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AS IT PASSED HIM HE THOUGHT HE HEARD IT SAY IN A P^URIOUS 
 WHISPER, " STILL ALIVE ! " — Page 25. 
 
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 LONDON 
 
 DGWRGY 4- GG. 
 
 12, yoi^I^ Street, Go^ent G^^<len 
 
LONDON: 
 
 FEINTED' BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., 
 
 f Sf, JOHU'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL.-E.C. 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 Most of the tales in this volume were written prior 
 to the publication of " Uncle Silas," which is, perhaps, 
 the novel by which my father is best known. All 
 the stories, v.ith the exception of " The Watcher," 
 were included in " The Purcell Papers," edited by 
 Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves after my father's death, 
 and published by Messrs. Bentley. 
 
 It may be of interest to point out that the central 
 idea in the story entitled " Passage in the Secret 
 History of an Irish Countess " is embodied in " Uncle 
 Silas." 
 
 When " The Purcell Papers " were appearing in 
 The Dublin University Magazine my father supplied 
 the following note, which was reproduced by Mr. 
 Graves in his edition of the book : — 
 
 " The residuary legatee of the late Francis Purcell, who has 
 the honour of selecting such of his lamented old friend's manu- 
 scripts as may appear fit for publication, in order that the lore 
 which they contain may reach the world before scepticism and 
 utility have robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, 
 and scornfully kicked before them, or trampled into annihilation 
 those harmless fragments of picturesque superstition which it is 
 our object to preserve, has been subjected to the charge of 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 dealing too largely in the marvellous ; and it has been half in- 
 sinuated that such is his love for diablerie, that he is content to 
 wander a mile out of his way in order to meet a fiend or a 
 goblin, and thus to sacrifice all regard for truth and accuracy to 
 the idle hope of affrighting the imagination, and thus pandering 
 to the bad taste of his reader. He begs leave, then, to take 
 this opportunity of asserting his perfect innocence of all the 
 crimes laid to his charge, and to assure his reader that he never 
 pandered to his bad taste, nor went one inch out of his way to 
 introduce witch, fairy, devil, ghost, or any other of the grim 
 fraternity of the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones. His 
 province touching these tales has been attended with no 
 difficulty and little responsibility ; indeed, he is accountable for 
 nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons men- 
 tioned therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and for an 
 occasional note, whenever he conceived it possible innocently 
 to edge in a word. These tales have been written down by the 
 Rev. Francis Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh ; and in all the 
 instances, which are many, in which the present writer has had 
 an opportunity of comparing the manuscript of his departed 
 friend with the actual traditions current amongst the families 
 whose fortunes they pretend to illustrate, he has uniformly 
 found that whatever of supernatural occurred in the story, so 
 far from being exaggerated by him, had been rather softened 
 down, and, wherever it could be attempted, accounted for.'' 
 
 Brinsley Le Fanu. 
 London, 
 
 November, 1894. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Watcher i 
 
 Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Coun- 
 tess 65 
 
 Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the 
 
 Painter 126 
 
 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh . . .169 
 
 The Dream 183 
 
 A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family . 208 
 
It is now more than fifty years since-tfee eccUrrenCe's -^ 
 which I am about to relate caused a strange S'insa- 
 tion in the gay society of Dubh'n. The fashionaTDle 
 world, however, is no recorder of traditions ; the 
 memory of selfishness seldom reaches far ; and the 
 events which occasionally disturb the polite mono- 
 tony of its pleasant and heartless progress, however 
 stamped with the characters of misery and horror, 
 scarcely outlive the gossip of a season, and (except, 
 perhaps, in the remembrance of a few more directly 
 interested in the consequences of tiie catastrophe) are 
 in a little time lost to the recollection of all. The 
 appetite for scandal, or for horror, has been sated ; 
 the incident can yield no more of interest or novelty ; 
 curiosity, frustrated by impenetrable mystery, gives 
 over the pursuit in despair ; the tale has ceased 
 to be new, grows stale and flat ; and so, in a few 
 years, inquiry subsides into indifference. 
 
2 The Watcher. 
 
 Somewhere about the year 1794, the younger 
 brother of a certain baronet, whom I shall call Sir 
 James Barton, returned to Dublin. He had served 
 in the navy with some distinction, having com- 
 manded one of his Majesty's frigates during the 
 greater part of the American war. Captain Barton 
 was now apparently some two or three-and-forty 
 years of age. He was an intelligent and agreeable 
 companion, when he chose it, though generally re- 
 served, and occasionally even moody. In society, 
 however, he deported himself as a man of the world 
 arid ?. gentleman. He had not contracted any of the 
 noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea ; on the 
 contrary, his manners were remarkably easy, quiet, 
 and even polished. He was in person about the 
 middle size, and somewhat strongly formed ; his 
 countenance was marked with the lines of thought, 
 and on the whole wore an expression of gravity and 
 even of melancholy. Being, however, as we have said, 
 a man of perfect breeding, as well as of affluent cir- 
 cumstances and good family, he had, of course, ready 
 access to the best society of the metropolis, without 
 the necessity of any other credentials. In his per- 
 sonal habits Captain Barton was economical. He 
 occupied lodgings in one of the then fashionable 
 streets in the south side of the town, kept but one 
 horse and one servant, and though a reputed free- 
 thinker, he lived an orderly and moral life, indulging 
 
The Watcher. 3 
 
 neither in gaming, drinking, nor any other vicious 
 pursuit, Hving very much to himself, without forming 
 any intimacies, or choosing any companions, and 
 appearing to mix in gay society rather for the sake 
 of its bustle and distraction, than for any opportuni- 
 ties which it offered of interchanging either thoughts 
 or feelings with its votaries. Barton was therefore 
 pronounced a saving, prudent, unsocial sort of a 
 fellow, who bid fair to maintain his celibacy alike 
 against stratagem and assault, and was likely to live 
 to a good old age, die rich and leave his money to a 
 hospital. 
 
 It was soon apparent, however, that the nature of 
 Captain Barton's plans had been totally misconceived. 
 A young lady, whom we shall call Miss Montague, 
 was at this time introduced into the fashionable world 
 of Dublin by her aunt, the Dowager Lady Rochdale. 
 Miss Montague was decidedly pretty and accom- 
 plished, and having some natural cleverness, and a 
 great deal of gaiety, became for a while the reigning 
 toast. Her popularity, however, gained her, for a 
 time, nothing more than that unsubstantial admira- 
 tion which, however pleasant as an incense to vanity, 
 is by no means necessarily antecedent to matrimony, 
 for, unhappily for the young lady in question, it was 
 an understood thing, that, beyond her personal attrac- 
 tions, she had no kind of earthly provision. Such 
 being the state of affairs, it will readily be believed 
 
 B 2 
 
4 The Watcher. 
 
 that no little surprise was consequent upon the 
 appearance of Captain Barton as the avowed lover of 
 the penniless Miss Montague. 
 
 His suit prospered, as might have been expected, 
 and in a short time it was confidentially communi- 
 cated by old Lady Rochdale to each of her hundred 
 and fifty particular friends in succession, that Captain 
 Barton had actually tendered proposals of marriage, 
 with her approbation, to her niece, Miss Montague, 
 who had, moreover, accepted the offer of his hand, 
 conditionally upon the consent of her father, who was 
 then upon his homeward voyage from India, and ex- 
 pected in two or three months at furthest. About his 
 consent there could be no doubt. The delay, there- 
 fore, was one merely of form ; they were looked upon 
 as absolutely engaged, and Lady Rochdale, with a 
 vigour of old-fashioned decorum with which her 
 niece would, no doubt, gladly have dispensed, with- 
 drew her thenceforward from all further participation 
 in the gaieties of the town. Captain Barton was a 
 constant visitor as well as a frequent guest at the 
 house, and was permitted all the privileges and inti- 
 macy which a betrothed suitor is usually accorded. 
 Such was the relation of parties, when the mysterious 
 circumstances which darken this narrative with in- 
 explicable melancholy first began to unfold them- 
 selves. 
 
 Lady Rochdale resided in a handsome mansion at 
 
The Watcher', 5 
 
 the north side of Dubh'rij and Captain Barton's 
 lodgings, as we have already said, were situated at 
 the south. The distance intervening was consider- 
 able, and it was Captain Barton's habit generally to 
 walk home without an attendant, as often as he 
 passed the evening with the old lady and her fair 
 charge. His shortest way in such nocturnal walks 
 lay, for a considerable space, through a line of streets 
 which had as yet been merely laid out, and little more 
 than the foundations of the houses constructed. One 
 night, shortly after his engagement with Miss 
 Montague had commenced, he happened to remain 
 unusually late, in company only with her and Lady 
 Rochdale, The conversation had turned upon the 
 evidences of revelation, which he had disputed with 
 the callous scepticism of a confirmed infidel. What 
 were called "French principles " had, in those days, 
 found their way a good deal into fashionable society, 
 especially that portion of it which professed allegiance 
 to Whiggism, and neither the old lady nor her charge 
 was so perfectly free from the taint as to look upon 
 Captain Barton's views as any serious objection to 
 the proposed union. The discussion had degenerated 
 into one upon the supernatural and the marvellous, 
 in which he had pursued precisely the same line of 
 argument and ridicule. In all this, it is but true to 
 state, Captain Barton was guilty of no affectation ; 
 the doctrines upon which he insisted were, in reality, 
 
6 The Watcher. 
 
 but too truly the basis of his own fixed belief, if so it 
 might be called; and perhaps not the least strange of 
 the many strange circumstances connected with this 
 narrative, was the fact that the subject of the fearful 
 influences we are about to describe was himself, 
 from the deliberate conviction of years, an utter 
 disbeliever in what are usually termed preternatural 
 agencies. 
 
 It was considerably past midnight when Mr. 
 Barton took his leave, and set out upon his solitary 
 walk homeward. He rapidly reached the lonely 
 road, with its unfinished dwarf walls tracing the 
 foundations of the projected rows of houses on either 
 side. The moon was shining mistily, and its imper- 
 fect light made the road he trod but additionally 
 dreary ; that utter silence, which has in it something 
 indefinably exciting, reigned there, and made the 
 sound of his steps, which alone broke it, unnaturally 
 loud and distinct. He had proceeded thus some 
 way, when on a sudden he heard other footsteps, 
 pattering at a measured pace, and, as it seemed, 
 about two score steps behind him. The suspicion of 
 being dogged is at all times unpleasant ; it is, how- 
 ever, especially so in a spot so desolate and lonely : 
 and this suspicion became so strong in the mind of 
 Captain Barton, that he abruptly turned about to 
 confront his pursuers, but, though there was quite 
 sufBcient moonlight to disclose any object upon the 
 
The Watcher. 7 
 
 road he had traversed, no form of any kind was 
 visible. 
 
 The steps he had heard could not have been the 
 reverberation of his own, for he stamped his foot upon 
 the ground, and walked briskly up and down, in the 
 vain attempt to wake an echo. Though by no 
 means a fanciful person, he was at last compelled to 
 charge the sounds upon his imagination, and treat 
 them as an illusion. Thus satisfying himself, he 
 resumed his walk, and before he had proceeded a 
 dozen paces, the mysterious footfalls were again 
 audible from behind, and this time, as if with the 
 special design of showing that the sounds were not 
 the responses of an echo, the steps sometimes 
 slackened nearly to a halt, and sometimes hui'ried 
 for six or eight strides to a run, and again abated to 
 a walk. 
 
 Captain Barton, as before, turned suddenly round, 
 and with the same result ; no object was visible 
 above the deserted level of the road. He walked 
 back over the same ground, determined that, -what- 
 ever might have been the cause of the sounds which 
 had so disconcerted him, it should not escape his 
 search ; the endeavour, however, was unrewarded. 
 In spite of all his scepticism, he felt something like a 
 superstitious fear stealing fast upon him, and, with 
 these unwonted and uncomfortable sensations, he 
 once more turned and pursued his way. There was 
 
8 The Watcher. 
 
 no repetition of these haunting sounds, until he had 
 reached the point where he had last stopped to 
 retrace his steps. Here they were resumed, and with 
 sudden starts of running, which threatened to bring 
 the unseen pursuer close up to the alarmed pedestrian. 
 Captain Barton arrested his course as formerly ; the 
 unaccountable nature of the occurrence filled him 
 with vague and almost horrible sensations, and, yield- 
 ing to the excitement he felt gaining upon him, he 
 shouted, sternly, "Who goes there?" 
 
 The sound of one's own voice, thus exerted, in 
 utter solitude, and followed by total silence, has in it 
 something unpleasantly exciting, and he felt a degree 
 of nervousness which, perhaps, from no cause had he 
 ever known before. To the very end of this solitary 
 street the steps pursued him, and it required a strong 
 effort of stubborn pride on his part to resist the 
 impulse that prompted him every moment to run for 
 safety at the top of his speed. It was not until he 
 had reached his lodging, and sat by his own fireside, 
 that he felt sufficiently reassured to arrange and 
 reconsider in his own mind the occurrences which 
 had so discomposed him : so little a matter, after 
 all, is sufficient to upset the pride of scepticism, 
 and vindicate the old simple laws of nature within 
 us. 
 
 Mr. Barton was next morning sitting at a late 
 breakfast, reflecting upon the incidents of the 
 
The Watcher. 9 
 
 previous night, with more of inquisitiveness than 
 awe — so speedily do gloomy impressions upon the 
 fancy disappear under the cheerful influences of day 
 — when a letter just delivered by the postman was 
 placed upon the table before him. There was 
 nothing remarkable in the address of this missive, 
 except that it was written in a hand which he did 
 not know — perhaps it was disguised — for the tall 
 narrow characters were sloped backward ; and with 
 the self-inflicted suspense which we so often see 
 practised in such cases, he puzzled over the inscrip- 
 tion for a full minute before he broke the seal. 
 When he did so, he read the following words, written 
 in the same hand : — 
 
 " Mr. Barton, late Captain of the Dolphin, is warned 
 
 of danger. He will do wisely to avoid Street — 
 
 (here the locality of his last night's adventure was 
 named) — if he walks there as usual, he will meet 
 with something bad. Let him take warning, once 
 for all, for he has good reason to dread 
 
 " The Watcher." 
 
 Captain Barton read and re-read this strange 
 effusion ; in every light and in every direction he 
 turned it over and over. He examined the paper on 
 which it was written, and closely scrutinized the 
 handwriting. Defeated here, he turned to the seal ; 
 it was nothing but a patch of wax, upon which the 
 
lo The Watcher, 
 
 accidental impression of a coarse thumb was imper- 
 fectly visible. There was not the slightest mark, no 
 clue or indication of any kind, to lead him to even 
 a guess as to its possible origin. The writer's object 
 seemed a friendly one, and yet he subscribed himself 
 as one whom he had " good reason to dread." Alto- 
 gether, the letter, its author, and its real purpose, 
 were to him an inexplicable puzzle, and one, more- 
 over, unpleasantly suggestive, in his mind, of asso- 
 ciations connected with the last night's adventure. 
 
 In obedience to some feeling — perhaps of pride — 
 Mr. Barton did not communicate, ev^en to his intended 
 bride, the occurrences which we have just detailed. 
 Trifling as they miight appear, they had in reality 
 most disagreeably affected his imagination, and he 
 cared not to disclose, even to the young lady in 
 question, what she might possibly look upon as 
 evidences of weakness. The letter might very well 
 be but a hoax, and the mysterious footfall but a 
 delusion of his fancy. But although he affected to 
 treat the whole affair as unworthy of a thought, it 
 yet haunted him pertinaciously, tormenting him with 
 perplexing doubts, and depressing him with undefined 
 apprehensions. Certain it is, that for a considerable 
 time afterwards he carefully avoided the street 
 indicated in the letter as the scene of danger. 
 
 It was not until about a week after the receipt of 
 the letter which I have transcribed, that anything 
 
The Watcher. ii 
 
 further occurred to remind Captain Barton of its 
 contents, or to counteract the gradual disappearance 
 from his mind of the disagreeable impressions which 
 he had then received. He was returning one night, 
 after the interval I have stated, from the theatre, 
 which was then situated in Crow Street, and having 
 there handed Miss Montague and Lady Rochdale 
 into their carriage, he loitered for some time with two 
 or three acquaintances. With these, however, he 
 parted close to the College, and pursued his way 
 alone. It was now about one o'clock, and the streets 
 were quite deserted. During the whole of his walk 
 with the companions from whom he had just parted, 
 he had been at times painfully aware of the sound of 
 steps, as it seemed, dogging them on their way. 
 Once or twice he had looked back, in the uneasy 
 anticipation that he was again about to experience 
 the same mysterious annoyances which had so much 
 disconcerted him a week before, and earnestly hoping 
 that he might see some form from whom the sounds 
 might naturally proceed. But the street was deserted ; 
 no form was visible. Proceeding now quite alone 
 upon his homeward way, he grew really nervous and 
 uncomfortable, as he became sensible, with increased 
 distinctness, of the well-known and now absolutely 
 dreaded sounds. 
 
 By the side of the dead wall which bounded the 
 College Park, the sounds followed, recommencing 
 
12 The Watcher. 
 
 almost simultaneously with his own steps. The same 
 unequal pace, sometimes slow, sometime,-, for a score 
 yards or so, quickened to a run^ was audible from 
 behind him. Again and again he turned, quickly 
 and stealthily he glanced over his shoulder almost 
 at every half-dozen steps; but no one was visible. 
 The horrors of this intangible and unseen persecution 
 became gradually all but intolerable ; and when at 
 last he reached his home his nerves were strung to 
 such a pitch of excitement that he could not rest, 
 and did not attempt even to lie down until after the 
 daylight had broken. 
 
 He was awakened by a knock at his chamber- 
 door, and his servant entering, handed him several 
 letters which had just been received by the early 
 post. One among them instantly arrested his atten- 
 tion ; a single glance at the direction aroused him 
 thoroughly. He at once recognized its character, 
 and read as follows : — 
 
 " You may as well think^ Captain Barton, to escape 
 from your own shadow as from me ; do what you 
 may, I will see you as often as I please, and you 
 shall see me, for I do not want to hide myself, as you 
 fancy. Do not let it trouble your rest, Captain 
 Barton ; for, with a good conscience, what need you 
 fear from the eye of 
 
 "The Watcher.?" 
 
The Watcher. 13 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to dwell upon the feelinfrs 
 elicited by a perusal of this strange communication. 
 Captain Barton was observed to be unusually absent 
 and out of spirits for several days afterwards ; but no 
 one divined the cause. Whatever he might think 
 as to the phantom steps which follov;ed him, there 
 could be no possible illusion about the letters he 
 had received ; and, to say the least of it, their im- 
 mediate sequence upon the mysterious sounds which 
 had haunted him was an odd coincidence. The 
 whole circumstance, in his own mind, was vaguely 
 and instinctively connected with certain passages 
 in his past life, which, of all others, he hated to 
 remember. 
 
 It so happened that just about this time, in addi- 
 tion to his approaching nuptials, Captain Barton had 
 fortunately, perhaps, for himself, some business of an 
 engrossing kind connected with the adjustment of a 
 large and long-litigated claim upon certain properties. 
 The hurry and excitement of business had its natural 
 effect in gradually dispelling the marked gloom 
 which had for a time occasionally oppressed him, 
 and in a little while his spirits had entirely resumed 
 their accustomed tone. 
 
 During all this period, however, he was occasionally 
 dismayed by indistinct and half-heard repetitions of 
 the same annoyance, and that in lonely places, in the 
 day time as well as after nightfall. These renewals 
 
14 The Watcher. 
 
 of the strange impressions from which he had suffered 
 so much were, however, desultory and faint, insomuch 
 that often he really could not, to his own satisfaction, 
 distinguish between them and the mere suggestions of 
 an excited imagination. One evening he walked down 
 to the House of Commons with a Mr. Norcott, a 
 Member. As they walked down together he was 
 observed to become absent and silent, and to a degree 
 so marked as scarcely to consist with good breeding ; 
 and this, in one who was obviously in all his habits 
 so perfectly a gentleman, seemed to argue the 
 pressure of some urgent and absorbing anxiety. It 
 was afterwards known that, during the whole of that 
 walk, he had heard the well-known footsteps dogging 
 him as he proceeded. This, however, was the last 
 time he suffered from this phase of the persecution 
 of which he was already the anxious victim. A 
 new and a very different one was about to be 
 presented. 
 
 Of the new series of impressions which were after- 
 wards gradually to work out his destiny, that evening 
 disclosed the first; and but for its relation to the 
 train of events which followed, the incident would 
 scarcely have been remembered by any one. As 
 they were walking in at the passage, a man (of 
 whom his friend could afterwards remember only 
 that he was short in stature, looked like a foreigner, 
 and wore a kind of travelling-cap) walked very 
 
The Watcher. 15 
 
 rapidly, and, as if under some fierce excitement, 
 directly towards them, muttering to himself fast and 
 vehemently the while. This odd-looking person 
 proceeded straight toward Barton, who was foremost, 
 and halted, regarding him for a moment or two with 
 a look of menace and fury almost maniacal ; and 
 then turning about as abruptly, he walked before 
 them at the same agitated pace, and disappeared by 
 a side passage. Norcott distinctly remembered being 
 a good deal shocked at the countenance and bearing 
 of this man, which indeed irresistibly impressed him 
 with an undefined sense of danger, such as he never 
 felt before o r since from the presence of anything 
 human ; but these sensations were far from amounting 
 to anything so disconcerting as to flurry or excite 
 him — he had seen only a singularly evil countenance, 
 agitated, as it seemed, with the excitement of mad- 
 ness. He was absolutely astonished, however, at the 
 effect of this apparition upon Captain Barton, . He 
 knew him to be a man of proved courage and coolness 
 in real danger, a circumstance which made his con- 
 duct upon this occasion the more conspicuously odd. 
 He recoiled a step or two as the stranger advanced, 
 and clutched his companion's arm in silence, with 
 a spasm of agony or terror ; and then, as the 
 figure disappeared, shoving him roughly back, he 
 followed it for a few paces, stopped in great 
 disorder, and sat down upon a form. A counte- 
 
i6 TJie Watcher. 
 
 nance more ghastly and haggard it was impossible to 
 fancy. 
 
 " For God's sake, Barton, what is the matter ? " 
 said Norcott, really alarmed at his friend's appear- 
 ance. '* You're not hurt, are you ? nor unwell ? 
 What is it ? '' 
 
 "What did he say? I did not hear it. What 
 was it ? ^^ asked Barton, wholly disregarding the 
 question. 
 
 "Tut, tut, nonsense ! " said Norcott, greatly sur- 
 prised ; '' who cares what the fellow said ? You are 
 
 unwell, Barton, decidedly unwell ; let me call a 
 coach." 
 
 " Unwell ! Yes, no, not exactly unwell," he said, 
 evidently making an effort to recover his self-posses- 
 sion ; " but, to say the truth, I am fatigued, a little 
 overworked, and perhaps over anxious. You know 
 I have been in Chancery, and the winding up of a 
 suit is always a nervous affair. I have felt uncom- 
 fortable all this evening ; but I am better now. Come, 
 come, shall we go on .'' " 
 
 ^' No, no. Take my advice. Barton, and go home ; 
 you really do need rest ; you are looking absolutely 
 ill. I really do insist on your allowing me to see 
 you home," replied his companion. 
 
 It was obvious that Barton was not himself disin- 
 clined to be persuaded. He accordingly took his 
 leave, politely declining his friend's offered escort. 
 
The Watcher. 17 
 
 Notwithstanding the few commonplace regrets which 
 Norcott had expressed, it was plain that he was just 
 as little deceived as Barton himself by the extempore 
 plea of illness with which he had accounted for the 
 strange exhibition; and that he even then suspected 
 some lurking mystery in the matter. 
 
 Norcott called next day at Barton's lodgings, to 
 inquire for him, and learned from the servant that he 
 had not left his room since his return the night be- 
 fore ; but that he was not seriously indisposed, and 
 hoped to be out again in a few days. That evening 
 he sent for Doctor Richards, then in large and 
 fashionable practice in Dublin, and their interview 
 was, it is said, an odd one. 
 
 He entered into a detail of his own symptom.s in 
 an abstracted and desultory kind of way, which 
 seemed to argue a strange want of interest in his own 
 cure, and, at all events, made it manifest that there 
 was some topic engaging his mind of more engrossing 
 importance than his present ailment. He complained 
 of occasional palpitations, and headache. Doctor 
 Richards asked him, among other questions, whether 
 there was any irritating circumstance or anxiety to 
 account for it. This he denied quickly and peevishly ; 
 and the physician thereupon declared his opinion, 
 that there was nothing amiss except some slight 
 derangement of the digestion, for which he accord- 
 ingly wrote a prescription, and was about to with- 
 
 c 
 
1 8 The Watcher. 
 
 draw, when Mr. Barton, with the air of a man who 
 suddenly recollects a topic which had nearly escaped 
 him, recalled him. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, doctor, but I had really almost 
 forgot ; will you permit me to ask you two or three 
 medical questions ?— rather odd ones, perhaps, but as 
 a wager depends upon their solution, you will, I 
 hope, excuse my unreasonableness." 
 
 The physician readily undertook to satisfy the 
 inquirer. 
 
 Barton seemed to have some difficulty about open- 
 ing the proposed interrogatories, for he was silent 
 for a minute, then walked to his book-case and 
 returned as he had gone ; at last he sat down, and 
 said, — 
 
 " You'll think them very childish questions, but I 
 can't recover my wager without a decision; so I 
 must put them. I want to know first about lock-jaw. 
 If a man actually has had that complaint, and appears 
 to have died of it — so that in fact a physician of 
 average skill pronounces him actually dead — may he, 
 after all, recover 1 " 
 
 Doctor Richards smiled, and shook his head. 
 
 " But — but a blunder may be made," resumed 
 Barton. " Suppose an ignorant pretender to medical 
 skill ; may Jie be so deceived by any stage of the 
 complaint, as to mistake what is only a part of the 
 orogress of the disease, for death itself? " 
 
The Watcher. 19 
 
 " No one who had ever seen death," answered he, 
 " could mistake it in the case of lock-jaw.'^ 
 
 Barton mused for a few minutes. " I am going- to 
 ask you a question, perhaps still more childish ; but 
 first tell me, are not the regulations of foreign hos- 
 pitals, such as those of, let us say, Lisbon, very lax 
 and bungling ? May not all kinds of blunders and 
 slips occur in their entries of names, and so forth ?" 
 
 Doctor Richards professed his inability to answer 
 that query. 
 
 " Well, then, doctor, here is the last of my questions. 
 You will probably laugh at it ; but it must out never- 
 theless. Is there any disease, in all the range of 
 human maladies, which would have the effect of 
 perceptibly contracting the stature, and the whole 
 frame — causing the man to shrink in all his propor- 
 tions, and yet to preserve his exact resemblance to 
 himself in every particular — with the one exception, 
 his height and bulk ; any disease, mark, no matter 
 how rare, how little believed in, generally, which 
 could possibly result in producing such an effect ?" 
 
 The physician replied with a smile, and a very 
 decided negative. 
 
 '^ Tell me, then," said Barton^ abruptl}', " if a man 
 be in reasonable fear of assault from a lunatic who is 
 at large, can he not procure a warrant for his arrest 
 and detention ? " 
 
 " Really, that is more a lawyer's question than one 
 C 2 
 
20 The Watcher, 
 
 in my way," replied Doctor Richards ; " but I believe, 
 on applying to a magistrate, such a course would be 
 directed/' 
 
 The physician then took his leave ; but, just as he 
 reached the hall-door, remembered that he had left 
 his cane upstairs, and returned. His reappearance 
 was awkward, for a piece of paper, which he recog- 
 nized as his own prescription, was slowly burning 
 upon the fire, and Barton sitting close by with an 
 expression of settled gloom and dismay. Doctor 
 Richards had too much tact to appear to observe 
 what presented itself; but he had seen quite enough 
 to assure him that the mind, and not the body, of 
 Captain Barton was in reality the seat of his sufferings 
 
 A few days afterwards, the following advertisement 
 appeared in the Dublin newspapers : — 
 
 " If Sylvester Yelland, formerly a foremast man on 
 board his Majesty's frigate DolpJiin, or his nearest of 
 kin, will apply to Mr. Robery Smith, solicitor, at his 
 office, Dame Street, he or they may hear of some- 
 thing greatly to his or their advantage. Admission 
 may be had at any hour up to twelve o'clock at night 
 for the next fortnight, should parties desire to avoid 
 observation ; and the strictest secrecy, as to all com- 
 munications intended to be confidential,, shall be 
 honourably observed." 
 
 The Dolphin^ as we have mentioned, was the vessel 
 which Captain Barton had commanded ; and this 
 
The Watcher. 21 
 
 circumstance, connected with the extraordinary 
 exertions made by the circulation of hand-bills, etc., 
 as well as by repeated advertisements, to secure for 
 this strancje notice the utmost possible publicity, 
 suggested to Doctor Richards the idea that Captain 
 Barton's extreme uneasiness was somehow connected 
 with the individual to whom the advertisement was 
 addressed, and he himself the author of it. This, 
 however, it is needless to add, was no more than a 
 conjecture. No information whatsoever, as to the 
 real purpose of the advertisement itself, was divulged 
 by the agent, nor yet any hint as to who his employer 
 might be. 
 
 Mr. Barton, although he had latterly begun to earn 
 for himself the character of a hypochondriac, was yet 
 very far from deserving it. Though by no means 
 lively, he had yet, naturally, what are termed " even 
 spirits,^' and was not subject to continual depressions. 
 He soon, therefore, began to return to his former 
 habits ; and one of the earliest symptoms of this 
 healthier tone of spirits was his appearing at a grand 
 dinner of the Freemasons, of which worthy fraternity 
 he was himself a brother. Barton, who had been at 
 first gloomy and abstracted, drank much more freely 
 than was his wont — possibly with the purpose of dis- 
 pelling his own secret anxieties — and under the 
 influence of good wine, and pleasant company, became 
 gradually (unlike his usual self) talkative, and even 
 
2 2 The Watcher. 
 
 noisy. It was under this unwonted excitement that 
 he left his company at about half-past ten o'clock ; 
 and as conviviality is a strong incentive to gal- 
 lantr)-, it occurred to him to proceed forthwith to 
 Lady Rochdale's, and pass the remainder of the 
 evening with her and his destined bride. 
 
 Accordingly, he was soon at Street, and chat- 
 ting gaily with the ladies. It is not to be supposed 
 that Captain Barton had exceeded the limits which 
 propriety prescribes to good fellowship ; he had 
 merely taken enough of wine to raise his spirits, 
 without, however, in the least degree unsteadying his 
 mind, or affecting his manners. With this undue 
 elevation of spirits had supervened an entire oblivion 
 or contempt of those undefined apprehensions which 
 had for so long weighed upon his mind, and to a cer- 
 tain extent estranged him from society; but as the 
 night wore away, and his artificial gaiety began to 
 flag, these painful feelings gradually intruded them- 
 selves again, and he grew abstracted and anxious as 
 heretofore. He took his leave at length, with an un- 
 pleasant foreboding of some coming mischief, and 
 with a mind haunted with a thousand mysterious 
 apprehensions, such as, even while he acutely felt 
 their pressure, he, nevertheless, inwardly strove, or 
 affected to contemn. 
 
 It was his proud defiance of what he considered to 
 be his own weakness which prompted him up on this 
 
The Watcher. 23 
 
 occasion to the course which brought about the ad- 
 venture which we are now about to relate. Mr. Barton 
 might have easily called a coach, but he was conscious 
 that his strong inclination to do so proceeded from 
 no cause other than what he desperately persisted in 
 representing to himself to be his own superstitious 
 tremors. He might also have returned home by a 
 route different from that against which he had been 
 warned by his mysterious correspondent ; but for the 
 same reason he dismissed this idea also^ and with a 
 dogged and half desperate resolution to force matters 
 to a crisis of some kind, to see if there were any reality 
 in the causes of his former suffering, and if not, satis- 
 factorily to bring their delusiveness to the proof, he 
 determined to follow precisely the course which he 
 had trodden upon the night so painfully memorable 
 in his own mind as that on which his strange perse- 
 cution had commenced. Though, sooth to say, the 
 pilot who for the first time steers his vessel under the 
 muzzles of a hostile battery never felt his resolution 
 more severely tasked than did Captain Barton, as he 
 breathlessly pursued this solitary path ; a path which, 
 spite of every effort of scepticism and reason, he felt 
 to be, as respected Jiim, infested by a malignant in- 
 fluence. 
 
 He pursued his way steadily and rapidly, scarcely 
 breathing from intensity of suspense ; he, however, 
 was troubled by no renewal of the dreaded footsteps , 
 
24 The Watcher. 
 
 and was beginning to feel a return of confidence, as, 
 more than three-fourths of the way being accom- 
 plished with impunity, he approached the long line 
 of twinkling oil lamps which indicated the frequented 
 streets. This feeling of self-congratulation was, how- 
 ever, but momentary. The report of a musket at 
 some two hundred yards behind him, and the whistle 
 of a bullet close to his head, disagreeably and start- 
 lingly dispelled it. His first impulse was to retrace 
 his steps in pursuit of the assassin ; but the road on 
 either side was, as we have said, embarrassed by the 
 foundations of a street, beyond which extended waste 
 fields, full of rubbish and neglected lime and brick 
 kilns, and all now as utterly silent as though no sound 
 had ever disturbed their dark and unsightly solitude. 
 The futility of attempting, single-handed, under such 
 circumstances, a search for the murderer, was ap- 
 parent, especially as no further sound whatever was 
 audible to direct his pursuit. 
 
 With the tumultuous sensations of one whose life 
 had just been exposed to a murderous attempt, and 
 whose escape has been the narrowest possible, Cap- 
 tain Barton turned, and without, however, quickening 
 his pace actually to a run, hurriedly pursued his way. 
 He had turned, as we have said, after a pause of a few 
 seconds, and had just commenced his rapid retreat, 
 when on a sudden he met the well-remembered little 
 man in the fur cap. The encounter was but mom en- 
 
The Watcher. 25 
 
 tarv. The fi^^ure was walking at the same exaggerated 
 pace, and with the same strange air of menace as 
 before ; and as it passed him, he thought he heard 
 it say, in a furious whisper, " Still alive, still alive ! " 
 
 The state of Mr. Barton's spirits began now to work 
 a corresponding alteration in his health and looks, 
 and to such a degree that it was impossible that the 
 change should escape general remark. For some 
 reasons, known but to himself, he took no step what- 
 soever to bring the attempt upon his life, which he 
 had so narrowly escaped, under the notice of the 
 authorities ; on the contrary, he kept it jealously to 
 himself ; and it was not for many weeks after the 
 occurrence that he mentioned it, and then in strict 
 confidence to a gentleman, the torments of his mind 
 at last compelled him to consult a friend. 
 
 Spite of his blue devils, however^ poor Barton, 
 having no satisfactory reason to render to the public 
 for any undue remissness in the attentions which his 
 relation to ^liss Montague required, was obliged to 
 exert himself, and present to the world a confident 
 and cheerful bearing. The true source of his suffer- 
 ings, and every circumstance connected with them, 
 he guarded with a reserve so jealous, that it seemed 
 dictated by at least a suspicion that the origin of his 
 strange persecution was known to himself, and that 
 it was of a nature which, upon his own account, he 
 could not or dare not disclose. 
 
26 The Watcher. 
 
 The mind thus turned in upon itself, and con- 
 stantly occupied with a haunting anxiety which it 
 dared not reveal, or confide to any human breast, 
 became daily more excited ; and, of course, more 
 vividly impressible, by a system of attack which 
 operated through the nervous system ; and in this 
 state he was destined to sustain, with increasing 
 frequency, the stealthy visitations of that apparition, 
 which from the first had seemed to possess so un- 
 earthly and terrible a hold upon his imagination. 
 
 It was about this time that Captain Barton called 
 upon the then celebrated preacher, Doctor Macklin, 
 with whom he had a slight acquaintance ; and an 
 extraordinary conversation ensued. The divine was 
 seated in his chambers in college, surrounded with 
 works upon his favourite pursuit and deep in theology, 
 when Barton was announced. There was something 
 at once embarrassed and excited in his manner, 
 which, along with his wan and haggard countenance, 
 impressed the student with the unpleasant conscious- 
 ness that his visitor must have recently suffered 
 terribly indeed to account for an alteration so strik- 
 ing, so shocking. 
 
 After the usual interchange of polite greeting, and 
 a few commonplace remarks, Captain Barton, who 
 obviously perceived the surprise which his visit had 
 excited, and which Doctor Macklin was unable wholly 
 
The Watcher, 27 
 
 to conceal^ interrupted a brief pause by remark- 
 in o- — 
 
 "This is a strange call, Doctor jNIacklin^ perhaps 
 scarcely warranted by an acquaintance so slight as 
 mine with you. I should not; under ordinary cir- 
 cumstances, have ventured to disturb you, but my 
 visit is neither an idle nor impertinent intrusion. I 
 am sure you will not so account it, when — " 
 
 Doctor Macklin interrupted him with assurances, 
 such as good breeding suggested, and Barton re- 
 sumed, — 
 
 " I am come to task your patience by asking your 
 advice. When I say your patience, I might, indeed, 
 say more ; I might have said your humanity, your 
 compassion ; for I have been, and am a great 
 sufferer." 
 
 " My dear sir," replied the churchman, " it will, 
 indeed, afford me infinite gratification if I can 
 give you comfort in any distress of mind, but — 
 but—" 
 
 " I know what you would say," resumed Barton, 
 quickly. " I am an unbeliever, and, therefore, in- 
 capable of deriving help from religion, but don't take 
 that for granted. At least you must not assume 
 that, however unsettled my convictions m^y be, I do 
 not feel a deep, a very deep, interest in the subject. 
 Circumstances have lately forced it upon my atten- 
 tion in such a way as to compel me to review the 
 
28 The Watcher. 
 
 whole question in a more candid and teachable spirit, 
 I believe, than I ever studied it in before." 
 
 " Your difficulties, I take it for granted, refer to 
 the evidences of revelation," suggested the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 '' Why — no — yes ; in fact I am ashamed to 
 say I have not considered even my objections 
 sufficiently to state them connectedly ; but — but 
 there is one subject on which I feel a peculiar 
 interest." 
 
 He paused again, and Doctor Macklin pressed him 
 to proceed. 
 
 " The fact is," said Barton, " whatever may be my 
 uncertainty as to the authenticity of what we are 
 taught to call revelation, of one fact I am deeply 
 and horribly convinced : that there does exist beyond 
 this a spiritual world — a system whose workings are 
 generally in mercy hidden from us — a system which 
 may be, and which is sometimes, partially and 
 terribly revealed. I am sure, I know," continued 
 Barton, with increasing excitement, "'there is a God 
 — a dreadful God — and that retribution follows guilt. 
 In ways, the most mysterious and stupendous; by 
 agencies, the most inexplicable and terrific ; there is 
 a spiritual system— great Heavens^ how frightfully I 
 have been convinced! — a system malignant, and in- 
 exorable, and omnipotent, under whose persecutions 
 I am, and have been, suffering the torments of the 
 
The Watcher. ic) 
 
 damned ! — yes, sir — yes — the fires and frenzy of 
 hell ! " 
 
 As Barton continued, his agitation became so 
 vehement that the divine was shocked and even 
 alarmed. The wild and excited rapidity with v/hich 
 he spoke, and, above all, the indefinable horror 
 which stamped his features, afforded a contrast to his 
 ordinary cool and unimpassioned self-possession, 
 striking and painful in the last degree. 
 
 " My dear sir," said Doctor Mack] in, after a brief 
 pause, " I fear you have been suffering much, indeed; 
 but I venture to predict that the depression under 
 which you labour will be found to originate in purely 
 physical causes, and that with a change of air and 
 the aid of a few tonics, your spirits will return, and 
 the tone of your mind be once more cheerful and 
 tranquil as heretofore. There was, after all, more 
 truth than we are quite willing to admit in the classic 
 theories which assigned the undue predominance of 
 any one affection of the mind to the undue action or 
 torpidity of one or other of our bodily organs. 
 Believe me, that a little attention to diet, exercise, 
 and the other essentials of health, under competent 
 direction, will make you as much yourself as you 
 can wish." 
 
 " Doctor Macklin," said Barton, with something 
 like a shudder, " I cannot delude myself with such a 
 hope. I have no hope to cling to but one, and that 
 
30 The Watcher. 
 
 is, that by some other spiritual agency more potent 
 than that which tortures me, it may be combated, 
 and I delivered. If this may not be, I am lost — now 
 and for ever lost/' 
 
 " But, Mr. Barton, you must remember," urged his 
 companion, " that others have suffered as you have 
 done, and — " 
 
 "No, no, no,'' interrupted he with irritability ; 
 " no, sir, I am not a credulous — far from a super- 
 stitious man. I have been, perhaps, too much the 
 reverse— too sceptical, too slow of belief; but unless 
 1 were one whom no amount of evidence could 
 convince, unless I were to contemn the repeated, the 
 perpetual evidence of my own senses, I am now — 
 now at last constrained to believe I have no escape 
 from the conviction, the overwhelming certainty, 
 that I am haunted and dogged, go where I may, by 
 — by a Demon." 
 
