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THE
PURCELL PAPERS.
BY THE LATE
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF ‘UNCLE SILAS.’
With a Memoir by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
MEMOIR OF JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU
THE GHOST AND THE BONE-SETTER
THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH
THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR
THE DRUNKARD’S DREAM
MEMOIR
OF
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU.
——
A noble Huguenot family, owning
considerable property in Normandy, the Le Fanus of Caen, were, upon the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, deprived of their ancestral estates of Mandeville, Sequeville, and Cresseron; but, owing to their possessing influential relatives at the court of Louis the Fourteenth, were allowed to quit their country for England, unmolested, with their personal property. We meet with John Le Fanu de Sequeville and Charles Le Fanu de Cresseron, as cavalry officers in William the Third’s army; Charles being so distinguished a member of the King’s staff that he was presented with William’s portrait from his master’s own hand. He afterwards served as a major of dragoons under Marlborough.
At the beginning of the eighteenth century, William Le Fanu was the sole survivor of his family. He married Henrietta Raboteau de Puggibaut, the last of another great and noble Huguenot family, whose escape from France, as a child, by the aid of a Roman Catholic uncle in high position at the French court, was effected after adventures of the most romantic danger.
Joseph Le Fanu, the eldest of the sons of this marriage who left issue, held the office of Clerk of the Coast in Ireland. He married for the second time Alicia, daughter of Thomas Sheridan and sister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan; his brother, Captain Henry Le Fanu, of Leamington, being united to the only other sister of the great wit and orator.
Dean Thomas Philip Le Fanu, the eldest son of Joseph Le Fanu, became by his wife Emma, daughter of Dr. Dobbin, F.T.C.D., the father of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, the subject of this memoir, whose name is so familiar to English and American readers as one of the greatest masters of the weird and the terrible amongst our modern novelists.
Born in Dublin on the 28th of August, 1814, he did not begin to speak until he was more than two years of age; but when he had once started, the boy showed an unusual aptitude in acquiring fresh words, and using them correctly.
The first evidence of literary taste which he gave was in his sixth year, when he made several little sketches with explanatory remarks written beneath them, after the manner of Du Maurier’s, or Charles Keene’s humorous illustrations in ‘Punch.’
One of these, preserved long afterwards by his mother, represented a balloon in mid-air, and two aeronauts, who had occupied it, falling headlong to earth, the disaster being explained by these words: ‘See the effects of trying to go to Heaven.’
As a mere child, he was a remarkably good actor, both in tragic and comic pieces, and was hardly twelve years old when he began to write verses of singular spirit for one so young. At fourteen, he produced a long Irish poem, which he never permitted anyone but his mother and brother to read. To that brother, Mr. William Le Fanu, Commissioner of Public Works,
Ireland, to whom, as the suggester of Sheridan Le Fanu’s ‘Phaudrig Croohore’ and ‘Shamus O’Brien,’ Irish ballad literature owes a delightful debt, and whose richly humorous and passionately pathetic powers as a raconteur of these poems have only doubled that obligation in the hearts of those who have been happy enough to be his hearers–to Mr. William Le Fanu we are indebted for the following extracts from the first of his works, which the boy-author seems to have set any store by:
‘Muse of Green Erin, break thine icy slumbers! Strike once again thy wreathed lyre!
Burst forth once more and wake thy tuneful numbers! Kindle again thy long-extinguished fire!
‘Why should I bid thee, Muse of Erin, waken? Why should I bid thee strike thy harp once more? Better to leave thee silent and forsaken Than wake thee but thy glories to deplore.
‘How could I bid thee tell of Tara’s Towers, Where once thy sceptred Princes sate in state– Where rose thy music, at the festive hours, Through the proud halls where listening thousands sate?
‘Fallen are thy fair palaces, thy country’s glory, Thy tuneful bards were banished or were slain, Some rest in glory on their deathbeds gory, And some have lived to feel a foeman’s chain.
‘Yet for the sake of thy unhappy nation, Yet for the sake of Freedom’s spirit fled, Let thy wild harpstrings, thrilled with indignation, Peal a deep requiem o’er thy sons that bled.
‘O yes! like the last breath of evening sighing, Sweep thy cold hand the silent strings along, Flash like the lamp beside the hero dying, Then hushed for ever be thy plaintive song.’
To Mr. William Le Fanu we are further indebted for the accompanying specimens of his brother’s serious and humorous powers in verse, written when he was quite a lad, as valentines to a Miss G. K.:
‘Life were too long for me to bear If banished from thy view;
Life were too short, a thousand year, If life were passed with you.
‘Wise men have said “Man’s lot on earth Is grief and melancholy,”
But where thou art, there joyous mirth Proves all their wisdom folly.
‘If fate withhold thy love from me, All else in vain were given;
Heaven were imperfect wanting thee, And with thee earth were heaven.’
A few days after, he sent the following sequel:
‘My dear good Madam,
You can’t think how very sad I’m.
I sent you, or I mistake myself foully, A very excellent imitation of the poet Cowley, Containing three very fair stanzas,
Which number Longinus, a very critical man, says, And Aristotle, who was a critic ten times more caustic, To a nicety fits a valentine or an acrostic. And yet for all my pains to this moving epistle, I have got no answer, so I suppose I may go whistle. Perhaps you’d have preferred that like an old monk I had pattered on
In the style and after the manner of the unfortunate Chatterton; Or that, unlike my reverend daddy’s son, I had attempted the classicalities of the dull, though immortal Addison.
I can’t endure this silence another week; What shall I do in order to make you speak? Shall I give you a trope
In the manner of Pope,
Or hammer my brains like an old smith To get out something like Goldsmith?
Or shall I aspire on
To tune my poetic lyre on
The same key touched by Byron,
And laying my hand its wire on,
With its music your soul set fire on By themes you ne’er could tire on?
Or say,
I pray,
Would a lay
Like Gay
Be more in your way?
I leave it to you,
Which am I to do?
It plain on the surface is
That any metamorphosis,
To affect your study
You may work on my soul or body. Your frown or your smile makes me Savage or Gay In action, as well as in song;
And if ’tis decreed I at length become Gray, Express but the word and I’m Young;
And if in the Church I should ever aspire With friars and abbots to cope,
By a nod, if you please, you can make me a Prior– By a word you render me Pope.
If you’d eat, I’m a Crab; if you’d cut, I’m your Steel, As sharp as you’d get from the cutler;
I’m your Cotton whene’er you’re in want of a reel, And your livery carry, as Butler.
I’ll ever rest your debtor
If you’ll answer my first letter; Or must, alas, eternity
Witness your taciturnity?
Speak–and oh! speak quickly
Or else I shall grow sickly,
And pine,
And whine,
And grow yellow and brown
As e’er was mahogany,
And lie me down
And die in agony.
P.S.–You’ll allow I have the gift
To write like the immortal Swift.’
