Produced by Judith Boss and Charles Keller
THE PURCELL PAPERS.
BY THE LATE
JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,
AUTHOR OF 'UNCLE SILAS.'
With a Memoir by
ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
LeFanu, Joseph Sheridan, 1814-1873.
The Purcell papers.
Reprint of the 1880 ed. published by R. Bentley, London.
I. Title. PZ3.L518Pu5 (PR4879.L7) 823'.8 71-148813 ISBN 0-404-08880-5
Reprinted from an original copy in the collection of the University of
Chicago Library.
From the edition of 1880, London First AMS edition published in 1975
Manufactured in the United States of America
International Standard Book Number: Complete Set: 0-404-08880-5 Volume
III: 0-404-08883-X
AMS PRESS INC.
NEW YORK, N. Y. 10003
CONTENTS:
JIM SULIVAN'S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY
AN ADVENTURE OF HARDRESS FITZGERALD, A ROYALIST CAPTAIN
'THE QUARE GANDER'
BILLY MALOWNEY'S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY
JIM SULIVAN'S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW.
Being a Ninth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.
Jim Sulivan was a dacent, honest boy as you'd find in the seven
parishes, an' he was a beautiful singer, an' an illegant dancer
intirely, an' a mighty plisant boy in himself; but he had the divil's
bad luck, for he married for love, an 'av coorse he niver had an asy
minute afther.
Nell Gorman was the girl he fancied, an' a beautiful slip of a girl she
was, jist twinty to the minute when he married her. She was as round
an' as complate in all her shapes as a firkin, you'd think, an' her two
cheeks was as fat an' as red, it id open your heart to look at them.
But beauty is not the thing all through, an' as beautiful as she was
she had the divil's tongue, an' the divil's timper, an' the divil's
behaviour all out; an' it was impossible for him to be in the house with
her for while you'd count tin without havin' an argymint, an' as sure
as she riz an argymint with him she'd hit him a wipe iv a skillet or
whatever lay next to her hand.
Well, this wasn't at all plasin' to Jim Sulivan you may be sure, an'
there was scarce a week that his head wasn't plasthered up, or his back
bint double, or his nose swelled as big as a pittaty, with the vilence
iv her timper, an' his heart was scalded everlastin'ly with her tongue;
so he had no pace or quietness in body or soul at all at all, with the
way she was goin' an.
Well, your honour, one cowld snowin' evenin' he kim in afther his day's
work regulatin' the men in the farm, an' he sat down very quite by the
fire, for he had a scrimmidge with her in the mornin', an' all he wanted
was an air iv the fire in pace; so divil a word he said but dhrew a
stool an' sat down close to the fire. Well, as soon as the woman saw
him,
'Move aff,' says she, 'an' don't be inthrudin' an the fire,' says she.
Well, he kept never mindin', an' didn't let an' to hear a word she was
sayin', so she kim over an' she had a spoon in her hand, an' she took
jist the smallest taste in life iv the boilin' wather out iv the pot,
an' she dhropped it down an his shins, an' with that he let a roar you'd
think the roof id fly aff iv the house.
'Hould your tongue, you barbarrian,' says she; 'you'll waken the child,'
says she.
'An' if I done right,' says he, for the spoonful of boilin' wather riz
him entirely, 'I'd take yourself,' says he, 'an' I'd stuff you into the
pot an the fire, an' boil you.' says he, 'into castor oil,' says he.
'That's purty behavour,' says she; 'it's fine usage you're givin' me,
isn't it?' says she, gettin' wickeder every minute; 'but before I'm
boiled,' says she, 'thry how you like THAT,' says she; an', sure enough,
before he had time to put up his guard, she hot him a rale terrible
clink iv the iron spoon acrass the jaw.
'Hould me, some iv ye, or I'll murdher her,' says he.
'Will you?' says she, an' with that she hot him another tin times as
good as the first.
'By jabers,' says he, slappin' himself behind, 'that's the last salute
you'll ever give me,' says he; 'so take my last blessin',' says he, 'you
ungovernable baste!' says he--an' with that he pulled an his hat an'
walked out iv the door.
Well, she never minded a word he said, for he used to say the same thing
all as one every time she dhrew blood; an' she had no expectation at all
but he'd come back by the time supper id be ready; but faix the story
didn't go quite so simple this time, for while he was walkin', lonesome
enough, down the borheen, with his heart almost broke with the pain,
for his shins an' his jaw was mighty troublesome, av course, with the
thratement he got, who did he see but Mick Hanlon, his uncle's sarvint
by, ridin' down, quite an asy, an the ould black horse, with a halter as
long as himself.
'Is that Mr. Soolivan?' says the by. says he, as soon as he saw him a
good bit aff.
'To be sure it is, ye spalpeen, you,' says Jim, roarin' out; 'what do
you want wid me this time a-day?' says he.
'Don't you know me?' says the gossoon, 'it's Mick Hanlon that's in it,'
says he.
'Oh, blur an agers, thin, it's welcome you are, Micky asthore,' says
Jim; 'how is all wid the man an' the woman beyant?' says he.
'Oh!' says Micky, 'bad enough,' says he; 'the ould man's jist aff, an'
if you don't hurry like shot,' says he, 'he'll be in glory before you
get there,' says he.
'It's jokin' ye are,' says Jim, sorrowful enough, for he was mighty
partial to his uncle intirely.
