LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS








-


THE
PURCELL PAPERS.
BY THE LATE
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF • UNCLE silAs.’ )
Gäith a ſtemoir bp
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES.
IN THREE VOLUMES,
VOL. I.
LONDON :
RICH A R D B E N T L E Y AND SON
£ublishers in Orbinary to 35er §tajesty the Queen.
188o.
LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS


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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 was presented
with William's portrait from his master's own
ſand. He afterwards served as a major of
dragoons under Marlborough.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century,
William Le Fanu was the sole survivor of his
family. He married 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.
Joseph Le Fanu, the eldest of the sons of this
marriage who left issue, held the office of Clerk of
the Coast in Ireland. He married for the second
time Alicia, daughter of Thomas Sheridan 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
Dean Thomas Philip Le Fanu, the eldest son
of Joseph Le Fanu, became by his wife Emma,
daughter of Dr. Dobbin, F.T.C.D., the father of
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, the subject of this
memoir, whose name is so familiar to English
and American readers as one of the greatest
masters of the weird and the terrible amongst
our modern novelists.
Born in Dublin on the 28th of August, 1814,
he did not begin to speak until he was more
than two years of age ; but when he had once
started, the boy showed an unusual aptitude in
acquiring fresh words, and using them correctly.
The first evidence of literary taste which he
gave was in his sirth year, when he made
several little sketches with explanatory remarks
written beneath them, after the manner of Du
Maurier's, or Charles Keene's humorous illus.
trations in ‘ Punch.”
One of these, preserved long afterwards by
Žis mother, represented a balloon in mid-air,
and two aeronauts, who had occupied it, falling


viii Memoir of the Author.
headlong to earth, 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 was
hardly twelve years old when he began to write
verses of singular spirit for one so young. At
fourteen, he produced a long Irish poem, which
he never permitted anyone but his mother and
brother to read. To that brother, Mr. William
Le Fanu, Commissioner of Public Works,
Ireland, to whom, as the suggester of Sheri-
dam Le Fanu’s ‘Phaudrig Croohore” and
“Shamus O'Briem,' Irish ballad literature owes a
delightful debt, and whose richly humorous and
passionately pathetic powers as a raconteur of
these poems have only doubled that obligation in
the hearts of those who have been happy enough
to be his hearers—to Mr. William Le Fanu.
we are indebted for the following extracts from
the first of his works, which the boy-author seems
to have set any store by :


Memoir of the Author. ix
“Muse of Green Erin, break thine icy slumbers /
Strike once again thy wreathèd lyre /
Burst forth once more and wake thy tune/ui numbers /
Kindle again thy long-extinguished ſire /
‘Why should / bid thee, Muse of Erin, waken 2
Why should I bid thee strike thy harp once more ?
Better to leave thee silent and forsaken
Than wake thee but thy glories to deplore.
‘How could I bid thee tell of Tara's Towers,
Where once thy sceptred Princes sate in state—
Where rose thy music, at the festive hours,
Through the proud halls where listening thousands
safe 2
‘Fallen are thy fair palaces, thy country's glory,
Thy tuneful bard's were banished or were slain,
Some rest in glory on their deathbeds gory,
And some have lived to ſee/ a ſoeman'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 requiem o'er thy sons that bled.
“O yes / like the last breath of evening sighing,
Sweep thy cold hand the silent strings along,
Flash like the lamp beside the hero dying,
Then hushed for ever be thy plaintive song.’


