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.

'My dear Purcell,' said he, 'you are the very man I wanted. I have got

into an ugly scrape, and I trust to my friends to get me out of it.'

'You have had no dispute with that man--that Fitzgerald, I hope,' said

I, giving utterance to the conjecture whose truth I most dreaded.

'Faith, I cannot say exactly what passed between us,' said he, 'inasmuch

as I was at the time nearly half seas over; but of this much I am

certain, that we exchanged angry words last night. I lost my temper most

confoundedly; but, as well as I can recollect, he appeared perfectly

cool and collected. What he said was, therefore, deliberately said, and

on that account must be resented.'

'My dear O'Connor, are you mad?' I exclaimed. 'Why will you seek to

drive to a deadly issue a few hasty words, uttered under the influence

of wine, and forgotten almost as soon as uttered? A quarrel with

Fitzgerald it is twenty chances to one would terminate fatally to you.'

'It is exactly because Fitzgerald IS such an accomplished shot,'

said he, 'that I become liable to the most injurious and intolerable

suspicions if I submit to anything from him which could be construed

into an affront; and for that reason Fitzgerald is the very last man to

whom I would concede an inch in a case of honour.'

'I do not require you to make any, the slightest sacrifice of what

you term your honour,' I replied; 'but if you have actually written a

challenge to Fitzgerald, as I suspect you have done, I conjure you to

reconsider the matter before you despatch it. From all that I have heard

you say, Fitzgerald has more to complain of in the altercation which has

taken place than you. You owe it to your only surviving parent not to

thrust yourself thus wantonly upon--I will say it, the most appalling

danger. Nobody, my dear O'Connor, can have a doubt of your courage; and

if at any time, which God forbid, you shall be called upon thus to risk

your life, you should have it in your power to enter the field under the

consciousness that you have acted throughout temperately and like a man,

and not, as I fear you now would do, having rashly and most causelessly

endangered your own life and that of your friend.'

'I believe, Purcell, your are right,' said he. 'I believe I HAVE viewed

the matter in too decided a light; my note, I think, scarcely allows

him an honourable alternative, and that is certainly going a step too

far--further than I intended. Mr. M'Donough, I'll thank you to hand me

the note.'

He broke the seal, and, casting his eye hastily over it, he continued:

'It is, indeed, a monument of folly. I am very glad, Purcell, you

happened to come in, otherwise it would have reached its destination by

this time.'

He threw it into the fire; and, after a moment's pause, resumed:

'You must not mistake me, however. I am perfectly satisfied as to the

propriety, nay, the necessity, of communicating with Fitzgerald. The

difficulty is in what tone I should address him. I cannot say that the

man directly affronted me--I cannot recollect any one expression which

I could lay hold upon as offensive--but his language was ambiguous, and

admitted frequently of the most insulting construction, and his manner

throughout was insupportably domineering. I know it impressed me with

the idea that he presumed upon his reputation as a DEAD SHOT, and that

would be utterly unendurable.'

'I would now recommend, as I have already done,' said M'Donough, 'that

if you write to Fitzgerald, it should be in such a strain as to leave

him at perfect liberty, without a compromise of honour, in a friendly

way, to satisfy your doubts as to his conduct.'

I seconded the proposal warmly, and O'Connor, in a few minutes, finished

a note, which he desired us to read. It was to this effect:

'O'Connor, of Castle Connor, feeling that some expressions employed by

Mr. Fitzgerald upon last night, admitted of a construction offensive

to him, and injurious to his character, requests to know whether Mr.

Fitzgerald intended to convey such a meaning.

'Castle Connor, Thursday morning.'

This note was consigned to the care of Mr. M'Donough, who forthwith

departed to execute his mission. The sound of his horse's hoofs, as

he rode rapidly away, struck heavily at my heart; but I found some

satisfaction in the reflection that M'Donough appeared as averse from

extreme measures as I was myself, for I well knew, with respect to the

final result of the affair, that as much depended upon the tone adopted

by the SECOND, as upon the nature of the written communication.

I have seldom passed a more anxious hour than that which intervened

between the departure and the return of that gentleman. Every instant I

imagined I heard the tramp of a horse approaching, and every time that

a door opened I fancied it was to give entrance to the eagerly expected

courier. At length I did hear the hollow and rapid tread of a horse's

hoof upon the avenue. It approached--it stopped--a hurried step

traversed the hall--the room door opened, and M'Donough entered.

'You have made great haste,' said O'Connor; 'did you find him at home?'

'I did,' replied M'Donough, 'and made the greater haste as Fitzgerald

did not let me know the contents of his reply.'

At the same time he handed a note to O'Connor, who instantly broke the

seal. The words were as follow:

'Mr. Fitzgerald regrets that anything which has fallen from him should

have appeared to Mr. O'Connor to be intended to convey a reflection upon

his honour (none such having been meant), and begs leave to disavow any

wish to quarrel unnecessarily with Mr. O'Connor.

'T---- Inn, Thursday morning.'

I cannot describe how much I felt relieved on reading the above

communication. I took O'Connor's hand and pressed it warmly, but my

emotions were deeper and stronger than I cared to show, for I was

convinced that he had escaped a most imminent danger. Nobody whose

notions upon the subject are derived from the duelling of modern times,

in which matters are conducted without any very sanguinary determination

upon either side, and with equal want of skill and coolness by both

parties, can form a just estimate of the danger incurred by one who

ventured to encounter a duellist of the old school. Perfect coolness

in the field, and a steadiness and accuracy (which to the unpractised

appeared almost miraculous) in the use of the pistol, formed the

characteristics of this class; and in addition to this there generally

existed a kind of professional pride, which prompted the duellist, in

default of any more malignant feeling, from motives of mere vanity,

to seek the life of his antagonist. Fitzgerald's career had been a

remarkably successful one, and I knew that out of thirteen duels which

he had fought in Ireland, in nine cases he had KILLED his man. In

those days one never heard of the parties leaving the field, as not

unfrequently now occurs, without blood having been spilt; and the

odds were, of course, in all cases tremendously against a young and

unpractised man, when matched with an experienced antagonist. My

impression respecting the magnitude of the danger which my friend had

incurred was therefore by no means unwarranted.

I now questioned O'Connor more accurately respecting the circumstances

of his quarrel with Fitzgerald. It arose from some dispute respecting

the application of a rule of piquet, at which game they had been

playing, each interpreting it favourably to himself, and O'Connor,

having lost considerably, was in no mood to conduct an argument with

temper--an altercation ensued, and that of rather a pungent nature,

and the result was that he left Fitzgerald's room rather abruptly,

determined to demand an explanation in the most peremptory tone. For

this purpose he had sent for M'Donough, and had commissioned him to

deliver the note, which my arrival had fortunately intercepted.

As it was now past noon, O'Connor made me promise to remain with him

to dinner; and we sat down a party of three, all in high spirits at

the termination of our anxieties. It is necessary to mention, for the

purpose of accounting for what follows, that Mrs. O'Connor, or, as she

was more euphoniously styled, the lady of Castle Connor, was precluded

by ill-health from taking her place at the dinner-table, and, indeed,

seldom left her room before four o'clock.(4) We were sitting after

dinner sipping our claret, and talking, and laughing, and enjoying

ourselves exceedingly, when a servant, stepping into the room, informed

his master that a gentleman wanted to speak with him.

(4) It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader, that at

the period spoken of, the important hour of dinner occurred

very nearly at noon.

'Request him, with my compliments, to walk in,' said O'Connor; and in a

few moments a gentleman entered the room.

His appearance was anything but prepossessing. He was a little above the

middle size, spare, and raw-boned; his face very red, his features sharp

and bluish, and his age might be about sixty. His attire savoured a good

deal of the SHABBY-GENTEEL; his clothes, which had much of tarnished

and faded pretension about them, did not fit him, and had not improbably

fluttered in the stalls of Plunket Street. We had risen on his entrance,

and O'Connor had twice requested of him to take a chair at the table,

without his hearing, or at least noticing, the invitation; while with

a slow pace, and with an air of mingled importance and effrontery, he

advanced into the centre of the apartment, and regarding our small party

with a supercilious air, he said:

'I take the liberty of introducing myself--I am Captain M'Creagh,

formerly of the--infantry. My business here is with a Mr. O'Connor, and

the sooner it is despatched the better.'

'I am the gentleman you name,' said O'Connor; 'and as you appear

impatient, we had better proceed to your commission without delay.'

'Then, Mr. O'Connor, you will please to read that note,' said the

captain, placing a sealed paper in his hand.

O'Connor read it through, and then observed:

'This is very extraordinary indeed. This note appears to me perfectly

unaccountable.'

'You are very young, Mr. O'Connor,' said the captain, with vulgar

familiarity; 'but, without much experience in these matters, I think

you might have anticipated something like this. You know the old saying,

"Second thoughts are best;" and so they are like to prove, by G--!'

