The Irish on the continent—Slow travelling of remittances—Inconveniences
thereof—Sir John Burke, of Glinsk—Reasonable points of
curiosity—Prompt satisfaction—_Messieurs des Créanciers_—Sir John’s
health declines—Given over by the faculty generally—Doctor T—’s
perseverance—Its success—A game at cross purposes—Custodiums in
Ireland—New mode of liquidating a debt—Galway gore—Receipt for
ennobling the _bourgeois_ of Paris—Sir John Burke’s marriage and visit
to Rome—His return—Lady Burke—Glinsk Castle.
It has been generally observed, that our fellow-subjects who sojourn
long on the continent often lose many of their national traits, and
imbibe those of other countries. The Irish, however, present an
exception to this rule. I have scarce ever met a thorough-paced Irishman
whose oddities totally deserted him; the humorous idiom of his language,
and the rich flavour of his dialect, are intrinsic, and adhere as
steadily to his tongue as _fancy_ does to his brain, and eccentricity to
his actions.
An Irishman is _toujours_ an Irishman, and wheresoever he “puts up”
seldom fails to find one inveterate enemy—“himself.” This observation is
not confined to the lower or middle classes of Hibernians, but
occasionally includes the superior orders. Like the swine, when the
demon got into them, Irishmen on the continent keep frisking,
pirouetting, galloping, and puffing away, till they lose their footing;
and there is scarcely a more entertaining spectacle than that afforded
by the schemes, devices, and humours of a true son of Erin, under these
circumstances.
I was greatly amused by an incident which took place at Paris some time
since;—it possesses as much of the Irish _flavour_ as any bagatelle
anecdote I recollect to have met with; and as the parties are above the
medium class, well known, all alive, and still on the same _pavé_ in
perfect harmony, the thing is rendered more entertaining.
An Irish baronet of very ancient family (an honour which he never
suffered any person to be ignorant of after twenty minutes’
conversation), proprietor of a large Galway territory, garnished with
the usual dilapidated chateau, brogueless tenantry, managing attorneys,
and mis-managing agents, having sufficiently squeezed his estate to get
(as he terms) the _juice_ out of it, determined to serve a few campaigns
about St. James’ Street, &c., and try if he could _retrench_ at the
several club-houses and “hells” to be met with amidst what is called
“high life” in our economical metropolis.
After having enacted with _éclat_ all the parts in the various scenes
usually performed on that great theatre, he at length found, that the
place was not much _cheaper_ than _sweet_ Glinsk, or any old
principality of his own dear country. He therefore resolved to change
the scene for a more diverting and cheerful one; and by way of a
_finish_, came over to Paris, where any species of ruin may be completed
with a taste, ease, and despatch unknown in our boorish country.
The baronet brought over three or four thousand pounds in his fob, just
(as he told me) to try, by way of comparison, how long that quantity of
_the dross_ would last in Paris[9]—on which point his curiosity was
promptly satisfied:—“Frascati” and the “Salon des Etrangers,” by a due
application of spotted bones, coloured pasteboard, and painted
whirligigs, under the superintendence of the Marquis de Livere, informed
him at the termination of a short novitiate, that nearly the last of his
“Empereurs” had been securely vested in the custody of the said Marquis
de Livere.
-----
Footnote 9:
Last year, the son of a very great man in England came over to Paris
with a considerable sum in his pocket for the very same purpose. The
first thing he did was gravely to ask his banker (an excellent and
sensible man), “How long six thousand pounds would last him in Paris?”
The reply was a true and correct one, “If you play, three days; if you
don’t, six weeks.”
-----
Though this seemed, _primâ facie_, rather _inconvenient_, yet the
baronet’s dashing establishment did not immediately suffer diminution,
until his valet’s repeated answer, _pas chez lui_, began to alarm the
crew of grooms, goddesses, led captains, &c.
Misfortune (and he began to fancy this was very like one) seldom delays
long to fill up the place of ready money when that quits a gentleman’s
service: and it now seemed disposed to attach itself to the baronet in
another way. Madam Pandora’s box appeared to fly open, and a host of
bodily ills beset Sir John, who, having but indifferent nerves, was
quite thrown on his back.
Such was the hapless situation of Sir John Burke, while exercising his
portion of the virtue of patience, in _waiting for remittances_—a period
of suspense particularly disagreeable to travellers abroad—every
post-day being pretty certain to carry off the _appetite_; which
circumstance, to be sure, may be sometimes considered _convenient_
enough.
