Chapter V (3)

His birth and childhood are involved in a deep mystery. Born in France, he has faint reminiscences of having been hurried from place to place, until, at the age of seven, he is taken to London and committed to the care of an old and wealthy couple. Here he also visits a school, where he enters into friendship with a boy called Hammond, who subsequently plays a certain part in his story. One day he hears his father mentioned and after this knows no rest; his health declines, and he is sent to a parson in Cumberland, where he pursues his studies and improves both in mind and body. His stay here is interrupted by a message from his father, who announces his desire that Ormsby is to set out for Ireland and forthwith to graduate at the University of Dublin; from his father’s letter Ormsby learns that he is illegitimate. After having spent some time in the Irish capital, he is summoned to join the family in the West. He travels there with his father’s confidential servant, a Frenchman, from whose very impious conversation he gathers that his father is a worn-out libertine. Mr. Bethel is, indeed, a wretched invalid, who is constantly tormented by the memories of pleasures he has lost the power to enjoy, and who regards his son with feelings of envy because of his youth and strength. The rest of the family consists of his daughter Sybilla, a gentle and pure-minded girl, and her gouvernante, a Miss Perceval, an atheist and admirer of French writers; one episode occurring in the family life is that Miss Perceval tries to prevent Sybilla from reading the Bible, and would even be on a fair way to succeed but for the intervention of Ormsby. Among his neighbours he finds his school-fellow Hammond, whose father, an old drunkard, owns an estate in the vicinity. The most remarkable person there, however, is an elder brother of Mr. Bethel, called De Lacy. He leads a life in the style of an ancient Irish chieftain, but, unlike most ‘Milesians’ he is rich, and Ormsby at once becomes his favourite and heir-apparent.--Upon this the Montrevors put in their appearance, and turn all the country upside down with their splendid fêtes and assemblies. Ormsby has been interested in the brilliant and unhappy Lady Montrevor even before he has seen her, and when he actually meets her he is perfectly overwhelmed by her attractions. Her husband, for his part, only expects to be called back to England as soon as his recent scandal has been forgotten and his talents and influence are required again. Meanwhile he employs his time in canvassing votes for his son, and pretends, to that end, to be intent upon proposing all sorts of reforms and improvements for Ireland. There is no love lost between him and his lady, who, in opposition to his suavity and courteousness, treats her neighbours with capricious ridicule. Among their younger children there is Miss Athanasia Montolieu, whose French gouvernante is doing her utmost to corrupt the soul of her charge with the literature of her country.--The whirl of pleasures comes soon to a tragical end as far as the Bethel family is concerned. One night Miss Perceval insists on following Ormsby and his sister to a grand entertainment given by Lord Montrevor in some public place. Ormsby is sitting with Lady Montrevor and her daughter, when a gentleman approaches and requests the ladies to allow him to escort them away from the place, the house being unfit for them, as there is a woman present who is the mistress of Mr. Bethel; she is recognized by the speaker himself and another gentleman, with whom she has formerly been on intimate terms. A violent scene ensues, and the fête is broken up. The following morning Ormsby receives a visit from a relative who confirms his worst doubts, namely, that Miss Perceval is not only the mistress of his father, but is also Ormsby’s and Sybilla’s mother. He declares that a duel seems inevitable, but that Ormsby is disgraced for ever if he takes part in it; the consequences must fall upon his father, whose age and feeble health may, perhaps, excuse him from sending a challenge. Ormsby is convinced of the justness of his argument and keeps away the whole day, but on returning he sees the thoughtlessness of his conduct. His father, greatly astonished at his absence, _has_ been engaged in a duel, burst a blood-vessel, and now lies dying. His uncle, the old Milesian, who is also convinced that Ormsby has refused to fight a duel, has disowned him and forbidden him his presence. Miss Perceval has taken refuge in the house of the adversary in the recent duel, her former acquaintance. Upon Ormsby falls the painful duty of taking her off by main force, but, incorrigible as she is, she flees and takes with her the greater part of Sybilla’s money. Fortunately, Sybilla has been secretly married to Hammond, but as his father, too, leads a life which the son must blush for, he cannot take her to his home; he succeeds, however, in procuring her a refuge elsewhere. Ormsby, standing now alone in the world, resolves to leave the country, yet an unexpected event changes his plans.--In a solitary tower in the neighbourhood lives a mysterious person who never speaks to or visits any one except the poor, whose misery he endeavours to relieve. The night Ormsby prepares to depart he is stopped by the stranger and exhorted to save his uncle. His striking manner induces Ormsby to yield to his exhortations; he hastens to the castle of the Milesian and arrives just in time to save the old man from the hands of a murderer. Upon this a reconciliation takes place. Ormsby is again acknowledged as the heir of his uncle, and the castle becomes his home. His hopeless attachment to Lady Montrevor, however, makes him profoundly unhappy, and at length his uncle sends him to Dublin in company with the relative who gave him the ill-fated advice about the duel. In Dublin his life is what the letters of Miss St. Clair, in the beginning of the story, indicate with so much pain. His disappearance, the mention of which puts an end to her correspondence, is caused by the news that his uncle has been arrested for Ormsby’s debts. Ill as he is, he sets off on his journey in a delirious condition, is once more forgiven by the old man and sent back near the capital where, as has been told, he begins to write down his recollections to his unknown correspondent, Miss St. Clair.--In a letter to his uncle Ormsby confesses that the cause of his dejection may be traced to Montrevor-House, in answer to which the old man summons him back, informing him that he has ‘worked wonders’ in his favour. Though unable to understand the meaning hidden in his uncle’s message, Ormsby sets out for the castle of Montrevor and, on arriving there is, first of all, greeted by the Milesian who draws forward Miss Athanasia Montolieu and places her hand in Ormsby’s. It occurs to Ormsby that this, in fact, was the only rational way of interpreting his letter, but now it is too late for any explanation. He is married that very night; Lord Montrevor, whose star has re-risen in England, entertains the intention of immediately returning there with all his family. Shortly afterwards the old Milesian dies, leaving Ormsby in possession of a large fortune.--The rest of the story is mainly a fulfilment of what was promised in the preface. The company is divided between Bond-street and fashionable entertainments, most of which are held within the family-circle. Lord and Lady Montrevor have several daughters, one of whom has, strangely enough, married the present Earl of Westhampton--an uneducated man of blunt manners--whom her father has treated so infamously. The principal amusement at these entertainments, aside from questionable gallantries, are cards, at which they attempt to rob and even cheat each other. Ormsby before long gambles away every shilling of his property as well as of that of his wife, and once more he comes face to face with ruin. A depraved woman of fashion, Lady Delphina Orberry, the greatest enemy of Lady Montrevor, falls violently in love with him. Ormsby, who fortunately has become amorous of his own wife, is insensible to attentions of this character, yet Lady Orberry contrives to become his sole creditor, thus to get him, economically at least, at her mercy. Lady Montrevor, at this time, contemplates a retirement from the world altogether. She has met a man who has loved her in her youth, before she was a woman of fashion, and whom she wantonly rejected; now they discover their feelings to be unchanged. The situation, however, becomes acute in the extreme, when Lord Montrevor, who hates his wife, determines to prosecute Ormsby for adultery with her, and appearances are against them. Lady Montrevor attempts to commit suicide; Ormsby bursts into her room, and tears the laudanum from her, upon which, it is said, ‘all recollection forsakes him.’ When he regains his self-possession, all complications are quickly and wonderfully unravelled. Lady Delphina Orberry takes poison and dies, confessing to Ormsby that she had a daughter who was educated in Ireland in separation from her mother; she gives him some letters whence it appears that her name was Elmaide St. Clair. Lord Montrevor falls in a duel, his wife becoming thus free to unite herself with the lover of her youth. The _dramatis personæ_ once more retire to Ireland, for Lady Montrevor’s lover turns out to be the identical inhabitant of the solitary tower, and, still more strange, the father of Ormsby, a third brother of De Lacy and Mr. Bethel. Miss Perceval had been his mistress shortly before she became Mr. Bethel’s, and Ormsby was believed to be the son of the latter. Ormsby’s affairs are forthwith cleared up. It appears that the often-mentioned relative, who has been his agent, has secretly hated him because of the frustration of his hopes of becoming De Lacy’s heir himself, and thus he has been trying to rob Ormsby of his property and, moreover, to seduce his wife; but so far from succeeding in his designs, he has, at last, shot himself. Athanasia now presents Ormsby with a child, and the book ends with this paradoxical sentence: ‘Let those who cannot feel my felicity, attempt to describe it.’--

