THEPURCELL PAPERS.

BY THE LATEJOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,AUTHOR OF 'UNCLE SILAS.'

With a Memoir byALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES

IN THREE VOLUMES.VOL. I.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

MEMOIR OF JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANUTHE GHOST AND THE BONE-SETTERTHE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGHTHE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNORTHE DRUNKARD'S DREAM

MEMOIROFJOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU.------

A noble Huguenot family, owningconsiderable property in Normandy, the LeFanus of Caen, were, upon the revocation of theEdict of Nantes, deprived of their ancestral estatesof Mandeville, Sequeville, and Cresseron; but,owing to their possessing influential relatives atthe court of Louis the Fourteenth, were allowedto quit their country for England, unmolested,with their personal property. We meet withJohn Le Fanu de Sequeville and Charles Le Fanude Cresseron, as cavalry officers in William theThird's army; Charles being so distinguished amember of the King's staff that he was presentedwith William's portrait from his master's ownhand. He afterwards served as a major ofdragoons under Marlborough.

At the beginning of the eighteenth century,William Le Fanu was the sole survivor of hisfamily. He married Henrietta Raboteau dePuggibaut, the last of another great and nobleHuguenot family, whose escape from France, asa child, by the aid of a Roman Catholic uncle inhigh position at the French court, was effectedafter adventures of the most romantic danger.

Joseph Le Fanu, the eldest of the sons of thismarriage who left issue, held the office of Clerk ofthe Coast in Ireland. He married for the secondtime Alicia, daughter of Thomas Sheridan andsister of Richard Brinsley Sheridan; his brother,Captain Henry Le Fanu, of Leamington, beingunited to the only other sister of the great witand orator.

Dean Thomas Philip Le Fanu, the eldest sonof Joseph Le Fanu, became by his wife Emma,daughter of Dr. Dobbin, F.T.C.D., the father ofJoseph Sheridan Le Fanu, the subject of thismemoir, whose name is so familiar to Englishand American readers as one of the greatestmasters of the weird and the terrible amongstour modern novelists.

Born in Dublin on the 28th of August, 1814,he did not begin to speak until he was morethan two years of age; but when he had oncestarted, the boy showed an unusual aptitude inacquiring fresh words, and using them correctly.

The first evidence of literary taste which hegave was in his sixth year, when he madeseveral little sketches with explanatory remarkswritten beneath them, after the manner of DuMaurier's, or Charles Keene's humorous illustrationsin 'Punch.'

One of these, preserved long afterwards byhis mother, represented a balloon in mid-air,and two aeronauts, who had occupied it, fallingheadlong to earth, the disaster being explained

by these words: 'See the effects of trying to goto Heaven.'

As a mere child, he was a remarkably goodactor, both in tragic and comic pieces, and washardly twelve years old when he began to writeverses of singular spirit for one so young. Atfourteen, he produced a long Irish poem, whichhe never permitted anyone but his mother andbrother to read. To that brother, Mr. WilliamLe Fanu, Commissioner of Public Works,Ireland, to whom, as the suggester ofSheridan Le Fanu's 'Phaudrig Croohore' and'Shamus O'Brien,' Irish ballad literature owes adelightful debt, and whose richly humorous andpassionately pathetic powers as a raconteur ofthese poems have only doubled that obligation inthe hearts of those who have been happy enoughto be his hearers--to Mr. William Le Fanuwe are indebted for the following extracts fromthe first of his works, which the boy-author seemsto 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 furtherindebted for the accompanying specimens of hisbrother's serious and humorous powers in verse,written when he was quite a lad, as valentinesto 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

onIn 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 immortalAddison.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 smithTo get out something like Goldsmith?Or shall I aspire onTo tune my poetic lyre onThe same key touched by Byron,And laying my hand its wire on,With its music your soul set fire onBy 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 hewas endowed, in common with the great Brinsley,Lady Dufferin, and the Hon. Mrs. Norton,young Sheridan Le Fanu also possessed anirresistible humour and oratorical gift that,as a student of Old Trinity, made him aformidable rival of the best of the young debatersof his time at the 'College Historical,' not afew of whom have since reached the highesteminence at the Irish Bar, after having longenlivened and charmed St. Stephen's by theirwit and oratory.

Amongst his compeers he was remarkable forhis sudden fiery eloquence of attack, and readyand rapid powers of repartee when on hisdefence. But Le Fanu, whose understanding waselevated by a deep love of the classics, in whichhe took university honours, and further heightenedby an admirable knowledge of our owngreat authors, was not to be tempted away byoratory from literature, his first and, as itproved, his last love.

Very soon after leaving college, and just whenhe was called to the Bar, about the year 1838,he bought the 'Warder,' a Dublin newspaper,of which he was editor, and took what manyof his best friends and admirers, looking tohis high prospects as a barrister, regarded atthe time as a fatal step in his career tofame.

Just before this period, Le Fanu had takento writing humorous Irish stories, afterwardspublished in the 'Dublin University Magazine,'such as the 'Quare Gander,' 'Jim Sulivan'sAdventure,' 'The Ghost and the Bone-setter,' etc.

These stories his brother William Le Fanuwas in the habit of repeating for his friends'amusement, and about the year 1837, when hewas about twenty-three years of age, JosephLe Fanu said to him that he thought anIrish story in verse would tell well, andthat if he would choose him a subject suitablefor recitation, he would write him one.'Write me an Irish "Young Lochinvar," 'said his brother; and in a few days hehanded him 'Phaudrig Croohore'--Anglice,'Patrick Crohore.'

Of course this poem has the disadvantage notonly of being written after 'Young Lochinvar,'but also that of having been directly inspired byit; and yet, although wanting in the rare andgraceful finish of the original, the Irish copyhas, we feel, so much fire and feeling that it atleast tempts us to regret that Scott's poem wasnot written in that heart-stirring Northerndialect without which the noblest of our Britishballads would lose half their spirit. Indeed, wemay safely say that some of Le Fanu's linesare finer than any in 'Young Lochinvar,'simply because they seem to speak straight froma people's heart, not to be the mere echoes ofmedieval romance.

'Phaudrig Croohore' did not appear inprint in the 'Dublin University Magazine'till 1844, twelve years after its composition,when it was included amongst the PurcellPapers.

To return to the year 1837. Mr. William LeFanu, the suggester of this ballad, who was fromhome at the time, now received daily instalmentsof 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 hisbrother Joseph kept no copy of the ballad, and hehad himself to write it out from memory tenyears after, when the poem appeared in the'University Magazine.'

Few will deny that this poem contains passagesmost faithfully, if fearfully, picturesque,and that it is characterised throughout by aprofound pathos, and an abundant though attimes a too grotesquely incongruous humour.Can we wonder, then, at the immense popularitywith which Samuel Lover recited it in the UnitedStates? For to Lover's admiration of the poem,and his addition of it to his entertainment,'Shamus O'Brien' owes its introduction intoAmerica, where it is now so popular. Loveradded some lines of his own to the poem, madeShamus emigrate to the States, and set upa public-house. These added lines appearedin most of the published versions of thepoem. But they are indifferent as verse, andcertainly injure the dramatic effect of thepoem.

'Shamus O'Brien' is so generally attributed toLover (indeed we remember seeing it advertisedfor recitation on the occasion of a benefit at aleading London theatre as 'by Samuel Lover')that it is a satisfaction to be able to reproducethe following letter upon the subject from Loverto William le Fanu:

'Astor House, 'New York, U.S. America. 'Sept. 30, 1846.

'My dear Le Fanu,

'In reading over your brother's poemwhile I crossed the Atlantic, I became more andmore impressed with its great beauty and dramaticeffect--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 praisesof 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 towear a borrowed feather, I should be glad togive your brother's name as the author, shouldhe not object to have it known; but as hiswritings are often of so different a tone, I wouldnot speak without permission to do so. It istrue that in my programme my name is attachedto other pieces, and no name appended to therecitation; so far, you will see, I have done allI could to avoid "appropriating," the spirit ofwhich I might have caught here, with Irishaptitude; but I would like to have the meansof telling all whom it may concern the name ofthe author, to whose head and heart it does somuch honour. Pray, my dear Le Fanu, inquire,and answer me here by next packet, or as soonas convenient. My success here has been quitetriumphant. 'Yours very truly, 'SAMUEL LOVER.'

We have heard it said (though without havinginquired into the truth of the tradition) that'Shamus O'Brien' was the result of a match atpseudo-national ballad writing made between LeFanu and several of the most brilliant of hisyoung literary confreres at T. C. D. Buthowever this may be, Le Fanu undoubtedly was noyoung Irelander; indeed he did the stoutestservice as a press writer in the Conservativeinterest, and was no doubt provoked as well asamused at the unexpected popularity to whichhis poem attained amongst the Irish Nationalists.And here it should be remembered that the balladwas written some eleven years before the outbreakof '48, and at a time when a '98 subject mightfairly have been regarded as legitimate literaryproperty amongst the most loyal.

We left Le Fanu as editor of the 'Warder.'He afterwards purchased the 'Dublin EveningPacket,' and much later the half-proprietorshipof the 'Dublin Evening Mail.' Eleven or twelveyears ago he also became the owner and editorof the 'Dublin University Magazine,' in whichhis later as well as earlier Irish Storiesappeared. He sold it about a year before his deathin 1873, having previously parted with the'Warder' and his share in the 'EveningMail.'

He had previously published in the 'DublinUniversity Magazine' a number of charminglyrics, generally anonymously, and it is to befeared that all clue to the identification ofmost of these is lost, except that of internalevidence.

The following poem, undoubtedly his, shouldmake general our regret at being unable to fixwith 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 intothree distinct periods. During the first of these,and till his thirtieth year, he was an Irishballad, song, and story writer, his first publishedstory being the 'Adventures of Sir RobertArdagh,' which appeared in the 'Dublin UniversityMagazine' of 1838.

In 1844 he was united to Miss Susan Bennett,the beautiful daughter of the late GeorgeBennett, Q.C. From this time until her decease,in 1858, he devoted his energies almost entirelyto press work, making, however, his first essaysin novel writing during that period. The'Cock and Anchor,' a chronicle of old Dublincity, his first and, in the opinion of competentcritics, one of the best of his novels, seeing thelight about the year 1850. This work, it is tobe feared, is out of print, though there is now acheap edition of 'Torlogh O'Brien,' its immediatesuccessor. The comparative want of successof these novels seems to have deterred Le Fanufrom using his pen, except as a press writer,until 1863, when the 'House by the Churchyard'was published, and was soon followed by 'UncleSilas' and his five other well-known novels.

We have considered Le Fanu as a balladwriter and poet. As a press writer he is stillmost honourably remembered for his learningand brilliancy, and the power and point of hissarcasm, which long made the 'Dublin EveningMail' one of the most formidable of Irish presscritics; but let us now pass to the considerationof him in the capacity of a novelist, and inparticular as the author of 'Uncle Silas.'

There are evidences in 'Shamus O'Brien,' andeven in 'Phaudrig Croohore,' of a power overthe mysterious, the grotesque, and the horrible,which so singularly distinguish him as a writerof prose fiction.

'Uncle Silas,' the fairest as well as mostfamiliar instance of this enthralling spell over

his readers, is too well known a story to tell indetail. But how intensely and painfully distinctis the opening description of the silent, inflexibleAustin Ruthyn of Knowl, and his shy, sweetdaughter Maude, the one so resolutely confidentin his brother's honour, the other so romanticallyand yet anxiously interested in her uncle--thesudden arrival of Dr. Bryerly, the strangeSwedenborgian, followed by the equally unexpectedapparition of Madame de la Rougiere,Austin Ruthyn's painful death, and the reading of his strangewill consigning poor Maude tothe protection of her unknown Uncle Silas--hercousin, good, bright devoted Monica Knollys, andher dreadful distrust of Silas--Bartram Haughand its uncanny occupants, and foremost amongstthem Uncle Silas.

This is his portrait:

'A face like marble, with a fearful monumentallook, and for an old man, singularlyvivid, strange eyes, the singularity of whichrather grew upon me as I looked; for hiseyebrows were still black, though his hairdescended from his temples in long locks of thepurest silver and fine as silk, nearly to hisshoulders.

'He rose, tall and slight, a little stooped, allin 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 ofthis apparition, drawn, as it seemed, in blackand white, venerable, bloodless, fiery-eyed, withits singular look of power, and an expression sobewildering--was it derision, or anguish, orcruelty, or patience?

'The wild eyes of this strange old man werefixed on me as he rose; an habitual contraction,which in certain lights took the character of ascowl, did not relax as he advanced towards mewith a thin-lipped smile.'

Old Dicken and his daughter Beauty, oldL'Amour and Dudley Ruthyn, now enter uponthe scene, each a fresh shadow to deepen itsalready sombre hue, while the gloom gathers inspite of the glimpse of sunshine shot through itby the visit to Elverston. Dudley's brutalencounter with Captain Oakley, and vile persecutionof poor Maude till his love marriage comes tolight, lead us on to the ghastly catastrophe, thehideous conspiracy of Silas and his son againstthe life of the innocent girl.

It is interesting to know that the germ ofUncle Silas first appeared in the 'DublinUniversity Magazine' of 1837 or 1838, as theshort tale, entitled, 'A Passage from the SecretHistory of an Irish Countess,' which is printedin this collection of Stories. It next was publishedas 'The Murdered Cousin' in a collection ofChristmas stories, and finally developed into thethree-volume novel we have just noticed.

There are about Le Fanu's narratives touchesof nature which reconcile us to their alwaysremarkable and often supernatural incidents.His characters are well conceived and distinctlydrawn, and strong soliloquy and easy dialoguespring unaffectedly from their lips. He is a closeobserver of Nature, and reproduces her wildereffects of storm and gloom with singularvividness; while he is equally at home in hisdescriptions of still life, some of which remindus of the faithfully minute detail of old Dutchpictures.

Mr. Wilkie Collins, amongst our livingnovelists, best compares with Le Fanu. Both ofthese writers are remarkable for the ingeniousmystery with which they develop their plots, andfor the absorbing, if often over-sensational, natureof their incidents; but whilst Mr. Collins excitesand fascinates our attention by an intense powerof realism which carries us with unreasoninghaste from cover to cover of his works, Le

Fanu is an idealist, full of high imagination,and an artist who devotes deep attention to themost delicate detail in his portraiture of menand women, and his descriptions of the outdoorand indoor worlds--a writer, therefore,through whose pages it would be often anindignity to hasten. And this more leisurely,and certainly more classical, conduct of hisstories makes us remember them more fully andfaithfully than those of the author of the'Woman in White.' Mr. Collins is generallydramatic, and sometimes stagy, in his effects.Le Fanu, while less careful to arrange his plots,so as to admit of their being readily adaptedfor the stage, often surprises us by scenes of somuch greater tragic intensity that we cannotbut lament that he did not, as Mr. Collins hasdone, attempt the drama, and so furnish anotherground of comparison with his fellow-countryman,Maturin (also, if we mistake not, of Frenchorigin), whom, in his writings, Le Fanu farmore closely resembles than Mr. Collins, as amaster of the darker and stronger emotions ofhuman character. But, to institute a broaderground of comparison between Le Fanu andMr. Collins, whilst the idiosyncrasies of theformer's characters, however immaterial thosecharacters may be, seem always to suggest theminutest detail of his story, the latter wouldappear to consider plot as the prime, characteras a subsidiary element in the art of novelwriting.

Those who possessed the rare privilege of LeFanu's friendship, and only they, can form anyidea of the true character of the man; for afterthe death of his wife, to whom he was mostdeeply devoted, he quite forsook general society,in which his fine features, distinguished bearing,and charm of conversation marked him out asthe beau-ideal of an Irish wit and scholar ofthe old school.

From this society he vanished so entirely thatDublin, always ready with a nickname, dubbed

him 'The Invisible Prince;' and indeed he wasfor long almost invisible, except to his familyand most familiar friends, unless at odd hoursof the evening, when he might occasionally beseen stealing, like the ghost of his former self,between his newspaper office and his home inMerrion Square; sometimes, too, he was to beencountered in an old out-of-the-way bookshopporing over some rare black letter Astrology orDemonology.

To one of these old bookshops he was at onetime a pretty frequent visitor, and the booksellerrelates how he used to come in and ask withhis peculiarly pleasant voice and smile, 'Anymore ghost stories for me, Mr. -----?' andhow, on a fresh one being handed to him, hewould seldom leave the shop until he had lookedit through. This taste for the supernaturalseems to have grown upon him after his wife'sdeath, and influenced him so deeply that, had henot been possessed of a deal of shrewd commonsense, there might have been danger of hisembracing some of the visionary doctrines in whichhe was so learned. But no! even Spiritualism,to which not a few of his brother novelistssuccumbed, whilst affording congenial material forour artist of the superhuman to work upon, didnot escape his severest satire.

Shortly after completing his last novel, strangeto say, bearing the title 'Willing to Die,' LeFanu 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 briefmemoir of him in the 'Dublin UniversityMagazine,' 'who thought deeply, especially onreligious subjects. To those who knew him hewas very dear; they admired him for hislearning, his sparkling wit, and pleasantconversation, and loved him for his manly virtues, forhis noble and generous qualities, his gentleness,and his loving, affectionate nature.' And allwho knew the man must feel how deeply deserved

are these simple words of sincere regard forJoseph Sheridan Le Fanu.

Le Fanu's novels are accessible to all; buthis Purcell Papers are now for the first timecollected and published, by the permission of hiseldest son (the late Mr. Philip Le Fanu), andvery much owing to the friendly and activeassistance of his brother, Mr. William Le Fanu.

THE PURCELL PAPERS.

THE GHOST AND THE BONE SETTER.

In looking over the papers of mylate valued and respected friend,Francis Purcell, who for nearlyfifty years discharged the arduous duties ofa parish priest in the south of Ireland, Imet with the following document. It isone of many such; for he was a curiousand industrious collector of old localtraditions--a commodity inwhich the quarterwhere he resided mightily abounded. Thecollection and arrangement of such legendswas, as long as I can remember him, hishobby; but I had never learned that hislove of the marvellous and whimsical hadcarried him so far as to prompt him tocommit the results of his inquiries towriting, until, in the character of residuarylegatee, his will put me in possession of allhis manuscript papers. To such as maythink the composing of such productionsas these inconsistent with the characterand habits of a country priest, it is necessaryto observe, that there did exist a raceof priests--those of the old school, a racenow nearly extinct--whose educationabroad tended to produce in them tastesmore literary than have yet been evinced

by the alumni of Maynooth.

It is perhaps necessary to add that thesuperstition illustrated by the followingstory, namely, that the corpse last buriedis obliged, during his juniority of interment,to supply his brother tenants of thechurchyard in which he lies, with freshwater to allay the burning thirst ofpurgatory, is prevalent throughout the south ofIreland.

The writer can vouch for a case inwhich a respectable and wealthy farmer,on the borders of Tipperary, in tendernessto the corns of his departed helpmate,enclosed in her coffin two pair of brogues, alight and a heavy, the one for dry, theother for sloppy weather; seeking thus tomitigate the fatigues of her inevitableperambulations in procuring water andadministering it to the thirsty souls ofpurgatory. Fierce and desperate conflictshave ensued in the case of two funeralparties approaching the same churchyardtogether, each endeavouring to secure tohis own dead priority of sepulture, and aconsequent immunity from the tax leviedupon the pedestrian powers of the last-comer. An instance not long sinceoccurred, in which one of two such parties,through fear of losing to their deceasedfriend this inestimable advantage, madetheir way to the churchyard by a short cut,and, in violation of one of their strongestprejudices, actually threw the coffin overthe wall, lest time should be lost in makingtheir entrance through the gate. Innumerableinstances of the same kind might bequoted, all tending to show how stronglyamong the peasantry of the south thissuperstition is entertained. However, Ishall not detain the reader further byany prefatory remarks, but shall proceedto lay before him the following:

Extract from the MS. Papers of the lateRev. Francis Purcell, of Drumcoolagh.

I tell the following particulars, asnearly as I can recollect them, in thewords of the narrator. It may be necessaryto observe that he was what is termeda well-spoken man, having for a considerabletime instructed the ingenious youthof his native parish in such of the liberalarts and sciences as he found it convenientto profess--a circumstance which may accountfor the occurrence of several bigwords in the course of this narrative, moredistinguished for euphonious effect thanfor correctness of application. I proceedthen, without further preface, to laybefore you the wonderful adventures ofTerry Neil.