X Memoir of the Author.
To Mr. William Le Fanu we are further in-
debted for the accompanying specimens of his
brother's serious and humorous powers in verse,
written when he was quite a lad, as valentines
to a Miss G. K. :
‘Life were too long for me to bear
If banished from thy view ;
Life were too short, a thousand year,
If life were passed with you.
* Wise men have said “Man’s lot on earth
Is grief and melancholy,”
But where thou art, there joyous mirth
Proves all their wisdom folly.
“If fate withhold thy love from me,
All else an vain were given ;
Heaven were imperfect wanting thee,
And with thee earth were heaven.’
A few days after, he sent the following sequel :
‘My dear good Madam,
You can't think how very sad /*m.
I sent you, or I mistake myself ſoul/y,
A very excellent imitation of the poet Cowley,
Containing three very fair stanzas,
Which number Longinus, a very critical man, says,


Memoir of the Author. xi
And Aristotle, who was a critic ten times more caustic,
To a nicety ſits a valentine or an acrostic.
And yet for all my pains to this moving epistle,
I have got no answer, so I suppose / may go whistle.
Perhaps you'd have preferred that like an old monk I
Aad pattered on
In the style and after the manner of the unfortunate Chat-
terton ;
Or that, unlike my reverend daddy's son,
I had attempted the classicalities of the dull, though im-
mortal Addison.
I can't endure this silence another week ;
What shall I do in order to make you speak 2
Shall / give you a trope
In the manner of Pope,
Or hammer my brains like an old smith
To get out something like Goldsmith ?
Or shall I aspire on
To fume my poetic lyre on
The same key touched by Byron,
And laying my hand its wire on,
With its music your soul set ſire on
By themes you ne'er could fire on 2
Or say,
I pray,
Would a lay
Like Gay
Be more in your way 2
I leave it to you,
Which am / to do 2
It plain on the surface is
That any metamorphosis,


Memoir of the Author. XV
handed him “Phaudrig Croohore'—Anglice,
• Patrick Cro/hore.’
Of course this poem has the disadvantage not
only of being written after Young Lochinvar,'
but also that of having been directly inspired by
it, and yet, although wanting in the rare and
graceful finish of the original, the Irish copy
has, we feel, so much fire and feeling that it at
least tempts us to regret that Scott’s poem was
not ſwritten in that heart stirring Mort/term
dialect without which the noblest of our Britis/:
ballads would lose half their spirit. Indeed, we
may safely say that some of Le Fanu's 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 romance.
‘Phaudrig Croohore” did not appear in
print in the “Dublin University Magazine’
till 1844, twelve years after its composition,
when it was included amongst the Purcel/
Papers.


xvi Memoir of the Author.
To return to the year 1837. Mr. Wilham Le
Fanu, the suggester of this ballad, who was from
/home at the time, now received daily instalments
of the second and more remarkable of his brother's
Irish poems—'Shamus O'Brien' (James O'Brien)
—learning them by heart as they reached him,
and, fortunately, never forgetting them, for his
brother Joseph kept no copy of the ballad, and he
/ad himself to write it out from memory ten
Jears after, when the poem appeared in the
“ University Magazine.’
Few will deny that this poem contains pas-
sages most faithfully, if fearfully, picturesque,
and that it is characterised throughout by a
profound pathos, and an abundant though at
times a too grotesquely incongruous humour.
Can we wonder, then, at the immense popularity
zwith 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 its introduction into
America, where it is now so popular. Lover


Memoir of the Author. xvii
added some lines of his own to the poem, made
Shamus emigrate to the States, and set up
a public-house. These added lines appeared
in most of the published versions of the
poem. But they are indifferent as verse, and
certainly injure the dramatic effect of the
poem.
‘Shamus O'Brien' is so generally attributed to
Lover (indeed we 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 following letter upon the subject from Lover
to William le Fanu :
‘Astor House,
‘Mew York, U.S. America.
* Sept. 30, 1846.
‘My dear Le Famu,
“In reading over your brother's poem
zwhile I crossed the Atlantic, I became more and
WOL. I. b


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, with 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 know
(I take for granted) that I would not wish to
wear a borrowed feather, I should be glad to
give your brother's name as the author, should
he not object to have it known ; but as his
writings are often of so different a tone, I would
not speak without permission to do so. It is
true that in my programme my name is attached
to other pieces, and no name appended to the
recitation ; so far, you will see I have done all
I could to avoid “appropriating,” the spirit of
which I might have caught here, with Irish
aptitude, but I would like to have the means
of telling all whom it may concern the name of
the author, to whose head and heart it does so
much honour. Pray, my dear Le Famu, inquire,