 There was an almost preternatural energy of 
 horror in Barton's face, as, with its damp and death- 
 like lineaments turned towards his companion, he 
 thus delivered himself. 
 
 "God help you, my poor friend!" said Doctor 
 Macklin, much shocked. " God help you ; for, in- 
 deed, you are a sufferer, however your sufferings may 
 have been caused." 
 
 " Ay, ay, God help me," echoed Barton sternly; 
 " but will He help me ? will He help me ? " 
 
The Watcher. 31 
 
 " Pray to Him ; pray in an humble and trusting 
 spirit," said he. 
 
 " Pray, pray," echoed he again ; " I can't pray ; I 
 could as easily move a mountain by an effort of my 
 will. I have not belief enough to pray ; there is 
 something within me that will not pray. You pre- 
 scribe impossibilities — literal impossibilities." 
 
 '' You will not find it so, if you will but try," said 
 Doctor Macklin. 
 
 " Try ! I have tried, and the attempt only fills 
 me with confusion and terror. I have tried in vain, 
 and more than in vain. The awful, unutterable idea 
 of eternity and infinity oppresses and maddens my 
 brain, whenever my mind approaches the contem- 
 plation of the Creator ; I recoil from the effort, scared, 
 confounded, terrified. I tell you, Doctor Macklin, 
 if I am to be saved, it must be by other means. The 
 idea of the Creator is to me intolerable ; my mind 
 cannot support it." 
 
 " Say, then, my dear sir," urged he, '^ say how 
 you would have me serve you. What you would 
 learn of me. What can I do or say to relieve 
 you ? " 
 
 " Listen to me first," replied Captain Barton, with 
 a subdued air, and an evident effort to suppress his 
 excitement ; " listen to me while I detail the circum- 
 stances of the terrible persecution under which my 
 life has become all but intolerable — a persecution 
 
32 The Watcher. 
 
 which has made me fear death and the world beyond 
 the grave as much as I have grown to hate exist- 
 ence.'* 
 
 Barton then proceeded to relate the circumstances 
 which we have already detailed, and then continued, — 
 "This has now become habitual — an accustomed 
 thing. I do not mean the actual seeing him in the 
 flesh ; thank God, that at least is not permitted daily. 
 Thank God, from the unutterable horrors of that 
 visitation I have been mercifully allowed intervals of 
 repose, though none of security ; but from the con- 
 sciousness that a malignant spirit is following and 
 watching me wherever I go, I have never, for a single 
 instant, a temporary respite : I am pursued with 
 blasphemies, cries of despair, and appalling hatred ; I 
 hear those dreadful sounds called after me as I turn 
 the corners of streets ; they come in the night-time 
 while I sit in my chamber alone ; they haunt me 
 everywhere, charging me with hideous crimes, and 
 1 — great God ! — threatening me with coming vengeance 
 I and eternal misery! Hush ! do you hear that?" he 
 I cried, with a horrible smile of triumph. " There — 
 V there, will that convince you ? " 
 
 The clergyman felt the chillness of horror irresis- 
 tibly steal over him, while, during the wail of a sudden 
 gust of wind, he heard, or fancied he heard, the 
 half articulate sounds of rage and derision mingling 
 in their sough. 
 
The Watcher. 
 
 33 
 
 " Well, what do you think of that ? " at length 
 Barton cried, drawing a long breath through his teeth- 
 
 " I heard the wind," said Doctor Macklin ; " what 
 should I think of it ? What is there remarkable 
 about it ? " 
 
 "THE PRINCE OF THE POWERS OF THE AIR ! " MUTTERED BARTON. 
 
 " The prince of the powers of the air," muttered 
 Barton, with a shudder. 
 
 " Tut, tut ! my dear sir ! " said the student, with an 
 effort to reassure himself; for though it was broad 
 daylight, there was nevertheless something disagree- 
 ably contagious in the nervous excitement under 
 
34 The Watcher. 
 
 which his visitor so obviously suffered. " You must 
 not give way to those wild fancies : you must resist 
 those impulses of the imagination." 
 
 "Ay, ay; 'resist the devil, and he will flee from 
 thee/ " said Barton, in the same tone ; " but hoiv 
 resist him ? Ay, there it is : there is the rub. What 
 — wJiat am I to do ? What can I do ? " 
 
 " My dear sir, this is fanc)'," said the man of folios ; 
 "you are your own tormentor.'" 
 
 " No, no, sir ; fancy has no part in it," answered 
 Barton, somewhat sternly. " Fancy, forsooth ! Was 
 it that made yon, as well as miC, hear, but this 
 moment, those appalling accents of hell ? Fancy, 
 indeed ! No, no." 
 
 " But you have seen this person frequently," said 
 the ecclesiastic ; '^ why have you not accosted or se- 
 cured him } Is it not somewhat precipitate, to say 
 no more, to assume, as you have done, the existence 
 of preternatural agency, when^ after all, everything 
 may be easily accountable, if only proper means were 
 taken to sift the matter." 
 
 " There are circumstances connected with this — this 
 appea7-ance,^^ said Barton, " which it were needless to 
 disclose, but which to me are proofs of its horrible 
 and unearthly nature. I know that the being who 
 haunts me is not man. I say I know this ; I could 
 prove it to your own conviction." He paused for a 
 minute, and then added, " And as to accosting it, I 
 
The Watcher. 
 
 35 
 
 dare not — I could not ! When I see it I am power- 
 less ; I stand in the gaze of djath, in the triumphant 
 presence of preter-human power and malignity ; my 
 strength, and faculties, and memory all forsake me. 
 Oh, God ! I fear, sir, you know not what you sp^ak 
 of Mercy, mercy ! heaven have pity on me ! " 
 
 He leaned his elbow on the table, and passed his 
 hand across his eyes, as if to exclude some image of 
 horror, muttering the last words of the sentence he 
 had just concluded, again and again. 
 
 " Dr. Macklin," he said, abruptly raising himself, 
 and looking full upon the clergyman with an im- 
 ploring eye, " I know you will do for me whatever 
 maybe done. You know now fully the circumstances 
 and the nature of the mysterious agency of which I 
 am the victim. I tell you I cannot help myself; I 
 cannot hope to escape ; I am utterly passive. I 
 conjure you, then, to weigh my case well, and if 
 anything may be done for me by vicarious suppli- 
 cation, by the intercession of the good, or by any aid 
 or influence whatsoever, I implore of you, I adjure 
 you in the name of the Most High, give me the 
 benefit of that influence, deliver me from the body of 
 this death ! Strive for me ; pity me ! I know you 
 will ; you cannot refuse this ; it is the purpose and 
 object of my visit. Send me away with some hope, 
 however little — some faint hope of ultimate deliver- 
 ance, and I will nerve myself to endure, from houj- 
 
 D 2 
 
36 The Watcher. 
 
 to hour, tba hideous dream into which my existence 
 is transformed/^ 
 
 Doctor Macklin assured him that all he could do 
 was to pray earnestly for him, and that so much he 
 would not fail to do. They parted with a hurried and 
 melancholy valediction. Barton hastened to the car- 
 riage which awaited him at the door, drew the blinds, 
 and drove away, while Dr. Macklin returned to his 
 chamber, to ruminate at leisure upon the strange 
 interview which had just interrupted his studies. 
 
 It was not to be expected that Captain Barton's 
 changed and eccentric habits should long escape 
 remark and discussion. Various were the theories 
 suggested to account for it. Some attributed the 
 alteration to the pressure of secret pecuniary embar- 
 rassments ; others to a repugnance to fulfil an en- 
 gagement into which he was presumed to have too 
 precipitately entered ; and others, again, to the sup- 
 posed incipiency of mental disease, which latter, 
 indeed, was the most plausible, as well as the most 
 generally received, of the hypotheses circulated in 
 the gossip of the day. 
 
 From the very commencement of this change, at 
 first so gradual in its advances. Miss Montague had, 
 of course, been aware of it. The intimacy involved 
 in their peculiar relation, as well as the near interest 
 which it inspired, afforded, in her case, alike oppor- 
 tunitv and motive for the successful exercise of that 
 
The Watcher. 37 
 
 keen and penetrating observation peculiar to the sex. 
 His visits became, at length, so interrupted, and his 
 manner, while they lasted, so abstracted, strange, 
 and agitated, that Lady Rochdale, after hinting her 
 anxiety and her suspicions more than once, at 
 length distinctly stated her anxiety, and pressed 
 for an explanation. The explanation was given, 
 and although its nature at first relieved the worst 
 solicitudes of the old lady and her niece, yet the 
 circumstances which attended it, and the really dread- 
 ful consequences which it obviously threatened as 
 regarded the spirits, and, indeed, the reason, of the 
 now wretched man who made the strange declaration, 
 were enough, upon a little reflection, to fill their 
 minds with perturbation and alarm. 
 
 General Montague, the young lady's father, at 
 length arrived. He had himself slightly known 
 Barton, some ten or twelve years previously, and 
 being aware of his fortune and connections, was dis- 
 posed to regard him as an unexceptionable and indeed 
 a most desirable match for his daughter. He laughed 
 at the story of Barton's supernatural visitations, and 
 lost not a moment in calling upon his intended son- 
 in-law. 
 
 " My dear Barton," he continued gaily, after a 
 little conversation, " my sister tells me that you are a 
 victim to blue devils in quite a new and original 
 shape." 
 
38 The Watcher. 
 
 Barton changed countenance, and sighed pro- 
 foundly. 
 
 " Come, come ; I protest this will never do," con- 
 tinued the General; "you are more like a man on 
 his way to the gallows than to the altar. These 
 devils have made quite a saint of you." 
 
 Barton made an effort to change the conversation. 
 
 "No, no, it won't do," said his visitor, laughing; 
 " I am resolved to say out what I have to say about 
 this magnificent mock mystery of yours. Come, 
 you must not be angry; but, really, it is too bad to 
 see you, at your time of life, absolutely frightened 
 into good behavour, like a naughty child, by a buga- 
 boo, and, as far as I can learn, a very particularly 
 contemptible one. Seriously, though, my dear 
 Barton, 1 have been a good deal annoyed at what 
 they tell me ; but, at the same time, thoroughly con- 
 vinced that there is nothing in the matter that may 
 not be cleared up, with just a little attention and 
 management, within a week at furthest." 
 
 " Ah, General, you do not know — " he began. 
 
 " Yes, but I do know quite enough to warrant my 
 confidence," interrupted the soldier. " I know that 
 all your annoyance proceeds from the occasional 
 appearance of a certain little man in a cap and great- 
 coat, with a red vest and bad countenance, who 
 follows you about, and pops upon you at the corners 
 of lanes, and throws you into ague fits. Now, my 
 
The Watcher. 39 
 
 dear fellow, I'll make it my business to catch this 
 mischievous little mountebank, and either beat him 
 into a jelly with my own hands, or have him whipped 
 through the town at the cart's tail." 
 
 " If you knew what I know," said Barton, with 
 gloomy agitation, " you would speak very differently. 
 Don't imagine that I am so weak and foolish as to 
 assume, without proof the most overwhelming, the 
 conclusion to which I have been forced. The proofs 
 are here, locked up here." As he spoke, he tapped 
 upon his breast, and with an anxious sigh continued 
 to walk up and down the room. 
 
 " Well, well, Barton," said his visitor, " I'll wager a 
 rump and a dozen I collar the ghost, and convince 
 yourself before many days are over." 
 
 He was running on in the same strain when he was 
 suddenly arrested, and not a little shocked, by ob- 
 serving Barton, who had approached the window, 
 stagger slowly back, like one who had received a 
 stunning blow — -his arm feebly extended towards the 
 street, his face and his very lips white as ashes — while 
 he uttered, " There — there - there ! " 
 
 General Montague started mechanically to his 
 feet, and, from tl^.e window of the drawing-room, 
 saw a figure corresponding, as well as his hurry 
 would permit him to discern^ with the description 
 of the person whose appearance so constantly and 
 dreadfully disturbed the repose of his friend. 
 
40 , The Watcher. 
 
 The figure was just turning from the rails of the 
 area upon which it had been leaning, and without 
 waiting to see more, the old gentleman snatched 
 his cane and hat, and rushed down the stairs 
 and into the street, in the furious hope of 
 securing the person, and punishing the audacity of 
 the mysterious stranger. He looked around him, but 
 in vain, for any trace of the form he had himself dis- 
 tinctly beheld. He ran breathlessly to the nearest 
 corner, expecting to see from thence the retreating 
 figure, but no such form was visible. Back and for- 
 ward, from crossing to crossing, he ran at fault, and 
 it was not until the curious gaze and laughing coun- 
 tenances of the passers-by reminded him of the 
 absurdity of his pursuit, that he checked his hurried 
 pace, lowered his walking-cane from the menacing 
 altitude which he had mechanically given it, adjusted 
 his hat, and walked composedly back again, inwardly 
 vexed and flurried. He found Barton pale and 
 trembling in every joint ; they both remained silent, 
 though under emotions very different. At last 
 Barton whispered, " You saw it ? " 
 
 " It ! — him — someone — you mean — to be sure I 
 did," replied Montague, testily. " But where is the 
 good or the harm of seeing him ? The fellow runs 
 like a lamplighter. I wanted to catch him, but he 
 had stolen away before I could reach the hall door. 
 However, it is no great matter ; next time, I dare 
 
The Watcher. 41 
 
 » 
 
 say, ril do better ; and, egad, if I once come within 
 reach of him, I'll introduce his shoulders to the 
 weight of my cane, in a way to make him cry 
 peccavi!' 
 
 Notwithstanding General Montague's undertakings 
 and exhortations, however, Barton continued to 
 suffer from the self-same unexplained cause. Go 
 how, when, or where he would, he was still constantly 
 dogged or confronted by the hateful being who had 
 established over him so dreadful and mysterious an 
 influence ; nowhere, and at no time, was he secure 
 against the odious appearance which haunted him 
 with such diabolical perseverance. His depression, 
 misery, and excitement became more settled and 
 alarming every day, and the mental agonies that 
 ceaselessly preyed upon him began at last so sensibly 
 to affect his general health, that Lady Rochdale and 
 General Montague succeeded (without, indeed, much 
 difficulty) in persuading him to try a short tour on 
 the Continent, in the hope that an entire change of 
 scene would, at all events, have the effect of breaking 
 through the influences of local association, which the 
 more sceptical of his friends assumed to be by no 
 means inoperative in suggesting and perpetuating 
 what they conceived to be a mere form of nervous 
 illusion. General Montague, moreover, was persuaded 
 that the figure which haunted his intended son-in- 
 law was by no means the creation of hisown imagina- 
 
42 The Watcher. 
 
 tion, but, on the contrary, a substantial form of flesh 
 and blood, animated by a spiteful and obstinate re- 
 solution, perhaps with some murderous object in per- 
 spective, to watch and follow the unfortunate gentle- 
 man. Even this hypothesis was not a very pleasant 
 one ; yet it was plain that if Barton could once be 
 convinced that there was nothing preternatural in 
 the phenomenon, which he had hitherto regarded in 
 that light, the affair would lose all its terrors in his 
 eyes, and wholly cease to exercise upon his health 
 and spirits the baneful influence which it had hitherto 
 done. He therefore reasoned, that if the annoyance 
 were actually escaped from by mere change of scene, 
 it obviously could not have originated in any super- 
 natural agency. 
 
 Yielding to their persuasions, Barton left Dublin 
 for England, accompanied by General Montague, 
 They posted rapidly to London, and thence to Dover, 
 whence they took the packet with a fair wind for 
 Calais. The General's confidence in the result of the 
 expedition on Barton's spirits had risen day by day 
 since their departure from the shores of Ireland ; for, 
 to the inexpressible relief and delight of the latter, he 
 had not, since then, so much as even once fancied a 
 repetition of those impressions which had, when at 
 home, drawn him gradually down to the very abyss 
 of horror and despair. This exemption from what 
 he had begun to regard as the inevitable condition of 
 
The Watcher, 43 
 
 his existence, and the sense of security which began to 
 pervade his mind, were inexpressibly delightful ; and 
 in the exultation of what he considered his deliver- 
 ance, he indulged in a thousand happy anticipations 
 for a future into which so lately he had hardly 
 dared to look. In short, both he and his com- 
 panion secretly congratulated themselves upon the 
 termination of that persecution which had been to 
 its immediate victim a source of such unspeakable 
 agony. 
 
 It was a beautiful day, and a crowd of idlers stood 
 upon the jetty to receive the packet, and enjoy the 
 bustle of the new arrivals. Montague walked a few 
 paces in advance of his friend, and as he made his 
 way through the crowd, a little man touched his arm, 
 and said to him, in a broad provincial /rt/t'Z.f, — 
 
 " Monsieur is walking too fast ; he will lose his 
 sick comrade in the throng, for, by my faith, the poor 
 gentleman seems to be fainting." 
 
 Montague turned quickly, and observed that Barton 
 did indeed look deadly pale. He hastened to his 
 side. 
 
 " My poor fellow, arc you ill ? " he asked anxiously. 
 
 The question was unheeded, and twice repeated, 
 ere Barton stammered, — 
 
 " I saw him — by , I saw him ! " 
 
 "////// / — who 1 — where .? — when did you see him ? — 
 where is he V cried Montague, looking around him. 
 
44 The Watcher. 
 
 " I saw him — but he is gone/' repeated Barton^ 
 faintly. 
 
 " But where — where ? For God's sake^ speak," 
 urged Montague, vehemently. 
 
 " It is but this moment — Jierc^' said he. 
 
 " But what did he look like ? — what had he on ? — 
 what did he wear .'' — quick, quick/' urged his excited 
 companion, ready to dart among the crowd, and collar 
 the delinquent on the spot, 
 
 '^ He touched your arm — he spoke to you — he 
 pointed to me. God be merciful to me, there is no 
 escape ! " said Barton, in the low, subdued tones of 
 intense despair. 
 
 Montague had already bustled away in all the 
 flurry of mingled hope and indignation ; but though 
 the singular persoiincl of the stranger who had 
 accosted him was vividly and perfectly impressed 
 upon his recollection, he failed to discover among the 
 crowd even the slightest resemblance to him. After 
 a fruitless search, in which he enlisted the services of 
 several of the bystanders, who aided all the more 
 zealously as they believed he had been robbed, he 
 at length, out of breath and baffled, gave over the 
 attempt. 
 
 " Ah, my friend, it won't do/' said Barton, with 
 the faint voice and bewildered, ghastly look of one 
 who has been stunned by some mortal shock ; "there 
 is no use in contending with it ; whatever it is, the 
 
The Watcher. 45 
 
 dreadful association between me and it is now esta- 
 blished ; I shall never escape — never, never!" 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, my dear fellow ; don't talk 
 so," said Montague, with something at once of irrita- 
 tion and dismay; "you must not; never mind, I 
 say — never mind, we'll jockey the scoundrel yet." 
 
 It was, however, but lost labour to endeavour 
 henceforward to inspire Barton with one ray of hope ; 
 he became utterly desponding. This intangible and, 
 as it seemed, utterly inadequate influence was fast 
 destroying his energies of intellect, character, and 
 health. His first object was now to return to Ireland, 
 there, as he believed, and now almost hoped, speedily 
 to die. 
 
 To Ireland, accordingly, he came, and one of the 
 first faces he saw upon the shore was again that of 
 his implacable and dreaded persecutor. Barton 
 seemed at last to have lost not only all enjoyment 
 and every hope in existence, but all independence of 
 will besides. He now submitted himself passively 
 to the management of the friends most nearly in- 
 terested in his welfare. With the apathy of entire 
 despair, he implicitly assented to whatever measures 
 they suggested and advised ; and, as a last resource, 
 it was determined to remove him to a house of 
 Lady Rochdale's in the neighbourhood of Clontarf, 
 where, with the advice of his medical attendant (who 
 persisted in his opinion that the whole train of im- 
 
46 The Watcher. 
 
 pressions resulted merely from some nervous derange- 
 ment) it was resolved that he was to confine himself 
 strictly to the house, and to make use only of those 
 apartments which commanded a view of an enclosed 
 yard, the gates of which were to be kept jealously 
 locked. These precautions would at least secure him 
 against the casual appearance of any living form 
 which his excited imagination might possibly con- 
 found with the spectre which, as it was contended, 
 his fancy recognized in every figure that bore even 
 a distant or general resemblance to the traits with 
 which he had at first invested it. A month or six 
 weeks' absolute seclusion under these conditions, it 
 was hoped, might, by interrupting the series of these 
 terrible impressions, gradually dispel the predisposing 
 apprehension, and eiTectually break up the associa- 
 tions which had confirmed the supposed disease, and 
 rendered recovery hopeless. Cheerful society and 
 that of his friends was to be constantly supplied, and 
 on the whole, very sanguine expectations were in- 
 dulged in, that under this treatment the obstinate 
 hypochondria of the patient might at length give way. 
 Accompanied, therefore, by Lady Rochdale, Gene- 
 ral Montague, and his daughter — his own affianced 
 bride — poor Barton, himself never daring to cherish 
 a hope of his ultimate emancipation from the strange 
 horrors under which his life was literally wasting 
 away, took possession of the apartments whose situa- 
 
The Watcher. 47 
 
 tion protected hitn against the dreadful intrusions 
 from which he shrank with such unutterable 
 terror. 
 
 After a little time, a steady persistence in this 
 system began to manifest its results in a very marked 
 though gradual improvement alike in the health and 
 spirits of the invalid. Not, indeeJ, tliat anything at 
 all approaching to complete recovery was yet dis- 
 cernible. On the contrary, to those who had not 
 seen him since the commencement of his strange 
 sufferings, such an alteration would have been appa- 
 rent as might well have shocked them. The im- 
 provement, however, such as it was, was welcomed 
 with gratitude and delight, especially by the poor 
 young lady, whom her attachment to him, as well as 
 her now singularly painful position, consequent on 
 his mysterious and protracted illness, rendered an 
 object of pity scarcely one degree less to be com- 
 miserated than himself 
 
 A week passed — a fortnight— a month — and yet 
 no recurrence of the hated visitation had agitated 
 and terrified him as before. The treatment had, so 
 far, been followed by complete success. The chain 
 of association had been broken. The constant 
 pressure upon the overtasked spirits had been re- 
 moved, and, under these comparatively favourable 
 circumstances, the sense of social community with 
 the world about him, and something of human 
 
48 The Watcher. 
 
 interest, if not of enjoyment, began to reanimate hij 
 mind. 
 
 It was about this time that Lady Rochdale, who, 
 like most old ladies of the day, was deep in family 
 receipts, and a great pretender to medical science, 
 being engaged in the concoction of certain unpala- 
 table mixtures of marvellous virtue, despatched her 
 own maid to the kitchen garden with a list of herbs 
 which were there to be carefully culled and brought 
 back to her for the purpose stated. The hand- 
 maiden, however, returned with her task scarce half- 
 completed, and a good deal flurried and alarmed. 
 Her mode of accounting for her precipitate retreat 
 and evident agitation was odd, and to the old lady 
 unpleasantly startling. 
 
 It appeared that she had repaired to the kitchen 
 garden, pursuant to her mistress's directions, and had 
 there begun to make the specified selection among 
 the rank and neglected herbs which crowded one 
 corner of the enclosure, and while engaged in this 
 pleasant labour she carelessly sang a fragment of an 
 old song, as she said, " to keep herself company." 
 She was, however, interrupted by a sort of mocking 
 echo of the air she was singing ; and looking up, she 
 saw through the old thorn hedge, which surrounded 
 the garden, a singularly ill-looking, little man, whose 
 countenance wore the stamp of menace and malignity, 
 standing close to her at the other side of the haw- 
 
The Watcher. 49 
 
 thorn screen. She described herself as utterly unable 
 to move or speak, while he charged her with a message 
 for Captain Barton, the substance of which she dis- 
 tinctly remembered to have been to the effect that 
 he, Captain Barton, must come abroad as usual", and 
 show himself to his friends out of doors, or else pre- 
 pare for a visit in his own chamber. On concluding 
 this brief message, the stranger had, with a threaten- 
 ing air, got down into the outer ditch, and seizing 
 the hawthorn stems in his hands, seemed on the point 
 of climbing through the fence, a feat which might 
 have been accomplished without much difficulty. 
 Without, of course, awaiting this result, the girl, 
 throwing down her treasures of thyme and rosemary, 
 had turned and run, with the swiftness of terror, to 
 the house. Lady Rochdale commanded her, on pain 
 of instant dismissal, to observe an absolute silence re- 
 specting all that portion of the incident which related 
 to Captain Barton ; and, at the same time, directed 
 instant search to be made by her men in the garden 
 and fields adjacent. This measure, however, was 
 attended with the usual unsuccess, and filled with 
 fearful and indefinable misgivings, Lady Rochdale 
 communicated the incident to her brother. The story, 
 however, until long afterwards, went no further, and 
 of course it was jealously guarded from Barton, 
 who continued to mend, though slowly and imper- 
 fectly. 
 
 E 
 
50 The Watcher. 
 
 Barton now began to walk occasionally in the court- 
 yard which we have mentioned, and which, being 
 surrounded by a high wall, commanded no view 
 beyond its own extent. Here he, therefore, con- 
 sidered himself perfectly secure ; and, but for a 
 careless violation of orders by one of the grooms, he 
 might have enjoyed, at least for some time longer, 
 his much-prized immunity. Opening upon the public 
 road, this yard was entered by a wooden gate, with a 
 wicket in it, which was further defended by an iron 
 gate upon the outside. Strict orders had been given 
 to keep them carefully locked ; but, in spite of these, 
 it had happened that one day, as Barton was slowly 
 pacing this narrow enclosure, in his accustomed walk, 
 and reaching the further extremity, was turning to 
 retrace his steps, he saw the boarded wicket ajar, and 
 the face of his tormentor immovably looking at him 
 through the iron bars. For a few seconds he stood 
 riveted to the earth, breathless and bloodless, in the 
 fascination of that dreaded gaze, and then fell help- 
 lessly upon the pavement. 
 
 There was he found a few minutes afterwards, and 
 conveyed to his room, the apartment which he was never 
 afterwards to leave alive. Henceforward, a marked 
 and unaccountable change was observable in the tone 
 of his mind. Captain Barton was now no longer the 
 excited and despairing man he had been before ; a 
 strange alteration had passed upon him, an unearthly 
 
The Watcher. 51 
 
 tranquillity reigned in his mind ; it was the anticipated 
 stillness of the grave. 
 
 " Montague^ my friend, this struggle is nearly ended 
 now," he said, tranquilly, but with a look of fixed and 
 fearful awe. " I have, at last, some comfort from that 
 world of spirits, from which my punishment has come. 
 I know now that my sufferings will be soon over." 
 
 Montague pressed him to speak on. 
 
 " Yes," said he, in a softened voice, " my punish- 
 ment is nearly ended. From sorrow perhaps I 
 shall never, in time or eternity, escape ; but my agony 
 is almost over. Comfort has been revealed to me, 
 and what remains of my allotted struggle I will bear 
 with submission, even with hope." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you speak so tranquilly, my 
 dear fellow," said Montague ; " peace and cheerful- 
 ness of mind are all you need to make you what you 
 were." 
 
 " No, no, I never can be that," said he, mournfully. 
 " I am no longer fit for life. I am soon to die : I do 
 not shrink from death as I did. I am to see him but 
 once again, and then all is ended." 
 
 "He said so, then ? " suggested Montague. 
 
 ''He? No, no ; good tidings could scarcely come 
 through him ; and these were good and welcome ; 
 and they came so solemnly and sweetly, with unutter- 
 able love and melancholy, such as I could not, with- 
 out saying more than is needful or fitting, of other 
 
 E 2 
 
52 The Watcher. 
 
 long-past scenes and persons, fully explain to you." 
 As Barton said this he shed tears. 
 
 " Come, come," said Montague, mistaking the 
 source of his emotions, " you must not give way. 
 What is it, after all, but a pack of dreams and non- 
 sense ; or, at worst, the practices of a scheming rascal 
 that enjoys his power of playing upon your nerves, 
 and loves to exert it ; a sneaking vagabond that owes 
 you a grudge, and pays it off this way, not daring to 
 try a more manly one." 
 
 " A grudge, indeed, he owes me ; you say rightly," 
 said Barton, with a sullen shudder ; " a grudge as you 
 call it. Oh, God ! when the justice of heaven permits 
 the Evil One to carry out a scheme of vengeance, when 
 its execution is committed to the lost and frightful 
 victim of sin, who owes his own ruin to the man, the 
 very man, whom he is commissioned to pursue ; then, 
 indeed, the torments and terrors of hell are anticipated 
 on earth. But heaven has dealt mercifully with me : 
 hope has opened to me at last ; and if death could come 
 without the dreadful sight I am doomed to see, I would 
 gladly close my eyes this moment upon the world. But 
 though death is welcome, I shrink with an agony you 
 cannot understand ; a maddening agony, an actual 
 frenzy of terror, from the last encounter with that — 
 that DEMON, who has drawn me thus to the 
 verge of the chasm, and who is himself to plunge 
 me down. I am to see him again, once more, but 
 
The Watcher. 53 
 
 under circumstances unutterably more terrific than 
 ever." 
 
 As Barton thus spoke, he trembled so violently that 
 Montague was really alarmed at the extremity of his 
 sudden agitation, and hastened to lead him back to 
 the topic which had before seemed to exert so tran- 
 quillizing an effect upon his mind. 
 
 " It was not a dream," he said, after a time ; '^ I 
 was in a different state, I felt differently and 
 strangely ; and yet it was all as real, as clear and vivid, 
 as what I now see and hear ; it was a reality." 
 
 "And what did you see and hear?" urged his 
 companion. 
 
 " When I awakened from the swoon I fell into on 
 seeing himl' said Barton, continuing, as if he had not 
 heard the question, " it was slowly, very slowly ; I 
 was reclining by the margin of a broad lake, sur- 
 rounded by misty hills, and a soft, melancholy, rose- 
 coloured light illuminated it all. It was indescribably 
 sad and lonely, and yet more beautiful than any 
 earthly scene. My head was leaning on the lap of a 
 girl, and she was singing a strange and wondrous 
 song, that told, I know not how, whether by words 
 or harmony, of all my life, all that is past, and all 
 that is still to come. And with the song the old feel- 
 ings that I thought had perished within me came 
 back, and tears flowed from my eyes, partly for the 
 song and its mysterious beauty, and partly for the 
 
54 The Watcher. 
 
 unearthly sweetness of her voice ; j'et I know the 
 voice, oh ! how well ; and I was spell-bound as I 
 listened and looked at the strange and solitary 
 scene, without stirring, almost without breathing, 
 and, alas ! alas ! without turning my eyes toward the 
 face that I knew was near me, so sweetly powerful 
 was the enchantment that held me. And so, slowly 
 and softly, the song and scene grew fainter, and ever 
 fainter, to my senses, till all was dark and still 
 again. And then I wakened to this world, as you 
 saw, comforted, for I knew that I was forgiven 
 much." Barton wept again long and bitterly. 
 
 From this time, as we have said, the prevailing 
 tone of his mind was one of profound and tranquil 
 melancholy. This, however, was not without its in- 
 terruptions. He was thoroughly impressed with the 
 conviction that he was to experience another and a 
 final visitation, illimitably transcending in horror all 
 he had before experienced. From this anticipated 
 and unknown agony he often shrunk in such 
 paroxysms of abject terror and distraction, as filled 
 the whole household with dismay and superstitious 
 panic. Even those among them who affected to dis- 
 credit the supposition of preternatural agency in the 
 matter, were often in their secret souls visited during 
 the darkness and solitude of night with qualms and 
 apprehensions which they would not have readily 
 confessed ; and none of them attempted to dissuade 
 
The Watcher. 55 
 
 Barton from the resolution on which he now systema- 
 tically acted, of shutting himself up in his own apart- 
 ment. The window-blinds of this room were kept 
 jealously down ; and his own man was seldom out of 
 his presence, day or night, his bed being placed in 
 the same chamber. 
 
 This man was an attached and respectable servant ; 
 and his duties, in addition to those ordinarily im- 
 posed upon valets, but which Barton's independent 
 habits generally dispensed with, were to attend care- 
 fully to the simple precautions by means of which 
 his master hoped to exclude the dreaded intrusion of 
 the "Watcher," as the strange letter he had at first 
 received had designated his persecutor. And, in 
 addition to attending to these arrangements, which 
 consisted merely in anticipating the possibility of his 
 master's being, through any unscreened window or 
 opened door, exposed to the dreaded influence, the 
 valet was never to suffer him to be for one moment 
 alone : total solitude, even for a minute, had become 
 to him now almost as intolerable as the idea of going 
 abroad into the public ways ; it was an instinctive 
 anticipation of what was coming. 
 
 It is needless to say, that, under these mysterious 
 and horrible circumstances, no steps were taken to- 
 ward the fulfilment of that engagement into which he 
 had entered. There was quite disparity enough in 
 point of years, and indeed of habits, between the 
 
56 The Watcher. 
 
 young lady and Captain Barton, to have precluded 
 anything like very vehement or romantic attachment 
 on her part. Though grieved and anxious, there- 
 fore, she was very far from being heart-broken ; a 
 circumstance which, for the sentimental purposes of 
 our tale, is much to be deplored. But truth must be 
 told, especially in a narrative whose chief, if not 
 only, pretensions to interest consist in a rigid 
 adherence to facts, or what are so reported to have 
 been. 
 
 Miss Montague, nevertheless, devoted much of her 
 time to a patient but fruitless attempt to cheer the 
 unhappy invalid. She read for him, and conversed 
 with him ; but it was apparent that whatever exer- 
 tions he made, the endeavour to escape from the one 
 constant and ever-present fear that preyed upon him 
 was utterly and miserably unavailing. 
 
 Young ladies, as all the world knows, are much 
 given to the cultivation of pets ; and among those 
 who shared the favour of Miss Montague was a fine 
 old owl, which the gardener, who caught him nap- 
 ping among the ivy of a ruined stable, had dutifully 
 presented to that young lady. 
 
 The caprice which regulates such preferences was 
 manifested in the extravagant favour with which this 
 grim and ill-favoured bird was at once distinguished 
 by his mistress ; and, trifling as this whimsical 
 circumstance may seem, I am forced to mention it, 
 
The Watcher, 57 
 
 inasmuch as it is connected, oddly enough, with the 
 concluding scene of the story. Barton, so far from 
 sharing in this liking for the new favourite, regarded 
 it from the first with an antipathy as violent as it 
 was utterly unaccountable. Its very vicinity was in- 
 supportable to him. He seemed to hate and dread 
 it with a vehemence absolutely laughable, and to 
 those who have never witnessed the exhibition of 
 antipathies of this kind, his dread would seem all but 
 incredible. 
 
 With these few words of preliminary explanation, 
 I shall proceed to state the particulars of the last 
 scene in this strange series of incidents. It was 
 almost two o'clock one winter's night, and Barton 
 was, as usual at that hour, in his bed ; the servant 
 we have mentioned occupied a smaller bed in the 
 same room, and a candle was burning. The man 
 waL on a sudden aroused by his master, who said, — 
 
 " I can't get it out of my head that that accursed 
 bird has escaped somehow, and is lurking in some 
 corner of the room. I have been dreaming of him. 
 Get up, Smith, and look about; search for him. 
 Such hateful dreams ! " 
 
 The servant rose, and examined the chamber, and 
 while engaged in so doing, he heard the well-known 
 sound, more like a long-drawn gasp than a hiss, with 
 which these birds from their secret haunts affright 
 the quiet of the night. This ghostly indication of its 
 
58 The Watcher. 
 
 proximity, for the sound proceeded from the passage 
 upon which Barton's chamber-door opened, deter- 
 mined the search of the serv^ant, who, opening the 
 door, proceeded a step or two forward for the purpose 
 of driving the bird away. He had, however, hardly 
 entered the lobby, when the door behind him slowly 
 swung to under the impulse, as it seemed, of some 
 gentle current of air ; but as immediately over the 
 door there was a kind of window, intended in the 
 daytime to aid in lighting the passage, and through 
 which the rays of the candle were then issuing, the 
 valet could see quite enough for his purpose. As he 
 advanced he heard his master (who^ lying in a well- 
 curtained bed had not, as it seemed, perceived his 
 exit from the room) call him by name, and direct him 
 to place the candle on the table by his bed. The 
 servant, who was now some way in the long passage, 
 did not like to raise his voice for the purpose of reply- 
 ing, lest he should startle the sleeping inmates of the 
 house, began to walk hurriedly and softly back again, 
 when, to his amazement, he heard a voice in the 
 interior of the chamber answering calmly, and the man 
 actually saw, through the window which over-topped 
 the door, that the light was slowly shifting, as if 
 carried across the chamber in answer to his master's 
 call. Palsied by a feeling akin to terror, yet not un- 
 mingled with a horrible curiosity, he stood breathless 
 and listening at the threshold, unable to summon 
 
The Watcher. 59 
 
 resolution to push open the door and enter. Then 
 came a rusthng of the curtains, and a sound like that 
 of one who in a low voice hushes a child to rest, in 
 the midst of which he heard Barton say, in a tone 
 of stifled horror — '^ Oh, God — oh, my God ! " and 
 repeat the same exclamation several times. Then 
 ensued a silence, which again was broken by the 
 same strange soothing sound ; and at last there burst 
 forth, in one swelling peal, a yell of agony so appal- 
 ling and hideous, th it^ under some impulse of un- 
 governable horror, the man rushed to the door, and 
 with his whole strength strove to force it open. 
 Whether it was that, in his agitation, he had himself 
 but imperfectly turned the handle, or that the door was 
 really secured upon the inside^ he failed to effect an 
 entrance; and as he tugged and pushed, yell after 
 yell rang louder and wilder through the chamber, 
 accompanied all the while by the same hushing 
 sounds. Actually freezing with terror, and scarce 
 knowing what he did, the man turned and ran down 
 the passage, wringing his hands in the extremity of 
 horror and irresolution. At the stair-head he was en- 
 countered by General Montague, scared and eager, 
 and just as they met the fearful sounds had ceased. 
 
 " What is it ? — who — where is your master .'' " said 
 Montague, with the incoherence of extreme agita- 
 tion. " Has anything — for God's sake, is anything 
 wrong } " 
 
6o The Watcher. 
 
 " Lord have mercy on us, it's all over," said the 
 man, staring wildly towards his master's chamber. 
 " He's dead, sir ; I'm sure he's dead." 
 
 Without waiting for inquiry or explanation, Mon- 
 tague, closely followed by the servant, hurried to the 
 chamber-door, turned the handle, and pushed it open. 
 As the door yielded to his pressure, the ill-omened 
 bird of which the servant had been in search, uttering 
 its spectral warning, started suddenly from the far 
 side of the bed, and flying through the doorway close 
 over their heads, and extinguishing, in its passage, 
 the candle which Montague carried, crashed through 
 the skylight that overlooked the lobby, and sailed 
 away into the darkness of the outer space. 
 
 "There it is, God bless us ! " whispered the man, 
 after a breathless pause. 
 
 " Curse that bird !" muttered the general, startled 
 by the suddenness of the apparition, and unable to 
 conceal his discomposure. 
 
 " The candle was moved," said the man, after 
 another breathless pause ; " see, they put it by the 
 bed ! " 
 
 " Draw the curtains, fellow, and don't stand gaping 
 there," whispered Montague, sternly. 
 
 The man hesitated. 
 
 " Hold this, then," said Montague, impatiently, 
 thrusting the candlestick into the servant's hand ; and 
 himself advancing to the bedside, he drew the cur- 
 
The Watcher. 
 
 6i 
 
 tarns apart. The light of the candle, which was still 
 burning at the bedside, fell upon a figure huddled 
 together, and half upright, at the head of the bed. 
 It seemed as though it had shrunk back as far as the 
 
 — *g|p^. 
 
 EXTINGUISHING IN ITS PASSAGE THE CANDLE WHICH MONTAGUE 
 CARRIED, 
 
 solid panelling would allow, and the hands were still 
 clutched in the bed-clothes. 
 
 " Barton, Barton, Barton ! " cried the general, with 
 a strange mixture of awe and vehemence. 
 
 He took the candle, and held it so that it shone full 
 
62 The Watcher. 
 
 upon his face. The features were fixed, stern and 
 white ; the jaw was fallen, and the sightless eyes, 
 still open, gazed vacantly forward toward the front 
 of the bed. 
 
