"Confessed from yonder slow extinguished clouds,
All ether softening, sober evening takes
Her wonted station in the middle air;
A thousand shadows at her back."--THOMSON.
Castle Carberry, to which our travellers were going, was a large gothic
pile, erected in the rude and distant period when strength more than
elegance was deemed necessary in a building. The depredations of war, as
well as time, were discernible on its exterior; some of its lofty
battlements were broken, and others mouldering to decay, while about its
ancient towers
"The rank grass waved its head,
And the moss whistled to the wind."
It stood upon a rocky eminence overhanging the sea, and commanding a
delightful prospect of the opposite coast of Scotland; about it were yet
to be traced irregular fortifications, a moat, and remains of a
drawbridge, with a well, long since dry, which had been dug in the rock
to supply the inhabitants in time of siege with water. On one side rose
a stupendous hill, covered to the very summit with trees, and scattered
over with relics of druidical antiquity; before it stretched an
extensive and gently swelling lawn, sheltered on each side with groves
of intermingled shade, and refreshed by a clear and meandering rivulet,
that took its rise from the adjoining hill, and murmured over a bed of
pebbles.
After a pleasant journey, on the evening of the fourth day, our
travellers arrived at their destined habitation. An old man and woman,
who had the care of it, were apprised of their coming, and on the first
approach of the carriage, opened the massy door, and waited to receive
them: they reached it when the sober gray of twilight had clad every
object. Amanda viewed the dark and stupendous edifice, whose gloom was
now heightened by the shadows of evening, with venerable awe. The
solitude, the silence which reigned around, the melancholy murmur of the
waves as they dashed against the foot of the rocks, all heightened the
sadness of her mind; yet it was not quite an unpleasing sadness, for
with it was now mingled a degree of that enthusiasm which plaintive and
romantic spirits are so peculiarly subject to feel in viewing the
venerable grandeur of an ancient fabric renowned in history. As she
entered a spacious hall, curiously wainscoted with oak, ornamented with
coats of arms, spears, lances, and old armor, she could not avoid
casting a retrospective eye to former times, when, perhaps, in this very
hall, bards sung the exploits of those heroes, whose useless arms now
hung upon the walls. She wished, in the romance of the moment, some gray
bard near her, to tell the deeds of other times--of kings renowned in
our land--of chiefs we behold no more. In the niches in the hall were
figures of chieftains, large as life, and rudely carved in oak. Their
frowning countenances struck a sudden panic upon the heart of Ellen.
"Cot pless their souls," she said, "what the tefil did they do there,
except to frighten the people from going into the house."
They were shown into a large parlor, furnished in an old-fashioned
manner, and found a comfortable supper prepared for them. Oppressed with
fatigue, soon after they had partaken of it, they retired to rest. The
next morning, immediately after breakfast, Amanda, attended by the old
woman and Ellen, ranged over the castle. Its interior was quite as
gothic as its exterior; the stairs were winding, the galleries
intricate, the apartments numerous, and mostly hung with old tapestry,
representing Irish battles, in which the chiefs of Castle Carberry were
particularly distinguished. Their portraits, with those of their ladies,
occupied a long gallery, whose arched windows cast a dim religious light
upon them. This was terminated by a small apartment in the centre of
one of the towers that flanked the building. The room was an octagon,
and thus commanded a sea and land prospect, uniting at once the sublime
and beautiful in it. The furniture was not only modern but elegant, and
excited the particular attention and inquiries of Amanda. The old woman
informed her this had been the dressing-room of the late Countess of
Cherbury, both before and after her marriage: "one of the sweetest,
kindest ladies," continued she, "I ever knew; the castle has been quite
deserted since she died--alack-a-day! I thought my poor heart would have
broke when I heard of her death. Ah! I remember the night I heard the
Banshee crying so pitifully." "And pray what is that?" interrupted
Amanda. "Why, a little woman, no higher than a yard, who wears a blue
petticoat, a red cloak, and a handkerchief round her head; and when the
head of any family, especially a great family, is to die, she is always
heard, by some of the old followers, bemoaning herself." "Lort save us!"
cried Ellen, "I hope his lortship, the earl, won't take it into his head
to die while we are here, for I'd as lief see one of the fairies of
Penmaenmawr, as such a little old witch." "Well, proceed," said Amanda.
"So, as I was saying, I heard her crying dismally one night in a corner
of the house. So, says I to my husband, Johnaten, says I, I am sure we
shall hear something about my good lord or lady. And sure enough we did
the next day, and ever since we have seen none of the family." "Did you
ever see the young lord?" asked Amanda, with involuntary precipitation.