'Why, thin, 'tis a quare story, an' asthrue as you're sittin' there; and I'd makebould to say there isn't a boy in the sevenparishes could tell it better nor cricktherthan myself, for 'twas my father himself ithappened to, an' many's the time I heerdit out iv his own mouth; an' I can say, an'I'm proud av that same, my father's wordwas as incredible as any squire's oath in thecounthry; and so signs an' if a poor mangot into any unlucky throuble, he wasthe boy id go into the court an' prove; butthat doesn't signify--he was as honest andas sober a man, barrin' he was a little bittoo partial to the glass, as you'd find in aday's walk; an' there wasn't the likes ofhim in the counthry round for nate labourin'an' baan diggin'; and he was mighty handyentirely for carpenther's work, and mendin' ould spudethrees, an' the likes i' that.An' so he tuk up with bone-settin', aswas most nathural, for none of them could

come up to him in mendin' the leg iv a stoolor a table; an' sure, there never was a bone-setter got so much custom-man an' child,young an' ould--there never was suchbreakin' and mendin' of bones known inthe memory of man. Well, Terry Neil--for that was my father's name--began tofeel his heart growin' light, and his purseheavy; an' he took a bit iv a farm in SquirePhelim'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 footto the ground, with broken arms and brokenlegs, id be comin' ramblin' in from all quartersto have their bones spliced up. Well,yer honour, all this was as well as well couldbe; but it was customary when Sir Phelimid go anywhere out iv the country, for someiv the tinants to sit up to watch in the ouldcastle, just for a kind of compliment to theould family--an' a mighty unplisant complimentit was for the tinants, for therewasn't a man of them but knew there wassomething quare about the ould castle. Theneighbours had it, that the squire's ouldgrandfather, as good a gintlenlan--God bewith him--as I heer'd, as ever stood inshoe-leather, used to keep walkin' about inthe middle iv the night, ever sinst hebursted a blood vessel pullin' out a corkout iv a bottle, as you or I might be doin',and will too, plase God--but that doesn'tsignify. So, as I was sayin', the ouldsquire used to come down out of theframe, where his picthur was hung up, andto break the bottles and glasses--God bemarciful to us all--an' dthrink all he couldcome at--an' small blame to him for thatsame; and then if any of the family id becomin' in, he id be up again in his place,looking as quite an' as innocent as if hedidn't know anything about it--themischievous 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, asusual, some of the tinants had to sit up inthe castle, and the third night it kem tomy father's turn. "Oh, tare an' ouns!"says he unto himself, "an' must I sit upall night, and that ould vagabone of asperit, glory be to God," says he,"serenadin' through the house, an' doin' allsorts iv mischief?" However, there wasno gettin' aff, and so he put a bould faceon it, an' he went up at nightfall with abottle of pottieen, and another of holywather.

'It was rainin' smart enough, an' theevenin' was darksome and gloomy, whenmy father got in; and what with the rainhe got, and the holy wather he sprinkledon himself, it wasn't long till he had toswally a cup iv the pottieen, to keep thecowld out iv his heart. It was the ouldsteward, Lawrence Connor, that openedthe door--and he an' my father woralways very great. So when he seen whoit was, an' my father tould him how itwas his turn to watch in the castle, heoffered to sit up along with him; and youmay be sure my father wasn't sorry forthat same. So says Larry:

' "We'll have a bit iv fire in theparlour," says he.

' "An' why not in the hall?" says myfather, for he knew that the squire'spicthur was hung in the parlour.

' "No fire can be lit in the hall," saysLawrence, "for there's an ould jackdaw'snest in the chimney."

' "Oh thin," says my father, "let usstop in the kitchen, for it's very unproperfor the likes iv me to be sittin' in the

parlour," says he.

' "Oh, Terry, that can't be," saysLawrence; "if we keep up the ouldcustom at all, we may as well keep it upproperly," says he.

' "Divil sweep the ould custom!" saysmy father--to himself, do ye mind, for hedidn't like to let Lawrence see that he wasmore afeard himself.

' "Oh, very well," says he. "I'magreeable, Lawrence," says he; and sodown they both wint to the kitchen, untilthe fire id be lit in the parlour--an' thatsame wasn't long doin'.

'Well, your honour, they soon wint upagain, an' sat down mighty comfortable bythe parlour fire, and they beginned to talk,an' to smoke, an' to dhrink a small taste ivthe pottieen; and, moreover, they had agood rousin' fire o' bogwood and turf, towarm their shins over.

'Well, sir, as I was sayin' they kep'convarsin' and smokin' together mostagreeable, until Lawrence beginn'd to getsleepy, as was but nathural for him, for hewas an ould sarvint man, and was used toa great dale iv sleep.

' "Sure it's impossible," says my father,"it's gettin' sleepy you are?"

' "Oh, divil a taste," says Larry; "I'monly shuttin' my eyes," says he, "to keepout the parfume o' the tibacky smoke,that's makin' them wather," says he."So don't you mind other people'sbusiness," says he, stiff enough, for he hada mighty high stomach av his own (resthis sowl), "and go on," says he, "withyour 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 ofJim Soolivan and his ould goat he wastellin'--an' a plisant story it is--an'there was so much divarsion in it, thatit was enough to waken a dormouse, letalone to pervint a Christian goin' asleep.But, faix, the way my father tould it, Ibelieve there never was the likes heerdsinst nor before, for he bawled out everyword av it, as if the life was fairlylavin' him, thrying to keep ould Larryawake; but, faix, it was no use, for thehoorsness came an him, an' before he kemto the end of his story Larry O'Connorbeginned to snore like a bagpipes.

' "Oh, blur an' agres," says my father,"isn't this a hard case," says he, "thatould villain, lettin' on to be my friend, andto go asleep this way, an' us both in thevery room with a sperit," says he. "Thecrass o' Christ about us!" says he; andwith that he was goin' to shake Lawrenceto waken him, but he just remimbered ifhe roused him, that he'd surely go off tohis bed, an' lave him complately alone, an'that id be by far worse.

' "Oh thin," says my father, "I'll notdisturb the poor boy. It id be neitherfriendly nor good-nathured," says he, "totormint 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 upan' down, an' sayin' his prayers, until heworked himself into a sweat, savin' yourpresence. But it was all no good; so hedthrunk about a pint of sperits, to composehis mind.

' "Oh," says he, "I wish to the Lord Iwas as asy in my mind as Larry there.Maybe," says he, "if I thried I could goasleep;" an' with that he pulled a big arm-chair close beside Lawrence, an' settledhimself in it as well as he could.

'But there was one quare thing I forgotto tell you. He couldn't help, in spiteav himself, lookin' now an' thin at thepicthur, an' he immediately obsarved thatthe eyes av it was follyin' him about, an'starin' at him, an' winkin' at him, wher-iver he wint. "Oh," says he, when heseen that, "it's a poor chance I have,"says he; "an' bad luck was with me theday I kem into this unforthunate place,"says he. "But any way there's no use inbein' freckened now," says he; "for if Iam to die, I may as well parspireundaunted," says he.

'Well, your honour, he thried to keephimself quite an' asy, an' he thought twoor three times he might have wint asleep,but for the way the storm was groanin'and creakin' through the great heavybranches outside, an' whistlin' through theould chimleys iv the castle. Well, aftherone great roarin' blast iv the wind, you'dthink the walls iv the castle was just goin'to fall, quite an' clane, with the shakin' ivit. All av a suddint the storm stopt, assilent an' as quite as if it was a Julyevenin'. Well, your honour, it wasn'tstopped blowin' for three minnites, beforehe thought he hard a sort iv a noise overthe chimley-piece; an' with that myfather just opened his eyes the smallesttaste in life, an' sure enough he seen theould squire gettin' out iv the picthur, forall the world as if he was throwin' aff hisridin' 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 fatherthought it was the dirtiest turn iv all--before he beginned to do anything out ivthe way, he stopped for a while to listenwor they both asleep; an' as soon as hethought all was quite, he put out his handand tuk hould iv the whisky bottle, andhrank at laste a pint iv it. Well, yourhonour, when he tuk his turn out iv it, hesettled it back mighty cute entirely, in thevery same spot it was in before. An' hebeginned to walk up an' down the room,lookin' as sober an' as solid as if he neverdone the likes at all. An' whinever hewent apast my father, he thought he felt agreat scent of brimstone, an' it was thatthat freckened him entirely; for he knewit was brimstone that was burned in hell,savin' your presence. At any rate, heoften heerd it from Father Murphy, an'he had a right to know what belonged toit--he's dead since, God rest him. Well,your honour, my father was asy enoughuntil the sperit kem past him; so close,God be marciful to us all, that the smell ivthe sulphur tuk the breath clane out ivhim; an' with that he tuk such a fit ivcoughin', that it al-a-most shuk him outiv 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'sin it?--an' how's all with you, TerryNeil?"

' "At your honour's sarvice," says myfather (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'rea respectable man" (an' it was thrue for

him), "an industhrious, sober man, an' anexample of inebriety to the whole parish,"says he.

' "Thank your honour," says my father,gettin' courage, "you were always a civilspoken gintleman, God rest your honour."

' "REST my honour?" says the sperit(fairly gettin' red in the face with themadness), "Rest my honour?" says he."Why, you ignorant spalpeen," says he,"you mane, niggarly ignoramush," sayshe, "where did you lave your manners?"says he. "If I AM dead, it's no fault ivmine," says he; "an' it's not to be thrunin my teeth at every hand's turn, by thelikes iv you," says he, stampin' his foot anthe flure, that you'd think the boords idsmash undther him.

' "Oh," says my father, "I'm only afoolish, ignorant poor man," says he.

' "You're nothing else," says the squire:"but any way," says he, "it's not to belistenin' to your gosther, nor convarsin'with the likes iv you, that I came UP--down I mane," says he--(an' as little asthe mistake was, my father tuk notice ivit). "Listen to me now, Terence Neil,"says he: "I was always a good mastherto Pathrick Neil, your grandfather," sayshe.

' " 'Tis thrue for your honour," says myfather.

' "And, moreover, I think I was alwaysa sober, riglar gintleman," says the squire.

' "That's your name, sure enough," saysmy father (though it was a big lie for him,but he could not help it).

' "Well," says the sperit, "although Iwas as sober as most men--at laste asmost gintlemin," says he; "an' though Iwas at different pariods a most extemporyChristian, and most charitable and inhumanto the poor," says he; "for all thatI'm not as asy where I am now," sayshe, "as I had a right to expect," says he.

' "An' more's the pity," says my father."Maybe your honour id wish to have aword with Father Murphy?"

' "Hould your tongue, you misherablebliggard," says the squire; "it's not ivmy sowl I'm thinkin'--an' I wondther you'dhave the impitence to talk to a gintlemanconsarnin' his sowl; and when I wantTHAT fixed," says he, slappin' his thigh,"I'll go to them that knows what belongsto 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 theday I killed black Barney."

'My father found out afther, it was afavourite horse that fell undher him, aftherleapin' the big fence that runs along by theglin.

' "I hope," says my father, "yourhonour's not unasy about the killin' ivhim?"

' "Hould your tongue, ye fool," said thesquire, "an' I'll tell you why I'm unasy onmy leg," says he. "In the place, where Ispend most iv my time," says he, "exceptthe little leisure I have for lookin' about mehere," says he, "I have to walk a great dalemore 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 ancommonlyfond iv cowld wather, for there is nothin'betther to be had; an', moreover, theweather is hotter than is altogether plisant,"says he; "and I'm appinted," says he,"to assist in carryin' the wather, an' getsa mighty poor share iv it myself," says he,"an' a mighty throublesome, wearin' job itis, I can tell you," says he; "for they'reall iv them surprisinly dthry, an' dthrinksit as fast as my legs can carry it," says he;"but what kills me intirely," says he, "isthe wakeness in my leg," says he, "an' Iwant you to give it a pull or two to bringit to shape," says he, "and that's the longan' the short iv it," says he.

' "Oh, plase your honour," says myfather (for he didn't like to handle thesperit at all), "I wouldn't have theimpidence to do the likes to your honour,"says he; "it's only to poor crathurs likemyself I'd do it to," says he.

' "None iv your blarney," says thesquire. "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 immortialpowers I'll not lave a bone in your carcishI'll not powdher," says he.

'When my father heerd that, he seenthere was no use in purtendin', so he tukhould iv the leg, an' he kep' pullin' an'pullin', till the sweat, God bless us, beginnedto pour down his face.

' "Pull, you divil!" says the squire.

' "At your sarvice, your honour," saysmy 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, "tokeep up my courage," says he, lettin' anto be very wake in himself intirely. But,as cute as he was, he was out here, for hetuk the wrong one. "Here's to yourgood health, Terence," says he; "an' nowpull like the very divil." An' with that helifted the bottle of holy wather, but it washardly to his mouth, whin he let a screechout, you'd think the room id fairly splitwith it, an' made one chuck that sent theleg clane aff his body in my father's hands.Down wint the squire over the table, an'bang wint my father half-way across theroom on his back, upon the flure. Whinhe kem to himself the cheerful mornin' sunwas shinin' through the windy shutthers,an' he was lying flat an his back, with theleg iv one of the great ould chairs pulledclane out iv the socket an' tight in hishand, pintin' up to the ceilin', an' ouldLarry fast asleep, an' snorin' as loud asever. My father wint that mornin' toFather Murphy, an' from that to the dayof his death, he never neglected confissionnor mass, an' what he tould was bettherbelieved that he spake av it but seldom.An', as for the squire, that is the sperit,whether it was that he did not like hisliquor, or by rason iv the loss iv his leg, hewas never known to walk agin.'

THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH.

Being a second Extract from the Papers of the lateFather Purcell.

'The earth hath bubbles as the water hath-- And these are of them.'

In the south of Ireland, and onthe borders of the county ofLimerick, there lies a district oftwo or three miles in length, which isrendered interesting by the fact that it isone of the very few spots throughout thiscountry, in which some vestiges ofaboriginal forest still remain. It haslittle or none of the lordly character ofthe American forest, for the axe has felledits oldest and its grandest trees; but inthe close wood which survives, live all thewild and pleasing peculiarities of nature:its complete irregularity, its vistas, inwhose perspective the quiet cattle arepeacefully browsing; its refreshing glades,where the grey rocks arise from amid thenodding fern; the silvery shafts of the oldbirch trees; the knotted trunks of thehoary oak, the grotesque but gracefulbranches which never shed their honoursunder the tyrant pruning-hook; the softgreen sward; the chequered light andshade; the wild luxuriant weeds; the lichenand the moss--all, all are beautiful alike inthe green freshness of spring, or in thesadness and sere of autumn. Their beautyis of that kind which makes the heart fullwith joy--appealing to the affections witha power which belongs to nature only.This wood runs up, from below the base,to the ridge of a long line of irregularhills, having perhaps, in primitive times,formed but the skirting of some mightyforest which occupied the level below.

But now, alas! whither have we drifted?whither has the tide of civilisation borneus? It has passed over a land unpreparedfor it--it has left nakedness behindit; we have lost our forests, but ourmarauders remain; we have destroyedall that is picturesque, while we haveretained everything that is revolting inbarbarism. Through the midst of this

woodland there runs a deep gully or glen,where the stillness of the scene is broken inupon 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 glenbecomes extremely deep and narrow; thesides descend to the depth of somehundred feet, and are so steep as to benearly perpendicular. The wild treeswhich have taken root in the crannies andchasms of the rock have so intersectedand entangled, that one can with difficultycatch a glimpse of the stream, whichwheels, flashes, and foams below, as ifexulting in the surrounding silence andsolitude.

This spot was not unwisely chosen, as apoint of no ordinary strength, for theerection of a massive square tower or keep,one side of which rises as if in continuationof the precipitous cliff on which it is based.Originally, the only mode of ingress wasby a narrow portal in the very wall whichovertopped the precipice, opening upon aledge of rock which afforded a precariouspathway, cautiously intersected, however,by a deep trench cut with great labourin the living rock; so that, in its originalstate, and before the introduction ofartillery into the art of war, this towermight have been pronounced, and that notpresumptuously, almost impregnable.

The progress of improvement and theincreasing security of the times had,however, tempted its successive proprietors, ifnot to adorn, at least to enlarge theirpremises, and at about the middle of thelast century, when the castle was lastinhabited, the original square tower formedbut a small part of the edifice.

The castle, and a wide tract of the sur-rounding country, had from time immemorialbelonged to a family which, fordistinctness, we shall call by the name ofArdagh; and owing to the associationswhich, in Ireland, almost always attach toscenes which have long witnessed alike theexercise of stern feudal authority, and ofthat savage hospitality which distinguishedthe good old times, this building hasbecome the subject and the scene of many wildand extraordinary traditions. One of themI have been enabled, by a personal acquaintancewith an eye-witness of the events, totrace to its origin; and yet it is hard to saywhether the events which I am about torecord appear more strange or improbableas seen through the distorting medium oftradition, or in the appalling dimnessof uncertainty which surrounds thereality.

Tradition says that, sometime in thelast century, Sir Robert Ardagh, a youngman, and the last heir of that family, wentabroad and served in foreign armies; andthat, having acquired considerable honourand emolument, he settled at CastleArdagh, the building we have just nowattempted to describe. He was what thecountry people call a DARK man; that is,he was considered morose, reserved, andill-tempered; and, as it was supposed fromthe utter solitude of his life, was upon noterms of cordiality with the other membersof his family.

The only occasion upon which he brokethrough the solitary monotony of his lifewas during the continuance of the racingseason, and immediately subsequent to it;at which time he was to be seen amongthe busiest upon the course, betting deeplyand unhesitatingly, and invariably withsuccess. Sir Robert was, however, too

well known as a man of honour, and of toohigh a family, to be suspected of any unfairdealing. He was, moreover, a soldier,and a man of an intrepid as well as of ahaughty character; and no one cared tohazard a surmise, the consequences ofwhich would be felt most probably by itsoriginator only.

Gossip, however, was not silent; it wasremarked that Sir Robert never appearedat the race-ground, which was the onlyplace of public resort which he frequented,except in company with a certain strange-looking person, who was never seenelsewhere, or under other circumstances. Itwas remarked, too, that this man, whoserelation to Sir Robert was never distinctlyascertained, was the only person to whomhe seemed to speak unnecessarily; it wasobserved that while with the countrygentry he exchanged no further communicationthan what was unavoidable inarranging his sporting transactions, withthis person he would converse earnestlyand frequently. Tradition asserts that, toenhance the curiosity which this unaccountableand exclusive preference excited, thestranger possessed some striking andunpleasant peculiarities of person and of garb--she does not say, however, what thesewere--but they, in conjunction with SirRobert's secluded habits and extraordinaryrun of luck--a success which was supposedto result from the suggestions andimmediate advice of the unknown--weresufficient to warrant report in pronouncingthat there was something QUEER in thewind, and in surmising that Sir Robertwas playing a fearful and a hazardous game,and that, in short, his strange companionwas little better than the devil himself

Years, however, rolled quietly away,and nothing novel occurred in the arrangements

of Castle Ardagh, excepting thatSir Robert parted with his odd companion,but as nobody could tell whence hecame, so nobody could say whither he hadgone. Sir Robert's habits, however,underwent no consequent change; hecontinued regularly to frequent the racemeetings, without mixing at all in theconvivialities of the gentry, andimmediately afterwards to relapse into thesecluded monotony of his ordinary life.

It was said that he had accumulatedvast sums of money--and, as his bets werealways successful, and always large, suchmust have been the case. He did notsuffer the acquisition of wealth, however,to influence his hospitality or hishousekeeping--he neither purchased land, norextended his establishment; and his modeof enjoying his money must have beenaltogether that of the miser--consistingmerely in the pleasure of touching andtelling his gold, and in the consciousnessof wealth.

Sir Robert's temper, so far fromimproving, became more than ever gloomy andmorose. He sometimes carried the indulgenceof his evil dispositions to such aheight that it bordered upon insanity.During these paroxysms he would neithereat, drink, nor sleep. On such occasionshe insisted on perfect privacy, even fromthe intrusion of his most trusted servants;his voice was frequently heard, sometimesin earnest supplication, sometimeas if in loud and angry altercation withsome unknown visitant; sometimes hewould, for hours together, walk to and frothroughout the long oak wainscotedapartment, which he generally occupied,with wild gesticulations and agitated pace,in the manner of one who has been rousedto a state of unnatural excitement by some

sudden and appalling intimation.

These paroxysms of apparent lunacywere so frightful, that during theircontinuance even his oldest and most-faithfuldomestics dared not approach him;consequently, his hours of agony were neverintruded upon, and the mysterious causesof his sufferings appeared likely to remainhidden for ever.

On one occasion a fit of this kindcontinued for an unusual time, the ordinaryterm of their duration--about twodays--had been long past, and the oldservant who generally waited upon SirRobert after these visitations, having invain listened for the well-known tinkle ofhis master's hand-bell, began to feelextremely anxious; he feared that his mastermight have died from sheer exhaustion, orperhaps put an end to his own existenceduring his miserable depression. Thesefears at length became so strong, thathaving in vain urged some of his brotherservants to accompany him, he determinedto go up alone, and himself see whetherany accident had befallen Sir Robert.

