Kitabı oku: «Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. 2 (of 3)», sayfa 7

One of the greatest pleasures I enjoyed whilst resident at Drummon, was the near abode of the late Lord Rossmore, at that time commander-in-chief in Ireland. His lordship knew my father, and, from my commencement in public life, had been my friend, and a sincere one. He was a Scotsman born, but had come to Ireland when very young, as page to the lord lieutenant. He had married an heiress; had purchased the estate of Mount Kennedy; built a noble mansion; laid out some of the finest gardens in Ireland; and, in fact, improved the demesne, as far as taste, skill, and money could accomplish. He was what may be called a remarkably fine old man, quite the gentleman, and when at Mount Kennedy quite the country gentleman. He lived in a style few people can attain to: his table, supplied by his own farms, was adapted to the viceroy himself, yet was ever spread for his neighbours: in a word, no man ever kept a more even hand in society than Lord Rossmore, and no man was ever better repaid by universal esteem. Had his connexions possessed his understanding, and practised his habits, they would probably have found more friends when they wanted them.

This intimacy at Mount Kennedy gave rise to an occurrence the most extraordinary and inexplicable of my whole existence – an occurrence which for many years occupied my thoughts, and wrought on my imagination. Lord Rossmore was far advanced in years, but I never heard of his having had a single day’s indisposition. He bore, in his old age, the appearance of robust health. During the viceroyalty of Earl Hardwick Lady Barrington, at a drawing-room at Dublin Castle, met Lord Rossmore. He had been making up one of his weekly parties for Mount Kennedy, to commence the next day, and had sent down orders for every preparation to be made. The lord lieutenant was to be of the company. Every second week his house was filled by persons of the highest circle, interspersed with neighbours.

“My little farmer,” said he to Lady Barrington, addressing her by a pet name, “when you go home, tell Sir Jonah that no business is to prevent him from bringing you down to dine with me tomorrow. I will have no ifs in the matter – so tell him that come he must!” She promised positively, and on her return informed me of her engagement, to which I at once agreed. We retired to our chamber about twelve; and towards two in the morning, I was awakened by a sound of a very extraordinary nature. I listened: it occurred first at short intervals; it resembled neither a voice nor an instrument; it was softer than any voice and wilder than any music, and seemed to float in the air. I don’t know wherefore, but my heart beat forcibly: the sound became still more plaintive, till it almost died away in the air; when a sudden change, as if excited by a pang, changed its tone: it seemed descending. I felt every nerve tremble: it was not a natural sound, nor could I make out the point whence it came.

At length I awakened Lady Barrington: she heard it as well as myself, and suggested that it might be an Eolian harp; but to that instrument it bore no similitude: it was altogether a different character of sound. She at first appeared less affected than myself, but was subsequently more so.

We now went to a large window in our bedroom which looked directly upon a small garden underneath: the sound, which first appeared descending, seemed then obviously to ascend from a grass-plot immediately below our window. It continued: Lady Barrington requested that I would call up her maid, which I did, and she was evidently much more affected than either of us. The sounds lasted for more than half an hour. At last a deep, heavy, throbbing sigh seemed to issue from the spot, and was shortly succeeded by a sharp but low cry, and by the distinct exclamation, thrice repeated, of “Rossmore! – Rossmore! – Rossmore!” I will not attempt to describe my own sensations; indeed I cannot. The maid fled in terror from the window, and it was with difficulty I prevailed on Lady Barrington to return to bed: in about a minute after the sound died gradually away, until all was silent.

Lady Barrington, who is not superstitious, as I am, attributed this circumstance to a hundred different causes, and made me promise that I would not mention it next day at Mount Kennedy, since we should be thereby rendered laughing-stocks. At length, wearied with speculations, we fell into a sound slumber.

About seven the ensuing morning a strong rap at my chamber-door awakened me. The recollection of the past night’s adventure rushed instantly upon my mind, and rendered me very unfit to be taken suddenly on any subject. It was light: I went to the door, when my faithful servant, Lawler, exclaimed, on the other side, “Oh Lord, Sir!” – “What is the matter?” said I hurriedly: “Oh, Sir!” ejaculated he, “Lord Rossmore’s footman was running past the door in great haste, and told me in passing that my lord, after coming from the Castle, had gone to bed in perfect health, but that about half-after two this morning, his own man hearing a noise in his master’s bed (he slept in the same room), went to him, and found him in the agonies of death; and before he could alarm the other servants, all was over!”

