L I B

OF THE
RA PLY
U N VERSITY
I

Of ILLINOIS

L5I9
V.I
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 THE

PURCELL PAPERS
BV THE LATE

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

AUTHOR OF ' VNCLE SILAS.'

ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON : :/

RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,

Ipttbii^hcrs in ©rbimxru to ^cr ^ajcstp the (Quccii.

1880.
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
,. in 2009 with funding from
University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign

http://www.archive.org/details/purcellpapers01lefa
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

PAOB
MEMOIR OF JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU . V

THE GHOST AND THE BONE-SETTER . . 1

THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH . . 26

THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR . . 98

THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM . . . .201

436186
 MEMOIR
OF

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

/I NOBLE Huguenot fainily, owjiing co7i-

siderable property in Normandy, the Le

Fanus of Caen, were, upon the revocatio7i of the

Edict of Naiites, deprived of tJieir ancestral estates

of Mandeville, Sequeville, and Cresseron ; but,

owifig to their possessing ififluefitial relatives at

the court of Louis the Fourteenth, were allowed

to quit their country for England, unmolested,

with tJieir personal property. We meet with

John Le Fanu de Sequeville and Charles Le Fanu

vi Memoir of the Author.

de Cresseron, as cavalry officers in William the

Third's army ; Charles being so distinguished a

member of the King's staff that he ivas presented

with William's portrait from his masters oivn

hajid. He afterzuards served as a major of

dragoons under Marlborough.

At the beginnirig of the eighteenth century^

William Le Fanu zvas tJie sole stwvivor of his

family. He mai^ried Henrietta Raboteau de

Puggibaut, the last of another great and noble

Huguenot family, whose escape from France, as

a child, by the aid of a Roman Catholic uncle in

high position at the French court, was effected

after adventures of the most romantic danger.

foseph Le Fanu, the eldest of the sons of this

marriage who left issue, held tJie office of Clerk of

the Coast in Ireland. He married for the second

time Alicia, daughter of Thomas SJieridan and

sister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan ; his brother.

Captain Henry Le Fanu, of Leamington, being

united to the only other sister of the great wit

and orator.
 Memoir of the Author. vii

Dea)i TJionias PJdlip Le Fami, the eldest son

of Joseph Le Faun, became by his wife Emma,

daughter of Dr. Dobbin, F.T.C.D., the father of

Joseph SJieridan Le Fami, the sidject of this

memoir, zvJiose name is so familiar to English

and American readers as one of the greatest

masters of the zveird and the terrible amongst

our modern novelists.

Born in Dublin on the 2Zth of August, 1814,

he did not begin to speak until lie zvas more
than tzuo years of age ; but when he had once

started, the boy s Jlowed an unusual aptitude in

acquiring fresJi zvords, and using them correctly.

The first evidence of literary taste z^jJiich he

gave luas in his sixth year, zuhen he made

several little sketcJies zuith explattatory remarks
written beneath them, after the manner of Du
Mauriers, or Charles Keene's humorous illus-

trations i?i *
Punch!
One of these, preserved long afterzuards by

his motJier, represented a balloon in mid-air^

and two aeronauts^ who had occupied it, falling

viii Memoir of the Author.

headlong to eartJi, the disaster being explained

by these words : '

See the effects of trying to go
to Heaven'
As a mere child, he was a remarkably good
actor, both in tragic and comic pieces, and zuas

hardly tzvelve years old wJien lie began to zvrite

verses of singular spirit for one so young. At

fourteen, he produced a long Irish poem, luhich

he never permitted anyone but his mother and

brother to read. To that brother, Mr. William
Le Fanu, Commissioner of Public Works,
Ireland, to zvhom, as the suggester of Shei'i-

dan Le Faniis '

PJiaudrig Croohore '
and
'
Shamus 0'Brie?i,' Irish ballad literature ozves a

delightful debt, and whose richly humorous and

passionately pathetic pozvers as a raconteur of
these poems have only doubled that obligation in

the hearts of those zvJio have been happy enough

to be his hearers — to Mr. Willia7n Le Faiiu

we are indebted for the following extracts from

tJie first of his works, which the boy-autJwr seems
to have set any store by :
 Memoir of the Author. ix

'
Mtise of Green Erin, break thine icy shu)ibers !

strike once again thy wreathed lyre !

Burst forth once more and wake thy tunefiiL numbers /
Kindle again thy long -extinguishedJi7-e !

'
Why should I bid thee Muse of Ei'in, waken ?
^

Why should I bid thee strike thy harp 07ice more ?

Better to leave thee silent atidforsaken
Than wake thee but thy glories to deplore.

'
How could I bid thee tell of Taj-ds Towers,
Where once thy sceptred Princes sate in state —
Where rose thy music, at the festive hours,
Through the proud halls whei'e listening thousands
sate ?

''Fallen are thy fair palaces, thy coimtrys glory.

Thy tuneful bards were bafiished or were slain.

Some rest in glory on their deathbeds gory.

And some have lived to feel afoemaji^s chain.

* Yet for the sake of thy unhappy nation.

Yet for the sake of Freedom's spirit fled.
Let thy wild harpstrings, thrilled with indignation,
Peal a deep reqtiiem o'er thy sons that bled.

*
O yes ! like the last breath of evening sighing.
Sweep thy cold hajid the silent strings along.
Flash like the lamp beside the hero dying,
Then hushedfor ever be thy plaintive song'
 ;

Memoir of the Author.

To Ml'. William Le FaniL we are fiiriher in-

debted for the accoinpanyin(( speeimens of his

brother s serious and Jmnioroiis powers in verse,

written zuJien Jie was quite a lad, as valentines

to a Miss G. K.:

'
Life were too long for vie to bear
If banishedfrom thy view
Life wej-e too short, a thousand year^
If life were passed with you.

'
Wise 7nen have said " Maiis lot on earth
Is grief and melancholy f
But where thou art, there joyous mirth
Proves all their wisdom folly.

'
Iffate withhold thy love from me.
All else in vaiti were given;
Heaven were imperfect wanting thee.

And with thee eai'th were heaven!'

A few days after, he sent the following sequel:

*
My dear good Madam,
You carUt think how very sad Pm,
I sent you, or I mistake myselffoidly,
A very excellent imitation of the poet Cowley,
Containing three very fair sta7izas.

Which number Lojiginus, a very critical man, says,

 Memoir of the Author. xi

And Aristotle, luho was a critic ten times more caustic.

To a nicety fits a valentine or an acrostic.

And yet for all my pains to this moving epistle,

I have got no answer^ so I suppose I may go whistle.
Perhaps you'd have preferred that like an old monk I
had pattered on
In the style and after the manner of the unfortunate Chat-
terton ;
Or that, uidike my reverend dadd/s son,
I had atteinpted the classicalities of tJu dull, though im-
inortal Addison.
I can''t endure this silence another week j
What shall I do in order to make you speak ?
Shall I give you a trope
In the manner of Pope,
Or hammer my brains like an old smitJi
To get out something like Goldsmith ?
Or shall I aspire on
To 1u?ie f?iy poetic ly7'e on
The same key touched by Byron,
And laying my hand its wire on,
With its music your soul set fire on
By themes you ne'er could tij-e on ?
Or say,
I pray,
Would a lay
Like Gay
Be more in your way 9
I leave it to you.
Which am 1 to do I
It plain on the surface is

That any metamorphosis,

 ; .

xii Memoir of the Author.

To affect your study

You may work o?i ?ny soul or body.
Yourfrown or your smile makes me Savage or Gay
^

hi actiou^ as well as in song

And if His decreed I at le7igth become Gray,
Express but the word and Pm Youjigj
And if in the Chtirch I should ever aspire
With friars and abbots to cope,
By a nod, ifyou please, you can make me a Prior —
By a word you re?ider me Pope.
Ifyou'' d eat, Pm a Crab j ifyou\i cut, Pm yotir Steel,

As sharp as you'd getf'om the cutler;

Pm your Cotton whene'er you're in want of a reel,

And your livery carry, as Butler.

Pll ever rest your debtor
Ifyoti'll answer my first letter j

Or mus*, alas, eternity

Witness your tacitJirnity ?
Speak — and oh / speak quickly
Or else I shall grow sickly,
And piiie.
And whine,
And grow yellow and brow 7i

As e'er was mahogany,

Arid lie me down
A 7td die in agony

P.S. — You'll allow I have the gift

To write like the immortal Swift.'

But besides the poetical pozvej-s zuith zvhich he

 Memoir oj the Author, xiii

was endowed^ in common zvith the great Brinsley ^

Lady Duffer in, and the Hon. Mrs. Norton,

yonng SJieridan Le Fame also possessed an

irresistible himour and oratorical gift that,

as a studejit of Old Trinity, made him a for-

midable rival of the best of the yoting debaters

of his time at the '

College Historical! 7iot a

few of whom Jiare sifice reached tJie JdgJiest

eminence at the Irish Bar, after haviftg long

enlivened and cJiarmed St. Stephen'^s by their

wit and oratory.

A mongst his compeers he ivas remarkable for
his sudden fiery eloquence of attack, and ready
and rapid powers of repartee when on his de-

fence. Bnt Le Fami, luJiose U7iderstanding zvas

elevated by a deep love of the classics, in which

he took university honours, and further height-

cited by an admirable knowledge of our oivn

great autJiors, icas not to be tempted away by

oratory from literature, his first and, as it

proved, his last love.

Very soon after leaving college, and just wlien

 ,

xiv Memoir of the Author.

he was called to the Bar, about the year 1838,

he bought the '

Warder', a Dtiblift newspaper

of zvhich he was editor, and took ivhat many

of his best friends and admirers, looki^ig to

his high prospects as a barrister, regarded at

the time as a fatal step in his career to

fame.
fnst before this period, Le Fame had taken

to zvriting Jmmorons Irish stories, afierzvards

published in the *
Dublin University Magazine'
such as the '
Quare Gander', "
fim Sulivan's

Adventitrel '
The Ghost and the Bone-setterI etc,

TJiese stories his brother William Le Fame

was in the habit of repeating for his friends'
amusemeiit, and aboiit the year 1837, ivJien he

was about twenty-three years of age, foseph

Le Farm said to him that lie thought an

Irish story in verse zvould tell zuell, and

that if lie woidd choose him a subject suit-

able for recitation, he zvoidd write Jam one.

*
Write me an Msh *'
Yoinig Lochinvar,"
'

said his brother ; and in a fezv days he

 Memoir of the AutJwr. xv

Jianded him ' Phaudrig CrooJioi'e' — AnglicCy

•
Patrick CroJiore!

Of course this poem has the disadvaiitage 7wt

only of being zvritten after '

Yonng LocJiinvar^
but also that of having been directly inspired by

it ; and yet, although wanting in the rare and

graceful finisJi of the original, the Irish copy
has, we feel, so much fire and feeling that it at

least tempts ?is to regret that Scotfs poem was

not '-iVritten in that heart-stirring Northern

dialect witJiout wJiicJi the noblest of onr British

ballads zuonld lose half their spirit. Indeed, we
may safely say that some of Le FamCs lines

are finer than any in *

Young Lochinvar^

simply because they seem to speak straight from

a people s heart, not to be the mere echoes of
medieval 7'oma7ice.

'
Phatidi'ig Croohore' did not appear in
'
print in the *
Dublin University Magazine
//// 1844, twelve years after its composition,

when it was ijicluded amongst the Purcell

Papers.
 ^

xvi Memoir of the Author.

To return to the year 1837. ^^^'- Wihain Le

Fanu^ the stiggester of this ballad, ivho was from
home at the tufie, now received daily instalments

of the second and more remarkable of his brothers

Irish poems — Shamns O'Brien' (fames 0'Brie7i)
'

—learning them by heart as they reached himy

and, fortunately, never forgetting them, for his

brother foseph kept no copy of the ballad, and he

had himself to write it ont from memory ten

years after, zvheti the poem appeared in the

'
University Magazine!

Few zvill dejiy that this poem contains pas-

sages most faithfully, if fearfully, pictiu'esq^iCy

and that it is characterised tJiro7igJiout by a

profound pathos, and an abundant though at
times a too grotesquely incongt'uous humour.

Can we wonder, then, at the immense popularity

with which Samuel Lover recited it in the United
States ? For to Lover's admiration of the poem^

and his addition of it to his entertainment

*
Shamus O'Brien ' owes tts introductio7i into

America^ where it is now so popular. Lover

 : )

Memoir of the Author. xvii

added some lines of Jus own to tJie poem, made

Shamns emigrate to tJie States, and set up

a pnblic-hotise. These added lijies appeared

in most of the published versions of the

poem. But they are indifferent as verse, and

certaijily injure the dramatic effect of the

poem.
'
Shamns O'Brien '
is so generally attribicted to

Lover (indeed vje remember seeing it advertised

for recitation on the occasion of a benefit at a

leading London theatre as '
by Samuel Lover '

that it is a satisfaction to be able to reproduce

the follovjing letter upon the subject from Lover

to William le Fame

^
Astor House,

' Nevo York, U.S. America.

'
Sept. 30, 1846.

'
My dear Le Fanu,
'
In reading over your brotJier's poem
while I crossed the Atlantic, I became more and
VOL. I. h
xviii Memoir of the Author.

more impressed with its great beauty and dra-

matic effect —so much so that I determined to

test its effect in public, and have done so here^

on my first appearance, ivith the greatest success.

Now I have no doubt there will be great praises

of the poem, and people will suppose, most likely,

that the composition is mine, and as you k?tozu

(I take for granted) that I woidd not wish to

zuear a borrowed feather, I should be glad to

give your brother's name as the author, should

he not object to have it knozvn ; but as his

writings are often of so different a tone, I zvould

not speak zuithout permission to do so. It is

true that in my prog7'amme my name is attached

to other pieces, an.d no name appended to the

7'ecitation ; so far, you will see I have done all

I coidd to avoid '^appropriating!^ the spirit of

which I might have caugJit Jiere, zvith Irish

aptititde ; but I zvould like to have the means

of telling all zuhom it may concern the name of

the author, to whose head and Jieart it does so

piuch hono2ir. Pray, my dear Le Fanu, inguij^e,

 Memoir of the Author, xix

and answer me here by next packet, or as soon

as convenient. My success Jiere has been quite

triumphant.
'
Yours very truly,

'SAMUEL lover:

We have heard it said (though zuithout having

inquired into the truth of the tradition) that

*
Shamus O'Brien '
ivas the result of a match at
pseudo-national ballad zcriting made betiveen Le
Fanu and several of the most brilliant of his

young literary confreres at T. C. D. But how-

ever this may be, Le Fanu undoubtedly was no
young Irelander ; i?ideed he did the stoutest

service as a press ivriter in the Conservative

interest, and was no doubt provoked as zvell as

amused at the unexpected popularity to IkjIucJi

his poem attained amongst the Lrish Nationalists.

And here it should be remembered that the ballad

zuas zvritten some eleven years before the outbreak

of '48, and at a time when a '98 subject might

1—2
 :

XX Memoir of the Author.

fairly have been regarded as legitimate literary

property amongst tJie most loyal.

We left Le Fame as editor of the *

Warder'
He afterwards purchased the '
Dublin Evening

Packet! and much later the half-proprietorship

of the Dublin Evening Mail!

*
Eleven or twelve

years ago he also became the owner and editor

of the ^Dublin University Magazine! in which

his later as well as earlier Irish Stories ap-

peared. He sold it about a year before his death

in 1873, having previously parted with the

'
Warder '
and his share ifi the '
Evening
Mail:
He had previously published in the '
Dublin

University Magazine' a number of charmirig

lyricSy generally anonymously^ and it is to be

feared that all clue to the identification of

most of these is lost, except tJiat of internal
evidence.

The following poem, undoubtedly his, should

make general our regi^et at bei7ig tmable to fix

with certainty upo?i its fellows

 Meraoir of the Author. xxi

*
One ivild a?id distant bugle soimd
Breathed der Killar}iey's magic shore
Will shed sweetfloati7ig echoes round
When that which made them is no more.

'
So slumber in the hiunaii heart
Wild echoes^ that will sweetly thrill
The words of kindness when the voice
That lettered them for aye is still.

'
Oh ! memory, though thy records tell

Full many a tale of grief and sorrow,

Of mad excess, of hope decayed,
(f dark and cheerless melancholy ;

'
Still, memory, to me thou art
The dearest of the gifts of mind,
For all the joys that touch my heart
Are joys that I have left behind.

Le Famis literary life may be divided into

tJiree distinct periods. During the first of these,

and till his thirtieth year, he was a7i Irish

ballad, song, and story writer, his first published

story being the '

Adventiires of Sir Robej't

Ardaghl which appeared in the ^Dublin Univer-

sity Magazine' of 1838.
In 1S44 ^^^ "^^^ united to Miss Snsan Bennett,
xxii Memoir of the Author.

the beautiful daughter of the late George

Bennett, Q.C. From this time until her decease^

in 1858, lie devoted his energies almost entirely

to press work, making, Jwivever, Ids first essays

in novel writing during that period. The

' Cock and Anchor, a chronicle of old Dublin
city, his first and, in the opinion of competent
critics, one of the best of his novels, seeing the

light abo2it the year 1850. This work, it is to

be feared, is out of print, though there is now a

cheap edition of '
TorlogJi O'Brien! its imme-
diate successor. The comparative want of success

of these novels seems to have deterred Le Fanu

from using his pen, except as a press zvjHter,

until 1863, zuhe?i the *

House by the Churchyard'
zvas picblished, and zvas soon folloived by '
Uncle

Silas '
and his five other ivell-knozvn novels.

We have considered Le Fanu as a ballad

writer and poet. As a press zvriter he is still

most honourably remendicrcd for his learning

and brilliancy, and the pozver and point of his

sarcasm, zvhich long made the '

Dublin Evening
 Memoir of the Author, xxlii

Mail one of
'
the most formidable of Irish press
critics ; but let 2cs nozu pass to tlie consideratio7i

of him in tJie capacity of a novelist, and in

particular as tJie author of '

Uncle Silas!

Tliere are evidences in '

Shamus O'Brienl and
even in '
PJiaudrig CrooJiore^ of a poiuer over

the mysterious^ the grotesque, and the horrible,

which so singularly distiiiguisJi Jiini as a writer

of prose fiction.

'
Ujicle Silas! the fairest as well as 7?iost

familiar instance of this entJiralling spell over

his readers, is too well known a story to tell i?t

detail But how intensely and painfidly distinct

is the opening description of the silent, inflexible

Austin Ruthyn of Knowl, and his shy, sweet

daughter Maude, the one so resolutely confident

in his brothers hotiour, the other so romantically

and yet anxiously interested in her uncle — iJie

sudden arrival of Dr. Bryerly, the stra^ige

Swedenborgian, folloiued by the equally U7iex-

pected apparition of Madame de la Rougiere,

Aiistin Riithyns painful death, and the reading
 :

xxiv Memoir of the Author.

of his strange will consigning poor Mand to

the protection of her tinknown Uncle Silas —her

cousin, good, bright devoted Monica Knollys, aJid
her dreadfid distrust of Silas — Bartrani Haugh
and its itjicanny occupants, and foremost amongst
them Uncle Silas.

This is his portrait

'
A face like marble, zvith a fearful momt-

mental look, and for an old man, singularly

vivid, stra7ige eyes, the singularity of which

rather gi^ew upon me as I looked ; for his

eyebrows were still black, tJiough his hair

descended from his temples in long locks of the

purest silver and fine as silk, nearly to his

shoidders.

'
He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, all

in black, zvith an ample black velvet timic,

which zvas rather a gown than a coat. . . .

*/ know I caiHt convey i7i words an idea of

this apparition, drazvn, as it seemed, in black

and zvhite, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, zvith

its singidar look of pozver, and an expression so

 Memoir of the Author, xxv

bewildering — ivas it derision, or anguish^ or

cruelty, or patience ?

'
The wild eyes of t/iis strange old man ivere

fixed on me as he rose ; an habitual contraction,

zvhich in certain lights took the character of a
scowl, did not relax as Jie advanced towards me
zvith a tJiin-lipped smile!

Old Dicken and his daughter Beauty, old

L Amour and Dudley Ruthyn, noiv enter upon

the scene, each a fresh shadow to deepen its

already sombre hue, luhile the gloom gatJiers in

spite of tlie glimpse of sunshine shot through it

by the visit to Elvers ton. Dudley's brutal en-

counter with Captain Oakley, and vile persecution

of poor Maude till his love marriage comes to

light, lead us on to tJie ghastly catastrophe, the

hideous conspiracy of Silas and his son against

the life of tJie innocent girl.

It is interesting to know that the germ of

Uncle Silas first appeared in the ^ Dublin
University Magazine' of 1837 or 1838, as the

short tale, entitled, '

A Passage from the Secret
xxvi Memoir of the Author.

History of an Irish Coitntessl which is printed

in this collection of Stories. It next was published

as '
TJie Murdered Consin '
in a collection of
Christmas stories^ and finally developed into the

tJiree-volnme novel zve have just noticed.

There are about Le Fanu's narratives touches

of natiLre ivhich reconcile us to their always

remarkable and often supernatural incidents.

His cJiaracters are well conceived and distinctly

draiun, and strong soliloquy and easy dialogtie

spring unaffectedly from tJieir lips. He is a close

observer of Nature, and reproduces Jier wilder

effects of storm and gloom with singidar vivid-

ftess ; while lie is equally at Jwine in his

descriptions of still life, some of whicJi remind

us of the faithfully minute detail of old Dutch

pictures.

Mr. Wilkie Collins, amongst our living

novelists, best compares zuith Le Fanu. Both of

these zvriters are remarkable for the ingenious

mystery zvith ivJiicJi they develop their plots, and

for the absorbing, if often over-sensational, nature
 Memoir of the Author. xxvii

of tJieir incidents ; but zvJdlst Mr. Collins excites

and fascinates onr attention by an intense pozver

of realism i^^Jiich carries lis luit/i tinreasoning

haste front cover to cover of Ids works, Le

Fanu is an idealist, full of high imagination,

and an artist luho devotes deep attention to tJie

most delicate detail in Jus portraittire of men

and women, and Ids descriptions of the out-

door and indoor worlds — a writer, iJierefore,

through zvhose pages it would be often an

indignity to hasten. And this more leisurely,

and certainly more classical, conduct of Ids

stories makes us remember tJiem more fully and

faithftdly than those of the author of the

*
Wo7na7i in White.' Mr. Collins is generally

dramatic, and sometimes stagy, in his effects.

Le Fanu, zvhile less careful to arrajige his plots,

so as to admit of tJieir being readily adapted

for the stage, often surpjdses us by scenes of so

mucJi greater tragic intensity that zve cannot

but lament that he did net, as Mr. Collins has

do7ie, attempt the drania., and so furnisJi another

xxviii Memoir of the Author.

ground of compai'ison with his fellozv- countryman^

Maturin (also, if we mistake not, of French

origin), ivhom, in his writings, Le Fa7iu far
more closely resembles than Mr. Collins, as a
master of the darker and stronger emotions of

human character. But, to institute a broader

ground of comparison betzveen Le Fanu and

Mr. Collins, zvhilst the idiosyncrasies of the
former s characters, however immaterial those
characters may be, seem ahvays to suggest the

minutest detail of Ids story, the latter would

appear to consider plot as tJie pri^ne, character

as a subsidiary element in the art of novel

writing.

Those luho possessed the rare privilege of Le

Fanu's fnendship, and only they, can form any

idea of the true cJiaracter of the man ; for after

the death of his zvife, to wJiom Jie was most

deeply devoted, he quite forsook general society,

in wJiich Ids fine features, distingidsJied bearing,

and charm of conversation marked him out as

 Memoir of the Author. xxix

the beau-ideal of a7i Irish wit a7id scholar of

the old school.