* * * * *

From the short _précis_ above it ought to be evident that the story is diffuse and clumsily constructed; that it contains certain good suggestions that are not made the most of, and cleverly built-up situations which lead to platitudes or are forcibly and implausibly dissolved. The cause of this, no doubt, may be traced to the manifold and contradictory considerations Maturin imagined himself to be bound to observe while writing his second book. The autobiography does not attach itself quite naturally to the correspondence that precedes it, and the intrigue, when it once commences, is continually interrupted by discussions and episodes. From the latter, however, is to be sought what interest the book is capable of arousing. The correspondence of Miss St. Clair is, in itself, an instance worthy of note. It has been admired by a critic[44] for ‘its method of pure suggestion of character without incident;’ and the character revealed is that of a heroine typically romantic.[45] Her love is soft and dreaming, made to live on sighs and tears, too platonic and ethereal even for the vicinity of its object:

But he has seen me, and has felt, as if he looked on vacancy; and it is better, much better so. I can hardly bear his sight, I could not bear his voice speaking to me; his rich and angel tones would madden me; no, I cannot woo him. I will hide myself in the solitude of pride and despair. Perhaps when he treads on my grave, he may pause, he may ask--Oh! let him not, let him not; shall I not rest in a grave?

This self-denying feeling, it is seen, has reached a degree where every positive aspiration ends. The writer is herself aware that she leaves far behind her the sentimental novels she has read:

They never loved who wished to be near what they loved. Werther talks of dancing with Charlotte, of holding her in his arms; what feelings men have! Such a time is with me, a time of fear and blindness. I love to be so far from him, that it is requisite for me to watch and devise how I may catch a glance or a tone from him. I would not be nearer if I might; a glance, a tone is enough, is too much for me.