Memoir of the Author. xix
and answer me here by meat packet, or as soon
as convenient. My success here has been quite
triumphant.
‘Yours very truly,
* SAMUEL LOVER."
We have heard it said (though without having
inquired into the truth of the tradition) that
“Shamus O'Brien' was the result of a match at
pseudo-national ballad writing made between Le
Fanu and several of the most brilliant of his
young literary confrères at T. C. D. But how-
ever this may be, Le Fanu undoubtedly was no
young Irelander; indeed he did the stoutest
service as a press writer in the Conservative
interest, and was no doubt provoked as well as
amused at the unexpected popularity to which
his poem attained amongst the Irish Nationalists.
And here it should be remembered that the ballad
zvas written some eleven years before the outbreak
of '48, and at a time when a '98 subject might
b–2


XX Memoir of the Author.
fairly have been regarded as legitimate literary
property amongst the most loyal.
We left Le Fanu as editor of the ‘Warder.’
He afterwards purchased the “Dublin Evening
Packet,' and much later the half-proprietorship
of the “Dublin Evening Maul.” 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 in the ‘Evening
Mail.’
Aſe had previously published in the “Dublin
University Magazine’ a number of charming
/yrics, generally anonymously, and it is to be
feared that all clue to the identification of
most of these is lost, except that of internal
evidence.
The following poem, undoubtedly his, should
make general our regret at being unable to fir
with certainty upon its fellows :


Memoir of the Author. xxi
‘One wild and distant bugle sound
Breathed o'er Killarney’s magic shore
Will shed sweet floating echoes round
When that which made them is no more.
“So slumber in the human heart
Wild echoes, that will sweetly thrill
The words of kindness when the voice
That uttered 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,
Of 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 Fanu's literary life may be divided into
three distinct periods. During the first of these,
and till his thirtieth year, he was an Irish
ballad, song, and story writer, his first published
story being the “Adventures of Sir Robert
Ardagh, which appeared in the “Dublin Univer-
sity Magazine' of 1838.
In 1844 he was united to Miss Susan Bennett,


xxii Memoir of the Author.
the beautiful daughter of the late George
Bennett, Q.C. From this time until her decease,
in 1858, he devoted /lis emergies almost entirely
to press work, making, however, his 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 about the year 1850. This work, it is to
be feared, is out of print, though there is now a
cheap edition of ‘Torlogh O'Briem,' 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 writer,
until 1863, when the ‘House by the Churchyard’
was published, and was soon followed by “Uncle
Silas’ and his five other well-known novels.
We have considered Le Fanu as a ballad
writer and poet. As a press writer he is still
most honourably remembered for his learning
and brilliancy, and the power and point of his
sarcasm, which long made the “Dublin Evening


Memoir of the Author. xxiii
Mail' one of the most formidable of Irish press
critics; but ſet us now pass to the consideration
of him in the capacity of a novelist, and in
particular as the author of “Uncle Silas.’
There are evidences in “Shamus O'Brien,' and
even in ‘Phaudrig Croohore,' of a power over
the mysterious, the grotesque, and the horrible,
which so singularly distinguish him as a writer
of prose fiction.
“Uncle Silas, the fairest as well as most
familiar instance of this enthralling spell over
his readers, is too well known a story to tell in
detail. But how intensely and painfully 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 brother's honour, the other so romantically
and yet anxiously interested in her uncle—the
sudden arrival of Dr. Bryerly, the strange
Swedenborgian, followed by the equally unex-
pected apparition of Madame de la Rougière,
Austin Ruthyn's painful death, and the reading