But besides the poetical powers with which he was endowed, in common with the great Brinsley, Lady Dufferin, and the Hon. Mrs. Norton, young Sheridan Le Fanu also possessed an irresistible humour and oratorical gift that, as a student of Old Trinity, made him a
formidable rival of the best of the young debaters of his time at the ‘College Historical,’ not a few of whom have since reached the highest eminence at the Irish Bar, after having long enlivened and charmed St. Stephen’s by their wit and oratory.
Amongst his compeers he was remarkable for his sudden fiery eloquence of attack, and ready and rapid powers of repartee when on his defence. But Le Fanu, whose understanding was elevated by a deep love of the classics, in which he took university honours, and further heightened by an admirable knowledge of our own
great authors, was not to be tempted away by oratory from literature, his first and, as it proved, his last love.
Very soon after leaving college, and just when he was called to the Bar, about the year 1838, he bought the ‘Warder,’ a Dublin newspaper, of which he was editor, and took what many of his best friends and admirers, looking to his high prospects as a barrister, regarded at the time as a fatal step in his career to fame.
Just before this period, Le Fanu had taken to writing humorous Irish stories, afterwards published in the ‘Dublin University Magazine,’ such as the ‘Quare Gander,’ ‘Jim Sulivan’s Adventure,’ ‘The Ghost and the Bone-setter,’ etc.
These stories his brother William Le Fanu was in the habit of repeating for his friends’ amusement, and about the year 1837, when he was about twenty-three years of age, Joseph Le Fanu said to him that he thought an
Irish story in verse would tell well, and that if he would choose him a subject suitable for recitation, he would write him one.
‘Write me an Irish “Young Lochinvar,” ‘ said his brother; and in a few days he
handed him ‘Phaudrig Croohore’–Anglice, ‘Patrick Crohore.’
Of course this poem has the disadvantage not only of being written after ‘Young Lochinvar,’ but also that of having been directly inspired by it; and yet, although wanting in the rare and graceful finish of the original, the Irish copy has, we feel, so much fire and feeling that it at least tempts us to regret that Scott’s poem was not written in that heart-stirring Northern dialect without which the noblest of our British ballads would lose half their spirit. Indeed, we may safely say that some of Le Fanu’s lines are finer than any in ‘Young Lochinvar,’ simply because they seem to speak straight from a people’s heart, not to be the mere echoes of medieval romance.
‘Phaudrig Croohore’ did not appear in print in the ‘Dublin University Magazine’ till 1844, twelve years after its composition, when it was included amongst the Purcell Papers.
To return to the year 1837. Mr. William Le Fanu, the suggester of this ballad, who was from home at the time, now received daily instalments of the second and more remarkable of his brother’s Irish poems–‘Shamus O’Brien’ (James O’Brien) –learning them by heart as they reached him, and, fortunately, never forgetting them, for his brother Joseph kept no copy of the ballad, and he had himself to write it out from memory ten years after, when the poem appeared in the ‘University Magazine.’
Few will deny that this poem contains passages most faithfully, if fearfully, picturesque, and that it is characterised throughout by a profound pathos, and an abundant though at times a too grotesquely incongruous humour. Can we wonder, then, at the immense popularity with which Samuel Lover recited it in the United States? For to Lover’s admiration of the poem, and his addition of it to his entertainment, ‘Shamus O’Brien’ owes its introduction into America, where it is now so popular. Lover added some lines of his own to the poem, made Shamus emigrate to the States, and set up a public-house. These added lines appeared in most of the published versions of the poem. But they are indifferent as verse, and certainly injure the dramatic effect of the poem.
‘Shamus O’Brien’ is so generally attributed to Lover (indeed we remember seeing it advertised for recitation on the occasion of a benefit at a leading London theatre as ‘by Samuel Lover’) that it is a satisfaction to be able to reproduce the following letter upon the subject from Lover to William le Fanu:
‘Astor House,
‘New York, U.S. America.
‘Sept. 30, 1846.
‘My dear Le Fanu,
‘In reading over your brother’s poem
while I crossed the Atlantic, I became more and more impressed with its great beauty and dramatic effect–so much so that I determined to
test its effect in public, and have done so here, on my first appearance, with the greatest success. Now I have no doubt there will be great praises of the poem, and people will suppose, most likely, that the composition is mine, and as you know (I take for granted) that I would not wish to wear a borrowed feather, I should be glad to give your brother’s name as the author, should he not object to have it known; but as his writings are often of so different a tone, I would not speak without permission to do so. It is true that in my programme my name is attached to other pieces, and no name appended to the recitation; so far, you will see, I have done all I could to avoid “appropriating,” the spirit of which I might have caught here, with Irish aptitude; but I would like to have the means of telling all whom it may concern the name of the author, to whose head and heart it does so much honour. Pray, my dear Le Fanu, inquire, and answer me here by next packet, or as soon as convenient. My success here has been quite triumphant.
‘Yours very truly,
‘SAMUEL LOVER.’
We have heard it said (though without having inquired into the truth of the tradition) that ‘Shamus O’Brien’ was the result of a match at pseudo-national ballad writing made between Le Fanu and several of the most brilliant of his young literary confreres at T. C. D. But however this may be, Le Fanu undoubtedly was no young Irelander; indeed he did the stoutest service as a press writer in the Conservative interest, and was no doubt provoked as well as amused at the unexpected popularity to which his poem attained amongst the Irish Nationalists. And here it should be remembered that the ballad was written some eleven years before the outbreak of ’48, and at a time when a ’98 subject might fairly have been regarded as legitimate literary property amongst the most loyal.
We left Le Fanu as editor of the ‘Warder.’ He afterwards purchased the ‘Dublin Evening Packet,’ and much later the half-proprietorship of the ‘Dublin Evening Mail.’ Eleven or twelve years ago he also became the owner and editor of the ‘Dublin University Magazine,’ in which his later as well as earlier Irish Stories appeared. He sold it about a year before his death in 1873, having previously parted with the ‘Warder’ and his share in the ‘Evening
Mail.’
He had previously published in the ‘Dublin University Magazine’ a number of charming lyrics, generally anonymously, and it is to be feared that all clue to the identification of most of these is lost, except that of internal evidence.
The following poem, undoubtedly his, should make general our regret at being unable to fix with certainty upon its fellows:
‘One wild and distant bugle sound
Breathed o’er Killarney’s magic shore Will shed sweet floating echoes round When that which made them is no more.
‘So slumber in the human heart
Wild echoes, that will sweetly thrill The words of kindness when the voice
That uttered them for aye is still.
‘Oh! memory, though thy records tell Full many a tale of grief and sorrow, Of mad excess, of hope decayed,
Of dark and cheerless melancholy;
‘Still, memory, to me thou art
The dearest of the gifts of mind, For all the joys that touch my heart
Are joys that I have left behind.
Le Fanu’s literary life may be divided into three distinct periods. During the first of these, and till his thirtieth year, he was an Irish ballad, song, and story writer, his first published story being the ‘Adventures of Sir Robert Ardagh,’ which appeared in the ‘Dublin University Magazine’ of 1838.