'Oh, not in the smallest taste,' says Micky; 'the breath was jist out
iv him,' says he, 'when I left the farm. "An", says he, "take the ould
black horse," says he, "for he's shure-footed for the road," says he,
"an' bring, Jim Soolivan here," says he, "for I think I'd die asy af I
could see him onst," says he.'
'Well,' says Jim, 'will I have time,' says he, 'to go back to the house,
for it would be a consolation,' says he, 'to tell the bad news to the
woman?' says he.
'It's too late you are already,' says Micky, 'so come up behind me, for
God's sake,' says he, 'an' don't waste time;' an' with that he brought
the horse up beside the ditch, an' Jim Soolivan mounted up behind Micky,
an' they rode off; an' tin good miles it was iv a road, an' at the other
side iv Keeper intirely; an' it was snowin' so fast that the ould baste
could hardly go an at all at all, an' the two bys an his back was jist
like a snowball all as one, an' almost fruz an' smothered at the same
time, your honour; an' they wor both mighty sorrowful intirely, an'
their toes almost dhroppin' aff wid the could.
And when Jim got to the farm his uncle was gettin' an illegantly, an' he
was sittin' up sthrong an' warm in the bed, an' improvin' every minute,
an' no signs av dyin' an him at all at all; so he had all his throuble
for nothin'.
But this wasn't all, for the snow kem so thick that it was impassible to
get along the roads at all at all; an' faix, instead iv gettin' betther,
next mornin' it was only tin times worse; so Jim had jist to take it
asy, an' stay wid his uncle antil such times as the snow id melt.
Well, your honour, the evenin' Jim Soolivan wint away, whin the dark
was closin' in, Nell Gorman, his wife, beginned to get mighty anasy in
herself whin she didn't see him comin' back at all; an' she was gettin'
more an' more frightful in herself every minute till the dark kem an',
an' divil a taste iv her husband was coming at all at all.
'Oh!' says she, 'there's no use in purtendin', I know he's kilt himself;
he has committed infantycide an himself,' says she, 'like a dissipated
bliggard as he always was,' says she, 'God rest his soul. Oh, thin,
isn't it me an' not you, Jim Soolivan, that's the unforthunate woman,'
says she, 'for ain't I cryin' here, an' isn't he in heaven, the
bliggard,' says she. 'Oh, voh, voh, it's not at home comfortable with
your wife an' family that you are, Jim Soolivan,' says she, 'but in the
other world, you aumathaun, in glory wid the saints I hope,' says she.
'It's I that's the unforthunate famale,' says she, 'an' not yourself,
Jim Soolivan,' says she.
An' this way she kep' an till mornin', cryin' and lamintin; an' wid the
first light she called up all the sarvint bys, an' she tould them to
go out an' to sarch every inch iv ground to find the corpse, 'for I'm
sure,' says she, 'it's not to go hide himself he would,' says she.
Well, they went as well as they could, rummagin' through the snow,
antil, at last, what should they come to, sure enough, but the corpse
of a poor thravelling man, that fell over the quarry the night before
by rason of the snow and some liquor he had, maybe; but, at any rate,
he was as dead as a herrin', an' his face was knocked all to pieces jist
like an over-boiled pitaty, glory be to God; an' divil a taste iv a nose
or a chin, or a hill or a hollow from one end av his face to the other
but was all as flat as a pancake. An' he was about Jim Soolivan's size,
an' dhressed out exactly the same, wid a ridin' coat an' new corderhoys;
so they carried him home, an' they were all as sure as daylight it was
Jim Soolivan himself, an' they were wondhering he'd do sich a dirty turn
as to go kill himself for spite.
Well, your honour, they waked him as well as they could, with what
neighbours they could git togither, but by rason iv the snow, there
wasn't enough gothered to make much divarsion; however it was a plisint
wake enough, an' the churchyard an' the priest bein' convanient, as soon
as the youngsthers had their bit iv fun and divarsion out iv the corpse,
they burried it without a great dale iv throuble; an' about three days
afther the berrin, ould Jim Mallowney, from th'other side iv the little
hill, her own cousin by the mother's side--he had a snug bit iv a farm
an' a house close by, by the same token--kem walkin' in to see how she
was in her health, an' he dhrew a chair, an' he sot down an' beginned to
convarse her about one thing an' another, antil he got her quite an' asy
into middlin' good humour, an' as soon as he seen it was time:
'I'm wondherin', says he, 'Nell Gorman, sich a handsome, likely girl,
id be thinkin' iv nothin' but lamintin' an' the likes,' says he, 'an'
lingerin' away her days without any consolation, or gettin' a husband,'
says he.
'Oh,' says she, 'isn't it only three days since I burried the poor man,'
says she, 'an' isn't it rather soon to be talkin iv marryin' agin?'
'Divil a taste,' says he, 'three days is jist the time to a minute for
cryin' afther a husband, an' there's no occasion in life to be keepin'
it up,' says he; 'an' besides all that,' says he, 'Shrovetide is almost
over, an' if you don't be sturrin' yourself an' lookin' about you,
you'll be late,' says he, 'for this year at any rate, an' that's twelve
months lost; an' who's to look afther the farm all that time,' says he,
'an' to keep the men to their work?' says he.
'It's thrue for you, Jim Mallowney,' says she, 'but I'm afeard the
neighbours will be all talkin' about it,' says she.
'Divil's cure to the word,' says he.
'An' who would you advise?' says she.
'Young Andy Curtis is the boy,' says he.
'He's a likely boy in himself,' says she.