xxiv. Memoir of the Author.
of his strange will consigning poor Maud to
the protection of her unknown Uncle Silas—her
cousin, good, bright devoted Monica Knollys, and
her dreadful distrust of Silas—Bartram Haugh
and its uncanny occupants, and foremost amongst
them Uncle Silas.
This is his portrait:
‘A face like marble, with a fearful monu-
mental look, and for an old man, singularly
vivid, strange eyes, the singularity of which
rather grew upon me as I looked; for his
eyebrows were still black, though his hair
descended from his temples in long locks of the
purest silver and fine as silk, nearly to his
shoulders.
* He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, all
in black, with an ample black velvet tunic,
which was rather a gown than a coat. . . .
‘I know I can't convey in words an idea of
this apparition, drawn, as it seemed, in black
and white, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, with
its singular look of power, and an expression so


Memoir of the Author. XXV
bewildering—was it derision, or anguish, or
cruelty, or patience 2
* The wild eyes of this strange old man were
fired on me as he rose ; an habitual contraction,
which in certain lights took the character of a
scowl, did not relax as he advanced towards me
with a thin-lipped smile.’
Old Dicken and his daughter Beauty, old
L'Amour and Dudley Ruthyn, now enter upon
the scene, each a fresh shadow to deepen its
already sombre hue, while the gloom gathers in
spite of the glimpse of sunshine shot through it
by the visit to Elverston. 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 the ghastly catastrophe, the
hideous conspiracy of Silas and his son against
the life of the 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 Countess, which is printed
in this collection of Stories. It mert was published
as ‘The Murdered Cousin' in a collection of
Christmas stories, and finally developed into the
three-volume novel we have just noticed.
There are about Le Fanu's narratives touches
of nature which reconcile us to their always
remarkable and often supernatural incidents.
His characters are well conceived and distinctly
drawn, and strong soliloquy and easy dialogue
spring unaffectedly from their lips. He is a close
observer of Nature, and reproduces her wilder
effects of storm and gloom with singular vivid-
mess ; while he is equally at home in his
descriptions of still life, some of which remind
as of the faithfully minute detail of old Dutch
pictures.
Mr. Wilkie Collins, amongst our living
novelists, best compares with Le Fanu. Both of
these writers are remarkable for the ingenious
mystery with which they develop their plots, and
for the absorbing, if often over-sensational, nature


Memoir of the Author. xxvii
of their incidents, but whilst Mr. Collins excites
and fascinates our attention by an intense power
of realism which carries us with unreasoning
haste from cover to cover of his works, Le
Fanu is an idealist, full of hig/ imagination,
and an artist who devotes deep attention to the
most delicate detail in his portraiture of men
and women, and his descriptions of the out-
door and indoor worlds—a writer, therefore,
through whose pages it would be often an
indignity to hasten. And this more leisurely,
and certainly more classical, conduct of his
stories makes us remember them more fully and
faithfully than those of the author of the
“Woman in White.” Mr. Col/ins is generally
dramatic, and sometimes stagy, in his effects.
Le Fanu, while less careful to arrange /his plots,
so as to admit of their being readily adapted
for the stage, often surprises us by scenes of so
much greater tragic intensity that we cannot
but lament that he did not, as Mr. Collins /as
done, attempt the drama, and so furnish another


Memoir of the Author. xxix
the beau-ideal of an Irish wit and scholar of
the old school.
From this society he vanished so entirely that
Dublin, always ready with a nickname, dubbed
him ‘The Invisible Prince ;' and indeed he was
for long almost invisible, except to his family
and most familiar friends, unless at odd hours
of the evening, when he might occasionally be
seen stealing, like the ghost of his former self,
between his newspaper office and his home in
Merrion Square; sometimes, too, he was to be
encountered in an old out-of-the-way bookshop
poring over some rare black letter Astrology or
Demonology.
To one of these old bookshops he was at one
time a pretty frequent visitor, and the bookseller
relates how he used to come in and ask with
his peculiarly pleasant voice and smile, “Any
2’ and
how, on a fresh one being handed to him, he
would seldom leave the shop until he had looked
it through. This taste for the supernatural
more ghost stories for me, Mr.