The story of Elmaide St. Clair is given as a warning example of overwrought sensibility and its fatal consequences, and it might be supposed that this quality in her is, therefore, deliberately exaggerated. Yet that part of the book, most of all, impresses the reader with the genuineness of its conception; it is written with obvious inspiration, and there is absolutely nothing of parody about the style. It is one of the few instances where the author seems to be in perfect sympathy with his subject, and he actually excels in the very kind of composition he at the same time pretends to condemn.--Another of the better episodes is neither romantic nor ‘fashionable,’ but foreshadows Maturin’s best attainments in realistic description of ordinary life of a certain kind. Whether it was an individual trait of Maturin, or whether it belongs to the Irish temperament--few English writers have displayed so intense a horror of a narrow, monotonous existence without any sort of excitement or interest. In _The Wild Irish Boy_, in _Women_, in _Melmoth_, this aversion is expressed more and more powerfully each time. In the present work this feeling is given an outlet in the case of the old couple in London, with whom Ormsby is placed while a child. They have retired from business in order to pass the remainder of their days in quietness; but instead of enjoying an agreeable rest, they are seized by an intolerable tedium, and by and by their life, as it were, develops into a stagnant pool:

The morning was passed by Mr. Sampson in examining books of obsolete accounts, which he had brought with him from the city “against a rainy day,” as he said in totting up sums, whose numbers he could by that time tell blindfold, and when he had found the amount, yawning and beginning again; sometimes he strolled about the house, examined locks that did not want repairing, shook his head at the weather-glass, and projected a removal of the clock from behind the parlour door, where its ticking made him melancholy after dinner. His wife retired to her room, examined the contents of old drawers, discovered that things grew yellow by lying by, and resolved to expose them to the sun some day in the following week; at a certain hour she visited the kitchen, watched the intrusion of strange cats, and detected the turnspit in his many contrivances to escape from duty, by which she boasted, dinner was prevented from being five minutes later than the time. They dined early without appetite, and retired early without drowsiness; sometimes a walk was proposed, on the appearance of a fine morning, but then the weather-glass was examined, till the time for walking had passed away; and looking wistfully at each other, they sunk into their easy chairs, and counted how many minutes till dinner.

The great bulk of the book, as has been said, aspires to treat of modern life in higher circles, of which Maturin, at the time, knew little or nothing. The descriptions, consequently, lack all atmosphere of reality, nor does the characterization augment the value of the whole. The worst of it all is that the hero is so uninteresting, and does not in the least fulfil the expectations roused by the effusions of Elmaide St. Clair. A very self-exulting tone is generally not in keeping with an autobiographical form, yet Ormsby Bethel does nothing to suppress the eulogies lavishly bestowed on him by well-meaning people, eulogies which he certainly does not deserve. He calls himself wild, but wildness is merely an embellishing name for weakness; there is nothing in him of real, refreshing wildness, or youthful recklessness; he is always in an unnatural state of exaltation, either of virtue or repentance. A preacher of morals and defender of religion as he aspires to be in a society that cares for neither, he displays, when emergency arises, no more strength of mind than his neighbours. What is it but a deplorable weakness in a man to publish about himself the letters of Elmaide St. Clair on the pretence that they treat of a period of his life of which he ‘could not speak in the first person?’ It is very doubtful whether Ormsby Bethel ever became popular among the public of circulating libraries. That the reader cannot feel sympathy for the hero is, of course, in itself no fault in a book, but in this case it is only too evident that it is the author’s intention he should.--The wholly imaginary character of Lady Montrevor is too superlative and violently exaggerated, and her wonderful accomplishments, of mind and body, are endlessly repeated in a most extravagant language. Her daughter Athanasia is more interesting; she is one of those delicate and ethereal beings Maturin always succeeded in designing, and of which there are no two quite alike. Athanasia is, like Byron’s Aurora,

--a fair and fairy one,
Of the best class, and better than her class[46]--

and, like her, she is also in possession of a portion of common sense and strength of mind, being eventually cured of the malady under which Elmaide St. Clair breaks down. At first, indeed, her case seems desperate. She is grown up into an ‘early, and exquisite, and dangerous maturity;’ she has been educated ‘without example but of vice and folly,’ and left to form her ideas from improper literature, until she is ‘dying to be the heroine of a mad and wicked tale of a Rousseau, of a Goethe, of a Wolstonecraft.’ And to become such a heroine she imagines it necessary for her to have both a husband and a lover. Therefore she encourages the attentions of the relative of her husband, who otherwise is quite indifferent to her. Yet at the bottom of her heart there is a yearning for fidelity, honourable love and quiet happiness, and when difficulties are gathering around her husband, this yearning grows stronger and stronger. At last she understands that the duties of life differ greatly from those of romance, and in a candid and touching letter--which her husband reads while she is sleeping!--she renounces the relative for ever. Now this argumentation would be very well if the aforesaid writers actually _did_ maintain the views ascribed to them; but it is unquestionably a very childish way of understanding them to long for a forbidden attachment even in case you happen to be united to the man you love. Considering that Athanasia has grown up in an environment so corrupt as Maturin tries to depict it, it is certainly too far-fetched to throw the blame upon Julie and Charlotte. Yet it is never explicitly stated that Athanasia has misconceived what she has read; the opinions pass as those of the author. This curious anti-romantic freak of Maturin, whatever its cause, was not of long duration: eight years later accusations of the same kind were brought against himself, in connection with his tragedy of _Bertram_.--Among the secondary characters in the book that of Lady Delphina Orberry has been pointed out[47] as representing ‘a type of woman rare in English fiction.’ She is introduced as a rival of Lady Montrevor and is her contrast in every respect; her weapons against that lady’s dazzling brilliancy and sparkling wit are ‘soft, seducing manners,’ a ‘timid silence,’ and ‘melting whispers.’ Behind, however, this unterrifying exterior there is a mind totally depraved, whereas the heart of Lady Montrevor is discovered to have remained uncorrupted, in spite of her position in society. Undoubtedly how Lady Orberry clings to Ormsby like something too soft for him to shake off, gently but irresistingly involving her fate with his, is well described, and how she understands to excite his compassion by representing herself as unjustly suspected of that which she most wishes, in her relation to him. But the end, again, is forced and unnatural; it is only because the hero _must_ be got out of his difficulties that she takes poison, confesses all her crimes to him, and gives him the letters of her unhappy daughter.

