candle in the hall, and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimulated by
a feeling of horrible curiosity, she continued to follow him at a
distance. She saw him enter his own private room, and heard him close
and lock the door after him. Continuing to follow him as far as she
could, she placed herself at the door of the chamber, as noiselessly as
possible, where after a little time she was joined by her two sisters,
Lady Ardagh and Miss F----d. In breathless silence they listened to what
should pass within. They distinctly heard Sir Robert pacing up and down
the room for some time; and then, after a pause, a sound as if some
one had thrown himself heavily upon the bed. At this moment Lady D----,
forgetting that the door had been secured within, turned the handle for
the purpose of entering; when some one from the inside, close to the
door, said, 'Hush! hush!' The same lady, now much alarmed, knocked
violently at the door; there was no answer. She knocked again more
violently, with no further success. Lady Ardagh, now uttering a piercing
shriek, sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three or four servants,
alarmed by the noise, now hurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh was carried
apparently lifeless to her own chamber. They then, after having knocked
long and loudly in vain, applied themselves to forcing an entrance into
Sir Robert's room. After resisting some violent efforts, the door at
length gave way, and all entered the room nearly together. There was a
single candle burning upon a table at the far end of the apartment; and
stretched upon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. He was a corpse--the eyes
were open--no convulsion had passed over the features, or distorted
the limbs--it seemed as if the soul had sped from the body without a
struggle to remain there. On touching the 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 who
seem to consider it a privilege of their age and sex to gloat over the
revolting spectacle of death in all its stages, they returned to
Lady Ardagh, now a widow. The party assembled at the castle, but the
atmosphere was tainted with death. Grief there was not much, but awe and
panic were expressed in every face. The guests talked in whispers, and
the servants walked on tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise of their
own footsteps.
The funeral was conducted almost with splendour. The body, having been
conveyed, in compliance with Sir Robert's last directions, to Dublin,
was there laid within the ancient walls of St. Audoen's Church--where I
have read the epitaph, telling the age and titles of the departed dust.
Neither painted escutcheon, nor marble slab, have served to rescue from
oblivion the story of the dead, whose very name will ere long moulder
from their tracery,
'Et sunt sua fata sepulchris.'(1)
(1) This prophecy has since been realised; for the aisle in
which Sir Robert's remains were laid has been suffered to
fall completely to decay; and the tomb which marked his
grave, and other monuments more curious, form now one
indistinguishable mass of rubbish.
The events which I have recorded are not imaginary. They are FACTS;
and there lives one whose authority none would venture to question, who
could vindicate the accuracy of every statement which I have set down,
and that, too, with all the circumstantiality of an eye-witness.(2)
(2) This paper, from a memorandum, I find to have been
written in 1803. The lady to whom allusion is made, I
believe to be Miss Mary F----d. She never married, and
survived both her sisters, living to a very advanced age.
THE LAST HEIR OF CASTLE CONNOR.
Being a third Extract from the legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P.
of Drumcoolagh.
There is something in the decay of ancient grandeur to interest even the
most unconcerned spectator--the evidences of greatness, of power, and of
pride that survive the wreck of time, proving, in mournful contrast with
present desolation and decay, what WAS in other days, appeal, with a
resistless power, to the sympathies of our nature. And when, as we gaze
on the scion of some ruined family, the first impulse of nature that
bids us regard his fate with interest and respect is justified by the
recollection of great exertions and self-devotion and sacrifices in
the cause of a lost country and of a despised religion--sacrifices and
efforts made with all the motives of faithfulness and of honour, and
terminating in ruin--in such a case respect becomes veneration, and the
interest we feel amounts almost to a passion.
It is this feeling which has thrown the magic veil of romance over every
roofless castle and ruined turret throughout our country; it is this
feeling that, so long as a tower remains above the level of the soil, so
long as one scion of a prostrate and impoverished family survives,
will never suffer Ireland to yield to the stranger more than the 'mouth
honour' which fear compels.(3) I who have conversed viva voce et propria
persona with those whose recollections could run back so far as the
times previous to the confiscations which followed the Revolution of
1688--whose memory could repeople halls long roofless and desolate, and
point out the places where greatness once had been, may feel all this
more strongly, and with a more vivid interest, than can those whose
sympathies are awakened by the feebler influence of what may be called
the PICTURESQUE effects of ruin and decay.