 " God Almighty, he's dead ! " muttered the general, 
 as he looked upon this fearful spectacle. They both 
 continued to gaze upon it in silence for a minute or 
 more. " And cold, too," said Montague, withdrawing 
 his hand from that of the dead man. 
 
 " And see, see ; may I never have life, sir," added 
 the man, after another pause, with a shudder, '* but 
 there was something else on the bed with him ! 
 Look there— look there ; see that, sir ! " 
 
 As the man thus spoke, he pointed to a deep in- 
 denture, as if caused by a heavy pressure, near the 
 foot of the bed. 
 
 Montague was silent. 
 
 '^ Come, sir, come away, for God's sake ! ^' whispered 
 the man, drawing close up to him, and holding fast 
 by his arm, while he glanced fearfully round ; " what 
 good can be done here now ? — come away, for God's 
 sake 1 " 
 
 At this moment they heard the steps of more than 
 one approaching, and Montague, hastily desiring the 
 servant to arrest their progress, endeavoured to loose 
 the rigid grip with which the fingers of the dead man 
 were clutched in the bed-clothes, and drew, as well as 
 he was able, the awful figure into a reclining posture. 
 
The Watcher. 63 
 
 Then closing the curtains carefully upon it, he hastened 
 himself to meet those who were approaching. 
 
 It is needless to follow the personages so slightly 
 connected with this narrative into the events of their 
 after lives ; it is enough for us to remark that no clue 
 to the solution of these mysterious occurrences was 
 ever afterwards discovered ; and so long an interval 
 having now passed, it is scarcely to be expected that 
 time can throw any new light upon their inexplicable 
 obscurity. Until the secrets of the earth shall be 
 no longer hidden these transactions must remain 
 shrouded in mystery. 
 
 The only occurrence in Captain Barton's former 
 life to which reference was ever made, as having any 
 possible connection with the sufferings with which his 
 existence closed, and which he himself seemed to re- 
 gard as working out a retribution for some grievous sin 
 of his past life, was a circumstance which not for 
 several years after his death was brought to light. 
 The nature of this disclosure was painful to his rela- 
 tives and discreditable to his memory. 
 
 It appeared, then^ that some eight years before 
 Captain Barton's final return to Dublin, he had 
 formed, in the town of Plymouth, a guilty attach- 
 ment, the object of which was the daughter of one of 
 the ship's crew under his command. The father had 
 visited the frailty of his unhappy child with extreme 
 
64 The Watcher. 
 
 harshness, and even brutality, and it was said that she 
 had died heart-broken. Presuming upon Barton's 
 implication in her guilt, this man had conducted him- 
 self towards him with marked insolence, and Barton 
 resented this — and what he resented with still more 
 exasperated bitterness, his treatment of the unfortu- 
 nate girl — by a systematic exercise of those terrible 
 and arbitrary severities with which theregulationsofthe 
 navy arm those who are responsible for its discipline. 
 The man had at length made his escape, while the 
 vessel was in port at Lisbon, but died, as it was said, 
 in an hospital in that town, of the wounds inflicted in 
 one of his recent and sanguinary punishments. 
 
 Whether these circumstances in reality bear or not 
 upon the occurrences of Barton's after-life, it is of 
 course impossible to say. It seems, however, more 
 than probable that they were, at least in his own 
 mind, closely associated with them. But however 
 the truth may be as to the origin and motives of this 
 mysterious persecution, there can be no doubt that, 
 with respect to the agencies by which it was accom- 
 plished, absolute and impenetrable mystery is like to 
 prevail until the day of doom. 
 
KJSt.QSY -f ^^ Xx\x^:^amx^^^^^ 
 
 The following paper is written in a female hand, and 
 was no doubt communicated to my much regretted 
 friend by the lady whose early history It serves to 
 
 illustrate, the Countess D . She is no more — she 
 
 long since died, a childless and a widowed wife, and, 
 as her letter sadly predicts, none survive to whom the 
 publication of this narrative can prove " injurious, or 
 even painful." Strange ! two powerful and wealthy 
 families, that in which she was born, and that into 
 which she had married, are utterly extinct. 
 
 To those who know anything of the history of 
 
 F 
 
66 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 Irish families, as they were less than a century ago, 
 the facts which immediately follow will at once sug- 
 gest the names of the principal actors ; and to others 
 their publication would be useless — to us, possibly, if 
 not probably injurious. I have therefore altered 
 such of the names as might, if stated, get us into 
 difficulty ; others, belonging to minor characters in the 
 strange story, I have left untouched. 
 
 My dear Friend, — You have asked me to furnish 
 you with a detail of the strange events which marked 
 my early history, and I have, without hesitation, 
 applied myself to the task, knowing that, while I live, 
 a kind consideration for my feelings will prevent you 
 giving publicity to the statement ; and conscious 
 that, when I am no more, there will not survive one 
 to whom the narrative can prove injurious, or even 
 painful. 
 
 My mother died when I was quite an infant, and 
 of her I have no recollection, even the faintest. By 
 her death, my education and habits were left solely 
 to the guidance of my surviving parent ; and, so far as 
 a stern attention to my religious instruction, and an 
 active anxiety evinced by his procuring for me the 
 best masters to perfect me in those accomplishments 
 which my station and wealth might seem to require, 
 could avail, he amply discharged the task. 
 
 My father was what is called an oddity, and his 
 
of an Irish Countess. 67 
 
 treatment of me, though uniformly kind, flowed less 
 from affection and tenderness than from a sense of 
 obligation and duty. Indeed, I seldom even spoke 
 to him except at meal-times, and then his manner 
 was silent and abrupt ; his leisure hours, which were 
 many, were passed either in his study or in solitary 
 walks ; in short, he seemed to take no further interest 
 in my happiness or improvement than a conscientious 
 regard to the discharge of his own duty would seem 
 to claim. 
 
 Shortlybeforemy birth,a circumstance had occurred 
 which had contributed much to form and to confirm 
 my father's secluded habits— it was the fact that a 
 suspicion of murder had fallen upon his younger 
 brother, a suspicion not sufficiently definite to lead to 
 an indictment, yet strong enough to ruin him in 
 public opinion. 
 
 This disgraceful and dreadful doubt cast upon the 
 family name my father felt deeply and bitterly, and 
 not the less so that he himself was thoroughly con- 
 vinced of his brother's innocence. The sincerity and 
 strength of this impression he shortly afterwards 
 proved in a manner which produced the dark events 
 which follow. Before, however, I enter upon the state- 
 ment of them, I ought to relate the circumstances which 
 had awakened the suspicion ; inasmuch as they are in 
 themselves somewhat curious, and, in their effects, 
 most intimately connected with my after history. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 My uncle, Sir Arthur T n, was a gay and extra- 
 vagant man, and, among other vices, was ruinously 
 addicted to gaming ; this unfortunate propensity, 
 even after his fortune had suffered so severely as 
 to render inevitable a reduction in his expenses by 
 no means inconsiderable, nevertheless continued to 
 actuate him, almost to the exclusion of all other 
 pursuits. He was a proud, or rather a vain man, 
 and could not bear to' make the diminution of 
 his income a matter of gratulation and triumph to 
 those with whom he had hitherto competed ; and the 
 consequence was that he frequented no longer the 
 expensive haunts of dissipation, and retired from the 
 gay world, leaving his coterie to discover his reasons 
 as best they might. 
 
 He did not, however, forego his favourite vice, for, 
 though he could not worship his divinity in the 
 costly temples where it was formerly his wont to take 
 his stand, yet he found it very possible to bring about 
 him a sufficient number of the votaries of chance to 
 answer all his ends. The consequence was that 
 Carrickleigh, which was the name of my uncle's 
 residence, was never without one or more of such 
 reckless visitors. 
 
 It happened that upon one occasion he was visited 
 by one Hugh Tisdall — a gentleman of loose habits 
 but of considerable wealth — who had, in early 
 youth, travelled with my uncle upon the Continent. 
 
of an IrisJi Countess. 69 
 
 The period of his visit was winter,, and, consequently, 
 the house was nearly deserted except by its regular 
 inmates ; Mr. Tisdall was therefore highly acceptable, 
 particularly as my uncle was aware that his visitor's 
 tastes accorded exactly with his own. 
 
 Both parties seemed determined to avail themselves 
 of their suitability during the brief sta}' which Mr. 
 Tisdall had promised ; the consequence was that they 
 shut themselves up in Sir Arthur's private room for 
 nearl}' all the day and the greater part of the night, 
 during the space of nearly a week. At the end of 
 this period the servant having one morning, as usual, 
 knocked at Mr. Tisdall's bedroom door repeatedly, 
 received no answer, and, upon attempting to enter, 
 found that it was locked. This appeared suspicious, 
 and the inmates of the house having been alarmed, 
 the door was forced open, and, on proceeding to the 
 bed, they found the body of its occupant perfectly 
 lifeless, and hanging half-way out, the head down- 
 wards, and near the floor. One deep wound had 
 been inflicted upon the temple, apparently with some 
 blunt instrument, which had penetrated the brain ; 
 and another blow less efl"ective, probably the first 
 aimed, had grazed the head, removing some of the 
 scalp, but leaving the skull untouched. The door 
 had been double-locked upon the inside, in evidence 
 of which the key still lay where it had been placed in 
 the lock. 
 
/O Passage in the Secret History 
 
 The window, though not secured on the interior, 
 was closed — a circumstance not a little puzzling, as 
 it afforded the only other mode of escape from the 
 room ; it looked out, too, upon a kind of courtyard, 
 round which the old buildings stood, formerly acces- 
 sible by a narrow doorway and passage lying in the 
 oldest side of the quadrangle, but which had since 
 been built up, so as to preclude all ingress or egress. 
 The room was also upon the second story, and the 
 height of the window considerable. Near the bed 
 were found a pair of razors belonging to the murdered 
 man, one of them upon the ground and both of them 
 open. The weapon which had inflicted the mortal 
 wound was not to be found in the room, nor were 
 any footsteps or other traces of the murderer dis- 
 coverable. 
 
 At the suggestion of Sir Arthur himself, a coroner 
 was instantly summoned to attend, and an inquest 
 was held ; nothing, however, in any degree conclu- 
 sive was elicited. The walls, ceiling, and floor 
 of the room were carefully examined, in order to 
 ascertain whether they contained a trap-door or other 
 concealed mode of entrance — but no such thing 
 appeared. 
 
 Such was the minuteness of investigation employed 
 that although the grate had contained a large fire during 
 the night, they proceeded to examine even the very 
 chimney, in order to discover whether escape by it 
 
of an Irish Countess. 71 
 
 were possible ; but this attempt, too, was fruitless, for 
 the chimney, built in the old fashion, rose in a per- 
 fectly perpendicular line from the hearth to a height 
 of nearly fourteen feet above the roof, affording in its 
 interior scarcely the possibility of ascent, the flue 
 being smoothly plastered, and sloping towards the top 
 like an inverted funnel. Even if the summit of the 
 chimney were attained, it promised, owing to its great 
 height, but a precarious descent upon the sharp and 
 steep-ridged roof The ashes, too, which lay in the 
 grate, and the soot, as far as it could be seen, were 
 undisturbed, a circumstance almost conclusive. 
 
 Sir Arthur was of course examined ; his evidence 
 was given with a clearness and unreserve which seemed 
 calculated to silence all suspicion. He stated that 
 up to the day and night immediately preceding the 
 catastrophe, he had lost to a heavy amount, but that, 
 at their last sitting, he had not only won back his 
 original loss, but upwards of four thousand pounds 
 in addition ; in evidence of which he produced an 
 acknowledgment of debt to that amount in the hand- 
 writing of the deceased, and bearing the date of the 
 fatal night. He had mentioned the circumstance to 
 his lad}', and in presence of some of the domestics ; 
 which statement was supported by their respective 
 evidence. 
 
 One of the jury shrewdly observed that the cir- 
 cumstance of Mr. Tisdall's having sustained so heavy 
 
72 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 a loss might have suggested to some ill-minded 
 persons, accidentally hearing it, the plan of robbing 
 him. after having murdered him, in such a manner as 
 might make it appear that he had committed suicide ; 
 a supposition which was strongly supported by the 
 razors having been found thus displaced, and removed 
 from their case. Two persons had probably been 
 engaged in the attempt, one watching by the sleeping 
 man, and ready to strike him in case of his awakening 
 suddenly, while the other was procuring the razors 
 and employed in inflicting the fatal gash, so as to 
 make it appear to have been the act of the murdered 
 man himself. It was said that while the juror 
 was making this suggestion Sir Arthur changed 
 colour. 
 
 Nothing, however, like legal evidence appeared 
 against him, and the consequence was that the verdict 
 was found against a person or persons unknown ; and 
 for some time the matter was suffered to rest, until, 
 after about five months, my father received a letter 
 from a person signing himself Andrew Collis, and 
 representing himself to be the cousin of the deceased. 
 This letter stated that Sir Arthur was likely to incur 
 not merely suspicion, but personal risk, unless he 
 could account for certain circumstances connected 
 with the recent murder, and contained a copy of a 
 letter written by the deceased, and bearing date — the 
 day of the week, and of the month — upon the night 
 
of an Irish Countess. 73 
 
 the deed of blood had been perpetrated. Tisdall's 
 note ran as follows : — 
 
 " Dear ColliS,— I have had sharp work with Sir 
 Arthur ; he tried some of his stale tricks, but soon 
 found that /was Yorkshire too ; it would not do— you 
 understand me. We went to the work like good 
 ones, head, heart and soul ; and, in fact, since I came 
 here, I have lost no time. I am rather fagged, but I 
 am sure to be well paid for my hardship ; I never 
 want sleep so long as I can have the music of a dice- 
 box, and wherewithal to pay the piper. As I told 
 you, he tried some of his queer turns, but I foiled 
 him like a man, and, in return, gave him more than 
 he could relish of the genuine dead knozvledge. 
 
 " In short, I have plucked the old baronet as never 
 baronet was plucked before ; I have scarce left him 
 the stump of a quill ; I have got promissory notes in 
 his hand to the amount of — if you like round numbers, 
 say, thirty thousand pounds, safely deposited in my 
 portable strong-box, alias double-clasped pocket- 
 book. I leave this ruinous old rat-hole early on 
 to-morrow, for two reasons — first, I do not want to 
 play with Sir Arthur deeper than I think his security, 
 that is, his money, or his money's worth, would 
 warrant ; and, secondly, because I am safer a hundred 
 miles from Sir Arthur than in the house with him. 
 Look you, my worthy, I tell you this between 
 
74 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 ourselves — I may be wrong, but, by G , I am as 
 
 sure as that I am now living, that Sir A attempted 
 
 to poison me last night. So much for old friendship 
 on both sides ! 
 
 " When I won the last stake, a heavy one enough, 
 my friend leant his forehead upon his hands, and 
 you'll laugh when I tell you that his head literally 
 smoked like a hot dumpling. I do not know whether 
 his agitation was produced by the plan which he had 
 against me, or by his having lost so heavily — though 
 it must be allowed that he had reason to be a little 
 funked, whichever way his thoughts went ; but he 
 pulled the bell, and ordered two bottles of cham- 
 pagne. While the fellow was bringing them he 
 drew out a promissory note to the full amount, 
 which he signed, and, as the man came in with the 
 bottles and glasses, he desired him to be off; he 
 filled out a glass for me, and, while he thought my 
 eyes were off, for I was putting up his note at the 
 time, he dropped something slyly into it, no doubt 
 to sweeten it ; but I saw it all, and when he handed 
 it to me, I said, with an emphasis which he might or 
 might not understand : 
 
 " ' There is some sediment in this ; I'll not 
 drink it.' 
 
 " ' Is there .? ' said he, and at the same time 
 snatched it from my hand and threw it into the fire. 
 What do you think of that .? have I not a tender 
 
of an Irish Counless. 75 
 
 chicken to manage ? Win or lose, I will not play- 
 beyond five thousand to-night, and to-morrow sees 
 me safe out of the reach of Sir Arthur's champagne. 
 So, all things considered, I think you must allow 
 that you are not the last who have found a knowing 
 boy in 
 
 " Yours to command, 
 
 " Hugh Tisdall." 
 
 Of the authenticity of this document I never heard 
 my father express a doubt ; and I am satisfied that, 
 owing to his strong conviction in favour of his 
 brother, he would not have admitted it without 
 sufficient inquiry, inasmuch as it tended to confirm 
 the suspicions which already existed to his pre- 
 judice. 
 
 Now, the only point in this letter which made 
 strongly against my uncle was the mention of the 
 " double-clasped pocket-book " as the receptacle of 
 the papers likely to involve him, for this pocket-book 
 was not forthcoming, nor anywhere to be found, nor 
 had any papers referring to his gaming transactions 
 been found upon the dead man. However, what- 
 ever might have been the original intention of this 
 Collis, neither my uncle nor my father ever heard 
 more of him ; but he published the letter in Faulkner's 
 Newspaper, which was shortly afterwards made the 
 vehicle of a much more mysterious attack. The 
 
76 Passage in the Sec?^et Histoi'y 
 
 passage in that periodical to which I allude appeared 
 about four years afterwards, and while the fatal 
 occurrence was still fresh in public recollection. It 
 commenced by a rambling preface, stating that " a 
 certain person whom certain persons thought to be 
 dead, was not so, but living, and in full possession of 
 his memory, and moreover ready and able to make 
 great delinquents tremble." It then went on to 
 describe the murder, without, however, mentioning 
 names ; and in doing so, it entered into minute and 
 circumstantial particulars of which none but an eye- 
 zvitness could have been possessed, and by implica- 
 tions almost too unequivocal to be regarded in the 
 light of insinuation, to involve the '' titled gaiiibler" 
 in the guilt of the transaction. 
 
 My father at once urged Sir Arthur to proceed 
 against the paper in an action of libel ; but he would 
 not hear of it, nor consent to my father's taking any 
 legal steps whatever in the matter. My father, how^ 
 ever, wrote in a threatening tone to Faulkner, de- 
 manding a surrender of the author of the obnoxious 
 article. The answer to this application is still in my 
 possession, and is penned in an apologetic tone : it 
 states that the manuscript had been handed in, paid 
 for, and inserted as an advertisement, without suffi- 
 cient inquiry, or any knowledge as to whom it 
 referred. 
 
 No step, however, was taken to clear my uncle's 
 
of ail IiHsIi Countess. yy 
 
 character in the judgment of the public ; and as he 
 immediately sold a small property, the application of 
 the proceeds of which was known to none, he was 
 said to have disposed of it to enable himself to buy 
 off the threatened information. However the truth 
 might have been, it is certain that no charges 
 respecting the mysterious murder were afterwards 
 publicly made against my uncle, and, as far as 
 external disturbances were concerned, he enjoyed 
 henceforward perfect security and quiet. 
 
 A deep and lasting impression, however, had been 
 
 made upon the public mind, and Sir Arthur T n 
 
 was no longer visited or noticed by the gentry and 
 aristocracy of the count}-, whose attention and cour- 
 tesies he had hitherto received. He accordingly 
 affected to despise these enjoyments which he could 
 not procure, and shunned even that society which he 
 might have commanded. 
 
 This is all that I need recapitulate of my uncle's 
 history, and I now recur to my own. Although my 
 father had never, within my recollection, visited, or 
 been visited by, my uncle, each being of sedentar}-, 
 procrastinating, and secluded habits, and their re- 
 spective residences being very far apart — the one 
 lying in the county of Galway, the other in that of 
 Cork — he was strongly attached to his brother, and 
 evinced his affection by an active correspondence, 
 and by deeply and proudly resenting that neglect 
 
yS Passaic in the Secret History 
 
 which had marked Sir Arthur as unfit to mix in 
 society. 
 
 When I was about eighteen years of age, my 
 father, whose health had been gradually decHning, 
 died, leaving me in heart wretched and desolate, and, 
 owing to his previous seclusion, with few acquaint- 
 ances, and almost no friends. 
 
 The provisions of his will were curious, and when 
 I had sufficiently come to myself to listen to or 
 comprehend them, surprised me not a little : all his 
 vast property was left to me, and to the heirs of my 
 body, for ever ; and, in default of such heirs, it was 
 to go after my death to my uncle, Sir Arthur, without 
 any entail. 
 
 At the same time, the will appointed him my 
 guardian, desiring that I might be received within 
 his house, and reside with his family, and under his 
 care, during the term of my minority ; and in con- 
 sideration of the increased expense consequent upon 
 such an arrangement, a handsome annuity was 
 allotted to him during the term of my proposed 
 residence. 
 
 The object of this last provision I at once under- 
 
 ^ I stood : my father desired, by making it the direct, 
 
 \ apparent interest of Sir Arthur that I should die 
 
 without issue, while at the same time placing me 
 
 wholly in his power, to prove to the world how 
 
 ereat and unshaken was his confidence in his brother's 
 
of an IrisJi Countess. 79 
 
 innocence and honour, and also to afford him an 
 opportunity of showing that this mark of confidence 
 was not unworthily bestowed. 
 
 It was a strange, perhaps an idle scheme ; but as 
 I had been always brought up in the habit of con- 
 sidering my uncle as a deeply-injured man, and had 
 been taught, almost as a part of my religion, to regard 
 him as the very soul of honour, I felt no further uneasi- 
 ness respecting the arrangement than that likely to 
 result to a timid girl of secluded habits from the 
 immediate prospect of taking up her abode for the 
 first time in her life among total strangers. Previous 
 to leaving my home, which I felt I should do with a 
 heavy heart, I received a most tender and affectionate 
 letter from my uncle, calculated, if anything could 
 do so, to remove the bitterness of parting from scenes 
 familiar and dear from my earliest childhood, and in 
 some degree to reconcile me to the change. 
 
 It was during a fine autumn that I approached 
 the old domain of Carrickleigh. I shall not soon 
 forget the impression of sadness and of gloom which 
 all that I saw produced upon my mind ; the sun- 
 beams were falling with a rich and melancholy tint 
 upon the fine old trees, which stood in lordly groups, 
 casting their long, sweeping shadows over rock and 
 sward. There was an air of desolation and decay about 
 the spot, which amounted almost to desolation ; the 
 symptoms of this increased in number as we ap- 
 
8o Passage in the Secret History 
 
 preached the building itself, near which the ground 
 had been originally more artificially and carefully 
 cultivated than elsewhere, and the neglect con- 
 sequently more immediately and strikingly betrayed 
 itself. 
 
 As we proceeded, the road wound near the 
 beds of what had been formerly two fish-ponds — 
 now nothing more than stagnant swamps, over- 
 grown with rank weeds, and here and there en- 
 croached upon by the straggling underwood. The 
 avenue itself was much broken, and in many places 
 the stones were almost concealed by grass and 
 nettles ; the loose stone walls which had here and 
 there intersected the broad park were, in many places, 
 broken down, so as no longer to answer their original 
 purpose as fences ; piers were now and then to be 
 seen, but the gates were gone. And, to add to the 
 general air of dilapidation, some huge trunks were 
 lying scattered through the venerable old trees, 
 either the work of the winter storms, or perhaps the 
 victims of some extensive but desultory scheme of 
 denudation, which the projector had not capital or 
 perseverance to carry into full effect. 
 
 After the carriage had travelled a mile of this 
 avenue, we reached the summit of rather an abrupt 
 eminence, one of the many which added to the 
 picturesqueness, if not to the convenience of this 
 rude passage. From the top of this ridge the grey 
 
of an Irish Countess. 8i 
 
 walls of Carrickleigh were visible, rising at a small 
 distance in front, and darkened by the hoary wood 
 which crowded around them. It was a quadrangular 
 building of considerable extent, and the front which 
 lay towards us, and in which the great entrance was 
 placed, bore unequivocal marks of antiquity ; the 
 time-worn, solemn aspect of the old building, the 
 ruinous and deserted appearance of the whole place, 
 and the associations which connected it with a dark 
 page in the history of my family, combined to de- 
 press spirits already predisposed for the reception of 
 sombre and dejecting impressions. 
 
 When the carriage drew up in the grass-grown 
 courtyard before the hall door, two lazy-looking 
 men, whose appearance well accorded with that of 
 the place which they tenanted, alarmed by the ob- 
 streperous barking of a great chained dog, ran out 
 from some half-ruinous out-houses, and took charge 
 of the horses ; the hall door stood open, and I entered 
 a gloomy and imperfectly lighted apartment, and 
 found no one within. However, I had not long to 
 wait in this awkward predicament, for before my 
 luggage had been deposited in the house — indeed, 
 before 1 had well removed my cloak and other wraps, 
 so as to enable me to look around — a young girl ran 
 lightly into the hall, and kissing me heartily, and 
 somewhat boisterously, exclaimed : 
 
 " My dear cousin, my dear Margaret, I am so 
 
 G 
 
82 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 delighted, so out of breath. We did not expect you 
 till ten o'clock ; my father is somewhere about the 
 place ; he must be close at hand. James, Corney — 
 run out and tell your master — my brother is seldom 
 at home, at least at any reasonable hour — you must 
 be so tired, so fatigued, let me show you to your room. 
 See that Lady Margaret's luggage is all brought up, 
 you must lie down and rest yourself. Deborah, bring 
 some coffee — Up these stairs ! We are so delighted 
 to see you, you cannot think how lonely I have been. 
 How steep these stairs are, are they not ? I am so 
 glad you are come; I could hardly bring myself to 
 believe that you were really coming; how good of 
 you, dear Lady Margaret." 
 
 There was real good nature and delight in my 
 cousin's greeting, and a kind of constitutional con- 
 fidence of manner which placed me at once at ease, 
 and made me feel immediately upon terms of in- 
 timacy with her. The room into which she ushered 
 me, although partaking in the general air of decay 
 which pervaded the mansion and all about it, had 
 nevertheless been fitted up with evident attention 
 to comfort, and even with some dingy attempt at 
 luxury ; but what pleased me most was that it opened, 
 by a second door, upon a lobby which communicated 
 with my fair cousin's apartment; a circumstance 
 which divested the room, in my eyes, of the air of 
 solitude and sadness which would otherwise have 
 
of ail Irish Coitntess. 83 
 
 characterized it, to a degree almost painful to one so 
 dejected in spirits as I was. 
 
 After such arrangements as I found necessary 
 were completed, we both went down to the parlour, 
 a large wainscoted room, hung round with grim old 
 portraits, and, as I was not sorry to see, containing 
 in its ample grate a large and cheerful fire. Here 
 my cousin had leisure to talk more at case ; and from 
 her I learned something of the manners and the 
 habits of the two remaining members of her family, 
 whom I had not yet seen. 
 
 On my arrival I had known nothing of the family 
 among whom I was come to reside, except that it 
 consisted of three individuals, my uncle, and his son 
 
 and daughter, Lady T ^n having been long dead. 
 
 In addition to this very scanty stock of information, 
 I shortly learned from my communicative companion 
 that my uncle was, as I had suspected, completely 
 reserved in his habitSj and besides that, having been 
 so far back as she could well recollect, always rather 
 strict (as reformed rakes frequently become), he had 
 latterly been growing more gloomily and sternly 
 religious than heretofore. 
 
 Her account of her brother was far less favourable, 
 though she did not say anything directly to his dis- 
 advantage. From all that I could gather from her, 
 I was led to suppose that he was a specimen of the 
 idle, coarse-mannered, profligate, low-minded "squire- 
 
 G 2 
 
84 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 archy " — a result which might naturally have flowed 
 from the circumstance of his being, as it were, out- 
 lawed from society, and driven for companionship to 
 grades below his own ; enjoying, too, the dangerous 
 prerogative of spending much money. 
 
 However, you may easily suppose that I found 
 nothing in my cousin's communication fully to bear 
 me out in so very decided a conclusion. 
 
 I awaited the arrival of my uncle, which was every 
 moment to be expected, with feelings half of alarm, 
 half of curiosity — a sensation which I have often 
 since experienced, though to a less degree, when 
 upon the point of standing for the first time in the 
 presence of one of whom I have long been in the habit 
 of hearing or thinking with interest. 
 
 It was, therefore, with some little perturbation 
 that I heard, first a light bustle at the outer door, 
 then a slow step traverse the hall, and finally wit- 
 nessed the door open, and my uncle enter the room. 
 He was a striking-looking man ; from peculiarities 
 both of person and of garb, the whole effect of his 
 appearance amounted to extreme singularity. He 
 was tall, and when young his figure must have been 
 strikingly elegant ; as it was, however, its effect was 
 marred by a very decided stoop. His dress was of a 
 sober colour, and in fashion anterior to anything 
 which I could remember. It was, however, hand- 
 some, and by no means carelessly put on. But what 
 
of an Irish Countess. 
 
 H 
 
 completed the singularity of his appearance was his 
 uncut white hair, which hung in long, but not at all 
 neglected curls, even so far as his shoulders, and 
 which combined with his regularly classic features 
 
 I ROSE AS HE ENTERED. 
 
 and fine dark eyes, to bestow upon him an air of 
 venerable dignity and pride which I have never seen 
 equalled elsewhere. I rose as he entered, and met 
 him about the middle of the room ; he kissed my 
 cheek and both my hands, saying : 
 
 " You are most welcome, dear child, as welcome 
 
86 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 as the command of this poor place and all that it 
 contains can make you, I am most rejoiced to see 
 you — truly rejoiced. I trust that you are not much 
 fatigued— pray be seated again." He led me to my 
 chair, and continued : " I am glad to perceive you 
 have made acquaintance with Emily already ; I see, 
 in your being thus brought together, the foundation 
 of a lasting friendship. You are both innocent, and 
 both young. God bless you — God bless you, and 
 make you all that I could wish ! " 
 
 He raised his eyes, and remained for a few 
 moments silent, as if in secret prayer. I felt that it was 
 impossible that this man, with feelings so quick, so 
 warm, so tender, could be the wretch that public 
 opinion had represented him to be. I was more than 
 ever convinced of his innocence. 
 
 His manner was, or appeared to me, most fascina- 
 ting ; there was a mingled kindness and courtesy in 
 it which seemed to speak benevolence itself. It was 
 a manner which I felt cold art could never have 
 taught ; it owed most of its charm to its appearing 
 to emanate directly from the heart; it must be a 
 genuine index of the owner's mind. So I thought. 
 
 My uncle having given me fully to understand 
 that I was most welcome, and might command what- 
 ever was his own, pressed me to take some refresh- 
 ment ; and on my refusing, he observed that pre- 
 viously to bidding me good-night, he had one duty 
 
of an Irish Countess. %'j 
 
 further to perform, one in whose observance he was 
 convinced I would cheerfully acquiesce. 
 
 He then proceeded to read a chapter from the 
 Bible ; after which he took his leave with the same 
 affectionate kindness with which he had greeted me, 
 having repeated his desire that I should consider 
 everything in his house as altogether at my disposal. 
 It is needless to say that I was much pleased with my 
 uncle — it was impossible to avoid being so ; and I 
 could not help saying to myself, if such a man as 
 this is not safe from the assaults of slander, who is ? 
 I felt much happier than I had done since my father's 
 death, and enjoyed that night the first refreshing 
 sleep which had visited me since that event. 
 
 My curiosity respecting my male cousin did not 
 long remain unsatisfied — he appeared the next day 
 at dinner. His manners, though not so coarse as I 
 had expected, were exceedingly disagreeable ; there 
 was an assurance and a forwardness for which I was not 
 prepared ; there was less of the vulgarity of manner, 
 and almost more of that of the mind, than I had 
 anticipated. I felt quite uncomfortable in his pre- 
 sence ; there was just that confidence in his look and 
 tone which would read encouragement even in mere 
 toleration ; and I felt more disgusted and annoyed at 
 the coarse and extravagant compliments which he was 
 pleased from time to time to pay me, than perhaps the 
 extent of the atrocity might fully have warranted. It 
 
88 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 was, however, one consolation that he did not often 
 appear, being much engrossed by pursuits about 
 which I neither knew nor cared anything ; but when 
 he did appear, his attentions, either with a view to 
 his amusement or to some more serious advantage, 
 were so obviously and perseveringly directed to me, 
 that young and inexperienced as I was, even / could 
 not be ignorant of his preference. I felt more pro- 
 voked by this odious persecution than I can express, 
 and discouraged him with so much vigour, that I em- 
 ployed even rudeness to convince him his assiduities 
 were unwelcome ; but all in vain. 
 
 This had gone on for nearly a twelvemonth, to my 
 infinite annoyance, when one day as I was sitting at 
 some needlework with my companion Emily, as was 
 my habit, in the parlour, the door opened, and my 
 cousin Edward entered the room. There was some- 
 thing, I thought, odd in his manner ; a kind of struggle 
 between shame and impudence — a kind of flurry 
 and ambiguity which made him appear, if possible, 
 more than ordinarily disagreeable. 
 
 " Your servant, ladies,'^ he said, seating himself at 
 the same time ; " sorry to spoil your tete-a-tete, but 
 never mind ! Til only take Emily's place for a minute 
 or two; and then we part for a while, fair cousin. 
 Emily, my father wants you in the corner turret. No 
 shilly-shally; he's in a hurry." She hesitated. " Be 
 
of an Irish Countess. 89 
 
 off—tramp, march ! " he exclaimed, in a tone which 
 the poor girl dared not disobey. 
 
 She left the room, and Edward followed her to the 
 door. He stood there for a minute or two, as 
 if reflecting what he should say, perhaps satisfy- 
 ing himself that no one was within hearing in the 
 hall. 
 
 At length he turned about, having closed the door, 
 as if carelessly, with his foot ; and advancing slowly, 
 as if in deep thought, he took his seat at the side of 
 the table opposite to mine. 
 
 There was a brief interval of silence, after which he 
 said : 
 
 " I imagine that you have a shrewd suspicion of 
 the object of my early visit ; but I suppose I must 
 go into particulars. Must I ?"" 
 
 "I have no conception," I replied, "what your 
 object may be." 
 
 " Well, well," said he, becoming more at his ease as 
 he proceeded, " it may be told in a few words. You 
 know that it is totally impossible — quite out of the 
 question — that an off-hand young fellow like me, and 
 a good-looking girl like yourself, could meet con- 
 tinually, as you and I have done, without an attach- 
 ment — a liking growing up on one side or other ; in 
 short, I think I have let you know as plain as if I 
 spoke it, that I have been in love with you almost 
 from the first time I saw you." 
 
90 Passage in the Secret History, &c. 
 
 He paused ; but I was too much horrified to speak. 
 He interpreted my silence favourably. 
 
 " I can tell you," he continued, " I'm reckoned 
 rather hard to please, and very hard to hit. I can't 
 say when I was taken with a girl before ; so you see 
 fortune reserved me " 
 
 Here the odious wretch wound his arm round my 
 waist. The action at once restored me to utterance, 
 and with the most indignant vehemence I released 
 myself from his hold, and at the same time said : 
 
 " I have not been insensible, sir, of your most dis- 
 agreeable attentions — they have long been a source of 
 much annoyance to me ; and you must be aware that 
 I have marked my disapprobation — my disgust — as 
 unequivocally as I possibly could, without actual 
 indelicacy." 
 
 I paused, almost out of breath from the rapidity 
 with which I had spoken ; and, without giving him 
 time to renew the conversation, I hastily quitted the 
 room, leaving him in a paroxysm of rage and morti- 
 fication. 
 
 As I ascended the stairs, I heard him open the 
 parlour-door with violence, and take two or three 
 rapid strides in the direction in which I was moving. 
 I was now much frightened, and ran the whole way 
 until I reached my room ; and having locked the 
 door, I listened breathlessly, but heard no sound. 
 This relieved me for the present ; but so much had 
 
LEAVING HIM IN A PAR 
 
 OXYSM OK RAGE AND 
 
 MORTIFICATION. 
 
 %S.\iW">"^'' ^>^Y^wA.^^^ 
 
92 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 I been overcome by the agitation and annoyance 
 attendant upon the scene which I had just gone 
 through, that when Emily knocked at my door, I 
 was weeping in strong hysterics. 
 
 You will readily conceive my distress, when you 
 reflect upon my strong dislike to my cousin Edward, 
 combined with my youth and extreme inexperience. 
 Any proposal of such a nature must have agitated 
 me; but that it should have come from the man 
 whom of all others I most loathed and abhorred, and 
 to whom I had, as clearly as manner could do it, 
 expressed the state of my feelings, was almost too 
 overwhelming to be borne. It was a calamity, too, 
 in which I could not claim the sympathy of my 
 cousin Emily, which had always been extended to 
 me in my minor grievances. Still I hoped that it 
 might not be unattended with good ; for I thought 
 that one inevitable and most welcome consequence 
 would result from this painful eclaircissemeiit, in the 
 discontinuance of my cousin's odious persecution. 
 
 When I arose next morning, it was with the fer- 
 vent hope that I might never again behold the face, 
 or even hear the name, of my cousin Edward ; but 
 such a consummation, though devoutly to be wished, 
 was hardly likely to occur. The painful impressions 
 of yesterday were too vivid to be at once erased ; 
 and I could not help feeling some dim foreboding of 
 coming annoyance and evil. 
 
of an Irish Cottnfess. 93 
 
 To expect on my suitor's part anything like deli- 
 cacy or consideration for me was out of the question. 
 I saw that he had set his heart upon my property, 
 and that he was not likely easily to forego such an 
 acquisition — possessing what might have been con- 
 sidered opportunities and facilities almost to compel 
 my compliance. 
 
 I now keenly felt the unreasonableness of my 
 father's conduct in placing me to reside with a family 
 of all whose members, with one exception, he was 
 wholly ignorant, and I bitterly felt the helplessness of 
 my situation. I determined, however, in case of my 
 cousin's persevering in his addresses, to lay all the 
 particulars before my uncle (although he had never 
 in kindness or intimacy gone a step beyond our first 
 interview), and to throw myself upon his hospitality 
 and his sense of honour for protection against a 
 repetition of such scenes. 
 
 My cousin's conduct may appear to have been an 
 inadequate cause for such serious uneasiness ; but 
 my alarm was caused neither by his acts nor words, 
 but entirely by his manner, which was strange and 
 even intimidating to excess. At the beginning of 
 yesterday's interview there was a sort of bullying 
 swagger in his air, which towards the close gave place 
 to the brutal vehemence of an undisguised ruffian — 
 a transition which had tempted me into a belief that 
 he might seek even forcibly to extort from me a con- 
 
94 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 sent to his wishes, or by means still more horrible, 
 of which I scarcely dared to trust myself to think, to 
 possess himself of my property. 
 
 I was early next day summoned to attend my 
 uncle in his private room, which lay in a corner 
 turret of the old building ; and thither I accordingly 
 went, wondering all the way what this unusual mea- 
 sure might prelude. When I entered the room, he 
 did not rise in his usual courteous way to greet me, 
 but simply pointed to a chair opposite to his own. This 
 boded nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, 
 silently waiting until he should open the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Lady Margaret," at length he said, in a tone of 
 o-reater sternness than I had thought him capable of 
 using, " I have hitherto spoken to you as a friend, but 
 I have not forgotten that I am also your guardian, 
 and that my authority as such gives me a right to 
 control your conduct. I shall put a question to you, 
 and I expect and will demand a plain, direct answer. 
 Have I rightly been informed that you have con- 
 temptuously rejected the suit and hand of my son 
 Edward ? " 
 
 I stammered forth with a good deal of trepidation : 
 
 " I believe — that is, I have, sir, rejected my cousin's 
 proposals ; and my coldness and discouragement 
 might have convinced him that I had determined to 
 do so." 
 
of an Irish Countess. 95 
 
 "Madam," replied he, with suppressed, but, as it 
 appeared to me, intense anger, " I have lived long 
 enough to know that coldness and discouragement, 
 and such terms, form the common cant of a worthless 
 coquette. You know to the full, as well as I, that 
 coldness and discouragement may be so exhibited as to 
 convince their object that he is neither distasteful nor 
 indifferent to the person who wears this manner. 
 You know, too, none better, that an affected neglect, 
 when skilfully managed, is amongst the most formid- 
 able of the engines which artful beauty can employ. 
 I tell you, madam, that having, without one word 
 spoken in discouragement, permitted my son's most 
 marked attentions for a twelvemonth or more, you 
 have no right to dismiss him with no further ex- 
 planation than demurely telling him that you had 
 always looked coldly upon him ; and neither your 
 wealth nor your ladyship" (there was an emphasis of 
 scorn on the word, which would have become Sir 
 Giles Overreach himself) " can warrant you in treat- 
 ing with contempt the affectionate regard of an 
 honest heart." 
 
