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In those days Chapelizod was about the gayest and prettiest of the outpost villages in which old Dublin took a complacent pride. The poplars which stood, in military rows, here and there, just showed a glimpse of formality among the orchards and old timber that lined the banks of the river and the valley of the Liffey, with a lively sort of richness. The broad old street looked hospitable and merry, with steep roofs and many coloured hall-doors. The jolly old inn, just beyond the turnpike at the sweep of the road, leading over the buttressed bridge by the mill, was first to welcome the excursionist from Dublin, under the sign of the Phoenix.

I blame nobody. Then there was the village church, with its tower dark and rustling from base to summit, with thick piled, bowering ivy. The tower, indeed, remains, with half its antique growth of ivy gone; but the body of the church is new, and I, and perhaps an elderly fellow or two more, miss the old-fashioned square pews, distributed by a traditional tenure among the families and dignitaries of the town and vicinage who are they now? As for the barrack of the Royal Irish Artillery, the great gate p. How different the company they kept some ninety or a hundred years ago!

Where is the mill, too, standing fast by the bridge, the manorial appendage of the town, which I loved in my boyhood for its gaunt and crazy aspect and dim interior, whence the clapper kept time mysteriously to the drone of the mill-sluice? I think it is gone. Surely that confounded thing can't be my venerable old friend in masquerade!

It has not grown an inch these hundred years. It does not look a day older than it did fifty years ago, I can tell you. There he stands the same; and yet a stranger in the place of his birth, in a new order of things, joyless, busy, transformed Chapelizod, listening, as it seems to me, always to the unchanged song and prattle of the river, with his reveries and affections far away among by-gone times and a buried race.

Thou hast a story, too, to tell, thou slighted and solitary sage, if only the winds would steal it musically forth, like the secret of Midas from the moaning reeds. My uncle, therefore, fiated the sexton's presentment, and the work commenced forthwith. These fossils, after his wont, he lifted decently with the point of his shovel, and pitched into a little nook beside the great mound of mould at top.

Mattocks had climbed nimbly to the upper level, and taking the skull in his fist, turned it about this way and that, curiously. This, ye see, is a dhry bit o' the yard here; there's ould Darby's coffin, at the bottom, down there, sound enough to stand on, as you see, wid a plank; an' he was buried in the year ' Why, look at the coffin this skull belongs to, 'tid go into powdher between your fingers; 'tis nothin' but tindher.

Just then the slim figure of my tall mild uncle, the curate, appeared, and his long thin legs, in black worsted stockings and knee-breeches, stepped reverently and lightly among the graves. The men raised their hats, and Mattocks jumped lightly into the grave again, while my uncle returned their salute with the sad sort of smile, a regretful kindness, which he never exceeded, in these solemn precincts.

It was his custom to care very tenderly for the bones turned up by the sexton, and to wait with an awful solicitude until, after the reading of the funeral service, he saw them gently replaced, as nearly as might be, in their old bed; and discouraging all idle curiosity or levity respecting them, with a solemn rebuke, which all respected. It is shot through with a bullet, and cracked with a poker besides. He sustained two heavy blows, beside that gunshot through the head. I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer access to my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light upon the history of this remarkable memorial.

His face was purplish, the tinge deepening towards the lumpish top of his nose, on the side of which stood a big wart, and he carried a great walking-cane over his shoulder, and bore, as it seemed to me, an intimidating, but caricatured resemblance to an old portrait of Oliver Cromwell in my Whig grandfather's parlour. But that doesn't signify; you see this old skull, Sir: well, 'twas a nine days' wonder, and the queerest business you ever heerd tell of.

When all was over, my uncle, after his wont, waited until he had seen the disturbed remains re-deposited decently in their place; and then, having disrobed, I saw him look with some interest about the church-yard, and I knew 'twas in quest of the old soldier. And we walked through the town, and over the bridge, and we saw nothing of his cocked hat and red single-breasted frock, and returned rather disappointed to tea. I ran into the back room which commanded the church-yard in the hope of seeing the old fellow once more, with his cane shouldered, grinning among the tombstones in the evening sun.