He traversed the several passages whichconducted from the new to the moreancient parts of the mansion, and havingarrived in the old hall of the castle, theutter silence of the hour, for it was verylate in the night, the idea of the nature ofthe enterprise in which he was engaginghimself, a sensation of remoteness fromanything like human companionship, but,more than all, the vivid but undefinedanticipation of something horrible, cameupon him with such oppressive weight thathe hesitated as to whether he shouldproceed. Real uneasiness, however, respectingthe fate of his master, for whom he feltthat kind of attachment which the force of

habitual intercourse not unfrequentlyengenders respecting objects not in themselvesamiable, and also a latent unwillingnessto expose his weakness to the ridiculeof his fellow-servants, combined to overcomehis reluctance; and he had just placedhis foot upon the first step of the staircasewhich conducted to his master's chamber,when his attention was arrested by a lowbut distinct knocking at the hall-door.Not, perhaps, very sorry at finding thusan excuse even for deferring his intendedexpedition, he placed the candle upon astone block which lay in the hall, andapproached the door, uncertain whether hisears had not deceived him. This doubtwas justified by the circumstance that thehall entrance had been for nearly fifty yearsdisused as a mode of ingress to the castle.The situation of this gate also, which wehave endeavoured to describe, openingupon a narrow ledge of rock which overhangsa perilous cliff, rendered it at alltimes, but particularly at night, a dangerousentrance. This shelving platform ofrock, which formed the only avenue to thedoor, was divided, as I have already stated,by a broad chasm, the planks across whichhad long disappeared by decay or otherwise,so that it seemed at least highly im-probable that any man could have foundhis way across the passage in safety to thedoor, more particularly on a night likethat, of singular darkness. The old man,therefore, listened attentively, to ascertainwhether the first application should befollowed by another. He had not long towait; the same low but singularly distinctknocking was repeated; so low that itseemed as if the applicant had employedno harder or heavier instrument than hishand, and yet, despite the immense thicknessof the door, with such strength thatthe sound was distinctly audible.

The knock was repeated a third time,without any increase of loudness; and the oldman, obeying an impulse for which to hisdying hour he could never account, proceededto remove, one by one, the three great oakenbars which secured the door. Time anddamp had effectually corroded the ironchambers of the lock, so that it affordedlittle resistance. With some effort, as hebelieved, assisted from without, the oldservant succeeded in opening the door;and a low, square-built figure, apparentlythat of a man wrapped in a large blackcloak, entered the hall. The servant couldnot see much of this visitant with anydistinctness; his dress appeared foreign, theskirt of his ample cloak was thrown overone shoulder; he wore a large felt hat,with a very heavy leaf, from under whichescaped what appeared to be a mass oflong sooty-black hair; his feet were casedin heavy riding-boots. Such were the fewparticulars which the servant had time andlight to observe. The stranger desiredhim to let his master know instantly thata friend had come, by appointment, tosettle some business with him. The servanthesitated, but a slight motion on thepart of his visitor, as if to possess himselfof the candle, determined him; so, takingit in his hand, he ascended the castle stairs,leaving his guest in the hall.

On reaching the apartment which openedupon the oak-chamber he was surprised toobserve the door of that room partly open,and the room itself lit up. He paused, butthere was no sound; he looked in, and sawSir Robert, his head and the upper partof his body reclining on a table, uponwhich burned a lamp; his arms werestretched forward on either side, andperfectly motionless; it appeared that, havingbeen sitting at the table, he had thus sunkforward, either dead or in a swoon. There

was no sound of breathing; all was silent,except the sharp ticking of a watch, whichlay beside the lamp. The servant coughedtwice or thrice, but with no effect; hisfears now almost amounted to certainty,and he was approaching the table on whichhis master partly lay, to satisfy himself ofhis death, when Sir Robert slowly raisedhis head, and throwing himself back in hischair, fixed his eyes in a ghastly anduncertain gaze upon his attendant. At lengthhe said, slowly and painfully, as if hedreaded the answer:

'In God's name, what are you?"

'Sir,' said the servant, 'a strange gentlemanwants to see you below.'

At this intimation Sir Robert, startingon his feet and tossing his arms wildlyupwards, uttered a shriek of such appallingand despairing terror that it was almosttoo fearful for human endurance; and longafter the sound had ceased it seemed tothe terrified imagination of the old servantto roll through the deserted passages inbursts of unnatural laughter. After a fewmoments Sir Robert said:

'Can't you send him away? Why doeshe come so soon? O God! O God! lethim 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 notstrength. O God! O God! let him comeback in an hour; it is not long to wait.He cannot lose anything by it; nothing,nothing, nothing. Tell him that; sayanything to him.'

The servant went down. In his ownwords, he did not feel the stairs under himtill he got to the hall. The figure stoodexactly 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 tome, I must go up to him.'

The man returned, and to his surprisehe found his master much more composedin manner. He listened to the message,and though the cold perspiration rose indrops upon his forehead faster than hecould wipe it away, his manner had lostthe dreadful agitation which had markedit before. He rose feebly, and casting alast look of agony behind him, passed fromthe room to the lobby, where he signed tohis attendant not to follow him. The manmoved as far as the head of the staircase,from whence he had a tolerably distinctview of the hall, which was imperfectlylighted by the candle he had left there.

He saw his master reel, rather thanwalk down the stairs, clinging all the wayto the banisters. He walked on, as ifabout to sink every moment from weakness.The figure advanced as if to meethim, and in passing struck down the light.The servant could see no more; but therewas a sound of struggling, renewed atintervals with silent but fearful energy. Itwas evident, however, that the partieswere approaching the door, for he heardthe solid oak sound twice or thrice, as thefeet of the combatants, in shuffling hitherand thither over the floor, struck upon it.After a slight pause he heard the doorthrown open with such violence that theleaf seemed to strike the side-wall of thehall, for it was so dark without that thiscould only be surmised by the sound.The struggle was renewed with an agonyand intenseness of energy that betrayeditself in deep-drawn gasps. One desperateeffort, which terminated in the breaking of

some part of the door, producing a soundas if the door-post was wrenched from itsposition, was followed by another wrestle,evidently upon the narrow ledge which ranoutside the door, overtopping the precipice.This proved to be the final struggle, for itwas followed by a crashing sound as if someheavy body had fallen over, and was rushingdown the precipice, through the lightboughs that crossed near the top. Allthen became still as the grave, except whenthe moan of the night wind sighed up thewooded glen.

The old servant had not nerve to returnthrough the hall, and to him the darknessseemed all but endless; but morning atlength came, and with it the disclosure ofthe 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 almostsuperhuman effort--one which nothing butthe gripe of a despairing man could havesevered--and on the rock outside were leftthe marks of the slipping and sliding offeet.

At the foot of the precipice, notimmediately under the castle, but dragged someway up the glen, were found the remainsof Sir Robert, with hardly a vestige of alimb or feature left distinguishable. Theright hand, however, was uninjured, andin its fingers were clutched, with thefixedness of death, a long lock of coarsesooty hair--the only direct circumstantialevidence of the presence of a second person.So says tradition.

This story, as I have mentioned, wascurrent among the dealers in such lore;but the original facts are so dissimilar inall but the name of the principal person

mentioned and his mode of life, and thefact that his death was accompanied withcircumstances of extraordinary mystery,that the two narratives are totallyirreconcilable (even allowing the utmost forthe exaggerating influence of tradition),except by supposing report to have combinedand blended together the fabuloushistories of several distinct bearers ofthe family name. However this may be,I shall lay before the reader a distinctrecital of the events from which the foregoingtradition arose. With respect tothese there can be no mistake; they areauthenticated as fully as anything can beby human testimony; and I state themprincipally upon the evidence of a ladywho herself bore a prominent part in thestrange events which she related, andwhich I now record as being among thefew well-attested tales of the marvellouswhich it has been my fate to hear. Ishall, as far as I am able, arrange in onecombined narrative the evidence of severaldistinct persons who were eye-witnesses ofwhat they related, and with the truth ofwhose testimony I am solemnly and deeplyimpressed.

Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to callhim, was the heir and representative of thefamily whose name he bore; but owing to theprodigality of his father, the estates descendedto him in a very impaired condition. Urgedby the restless spirit of youth, or moreprobably by a feeling of pride which could notsubmit to witness, in the paternal mansion,what he considered a humiliating alterationin the style and hospitality which up tothat time had distinguished his family,Sir Robert left Ireland and went abroad.How he occupied himself, or what countrieshe visited during his absence, was neverknown, nor did he afterwards make anyallusion or encourage any inquiries touching

his foreign sojourn. He left Irelandin the year 1742, being then just of age,and was not heard of until the year 1760--about eighteen years afterwards--atwhich time he returned. His personalappearance was, as might have beenexpected, very greatly altered, more altered,indeed, than the time of his absence mighthave warranted one in supposing likely.But to counterbalance the unfavourablechange which time had wrought in hisform and features, he had acquired all theadvantages of polish of manner and refinementof taste which foreign travel is sup-posed to bestow. But what was trulysurprising was that it soon became evidentthat Sir Robert was very wealthy--wealthy to an extraordinary and unaccountabledegree; and this fact was mademanifest, not only by his expensive styleof living, but by his proceeding to dis-embarrass his property, and to purchaseextensive estates in addition. Moreover,there could be nothing deceptive in theseappearances, for he paid ready money foreverything, from the most important purchaseto the most trifling.

Sir Robert was a remarkably agreeableman, and possessing the combined advantagesof birth and property, he was, as amatter of course, gladly received into thehighest society which the metropolis thencommanded. It was thus that he becameacquainted with the two beautiful MissF----ds, then among the brightest ornamentsof the highest circle of Dublinfashion. Their family was in more thanone direction allied to nobility; and LadyD----, their elder sister by many years,and sometime married to a once well-known nobleman, was now their protectress.These considerations, beside thefact that the young ladies were what isusually termed heiresses, though not to a

very great amount, secured to them a highposition in the best society which Irelandthen produced. The two young ladiesdiffered strongly, alike in appearance andin character. The elder of the two, Emily,was generally considered the handsomer--for her beauty was of that impressive kindwhich never failed to strike even at the firstglance, possessing as it did all the advantagesof a fine person and a commandingcarriage. The beauty of her featuresstrikingly assorted in character with thatof her figure and deportment. Her hairwas raven-black and richly luxuriant,beautifully contrasting with the perfectwhiteness of her forehead--her finelypencilled brows were black as the ringlets thatclustered near them--and her blue eyes, full,lustrous, and animated, possessed all thepower and brilliancy of brown ones, withmore than their softness and variety ofexpression. She was not, however, merelythe tragedy queen. When she smiled,and that was not seldom, the dimplingof cheek and chin, the laughing displayof the small and beautiful teeth--but,more than all, the roguish archness of herdeep, bright eye, showed that nature hadnot neglected in her the lighter and thesofter characteristics of woman.

Her younger sister Mary was, as Ibelieve not unfrequently occurs in the caseof sisters, quite in the opposite style ofbeauty. She was light-haired, had morecolour, had nearly equal grace, with muchmore liveliness of manner. Her eyes wereof that dark grey which poets so muchadmire--full of expression and vivacity.She was altogether a very beautiful andanimated girl--though as unlike her sisteras the presence of those two qualitieswould permit her to be. Their dissimilaritydid not stop here--it was deeperthan mere appearance--the character of

their minds differed almost as strikinglyas did their complexion. The fair-hairedbeauty had a large proportion of thatsoftness and pliability of temper whichphysiognomists assign as the characteristics ofsuch complexions. She was much morethe creature of impulse than of feeling,and consequently more the victim ofextrinsic circumstances than was her sister.Emily, on the contrary, possessed considerablefirmness and decision. She was lessexcitable, but when excited her feelingswere more intense and enduring. Shewanted much of the gaiety, but with itthe volatility of her younger sister. Heropinions were adopted, and her friendshipsformed more reflectively, and her affectionsseemed to move, as it were, more slowly,but more determinedly. This firmness ofcharacter did not amount to anythingmasculine, and did not at all impair thefeminine grace of her manners.

Sir Robert Ardagh was for a long timeapparently equally attentive to the twosisters, and many were the conjectures andthe surmises as to which would be the ladyof his choice. At length, however, thesedoubts were determined; he proposed forand was accepted by the dark beauty,Emily F----d.

The bridals were celebrated in a mannerbecoming the wealth and connections ofthe parties; and Sir Robert and LadyArdagh left Dublin to pass the honeymoonat the family mansion, CastleArdagh, which had lately been fitted upin a style bordering upon magnificent.Whether in compliance with the wishesof his lady, or owing to some whim of hisown, his habits were henceforward strikinglyaltered; and from having movedamong the gayest if not the mostprofligate 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 sojournswere as brief as the nature of his businesswould permit.

Lady Ardagh, however, did not sufferfrom this change further than in beingsecluded from general society; for SirRobert's wealth, and the hospitality whichhe had established in the family mansion,commanded that of such of his lady'sfriends and relatives as had leisure orinclination to visit the castle; and as theirstyle of living was very handsome, and itsinternal resources of amusement considerable,few invitations from Sir Robert orhis lady were neglected.

Many years passed quietly away, duringwhich Sir Robert's and Lady Ardagh'shopes of issue were several timesdisappointed. In the lapse of all this timethere occurred but one event worthrecording. Sir Robert had brought withhim from abroad a valet, who sometimesprofessed himself to be French, atothers Italian, and at others againGerman. He spoke all these languageswith equal fluency, and seemed to take akind of pleasure in puzzling the sagacityand balking the curiosity of such of thevisitors at the castle as at any timehappened to enter into conversation with him,or who, struck by his singularities, becameinquisitive respecting his country andorigin. Sir Robert called him by theFrench name, JACQUE, and among thelower orders he was familiarly known bythe title of 'Jack, the devil,' an appellationwhich originated in a supposed malignityof disposition and a real reluctance tomix in the society of those who werebelieved to be his equals. This morosereserve, coupled with the mystery which

enveloped all about him, rendered him anobject of suspicion and inquiry to hisfellow-servants, amongst whom it waswhispered that this man in secretgoverned the actions of Sir Robert witha despotic dictation, and that, as if toindemnify himself for his public andapparent servitude and self-denial, he inprivate exacted a degree of respectfulhomage from his so-called master, totallyinconsistent with the relation generallysupposed to exist between them.

This man's personal appearance was, tosay the least of it, extremely odd; he waslow in stature; and this defect wasenhanced by a distortion of the spine, soconsiderable as almost to amount to a hunch;his features, too, had all that sharpness andsickliness of hue which generally accompanydeformity; he wore his hair, whichwas black as soot, in heavy neglected ringletsabout his shoulders, and always withoutpowder--a peculiarity in those days. Therewas something unpleasant, too, in thecircumstance that he never raised hiseyes to meet those of another; this factwas often cited as a proof of his beingsomething not quite right, and said toresult not from the timidity which issupposed in most cases to induce this habit,but from a consciousness that his eyepossessed a power which, if exhibited, wouldbetray a supernatural origin. Once, andonce only, had he violated this sinisterobservance: it was on the occasion of SirRobert's hopes having been most bitterlydisappointed; his lady, after a severe anddangerous confinement, gave birth to adead child. Immediately after the intelligencehad been made known, a servant,having upon some business passed outsidethe gate of the castle-yard, was met byJacque, who, contrary to his wont, accostedhim, observing, 'So, after all the pother,

the son and heir is still-born.' Thisremark was accompanied by a chucklinglaugh, the only approach to merrimentwhich he was ever known to exhibit.The servant, who was really disappointed,having hoped for holiday times, feasting anddebauchery with impunity during therejoicings which would have accompanied achristening, turned tartly upon the littlevalet, telling him that he should let SirRobert know how he had received thetidings which should have filled any faithfulservant with sorrow; and having oncebroken the ice, he was proceeding withincreasing fluency, when his harangue wascut short and his temerity punished, bythe little man raising his head and treatinghim to a scowl so fearful, half-demoniac,half-insane, that it haunted his imaginationin nightmares and nervous tremorsfor months after.

To this man Lady Ardagh had, at firstsight, conceived an antipathy amounting tohorror, a mixture of loathing and dread sovery powerful that she had made it aparticular and urgent request to Sir Robert,that he would dismiss him, offering herself,from that property which Sir Robert hadby the marriage settlements left at her owndisposal, to provide handsomely for him,provided only she might be relieved fromthe continual anxiety and discomfortwhich the fear of encountering him induced.

Sir Robert, however, would not hear ofit; the request seemed at first to agitateand distress him; but when still urged indefiance of his peremptory refusal, he burstinto a violent fit of fury; he spoke darklyof great sacrifices which he had made, andthreatened that if the request were at anytime renewed he would leave both her andthe country for ever. This was, however,a solitary instance of violence; his general

conduct towards Lady Ardagh, though atno time uxorious, was certainly kind andrespectful, and he was more than repaidin the fervent attachment which she borehim in return.

Some short time after this strangeinterview between Sir Robert and LadyArdagh; one night after the family hadretired to bed, and when everything hadbeen quiet for some time, the bell of SirRobert's dressing-room rang suddenly andviolently; the ringing was repeated againand again at still shorter intervals, andwith increasing violence, as if the personwho pulled the bell was agitated by thepresence of some terrifying and imminentdanger. A servant named Donovan wasthe first to answer it; he threw on hisclothes, and hurried to the room.

Sir Robert had selected for his privateroom an apartment remote from the bed-chambers of the castle, most of which layin the more modern parts of the mansion,and secured at its entrance by a doubledoor. As the servant opened the first ofthese, Sir Robert's bell again sounded witha longer and louder peal; the inner doorresisted his efforts to open it; but aftera few violent struggles, not having beenperfectly secured, or owing to the inadequacyof the bolt itself, it gave way, andthe servant rushed into the apartment,advancing several paces before he couldrecover himself. As he entered, he heardSir Robert's voice exclaiming loudly--'Wait without, do not come in yet;'but the prohibition came too late. Neara low truckle-bed, upon which Sir Robertsometimes slept, for he was a whimsicalman, in a large armchair, sat, or ratherlounged, the form of the valet Jacque, hisarms folded, and his heels stretchedforward on the floor, so as fully to exhibit his

misshapen legs, his head thrown back, andhis eyes fixed upon his master with a lookof indescribable defiance and derision, while,as if to add to the strange insolence of hisattitude and expression, he had placed uponhis head the black cloth cap which it washis habit to wear.

Sir Robert was standing before him, atthe distance of several yards, in a postureexpressive of despair, terror, and whatmight be called an agony of humility.He waved his hand twice or thrice, as ifto dismiss the servant, who, however,remained fixed on the spot where he hadfirst stood; and then, as if forgettingeverything but the agony within him, he pressedhis clenched hands on his cold damp brow,and dashed away the heavy drops thatgathered chill and thickly there.

Jacque broke the silence.

'Donovan,' said he, 'shake up thatdrone and drunkard, Carlton; tell himthat his master directs that the travellingcarriage shall be at the door within half-an-hour.'

The servant paused, as if in doubt as towhat he should do; but his scruples wereresolved by Sir Robert's saying hurriedly,'Go--go, do whatever he directs; hiscommands are mine; tell Carlton thesame.'

The servant hurried to obey, and inabout half-an-hour the carriage was at thedoor, and Jacque, having directed thecoachman to drive to B----n, a smalltown at about the distance of twelvemiles--the nearest point, however, atwhich post-horses could be obtained--stepped into the vehicle, which accordinglyquitted the castle immediately.

Although it was a fine moonlight night,the carriage made its way but very slowly,and after the lapse of two hours the travellershad arrived at a point about eight milesfrom the castle, at which the road strikesthrough a desolate and heathy flat, slopingup distantly at either side into bleakundulatory hills, in whose monotonous sweepthe imagination beholds the heaving ofsome dark sluggish sea, arrested in itsfirst commotion by some preternaturalpower. It is a gloomy and divested spot;there is neither tree nor habitation near it;its monotony is unbroken, except by hereand there the grey front of a rock peeringabove the heath, and the effect is renderedyet more dreary and spectral by theexaggerated and misty shadows which themoon casts along the sloping sides of thehills.

When they had gained about thecentre of this tract, Carlton, the coachman,was surprised to see a figure standingat some distance in advance, immediatelybeside the road, and still more so when,on coming up, he observed that it was noother than Jacque whom he believed tobe at that moment quietly seated in thecarriage; the coachman drew up, andnodding to him, the little valet exclaimed:

'Carlton, I have got the start of you;the roads are heavy, so I shall even takecare of myself the rest of the way. Doyou make your way back as best you can,and I shall follow my own nose.'

So saying, he chucked a purse into thelap of the coachman, and turning off at aright angle with the road, he began tomove rapidly away in the direction of thedark ridge that lowered in the distance.