From this society lie vanished so entirely that

Dublin^ always ready zuith a nickname, diibbed

him *
The Invisible Prince ;' and indeed Jie was
for long almost invisible, except to Jus family
and most familiar friends, unless at odd hours

of the evening, wJien lie niigJit occasionally be

seen stealing, like the ghost of his former self,

betweeji his newspaper office and his home in

Mer7'ion Sqtiare ; sometimes, too, he zvas to be

encoinitered in an old out-ofthe-zuay bookshop

pori7ig over some rare black letter Astrology or

Demonology.

To one of these old bookshops he zuas at one

time a pretty frequent visitor, and the bookseller

relates Jww he used to come in and ask with

his peculiarly pleasajit voice and smile, ^

Any
more ghost stories for jne, Mr. ?' and
hozv, on a fresh o?ie being handed to Jam, he

woidd seldom leave tJie shop until lie had looked

it throngJi. This taste for the supernatural
XXX Memoir of the Author.

seems to have gj'ozvn upon him after his wife's

death, and infitcenced him so deeply that, had he

not been possessed of a deal of shreivd common

sense, there might have been danger of his em-

bracing some of the visionary doctrines in zvhich

he zvas so learned. Bnt no ! even Spiritnalism,

to zvJdcli not a Jezv of his bi'other novelists snc-

ciimbed, zvhilst ajfording congenial material for

onr artist of the siiperhnvian to zvork npon, did

not escape his severest satire.

Shortly after completing Jus last novel, strange

to say, bearing the title '

Willing to Die,' Le
Fame breathed his last at his home No. i8.

Merrion Square South, at the age of fifty -nine.

'
He zvas a man', zvrites the author of a brief

memoir of him in the '

Dublin University

Magapjine' '
zvho thought deeply, especially on

religious subjects. To those zvho knezv him he

zi'as very dear : they admired Jiim for ' Ins

learning, Jus sparkling zvit, and pleasant conver-

sation, afid loved him for his manly virtues, for

his noble and generous qualities, his gentleness,

 Memoir of the Author. xxxi

a?id his lovmg, affectionate nature! And all

zvJio kneiu the man vinst feel how deeply deserved

are these simple words of sincere regard for

Joseph Sheridan Le Fami.

Le FaniLS novels are accessible to all ; but

his Pnrcell Papers are noiu for the first time

collected and published^ by the permission of his

eldest S071 (the late Mr. Philip Le Fame), and

very much owi?2g to tJie friendly and active

assistance of his brother, Mr. William Le Fanu.

THE PUECELL PAPEES.

THE GHOST AND THE BONE-

SETTER
X looking over the papers of my
late valued and respected friend,

Erancis Purcell, who for nearly

fifty years discharged the arduous duties of

a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I

met with the following document.

, It is

one of many such ; for he was a curious

and industrious collector of old local tra-

VOL. I. 1
2 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter.

ditions — a commodity in which the quarter

where he resided mightily abounded. The
collection and arrangement of such legends
was, as long as I can remember him, his

hobby ; but I had never learned that his

love of the marvellous and whimsical had

carried him so far as to prompt him to
commit the results of his inquiries to

writing, until, in the character of residuary

legatee, his will put me in possession of all

his manuscript papers. To such as may

think the composing of such productions

as these inconsistent with the character

and habits of a country priest, it is neces-

sary to observe, that there did exist a race

of priests—those of the old school, a race

now nearly extinct — whose education

abroad tended to produce in them tastes

more literary than have yet been evinced
by the alumni of Maynooth.
 The Ghost and the BoneSetter, 3

It is perhaps necessary to add that the

superstition illustrated by the following
story, namely, that the corpse last buried

is obliged, during his juniority of inter-

ment, to supply his brother tenants of the

churchyard in which he lies, with fresh
water to allay the burning thirst of purga-
tory, is prevalent throughout the south of
Ireland.

The writer can vouch for a case in

which a respectable and wealthy farmer,

on the borders of Tipperary, in tenderness
to the corns of his departed helpmate, en-

closed in her coffin two pair of brogues, a

light and a heavy, the one for dry, the

other for sloppy weather ; seeking thus to

mitiofate the fatigfues of her inevitable

perambulations in procuring water and

administering it to the thirsty souls of

purgatory. Fierce and desperate conflicts

1—2
4 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter.

have ensued in the case of two funeral

parties approaching the same churchyard
together, each endeavouring to secure to

his own dead priority of sepulture, and a

consequent immunity from the tax levied
upon the pedestrian powers of the last-

comer. An instance not long since oc-

curred, in which one of two such parties,

through fear of losing to their deceased

friend this inestimable advantage, made
their way to the churchyard by a short cut,
and, in violation of one of their strongest

prejudices, actually threw the coffin over

the w^all, lest time should be lost in making

their entrance through the gate. Innume-
rable instances of the same kind might be
quoted, all tending to show how strongly
among the peasantry of the south this
superstition is entertained. However, I
shall not detain the reader further by
 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 5

any prefatory remarks, but shall proceed

to lay before him the following :

Extract from the 3IS. Papers of the late

Rev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh.

I tell the following particulars, as

nearly as I can recollect them, in the

words of the narrator. It may be neces-

sary to observe that he was what is termed

a well-spoken man, having for a consider-

able time instructed the ingenious youth

of his native parish in such of the liberal

arts and sciences as he found it convenient

to profess —a circumstance which may ac-

count for the occurrence of several big

words in the course of this narrative, more

distinguished for euphonious effect than
for correctness of application. I proceed

then, without further preface, to lay

6 The Ghost and the Bone- Setter.

before you the wonderful adventures of

Terry Neil.

^ Why, thin, 'tis a quare story, an' as

thrue as you're sittin' there ; and I'd make
bould to say there isn't a boy in the seven

parishes could tell it better nor crickther

than myself, for 'twas my father himself it

happened to, an' many's the time I heerd

it out iv his own mouth : an' I can say, an'

I'm proud av that same, my father's word

was as incredible as any squire's oath in the

•€Ounthry ; and so signs an' if a poor man

got into any unlucky throuble, he was
the boy id go into the court an' prove ; but
that doesn't signify —he was as honest and
as sober a man, barrin' he was a little bit

too partial to the glass, as you'd find in a

day's walk ; an' there wasn't the likes of

him in the counthry round for nate labourin'

 —

The Ghost and the B one-Setter. 7

an haan diggin'; and he was mighty handy

entirely for carpenther's work, and men-
din' ould spudethrees, an' the likes i' that.

An' so he tiik up with bone-settin', as

was most nathural, for none of them could

come up to him in mendin the leg iv a stool

or a table ; an' sure, there never was a bone-

setter got so much custom — man an' child,

young an' ould — there never was such

breakin' and mendin' of bones known in

the memory of man. Well, Terry Neil

for that was my father's name —began to

feel his heart growin' light, and his purse

heavy ; an' he took a bit iv a farm in Squire

Phelim's ground,justundher the ould castle,

an' a pleasant little spot it was ; an' day an'

mornin' poor crathurs not able to put a foot

to the ground, with broken arms and broken

legs, id be comin' ramblin' in from all quar-

ters to have their bones spliced up. Well,

8 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter.

yer honour, all this was as well as well could

be ; but it was customary when Sir Phelim

id go anywhere out iv the country, for some
iv the tinants to sit up to watch in the ould
castle, just for a kind of compliment to the

ould family — an' a mighty unplisant com-

pliment it was for the tinants, for there

wasn't a man of them but knew there was

something quare about the ould cVstle. The
neighbours had it, that the squire's ould

grandfather, as good a gintleman — God be

with him — as I heer'd, as ever stood in

shoe-leather, used to keep walkin about in

the middle iv the night, ever sinst he

bursted a bloodvessel pullin' out a cork

out iv a bottle, as you or I might be doin,

and will too, plase God — but that doesn't

signify. So, as I was sayin', the ould

squire used to come down out of the

frame, where his picthur was hung up, and
 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter, 9

to break the bottles and glasses — God be

marciful to us all — an' dthrink all he could
come at — an' small blame to him for that

same ; and then if any of the family id be

comin' in, he id be up again in his place,
looking as quite an as innocent as if he
didn't know anything about it —the mis-

chievous ould chap.

'
Well, your honour, as I was sayin', one

time the family up at the castle was stayin'

in Dublin for a week or two ; and so, as

usual, some of the tinants had to sit up in

the castle, and the third night it kem to

my father's turn. ''

Oh, tare an' ouns T'

says he unto himself, *'

an' must I sit up
all night, and that ould vagabone of a
sperit, glory be to God," says he, " sere-

nadin' through the house, an doin' all

sorts iv mischief ?" However, there was

no gettin' aff, and so he put a bould face
10 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter,

on it, an' he went up at nightfall with, a

bottle of pottieen, and another of holy

wather.
'
It was rainin' smart enough, an' the
evenin' was darksome and gloomy, when
my father got in ; and what with the rain
he got, and the holy wather he 'sprinkled
on himself, it wasn't long till he had to
swally a cup iv the pottieen, to keep the

cowld out iv his heart. It was the ould

steward, Lawrence Connor, that opened

the door — and he an' my father wor

always very great. So when he seen who
it was, an' my father tould him how it

was his turn to watch in the castle, he

offered to sit up along with him ; and you
may be sure my father wasn't sorry for

that same. So says Larry :

* ''
We'll have a bit iv fire in the

parlour," says he.

 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 11

'*'An' why not ia the hall T' says my

father, for he knew that the squire's

picthur was hung m the parlour.

' ''
No fire can be lit in the hall," says

Lawrence, ''
for there's an ould jackdaw's
nest in the chimney."
' " Oh thin," says my father, ^'
let us

stop in the kitchen, for it's very unproper

for the likes iv me to be sittin' in the

parlour," says he.

'"Oh, Terry, that can't be," says

Lawrence ;
" if we keep up the ould

custom at all, we may as well keep it up

properly," says ho.
' " Divil sweep the ould custom !" says
my father — to himself, do ye mind, for he
didn't like to let Lawrence see that he was
more afeard himself
'"Oh, very well," says he. ''I'm

agreeable, Lawrence," says he ; and so

12 The Ghost and the Bone Setter,

down they both wint to the kitchen, until

the fire id be lit in the parlour — an' that

same wasn't long doin'.

'
Well, your honour, the}-- soon wint up
a^ain, an' sat down mighty comfortable by

the parlour fire, and they beginned to talk,

an to smoke, an' to dhrink a small taste iv

the pottieen ; and, moreover, they had a

good rousin' fire o' bogwood and turf, to

warm their shins over.

'
Well, sir, as I was say in' they kep'
convarsjn' and smokin' together most
agreeable, until Lawrence beginn'd to get

sleepy, as was but nathural for him, for he

was an ould sarvint man, and was used to
a great dale iv sleep.
* " Sure it's impossible," says my father,

" it's gettin' sleepy you are ?"

' ^'
Oh, divil a taste," says Larry ;
" I'm

only shut tin' my eyes," says he, " to keep

 The Ghost and the Bone-Set ter. 13

out the parfume o' the tibacky smoke,

that's makin' them wather," says he.

" So don't you mind other people's busi-

ness," says he, stiff enough, for he had

a mighty high stomach av his own (rest

his sowl), ^'and go on," says he, ''with

your story, for I'm Hstenin," says he,

shuttin' down his eyes.

'
Well, when my father seen spakin'

was no use, he went on with his story.

By the same token, it was the story of
Jim Soolivan and his ould goat he was

tellin' — an' a phsant story it is — an'

there was so much cUvarsion in it, that

it was enough to waken a dormouse, let

alone to pervint a Christian goin' asleep.

But, faix, the way my father tould it, I

beheve there never was the Hkes heerd

sinst nor before, for he bawled out every
word av it, as if the life was fairly
14 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter.

lavin him, thrying to keep ould Larry

awake ; but, faix, it was no use, for the

hoorsness came an him, an' before he kem

to the end of his story Larry O'Connor
beginned to snore like a bagpipes.
' ^^
Oh, blur an' agres," says my father,

" isn't this a hard case," says he, ^'

that

ould villain, lettin' on to be my friend, and

to go asleep this way, an' us both in the

very room with a sperit," says he. '^

The
crass o' Christ about us !" says he ; and
with that he was goin' to shake Lawrence
to waken him, but he just remimbered if

he roused him, that he'd surely go off to

his bed, an' lave him complately alone, an'

that id be by far worse.

' " Oh thin," says my father, ^'
I'll not
disturb the poor boy. It id be neither

friendly nor good-nathured," says he, ^^

to

tormint him while he is asleep," says he ;

 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 15

"only I wish I was the same way,

myself," says he.

'An' with that he beginned to walk up

an' down, an' sayin' his prayers, until he
worked himself into a sweat, savin' your
presence. But it was all no good ; so he
dthrunk about a pint of sperits, to compose
his mind.
'
" Oh," says he, " I wish to the Lord I

was as asy in my mind as Larry there.

Maybe," says he, '^

if I thried I could go

asleep ;" an' with that he pulled a big arm-

chair close beside Lawrence, an' settled

himself in it as well as he could.

^
But there was one quare thing I forgot

to tell you. He couldn't help, in spite

av himself, lookin' now an' thin at the

picthur, an' he immediately obsarved that

the eyes av it was follyin' him about, an'

starin' at him, an' winkin' at him, wher-

16 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter.

iver he wint. ''

Oh," says he, when he
seen that, " it's a poor chance I have,"

says he ;
*'
an' bad hick was with me the

day I kem into this unforthunate place,"

says he. '*

But any way there's no use in
bein' freckened now," says he ;
*'
for if I

am to die, I may as well parspire un-

daunted," says he.

'
Well, your honour, he thried to keep

himself quite an' asy, an' he thought two

or three times he might have wint asleep,

but for the way the storm was groanin'

and creakin' through the great heavy

branches outside, an' whistlin' through the
ould chimleys iv the castle. Well, afther

one great roarin' blast iv the wind, you'd

think the walls iv the castle was just goin'

to fall, quite an' clane, with the shakin' iv

it. All av a suddint the storm stopt, as

silent an' as quite as if it was a July
 —

The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 17

evenin'. Well, your honour, it wasn't

stopped blowin' for three minnites, before
he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over
the chimley -piece ; an' with that my
father just opened his eyes the smallest

taste in life, an' sure enough he seen the

ould squire gettin' out iv the picthur, for

all the w^orld as if he was throwin' afF his

ridin' coat, until he stept out clane an'

complate, out av the chimley-piece, an'

thrun himself down an the floor. Well,

the slieveen ould chap — an' my father

thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all

before he beginned to do anything out iv

the way, he stopped for a while to listen

wor they both asleep ; an' as soon as he

thought all was quite, he put out his hand
and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an
dhrank at laste a pint iv it. Well, your

honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he

VOL. I. 2
18 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter,

settled it back mighty cute entirely, in the

very same spot it was in before. An' he

beginned to walk up an' down the room,

lookin' as sober an' as solid as if he never

done the likes at all. An' whinever he
went apast my father, he thought he felt a

great scent of brimstone, an' it was that

that freckened him entirely ; for he knew
it was brimstone that was burned in hell,

savin' your presence. At any rate, he

often heerd it from Father Murphy, an'

he had a right to know what belonged to

it — he's dead since, God rest him. Well,

your honour, my father was asy enough

until the sperit kem past him ; so close,

God be marciful to us all, that the smell iv

the sulphur tuk the breath clane out iv

him ; an' with that he tuk such a fit iv

coughin', that it al-a-most shuk him out

iv the chair he was sittin' in.
 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 19

' " Ho, ho !" sa3^s the squire, stoppin'

short about t^YO steps aff, and turnin'

round facin' my father, ^'

is it you that's

in it? — an' how's all with you, Terry

Neil r
' ^^
At your honour's sarvice," says my
father (as well as the fright id let him,

for he was more dead than alive), '^

an'

it's proud I am to see your honour to-

night," says he.

* *^
Terence," says the squire, "you're
a respectable man " (an' it was thrue for

him), ^^
an industhrious, sober man, an' an
example of inebriety to the whole parish,"
says he.
* **
Thank your honour," says my father,

gettin' courage, '^

you were always a civil

spoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

^ '^
Rest my honour ?" says the sperit

(fairly gettin' red in the face with the

2—2
20 The Ghost and the Bone- Setter,

madness), *' Rest my honour?" says he.

''Why, you ignorant spalpeen," says he,

''
you mane, niggarly ignoramush," says
he, " where did you lave your manners T
says he. ''
If I am dead, it's no fault iv
mine," says he ;
''
an' it's not to be thrun
in my teeth at every hand's turn, by the

likes iv you," says he, stampin' his foot an

the flure, that you'd think the boords id

smash undther him.

'
" Oh," says my father, ''
I'm only a
foolish, ignorant poor man," says he.
*
'' You're nothing else," says the squire :

''but any way," says he, "it's not to be

listenin' to your gosther, nor convarsin'

with the likes iv you, that I came up —
down I mane," says he — (an' as little as

the mistake was, my father tuk notice iv

it). " Listen to me now, Terence Neil,"

says he : "I was always a good masther

 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 21

to Pathrick Neil, your grandfather," says

he.

' " 'Tis thrue for your honour/' says my

father.
•'

^' And, moreover, I think I was always

a sober, riglar gintleman," says the squire.

^ " That's your name, sure enough," says

my father (though it was a big he for him,
but he could not help it).

' *'
Well," says the sperit, ''
although I
was as sober as most men — at laste as

most gintlemin," says he ;

'^
an' though I

was at different pariods a most extempory

Christian, and most charitable and in-

human to the poor," says he ;

" for all that

I'm not as asy where I am now," says

he, " as I had a right to expect," says he.

' *^
An' more's the pity," says my father.

'^
Maybe your honour id wish to have a
word with Father Murphy V
22 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter,

* ^'
Hould your tongue, you misherable
bliggard," says the squire ;
'^
it's not iv
my sowl I'm thinkin'-— an' I wondther you'd
have the impitence to talk to a gintleman
consarnin' his sowl ; and when I want
that fixed/' says he, slappin' his thigh,
*^
I'll go to them that knows what belongs
to the likes," says he. ^^
It's not my sowl,"
says he, sittin' down opossite my father ;

**
it's not my sowl that's annoyin' me most
— I'm unasy on my right leg," says he,
''
that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the
day I killed black Barney."

'
My father found out afther, it was a
favourite horse that fell undher him, afther
leapin' the big fence that runs along by the
glin.

^ ^^
I hope," says my father, *^
your
honour's not unasy about the killin' iv

him ?"
 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter, 23

*
'' Hould your tongue, ye fool/' said the
squire, " an' I'll tell you why I'm unasy on
my leg," says he. '^
In the place, where I

spend most iv my time," says he, " except

the little leisure I have for lookin' about me

here," says he, ''
I have to walk a great dale
more than I was ever used to," says he,

"and by far more than is good for me either,"

says he ;
" for I must tell you/' says he,

'^the people where I am is ancommonly

fond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin'

betther to be had ; an', moreover, the

weather is hotter than is altogether plisant,"

says he ;
" and I'm appinted," says he,
" to assist in carryin' the wather, an' gets

a mighty poor share iv it myself," says he,

" an' a mighty throublesome, wearin' job it

is, I can tell you," says he ;

" for they're

all iv them surprisinly dthry, an' dthrinks

it as fast as my legs can carry it," says he ;

24 The Ghost and the Bone- Setter.

'^
but what kills me intirely," says he, ''
is

the wakeness in my leg," says he, ''an' I

want you to give it a pull or two to bring

it to shape," says he, ''

and that's the long

an' the short iv it," says he.

'^'Oh, plase your honour," says my

father (for he didn't like to handle the

sperit at all), '^

I wouldn't have the

impidence to do the likes to your honour,"

says he ;
" it's only to poor crathurs like

myself I'd do it to," says he.

*
'' None iv your blarney," says the

squire. *'
Here's my leg," says he, cockin

it up to him — ''
pull it for the bare life,"

says he ; an' *'

if you don't, by the immortial
powers I'll not lave a bone in your carcish
I'll not powdher," says he.
' When my father heerd that, he seen

there was no use in purtendin', so he tuk

hould iv the leg, an' he kep' pullin' an'

 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 25

puUin', till the sweat, God bless us, beginned

to pour down his face.

' '^
Pull, you divil !" says the squire.
^ ^'
At your sarvice, your honour," says
my father.
' ^*
Pull harder," says the squire.
*
My father pulled like the divil.
' " I'll take a little sup," says the squire,

rachin' over his hand to the bottle, ^'

to

keep up my courage," says he, lettin' an

to be very wake in himself intirely. But,

as cute as he was, he was out here, for he

tuk the wrong one. *^

Here's to your
good health, Terence," says he ; '"'an' now
pull like the very divil." An' with that he
lifted the bottle of holy wather, but it was
hardly to his mouth, whin he let a screech

out, you'd think the room id fairly split

with it, an' made one chuck that sent the

leg clane aff his body in my father's hands.

26 The Ghost and the Bone-Setter,

Down wint the squire over the table, an'

bang wint my father half-way across the

room on his back, upon the flure. Whin

he kem to himself the cheerful mornin sun
was shinin' through the windy shutthers,
an' he was lying flat an his back, with the
leg iv one of the great ould chairs pulled

clane out iv the socket an' tight in his

hand, pintin' up to the ceilin', an' ould

Larry fast asleep, an' snorin' as loud as

ever. My father wint that mornin to

Father Murphy, an' from that to the day

of his death, he never neglected confission

nor mass, an' what he tould was betther

believed that he spake av it but seldom.

An'_, as for the squire, that is the sperit,

whether it was that he did not like his

liquor, or by rason iv the loss iv his leg, he

was never known to walk aofin.'
 —

THE FORTUNES OP SIR ROBERT

ARDAGH.

Being a second Extract from the Papers of the late

Father Purcell.

*
The earth hath bubbles as the water hath

And these are of them.'

N the south of Ireland, and on

the borders of the county of

Limerick, there hes a district of

two or three miles in length, which is

rendered interesting by the fact that it is

one of the very few spots throughout this

28 The Fortunes of Sir Robert ArdagJi,

country, in which some vestiges of

aboriginal forest still remain. It has

little or none of the lordly character of

the American forest, for the axe has felled

its oldest and its grandest trees ; but in

the close wood which survives, live all the

wild and pleasing peculiarities of nature :

its complete irregularity, its vistas, in

whose perspective the quiet cattle are

peacefully browsing ; its refreshing glades,

where the grey rocks arise from amid the

nodding fern ; the silvery shafts of the old

birch trees ; the knotted trunks of the

hoary oak, the grotesque but graceful

branches which never shed their honours

under the tyrant pruning-hook ; the soft

green sward; the , chequered light and

shade ; the wild luxuriant weeds ; the lichen

and the moss — all, all are beautiful alike in

the green freshness of spring, or in tlie

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 29

sadness and sere of autumn. Their beauty

is of that kind which makes the heart full

with joy — appeahng to the affections with

a power which belongs to nature only.

This wood runs up, from below the base,

to the ridofe of a lono- line of irreofular

hills, having perhaps, in primitive times,

formed but the skirting of some mighty
forest which occupied the level below.

But now, alas ! whither have we drifted?

whither has the tide of civilisation borne
us 1 It has passed over a land unprepared

for it — it has left nakedness behind

it ; we have lost our forests, but our

marauders remain ; we have destroyed

all that is picturesque, while we have re-

tained everything that is revolting in bar-

barism. Through the midst of this wood-

land there runs a deep gully or glen,
where the stillness of the scene is broken in
30 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardaah,

upon by the brawling of a mountain-stream,

which, however, in the winter season,

swells into a rapid and formidable torrent.