But there was no sign of him, or indeed of anyone else there. So I returned, just as my uncle, having made the tea, shut down the lid of his silver tea-pot with a little smack; and with a kind but absent smile upon me, he took his book, sat down and crossed one of his thin legs over the other, and waited pleasantly until the delightful infusion should be ready for our lips, reading his old volume, and with his disengaged hand gently stroking his long shin-bone. In the meantime, I, who thirsted more for that tale of terror which the old soldier had all but begun, of which in that strangely battered skull I had only an hour ago seen face to face so grizzly a memento, and of which in all human probability I never was to hear more, looked out dejectedly from the window, when, whom should I behold marching up the street, at slow time, towards the Salmon House, but the identical old soldier, cocked-hat, copper nose, great red single-breasted coat with its prodigious wide button-holes, leggings, cane, and all, just under the village tree.

But by the time I had reached the street, which you may be sure was not very long, I found my uncle had got the window up and was himself inviting the old boy, who having brought his left shoulder forward, thanked the curate, saluting soldier-fashion, with his hand to his hat, palm foremost. I've observed, indeed, than those grim old campaigners who have seen the world, make it a principle to accept anything in the shape of a treat.

If it's bad, why, it costs them nothing; and if good, so much the better. So up he marched, and into the room with soldierly self-possession, and being offered tea, preferred punch, and the ingredients were soon on the little round table by the fire, which, the evening being sharp, was pleasant; and the old fellow being seated, he brewed his nectar, to his heart's content; and as we sipped our tea in pleased attention, he, after his own fashion, commenced the story, to which I listened with an interest which I confess has never subsided.

Many years after, as will sometimes happen, a flood of light was unexpectedly poured over the details of his narrative; on my coming into possession of the diary, curiously minute, and the voluminous correspondence of Rebecca, sister to General Chattesworth, with whose family I had the honour to be connected.

And this journal, to me, with my queer cat-like affection for this old p. I wish I could infuse their spirit into what I am going to tell, and above all that I could inspire my readers with ever so little of the peculiar interest with which the old town has always been tinted and saddened to my eye. But wishes are as vain as regrets; so I'll just do my best, bespeaking your attention, and submissively abiding your judgment.

There was a little of that sheet-lightning early in the evening, which betokens sultry weather.


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The clouds, column after column, came up sullenly over the Dublin mountains, rolling themselves from one horizon to the other into one black dome of vapour, their slow but steady motion contrasting with the awful stillness of the air. That morning old Sally, the rector's housekeeper, was disquieted. The omen hung over them doubtful. A large square letter, with a great round seal, as big as a crown piece, addressed to the Rev.

Hugh Walsingham, Doctor of Divinity, at his house, by the bridge, in Chapelizod, had reached him in the morning, and plainly troubled him. The doctor stood just under the porch of the stout p. It was a quarter past ten, and no other sound of life or human neighbourhood was stirring. As they passed by the Phoenix a little rivulet, by-the-bye, was spouting down from the corner of the sign; and indeed the night was such as might well have caused that suicidal fowl to abandon all thoughts of self-incremation, and submit to an unprecedented death by drowning , there was no idle officer, or lounging waiter upon the threshold.

The door was nearly closed, and only let out a tall, narrow slice of candle-light upon the lake of mud, over every inch of which the rain was drumming. I dare say old Bob Martin, the sexton, and grave Mr. Irons, the clerk, were reassured when they heard the cheery voice of the rector hailing them by name. There were now three candles in church; but the edifice looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total darkness.

Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig and blue chin, and something shy and sinister in his phiz. Bob Martin thanked his reverence; the cold rheumatism in his hip was better. She was buried in white satin, and with her rings on her fingers. It was her fancy, and so ordered in her will. They said she was mad. He'd know her face again if he saw her. She had a long hooked nose; and her eyes were open.

For, as he was told, she died in her sleep, and was quite cold and stiff when they found her in the morning. He went down and saw the coffin to-day, half an hour after meeting his reverence. The rector consulted his great warming-pan of a watch. It was drawing near eleven. When this clerical portrait came near, he was looking down, with gathered brows, upon the flags, moving his lips and nodding, as if counting them, as was his way. And as for that old house at Ballyfermot, why any one could have looked after it as well as he.

