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Notulae Syriacae William Wright

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Notulae Syriacae

J J V , V V

i ill
 Syriac Studies Library

209

Sériés Editors

Monica Blanchard

Cari Griffïn

Kristian Heal

George Anton Kiraz

David G.K. Taylor

The Syriac Studies Library brings back to active circulation major

reference works in the field of Syriac studies, including dictionaries,
grammars, text editions, manuscript catalogues, and monographs.
The books were reproduced from originals at The Catholic
University of America, one of the largest collections of Eastern
Christianity in North America. The project is a collaboration
between CUA, Beth Mardutho: The Syriac Institute, and Brigham
Young University.
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who fancy that in others to themselves unknown And yet, sweet
innocent, if thou art more sinned against than sinning if the
phantoms of a jealous brain—oh! ’tis impossible! The ardent kiss
impressed upon the senseless paper, which thy breast enshrined!!!
Was the letter of a friend thus treasured? When was the letter of a
friend thus answered with tears, with smiles, with blushes, and with
sighs? This, this is love’s own language. Besides, Glorvina is not
formed for friendship; the moderate feelings of her burning soul are
already divided in affection for her father, and grateful esteem for
her tutor; and she who, when loved, must be loved to madness, will
scarcely feel less passion than she inspires.”
While thought after thought thus chased each other down, like the
mutinous billows of a stormy ocean, I continued pacing my chamber
with quick and heavy strides; forgetful that the Prince’s room lay
immediately beneath me. Ere that thought occurred, some one softly
opened the door. I turned savagely round—it was Glorvina!
Impulsively I rushed to meet her; but impulsively recoiled: while she,
with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, sprung towards me,
and by my sudden retreat would have fallen at my feet, but that my
willing arms extended involuntarily to receive her. Yet, it was no
longer the almost sacred person of the once all-innocent, all-
ingenuous Glorvina they encircled; but still they twined round the
loveliest form, the most charming, the most dangerous of human
beings The enchantress!—With what exquisite modesty she faintly
endeavoured to extricate herself from my embrace, yet with what
willing weakness, which seemed to triumph in its own debility, she
panted on my bosom, wearied by the exertion which vainly sought
her release. Oh! at that moment the world was forgotten—the whole
universe was Glorvina! My soul’s eternal welfare was not more
precious at that moment than Glorvina! while my passion seemed
now to derive its ardour from the overflowing energy of those bitter
sentiments which had preceded its revival. Glorvina, with an effort,
flung herself from me. Virtue, indignant yet merciful, forgiving while
it arraigned, beamed in her eyes. I fell at her feet;
 I pressed her hand to my throbbing temples and burning lips.
“Forgive me,” I exclaimed, “for I know not what I do.” She threw
herself on a seat, and covered her face with her hands, while the
tears trickled through her fingers. Oh! there was a time when tears
from those eyes—but now they only recalled to my recollection the
last I had seen her shed. I started from her feet and walked towards
the window, near that couch where her watchful and charitable
attention first awakened the germ of gratitude and love which has
since blown into such full, such fatal existence. I leaned my head
against the window-frame for support, its painful throb was so
violent; I felt as though it were lacerating in a thousand places; and
the sigh which involuntarily breathed from my lips seemed almost to
burst the heart from whence it flowed.
Glorvina arose: with an air tenderly compassionate, yet
reproachful, she advanced and took one of my hands. “My dear
friend,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter? has anything occurred
to disturb you, or to awaken this extraordinary emotion? Father
John! where is he? why does he not accompany you? Speak!—does
any new misfortune threaten us? does it touch my father? Oh! in
mercy say it does not! but release me from the torture of suspense.”
“No, no,” I peevishly replied; “set your heart at rest, it is nothing;
nothing at least that concerns you; it is me, me only it concerns.”
“And therefore, Mortimer, is it nothing to Glorvina,” she softly
replied, and with one of those natural motions so incidental to the
simplicity of her manners, she threw her hand on my shoulder, and
leaning her head on it raised her eloquent, her tearful eyes to mine.
Oh! while the bright drops hung upon her cheek’s faded rose, with
what difficulty I restrained the impulse that tempted me to gather
them with my lips; while she, like a ministering angel, again took my
hand, and applying her fingers to my wrist, said, with a sad smile,
“You know I am a skilful little doctress.”
The feelings I experienced when those lovely fingers first applied
their pressure to my arm, rushed on my recollection: her touch had
lost nothing of its electric power: my emotions at that moment were
indescribable.
“Oh, good God, how ill you are!” she exclaimed. “How wild your
pulse; how feverish your looks! You have overheated yourself; you
were unequal to such a journey in such weather; you who have
been so lately an invalid. I beseech you to throw yourself on the
bed, and endeavour to take some repose; meantime I will send my
nurse with some refreshment to you. How could I be so blind as not
to see at once how ill you were!”
Glad, for the present, of any pretext to conceal the nature of my
real disorder, I confessed I was indeed ill, (and, in fact, I was
physically as well as morally so; for my last day’s journey brought on
that nervous headach I have suffered so much from;) while she, all
tender solicitude and compassion, flew to prepare me a composing
draught. But I was not now to be deceived: this was pity, mere pity.
Thus a thousand times have I seen her act by the wretches who
were first introduced to her notice through the medium of that
reputation which her distinguished humanity had obtained for her
among the diseased and the unfortunate.
I had but just sunk upon the bed, overcome by fatigue and the
vehemence of my emotions, when the old nurse entered the room.
She said she had brought me a composing draught from the lady
Glorvina, who had kissed the cup, after the old Irish fashion, * and
bade me to drink it for her sake.

* To this ancient and general custom Goldsmith allude in his

Deserted Village:—=

“And kissed the cup to pass it to the rest.”