"See him! aye, that I did, when he was about eight years old; there is
his picture (pointing to one which hung over the chimney); my lady had
it done by a fine English painter, and brought it over with her. It is
the moral of what he then was." The eager eyes of Amanda were instantly
turned to it, and she traced, or at least imagined she did so, a
resemblance still between it and him. The painter seemed as if he had
had the description of Pity in his mind when he drew the picture; for
Lord Mortimer was portrayed, as she is represented in the beautiful
allegory, sheltering a trembling dove in his bosom from a ferocious
hawk. Oh! Mortimer! thought Amanda, thy feeling nature is here ably
delineated! The distressed, or the helpless, to the utmost of your
power, you would save from the gripe of cruelty and oppression. Her
father had desired her to choose pleasant apartments for her own
immediate use, and she accordingly fixed on this and the room adjoining
it, which had been Lady Cherbury's chamber. Her things were brought
hither, and her books, works, and implements for drawing, deposited in
rich inlaid cabinets. Pleased with the arrangements she had made, she
brought her father, as soon as he was at leisure, to view them. He was
happy to find her spirits somewhat cheerful and composed, and declared
in future he would call this Amanda's Tower. Accompanied by him, she
ascended to the battlements of the castle, and was delighted with the
extensive and variegated prospect she beheld from them. A spacious
edifice, at some distance, embowered in a grove of venerable oaks,
attracted her admiration. Her father told her that was Ulster Lodge, a
seat belonging to the Marquis of Roslin, who was an Irish as well as a
Scotch Peer, and had very extensive possessions in Ireland. Fitzalan
added, he had been inquiring of the old man about the neighborhood, and
learned from him that, at the expiration of every three or four years,
the Marquis usually came over to Ulster Lodge, but had never yet been
accompanied by the Marchioness, or Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, who was
his only child.
The domestic economy of Castle Carberry was soon settled. A young man
and woman were hired, as Johnaten and his wife, Kate, were considered
little more than supernumeraries. Ellen was appointed to attend Amanda,
and do whatever plain work was required. Fitzalan felt a pleasing
serenity diffused over his mind, from the idea of being in some degree
independent, and in the way of making some provision for his children.
The first shock of a separation from Lord Mortimer being over, the
cheerfulness of Amanda gradually returned, the visions of hope again
revived in her mind, and she indulged a secret pleasure at living in the
house he had once occupied. She considered her father as particularly
connected with his family, and doubted not, from this circumstance, she
should sometimes hear of him. She judged of his constancy by her own,
and believed he would not readily forget her. She acknowledged her
father's motives for separating them were equally just and delicate; but
firmly believed, if Lord Mortimer (as she flattered herself he would)
confessed a partiality in her favor to his father, that, influenced by
tenderness for his son, friendship for her father, and the knowledge of
her descent, he would immediately give up every idea of another
connection, and sanction theirs with his approbation. No obstacle
appeared to such an union but want of fortune, and that want she could
never suppose would be considered as one by the liberal-minded Lord
Cherbury, who had himself an income sufficient to gratify even luxurious
wishes. Her time was agreeably diversified by the sources of amusements
she drew from herself. Her father, whose supreme felicity consisted in
contributing to her pleasure, purchased a delightful harp for her in
Dublin, which arrived a few days after them, at Castle Carberry, and
with its dulcet lays she often charmed, not only his spirit, but her
own, from every mortal care. She loved to rise early, and catch the
first beams of the sun, as she wandered over the dewy lawn, where the
lowing cattle cropped the flowery herbage, and the milkmaid sung her
plaintive ditty.
With her father she took long walks about the adjacent country. He had
visited every scene before, and now pointed out whatever was worthy her
attention: the spots where the heroes of former ages had fallen, where
the mighty stones of their fame were raised, that the children of the
North might hereafter know the places where their fathers fought; that
the hunter, as he leaned upon a mossy tomb, might say, here fought the
heroes of other years, and their fame shall last forever!
Amanda, too, often rambled by herself, particularly among the rocks,
where were several natural grottos, strewed with shells and seaweeds.
Here, of a mild day, she loved to read, and listen to the low murmurs of
the tide. The opposite Scottish hills, among which her mother first drew
breath, often attracted and fixed her attention, frequently drawing
tears from her eyes, by awaking in her mind the recollection of that
mother's sufferings.
On a morning, when she sat at work in her apartment, Ellen, who was
considered more as a friend than a servant, sometimes sat with her; the
conversation not unfrequently turned on nurse Edwin's cottage, from
which Ellen, with an arch simplicity, would advert to Tudor Hall, thence
naturally to Lord Mortimer, and conclude with poor Chip, exclaiming:
"What a pity true love should ever be crossed!"