The servant watched him until he waslost in the shadowy haze of night; andneither he nor any of the inmates of thecastle saw Jacque again. His disappearance,as might have been expected, did not causeany regret among the servants and dependantsat the castle; and Lady Ardaghdid not attempt to conceal her delight;but with Sir Robert matters were different,for two or three days subsequent to thisevent he confined himself to his room, andwhen he did return to his ordinaryoccupations, it was with a gloomy indifference,which showed that he did so more fromhabit than from any interest he felt inthem. He appeared from that momentunaccountably and strikingly changed, andthenceforward walked through life as athing from which he could derive neitherprofit nor pleasure. His temper, however,so far from growing wayward ormorose, became, though gloomy, very--almost unnaturally--placid and cold; buthis spirits totally failed, and he grew silentand abstracted.

These sombre habits of mind, as mighthave been anticipated, very materiallyaffected the gay house-keeping of thecastle; and the dark and melancholyspirit of its master seemed to havecommunicated itself to the very domestics,almost to the very walls of the mansion.

Several years rolled on in this way, andthe sounds of mirth and wassail had longbeen strangers to the castle, when SirRobert requested his lady, to her greatastonishment, to invite some twenty orthirty of their friends to spend the Christmas,which was fast approaching, at thecastle. Lady Ardagh gladly complied,and her sister Mary, who still continuedunmarried, and Lady D---- were ofcourse included in the invitations. Lady

Ardagh had requested her sisters to setforward as early as possible, in order thatshe might enjoy a little of their societybefore the arrival of the other guests;and in compliance with this request theyleft Dublin almost immediately uponreceiving the invitation, a little more thana week before the arrival of the festivalwhich was to be the period at which thewhole party were to muster.

For expedition's sake it was arrangedthat they should post, while Lady D----'sgroom was to follow with her horses,she taking with herself her own maid andone male servant. They left the citywhen the day was considerably spent, andconsequently made but three stages inthe first day; upon the second, at abouteight in the evening, they had reached thetown of K----k, distant about fifteenmiles from Castle Ardagh. Here, owingto Miss F----d's great fatigue, she havingbeen for a considerable time in a verydelicate state of health, it was determinedto put up for the night. They, accord-ingly, took possession of the best sitting-room which the inn commanded, and LadyD----remained in it to direct and urgethe preparations for some refreshment,which the fatigues of the day had renderednecessary, while her younger sisterretired to her bed-chamber to rest therefor a little time, as the parlour commandedno such luxury as a sofa.

Miss F----d was, as I have alreadystated, at this time in very delicate health;and upon this occasion the exhaustion offatigue, and the dreary badness of theweather, combined to depress her spirits.Lady D---- had not been left long toherself, when the door communicatingwith the passage was abruptly opened,and her sister Mary entered in a state of

great agitation; she sat down pale andtrembling upon one of the chairs, and itwas not until a copious flood of tears hadrelieved her, that she became sufficientlycalm to relate the cause of her excitementand distress. It was simply this. Almostimmediately upon lying down upon thebed she sank into a feverish and unrefreshingslumber; images of all grotesqueshapes and startling colours flitted beforeher sleeping fancy with all the rapidity andvariety of the changes in a kaleidoscope.At length, as she described it, a mistseemed to interpose itself between hersight and the ever-shifting scenery whichsported before her imagination, and outof this cloudy shadow gradually emergeda figure whose back seemed turnedtowards the sleeper; it was that of a lady,who, in perfect silence, was expressingas far as pantomimic gesture could, bywringing her hands, and throwing herhead from side to side, in the manner ofone who is exhausted by the over indulgence,by the very sickness and impatienceof grief; the extremity of misery. For along time she sought in vain to catch aglimpse of the face of the apparition, whothus seemed to stir and live before her.But at length the figure seemed to movewith an air of authority, as if about togive directions to some inferior, and indoing so, it turned its head so as todisplay, with a ghastly distinctness, thefeatures of Lady Ardagh, pale as death,with her dark hair all dishevelled, andher eyes dim and sunken with weeping.The revulsion of feeling which MissF----d experienced at this disclosure--for up to that point she had contemplatedthe appearance rather with a sense ofcuriosity and of interest, than of anythingdeeper--was so horrible, that the shockawoke her perfectly. She sat up in thebed, and looked fearfully around the

room, which was imperfectly lighted by asingle candle burning dimly, as if shealmost expected to see the reality of herdreadful vision lurking in some corner ofthe chamber. Her fears were, however,verified, though not in the way sheexpected; yet in a manner sufficientlyhorrible--for she had hardly time tobreathe and to collect her thoughts, whenshe heard, or thought she heard, thevoice of her sister, Lady Ardagh, sometimessobbing violently, and sometimesalmost shrieking as if in terror, andcalling upon her and Lady D----, with themost imploring earnestness of despair, forGod's sake to lose no time in coming toher. All this was so horribly distinct,that it seemed as if the mourner wasstanding within a few yards of the spotwhere Miss F----d lay. She sprang fromthe bed, and leaving the candle in theroom behind her, she made her way in thedark through the passage, the voice stillfollowing her, until as she arrived at thedoor of the sitting-room it seemed to dieaway in low sobbing.

As soon as Miss F----d was tolerablyrecovered, she declared her determinationto proceed directly, and without furtherloss of time, to Castle Ardagh. It wasnot without much difficulty that LadyD---- at length prevailed upon her toconsent to remain where they then were,until morning should arrive, when it wasto be expected that the young lady wouldbe much refreshed by at least remainingquiet for the night, even though sleepwere out of the question. Lady D----was convinced, from the nervous andfeverish symptoms which her sisterexhibited, that she had already done toomuch, and was more than ever satisfied ofthe necessity of prosecuting the journeyno further upon that day. After some

time she persuaded her sister to return toher room, where she remained with heruntil she had gone to bed, and appearedcomparatively composed. Lady D----then returned to the parlour, and notfinding herself sleepy, she remained sittingby the fire. Her solitude was a secondtime broken in upon, by the entrance ofher sister, who now appeared, if possible,more agitated than before. She said thatLady D---- had not long left the room,when she was roused by a repetition ofthe same wailing and lamentations, accom-panied by the wildest and most agonizedsupplications that no time should be lostin coming to Castle Ardagh, and all in hersister's voice, and uttered at the sameproximity as before. This time the voicehad followed her to the very door of thesitting-room, and until she closed it,seemed to pour forth its cries and sobs atthe very threshold.

Miss F----d now most positivelydeclared that nothing should prevent herproceeding instantly to the castle, addingthat if Lady D---- would not accompanyher, she would go on by herself.Superstitious feelings are at all times more orless contagious, and the last centuryafforded a soil much more congenial totheir growth than the present. LadyD---- was so far affected by her sister'sterrors, that she became, at least, uneasy;and seeing that her sister was immovablydetermined upon setting forward immediately,she consented to accompany herforthwith. After a slight delay, freshhorses were procured, and the two ladiesand their attendants renewed their journey,with strong injunctions to the driver toquicken their rate of travelling as much aspossible, and promises of reward in case ofhis doing so.

Roads were then in much worse conditionthroughout the south, even thanthey now are; and the fifteen miles whichmodern posting would have passed in littlemore than an hour and a half, were notcompleted even with every possible exertionin twice the time. Miss F----d hadbeen nervously restless during the journey.Her head had been constantly out ofthe carriage window; and as they ap-proached the entrance to the castledemesne, which lay about a mile from thebuilding, her anxiety began to communicateitself to her sister. The postillionhad just dismounted, and was endeavouringto open the gate--at that time anecessary trouble; for in the middle ofthe last century porter's lodges were notcommon in the south of Ireland, and locksand keys almost unknown. He had justsucceeded in rolling back the heavy oakengate so as to admit the vehicle, when amounted servant rode rapidly down theavenue, and drawing up at the carriage,asked of the postillion who the party were;and on hearing, he rode round to thecarriage window and handed in a note,which Lady D---- received. By theassistance of one of the coach-lamps theysucceeded in deciphering it. It wasscrawled in great agitation, and ranthus:

'MY DEAR SISTER--MY DEAR SISTERSBOTH,--In God's name lose no time, I amfrightened and miserable; I cannot explainall till you come. I am too much terrifiedto write coherently; but understandme--hasten--do not waste a minute. Iam afraid you will come too late. 'E. A.'

The servant could tell nothing more

than that the castle was in great confusion,and that Lady Ardagh had been cryingbitterly all the night. Sir Robert wasperfectly well. Altogether at a loss as tothe cause of Lady Ardagh's great distress,they urged their way up the steep andbroken avenue which wound through thecrowding trees, whose wild and grotesquebranches, now left stripped and naked by theblasts of winter, stretched drearily acrossthe road. As the carriage drew up in thearea before the door, the anxiety of theladies almost amounted to agony; andscarcely waiting for the assistance of theirattendant, they sprang to the ground, andin an instant stood at the castle door.From within were distinctly audible thesounds of lamentation and weeping, andthe suppressed hum of voices as if of thoseendeavouring to soothe the mourner.The door was speedily opened, and whenthe ladies entered, the first object whichmet their view was their sister, LadyArdagh, sitting on a form in the hall,weeping and wringing her hands in deepagony. Beside her stood two old, witheredcrones, who were each endeavouring intheir own way to administer consolation,without even knowing or caring what thesubject of her grief might be.

Immediately on Lady Ardagh's seeingher sisters, she started up, fell on theirnecks, and kissed them again and againwithout speaking, and then taking themeach by a hand, still weeping bitterly, sheled them into a small room adjoining thehall, in which burned a light, and, havingclosed the door, she sat down betweenthem. After thanking them for the hastethey had made, she proceeded to tell them,in words incoherent from agitation, thatSir Robert had in private, and in the mostsolemn manner, told her that he should dieupon that night, and that he had occupied

himself during the evening in giving minutedirections respecting the arrangements ofhis funeral. Lady D---- here suggestedthe possibility of his labouring under thehallucinations of a fever; but to this LadyArdagh quickly replied:

'Oh! no, no! Would to God I couldthink it. Oh! no, no! Wait till youhave seen him. There is a frightful calmnessabout all he says and does; and hisdirections are all so clear, and his mind soperfectly collected, it is impossible, quiteimpossible.' And she wept yet morebitterly.

At that moment Sir Robert's voice washeard in issuing some directions, as hecame downstairs; and Lady Ardaghexclaimed, hurriedly:

'Go now and see him yourself. He isin the hall.'

Lady D---- accordingly went out intothe hall, where Sir Robert met her; and,saluting her with kind politeness, he said,after a pause:

'You are come upon a melancholy mission--the house is in great confusion, andsome of its inmates in considerable grief.'He took her hand, and looking fixedly inher face, continued: 'I shall not live tosee to-morrow's sun shine.'

'You are ill, sir, I have no doubt,'replied she; 'but I am very certain we shallsee you much better to-morrow, and stillbetter the day following.'

'I am NOT ill, sister,' replied he. 'Feelmy temples, they are cool; lay your fingerto my pulse, its throb is slow andtemperate. I never was more perfectly in

health, and yet do I know that ere threehours be past, I shall be no more.'

'Sir, sir,' said she, a good deal startled,but wishing to conceal the impression whichthe calm solemnity of his manner had, inher own despite, made upon her, 'Sir, youshould not jest; you should not even speaklightly upon such subjects. You triflewith what is sacred--you are sporting withthe best affections of your wife----'

'Stay, my good lady,' said he; 'if whenthis clock shall strike the hour of three, Ishall be anything but a helpless clod, thenupbraid me. Pray return now to yoursister. Lady Ardagh is, indeed, much tobe pitied; but what is past cannot now behelped. I have now a few papers toarrange, and some to destroy. I shall seeyou and Lady Ardagh before my death;try to compose her--her sufferings distressme much; but what is past cannot now bemended.'

Thus saying, he went upstairs, and LadyD---- returned to the room where hersisters were sitting.

'Well,' exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as shere-entered, 'is it not so?--do you stilldoubt?--do you think there is any hope?"

Lady D---- was silent.

'Oh! none, none, none,' continued she;'I see, I see you are convinced.' And shewrung her hands in bitter agony.

'My dear sister,' said Lady D----,'there is, no doubt, something strange inall that has appeared in this matter; butstill I cannot but hope that there may besomething deceptive in all the apparentcalmness of Sir Robert. I still must

believe that some latent fever has affectedhis mind, or that, owing to the state ofnervous depression into which he has beensinking, some trivial occurrence has beenconverted, in his disordered imagination,into an augury foreboding his immediatedissolution.'

In such suggestions, unsatisfactory evento those who originated them, and doublyso to her whom they were intended tocomfort, more than two hours passed; andLady D---- was beginning to hope thatthe fated term might elapse without theoccurrence of any tragical event, when SirRobert entered the room. On coming in,he placed his finger with a warning gestureupon his lips, as if to enjoin silence; andthen having successively pressed the handsof his two sisters-in-law, he stooped sadlyover the fainting form of his lady, andtwice pressed her cold, pale forehead, withhis lips, and then passed silently out ofthe room.

Lady D----, starting up, followed to thedoor, and saw him take a candle in the hall,and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimulatedby a feeling of horrible curiosity, shecontinued to follow him at a distance. Shesaw him enter his own private room, andheard him close and lock the door after him.Continuing to follow him as far as shecould, she placed herself at the door of thechamber, as noiselessly as possible, whereafter a little time she was joined by hertwo sisters, Lady Ardagh and Miss F----d.In breathless silence they listened to whatshould pass within. They distinctly heardSir Robert pacing up and down the roomfor some time; and then, after a pause, asound as if some one had thrown himselfheavily upon the bed. At this momentLady D----, forgetting that the door hadbeen secured within, turned the handle for

the purpose of entering; when some one fromthe inside, close to the door, said, 'Hush!hush!' The same lady, now much alarmed,knocked violently at the door; there wasno answer. She knocked again more vio-lently, with no further success. LadyArdagh, now uttering a piercing shriek,sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three orfour servants, alarmed by the noise, nowhurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh wascarried apparently lifeless to her ownchamber. They then, after having knockedlong and loudly in vain, applied themselvesto forcing an entrance into Sir Robert'sroom. After resisting some violent efforts,the door at length gave way, and allentered the room nearly together. Therewas a single candle burning upon a table atthe far end of the apartment; and stretchedupon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. Hewas a corpse--the eyes were open--noconvulsion had passed over the features, ordistorted the limbs--it seemed as if thesoul had sped from the body without astruggle to remain there. On touchingthe body it was found to be cold as clay--all lingering of the vital heat had left it.They closed the ghastly eyes of the corpse,and leaving it to the care of those whoseem to consider it a privilege of their ageand sex to gloat over the revolting spectacleof death in all its stages, theyreturned to Lady Ardagh, now a widow.The party assembled at the castle, but theatmosphere was tainted with death. Griefthere was not much, but awe and panicwere expressed in every face. The gueststalked in whispers, and the servants walkedon tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise oftheir own footsteps.

The funeral was conducted almost withsplendour. The body, having been conveyed,in compliance with Sir Robert's lastdirections, to Dublin, was there laid within

the ancient walls of St. Audoen's Church--where I have read the epitaph, tellingthe age and titles of the departed dust.Neither painted escutcheon, nor marbleslab, have served to rescue from oblivionthe story of the dead, whose very namewill ere long moulder from their tracery

'Et sunt sua fata sepulchris.'[1]

[1] This prophecy has since been realised; for theaisle in which Sir Robert's remains were laid has beensuffered to fall completely to decay; and the tombwhich marked his grave, and other monuments morecurious, form now one indistinguishable mass of rubbish.

The events which I have recorded arenot imaginary. They are FACTS; andthere lives one whose authority none wouldventure to question, who could vindicatethe accuracy of every statement which Ihave set down, and that, too, withall the circumstantiality of an eye-witness.[2]

[2] This paper, from a memorandum, I find to havebeen written in 1803. The lady to whom allusion ismade, I believe to be Miss Mary F----d. She nevermarried, and survived both her sisters, living to a veryadvanced age.

THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR.

Being a third Extract from the legacy of the late FrancisPurcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.

There is something in the decayof ancient grandeur to interesteven the most unconcerned

spectator--the evidences of greatness, ofpower, and of pride that survive the wreckof time, proving, in mournful contrast withpresent desolation and decay, what WAS inother days, appeal, with a resistless power,to the sympathies of our nature. Andwhen, as we gaze on the scion of someruined family, the first impulse of naturethat bids us regard his fate with interestand respect is justified by the recollectionof great exertions and self-devotion andsacrifices in the cause of a lost country andof a despised religion--sacrifices andefforts made with all the motives of faithfulnessand of honour, and terminating inruin--in such a case respect becomesveneration, and the interest we feel amountsalmost to a passion.

It is this feeling which has thrownthe magic veil of romance over everyroofless castle and ruined turret throughoutour country; it is this feeling that,so long as a tower remains abovethe level of the soil, so long as one scionof a prostrate and impoverished familysurvives, will never suffer Irelandto yield to the stranger more than the'mouth honour' which fear compels.[3] Iwho have conversed viva voce et propriapersona with those whose recollectionscould run back so far as the times previousto the confiscations which followed theRevolution of 1688--whose memory couldrepeople halls long roofless and desolate,and point out the places where greatnessonce had been, may feel all this morestrongly, and with a more vivid interest,than can those whose sympathies areawakened by the feebler influence of whatmay be called the PICTURESQUE effects ofruin and decay.

[3] This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate a

statement of Mr. O'Connell's, which occurs in hisevidence given before the House of Commons, whereinhe affirms that the principles of the Irish priesthood'ARE democratic, and were those of Jacobinism.'--Seedigest of the evidence upon the state of Ireland, givenbefore the House of Commons.

There do, indeed, still exist somefragments of the ancient Catholic families ofIreland; but, alas! what VERY fragments!They linger like the remnants of heraboriginal forests, reft indeed of theirstrength and greatness, but proud even indecay. Every winter thins their ranks,and strews the ground with the wreck oftheir loftiest branches; they are at bestbut tolerated in the land which gave thembirth--objects of curiosity, perhaps ofpity, to one class, but of veneration toanother.

The O'Connors, of Castle Connor, werean ancient Irish family. The name recursfrequently in our history, and is generallyto be found in a prominent place wheneverperiods of tumult or of peril called forththe courage and the enterprise of thiscountry. After the accession of WilliamIII., the storm of confiscation whichswept over the land made woeful havocin their broad domains. Some fragmentsof property, however, did remain to them,and with it the building which had forages formed the family residence.

About the year 17--, my uncle, aCatholic priest, became acquainted with theinmates of Castle Connor, and after a timeintroduced me, then a lad of about fifteen,full of spirits, and little dreaming that aprofession so grave as his should everbecome mine.

The family at that time consisted of but

two members, a widow lady and her onlyson, a young man aged about eighteen. Inour early days the progress from acquaintanceto intimacy, and from intimacy tofriendship is proverbially rapid; and youngO'Connor and I became, in less than amonth, close and confidential companions--an intercourse which ripened gradually intoan attachment ardent, deep, and devoted--such as I believe young hearts only arecapable of forming.

He had been left early fatherless, andthe representative and heir of his family.His mother's affection for him was intensein proportion as there existed no otherobject to divide it--indeed--such love asthat she bore him I have never seenelsewhere. Her love was better bestowedthan that of mothers generally is, foryoung O'Connor, not without some of thefaults, had certainly many of the mostengaging qualities of youth. He had all thefrankness and gaiety which attract, andthe generosity of heart which confirmsfriendship; indeed, I never saw a personso universally popular; his very faultsseemed to recommend him; he was wild,extravagant, thoughtless, and fearlesslyadventurous--defects of character which,among the peasantry of Ireland, arehonoured as virtues. The combination ofthese qualities, and the position whichO'Connor occupied as representative of anancient Irish Catholic family--a peculiarlyinteresting one to me, one of the old faith--endeared him to me so much that I havenever felt the pangs of parting more keenlythan when it became necessary, for thefinishing of his education, that he shouldgo abroad.

Three years had passed away before Isaw him again. During the interval,however, I had frequently heard from him,

so that absence had not abated the warmthof our attachment. Who could tell of therejoicings that marked the evening of hisreturn? The horses were removed fromthe chaise at the distance of a mile fromthe castle, while it and its contents wereborne rapidly onward almost by the pressureof the multitude, like a log upon atorrent. Bonfires blared far and near--bagpipes roared and fiddles squeaked; and,amid the thundering shouts of thousands,the carriage drew up before thecastle.

In an instant young O'Connor was uponthe ground, crying, 'Thank you, boys--thank you, boys;' while a thousand handswere stretched out from all sides to graspeven a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of'God bless your honour--long may youreign!' and 'Make room there, boys! clearthe road for the masther!' he reached thethreshold of the castle, where stood hismother weeping for joy.