'You will have no objection, Captain M'Creagh, on the part of your

friend, to my reading this note to these gentlemen; they are both

confidential friends of mine, and one of them has already acted for me

in this business.'

'I can have no objection,' replied the captain, 'to your doing what you

please with your own. I have nothing more to do with that note once I

put it safe into your hand; and when that is once done, it is all one to

me, if you read it to half the world--that's YOUR concern, and no affair

of mine.'

O'Connor then read the following:

'Mr. Fitzgerald begs leave to state, that upon re-perusing Mr.

O'Connor's communication of this morning carefully, with an experienced

friend, he is forced to consider himself as challenged. His friend,

Captain M'Creagh, has been empowered by him to make all the necessary

arrangements.

'T---- Inn, Thursday.'

I can hardly describe the astonishment with which I heard this note. I

turned to the captain, and said:

'Surely, sir, there is some mistake in all this?'

'Not the slightest, I'll assure you, sir.' said he, coolly; 'the case is

a very clear one, and I think my friend has pretty well made up his mind

upon it. May I request your answer?' he continued, turning to O'Connor;

'time is precious, you know.'

O'Connor expressed his willingness to comply with the suggestion, and in

a few minutes had folded and directed the following rejoinder:

'Mr. O'Connor having received a satisfactory explanation from Mr.

Fitzgerald, of the language used by that gentleman, feels that there no

longer exists any grounds for misunderstanding, and wishes further to

state, that the note of which Mr. Fitzgerald speaks was not intended as

a challenge.'

With this note the captain departed; and as we did not doubt that the

message which he had delivered had been suggested by some unintentional

misconstruction of O'Connor's first billet, we felt assured that the

conclusion of his last note would set the matter at rest. In this

belief, however, we were mistaken; before we had left the table, and in

an incredibly short time, the captain returned. He entered the room

with a countenance evidently tasked to avoid expressing the satisfaction

which a consciousness of the nature of his mission had conferred; but

in spite of all his efforts to look gravely unconcerned, there was a

twinkle in the small grey eye, and an almost imperceptible motion in the

corner of the mouth, which sufficiently betrayed his internal glee, as

he placed a note in the hand of O'Connor. As the young man cast his eye

over it, he coloured deeply, and turning to M'Donough, he said:

'You will have the goodness to make all the necessary arrangements for

a meeting. Something has occurred to render one between me and Mr.

Fitzgerald inevitable. Understand me literally, when I say that it is

now totally impossible that this affair should be amicably arranged.

You will have the goodness, M'Donough, to let me know as soon as all

the particulars are arranged. Purcell,' he continued, 'will you have

the kindness to accompany me?' and having bowed to M'Creagh, we left the

room.

As I closed the door after me, I heard the captain laugh, and thought I

could distinguish the words--'By ---- I knew Fitzgerald would bring him

to his way of thinking before he stopped.'

I followed O'Connor into his study, and on entering, the door being

closed, he showed me the communication which had determined him upon

hostilities. Its language was grossly impertinent, and it concluded by

actually threatening to 'POST' him, in case he further attempted 'to

be OFF.' I cannot describe the agony of indignation in which O'Connor

writhed under this insult. He said repeatedly that 'he was a degraded

and dishohoured man,' that 'he was dragged into the field,' that 'there

was ignominy in the very thought that such a letter should have

been directed to him.' It was in vain that I reasoned against this

impression; the conviction that he had been disgraced had taken

possession of his mind. He said again and again that nothing but his

DEATH could remove the stain which his indecision had cast upon the

name of his family. I hurried to the hall, on hearing M'Donough and the

captain passing, and reached the door just in time to hear the latter

say, as he mounted his horse:

'All the rest can be arranged on the spot; and so farewell, Mr.

M'Donough--we'll meet at Philippi, you know;' and with this classical

allusion, which was accompanied with a grin and a bow, and probably

served many such occasions, the captain took his departure.

M'Donough briefly stated the few particulars which had been arranged.

The parties were to meet at the stand-house, in the race-ground, which

lay at about an equal distance between Castle Connor and the town of

T----. The hour appointed was half-past five on the next morning, at

which time the twilight would be sufficiently advanced to afford a

distinct view; and the weapons to be employed were PISTOLS--M'Creagh

having claimed, on the part of his friend, all the advantages of the

CHALLENGED party, and having, consequently, insisted upon the choice of

'TOOLS,' as he expressed himself; and it was further stipulated that the

utmost secrecy should be observed, as Fitzgerald would incur great risk

from the violence of the peasantry, in case the affair took wind. These

conditions were, of course, agreed upon by O'Connor, and M'Donough left

the castle, having appointed four o'clock upon the next morning as the

hour of his return, by which time it would be his business to provide

everything necessary for the meeting. On his departure, O'Connor

requested me to remain with him upon that evening, saying that 'he

could not bear to be alone with his mother.' It was to me a most painful

request, but at the same time one which I could not think of refusing.

I felt, however, that the difficulty at least of the task which I had

to perform would be in some measure mitigated by the arrival of two

relations of O'Connor upon that evening.

'It is very fortunate,' said O'Connor, whose thoughts had been running

upon the same subject, 'that the O'Gradys will be with us to-night;

their gaiety and good-humour will relieve us from a heavy task. I trust

that nothing may occur to prevent their coming.' Fervently concurring in

the same wish, I accompanied O'Connor into the parlour, there to await

the arrival of his mother.

God grant that I may never spend such another evening! The O'Gradys DID

come, but their high and noisy spirits, so far from relieving me, did

but give additional gloom to the despondency, I might say the despair,

which filled my heart with misery--the terrible forebodings which I

could not for an instant silence, turned their laughter into discord,

and seemed to mock the smiles and jests of the unconscious party. When

I turned my eyes upon the mother, I thought I never had seen her look so

proudly and so lovingly upon her son before--it cut me to the heart--oh,

how cruelly I was deceiving her! I was a hundred times on the very point

of starting up, and, at all hazards, declaring to her how matters

were; but other feelings subdued my better emotions. Oh, what monsters

are we made of by the fashions of the world! how are our kindlier and

nobler feelings warped or destroyed by their baleful influences! I felt

that it would not be HONOURABLE, that it would not be ETIQUETTE, to

betray O'Connor's secret. I sacrificed a higher and a nobler duty than I

have since been called upon to perform, to the dastardly fear of bearing

the unmerited censure of a world from which I was about to retire. O

Fashion! thou gaudy idol, whose feet are red with the blood of human

sacrifice, would I had always felt towards thee as I now do!

O'Connor was not dejected; on the contrary, he joined with loud and

lively alacrity in the hilarity of the little party; but I could see in

the flush of his cheek, and in the unusual brightness of his eye, all

the excitement of fever--he was making an effort almost beyond his

strength, but he succeeded--and when his mother rose to leave the

room, it was with the impression that her son was the gayest and most

light-hearted of the company. Twice or thrice she had risen with the

intention of retiring, but O'Connor, with an eagerness which I alone

could understand, had persuaded her to remain until the usual hour of

her departure had long passed; and when at length she arose, declaring

that she could not possibly stay longer, I alone could comprehend the

desolate change which passed over his manner; and when I saw them part,

it was with the sickening conviction that those two beings, so dear to

one another, so loved, so cherished, should meet no more.

O'Connor briefly informed his cousins of the position in which he was

placed, requesting them at the same time to accompany him to the field,

and this having been settled, we separated, each to his own apartment.

I had wished to sit up with O'Connor, who had matters to arrange

sufficient to employ him until the hour appointed for M'Donough's visit;

but he would not hear of it, and I was forced, though sorely against

my will, to leave him without a companion. I went to my room, and, in

a state of excitement which I cannot describe, I paced for hours up and

down its narrow precincts. I could not--who could?--analyse the strange,

contradictory, torturing feelings which, while I recoiled in shrinking

horror from the scene which the morning was to bring, yet forced me to

wish the intervening time annihilated; each hour that the clock told

seemed to vibrate and tinkle through every nerve; my agitation was

dreadful; fancy conjured up the forms of those who filled my thoughts

with more than the vividness of reality; things seemed to glide through

the dusky shadows of the room. I saw the dreaded form of Fitzgerald--I

heard the hated laugh of the captain--and again the features of O'Connor

would appear before me, with ghastly distinctness, pale and writhed in

death, the gouts of gore clotted in the mouth, and the eye-balls

glared and staring. Scared with the visions which seemed to throng with

unceasing rapidity and vividness, I threw open the window and looked out

upon the quiet scene around. I turned my eyes in the direction of the

town; a heavy cloud was lowering darkly about it, and I, in impious

frenzy, prayed to God that it might burst in avenging fires upon the

murderous wretch who lay beneath. At length, sick and giddy with excess

of excitement, I threw myself upon the bed without removing my clothes,

and endeavoured to compose myself so far as to remain quiet until the

hour for our assembling should arrive.