* * * * *

Notwithstanding all that can be said against _The Wild Irish Boy_, it is of considerable interest in Maturin’s earlier production, when regarded as a kind of preparatory study to _Women_, one of his masterpieces. Many of the characters and situations present obvious similarities, and it will, therefore, be necessary later on to refer to the present work. A few words are still required to define its character as an Irish novel, one of the first where elements typically Irish are brought forward.

Anything finished or complete these Irish ingredients do not form; that Maturin longed to speak of his country but felt himself prevented by other considerations has already been pointed out. Of the attempts to treat of Ireland, her past and present, only some diffuse discussions remain here and there, without being naturally introduced into the story. The first idea of Ireland is introduced in a surprising and poetical way. During his solitary wanderings in the mountains of Cumberland, in his earliest youth, Ormsby sometimes amuses himself by imagining a people whose destinies he is to lead and whose sovereign and benefactor he is to become:

I -- -- -- imagined them possessed of the most shining qualities that can enter into the human character, glowing with untaught affections, and luxuriant with uncultivated virtue; but proud, irritable, impetuous, indolent and superstitious; conscious of claims they knew not how to support, burning with excellencies, which, because they wanted regulation, wanted both dignity and utility; and disgraced by crimes which the moment after their commission they lamented, as a man laments the involuntary outrages of drunkenness. I imagined a people that seemed to stretch out its helpless hands, like the infant Moses from the ark, and promise its preserver to bless and dignify the species.

These fancies he discloses to the good parson, his tutor, who immediately answers that he has ‘accurately described the Irish nation.’ Shortly afterwards Ormsby is sent to Ireland. He might now be expected to come into some contact with the people of his dreams, but this material is, unfortunately, allowed to run to waste. His first stay in Dublin is occupied by a tedious discourse upon the University, and by a description of a Calvinistic set among the students, who endeavour to draw Ormsby into their circle. In Maturin’s days these passages possibly might have excited some local interest, yet to a modern reader they form a most unexhilarating digression, from the like of which all other works of Maturin are exempt. Ormsby’s second sojourn at Dublin, that which he otherwise avoids speaking of in the first person, contains a lengthy comparison between the Irish and English character. This is somewhat more to the point; but even at that time, when but little had been written about the former, observations of this kind were hardly original:

The Irish are more ardent lovers, the English better husbands. The Irishman is more exhilarating in society, the Englishman’s comforts are more domestic. One is formed to give more delight, the other more tranquil and rational happiness to life. The Irishman approaches you with facility and attaches himself to you with ardor; the Englishman it is difficult to conciliate as an acquaintance, and more difficult to obtain for a friend, but once obtained, the prize is beyond all labor.

Now and then the political state of Ireland is mentioned: ‘her depressed trade, her neglected populace, her renegade nobility, her dissipated, and careless, and unnational gentry’--but almost always in the form of a discourse, apart from the story. Events and personages throwing light upon the state of Ireland and her national character, are not allowed to speak for themselves; when the discourse is finished, the reader again finds himself in the drawing-room of Lady Montrevor. In a few instances only the descriptions present a glimpse of Irish life freed from comment. There is a dinner-party at the house of the elder Hammond, of a riotous and disorderly character, the account of which, a note informs us, is taken from real life. The other is an instance of so-called ‘paddyism,’ unique in the production of Maturin who, unlike most older Irish novelists, was not at all fond of depicting the lower classes with sympathetic humour. The night the Montrevors arrive at their castle, the tenantry are gathered to receive them, having shortened the tedium of waiting by indulging in a drop of whiskey, with the result that the approaching family are hailed with an Irish cry that frightens their horses and endangers their very lives. Their intentions were all the best, as is explained by an old man:

But as we were all tenants to this great new lord, and old followers to the family, though they never lived among us, why we all loved him as we did our eyes, though we never set them upon his face till last night. So we thought it would be but right to go out and give him a shout of joy, when he was coming to his own house, that he never was in before; and we all set out, and we were early enough to see him, for the devil a bit of him was there, and so says I to them, there’s no good at all in waiting to see a man in the dark, and we are perished standing here in the bog, with nothing to warm us but the rain and wind; and so let us step into Paddy Donnellan’s that is within a step of the gate, and take a drop of whiskey, and when we hear the carriage wheel, we’ll all come out as fresh as daisies, and give him an Irish cry that he never heard from them English spalpeens in his life.