 I was too much shocked at this undisguised 
 attempt to bully me into an acquiescence in the 
 interested and unprincipled plan for their own 
 aggrandizement, which I now perceived my uncle 
 and his son to have deliberately entered into, at once 
 to find strength or collectedness to frame an answer 
 
96 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 to what he had said. At length I repHed, with some 
 
 firmness : 
 
 " In all that you have just now said, sir, you have 
 grossly misstated my conduct and motives. Your 
 information must have been most incorrect as far as 
 it regards my conduct towards my cousin ; my manner 
 towards him could have conveyed nothing but dis- 
 like ; and if anything could have added to the strong 
 aversion which I have long felt towards him, it would 
 be his attempting thus to trick and frighten me into 
 a marriage which he knows to be revolting to me, 
 and which is sought by him only as a means for 
 securing to himself whatever property is mine." 
 
 As I said this, I fixed my eyes upon those of my 
 uncle, but he was too old in the world's ways to falter 
 beneath the gaze of more searching eyes than mine ; 
 he simply said : 
 
 " Are you acquainted with the provisions of your 
 father's will ? " 
 
 I answered in the affirmative ; and he continued : 
 
 " Then you must be aware that if my son Edward 
 ^ere — which God forbid — the unprincipled, reckless 
 man you pretend to think him" — (here he spoke 
 very slowly, as if he intended that every word which 
 escaped him should be registered in my memory, 
 while at the same time the expression of his coun- 
 tenance underwent a gradual but horrible change, 
 and the eyes which he fixed upon me became so 
 
of an Irish Co7miess. 
 
 97 
 
 darkly vivid, that I almost lost sight of everything 
 else) — " if he were what you have described him, 
 think you, girl, he could find no briefer means than 
 wedding contracts to gain his ends ? 'twas but to gripe 
 your slender neck until the breath had stopped, and 
 lands, and lakes, and all were his," 
 
 I stood staring at him for many minutes after he 
 
 TWAS BUT TO GRIPE YOUR SLENDER NECK UNTIL THE BREATH 
 HAD STOPPED." 
 
 had ceased to speak, fascinated by the terrible 
 serpent-like gaze, until he continued with a welcome 
 change of countenance : 
 
 " I will not speak again to you upon this topic 
 until one month has passed. You shall have time to 
 consider the relative advantages of the two courses 
 
 H 
 
98 Passage in tJie Secret History 
 
 which are open to you. I should be sorry to hurry 
 you to a decision. I am satisfied with having stated 
 my feelings upon the subject, and pointed out to you 
 the path of duty. Remember this day month — not 
 one word sooner." 
 
 He then rose, and I left the room, much agitated 
 and exhausted. 
 
 This interview, all the circumstances attending it, 
 but most particularly the formidable expression of 
 my uncle's countenance while he talked, though 
 hypothetically, of murder, combined to arouse all my 
 worst suspicions of him, I dreaded to look upon 
 the face that had so recently worn the appalling 
 livery of guilt and malignity. I regarded it with the 
 mingled fear and loathing with which one looks 
 upon an object which has tortured them in a nightmare. 
 
 In a few days after the interview, the particulars 
 of which I have just related, I found a note upon my 
 toilet-table, and on opening it I read as follows : 
 
 "My dear Lady Margaret, 
 
 "You will be perhaps surprised to see a 
 strange face in your room to-day. I have dismissed 
 your Irish maid, and secured a French one to wait 
 upon you — a step rendered necessary by my pro- 
 posing shortly to visit the Continent, with all my 
 family. 
 
 " Your faithful guardian, 
 
 "Arthur T n." 
 
of an Irish Countess. 99 
 
 On inquiry, I found that my faithful attendant 
 was actually gone, and far on her way to the town 
 of Galway ; and in her stead there appeared a tall, 
 raw-boned, ill-looking, elderly Frenchwoman, whose 
 sullen and presuming manners seemed to imply that 
 her vocation had never before been that of a lady's 
 maid. I could not help regarding her as a creature 
 of my uncle's, and therefore to be dreaded, even had 
 she been in no other way suspicious. 
 
 Days and weeks passed away without any, even 
 a momentary doubt upon my part, as to the course 
 to be pursued by me. The allotted period had at 
 length elapsed ; the day arrived on which I was to 
 communicate my decision to my uncle. Although 
 my resolution had never for a moment wavered, I 
 could not shake off the dread of the approaching 
 colloquy; and my heart sank within me as I heard 
 the expected summons. 
 
 I had not seen my cousin Edward since the oc- 
 currence of the grand eclaircissenient ; he must have 
 studiously avoided me — I suppose from policy, it 
 could not have been from delicacy. I was prepared 
 for a terrific burst of fury from my uncle, as soon as 
 I should make known my determination ; and I not 
 unreasonably feared that some act of violence or of 
 intimidation would next be resorted to. 
 
 Filled with these dreary forebodings, I fearfully 
 opened the study door, and the next minute I stood 
 
 H 2 
 
lOO Passage in the Secret History 
 
 in my uncle's presence. He received me with a 
 politeness which I dreaded, as arguing a favourable 
 anticipation respecting the answer which I was to 
 give ; and after some slight delay, he began by 
 saying : 
 
 " It will be a relief to both of us, I believe, to bring 
 this conversation as soon as possible to an issue. 
 You will excuse me, then^ my dear niece, for speaking 
 with an abruptness which, under other circumstances, 
 would be unpardonable. You have, I am certain, 
 given the subject of our last interview fair and serious 
 consideration ; and I trust that you are now prepared 
 with candour to lay your answer before me. A few 
 words will suffice — we perfectly understand one 
 another." 
 
 He paused, and I, though feeling that I stood 
 upon a mine which might in an instant explode, 
 nevertheless answered with perfect composure : 
 
 " I must now, sir, make the same reply which I did 
 upon the last occasion, and I reiterate the declaration 
 which I then made, that I never can nor will, while 
 life and reason remain, consent to a union with my 
 cousin Edward." 
 
 This announcement wrought no apparent change 
 in Sir Arthur, except that he became deadly, almost 
 lividly pale. He seemed lost in dark thought for a 
 minute, and then with a slight effort said . 
 
 "You have answered me honestly and directly; 
 
of an Irish Coimtess. loi 
 
 and you say your resolution Is uachancjsab'l.^^ vV'ell. 
 would it had been otherwise — would it had been 
 otherwise ; but be it as it is, I am satisfied." 
 
 He gave me his hand — it was cold and damp as 
 death ; under an assumed calmness, it was evident 
 that he was fearfully agitated. He continued to hold 
 my hand with an almost painful pressure, while, as if 
 unconsciously, seeming to forget my presence, he 
 muttered : 
 
 " Strange, strange, strange^ indeed ! fatuity, help- 
 less fatuity ! " there was here a long pause. " Madness 
 indeed to strain a cable that is rotten to the very 
 heart — it must break — and then — all goes." 
 
 There was again a pause of some minutes, after 
 which, suddenly changing his voice and manner to 
 one of wakeful alacrity, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Margaret; my son Edward shall plague you no 
 more. He leaves this country on to-morrow for 
 France — he shall speak no more upon this subject — 
 never, never more — whatever events depended upon 
 your answer must now take their own course ; but, 
 as for this fruitless proposal, it has been tried enough \ 
 it can be repeated no more." 
 
 At these words he coldly suffered my hand to 
 drop, as if to express his total abandonment of all 
 his projected schemes of alliance ; and certainly the 
 action, with the accompanying words, produced upon 
 my mind a more solemn and depressing effect than 
 
rQ2 Possag£. in the Secret History 
 
 /libeiieveql possible tQ have been caused by the course 
 which I had determined to pursue ; it struck upon 
 my heart with an awe and heaviness which will 
 accompany the accomphshment of an important and 
 irrevocable act, even though no doubt or scruple 
 remains to make it possible that the agent should 
 wish it undone. 
 
 " Well/' said my uncle, after a little time, " we now 
 cease to speak upon this topic, never to resume it 
 again. Remember you shall have no further un- 
 easiness from Edward ; he leaves Ireland for France 
 on to-morrow ; this will be a relief to you. May I 
 depend upon your honour that no word touching the 
 subject of this interview shall ever escape you ? " 
 
 I gave him the desired assurance ; he said : 
 
 " It is well — I am satisfied; we have nothing more, 
 I believe, to say upon either side, and my presence 
 must be a restraint upon you, I shall therefore bid 
 you farewell." 
 
 I then left the apartment, scarcely knowing what 
 to think of the stange interview which had just taken 
 place. 
 
 On the next day my uncle took occasion to tell 
 me that Edward had actually sailed, if his intention 
 had not been interfered with by adverse circum- 
 stances ; and two days subsequently he actually 
 produced a letter from his son, written, as it said, on 
 board, and despatched while the ship was getting 
 
of an Irish Countess. 1 03 
 
 under weigh. This was a great satisfaction to me 
 and as being likely to prove so, it was no doubt 
 communciatcd to me by Sir Arthur. 
 
 During all this trying period, I had found infinite 
 consolation in the society and sympathy of my dear 
 cousin Emily. I never in after-life formed a friend- 
 ship so close, so fervent, and upon which, in all its 
 progress, I could look back with feelings of such 
 unalloyed pleasure, upon whose termination I must 
 ever dwell with so deep, yet so unembittered regret. 
 In cheerful converse with her I soon recovered my 
 spirits considerably, and passed my time agreeably 
 enough, although still in the strictest seclusion. 
 
 Matters went on sufficiently smooth, although I 
 could not help sometimes feeling a momentary, but 
 horrible uncertainty respecting my uncle's character ; 
 which was not altogether unwarranted by the cir- 
 cumstances of the two trying interviews whose 
 particulars I have just detailed. The unpleasant 
 impression which these conferences were calculated 
 to leave upon my mind was fast wearing away, 
 when there occurred a circumstance, slight indeed in 
 itself, but calculated irresistibly to awaken all my 
 worst suspicions, and to overwhelm me again with 
 anxiety and terror. 
 
 I had one day left the house with my cousin Emily, 
 in order to take a ramble of considerable length, for 
 the purpose of sketching some favourite views, and 
 
I04 Passage in tJie Secret History 
 
 he had walked about half a mile, when I perceived 
 that we had forgotten our drawing materials, the 
 absence of which would have defeated the object of 
 our walk. Laughing at our own thoughtlessness, we 
 returned to the house, and leaving Emily without, I 
 ran upstairs to procure the drawing-books and pencils, 
 which lay in my bedroom. 
 
 As I ran up the stairs I was met by the tall, ill- 
 looking Frenchwoman, evidently a good deal flurried. 
 
 "Que veut, madame?" said she, with a more de- 
 cided effort to be polite than I had ever known her 
 make before. 
 
 *' No, no — no matter," said I, hastily running by 
 her in the direction of my room. 
 
 " Madame," cried she, in a high key, " rcstez ici, 
 s'il vous plait; votre chambre n'est pas faitc — your 
 room is not ready for your reception yet." 
 
 I continued to move on without heeding her. She 
 was some way behind me, and feeling that she could 
 not otherwise prevent my entrance, for I was now 
 upon the very lobby, she made a desperate attempt 
 to seize hold of my person : she succeeded in grasp- 
 ing the end of my shawl, which she drew from my 
 shoulders ; but slipping at the same time upon the 
 polished oak floor, she fell at full length upon the 
 boards. 
 
 A little frightened as well as angry at the rudeness 
 of this strange woman, I hastily pushed open the 
 
of an Irish Countess. 105 
 
 door of my room, at which I now stood, in order to 
 escape from her ; but great was my amazement on 
 entering to find the apartment occupied. 
 
 The window was open, and beside it stood two 
 male figures ; they appeared to be examining the 
 fastenings of the casement, and their backs \vere 
 turned towards the door. One of them was my 
 uncle ; they both turned on my entrance, as if 
 startled. The stranger was booted and cloaked, and 
 wore a heavy broad-leafed hat over his brows. He 
 turned but for a moment, and averted his face ; but I 
 had seen enough to convince me that he was no other 
 than my cousin Edward. My uncle had some iron 
 instrument in his hand, which he hastily concealed 
 behind his back ; and, coming towards me, said some- 
 thing as if in an explanatory tone ; but I was too 
 much shocked and confounded to understand what 
 it might be. He said something about " repairs— 
 window-frames — cold, and safety." 
 
 I did not wait, however, to ask or to receive ex- 
 planations, but hastily left the room. As I went 
 down the stairs I thought I heard the voice of the 
 French woman in all the shrill volubility of excuse, 
 which was met, however, by suppressed but vehement 
 imprecations, or what seemed to me to be such, 
 in which the voice of my cousin Edward distinctly 
 mingled. 
 
 I joined my cousin Emily quite out of breath. I 
 
io6 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 need not say that my head was too full of other 
 things to think much of drawing for that day. I 
 imparted to her frankly the cause of my alarms, but 
 at the same time as gently as I could ; and with tears 
 she promised vigilance, and devotion, and love. 1 
 never had reason for a moment to repent the un- 
 reserved confidence which I then reposed in her. 
 She was no less surprised than I at the unexpected 
 appearance of her brother, whose departure for France 
 neither of us had for a moment doubted, but which 
 was now proved by his actual presence to be nothing 
 more than an imposture, practised, I feared, for no 
 good end. 
 
 The situation in which I had found my uncle had 
 removed completely all my doubts as to his designs. 
 I magnified suspicions into certainties, and dreaded 
 night after night that I should be murdered in my 
 bed. The nervousness produced by sleepless nights 
 and days of anxious fears increased the horrors of 
 my situation to such a degree, that I at length wrote 
 a letter to a Mr. Jefferies, an old and faithful friend of 
 niy father's, and perfeciy acquainted with all his affairs, 
 praying him, for God's sake, to relieve me from my 
 present terrible situation, and communicating without 
 reserve the nature and grounds of my suspicions. 
 
 This letter I kept sealed and directed for two or 
 three days always about my person — for discovery 
 would have been ruinous — in expectation of an oppor- 
 
of an Irish Countess. 107 
 
 tunity which might be safely trusted, whereby to have 
 it placed in the post-office. As neither Emily nor I 
 was permitted to pass beyond the precincts of the 
 demesne itself, which was surrounded by high walls 
 formed of dry stone, the difficulty of procuring such 
 an opportunity was greatly enhanced. 
 
 At this time Emily had a short conversation with 
 her father, which she reported to me instantly. 
 
 After some indifferent matter, he had asked her 
 whether she and I were upon good terms, and 
 whether I was unreserved in my disposition. She 
 answered in the affirmative ; and he then inquired 
 whether I had been much surprised to find him in 
 my chamber on the other day. She answered that I 
 had been both surprised and amused. 
 
 " And what did she think of George Wilson's 
 appearance ? " 
 
 " Who ? " inquired she. 
 
 " Oh, the architect/' he answered, " who is to con- 
 tract for the repairs of the house ; he is accounted a 
 handsome fellow." 
 
 " She could not see his face," said Emily, " and she 
 was in such a hurry to escape that she scared}' 
 noticed him." 
 
 Sir Arthur appeared satisfied, and the conversation 
 ended. 
 
 This slight conversation, repeated accurately to me 
 by Emily, had the effect of confirming, if indeed 
 
io8 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 anything was required to do so, all that I had before 
 believed as to Edward's actual presence ; and I 
 naturally became, if possible, more anxious than 
 ever to despatch the letter to Mr. Jefferies. An 
 opportunity at length occurred. 
 
 As Emily and I were walking one day near the 
 gate of the demesne, a man from the village happened 
 to be passing down the avenue from the house ; the 
 spot was secluded, and as this person was not con- 
 nected by service with those whose observation I 
 dreaded, I committed the letter to his keeping, with 
 strict injunctions that he should put it without delay 
 into the receiver of the town post-office ; at the same 
 time I added a suitable gratuity, and the man, 
 having made many protestations of punctuality, was 
 soon out of sight. 
 
 He was hardly gone when I began to doubt my 
 discretion in having trusted this person ; but I had 
 no better or safer means of despatching the letter, 
 and I was not warranted in suspecting him of such 
 wanton dishonesty as an inclination to tamper with 
 it ; but I could not be quite satisfied of its safety 
 until I had received an answer, which could not 
 arrive for a few days. Before I did, however, an 
 event occurred which a little surprised me. 
 
 I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, 
 reading by myself, when I heard a knock at the 
 door. 
 
of an Irish Countess. 109 
 
 " Come in," said I ; and my uncle entered the 
 room. 
 
 "Will you excuse me ? " said he. " I sought you 
 in the parlour, and thence I have come here. I 
 desire to say a word with you. I trust that you have 
 hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a 
 guardian towards his ward should be." 
 
 I dared not withhold my assent. 
 
 "And," he continued, " I trust that you have not 
 found me harsh or unjust, and that you have per- 
 ceived, my dear niece, that I have sought to make 
 this poor place as agreeable to you as may be." 
 
 I assented again ; and he put his hand in his 
 pocket, whence he drew a folded paper, and dashing 
 it upon the table with startling emphasis, he said, — 
 
 " Did you write that letter ? " 
 
 The sudden and fearful alteration of his voice, 
 manner, and face, but, more than all, the unexpected 
 production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at 
 once recognized, so confounded and terrified me that 
 I felt almost choking. 
 
 I could not utter a word. 
 
 " Did you write that letter ? " he repeated, with 
 slow and intense emphasis. " You did, liar and 
 hypocrite I You dared to write this foul and in- 
 famous libel ; but it shall be }our last. Men will 
 universally believe you mad, if I choose to call for 
 an inquiry. I can make you appear so. The sus- 
 
I TO Passage in the Secret History 
 
 picions expressed in this letter are the hallucinations 
 ^ , and alarms of moping lunacy. I have defeated your 
 first attempt, madam ; and by the holy God, if ever 
 you make another, chains, straw, darkness, and the 
 keeper's whip shall be your lasting portion ! " 
 
 With these astounding words he left the room, 
 leaving me almost fainting. 
 
 I was now almost reduced to despair; my last cast 
 had failed ; I had no course left but that of eloping 
 secretly from the castle and placing myself under 
 the protection of the nearest magistrate. I felt if 
 this were not done, and speedily, that I should be 
 murdered. 
 
 No one, from mere description, can have an idea 
 of the unmitigated horror of my situation— a helpless, 
 weak, inexperienced girl, placed under the power and 
 wholly at the mercy of evil men, and feeling that she 
 had it not in her power to escape for a moment from 
 the malignant influences under which she was pro- 
 bably fated to fail ; and with a consciousness that if 
 violence, if murder were designed, her dying shriek 
 would be lost in void space ; no human being would 
 be near to aid her, no human interposition could 
 deliver her. 
 
 I had seen Edward but once during his visit, and, 
 as I did not meet with him again, I began to think 
 that he must have taken his departure — a conviction 
 which was to a certain degree satisfactory, as I 
 
of an Irish Countess. ill 
 
 regarded his absence as indicating the removal of 
 immediate danger. 
 
 Emily also arrived circuitously at the same conclu- 
 sion, and not without good grounds, for she managed 
 indirectly to learn that Edward's black horse had 
 actually been for a day and part of a night in the 
 castle stables, just at the time of her brother's sup- 
 posed visit. The horse had gone and, as she argued, 
 the rider must have departed with it. 
 
 This point being so far settled, I felt a little less 
 uncomfortable ; when, being one day alone in my 
 bedroom, I happened to look out from the window, 
 and, to my unutterable horror, I beheld, peering 
 through an opposite casement, my cousin Edward's 
 face. Had I seen the evil one himself in bodily 
 shape, I could not have experienced a more sickening 
 revulsion. 
 
 I was too much appalled to move at once from the 
 window, but I did so soon enough to avoid his eye. 
 He was looking fixedly into the narrow quadrangle 
 upon which the window opened. I shrank back un- 
 perceived, to pass the rest of the day in terror and 
 despair, I went to my room early that night, but I 
 was too miserable to sleep. 
 
 At about twelve o'clock, feeling very nervous, I 
 determined to call my cousin Emily, who slept, you 
 will remember, in the next room, which communi- 
 cated with mine by a second door. By this private 
 
112 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 entrance I found my way into her chamber, and 
 without difficulty persuaded her to return to my 
 room and sleep with me. We accordingly lay down 
 together, she undressed, and I with my clothes on, 
 for I was every moment walking up and down the 
 room, and felt too nervous and miserable to think of 
 rest or comfort. 
 
 Emily was soon fast asleep, and I lay awake, fer- 
 vently longing for the first pale gleam of morning ; 
 reckoning every stroke of the old clock with an 
 impatience which made every hour appear like six. 
 
 It must have been about one o'clock when I 
 thought I heard a slight noise at the partition-door 
 between Emily's room and mine, as if caused by 
 somebody turning the key in the lock. I held my 
 breath, and the same sound was repeated at the 
 second door of my room — that which opened upon 
 the lobby — the sound was here distinctly caused by 
 the revolution of the bolt in the lock, and it was 
 followed by a slight pressure upon the door itself, as 
 if to ascertain the security of the lock. 
 
 The person, whoever it might be, was probably 
 satisfied, for I heard the old boards of the lobby 
 creak and strain, as if under the weight of somebody 
 moving cautiously over them. My sense of hear- 
 ing became unnaturally, almost painfully acute. I 
 suppose my imagination added distinctness to sounds 
 vague in themselves. I thought that I could actually 
 
of an frisk Countess. 1 1 3 
 
 hear the breathing of the person who was slowly 
 returning down the lobby. At the head of the 
 staircase there appeared to occur a pause ; and I 
 could distinctly hear two or three sentences hastily 
 whispered ; the steps then descended the stairs with 
 apparently less caution. I now ventured to walk 
 quickly and lightly to the lobby door, and attempted 
 to open it ; it was indeed fast locked upon the out- 
 side, as was also the other. 
 
 I now felt that the dreadful hour was come ; but 
 one desperate expedient remained — it was to awaken 
 Emily, and by our united strength to attempt to 
 force the partition-door, which was slighter than the 
 other, and through this to pass to the lower part of 
 the house, whence it might be possible to escape to 
 the grounds, and forth to the village. 
 
 I returned to the bedside and shook Emily, but 
 in vain. Nothing that I could do availed to produce 
 from her more than a few incoherent words — it was 
 a deathlike sleep. She had certainly drunk of some 
 narcotic, as had I probably also, spite of all the 
 caution with which I had examined everything pre- 
 sented to us to eat or drink. 
 
 I now attempted, with as little noise as possible, 
 to force first one door, then the other ; but all in 
 vain. I believe no strength could have effected my 
 object, for both doors opened inwards. I therefore 
 collected whatever movables I could carry thither, 
 
 I 
 
1 1 4, Passage in the Secret History 
 
 and piled them against the doors, so as to assist me 
 in whatever attempts I should make to resist the 
 entrance of those without. I then returned to the 
 bed and endeavoured again, but fruitlessly, to awaken 
 my cousin. It was not sleep, it was torpor, lethargy, 
 death. I knelt down and prayed with an agony of 
 earnestness ; and then seating myself upon the bed, 
 I awaited my fate with a kind of terrible tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 I heard a faint clanking sound from the narrow 
 court which I have already mentioned, as if caused 
 by the scraping of some iron instrument against 
 stones or rubbish. I at first determined not to dis- 
 turb the calmness which I now felt by uselessly 
 watching the proceedings of those who sought my 
 life ; but as the sounds continued, the horrible 
 curiosity which I felt overcame every other emotion, 
 and I determined, at all hazards, to gratify it. I 
 therefore crawled upon my knees to the window, so 
 as to let the smallest portion of my head appear 
 above the sill. 
 
 The moon was shining with an uncertain radiance 
 upon the antique grey buildings, and obliquely upon 
 the narrow court beneath, one side of which was 
 therefore clearly illuminated, while the other was lost 
 in obscurity ; the sharp outlines of the old gables, 
 with their nodding clusters of ivy, being at first alone 
 visible. 
 
of an h'ish Coimtcss. 115 
 
 Whoever or whatever occasioned the noise which 
 had excited my curiosity, was concealed under the 
 shadow of the dark side of the quadrangle. I placed 
 my hand over my eyes to shade them from the 
 moonlight, which was so bright as to be almost 
 dazzling, and, peering into the darkness, I first dimly, 
 but afterwards gradually almost with full distinctness, 
 beheld the form of a man engaged in digging what 
 appeared to be a rude hole close under the wall. 
 Some implements, probably a shovel and pickaxe, 
 lay beside him, and to these he every now and then 
 applied himself as the nature of the ground required. 
 He pursued his task rapidly, and with as little noise 
 as possible. 
 
 " So," thought I, as, shovelful after shovelful, the 
 dislodged rubbish mounted into a heap, " they are 
 digging the grave in which, before two hours pass, I 
 must lie, a cold, mangled corpse. I am theirs — I 
 cannot escape." 
 
 I felt as if my reason was leaving me. I started 
 to my feet, and in mere despair I applied myself 
 again to each of the two doors alternately. I 
 strained every nerve and sinew, but I might as well 
 have attempted, with my single strength, to force the 
 building itself from its foundation. I threw myself 
 madly upon the ground, and clasped my hands 
 over my eyes as if to shut out the horrible images 
 which crowded upon me. 
 
 I 2 
 
[ 1 6 PassaoT in the Seci-et History 
 
 The paroxysm passed away. I prayed once more, 
 with the bitter, agonized fervour of one who feels 
 that the hour of death is present and inevitable. 
 When I arose, I went once more to the window and 
 looked out, just in time to see a shadowy figure glide 
 stealthily along the wall. The task was finished. 
 The catastrophe of the tragedy must scon be accom- 
 plished. 
 
 I determined now to defend my life to the last ; 
 and that I might be able to do so with some effect, I 
 searched the room for something which might serve 
 as a weapon ; but either through accident, or from 
 an anticipation of such a possibility, everything 
 which might have been made available for such a 
 purpose had been carefully removed. I must then 
 die tamely, and without an effort to defend myself. 
 
 A thought suddenly struck me — might it not be 
 possible to escape through the door, which the 
 assassin must open in order to enter the room ? I 
 resolved to make the attempt. I felt assured that 
 the door through which ingress to the room would 
 be effected was that which opened upon the lobby. 
 It was the more direct way, besides being, for obvious 
 reasons, less liable to interruption than the other. 
 I resolved, then, to place myself behind a projection 
 of the wall, whose shadow would serve fully to con- 
 ceal me, and when the door should be opened, and 
 before they should have discovered the identity of 
 
of an Irish Countess. 1 1 7 
 
 the occupant of the bed, to creep noiselessly from 
 the room, and then to trust to Providence for escape. 
 In order to facilitate this scheme, I removed all 
 the lumber which I had heaped against the door ; 
 and I had nearly completed my arrangements, when 
 I perceived the room suddenly darkened by the 
 close approach of some shadowy object to the 
 window. On turning my eyes in that direction, I 
 observed at the top of the casement, as if suspended 
 from above, first the feet, then the legs, then the 
 body, and at length the whole figure of a man 
 
 present himself. It was Edward T n. 
 
 He appeared to be guiding his descent so as to 
 bring his feet upon the centre of the stone block 
 which occupied the lower part of the window ; and, 
 having secured his footing upon this, he kneeled 
 down and began to gaze into the room. As the 
 moon was gleaming into the chamber, and the bed- 
 curtains were drawn, he was able to distinguish the 
 bed itself and its contents. He appeared satisfied 
 with his scrutiny, for he looked up and made a sign 
 with his hand, upon which the rope by which his 
 descent had been effected was slackened from above, 
 and he proceeded to disengage it from his waist ; this 
 accomplished, he applied his hands to the window- 
 frame, which must have been ingeniously con- 
 trived for the purpose, for, with apparently no resis- 
 tance, the whole frame, containing casement and all. 
 
1 1 S Passage iii the Secret History 
 
 slipped from its position in the wall, and was by him 
 lowered into the room. 
 
 The cold night wind waved the bed-curtains, and 
 he paused for a moment ; all was still again, and 
 he stepped in upon the floor of the room. He held 
 in his hand what appeared to be a steel instrument, 
 shaped something like a hammer, but larger and 
 sharper at the extremities. This he held rather 
 behind him, while, with three long, tip-toe strides, he 
 brought himself to the bedside. 
 
 I felt that the discovery must now be made, and 
 held my breath in momentary expectation of the 
 execration in which he would vent his surprise and 
 disappointment. I closed my eyes — there was a 
 pause, but it was a short one. I heard two dull 
 blows, given in rapid succession : a quivering sigh, 
 and the long-drawn, heavy breathing of the sleeper 
 was for ever suspended. I unclosed my eyes, and 
 saw the murderer fling the quilt across the head of 
 his victim : he then, with the instrument of death 
 still in his hand, proceeded to the lobby door, upon 
 which he tapped sharply twice or thrice. A quick 
 step was then heard approaching, and a voice whis- 
 pered something from without. Edward answered, 
 with a kind of chuckle, " Her ladyship is past com- 
 plaining ; unlock the door, in the devil's name, 
 unless you're afraid to come in, and help me to lift 
 the body out of the window." 
 
of an Irish Countess. 119 
 
 The key was turned in the lock— the door opened, 
 and my uncle entered the room. 
 
 I have told you already that I had placed myself 
 under the shade of a projection of the wall, close to 
 the door. I had instinctively shrunk down, cowering 
 towards the ground, on the entrance of Edward 
 through the window. When my uncle entered the 
 room, he and his son both stood so very close to me 
 that his hand was every moment upon the point of 
 touching my face. I held my breath, and remained 
 motionless as death, 
 
 "You had no interruption from the next room ?" 
 said my uncle. ■'; 
 
 " No," was the brief reply. 
 
 " Secure the jewels, Ned ; the French harpy must 
 not lay her claws upon them. You're a steady hand, 
 by G ! not much blood — eh ? " 
 
 " Not twenty drops," replied his son, " and those 
 on the quilt." 
 
 " I'm glad it's over," whispered my uncle again. 
 "We must lift the — the tJiing through the window 
 and lay the rubbish over it." 
 
 They then turned to the bedside, and, winding the 
 bed-clothes round the body, carried it between them 
 slowly to the window, and, exchanging a few brief 
 words with some one below, they shoved it over the 
 window-sill, and I heard it fall heavily on the ground 
 underneath. 
 
I20 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 " I'll take the jewels," said my uncle ; " there are 
 two caskets in the lower drawer." 
 
 He proceeded, with an accuracy which, had I been 
 more at ease, would have furnished me with matter 
 of astonishment, to lay his hand upon the very spot 
 where my jewels lay ; and having possessed himself 
 of them, he called to his son : 
 
 " Is the rope made fast above ? " 
 
 " I'm not a fool — to be sure it is," replied he. 
 
 They then lowered themselves from the window. 
 I now rose lightly and cautiously, scarcely daring to 
 breathe, from my place of concealment, and was 
 creeping towards the door, when I heard my cousin's 
 voice, in a sharp whisper, exclaim ; " Scramble up 
 
 again ! G — d d n you, you've forgot to lock the 
 
 room-door ! " and I perceived, by the straining of the 
 rope which hung from above, that the mandate was 
 instantly obeyed. 
 
 Not a second was to be lost. I passed through the 
 door, which was only closed, and moved as rapidly 
 as I could, consistently with stillness, along the lobby. 
 Before I had gone many yards, I heard the door 
 through which I had just passed double-locked on 
 the inside. I glided down the stairs in terror, lest, at 
 every corner, I should meet the murderer or one of 
 his accomplices. 
 
 I reached the hall, and listened for a moment, to 
 ascertain whether all was silent around ; no sound 
 
of a7i Irish Countess. 1 2 1 
 
 was audible. The parlour windows opened on the 
 park, and through one of them I might, I thought, 
 easily effect my escape. Accordingly, I hastily 
 entered ; but, to my consternation, a candle was 
 burning in the room, and by its light I saw a figure 
 seated at the dinner-table, upon which lay glasses, 
 bottles, and the other accompaniments of a drinking- 
 party. Two or three chairs were placed about the 
 table irregularly, as if hastily abandoned by their 
 occupants. 
 
 A single glance satisfied me that the figure was 
 that of my French attendant. She was fast asleep, 
 having probably drunk deeply. There was some- 
 thing malignant and ghastly in the calmness of this 
 bad woman's features, dimly illuminated as they were 
 by the flickering blaze of the candle. A knife lay 
 upon the table, and the terrible thought struck me — 
 " Should I kill this sleeping accomplice, and thus 
 secure my retreat ? " 
 
 Nothing could be easier — it was but to draw the 
 blade across her throat — the work of a second. An 
 instant's pause, however, corrected me. " No," 
 thought I, " the God who has conducted me thus far 
 through the valley of the shadow of death, will not 
 abandon me now. I will fall into their hands, or I 
 will escape hence, but it shall be free from the stain 
 of blood. His will be done ! " 
 
 I felt a confidence arising from this reflection, an 
 
I 22 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 assurance of protection which I cannot describe. 
 There was no other means of escape, so I advanced, 
 with a firm step and collected mind, to the window. 
 I noiselessly withdrew the bars and unclosed the 
 shutters — I pushed open the casement, and, without 
 waiting to look behind me, I ran with my utmost 
 speed, scarcely feeling the ground under me, down 
 the avenue, taking care to keep upon the grass which 
 bordered it. 
 
 I did not for a moment slacken my speed, and I 
 had now gained the centre point between the park-gate 
 and the mansion-house. Here the avenue made a 
 wider circuit, and in order to avoid delay, I directed 
 my way across the smooth sward round which the 
 pathway wound, intending, at the opposite side of the 
 flat, at a point which I distinguished by a group of 
 old birch-trees, to enter again upon the beaten track, 
 which v/as from thence tolerably direct to the gate. 
 
 I had, with my utmost speed, got about half way 
 across this broad flat, when the rapid treading of a 
 horse's hoofs struck upon my ear. My heart swelled 
 in my bosom as though I would smother. The 
 clattering of galloping hoofs approached — I was 
 pursued — they were now upon the sward on which I 
 was running — there was not a bush or a bramble to 
 shelter me — and, as if to render escape altogether 
 desperate, the moon, which had hitherto been ob- 
 scured, at this moment shone forth with a broad 
 
of an Irish Coimtess. 123 
 
 clear light, which made every object distinctly 
 visible. 
 
 The sounds were now close behind me. I felt my 
 knees bending under me, with the sensation which 
 torments one in dreams. I reeled — I stumbled — I 
 fell — and at the same instant the cause of my alarm 
 wheeled past me at full gallop. It was one of the 
 young fillies which pastured loose about the park, 
 whose frolics had thus all but maddened me with 
 terror. I scrambled to my feet, and rushed on with 
 weak but rapid steps, m,y sportive companion still 
 galloping round and round me with many a frisk and 
 fling, until, at length, more dead than alive, I reached 
 the avcnuc-gate, and crossed the stile, I scarce knew 
 how. 
 
 I ran through the village, in which all was silent 
 as the grave, until my progress was arrested by the 
 hoarse voice of a sentinel, who cried, " Who goes 
 there 1 " I felt that I was now safe. I turned in the 
 direction of the voice, and fell fainting at the soldier's 
 feet. When I came to myself, I was sitting in a 
 miserable hovel, surrounded by strange faces, all 
 bespeaking curiosity and compassion. 
 
 Many soldiers were in it also : indeed, as I after- 
 wards found, it was employed as a guard-room by a 
 detachment of troops quartered for that night in the 
 town. In a {q.\\ words I informed their officer of the 
 circumstances which had occurred, describing also 
 
124 Passage in the Secret History 
 
 the appearance of the persons engaged in the murder; 
 and he, without loss of time, proceeded to the mansion- 
 house of Carrickleigh, taking with him a party of his 
 men. But the villains had discovered their mistake, 
 and had effected their escape before the arrival of 
 the military. 
 
 The Frenchwoman was, however, arrested in the 
 neighbourhood upon the next day. She was tried 
 and condemned upon the ensuing assizes ; and pre- 
 vious to her execution, confessed that ^^ she had a 
 hand in making Hugh Tisdall's bed!' She had been 
 a housekeeper in the castle at the time, and a kind of 
 cJicre aniie of my uncle's. She was, in reality, able to 
 speak English like a native^ but had exclusively used 
 the French language, I suppose, to facilitate her 
 disguise. She died the same hardened wretch 
 she had lived, confessing her crimes only, as she 
 alleged, that her doing so might involve Sir Arthur 
 
 T n, the great author of her guilt and misery, and 
 
 whom she now regarded with unmitigated detes- 
 tation. 
 
 With the particulars of Sir Arthur's and his son's 
 escape, as far as they are known, you are acquainted. 
 You are also in possession of their after fate — the 
 terrible, the tremendous retribution which, after long 
 delays of many years, finally overtook and crushed 
 them. Wonderful and inscrutable are the dealings 
 of God with His creatures. 
 
of an Irish Cojmtess. 125 
 
 Deep and fervent as must always bo my gratitude 
 to Heaven for my deliverance, effected by a chain of 
 providential occurrences, the failing of a single link 
 of which must have ensured my destruction, I was 
 long before I could look back upon it with other 
 feelings than those of bitterness, almost of agony. 
 The only being that had ever really loved me, my 
 nearest and dearest friend, ever ready to sympathize, 
 to counsel, and to assist — the gayest, the gentlest, 
 the warmest heart ; the only creature on earth that 
 cared for me — her life had been the price of my 
 deliverance ; and I then uttered the wish, which no 
 event of my long and sorrowful life has taught me 
 to recall, that she had been spared, and that, in 
 her stead, /were mouldering in the grave, forgotten 
 and at rest. 
 
You will no doubt be surprised, my dear friend, at 
 the subject of the following narrative. What had I 
 to do with Schalken, or Schalkcn with me ? He 
 had returned to his native land, and was probably 
 dead and buried before I was born ; I never visited 
 Holland, nor spoke with a native of that country. 
 So much I believe you already know. I must, then, 
 give you my authority, and state to you frankly the 
 ground upon which rests the credibility of the strange 
 story which I am about to lay before you. 
 
 I was acquainted, in my early days, with a Captain 
 Vandael, whose father had served King William in 
 the Low Countries, and also in my own unhappy 
 land during the Irish campaigns. I know not how 
 
Strange Eve7it in the Life of Schalken. 127 
 
 it happened that I liked this man's society, spite of 
 his politics and religion : but so it was ; and it was 
 by means of the free intercourse to which our inti- 
 macy gave rise that I became possessed of the curious 
 tale which you are about to hear. 
 
 I had often been struck, while visiting Vandael, 
 by a remarkable picture, in which, though no con- 
 noisseiir myself, I could not fail to discern some very 
 strong peculiarities, particularly in the distribution of 
 light and shade, as also a certain oddity in the design 
 itself, which interested my curiosity. It represented 
 the interior of what might be a chamber in some 
 antique religious building — the foreground was occu- 
 pied by a female figure, arrayed in a species of white 
 robe, part of which was arranged so as to form a veil. 
 The dress, however, was not strictly that of any reli- 
 gious order. In its hand the figure bore a lamp, by 
 whose light alone the form and face were illuminated ; 
 the features were marked by an arch smile, such as 
 pretty women wear when engaged in successfully 
 practising some roguish trick ; in the background, 
 and (excepting where the dim red light of an expiring 
 fire serves to define the form) totally in the shade, 
 stood the figure of a man equipped in the old fashion, 
 with doublet and so forth, in an attitude of alarm, his 
 hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which 
 he appeared to be in the act of drawing. 
 
 " There are some pictures," said I to my friend, 
 
128 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 *' which impress one, I know not how, with a con- 
 viction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes 
 and combinations which have floated through the 
 imagination of the artist, but scenes, faces, and situa- 
 tions which have actually existed. When I look 
 upon that picture, something assures me that I 
 behold the representation of a reality/' 
 
 Vandael smiled, and, fixing his eyes upon the 
 painting musingly, he said, — 
 
 " Your fancy has not deceived you, my good friend, 
 for that picture is the record, and I believe a faithful 
 one, of a remarkable and mysterious occurrence. It 
 was painted by Schalken, and contains, in the face 
 of the female figure which occupies the most promi- 
 nent place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose 
 Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the first and, 
 I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My 
 father knew the painter well, and from Schalken him- 
 self he learned the story of the mysterious drama, 
 one scene of which the picture has embodied. This 
 painting, which is accounted a fine specimen of 
 Schalken's style, was bequeathed to my father by 
 the artist's will, and, as you have observed, is a very 
 striking and interesting production." 
 
 I had only to request Vandael to tell the story of 
 the painting in order to be gratified ; and thus it is 
 that I am enabled to submit to you a faithful recital 
 of what I heard myself, leaving you to reject or to 
 
Schalken the Painter. 129 
 
 allow the evidence upon which the truth of the tra- 
 dition depends — with this one assurance, that Schalken 
 was an honest, blunt Dutchman, and, I believe, 
 wholly incapable of committing a flight of imagina- 
 tion ; and further, that Vandael, from whom I heard 
 the story, appeared firmly convinced of its truth. 
 