Three vehicles with flambleaux, and the clang and snorting of horses came close to the church porch, and there appeared suddenly, standing within the disc of candle-light at the church door, before one would have thought there was time, a tall, very pale, and peculiar looking young man, with very large, melancholy eyes, and a certain cast of evil pride in his handsome face. And an elderly clergyman, in surplice, band, and white wig, with a hard, yellow, furrowed face, hovered in, like a white bird of night, from the darkness behind, and was introduced to Dr.

Walsingham, and whispered for a while to Mr. So, while the angular clergyman ruffled into the front of the pew, with Irons on one side, a little in the rear, both books open; the plump little undertaker, diffusing a steam from his moist garments, making a prismatic halo round the candles and lanterns, as he moved successively by them, whispered a word or two to the young gentleman [Mr. Mervyn, the doctor called him], and Mr. Mervyn disappeared. Walsingham and John Tracy got into contiguous seats, and Bob Martin went out to lend a hand. Then came the shuffling of feet, and the sound of hard-tugging respiration, and the suppressed energetic mutual directions of the undertaker's men, who supported the ponderous coffin.

How much heavier, it always seems to me, that sort of load than any other of the same size! A great oak shell: the lid was outside in the porch, Mr. And above this plain, oval plate was a little bit of an ornament no bigger than a sixpence. Tressels, who almost overlooked it, thought it was nothing better than a fourpenny cherub. But Mr.

Irons, the clerk, knew that it was a coronet; and when he heard the other theories thrown out, being a man of few words he let them have it their own way, and with his thin lips closed, with their changeless and unpleasant character of an imperfect smile, he coldly kept this little bit of knowledge to himself.

The flag that closed the entrance of the vault had been removed. But the descent of Avernus was not facile, the steps being steep and broken, and the roof so low. Young Mervyn had gone down the steps to see it duly placed; a murky, fiery light; came up, against which the descending figures looked black and cyclopean. Walsingham offered his brother-clergyman his hospitalities; but somehow that cleric preferred returning to town for his supper and his bed. Mervyn also excused himself. It was late, and he meant to stay that night at the Phoenix, and to-morrow designed to make his compliments in person to Dr.

Tressels a p. Moore, the barber, was already busy making his morning circuit, servant men and maids were dropping in and out at the baker's, and old Poll Delany, in her weather-stained red hood, and neat little Kitty Lane, with her bright young careful face and white basket, were calling at the doors of their customers with new laid eggs.

The town of Chapelizod, in short, was just sitting down to its breakfast. Mervyn, in the meantime, had had his solitary meal in the famous back parlour of the Phoenix, where the newspapers lay, and all comers were welcome. He was by no means a bad hero to look at, if such a thing were needed. Most men, had they known all, would have wondered with good Doctor Walsingham, why, of all places in the world, he should have chosen the little town where he now stood for even a temporary residence.

It was not a perversity, but rather a fascination. He was standing at the window, not indeed enjoying, as another man might, the quiet verdure of the scene, and the fragrant air, and all the mellowed sounds of village life, but lost in a sad and dreadful reverie, when in bounced little red-faced bustling Dr.

Breakfast ended, eh? Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the Phoenix. Cream very choice, Sir? They make a precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers. Sturk threatens to shoot 'em. I'll remember it, I warrant you. Anything in the paper, eh? I see, Sir, haven't read it.

It was Tressel's men came out. Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr. Mervyn's large eyes expressed a well-bred surprise. Toole paused for nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did not come. The painters come out by dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and p.

Seven baronies to shoot for ten and five guineas. One o'clock, hey? Ha, doctor; how goes it? A good many of your corps there, major? By Jupiter, major, if I was in General Chattesworth's place, with two hundred strapping fellows at my orders, I'd get a commission from Government to clear that road. It's too bad, Sir, we can't go in and out of town, unless in a body, after night-fall, but at the risk of our lives. By Jove! Plenty of dry eyes after him. And stay, here's another row. In the meantime, stout, tightly-braced Captain Cluffe of the same corps, and little dark, hard-faced, and solemn Mr.

