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**. Of course; it was the very day we came to the old 666 And now, Camille, listen to the rest. No, I nit house that stood here," and I shuddered involuntarily. not be interrupted this time. Let me finish what I
66. Yes, that was the first time you saw him, I know. have to say, then thou canst talk. I said just po But, Camille, I had seen him long before.'
that I had never entered my husband's study since I “My child! you are but in jest !-How could that came to this house as mistress. He shut me out, a: be? Thou knowest he only arrived in our town on one unworthy of his confidence, and never allowed pe the morning of that day! My poor little sister, I fear to put a foot across the threshold. He keeps the ou:: thou art ill, and—” I was stopped by Estelle, who, door constantly locked, and if I wish to speak to hir ! without looking up or otherwise changing her position, while he is there, he lets me stand withont; he con laid her little palm softly over my mouth.
out into the corridor to me, and goes back again. I“ Hush !' she said, in the same gloomy, unnatural locking his door as against a thief or a spy. And this is way as before, thou knowest nothing about it, Camille, not the worst. It is not enough to see myself exelade but I am going to tell thee all. I know thou hast not from his confidence in such a way, but I must loos oa forgotten the strange, haunting dreams that drew me and see him extend to others the trust denied to meso irresistibly to this old house. Well, in those dreams, his wife. For that Spanish servant of his, Diego, is and in the old house, I met my present husband long free to go in or out while I am excluded. Think of before the day on which we met him in person in that, Camille, how infinitely painful to my feelings: the court-yard below. Thou knowest how startled I "She had become greatly excited, and springing up. was at seeing him there, Camille?
she began to pace the room with hurried, uneren sten ". Yes, I remember ; but he was just as much start- moaning softly the while, and twisting her fingers toled at seeing thee, and I very naturally set both effects gether in a restless nervous way, that had always bea down to the same cause-love at first sight. And habitual to her when excited. After a few minutes indeed, my child, thou art in the wrong to think so however, she seemed to have recovered her composuremuch of
it could be called—and of her own accent
composure " • Ilush!' she cried again, stopping me in her dreary
she resumed her seat beside me and went on. way, while I felt really alarmed at her wild words, 66. But spite of all, I have been there! Locks an] though I dared not shew it. “Hush, Camille, let me bolts, and unkind distrust failed to exclude me. In my tinishi my story. Not a merry one, God knows. But sleep I have been there, Camille ! it was fate. I dreamt of this house, and of a stranger
"* It was about a month ago I first dreamed of it. I had never seen, save in my sleep. I came hitler, I had been fretting all day at seeing myself escluded and here I met that stranger face to face.
from the confidence of one for whom I could gladly las story, so far. He in his dreams, visited a desolate old down my life. I could never give thee any idea of my house where he saw a young girl he had never seen love for my husband, Camille, never! And the more save in his sleep. He, too, came hither, on the very one loves, the more keenly does one feel the pain of day of my visit, to meet me face to face. I knew him, such a slight-of any slight. and he knew me; we recognised each other, in the 66 « I felt so wretched that night! My beart was burbody, where we had so often met in spirit. That was ing within me, and every thing seemed to increase the the beginning. Now the old house overshadows the very pain I felt there. I even felt jealous—al, so two dreamers, so mysteriously destined for each other. jealous ! of the Spanish servant, who had been in and And ought they not be happy in their fate?"
out of my husband's room several times during the dar. I was so bewildered by her words, so horrified at the I was yet brooding over this when I fell asleep, leaving terrible suspicion her speech suggested, that I could Alonzo still shut up in his study. hardly reply. I forced myself to speak.
66 I dreamt then, that I awoke and heard the carilloa “My child,” I said, “ that is a pretty romance, truly, ring the hour.
When it had ceased the solemn clock but thou hast not told me how it was, that the second
struck one. My husband had not yet returned. Thes dreamer—a foreigner-knew where to come in search I felt a strange restlessness and longing to go and seek of the old house. How could he know that such a him. I rose, threw on my dressing-gown, and passed house was in existence?” into his dressing-room, of which the door was open.