“Then I pledge her,” said I, “with the same truth she did me,” and
I eagerly quaffed off the nectar her hand had prepared. Meantime
the nurse took her station by the bed-side with some appropriate
reference to her former attendance there, and the generosity with
which that attendance was rewarded; for I had imprudently
apportioned my donation rather to my real than apparent rank.
While I was glad that this talkative old woman had fallen in my
way; for though I knew I had nothing to hope from that
incorruptible fidelity which was grounded on her attachment to her
beloved nursling, and her affection for the family she had so long
served, yet I had everything to expect from the garrulous simplicity
of her character, and her love of what she calls Seanachus, or telling
long stories of the Inismore family; and while I was thinking how I
should put my Jesuitical scheme into execution, and she was talking
as usual I know not what, the beautiful “Breviare du Sentiment”
caught my eye lying on the floor:—Glorvina must have dropped it on
her first entrance. I desired the nurse to bring it to me; who blessed
her stars, and wondered how her child could be so careless: a thing
too she valued so much. At that moment it struck me that this
Brevaire, the furniture of the boudoir, the vases, and the fragment of
a letter, were all connected with this mysterious friend, this “first and
best of men.” I shuddered as I held it, and forgot the snow-drops it
contained; yet, assuming a composure as I examined its cover, I
asked the nurse if she thought I could procure such another in the
next market town.
The old woman held her sides while she laughed at the idea; then
folding her arms on her knees with that gossiping air which she
always assumed when in a mood peculiarly loquacious, she assured
me that such a book could not be got in all Ireland; for that it had
come from foreign parts to her young lady.
“And who sent it?” I demanded.
“Why, nobody sent it, (she simply replied,) he brought it himself.”
“Who?” said I.
She stammered and paused.
“Then, I suppose,” she added, “of course, you never heard”——-
 “What?” I eagerly asked, with an air of curiosity and amazement.
As these are two emotions a common mind is most susceptble of
feeling and most anxious to excite, I found little difficulty in artfully
leading on the old woman by degrees, till at last I obtained from her,
almost unawares to herself, the following particulars:
On a stormy night, in the spring of 17——, during that fatal period
when the scarcely cicatrised wounds of this unhappy country bled
afresh beneath the uplifted sword of civil contention; when the
bonds of human amity were rent asunder, and every man regarded
his neighbour with suspicion or considered him with fear; a stranger
of noble stature, muffled in a long, dark cloak, appeared in the great
hall of Inismore, and requested an interview with the Prince. The
Prince had retired to rest, and being then in an ill state of health,
deputed his daughter to receive the unknown visitant, as the priest
was absent. The stranger was shown into an apartment adjoining
the Prince’s, where Glorvina received him, and having remained for
some time with him retired to her father’s room; and again, after a
conference of some minutes, returned to the stranger, whom she
conducted to the Prince’s bedside. On the same night, and after the
stranger had passed two hours in the Prince’s chamber, the nurse
received orders to prepare the bed and apartment which I now
occupy for this mysterious guest, who from that time remained near
three months at the castle; leaving it only occasionally for a few
days, and always departing and returning under the veil of night.
The following summer he repeated his visit; bringing with him
those presents which decorate Glorvina’s boudoir, except the carpet
and vases, which were brought by a person who disappeared as
soon as he had left them. During both these visits he gave up his
time chiefly to Glorvina; reading to her, listening to her music, and
walking with her early and late, but never without the priest or
nurse, and seldom during the day.
In short, in the furor of the old woman’s garrulity, (who, however,
discovered that her own information had not been acquired by the
most justifiable means, having, she said, by chance, overheard a
conversation which passed between the stranger and the Prince,) I
found that this mysterious visitant was some unfortunate gentleman
who had attached himself to the rebellious faction of the day, and
who being pursued nearly to the gates of the castle of Inismore, had
thrown himself on the mercy of the Prince; who, with that romantic
sense of honour which distinguishes his chivalrous character, had not
violated the trust thus forced on him, but granted an asylum to the
unfortunate refugee; who, by the most prepossessing manners and
eminent endowments, had dazzled the fancy and won the hearts of
this unsuspecting and credulous family; while over the minds of
Glorvina and her father he had obtained a boundless influence.
The nurse hinted that she believed it was still unsafe for the
stranger to appear in this country for that he was more cautious of
concealing himself in his last visit than his first; that she believed he
lived in England; that he seemed to have money enough, “for he
threw it about like a prince.” Not a servant in the castle, she added,
but knew well enough how it was; but there was not one but would
sooner die than betray him. His name she did not know; he was only
known by the appellation of the gentleman. He was not young, but
tall and very handsome. He could not speak Irish, and she had
reason to think he had lived chiefly in America. She added, that I
often reminded her of him, especially when I smiled and looked
down. She was not certain whether he was expected that summer or
not; but she believed the Prince frequently received letters from him.
The old woman was by no means aware how deeply she had been
betrayed by her insatiate passion for hearing herself speak; while
the curious and expressive idiom of her native tongue gave me more
insight into the whole business than the most laboured phrase or
minute detail could have done. By the time, however, she had
finished her narrative, she began to have some “compunctious
visitings of conscience.” she made me pass my honour I would not
betray her to her young lady; for, she added, that if it got air it might
come to the ears of Lord M———— who was the prince’s bitter
enemy; and that it might be the ruin of the Prince; with a thousand
other wild surmises suggested by her fears. I again repeated my
assurances of secrecy; and the sound of her young lady’s bell
summoning her to the Prince’s room, she left me, not forgetting to
take with her the “Breviare du Sentiment.”
Again abandoned to my wretched self, the succeeding hour was
passed in such a state of varied perturbation, that it would be as
torturing to retrace my agonizing and successive reflections as it
would be impossible to express them. In short, after a thousand
vague conjectures, many to the prejudice, and a lingering few to the
advantage of their object, I was led to believe (fatal conviction!) that
the virgin rose of Glorvina’s affection had already shed its sweetness
on a former, happier lover; and the partiality I had flattered myself in
having awakened, was either the result of natural intuitive coquetry,
or, in the long absence of her heart’s first object, a transient beam of
that fire, which once illumined, is so difficult to extinguish, and
which was nourished by my resemblance to him who had first
fanned it into life.—What! I receive to my heart the faded spark,
while another has basked in the vital flame! I contentedly gather this
after-blow of tenderness, when another has inhaled the very
essence of the nectarious blossoms? No! like the suffering mother,
who wholly resigned her bosom’s idol rather than divide it with
another, I will, with a single effort, tear this late adored image from
my heart, though that heart break with the effort, rather than feed
on the remnant of those favours on which another has already
feasted. Yet to be thus deceived by a recluse, a child, a novice!—I
who, turning revoltingly from the hackneyed artifices of female
depravity in that world where art forever reigns, sought in the
tenderness of secluded innocence and intelligent simplicity that
heaven my soul had so long, so vainly panted to enjoy! Yet, even
there—No! I cannot believe it She! Glofvina, false, deceptive! Oh,
were the immaculate spirit of Truth embodied in a human form, it
could not wear upon its radient brow a brighter, stronger trace of
purity inviolable, and holy innocence than shines in the seraph
countenance of Glorvina!
Besides, she never said she loved me. Said!—God of heaven! were
words then necessary for such an avowal! Oh, Glorvina! thy melting
glances, thy insidious smiles, thy ardent blushes, thy tender sighs,
thy touching softness, and delicious tears; these, these are the
sweet testimonies to which my heart appeals. These at least will
speak for me, and say it was not the breath of vain presumption that
nourished those hopes which now, in all their vigour, perish by the
chilling blight of well-founded jealousy and mortal disappointment.
Two hours have elapsed since the nurse left me, supposing me to
be asleep; no one has intruded, and I have employed the last hour
in retracing to you the vicissitudes of this eventful day. You, who
warned me of my fate, should learn the truth of your fatal prophecy.
My father’s too; but he is avenged! and I have already expiated a
deception, which, however innocent, was still deception.