There is one point at which the glen

becomes extremely deep and narrow ; the

sides descend to the depth of some

hundred feet, and are so steep as to be

nearly perpendicular. The wild trees

which have taken root in the cra.nnies and

chasms of the rock have so intersected
and entangled, that one can with difficulty

catch a glimpse of the stream, which

wheels, flashes, and foams below, as if

exulting in the surrounding silence and

solitude.

This spot was not unwisely chosen, as a

point of no ordinary strength, for the

erection of a massive square tower or keep,

one side of which rises as if in continuation

of the precipitous cliff on which it is based.

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 31

Originally, the only mode of ingress was

by a narrow portal in the very wall which

overtopped the precipice, opening upon a
ledge of rock which afforded a precarious

pathway, cautiously intersected, however,

by a deep trench cut with great labour
in the living rock ; so that, in its original

state, and before the introduction of

artillery into the art of war, this tower

might have been pronounced, and that not

presumptuously, almost impregnable.
The progress of improvement and the

increasing security of the times had, how-

ever, tempted its successive proprietors, if

not to adorn, at least to enlarge their

premises, and at about the middle of the

last century, when the castle was last in-

habited, the original square tower formed

but a small part of the edifice.

The castle, and a wide tract of the sur-

32 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

rounding country, had from time imme-

morial belonged to a family which, for dis-

tinctness, we shall call by the name of

Ardagh ; and owing to the associations
which, in Ireland, almost always attach to

scenes which have long witnessed alike the

exercise of stern feudal authority, and of

that savage hospitality which distinguished

the good old times, this building has be-

come the subject and the scene of many wild

and extraordinary traditions. One of them

I have been enabled, by a personal acquaint-

ance with an eye-witness of the events, to

trace to its origin ; and yet it is hard to say

whether the events which I am about to
record appear more strange or improbable

as seen throusfh the distortinof medium of

tradition, or in the appalling dimness
of uncertainty which surrounds the

reality.
 ;

The Fortunes of Sir Robert ArdagL 33

Tradition says that, sometime in the

last century, Sir Robert Ardagh, a young
man, and the last heir of that family, went
abroad and served in foreign armies ; and
that, having acquired considerable honour
and emdlument, he settled at Castle

Ardagh, the building we have just now

attempted to describe. He was what the
country people call a dark man : that is,

he was considered morose, reserved, and

ill-tempered ; and, as it was supposed from
the utter solitude of his life, was upon no
terms of cordiality with the other members
of his family.

The only occasion upon which he broke

through the solitary monotony of his life

was during the continuance of the racing

season, and immediately subsequent to it

at which time he was to be seen among

the busiest upon the course, betting deeply

VOL. I. 3
34 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

and unhesitatingly, and invariably with

success. Sir Robert was, however, too

well known as a man of honour, and of too

high a family, to be suspected of any unfair

dealing. He was, moreover, a soldier,

and a man of an intrepid as well as of a

haughty character ; and no one cared to

hazard a surmise, the consequences of

which would be felt most probably by its

originator only.

Gossip, however, was not silent ; it was

remarked that Sir Robert never appeared
at the race-ground, which was the only

place of public resort which he frequented,

except in company with a certain strange-

looking person, who was never seen else-

where, or under other circumstances. It

was remarked, too, that this man, whose

relation to Sir Robert was never distinctly
ascertained, was the only person to whom
 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Arclctgh. 35

he seemed to speak unnecessarily ; it was

observed that while with the country
gentry he exchanged no further communi-
cation than what was unavoidable in

arranging his sporting transactions, with

this person he would converse earnestly

and frequently. Tradition asserts that^ to

enhance the curiosity which this unaccount-

able and exclusive preference excited, the

stranger possessed some striking and un-

pleasant peculiarities of person and of garb

—she does not say, however, what these

Avere — but they, in conjunction with Sir

Robert's secluded habits and extraordinary

run of luck — a success which was supposed

to result from the suggestions and imme-
diate advice of the unknown — were suffi-

cient to warrant report in pronouncing

that there was something queer in the

wind, and in surmisino: that Sir Robert

3—2
36 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert ArdagJi.

was playing a fearful and a hazardons game,

and that, in short, his strange companion
was little better than the devil himself.

Years, however, rolled quietly away,

and nothing novel occurred in the arrange-

ments of Castle Ardagh, excepting that

Sir Robert parted with his odd companion,
but as nobody could tell whence he
came, so nobody could say whither he had
gone. Sir Robert's habits, however,
underwent no consequent change ; he con-
tinued regularly to frequent the race

meetings, without mixing at all in the

convivialities of the gentry, and imme-

diately afterwards to relapse into the

secluded monotony of his ordinary life.

It was said that he had accumulated

vast sums of money — and, as his bets were
always successful, and always large, such
must have been the case. He did not
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh, 37

suffer the acquisition of wealth, however,

to influence his hospitaUty or his house-

keeping — he neither purchased land, nor

extended his establishment ; and his mode

of enjoying his money must have been
altogether that of the miser — consisting
merely in the pleasure of touching and

telling his gold, and in the consciousness

of wealth.
Sir Robert's temper, so far from improv-

ing, became more than ever gloomy and

morose. He sometimes carried the indul-
gence of his evil dispositions to such a

height that it bordered upon insanity.

During these paroxysms he would neither

eat, drink, nor sleep. On such occasions-

he insisted on perfect privacy, even from

the intrusion of his most trusted servants ;.

his voice was frequently heard, sometimes^

in earnest supplication, sometime
38 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

as if in loud and angry altercation with

some unknown [^visitant ; sometimes he
would, for hours together, w^alk to and fro
throughout the long oak wainscoted

apartment, which he generally occupied,

with wild gesticulations and agitated pace,
in the manner of one who has been roused
to a state of unnatural excitement by some
•sudden and appalling intimation.

These paroxysms of apparent lunacy

were so frightful, that during their con-

tinuance even his oldest and most faithful

domestics dared not approach him ; conse-

quently, his hours of agony were never

intruded upon, and the mysterious causes

of his sufferings appeared likely to remain

hidden for ever.

On one occasion a fit of this kind

continued for an unusual time, the ordi-

nary term of their duration — about two

 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh. 39

days —had been long past, and the old

servant who generally waited upon Sir
E-obert after these visitations, having in

vain listened for the well-known tinkle of

his master's hand-bell, began to feel ex-

tremely anxious ; he feared that his master

might have died from sheer exhaustion, or
perhaps put an end to his own existence

during his miserable depression. These

fears at leno-th became so stroncr that

having^ in vain uro-ed some of his brother

servants to accompany him, he determined

to go up alone, and himself see whether

any accident had befallen Sir Robert.

He traversed the several passages which

conducted from the new to the more

ancient parts of the mansion, and having

arrived in the old hall of the castle, the

utter silence of the hour, for it was very

late in the night, the idea of the nature of
40 The Fortunes of Sir Robert ArdagJi.

the enterprise in which he was engaging"

himself, a sensation of remoteness from

anything like human companionship, but,

more than all, the vivid but undefined

anticipation of something horrible, came
upon him with such oppressive weight that
he hesitated as to whether he should pro-
ceed. Keal uneasiness, however, respecting
the fate of his master, for whom he felt

that kind of attachment which the force of

habitual intercourse not unfrequently en-

genders respecting objects not in them-

selves amiable, and also a latent unwilling-

ness to exjDose his weakness to the ridicule

of his fellow^- servants, combined to over-

come his reluctance; and he had just placed
his foot upon the first step of the staircase

which conducted to his master's chamber,

when his attention was arrested by a low

but distinct knocking at the hall-doon
 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardagli. 41

Not, perhaps, very sorry at finding thus

an excuse even for deferring his intended

expedition, he placed the candle upon a

stone block which lay in the hall, and ap-

proached the door, uncertain whether his

ears had not deceived him. This doubt

was justified by the circumstance that the

hall entrance had been for nearly fifty years

disused as a mode of ingress to the castle.

The situation of this gate also, w^hich we

have endeavoured to describe, opening

upon a narrow^ ledge of rock w^hich over-

hangs a perilous cliff, rendered it at all

times, but particularly at night, a danger-

ous entrance. This shelving platform of

rock, wdiich formed the only avenue to the

door, was divided, as I have already stated,

by a broad chasm, the planks across which

had long disappeared by decay or other-

wise, so that it seemed at least highly im-

42 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh,

probable that any man could have found

his way across the passage in safety to the

door, more particularly on a night like

that^ of singular darkness. The old man,
therefore, listened attentively, to ascertain

whether the first application should be fol-

lowed by another. He had not long to

wait ; the same low but singularly distinct

knocking was repeated ; so low that it

seemed as if the applicant had employed

no harder or heavier instrument than his

hand, and yet, despite the immense thick-

ness of the door, with such strength that

the sound was distinctly audible.

The knock was repeated a third time, with-

out any increase of loudness ; and the old
man, obeying an impulse for which to his

dying hour he could never account, proceeded

to remove, one by one, the three great oaken
bars which secured the door. Time and
 ;

The Fortune.^ of Sir Robert Ardagh. 43

damp had effectually corroded the iron

chambers of the lock, so that it afforded

little resistance. With some effort, as he

believed, assisted from without, the old
servant succeeded in opening the door

and a low, square-built figure, apparently

that of a man wrapped in a large black

cloak, entered the hall. The servant could

not see much of this visitant with any dis-

tinctness ; his dress appeared foreign, the

skirt of his ample cloak was thrown over

one shoulder ; he wore a large felt hat,

with a very heavy leaf, from under which

escaped what appeared to be a mass of

long sooty-black hair ; his feet were cased

in heavy riding-boots. Such were the few
particulars which the servant had time and
lio^ht to observe. The strano'er desired

him to let his master know instantly that

a friend had come, by appointment, to

44 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

settle some business with him. The ser-

vant hesitated, but a slight motion on the

part of his visitor, as if to possess himself

of the candle, determined him ; so, taking

it in his hand, he ascended the castle stairs,

leaving his guest in the hall.

On reaching the apartment which opened

upon the oak-chamber he was surprised to

observe the door of that room partly open,

and the room itself lit up. He paused, but

there was no sound ; he looked in, and saw

Sir Kobert, his head and the upper part

of his body reclining on a table, upon

which burned a lamp ; his arms were
stretched forward on either side, and per-

fectly motionless ; it appeared that, having

been sitting at the table, he had thus sunk
forward, either dead or in a swoon. There
was no sound of breathing ; all was silent,

except the sharp ticking of a watch, which

 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh. 45

lay beside the lamp. The servant coughed

twice or thrice, but with no effect ; his

fears now almost amounted to certainty,

and he was approaching the table on which

his master partly lay, to satisfy himself of

his death, when Sir Robert slowly raised

his head, and throwino^ himself back in his

chair, fixed his eyes in a ghastly and un-

certain gaze upon his attendant. At length

he said, slowly and painfully, as if he

dreaded the answer :

'
In God's name, what are you V
^
Sir,' said the servant, ^
a stranofe orentle-

man wants to see you below.'

At this intimation Sir Robert, starting

on his feet and tossing his arms wildly

upwards, uttered a shriek of such appalling
and despairing terror that it was almost
too fearful for human endurance : and lonof

after the sound had ceased it seemed to

46 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

the terrified imagination of the old servant

to roll through the deserted passages in

bursts of unnatural laughter. After a few

moments Sir Robert said :

'
Can't you send him away ? Why does

he come so soon ? O God I O God ! let

him leave me for an hour ; a little time.

I can't see him now ; try to get him away.

You see I can't go down now ; I have not

strength. God I God I let him come

back in an hour ; it is not long to wait.

He cannot lose anything by it; nothing,

nothing, nothing. Tell him that ; say any-

thing to him.'

The servant went down. In his own

words, he did not feel the stairs under him
till he got to the hall. The figure stood

exactly as he had left it. He delivered his

master's message as coherently as he could.

The stranger replied in a careless tone :

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. A.7

*
If Sir Robert will not come down to

me, I must go up to him/

The man returned, and to his surprise

he found his master much more composed

in manner. He listened to the messaofe,

and though the cold perspiration rose in

drops upon his forehead faster than he

could wipe it away, his manner had lost

the dreadful agitation vdiich had marked

it before. He rose feebly, and casting a

last look of agony behind him, passed from
the room to the lobby, where he signed to

his attendant not to follow him. The man

moved as far as the head of the staircase,

from w^hence he had a tolerably distinct

view of the hall, which was imperfectly

lighted by the candle he had left there.

He saw his master reel, rather than

walk down the stairs, clinging all the way

to the banisters. He walked on, as if
48 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Arclagh.

about to sink every moment from weak-

ness. The figure advanced as if to meet
him, and in passing struck down the light.

The servant could see no more ; but there

was a sound of struggling, renewed at in-

tervals with silent but fearful energy. It

was evident, however, that the parties

were approaching the door, for he heard

the solid oak sound twice or thrice, as the

feet of the combatants, in shuffling hither

and thither over the floor, struck upon it.

After a slight pause he heard the door

thrown open with such violence that the
leaf seemed to strike the side-wall of the

hall, for it was so dark without that this

could only be surmised by the sound.

The struggle was renewed with an agony

and intenseness of energy that betrayed

itself in deep-drawn gasps. One desperate

effort, which terminated in the breaking of

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardcigh, 49

some part of the door, producing a sound

as if the door-post was wrenched from its

pcfsition, was followed by another wrestle,

evidently upon the narrow ledge which ran

outside the door, overtopping the precipice.

This proved to be the final struggle, for it

was followed by a crashing sound as if some

heavy body had fallen over, and was rush-
ing down the precipice, through the light

boughs that crossed near the top. All

then became still as the grave, except when
the moan of the night wind sighed up the

wooded g]en.

The old servant had not nerve to return

through the hall, and to him the darkness

seemed all but endless ; but morning at
length came, and with it the disclosure of

the events of the night. Near the door,

upon the ground, lay Sir Robert's sword-

belt, which had given way in the scuffle.

VOL. I. 4
50 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagk. <*

A huge splinter from the massive door-

post had been wrenched off by an almost

superhuman effort — one which nothing but

the gripe of a despairing man could have

severed —and on the rock outside were left

the marks of the slipping and sliding of

feet.

At the foot of the precipice, not imme-

diately under the castle^ but dragged some
way up the glen, were found the remains

of Sir Robert, with hardly a vestige of a

limb or feature left distinguishable. The

right hand, however, was uninjured, and
in its fingers were clutched, with the

fixedness of death, a long lock of coarse

sooty hair — the only direct circumstantial

evidence of the presence of a second person.

So says tradition.

This story, as I have mentioned, was

<3urrent among the dealers in such lore;

J
^ke Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardajli. 51

but the original facts are so dissimilar in

all but the name of the principal person

mentioned and his mode of life, and the

fact that his death Avas accompanied with
circumstances of extraordinary mystery,
that the two narratives are totally irre-

concilable (even allowing the utmost for

the exaggerating influence of tradition),

except by supposing report to have com-
bined and blended together the fabulous

histories of several distinct bearers of

the family name. How^ever this may be,

I shall lay before the reader a distinct

recital of the events from which the fore-

going tradition arose. With resjDect to

these there can be no mistake ; they are

authenticated as fully as anything can be

by human testimony ; and I state them

principally upon the evidence of a lady
who herself bore a prominent part in the

4—2
52 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

strange events which she related, and

which I now record as being among the
few well-attested tales of the marvellous

which it has been my fate to hear. I

shall, as far as I am able, arrange in one

combined narrative the evidence of several
distinct persons who were eye-witnesses of

what they related, and with the truth of

whose testimony I am solemnly and deeply
impressed.

Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to call

him, was the heir and representative cf the

family whose name he bore but owing to the

;

prodigality of his father, the estates descended

to him in a very impaired condition. Urged

by the restless spirit of youth, or more pro-
bably by a feeling of pride which could not
submit to witness, in the j)aternal mansion,
what he considered a humiliating alteration

in the style and hospitality which up to

 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh. 53

that time had distinguished his family,

Sir Kobert left Ireland and went abroad.
How he occupied himself, or what countries
he visited during his absence, was never
known, nor did he afterwards make any
allusion or encourage any inquiries touch-

ing his foreign sojourn. He left Ireland

in the year 1742, being then just of age,

and was not heard of until the year 1760

— about eighteen years afterwards — at
which time he returned. His personal
appearance was, as might have been ex-
pected, very greatly altered, more altered,

indeed, than the time of his absence mioiit

have warranted one in supposing likely.

But to counterbalance the unfavourable

chang^e which time had wrouofht in his
form and features, he had acquired all the

advantages of polish of manner and refine-

ment of taste which foreign travel is sup-

 —

54 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

posed to bestow. But what was truly

surprising was that it soon became evident

that Sir Robert was very wealthy
wealthy to an extraordinary and unac-

countable degree ; and this fact was made

manifest, not only by his expensive style

of living, but by his proceeding to dis-

embarrass his property, and to purchase

extensive estates in addition. Moreover,
there could be nothing deceptive in these

appearances, for he paid ready money for

everything, from the most important pur-

chase to the most trifling.

Sir Robert was a remarkably agreeable

man, and possessing the combined advan-
tages of birth and property, he was, as a

matter of course, gladly received into the

highest society which the metropolis then

commanded. It was thus that he became

acquainted with the two beautiful Miss
 —

The Fortunes of Sir Robert Aixlagh. 55

'
ds, then among the brightest orna-
ments of the highest circle of Dubhn
fashion. Their family was in more than
one direction allied to nobility ; and Lady
D , their elder sister by many years,

and sometime married to a once well-

known nobleman, was now their pro-

tectress. These considerations, beside the

fact that the young ladies were what is

usually termed heiresses, though not to a

very great amount, secured to them a high

position in the best society which Ireland
then produced. The two young ladies

differed strongly, alike in appearance and

in character. The elder of the two, Emily,

was generally considered the handsomer

for her beauty was of that impressive kind
which never failed to strike even at the first

glance, possessiug as it did all the advan-

tages of a fine person and a commanding

56 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

carriage. The beauty of her features

strikingly assorted in character with that

of her figure and deportment. Her hair

was raven-black and richly luxuriant,

beautifully contrasting with the perfect

whiteness of her forehead —her finely pen-

cilled brows were black as the ringlets that

clustered near them —and her blue eyes, full,

lustrous, and animated, possessed all the

power and brilliancy of brown ones, with

more than their softness and variety of

expression. She was not, however, merely
the tragedy queen. When she smiled,

and that was not seldom, the dimpling

of cheek and chin, the laughing display

of the small and beautiful teeth —but,

more than all, the roguish archness of her

deep, bright eye, showed that nature had

not neglected in her the lighter and the

softer characteristics of woman.

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagli. 57

Her younger sister Mary was, as I

believe not unfrequently occurs in the case

of sisters, quite in the opposite style of

beauty. She was light-haired, had more

colour, had nearly equal grace, with much
more liveliness of manner. Her eyes were

of that dark grey which poets so much

admire — full of expression and vivacity.

She was altogether a very beautiful and

animated g^irl — thouo^li as unlike her sister

as the presence of those two qualities

would permit her to be. Their dissimi-

larity did not stop here — it was deeper
than mere appearance — the character of

their minds differed almost as strikingly

as did their complexion. The fair-haired

beauty had a large proportion of that soft-

ness and pliability of temper which physi-

ognomists assign as the characteristics of

such complexions. She was much more
58 The Fortunes of Sir Bohert Ardagh.

the creature of impulse than of feeling,

and consequently more the victim of ex-

trinsic circumstances than was her sister.

Emily, on the contrary, possessed consider-

able firmness and decision. She was less

excitable, but when excited her feelings

were more intense and endurino*. She
wanted much of the gaiety, but with it

the volatility of her younger sister. Her

opinions were adopted, and her friendships

formed more reflectively, and her aflections

seemed to move, as it were, more slovvly,

but more determinedly. This firmness of

character did not amount to anything mas-
culine, and did not at all impair the femi-

nine grace of her manners.

Sir Kobert Ardagh was for a long time

apparently equally attentive to the two

sisters, and many were the conjectures and
the surmises as to which would be the lady
 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagli. 59

of his choice. At length, however, these

doubts were determined ; he proposed for

and was accepted by the dark beauty,
Emily F d. ^
The bridals were celebrated in a manner
becoming the wealth and connections of
the jDarties ; and Sir Hobert and Lady
Ardagh left Dublin to pass the honey-

moon at the family mansion, Castle

Ardagh, which had lately been fitted up

in a style bordering upon magnificent.
Whether in compliance with the wishes
of his lady, or owing to some whim of his

own, his habits were henceforward strik-

ingly altered ; and from having moved

among the gayest if not the most pro-
fligate of the votaries of fashion, he sud-
denly settled down into a quiet, domestic,
country gentleman, and seldom, if ever,

visited the capital, and then his sojourns

60 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagli.

were as brief as the nature of his business

would permit.
Lady Ardagh, however, did not suffer

from this change further than in being

secluded from general society ; for Sir

Robert's wealth, and the hospitality which

he had established in the family mansion,

commanded that of such of his lady's

friends and relatives as had leisure or

inclination to visit the castle ; and as their

style of living was very handsome, and its

internal resources of amusement consider-

able, few invitations from Sir Robert or

his lady were neglected.

Many years passed quietly away, during

which Sir Robert's and Lady Ardagh's

hopes of issue were several times disap-
pointed. In the lapse of all this time

there occurred but one event worth re-

cording. Sir Robert had brought with

 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Arclagh. Gl

him from abroad a valet, who sometimes

professed himself to be French, at

others Italian, and at others aofaia

German. He spoke all these languages

with equal fluency, and seemed to take a

kind of pleasure in puzzling the sagacity

and balking the curiosity of such of the

visitors at the castle as at any time hap-

pened to enter into conversation with him,
or who, struck by his singularities, became
inquisitive respecting his country and
origin. Sir Robert called him by the
French name, Jacqcje, and among the
lower orders he was familiarly known by
the title of 'Jack, the devil,' an appella-

tion which originated in a supposed malig-

nity of disposition and a real reluctance to

mix in the society of those who were

believed to be his equals. This morose
reserve, coupled with the mystery which
C2 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

enveloped all about him, rendered him an

object of suspicion and inquiry to his

fellow-servants, amongst whom it \vas

whispered that this man in secret

governed the actions of Sir Robert with

a despotic dictation, and that, as if to

indemnify himself for his public and ap-

parent servitude and self-denial, he in

private exacted a degree of respectful

homage from his so-called master, totally

inconsistent with the relation generally

supposed to exist between them.

This man's personal appearance was, to

say the least of it, extremely odd ; he was

low in stature ; and this defect was en-
hanced by a distortion of the spine, so con-
siderable as almost to amount to a hunch;
bis features, too, had all that sharpness and

sickliness of hue which generally accom-

pany deformity ; he wore his hair, which

 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Arclagli. 63

was black as soot, in heavy neglected ring-

lets about his shoulders, and always without

powder — a peculiarity in those days. There
was something unpleasant, too, in the
circumstance that he never raised his

eyes to meet those of another ; this fact

was often cited as a proof of his beino-

something not quite right, and said to

result not from the timidity which is sup-

posed in most cases to induce this habit,

but from a consciousness that his eye pos-
sessed a power which, if exhibited, would
betray a supernatural origin. Once, and
once only, had he violated this sinister ob-
servance : it was on the occasion of Sir
E/obert's hopes having been most bitterly
disappointed ; his lady, after a severe and
dangerous confinement, gave birth to a
dead child. Immediately after the intel-
ligence had been made known, a servant.
64 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

having upon some business passed outside

the gate of the castle-yard, was met by

Jacque, who, contrary to his wont, accosted

him, observing, '

So. after all the pother,

the son and heir is still-born.' This re-

mark was accompanied by a chuckling

laugh, the only approach to merriment
which he was ever known to exhibit.