In 1844 he was united to Miss Susan Bennett, the beautiful daughter of the late George Bennett, Q.C. From this time until her decease, in 1858, he devoted his energies almost entirely to press work, making, however, his first essays in novel writing during that period. The ‘Cock and Anchor,’ a chronicle of old Dublin city, his first and, in the opinion of competent critics, one of the best of his novels, seeing the light about the year 1850. This work, it is to be feared, is out of print, though there is now a cheap edition of ‘Torlogh O’Brien,’ its immediate successor. The comparative want of success of these novels seems to have deterred Le Fanu from using his pen, except as a press writer, until 1863, when the ‘House by the Churchyard’ was published, and was soon followed by ‘Uncle Silas’ and his five other well-known novels.
We have considered Le Fanu as a ballad writer and poet. As a press writer he is still most honourably remembered for his learning and brilliancy, and the power and point of his sarcasm, which long made the ‘Dublin Evening Mail’ one of the most formidable of Irish press critics; but let us now pass to the consideration of him in the capacity of a novelist, and in particular as the author of ‘Uncle Silas.’
There are evidences in ‘Shamus O’Brien,’ and even in ‘Phaudrig Croohore,’ of a power over the mysterious, the grotesque, and the horrible, which so singularly distinguish him as a writer of prose fiction.
‘Uncle Silas,’ the fairest as well as most familiar instance of this enthralling spell over his readers, is too well known a story to tell in detail. But how intensely and painfully distinct is the opening description of the silent, inflexible Austin Ruthyn of Knowl, and his shy, sweet daughter Maude, the one so resolutely confident in his brother’s honour, the other so romantically and yet anxiously interested in her uncle–the sudden arrival of Dr. Bryerly, the strange Swedenborgian, followed by the equally unexpected apparition of Madame de la Rougiere,
Austin Ruthyn’s painful death, and the reading of his strange will consigning poor Maude to
the protection of her unknown Uncle Silas–her cousin, good, bright devoted Monica Knollys, and her dreadful distrust of Silas–Bartram Haugh and its uncanny occupants, and foremost amongst them Uncle Silas.
This is his portrait:
‘A face like marble, with a fearful monumental look, and for an old man, singularly
vivid, strange eyes, the singularity of which rather grew upon me as I looked; for his eyebrows were still black, though his hair descended from his temples in long locks of the purest silver and fine as silk, nearly to his shoulders.
‘He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, all in black, with an ample black velvet tunic, which was rather a gown than a coat. . . .
‘I know I can’t convey in words an idea of this apparition, drawn, as it seemed, in black and white, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, with its singular look of power, and an expression so bewildering–was it derision, or anguish, or cruelty, or patience?
‘The wild eyes of this strange old man were fixed on me as he rose; an habitual contraction, which in certain lights took the character of a scowl, did not relax as he advanced towards me with a thin-lipped smile.’
Old Dicken and his daughter Beauty, old L’Amour and Dudley Ruthyn, now enter upon the scene, each a fresh shadow to deepen its already sombre hue, while the gloom gathers in spite of the glimpse of sunshine shot through it by the visit to Elverston. Dudley’s brutal encounter with Captain Oakley, and vile persecution of poor Maude till his love marriage comes to light, lead us on to the ghastly catastrophe, the hideous conspiracy of Silas and his son against the life of the innocent girl.
It is interesting to know that the germ of Uncle Silas first appeared in the ‘Dublin University Magazine’ of 1837 or 1838, as the short tale, entitled, ‘A Passage from the Secret History of an Irish Countess,’ which is printed in this collection of Stories. It next was published as ‘The Murdered Cousin’ in a collection of Christmas stories, and finally developed into the three-volume novel we have just noticed.
There are about Le Fanu’s narratives touches of nature which reconcile us to their always remarkable and often supernatural incidents. His characters are well conceived and distinctly drawn, and strong soliloquy and easy dialogue spring unaffectedly from their lips. He is a close observer of Nature, and reproduces her wilder effects of storm and gloom with singular vividness; while he is equally at home in his descriptions of still life, some of which remind us of the faithfully minute detail of old Dutch pictures.
Mr. Wilkie Collins, amongst our living novelists, best compares with Le Fanu. Both of these writers are remarkable for the ingenious mystery with which they develop their plots, and for the absorbing, if often over-sensational, nature of their incidents; but whilst Mr. Collins excites and fascinates our attention by an intense power of realism which carries us with unreasoning haste from cover to cover of his works, Le Fanu is an idealist, full of high imagination, and an artist who devotes deep attention to the most delicate detail in his portraiture of men and women, and his descriptions of the outdoor and indoor worlds–a writer, therefore,
through whose pages it would be often an indignity to hasten. And this more leisurely, and certainly more classical, conduct of his stories makes us remember them more fully and faithfully than those of the author of the ‘Woman in White.’ Mr. Collins is generally dramatic, and sometimes stagy, in his effects. Le Fanu, while less careful to arrange his plots, so as to admit of their being readily adapted for the stage, often surprises us by scenes of so much greater tragic intensity that we cannot but lament that he did not, as Mr. Collins has done, attempt the drama, and so furnish another ground of comparison with his fellow-countryman, Maturin (also, if we mistake not, of French origin), whom, in his writings, Le Fanu far more closely resembles than Mr. Collins, as a master of the darker and stronger emotions of human character. But, to institute a broader ground of comparison between Le Fanu and Mr. Collins, whilst the idiosyncrasies of the former’s characters, however immaterial those characters may be, seem always to suggest the minutest detail of his story, the latter would appear to consider plot as the prime, character as a subsidiary element in the art of novel writing.
Those who possessed the rare privilege of Le Fanu’s friendship, and only they, can form any idea of the true character of the man; for after the death of his wife, to whom he was most deeply devoted, he quite forsook general society, in which his fine features, distinguished bearing, and charm of conversation marked him out as the beau-ideal of an Irish wit and scholar of the old school.
From this society he vanished so entirely that Dublin, always ready with a nickname, dubbed him ‘The Invisible Prince;’ and indeed he was for long almost invisible, except to his family and most familiar friends, unless at odd hours of the evening, when he might occasionally be seen stealing, like the ghost of his former self, between his newspaper office and his home in Merrion Square; sometimes, too, he was to be encountered in an old out-of-the-way bookshop poring over some rare black letter Astrology or Demonology.
To one of these old bookshops he was at one time a pretty frequent visitor, and the bookseller relates how he used to come in and ask with his peculiarly pleasant voice and smile, ‘Any more ghost stories for me, Mr. —–?’ and how, on a fresh one being handed to him, he would seldom leave the shop until he had looked it through. This taste for the supernatural seems to have grown upon him after his wife’s death, and influenced him so deeply that, had he not been possessed of a deal of shrewd common sense, there might have been danger of his embracing some of the visionary doctrines in which he was so learned. But no! even Spiritualism, to which not a few of his brother novelists succumbed, whilst affording congenial material for our artist of the superhuman to work upon, did not escape his severest satire.