! " • That I know not,' she replied, in a subdued tone; He was not there, nor had I expected there to find • that I know not, for he never told me. And, Camille, him Remember, my sister, that this was but a dream. I dare not ask him when he does not wish to tell. I 666 I entered the corridor leading to my husband's prilove him too well to anger him, or to make his dark
Here everything looked so ghastly that I eyes burn, as I have seen thein do, when anything trembled, and could hardly summon courage to proceed. irritated him.” She shivered, and nestled up closer to The moonbeams, broken by the overhanging roof, my side---poor, poor, gentle Estelle !
assumed the most fantastic shapes as they slanted "Suddenly she started up straight, but still gazing across the corridor, and the shadows of the trees, in into the fire, and began speaking again hurriedly and parts impeding the light altogether, fell black and thick constrainedly, while she gently but firmly resisted the upon the walls and ground. But arming myself with hand that would have drawn her back to my breast. the holy sign of the cross, I stepped orer the pale
That is my
As it was,
streams of light, and through the waving gloomy Do what I would, I could not forget the malignant shadows, and stood breathless at the study door. I face in the strange picture I had seen, nor the fiendish knocked, but in doing so, the door, to my surprise, sound of the laugh I had heard in my sleep. These yielded to my light touch. The next moment I stood haunted me, and the more fixedly that I had resolved for the first time within the room, lighted by the moon- not to speak of my dream. To my husband, for many beams, and tenantless save by myself, the intruder. reasons, I could not do so. Satisfied that I was alone, I looked curiously around. " It was about a month after that this dream re
66 • The room was handsomely fitted up as a study, the curred ;-exactly a month, I believe, for the moon was walls being lined with book-cases, the centre table at its full again. And that is now two nights ago. strewn with volumes and papers, apparently in recent “It began, as before, by my listening to the carillon
To my right, as I entered, was the door that I ring the hour, and the church clock strike one. I had knew led into the inner room. And on either side of a full recollection of what had passsed in the former this doorway lung large pictures, that at once rivetted dream, and when the longing came upon me to rise my attention.
and seek my husband, as before, I shuddered as I re66 The first was that of my husband, Don Alonzo. called the sneering, cruel face of the old woman in the A full-length picture, and a splendid likeness. The picture, and shrank from the possible recurrence of the dress was curious, and such as I had never seen save unearthly laugh that even now rang in my cars. But in pictures of the olden times, and certainly, but that the impulse was too strong for me; I was powerless to I felt sure it could only be the portrait of my husband, resist. I rose, traversed the shadowy corridor as before, I should have imagined it to represent some handsome and entered the study, once more open to me. Again cavalier who lived and died long, long ago.
I stood before the pictures, and again I heard my husI marvelled much that he should keep such a picture band's voice from within. shut up here without ever shewing it to me, who would “This time I did not fly. I knelt down, pushed surely have valued it more even than its original could do. aside the curtain that hung before the doorway, and
“ But the second picture, Camille, how shall I de. looked through the keyhole from which the light scribe it ?
streamed. I had a full view of the inner room and its 6. It was that of an old woman, withered and with inmates.' snow-white hair, but of a stately commanding carriage. “Here she paused for an instant, and with a sudden She was clad in a dark, flowing robe of antique cut; a movement nestled up against me as before. I folded tight-fitting coif of black velvet covered her head, only my arms round her, sadly troubled as I
and allowing an arch of silvered hair above the brow to kissed her pale brow, but without speaking. After a remain visible. Over this was thrown a veil that fell moment she went onin graceful folds even to her feet. But it was the face "The room was hung with black, and lighted by a that struck me, my sister. It was a handsome face for massive silver lamp that depended from the ceiling by an old woman, with dark, bright eyes, a delicately chains of the same metal. By this light I saw, to my formed nose, and small thin mouth. But the expression horror and unutterable dread, the living original of the was horrible. The eyes seemed to glisten with a snake- horrible picture beside me ! At her feet, kneeling, as like gleam that alone would have been most repulsive, if in earnest supplication, was my husband. His back and when joined with the sneering, crafty, cruel lips, was towards me, but I could not be mistaken. Just was downright frightful.