This is one of the preludes to the innumerable scenes of Irish boisterousness and characteristic blunders, found in the pages of later writers, Carleton, Lover, Lever, and others.

The ancient glory of Ireland is touched upon in the figure of the old Milesian.[48] The type had been introduced into fiction by Miss Owenson; her story of _The Wild Irish Girl_ is the first patriotic Irish novel of a predominantly romantic colouring, and essentially influenced, as will be seen, Maturin’s third book. It is an immature and extravagant, but not undelightful tale of an Irish chieftain, the prince of Inismore, whose ancestors, in the Cromwellian wars, lost nearly all their estates to an English soldier, the same estates still being in possession of the English soldier’s descendants. The present prince of Inismore lives in solitary retirement with his chaplain and his daughter, a beautiful, gifted and accomplished young lady, whose only ‘wildness’ is her naturalness of manners and purity of heart. The head of the English family has made several attempts at reconciliation, his advances having always been proudly rejected. Nevertheless both he and his son visit the prince without revealing their identity, at the same time also concealing their respective visits from each other; both succeed in securing the friendship of the old man, and both fall in love with his daughter. A tragedy is avoided by the father voluntarily retiring and leaving to his son the girl and all his Irish estates. This intrigue, however, is merely a setting for the real tendency of the story, which is to make Ireland known. The colloquies held at Castle Inismore form the principal part of the book; they treat exclusively of the past of Ireland and are furnished with notes and quotations from Walker, Ware, Young, and other historians, all tending to prove the oriental descent and great antiquity of the Milesian race, its attachment to poetry and music, as well as its other noble qualities and high standard of civilization at a very early period.

In spite of its promising title, Maturin’s second book contains no loans from _The Wild Irish Girl_ except the venerable Milesian with his inevitable _chapelain de maison_, and even this figure has undergone a change. De Lacy is a rich man who has travelled much in foreign parts and is, in every way, more modern and less romantic than the prince of Inismore. The latter always appears in a dress ‘strictly conformable to the ancient costume of the Irish nobles;’ De Lacy wears ‘the English habit of fifty years ago,’ with only an Irish cloak to remind one of his nationality. But their notions of their race and their country are the same, De Lacy also assuring us that ‘he who shakes my belief in the antiquity of my country, must first shake my belief in the beatitude of the immaculate Virgin Mary.’

* * * * *

_The Wild Irish Boy_ appears to have met with the very fate Maturin had hoped to avoid by trying to please all: it attracted but little attention, or, if the statement of a writer[49] is to be relied upon, that the book was ‘admired, talked of, praised,’ the attention probably was confined to the literary circles of Dublin. In dedicating his third book to the ‘Quarterly Reviewers’ Maturin says that they had been pleased to notice his romance of _Montorio_, but there are no indications of his second book having been subject to public review. As a means of brightening the economic outlook of its author, _The Wild Irish Boy_ failed completely; it was, like _Montorio_, published at his own risk, and the success was not distinct enough to induce any publisher to purchase the copyright. Discouraged from an immediate renewal of the attempt, Maturin, for four years to come, devoted his leisure hours exclusively to some less precarious occupation, which, in all probability, consisted in the enlargement of and still closer attention to his boarding-school. What support he might hitherto have had from his father now also ceased, for about 1810 Maturin senior was dismissed from his situation. One biographer,[50] alluding to this deplorable event, says that Charles Robert was ‘roused to poetry by disappointment,’ which would antedate the event in question by about 5 years. There seems, however, to be more reason to believe Alaric Watts, who, writing in 1819, states that William Maturin was dismissed after a service of 47 years, adding the following particulars: ‘The day of his dismissal he was pennyless: it is singular, that though the commissioners of inquiry, who sat repeatedly on the business pronounced this unfortunate gentleman wholly innocent of the charge (of fraud) brought against him, he has been suffered to linger for nine years since, without redress, without relief, and without notice.’ Whether this be correct or not, there is no further intelligence about Mr. William Maturin; but in any case his last years must have cast a gloom over all the family, and exercised a further pressure upon the toiling life of his son.----

In 1810 appeared Scott’s critique on _Montorio_, ending with this passage:

If the author -- -- -- be indeed, as he describes himself, young and inexperienced, without literary friend or counsellor, we earnestly exhort him to seek one on whose taste and judgment he may rely. He is now, like an untutored colt, wasting his best vigour in irregular efforts without either grace or object; but there is much of these volumes which promises a career that may at some future time astonish the public.

As Maturin had, somehow or other, come to know who this friendly reviewer was, he availed himself of the opportunity to write to Scott and solicit him to become his literary friend and counsellor. This gave rise to an intimate, lifelong correspondence, during the course of which Scott faithfully assisted the poor Irishman with good advice and, sometimes, even in a more substantial way. His epistolary intimacy with the great novelist Maturin always counted among his greatest distinctions, and although the two men never met, their friendship continued warm and sincere until Maturin’s death.[51]

There are no more details available with regard to Maturin’s life at that period, but he was undoubtedly successful in his vocation as a teacher, for when he again turned to literature, he did so in rather a hopeful state of mind. His biographer[52] says that when Maturin was writing _The Milesian Chief_--which was published in the beginning of 1812--his genius was ‘elastic and ardent, his knowledge of composition improved with the errors of his former works before him, and an increasing desire to do something worthy of fame: he was at the age and under the circumstances that are calculated to improve and correct the taste.’ Colburn paid 80 pounds for the copyright, which was the first success of this kind Maturin had ever experienced; and full of confidence he finishes his preface--in which he does not care to enlarge upon his second book--:

In my first work I attempted to explore the ground forbidden to man; the sources of visionary terror; the “formless and the void”: in my present I have tried the equally obscure recesses of the human heart. If I fail in both, I shall--write again.

