Ennui, or Memoirs of The Earl of Glenthorn
Maria Edgeworth

CHAPTER I. 
Bred up in luxurious indolence, I was surrounded by friends, who seemed to have 
no business in this world but to save me the trouble of thinking or acting for 
myself; and I was confirmed in the pride of helplessness by being continually 
reminded, that I was the only son and heir of the Earl of Glenthorn. My mother 
died a few weeks after I was born, and I lost my father when I was very 
young. I was left to the care of a guardian, who in hopes of winning my 
affection never controlled my wishes, or even my whims; I changed schools and 
masters as often as I pleased, and consequently learned nothing: at last I found 
a private tutor, who suited me exactly, for he was completely of my own opinion, 
"that every thing, which the young Earl of Glenthorn did not know by the 
instinct of genius, was not worth his learning." Money could purchase a 
reputation for talents, and with money I was immoderately supplied; for my 
guardian expected to bribe me with a part of my own fortune, to forbear 
inquiring what had become of a certain deficiency in the remainder. This tacit 
compact I perfectly understood; we were consequently on the most amicable terms 
imaginable, and the most confidential, for I thought it better to deal with my 
guardian than with Jews. Thus at an age when other young men are subject to some 
restraint, either from the necessity of their circumstances, or the discretion 
of their friends, I became completely master of myself, and of my fortune. My 
companions envied me; but even their envy was not sufficient to make me happy. 
Whilst yet a boy I began to feel the dreadful symptoms of that mental malady, 
which baffles the skill of medicine, and for which wealth can purchase only 
temporary alleviation. For this complaint there is no precise English 
name,———but, alas! the foreign term is now naturalized in England.———Among the 
higher classes, whether in the wealthy, or the fashionable world, who is 
unacquainted with ennui?———At first I was unconscious of being subject to this 
disease; I felt that something was the matter with me, but I did not know what: 
yet the symptoms were sufficiently marked. I was afflicted with frequent fits of 
fidgetting, yawning, and stretching, with a constant restlessness of mind and 
body, an aversion to the place I was in, or the thing I was doing, or rather to 
that which was passing before my eyes, for I was never doing any thing; I had an 
utter abhorrence, and an incapacity of voluntary exertion. Unless roused by 
external stimulus, I sunk into that kind of apathy, and vacancy of ideas, 
vulgarly known by the name of a brown study. If confined in a room for more than 
half an hour by bad weather, or other contrarieties, I would pace backwards and 
forwards, like the restless cavia in his den, with a fretful, unmeaning 
pertinacity. I felt an insatiable longing for something new, and a childish love 
of locomotion. 
My physician and my guardian, not knowing what else to do with me, sent me 
abroad. I set out upon my travels in my eighteenth year, attended by my 
favourite tutor as my companion. We perfectly agreed in our ideas of travelling; 
we hurried from place to place as fast as horses and wheels, and curses and 
guineas, could carry us. Milord Anglois rattled over half the globe without 
getting one inch farther from his ennui. Three years were to be consumed before 
I should be of age. What sums did I spend during this interval in 
expedition-money to Time! but the more I tried to hasten him, the slower the 
rogue went. I lost my money and my temper. 
At last the day for which I had so long panted arrived. I was twenty-one! and I 
took possession of my estate. The bells rang the bonfires blazed, the tables 
wore spread, the wine flowed, huzzas resounded, friends and tenants crowded 
about me, and nothing but the voice of joy and congratulation was to be heard. 
The bustle of my situation kept me awake for some weeks; the pleasure of 
property was new, and, as long as the novelty lasted, delightful. I cannot say 
that I was satisfied, but my mind was distended by the sense of the magnitude of 
my possessions. I had large estates in England; and in one of the remote 
maritime counties of Ireland, I was lord over an immense territory, annexed to 
the ancient castle of Glenthorn. A noble pile of antiquity! worth ten degenerate 
castles of modern days. It was placed in a bold romantic situation; at least as 
far as I could judge of it by a picture, said to be a striking likeness, which 
hung in my hall at Sherwood Park in England. I was born in Ireland, and nursed, 
as I was told, in an Irish cabin; for my father had an idea, that this would 
make me hardy: he left me with my Irish nurse till I was two years old, and from 
that time forward neither he nor I ever revisited Ireland. He had a dislike to 
that country, and I grew up in his prejudices. I declared that I would always 
reside in England. Sherwood Park, my English country seat, had but one fault. It 
was completely finished. The house was magnificent, and in the modern taste; the 
furniture fashionably elegant, and in all the gloss of novelty. Not a single 
luxury omitted; not a fault could be found by the most fastidious critic. My 
park, my grounds, displayed all the beauties of nature and of art, judiciously 
combined. Majestic woods, waving their dark foliage, overhung———But I will spare 
my readers the description, for I remember falling asleep myself whilst a poet 
was reading to me an ode on the beauties of Sherwood Park. These beauties too 
soon became familiar to my eye; and even the idea of being the proprietor of 
this enchanting place soon palled upon my vanity. Every casual visitor, all the 
strangers, even the common people, who were allowed once a week to walk in my 
demesne, enjoyed it a thousand times more than I could. I remember, that, about 
six weeks after I came to Sherwood Park, I one evening escaped from the crowds 
of friends who filled my house, to indulge myself in a solitary, melancholy 
walk. I saw at some distance a party of people, who were coming to admire the 
grounds, and to avoid meeting them I took shelter under a fine tree, the 
branches of which, hanging to the ground, concealed me from the view of 
passengers. Thus seated, I was checked in the middle of a desperate yawn, by 
hearing one among the party of strangers exclaiming——— How happy the owner of 
this place must be! Has he any want, or any care? 
Yes: had I known how to enjoy the goods of life, I might have been happy; but 
want of occupation, and antipathy to exertion, rendered me one of the most 
miserable men upon Earth. Still I imagined, that the cause of my discontent 
proceeded from some external circumstance. Soon after my coming of age, business 
of various sorts required my attention; papers were to be signed, and lands were 
to be let: these things appeared to me terrible difficulties. Not even that 
minister of state, who so feelingly describes his horrour at the first 
appearance of the secretary with the great portfolio, ever experienced 
sensations so oppressive as mine were, when my steward began to talk to me of my 
own affairs. In the peevishness of my indolence, I declared, that I thought the 
pains overbalanced the pleasures of property. Captain Crawley, a friend———a sort 
of a friend——— an humble companion of mine, a gross, unblushing, thorough-going 
flatterer, happened to be present when I made this declaration: he kindly 
undertook to stand between me and the shadow of trouble. I accepted this offer. 
Aye, Crawley, said I, do see and settle with these people. 
I had not the slightest confidence in the person into whose hands, to save 
myself from the labour of thinking, I thus threw all my affairs; but I satisfied 
my understanding, by resolving that, when I should have leisure, I would look 
out for an agent, upon whom I could depend. 
I had now been nearly two months at Sherwood Park; too long a time, I thought, 
to remain in any place, and I was impatient to get away. My steward, who 
disliked the idea of my spending my summers at home, found it easy to persuade 
me, that the water on my estate had a brackish unwholesome taste. The man who 
told me this stood before me in perfect health, though he had drunk this 
insalubrious water all his life; but it was too laborious a task for my 
intellects to compare the evidence of my different senses, and I found it most 
easy to believe what I heard, though it was in direct opposition to what I saw. 
Away I hurried to a watering-place, after the example of many of my noble 
contemporaries, who leave their delightful country seats to pay, by the inch, 
for being squeezed up in lodging houses, with all imaginable inconvenience, 
during the hottest months in summer. I whiled away my time at Brighton, cursing 
the heat of the weather, till the winter came, and then cursing the cold, and 
longing for the London winter. 
The London winter commenced, and the young Earl of Glenthorn, and his 
entertainments, and his equipages, and his extravagance, were the conversation 
of all the world, and the joy of the newspapers. The immense cost of the fruit 
at my desserts was recorded; the annual expense of the vast nosegays of 
hot-house flowers worn daily by the footmen, who clung behind my coach, was 
calculated; the hundreds of wax-lights, which burned nightly in my house, were 
numbered by the idle admirers of folly; and it was known by the servants of 
every genteel family in town, that Lord Glenthorn suffered nothing but wax to be 
burned in his stables; that his servants drank nothing but claret and champagne; 
that his liveries, surpassing the imagination of ambassadors, vied with regal 
magnificence, whilst their golden trappings could have stood even the test of 
Chinese curiosity. My coachmaker's bill for this year, if laid before the 
public, would amuse and astonish sober-minded people, as much as some charges 
which have lately appeared in our courts of justice for extraordinary coaches 
and very extraordinary landaus. I will not enter into the detail of my 
extravagance in minor articles of expense; these, I thought, could never be felt 
by such a fortune as that of the Earl of Glenthorn: but, for the information of 
those who have the same course to run or to avoid, I should observe, that my 
diurnal visits to jewellers' shops amounted, in time, to sums worth mentioning. 
Of the multitude of baubles that I bought, the rings, the seals, the chains, I 
will give no account; it would pass the belief of man, and the imagination of 
woman. Those who have the least value for their time have usually the greatest 
number of watches, and are the most anxious about the exactness of their going. 
I and my repeaters were my own plagues, and the profit of all the fashionable 
watchmakers, whose shops I regularly visited for a lounge. My history, at this 
period, would be a complete lounger's journal; but I will spare my readers this 
diary. I wish, however, as I have had ample experience, to impress it on the 
minds of all whom it may concern, that a lounger of fortune must be extravagant. 
I went into shops merely to pass an idle hour, but I could not help buying 
something; and I was ever at the mercy of tradesmen, who took advantage of my 
indolence, and who thought my fortune inexhaustable. I really had not any taste 
for expense; but I let all who dealt with me, especially my servants, do as they 
pleased, rather than be at the trouble of making them do as they ought. They 
assured me, that Lord Glenthorn must have such and such things and must do so 
and so, and I quietly submitted to this imagnary necessity. 
All this time I was the envy of my acquiantance, but I was more deserving of 
their compassion. Without anxiety or exertion, I possesed every thing they 
wanted; but then I had no motive———I had nothing to desire; I had an immense 
fortune, and I was the Earl of Glenthorn; my title and wealth were sufficient 
distinctionc; how could I be anxious about my boots, or the cape of my coat, or 
any of those trifles which so happily interest and occupy the lives of 
fashionable young men, who have not the misfortune to possess a large estate? 
Most of my companions had some real or imaginary grievance, some old uncle or 
father, some cursed profession to complain of, but I had none. They had hopes 
and fears, but I had none. I was on the pinnacle of glory, which they were 
endeavouring to reach, and I had nothing to do but to sit still, and enjoy the 
barrenness of the prospect. 
In this recital I have communicated, I hope, to my readers, some portion of that 
ennui which I endured, otherwise they cannot form an adequate idea of my 
temptation to become a gambler. I really had no vice, nor any of those 
propensities which lead to vice; but ennui produced most of the effects, that 
are usually attributed to strong passions or a vicious disposition. 
Gaming relieved me from that insuperable listlessness by which I was oppressed. 
I became interested———became agitated; in short, I found a new kind of stimulus, 
and I indulged in it most intemperately. I grew immoderately fond of that which 
supplied me with sensations. My days and nights were passed at the gaming table. 
I remember once spending three days and three night in the hazard room of a 
well-known house in St. James's-street: the shutters were closed, the curtains 
down, and we had candles the whole time; even in the adjoining rooms we had 
candles, that when our doors were opened to bring in refreshments, no obtrusive 
gleam of day-light might remind us how the hours had passed. We were knee-deep 
in cards which had been thrown on the floor by those who had quarrelled with 
fortune. How human nature supported the fatigue I know not. We scarcely allowed 
ourselves a moment's pause to take the sustenance our bodies required. At last 
one of the waiters, who had been in the room with us the whole time, declared 
that he could hold out no longer, and that sleep he must. With difficulty he 
obtained an hour's truce: the moment he got out of the room he fell asleep, 
absolutely at the very threshold of our door. By the rules of the house he was 
entitled to a bonus on every transfer of property at the hazard table, and he 
had made, in the course of these three days, upwards of three hundred pounds. 
Sleep and avarice had struggled to the utmost, but, with his vulgar habits, 
sleep prevailed. We were wide awake. I never shall forget the figure of one of 
my noble associates, who sat holding his watch, his eager eyes fixed upon the 
minute hand, whilst he exclaimed continually, "This hour will never be over." 
Then he listened to discover whether his watch had stopped; then cursed the lazy 
fellow for falling asleep, protesting that, for his part, he never would again 
consent to such waste of time. The very instant the hour was ended, he ordered 
"that dog" to be wakened, and to work we went. At this sitting 35000l. were lost 
and won. I was very fortunate, for I lost a mere trifle———ten thousand pounds; 
but I could not expect to be always so lucky.———Now we come to the old story of 
being ruined by play. My English John-o'-the-Scales warned me, that he could 
advance no more money; my Irish agent, upon whom my draughts had indeed been 
unmerciful, could not oblige me any longer, and he threw up his agency, after 
having made his fortune at my expense. I railed, but railing would not pay my 
debts of honour. I inveighed against my grandfather for having tied me up so 
tight: I could neither mortgage nor sell: my Irish estate would have been sold 
instantly, had it not been settled upon a Mr. Delamere. The pleasure of abusing 
him, whom I had never seen, and of whom I knew nothing, but that he was to be my 
heir, relieved me wonderfully. He died, and left only a daughter, a mere child. 
My chance of possessing the estate in fee-simple increased: I sold this 
increased value to the Jews, and gamed on.———Miss Delamere, some time 
afterwards, had the small-pox. Upon the event of her illness I laid bets to an 
amazing amount. 
She recovered. No more money could be raised, and my debts were to be paid. In 
this dilemma I recollected, that I once had a guardian, and that I had never 
settled accounts with him. Crawley, who continued to be my factotum, and 
flatterer in ordinary and extraordinary, informed me, upon looking over these 
accounts, that there was a mine of money due to me, if I could but obtain it by 
law or equity. To law I went, and the anxiety of a law-suit might have, in some 
degree, supplied the place of gambling; but all my business was managed for me 
by Crawley, and I charged him never to mention the subject to me till a verdict 
should be obtained. 
A verdict was obtained against me. It was proved in open court by my own 
witnesses, that I was a fool; but as no judge, jury, or chancellor could 
believe, that I was so great a fool as my carelessness indicated, my guardian 
stood acquitted in equity of being so great a rogue as he really was. What was 
now to be done? I saw my doom. As a highwayman knows, that he must come to the 
gallows at last, and acts accordingly, so a fashionably extravagant youth knows, 
that sooner or later he must come to matrimony. No one could have more horrour 
of this catastrophe than I felt; but it was in vain to oppose my destiny. My 
opinion of women had been formed from the common-place jests of my companions, 
and from my own acquaintance with the worst part of the sex. I had never felt 
the passion of love, and of course believed it to be something that might have 
existed in former ages, but that was in our days quite obsolete, at least among 
the knowing part of the world. In my imagination, young women were divided into 
two classes, those who were to be purchased, and those who were to purchase. 
Between these two classes, though the division was to be marked externally by a 
certain degree of ceremony, yet I was internally persuaded, that there was no 
essential difference. In my feelings towards them there was some distinction; of 
the first class I was tired, and of the second I was afraid.———Afraid! Yes——— 
afraid of being taken in. With these fears, and these sentiments, I was now to 
choose a wife. I chose her by the numeration table. Units, tens, hundreds, 
thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands. I was content, in the 
language of the newspapers, to lead to the hymeneal altar any fashionable fair 
one, whose fortune came under this sixth place of figures. No sooner were my 
dispositions known, than the friends of a young heiress, who wanted to purchase 
a coronet, settled a match between us. My bride had one hundred wedding dresses, 
elegant as a select committee of mantuamakers and milliners, French and English, 
could devise. The least expensive of these robes, as well as I remember, cost 
fifty guineas; the most admired came to about five hundred pounds, and was 
thought, by the best judges in these matters, to be wonderfully cheap, as it was 
of lace such as had never before been trailed in English dust, even by the lady 
of a nabob. These things were shown in London as a spectacle for some days, by 
the mantuamaker, who declared, that she had lost many a night's rest in 
contriving how to make such a variety of dresses sufficiently magnificent and 
distinguished. The jewellers also requested and obtained permission to exhibit 
the different sets of jewels; these were so numerous, that Lady Glenthorn 
scarcely knew them all. One day, soon after her marriage, somebody at court, 
observing that her diamonds were prodigiously fine, asked where she bought them. 
"Really," said she, "I cannot tell. I have so many sets I declare! I don't know 
whether it's my Paris, or my Hamburgh, or my London set." 
Poor young creature! I believe her chief idea of happiness in marriage was the 
possession of the jewels and paraphernalia of a countess———I am sure it was the 
only hope she could have, that was likely to be realised, in marrying me. I 
thought it manly and fashionable to be indifferent, if not contemptuous to my 
wife: I considered her only as an incumbrance, that I was obliged to take along 
with a fortune. Beside the disagreeable ideas generally connected with the word 
wife, I had some peculiar reasons for my aversion to my Lady Glenthorn. Before 
her friends would suffer me to take possession of her fortune, they required 
from me a solemn oath against gambling; so I was compelled to abjure the hazard 
table and the turf, the only two objects in life that could keep me awake. This 
extorted vow I set down entirely to my bride's account, and I therefore became 
even more averse from her than men usually are who marry for money. Yet this 
dislike subsided. Lady Glenthorn was only childish———I, of an easy temper- I 
thought her ridiculous, but it was too much trouble to tell her so continually. 
I let the occasions pass, and even forgot her ladyship, when she was not 
absolutely in my way. She was too frivolous to be hated, and the passion of 
hatred was not to be easily sustained in my mind. The habit of ennui was 
stronger than all my passions put together. 
After my marriage, my old malady rose to an insupportable height. The pleasures 
of the table were all that seemed left to me in life. Most of the young men of 
any ton, either were, or pretended to be, connoisseurs in the science of good 
eating. Their talk was of sauces and of cooks———what dishes each cook was famous 
for, whether his fort lay in white sauces or brown, in soups, lentilles, 
fricandeaus, bechemel, matelotes, daubes, Then the history and genealogy of the 
cooks came after the discussion of the merit of their works; who my Lord C———'s 
cook lived with formerly———what my Lord D——— gave his cook———where they met with 
these great geniuses, I cannot boast that our conversation at these select 
dinners, from which the ladies were excluded, was very entertaining; but true 
good-eaters detest wit at dinner-time, and sentiment at all times. I think I 
observed, that amongst these cognoscenti there was scarcely one to whom the 
delicacy of taste did not daily prove a source of more pain than pleasure. There 
was always a cruel something that spoiled the rest; or if the dinner were 
excellent, beyond the power of the most fastidious palate to condemn, yet there 
was the hazard of being placed far from the favourite dish, or the still greater 
danger of being deputed to carve at the head or foot of the table. How I have 
seen a heavy nobleman, of this set, dexterously manoeuvre to avoid the dangerous 
honour of carving a haunch of venison. But, good heavens, said I, when a 
confidential whisper pointed this first to my notice———why does he not like to 
carve?———he would have it in his power to help himself to his mind, which nobody 
else can do so well———No! if he carves he must give the nice bits to others, 
every body here understands them as well as he———each knows what is upon his 
neighbour's plate, and what ought to be there, and what must be in the dish. I 
found that it was an affair of calculation———a game at which nobody can cheat 
without being discovered and disgraced———I emulated, and soon equalled my 
experienced friends. I became a perfect epicure, and gloried in the character, 
for it could be supported without any intellectual exertion, and it was 
fashionable. I cannot say, that I could ever eat as much as some of my 
companions———One of them I once heard exclaim, after a monstrous dinner, "I wish 
my digestion was equal to my appetite." I would not be thought to exaggerate, 
therefore I shall not recount the wonders I have seen performed by these 
capacious heroes of the table. After what I have beheld, to say nothing of what 
I have achieved, I can believe any thing that is related of the capacity of the 
human stomach. I can credit even the account of the dinner which Madame (de 
Bavière) affirms she saw eaten by Lewis the Fourteenth, viz. "quatre assiettes 
de differentes soupes; un faisan tout entier; un perdrix; une grande assiette 
pleine de salade; du mouton coupé dans son jus avec de l'ail; deux bons morceaux 
de jambon; une assiette pleine de pâtisserie; du fruit et des confitures. Nor 
can I doubt the accuracy of the historian who assures us, that a Roman Emperor 
[Note: Clodius Albinus.], one of the most moderate of those Imperial gluttons, 
took for his breakfast, 500 figs, 100 peaches, 10 melons, 100 beccaficoes, and 
400 oysters. 
Epicurism was scarcely more prevalent during the decline of the Roman Empire, 
than it is at this day amongst some of the wealthy and noble youths of Britain. 
Not one of my select dinner party but would have been worthy of a place at the 
turbot consultation, immortalized by the Roman satirist [Note: A friend of mine, 
a bishop, one day went into his kitchen, to look at a large turbot, which the 
cook was dressing. The cook had found it so large, that he had cut off the 
fins———"What a shame!" cried the bishop; and immediately calling for the cook's 
apron, he spread it before his cassock, and actually sewed the fins again to the 
turbot with his own episcopal hands.]. If I might judge from my own experience, 
I should attribute: fashionable epicurism in a great measure to ennui. Many 
affect it, because they have nothing else to do; and sensual indulgences are all 
that exist for those who have not sufficient energy to enjoy intellectual 
pleasures. I dare say, that if Heliogabalus could be brought in evidence in his 
own case, and could be made to understand the meaning of the word ennui, he 
would agree with me in opinion, that it was the cause of half his vices. His 
offered reward for the discovery of a new pleasure is stronger evidence than any 
confession he could make. I thank God that I was not born an Emperor, or I might 
have become a monster. Though not in the least inclined to cruelty, I might have 
acquired the taste for it, merely from desire of the emotion, which real 
tragedies excite. Fortunately, I was only an Earl and an epicure. My indulgence 
in the excesses of the table injured my health; violent bodily exercise was 
necessary to counteract the effects of intemperance. It was my maxim, that a man 
could never eat or drink too much, if he would but take exercise enough. I 
killed fourteen horses [Note: I was not the nobleman who laid a wager, that he 
could ride a fine horse to death in fifteen minutes. Indeed, I must do myself 
the justice to say, that I rejoiced at this man's losing his bet. He blew the 
horse in four minutes, and killed it; but it did not die within the time 
prescribed by the bet.] and survived; but I grew tired of killing horses, and I 
continued to eat immoderately. I was seized with a nervous complaint, attended 
with extreme melancholy. Frequently the thoughts of putting an end to my 
existence occurred, and I had many times determined upon the means, but very 
small, and apparently inadequate and ridiculous motives, prevented the execution 
of my design. Once, I was kept alive by a piggery, which I wanted to see 
finished. Another time, I delayed destroying myself, till a statue, which I had 
just purchased at a vast expense, should be put up in my Egyptian salon. By the 
awkwardness of the unpacker, the statue's thumb was broken. This broken thumb 
saved my life; it converted ennui into anger. Like Montaigne and his sausage, I 
had now something to complain of, and I was happy. But at last my anger 
subsided, the thumb would serve me no longer as a subject of conversation, and I 
relapsed into silence and black melancholy. I was "a'weary of the sun;" my old 
thoughts recurred. At this time I was just entering my twenty-fifth year. 
Rejoicings were preparing for my birth-day. My Lady Glenthorn had prevailed upon 
me to spend the summer at Sherwood Park, because it was new to her. She filled 
the house with company and noise; but this only increased my discontent. My 
birth-day arrived——— I wished myself dead———and I resolved to shoot myself at 
the close of the day. I put a pistol into my pocket, and stole out towards 
evening, unobserved by my jovial companions. Lady Glenthorn and her set were 
dancing, and I was tired of these sounds of gayety. I took the private way to 
the forest which was near the house, but one of my grooms met me with a fine 
horse, which an old tenant had just sent as a present on my birth-day. The horse 
was saddled and bridled, the groom held the stirrup, and up I got. The fellow 
told me the private gate was locked, and I turned as he pointed to go through 
the grand entrance. At the outside of the gate sat upon the ground, huddled in a 
great red cloak, an old woman, who started up and sprung forwards the moment she 
saw me, stretching out her arms and her cloak with one and the same motion. 
"Ogh! is it you I see?" cried she, in a strong Irish tone. 
At this sound and this sight my horse, who was shy, backed a little. I called to 
the woman to stand out of my way. 
"Heaven bless your sweet face! I'm the nurse that suckled yees when ye was a 
baby in Ireland. Many's the day I've been longing to see you," continued she, 
clasping her hands, and standing her ground in the middle of the gateway, 
regardless of my horse, which I was pressing forward. 
"Stand out of the way, for God's sake, my good woman, or I shall certainly ride 
over you." 
"So! so! so!" said I, patting my restless horse. 
"Oh! he's only shy, God bless him; he's as quite now as a lamb, and kiss one or 
other of yees I must," cried she, throwing her arms about the horse's neck. 
The horse, unaccustomed to this mode of salutation, suddenly plunged, and threw 
me. My head fell against the pier of the gate. The last sound I heard was the 
report of a pistol; but I can give no account of what happened afterwards. I was 
stunned by my fall, and senseless. When I opened my eyes, I found myself 
stretched on one of the cushions of my landau, and surrounded by a crowd of 
people, who seemed to be all talking at once: in the buzz of voices I could not 
distinguish any thing that was said, till I heard Captain Crawley's voice above 
the rest, saying, 
"Send for a surgeon instantly; but it's all over! it's all over! Take the body 
the back way to the banquetting-house; I must run to Lady Glenthorn." 
I perceived that they thought me dead. I did not at this moment feel that I was 
hurt. I was curious to know what they would all do; so I closed my eyes again 
before any one perceived that I had opened them. I lay motionless, and they 
proceeded with me, according to Captain Crawley's orders, to the 
banquetting-house. When we arrived there, my servants laid me on one of the 
Turkish sofas, and the crowd, after having satisfied their curiosity, dropped 
off one by one, till I was left with a single footman and my steward. 
"I don't believe he's quite dead," said the footman, "for his heart beats." 
"Oh, he's all as well as dead, for he does not stir hand or foot, and his scull, 
they say, is fractured for certain; but it will all be seen when the surgeon 
comes. I am sure he will never do. Crawley will have every thing his own way 
now, and I may as well decamp." 
"Ay, and amongst them," said the footman, "I only hope I may get my wages." 
"What a fool that Crawley made of my lord!" said the steward. 
"What a fool my lord made of himself," said the footman, "to be ruled, and let 
all his people be ruled, by such an upstart. With your leave, Mr. Turner, I'll 
just run to the house to say one word to James, and be back immediately." 
"No, no, you must stay, Robert, whilst I step home to lock my places, before 
Crawley begins to rummage." 
The footman was now left alone with me. Scarcely had the steward been gone two 
minutes, when I heard a low voice near me saying, in a tone of great anxiety, 
"Is he dead?" 
I half opened my eyes to see who it was that spoke. The voice came from the 
door, which was opposite to me, and whilst the footman turned his back, I raised 
my head, and beheld the figure of the old woman, who had been the cause of my 
accident. She was upon her knees on the threshold———her arms crossed over her 
breast. I never shall forget her face, it was so expressive of despair. 
"Is he dead?" she repeated. 
"I ten you yes," replied the footman. 
"For the love of God let me come in, if he is here," cried she. 
"Come in then, and stay here whilst I run to the house [Note: If any one should 
think it improbable, that a man of Lord Glenthorn's consequence should, at the 
supposed moment of his death, be thus neglected, let them recollect the scenes 
that followed the death of Tiberius———of Henry the Fourth of France———of William 
Rufus, and of George the Second.]." 
The footman ran off, and my old nurse, on seeing me, burst into an agony of 
grief. I did not understand one word she uttered, as she spoke in her native 
language; but her lamentations went to my heart, for they came from hers. She 
hung over me, and I felt her tears dropping upon my forehead. I could not 
refrain from whispering, "Don't cry———I am alive." 
"Blessings on him!" exclaimed she, starting back; she then dropped down on her 
knees to thank God. Then calling me by every fondling name that nurses use to 
their children, she begged my forgiveness, and alternately cursed herself, and 
prayed for me. 
The strong affections of this poor woman touched me more than any thing I had 
ever yet felt in my life; she seemed to be the only person upon Earth, who 
really cared for me, and in spite of her vulgarity, and my prejudice against the 
tone in which she spoke, she excited in my mind emotions of tenderness and 
gratitude. "My good woman, if I live, I will do something for you; tell me what 
I can do," said I. "Live! live! God bless you, live; that's all in the wide 
world I want of you, my jewel; and, till you are well, let me watch over you at 
nights, as I used to do when you were a child, and I had you in my arms all to 
myself, dear." 
Three or four people now ran into the room, to get before Captain Crawley, whose 
voice was heard at this instant at a distance. I had only time to make the poor 
woman understand that I wished to appear to be dead; she took the hint with 
surprising quickness. Captain Crawley came up the steps, talking in the tone of 
a master to the steward and people, who followed. 
"What is this old hag doing here: Where is Robert? Where is Thomas: I ordered 
them to stay till I came. Mr. Turner, why did not you stay? What! has not the 
coroner been here yet? The coroner must see the body, I tell you. Good God! What 
a parcel of blockheads you all are! How many times must I tell you the same 
thing? Nothing can be done till the coroner has seen him; then we'll talk about 
the funeral, Mr. Turner———one thing at a time. Every thing shall be done 
properly, Mr. Turner. Lady Glenthorn trusts every thing to me———Lady Glenthorn 
wishes that I should order every thing." 
"To be sure———no doubt———very proper———I don't say against that." 
"But," continued Crawley, turning towards the sofa upon which I lay, and seeing 
Ellinor kneeling beside me, "What keeps this old Irish witch still here? What 
business have you here pray, and who are you or what are you? 
"Please you honour, I was his nurse formerly, and so had a nat'ral longing to 
see him once again before I would die." 
"And did you come all the way from Ireland on this wise errand." 
"Troth, I did———every inch of the way from his own sweet place." 
Why, you are little better than a fool, I think," said Crawley. 
"Little better, plase your honour; but I was always so about them childer that I 
nursed." 
"Childer! Well, get along about hour business now, you see your nursing is not 
wanted here.' 
"I'll not stir out of this, while he is here," said my nurse, cathing hold of 
the leg of the sofa and clinging to it. 
"You'll not stir, you say!" cried Captain Crawley: "Turn her out." 
"Oh, sure you would not have the cru'lty to turn his old nurse out before he's 
even cowld. And won't you let me see him buried?" 
"Out with her! out with her, the old Irish hag! We'll have no howling here. Out 
with her, John!" said Crawley to my groom. 
The groom hesitated, I fancy; for Crawley repeated the order more imperiously. 
"Out with her, or go yourself." 
"May be it's you that will go first yourself," said she. 
"Go first myself!" cried Captain Crawley, furiously; "are you insolent to me?" 
"And are not you cru'l to me, and to my child I nursed, that lies all as one as 
dead before you, and was a good friend to you in his day, no doubt?" 
Crawley seized hold of her; but she resisted with so much energy, that she 
dragged along with her the sofa to which she clung, and on which I lay. 
"Stop!" cried I, starting up. There was sudden silence. I looked round, but 
could not utter another syllable. Now, for the first time, I was sensible that I 
had been really hurt by the fall. My head grew giddy, and my stomach sick. I 
just saw Crawley's fallen countenance, and him and the steward looking at one 
another; they were like hideous faces in a dream. I sunk back. 
"Ay, lie down my darling, don't be disturbing yourself for such as them," said 
my nurse. "Let them do what they will with me; it's little I'd care for them, if 
you were but once in safe hands. 
I beckoned to the groom who had hesitated to turn out Ellinor, and bid him go to 
the housekeeper, and have me put to bed. "She," added I, pointing to my old 
nurse, "is to sit up with me at night." It was all I could say. What they did 
with me afterwards, I do not know; but I was in my bed, and a bandage was round 
my temples, and my poor nurse was kneeling on one side of the bed, with a string 
of beads in her hand, and a surgeon and physician, and Crawley and my Lady 
Glenthorn were on the other side, whispering together. The curtain was drawn 
between me and them; but the motion I made on wakening was instantly observed by 
Crawley, who immediately left the room. Lady Glenthorn drew back my curtain, and 
began to ask me how I did; but when I fixed my eyes upon her, she sunk upon the 
bed, trembling violently, and could not finish her sentence. I begged her to go 
to rest, and she retired. The physician ordered that I should be kept quiet, and 
seemed to think I was in danger. I asked what was the matter with me? and the 
surgeon, with a very grave face, informed me, that I had an ugly contusion on my 
head. I had heard of a concussion of the brain; but I did not know distinetly 
what it was, and my fears were increased by my ignorance. The life which, but a 
few hours before, I had been on the point of voluntarily destroying, because it 
was insupportably burdensome, I was now, the moment it was in danger, most 
anxious to preserve; and the interest which I perceived others had in getting 
rid of me, increased my desire to recover. My recovery was, however, for some 
time doubtful. I was seized with a fever, which left me in a state of alarming 
debility. My old nurse, whom I shall henceforward call by her name of Ellinor, 
attended me with the most affectionate solicitude during my illness 
 [Note: 
"For fostering, I did never hear or read, that it was in use or reputation in any country, barbarous or civil, as it hath been, and yet is in Ireland.    In the opinion of this people, fostering hath always been a stronger alliance than blood; and the foster-children do love, and are beloved of their foster-fathers and their sept (or clan), more than of their natural parents and kindred; and do participate of their means more frankly, and do adhere unto them, in all fortunes, with more affection and constancy.              Such a general custom in a kingdom, in giving and taking children to foster, making such a firm alliance as it doth in Ireland, was never seen or heard of in any other country of the world beside."
Davies.
]; 
she scarcely stirred from my bed-side, night or day: and, indeed, when I came to 
the use of my senses, she was the only person whom I really liked to have near 
me. I knew that she was sincere, and, however unpolished her manners, and 
however awkward her assistance, the good-will with which it was given made me 
prefer it to the most delicate and dexterous attentions, which I believed to be 
interested. The very want of a sense of propriety, and the freedom with which 
she talked to me, regardless of what was suited to her station, or due to my 
rank, instead of offending or disgusting me, became agreeable; besides, the 
novelty of her dialect, and of her turn of thought, entertained me as much as a 
sick man could be entertained. I remember once her telling me, that "if it 
plased God she would like to die on a Christmas-day, of all days; because the 
gates of Heaven, they say, will be opened all that day; and who knows but a body 
might slip in unknownst." When she sat up with me at nights, she talked on 
eternally; for she assured me there was nothing like talking, as she had always 
found, to put any one asy asleep. I listened or not, just as I liked; any way 
she was content. She was inexhaustible in her anecdotes of my ancestors, all 
tending to the honour and glory of the family; she had also an excellent memory 
for all the insults, or traditions of insults, which the Glenthorns had received 
for many ages back, even to the times of the old kings of Ireland; long and long 
before they stooped to be lorded; when their "names, which it was a pity and a 
murder, and moreover a burning shame, to change, was O'Shagnasee." She was well 
stored with histories of Irish and Scottish chiefs. The story of O'Neill, the 
Irish black-beard, I am sure I ought to remember, for Ellinor told it to me at 
least six times. Then she had a large assortment of fairies and shadowless 
[Note: In Ireland it is a belief among the vulgar, that witches have no 
shadows.] witches, and banshees; and besides, she had legions of spirits and 
ghosts, and haunted castles without end, my own castle of Glenthorn not 
excepted, in the description of which she was extremely eloquent; she absolutely 
excited in my mind some desire to see it. "For many a long year," she said, "it 
had been her nightly prayer, that she might live to see me in my own castle; and 
often and often she was coming over to England to tell me so, only her husband, 
as long as he lived, would not let her set out on what he called a fool's 
errand; but it pleased God to take him to himself last fair-day, and then she 
resolved that nothing should hinder her to be with her own child, against his 
birth-day; and now could she see me in my own Castle Glenthorn, she would die 
contint———and what a pity but I should be in it! I was only a lord, as she said, 
in England; but I could be all as one as a king in Ireland." 
Ellinor impressed me with the idea of the sort of feudal power I should possess 
in my vast territory over tenants, who were almost vassals, and amongst a 
numerous train of dependants. We resist the efforts made by those, who we think 
exert authority or employ artifice to change our determinations, whilst the 
perverse mind insensibly yields to those, who appear not to have power, or 
reason, or address sufficient to obtain a victory. I should not have heard any 
human being with patience try to persuade me to go to Ireland, except this 
ignorant poor nurse, who spoke, as I thought, merely from the instinct of 
affection to me and to her native country. I promised her that I would, sometime 
or other, visit Glenthorn Castle: but this was only a vague promise, and it was 
but little likely that it should be accomplished. As I regained my strength, my 
mind turned, or rather was turned, to other thoughts. 
CHAPTER II. 
One morning———it was the day after my physicians had pronounced me out of all 
danger, Crawley sent me a note by Ellinor, congratulating me upon my recovery, 
and begging to speak to me alone for half an hour. I refused to see him, and 
said, that I was not yet well enough to do business. The same morning Ellinor 
came with a message from Turner, my steward, who, with his humble duty, 
requested to see me for five minutes, to communicate to me something of 
importance. I consented to see Turner. He entered with a face of suppressed joy 
and affected melancholy. 
"Sad news I am bound in duty to be the bearer of, my lord. I was determined, 
whatever came to pass, however, not to speak till your honour was out of danger, 
which, I thank Heaven, is now the case, and I am happy to be able to 
congratulate your lordship upon looking as well as———" 
"Never mind my looks. I will excuse your congratulations, Mr. Turner," said I, 
impatiently; for the recollection of the banquetting-house, and the undertaker, 
whom Turner was so eager to introduce, came full into my mind———"Go on, if you 
please; five minutes is all I am at present able to give to any business, and 
you sent me word you had something of importance to communicate." 
"True, my lord; but in case your lordship is not at present well enough, or not 
so disposed, I will wait your lordship's leisure." 
"Now or never, Mr. Turner. Speak, but speak at once." 
"My lord, I would have done so long ago, but was loath to make mischief; and 
besides, could not believe what I heard whispered, and would scarce believe what 
I verily saw; though now, as I cannot reasonably have a doubt, I think it would 
be a sin, and a burden upon my conscience, not to speak; only that I am 
unwilling to shock your lordship too much, when but just recovering, for that is 
not the time one would wish to tell or to hear disagreeable things." 
"Mr. Turner, either come to the point at once, or leave me, for I am not strong 
enough to bear this suspense." 
"I beg pardon, my lord: why, then, my lord, the point is Captain Crawley." 
"What of him? I never desire to hear his name again." 
"Nor I, I am sure, my lord; but there are some in the house might not be of our 
opinion." 
"Who? you sneaking fellow; speak out, can't you?" 
"My lady———my lord———Now it is out. She'll go off with him this night, if not 
prevented." 
My surprise and indignation were as great, as if I had always been the fondest 
and the most attentive of husbands. I was at length roused from that 
indifference and apathy into which I had sunk; and though I had never loved my 
wife, the moment I knew she was lost to me for ever was exquisitely painful. 
Astonishment, the sense of disgrace, the feeling of rage against that 
treacherous parasite, by whom she had been seduced, all combined to overwhelm 
me. I could command my voice only enough to bid Turner leave the room, and tell 
no one that he had spoken to me on this subject.———"Not a soul," he said, 
"should be told, or could guess it." 
Left to my own reflections, as soon as the first emotions of anger subsided, I 
blamed myself for my conduct to Lady Glenthorn. I considered, that she had been 
married to me by her friends, when she was too young and too childish to judge 
for herself; that from the first day of our marriage I had never made the 
slightest effort to win her affections, or to guide her conduct; that, on the 
contrary, I had shown her marked indifference, if not aversion. With fashionable 
airs, I had professed, that provided she left me at liberty to spend the large 
fortune which she brought me, and in consideration of which she enjoyed the 
title of Countess of Glenthorn, I cared for nothing farther. With the 
consequences of my neglect I now reproached myself in vain. Lady Glenthorn's 
immense fortune had paid my debts, and had for two years supplied my 
extravagance, or rather my indolence: little remained, and she was now, in her 
twentieth year, to be consigned to public disgrace, and to a man whom I knew to 
be destitute of honour and feeling.——— I pitied her, and resolved to go 
instantly and make an effort to save her from destruction. 
Ellinor, who watched all Crawley's motions, informed me, that he was gone to a 
neighbouring town, and had left word that he should not be home till after 
dinner. Lady Glenthorn was in her dressing-room, which was at a part of the 
house farthest from that which I now inhabited. I had never left my room since 
my illness, and had scarcely walked farther than from my bed to my armchair; but 
I was so much roused by my feelings at this instant, that, to Ellinor's great 
astonishment, I started from my chair, and, forbidding her to follow me, walked 
without any assistance along the corridor, which led to the back-stairs, and to 
Lady Glenthorn's apartment. I opened the private door of her dressing-room 
suddenly———the room was in great disorder———her woman was upon her knees packing 
a trunk: Lady Glenthorn was standing at a table, with a parcel of open letters 
before her, and a diamond necklace in her hand. She started at the sight of me 
as if she had beheld a ghost: the maid screamed, and ran to a door at the 
farther end of the room, to make her escape, but that was bolted. Lady Glenthorn 
was pale and motionless, till I approached, and then recollecting herself, she 
reddened all over, and thrust the letters into her table drawer. Her woman, at 
the same instant, snatched a casket of jewels, swept up in her arms a heap of 
clothes, and huddled them altogether into the half-packed trunk. 
"Leave the room," said I to her stemly. She locked the trunk, pocketed the key, 
and obeyed. 
I placed a chair for Lady Glenthorn, and sat down myself. We were almost equally 
unable to stand. We were silent for some moments. Her eyes were fixed upon the 
ground, and she leaned her head upon her hand in an attitude of despair. I could 
scarcely articulate, but making an effort to command my voice, I at last said——— 
"Lady Glenthorn, I blame myself more than you for all that has happened." 
"For what?" said she, making a feeble attempt at evasion, yet at the same time 
casting a guilty look towards the drawer of letters. 
"You have nothing to conceal from me," said I. 
———"Nothing," said she, in a feeble voice. 
"Nothing!" said I, "for I know every thing"———She started———"and am willing to 
pardon every thing." 
She looked up in my face astonished. "I am conscious," continued I, "that you 
have not been well treated by me. You have had much reason to complain of my 
neglect. To this I attribute your errour.———Forget the past ———I will set you 
the example.———Promise me never to see the man more, and what has happened shall 
never be known to the world." 
She made me no answer, but burst into a flood of tears. She seemed incapable of 
decision, or even of thought. I felt suddenly inspired with energy. 
"Write this moment," continued I, placing a pen and ink before her,———"write to 
forbid him ever to return to this house, or even more to appear in your 
presence. If he appears in mine, I know how to chastise him, and to vindicate my 
own honour. To preserve, your reputation, I refrain, upon these conditions, from 
making my contempt of him public." 
I put a pen into Lady Glenthorn's hand; but she trembled so that she could not 
write. She made several ineffectual attempts, then tore the paper, and again 
giving way to tears, exclaim'd——— "I cannot write———I cannot think———I do not 
know what to say. Write what you will, and I will sign it." 
"I write to Captain Crawley! Write what I will!" "Lady Glenthorn, it must be 
your will to write, not mine. If it be not your will, say so." 
"Oh! I do not say so———I do not say that. Give me a moment's time. I do not know 
what I say. I have been very foolish———very wicked. You are very good———but it 
is too late: it will all be known. Crawley will betray me; he will tell it to 
Mrs. Mattocks: so whichever way I turn I am undone.———Oh! what will become of 
me?" 
She wrung her hands and wept, and was for an hour in this state, in all the 
indecision and imbecility of a child. At last she wrote a few scarcely legible 
lines to Crawley, forbidding him to see or think of her more. I dispatched the 
note, and she was full of penitence, and gratitude, and tears. The next morning, 
when I wakened, I in my turn received a note from her ladyship. 
"Since I saw you, Captain Crawley has convinced me, that I am his wife, in the 
eye of Heaven, and I therefore desire a divorce, as much as your whole conduct, 
since my marriage, convinces me you must in your heart, whatever may be your 
motives to pretend otherwise. Before you receive this I shall be out of your 
way, and beyond your reach; so do not think of pursuing one who is no longer 
"Yours. 
"A. Crawley." 
After reading this note, I thought not of pursuing or saving Lady Glenthorn. I 
was as anxious for a divorce as she could be. ———Some months afterwards the 
affair was brought to a public trial. When the cause came on, so many 
circumstances were brought in mitigation of damages, to prove my utter 
carelessness respecting my wife's conduct, that a suspicion of collusion arose. 
From this imputation I was clear in the opinion of all who really knew me, and I 
repelled the charge publicly, with a degree of indignation that surprised all 
who knew the usual apathy of my temper. I must observe, that during the whole 
time my divorce bill was pending, and whilst I was in the greatest possible 
anxiety, my health was perfectly good. But no sooner was the affair settled, and 
a decision made in my favour, than I relapsed into my old nervous complaints. 
Illness was a sort of occupation to me, and I was always sorry to get well. When 
the interest of being in danger ceased, I had no other to supply its place. I 
fancied that I should enjoy my liberty after my divorce; but "even freedom grew 
tasteless." I do not recollect anything that wakened me from my torpor, during 
two months after my divorce, except a violent quarrel between all my English 
servants and my Irish nurse. Whether she assumed too much, upon the idea that 
she was a favourite, or whether national prejudice was alone the cause of the 
hatred that prevailed against her, I know not; but they one and all declared, 
that they could not, and would not, live with her. She expressed the same 
dislike to consorting with them; "but would put up with worse, aye, with the 
devils themselves, to oblige my honour, and to lie under the same roof wid my 
honour." 
The rest of the servants laughed at her blunders. This she could bear with good 
humour; but when they seriously affected to reproach her with having, by her 
uncouth appearance at her first presenting herself at Sherwood Park, endangered 
my life, she retorted. 
"And who cared for him in the wide world but I, amongst you all, when he lay for 
dead? I ask you that," said she. 
To this there was no reply; and they hated her the more for their having been 
silenced by her shrewdness. I protected her as long as I could; but, for the 
sake of peace, I at last yielded to the combined forces of the steward's room 
and the servants' hall, and dispatched Ellinor to Ireland, with a renewal of the 
promise, that I would visit Glenthorn castle this year or the next. To comfort 
her at parting, I would have made her a considerable present; but she would take 
only a few guineas, to bear her expenses back to her native place. The sacrifice 
I made did not procure me a peace of any continuance in my own house; ruined by 
indulgence, and by my indolent, reckless temper, my servants were now my 
masters. In a large, ill-regulated establishment, domestics become, like spoiled 
children, discontented, capricious, and the tyrants over those who have not the 
sense or steadiness to command. I remember one delicate puppy parted with me, 
because, as he informed me, the curtains of his bed did not close at the foot; 
he had never been used to such a thing, and had told the housekeeper so three 
times, but could obtain no redress, which necessitated him to beg my permission 
to retire from the service. 
In his stead another coxcomb came to offer himself, who, with an incomparably 
easy air, begged to know whether I wanted a man of figure or a man of parts? For 
the benefit of those to whom this fashionable classification of domestics may 
not be familiar, I should observe, that the department of a man of figure is 
specially and solely to announce company on gala days; the business of the man 
of parts is multifarious: to write cards of invitation, to speak to impertinent 
tradesmen, to carry confidential messages, et cetera. Now, where there is an et 
cetera in an agreement, there is always an opening for dispute. The functions of 
the man of parts not being accurately defined, I unluckily required from him 
some service, which was not in his bond: I believe it was to go for my pocket 
handkerchief ———"He could not possibly do it, because it was not his business;" 
and I, the laziest of mortals, after waiting a full quarter of an hour, whilst 
they were settling whose business it was to obey me, was forced to get up and go 
for what I wanted. I comforted myself by the recollection of the poor king of 
Spain and the brazier. With a regal precedent I could not but be satisfied. All 
great people, said I to myself, are obliged to submit to these inconveniences. I 
submitted with so good a grace, that my submission was scarcely felt to be a 
condescension. My bachelor's house soon exhibited, in perfection, "High Life 
below Stairs." 
It is said, that a foreign nobleman permitted his servants to take their own way 
so completely, that one night he and his guests being kept waiting an 
unconscionable time for supper, he at last went down stairs to inquire into the 
cause of the delay: he found the servant, whose business it was to take up 
supper, quietly at cards with a large party of his friends. The man coolly 
remonstrated, that it was impossible to leave his game unfinished. The master 
candidly acknowledged the force of the plea; but insisted upon the man's going 
up stairs to lay the cloth for supper, whilst he took his cards, sat down, and 
finished the game for him. 
The suavity of my temper never absolutely reached this degree of complaisance. 
My home was disagreeable to me: I had not the resolution to remove the causes of 
the discontents. Every day I swore I would part with all these rascals the next 
morning; but still they staid. Abroad I was not happier than at home. I was 
disgusted with my former companions; they had convinced me, the night of my 
accident at Sherwood Park, that they cared not whether I was alive or dead: and 
ever since that time I had been more and more struck with their selfishness, as 
well as folly. It was inexpressibly fatiguing and irksome to me to keep up a 
show of good fellowship and joviality with these people, though I had not 
sufficient energy to make the attempt to quit them. When these dashers and 
loungers found that I was not always at their disposal, they discovered that 
Glenthorn had always something odd about him; that Glenthorn had always had a 
melancholy turn; that it ran in the family, Satisfied with these phrases, they 
let me take my own way, and forgot my existence. Public amusements had lost 
their charm; I had sufficient steadiness to resist the temptation to game: but, 
for want of stimulus, I could hardly endure the tedium of my days. At this 
period of my life, ennui was very near turning into misanthropy. I balanced 
between becoming a misanthrope and a democrat. 
Whilst I was in this critical state of ineptitude, my attention was accidentally 
roused by the sight of a boxing match. My feelings were so much excited, and the 
excitation was so delightful, that I was now in danger of becoming an amateur of 
the pugilistic art. It did not occur to me, that it was beneath the dignity of a 
British nobleman, to learn the vulgar terms of the boxing trade. I soon began to 
talk very knowingly of first rate bruisers, game men, and pleasing fighters, 
making play———beating a man under the ropes———sparring 
———rallying———sawing———and chopping. What farther proficiency I might have made 
in this language, or how long my interest in these feats of prize-fighters might 
have continued, had I been left to myself, I cannot determine; but I was 
unexpectedly seized with a fit of national shame, on hearing a foreigner of rank 
and reputation express astonishment at our taste for these savage spectacles. It 
was in vain that I repeated the arguments of some of the parliamentary 
panegyrists of boxing and bull-baiting; and asserted, that these diversions 
render a people hardy and courageous. My opponent replied, that he did not 
perceive the necessary connexion between cruelty and courage; that he did not 
comprehend how the standing by in safety to see two men bruise each other almost 
to death could evince or inspire heroic sentiments or warlike dispositions. He 
observed, that the Romans were most eager for the fights of gladiators during 
the reigns of the most effeminate and cruel emperors, and in the decline of all 
public spirit and virtue. These arguments would have probably made but a feeble 
impression on an understanding like mine; unaccustomed to general reasoning, and 
on a temper habituated to pursue, without thought of consequences, my immediate 
individual gratification; but it happened that my feelings were touched at this 
time by the dreadful sufferings of one of the pugilistic combatants. He died a 
few hours after the battle. He was an Irishman: most of the spectators being 
English, and triumphing in the victory of their countryman, the poor fellow's 
fate was scarcely noticed. I spoke to him a little while before he died, and 
found that he came from my own county. His name was Michael Noonan. He made it 
his dying request, that I would carry half a guinea, the only money he 
possessed, to his aged father, and a silk handkerchief he had worn round his 
neck to his sister. Pity for this unfortunate Irishman recalled Ireland to my 
thoughts. Many small reasons concurred to make me now desirous of going to that 
country. I should get rid at once of a tormenting establishment, and of 
servants, without the odium of turning them away; for they all declined going 
into banishment, as they called it. Beside this, I should leave my companions, 
with whom I was disgusted. I was tired of England, and wanted to see something 
new, even if it were to be worse than what I had seen before. These were not my 
ostensible reasons: I professed to have more exalted motives for my journey. It 
was my duty, I said, to visit my Irish estate, and to encourage my tenantry, by 
residing some time among them. Duties often spring up to our view at a 
convenient opportunity. Then my promise to poor Ellinor. It was impossible for a 
man of honour to break a promise, even to an old woman. In short, when people 
are determined upon any action, they seldom fail to find arguments capable of 
convincing them, that their resolution is reasonable. Mixed motives govern the 
conduct of half mankind; so I set out upon my journey to Ireland. 
CHAPTER III. 
I was detained six days by contrary winds at Holyhead; sick of that miserable 
place, in my ill humour I cursed Ireland, and twice resolved to return to 
London: but the wind changed, my carriage was on board the packet, so I sailed, 
and landed safely in Dublin. I was surprised by the excellence of the hotel at 
which I was lodged. I had not conceived, that such excellent accommodation could 
have been found in Dublin. The house had, as I was told, belonged to a nobleman: 
it was fitted up and appointed with a degree of elegance, and even magnificence, 
beyond what I had been used to in the most fashionable hotels in London. 
"Ah! sir," said an Irish gentleman, who found me in admiration upon the 
staircase, "this is all very good, very fine, but it is too good and too fine to 
last; come here again in two years, and I am afraid you will see all this going 
to rack and ruin. This is too often the case with us in Ireland; we can project, 
but we can't calculate: we must have every thing upon too large a scale. We 
mistake a grand beginning for a good beginning. We begin like princes, and we 
end like beggars." 
I rested only a few days in a capital, in which, I took it for granted, there 
could be nothing worth seeing by a person who was just come from London. In 
driving through the streets, I was however surprised to see buildings, which my 
prejudices could scarcely believe to be Irish. I also saw some things, which 
recalled to my mind the observations I had heard at my hotel. I was struck with 
instances of grand beginnings and lamentable want of finish, with mixtures of 
the magnificent and the paltry; of admirable and execrable taste: some which 
reminded me of the Elector of Brandenburgh's gilt coach [Note: The gate of 
Brandenburgh-house, in Berlin, built in the model of the Athenian Propyleum.], 
stuck up over one of the finest modern imitations of Grecian architecture. 
Though my understanding was wholly uncultivated, these things struck my eye. Of 
all the faculties of my mind, my taste had been most exercised, because its 
exercise had given me least trouble. 
Impatient to see my own castle, I left Dublin. I was again astonished by the 
beauty of the prospects, and the excellence of the roads. I had in my ignorance 
believed, that I was never to see a tree in Ireland, and that the roads were 
almost impassable. With the promptitude of credulity, I now went from one 
extreme to the other: I concluded that we should travel with the same celerity 
as upon the Bath road; and I expected, that a journey for which four days had 
been allotted might be performed in two. Like all those who have nothing to do 
any where, I was always in a prodigious hurry to get from place to place; and I 
ever had a noble ambition to go over as much ground as possible in a given space 
of time. I travelled in a light barouche, and with my own horses. My own man, an 
Englishman, and my cook, a Frenchman, followed in a hackney chaise; I cared not 
how, so that they kept up with me; the rest was their affair. At night, my 
gentleman complained bitterly of the Irish post carriages, and besought me to 
let him follow at an easier rate the next day; but to this I could by no means 
consent: for how could I exist without my own man and my French cook? In the 
morning, just as I was ready to set off, and had thrown myself back in my 
carriage, my Englishman and Frenchman came to the door, both in so great a rage, 
that the one was inarticulate, and the other unintelligible. At length the 
object of their indignation spoke for itself. From the inn yard came a hackney 
chaise, in a most deplorably crazy state; the body mounted up to a prodigious 
height, on unbending springs, nodding forwards, one door swinging open, three 
blinds up, because they could not be let down, the perch tied in two places, the 
iron of the wheels half off, half loose, wooden pegs for linch-pins, and ropes 
for harness. The horses were worthy of the harness; wretched little dog-tired 
creatures, that looked as if they had been driven to the last gasp, and as if 
they had never been rubbed down in their lives; their bones starting through 
their skin; one lame, the other blind; one with a raw back, the other with a 
galled breast; one with his neck poking down over his collar, and the other with 
his head dragged forward by a bit of a broken bridle, held at arms' length by a 
man dressed like a mad beggar, in half a hat and half a wig, both awry in 
opposite directions; a long tattered great coat, tied round his waist by a 
hay-rope; the jagged rents in the skirts of this coat showing his bare legs, 
marbled of many colours; while something like stockings hung loose about his 
ankles. The noises he made, by way of threatening or encouraging his steeds, I 
pretend not to describe. 
In an indignant voice I called to the landlord ———"I hope these are not the 
horses———I hope this is not the chaise, intended for my servants." 
The innkeeper, and the pauper who was preparing to officiate as postillion, both 
in the same instant exclaimed——— 
"Sorrow better chaise in the county!" 
"Sorrow!" said I———"what do you mean by sorrow?"