I conjecture nothing. I only relate the incident as unequivocally matter of fact: Lord Rossmore was absolutely dying at the moment I heard his name pronounced! Let sceptics draw their own conclusions: perhaps natural causes may be assigned; but I am totally unequal to the discovery.

Atheism may ridicule me: Orthodoxy may despise me: Bigotry may lecture me: Fanaticism might burn me: yet in my very faith I would seek consolation. It is in my mind better to believe too much than too little, and that is the only theological crime I can be fairly accused of.

MEMORANDA CRITICA

Remarks on Lady Morgan’s novel of “The Wild Irish Girl,” &c. – Prince O’Sullivan at Killarney – Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent” – Memoir of Jonathan Clerk – “Florence Macarthy” – Comparison between Lady Morgan and Thomas Moore as writers – The author’s knowledge of both – “Captain Rock” condemned – The “Irish Melodies” by Moore – The harmonising of them by Sir John Stevenson injurious to the national music – Anecdote of Mr. Thomas Moore and Mrs. K * * * y.

It is remarkable that the various gradations of habit and society in Ireland have been best illustrated by two female authors, – the one of more imaginative, the other of purer narrative powers; but each, in her respective line, possessing very considerable merit.

Though a fiction not free from some inaccuracies, much inappropriate dialogue, and forced incident, it is impossible to peruse “The Wild Irish Girl” of Lady Morgan without deep interest, or to dispute its claims as a production of true national feeling as well as literary talent.

That tale was the first and is perhaps the best of all her novel writings. Compared with others, it strikingly exhibits the author’s falling off from the simple touches of unsophisticated nature to the less refined conceptions of what she herself styles “fashionable society.”

To persons unacquainted with Ireland, “The Wild Irish Girl” may appear an ordinary tale of romance and fancy; but to such as understand the ancient history of that people, it may be considered as a legend. The authoress might perhaps have had somewhat in view the last descendant of the Irish princes, who did not altogether forget the station of his forefathers.

O’Sullivan, lineally descended from the King of the Lakes, not many years since vegetated on a retired spot of his hereditary dominions at Killarney; and, though overwhelmed by poverty and deprivation, kept up in his mind a visionary dignity. Surveying from his wretched cottage that enchanting territory over which his ancestors had reigned for centuries, I have been told he never ceased to recollect his royal descent. He was a man of gigantic stature and strength; of uncouth, yet authoritative mien – not shaming his pretensions by his presence. He was frequently visited by those who went to view the celebrated lakes, and I have conversed with many who have seen him: but at a period when familiar intercourse has been introduced between actual princes and their subjects, tending undoubtedly to diminish in the latter the sense of individual respect and distance, so wholesome to royalty, the poor descendant of the renowned O’Sullivan had no reason to expect much commiseration from modern sensibility.

The frequent and strange revolutions of the world within the last forty years, the radical alterations in all the material habits of society, – announced the commencement of a new era: and the ascendancy of commerce over rank, and of avarice over every thing, completed the regeneration. But, above all, the loosening of those ties which bound kindred and families, in one common interest, to uphold their race and name; – the extinction of that spirit of chivalry which sustained those ties; – and the common prostitution of the heraldic honours of antiquity; – have steeled the human mind against the lofty and noble pretensions of birth and rank; and while we superficially decry the principles of equality, we are travelling toward them, by the shortest and most dangerous road degeneracy and meanness can point out.

I confess myself to be a determined enemy to the Utopian vision of political and social equality: in the exercise of justice alone should the principle of equality be paramount; in any other sense, it never did, and never can, for any length of time, exist in Europe.

Miss Edgeworth’s “Castle Rackrent” and “Fashionable Tales” are incomparable in truly depicting several traits of the rather modern Irish character: they are perhaps on one point a little overcharged; but, in some parts, may be said to exceed the generality of Lady Morgan’s Irish novels. Fiction is less perceptible in them: they have a greater air of reality – of what I have myself often and often observed and noted in full progress and actual execution throughout my native country. Nothing is exaggerated: the stories and names are coined, but the characters and incidents are “from life.” The landlord, the agent, and the attorney of “Castle Rackrent” (in fact every person it describes) were neither fictitious nor even uncommon characters: and the changes of landed property in the county where I was born (where perhaps they have prevailed to the full as widely as in any other of the united empire) owed, in nine cases out of ten, their origin, progress, and catastrophe to circumstances in no wise differing from those so accurately painted in Miss Edgeworth’s narrative.