Families from the interior of Hibernia are peculiarly subject to that
suspense; and where their Irish agent happens to be an old _confidential
solicitor_, or a _very dear friend_, or a near relation of the _family_,
the attack is frequently acute. An instance, indeed, occurred lately,
wherein the _miscarriage_ of an Irish letter actually caused the very
same accident to a new-married lady!
The baronet, however, bore up well; and being extremely good-humoured,
the surliest _créanciers_ in Paris could not find in their hearts for
some time to be angry with him; and so, most unreasonably left him to be
angry with himself, which is a thousand times more tormenting to a man,
because _sans_ intermission.
At length, some of his most _pressing_ friends, who a short time before
had considered it their highest honour to enjoy the _pratique_ of
Monsieur le Chevalier, began to show symptoms of losing temper;—as smoke
generally forebodes the generation of fire, something like a blaze
seemed likely to burst forth; and as the baronet most emphatically said
to me—“The d—d duns, like a flock of jack snipes, were eternally
thrusting their _long bills_ into me, as if I was a piece of _bog_!”
Complaisance and smooth words very rarely fail to conciliate a
Frenchman; and, after all, the baronet never experienced more civil or
kinder friends in Paris than some of these very _snipes_ who stuck their
long bills into him. But “remittances” from the county of Galway have
been, time immemorial, celebrated for the extreme slowness of their
movements; and though in general very _light_, they travel more
deliberately than a broad-wheel waggon. Hence, Sir John Burke’s
“corporal ills” were both perpetuated and heightened by his mental
uneasiness.
Doctors were called in, in hopes that one or other of them might _by
chance_ hit upon a remedy; and Sir John submitted to their prescriptions
(to use his own words), like a lamb going to the slaughter.—“I knew very
well,” said he, “that one _banker_ could do me more good by a single
dose, than all the _doctors_ in Paris put together;—but as my friends
Messrs. * * * * * had declined to administer any more _metallic_
prescriptions, I really feared that my _catastrophe_ was not very
distant.”
And, indeed, the doctors, neither jointly nor severally agreeing as to
the nature of his symptoms, nor to the necessary mode of treatment,
after several _consultations_ respecting the _weather_ and the _war_ (as
customary), gave Sir John’s case up as desperate: and having showed the
palms of their hands without any favourable result, shook their heads,
made each three low and lingering bows, and left the baronet to settle
affairs himself with Madam Pandora as well as he could.
One of these medical gentlemen, however,—a fair, square,
straightforward, skilful nosologist,—could not bring himself so easily
to give up the baronet: he returned; and by dint of medicamenta,
phlebotomy, blistering, leeching, cupping, smothering in vapour, &c. &c.
(the pains of the patient’s mind, meanwhile, being overcome by the pains
of his body) the doctor at last got him _thorough the thing_ (as they
say in Ireland). He was not, however, quite free from the danger of a
relapse; and an unlucky flask _extraordinary_ of “Epernay sec” (taken to
celebrate his recovery) set Sir John’s solids and fluids again
fermenting, knocked down his convalescence, which Dr. T—— had so
indefatigably re-established, and introduced a certain inflammatory
gentleman called fever.
The clergy were now summoned, and attended with an extra quantity of oil
and water to lighten and prepare the baronet’s soul for speedy
transportation; some souls, they said, and I believe truly, being much
easier put into dying order than others. The skill of Doctor T——,
however, once more preserved his patient for further adventures, and
both physician and baronet agreed that, as the priests had done his body
none, and his soul no _perceptible_ service, and as holy men were of
course above all lust of lucre, there was no necessity for cashing
_them_; so that the contemplated fees for masses should in strict
justice be transferred to prescriptions. A few more plenteous bleedings
were therefore substituted for extreme unction: with the aid of a sound
natural constitution, Sir John once more found himself on his legs; and
having but little flesh, and no fat, his shanks had not much difficulty
in carrying his body moderate distances.