The servant, who was really disappointed,

having hoped for holiday times, feasting and

debauchery with impunity during the re-

joicings which would have accompanied a

christening, turned tartly upon the little

valet, telhng him that he should let Sir

Robert know how he had received the

tidings which should have filled any faith-

ful servant wdth sorrow ; and having once

broken the ice, he was proceeding with
increasing fluency, when his harangue was
cut short and his temerity punished, by
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagli. 65

the little man raisino his head and treatinof

him to a scowl so fearful, half-demoniac,

half-insane, that it haunted his imagina-

tion in nightmares and nervous tremors
for months after.

To this man Lady Ardagh had, at first

sight, conceived an antipathy amounting to

horror, a mixture of loathing and dread so
very powerful that she had made it a par-

ticular and urgent request to Sir Kobert,

that he would dismiss him, offering herself,

from that property which Sir Kobert had

by the marriage settlements left at her own
disposal, to provide handsomely for him,

provided only she might be relieved from

the continual anxiety and discomfort

which the fear of encountering him in-

duced.

Sir Kobert, however, would not hear of

it ; the request seemed at first to agitate

VOL. I. 5
G6 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagli.

and distress him ; but when still urged in

defiance of his peremptory refusal, he burst

into a violent fit of fury; he spoke darkly

of great sacrifices which he had made, and

threatened that if the request were at any

time renewed he would leave both her and

the country for ever. This was, however,

a solitary instance of violence ; his general

conduct towards Lady Ardagh, though at

no time uxorious, was certainly kind and

respectful, and he was more than repaid
in the fervent attachment which she bore
him in return.

Some short time after this strange in-

terview between Sir Robert and Lady

Ardagh ; one night after the family had
retired to bed, and ^vhen everything had
been quiet for some time, the bell of Sir

Robert's dressing-room rang suddenly and

violently ; the ringing was repeated again

I
 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardaglu 67

and aofain at still shorter intervals, and

with increasing violence, as if the person

who pulled the bell was agitated by the

presence of some terrifying and imminent

danger. A servant named Donovan was

the first to answer it ; he threw on his
clothes, and hurried to the room.

Sir Robert had selected for his private

room an apartment remote from the bed-

chambers of the castle, most of which lay
in the more modern parts of the mansion,
and secured at its entrance by a double

door. As the servant opened the first of

these, Sir Robert's bell again sounded with

a longer and louder peal ; the inner door

resisted his efforts to open it ; but after

a few violent struo^orles, not havino^ been

perfectly secured, or owing to the inade-

quacy of the bolt itself, it gave way, and

the servant rushed into the apartment,
5—2
 •

68 The Fortunes of Sirf Robert Ardagh.

advancing several paces before he could

recover himself. As he entered, he heard
Sir Kobert's voice exclaiming loudly —
;'
'
Wait without, do not come in yet

but the prohibition came too late. Near

a low truckle-bed, upon which Sir Robert
sometimes slept, for he was a Avhirasical

man, in a large armchair, sat, or rather

lounged, the form of the valet Jacque, his

arms folded, and his heels stretched for-

ward on the floor, so as fully to exhibit his

misshapen legs, his head thrown back, and

his eyes fixed upon his master with a look

of indescribable defiance and derision, while,

as if to add to the strange insolence of his

attitude and expression, he had placed upon

his head the black cloth cap which it was
his habit to wear.

Sir Kobert was standing before him, at

the distance of several yards, in a posture

 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh. 69

expressive of despair, terror, and ^Yhat

niight be called an agony of humility.
He waved his hand twice or thrice, as if

to dismiss the servant, w^ho, however, re-

mained fixed on the spot Avhere he had

first stood ; and then, as if forgetting every-

thing but the agony within him, he pressed

his clenched hands on his cold damp brow,

and dashed away tlie heavy drops that
gathered chill and thickly there.

Jacque broke the silence.

'
Donovan,' said he, ^
shake up that
drone and drunkard, Carlton ; tell him
that his master directs that the travelling

oarriacre shall be at the door within half-

un-hour.'

The servant paused, as if in doubt as to

what he should do ; but his scruples were

resolved by Sir Robert's saying hurriedly,

'
Go —go, do whatever he directs ; his
 —

70 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardagli.

commands are mine ; tell Carlton the

same/
The servant hurried to obey, and in

about half-an-hour the carriage was at the

door, and Jacque, having directed the
coachman to drive to B n, a small
town at about the distance of twelve
miles — the nearest point, however, at

which post-horses could be obtained

stepped into the vehicle, which accordingly

quitted the castle immediately.

Although it was a fine moonlight night,

the carriage made its way but very slowly,

and after the lapse of two hours the travel-

lers had arrived at a point about eight miles

from the castle, at which the road strikes

through a desolate and heathy flat, sloping

up distantly at either side into bleak undu-

latory hills, in whose monotonous sweep

the imagination beholds the heaving of
 ;

The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 71

some dark sluo-o^ish sea, arrested in its

first commotion by some preternatural

power. It is a gloomy and divested spot

there is neither tree nor habitation near it

its monotony is unbroken, except by here

and there the grey front of a rock peering

above the heath, and the effect is rendered

yet more dreary and spectral by the ex-

aggerated and misty shadows which the

moon casts along the sloping sides of the

hills.

When they had gained about the

centre of this tract, Carlton, the coach-

man, w^as surprised to see a figure standing

at some distance in advance, immediately

beside the road, and still more so when,

on coming up, he observed that it was no

other than Jacque whom he believed to
be at that moment quietly seated in the

carriage ; the coachman drew up, and

72 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

nodding to him, the httle valet ex-

claimed :

*
Carlton, I have got the start of 3'ou ;

the roads are heavy, so I shall even take

care of myself the rest of the way. Do

you make your way back as best you can,

and I shall follow my own nose.'

So saying, he chucked a purse into the

lap of the coachman, and turning off at a

right angle with the road, he began to
move rapidly away in the direction of the

dark ridge that lowered in the distance.

The servant watched him until he w^as
lost in the shadowy haze of night ; and
neither he nor any of the inmates of the

castle saw Jacque again. His disappearance,

as might have been expected, did not cause
any regret among the servants and depen-
dants at the castle ; and Lady Ardagh
did not attempt to conceal her delight;
 —

The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Aixhtgh. 73

but with Sir Robert matters were different,

for two or three days subsequent to this

event he confined himself to his room, and

when he did return to his ordinary occu-

pations, it was with a gloomy indifference,

which showed that he did so more from

habit than from any interest he felt in

them. He appeared from that moment

unaccountably and strikingly changed, and

thenceforward walked throuo^h life as a

thing from which he could derive neither

profit nor pleasure. His temper, how-
ever, so far from growing wayward or
morose, became, though gloomy, very
almost unnaturally — placid and cold ; but
his spirits totally failed, and he grew silent

and abstracted.
These sombre habits of mind, as might
have been anticipated, very materially

affected the gay house-keeping of the

 ;

74 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

castle ; and the dark and melancholy

spirit of its master seemed to have com-
municated itself to the very domestics,

almost to the very walls of the mansion.

Several years rolled on in this way, and
the sounds of mirth and wassail had long

been strangers to the castle, when Sir

Robert requested his lady, to her great

astonishment, to invite some twenty or

thirty of their friends to spend the Christ-

mas, which was fast approaching, at the

castle. Lady Ardagh gladly complied,

and her sister Mary, who still continued

unmarried, and Lady D were of

course included in the invitations. Lady

Ardagh had requested her sisters to set

forward as early as possible, in order that

she might enjoy a little of their society

before the arrival of the other guests

and in compliance with this request they

 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardcigh. 75

left Dublin almost immediately upon

receiving the invitation, a little more than
a week before the arrival of the festival

which was to be the period at which the

whole party were to muster.
For expedition's sake it was arranged
that they should post, while Lady D 's

groom was to follow with her horses,

she taking with herself her own maid and

one male servant. They left the city

w^hen the day was considerably spent, and

consequently made but three stages in

the first day ; upon the second, at about

eight in the evening, they had reached the

town of K k, distant about fifteen

miles from Castle Ardagh. Here, owing

to Miss F d's great fatigue, she having

been for a considerable time in a very

delicate state of health, it was determined
to put up for the night. They, accord-
76 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

ingly, took possession of the best sitting-

room which the inn commanded, and Lady

D remained in it to direct and urge
the preparations for some refreshment,

which the fatigues of the day had ren-

liered necessary, while her younger sister

retired to her bed-chamber to rest there

for a httle time, as the parlour commanded

no such luxury as a sofa.

Miss F d was, as I have already

stated, at this time in very delicate health ;

and upon this occasion the exhaustion of

fatigue, and the dreary badness of the

weather, combined to depress her spirits.

Lady D had not been left long to

herself, w^hen the door communicating

with the passage was abruptly opened,

and her sister Mary entered in a state of

great agitation ; she sat down pale and

trembling upon one of the chairs, and it
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 77

was not until a copious flood of tears had

relieved her, that she became sufficiently

calm to relate the cause of her excitement

and distress. It was simply this. Almost

immediately upon lying down upon the
bed she sank into a feverish and unre-
freshing slumber ; images of all grotesque
shapes and startling colours flitted before

her sleeping fancy with all the rapidity and

variety of the changes in a kaleidoscope.

At length, as she described it, a mist

seemed to interpose itself between her
sight and the ever-shifting scenery which

sported before her imagination, and out

of this cloudy shadow gradually emerged
a figure whose back seemed turned to-

wards the sleeper ; it w^as that of a lady^

who, in perfect silence, was expressing

as far as pantomimic gesture could, by
wringing her hands, and throwing her
 —

78 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagli.

head from side to side, in the manner of

one who is exhausted by the over indul-
gence, by the very sickness and impatience

of grief, the extremity of misery. For a

long time she sought in vain to catch a

glimpse of the face of the apparition, who

thus seemed to stir and live before her.

But at length the figure seemed to move

wath an air of authority, as if about to

give directions to some inferior, and in

doing so, it turned its head so as to dis-

play, with a ghastly distinctness^ the

features of Lady A.rdagh, pale as death,

with her dark hair all dishevelled, and

her eyes dim and sunken with weeping.
The revulsion of feeling v/hich Miss
F— —d experienced at this disclosure

for up to that point she had contemplated

the appearance rather with a sense of
curiosity and of interest, than of anything
 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 79

deeper —was so horrible, that the shook

awoke her perfectly. She sat up in the
bed, and looked fearfully around the

room, which was imperfectly lighted by a

sino^le candle burning' dimlv, as if she
almost expected to see the reality of her
dreadful vision lurkincj" in some corner of
the chamber. Her fears were, however,
verified, though not in the way she ex-

pected ;
yet in a manner sufficiently

horrible — for she had hardly time to

breathe and to collect her thoughts, when

she heard, or thought she heard, the

voice of her sister. Lady Ardagh, some-

times sobbing violently, and sometimes
almost [shrieking as if in terror, and call-

ing upon her and Lady D , with the

most imploring earnestness of despair, for

God's sake to lose no time in cominor to

her. All this was so horribly distinct,
80 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

that it seemed as if the mourner was

standing within a few yards of the spot

where Miss F d lay. She sprang from

the bed, and leavino^ the candle in the

room behind her, she made her way in the

dark through the passage, the voice still

following her, until as she arrived at the

door of the sitting-room it seemed to die

away in low sobbing.

As soon as Miss F d was tolerably
recovered, she declared her determination

to proceed directly, and without further

loss of time, to Castle Ardagh. It was

not without much difficulty that Lady
D at length prevailed upon her to

consent to remain where they then were,

until morning should arrive, when it was

to be expected that the young lady would
be much refreshed by at least remaining
quiet for the night, even though sleep
 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh, 81

were out of the question. Lady D

was convinced, from the nervous and
feverish symptoms which her sister ex-

hibited, that she had already done too

much, and was more than ever satisfied of

the necessity of prosecuting the journey

no further upon that day. After some

time she persuaded her sister to return to

her room, where she remained with her

until she had gone to bed, and appeared

comparatively composed. Lady D
then returned to the parlour, and not
finding herself sleepy, she remained sitting

by the fire. Her solitude was a second

time broken in upon, by the entrance of
her sister, who now appeared, if possible,

more agitated than before. She said that

Lady D had not long left the room,

when she was roused by a repetition of

the same wailins: and lamentations, accom-

VOL. I. 6
 ;

82 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

panied by the wildest and most agonized

supplications that no time should be lost

in coming to Castle Ardagh, and all in her

sister's voice, and uttered at the same

proximity as before. This time the voice

had followed her to the very door of the

sitting-room, and until she closed it,

seemed to pour forth its cries and sobs at

the very threshold.

Miss F d now most positively de-

clared that nothing should prevent her
proceeding instantly to the castle, adding
that if Lady D would not accompany
her, she would go on by herself. Super-
stitious feelings are at all times more or
less contagious, and the last century

afforded a soil much more congenial to

their growth than the present. Lady

D was so far affected by her sister's

terrors, that she became, at least, uneasy

 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardagh. 83

and seeing that her sister was immovably

determined upon setting forward immedi-
ately, she consented to accompany her
forthwith. After a slight delay, fresh

horses were procured, and the two ladies

and their attendants renewed their journey,

with strong injunctions to the driver to

quicken their rate of travelling as much as

possible, and promises of reward in case of

his doing so.

Koads were then in much w^orse con-

dition throughout the south, even than

they now are ; and the fifteen miles which
modern posting would have passed in little

more than an hour and a half, w^ere not

completed even with every possible exer-
tion in twice the time. Miss F d had
been nervously restless during the journey.
Her head had been constantly out of
the carriage window ; and as they ap-
6—2
84 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardagh.

proached the entrance to the castle

demesne, which lay about a mile from the

building, her anxiety began to communi-
cate itself to her sister. The postillion

had just dismounted, and was endeavour-

ing to open the gate —at that time a

necessary trouble ; for in the middle of

the last century porter's lodges were not

common in the south of Ireland, and locks

and keys almost unknown. He had just
succeeded in rolling back the heavy oaken

gate so as to admit the vehicle, when a

mounted servant rode rapidly down the

avenue, and drawing up at the carriage,

asked of the postillion who the party were ;

and on hearing, he rode round to the

carriage window and handed in a note,

which Lady D received. By the

assistance of one of the coach-lamps they

succeeded in deciphering it. It was

 Tlie Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh, 85

scrawled in great agitation, and ran

thus :

'
My Dear Sister — My Dear Sisters

BOTH, — In God's name lose no time, I am

frightened and miserable ; I cannot explain

all till you come. I am too much terri-

fied to write coherently ; but understand

me — hasten — do not waste a minute. I

am afraid you will come too late.

'
E. A.'

The servant could tell nothing more

than that the castle was in great confusion,,

and that Lady Ardagh had been crying

bitterly all the night. Sir Robert was
perfectly well. Altogether at a loss as to
the cause of Lady Ardagh's great distress,

they urged their way up the steep and

broken avenue which wound through the
crowding trees, whose wild and grotesque-
86 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardagh.

branches, now left stripped and naked by the

blasts of winter, stretched drearily across

the road. As the carriage drew up in the

area before the door, the anxiety of the

ladies almost amounted to agony ; and

scarcely waiting for the assistance of their

attendant, they sprang to the ground, and

in an instant stood at the castle door.

From within were distinctly audible the

sounds of lamentation and weeping, and

the suppressed hum of voices as if of those

endeavouring to soothe the mourner.

The door was speedily opened, and when
the ladies entered, the first object which
met their view was their sister, Lady
Ardagh, sitting on a form in the hall,

weeping and wringing her hands in deep

agony. Beside her stood two old, withered

crones, who were each endeavouring in

their own way to administer consolation.

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagli. 87

without even knowing or caring what the

subject of her grief might be.

Immediately on Lady Ardagh's seeing

her sisters, she started up, fell on their

necks, and kissed them again and again

without speaking, and then taking them

each by a hand, still weeping bitterly, she

led them into a small room adjoining the

hall, in which burned a light, and, having

closed the door, she sat down between

them. After thanking them for the haste

they had made, she proceeded to tell them,

in words incoherent from agitation, that

Sir E-obert had in private, and in the most

solemn manner, told her that he should die
upon that night, and that he had occupied
himself during the evening in giving minute

directions respecting the arrangements of

his funeral. Lady D here suggested

the possibility of his labouring under the

88 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

hallucinations of a fever ; but to this Lady

Ardagh quickly replied :

'
Oh ! no, no ! Would to God I could

think it. Oh ! no, no ! Wait till you

have seen him. There is a frightful calm-

ness about all he says and does ; and his

directions are all so clear, and his mind so
perfectly collected, it is impossible, quite

impossible.' And she wept yet more

bitterly.

At that moment Sir Robert's voice was

heard in issuing some directions, as he

came downstairs ; and Lady Ardagh ex-
claimed, hurriedly :

'
Go now and see him yourself He is

in the hall.'

Lady D accordingly went out into

the hall, where Sir Robert met her ; and,

saluting her with kind politeness, he said,

after a pause :
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh, 89

*
You are come upon a melancholy mis-
sion —the house is in great confusion, and
some of its inmates in considerable grief
He took her hand, and looking fixedly in
her face, continued :
*
I shall not live to

see to-morrow's sun shine.'

*
You are ill, sir, I have no doubt,' re-

plied she ;
^
but I am very certain we shall

see you much better to-morrow, and still

better the day following.'

'
I am not ill, sister,' replied he. '
Feel

m}" temples, they are cool ; lay your finger

to my pulse, its throb is slow and tem-

perate. I never was more perfectly in

health, and yet do I know that ere three
hours be past, I shall be no more.'
*
Sir, sir/ said she, a good deal startled,

but wishing to conceal the impression which

the calm solemnity of his manner had, in

her own despite, made upon her, '

Sir, you
 ;

90 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

should not jest ;

you should not even speak
lightly upon such subjects. You trifle

with what is sacred —you are sporting with '

the best affections of your wife

^
Stay, my good lady/ said he ;
^
if when
this clock shall strike the hour of three, I
shall be anything but a helpless clod, then
upbraid me. Pray return now to your

sister. Lady Ardagh is, indeed, much to

be pitied ; but what is past cannot now be

helped. I have now a few papers to
arrange, and some to destroy. I shall see

you and Lady Ardagh before my death

try to compose her —her sufferings distress

me much ; but what is past cannot now be

mended/
Thus saying, he went upstairs, and Lady
D returned to the room where her

sisters were sitting.

' Well,' exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as she

 The Fortunes of Sir Eohert Ardaah. 91

re-entered, '
is it not so ? —do you still

doubt ? — do you think there is any hope V

Lady D was silent.

*
Oh ! none, none, none/ continued she ;

'
I see, I see you are convinced/ And she
wrung her hands in bitter agony.

'
My dear sister,' said Lady D ,

'
there is, no doubt, something strange in
all that has appeared in this matter ; but
still I cannot but hope that there may be
something deceptive in all the apparent

calmness of Sir Robert. I still must be-

lieve that some latent fever has affected

his mind, or that, owing to the state of

nervous depression into which he has been

sinking, some trivial occurrence has been

converted, in his disordered imagination,

into an auo^ury forebodino' his immediate

dissolution.'

In such suggestions, unsatisfactory even

92 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagli.

to those who originated them, and doubly

so to her whom they were intended to

comfort, more than two hours passed ; and
Lady D was beginning to hope that
the fated term might elapse without the
occurrence of any tragical event, when Sir

Kobert entered the room. On coming in,

he placed his finger with a warning gesture

upon his lips, as if to enjoin silence ; and
then having successively pressed the hands
of his two sisters-in-law, he stooped sadly

over the fainting form of his lady, and

twice pressed her cold, pale forehead, with

his lips, and then passed silently out of

the room.

Lady D , starting up, followed to the

door, and saw him take a candle in the hall,

and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimu-

lated by a feeling of horrible curiosity, she

continued to follow him at a distance. She

 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 93

saw him enter his own private room, and

heard him close and lock the door after him.

Continuing to follow him as far as she
could, she placed herself at the door of the

chamber, as noiselessly as possible, where

after a little time she was joined by her
two sisters, Lady Ardagh and Miss F d.

In breathless silence they listened to what

should pass within. They distinctly heard
Sir Robert pacing up and down the room
for some time ; and then, after a pause, a

sound as if some one had thrown himself

heavily upon the bed. At this moment
Lady D , forgetting that the door had
been secured within, turned the handle for

the purpose of entering; when some one from

the inside, close to the door, said, '
Hush !

hush !'
The same lady, now much alarmed,

knocked violently at the door ; there was

no answer. She knocked ao-ain more vio-
94 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.

lently, with no further success. Lady

Ardagh, now uttering a piercing shriek,

sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three or

four servants, alarmed by the noise, now
hurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh was
carried apparently lifeless to her own
chamber. They then, after having knocked
long and loudly in vain, applied themselves

to forcing an entrance into Sir Robert's

room. After resisting some violent efforts,

the door at length gave way, and all

entered the room nearly together. There

was a single candle burning upon a table at

the far end of the apartment ; and stretched

upon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. He
was a corpse —the eyes were open —no
convulsion had passed over the features, or

distorted the- limbs — it seemed as if the

soul had sped from the body without a
struggle to remain there. On touching
 —

The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 95

the body it was found to be cold as clay

all lingering of the vital heat had left it.

They closed the ghastly eyes of the corpse,

and leaving it to the care of those who

seem to consider it a privilege of their age

and sex to gloat over the revolting spec-

tacle of death in all its stages, they re-

turned to Lady Ardagh, now a widow.

The party assembled at the castle, but the

atmosphere was tainted with death. Grief

there was not much, but awe and panic
were expressed in every face. The guests
talked in whispers, and the servants walked

on tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise of

their own footsteps.

The funeral was conducted almost with

splendour. The body, having been con-

veyed, in compliance with Sir Kobert's last

directions, to Dublin, was there laid within

the ancient walls of St. Audoen's Church

 —

96 The Fortunes of Sir Rohert Ardagh.

—where I have read the epitaph, telhng

the age and titles of the departed dust.

Neither painted escutcheon, nor marble

slab, have served to rescue from oblivion
the story of the dead, whose very name
will ere long moulder from their tra-

cery

*
Et sunt sua fata sepulchris.'*

The events which I have recorded are

not imaginary. They are Facts ; and
there lives one whose authority none would

venture to question, who could vindicate

the accuracy of every statement which I

have set down, and that, too, with

* This prophecy has since been realised; for the

msle in which Sir Eobert's remains were laid has been

suffered to fall completely to decay ; and the tomb
which marked his grave, and other monuments more
€urious, form now one indistinguishable mass of rub-

bish.
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 97

all the circumstantiality of an eye-

*"
witness.

* This paper, from a memorandum, I find to have

been written in 1803. The ladj to whom allusion is

made, I believe to be ]\Iiss Mary F d. She never
married, and survived both her sisters, living to a very
advanced age.

VOL. I.
THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE
CONNOR.

a third Extract from the legacy of the late Francis

Fur cell, P. F. of Drumcoolagh.