then, the same mocking laugh I had before heard re6. I was still gazing at this picture when a smothered sounded through the room, proceeding from the thin, sound of voices, proceeding from the inner room, fell cruel lips of the hag. With a despairing gesture the upon my ear. I started and listened intently. I re- petitioner rose to his feet and turned to the door. I cognised my husband's voice, speaking in the language sprang up, fled, and reaching my own room, sank faintwith whose sonorous tones I had by this time become ing upon the bed. This time I did not awake until the familiar. This lasted for a couple of minutes, and then morning light filled the room. there was a momentary silence broken by a laugh, so “ But this time I was utterly upset by the repetition of fiendish, so mocking, so horrible, that without a pause, the horrible dream. It haunts me, pursues me, tortures I turned and fed. I reached my own apartment, and me, and I cannot bear to be one moment alone. To my threw myself, terrified and panting, into my bed. Just husband, as I said before, I cannot tell my story. then I awoke with a start, to find that it was but a dream, Therefore, my sister, have I sent for thee; thou must and that the pale moonbeams, streaming full upon the remain with me and comfort me. And now I have bed, fell upon my husband's face as he lay asleep beside done, speak to me as thou wilt.'
“What could I say? I was so deeply impressed by 566 Hush! I know what thou wouldst say, my sister, the dreary, hopeless solemnity of her words and manner, but I have not done yet. I must finish my story. that I could hardly shake off the fears that hung over
“Although this dream made a profound impression me, and had gone on increasing since she began to on me, I thought not of attaching any importance to speak. I trembled to think of her mind being indeed it. But I could not help thinking of it very frequently, affected, and yet I could not rid myself of the dread
must not sce me.
ful thought. But I forced myself to speak cheerfully; jesting with her for her credence in what seemed but foolish dreams, naturally resulting from her having allowed her mind to dwell continuously on the subject. I said she was still but a silly, romantic child, and that I should remain with her myself, until I saw her in better spirits, and in a more reasonable frame of mind. It did her good to be treated so.
Little by little she became more cheerful, and as days passed on, I made her smile at her former terrors. Early in spring came a little baby-blossom, fair as the snowdrop that bared its delicate belis in welcome to the season that gave it birth, but alas ! even more fragile.
"Before the snowdrop had disappeared, the angelblossom was laid in the earth, and the fresh grass was already growing on its grave. And such was the young mother's grief, that she fell dangerously ill, and à second time I was obliged to take up my abode at the Maison Noire, to watch and guard her.
“One night, when I was seated beside her as she slept, the sound of the carillon, followed by one stroke of the clock, brought back to my mind, with uncomfortable vividness, the strange nature of the dreams of which Estelle had last told me. Her husband had just been in the room to inquire for her, and finding her peacefully asleep, had retired again. I had hearil his footsteps echoing along the corridor without, until they ceased at the mysterious door; and I listened to him enter and lock the door after him. The Sæur Grise, who had been up with Estelle the whole of the previous night, was now fast asleep in an arm-chair by the fire. Not a sound was audible in the room, save the light breathing of the patient and the deeper respiration of the nurse. The moonlight was this night so clear and beautiful, that I had drawn wide the curtains to give it admission.
“Suddenly it occurred to me that for some minutes past I had only heard the deep breathing of the nurse in the room. I leant over Estelle, and, to my alarm, could find no breath from her lips. I touched her, and she felt cold. The only sign of life about her was the faint and irregular pulsation of the heart, and this, too, ceased while my hand yet rested upon it. Seriously alarmed, I summoned the nurse to my aid, and we set about restoring animation. After a lapse of about ten minutes the heart began to beat again, respiration returned, and I soon had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes. But hardly had she done so, when, with a wild glance around, and a trembling, wild cry of “my child !--my child !” she threw herself into my arms, apparently in a paroxysm of terror. When she was sufficiently recovered to speak, she motioned the nurse away, and in quivering, whispered tones, told me she had been a third time in the mysterious chamber.
“But not as before,' she added, shuddering; this time, just as the stroke of one was dying on the night air, the horrible old woman was at my bedside-there, in that spot-to bid me rise and follow her. I obeyed, full of terror. She led me out on the gallery that runs round the house, and along until we reached the end
window, belonging to the room I had not yet entered. We must go in through the window, she said, for Alonzo de Penalosa was in the outer apartment, and
Then she stepped into the room, and I followed. In the centre stood a large bed, hung with black, round which the curtains were close drawn. To this bed she led the way, I still following. She dret back the curtains and bade me look. And, oh ! boly Virgin !-there, sweetly sleeping, lay my little child, my lost baby! I forgot all else—my terror—the mystery—the hag's presence, and with a cry of raptore ! sprang forward to take my child into my arms. Bat with a mocking laugh she thrust me back, and let fall the black curtains again, and told me how my hasbaol, the child's father, had himself given it into her keeping. And when I struggled, and would bave forced by way to the bed again, she laid her cold hand upon my brow, and at the touch I lost all recollection until I woke to find myself in thy arms, my sister.