(3) This passage serves (mirabile dictu) to corroborate a
statement of Mr. O'Connell's, which occurs in his evidence
given before the House of Commons, wherein he affirms that
the principles of the Irish priesthood 'ARE democratic, and
were those of Jacobinism.'--See digest of the evidence upon
the state of Ireland, given before the House of Commons.
There do, indeed, still exist some fragments of the ancient Catholic
families of Ireland; but, alas! what VERY fragments! They linger like
the remnants of her aboriginal forests, reft indeed of their strength
and greatness, but proud even in decay. Every winter thins their ranks,
and strews the ground with the wreck of their loftiest branches; they
are at best but tolerated in the land which gave them birth--objects of
curiosity, perhaps of pity, to one class, but of veneration to another.
The O'Connors, of Castle Connor, were an ancient Irish family. The name
recurs frequently in our history, and is generally to be found in a
prominent place whenever periods of tumult or of peril called forth
the courage and the enterprise of this country. After the accession of
William III., the storm of confiscation which swept over the land
made woeful havoc in their broad domains. Some fragments of property,
however, did remain to them, and with it the building which had for ages
formed the family residence.
About the year 17--, my uncle, a Catholic priest, became acquainted with
the inmates of Castle Connor, and after a time introduced me, then a lad
of about fifteen, full of spirits, and little dreaming that a profession
so grave as his should ever become mine.
The family at that time consisted of but two members, a widow lady and
her only son, a young man aged about eighteen. In our early days the
progress from acquaintance to intimacy, and from intimacy to friendship
is proverbially rapid; and young O'Connor and I became, in less than a
month, close and confidential companions--an intercourse which ripened
gradually into an attachment ardent, deep, and devoted--such as I
believe young hearts only are capable of forming.
He had been left early fatherless, and the representative and heir of
his family. His mother's affection for him was intense in proportion as
there existed no other object to divide it--indeed--such love as that
she bore him I have never seen elsewhere. Her love was better bestowed
than that of mothers generally is, for young O'Connor, not without some
of the faults, had certainly many of the most engaging qualities of
youth. He had all the frankness and gaiety which attract, and the
generosity of heart which confirms friendship; indeed, I never saw a
person so universally popular; his very faults seemed to recommend
him; he was wild, extravagant, thoughtless, and fearlessly
adventurous--defects of character which, among the peasantry of Ireland,
are honoured as virtues. The combination of these qualities, and the
position which O'Connor occupied as representative of an ancient Irish
Catholic family--a peculiarly interesting one to me, one of the old
faith--endeared him to me so much that I have never felt the pangs of
parting more keenly than when it became necessary, for the finishing of
his education, that he should go abroad.
Three years had passed away before I saw him again. During the interval,
however, I had frequently heard from him, so that absence had not abated
the warmth of our attachment. Who could tell of the rejoicings that
marked the evening of his return? The horses were removed from the
chaise at the distance of a mile from the castle, while it and its
contents were borne rapidly onward almost by the pressure of the
multitude, like a log upon a torrent. Bonfires blared far and
near--bagpipes roared and fiddles squeaked; and, amid the thundering
shouts of thousands, the carriage drew up before the castle.
In an instant young O'Connor was upon the ground, crying, 'Thank you,
boys--thank you, boys;' while a thousand hands were stretched out from
all sides to grasp even a finger of his. Still, amid shouts of 'God
bless your honour--long may you reign!' and 'Make room there, boys!
clear the road for the masther!' he reached the threshold of the castle,
where stood his mother weeping for joy.