Shortly after completing his last novel, strange to say, bearing the title ‘Willing to Die,’ Le Fanu breathed his last at his home No. 18, Merrion Square South, at the age of fifty-nine.
‘He was a man,’ writes the author of a brief memoir of him in the ‘Dublin University
Magazine,’ ‘who thought deeply, especially on religious subjects. To those who knew him he was very dear; they admired him for his
learning, his sparkling wit, and pleasant conversation, and loved him for his manly virtues, for his noble and generous qualities, his gentleness, and his loving, affectionate nature.’ And all who knew the man must feel how deeply deserved are these simple words of sincere regard for Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu.
Le Fanu’s novels are accessible to all; but his Purcell Papers are now for the first time collected and published, by the permission of his eldest son (the late Mr. Philip Le Fanu), and very much owing to the friendly and active assistance of his brother, Mr. William Le Fanu.
THE PURCELL PAPERS.
THE GHOST AND THE BONE SETTER.
In looking over the papers of my
late valued and respected friend,
Francis Purcell, who for nearly
fifty years discharged the arduous duties of a parish priest in the south of Ireland, I met with the following document. It is
one of many such; for he was a curious and industrious collector of old local
traditions–a commodity in
which the quarter
where he resided mightily abounded. The collection and arrangement of such legends was, as long as I can remember him, his
hobby; but I had never learned that his love of the marvellous and whimsical had carried him so far as to prompt him to
commit the results of his inquiries to writing, until, in the character of residuary legatee, his will put me in possession of all his manuscript papers. To such as may
think the composing of such productions as these inconsistent with the character and habits of a country priest, it is necessary to observe, that there did exist a race
of priests–those of the old school, a race now nearly extinct–whose education
abroad tended to produce in them tastes more literary than have yet been evinced by the alumni of Maynooth.
It is perhaps necessary to add that the superstition illustrated by the following story, namely, that the corpse last buried is obliged, during his juniority of interment, to supply his brother tenants of the
churchyard in which he lies, with fresh water to allay the burning thirst of
purgatory, is prevalent throughout the south of Ireland.
The writer can vouch for a case in
which a respectable and wealthy farmer, on the borders of Tipperary, in tenderness to the corns of his departed helpmate,
enclosed in her coffin two pair of brogues, a light and a heavy, the one for dry, the
other for sloppy weather; seeking thus to mitigate the fatigues of her inevitable
perambulations in procuring water and administering it to the thirsty souls of purgatory. Fierce and desperate conflicts have ensued in the case of two funeral
parties approaching the same churchyard together, each endeavouring to secure to his own dead priority of sepulture, and a consequent immunity from the tax levied
upon the pedestrian powers of the last- comer. An instance not long since
occurred, in which one of two such parties, through fear of losing to their deceased friend this inestimable advantage, made
their way to the churchyard by a short cut, and, in violation of one of their strongest prejudices, actually threw the coffin over the wall, lest time should be lost in making their entrance through the gate. Innumerable instances of the same kind might be
quoted, all tending to show how strongly among the peasantry of the south this
superstition is entertained. However, I shall not detain the reader further by
any prefatory remarks, but shall proceed to lay before him the following:
Extract from the MS. Papers of the late Rev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh.
I tell the following particulars, as
nearly as I can recollect them, in the words of the narrator. It may be necessary to observe that he was what is termed
a well-spoken man, having for a considerable time instructed the ingenious youth
of his native parish in such of the liberal arts and sciences as he found it convenient to profess–a circumstance which may account for the occurrence of several big
words in the course of this narrative, more distinguished for euphonious effect than for correctness of application. I proceed then, without further preface, to lay
before you the wonderful adventures of Terry Neil.
‘Why, thin, ’tis a quare story, an’ as thrue as you’re sittin’ there; and I’d make bould to say there isn’t a boy in the seven parishes could tell it better nor crickther than myself, for ’twas my father himself it happened to, an’ many’s the time I heerd it out iv his own mouth; an’ I can say, an’ I’m proud av that same, my father’s word was as incredible as any squire’s oath in the counthry; and so signs an’ if a poor man got into any unlucky throuble, he was
the boy id go into the court an’ prove; but that doesn’t signify–he was as honest and as sober a man, barrin’ he was a little bit too partial to the glass, as you’d find in a day’s walk; an’ there wasn’t the likes of him in the counthry round for nate labourin’ an’ baan diggin’; and he was mighty handy entirely for carpenther’s work, and men
din’ ould spudethrees, an’ the likes i’ that. An’ so he tuk up with bone-settin’, as
was most nathural, for none of them could come up to him in mendin’ the leg iv a stool or a table; an’ sure, there never was a bone- setter got so much custom-man an’ child, young an’ ould–there never was such
breakin’ and mendin’ of bones known in the memory of man. Well, Terry Neil–
for that was my father’s name–began to feel his heart growin’ light, and his purse heavy; an’ he took a bit iv a farm in Squire Phelim’s ground, just undher the ould castle, an’ a pleasant little spot it was; an’ day an’ mornin’ poor crathurs not able to put a foot to the ground, with broken arms and broken legs, id be comin’ ramblin’ in from all quarters to have their bones spliced up. Well,
yer honour, all this was as well as well could be; but it was customary when Sir Phelim id go anywhere out iv the country, for some iv the tinants to sit up to watch in the ould castle, just for a kind of compliment to the ould family–an’ a mighty unplisant compliment it was for the tinants, for there
wasn’t a man of them but knew there was something quare about the ould castle. The neighbours had it, that the squire’s ould grandfather, as good a gintlenlan–God be with him–as I heer’d, as ever stood in
shoe-leather, used to keep walkin’ about in the middle iv the night, ever sinst he
bursted a blood vessel pullin’ out a cork out iv a bottle, as you or I might be doin’, and will too, plase God–but that doesn’t signify. So, as I was sayin’, the ould
squire used to come down out of the frame, where his picthur was hung up, and to break the bottles and glasses–God be marciful to us all–an’ dthrink all he could come at–an’ small blame to him for that same; and then if any of the family id be comin’ in, he id be up again in his place, looking as quite an’ as innocent as if he didn’t know anything about it–the
mischievous ould chap
‘Well, your honour, as I was sayin’, one time the family up at the castle was stayin’ in Dublin for a week or two; and so, as
usual, some of the tinants had to sit up in the castle, and the third night it kem to my father’s turn. “Oh, tare an’ ouns!”
says he unto himself, “an’ must I sit up all night, and that ould vagabone of a
sperit, glory be to God,” says he,
“serenadin’ through the house, an’ doin’ all sorts iv mischief?” However, there was
no gettin’ aff, and so he put a bould face on it, an’ he went up at nightfall with a bottle of pottieen, and another of holy
wather.