XXX Memoir of the Author.
seems to have grown upon him after his wife's
death, and influenced him so deeply that, had he
not been possessed of a deal of shrewd common
sense, there might have been danger of his em-
bracing some of the visionary doctrines in which
he was so learned. But no / even Spiritualism,
to which not a few of his brother novelists suc-
cumbed, whilst affording congenial material for
our artist of the superhuman to work upon, did
not escape his severest satire.
Shortly after completing his last novel, strange
to say, bearing the title ‘Willing to Die, Le
Fanu breathed his last at his home No. 18,
Merrion Square South, at the age of fifty-nine.
‘He was a man,’ writes the author of a brief
memoir of him in the “Dublin University
Magazine,’ ‘who thought deeply, especially on
neligious subjects. To those who knew him he
was very dear; they admired him for his
learning, his sparkling wit, and pleasant conver-
sation, and loved him for his manly virtues, for
/his noble and generous qualities, his gentleness,


Memoir of the Author. xxxi
and his loving, affectionate nature.’ And all
who knew the man must feel how deeply deserved
are these simple words of sincere regard for
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu.
Le Fanu's novels are accessible to all; but
his Purcell Papers are now for the first time
collected and published, by the permission of his
eldest son (the late Mr. Philip Le Famu), and
very much owing to the friendly and active
assistance of his brother, Mr. William Le Fanu.





THE PURCELL PAPERS,
—e-o-º-e-
THE GEIOST AND THE BONE-
SETTER.
N looking over the papers of my
(, late valued and respected friend,
Francis 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-
WOL. 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 Bone-Setter. 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
mitigate the fatigues 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 Bome-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 wall, 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 MS. 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
counthry; and so signs an’ if a poor man
got into any unlucky throuble, he was
the boyid 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 Bome-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 ſ”
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 Bome-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 Bome-Setter. 11
“An' why not in the hall?” says my
father, for he knew that the squire's
picthur was hung in 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 he. -
“Divil sweep the ould custom ſ” 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, they soon wint up
again, 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 sayin' they kep'
convarsin' 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 shuttin' my eyes,” says he, “to keep


The Ghost and the Bone-Setter. 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 listenin’,” 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 plisant story it is—an'
there was so much divarsion 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
believe there never was the likes heerd
sinst nor before, for he bawled out every
word av it, as if the life was fairly


14 The Ghost and the Bome-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 Bome-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-
2 2


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 luck 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 world 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
WOL. 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!” says the squire, stoppin'
short about two steps aff, and turnin'
round facin' my father, “is it you that's
in it !—an' how’s all with you, Terry
Neil 7”
“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 Bome-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 ?”
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 lie 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 extenpory
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 2"


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,
“andby far more than isgood 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-Sauer.
“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 Bome-Setter. 25
\
pullin', 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 agin.’


THE FORTUNES OF SIER ROBERT
ARDAG.H.
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 lies 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 Ardagh.
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 the


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—appealing to the affections with
a power which belongs to nature only.
This wood runs up, from below the base,
to the ridge of a long line of irregular
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? 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 Robert Ardagh.
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 crannies 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 through the distorting medium of
tradition, or in the appalling dimness
of uncertainty which surrounds the
reality.


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 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 emolument, 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
WOL. 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 Robert Ardagh. 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
were—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 surmising that Sir Robert
3–2


36 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
was playing a fearful and a hazardous 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 hospitality 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 Robert Ardagh.
as if in loud and angry altercation with
some unknown visitant; sometimes he
would, for hours together, walk 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 Robert Ardagh. 39
- days—had been long past, and the old
servant who generally waited upon Sir
Robert 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 length became so strong, that
having in vain urged 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


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 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, which we
have endeavoured to describe, opening
upon a narrow ledge of rock which over-
hangs a perilous cliff, rendered it at all
times, but particularly at night, a danger-
ous entrance. This shelving platform of
rock, which 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 Robert 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 Fortunes 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
light to observe. The stranger 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 Robert, 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