IN CONTINUATION.
I had written thus far, when some one tapped at my door, and the
next moment the priest entered: he was not an hour arrived, and
with his usual kindness came to inquire after my health, expressing
much surprise at its alteration, which he said was visible in my looks.
“But, it is scarcely to be wondered at,” he added: “a man who
complains for two days of a nervous disorder, and yet gallops, as if
for life, seven miles in a day more natural to the torrid zone than our
polar clime, may have some chance of losing his life, but very little
of losing his disorder.” He then endeavoured to persuade me to go
down with him and take some refreshment, for I had tasted nothing
all day, save Glorvina’s draught; but finding me averse to the
proposal, he sat with me till he was sent for to the Prince’s room. As
soon as he was gone, with that restlessness of body which ever
accompanies a wretched mind, I wandered through the deserted
rooms of this vast and ruinous edifice, but saw nothing of Glorvina.
The sun had set, all was gloomy and still, I took my hat and in the
melancholy maze of twilight, wandered I knew not, cared not
whither. I had not, however, strayed far from the ruins, when I
perceived the little postboy galloping his foaming mule over the
drawbridge, and the next moment saw Glorvina gliding beneath the
colonnade (that leads to the chapel) to meet him. I retreated behind
a fragment of the ruins, and observed her to take a letter from his
hand with an eager and impatient air: when she had looked at the
seal, she pressed it to her lips: then by the faint beams of the
retreating light, she opened this welcome packet, and putting an
enclosed letter in her bosom, endeavoured to read the envelope; but
scarcely had her eye glanced over it, than it fell to the earth, while
she, covering her face with her hands, seemed to lean against the
broken pillar near which she stood for support. Oh! was this an
emotion of overwhelming bliss, or chilling disappointment? She again
took the paper, and still holding it open in her hand, with a slow step
and thoughtful air, returned to the castle; while I flew to the stables
under pretence of inquiring from the post-boy if there were any
letters for me. The lad said there was but one, and that, the
postmaster had told him was an English one for the lady Glorvina.
This letter, then, though it could not have been an answer to that I
had seen her writing, was doubtless from the mysterious friend,
whose friendship, “like gold, though not sonorous, was
indestructible.”
My doubts were now all lost in certain conviction; my trembling
heart no longer vibrated between a lingering hope and a dreadful
fear. I was deceived and another was beloved. That sort of sullen
firm composure, which fixes on man when he knows the worst that
can occur, took possession of every feeling, and steadied that wild
throb of insupportable suspense which had agitated and distracted
my veering soul; while the only vacillation of mind to which I was
sensible, was the uncertainty of whether I should or should not quit
the castle that night. Finally, I resolved to act with the cool
determination of a rational being, not the wild impetuosity of a
maniac. I put off my departure till the following morning, when I
would formally take leave of the Prince, the priest, and even
Glorvina herself, in the presence of her father. Thus firm and
decided, I returned to the castle, and mechanically walked towards
that vast apartment where I had first seen her at her harp, soothing
the sorrows of parental affliction; but now it was gloomy and
unoccupied; a single taper burned on a black marble slab before a
large folio, in which I suppose the priest had been looking; the silent
harp of Glorvina stood in its usual place. I fled to the great hall, once
the central point of all our social joys, but it was also dark and
empty; the whole edifice seemed a desert. I again rushed from its
portals, and wandered along the sea-beat shore, till the dews of
night and the spray of the swelling tide, as it broke against the
rocks, had penetrated through my clothes. I saw the light trembling
in the casement of Glorvina’s chamber long after midnight. I heard
the castle clock fling its peal over every passing hour; and not till the
faintly awakening beam of the horizon streamed on the eastern
wave, did I return through the castle’s ever open portals, and steal
to that room I was about to occupy (not to sleep in) for the last
time: a light and some refreshment had been left there for me in my
absence. The taper was nearly burned out, but by its expiring flame
I perceived a billet lying on the table. I opened it tremblingly. It was
from Glor-vina, and only a simple inquiry after my health, couched in
terms of commonplace courtesy. I tore it—it was the first she had
ever addressed to me, and yet I tore it in a thousand pieces. I threw
myself on the bed, and for some time busied my mind in
conjecturing whether her father sanctioned or her preceptor
suspected her attachment to this fortunate rebel. I was almost
convinced they did not. The young, the profound deceiver; she
whom I had thought

“So green in this old world.”

Wearied by incessant cogitation, I at last fell into a deep sleep,

and arose about two hours back, harassed by dreams and quite
unrefreshed, since when I have written thus far. My last night’s
resolution remains unchanged. I have sent my compliments to
inquire after the Prince’s health, and to request an interview with
him. The servant has this moment returned, and informs me the
Prince has just fallen asleep after having had a very bad night, but
that when he awakens he shall be told of my request. I dared not
mention Glorvina’s name, but the man informed me she was then
sitting by her father’s bedside, and had not attended matins. At
breakfast I mean to acquaint the excellent Father John of my
intended departure. Oh! how much of the woman at this moment
swells in my heart. There is not a being in this family in whom I
have not excited, and for whom I do not feel an interest. Poor souls!
they have almost all been at my room door this morning to inquire
after my health, owing to the nurse’s exaggerated account: she too,
kind creature, has already been twice with me before I arose, but I
affected sleep. Adieu! I shall despatch this to you from M————
house. I shall then have seen the castle of Inismore for the last time
—the last time!!