‘It was rainin’ smart enough, an’ the evenin’ was darksome and gloomy, when
my father got in; and what with the rain he got, and the holy wather he sprinkled on himself, it wasn’t long till he had to swally a cup iv the pottieen, to keep the cowld out iv his heart. It was the ould
steward, Lawrence Connor, that opened the door–and he an’ my father wor
always very great. So when he seen who it was, an’ my father tould him how it
was his turn to watch in the castle, he offered to sit up along with him; and you may be sure my father wasn’t sorry for
that same. So says Larry:
‘ “We’ll have a bit iv fire in the
parlour,” says he.
‘ “An’ why not in the hall?” says my
father, for he knew that the squire’s picthur was hung in the parlour.
‘ “No fire can be lit in the hall,” says Lawrence, “for there’s an ould jackdaw’s nest in the chimney.”
‘ “Oh thin,” says my father, “let us
stop in the kitchen, for it’s very unproper for the likes iv me to be sittin’ in the parlour,” says he.
‘ “Oh, Terry, that can’t be,” says
Lawrence; “if we keep up the ould
custom at all, we may as well keep it up properly,” says he.
‘ “Divil sweep the ould custom!” says my father–to himself, do ye mind, for he didn’t like to let Lawrence see that he was more afeard himself.
‘ “Oh, very well,” says he. “I’m
agreeable, Lawrence,” says he; and so down they both wint to the kitchen, until the fire id be lit in the parlour–an’ that same wasn’t long doin’.
‘Well, your honour, they soon wint up again, an’ sat down mighty comfortable by the parlour fire, and they beginned to talk, an’ to smoke, an’ to dhrink a small taste iv the pottieen; and, moreover, they had a
good rousin’ fire o’ bogwood and turf, to warm their shins over.
‘Well, sir, as I was sayin’ they kep’ convarsin’ and smokin’ together most
agreeable, until Lawrence beginn’d to get sleepy, as was but nathural for him, for he was an ould sarvint man, and was used to a great dale iv sleep.
‘ “Sure it’s impossible,” says my father, “it’s gettin’ sleepy you are?”
‘ “Oh, divil a taste,” says Larry; “I’m only shuttin’ my eyes,” says he, “to keep out the parfume o’ the tibacky smoke,
that’s makin’ them wather,” says he. “So don’t you mind other people’s
business,” says he, stiff enough, for he had a mighty high stomach av his own (rest
his sowl), “and go on,” says he, “with your story, for I’m listenin’,” says he, shuttin’ down his eyes.
‘Well, when my father seen spakin’
was no use, he went on with his story. By the same token, it was the story of
Jim Soolivan and his ould goat he was tellin’–an’ a plisant story it is–an’
there was so much divarsion in it, that it was enough to waken a dormouse, let
alone to pervint a Christian goin’ asleep. But, faix, the way my father tould it, I believe there never was the likes heerd
sinst nor before, for he bawled out every word av it, as if the life was fairly
lavin’ him, thrying to keep ould Larry awake; but, faix, it was no use, for the hoorsness came an him, an’ before he kem to the end of his story Larry O’Connor
beginned to snore like a bagpipes.
‘ “Oh, blur an’ agres,” says my father, “isn’t this a hard case,” says he, “that ould villain, lettin’ on to be my friend, and to go asleep this way, an’ us both in the very room with a sperit,” says he. “The
crass o’ Christ about us!” says he; and with that he was goin’ to shake Lawrence to waken him, but he just remimbered if
he roused him, that he’d surely go off to his bed, an’ lave him complately alone, an’ that id be by far worse.
‘ “Oh thin,” says my father, “I’ll not disturb the poor boy. It id be neither
friendly nor good-nathured,” says he, “to tormint him while he is asleep,” says he; “only I wish I was the same way,
myself,” says he.
‘An’ with that he beginned to walk up an’ down, an’ sayin’ his prayers, until he worked himself into a sweat, savin’ your presence. But it was all no good; so he
dthrunk about a pint of sperits, to compose his mind.
‘ “Oh,” says he, “I wish to the Lord I was as asy in my mind as Larry there.
Maybe,” says he, “if I thried I could go asleep;” an’ with that he pulled a big arm- chair close beside Lawrence, an’ settled himself in it as well as he could.
‘But there was one quare thing I forgot to tell you. He couldn’t help, in spite
av himself, lookin’ now an’ thin at the picthur, an’ he immediately obsarved that the eyes av it was follyin’ him about, an’ starin’ at him, an’ winkin’ at him, wher- iver he wint. “Oh,” says he, when he
seen that, “it’s a poor chance I have,” says he; “an’ bad luck was with me the
day I kem into this unforthunate place,” says he. “But any way there’s no use in
bein’ freckened now,” says he; “for if I am to die, I may as well parspire
undaunted,” says he.
‘Well, your honour, he thried to keep himself quite an’ asy, an’ he thought two or three times he might have wint asleep, but for the way the storm was groanin’
and creakin’ through the great heavy branches outside, an’ whistlin’ through the ould chimleys iv the castle. Well, afther one great roarin’ blast iv the wind, you’d think the walls iv the castle was just goin’ to fall, quite an’ clane, with the shakin’ iv it. All av a suddint the storm stopt, as silent an’ as quite as if it was a July
evenin’. Well, your honour, it wasn’t stopped blowin’ for three minnites, before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over the chimley-piece; an’ with that my
father just opened his eyes the smallest taste in life, an’ sure enough he seen the ould squire gettin’ out iv the picthur, for all the world as if he was throwin’ aff his ridin’ coat, until he stept out clane an’ complate, out av the chimley-piece, an’
thrun himself down an the floor. Well, the slieveen ould chap–an’ my father
thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all– before he beginned to do anything out iv the way, he stopped for a while to listen wor they both asleep; an’ as soon as he
thought all was quite, he put out his hand and tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, an
dhrank at laste a pint iv it. Well, your honour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, he settled it back mighty cute entirely, in the very same spot it was in before. An’ he
beginned to walk up an’ down the room, lookin’ as sober an’ as solid as if he never done the likes at all. An’ whinever he
went apast my father, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an’ it was that that freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that was burned in hell, savin’ your presence. At any rate, he
often heerd it from Father Murphy, an’ he had a right to know what belonged to
it–he’s dead since, God rest him. Well, your honour, my father was asy enough
until the sperit kem past him; so close, God be marciful to us all, that the smell iv the sulphur tuk the breath clane out iv
him; an’ with that he tuk such a fit iv coughin’, that it al-a-most shuk him out iv the chair he was sittin’ in.
‘ “Ho, ho!” says the squire, stoppin’ short about two steps aff, and turnin’
round facin’ my father, “is it you that’s in it?–an’ how’s all with you, Terry
Neil?”
‘ “At your honour’s sarvice,” says my father (as well as the fright id let him, for he was more dead than alive), “an’
it’s proud I am to see your honour to- night,” says he.
‘ “Terence,” says the squire, “you’re a respectable man” (an’ it was thrue for him), “an industhrious, sober man, an’ an example of inebriety to the whole parish,” says he.
‘ “Thank your honour,” says my father, gettin’ courage, “you were always a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour.”