But ob, Camille, this was no natural dream—it was no dream! Estelle, my
child! how can’st thou be so foolish ? Thou hast fainted, that is all. Thou wilt kill thyself in this way, and it is very sinful. Try to rouse thyself, my sister, and pray."
But she only mianed and looked wildly into my face, and cried again, 'My child, my little child !'
“Estelle!" I said, suddenly, “I will do something to satisfy thee. I will go this instant and see with my own eyes the unlucky rooms of which thou speakest. Never fear, I will manage to do so when I have deter. mined on it. Will that do ?”
“She eagerly caught at the suggestion, and giving her in charge to the good sister, I left the room on my mission.
“My feelings were highly wrought, and without a 3ment's hesitation I knocked at the study door; the key turned in the lock, and Don Alonzo stood on the thres. hold. By a quick movement I pushed past him, and stood within the room. How my heart sank as I gazed on the table strewn with books and papers, the walls lined with book-cases, the door to the right, with a large picture on either side. These I must see closely. My brother-in-law, seemingly confounded at my strange behaviour, repeated his questions concerning Estelle.
“She has been very ill;" I said, summoning all my composure ;
6 but is better now. She wishes to see yoo Don Alonzo : go, and I will await your return to speak
666 Would it not do to-morrow—what you have to
“No-it must be to-night.'
" His face changed into one of stern gravity. Thea, he said, 'you can do so either in my wife's dressing-room or my own, for I am now about to lock up these rooms for the night, as it is my custom to do.'
“But I was not to be baulked. I seized the lamp that stood on the table, and grasping it firmly, stepped over to where the pictures hung, and threw its light fall on them, one after the other. The first was that of a rea
“My first visit was to the now-abandoned Maison Noire, of which my father had the key. I entered the mysterious rooms, but to find them quite empty. The rest of the house was undisturbed.
“I never saw my Estelle again. A year or two later, and the Spaniard wrote to say that she was dead. He could not bear, he said, to revisit a town which must awken so many painful recollections ; so the house and garden, and furniture were made over on his sister, Camille. And with the letter came a casket of valuable jewels, in remembrance of the sister she had loved so well.
“This is my story: the story of the accursed house that took from me my little gentle sister Estelle.”
Oh! lovely is the eventide,
And the sunset's purple shine;
I see but thine eyes divine ;
Whatever shines brightly there, But fills my breast with its sweetest guest,
Thy form, oh, my lady fair!
As we camp at night by the mountain's wood,
I and my charger free,
Thy words of love to me;
In the springtime of the year,
Thy bright locks, my lady dear !
“As singular a case of monomania as ever came under my knowledge,” quoth the Doctor, “ since it would seem the elder sister caught the infection from the younger.”
“ Will that word explain all that is strange in the narrative ?” I enquired, a little crossly.
"It is easy to explain, on scientific principles," sail the Doctor learnedly, “ all that the ignorant would ascribe to the supernatural in this story. The poor lady, Estelle, who went mad, was, as is very plain, a young person of a nervous, excitable, imaginative temperament, one in whom a tendency io sonam
“Pray, pray, Doctor!" cried my niece, Georgina, "don't explain it. We like terrible stories, and we hate explanations of them.”
So do I, therefore I give the story as I had it, trusting that the reader will agree with Georgie and me.
The scarf thou gavest me long ago
Sees many a gory field;
As I rest on my dinted shield-
That so well hath toiled and strove-'Twas hope in you made it toil so true,
So long, oh, my lady love !
A HISTORY OF THE CITY OF DUBLIN.*
BY J. T. GILBERT, ESQ., M.R.I.A., LIBRARIAN OF THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY ; HON. SEC. IRISH ARCHÆOLOGICAL
AND CELTIC SOCIETY.