Oh! who could describe that embrace, or the enthusiasm with which it was
witnessed? 'God bless him to you, my lady--glory to ye both!' and 'Oh,
but he is a fine young gentleman, God bless him!' resounded on all
sides, while hats flew up in volleys that darkened the moon; and when at
length, amid the broad delighted grins of the thronging domestics, whose
sense of decorum precluded any more boisterous evidence of joy, they
reached the parlour, then giving way to the fulness of her joy the
widowed mother kissed and blessed him and wept in turn. Well might
any parent be proud to claim as son the handsome stripling who now
represented the Castle Connor family; but to her his beauty had a
peculiar charm, for it bore a striking resemblance to that of her
husband, the last O'Connor.
I know not whether partiality blinded me, or that I did no more than
justice to my friend in believing that I had never seen so handsome a
young man. I am inclined to think the latter. He was rather tall,
very slightly and elegantly made; his face was oval, and his features
decidedly Spanish in cast and complexion, but with far more vivacity
of expression than generally belongs to the beauty of that nation.
The extreme delicacy of his features and the varied animation of his
countenance made him appear even younger than his years--an illusion
which the total absence of everything studied in his manners seemed
to confirm. Time had wrought no small change in me, alike in mind and
spirits; but in the case of O'Connor it seemed to have lost its power to
alter. His gaiety was undamped, his generosity unchilled; and though
the space which had intervened between our parting and reunion was
but brief, yet at the period of life at which we were, even a shorter
interval than that of three years has frequently served to form or
DEform a character.
Weeks had passed away since the return of O'Connor, and scarce a day had
elapsed without my seeing him, when the neighbourhood was thrown into
an unusual state of excitement by the announcement of a race-ball to be
celebrated at the assembly-room of the town of T----, distant scarcely
two miles from Castle Connor.
Young O'Connor, as I had expected, determined at once to attend it; and
having directed in vain all the powers of his rhetoric to persuade his
mother to accompany him, he turned the whole battery of his logic upon
me, who, at that time, felt a reluctance stronger than that of mere
apathy to mixing in any of these scenes of noisy pleasure for which for
many reasons I felt myself unfitted. He was so urgent and persevering,
however, that I could not refuse; and I found myself reluctantly
obliged to make up my mind to attend him upon the important night to the
spacious but ill-finished building, which the fashion and beauty of the
county were pleased to term an assembly-room.
When we entered the apartment, we found a select few, surrounded by a
crowd of spectators, busily performing a minuet, with all the congees
and flourishes which belonged to that courtly dance; and my companion,
infected by the contagion of example, was soon, as I had anticipated,
waving his chapeau bras, and gracefully bowing before one of the
prettiest girls in the room. I had neither skill nor spirits to qualify
me to follow his example; and as the fulness of the room rendered it
easy to do so without its appearing singular, I determined to be merely
a spectator of the scene which surrounded me, without taking an active
part in its amusements.
The room was indeed very much crowded, so that its various groups,
formed as design or accident had thrown the parties together, afforded
no small fund of entertainment to the contemplative observer. There were
the dancers, all gaiety and good-humour; a little further off were the
tables at which sat the card-players, some plying their vocation with
deep and silent anxiety--for in those days gaming often ran very high in
such places--and others disputing with all the vociferous pertinacity
of undisguised ill-temper. There, again, were the sallow, blue-nosed,
grey-eyed dealers in whispered scandal; and, in short, there is scarcely
a group or combination to be met with in the court of kings which might
not have found a humble parallel in the assembly-room of T----.
I was allowed to indulge in undisturbed contemplation, for I suppose I
was not known to more than five or six in the room. I thus had leisure
not only to observe the different classes into which the company had
divided itself, but to amuse myself by speculating as to the rank and
character of many of the individual actors in the drama.
Among many who have long since passed from my memory, one person for
some time engaged my attention, and that person, for many reasons, I
shall not soon forget. He was a tall, square-shouldered man, who stood
in a careless attitude, leaning with his back to the wall; he seemed to
have secluded himself from the busy multitudes which moved noisily and
gaily around him, and nobody seemed to observe or to converse with him.
He was fashionably dressed, but perhaps rather extravagantly; his face
was full and heavy, expressive of sullenness and stupidity, and marked
with the lines of strong vulgarity; his age might be somewhere between
forty and fifty. Such as I have endeavoured to describe him, he remained
motionless, his arms doggedly folded across his broad chest, and turning
his sullen eyes from corner to corner of the room, as if eager to detect
some object on which to vent his ill-humour.