At the last bleeding, the incident occurred to which the foregoing is
but matter of induction. The blood which the doctor had just extracted
from the baronet was about twenty ounces of genuine ruby Galway gore,
discharged unadulterated from the veins of a high-crested, aboriginal
Irishman. It lay proudly basking and coagulating before the sun in china
basins, at the chamber-window. Sir John seeming still rather weak, the
physician determined to bring all his skill into a focus, discover the
latent source of indisposition, and if possible at once root it out of
the baronet’s constitution, thereby gaining the double advantage of
increasing professional fame and the amount of his fees. Now, at
precisely the same point of time, the baronet was inventing an apology
for _not paying_ the doctor.
After musing some time, as every physician in the world does, whether he
is thinking of the patient or not, Doctor T—— said, “Pray, let me see
your tongue, Sir John.”
“My _tongue_!” exclaimed the baronet, “ah! you might be greatly
disappointed by _that_ organ; there’s no depending on _tongues_
now-a-days, doctor!”
“Yet the tongue is very symptomatic, I can assure you, Sir John,”
pursued the doctor gravely.
“Possibly, in _your_ part of the world,” replied the baronet. “But I do
assure you, we place very little reliance on tongues in my country.”
“You know best,” said the doctor coolly: “then, pray let me feel your
pulse, Sir John,” looking steadfastly on his stop-watch, counting the
seconds and the throbs of the Milesian artery. “Heyday! why, your pulse
is not only irregular, but _intermits_!”
“I wish my remittances did not,” remarked Sir John, mournfully, and
thinking he had got an excellent opportunity of apologising to the
doctor.
The latter, however, had no idea of any roundabout _apologies_ (never
having been in Ireland), and resumed: “your remittances! ah, ah, Sir
John! But seriously, your pulse is all astray; pray, do you feel a pain
any where?”
“Why, doctor,” said Sir John, (sticking in like manner to _his_ point,)
“whenever I put my hand into my breeches-pocket, I feel a confounded
twitch, which gives me very considerable uneasiness, I assure you.”
“Hah!” said the doctor, conceiving he had now discovered some new
symptom about the femoral artery—“are you sure there’s nothing _in_ your
pocket that hurts you, Sir John?—Perhaps some—”
“O no, doctor,” said the baronet rather impatiently; “there’s _nothing
at all_ in my pocket, Doctor T——.”
“Then the twitch may be rather serious,” and the doctor looked
_knowing_, although he was still _at fault_ concerning the
_éclaircissement_. “It is a singular symptom. Do you feel your head at
all heavy, Sir John—a sensation of weight?”
“Not at all,” replied the other:—“my head is (except my _purse_) the
lightest thing I possess at present.”
The disciple of Galen still supposed Sir John was jesting as to his
purse, inasmuch as the plum-coloured vis-a-vis, with arms, crests, and
mantlings to match—with groom, geldings, and the baronet’s white
Arabian, still remained at the Hotel de Wagram, Rue de la Paix.
“Ha! ha! Sir John,” cried he, “I am glad to see you in such spirits.”
Nothing, however, either as to the malady or the fees being fully
explained, it at length flashed across the doctor’s comprehension that
the baronet might _possibly_ be in downright _earnest_ as to his
_remittances_. Such a thought must, under the circumstances, have a most
disheartening effect on the contour of any medical man in Europe. On the
first blush of this fatal suspicion the doctor’s features began to
droop—his eyebrows descended, and a sort of _in utrumque paratus_ look,
that many of my readers must have borne when expecting a money letter,
but not quite sure it may not be an _apology_, overspread his
countenance, while his nasal muscles puckering up (as in the tic
douloureux), seemed to quaver between a smile and a sardonic grin.
Sir John could scarcely contain himself at the doctor’s ludicrous
embarrassment. “By Jove,” said he, “I am serious!”
“Serious! as to what, Sir John?” stammered the physician, getting out of
conceit both with his patient and himself.
“The fact,” said Sir John, “is this: your long and indefatigable
attention merits all my confidence, and you shall have it.”
“Confidence!” exclaimed the doctor, bowing, “you do me honour; but—”
“Yes, doctor, I now tell you (_confidentially_) that certain papers and
matters called in Ireland _custodiums_,[10] have bothered both me and my
brother Joseph, notwithstanding all his exertions for me as agent,
receiver, remitter, attorney, banker, auditor, and arranger-general;
which said custodiums have given up all my lands, in spite of Joe, to
the king, as trustee for a set of horse-jockies, Jews, mortgagees,
gamblers, solicitors, and annuity-boys—who have been tearing me to
pieces for twenty years past without my having the slightest suspicion
of their misdemeanors; and now, doctor, they have finally, by divers law
fictions, got _his majesty_ to patronise them.”
