Corpus of Electronic Texts Edition
Magdalena von Dobeneck's Letters from Ireland to Paul Johann Anselm von Feuerbach (Author: Magdalena von Dobeneck née Feuerbach)

Chapter 7

XIII

Dungannon, am 30 June.

Last night I was sitting in the library as usual, with Metastasio19 open in front of me, and my mind being in Italy. Here comes Lord Northland to hand me your last letter. I am beaming with joy, impatiently I break the seal and fly into your arms. I am standing before your desk, you are seated in the armchair in front of me, with books and writings stacked up high around you. Everything is as usual — the birds are jumping happily in the cage; the parrot whistles his roulade with self-confidence, cheekily — my kind mother, sisters and brothers give me their hands — I just want to — ‘If you please,...’ whispers a servant neatly dressed in sateen and velvet, presenting a large tea tray with cups to me; mechanically I stretch out my hand — ‘So? here you are, my dear!’ the beautiful Lady S... says with a smile, ‘they are waiting for you at the grand piano, are you going to sing ‘Brüderlein fein’20 again today?’ — ‘Oh Saint Kreißler, have mercy on me in my musical suffering’!21 — ‘Why don't you sing ‘'Erz mein 'Erz’’ (Heart, my heart!)

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says an old lady in broken German; and ‘ä Schüsserl und ä Reinderl ist all mein Kuchelg'schirr’22 suggests a lady who visited Munich twelve years ago, then another one: ‘O Madame D...’ ‘mein Schatz ist in Baiern’ — As you notice, dear father, my bravura is not exactly classical, but it even so it is good enough for Irish ears. However if some English beauty who does not understand German, dreams of love and heartache in these songs, it is not my fault; I leave them to pine on a chaise longue. How comfortable! Comfort is England's watchword. Poor Germany! Even Adelung offers no comfort.23 Well! ‘Because it is comfortable to me’ I have made a list of my songs from Swabia and the Tyrol, which have reached me by tradition from some obscure spinning room. This long note, which contains the beginning of each song (not dissimilar to a recipe) is before me, the flute register of my German chest organ voice is pulled out and now I am singing and swinging myself over the sea to France, over the sombre oak groves, away to my beloved homeland. If I am praised, it is undeserved. But as so often happens, when I am obliged by a sense of duty to accompany some divertissements from Guillaume Tell and his consorts, when my Lady plays the harp, I would well deserve to be crushed as a musical martyr, not only by pain, but also by laurels. But to return to my concert: slowly I am strolling through the gallery in the company of the beautiful Lady S...

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dans la salle de musique. A young Irish lady is already seated picture-perfect at the grand piano, yelling an aria. Half invisibly I lean into a nook next to the fireplace, and call up the spirits of Hogarth and Hoffmann. The aria was from the last season, by one of the premier London fashion composers, in 6/8 time; a few notes jump up, a few down, the basso is limping behind, suddenly a meaningful pause, the light goes out — night, dark night, then a furious chord, and everything is dissolved into a whimpering trill, as if dissolved in tears. I gladly give the English their due, and admit that they have great talent for mechanical work and steel engraving, but despite their precious love for music, they will always remain its poor cousin. When a gentleman or a young lady sings, it is usually ‘a song that can soften stone, and make people rave!’24 A lady of the first rank, of royal lineage, once asked me naively whether the music notes in Germany were the same as in England. Therefore I look for music not in the salons, but in Irish, Scottish and English cabins, I mean the folk melodies whose cradle is nature itself, those sacred voices full of longing for the eternal, those thoughts and feelings of a childlike simplicity embodied in sounds. I have noticed that often the bouncing, dancing folk melodies of the Irish, even when reduced to a solemn, calm accompaniment, still convey a wistful character. The Scottish melodies, less so the English, are

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manifestations of an inner, unconscious longing for eventual redemption. — Even today the harp is the favourite instrument in Ireland. In times gone by the Irish harpists were so famous for their art, that until the 11th century even French and Italian minstrels became their students. It was even thought that the magic had to be tied in with the construction of their harps. I for one prefer to look for it elsewhere. An English poet once sang enthusiastically, in praise of Irish music:
    1. The Irish I admire
      And still cleave to that lyre
      As our Muse's mother
      And think, till I expire,
      Apollo's such another.
Drayton (Poly-Olbion, 1613.).

I am adding one of the oldest poems by an Irishman, Donatus, who in Italy became bishop of Fiesole while on a pilgrimage to Rome. The original is in Latin, the following translation is taken from O' Halloran's History25. He is overflowing with praise of his country:

    1. Far westward lies an isle of ancient fame,
      By nature bless'd and Scotia is her name,
      Enroll'd in books — exhaustless is her store
      Of veiny silver and of golden ore.
      Her fruitful soil for ever teems with wealth;

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      With gems her waters and her air with health.
      Her verdant fields with milk and honey flow,
      Her woolly fleeces vie with virgin snow.
      Her waving furrows float with bearded corn;
      And arms and arts her envied sons adorn.
Marginal Gloss:
    1. Donatus, oh! Your hymn of praise
      Now this sounds like an elegy to me!
      I look around, I am getting scared —
      So close your eyes! — for poetry is sweet!

The courier is leaving in an hour — How sad that I have to finish! ‘The clock does not strike for a lucky man!’26

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