A few minutes before four o'clock I stole noiselessly downstairs, and

made my way to the small study already mentioned. A candle was burning

within; and, when I opened the door, O'Connor was reading a book, which,

on seeing me, he hastily closed, colouring slightly as he did so. We

exchanged a cordial but mournful greeting; and after a slight pause he

said, laying his hand upon the volume which he had shut a moment before:

'Purcell, I feel perfectly calm, though I cannot say that I have much

hope as to the issue of this morning's rencounter. I shall avoid half

the danger. If I must fall, I am determined I shall not go down to

the grave with his blood upon my hands. I have resolved not to fire at

Fitzgerald--that is, to fire in such a direction as to assure myself

against hitting him. Do not say a word of this to the O'Gradys. Your

doing so would only produce fruitless altercation; they could not

understand my motives. I feel convinced that I shall not leave the

field alive. If I must die to-day, I shall avoid an awful aggravation

of wretchedness. Purcell,' he continued, after a little space, 'I was so

weak as to feel almost ashamed of the manner in which I was occupied as

you entered the room. Yes, _I--I_ who will be, before this evening,

a cold and lifeless clod, was ashamed to have spent my last moment of

reflection in prayer. God pardon me! God pardon me!' he repeated.

I took his hand and pressed it, but I could not speak. I sought for

words of comfort, but they would not come. To have uttered one cheering

sentence I must have contradicted every impression of my own mind. I

felt too much awed to attempt it. Shortly afterwards, M'Donough arrived.

No wretched patient ever underwent a more thrilling revulsion at the

first sight of the case of surgical instruments under which he had to

suffer, than did I upon beholding a certain oblong flat mahogany box,

bound with brass, and of about two feet in length, laid upon the table

in the hall. O'Connor, thanking him for his punctuality, requested

him to come into his study for a moment, when, with a melancholy

collectedness, he proceeded to make arrangements for our witnessing

his will. The document was a brief one, and the whole matter was just

arranged, when the two O'Gradys crept softly into the room.

'So! last will and testament,' said the elder. 'Why, you have a very

BLUE notion of these matters. I tell you, you need not be uneasy.

I remember very well, when young Ryan of Ballykealey met M'Neil the

duellist, bets ran twenty to one against him. I stole away from school,

and had a peep at the fun as well as the best of them. They fired

together. Ryan received the ball through the collar of his coat, and

M'Neil in the temple; he spun like a top: it was a most unexpected

thing, and disappointed his friends damnably. It was admitted, however,

to have been very pretty shooting upon both sides. To be sure,' he

continued, pointing to the will, 'you are in the right to keep upon the

safe side of fortune; but then, there is no occasion to be altogether so

devilish down in the mouth as you appear to be.'

'You will allow,' said O'Connor, 'that the chances are heavily against

me.'

'Why, let me see,' he replied, 'not so hollow a thin, either. Let me

see, we'll say about four to one against you; you may chance to throw

doublets like him I told you of, and then what becomes of the odds I'd

like to know? But let things go as they will, I'll give and take four to

one, in pounds and tens of pounds. There, M'Donough, there's a GET

for you; b--t me, if it is not. Poh! the fellow is stolen away,' he

continued, observing that the object of his proposal had left the room;

'but d---- it, Purcell, you are fond of a SOFT THING, too, in a quiet

way--I'm sure you are--so curse me if I do not make you the same

offer-is it a go?'

I was too much disgusted to make any reply, but I believe my looks

expressed my feelings sufficiently, for in a moment he said:

'Well, I see there is nothing to be done, so we may as well be stirring.

M'Donough, myself, and my brother will saddle the horses in a jiffy,

while you and Purcell settle anything which remains to be arranged.'

So saying, he left the room with as much alacrity as if it were to

prepare for a foxhunt. Selfish, heartless fool! I have often since heard

him spoken of as A CURSED GOOD-NATURED DOG and a D---- GOOD FELLOW; but

such eulogies as these are not calculated to mitigate the abhorrence

with which his conduct upon that morning inspired me.

The chill mists of night were still hovering on the landscape as our

party left the castle. It was a raw, comfortless morning--a kind of

drizzling fog hung heavily over the scene, dimming the light of the

sun, which had now risen, into a pale and even a grey glimmer. As the

appointed hour was fast approaching, it was proposed that we should

enter the race-ground at a point close to the stand-house--a measure

which would save us a ride of nearly two miles, over a broken road; at

which distance there was an open entrance into the race-ground. Here,

accordingly, we dismounted, and leaving our horses in the care of

a country fellow who happened to be stirring at that early hour, we

proceeded up a narrow lane, over a side wall of which we were to climb

into the open ground where stood the now deserted building, under which

the meeting was to take place. Our progress was intercepted by the

unexpected appearance of an old woman, who, in the scarlet cloak which

is the picturesque characteristic of the female peasantry of the south,

was moving slowly down the avenue to meet us, uttering that peculiarly

wild and piteous lamentation well known by the name of 'the Irish cry,'

accompanied throughout by all the customary gesticulation of

passionate grief. This rencounter was more awkward than we had at first

anticipated; for, upon a nearer approach, the person proved to be no

other than an old attached dependent of the family, and who had herself

nursed O'Connor. She quickened her pace as we advanced almost to a run;

and, throwing her arms round O'Connor's neck, she poured forth such a

torrent of lamentation, reproach, and endearment, as showed that she was

aware of the nature of our purpose, whence and by what means I knew not.

It was in vain that he sought to satisfy her by evasion, and gently

to extricate himself from her embrace. She knelt upon the ground, and

clasped her arms round his legs, uttering all the while such touching

supplications, such cutting and passionate expressions of woe, as went

to my very heart.

At length, with much difficulty, we passed this most painful

interruption; and, crossing the boundary wall, were placed beyond her

reach. The O'Gradys damned her for a troublesome hag, and passed on

with O'Connor, but I remained behind for a moment. The poor woman looked

hopelessly at the high wall which separated her from him she had loved

from infancy, and to be with whom at that minute she would have given

worlds, she took her seat upon a solitary stone under the opposite wall,

and there, in a low, subdued key, she continued to utter her sorrow in

words so desolate, yet expressing such a tenderness of devotion as wrung

my heart.

'My poor woman,' I said, laying my hand gently upon her shoulder, 'you

will make yourself ill; the morning is very cold, and your cloak is but

a thin defence against the damp and chill. Pray return home and take

this; it may be useful to you.'

So saying, I dropped a purse, with what money I had about me, into her

lap, but it lay there unheeded; she did not hear me.

'Oh I my child, my child, my darlin',' she sobbed, 'are you gone from

me? are you gone from me? Ah, mavourneen, mavourneen, you'll never come

back alive to me again. The crathur that slept on my bosom--the lovin'

crathur that I was so proud of--they'll kill him, they'll kill him. Oh,

voh! voh!'

The affecting tone, the feeling, the abandonment with which all this was

uttered, none can conceive who have not heard the lamentations of the

Irish peasantry. It brought tears to my eyes. I saw that no consolation

of mine could soothe her grief, so I turned and departed; but as I

rapidly traversed the level sward which separated me from my companions,

now considerably in advance, I could still hear the wailings of the

solitary mourner.

As we approached the stand-house, it was evident that our antagonists

had already arrived. Our path lay by the side of a high fence

constructed of loose stones, and on turning a sharp angle at its

extremity, we found ourselves close to the appointed spot, and within

a few yards of a crowd of persons, some mounted and some on foot,

evidently awaiting our arrival. The affair had unaccountably taken wind,

as the number of the expectants clearly showed; but for this there was

now no remedy.

As our little party advanced we were met and saluted by several

acquaintances, whom curiosity, if no deeper feeling, had brought to the

place. Fitzgerald and the Captain had arrived, and having dismounted,

were standing upon the sod. The former, as we approached, bowed slightly

and sullenly--while the latter, evidently in high good humour, made his

most courteous obeisance. No time was to be lost; and the two seconds

immediately withdrew to a slight distance, for the purpose of completing

the last minute arrangements. It was a brief but horrible interval--each

returned to his principal to communicate the result, which was soon

caught up and repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the crowd. I

felt a strange and insurmountable reluctance to hear the sickening

particulars detailed; and as I stood irresolute at some distance from

the principal parties, a top-booted squireen, with a hunting whip in his

hand, bustling up to a companion of his, exclaimed:

'Not fire together!--did you ever hear the like? If Fitzgerald gets the

first shot all is over. M'Donough sold the pass, by----, and that is the

long and the short of it.'

The parties now moved down a little to a small level space, suited to

the purpose; and the captain, addressing M'Donough, said:

'Mr. M'Donough, you'll now have the goodness to toss for choice of

ground; as the light comes from the east the line must of course run

north and south. Will you be so obliging as to toss up a crown-piece,

while I call?'

A coin was instantly chucked into the air. The captain cried, 'Harp.'