-----
Footnote 10:
A _custodium_ is a law proceeding in Ireland, not practised much any
where else, and is vastly worse than even an “extent in aid.” By one
fiction the debtor is supposed to owe money to the king:—by another
“fiction,” the king demands his money;—and the debtor, by a third
“fiction,” is declared a rebel, because he does not pay the king.—A
commission of rebellion then issues in the name of the king against
the debtor; and by a fourth “fiction,” he is declared an outlaw, and
all his estates are seized and sequestered to pay _his majesty_. A
receiver of every shilling belonging to the debtor is then appointed
by the king’s chief baron of the exchequer; every tenant on the
estates is served with the “fictions,” as well as the landlord; and a
_debt_ of _one hundred pounds_ has been frequently ornamented with a
bill of costs to the amount of _three thousand_ in the name of his
majesty, who does not know the least circumstance of the matter.
There was scarcely a gentleman in the county of Galway, formerly, but
was as great an _outlaw_ as Robin Hood; with this difference, that
Robin Hood might be _hanged_, and his majesty could only _starve_ the
gentleman.
-----
“But, sir! sir!” interrupted the doctor.
“I assure you, however,” continued Sir John, placidly, “that my brother
Joe (whose Christian name—between you and me, doctor—ought to have been
Ulick, after Ulick the Milesian, if my mother had done him common
justice at his christening) is a long-headed fellow, and will promptly
bring those infernal custodium impostors into proper order.”
“But, sir, sir!” repeated the doctor.
“One fellow,” pursued the baronet, “hearing that Joe intended to _call
him out_ for laying on his papers, has stopped all law proceedings
already, and made a proper apology. The very name of Burke of Glinsk,
doctor, is as sounding as _Waterloo_, in the county of Galway.”
“Pardon me, Sir John,” said Doctor T——, “but what can all this have to
do with—”
“Never mind,” again interrupted the baronet, catching hold of one of the
doctor’s coat-buttons,[11] “never mind; I give you my word, Joe is a
steady, good, clever fellow, and looks two ways at every thing before he
does it—I don’t allude to the cast in his eye: a horse with a wall-eye,
you know, doctor, is the very lad for hard work!—ha! ha! ha!”
-----
Footnote 11:
How admirably does Horace describe the grievance of a _bore_ catching
hold of your button, and making the proprietor a prisoner till his
speech is expended. Doctor T—— told me that the satire came into his
head whilst Sir John had him in hold, and that in his hurry to
emancipate himself, he made a large cut in a new surtout, and quite
spoiled its beauty.
-----
The doctor could stand this no longer, and said, “I know nothing about
wall-eyed horses, Sir John.”—Indeed, being now hopeless, he made the
second of the three bows he had determined to depart with; but he found
his button still in custody between Sir John’s fingers, and was
necessitated to suspend his exit, or leave it behind him.
“A plan has occurred to me, doctor,” said the baronet, thoughtfully,
“which may not only liquidate my just and honourable debt to you for
attendance and operations, but must, if you are as skilful as I think
you are, eventually realise you a pretty fortune.”
This in a moment changed the countenance of the doctor, as a smouldering
fire, when it gets a blast of the bellows, instantly blazes up and
begins to generate its hydrogen. “And pray, sir,” asked the impatient
physician, “what plan may this be? what new _bank_ are you thinking of?”
“’Tis no _bank_,” said Sir John; “its a much better thing than any bank,
for the more you _draw_, the richer you’ll be.”
The doctor’s eyelids opened wide; his eyebrows became elevated, and he
drew his ear close to the proposer, that he might not lose a single word
of so precious an _exposé_.
“You know,” said Sir John, “though you are a Sarnion (Guernsey-man) by
birth, you _must_ know, as _all the world_ knows, that the name of the
Burkes or O’Bourkes (Irlandois), and their castle of Glinsk, have been
established and celebrated in Ireland some dozen centuries.”
“I have heard the name, sir,” said the doctor, rather peevishly.
“Be assured ’tis the very first cognomen in Ireland,” said Sir John.
“Possibly,” said the doctor.
“Nay, _positively_,” rejoined the baronet: “far more ancient than the
O’Neils, O’Briens, O’Flahertys, who indeed are comparatively _moderns_.
