CHAPTER I.

The lady who did the honours of Mr. O'Sullivan's house to our English travellers, on the night of their arrival at Ballinamoyle, Miss Fitzcarril by name, was in person extremely tall; and a carriage of extraordinary uprightness gave her, with a stiffness, a dignity also of appearance. Her face, though good natured in expression, was, at that period, rather plain; but yet sufficient evidence remained to corroborate her own frequent assertion, that "she had once been a fine woman;" in making which she flattered herself her auditors would imply, that she took the same license which the structure of a venerable language sometimes permits, of understanding, at pleasure, different tenses by the same word; and that they would from the past infer the present. In dress and manner she was old fashioned, but stately, generally wearing garments made of the antique tabinets and satins she inherited from her grandmother, and which, from the unbending nature of the material, would have stood alone, nearly in as erect a posture as that they maintained when encompassing her perpendicular figure; a

double clear starched handkerchief, which Mr. Desmond wickedly called her transparency, enveloped her neck; and the costume of her person was completed by a fine muslin apron of curious work, derived from her own, or her progenitors' industry. Her headdress was the only part of her attire which was ever varied, and in this she was fantastic in the extreme, composing it of the most showy materials, and wearing in her caps and turbans colours only fit for the young and beautiful. Every acquaintance who visited Galway, Limerick, or Clare, was sure to have a commission to buy a cap or bonnet for Miss Fitzcarril; and the more outré in form and colour, the better pleased she was with their purchase. She was, in mind, the most singular mixture of pride and parsimony that was perhaps ever compounded; the one she derived from her highly valued ancestry, the other from her own peculiar fate, and a mistaken idea of principle; and she reconciled her frugality and her dignity, by declaring that "the Fitzcarrils and O'Sullivans needn't

trouble their heads about what any one said of them; every body knew they were come of the kings of Connaught, and had a good right to do as they pleased." In early life she had lived in extreme poverty, and then had learned the ideas of management she afterwards laboured to enforce at Ballinamoyle. Mr. O'Sullivan had been deprived of his wife a few years before he had also the misfortune to lose his only child; and on the death of this beloved daughter, he chose Theresa Fitzcarril from amongst his female relatives, to superintend his establishment, at the same time settling a comfortable provision on her, in case she should survive himself; which he considered a mere act of justice, for he foresaw that the retirement of his residence would condemn her to a life of solitude and celibacy, the two precise circumstances which least accorded with her own wishes. Theresa, on her part, actuated by an excess of pride, resolved she would cancel her pecuniary obligations, not only to her original benefactor, but to his heir, by saving for the

family a sum more than equivalent to all she should ever receive from it. She therefore endeavoured (though without much success) to introduce a system of penury at Ballinamoyle, that, had its owner been aware of her proceedings, he would not have suffered, as it was diametrically opposite to his wishes; he seldom however inquired into the minutiæ of his household; and indifferent to every thing, after the loss of his daughter, he permitted Theresa to do nearly as she pleased; and when he did object to any of her practices, she was so obstinate, that he found he must, to get rid of them, get rid of herself also with them, and this he never could resolve on; but consoled himself with the usual reflection of his countrymen, when trouble is necessary to avoid any thing unpleasant, "It will do well enough, my time won't be long." Miss Fitzcarril sought to relieve the monotony of her life by indulging in constant speculation. In every lottery she had a sixteenth share of a ticket; and to ascertain what she might possess in the matrimonial

lottery, had frequent and protracted conferences with all the tribes of cup-tossers, card-cutters, and deaf and dumb men and women, who infested the country as fortune-tellers,—"Who blind could every thing foresee"—"Who dumb could every thing foretell." This pleasure however Miss Fitzcarril was obliged to indulge in secret, as Mr. O'Sullivan and the worthy priest, who was his domestic pastor, used their best endeavours to banish this race of vagabonds from every place they had influence in; so that when she consulted any of these oracles, she was obliged to conceal herself and them in some remote cabin; but perhaps the impediment thus thrown in the way of this favourite indulgence made her but the more keenly enjoy and still more pertinaciously persist in the practice, notwithstanding the reiterated penances imposed for this offence by the good father Dermoody, which, though she ventured to commit, she did not dare to suppress at confessional. A family of the name of Stewart wandered about the country, presenting papers signed by