Though moderate fortunes have frequently and fairly been realised by agents, yet, to be on the sure side of comfort and security, a country gentleman who wishes to send down his estate in tolerably good order to his family should always be his own receiver, and compromise any claim rather than employ an attorney to arrange it.

I recollect to have seen in Queen’s County a Mr. Clerk, who had been a working carpenter, and when making a bench for the session justices at the court-house, was laughed at for taking peculiar pains in planing and smoothing the seat of it. He smilingly observed, that he did so to make it easy for himself, as he was resolved he would never die till he had a right to sit thereupon: and he kept his word: – he was an industrious man, and became an agent; honest, respectable, and kind-hearted, he succeeded in all his efforts to accumulate an independence: he did accumulate it, and uprightly: his character kept pace with the increase of his property, and he lived to sit as a magistrate on that very bench that he sawed and planed.

I will not quit the subject without saying a word about another of Lady Morgan’s works – “Florence Macarthy,” which, “errors excepted,” possesses an immensity of talent in the delineation of the genuine Irish character. The judges, though no one can mistake them, are totally caricatured; but the Crawleys are superlative, and suffice to bring before my vision, in their full colouring, and almost without a variation, persons and incidents whom and which I have many a time encountered. Nothing is exaggerated as to them; and Crawley himself is the perfect and plain model of the combined agent, attorney, and magistrate – a sort of mongrel functionary whose existence I have repeatedly reprobated, and whom I pronounce to be at this moment the greatest nuisance and mischief experienced by my unfortunate country, and only to be abated by the residence of the great landlords on their estates. No people under heaven could be so easily tranquillised and governed as the Irish: but that desirable end is alone attainable by the personal endeavours of a liberal, humane, and resident aristocracy.

A third writer on Ireland I allude to with more pride on some points, and with less pleasure on others; because, though dubbed “The bard of Ireland,” I have not yet seen many literary productions of his on national subjects that have afforded me unalloyed gratification.

He must not be displeased with the observations of perhaps a truer friend than those who have led him to forget himself. His “Captain Rock” (though, I doubt not, well intended), coming at the time it did and under the sanction of his name, is the most exceptionable publication, in all its bearings as to Ireland, that I have yet seen. Doctor Beattie says, in his Apology for Religion, “if it does no good, it can do no harm:” but, on the contrary, if “Captain Rock” does no harm, it could certainly do no good.

Had it been addressed to, or calculated for, the better orders, the book would have been less noxious: but it is not calculated to instruct those whose influence, example, or residence could either amend or reform the abuses which the author certainly exaggerates. It is not calculated to remedy the great and true cause of Irish ruin – the absenteeism of the great landed proprietors: so much the reverse, it is directly adapted to increase and confirm the real grievance, by scaring every landlord who retains a sense of personal danger, and I know none of them who are exempt from abundance of it, from returning to a country where “Captain Rock” is proclaimed by the “Bard of Ireland” to be an Immortal Sovereign. The work is, in fact, dangerous: it is an effusion of party, not a remonstrance of patriotism. It is a work better fitted for vulgar éclat than for rational approbation. Its effects were not calculated on; and it appears to me, in itself, to offer one of the strongest arguments against bestowing on the lower orders in Ireland the power of reading. Could reading Captain Rock be of service to the peasantry?

Perhaps I write warmly myself.²⁷ I write not however for distracted cottagers, but for proprietors and legislators; and I have endeavoured honestly to express my unalterable conviction that it is by encouraging, conciliating, reattaching, and recalling the higher, and not by confusing and inflaming the lower orders of society, that Ireland can be eventually tranquillised.

Most undoubtedly Mr. Thomas Moore and Lady Morgan are among the most distinguished modern writers of our country: indeed, I know of none (except Miss Edgeworth) who has at present a right to be named with either.