It is strange, and yet it is true, that one sometimes finds even in the
most commonplace countenance an undefinable something, which fascinates
the attention, and forces it to recur again and again, while it is
impossible to tell whether the peculiarity which thus attracts us lies
in feature or in expression, or in both combined, and why it is that our
observation should be engrossed by an object which, when analysed, seems
to possess no claim to interest or even to notice. This unaccountable
feeling I have often experienced, and I believe I am not singular.
but never in so remarkable a degree as upon this occasion. My friend
O'Connor, having disposed of his fair partner, was crossing the room
for the purpose of joining me, in doing which I was surprised to see him
exchange a familiar, almost a cordial, greeting with the object of
my curiosity. I say I was surprised, for independent of his very
questionable appearance, it struck me as strange that though so
constantly associated with O'Connor, and, as I thought, personally
acquainted with all his intimates, I had never before even seen this
individual. I did not fail immediately to ask him who this gentleman
was. I thought he seemed slightly embarrassed, but after a moment's
pause he laughingly said that his friend over the way was too mysterious
a personage to have his name announced in so giddy a scene as the
present; but that on the morrow he would furnish me with all the
information which I could desire. There was, I thought, in his affected
jocularity a real awkwardness which appeared to me unaccountable, and
consequently increased my curiosity; its gratification, however, I was
obliged to defer. At length, wearied with witnessing amusements in which
I could not sympathise, I left the room, and did not see O'Connor until
late in the next day.
I had ridden down towards the castle for the purpose of visiting the
O'Connors, and had nearly reached the avenue leading to the mansion,
when I met my friend. He was also mounted; and having answered my
inquiries respecting his mother, he easily persuaded me to accompany
him in his ramble. We had chatted as usual for some time, when, after a
pause, O'Connor said:
'By the way, Purcell, you expressed some curiosity respecting the tall,
handsome fellow to whom I spoke last night.'
'I certainly did question you about a TALL gentleman, but was not aware
of his claims to beauty,' replied I.
'Well, that is as it may be,' said he; 'the ladies think him handsome,
and their opinion upon that score is more valuable than yours or mine.
Do you know,' he continued, 'I sometimes feel half sorry that I ever
made the fellow's acquaintance: he is quite a marked man here, and they
tell stories of him that are anything but reputable, though I am sure
without foundation. I think I know enough about him 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 heard
that first; he and his name are equally well known. You will recognise
the individual at once when I tell you that his name is--Fitzgerald.'
'Fitzgerald!' I repeated. 'Fitzgerald!--can it be Fitzgerald the
duellist?'
'Upon my word you have hit it,' replied he, laughing; 'but you have
accompanied the discovery with a look of horror more tragic than
appropriate. He is not the monster you take him for--he has a good deal
of old Irish pride; his temper is hasty, and he has been unfortunately
thrown in the way of men who have not made allowance for these things.
I am convinced that in every case in which Fitzgerald has fought, if the
truth could be discovered, he would be found to have acted throughout
upon the defensive. No man is mad enough to risk his own life, except
when the doing so is an alternative to submitting tamely to what he
considers an insult. I am certain that no man ever engaged in a duel
under the consciousness that he had acted an intentionally aggressive
part.'
'When did you make his acquaintance?' said I.
'About two years ago,' he replied. 'I met him in France, and you know
when one is abroad it is an ungracious task to reject the advances
of one's countryman, otherwise I think I should have avoided
his society--less upon my own account than because I am sure the
acquaintance would be a source of continual though groundless uneasiness
to my mother. I know, therefore, that you will not unnecessarily mention
its existence to her.'
I gave him the desired assurance, and added:
'May I ask you. O'Connor, if, indeed, it be a fair question, whether
this Fitzgerald at any time attempted to engage you in anything like
gaming?'