Oh! who could describe that embrace,or the enthusiasm with which it waswitnessed? 'God bless him to you, my lady--glory to ye both!' and 'Oh, but he is a fineyoung gentleman, God bless him!'resounded on all sides, while hats flew up involleys that darkened the moon; andwhen at length, amid the broad delightedgrins of the thronging domestics, whosesense of decorum precluded any moreboisterous evidence of joy, they reachedthe parlour, then giving way to the fulnessof her joy the widowed mother kissed andblessed him and wept in turn. Wellmight any parent be proud to claim as sonthe handsome stripling who now representedthe Castle Connor family; but toher his beauty had a peculiar charm, for itbore a striking resemblance to that of herhusband, the last O'Connor.

I know not whether partiality blindedme, or that I did no more than justice tomy friend in believing that I had neverseen so handsome a young man. I aminclined to think the latter. He was rathertall, very slightly and elegantly made; hisface was oval, and his features decidedlySpanish in cast and complexion, but withfar more vivacity of expression thangenerally belongs to the beauty of that nation.The extreme delicacy of his features andthe varied animation of his countenancemade him appear even younger than hisyears--an illusion which the total absenceof everything studied in his mannersseemed to confirm. Time had wrought nosmall change in me, alike in mind andspirits; but in the case of O'Connor itseemed to have lost its power to alter.His gaiety was undamped, his generosityunchilled; and though the space whichhad intervened between our parting andreunion was but brief, yet at the period oflife at which we were, even a shorterinterval than that of three years hasfrequently served to form or DEform acharacter.

Weeks had passed away since the returnof O'Connor, and scarce a day had elapsedwithout my seeing him, when theneighbourhood was thrown into an unusual stateof excitement by the announcement of arace-ball to be celebrated at the assembly-room of the town of T----, distant scarcelytwo miles from Castle Connor.

Young O'Connor, as I had expected,determined at once to attend it; andhaving directed in vain all the powers ofhis rhetoric to persuade his mother toaccompany him, he turned the wholebattery of his logic upon me, who, at thattime, felt a reluctance stronger than that

of mere apathy to mixing in any of thesescenes of noisy pleasure for which formany reasons I felt myself unfitted. Hewas so urgent and persevering, however,that I could not refuse; and I found myselfreluctantly obliged to make up mymind to attend him upon the importantnight to the spacious but ill-finished building,which the fashion and beauty of thecounty were pleased to term an assembly-room.

When we entered the apartment, wefound a select few, surrounded by a crowdof spectators, busily performing a minuet,with all the congees and flourishes whichbelonged to that courtly dance; and mycompanion, infected by the contagion ofexample, was soon, as I had anticipated,waving his chapeau bras, and gracefullybowing before one of the prettiest girls inthe room. I had neither skill nor spirits toqualify me to follow his example; and asthe fulness of the room rendered it easy todo so without its appearing singular, Idetermined to be merely a spectator ofthe scene which surrounded me, withouttaking an active part in its amusements.

The room was indeed very muchcrowded, so that its various groups, formedas design or accident had thrown theparties together, afforded no small fundof entertainment to the contemplativeobserver. There were the dancers, allgaiety and good-humour; a little furtheroff were the tables at which sat the card-players, some plying their vocation withdeep and silent anxiety--for in those daysgaming often ran very high in such places--and others disputing with all thevociferous pertinacity of undisguised ill-temper. There, again, were the sallow,blue-nosed, grey-eyed dealers in whisperedscandal; and, in short, there is scarcely a

group or combination to be met with inthe court of kings which might not havefound a humble parallel in the assembly-room of T----.

I was allowed to indulge in undisturbedcontemplation, for I suppose I was notknown to more than five or six in theroom. I thus had leisure not only toobserve the different classes into which thecompany had divided itself, but to amusemyself by speculating as to the rank andcharacter of many of the individual actorsin the drama.

Among many who have long sincepassed from my memory, one person forsome time engaged my attention, and thatperson, for many reasons, I shall not soonforget. He was a tall, square-shoulderedman, who stood in a careless attitude,leaning with his back to the wall; heseemed to have secluded himself from thebusy multitudes which moved noisily andgaily around him, and nobody seemed toobserve or to converse with him. He wasfashionably dressed, but perhaps ratherextravagantly; his face was full andheavy, expressive of sullenness andstupidity, and marked with the lines ofstrong vulgarity; his age might be somewherebetween forty and fifty. Such as Ihave endeavoured to describe him, heremained motionless, his arms doggedlyfolded across his broad chest, and turninghis sullen eyes from corner to corner ofthe room, as if eager to detect some objecton which to vent his ill-humour.

It is strange, and yet it is true, that onesometimes finds even in the most commonplacecountenance an undefinable something,which fascinates the attention, andforces it to recur again and again, while itis impossible to tell whether the peculiarity

which thus attracts us lies in feature orin expression. or in both combined, andwhy it is that our observation should beengrossed by an object which, whenanalysed, seems to possess no claim tointerest or even to notice. Thisunaccountable feeling I have often experienced,and I believe I am not singular. but neverin so remarkable a degree as upon thisoccasion. My friend O'Connor, havingdisposed of his fair partner, was crossingthe room for the purpose of joining me, indoing which I was surprised to see himexchange a familiar, almost a cordial,greeting with the object of my curiosity.I say I was surprised, for independent ofhis very questionable appearance, it struckme as strange that though so constantlyassociated with O'Connor, and, as Ithought, personally acquainted with allhis intimates, I had never before evenseen this individual. I did not failimmediately to ask him who this gentlemanwas. I thought he seemed slightlyembarrassed, but after a moment's pause helaughingly said that his friend over theway was too mysterious a personage tohave his name announced in so giddy ascene as the present; but that on themorrow he would furnish me with all theinformation which I could desire. Therewas, I thought, in his affected jocularity areal awkwardness which appeared to meunaccountable, and consequently increasedmy curiosity; its gratification, however, Iwas obliged to defer. At length, weariedwith witnessing amusements in which Icould not sympathise, I left the room, anddid not see O'Connor until late in the nextday.

I had ridden down towards the castlefor the purpose of visiting the O'Connors,and had nearly reached the avenue leadingto the mansion, when I met my friend.

He was also mounted; and havinganswered my inquiries respecting his mother,he easily persuaded me to accompany himin his ramble. We had chatted as usualfor some time, when, after a pause,O'Connor said:

'By the way, Purcell, you expressedsome curiosity respecting the tall,handsome fellow to whom I spoke lastnight.'

'I certainly did question you about aTALL gentleman, but was not aware of hisclaims to beauty,' replied I.

'Well, that is as it may be,' said he;'the ladies think him handsome, and theiropinion upon that score is more valuablethan yours or mine. Do you know,' hecontinued, 'I sometimes feel half sorrythat I ever made the fellow's acquaintance:he is quite a marked man here, and theytell stories of him that are anything butreputable, though I am sure withoutfoundation. I think I know enough abouthim to warrant me in saying so.'

'May I ask his name?' inquired I.

'Oh! did not I tell you his name?'rejoined he. 'You should have heardthat first; he and his name are equallywell known. You will recognise theindividual at once when I tell you thathis name is--Fitzgerald.'

'Fitzgerald!' I repeated. 'Fitzgerald!--can it be Fitzgerald the duellist?'

'Upon my word you have hit it,' repliedhe, laughing; 'but you have accompaniedthe discovery with a look of horror moretragic than appropriate. He is not themonster you take him for--he has a good

deal of old Irish pride; his temper ishasty, and he has been unfortunatelythrown in the way of men who have notmade allowance for these things. I amconvinced that in every case in whichFitzgerald has fought, if the truth couldbe discovered, he would be found to haveacted throughout upon the defensive. Noman is mad enough to risk his own life,except when the doing so is an alternativeto submitting tamely to what he considersan insult. I am certain that no man everengaged in a duel under the consciousnessthat he had acted an intentionally aggressivepart.'

'When did you make his acquaintance?'said I.

'About two years ago,' he replied. 'Imet him in France, and you know whenone is abroad it is an ungracious taskto reject the advances of one's countryman,otherwise I think I should haveavoided his society--less upon my ownaccount than because I am sure theacquaintance would be a source ofcontinual though groundless uneasiness tomy mother. I know, therefore, that youwill not unnecessarily mention its existenceto her.'

I gave him the desired assurance, andadded:

'May I ask you. O'Connor, if, indeed, itbe a fair question, whether this Fitzgeraldat any time attempted to engage you inanything like gaming?'

This question was suggested by myhaving frequently heard Fitzgeraldmentioned as a noted gambler, and sometimeseven as a blackleg. O'Connor seemed, Ithought, slightly embarrassed. He answered:

'No, no--I cannot say that he everattempted anything of the kind. Icertainly have played with him, but neverlost to any serious amount; nor can Irecollect that he ever solicited me--indeedhe knows that I have a strong objection todeep play. YOU must be aware that myfinances could not bear much pruningdown. I never lost more to him at asitting than about five pounds, which youknow is nothing. No, you wrong him ifyou imagine that he attached himself tome merely for the sake of such contemptiblewinnings as those which a broken-downIrish gentleman could afford him. Come,Purcell, you are too hard upon him--youjudge only by report; you must seehim, and decide for yourself.--Suppose wecall upon him now; he is at the inn, in theHigh Street, not a mile off.'

I declined the proposal drily.

'Your caution is too easily alarmed,'said he. 'I do not wish you to make thisman your bosom friend: I merely desirethat you should see and speak to him, andif you form any acquaintance with him, itmust be of that slight nature which canbe dropped or continued at pleasure.'

From the time that O'Connor hadannounced the fact that his friend was noother than the notorious Fitzgerald, aforeboding of something calamitous hadcome upon me, and it now occurred to methat if any unpleasantness were to befeared as likely to result to O'Connor fromtheir connection, I might find my attemptsto extricate him much facilitated by mybeing acquainted, however slightly, withFitzgerald. I know not whether the ideawas reasonable--it was certainly natural;and I told O'Connor that upon second

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

We found him at home; and chattedwith him for a considerable time. To mysurprise his manners were perfectly thoseof a gentleman, and his conversation, ifnot peculiarly engaging, was certainlyamusing. The politeness of his demeanour,and the easy fluency with which hetold his stories and his anecdotes, many ofthem curious, and all more or lessentertaining, accounted to my mind at once forthe facility with which he had improvedhis acquaintance with O'Connor; andwhen he pressed upon us an invitation tosup with him that night, I had almostjoined O'Connor in accepting it. I determined,however, against doing so, for Ihad no wish to be on terms of familiaritywith Mr. Fitzgerald; and I knew thatone evening spent together as he proposedwould go further towards establishing anintimacy between us than fifty morningvisits could do. When I arose to depart,it was with feelings almost favourable toFitzgerald; indeed I was more than halfashamed to acknowledge to my companionhow complete a revolution in my opinionrespecting his friend half an hour'sconversation with him had wrought. Hisappearance certainly WAS against him; butthen, under the influence of his manner,one lost sight of much of its ungainliness,and of nearly all its vulgarity; and, onthe whole, I felt convinced that reporthad done him grievous wrong, inasmuchas anybody, by an observance of thecommon courtesies of society, might easilyavoid coming into personal collision witha gentleman so studiously polite asFitzgerald. At parting, O'Connor requestedme to call upon him the next day, as heintended to make trial of the merits of apair of greyhounds, which he had thoughts

of purchasing; adding, that if he couldescape in anything like tolerable timefrom Fitzgerald's supper-party, he wouldtake the field soon after ten on the nextmorning. At the appointed hour, orperhaps a little later, I dismounted atCastle Connor; and, on entering the hall,I observed a gentleman issuing fromO'Connor's private room. I recognisedhim, as he approached, as a Mr.M'Donough, and, being but slightlyacquainted with him, was about to passhim with a bow, when he stopped me.There was something in his manner whichstruck me as odd; he seemed a gooddeal flurried if not agitated, and said, in ahurried tone:

'This is a very foolish business, Mr.Purcell. You have some influence withmy friend O'Connor; I hope you caninduce him to adopt some more moderateline of conduct than that he has decidedupon. If you will allow me, I will returnfor a moment with you, and talk over thematter again with O'Connor.'

As M'Donough uttered these words, Ifelt that sudden sinking of the heart whichaccompanies the immediate anticipation ofsomething dreaded and dreadful. I wasinstantly convinced that O'Connor hadquarrelled with Fitzgerald, and I knewthat if such were the case, nothing shortof a miracle could extricate him from theconsequences. I signed to M'Donough tolead the way, and we entered the littlestudy together. O'Connor was standingwith his back to the fire; on the table laythe breakfast-things in the disorder inwhich a hurried meal had left them; andon another smaller table, placed near thehearth, lay pen, ink, and paper. As soonas O'Connor saw me, he came forward andshook me cordially by the hand.

'My dear Purcell,' said he, 'you are thevery man I wanted. I have got into anugly scrape, and I trust to my friends toget me out of it.'

'You have had no dispute with thatman--that Fitzgerald, I hope,' said I,giving utterance to the conjecture whosetruth I most dreaded.

'Faith, I cannot say exactly whatpassed between us,' said he, 'inasmuchas I was at the time nearly half seasover; but of this much I am certain, thatwe exchanged angry words last night. Ilost my temper most confoundedly; but,as well as I can recollect, he appearedperfectly cool and collected. What he saidwas, therefore, deliberately said, and onthat account must be resented.'

'My dear O'Connor, are you mad?' Iexclaimed. 'Why will you seek to driveto a deadly issue a few hasty words,uttered under the influence of wine, andforgotten almost as soon as uttered? Aquarrel with Fitzgerald it is twentychances to one would terminate fatallyto you.'

'It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS suchan accomplished shot,' said he, 'that Ibecome liable to the most injurious andintolerable suspicions if I submit toanything from him which could be construedinto an affront; and for that reasonFitzgerald is the very last man to whom Iwould concede an inch in a case ofhonour.'

'I do not require you to make any, theslightest sacrifice of what you term yourhonour,' I replied; 'but if you haveactually written a challenge to Fitzgerald,

as I suspect you have done, I conjure youto reconsider the matter before youdespatch it. From all that I have heardyou say, Fitzgerald has more to complainof in the altercation which has taken placethan you. You owe it to your only survivingparent not to thrust yourself thuswantonly upon--I will say it, the mostappalling danger. Nobody, my dearO'Connor, can have a doubt of yourcourage; and if at any time, which Godforbid, you shall be called upon thus torisk your life, you should have it in yourpower to enter the field under theconsciousness that you have acted throughouttemperately and like a man, and not, as Ifear you now would do, having rashly andmost causelessly endangered your own lifeand that of your friend.'

'I believe, Purcell, your are right,' saidhe. 'I believe I HAVE viewed the matterin too decided a light; my note, I think,scarcely allows him an honourable alternative,and that is certainly going a steptoo far--further than I intended. Mr.M'Donough, I'll thank you to hand methe note.'

He broke the seal, and, casting his eyehastily over it, he continued:

'It is, indeed, a monument of folly. Iam very glad, Purcell, you happened tocome in, otherwise it would have reachedits destination by this time.'

He threw it into the fire; and, after amoment's pause, resumed:

'You must not mistake me, however.I am perfectly satisfied as to the propriety,nay, the necessity, of communicating withFitzgerald. The difficulty is in what toneI should address him. I cannot say that

the man directly affronted me--I cannotrecollect any one expression which I couldlay hold upon as offensive--but hislanguage was ambiguous, and admittedfrequently of the most insulting construction,and his manner throughout wasinsupportably domineering. I know itimpressed me with the idea that he presumedupon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, andthat would be utterly unendurable'

'I would now recommend, as I havealready done,' said M'Donough, 'that ifyou write to Fitzgerald, it should be insuch a strain as to leave him at perfectliberty, without a compromise of honour,in a friendly way, to satisfy your doubts asto his conduct.'

I seconded the proposal warmly, andO'Connor, in a few minutes, finished anote, which he desired us to read. It wasto this effect:

'O'Connor, of Castle Connor, feelingthat some expressions employed by Mr.Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of aconstruction offensive to him, and injuriousto his character, requests to know whetherMr. Fitzgerald intended to convey such ameaning. 'Castle Connor, Thursday morning.'

This note was consigned to the care ofMr. M'Donough, who forthwith departedto execute his mission. The sound of hishorse's hoofs, as he rode rapidly away,struck heavily at my heart; but I foundsome satisfaction in the reflection thatM'Donough appeared as averse from extrememeasures as I was myself, for Iwell knew, with respect to the final resultof the affair, that as much depended upon

the tone adopted by the SECOND, as uponthe nature of the written communication.

I have seldom passed a more anxioushour than that which intervened betweenthe departure and the return of thatgentleman. Every instant I imagined I heardthe tramp of a horse approaching, andevery time that a door opened I fanciedit was to give entrance to the eagerlyexpected courier. At length I did hear thehollow and rapid tread of a horse's hoofupon the avenue. It approached--itstopped--a hurried step traversed thehall--the room door opened, andM'Donough entered.

'You have made great haste,' saidO'Connor; 'did you find him at home?'

'I did,' replied M'Donough, 'and madethe greater haste as Fitzgerald did not letme know the contents of his reply.'

At the same time he handed a note toO'Connor, who instantly broke the seal.The words were as follow:

'Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anythingwhich has fallen from him should haveappeared to Mr. O'Connor to be intendedto convey a reflection upon his honour(none such having been meant), and begsleave to disavow any wish to quarrelunnecessarily with Mr. O'Connor. 'T---- Inn, Thursday morning.'

I cannot describe how much I feltrelieved on reading the above communication.I took O'Connor's hand and pressedit warmly, but my emotions were deeperand stronger than I cared to show, for Iwas convinced that he had escaped a most

imminent danger. Nobody whose notionsupon the subject are derived from theduelling of modern times, in which mattersare conducted without any very sanguinarydetermination upon either side, and withequal want of skill and coolness by bothparties, can form a just estimate of thedanger incurred by one who ventured toencounter a duellist of the old school.Perfect coolness in the field, and a steadinessand accuracy (which to the unpractisedappeared almost miraculous) in theuse of the pistol, formed the characteristicsof this class; and in addition to this theregenerally existed a kind of professionalpride, which prompted the duellist, indefault of any more malignant feeling,from motives of mere vanity, to seek thelife of his antagonist. Fitzgerald's careerhad been a remarkably successful one, andI knew that out of thirteen duels whichhe had fought in Ireland, in nine cases hehad KILLED his man. In those days onenever heard of the parties leaving the field,as not unfrequently now occurs, withoutblood having been spilt; and the oddswere, of course, in all cases tremendouslyagainst a young and unpractisedman, when matched with an experiencedantagonist. My impression respecting themagnitude of the danger which my friendhad incurred was therefore by no meansunwarranted.

I now questioned O'Connor moreaccurately respecting the circumstances ofhis quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arosefrom some dispute respecting the applicationof a rule of piquet, at which gamethey had been playing, each interpretingit favourably to himself, and O'Connor,having lost considerably, was in no moodto conduct an argument with temper--analtercation ensued, and that of rather apungent nature, and the result was that

he left Fitzgerald's room rather abruptly,determined to demand an explanation inthe most peremptory tone. For thispurpose he had sent for M'Donough, and hadcommissioned him to deliver the note,which my arrival had fortunately intercepted.

As it was now past noon, O'Connormade me promise to remain with him todinner; and we sat down a party of three,all in high spirits at the termination ofour anxieties. It is necessary to mention,for the purpose of accounting for whatfollows, that Mrs. O'Connor, or, as she wasmore euphoniously styled, the lady ofCastle Connor, was precluded by ill-healthfrom taking her place at the dinner-table,and, indeed, seldom left her room beforefour o'clock.[4] We were sitting afterdinner sipping our claret, and talking,and laughing, and enjoying ourselvesexceedingly, when a servant, stepping intothe room, informed his master that agentleman wanted to speak with him.

[4] It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, thatat the period spoken of, the important hour of dinneroccurred very nearly at noon.

'Request him, with my compliments, towalk in,' said O'Connor; and in a fewmoments a gentleman entered the room.

His appearance was anything butprepossessing. He was a little above themiddle size, spare, and raw-boned; hisface very red, his features sharp and bluish,and his age might be about sixty. Hisattire savoured a good deal of the SHABBY-GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much oftarnished and faded pretension aboutthem, did not fit him, and had notimprobably fluttered in the stalls of

Plunket Street. We had risen on hisentrance, and O'Connor had twice requestedof him to take a chair at the table, withouthis hearing, or at least noticing, theinvitation; while with a slow pace, andwith an air of mingled importance andeffrontery, he advanced into the centre ofthe apartment, and regarding our smallparty with a supercilious air, he said:

'I take the liberty of introducingmyself--I am Captain M'Creagh, formerlyof the--infantry. My business here iswith a Mr. O'Connor, and the sooner it isdespatched the better.'

