A story that has for its background Saint Patrick's Purgatory.
Characters:
JONATHAN SWIFT and ESTHER VANHOMRIGH
ESTHER
I know the answer: 'tis ingenious.
I'm tired of your riddles, Doctor Swift.
SWIFT
Faith, so am I.
ESTHER
But that's no reason why you'll be splenetic.
SWIFT
Then let us walk.
ESTHER
But will you talk, too? Oh, is there nothing
For you to show your pupil on this highway?
SWIFT
The road to Dublin, and the road that leads
Out of this sunken island.
ESTHER
I see a Harper:
A Harper and a country lout, his fellow,
Upon the highway.
SWIFT
I know the Harper.
ESTHER
The Doctor knows so much, but what of that?
He'll stay splenetic.
SWIFT
I have seen this Harper
On many a road. I know his name, too
I know a story that they tell about him.
ESTHER
And will it take the pucker off his brow
If Cadenus to Vanessa tell the tale?
SWIFT
God knows it might. His name's O'Carolan
Turlough O'Carolan; and there is a woman
To make the story almost pastoral.
ESTHER
Some Sheelah or some Oonagh, Ill engage.
SWIFT
Her name
Was Bridget Cruise. She would not wed him,
And he wed one who had another name,
And made himself a Minstrel, but a Minstrel
Of consequence. His playing on the harp
Was the one glory that in Ireland stayed
After lost battles and old pride cast down.
Where he went men would say:
"Horses we may not own, nor swords may carry,
But Turlough O'Carolan plays upon the harp,
And Turlough O'Carolan's ten fingers bring us
Horses and swords, gold, wine, and victory."
ESTHER
Oh, that is eloquence!
SWIFT
I know their rhapsodies. But to O'Carolan:
He played, and drank full cups; made proper songs
In praise of banquets, wine-cups, and young maids
Things easily praised. And then when he was old
ESTHER
How old?
SWIFT
Two score of years and ten.
ESTHER
But that's not old.
SWIFT
And that's not old! Good God, how soon we grow
Into the Valley of the Shadow of Death!
Not into the Valley, Vanessa, mark, of Death,
But into the Shadow! Two score years and ten
Have we not three score and some more to live?
So has the tree that's withered at the top
Dead in the head! Aye, we, Vanessa, grow
Into the Shadow, and in the Shadow stay
So long!
ESTHER
I thought the story would divert Cadenus.
SWIFT
It will, it will, Vanessa. What was I
Just saying?
ESTHER
When he was old. . . .
SWIFT
And blind did I say he was blind?
ESTHER
You did not say it.
SWIFT
He's blind not book-blind, but stone-blind.
He cannot see
The wen that makes two heads upon the fellow
That goes beside him, hunched up with the harp;
He cannot see
The Justice to the assizes riding
With soldiers all in red to give him state.
He cannot see
The beggar's lice and sores.
I tell a story :
When this O'Carolan was old and blind,
As I have said, he made the pilgrimage:
'Twas to. ... No, no, 'twas not the place
That I'm proscribed to, but yet one that's called
Saint Patrick's Purgatory.
'Tis on an island in a lake, a low
Island or islet. The water round
Is dun, unsunned; there are no meadows near,
No willows grow, no lark nor linnet sings;
The banks there take a bleakness from the clouds.
A fissure in the island leads down to
The Purgatory of Souls, their fable says.
And now the Harper is but one of those,
The countless wretches, who have brought their sores
To that low island, and brought darkened spirits
Such stream has flowed there for a thousand years.
I do not know
What length of time the Harper stays, while crowds
Are shambling all around him, weeping, praying,
Famishing themselves, or drinking the dun water
Of the lake for wine; or kneeling, with their knees
On sharpened stones; or crowded
In narrow, stony cells.
ESTHER
It is a place
Papistical.
SWIFT
It is a place
Most universal. De we not walk
Upon a ground that's drenched with tears, and breathe
An air that's thickened with men's darkened spirits?
Aye, and on an islet,
Suffering pain, and hearing cries of wretches:
Cut off, remote, banished, alone, tormented!
Name the place as you will, or let it be
Saint Patrick's Purgatory.
But comes a time the blind man rows to shore
From that low island. He touches shore, and cries
"Hands for a blind man's help!" and hands were held him-
He touched a hand.
Here then's the pastoral:
The hand, the fingers of the hand, the clasp
The spirit flowing through he knew them all;
He knew all well, and in an instant knew them,
And he cried out, "The hand of Bridget Cruise!"
Oh, in the midmost of our darkened spirits
To touch a hand, and know the truth within it
The truth that's clasped, that holds, the truth that's all
For us for every day we live, the truth!
To touch that hand, and then once more to turn
To turn around upon the world's highway,
And go alone poor hand, poor hand!
But she,
This Bridget Cruise, was leaving that dull shore
For that low island, and had cares beyond
The memory of O'Carolan. Well, they passed,
He going and she coming: well, and then
He took his harp, and the country lout, his fellow,
Went with him, as we see them going now.
ESTHER
They've passed: there's no one now beside us.
And will you take my hand? You used to call me
A white witch, but there is no witchery
In this plain hand of mine!
You've told a double story, Doctor Swift.