"That there's no better, plase your honour, can be seen. We have two more to be 
sure———but one has no top, and the other no bottom. Any way there's no better 
can be seen than this same [Note: Verbatim.]." 
"And these horses," cried I———"why this horse is so lame he can hardly stand." 
"Oh, plase your honour, tho' he can't stand, he'll go fast enough. He has a 
great deal of the rogue in him, plase your honour. He's always that way at first 
setting out." 
"And that wretched animal with the galled breast!" 
"He's all the better for it, when once he warms; it's he that will go with the 
speed of light, plase your honour. Sure, is not he Knockecroghery? and didn't I 
give fifteen guineas for him, barring the luck penny, at the fair of 
Knockecroghery, and he rising four year old at the same time?" 
I could not avoid smiling at this speech; but my gentleman, maintaining his 
angry gravity, declared, in a sullen tone, that he would be cursed if he went 
with such horses; and the Frenchman, with abundance of gesticulation, made a 
prodigious chattering, which no mortal understood. 
"Then I'll tell you what you'll do," said Paddy; "you'll take four, as becomes 
gentlemen of your quality, and you'll see how we'll powder along." 
And straight he put the knuckle of his fore-finger in his mouth, and whistled 
shrill and strong; and, in a moment, a whistle somewhere out in the fields 
answered him. 
I protested against these proceedings, but in vain; before the first pair of 
horses were fastened to the chaise, up came a little boy with the others fresh 
from the plough. They were quick enough in putting these to; yet how they 
managed it with their tackle, I know not. "Now we're fixed handsomely," said 
Paddy. 
"But this chaise will break down the first mile." 
"Is it this chaise, plase your honour? I'll engage it will go the world's end. 
The universe wouldn't break it down now; sure it was mended but last night." 
Then seizing his whip and reins in one hand, he clawed up his stockings with the 
other; so with one easy step he got into his place, and seated himself, 
coachman-like, upon a well-worn bar of wood, that served as a coach-box. "Throw 
me the loan of a trusty Bartly, for a cushion," said he. A frieze coat was 
thrown up over the horse's heads——— Paddy caught it. "Where are you, Hosey," 
cried he. "Sure I'm only rowling a wisp of straw on my leg," replied Hosey. 
"Throw me up," added this paragon of postillions, turning to one of the crowd of 
idle by-standers. "Arrah, push me up, can't ye?" 
A man took hold of his knee, and threw him upon the horse; he was in his seat in 
a trice; then clinging by the mane of his horse, he scrambled for the bridle 
which was under the other horse's feet———reached it, and well satisfied with 
himself, looked round at Paddy, who looked back to the chaise door at my angry 
servants, "secure in the last event of things." In vain the Englishman in 
monotonous anger, and the Frenchman in every note of the gamut, abused Paddy; 
necessity and wit were on Paddy's side: he parried all that was said against his 
chaise, his horses, himself, and his country, with invincible comic dexterity, 
till at last both his adversaries, dumb-founded, clambered into the vehicle, 
where they were instantly shut up in straw and darkness. Paddy, in a triumphant 
tone, called to my postillions, bidding them "get on, and not be stopping the 
way any longer." 
Without uttering a syllable, they drove on; but they could not, nor could I 
refrain from looking back to see how these fellows would manage. We saw the 
fore-horses make towards the right, then to the left, and every way but straight 
forwards; whilst Paddy bawled to Hosey———"Keep the middle of the road, can't ye? 
I don't want ye to draw a pound at all." 
At last, by dint of whipping, the four horses were compelled to set off in a 
lame gallop; but they stopped short at a hill near the end of the town, whilst a 
shouting troop of ragged boys followed, and pushed them fairly to the top. Half 
an hour afterwards, as we were putting on our drag-chain to go down another 
steep hill, to my utter astonishment, Paddy, with his horses in full gallop, 
came rattling and chehupping past us. My people called to warn him that he had 
no drag, but still he cried———"Never fear!"——— and shaking the long reins, and 
stamping with his foot, on he went thundering down the hill. My Englishmen were 
aghast. 
"The turn yonder below, at the bottom of the hill, is as sharp and ugly as ever 
I see," said my postillion, after a moment's stupified silence. "He will break 
their necks, as sure as my name is John." 
Quite the contrary; when we had dragged and undragged, and came up with Paddy, 
we found him safe on his legs, mending some of his tackle very quietly. 
"If that breeching had broke as you were going down the steep hill," said I, "it 
would have been all over with you, Paddy." 
"That's true, plase your honour; but it never happened me going down hill———nor 
never will, by the blessing of God, if I've any luck." 
With this mixed confidence in a special providence, and in his own good luck, 
Paddy went on, much to my amusement. It was this glory to keep before us, and he 
rattled on till he came to a narrow part of the road, where they were rebuilding 
a bridge. Here there was a dead stop. Paddy lashed his horses, and called them 
all manner of names; but the wheel horse, Knockecroghery, was restive, and at 
last began to kick most furiously. It seemed inevitable that the first kick 
which should reach the splinter bar, at which it was aimed, must demolish it 
instantly. My English gentleman and my Frenchman both put their heads out of the 
only window which was pervious, and called most manfully to be let out. "Never 
fear," said Paddy. To open the door for themselves, was beyond their force or 
skill. One of the hind wheels, which had belonged to another carriage, was too 
high to suffer the door to be opened, and the blind at the other side prevented 
their attempts, so they were close prisoners. The men who had been at work on 
the broken bridge came forward, and rested on their spades to see the battle. As 
my carriage could not pass, I also was compelled to be a spectator of this 
contest between man and horse. 
"Never fear," reiterated Paddy; "I'll engage I'll be up wid him. Now for it 
Knockecroghery! Oh the rogue, he thinks he has me at a nonplush, but I'll show 
him the differ." 
After this brag of war, Paddy whipped, Knockecroghery kicked, and Paddy, 
seemingly unconscious of danger, sat within reach of the kicking horse, 
twitching up first one of his legs, then the other, and shifting as the animal 
aimed his hoofs, escaping every time as it were by miracle. With a mixture of 
temerity and presence of mind, which made us alternately look upon him as a 
madman and a hero, he gloried in the danger, secure of success, and of the 
sympathy of the spectators. 
"Ah! didn't I compass him cleverly then? Oh the villain, to be browbating me! 
I'm too cute for him yet. See, there now, he's come to; and I'll be his bail 
he'll go asy enough wid me. Ogh! he has a fine spirit of his own, but it's I 
that can match him; 'twould be a poor case if a man like me couldn't match a 
horse any way, let alone a mare, which this is, or it never would be so 
vicious." 
After this hard-fought battle, and suitable rejoicing for the victory, Paddy 
walked his subdued adversary on a few yards to allow us to pass him; but to the 
dismay of my postillions, a hay-rope was at this instant thrown across the road, 
before our horses, by the road-makers, who, to explain this proceeding, cried 
out, "Plase your honour, the road is so dry, we'd expect a trifle to wet it." 
"What do these fellows mean?" said I. 
"It's only a tester or a hog they want, your honour, to give 'em to drink your 
honour's health," said Paddy. 
"A hog to drink my health?" 
"Ay, that is a thirteen, plase your honour; all as one as an English shilling." 
I threw them a shilling; the hay-rope was withdrawn, and at last we went on. We 
heard no more of Paddy till evening. He came in two hours after us, and expected 
to be doubly paid for driving my honour's gentlemen so well." 
I must say that on this journey, though I met with many delays and disasters; 
though one of my horses was lamed in shoeing by a smith, who came home drunk 
from a funeral; and though the back pannel of my carriage was broken by the pole 
of a chaise; and though one day I went without my dinner at a large desolate 
inn, where nothing was to be had but whiskey; and though one night I lay in a 
little smoky den, in which the meanest of my servants in England would have 
thought it impossible to sleep; and though I complained bitterly, and swore it 
was impracticable for a gentleman to travel in Ireland; yet I never remember to 
have experienced, on any journey, less ennui. I was out of patience twenty times 
a day, but I certainly felt no ennui; and I am convinced, that the benefit some 
patients receive from a journey is in an inverse proportion to the ease and 
luxury of their mode of travelling. When they are compelled to exert their 
faculties, and to use their limbs, they forget their nerves, as I did. Upon this 
principle I should recommend to wealthy hypochondriacs a journey in Ireland, 
preferably to any country in the civilized world. I can promise them, that they 
will not only be moved to anger often enough to make their blood circulate 
briskly, but, they will even, in the acmé of their impatience, be thrown into 
salutary convulsions of laughter, by the comic concomitants of their disasters; 
besides, if they have hearts, their best feelings cannot fail to be awakened by 
the warm, generous hospitality they will receive in this country, from the cabin 
to the castle. 
Late in the evening of the fourth day, we came to an inn on the verge of the 
county where my estate was situate. It was one of the wildest parts of Ireland. 
We could find no horses, nor accommodations of any sort, and we had several 
miles farther to go. For our only comfort, the dirty landlady, who had married 
the hostler, and wore gold drop ear-rings, reminded us, that, "Sure, if we could 
but wait an hour, and take a fresh egg, we should have a fine moon." 
After many fruitless imprecations, my French cook was obliged to mount one of my 
saddle-horses; my groom was left to follow us the next day; I let my gentleman 
sit on the barouche box, and proceeded with my own tired horses. The moon, which 
my landlady had promised me, rose, and I had a full view of the face of the 
country. As we approached my maritime territories, the cottages were thinly 
scattered, and the trees had a stunted appearance; they all slanted one way, 
from the prevalent winds that blew from the ocean. Our road presently stretched 
along the beach, and I saw nothing to vary the prospect but rocks, and their 
huge shadows upon the water. The road being sandy, the feet of the horses made 
no noise, and nothing interrupted the silence of the night, but the hissing 
sound of the carriage wheels passing through the sand. 
"What o'clock is it now, think you, John?" said one of my postillions to the 
other. 
"Past twelve for sartain," said John; "and this bees a strange Irish place," 
continued he, in a drawling voice; "with no possible way o'getting at it, as I 
see." John, after a pause, resumed———"I say, Timothy, to the best of my opinion, 
this here road is leading on us into the sea." John replied, "that he did 
suppose there might be such a thing as a boat farther on, but where he could not 
say for sartain. Dismayed and helpless, they at last stopped to consult whether 
they had come the right road to the house. In the midst of their consultation 
there came up an Irish carman, whistling as he walked beside his horse and car. 
"Honest friend, is this the road to Glenthorn Castle?" 
"To Glenthorn, sure enough, your honour." 
"Whereabouts is the castle?" 
"Forenent you, if you go on to the turn." 
"Forenent you!" As the postillions pondered upon this word, the carman, leaving 
his horse and car, turned back to explain by action, what he could not make 
intelligible by words. 
"See, isn't here the castle?" cried he, darting before us to the turn of the 
road, where he stood pointing at what we could not possibly see, as it was hid 
by a promonory of rock. When we reached the spot where he was stationed, we came 
full upon the view of Glenthorn Castle; it seemed to rise from the sea, abrupt 
and insulated, in all the gloomy grandeur of ancient times, with turrets and 
battlements, and a huge gateway, the pointed arch of which receded in 
perspective between the projecting towers. 
"It's my lord himself, I'm fond to believe!" said our guide, taking off his 
hat"I had best step on and tell 'em at the castle." 
"No, my good friend, there is no occasion to trouble you farther; you had better 
go back to your horse and car, which you have left on the road." 
"Oh! they are used to that, plase your honour; they'll go on very quite, and 
I'll run like a redshank with the news to the castle." 
He ran on before us with surprising velocity, whilst our tired horses dragged us 
slowly through the sand. As we approached, the gateway of the castle opened, and 
a number of men, who appeared to be dwarfs, when compared with the height of the 
buildin, came out with torches in their hands: by their bustle, and the 
vehemence with which they bawled to one another, one might have thought that the 
whole castle was in flames; but they were only letting down a draw-bridge. As I 
was going over this bridge, a casement window opened in the castle, and a voice, 
which I knew to be old Ellinor's, exclaimed, "Mind the big hole in the middle of 
the bridge. God bless yeas!" 
I passed over the broken bridge, and through the massive gate, under an arched 
way, at the farthest end of which a lamp had just been lighted: then I came into 
a large open area, the court of the castle. The hollow sound of the horses feet 
and of the carriage rumbling over the draw-bridge was immediately succeded by 
the strange and eager voices of the people, who filled the court with variety of 
noises, contrasting, in the most striking manner with the silence, in which we 
had travelled over the sands. The great effect that my arrival instantaneously 
produced upon the multitude of servants and dependants who issued from the 
castle, gave me an idea of my own consequence beyond anything which I had ever 
felt in England. These people seemed "born for my use:" the officious 
precipitation with which they ran to and fro; the style in which they addressed 
me: some crying, "Long life to the Earl of Glenthorn!" some blessing me for 
coming to reign over them; altogether gave more the idea of vassals than of 
tenants, and carried my imagination centuries back to feudal times. 
The first person I saw on entering the hall of my castle was poor Ellinor; she 
pushed her way up to me——— "'Tis himself!" cried she. Then turning about 
suddenly, "I've seen him in his own castle———I've seen him———and if it pleases 
God this minute to take me to himself, I would die with pleasure." 
"My good Ellinor," said I, touched to the heart by her affection, "my good 
Ellinor, I hope you will live many a happy year; and if I can contribute"———"And 
himself to speak to me so kind before them all!" interrupted she. "Oh! this is 
too much———quite too much!" She burst into tears; and hiding her face with her 
arm, made her way out of the hall. 
The flights of stairs which I had to ascend, and the length of galleries through 
which I was conducted, before I reached the apartment where supper was served, 
gave me a vast idea of the extent of my castle; but I was too much fatigued to 
enjoy fully the gratifications of pride. To the simple pleasures of appetite I 
was more sensible: I ate heartily of one of the most profusely hospitable 
suppers, that ever was prepared for a noble baron, even in the days when oxen 
were roasted whole. Then I grew so sleepy, that I was impatient to be shown to 
my bed. I was ushered through another suite of chambers and galleries; and, as I 
was traversing one of these, a door of some strange dormitory opened, and a 
group of female heads were thrust out, in the midst of which I could distinguish 
old Ellinor's face; but, as I turned my head, the door closed so quickly, that I 
had no time to speak: I only heard the words ———"Blessings on him! that's he!" 
I was so sleepy, that I rejoiced having escaped an occasion where I might have 
been called upon to speak, yet I was really grateful to my poor nurse for her 
blessing. The state tower, in which, after reiterated entreaties, I was at last 
left alone to repose, was hung with magnificent, but ancient tapestry. It was so 
like a room in a haunted castle, that if I had not been too much fatigued to 
think of any thing, I should certainly have thought of Mrs. Radcliffe. I am 
sorry to say, that I have no mysteries, or even portentous omens to record of 
this night; for the moment that I lay down in my antiquated bed, I fell into a 
profound sleep. 
CHAPTER IV. 
When I awoke, I thought that I was on shipboard; for the first sound I heard was 
that of the sea booming against the castle walls. I arose, looked out of the 
window of my bed-chamber, and saw that the whole prospect bore an air of savage 
wildness. As I contemplated the scene, my imagination was seized with the idea 
of remoteness from civilized society: the melancholy feeling of solitary 
grandeur took possession of my soul. 
From this feeling I was relieved by the affectionate countenance of my old 
nurse, who at this instant put her head half in at the door. 
"I only just made bold to look in at the fire to see did it burn, because I 
lighted it myself, and would not be blowing of it for fear of wakening you." 
"Come in, Ellinor, come in," said I. "Come quite in." 
"I will, since you've nobody with you——— that I need be afraid of———" said she, 
looking round satisfied, when she saw my own man was not in the room. 
"You need never be afraid of any body, Ellinor, whilst I am alive," said I, "for 
I will always protect you. I do not forget your conduct, when you thought I was 
dead in the banquetting-room." 
"Oh! don't be talking of that: thanks be to God there was nothing in it. I see 
you well now. Long life to you. Sure you must have been tired to death last 
night, for this morning early you lay so quite, sleeping like a an angel; and I 
could see a great likeness in yees, to what you were when you were a child in my 
arms." 
"But sit down, sit down, my good Ellinor," said I, "and let us talk a little of 
your own affairs." 
"And are not these my own affairs," said she, rather angrily. 
"Certainly; but I mean, that you must tell me now you are going on in the world, 
and what I can do to make you comfortable and happy." 
"There's one thing would make me happy," said she. 
"Name it," said I. 
"To be let light your fire myself every morning, and open your shutters, dear." 
I could not help smiling at the simplicity of the request. I was going to press 
her to ask something of more consequence, but she heard a servant coming along 
the gallery, and starting from her chair, she ran and threw herself upon her 
knees before the fire, blowing it with her mouth with great vehemence. 
The servant came to let me know that Mr. M'Leod, my agent, was waiting for me in 
the breakfast-room. 
"And will I be let light your fire then every morning?" said Ellinor eagerly, 
turning as she knelt. 
"And welcome," said I. 
"Then you won't forget to speak about it for me," said she, "else may be I won't 
be let up by them English. God bless you, and don't forget to speak about it," 
said I; but I went down stairs and forgot it. 
Mr. M'Leod, whom I found reading the newspaper in the breakfast-room, seemed 
less affected by my presence than any body I had seen since my arrival. He was a 
hard-featured, strong-built, perpendicular man, with a remarkable quietness of 
deportment: he spoke with deliberate distinctness, in an acoent slightly Scotch; 
and, in speaking, he made use of no gesticulation, but held himself surprisingly 
still. No part of him, but his eyes, moved; and they had an expression of slow, 
but determined good sense. He was sparing of his words, but the few that he used 
said much, and went directly to the point. He pressed for the immediate 
examination and settlement of his accounts: he enumerated several things of 
importance, which he had done for my service; but he did this without pretending 
the slightest attachment to me; he mentioned them only as proofs of his having 
done his duty to his employer, for which he neither expected nor would accept of 
thanks. He seemed to be cold and upright in his mind as in his body. I was not 
influenced in his favour even by his striking appearance of plain dealing, so 
strong was the general abhorrence of agents, which Crawley's treachery had left 
in my mind. The excess of credulity, when convinced of its errour, becomes the 
extreme of suspicion. Persons not habituated to reason often argue absurdly, 
because, from particular instances, they deduce general conclusions, and extend 
the result of their limited experience of individuals indiscriminately to whole 
classes. The labour of thinking was so great to me, that having once come to a 
conclusion upon any subject, I would rather persist in it, right or wrong, than 
be at the trouble of going over the process again, to revise and rectify my 
judgement. 
Upon this occasion national prejudice heightened the prepossession, which 
circumstances had raised. Mr. M'Leod was not only an agent, but a Scotchman; and 
I had a notion that all Scotchmen were crafty: therefore I concluded, that his 
blunt manner was assumed, and his plain dealing but a more refined species of 
policy. 
After breakfast, he laid before me a general statement of my affairs; obliged me 
to name a day for the examination of his accounts; and then, without expressing 
either mortification or displeasure at the coldness of my behaviour, or at my 
evident impatience of his presence, he, unmoved of spirit, rang for his horse, 
wished me a good morning, and departed. 
By this time my castle-yard was filled with a crowd of "great-coated suitors," 
who were all come to see———could they see my lordship? or waiting just to say 
two words to my honour. In various lounging attitudes, leaning against the 
walls, or pacing backwards and forwards before the window, to catch my eye, 
they, with a patience passing the patience of courtiers, waited, hour after 
hour, the live-long day, for their turn, or their chance of an audience. I had 
promised myself the pleasure of viewing my castle this day, and of taking a ride 
through my demesne, but that was totally out of the question. I was no longer a 
man with a will of my own, or with time at my own disposal. 
"Long may you live to reign over us!" was the signal, that I was now to live, 
like a prince, only for the service of my subjects. How these subjects of mine 
had contrived to go on for so many years in my absence, I was at a loss to 
conceive; for, the moment I was present, it seemed evident that they could not 
exist without me. 
One had a wife and six childer, and not a spot in the wide world to live in, if 
my honour did not let him live under me, in any bit of a skirt of the estate 
that would feed a cow. 
Another had a brother in jail, who could not be got out without me. 
Another had three lives dropped in a lase for ever; another wanted a renewal; 
another a farm; another a house; and one expected my lard would make his son an 
exciseman; and another that I would make him a policeman; and another was 
racked, if I did not settle the mearing between him and Corny Corkran; and half 
a hundred had given in proposials to the agent for lands that would be out next 
May; and half a hundred more came with legends of traditionary promises from the 
old lord, my lordship's father that was: and for hours I was forced to listen to 
long stories out of the face, in which there was such a perplexing and provoking 
mixture of truth and fiction, involved in language so figurative, and tones so 
new to my English ears, that, with my utmost patience and strained attention, I 
could comprehend but a very small portion of what was said to me. 
Never were my ears so weary any day of my life as they were this day. I could 
not have endured the fatigue, if I had not been supported by the agreeable idea 
of my own power and consequence; a power seemingly next to despotic. This new 
stimulus sustained me for three days that I was kept a state prisoner in my own 
castle, by the crowds who came to do me homage, and to claim my favour and 
protection. In vain every morning was my horse led about saddled and bridled: I 
never was permitted to mount. On the fourth morning, when I felt sure of having 
dispatched all my tormentors, I was in astonishment and despair on seeing my 
levee crowded with a fresh succession of petitioners. I gave orders to my people 
to say that I was going out, and absolutely could see nobody. I supposed that 
they did not understand what my English servants said, for they never stirred 
from their posts. On receiving a second message, they acknowledged that they 
understood the first; but replied, that they could wait there till my honour 
came back from my ride. With difficulty I mounted my horse, and escaped from the 
closing ranks of my persecutors. At night I gave directions to have the gates 
kept shut, and ordered the porter not to admit any body at his peril. When I got 
up, I was delighted to see the coast clear; but the moment I went out, lo! at 
the outside of the gate, the host of besiegers were posted, and in my lawn, and 
along the road, and through the fields, they pursued me; and when I forbade them 
to speak to me when I was on horseback, the next day I found parties in 
ambuscade, who laid wait for me in silence, with their hats off, bowing and 
bowing, till I could not refrain from saying, "Well, my good friend, what do you 
stand bowing there for?" Then I was fairly prisoner, and held by the bridle for 
an hour. 
In short, I found that I was now placed in a situation, where I could hope 
neither for privacy nor leisure; but I had the joys of power: my rising passion 
for which would certainly have been extinguished in a short time by my habitual 
indolence, if it had not been kept alive by jealousy of Mr. M'Leod. 
One day, when I refused to hear an importunate tenant, and declared that I had 
been persecuted with petitioners ever since my arrival, and that I was 
absolutely tired to death, the man answered———"True, for ye, my lard; and it's a 
shame to be troubling you this way. Then, may be it's to Mr. M'Leod I'll go? 
Sure the agent will do as well, and no more about it. Mr. M'Leod will do every 
thing the same way as usual." 
"Mr. M'Leod will do every thing!" said I hastily: "no, by no means." 
"Who will we speak to then?" said the man. 
"To myself," said I, with as haughty a tone as Lewis XIV could have assumed, 
when he announced to his court his resolution to be his own minister. After this 
intrepid declaration to act for myself, I could not yield to my habitual 
laziness. So much had my pride been hurt, as well as my other feelings, by 
Captain Crawley's conduct, that I determined to show the world I was not to be 
duped a second time by an agent. 
When, on the day appointed, Mr. M'Leod came to settle accounts with me, I, with 
an air of self-important capability, as if I had been all my life used to look 
into my own affairs, sat down to inspect the papers; and, incredible as it may 
appear, I went through the whole at a sitting, without a single yawn; and, for a 
man, who never before had looked into an account, I understood the nature of 
debtor and creditor wonderfully well: but, with my utmost desire to evince my 
arithmetical sagacity, I could not detect the slightest errour in the accounts; 
and it was evident, that Mr. M'Leod was not Captain Crawley; yet, rather than 
believe that he could be both an agent and an honest man, I concluded, that if 
he did not cheat me out of money, his aim was to cheat me out of power; and 
fancying that he wished to be a man of influence and consequence in the county, 
I transferred to him instantly the feelings that were passing in my own mind, 
and took it for granted, that he must be actuated by a love of power in every 
thing that he did apparently for my service. 
About this time I remember being much disturbed in my mind, by a letter which 
Mr. M'Leod received in my presence, and of which he read to me only a part: I 
never rested till I saw the whole. The epistle proved well worth the trouble of 
deciphering: it related merely to the paving of my chicken-yard. Like the King 
of Prussia [Note: Mirabeau———Secret Memoirs.], who was said to be so jealous of 
power, that he wanted to regulate all the mouse-traps in his dominions, I soon 
engrossed the management of a perplexing multiplicity of minute insignificant 
details. Alas! I discovered, to my cost, that trouble is the inseparable 
attendant upon power: and many times, in the course of the first ten days of my 
reign, I was ready to give up my dignity from excessive fatigue. 
CHAPTER V. 
Early one morning, after having passed a feverish night, tortured in my dreams 
by the voices and faces of the people who had surrounded me the preceeding day, 
I was wakened by the noise of somebody lighting my fire. I thought it was 
Ellinor, and the idea of the disinterested affection of this poor woman came 
full into my mind, contrasted in the strongest manner with the recollection of 
the selfish encroaching people by whom, of late, I had been worried. 
"How do you do, my good Ellinor?" said I; "I have not seen any thing of you this 
week past." 
"It's not Ellinor at all, my lord," said a new voice. 
"And why so? Why does not Ellinor light my fire?" 
"Myself does not know, my lard." 
"Go for her directly." 
"She's gone home these three days, my lard." 
"Gone! is she sick?" 
"Not as I know on, my lard. Myself does not know what ailed her, except she 
would be jealous of my lighting the fire. But I can't say what ailed her; for 
she went away without a word good or bad, when she seen me lighting this fire, 
which I did by the housekeeper's orders." 
I now recollected poor Ellinor's request, and reproached myself for having 
neglected to fulfil my promise, upon an affair which, however trifling in 
itself, appeared of consequence to her. In the course of my morning's ride I 
determined to call upon her at her own house, and make my apologies: but first I 
satisfied my curiosity about a prodigious number of parks and towns which I had 
heard of upon my estate. Many a ragged man had come to me, with the modest 
request that I would let him one of the parks near the town. The horse-park, the 
deer-park, and the cow-park, were not quite sufficient to answer the ideas I had 
attached to the word park: but I was quite astonished and mortified when I 
beheld the bits and corners of land near the town of Glenthorn, on which these 
high-sounding titles had been bestowed:———just what would feed a cow is 
sufficient in Ireland to constitute a park. 
When I heard the names of above a hundred towns on the Glenthorn estate, I had 
an exalted idea of my own territories; and I was impatient to make a progress 
through my dominions: but, upon visiting a few of these places, my curiosity was 
satisfied. Two or three cabins gathered together were sufficient to constitute a 
town, and the land adjoining thereto is called a town-land. The denominations of 
these town-lands having continued from generation to generation, according to 
ancient surveys of Ireland, it is sufficient to show the boundaries of a 
town-land, to prove that there must be a town, and a tradition of a town 
continues to be satisfactory, even when only a single cabin remains. I turned my 
horse's head away in disgust from one of these traditionary towns, and desired a 
boy to show me the way to Ellinor O'Donoghoe's house. 
"So I will, plase your honour, my lard; sure I've a right to know, for she's my 
own mother." 
The boy, or, as he was called, the gossoon, ran across some fields where there 
was abundance of fern and of rabbits. The rabbits, sitting quietly at the 
entrance of their holes, seemed to consider themselves as proprietors of the 
soil, and me and my horse as intruders. The boy apologized for the number of 
rabbit holes on this part of the estate: "It would not be so, my lard, if I had 
a gun allowed me by the gamekeeper, which he would give me, if he knew it would 
be plasing to your honour." The ingenuity, with which even the young boys can 
introduce their requests in a favourable moment, sometimes provoked me, and 
sometimes excited my admiration. This boy made his just at the time he was 
rolling out of my way a car that stopped a gap in the hedge, and he was so hot 
and out of breath with running in my service, that I could not refuse him a 
token to the game keeper that he might get a gun as soon as I understood what it 
meant. 
We came to Ellinor's house, a wretched-looking, low, mud-walled cabin; at one 
end it was propped by a buttress of loose stones, upon which stood a goat reared 
on his hind legs, to browze on the grass that grew on the housetop. A dunghill 
was before the only window, at the other end of the house, and close to the door 
was a puddle of the dirtlest of dirty water, in which ducks were dabbling. At my 
approach there came out of the cabin, a pig, a calf, a lamb, a kid, and two 
geese, all with their legs tied; followed by cocks, hens, chickens, a dog, a 
cat, a kitten, a beggar-man, a beggar-woman, with a pipe in her mouth; children 
innumerable, and a stout girl, with a pitchfork in her hand; altogether more 
than I, looking down upon the roof as I sat on horseback, and measuring the 
superficies with my eye, could have possibly supposed the mansion capable of 
containing. I asked if Ellinor O'Donoghoe was at home; but the dog barked, the 
geese cackled, the turkeys gobbled, and the beggars begged with one accord, so 
loudly, that there was no chance of my being heard. When the girl had at last 
succeeded in appeasing them all with her pitchfork, she answered, that Ellinor 
O'Donoghoe was at home, but that she was out with the potatoes; and she ran to 
fetch her, after calling to the boys, who was within in the room smoking, to 
come out to his honour. As soon as they had crouched under the door, and were 
able to stand upright, they welcomed me with a very good grace, and were proud 
to see me in the kingdom. I asked if they were all Ellinor's sons. 
"All entirely," was the first answer. 
"Not one but one," was the second answer. The third made the other two 
intelligible. 
"Plase your honour, we are all her sons-in-law, except myself, who am her lawful 
son." 
"Then you are my foster-brother." 
"No, plase your honour, it's not me, but my brother, and he's not in it. 
"Not in it?" 
"No," plase your honour, "becaase he's in the forge up above. Sure he's the 
blacksmith, my lard." 
"And what are you?" 
"I'm Ody, plase your honour;" the short for Owen. 
"And what is your trade?" 
"Trade, plase your honour, I was bred to none, more than another; but expects, 
only that my mother's not willing to part me, to go into the militia next month; 
and I'm sure she'd let me, if your honour's lordship would spake a word to the 
colonel, to see to get me made a sergeant immadiately." 
As Ody made his request, all his companions came forward in sign of sympathy, 
and closed round my horse's head to make me sinsible of their expectations; but 
at this instant Ellinor came up, her old face colouring all over with joy when 
she saw me. 
"So, Ellinor," said I, "you were affronted, I hear, and left the eastle in 
anger?" 
"In anger! And if I did, more shame for me———but anger does not last long with 
me any way; and against you, my lord, dear how could it? Oh, think how good he 
is, coming to see me in such a poor place!" 
"I will make it a better place for you, Ellinor," said I. Far from being eager 
to obtain promises, she still replied, that "all was good enough for her." I 
desired that she would come and live with me at the castle, till a better house 
than her present habitation could be built for her; but she seemed to prefer 
this hovel. I assured her that she should be permitted to light my fire. 
"Oh it's better for me not!" said she; "better keep out of the way. I could not 
be asy if I got any one ill-will." 
I assured her that she should be at liberty to do just as she liked, and whilst 
I rode home I was planning a pretty cottage for her near the porter's gate. I 
was pleased with myself for my gratitude to this poor woman. Before I slept, I 
actually wrote a letter, which obtained for Ody the honour of being made a 
sergeant in the———militia; and Ellinor, dazzled by this military glory, was 
satisfied that he should leave home, though he was her favourite. 
"Well, let him leave me then," said she; "I won't stand in his light. I never 
thought of my living to see Ody a sergeant. Now Ody, have done being wild, 
honey-dear, and be a credit to your family, and to his honour's 
commendation———God bless him for ever for it! From the very first I knew it was 
he than had the kind heart." 
I am not sure, that it was a very good action to get a man made a sergeant, of 
whom I knew nothing, but that he was my foster brother. Self-complacency, 
however, cherished my first indistinct feelings of benevolence Though not much 
accustomed to reflect upon my own sensations, I think I remember, at this 
period, suspecting that the feeling of benevolence is a greater pleasure than 
the possession of barouches, and horses, and castles, and parks———greater even 
than the possession of power. Of this last truth, however, I had not as yet a 
perfectly clear conception. Even in my benevolence I was as impatient and 
unreasonable as a child. Money, I thought, had the power of Aladdin's lamp, to 
procure with magical celerity the gratification of my wishes. I expected that a 
cottage for Ellinor should rise out of the earth at my command. But the slaves 
of Aladdin's lamp were not Irishmen. The delays, and difficulties, and blunders, 
in the execution of my orders, provoked me beyond measure; and it would have 
been difficult for a cool spectator to decide, whether I or my workmen were most 
in fault; they for their dilatory habits, or I for my impatient temper. 
"Well, plase your honour, when the pratees are set, and the turf cut, we'll 
fall-to at Ellinor's house." 
"Confound the potatoes and the turf! you must fall-to, as you call it, 
directly." 
"Is it without the lime, and plase your honour? Sure that same is not drawn yet, 
nor the stones quarried, since it is of stone it will be———nor the foundations 
itself dug, and the horses were all putting out dung." 
Then after the bog and the potatoes came funerals and holidays innumerable. The 
masons were idle one week waiting for the mortar, and the mortar another week 
waiting for the stones, and then they were at a stand for the carpenter when 
they came to the door-case, and the carpenter was looking for the sawyer, and 
the sawyer was gone to have the saw mended. Then there was a stop again at the 
window-sills for the stone-cutter, and he was at the quarter sessions, 
processing his brother for tin and tinpence, hay-money. And when, in spite of 
all delays and obstacles, the walls reached their destined height, the roof was 
a new plague; the carpenter, the slater, and the nailer, were all at variance, 
and I cannot tell which was the most provoking rogue of the three. At last, 
however, the house was roofed and slated: then I would not wait till the walls 
were dry before I plastered and papered and furnished it. I fitted it up in the 
most elegant style of English cottages, for I was determined that Ellinor's 
habitation should be such as had never been seen in this part of the world. The 
day when it was finished, and when I gave possession of it to Ellinor, paid me 
for all my trouble; I tasted a species of pleasure that was new to me, and which 
was the sweeter from having been earned with some difficulty. And now, when I 
saw a vast number of my tenants assembled at a rural feast, which I gave on 
Ellinor's installation, my benevolence enlarged, even beyond the possibility of 
its gratification, and I wished to make all my dependants happy, provided I 
could accomplish it without much trouble. The method of doing good, which seemed 
to require the least exertion, and which I, therefore, most willingly practised, 
was giving away money. I did not wait to inquire, much less to examine, into the 
merits of the claimants; but, without selecting proper objects, I relieved 
myself from the uneasy feeling of pity, by indiscriminate donations to objects 
apparently the most miserable. 
I was quite angry with Mr. M'Leod, my agent; and considered him as a selfish, 
hardhearted miser, because he did not seem to sympathize with me, or to applaud 
my generosity. I was so much irritated by his cold silence, that I could not 
forbear pressing him to say something. 
"I doubt, then," said he, "since you desire me to speak my mind, my lord, I 
doubt whether the best way of encouraging the industrious, is to give premiums 
to the idle." 
"But, idle or not, these poor wretches are so miserable, that I cannot refuse to 
give them something; and, surely, when one can do it so easily, it is right to 
relieve misery Is it not?" 
"Undoubtedly, my lord; but the difficulty is to relieve present misery, without 
creating more in future. Pity for one class of beings sometimes makes us cruel 
to others. I am told that there are some Indian Brahmins so very compassionate, 
that they hire beggars to let fleas feed upon them; I doubt whether it might not 
be better to let the fleas starve." 
I did not in the least understand what Mr. M'Leod meant; but I was soon made to 
comprehend it, by crowds of eloquent beggars, who soon surrounded me: many who 
had been resolutely struggling with their difficulties, slackened their 
exertions, and left their labour for the easier trade of imposing upon my 
credulity. The money I had bestowed was wasted at the dram-shop, or it became 
the subject of family quarrels; and those whom I had relieced, returned to my 
honour, with fresh and insatiable expectations. All this time my industrious 
tenants grumbled, because no encouragement was given to them; and, looking upon 
me as a weak good-natured fool, they combined in a resolution to ask me for long 
leases, or reduction of rent. 
The rhetoric of my tenants succeeded, in some instances; and again, I was 
mortified by Mr. M'Leod's silence. I was too proud to ask his opinion. I 
ordered, and was obeyed. A few leases for long terms were signed and sealed; and 
when I had thus my own way completely, I could not refrain from recurring to Mr. 
M'Leod's opinion. 
"I doubt, my lord," said he, "whether this measure may be as advantageous as you 
hope. These fellows, these middle men, will underset the land, and live in 
idleness, whilst they rank a parcel of wretched under-tenants." 
"But they said they would keep the land in their own hands, and improve it; and 
that the reason why they could not afford to improve before was, that they had 
not long leases." 
"It may be doubted whether long leases alone will make improving tenants; for in 
the next county to us there are many farms of the dowager Lady Ormsby's land, 
let at ten shillings an acre, and her tenantry are beggars: and the land now, at 
the end of the leases, is worn out, and worse than at their commencement." 
I was weary listening to this cold reasoning, and resolved to apply no more for 
explanations to Mr. M'Leod; yet I did not long keep this resolution: infirm of 
purpose, I wanted the support of his approbation, at the very time I was jealous 
of his interference. 
At one time I had a mind to raise the wages of labour; but Mr. M';Leod 
said———"It might be doubted whether the people would not work less, when they 
could with less work have money enough to support them." 
I was puzzled, and then I had a mind to lower the wages of labour, to force them 
to work or starve———Still, provoking Mr. M'Leod said———"It might be doubted 
whether it would not be better to leave them alone." 
I gave marriage portions to the daughters of my tenants, and rewards to those 
who had children; for I had always heard that legislators should encourage 
population. 
Still Mr. M'Leod hesitated to approve: he observed, "that my estate was so 
populous, that the complaint in each family was, that they had not land for the 
sons. It might be doubted whether, if a farm could support but ten people, it 
were wise to encourage the birth of twenty. It might be doubted whether it were 
not better for ten to live, and be well fed, than for twenty to be born, and to 
be half-starved." 
To encourage manufactures in my town of Glenthorn, I proposed putting a clause 
in my leases, compelling my tenants to buy stuffs and linens manufactured at 
Glenthorn, and no where else. Stubborn M'Ledo, as usual, began with——— "I doubt 
whether that will not encourage the manufacturers at Glenthorn to make bad 
stuffs and bad linen, since they are sure of a sale, and without danger of 
competition." 
At all events, I thought my tenants would grow rich and independent, if they 
made every thing at home that they wanted: yet Mr. M'Ledo perplexed me by his 
"Doubt whether it would not be better for a man to buy shoes, if he could buy 
them cheaper than he could make them." He added something about the division of 
labour, and Smith's Wealth of Nations. To which I could only answer———Smith's a 
Scotchman. 
I cannot express how much I dreaded Mr. M'Leod's I doubt———and———It may be 
doubted. 
From the pain of doubt, and the labour of thought, I was soon most agreeably 
reprieved by the company of a Mr. Hardcastle, whose visits I constantly 
encouraged by a most gracious reception. Mr. Hardcastle was the agent of the 
dowager Lady Ormsby, who had a large estate in my neighbourhood: he was the very 
reverse of my Mr. M'Leod in his deportment and conversation. Talkative, 
self-sufficient, peremptory, he seemed not to know what it was to doubt; he 
considered doubt as a proof of ignorance, imbecility, or cowardice. "Can any man 
doubt?" was his usual beginning. On every subject of human knowledge, taste, 
morals, politics, economy, legislation; on all affairs, civil, military, or 
ecclesiastical, he decided at once in the most confident tone. Yet he "never 
read, not he!" he had nothing to do with books; he consulted only his own eyes 
and ears, and appealed only to common sense. As to theory, he had no opinion of 
theory; for his part, he only pretended to understand practice and 
experience———and his practice was confined steadily to his own practice, and his 
experience uniformly to what he had tried at New-town-Hardcastle. 
At first I thought him a mighty clever man, and I really rejoiced to see my 
doubter silenced. After dinner, when he had finished speaking in his decisive 
manner, I used frequently to back him with a———Very true——— very fair———very 
clear———though I understood what he said, as little as he did himself; but it 
was an ease to my mind to have a disputed point settled———and I filled my glass 
with an air of triumph, whilst M'Leod never contradicted my assertions, or 
controverted Mr. Hardcastle's arguments. There was still an air of content and 
quiet self-satisfaction in M'Leod's very silence, which surprised and vexed me. 
One day, when Hardcastle was laying down the law upon several subjects, in his 
usual dictatorial manner, telling us how he managed his people, and what order 
he kept them in, I was determined that M'Leod should not enjoy the security of 
his silence, and I urged him to give us his general opinion, as to the means of 
improving the poor people in Ireland. 
"I doubt," said M'Leod, "whether any thing effectual can be done, till they have 
a better education." 
"Education!———Pshaw!———There it is now; these book-men," cried 
Hardcastle———"Why, my dear sir, can any man alive, who knows this country, 
doubt, that the common people have already too much education, as it is 
called———a vast deal too much? Too many of them know how to read, and write, and 
cipher, which I presume is all you mean by education." 
"Not entirely," said M'Leod———"a good education comprehends something more." 
"The more the worse," interrupted Hardcastle. The more they know, the worse they 
are, sir, depend on that: I know the people of this country, sir; I have a good 
right to know them, sir, being born amongst them, and bred amongst them; so I 
think I may speak with some confidence on these matters. And I give it as my 
decided humble opinion, founded on irrefragable experience, which is what I 
always build upon, that the way to ruin the poor of Ireland would be to educate 
them, sir. Look at the poor scholars, as they call themselves; and what are 
they? a parcel of young vagabonds in rags, with a book under their arm instead 
of a spade or a shovel, sir. And what comes of this? that they grow up the 
worst-disposed, and the most troublesome seditious rascals in the community. I 
allow none of them about New-town-Hardcastle; none———banished them all. Useless 
vagrants———hornets———vipers, sir: and show me a quieter, better-mannged set of 
people, than I have made of mine. I go upon experience, sir; and that's the only 
thing to go upon; and I'll go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle: if that won't 
bring conviction home to you, nothing will." 
"I never was at New-town-Hardcastle," said M'Leod drily. 
"Well, sir, I hope it will not be the case long. But in the mean time, my good 
sir, do give me leave to put it to your own common sense, what can reading or 
writing do for a poor man, unless he is to be a bailiff or an exciseman? and you 
know all men can't expect to be bailiffs or excisemen. Can all the book-learning 
in the world, sir, dig a poor man's potatoes for him, or plough his land, or cut 
his turf? Then, sir, in this country, where's the advantages of education, I 
humbly ask? No, sir, no, trust me———keep the Irish common people ignorant, and 
you keep 'em quiet; and that's the only way with them; for they are too quick 
and smart as it is naturally. Teach them to read and write, and it's just adding 
fuel to fire———fire to gunpowder, sir. Teach them any thing, and directly you 
set them up: now, it's our business to keep them down, unless, sir, you'd wish 
to have your throat cut. Education! sir; Lord bless your soul, sir! they have a 
great deal too much; they know too much already, which makes them so refractory 
to the laws, and so idle. I will go no farther than New-town-Hardcastle, to 
prove all this. So, my good sir," concluded he, triumphantly, "education, I 
grant you, is necessary for the rich; but tell me, if you can, what's the use of 
education to the poor?" 
"Much the same, I apprehend, as to the rich," answered M'Leod. "The use of 
education, as I understand it, is to teach men, to see clearly, and to follow 
steadily, their real interests. All morality, you know, is comprised in this 
definition; and———" 
"Very true, sir; but all this can never apply to the poor in Ireland." 
"Why, sir, are they not men?" 
"Men, to be sure; but not like men in Scotland. The Irish know nothing of their 
interests; and as to morality, that's out of the question: they know nothing 
about it, my dear sir." 
"That is the very thing of which I complain," said M'Leod. "They know nothing; 
because they have been taught nothing." 
"They cannot be taught, sir." 
"Did you ever try?" 
"I did, sir, no later than last week. A fellow that I caught stealing my turf, 
instead of sending him to jail, I said to him, with a great deal of lenity, My 
honest fellow, did you never hear of the eighth commandment, 'Thou shalt not 
steal?' He confessed he had; but did not know it was the eighth. I showed it to 
him, and counted it to him myself; and set him, for a punishment, to get his 
whole catechism. Well, sir, the next week I found him stealing my turf again! 
and when I caught him by the wrist in the fact, he said, it was because the 
priest would not let him learn the catechism I gave him, because it was a 
protestant one. Now you see, sir, there's a bar for ever to all education." 
Mr. M'Leod smiled, said something about time and patience, and observed, "that 
one experiment was not conclusive against a whole nation." Any thing like a 
general argument, Mr. Hardcastle could not comprehend. He knew every blade of 
grass within the reach of his tether, but could not reach an inch beyond. Any 
thing like an appeal to benevolent feelings was lost upon him; for he was so 
frank in his selfishness, that he did not even pretend to be generous. ———By 
sundry self-complacent motions, he showed, whilst his adversary spoke, that he 
disdained to listen almost as much as to read: but, as soon as M'Leod paused, he 
said——— "What you observe, sir, may possibly be very true; but I have made up my 
mind." Then he went over and over again his assertions, in a louder and a louder 
voice: ending with a tone of interrogation that seemed to set all answer at 
defiance. 
"What have you to answer to me now, sir? Can any man alive doubt this, sir?" 
M'Leod was perfectly silent. The company broke up; and, as we were going out of 
the room, I maliciously asked M'Leod, why he, who could say so much in his own 
defence, had suffered himself to be so completely silenced. He answered me, in 
his low deliberate voice, in the words of Moliere ———"Qu'est-ce que la raison 
avee un filet de voix contre une gueule comme celle-la? At some other time," 
added Mr. M'Leod, "my sentiments shall be at your lordship's disposal." 
Indolent persons love positive people when these are of their own opinion; 
because they are saved the trouble of developing their thoughts, or supporting 
their assertions: but the moment the positive differs in sentiment from the 
indolent man, there is an end of the friendship. The indolent man then hates his 
pertinacious adversary as much as he loved his sturdy friend. So it happened 
between Mr. Hardcastle and me. This gentleman was a prodigious favourite with 
me, so long as his opinions were not in opposition to my own; but an accident 
happened, which brought his love of power and mine into direct competition, and 
then I found his peremptory mode of reasoning and his ignorance absurd and 
insufferable. 
Before I can do justice to my part of this quarrel, I must explain the cause of 
the interest which I took in behalf of the persons aggrieved. During the time 
that my first hot fit of benevolence was on me, I was riding home one evening, 
after dining with Mr. Hardcastle, and I was struck with the sight of a cabin, 
more wretched than any I had ever before beheld: the feeble light of a single 
rush candle through the window revealed its internal misery. 
"Does any body live in that hovel?" said I. 
"Ay sure does there: the Noonans, please your honour," replied a man on the 
road. Noonans! I recollected the name to be that of the pugilist, who had died 
in consequence of the combat at which I had been present in London; who had, 
with his dying breath, besought me to convey his only half guinea, and his silk 
handkerchief, to his poor father and sister. I alighted from my horse, asking 
the man, at the same time, if the son of this Noonan had not died in England. 
"He had, sir, a son in England, Mick Noonan, who used to send him odd gaineas, I 
mind, and was a good lad to his father, though wild; and there's been no account 
of him at all at all this long while: but the old man has another boy, a sober 
lad, who's abroad with the army in the East Indies; and it's he that is the hope 
of the family. And there's the father———and old as he is, and poor, and a 
cripple, I'd engage there is not a happier man in the three counties at this 
very time speaking: for it is just now I seen young Jemmy Riley, the daughter's 
bachelor, go by with a letter. What news? says I. Great news! says he: a letter 
from Tom Noonan to his father; and I'm going in to read it for him." 
By the time my voluble informant had come to this period, I had reached the 
cabin door. Who could have expected to see smiles, and hear exclamations of joy, 
under such a roof? 
I saw the father, with his hands clasped in ecstasy, and looking up to Heaven, 
with the strong expression of delight in his aged countenance. I saw every line 
of his face; for the light of the candle was full upon it. The daughter, a 
beautiful girl, kneeling beside him, held the light for the young man, who was 
reading her brother's letter. I was sorry to interrupt them. 
"Your honour's kindly welcome," said the old man, making an attempt to rise. 
"Pray don't let me distrub you." 
"It was only a letter from a boy of mine that's over the seas we was reading," 
said the old man. "A better boy to an ould father, that's good for nothing now 
in this world, never was, plase your honour. See what he has sent me: a draught 
here for ten guineas, out of the little pay he has. God for over bless him———as 
he surely will." 
After a few minutes' conversation, the old man's heart was so much opened 
towards me, that he talked as freely as if he had known me for years. I led to 
the subject of his other son Michael, who was mentioned in the letter as a wild 
chap. "Ah! your honour, that's what lies heaviest on my heart, and will to my 
dying day, that Mick, before he died, which they say he did surely a twelvemonth 
ago, over there in England, never so much as sent me one line, good or bad, or 
his sister a token to remember him by even!" 
"Had he but sent us the least bit of a word, or the least token in life, I had 
been content," said the sister, wiping her eyes: "we don't so much as know how 
he died." 
I took this moment to relate the circumstances of Michael Noonan's death: and 
when I told them of his dying request about the half guinea and the silk 
handkerchief, they were all so much touched, that they utterly forgot the 
ten-guinea draught, which I saw on the gound, in the dirt, under the old man's 
feet, whilst he contemplated the half guinea which his poor Michael had sent 
him: repeating, "Poor fellow! poor fellow! 'twas all he had in the world. God 
bless him!——— Poor Michael! he was a wild chap! but none better to his parents 
than he while the life was in him. Poor Michael!" 
In no country have I found such strong instances of filial affection as in 
Ireland. Let the sons go where they may, let what will befall them, they never 
forget their parents at home: they write to them constantly the most 
affectionate letters, and send them a share of whatever they earn. 
When I asked the daughter of this Noonan, why she had not married? the old man 
answered, "That's her own fault———if it be a fault to abide by an old father. 
She wastes her youth here, in the way your honour sees, tending him that has 
none other to mind him." 
"Oh! let alone that," said the girl, with a cheerful smile, "we be too poor to 
think of marrying yet, by a great deal; so, father dear, you're no hindrance any 
way. For don't I know, and doesn't Jemmy there know, that it's a sin and a 
shame, as my mother used to say, for them that have nothing to marry and set up 
house-keeping, like the rogue that ruined my father?" 
"That's true," said the young man, with a heavy sigh: "but times will mend, or 
we'll strive and mend them, with the blessing of God." 
I left this miserable hut in admiration of the generosity of its inhabitants. I 
desired the girl to come to Glenthorn Castle the next day; that I might give her 
the silk handkerchief which her poor brother had sent her. The more I inquired 
into the circumstances of this family, the more cause I found for pity and 
approbation. The old man had been a good farmer in his day, as the traditions of 
the aged, and the memories of the young, were ready to witness; but he was 
unfortunately joined in copartnership with a drunken rogue, who ran away, and 
left and arrear of rent, which ruined Noonan. Mr. Hardcastle, the agent, called 
upon him to pay it, and sold all that the old man possessed; and this being 
insufficient to discharge the debt, he was forced to give up his farm, and 
retire, with his daughter, to this hovel; and soon afterwards he lost the use of 
his side by a paralytic stroke. 
I was so much pleased with the goodness of these poor people, that, in despite 
of my indolent disposition, I bestirred myself the very next day to find a 
better habitation for them on my own estate. I settled them, infinitely to their 
satisfaction, in a small farm; and the girl married her lover, who undertook to 
manage the farm for the old man. To my utter surprise I found, that Mr. 
Hardcastle was affronted by the part I took in this affair. He complained that I 
had behaved in a very ungentlemanlike manner, and had spirited away the tenants 
from Lady Ormsby's estate, against the regulation which he had laid down for all 
the tenants not to emigrate from the estate. Jemmy Riley, it seems, was one of 
the cotters on the Ormsby estate, a circumstance with which I was unacquainted; 
indeed I scarcely at that time understood what was meant by a cotter. Mr. 
Hardcastle's complaint, in matter and manner, was unintelligible to me; but I 
was quite content to leave off visiting him, as he left off visiting me———but 
here the matter did not stop. This over-wise and over-busy gentleman took upon 
him, amongst other offices, the regulation of the markets in the town of Ormsby; 
and as he apprehended, for reasons best and only known to himself, a year of 
scarcity, he thought fit to keep down the price of oats and potatoes. He would 
allow none to be sold in the market of Ormsby, but at the price which he 
stipulated. The poor people grumbled, and to remedy the injustice, made private 
bargains with each other. He had information of this, and seired the corn that 
was selling above the price he had fixed. Young Riley, Noonan's son-in-law, came 
to me to complain, that his little oats was seized and detained. I remonstrated 
———Hardcastle resented the appeal to me, and bid him wait and be damned. The 
young man, who was rather of a hasty temper, and who did not much like either to 
wait or be damned, seized his own oats, and was marching off, when they were 
recaptured by Hardcastle's bailiff, whom young Riley knocked down; and who, as 
soon as he got up again, went straight and swore examinations against Riley. 
Then I was offended, as I had a right to he, by the custom of the country, with 
the magistrate, who took an examination against my tenant without writing first 
to me. Then there was a race between the examinations of my justice of peace and 
his justice of peace. My indolence was conquered by my love of power: I 
supported the contest: the affair came before our grand jury: I conquered, and 
Mr. Hardcastle was ever after, of course, my enemy. To English ears the 
possessive pronouns my and his may sound extraordinary, prefixed to a justice of 
peace; but, in many parts of Ireland, this language is perfectly correct. A 
great man talks of making a justice of the peace with perfect confidence: a very 
great man talks with as much certainty of making a sheriff; and a sheriff makes 
the jury; and the jury makes the law. We must not forget, however, that, in 
England, during the reign of Elizabeth, a member of parliament defined a justice 
of peace to be "an animal who, for half a dozen chickens, will dispense with 
half a dozen penal statutes." Time is necessary to enforce the sanctions of 
legislation and civilization——— But I am anticipating reflections, which I made 
at a much later period of my life. To return to my history. 
My benevolence was soon checked by slight disappointments. Ellinor's cottage, 
which I had taken so much pains to build, became a source of mortification to 
me. One day I found my old nurse sitting at her wheel in the midst of the wreck 
and litter of all sorts of household furniture, singing her favourite song of 
"There was a lady lov'd a swine, 
Honey! says she, 
I'll give ye a silver trough. 
Hank! says he!"
Ellinor seemed, alas! to have as little taste for the luxuries with which I had 
provided her, as the pig had for the silver trough. What I called conveniences, 
were to her incumbrances: she had not been used to them; she was put out of her 
way; and it was a daily torment to one of her habits, to keep her house clean 
and neat. 
There may be, as some philosophers assure us that there is, an innate love of 
order in the human mind; but of this instinctive principle my poor Ellinor was 
totally destitute. Her ornamented farm-house became, in a wonderfully short 
time, a scene of dirt, rubbish, and confusion. As the walls were plastered and 
papered before they were quite dry, the paper grew mouldy, and the plaster fell 
off. In the hurry of finishing, some of the wood-work had but one coat of paint. 
In Ireland they have not faith in the excellent Dutch proverb, "Paint costs 
nothing." I could not get my workmen to give a second coat of paint to any of 
the sashes, and the wood decayed: divers panes of glass in the windows were 
broken, and their places filled up with shoes, an old hat, or a bundle of rags. 
Some of the slates were blown off one windy night: the slater lived ten miles 
off, and before the slates were replaced, the rain came in, and Ellinor was 
forced to make a bed-chamber of the parlour, and then of the kitchen, retreating 
from corner to corner as the rain pursued, till, at last, when "it would come 
every way upon her bed," she petitioned me to let her take the slates off and 
thatch the house; for a slated house, she said, was never so warm as a tatched 
cabin; and as there was no smoke, she was kilt with the cowld. 
In my life I never felt so angry. I was ten times more angry than when Crawley 
ran away with my wife. In a paroxysm of passion, I reproached Ellinor with being 
a savage, an Irishwoman, and an ungrateful fool. 
"Savage I am, for any thing I know; and fool I am, that's certain; but 
ungrateful I am not," said she, bursting into tears. She went home and took to 
her bed; and the next thing I heard from her son was, "that she was lying in the 
rheumatism, which had kept her awake many a long night, before she would come to 
complain to my honour of the house, in dread that I should blame myself for 
sending of her into it afore it was dry." 
The rheumatism reconciled me immediately to Ellinor; I let her take her own way, 
and thatch the house, and have as much smoke as she pleased, and she recovered. 
But I did not entirely recover my desire to do good to my poor tenants. After 
forming, in the first enthusiasm of my benevolence, princely schemes for their 
advantage, my ardour was damped, and my zeal discouraged, by a few slight 
disappointments. 
I did not consider, that there is often, amongst uncultivated people, a mixture 
of obstinate and lazy content, which makes them, despise the luxuries of their 
richer neighbours; like those mountaineers, who, proud of their own hard fare 
[Note: See Philosophical Transactions, vol. lxvii, part 2, Sir George 
Shuckburgh's observations to ascartain the height of mountains———for a full 
account of the cabin of a couple of Alpine shepherdesses.], out of a singular 
species of contempt, call the inhabitants of the plain mange-rotis, "eaters of 
roast meat." I did not consider, that it must take time to change local and 
national habits and prejudices; and that it is necessary to raise a taste for 
comforts, before they can be properly enjoyed. 
In the pettishness of my disappointment, I decided, that it was in vain to 
attempt to improve or civilize such people as the Irish. I did not recollect, 
perhaps at that time I did not know, that even in the days of the great Queen 
Elizabeth, "the greatest part of the buildings in the cities and good towns of 
England consisted only of timber, cast over with thick clay to keep out the 
wind. The new houses of the nobility were indeed either of brick or stone; and 
glass windows were then beginning to be used in England [Note: See Harrison.]:" 
and clean rushes were strewed over the dirty floors of the royal palace. In the 
impatience of my zeal for improvement, I expected to do the work of two hundred 
years in a few months: and because I could not accelerate the progress of 
refinement in this miraculous manner, I was out of humour with myself and with a 
whole nation. So easily is the humanity of the rich and great disgusted and 
discouraged! as if any people could be civilized in a moment, and at the word of 
command of ignorant pride or despotic benevolence. 
CHAPTER III. 
I have not thought it necessary to record every visit, that I received from all 
my country neighbours; but I must now mention one, which led to important 
consequences; a visit from Sir Harry Ormsby, a very young dashing man of 
fortune, who, in expectation of the happy moment when he should be of age, 
resided with his mother, the dowager Lady Ormsby. Her ladyship had heard, that 
there had been some disagreement between her agent, Mr. Hardcastle, and my 
people: but she took the earliest opportunity of expressing her wishes, that our 
families should be on an amicable footing. 
Lady Ormsby was just come to the country, with a large party of her fashionable 
friends ———some Irish, some English: Lord and Lady Kilrush; my Lady Kildangan 
and her daughter; the Lady Geraldine———; the knowing widow O'Connor; the English 
dasher, Lady Hauton; the interesting Mrs. Norton, separated but not parted from 
her husband; the pleasant Miss Bland; the three Miss Ormsbys, better known by 
the name of the Swadlinbar Graces; two English aide-decamps from the castle, and 
a brace of brigadiers; beside other men of inferior note. 
I perceived that Sir Harry Ormsby took it for granted, that I must be acquainted 
with the pretensions of all these persons to celebrity; his talkativeness and my 
taciturnity favoured me so fortunately, that he never discovered the extent of 
my ignorance. He was obligingly impatient to make me personally acquainted "with 
those of whom I must have heard so much in England." Observing that Ormsby Villa 
was too far from Glenthorn Castle for a morning visit, he pressed me to wave 
ceremony, and to do Lady Ormsby and him the honour of spending a week with them, 
as soon as I could make it convenient. I accepted this invitation, partly from a 
slight emotion of curiosity, and partly from my habitual inability to resist any 
reiterated importunity. 
Arrived at Ormsby Villa, and introduced to this crowd of people, I was at first 
disappointed by seeing nothing extraordinary. I expected that their manners 
would have been as strange to me as some of their names appeared: but whether it 
was from my want of the powers of discrimination, or from the real sameness of 
the objects, I could scarcely, in this fashionable flock, discern any individual 
marks of distinction. At first view, the married ladies appeared much the same 
as those of a similar class in England, whom I had been accustomed to see. The 
young ladies I thought, as usual, "best distinguished by black, brown, and 
fair:" but I had not yet seen Lady Geraldine———; and a great part of the 
conversation, the first day I was at Ormsby Villa, was filled with lamentations 
on the unfortunate tooth-ache, which prevented her ladyship from appearing. She 
was talked of so much, and as a person of such importance, and so essential to 
the amusement of the society, that I could not help feeling a slight wish to see 
her. The next day at breakfast she did not appear; but, five minutes before 
dinner, her ladyship's humble companion whispered, "Now Lady Geraldine is 
coming, my lord." I was always rather displeased to be called upon to attend to 
any thing or any body, yet, as Lady Geraldine entered, I gave one involuntary 
glance of curiosity. I saw a tall, finely shaped woman, with the commanding air 
of a person of rank; she moved well; not with feminine timidity, yet with ease, 
promptitude, and decision. She had fine eyes and a fine complexion, yet no 
regularity of feature. The only thing that struck me as really extraordinary was 
her indifference when I was introduced to her. Every body had seemed extremely 
desirous that I should see her ladyship, and that her ladyship should see me; 
and I was rather surprised by her unconcerned air. This piqued me, and fixed my 
attention. She turned from me, and began to converse with others. Her voice was 
agreeable, though rather loud: she did not speak with the Irish accent; but, 
when I listened maliciously, I detected certain Hibernian inflections; nothing 
of the vulgar Irish idiom, but something that was more interrogative, more 
exclamatory, and perhaps more rhetorical, than the common language of English 
Indies, accompanied with infinitely more animation of countenance and 
demonstrative gesture. This appeared to me peculiar and unusual, but not 
affected. She was uncommonly cloquent, and yet, without action, her words were 
not sufficiently rapid to express her ideas. Her manner appeared fereign, yet it 
was not quite French. If I had been obliged to decide, I should, however, have 
pronounced it rather more French than English. To determine which it was, or 
whether I had ever seen any thing similar, I stood considering her ladyship with 
more attention, than I had ever bestowed on any other woman. The words 
striking———fascinating ———bewitching, occurred to me as I looked at her and 
heard her speak. I resolved to turn my eyes away, and shut my ears; for I was 
positively determined not to like her; I dreaded so much the idea of a second 
Hymen. I retreated to the farthest window, and looked out very soberly upon a 
dirty fish-pond. Dinner was announced. I observed Lady Kildangan manoeuvring to 
place me beside her daughter Geraldine, but Lady Geraldine counteracted this 
movement. I was again surprised and piqued. After yielding the envied position 
to one of the Swadlinbar Graces, I heard Lady Geraldine whisper to her next 
neighbour, "Baffled mamma!" 
It was strange to me to feel piqued by a young lady's not choosing to sit beside 
me. After dinner, I left the gentlemen as soon as possible, because the 
conversation wearied me. Lord Kilrush, the chief orator, was a courtier, and 
could talk of nothing but Dublin Castle, and my lord lieutenant's levees, things 
of which I, as yet, knew nothing. The moment that I went to the ladies, I was 
seized upon by the officious Miss Bland: she could not speak of any thing but 
Lady Geraldine, who sat at so great a distance, and who was conversing with such 
animation herself, that she could not hear her proneure, Miss Bland, inform me, 
that "her friend, Lady Geraldine, was extremely clever: so clever, that many 
people were at first a little afraid of her; but that there was not the least 
occasion; for that, where she liked, nobody could be more affable and engaging." 
This judicious friend, a minute afterwards, told me, as a very great secret, 
that Lady Geraldine was an admirable mimic; that she could draw or speak 
caricatures; that she was also wonderfully happy in the invention of agnomens 
and cognomens, so applicable to the persons, that they could scarcely be 
forgotten or forgiven. I was a little anxious to know whether her ladyship would 
honour me with an agnomen. I could not learn this fom Miss Bland, and I was too 
prudent to betray my curiosity: I afterwards heard it, however. Pairing me and 
Mr. M'Leod, whom she had formerly seen together, her ladyship observed, that 
Sawney and Yawneé were made for each other: and she sketched, in strong 
caricature, my relaxed elongation of limb, and his rigid rectangularity. A 
slight degree of fear of Lady Geraldine's powers of satire kept my attention 
alert. In the course of the evening, Lady Kildangan summoned her daughter to the 
music-room, and asked me to come and hear an Irish song. I exerted myself so far 
as to follow immediately; but though summoned Lady Geraldine did not obey. Miss 
Bland tuned the harp, and opened the music books on the piano; but no Lady 
Geraldine appeared. Miss Bland was sent backwards and forwards with messages; 
but Lady Geraldine's ultimatum was, that she couldn't possibly sing, because she 
was afraid of the toothache. God knows, her mouth had never been shut all the 
evening. "Well, but," said Lady Kildangan, "she can play for us, cannot she?" 
No, her ladyship was afraid of the cold in the music-room. "Do my Lord 
Glenthorn, go and tell the dear capricious creature, that we are very warm 
here," 
Very reluctantly I obeyed. The Lady Geraldine, with her circle round her, heard 
and answered me with the air of a princess. 
"Do you the honour to play for you,my Lord! Excuse me: I am no professor———I 
play so ill, that I make it a rule never to play but for my own amusement. If 
you wish for music there is Miss Bland; she plays incomparably; and I dare say, 
will think herself happy to oblige your lordship." I never felt so silly, or so 
much abashed, as at this instant. "This comes," thought I, "of acting out of 
character. What possessed me to exert myself to ask a lady to play; I that have 
been tired to death of music? Why did I let myself be sent ambassador, when I 
had no interest in the embassy?" 
To convince myself and others of my apathy, I threw myself on a sofa, and never 
stirred or spoke the remainder of the night. I presume I appeared fast asleep, 
else Lady Geraldine would not have said, within my hearing, "Mamma wants me to 
catch somebody, and to be caught by somebody; but that will not be; for, do you 
know, I think somebody is nobody." 
I was offended as much as it was in my nature to be offended, and I began to 
meditate apologies for shortening my visit at Ormsby Villa: but, though I was 
shocked by the haughtiness of Lady Geraldine, and accused her, in my own mind, 
of want of delicacy and politeness, yet I could not now suspect her of being an 
accomplice with her mother in any matrimonial designs upon me. From the moment I 
was convinced of this, my conviction was, I suppose, visible to her ladyship's 
penetrating eyes, and from that instant she showed me that she could be polite 
and agreeable. Now, soothed to a state of ease and complacency, I might have 
sunk to indifference and ennui, but fresh singularities in this lady struck me, 
and kept my attention awake and fixed upon her character. If she had treated me 
with tolerable civility at first, I never should have thought about her. 
High-born and high-bred, she seemed to consider more what she thought of others, 
than what others thought of her. Frank, candid, and affable, yet opinionated, 
insolent, and an egotist: her candour and affability appeared the effect of a 
naturally good temper; her insolence and egotism only those of a spoiled child. 
She seemed to talk of herself purely to oblige others, as the most interesting 
possible topic of conversation; for such it had always been to her fond mother, 
who idolized her ladyship as an only daughter, and the representative of an 
ancient house. Confident of her talents, conscious of her charms, and secure of 
her station, Lady Geraldine gave free scope to her high spirits, her fancy, and 
her turn for ridicule. She looked, spoke, and acted, like a person privileged to 
think, say, and do, what she pleased. Her raillery, like the raillery of 
princes, was without fear of retort. She was not ill-natured, yet careless to 
whom she gave offence, provided she produced amusement; and in this she seldom 
failed; for, in her conversation, there was much of the raciness of Irish wit, 
and the oddity of Irish humour. The singularity that struck me most about her 
ladyship, was her indifference to flattery. She certainly preferred frolic. Miss 
Bland was her humble companion; Miss Tracey her butt. Her ladyship appeared to 
consider Miss Bland as a necessary appendage to her rank and person, like her 
dress or her shadow; and she seemed to think no more of the one than of the 
other. She suffered Miss Bland to follow her; but she would go in quest of Miss 
Tracey. Miss Bland was allowed to speak; but her ladyship listened to Miss 
Tracey. Miss Bland seldom obtained an answer; but Miss Tracey never opened her 
lips without being honoured by a repartee. 
In describing Miss Tracey, Lady Geraldine said, 
"Poor simpleton! she cannot help imitating all she sees us do; yet, would you 
believe it, she really has starts of common sense, and some tolerable ideas of 
her own. ———Spoiled by bad company! In the language of the bird-fanciers, she 
has a few notes nightingale, and all the rest rubbish." 
It was one of Lady Geraldine's delights, to humour Miss Tracey's rage for 
imitating the fashions of fine people. 
"Now you shall see Miss Tracey appear at the ball to-morrow, in every thing that 
I have sworn to her is fashionable. Nor have I cheated her in a single article: 
but the tout ensemble I leave to her better judgment; and you shall see her, I 
trust, a perfect monster, formed of every creature's best: Lady Kilrush's 
feathers, Mrs. Moore's wig, Mrs. O'Connor's gown, Mrs. Lighton's sleeves, and 
all the necklaces of all the Miss Ormsbys. She has no taste, no judgment; none 
at all, poor thing; but she can imitate as well as those Chinese painters, who, 
in their drawings, give you the flower of one plant stuck on the stalk of 
another, and garnished with the leaves of a third." 
Miss Tracey's appearance the ensuing night justified all Lady Geraldine's 
predictions, and surpassed her ladyship's most sanguine hopes. Even I, albeit 
unused to the laughing mood, could not forbear smiling at the humour and ease, 
with which her ladyship played off this girl's credulous vanity. 
At breakfast the next morning, Lord Kilrush, in his grave manner (always too 
solemn by half for the occasion), declared, "that no, man was more willing than 
himself to enter: into a jest in proper time, and season, and measure, and so 
forth; but that it was really, positively, morally unjustifiable, in his 
apprehension, the making this poor girl so publicly ridiculous." 
"My good lord," replied Lady Geraldine, "all the world are ridiculous some way 
or other: some in public, some in private. Now," continued she, with an 
appealing look to the whole company, "now, after all, what is there more 
extravagant in my Miss Tracey's delighting, at sixteen, in six yards of pink 
ribbon, than in your courtier sighing, at sixty, for three yards of blue ribbon? 
or what is there more ridiculous in her coming simpering into a ball-room, 
fancying herself the mirror of fashion, when she is a figure for a print-shop, 
than in the courtier rising solemnly in the House of Lords, believing himself an 
orator, and expecting to make a vast reputation, by picking up, in every debate, 
the very worst arguments that every body else let fall? There would be no living 
in this world, if we were all to see and oppose one another's ridicules. My plan 
is much the best———to help my friends to expose themselves, and then they are 
infinitely obliged to me." 
Satisfied with silencing all opposition, and seeing that the majority was with 
her, Lady Geraldine persisted in her course; and I was glad she was 
incorrigible, because her faults entertained me. As to love, I thought I was 
perfectly safe; because, though I admired her quickness and cleverness, yet I 
still, at times, perceived, or fancied I perceived, some want of polish, and 
elegance, and tact. She was not exactly cut out according to my English pattern 
of a woman of fashion; so I thought I might amuse myself without danger, as it 
was partly at her ladyship's expense. But about this time I was alarmed for 
myself by a slight twinge of jealousy. As I was standing lounging upon the steps 
at the hall-door, almost as ennuyé as usual, I saw a carriage at a distance, 
between the trees, driving up the approach; and, at the same instant, I heard 
Lady Geraldine's eager voice in the hall——— "Oh! they are coming; he is coming; 
they are come. Run, Miss Bland, run, and give Lord Craiglethorpe my message 
before he gets out of the carriage———before any body sees him." 
Afraid of hearing what I should not hear, I walked down the steps deliberately, 
and turned into a shrubbery walk, to leave the coast clear. Out ran Miss Bland: 
and then it was that I found the twinge———very slight, however. "Who is this 
Lord Craiglethorpe, with whom Lady Geraldine is on such familiar terms? I wonder 
what kind of looking man he is; and what could the message mean? ———but, at all 
events, it cannot concern me; yet I am curious to see this Lord Craiglethorpe. I 
wonder any woman can like a man with so strange a name: but does she like him, 
after all?———Why do I plague myself about it?" 
As I returned from my saunter, I was met fore-right by Miss Bland——— "A charming 
day, ma'am," said I, endeavouring to pass on. 
"A charming day, my lord! But I must stop your lordship a moment.———Oh, I am so 
out of breath———I went the wrong way———" 
"The wrong way! Indeed! I am sorry, I am concerned you should have had so much 
trouble." 
"No trouble in the world. Only I want to beg you'll keep our secret———my Lady 
Geraldine's secret." 
"Undoubtedly, madam———a man of honour ———Lady Geraldine cannot doubt———her 
ladyship's secret is perfectly safe." 
"But do you know it? You don't know it yet, my lord?" 
"Pardon me; I was on the steps just now. I thought you saw me." 
"I did, my lord———but I don't understand———" 
"Nor I, neither," interrupted I, half laughing; for I began to think I was 
mistaken in my suspicions; "pray explain yourself, my dear Miss Bland: I was 
very rude to be so quick in interrupting you." 
Miss Bland then made me the confidant of a charming scheme of Lady Geraldine's, 
for quizzing Miss Tracey. 
"She has never, in her life, seen Lord Craiglethorpe, who is an English lord 
travelling through Ireland," continued Miss Bland. "Now, you must know, that 
Miss Tracey is passionately fond of lords, let them be what they may. Now, Lord 
Craiglethorpe, this very morning, sent his groom with a note and excuse to Lady 
Ormsby, for not coming to us to day; because, he said, he was bringing down in 
the chaise with him a surveyor, to survey his estate near here; and he could not 
possibly think of bringing the surveyor, who is a low man, to Ormsby Villa. But 
Lady Ormsby would take no apology, and wrote by the groom to beg that Lord 
Craiglethorpe would make no scruple of bringing the surveyor; for you know she 
is so polite and accommodating, and all that. Well, the note was scarcely gone, 
before Lady Geraldine thought of her charming scheme, and regretted, of all 
things, she had not put it into it." 
"It into it!" repeated I to myself. "Ma'am!" said I, looking a little 
bewildered. 
"But," continued my clear narrator, "I promised to remedy all that, by running 
to meet the carriage, which was what I ran for when you saw me, my lord, in such 
a hurry." 
I bowed———and was as wise as ever. 
"So, my lord, you comprehend, that the surveyor, whose name, whose odious name, 
is Gabbitt, is to be my Lord Craiglethorpe, and my Lord Craiglethorpe is to be 
passed for Mr. Gabbitt upon Miss Tracey; and, you will see, Miss Tracey will 
admire Mr. Gabbitt prodigiously, and call him vastly genteel, when she thinks 
him a lord. Your lordship will keep our secret: and she is sure Lord 
Craiglethorpe will do any thing to oblige her, because he is a near connexion of 
hers. But, I assure you, it is not every body could get Lord Craiglethorpe to 
join in a joke; for he is very stiff, and cold, and high. Of course your 
lordship will know which is the real lord at first sight. He is a full head 
taller than Gabbitt." 
Never was explanation finally more satisfactory: and whether the jest was really 
well contrived and executed, or whether I was put into a humour to think so, I 
cannot exactly determine; but, I confess, I was amused with the scenes that 
followed, though I felt that they were not quite justifiable even in jest. 
The admiration of Miss Tracey for the false Craiglethorpe, as Lady Geraldine 
called Mr. Gabbitt; the awkwardness of Mr. Gabbitt with his title, and the 
awkwardness of Lord Craiglethorpe without it, were fine subjects for her 
ladyship's satirical humour. 
In another point of view, Lord Craiglethorpe afforded her ladyship amusement——— 
as an English traveller, full of English prejudices against Ireland and every 
thing Irish. Whenever Miss Tracey was out of the room, Lady Geraldine allowed 
Lord Craiglethorpe 
to be himself again; but he did not fare the better for this restoration to his 
honour Lady Geraldine contrived to make him ridiculous in his real, as in his 
assumed character. Lord Craiglethorpe was, as Miss Tracey had described him, 
very stiff, cold, and high. His manners were in the extreme of English reserve; 
and his ill-bred show of contempt for the Irish was sufficient provocation and 
justification of Lady Geraldine's ridicule. He was much in awe of his fair and 
witty cousin: she could easily put him out of countenance, for he was extremely 
bashful. 
His lordship had that sort of bashfulness which makes a man surly and obstinate 
in his taciturnity; which makes him turn upon all who approach him, as if they 
were going to assault him; which makes him answer a question as if it were an 
injury, and repel a compliment as if it were an insult. Once, when he was out of 
the room, Lady Geraldine exclaimed, "That cousin Craiglethorpe of mine is 
scarcely an agreeable man: the awkwardness of mauvaise-honte might be pitied and 
pardoned, even in a nobleman, continued her ladyship, "if it really proceeded 
from humility; but here, when I know it is connected with secret and inordinate 
arrogance, 'tis past all endurance. Even his ways of sitting and standing 
provoke me, they are so self-sufficient. Have you observed how he stands at the 
fire? Oh, the caricature of 'the English firè-side' outdone! Then, if he sits, 
we hope that change of posture may afford our eyes transient relief; but worse 
again: bolstered up, with his back against his chair, his hands in his pockets, 
and his legs thrown out, in defiance of all passengers and all decorum, there he 
sits, in magisterial silence, throwing a gloom upon all conversation. As the 
Frenchman said of the Englishman, for whom even his politeness could not find 
another compliment, 'Il faut avouer que ce Monsiour a un grand talent pour le 
silence:'———he holds his tongue, till people actually believe that he has 
something to say———a mistake they could never fall into if he would but speak." 
Some of the company attempted to interpose a word or two in favour of Lord 
Craiglethorpe's timidity, but the vivacious and merciless lady went on. 
"I tell you, my good friends, it is not timidity; it is all pride. I would 
pardon his dulness, and even his ignorance; for one, as you say, might be the 
fault of his nature, and the other of his education: but his self-sufficiency is 
his own fault, and that I will not, and cannot pardon. Somebody says, that 
nature may make a fool, but a coxcomb is always of his own making. Now, my 
cousin ———(as he is my cousin, I may say what I please of him)———my cousin 
Craiglethorpe is a solemn coxcomb, who thinks, because his vanity is not 
talkative and sociable, that it's not vanity. What a mistake! his silent 
superciliousness is to me more intolerable than the most garrulous egotism, that 
ever laid it, self open to my ridicule. For the honour of my country, I am 
determined to make this man talk, and he shall say all that I know he thinks of 
us poor Irish savages. If he would but speak, one could answer him: if he would 
find fault, one might defend: if he would laugh, one might perhaps laugh again: 
but here he comes to hospitable, open-hearted Ireland, eats as well as he can in 
his own country; drinks better than he can in his own country; sleeps as well as 
he can in his own country; accepts of all our kindness, without a word or a look 
of thanks, and seems the whole time to think, that, 'Born for his use, we live 
but to oblige him.' There he is at this instant: look at him, walking in the 
park, with his note-book in his hand, setting down our faults, and conning them 
by rote. We are even with him. I understand my bright cousin Craiglethorpe means 
to write a book, a great book, upon Ireland! He! with his means of acquiring 
information——— posting from one great man's house to another——— what can he see 
or know of the manners of any rank of people, but of the class of gentry, which 
in England and Ireland is much the same? As to the lower classes, I don't think 
he ever speaks to them? or, if he does, what good can it do him? for he can't 
understand their modes of expression, nor they his; and if he inquire about a 
matter of fact, I defy him to get the truth out of them, if they don't wish to 
tell it; and, for some reason or other, they will, nine times in ten, not wish 
to tell it to an Englishman. There is not a man, woman, or child, in any cabin 
in Ireland, who would not have wit and, cuteness enough to make my lard believe 
just what they please. So, after posting from. Dublin to Cork, and from the 
Giants' Cause-way to Killarney: after travelling east, west, north, and south, 
my wise cousin Craiglethorpe will know just as much of the lower Irish, as the 
cockney who has never been out of London, and who has never, in all his born 
days, seen an Irishman, but on the English stage, where the representations are 
usually as like the originals, as the Chinese pictures of lions, drawn from 
description, are to a real lion, which they never beheld. Yes, yes, write on, 
write on, my good cousin Craiglethorpe, and fill the little note-book, which 
will soon, heigh! presto! turn to a ponderous quarto, I shall have a copy, bound 
in Morocco, no doubt, from the author, if I behave myself prettily; and I will 
earn it, by supplying valuable information. You shall see, my friends, how I'll 
deserve well of my country, if you'll only keep my counsel and your own 
countenances." 
Presently Lord Craiglethorpe entered the room, walking very pompously, and 
putting his note-book up as he advanced. 
"O, my dear lord, open the book again, I have a bull for you." 
Lady Geraldine, after putting his lordship in good humour by this propitiatory 
offering of a bull, continued to supply him, either directly or indirectly, by 
some of her confederates, with the most absurd anecdotes, incredible facts, 
stale jests, and blunders, such as never were made by true-born Irishmen; all 
which my Lord Craiglethorpe took down with an industrious sobriety, at which the 
spectators could scarcely refrain from laughing. Sometimes he would pause, and 
exclaim, "A capital anecdote! a curious fact! May I give my authority? may I 
quote your ladyship?" "Yes, if you'll pay me a compliment in the preface," 
whispered Lady Geraldine: "and now, dear cousin, do go up stairs and put it all 
in ink." 
When she had dispatched the noble author, her ladyship indulged her laughter. 
"But now," cried she, "only imagine a set of sober English readers studying my 
cousin Craiglethorpe's new view of Ireland, and swallowing all the nonsense it 
will contain!" 
When Lord Kilrush remonstrated against the cruelty of letting the man publish 
such stuff, and represented it as a fraud upon the public, Lady Geraldine 
laughed still more, and exclaimed, "Surely you don't think I would use the 
public and my poor cousin so ill. No, I am doing him and the public the greatest 
possible service. Just when he is going to leave us, when the writing box is 
packed, I will step up to him, and tell him the truth. I will show him what a 
farrago of nonsense he has collected as materials for his quarto; and convince 
him, at once, how utterly unfit he is to write a book, at least a book on Irish 
affairs. Won't this be deserving well of my country and of my cousin?" 
Neither on this occasion, nor on any other were the remonstrances of my Lord 
Kilrush of power to stop the course of this lady's flow of spirits and raillery. 

