasures at the expence of temporary restraint. The good priest, who still retains something of the etiquette of his foreign education, embraced me à la Française. Glorvina, however, who malhereusement, was not reared in France, only offered me her hand, which 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 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 always dead to mine, may guess how 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 this evening.’

And as we left the door, she pointed towards the west, and added —

‘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! a-propos, Mr Mortimer, you are returned in most excellent time — for to- morrow is the first of May.’

‘And is the arrival of such 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 of 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 and Crotarie; 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 of apposite terms to realize “the thick coming fancies” of his genius.’ [1]

‘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, 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 inspiring 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 socialites, 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, [2] 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.

‘Over our mythological accounts of this winter god, and almost impenetrable obscurity seems to hover; but if Samhuin is derived from Samh-fhuin, 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 seasons afford, 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 it 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.

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 all the seasons.

I arose earlier than usual; the elixity 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 Tempé, 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 bosoms: 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 first- born blossoms of May.

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

‘- Beheld her,
Such as I saw her in my dream adorned,
With all that earth or heaven could bestow.’

She started and turned around, and in her surprize 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 languor 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 discovered it in the germ, since when I have screened it from the noon-day 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 to 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 a moment, and knelt to receive the offering of my lovely votarist.

I kissed the sweet and simple tribute with pious ardor; but with a devotion more fervid, kissed the hand that presented it. I would not have exchanged that moment for the most pleasurable hours of the most pleasurable era of my existence. The blushing radiance that glowed on the 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 (Oh, the insidious danger of the abruptly downcast eye!), met no object but what breathed of love, whose soul seemed

‘- Sent abroad,
Warm thro’ the vital air, and on the heart
Harmonious seiz’d.’

The morning breeze flushed with ethereal fervour; the luxury of 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 heads,
Of the coy quiresters that lodg’d 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 his 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’s, I stole a glance at my lovely priestess. Hero, at the altar of deity she rivaled, never looked more attractive in the eyes of the enamoured Leander.

We had now come within a few steps of the portals of the castle, and I observed that since I had passed that way, the path and entrance were strewed with green flags, rushes, and wild crocuses; [3] while the heavy framework of the door was hung with garlands, and bunches of flowers tastefully displayed.

‘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 ‘May-bush,’ 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 Rousseau. A-propos! 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 Heloise,’ de Rousseau — the unrivalled ‘ Lettres sur la Mythologie,’ de Moustier — the ‘ Paul et Virgine ’ of St Pierre — the Werther of Göethe — the Dolbreuse of Lousel, and the Attila 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 of 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 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 wicker 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. [4] Since morning they had planted a May-bush 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, [5] 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, say under the shade of a venerable oak, near his master.

The sports began with a wrestling-match; [6] and in the gymnastic exertions of the youthful combatants there was something, I thought, of Spartan energy and hardihood.

But, as ‘breaking 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, through one was laid prostrate. The victorious wrestler was elected King of the May; and, with ‘all his blushing honours thick about 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 queen, 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 Caesar,’ 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 peevishly, ‘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. [7] 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 excell in the art. Her little form, pliant as that of an Egyptian alma, floats before the eye in all the swimming languor of the most graceful motion, or all the gay exility of soul-inspired animation. She ever 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.

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 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; [8] old and young, rich and poor, all join in the sprightly dance.’

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-leagued brogues finally prevailed, and Glorvina at last gave way, while he made a scrape to a rosy-cheeked, bare- footed damsel, who out-jigg’d 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 have been the object of her election.

‘O!’ she replied eagerly — ‘it is the custom here, and I should be worry, 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 each other, with no other intercourse than what the communion of the eyes afforded, or the transient intimacy of the jig bestowed. [9]

‘And will not you dance a jig?’ asked Glorvina.

‘I seldom dance,’ said I — ‘Ill heath 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 if 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 performance 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 saint. And the moon rose resplendently over the vale, before it was restored to its wonted solitary silence.

Glorvina has made the plea of a head-ache 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 Rousseau; and the effects of her studies are visible in her eyes. When we meet, their glance sinks beneath the ardor 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 an 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 who ever yet rejected the blessing for which his soul thirsted? — And in the scale of human felicities, if there is one in which all others are summed up — above all others supremely elevated — It is the consciousness of having awakened the first sentiment of the sweetest, the sublimest of all human passions, in the bosom of youth, genius, and sensibility.

Adieu!

H.M.