'An' as handy a gossoon as is out,' says he.
'Well, thin, Jim Mallowney,' says she, 'here's my hand, an' you may
be talkin' to Andy Curtis, an' if he's willin' I'm agreeble--is that
enough?' says she.
So with that he made off with himself straight to Andy Curtis; an'
before three days more was past, the weddin' kem an', an' Nell Gorman
an' Andy Curtis was married as complate as possible; an' if the wake was
plisint the weddin' was tin times as agreeble, an' all the neighbours
that could make their way to it was there, an' there was three fiddlers
an' lots iv pipers, an' ould Connor Shamus(1) the piper himself was in
it--by the same token it was the last weddin' he ever played music at,
for the next mornin', whin he was goin' home, bein' mighty hearty
an' plisint in himself, he was smothered in the snow, undher the ould
castle; an' by my sowl he was a sore loss to the bys an' girls twenty
miles round, for he was the illigantest piper, barrin' the liquor alone,
that ever worked a bellas.
(1) Literally, Cornelius James--the last name employed as a
patronymic. Connor is commonly used. Corney, pronounced
Kurny, is just as much used in the South, as the short name
for Cornelius.
Well, a week passed over smart enough, an' Nell an' her new husband was
mighty well continted with one another, for it was too soon for her to
begin to regulate him the way she used with poor Jim Soolivan, so they
wor comfortable enough; but this was too good to last, for the thaw kem
an', an' you may be sure Jim Soolivan didn't lose a minute's time as soon
as the heavy dhrift iv snow was melted enough between him and home to
let him pass, for he didn't hear a word iv news from home sinst he lift
it, by rason that no one, good nor bad, could thravel at all, with the
way the snow was dhrifted.
So one night, when Nell Gorman an' her new husband, Andy Curtis, was
snug an' warm in bed, an' fast asleep, an' everything quite, who should
come to the door, sure enough, but Jim Soolivan himself, an' he beginned
flakin' the door wid a big blackthorn stick he had, an' roarin' out like
the divil to open the door, for he had a dhrop taken.
'What the divil's the matther?' says Andy Curtis, wakenin' out iv his
sleep.
'Who's batin' the door?' says Nell; 'what's all the noise for?' says
she.
'Who's in it?' says Andy.
'It's me,' says Jim.
'Who are you?' says Andy; 'what's your name?'
'Jim Soolivan,' says he.
'By jabers, you lie,' says Andy.
'Wait till I get at you,' says Jim, hittin' the door a lick iv the
wattle you'd hear half a mile off.
'It's him, sure enough,' says Nell; 'I know his speech; it's his
wandherin' sowl that can't get rest, the crass o' Christ betune us an'
harm.'
'Let me in,' says Jim, 'or I'll dhrive the door in a top iv yis.'
'Jim Soolivan--Jim Soolivan,' says Nell, sittin' up in the bed, an'
gropin' for a quart bottle iv holy wather she used to hang by the back
iv the bed, 'don't come in, darlin'--there's holy wather here,' says
she; 'but tell me from where you are is there anything that's throublin'
your poor sinful sowl?' says she. 'An' tell me how many masses 'ill make
you asy, an' by this crass, I'll buy you as many as you want,' says she.
'I don't know what the divil you mane,' says Jim.
'Go back,' says she, 'go back to glory, for God's sake,' says she.
'Divil's cure to the bit iv me 'ill go back to glory, or anywhere else,'
says he, 'this blessed night; so open the door at onst' an' let me in,'
says he.
'The Lord forbid,' says she.
'By jabers, you'd betther,' says he, 'or it 'ill be the worse for you,'
says he; an' wid that he fell to wallopin' the door till he was fairly
tired, an' Andy an' his wife crassin' themselves an' sayin' their
prayers for the bare life all the time.
'Jim Soolivan,' says she, as soon as he was done, 'go back, for God's
sake, an' don't be freakenin' me an' your poor fatherless childhren,'
says she.
'Why, you bosthoon, you,' says Jim, 'won't you let your husband in,'
says he, 'to his own house?' says he.
'You WOR my husband, sure enough,' says she, 'but it's well you know,
Jim Soolivan, you're not my husband NOW,' says she.
'You're as dhrunk as can be consaved, says Jim.
'Go back, in God's name, pacibly to your grave,' says Nell.
'By my sowl, it's to my grave you'll sind me, sure enough,' says he,
'you hard-hearted bain', for I'm jist aff wid the cowld,' says he.
'Jim Sulivan,' says she, 'it's in your dacent coffin you should be, you
unforthunate sperit,' says she; 'what is it's annoyin' your sowl, in the
wide world, at all?' says she; 'hadn't you everything complate?' says
she, 'the oil, an' the wake, an' the berrin'?' says she.
'Och, by the hoky,' says Jim, 'it's too long I'm makin' a fool iv
mysilf, gostherin' wid you outside iv my own door,' says he, 'for it's
plain to be seen,' says he, 'you don't know what your're sayin', an' no
one ELSE knows what you mane, you unforthunate fool,' says he; 'so, onst
for all, open the door quietly,' says he, 'or, by my sowkins, I'll not
lave a splinther together,' says he.
Well, whin Nell an' Andy seen he was getting vexed, they beginned to
bawl out their prayers, with the fright, as if the life was lavin' them;
an' the more he bate the door, the louder they prayed, until at last Jim
was fairly tired out.