The HEAD was uppermost, and M'Donough immediately made choice of the

southern point at which to place his friend--a position which it will

be easily seen had the advantage of turning his back upon the light--no

trifling superiority of location. The captain turned with a kind of

laugh, and said:

'By ----, sir, you are as cunning as a dead pig; but you forgot one

thing. My friend is a left-handed gunner, though never a bit the worse

for that; so you see there is no odds as far as the choice of light

goes.'

He then proceeded to measure nine paces in a direction running north and

south, and the principals took their ground.

'I must be troublesome to you once again, Mr. M'Donough. One toss more,

and everything is complete. We must settle who is to have the FIRST

SLAP.'

A piece of money was again thrown into the air; again the captain lost

the toss and M'Donough proceeded to load the pistols. I happened to

stand near Fitzgerald, and I overheard the captain, with a chuckle, say

something to him in which the word 'cravat' was repeated. It instantly

occurred to me that the captain's attention was directed to a

bright-coloured muffler which O'Connor wore round his neck, and which

would afford his antagonist a distinct and favourable mark. I instantly

urged him to remove it, and at length, with difficulty, succeeded.

He seemed perfectly careless as to any precaution. Everything was now

ready; the pistol was placed in O'Connor's hand, and he only awaited the

word from the captain.

M'Creagh then said:

'Mr. M'Donough, is your principal ready?'

M'Donough replied in the affirmative; and, after a slight pause, the

captain, as had been arranged, uttered the words:

'Ready--fire.'

O'Connor fired, but so wide of the mark that some one in the crowd

exclaimed:

'Fired in the air.'

'Who says he fired in the air?' thundered Fitzgerald. 'By ---- he lies,

whoever he is.' There was a silence. 'But even if he was fool enough to

fire in the air, it is not in HIS power to put an end to the quarrel by

THAT. D---- my soul, if I am come here to be played with like a child,

and by the Almighty ---- you shall hear more of this, each and everyone

of you, before I'm satisfied.'

A kind of low murmur, or rather groan, was now raised, and a slight

motion was observable in the crowd, as if to intercept Fitzgerald's

passage to his horse. M'Creagh, drawing the horse close to the spot

where Fitzgerald stood, threatened, with the most awful imprecations,

'to blow the brains out of the first man who should dare to press on

them.'

O'Connor now interfered, requesting the crowd to forbear, and some

degree of order was restored. He then said, 'that in firing as he

did, he had no intention whatever of waiving his right of firing upon

Fitzgerald, and of depriving that gentleman of his right of prosecuting

the affair to the utmost--that if any person present imagined that he

intended to fire in the air, he begged to set him right; since, so far

from seeking to exort an unwilling reconciliation, he was determined

that no power on earth should induce him to concede one inch of ground

to Mr. Fitzgerald.'

This announcement was received with a shout by the crowd, who now

resumed their places at either side of the plot of ground which had

been measured. The principals took their places once more, and M'Creagh

proceeded, with the nicest and most anxious care, to load the pistols;

and this task being accomplished, Fitzgerald whispered something in the

Captain's ear, who instantly drew his friend's horse so as to place

him within a step of his rider, and then tightened the girths. This

accomplished, Fitzgerald proceeded deliberately to remove his coat,

which he threw across his horse in front of the saddle; and then,

with the assistance of M'Creagh, he rolled the shirt sleeve up to the

shoulder, so as to leave the whole of his muscular arm perfectly naked.

A cry of 'Coward, coward! butcher, butcher!' arose from the crowd.

Fitzgerald paused.

'Do you object, Mr. M'Donough? and upon what grounds, if you please?'

said he.

'Certainly he does not,' replied O'Connor; and, turning to M'Donough, he

added, 'pray let there be no unnecessary delay.'

'There is no objection, then,' said Fitzgerald.

'_I_ object,' said the younger of the O'Gradys, 'if nobody else will.'

' And who the devil are you, that DARES to object?' shouted Fitzgerald;

'and what d--d presumption prompts you to DARE to wag your tongue here?'

'I am Mr. O'Grady, of Castle Blake,' replied the young man, now much

enraged; 'and by ----, you shall answer for your language to me.'

'Shall I, by ----? Shall I?' cried he, with a laugh of brutal scorn;

'the more the merrier, d--n the doubt of it--so now hold your tongue,

for I promise you you shall have business enough of your own to think

about, and that before long.'

There was an appalling ferocity in his tone and manner which no

words could convey. He seemed transformed; he was actually like a man

possessed. Was it possible, I thought, that I beheld the courteous

gentleman, the gay, good-humoured retailer of amusing anecdote with

whom, scarce two days ago, I had laughed and chatted, in the blasphemous

and murderous ruffian who glared and stormed before me!

O'Connor interposed, and requested that time should not be unnecessarily

lost.

'You have not got a second coat on?' inquired the Captain. 'I beg

pardon, but my duty to my friend requires that I should ascertain the

point.'

O'Connor replied in the negative. The Captain expressed himself as

satisfied, adding, in what he meant to be a complimentary strain, 'that

he knew Mr. O'Connor would scorn to employ padding or any unfair mode of

protection.'

There was now a breathless silence. O'Connor stood perfectly motionless;

and, excepting the death-like paleness of his features, he exhibited

no sign of agitation. His eye was steady--his lip did not tremble--his

attitude was calm. The Captain, having re-examined the priming of

the pistols, placed one of them in the hand of Fitzgerald.--M'Donough

inquired whether the parties were prepared, and having been answered

in the affirmative, he proceeded to give the word, 'Ready.' Fitzgerald

raised his hand, but almost instantly lowered it again. The crowd had

pressed too much forward as it appeared, and his eye had been unsteadied

by the flapping of the skirt of a frieze riding-coat worn by one of the

spectators.

'In the name of my principal,' said the Captain, 'I must and do insist

upon these gentlemen moving back a little. We ask but little; fair play,

and no favour.'

The crowd moved as requested. M'Donough repeated his former question,

and was answered as before. There was a breathless silence. Fitzgerald

fixed his eye upon O'Connor. The appointed signal, 'Ready, fire!' was

given. There was a pause while one might slowly reckon three--Fitzgerald

fired--and O'Connor fell helplessly upon the ground.

'There is no time to be lost,' said M'Creagrh; 'for, by ----, you have

done for him.'

So saying, he threw himself upon his horse, and was instantly followed

at a hard gallop by Fitzgerald.

'Cold-blooded murder, if ever murder was committed,' said O'Grady. 'He

shall hang for it; d--n me, but he shall.'

A hopeless attempt was made to overtake the fugitives; but they were

better mounted than any of their pursuers, and escaped with ease.

Curses and actual yells of execration followed their course; and as,

in crossing the brow of a neighbouring hill, they turned round in

the saddle to observe if they were pursued, every gesture which could

express fury and defiance was exhausted by the enraged and defeated

multitude.

'Clear the way, boys,' said young O'Grady, who with me was kneeling

beside O'Connor, while we supported him in our arms; 'do not press so

close, and be d--d; can't you let the fresh air to him; don't you see

he's dying?'

On opening his waistcoat we easily detected the wound: it was a little

below the chest--a small blue mark, from which oozed a single heavy drop

of blood.

'He is bleeding but little--that is a comfort at all events,' said one

of the gentlemen who surrounded the wounded man.

Another suggested the expediency of his being removed homeward with as

little delay as possible, and recommended, for this purpose, that a

door should be removed from its hinges, and the patient, laid upon this,

should be conveyed from the field. Upon this rude bier my poor friend

was carried from that fatal ground towards Castle Connor. I walked close

by his side, and observed every motion of his. He seldom opened his

eyes, and was perfectly still, excepting a nervous WORKING of the

fingers, and a slight, almost imperceptible twitching of the features,

which took place, however, only at intervals. The first word he uttered

was spoken as we approached the entrance of the castle itself, when

he said; repeatedly, 'The back way, the back way.' He feared lest his

mother should meet him abruptly and without preparation; but although

this fear was groundless, since she never left her room until late

in the day, yet it was thought advisable, and, indeed, necessary, to

caution all the servants most strongly against breathing a hint to their

mistress of the events which had befallen.

Two or three gentlemen had ridden from the field one after another,

promising that they should overtake our party before it reached the

castle, bringing with them medical aid from one quarter or another;

and we determined that Mrs. O'Connor should not know anything of the

occurrence until the opinion of some professional man should have

determined the extent of the injury which her son had sustained--a

course of conduct which would at least have the effect of relieving her

from the horrors of suspense. When O'Connor found himself in his own

room, and laid upon his own bed, he appeared much revived--so much so,

that I could not help admitting a strong hope that all might yet be

well.

'After all, Purcell,' said he, with a melancholy smile, and speaking

with evident difficulty, 'I believe I have got off with a trifling

wound. I am sure it cannot be fatal I feel so little pain--almost none.'