H. M.

LETTER XXIX.

TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
M———— House.

I
t is all over—the spell is dissolved, and the vision forever
vanished: yet my mind is not what it was, ere this transient
dream of bliss “wrapt it in Elysium.” Then I neither suffered nor
enjoyed: now—!
When I folded my letter to you, I descended to breakfast, but the
priest did not appear, and the things were removed untouched. I
ordered my horse to be got ready, and waited all the day in
expectation of a message from the Prince, loitering, wandering,
unsettled, and wretched, the hours dragged on; no message came: I
fancied I was impatient to receive it, and to be gone; but the truth
is, my dear friend, I was weak enough almost to rejoice at the
detention. While I walked from room to room with a book in my
hand, I saw no one but the servants, who looked full of mystery;
save once, when, as I stood at the top of the corridor, I perceived
Glorvina leave her father’s room; she held a handkerchief to her
eyes, and passed on to her own apartment. Oh! why did I not fly
and wipe away those tears, inquire their source, and end at once the
torture of suspense? but I had not power to move. The dinner hour
arrived; I was sum moned to the parlour; the priest met me at the
table, shook me with unusual cordiality by the hand, and
affectionately inquired after my health. He then became silent and
thoughtful, and had the air of a man whose heart and office are at
variance; who is deputed with a commission his feelings will not
suffer him to execute. After a long pause, he spoke of the Prince’s
illness, the uneasiness of his mind, the unpleasant state of his
affairs, his attachment and partiality to me, and his ardent wish
always to have it in his power to retain me with him; then paused
again, and sighed, and again endeavoured to speak, but failed in the
effort. I now perfectly understood the nature of his incoherent
speech; my pride served as an interpreter between his feelings and
my own, and I was determined to save his honest heart the pang of
saying, “Go, you are no longer a welcome guest.”
I told him then in a few words, that it was my intention to have
left the castle that morning for Bally————, on my way to England;
but that I waited for an opportunity of bidding farewell to the Prince:
as that, however, seemed to be denied me, I begged that he (Father
John) would have the goodness to say for me all———. Had my life
depended on it, I could not articulate another word. The priest arose
in evident emotion. I, too, not unagitated, left my seat: the good
man took my hand, and pressed it affectionately to his heart, then
turned aside, I believe, to conceal the moisture of his eyes; nor were
mine dry, yet they seemed to burn in their sockets. The priest then
put a paper in the hand he held, and again pressing it with ardour,
hurried away. I trembled as I opened it; it was a letter from the
Prince, containing a bank note, a plain ring which he constantly
wore, and the following lines written with the trembling hand of
infirmity or emotion:

“Young and interesting Englishman, farewell! Had I not known

thee, I never had lamented that God had not blessed me with
a son.

“O’Melville,

“Prince of Inismore.”

I sunk, overcome in a chair. When I could sufficiently command

myself, I wrote with my pencil on the cover of the Prince’s letter the
following incoherent lines:
“You owe me nothing: to you I stand indebted for life itself, and all
that could once render life desirable. With existence only will the
recollection of your kindness be lost; yet though generously it was
unworthily bestowed; for it was lavished on an Impostor. I am not
what I seem: To become an inmate in your family, to awaken an
interest in your estimation, I forfeited the dignity of truth, and
stooped for the first time to the meanness of deception. Your money,
therefore, I return, but your ring—that ring so often worn by you—
worlds would not tempt me to part with.
“I have a father, sir; this father once so dear, so precious to my
heart! but since I have been your guest, he, the whole world was
forgotten. The first tie of nature was dissolved; and from your hands
I seemed to have received a new existence. Best and most generous
of men, be this recollection present to your heart: Should some
incident as yet unforeseen discover to you who and what I am,
remember this—and then forgive him, who, with the profoundest
sense of your goodness, bids you a last farewell.”
When I had finished these lines written with an emotion that
almost rendered them illegible, I rung the bell and inquired (from
the servant who answered) for the priest: he said he was shut up in
the Prince’s room.
“Alone, with the Prince?” said I.
“No,” he returned, “for he had seen the lady Glorvina enter at the
same time with Father John.” I did not wish to trust the servant with
this open billet, I did not wish the Prince to get it till I was gone: in a
word, though I was resolved to leave the castle that evening, yet I
did not wish to go, till, for the last time, I had seen Glorvina.
I therefore wrote the following lines in French to the priest. “Suffer
me to see you; in a few minutes I shall leave Inismore forever.” As I
was putting the billet into the man s hand, the stable-boy passed the
window; I threw up the sash and ordered him to lead round my
horse. All this was done with the agitation of mind which a criminal
feels who hurries on his execution, to terminate the horrors of
suspense.
I continued walking up and down the room in such agony of
feeling, that a cold dew, colder than ice, hung upon my aching brow.
I heard a footstep approach—I became motionless; the door
opened, and the priest appeared, leading in Glorvina. God of
Heaven! The priest supported her on his arm, the veil was drawn
over her eyes; I could not advance to meet them, I stood
spellbound,—they both approached; I had not the power to raise my
eyes. “You sent for me,” said the priest, in a faltering accent. I
presented him my letter for the Prince; suffocation choked my
utterance; I could not speak. He put the letter in his bosom, and
taking my hand, said, “You must not think of leaving this evening;
the Prince will not hear of it.” While he spoke my horse passed the
window; I summoned up those spirits my pride, my wounded pride,
retained in its service. “It is necessary I should depart immediately,”
said I, “and the sultriness of the weather renders the evening
preferable.” I abruptly paused—I could not finish the sentence,
simple as it was.
 “Then,” said the priest, “any evening will do as well as this.” But
Glorvina spoke not; and I answered with vehemence, that I should
have been off long since: and my determination is now fixed.
“If you are thus positive,” said the priest, surprised by a manner
so unusual, “your friend, your pupil here, who came to second her
father’s request, must change her solicitations to a last farewell.”
Glorvina’s head reposed on his shoulder; her face was enveloped
in her veil; he looked on her with tenderness and compassion, and I
repeated, a “last farewell!” Glorvina, you will at least then say,
“Farewell.” The veil fell from her face. God of Heaven, what a
countenance! In the universe I saw nothing but Glorvina; such as I
had once believed her, my own, my loving and beloved Glorvina, my
tender friend, and impassioned mistress. I fell at her feet; I seized
her hands and pressed them to my burning lips. I heard her stifled
sobs; her tears of soft compassion fell upon my cheek; I thought
them tears of love, and drew her to my breast; but the priest held
her in one arm, while with the other he endeavoured to raise me,
exclaiming in violent emotion, “O God, I should have foreseen this!
I, I alone am to blame. Excellent and unfortunate young man, dearly
beloved child!” and at the same moment he pressed us both to his
paternal bosom. The heart of Glorvina throbbed to mine, our tears
flowed together, our sighs mingled. The priest sobbed over us like a
child. It was a blissful agony; but it was insupportable.
Then to have died would have been most blessed The priest
dispelled the transient dream. He forcibly put me from him. He
stifled the voice of nature and pity in his breast. His air was sternly
virtuous—“Go,” said he, but he spoke in vain. I still clung to the
drapery of Glorvina’s robe; he forced me from her, and she sunk on
a couch. “I now,” he added, “behold the fatal error to which I have
been an unconscious accessary. Thank God, it is retrievable; go,
amiable, but imprudent young man; it is honour, it is virtue
commands your departure.”
While he spoke he had almost dragged me to the hall. “Stay,” said
I, in a faint voice, “let me but speak to her.”
 “It is in vain,” replied the inexorable priest, “for she can never be
yours; then spare her, spare yourself.”
“Never!” I exclaimed.
“Never,” he firmly replied.
I burst from his grasp and flew to Glorvina. I snatched her to my
breast and wildly cried, “Glorvina, is this then a last farewell?” She
answered not, but her silence was eloquent. “Then,” said I, pressing
her more closely to my heart, “farewell forever!”