The preface is in the form of a dedication to the Quarterly Reviewers, whom Maturin accuses of writing reviews merely to make a display of their own cleverness and neglecting to speak of the works they are to judge:

Seriously I read the Reviews for information, and information I could get none--about myself. All I learned was that I was a bad writer, but why, or how, or in what manner I was to become better, they graciously left to myself.

The tone is throughout very different from that of the preface to _The Wild Irish Boy_; herein speaks the artist to whom a literary reputation is by no means indifferent. Here also is found the much-quoted sentence where Maturin defines his characteristic powers:

If I possess any talent, it is that of darkening the gloomy, and of deepening the sad; of painting life in extremes, and representing those struggles of passion when the soul trembles on the verge of the unlawful and the unhallowed.

Of the work now at hand Maturin adds:

In the following pages I have tried to apply these powers to the scenes of actual life: and I have chosen my own country for the scene, because I believe it the only country on earth, where, from the strange existing opposition of religion, politics, and manners, the extremes of refinement and barbarism are united, and the most wild and incredible situations of romantic story are hourly passing before modern eyes.

All this material is, very likely, not attended to in _The Milesian Chief_, yet it is certainly by far the noblest of Maturin’s three earlier romances.--

The Milesian Chief is Connal O’Morven, a young man of an ancient and formerly potent Irish family, now reduced to extreme poverty. Their castle and estates have been sold to an Englishman, Lord Montclare, and Connal lives with his aged and insane grandfather in a ruined watch-tower, subsisting chiefly on memories of bygone glory. The old man, in his frantic rage against England, conceives a plan of insurrection, for the liberation of Ireland; and Connal, young and inexperienced as he is, engages himself to be the leader of it. In the meantime Miss Armida Fitzalban, the daughter of Lord Montclare, whose beauty and talents have struck all Europe with amazement, arrives at the castle, and a violent passion flames up between her and Connal. Fully comprehending the impossibility of success in his enterprise, Connal is determined to dissolve the conspiracy, but the treacherous conduct of Armida’s unsuccessful lover, an English officer called Wandesford, who happens to get wind of the plan, compels him to take up arms. Armida renounces everything and follows Connal and his band to a remote island on the Atlantic coast. The government troops, however, track them even there, and as the cause of the rebels is hopeless, Armida is conducted back to her home. Becoming now a prey to the machinations of an unnatural mother, she ends her days by taking poison; Connal surrenders himself to the government and is sentenced to death.

By the side of this love-story there is another, equally unhappy, but bizarre rather than gloomy, curious rather than grand: of Connal’s younger brother Desmond, and Armida’s younger sister Ines. The last-named, for family reasons, is, by her mother, given out as a boy; and being very young and innocent she never suspects her sex but imagines herself to love Desmond as brother loves brother. At last the secret is revealed and they are married for a short time, but subsequently Ines is also implicated in the schemes of her mother, and dies of a broken heart in a state of insanity.

The destinies of these four people form the contents of the book. It is a record of human passions which are incalculable from the external basis upon which the incidents take place, and the interest is absorbed by the sufferings and inner conflicts of a few figures powerfully domineering at the expense of the _milieu_. This is, indeed, the case with all Maturin’s Irish stories; a dissection of the social state of Ireland, with a comprehensive view of the different classes, something in the style of Gerald Griffin’s well-known tale of _The Collegians_ (1828), it would hardly have been within his capacity to create. In _The Milesian Chief_ the political state of the country and the insurrection, instead of being the main subject of the story, form but a background to the personal tragedy of Connal O’Morven, which becomes only the more poignant as he fights for a cause in which he does not believe. He is the first to comprehend that it is ‘impossible for Ireland to subsist as an independent country,’ and the masses he has at his disposal are in no way calculated to heighten his confidence. The Milesian spirit so highly admired Maturin finds only in a few surviving descendants of the noblest families; his ideas of the people are tinged with the somewhat aristocratic notion which makes one of the distinctions between the typical 19th century romanticism and its pioneers in the preceding one. In some of his sermons Maturin clearly expresses his opinions on this point:

It is an absurd and mischievous prejudice that supposes the existence of vice confined to the higher classes of life, and virtue (as they call it) the everlasting inhabitant of a cottage--it is a prejudice originating in utter ignorance of life, cherished by the silly illusions of pastoral poetry, and inflamed by the wild and wicked ravings of political enthusiasts, without any reason in nature and in life.

This, it must be added, Maturin does not find to be entirely the fault of the people:

The root of the wretchedness of the lower orders of this country is in their depravity, and the root of their depravity is for the most part in their ignorance; they are wicked because they are uncultivated, and they are uncultivated because they have been shamefully, abominably neglected; more neglected than the people of any civilized country under heaven.