'I am the gentleman you name,' saidO'Connor; 'and as you appear impatient,we had better proceed to your commissionwithout delay.'

'Then, Mr. O'Connor, you will pleaseto read that note,' said the captain, placinga sealed paper in his hand.

O'Connor read it through, and thenobserved:

'This is very extraordinary indeed.This note appears to me perfectly unaccountable.'

'You are very young, Mr. O'Connor,'said the captain, with vulgar familiarity;'but, without much experience in thesematters, I think you might have anticipatedsomething like this. You knowthe old saying, "Second thoughts arebest;" and so they are like to prove, byG--!'

'You will have no objection, CaptainM'Creagh, on the part of your friend, tomy reading this note to these gentlemen;they are both confidential friends of mine,and one of them has already acted for me

in this business.'

'I can have no objection,' replied thecaptain, 'to your doing what you pleasewith your own. I have nothing more todo with that note once I put it safe intoyour hand; and when that is once done, itis all one to me, if you read it to half theworld--that's YOUR concern, and no affairof mine.'

O'Connor then read the following:

'Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, thatupon re-perusing Mr. O'Connor's communicationof this morning carefully, withan experienced friend, he is forced toconsider himself as challenged. Hisfriend, Captain M'Creagh, has been empoweredby him to make all the necessaryarrangements. 'T---- Inn, Thursday.'

I can hardly describe the astonishmentwith which I heard this note. I turned tothe captain, and said:

'Surely, sir, there is some mistake in allthis?'

'Not the slightest, I'll assure you, sir.'said he, coolly; 'the case is a very clearone, and I think my friend has pretty wellmade up his mind upon it. May Irequest your answer?' he continued, turningto O'Connor; 'time is precious, youknow.'

O'Connor expressed his willingness tocomply with the suggestion, and in a fewminutes had folded and directed the followingrejoinder:

'Mr. O'Connor having received asatisfactory explanation from Mr.Fitzgerald, of the language used by thatgentleman, feels that there no longer existsany grounds for misunderstanding, andwishes further to state, that the note ofwhich Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was notintended as a challenge.'

With this note the captain departed; andas we did not doubt that the message whichhe had delivered had been suggested bysome unintentional misconstruction ofO'Connor's first billet, we felt assured thatthe conclusion of his last note would setthe matter at rest. In this belief, however,we were mistaken; before we had left thetable, and in an incredibly short time, thecaptain returned. He entered the roomwith a countenance evidently tasked toavoid expressing the satisfaction which aconsciousness of the nature of his missionhad conferred; but in spite of all his effortsto look gravely unconcerned, there was atwinkle in the small grey eye, and analmost imperceptible motion in the cornerof the mouth, which sufficiently betrayedhis internal glee, as he placed a note inthe hand of O'Connor. As the youngman cast his eye over it, he coloureddeeply, and turning to M'Donough, hesaid:

'You will have the goodness to makeall the necessary arrangements for a meeting.Something has occurred to renderone between me and Mr. Fitzgeraldinevitable. Understand me literally, whenI say that it is now totally impossible thatthis affair should be amicably arranged.You will have the goodness, M'Donough,to let me know as soon as all the particularsare arranged. Purcell,' he continued,

'will you have the kindness to accompanyme?' and having bowed to M'Creagh, weleft the room.

As I closed the door after me, I heardthe captain laugh, and thought I coulddistinguish the words--'By ---- I knewFitzgerald would bring him to his way ofthinking before he stopped.'

I followed O'Connor into his study, andon entering, the door being closed, heshowed me the communication which haddetermined him upon hostilities. Itslanguage was grossly impertinent, and itconcluded by actually threatening to 'POST'him, in case he further attempted 'to beOFF.' I cannot describe the agony ofindignation in which O'Connor writhed underthis insult. He said repeatedly that 'hewas a degraded and dishohoured man,'that 'he was dragged into the field,' that'there was ignominy in the very thoughtthat such a letter should have been directedto him.' It was in vain that I reasonedagainst this impression; the convictionthat he had been disgraced had takenpossession of his mind. He said again andagain that nothing but his DEATH couldremove the stain which his indecision hadcast upon the name of his family. Ihurried to the hall, on hearing M'Donoughand the captain passing, and reached thedoor just in time to hear the latter say, ashe mounted his horse:

'All the rest can be arranged on thespot; and so farewell, Mr. M'Donough--we'll meet at Philippi, you know;' andwith this classical allusion, which wasaccompanied with a grin and a bow, andprobably served many such occasions, thecaptain took his departure.

M'Donough briefly stated the few

particulars which had been arranged. Theparties were to meet at the stand-house,in the race-ground, which lay at about anequal distance between Castle Connor andthe town of T----. The hour appointedwas half-past five on the next morning,at which time the twilight would besufficiently advanced to afford a distinct view;and the weapons to be employed werePISTOLS--M'Creagh having claimed, on thepart of his friend, all the advantages of theCHALLENGED party, and having, consequently,insisted upon the choice of 'TOOLS,' as heexpressed himself; and it was furtherstipulated that the utmost secrecy shouldbe observed, as Fitzgerald would incurgreat risk from the violence of thepeasantry, in case the affair took wind.These conditions were, of course, agreedupon by O'Connor, and M'Donough leftthe castle, having appointed four o'clockupon the next morning as the hour of hisreturn, by which time it would be hisbusiness to provide everything necessaryfor the meeting. On his departure,O'Connor requested me to remain withhim upon that evening, saying that 'hecould not bear to be alone with hismother.' It was to me a most painfulrequest, but at the same time one which Icould not think of refusing. I felt,however, that the difficulty at least of thetask which I had to perform would be insome measure mitigated by the arrivalof two relations of O'Connor upon thatevening.

'It is very fortunate,' said O'Connor,whose thoughts had been running uponthe same subject, 'that the O'Gradys willbe with us to-night; their gaiety andgood-humour will relieve us from a heavytask. I trust that nothing may occur toprevent their coming.' Fervently concurringin the same wish, I accompanied

O'Connor into the parlour, there to awaitthe arrival of his mother.

God grant that I may never spend suchanother evening! The O'Gradys DID come,but their high and noisy spirits, so far fromrelieving me, did but give additional gloomto the despondency, I might say the despair,which filled my heart with misery--the terrible forebodings which I could notfor an instant silence, turned their laughterinto discord, and seemed to mock the smilesand jests of the unconscious party. WhenI turned my eyes upon the mother, Ithought I never had seen her look soproudly and so lovingly upon her sonbefore--it cut me to the heart--oh, howcruelly I was deceiving her! I was ahundred times on the very point of start-ing up, and, at all hazards, declaring toher how matters were; but other feelingssubdued my better emotions. Oh, whatmonsters are we made of by the fashions ofthe world! how are our kindlier and noblerfeelings warped or destroyed by their balefulinfluences! I felt that it would not beHONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE,to betray O'Connor's secret. I sacrificed ahigher and a nobler duty than I have sincebeen called upon to perform, to the dastardlyfear of bearing the unmerited censureof a world from which I was about toretire. O Fashion! thou gaudy idol,whose feet are red with the blood of humansacrifice, would I had always felt towardsthee as I now do!

O'Connor was not dejected; on thecontrary, he joined with loud and livelyalacrity in the hilarity of the little party;but I could see in the flush of his cheek,and in the unusual brightness of his eye,all the excitement of fever--he was makingan effort almost beyond his strength, buthe succeeded--and when his mother rose

to leave the room, it was with the impressionthat her son was the gayest and mostlight-hearted of the company. Twice orthrice she had risen with the intention ofretiring, but O'Connor, with an eagernesswhich I alone could understand, hadpersuaded her to remain until the usual hourof her departure had long passed; andwhen at length she arose, declaring thatshe could not possibly stay longer, I alonecould comprehend the desolate changewhich passed over his manner; and whenI saw them part, it was with the sickeningconviction that those two beings, so dearto one another, so loved, so cherished,should meet no more.

O'Connor briefly informed his cousins ofthe position in which he was placed,requesting them at the same time to accompanyhim to the field, and this havingbeen settled, we separated, each to his ownapartment. I had wished to sit up withO'Connor, who had matters to arrangesufficient to employ him until the hourappointed for M'Donough's visit; but hewould not hear of it, and I was forced,though sorely against my will, to leave himwithout a companion. I went to my room,and, in a state of excitement which I cannotdescribe, I paced for hours up anddown its narrow precincts. I could not--who could?--analyse the strange, contradictory,torturing feelings which, while Irecoiled in shrinking horror from the scenewhich the morning was to bring, yet forcedme to wish the intervening time annihilated;each hour that the clock told seemedto vibrate and tinkle through every nerve;my agitation was dreadful; fancy conjuredup the forms of those who filled mythoughts with more than the vividness ofreality; things seemed to glide throughthe dusky shadows of the room. I sawthe dreaded form of Fitzgerald--I heard

the hated laugh of the captain--and againthe features of O'Connor would appearbefore me, with ghastly distinctness, paleand writhed in death, the gouts of goreclotted in the mouth, and the eye-ballsglared and staring. Scared with thevisions which seemed to throng withunceasing rapidity and vividness, I threwopen the window and looked out upon thequiet scene around. I turned my eyes inthe direction of the town; a heavy cloudwas lowering darkly about it, and I, inimpious frenzy, prayed to God that itmight burst in avenging fires upon themurderous wretch who lay beneath. Atlength, sick and giddy with excess ofexcitement, I threw myself upon the bedwithout removing my clothes, and endeavouredto compose myself so far as toremain quiet until the hour for ourassembling should arrive.

A few minutes before four o'clock I stolenoiselessly downstairs, and made my wayto the small study already mentioned. Acandle was burning within; and, when Iopened the door, O'Connor was reading abook, which, on seeing me, he hastilyclosed, colouring slightly as he did so.We exchanged a cordial but mournfulgreeting; and after a slight pause he said,laying his hand upon the volume which hehad shut a moment before:

'Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though Icannot say that I have much hope as tothe issue of this morning's rencounter. Ishall avoid half the danger. If I mustfall, I am determined I shall not go downto the grave with his blood upon myhands. I have resolved not to fire atFitzgerald--that is, to fire in such a directionas to assure myself against hitting him.Do not say a word of this to the O'Gradys.Your doing so would only produce fruitless

altercation; they could not understand mymotives. I feel convinced that I shall notleave the field alive. If I must die to-day, I shall avoid an awful aggravation ofwretchedness. Purcell,' he continued, aftera little space, 'I was so weak as to feelalmost ashamed of the manner in which Iwas occupied as you entered the room.Yes, _I--I_ who will be, before this evening,a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed tohave spent my last moment of reflection inprayer. God pardon me! God pardonme!' he repeated.

I took his hand and pressed it, but Icould not speak. I sought for words ofcomfort, but they would not come. Tohave uttered one cheering sentence I musthave contradicted every impression of myown mind. I felt too much awed toattempt it. Shortly afterwards, M'Donougharrived. No wretched patient ever underwenta more thrilling revulsion at the firstsight of the case of surgical instrumentsunder which he had to suffer, than did Iupon beholding a certain oblong flatmahogany box, bound with brass, and ofabout two feet in length, laid upon thetable in the hall. O'Connor, thanking himfor his punctuality, requested him to comeinto his study for a moment, when, with amelancholy collectedness, he proceeded tomake arrangements for our witnessing hiswill. The document was a brief one, andthe whole matter was just arranged, whenthe two O'Gradys crept softly into theroom.

'So! last will and testament,' said theelder. 'Why, you have a very BLUE notionof these matters. I tell you, you need notbe uneasy. I remember very well, whenyoung Ryan of Ballykealey met M'Neilthe duellist, bets ran twenty to one againsthim. I stole away from school, and had a

peep at the fun as well as the best of them.They fired together. Ryan received theball through the collar of his coat, andM'Neil in the temple; he spun like a top:it was a most unexpected thing, anddisappointed his friends damnably. It wasadmitted, however, to have been verypretty shooting upon both sides. To besure,' he continued, pointing to the will,'you are in the right to keep upon thesafe side of fortune; but then, there is nooccasion to be altogether so devilish downin the mouth as you appear to be.'

'You will allow,' said O'Connor, 'thatthe chances are heavily against me.'

'Why, let me see,' he replied, 'not sohollow a thin,, either. Let me see, we'll sayabout four to one against you; you maychance to throw doublets like him I toldyou of, and then what becomes of the oddsI'd like to know? But let things go asthey will, I'll give and take four to one,in pounds and tens of pounds. There,M'Donough, there's a GET for you; b--tme, if it is not. Poh! the fellow is stolenaway,' he continued, observing that theobject of his proposal had left the room;'but d---- it, Purcell, you are fond of a SOFTTHING, too, in a quiet way--I'm sure you are--so curse me if I do not make you thesame offer-is it a go?'

I was too much disgusted to make anyreply, but I believe my looks expressedmy feelings sufficiently, for in a moment hesaid:

'Well, I see there is nothing to be done,so we may as well be stirring. M'Donough,myself, and my brother will saddle the horsesin a jiffy, while you and Purcell settleanything which remains to be arranged.'

So saying, he left the room with as muchalacrity as if it were to prepare for a fox-hunt. Selfish, heartless fool! I haveoften since heard him spoken of as A CURSEDGOOD-NATURED DOG and a D---- GOOD FELLOW;but such eulogies as these are not calculatedto mitigate the abhorrence withwhich his conduct upon that morning inspired me.

The chill mists of night were still hoveringon the landscape as our party left thecastle. It was a raw, comfortless morning--a kind of drizzling fog hung heavily overthe scene, dimming the light of the sun,which had now risen, into a pale and evena grey glimmer. As the appointed hourwas fast approaching, it was proposed thatwe should enter the race-ground at a pointclose to the stand-house--a measure whichwould save us a ride of nearly two miles,over a broken road; at which distancethere was an open entrance into the race-ground. Here, accordingly, we dismounted,and leaving our horses in the care of acountry fellow who happened to be stirringat that early hour, we proceeded up a narrowlane, over a side wall of which we wereto climb into the open ground where stoodthe now deserted building, under which themeeting was to take place. Our progresswas intercepted by the unexpected appearanceof an old woman, who, in the scarletcloak which is the picturesque characteristicof the female peasantry of the south, wasmoving slowly down the avenue to meet us,uttering that peculiarly wild and piteouslamentation well known by the name of'the Irish cry,' accompanied throughoutby all the customary gesticulation ofpassionate grief. This rencounter was moreawkward than we had at first anticipated;for, upon a nearer approach, the personproved to be no other than an old attacheddependent of the family, and who had her-self nursed O'Connor. She quickened her

pace as we advanced almost to a run; and,throwing her arms round O'Connor's neck,she poured forth such a torrent of lamentation,reproach, and endearment, as showedthat she was aware of the nature of ourpurpose, whence and by what means Iknew not. It was in vain that he soughtto satisfy her by evasion, and gently toextricate himself from her embrace. Sheknelt upon the ground, and clasped herarms round his legs, uttering all the whilesuch touching supplications, such cuttingand passionate expressions of woe, as wentto my very heart.

At length, with much difficulty, wepassed this most painful interruption;and, crossing the boundary wall, wereplaced beyond her reach. The O'Gradysdamned her for a troublesome hag, andpassed on with O'Connor, but I remainedbehind for a moment. The poor womanlooked hopelessly at the high wall whichseparated her from him she had lovedfrom infancy, and to be with whom atthat minute she would have given worlds,she took her seat upon a solitary stoneunder the opposite wall, and there, in alow, subdued key, she continued to utterher sorrow in words so desolate, yetexpressing such a tenderness of devotion aswrung my heart.

'My poor woman,' I said, laying myhand gently upon her shoulder, 'you willmake yourself ill; the morning is very cold,and your cloak is but a thin defenceagainst the damp and chill. Pray returnhome and take this; it may be useful toyou.'

So saying, I dropped a purse, with whatmoney I had about me, into her lap, butit lay there unheeded; she did not hearme.

'Oh I my child, my child, my darlin','she sobbed, 'are you gone from me? areyou gone from me? Ah, mavourneen,mavourneen, you'll never come back aliveto me again. The crathur that slept on mybosom--the lovin' crathur that I was soproud of--they'll kill him, they'll kill him.Oh, voh! voh!'

The affecting tone, the feeling, theabandonment with which all this was uttered,none can conceive who have not heard thelamentations of the Irish peasantry. Itbrought tears to my eyes. I saw that noconsolation of mine could soothe her grief,so I turned and departed; but as I rapidlytraversed the level sward which separatedme from my companions, now considerablyin advance, I could still hear the wailingsof the solitary mourner.

As we approached the stand-house, itwas evident that our antagonists hadalready arrived. Our path lay by the sideof a high fence constructed of loose stones,and on turning a sharp angle at its extremity,we found ourselves close to the appointedspot, and within a few yards of acrowd of persons, some mounted and someon foot, evidently awaiting our arrival.The affair had unaccountably taken wind,as the number of the expectants clearlyshowed; but for this there was now noremedy.

As our little party advanced we weremet and saluted by several acquaintances,whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, hadbrought to the place. Fitzgerald and theCaptain had arrived, and having dismounted,were standing upon the sod. The former,as we approached, bowed slightly and sullenly--while the latter, evidently in highgood humour, made his most courteous

obeisance. No time was to be lost; andthe two seconds immediately withdrew toa slight distance, for the purpose ofcompleting the last minute arrangements. Itwas a brief but horrible interval--eachreturned to his principal to communicatethe result, which was soon caught up andrepeated from mouth to mouth throughoutthe crowd. I felt a strange and insurmountablereluctance to hear the sickeningparticulars detailed; and as I stoodirresolute at some distance from the principalparties, a top-booted squireen, with a huntingwhip in his hand, bustling up to acompanion of his, exclaimed:

"Not fire together!--did you ever hearthe like? If Fitzgerald gets the first shotall is over. M'Donough sold the pass,by----, and that is the long and the shortof it.'

The parties now moved down a little toa small level space, suited to the purpose;and the captain, addressing M'Donough,said:

'Mr. M'Donough, you'll now have thegoodness to toss for choice of ground; asthe light comes from the east the line mustof course run north and south. Will yoube so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece,while I call?'

A coin was instantly chucked into theair. The captain cried, 'Harp.' TheHEAD was uppermost, and M'Donoughimmediately made choice of the southernpoint at which to place his friend--aposition which it will be easily seen hadthe advantage of turning his back uponthe light--no trifling superiority oflocation. The captain turned with a kind oflaugh, and said:

'By ----, sir, you are as cunning as adead pig; but you forgot one thing. Myfriend is a left-handed gunner, thoughnever a bit the worse for that; so yousee there is no odds as far as the choice oflight goes.'

He then proceeded to measure nine pacesin a direction running north and south, andthe principals took their ground.

'I must be troublesome to you onceagain, Mr. M'Donough. One toss more,and everything is complete. We mustsettle who is to have the FIRST SLAP.'

A piece of money was again throwninto the air; again the captain lost the tossand M'Donough proceeded to load thepistols. I happened to stand near Fitzgerald,and I overheard the captain, witha chuckle, say something to him in whichthe word 'cravat' was repeated. Itinstantly occurred to me that the captain'sattention was directed to a bright-colouredmuffler which O'Connor wore round hisneck, and which would afford his antagonista distinct and favourable mark. Iinstantly urged him to remove it, and atlength, with difficulty, succeeded. Heseemed perfectly careless as to anyprecaution. Everything was now ready; thepistol was placed in O'Connor's hand, andhe only awaited the word from the captain.

M'Creagh then said:

'Mr. M'Donough, is your principalready?'

M'Donough replied in the affirmative;and, after a slight pause, the captain, ashad been arranged, uttered the words:

'Ready--fire.'

O'Connor fired, but so wide of the markthat some one in the crowd exclaimed:

'Fired in the air.'

'Who says he fired in the air?' thunderedFitzgerald. 'By ---- he lies, whoeverhe is.' There was a silence. 'Buteven if he was fool enough to fire in theair, it is not in HIS power to put an end tothe quarrel by THAT. D---- my soul, if Iam come here to be played with like achild, and by the Almighty ---- you shallhear more of this, each and everyone ofyou, before I'm satisfied.'

A kind of low murmur, or rather groan,was now raised, and a slight motion wasobservable in the crowd, as if to interceptFitzgerald's passage to his horse.M'Creagh, drawing the horse close to thespot where Fitzgerald stood, threatened,with the most awful imprecations, 'toblow the brains out of the first man whoshould dare to press on them.'