respectable names, setting forth, that "their progenitors had been shipwrecked on the coast of Ireland, about a century ago—that the whole race were deaf and dumb—but that Providence, in compensation, had bestowed on them the gift of second sight." To the predictions of a dumb woman, who claimed this name, and proved she was deaf, by showing that nature had left her unprovided with ears[1], Theresa gave the most implicit credit. This Pythoness had learned to write the printed character, and to draw rude representations of ships, trees, men, and animals, which she described on a board with a piece of white chalk; and of these hieroglyphics those who consulted her made what sense best pleased them. A sharp boy, who had all his senses in full activity, never failed to accompany her; apparently to assist in expounding her text, but, in reality, to collect information, which, by the language of signs, he certainly conveyed to his fellow conjuror, at the most à-propos moment, as no body concealed from him the information she was supposed to be (humanly speaking) ignorant of;

In their last conference Judy Stewart had given Miss Fitzcarril the following enigma:—A rose rudely drawn, followed by the words "of vargins,"—then, a ship in full sail—then, three suns—and lastly, a man, four times as big as the ship, holding a candle in one hand, and a ring in the other. The exposition Barny and the curious spinster gave of this was as follows:—"The flower of virgins," that is, the eldest daughter of the direct branch of the O'Sullivan family, was coming from beyond sea, and would arrive at Ballinamoyle, as soon as the sun had risen three times, bringing in her train a great personage (expressed by his extraordinary size,) who would, in winter, designated by the candle, bestow the wedding ring on the fair Theresa Fitzcarril. Judy Stewart's credit was luckily saved by the horses, which our travellers so unexpectedly procured at Tuberdonny, fulfilling the first part of the prediction; and in Mr. Webberly the credulous maiden saw the hero, who was to accomplish that part which related to herself.

Extremes are popularly said to meet, which, we suppose, may naturally account for the Connaught sibyls' most zealous friend and powerful enemy residing at Ballinamoyle. The latter was the reverend father Dermoody, who filled the office of spiritual guide to its owner. He was well informed in mind, and gentlemanly in manners; two circumstances but rarely united in the Irish priests, who are generally taken from a low order in society, and do not usually carry an appearance impressive of the respect, to which most of them are entitled by their real worth. Mr. Dermoody was a relation of the late Mrs. O'Sullivan, and had embraced the priesthood from the influence of early disappointment, which had disgusted him with the world, and led him to devote himself to a religious life for consolation. He pursued his theological studies in one of the French colleges, and was deliberating on entering into a monastic order of great austerity, when he received a letter from his present patron, acquainting him with his marriage, and offering him the

situation of chaplain to his family, which Dermoody's better stars induced him to accept. For many years he bestowed on the education of his relative's lovely daughter all of his time and thoughts, which were not devoted to his sacred functions; and, since her death, he had been the consolation of her desolate father, and a blessing to the poor of the vicinity. As he however avoided society in general, he was not introduced to our travellers on the night of their arrival, but they then made acquaintance with Miss Fitzcarril's constant and obsequious attendant, Captain Cormac, so called by common consent, though he had never risen in the army higher than a lieutenant, the half pay of which rank was his only subsistence, independent of Mr. O'Sullivan's bounty. Though of a different religious persuasion, his family had long been tenants and retainers of that at Ballinamoyle; and this member of it, on the strength of his red coat, was considered a gentleman, and, as such, was every day admitted to Mr. O'Sullivan's table, and made up his card

party in the winter's evenings, generally returning at night to the house of a better sort of steward, living on the demesne, who managed the Ballinamoyle property, its owner charging himself with the expenses there incurred by Captain Cormac.