 There are few forms upon which the mantle of 
 mystery and romance could seem to hang more un- 
 gracefully than upon that of the uncouth and clown- 
 ish Schalken — the Dutch boor — the rude and dogged, 
 but most cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight 
 the initiated of the present day almost as much as his 
 manners disgusted the refined of his own ; and yet 
 this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, I had 
 almost said so savage in mien and manner, during 
 his after successes, had been selected by the capri- 
 cious goddess, in his early life, to figure as the hero 
 of a romance by no means devoid of interest or of 
 mystery. 
 
 Who can tell how meet he may have been in his 
 young days to play the part of the lover or of the 
 hero ? who can say that in early life he had been the 
 same harsh, unlicked, and rugged boor that, in his 
 maturer age, he proved ? or how far the neglected 
 rudeness which afterwards marked his air, and garb, 
 and manners, may not have been the growth of that 
 reckless apathy not unfrequently produced by bitter 
 misfortunes and disappointments in early life ? 
 
 K 
 
130 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 These questions can never now be answered. 
 
 We must content ourselves, then, with a plain 
 statement of facts, leaving matters of speculation to 
 those who like them. 
 
 When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard 
 Douw, he was a young man ; and in spite of the 
 phlegmatic constitution and excitable manner which 
 he shared, we believe, with his countrymen, he was 
 not incapable of deep and vivid impressions, for it is 
 an established fact that the young painter looked 
 with considerable interest upon the beautiful niece of 
 his wealthy master. 
 
 Rose Velderkaust was very young, having, at the 
 period of which we speak, not yet attained her seven- 
 teenth year ; and, if tradition speaks truth, she possessed 
 all the soft dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired 
 Flemish maidens. Schalken had not studied long in 
 the school of Gerard Douw when he felt this interest 
 deepening into something of a keener and intenser 
 feeling than was quite consistent with the tranquillity 
 of his honest Dutch heart ; and at the same time he 
 perceived, or thought he perceived, flattering symp- 
 toms of a reciprocal attachment, and this was quite 
 sufficient to determine whatever indecision he might 
 have heretofore experienced, and to lead him to 
 devote exclusively to her every hope and feeling of 
 his heart. In short, he was as much in love as a 
 Dutchman could be. He was not long in making 
 
Scha/ken the Painter. 131 
 
 his passion known to the pretty maiden herself, and 
 his declaration was followed by a corresponding con- 
 fession upon her part. 
 
 Schalken, howbeit, was a poor man, and he pos- 
 sessed no counterbalancing advantages of birth or 
 position to induce the old man to consent to a union 
 which must involve his niece and ward in the strug- 
 glings and difficulties of a young and nearly friendless 
 artist. He was, therefore, to wait until time had 
 furnished him with opportunity, and accident with 
 success ; and then, if his labours were found suffi- 
 ciently lucrative, it was to be hoped that his proposals 
 might at least be listened to by her jealous guardian. 
 Months passed away, and, cheered by the smiles of 
 the little Rose, Schalken's labours were redoubled, 
 and with such effect and improvement as reasonably 
 to promise the realization of his hopes, and no con- 
 temptible eminence in his art, before many years 
 should have elapsed. 
 
 The even course of this cheering prosperity was, 
 unfortunately, destined to experience a sudden and for- 
 midable interruption, and that, too, in a manner so 
 strange and mysterious as to baffle all investigation, 
 and throw upon the events themselves a shadow of 
 almost supernatural horror. 
 
 Schalken had one evening remained in the master's 
 studio considerably longer than his more volatile 
 companions, who had gladly availed themselves of 
 
 K 3 
 
132 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 the excuse which the dusk of evening afforded to 
 withdraw from their several tasks, in order to finish 
 a day of labour in the jollity and conviviality of the 
 tavern. 
 
 But Schalken worked for improvement, or rather 
 for love. Besides, he was now engaged merely in 
 sketching a design, an operation which, unlike that 
 of colouring, might be continued as long as there was 
 light sufficient to distinguish between canvas and 
 charcoal. He had not then, nor, indeed, until long 
 after, discovered the peculiar powers of his pencil ; 
 and he was engaged in composing a group of ex- 
 tremely roguish-looking and grotesque imps and 
 demons, who were inflicting various ingenious tor- 
 ments upon a perspiring and pot-bellied St. Anthony, 
 who reclined in the midst of them, apparently in the 
 last stage of drunkenness. 
 
 The young artist, however, though incapable of 
 executing, or even of appreciating, anything of true 
 sublimity, had nevertheless discernment enough to 
 prevent his being by any means satisfied with his 
 work ; and many were the patient erasures and cor- 
 rections which the limbs and features of saint and 
 devil underwent, yet all without producing in their 
 new arrangement anything of improvement or in- 
 creased effect. 
 
 The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and, 
 with the exception of himself, quite deserted by its 
 
Sckalken the Painter. 133 
 
 usual inmates. An hour had passed — nearly two — 
 without any improved result. Daylight had already 
 declined, and twilight was fast giving way to the 
 darkness of night. The patience of the young man 
 was exhausted, and he stood before his unfinished 
 production, absorbed in no very pleasing ruminations, 
 one hand buried in the folds of his long dark hair, 
 and the other holding the piece of charcoal which 
 had so ill executed its office, and which he now 
 rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks 
 which it produced, with irritable pressure upon his 
 ample Flemish inexpressibles. 
 
 '' Pshaw ! " said the young man aloud, "would that 
 picture, devils, saint, and all, were where they should 
 be— in hell ! " 
 
 A short, sudden laugh, uttered startlingly close to 
 his ear, instantly responded to the ejaculation. 
 
 The artist turned sharply round, and now for the 
 first time became aware that his labours had been 
 overlooked by a stranger. 
 
 Within about a yard and a half, and rather behind 
 him, there stood what was, or appeared to be, the 
 figure of an elderly man : he wore a short cloak, and 
 broad-brimmed hat with a conical crown, and in his 
 hand, which was protected with a heavy, gauntlet- 
 shaped glove, he carried a long ebony walking-stick, 
 surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly 
 in the twilight to be a massive head of gold ; and 
 
I 34 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 upon his breast, through the folds of the cloak, 
 there shone the links of a rich chain of the same 
 metal. 
 
 The room was so obscure that nothing further of 
 the appearance of the figure could be ascertained, 
 and the face was altogether overshadowed by the 
 heavy flap of the beaver which overhung it, so that no 
 feature could be clearly discerned. A quantity of dark 
 hair escaped from beneath this sombre hat, a cir- 
 cumstance which, connected with the firm, upright 
 carriage of the intruder, proved that his years could 
 not yet exceed threescore or thereabouts. 
 
 There was an air of gravity and importance about 
 the garb of this person, and something indescribably 
 odd — I might say awful — in the perfect, stone-like 
 movelessness of the figure, that effectually checked 
 the testy comment which had at once risen to the 
 lips of the irritated artist. He therefore, as soon as 
 he had sufficiently recovered the surprise, asked the 
 stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know if 
 he had any message to leave for his master. 
 
 " Tell Gerard Douvv," said the unknown, without 
 altering his attitude in the smallest degree, " that 
 Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires to 
 speak with him to-morrow evening at this hour, and, 
 if he please, in this room, upon matters of weight ; 
 that is all. Good-night.'^ 
 
 The stranger, having finished this message, turned 
 
Schalken the Painter. 135 
 
 abruptly, and, with a quick but silent step quitted 
 the room before Schalken had time to say a word in 
 reply. 
 
 The young man felt a curiosity to see in what 
 direction the burgher of Rotterdam would turn on 
 quitting the studio, and for that purpose he went 
 directly to the window which commanded the door. 
 
 A lobby of considerable extent intervened between 
 the inner door of the painter's room and the street 
 entrance, so that Schalken occupied the post of 
 observation before the old man could possibly have 
 reached the street. 
 
 He watched in vain, however. There was no other 
 mode of exit. 
 
 Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about 
 the recesses of the lobby for some bad purpose ? 
 This last suggestion filled the mind of Schalken with 
 a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense 
 as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room 
 alone and reluctant to pass through the lobby. 
 
 However, with an effort which appeared very dis- 
 proportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution 
 to leave the room, and, having double-locked the 
 door, and thrust the key in his pocket, without 
 looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage 
 which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the 
 person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing 
 to breathe till he had arrived in the open street. 
 
136 Straftge Event in the Life of 
 
 " Mynher Vanderhausen," said Gerard Douw, within 
 himself, as the appointed hour approached; " Mynher 
 Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam ! I never heard of the 
 man till yesterday. What can he want of me ? A 
 portrait, perhaps, to be painted ; or a younger son or 
 a poor relation to be apprenticed ; or a collection to be 
 valued ; or — pshav/ ! there's no one in Rotterdam to 
 leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may 
 be, we shall soon know it all." 
 
 It was now the close of day, and every easel, 
 except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard 
 Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless 
 step of impatient expectation, every now and then 
 humming a passage from a piece of music which he 
 was himself composing ; for, though no great pro- 
 ficient, he admired the art; sometimes pausing to 
 glance over the work of one of his absent pupils, but 
 more h'equently placing himself at the window, from 
 whence he might observe the passengers who threaded 
 the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed. 
 
 " Said you not, Godfrey," exclaimed Douw, after a 
 long and fruitless gaze from his post of observation, 
 and turning to Schalken — " said you not the hour of 
 appointment was at about seven by the clock of the 
 Stadhouse ? " 
 
 " It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir," 
 answered the student. 
 
 " The hour is close at hand, then," said the master. 
 
Schalken fhe Painter. 137 
 
 consulting a horologe as large and as round as a 
 full-grown orange. " Mynher Vanderhausen, from 
 Rotterdam — is it not so ? " 
 
 *' Such was the name." 
 
 " And an elderly man, richly clad .' " continued 
 Douw. 
 
 ''As well as I might see/' replied his pupil. "■ He 
 could not be young, nor yet very old neither, and his 
 dress was rich and grave, as might become a citizen 
 of wealth and consideration." 
 
 At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stad- 
 house clock told, stroke after stroke, the hour of 
 seven ; the eyes of both master and student were 
 directed to the door ; and it was not until the last 
 peal of the old bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 " So, so ; we shall have his worship presently — 
 that is, if he means to keep his hour ; if not, thou 
 mayst wait for him, Godfrey, if you court the 
 acquaintance of a capricious burgomaster. As for 
 me, I think our old Leyden contains a sufficiency 
 of such commodities, without an importation from 
 Rotterdam." 
 
 Schalken laughed, as in duty bound ; and, after a 
 pause of some minutes, Douw suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
 " What if it should all prove a jest, a piece of 
 mummery got up by Vankarp, or some such worthy ! 
 I wish you had run all risks, and cudgelled the old 
 
138 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 burgomaster^ stadholdcr, or whatever else he may 
 be, soundly. I would wager a dozen of Rhenish, 
 his worship would have pleaded old acquaintance 
 before the third application/' 
 
 " Here he comes, sir," said Schalken, in a low, 
 admonitory tone ; and instantly, upon turning to- 
 wards the door, Gerard Douw observed the same 
 figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly 
 greeted the vision of his pupil Schalken, 
 
 There was something in the air and mien of the 
 figure which at once satisfied the painter that there 
 was no mummery in the case, and that he really 
 stood in the presence of a man of worship ; and so, 
 without hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously 
 saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated. 
 
 The visitor waved his hand slightly, as if in 
 acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained 
 standing, 
 
 " I have the honour to see Mynher Vanderhausen, 
 of Rotterdam ? " said Gerard Douw. 
 
 " The same," was the laconic reply. 
 
 " I understand your worship desires to speak with 
 me," continued Douw, "and I am here by appoint- 
 ment to wait your commands." 
 
 "Is that a man of trust?" said Vanderhausen, 
 turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little 
 distance behind his master. 
 
 " Certainly," replied Gerard. 
 
Schalken the Painter. 139 
 
 " Then let him take this box and get the nearest 
 jeweller or goldsmith to value its contents, and let 
 him return hither with a certificate of the valua- 
 tion." 
 
 At the same time he placed a small case, about 
 nine inches square, in the hands of Gerard Douw, 
 who was as much amazed at its weight as at the 
 strange abruptness with which it was handed to 
 him. 
 
 In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he 
 delivered it into the hands of Schalken, and repeating 
 Jus directions, despatched him upon the mission. 
 
 Schalken disposed his precious charge securely 
 beneath the folds of his cloak, and rapidly traversing 
 two or three narrow streets, he stopped at a corner 
 house, the lower part of which was then occupied by 
 the shop of a Jewish goldsmith. 
 
 Schalken entered the shop, and calling the little 
 Hebrew into the obscurity of its back recesses, he 
 proceeded to lay before him Vanderhausen's packet. 
 
 On being examined by the light of a lamp, it 
 appeared entirely cased with lead, the outer surface 
 of which was much scraped and soiled, and nearly 
 white with age. This was with difficulty partially 
 removed, and disclosed beneath a box of some dark 
 and singularly hard wood ; this, too, was forced, and 
 after the removal of two or three folds of linen, its 
 contents proved to be a mass of golden ingots, close 
 
140 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 packed, and, as the Jew declared, of the most perfect 
 quality. 
 
 Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little 
 Jew, who seemed to feel an epicurean delight in 
 touching and testing these morsels of the glorious 
 metal ; and each one of them was replaced in the 
 box with the exclamation, — 
 
 '' Mein 6^(9//, how very perfect! not one grain of 
 alloy — beautiful, beautiful ! " 
 
 The task was at length finished, and the Jew 
 certified under his hand that the value of the ingots 
 submitted to his examination amounted to many 
 thousand rix-dollars. 
 
 With the desired document in his bosom, and the 
 rich box of gold carefully pressed under his arm, and 
 concealed by his cloak, he retraced his way, and, 
 entering the studio, found his master and the stranger 
 in close conference. 
 
 Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to 
 execute the commission he had taken in charge, 
 than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in the 
 following terms : 
 
 " I may not tarry with you to-night more than a 
 few minutes, and so I shall briefly tell you the matter 
 upon which I come. You visited the town of Rot- 
 terdam some four months ago, and then I saw in the 
 church of St. Lawrence your niece. Rose Velderkaust. 
 I desire to marry her, and if I satisfy you as to the 
 
Schalken the Painter, \ 4 1 
 
 fact that I am very wealthy — more wealthy than 
 any husband you could dream of for her — I ex- 
 pect that you will forward my views to the utmost 
 of your authority. If you approve my proposal, 
 you must close with it at once, for I cannot 
 command time enout^h to wait for calculations 
 and delays." 
 
 Gerard Douw was, perhaps, as much astonished as 
 anyone could be by the very unexpected nature of 
 Mynher Vanderhausen's communication ; but he did 
 not give vent to any unseemly expression of surprise. 
 In addition to the motives supplied by prudence and 
 politeness, the painter experienced a kind of chill 
 and oppressive sensation — a feeling like that which 
 is supposed to affect a man who is placed uncon- 
 sciously in immediate contact with something to 
 which he has a natural antipathy — an undefined 
 horror and dread — while standing in the presence of 
 the eccentric stranger, which made him very unwill- 
 ing to say anything that might reasonably prove 
 offensive. 
 
 " I have no doubt," said Gerard, after two or three 
 prefatory hems, " that the connection which you 
 propose would prove alike advantageous and honour- 
 able to my niece ; but you must be aware that she 
 has a will of her own, and may not acquiesce in what 
 we may design for her advantage." 
 
 " Do not seek to deceive me. Sir Painter," said 
 
142 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 Vanderhausen ; "you are her guardian — she is your 
 ward. She is mine \{ yoii like to make her so." 
 
 The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as 
 he spoke, and Gerard Douvv, he scarce knew why, 
 inwardly prayed for the speedy return of Schalken. 
 
 " I desire," said the mysterious gentleman, '^ to 
 place in your hands at once an evidence of my wealth, 
 and a security for my liberal dealing with your niece. 
 The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum in 
 value five times the fortune which she has a right to 
 expect from a husband. This shall lie in your 
 hands, together with her dowry, and you may 
 apply the united sum as suits her interest best ; it 
 shall be all exclusively hers while she lives. Is that 
 liberal .? " 
 
 Douw assented, and inwardly thought that fortune 
 had been extraordinarily kind to his niece. The 
 stranger, he deemed, must be most wealthy and 
 generous, and such an offer was not to be despised, 
 though made by a humorist, and one of no very 
 prepossessing presence. 
 
 Rose had no very high pretensions, for she was 
 almost without dowry ; indeed, altogether so, ex- 
 cepting so far as the deficiency had been supplied by 
 the generosity of her uncle. Neither had she any 
 right to raise any scruples against the match on the 
 score of birth, for her own origin was by no means 
 elevated ; and as to other objections, Gerard resolved, 
 
Schalken the Painter. 143 
 
 and, indeed, by the usages of the time was warranted 
 in resolving, not to listen to them for a moment. 
 
 "Sir," said he, addressing the stranger, "your offer 
 is most liberal, and whatever hesitation I may feel in 
 closing with it immediately, arises solely from my 
 not having the honour of knowing anything of your 
 family or station. Upon these points you can, of 
 course, satisfy me without difficulty ? " 
 
 "As to my respectability," said the stranger, drily, 
 " you must take that for granted at present ; pester 
 me with no inquiries ; you can discover nothing 
 more about me than I choose to make known. You 
 shall have sufficient security for my respectability — 
 my word, if you are honourable : if you are sordid, 
 my gold." 
 
 " A testy old gentleman," thought Douw ; " he 
 must have his own way. But, all things considered, 
 I am justified in giving my niece to him. Were she 
 my own daughter, I would do the like by her. I 
 v.'ill not pledge myself unnecessarily, however." 
 
 " You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily/' said 
 Vanderhausen, strangely uttering the very words 
 which had just floated through the mind of his com- 
 panion ; " but you will do so if it is necessary, I 
 presume; and I will show you that I consider it in- 
 dispensable. If the gold I mean to leave in your 
 hands satisfies you, and if you desire that my proposal 
 shall not be at once withdrawn, you must, before I 
 
14.4 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 leave this room, write your name to this engage- 
 ment." 
 
 Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the 
 hands of Gerard, the contents of which expressed an 
 engagement entered into by Gerard Douw, to give 
 to Wilken Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, in marriage, 
 Rose Velderkaust, and so forth, within one week of 
 the date hereof 
 
 While the painter was employed in reading this 
 covenant, Schalken, as we have stated, entered the 
 studio, and having delivered the box and the valua- 
 tion of the Jew into the hands of the stranger, he was 
 about to retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to 
 wait ; and, presenting the case and the certificate to 
 Gerard Douw, he waited in silence until he had satis- 
 fied himself by an inspection of both as to the value 
 of the pledge left in his hands. At length he said : 
 
 " Are you content ? " 
 
 The painter said " he would fain have another day 
 to consider." 
 
 " Not an hour," said the suitor, coolly. 
 
 " Well, then," said Douw, " I am content ; it is a 
 bargain." 
 
 " Then sign at once," said Vanderhausen ; " I am 
 weary." 
 
 At the same time he produced a small case of 
 writing materials, and Gerard signed the important 
 document. 
 
Schalken the Painter. 145 
 
 •' Let this youth witness the covenant," said the 
 old man ; and Godfrey Schalken unconsciously 
 signed the instrument which bestowed upon another 
 that hand which he had so long regarded as the 
 object and reward of all his labours. 
 
 The compact being thus completed, the strange 
 visitor folded up the paper, and stowed it safely in an 
 inner pocket. 
 
 " I will visit you to-morrow night, at nine of the 
 clock, at your house, Gerard Douw, and will see the 
 subject of our contract. Farewell." And so saying, 
 Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly out 
 of the room. 
 
 Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed 
 himself by the window in order to watch the street 
 entrance; but the experiment served only to support 
 his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from the 
 door. This was very strange, very odd, very fearful. 
 He and his master returned together, and talked but 
 little on the way, for each had his own subjects of 
 reflection, of anxiety, and of hope. 
 
 Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which 
 threatened his cherished schemes. 
 
 Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment 
 which had sprung up between his pupil and his 
 niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whether he 
 would have regarded its existence as any serious 
 obstruction to the wishes of Mynher Vanderhausen. 
 
 L 
 
146 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 Marriages were then and there matters of traffic 
 and calculation; and it would have appeared as 
 absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make a mutual 
 attachment an essential element in a contract of 
 marriage, as it would have been to draw up his bonds 
 and receipts in the language of chivalrous romance. 
 
 The painter, however, did not communicate to his 
 niece the important step which he had taken in her 
 behalf, and his resolution arose not from any antici- 
 pation of opposition on her part, but solely from a 
 ludicrous consciousness that if his ward were, as she 
 very naturally might do, to ask him to desciibe the 
 ajDpearance of the bridegroom whom he destined for 
 her, he would be forced to confess that he had not 
 seen his face, and, if called upon, would find it im- 
 possible to identify him. 
 
 Upon the next day, Gerard Douw having dined, 
 called his niece to him, and having scanned her 
 person with an air of satisfaction, he took her hand, 
 and looking upon her pretty, innocent face with a 
 smile of kindness, he said : 
 
 " Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your 
 fortune." Rose blushed and smiled. " Such faces 
 and such tempers seldom go together, and, when they 
 do, the compound is a love-potion which {<t^ heads 
 or hearts can resist. Trust me, thou wilt soon be a 
 bride, girl. But this is trifling, and I am pressed for 
 time, so make ready the large room by eight o'clock 
 
Schalken the Painter. 147 
 
 to-night, and give directions for supper at nine. I 
 expect a friend to-night ; and observe nic, child, do 
 thou trick thyself out handsomely. I would not have 
 him think us poor or sluttish." 
 
 With these words he left the chamber, and took 
 his way to the room to which we have already had 
 occasion to introduce our readers — that in which his 
 pupils worked. 
 
 When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schal- 
 ken, who v/as about to take his departure to his 
 obscure and comfortless lodgings, and asked him 
 to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen. 
 
 The invitation was of course accepted, and Gerard 
 Douw and his pupil soon found themselves in the 
 handsome and somewhat antique-looking room which 
 had been prepared for the reception of the stranger. 
 
 A cheerful wood-fire blazed in the capacious 
 hearth; a little at one side an old-fashioned table, 
 with richly-carved legs, was placed — destined, no 
 doubt, to receive the supper, for which preparations 
 were going forward ; and ranged with exact regularity 
 stood the tall-backed chairs whose ungracefulness 
 was more than counterbalanced by their comfort. 
 
 The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and 
 the artist, awaited the arrival of the expected visitor 
 with considerable impatience. 
 
 Nine o'clock at length came, and with it a summons 
 at the street-door, which, being speedily answered, 
 
 L 2 
 
148 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 was followed by a slow and emphatic tread upon the 
 staircase ; the steps moved heavily across the lobby, 
 the door of the room in which the party which we 
 have described were assembled slowly opened, and 
 there entered a figure which startled, almost appalled, 
 the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose 
 scream with affright ; it was the form, and arrayed 
 in the garb, of Mynher Vanderhausen ; the air, the 
 gait, the height was the same, but the features had 
 never been seen by any of the party before. 
 
 The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and 
 displayed his form and face completely. He wore a 
 dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was short and full, 
 not falling quite to the knees ; his legs were cased in 
 dark purple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned 
 with roses of the same colour. The opening of the 
 cloak in front showed the under-suit to consist of 
 some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his 
 hands were enclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves 
 which ran up considerably above the wrist, in the 
 manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carried his 
 walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and 
 the other hung heavily by his side. A quantity of 
 grizzled hair descended in long tresses from his head, 
 and its folds rested upon the plaits of a stiff ruff, 
 which effectually concealed his neck. 
 
 So far all was well ; but the face ! — all the flesh 
 of the face was coloured with the bluish leaden hue 
 
Schalken the Painter. 149 
 
 which is sometimes produced by the operation of 
 metallic medicines administered in excessive quanti- 
 ties ; the eyes were enormous, and the white appeared 
 both above and below the iris, which gave to them 
 an expression of insanity, which was heightened by 
 their glassy fixedness ; the nose was well enough, but 
 the mouth was writhed considerably to one side, 
 where it opened in order to give egress to two long, 
 discoloured fangs, which projected from the upper 
 jaw, far below the lower lip ; the hue of the lips them- 
 selves bore the usual relation to that of the face, and 
 was consequently nearly black. The character of 
 the face was malignant, even satanic, to the last 
 degree ; and, indeed, such a combination of horror 
 could hardly be accounted for, except by supposing 
 the corpse of some atrocious malefactor, which had 
 long hung blackening upon the gibbet, to have at 
 length become the habitation of a demon — the fright- 
 ful sport of satanic possession. 
 
 It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger 
 suffered as little as possible of his flesh to appear, and 
 that during his visit he did not once remove his gloves. 
 
 Having stood for some moments at the door, 
 Gerard Douw at length found breath and collected- 
 ness to bid him welcome, and, with a mute in- 
 clination of the head, the stranger stepped forward 
 into the room. 
 
 There was something indescribably odd, even 
 
150 Stfange Event in the Life of 
 
 horrible about alibis motions, something' undefinable, 
 something unnatural, unhuman — it was as if the limbs 
 were guided and directed by a spirit unused to the 
 management of bodily machinery. 
 
 The stranger said hardly anything during his visit, 
 which did not exceed half an hour ; and the host 
 himself could scarcely muster courage enough to 
 utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies : 
 and, indeed, such was the nervous terror which the 
 presence of Vanderhausen inspired^ that very little 
 would have made all his entertainers fly bellowing 
 from the room. 
 
 They had not so far lost all self-possession, how- 
 ever, as to fail to observe two strange peculiarities of 
 their visitor. 
 
 During his stay he did not once suffer his eyelids 
 to close, nor even to move in the slightest degree ; 
 and further, there was a death-like stillness in his 
 whole person, owing to the total absence of the 
 heaving motion of the chest caused by the process 
 of respiration. 
 
 These two peculiarities, though when told they 
 may appear trifling, produced a very striking and 
 unpleasant effect when seen and observed. Vander- 
 hausen at length relieved the painter of Leyden of 
 his inauspicious presence ; and with no small 
 gratification the little party heard the street door 
 close after him. 
 
Schalken the Painter. 151 
 
 "Dear uncle," said Rose, '^ what a frightful man! 
 I would not see him again for the wealth of the 
 States!^' 
 
 '' Tush, foolish girl ! ^' said Douw, whose sensations 
 were anything but comfortable. " A man may be as 
 ugly as the devil, and yet if his heart and actions are 
 good, he is worth all the pretty-faced, perfumed 
 puppies that walk the Mall, Rose, my girl, it is 
 very true he has not thy pretty face, but I know him 
 to be wealthy and liberal ; and were he ten times 
 more ugly — '^ 
 
 '' Which is inconceivable," observed Rose. 
 
 "These two virtues would be sufficient," continued 
 her uncle, " to counterbalance all his deformity ; and 
 if not of power sufficient actually to alter the shape 
 of the features, at least of efficacy enough to prevent 
 one thinking them amiss." 
 
 ^' Do you know, uncle," said Rose, " when I saw 
 him standing at the door, I could not get it out of 
 my head that I saw the old, painted, wooden figure 
 that used to frighten me so much in the church of 
 St. Laurence at Rotterdam." 
 
 Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly 
 acknowledging the justness of the comparison. He 
 was resolved, however, as far as he could, to check 
 his niece^s inclination to ridicule the ugliness of her 
 intended bridegroom, although he was not a little 
 pleased to observe that she appeared totally exempt 
 
152 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 from that mysterious dread of the stranger, which, he 
 could not disguise it from himself, considerably 
 affected him, as it also did his pupil Godfrey Schalken, 
 
 Early on the next day there arrived from various 
 quarters of the town, rich presents of silks, velvets, 
 jewellery, and so forth, for Rose ; and also a packet 
 directed to Gerard Douw, which, on being opened, 
 was found to contain a contract of marriage, formally 
 drawn up, between Wilken Vanderhausen of the 
 Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust of 
 Leyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of 
 painting, also of the same city; and containing 
 engagements on the part of Vanderhausen to make 
 settlements upon his bride far more splendid than he 
 had before led her guardian to believe likely, and 
 which were to be secured to her use in the most 
 unexceptionable manner possible — the money being 
 placed in the hands of Gerard Douw himself. 
 
 I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty 
 of guardians or magnanimity of wards, or agonies of 
 lovers. The record I have to make is one of 
 sordid ncss, levity, and interest. In less than a week 
 after the first interview which we have just described, 
 the contract of marriage was fulfilled, and Schalken 
 saw the prize which he would have risked anything 
 to secure, carried off tiiumphantly by his formidable 
 rival. 
 
 For two or three days he absented himself from 
 
Schalkcn the Painter. 1 5 3 
 
 the school ; he then returned and worked, if with less 
 cheerfulness, with far more dogged resolution than 
 before ; the dream of love had given place to that of 
 ambition. 
 
 Months passed away, and, contrary to his ex- 
 pectation, and, indeed, to the direct promise of the 
 parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of his niece or 
 her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money, 
 which was to have been demanded in quarterly sums, 
 lay unclaimed in his hands. He began to grow 
 extremely uneasy. 
 
 Mynher Vanderhausen's direction in Rotterdam 
 he was fully possessed of. After some irresolution 
 he finally determined to journey thither — a trifling 
 undertaking, and easily accomplished — and thus to 
 satisfy himself of the safety and comfort of his ward, 
 for whom he entertained an honest and strong 
 affection. 
 
 His search was in vain, however. No one in 
 Rotterdam had ever heard of Mynher Vander- 
 hausen. 
 
 Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay 
 untried ; but all in vain. No one could give him 
 any information whatever touching the object of his 
 inquiry; and he was obliged to return to Leydcn, 
 nothing wiser than when he had left it. 
 
 On his arrival he hastened to the establishment 
 from which Vanderhausen had hired the lumbering, 
 
154 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 though, considering the times, most luxurious 
 vehicle which the bridal party had employed to 
 convey them to Rotterdam. From the driver of this 
 machine he learned, that having proceeded by slow- 
 stages, they had late in the evening approached 
 Rotterdam ; but that before they entered the city, 
 and while yet nearly a mile from it, a small party of 
 men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with 
 peaked beards and moustaches, standing in the 
 centre of the road, obstructed the further progress 
 of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses, 
 much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and 
 the loneliness of the road, that some mischief was 
 intended. 
 
 His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his 
 observing that these strange men carried a large 
 litter, of an antique shape, and which they im- 
 mediately set down upon the pavement, whereupon 
 the bridegroom, having opened the coach-door from 
 within, descended, and having assisted his bride to 
 do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly and wringing 
 her hands, to the litter, which they both entered. 
 It was then raised by the men who surrounded it, 
 and speedily carried towards the cit\', and before it 
 had proceeded many yards the darkness concealed 
 it from the view of the Dutch chariot. 
 
 In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse, 
 whose contents more than thrice paid the hire of the 
 
Schalken the Painter. 155 
 
 carriage and man. He saw and could' tell nothing 
 more of Mynher Vandcrhausen and his beautiful 
 lady. This mystery was a source of deep anxiety 
 and almost of grief to Gerard Douw. 
 
 There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vandcr- 
 hausen with him, though for what purpose committed 
 he could not imagine. He greatly doubted how far 
 it was possible for a man possessing in his 
 countenance so strong an evidence of the presence of 
 the most demoniac feelings to be in reality any- 
 thing but a villain ; and every day that passed with- 
 out his hearing from or of his niece, instead of 
 inducing him to forget his fears, tended more and 
 more to intensify them. 
 
 The loss of his niece's cheerful society tended also 
 to depress his spirits ; and in order to dispel this 
 despondency, which often crept upon his mind after 
 his daily employment was over, he was wont 
 frequently to prevail upon Schalken to accompany 
 him home, and by his presence to dispel, in some 
 degree, the gloom of his otherwise solitary supper. 
 
 One evening, the painter and his pupil were 
 sitting by the fire, having accomplished a comfortable 
 supper. They had yielded to that silent pensiveness 
 sometimes induced by the process of digestion, when 
 their reflections were disturbed by a loud sound at 
 the street-door, as if occasioned by some person 
 rushing forcibly and repeatedly against it. A 
 
156 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 domestic had run without delay to ascertain the 
 cause of the disturbance, and they heard him twice or 
 thrice interrogate the appHcant for admission, but 
 without producing an answer or any cessation of the 
 sounds. 
 
 They heard him then open the hall door, and 
 immediately there followed a light and rapid tread 
 upon the staircase. Schalken laid his hand on his 
 sword, and advanced towards the door. It opened 
 before he reached it, and Rose rushed into the room. 
 She looked wild and haggard, and pale with 
 exhaustion and terror ; but her dress surprised them 
 as much even as her unexpected appearance. It 
 consisted of a kind of white woollen wrapper, made 
 close about the neck, and descending to the very 
 ground. It was much deranged and travel-soiled. 
 The poor creature had hardly entered the chamber 
 when she fell senseless on the floor. With some 
 difficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on 
 recovering her senses she instantly exclaimed, in a 
 tone of eager, terrified impatience, — 
 
 '' Wine, wine, quickly, or I'm lost ! " 
 
 Much alarmed at the strange agitation in which 
 the call was made, they at once administered to her 
 wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and 
 eagerness which surprised him. She had hardly 
 swallowed it, when she exclaimed with the same 
 urgency, — 
 
Schalken the Painter. 1 5 7 
 
 " Food, food, at once, or I perish ! " 
 A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon 
 the table, and Schalken immediately proceeded to 
 cut some, but he was anticipated; for no sooner had 
 she become aware of its presence than she darted at 
 it with the rapacity of a vulture, and, seizing it in 
 her hands, she tore off the flesh with her teeth and 
 swallowed it. 
 
 When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little 
 appeased, she appeared suddenly to become aware 
 how strange her conduct had been, or it m.ay have 
 been that other more agitating thoughts recurred to 
 her mind, for she began to weep bitterly, and to wring 
 her hands. 
 
 " Oh ! send for a minister of God," said she ; 
 " I am not safe till he comes ; send for him 
 speedily." 
 
 Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly, 
 and prevailed on his niece to allow him to surrender 
 his bedchamber to her use ; he also persuaded her to 
 retire to it at once and to rest; her consent was 
 extorted upon the condition that they would not 
 leave her for a moment. 
 
 " Oh that the holy man were here ! " she said ; 
 " he can deliver me. The dead and the living can 
 never be one — God has forbidden it." 
 
 With these mysterious words she surrendered 
 herseh to their guidance, and they proceeded to the 
 
158 Sf range Event in the Life of 
 
 chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to her 
 use. 
 
 "Do not— do not leave me for a moment," said 
 she. " I am lost for ever if you do.^' 
 
 Gerard Douvv's chamber was approached through 
 a spacious apartment, which they were now about to 
 enter. Gerard Douw and Schalken each carried a 
 wax candle, so that a sufficient degree of light was 
 cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now 
 entering the large chamber, which, as I have said, 
 communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose 
 suddenly stopped, and, in a whisper which seemed 
 to thrill with horror, she said, — 
 
 " O God ! he is here — he is here ! See, see — there 
 he goes ! " 
 
 She pointed towards the door of the inner room, 
 and Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill- 
 defined form gliding into that apartment. Pie drew 
 his sword, and raising the candle so as to throw its 
 light with increased distinctness upon the objects in 
 the room, he entered the chamber into which the 
 figure had glided. No figure was there — nothing 
 but the furniture which belonged to the room, and 
 yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that 
 something had moved before them into the chamber. 
 
 A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold 
 perspiration broke out in heavy drops upon his 
 forehead ; nor was he more composed when he heard 
 
ScJialkcn tJic Painter. 159 
 
 the increased urgency, the agony of entreaty, with 
 which Rose implored them not to leave her for a 
 moment. 
 
 " I saw him," said she. " He's here ! I cannot be 
 deceived — I know him. He's by me -he's with me 
 — he's in the room. Then, for God's sake, as you 
 would save, do not stir from beside me ! " 
 
 They at length prevailed upon her to lie down 
 upon the bed, where she continued to urge them to 
 stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherent 
 sentences, repeating again and again, " The dead and 
 the living cannot be one — God has forbidden it ! " 
 and then again, " Rest to the wakeful— sleep to the 
 sleep-walkers." 
 
 These and such mysterious and broken sentences 
 she continued to utter until the clergyman arrived. 
 
 Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that 
 the poor girl, owing to terror or ill-treatmicnt, had 
 become deranged ; and he half suspected, by the 
 suddenness of her appearance, and the unseasonable- 
 ness of the hour, and, above all_, from the wildness 
 and terror of her manner, that she had made her 
 escape from some place of confinement for lunatics, 
 and was in immediate fear of pursuit. He resolved 
 to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his 
 niece had been in some measure set at rest by the 
 offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had 
 so earnestly desired ; and until this object had been 
 
i6o Siravge Eve?it in the Life of 
 
 attained, he did not venture to put any questions to 
 her, which might possibly, by reviving painful or 
 horrible recollections, increase her agitation. 
 
 The clergyman soon arrived — a man of ascetic 
 countenance and venerable age — one whom Gerard 
 Douw respected much, forasmuch as he was a veteran 
 polemic, though one, perhaps, more dreaded as a 
 combatant than beloved as a Christian— of pure 
 morality ;, subtle brain, and frozen heart. He entered 
 the chamber which communicated with that in which 
 Rose reclined, and immediately on his arrival she 
 requested him to pray for her, as for one who lay in 
 the hands of Satan, and who could hope for deliver- 
 ance only from Heaven. 
 
 That our readers may distinctly understand all the 
 circumstances of the event which we are about im- 
 perfectly to describe, it is necessary to state the 
 relative positions of the parties who were engaged in 
 it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the 
 ante-room of which we have already spoken ; Rose 
 lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was 
 open ; and by the side of the bed, at her urgent 
 desire, stood her guardian ; a candle burned in the 
 bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outer 
 apartment. 
 
 The old man now cleared his voice, as if about to 
 commence ; but before he had time to begin, a sudden 
 <7ust of air blew out the candle which served to illu- 
 
Schalken the Painter. 1 6 1 
 
 minate the room in which the poor girl lay, and she 
 with hurried alarm, exclaimed : 
 
 " Godfrey, bring in another candle ; the darkness is 
 unsafe." 
 
 Gerard Douw, forgetting for the moment her re- 
 peated injunctions in the immediate impulse, stepped 
 from the bedchamber into the other, in order to 
 supply what she desired. 
 
 " O God 1 do not go, dear uncle ! " shrieked the 
 unhappy girl ; and at the same time she sprang from 
 the bed and darted after him, in order, by her grasp, 
 to detain him. 
 
 But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he 
 passed the threshold, and hardly had his niece had 
 time to utter the startling exclamation, when the 
 door which divided the two rooms closed violently 
 after him, as if swung to by a strong blast of wind. 
 
 Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their 
 united and desperate efforts could not avail so much 
 as to shake it. 
 
 Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber, 
 with all the piercing loudness of despairing terror. 
 Schalken and Douw applied every energy and 
 strained every nerve to force open the door ; but all 
 in vain. 
 
 There was no sound of struggling from within, but 
 the screams seemed to increase in loudness, and at 
 the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed 
 
 M 
 
1 62 Strange Event in the Life of Schalken. 
 
 window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon 
 the sill as if thrown open. 
 
 One last shriek, so long and piercing and agonized 
 as to be scarcely human, swelled from the room, and 
 suddenly there followed a death-like silence. 
 
 A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from 
 the bed to the window ; and almost at the same 
 instant the door gave way, and yielding to the 
 pressure of the external applicants, they were nearly 
 precipitated into the room. It was empty. The 
 window was open, and Schalken sprang to a chair and 
 gazed out upon the street and at the canal below. He 
 saw no form, but he beheld, or thought he beheld, the 
 waters of the broad canal beneath settling ring after 
 ring in heavy circular ripples, as if a moment before 
 disturbed by the immersion of some large and heavy 
 mass. 
 
 No trace of Rose was ever after discovered, nor 
 was anything certain respecting her mysterious wooer 
 detected or even suspected ; no clue whereby to trace 
 the intricacies of the labyrinth, and to arrive at a 
 distinct conclusion was to be found. But an incident 
 occurred, which, though it will not be received by our 
 rational readers as at all approaching to evidence 
 upon the matter, nevertheless produced a strong and 
 a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken. 
 
 Many years after the events which we have de- 
 tailed, Schalken^ then remotely situated, received an 
 
THE WATERS OF THP. BROAD CANAL BENEATH SETTLING RING 
 AFTER RING IN HEAVY CIRCULAR RIPPLES. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 intimation of his father's death, and of his intended 
 burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam. 
 It was necessary that a very considerable journey 
 should be performed by the funeral procession, which, 
 as it will readily be believed, was not very numerously 
 attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotter- 
 dam late in the day upon which the funeral was 
 appointed to take place. The procession had not 
 then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did not 
 appear. 
 