'Bad luck to you,' says he; 'for a rale divil av a woman,' says he. I
'can't get any advantage av you, any way; but wait till I get hould iv
you, that's all,' says he. An' he turned aff from the door, an' wint
round to the cow-house, an' settled himself as well as he could, in
the sthraw; an' he was tired enough wid the thravellin' he had in the
day-time, an' a good dale bothered with what liquor he had taken; so he
was purty sure of sleepin' wherever he thrun himself.
But, by my sowl, it wasn't the same way with the man an' the woman in
the house--for divil a wink iv sleep, good or bad, could they get at
all, wid the fright iv the sperit, as they supposed; an' with the first
light they sint a little gossoon, as fast as he could wag, straight off,
like a shot, to the priest, an' to desire him, for the love o' God,
to come to them an the minute, an' to bring, if it was plasin' to his
raverence, all the little things he had for sayin' mass, an' savin'
sowls, an' banishin' sperits, an' freakenin' the divil, an' the likes
iv that. An' it wasn't long till his raverence kem down, sure enough,
on the ould grey mare, wid the little mass-boy behind him, an' the
prayer-books an' Bibles, an' all the other mystarious articles that was
wantin', along wid him; an' as soon as he kem in, 'God save all here,'
says he.
'God save ye, kindly, your raverence,' says they.
'An' what's gone wrong wid ye?' says he; 'ye must be very bad,' says
he,' entirely, to disturb my devotions,' says he, 'this way, jist at
breakfast-time,' says he.
'By my sowkins,' says Nell, 'it's bad enough we are, your raverence,'
says she, 'for it's poor Jim's sperit,' says she; 'God rest his sowl,
wherever it is,' says she, 'that was wandherin' up an' down, opossite
the door all night,' says she, 'in the way it was no use at all, thryin'
to get a wink iv sleep,' says she.
'It's to lay it, you want me, I suppose,' says the priest.
'If your raverence 'id do that same, it 'id be plasin' to us,' says
Andy.
'It'll be rather expinsive,' says the priest.
'We'll not differ about the price, your raverence,' says Andy.
'Did the sperit stop long?' says the priest.
'Most part iv the night,' says Nell, 'the Lord be merciful to us all!'
says she.
'That'll make it more costly than I thought,' says he. 'An' did it make
much noise?' says he.
'By my sowl, it's it that did,' says Andy; 'leatherin' the door wid
sticks and stones,' says he, 'antil I fairly thought every minute,' says
he, 'the ould boords id smash, an' the sperit id be in an top iv us--God
bless us,' says he.
'Phiew!' says the priest; 'it'll cost a power iv money.'
'Well, your raverence,' says Andy, 'take whatever you like,' says he;
'only make sure it won't annoy us any more,' says he.
'Oh! by my sowkins,' says the priest, 'it'll be the quarest ghost in the
siven parishes,' says he, 'if it has the courage to come back,' says he,
'afther what I'll do this mornin', plase God,' says he; 'so we'll say
twelve pounds; an' God knows it's chape enough,' says he, 'considherin'
all the sarcumstances,' says he.
Well, there wasn't a second word to the bargain; so they paid him the
money down, an' he sot the table doun like an althar, before the door,
an' he settled it out vid all the things he had wid him; an' he lit a
bit iv a holy candle, an' he scathered his holy wather right an' left;
an' he took up a big book, an' he wint an readin' for half an hour,
good; an' whin he kem to the end, he tuck hould iv his little bell, and
he beginned to ring it for the bare life; an', by my sowl, he rung it
so well, that he wakened Jim Sulivan in the cowhouse, where he was
sleepin', an' up he jumped, widout a minute's delay, an' med right for
the house, where all the family, an' the priest, an' the little mass-boy
was assimbled, layin' the ghost; an' as soon as his raverence seen him
comin' in at the door, wid the fair fright, he flung the bell at his
head, an' hot him sich a lick iv it in the forehead, that he sthretched
him on the floor; but fain; he didn't wait to ax any questions, but he
cut round the table as if the divil was afther him, an' out at the door,
an' didn't stop even as much as to mount an his mare, but leathered away
down the borheen as fast as his legs could carry him, though the mud was
up to his knees, savin' your presence.
Well, by the time Jim kem to himself, the family persaved the mistake,
an' Andy wint home, lavin' Nell to make the explanation. An' as soon
as Jim heerd it all, he said he was quite contint to lave her to Andy,
entirely; but the priest would not hear iv it; an' he jist med him marry
his wife over again, an' a merry weddin' it was, an' a fine collection
for his raverence. An' Andy was there along wid the rest, an' the priest
put a small pinnance upon him, for bein' in too great a hurry to marry a
widdy.
An' bad luck to the word he'd allow anyone to say an the business, ever
after, at all, at all; so, av coorse, no one offinded his raverence, by
spakin' iv the twelve pounds he got for layin' the sperit.
An' the neighbours wor all mighty well plased, to be sure, for gettin'
all the divarsion of a wake, an' two weddin's for nothin.'
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY
Being a Tenth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.
INTRODUCTION.
In the following narrative, I have endeavoured to give as nearly as
possible the ipsissima verba of the valued friend from whom I received
it, conscious that any aberration from HER mode of telling the tale of
her own life would at once impair its accuracy and its effect.
Would that, with her words, I could also bring before you her animated
gesture, her expressive countenance, the solemn and thrilling air and
accent with which she related the dark passages in her strange story;
and, above all, that I could communicate the impressive consciousness
that the narrator had seen with her own eyes, and personally acted in
the scenes which she described; these accompaniments, taken with the
additional circumstance that she who told the tale was one far too
deeply and sadly impressed with religious principle to misrepresent
or fabricate what she repeated as fact, gave to the tale a depth of
interest which the events recorded could hardly, themselves, have
produced.