But I can never repeat too often that I am not a literary critic, although I choose to speak my mind strongly and freely. I hope neither my friend Moore nor her ladyship will be displeased at my stating thus candidly my opinion of their public merits: they would perhaps scout me as an adulator were I to tell them what I thought of their private ones. I dare say some of the periodical writers will announce, that my telling the world I am a very inefficient critic is mere work of supererogation: at any rate, it must be owned that making the confession in advance is to the full as creditable as leaving the thing to be stated for me.

In my rambling estimate of the merits of these two justly celebrated authors, let me bear in mind that they are of different sexes, and recollect the peculiar attributes of either.

Both of them are alike unsparing in their use of the bold language of liberty: but Lady Morgan has improved her ideas of freedom by contrasts on the European continent; while Thomas Moore has not improved his by the exemplification of freedom in America. Lady Morgan has succeeded in adulterating her refinement; Thomas Moore has unsuccessfully endeavoured to refine his grossness: she has abundant talent; he has abundant genius; and whatsoever distinction those terms admit of, indicates, in my mind, their relative merit. This allowance, however, must be made; that the lady has contented herself with invoking only substantial beings and things of this sublunary world, while the gentleman has ransacked both heaven and hell, and “the half-way house,” for figurative assistance.

I knew them both before they had acquired any celebrity and after they had attained to much. I esteemed them then, and have reason equally to esteem them now: it is on their own account that I wish some portion of their compositions had never appeared; and I really believe, upon due consideration, they will themselves be of my way of thinking. But let it be remembered, that my esteem and friendship were never yet increased or diminished by the success or non-success of any body. Besides, while a man is necessitated to read much law, he cannot read much literature; and hence I scarcely saw the writings of either until the general buzz called my attention to them.

I recollect Moore being one night at my house in Merrion Square, during the spring of his celebrity, touching the piano-forte, in his own unique way, to “Rosa,” his favourite amatory sonnet: his head leant back; – now throwing up his ecstatic eyes to heaven, as if to invoke refinement – then casting them softly sideways, and breathing out his chromatics to elevate, as the ladies said, their souls above the world, but at the same moment convincing them that they were completely mortal.

A Mrs. K * * * y, a lady then d’âge mûr, but moving in the best society of Ireland, sat on a chair behind Moore: I watched her profile: her lips quavered in unison with the piano; a sort of amiable convulsion, now and then raising the upper from the under lip, composed a smile less pleasing than expressive; her eye softened, glazed, – and half melting she whispered to herself the following words, which I, standing at the back of her chair, could not avoid hearing: “Dear, dear!” lisped Mrs. K * * * y, “Moore, this is not for the good of my soul!”

Almost involuntarily, I ejaculated in the same low tone, “What is not, Mrs. K * * * y?”

“You know well enough!” she replied (but without blushing, as people used to do formerly); “how can you ask so silly a question?” and she turned into the crowd, but never came near the piano again that night.

I greatly admire the national, indeed patriotic idea, of collecting and publishing the Irish Melodies, so admirably acted on by Mr. T. Moore; and it were to be wished that some of them had the appearance of having been written more enthusiastically.²⁸

Sir John Stevenson, that celebrated warbler, has melodised a good many of these; but he certainly has forgotten poor Carolan, and has also melo-dramatised a considerable portion. I think our rants and planxties would have answered just as well without either symphonies or chromatics, and that the plaintive national music of Ireland does not reach the heart a moment the sooner for passing through a crowd of scientific variations. Tawdry and modern upholstery would not be very appropriate to the ancient tower of an Irish chieftain; and some of Sir John’s proceedings in melodising simplicity, remind me of the Rev. Doctor Hare, who whitewashed the great rock of Cashell to give it a genteel appearance against the visitation.

As I do not attempt (I ought to say presume) to be a literary, so am I still less a musical critic: but I know what pleases myself, and in that species of criticism I cannot be expected to yield to any body.

As to my own authorship, I had business more important than writing books in my early life: but now, in my old days, it is my greatest amusement, and nothing would give me more satisfaction than hearing the free and fair remarks of the critics on my productions.

I cannot omit one word more, in conclusion, as to Lady Morgan. It is to me delightful to see a woman, solely by the force of her own natural talent, succeed triumphantly in the line of letters she has adopted, and in despite of the most virulent, illiberal, and unjust attacks ever yet made on any author by mercenary reviewers.