Charles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a
very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than
twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered,
considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome,
unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore
was not, at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and
virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated--I fear I may
say debauched, young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of
the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general,
of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions
to pleasure were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in
whose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his
irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very
remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one
of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which
money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious
exciseman,--with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting
pen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the
ink-bottle ('black emblem of the informer') dangling from his
waistcoat-button--went not then from ale-house to ale-house,
denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirits, who preferred
selling whiskey, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to
elude them), to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its
name from the British "Parliament" that compelled its circulation
among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger--recording angel of the
law--wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon
the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of
their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they
existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely
shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler,
who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who
enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely
with milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the enjoyments
supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail
youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree,
that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth
year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent
fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left
scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made
many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look
on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and
night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with
that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard
to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found
him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached
manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes
almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have
seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of
reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the
verge of eternity, without the leisure or the power of repentance.
Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least
the delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the first
few hours of his disorder, might vanish before death, and leave enough
of light and of calm for making his peace with offended Heaven. After
several days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into
a state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His
face had that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a
symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed
and sunk; the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance
which seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last
office. The lips, half closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so
much of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most
ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay upon his back, with his
hands stretched beside him, quite motionless; and his distracted
mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symptom of
animation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes
for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion
that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning.
His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were
collected before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in
front, gathered around when the door opened. These were tenants,
fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others attracted by
affection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is
something more, and which collects the lower ranks round a house where
a human being is in his passage to another world. They saw the
professional man come out from the hall door and approach his horse;
and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount,
they clustered round him with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word
was spoken, but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and the
physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was
still holding the bridle as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously
at his face as if expecting that he would relieve the general
suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, "It's all over,
James;" and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women
present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, having
been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full,
loud, continued, and discordant but plaintive wailing, above which
occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man's voice, sometimes in
deep sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was
Charles's foster-brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping his
hands, now rubbing them together in an agony of grief. The poor fellow
had been Charles's playmate and companion when a boy, and afterwards
his servant; had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and
loved his young master as much, at least, as he did his own life.
When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck,
and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the
blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness
upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the
string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her
cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at
her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once
lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties
which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of
females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now,
crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to
give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the
numerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these
melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though
no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the
family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was
conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no effort
to check her sorrows they never once suspended her attention, now more
than ever required to preserve order in her household, which, in this
season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.
The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which had
prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given place
to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart,
notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for
sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that of her
son. Suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual noise,
proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First
there was a low murmur, then all was silent, as if the movements of
those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a loud cry
of terror burst from all within. The door of the chamber was thrown
open, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into
the passage which led to the stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy's
room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her
son's chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed, and looking
vacantly around, like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon
his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an unearthy horror to his
whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was
a woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She
dropped on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray aloud. The
form before her moved only its lips, and barely uttered "Mother"; but
though the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the
sentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward,
and catching the arm of her son, exclaimed, "Speak! in the name of God
and His saints, speak! are you alive?"
He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent
difficulty, "Yes, my mother, alive, and--but sit down and collect
yourself; I have that to tell which will astonish you still more than
what you have seen." He leaned back upon his pillow, and while his
mother remained kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands
clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted
all her senses, he proceeded: "Do not interrupt me until I have done.
I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as
I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my
illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last
twelve hours I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare
incredulously on me--'tis as true as have been my crimes, and as, I
trust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in all the
terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The
dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw--I remember. It is fixed
here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth
human language. What I _can_ describe I _will_--I may speak it
briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance, and found
wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being
pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced
upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to
whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at
me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth
my hands to him, and besought his intercession. I implored that one
year, one month, might be given to me on earth to do penance and
atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my
Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never--not if I should pass
through ten thousand successive states of being--never, for eternity,
shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung
suspended--when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable
were to be my portion for endless ages! But Justice suspended its
decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, 'Return
to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him
who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for
repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be
saved or lost for ever.' I heard no more; I saw no more, until I awoke
to life, the moment before you entered."
Charles's strength continued just long enough to finish these last
words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite
exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed
to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or
not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon which
might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the
influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary,
and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed.
After some hours' sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward
gradually but steadily recovered.
Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first
related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and
decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether
abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not
soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and
often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded,
I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded that he was
religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving
a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without the
loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.
Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended the story
of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned
as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things.
Charles's health, from the temperance and regularity of his habits,
became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion
to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour,
which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his
seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited
the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been
remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a
distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among
his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it.
However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if
at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a
long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a
large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his
birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which
attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the following
letters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his
family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near
connection and valued friend of her's, who lived in the county of
Cork, at about fifty miles' distance from Spring House.
"TO MRS. BARRY, CASTLE BARRY.
"_Spring House, Tuesday morning,
October 15th, 1752._
"MY DEAREST MARY,
"I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and
kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days' journey at this season, over
bad roads and through a troubled country, it will indeed require
friendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But
the truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for
wishing you near me. You know my son's story. I can't tell you how it
is, but as next Sunday approaches, when the prediction of his dream,
or vision, will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the
heart, which I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary,
will soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James
Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my son's
ward), and the bridal entertainment will take place here on Sunday
next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed for a day or
two longer. Would to God--but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail
upon yourself to leave your good man for _one_ week, if his farming
concerns will not admit of his accompanying you; and come to us, with
the girls, as soon before Sunday as you can.
"Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend,
"ANN MAC CARTHY."
Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the
messenger having travelled on foot over bog and moor, by paths
impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on
going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her
domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the
gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is
away), that she and her two young daughters were unable to leave until
late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter remained to keep
her father company, and superintend the concerns of the household. As
the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle, called a
jaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the roads, bad at all
times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, it was their
design to make two easy stages--to stop about midway the first night,
and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This arrangement was
now altered, as they found that from the lateness of their departure
they could proceed, at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles on
the first day; and they, therefore, purposed sleeping at the house of
a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that
distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke's in safety after
a rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on their journey the next
day to Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully recounted
in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister.
"_Spring House, Sunday evening,
20th October 1752._
"DEAR ELLEN,
"As my mother's letter, which encloses this, will announce to you
briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully, I
think it better to go regularly through the recital of the
extraordinary events of the last two days.
"The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that yesterday was
pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day
closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The
roads were excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week,
and we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on
passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke's brother (who lives
about a quarter-of-a-mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast
in the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked
fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone
clear and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind the thick,
black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly along, and were
every moment becoming larger, and collecting together as if gathering
strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces,
whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we
proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which
afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles
of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car,
how far we were from Mr. Bourke's? ''Tis about ten spades from this
to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the
avenue, ma'am.' 'Very well, Leary; turn up to Mr. Bourke's as soon as
you reach the cross roads.' My mother had scarcely spoken these words,
when a shriek, that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced
by it, burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled
anything earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and
mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring
agony. 'Heaven defend us!' exclaimed my mother. 'Go you over the
hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we
run back to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near
it.' 'Woman!' said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice
trembled, 'that's no woman; the sooner we get on, ma'am, the better;'
and he continued his efforts to quicken the horse's pace. We saw
nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some
time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and
had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly
heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams,
that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to
issue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace
with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within
about ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr.
Bourke's to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the
right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us
to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin
woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her
shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white
cloak or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the corner
hedge, where the road on which we were met that which leads to Spring
House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place,
and her right arm waving rapidly and violently as if to draw us on in
that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the
sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have
described, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a
minute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for
one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little
way up the avenue on which we purposed going, still pointing towards
the road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance and command,
as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now
quite silent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in the
wind, were closely wrapped around it 'Go on, Leary, to Spring House,
in God's name!' said my mother; 'whatever world it belongs to, we will
provoke it no longer.' ''Tis the Banshee, ma'am,' said Leary; 'and I
would not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night
but to Spring House. But I'm afraid there's something bad going
forward, or _she_ would not send us there.' So saying, he drove
forward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly
withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard
plainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it
issued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as
the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew
us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o'clock last night. The
scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother's letter. To
explain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions which
took place here during the last week.
"You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this day to
James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been here for the last
week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac
Carthy despatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of the company
were walking about the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an
unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was seen
prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody, melancholy state for some days
previous. He had separated from her for several months, and, they say,
had provided for her rather handsomely; but she had been seduced by the
promise of his marrying her; and the shame of her unhappy condition,
uniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.
During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been walking in the
plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight round her,
the hood nearly covering her face; and she had avoided conversing with
or even meeting any of the family.
"Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking between James
Ryan and another, at a little distance from the rest, on a gravel path,
skirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost
consternation by the report of a pistol, fired from a thickly planted
part of the shrubbery which Charles and his companions had just passed.
He fell instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the leg.
One of the party was a medical man. His assistance was immediately
given, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was very slight,
that no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would
certainly be well in a few days. 'We shall know more by Sunday,' said
Charles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately
dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave that several
of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.
"On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor
girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had aimed, not at
Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was
walking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the
grounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and
dancing, and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had
at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not
Mr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which,
after working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door,
escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken
until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a
little before our arrival.
"Charles's wound was thought of such little consequence that the
preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding entertainment on
Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on
Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to
obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in
consultation about twelve o'clock in the day, and the dreadful
intelligence was announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took
place before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after.
The wound, it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise
injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations.
No favourable symptom appeared, and long before we reached Spring House
every ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival
would have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that
Mr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the
information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. But just
as we entered we were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing
from the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs.
Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few
steps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic
passion, struggling furiously with two men-servants, whose united
strength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the
body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the
steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before
described, who was attempting to gain access to Charles's room, to 'get
his forgiveness,' as she said, 'before he went away to accuse her for
having killed him.' This wild idea was mingled with another, which
seemed to dispute with the former possession of her mind. In one
sentence she called on Charles to forgive her, in the next she would
denounce James Ryan as the murderer, both of Charles and her. At length
she was torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, 'James
Ryan, 'twas you killed him, and not I--'twas you killed him, and not I.'
"Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother,
whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept--the first
tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal accident. She
conducted us to Charles's room, who, she said, had desired to see us
the moment of our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished
to devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and
meditation. We found him perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful.
He spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and
confidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing
ever since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once
doubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of
one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we left him
with impressions which, notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I
trust, never entirely forsake us.
"Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy----but I am just called away. There seems a
slight stir in the family; perhaps----"
The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more
than once alludes told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have
further learned of the family of Mac Carthy. Before the sun had gone
down upon Charles's seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to
render its last account to its Creator.