The three volumes now before us prove beyond all doubt that every attempt that has been made hitherto to compile a perfect account of the origin and progress of the city of Dublin was little short of being absolutely contemptible, notwithstanding the zeal with which Ware, Harris, Whitelaw, Walsh, and others laboured, to produce a history" of the Irish metropolis. Harris's work, published in 1766, is merely a reprint of Sir James Ware's “ Annals of Dublin,” and so wretchedly meagre are its notices of the antiquities, public buildings, and streets of the city, that one wonders how its editors could have given it the name of a history. To supplement the shortcomings of Harris's work, Warburton, Keeper of the Records in Bermingham Tower, Castle of Dublin, projected another on the same subject, but dying before his compilations were half completed, he bequeathed them all, "crude and indigested,” to Whitelaw, whom he appointed to methodize and arrange them. Whitelaw, however, did not live to discharge the onerous duty which he had undertaken, and on his demise, the Rev. R. Walsh set about elaborating the materials collected by the forementioned gentleman into shape and consistency, superadding all that he himself had gleaned in the interval, till at length, two quarto volumes, of 1,460 pages, entitled “A History of the City of Dublin,” etc., etc., appeared in 1818, as the result of the investigations of three men who, as the fact proves, were utterly incompetent to deal with a subject of such vast importance. Whitelaw and Walsh did little more than reprint “Harris's Dublin,” and Archdall's “ Monasticon”—the latter a work of dry dates, chiefly derived from the Inquisitions taken either immediately before, or soon after the dissolution of the Re'igious Houses—and what is still more discreditable to their memory they took their accounts of the public buildings of Dublin from sources which erudite writer would have consulted or relied upon as authentic. As for their biographical notices of the eminent men born in Dublin-à particular of all others on which they should have bestowed the greatest possible attention, Whitelaw and Walsh seem to have depended altogether on merest common-places or charlatanism, thus duping themselves as well as their readers, and giving us, in this instance, instead of vivid portraitures of men and manners, flimsy sketches, which bear not even a remote resemblance to the originals. In a word, Harris and his continuators, if we may
80 style Warburton, Whitelaw, and Walsh, instead of producing a correct and readable history of the metropolis of Ireland, have left us, under that name, a work which the most ordinary critical analysis will pronounce to be an utter failure, and in every respect uuworthy the pretentious designation on its title page. If we are asked to account for the miserable deficiencies and errors so glaring in every page of the works to which we have been alluding, we can easily do so by stating that Harris, Warburton, and the continuators of the latter, did not possess a tithe of that varied knowledge or acquaintance with the multifarious minute details, topographical, archæological, biographical, and literary-without which it would be utterly impossible to produce a sterling history of Dublin, or, indeed, of any other metropolis. To write such a work as it should be written, an amount of labour and research, of which only a few can for many adequate conception, was absolutely required of the author, who, instead of collecting his facts from published books, must seek for them in original documents, most of which are in manuscript, not only in local archives here at home, but in that greatest of all repositories, the State Paper Office, London. That Warburton and his immediate followers gave themselves little or no trouble on this head, is clearly evident, and this fact of itself fully satisfies us that he and they were in every respect incompetent to write a history of Dublin. Happily, however, for his own fame, as well as for the information of the public at large, Mr. Gilbert resolved to go anew into the whole subject, and the result of his most toilsome labours has been to produce a history of the Irish capital which, whether we regard the thril. ling interest of its details, its research, or the elegant simplicity that characterizes the entire composition, entitles him to a foremost place among the most distin. guished of those writers who are an honour to our country.
Far from exaggerating the value of Mr. Gilbert's work, we feel ourselves utterly inadequate to speak of it as it deserves, and the longer we pore over its pages the more forcibly does this couviction impress us. nothing of the accuracy with which he has identified localities hitherto involved in obscurity, the reader
bination of local history with biography ; literary history, as well as scientific and dramatic, and all so admirably arranged, that the entire work, instead of being a series of dry annalistic entries, or meagre records, teem3 with facts of the most absorbing interest.
For the earliest notices of the city Mr. Gibert has drawn largely on Gaelic and Anglo-Irish documents, and also on the unpublished Rolls, thus enabling us to form a very correct idea of what Dublin was long before that eventful period when Strongbow planted his victorious ensigus on the eminence now called Corkhill. The same spirit of research is manifest in every page of the work, at subsequent periods, from the days of St. Lorchan O’Tuathal to the passing of the Act of Union—comprising cvery event that was worth record.
* Dublin : James Duffy, 7, Wellington-quay; and 22, Paternoster.row, London. Price One Guinea.