I became acquainted with the lady from whose lips I heard this narrative
nearly twenty years since, and the story struck my fancy so much that
I committed it to paper while it was still fresh in my mind; and should
its perusal afford you entertainment for a listless half hour, my labour
shall not have been bestowed in vain.
I find that I have taken the story down as she told it, in the first
person, and perhaps this is as it should be.
She began as follows:
My maiden name was Richardson,(1) the designation of a family of some
distinction in the county of Tyrone. I was the younger of two daughters,
and we were the only children. There was a difference in our ages of
nearly six years, so that I did not, in my childhood, enjoy that close
companionship which sisterhood, in other circumstances, necessarily
involves; and while I was still a child, my sister was married.
(1) I have carefully altered the names as they appear in the
original MSS., for the reader will see that some of the
circumstances recorded are not of a kind to reflect honour
upon those involved in them; and as many are still living,
in every way honoured and honourable, who stand in close
relation to the principal actors in this drama, the reader
will see the necessity of the course which we have adopted.
The person upon whom she bestowed her hand was a Mr. Carew, a gentleman
of property and consideration in the north of England.
I remember well the eventful day of the wedding; the thronging
carriages, the noisy menials, the loud laughter, the merry faces, and
the gay dresses. Such sights were then new to me, and harmonised ill
with the sorrowful feelings with which I regarded the event which was to
separate me, as it turned out, for ever from a sister whose tenderness
alone had hitherto more than supplied all that I wanted in my mother's
affection.
The day soon arrived which was to remove the happy couple from Ashtown
House. The carriage stood at the hall-door, and my poor sister kissed me
again and again, telling me that I should see her soon.
The carriage drove away, and I gazed after it until my eyes filled with
tears, and, returning slowly to my chamber, I wept more bitterly and, so
to speak, more desolately, than ever I had done before.
My father had never seemed to love or to take an interest in me. He had
desired a son, and I think he never thoroughly forgave me my unfortunate
sex.
My having come into the world at all as his child he regarded as a kind
of fraudulent intrusion, and as his antipathy to me had its origin in
an imperfection of mine, too radical for removal, I never even hoped to
stand high in his good graces.
My mother was, I dare say, as fond of me as she was of anyone; but
she was a woman of a masculine and a worldly cast of mind. She had no
tenderness or sympathy for the weaknesses, or even for the affections,
of woman's nature and her demeanour towards me was peremptory, and often
even harsh.
It is not to be supposed, then, that I found in the society of my
parents much to supply the loss of my sister. About a year after her
marriage, we received letters from Mr. Carew, containing accounts of my
sister's health, which, though not actually alarming, were calculated
to make us seriously uneasy. The symptoms most dwelt upon were loss of
appetite and cough.
The letters concluded by intimating that he would avail himself of my
father and mother's repeated invitation to spend some time at Ashtown,
particularly as the physician who had been consulted as to my sister's
health had strongly advised a removal to her native air.
There were added repeated assurances that nothing serious was
apprehended, as it was supposed that a deranged state of the liver was
the only source of the symptoms which at first had seemed to intimate
consumption.
In accordance with this announcement, my sister and Mr. Carew arrived in
Dublin, where one of my father's carriages awaited them, in readiness to
start upon whatever day or hour they might choose for their departure.
It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, as soon as the day upon which they
were to leave Dublin was definitely fixed, to write to my father, who
intended that the two last stages should be performed by his own horses,
upon whose speed and safety far more reliance might be placed than
upon those of the ordinary post-horses, which were at that time, almost
without exception, of the very worst order. The journey, one of about
ninety miles, was to be divided; the larger portion being reserved for
the second day.
On Sunday a letter reached us, stating that the party would leave Dublin
on Monday, and, in due course, reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening.
Tuesday came the evening closed in, and yet no carriage; darkness came
on, and still no sign of our expected visitors.
Hour after hour passed away, and it was now past twelve; the night was
remarkably calm, scarce a breath stirring, so that any sound, such
as that produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would have been
audible at a considerable distance. For some such sound I was feverishly
listening.
It was, however, my father's rule to close the house at nightfall, and
the window-shutters being fastened, I was unable to reconnoitre the
avenue as I would have wished. It was nearly one o'clock, and we began
almost to despair of seeing them upon that night, when I thought I
distinguished the sound of wheels, but so remote and faint as to make
me at first very uncertain. The noise approached; it became louder and
clearer; it stopped for a moment.
I now heard the shrill screaming of the rusty iron, as the avenue-gate
revolved on its hinges; again came the sound of wheels in rapid motion.
'It is they,' said I, starting up; 'the carriage is in the avenue.'
We all stood for a few moments breathlessly listening. On thundered the
vehicle with the speed of a whirlwind; crack went the whip, and clatter
went the wheels, as it rattled over the uneven pavement of the court.
A general and furious barking from all the dogs about the house, hailed
its arrival.
We hurried to the hall in time to hear the steps let down with the sharp
clanging noise peculiar to the operation, and the hum of voices exerted
in the bustle of arrival. The hall-door was now thrown open, and we all
stepped forth to greet our visitors.
The court was perfectly empty; the moon was shining broadly and brightly
upon all around; nothing was to be seen but the tall trees with their
long spectral shadows, now wet with the dews of midnight.
We stood gazing from right to left, as if suddenly awakened from a
dream; the dogs walked suspiciously, growling and snuffing about the
court, and by totally and suddenly ceasing their former loud barking,
expressing the predominance of fear.
We stared one upon another in perplexity and dismay, and I think I never
beheld more pale faces assembled. By my father's direction, we looked
about to find anything which might indicate or account for the noise
which we had heard; but no such thing was to be seen--even the mire
which lay upon the avenue was undisturbed. We returned to the house,
more panic-struck than I can describe.
On the next day, we learned by a messenger, who had ridden hard the
greater part of the night, that my sister was dead. On Sunday evening,
she had retired to bed rather unwell, and, on Monday, her indisposition
declared itself unequivocally to be malignant fever. She became hourly
worse and, on Tuesday night, a little after midnight, she expired.(2)
(2) The residuary legatee of the late Frances Purcell, who
has the honour of selecting such of his lamented old
friend's manuscripts as may appear fit for publication, in
order that the lore which they contain may reach the world
before scepticism and utility have robbed our species of the
precious gift of credulity, and scornfully kicked before
them, or trampled into annihilation those harmless fragments
of picturesque superstition which it is our object to
preserve, has been subjected to the charge of dealing too
largely in the marvellous; and it has been half insinuated
that such is his love for diablerie, that he is content to
wander a mile out of his way, in order to meet a fiend or a
goblin, and thus to sacrifice all regard for truth and
accuracy to the idle hope of affrighting the imagination,
and thus pandering to the bad taste of his reader. He begs
leave, then, to take this opportunity of asserting his
perfect innocence of all the crimes laid to his charge, and
to assure his reader that he never PANDERED TO HIS BAD
TASTE, nor went one inch out of his way to introduce witch,
fairy, devil, ghost, or any other of the grim fraternity of
the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones. His province,
touching these tales, has been attended with no difficulty
and little responsibility; indeed, he is accountable for
nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons
mentioned therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and
for an occasional note, whenever he conceived it possible,
innocently, to edge in a word. These tales have been WRITTEN
DOWN, as the heading of each announces, by the Rev. Francis
Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh; and in all the instances,
which are many, in which the present writer has had an
opportunity of comparing the manuscript of his departed
friend with the actual traditions which are current amongst
the families whose fortunes they pretend to illustrate, he
has uniformly found that whatever of supernatural occurred
in the story, so far from having been exaggerated by him,
had been rather softened down, and, wherever it could be
attempted, accounted for.
I mention this circumstance, because it was one upon which a thousand
wild and fantastical reports were founded, though one would have thought
that the truth scarcely required to be improved upon; and again, because
it produced a strong and lasting effect upon my spirits, and indeed, I
am inclined to think, upon my character.
I was, for several years after this occurrence, long after the violence
of my grief subsided, so wretchedly low-spirited and nervous, that
I could scarcely be said to live; and during this time, habits of
indecision, arising out of a listless acquiescence in the will of
others, a fear of encountering even the slightest opposition, and a
disposition to shrink from what are commonly called amusements, grew
upon me so strongly, that I have scarcely even yet altogether overcome
them.
We saw nothing more of Mr. Carew. He returned to England as soon as the
melancholy rites attendant upon the event which I have just mentioned
were performed; and not being altogether inconsolable, he married again
within two years; after which, owing to the remoteness of our relative
situations, and other circumstances, we gradually lost sight of him.
I was now an only child; and, as my elder sister had died without issue,
it was evident that, in the ordinary course of things, my father's
property, which was altogether in his power, would go to me; and the
consequence was, that before I was fourteen, Ashtown House was besieged
by a host of suitors. However, whether it was that I was too young, or
that none of the aspirants to my hand stood sufficiently high in rank or
wealth, I was suffered by both parents to do exactly as I pleased;
and well was it for me, as I afterwards found, that fortune, or rather
Providence, had so ordained it, that I had not suffered my affections
to become in any degree engaged, for my mother would never have
suffered any SILLY FANCY of mine, as she was in the habit of styling an
attachment, to stand in the way of her ambitious views--views which she
was determined to carry into effect, in defiance of every obstacle, and
in order to accomplish which she would not have hesitated to sacrifice
anything so unreasonable and contemptible as a girlish passion.
When I reached the age of sixteen, my mother's plans began to develop
themselves; and, at her suggestion, we moved to Dublin to sojourn for
the winter, in order that no time might be lost in disposing of me to
the best advantage.
I had been too long accustomed to consider myself as of no importance
whatever, to believe for a moment that I was in reality the cause of all
the bustle and preparation which surrounded me, and being thus relieved
from the pain which a consciousness of my real situation would have
inflicted, I journeyed towards the capital with a feeling of total
indifference.
My father's wealth and connection had established him in the best
society, and, consequently, upon our arrival in the metropolis we
commanded whatever enjoyment or advantages its gaieties afforded.
The tumult and novelty of the scenes in which I was involved did not
fail considerably to amuse me, and my mind gradually recovered its tone,
which was naturally cheerful.
It was almost immediately known and reported that I was an heiress, and
of course my attractions were pretty generally acknowledged.
Among the many gentlemen whom it was my fortune to please, one, ere
long, established himself in my mother's good graces, to the exclusion
of all less important aspirants. However, I had not understood or even
remarked his attentions, nor in the slightest degree suspected his or
my mother's plans respecting me, when I was made aware of them rather
abruptly by my mother herself.
We had attended a splendid ball, given by Lord M----, at his residence
in Stephen's Green, and I was, with the assistance of my waiting-maid,
employed in rapidly divesting myself of the rich ornaments which, in
profuseness and value, could scarcely have found their equals in any
private family in Ireland.
I had thrown myself into a lounging-chair beside the fire, listless and
exhausted, after the fatigues of the evening, when I was aroused
from the reverie into which I had fallen by the sound of footsteps
approaching my chamber, and my mother entered.
'Fanny, my dear,' said she, in her softest tone, 'I wish to say a word
or two with you before I go to rest. You are not fatigued, love, I
hope?'
'No, no, madam, I thank you,' said I, rising at the same time from my
seat, with the formal respect so little practised now.
'Sit down, my dear,' said she, placing herself upon a chair beside me;
'I must chat with you for a quarter of an hour or so. Saunders' (to the
maid) 'you may leave the room; do not close the room-door, but shut that
of the lobby.'
This precaution against curious ears having been taken as directed, my
mother proceeded.
'You have observed, I should suppose, my dearest Fanny--indeed, you MUST
have observed Lord Glenfallen's marked attentions to you?'
'I assure you, madam----' I began.
'Well, well, that is all right,' interrupted my mother; 'of course you
must be modest upon the matter; but listen to me for a few moments, my
love, and I will prove to your satisfaction that your modesty is quite
unnecessary in this case. You have done better than we could have hoped,
at least so very soon. Lord Glenfallen is in love with you. I give you
joy of your conquest;' and saying this, my mother kissed my forehead.
'In love with me!' I exclaimed, in unfeigned astonishment.
'Yes, in love with you,' repeated my mother; 'devotedly, distractedly in
love with you. Why, my dear, what is there wonderful in it? Look in the
glass, and look at these,' she continued, pointing with a smile to the
jewels which I had just removed from my person, and which now lay a
glittering heap upon the table.
'May there not,' said I, hesitating between confusion and real
alarm--'is it not possible that some mistake may be at the bottom of all
this?'
'Mistake, dearest! none,' said my mother. 'None; none in the world.
Judge for yourself; read this, my love.' And she placed in my hand a
letter, addressed to herself, the seal of which was broken. I read
it through with no small surprise. After some very fine complimentary
flourishes upon my beauty and perfections, as also upon the antiquity
and high reputation of our family, it went on to make a formal proposal
of marriage, to be communicated or not to me at present, as my mother
should deem expedient; and the letter wound up by a request that the
writer might be permitted, upon our return to Ashtown House, which was
soon to take place, as the spring was now tolerably advanced, to visit
us for a few days, in case his suit was approved.
'Well, well, my dear,' said my mother, impatiently; 'do you know who
Lord Glenfallen is?'
'I do, madam,' said I rather timidly, for I dreaded an altercation with
my mother.
'Well, dear, and what frightens you?' continued she. 'Are you afraid of
a title? What has he done to alarm you? he is neither old nor ugly.'
I was silent, though I might have said, 'He is neither young nor
handsome.'
'My dear Fanny,' continued my mother, 'in sober seriousness you have
been most fortunate in engaging the affections of a nobleman such as
Lord Glenfallen, young and wealthy, with first-rate--yes, acknowledged
FIRST-RATE abilities, and of a family whose influence is not exceeded
by that of any in Ireland. Of course you see the offer in the same light
that I do--indeed I think you MUST.'
This was uttered in no very dubious tone. I was so much astonished by
the suddenness of the whole communication that I literally did not know
what to say.
'You are not in love?' said my mother, turning sharply, and fixing her
dark eyes upon me with severe scrutiny.
'No, madam,' said I, promptly; horrified, as what young lady would not
have been, at such a query.
'I'm glad to hear it,' said my mother, drily. 'Once, nearly twenty
years ago, a friend of mine consulted me as to how he should deal with a
daughter who had made what they call a love-match--beggared herself, and
disgraced her family; and I said, without hesitation, take no care
for her, but cast her off. Such punishment I awarded for an offence
committed against the reputation of a family not my own; and what I
advised respecting the child of another, with full as small compunction
I would DO with mine. I cannot conceive anything more unreasonable or
intolerable than that the fortune and the character of a family should
be marred by the idle caprices of a girl.'
She spoke this with great severity, and paused as if she expected some
observation from me.
I, however, said nothing.
'But I need not explain to you, my dear Fanny,' she continued, 'my views
upon this subject; you have always known them well, and I have never yet
had reason to believe you likely, voluntarily, to offend me, or to abuse
or neglect any of those advantages which reason and duty tell you
should be improved. Come hither, my dear; kiss me, and do not look so
frightened. Well, now, about this letter, you need not answer it yet; of
course you must be allowed time to make up your mind. In the meantime
I will write to his lordship to give him my permission to visit us at
Ashtown. Good-night, my love.'
And thus ended one of the most disagreeable, not to say astounding,
conversations I had ever had. It would not be easy to describe exactly
what were my feelings towards Lord Glenfallen;--whatever might have been
my mother's suspicions, my heart was perfectly disengaged--and hitherto,
although I had not been made in the slightest degree acquainted with his
real views, I had liked him very much, as an agreeable, well-informed
man, whom I was always glad to meet in society. He had served in the
navy in early life, and the polish which his manners received in his
after intercourse with courts and cities had not served to obliterate
that frankness of manner which belongs proverbially to the sailor.