HEKE is something in the decay

of ancient grandeur to interest
even the most unconcerned
spectator —the evidences of greatness, of

power, and of pride that survive the wreck

of time, proving, in mournful contrast with

present desolation and decay, what ivas in

other days, appeal^ with a resistless power,

to the sympathies of our nature. And

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 99

when, as we gaze on the scion of some

ruined family, the first impulse of nature
that bids us regard his fate with interest

and respect is justified by the recollection

of great exertions and self-devotion and

sacrifices in the cause of a lost country and

of a despised religion — sacrifices and

efforts made with all the motives of faith-

fulness and of honour, and terminating in

ruin — in such a case respect becomes vene-

ration, and the interest we feel amounts

almost to a passion.

It is this feeling which has thrown

the magic veil of romance over every

roofless castle and ruined turret through-

out our country ; it is this feeling that,

so long as a tower remains above

the level of the soil, so long as one scion

of a prostrate and impoverished family

survives, will never suffer Ireland
7—2
 —

100 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

to yield to the stranger more than the

*
mouth honour which '
fear compels.* I

who have conversed viva voce et propria

persona with those whose recollections

could run back so far as the times previous

to the confiscations which followed the

Ee volution of 1688 —whose memory could
repeople halls long roofless and desolate,

and point out the places where greatness

once had been, may feel all this more
strongly, and with a more vivid interest,

than can those whose sympathies are

awakened by the feebler influence of what

* This passage serves [mirahile diciu) to corroborate a

statement of Mr. O'Connell's, which occurs in his evi-

dence given before the House of Commons, wherein
he affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood
'
are democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.' See

digest of the evidence tcpon the state of Ireland, given he-

fore the House of Commons.

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 101

may be called the picturesque effects of

ruin and decay.

There do, indeed, still exist some frag-

ments of the ancient Catholic families of

Ireland ; but, alas ! what very fragments !

They linger like the remnants of her

aboriginal forests, reft indeed of their

strength and greatness, but proud even in

decay. Every winter thins their ranks,

and strews the ground with the wreck of

their loftiest branches ; they are at best
but tolerated in the land which gave them

birth — objects of curiosity, perhaps of

pity, to one class, but of veneration to

another.

The O'Connors, of Castle Connor, were

an ancient Irish family. The name recurs

frequently in our history, and is generally

to be found in a prominent place whenever

periods of tumult or of peril called fortk
102 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

the courage and the enterprise of this

country. After the accession of WilHam

III., the storm of confiscation which
swept over the land made woeful havoc
in their broad domains. Some fragments
of property, however, did remain to them,

and with it the building which had for

ages formed tPie family residence.

About the year 17 — , my uncle, a

Catholic priest, became acquainted with the

inmates of Castle Connor, and after a time

introduced me, then a lad of about fifteen,

full of spirits, and little dreaming that a

profession so grave as his should ever be-

come mine.
The family at that time consisted of but

two members, a widow lady and her only

son, a young man aged about eighteen. In
our early days the progress from acquaint-

ance to intimacy, and from intimacy to

 —

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 103

friendship is proverbially rapid ; and young

O'Connor and I became, in less than a
month, close and confidential companions
an intercourse which ripened gradually into
an attachment ardent, deep, and devoted
such as I believe young hearts only are
capable of forming.

He had been left early fatherless, and

the representative and heir of his family.

His mother's affection for him was intense

in proportion as there existed no other

object to divide it —indeed such love as

that she bore him I have never seen else-

where. Her love was better bestowed

than that of mothers generally is, for

young O'Connor, not without some of the

faults, had certainly many of the most en-

gaging qualities of youth. He had all the

frankness and gaiety which attract, and

the generosity of heart which confirms

 —

104 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

friendship ; indeed, I never saw a person

so universally popular ; his very faults

seemed to recommend him ; he was wild,

extravagant, thoughtless, and fearlessly

adventurous — defects of character which,

among the peasantry of Ireland, are

honoured as virtues. The combination of

these qualities, and the position which
O'Connor occupied as representative of an
ancient Irish Catholic family — a peculiarly
interesting one to me, one of the old faith

endeared him to me so much that I have

never felt the pangs of parting more keenly

than when it became necessary, for the

finishing of his education, that he should

go abroad.
Three years had passed away before I
saw him again. During the interval,

however, I had frequently heard from him,

so that absence had not abated the warmth
 —
The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 105

of our attachment. Who could tell of the

rejoicings that marked the evening of his

return ? The horses were removed from

the chaise at the distance of a mile from

the castle, while it and its contents were

borne rapidly onward almost by the pres-

sure of the multitude, like a log upon a
torrent. Bonfires blared far and near

bagpipes roared and fiddles squeaked ; and,

amid the thundering shouts of thou-

sands, the carriage drev/ up before the

castle.

In an instant young O'Connor was upon

the ground, crying, '
Thank you, boys
thank you, boys ;'
while a thousand hands

were stretched out from all sides to grasp

even a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of

*
God bless your honour — long may you
reign !'
and '
Make room there, boys ! clear

the road for the masther !'

he reached the
 •

106 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

threshold of the castle, where stood his

mother weeping for joy.

Oh who! could describe that embrace,

or the enthusiasm with which it was wit-

nessed ? ^
God bless him to you^ my lady —
glory to ye both !' and '
Oh, but he is a fine
young gentleman, God bless him !'
re-

sounded on all sides, while hats flew up in

volleys that darkened the moon ; and

when at length, amid the broad delighted
grins of the thronging domestics, whose
sense of decorum precluded any more
boisterous evidence of joy, they reached

the parlour, then giving way to the fulness

of her joy the wddowed mother kissed and

blessed him and wept in turn. Well

might any parent be proud to claim as son
the handsome stripling who now repre-

sented the Castle Connor family ; but to

her his beauty had a peculiar charm, for it
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 107

bore a striking resemblance to that of her

husband, the last O'Connor.

I know not whether partiality blinded

me, or that I did no more than justice to

my friend in believing that I had never
seen so handsome a young man. I am in-

clined to think the latter. He was rather

tall, very slightly and elegantly made ; his

face was oval, and his features decidedly

Spanish in cast and complexion, but with
far more vivacity of expression than gene-
rally belongs to the beauty of that nation.
The extreme delicacy of his features and
the varied animation of his countenance

made him appear even younger than his

years — an ilhision which the total absence

of everything studied in his manners

seemed to confirm. Time had wrought no
small change in me, alike in mind and
spirits ; but in the case of O'Connor it
108 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

seemed to have lost its power to alter.

His gaiety was undamped, his generosity

imchilled ; and though the space which

had intervened between our parting and
reunion was but brief, yet at the period of

life at which we were, even a shorter

interval than that of three years has

frequently served to form or (Reform a

character.

Weeks had passed away since the return

of O'Connor, and scarce a day had elapsed

without my seeing him, when the neigh-

bourhood was thrown into an unusual state

of excitement by the announcement of a

race-ball to be celebrated at the assembly-

room of the town of T •, distant scarcely

two miles from Castle Connor.

Young O'Connor, as I had expected,
determined at once to attend it ; and
having directed in vain all the powers of
 TTte Last Heir of Castle Connor. 109

his rhetoric to persuade his mother to

accompany him, he turned the whole
battery of his logic upon me, who, at that

time, felt a reluctance stronger than that

of mere apathy to mixing in any of these

scenes of noisy pleasure for which for

many reasons I felt myself unfitted. He

was so urgent and persevering, however,
that I could not refuse ; and I found my-
self reluctantly obliged to make up my
mind to attend him uj)on the important
night to the spacious but ill-finished build-

ing, which the fashion and beauty of the

county were pleased to term an assembly-
room.
When we entered the apartment, we
found a select few, surrounded by a crowd
of spectators, busily performing a minuet,

with all the congees and flourishes which

belonged to that courtly dance ; and my

110 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

companion, infected by the contagion of

example, was soon, as I had anticipated,

waving his cJiapeau hras, and gracefully
bowing before one of the prettiest girls in

the room. I had neither skill nor spirits to

qualify me to follow his example ; and as

the fulness of the room rendered it easy to

do so without its appearing singular, I

determined to be merely a spectator of

the scene which surrounded me, without

taking an active part in its amusements.

The room was indeed very much
crowded^ so that its various groups, formed

as design or accident had thrown the

parties together, afforded no small fund

of entertainment to the contemplative

observer. There were the dancers, all

gaiety and good-humour; a little further

off were the tables at which sat the card-

players, some plying their vocation wath
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. Ill

deep and silent anxiety — for in those days

gaming often ran very high in such places
— and others disputing with all the

vociferous pertinacity of undisguised ill-

temper. There, again, were the sallow,

blue-nosed, grey-eyed dealers in whispered

scandal ; and, in short, there is scarcely a

group or combination to be met with in

the court of kino-s which mio-ht not have

found a humble parallel in the assembly-

room of T .

I was allowed to indulge in undisturbed

contemplation, for I suppose I was not

known to more than ^yq or six in the

room. I thus had leisure not only to

observe the different classes into which the

company had divided itself, but to amuse

myself by speculating as to the rank and

character of many of the individual actors

in the drama.
112 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

Among many who have long since

passed from mj memory, one person for

some time engaged m}^ attention, and that
person, for many reasons, I shall not soon

forget. He was a tall, square-shouldered

man, who stood in a careless attitude,

leaning with his back to the wall ; he

seemed to have secluded himself from the
busy multitudes which moved noisily and
gaily around him, and nobody seemed to

observe or to converse with him. He was

fashionably dressed, but perhaps rather
extravagantly ; his face was full and
heavy, expressive of sullenness and
stupidity, and marked with the lines of

strong vulgarity ; his age might be some-

where between forty and fifty. Such as I

have endeavoured to describe him, he re-

mained motionless, his arms doggedly

folded across his broad chest, and turning
 ,

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 113

his sullen eyes from corner to corner of

the room, as if eager to detect some object

on which to vent his ill-humour.

It is strange, and yet it is true, that one
sometimes finds even in the most common-
place countenance an undefinable some-
thing, which fascinates the attention, and
forces it to recur again and again, while it

is impossible to tell whether the peculiarity

w^hich thus attracts us lies in feature or

in expression, or in both combined, and

why it is that our observation should be

engrossed by an object which, when

analysed, seems to possess no claim to

interest or even to notice. This unac-

countable feeling T have often experienced,

and I believe I am not singular, but never

in so remarkable a degree as upon this

occasion. My friend O'Connor, having

disposed of his fair partner, w^as crossing

VOL. I. 8
114 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

the room for the purpose of joinins^ me, in

doin^ Avhich I was surprised to see him

exchange a famiUar, ahiiost a cordial,

greeting with the object of mj curiosity.

I say I was surprised, for independent of

his very questionable appearance, it struck

me as strange that though so constantly

associated with O'Connor, and, as I

thought, personally acquainted with all

his intimates, I had never before even

seen this individul; I did not fail imme-
diately to ask him who this gentleman
was. I thought he seemed slightly em-
barrassed, but after a moment's pause he

laughingly said that his friend over the

way was too mysterious a personage to

have his name announced in so giddy a

scene as the present ; but that on the
morrow he would furnish me with all the

information which I could desire. There

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 115

was, I thought, in his affected jocularity a

real awkwardness which appeared to me

unaccountable, and consequently increased

my curiosity ; its gratification, however, I

was obliged to defer. At length, wearied

with witnessing amusements in which I

could not sympathise, I left the room, and

did not see O'Connor until late in the next

day.

I had ridden down towards the castle

for the purpose of visiting the O'Connors,

and had nearly reached the avenue leading

to the mansion, w^hen I met my friend.

He was also mounted ; and having an-

swered my inquiries respecting his mother,

he easily persuaded me to accompany him

in his ramble. We had chatted as usual

for some time, when, after a pause,

O'Connor said :

'
By the w^ay, Purcell, you expressed
8—2
 :

116 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

some curiosity respecting the tall, hand-^

some fellow to whom I spoke last

night.*

'
I certainly did question you about a
tall gentleman, but was not aware of his

claims to beauty/ replied I.

^
Well, that is as it may be,' said he ;

*
the ladies think him handsome, and their

opinion upon that score is more valuable

than yours or mine. Do you know,' he
continued, '
I sometimes feel half sorry

that I ever made the fellow's acquaintance

he is quite a marked man here, and they

tell stories of him that are anything but

reputable, though I am sure without

foundation. I think I know enough about
him to warrant me in saying so.'

* May I ask his name ?' inquired I.

*
Oh ! did not I tell you his name V
rejoined he. ' You should have heard
 Tlie Last Heir of Castle Connor. 117

|i:hat first ; he and his name are equally

well known. You will recognise the

individual at once when I tell you that

his name is — Fitzgerald.'
'Fitzgerald!' I repeated. 'Fitzgerald!

—can it be Fitzg^erald the duellist V

'
Upon my word you have hit it/ replied

he, laughing ;
'
but you have accompanied

the discovery w^th a look of horror more

tragic than appropriate. He is not the

monster you take him for — he has a good

deal of old Irish pride ; his temper is

hasty, and he has been unfortunately

thrown in the w^ay of men who have not

made allowance for these things. I am

convinced that in every case in which

Fitzgerald has fought, if the truth could

be discovered, he would be found to have

acted throughout upon the defensive. No
man is mad enough to risk his own life,
118 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

except when the doing so is an alternative

to submitting tamely to what he considers
an insult. I am certain that no man ever

engaged in a duel under the consciousness

that he had acted an intentionally aggres-

sive part.'
'
When did you make his acquaintance V
said I.

'
About two years ago,' he replied. ^ I

met him in France, and you know when

one is abroad it is an ungracious task
to reject the advances of one's country-

man, otherwise I think I should have

avoided his society — less upon my own
account than because I am sure the

acquaintance would be a source of con-

tinual though groundless uneasiness to
my mother. I know, therefore, that you
will not unnecessarily mention its exist-

ence to her.'
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 119

I gave him the desired assurance, and

added :

*
May I ask you. O'Connor, if, indeed, it

be a fair question, whether this Fitzgerald

at any time attempted to engage you in

anything hke gaming V
This question was suggested by my
having frequently heard Fitzgerald men-
tioned as a noted gambler, and sometimes

even as a blackleg. O'Connor seemed, I

thought, slightly embarrassed. He an-

swered :

'
No, no —I cannot say that he ever

attempted anything of the kind. I

certainly have played with him, but never

lost to any serious amount ; nor can I

recollect that he ever solicited me — indeed

he knows that I have a strong objection to
deep play. You must be aware that my
finances could not bear much pruning
 120 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

down. I never lost more to him at a

sitting than about five pounds, which you

know is nothing. No, you wrong him if

you imagine that he attached himself to

me merely for the sake of such contemptible

winnings as those which a broken-down
Irish gentleman could afford him. Come,
Purcell, you are too hard upon him —you
judge only by report ;
you must see

him, and decide for yourself. — Suppose we

call upon him now ; he is at the inn, in the

High Street, not a mile off.'

I declined the proposal drily.

*
Your caution is too easily alarmed,'

said he. ^ I do not wish you to make this

man your bosom friend : I merely desire

that you should see and speak to him, and

if you form any acquaintance with him, it

must be of that slight nature which can

be dropped or continued at pleasure.'
 ;

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 121

From the time that O'Connor had

announced the fact that his friend was no
other than the notorious Fitzgerald, a

forebodinof of somethino: calamitous had

come upon me, and it now occurred to me
that if any unpleasantness were to be

feared as likely to result to O'Connor from

their connection, I might find my attempts

to extricate him much facilitated by my
being acquainted, however slightly, with
Fitzgerald. I know not whether the idea

was reasonable — it was certainly natural

and I told O'Connor that upon second

thoughts I would ride down with him to
the town, and wait upon Mr. Fitzgerald.

We found him at home, and chatted

with him for a considerable time. To my
vsurprise his manners were perfectly those
of a gentleman, and his conversation, if

not peculiarly engaging, was certainly

122 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

amusing. The politeness of his demean-

our, and the easy fluency with which he
told his stories and his anecdotes, many of

them curious, and all more or less enter-

taining, accounted to my mind at once for

the facility with which he had improved

his acquaintance with O'Connor ; and

when he pressed upon us an invitation to

sup with him that night, I had almost

joined O'Connor in accepting it. I deter-

mined, however, against doing so, for I

had no w^ish to be on terms of familiarity

with Mr. Fitzo-erald : and I knew that

one evening s|)ent together as he proposed

would go further towards establishing an
intimacy between us than fifty morning
visits could do. When I arose to depart,

it was with feelings almost favourable to

Fitzgerald ; indeed I was more than half

ashamed to acknowledge to my companion

 Tlie Last Hdr of Castle Connor. 123

how complete a revolution in my opinion

respecting his friend half an hour's con-

versation with him had wrought. His

appearance certainly teas against him ; but
then, under the influence of his manner,

one lost siofht of much of its uno-ainliness,

and of nearly all its vulgarity ; and, on

the whole, I felt convinced that report

had done him grievous wrong, inasmuch

as anybody, by an observance of the

common courtesies of society, might easily

avoid coming into personal collision with

a gentleman so studiously polite as Fitz-

gerald. At parting, O'Connor requested

me to call upon him the next day, as he
intended to make trial of the merits of a

pair of greyhounds, which he had thoughts

of purchasing ; adding, that if he could
escape in anything like tolerable time
from Fitzgerald's supper- party, he would
124 The Lad Heir of Castle Connor.

take the field soon after ten on the next

morning. At the appointed hour, or

perhaps a little later, I dismounted at

Castle Connor; and, on entering the hall,

I observed a gentleman issuing from

O'Connor's private room. I recognised

him, as he approached, as a Mr.

M'Donough, and, being but slightly

acquainted with him, was about to pass

him with a bow, when he stopped me.

There was something in his manner which
struck me as odd ; he seemed a good
deal flurried, if not agitated, and said, in a
hurried tone :

'This is a very foolish business, Mr.

Purcell. You have some influence with

my friend O'Connor ; I hope you can in-

duce him to adopt some more moderate

line of conduct than that he has decided
upon. If you will allow me, I will return
 Tlie Last Heir of Castle Connor. 125

for a moment with you, and talk over the

matter again with O'Connor.'

As M'Donough uttered these words, I

felt that sudden sinking of the heart which

accompanies the immediate anticipation of

something dreaded and dreadful. I was
instantly convinced that O'Connor had
quarrelled with Fitzgerald, and I knew
that if such were the case, nothing short
of a miracle could extricate him from the
consequences. I signed to M'Donough to

lead the way, and we entered the little

study together. O'Connor was standing

with his back to the fire ; on the table lay
the breakfast-things in the disorder in

which a hurried meal had left them ; and

on another smaller table, placed near the

hearth, lay pen, ink, and paper. As soon

as O'Connor saw me, he came forward and

shook me cordially by the hand.
126 Tlie Last Heir of Castle Connor.

'
My dear Parcell,' said he, '
you are the
very man I wanted. I have got into an
ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to

^et me out of it.'

'You have had no dispute with that

man — that Fitzgerald, I hope,' said T,

giving utterance to the conjecture whose

truth I most dreaded.

'
Faith, I cannot say exactly what
passed between us,' said he, ,*, inasmuch
as I was at the .time ^nearly half seas

over ; but of this much I am certain, that

we exchanged angry words last night. T

lost my temper most confoundedly ; but,

as well as I can recollect, he appeared per-

fectly cool and collected. What he said

was, therefore, deliberately said, and on

that account must be resented.'
*
My dear O'Connor, are you mad V I

exclaimed. ^ Why will you seek to drive

 Tlte Last Heir of Castle Connor. 127

to a deadly issue a few hasty words,

uttered under the influence of wine, and

fororotten almost as soon as uttered ? A

quarrel with Fitzgerald it is twenty
chances to one would terminate fatally

to you.'

'
It is exactly because Fitzgerald is such
an accomplished shot,' said he, '
that I

become liable to the most injurious and

intolerable suspicions if I submit to any-

thing from him which could be construed

into an affront ; and for that reason Fitz-

gerald is the very last man to whom I

would concede an inch in a case of

honour.'
^
I do not require you to make any, the
slightest sacrifice of what you term your
honour,' I replied ;
^
but if you have
actually written a challenge to Fitzgerald,

as I suspect you have done, I conjure you

128 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

to reconsider the matter before you

despatch it. From all that I have heard

you say, Fitzgerald has more to complain

of in the altercation which has taken place

than you. You owe it to your only sur-

viving parent not to thrust yourself thus

wantonly upon —I will say it, the most

appalling danger. Nobody, my dear

O'Connor, can have a doubt of your

courage ; and if at any time, which God
forbid, you shall be called upon thus to

risk your life, you should have it in your

power to enter the field under the con-
sciousness that you have acted throughout
temperately and like a man, and not, as I

fear you now would do, having rashly and

most causelessly endangered your own life

and that of your friend.'

*
I believe, Purcell, your are right,' said

he. *
I believe I have viewed the matter
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 129

in too decided a light ; my note, I think,

scarcely allows him an honourable alterna-

tive, and that is certainly going a step

too far — further than I intended. Mr.

M'Donough, I'll thank you to hand me
the note.'

He broke the seal, and, casting his eye

hastily over it, he continued :

'It is, indeed, a monument of folly. I

am very glad, Purcell, you happened to

come in, otherwise it would have reached

its destination by this time.'

He threw it into the fire ; and, after a

moment's pause, resumed :

*
You must not mistake me, however.

I am perfectly satisfied as to the propriety,

nay, the necessity, of communicating with

Fitzgerald. The difficulty is in what tone

I should address him. I cannot say that

the man directly affronted me — I cannot

VOL. I. 9
 :

130 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

recollect any one expression which I could

lay hold upon as offensive — but his

language was ambiguous, and admitted

frequently of the most insulting construc-

tion, and his manner throughout was in-

supportably domineering, I know^ it im-

pressed me with the idea that he presumed

upon his reputation as a dead shot, and

that would be utterly unendurable.'
'
I would now recommend, as I have
already done/ said M'Donough, ^ that if

you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in

such a strain as to leave him at perfect

liberty, without a compromise of honour,
in a friendly way, to satisfy your doubts as
to his conduct.'

I seconded the proposal warmly, and

O'Connor, in a few minutes, finished a
note, which he desired us to read. It was
to chis effect
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 131

'
O'Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling

that some expressions employed by Mr.

Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a

construction offensive to him, and injurious

to his character, requests to know whether

Mr. Fitzgerald intended to convey such a
meaning.
*
Castle Connor, Thursday morning.'

This note was consigned to the care of

Mr. M'Donough, who forthwith departed
to execute his mission. The sound of his

horse's hoofs, as he rode rapidly away,

struck heavily at my heart ; but I found

some satisfaction in the reflection that

M'Donough appeared as averse from ex-

treme measures as I was myself, for I

well knew, with respect to the final result

of the affair, that as much depended upon

the tone adopted by the second^ as upon
9—2
132 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

the nature of the written communica-

tion.

I have seldom passed a more anxious

hour than that which intervened between
the departure and the return of that gen-

tleman. Every instant I imagined I heard

the tramp of a horse approaching, and

every time that a door opened I fancied

it was to give entrance to the eagerly ex-

pected courier. At length I did hear the

hollow and rapid tread of a horse's hoof

upon the avenue. It approached — it

stopped —a hurried step traversed the

hall — the room door opened, and M'Do-

nougli entered.
'
You have made great haste/ said

O'Connor ;
^
did you find him at home V
^
1 did/ replied M'Donough, *
and made
the greater haste as Fitzgerald did not let

me know the contents of his reply.'

 :

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 133

At the same time he handed a note to

O'Connor, who instantly broke the seal.

The words were as follow

*
Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything
which has fallen from him should have
appeared to Mr. O'Connor to be intended
to convey a reflection upon his honour
(none such having been meant), and begs

leave to disavow any wish to quarrel un-

necessarily with Mr. O'Connor.

'
T Inn, Thursday morning.'

I cannot describe how much I felt re-

lieved on reading the above communica-

tion. I took O'Connor's hand and pressed

it warmly, but my emotions were deeper
and stronger than I cared to show, for I

was convinced that he had escaped a most

imminent danger. Nobody whose notions

upon the subject are derived from the

134 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

duelling of modern times, in which matters

are conducted without any very sanguinary

determination upon either side, and with

equal want of skill and coolness by both
parties, can form a just estimate of the

danger incurred by one who ventured to

encounter a duellist of the old school.

Perfect coolness in the field, and a steadi-

ness and accuracy (which to the unprac-

tised appeared almost miraculous) in the

use of the pistol, formed the characteristics

of this class ; and in addition to this there

generally existed a kind of professional

pride, which prompted the duellist, in

default of any more malignant feeling,

from motives of mere vanity, to seek the

life of his antagonist. Fitzgerald's career

had been a remarkably successful one, and

I knew that out of thirteen duels which

he had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 135

had hilled his man. In those days one

never heard of the parties leaving the field,

as not unfrequently now occurs, without

blood having been spilt ; and the odds

were, of course, in all cases tremen-

dously against a young and unpractised

man, when matched with an experienced
antagonist. My impression respecting the

magnitude of the danger which my friend

had incurred was therefore by no means

unwarranted.
I now Cjuestioned O'Connor more ac-

curately respecting the circumstances of

his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose

from some dispute respecting the applica-

tion of a rule of piquet, at which game
they had been playing, each interpreting
it favourably to himself, and O'Connor,
having lost considerably, was in no mood
to conduct an argument with temper — an
136 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

altercation ensued, and that of rather a

pungent nature, and the result was that
he left Fitzgerald's room rather abruptly,

determined to demand an explanation in

the most peremptory tone. For this pur-

pose he had sent for M'Donough, and had

commissioned him to deliver the note,

which my arrival had fortunately inter-

cepted.

As it was now past noon, O'Connor

made me promise to remain with him to

dinner ; and we sat down a party of three,

all in high spirits at the termination of

our anxieties. It is necessary to mention,

for the purpose of accounting for what

follows, that Mrs. O'Connor, or, as she was

more euphoniously styled, the lady of

Castle Connor, was precluded by ill-health

from taking her place at the dinner-table,

and, indeed, seldom left her room before
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 137

four o'clock.'"' We were sitting: after

dinner sipping our claret, and talking,

and laughing, and enjoying ourselves ex-

ceedingly, when a servant, stepping into

the room, informed his master that a

gentleman w^anted to speak with him.

'
Request him, with my compliments, to

walk in,' said O'Connor; and in a few

moments a gentleman entered the room.

His appearance was anything but pre-

possessing. He was a little above the

middle size, spare, and raw-boned ; his

face very red, his features sharp and bluish,

and his age might be about sixty. His

attire savoured a good deal of the shabby-
genteel ; his clothes, which had much of
tarnished and faded pretension about

* It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that

at the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner

occurred very nearly at noon.
13fi The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

them, did not fit liim, and had not

improbably fluttered in the stalls of

Plunket Street. We had risen on his

entrance, and O'Connor had twice requested

of him to take a chair at the table, without

his hearing, or at least noticing, the

invitation ; while with a slow pace, and

with an air of mingled importance and
effrontery, he advanced into the centre of
the apartment, and regarding our small

party with a supercilious air, he said :

'
I take the liberty of introducing

myself — I am Captain M'Creagh, formerly

of the — infantry. My business here is

with a Mr. O'Connor, and the sooner it is

despatched the better.'

^
I am the gentleman you name,' said

O'Connor ;
'
and as you appear impatient,
we had better proceed to your commission

without delay.'
 ;

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 139

'
Then, Mr. O'Connor, you ^vill please

to read that note/ said the captain, placing

a sealed paper in liis hand.

O'Connor read it through, and then

observed :

*
This is very extraordinary indeed.

This note appears to me perfectly unac-

countable.'

'You are very young, Mr. O'Connor,'

said the captain, with vulgar familiarity ;

'but, without much experience in these

matters, I think you might have antici-

pated something like this. You know

the old saying, ''
Second thoughts are

best;' and so they are like to prove, by

G-r
'
You will have no objection. Captain
M'Creagh, on the part of your friend, to

my reading this note to these gentlemen

they are both confidential friends of mine.

140 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

iind one of them has already acted for me

in this business.'

'I can have no objection,' repHed the

captain, '
to your doing what you please
with your own. I have nothing more to

do with that note once I put it safe into

jour hand ; and when that is once done, it

is all one to me, if you read it to half the

world — that's your concern, and no affair

of mine.'
O'Connor then read the following :

^
Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that

upon re-perusing Mr. O'Connor's com-

munication of this morning carefully, with

an experienced friend, he is forced to

consider himself as challenged. His

friend. Captain M'Creagh, has been em-
powered b}^ him to make all the necessary

arrangements.
'
T Inn, Thursday.'
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor, 141

I can hardly describe the astonishment

with which I heard this note. I turned to
the captain, and said :

'
Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all

this V
^
Not the slightest, I'll assure you, sir,'

said he, coolly ;

^
the case is a very clear

one, and I think my friend has pretty well

made up his mind upon it. May I

request your answer ?' he continued, turn-

ing to O'Connor ;
'
time is precious, you
know.'

O'Connor expressed his willingness to

comply with the suggestion, and in a few

minutes had folded and directed the follow-
ing rejoinder :

*
Mr. O'Connor having received a

satisfactory explanation from Mr. Fitz-

gerald, of the language used by that gentle-

man, feels that there no longer exists
142 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

any grounds for misunderstanding, and

wishes further to state, that the note of

which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks Avas not in-

tended as a challenge.'

With this note the captain departed ; and

as we did not doubt that the message which

he had delivered had been suggested by

some unintentional, misconstruction of

O'Connor's first hillet, we felt assured that

the conclusion of his last note would set

the matter at rest. In this belief, however,

we were mistaken ; before we had left the

table, and in an incredibly short time, the

oaptain returned. He entered the room

with a countenance evidently tasked to

avoid expressing the satisfaction which a
consciousness of the nature of his mission

had conferred ; but in spite of all his efforts

to look gravely unconcerned, there was a

twinkle in the small grey eye, and an
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 143

almost imperceptible motion in the corner

of the mouth, which sufficiently betrayed

his internal glee, as he placed a note in

the hand of O'Connor. As the young

man cast his eye over it, he coloured

deeply, and turning to M'Donough, he

said :

'
You will have the goodness to make
all the necessary arrangements for a meet-

inof. Somethino^ has occurred to render

one between me and Mr. Fitzo-erald

inevitable. Understand me literally, when

I say that it is now totally impossible that

this affair should be amicabl}^ arranged.

You will have the goodness, M'Donough,

to let me know as soon as all the particulars

are arranged. Purcell/ he continued,

*
will you have the kindness to accompany
me T and having bowed to M'Creagh, we
left the room.
144 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

As I closed the door after me, I heard

the captain laugh, and thought I could

distinguish the words

— ' By I knew
Fitzgerald would bring him to his way of

thinking before he stopped.'

I followed O'Connor into his study, and

on entering, the door being closed, he
showed me the communication which had
determined him upon hostilities. Its

language was grossly impertinent, and it

concluded by actually threatening to 'post'

him, in case he further attempted '
to be

off.' I cannot describe the agony of indig-

nation in which O'Connor writhed under

this insult. He said repeatedly that '

he
was a degraded and dishonoured man,'
that ^
he was dragged into the field,' that
*
there was ignominy in the very thought

that such a letter should have been directed

to him.' It was in vain that I reasoned

 —

The Last Heir of Castle Connor, 145

against this impression ; the conviction

that he had been disgraced had taken pos-

session of his mind. He said again and

aofain that nothing' but his death could

remove the stain which his indecision had

cast upon the name of his family. I

hurried to the hall, on hearing M'Donough

and the captain passing, and reached the
door just in time to hear the latter say, as
he mounted his horse :

'
All the rest can be arranged on the
spot; and so farewell, Mr. M'Donough
we'll meet at Philippi, you know ;' and
with this classical allusion, which was
accompanied with a grin and a bow, and
probably served many such occasions, the

captain took his departure.

M'Donough briefly stated the few

particulars which had been arranged. The
parties were to meet at the stand-house,

VOL. I. 10
146 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

in the race-ground, which, lay at about an

equal distance between Castle Connor and

the town of T . The hour appointed

was half-past five on the next morning,

at which time the twilight would be suffi-

ciently advanced to afford a distinct view ;

and the weapons to be employed were

pistols — M'Creagh having claimed, on the
part of his friend, all the advantages of the

challenged party, and having, consequently,

insisted upon the choice of ^

toolsy as he

expressed himself; and it v/as further

stipulated that the utmost secrecy should

be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur

great risk from the violence of the

peasantry, in case the affair took wind.

These conditions were, of course, agreed
upon by O'Connor, and M^Donough left

the castle, having appointed four o'clock

upon the next morning as the hour of his

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 147

return, by which time it would be his

business to provide everything necessary

for the meeting. On his departure,

O'Connor requested me to remain with

him upon that evening, saying that ^
he
could not bear to be alone with his

mother.' It was to me a most painful

request, but at the same time one which I

could not think of refusing. I felt, how-

ever, that the difficulty at least of the

task which I had to perform would be in

some measure mitigated by the arrival

of two relations of O'Connor upon that

evenino'.

*
It is very fortunate,' said O'Connor,
whose thoughts had been running upon
the same subject, Hhat the O'Gradys will

be with us to-night ; their gaiety and

good-humour will relieve us from a heavy
task. I trust that nothing may occur to

10—2
 —

148 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

prevent their coming.' Fervently concur-

ring in the same wish, I accompanied
O'Connor into the parlour, there to await

the arrival of his mother.

God grant that I may never spend such

another evening ! The O'Gradys did come,

but their high and noisy spirits, so far from
relieving me, did but give additional gloom
to the despondency, I might say the de-
spair, which filled my heart with misery

the terrible forebodings which I could not

for an instant silence, turned their laughter

into discord, and seemed to mock the smiles

and jests of the unconscious party. When
I turned my eyes upon the mother, I

thought I never had seen her look so

proudly and so lovingly upon her son

before — it cut me to the heart — oh, how

cruelly I was deceiving her ! I was a
hundred times on the very j)oint of start-
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 149

ing up, and, at all hazards, declaring to

her how matters were ; but other feelings

subdued my better emotions. Oh, what
monsters are we made of by the fashions of
the world ! how are our kindlier and nobler

feelings warped or destroyed by their bale-

ful influences ! I felt that it would not be

honourahle, that it would not be etiquette,

to betray O'Connor's secret. I sacrificed a

higher and a nobler duty than I have since

been called upon to perform, to the das-

tardly fear of bearing the unmerited censure

of a world from which I was about to.

retire. Fashion ! thou gaudy idol,

whose feet are red with the blood of human

sacrifice, would I had always felt towards

thee as 1 now do !

O'Connor was not dejected ; on the con-

trary, he joined with loud and lively

alacrity in the hilarity of the little party :

150 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

but I could see in the flush of his cheek,

and in the unusual brightness of his eye,

all the excitement of fever —he was making

an effort almost beyond his strength, but
he succeeded — and when his mother rose
to leave the room, it was with the impres-
sion that her son Avas the gayest and most
light-hearted of the company. Twice or
thrice she had risen with the intention of
retiring, but O'Connor, with an eagerness
which I alone could understand, had per-
suaded her to remain until the usual hour
of her departure had long passed ; and
when at length she arose, declaring that

she could not possibly stay longer, I alone

could comprehend the desolate change

which passed over his manner ; and when
I saw them part, it was with the sickening
conviction that those two beings, so dear
 —

Tlic. Last Heir of Castle Connor. 151

to one another, so loved, so cherished,

should meet no more.

O'Connor briefly informed his cousins of

the position in which he was placed, re-

questing them at the same time to accom-

pany him to the field, and this having
been settled, we separated, each to his own
apartment. I had wished to sit up with
O'Connor, who had matters to arrange

sufficient to employ him until the hour

ajDpointed for M'Donough's visit ; but he

would not hear of it, and I was forced,

though sorely against my will, to leave him

without a companion. I went to my room,
and, in a state of excitement which I can-

not describe. I paced for hours up and

down its narrow precincts. I could not

who could ? — analyse the strange, contra-

dictory, torturing feelings which, while I

recoiled in shrinking: horror from the scene

152 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

which the morning was to bring, yet forced

me to wish the intervening time annihi-

lated ; each hour that the clock told seemed

to vibrate and tinkle through every nerve ;

my agitation was dreadful ; fancy con-

jured up the forms of those who filled my

thouofhts with more than the vividness of
reality; things seemed to glide through

the dusky shadows of the room. I saw

the dreaded form of Fitzgerald —I heard

the hated laugh of the captain — and again

the features of O'Connor would appear
before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale

and writhed in death, the gouts of gore

clotted in the mouth, and the eye-balls

glared and staring. Scared with the

visions which seemed to throng with un-

ceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw

open the window and looked out upon the
quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 153

the direction of the town ; a heavy cloud

was lowering darkly about it, and I, in

impious frenzy, jDrayed to God that it

might burst in avenging fires upon the

rjiurderous wretch who lay beneath. At
length, sick and giddy with excess of ex-

citement, I threw myself upon the bed

without removing my clothes, and endea-
voured to compose myself so far as to

remain quiet until the hour for our assem-

bling should arrive.

A few minutes before four o'clock I stole

noiselessly downstairs, and made my way
to the small study already mentioned. A
candle was burning within ; and, when I

opened the door, O'Connor was reading a

book, which, on seeing me, he hastily
closed, colouring slightly as he did so.

We exchanged a cordial but mournful

greeting ; and after a slight pause he said,

154 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

laying his hand upon the volume which he

had shut a moment before :

^
Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I
cannot say that I have much hope as to

the issue of this morning's rencounter. I

shall avoid half the danger. If I must

fall, I am determined I shall not go down
to the grave with his blood upon my
hands. I have resolved not to fire at Fitz-

gerald — that is, to fire in such a direction

as to assure myself against hitting him.

Do not say a word of this to the O'Gradys.

Your doing so would only produce fruitless

altercation ; they could not understand my

motives. I feel convinced that I shall not

leave the field alive. If I must die to-

day, I shall avoid an awful aggravation of

wretchedness. Purcell,' he continued, after

a little space, '
I was so weak as to feel

almost ashamed of the manner in which I

 —

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 155

was occupied as you entered the room.

Yes, / I who will be, before this evening,

a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to

have spent my last moment of reflection in

prayer. God pardon me ! God pardon

me !'
he repeated.
I took his hand and pressed it, but I
could not speak. I sought for words of
comfort, but they would not come. To
have uttered one cheering sentence I must
have contradicted every impression of my
own mind. I felt too much awed to at-

tempt it. Shortly afterwards, ^M'Donough

arrived. Xo wretched patient ever under-

went a more thrilling revulsion at the first

sio-ht of the case of suroical instruments

under which he had to suffer, than did I

upon beholding a certain oblong flat ma-

hogany box, bound with brass, and of
about two feet in length, laid upon the
156 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

table in the hall. O'Connor, thanking him

for his punctuality, requested him to come
into his study for a moment, when, with a
melancholy collectedness, he proceeded to
make arrangements for our witnessing his
will. The document was a brief one, and
the whole matter was just arranged, when
the two O'Gradys crept softly into the

room.
'
So ! last will and testament,' said the
elder. ^
Why, you have a very blue notion

of these matters. 1 tell you, you need not

be uneasy. I remember very well, when
young Ryan of Ballykealey met M'Neil
the duellist, bets ran twenty to one against

him. I stole away from school, and had a

peep at the fun as well as the best of them.
They fired together. Kyan received the

ball through the collar of his coat, and

M'Neil in the temple ; he spun like a top :
 t

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 157

it was a most unexpected thing, and dis-

appointed his friends damnably. It was

admitted, however, to have been very
pretty ^shooting upon both sides. To be
sure/ he continued, pointing to the will,

*
you are in the right to keep upon the
safe side of fortune ; but then, there is no
occasion to be altogether so devilish down
in the mouth as you appear to be.'

'You will allow,' said O'Connor, ^that

the chances are heavily against me.'

*
Why, let me see,' he replied, '
not so

hollow a thing either. Let me see, we'll say

about four to one against you ;

you may
chance to throw doublets like him I told
you of, and then what becomes of the odds
I'd like to know ? But let thinors ^o as
they will, I'll give and take four to one,

in pounds and tens of pounds. There,

M'Donousch, there's a rjet for you ; b —

 ;

158 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

me, if it is not. Poll ! the fellow is stolen

away/ he continued, observing that the ob-

ject of his proposal had left the room
*
but d it, Purcell, you are fond of a soft
thing, too, in a quiet way — I'm sure you are
— so curse me if I do not make you the

same offer — is it a go V
I was too much disgusted to make any
reply, but I believe my looks expressed

my feelings sufficiently, for in a moment he

said :

'
Well, I see there is nothing to be done,
so we may as well be stirring. M'D enough,
my self, and my brother will saddle the horses

in a jiffy, while you and Purcell settle any-

thing which remains to be arranged.'

So saying, he left the room with as much

alacrity as if it were to prepare for a fox-

hunt. Selfish, heartless fool ! I have

often since heard him spoken of as a cursed
 ;

Tlie Last Heir of Castle Connor. 159

good-natured dog and a d good fellow

but such eulogies as these are not calcu-

lated to mitigate the abhorrence with

which his conduct upon that morning in-

spired me.

The chill mists of night were still hover-

ing on the landscape as our party left the

castle. It was a raw, comfortless mornino-

— a kind of drizzling fog hung heavily over
the scene, dimming the hght of the sun,

which had now risen, into a pale and even

a grey glimmer. As the appointed hour

was fast approaching, it was proposed that

we should enter the race-ground at a point

close to the stand-house — a measure which

would save us a ride of nearly two miles,

over a broken road ; at which distance

there was an open entrance into the race-

ground. Here, accordingly, we dismounted,

and leavino' our horses in the care of a
 ;

160 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

country fellow who happened to be stirring

at that early hour, we proceeded up a nar-

row lane, over a side wall of which we were

to climb into the open ground where stood
the now deserted building, under which the

meeting was to take place. Our progress

was intercepted by the unexpected appear-
ance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet

cloak which is the picturesque characteristic

of the female peasantry of the south, was

moving slowly down the avenue to meet us,

uttering that peculiarly wild and piteous

lamentation well known by the name of
^ the Irish cry,' accompanied throughout
by all the customary gesticulation of pas-

sionate grief. This rencounter was more

awkward than we had at first anticipated

for, upon a nearer approach, the person

proved to be no other than an old attached
dependent of the family, and who had her-
 The. Last Heir of Castle Connor. 161

self nursed O'Connor. She quickened her

pace as we advanced almost to a run ; and,

throwing her arms round O'Connor's neck,

she poured forth such a torrent of lament-

ation, reproach, and endearment, as showed

that she was aware of the nature of our

purpose, whence and by what means I

knew not. It was in vain that he sought

to satisfy her by evasion, and gently to
extricate himself from her embrace. She
knelt upon the ground, and clasped her

arms round his leo^s, utterins" all the while

such touching supplications, such cutting

and passionate expressions of woe, as went
to my very heart.
At length, with much difficulty, we
passed this most painful interruption ;

and, crossing the boundary wall, were

placed beyond her reach. The O'Gradys
damned her for a troublesome hag, and

VOL. I. 11
 ;

1(32 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

passed on with O'Connor, but I remained

behind for a moment. The poor woman

looked hopelessly at the high wall which
separated her from him she had loved
from infancy, and to be with whom at

that minute she would have given worlds

she took her seat upon a solitary stone

under the opposite wall, and there, in a

low, subdued key, she continued to utter

her sorrow in words so desolate, yet ex-

pressing such a tenderness of devotion as

wrung my heart.
'My poor woman,' I said, laying my
hand gently upon her shoulder, '
you will

make yourself ill ; the morning is very cold,

and your cloak is but a thin defence
against the damp and chill. Pray return
home and take this ; it may be useful to
you.'

So saying, I dropped a purse, with what

 2

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 163

money I had about me, into her lap, but

it lay there unheeded ; she did not hear

me.
'
Oh my
! child, my child, my darhn','

she sobbed, *
are you gone from me ? are

you gone from me 1 Ah, mavourneen,

mavourneen, you'll never come back alive

to me again. The crathurthat slept on my

bosom — the lovin' crathur that I was so

proud of—they'll kill him, they'll kill him.

Oh, voh ! voh !'

The affecting tone, the feeUng, the aban-

donment with which all this was uttered,

none can conceive who have not heard the
lamentations of the Irish peasantry. It

brought tears to my eyes. I saw that no

consolation of mine could soothe her grief,

so I turned and departed ; but as I rapidly

traversed the level sward which separated

me from my companions, now considerably

li—
164 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

in advance, I could still hear the waillngs

of the solitary mourner.

As we approached the stand-house, it

was evident that our antagonists had

already arrived. Our path lay by the side

of a high fence constructed of loose stones,

and on turning a sharp angle at its extre-

mity, we found ourselves close to the ap-

pointed spot, and within a few yards of a

crowd of persons, some mounted and some

on foot, evidently awaiting our arrival.

The affair had unaccountably taken wind,

as the number of the expectants clearly

showed ; but for this there was now no

remedy.

As our little party advanced we were

met and saluted by several acquaintances,

whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, had

brought to the place. Fitzgerald and the

Captain had arrived, and having dismounted,

 The Last Heir of Caatle Connor. 165

were standing upon the sod. The former,

as we approached, bowed sHghtly and sul-

lenly — while the latter, evidently in high

good humour, made his most courteous

obeisance. Xo time was to be lost ; and
the two seconds immediately withdrew to

a slight distance, for the purpose of com-

pleting the last minute arrangements. It

was a brief but horrible interval — each

returned to his principal to communicate

the result, which was soon caught up and

repeated from mouth to mouth throughout

the crowd. I felt a strange and insur-
mountable reluctance to hear the sickening
particulars detailed ; and as I stood irreso-

lute at some distance from the principal

parties, a top-booted squireen, with a hunt-

ing whip in his hand, bustling up to a
companion of his, exclaimed :

'Not fire together! — did you ever hear

 a;

166 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

the like ? If Fitzgerald gets the first shot

all is over. M'Donough sold the pass,

by
%J
,
y
and that is the long^
CD
and the short
of it.'

The parties now moved down a little to

a small level space, suited to the purpose

and the captain, addressing M'Donough,
said:

'
Mr. M^Donough, you'll now have the

goodness to toss for choice of ground ; as

the light comes from the east the line must

of course run north and south. Will you

be so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece,
while I call V

A coin was instantly chucked into the

air. The captain cried, '
Harp.' The
head was uppermost, and M'D enough im-

mediately made choice of the southern

point at which to jDlace his friend —

position which it will be easily seen had
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 167

the advantage of turning his back upon

the Hght —no trifling superiority of loca-

tion. The captain turned with a kind of

lauofh, and said :

*
By , sir, you are as cunning as a

dead pig ; but you forgot one thing. My

friend is a left-handed gunner, though
never a bit the worse for that ; so you
see there is no odds as far as the choice of
light goes.'