‘ “REST my honour?” says the sperit
(fairly gettin’ red in the face with the madness), “Rest my honour?” says he.
“Why, you ignorant spalpeen,” says he, “you mane, niggarly ignoramush,” says
he, “where did you lave your manners?” says he. “If I AM dead, it’s no fault iv mine,” says he; “an’ it’s not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand’s turn, by the likes iv you,” says he, stampin’ his foot an the flure, that you’d think the boords id smash undther him.
‘ “Oh,” says my father, “I’m only a
foolish, ignorant poor man,” says he.
‘ “You’re nothing else,” says the squire: “but any way,” says he, “it’s not to be
listenin’ to your gosther, nor convarsin’ with the likes iv you, that I came UP–
down I mane,” says he–(an’ as little as the mistake was, my father tuk notice iv it). “Listen to me now, Terence Neil,”
says he: “I was always a good masther to Pathrick Neil, your grandfather,” says he.
‘ ” ‘Tis thrue for your honour,” says my father.
‘ “And, moreover, I think I was always a sober, riglar gintleman,” says the squire.
‘ “That’s your name, sure enough,” says my father (though it was a big lie for him, but he could not help it).
‘ “Well,” says the sperit, “although I was as sober as most men–at laste as
most gintlemin,” says he; “an’ though I was at different pariods a most extempory Christian, and most charitable and inhuman to the poor,” says he; “for all that
I’m not as asy where I am now,” says he, “as I had a right to expect,” says he.
‘ “An’ more’s the pity,” says my father. “Maybe your honour id wish to have a
word with Father Murphy?”
‘ “Hould your tongue, you misherable
bliggard,” says the squire; “it’s not iv my sowl I’m thinkin’–an’ I wondther you’d have the impitence to talk to a gintleman consarnin’ his sowl; and when I want
THAT fixed,” says he, slappin’ his thigh, “I’ll go to them that knows what belongs to the likes,” says he. “It’s not my sowl,” says he, sittin’ down opossite my father; “it’s not my sowl that’s annoyin’ me most –I’m unasy on my right leg,” says he,
“that I bruk at Glenvarloch cover the day I killed black Barney.”
‘My father found out afther, it was a favourite horse that fell undher him, afther leapin’ the big fence that runs along by the glin.
‘ “I hope,” says my father, “your
honour’s not unasy about the killin’ iv him?”
‘ “Hould your tongue, ye fool,” said the squire, “an’ I’ll tell you why I’m unasy on my leg,” says he. “In the place, where I spend most iv my time,” says he, “except the little leisure I have for lookin’ about me here,” says he, “I have to walk a great dale more than I was ever used to,” says he,
“and by far more than is good for me either,” says he; “for I must tell you,” says he, “the people where I am is ancommonly
fond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin’ betther to be had; an’, moreover, the
weather is hotter than is altogether plisant,” says he; “and I’m appinted,” says he,
“to assist in carryin’ the wather, an’ gets a mighty poor share iv it myself,” says he, “an’ a mighty throublesome, wearin’ job it is, I can tell you,” says he; “for they’re all iv them surprisinly dthry, an’ dthrinks it as fast as my legs can carry it,” says he; “but what kills me intirely,” says he, “is the wakeness in my leg,” says he, “an’ I want you to give it a pull or two to bring it to shape,” says he, “and that’s the long an’ the short iv it,” says he.
‘ “Oh, plase your honour,” says my
father (for he didn’t like to handle the sperit at all), “I wouldn’t have the
impidence to do the likes to your honour,” says he; “it’s only to poor crathurs like myself I’d do it to,” says he.
‘ “None iv your blarney,” says the
squire. “Here’s my leg,” says he, cockin’ it up to him–“pull it for the bare life,” says he; an’ “if you don’t, by the immortial powers I’ll not lave a bone in your carcish I’ll not powdher,” says he.
‘When my father heerd that, he seen
there was no use in purtendin’, so he tuk hould iv the leg, an’ he kep’ pullin’ an’ pullin’, till the sweat, God bless us, beginned to pour down his face.
‘ “Pull, you divil!” says the squire.
‘ “At your sarvice, your honour,” says my father.
” ‘Pull harder,” says the squire.
‘My father pulled like the divil.
‘ “I’ll take a little sup,” says the squire, rachin’ over his hand to the bottle, “to keep up my courage,” says he, lettin’ an to be very wake in himself intirely. But, as cute as he was, he was out here, for he tuk the wrong one. “Here’s to your
good health, Terence,” says he; “an’ now pull like the very divil.” An’ with that he lifted the bottle of holy wather, but it was hardly to his mouth, whin he let a screech out, you’d think the room id fairly split with it, an’ made one chuck that sent the leg clane aff his body in my father’s hands. Down wint the squire over the table, an’ bang wint my father half-way across the
room on his back, upon the flure. Whin he kem to himself the cheerful mornin’ sun was shinin’ through the windy shutthers, an’ he was lying flat an his back, with the leg iv one of the great ould chairs pulled clane out iv the socket an’ tight in his hand, pintin’ up to the ceilin’, an’ ould Larry fast asleep, an’ snorin’ as loud as ever. My father wint that mornin’ to
Father Murphy, an’ from that to the day of his death, he never neglected confission nor mass, an’ what he tould was betther
believed that he spake av it but seldom. An’, as for the squire, that is the sperit, whether it was that he did not like his
liquor, or by rason iv the loss iv his leg, he was never known to walk agin.’
THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH.
Being a second Extract from the Papers of the late Father Purcell.
‘The earth hath bubbles as the water hath– And these are of them.’
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 forest still remain. It has little or none of the lordly character of the American forest, for the axe has felled its oldest and its grandest trees; but in the close wood which survives, live all the wild and pleasing peculiarities of nature: its complete irregularity, its vistas, in whose perspective the quiet cattle are
peacefully browsing; its refreshing glades, where the grey rocks arise from amid the nodding fern; the silvery shafts of the old birch trees; the knotted trunks of the
hoary oak, the grotesque but graceful branches which never shed their honours
under the tyrant pruning-hook; the soft green sward; the chequered light and
shade; the wild luxuriant weeds; the lichen and the moss–all, all are beautiful alike in the green freshness of spring, or in the sadness and sere of autumn. Their beauty is of that kind which makes the heart full with joy–appealing to the affections with a power which belongs to nature only.
This wood runs up, from below the base, to the ridge of a long line of irregular hills, having perhaps, in primitive times, formed but the skirting of some mighty
forest which occupied the level below.
But now, alas! whither have we drifted? whither has the tide of civilisation borne us? It has passed over a land unprepared for it–it has left nakedness behind
it; we have lost our forests, but our marauders remain; we have destroyed
all that is picturesque, while we have 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 depth of some
hundred feet, and are so steep as to be nearly perpendicular. The wild trees
which have taken root in the crannies and chasms of the rock have so intersected
and entangled, that one can with difficulty catch a glimpse of the stream, which
wheels, flashes, and foams below, as if exulting in the surrounding silence and
solitude.
This spot was not unwisely chosen, as a point of no ordinary strength, for the
erection of a massive square tower or keep, one side of which rises as if in continuation of the precipitous cliff on which it is based. Originally, the only mode of ingress was by a narrow portal in the very wall which overtopped the precipice, opening upon a ledge of rock which afforded a precarious pathway, cautiously intersected, however, by a deep trench cut with great labour
in the living rock; so that, in its original state, and before the introduction of
artillery into the art of war, this tower might have been pronounced, and that not presumptuously, almost impregnable.
The progress of improvement and the
increasing security of the times had, however, tempted its successive proprietors, if not to adorn, at least to enlarge their
premises, and at about the middle of the last century, when the castle was last
inhabited, the original square tower formed but a small part of the edifice.
The castle, and a wide tract of the sur- rounding country, had from time immemorial belonged to a 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
become the subject and the scene of many wild and extraordinary 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 appear more strange or 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 continuance of the racing season, and immediately subsequent to it; at which time he was to be seen among
the busiest upon the course, betting deeply and unhesitatingly, and invariably with
success. Sir Robert was, however, too well known as a man of honour, and of too high a family, to be suspected of any unfair dealing. He was, moreover, a soldier,
and a man of an intrepid as well as of a haughty character; and no one cared to
hazard a surmise, the consequences of which would be felt most probably by its originator only.
Gossip, however, was not silent; it was remarked that Sir Robert never appeared
at the race-ground, which was the only place of public resort which he frequented, except in company with a certain strange- looking person, who was never seen
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. Tradition asserts that, to enhance the curiosity which this unaccountable and exclusive preference excited, the
stranger possessed some striking and unpleasant peculiarities of person and of garb –she does not say, however, what these
were–but they, in conjunction with Sir Robert’s secluded habits and extraordinary run of luck–a success which was supposed to result from the suggestions and
immediate advice of the unknown–were sufficient to warrant report in pronouncing 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, however, rolled quietly away,
and nothing novel occurred in the arrangements of Castle Ardagh, excepting that
Sir Robert parted with his odd companion, but as nobody could tell whence he
came, so nobody could say whither he had gone. Sir Robert’s habits, however,
underwent no consequent change; he
continued regularly to frequent the race meetings, without mixing at all in the
convivialities 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
housekeeping–he neither purchased land, nor extended his establishment; and his mode of enjoying his money must have been
altogether that of the miser–consisting merely in the pleasure of touching and
telling his gold, and in the consciousness of wealth.
Sir Robert’s temper, so far from
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, sometime
as if in loud and angry altercation with some unknown visitant; sometimes he
would, for hours together, walk to and fro throughout the long oak wainscoted
apartment, which he generally occupied, with wild gesticulations and agitated pace, in the manner of one who has been roused to a state of unnatural excitement by some sudden and appalling intimation.
These paroxysms of apparent lunacy
were so frightful, that during their 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 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 depression. These fears at length became so strong, that
having in vain urged some of his brother servants to accompany him, he determined to go up alone, and himself see whether
any accident had befallen Sir Robert.
He traversed the several passages which conducted from the new to the more
ancient parts of the mansion, and having arrived in the old hall of the castle, the utter silence of the hour, for it was very late in the night, the idea of the nature of the enterprise in which he was engaging
himself, a sensation of remoteness from anything like human companionship, but,
more than all, the vivid but undefined anticipation of something horrible, came upon him with such oppressive weight that he hesitated as to whether he should
proceed. Real uneasiness, however, respecting the fate of his master, for whom he felt that kind of attachment which the force of habitual intercourse not unfrequently
engenders respecting 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 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 im-
probable that any man could have found his way across the passage in safety to the door, more particularly on a night like
that, of singular darkness. The old man, therefore, listened attentively, to ascertain whether the first application should be
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 employed no harder or heavier instrument than his hand, and yet, despite the immense thickness of the door, 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 visitant 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, determined him; so, taking it in his hand, he ascended the castle stairs, leaving his guest in the hall.
On reaching the apartment which opened upon the oak-chamber he was surprised to observe the door of that room partly open, and the room itself lit up. He paused, but there was no sound; he looked in, and saw Sir Robert, his head and the upper part
of his body reclining on a table, upon which burned a lamp; his arms were
stretched forward on either side, and 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; 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
uncertain 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 on his feet and tossing his arms wildly
upwards, uttered a shriek of such appalling and despairing terror that it was almost too fearful for human endurance; and long after the sound had ceased it seemed to
the terrified imagination of the old servant to roll through the deserted passages in bursts of unnatural laughter. After a few moments Sir Robert said:
‘Can’t you send him away? Why does
he come so soon? O God! O God! let
him leave me for an hour; a little time. I can’t see him now; try to get him away. You see I can’t go down now; I have not
strength. O God! O God! let him come back in an hour; it is not long to wait. He cannot lose anything by it; nothing,
nothing, nothing. Tell him that; say 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 coherently 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 attendant not to follow him. The man moved as far as the head of the staircase, from whence he had a tolerably distinct
view of the hall, which was imperfectly lighted by the candle he had left there.
He saw his master reel, rather than
walk down the stairs, clinging all the way to the banisters. He walked on, as if
about to sink every moment from weakness. The figure advanced as if to meet
him, and in passing struck down the light. The servant could see no more; but there was a sound of struggling, renewed at
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 combatants, in shuffling hither and thither over the floor, struck upon it. After a slight pause he heard the door
thrown open with such violence that the leaf seemed to strike the side-wall of the hall, for it was so dark without that this could only be surmised by the sound.
The struggle was renewed with an agony and intenseness of energy that betrayed
itself in deep-drawn gasps. One desperate effort, which terminated in the breaking of some part of the door, producing a sound as if the door-post was wrenched from its position, was followed by another wrestle, evidently upon the narrow ledge which ran outside the door, overtopping the precipice. This proved to be the final struggle, for it was followed by a crashing sound as if some heavy body had fallen over, and was rushing down the precipice, through the light
boughs that crossed near the top. All then became still as the grave, except when the moan of the night wind sighed up the wooded glen.
The old servant had not nerve to return through the hall, and to him the darkness seemed all but endless; but morning at
length came, and with it the disclosure of the events of the night. Near the door,
upon the ground, lay Sir Robert’s sword- belt, which had given way in the scuffle. A huge splinter from the massive door-
post had been wrenched off by an almost superhuman effort–one which nothing but the gripe of a despairing man could have severed–and on the rock outside were left the marks of the slipping and sliding of feet.
At the foot of the precipice, not
immediately under the castle, but dragged some way up the glen, were found the remains
of Sir Robert, with hardly a vestige of a limb or feature left distinguishable. The right hand, however, was uninjured, and
in its fingers were clutched, with the fixedness of death, a long lock of coarse sooty hair–the only direct circumstantial evidence of the presence of a second person. So says tradition.