We were native princes and kings several centuries before even the term
Anno _Domini_ was used.”
“I will not dispute it, sir.”
“Nay, I can prove it. I had six and twenty quarters on my shield without
a blot upon either—save by one marriage with a d—d _Bodkin_ out of the
twelve tribes of Galway, about a hundred and eighty years ago. We never
got over that!”
“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” said Doctor T——, “do come to the point.”
“Pardon me,” said Sir John, “I am on the point itself.”
“As how?” inquired the other.
“Come here,” said Sir John, “and I will soon satisfy you on that head:”
and as he spoke he led him to the window, where three china cups full of
the baronet’s gore lay in regular order. “See! that’s the genuine
crimson stuff for you, doctor! eighteen ounces at least of it; the
richest in Europe! and as to colour—what’s carmine to it?”
The doctor was bewildered; but so passive, he stood quite motionless.
“Now,” continued Sir John, “we are bringing the matter to the point. You
can _guarantee_ this gore to be genuine Glinsk blood: it gushed
beautifully after your lancet, doctor, eh! didn’t it?”
“What of that, sir?” said Doctor T——: “really, Sir John, I can stay no
longer.”
“You have much ordinary professional practice,” said the baronet—“I mean
exclusive of your noble patients in Rue Rivoli, &c.—visits, for
instance, to the Boulevard St. Martin, St. Antoine, Place de Bastile, De
Bourse, &c., which you know are principally peopled by brokers with
aspiring families; rich _négocians_, with ambitious daughters, &c., who,
if they were to give five hundred thousand francs, can’t get into one
fashionable _soirée_ for want of a touch of gentility—not even within
smell of sweet little Berry’s[12] under nursery-maids. Now,” said Sir
John, pausing a moment, “we’re at the point.”
-----
Footnote 12:
Sir John is the greatest eulogist of the Duchess of Berry, and has got
the Legion of Honour for having given up his bed, blankets, and all,
to the Duke of Berry, somewhere on the road, when they were both
running away from Napoleon Bonaparte.
-----
“So much the better,” said the man of medicine.
“I understand that there is a member of the faculty in Paris, who
undertakes the _transfusion of blood_ with miraculous success, and has
not only demonstrated its practicability, but insists that it may by
improvement be rendered sufficiently operative to harmonise and
amalgamate the different qualities of different species of animals. I am
told he does not yet despair of seeing, by _transfusion of blood_,
horses becoming the best mousers, cats setting partridges, and the
vulgarest fellows upon earth metamorphosed into gentlemen.”
“Pshaw! pshaw!” exclaimed Doctor T——.
“Now, I perceive no reason,” resumed Sir John, “why any man should
perform such an operation better than yourself: and if you advertise in
the _Petit Avis_ that you have a quantity of genuine Glinsk O’Bourke
_gore_ always at command, to transfuse into persons who wish to acquire
the _gentilities_ and the feelings of noblesse, without pain or patent,
my blood, fresh from the veins, would bring you at least a _Nap_ a
spoonful: and in particular proportions, would so refine and purify the
vulgar puddle of the _bourgeois_, that they might soon be regarded (in
conjunction with their money) as high at least as the half-starved
_quatrième_ nobility, who hobble down to their sugar and water at
_soirées_ in the fauxbourg St. Germain, and go to bed in the dark to
save candle-light.”
The doctor felt hurt beyond all endurance: he blushed up to his very
whiskers, sealed his lips hermetically—by a sardonic smile only
disclosing one of his dog-teeth, and endeavoured to depart: but the
button was still fast between Sir John’s fingers, who begged of his
victim not to spare his veins, saying, “that he would with pleasure
stand as much phlebotomy as would make a fortune for any reasonable
practitioner.”
This was decisive: the doctor could stand it no longer; so snatching up
the toilet scissors, he cut the button clean off his new surtout, and
vanished without waiting ceremoniously to make the third bow, as had
always previously been his custom.
However, the baronet, when Joe (who should have been Ulick) afterward
sent him over some of the _dross_, made full metallic compensation to
the doctor,—and within this last month I met them walking together in
great harmony.
This incident, which I had known and noted long before, was then
repeated by Sir John in the doctor’s presence; and it affords the very
strongest proof what a truly valuable liquid genuine Irish gore is
considered by the chiefs of County Galway.