He then proceeded to measure nine paces

in a direction running north and south, and
the principals took their ground.
*
I must be troublesome to you once
again, Mr. M'Donough. One toss more,
and everything is complete. We must
settle who is to have the first slap,'

A piece of money was again thrown

into the air ; again the captain lost the toss

and M'Donough proceeded to load the

 :

168 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

pistols. I happened to stand near Fitz-

gerald, and I overheard the captain, with
a chuckle, say something to him in which
the word ^
cravat ' was repeated. It in-

stantly occurred to me that the captain's

attention was directed to a bright-coloured

muffler which O'Connor wore round his

neck, and which would afford his antago-

nist a distinct and favourable mark. I

instantly urged him to remove it, and at

length, with difficulty, succeeded. He
seemed perfectly careless as to any pre-

caution. Everything was now ready ; the

pistol was placed in O'Connor's hand, and

he only awaited the word from the cap-
tain.

M'Creagh then said

*
Mr. M^Donough, is your principal

ready?'

M'Donough replied in the affirmative ;

 Ttte Last Heir of Castle Connor. 169

and, after a slight pause, the captain, as

had been arranged, uttered the words :

'
Ready — fire.'

O'Connor fired, but so wide of the mark

that some one in the crowd exclaimed :

*
Fired in the air.'

'
Who says he fired in the air V thun-

dered Fitzgerald. '

By he lies, who-
ever he is.' There was a silence. '
But
even if he was fool enouo'h
o to fire in the

air, it is not in Ids power to put an end to

the quarrel by that. D my soul, if I

am come here to be played with like a

child, and by the Almighty 3'ou shall

hear more of this, each and everyone of

you, before I'm satisfied.'

A kind of low murmur, or rather groan,

was now raised, and a sliofht motion was
observable in the crowd, as if to inter-

cept Fitzgerald's passage to his horse.

170 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

M'Creagh, drawing the horse close to the

spot where Fitzgerald stood, threatened,

with the most awful imprecations, ^

to

blow the brains out of the first man who

should dare to press on them.'
O'Connor now interfered, requesting the

crowd to forbear, and some degree of order

was restored. He then said, Hhat in

firing as lie did, he had no intention what-

ever of waiving his right of firing upon

Fitzgerald, and of depriving that gentle-

man of his right of prosecuting the affair

to the utmost — that if any person present

imagined that he intended to fire in the

air, he begged to set him right; since,

so far from seeking to extort an unwilling

reconciliation, he was determined that no

power on earth should induce him to

concede one inch of ground to Mr. Fitz-

gerald.'
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 171

This announcement was received with a

shout by the crowd, who now resumed

their places at either side of the plot of

ground which had been measured. The

principals took their places once more, and
M'Creagh proceeded, with the nicest and
most anxious care, to load the pistols ; and
this task being accomplished, Fitzgerald

whispered something in the Captain s ear,

who instantly drew his friend's horse so as

to place him within a step of his rider,

and then tightened the girths. This

accomplished, Fitzgerald proceeded de-

liberately to remove his coat, which he

threw across his horse in front of the
saddle ; and then, with the assistance of
M'Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up to
the shoulder, so as to leave the whole of
his muscular arm perfectly naked. A
cry of '
Coward, coward ! butcher.
172 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

butcher 1'
arose from the crowd. Fitzgerald

paused.

'Do you object, Mr. M'Donough'? and

upon what grounds, if you please V said he.

'
Certainly he does not,' replied

O'Connor; and, turning to M'Donough,

he added, '
pray let there be no unne-

cessary delay.'
'
There is no objection, then,' said

Fitzgerald.

'I object,' said the younger of the

O'Gradys, '
if nobody else will.'

*
And who the devil are you, that dares

to object V shouted Fitzgerald ; *and what

d —d presumption prompts you to dare to
wag your tongue here V
'
I am Mr. O'Grady, of Castle Blake/

replied the young man, now much

enraged ;
'
and by ,
you shall answer
for your language to me.'
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 173

'
Shall I, by ? Shall I V cried he,

with a lauoii of brutal scorn :

'
the more

the merrier, d —n the doubt of it — so now

hold your tongue, for I promise you you
shall have business enough of your own to
think about, and that before long.'

There was an appalling ferocity in histone

and manner which no words could convey.
He seemed transformed ; he was actually
like a man possessed. Was it possible, I

thought, that I beheld the courteous

gentleman, the gay, good-humoured re-

tailer of amusing anecdote with whom,
scarce two days ago, I had laughed and
chatted, in the blasphemous and mur-
derous ruffian who glared and stormed
before me !

O'Connor interposed, and requested

that time should not be unnecessarily lost.

'
You have not got a second coat on V
174 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

inquired the Captain. '

I beg pardon,
but my duty to my friend requires that I

should ascertain the point.'

O'Connor replied in the negative. The

Captain expressed himself as satisfied,

adding, in what he meant to be a compli-

mentary strain, '
that he knew Mr.
O'Connor would scorn to employ padding
or any unfair mode of protection.'

There was now a breathless silence.

O'Connor stood perfectly motionless ; and,

excepting the death-like paleness of his

features, he exhibited no sign of agitation.

His eye was steady — his lip did not
tremble — his attitude was calm. The
Captain, having re-examined the priming

of the pistols, placed one of them in the

hand of Fitzgerald. —M'D enough inquired

whether the parties were prepared, and
having been answered in the affirmative,
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 175

he proceeded to give the word, '

Ready.'
Fitzgerald raised his hand, but almost

instantly lowered it agfain. The crowd had

pressed too much for\Yard as it appeared,
and his eye had been unsteadied by the

flapping of the skirt of a frieze riding-coat

worn by one of the spectators.

*
In the name of my principal/ said the

Captain, *
I must and do insist upon these
gentlemen moving back a little. We ask

but little ; fair play, and no favour.'

The crowd moved as requested.

M^Donough repeated his former question,

and was answered as before. There was a

breathless silence. Fitzgerald fixed his
eye upon O'Connor. The appointed
signal, '
Ready, fire !'
was given. There
was a pause while one might slowly reckon
three — Fitzgerald fired — and O'Connor
fell helplessly upon the ground.
176 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

'There is no time to be lost,' said

M'Creagli ;
'
for, by ,
you have done
for him/
So saying, he threw himself upon his

horse, and was instantly followed at a

hard gallop by Fitzgerald.

'
Cold-blooded murder, if ever murder

was committed,' said O'Grady. ^

He shall

hang for it ; d — n me, but he shall.'

A hopeless attempt w^as made to over-

take the fugitives ; but they were better

mounted than any of their pursuers, and

escaped with ease. Curses and actual* yells

of execration followed their course ; and as,

in crossing the brow of a neighbouring

hill, they turned round in the saddle to

observe if they were pursued, every

gesture which could express fury and

defiance was exhausted by the enraged and

defeated multitude.
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 177

'
Clear the way, boys,' said young
O'Grady, who with me was kneeling

beside O'Connor, while we supported him

in our arms ;
'
do not press so close, and
be d —d ; can't you let the fresh air to

him ; don't you see he's dying V

On opening his waistcoat we easily

detected the wound : it was a little below

the chest — a small blue mark, from which

oozed a single heavy drop of blood.

'
He is bleeding but little — that is a com-

fort at ?ill events/ said one of the gentle-

men who surrounded the wounded man.

Another suggested the expediency of
his being removed homeward with as

little delay as possible, and recommended,

for this purpose, that a door should be

removed from its hinges, and the patient,

laid upon this, should be conveyed fro in

the field. Upon this rude bier my poor

VOL. I. 12
178 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

friend was carried from that fatal ground

towards Castle Connor. I walked close

by his side, and observed every motion of

his. He seldom opened his eyes, and was
perfectly still, excepting a nervous working

of the fingers, and a slight, almost

imperceptible twitching of the features,

which took place, however, only at inter-

vals. The first word he uttered was
spoken as we approached the entrance of
the castle itself, when he said; repeatedly,

'
The back way, the back way.' He feared

lest his mother should meet him abruptly

and without preparation ; but although

this fear was groundless, since she never

left her room until late in the day, yet it

was thought advisable, and, indeed, neces-

sary, to caution all the servants most

strongly against breathing a hint to their

mistress of the events which had befallen.

 ;

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 179

Two or three gentlemen had ridden

from the field one after another, promising

that they should overtake our party before

it reached the castle, bringing with them

medical aid from one quarter or another

and we determined that Mrs. O'Connor
should not know anything of the occur-

rence until the opinion of some professional

man should have determined the extent of

the injury which her son had sustained
—a course of conduct which would at
least have the effect of relieving her from
the horrors of suspense. When O'Connor
found himself in his own room, and laid
upon his own bed, he appeared much
revived — so much so, that I could not help

admitting a strong hope that all might yet

be well.

'After all, Purcell/ said he, with a

melancholy smile, and speaking with
12—2
 —

180 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

evident difficulty, '

I believe I have got off

with a trifling wound. I am sure it can-

not be fatal, I feel so little pain —almost

none.'

I cautioned him against fatiguing him-

self by endeavouring to speak ; and he

remained quiet for a little time. At
length he said :

'
Purcell, I trust this lesson shall not

have been given in vain. God has been

very merciful to me ; I feel — I have an
internal confidence that I am not wounded

mortally. Had I been fatally wounded

had I been killed upon the spot^ only think

on it '
—and he closed his eyes as if the

very thought made him dizzy — ' struck

down into the grave, unprepared as I am,

in the very blossom of my sins, without a

moment of repentance or of reflection ; I

must have been lost — lost for ever and ever.'

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 181

I prevailed upon him, with some

difficulty, to abstain from such agitating

reflections, and at length induced him to

court such repose as his condition admitted

of, by remaining perfectly silent, and as

much as possible without motion.

O'Connor and I only were in the room ;

he had lain for some time in tolerable

quiet, when I thought I distinguished the
bustle attendant upon the arrival of some
one at tlie castle, and went eagerly to the

window, believing, or at least hoping, that

the sounds might announce the approach

of the medical man, ^Yhom we all longed

most impatiently to see.

My conjecture was right ; I had the

satisfaction of seeing^ him dismount and
prepare to enter the castle, when my
observations were interrupted, and my
attention was attracted by a smothered.
182 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

gurgling sound proceeding from the bed in

which lay the wounded man. I instantly

turned round, and in doing so the spectacle

which met my eyes was sufficiently

shocking.

I had left O'Connor lying in the bed,

supported by pillows, perfectly calm, and

with his eyes closed : he was now lying

nearly in the same position, his eyes open

and almost starting from their sockets,

with every feature pale and distorted as

death, and vomiting blood in quantities

that were frightful. I rushed to the door

and called for assistance ; the paroxysm,

though violent, was brief, and O'Connor

sank into a swoon so deep and death-like,
that I feared he should waken no more.
The surgeon, a little, fussy man, but I

believe with some skill to justify his

pretensions, now entered the room, carry-

 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 133

ing his case of instruments, and followed

by servants bearing basins and water and

bandages of linen. He relieved our
doubts by instantl}^ assuring us that ^
the

patient ' was still living ; and at the same

time professed his determination to take
advantasfe of the muscular relaxation

which the faint had induced to examine

the wound — adding that a patient was
more easily '
handled ' when in a swoon
than under other circumstances.
After examining the wound in front

where the ball had entered, he passed his

hand round beneath the shoulder, and

after a little pause he shook his head,
observing that he feared very much that

one of the vertebrce was fatally injured,

but that he could not say decidedly until

his patient should revive a little. Though
his language was very technical^ and
184 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

consequently to me nearly unintelligible,

I could perceive plainly by his manner

that he considered the case as almost

hopeless.

O'Connor gradually gave some signs of

returning animation^ and at length was so

far restored as to be enabled to speak.

After some few general questions as to

how he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon,

placing his hand upon his leg and pressing

it slightly, asked him if he felt any pressure

upon the limb ? O'Connor answered in

the negative — he pressed harder, and re-

peated the question ; still the answer was

the same, till at length, by repeated ex-

periments, he ascertained that all that part

of the body which lay behind the wound

was paralysed, proving that the spine must
have received some fatal injury.

.
'
Well, doctor,' said O'Connor, after the
 —

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 185

examination of the wound was over; 'well,

I shall do, shan't I V

The physician was silent for a moment,

and then, as if with an effort, he replied :

*
Indeed, my dear sir, it would not be
honest to flatter you with much hope.'

'
Eh V said O'Connor with more alacrity

than I had seen him exhibit since the

morning ;
'
surely I did not hear you
aright ; I spoke of my recovery — surely
there is no doubt ; there can be none

speak frankly, doctor, for God's sake — am

I dying ?'

The surgeon was evidently no stoic, and

his manner had extinguished in me every

hope, even before he had uttered a word

in repty.

*
You are —you are indeed dying. There
is no hope ; I should but deceive you if I

held out any.'

186 The Last Heir of Castle Connor,

As the surgeon uttered these terrible

words, the hands which O'Connor had

stretched towards him while awaiting his

reply fell powerless by his side ; his head

sank, forward ; it seemed as if horror and

despair had unstrung every nerve and

sinew ; he appeared to collapse and shrink
together as a plant might under the in-

fluence of a withering spell.

It has often been my fate, since then, to

visit the chambers of death and of suffer-

ing ; I have witnessed fearful agonies of

body and of soul the mysterious shudder-

;

ings of the departing spirit, and the heart-

rending desolation of the survivors ; the

severing of the tenderest ties, the piteous

yearnings of unavailing love —of all these

things the sad duties of my profession have

made me a witness. But, generally speak-
ing, I have observed in such scenes some-
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 187

thing to mitigate, if not the sorrows, at

least the terrors, of death ; the dying man
seldom seems to feel the reality of his

situation; a dull consciousness of approach-

ing dissolution, a dim anticipation of un-

consciousness and insensibility, are the

feelings which most nearly border upon an

appreciation of his state ; the film of death

seems to have overspread the mind's eye,

objects lose their distinctness, and float

cloudily before it, and the apathy and

apparent indiflerence with which men re-

cognise the sure advances of immediate

death, rob that awful hour of much of its

terrors, and the death-bed of its otherwise

inevitable agonies.

This is a merciful dispensation ; but the

rule has its exceptions — its terrible excep-

tions. When a man is brought in an

instant, by some sudden accident, to the
 —

188 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

very verge of the fathomless 23it of death,

with all his recollections awake, and his

perceptions keenly and vividly alive, with-

out previous illness to subdue the tone of

the mind as to dull its apprehensions
then, and then only, the death-bed is truly

terrible.

Oh, what a contrast did O'Connor afford

as he lay in all the abject helplessness of

undisguised terror upon his death-bed, to

the proud composure with which he had

taken the field that morning. I had

always before thought of death as of a
quiet sleep stealing gradually upon ex-

hausted nature, made welcome by suffer-

ing, or, at least, softened by resignation ;

I had never before stood by the side of

one upon whom the hand of death had

been thus suddenly laid ; I had never seen
the tyrant arrayed in his terror till then.
 Ihe Last Heir of Castle Connor, 189

Never before or since have I seen horror

so intensely depicted. It seemed actually

as if O'Connor's mind had been unsettled
by the shock ; the few words he uttered

were marked with all the incoherence of

distraction ; but it was not words that

marked his despair most strongly, the

appalling and heart-sickening groans

that came from the terror-stricken and

dying man must haunt me while I

live; the expression, too, of hopeless,

imploring agony with which he turned

his eyes from object to object, I can
never forget. At length, appearing
suddenly to recollect himself, he said, with
startling alertness, but in a voice so

altered that I scarce could recognise the

tones :

'Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poor

mother ; she must know all, and then,
 190 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bring

him here; I must have a chance.' He

made a violent but fruitless effort to rise,

and after a slight pause continued, with

deep and urgent solemnity :
'
Doctor, how
long shall I live ? Don't flatter me.
Compliments at a death-bed are out of
place ; doctor, for God's sake, as you would
not have my soul perish with my body, do
not mock a dying man have; I an hour to
live r
^
Certainly,' replied the surgeon ;
^
if you
will but endeavour to keep yourself tran-
quil ; otherwise I cannot answer for a

moment.'
'
Well, doctor/ said the patient, '
I will

obey you ; now, Purcell, my first and

dearest friend, will you inform my poor
mother of — of what you see, and return
with your uncle ; I know you will.'
 :

The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 191

I took the dear fellow's hand and kissed

it, it was the only answer I could give,

and left the room. I asked the first

female servant I chanced to meet, if her

mistress were yet up, and was answered in

the affirmative. Without giving myself

time to hesitate, I requested her to lead
me to her lady's room, which she accord-
ingly did ; she entered first, I supposed to

announce my name, and I followed closely;

the poor mother said something, and held

out her hands to welcome me ; I strove

for words ; I could not speak, but nature

found expression ; I threw myself at her

feet and covered her hands with kisses and
tears. My manner was enough ; with a
quickness almost preternatural she under-

stood it all ; she simply said the words

'
O'Connor is killed / she uttered no
more.
192 The Last Heir of Castle Co nnor.

How I left the room I know not ; T

rode madly to my uncle's residence, and

brought him back with me — all the rest

is a blank. I remember standing by

O'Connor's bedside, and kissing the cold
pallid forehead again and again ; I remem-
ber the pale serenity of the beautiful

features ; I remember that I looked upon

the dead face of my friend, and I remem-
ber no more.

For many months I lay writhing and

raving in the frenzy of brain fever ; a
hundred times I stood tottering at the
brink of death, and long after my restora-

tion to bodily health was assured, it ap-

peared doubtful whether I should ever be

restored to reason. But God dealt very

mercifully with me ; His mighty hand

rescued me from death and from madness
when one or other appeared inevitable.
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 193

As soon as I was permitted pen and ink,

I wrote to the bereaved mother in a tone
bordering upon frenzy. I accused myself
of having made her childless ; I called

myself a murderer ; I believed myself

accursed ; I could nob find terms strong

enough to express my abhorrence of my

own conduct. But, oh ! what an answer I

received, so mild, so sweet, from the deso-

late, childless mother ! its words spoke all

that is beautiful in Christianity — it was

forgiveness — it was resignation. I am
convinced that to that letter, operating as

it did upon a mind already predisposed, is

owing my final determination to devote

myself to that profession in which, for

more than half a century, I have been a
humble minister.

Years roll away, and we count them not

as they pass, but their influence is not the

VOL. I. 13
194 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

less certain that it is silent ; the deepest

wounds are gradually healed, the keenest

griefs are mitigated, and we, in character,

feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become such

altered beings, that but for some few in-

delible marks which past events must

leave behind them, which time may
soften, but can never efface ; our very

identity would be dubious. Who has not

felt all this at one time or other'? Who

has not mournfully felt it '? This trite, but

natural train of reflection filled my mind as

I approached the domain of Castle Connor

some ten years after the occurrence of the

events above narrated. Everything looked

the same as when I had left it ; the old

trees stood as graceful and as grand as

ever ; no plough had violated the soft

fifreen sward : no utilitarian hand had con-

strained the wanderings of the clear and
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 195

sportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-

covered rocks throuofh which it grushed, or

the wild coppice that over-shadowed its

sequestered nooks — but the eye that

looked upon these things was altered, and

memory was busy with other days,

shrouding in sadness every beauty that

met my sight.

As I approached the castle my emotions

became so acutely painful that I had

almost returned the wav I came, without

accomplishing the purpose for which I had

gone thus far ; and nothing but the convic-
tion that my having been in the neigh-
bourhood of Castle Connor without visit-

ing its desolate mistress would render me

justly liable to the severest censure, could

overcome my reluctance to encountering

the heavy task which was before me. I

recognised the old servant who opened the

1 3—2
196 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

door, but he did not know me. I was

completely changed ; suffering of body and
mind had altered me in feature and in

bearing, as much as in character. I asked

the man whether his mistress ever saw^

visitors. He answered :

' But seldom ;

perhaps, however, if she

knew that an old friend wished to see her

for a few minutes, she would gratify him

so far.'

At the same time I placed my card in

his hand, and requested him to deliver it

to his mistress. He returned in a few

moments, saying that his lady would be

happy to see me in the parlour, and I
accordingly followed him to the door, which

he opened. I entered the room, and w^as

in a moment at the side of my early friend

and benefactress. I was too much agitated

to speak ; I could only hold the hands
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 197

which she gave me, while, spite of every

effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.

*
It was kind, very, very kind of you to

come to see me,' she said, with far more

composure than I could have commanded ;

*
I see it is very painful to you.'
I endeavoured to compose myself, and
for a little time we remained silent ; she

was the first to speak :

'
You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell,
when you observe the calmness with
which I can speak of him who was dearest

to me, who is gone ; but my thoughts are

always with him, and the recollections of
his love '
—her voice faltered a little
— ' and
the hope of meeting him hereafter enables

me to bear existence/

I said I know not what : somethinof

about resignation, I believe.

*
I hope I am resigned ; God made me
 I

198 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

more so/ she said. '

Oh, Mr. Purcell, I
have often thought I loved my lost child

too well. It was natural —he was my only

child —he was '
She could not proceed
for a few moments :
'
It was very natural
that I should love him as I did; but it

may have been sinful ; I have often thought

so. I doated upcm him — I idolised him —
thought too little of other holier affections ;

and God may have taken him from me^

only to teach me, by this severe lesson,

that I owed to heaven a larofer share of

my heart than' to anything earthly. I

cannot think of him now without more

solemn feelings than if he were with me.
There is something holy in our thoughts
of the dead ; I feel it so.' After a pause,
she continued — * Mr. Purcell, do you re-

member his features well ? they were very

beautiful.' I assured her that I did.
 The Last Heir of Castle Connor, 199

' Then you can tell me if you think this a

faithful likeness.' She took from a drawer

a case in which lay a miniature. I took it

reverently from her hands ; it was indeed

very like —touchingly like. I told her so ;

and she seemed gratified.

As the evenino' was wearino^ fast, and I

had far to go, I hastened to terminate my

visit, as I had intended, by placing in her

hand a letter from her son to me, written

during his sojourn upon the Continent. I

requested her to keep it ; it was one in

which he spoke much of her, and in terms

of the tenderest affection. As she read its

contents the heavy tears gathered in her

eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page ;

she wiped them away, but they still

flowed fast and silently. It was in vain

that she tried to read it ; her eyes were

filled with tears : so she folded the letter,

200 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.

and placed it in her bosom. I rose to de-

part, and she also rose.

'
I will not ask you to delay your
departure/ said she ;
^
your visit here

must have been a painful one to you. I

cannot find words to thank you for the

letter as I would wish, or for all your kind-
ness. It has given me a pleasure greater

than I thought could have fallen to the lot

of a creature so very desolate as I am ;

may God bless you for it !'

And thus we
parted ; I never saw Castle Connor or its

solitary inmate more.

 THE DEUNKARDS DREAM.
Being a Fourth Extract from the Legacy of late F.
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

'
All this he told with some confusion and
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams
Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand
To expound their vain and visionary gleams,
I've known some odd ones which seemed really planned

Prophetically, as that which one deems

" A strange coincidence," to use a phrase
Ey which such things are settled nowadays.'
Byron.