This question was suggested by my having frequently heard Fitzgerald
mentioned as a noted gambler, and sometimes even as a blackleg. O'Connor
seemed, I thought, slightly embarrassed. He answered:
'No, no--I cannot say that he ever attempted anything of the kind. I
certainly have played with him, but never lost to any serious amount;
nor can I recollect that he ever solicited me--indeed he knows that I
have a strong objection to deep play. YOU must be aware that my finances
could not bear much pruning down. I never lost more to him at a sitting
than about five pounds, which you know is nothing. No, you wrong him if
you imagine that he attached himself to me merely for the sake of such
contemptible winnings as those which a broken-down Irish gentleman could
afford him. Come, Purcell, you are too hard upon him--you judge only by
report; you must see him, and decide for yourself.--Suppose we call upon
him now; he is at the inn, in the High 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 this man your bosom friend: I merely desire that you should see and
speak to him, and if you form any acquaintance with him, it must be of
that slight nature which can be dropped or continued at pleasure.'
From the time that O'Connor had announced the fact that his friend
was no other than the notorious Fitzgerald, a foreboding of something
calamitous had come upon me, and it now occurred to me that if any
unpleasantness were to be feared as likely to result to O'Connor
from their connection, I might find my attempts to extricate him much
facilitated by my being acquainted, however slightly, with Fitzgerald. I
know not whether the idea was reasonable--it was certainly natural; and
I told O'Connor that upon second thoughts I would ride down with him to
the town, and wait upon Mr. Fitzgerald.
We found him at home; and chatted with him for a considerable time. To
my surprise his manners were perfectly those of a gentleman, and his
conversation, if not peculiarly engaging, was certainly amusing. The
politeness of his demeanour, and the easy fluency with which he told his
stories and his anecdotes, many of them curious, and all more or less
entertaining, accounted to my mind at once for the facility with which
he had improved his acquaintance with O'Connor; and when he pressed
upon us an invitation to sup with him that night, I had almost joined
O'Connor in accepting it. I determined, however, against doing so, for
I had no wish to be on terms of familiarity with Mr. Fitzgerald; and
I knew that one evening spent together as he proposed would go further
towards establishing an intimacy between us than fifty morning visits
could do. When I arose to depart, it was with feelings almost favourable
to Fitzgerald; indeed I was more than half ashamed to acknowledge to my
companion how complete a revolution in my opinion respecting his
friend half an hour's conversation with him had wrought. His appearance
certainly WAS against him; but then, under the influence of his manner,
one lost sight of much of its ungainliness, and of nearly all its
vulgarity; and, on the whole, I felt convinced that report had done
him grievous wrong, inasmuch as anybody, by an observance of the common
courtesies of society, might easily avoid coming into personal collision
with a gentleman so studiously polite as Fitzgerald. At parting,
O'Connor requested me to call upon him the next day, as he intended to
make trial of the merits of a pair of greyhounds, which he had thoughts
of purchasing; adding, that if he could escape in anything like
tolerable time from Fitzgerald's supper-party, he would take the field
soon after ten on the next morning. At the appointed hour, or perhaps a
little later, I dismounted at Castle Connor; and, on entering the
hall, I observed a gentleman issuing from O'Connor's private room. I
recognised him, as he approached, as a Mr. M'Donough, and, being but
slightly acquainted with him, was about to pass him with a bow, when he
stopped me. There was something in his manner which struck me as odd;
he seemed a good deal flurried if not agitated, and said, in a hurried
tone:
'This is a very foolish business, Mr. Purcell. You have some influence
with my friend O'Connor; I hope you can induce him to adopt some more
moderate line of conduct than that he has decided upon. If you will
allow me, I will return for a moment with you, and talk over the matter
again with O'Connor.'
As M'Donough uttered these words, I felt that sudden sinking of the
heart which accompanies the immediate anticipation of something dreaded
and dreadful. I was instantly convinced that O'Connor had quarrelled
with Fitzgerald, and I knew that if such were the case, nothing short
of a miracle could extricate him from the consequences. I signed to
M'Donough to lead the way, and we entered the little study together.
O'Connor was standing with his back to the fire; on the table lay the
breakfast-things in the disorder in which a hurried meal had left them;
and on another smaller table, placed near the hearth, lay pen, ink,
and paper. As soon as O'Connor saw me, he came forward and shook me
cordially by the hand.