I cautioned him against fatiguing himself by endeavouring to speak; and

he remained quiet for a little time. At length he said:

'Purcell, I trust this lesson shall not have been given in vain. God has

been very merciful to me; I feel--I have an internal confidence that I

am not wounded mortally. Had I been fatally wounded--had I been killed

upon the spot, only think on it'--and he closed his eyes as if the very

thought made him dizzy--'struck down into the grave, unprepared as I

am, in the very blossom of my sins, without a moment of repentance or of

reflection; I must have been lost--lost for ever and ever.'

I prevailed upon him, with some difficulty, to abstain from such

agitating reflections, and at length induced him to court such repose as

his condition admitted of, by remaining perfectly silent, and as much as

possible without motion.

O'Connor and I only were in the room; he had lain for some time in

tolerable quiet, when I thought I distinguished the bustle attendant

upon the arrival of some one at the castle, and went eagerly to the

window, believing, or at least hoping, that the sounds might announce

the approach of the medical man, whom we all longed most impatiently to

see.

My conjecture was right; I had the satisfaction of seeing him dismount

and prepare to enter the castle, when my observations were interrupted,

and my attention was attracted by a smothered, gurgling sound proceeding

from the bed in which lay the wounded man. I instantly turned round, and

in doing so the spectacle which met my eyes was sufficiently shocking.

I had left O'Connor lying in the bed, supported by pillows, perfectly

calm, and with his eyes closed: he was now lying nearly in the same

position, his eyes open and almost starting from their sockets, with

every feature pale and distorted as death, and vomiting blood in

quantities that were frightful. I rushed to the door and called for

assistance; the paroxysm, though violent, was brief, and O'Connor sank

into a swoon so deep and death-like, that I feared he should waken no

more.

The surgeon, a little, fussy man, but I believe with some skill to

justify his pretensions, now entered the room, carrying his case of

instruments, and followed by servants bearing basins and water and

bandages of linen. He relieved our doubts by instantly assuring us

that 'the patient' was still living; and at the same time professed his

determination to take advantage of the muscular relaxation which the

faint had induced to examine the wound--adding that a patient was more

easily 'handled' when in a swoon than under other circumstances.

After examining the wound in front where the ball had entered, he passed

his hand round beneath the shoulder, and after a little pause he shook

his head, observing that he feared very much that one of the vertebrae

was fatally injured, but that he could not say decidedly until his

patient should revive a little. 'Though his language was very technical,

and consequently to me nearly unintelligible, I could perceive plainly

by his manner that he considered the case as almost hopeless.

O'Connor gradually gave some signs of returning animation, and at length

was so far restored as to be enabled to speak. After some few general

questions as to how he felt affected, etc., etc., the surgeon, placing

his hand upon his leg and pressing it slightly, asked him if he felt any

pressure upon the limb? O'Connor answered in the negative--he pressed

harder, and repeated the question; still the answer was the same, till

at length, by repeated experiments, he ascertained that all that part

of the body which lay behind the wound was paralysed, proving that the

spine must have received some fatal injury.

'Well, doctor,' said O'Connor, after the examination of the wound was

over; 'well, I shall do, shan't I?'

The physician was silent for a moment, and then, as if with an effort,

he replied:

'Indeed, my dear sir, it would not be honest to flatter you with much

hope.'

'Eh?' said O'Connor with more alacrity than I had seen him exhibit

since the morning; 'surely I did not hear you aright; I spoke of my

recovery--surely there is no doubt; there can be none--speak frankly,

doctor, for God's sake--am I dying?'

The surgeon was evidently no stoic, and his manner had extinguished in

me every hope, even before he had uttered a word in reply.

'You are--you are indeed dying. There is no hope; I should but deceive

you if I held out any.'

As the surgeon uttered these terrible words, the hands which O'Connor

had stretched towards him while awaiting his reply fell powerless by

his side; his head sank forward; it seemed as if horror and despair

had unstrung every nerve and sinew; he appeared to collapse and shrink

together as a plant might under the influence of a withering spell.

It has often been my fate, since then, to visit the chambers of death

and of suffering; I have witnessed fearful agonies of body and of

soul; the mysterious shudderings of the departing spirit, and the

heart-rending desolation of the survivors; the severing of the tenderest

ties, the piteous yearnings of unavailing love--of all these things

the sad duties of my profession have made me a witness. But, generally

speaking, I have observed in such scenes some thing to mitigate, if not

the sorrows, at least the terrors, of death; the dying man seldom

seems to feel the reality of his situation; a dull consciousness of

approaching dissolution, a dim anticipation of unconsciousness and

insensibility, are the feelings which most nearly border upon an

appreciation of his state; the film of death seems to have overspread

the mind's eye, objects lose their distinctness, and float cloudily

before it, and the apathy and apparent indifference with which men

recognise the sure advances of immediate death, rob that awful hour

of much of its terrors, and the death-bed of its otherwise inevitable

agonies.

This is a merciful dispensation; but the rule has its exceptions--its

terrible exceptions. When a man is brought in an instant, by some sudden

accident, to the very verge of the fathomless pit of death, with all

his recollections awake, and his perceptions keenly and vividly alive,

without previous illness to subdue the tone of the mind as to dull its

apprehensions--then, and then only, the death-bed is truly terrible.

Oh, what a contrast did O'Connor afford as he lay in all the abject

helplessness of undisguised terror upon his death-bed, to the proud

composure with which he had taken the field that morning. I had always

before thought of death as of a quiet sleep stealing gradually upon

exhausted nature, made welcome by suffering, or, at least, softened by

resignation; I had never before stood by the side of one upon whom the

hand of death had been thus suddenly laid; I had never seen the tyrant

arrayed in his terror till then. Never before or since have I seen

horror so intensely depicted. It seemed actually as if O'Connor's mind

had been unsettled by the shock; the few words he uttered were marked

with all the incoherence of distraction; but it was not words that

marked his despair most strongly, the appalling and heart-sickening

groans that came from the terror-stricken and dying man must haunt me

while I live; the expression, too, of hopeless, imploring agony with

which he turned his eyes from object to object, I can never forget. At

length, appearing suddenly to recollect himself, he said, with startling

alertness, but in a voice so altered that I scarce could recognise the

tones:

'Purcell, Purcell, go and tell my poor mother; she must know all, and

then, quick, quick, quick, call your uncle, bring him here; I must have

a chance.' He made a violent but fruitless effort to rise, and after

a slight pause continued, with deep and urgent solemnity: 'Doctor, how

long shall I live? Don't flatter me. Compliments at a death-bed are out

of place; doctor, for God's sake, as you would not have my soul perish

with my body, do not mock a dying man; have I an hour to live?'

'Certainly,' replied the surgeon; 'if you will but endeavour to keep

yourself tranquil; otherwise I cannot answer for a moment.'

'Well, doctor,' said the patient, 'I will obey you; now, Purcell, my

first and dearest friend, will you inform my poor mother of--of what you

see, and return with your uncle; I know you will.'

I took the dear fellow's hand and kissed it, it was the only answer

I could give, and left the room. I asked the first female servant I

chanced to meet, if her mistress were yet up, and was answered in the

affirmative. Without giving myself time to hesitate, I requested her

to lead me to her lady's room, which she accordingly did; she entered

first, I supposed to announce my name, and I followed closely; the poor

mother said something, and held out her hands to welcome me; I strove

for words; I could not speak, but nature found expression; I threw

myself at her feet and covered her hands with kisses and tears. My

manner was enough; with a quickness almost preternatural she understood

it all; she simply said the words: 'O'Connor is killed;' she uttered no

more.

How I left the room I know not; I rode madly to my uncle's residence,

and brought him back with me--all the rest is a blank. I remember

standing by O'Connor's bedside, and kissing the cold pallid forehead

again and again; I remember the pale serenity of the beautiful features;

I remember that I looked upon the dead face of my friend, and I remember

no more.

For many months I lay writhing and raving in the frenzy of brain fever;

a hundred times I stood tottering at the brink of death, and long

after my restoration to bodily health was assured, it appeared doubtful

whether I should ever be restored to reason. But God dealt very

mercifully with me; His mighty hand rescued me from death and from

madness when one or other appeared inevitable. As soon as I was

permitted pen and ink, I wrote to the bereaved mother in a tone

bordering upon frenzy. I accused myself of having made her childless; I

called myself a murderer; I believed myself accursed; I could not find

terms strong enough to express my abhorrence of my own conduct. But,

oh! what an answer I received, so mild, so sweet, from the

desolate, childless mother! its words spoke all that is beautiful in

Christianity--it was forgiveness--it was resignation. I am convinced

that to that letter, operating as it did upon a mind already

predisposed, is owing my final determination to devote myself to that

profession in which, for more than half a century, I have been a humble

minister.