This story, as I have mentioned, was
current among the dealers in such lore; but the original facts are so dissimilar in all but the name of the principal person mentioned and his mode of life, and the
fact that his death was accompanied with circumstances of extraordinary mystery,
that the two narratives are totally irreconcilable (even allowing the utmost for the exaggerating influence of tradition), except by supposing report to have combined and blended together the fabulous
histories of several distinct bearers of the family name. However this may be,
I shall lay before the reader a distinct recital of the events from which the foregoing tradition arose. With respect to
these there can be no mistake; they are authenticated as fully as anything can be by human testimony; and I state them
principally upon the evidence of a lady who herself bore a prominent part in the strange events which she related, and
which I now record as being among the few well-attested tales of the marvellous which it has been my fate to hear. I
shall, as far as I am able, arrange in one combined narrative the evidence of several distinct persons who were eye-witnesses of what they related, and with the truth of whose testimony I am solemnly and deeply impressed.
Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to call him, was the heir and representative of the family whose name he bore; but owing to the prodigality of his father, the estates descended to him in a very impaired condition. Urged by the restless spirit of youth, or more probably by a feeling of pride which could not submit to witness, in the paternal mansion, what he considered a humiliating alteration in the style and hospitality which up to that time had distinguished his family,
Sir Robert left Ireland and went abroad. How he occupied himself, or what countries he visited during his absence, was never known, nor did he afterwards make any
allusion or encourage any inquiries touching his foreign sojourn. He left Ireland
in the year 1742, being then just of age, and was not heard of until the year 1760 –about eighteen years afterwards–at
which time he returned. His personal appearance was, as might have been
expected, very greatly altered, more altered, indeed, than the time of his absence might have warranted one in supposing likely.
But to counterbalance the unfavourable change which time had wrought in his
form and features, he had acquired all the advantages of polish of manner and refinement of taste which foreign travel is sup-
posed to bestow. But what was truly surprising was that it soon became evident that Sir Robert was very wealthy–
wealthy to an extraordinary and unaccountable degree; and this fact was made
manifest, not only by his expensive style of living, but by his proceeding to dis- embarrass his property, and to purchase
extensive estates in addition. Moreover, there could be nothing deceptive in these appearances, for he paid ready money for everything, from the most important purchase to the most trifling.
Sir Robert was a remarkably agreeable man, and possessing the combined advantages of birth and property, he was, as a
matter of course, gladly received into the highest society which the metropolis then commanded. It was thus that he became
acquainted with the two beautiful Miss F—-ds, then among the brightest ornaments of the highest circle of Dublin
fashion. Their family was in more than one direction allied to nobility; and Lady D—-, their elder sister by many years, and sometime married to a once well-
known nobleman, was now their protectress. These considerations, beside the
fact that the young ladies were what is usually termed heiresses, though not to a very great amount, secured to them a high position in the best society which Ireland then produced. The two young ladies
differed strongly, alike in appearance and in character. The elder of the two, Emily, was generally considered the handsomer– for her beauty was of that impressive kind which never failed to strike even at the first glance, possessing as it did all the advantages of a fine person and a commanding
carriage. The beauty of her features strikingly assorted in character with that of her figure and deportment. Her hair
was raven-black and richly luxuriant, beautifully contrasting with the perfect whiteness of her forehead–her finely
pencilled brows were black as the ringlets that clustered near them–and her blue eyes, full, lustrous, and animated, possessed all the power and brilliancy of brown ones, with more than their softness and variety of
expression. She was not, however, merely the tragedy queen. When she smiled,
and that was not seldom, the dimpling of cheek and chin, the laughing display
of the small and beautiful teeth–but, more than all, the roguish archness of her deep, bright eye, showed that nature had not neglected in her the lighter and the softer characteristics of woman.
Her younger sister Mary was, as I
believe not unfrequently occurs in the case of sisters, quite in the opposite style of beauty. She was light-haired, had more
colour, had nearly equal grace, with much more liveliness of manner. Her eyes were of that dark grey which poets so much
admire–full of expression and vivacity. She was altogether a very beautiful and
animated girl–though as unlike her sister as the presence of those two qualities
would permit her to be. Their dissimilarity did not stop here–it was deeper
than mere appearance–the character of their minds differed almost as strikingly as did their complexion. The fair-haired beauty had a large proportion of that
softness and pliability of temper which physiognomists assign as the characteristics of such complexions. She was much more
the creature of impulse than of feeling, and consequently more the victim of
extrinsic circumstances than was her sister. Emily, on the contrary, possessed considerable firmness and decision. She was less
excitable, but when excited her feelings were more intense and enduring. She
wanted much of the gaiety, but with it the volatility of her younger sister. Her opinions were adopted, and her friendships formed more reflectively, and her affections seemed to move, as it were, more slowly, but more determinedly. This firmness of
character did not amount to anything masculine, and did not at all impair the feminine grace of her manners.
Sir Robert Ardagh was for a long time apparently equally attentive to the two
sisters, and many were the conjectures and the surmises as to which would be the lady of his choice. At length, however, these doubts were determined; he proposed for
and was accepted by the dark beauty, Emily F—-d.
The bridals were celebrated in a manner becoming the wealth and connections of
the parties; and Sir Robert and Lady Ardagh left Dublin to pass the honeymoon at the family mansion, Castle
Ardagh, which had lately been fitted up in a style bordering upon magnificent.
Whether in compliance with the wishes of his lady, or owing to some whim of his own, his habits were henceforward strikingly altered; and from having moved
among the gayest if not the most
profligate of the votaries of fashion, he suddenly settled down into a quiet, domestic, country gentleman, and seldom, if ever,
visited the capital, and then his sojourns were as brief as the nature of his business would permit.
Lady Ardagh, however, did not suffer
from this change further than in being secluded from general society; for Sir
Robert’s wealth, and the hospitality which he had established in the family mansion, commanded that of such of his lady’s
friends and relatives as had leisure or inclination to visit the castle; and as their style of living was very handsome, and its internal resources of amusement considerable, few invitations from Sir Robert or
his lady were neglected.
Many years passed quietly away, during which Sir Robert’s and Lady Ardagh’s
hopes of issue were several times
disappointed. In the lapse of all this time there occurred but one event worth
recording. Sir Robert had brought with him from abroad a valet, who sometimes
professed himself to be French, at
others Italian, and at others again German. He spoke all these languages
with equal fluency, and seemed to take a kind of pleasure in puzzling the sagacity and balking the curiosity of such of the visitors at the castle as at any time
happened to enter into conversation with him, or who, struck by his singularities, became inquisitive respecting his country and
origin. Sir Robert called him by the French name, JACQUE, and among the
lower orders he was familiarly known by the title of ‘Jack, the devil,’ an appellation which originated in a supposed malignity of disposition and a real reluctance to
mix in the society of those who were believed to be his equals. This morose
reserve, coupled with the mystery which enveloped all about him, rendered him an object of suspicion and inquiry to his
fellow-servants, amongst whom it was whispered that this man in secret
governed the actions of Sir Robert with a despotic dictation, and that, as if to