The Fortunes of Sir Robert 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 throwing 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?'
‘Sir,’ said the servant, “a strange gentle-
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 long
after the sound had ceased it seemed to


46 The Fortunes of Sir Robert 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 2 O God O God I 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. O God! O God! let him come
back in an hour; it is not long to wait.
Pſe 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. 47
“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 message,
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 which 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 whence 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 Ardagh.
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 Ardagh. 49
some part of the door, producing a sound
as if the door-post was wrenched from its
position, 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 glen.
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.
WOL. I. 4


50 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
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
current among the dealers in such lore;


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 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 was 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. However this may be,
I shall lay before the reader a distinct
recital of the events from which the fore-
going tradition arose. With respect 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 The 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 of 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 paternal mansion,
what he considered a humiliating alteration
in the style and hospitality which up to


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 53
that time had distinguished his family,
Sir Robert 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 might
have warranted one in supposing likely.
But to counterbalance the unfavourable
change which time had wrought 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 Ardagh. 55
F
ments of the highest circle of Dublin
ds, then among the brightest orna-
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, possessing 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 Ardagh. 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 girl—though 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 Robert 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 enduring. 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 affections
seemed to move, as it were, more slowly,
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 Robert 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 Robert Ardagh. 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 parties; and Sir Robert 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 Ardagh.
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


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 61
him from abroad a valet, who sometimes
professed himself to be French, at
others Italian, and at others again
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, JACQUE, 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


62 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
enveloped all about him, rendered him an
object of suspicion and inquiry to his
fellow-servants, amongst whom it was
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 ;
his features, too, had all that sharpness and
sickliness of hue which generally accom-
pany deformity; he wore his hair, which


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 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 being
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
Robert'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 merrinent
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, telling him that he should let Sir
IRobert know how he had received the
tidings which should have filled any faith-
ful servant with 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 Ardagh. 65
the little man raising his head and treating
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 Robert,
that he would dismiss him, offering herself,
from that property which Sir Robert 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 Robert, however, would not hear of
it; the request seemed at first to agitate
WOL. I. 5


66 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
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 when everything had
been quiet for some time, the bell of Sir
Robert's dressing-room rang suddenly and
violently; the ringing was repeated again


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 67
and again 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 struggles, not having 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 Sir Robert Ardagh.
advancing several paces before he could
recover himself. As he entered, he heard
Sir Robert'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 whimsical
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 Robert was standing before him, at
the distance of several yards, in a posture


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 69
expressive of despair, terror, and what
might be called an agony of humility.
He waved his hand twice or thrice, as if
to dismiss the servant, who, however, re-
mained fixed on the spot where 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 the 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
carriage shall be at the door within half-
an-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 Robert Ardagh.
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 ſºobert Ardagh. 71
some dark sluggish 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, was 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 Robert Ardagh.
nodding to him, the little valet ex-
claimed :
‘Carlton, I have got the start of you;
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 was
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;


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 Robert Ardagh. 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
when 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 The 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-
dered necessary, while her younger sister
retired to her bed-chamber to rest there
for a little 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, when 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


78 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
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
with 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 Ardagh, pale as death,
with her dark hair all dishevelled, and
her eyes dim and sunken with weeping.
The revulsion of feeling which 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


The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 79
deeper—was so horrible, that the shock
awoke her perfectly. She sat up in the
bed, and looked fearfully around the
room, which was imperfectly lighted by a
single candle burning dimly, as if she
almost expected to see the reality of her
dreadful vision lurking 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 coming 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 leaving 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
consent to remain where they then were,
at length prevailed upon her to
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 Robert 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 wailing and lamentations, accom-
WOL. I. 6


The 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 Robert 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 Ardagh. 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 Robert 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
the possibility of his labouring under the
here suggested


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
my 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 Robert 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
sisters were sitting.
‘Well, exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as she
returned to the room where her


92 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
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
Robert 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
door, and saw him take a candle in the hall,
, starting up, followed to the
and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimu-
lated by a feeling of horrible curiosity, she
continued to follow him at a distance. She


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 Robert's last
directions, to Dublin, was there laid within
the ancient walls of St. Audoen's Church


96 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh.
—where I have read the epitaph, telling
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
aisle in which Sir Robert's remains were laid has been
suffered to fall completely to decay; and the tomb
which marked his grave, and other monuments more
curious, 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 lady to whom allusion is
made, I believe to be Miss Mary F--d. She never
married, and survived both her sisters, living to a very
advanced age.
WOL. I. 7


THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE
CONNOR.
Being a third Extract from the legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.
*HERE 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 was 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
Revolution 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 (mirabile dictu) 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 upon the state of Ireland, given be-
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 I
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 forth


102 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
the courage and the enterprise of this
country. After the accession of William
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 the 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
.


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 widowed 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 illusion 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
unchilled; 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 deform 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


The 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 upon 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-
TOOIn.
When we entered the apartment, we
found a select few, surrounded by a crowd
of spectators, busily performing a minuet,
with all the congées 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 chapeau bras, 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 with


The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 111
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 kings which might 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 five 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 my memory, one person for
some time engaged my 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
which 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 I 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, was crossing
WOL. I. 8


114 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
the room for the purpose of joining me, in
doing which I was surprised to see him
exchange a familiar, almost a cordial,
greeting with the object of my 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
w
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, when 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 way, 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 7' inquired I.
“Oh I did not I tell you his name º'
rejoined he. “You should have heard


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 º'
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 like gaming ''
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.”
:
|


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 wish to be on terms of familiarity
with Mr. Fitzgerald ; and I knew that
one evening spent 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


The Last Heir 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 was against him ; but
then, under the influence of his manner,
one lost sight of much of its ungainliness,
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 Last 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


The 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 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
‘My dear Purcell,' said he, “you are the
very man I wanted. I have got into an
ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to
get me out of it.’
‘You have had no dispute with that
man—that Fitzgerald, I hope,” said I,
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. I
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?' I
exclaimed. “Why will you seek to drive


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
WOI. 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 this effect :


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-
nough entered.
‘You have made great haste,’ said
O'Connor; ‘did you find him at home º'
‘I 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 killed 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 questioned 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 wanted 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.


138 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
them, did not fit him, 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 will please
to read that note,' said the captain, placing
a sealed paper in his 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— I’
‘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.
and one of them has already acted for me
in this business.’
‘I can have no objection, replied 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
your 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 by 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 º'
‘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 º' 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 was 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 billet, 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
captain 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. 145
against this impression; the conviction
that he had been disgraced had taken pos-
session of his mind. He said again and
again 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,
WOL. I. 10


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 point 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
honourable, 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. O Fashion I thou gaudy idol,
whose feet are red with the blood of human
sacrifice, would I had always felt towards.
thee as I now dol
O'Connor was not dejected ; on the con-
trary, he joined with loud and lively
alacrity in the hilarity of the little party :


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
thoughts 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, prayed to God that it
might burst in avenging fires upon the
murderous 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–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. No wretched patient ever under-
went a more thrilling revulsion at the first
sight of the case of surgical 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
I’OOII).
* So I last will and testament,” said the
elder. “Why, you have a very blue notion
of these matters. I 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. Ryan received the
ball through the collar of his coat, and
M'Neil in the temple; he spun like a top :


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 things go as
they will, I'll give and take four to one,
in pounds and tens of pounds. There,
M“Donough, there's a get for you; b–t


158 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
me, if it is not. Pohl 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 º'
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'Donough,
myself, and my brotherwill 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


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 legs, uttering 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
WOL. I. 11