KEAMS ! What age, or what

country of the world, has not

felt and acknowledged the mys-

tery of their origin and end 'i I have
202 The Drunkard's Dream.

thought not a little upon the subject,

seeing it is one which has been often

forced upon my attention, and sometimes
strangely enough ; and yet I have never
arrived at anything which at all appeared
a satisfactory conclusion. It does appear

that a mental phenomenon so extraordinary

cannot be wholly without its use. We

know, indeed, that in the olden times it

has been made the organ of communication

between the Deity and His creatures ; and
when, as I have seen, a dream produces
upon a mind, to all appearance hopelessly

reprobate and depraved, an effect so power-

ful and so lasting as to break down the

inveterate habits, and to reform the life

of an abandoned sinner, we see in the

result, in the reformation of morals which

appeared incorrigible, in the reclamation of

a human soul which seemed to be irre-
 The Drunhard! s Dream. 203

trievably lost, something more than could

be produced by a mere chimera of the
slumbering fancy, something more than
could arise from the capricious images of a

terrified imagination ; but once presented,

we behold in all these things, and in their

tremendous and mysterious results, the

operation of the hand of God. And

while Keason rejects as absurd the super-

stition which will read a prophecy in every

dream, she may, without violence to her-
self, recognise, even in the wildest and
most incongruous of the wanderings of a
slumbering intellect, the evidences and the

fragments of a language which may be

spoken, which has been spoken, to terrify,

to warn, and to command. We have

reason to believe too, by the promptness

of action which in the age of the prophets

followed all intimations of this kind, and
204 The DrunkarcV s Di^eam.

by the strength of conviction and strange

permanence of the effects resulting from

certain dreams in latter times, which effects

we ourselves may have witnessed, that

when this medium of communication has

been employed by the Deity, the evidences

of His presence have been unequivocal.
My thoughts were directed to this subject,
in a manner to leave a lasting impression

upon my mind, by the events which I

shall now relate, the statement of which,

however extraordinary, is nevertheless

accurately correct.

About the year 17 — , having been

appointed to the living of C h, I

rented a small house in the town, which

bears the same name : one morning in the

month of November, I was awakened
before my usual time by my servant, who
bustled into my bedroom for the purpose
 The DrunharcVs Dream. 205

of announcing a sick call. As the Catho-

lic Church holds her last rites to be totally

indispensable to the safety of the departing

sinner, no conscientious clergyman can

afford a moment's unnecessary delay, and
in little more than five minutes I stood
read}' cloaked and booted for the road, in

the small front parlour, in which the

messenger, who was to act as my guide,

aw^aited my coming. I found a poor

little girl crying piteously near the door,

and after some slight difficulty I ascer-

tained that her father w^as either dead or

just dying.
*
And what may be your father's name,
my poor child ?' said I. She held down
her head, as if ashamed. I repeated the

question, and the wretched little creature

burst into floods of tears still more bitter

than she had shed before. At lenofth.

 I

206 The Drunkard's Dream.

almost provoked by conduct which ap-

peared to me so um^easonable, I began to

lose patience, spite of the pity which I

could not help feeling towards her, and I

said rather harshly :

*
If you will not tell me the name of the

person to whom you would lead me, your

silence can arise from no good motive, and

I
I might be justified in refusing to go with
you at all.'

*
Oh, don't say that — don't say that !'

cried she. ^
Oh, sir, it was that I was
afeard of when I would not tell you —
was afeard, when you heard his name, you
would not come with me ; but it is no use
hidin' it now — it's Pat Connell, the car-

penter, your honour.'

She looked in my face with the most

earnest anxiety, as if her very existence

depended upon what she should read there ;

 ;

Tlie DrunkarcVs Dream. 207

but I relieved her at once. The name,

indeed, was most unpleasantly familiar to

me ; but, however fruitless my visits and

advice might have been at another time,

the present was too fearful an occasion to

suffer my doubts of their utility or my

reluctance to re-attempting what appeared
a hopeless task to weigh even against the
lightest chance that a consciousness of

his imminent danger might produce in him

a more docile and tractable disposition.

Accordingly I told the child to lead the

way, and followed her in silence. She

hurried rapidly through the long narrow

street which forms the ^reat thorouoiifare

of the town. The darkness of the hour,

rendered still deeper by the close approach

of the old-fashioned houses, which lowered

in tall obscurity on either side of the way

the damp, dreary chill which renders the
208 The Drunkard's Dream.

advance of morning peculiarly cheerless,

combined with the object of my walk, to

visit the death-bed of a presumptuous

sinner, to endeavour, almost against my
own conviction, to infuse a hope into the

heart of a dying reprobate —a drunkard

but too probably perishing under the con-
sequences of some mad fit of intoxication ;

all these circumstances united served to

enhance the gloom and solemnity of my

feelings, as I silently followed my little

guide, who with quick steps traversed the

uneven pavement of the main street.

After a walk of about five minutes she

turned off into a narrow lane, of that

obscure and comfortless class which is

to be found in almost all small old-

fashioned towns, chill, without ventilation,

reekino- with all manner of offensive

effluvise, and lined by dingy, smoky, sickly

 The Drunkard's Dream. 209

and pent-up buildings, frequently not only

in a wretched but in a dangerous condition.

'Your father has changed his abode

since I last visited him, and, I am afraid,

much for the worse,' said I.

'
Indeed he has, sir ; but we must not

complain,' replied she. '

We have to thank
God that we have lodo^inof and food,

though it's poor enough, it is, your

honour.'

Poor child I thought I, how many an

older head might learn wisdom from thee
—how many a luxurious philosopher, who
is skilled to preach but not to suffer,

might not thy patient words put to the

blush ! The manner and language of this

child were alike above her years and

station ; and, indeed, in all cases in which

the cares and sorrows of life have anticipated

their usual date, and have fallen, as they

VOL. I. 14
210 The Drunkard's Dream.

sometimes do, with melancholy prematurity

to the lot of childhood, I have observed

the result to have proved uniformly the

same. A young mind, to which joy and

indulgence have been strangers, and to
which suffering and self-denial have been

familiarised from the first, acquires a

solidity and an elevation which no other

discipline could have bestowed, and which,
in the present case, communicated a strik-

ing but mournful peculiarity to the man-

ners, even to the voice, of the child. We

paused before a narrow, crazy door, which
she opened by means of a latch, and we
forthwith began to ascend the steep and

broken stairs which led upwards to the

sick man's room.

As we mounted flight after flight to-

wards the garret-floor, I heard more and

more distinctly the hurried talking of many

 The DrunkarcVs Dream, 211

voices. I could also distinguish the low

sobbing of a female. On arriving upon

the uppermost lobby these sounds became

fully audible.

*
This way, your honour,' said my little

conductress ; at the same time, pushing

open a door of patched and half-rotten
plank, she admitted me into the squalid

chamber of death and misery. But one

candle, held in the fingers of a scared and
haofcyard-lookino^ child, was burninof in the

room, and that so dim that all was twi-

light or darkness except within its imme-
diate influence. The general obscurity,

however, served to throw into prominent

and startling relief the death-bed and its

occupant. The light was nearly approxi-

mated to, and fell with horrible clearness
upon, the blue and swollen features of the

drunkard. I did not think it possible that

14—2
212 The Drunkard's Dream.

a human countenance could look so terrific.

The lips were black and drawn apart ; the

teeth were firmly set ; the eyes a little un-
closed, and nothing but the whites appear-
ing. Every feature was fixed and livid, and
the whole face wore a ghastly and rigid

expression of despairing terror such as I

never saw equalled. His hands were crossed

upon his breast, and firmly clenched; while,
as if to add to the corpse-like efiect of the

whole, some white cloths, dipped in water,

were wound about the forehead and

temples.

As soon as I could remove my eyes from

this horrible spectacle, I observed my friend

Dr. D , one of the most humane of a

humane profession, standing by the bedside.

He had been attempting, but unsuccess-

fully, to bleed the patient, and had now
applied his finger to the pulse.
 The DrunTcarcVs Dream. 213

'
Is there any hope V I inquired in a

whisper.

A shake of the head was the reply.

There was a pause while he continued

to hold the wrist ; but he waited in vain

for the throb of life — it was not there and :

when he let go the hand, it fell stiffly back

into its former position upon the other.

'
The man is dead,' said the physician, as

he turned from the bed where the terrible

figure lay.

Dead ! thought I, scarcely venturing to

look upon the tremendous and revolting

spectacle. Dead 1 without an hour for re-

pentance, even a moment for reflection ;

dead ! without the rites which even the

best should have. Is there a hope for

him? The glaring eyeball, the grinning

mouth, the distorted brow — that unutter-

able look in which a painter would have

214 The Drunkard/s Dream.

sought to embody the fixed despair of the

nethermost hell. These were my answer.

The poor wife sat at a little distance,

crying as if her heart would break — the

younger children clustered round the bed,
looking with wondering curiosity upon the

form of death never seen before.

When the first tumult of uncontrollable

sorrow had passed away, availing myself
of the solemnity and impressiveness of the

scene, I desired the heart-stricken family

to accompany me in prayer, and all knelt

down while I solemnly and fervently re-

peated some of those prayers which ap-

peared most applicable to the occasion. I

employed myself thus in a manner which>

I trusted, was not unprofitable, at least to

the living, for about ten minutes; and

having accomplished my task, I was the
first to arise.
 —

The Drunkard's Dream, 215

I looked upon the poor, sobbing, help-

less creatures who knelt so humbly around
me, and my heart bled for them. With
a natural transition I turned my eyes from
them to the bed in which the body lay;
and, great God ! what was the revulsion,

the horror which I experienced on seeing

the corpse -like, terrific thing seated half

upright before me ; the white cloths which

had been wound about the head had now

partly slipped from their position, and
were hanging in grotesque festoons about
the face and shoulders, while the distorted

eyes leered from amid them

*
A. sight to dream of, not to tell.'

I stood actually riveted to the spot. The

figure nodded its head and lifted its arm,

I thought, with a menacing gesture. A

thousand confused and horrible thoughts
216 The Drunkard's Dream.

Sit once rushed upon my mind. I had

often read that the body of a presump-
tuous sinner, who, during life, had been
the wilHng creature of every satanic im-

pulse, after the human tenant had deserted

it, had been known to become the horrible

sport of demoniac possession.

I was roused from the stupefaction of

terror in which I stood, by the piercing
scream of the mother, who now, for the
first time, perceived the change which had
taken place. She rushed towards the bed,
but stunned by the shock, and overcome by
the conflict of violent emotions, before she

reached it she fell prostrate upon the

floor.

I am perfectly convinced that had I not

been startled from the torpidity of horror

in which I was bound by some powerful
and arousing stimulant, I should have
 The Drunkard's Dream. 217

gazed upon this unearthly apparition until

I had fairly lost my senses. As it was,

however, the spell was broken —superstition

gave way to reason : the man whom all

believed to have been actually dead was

living I

Dr. D was instantly standing by

the bedside, and upon examination he
found that a sudden and copious flow of
blood had taken place from the wound
which the lancet had left ; and this, no
doubt, had effected his sudden and almost

preternatural restoration to an existence

from which all thought he had been for ever
removed. The man was still speechless,

but he seemed to understand the physician

when he forbid his repeating the painful

and fruitless attempts which he made to

articulate, and he at once resigned himself
quietly into his hands.
218 The Drunhard's Dream.

I left the patient with leeches upon his

temples, and bleeding freely, apparently

with little of the drowsiness which accom-

panies apoplexy ; indeed, Dr. D told

me that he had never before witnessed a

seizure which seemed to combine the

symptoms of so many kinds, and yet

which belonged to none of the recognised
classes ; it certainly was not apoplexy,

catalepsy, nor delirium tremens, and yet it

seemed, in some degree, to partake of the

properties of all. It was strange, but
stranger things are coming.

During two or three days Dr. D

would not allow his patient to converse in

a manner which could excite or exhaust

him, with anyone ; he suffered him merely

as briefly as possible to express his imme-
diate wants. And it was not until the fourth
day after my early visit, the particulars of
 The Drunkard's Dream. 219

I
which I have just detailed, that it was thought
expedient that I should see him, and then

only because it appeared that his extreme

importunity and impatience to meet me
were likely to retard his recovery more than
the mere exhaustion attendant upon a short

conversation could possibly do ;

perhaps,

too, my friend entertained some hope that

if by holy confession his patient's bosom
were eased of the perilous stuff which no
doubt oppressed it, his recovery would be
more assured and rapid. It was then, as I

have said, upon the fourth day after my

first professional call, that I found myself

once more in the dreary chamber of want

and sickness.
The man was in bed, and appeared low
and restless. On my entering the room he

raised himself in the bed, and muttered,

twice or thrice :
 I;
:

220 The Drunkard's Dream.

'
Thank God ! thank God !'

I signed to those of his family who

stood by to leave the room, and took a

chair beside the bed. So soon as we were

alone, he said, rather doggedly :

'
There's no use in teUing me of the

sinfulness of bad ways — I know it all. I

know where they lead to — I seen every-

thing about it with my own eyesight, as

plain as I see you.' He rolled himself in

the bed, as if to hide his face in the

clothes; and then suddenly raising himself,
he exclaimed with startling vehemence
' Look, sir ! there is no use in mincing the
matter : I m blasted with the fires of hell

I have been in hell. What do you think

of that ? In hell — I'm lost for ever —
have not a chance. I am damned already
•
— damned — damned !'

The end of this sentence he actually

 ;

The DruiikarcTs Dream. 221

shouted. His vehemence was perfectly

terrific ; he threw himself back, and

laughed, and sobbed hysterically. I

poured some water into a tea-cup, and

gave it to him. After he had swallowed
it, I told him if he had anything to com-
municate, to do so as briefly as he could,

and in a manner as little agitating to him-

self as possible ; threatening at the same

time, though I had no intention of doing

so, to leave him at once, in case he again

gave way to such passionate excitement.

*
It's only foolishness,' he continued, 'for

me to try to thank you for coming to such

a villain as myself at all. It's no use for me
to wish good to you, or to bless you
for such as me has no blessings to

give.'

I told him that I had but done my duty,

and urged him to proceed to the matter
 —

222 The Drunkard's Dream,

which weighed upon his mind. He then

spoke nearly as follows :

'
I came in drunk on Friday night last,

and got to my bed here ; I don't remem-

ber how. Sometime in the night it seemed
to me I wakened, and feeling unasy in my-
self, I got up out of the bed. I wanted
the fresh air ; but I would not make a
noise to open the window, for fear I'd

waken the crathurs. It was very dark

and throublesome to find the door ; but

at last I did get it, and I groped my way

out, and went down as asy as T could. I

felt quite sober, and I counted the steps

one after another, as I was going down,

that I might not stumble at the bottom.
^
When I came to the first landing-place

— God be about us always — the ! floor of it

sunk under me, and I went down — down

down^ till the senses almost left me. I do
 ;

The DrunharcTs Dream, 223

not know how long 1 was falling, but it

seemed to me a great while. When I

came rightly to myself at last, I was

sitting near the top of a great table

and I could not see the end of it, if_it

had any, it was so far off. And there

was men beyond reckoning, sitting down

all along by it, at each side, as far as I

could see at all. I did not know at first

was it in the open air ; but there was a

close smothering feel in it that was not

natural. And there was a kind of light that

my eyesight never saw before, red and un-

steady ; and I did not see for a long time

where it was coming from, until I looked

straight up, and then I seen that it came

from great balls of blood- coloured fire that

were rollinor hio^h over head with a sort of

rushing, trembling sound, and I perceived

that they shone on the ribs of a great roof

224 The Drunkard's Dream,

of rock that was arched overhead instead

of the sky. When I seen this, scarce

knowing what I did, I got up, and I said,

*'
I have no right to be here ; I must go."
And the man that was sitting at my left

hand only smiled, and said, " Sit down

again; you can never leave this place." And
his voice was weaker than any child's voice

I ever heerd; and when he was done speak-

ing he smiled again.
'
Then I spoke out very loud and bold,
and I said, ''
In the name of God, let me
out of this bad place." And there was a
great man that I did not see before, sitting

at the end of the table that I was near and ;

he was taller than twelve men, and his face

was very proud and terrible to look at.

And he stood up and stretched out his hand

before him ; and when he stood up, all that

was there, great and small, bowed down

 T'he DrunkarcVs Dream. 225

with a sighing sound, and a dread came on

my heart, and he looked at me, and I

could not speak. I felt I was his own,

to do what he liked with, for I knew at

once who he was; and he said, "If you

promise to return, you may depart for a

season;" and the voice he spoke with was

terrible and mournful, and the echoes of it

went rollino' and swellino- down the endless

cave, and mixinc; with the tremblino- of the

fire overhead ; so that when he sat down
there was a sound after him, all through
the place, like the roaring of a furnace, and

I said, with all the strength I had, *'

I

promise to come back — in God's name let

me go !"

'
And with that I lost the sio-ht
o and
the hearing of all that was there, and
when my senses came to me again, I

was sittinof in the bed with the blood all

VOL. I. 15
226 The D^nrnkm-d's Dream.

over me, and you and the rest praying

around the room/
Here he paused and wiped away the
chill drops of horror which hung upon his

forehead.

I remained silent for some moments.

The vision which he had just described
struck my imagination not a little, for

this was . long before Yathek and the

'
Hall of Ebhs '
had dehghted the world ;

and the description which he gave had, as

I received it, all the attractions of novelty

beside the impressiveness which always

belongs to the narration of an eye-iuitness,

whether in the body or in the spirit, of the

scenes which he describes. There was

something, too, in the stern horror with

which the man related these things, and

in the incongruity of his description, with

the vulgarly received notions of the great

 —

The DrunJcar^d's Dream. 227

place of punishment, and of its presiding

spirit, which struck my mind with awe,

almost with fear. At length he said, with

an expression of horrible, imploring

earnestness, which I shall never forget

'
Well, sir, is there any hope ; is there any

chance at all ? or, is my soul pledged and

promised away for ever ? is it gone

out of my power ? must I go back to the

place V

In answering him, I had no easy task to

perform ; for however clear might be my
interna] conviction of the groundlessness

of his fears, and however strong my scepti-

cism respecting the reality of what he had

described, I nevertheless felt that his

impression to the contrary, and his humility

and terror resultinor from it, mis^ht be made

available as no mean engines in the work
of his conversion from profligacy, and of
15—2
228 The .Drunkard's Dream.

his restoration to decent habits, and to

rehgious feeling.

I therefore told him that he was to

regard his dream rather in the light of a

warning than in that of a prophecy ; that

our salvation depended not upon the word

or deed of a moment, but upon the habits

of a life ; that, in fine, if he at once dis-

carded his idle companions and evil habits,

and firmly adhered to a sober, industrious,

and religious course of life, the powers of

darkness might claim his soul in vain, for

that there were higher and firmer pledges

than human tongue could utter, which

promised salvation to him who should re-

pent and lead a new life.

I left him much comforted, and with a

promise to return upon the next day. I

did so, and found him much more cheerful

and without any remains of the dogged
 The DrunharcVs Dream. 229

sullenness which I suppose had arisen from

his despair. His promises of amendment
were o-iven in that tone of dehberate

earnestness, which belongs to deep and

solemn determination ; and it was with no
small dehght that I observed, after re-

peated visits, that his good resolutions, so

far from failino^, did but o^ather strenofth

by time ; and when I saw that man shake

off the idle and debauched companions,
whose society had for years formed alike
his amusement and his rum, and revive
his long discarded habits of industry and

sobriety, I said within myself, there is

something more in all this than the opera-

tion of an idle dream.

One day, sometime after his perfect

restoration to health, I was surprised on

ascending the stairs, for the purpose of

visiting this man, to find him busily

230 The DriinkarcVs Dream.

employed in nailing down some planks

upon the landing-place, through which, at

the commencement of his mysterious vision,

it seemed to him that he had sunk. I

perceived at once that he was strengthen-

ing the floor with a view to securing

himself against such a catastrophe, and

could scarcely forbear a smile as I bid

*
God bless his work.'

He perceived my thoughts, I suppose,

for he immediately said :

*
I can never pass over that floor with-

out trembling. I'd leave this house if I

could, but I can't find another lodging in

the town so cheap, and I'll not take a

better till I've paid off all my debts, please

God ; but I could not be asy in my mind

till I made it as safe as I could. You'll

hardly believe me, your honour, that while

I'm working, maybe a mile away, my heart
 The DrunkarcVs Dream, 231

is in a flutter the whole way back, with

the bare thoughts of the two httle steps I

have to walk upon this bit of a floor. So

it's no wonder, sir, I'd thry to make it

sound and firm with any idle timber I.

have.'

I applauded his resolution to pay off" his

debts, and the steadiness with which he

perused his plans of conscientious economy,

and passed on.

Many months elapsed, and still there

appeared no alteration in his resolutions of

amendment. He was a good workman,
and with his better habits he recovered his
former extensive and profitable employment.
Everything seemed to promise comfort and
respectability. I have little more to add,

and that shall be told quickly. T had one

eveninor met Pat Connell, as he returned

from his work, and as usual, after a mutual,

232 The Drunhard's Dream.

and on his side respectful salutation, I

spoke a few words of encouragement and

approval. I left him industrious, active,

healthy —when next I saw him, not three

days after, he was a corpse.

The circumstances which marked the
event of his death were somewhat strange
—I might say fearful. The unfortunate
man had accidentally met an early friend

just returned, after a long absence, and in

a moment of excitement, forgetting every-

thing in the warmth of his joy, he yielded

to his urgent invitation to accompany him

into, a public-house, which lay close by the

spot where the encounter had taken place.

Connell, however, previously to entering
the room, had announced his determination

to take nothing more than the strictest

temperance would warrant.

But oh ! who can describe the inveterate
 ;

The DrunkarcVs Dream. 233

tenacity with which a drunkard's habits

cHng to him through Ufe ? He may repent

— he may reform —he may look with

actual abhorrence upon his past profligacy

but amid all this reformation and com-

punction, who can tell the moment in

which the base and ruinous propensity may

not recur, triumphing over resolution,

remorse, shame, everything, and prostrat-

ing its victim once more in all that is de-

structive and revoltinof in that fatal vice ?

The wretched man left the place in a

state of utter intoxication. He was

brought home nearly insensible, and
placed in his bed, where he lay in the deep

calm letharg}^ of drunkenness. The

younger part of the family retired to rest

much after their usual hour ; but the poor

wife remained up sitting by the fire, too

much grieved and shocked at the occur-

234 The DninkarcTs Dream.

rence of what she had so httle expected,

to settle to rest ; fatigue, however, at

length overcame her, and she sank

gradually into an uneasy slumber. She
could not tell how long she had remained

in this state, when she awakened, and

immediately on opening her eyes, she

perceived by the faint red light of the

smouldering turf embers, two persons, one

of whom she recognised as her husband,

noiselessly gliding out of the room.

'
Pat, darling, where are you going V
said she. There was no answer —the door
closed after them ; but in a moment she

was startled and terrified by a loud and

heavy crash, as if some ponderous body had
been hurled down the stair. Much alarmed,
she started up, and going to the head of

the staircase, she called repeatedly upon her

husband, but in vain. She returned to

 The DrunharcVs Dream. 235

the room, and with the assistance of her

daughter, whom I had occasion to mention

before, she succeeded in findino^ and lio-ht-

inor a candle, with which she hurried ao^ain

to the head of the staircase.

At the bottom lay w^hat seemed to be a

bundle of clothes, heaped together, motion-
less, lifeless — it was her husband. In
going down the stair, for what purpose
can never now be known, he had fallen

helplessly and violently to the bottom, and

coming head foremost, the spine at the

neck had been dislocated by the shock, and

instant death must have ensued. The
body lay upon that landing-place to which
his dream had referred. It is scarcely

worth endeavouring to clear up a single

point in a narrative where all is mystery ;

yet I could not help suspecting that the

second fiofure which had been seen in the

236 The Dnmhard's Dream.

room by Connell's wife on the night of his

death, miofht have been no other than his

own shadow. I suggested this solution of

the difficulty ; but she told me that the

unknown person had been considerably in

advance of the other, and on reaching the

door, had turned back as if to communicate
something to his companion. It w^as then

a mystery.

Was the dream verified ? — whither had

the disembodied spirit sped ? — w^ho can

say ? We know not. But I left the house

of death that day in a state of horror

which I could not describe. It seemed to

me that I was scarce awake. I heard and

saw everything as if under the spell of a

night-mare. The coincidence was terrible.

•
END OF VOL. I.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD.

S. d; H.
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