But much ‘sinned against’ as the lower classes are, in the opinion of the clergyman, to the romantic they remain unattractive; and here is the basis of the fact that the Irish peasantry occupies, upon the whole, so inconspicuous a place in Maturin’s production, and never--except in the opening chapters of _Melmoth_--gives him the inspiration to his most interesting work. On the other hand his treatment of the subject is never undignified; if he has not created anything like the dark and impressive pictures of Irish rebels and outlaws found, say, in the pages of John Banim, neither does he give way to the popular habit of representing the Irish peasant as a cross between a fool and a jester, which idea was so keenly resented in the Irish literary circles in the fifties.[53]

Yet _The Milesian Chief_ must be considered, in a way, a national tale, and it is even extremely characteristic as such; the plot, in its roughest outlines, is the identical one used by Irish novelists up to this day with a persistence which cannot escape any student of Anglo-Irish literature. These rough outlines are as follows. A person of eminence arrives in Ireland; he (or she) possesses every qualification for a rich and interesting life, yet nothing noteworthy has ever happened to him, and he is full of spleen until, once there, he is dragged into a whirl of undreamt-of adventures; his former habits, prejudices and ways of thinking suddenly give way to an all-absorbing passion, which irresistibly hurries him towards bliss or destruction, as the case may be. In the predilection of Irish novelists for an intrigue of this description there is something more than a natural partiality to a theme which aptly lends itself to literary aims; it is the revenge of a subdued and oppressed country upon her masters. In the field of fiction the conquered becomes the conqueror, and the first come in as the last. Connal O’Morven, unreal and idealized though he be, is the embodiment of all that is great and proud in the Milesian spirit, which spirit here subjugates the most brilliant representative of the happier race. This, again, does not hinder Armida’s infatuation from being quite individual in character, limited only to the person of Connal. His princely ancestry of which he is so proud, the ancient glory of Ireland, her poetry and music, are all indifferent to her, and Irish scenery, in all its grandeur, only makes her sigh for the sunny regions she has quitted. As Connal is persuaded that he could never be happy out of Ireland, their love is born under most unpromising auspices, and its tragic issue is necessitated by the circumstance of their having nothing in common.--

Armida and Connal--and Wandesford, too--are all nearly related. This fact is made no mystery of, but plainly communicated to Armida by her father, on their way to Ireland. At the time of the ruin of the Irish family, and upon the estates forthwith becoming the property of Lord Montclare, his sister has married Mr. Randal O’Morven, son of the old Milesian. The latter has never forgiven his son, any more than Lord Montclare has forgiven his sister; but shortly before her death Mrs O’Morven has written to her brother and disclosed the extreme misery of their condition. Lord Montclare has, consequently, appointed her husband to be his land-steward, and offered her sons commissions in the army. The younger, Desmond, has accepted the offer, while Connal prefers to starve with his grandfather.

The family has, it is true, been shrouded in a real mystery, but this also is shortly afterwards revealed by Lord Montclare, when lying at death’s door to which he is brought by the unexpected arrival in Ireland of the rest of the family, whose existence Armida has been wholly ignorant of. Her father has, long ago, contracted a marriage, having in view the sole purpose of excluding the O’Morvens from the property, by begetting a son. Armida, however, is the only child remaining alive, whereupon Lord Montclare, exasperated by his misfortunes, confines his wife in an obscure place and spreads the report of her death; this is done with the assistance of an Italian monk called Morosini, who subsequently turns out to be in the service of two masters. Before Lord Montclare has time to form another connection, his lady is delivered of a son. Under the circumstances he cannot acknowledge his heir without acknowledging his imposture, and threatened and persecuted by Morosini he flees from land to land, too feeble in courage to reveal the secret. Wandesford--who is the son of his younger sister--is the only person acquainted with the actual facts of the case, and therefore Lord Montclare eagerly presses Armida to accept his proposal. At last he is determined to give the matter publicity in Ireland, for the consolatory reason that in this country ‘the judgment of his character was indifferent to him from his contempt for its inhabitants.’ Before, however, he has accomplished his purpose, his death is caused by the sudden arrival of his family, who make their appearance at Castle Montclare, attended by Morosini and Desmond O’Morven. Desmond has come from Italy by the same boat as Lady Montclare, and has had an opportunity of saving her son from drowning, after which a very tender friendship has sprung up between the two.--

The commencement of the story in Ireland is preceded by two prologues, representing ‘Armida in Italy’ and ‘Armida in England.’ The first describes a banquet given by Lord Montclare at Naples, where Wandesford also makes his appearance. Armida has, for the occasion, arranged some tableaux in which her manifold accomplishments are dazzlingly displayed. In one of these the scene

represented the garden of an oriental palace: the sides filled with flowers, whose lofty and luxuriant clusters seemed to rise above the height of the apartment, and whose deep and sunny hues were softened by the magic diffusion of the lights; and the perspective terminated in an arch, beyond which was caught a view of the ruins of Persepolis. -- -- -- Armida advanced on the stage alone: she was in the oriental dress, and she had an instrument in her hand resembling the lute. Wandesford gazed with astonishment: the pale, slight, simply clad girl he had lately seen was transformed into the most brilliant female in the world. The colour which applause brought to her cheek mantled richly through the tinge of rouge she had put on to conceal the effects of her exertions. -- -- The torrent of sound that she now poured forth, the height to which she soared, the rapidity with which she traversed intervals that connected the widest extremes of human voice, the precision with which she marked their minutest subdivisions, and, above all, the ease of attitude and expression which she preserved amid her exertions, like a skilful charioteer, who commands and enjoys the flight of his coursers, whilst their speed terrifies the spectators, filled the Italians with a sensation which applause could neither express nor exhaust.