Years roll away, and we count them not as they pass, but their influence

is not the less certain that it is silent; the deepest wounds are

gradually healed, the keenest griefs are mitigated, and we, in

character, feelings, tastes, and pursuits, become such altered beings,

that but for some few indelible marks which past events must leave

behind them, which time may soften, but can never efface; our very

identity would be dubious. Who has not felt all this at one time or

other? Who has not mournfully felt it? This trite, but natural train of

reflection filled my mind as I approached the domain of Castle Connor

some ten years after the occurrence of the events above narrated.

Everything looked the same as when I had left it; the old trees stood

as graceful and as grand as ever; no plough had violated the soft green

sward; no utilitarian hand had constrained the wanderings of the clear

and sportive stream, or disturbed the lichen-covered rocks through

which it gushed, or the wild coppice that over-shadowed its sequestered

nooks--but the eye that looked upon these things was altered, and memory

was busy with other days, shrouding in sadness every beauty that met my

sight.

As I approached the castle my emotions became so acutely painful that

I had almost returned the way I came, without accomplishing the purpose

for which I had gone thus far; and nothing but the conviction that my

having been in the neighbourhood of Castle Connor without visiting its

desolate mistress would render me justly liable to the severest censure,

could overcome my reluctance to encountering the heavy task which was

before me. I recognised the old servant who opened the door, but he did

not know me. I was completely changed; suffering of body and mind had

altered me in feature and in bearing, as much as in character. I asked

the man whether his mistress ever saw visitors. He answered:

'But seldom; perhaps, however, if she knew that an old friend wished to

see her for a few minutes, she would gratify him so far.'

At the same time I placed my card in his hand, and requested him to

deliver it to his mistress. He returned in a few moments, saying that

his lady would be happy to see me in the parlour, and I accordingly

followed him to the door, which he opened. I entered the room, and was

in a moment at the side of my early friend and benefactress. I was too

much agitated to speak; I could only hold the hands which she gave me,

while, spite of every effort, the tears flowed fast and bitterly.

'It was kind, very, very kind of you to come to see me,' she said,

with far more composure than I could have commanded; 'I see it is very

painful to you.'

I endeavoured to compose myself, and for a little time we remained

silent; she was the first to speak:

'You will be surprised, Mr. Purcell, when you observe the calmness with

which I can speak of him who was dearest to me, who is gone; but my

thoughts are always with him, and the recollections of his love'--her

voice faltered a little--'and the hope of meeting him hereafter enables

me to bear existence.'

I said I know not what; something about resignation, I believe.

'I hope I am resigned; God made me more: so,' she said. 'Oh, Mr.

Purcell, I have often thought I loved my lost child TOO well. It was

natural--he was my only child--he was----' She could not proceed for a

few moments: 'It was very natural that I should love him as I did; but

it may have been sinful; I have often thought so. I doated upon him--I

idolised him--I thought too little of other holier affections; and God

may have taken him from me, only to teach me, by this severe lesson,

that I owed to heaven a larger share of my heart than to anything

earthly. I cannot think of him now without more solemn feelings than if

he were with me. There is something holy in our thoughts of the dead; I

feel it so.' After a pause, she continued--'Mr. Purcell, do you remember

his features well? they were very beautiful.' I assured her that I did.

'Then you can tell me if you think this a faithful likeness.' She took

from a drawer a case in which lay a miniature. I took it reverently from

her hands; it was indeed very like--touchingly like. I told her so; and

she seemed gratified.

As the evening was wearing fast, and I had far to go, I hastened to

terminate my visit, as I had intended, by placing in her hand a letter

from her son to me, written during his sojourn upon the Continent. I

requested her to keep it; it was one in which he spoke much of her, and

in terms of the tenderest affection. As she read its contents the heavy

tears gathered in her eyes, and fell, one by one, upon the page; she

wiped them away, but they still flowed fast and silently. It was in

vain that she tried to read it; her eyes were filled with tears: so she

folded the letter, and placed it in her bosom. I rose to depart, and she

also rose.

'I will not ask you to delay your departure,' said she; 'your visit here

must have been a painful one to you. I cannot find words to thank you

for the letter as I would wish, or for all your kindness. It has given

me a pleasure greater than I thought could have fallen to the lot of a

creature so very desolate as I am; may God bless you for it!' And thus

we parted; I never saw Castle Connor or its solitary inmate more.

THE DRUNKARD'S DREAM.

Being a Fourth Extract from the Legacy of the late F. Purcell, P. P. of

Drumcoolagh.

'All this HE told with some confusion and

Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand

To expound their vain and visionary gleams,

I've known some odd ones which seemed really planned

Prophetically, as that which one deems

"A strange coincidence," to use a phrase

By which such things are settled nowadays.'

BYRON.

Dreams! What age, or what country of the world, has not and acknowledged

the mystery of their origin and end? I have thought not a little upon

the subject, seeing it is one which has been often forced upon my

attention, and sometimes strangely enough; and yet I have never arrived

at anything which at all appeared a satisfactory conclusion. It does

appear that a mental phenomenon so extraordinary cannot be wholly

without its use. We know, indeed, that in the olden times it has been

made the organ of communication between the Deity and His creatures; and

when, as I have seen, a dream produces upon a mind, to all appearance

hopelessly reprobate and depraved, an effect so powerful and so lasting

as to break down the inveterate habits, and to reform the life of an

abandoned sinner, we see in the result, in the reformation of morals

which appeared incorrigible, in the reclamation of a human soul which

seemed to be irretrievably lost, something more than could be produced

by a mere chimera of the slumbering fancy, something more than could

arise from the capricious images of a terrified imagination; but once

presented, we behold in all these things, and in their tremendous and

mysterious results, the operation of the hand of God. And while Reason

rejects as absurd the superstition which will read a prophecy in every

dream, she may, without violence to herself, recognise, even in

the wildest and most incongruous of the wanderings of a slumbering

intellect, the evidences and the fragments of a language which may be

spoken, which HAS been spoken, to terrify, to warn, and to command. We

have reason to believe too, by the promptness of action which in the

age of the prophets followed all intimations of this kind, and by the

strength of conviction and strange permanence of the effects resulting

from certain dreams in latter times, which effects we ourselves may have

witnessed, that when this medium of communication has been employed

by the Deity, the evidences of His presence have been unequivocal. My

thoughts were directed to this subject, in a manner to leave a lasting

impression upon my mind, by the events which I shall now relate, the

statement of which, however extraordinary, is nevertheless ACCURATELY

CORRECT.

About the year 17--, having been appointed to the living of C---h, I

rented a small house in the town, which bears the same name: one morning

in the month of November, I was awakened before my usual time by my

servant, who bustled into my bedroom for the purpose of announcing a

sick call. As the Catholic Church holds her last rites to be totally

indispensable to the safety of the departing sinner, no conscientious

clergyman can afford a moment's unnecessary delay, and in little more

than five minutes I stood ready cloaked and booted for the road, in the

small front parlour, in which the messenger, who was to act as my guide,

awaited my coming. I found a poor little girl crying piteously near the

door, and after some slight difficulty I ascertained that her father was

either dead or just dying.

'And what may be your father's name, my poor child?' said I. She held

down her head, as if ashamed. I repeated the question, and the wretched

little creature burst into floods of tears still more bitter than she

had shed before. At length, almost provoked by conduct which appeared to

me so unreasonable, I began to lose patience, spite of the pity which I

could not help feeling towards her, and I said rather harshly:

'If you will not tell me the name of the person to whom you would lead

me, your silence can arise from no good motive, and I might be justified

in refusing to go with you at all.'

'Oh, don't say that--don't say that!' cried she. 'Oh, sir, it was that

I was afeard of when I would not tell you--I was afeard, when you

heard his name, you would not come with me; but it is no use hidin' it

now--it's Pat Connell, the carpenter, your honour.'

She looked in my face with the most earnest anxiety, as if her very

existence depended upon what she should read there; but I relieved her

at once. The name, indeed, was most unpleasantly familiar to me; but,

however fruitless my visits and advice might have been at another time,

the present was too fearful an occasion to suffer my doubts of their

utility or my reluctance to re-attempting what appeared a hopeless task

to weigh even against the lightest chance that a consciousness of

his imminent danger might produce in him a more docile and tractable

disposition. Accordingly I told the child to lead the way, and followed

her in silence. She hurried rapidly through the long narrow street which

forms the great thoroughfare of the town. The darkness of the hour,

rendered still deeper by the close approach of the old-fashioned houses,

which lowered in tall obscurity on either side of the way; the damp,

dreary chill which renders the advance of morning peculiarly cheerless,

combined with the object of my walk, to visit the death-bed of a

presumptuous sinner, to endeavour, almost against my own conviction, to

infuse a hope into the heart of a dying reprobate--a drunkard but

too probably perishing under the consequences of some mad fit of

intoxication; all these circumstances united served to enhance the gloom

and solemnity of my feelings, as I silently followed my little guide,

who with quick steps traversed the uneven pavement of the main street.