162 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


The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 163
money I had about me, into her lap, but
it lay there unheeded ; she did not hear
IIle.
“Oh I my child, my child, my darlin',"
she sobbed, “are you gone from me? are
you gone from me ! Ah, mavourneen,
mavourneen, you'll never come back alive
to me again. The crathur that 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 feeling, 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
11—2


The Last Heir of Castle Connor. 165
were standing upon the sod. The former,
as we approached, bowed slightly and sul-
lenly—while the latter, evidently in high
good humour, made his most courteous
obeisance. No 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


166 The Last Heir of Castle Connor.
the like 2 If Fitzgerald gets the first shot
all is over. M'Donough sold the pass,
by , and that is the long 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 !”
A coin was instantly chucked into the
air. The captain cried, ‘IHarp.’ The
head was uppermost, and M'Donough im-
mediately made choice of the southern
point at which to place his friend—a
position which it will be easily seen had


The Last Heir of Castle Connor, 173
“Shall I, by * Shall I ?' cried he,
with a laugh 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 4’


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’Donough 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 again. The crowd had
pressed too much forward 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 P 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'Creagh ; ‘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 was 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 ''
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 all 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 from
the field. Upon this rude bier my poor
WOL. I. 12


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 the castle, and went eagerly to the
window, believing, or at least hoping, that
the sounds might announce the approach
of the medical man, whom 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. 185
examination of the wound was over; ‘well,
I shall do, shan't I?’
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!" 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 º'
The surgeon was evidently no stoic, and
his manner had extinguished in me every
hope, even before he had uttered a word
in reply.
‘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 indifference 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


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 2 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 º'
“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 IIeir 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
In Ore.


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 not 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
WOL. 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
green sward ; no utilitarian hand had con-
strained the wanderings of the clear and


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; something
abºut resignation, I believe.
‘I hope I am resigned ; God made me


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.


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 Drunkard'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 Reason 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


The Drunkard's 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
ready cloaked and booted for the road, in
the small front parlour, in which the
messenger, who was to act as my guide,
awaited my coming. I found a poor
little girl crying piteously near the door,
and after some slight difficulty I ascer-
tained that her father was either dead or
just dying.
‘And what may be your father's name,
my poor child 7" 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 length,


206 The Drunkard's Dream.
almost provoked by conduct which ap-
peared to me so unreasonable, 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 might be justified in refusing to go with
you at all.’
‘Oh, don't say that—don't say that ſ’
cried she. ‘Oh, sir, it was that I was
afeard of when I would not tell you—I
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 ;


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 iminutes 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,
reeking with all manner of offensive
effluviae, 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 lodging 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
WOL. I. 14


210 The Drumkard'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 Drunkard's 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
haggard-looking child, was burning 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 effect 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 Drunkard's Dream. 213
‘Is there any hope 7' 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 I thought I, scarcely venturing to
look upon the tremendous and revolting
spectacle. Dead I without an hour for re-
pentance, even a moment for reflection ;
dead I 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.
at once rushed upon my mind. I had
often read that the body of a presump-
tuous sinner, who, during life, had been
the willing 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 mow, 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 !
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 Drunkard'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


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


The Drunkard'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 º'
In answering him, I had no easy task to
perform ; for however clear might be my
internal 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 resulting from it, might be made
available as no mean engines in the work
of his conversion from profligacy, and of
15–2


The Drunkard's Dream. 229
sullenness which I suppose had arisen from
his despair. His promises of amendment
were given in that tone of deliberate
earnestness, which belongs to deep and
solemn determination; and it was with no
small delight that I observed, after re-
peated visits, that his good resolutions, so
far from failing, did but gather strength
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 ruin, 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 Drunkard's 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 Drunkard's Dream. 233
tenacity with which a drunkard's habits
cling to him through life 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 revolting 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 lethargy 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-


The Drunkard's Dream. 235
the room, and with the assistance of her
daughter, whom I had occasion to mention
before, she succeeded in finding and light-
ing a candle, with which she hurried again
to the head of the staircase.
At the bottom lay what 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 figure which had been seen in the


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