Whilst she was going on in this manner with the real Lord Craiglethorpe, Miss 
Tracey was taking charming walks in the park with Mr. Gabbitt, and the young 
lady began to be seriously charmed with her false lord. This was carrying the 
jest farther than Lady Geraldine had intended or foreseen; and her good-nature 
would probably have disposed her immediately to dissolve the enchantment, had 
she not been provoked by the interference of Lord Kilrush, and the affected 
sensibility of Miss Clementina Ormsby, who, to give me an exalted opinion of her 
delicacy, expoetulated incessantly in favour of the deluded fair one. 
"But, my dear Lady Geraldine, I do assure you it really hurts my feelings. This 
is going too far———when it comes to the heart. I can't laugh, I own———the poor 
girl's affections will be engaged———she is really falling in love with this 
odious surveyor." 
"But now, my dear Clementinn, I do assure you, it really hurts my feelings to 
hear you talk so childishly. When it comes to the heart! affections engaged! You 
talk of falling in love as if it were a terrible fall: for my part, I shold pity 
a person much more for falling down stairs. Why, my dear, where is the mighty 
height from which Miss Travers could fall? She does not live in the clouds, 
Clementina, as you do. No ladies live there now———for the best of all possible 
reasons——— because there are no men there. So, my love, make haste and come 
down, before you are out of your teens, or you may chance to be left there till 
you are an angel or an old maid. Trust me, my dear, I, who have tried, tell you, 
there is no such thing as falling in love now-a-days: you may slip, slide, or 
stumble, but to fall in love, I defy you." 
I saw Lady Kildangan's eyes fix upon me as her daughter pronounced the last 
sentence. 
"Geraldine, my dear, you do not know what you are talking about," said her 
ladyship. "Your time may come, Geraldine. Nobody should be too courageous. Cupid 
does not like to be defied." 
Lady Kildangan walked away, as she spoke, with a very well satisfied air, 
leaving a party of us young people together. Lady Geraldine looked haughtily 
vexed. When in this mood, her wit gave no quarter; spared neither sex nor age. 
"Every body says," whispered she, "that mamma is the most artful woman in the 
world; and I should believe it, only that every body says it: now, if it were 
true, nobody would know it." 
Lady Geraldine's air of disdain towards me was resumed. I did not quite 
understand. Was it pride? was it coquetry? She certainly blushed deeply, and for 
the first time that I ever saw her blush, when her mother said, "Your time may 
come, Geraldine." 
My week being now at an end, I resolved to take my leave. When I announced this 
resolution, I was assailed with the most pressing entreaties to stay a few days 
longer———one day longer. Lady Ormsby and Sir Harry said every thing that could 
be said upon the occasion: indeed, it seemed a matter of general interest to 
all, except to Lady Geraldine. She appeared wholly indifferent, and I was not 
even gratified by any apparent affectation of desiring my departure. Curiosity 
to see whether this would be sustained by her ladyship to the last, gave me 
resolution sufficient to resist the importunities of Sir Harry; and I departed, 
rejoicing that my indifference was equal to her ladyship's. As Tasso said of 
some fair one, whom he met at the carnival of Mantua, I ran some risk of falling 
in love. I had been so far roused from my habitual apathy, that I actually made 
some reflections. As I returned home, I began to perceive, that there was some 
difference between woman and woman, beside the distinctions of rank, fortune, 
and figure. I think I owe to Lady Geraldine my first relish for wit, and my 
first idea that a woman might be, if not a reasonable, at least a companionable 
animal. I compared her ladyship with the mere puppets and parrots of fashion, of 
whom I had been wearied: and I began to suspect, that one might find, in a 
lady's "lively nonsense," a relief from ennui. These reflections, however, did 
not prevent me from sleeping the greatest part of the morning on my way home; 
nor did I dream of any thing that I can remember. 
At the porter's gate I saw Ellinor sitting at her spinning wheel, and my 
thoughts took up my domestic affairs, just where I had left them the preceding 
week. 
CHAPTER VII. 
In vain I attempted to interest myself in my domestic affairs; the silence and 
solitude of my own castle appeared to me intolerably melancholy, after my return 
from Ormsby Villa. There was a blank in my existence during a week, in which I 
can remember nothing that I did, said, or thought, except what passed during one 
ride, which Mr. M'Leod compelled my politeness to take with him. He came with 
the same face to see me, and the same set of ideas, as those he had before I 
went to Ormsby Villa. He began to talk of my schemes for improving my tenantry, 
and of my wish, that he should explain his notions relative to the education of 
the poor of Ireland, which, he said, as I now seemed to be at leisure, he was 
ready to do as concisely as possible. As concisely as possible were the only 
words of this address that I heard with satisfaction; but of course I bowed, 
said I was much obliged, and should be happy to have the advantage of Mr. 
M'Leod's opinions and sentiments. What these were I cannot recollect, for I 
settled myself in a reverie soon after his voice began to sound upon my ear; but 
I remember at last he wakened me, by proposing that I should ride with him to 
see a school-house and some cottages, which he had built on a little estate of 
his own in my neighbourhood: "for," said he, "'tis better my lord to show you 
what can be done with these people, than to talk of what might be effected." 
"Very true," said I, agreeing readily; because I wanted to finish a conversation 
that wearied me, and to have a refreshing ride. It was a delightful evening, and 
when we came on M'Leod's estate, I really could not help being pleased and 
interested. In an unfavourable situation, with all nature, vegetable and animal 
against him, he had actually 'created a Paradise amid the wilds.' There was 
nothing wonderful in any thing I saw around me, but there was such an air of 
neatness and comfort, order and activity, in the people, and in their cottages, 
that I almost thought myself in England, and I could not forbear 
exclaiming———"How could all this be brought about in Ireland!" 
"Chiefly by not doing and not expecting too much at first," said M'Leod. "We 
took time, and had patience. We began by setting them the example of some very 
slight improvements, and then, lured on by the sight of success, they could make 
similar trials themselves. Then my wife and I went among them, and talked to 
them in their cottages, and took an interest in their concerns, and did not want 
to have every thing our own way; and when they saw that, they began to consider 
which way was best: so by degrees we led where we could not have driven; and 
raised in them, by little and little, a taste for conveniences and comforts. 
Then the business was done, for the moment the taste and ambition were excited 
to work, the people went to gratify them; and accordingly as they exerted 
themselves, we helped them. Perhaps it was best for them and for us, that we 
were not rich, for we could not do too much at a time, and were never tempted to 
begin grand schemes that we could not finish. There," said M'Leod, pointing to a 
cottage with a pretty porch covered with woodbine, and a neat garden, in which 
many children were busily at work, "that house and that garden were the means of 
doing all the rest; that is our school-house. We could not expect to do much 
with the old, whose habits were fixed; but we tried to give the young children 
better notions, and it was a long time before we could bring that to bear. 
Twenty-six years we have been at this work, and in that time if we have done any 
thing, it was by beginning with the children; a race of our own training has now 
grown up, and they go on in the way they were taught, and prosper to our hearts' 
content, and what is better still to their hearts' content." 
M'Leod, habitually grave and taciturn, seemed quite enlivened and talkative this 
day; but I verily believe, that not the slightest ostentation or vanity inspired 
him, for I never before or since heard him talk or allude to his own good deeds; 
I am convinced his motive was to excite me to persevere in my benevolent 
projects, by showing what had been done by small means. He was so truly in 
earnest, that he never perceived how tired I was; indeed he was so little in the 
habit of expecting sympathy or applause, that he never missed even the ordinary 
expressions of concurrent complaisance. 
"Religion," continued he, "is the great difficulty in Ireland. We make no 
difference between protestants and catholics; we always have admitted both into 
our school. The priest comes on Saturday morning, and the parish minister on 
Saturday evening, to hear the children belonging to each church their 
catechisms, and to instruct them in the tenets of their faith. And as we keep to 
our word, and never attempt making proselytes, nor directly, or indirectly, 
interfere with their religious opinions, the priests are glad to let us instruct 
the catholic children in all other points, which they plainly see must advance 
their temporal interests." 
Mr. M'Leod invited me to go in and look at the school. "In a hedge or 
ditch-school," said he, "which I once passed on this road, and in which I saw a 
crowd of idle children, I heard the schoolmaster cry out, 'Rehearse! rehearse! 
there's company going by:' and instantly all the boys snatched up their books, 
and began gabbling as fast as ever they could, to give an idea to the passenger 
of their diligence in repeating their lessons. But here, my lord," continued 
M'Leod, "you will not see any exhibitions got up for company. I hate such 
tricks. Walk in my lord, if you please." 
I walked in, but am ashamed to say, that I observed only that every thing looked 
as if it had been used for many years, and yet not worn out; and the whole 
school appeared as if all were in their places, and occupied and intent upon 
their business: but this general recollection is all I have retained. The 
enthusiasm for improvement had subsided in my mind, and, though I felt a 
transient pleasure in the present picture of the happiness of these poor people 
and their healthy children, yet, as I rode home, the images faded away like a 
dream. I resolved, indeed, at some future period, to surpass all that Mr. M'Leod 
had done, or all that with his narrow income he could ever accomplish; and to 
this resolution I was prompted by jealousy of Mr. M'Leod, rather than by 
benevolence. Before I had arranged, even in imagination, my plans, young Ormsby 
came one morning, and pressed me to return with him to Ormsby Villa. I yielded 
to his solicitations, and to my own wishes. When I arrived, the ladies were all 
at their toilettes, except Miss Bland, who was in the book-room with the 
gentlemen, ready to receive me with her perpetual smile. Wherever Miss Bland 
went, she was always l'amie de la maison, accustomed to share with the lady of 
the house the labour of entertaining her guests. This double of Lady Ormsby 
talked to me most courteously of all the nothings of the day, and informed me of 
the changes which had taken place in the ever-varying succession of company at 
Ormsby Villa. The two brigadiers and one of the sides-de-camp were gone, but 
Captain Andrews, another castle aide-de-camp was come, and my Lord O'Toole had 
arrived. Then followed a by-conversation between Miss Bland and some of the 
gentlemen about the joy and sorrow which his lordship's arrival would create in 
the hearts of two certain ladies, one of whom, as I gathered from the inuendoes, 
was Lady Hauton, and the other Lady O'Toole. As I knew nothing of Dublin 
intrigues and scandal, I was little attentive to all this. Miss Bland, 
persisting in entertaining me, proceeded to inform me, that my Lord O'Toole had 
brought down with him Mr. Cecil Devereux, who was a wit and a poet, very 
handsome and gallant, and one of the most fashionable young men in Dublin. I 
determined not to like him———I always hated a flourish of trumpets; whoever 
enters, announced in this parading manner, appears to disadvantage. Mr. Cecil 
Devereux entered just as the flourish ceased. He was not at all the sort of 
person I was prepared to see; though handsome, and with the air of a man used to 
good company, there was nothing of a coxcomb in his manner; on the contrary, 
there was such an appearance of carelessness about himself, and deference 
towards others, that, notwithstanding the injudicious praise that had been 
bestowed on him, and my consequent resolution to dislike him, I was pleased and 
familiar with him before I had been ten minutes in his company. Lord Kilrush 
introduced him to me with great pomposity, as a gentleman of talents, for whom 
he and his brother O'Toole interested themselves much. This air of patronage, I 
saw, disgusted Mr. Devereux, and instead of suffering himself to be shown off, 
he turned the conversation from his own poems to general subjects. He asked me 
some questions about a curious cavern, or subterraneous way, near Castle 
Glenthorn, which stretched from the sea-shore to a considerable distance under 
the rock, and communicated with an old abbey near the castle. Mr. Devereux said, 
that such subterraneous places had been formerly used in Ireland as granaries by 
the ancient inhabitants; but a gentleman of the neighbourhood who was present 
observed, that these caverns on this coast had, within his memory, been used as 
hiding places by smugglers; on this hint Lord Kilrush began a prosing 
dissertation upon smugglers and contraband traders, and talked to me a 
prodigious deal about exports and imports, and bounties, and the balance of 
trade. Not one word he said did I comprehend, and I question whether his 
lordship understood the subjects upon which he spoke so dictatorially; but he 
thought he succeeded in giving me an opinion of his wisdom and information. His 
brother, O'Toole, appeared next; he did not look like a man of gallantry, as I 
had been taught to expect from the hints thrown out respecting Lady Hauton; his 
lordship's whole soul seemed devoted to ambition, and he talked so much of great 
men, and state affairs, and court intrigues, and honours and preferments, that I 
began to fancy I had been buried alive, becauese I knew little of these things. 
I was tired of hearing him, yet mortified that I could not speak exactly in the 
same manner, and with same air of being the best possible authority, I began to 
wish, that I also had some interest at court. The cares and troubles of the 
ambitious man, so utterly repugnant to the indolence of my disposition, vanished 
in this moment of infatuation from my view, and I thought only of the pleasures 
of power. Such is the infectious nature of ambition! 
Mr. Devereux helped me to throw off this dangerous contagion, before it did me 
any injury. He happened to stay in the room with me a quarter of an hour after 
the other gentleman went to dress. Though not often disposed to conversation 
with a stranger, yet I was won by this gentelman's easy address; he politely 
talked of the English fashionable world, with which he knew that I was well 
acquainted; I, with equal politeness, recurred to the Irish great world; we 
fastened together upon Lord O'Toole, who took us to Dublin Castle, and I began 
to regret that I had not yet been at the Irish court, and that I had not earlier 
in life made myself of political consequence. "Ambition," said I, "might help to 
keep a man awake and alive; all common pleasures have long since ceased interest 
to me. They really cannot make a stir." 
"My lord," said Mr. Devereux, "you would do better to sit or lie still all your 
life, than toil for such vain objects. 
"Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, 
What Hell it is in sueing long bide

"Your lordship may remember Spencer's description of that Hell?" 
"Not exactly," said I, willing to lower the good opinion this gentleman seemed 
to have taken for granted of my literature. He took Spencer's poems out of the 
book-case, and I actually rose from my seat to read the passage; for what 
trouble will not even the laziest of mortals take to preserve the esteem of one, 
by whom he sees that he is over estimated. I read the following ten lines 
without yawning! 
"Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, 
What Hell it is in sueing long to bide. 
 
"To lose good days, that might be better spent, 
To waste long nights in pensire discontent, 
To speed to day, to be put back to morrow, 
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow, 
To fret thy sould with crosses and with cares, 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs, 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run, 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone."

"Very strong, indeed," said I, with a competent air, as if used to judge of 
poetry. 
"And it comes with still greater force, when we consider by whom it was written. 
A man, you know, my lord, who had been secretary to a Lord Lieutenant." 
I felt my nascent ambition die away within me. I acknowledged it was better to 
spend an easy life. My determination was confirmed at this instant by the 
appearance of Lady Geraldine. Ambition and love, it is said, are incompatible 
passions. Neither of them had yet possession of my heart, but love and Lady 
Geraldine had perhaps a better chance than ambition and Lord O'Toole. Lady 
Geraldine appeared in high spirits; and though I was not a vain man, I could not 
help fancying, that my return to Ormsby Villa contributed to her charming 
vivacity. This gratified me secretly and soberly, as much as it visibly 
delighted her mother. Miss Bland, to pay her court to Lady Kildangan, observed, 
that Lady Geraldine was in uncommonly fine spirits this evening. Lady Geraldine 
threw back a haughty frown over her left shoulder; this was the only time I ever 
saw her notice, in any manner, any thing that fell from her obsequious friend. 
To avert the fair one's displeasure, I asked for Miss Tracey and Mr. Gabbitt. 
"Mr. Gabbitt," said her ladyship, resuming her good humour instantly; "Mr. 
Gabbitt is gone off the happiest man in Ireland, with the hopes of surveying my 
Lord O'Toole's estate; a good job, which I was bound in honour to obtain for 
him, as a reward for taking a good joke. After mocking him with the bare 
imagination of a feast, you know the Barmecide in the Arabian Tales gave poor 
Shakabac a substantial dinner, a full equivalent for the jest." 
"And Miss Tracey?" said I, "what did your ladyship do for her?" 
"I persuaded her mamma, that the sweet creature was falling into an atrophy. So 
she carried the forlorn damsel post haste to the Black Rock for the recovery of 
her health, or her heart. Clementina, my dear, no reproachful looks; in your 
secret soul do not you know, that I could not do a young lady a greater favour, 
than to give her a plausible excuse for getting away from home." 
I was afraid that Lady Geraldine would feel the want of her butt; however, I 
found that Miss Tracey's place was supplied by Captain Andrews, one of the 
castle aides-de-camp; and when Captain Andrews was out of the way, Lord Kilrush, 
and his brother O'Toole, were good marks. High and mighty as these personages 
thought themselves; and respectfully, nay obsequiously, as they were treated by 
most others, to this lady their characters appeared only a good study; and to 
laugh at them seemed only a good practice. 
"Perhaps, my lord," said she to me, "you do not yet know my Lord O'Toole?" 
"I had the honour to be introduced to him to day." 
"That's well; for he thinks that, 
'Not to know him, argues yourself unknown.' 
"But as your lordship is a stranger in this country, you may be pardoned; and I 
will make you better acquainted with him. I suppose you know there are many 
Toole's in Ireland, some very ancient, respectable, and useful: this, however, 
is but a mere political tool, and the worst of all tools, a cat's paw. There's 
one thing to the credit of these brothers, they agree vastly well; for one 
delights in being always on the stage, and the other always behind the scenes. 
These brothers, with Captain Andrews———I hope they are none of them within 
hearing———form a charming trio, all admirable in their way. My Lord O'Toole 
is———artifice without art. My Lord Kilrush———importance without power. And, 
Captain Andrews———pliability without case. Poor Andrews! he's a defenceless 
animal———safe in impenetrable armour. Give him but time———as a man said, who 
once showed me a land tortoise———give him but time to draw his head into his 
shell, and a broad-wheeled waggon may go over him without hurting him. Lord 
Glenthorn, did you ever observe Captain Andrews's mode of conversation?" 
"No; I never heard him converse." 
"Converse! nor I indeed; but you have heard him talk." 
"I have heard him say———Very true———and Of course." 
"Lord Glenthorn is quite severe this evening," said Mrs. O'Connor. 
"But though your lordship", continued Lady Geraldine, "may have observed Captain 
Andrews's wonderful economy of words; do you know whence it arises? Perhaps, you 
think from his perception of his own want of understanding." 
"Not from his perception of the want," said I. 
"Again! again!" said Mrs. O'Connor, with an insulting tone of surprise; "Lord 
Glenthorn's quite witty this evening." 
Lady Geraldine looked as if she was fully sensible of the unpoliteness of Mrs. 
O'Connor's mode of praising. "But, my lord," pursued she, "you wrong Captain 
Andrews, if you attribute his monosyllabic replies either to stupidity or 
timidity. You have not yet guessed the reason why he never gives on any subject 
more than half an opinion." 
"It was in the diplomatic school he was taught that," said Mr. Devereux. 
"You must know," pursued Lady Geraldine, "that Captain Andrews is only an 
aide-de-camp till a diplomatic situation can be found for him; and to do him 
justice he has been so well trained in the diplomatic school, that he will not 
hazard an assertion on any subject; he is not certain of any thing, not even of 
his own identity." 
"He assuredly wants," said Devereux, "the only proof of existence which 
Descartes would admit, I think, therefore I am." 
"He has such a holy horrour of committing himself," continued Lady Geraldine, 
"that if you were to ask him if the sun rose this morning, he would answer with 
his sweet smile———So I am told———or———So I am informed." 
"Begging your ladyship's pardon," cried Mr. Devereux, "that is much too 
affirmative. In the pure diplomatic style, impersonal verbs must ever be used in 
preference to active or passive. So I am told, lays him open to the dangerous 
questions———Who told you?———or———By whom were you informed? Then he is forced 
into the imprudence of giving up his authorities; wherens he is safe in the 
impersonality of———So it is said———or——— So it is reported." 
"How I should like to see a meeting between two perfectly finshed diplomatists!" 
cried Lady Geraldine. 
"That is demonstrably impossible," said Mr. Devereux; "for in certain political, 
as well as in certain geometrical lines, there is a continual effort to 
approach, without a possibility of meeting." 
Lady Geraldine's raillery, like all other things, would, perhaps, soon have 
become tiresome to me; but that there was infinite variety in her humour. At 
first I had thought her merely superficial, and intent solely upon her own 
amusement; but I soon found that she had a taste for literature, beyond what 
could have been expected in one who lived so dissipated a life; a depth of 
reflection that seemed inconsistent with the rapidity with which she thought; 
and, above all, a degree of generous indignation against meanness and vice, 
which seemed incompatible with the selfish character of a fine lady, and which 
appeared quite incomprehensible to the imitating tribe of her fashionable 
companions. 
I mentioned a Mrs. Nortion and Lady Hauton amongst the company at Ormsby Villa. 
These two English ladies, whom I had neve met in any of the higher circles in 
London; who were persons of no consequence, and of no marked character in their 
own country, made, it seems, a prodigious sensation when they came over to 
Ireland, and turned the heads of half Dublin by the extravagance of their dress, 
the impertinence of their airs, and the audacity of their conduct. Fame flew 
before them to the remote parts of the country, and when they arrived at Ormsby 
Villa, all the country gentlemen and ladies were prepared to admire these 
celebrated fashionable belles. All worshipped them present, and abused them 
absent, except Lady Geraldine, who neither joined in the admiration, nor 
inquired into the scandal. One morning Mrs. Norton and Lady Hauton had each 
collected her votaries round her. One group begging patterns of dress from Lady 
Hauton, who stood up in the midst of them, to have every thing she wore examined 
and envied. The other group sat on a sofa apart, listening to Mrs. Norton, who, 
sottovoce, was telling interesting anecdotes of an English crim con., which then 
occupied the attention of the fashionable world. Mrs. Norton had letters from 
the best authorities in London, which she was entreated by her auditors to read 
to them. Mrs. Norton went to look for the letters, Lady Hauton to direct her 
woman to furnish some patterns of I know not what articles of dress; and, in the 
meantime, all the company joined in canvassing the merits and demerits of the 
dress and characters of the two ladies who had just left the room. Lady 
Geraldine, who had kept aloof, and who was examining some prints at the farther 
end of the room, at this instant laid down her book, and looked upon the whole 
party with an air of magnanimous disdain; then smiling, as in scorn, she 
advanced towards them, and, in a tone of irony, addressing one of the Swadlinbar 
graces: 
"My dear Theresa," said her ladyship, "you are absolutely ashamed, I see, of not 
being quite naked; and you, my good Bess, will, no doubt, very soon be equally 
scandalized, at the imputation of being a perfectly modest woman. Go on, my 
friends; go on, and prosper; beg and borrow all the patterns and precedents you 
can collect of the newest fashions of folly and vice. Make haste, make haste; 
they don't reach our remote island fast enough. We, Irish, might live in 
innocence half a century longer, if you didn't expedite the progress of 
profligacy; we might escape the plague that rages in neighbouring countries, if 
we didn't, without any quarantine, and with open arms, welcome every suspected 
stranger; if we didn't encourage the importation of whole bales of tainted 
fineries, that will spread the contagion from Dublin to Cork, and from Cork to 
Galway!" 
"La!" said Miss Ormsby, "how severe your ladyship is; and all only for one's 
asking for a pattern?" 
"But you know," pursued Mrs. O'Connor, "that Lady Geraldine is too proud to take 
pattern from any body." 
"Too proud am I? Well, then, I'll be humble; I'll abase myself———shall I? 
'Proud as I am, I'll put myself to school'; and I'll do what the Ladies Hauton 
and Norton shall advise, to heighten my charms and preserve my reputation. I 
must begin, must not I, Mrs. O'Connor, by learning not to blush? for I observed 
you were ashamed for me yesterday at dinner, when I blushed at something said by 
one of our fair missionaries. Then, to whatever lengths flirtations and 
gallantry may go between unmarried or married people, I must look on. I may shut 
my eyes, if I please, and look down; but not from shame———from affectation I may 
as often as I please, or to show my eyelashes. Memorandum———to practise this 
before Clementina Ormsby, my mirror of fashion. So far, so good, for my looks; 
but now for my language. I must reform my barbarous language, and learn from 
Mrs. Norton, with her pretty accommodating voice, to call an intrigue an 
arrangement, and a crim. con. an affair in Doctor's Commons, or that business 
before the Lords. As to adultery, it is an odious word; found only in the prayer 
book, and fit only for our gross grandmothers. 
'We never mention Hell to cars polite.' 
"How virtuous we shall be when we have no name for vice. But stay, I must stick 
to my lessons———I have more, much more to learn. From the dashing Lady Hauton I 
may learn, if my head be but strong, and my courage intrepid enough, 'to touch 
the brink of all we hate,' without tumbling headlong into the gulf. And from the 
interesting Mrs. Norton, as I hear it whispered amongst you ladies, I may learn 
how, with the assistance of a humane society, to save a half-drowned reputation. 
It is, I understand, the glory of one class of fashionable females, to seem 
worse than they are; and of another class the privilege, to be worse than they 
seem." 
Here clamorous voices interrupted Lady Geraldine———some justifying, some 
attacking Lady Hauton and Mrs. Norton. 
"O! Lady Geraldine, I assure you, notwithstanding all that was said about 
General ———and Mrs. Norton, I am convinced there was nothing in it." 
"And, my dear Lady Geraldine, though Lady Hauton does go great lengths in 
coquetting with a certain lord, you must sec that there's nothing wrong; and 
that she means nothing, but to provoke his lady's jealousy. You know his 
lordship is not a man to fall in love with." 
"So, because Lady Hauton's passion is hatred instead of love, and because her 
sole object is to give pain to a poor wife, and to make mischief in families, 
all her sins are to be forgiven. Now, if I were forced to forgive any 
ill-conducted female, I would rather excuse the woman who is hurried on by love, 
than she who is instigated by hatred." 
Miss Bland now began to support her ladyship's opinion, that "Lady Hauton was 
much the worst of the two;" and all the scandal that was in circulation was 
produced by the partisans of each of these ladies. 
"No matter, no matter, which is the worst," cried Lady Geraldine; "don't let us 
waste our time in repeating or verifying scandalous stories of either of them. I 
have no enmity to these ladies; I only despise them, or, rather, their follies 
and their faults. It is not the sinner, but the sin we should reprobate. O! my 
dear countrywomen," cried Lady Geraldine, with increasing animation of 
countenance and manner———"O! my dear countrywomen, let us never stoop to admire 
and imitate these second-hand airs and graces, follies and vices. Let us dare to 
be ourselves." 
My eyes were fixed upon her animated countenance, and I believe, I continued 
gazing even after her voice ceased. Mrs. O'Connor pointed this out, and I was 
immediately embarrassed, Miss Bland accounted for my embarrassment by supposing, 
that what Lady Geraldine had said of English crim. cons. had affected me. From a 
look and a whisper among the ladies I guessed this; but Lady Geraldine was too 
well bred to suppose I could suspect her of ill-breeding and ill-nature, or that 
I could apply to myself what evidently was not intended to allade to my family 
misfortunes. By an openness of manner, and sweetness of expression, which I 
cannot forget, she, in one single look, conveyed all this to me: and then 
resuming her conversation——— "Pray, my lord," said she, "you who have lived so 
much in the great world in England, say, for you can, whether I am right or 
wrong in my suspicion, that these ladies, who have made such a noise in Ireland, 
have been little heard of in England?" 
I confirmed her ladyship's opinion by my, evidence. The faces of the company 
changed. Thus, in a few seconds, the empire of Lady Hauton and of Mrs. Norton 
seemed shaken to the foundation, and never recovered from this shock. 
The warmth of Lady Geraldine's expressions on this, and many other occasions, 
wakened dormant feelings in my heart, and made me sensible that I had a soul, 
and that I was superior to the puppets, with whom I had been classed. 
One day, Lady Kilrush, in her mixed mode, with partly the graces of a fine lady, 
and partly the airs of a bel-esprit, was talking of Mr. Devereux, whom she 
affected to patronize and produce. 
"Here, Devereux!" cried she, "Cecil Devereux! What can you be thinking of? I am 
talking to you. Here's this epitaph of Francis the First upon Petrarch's Laura, 
that you showed me the other day: do you know, I doat upon it; I must have it 
translated: nobody can do it so well as you: I have not time; but I shall not 
sleep to night if it is not done: and you are so quick; so sit down here, 
there's a dear man, and do it in your elegant way for me, whilst I go to my 
toilette. Perhaps you did not know that my name was Laura," said she, leaving 
the room with a very sentimental air. 
"What will become of me!" cried Devereux. "Never was a harder task set by cruel 
patroness. I would rather turn a Persian tale for half a crown. Read this, my 
lord, and tell me whether it will be easy to turn my Lady Kilrush into 
Petrarch's Laura." 
"This sonnet, to be sure, is rather difficult to translate, or at least to 
modernize, as bespoke," said Lady Geraldine, after she had perused the sonnet 
[Note: 
'En petit compris vous pouvez voir 
Ce qui comprend beaucoup par renommé, 
Plume, labeur, la langue, et le devoir 
Furent vaincus par l'amant de l'aimée. 
O gentille ame, étant toute estimée! 
Qui to pourra louer qu'en se taisant? 
Car In parole est toujours réprimée 
Quand le sujet surmonte le distant.']:" 
"but I think, Mr. Devereux, you brought this difficulty upon yourself. How came 
you to show these lines to such an amateur, such a fetcher and carrier of bays, 
as Lady Kilrush?" 
"You might have been certain, that, had they been trash, with the name of 
Francis the First, and with your fashionable approbation, and something so say 
about Petrarch and Laura, my Lady Kilrush would talk for ever, et se pameroit 
d'affectation." 
"Mr. Devereux," said I, "has only to abide by the last lines, as a good and 
sufficient apology to Lady Kilrush for his silence. 
'Qui te pourra louer qu'en se taisant? 
Car la parole est toujours réprimée 
Quand le sujet surmonte le disant,'

"There is no way to get out of my difficulties," said Mr. Devereux, with a very 
melancholy look; and, with a deep sigh, he sat down to attempt the translation 
of the poem. In a few minutes, however, he rose and left the room, declaring 
that he had the bad habit of not being able to do any thing in company. 
Lady Geraldine now, with much energy of indignation, exclaimed against the 
pretensions of rich amateurs, and the mean and presumptuous manner in which some 
would-be-great people affect to patronize genius. 
"O! the baseness, the emptiness of such patronizing ostentation," cried she. "I 
am accused of being proud myself; but I hope——— I believe———I am sure, that my 
pride is of another sort. Persons of any elevation or generosity of mind never 
have this species of pride; but it is your mean, second-rate folk, who imagine 
that people of talents are a sort of raree-show for their entertainment. At 
best, they consider men of genius only as artists formed for their use, who, if 
not in a situation to be paid with money, are yet to be easily recompensed by 
praise———by their praise———their praise! Heavens! what conceit! And these 
amateur-patrons really think themselves judges, and presume to advise and direct 
genius, and employ it to their petty purposes! Like that Piedro de Medicis, who, 
at some of his entertainments, set Michael Angelo to make a statue of snow. My 
lord, did you ever happen to meet with les Mémoires de Madame de Staël?" 
"No; I did not know that they were published." 
"You mistake me: I mean Madame de Stael of Lewis the Fourteenth and the Rogent's 
time, Mademoiselle de Launay." 
I had never heard of such a person, and I blushed for my ignorance. 
"Nay, I met with them myself only yesterday," said Lady Geraldine: "I was struck 
with the character of the Duchesse de la Ferté, in which this kind of proud 
patronizing ignorance is admirably painted from the life. It is really worth 
your while, my lord, to look at it. There's the book on that little table; here 
is the passage. You see, this Duchesse de la Ferté is showing off to a sister 
duchess a poor girl of genius, like a puppet or an ape." 
'Allons mademoiselle, parlez———Madame, vous allez voir comme elle parle———Elle 
vit que j'hésitois à repondre, et pensa qu'il falloit m'aider comme une 
chanteuse à qui l'on indique ce qu'on désire d'entendre———Parlez un peu de 
religion mademoiselle, vous direz ensuite autre chose.' 
"This speech, Mr. Devereux tells me, has become quite proverbial in Paris," 
continued Lady Geraldine; "and it is often quoted, when any one presumes in the 
Duchesse de Ferté's style." 
"Ignorance, either in high or low life, is equally self-sufficient, I believe," 
said I, exerting myself to illustrate her ladyship's remarks. "A gentleman of my 
acquaintance lately went to buy some razors at Packwood's. Mrs. Packwood alone 
was visible. Upon the gentleman's complimenting her on the infinite variety of 
her husband's ingenious and poetical advertisements, she replied, 'La! sir, and 
do you think husband has time to write them there things his-self? Why, sir, we 
keeps a poet to do all that there work.'" 
Though Lady Geraldine spoke only in general of amateur-patrons, and of men of 
genius, yet I could not help fancying, from the warmth with which she expressed 
herself, and from her dwelling on the subject so long, that her feelings were 
peculiarly interested for some individual of this description. Thus I 
discovered, that Lady Geraldine had a heart; and I suspected, that her ladyship 
and Mr. Devereux had also made the same discovery. This suspicion was 
strengthened by a slight incident, which occurred the following evening. 
Lady Geraldine and Cecil Devereux, as we were drinking coffee, were in a 
recessed window, whilst some of the company stood round them, amused by their 
animated conversation. They went on from repartee after repartee, as if inspired 
by each other's spirits. 
"You two," said a little girl of six years old, who was playing in the window, 
"go on singing to one another like two nightingales; and this shall be your 
cage," added she, drawing the drapery of the window curtains across the recessed 
window. "You shall live always together in this cage: will you, pretty birds?" 
"No, no; some birds cannot live in a cage, my dear," cried Lady Geraldine, 
playfully struggling to get free, whilst the child held her prisoner. 
"Mr. Devereux seems tolerably quiet and contented in his cage," said the shrewd 
Mrs. O'Connor. 
"I can't get out! I can't get out!" cried Devereux, in the melancholy tone of 
the starling in the Sentimental Journey. 
"What is all this?" said my Lady Kildangan, sailing up to us. 
"Only two birds," the child began. 
"Singing birds," interrupted Lady Geraldine, catching the little girl up in her 
arms, and stopping her from saying more, by beginning to sing most charmingly. 
Lady Kildangan returned to the sofa without comprehending one word of what had 
passed. For my part, I now felt almost certain of the justice of my suspicions: 
I was a little vexed, but not by any means in that despair into which a man 
heartily in love would have been thrown by such a discovery. 
Well, thought I, it is well it is no worse: it was very lucky, that I did not 
fall quite in love with this fair lady, since, it seems, that she has given her 
heart away. But am I certain of this? I was mistaken once. Let me examine more 
carefully. 
Now I had a new motive to keep my attention awake. 
CHAPTER VIII. 
To preserve the continuity of my story, and not to fatigue the reader with the 
journals of my comings and goings from Ormsby Villa to Glenthorn Castle, and 
from Glenthorn Castle to Ormsby Villa, I must here relate the observations I 
made, and the incidents that occurred, during various visits at Sir Harry 
Ormsby's, in the course of the summer. 
After the incident of the birds and cage, my sagacity was for some time at a 
fault. I could not perceive any further signs of intelligence between the 
parties: on the contrary, all communication seemed abruptly to cease. As I was 
not well versed in such affairs, this quieted my suspicions, and I began to 
think, that I had been entirely mistaken. Cecil Devereux spent his days shut up 
in his own apartment, immersed, as far as I could understand, in the study of 
the Persian language. He talked to me of nothing but his hopes of an 
appointment, which Lord O'Toole had promised to procure for him, in India. When 
he was not studying, he was botanizing or mineralogizing with O'Toole's 
chaplain. I did not envy him his new mode of life. Lady Geraldine took no notice 
of it. When they did meet, which happened as seldom as possible, there was an 
air of haughty displeasure on her part; on his, steady and apparently calm 
respect and self- satisfaction. Her spirits were exuberant, but variable; and, 
at times, evidently forced: heis were not high, but even and certain. Towards 
me, her ladyship's manners were free from coquetry, yet politely gratifying, as 
she marked, by the sort of conversation she addressed to me, her opinion that I 
was superior in ability and capability to what I had always thought myself. 
Mr. Devereux, though with more effort, treated me with distinction, and showed 
me a constant desire to cultivate my friendship. On every occasion he 
endeavoured to raise my opinion of myself; to give me ambition and courage to 
cultivate my mind. Once when I was arguing in favour of natural genius, and 
saying, that I thought no cultivation could make the abilities of one man equal 
to those of another, he, without seeming to percieve that I was apologizing at 
once for my own indolence and my intellectual inferiority, anwered in general 
terms:——— 
"It is difficult to judge what are the natural powers of the mind, they appear 
so different in different circumstances. you can no more judge of a mind in 
ignorance, than of a plant in darkness. A philosophical friend told me, that he 
once thought he had discovered a new and strange plant growing in a mine. It was 
common sage, but degenerated so and altered, that he could not know it: he 
planted it in the open air and in the light, and gradually it resumed its 
natural appearance and character." 
Mr. Devereux excited, without fatiguing my mind by his conversation; and I was 
not yet sufficiently in love to be seriously jealous. I was resolved, however, 
to sound him upon the subject of Lady Geraldine. I waited for a good 
opportunity; at length, as we were looking together over the prints of Buerger's 
Lenore, he led to the sort of conversation that I desired, by telling me an 
anecdote relative to the poet, which he had lately heard from a German baron. 
Buerger was charmed with a sonnet, which an unknown fair one addressed to him, 
in praise of his poetry: he replied in equal strains; and they went on 
flattering one another, till both believed themselves in love. Without ever 
having met, they determined to marry: they at length met and married: they 
quarelled and parted: in other words, the gentleman was terribly disappointed in 
his unknown mistress, and she consoled herself by running away from him with 
another lover. The imprudence of this poetic couple led us to reflections on 
love and marriage in general. Keeping as far away from all allusion to Lady 
Geraldine, I rallied Mr. Devereux about the fair Clementina, who was evidently a 
romantic admirer of his. 
"Who, except Cupid, would barter his liberty for a butterfly?" said he; "and 
Cupid was a child. Men now-a-days are grown too wise to enslave themselves for 
women. Love occupies a vast space in a woman's thoughts, but fills a small 
portion of a man's life. Women are told, that, 'The great, th' important 
business of their life, is love;' but men know, that htey are born for something 
better than to sing mournful ditties to a mistress's eyebrow. As to marriage, 
what a serious, terrible thing! Some quaint old author says, that man is of too 
smooth and oily a nature to climb up to Heaven, if, to make him less slippery, 
there be not added to his composition the vinegar of marriage. This may be; but 
I will keep as long as possible from the vinegar." 
Really, Devereux," said I, smiling "you talk so like a cynic and an old 
bachelor, and you look so little so little like either, that is quite 
ridiculous." 
"A man must be ridiculous sometimes," said he, "and bear to be thought so. No 
man ever distinguished himself, who could not bear to be laughed at." 
Mr. Devereux left the room singing, 
"No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove 
Ambition, I said, will soon cure me of love."
I was uncertain what to think of all this. I inclined to believe, that ambition 
was his ruling passion, notwithstanding the description of that Hell which he 
showed me in Spencer. His conduct to his patron lords, by which a surer 
judgement of his character could be formed than by his professions, was not, 
however, that of a man merely intent upon rising in the world. 
I remember once hearing Lord O'Toole attack a friend of this gentleman's calling 
him, in a certain tone, a philosopher. Mr. Devereux replied, "that he could not 
consider that as a term of reproach: that where a false or pretended philosopher 
was meant, some other name should be used, equivalent to the Italian term of 
reproach filosofastro." 
Lord O'Toole would by no means admit of this Italianism: he would make no 
distinctions: he deemed philosophers altogether a race of beings dangerous and 
inimical to states. 
"For states read statesmen," said Devereux, who persisted in the vindication of 
his friend, till Lord O'Toole grew pale with anger, whilst Lord Craiglethorpe 
smiled with ineffable contempt at the political béoue: Lady Geraldine glowed 
with generous indignation. 
Afterwards, in speaking to me of Lord O'Toole, Devereux said, "His lordship's 
classification of men is as contracted as the savages' classification of 
animals: he divides mankind into two classes, knaves and fools; and when he 
meets with an honest man, he does not know what to make of him." 
My esteem for Mr. Devereux was much increased by my daily observations upon his 
conduct: towards Lady Geraldine I thought it particularly honourable: when her 
displeasure evidently merged in esteem; when her manners again became most 
winning and attractive, his continued uniformly the same; never passing the 
bounds of friendly respect, or swerving, in the slightest degree, form the line 
of conduct, which he had laid down for himself. I thought I now understood him 
perfectly. That he liked Lady Geraldine I could scarcely doubt; but I saw, that 
he refrained from aiming at the prize, which he knew he ought not to obtain: 
that he perceived her ladyship's favourable dispositions towards him, yet denied 
himself not only the gratification of his vanity, but the exquisite pleasure of 
conversing with her, lest he should stand in the way of her happier prospects. 
He frequently spoke to me of her ladyship in terms of the warmest approbation. 
He said, that "all the world saw and admired her talents and beauty, but that he 
had had opportunities, as a relation, of studying her domestic life. With all 
her vivacity, she has a heart formed for tenderness," said he, "a high sense of 
duty, the best security for a woman's conduct; and in generosity and 
magnanimity, I never found her superior in either sex. In short, I never saw any 
woman, whose temper and disposition were more likely to make a man of sense and 
feeling supremely happy." 
I could not forbear smiling, and asking Cecil Devereux how all this accorded 
with his late professions of hatred to marriage. 
"My professions were sincere," said he. "It would be misery to me to marry any 
inferior woman, and I am not in circumstances to marry as I could wish. I could 
not think of Lady Geraldine, without a breach of trust, of which your lordship, 
I hope, cannot suspect me. Her mother places confidence in me. I am not only a 
relation, but treated as a friend of the family. I am not in love with Lady 
Geraldine. I admire, esteem, respect her ladyship; and I wish to see her united 
to a man, if such a man there be, who may deserve her. We understand one another 
now. Your lordship will have the goodness never more to speak to me on this 
subject." He spoke with much emotion, but with steadiness, and left me 
penetrated with feelings, that were entirely new to me. 
Much as I admired his conduct, I was yet undecided as to my own; my aversion to 
a second marriage was not yet conquered: I was amused, I was captivated by Lady 
Geraldine, but I could not bring myself to think of making a distinct proposal. 
Lord Craiglethorpe himself was not more afraid of being committed, than I was 
upon this tender subject. To gain time, I now thought it necessary to verify all 
the praises Mr. Devereux had bestowed on her ladyship. Magnanimity was a word, 
that particularly struck my ear as extraordinary when applied to a female. 
However, by attending carefully to this lady, I thought I discovered what Mr. 
Devereux meant. Lady Geraldine was superior to manoeuvring little arts, and 
petty stratagems, to attract attention. She would not stoop, even to conquer. 
From gentlemen she seemed to expect attention as her right, as the right of her 
sex; not to beg or accept of it as a favour: if it were not paid, she deemed the 
gentleman degraded, not herself. Far from being mortified by any preference 
shown to other ladies, her countenance betrayed only a sarcastic sort of pity 
for the bad taste of the men, or an absolute indifference and look of haughty 
absence. I saw that she beheld with disdain the paltry competitions of the young 
ladies her companions: as her companions, indeed, she hardly seemed to consider 
them; she tolerated their foibles, forgave their envy, and never exerted any 
superiority, except to show her contempt of vice and meanness. To be in any 
degree excepted from the common herd; to be in any degree distinguished by a 
lady so proud, and with so many good reasons to be proud, was flattering to my 
self-love. She gave me no direct encouragement; but I never advanced far enough 
to require encouragement, much less to justify repulse. Sometimes I observed, or 
I fancied, that she treated me with more favour when Mr. Devereux was present, 
than at other times; perhaps, for she was a woman, not an angel———to pique 
Devereux, and try it she could move him from the settled purpose of his soul. He 
bore it all with surprising constancy; his spirits, however, and his health, 
began visibly to decline. 
"If I do not intrude too much on your valuable time, Mr. Devereux," said her 
lady ship to him one evening, in her most attractive manner, "may I beg you to 
read to us some of these beautiful poems of Sir William Jones?" 
There was a seat beside her ladyship on the sofa: the book was held out by the 
finest arm in the world. 
"Nay," said Lady Geraldine, "do not look so respectfully miserable; if you have 
any other engagements, you have only to say so; or if you cannot speak, you may 
bow - a bow, you know, is an answer to every thing. And here is my Lord 
Glenthorn ready to supply your place: pray, do not let me detain you prisoner. 
You shall not a second time say, I can't get out." 
Devereux made no further effort to escape, but took the book and his dangerous 
seat. He remained with us, contrary to his custom, the whole evening. 
Afterwards, as if he felt that some apology was necessary to me for the pleasure 
in which he had indulged him self, 
"Perhaps, my lord," said he, "another man in my situation, and with my feelings, 
would think it necessary to retreat, and prudent to secure his safety by flight; 
but flight is unworthy of him who can combat and conquer: the man, who is sure 
of himself, does not sculk away to avoid danger, but advances to meet it, armed 
secure in honesty." 
This proud and rash security in his own courage, strength of mind, and 
integrity, was the only fault of Cecil Devereux. He never prayed not to be led 
into temptation, he thought himself so sure of avoiding evil. Unconscious of his 
danger, even though his disease was at its height, he now braved it most 
imprudently: he was certain, that he should never pass the bounds of friendship; 
he had proved this to himself, and was satisfied: he told me, that he could with 
indifference, nay, with pleasure, see Lady Geraldine mine. In the meantime, upon 
the same principle that he deemed flight inglorious, he was proud to expose 
himself to the full force of Love's artillery. He was with us almost all day, 
and Lady Geraldine was more charming than ever. The week was fixed for her 
departure. Still I could not decide. I understood that her ladyship would pass 
the ensuing winter in Dublin, where she would probably meet with new adorers; 
and even if Mr. Devereux should not succeed, some adventurous knight might win 
and wear the prize. This was an alarming thought. It almost decided me to hazard 
the fatal declaration: but then I recollected, that I might follow her ladyship 
to town the next winter, and that if the impression did not, as might be hoped, 
wear off during the intervening autumn, it would be time enough to commit 
myself, when I should meet my fair one in Dublin. This was at last my fixed 
resolution. Respited from the agonies of doubt, I now waited very tranquilly for 
that moment, to which most lovers look forward with horrour, the moment of 
separation. I was sensible that I had accustomed myself to think about this lady 
so much, that I had gradually identified my existence with hers, and I thus 
found my spirit of animation much increased. I dreaded the departure of Lady 
Geraldine less than the return of ennui. 
In this frame of mind I was walking one morning in the pleasure-grounds with 
Lady Geraldine, when a slight accident made me act in direct contradiction to 
all my resolutions, and, I think, inconsistently with my character. But such is 
the nature of man! and I was doomed to make a fool of myself, even in the very 
temple of Minerva. Among the various ornamental buildings in the grounds at 
Ormsby Villa, there was a temple dedicated to this goddess, from which issued a 
troop of hoyden young ladies, headed by the widow O'Connor and Lady Kilrush, all 
calling to us to come and look at some charming discovery, which they had just 
made in the Temple of Minerva. Thither we proceeded, accompanied by the merry 
troop. We found in the temple only a poetical inscription of Lady Kilrush's, 
pompously engraved on a fine marble tablet. We read the lines with all the 
attention usually paid to a lady's poetry in the presence of the poetess, and 
Lady Geraldine and I turned to pay some compliments on the performance, when we 
found that Lady Kilrush, and all her companions, were gone. 
"Gone! all gone!" said Lady Geraldine, "and there they are, making their way 
very fast down to the Temple of Folly! Lady Kilrush, you know, is so 
ba-a-ashful, she could not possibly stay to receive nos hommages. I love to 
laugh at affectation. Call them back, do, my lord, and you shall see the fair 
author go through all the evolutions of mock humility, and end by yielding 
quietly to the notion that she is the tenth muse. But run, my lord, or they will 
be out of our reach. 
I never was seen to run on any occasion, but, to obey Lady Geraldine, I walked 
as fast as I could to the door, and, to my surprise, found it fastened. 
"Locked, I declare! some of the witty tricks of the widow O'Connor, or the 
hoyden Miss Call well's!" 
"How I hate hoydens!" cried Lady Geraldine; "but let us take patience, they will 
be back presently. If young ladies must perform practical jokes, because 
quizzing is the fashion, I wish they would devise something new. This locking-up 
is so stale a jest. To be sure it has lately to boast the authority of high rank 
in successful practice: but these bungling imitators never distinguish between 
cases the most dissimilar imaginable. Silly creatures! We have only to be wise 
and patient." 
Her ladyship sat down to reperuse the tablet. I never saw her look so beautiful. 
———The dignified composure of her manner charmed me; it was so unlike the paltry 
affectation! of some of the fashionable ladies by whom I had been disgusted. I 
recollected the precedent to which she alluded. I recollected, that the locking 
up ended in matrimony, and as Lady Geraldime made some remarks upon the verses. 
I suppose my answers showed my absence of mind. 
"Why so grave, my lord? why so absent? I assure you I do not suspect your 
lordship of having any hand in this vulgar manoeuvre. I acquit you honourably, 
therefore you need not stand any longer like a criminal." 
What decided me at this instant I cannot positively tell: whether it was the 
awkwardness of my own situation, or the grace of her ladyship's manner, but all 
my prudential arrangements were forgotten, all my doubts vanished. Before I knew 
that the words passed my lips, I replied, "That her ladyship did me justice by 
such an acquittal; but that, though I had no part in the contrivance, yet I felt 
irresistibly impelled to avail myself of the opportunity it afforded of 
declaring my real sentiments." I was at her ladyship's feet, and making very 
serious love, before I knew where I was. In what words my long-delayed 
declaration was made I cannot recollect, but I well remember Lady Geraldine's 
answer. 
"My lord, I assure you, that you do not know what you are saying: you do not 
know what you are doing. This is all a mistake, as you will find half an hour 
hence. I will not be so cruelly vain as to suppose you serious." 
"Not serious! no man ever was more serious." 
"No, no———No, no, no." 
I swore, of course, most fervently. 
"O! rise, rise I beseech you, my lord, and don't look so like a hero; though you 
have done a heroical action, I grant. How you ever brought yourself to it I 
cannot imagine. But now, for your comfort, you are safe———Vous voila quitte pour 
la peur!———Do not, however, let this encourage you to venture again in the same 
foolish manner. I know but few, very few young ladies, to whom Lord Glenthorn 
could offer himself with any chance or reasonable hope of being refused. So take 
warning: never again expect to meet with such another as my whimsical self." 
"Never, never, can I expect to meet with any thing resembling your charming 
self," cried I. This was a new text for a lover's rhapsody. It is not necessary, 
and might not be generally interesting, to repeat all the ridiculous things I 
said, even if I could remember them. 
Lady Geraldine listened to me, and then very calmly replied——— "Granting you 
believe all that you are saying at this minute, which I must grant from common 
gratitude, and still more, common vanity; nevertheless, permit me to assure you, 
my lord, that this is not love, it is only a fancy———only the nettlerash, not 
the plague. You will not die this time. I will insure your life. So now jump out 
of the window as fast as you can, and unlock the door———you need not be afraid 
of breaking your neck———you know your life is insured. Come, take the lover's 
leap, and get rid of your passion at once." 
I grew angry. 
"Only a cloud," said Lady Geraldine——— "it will blow over." 
I became more passionate———I did not know the force of my own feelings, till 
they met with an obstacle; they suddenly rose to a surprising height. 
"Now, my lord," cried Lady Geraldine; with a tone and look of comic vexation, 
"this is really the most provoking thing imaginable; you have no idea how you 
distress me, nor of what exquisite pleasures you deprive me———all the pleasures 
of coquetry; legitimate pleasures, in certain circumstances, as I am instructed 
to think them by one of the first moral authorities. There is a case——— I quote 
from memory, my lord, for my memory, like that of most other people, on subjects 
where I am deeply interested, is tolerably tenacious———there is a case, says the 
best of fathers, in his legacy to the best of daughters———there is a case where 
a woman may coquet justifiably to the utmost verge, which her conscience will 
allow. It is where a gentleman purposely declines making his addresses, till 
such time as he thinks himself perfectly sure of her consent. Now, my lord, if 
you had had the goodness to do so, I might have made this delightful case my 
own; and what charming latitude I might have allowed my conscience. But now, 
alas! it is all over, and I must be as frank as you have been under pain of 
forfeiting what I value more, even than admiration———my own good opinion. 
She paused, and was silent for a few moments; then suddenly changing her manner, 
she exclaimed, in a serious energetic tone, 
"Yes, I must, I will be sincere; let it cost me what it may, I will be 
sincere.———My lord, I never can be yours. My lord, you will believe me, even 
from the effort with which I speak;" her voice softened, and her face suffused 
with crimson as she spoke, "I love another———my heart is no longer in my own 
possession; whether it will ever be in my power, consistently with my duty and 
his principles, to be united with the man of my choice, is doubtful———more than 
doubtful——— but this is certain, that with such a prepossession, such a 
conviction in my mind, I never could nor ought to think of marrying any other 
person." 
I pleaded, that however deserving of her preference the object of her favour 
might be, yet that if there were, as her own prudence seemed to suggest 
obstacles, rendering the probability of her union with that person more than 
doubtful, it might be possible that her superior sense and strength of mind, 
joined to the persevering affection of another lover, who would spare no 
exertions to render himself worthy of her, might, perhaps, in time——— "No, no," 
said she, interrupting me; "do not deceive yourself. I will not deceive you. I 
give you no hopes that my sentiments may change. I know my own mind———it will 
not change. My attachment is founded on the firm basis of esteem; my affection 
has grown from the intimate knowledge of the principles and conduct of the man I 
love. No other man, let his merits be what they may, could have these advantages 
in my opinion. And when I say that the probability of our being united is more 
than doubtful, I do not mean to deny, that I have distant hope that change of 
circumstances might render love and duty compatible. Without hope I know love 
cannot long exist. You see I do not talk romantic nonsense to you. All that you 
say of prudence, and time, and the effect of the attentions of another admirer, 
would be perfectly just and applicable, if my attachment were a fancy of 
yesterday———if it were a mere young lady's commonplace first love; but I am not 
a very young lady, nor is this, though a first love, commonplace. I do not, you 
see, in the usual style, tell you that the man I adore is an angel, and that no 
created form ever did, or ever can resemble this angel in green and gold, but on 
the contrary do justice to your lordship's merit; and believing, as I do, that 
you are capable of a real love, nay, still more, believing that such an 
attachment would rouse you to exertion, and bring to life and light a surprising 
number of good qualities, yet I should deceive you unpardonably, fatally for my 
own peace of mind, if not for yours, were I not frankly and decidedly to assure 
you, that I never could reward or return your affection. My attachment to———I 
trust entirely where I trust at all——— my attachment to Mr. Devereux is for 
life." 
"He deserves it———deserves it all," cried I, struggling for utterance; "that is 
as much as a rival can say." 
"Not more than I expected from you, my lord." 
"But your ladyship says there is hope of duty and love being compatible. Would 
Lady Kildangan ever consent?" 
She looked much disturbed. 
"No, certainly not; unless———Lord O' Toole has promised———not that I depend on 
courtiers promises. But Lord O'Toole is a relation of ours, and he has promised 
to obtain an appointment abroad, in India, for Mr. Devereux. If that were done, 
he might appear of more consequence in the eyes of the world. My mother might 
then, perhaps, be propitious. My lord, I give you the strongest proof of my 
esteem, by speaking with such openness. I have had the honour of your lordship's 
acquaintance only a few months; but without complimenting my own penetration, I 
may securely trust to the judgment of Mr. Devereux, and his example has taught 
me to feel confidence in your lordship. Your conduct now will, I trust, justify 
my good opinion, by your secrecy, and by desisting from useless pursuit you will 
entitle yourself to my esteem and gratitude. These, I presume, you will think 
worth securing." 
My soul was so completely touched, that I could not articulate. 
Mr. Devereux is right———I see, my lord, that you have a soul that can be 
touched." 
"Kissing hands! I protest," exclaimed a shrill voice at the window; we turned 
and saw Mrs. O'Connor, and a group of tittering faces peeping in. "Kissing 
hands, after a good hour's tête-à-tête! O pray, Lady Kildangan, make haste 
here," continued Mrs. O'Connor; "make haste, before Lady Geraldine's blushes are 
over." 
"Were you ever detected in the crime of blushing, in your life, Mrs. O'Connor?" 
said I. 
"I never was found out looked up with so fine a gentleman," replied Mrs. 
O'Connor. 
"Then it only hurts your conscience to be found out, like all the rest of the 
vast family of the Surfaces," said Lady Geraldine, resuming her spirit. 
"Found out!———Locked up!———Bless me! bless me! What is all this?" cried Lady 
Kildangan, puffing up the hill. "For shame! young ladies; for shame!" continued 
her ladyship, with a decent suppression of her satisfaction, when she saw, or 
thought she saw, how matters stood. "Unlock the door, pray. Don't be vexed, my 
Geraldine. Fie! fie! Mrs. O'Connor. But quizzing is now so fashionable ———nobody 
can be angry with any body. My Geraldine, consider we are all friends." 
The door unlocked, and, as we were going out, Lady Geraldine whispered to me: 
"For mercy's sake, my lord, don't break my poor mother's heart! Never let her 
know, that a coronet has been within my grasp, and that I have not clutched it." 

Lady Kildangan, who thought that all was now approaching that happy termination 
she so devoutly wished, was so full of her own happy presentiments, that it was 
impossible for me to undeceive her ladyship. Even, when I announced before her, 
to Sir Harry Ormsby, that I was obliged to return home immediately on particular 
business, she was, I am sure, persuaded that I was going to prepare matters for 
marriage settlements. When I mounted my horse, Mr. Devereux pressed through a 
crowd assembled on the steps at the hall-door, and offered me his hand, with a 
look and manner that seemed to say———Have you sufficient generosity to be still 
my friend? "I know the value of your friendship, Mr. Devereux," said I, "and I 
hope to deserve it better every year that I live." 
For the effort which it cost me to say this I was rewarded. Lady Geraldine, who, 
at this instant, had retired behind her companions, approached with an air of 
mingled grace and dignity, bowed her head, and gave me a smile of grateful 
approbation. This is the last image left on my mind, the last look of the 
charming Geraldine———I never saw her again. 
After I got home, I never shaved for two days, and scarcely ever spoke. I should 
have taken to my bed to avoid seeing any human creature, but I knew, that if I 
declared myself ill, no power would keep my old nurse, Ellinor, from coming to 
moan over me; and I was not in a humour to listen to stories of the Irish Black 
Beard, or the ghost of King O'Donoghoe; nor could I, however troublesome, have 
repulsed the simplicity of her affection. Instead of going to bed, therefore, I 
continued to lie stretched upon a sofa, ruminating sweet and bitter thoughts, 
after giving absolute orders, that I should not be disturbed on any account 
whatever. Whilst I was in this state of reverie, one of my servants, an odd 
Irish fellow, who, under pretence of being half-witted, took more liberties than 
his companions, bolted into my presence. 
"Plase your lordship, I thought it my duty, in spite of 'em all below to come up 
to advertise your lordship that's going throught the county. That they are all 
upside down at Ormsby Villa, all mad entirely———fighting and setting off 
throught hte kingdom, every one their own way; and they say, it's all on account 
of something that Miss Clemmy Ormsby told, that Lady Geraldine said about my 
Lord O'Toole's being no better than a cat's paw, or something that way, which 
made his lordship quite mad; and he said, in the presence of Lord Craiglethorpe, 
and my lady Kildangan, and Lady Geraldine, and all that were in it, somehting 
that vexed Lady Geraldine, which made Mr. Cecil Devereux mad next, and he said 
something smart in reply, that Lord O'Toole could not digest he said, which made 
his lordship madder than ever, and he discharged Mr. Devereux from his favour, 
and he is not to get that place that was vacant, the Lord Lieutenancy of some 
place in the Indies that he was to have had; this made Lady Geraldine mad, and 
it was found out she was in love with Mr. Devereux, which made her mother mad, 
the maddest of all they say so that none can hold her and she is crying night 
and day how her daughter might have had the first coronet in the kingdom, maning 
you, my lord, it it had not been that she had prefarred a beggar-man, maning Mr. 
Cecil Devereux, who is as poor, they say as a Connaughtman———and he's forbid to 
think of her, and she's forbid, under pain of bread and water, ever to set her 
eyes upon him the longest day ever she lives; so they are all to be off with the 
first light for Dublin; and that's all my lard, and all truth, not a word of 
lies I'm telling." 
I was inclined not to credit a story so oddly told; but, upon inquiry, I found 
it true in its material points. My own words to Mr. Devereux, and the parting 
look of Lady Geraldine, were full in my recollection; I was determined, by an 
unexpected exertion, to surprise both the lovers, and to secure for ever their 
esteem and gratitude. The appointment, which Mr. Devereux desired, was not yet 
given away; the fleet was to sail in a few days. I started up from my 
sofa———ordered my carriage instantly———shaved myself sent a courier on before to 
have horse ready at every stage to carry me to Dublin———got there in the 
shortest time possible———found Lord O'Toole but just arrived. Though unused to 
diplomatic language and political negociation, I knew pretty well on what they 
all hinge. I went directly to the point, and showed, that it would be the 
interest of the party concerned, to grant my request. By expressing a becoming 
desire, that my boroughs, upon a question where a majority was desired, should 
strengthen the hands of government, I obtained for my friend the favour he 
deserved. Before I quitted Lord O'Toole, his secretary, Captain Andrews, was 
instructed to write a letter announcing to Mr. Devereux his appointment. A copy 
of the former letter of refusal now lay before me; it was in his lordship's 
purest diplomatic style———as follows: Private. 
"Lord O'Toole is concerned to inform Mr. Devereux, that he cannot feel himself 
justified in encouraging Mr. D., under the existing circumstances, to make any 
direct application relative to the last conversation his lordship had the honour 
to hold with Mr. Devereux." 
To Cecil Devereux, Esq. 
Thursday——— 
The letter which I obtained, and of which I took possession, ran as follows: 
Private. 
"Lord O Toole is happy to have it in command to inform Mr. Devereux, that his 
lordship's representations on the subject of their last conversation have been 
thought sufficient, and that an official notification of the appointment to 
India, which Mr. D. desired, will meet the wishes of Mr. Devereux. 
"Captain Andrews has the honour to add his congratulations." 
To Cecil Devereux, Esq. 
Thursday——— 
Having dispatched this business with a celerity, that surprised all the parties 
concerned, and most myself, I called at the lodgings of Mr. Devereux, delivered 
the letter to his servant, and left town. I could not bear to see either Mr. 
Devereux, or Lady 
Geraldine. I had the pleasure to hear, that the obtaining this appointment was 
followed by Lady Kildangan's consent to their marriage. Soon after my return to 
Glenthorn Castle, I received a letter of warm thanks from Devereux, and a polite 
postscript from Lady Geraldine, declaring that, though she felt much pleasure, 
she could feel no surprise in seeing her opinion of Lord Glenthorn justified; 
persuaded, as she and Mr. Devereux had always been, that only motive and 
opportunity were wanting, to make his lordship's superior qualities known to the 
world, and, what is still more difficult, to himself. They left Ireland 
immediately afterwards, in consequence of their appointment in India. 
I was raised in my own estimation———I revelled a short time in my 
self-complacent reflections; but when nothing more remained to be done, or to be 
said———when the hurry of action, the novelty of generosity, the glow of 
enthusiasm, and the freshness of gratitude were over, I felt that, though large 
motives could now invigorate my mind, I was still a prey to habitual indolence, 
and that I should relapse into my former state of apathy and disease. 
CHAPTER IX. 
I remember to have heard, in some prologue to a tragedy, that the tide of pity 
and of love, whilst it overwhelms, fertilizes the soul. That it may deposit the 
seeds of future fertilization, I believe; but some time must elapse before they 
germinate: on the first retiring of the tide the prospect is barren and 
desolate. I was absolutely inert, and almost imbecile for a considerable time, 
after the extraordinary stimulus, by which I had been actuated, was withdrawn. I 
was in this state of apathy, when the rebellion broke out in Ireland; nor was I 
roused in the least by the first news of the disturbances; the intelligence, 
however, so much alarmed my English servants, that, with one accord, they left 
me; nothing could persuade them to remain longer in Ireland. The parting with my 
English gentleman affected my lethargic selfishness a little. His loss would 
have been grievous to such a helpless being as I was, had not his place been 
immediately supplied by that half-witted Irishman, Joe Kelly, who had 
ingratiated himself with me by a mixture of drollery and simplicity, and by 
suffering himself to be continually my laughing stock, at the same time when, in 
imitation of Lady Geraldine, I thought it necessary to have a butt. I remember 
he first caught my notice by a strange answer to a very simple question. I 
asked, "What noise is that I hear?"———"My lard," said he, "it is only the 
singing in my ears; I have had it these six months." This fellow, the son of a 
brick-layer, had originally been intended for a priest, and he went, as he told 
me to the College of Maynooth, to study his humanities; but, unluckily, the 
charms of some Irish Heloise came between him and the altar. He lived in a cabin 
on love, till he was weary of his smoke-dried Heloise, and then thought it 
convanient to turn sarving man, as he could play on the flute, and brush a coat 
remarkably well, which he larned at Maynooth, by brushing the coats of the 
superiors. Though he was willing to be laughed at, Joe Kolly could in his turn 
laugh; and he now ridiculed, without mercy, the pusillanimity of the English 
renegadoes, as he called the servants who had just left my service. He assured 
me that, to his knowledge, there was no manner of danger, except a man prefarred 
being afraid of his own shadow, which some did, rather than have nothing to talk 
of, or enter into resolutions about, with some of the spirited men in the chair. 

Unwilling to be disturbed, I readily believed all that lulled me in my security. 
I would not be at the trouble of reading the public papers, and when they were 
read to me, I did not credit any paragraph that militated against my own 
opinion. Nothing could awaken me. I remember, one day, lying yawning on my sofa, 
repeating to Mr. M'Leod, who endeavoured to open my eyes to the situation of the 
country, 
"Pshaw, my dear sir; there is no danger, be assured———none at all———none at all. 
For mercy's sake! talk to me of something more diverting, if you would keep me 
awake; time enough to think of these things, when they come nearer to us." 
Evils that were not immediately near me had no power to affect my imagination. 
My tenantry had not yet been contaminated by the epidemic infection, which broke 
out soon after with such violence, as to threaten the total destruction of all 
civil order. I had lived in England———I was unacquainted with the causes and the 
progress of the disease, and I had no notion of my danger; all I knew was, that 
some houses had been robbed of arms, and that there was a set of desperate 
wretches, called defenders; but I was annoyed only by the rout that was now made 
about them. Having been used to the regular course of justice, which prevailed 
in England, I was more shocked at the summary proceedings of my neighbours, than 
alarmed at the symptoms of insurrection. Whilst my mind was in this mood, I was 
provoked by the conduct of some of the violent party, which wounded my personal 
pride, and infringed upon my imagined consequence. My foster-brother's forge was 
searched for pikes, his house ransacked, his bed and bellows, as possible 
hiding-places, were cut open; by accident, or from private malice, he received a 
shot in his arm, and, though not the slightest cause of suspicion could be found 
against him, the party left him with a broken arm, and the consolation of not 
being sent to jail as a defender. Without making any allowance for the peculiar 
circumstances of the country, my indignation was excited in the extreme, by the 
injury done to my foster-brother; his sufferings, the tears of his mother, the 
taunts of Mr., now Captain Hardcastle, and the opposition made by his party, 
called forth all the faculties of my mind and body. The poor fellow, who was the 
subject of this contest, showed the best disposition imaginable; he was 
excessively grateful to me for interesting myself to get him justice; but as 
soon as he found that parties ran high against me, he earnestly dissuaded me 
from persisting. 
"Let it drop, and plase your honour; my lord, let it drop, and don't be making 
of yourself inimies for the likes of me. Sure, what signifies my arm; and, 
before the next assizes, sha'n't I be as well as ever, arm and all," continued 
he, trying to appear to move the arm without pain. "And there's the new bellows 
your honour has give me; it does my heart good to look at 'em, and it won't be 
long before I will be blowing them again as stout as ever; and so God bless your 
honour, my lord, and think no more about it———let it drop entirely, and don't be 
bringing yourself into trouble." 
"Ay, don't be bringing yourself into trouble, dear," added Ellinor, who seemed 
half-distracted between her feelings for her son, and her fears for me; "it's a 
shame to think of the way they've treated Christy——— but there's no help now, 
and it's best not to be making bad worse; and so, as Christy says, let the thing 
drop, jewel, and don't be bringing yourself into trouble; you don't know the 
natur of them people, dear———you are too innocent for them entirely, and myself 
does not know the mischief they might do yees." 
"True for ye [Note: Too true!]," pursued Christy; "I wouldn't for the best cow 
ever I see, that your honour ever larn't a sentence about me or my arm; and it 
is not for such as we to be minding every little accident———so God lend you long 
life, and don't be plaguing yourself to death; let it drop, and I'll sleep well 
the night, which I did not do the week, for thinking of all the trouble you got, 
and would get, God presarve ye." 
This generous fellow's eloquence produced an effect directly contrary to what 
was intended; both my feelings and my pride were now more warmly interested in 
his cause. I insisted upon his swearing examinations before Mr. M'Leod, who was 
a justice of the peace. Mr. M'Leod behaved with the utmost steadiness and 
impartiality; and in this trying moment, when "it was infamy to seem my friend," 
he defended my conduct calmly but resolutely, in private and in public, and gave 
this unequivocal testimony, in few but decided words, in favour of my injured 
tenant. I should have respected Mr. M'Leod more, if I had not attributed this 
conduct to his desire of being returned for one of my boroughs at the 
approaching election. He endeavoured with persevering goodness, to convince me 
of the reality of the danger in the country. My eyes were with much difficulty 
forced open so far as to perceive, that it was necessary to take an active part 
in public affairs to vindicate my loyalty, and to do away the prejudices that 
were entertained against me; nor did my incredulity, as to the magnitude of the 
peril, prevent me from making exertions essential to the defence of my own 
character, if not to that of the nation. How few act from purely patriotic and 
rational motives! At all events I acted, and acted with energy; and certainly at 
this period of my life I felt no ennui. Party spirit is an effectual cure for 
ennui; and, perhaps, it is for this reason, that so many are addicted to its 
intemperance. All my passions were roused, and my mind and body kept in 
continual activity. I was either galloping, or haranguing, or fearing, or 
hoping, or fighting; and so long as it was said, that I could not sleep in my 
bed, I slept remarkably well, and never had so good an appetite, as when I was 
in hourly danger of having nothing to eat. The rebels were up, and the rebels 
were down———and Lord Glenthorn's spirited conduct in the chair, and 
indefatigable exertions in the field, were the theme of daily eulogium amongst 
my convivial companions and immediate dependants. But, unfortunately, my sudden 
activity gained me no credit amongst the violent party of my neighbours, who 
persisted in their suspicions; and my reputation was now still more injured, by 
the alternate charge of being a trimmer or a traitor. Nay, I was further exposed 
to another danger, of which, from my ignorance of the country, I could not 
possibly be aware. The disaffected themselves, as I afterwards found, really 
believed, that, as I had not begun by persecuting the poor, I must be a favourer 
of the rebels; and all that I did to bring the guilty to justice, they thought 
was only to give a colour to the thing, till the proper moment should come for 
my declaring myself. Of this absurd and perverse mode of judging I had not the 
slightest conception; and I only laughed when it was hinted to me. My treating 
the matter so lightly confirmed suspicion on both sides. At this time all 
objects were so magnified and distorted by the mist of prejudice, that no 
inexperienced eye could judge of their real proportions. Neither party could 
believe the simple truth, that my tardiness to act arose from the habitual 
inertia to my mind and body. 
Whilst prepossessions were thus strong, the time, the important time, in Ireland 
the most important season of the year, the assizes, arrived. My foster-brother's 
cause, or, as it was now generally called, Lord Glenthorn's cause, came on to be 
tried. I spared no expense, I spared no exertions: I feed the ablest counsel; 
and not content with leaving them to be instructed by my attorney, I explained 
the affair to them myself with indefatigable zeal. One of the lawyers, whom I 
had seen, or by whom I had been seen, in my former inert state of existence, at 
some watering-place in England, could not refrain from expressing his 
astonishment at my change of character: he could scarcely believe that I was the 
same Lord Glenthorn, of whose indolence and ennui he had formerly heard and seen 
so much. 
Alas! all my activity, all my energy, on the present occasion, proved 
ineffectual. After a dreadful quantity of false swearing, the jury professed 
themselves satisfied; and, without retiring from the box, acquitted the persons 
who had assaulted my foster-brother. The mortification of this legal defeat was 
not all that I had to endure; the victorious party mobbed me, as I passed some 
time afterwards through a neighbouring town, where Captain Hardcastle and his 
friends had been arousing. I was hooted, and pelted, and narrowly escaped with 
my life. I who, but a few months ago, had imagined myself possessed of nearly 
despotic power: but opinions had changed; and, on opinion, almost all power is 
founded. No individual, unless he possesses uncommon eloquence, joined to 
personal intrepidity, can withstand the combination of numbers, and the force of 
prejudice. 
Such was the result of my first public exertions! Yet I was now happier and 
better satisfied with myself than I had ever been before. I was not only 
conscious of having acted in a manly and generous manner; but the alarms of the 
rebels, and of the French, and of the loyalists; and the parading, and the 
galloping, and the quarrelling, and the continual agitation in which I was kept, 
whilst my character and life were at stake, relieved me effectually from the 
intolerable burden of ennui. 
CHAPTER X. 
Unfortunately for me, the rebellion in Ireland was soon quelled; the nightly 
scouring of our county ceased; the poor people returned to their duty and their 
homes; the occupation of upstart and ignorant associators ceased, and their 
consequence sunk at once. Things and persons settled to their natural level. The 
influence of men of property, and birth, and education, and character, once more 
prevailed. The spirit of party ceased to operate: my neighbours wakened, as if 
from a dream, and wondered at the strange injustice, with which I had been 
treated.——— Those who had lately been my combined enemies were disunited, and 
each was eager to assure me, that he had always been privately my friend, but 
that he was compelled to conceal his sentiments: each exculpated himself, and 
threw the blame on others: all apologized to me, and professed to be my most 
devoted humble servants. My popularity, my power, and my prosperity, were now at 
their zenith, unfortunately for me: because my adversity had not lasted long 
enough to form and season my character. I had been driven to exertion by a 
mixture of pride and generosity: my understanding being uncultivated, I had 
acted from the virtuous impulse of the moment, but never from rational motive, 
which alone can be permanent in its operation. When the spur of the occasion 
pressed upon me no longer, I relapsed into my former inactivity. When the great 
interests and strong passions, by which I had been impelled to exertion, 
subsided, all other feelings, and all less objects, seemed stale, flat, and 
unprofitable. For the tranquillity, which I was now left to enjoy, I had no 
taste; it appeared to me a dead calm, most spiritless and melancholy. 
I remember hearing, some years afterwards, a Frenchman, who had been in imminent 
danger of being guillotined by Robespierre, and who, at last, was one of those 
who arrested the tyrant, declare, that when the bustle and horrour of the 
revolution were over, he could hardly keep himself awake; and that he thought it 
very insipid to live in quiet with his wife and family. He further summed up the 
catalogue of Robespierre's crimes, by exclaiming, "d'ailleurs c'etoit ungrand 
philantrope!" I am not conscious of any disposition to cruelty, and I heard this 
man's speech with disgust; yet, upon a candid self-examination, I must confess, 
that I have felt, though from different causes, some degree of what he 
described. Perhaps ennui may have had a share in creating revolutions. A French 
author pronounces ennui to be "a moral indigestion, caused by a monotony of 
situations!" 
I had no wife or family to make domestic life agreeable; nor was I inclined to a 
second marriage, my first had proved so unfortunate, and the recollection of my 
disappointment with Lady Geraldine was so recent. Even the love of power no 
longer acted upon me: my power was now undisputed. My jealousy and suspicions of 
my agent, Mr. M'Leod, were about this time completely conquered, by his 
behaviour at a general election. I perceived, that he had no underhand design 
upon my boroughs; and that he never attempted or wished to interfere in my 
affairs, except at my particular desire. My confidence in him became absolute 
and unbounded; but this was really a misfortune to me, for it became the cause 
of my having still less to do. I gave up all business, and from all manner of 
trouble I was now free: yet I became more and more unhappy, and my nervous 
complaints returned. I was not aware, that I was taking the very means to 
increase my own disease. The philosophical Dr. Cullen observes, that 
"Whatever aversion to application of any kind may appear in hypochondriacs, 
there is nothing more pernicious to them than absolute idleness, or a vacancy 
from all earnest pursuit. It is owing to wealth admitting of indolence, and 
leading to the pursuit of transitory and unsatisfying amusements, or exhausting 
pleasures only, that the present times exhibit to us so many instances of 
hypochondriacism." 
I fancied that change of air and change of place would do me good; and, as it 
was fine summer weather, I projected various parties of pleasure. The Giant's 
Causeway, and the Lake of Killarney, were the only things I had ever heard 
mentioned as worth seeing in Ireland. I suffered myself to be carried into the 
county of Antrim, and I saw the Giant's Causeway. From the description given by 
Dr. Hamilton of some of these wonders of nature, the reader may judge how much I 
ought to have been astonished and delighted. 
In the bold promontory of Bengore, you behold, as you look up from the sea, a 
gigantic colonnade of basaltes, supporting a black mass of irregular rock, over 
which rises another range of pillars, "forming altogether a perpendicular height 
of one hundred and seventy feet, from the base of which the promontory, covered 
over with rock and grass, slopes down to the sea, for the space of two hundred 
feet more; making, in all, a mass of near four hundred feet in height, which, in 
the beauty and variety of its colouring, in elegance and novelty of arrangement, 
and in the extraordinary magnificence of its objects, cannot be rivalled." 
Yet I was seized with a fit of yawning, as I sat in my pleasure-boat, to admire 
this sublime spectacle. I looked at my watch, observed that we should be late 
for dinner, and grew impatient to be rowed back to the place where we were to 
dine: not that I was hungry, but I wanted to be again set in motion. Neither 
science nor taste expanded my view; and I saw nothing worthy of my admiration, 
or capable of giving me pleasure. The watching a straw floating down the tide 
was the only amusement I recollect to have enjoyed upon this excursion. 
I was assured, however, by Lady Ormsby, that I could not help being enchanted 
with the lake of Killarney. The party was arranged by this lady, who, having the 
preceding summer seen me captivated by Lady Geraldine, and pitying my 
disappointment, had formed the obliging design of restoring my spirits, and 
marrying me to one of her near relations. She calculated, that, as I had been 
charmed by Lady Geraldine's vivacity, I must be enchanted with the fine spirits 
of Lady Jocunda Lawler. So far were the thoughts of marriage from my 
imagination, I only was sorry to find a young lady smuggled into our party, 
because I was afraid she would be troublesome: but I resolved to be quite 
passive upon all occasions, where attentions to the fair sex are sometimes 
expected. 
My arm, or my hand, or my assistance, in any manner, I was determined not to 
offer: the lounging indifference, which some fashionable young men affect 
towards ladies, I really felt; and, besides, nobody minds unmarried women! This 
fashion was most convenient to my indolence. In my state of torpor I was not, 
however, long left in peace. Lady Jocunda was a high-bred romp, who made it a 
rule to say and do whatever she pleased. In a hundred indirect ways I was called 
upon to admire her charming spirits. 
I hated to be called upon to admire any thing. The rattling voice, loud 
laughter, flippant wit, and hoyden gaiety of Lady Jocunda, disgusted me beyond 
expression. A thousand times on the journey I wished myself quietly asleep in my 
own castle. Arrived at Killarney, such blowing of horns, such boating, such 
seeing of prospects, such prosing of guides, all telling us what to admire. Then 
such exclamations, and such clambering. I was walked and talked till I was half 
dead. I wished the rocks, and the hanging woods, and the glens, and the 
water-falls, and the arbutus, and the myrtles, and the upper and lower lakes, 
and the islands, and Mucruss, and Mucruss Abbey, and the purple mountain, and 
the eagle's nest, and the grand Turk, and the lights, and the shades, 
and the echoes, and, above all, the Lady Jocunda, fairly at the devil. 
A nobleman in the neighbourhood had the politeness to invite us to see a stag 
hunt upon the water. The account of this diversion, which I had met with in my 
guide to the lakes [Note: The stag is roused, from the woods that skirt Glenaa 
mountain, in which there are many of these animals that run wild; the bottoms 
and sides of the mountains are covered with woods, and the deellvities are so 
long and steep, that no horse could either make his way to the bottom, or climb, 
these impracticable hills. It is impossible to follow the hunt, either by land 
or on horseback. The spectator enjoys the diversion on the lake, where the cry 
of hounds, the harmony of the horn, resounding from the hills on every side, the 
universal shouts of joy along the valleys and mountains, which are often lined 
with foot people, who come in vast numbers to partake and assist at the 
diversion, roecho from hill to hill, and give the highest glee and satisfaction, 
that the imagination can conceive possible to arise from the chase, and perhaps 
can nowhere be enjoyed with that spirit and sublime elevation of soul, that a 
thorough bred sportsman feels at a stag-hunt on the lake of Killarney. There is, 
however, one imminent danger, which awaits him, that in his raptures and 
ecstasies he may forget himself, and jump out of the boat. When hotly pursued, 
and weary with the constant difficulty of making his way with his ramified 
antlers through the woods, the stag, terrified by the cry of his open-mouthed 
pursuers, almost at his heels, now looks towards the lake as his last 
resource———then pauses and looks upwards; but the hills are insurmountable, and 
the woods refuse to shelter him———the hounds roar with redoubled fury at the 
sight of their victim———he plunges into the lake. He escapes but for a few 
minutes from one merciless enemy to fall into the hands of another——— the 
shouting boatmen surround their victim, throw cords round his majestic 
antlers———he is haltered and dragged to shore; while the big tears roll down his 
face, and his heaving sides and panting flanks speak his agonies, the keen 
searching knife drinks his blood, and savages exult at his expiring groan.], 
promised well. I consented to stay another day: that day I really was revived by 
this spectacle, for it was new. The sublime and the beautiful had no charms for 
me: novelty was the only power, that could waken me from my lethargy; perhaps 
there was in this spectacle something more than novelty. The Romans had recourse 
to shows of wild beasts and gladiators to relieve their ennui. At all events, I 
was kept awake this whole morning, though I cannot say, that I felt in such 
ecstasies, as to be in any imminent danger of jumping out of the boat. 
Of our journey back from Killarney I remember nothing, but my being discomfited 
by Lady Jocunda's practical jests and overpowering gayety. When she addressed 
herself to me, my answers were as constrained and as concise as possible; and, 
as I was afterwards told, I seemed, at the close of my reply to each 
interrogative of her ladyship's, to answer with Oden's prophetess, 
"Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me to repose." This she never did 
till we parted; and at that moment, I believe, my satisfaction appeared so 
visible, that Lady Ormsby gave up all hopes of me. Arrived at my own castle, I 
threw myself on my bed quite exhausted. I took three hours' additional sleep 
every day, for a week, to recruit my strength, and rest my nerves, after all 
that I had been made to suffer by this young lady's prodigious animal spirits. 
CHAPTER XI. 
I could now boast that I had travelled all over Ireland, from north to south, 
but, in fact, I had seen nothing of the country, or of its inhabitants. In these 
commodious parties of pleasure, every thing had been provided to prevent the 
obstacles, that roused my faculties. Accustomed by this time to the Hibernian 
tone, I fancied that I knew all that could be known of the Irish character; 
familiarized with the comic expressions of the lower class of people, they 
amused me no longer. On this journey, however, I recollect making one 
observation, and once laughing at what I thought a practical bull. We saw a 
number of labourers at work in a bog, on a very hot day, with a fire lighted 
close to them. When I afterwards mentioned, before Mr. M'Leod, the circumstance 
by which I had been so much amused, he informed me, that the Irish labourers 
often light fires, that the smoke may drive away or destroy those myriads of 
tiny insects, called midges, by which they are often tormented so much, that, 
without this remedy, they would, in hot and damp weather, be obliged to abandon 
their work. Had I been sufficiently active during my journey to pen a journal, I 
should certainly, without further inquiry, have noted down, that the Irish 
labourers always light fires in the hottest weather to cool themselves, and thus 
I should have added one more to the number of cursory travellers, who expose 
their own ignorance, whilst they attempt to ridicule local customs, of which 
they have not inquired the cause or discovered the utility. 
A foreigner, who has lately written letters on England, has given a laughable 
instance of this promptitude of misapprehension. 
He says, he had heard much of the venality of British parliament, but he had no 
idea of the degree to which it extended, till he actually was an eye-witness of 
the scene. The moment the minister entered the house, all the members ran about 
exclaiming, Places! places! which means, Give us places———give us places. 
My heavy indolence fortunately preserved me from exposing myself, like these 
volatile tourists. I was at least secure from the danger of making mistakes in 
telling what I never saw. 
As to the mode of living of the Irish, their domestic comforts, or grievances; 
their habits and opinions; their increasing or decreasing ambition to better 
their condition; the proportion between the population and the quantity of land 
cultivated, or capable of cultivation; the difference between the profits of the 
husbandman and the artificer; the relation between the nominal wages of labour, 
and the actual command over the necessaries of life: these were questions wholly 
foreign to my thoughts, and, at this period of my life, absolutely beyond the 
range of my understanding. I had travelled through my own country, without 
making even a single remark upon the various degrees of industry and 
civilization visible in different parts of the kingdom. In fact, it never 
occurred to me, that it became a British nobleman to have some notion of the 
general state of that empire, in the legislation of which he has a share; nor 
had I the slightest suspicion, that political economy was a study requisite or 
suitable to my rank in life or situation in society. Satisfied with having seen 
all that is worth seeing in Ireland, the Giant's Causeway and the Lake of 
Killarney, I was now impatient to return to England. During the rebellion, I 
could not, with honour, desert my post; but now that tranquillity was apparently 
restored, I determined to quit a country, of which my partial knowledge had in 
every respect been unfortunate. This resolution of mine to leave Ireland threw 
Ellinor into despair, and she used all her eloquence to dissuade me from the 
journey. I was quite surprised by the agony of grief, into which she was thrown 
by the dread of my departure. I felt astonished, that one human being could be 
so much attached to another, and I really envied her sensibility. My new man, 
Joe Kelly, also displayed much reluctance at the thoughts of leaving his native 
country; and this sentiment inclined Ellinor to think more favourably of him, 
though she could not quite forgive him for being a Kelly of Ballymuddy. By 
various petty attentions, this man contrived to persuade me of the sincerity of 
his attachment: chiefly by the art of appearing to be managed by me in all 
things, he insensibly obtained power over my pride; and, by saving me daily 
trouble, secured considerable influence over my indolence. More than any one 
whom I had ever seen, he had the knack of seeming half-witted: too simple to 
overreach, and yet sufficiently acute and droll to divert his master. I liked to 
have him about me, as uncultivated kings like to have their fools. One of our 
ancient monarchs is said to have given three parishes to his joculator; I gave 
only three farms to mine. I had a sort of mean pride in making my favourite an 
object of envy: besides, I fell into the common mistake of the inexperienced 
great, who fancy that attachment can be purchased, and that gratitude can be 
secured, by favours disproportioned to deserts. Joe Kelly, by sundry manoeuvres 
too minute for description, contrived to make me delay, from day to day, the 
preparations for my journey to England. From week to week it was put off, till 
the autumn was far advanced. At length Kelly had nothing left to suggest, but 
that it would be best to wait for answers from my English steward, to the 
letters, that had been written to inquire whether every thing was ready for my 
reception. During this interval, I avoided every human creature (except Joe 
Kelly), and was in great danger of becoming a misanthrope from mere indolence. I 
did not hate my fellow-creatures, but I dreaded the trouble of talking to them. 
My only recreation, at this period, was sauntering out in the evening beside the 
sea shore. It was my regular practice to sit down upon a certain large stone, at 
the foot of a rock, to watch the ebbing of the tide. There was something in the 
contemplation of the sea and of the tides, which was fascinating to my mind. I 
could sit and look at the ocean whole hours together; for, without any exertion 
of my own, I beheld a grand operation of nature, accompanied with a sort of vast 
monotony of motion and sound, which lulled me into reverie. 
Late one evening, as I was seated on my accustomed stone, my attention was 
slightly diverted from the sea by the sight of a man descending the cragg above 
me, in rather a perilous manner. With one end of rope coiled round his body, and 
the other fastened to a stake driven into the summit of the rock, he let himself 
half way down the terrible height. One foot now rested on a projecting point, 
one hand held the rope, and hanging thus midway in the air, he seemed busy 
searching in the crevices of the rock for the eggs of water fowl. This dangerous 
trade I had seen frequently plied on this coast, so that I should scarcely have 
regarded the man, if he had not turned, from time to time, as if to watch me. 
When he saw that he had fixed my eye, he threw down, as I thought, a white 
stone, which fell nearly at my feet. I stooped to examine it; the man waited 
till he saw it in my hands, then coiled himself swiftly up his rope to the 
summit of the rock, and quickly disappeared. I found a paper tied round the 
stone, and on this paper, in a hand-writing that seemed to be feigned, was 
written these words:——— "Your life and caracter, one or t'other——— say both, is 
in denger. Don't be walking here any more late in the evening, near them caves, 
nor don't go near the old abbey any time———And don't be trusting to Joe Kelly 
any way———Lave the kingdom entirely; the wind sarves. 
"So prays your true well-wisher. 
P. S. "Lave the castle the morrow, and say nothing of this to Joe Kelly, or 
you'll repent when it's all over wid you." 
I was startled a little by this letter at first, but in half an hour I relapsed 
into my apathy. Many gentlemen in the country had received anonymous letters: I 
had been tired of hearing of them during the rebellion. This, I thought, might 
be only a quiz, or a trick to hurry me out of the kingdom, contrived-by some of 
those who desired my absence. In short, the labour of thinking about the matter 
fatigued me. I burned the letter as soon as I got home, and resolved not to 
puzzle or plague myself about it any more. My steward's answer came the next 
morning from England: Kelly made no difficulty, when I ordered him to be ready 
to set out in three days. This confirmed me in my opinion, that the letter was 
malicious, or a jest. Mr. M'Leod came to take leave of me. I mentioned the 
circumstance to him slightly, and in general terms: he looked very serious, and 
said——— "All these things are little in themselves, but are to be heeded, as 
marking the unsettled minds of the people———straws, that show which way the wind 
blows. I apprehend we shall have a rough winter again, though we have had so 
still a summer. The people about us are too hush and too prudent———it is not 
their natures———there's something contriving among them: they don't break one 
another's heads at fairs as they used to do; they keep from whiskey; there must 
be some strong motive working this change upon them ———good or bad, 'tis hard to 
say which. My lord, if we consider the condition of these poor people, and if we 
consider the causes———" 
"Oh! for Heaven's sake, do not let us consider any more about it now; I am more 
than half asleep already," said I, yawning, "and our considering about it can do 
no good, to me at least; for you know I am going out of the kingdom; and when I 
am gone, M'Leod, you, in whom I have implicit confidence, must manage as you 
always used to do, you know, and as well as you can." 
"True," said M'Leod calmly, "that is what I shall do, indubitably; for that is 
my duty; and, since your lordship has implicit confidence in me, my pleasure. I 
wish your lordship a good night and a good journey." 
"I shall not set out in the morning———not till the day after to morrow, I 
believe," said I, "for I feel consumedly tired to night: they have plagued me 
about so many things to day; so much business always before one can get away 
from a place; and then Joe Kelly has no head." 
"Have a care he has not too much head, my lord, as your anonymous correspondent 
hints———he may be right there———I told you from the first I would not go 
security for his honesty; and where there is not strict honesty, I conceive 
there ought not to be implicit confidence." 
"O, hang it! as to honesty, they are none of them honest; I know that: but would 
you have me plague myself till I find a strictly honest servant? Joe's as honest 
as his neighbours, I dare say: the fellow diverts me, and is attached to me, and 
that's all I can expect. I must submit to be cheated, as all men of large 
fortunes are, more or less." 
Mr. M'Leod listened with stubborn patience, and replied, That if I thought it 
necessary to submit to be cheated, he could make no objection, except where it 
might come under his cognizance, and then he must take the liberty to 
remonstrate, or to give up his agency to some of the many, who could play the 
part better than he could of the dog in the fable, pretending to guard his 
master's meat. 
The cold ungracious integrity of this man, even in my own cause, at once excited 
my spleen, and commanded my respect. After shaking my leg as I sat for two 
minutes in silence, I called after M'Leod, who moved towards the door, 
"Why, what can I do, Mr. M'Leod? What would you have me do? Now, don't give me 
one of your dry answers, but let me have your notions as a friend: you know, 
M'Leod, I cannot help having the most perfect confidence in you." 
He bowed, but rather stiffly. 
"I am proud to hear you cannot help that, my lord," said he. "As to a friend, I 
never considered myself upon that footing till now: but as you at present honour 
me so far as to ask my counsel, I am free to give it. Part with Joe Kelly to 
night; and whether you go or stay, you are safer without him. Joe's a rogue: he 
can do no good, and may do harm." 
"Then," said I, "you really are frightened by this anonymous letter?" 
"Cannot a man take prudent precautions without he is frightened?" said M'Leod. 
"But have you any particular reason to believe———in short to———to think, there 
can be any real danger of my life?" 
"No particular reason, my lord; but the general reasons I have mentioned, the 
symptoms among the common people lead me to apprehend there may be fresh risings 
of the people soon, and you, as a man of fortune and rank, must be in danger. 
Captain Hard-castle says, that he has had informations of seditious meetings; 
but he being a prejudiced man, I don't trust altogether to what he says." 
"Trust altogether to what he says!" exclaimed I: "no, surely; for my part, I do 
not trust a word he says: and his giving it as his opinion, that the people are 
ill-inclined, would decide me to believe the exact contrary." 
"It would hardly be safe to judge that way either," said M'Leod; "for that 
method of judging by contraries might make another's folly the master of one's 
own sense." 
"I don't comprehend you now. Safe way of judging or not, Captain Hardcastle's 
opinion shall never lead mine. When I asked for your advice, Mr. M'Leod, it was 
because I have a respect for your understanding; but I cannot defer to Captain 
Hardcastle's. I am now decided in my own opinion, that the people in this 
neighbourhood are perfectly well disposed: and as to this anonymous letter, it 
is a mere trick, depend upon it, my good sir. I am surprised that a man of your 
capacity should be the dupe of such a thing. I should not be surprised if 
Hardcastle himself, or some of his people, wrote it." 
"I should," said M'Leod, coolly. 
"You should!" cried I, warmly. "Why so? And why do you pronounce so decidedly, 
my good friend? Have not I the same means of judging as you have? unless, 
indeed, you have some private reason with which I am unacquainted. Perhaps," 
cried I, starting half up from the sofa on which I lay, charmed with a bright 
idea, which had just struck me, "perhaps, M'Leod, you wrote the letter yourself 
for a jest. Did you?" 
"That's a question, my lord," said M'Leod, growing suddenly red, and snatching 
up his hat with a quicker motion than I ever saw from him before, "That's 
question, my lord, which I must take leave not to answer: a question, give me 
leave to add, my Lord Glenthorn," continued he, speaking in a broader Scotch 
accent than I had ever heard from him before, "which I should knock my equal 
doon for putting to me. A M'Leod, my lord, in jest or in earnest, would scorn to 
write to any man breathing that letter, to which he would not put his name: and 
more, a M'Leod would scorn to write or to say that thing, to which he ought not 
to put his name. Your humble servant, my Lord Glenthorn," said he, and, making a 
hasty bow, departed. 
I called after him, and even followed him to the head of the stairs, to explain 
and apologize; but in vain: I never saw him angry before. 
"It's very weel, my lord, it's very weel; if you say you meant nothing 
offensive, it's very weel; but, if you think fit, my lord, we will sleep upon it 
before we talk any more. I am a wee bit warmer than I could wish, and your 
lordship has the advantage of me, in being cool. A M'Leod is apt to grow warm, 
when he's touched on the point of honour; and there's no wisdom in talking when 
a man's not his own master." 
"My good friend," said I, seizing his hand as he was buttoning up his coat, "I 
like you the better for this warmth: but I won't let you sleep upon your wrath: 
you must shake hands with me before that hall-door is opened to you." 
"Then so I do, for there's no standing against this frankness: and to be as 
frank with you, my lord, I was wrong myself to be so testy———I ask pardon too. A 
M'Leod never thought it a disgrace to crave a pardon when he was wrong." 
We shook hands, and parted better friends than ever. I spoke the exact truth 
when I said, that I liked him the better for his warmth: his anger wakened me, 
and gave me something to think of, and some emotion for a few minutes. Joe Kelly 
presently afterwards came, with the simplest face imaginable, to inquire what I 
had determined about the journey. 
"To put it off till the day after to morrow," said I. "Light me to bed." 
He obeyed, but observed, that "it was not his fault now if there was 
puttings-off; for his share every thing was ready, and he was willing and ready 
to follow me, at a moment's warning, to the world's end, as he had a good right 
to do, let alone inclination; for, parting me, he could never be right in 
himself; and though loth to part his country, he had rather part that nor [Note: 
Than] me." 
Then, without dwelling upon these expressions of attachment, he changed to a 
merry mood, and, by his drolleries, diverted me all the time I was going to bed, 
and at last fairly talked me asleep. 
CHAPTER XII. 
When the first gray light of morning began to make objects indistinctly visible, 
I thought I saw the door of my apartment open very softly. I was broad awake, 
and kept my eyes fixed upon it———it opened by very slow degrees; my head was so 
full of visions, that I expected a ghost to enter———but it was only Ellinor. 
"Ellinor," cried I, "is it you, at this time in the morning?" 
"Hush! hush!" said she, shutting the door with great precaution, and then coming 
on tiptoe close to my bed-side; "for the love of God speak softly, and make no 
stir to wake them that's asleep near and too near you. It's unknown to all that 
I come up; for, may be, when them people are awake and about, I might not get 
the opportunity to speak, or they might guess I knew something by my looks." 
Her looks were full of terrour———I was all amazement and expectation. Before she 
would say a word more, she searched the closets carefully, and looked behind the 
tapestry, as if she apprehended that she might be overheard; satisfied that we 
were alone, she went on speaking, but still in a voice that, with my utmost 
strained attention, I could but just hear. 
"As you hope to live and breathe," said she, "never go again, after nightfall, 
any time walking in that lone place by the sea-shore. It's a mercy you escaped 
as you did, but if you go again you'll never come back alive———for never would 
they get you to do what they want, and to be as wicked as themselves———the 
wicked villains!" 
"Who?" said I———"What wicked villains? I do not understand you; are you in your 
right senses?" 
"That I am, and wish you was as much in yours; but it's time yet, by the 
blessing of God! What wicked villains am I talking of? Of three hundred that 
have sworn to make you their captain, or, in case you refuse, to have your life 
this night. What villains am I talking of? Of him, the wickedest of all, who is 
now living in the very house with you, that is now lying in the very next room 
to you." 
"Joe Kelly?" 
"That same———from the first minute I saw him in the castle, I should have hated 
him, but for his causing you to put off the journey to England. I never could 
abide him; but that blinded me, or I am sure I would have found him out long 
ago." 
"And what have you found out concerning him?" 
"That he is (speaking very low) a united man, and stirring up the rubbles again 
here; and they have their meetings at night in the great cave, where the 
smugglers used to hide formerly, under the big rock, opposite the old 
abbey———and there's a way up into the abbey, that you used to be so fond of 
walking to, dear." 
"Good Heavens! can this be true!" 
"True it is, and too true, dear." 
"But how did you find all this out, Ellinor?" 
"It was none of I found it, nor ever could any such things have come into my 
head———but it pleased God to make the discovery of all by one of the 
childer———my own grandson———the boy you gave the gun to, long and long ago, to 
shoot them rabbits. He was after a hare yesterday, and it took him a chase over 
that mountain, and down it went and took shelter in the cave, and in went the 
boy after it, and as he was groping about, he lights on an old great coat, and 
if he did he brought it home with him, and was showing it, as I was boiling the 
potatoes for their dinner yesterday, to his father forenent me, and turning the 
pockets inside out, what should come up but the broken head of a pike; then he 
sarches in the other pocket, and finds a paper written all over———I could not 
read it——— thank God, I never could read none of them wicked things, nor could 
the boy———by very great luck he could not, being no scholar, or it would be all 
over the country before this." 
"Well, well! but what was in the paper after all? Did any body read it?" 
"Ay, did they———that is, Christy read it——— none but Christy———but he would not 
tell us what was in it———but said it was no matter, and he'd not be wasting his 
time reading an old song———so we thought no more, and he sent the boy up to the 
castle with a bill for smith's work, as soon as we had cat the potatoes, and I 
thought no more about any thing's being going wrong, no more than a child; and 
in the evening Christy said he must go to the funeral of a neighbour, and should 
not be home till early in the morning, may be; and it's not two hours since he 
came home and wakened me, and told me where he had been, which was not to the 
funeral at all, but to the cave where the coat was found; and he put the coat 
and the broken head of the pike, and the papers, all in the pockets, just as we 
found it in the cave———and the paper was a list of the names of them rubbles 
that met there, and a letter telling how they would make Lord Glenthorn their 
captain, or have his life; this was what made Christy to try and find out 
more———so he hid himself in a hole in the side of the cave, and built hisself up 
with rubbish, only just leaving a place for hisself to breathe———and there he 
staid till nightfall, and then on till midnight, God help us! So, sure enough, 
them villains all come filling fast into the cave. He had good courage, God 
bless him for it———but he always had———and there he heard and saw all——— and 
this was how they were talking:———First, one began by saying, how they must not 
be delaying longer to show themselves; they must make a rising in the 
country———then named the numbers in other parts that would join, and that they 
would not be put down so asy as afore, for they would have good leaders——— then 
some praised you greatly, and said they were sure you favoured them in your 
heart, by all the ill-will you got in the county the time of the last 'ruction. 
But, again, others said you was milk and water, and did not go far enough, and 
never would, and that it was not in you, and that you was a sleepy man, and not 
the true thing at all, and neither beef nor vael. Again, thim that were for you 
spoke and said you would show yourself soon———and the others made reply, and 
observed you must now spake out, or never spake more; you must either head 'em, 
or be tramped under foot along with the rest, so it did not signify talking, and 
Joey Kelly should not be fribbling any more about it; and it was a wonder, said 
they, he was not the night at the meeting. And what was this about your being 
going off for England———what would they do when you was gone, with M'Leod the 
Scotchman, to come in over them again agent, who was another guess sort of man 
from you, and never slept at all, and would scent 'em out, and have his corps 
after 'em, and that once M'Leod was master, there would be no making any head 
again his head; so, not to be tiring you too much with all they said, backward 
and forward, one that was a captain, or something that way, took the word, and 
bid 'em all hold their peace, for they did not know what they was talking on, 
and said that Joey Kelly and he had settled it all, and that the going to 
England was put off by Joe, and all a sham, and that when you would be walking 
out to morrow at nightfall, in those lone places by the sea-side or the abbey, 
he and Joe was to seize upon you, and when you would be coming back near the 
abbey, to have you down through the trap-door into the cave, and any way they 
would swear you to join and head them, and if you would not, out with you and 
shove you into the sea, and no more about it, for it would be give out you 
drown' yourself in a fit of the melancholic lunacy, which none would question, 
and it would be proved too you made away wid yourself, by your hat and gloves 
lying on the bank———Lord save us! What are you laughing at in that, when it is 
truth every word, and Joe Kelly was to find the body, after a great search. 
Well, again, say you would swear and join them, and head them, and do whatever 
they pleased, still that would not save you in the end, for they would quarrel 
with you at the first turn, because you would not be ruled by them as captain, 
and then they would shoot or pike you (God save the mark, dear), and give the 
castle to Joe Kelly, and the plunder all among 'em entirely. So it was all laid 
out, and they are all to meet in the cave to-morrow evening——— they will go 
along, bearing a funeral, seemingly, to the abbey ground. And now you know the 
whole truth, and the Lord preserve you! and what will be done? My poor head has 
no more power to think for you no more than an infant's, and I'm all in a 
tremble ever since I heard it, and afraid to meet any one lest they should see 
all in my face. Oh, what will become of yees now———they will be the death of 
you, whatever you do!" 
By the time she came to these last words, Ellinor's fears had so much 
overpowered her, that she cried and sobbed continually, repeating——— "What will 
be done now! What will be done! They'll surely be the death of you, whatever you 
do." As to me, the urgency of the danger wakened my faculties; I rose instantly, 
wrote a note to Mr. M'Leod, desiring to see him immediately on particular 
business. Lest my note should by any accident be intercepted or opened, I 
couched it in the most general and guarded terms, and added a request, that he 
would bring his last settlement of accounts with him; so that it was natural to 
suppose my business with him was of a pecuniary nature. I gradually quieted poor 
Ellinor by my own appearance of composure; I assured her, that we should take 
our measures so as to prevent all mischief ———thanked her for the timely warning 
she had given me———advised her to go home before she was observed, and charged 
her not to speak to any one this day of what had happened. I desired that as 
soon as she should see Mr. M'Leod coming through the porter's gate, she would 
send Christy after him to the castle, to get his bill paid; so that I might 
then, without exciting suspicion, talk to him in private, and we might learn 
from his own lips the particulars of what he saw and heard in the cavern. 
Ellinor returned home, promising to obey me exactly, especially as to my 
injunction of secrecy———to make sure of herself she said "she would go to bed 
straight, and have the rheumatism very bad all day, so as not to be in a way to 
talk to none who would call in." The note to M'Leod was dispatched by one of my 
grooms, and I was now left at full leisure to finish my morning's nap. 
Joe Kelly presented himself at the usual hour in my room; I turned my head away 
from him, and, in a sleepy tone, muttered that I had passed a bad night, and 
should breakfast in my own apartment. 
Some time afterwards Mr. M'Leod arrived, with an air of sturdy pride, and 
produced his accounts, of which I suffered him to talk, till the servant who 
waited upon us had left the room; I then explained the real cause of my sending 
for him so suddenly. I was rather vexed, that I could not produce in him, by my 
wonderful narrative, any visible signs of agitation or astonishment. He calmly 
observed——— "We are lucky to have so many hours of day-light before us. The 
first thing we have to do is to keep the old woman from talking." 
I answered for Ellinor. 
"Then the next thing is for me, who am a magistrate, to take the examinations of 
her son, and see if he will swear to the same that he says." 
Christy was summoned into our presence, and he came with his bill for smith's 
work done; so that the servants could have no suspicion of what was going 
forward. His examinations were taken and sworn to in a few minutes; his evidence 
was so clear and direct, that there was no possibility of doubting the truth. 
The only variation between his story and his mother's report to me was as to the 
numbers he had seen in the cavern——— her fears had turned thirteen into three 
hundred. 
Christy assured us, that there were but thirteen at this meeting, but that they 
said there were three hundred ready to join them. 
"You were a very bold fellow, Christy," said I, "to hazard yourself in the cave 
with these villains; if you had been found out in your hiding-place, they would 
have certainly murdered you." 
"True for me," said Christy; "but a man must die some way, please your honour; 
and where's the way I could die better? Sure, I could not but remember how good 
you was to me that time I was shot, and all you suffered for it! It would have 
been bad indeed if I would stay quiet, and let 'em murder you after all. No, no, 
Christy O'Donoghoe would not do that———any way. I hope, if there's to be any 
fighting, your honour would not wrong me so much as not to give me a 
blunderbush, and let me fight a bit along wid the rest for yees." 
"We are not come to that yet, my good fellow," said Mr. M'Leod, who went on 
methodically; "if you go on precipitately, you will spoil all. Go home to your 
forge, and work as usual, and leave the rest to us; and I promise, that you 
shall have your share if there is any fighting." 
Very reluctantly Christy obeyed. Mr. M'Leod then deliberately settled our plan 
of operations. I had a fishing-lodge at a little distance, and a pleasure-boat 
there: to this place M'Leod was to go, as if on a fishing-party with his nephew, 
a young man, who often went there to fish. They were to carry with them some 
yeomen in coloured clothes, as their attendants, and more were to come as their 
guests to dinner. At the lodge there was a small four-pounder, which had been 
frequently used in times of public rejoicing; a naval victory, announced in the 
papers of the day, afforded a plausible pretence for bringing it out. We were 
aware, that the rebels would be upon the watch, and therefore took every 
precaution to prevent their suspecting, that we had made any discovery. Our 
fishing-party was to let the mock-funeral pass them quietly, to ask some 
trifling questions, and to give money for pipes and tobacco. Towards evening the 
boat, with the four-pounder on board, was to come under shore, and at a signal 
given by me was to station itself opposite to the mouth of the cave. 
At the same signal a trusty man on the watch was to give notice to a party hid 
in the abbey, to secure the trap-door above. The signal was to be my presenting 
a pistol to the captain of the rebels, who intended to meet and seize me on my 
return from my evening's walk. Mr. M'Leod at first objected to my hazarding a 
meeting with this man; but I insisted upon it, and I was not sorry to give a 
public proof of my loyalty, and my personal courage. As to Joe Kelly, I also 
undertook to secure him. 
Mr. M'Leod left me, and went to conduct his fishing-party. As soon as he was 
gone I sent for Joe Kelly to play on the flute to me. I guarded my looks and 
voice as well as I could, and he did not see or suspect any thing———he was too 
full of his own schemes. To disguise his own plots he affected great gayety, and 
to divert me, alternately played on the flute, and told me good stories all the 
morning. I would not let him leave me the whole day. Towards evening I began to 
talk of my journey to England, proposed setting out the next morning, and sent 
Kelly to look for some things, in what was called the strong closet———a closet 
with a stout door, and iron-barred windows, out of which no mortal could make 
his escape. Whilst he was busy searching in a drawer, I shut the door upon him, 
locked it, and put the key into my pocket. As I left the castle, I said in a 
jesting tone to some of the servants who met me———"I have locked Joe Kelly up in 
the strong room; if he calls to you to let him out, never mind him; he will not 
get out till I come home from my walk———I owe him this trick." The servants 
thought it was some jest, and I passed on with my loaded pistols in my pocket. I 
walked for some time by the sea-shore, without seeing any one. At last I espied 
our fishing-boat, just peering out, and then keeping close to the shore. I was 
afraid that the party would be impatient at not seeing my signal, and would come 
out to the mouth of the cave, and show themselves too soon. If Mr. M'Leod had 
not been their commander, this, as I afterwards learned, would have infallibly 
happened; but he was so punctual, cool, and peremptory, that he restrained the 
rest of the party, declaring that, if it were till midnight, he would wait till 
the signal agreed upon was given. At last I saw a man creeping out of the 
cave———I sat down upon my wonted stone, and yawned as naturally as I could; then 
began to describe figures in the sand with my stick, as I was wont to do, still 
watching the image of the man in the water as he approached. He was muffled up 
in a frieze great coat; he sauntered past, and went on to a turn in the road, as 
if looking for some one. I knew well whom he was looking for. As no Joe Kelly 
came to meet him, he returned in a few minutes towards me. I had my hand upon 
the pistol in my pocket. 
"You are my Lard Glenthorn I presume," said he. 
"I am." 
"Then you will come with me, if you plase, my lord," said he. 
"Make no resistance, or I will shoot you on the spot," cried I, presenting my 
pistol with one hand, and seizing him by the collar with the other. I dragged 
him (for I had force enough, now my energy was roused) to the spot appointed for 
my signal. The boat appeared opposite the mouth of the cave. Every thing 
answered my expectation. 
"There," said I, pointing to the boat, "there are my armed friends: they have a 
four-pounder———the match is ready lighted——— your plot is discovered. Go in to 
your confederates in that cave; tell them so. The trap-door is secured above; 
there is no escape for them: bid them surrender: if they attempt to rush out, 
the grape-shot will pour upon them, and they are dead men." 
I cannot say, that my rebel captain showed himself as stout as I could have 
wished, for the honour of my victory. The surprise disconcerted him totally: I 
felt him tremble under my grasp. He obeyed my orders——— went into the cave to 
bring his associates to submission. His parley with them, however, was not 
immediately successful: I suppose there were some braver fellows than he amongst 
them, whose counsel might be "for open war." In the meantime our yeomen landed, 
and surrounded the cave on all sides, so that there was no possibility of escape 
for those within. At last they yielded themselves our prisoners. I am sorry I 
have no bloody battle for the entertainment of such of my readers as like 
horrours; but so it was, that they yielded without a drop of blood being 
spilled, or a shot fired. We let them out of their hiding place one by one, 
searching each as he issued forth, to be secure that they had no concealed 
weapons. After they had given up the arms which were concealed in the cave, the 
next question was, what to do with our prisoners. As it was now late, and they 
could not be all examined and committed with due legal form to the county gaol, 
Mr. M'Leod advised, that we should detain them in the place they had chosen for 
themselves till morning. Accordingly, in the cave we again stowed them, and left 
a guard at each entrance, to secure them for the night. We returned to the 
castle. I stopped at the gate to tell Ellinor and Christy that I was safe. They 
were sitting up, watching for the news. The moment Ellinor saw me, she clasped 
her hands in an ecstasy of joy, but could not speak. Christy was voluble in his 
congratulations; but, in the midst of his rejoicing, he could not help 
reproaching me with forgetting to give him the blunderbush, and to let him have 
a bit of the fighting. "Upon my honour," said I, "there was none, or you should 
have been there." 
"Oh, don't be plaguing and gathering round him now," said Ellinor; "sure, he is 
tired, and look how hot———no wonder———let him get home and to bed: I'll run and 
warm it with the pan myself, and not be trusting them." 
She would not be persuaded; that I did not desire to have my bed warmed, but, by 
some short cut, got in before us. On entering the castle hall, I found her, with 
the warming-pan in her hand, held back by the inquisitive servants, who were all 
questioning her about the news, of which she was the first; and not very 
intelligible enunciator. 
I called for bread and water for my prisoner in the strong-room, and then I 
heard various exclamations of wonder. 
"Ay, it is all true! it is no jest! Joe is at the bottom of all. I never liked 
Joe Kelly ———I always knew Joe was not the right thing ———and I always said so; 
and I, and I, and I. And it was but last week I was saying so: and it was but 
yesterday I said so and so." 
I passed through the gossiping crowd with bread and water for my culprit. M'Leod 
instantly saw and followed me. 
"I will make bold to come with you," said he; "a pent rat's a dangerous animal." 

I thanked him, and acquiesced; but there was no need for the precaution. When we 
opened the door, we found the conscience or terrour-struck wretch upon his 
knees, and, in the most abject terms, he implored our mercy. From the windows of 
the room, which looked into the castle yard, he had heard enough to guess all 
that had happened. I could not bear to look at him. After I had set down his 
food, he clung to my knees, crying and whining in a most unmanly manner. M'Leod, 
with indignation, loosened him from me, threw him back, and locked the door. 
"Cowardice and treachery," said he, "usually go together." 
"And courage and sincerity," said I. "And now we'll go to supper, my good 
friends. I hope you are all as hungry as I am." 
I never ate any meal with so much appetite. 
"'Tis a pity, my lord," said M'Leod, "but what there was a conspiracy against 
you every day of your life, it seems to do you so much good." 
CHAPTER XIII. 
"What new wonders? What new misfortunes, Ellinor?" said I, as Ellinor, with a 
face of consternation, appeared again in the morning in my room, just as I was 
going down to breakfast: "What new misfortunes, Ellinor?" 
"Oh! the worst that could befall me!" cried she, wringing her hands; "the worst, 
the very worst!———to be the death of my own child!" said she, with inexpressible 
horrour. "Oh! save him! save him! for the love of Heaven, dear, save him! If you 
don't save him, 'tis I shall be his death." 
She was in such agony, that she could not explain herself further for some 
minutes. 
"It was I gave the information against them all to you. But how could I ever 
have thought Owen was one of them? My son, my own son, the unfortunate cratur; I 
never thought but what he was with the militia far away. And how could it ever 
come into my head, that Owen could have any hand in a thing of the kind?" 
"But I did not see him last night," interrupted I. 
"Oh! he was there! One of his own friends, one of the military that went with 
you saw him among the prisoners, and came just now to tell me of it. That Owen 
should be guilty of the like! Oh! what could have come over him! He must have 
been out of his rason. And against you to be plotting! That's what I never will 
believe, if even I'd hear it from himself. But he's among them that were taken 
last night. And will I live to see him go to gaol———and will I live to sea 
———No, I'd rather die first, a thousand and a thousand times over. Oh! for 
mercy's sake!" said she, dropping on her knees at my feet, "have pity on me, and 
don't let the blood of my own child be upon me in my old days." 
"What would you have me do, Ellinor?" said I, much moved by her distress. 
"There is but one thing to do," said she. "Let him off: sure, a word from you 
would be enough for the soldiers that are over them on guard. And Mr. M'Leod has 
not yet seen him; and if he was just let escape, there would be no more about 
it; and I'd engage he shall fly the country, the unfortunate cratur! and never 
trouble you more. This is all I ask; and sure, dear, you can't refuse it to your 
own Ellinor; your old nurse, that carried ye in her arms, and fed ye with her 
milk, and watched over ye many's the long night, and loved ye: ay, none ever 
loved, or could love ye, so well." 
"I am sensible of it; I am grateful," interrupted I: "but what you ask of me, 
Ellinor, is impossible———I cannot let him escape; but I will do my utmost." 
"Troth, nothing will save him, if you would not say the word for him now. Ah! 
why cannot you let him off then?" 
"I should lose my honour; I should lose my character. You know that I have been 
accused of favouring the rebels already———you saw the consequences of my 
protecting your other son, though he was innocent and injured, and bore an 
excellent character." 
"Christy; ay, true: but poor Owen, unlucky as he is and misguided, has a better 
claim upon you." 
"How can that be? Is not the other my foster-brother in the first place?" 
"True for him." 
"And had not I proofs of his generous conduct and attachment to me?" 
"Owen is nat'rally fonder of you by a great deal," interrupted she; "I'll answer 
for that." 
"What! when he has just been detected in conspiring against my life." 
"That's what I'll never believe," cried Ellinor, vehemently: "that he might be 
drawn in may be, when out of his rason——— he was always a wild boy———to be a 
united-man, and to hope to get you for his captain, might be the case, and bad 
enough that; but jewel, you'll find he did never conspire against you: I'd lay 
down my life upon that." 
She threw herself again at my feet, and clung to my knees. 
"As you hope for mercy yourself in this world, or the world to come, show some 
now, and do not be so hard-hearted as to be the death of both mother and son." 
Her supplicating looks and gestures, her words, her tears, moved me so much, 
that I was on the point of yielding; but recollecting what was due to justice 
and to my own character, with an effort of what I thought virtuous resolution I 
repeated, 
"It is impossible: my good Ellinor, urge me no farther: ask any thing else, and 
it shall be granted, but this is impossible." 
As I spoke, I endeavoured to raise her from the ground; but, with the sudden 
force of angry despair, she resisted. 
"No, you shall not raise me," cried she. "Here let me lie, and break my heart 
with your cruelty! 'Tis a judgment upon me———it's a judgment, and it's fit I 
should feel it as I do. But you shall feel too, in spite of your hard heart. 
Yes, your heart is harder than the marble: you want the natural touch, you do; 
for your mother has knelt at your feet, and you have denied her prayer." 
"My mother!" 
"And what was her prayer? to save the life of your brother." 
"My brother! Good heavens! what do I hear!" 
"You hear the truth: you hear that I am your lawful mother. Yes, you are my son. 
You have forced that secret from me, which I thought to have carried with me to 
my grave. And now you know all: and now you know how wicked I have been, and it 
was all for you; for you that refused me the only thing ever I asked, and that, 
too, in my greatest distress, when my heart was just breaking: and all this time 
too, there's Christy———poor good Christy; he that I've wronged, and robbed of 
his rightful inheritance, has been as a son, a dutiful good son to me, and never 
did he deny me any thing I could ask, but in you I have found no touch of 
tenderness. Then it's fit I should tell you again, and again, and again, that he 
who is now slaving at the forge, to give me the earnings of his labour; he that 
lives, and has lived all his days upon potatoes and salt, and is content; he who 
has the face and the hands so disguised with the smoke and the black, that 
yourself asked him t'other day, did he ever wash his face since he was born———I 
tell ye, he it is who should live in this castle, and sleep on that soft bed, 
and be lord of all here ———he is the true and real Lord Glenthorn, and to the 
wide world I'll make it known. Ay, be pale and tremble, do, it's your turn now: 
I've touched you now; but it's too late. In the face of day I shall confess the 
wrong I've done; and I shall call upon you to give back to him all that by right 
is his own." 
Ellinor stopped short, for one of my servants at this instant came into the 
room. 
"My lord, Mr. M'Leod desires me to let you know the guard has brought up the 
prisoners, and he is going to commit them to gaol, and would be glad to know if 
you choose to see them first, my lord." 
Stupified by all I had just heard, I could only reply, that I would come 
presently. Ellinor rushed past the servant———"Are they come?" cried she. "Where 
will I get a sight of them?" I staid for a few minutes alone, to decide upon 
what I ought to say and do. A multitude of ideas, more than had ever come into 
my mind in a twelve-month, passed through it in these few minutes. As I was 
slowly descending the great stair-case, Ellinor came running, as fast as she 
could run, to the foot of the stairs, exclaiming, 
"It's a mistake! it's all a mistake, and I was a fool to believe them that 
brought me the word. Sure Ody's not there at all! nor ever was in it. I've seen 
them all, face to face, and my son's not one of them, nor ever was; and I was a 
fool from beginning to end; and I beg your pardon entirely," whispered she, 
coming close to my ear. "I was out of my reason at the thought of that boy's 
being to suffer, and I, his mother, the cause of it. Forgive all I said in my 
passion, my own best jewel: you was always good and tender to me, and be the 
same still, dear. I'll never say a word more about it to any one living; the 
secret shall die with me. Sure, when my conscience has borne it so long, it may 
strive and bear it a little longer for your sake: and it can't be long I have to 
live, so that will make all easy. Hark! they are asking for you. Do you go your 
ways into the great parlour, to Mr. M'Leod, and think no more of any thing at 
all but joy. My son's not one of them! I must go to the forge and tell Christy 
the good news." 
Ellinor departed, quite satisfied with herself, with me, and with all the world. 
She took it for granted, that she left me in the same state of mind, and that I 
should obey her injunctions, and think of nothing but joy. Of what happened in 
the great parlour, and of the examinations of the prisoners, I have but a 
confused recollection. I remember that Mr. M'Leod seemed rather surprised by my 
indifference to what concerned me so nearly; and that he was obliged to do all 
the business himself. The men were, I believe, all committed to gaol, and Joe 
Kelly turned king's evidence; but as to any further particulars, I know no more 
than if I had been in a dream. The discovery, which Ellinor had just made to me, 
engrossed all my powers of attention. 
CHAPTER XIV. 
"Le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable," says an acute observer of human 
affairs. The romance of real life certainly goes beyond all other romances; and 
there are facts, which few writers would dare to put into a book, as there are 
skies which few painters would venture to put into a picture. 
When I had leisure to reflect, I considered, that as yet I had no proof of the 
truth of Ellinor's strange story, except her own assertions. I sent for her 
again to examine her more particularly. I was aware, that, if I alarmed her, I 
should so confuse her imagination, that I should never obtain the truth; 
therefore I composed myself, and assumed my usual external appearance of 
non-chalance. I received her lelling upon my sofa, as usual, and I questioned 
her merely as if to gratify an idle curiosity. 
"Troth, dear," said she, "I'll tell you the whole story how it was, to make your 
mind asy, which, God knows, mine never was, from that minute it first came into 
my head, till this very time being. You mind the time you got the cut in your 
head——— no, not you, jewel; but the little lord that was then, Christy there 
below that is.——— Well, the cut was a terrible cut as ever you seen, got by a 
fall on the fender from the nurse's arms, that was drunk, three days after he 
was born." 
"I remember to have heard my father talk of some accident of this sort, which 
happened to me when I was an infant." 
"Ay, sure enough it did, and that was what first put him in the notion of taking 
the little lord out of the hands of the Dublin nurse-tenders, and them that were 
about my Lady Glenthorn, and did not know how to manage her, which was the cause 
of her death: and he said he'd have his own way about his son and heir any way, 
and have him nursed by a wholesome woman in a cabin, and brought up hardy, as 
he, and the old lord, and all the family, were before him. So with that he sends 
for me, and he puts the young lord, God bless him, into my arms himself, and a 
donny thing he was that same time to look at, for he was but just out of the 
surgeon's hands, the head just healed and scarred over like; and my lord said, 
there should be no more doctors never about him. So I took him, that is, 
Christy, and you, to a house at the sea, for the salt water, and showed him 
every justice; and my lord often came to see him whilst he was in the country; 
but then he was off, after a time, to Dublin, and I was in a lone place, where 
nobody came, and the child was very sick with me, and you was all the time as 
fine and thriving a child as ever you see; and I thought, to be sure, one night, 
that he would die wid me. He was very bad, very bad indeed; and I was sitting up 
in bed, rocking him backwards and forwards this ways: I thought with myself, 
what a pity it was the young lord should die, and he an only son and heir, and 
the estate to go out of the family, the Lord knows where; and then the grief the 
father would be in: and then I thought, how happy he would be if he had such a 
fine babby as you; dear; and you was a fine babby to be sure; and then I 
thought, how happy it would be for you, if you was in the place of the little 
lord: and then it came into my head, just like a shot, where would be the harm 
to change you? for I thought the real lord would surely die; and then, what a 
gain it would be to all, if it was never known, and if the dead child was 
carried to the grave, since it must go, as only poor Ellinor O'Donoghoe's, and 
no more about it. Well, if it was a wicked thought, it was the devil himself put 
it in my head, to be sure; for, only for him, I should never have had the sense 
to think of such a thing, for I was always innocent like, and not worldly given. 
But so it was, the devil put it in my head, and made me do it, and showed me 
how, and all in a minute. So, I mind, your eyes and hair were both of the very 
same colour, dear; and as to the rest, there's no telling how those young things 
alter in a few months, and my lord would not be down from Dublin in a hurry, so 
I settled it all right; and as there was no likelihood at all the real lord 
would live, that quieted my conscience; for I argued, it was better the father 
should have any sort of child at all than none. So, when my lord came down, I 
carried him the child to see, that is you, jewel. He praised me greatly for all 
the care I had taken of his boy; and said, how finely you was come on; and I 
never see a father in greater joy; and it would have been a sin, I thought, to 
tell him the truth, after he took the change that was put upon him so well, and 
it made him so happy like. Well, I was afeard of my life he'd pull off the cap 
to search for the scar, so I would not let your head be touched any way, dear, 
saying it was tinder and soft still with the fall, and you'd cry if the cap was 
stirred, and so I made it out, indeed, very well; for, God forgive me, I 
twitched the string under your chin, dear, and made you cry like mad, when they 
would come to touch you. So there was no more about it, and I had you home to 
myself, and, all in good time, the hair grew, and fine thick hair it was, God 
bless you; and so there was no more about it, and I got into no trouble at all; 
for it all fell out just as I had laid it out, except that real little young 
lord did not die as I thought; and it was a wonder but he did, for you never saw 
none so near death, and backwards and forwards, what turns of sickness he took 
with me for months upon months, and year after year, so that none could think, 
no more than me, there was any likelihood at all of rearing of him to man's 
estate. So that kept me easier in my mind concerning what I'd done; for, as I 
kept saying to myself, better the family should have an heir to the estate, 
suppose not the right, than none at all; and if the father, nor nobody, never 
found it out, there was he and all the family made happy for life, and my child 
made a lord of, and none the wiser or the worse. Well, so I down-argued my 
conscience; and any way I took to little Christy, as he was now to be 
called———and I loved him, all as one as if he was my own———not that he was ever 
as well-looking as Ody, or any of the childer I had, but I never made any differ 
betwixt him and any of my own———he can't say as I did, any how, and he has no 
reason to complain of my being an unnat'ral mother to him, and being my 
foster-child I had a right to love him as I did, and I never wronged him any 
way, except in the one article of changing him at nurse, which he being an 
infant, and never knowing, was never a bit the worse for, nor never will, now. 
So all's right, dear, and make your mind asy, jewel; there's the whole truth of 
the story for you." 
"But it is a very strange story, Ellinor, after all, and———and I have only your 
word for it, and may be you are only taking advantage of my regard for you to 
make me believe you." 
"What is it, plase your honour?" said she, stepping forward, as if she did not 
hear or understand me. 
"I say, Ellinor, that after all I have no proof of the truth of this story, 
except your word." 
"And is not that enough, and where's the use of having more; but if it will make 
you asy, sure I can give you proof———sure need you go farther than the scar on 
his head? If he was shaved to morrow, I'd engage you'd see it fast enough; but, 
sure, can't you put your hand up to your head this minute, and feel there never 
was no scar there, nor if all the hair you have, God save the mark, was shaved 
this minute, never a bit of a scar would be to be seen; but proof is it you 
want———why there's the surgeon that dressed the cut in the child's head, before 
he ever came to me, sure he's the man that can't forget it, and that will tell 
all; so to make your mind asy, see him, dear, but for your life don't let him 
see your head to feel it, for he'd miss the scar, and might suspect something by 
your going to question him." 
"Where does he live?" interrupted I. 
"Not above twelve miles off." 
"Is he alive?" 
"Ay, if he been't dead since Candlemas." 
At first I thought of writing to this man, but afterwards, being afraid of 
committing myself by writing, I went to him; he had long before this time left 
off business, and had retired to enjoy his fortune in the decline of life. He 
was a whimsical sort of character; he had some remains of his former taste for 
anatomy, and was a collector of curiosities. I found him just returned from a 
lake which he had been dragging for moose-deer's horns, to complete the skeleton 
of a moose-deer, which he had mounted in his hall. I introduced myself, desiring 
to see his museum, and by mentioning to him the thigh-bone of a giant found in 
my neighbourhood, and by favour of this bone I introduced the able cure, that he 
had made of a cut in my head, when I was a child. 
"A cut in your head, sir? Yes, my lord, I recollect perfectly well, it was a 
very ugly cut, especially in an infant's head; but I am glad to find you feel no 
bad effects from it. Have you any cicatrice on the place? Eleven feet high, did 
you say; and is the giant's skeleton in your neighbourhood?" 
I humoured his fancy, and by degrees he gave me all the information I wanted, 
without in the least suspecting my secret motives. He described the length, 
breadth, and depth of the wound to me; showed me just where it was on the head, 
and observed that it must have left an indelible mark, but that my fine hair 
covered it. When he seemed disposed to search for it, I defended myself with the 
giant's thigh-bone, and warded off his attacks most successfully. To satisfy me 
upon this point, I affected to think that he had not been paid; he said he had 
been amply paid, and he showed me his books to prove it. I examined the dates, 
and found that they agreed with Ellinor's precisely. On my return home, the 
first thing I did was to make Christy a present of a new wig, which I was 
certain would induce him to shave his head, for the lower Irish agree with the 
beaux and belles of London and Paris, in preferring wigs to their own hair. 
Ellinor told me, that I might safely let his head be shaved, because, to her 
certain knowledge, he had scars of so many cuts, which he had received at fairs 
upon his scull, that there would appear nothing particular in one more or less. 
As soon as the head was shaved, and the wig was worn, I took an opportunity one 
day of stopping at the forge to have one of my horse's shoes changed, and whilst 
this was doing, I took notice of his new wig, and how well it fitted him; as I 
expected, he took it off to show it me better, and to pay his own compliments to 
it. 
"Sure enough, you are a very fine wig," said he, apostrophising it as he held it 
up on the end of his hammer, "and God bless him that give it me, and it fits me 
as tight as if it was nailed to my head." 
"You seem to have had a good many nails in your head already, Christy," said I, 
"if one may judge by all these scars." 
"Oh yes, plase your honour, my lord," said he, "there's no harm in them neither; 
they are scratches got when I was no wiser than I should be, at fairs, fighting 
with the boys of Schrawd-na-scool." 
Whilst he fought his battles o'er again, I had leisure to study his head, and I 
traced precisely all the boundary lines. The situation, size, and figure of the 
cicatrice, which the surgeon and Ellinor had described to me, were so visible 
and exact, that no doubt could remain in my mind of Christy's being the real son 
of the late Lord and Lady Glenthorn. This conviction was still more impressed 
upon my mind a few days afterwards. I recollected having seen a pile of family 
pictures in a lumber-room in the castle, and I rummaged them out to see if I 
could discover amongst them any likeness to Christy: I found one, the picture of 
my grandfather, I should say of his grandfather, to which Christy bore a 
striking resemblance, when I saw him with his face washed, and in his Sunday 
clothes. 
My mind being now perfectly satisfied of the truth of Ellinor's story, I was 
next to consider how I ought to act. To be or not to be Lord Glenthorn; or in 
other words, to be or not to be a villain, was now the question. I could not 
dissemble to my conscience this plain state of the case, that I had no right to 
keep possession of that which I knew to be another's lawful property: yet, 
educated as I had been, and accustomed to the long enjoyment of those luxuries, 
which become necessaries to the wealthy; habituated to attendance as I had been, 
and even amongst the dissipated and idle, notorious for extravagance the most 
unbounded and indolence the most inveterate, how was I at once to change my 
habits, to abdicate my rank and power, to encounter the evils of poverty? I was 
not compelled to make such sacrifices; for though Ellinor's transient passion 
had prompted her to threaten me with a public discovery, yet I knew that she 
would as soon cut off her own right hand, as execute her threats. Her affection 
for me, and her pride in my consequence were so strong, that I knew I might 
securely rely upon her secrecy. The horrid idea of being the cause of the death 
of one of her own children had for a moment sufficient power to balance her love 
for me; yet there was but little probability, that any similar trial should 
occur, nor had I reason to apprehend, that the reproaches of her conscience 
should induce her to make a voluntary discovery; for all her ideas of virtue 
depended on the principle of fidelity to the objects of her affection, and no 
scrupulous notions of justice disturbed her understanding, or alarmed her 
self-complacency. Conscious that she would willingly sacrifice all she had in 
the world for any body she loved, and scarcely comprehending that any one could 
be selfish, she, in a confused way, applied the maxim of———'Do as you would be 
done by,' and was as generous of the property of others, as of her own. At the 
worst, if a law-suit commenced against me, I knew that possession was nine 
tenths of the law. I also knew, that Ellinor's health was declining, and that 
the secret would die with her. Unlawful possession of the wealth I enjoyed, 
could not, however, satisfy my own mind; and, after a severe conflict between my 
love of ease, and my sense of right———between my tastes and my principles, I 
determined to act honestly and honourably, and to relinquish what I could no 
longer maintain without committing injustice and feeling remorse. I was, 
perhaps, the more ready to do rightly, because I felt that I was not compelled 
to it. The moment when I made this virtuous decision was the happiest I had at 
that time ever felt; my mind seemed suddenly relieved from an oppressive weight; 
my whole frame glowed with new life, and the consciousness of courageous 
integrity elevated me so much in my opinion, that titles, and rank, and fortune, 
appeared as nothing in my estimation. I rang my bell eagerly, and ordered, that 
Christy O'Donoghoe should be immediately sent for. The servant went instantly, 
but it seemed to me an immoderately long time before Christy arrived. I walked 
up and down the room impatiently, and at last threw myself at full length upon a 
sofa——— the servant returned. 
"The smith is below in the hall, my lord." 
"Show him up."———He was shown up into the antichamber. 
"The smith is at the door, my lord." 
"Show him in, cannot you? What detains him?" 
"My brogues my lord! I'd be afraid to come in with 'em on the carpet." Saying 
this, Christy came in, stepping fearfully, astonished to find himself in a 
splendid drawing-room. 
"Were you never in this room before, Christy?" said I. 
"Never mind, my lord, plase your honour, barring the day I mended the bolt." 
"It is a fine room, is not it Christy?" 
"Troth it is, the finest ever I see, sure enough." 
"How should you like to have such a room of your own, Christy?" 
"Is it I? plase your honour," replied he, laughing, "what should I do with the 
like?" 
"How should you feel if you were master of this great castle?" 
"It's a poor figure I should make, to be sure," said he, turning his head over 
his shoulder towards the door, and resting upon the lock, "I'd rather be at the 
forge by a great dale." 
"Are you sure of that, Christy? Should not you like to be able to live without 
working any more, and to have horses and servants of your own?" 
"What would I do with them, plase your honour, I that have never been used to 
them? sure they'd all laugh at me, and I'd not be the better o'that, no more 
than of having nothing to do; I that have been always used to the work, what 
should I do all the day without it? But sure, my lord," continued he, changing 
his voice to a more serious tone, "the horse that I shod yesterday for your 
honour did not go lame, did he?" 
"The horse is very well shod, I believe; I have not rid him since———I know 
nothing of the matter." 
"Because I was thinking, may be, it was that made your honour send for me up in 
the hurry———I was afeard I'd find your honour mad with me, and I'd be very sorry 
to disoblige you, my lord; and I'm glad to see your honour looking so well after 
all the trouble you've been put to by them rubbles, the villains, to be 
consarting against you underground ———But thanks be to God, you have 'em all in 
gaol now———I thought my mother would have died of the fright she took, when the 
report came, that Ody was one of them. I told her there could not be no truth in 
it at all, but she would not mind me———It would be a strange unnateral thing 
indeed of any belonging to her to be plotting against your honour. I knew Ody 
could not be in it, and be a brother of mine, and that's what I kept saying all 
the time; but she never heeded me, for your honour knows, when the women are 
frighted, and have taken a thing into their heads, you can't say get it out 
again." 
"Very true; but to return to what I was saying———Should not you like to change 
places with me, if you could?" 
"Your honour, my lord, is a very happy jantleman, and a very good jantleman, 
there's no doubt, and there's few but would be proud to be like you in any thing 
at all." 
"Thank you for that compliment; but now, in plain English, as to yourself, would 
you like to be in my place———to change places with me?" 
"In your honour's place———I! I would not my lord, and that's the truth now," 
said he, decidedly. "I would not, no offence, your honour bid me to speak the 
truth, for I've all I want in the world, a good mother and a good wife, and good 
childer, and a reasonable good little cabin, and my little pratees, and the 
grazing of the cow, and work enough always, and not called on to slave, and I 
get my health, thank God, for all; and what more could I have if I should be 
made a lord to morrow? Sure, my good woman would never make a lady, and what 
should I do with her? I'd be griev'd to see her the laughing-stock of high and 
low, besides being the same myself, and my boy after me. That would never answer 
for me, so I am not like them that would overturn all to get uppermost; I never 
had any hand, art or part, in a thing of the kind; I always thought and knew I 
was best as I am; not, but what if I was to change with any, it is with you, my 
lord, I would be proud to change, because if I was to be a jantleman at all, I'd 
wish to be of a ra-al good ould family born." 
"You are then what you wish to be," said I. 
"Och!" said he, laughing, and scratching his head, "your honour's jesting me 
about them kings of Ireland, that they say the O'Donoghoe's was once, but that's 
what I never think on, that's all idle talk for the like of me, for sure that's 
a long time ago, and what use going back to it, one might as well be going back 
to Adam, that was the father of all, that makes no differ now." 
"But you do not understand me," interrupted I, "I am not going back to the kings 
of Ireland, I mean to tell you, that you were born a gentleman———nay, I am 
perfectly serious, listen to me." 
"I do, plase your honour, though it is mocking me, I know you are, I would be 
sorry not take a joke as well as another." 
"This is no joke; I repeat, that I am serious; you are not only a gentleman, but 
a nobleman———to you this castle and this great estate belongs, and to you they 
shall be surrendered." 
He stood astonished, and his eyes opening wide, showed a great circle of white 
in his black face. 
"Eh!" cried he, drawing that long breath, which astonishment had suppressed, 
"But how can this be?" 
"Your mother can explain better than I can———your mother, did I say? she is not 
your mother, Lady Glenthorn was your mother." 
"I can't understand it at all———I can't understand it at all. I'll lave it all 
to your honour," said he, making a motion with his hands, as if to throw from 
him the trouble of comprehending it. 
"Did you never hear of such a thing as a child's being changed at nurse?" 
"I did, plase your honour; but my mother would never do the like, I'll answer 
for her, any way; and them that said any thing of the kind belied her, and don't 
be believing them, my lord." 
"But Ellinor was the person who told me this secret." 
"Was she so? Oh, she must have been draaming: she was always too good a mother 
to me to have sarved me so. But," added he, struggling to clear his intellects, 
"you say it's not my mother she is? but whose mother is she then? can it be that 
she is yours? 'tis not possible to think such a great lord was the son of such 
as her, to look at you both: and was you the son of my father Johnny Donoghoe? 
How is that again?" 
He rubbed his forehead, and I could scarcely forbear laughing at his odd 
perplexity, though the subject was of such serious importance. When he clearly 
understood the case, and thoroughly believed the truth, he did not seem elated 
by this sudden change of fortune: he really thought more of me than of himself. 
"Well, I'll tell you what you will do then," continued he, after a pause of deep 
reflection; "say nothing to nobody, but just keep asy on, even as we are. Don't 
let there be any surrendering at all, and I'll speak to my mother, that is, 
Ellinor O'Donoghoe, and settle it so; and let it be so settled, in the name of 
God, and no more about it; and none need never be the wiser; 'tis so best for 
all. A good day to your honour, and I'll go shoe the mare." 
"Stay," said I; "you may hereafter repent of this sudden determination: I insist 
upon your taking four-and-twenty hours———no, that would be too little———take a 
month to consider of it coolly, and then let me know your final determination." 
"Oh! plase your honour, I will say the same then as now. It would be a poor 
thing indeed of me, after all you done for me and mine, to be putting you to 
more trouble. It would be a poor thing of me to forget how you liked to have 
lost your life all along with me at the time of the 'rection. No, I'll not take 
the fortin from you any how." 
"Put gratitude to me out of the question," said I. "Far be it from me to take 
advantage of your affectionate temper. I do not consider you as under any 
obligations to me; nor will I be paid for doing justice." 
"Sure enough, your honour desarved to be born a gentleman," said Christy. 
"At least I have been bred a gentleman," said I. "Let me see you again this day 
month, and not till then." 
"You shall not———that is, you shall, plase your honour: but for fear any one 
would suspect any thing, I'd best go shoe the mare any way." 
CHAPTER XV. 
"What riches give us, let us then inquire——— Meat, fire, and clothes———What 
more?———Meat, clothes, and fire. The philosophy we learn from books makes but a 
faint impression upon the mind, in comparison with that which we are taught by 
our own experience: and we sometimes feel surprised to find that what we have 
been taught as maxims of morality prove true in real life. After having had, for 
many years, the fullest opportunities of judging of the value of riches, when I 
reflected upon my past life, I percieved that their power of conferring 
happiness is limited, nearly as the philosophic poet describes: that all the 
changes and modifications of luxury must, in the sum of actual physical 
enjoyment, be reduced to a few elementary pleasures, of which the industrious 
poor can obtain their share: a small share, perhaps, but then it is enjoyed with 
a zest that makes it equal in value, perhaps, to the largest portion offered to 
the sated palate of ennui. These truths are as old as the world, but they 
appeared quite new to me, when I discovered them by my own experience. 
During the month which I had allowed to my foster-brother for reflection, I had 
leisure to philosophise, and my understanding made a rapid progress. I foresaw 
the probability of Christy's deciding to become Earl of Glenthorn; 
notwithstanding that his good sense had so clearly demonstrated to him in 
theory, that, with his education and habits, he must be happier working in his 
forge, than he could be as Lord of Glenthorn Castle. I was not dismayed by the 
idea of losing my wealth and rank; I was pleased with myself for my honest 
conduct, and conscious of a degree of pleasure from my own approbation, superior 
to what my riches had ever procured. 
The day appointed for Christy's final determination arrived. I knew, by the 
first motion of his shoulder as he came into the room, what his decision would 
be. 
"Well, Christy," said I, "you will be Earl of Glenthorn, I perceive. You are 
glad now that I did not take you at your word, and that I gave you a month's 
time for consideration." 
"Your honour was always considerate: but if I'd wish now to be changing my 
mind," said he, hesitating, and shifting from leg to leg, "it is not upon my own 
account any way, but upon my son Johnny's." 
"My good friend," said I, "no apology is necessary. I should be very unjust if I 
were offended by your decision, and very mean if, after the declarations I have 
made, I could, for an instant, hesitate to restore to you that property, which 
it is your right and your choice to reclaim." 
Christy made a low bow, and seemed much at a loss what he was to say next. 
"I hope," continued I, "that you will be as happy when you are Earl of 
Glenthorn, as you have been as Christy O'Donoghoe." 
"May be not, please your honour; but, I trust, my childer will be happy after 
me; and it's them and my wife I'm thinking of, as in duty bound. But it is hard 
your honour should be astray for want of the fortin you've been bred to; and 
this weighs with me greatly on the other side. If your honour could live on 
here, and share with us———But I see your honour's displeased at my naming that. 
It was my wife thought o'that; I knew it could not do. But then, what I think 
is, that your honour should name what you would be pleased to keep to live upon; 
for, to be sure, you have a right to live as a gentleman, that have always lived 
as one, as every body knows, and none better than I. Would your honour be so 
kind, then, as just to put down on a bit of paper, what you'd wish to keep, and 
that same, whatever it is, none shall touch but yourself; and I would not own a 
child for mine that would begrudge it you. I'll step down and wait below, while 
your honour writes what you plase." 
The generosity of this man touched me to the heart. I accepted from him three 
hundred a-year; and requested, that the annuity I allowed to the unfortunate 
Lady Glenthorn might be continued; that the house which I had built for Ellinor, 
and the land belonging to it, might be secured to her rentfree for life; and 
that all my debts should be paid. I recommended Mr. M'Leod in the strongest 
manner, as an agent whose abilities and integrity would be to him an invaluable 
treasure. 
Christy, when I gave him the paper on which I had stated these requests, took a 
pen instantly, and would have signed his name without reading it; but to this I 
absolutely objected. 
"Well then," said he, "I'll take it home, and read it over, and take time, as 
you desire, to consider. There's no danger of my changing my mind about this: I 
hope your honour can't think there is." 
The next day, on returning it to me, he observed, that it was making very little 
of him to put down only such a trifle, and he pressed me to make the hundreds 
thousands: this I refused. 
"But I hope your honour won't object to what I'm going to propose. Is not there 
a house in London? and is not there another in England, in the country? and, 
sure, I and mine can't live there and here and every where at once: if you'd 
just condescend to occupy one of them, you'd do me a great pleasure, and a great 
sarvice too; for every thing would be right, instead of going wrong, as it might 
under an agent, and me at a distance, that does not know well how to manage such 
great estates. I hope you'll not refuse me that, if it's only to show me I don't 
lose your honour's good-will." 
The offer was made with so much earnestness, and even delicacy, that I could not 
abruptly refuse it at the moment, though one of these magnificent houses could 
be of no use to me with an income of 300l. per annum. 
"As to the annuity," continued Christy, "that shall be paid as punctual as the 
day: Mr. M'Leod will pay it; and he shall have it all settled right, and put 
upon a stamp, by the lawyers, in case any thing should happen me. Then, as to 
Ellinor, sure, she is my mother, for I never can think of her any other way; 
and, except in that single article of changing me at nurse, was always the best 
of mothers to me. And even that same trick she played me, though very wicked, to 
be sure, was very nat'ral———ay, very nat'ral——— to prefar her own flesh and 
blood if she could: and no one could be more sorry for the wrong she did me than 
she is now: there she is crying at home, ready to break her heart: but, as I 
tell her, there's no use in repenting a thing when once it is done; and as I 
forgive her, none can ever bring it up against her: and as to the house and 
farm, she shall surely have that, and shall never want for any thing. So I hope 
your honour's mind will be asy on that matter; and whatever else you recollect 
to wish, that shall be done, if in my power." 
It is with pleasure that I recollect and record all these instances of goodness 
of heart in poor Christy, which, notwithstanding the odd mixture of absurdity 
and sense in his language and ideas, will, I make no doubt, please my readers, 
though they cannot affect them as much as they affected me. 
I now prepared for my departure from Glenthorn Castle, never more to return. To 
spare me from unnecessary mortification, Christy had the wonderful self-command 
to keep the secret faithfully, so that none of the people in the neighbourhood, 
nor even my servants, had the slightest idea of the truth. Having long talked of 
returning to England, the preparations for my journey excited no surprise. Every 
thing went on as usual, except that Christy, instead of being at the forge, was 
almost every day at the ale-house. 
I thought it proper to speak openly of my affairs to Mr. M'Leod: he was the only 
person, who could make out a correct list of my debts. Besides, I wished to 
recommend him as agent to the future earl, to whom an honest and able agent 
would be peculiarly necessary, ignorant, as he was, both of the world and of 
business; and surrounded, as he must probably be, on his accession to his 
estate, by a herd of vulgar and designing flatterers. 
Albeit not easily moved to surprise, Mr. M'Leod really did, for an instant, look 
astonished, when I informed him, that Christy O'Donoghoe was Earl of Glenthorn. 
But I must resolve not to stop to describe the astonishment, that each 
individual showed upon this occasion, else I shall never have finished my story. 

It was settled, that Mr. M'Leod should continue agent; and, for his credit, I 
must observe, that after he was made acquainted with my loss of rank and 
fortune, he treated me with infinitely more respect and regard, than he had ever 
shown me whilst he considered me only as his employer. Our accounts were soon 
settled; and, when this was done, and they were all regularly signed, Mr. M'Leod 
came up to me, and, in a low voice, of great emotion, said——— "I am not a man of 
professions, but when I say I am a man's friend, I hope I shall ever be found to 
be so, as far as can be in my power; and I cannot but esteem and admire the man 
who has acted so nobly as you have done." 
M'Leod wrung my hand as he spoke, and the tears stood in his eyes. I knew that 
the feeling must indeed be strong, which could extort from him even these few 
words of praise, and this simple profession of regard: but I did not know, till 
long afterwards, the full warmth of his affections, and energy of his 
friendship. The very next day, unfortunately for me, he was obliged to go to 
Scotland, to his mother, who was dying, and at this time I saw no more of him. 
In due legal form I now made a surrender of all claim upon the hereditary 
property of the Earl of Glenthorn, and every thing was in readiness for my 
journey. During this time, poor Ellinor never appeared at the castle. I went to 
see her, to comfort her about my going away; but she was silent, and seemingly 
sullen, and would not be comforted. 
"I've enough to grieve me," said she: "I know what will be the end of all; I see 
it as plain as if you'd told me. There's no hiding nothing from a mother: no, 
there's no use in striving to comfort me." Every method which I tried to console 
her seemed to grieve her more. 
The day before that which was fixed for my departure, I went to desire to see 
her. This request I had repeatedly made, but she had, from day to day, excused 
herself, saying, that she was unwell, and that she would be up on the morrow. At 
last she came, and though but a few days had elapsed since I had seen her, she 
was so changed in her appearance, that I was shocked the moment I beheld her 
countenance. 
"You don't look well, Ellinor," said I: "sit down." 
"No matter whether I sit or stand," said she, calmly. "I'm not long for this 
world: I won't live long after you are gone, that's one comfort." 
Her eyes were fixed and tearless; and there was a dead unnatural tranquillity in 
her manner. 
"They are making a wonderful great noise-nailing up the boxes, and I see them 
cording the trunks as I came through the hall. I asked them, could I be of any 
use: but they said I could be of none, and that's true; for, when I put my hand 
to the cord to pull it, I had no more strength than an infant. It was seven and 
twenty years last Midsummer-day since I first had you an infant in my arms. I 
was strong enough then, and you was a sweet babby. Had I seen that time, all 
that would come to pass this day! But that's over now. I have done a wicked 
thing; but I'll send for Father Murphy, and get absolution before I die." 
She sighed deeply, then went on speaking more quickly. 
"But I can do nothing until you go. What time will you go in the morning, dear? 
It's better go early. Is it in the coach you'll go? I see it in the yard. But I 
thought you must leave the coach, with all the rest, to the rightful heir. But 
my head's not clear about it all, I believe———and no matter." 
Her ideas rambled from one subject to another in an unconnected manner. I 
endeavoured in vain to recall her understanding, by speaking of her own 
immediate interests; of the house that was secured to her for life; and of the 
promise that had been made me, that she should never want for any thing, and 
that she should be treated with all possible kindness. She seemed to listen to 
me, but showed that she did not comprehend what I said, by her answers; and, at 
every pause I made, she repeated the same question. 
"What time will you go in the morning, dear?" 
At last I touched her feelings, and she recovered her intellects, when I 
suddenly asked, if she would accompany me to England the next morning. 
"Ay, that I will!" cried she; "go with you through the wide world." She burst 
into tears, and wept bitterly for some time. 
"Ah! now I feel right again," said she; "this is what I wanted; but could not 
cry this many a day———never since the word came to me, that you was going, and 
all was lost." 
I assured her, that I now expected to be happier than I had ever been. 
"Oh!" cried she, "and have you never been happy all this time? What a folly it 
was for me, then, to do so wicked a thing! and all my comfort was, the thinking 
you was happy, dear. And what will become of you now? And is it on foot you'll 
go?" 
Her thoughts rambled again. 
"Whatever way I go, you shall go with me," said I. "You are my mother; and now 
that your son has done what he knows to be honest and just, he will prosper in 
the world, and will be truly happy: and so may you be happy, now that you have 
nothing more to conceal." 
She shook her head——— "It's too late," said she, "quite too late. I often told 
Christy I would die before you left this place, dear, and so I will, you will 
see. God bless you! God bless you! and pray to him to forgive me! None that 
could know what I've gone through would ever do the like; no, not for their own 
child, was he even such as you, and that would be hard to find. God bless you, 
dear; I shall never see you more! The hand of death is upon me——— God for ever 
bless you, dear!" 
She died that night; and I lost, in her, the only human being who had ever shown 
me warm disinterested affection. Her death delayed, for a few days, my departure 
from Glenthorn Castle. I staid to see her laid in the grave. Her funeral was 
followed by crowds of people; by many, from the general habit of attending 
funerals; by many, who wished to pay their court to me, in showing respect to 
the memory of my nurse. 
When the prayers over the dead were ended, and the grave closed, just as the 
crowd were about to disperse, I stood up on a monument belonging to the 
Glenthorn family; and the moment it was observed, that I wished to address the 
multitude, the moving waves were stilled, and there was a dead silence. Every 
eye was fixed upon me with eager expectation. It was the first time in my life, 
that I had ever spoken before numbers; but, as I was certain that I had 
something to say, and quite indifferent about the manner, words came without 
difficulty. Amazement appeared in every face, when I declared myself to be the 
son of the poor woman, whom we had just interred. And when I pointed to the real 
Earl of Glenthorn, and when I declared, that I relinquished to him his 
hereditary title and lawful property, my auditors looked alternately at me and 
at my foster-brother, seeming to think it impossible, that a man, with face and 
hands so black as Christy's usually were known to be, could become an earl. 
When I concluded my narrative, and paused, the silence still continued, all 
seemed held in mute astonishment. 
"And now, my good friends," continued I, "let me bid you farewell; probably you 
will never see or hear of me more; but whether he be rich or poor, or high or 
lowborn, every honest man must wish to leave behind him a fair character. 
Therefore, when I am gone, and, as it were, dead to you, speak of me, not as of 
an impostor, who long assumed a name, and enjoyed a fortune that was not his 
own; but remember, that I was bred to believe myself heir to a great estate, and 
that, after having lived till the age of eight and twenty, in every kind of 
luxury, I voluntarily gave up the fortune I enjoyed, the moment I discovered, 
that it was not justly mine." 
"That you did, indeed," interrupted Christy; "and of that I am ready to bear 
witness for you in this world and in the next. God bless and prosper you 
wherever you go and sure enough he will, for he cannot do other than prosper one 
that deserves it so well. I never should have known a sentence of the secret," 
continued he, addressing his neighbours, "if it had not been for his generosity 
to tell it me; and even had I found it out by any maracle, where would have been 
the gain of that to me, for you know he could, had he been so inclined, have 
kept me out of all by the law———ay, baffled me on till my heart was sick, and 
till my little substance was wasted, and my bones rotten in the ground; but, 
God's blessing be upon him! he's an honest man, and done that which many a lord 
in his place would not have done; but a good conscience is a kingdom in itself, 
and that he cannot but have, wherever he goes———and all which grieves me is that 
he is going away from us. If he'd be prevailed with by me, he'd stay where he 
is, and we'd share and share alike; but he's too proud for that———and no 
wonder———he has a right to be proud; for no matter who was his mother, he'll 
live and die a gentleman, every inch of him. Any man, you see, may be made a 
lord; but a gentleman a man must make himself. And yourselves can witness, has 
not he reigned over us like a gentleman, and a raal gentleman; and shown mercy 
to the poor, and done justice to all, as well as to me; and did not he take me 
by the hand when I was persecuted, and none else in the wide world to befrind 
me; and did not he stand up for me against the tyrants that had the sway then; 
ay, and did not he put himself to trouble, day and night, go riding here and 
there, and spaking and writing for me? Well, as they say, he loves his case, and 
that's the worst can be said of him; he took all this pains for a poor man, and 
had like to have lost his life by it. And now, wherever he is and whatever, can 
I help loving and praying for him? or could you? And since you will go," added 
he, turning to me with tears in his eyes, "take with you the blessings of the 
poor, which, they say, carry a man straight to Heaven, if any thing can." 
The surrounding crowd joined with one voice in applauding this speech: "It is he 
that has said what we all think," cried they, following me with acclamations to 
the castle. When they saw the chaise at the door, which was to carry me away, 
their acclamations suddenly ceased———"But is he going?———But can't he 
stay?———And is he going this minute? troth it's a pity, and a great pity!" 
Again and again these honest people insisted upon taking leave of me, and I 
could not force myself away without difficulty. They walked on beside my 
carriage, Christy at their head; and in this species of triumph, melancholy 
indeed, but grateful to my heart, I quitted Glenthorn Castle, passed through 
that demesne which was no longer mine, and at the verge of the county shook 
hands, for the last time, with these affectionate and generous people. I then 
bid my postillion drive on fast; and I never looked back, never once cast a 
lingering look at all I left behind. I felt proud of having executed my purpose, 
and conscious I had not the weak, wavering, inefficient character, that had 
formerly disgraced me. As to the future I had not distinctly arranged my plans, 
nor was my mind during the remainder of the day sufficiently tranquil for 
reflection. I felt like one in a dream, and could scarcely persuade myself of 
the reality of the events, that had succeeded each other with such astonishing 
rapidity. At night I stopped at an inn where I was not known, and having no 
attendants or equipage to command respect from hostlers, waiters, and 
innkeepers, I was made immediately sensible of the reality, at least, of the 
change in my fortune; but I was not mortified———I felt only as if I were 
travelling incognito. And I contrived to go to bed without a valet-de-chambre, 
and slept soundly, for I had earned a sound sleep by exertion both of body and 
mind. 
CHAPTER XVI. 
In the morning I awoke with a confused notion, that something extraordinary had 
happened; but it was a good while before I recollected myself sufficiently, to 
be perfectly sensible of the absolute and irrevocable change in my 
circumstances. An inn may not appear the best possible place for meditation, 
especially if the moralizer's bed-chamber be next the yard where carriages roll, 
and hostlers swear perpetually; yet, so situate, I, this morning as I lay awake 
in my bed, thought so abstractedly and attentively, that I heard neither wheels 
nor hostlers. I reviewed the whole of my past life; I regretted bitterly my 
extravagance, my dissipation, my waste of time; I considered how small a share 
of enjoyment my wealth had procured, either for myself or others; how little 
advantage I had derived from my education, and from all my opportunities of 
acquiring knowledge. It had been in my power to associate with persons of the 
highest talents, and of the best information in the British dominions; yet I had 
devoted my youth to loungers, and gamesters, and epicures, and knew that 
scarcely a trace of my existence remained in the minds of those selfish beings, 
who once called themselves my friends. I wished, that I could live my life over 
again, and I felt that, were it in my power, I should live in a manner very 
different from that in which I had fooled away existence. In the midst of my 
self-reproaches, however, I had some consolation in the idea, that I had never 
been guilty of any base or dishonourable action. I recollected, with 
satisfaction, my behaviour to Lady Glenthorn, when I discovered her misconduct; 
I recollected that I had always shown gratitude to poor Ellinor for her 
kindness; I recollected with pleasure, that when trusted with power I had not 
used it tyrannically. My exertions in favour of my foster-brother, when he was 
oppressed, I remembered with much satisfaction; and the steadiness with which I 
behaved, when a conspiracy was formed against my life, gave me confidence in my 
own courage; and, after having sacrificed my vast possessions to a sense of 
justice, no mortal could doubt my integrity; so that upon the whole, 
notwithstanding my past follies, I had a tolerably good opinion of myself, or 
rather good hopes for the future. I was certain, that there was more in me than 
the world had seen; and I was ambitious of proving, that I had some personal 
merit independent of the adventitious circumstances of rank and fortune. But how 
was I to distinguish myself? 
Just as I came to this difficult question, the chambermaid interrupted my 
reverie, by warning me in a shrill voice, that it was very late, and that she 
had called me above two hours before. 
Where's my man? send up my man? O! I beg your pardon———nothing at all; only, my 
good girl, I should be obliged to you if you could let me have a little warm 
water, that I may shave myself. 
It was new and rather strange to me to be without attendants, but I found, that 
when I was forced to it, I could do things admirably well for myself, that I had 
never suspected I could perform without assistance. After I had travelled two 
days without servants, how I had travelled with them was the wonder. I once 
caught myself, saying of myself, "that careless blockhead has forgot my 
night-cap." For some time I was liable to make odd blunders about my own 
identity; I was apt to mistake between my old and my new habits, so that when I 
spoke in the tone and imperative mood in which Lord Glenthorn had been 
habituated to speak, people stared at me as if I was mad, and I in my turn was 
frequently astonished by their astonishment, and perplexed by their case of 
behaviour in my presence. 
Upon my arrival in Dublin, I went to a small lodging which Mr. M'Leod had 
recommended to me; it was such as suited my reduced finances; but, at first 
view, it was not much to my taste; however, I ate with a good appetite my very 
frugal supper, upon a little table, covered with a little table cloth, on which 
I could not wipe my mouth without stooping low: the mistress of the house, a 
north country woman, was so condescending, as to blow my fire, remarking at the 
same time, that coals wore a very scarce article; she begged to know whether I 
would choose a fire in my bed-room, and what quantity of coals she should lay 
in; she added many questions about boarding and small-beer, and tea and sugar, 
and butter, and blankets, and sheets, and washerwomen, which almost overwhelmed 
my spirits. 
And must I think of all these things for myself? said I, in a lamentable tone, 
and I suppose with a most deplorable length of face, for the woman could not 
refrain from laughing; as she left the room, I heard her exclaim, "Lord help 
him! he looks as much astray as if he was just new from the Isle of Sky." 
The cares of life were coming fast upon me, and I was terrified by the idea of a 
host of petty evils; I sat ruminating with my feet on the bars of the grate, 
till past midnight, till my landlady, who seemed to think it incumbent upon her 
to supply me with common sense, came to inform me that there was a good fire 
burning to waste in the bed-room, and that I should find myself a deal better 
there than sitting over the cinders. I suffered myself to be removed to the 
bed-chamber, and again established my feet upon the upper bar of the grate. 
"Lack! sir, you'll burn your boots," said my careful landlady, who, after 
bidding me good-night, put her head back into the room, to beg I would be sure 
to rake the fire, and throw up the ashes safe before I went to bed. Left to my 
own meditations, I confess I did feel rather forlorn. I reflected upon my 
helplessness in all the common business of life; and the more I considered, that 
I was totally unfit for any employment or profession, by which I could either 
earn money, or distinguish myself, the deeper became my despondency. I passed a 
sleepless night, vainly regretting the time that never could be recalled. 
In the morning, my landlady gave me some letters, which had been forwarded for 
me from Glenthorn Castle: The direction, to the Earl of Glenthorn, scratched 
out, and in its place inserted my new address, "C. O'Donoghoe, Esq., No. 6, Duke 
Street, Dublin." I remember, I held the letters in my hand, contemplating the 
direction for some minutes, and at length read it aloud repeatedly, to my 
landlady's infinite amusement: she knew nothing of my history, and seemed in 
doubt whether to think me extremely silly or mad. One of my letters was from 
Lord Y———, an Irish nobleman, with whom I was not personally acquainted, but for 
whose amiable character, and literary reputation, I had always, even during my 
days of dissipation, peculiar respect. He wrote to me, to make inquiries 
respecting the character of a Mr. Lyddell, who had just proposed himself as 
tutor to the son of one of his friends. Mr. Lyddell had formerly been my 
favourite tutor, the man who had encouraged me in every species of ignorance and 
idleness. In my present state of mind, I was not disposed to speak favourably of 
this gentleman; and I resolved, that I would not be instrumental in placing 
another young nobleman under his guidance. I wrote an explicit, indignant, and I 
will say eloquent letter, upon this occasion; but, when I came to the signature, 
I felt a repugnance to signing myself, C. O'Donoghoe, and I recollected, that as 
my history could not yet be public, Lord Y——— would be puzzled by this strange 
name, and would be unable to comprehend this answer to his letter. I therefore 
determined to wait upon his lordship, and to make my explanations in person; 
besides my other reasons for determining on this visit, I had a strong desire to 
become personally acquainted with a nobleman, of whom I had heard so much. His 
lordship's porter was not quite so insolent as some of his brethren, and though 
I did not come in a showy equipage, and though I had no laced footmen to enforce 
my rights, I gained admission. I passed through a gallery of fine statues, to a 
magnificent library, which I admired till the master of the house appeared, and 
from that moment he commanded, or rather captivated, my attention. 
Lord Y——— was at this time an elderly gentleman. In his address, there was a 
becoming mixture of ease and dignity; he was not what the French call maniéré; 
his politeness was not of any particular school, but founded on those general 
principles of good-taste, good-sense, and good nature, which must succeed in all 
times, places, and seasons. His desire to please evidently arose, not from 
vanity, but benevolence. In his conversation, there was neither the pedantry of 
a recluse, nor the coxcombry of a man of the world: his knowledge was select, 
his wit without effort, the play of a cultivated imagination: the happiness of 
his expressions did not seem the result of care; and his allusions were at once 
so apposite and elegant, as to charm both the learned and the unlearned; all he 
said was sufficiently clear and just, to strike every person of plain sense and 
natural feeling, whilst, to the man of literature, it had often a further power 
to please, by its less obvious meaning. Lord Y———'s superiority never depressed 
those with whom he conversed; on the contrary, they felt themselves raised by 
the magic of politeness to his level; instead of being compelled to pay tribute, 
they seemed invited to share his intellectual dominion, and to enjoy with him 
the delightful preeminence of genius and virtue. 
I shall be forgiven for pausing in my own insignificant story; to dwell on the 
noble character of a departed friend. That he permitted me to call him my 
friend, I think the greatest honour of my life. But let me, if I can, go on 
regularly with my narrative. 
Lord Y——— took it for granted, during our first half hour's conversation, that 
he was speaking to the Earl of Glenthorn; he thanked me with much warmth for 
putting him on his guard against the character of Mr. Lyddell; and his lordship 
was also pleased to thank me, for making him acquainted, as he said, with my own 
character; for convincing him how ill it had been appreciated by those who 
imagined, that wealth and title were the only distinctions, which the Earl of 
Glentborn might claim. This compliment went nearer to my heart than Lord Y——— 
could guess. 
"My character," said I, "since your lordship encourages me to speak of myself 
with freedom, my character has, I hope, been much changed and improved by 
circumstances; and perhaps those, which might at present be deemed the most 
unfortunate, may ultimately prove of the greatest advantage by urging me to 
exertion.———Your lordship is not aware of what I allude to: a late event in my 
singular history," continued I; taking up the newspapers which lay on his 
library table———"my singular history, has not yet, I fancy, got into the public 
newspapers. Perhaps you will hear it most favourably from myself." 
Lord Y——— was politely, benevolently attentive, whilst I related to him the 
sudden and singular change in my fortune: when I gave an account of the manner 
in which I had conducted myself after the discovery of my birth, tears of 
generous feeling filled his eyes; he laid his hand upon mine when I paused. 
"Whatever you have lost," said he, "you have gained a friend. Do not be 
surprised," continued he, "by this sudden declaration. Before I saw you this 
morning, your real character was better known to me than you imagine. I learnt 
it from a particular friend of mine, of whose judgment and abilities I have the 
highest opinion, Mr. Cecil Devereux; I saw him just after his marriage, and the 
very evening before they sailed. I remember, when Lady Geraldine and he were 
talking of the regret they felt in leaving Ireland, among the friends whom they 
lamented that they should not see again, perhaps for years, you were mentioned 
with peculiar esteem and affection. They called you their generous benefactor, 
and fully explained to me the claim you had to this title———a title which never 
can be lost. But Mr. Devereux was anxious to convince me, that he was not 
influenced by the partiality of gratitude in his opinion of his benefactor's 
talents. He repeated an assertion, that was supported with much energy by the 
charming Lady Geraldine, that Lord Glenthorn had abilities to be any thing he 
pleased; and the high terms in which they spoke of his talents, and the strong 
proofs they adduced of the generosity of his character, excited, in my mind, a 
warm desire to cultivate his acquaintance; a desire, which has been considerably 
increased within this last hour. May I hope, that the Irish rapidity, with which 
I have passed from acquaintance to friendship, may not shock English habits of 
reserve, and may not induce you to doubt the sincerity of the man, who has 
ventured with so little hesitation or ceremony, to declare himself your friend?" 

I was so much moved by this unexpected kindness, that, though I felt how much 
more was requisite, I could answer only with a bow; and I was glad to make my 
retreat as soon as possible. The very next day, his lordship returned my visit, 
to my landlady's irrecoverable astonishment; and I had increasing reason to 
regard him with admiration and affection. He convinced me, that I had interested 
him in my concerns, and told me, I must forgive him if he spoke to me with the 
freedom of a friend; thus I was encouraged to consult him respecting my future 
plans. Plans, indeed, I had none regularly formed; but Lord Y———, by his 
judicious suggestions, settled, and directed my ideas, without overpowering me 
by the formality of advice. My ambition was excited to deserve his friendship, 
and to accomplish his predictions. The profession of the law was that, to which 
he advised me to turn my thoughts: he predicted, that, if for five years I would 
persevere in application to the necessary preparatory studies, I should 
afterwards distinguish myself at the bar, more than I had ever been 
distinguished by the title of Earl of Glenthorn. Five years of hard labour! the 
idea alarmed, but did not utterly appal my imagination; and to prevent my 
dwelling upon it too long at the first, Lord Y——— suddenly changed the 
conversation, and in a playful tone, said, "Before you immerse yourself in your 
studies, I must, however, claim some of your time. You must permit me to carry 
you home with me to day, to introduce you to two ladies of my acquaintance. The 
one prudent and old———if a lady can ever be old; the other, young, and 
beautiful, and graceful, and witty, and wise, and reasonable. One of these 
ladies is much prepossessed in your favour, the other strongly prejudiced 
against you———for the best of all possible reasons, because she does not know 
you." 
I accepted Lord Y———'s invitation; not a little curious, to know, whether it was 
the old and prudent, or the young, beautiful, graceful, witty, wise, and 
reasonable lady, who was much prepossessed in my favour. Notwithstanding my 
usual indifference to the whole race of very agreeable young ladies, I remember 
trying to form a picture in my imagination of this all-accomplished female. 
CHAPTER XVII. 
Upon my arrival at Y——— House, I found two ladies in the drawing-room, in 
earnest conversation with Lady Y———. In their external appearance, they were 
nearly what my friend had described; except that the beauty of the youngest 
infinitely surpassed my expectations. The elegance of her form, and the charming 
expression of her countenance, struck me with a sort of delightful surprise, 
that was quickly succeeded by a most painful sensation. 
"Lady Y———, give me leave to introduce to you Mr. O'Donoghoe." 
Shocked by the sound of my own name, I was ready to recoil abashed. The elderly 
lady turned her eyes upon me for an instant, with that indifference with which 
we look at an uninteresting stranger. The young lady seemed to pity my 
confusion; for though so well and so long used to varieties of the highest 
company, when placed in a situation that was new to me, I was unaccountably 
disconcerted. Ah! thought I, how differently should I be received were I still 
Earl of Glenthorn! 
I was rather angry with Lord Y——— for not introducing me, as he had promised, to 
this fair lady; and yet the repetition of my name would have increased my 
vexation. In short, I was unjust, and felt an impatience and irritability quite 
unusual to my temper. Lady Y——— addressed some conversation to me, in an 
obliging manner, and I did my best to support my part till she left me: but my 
attention was soon distracted, by a conversation that commenced at another part 
of the room, between the elderly lady and Lady Y———. 
"My dear Lady Y———, have you heard the extraordinary news? the most incredible 
thing that ever was heard! For my part, I cannot believe it yet, though we have 
the intelligence from the best authority. Lord Glenthorn, that is to say, the 
person we always called Lord Glenthorn, turns out to be the son of the lord 
knows who———they don't mention the name." 
At this speech I was ready to sink into the earth. Lord Y——— took my arm, and 
led me into another room. "I have some cameos," said he, "which are thought 
curious; would you like to look at them?" 
"Can you conceive it!" continued the elderly lady, whose voice I still heard, as 
the folding doors of the room were open: "Changed at nurse! One hears of such 
things in novels, but, in real life, I absolutely cannot believe it. Yet here, 
in this letter from Lady Ormsby, are all the particulars: and a blacksmith is 
found to be Earl of Glenthorn, and takes possession of Glenthorn Castle, and all 
the estates. And the man is married, to some vulgarian, of course: and he has a 
son, and may have half a hundred, you know; so there is an end of our hopes; and 
there is an end too of all my fine schemes for Cecilia." 
I felt myself change colour again. "I believe," said I, to Lord Y———, "I ought 
not to hear this. If your lordship will give me leave, I will shut the door." 
"No, no," said he, smiling, and stopping me, "you ought to hear it, for it will 
do you a great deal of good. You know I have undertaken to be your guide, 
philosopher, and friend; so you must let me have my own way; and, if it should 
so happen, hear yourself abused patiently. Is not this a fine bust of Socrates?" 

Some part of the conversation in the next room I missed, whilst his lordship 
spoke.——— The next words I heard were——— "But, my dear Lady Y———, look at 
Cecilia. Would not any other girl be cast down and miserable in Cecilia's place? 
yet see how provokingly happy and well she looks." 
"Yes," replied Lady Y———, "I never saw her appear better: but we are not to 
judge of her by what any other young lady would be in her place, for I know of 
none at all comparable to Miss Delamere." 
"Miss Delamere!" said I, to Lord Y———. 
"Is this the Miss Delamere who is heir at law to———" 
"The Glenthorn estate. Yes———do not let the head of Socrates fall from your 
hands," said his lordship, smiling. 
I again lost something that was said in the next room; but I heard the old lady 
going on with——— "I only say, my dear, that if the man had: been really what he 
was said to be, you could not have done better." 
"Dearest mother, you cannot be serious, replied the sweetest voice I ever heard. 
"I am sure that you never were in earnest upon this subject: you could not wish 
me to be united with such a man as Lord Glenthorn was said to be." 
"Why? what was he said to be, my dear?———a little dissipated, a little 
extravagant only: and if he had a fortune to support it, child, what matter?" 
pursued the mother: "all young men are extravagant now-a-days ———you must take 
the world as it goes." 
"The lady who married Lord Glenthorn, I suppose, acted upon that principle, and 
you see what was the consequence." 
"O, my dear, as to her ladyship, it ran in the blood: let her have married whom 
she would, she would have done the same: and I am told Lord Glenthorn made an 
incomparably good husband. A cousin of Lady Glenthorn's assured me, that she was 
present one day, when her ladyship expressed a wish for a gold chain to wear 
round her neck, or braid her hair, I forget for what, but that very hour Lord 
Glenthorn bespoke for her a hundred yards of gold chain, at three guineas a 
yard. Another time she longed for an Indian shawl, and his lordship presented 
her next day with three dozen real Indian shawls. There's a husband for you, 
Cecilia!" 
"Not for me, mamma," said Cecilia, laughing. 
"Ah, you are a strange, romantic girl, and never will be married after all, I 
fear." 
"Never to a fool, I hope," said Cecilia. 
"Miss Delamere will, however, allow," said Lady Y———, "that a man may have his 
follies without being a fool, or wholly unworthy of her esteem; otherwise, ,what 
a large portion of mankind she would deprive of hope!" 
"As to Lord Glenthorn, he was no fool, I promise you," continued the mother; 
"has not he been living prudently enough these last few years? we have not heard 
of late of any of his extraordinary landaus." 
"But I have been told," said Cecilia, "that he is quite uniformed, without any 
taste for literature, and absolutely incapable of exertion———a victim to ennui. 
How miserable a woman must be with such a husband!" 
"But," said Lady Y———, "what could be expected from a young nobleman, bred up as 
Lord Glenthorn was?" 
"Nothing," said Cecilia; and that is the very reason I never wish to see him." 
"Perhaps Miss Delamere's opinion might be changed if she had known him," said 
Lady Y———. 
"Ay, for he is a very handsome man, I have, heard," said the mother. "Lady 
Jocunda Lawlor told me so, in one of her letters; and Lady Jocunda was very near 
being married to him herself, I can tell you, for he admired her prodigiously." 
"A certain proof, that he never would have admired me," said Cecilia; "for two 
women, so opposite in every respect, no man could have loved." 
"Lord bless you, child! how little you know of the matter! After all, I dare 
say, if you had been acquainted with him, you might have been in love yourself 
with Lord Glenthorn." 
"Possibly," said Cecilia, "if I had found him the reverse of what he is reported 
to be." 
Company came in at this instant. Lord Y——— was called to receive them, and I 
followed; glad, at this instant, that i was not Lord Glenthorn. At dinner the 
conversation turned upon general subjects: and Lord Y———, with polite and 
friendly attention, drew me out, without seeming to do so, in the most friendly 
manner possible. 
I had the pleasure to perceive, that Cecilia Delamore did not find me a fool. I 
never, even in the presence of Lady Geraldine, exerted myself so much to avoid 
this disgrace. 
After all the company, except Mrs. and Miss Delamere, were gone, Lord Y——— 
called me aside. 
"Will you pardon." said he, "the means I have taken to convince you how much 
superior you are to the opinion that has been commonly formed of Lord Glenthorn? 
Will you forgive me for convincing you, that when a man has sufficient strength 
of mind to rely upon himself, and sufficient energy to exert his abilities, he 
becomes independent of common report and vulgar opinion? he secures the 
suffrages of the best judges; and they, in time, lead all the rest of the world. 
Will you permit me now to introduce you to your prudent friend and your fair 
enemy? Mrs. Delamere———Miss Delamere, give me leave to introduce to you the late 
Earl of Glenthorn." 
Of the astonishment in the opening eyes of Mrs. Delamere I have some faint 
recollection. I can never forget the crimson blush, that instantaneously spread 
over the celestial countenance of Cecilia. She was perfectly silent, but her 
mother went on talking with increased rapidity. 
"Good Heavens! the late Lord Glenthorn! Why, I was talking———but he was not in 
the room." The ladies exchanged looks, which seemed to say, "I hope he did not 
hear all we said of him." 
"My dear Lord Y———, why did not you tell us this before? Suppose we had spoken 
of his lordship, you would have been answerable for all the consequences." 
"Certainly," said Lord Y——— 
"But, seriously," said the old lady, "have I the pleasure to speak to Lord 
Glenthorn, or have I not? I believe I began, unluckily, to talk of a strange 
story I had heard; but perhaps all this is a mistake, and my county 
correspondant may have been amusing herself at the expense of my credulity. I 
assure you I was not imposed upon, I never believed half the story." 
"You may believe the whole of it, madam," said I; "the story is perfectly true." 

"O! my good sir, how sorry I am to hear you say it is all true! And the 
blacksmith is really Earl of Glenthorn, and has taken possession of the castle, 
and is married, and has a son! Lord bless me, how unfortunate! Well, I can only 
say, sir, I wish, with all my heart, you were Earl of Glenthorn still." 
After hearing from Lord Y——— the circumstances of what he was pleased to call my 
generous conduct, Mrs. Delamere observed, that I had acted very generously, to 
be sure, but that few in my place would have thought themselves bound to give up 
possession of an estate, which I had so long been taught to believe was my own. 
To have and to hold, she observed, always went together in law; and she could 
not help thinking I had done very injudiciously and imprudently not to let the 
law decide for me. 
I was consoled for Mrs. Delamere's reprehensions by her daughter's approving 
countenance. After this visit, Lord Y——— gave me a general invitation to his 
house, where I frequently saw Miss Delamere, and frequently compared her with my 
recollection of Lady Geraldine ———. Cecilia Delamere was not so entertaining, 
but she was more interesting than Lady Geraldine; the flashes of her ladyship's 
wit, though always striking, were sometimes dangerous; Cecilia's wit, though 
equally brilliant, shone with a more pleasing and inoffensive light. Cecilia had 
humour, but it played rather upon things than upon persons: she had not the 
dexterity of Lady Geraldine in drawing caricature, but in favourable likenesses 
she excelled: she had neither the powers of mimickry, nor the satirical talents, 
of Lady Geraldine; but Cecilia's general observations on life and manners showed 
more impartiality, and juster discrimination, if not so wide a range of thought. 
With as much generosity as Lady Geraldine could show in great affairs, she had 
more forbearance and delicacy of attention on every-day occasions. Lady 
Geraldine had much pride, and it often gave offence: Cecilia, perhaps, had more 
pride, but it never appeared, except upon the defensive: without having less 
candour, she had less occasion for it than Lady Geraldine seemed to have; and 
Cecilia's temper had more softness and equability. Perhaps Cecilia was not so 
fascinating, but she was more attractive. One had the envied art of appearing to 
advantage in public———the other, the more desirable power of being happy in 
private. I admired Lady Geraldine long before I loved her; I loved Cecilia long 
before I admired her. 
Whilst I possibly could, I called what I felt for Miss Delamere only esteem; but 
when I found it impossible to conceal from myself that I loved, I resolved to 
avoid this charming woman. How happy, thought I, would the fortune I once 
possessed now make me! but in my present circumstances what have I to hope? 
Surely my friend Lord Y——— has not shown his usual prudence, in exposing me to 
such a temptation; but it is to be supposed, he thinks, that the impossibility 
of my obtaining Miss Delamere would prevent my thinking of her; or, perhaps, he 
depends on the inertness and apathy of my temper. Unfortunately for me, my 
sensibility has increased since I have become poor; for many years, when I was 
rich, and could have married easily, I never wished to marry, and now that I 
have not enough to support a wife, I immediately fall desperately in love. 
Again and again I pondered upon my circumstances; three hundred a-year was the 
amount of all my worldly possessions; and Miss Delamere was not rich, and she 
had been bred expensively; for it had never been absent from her mother's mind, 
that Cecilia would be heiress to the immense Glenthorn estate. The present 
possessor was, however, an excellent life, and he had a son stout and healthy, 
so all these hopes of Mrs. Delamere's were at an end; and as there was little 
chance, as she said (laughing), of persuading her daughter to marry Johnny, the 
young lord and heir apparent, it was now necessary to turn her views elsewhere, 
and to form for Cecilia some suitable alliance. Rank and large fortune were, in 
Mrs. Delamere's opinion, indispensable to happiness. Cecilia's ideas were far 
more moderate; but though perfectly disinterested and generous, she was not so 
romantic, or so silly, as to think of marrying any man, without the probability 
of his being able to support her in the society of her equals; nor, even if I 
could have thought it possible to prevail upon Miss Delamere to make an 
unbecoming and imprudent choice, would I have taken advantage of the confidence 
reposed in me by Lord Y———, to destroy the happiness of a young friend, for whom 
he evidently had a great regard. I resolved to see her no more——— and for some 
weeks I kept my resolution; I refrained from going to Y——— house. I deem this 
the most virtuous action of my life; it certainly was the most painful sacrifice 
I ever made to a sense of duty. At last, Lord Y——— came to me one morning, and 
after reproaching me, in a friendly manner, for having so long absented myself 
from his house, declared, that he would not be satisfied with any of those 
common excuses, which might content a mere acquaintance; that his sincere 
anxiety for my welfare gave him a right to expect from me the frankness of a 
friend. It was a relief to my mind to be encouraged in this manner. I confessed 
with entire openness my real motive. Lord Y——— heard me without surprise:——— "It 
is gratifying to me," said his lordship, "to be convinced, that I was not 
mistaken in my judgment, either of your taste, or your integrity; permit me to 
assure you, that I foresaw exactly how you would feel, and precisely how you 
would act. There are certain moral omens, which old experience never fails to 
interpret rightly, and from which, unerring predictions of the future conduct, 
and consequently of the future fate of individuals, may be formed. I hold that 
we are the artificers of our own fortune. If there be any whom the gods wish to 
destroy, these are first deprived of understanding; whom the gods wish to 
favour, they first endow with integrity, inspire with understanding, and animate 
with activity. Have I not seen integrity in you? and shall I not see activity? 
Yes———that supineness of temper or habit, with which you reproach yourself, has 
arisen, believe me, only from want of motive; but you have now the most powerful 
of motives, and, in proportion to your exertions, will be your success. In our 
country, you know, the highest offices of the state are open to talents and 
perserverance; a man of abilities and application cannot fail to secure 
independence, and obtain distinction. Time and industry are necessary to prepare 
you for, the profession, to which you will hereafter be an honour, and you will 
courageously submit. 
'Time and industry the mighty two, Which bring our wishes nearer to our view.' 
As to the probability that your present wishes may be crowned with success, I 
can judge only from my general knowledge of the views and disposition of the 
lady whom you admire. I know that her views with respect to fortune are 
moderate, and that her disposition and excellent understanding will, in the 
choice of a husband, direct her preference to the essential good qualities, and 
not to the accidental advantages of the candidates for her favour. As to the 
mother's influence, that will necessarily yield to the daughter's superior 
judgment. Cecilia possesses over her mother not only that power, which strong 
minds always have over weak ones, but she further exercises the witchcraft of 
gentle manners, which in the female sex is always irresistible, even over 
violent tempers. Prudential considerations have a just, though not exclusive 
claim to Miss Delamere's attention. The present possessor of the Glenthorn 
estate may possibly, though ten years older than she is, survive her; but Miss 
Delamere's relations, I fancy, could find means of providing against any 
pecuniary embarrassments, if she should think proper to unite herself to a man 
who can be content, as she would be, with a competence, and who should have 
proved himself able, by his own exertions, to maintain his wife in independence. 
On this last condition I must dwell with emphasis, because it is indispensable, 
and I am convinced, that, without it, Miss Delamere's consent, even after she is 
of age, and at liberty to judge for herself, could never be obtained. You 
perceive then, how much depends upon your own exertions; and this is the best 
hope, and the best motive that I can give to a strong and generous mind. 
Farewell———Persevere and prosper." 
Such was the general purport of what Lord Y——— said to me; indeed, I believe, 
that I have repeated his very words, for they made a great and ineffaceable 
impression upon my mind. From this day I date the commencement of a new 
existence. Fired with ambition, I hope generous ambition, to distinguish myself 
among men, and to win the favour of the most amiable and the most lovely of 
women; all the faculties of my soul were awakened———I became active, permanently 
active. The enchantment of indolence was dissolved, and the demon of ennui was 
cast out for ever. 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
If, among those who may be tempted to peruse my history, there should be any 
mere novel-readers, let me advise them to throw the book aside at the 
commencement of this chapter, for I have no more wonderful incidents to relate, 
no more changes at nurse, no more sudden turns of fortune. I am now become a 
plodding man of business, poring over law-books from morning till night, and 
leading a most monotonous life; yet occupation, and hope, and the constant sense 
of approaching nearer to my object, rendered this mode of existence, dull as it 
may seem, infinitely more agreeable than many of my apparently prosperous days, 
when I had more money, and more time, than I knew how to enjoy. I resolutely 
persevered in my studies. 
About a month after I came to town, the doors of my lodgings were blockaded by 
half a dozen cars, loaded with huge packing-cases, on which I saw, in the 
hand-writing I remembered often to have seen in my blacksmith's bills, a 
direction to Christopher O' Donoghoe, Esquire———this side upwards, to be kept 
dry. 
One of the carmen fumbled in what he called his pocket, and at last produced a 
very dirty note. 
"My dear and honourable foster-brother, larning from Mr. M'Leod, that you are 
thinking of studde-ing, I sind you inclosed by the bearer, who is to get nothing 
for the carrige, all the bookes from the big bookeroom at the castle, which I 
hope, being of not as much use as I could wish to me, your honour will not scorn 
to accept, with the true veneration of 
"Your ever-loving foster-brother, and grateful humble servant, to command. 
P. S. No name needful, for you will not be astray about the hand." 
This good-natured fellow's present was highly valuable and useful to me. 
Among my pleasures at this studious period of my life, when I had few events to 
break the uniform tenour of my days, I must mention letters which I frequently 
received from Mr. Devereux and Lady Geraldine, who still continued in India. Mr. 
Devereux was acquainted with almost all the men of eminence at the Irish bar; 
men who are not mere lawyers, but persons of literature, of agreeable manners, 
and gentlemanlike habits. Mr. Devereux wrote to his friends so warmly in my 
favour, that, instead of finding myself a stranger in Dublin, my only difficulty 
was how to avoid the numerous invitations, which tempted me from my studies. 
Those gentlemen of the bar, who were intimate with Mr. Devereux, honoured me 
with particular attention, and their society was peculiarly useful, as well as 
agreeable to me: they directed my industry to the best and shortest means of 
preparing myself for their profession; they put into my hands the best books; 
told me all that experience had taught them of the art of distinguishing, in the 
mass of law precedents, the useful from the useless, instructed me in the 
methods of-indexing and common-placing, and gave me all those advantages, which 
solitary students so often want, and the want of which so often makes the study 
of the law appear an endless maze without a plan. When I found myself surrounded 
with books, and reading assiduously day and night, I could scarcely believe in 
my own identity; I could scarcely imagine, that I was the same person, who, but 
a few months before this time, lolled upon a sofa half the day, and found it an 
intolerable labour to read or think for half an hour together. Such is the power 
of motive! During the whole time I pursued my studies, and kept my terms in 
Ireland, the only relaxation I allowed myself was in the society at Lord Y———'s 
house in Dublin, and, during my vacations, in excursions which I made with his 
lordship to different parts of the country. Lord Y——— had two country seats in 
the most beautiful parts of Ireland, one in the county of Wicklow, and one in 
the Queen's County. How differently the face of nature appeared to me now! with 
what different sensations I beheld the same objects! 
'No brighter colours paint th' enamell'd fields, 
No sweeter fragrance now the garden yields; 
Whence then this strange increase of joy? 
Is it to love these new delights I owe?'

It was not to love that I owed these new delights, for Cecilia was not there; 
but my powers of observation were wakened, and the confinement and labour to 
which I had lately submitted gave value to the pleasures of rest and liberty, 
and to the freshness of country air, and the beautiful scenes of nature. So true 
it is, that all our pleasures must be earned, before they can be enjoyed. When I 
saw on Lord Y———'s estates, and on those of several other gentlemen, which he 
occasionally took me to visit, the neat cottages, the well-cultivated farms, the 
air of comfort, industry, and prosperity, diffused through the lower classes of 
the people, I was convinced, that much may be done by the judicious care and 
assistance of landlords for their tenantry. I saw this with mixed sensations of 
pleasure and of pain———of pain, for I reflected how little I had accomplished, 
and how ill I had done even that little, whilst the means of doing good to 
numbers had been in my power. For the very trifling services I did some of my 
poor tenants, I am sure I had abundant gratitude, and I was astonished and 
touched by instances of this gratitude shown to me after I had lost my fortune, 
and when I scarcely had myself any remembrance of the people who came to thank 
me. Trivial as it is, I cannot forbear to record one of the many instances of 
gratitude I met with from a poor Irishman. 
Whilst I was in Dublin, as I was paying a morning visit to Lord Y———, sitting 
with him in his library, we heard some disturbance in the inner court, and 
looking out of the window, we saw a countryman with a basket on his arm, 
struggling with the porter and two footmen. 
"He is here, I know to a certainty he is here, and I shall see him, say what you 
plase now!" 
"I tell you my lord is not at home," said the porter. 
"What's the matter?" said Lord Y———, opening the window. 
"See, there's my lord himself at the window; are not you ashamed of yourself 
now," said the footman. 
"And why would I be ashamed that am telling no lies, and hindering no one," said 
the countryman, looking up to us with so sudden a motion, that his hat fell off. 
I knew his face, but could not recollect his name. 
"Oh! there he is, his own honour; I've found him, and axe pardon for my 
boldness; but it's because I've been all day yesterday, and this day, running 
through Dublin after yees, and when certified by the lady of the lodgings you 
was in it here, I could not lave town without my errand, which is no more than a 
cheese from my wife, of her own making, to be given to your honour's own hands, 
and she would not see me if I did not do it." 
"Let him come up," said Lord Y———; "this," continued his lordship, turning to 
me, "reminds me of Henry the Fourth; and the Gascon peasant, with his fromages 
de boeuf." 
"But our countryman brings his offering to an abdicated monarch," said I. 
The poor fellow presented his wife's cheese to me with as good a grace as any 
courtier could have made his offering. Unembarrassed, his manner and his words 
gave the natural and easy expression of a grateful heart. He assured me, that he 
and his wife were the happiest couple in all Ireland; and he hoped I would one 
day be as happy myself in a wife as I desarved, who had made others so, and 
there were many on the estate remembered as well as he did the good I did to the 
poor during my reign. 
Then stepping up closer to me, he said, in a lower voice, "I'm Jimmy Noonan, 
that married ould Riley's daughter; and now that it is all over I may tell you a 
bit of a sacret, which made me so eager to get to the speech of your honour, 
that I might tell it to your own ear alone———no offence to this gentleman before 
whom I'd as soon say it as yourself, because I see he is all as one as another 
yourself. Then the thing is———does your honour remember the boy with the cord 
round his body, looking for the bird's eggs in the rock, and the 'nonymous bit 
of a letter that you got? 'Twas I wrote it, and the gossoon that threw it to 
your honour was a cousin of my own that I sent, that nobody, nor yourself even, 
might not know him; and the way I got the information I never can tell till I 
die, and then only to the priest, because I swore I would not never. But don't 
go for to think it was by being a rubble-any way; no man can, I thank my God, 
charge me with an indifferency. So, rejoiced to see you the same, I wish you a 
good morrow, and a long life, and a happy death———when it comes." 
About this time I frequently used to receive presents to a considerable amount, 
and of things which were most useful to me, but always without any indication by 
which I could discover to whom I was indebted for them; at last, by means of my 
Scotch landlady, I traced them to Mr. M'Leod. This kindness was so earnest and 
peremptory, that it would admit neither thanks nor refusals; and I submitted to 
be obliged to a man for whom I felt such high esteem. I looked upon it as not 
the least of his proofs of regard, that he gave me what I knew he valued more 
than any thing else———his time. Whenever he came to Dublin, though he was always 
hurried by business, so that he had scarcely leisure to eat or sleep, he used 
constantly to come to see me in my obscure lodgings; and when in the country, 
though he hated all letter writing, except letters of business, yet he regularly 
informed me of every thing that could be interesting to me. Glenthorn Castle he 
described as a scene of riotous living, and of the most wasteful vulgar 
extravagance. My poor foster-brother, the best natured and most generous fellow 
in the world, had not sufficient prudence or strength of mind to conduct his own 
family; his wife filled the castle with tribes of her vagabond relations; she 
chose to be descended from one of the kings of Ireland, and whoever would 
acknowledge her high descent, and whoever would claim relationship with her, 
were sure to have their claims allowed, and were welcome to live in all the 
barbarian magnificence of Glenthorn Castle. Every instance that she could hear 
of the former Lady Glenthorn's extravagance, or of mine——— and, alas! there were 
many upon record, she determined to exceed. Her diamonds, and her pearls, and 
her finery, surpassed every thing but the extravagance of some of the Russian 
favourites of fortune. Decked out in the most absurd manner, this descendant of 
kings often, as Mr. M'Leod assured me, indulged in the pleasures of the banquet, 
till, no longer able to support the regal diadem, she was carried by some of the 
meanest of her subjects to her bed. The thefts committed during these 
interregnums were amazing in their amount, and the jewels of the crown were to 
be replaced as fast as they were stolen. Poor Christy all this time was 
considered as a mean spirited cratur, who had no notion of living like a prince, 
and whilst his wife and her relations were revelling in this unheard-of manner, 
he was scarcely considered as the master of the house; he lived by the fireside, 
disregarded in winter, and in summer he spent his time chiefly in walking up and 
down his garden, and picking fruit. He once made an attempt to amuse himself by 
mending the lock of his own room-door, but he was detected in the fact, and 
exposed to such loud ridicule by his lady's favourites, that he desisted, and 
sighing said to Mr. M'Leod———"And isn't it now a great hardship upon a man like 
me to have nothing to do, or not to be let do any thing? If it had not been for 
my son Johnny's sake, I never would have quit the forge; and now all will be 
spent in coshering, and Johnny, at the last, will never be a penny the better, 
but the worse for my consinting to be lorded; and what grieves me more than all 
the rest, she is such a negre, [Note: An Irishman in using this word has some 
confused notion that it comes from negro; whereas it really means niggard.] that 
I haven't a guinea I can call my own to send, as I'd always laid out to do at 
odd times, such little tokens of my love and duty, as would be becoming to my 
dear foster-brother there in Dublin. And now, you tell me, he is going away too, 
beyond sea to England, to finish making a lawyer of himself in London; and what 
friends will he find there, without money in his pocket? and I had been thinking 
this while past, ever since you gave me notice of his being to quit Ireland, 
that I would go up to Dublin myself to see him, and wish him a good journey 
kindly before he would go; and I had a little compliment here, in a private 
drawer, that I had collected unknownst to my wife, but here last night she lit 
upon it, and now that her hand has closed upon it, not a guinea of it shall I 
ever see more, nor a farthing the better of it will my dear foster-brother ever 
be, for it or for me; and this is what grieves me more than all, and goes to the 
quick of my heart." 
When Mr. M'Leod repeated to me these lamentations of poor Christy, I immediately 
wrote to set his heart at ease, as much as I could, by the assurance that I was 
in no distress for money, and that my three hundred a-year would support me in 
perfect comfort and independence, whilst "I was making a lawyer of myself in 
London." I further assured my good foster-brother, that I was so well convinced 
of his affectionate and generous dispositions towards me, that it would be quite 
unnecessary ever to send me tokens of his regard. I added a few words of advice 
about his wife and his affairs, which, like most words of advice, were, as I 
afterwards found, absolutely thrown away. 
Though I had taken care to live with so much economy, that I was not in any 
danger of being in pecuniary embarrassments, yet I felt much distress of another 
kind in leaving Ireland. I left Miss Delamere surrounded with admirers; her 
mother using her utmost art and parental influence to induce Cecilia to decide 
in favour of one of these gentlemen, who was a person of rank and of 
considerable fortune. I had seen all this going on, and was bound in honour the 
whole time to remain passive, not to express my own ardent feelings, not to make 
the slightest attempt to win the affections of the woman, who was the object of 
all my labours, of all my exertions. The last evening that I saw her at Lord 
Y———'s, just before I sailed for England, I suffered more than I thought it was 
in my nature to feel, especially at the moment when I went up to make my bow, 
and take leave of her with all the cold ceremony of a common acquaintance. At 
parting, however, in the presence of her mother and of Lord Y———, Cecilia, with 
her sweet smile, and, I think, with a slight blush, said a few words, upon which 
I lived for months afterwards. 
"I sincerely wish you, sir, the success your perseverance so well deserves." 
The recollection of these words was often my solace in my lonely chambers at the 
Temple; and often, after a day's hard study, the repeating them to myself 
operated as a charm that dissipated all fatigue, and revived at once my 
exhausted spirits. To be sure there were moments, when my fire was out, and my 
candle sinking in the socket, and my mind over-wearied saw things in the most 
gloomy point of view; and at these times I used to give an unfavourable 
interpretation to Cecilia's words, and I fancied, that they were designed to 
prevent my entertaining fallacious hopes, and to warn me that she must yield to 
her mother's authority, or perhaps to her own inclinations, in favour of some of 
her richer lovers. This idea would have sunk me into utter despondency, and I 
should have lost, with my motive, all power of exertion, had I not opposed to 
this apprehension the remembrance of Lord Y———'s countenance, at the moment 
Cecilia was speaking to me. I then felt assured, that his lordship, at least, 
understood the words in a favourable sense, else he would have suffered for me, 
and would not certainly have allowed me to go away with false hopes. Reanimated 
by this consideration, I persevered——— for it was by perseverance alone that I 
could have any chance of success. 
It was fortunate for me, that, stimulated by a great motive, I thus devoted my 
whole time and thoughts to my studies, otherwise, I must, on returning to 
London, have felt the total neglect and desertion of all my former associates in 
the fashionable world; of all the vast number of acquaintance, who used to 
lounge away their hours in my company, and partake of the luxuries of my table 
and the festivities of my house. Some whom I accidentally met in the streets, 
just at my reappearance in town, thought proper, indeed, to know me again at 
first, that they might gratify their curiosity about the paragraphs which they 
had seen in the papers, and the reports which they had heard of my extraordinary 
change of fortune; but no sooner had they satisfied themselves, that all they 
had heard was true, than their interest concerning me ceased. When they found, 
that, instead of being Earl of Glenthorn, and the possessor of a large estate, I 
was now reduced to three hundred a year, lodging in small chambers at the 
Temple, and studying the law, they never more thought me worthy of their notice. 
They affected, according to their different humours, either to pity me for my 
misfortunes, or to blame me for my folly in giving up my estate; but they 
unanimously expressed astonishment at the idea of my becoming a member of any 
active profession, They declared, that it was impossible that I could ever 
endure the labour of the law, or succeed in such an arduous profession. Their 
prophecies intimidated me not; I was conscious, that these people did not in the 
least know me, and I hoped and believed, that I had powers and a character, 
which they were incapable of estimating: their contempt rather excited than 
depressed my mind, and their pity I returned with more sincerity than it was 
given. I had lived their life, knew thoroughly what were its pleasures and its 
pains, I could compare the ennui I felt when I was a Bond-street lounger, with 
the self-complacency I enjoyed now that I was occupied in a laborious but 
interesting and honourable pursuit. I confess, I had sometimes, however, the 
weakness to think the worse of human nature, for what I called the desertion and 
ingratitude of these my former companions and flatterers; and I could not avoid 
comparing the neglect and solitude in which I lived in London, where I had 
lavished my fortune, with the kindness and hospitalities I had received in 
Dublin, where I lived only when I had no fortune to spend. After a little time, 
however, I became more reasonable and just; for I considered, that it was my 
former dissipated mode of life, and imprudent choice of associates, which I 
should blame for the mortifications I now suffered from the desertion of 
companions, who were, in fact, incapable of being friends. In London I had lived 
with the most worthless, in Dublin, with the best company; and in each place I 
had been treated as, in fact, I deserved. But, leaving the history of my 
feelings, I must proceed with my narrative. 
One night, after I had dined with an Irish gentleman, a friend of Lord Y———'s, 
at the west end of the town, as I was returning late to my lodgings, I was 
stopped for some time by a crowd of carriages, in one of the fashionable 
streets. I found that there was a masquerade at the house of a lady, with whom I 
had been intimately acquainted. The clamours of the mob, eager to see the 
dresses of those who were alighting from their carriages, the gaudy and 
fantastic figures which I beheld by the light of the flambeaux, the noise and 
the bustle, put me in mind of various similar nights of my past life, and it 
seemed to me like a dream or a reminiscence of some former state of existence. I 
thought my present self preferable, and without casting a longing lingering look 
behind on the scenes of vanity, or, as they are called, of pleasure, I passed on 
as soon as the crowd would permit, and took my way down a narrow street, by 
which I hoped to get, by a shorter way than usual, to my quiet lodgings. The 
rattling of the carriages, the oaths of the footmen, and the shouts of the mob, 
still sounded in my ears; and the masquerade figures had scarcely faded from my 
sight, when I saw, coming slowly out of a miserable entry, by the light of a few 
wretched candles and lanterns, a funeral. The contrast struck me; I stood still 
to make way for the coffin, and I heard one say to another, "What matter how 
she's buried! I tell you, be at as little expense as possible, for he'll never 
pay a farthing." I had a confused recollection of having heard the voice before; 
as one of the bearers lifted his lantern, I saw the face of the woman who spoke, 
and had a notion of having seen her before. I asked whose funeral it was, and I 
was answered, "It is one Mrs. Crawley's———Lady Glenthorn that was," added the 
woman. I heard no more, I was so much shocked, that I believe I should have 
fallen in the street, if I had not been immediately supported by somebody near 
me. When I recovered my recollection, I saw the funeral had moved on some paces, 
and the person who supported me, I now found, was a clergyman. In a mild voice, 
he told me that his duty called him away from me at present, but he added, that 
if I would tell him where I could be found, he would see me in the morning, and 
give me any information in his power, as he judged that I was interested for 
this unfortunate woman. I put a card with my address into his hands, thanked 
him, and got home as well as I could. In the morning, the clergyman called upon 
me——— a most benevolent man,———unknown to fame! but known to all the wretched 
within the reach of his consolatory religion. He gave me a melancholy account of 
the last days of the unhappy woman, whose funeral I had just seen. I told him 
who I was, and what she had been to me. She had, almost in her last moments, as 
he assured me, expressed her sence of, what she called, my generosity to her, 
and deep contrition for her infidelity. She died in extreme poverty and 
wretchedness, with no human being who was, or even seemed, interested for her, 
but a maid-servant (the woman whose voice I recollected), whose services were 
purchased to the last, by presents of whatever clothes or trinkets were left 
from the wreck fo her mistress's fortune. Crawley, it seems, had behaved 
brutally to his victim. After having long delayed to perform his promise of 
marrying her, he declared, that he could never think of a woman who had been 
divorced, in any other way than as a mistress: she, poor weak creature, 
consented to live with him on any terms; but, as his passions and his interest 
soon turned to new objects, he cast her off without scruple, refusing to pay any 
of the tradesmen, who had supplied her while she bore his name. He refused to 
pay the expenses even of her funeral, though she had shared with him her 
annuity, and every thing she possessed. I paid the funeral expenses, and some 
arrears of the maid's wages, together with such debts for necessaries, as I had 
reason to believe were justly due: the strict economy with which I had lived for 
three years, and the parting with a watch and some other trinkets too fine for 
my circumstances, enabled me to pay this money without material inconvenience, 
and it was a satisfaction to my mind. The good clergyman, who managed these 
little matters for me, became interested for me, and our acquaintance with each 
other grew every day more intimate and agreeable. When he found that I was 
studying the law, he begged to introduce me to a brother of his, who had been 
one of the most eminent special pleaders in London, and who now, on a high 
salary, undertook to prepare students for the bar. I was rather unwilling to 
accept of this introduction, because I was not rich enough to become a pupil of 
this gentleman's; but my clergyman guessed the cause of my reluctance, and told 
me, that his brother had charged him to overrule all such objections. "My 
brother and I," continued he, "though of different professions, have, in 
reality, but one mind between us; he has heard from me all the circumstances I 
know of you, and they have interested him so much, that he desires, in plain 
English, to be of any service he can to you." 
This offer was made in earnest; and if I had given him the largest salary that 
could have been offered by the most opulent of his pupils, I could not have met 
with more attention, or have been instructed with more zeal than I was, by my 
new friend, the special pleader. He was also so kind as to put me at ease, by 
the assurance, that whenever I should begin to make money by my profession, he 
would accept of remuneration. He jestingly said, that he would make the same 
bargain with me, that was made by the famous sophist Protagoras of old with his 
pupil, that he should have the profits of the first cause I should win———certain 
that I would not, like his treacherous pupil Evathlus, employ the rhetorician's 
arms against himself, to cheat him out of his promised reward. My special 
pleader was not a mere man of forms and law rigmaroles; he knew the reason for 
the forms he used: he had not only a technical but a rational knowledge of his 
business; and what is still more uncommon, he knew how to teach what he had 
learnt. He did not merely set me down at a desk, and leave me skins after skins 
of parchment to pore over in bewildered and hopeless stupidity; he did not use 
me like a mere copying machine, to copy sheet after sheet for him, every morning 
from nine till four, and again every evening, from five till ten. Mine was a 
lawtutor of a superior sort. Wherever he could, he gave me a clew to guide me 
through the labyrinth of the law; and when no reason could be devised for what 
the law directs, he never puzzled me by attempting to explain what could not be 
explained; he did not insist upon the total surrender of my rational faculties, 
but, with wonderful liberality, would allow me to call nonsense, nonsense; and 
would, after two or three hours hard scrivening, as the case might require———for 
this I thank him more than all the rest———permit me to yawn, and stretch, and 
pity myself, and curse the useless repetitions of lawyers. 
At other times, my judicious special pleader was in the habits of cheering my 
spirits, sinking under the weight of declarations, and replications, and double 
pleas, and dilatory pleas; 
"Of horse pleas, traverses, demwrers, 
Jeofails, imparlances, and errours, 
Averments, bars, and protestandoes."

O! Cecilia, what pains did I endure to win your applause! Yet, that I may state 
the whole truth, let me acknowledge, that even these my dullest, hardest tasks 
were light, compared with the burden I formerly bore of ennui. At length, my 
period of probation in my pleader's office was over; I escaped from the dusty 
desk, and the smell of musty parchments, and the close smoky room; I finished 
eating my terms at the Temple, and returned, even as the captain of the packet 
swore, "in the face and teeth of the wind," to Dublin. 
But, in my haste to return, I must not omit to notice, for the sake of poetical 
equity, that, just when I was leaving England, I heard that slow but sure paced 
justice at last overtook that wretch, Crawley. He was detected and convicted of 
embezzling considerable sums, the property of a gentleman in Cheshire, who had 
employed him as his agent. I saw him, as I passed through Chester, going to 
prison, amidst the execrations of the populace. 
CHAPTER XIX. 
As I was not, as formerly, asleep in my carriage on deck, when we came within 
sight of the Irish shore, I saw, and hailed with delight, the beautiful bay of 
Dublin. The moment we landed, instead of putting myself out of humour, as 
before, with every thing at the Marine Hotel, I went directly to my friend, Lord 
Y———'s. I made my sortie from the hotel with so much extraordinary promptitude, 
that a slip-shod waiter was forced to pursue me, running or shuffling after me 
the whole length of the street, before he could overtake me, with a letter, 
which had been "waiting for my honour, at the hotel, since yesterday's Holyhead 
packet." This was a mistake, as the letter had never come or gone by any 
Holyhead packet; it was only a letter from Mr. M'Leod, to welcome me to Ireland 
again; and to tell me, that he had taken care to secure good well-aired lodgings 
for me: he added an account of what was going on at Glenthorn Castle. The 
extravagance of my lady had, by this time, reduced the family to great 
difficulties for ready-money, as they could neither sell nor mortgage any part 
of the Glenthorn estate, which was settled on the son. My poor foster-brother 
had, it seems, in vain, attempted to restrain the wasteful folly of his wife, 
and to persuade Johnny, the young heir apparent, to larn to be a jantleman: in 
vain Christy tried to prevail on his lordship, to refrain drinking whiskey 
preferably to claret; the youth pleaded both his father and mother's examples; 
and said, that as he was an only son, and his father had but a life-interest in 
the estate, he expected to be indulged; he repeated continually, "a short life 
and a merry one for me." Mr. M'Leod concluded this letter, by observing, "that 
far from its being a merry life, he never saw any thing more sad than the life 
this foolish boy led; and that Glenthorn Castle was so melancholy and disgusting 
a scene of waste, riot, and intemperance, that he could not bear to go there." I 
was grieved by this account, for the sake of my poor foster-brother; but it 
would have made a deeper impression upon me at any other time. I must own, that 
I forgot the letter, and all that it contained, as I knocked at Lord Y———'s 
door. 
Lord Y——— received me with open arms, and, with all the kindness of friendship, 
anticipated the questions I longed, yet feared, to ask. 
"Cecilia Delamere is still unmarried——— Let these words be enough to content you 
for the present; all the rest is, I hope, in your own power." 
In my power!———delightful thought! yet how distant that hope! For I was now, 
after all my labours, but just called to the bar; not yet likely, for years, to 
make a guinea, much less a fortune, by my profession. Many of the greatest of 
our lawyers have gone circuit, for ten or twelve years, before they made a 
hundred a year by their profession; and I was at this time four and thirty. I 
confessed to my Lord Y———, that these reflections alarmed and depressed me 
exceedingly: but he encouraged me by this answer——— "Persevere———deserve 
success, and trust the rest, not to fortune, but to your friends. It is not 
required of you to make ten thousand, or one thousand a year, at the bar, in any 
given time; but it is expected from you to give proofs, that you are capable of 
conquering the indolence of your disposition, or of your former habits. It is 
required from you, to give proofs of intellectual energy and ability. When you 
have convinced me, that you have the knowledge and assiduity that ought to 
succeed at the bar, I shall be certain, that only time is wanting to your actual 
acquisition of a fortune equal to what I ought to require for my fair friend and 
relation. When it comes to that point, it will, my dear sir, be time enough for 
me to say more. Till it comes to that point, I have promised Mrs. Delamere, that 
you will not even attempt to see her daughter. She blames me for having 
permitted Cecilia and you to see so much of each other, as you did in this house 
when you were last in Ireland. Perhaps I was imprudent, but your conduct has 
saved me from my own reproaches, and I fear no other. I end where I began, with 
'Persevere———and may the success your perseverance deserves be your reward.' If 
I recollect right, these were nearly Miss Delamere's own words at parting with 
you." 
In truth, I had not forgotten them; and I was so much excited by their 
repetition at this moment, and by my excellent friend's encouraging voice, that 
all difficulties, all dread of future labours or evils, vanished from my view. I 
went my first circuit, and made two guineas, and was content; for Lord Y——— was 
not disappointed: he told me it would, it must be so. But though I made no 
money, I obtained gradually, amongst my associates at the bar, the reputation 
for judgment and knowledge. Of this they could judge by my conversation, and by 
the remarks on the trials brought on before us. The elder counsel had been 
prepared in my favour, first by Mr. Devereux, and afterwards by my diligence in 
following their advice, during my studies in Dublin: they perceived that I had 
not lost my time in London, and that my mind was in my possession. They 
prophesied that, from the moment I began to be employed, I should rise rapidly 
at the bar. Opportunity, they told me, was now all that I wanted, and for that I 
must wait with patience. I waited with as much patience as I could. I had many 
friends; some among the judges, some among the more powerful class of men, the 
attorneys. Some of these friends made for me by Mr. Deveréux and Lady Geraldine; 
some by Lord Y———; some, may I say it, by myself. Yet the united and zealous 
endeavours, direct and indirect, of partisans more powerful and more numerous 
than mine, had failed to push on, or push up, several barristers, who were of 
much longer standing than myself. Indeed the attempts to bring them forward had, 
in some instances, been rather injurious than serviceable. The law is a 
profession in which patronage can do but little for any candidate. Every man, in 
his own business, will employ him whom he believes to have the most knowledge 
and ability. The utmost that even the highest patronage from the bench can do 
for a young barrister is, to give him an opportunity of distinguishing himself 
in preference to other competitors. This was all I hoped; and I was not deceived 
in this hope. It happened, that a cause of considerable moment, which had come 
on in our circuit, and to the whole course of which I had attended with great 
care, was removed, by an appeal, to the courts above, in Dublin. I fortunately, 
I should say, prudently, was in the habit of constant attendance at the courts: 
the counsel, who was engaged to manage this cause, was suddenly taken ill, and 
was disabled from proceeding. The judge called upon me; the attorneys, and the 
other counsel, were all agreed in wishing me to take up the business, for they 
knew I was prepared, and competent to the question. The next day the cause, 
which was then to be finally decided, came on. I sat up all night to look over 
my documents, and to make myself sure of my points. Ten years before this, if 
any one had prophesied this of me, how little could I have believed them! 
The trial came on———I rose to speak. How fortunate it was for me, that I did not 
know my Lord Y——— was in the court. I am persuaded, that I could not have spoken 
three sentences, if he had caught my eye in the exordium of this my first 
harangue. Every man of sensibility———and no man without it can be an 
orator———every man of sensibility knows, that it is more difficult to speak in 
the presence of one anxious friend, for whose judgment we have a high opinion, 
than before a thousand auditors who are indifferent, and are strangers to us. 
Not conscious who was listening to me, whose eyes were upon me, whose heart was 
beating for me, I spoke with confidence and fluency, for I spoke on a subject, 
of which I had previously made myself completely master; and I was so full of 
the matter, that I thought not of the words. Perhaps this, and my having the 
right side of the question, were the causes of my success. I heard a buzz of 
thanks and applause round me. The decree was given in our favour. At this moment 
I recollected my bargain, and my debt to my good master, the special pleader. 
But all bargains, all debts, all special pleaders, vanished the next instant 
from my mind; for the crowd opened, Lord Y——— appeared before me, seized my 
hand, congratulated me actually with tears of joy, carried me away to his 
carriage, ordered the coachman to drive home———fast! fast! 
"And now," said he to me, "I am satisfied. ———Your trial is over———successfully 
over——— You have convinced me of your powers and your perseverance. All the 
hopes of friendship are fulfilled: may all the hopes of love be accomplished. 
You have now my free and full approbation to address my ward and relation, 
Cecilia Delamere. You will have difficulties with her mother, perhaps; but none 
beyond what we good and great lawyers shall, I trust, be able to overrule. Mrs. 
Delamere knows, that, as I have an unsettled estate, and but one son, I have it 
in my power to provide for her daughter as if she were my own. It has always 
been my intention to do so: but, if you marry Miss Delamere, you will still find 
it necessary to pursue your profession diligently, to maintain her in her own 
rank and style of life; and now that you have felt the pleasures of successful 
exertion, you will consider this necessity as an additional blessing. From what 
I have heard this day, there can be no doubt, that, by pursuing your profession, 
you can secure, in a few years, not only ease and competence, but affluence and 
honours.——— Honours of your own earning.———How far superior to any hereditary 
title!" 
The carriage stopped at Lord Y———'s door. My friend presented me to Cecilia, 
whom I saw this day for the first time since my return to Ireland. From this 
hour I date the commencement of my life of real happiness. How unlike that life 
of pleasure, to which so many give erroneously the name of happiness. Lord Y———, 
with his powerful influence, supported my cause with Mrs. Delamere, who was 
induced, though with an ill-grace, to give up her opposition. 
"Cecilia," she said, "was now three and twenty, an age to judge for herself; and 
Lord Y———'s judgment was a great point in favour of Mr. O'Donoghoe, to be sure. 
And no doubt Mr. O'Donoghoe might make a fortune, since he had made a figure 
already at the bar. In short, she could not oppose the wishes of Lord Y———, and 
the affections of her daughter, since they were so fixed. But, after all," said 
Mrs. Delamere, "what a horrid thing it will be to hear my girl called Mrs. 
O'Donoghoe! Only conceive the sound of———Mrs. O'Donoghoe's carriage 
there!———Mrs. O'Donoghoe's carriage stops the way!" 
"Your objection, my dear madam," replied Lord Y———, "is fully as well founded as 
that of a young lady of my acquaintance, who could not prevail on her delicacy 
to become the wife of a merchant of the name of Sheepshanks. He very wisely, or 
very gallantly, paid five hundred pounds to change his name. I make no doubt 
that your future son-in-law, Mrs. Delamere, will have no objection to take and 
bear the name and arms of Delamere; and I think I can answer for it, that a 
king's letter may be obtained, empowering him to do so. With this part of the 
business allow me to charge myself." 
I spare the reader the protracted journal of a lover's hopes and fears. Cecilia, 
convinced by the exertions in which I had so long persevered, that my affection 
for her was not only sincere and ardent, but likely to be permanent, did not 
torture me by the vain delays of female coquetry. She believed, she said, that a 
man capable of conquering habitual indolence could not be of a feeble character; 
and she therefore consented, without hesitation, to-intrust her happiness to my 
care. 
I hope my readers have, by this time, too favourable an opinion of me to 
suspect, that, in my joy, I forgot him who had been my steady friend in 
adversity. I wrote to M'Leod as soon as I knew my own happiness, and assured 
him, that it would be incomplete without his sympathy. I do not think there was 
at our wedding a face of more sincere, though sober joy, than M'Leod's. Cecilia 
and I have been now married above a twelvemonth, and she permits me to say, that 
she has never, for a moment, repented her choice. That I have not relapsed into 
my former habits, the judicious and benevolent reader will hence infer: and yet 
I have been in a situation to be spoiled; for I scarcely know a wish of my heart 
that remains ungratified, except the wish that my friend Mr. Devereux, and Lady 
Geraldine, should return from India, to see and partake of that happiness, of 
which they first prepared the foundation. They first wakened my dormant 
intellects, made me know that I had a heart, and that I was capable of forming a 
character for myself. The loss of my estate continued the course of my 
education, forced me to exert my own powers, and to rely upon myself. My passion 
for the amiable and charming Cecilia was afterwards motive sufficient, to urge 
me to perservering intellectual labour: fortunately my marriage has obliged me 
to continue my exertions, and the labours of my profession have made the 
pleasures of domestic life most delightful. The rich, says a philosophic 
moralist, are obliged to labour; if they would be healthy or happy; and they 
call this labour exercise. 
Whether, if I were again a rich man, I should have sufficient voluntary exertion 
to take a due portion of mental and bodily exercise, I dare not pretend to 
determine, nor do I wish to be put to the trial. Desiring nothing in life but 
the continuance of the blessings I possess, I may here conclude my memoirs, by 
assuring my readers, that, after a full experience of most of what are called 
the pleasures of life, I would not accept of all the Glenthorn and Sherwood 
estates, to pass another year of such misery as I endured whilst I was 
"stretched on the rack of a too easy chair." 
————————— The preceding Memoirs were just ready for publication, when I received 
the following letter: 
To C. O'Donoghoe, Esq. 
"Honoured foster-brother, 
"Since the day I parted yees, nothing in life but misfortins has happened me, 
owing to my being overruled by my wife, who would be a lady, all I could say 
again it. But that's over, and there's no help; for all and all that ever she 
can say will do no good. The castle's burnt down all to the ground, and my 
Johnny's dead, and I wish I was dead in his place. The occasion of his death was 
owing to drink, which he fell into from getting too much money, and nothing to 
do——— and a snuff of a candle. When going to bed last night, a little in liquor, 
what does he do but takes the candle, and sticks it up against the head of his 
bed, as he used oftentimes to do, without detriment, in the cabin where he was 
reared against the mud-wall. But this was close to an ould window curtain, and a 
deal of ould wood in the bed, which was all in a smother, and he lying asleep 
after drinking, when he was ever hard to wake, and before he wakened at all, it 
appears the unfortunit cratur was smothered, and none heard a sentence of it, 
till the ceiling of my room, the blue bed-chamber, with a piece of the big wood 
cornice fell, and wakened me with terrible uproar, and all above and about me 
was flame and smoke, and I just took my wife on my back, and down the stairs 
with her, which did not give in till five minutes after, and she screeching, and 
all them relations she had screeching and running every one for themselves, and 
no thought in any to save any ting at all, but just what they could for 
themselves, and not a sarvant that was in his right rason. I got the ladder with 
a deal of difficulty, and up to Johnny's room, and there was a sight for me———he 
a corpse, and how even to get the corpse out of that, myself could not tell, for 
I was bewildered, and how they took me down, I don't well know. When I came to 
my sinses, I was lying on the ground in the court, and all confusion and 
screaming still, and the flames raging worse than ever. There's no use in 
describing all———the short of it is, there's nothing remaining of the castle, 
but the stones; and it's little I'd think o' that, if I could have Johnny 
back———such as he used to be in my good days; since he's gone I am no good. I 
write this to beg you, being married, of which I give you joy, to Miss Delamere, 
that is the hare at law, will take possession of all immediately, for I'm as 
good as dead, and will give no hindrance. I will go back to my forge, and, by 
the help of God, forget at my work what has passed, and as to my wife, she may 
go to her own kith and kin, if she will not abide by one, I shall not trouble 
her long. Mr. M'Leod is a good man, and will follow any directions you send, and 
may the blessing of God attind, and come to reign over us again, when you will 
find me, as heretofore, 
"Your loyal foster-brother, 
"Christy Donoghoe." 
Glenthorn Castle is now rebuilding; and, when it is finished, and when I return 
thither, I will, if it should be desired by the public, give a faithful account 
of my feelings. I flatter myself that I shall not relapse into indolence; my 
understanding has been cultivated ———I have acquired a taste for literature, and 
the example of Lord Y——— convinces me, that a man may at once be rich and noble, 
and active and happy.