After a walk of about five minutes she turned off into a narrow lane,

of that obscure and comfortless class which is to be found in almost all

small oldfashioned towns, chill, without ventilation, reeking with all

manner of offensive effluviae, and lined by dingy, smoky, sickly and

pent-up buildings, frequently not only in a wretched but in a dangerous

condition.

'Your father has changed his abode since I last visited him, and, I am

afraid, much for the worse,' said I.

'Indeed he has, sir; but we must not complain,' replied she. 'We have to

thank God that we have lodging and food, though it's poor enough, it is,

your honour.'

Poor child! thought I, how many an older head might learn wisdom from

thee--how many a luxurious philosopher, who is skilled to preach but not

to suffer, might not thy patient words put to the blush! The manner

and language of this child were alike above her years and station;

and, indeed, in all cases in which the cares and sorrows of life have

anticipated their usual date, and have fallen, as they sometimes do,

with melancholy prematurity to the lot of childhood, I have observed the

result to have proved uniformly the same. A young mind, to which joy and

indulgence have been strangers, and to which suffering and self-denial

have been familiarised from the first, acquires a solidity and an

elevation which no other discipline could have bestowed, and which, in

the present case, communicated a striking but mournful peculiarity to

the manners, even to the voice, of the child. We paused before a narrow,

crazy door, which she opened by means of a latch, and we forthwith began

to ascend the steep and broken stairs which led upwards to the sick

man's room.

As we mounted flight after flight towards the garret-floor, I heard more

and more distinctly the hurried talking of many voices. I could also

distinguish the low sobbing of a female. On arriving upon the uppermost

lobby these sounds became fully audible.

'This way, your honour,' said my little conductress; at the same time,

pushing open a door of patched and half-rotten plank, she admitted me

into the squalid chamber of death and misery. But one candle, held in

the fingers of a scared and haggard-looking child, was burning in the

room, and that so dim that all was twilight or darkness except within

its immediate influence. The general obscurity, however, served to throw

into prominent and startling relief the death-bed and its occupant. The

light was nearly approximated to, and fell with horrible clearness

upon, the blue and swollen features of the drunkard. I did not think it

possible that a human countenance could look so terrific. The lips were

black and drawn apart; the teeth were firmly set; the eyes a little

unclosed, and nothing but the whites appearing. Every feature was fixed

and livid, and the whole face wore a ghastly and rigid expression of

despairing terror such as I never saw equalled. His hands were crossed

upon his breast, and firmly clenched; while, as if to add to the

corpse-like effect of the whole, some white cloths, dipped in water,

were wound about the forehead and temples.

As soon as I could remove my eyes from this horrible spectacle, I

observed my friend Dr. D----, one of the most humane of a humane

profession, standing by the bedside. He had been attempting, but

unsuccessfully, to bleed the patient, and had now applied his finger to

the pulse.

'Is there any hope?' I inquired in a whisper.

A shake of the head was the reply. There was a pause while he continued

to hold the wrist; but he waited in vain for the throb of life--it was

not there: and when he let go the hand, it fell stiffly back into its

former position upon the other.

'The man is dead,' said the physician, as he turned from the bed where

the terrible figure lay.

Dead! thought I, scarcely venturing to look upon the tremendous and

revolting spectacle. Dead! without an hour for repentance, even a moment

for reflection; dead I without the rites which even the best should

have. Is there a hope for him? The glaring eyeball, the grinning mouth,

the distorted brow--that unutterable look in which a painter would have

sought to embody the fixed despair of the nethermost hell. These were my

answer.

The poor wife sat at a little distance, crying as if her heart would

break--the younger children clustered round the bed, looking with

wondering curiosity upon the form of death never seen before.

When the first tumult of uncontrollable sorrow had passed away, availing

myself of the solemnity and impressiveness of the scene, I desired the

heart-stricken family to accompany me in prayer, and all knelt down

while I solemnly and fervently repeated some of those prayers which

appeared most applicable to the occasion. I employed myself thus in a

manner which, I trusted, was not unprofitable, at least to the living,

for about ten minutes; and having accomplished my task, I was the first

to arise.

I looked upon the poor, sobbing, helpless creatures who knelt so humbly

around me, and my heart bled for them. With a natural transition I

turned my eyes from them to the bed in which the body lay; and, great

God! what was the revulsion, the horror which I experienced on seeing

the corpse-like terrific thing seated half upright before me; the white

cloths which had been wound about the head had now partly slipped from

their position, and were hanging in grotesque festoons about the face

and shoulders, while the distorted eyes leered from amid them--

'A sight to dream of, not to tell.'

I stood actually riveted to the spot. The figure nodded its head and

lifted its arm, I thought, with a menacing gesture. A thousand confused

and horrible thoughts at once rushed upon my mind. I had often read

that the body of a presumptuous sinner, who, during life, had been the

willing creature of every satanic impulse, after the human tenant had

deserted it, had been known to become the horrible sport of demoniac

possession.

I was roused from the stupefaction of terror in which I stood, by the

piercing scream of the mother, who now, for the first time, perceived

the change which had taken place. She rushed towards the bed, but

stunned by the shock, and overcome by the conflict of violent emotions,

before she reached it she fell prostrate upon the floor.

I am perfectly convinced that had I not been startled from the torpidity

of horror in which I was bound by some powerful and arousing stimulant,

I should have gazed upon this unearthly apparition until I had fairly

lost my senses. As it was, however, the spell was broken--superstition

gave way to reason: the man whom all believed to have been actually dead

was living!

Dr. D---- was instantly standing by the bedside, and upon examination he

found that a sudden and copious flow of blood had taken place from the

wound which the lancet had left; and this, no doubt, had effected his

sudden and almost preternatural restoration to an existence from which

all thought he had been for ever removed. The man was still speechless,

but he seemed to understand the physician when he forbid his repeating

the painful and fruitless attempts which he made to articulate, and he

at once resigned himself quietly into his hands.

I left the patient with leeches upon his temples, and bleeding freely,

apparently with little of the drowsiness which accompanies apoplexy;

indeed, Dr. D---- told me that he had never before witnessed a seizure

which seemed to combine the symptoms of so many kinds, and yet which

belonged to none of the recognised classes; it certainly was not

apoplexy, catalepsy, nor delirium tremens, and yet it seemed, in

some degree, to partake of the properties of all. It was strange, but

stranger things are coming.

During two or three days Dr. D---- would not allow his patient to

converse in a manner which could excite or exhaust him, with anyone;

he suffered him merely as briefly as possible to express his immediate

wants. And it was not until the fourth day after my early visit, the

particulars of which I have just detailed, that it was thought expedient

that I should see him, and then only because it appeared that his

extreme importunity and impatience to meet me were likely to retard

his recovery more than the mere exhaustion attendant upon a short

conversation could possibly do; perhaps, too, my friend entertained some

hope that if by holy confession his patient's bosom were eased of the

perilous stuff which no doubt oppressed it, his recovery would be more

assured and rapid. It was then, as I have said, upon the fourth day

after my first professional call, that I found myself once more in the

dreary chamber of want and sickness.

The man was in bed, and appeared low and restless. On my entering the

room he raised himself in the bed, and muttered, twice or thrice:

'Thank God! thank God!'

I signed to those of his family who stood by to leave the room, and

took a chair beside the bed. So soon as we were alone, he said, rather

doggedly:

'There's no use in telling me of the sinfulness of bad ways--I know it

all. I know where they lead to--I seen everything about it with my own

eyesight, as plain as I see you.' He rolled himself in the bed, as if

to hide his face in the clothes; and then suddenly raising himself,

he exclaimed with startling vehemence: 'Look, sir! there is no use in

mincing the matter: I'm blasted with the fires of hell; I have been in

hell. What do you think of that? In hell--I'm lost for ever--I have not

a chance. I am damned already--damned--damned!'

The end of this sentence he actually shouted. His vehemence was

perfectly terrific; he threw himself back, and laughed, and sobbed

hysterically. I poured some water into a tea-cup, and gave it to him.

After he had swallowed it, I told him if he had anything to communicate,

to do so as briefly as he could, and in a manner as little agitating

to himself as possible; threatening at the same time, though I had no

intention of doing so, to leave him at once, in case he again gave way

to such passionate excitement.

'It's only foolishness,' he continued, 'for me to try to thank you for

coming to such a villain as myself at all. It's no use for me to wish

good to you, or to bless you; for such as me has no blessings to give.'

I told him that I had but done my duty, and urged him to proceed to the

matter which weighed upon his mind. He then spoke nearly as follows:

'I came in drunk on Friday night last, and got to my bed here; I don't

remember how. Sometime in the night it seemed to me I wakened, and

feeling unasy in myself, I got up out of the bed. I wanted the fresh

air; but I would not make a noise to open the window, for fear I'd waken

the crathurs. It was very dark and throublesome to find the door; but

at last I did get it, and I groped my way out, and went down as asy as I

could. I felt quite sober, and I counted the steps one after another, as

I was going down, that I might not stumble at the bottom.