This son of Mars, conscious of the deficiency of his pedigree, very unknowingly endeavoured to prove his title to the character of a gentleman, by paying the most anxious and unremitting attention to the fair sex in general, and to Miss Fitzcarril in particular; for, in consequence of his living in this sequestered situation, he was totally unsuspicious of the improvements in modern manners, which lead so many of our youth to suppose, that a neglect of the ladies they associate with, not unfrequently amounting almost to rudeness, is an indispensable requisite in the deportment of every fashionable beau; but perhaps some of our readers will suggest an excuse for Captain Cormac's ignorant simplicity, by acknowledging that beau and gentleman are not always synonymous terms. Mr. O'Sullivan for instance, was certainly no beau, though perfectly a gentleman. As this word, in our humble opinion, conveys a character that is almost all "that the eye looks for," or "the heart desires" in man, we will not weaken its inexpressible worth by

paraphrase, but hope the actions of the person it has here been applied to will establish his claim to the most noble appellation the English language boasts of.

CHAPTER II.

On the morning after her arrival at Ballinamoyle, Adelaide was forcibly struck with the strange coincidence of circumstances that had conducted her to this place, so remote from the scenes in which she had once expected to have passed her life. That day two years, she had no expectation of becoming an inhabitant of the British isles; and one fortnight had just elapsed since she received Mrs. O'Sullivan's letter, announcing her intention of undertaking the journey they had accomplished. Her meeting with Colonel Desmond seemed like seeing an inhabitant of another world, who could dive into thoughts, and was acquainted with occurrences unknown to those she was surrounded by. Though but four years had revolved since they last met, from the unexpected nature of the events that had marked them, they seemed, to memory, longer in duration than all those which had smoothly rolled away, ere their giant days rose on the wheel of fate, robed in the strongest hues of joy or sorrow. She felt grieved her journey was now at an end, as she had derived much amusement from it, and knew she should,

in future, associate much less with Colonel Desmond. "I wonder, (thought she,) what description of being this Mr. O'Sullivan is, we have come so far to see—Poor little Caroline! I hope he will be more affectionate to her than her mother and sisters are."

When Adelaide repaired to the breakfast room, and proceeded to open the door, her hand trembled on the lock, for she heard Caroline's joyous voice within, followed by an expression of fondness; and recollected, with bitterness of heart, that in that room was no relative, who would greet her entrance with a face of gladness.—She could not go in at that moment, and retreated a few steps. "Why am I so overpowered this morning? (thought she,) I ought to be more than usually happy, in reflecting, that dearest Caroline is this day introduced to her father's family; the happy one will soon arrive, when I shall be restored to mine, so coûte qui coûte, I go in." Armed with this magnanimous resolution, she entered the room, and her eyes were instantly attracted by one of the most venerable figures she had ever beheld. An old gentleman, dressed in mourning, was sitting with little Caroline on his knee; his face, as he bent his gray head to gaze on her infant beauties, was expressive of every benevolent feeling, whilst his dignified figure

impressed the beholder with an awe, which was tempered, but not entirely removed, by the benignity of his countenance. In him was seen all that was reverend in age—in the cherub he caressed all that was blooming in youth. Her silken hair hung, in waving ringlets, on a cheek that mocked the rose's hue; her transparent skin showed the blue veins, that meandered on a brow as spotless as the mountain snow. The dark blue eye, that threw its melting ray on his, seemed to call forth fires that long had slept beneath those silver brows; and as her ivory arm hung round his neck, the youthful softness of her hand was more than usually apparent from the contrast it formed with the withered cheek it pressed. "Dearest Caroline! may he prove a fond parent to you!" was the ardent wish of Adelaide's heart, as she gazed on the happy child, and her venerable relative. Mr. O'Sullivan, looking up, rose to receive her; and the little girl, springing gaily forward, took her hand, saying, "This is my own dear Adele Wildenheim, I told you about, uncle; I love her

better than any body in the world; if you will let me live with you, and will keep her too, I shall be so happy!" Whilst Caroline looked inquiringly up in his face to read the success of her proposition; the old man smiled on the lovely girl thus introduced to him, and holding out his hand cordially to her, said, "Your name is well known to me, Miss Wildenheim. Baron Wildenheim was the friend and benefactor of my deceased brother, and his child is truly welcome to my roof." Adelaide's cheek glowed with the most vivid blushes as she felt a tear trickle down; the accents faltered on her lips when she attempted to speak, and a deep sigh burst from Mr. O'Sullivan's breast as he recollected, that the daughter he had lost in the bloom of youth was, in his eyes at least, as lovely as the beautiful girl they now rested on.

At this moment Miss Fitzcarril and Mrs. O'Sullivan entered the room; the latter acting the amicable, aspired to rest her fat hand on the bony arm of the stately Theresa, who, with smiles of unconscious exultation at her own towering height, and with an air of condescension, bent her long neck over her right shoulder, towards her rotund companion, as if the words she addressed to her would not otherwise be within hearing distance. The one stalked forward, sweeping after her a long train of the thickest tabinet; the other (though certainly not a figure for a Zephyr) fluttered in gauze, whose transparent texture a Roman would have compared to "the woven wind," her habiliment being about as long as that of the sapient dame well known in nursery history, after her unfortunate rencontre with the mischievous pedler.

When Mrs. O'Sullivan espied her brother-in-law, she bustled up to him with an appearance of lively pleasure; but an observer, with half the penetration of Adelaide, might have seen a temporary expression of disappointment cloud his features, as from his brother he had never received the slightest hint, that might lead him to form an idea of what she really was, either in manner or appearance; and the beauty of her daughter and elegance of her ward had made him expect to find her far different in both; however, this expression was but transient, and he received her with his usual hospitality, and told her with much warmth and sincerity, how much he admired the charming little Caroline. The Miss Webberlys and their brother made their appearance shortly after Mrs. O'Sullivan's entrance; and the groupe were all assembled round the breakfast-table when Father Dermoody came into the room, whom Miss Fitzcarril and the master of the house rose to receive with the utmost respect, whilst his manner united the humility he felt as a man with the

dignity he derived from his sacred office. When he approached them, the motion of his hand, and the raised expression of his countenance, told Adelaide that he passed that silent benediction she had so often witnessed abroad. His benevolent looks seemed to extend it to all, though a slight tinge on his cheek, and a half mournful glance of his eye, betrayed that he felt it would be scorned by some. A reverential bend of Adelaide's graceful figure, and the mild seriousness that chastened her smile of acknowledgement as her eye met his, conveyed to the venerable priest that she at least understood him, and thankfully received his pious aspirations. He looked in vain for the sign, that should have marked their conformity of faith, and sighed deeply, then muttered half under his breath, "In all else how like!"

The English ladies soon found Miss Fitzcarril's gunpowder tea quite too potent for their nerves, and diluted it in a manner that astonished her; for this good lady, in her extensive patronage of vagrants, included smugglers and pedlers, from whom she procured the finest teas and brandies, for to these articles her ideas of parsimony did not extend; and as she kept the latter entirely for her male friends, she thought the former in their utmost strength the peculiar beverage of the fair sex, and now wondered where these ladies could have been brought up, not to understand the merits of gunpowder tea at a guinea a pound!

In the course of the morning Mr. O'Sullivan took his usual promenade in front of his house; and here he appeared in all his glory. In one promiscuous groupe were assembled the heads of the families his tenantry comprised, with every other man, woman, or child, that could leave home to get a peep at the newly-arrived guests, whose appearance at Ballinamoyle had been looked for with more curiosity than pleasure. For Mr. O'Sullivan was universally beloved, and the superstitious ideas of his tenantry made them regard the arrival of his heiress as an omen of his own death; besides they very naturally dreaded this property being given to people unattached to them, and unacquainted with their customs. As the ladies stood at the open windows in front of the house to gaze at the strange assemblage, many were the remarks their appearance called forth. According to custom, every domestic went out in turn to "collogue," as they call it, with their favourite Judy or Barny; and as Caroline stood on the window-seat with Adelaide's protecting arm round