Whether this apparent candour went deeper than the outward bearing, I
was yet to learn. However, there was no doubt that, as far as I had seen
of Lord Glenfallen, he was, though perhaps not so young as might have
been desired in a lover, a singularly pleasing man; and whatever feeling
unfavourable to him had found its way into my mind, arose altogether
from the dread, not an unreasonable one, that constraint might be
practised upon my inclinations. I reflected, however, that Lord
Glenfallen was a wealthy man, and one highly thought of; and although I
could never expect to love him in the romantic sense of the term, yet I
had no doubt but that, all things considered, I might be more happy with
him than I could hope to be at home.
When next I met him it was with no small embarrassment, his tact and
good breeding, however, soon reassured me, and effectually prevented my
awkwardness being remarked upon. And I had the satisfaction of leaving
Dublin for the country with the full conviction that nobody, not
even those most intimate with me, even suspected the fact of Lord
Glenfallen's having made me a formal proposal.
This was to me a very serious subject of self-gratulation, for, besides
my instinctive dread of becoming the topic of the speculations of
gossip, I felt that if the situation which I occupied in relation to
him were made publicly known, I should stand committed in a manner which
would scarcely leave me the power of retraction.
The period at which Lord Glenfallen had arranged to visit Ashtown House
was now fast approaching, and it became my mother's wish to form
me thoroughly to her will, and to obtain my consent to the proposed
marriage before his arrival, so that all things might proceed smoothly,
without apparent opposition or objection upon my part. Whatever
objections, therefore, I had entertained were to be subdued; whatever
disposition to resistance I had exhibited or had been supposed to feel,
were to be completely eradicated before he made his appearance; and my
mother addressed herself to the task with a decision and energy against
which even the barriers, which her imagination had created, could hardly
have stood.
If she had, however, expected any determined opposition from me, she was
agreeably disappointed. My heart was perfectly free, and all my feelings
of liking and preference were in favour of Lord Glenfallen; and I well
knew that in case I refused to dispose of myself as I was desired,
my mother had alike the power and the will to render my existence as
utterly miserable as even the most ill-assorted marriage could possibly
have done.
You will remember, my good friend, that I was very young and very
completely under the control of my parents, both of whom, my mother
particularly, were unscrupulously determined in matters of this kind,
and willing, when voluntary obedience on the part of those within their
power was withheld, to compel a forced acquiescence by an unsparing use
of all the engines of the most stern and rigorous domestic discipline.
All these combined, not unnaturally, induced me to resolve upon yielding
at once, and without useless opposition, to what appeared almost to be
my fate.
The appointed time was come, and my now accepted suitor arrived; he was
in high spirits, and, if possible, more entertaining than ever.
I was not, however, quite in the mood to enjoy his sprightliness; but
whatever I wanted in gaiety was amply made up in the triumphant and
gracious good-humour of my mother, whose smiles of benevolence and
exultation were showered around as bountifully as the summer sunshine.
I will not weary you with unnecessary prolixity. Let it suffice to say,
that I was married to Lord Glenfallen with all the attendant pomp and
circumstance of wealth, rank, and grandeur. According to the usage of
the times, now humanely reformed, the ceremony was made, until long past
midnight, the season of wild, uproarious, and promiscuous feasting and
revelry.
Of all this I have a painfully vivid recollection, and particularly of
the little annoyances inflicted upon me by the dull and coarse jokes
of the wits and wags who abound in all such places, and upon all such
occasions.
I was not sorry when, after a few days, Lord Glenfallen's carriage
appeared at the door to convey us both from Ashtown; for any change
would have been a relief from the irksomeness of ceremonial and
formality which the visits received in honour of my newly-acquired
titles hourly entailed upon me.
It was arranged that we were to proceed to Cahergillagh, one of the
Glenfallen estates, lying, however, in a southern county, so that, owing
to the difficulty of the roads at the time, a tedious journey of three
days intervened.
I set forth with my noble companion, followed by the regrets of some,
and by the envy of many; though God knows I little deserved the latter.
The three days of travel were now almost spent, when, passing the brow
of a wild heathy hill, the domain of Cahergillagh opened suddenly upon
our view.
It formed a striking and a beautiful scene. A lake of considerable
extent stretching away towards the west, and reflecting from its broad,
smooth waters, the rich glow of the setting sun, was overhung by steep
hills, covered by a rich mantle of velvet sward, broken here and there
by the grey front of some old rock, and exhibiting on their shelving
sides, their slopes and hollows, every variety of light and shade;
a thick wood of dwarf oak, birch, and hazel skirted these hills, and
clothed the shores of the lake, running out in rich luxuriance upon
every promontory, and spreading upward considerably upon the side of the
hills.
'There lies the enchanted castle,' said Lord Glenfallen, pointing
towards a considerable level space intervening between two of the
picturesque hills, which rose dimly around the lake.
This little plain was chiefly occupied by the same low, wild wood which
covered the other parts of the domain; but towards the centre a mass
of taller and statelier forest trees stood darkly grouped together,
and among them stood an ancient square tower, with many buildings of a
humbler character, forming together the manorhouse, or, as it was more
usually called, the Court of Cahergillagh.
As we approached the level upon which the mansion stood, the winding
road gave us many glimpses of the time-worn castle and its surrounding
buildings; and seen as it was through the long vistas of the fine old
trees, and with the rich glow of evening upon it, I have seldom beheld
an object more picturesquely striking.