 Schalken strolled down to the church — he found it 
 open ; notice of the arrival of the funeral had been 
 given, and the vault in which the body was to be laid 
 had been opened. The official who corresponds to 
 our sexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose 
 object was to attend the expected funeral, pacing the 
 aisle of the church, hospitably invited him to share 
 with him the comforts of a blazing wood fire, which 
 as was his custom in winter time upon such occasions, 
 he had kindled on the hearth of a chamber which 
 communicated by a flight of steps with the vault 
 below. 
 
 In this chamber Schalken and his entertainer 
 seated themselves ; and the sexton, after some fruit- 
 less attempts to engage his guest in conversation, 
 was obliged to apply himself to his tobacco-pipe and 
 can to solace his solitude. 
 
 In spite of his grief and cares, the fatigues of a 
 
Sckalken the Painter. \ 65 
 
 rapid journey of nearly forty hours gradually over- 
 came the mind and body of Godfrey Schalken, and 
 he sank into a deep sleep, from which he was 
 awakened by some one shaking him gently by the 
 shoulder. He first thought that the old sexton had 
 called him, but he was no longer in the room. 
 
 He roused himself, and as soon as he could clearly 
 see what was around him, he perceived a female form, 
 clothed in a kind of light robe of muslin, part of 
 which was so disposed as to act as a veil, and in her 
 hand she carried a lamp. She was moving rather 
 away from him, and towards the flight of steps which 
 conducted towards the vaults. 
 
 Schalken felt a vague alarm at thj sight of this 
 figure, and at the same time an irresistible impulse 
 to follow its guidance. He followed it towards the 
 vaults, but when it reached the head of the stairs, he 
 paused ; the figure paused also, and turning gently 
 round, displayed, by the light of the lamp it carried, 
 the face and features of his first love, Rose Velder- 
 kaust. There was nothing horrible, or even sad, in 
 the countenance. On the contrary, it wore the same 
 arch smile which used to enchant the artist long 
 before in his happy days. 
 
 A feeling of awe and of interest, too intense to be 
 resisted, prompted him to follow the spectre, if spectre 
 it were. She descended the stairs — he followed ; 
 and, turning to the left, through a narrow passage 
 
166 Strange Event in the Life of 
 
 she led him, to his infinite surprise, into what 
 appeared to be an old-fashioned Dutch apartment, 
 such as the pictures of Gerard Douw have served to 
 immortalize. 
 
 Abundance of costly antique furniture was disposed 
 about the room, and in one corner stood a four-post 
 bed, with heavy black cloth curtains around it. The 
 figure frequently turned towards him with the same 
 arch smile ; and when she came to the side of the 
 bed, she drew the curtains, and by the light of the 
 lamp which she held towards its contents, she dis- 
 closed to the horror-stricken painter, sitting bolt 
 upright in the bed, the livid and demoniac form of 
 Vanderhausen. Schalkcn had hardly seen him when 
 he fell senseless upon the floor, where he lay until 
 discovered, on the next morning, by persons em- 
 ployed in closing the passages into the vaults. He 
 was lying in a cell of considerable size, which had 
 not been disturbed for a long time, and he had fallen 
 beside a large coffin which was supported upon small 
 stone pillars, a security against the attacks of vermin. 
 
 To his dying day Schalken was satisfied of the 
 reality of the vision which he had witnessed, and he 
 has left behind him a curious evidence of the impres- 
 sion which it wrought upon his fancy, in a painting 
 executed shortly after the event we have narrated, 
 and which is valuable as exhibiting not only the 
 peculiarities which have made Schalken's pictures 
 
Schalken the Painter. 
 
 167 
 
 sought after, but even more so as presenting a por- 
 trait, as close and faithful as one taken from memory 
 can be, of his early- 
 love, Rose Velderkaust, l4Sf4l^W 
 whose mysterious fate i^^.^->-j 
 must ever remain matter 
 of speculation. i*!l»i?*^5''* 
 
 SHE DREW THE CURTAINS. 
 
 The picture represents a chamber of antique 
 masonry, such as might be found in most old cathe- 
 drals, and is lighted faintly by a lamp carried in the 
 
1 68 Strange Event in the Life of Schalken. 
 
 hand of a female figure, such as we have above 
 attempted to describe ; and in the background, and 
 to the left of him who examines the painting, there 
 stands the form of a man apparently aroused from 
 sleep, and by his attitude, his hand being laid upon 
 his sword, exhibiting considerable alarm ; this last 
 figure is illuminated only by the expiring glare of a 
 wood or charcoal fire. 
 
 The whole production exhibits a beautiful specimen 
 of that artful and singular distribution of light and 
 shade which has rendered the name of Schalken 
 immortal among the artists of his country. This 
 tale is traditionary, and the reader will easily perceive, 
 by our studiously omitting to heighten many points 
 of the narrative, when a little additional colouring 
 might have added effect to the recital, that we have 
 desired to lay before him, not a figment of the brain, 
 but a curious tradition connected with, and belonging 
 to, the biography of a famous artist. 
 

 " The earth hath bubbles as the water hath — 
 And these are of them.'' 
 
 In 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 country in which some vestiges of 
 aboriginal forests 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 irregu- 
 larity, its vistas, in whose perspective the quiet cattle 
 are browsing ; its refreshing glades, where the grey 
 
I 70 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagk. 
 
 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 are beautiful alike in the green 
 freshness of spring or in the 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 primi- 
 tive 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 civilization 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 retained everything that is revolting in 
 barbarism. Through the midst of this woodland 
 there runs a deep gully or glen, where the stillness of 
 the scene is broken in 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 
 
The Forttines of Sir Robert Ardagh, 171 
 
 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 
 are so intersected and entangled, that one can with 
 difficulty catch a glimpse of the stream which wheels, 
 (lashes, and foams below, as if exulting in the sur- 
 rounding 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 con- 
 tinuation of the precipitous cliff on Avhich it is based. 
 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 pre- 
 carious pathway, cautiously intersected, however, by 
 a deep trench cut out with great labour in the living 
 rock ; so that, in its pristine state, and before the 
 introduction of artillery into the art of war, this tower 
 might have been pronounced, and that not presump- 
 tuously, impregnable. 
 
 The progress of improvement and the increasing 
 security of the times had, however, tempted its suc- 
 cessive proprietors, if not to adorn, at least to enlarge 
 their premises, and about the middle of the last cen- 
 tury, when the castle was last inhabited, the original 
 square tower formed but a small part of the edifice. 
 
 The castle, and a wide tract of the surrounding 
 country, had from time immemorial belonged to a 
 
17? The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 
 
 family which, for distinctness, 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 extra- 
 ordinary traditions. One of them I have been enabled, 
 by a personal acquaintance 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 ap- 
 pear more strange and improbable as seen through 
 the distorting medium of tradition, or in the appalling 
 dimness of uncertainty which surrounds the reality. 
 
 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 con- 
 tinuance of the racing season, and immediately sub- 
 
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 173 
 
 sequent to it ; at which time he was to be seen among 
 the busiest upon the course, betting deeply and un- 
 hesitatingly, 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 intrepid as well as of a haughty character ; 
 and no one cared to hazard a surmise, the conse- 
 quences 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 elsewhere, 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 
 he seemed to speak unnecessarily ; it was observed 
 that while with the country gentry he exchanged no 
 further communication than what was unavoidable in 
 arranging his sporting transactions, with this person 
 he would converse earnestly and frequently. Tradi- 
 tion asserts that, to enhance the curiosity which this 
 unaccountable and exclusive preference excited, the 
 stranger possessed some striking and unpleasant pecu- 
 liarities of person and of garb — though it is not stated, 
 however, what these were — but they, in conjunction 
 
174 '^^^^ Fortunes of Sir Robert Ai'dagh. 
 
 with Sir Robert's secluded habits and extraordinary 
 run of luck — a success which was supposed to result 
 from the suggestions and immediate advice of the 
 unknown — were sufficient to warrant report in pro- 
 nouncing that there was something queer in the wind, 
 and in surmising that Sir Robert was playing a 
 fearful and a hazardous game, and that, in short, his 
 strange companion was little better than the Devil 
 himself. 
 
 Years rolled quietly away, and nothing very 
 novel occurred in the arrangements of Castle Ardagh, 
 excepting that Sir Robert parted with his odd com- 
 panion, 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 continued regularly to frequent the 
 race meetings, without mixing at all in the con- 
 vivialities of the gentry, and immediately 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 suffer the acquisition of wealth, however, to 
 influence his hospitality or his house-keeping — he 
 neither purchased land, nor extended his establish- 
 ment ; and his mode of enjoying his money must 
 have been altogether that of the raiser — consisting 
 
The For twines of Sir Robert Ardagh. 175 
 
 merely in the pleasure of touching and telling his 
 gold, and in the consciousness of wealth. 
 
 Sir Robert's temper, so far from improving, became 
 more than ever gloomy and morose. He sometimes 
 carried the indulgence 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, sometimes raised, as if in loud and 
 angry altercation with some unknown visitant. Some- 
 times 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 continuance even his oldest 
 and most faithful domestics dared not approach him ; 
 consequently 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 ordinary term of their duration — 
 about two days — had been long past, and the old 
 servant who generally waited upon Sir Robert after 
 
I 76 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 
 
 these visitations, having in vain listened for the well- 
 known tinkle of his master's hand-bell, began to feel 
 extremely anxious ; he feared that his master might 
 have died from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps put an 
 end to his own existence during his miserable de- 
 pression. 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 enter- 
 prise in which he was engaging himself, a sensation 
 of remoteness from anything like human companion- 
 ship, but, more than all, the vivid but undefined 
 anticipation of something horrible, came upon him 
 with such oppressive weight that he hesitated as to 
 whether he should proceed. Real uneasiness, how- 
 ever, respecting the fate of his master, for whom he 
 felt that kind of attachment which the force of 
 habitual intercourse not unfrequently engenders re- 
 specting objects not in themselves amiable, and also 
 a latent unwillingness to expose his weakness to the 
 ridicule of his fellow-servants, combined to overcome 
 his reluctance ; and he had just placed his foot upon 
 
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. lyy 
 
 the first step of the staircase which conducted to his 
 master's chamber, when his attention was arrested 
 by a low but distinct knocking at the hall-door. 
 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 approached 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 overhangs a perilous cliff, 
 rendered it at all times, but particularly at night, a 
 dangerous 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 otherwise ; so that it seemed at least highly 
 improbable that any man could have found his way 
 across the passage in safety to the door, more par- 
 ticularly on a night like this, of singular darkness. 
 The old man, therefore, listened attentively, to ascer- 
 tain whether the first application should be followed 
 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 em- 
 ployed no harder or heavier instrument than his 
 
 N 
 
178 The Forttines of Sir Robert Ardagh. 
 
 hand, and yet, despite tlie immense thickness of the 
 doofj with such strength that the sound was distinctly 
 audible. 
 
 The knock was repeated a third time, without 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 
 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 visitor with 
 any distinctness ; 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 settle some business with him. 
 The servant hesitated, but a slight motion on the part 
 of his visitor, as if to possess himself of the candle, 
 
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. 179 
 
 determined him ; so, taking it in his hand, he as- 
 cended the castle stairs, leaving the guest in the hall. 
 On reaching the apartment which opened upon 
 the oak-chamber he was surprised to observe the 
 /^sH^^s. door of that room 
 
 partly open, and the 
 roomitself lit up. He 
 paused, but there was 
 no sound ; he looked 
 in, and saw Sir 
 Robert, his head and 
 
 
 HE PAUSED, BUT THERE 
 WAS NO SOUND. 
 
 the upper part of his body 
 reclining on a table, upon 
 which two candles burned *, 
 his arms were stretched for- 
 ward on either side, and perfectly 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; 
 
 N 2 
 
I So The FortiLiies of Sir Robert Arda^h. 
 
 all was silent, except the sharp ticking of a 
 watch, which 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 gentleman 
 wants to see you below." 
 
 At this intimation Sir Robert, starting to 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 the terrified 
 imagination of the old servant to roll through the 
 deserted passages in bursts of unnatural laughter. 
 After a few moments Sir Robert said, — 
 
 " Can't you send him away ? Why does he come 
 so soon ? O Merciful Powers ! 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 
 
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh. i8 i 
 
 back in an hour ; it is not long to wait. He cannot 
 lose anything by it ; nothing, nothing, nothing. Tell 
 him that ! Say anything 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 coher- 
 ently as he could. The stranger replied in a careless 
 tone : 
 
 " 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 atten- 
 dant 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 im- 
 perfectly 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 about to sink every moment from 
 weakness. The figure advanced as if to meet him, 
 
1 82 The Fortunes of Sir Robert Ardagh, 
 
 and in passing struck down the light. The servant 
 could see no more ; but there was a sound of strug- 
 gling, renewed at intervals 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 com- 
 batants, 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 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 ; 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 end- 
 less ; but morning at length came, and with it the 
 
The Fortunes of Sir Robert Arda<^Ji. 183 
 
 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. A 
 huge splinter from 
 the massive door-post 
 had been wrenched 
 off by an almost 
 superhuman ef- 
 fort — one which 
 
 man could have 
 severed — and on 
 the rocks outside 
 were left the 
 marksoftheslip- 
 ping and sliding 
 of feet. 
 At the foot of the 
 precipice, not im- 
 mediately under the 
 castle, but dragged 
 some way up the glen, 
 were found the re- 
 
 AT THE FOOT OF THF, PRECIPICE. 
 
184 The Forhines of Sir Robert Ardaq/i. 
 
 mains of Sir Robert, with hardly a vestige of a limb 
 or feature left distinguishable. The right hand, how- 
 ever, 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. 
 
^^'""^-'^"'^'^'1^1^ 
 
 DreAjMS ! What age, 
 or what country of the 
 world, has not felt and 
 acknowledged the mystery of their origin and end ? 
 I have 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 com- 
 munication between the Deity and His creatures ; 
 and when a dream produces upon a mind, to all 
 appearance hopelessly reprobate, and depraved, 
 an effect so powerful 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 incorrigi- 
 ble, in the reclamation of a human soul which seemed 
 
1 86 The D7^eam. 
 
 to be irretrievably 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. And 
 while Reason rejects as absurd the superstition 
 which will read a prophecy in every dream, she 
 may, without violence to herself, recognize, even 
 in the wildest and most incongruous of the wan- 
 derings 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 by 
 the strength of conviction and strange permanence of 
 the effects resulting from certain dreams in latter 
 times — which effects we ourselves may have witnessed 
 — that when this medium of communication has been 
 employed by the Deity, the evidences of His presence 
 have been unequivocal. My thoughts were directed 
 to this subject in a manner to leave a lasting impres- 
 sion upon my mind, by the events which I shall now 
 relate, the statement of which, however extraordinary, 
 is nevertheless accurate. 
 
 About the year ly — , having been appointed to 
 
 the living of C h, I rented a small house in the 
 
 town which bears the same name : one morning in 
 
The Dream. 187 
 
 the month of November, I was awakened before my 
 usual time by my servant, who bustled into my bed- 
 room for the purpose of announcing a sick call. As 
 the Catholic Church holds her last rites to be totally 
 indispensable to the safety of the departing sinner, no 
 conscientious clergyman can afford a moment's un- 
 necessary 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 ascertained that her 
 father was either dead or just dying, 
 
 " And what may be your father's name, my poor 
 child?" said I, She held down her head as if 
 ashamed. I repeated the question, and the wretched 
 little creature burst into floods of tears still more 
 bitter than she had shed before. At length, almost 
 angered by conduct which appeared to me so un- 
 reasonable^ I began to lose patience, 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 ! " cried she. 
 '' Oh, sir, it was that I was afeard of when I would 
 
1 88 The Dream. 
 
 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 Connelly the carpenter, your 
 honour." 
 
 She looked in my face with the most earnest 
 anxiety, as if her very existence depended upon 
 what she should read there. I relieved the child at 
 once. The name, indeed, was most unpleasantly 
 familiar to me ; but, however fruitless my visits and 
 advice might have been at another time, the present 
 was too fearful an occasion to suffer my doubts of 
 their utility, or my reluctance to re-attempting what 
 appeared a hopeless task, to weigh even against the 
 lightest chance that a consciousness of his imminent 
 danger might produce in him a more docile and 
 tractable disposition. Accordingly I told the child 
 to lead the way, and followed her in silence. She 
 hurried rapidly through the long narrow street which 
 forms the great thoroughfare of the town. The dark- 
 ness of the hour, rendered still deeper by the close 
 approach of the old-fashioned houses, which lowered 
 in tall obscurity on either side of the w^ay ; the 
 damp, dreary chill which renders the advance of 
 morning peculiarly cheerless, combined with the ob- 
 ject of my walk — to visit the death-bed of a presump- 
 tuous 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 
 
The Dream. 189 
 
 under the consequences of some mad fit of intoxica- 
 tion ; all these circumstances served to enhance 
 the gloom and solemnity of my feelings, as I silently 
 followed my little guide^ who with quick steps 
 traversed the uneven pavement of the Main Street. 
 After a walk of about five minutes, she turned off 
 into a narrow lane, of that obscure and comfortless 
 class which is to be found in almost all small old- 
 fashioned towns, chill, without ventilation, reeking 
 with all manner of offensive effluvia;, and lined by 
 dingy, smoky, sickly and pent-up buildings, fre- 
 quently 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 ! 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 my companion were alike 
 above her years and station ; and, indeed, in all cases 
 in which the cares and sorrowsof life have anticipated 
 their usual date, and have fallen, as they sometimes 
 
iQO The Dream. 
 
 do, with melancholy prematurity to the lot of child- 
 hood, 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 familiarized from 
 the first, acquires a solidity and an elevation which no 
 other discipline could have bestowed, and which, in 
 the present case^ communicated a striking but mourn- 
 ful peculiarity to the manners, even to the voice, of 
 the child. We paused before a narrow, crazy door, 
 which she opened by means of a latch^ and we forth- 
 with began to ascend the steep and broken stairs 
 which led to the sick man's room. 
 
 As we mounted flight after flight towards the 
 garret- floor, I heard more and more distinctly the 
 hurried talking of many voices. I could also dis- 
 tinguish 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 twilight or darkness except within 
 its immediate influence. The general obscurity, how- 
 ever, served to throw into prominent and startling 
 
The Dream. 191 
 
 relief the death-bed and its occupant. The light 
 fell with horrible clearness upon the blue and 
 swollen features of the drunkard. I did not think 
 it possible that a human countenance could look 
 so terrific. The lips were black and- drawn apart; 
 the teeth were firmly set ; the eyes a little unclosed, 
 and nothing but the whites appearing. 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 unsuccessfully, to bleed the patient, and had now 
 applied his finger to the pulse. 
 
 " Is there any hope .?" 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. 
 
1 92 * The Dream. 
 
 Dead ! thought I, scarcely venturing to look upon 
 the tremendous and revolting spectacle. Dead ! 
 without an hour for repentance, even a moment for re- 
 flection. Dead! without the rites which even the best 
 should have. Was there a hope for him ? The glaring 
 eyeball, the grinning mouth, the distorted brow — 
 that unutterable look in which a painter would have 
 sought to embody the fixed despair of the nether- 
 most 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 repeated 
 some of those prayers which appeared 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 accom- 
 plished my task, I was the first to arise. 
 
 I looked upon the poor, sobbing, helpless 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 
 
The Dream. 193 
 
 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 at once rushed upon my mind. I had often 
 read that the body of a presumptuous sinner, who, 
 during life, had been the willing creature of every 
 Satanic impulse, had been known, after the human 
 tenant had deserted it, to become the horrible sport 
 of demoniac possession. 
 
 I was roused by the piercing scream of the mother, 
 who novv^, 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 con- 
 flict 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 gazed upon this unearthly apparition 
 until I had fairly lost my senses. As it was, how- 
 
 U 
 
194 The Dream. 
 
 ever, 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 forbade his repeating the painful and fruitless 
 attempts which he made to articulate, and he at once 
 resigned himself quietly into his hands. 
 
 I left the patient with leeches upon his temples, 
 and bleeding freely, apparently with little of the 
 drowsiness which accompanies 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 recognized 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 im- 
 
The Dream. 195 
 
 mediate wants. And it was not until the fourth day 
 after my early visit, the particulars of which I have 
 just detailed, that it was thought expedient that I 
 should see him, and then only because it appeared 
 that his extreme importunity and impatience to meet 
 me were likely to retard his recovery more than the 
 mere exhaustion attendant upon a short conversation 
 could possibly do. Perhaps, too, my friend enter- 
 tained some hope that if by holy confession his 
 patient's bosom were eased of the perilous stuff which 
 no doubt oppressed it, his recovery would be more 
 assured and rapid. It was then, as I have said, 
 upon the fourth day after my first professional call, 
 that I found myself once more in the dreary chamber 
 of want and sickness. 
 
 The man was in bed, and appeared low and rest- 
 less. On my entering the room he raised himself in 
 the bed, and muttered, twice or thrice, — 
 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " 
 
 I signed to those of his family who stood by to 
 leave the room, and took a chair beside the bed. 
 So soon as we were alone, he said, rather doggedly, — 
 
 " There's no use in telling me of the sinfulness of 
 bad ways — I know it all. I know where they lead 
 to — I have seen everything about it with my own eye- 
 sight, as plain as I see you." He rolled himself in 
 the bed, as if to hide his face in the clothes ; and 
 then suddenly raising himself, he exclaimed with 
 
 O 3 
 
ig6 The Dream. 
 
 startling vehemence, " Look, sir ! there is no use in 
 mincing the matter : I'm blasted with the fires of 
 hell ; I have been in hell. What do you think 
 of that ? In hell — I'm lost for ever — I have not 
 a chance. I am damned already — damned — 
 damned ! " 
 
 The end of this sentence he actually shouted. 
 His vehemence was perfectly terrific ; he threw him- 
 self back, and laughed, and sobbed hysterically. I 
 poured some water into a tea-cup, and gave it to 
 him. After he had swallowed it, I told him if he 
 had anything to communicate, to do so as briefly as 
 he could, and in a manner as little agitating to him- 
 self as possible ; threatening at the same time, though 
 I had no intention of doing so, to leave him at once 
 in case he again gave way to such passionate ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " It's only foolishness," he continued, " for me to 
 try to thank you for coming to such a villain as 
 myself at all. It's no use for me to wish good to 
 you, or to bless you ; for such as me has no blessings 
 to give." 
 
 I told him that I had but done my duty, and 
 urged him to proceed to the matter which weighed 
 upon his mind. He then spoke nearly as follows : — 
 
 " I came in drunk on Friday night last, and got to 
 my bed here ; I don't remember how. Sometime in 
 the night it seemed to me I wakened, and feeling 
 
The Dream. 197 
 
 unasy in myself, I j^ot up out of the bed. I wanted 
 the fresh air ; but I would not make a noise to open 
 the window, for fear I'd waken the crathurs. It was 
 very dark and throublesome to find the door ; but at 
 last I did get it, and I groped my way out, and went 
 down as asy as I could. I felt quite sober, and I 
 counted the steps one after another, as I was going 
 down, that I might not stumble at the bottom. 
 
 " When I came to the first landing-place — God be 
 about us always! — the floor of it sunk under me, and 
 I went down — down — down, till the senses almost 
 left me. I do not know how long I was falling, but 
 it seemed to me a great while. When I came rightly 
 to myself at last, I was sitting near the top of a great 
 table ; and I could not see the end of it, if it had 
 any, it was so far off. And there was men beyond 
 reckoning sitting down all along by it, at each side, 
 as far as I could see at all. I did not know at first 
 was it in the open air ; but there was a close 
 smothering feel in it that was not natural. And 
 there was a kind of light that my eyesight never saw 
 before, red and unsteady ; and I did not see for a 
 long time where it was coming from, until I looked 
 straight up, and then I seen that it came from great 
 balls of blood-coloured fire that were rolling high 
 overhead with a sort of rushing, trembling sound, 
 and I perceived that they shone on the ribs of a great 
 roof of rock that was arched overhead instead of the 
 
198 The Dream. 
 
 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 speaking 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 with a sighing sound ; and a dread came on my 
 heart, and he looked at me, and I could not speak. 
 I felt I was hi.s own, to do what he liked with, for I 
 knew at once who he was ; and he said, ' If you 
 promise to return, you may depart for a season ;' and 
 the voice he spoke with was terrible and mournful, 
 and the echoes of it went rolling and swelling down 
 the endless cave, and mixing with the trembling of 
 the fire overhead ; so that when he sat down there 
 was a sound after him, all through the place, like the 
 roaring of a furnace. And I said, with all the strength 
 I had, ' I promise to come back — in God's name let 
 me go r 
 
The Dream. 199 
 
 " And with that I lost the sight and the hearing of 
 all that was there, and when my senses came to me 
 again, I was sitting in the bed with the blood all 
 over me, and you and the rest praying around the 
 room." 
 
 Here he paused, and wiped away the chill drops 
 which hung upon his forehead. 
 
 I remained silent for some moments. The vision 
 which he had just described struck my imagination 
 not a little, for this was long before Vathek and the 
 ^' Hall of Eblis " had delighted the world ; and the 
 description w^hich he gave had, as I received it, all 
 the attractions of novelty beside the impressiveness 
 which always belongs to the narration of an cyc- 
 witnesSy whether in the body or in the spirit, of the 
 scenes which he describes. There was something, 
 too, in the stern horror with which the man related 
 these things, and in the incongruity of his descrip- 
 tion with the vulgarly received notions of the great 
 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, im- 
 ploring 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 ?" 
 
 In answering him, I had no easy task to perform ; 
 
2CX) The Dream. 
 
 for however clear might be my internal conviction of 
 the groundlessness of his fears, and however strong 
 my scepticism 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 his restoration to decent habits and to religious 
 feeling. 
 
 I therefore told him that he was to regard his 
 dream rather in the light of a warning than in that 
 of a prophecy ; that our salvation depended not upon 
 the v/ord or deed of a moment, but upon the habits 
 of a life ; that, in fine, if he at once discarded his idle 
 companions and evil habits, and firmly adhered to a 
 sober, industrious, and religious course of life, the 
 powers of darkness might claim his soul in vain, for 
 that there were higher and firmer pledges than human 
 tongue could utter, which promised salvation to him 
 who should repent and lead a new life. 
 
 I left him much comforted, and with a promise to 
 return upon the next day. I did so, and found him 
 much more cheerful, and without any remains of the 
 dogged 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 
 
The Di^eam. 201 
 
 no small delight that I observed, after repeated 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 operation of an 
 idle dream. 
 
 One day, some time after his perfect restoration to 
 health, I was surprised, on ascending the stairs for 
 the purpose of visiting this man, to find him busily 
 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 strength- 
 ening 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 im- 
 mediately said : 
 
 " I can never pass over that floor without 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 oft' 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 
 
202 The Dream. 
 
 honour, that while I'm working, maybe a mile away, 
 my heart is in a flutter the whole way back, with the 
 bare thoughts of the two little steps I have to walk 
 upon this bit of a floor. So it's no wonder, sir, I'd 
 thry to make it sound and firm with any idle timber 
 I have." 
 
 I applauded his resolution to pay off his debts, 
 and the steadiness with which he perused his plans of 
 conscientious economy, and passed on. 
 
 Many months elapsed, and still there appeared no 
 alteration in his resolutions of amendment. He was 
 a good workman, and with his better habits he 
 recovered his former extensive and profitable employ- 
 ment. Everything seemed to promise comfort and 
 respectability. I have little more to add, and that 
 shall be told quickly. I had one evening met Pat 
 Connell, as he returned from his work, and as usual, 
 after a mutual, and on his side respectful saluta- 
 tion, I spoke a few words of encouragement and 
 approval. I left him industrious, active, healthy — 
 when next I saw him, not three days after, he was 
 a corpse. 
 
 The circumstances which marked the event of his 
 death were somewhat strange — I might say fearful. 
 The unfortunate man had accidentally m.et an old 
 friend just returned, after a long absence; and in a 
 moment of excitement, forgetting everything in the 
 
The Drcani. 203 
 
 warmth of his joy, he yielded to his urfjcnt invitation 
 to accompany him into a pubh'c-house, which lay 
 close by the spot where the encounter had taken 
 place. Conncll, however, previously to entering the 
 room, had announced his determination to take 
 nothing more than the strictest temperance would 
 warrant. 
 
 But oh ! who can describe the inveterate 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 compunction, who can 
 tell the moment in which the base and ruinous pro- 
 pensity may not recur, triumphing over resolution, 
 remorse, shame, everything, and prostrating its victim 
 once more in all that is destructive and revolting in 
 that fatal vice ? 
 
 The wretched man left the place in a state of utter 
 intoxication. He was brought home nearly in- 
 sensible, and placed in his bed. 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 
 occurrence of what she had so little expect'. d, to 
 settle to rest. Fatigue, however, at length overcame 
 her, and she sank gradually into an uneasy slumber. 
 She could not tell how long she had remained in this 
 
204 
 
 The Dream. 
 
 state ; but when she awakened, and immediately on 
 opening her eyes, she perceived by the faint red light 
 of the smouldering turf embers, two persons, one 
 of whom she recognized as her husband, noiselessly 
 gliding out of the room. 
 
 " Pat, darling, where are you going ? " said she. 
 
 There was no answer — the door closed after them ; 
 but in a moment 
 she was startled 
 and terrified by a 
 
 NOISELESSLY GLn)ING 
 OUT OF THE ROOM, 
 
 loud and heavy crash, as if some ponderous body had 
 been hurled down the stair. 
 
 Much alarmed, she started up, and going to the 
 head of the staircase^ she called repeatedly upon her 
 husband, but in vain. 
 
The Dream. 205 
 
 She returned to the room, and with the assistance 
 of her daug-hter, whom I had occasion to mention 
 before, she succeeded in finding and h'g-hting 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 tog'cther, motionless, lifeless — it was 
 her husband. In going down the stairs, for what 
 purpose can never now be known, he had fallen 
 helplessly and violently to the bottom, and coming 
 head foremost, the spine of the neck had been dis- 
 located 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 room by Connell's 
 wife on the night of his death might have been no 
 other than his own shadow. 
 
 I suggested this solution of the difficulty ; but 
 she told me that the unknown person had been con- 
 siderably in advance of her husband, and on reaching 
 the door, had turned back as if to communicate some- 
 thing to his companion. 
 
 It was, then, a mystery. 
 
AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS. 
 
The Dream. 207 
 
 Was the dream verified ? — whither had the dis- 
 embodied spirit sped ? who can say ? We know not. 
 But I left the house of death that day in a state 
 of horror which I could not describe. It seemed to 
 me that I was scarce awake. I heard and saw every- 
 thing as if under the spell of a nightmare. The 
 coincidence was terrible. 
 
^>C^ *• <^ 1.0/// rZ *1^« i' \f rAC 
 
 In the following narrative I have endeavoured to 
 n-ive as nearly a? possible the ipsissima verba of the 
 valued friend from whom I received it, conscious that 
 any aberration from her mode of telling the tale of 
 her own life would at once impair its accuracy and 
 its effect. 
 
 Would that, with her words, I could also bring 
 before you her animated gesture, the expressive 
 countenance, the solemn and thrilling air and accent 
 with which she related the dark passages in her 
 strange story ; and, above all, that I could communi- 
 cate the impressive consciousness that the narrator 
 had seen with her own eyes, and personally acted in 
 the scenes which she described. These accompani- 
 ments, taken with the additional circumstance that 
 she who told the tale was one far too deeply and 
 sadly impressed with religious principle to mis- 
 
A CJiapter in the History, &c. 209 
 
 represent or fabricate what she repeated as fact 
 gave to the tale a depth of interest which the recording 
 of the events themselves could hardly have produced, 
 
 I became acquainted with the lady from whose 
 lips I heard this narrative nearly twenty years since, 
 and the story struck my fancy so much that I 
 committed it to paper while it was still fresh in my 
 mind; and should its perusal afford you entertain- 
 ment for a listless half hour, my labour shall not 
 have been bestowed in vain. 
 
 I find that I have taken the story down as she 
 told it, in the first person, and perhaps this is as it 
 should be. 
 
 She began as follows : 
 
 My maiden name was Richardson, the designation 
 of a family of some distinction in the county of 
 Tyrone. I was the younger of two daughters, and 
 we were the only children. There was a difference 
 in our ages of nearly six years, so that I did not, in 
 my childhood, enjoy that close companionship which 
 sisterhood, in other circumstances, necessarily in- 
 volves ; and while I was still a child, my sister was 
 married. 
 
 The person upon whom she bestowed her hand was 
 a Mr. Carew, a gentleman of property and considera- 
 tion in the north of England. 
 
 I remember well the eventful day of the wedding ; 
 the thronging carriages, the noisy menials, the loud 
 
 P 
 
2 1 o A Chapter in the History 
 
 laughter, the merry faces, and the gay dresses. Such 
 sights were then new to me, and harmonized ill with 
 the sorrowful feelings with which I regarded the 
 event which was to separate me from a sister whose 
 tenderness alone had hitherto more than supplied 
 all that I wanted in my mother's affection. 
 
 The day soon arrived which was to remove the 
 happy couple from Ashtown House. The carriage 
 stood at the hall-door, and my poor sister kissed me 
 again and again, telling me that I should see her soon. 
 
 The carriage drove away, and I gazed after it 
 until my eyes filled with tears, and, returning slowly 
 to my chamber^ I wept more bitterly and, so to speak, 
 more desolately, than ever I had wept before. 
 
 My father had never seemed to love or to take an 
 interest in me. He had desired a son, and I think 
 he never thoroughly forgave me my unfortunate sex. 
 
 My having come into the world at all as his child 
 he regarded as a kind of fraudulent intrusion ; and as 
 his antipathy to me had its origin in an imperfection 
 of mine too radical for removal, I never even hoped 
 to stand high in his good graces. 
 
 My mother was, I dare say, as fond of me as she 
 was of anyone ; but she was a woman of a masculine 
 and a worldly cast of mind. She had no tenderness 
 or sympathy for the weaknesses, or even for the affec- 
 tions, of woman's nature, and her demeanour towards 
 me was peremptory, and often even harsh. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 2 1 1 
 
 It is not to be supposed, then, that I foun 1 in the 
 society of my parents much to supply the loss of my 
 sister. About a year after her marriage, we received 
 letters from Mr, Carew, containing accounts of my 
 sister's health, which, though not actually alarming, 
 were calculated to make us seriously uneasy. The 
 symptoms most dwelt upon were loss of appetite, and 
 a cough. 
 
 The letters concluded by intimating that he would 
 avail himself of my father and mother's repeated in- 
 vitation to spend some time at Ashtown, particularly 
 as the physician who had been consulted as to my 
 sister's health had strongly advised a removal to her 
 native air. 
 
 There were added repeated assurances that nothing 
 serious was apprehended, as it was supposed that a 
 deranged state of the liver was the only source of the 
 symptoms which at first had seemed to intimate 
 consumption. 
 
 In accordance with this announcement, my sister 
 and Mr. Carew arrived in Dublin, where one of my 
 father's carriages awaited them, in readiness to start 
 upon whatever day or hour they might choose for 
 their departure. 
 
 It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, as soon as 
 the day upon which they were to leave Dublin was 
 definitely fixed, to write to my father, who intended 
 that the two last stages should be performed by his 
 
 P 2 
 
212 A Chapter in the History 
 
 own horses, upon whose speed and safety far more 
 reh'ance might be placed than upon those of the 
 ordinary post-horses, which were at that time, 
 ahuost without exception, of the very worst order. 
 The journey, one of about ninety miles, was to be 
 divided ; the larger portion being reserved for the 
 second day. 
 
 On Sunday a letter reached us, stating that the 
 party would leave Dublin on Monday, and in due 
 course reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening. 
 
 Tuesday came : the evening closed in, and yet no 
 carriage; darkness came on, and still no sign of our 
 expected visitors. 
 
 Hour after hour passed away, and it was now past 
 twelve ; the night was remarkably calm, scarce a 
 breath stirring, so that any sound, such as that 
 produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would 
 have been audible at a considerable distance. For 
 some such sound I was feverishly listening. 
 
 It was, however, my father's rule to close the 
 house at nightfall, and the window-shutters being 
 fastened, I was unable to reconnoitre the avenue as 
 I would have wished. It was nearly one o'clock, and 
 we began almost to despair of seeing them upon that 
 night, when I thought I distinguished the sound of 
 wheels, but so remote and faint as to make me at 
 first very uncertain. The noise approached ; it became 
 louder and clearer ; it stopped for a moment. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 2 1 3 
 
 I now heard the shrill screaming of the rusty iron, 
 as the avenue gate revolved on its hinges ; again 
 came the sound of wheels in rapid motion. 
 
 " It is they," said I, starting up ; " the carriage is 
 in the avenue," 
 
 We all stood for a few moments breathlessly listen- 
 ing. On thundered the vehicle with the speed of the 
 whirlwind ; crack went the whip, and clatter went 
 the wheels, as it rattled over the uneven pavement of 
 the court. A general and furious barking from all 
 the dogs about the house hailed its arrival. 
 
 We hurried to the hall in time to hear the steps 
 let down with the sharp clanging noise peculiar to 
 the operation, and the hum of voices exerted in the 
 bustle 'of arrival. The hall door was now thrown 
 open, and we all stepped forth to greet our visitors. 
 
 The court was perfectly empty; the moon was 
 shining broadly and brightly upon all around ; 
 nothing was to be seen but the tall trees with their 
 long spectral shadows, now wet with the dews of 
 midnight. 
 
 We stood gazing from right to left as if suddenly 
 awakened from a dream; the dogs walked sus- 
 piciously, growling and snuffling about the court, and 
 by totally and suddenly ceasing their former loud 
 barking, expressed the predominance of fear. 
 
 We stared one upon another in perplexity and 
 dismay, and 1 think I never beheld more pale faces 
 
2 14 ^ Chapter in the History 
 
 assembled. By my father's directions, we looked 
 about to find anything which might indicate or 
 account for the noise which we had heard ; but no 
 such thing was to be seen — even the mire which lay 
 upon the avenue was undisturbed. We returned to 
 the house, more panic-struck than I can describe. 
 
 On the next day, we learned by a messenger, who 
 had ridden hard the greater part of the night, that 
 my sister was dead. On Sunday evening she had 
 retired to bed rather unwell, and on Monday her 
 indisposition declared itself unequivocally to be 
 malignant fever. She became hourly worse, and, on 
 Tuesday night, a little after midnight, she expired. 
 
 I mention this circumstance, because it was one 
 upon which a thousand wild and fantastical re- 
 ports were founded, though one would have thought 
 that the truth scarcely required to be improved 
 upon ; and again, because it produced a strong 
 and lasting effect upon my spirits, and indeed, I 
 am inclined to think, upon my character. 
 
 I was, for several years after this occurrence, 
 long after the violence of my grief subsided, so 
 wretchedly low-spirited and nervous, that I could 
 scarcely be said to live; and during this time, habits 
 of indecision, arising out of a listless acquiescence in 
 the will of others, a fear of encountering even the 
 slightest opposition, and a disposition to shrink from 
 what are commonly called amusements, grew upon 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 2 i 5 
 
 me so strongly, that I have scarcely even yet alto- 
 gether overcome them. 
 
 We saw nothing more of Mr. Carew. He returned 
 to England as soon as the melancholy rites attendant 
 upon the event which I have just mentioned were 
 performed ; and not being altogether inconsolable, 
 he married again within two years; after which, 
 owing to the remoteness of our relative situations, 
 and other circumstances, we gradually lost sight of 
 him, 
 
 I was now an only child ; and, as my elder sister 
 had died without issue, it was evident thatj in the 
 ordinary course of things, my father's property, which 
 was altogether in his power, would go to me ; and 
 the consequence was, that before I was fourteen, 
 Ashtown House was besieged by a host of suitors. 
 However, whether it was that I was too young, or 
 that none of the aspirants to my hand stood suffi- 
 ciently high in rank or wealth, I was suffered by both 
 parents to do exactly as I pleased ; and well was it 
 for me, as I afterwards found, that fortune, or rather 
 Providence, had so ordained it, that I had not suffered 
 my affections to become in any degree engaged, for 
 my mother would never have suffered any silly fancy 
 of mine, as she was in the habit of styling an attach- 
 ment, to stand in the way of her ambitious views — 
 views which she was determined to carry into effect 
 in defiance of every obstacle, and in order to accom 
 
2i6 A Chapter in the History 
 
 pHsh which she would not have hesitated to sacrifice 
 anything so unreasonable and contemptible as a 
 girlish passion. 
 
 When I reached the age of sixteen, my mother's 
 plans began to develop themselves ; and, at her 
 suggestion, we moved to Dublin to sojourn for the 
 winter, in order that no time might be lost in dis- 
 posing of me to the best advantage. 
 