IN CONTINUATION.
I mounted the horse that waited for me at the door, and galloped
off; but with the darkness of the night I returned, and all night I
wandered about the environs of Inismore: to the last I watched the
light of Glorvina’s window. When it was extinguished, it seemed as
though I parted from her again. A gray dawn was already breaking
to the mists of obscurity. Some poor peasants were already going to
the labours of the day. It was requisite I should go. Yet when I
ascended the mountain of Inismore I involuntarily turned, and
beheld those dear ruins which I had first entered under the influence
of such powerful, such prophetic emotion. What a train of
recollections rushed on my mind, what a climax did they form! I
turned away my eyes, sick, sick at heart, and pursued my solitary
journey. Within twelve miles of M———— house, as I reached an
eminence, I again paused to look back, and caught a last view of the
mountain of Inismore. It seemed to float like a vapour on the
horizon. I took a last farewell of this almost loved mountain. Once it
had risen on my gaze like the pharos to my haven of enjoyment; for
never, until this sad moment, had I beheld it but with transport.
On my arrival here I found a letter from my father, simply stating
that by the time it reached me he would probably be on his way to
Ireland, accompanied by my intended bride, and her father,
concluding thus: “In beholding you honourably and happily
established, thus secure in a liberal, a noble independence, the throb
of incessant solicitude you have hitherto awakened will at last be
stilled, and your prudent compliance in this instance will bury in
eternal oblivion the sufferings, the anxieties which, with all your
native virtue and native talent, your imprudence has hitherto caused
to the heart of an affectionate and indulgent father.”
This letter, which even a few days back would have driven me to
distraction, I now read with the apathy of a stoic. It is to me a
matter of indifference how I am disposed of. I have no wish, no will
of my own.
To the return of that mortal torpor from which a late fatally
cherished sentiment had roused me, is now added the pang of my
life’s severest disappointment, like the dying wretch who is only
roused from total insensibility, by the quivering pains which, at
intervals of fluttering life, shoot through his languid frame.

IN CONTINUATION.
It is two days since I began this letter, yet I am still here; I have
not power to move, though I know not what secret spell detains me.
But whither shall I go, and to what purpose? the tie which once
bound me to physical and moral good, to virtue and felicity, is
broken, for ever broken. My mind is changed, dreadfully changed
within these few days. I am ill too, a burning fever preys upon the
very springs of life; all around me is solitary and desolate.
Sometimes my brain seems on fire, and hideous phantoms float
before my eyes; either my senses are disordered by indisposition, or
the hand of heaven presses heavily on me. My blood rolls in torrents
through my veins. Sometimes I think it should, it must have vent. I
feel it is in vain to think that I shall ever be fit for the discharge of
any duty in this life. I shall hold a place in the creation to which I am
a dishonour. I shall become a burthen to the few who are obliged to
feel an interest in my welfare.
 It is the duty of every one to do that which his situation requires,
to act up to the measure of judgment bestowed on him by
Providence. Should I continue to drag on this load of life, it would be
for its wretched remnant a mere animal existence. A moral death!
What! I become again like the plant I tread under my feet; endued
with a vegetative existence, but destitute of all sensation of all
feeling. I who have tasted heaven’s own bliss; who have known, oh
God! that even the recollection, the simple recollection should
diffuse through my chilled heart, through my whole languid frame
such cheering renovating ardour.
I have gone over calmly, deliberately gone over every
circumstance connected with the recent dream of my life. It is
evident that the object of my heart’s first election is that of her
father’s choice. Her passion for me, for I swear most solemnly she
loved me: Oh, in that I could not be deceived; every look, every
word betrayed it; her passion for me was a paroxysm. Her tender,
her impassioned nature required some object to receive the glowing
ebullitions of its affectionate feelings; and in the absence of another,
in that unrestrained intimacy by which we were so closely
associated; in that sympathy of pursuit which existed between us,
they were lavished on me. I was the substituted toy of the moment.
And shall I then sink beneath a woman’s whim, a woman’s infidelity,
unfaithful to another as to me? I who, from my early days, have
suffered by her arts and my own credulity? But what were all my
sufferings to this? A drop of water to “the multitudinous ocean.” Yet
in the moment of a last farewell she wept so bitterly! tears of pity!
Pitied and deceived!
I am resolved I will offer myself an expiatory sacrifice on the altar
of parental wrongs. The father whom I have deceived and injured
shall be retributed. This moment I have received a letter from him,
the most affectionate and tender; he is arrived in Dublin, and with
him Mr. D———, and his daughter! It is well! If he requires it the
moment of our meeting shall be that of my immolation. Some act of
desperation would be now most consonant to my soul!
 Adieu.

H. M.

LETTER XXX.

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

I
am writing to you from the back-room of a noisy hotel in the
centre of a great and bustling city: my only prospect the gloomy
walls of the surrounding houses. What a contrast! Where now
are those refreshing scenes on which my rapt gaze so lately dwelt—
those wild sublimities of nature—the stupendous mountain, the
Alpine cliff, the boundless ocean, and the smiling vale Where are
those original and simple characters, those habits, those manners, to
me at least so striking and so new?— All vanished like a dream!—

“The baseless fabric of a vision!”

I arrived here late in the evening, and found my father waiting to

receive me. Happily the rest of the party were gone to the theatre;
for his agitation was scarcely less than my own. You know that,
owing to our late misunderstanding, it is some months since we met.
He fell on my neck and wept. I was quite overcome. He was shocked
at my altered appearance, and his tenderest solicitudes were
awakened for my health. I was so vanquished by his goodness, that
more than once I was on the point of confessing all to him. It was
my good angel checked the imprudent avowal: for what purpose
could it now serve, but to render me more contemptible in his eyes,
and to heighten his antipathy against those who have been in some
degree the unconscious accessaries to my egregious folly and
incurable imprudence. But does he feel an antipathy against the
worthy Prince? Can it be otherwise? Have not all his conciliatory
offers been rejected with scorn?—Yet to me he never mentioned the
Prince’s name; this silence surprises me—long may it continue. I
dare not trust myself. In your bosom only is the secret safely
reposed.
As I had rode day and night since I left M————house,
weariness and indisposition obliged me almost on my arrival to go to
bed: my father sat by my side till the return of the party from the
theatre. What plans for my future aggrandizement and happiness did
his parental solicitude canvass and devise! the prospect of my
brilliant establishment in life seems to have given him a new sense
of being. On our return to England, I am to set up for the borough
of —————. My talents are calculated for the senate: fame, dignity,
and emolument, are to wait upon their successful exertion. I am to
become an object of popular favour and royal esteem; and all this
time, in the fancied triumph of his parental hopes, he sees not that
the heart of their object is breaking.
Were you to hear him! were you to see him. What a father! what
a man! Such intelligence—such abilities. A mind so dignified—a heart
so tender! and still retaining all the ardour, all the enthusiasm of
youth. In what terms he spoke of my elected bride! He indeed dwelt
chiefly on her personal charms, and the simplicity of her unmodified
character. Alas! I once found both united to genius and sensibility.
“How delightful, (he exclaimed) to form this young and ductile
mind, to mould it to your desires, to breathe inspiration into this
lovely image of primeval innocence, to give soul to beauty, and
intelligence to simplicity; to watch the rising progress of your
grateful efforts, and finally clasp to your heart that perfection you
have yourself created.”
 And this was spoken with an energy, an enthusiasm, as though he
had himself experienced all the pleasure he now painted for me.
Happily, however, in the warmth of his own feelings, he perceived
not the coldness, the torpidity of his son’s.
They are fast weaving for me the web of my destiny. I look on and
take no part in the work. It is over—I have been presented in form.
They say she is beautiful—it may be so;—but the blind man cannot
be persuaded of the charms of the rose, when his finger is wounded
by its thorns. She met me with some confusion, which was natural,
considering she had been “won unsought.” Yet I thought it was the
bashfulness of a hoyden, rather than that soul-born delicate
bashfulness which I have seen accompanied with every grace. How
few there are who do or can distinguish this in woman; yet in nature
there is nothing more distinct than the modesty of sentiment and of
constitution.
The father was, as usual, boisterously good-humoured, and
vulgarly pleasant; he talked over our sporting adventures last winter,
as if the topic were exhaustless. For my part, I was so silent, that
my father looked uneasy, and I then made amends for my former
taciturnity by talking incessantly, and on every subject, with
vehemence and rapidity. A woman of common sense or common
delicacy, would have been disgusted; but she is a child. They would
fain drag me after them into public, but my plea of ill health has
been received by my indulgent father. My gay young mistress seems
already to consider me as her husband, and treats me accordingly
with indifference. In short, she finds that love in the solitude of the
country, and amidst the pleasures of the town, is a very different
sentiment; yet her vanity, I believe, is piqued by my neglect; for to-
day she said, when I excused myself from accompanying her to a
morning concert, Oh! I should much rather have your father with
me, he is the younger man of the two: I indeed never saw him in
such health and spirits; he seems to tread on air. Oh! that he were
my rival, my successful rival! In the present morbid state of my
feelings I give in to every thing; but when it comes to a crisis, will
this stupid acquiescence still befriend their wishes? Impossible!
 IN CONTINUATION.
I have had a short but extraordinary conversation with my father.
Would you believe it? he has for some time back cherished an
attachment of the tenderest nature; but to his heart, the interests of
his children have ever been an object of the first and dearest
concern. Having secured their establishment in life, and as he hopes
and believes, effected their happiness, he now feels himself
warranted in consulting his own. In short, he has given me to
