LETTER XXI.
TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.
I cannot promise you any more Irish history. I fear my _Hiberniana_ isclosed, and a volume of more dangerous, more delightful tendency, drawstowards its bewitching subject every truant thought. To him who is deepin the _Philosophia Amatoria_, every other science is cold and vapid.
The oral legend of the Prince, and the historic lore of the priest, allgo for nothing! I shake my head, look very wise, and appear to listen,while my eyes are riveted on Glorvina--who, not unconscious of theardent gaze, sweeps with a feathery touch the chords of her harp, orplies her fairy wheel with double vigilence. Meantime, however, I ammaking a rapid progress in the Irish language, and well I may; forbesides that I now listen to the language of Ossian with the samerespect a Hindoo would to the Sanscrit of the Bramins, the Prince, thepriest, and even Glorvina, contribute their exertions to my progress.The other evening, as we circled round the evening fire in the greathall, the Prince would put my improvements to the test, and taking downa grammar, he insisted upon my conjugating a verb. The verb he chosewas, “_to love_”--? “Glorvina,” said he, seeing me hesitate, “go throughthe verb.”
Glorvina had it at her fingers’ ends; and in her eyes swam a thousanddelicious comments on the text she was expounding.
The Prince, who is as unsuspicious as an infant, would have us repeat ittogether, that I might catch the pronunciation from her lip!
“_I love_,” faintly articulated Glorvina.
“_I love_,” I more faintly repeated.
This was not enough--the Prince would have us repeat the plural twiceover: and again and again we murmured together--“_we love!_”
Heavens and earth! had you at that moment seen the preceptress and the_pupil!_The attention of the simple Prince was riveted on Valancy’sgrammar: he grew peevish at what he called our stupidity, and said weknew nothing of the verb to love, while in fact we were running throughall its moods and tenses with our eyes and looks.
Good God! to how many delicious sensations is the soul alive, for whichthere is no possible mode of expression..
Adieu.--The little post-boy is at my elbow. I observe he goes morefrequently to the post than usual; and one morning I perceived Glorvinaeagerly watching his return from the summit of a rock. Whence canthis solicitude arise? Her father may have some correspondence onbusiness--she can have none.