O'Connor now interfered, requesting thecrowd to forbear, and some degree of orderwas restored. He then said, 'that infiring as he did, he had no intention whateverof waiving his right of firing uponFitzgerald, and of depriving that gentlemanof his right of prosecuting the affairto the utmost--that if any person presentimagined that he intended to fire in theair, he begged to set him right; since,so far from seeking to exort an unwillingreconciliation, he was determined that nopower on earth should induce him toconcede one inch of ground to Mr. Fitzgerald.'

This announcement was received with ashout by the crowd, who now resumedtheir places at either side of the plot of

ground which had been measured. Theprincipals took their places once more, andM'Creagh proceeded, with the nicest andmost anxious care, to load the pistols; andthis task being accomplished, Fitzgeraldwhispered something in the Captain's ear,who instantly drew his friend's horse so asto place him within a step of his rider,and then tightened the girths. Thisaccomplished, Fitzgerald proceededdeliberately to remove his coat, which hethrew across his horse in front of thesaddle; and then, with the assistance ofM'Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up tothe shoulder, so as to leave the whole ofhis muscular arm perfectly naked. Acry of 'Coward, coward! butcher,butcher!' arose from the crowd. Fitzgeraldpaused.

'Do you object, Mr. M'Donough? andupon what grounds, if you please?' said he.

'Certainly he does not,' repliedO'Connor; and, turning to M'Donough,he added, 'pray let there be no unnecessary delay.'

'There is no objection, then,' saidFitzgerald.

'_I_ object,' said the younger of theO'Gradys, 'if nobody else will.'

' And who the devil are you, that DARESto object?' shouted Fitzgerald; 'and whatd--d presumption prompts you to DARE towag your tongue here?'

'I am Mr. O'Grady, of Castle Blake,'replied the young man, now muchenraged; 'and by ----, you shall answerfor your language to me.'

'Shall I, by ----? Shall I?' cried he,with a laugh of brutal scorn; 'the more

the merrier, d--n the doubt of it--so nowhold your tongue, for I promise you youshall have business enough of your own tothink about, and that before long.'

There was an appalling ferocity in his toneand manner which no words could convey.He seemed transformed; he was actuallylike a man possessed. Was it possible, Ithought, that I beheld the courteousgentleman, the gay, good-humouredretailer of amusing anecdote with whom,scarce two days ago, I had laughed andchatted, in the blasphemous and murderousruffian who glared and stormedbefore me!

O'Connor interposed, and requestedthat time should not be unnecessarily lost.

'You have not got a second coat on?'inquired the Captain. 'I beg pardon,but my duty to my friend requires that Ishould ascertain the point.'

O'Connor replied in the negative. TheCaptain expressed himself as satisfied,adding, in what he meant to be acomplimentary strain, 'that he knew Mr.O'Connor would scorn to employ paddingor any unfair mode of protection.'

There was now a breathless silence.O'Connor stood perfectly motionless; and,excepting the death-like paleness of hisfeatures, he exhibited no sign of agitation.His eye was steady--his lip did nottremble--his attitude was calm. TheCaptain, having re-examined the primingof the pistols, placed one of them in thehand of Fitzgerald.--M'Donough inquiredwhether the parties were prepared, andhaving been answered in the affirmative,he proceeded to give the word, 'Ready.'Fitzgerald raised his hand, but almost

instantly lowered it again. The crowd hadpressed too much forward as it appeared,and his eye had been unsteadied by theflapping of the skirt of a frieze riding-coatworn by one of the spectators.

'In the name of my principal,' said theCaptain, 'I must and do insist upon thesegentlemen moving back a little. We askbut little; fair play, and no favour.'

The crowd moved as requested.M'Donough repeated his former question,and was answered as before. There was abreathless silence. Fitzgerald fixed hiseye upon O'Connor. The appointedsignal, 'Ready, fire!' was given. Therewas a pause while one might slowly reckonthree--Fitzgerald fired--and O'Connorfell helplessly upon the ground.

'There is no time to be lost,' saidM'Creagrh; 'for, by ----, you have donefor him.'

So saying, he threw himself upon hishorse, and was instantly followed at ahard gallop by Fitzgerald.

'Cold-blooded murder, if ever murderwas committed,' said O'Grady. 'He shallhang for it; d--n me, but he shall.'

A hopeless attempt was made toovertake the fugitives; but they were bettermounted than any of their pursuers, andescaped with ease. Curses and actual yellsof execration followed their course; and as,in crossing the brow of a neighbouringhill, they turned round in the saddle toobserve if they were pursued, everygesture which could express fury anddefiance was exhausted by the enraged anddefeated multitude.

'Clear the way, boys,' said youngO'Grady, who with me was kneelingbeside O'Connor, while we supported himin our arms; 'do not press so close, andbe d--d; can't you let the fresh air tohim; don't you see he's dying?'

On opening his waistcoat we easilydetected the wound: it was a little belowthe chest--a small blue mark, from whichoozed a single heavy drop of blood.

'He is bleeding but little--that is acomfort at all events,' said one of the gentlemenwho surrounded the wounded man.

Another suggested the expediency ofhis being removed homeward with aslittle delay as possible, and recommended,for this purpose, that a door should beremoved from its hinges, and the patient,laid upon this, should be conveyed fromthe field. Upon this rude bier my poorfriend was carried from that fatal groundtowards Castle Connor. I walked closeby his side, and observed every motion ofhis. He seldom opened his eyes, and wasperfectly still, excepting a nervous WORKINGof the fingers, and a slight, almostimperceptible twitching of the features,which took place, however, only atintervals. The first word he uttered wasspoken as we approached the entrance ofthe castle itself, when he said; repeatedly,'The back way, the back way.' He fearedlest his mother should meet him abruptlyand without preparation; but althoughthis fear was groundless, since she neverleft her room until late in the day, yet itwas thought advisable, and, indeed, necessary,to caution all the servants moststrongly against breathing a hint to theirmistress of the events which had befallen.

Two or three gentlemen had ridden

from the field one after another, promisingthat they should overtake our party beforeit reached the castle, bringing with themmedical aid from one quarter or another;and we determined that Mrs. O'Connorshould not know anything of the occurrenceuntil the opinion of some professionalman should have determined the extent ofthe injury which her son had sustained--a course of conduct which would atleast have the effect of relieving her fromthe horrors of suspense. When O'Connorfound himself in his own room, and laidupon his own bed, he appeared muchrevived--so much so, that I could not helpadmitting a strong hope that all might yetbe well.

'After all, Purcell,' said he, with amelancholy smile, and speaking withevident difficulty, 'I believe I have got offwith a trifling wound. I am sure it cannotbe fatal I feel so little pain--almostnone.'

I cautioned him against fatiguinghimself by endeavouring to speak; and heremained quiet for a little time. Atlength he said:

'Purcell, I trust this lesson shall nothave been given in vain. God has beenvery merciful to me; I feel--I have aninternal confidence that I am not woundedmortally. Had I been fatally wounded--had I been killed upon the spot, only thinkon it'--and he closed his eyes as if thevery thought made him dizzy--'struckdown into the grave, unprepared as I am,in the very blossom of my sins, without amoment of repentance or of reflection; Imust have been lost--lost for ever and ever.'

I prevailed upon him, with somedifficulty, to abstain from such agitating

reflections, and at length induced him tocourt such repose as his condition admittedof, by remaining perfectly silent, and asmuch as possible without motion.

O'Connor and I only were in the room;he had lain for some time in tolerablequiet, when I thought I distinguished thebustle attendant upon the arrival of someone at the castle, and went eagerly to thewindow, believing, or at least hoping, thatthe sounds might announce the approachof the medical man, whom we all longedmost impatiently to see.

My conjecture was right; I had thesatisfaction of seeing him dismount andprepare to enter the castle, when myobservations were interrupted, and myattention was attracted by a smothered,gurgling sound proceeding from the bed inwhich lay the wounded man. I instantlyturned round, and in doing so the spectaclewhich met my eyes was sufficientlyshocking.

I had left O'Connor lying in the bed,supported by pillows, perfectly calm, andwith his eyes closed: he was now lyingnearly in the same position, his eyes openand almost starting from their sockets,with every feature pale and distorted asdeath, and vomiting blood in quantitiesthat were frightful. I rushed to the doorand called for assistance; the paroxysm,though violent, was brief, and O'Connorsank into a swoon so deep and death-like,that I feared he should waken no more.

The surgeon, a little, fussy man, but Ibelieve with some skill to justify hispretensions, now entered the room, carry-ing his case of instruments, and followedby servants bearing basins and water andbandages of linen. He relieved our

doubts by instantly assuring us that 'thepatient' was still living; and at the sametime professed his determination to takeadvantage of the muscular relaxationwhich the faint had induced to examinethe wound--adding that a patient wasmore easily 'handled' when in a swoonthan under other circumstances.

After examining the wound in frontwhere the ball had entered, he passed hishand round beneath the shoulder, andafter a little pause he shook his head,observing that he feared very much thatone of the vertebrae was fatally injured,but that he could not say decidedly untilhis patient should revive a little. 'Thoughhis language was very technical, andconsequently to me nearly unintelligible,I could perceive plainly by his mannerthat he considered the case as almosthopeless.

O'Connor gradually gave some signs ofreturning animation, and at length was sofar restored as to be enabled to speak.After some few general questions as tohow he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon,placing his hand upon his leg and pressingit slightly, asked him if he felt any pressureupon the limb? O'Connor answered inthe negative--he pressed harder, andrepeated the question; still the answer wasthe same, till at length, by repeatedexperiments, he ascertained that all that partof the body which lay behind the woundwas paralysed, proving that the spine musthave received some fatal injury.

'Well, doctor,' said O'Connor, after theexamination of the wound was over; 'well,I shall do, shan't I?'

The physician was silent for a moment,and then, as if with an effort, he replied:

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

'Eh?' said O'Connor with more alacritythan I had seen him exhibit since themorning; 'surely I did not hear youaright; I spoke of my recovery--surelythere is no doubt; there can be none--speak frankly, doctor, for God's sake--amI dying?'

The surgeon was evidently no stoic, andhis manner had extinguished in me everyhope, even before he had uttered a wordin reply.

'You are--you are indeed dying. Thereis no hope; I should but deceive you if Iheld out any.'

As the surgeon uttered these terriblewords, the hands which O'Connor hadstretched towards him while awaiting hisreply fell powerless by his side; his headsank forward; it seemed as if horror anddespair had unstrung every nerve andsinew; he appeared to collapse and shrinktogether as a plant might under theinfluence of a withering spell.

It has often been my fate, since then, tovisit the chambers of death and of suffering;I have witnessed fearful agonies ofbody and of soul; the mysterious shudderingsof the departing spirit, and the heart-rending desolation of the survivors; thesevering of the tenderest ties, the piteousyearnings of unavailing love--of all thesethings the sad duties of my profession havemade me a witness. But, generally speaking,I have observed in such scenes something to mitigate, if not the sorrows, atleast the terrors, of death; the dying manseldom seems to feel the reality of his

situation; a dull consciousness of approachingdissolution, a dim anticipation ofunconsciousness and insensibility, are thefeelings which most nearly border upon anappreciation of his state; the film of deathseems to have overspread the mind's eye,objects lose their distinctness, and floatcloudily before it, and the apathy andapparent indifference with which menrecognise the sure advances of immediatedeath, rob that awful hour of much of itsterrors, and the death-bed of its otherwiseinevitable agonies.

This is a merciful dispensation; but therule has its exceptions--its terribleexceptions. When a man is brought in aninstant, by some sudden accident, to thevery verge of the fathomless pit of death,with all his recollections awake, and hisperceptions keenly and vividly alive, withoutprevious illness to subdue the tone ofthe mind as to dull its apprehensions--then, and then only, the death-bed is trulyterrible.

Oh, what a contrast did O'Connor affordas he lay in all the abject helplessness ofundisguised terror upon his death-bed, tothe proud composure with which he hadtaken the field that morning. I hadalways before thought of death as of aquiet sleep stealing gradually uponexhausted nature, made welcome by suffering,or, at least, softened by resignation;I had never before stood by the side ofone upon whom the hand of death hadbeen thus suddenly laid; I had never seenthe tyrant arrayed in his terror till then.Never before or since have I seen horrorso intensely depicted. It seemed actuallyas if O'Connor's mind had been unsettledby the shock; the few words he utteredwere marked with all the incoherence ofdistraction; but it was not words that

marked his despair most strongly, theappalling and heart-sickening groansthat came from the terror-stricken anddying man must haunt me while Ilive; the expression, too, of hopeless,imploring agony with which he turnedhis eyes from object to object, I cannever forget. At length, appearingsuddenly to recollect himself, he said, withstartling alertness, but in a voice soaltered that I scarce could recognise thetones:

'Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poormother; she must know all, and then,quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bringhim here; I must have a chance.' Hemade a violent but fruitless effort to rise,and after a slight pause continued, withdeep and urgent solemnity: 'Doctor, howlong shall I live? Don't flatter me.Compliments at a death-bed are out ofplace; doctor, for God's sake, as you wouldnot have my soul perish with my body, donot mock a dying man; have I an hour tolive?'

'Certainly,' replied the surgeon; 'if youwill but endeavour to keep yourself tranquil;otherwise I cannot answer for amoment.'

'Well, doctor,' said the patient, 'I willobey you; now, Purcell, my first anddearest friend, will you inform my poormother of--of what you see, and returnwith your uncle; I know you will.'

I took the dear fellow's hand and kissedit, it was the only answer I could give,and left the room. I asked the firstfemale servant I chanced to meet, if hermistress were yet up, and was answered inthe affirmative. Without giving myselftime to hesitate, I requested her to lead

me to her lady's room, which she accordinglydid; she entered first, I supposed toannounce my name, and I followed closely;the poor mother said something, and heldout her hands to welcome me; I strovefor words; I could not speak, but naturefound expression; I threw myself at herfeet and covered her hands with kisses andtears. My manner was enough; with aquickness almost preternatural she understoodit all; she simply said the words:'O'Connor is killed;' she uttered nomore.

How I left the room I know not; Irode madly to my uncle's residence, andbrought him back with me--all the restis a blank. I remember standing byO'Connor's bedside, and kissing the coldpallid forehead again and again; I rememberthe pale serenity of the beautifulfeatures; I remember that I looked uponthe dead face of my friend, and I rememberno more.

For many months I lay writhing andraving in the frenzy of brain fever; ahundred times I stood tottering at thebrink of death, and long after my restorationto bodily health was assured, it appeareddoubtful whether I should ever berestored to reason. But God dealt verymercifully with me; His mighty handrescued me from death and from madnesswhen one or other appeared inevitable.As soon as I was permitted pen and ink,I wrote to the bereaved mother in a tonebordering upon frenzy. I accused myselfof having made her childless; I calledmyself a murderer; I believed myselfaccursed; I could not find terms strongenough to express my abhorrence of myown conduct. But, oh! what an answer Ireceived, so mild, so sweet, from thedesolate, childless mother! its words spoke all

that is beautiful in Christianity--it wasforgiveness--it was resignation. I amconvinced that to that letter, operating asit did upon a mind already predisposed, isowing my final determination to devotemyself to that profession in which, formore than half a century, I have been ahumble minister.

Years roll away, and we count them notas they pass, but their influence is not theless certain that it is silent; the deepestwounds are gradually healed, the keenestgriefs are mitigated, and we, in character,feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become suchaltered beings, that but for some fewindelible marks which past events mustleave behind them, which time maysoften, but can never efface; our veryidentity would be dubious. Who has notfelt all this at one time or other? Whohas not mournfully felt it? This trite, butnatural train of reflection filled my mind asI approached the domain of Castle Connorsome ten years after the occurrence of theevents above narrated. Everything lookedthe same as when I had left it; the oldtrees stood as graceful and as grand asever; no plough had violated the softgreen sward; no utilitarian hand hadconstrained the wanderings of the clear andsportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-covered rocks through which it gushed, orthe wild coppice that over-shadowed itssequestered nooks--but the eye thatlooked upon these things was altered, andmemory was busy with other days,shrouding in sadness every beauty thatmet my sight.

As I approached the castle my emotionsbecame so acutely painful that I hadalmost returned the way I came, withoutaccomplishing the purpose for which I hadgone thus far; and nothing but the conviction

that my having been in the neighbourhoodof Castle Connor without visitingits desolate mistress would render mejustly liable to the severest censure, couldovercome my reluctance to encounteringthe heavy task which was before me. Irecognised the old servant who opened thedoor, but he did not know me. I wascompletely changed; suffering of body andmind had altered me in feature and inbearing, as much as in character. I askedthe man whether his mistress ever sawvisitors. He answered:

'But seldom; perhaps, however, if sheknew that an old friend wished to see herfor a few minutes, she would gratify himso far.'

At the same time I placed my card inhis hand, and requested him to deliver itto his mistress. He returned in a fewmoments, saying that his lady would behappy to see me in the parlour, and Iaccordingly followed him to the door, whichhe opened. I entered the room, and wasin a moment at the side of my early friendand benefactress. I was too much agitatedto speak; I could only hold the handswhich she gave me, while, spite of everyeffort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.

'It was kind, very, very kind of you tocome to see me,' she said, with far morecomposure than I could have commanded;'I see it is very painful to you.'

I endeavoured to compose myself, andfor a little time we remained silent; shewas the first to speak:

'You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell,when you observe the calmness withwhich I can speak of him who was dearestto me, who is gone; but my thoughts are

always with him, and the recollections ofhis love'--her voice faltered a little--'andthe hope of meeting him hereafter enablesme to bear existence.'

I said I know not what; somethingabout resignation, I believe.

'I hope I am resigned; God made memore: so,' she said. 'Oh, Mr. Purcell, Ihave often thought I loved my lost childTOO well. It was natural--he was my onlychild--he was----' She could not proceedfor a few moments: 'It was very naturalthat I should love him as I did; but itmay have been sinful; I have often thoughtso. I doated upon him--I idolised him--Ithought too little of other holier affections;and God may have taken him from me,only to teach me, by this severe lesson,that I owed to heaven a larger share ofmy heart than to anything earthly. Icannot think of him now without moresolemn feelings than if he were with me.There is something holy in our thoughtsof the dead; I feel it so.' After a pause,she continued--'Mr. Purcell, do youremember his features well? they were verybeautiful.' I assured her that I did.'Then you can tell me if you think this afaithful likeness.' She took from a drawera case in which lay a miniature. I took itreverently from her hands; it was indeedvery like--touchingly like. I told her so;and she seemed gratified.

As the evening was wearing fast, and Ihad far to go, I hastened to terminate myvisit, as I had intended, by placing in herhand a letter from her son to me, writtenduring his sojourn upon the Continent. Irequested her to keep it; it was one inwhich he spoke much of her, and in termsof the tenderest affection. As she read itscontents the heavy tears gathered in her

eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page;she wiped them away, but they stillflowed fast and silently. It was in vainthat she tried to read it; her eyes werefilled with tears: so she folded the letter,and placed it in her bosom. I rose todepart, and she also rose.

'I will not ask you to delay yourdeparture,' said she; 'your visit heremust have been a painful one to you. Icannot find words to thank you for theletter as I would wish, or for all yourkindness. It has given me a pleasure greaterthan I thought could have fallen to the lotof a creature so very desolate as I am;may God bless you for it!' And thus weparted; I never saw Castle Connor or itssolitary inmate more.

THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM.

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

'All this HE told with some confusion and Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand To expound their vain and visionary gleams, I've known some odd ones which seemed really planned Prophetically, as that which one deems "A strange coincidence," to use a phrase By which such things are settled nowadays.' BYRON.

Dreams! What age, or whatcountry of the world, has notand acknowledged the mysteryof their origin and end? I havethought not a little upon the subject,seeing it is one which has been oftenforced upon my attention, and sometimesstrangely enough; and yet I have never

arrived at anything which at all appeareda satisfactory conclusion. It does appearthat a mental phenomenon so extraordinarycannot be wholly without its use. Weknow, indeed, that in the olden times ithas been made the organ of communicationbetween the Deity and His creatures; andwhen, as I have seen, a dream producesupon a mind, to all appearance hopelesslyreprobate and depraved, an effect so powerfuland so lasting as to break down theinveterate habits, and to reform the lifeof an abandoned sinner, we see in theresult, in the reformation of morals whichappeared incorrigible, in the reclamation ofa human soul which seemed to be irre-trievably lost, something more than couldbe produced by a mere chimera of theslumbering fancy, something more thancould arise from the capricious images of aterrified imagination; but once presented,we behold in all these things, and in theirtremendous and mysterious results, theoperation of the hand of God. Andwhile Reason rejects as absurd thesuperstition which will read a prophecy in everydream, she may, without violence to herself,recognise, even in the wildest andmost incongruous of the wanderings of aslumbering intellect, the evidences and thefragments of a language which may bespoken, which HAS been spoken, to terrify,to warn, and to command. We havereason to believe too, by the promptnessof action which in the age of the prophetsfollowed all intimations of this kind, andby the strength of conviction and strangepermanence of the effects resulting fromcertain dreams in latter times, which effectswe ourselves may have witnessed, thatwhen this medium of communication hasbeen employed by the Deity, the evidencesof His presence have been unequivocal.My thoughts were directed to this subject,in a manner to leave a lasting impression

upon my mind, by the events which Ishall now relate, the statement of which,however extraordinary, is neverthelessACCURATELY CORRECT.