understand that there is a probability of his marriage with a very
amiable and deserving person, closely following after my brother’s
and mine. The lady’s name he refused to mention, until every thing
was finally arranged; and whoever she is, I suspect her rank is
inferior to her merits, for he said, “The world will call the union
disproportioned—disproportioned in every sense; but I must in this
instance, prefer the approval of my own heart to the world’s
opinion.” He then added, (equivocally) that had he been able to
follow me immediately to Ireland, as he had at first proposed, he
would have related to me some circumstances of peculiar interest,
but that I should yet know all and seemed, I thought, to lament that
disparity of character between my brother and him, which prohibited
that flow of confidence his heart seems panting to indulge in. You
know Edward takes no pains to conceal that he smiles at those
ardent virtues in his father’s character, to which the phlegmatic
temperament of his own gives the name of romance.
The two fathers settle every thing as they please. A property
which fell to my father a few weeks back, by the death of a rich
maiden aunt, with every thing not entailed, he has made over to me,
even during his life. Expostulation was in vain, he would not hear
me:—for himself he has retained nothing but his purchased estates
in Connaught, which are infinitely more extensive than that he
possesses by inheritance. What if he resides at the Lodge, in the
very neighbourhood of———? Oh! my good friend, I fear I am
deceiving myself: I fear I am preparing for the heart of the best of
fathers, a mortal disappointment. When the throes of wounded pride
shall have subsided, when the resentments of a doat-ing, a deceived
heart, shall have gradually abated, and the recollection of former
blisses shall have soothed away the pangs of recent suffering; will I
then submit to the dictates of an imperious duty, or resign myself
unresisting to the influence of morbid apathy?
Sometimes my father fixes his eyes so tenderly on me, yet with a
look as if he would search to the most secret folds of my heart. He
has never once asked my opinion of my elected bride, who, gay and
happy as the first circles of this dissipated city can make her,
cheerfully receives the plea which ill health affords (attributed to a
heavy cold) of not attending her in her pursuit of pleasure. The fact
is, I am indeed ill; my mind and body seem declining together, and
nothing in this world can give me joy, but the prospect of its
delivery.
By this I suppose the mysterious friend is arrived. It was
expedient, therefore, that I should be dismissed. By this I suppose
she is....
So closely does my former weakness cling round my heart, that I
cannot think of it without madness.
After having contemplated for a few minutes the sun’s cloudless
radiancy, the impression left on the averted gaze is two dark spots,
and the dazzled organ becomes darkened by a previous excess of
lumination. It is thus with my mind; its present gloom is
proportioned to its former light. Oh! it was too, too much! Rescued
from that moral death, that sickbed satiety of feeling, that state of
chill, hopeless existence, in which the torpid faculties were
impalpable to every impression, when to breathe, to move,
constituted all the powers of being: and then suddenly, as if by
intervention of Providence (and what an agent did it appoint for the
execution of its divine will!) raised to the summit of human thought,
human feeling, human felicity, only again to be plunged in endless
night. It was too much.
 Good God! would you believe it! My father is gone to M———
house, to prepare for the reception of the bridal party. We are to
follow, and he proposes spending the summer there; there too, he
says, my marriage with Miss D——— is to be celebrated; he wishes
to conciliate the good will, not only of the neighbouring gentry, but
of his tenantry in general, and thinks this will be a fair occasion. Well
be it so; but I shall not hold myself answerable for the
consequences: my destiny is in their hands—let them look to the
result.
Since my father left us, I am of necessity obliged to pay some
attention to his friends; but I should be a mere automaton by the
side of my gay mistress, did I not court an artificial flow of spirits, by
means to me the most detestable. In short, I generally contrive to
leave my senses behind me at the drinking table; or rather my
reason and my spirits, profiting by its absence, are roused to
boisterous anarchy: my bride (my bride!) is then quite charmed with
my gaiety, and fancies she is receiving the homage of a lover, when
she is insulted by the extravagance of a maniac; but she is a simple
child, and her father is an insensible fool. God knows how little of my
thoughts are devoted to either. Yet the girl is much followed for her
beauty, and the splendid figure which the fortune of the father
enables them to make, has procured them universal attention from
persons of the first rank.
 A thousand times the dream of short slumbers gives her to my
arms as I last beheld her. A thousand times I am awakened from a
heavy unrefreshing sleep by the fancied sound of her harp and
voice. There was one old Irish air she used to sing like an angel, and
in the idiom of her national music sighed out certain passages with a
heart-breaking thrill, that used to rend my very soul! Well, this song
I cannot send from my memory; it breathes around me, it dies upon
my ear, and in the weakness of emotion I weep—weep like a child.
Oh! this cannot be much longer endured. I have this moment
received your letter; I feel all the kindness of your intention, but I
must insist on your not coming over; it would now answer no
purpose. Besides, a new plan of conduct has suggested itself. In a
word, my father shall know all: my unfortunate adventure may come
to his ears: it is best he should know it from myself. I will then
resign my fate into his hands: surely he will not forget I am still his
son. Adieu.