 I had been too long accustomed to consider myself 
 as of no importance whatever, to believe for a moment 
 that I was in reality the cause of all the bustle and 
 preparation which surrounded me ; and being thus 
 relieved from the pain which a consciousness of my 
 real situation would have inflicted, I journeyed 
 towards the capital with a feeling of total indif- 
 ference. 
 
 My father's wealth and connection had established 
 him in the best society, and consequently, upon our 
 arrival in the metropolis, we commanded whatever 
 enjoyment or advantages its gaieties afforded. 
 
 The tumult and novelty of the scenes in which I 
 was involved did not fail considerably to amuse me, 
 and my mind gradually recovered its tone, which was 
 naturally cheerful. 
 
 It was almost immediately known and reported 
 that I was an heiress, and of course my attractions 
 were pretty generally acknowledged. 
 
 Among the many gentlemen whom it was my for- 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 217 
 
 tune to please, one, ere long, established himself in 
 my mother's good graces, to the exclusion of all less 
 important aspirants. However, I had not understood 
 or even remarked his attentions, nor in the slightest 
 degree suspected his or my mother's plans respecting 
 me, when I was made aware of them rather abruptly 
 by my mother herself. 
 
 We had attended a splendid ball, given by Lord 
 
 M , at his residence in Stephen's Green, and I 
 
 was, with the assistance of my waiting-maid, cm- 
 ployed in rapidly divesting myself of the rich orna- 
 ments which, in profusencss and value, could scarcely 
 have found their equals in any private family in 
 Ireland. 
 
 I had thrown myself into a lounging-chair beside 
 the fire, listless and exhausted after the fatigues of 
 the evening, when I was aroused from the reverie 
 into which I had fallen by the sound of footsteps 
 approaching my chamber, and my mother entered. 
 
 " Fanny, my dear," said she, in her softest tone, " I 
 wish to say a word or two with you before I go to 
 rest. You are not fatigued, love, I hope ? " 
 
 " No, no, madam, I thank you," said I, rising at 
 the same time from my scat, with the formal respect 
 so little practised now. 
 
 "Sit down, my dear," said she, placing herself 
 upon a chair beside me; " I miust chat with you for 
 a quarter of an hour or so. Saunders " (to the maid), 
 
2i8 A Chapte7' in the History 
 
 " you may leave the room ; do not close the room 
 door, but shut that of the lobby." 
 
 This precaution against curious ears having been 
 taken as directed, my mother proceeded : 
 
 "You have observed, I should suppose, my dearest 
 Fanny — indeed, you nmst have observed Lord Glen- 
 fallen's marked attentions to you ? " 
 'n assure you, madam — " I began. 
 " Well, well, that is all right," interrupted my 
 mother. " Of course, you must be modest upon the 
 matter; but listen to me for a few moments, my 
 love, and I will prove to your satisfaction that your 
 modesty is quite unnecessary in this case. You have 
 done better than we could have hoped, at least, so 
 very soon. Lord Glenfallen is in love with you. I 
 give you joy of your conquest ; '^ and, saying this, 
 my mother kissed my forehead. 
 
 " In love with me ! " I exclaimed in unfeigned 
 astonishment. 
 
 ''Yes, in love with you," repeated my mother; 
 " devotedly, distractedly in love with you. Why, 
 my dear, what is there wonderful in it t Look in the 
 glass, and look at these," she continued, pointing, 
 with a smile, to the jewels which I had just removed 
 from my person, and which now lay in a glittering 
 heap upon the table. 
 
 " May there not — " said I, hesitating between 
 confusion and real alarm, "is it not possible that 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 219 
 
 some mistake may be at the bottom of all 
 this ? " 
 
 " Mistake, dearest ! none/'' said my mother. 
 "None; none in the world. Judge for yourself; 
 read this, my love." And she placed in my hand a 
 letter, addressed to herself, the seal of which was 
 broken. I read it through with no small surprise. 
 After some very fine complimentary flourishes upon 
 my beauty and perfections, as also upon the antiquity 
 and high reputation of our family, it went on to 
 make a formal proposal of marriage, to be communi- 
 cated or not to me at present, as my mother should 
 deem expedient ; and the letter wound up by a 
 request that the writer might be permitted, upon our 
 return to Ashtown House, which was soon to take 
 place, as the spring was now tolerably advanced, to 
 visit us for a few days, in case his suit was approved. 
 
 ''Well, well, my dear," said my mother, impa- 
 tiently ; "do }ou know who Lord Glenfallen is ? " 
 
 "I do, madam/' said I, rather timidly; for I 
 dreaded an altercation with my mother. 
 
 " Well, dear, and what frightens you ? " continued 
 she, " Are you afraid of a title .^ What has he done 
 to alarm you ? He is neither old nor ugly,'"" 
 
 I was silent, though I might have said, " He is 
 neither young nor handsome. '^ 
 
 "My dear Fanny," continued my mother, "in 
 sober seriousness, you have been most fortunate in 
 
2 20 A Chapter in the History 
 
 eng'aging the affections of a nobleman such as Lord 
 Glenfallen, young and wealthy, with first-rate — yes, 
 acknowledged first-7'ate abilities, and of a family 
 whose influence is not exceeded by that of any in 
 Ireland. Of course, you see the offer in the same 
 light that I do — indeed, I think you musty 
 
 This was uttered in no very dubious tone. I was so 
 much astonished by the suddenness of the whole com- 
 munication, that I literally did not know what to say. 
 
 " You are not in love ? " said my mother, turning 
 sharply, and fixing her dark eyes upon me with 
 severe scrutiny. 
 
 "No, madam," said I, promptly; horrified — what 
 young lady would not have been ? — at such a query, 
 
 '' I'm glad to hear it,'' said my mother, drily. 
 " Once, nearly twenty years ago, a friend of mine 
 consulted me as to how he should deal with a 
 daughter who had made what they call a love-match 
 — beggared herself, and disgraced her family ; and I 
 said, without hesitation, take no care for her, but cast 
 her off. Such punishment I awarded for an offence 
 committed against the reputation of a family not my 
 own ; and what I advised respecting the child of 
 another, with full as small compunction I would do 
 with mine. I cannot conceive anything more un- 
 reasonable or intolerable than that the fortune and 
 the character of a family should be marred by the 
 idle caprices of a girl." 
 
of a Tyrone Faultily. 221 
 
 She spoke this with great severity, and paused as 
 if she expected some observation from me. 
 
 I, however, said nothing. 
 
 "But I need not explain to )ou, my dear Fanny," 
 she continued, "m\- views upon this subject; you 
 have ahvays known them well, and I have never yet 
 had reason to believe you are likely to offend me 
 voluntarily,, or to abuse or neglect any of those 
 advantages which reason and duty tell you should be 
 improved. Come hither, my dear ; kiss me, and do 
 not look so frightened. Well, now, about this letter 
 — you need not answer it yet; of course, you must 
 be allowed time to make up your mind. In the mean- 
 time, I will write to his lordship to give him my per- 
 mission to visit us at Ashtown. Good-night, my 
 love." 
 
 And thus ended one of the most disagreeable, not 
 to say astounding, conversations I h^d ever had. It 
 would not be easy to describe exactly what were 
 my feelings towards Lord Glenfallen ; — whatever 
 might have been my mother's suspicions, my heart 
 was perfectly disengaged — and hitherto, although I 
 had not been made in the slightest degree acquainted 
 with his real views, I had liked him very much as an 
 agreeable, well-informed man, whom I was always 
 glad to meet in society. He had served in the navy 
 in early life, and the polish which his manners 
 received in his after intercourse with courts and cities 
 
2 22 A Chapter in the History 
 
 had not served to obliterate that frankness of manner 
 which belongs proverbially to the sailor. 
 
 Whether this apparent candour went deeper than 
 the outward bearing, I was yet to learn. However, 
 there was no doubt that, as far as I had seen of Lord 
 Glenfallen, he was, though perhaps not so young as 
 might have been desired in a lover.a singularly pleasing 
 man ; and whatever feeling unfavourable to him had 
 found its way into my mind, arose altogether from 
 the dread, not an unreasonable one, that constraint 
 might be practised upon my inclinations. I reflected, 
 however, that Lord Glenfallen was a wealthy mau) 
 and one highly thought of ; and although I could 
 never expect to love him in the romantic sense of the 
 terra, yet I had no doubt but that, all things con- 
 sidered, I might be more happy with him than I could 
 hope to be at home. 
 
 When next I met him it was with no small em- 
 barrassment ; his tact and good breeding, however, 
 soon reassured me, and effectually prevented my 
 awkwardness being remarked upon. And I had the 
 satisfaction of leaving Dublin for the country with 
 the full conviction that nobody, not even those most 
 intimate with me, even suspected the fact of Lord 
 Glenfallen's having made me a formal proposal. 
 
 This was to me a very serious subject of self- 
 gratulation, for, besides my instinctive dread of 
 becoming the topic of the speculations of gossip, I 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 223 
 
 felt that if the situation which I occupied in relation 
 to him were made publicly known, I should stand 
 committed in a manner which would scarcely leave 
 me the power of retraction. 
 
 The period at which Lord Glenfallen had arranged 
 to visit Ashtown House was now fast approaching-, 
 and it became my mother's wish to form me 
 thoroughly to her will, and to obtain my consent to the 
 proposed marriage before his arrival, so that all things 
 might proceed smoothly, without apparent opposition 
 or objection upon my part. Whatever objections, there- 
 fore, I had entertained were to be subdued ; whatever 
 disposition to resistance I had exhibited or had been 
 supposed to feel, were to be completely eradicated 
 before he made his appearance ; and my mother 
 addressed herself to the task with a decision and 
 energy against which even the barriers her imagina- 
 tion had created could hardly have stood. 
 
 If she had, however, expected any determined 
 opposition from me, she was agreeabl}' disappointed. 
 My heart was perfectly free, and all my feelings of 
 liking and preference were in favour of Lord Glen- 
 fallen ; and I well knew that in case I refused to dis- 
 pose of myself as I was desired, my mother had alike 
 the power and the will to render my existence as 
 utterly miserable as even the most ill-assorted 
 marriage could possibly have made it. 
 
 You will remember, my good friend, that I was 
 
224 ^ Chapter in the History 
 
 very young and very completely under the control of 
 my parents, both of whom, my mother particularly, 
 were unscrupulously determined in matters of this 
 kind, and willing, when voluntary obedience on the 
 part of those within their power was withheld, to 
 compel a forced acquiescence by an unsparing use of 
 all the engines of the most stern and rigorous domestic 
 discipline. 
 
 All these combined, not unnaturally induced me 
 to resolve upon yielding at once, and without useless 
 opposition, to what appeared almost to be my fate. 
 
 The appointed time was come, and my now 
 accepted suitor arrived ; he was in high spirits, and, 
 if possible, more entertaining than ever. 
 
 I was not, however, quite in the mood to enjoy his 
 sprightliness ; but whatever I wanted in gaiety was 
 amply made up in the triumphant and gracious good- 
 humour of my mother, whose smiles of benevolence 
 and exultation were showered around as bountifully 
 as the summer sunshine. 
 
 I will not weary you with unnecessary details. 
 Let it suffice to say, that I was married to Lord 
 Glenfallen with all the attendant pomp and circum- 
 stance of wealth, rank, and grandeur. According to 
 the usage of the limes, now humanely reformed, the 
 ceremony was made, until long past midnight, the 
 season of wild, uproarious, and promiscuous feasting 
 and revelry. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 
 
 225 
 
 Of all this I have a painfully vivid recollection, and 
 particularly of the little annoyances inflicted upon 
 me by the dull and coarse jokes of the wits and wags 
 who abound in all such places, and upon all such 
 occasions. 
 
 I was not sorry when, after a few days, Lord Glen- 
 fallen's carriage appeared at the door to convey us 
 
 
 THE SEASON OF WILD, UPROARIOUS, AND PRO- 
 MISCUOUS FEASTING AND REVELRY. 
 
 both from Ashtown ; for any change would have 
 been a relief from the irksomeness of ceremonial and 
 formality which the visits received in honour of my 
 newly-acquired titles hourly entailed upon me. 
 
 It was arranged that we were to proceed to Caher- 
 gillagh, one of the Glenfallen estates, lying, however, 
 in a southern county; so that, owing to the difficulty 
 of the roads at the time, a tedious journey of three 
 days intervened. 
 
226 A Chapter in the History 
 
 I set forth with my noble companion, followed by 
 the regrets of some, and by the envy of many ; though 
 God knows I little deserved the latter. The three 
 days of travel were now almost spent, when passing 
 the brow of a wild heathy hill, the domain of Caher- 
 gillagh opened suddenly upon our view. 
 
 It formed a striking and a beautiful scene. A lake 
 of considerable extent stretching away towards the 
 west, and reflecting from its broad, smooth waters 
 the rich glow of the setting sun, was overhung by 
 steep hills, covered by a rich mantle of velvet sward, 
 broken here and there by the grey front of some old 
 rock, and exhibiting on their shelving sidesand on their 
 slopes and hollows every variety of light and shade. 
 A thick wood of dwarf oak, birch, and hazel skirted 
 these hills, and clothed the shores of the lake, running 
 out in rich luxuriance upon every promontory, and 
 spreading upward considerably upon the side of the 
 hills. 
 
 " There lies the enchanted castle," said Lord Glen- 
 fallen, pointing towards a considerable level space 
 intervening between two of the picturesque hills which 
 rose dimly around the lake. 
 
 This little plain was chiefly occupied by the same 
 low, wild wood which covered the other parts of the 
 domain ; but towards the centre, a mass of taller and 
 statelier forest trees stood darkly grouped together, 
 and among them stood an ancient square tower, with 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 227 
 
 many buildings of a humbler character, forming to- 
 gether the manor-house, or, as it was more usually 
 called, the Court of Cahergillagh. 
 
 As we approached the level upon which the mansion 
 stood, the winding road gave us many glimpses of 
 the time-worn castle and its surrounding buildings ; 
 and seen as it was through the long vistas of the fine 
 old trees, and with the rich glow of evening upon it, 
 I have seldom beheld an object more picturesquely 
 striking. 
 
 I was glad to perceive, too, that here and there the 
 blue curling smoke ascended from stacks of chimneys 
 now hidden by the rich, dark ivy which, in a great 
 measure, covered the building. Other indications of 
 comfort made themselves manifest as we approached; 
 and indeed, though the place was evidently one of 
 considerable antiquity, it had nothing whatever of the 
 gloom of decay about it. 
 
 "You must not, my love," said Lord Glenfallen, 
 " imagine this place worse than it is. I have no taste 
 for antiquity — at least I should not choose a house to 
 reside in because it is old. Indeed, I do not recollect 
 that I was even so romantic as to overcome my 
 aversion to rats and rheumatism, those faithful 
 attendants upon your noble relics of feudalism ; and 
 I much prefer a snug, modern, unmysterious bed- 
 room, with well-aired sheets, to the waving tapestry, 
 mildewed cushions, and all the other interesting 
 
 Q2 
 
228 A Chapter in tJie History 
 
 appliances of romance. However, though I cannot 
 promise you all the discomfort generally belonging 
 to an old castle, you will find legends and ghostly lore 
 enough to claim your respect ; and if old Martha be 
 still to the fore, as I trust she is, you will soon have 
 a supernatural and appropriate anecdote for every 
 closet and corner of the mansion. But here we are — 
 so, without more ado, welcome to Cahergillagh ! " 
 
 We now entered the hall of the castle, and while 
 the domestics were employed in conveying our trunks 
 and other luggage which we had brought with us for 
 immediate use, to the apartments which Lord Glen- 
 fallen had selected for himself and me, I went with 
 him into a spacious sitting-room, wainscoted with 
 finely-polished black oak, and hung round with 
 the portraits of various worthies of the Glenfallen 
 family. 
 
 This room looked out upon an extensive level 
 covered with the softest green sward, and irregularly 
 bounded by the wild wood I have before mentioned, 
 through the leafy arcade formed by whose boughs and 
 trunks the level beams of the setting sun were pouring. 
 In the distance a group of dairy- maids were plying 
 their task, which they accompanied throughout with 
 snatches of Irish songs which, mellowed by the 
 distance, floated not unpleasingly to the ear ; and 
 beside them sat or lay, with all the grave importance 
 of conscious protection, six or seven large dogs of 
 
of a Tyrtme Family. 229 
 
 various kinds. Farther in the distance, and through 
 the cloisters of the arching wood, two or three ragged 
 urchins were employed in driving such stray kine as 
 had wandered farther than the rest to join their fellows. 
 As I looked upon the scene which I have described, 
 a feeling of tranquillity and happiness came upon me, 
 which I have never experienced in so strong a degree; 
 and so strange to me was the sensation that my eyes 
 filled with tears. 
 
 Lord Glcnfallen mistook the cause of my emotion, 
 and taking me kindly and tenderly by the hand, he 
 said : 
 
 " Do not suppose, my love, that it is my intention 
 to settle here. Whenever you desire to leave this, you 
 have only to let me know your wish, and it shall be 
 complied with ; so I must entreat of you not to 
 suffer any circumstances which I can control to give 
 you one moment's uneasiness. But here is old 
 Martha ; you must be introduced to her, one of the 
 heirlooms of our family." 
 
 A hale, good-humoured, erect old woman was 
 Martha, and an agreeable contrast to the grim, 
 decrepid hag which my fancy had conjured up, as the 
 depositary of all the horrible tales in which I doubted 
 not this old place was most fruitful. 
 
 She welcomed me and her master with a profusion 
 of gratulations, alternately kissing our hands and 
 apologizing for the liberty ; until at length Lord 
 
230 A Chapter in the History 
 
 Glenfallen put an end to this somewhat fatiguing 
 ceremonial by requesting her to conduct me to my 
 chamber, if it were prepared for my reception. 
 
 I followed Martha up an old-fashioned oak stair- 
 case into a long, dim passage, at the end of which 
 lay the door which communicated with the apart- 
 ments which had been selected for our use ; here the 
 old woman stopped, and respectfully requested me 
 to proceed. 
 
 I accordingly opened the door, and was about to 
 enter, when something like a mass of black tapestry, 
 as it appeared, disturbed by my sudden approach, 
 fell from above the door, so as completely to screen 
 the aperture ; the startling unexpectedness of the 
 occurrence, and the rustling noise which the drapery 
 made in its descent, caused me involuntarily to step 
 two or three paces backward. I turned, smiling and 
 half-ashamed, to the old servant, and said, — 
 
 " You see what a coward I am." 
 
 The woman looked puzzled, and, without saying 
 any more, I was about to draw aside the curtain and 
 enter the room, when, upon turning to do so, I was 
 surprised to find that nothing whatever interposed to 
 obstruct the passage. 
 
 I went into the room, followed by the servant- 
 woman, and was amazed to find that it, like the one 
 below, was wainscoted, and that nothing like drapery 
 was to be found near the door. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 231 
 
 "Where is it?" said I; "what has become of 
 it?" 
 
 " What does your ladyship wish to know ? " said 
 the old woman. 
 
 " Where is the black curtain that fell across the 
 door, when I attempted first to come to my chamber ? " 
 answered I. 
 
 '* The cross of Christ about us ! " said the old 
 woman, turning suddenly pale. 
 
 " What is the matter, my good friend } " said I ; 
 " you seem frightened." 
 
 " Oh no, no, your ladyship," said the old woman, 
 endeavouring to conceal her agitation ; but in vain, 
 for tottering towards a chair, she sank into it, looking 
 so deadly pale and horror-struck that I thought 
 every moment she would faint. 
 
 " Merciful God, keep us from harm and danger ! " 
 muttered she at length. 
 
 " What can have terrified you so } " said I, 
 beginning to fear that she had seen something more 
 than had met my eye. "You appear ill, my poor 
 woman ! " 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, my lady," said she, rising. 
 '■ I beg your ladyship's pardon for making so bold. 
 Way the great God defend us from misfortune ! " 
 
 " Martha," said I, " something /uis frightened you 
 very much, and I insist on knowing what it is ; your 
 keeping me in the dark upon the subject will make 
 
232 A Chapter in the History 
 
 me much more uneasy than anything you could tell 
 me. I desire you, therefore, to let me know what 
 agitates you ; I command you to tell me." 
 
 " Your ladyship said you saw a black curtain 
 falling across the door when you were coming into 
 the room," said the old woman. 
 
 " I did," said I ; " but though the whole thing 
 appears somewhat strange, I cannot see anything in 
 the matter to agitate you so excessively." 
 
 " It's for no good you saw that, my lady," said the 
 crone; "something terrible is coming. It's a sign, 
 my lady — a sign that never fails," 
 
 " Explain, explain what you mean, my good 
 woman," said I, in spite of myself, catching more 
 than I could account for, of her superstitious terror. 
 
 " Whenever something — something had is going 
 to happen to the Glenfallen family, some one that 
 belongs to them sees a black handkerchief or curtain 
 just waved or falling before their faces. I saw it 
 myself," continued she, lowering her voice, " when I 
 was only a little girl, and I'll never forget it. I often 
 heard of it before, though I never saw it till then, 
 nor since, praised be God. But I was going into 
 Lady Jane's room to waken her in the morning ; and 
 sure enough when I got first to the bed and began to 
 draw the curtain, something dark was waved across 
 the division, but only for a moment ; and when I saw 
 rightly into the bed, there she was lying cold and 
 
of a Ty7'one Family. 233 
 
 dead, God be merciful to me ! So, my lady, there is 
 small blame to me to be daunted when any one of 
 the family sees it ; for it's many the story I heard of 
 it, though I saw it but once." 
 
 I was not of a superstitious turn of mind, yet I 
 could not resist a feeling of awe very nearly allied to 
 the fear which my companion had so unreservedly 
 expressed ; and when you consider my situation, 
 the loneliness, antiquity, and gloom of the place, you 
 will allow that the weakness was not without excuse. 
 
 In spite of old Martha's boding predictions, how- 
 ever^ time flowed on in an unruffled course. One 
 little incident, however, though trifling in itself, I 
 must relate, as it serves to make what follows more 
 intelligible. 
 
 Upon the day after my arrival, Lord Glenfallen of 
 course desired to make me acquainted with the house 
 and domain ; and accordingly we set forth upon our 
 ramble. When returning, he became for some time 
 silent and moody, a state so unusual with him as 
 considerably to excite my surprise. 
 
 I endeavoured by observations and questions to 
 arouse him — but in vain. At length, as we ap- 
 proached the house, he said, as it speaking to him- 
 self, — 
 
 " 'Twere madness — madness — madness," repeating 
 the words bitterly; "sure and speedy ruin." 
 
 There was here a long pause ; and at length, 
 
234 ^ Chapter in the History 
 
 turning sharply towards me, in a tone very unlike 
 that in which he had hitherto addressed me, he 
 said, — 
 
 " Do you think it possible that a woman can keep 
 a secret ? " 
 
 " I am sure," said I, " that women are very much 
 belied upon the score of talkativeness, and that 'I 
 may answer your question with the same directness 
 with which you put it — I reply that I do think a 
 woman can keep a secret/' 
 
 " But I do not," said he, drily. 
 
 We walked on in silence for a time. I was much 
 astonished at his unwonted abruptness — I had almost 
 said rudeness. 
 
 After a considerable pause he seemed to recollect 
 himself, and with an effort resuming his sprightly 
 manner, he said, — 
 
 " Well, well, the next thing to keeping a secret 
 well is not to desire to possess one ; talkativeness 
 and curiosity generally go together. Now I shall 
 make test of you, in the first place, respecting the 
 latter of these qualities. I shall be your Bluebeard 
 — tush, why do I trifle thus ? Listen to me, my 
 dear Fanny ; I speak now in solemn earnest. What 
 I desire is intimately, inseparably connected with 
 your happiness and honour as well as my own ; and 
 your compliance with my request will not be 
 difficult. It will impose upon you a very trifling 
 
of a Tyrone Faviily. 235 
 
 restraint during your sojourn here, which certain 
 events which have occurred since our arrival have 
 determined me shall not be a long one. You must 
 promise me, upon your sacred honour, that you will 
 visit 07ily that part of the castle which can be reached 
 from the front entrance, leaving the back entrance 
 and the part of the building commanded immediately 
 by it to the menials, as also the small garden whose 
 high wall you see yonder ; and never at any time 
 seek to pry or peep into them, nor to open the door 
 which communicates from the front part of the house 
 through the corridor with the back. I do not urge 
 this in jest or in caprice, but from a solemn 
 conviction that danger and misery will be the certain 
 consequences of your not observing what I prescribe. 
 I cannot explain myself further at present. Promise 
 me, then, these things, as you hope for peace here 
 and for mercy hereafter." 
 
 I did make the promise as desired, and he 
 appeared relieved ; his manner recovered all its gaiety 
 and elasticity : but the recollection of the strange 
 scene which I have just described dwelt painfully upon 
 my mind. 
 
 More than a month passed away without any 
 occurrence worth recording ; but I was not destined 
 to leave Cahergillagh without further adventure. 
 One day, intending to enjoy the pleasant sunshine 
 in a ramble through the woods, I ran up to my room 
 
236 A Chapter in the History 
 
 to procure my hat and cloak. Upon entering the 
 chamber I was surprised and somewhat startled 
 to find it occupied. Beside the fireplace, and nearly 
 opposite the door, seated in a large, old-fashioned 
 
 UPON ENTERING THE CHAMBER, I WAS SURPRISED AND SOME- 
 WHAT STARTLED TO FIND IT OCCUPIED. 
 
 elbow-chair, was placed the figure of a lady. She 
 appeared to be nearer fifty than forty, and was 
 dressed suitably to her age, in a handsome suit of 
 flowered silk ; she had a profusion of trinkets and 
 jewellery about her person,, and many rings upon her 
 
of a Tyro7ie Family. 237 
 
 fingers. But although very rich, her dress was not 
 gaudy or in ill taste. But what was remarkable in 
 the lady was, that although her features were hand- 
 some, and upon the whole pleasing, the pupil of each 
 eye was dimmed with the whiteness of cataract, and 
 she was evidently stone-blind. I was for some 
 seconds so surprised at this unaccountable apparition, 
 that I could not find words to address her. 
 
 " Madam," said I, '' there must be some mistake 
 here — this is my bedchamber." 
 
 " Marry come up," said the lady, sharply ; '^ your 
 chamber ! Where is Lord Glenfallen ? " 
 
 " He is below, madam," replied I ; "and I am con- 
 vinced he will be not a little surprised to find you here." 
 
 "I do not think he will," said she, "with your 
 good leave ; talk of what you know something about. 
 Tell him I want him. Why does the minx dilly- 
 dally so ? " 
 
 In spite of the awe which this grim lady inspired, 
 there was something in her air of confident superiorit}- 
 which, when I considered our relative situations, was 
 not a little irritating. 
 
 " Do you know, madam, to whom you speak .? " 
 said I. 
 
 " I neither know nor care," said she ; " but I pre- 
 sume that you are some one about the house, so again 
 I desire you, if you wish to continue here, to bring 
 your master hither forthwith," 
 
238 A Chapter in the History 
 
 " I must tell you, madam," said I, " that I am 
 Lady Glen fallen." 
 
 "What's that?" said the stranger, rapidly. 
 
 " I say, madam," I repeated, approaching her that 
 I might be more distinctly heard, " that I am Lady 
 Glenfallen." 
 
 " It's a lie, you trull ! " cried she, in an accent 
 which made me start, and at the same time, springing 
 forward, she seized me in her grasp, and shook me 
 violently, repeating, " It's a lie — it's a lie I " with a 
 rapidity and vehemence which swelled every vein of 
 her face. The violence of her action, and the fury 
 which convulsed her face, effectually terrified me, and 
 disengaging myself from her grasp, I screamed as 
 loud as I could for help. The blind woman con- 
 tinued to pour out a torrent of abuse upon me, foam- 
 ing at the mouth with rage, and impotently shaking 
 her clenched first towards me. 
 
 I heard Lord Glenfallen's step upon the stairs, and 
 I instantly ran out; as I passed him I perceived that 
 he was deadly pale, and just caught the words : " I 
 hope that dem.on has not hurt you ? " 
 
 I made some answer, I forget what, and he entered 
 the chamber, the door of which he locked upon the 
 inside. What passed within I know not ; but I 
 heard the voices of the two speakers raised in loud 
 and angry altercation. 
 
 I thought I heard the shrill accents of the woman 
 
of a Tyrone Fa7nily. 239 
 
 repeat the words, " Let her look to herself ;" but I 
 could not be quite sure. This short sentence, how- 
 ever, was, to my alarmed imagination, pregnant with 
 fearful meaning. 
 
 The storm at length subsided, though not until 
 after a conference of more than two long hours. 
 Lord Glenfallen then returned, pale and agitated. 
 
 "■ That unfortunate woman," said he, " is out of 
 her mind. I daresay she treated you to some of her 
 ravings ; but you need not dread any further inter- 
 ruption from her : I have brought her so far to reason. 
 She did not hurt you, I trust." 
 
 " No, no," said I ; " but she terrified me beyond 
 measure." 
 
 " Well," said he, " she is likely to behave better for 
 the future ; and I dare swear that neither you nor she 
 would desire, after what has passed, to meet again." 
 
 This occurrence, so startling and unpleasant, so 
 involved in mystery, and giving rise to so many pain- 
 ful surmises, afforded me no very agreeable food for 
 rumination. 
 
 All attempts on my part to arrive at the truth were 
 baffled ; Lord Glenfallen evaded all my inquiries, and 
 at length peremptorily forbade any further allusion to 
 the matter. I was thus obliged to rest satisfied with 
 what I had actually seen, and to trust to time to 
 resolve the perplexities in which the whole transaction 
 had involved me. 
 
240 A Chapter in the History 
 
 Lord Glcnfallen's temper and spirits gradually 
 underwent a complete and most painful change ; he 
 became silent and abstracted, his manner to me was 
 abrupt and often harsh, some grievous anxiety seemed 
 ever present to his mind ; and under its influence his 
 spirits sank and his temper became soured. 
 
 I soon perceived that his gaiety was rather that 
 which the stir and excitement of society produce, 
 than the result of a healthy habit of mind ; every 
 day confirmed me in the opinion, that the considerate 
 good-nature which I had so much admired in him 
 was little more than a mere manner ; and to my 
 infinite grief and surprise, the gay, kind, open-hearted 
 nobleman who had for months followed and flattered 
 me, was rapidly assuming the form of a gloomy, 
 morose, and singularly selfish man. This was a bitter 
 discovery, and I strove to conceal it from myself as 
 long as I could ; but the truth was not to be denied, 
 and I was forced to believe that my husband no 
 longer loved me, and that he was at little pains to 
 conceal the alteration in his sentiments. 
 
 One morning after breakfast. Lord Glenfallen had 
 been for some time walking silently up and down the 
 room, buried in his moody reflections, when pausing 
 suddenly, and turning towards me, he exclaimed : 
 
 " I have it — I have it ! We must go abroad, and 
 stay there too ; and if that does not answer, why — 
 why, we must try some more effectual expedient. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 24.1 
 
 Lady Glenfallen, I have become involved in heavy 
 embarrassments. A wife, you know, must share the 
 fortunes of her husband, for better for worse ; but I 
 will waive my right if you prefer remaining here — 
 here at Cahergillagh. For I would not have you 
 seen elsewhere without the state to which your rank 
 entitles you ; besides, it would break your poor 
 mother's heart," he added, with sneering gravity. 
 " So make up your mind — Cahergillagh or France 
 I will start if possible in a week, so determine between 
 this and then." 
 
 He left the room, and in a few moments I saw him 
 ride past the window, followed by a mounted servant. 
 He had directed a domestic to inform me that he 
 should not be back until the next day. 
 
 I was in very great doubt as to what course of 
 conduct I should pursue as to accompanying him in 
 the continental tour so suddenly determined upon. I 
 felt that it would be a hazard too great to encounter ; 
 for at Cahergillagh I had always the consciousness to 
 sustain me, that if his temper at any time led him 
 into violent or unwarrantable treatment of me, I had 
 a remedy within reach, in the protection and support 
 of my own family, from all useful and effective com- 
 munication with whom, if once in France, I should 
 be entirely debarred. 
 
 As to remaining at Cahergillagh in solitude, and, 
 for aught I knew, exposed to hidden dangers, it 
 
 R 
 
242 A Chapter in the History 
 
 appeared to me scarcely less objectionable than the 
 former proposition ; and yet I feared that with one 
 or other I must comply, unless I was prepared to 
 come to an actual breach with Lord Glenfallen. Full 
 of these unpleasing doubts and perplexities, I retired 
 to rest. 
 
 I was wakened, after having slept uneasily for 
 some hours, by some person shaking me rudely by 
 the shoulder ; a small lamp burned in my room, and 
 by its light, to my horror and amazement, I dis- 
 covered that my visitant was the self-same blind 
 old lady who had so terrified me a few weeks 
 before. 
 
 I started up in the bed, with a view to ring the 
 bell, and alarm the domestics ; but she instantly 
 anticipated me by saying : 
 
 " Do not be frightened, silly girl ! If I had wished 
 to harm you, I could have done it while you were 
 sleeping; I need not have wakened you. Listen to 
 me, now, attentively and fearlessly, for what I have 
 to say interests you to the full as much as it does me. 
 Tell me here, in the presence of God, did Lord Glen- 
 fallen marry you — actually marry you ? Speak the 
 truth, woman." 
 
 " As surely as I live and speak," I replied, " did 
 Lord Glenfallen marry mc, in presence of more than 
 a hundred witnesses." 
 
 " Well," continued she, " he should have told you 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 243 
 
 then, before you married him, that he had a wife 
 living, — that I am his wife. I feel you tremble — tush ! 
 do not be frightened. I do not mean to harm you. 
 Mark me now — you are not his wife. When I make 
 my story known you will be so neither in the eye of 
 God nor of man. You must leave this house upon 
 to-morrow. Let the world knovV that your husband 
 has another wife living ; go you into retirement, and 
 leave him to justice, which will surely overtake him. 
 If you remain in this house after to-morrow, you 
 will reap the bitter fruits of your sin." 
 
 So saying, she quitted the room, leaving me very 
 little disposed to sleep. 
 
 Here was food for my very worst and most terrible 
 suspicions ; still there was not enough to remove all 
 doubt. I had no proof of the truth of this woman's 
 statement. 
 
 Taken by itself, there was nothing to induce me 
 to attach weight to it ; but when I viewed it in con- 
 nection with the extraordinary mystery of some ot 
 Lord Glenfallen's proceedings, his strange anxiety to 
 exclude me from certain portions of the mansion, 
 doubtless lest I should encounter this person — the 
 strong influence, nay, command which she possessed 
 over him, a circumstance clearly established by the 
 very fact of her residing in the very place where, of 
 all others, he should least have desired to find her — 
 her thus acting, and continuing to act in direct con- 
 
 R 2 
 
244 -^ Chapter in the History 
 
 tradiction to his wishes ; when, I say, I viewed her 
 disclosure in connection with all these circumstances, 
 I could not help feeling that there was at least a fear- 
 ful verisimilitude in the allegations which she had 
 made. 
 
 Still I was not satisfied, nor nearly so. Young 
 minds have a reluctance almost insurmountable to 
 believing, upon anything short of unquestionable 
 proof, the existence of premeditated guilt in anyone 
 whom they have ever trusted ; and in support of this 
 feeling I was assured that if the assertion of Lord 
 Glenfallen, which nothing in this woman's manner 
 had led me to disbelieve^ were true, namely that her 
 mind was unsound, the whole fabric of my doubts 
 and fears must fall to the ground. 
 
 I determined to state to Lord Glenfallen freely and 
 accurately the substance of the communication which 
 I had just heard, and in his words and looks to 
 seek for its proof or refutation. Full of these 
 thoughts, I remained wakeful and excited all night, 
 every moment fancying that I heard the step or saw 
 the figure of my recent visitor, towards whom I felt 
 a species of horror and dread which I can hardly 
 describe. 
 
 There was something in her face, though her 
 features had evidently been handsome, and were not, 
 at first sight, unpleasing, which, upon a nearer inspec- 
 tion, seemed to indicate the habitual prevalence and 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 245 
 
 indulgence of evil passions, and a power of express- 
 ing mere animal anger with an intenseness that I 
 have seldom' seen equalled, and to which an almost 
 unearthly effect was given by the convulsive quivering 
 of the sightless eyes. 
 
 You may easily suppose that it was no very 
 pleasing reflection to me to consider that, whenever 
 caprice might induce her to return, I was within the 
 reach of this violent and, for aught I knew, insane 
 woman, who had, upon that very night, spoken to 
 me in a tone of menace, of which her mere words, 
 divested of the manner and look with which she 
 uttered them, can convey but a faint idea. 
 
 Will you believe me when I tell you that I was 
 actually afraid to leave my bed in order to secure the 
 door, lest I should again encounter the dreadful 
 object lurking in some corner or peeping from 
 behind the window- curtains, so very a child was I in 
 my fears ? 
 
 The morning came, and with it Lord Glenfallen. 
 I knew not, and indeed I cared not, where he might 
 have been ; my thoughts were wholly engrossed by 
 the terrible fears and suspicions which my last 
 night's conference had suggested to me. He was, as 
 usual, gloomy and abstracted, and I feared in no 
 very fitting mood to hear what I had to say with 
 patience, whether the charges were true or false. 
 
 I was, however, determined not to suffer the 
 
246 A Chapter' in the History 
 
 opportunity to pass, or Lord Glenfallen to leave the 
 room, until, at all hazards, I had unburdened my 
 mind. 
 
 " My lord,*' said I, after a long silence, summoning 
 up all my firmness, '^ my lord, I wish to say a few 
 words to you upon a matter of very great import- 
 ance, of very deep concernment to you and to me." 
 
 I fixed my eyes upon him to discern, if possible, 
 whether the announcement caused him any uneasi- 
 ness ; but no symptom of any such feeling was 
 perceptible. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said he, " this is no doubt a very 
 grave preface, and portends, I have no doubt, some- 
 thing extraordinary. Pray let us have it without 
 more ado." 
 
 He took a chair, and seated himself nearly opposite 
 to me. 
 
 " My lord," said I, " I have seen the person who 
 alarmed me so much a short time since, the blind 
 lady, again, upon last night." His face, upon which 
 my eyes were fixed, turned pale ; he hesitated for a 
 moment, and then said : 
 
 *' And did you, pray, madam, so totally forget or 
 spurn my express command, as to enter that portion 
 of the house from which your promise, I might say 
 your oath, excluded you ? Answer me that ! " he 
 added fiercely. 
 
 "My lord," said I, "I have neither forgotten your 
 
of a Tyrone Family. ?47 
 
 commands , since such they were, nor disobeyed them. 
 I was, last night, wakened from my sleep, as I lay in 
 my own chamber, and accosted by the person whom 
 I have mentioned. How she found access to the 
 room I cannot pretend to say." 
 
 "Ha! this must be looked to," said he, half re- 
 flectively. '^ And pray," added he quickly, while in 
 turn he fixed his eyes upon me, " what did this person 
 say ? since some comment upon her communication 
 forms, no doubt, the sequel to your preface." 
 
 " Your lordship is not mistaken," said I ; " her 
 statement was so extraordinary that I could not 
 think of v/ithholding it from you. She told me, my 
 lord, that you had a wife living at the time you 
 married me, and that she was that wife." 
 
 Lord Glenfallen became ashy pale, almost livid ; he 
 made two or three efforts to clear his voice to speak, 
 but in vain, and turning suddenly from me, he 
 walked to the window. The horror and dismay 
 which, in the olden time, overwhelmed the woman of 
 Endor when her spells unexpectedly conjured the 
 dead into her presence, were but types of what I felt 
 when thus presented with what appeared to be almost 
 unequivocal evidence of the guilt whose existence I 
 had before so strongly doubted. 
 
 There was a silence of some moments, during 
 which it were hard to conjecture whether I or my 
 companion suffered most. 
 
248 A Chapte}' in the History 
 
 Lord Glenfallen soon recovered his self-com- 
 mand ; he returned to the table, again sat down, and 
 said : 
 
 " What you have told me has so astonished me^ 
 has unfolded such a tissue of motiveless guilt, and in 
 a quarter from which I had so little reason to look 
 for ingratitude or treachery, that your announcement 
 almost deprived me of speech ; the person in question, 
 however, has one excuse, her mind is, as I told you 
 before, unsettled. You should have remembered 
 that, and hesitated to receive as unexceptionable 
 evidence against the honour of your husband, the 
 ravings of a lunatic. I now tell you that this is the 
 last time I shall speak to you upon this subject, and, 
 in the presence of the God who is to judge mc, and 
 as I hope for mercy in the day of judgment, I swear 
 that the charge thus brought against me is utterly 
 false, unfounded, and ridiculous. I defy the world in 
 any point to taint my honour ; and, as I have never 
 taken the opinion of madmen touching your charac- 
 ter or morals, I think it but fair to require that you 
 will evince a like tenderness for me; and now, once 
 for all, never again dare to repeat to me your insult- 
 ing suspicions, or the clumsy and infamous calumnies 
 of fools. I shall instantly let the worthy lady who 
 contrived this somewhat original device understand 
 fully my opinion upon the matter. Good morning." 
 And with these words he left me again in doubt. 
 
of a Tyrone Pojmly. 249 
 
 and involved in all the horrors of the most agonizinj;^ 
 suspense. 
 