About the year 17--, having beenappointed to the living of C---h, Irented a small house in the town, whichbears the same name: one morning in themonth of November, I was awakenedbefore my usual time by my servant, whobustled into my bedroom for the purposeof announcing a sick call. As the CatholicChurch holds her last rites to be totallyindispensable to the safety of the departingsinner, no conscientious clergyman canafford a moment's unnecessary delay, andin little more than five minutes I stoodready cloaked and booted for the road, inthe small front parlour, in which themessenger, who was to act as my guide,awaited my coming. I found a poorlittle girl crying piteously near the door,and after some slight difficulty I ascertainedthat her father was either dead orjust dying.

'And what may be your father's name,my poor child?' said I. She held downher head, as if ashamed. I repeated thequestion, and the wretched little creatureburst into floods of tears still more bitterthan she had shed before. At length,almost provoked by conduct whichappeared to me so unreasonable, I began tolose patience, spite of the pity which Icould not help feeling towards her, and Isaid rather harshly:

'If you will not tell me the name of theperson to whom you would lead me, yoursilence can arise from no good motive, andI might be justified in refusing to go withyou at all.'

'Oh, don't say that--don't say that!'cried she. 'Oh, sir, it was that I wasafeard of when I would not tell you--Iwas afeard, when you heard his name, youwould not come with me; but it is no usehidin' it now--it's Pat Connell, thecarpenter, your honour.'

She looked in my face with the mostearnest anxiety, as if her very existencedepended upon what she should read there;but I relieved her at once. The name,indeed, was most unpleasantly familiar tome; but, however fruitless my visits andadvice might have been at another time,the present was too fearful an occasion tosuffer my doubts of their utility or myreluctance to re-attempting what appeareda hopeless task to weigh even against thelightest chance that a consciousness ofhis imminent danger might produce in hima more docile and tractable disposition.Accordingly I told the child to lead theway, and followed her in silence. Shehurried rapidly through the long narrowstreet which forms the great thoroughfareof the town. The darkness of the hour,rendered still deeper by the close approachof the old-fashioned houses, which loweredin tall obscurity on either side of the way;the damp, dreary chill which renders theadvance of morning peculiarly cheerless,combined with the object of my walk, tovisit the death-bed of a presumptuoussinner, to endeavour, almost against myown conviction, to infuse a hope into theheart of a dying reprobate--a drunkardbut too probably perishing under theconsequences of some mad fit of intoxication;all these circumstances united served toenhance the gloom and solemnity of myfeelings, as I silently followed my littleguide, who with quick steps traversed theuneven pavement of the main street.After a walk of about five minutes she

turned off into a narrow lane, of thatobscure and comfortless class which isto be found in almost all small old-fashioned towns, chill, without ventilation,reeking with all manner of offensiveeffluviae, and lined by dingy, smoky, sicklyand pent-up buildings, frequently not onlyin a wretched but in a dangerous condition.

'Your father has changed his abodesince I last visited him, and, I am afraid,much for the worse,' said I.

'Indeed he has, sir; but we must notcomplain,' replied she. 'We have to thankGod that we have lodging and food,though it's poor enough, it is, yourhonour.'

Poor child! thought I, how many anolder head might learn wisdom from thee--how many a luxurious philosopher, whois skilled to preach but not to suffer,might not thy patient words put to theblush! The manner and language of thischild were alike above her years andstation; and, indeed, in all cases in whichthe cares and sorrows of life have anticipatedtheir usual date, and have fallen, as theysometimes do, with melancholy prematurityto the lot of childhood, I have observedthe result to have proved uniformly thesame. A young mind, to which joy andindulgence have been strangers, and towhich suffering and self-denial have beenfamiliarised from the first, acquires asolidity and an elevation which no otherdiscipline could have bestowed, and which,in the present case, communicated a strikingbut mournful peculiarity to the manners,even to the voice, of the child. Wepaused before a narrow, crazy door, whichshe opened by means of a latch, and weforthwith began to ascend the steep andbroken stairs which led upwards to the

sick man's room.

As we mounted flight after flighttowards the garret-floor, I heard more andmore distinctly the hurried talking of manyvoices. I could also distinguish the lowsobbing of a female. On arriving uponthe uppermost lobby these sounds becamefully audible.

'This way, your honour,' said my littleconductress; at the same time, pushingopen a door of patched and half-rottenplank, she admitted me into the squalidchamber of death and misery. But onecandle, held in the fingers of a scared andhaggard-looking child, was burning in theroom, and that so dim that all was twilightor darkness except within its immediateinfluence. The general obscurity,however, served to throw into prominentand startling relief the death-bed and itsoccupant. The light was nearly approximatedto, and fell with horrible clearnessupon, the blue and swollen features of thedrunkard. I did not think it possible thata human countenance could look so terrific.The lips were black and drawn apart; theteeth were firmly set; the eyes a littleunclosed, and nothing but the whites appearing.Every feature was fixed and livid, andthe whole face wore a ghastly and rigidexpression of despairing terror such as Inever saw equalled. His hands were crossedupon his breast, and firmly clenched; while,as if to add to the corpse-like effect of thewhole, some white cloths, dipped in water,were wound about the forehead andtemples.

As soon as I could remove my eyes fromthis horrible spectacle, I observed my friendDr. D----, one of the most humane of ahumane profession, standing by the bedside.He had been attempting, but unsuccessfully,

to bleed the patient, and had nowapplied his finger to the pulse.

'Is there any hope?' I inquired in awhisper.

A shake of the head was the reply.There was a pause while he continuedto hold the wrist; but he waited in vainfor the throb of life--it was not there: andwhen he let go the hand, it fell stiffly backinto its former position upon the other.

'The man is dead,' said the physician, ashe turned from the bed where the terriblefigure lay.

Dead! thought I, scarcely venturing tolook upon the tremendous and revoltingspectacle. Dead! without an hour forrepentance, even a moment for reflection;dead I without the rites which even thebest should have. Is there a hope forhim? The glaring eyeball, the grinningmouth, the distorted brow--that unutterablelook in which a painter would havesought to embody the fixed despair of thenethermost hell. These were my answer.

The poor wife sat at a little distance,crying as if her heart would break--theyounger children clustered round the bed,looking with wondering curiosity upon theform of death never seen before.

When the first tumult of uncontrollablesorrow had passed away, availing myselfof the solemnity and impressiveness of thescene, I desired the heart-stricken familyto accompany me in prayer, and all kneltdown while I solemnly and ferventlyrepeated some of those prayers whichappeared most applicable to the occasion. Iemployed myself thus in a manner which,I trusted, was not unprofitable, at least to

the living, for about ten minutes; andhaving accomplished my task, I was thefirst to arise.

I looked upon the poor, sobbing,helpless creatures who knelt so humbly aroundme, and my heart bled for them. Witha natural transition I turned my eyes fromthem to the bed in which the body lay;and, great God! what was the revulsion,the horror which I experienced on seeingthe corpse-like terrific thing seated halfupright before me; the white cloths whichhad been wound about the head had nowpartly slipped from their position, andwere hanging in grotesque festoons aboutthe face and shoulders, while the distortedeyes leered from amid them--

'A sight to dream of, not to tell.'

I stood actually riveted to the spot. Thefigure nodded its head and lifted its arm,I thought, with a menacing gesture. Athousand confused and horrible thoughtsat once rushed upon my mind. I hadoften read that the body of a presumptuoussinner, who, during life, had beenthe willing creature of every satanicimpulse, after the human tenant had desertedit, had been known to become the horriblesport of demoniac possession.

I was roused from the stupefaction ofterror in which I stood, by the piercingscream of the mother, who now, for thefirst time, perceived the change which hadtaken place. She rushed towards the bed,but stunned by the shock, and overcome bythe conflict of violent emotions, before shereached it she fell prostrate upon thefloor.

I am perfectly convinced that had I notbeen startled from the torpidity of horror

in which I was bound by some powerfuland arousing stimulant, I should havegazed upon this unearthly apparition untilI had fairly lost my senses. As it was,however, the spell was broken--superstitiongave way to reason: the man whom allbelieved to have been actually dead wasliving!

Dr. D---- was instantly standing bythe bedside, and upon examination hefound that a sudden and copious flow ofblood had taken place from the woundwhich the lancet had left; and this, nodoubt, had effected his sudden and almostpreternatural restoration to an existencefrom which all thought he had been for everremoved. The man was still speechless,but he seemed to understand the physicianwhen he forbid his repeating the painfuland fruitless attempts which he made toarticulate, and he at once resigned himselfquietly into his hands.

I left the patient with leeches upon histemples, and bleeding freely, apparentlywith little of the drowsiness which accompaniesapoplexy; indeed, Dr. D---- toldme that he had never before witnessed aseizure which seemed to combine thesymptoms of so many kinds, and yetwhich belonged to none of the recognisedclasses; it certainly was not apoplexy,catalepsy, nor delirium tremens, and yet itseemed, in some degree, to partake of theproperties of all. It was strange, butstranger things are coming.

During two or three days Dr. D----would not allow his patient to converse ina manner which could excite or exhausthim, with anyone; he suffered him merelyas briefly as possible to express hisimmediate wants. And it was not until the fourthday after my early visit, the particulars of

which I have just detailed, that it was thoughtexpedient that I should see him, and thenonly because it appeared that his extremeimportunity and impatience to meet mewere likely to retard his recovery more thanthe mere exhaustion attendant upon a shortconversation could possibly do; perhaps,too, my friend entertained some hope thatif by holy confession his patient's bosomwere eased of the perilous stuff which nodoubt oppressed it, his recovery would bemore assured and rapid. It was then, as Ihave said, upon the fourth day after myfirst professional call, that I found myselfonce more in the dreary chamber of wantand sickness.

The man was in bed, and appeared lowand restless. On my entering the room heraised himself in the bed, and muttered,twice or thrice:

'Thank God! thank God!'

I signed to those of his family whostood by to leave the room, and took achair beside the bed. So soon as we werealone, he said, rather doggedly:

'There's no use in telling me of thesinfulness of bad ways--I know it all. Iknow where they lead to--I seen everythingabout it with my own eyesight, asplain as I see you.' He rolled himself inthe bed, as if to hide his face in theclothes; and then suddenly raising himself,he exclaimed with startling vehemence:'Look, sir! there is no use in mincing thematter: I'm blasted with the fires of hell;I have been in hell. What do you thinkof that? In hell--I'm lost for ever--Ihave not a chance. I am damned already--damned--damned!'

The end of this sentence he actually

shouted. His vehemence was perfectlyterrific; he threw himself back, andlaughed, and sobbed hysterically. Ipoured some water into a tea-cup, andgave it to him. After he had swallowedit, I told him if he had anything tocommunicate, to do so as briefly as he could,and in a manner as little agitating tohimself as possible; threatening at the sametime, though I had no intention of doingso, to leave him at once, in case he againgave way to such passionate excitement.

'It's only foolishness,' he continued, 'forme to try to thank you for coming to sucha villain as myself at all. It's no use for meto wish good to you, or to bless you;for such as me has no blessings togive.'

I told him that I had but done my duty,and urged him to proceed to the matterwhich weighed upon his mind. He thenspoke nearly as follows:

'I came in drunk on Friday night last,and got to my bed here; I don't rememberhow. Sometime in the night it seemedto me I wakened, and feeling unasy inmyself, I got up out of the bed. I wantedthe fresh air; but I would not make anoise to open the window, for fear I'dwaken the crathurs. It was very darkand throublesome to find the door; butat last I did get it, and I groped my wayout, and went down as asy as I could. Ifelt quite sober, and I counted the stepsone 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 itsunk under me, and I went down--down--down, till the senses almost left me. I donot know how long I was falling, but it

seemed to me a great while. When Icame rightly to myself at last, I wassitting near the top of a great table;and I could not see the end of it, if ithad any, it was so far off. And therewas men beyond reckoning, sitting downall along by it, at each side, as far as Icould see at all. I did not know at firstwas it in the open air; but there was aclose smothering feel in it that was notnatural. And there was a kind of light thatmy eyesight never saw before, red andunsteady; and I did not see for a long timewhere it was coming from, until I lookedstraight up, and then I seen that it camefrom great balls of blood-coloured fire thatwere rolling high over head with a sort ofrushing, trembling sound, and I perceivedthat they shone on the ribs of a great roofof rock that was arched overhead insteadof the sky. When I seen this, scarceknowing 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 lefthand only smiled, and said, "Sit downagain; you can NEVER leave this place." Andhis voice was weaker than any child's voiceI ever heerd; and when he was done speakinghe smiled again.

'Then I spoke out very loud and bold,and I said, "In the name of God, let meout of this bad place." And there was agreat man that I did not see before, sittingat the end of the table that I was near; andhe was taller than twelve men, and his facewas very proud and terrible to look at.And he stood up and stretched out his handbefore him; and when he stood up, all thatwas there, great and small, bowed downwith a sighing sound, and a dread came onmy heart, and he looked at me, and Icould not speak. I felt I was his own,to do what he liked with, for I knew atonce who he was; and he said, "If you

promise to return, you may depart for aseason;" and the voice he spoke with wasterrible and mournful, and the echoes of itwent rolling and swelling down the endlesscave, and mixing with the trembling of thefire overhead; so that when he sat downthere was a sound after him, all throughthe place, like the roaring of a furnace, andI said, with all the strength I had, "Ipromise to come back--in God's name letme go!"

'And with that I lost the sight andthe hearing of all that was there, andwhen my senses came to me again, Iwas sitting in the bed with the blood allover me, and you and the rest prayingaround the room.'

Here he paused and wiped away thechill drops of horror which hung upon hisforehead.

I remained silent for some moments.The vision which he had just describedstruck my imagination not a little, forthis was long before Vathek and the'Hall of Eblis' had delighted the world;and the description which he gave had, asI received it, all the attractions of noveltybeside the impressiveness which alwaysbelongs to the narration of an EYE-WITNESS,whether in the body or in the spirit, of thescenes which he describes. There wassomething, too, in the stern horror withwhich the man related these things, andin the incongruity of his description, withthe vulgarly received notions of the greatplace of punishment, and of its presidingspirit, which struck my mind with awe,almost with fear. At length he said, withan expression of horrible, imploringearnestness, which I shall never forget--'Well, sir, is there any hope; is there anychance at all? or, is my soul pledged and

promised away for ever? is it goneout of my power? must I go back to theplace?'

In answering him, I had no easy task toperform; for however clear might be myinternal conviction of the groundlessnessof his tears, and however strong my scepticismrespecting the reality of what he haddescribed, I nevertheless felt that hisimpression to the contrary, and his humilityand terror resulting from it, might be madeavailable as no mean engines in the workof his conversion from prodigacy, and ofhis restoration to decent habits, and toreligious feeling.

I therefore told him that he was toregard his dream rather in the light of awarning than in that of a prophecy; thatour salvation depended not upon the wordor deed of a moment, but upon the habitsof a life; that, in fine, if he at oncediscarded his idle companions and evil habits,and firmly adhered to a sober, industrious,and religious course of life, the powers ofdarkness might claim his soul in vain, forthat there were higher and firmer pledgesthan human tongue could utter, whichpromised salvation to him who shouldrepent and lead a new life.

I left him much comforted, and with apromise to return upon the next day. Idid so, and found him much more cheerfuland without any remains of the doggedsullenness which I suppose had arisen fromhis despair. His promises of amendmentwere given in that tone of deliberateearnestness, which belongs to deep andsolemn determination; and it was with nosmall delight that I observed, afterrepeated visits, that his good resolutions, sofar from failing, did but gather strengthby time; and when I saw that man shake

off the idle and debauched companions,whose society had for years formed alikehis amusement and his ruin, and revivehis long discarded habits of industry andsobriety, I said within myself, there issomething more in all this than the operationof an idle dream.

One day, sometime after his perfectrestoration to health, I was surprised onascending the stairs, for the purpose ofvisiting this man, to find him busilyemployed in nailing down some planksupon the landing-place, through which, atthe commencement of his mysterious vision,it seemed to him that he had sunk. Iperceived at once that he was strengtheningthe floor with a view to securinghimself against such a catastrophe, andcould scarcely forbear a smile as I bid'God bless his work.'

He perceived my thoughts, I suppose,for he immediately said:

'I can never pass over that floor withouttrembling. I'd leave this house if Icould, but I can't find another lodging inthe town so cheap, and I'll not take abetter till I've paid off all my debts, pleaseGod; but I could not be asy in my mindtill I made it as safe as I could. You'llhardly believe me, your honour, that whileI'm working, maybe a mile away, my heartis in a flutter the whole way back, withthe bare thoughts of the two little steps Ihave to walk upon this bit of a floor. Soit's no wonder, sir, I'd thry to make itsound and firm with any idle timber Ihave.'

I applauded his resolution to pay off hisdebts, and the steadiness with which heperused his plans of conscientious economy,and passed on.

Many months elapsed, and still thereappeared no alteration in his resolutions ofamendment. He was a good workman,and with his better habits he recovered hisformer extensive and profitable employment.Everything seemed to promise comfort andrespectability. I have little more to add,and that shall be told quickly. I had oneevening met Pat Connell, as he returnedfrom his work, and as usual, after a mutual,and on his side respectful salutation, Ispoke a few words of encouragement andapproval. I left him industrious, active,healthy--when next I saw him, not threedays after, he was a corpse.

The circumstances which marked theevent of his death were somewhat strange--I might say fearful. The unfortunateman had accidentally met an early friendjust returned, after a long absence, and ina moment of excitement, forgetting everythingin the warmth of his joy, he yieldedto his urgent invitation to accompany himinto a public-house, which lay close by thespot where the encounter had taken place.Connell, however, previously to enteringthe room, had announced his determinationto take nothing more than the strictesttemperance would warrant.

But oh! who can describe the inveteratetenacity with which a drunkard's habitscling to him through life? He may repent--he may reform--he may look withactual abhorrence upon his past profligacy;but amid all this reformation andcompunction, who can tell the moment inwhich the base and ruinous propensity maynot recur, triumphing over resolution,remorse, shame, everything, and prostratingits victim once more in all that isdestructive and revolting in that fatal vice?

The wretched man left the place in astate of utter intoxication. He wasbrought home nearly insensible. andplaced in his bed, where he lay in the deepcalm lethargy of drunkenness. Theyounger part of the family retired to restmuch after their usual hour; but the poorwife remained up sitting by the fire, toomuch grieved and shocked at the occur-rence of what she had so little expected,to settle to rest; fatigue, however, atlength overcame her, and she sankgradually into an uneasy slumber. Shecould not tell how long she had remainedin this state, when she awakened, andimmediately on opening her eyes, sheperceived by the faint red light of thesmouldering turf embers, two persons, oneof whom she recognised as her husband,noiselessly gliding out of the room.

'Pat, darling, where are you going?'said she. There was no answer--the doorclosed after them; but in a moment shewas startled and terrified by a loud andheavy crash, as if some ponderous body hadbeen hurled down the stair. Much alarmed,she started up, and going to the head ofthe staircase, she called repeatedly upon herhusband, but in vain. She returned tothe room, and with the assistance of herdaughter, whom I had occasion to mentionbefore, she succeeded in finding and lightinga candle, with which she hurried againto the head of the staircase.

At the bottom lay what seemed to be abundle of clothes, heaped together, motionless,lifeless--it was her husband. Ingoing down the stair, for what purposecan never now be known, he had fallenhelplessly and violently to the bottom, andcoming head foremost, the spine at theneck had been dislocated by the shock, andinstant death must have ensued. The

body lay upon that landing-place to whichhis dream had referred. It is scarcelyworth endeavouring to clear up a singlepoint in a narrative where all is mystery;yet I could not help suspecting that thesecond figure which had been seen in theroom by Connell's wife on the night of hisdeath, might have been no other than hisown shadow. I suggested this solution ofthe difficulty; but she told me that theunknown person had been considerably inadvance of the other, and on reaching thedoor, had turned back as if to communicatesomething to his companion. It was thena mystery.

Was the dream verified?--whither hadthe disembodied spirit sped?--who cansay? We know not. But I left the houseof death that day in a state of horrorwhich I could not describe. It seemed tome that I was scarce awake. I heard andsaw everything as if under the spell of anight-mare. The coincidence was terrible.