There is not a baronet in the United Kingdom who (with the very essence
of good-humour) has afforded a greater opportunity for notes and
anecdotes than Sir John Burke of Glinsk Castle and tilt-yard;—and no
person ever will, or ever can, relate them so well as himself.
Sir John Burke is married to the sister of Mr. Ball, the present
proprietor of Oatlands, commonly called the _Golden Ball_. I witnessed
the courtship; negotiated with the brother; read over the skeleton of
the marriage settlement, and was present at the departure of the baronet
and his new lady for Rome, to kiss the pope’s toe. I also had the
pleasure of hailing them on their return, as _le Marquis_ and _la
Marquise de Bourke_ of the Holy Roman Empire. Sir John had the _promise_
of a _principality_ from the papal see when he should be prepared to pay
his holiness the regulation price for it. At all events, he came back
highly freighted with a papal bull, a nobleman’s patent, holy relics,
mock cameos, real lava, wax tapers, Roman paving-stones, &c. &c.; and
after having been overset into the Po, and making the fortune of his
courier, he returned in a few months to Paris, to ascertain what fortune
his wife had;—a circumstance which his anxiety to be married and kiss
the pope’s toe had not given him sufficient time to investigate before.
He found it very large, and calculated to bear a good deal of cutting
and hacking ere it should quit his service—with no great probability of
his ever coaxing it back again. Sir John’s good temper, however, settles
that matter with great facility by quoting Dean Swift’s admirable
eulogium upon poverty:—“Money’s the devil, and God keeps it from us,”
said the dean. If this be orthodox, there will be more gentlemen’s souls
saved in Ireland than in any other part of his Britannic Majesty’s
dominions.
Previous to Sir John’s marriage, Miss Ball understood, or rather had
formed a conception, that Glinsk Castle was placed in one of the most
cultivated, beautiful, and romantic districts of romantic Ireland, in
which happy island she had never been, and I dare say never will be.
Burke, who seldom says any thing without laughing heartily at his own
remark, was questioned by her pretty closely as to the beauty of the
demesne, and the architecture of the castle. “Now, Sir John,” said she,
“have you much dressed grounds upon the demesne of Glinsk?”
“Dressed, my love!” repeated Sir John, “why, my whole estate has been
nearly _dressed up_ these seven years past.”
“That’s very uncommon,” said Miss Ball; “there must have been a great
expenditure on it.”
“Oh, very great,” replied the baronet, “very great.”
“The castle,” said her future ladyship, “is, I suppose, in good order?”
“It ought to be,” answered Sir John; “for (searching his pockets) I got
a bill from my brother Joe of, I think, two hundred pounds, only for
nails, iron cramps, and holdfasts—for a single winter.”
The queries of Miss Ball innocently proceeded, and, I think, the replies
were among the pleasantest and most adroit I ever heard. The lady seemed
quite delighted, and nearly expressed a wish to go down to the castle as
soon as possible. “As Sir John’s rents may not come in instantly,” said
she, “I have, I fancy, a few thousand pounds in the bank just now, and
that may take us down and new-furnish, at least, a wing of the castle!”
This took poor Sir John dreadfully aback. Glinsk was, he told me,
actually in a tumbling state. Not a gravel walk within twenty miles of
it: and as to timber, “How the devil,” said he, “could I support both my
trees and my establishment at the same time?—Now,” he pursued,
“Barrington, my good friend, do just tell her what I told you about my
aunt Margaret’s ghost, that looks out of the castle window on every
anniversary of her own death and birth-day, and on other periodical
occasions. She’ll be so frightened (for, thank God! she’s afraid of
ghosts), that she’ll no more think of going to Glinsk than to America.”
“Tell her yourself, Sir John,” said I:—“nobody understands a romance
better; and I’m sure, if this be not a _meritorious_, it is certainly an
_innocent_ one.”
In fine, he got his groom to tell her maid all about _the ghost_: the
maid told the mistress, with frightful exaggerations: Sir John, when
appealed to, spoke mysteriously of the matter; and the purchase of
Glinsk Castle could not have induced Miss Ball to put her foot in it
afterwards. She is a particularly mild and gentlewomanly lady, and, I
fancy, would scarcely have survived a visit to Glinsk, even if the ghost
of Madam Margaret had not prevented her making the experiment.