H. M

CONTENTS
CONCLUSION.
 CONCLUSION.
A few days after the departure of the Earl of M. from Dublin, the
intended father-in-law of his son, weary of a town-life, to which he
had hitherto been unaccustomed, proposed that they should surprise
the earl at M———— house, without waiting for that summons
which was to have governed their departure for Connaught.
His young and thoughtless daughter, eager only after novelty, was
charmed by a plan which promised a change of scene and variety of
life. The unfortunate lover of Glorvina fancied he gave a reluctant
compliance to the proposal which coincided but too closely with the
secret desires of his soul.
This inconsiderate project was put into execution almost as soon
as formed. Mr. D. and his daughter went in their own carriage; Mr.
M. followed on horseback. On their arrival, they found M————
house occupied by workmen of every description, and the Earl of M
———— absent.
Mr. Clendinning, his lordship’s agent, had not returned from
England; and the steward, who had been but lately appointed to the
office, informed the travellers that Lord M. had only been one day at
M——— house, and had removed a few miles up the country to a
hunting-lodge until it should be ready for the reception of the family.
Mr. D. insisted on going on to the hunting-lodge. Mr. M. strenuously
opposed the intention, and with difficulty prevailed on the
thoughtless father and volatile daughter to stop at M———— house,
while he went in search of its absent lord. It was early in the day
when they had arrived, and when Mr. M. had given orders for their
accommodation, he set out for the Lodge.
From the time the unhappy M. had come within the sight of those
scenes which recalled all the recent circumstances of his life to
memory, his heart had throbbed with a quickened pulse; even the
scenery of M———— house had awakened his emotion; his enforced
return thither; his brief and restless residence there; and the eager
delight with which he flew from the desolate mansion of his father to
the endearing circle of Inismore all rushed to his memory, and
awakened that train of tender recollection he had lately endeavoured
to stifle. Happy to seize on an occasion of escaping from the
restraints the society of his insensible companions imposed, happier
still to have an opportunity afforded him of visiting the
neighbourhood of Inismore, every step of his journey to the Lodge
was marked by the renewed existence of some powerful and latent
emotion; and the latent agitation of his heart and feelings had
reached their acme by the time he had arrived at the gate of that
avenue from which the mountains of Inismore were discernible.
When he had reached the Lodge, a young lad, who was working
in the grounds, replied to his inquiries, that an old woman was its
only resident, that the ancient steward was dead, and that Lord M.
had only remained there an hour.
This last intelligence overwhelmed Mr. M. with astonishment. To
his further inquiries the boy only said, that as the report went that M
———— house was undergoing some repair, it was probable his lord
had gone on a visit to some of the neighbouring quality. He added
that his lord ship’s own gentleman had accompanied him.
Mr. M. remained for a considerable time lost in thought; then
throwing the bridle over his horse’s neck, folded his arms, and
suffered it to take its own course: it was the same animal which had
so often carried him to Inismore. When he had determined on
following his father to the Lodge he had ordered a fresh horse; that
which the groom led out was the same which Mr. M. had left behind
him, and which, by becoming the companion of his singular
adventure, had obtained a peculiar interest in his affections. When
he had passed the avenue of the Lodge, the animal instinctively took
to that path he had been accustomed to go; his instinct was too
favourable to the secret wishes of the heart of his unhappy master;
he smiled sadly, and suffered him to proceed. The evening was far
advanced the sun had sunk in the horizon, as from an eminence he
perceived the castle of Inismore. His heart throbbed with violence—a
thousand hopes, a thousand wishes, a thousand fears agitated his
breast: he dared not for a moment listen to the suggestions of
either. Lost in the musings of his heart and imagination, he was
already within a mile of Inismore. The world now disappeared—he
descended rapidly to a wild and trackless shore, screened from the
high road by a range of inaccessible cliffs. Twilight faintly lingered on
the summit of the mountains only: the tide was out; and, crossing
the strand, he found himself beneath those stupendous cliffs which
shelter the western part of the peninsula of Inismore from the
ocean. The violence of the waves had worn several defiles through
the rocks, which commanded a near view of the ruined castle: it was
involved in gloom and silence—all was dark, still, and solemn!—No
lights issued from the windows—no noise cheered at intervals the
silence of desolation.
A secret impulse still impelled the steps of Mr. M————, and the
darkness of the night favoured his irresistible desire to satisfy the
longings of his enamoured heart, by taking a last look at the shrine
of its still worshipped idol. He proceeded cautiously through the
rocks, and alighting, fastened his horse near a patch of herbage;
then advanced towards the chapel—its gates were open—the silence
of death hung over it. The rising moon, as it shone through the
broken casements, flung round a dim religious light, and threw its
quivering rays on that spot where he had first beheld Glorvina and
her father engaged in the interesting ceremonies of their religion.
And to think that even at that moment he breathed the air that she
respired, and was within a few paces of the spot she inhabited!—
Overcome by the conviction, he resigned himself to the delirium
which involved his heart and senses; and, governed by the
overpowering impulse of the moment, he proceeded along that
colonade through which he had distinctly followed her and the Prince
on the night of his first arrival at the castle. It seemed to his heated
brain as though he still pursued those fine and striking forms which
almost appeared but the phantoms of fancy’s creation.
On every mourning breeze he thought the sound of Glorvina’s
voice was borne; and starting at the fall of every leaf, he almost
expected to meet at each step the form of Father John, if not that of
his faithless mistress; but the idea of her lover occurred not. The
review of scenes so dear awakened only a recollection of past
enjoyments; and in the fond dream of memory his present sufferings
were for an interval suspended.
Scarcely aware of the approximation, he had already reached the
lawn which fronted the castle, and which was strewed over with
fragments of the mouldering ruins, and leaning behind a broken wall
which screened him from observation, he indulged himself in
contemplating that noble but decayed edifice where so many of the
happiest and most blameless hours of his life had been enjoyed. His
first glance was directed towards the casement of Glorvina’s room,
but there nor in any other did the least glimmering of light appear.
With a faultering step he advanced from his concealment towards
the left wing of the castle, and snatched a hasty glance through the
window of the banquetting hall. It was the hour in which the family
were wont to assemble there. It was now impenetrably dark—he
ventured to approach still closer, and fixed his eye to the glass; but
nothing met the inquiry of his eager gaze save a piece of armour, on
whose polished surface the moon’s random beams faintly played. His
heart was chilled; yet, encouraged by the silent desolation that
surrounded him, he ventured forward. The gates of the castle were
partly open; the hall was empty and dark—he paused and listened—
all was silent as the grave. His heart sunk within him—he almost
wished to behold some human form, to hear some human sound.
On either side, the doors of two large apartments stood open: he
looked into each; all was chill and dark.
Grown desperate by gloomy fears, he proceeded rapidly up the
stone stairs which wound through the centre of the building. He
paused; and, leaning over the balustrade, listened for a considerable
time; but when the echo of his footsteps had died away, all was
again still as death. Horror-struck, yet doubting the evidence of his
senses, to find himself thus far advanced in the interior of the castle,
he remained for some time motionless—a thousand melancholy
suggestions struck on his soul. With an impulse almost frantic he
rushed to the corridor. The doors of the several rooms on either side
lay open, and he thought by the moon’s doubtful light they seemed
despoiled of their furniture.
While he stood rapt in horror and amazement he heard the sound
of Glorvina’s harp, born on the blast which sighed at intervals along
the passage. At first he believed it was the illusion of his fancy
disordered by the awful singularity of his peculiar situation; to satisfy
at once his insupportable doubts he flew to that room where the
harp of Glorvina always stood: like the rest it was unoccupied and
dimly lit up by the moon beams. The harp of Glorvina, and the couch
on which he had first sat by her, were the only articles it contained:
the former was still breathing its wild melody when he entered, but
he perceived the melancholy vibration was produced by the sea
breeze (admitted by the open casement) which swept at intervals
along its strings. Wholly overcome he fell on the couch—his heart
seemed scarcely susceptible of pulsation—every nerve of his brain
was strained almost to bursting—he gasped for breath. The gale of
the ocean continued to sigh on the cords of the harp, and its
plaintive tones went to his very soul, and roused those feelings so
truly in unison with every sad impression. A few burning tears
relieved him from an agony he was no longer able to endure; and he
was now competent to draw some inference from the dreadful scene
of desolation by which he was surrounded. The good old Prince was
no more!—or his daughter was married! In either case it was
probable the family had deserted the ruins of Inismore.
While absorbed in this heart-rending meditation, he saw a faint
light gleaming on the ceiling of the room, and heard a footstep
approaching. Unable to move, he sat breathless with expectation. An
ancient female tottering and feeble, with a lantern in her hand,
entered; and having fastened down the window, was creeping slowly
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