There is, it will be observed, no stint of powerful attributes, the marvels of Armida leading directly back to Lady Montrevor in _The Wild Irish Boy_. Yet the descriptions here _are_ somewhat softened, and the style is free from the extravagances of Maturin’s second book; Armida, somehow, seems more fit for a heroine of this extraordinary kind. Her cousin Wandesford, though a cold and selfish character, is so enraptured by her performance that he declares himself on the spot. Armida decidedly rejects his attentions, and on the following morning when he calls on her again, he is informed that Lord Montclare and his daughter have departed from Italy without any intentions of ever returning.

The second prologue represents Armida in London society, of which Maturin draws an amusing and curious picture. Here she is incapable of creating any sensation:

But what was the astonishment, the horror, of the beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious foreigner, on her first introduction to fashionable life in London: lost amid a crowd where beauty could not be distinguished; stunned by a buz of nothings, where mind could not be displayed; elbowed by rouged, naked, dashing dowagers; suffered to stand unnoticed or eyed through a glass by yawning, lounging bucks of ton; sinking amid the crowd, to be permitted to help herself to refreshments, or to want them; to be without conversation, though a mistress of half the dead and living languages, from her ignorance of fashionable jargon; to walk down a set with a partner who appeared to be debating whether it would not be high ton to drop asleep during the exercise--what a reception for a woman who had seen at her feet Italy and France contending to scatter the laurels of fame and the roses of pleasure.

Wandesford reappears, and Armida, in her desolation, receives his attentions with something akin to gratitude. He renews his proposal, which is eagerly embraced by Lord Montclare. Harassed on all sides Armida at last complies and gives Wandesford her word; upon this she is hurried off to Ireland, where Wandesford is shortly to follow them.--

These two chapters are a clever preliminary to the thrilling adventures Armida is going forth to meet, besides giving a good idea of her character and circumstances. In spite of her brilliant position in society she feels lonely and unhappy in her restless life, where in everything she is subjected to the caprices of her father. Her only pleasure is the gratification of her pride through the admiration she excites with her talents; but in England her pride also gets a severe blow. She feels utterly humiliated and is, as it were, prepared to meet what she will be forced to surrender to. In a state of dejection she accepts the proposal of Wandesford, who is less than indifferent to her, nor is her future brightened by her father’s determination to set out for Ireland, which determination she cannot imagine to be anything but a fit of his incurable melancholy. She shudders to think of the country she is taken to, and travels on almost in apathy. Much ‘fury’--of which there is quite enough already--is spared by her not entering the scene of action immediately from the highest pinnacles of glory and triumph; and the deeper and truer side of her character is naturally developed in sorrow and desolation, which her father’s death increases to the uttermost. Her new-found relations cannot compensate for the loss. Lady Montclare, though always wearing a mask of unvarying suavity, inspires not the least confidence in her daughter, and her young son, Endymion, is so closely watched by her and Morosini, that it is impossible for Armida to approach him. Thus she is inevitably drawn to Connal O’Morven, who comes like an incarnation of his wild country, grand and solitary, distinct from anything she has ever seen or dreamt of, while at the same time the boundless devotion he offers her recalls by-gone, brighter days to her mind. Being thus mentally prepared for their fate, they are thrown together by external events with rather unnecessary violence: in the first dawn of their acquaintance Connal finds an opportunity of saving Armida’s life--at the risk of his own--three different times. Upon her first arrival to the castle her horses are terrified and rear staggering backwards on to the rock, and she would be lost did not Connal rush to the scene of imminent danger and snatch her from the carriage. The following day she walks out to the shore and sits down on a rock. Lost in meditations she fails to observe the tide coming on before it has cut off her return; again she would perish but for Connal, who happens to be close at hand. And a few days later, when Wandesford, too, has arrived, he and Armida and Connal visit a small islet to look at some Celtic antiquities. In the meantime a dreadful storm breaks out, and only by exerting his superhuman strength to the utmost Connal succeeds in rowing them back sufficiently near the shore to be rescued when the boat capsizes. In all this, however, there is a kind of inner veracity which saves any of the passages from becoming merely melodramatic. The delineation especially of Armida, who is not (like Connal) raised above human weaknesses, is skilfully represented, and the descriptions of her mental struggles are both psychologically, as well as poetically, true. In Ireland everything is so different from what she is accustomed to, and her relation particularly to Connal is so uncomfortable, that all her experience of the great world is unable to guide her upon her first encounters with him. When Connal rescues her from the waves of the tide, Armida, in her confusion, offers him her purse. The manner in which this ill-chosen retribution is rejected she imagines to imply contempt of her person. This is a possibility that has never before entered her mind; and though it makes her shed tears of resentment, she is unable to answer with the same feeling by dismissing him from her recollection; in order to rid herself from thoughts of Connal, she sits down to--write to Wandesford.