'When I came to the first landing-place--God be about us always!--the

floor of it sunk under me, and I went down--down--down, till the senses

almost left me. I do not know how long I was falling, but it seemed to

me a great while. When I came rightly to myself at last, I was sitting

near the top of a great table; and I could not see the end of it, if it

had any, it was so far off. And there was men beyond reckoning, sitting

down all along by it, at each side, as far as I could see at all. I

did not know at first was it in the open air; but there was a close

smothering feel in it that was not natural. And there was a kind of

light that my eyesight never saw before, red and unsteady; and I did not

see for a long time where it was coming from, until I looked straight

up, and then I seen that it came from great balls of blood-coloured

fire that were rolling high over head with a sort of rushing, trembling

sound, and I perceived that they shone on the ribs of a great roof of

rock that was arched overhead instead of the sky. When I seen this,

scarce knowing what I did, I got up, and I said, "I have no right to

be here; I must go." And the man that was sitting at my left hand only

smiled, and said, "Sit down again; you can NEVER leave this place." And

his voice was weaker than any child's voice I ever heerd; and when he

was done speaking he smiled again.

'Then I spoke out very loud and bold, and I said, "In the name of God,

let me out of this bad place." And there was a great man that I did not

see before, sitting at the end of the table that I was near; and he was

taller than twelve men, and his face was very proud and terrible to look

at. And he stood up and stretched out his hand before him; and when he

stood up, all that was there, great and small, bowed down with a sighing

sound, and a dread came on my heart, and he looked at me, and I could

not speak. I felt I was his own, to do what he liked with, for I knew at

once who he was; and he said, "If you promise to return, you may depart

for a season;" and the voice he spoke with was terrible and mournful,

and the echoes of it went rolling and swelling down the endless cave,

and mixing with the trembling of the fire overhead; so that when he

sat down there was a sound after him, all through the place, like

the roaring of a furnace, and I said, with all the strength I had, "I

promise to come back--in God's name let me go!"

'And with that I lost the sight and the hearing of all that was there,

and when my senses came to me again, I was sitting in the bed with the

blood all over me, and you and the rest praying around the room.'

Here he paused and wiped away the chill drops of horror which hung upon

his forehead.

I remained silent for some moments. The vision which he had just

described struck my imagination not a little, for this was long

before Vathek and the 'Hall of Eblis' had delighted the world; and the

description which he gave had, as I received it, all the attractions of

novelty beside the impressiveness which always belongs to the narration

of an EYE-WITNESS, whether in the body or in the spirit, of the scenes

which he describes. There was something, too, in the stern horror

with which the man related these things, and in the incongruity of his

description, with the vulgarly received notions of the great place of

punishment, and of its presiding spirit, which struck my mind with awe,

almost with fear. At length he said, with an expression of horrible,

imploring earnestness, which I shall never forget--'Well, sir, is

there any hope; is there any chance at all? or, is my soul pledged and

promised away for ever? is it gone out of my power? must I go back to

the place?'

In answering him, I had no easy task to perform; for however clear

might be my internal conviction of the groundlessness of his tears,

and however strong my scepticism respecting the reality of what he had

described, I nevertheless felt that his impression to the contrary, and

his humility and terror resulting from it, might be made available as

no mean engines in the work of his conversion from prodigacy, and of his

restoration to decent habits, and to religious feeling.

I therefore told him that he was to regard his dream rather in the light

of a warning than in that of a prophecy; that our salvation depended not

upon the word or deed of a moment, but upon the habits of a life; that,

in fine, if he at once discarded his idle companions and evil habits,

and firmly adhered to a sober, industrious, and religious course of

life, the powers of darkness might claim his soul in vain, for that

there were higher and firmer pledges than human tongue could utter,

which promised salvation to him who should repent and lead a new life.

I left him much comforted, and with a promise to return upon the next

day. I did so, and found him much more cheerful and without any remains

of the dogged sullenness which I suppose had arisen from his despair.

His promises of amendment were given in that tone of deliberate

earnestness, which belongs to deep and solemn determination; and it was

with no small delight that I observed, after repeated visits, that his

good resolutions, so far from failing, did but gather strength by time;

and when I saw that man shake off the idle and debauched companions,

whose society had for years formed alike his amusement and his ruin, and

revive his long discarded habits of industry and sobriety, I said within

myself, there is something more in all this than the operation of an

idle dream.

One day, sometime after his perfect restoration to health, I was

surprised on ascending the stairs, for the purpose of visiting this

man, to find him busily employed in nailing down some planks upon the

landing-place, through which, at the commencement of his mysterious

vision, it seemed to him that he had sunk. I perceived at once that he

was strengthening the floor with a view to securing himself against such

a catastrophe, and could scarcely forbear a smile as I bid 'God bless

his work.'

He perceived my thoughts, I suppose, for he immediately said:

'I can never pass over that floor without trembling. I'd leave this

house if I could, but I can't find another lodging in the town so cheap,

and I'll not take a better till I've paid off all my debts, please God;

but I could not be asy in my mind till I made it as safe as I could.

You'll hardly believe me, your honour, that while I'm working, maybe a

mile away, my heart is in a flutter the whole way back, with the bare

thoughts of the two little steps I have to walk upon this bit of a

floor. So it's no wonder, sir, I'd thry to make it sound and firm with

any idle timber I have.'

I applauded his resolution to pay off his debts, and the steadiness with

which he perused his plans of conscientious economy, and passed on.

Many months elapsed, and still there appeared no alteration in his

resolutions of amendment. He was a good workman, and with his better

habits he recovered his former extensive and profitable employment.

Everything seemed to promise comfort and respectability. I have little

more to add, and that shall be told quickly. I had one evening met Pat

Connell, as he returned from his work, and as usual, after a mutual, and

on his side respectful salutation, I spoke a few words of encouragement

and approval. I left him industrious, active, healthy--when next I saw

him, not three days after, he was a corpse.

The circumstances which marked the event of his death were somewhat

strange--I might say fearful. The unfortunate man had accidentally met

an early friend just returned, after a long absence, and in a moment of

excitement, forgetting everything in the warmth of his joy, he yielded

to his urgent invitation to accompany him into a public-house, which lay

close by the spot where the encounter had taken place. Connell, however,

previously to entering the room, had announced his determination to take

nothing more than the strictest temperance would warrant.

But oh! who can describe the inveterate tenacity with which a drunkard's

habits cling to him through life? He may repent--he may reform--he may

look with actual abhorrence upon his past profligacy; but amid all this

reformation and compunction, who can tell the moment in which the

base and ruinous propensity may not recur, triumphing over resolution,

remorse, shame, everything, and prostrating its victim once more in all

that is destructive and revolting in that fatal vice?

The wretched man left the place in a state of utter intoxication. He was

brought home nearly insensible, and placed in his bed, where he lay in

the deep calm lethargy of drunkenness. The younger part of the family

retired to rest much after their usual hour; but the poor wife remained

up sitting by the fire, too much grieved and shocked at the occurrence

of what she had so little expected, to settle to rest; fatigue, however,

at length overcame her, and she sank gradually into an uneasy slumber.

She could not tell how long she had remained in this state, when she

awakened, and immediately on opening her eyes, she perceived by the

faint red light of the smouldering turf embers, two persons, one of whom

she recognised as her husband, noiselessly gliding out of the room.

'Pat, darling, where are you going?' said she. There was no answer--the

door closed after them; but in a moment she was startled and terrified

by a loud and heavy crash, as if some ponderous body had been hurled

down the stair. Much alarmed, she started up, and going to the head of

the staircase, she called repeatedly upon her husband, but in vain. She

returned to the room, and with the assistance of her daughter, whom I

had occasion to mention before, she succeeded in finding and lighting a

candle, with which she hurried again to the head of the staircase.

At the bottom lay what seemed to be a bundle of clothes, heaped

together, motionless, lifeless--it was her husband. In going down the

stair, for what purpose can never now be known, he had fallen helplessly

and violently to the bottom, and coming head foremost, the spine at

the neck had been dislocated by the shock, and instant death must have

ensued. The body lay upon that landing-place to which his dream had

referred. It is scarcely worth endeavouring to clear up a single point

in a narrative where all is mystery; yet I could not help suspecting

that the second figure which had been seen in the room by Connell's wife

on the night of his death, might have been no other than his own shadow.

I suggested this solution of the difficulty; but she told me that the

unknown person had been considerably in advance of the other, and on

reaching the door, had turned back as if to communicate something to his

companion. It was then a mystery.

Was the dream verified?--whither had the disembodied spirit sped?--who

can say? We know not. But I left the house of death that day in a state

of horror which I could not describe. It seemed to me that I was scarce

awake. I heard and saw everything as if under the spell of a night-mare.

The coincidence was terrible.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Purcell Papers, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu