The more I know of this singular girl, the more the happy _discordia consors_ of her character awakens my curiosity and surprise. I never beheld such a union of intelligence and simplicity, infantine playfulness and profound reflection as her character exhibits. Sometimes when I think I am trifling with a child, I find I am conversing with a philosopher; and sometimes in the midst of the most serious and interesting conversation, some impulse of the moment seizes on her imagination, and a vein of frolic humour and playful sarcasm is indulged at the expense of my most sagacious arguments or philosophic gravity. Her reserve (unknown to herself) is gradually giving way to the most bewitching familiarity. When the priest is engaged, I am suffered to tread with her the “pathless grass,” climb the mountain’s steep, or ramble along the sea-beat coast, sometimes followed by her nurse, and sometimes by a favourite little dog only. Of nothing which concerns her country is she ignorant; and when a more interesting, a more soul-felt conversation, cannot be obtained, I love to draw her into a little national chit-chat. Yesterday, as we were walking along the base of that mountain from which I first beheld her dear residence, (and sure I may say with Petrarch, “Benedetto sia il giorno e’l mese e’lanno,”) several groups of peasants (mostly females,) passed us, with their usual courteous salutations, and apparently dressed in their holiday garbs. “Poor souls!” said Glorvina--“this is a day of jubilee to them, for a great annual fair is held in the neighbourhood.” “But from whence,” said I “do they draw the brightness of those tints which adorn their coarse garments; those gowns and ribbons, that rival the gay colouring of that heath hedge; those bright blue and scarlet mantles? Are they, too, vestiges of ancient modes and ancient taste?” “Certainly they are,” she replied, “and the colours which the Irish were celebrated for wearing and dyeing a thousand years back, are now most prevalent. In short, the ancient Irish, like the Israelites, were so attached to this many coloured _costume_, that it became the mark by which the different classes of the people were distinguished. Kings were limited to seven colours in their royal robes; and six were allowed the bards. What an idea does this give of the reverence paid to superior talent in other times by our forefathers! But that bright yellow you now behold so universally worn, has been in all ages their favourite hue. Spenser thinks this custom came from the East; and Lord Bacon accounts for the propensity of the Irish to it, by supposing it contributes to longevity.” “But where,” said I, “do these poor people procure so expensive an article as saffron, to gratify their prevailing taste?”