 I had reason to think that Lord Glenfallen wreaked 
 his vengeance upon the author of the strange story 
 which I had heard, with a violence which was not 
 satisfied with mere words, for old Martha, with whom 
 I was a great favourite, while attending me in my 
 room, told me that she feared her master had ill- 
 used the poor blind Dutchwoman, for that she had 
 heard her scream as if the very life were leaving her, 
 but added a request that I should not speak of what 
 she had told me to any one, particularly to the master. 
 
 " How do you know that she is a Dutchwoman I " 
 inquired I, anxious to learn anything whatever that 
 might throw a light upon the history of this person, 
 who seemed to have resolved to mix herself up in my 
 fortunes. 
 
 " Why, my lady," answered Martha, " the master 
 often calls her the Dutch hag, and other names you 
 would not like to hear, and I am sure she is neither 
 English nor Irish ; for, whenever they talk together, 
 they speak some queer foreign lingo, and fast enough, 
 I'll be bound. But I ought not to talk about her at 
 all ; it might be as much as my place is worth to 
 mention her, only you saw her first yourself, so there 
 can be no great harm in speaking of her now." 
 
 "How long has this lady been here?" con- 
 tinued I. 
 
250 A Chapter in the Histoiy 
 
 " She came early on the morning after your lady- 
 ship's arrival," answered she; "but do not ask me 
 any more, for the master would think nothing of 
 turning me out of doors for daring to speak of her at 
 all, much less \.o you, my lady." 
 
 I did not like to press the poor woman further, for 
 her reluctance to speak on this topic was evident and 
 strong. 
 
 You will readily believe that upon the very slight 
 grounds which my information afforded, contradicted 
 as it was by the solemn oath of my husband, and 
 derived from what was, at best, a very questionable 
 source, I could not take any very decisive measures 
 whatever ; and as to the menace of the strange 
 woman who had thus unaccountably twice intruded 
 herself into my chamber, although, at the moment, 
 it occasioned me some uneasiness, it was not, even in 
 my eyes, sufficiently formidable to induce my depar- 
 ture from Cahergillagh. 
 
 A {q.\v nights after the scene which I have just 
 mentioned, Lord Glenfallen having, as usual, retired 
 early to his study, I was left alone in the parlour 
 to amuse myself as best I might. 
 
 It was not strange that my thoughts should often 
 recur to the agitating scenes in which I had recently 
 taken a part. 
 
 The subject of my reflections, the solitude, the 
 silence, and the lateness of the hour, as also the 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 251 
 
 depression of spirits to which I had of late been a 
 constant prey, tended to produce that nervous ex- 
 citement which places us wholly at the mercy of the 
 imagination. 
 
 In order to calm my spirits I was endeavouring to 
 direct my thoughts into some more pleasing channel, 
 when I heard, or thought I heard, uttered within a 
 few yards of me, in an odd, half-sneering tone, the 
 words, — • 
 
 " There is blood upon your ladyship's throat." 
 
 So vivid was the impression that I started to my 
 feet, and involuntarily placed my hand upon my 
 neck. 
 
 I looked around the room for the speaker, but in 
 vain. 
 
 I vvent then to the room-door, which I opened, and 
 peered into the passage, nearly faint with horror lest 
 some leering, shapeless thing should greet me upon 
 the threshold. 
 
 When I had gazed long enough to assure myself 
 that no strange object was within sight, 
 
 " I have been too much of a rake lately ; I am 
 racking out my nerves," said I, speaking aloud, with 
 a view to reassure myself. 
 
 I rang the bell, and, attended by old Martha, I 
 retired to settle for the night. 
 
 While the servant was — as was her custom — 
 arranging the lamp which I have already stated always 
 
252 
 
 A Chapter in the Histoiy 
 
 burned during the night in my chamber, I was em- 
 ployed in undressing, and, in doing so, I had recourse 
 to a large looking-glass which occupied a considerable 
 portion of the wall in which it was fixed, rising from 
 the ground to a height of about six feet ; this mirror 
 
 SOMETHING LIKE A BLACK PALL WAS SLOWLY WAVED. ; 
 
 filled the space of a large panel in the wainscoting 
 opposite the foot of the bed. 
 
 I had hardly been before it for the lapse of a 
 minute when something like a black pall was slowly 
 waved between me and it. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 253 
 
 " Oh, God ! there it is," I exclaimed, wildly. " I 
 have seen it again, Martha — the black cloth." 
 
 '' God be merciful to us, then ! " answered she, 
 tremulously crossing herself, " Some misfortune is 
 over us." 
 
 " No, no, IMartha," said I, almost instantly recover- 
 ing my collectedness ; for, although of a nervous 
 temperament, I had never been superstitious. " I do 
 not believe in omens. You know I saw, or fancied I 
 saw, this thing before, and nothing followed." 
 
 "The Dutch lady came the next morning," replied 
 she. 
 
 "But surely her coming sc arccly deserved such a 
 dreadful warning," I replied. 
 
 " She is a strange woman, my lady," said Martha ; 
 "and she is viot gotie yet — mark my words." 
 
 " Well, well, Martha," said I, " I have not wit 
 enough to change your opinions, nor inclination to 
 alter mine ; so I will talk no more of the matter. 
 Good-night," and so I was left to my reflections. 
 
 After lying for about an hour awake, I at length 
 fell into a kind of doze ; but my imagination was 
 very busy, for I was startled from this unrefreshing 
 sleep by fancying that I heard a voice close to my 
 face exclaim as before, — 
 
 " There is blood upon your ladyship's throat." 
 
 The words were instantly followed by a loud burst 
 of laughter. 
 
254 ^ Chapter in the History 
 
 Quaking with horror, I awakened, and heard my 
 husband enter the room. Even this was a relief. 
 
 Scared as I was, however, by the tricks which my 
 imagination had played me, I preferred remaining 
 silent, and pretending to sleep, to attempting to en- 
 gage my husband in conversation, for I well knew 
 that his mood was such, that his words would not, in 
 all probability, convey anything that had not better 
 be unsaid and unheard. 
 
 Lord Glenfallen went into his dressing-room, which 
 lay upon the right-hand side of the bed. The door 
 lying open, I could see him by himself, at full length 
 upon a sofa, and, in about half an hour, I became 
 aware, by his deep and regularly drawn respiration, 
 that he was fast asleep. 
 
 When slumber refuses to visit one, there is some- 
 thing peculiarly irritating, not to the temper, but to 
 the nerves, in the consciousness that some one is in 
 your immediate presence, actually enjoying the boon 
 which you are seeking in vain; at least, I have 
 always found it so, and never more than upon the 
 present occasion. 
 
 A thousand annoying imaginations harassed and 
 excited me ; every object which I looked upon, 
 though ever so familiar, seemed to have acquired a 
 strange phantom-like character, the varying shadows 
 thrown by the flickering of the lamplight seemed 
 shaping themselves into grotesque and unearthly 
 
of a Tyrone Fajiiily. 255 
 
 forms, and whenever my eyes wandered to the sleeping 
 figure of my husband, his features appeared to under- 
 go the strangest and most demoniacal contortions. 
 
 Hour after hour was told by the old clock, and 
 each succeeding one found me, if possible, less inclined 
 to sleep than its predecessor. 
 
 It was now considerably past three ; my eyes, in 
 their involuntary wanderings, happened to alight 
 upon the large mirror which was, as I have said, 
 fixed in the wall opposite the foot of the bed. A 
 view of it was commanded from where I lay, through 
 the curtains. As I gazed fixedly upon it, I thought 
 I perceived the broad sheet of glass shifting its posi- 
 tion in relation to the bed ; I riveted my eyes upon 
 it with intense scrutiny ; it was no deception, the 
 mirror, as if acting of its own impulse, moved slov^dy 
 aside, and disclosed a dark aperture in the wall, 
 nearly as large as an ordinary door ; a figure evidently 
 stood in this, but the light was too dim to define it 
 accurately. 
 
 It stepped cautiously into the chamber, and with 
 so little noise, that had I not actually seen it, I do 
 not think I should have been aware of its presence. 
 It was arrayed in a kind of woollen night-dress, and 
 a white handkerchief or cloth was bound tightly about 
 the head ; I had no difficulty, spite of the strangeness 
 of the attire, in recognizing the blind woman whom 
 I so much dreaded. 
 
256 A Chapter in the History 
 
 She stooped down, bringing her head nearly 
 to the ground, and in that attitude she remained 
 motionless for some moments, no doubt in order 
 to ascertain if any suspicious sounds were stirring. 
 
 She was apparently satisfied by her observations, 
 for she immediately recommenced her silent progress 
 towards a ponderous mahogany dressing-table of my 
 husband's. When she had reached it, she paused 
 again, and appeared to listen attentively for some 
 minutes; she then noiselessly opened one of the 
 drawers, from which, having groped for some time, 
 she took something, which I soon perceived to be a 
 case of razors. She opened it, and tried the edge of 
 each of the two instruments upon the skin of her 
 hand ; she quickly selected one, which she fixed 
 firmly in her grasp. She now stooped down as be- 
 fore, and having listened for a time, she, with the 
 hand that was disengaged, groped her way into 
 the dressing-room where Lord Glenfallen lay fast 
 asleep. 
 
 I was fixed as if in the tremendous spell of a night- 
 mare. I could not stir even a finger; I could not 
 lift my voice ; I could not even breathe ; and though 
 I expected every moment to see the sleeping man 
 murdered, I could not even close my eyes to shut out 
 the horrible spectacle which I had not the power to 
 avert. 
 
 I saw the woman approach the sleeping figure, she 
 
of a Tyrone Faniily. 257 
 
 laid the unoccupied hand lightly along his clothes, 
 and having thus ascertained his identity, she, after a 
 brief interval, turned back and again entered my 
 chamber ; here she bent down again to listen. 
 
 I had now not a doubt but that the razor was in- 
 tended for my throat ; yet the terrific fascination 
 which had locked all my powers so long, still con- 
 inued to bind me fast. 
 
 I felt that my life depended upon the slightest 
 ordinary exertion, and yet I could not stir one joint 
 from the position in which I lay, nor even make noise 
 enough to waken Lord Glenfallen. 
 
 The murderous woman now, with long, silent steps, 
 approached the bed ; my very heart seemed turning 
 to ice ; her left hand, that which was disengaged, 
 was upon the pillow ; she gradually slid it forward 
 towards my head, and in an instant, with the speed 
 of lightning, it was clutched in my hair, while, with 
 the other hand, she dashed the razor at my throat. 
 
 A slight inaccuracy saved me from instant death ; 
 the blow fell short, the point of the razor grazing 
 my throat. In a moment, I know not how, I found 
 myself at the other side of the bed, uttering shriek 
 after shriek ; the wretch was however determined, if 
 possible, to murder me. 
 
 Scrambling along by the curtains, she rushed round 
 the bed towards me ; I seized the handle of the door 
 to make my escape. It was, however, fastened. At 
 
258 A Chapter in the History 
 
 all events, I could not open it. From the mere in- 
 stinct of recoiling terror, I shrunk back into a corner. 
 She was now within a yard of me. Her hand was 
 upon my face. 
 
 I closed my eyes fast, expecting never to open 
 them again, when a blow, inflicted from behind by a 
 strong arm, stretched the monster senseless at my 
 feet. At the same moment the door opened, and 
 several domestics, alarmed by my cries, entered the 
 apartment. 
 
 I do not recollect what followed, for I fainted. 
 One swoon succeeded another, so long and death- 
 like, that my life was considered very doubtful. 
 
 At about ten o'clock, however, I sank into a deep 
 and refreshing sleep, from which I was awakened at 
 about two, that I might swear my deposition before 
 a magistrate, who attended for that purpose. 
 
 I accordingly did so, as did also Lord Glenfallen, 
 and the woman was fully committed to stand her 
 trial at the ensuing assizes. 
 
 I shall never forget the scene which the examina- 
 tion of the blind woman and of the other parties 
 afforded. 
 
 She was brought into the room in the custody of 
 two servants. She wore a kind of flannel wrapper, 
 which had not been changed since the night before. 
 It was torn and soiled, and here and there smeared 
 with blood, which had flowed in large quantities 
 
 I 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 259 
 
 from a wound in her head. The white handkerchief 
 had fallen off in the scuffle, and her grizzled hair fell 
 in masses about her wild and deadly pale countenance. 
 She appeared perfectly composed, however, and 
 the only regret she expressed throughout, was at not 
 having succeeded in her attempt, the object of which 
 she did not pretend to conceal. 
 
 On being asked her name, she called herself the 
 Countess Glenfallen, and refused to give any other 
 title. 
 
 "The woman's name is Flora Van-Kemp," said 
 Lord Glenfallen. 
 
 " It %vas, it was, you perjured traitor and cheat! " 
 screamed the woman ; and then there followed a 
 volley of words in some foreign language. " Is there 
 a magistrate here .? " she resumed ; " I am Lord 
 Glenfallen's wife— Fll prove it— write down my 
 words. I am willing to be hanged or burned, so he 
 meets his deserts. I did try to kill that doll of his ; 
 but it was he who put it into my head to do it — two 
 wives were too many ; I was to murder her, or she 
 was to hang me : listen to all I have to say."' 
 Here Lord Glenfallen interrupted. 
 " I think, sir," said he, addressing the magistrate 
 " that we had better proceed to business ; this un- 
 happy woman's furious recriminations but waste our 
 time. If she refuses to answer your questions, you 
 had better, I presume, take my depositions." 
 
 S 2 
 
26o A Chapter in the History 
 
 " And are you going to swear away my life, you 
 black-perjured murderer?" shrieked the woman. 
 " Sir, sir, sir, you must hear me," she continued, 
 addressing the magistrate ; " I can convict him — he 
 bid me murder that girl, and then, when I failed, he 
 came behind me, and struck me down, and now he 
 wants to swear away my life. Take down all 
 I say." 
 
 " If it is your intention," said the magistrate, "to 
 confess the crime with which you stand charged, you 
 may, upon producing sufficient evidence, criminate 
 whom you please." 
 
 " Evidence ! — I have no evidence but myself," said 
 the woman. " I will swear it all — write down my 
 testimony — write it down, I say — we shall hang side 
 by side, my brave lord — all your own handy-work, 
 my gentle husband ! " 
 
 This was followed by a low, insolent, and sneering 
 laugh, which, from one in her situation, was suffi- 
 ciently horrible. 
 
 " I will not at present hear anything," replied he, 
 " but distinct answers to the questions which I shall 
 put to you upon this matter." 
 
 " Then you shall hear nothing," replied she sullenly, 
 and no inducement or intimidation could bring her to 
 speak again. 
 
 Lord Glenfallen's deposition and mine were then 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 261 
 
 given, as also those of the servants who had entered 
 the room at the moment of my rescue. 
 
 The magistrate then intimated that she was com- 
 mitted, and must proceed directly to gaol, whither 
 she was brought in a carriage of Lord Glcnfallen's, 
 for his lordship was naturally by no means indifferent 
 to the effect which her vehement accusations against 
 himself might produce, if uttered before every chance 
 hearer whom she might meet with between Caher- 
 gillagh and the place of confinement whither she was 
 despatched. 
 
 During the time which intervened between the 
 committal and the trial of the prisoner. Lord Glen- 
 fallen seemed to suffer agonies of mind which baffled 
 all description ; he hardly ever slept, and when he 
 did, his slumbers seemed but the instruments of new 
 tortures, and his waking hours were, if possible, ex- 
 ceeded in intensity of terror by the dreams which 
 disturbed his sleep. 
 
 Lord Glenfallen rested, if to lie in the mere attitude 
 of repose were to do so, in his dressing-room, and 
 thus I had an opportunity of witnessing, far oftener 
 than I wished it, the fearful workings of his mind. 
 His agony often broke out into such fearful 
 paroxysms that delirium and total loss of reason 
 appeared to be impending. He frequently spoke 
 of flying from the country, and bringing with 
 
262 A Chapter in the History 
 
 him all the witnesses of the appalling scene upon 
 which the prosecution was founded ; then, again, he 
 would fiercely lament that the blow which he had 
 inflicted had not ended all. 
 
 The assizes arrived, however, and upon the day 
 appointed Lord Glenfallen and I attended in order 
 to give our evidence. 
 
 The cause was called on, and the prisoner appeared 
 at the bar. 
 
 Great curiosity and interest were felt respecting 
 the trial, so that the court was crowded to excess. 
 
 The prisoner, however, without appearing to take 
 the trouble of listening to the indictment, pleaded 
 guilty, and no representations on the part of the 
 court availed to induce her to retract her plea. 
 
 After much time had been wasted in a fruitless 
 attempt to prevail upon her to reconsider her words, 
 the court proceeded, according to the usual form, to 
 pass sentence. 
 
 This having been done, the prisoner was about to 
 be removed, when she said, in a low, distinct voice : 
 
 "A word — a word, my lord ! — Is Lord Glenfallen 
 here in the court ? " 
 
 On being told that he was, she raised her voice to 
 a tone of loud menace, and continued : 
 
 " Hardress, Earl of Glenfallen, I accuse you here 
 in this court of justice of two crimes, — first, that you 
 
of a Tyrone Fauiily. 26 
 
 a 
 
 married a second wife while the first was living ; 
 and again, that you prompted me to the murder, for 
 attempting which I am to die. Secure him — chain 
 him — bring him here ! " 
 
 There was a laugh through the court at these 
 words, which were naturally treated by the judge as 
 a violent extemporary recrimination, and the woman 
 was desired to be silent. 
 
 " You won't take him, then ? " she said ; " you 
 won't try him .'' You'll let him go free } " 
 
 It was intimated by the court that he would 
 certainly be allowed " to go free," and she was 
 ordered again to be removed. 
 
 Before, however, the mandate was executed, she 
 threw her arms wildly into the air, and uttered one 
 piercing shriek so full of preternatural rage and 
 despair, that it might fitly have ushered a soul into 
 those realms where hope can come no more. 
 
 The sound still rang in my ears, months after the 
 voice that had uttered it was for ever silent. 
 
 The wretched woman was executed in accordance 
 with the sentence which had been pronounced. 
 
 For some time after this event, Lord Glenfallen 
 appeared, if possible, to suffer more than he had 
 done before, and altogether his language, which often 
 amounted to half confessions of the guilt imputed to 
 him, and all the circumstances connected with the 
 
264 A Chapter in the History 
 
 late occurrences, formed a mass of evidence so con- 
 vincing that I wrote to my father, detailing the 
 grounds of my fears, and imploring him to come to 
 Cahergillagh without delay, in order to remove me 
 from my husband's control, previously to taking legal 
 steps for a final separation. 
 
 Circumstanced as I was, my existence was little 
 short of intolerable, for, besides the fearful suspicions 
 which attached to my husband, I plainly perceived 
 that if Lord Glenfallen were not relieved, and that 
 speedily, insanity must supervene. I therefore ex- 
 pected my father's arrival, or at least a letter to 
 announce it, with indescribable impatience. 
 
 About a week after the execution had taken place, 
 Lord Glenfallen one morning met me with an un- 
 usually sprightly air. 
 
 " Fanny," said he, " I have it now for the first time 
 in my power to explain to your satisfaction every- 
 thing which has hitherto appeared suspicious or 
 mysterious in my conduct. After breakfast come 
 with me to my study, and I shall, I hope, make all 
 things clear." 
 
 This invitation afforded me more real pleasure 
 than I had experienced for months. Something had 
 certainly occurred to tranquillize my husband's mind 
 in no ordinary degree, and I thought it by no means 
 impossible that he would, in the proposed interview, 
 prove himself the most injured and innocent of men. 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 265 
 
 Full of this hope, I repaired to his study at the 
 appointed hour. He was writing busily when I 
 entered the room, and just raising his eyes, he re- 
 quested me to be seated. 
 
 I took a chair as he desired, and remained silently 
 awaiting his leisure, while he finished, folded, directed, 
 and sealed his letter. Laying it then upon the table 
 with the address downward, he said, — 
 
 "My dearest Fanny, I know I must have appeared 
 very strange to you and very unkind — often even 
 cruel. Before the end of this week I will show you 
 the necessity of my conduct — how impossible it was 
 that I should have seemed otherwise. I am conscious 
 that many acts of mine must have inevitably given 
 rise to painful suspicions — suspicions which, indeed, 
 upon one occasion, you very properly communicated 
 to me. I have got two letters from a quarter which 
 commands respect, containing information as to the 
 course by which I may be enabled to prove the 
 negative of all the crimes which even the most 
 credulous suspicion could lay to my charge. I 
 expected a third by this morning's post, containing 
 documents which will set the matter for ever at rest, 
 but owing, no doubt, to some neglect, or perhaps to 
 some difficulty in collecting the papers, some in- 
 evitable delay, it has not come to hand this morning, 
 according to my expectation. I was finishing one 
 to the very same quarter when you came in, and if a 
 
266 A Chapter in the History 
 
 sound rousing be worth anything, I think I shall 
 have a special messenger before two days have 
 passed. I have been anxiously considering with 
 myself, as to whether I had better imperfectly clear 
 up your doubts by submitting to your inspection the 
 two letters which I have already received, or wait 
 till I can triumphantly vindicate myself by the pro- 
 duction of the documents which I have already men- 
 tioned, and I have, T think, not unnaturally decided 
 upon the latter course. However, there is a person 
 in the next room whose testimony is not without its 
 value — excuse me for one moment." 
 
 So saying, he arose and went to the door of a 
 closet which opened from the study ; this he un- 
 locked, and half opening the door, he said, " It is 
 only I," and then slipped into the room, and carefully 
 closed and locked the door behind him. 
 
 I immediately heard his voice in animated con- 
 versation. My curiosity upon the subject of the 
 letter was naturally great, so, smothering any little 
 scruples which I might have felt, I resolved to look 
 at the address of the letter which lay, as my husband 
 had left it, with its face upon the table. I accord- 
 ingly drew it over to me, and turned up the direc- 
 tion. 
 
 For two or three moments I could scarce believe 
 
 my eyes, but there could be no mistake — in large 
 
 i 
 
of a Tyj'one Family. 267 
 
 characters were traced the words, " To the Archangel 
 Gabriel in Heaven." 
 
 I had scarcely returned the letter to its original 
 position, and in some degree recovered the shock 
 which this unequivocal proof of insanity produced, 
 when the closet door was unlocked, and Lord Glen- 
 fallen re-entered the study, carefully closing and 
 locking the door again upon the outside. 
 
 " Whom have you there ?" inquired I, making a 
 strong effort to appear calm. 
 
 " Perhaps," said he, musinglj', " you might have 
 some objection to seeing her, at least for a time." 
 
 " Who is it ? " repeated I. 
 
 " Why," said he, " I see no use in hiding it — the 
 blind Dutchwoman. I have been with her the whole 
 morning. She is very anxious to get out of that 
 closet ; but you know she is odd, she is scarcely to 
 be trusted." 
 
 A heavy gust of wind shook the door at this 
 moment with a sound as if something more substantial 
 were pushing against it. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! — do you hear her ? " said he, with 
 an obstreperous burst of laughter. 
 
 The wind died away in a long howl, and Lord 
 Glenfallen, suddenly checkinghis merriment, shrugged 
 his shoulders, and muttered : 
 
 " Poor devil, she has been hardly used." 
 
268 A Chapter in the History 
 
 "We had better not tease her at present with 
 questions," said I, in as unconcerned a tone as I could 
 assume, although I felt every moment as if I should 
 faint. 
 
 " Humph ! may be so," said he. "Well, come back 
 in an hour or two, or when you please, and you will 
 find us here." 
 
 He again unlocked the door, and entered with the 
 same precautions which he had adopted before, lock- 
 ing the door upon the inside ; and as I hurried from 
 the room, I heard his voice again exerted as if in 
 eager parley. 
 
 I can hardly describe my emotions ; my hopes 
 had been raised to the highest, and now, in an 
 instant, all was gone : the dreadful consummation 
 was accomplished — the fearful retribution had fallen 
 upon the guilty man — the mind was destroyed, the 
 power to repent was gone. 
 
 The agony of the hours which followed what I 
 would still call my awful interview with Lord Glen- 
 fallen, I cannot describe ; my solitude was, however, 
 broken in upon by Martha, who came to inform me 
 of the arrival of a gentleman, who expected me in 
 the parlour. 
 
 I accordingly descended, and, to my great joy, 
 found my father seated by the fire. 
 
 This expedition upon his part was easily accounted 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 269 
 
 for : my communications had touched the honour 
 of the family. I speedily informed him of the 
 dreadful malady which had fallen upon the wretched 
 man. 
 
 My father suggested the necessity of placing some 
 person to watch him, to prevent his injuring himself 
 or others. 
 
 I rang the bell, and desired that one Edward 
 Cooke, an attached servant of the family, should be 
 sent to me, 
 
 I told him distinctly and briefly the nature of the 
 service required of him, and, attended by him, my 
 father and I proceeded at once to the study. The 
 door of the inner room was still closed, and every- 
 thing in the outer chamber remained in the same 
 order in which I had left it. 
 
 We then advanced to the closet-door, at which we 
 knocked, but without receiving any answer. 
 
 We next tried to open the door, but in vain ; it 
 was locked upon the inside. We knocked more loudly, 
 but in vain. 
 
 Seriously alarmed, I desir&d the servant to force 
 the door, which was, after several violent efforts, 
 accomplished, and we entered the closet. 
 
 Lord Glenfallen was lying on his face upon a sofa. 
 " Hush ! " said I ; " he is asleep." We paused for 
 a moment. 
 
270 A Chapter in the History 
 
 " He is too still for that," said my father. 
 
 We all of us felt a strong reluctance to approach 
 the figure. 
 
 '' Edward," said I, " try whether your master 
 sleeps." 
 
 The servant approached the sofa where Lord 
 Glenfallen lay. He leant his ear towards the head 
 of the recumbent figure, to ascertain whether the 
 sound of breathing was audible. He turned towards 
 us, and said : 
 
 " My lady, you had better not wait here ; I am 
 sure he is dead ! " 
 
 "Let me see the face," said I, terribly agitated ; 
 " you May be mistaken." 
 
 The man then, in obedience to my command, 
 turned the body round, and, gracious God ! what 
 a sight met my view. 
 
 The whole breast of the shirt, with its lace frill, 
 was drenched with his blood, as was the couch under- 
 neath the spot where he lay. 
 
 The head hung back, as it seemed, almost severed 
 from the body by a frightful gash, which yawned 
 across the throat. The razor which had inflicted 
 the wound was found under his body. 
 
 All, then, was over ; I was never to learn the 
 history in whose termination I had been so deeply 
 and so tragically involved. 
 
 The severe discipline which my mind had under- 
 
of a Tyrone Family. 271 
 
 gone was not bestowed in vain. I directed my 
 thoughts and my hopes to that place where there is 
 no more sin, nor danger, nor sorrow. 
 
 Thus ends a brief tale whose prominent incidents 
 many will recognize as having marked the history of 
 a distinguished family ; and though it refers to a 
 somewhat distant date, we shall be found not to have 
 taken, upon that account, any liberties with the facts. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON ; 
 
 PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., 
 
 ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, EX. 
 
BY THE AUTHOR OF " BALLYBEG JUNCTION." 
 
 THE 
 
 MERCHANT OF KILLOGUE 
 
 H /iDunster XTale 
 
 Br 
 F. M. ALLEN 
 
 AUTHOR OF "through GREEN GLASSES," "A HOUSE OF TFARS," 
 " IN ONE TOWN," ETC., ETC. 
 
 In Three Volumes. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 " An inside and intimate picture of Irish life and character, in 
 phases and circumstances which have not, so far as we know, been 
 approached by any other novelist or satirist. The work is not 
 describable, it is not to be indicated by comparison ; the very touch 
 of occasional caricature in the election scenes, and in the ' brigand ' 
 of the story, O'Ruark, which throws out the sheer clear actuality of 
 the people, the places, the 'ways'; the extraordinary humour of the 
 talk ; the jarring of small interests and petty ambitions in the town 
 that is all the world to its inhabitants ; the swift stroke of fate and 
 sudden investment of the scene with tragic interest — are Mr. 
 Downey's own. Mick Moloney's last ' few words with the master ' 
 is an incident worthy to be placed beside the famous death scene in 
 the mountain-pass in ' Tom Burke,' " 
 
THE DAILY TELEGRAPH. 
 
 " Vivid and convincing sketches of Irish provincial life abound in 
 ' The Merchant of Killogue.' . . . The story is admirably worked 
 np to a surprising and startling denouement." 
 
 WESTMINSTER GAZETTE. 
 
 " The only fault we have to find with ' The Merchant of Killogue ' 
 is that it is too conscientious. ... In depicting his characters he 
 shows rare skill and knowledge as well as a very considerable gift 
 of humour. They are all vivid, distinct, and lifelike. . . . The 
 workmanship is of quite unusual merit." 
 
 DAILY CHRONICLE. 
 
 "Mr. Downey's Celts are human beings, motived by the ordinary 
 motives, and talking like rational men and women. His central 
 figure, John O'Reilly, is an artistic creation." 
 
 LITERARY WORLD. 
 
 " Natural, strong in local characterisation and colouring, with 
 many touches of quaint humour peculiarly Irish and racy, and bright 
 and readable from cover to cover." 
 
 SATURDAY REVIEW. 
 
 " There is no questioning the ability of Mr. Edmund Downey's 
 Munster tale. It is long since a writer has inti'oduced us to a set 
 of characters so fresh, so unlike the usual creations of the novelist." 
 
 VANITY FAIR. 
 
 " Every character in the book is put down in words so subtle and 
 strong that for yourself you know the people. There is nothing of 
 the new woman in it, and not a line concerning the analyses of soul 
 and body. It is just a picture of Irish life which might have been 
 written in shorthand as it happened, and wi'itten out afterwards in 
 longhand, so clear and sharp and vital is it. It is an exciting story, 
 with a thi-illiug winding up." 
 
ST. JAMES'S GAZETTE. 
 
 " When we say that Mr. Downey reminds us not a little of his 
 great precursor, Lever, we are paying him no idle compliment." 
 
 GUARDIAN. 
 
 " One of the best descriptions of Irish life that we have read 
 since Lever." 
 
 SPECTATOR. 
 
 " A very bright and vivacious book. . . . The merchant is a 
 very carefully painted portrait, and he is really made to live." 
 
 THE SUN. 
 
 " Before you are half-way through the first chapter of this enter- 
 taining book you realize that you are here face to face with Ireland 
 drawn from the life, that this is fiction not of stale convention but 
 of first-hand observation, and that the story demands more than 
 ordinary attention." 
 
 ATHEN-ffiUM. 
 
 " It is pleasant for a reviewer to be able to congratulate him on 
 the good account to which he has now turned his extensive acquaint- 
 ance with Irish provincial life." 
 
 ST. PAUL'S. 
 
 " The humour is neither farcical nor conventional, it is the humour 
 of situation and character. . . . The dialogue is animated, easy, 
 and natural throughout." 
 
 LLOYDS'. 
 
 " The rich racy humour of Irish life bubbles up in many fantastic 
 forms and shapes throughout Mr. Downey's novel." 
 
 MORNING POST. 
 
 " Excellent portraits abound in this tale of Munster." 
 
4 
 
 STANDARD. 
 
 " The plot acts mainly as a peg on which the author hangs his 
 sketches of Irish character, and these are excellently done. The 
 merchant himself ... is a remarkable study. . . . O'Enark is, in 
 his way, quite a creation, and his perennial flow of Irish wit is one 
 of the pleasantest things in the three volumes." 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 " The characters and the scenes are excellently dra-\vn." 
 
 LIVERPOOL MERCURY. 
 
 " A story that holds the attention of the reader down to the last 
 page." 
 
 FREEMAN'S JOURNAL. 
 
 " The book has all the interest of a story that we feel derives its 
 life from experience." 
 
 IRISH WEEKLY INDEPENDENT. 
 
 " ' The Merchant of Killogue ' is a book in which high spirits 
 predominate. It is no mean compliment to say that two or three 
 chapters read like chapters of ' Charles O'Malley ' or ' Harry 
 Lorrequer.' " 
 
 BOSTON (U.S.A.) LITERARY WORLD. 
 
 " A remarkable novel of Irish life is ' The Merchant of Killogue.' 
 I do not know any novel which paints the life so realistically. . . . 
 As a portrait of the time and the people the book ought to live." 
 
 W. H E I N" E M A N N, Publisher, 
 Bedford Street, Strand, London 
 
G. W. APPLETON'S NOVELS. 
 
 A TERRIBLE LEGACY: 
 
 A Tale of the South Downs. 
 
 " One of the most amusing novels we bave ever read. The author 
 revels in a good character, and so the book is filled with grotesque 
 oddities, at which we laugh consuniedly. ... A novelist who pos- 
 sesses the rare gift of humour. We are grateful for an afternoon of 
 hearty laughter. Could we say as much of nine books out of ten ? " 
 World. 
 
 " One of the most amusing novels we have ever read. Mr. 
 Appleton has done for the South Downs what Mr. Blackmore has 
 done for Exmoor." — St. Stephen's Review, 
 
 " It is not in respect of this rare gift of humour that I alone value 
 the author. This story is a tale of the South Downs, and Mr. 
 Appleton has the power of depicting in words the changing aspects 
 of nature with an absolute fidelity to truth. Counties differ, as 
 human faces diffei", only more so. Mr. Appleton has made the South 
 Downs his own literary property." — Vanity Fair. 
 
 " The reader will not be long in discovering that the book is ihe 
 work of a good and clever writer of no mean dramatic powers — 
 whether in point of conception or of execution — with much drollery 
 and quaintness at command, and a well-developed faculty of dealing 
 with the mysterious, and other admirable gifts." — Illustrated London 
 News. 
 
 " Laughter-moving from first to last. Mr. Appleton has written 
 nothing better than this." — Scotsman. 
 
 " The readers of this strange romance will be bound to confess 
 that the author has held them captive."— Dai?'!/ Neivs. 
 
 " From first to last absorbs the attention of the reader." — Morning 
 Post. 
 
 " The novel is a novel in the true sense of the word, and whoever 
 reads it must feel refreshed at finding he is perusing altogether a 
 new style of book." — Observer. 
 
 " The novel is a piece of sound workmanship, and distinctly 
 marked off from the ordinary run. It is worthy of its author's high 
 reputation." — Weekly Dispatch. 
 
 "He has created types that deserve to survive and acquire as 
 much popularity as has fallen to the share of some of those of our 
 most famous humorists." — Echo. 
 
 " One of the most original works of fiction we have met with for 
 a long time, as different from the usual feeble imitations of ' Ouida ' 
 and ' George Eliot ' as a breezy common or a bright spring day is 
 from the faint, perfume-laden atmosphere of an aristocratic drawing- 
 room." — London Journal. 
 
 " Mr. Appleton's genius seems freer, brighter, and more effective 
 
2 
 in the lighter moods, and he is able to display a varied cultivation 
 without the s^lightest obtrusion of learning." — Sunday Times. 
 
 " ' A Terrible Legacy ' is a book of great ability and power. It is 
 a curious tribute to the vast vitality of Dickens' genius that a com- 
 paratively new and an able writer should openly take him for a 
 model. Mr. Appleton is not a mere imitator : he does not follow in 
 Dickens' footsteps by appropriating his materials, but by adopting 
 his point of view. He has chosen his master wisely, for his own 
 talent is similar in kind." — Neiv York Daily Grapldc. 
 
 FROZEN HEARTS: 
 
 A Romance. 
 
 " There is so much power and pathos in the narrative as to give it 
 an impress of I'ealism, and it is, on the whole, one that most people 
 can read with hearty relish." — Scotsman. 
 
 " ' Frozen Hearts ' makes high pretensions, and justifies them." — 
 Westminster Review. 
 
 " Good melodrama, such as this is, is a sure panacea against 
 dulness, and implies the possession of that vigour and elan which 
 every novelist should have about him. In some portions, as in the 
 exciting description of the barricade fighting, and in the interview 
 between the unjustly slandered heroine and the mother who is 
 breaking her own heart with her own cruelty, the author rises to 
 real power." — Glohe. 
 
 " It is full of all kinds of excitement, and in some places reveals 
 evidence of strong dramatic power." — Academy. 
 
 " The story is new and striking. . . . Some of the less important 
 characters are amusing, and the light comedy scenes are above the 
 average. . . . Mr. Appleton possesses the knack, so useful to a 
 novelist, of getting to his point without any superfluous matter, and 
 is always original and generally correct." — Sunday Times. 
 
 Victor Hugo writes : " Je trouve grand plaisir a la lectui'e de ce 
 livre. Le chapitre snr les troubles a Paris m'a vivement intei'esse." 
 
 CATCHING A TARTAR: 
 
 A Novel. 
 
 " Mr. Ajjpletou's new novel is in every way the equal, if it be not 
 positively the superior of ' Frozen Hearts,' the work which esta- 
 blished his just claims to popularity. It is a capital story, Avritten 
 in a most natural and graceful style. The plot is interesting, and 
 all the characters are distinct and realistic creations ; some, indeed, 
 are likely to 'live,' and become by reason of their quaint sayings 
 and doings, popular, as were in days of yore some of Dickens' and 
 Thackeray's personages. Notably is this the case with John, a most 
 original and amusing character, whose pithy sayings provoke many 
 a hearty laugh. The intrigue of the story is lively and intricate, 
 but so skilfully contrived that the ' situations ' never appear forced 
 or unnatural. ' Catching a Tartar ' is worthy of much praise, and is 
 decidedly one of the cleverest novels we have read or reviewed for 
 
a long time. Mr. Appleton possesses exceptional talent as a novelist, 
 and, above all, the rare quality of getting to his point \vithout en- 
 cumbering his narrative with superfluous matter. He is always 
 original, and never doll or commonplace. His next venture in the 
 shape of a novel will be looked forward to with much interest." — 
 Morning Post. 
 
 " Many able men have come short of being successful novel 
 writers, simply because they lacked brightness or lightness or 
 smoothness of composition. Mr. Appleton displays these qualities; 
 his book is therefore easy to read. ... A vein of humour through- 
 out, the effect of which is heightened by many a touch of genuine 
 pathos. So marked an advance in the course of a single year is 
 desei'ving of note." — Athenxum. 
 
 " Mr. Appleton has here achieved a very decided success in the 
 way of a novel of mystery. We must, if we ai-e honest, admit that 
 our attention has been ii-resistibly enchained throughout the three 
 volumes. The book is one, altogether, to be read, and we may safely 
 predict that no one who masters the first fifty pages will be the 
 least likely to leave it unfinished." — Graphic. 
 
 " The story is contrived with great ingenuity, and told with great 
 skill and spirit. . . . Characters firmly and sharply drawn, with a 
 good deal of quiet fun and humour." — Guardian. 
 
 " The narrative moves on briskly, and never lets the attention flag." 
 — Spectator. 
 
 JACK ALLYN'S FRIENDS: 
 
 A Novel. 
 
 " Mr. Appleton knows how to write novels of absorbing and un- 
 flagging interest and of remarkable cleverness, and his latest effort, 
 ' Jack Allyn's Friends,' unmistakably possesses these qualities. 
 Much of the peculiar interest of the story is derived from the 
 subtlety with which the catastrophe is brought about. But there is 
 also a brisk, almost boisterous vitality about the book — a sort of 
 vigorous simplicity, resembling that of Messrs. Besant and Kice — 
 with abundant humour and some cleverly-managed love-makino- 
 under difficulties. With all these characteristics, ' Jack Allvn's 
 Friends ' is a novel which even those who may pronounce its con- 
 demnation from the serene heights of restheticism will read and 
 enjoy." — Scotsman. 
 
 " Mr. Appleton has succeeded in writing a novel which combines 
 the merits of Miss Braddon with those of Bret Harte. The plot is 
 carefully prepared, and the interest sustained until the very close 
 of the third volume. The stout old American, Bill Hooker, reminds 
 US of one of Bret Harte's Eocky Mountain heroes, whose hearts are 
 of the same sterling metal as the ore from their mines." — Graphic. 
 
 " There is no doubt about the interest of this novel. The plot is 
 certainly contrived with no little art. The secret is ingeniously 
 kept. Suspicion is skilfully directed, first in one direction, then in 
 another, and the denouement will probably be unsuspected. A 
 decidedly readable novel." — Spectator. 
 
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