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Nutter, of the Mills, Lord Castlemallard's agents, came in, and half a p. It was really a gay rural sight. The circular target stood, with its bright concentric rings, in conspicuous isolation, about a hundred yards away, against the green slope of the hill. In the luminous atmosphere the men of those days showed bright and gay. Sturk and Toole, behind backs, did not spare one another.

Mervyn, that's stopping at the Phoenix. See how she smiles. Those who suppose that all this rancour was produced by mere feminine emulations and jealousy do these ladies of the ancient sept Macnamara foul wrong. Mack, on the contrary, had a fat and genial soul of her own, and Magnolia was by no means a particularly ungenerous rival in the lists of love. To-day, for instance, when the firing was brisk, and some of the ladies uttered pretty little timid squalls, Miss Magnolia not only stood fire like brick, but with her own fair hands cracked off a firelock, and was more complimented and applauded than all the marksmen beside, although she shot most dangerously wide, and was much nearer hitting old Arthur Slowe than that respectable gentleman, who waved his hat and smirked gallantly, was at all aware.

Aunt Rebecca, notwithstanding all this, and although she looked straight at her from a distance of only ten steps, yet she could not see that large and highly-coloured heroine; and Magnolia was so incensed at her serene impertinence that when Gertrude afterwards smiled and courtesied twice, she only held her head the p. Everybody knew that Miss Rebecca Chattesworth ruled supreme at Belmont. With a docile old general and a niece so young, she had less resistance to encounter than, perhaps, her ardent soul would have relished.

Fortunately for the general it was only now and then that Aunt Becky took a whim to command the Royal Irish Artillery. She had other hobbies just as odd, though not quite so scandalous. Aunt Becky kept good fires, and served out a mess of bread and broth, along with some pungent ethics, to each of her hopeful old girls. In winter she further encouraged them with a flannel petticoat apiece, and there was besides a monthly dole. So that although after a year there was, perhaps, on the whole, no progress in learning, the affair wore a tolerably encouraging aspect; for the academy had increased in numbers, and two old fellows, liking the notion of the broth and the 6d.

Then Aunt Becky visited the gaols, and had a knack of picking up the worst characters there, and had generally two or three discharged felons on her hands. Some people said she was a bit of a Voltarian, but unjustly; for though she now and then came out with a bouncing social paradox, she was a good bitter Church-woman. The good Mrs. Mack received the general haughtily and slightly, and Miss Magnolia with a short courtesy and a little toss of her head, and up went her fan, and she giggled something in Toole's ear, who grinned, and glanced uneasily out of the corner of his shrewd little eye at the unsuspicious general and on to Aunt Rebecca; for it was very important to Dr.

Toole to stand well at Belmont. So, seeing that Miss Mag was disposed to be vicious, and not caring to be compromised by her tricks, he whistled and bawled to his dogs, and with a jolly smirk and flourish of his cocked-hat, off he went to seek other adventures. Toole , involved her innocent relations in scorn and ill-will; for this sort of offence, like Chinese treason, is not visited on the arch offender only, but according to a scale of consanguinity, upon his kith and kin. As handsome, slender Captain Devereux, with his dark face, and great, strange, earnest eyes, and that look of intelligence so racy and peculiar, that gave him a sort of enigmatical interest, stepped into the fair-green, the dark blue glance of poor Nan Glynn, of Palmerstown, from under her red Sunday riding-hood, followed the tall, dashing, graceful apparition with a stolen glance of wild loyalty and admiration.

Poor Nan! Handsome Captain Devereux! She did not know how much obliged Devereux was to her for remembering that poor little joke, and how much the handsome lieutenant would have given, at that instant, to kiss the hand of the grave little girl of five years ago. She laughed. I think you'd like to see your parish improve. Devereux was secretly chafed at the sort of invisible, but insuperable resistance which pretty Lilias Walsingham, as it seemed, unconsciously opposed to his approaches to a nearer and tenderer sort of trifling. How is it that she interests me, and yet repels me so easily?

How long I've known you, Miss Lilias, and yet how formal you are with me. I'll let her see I can; I shan't speak to her, no, nor look at her, for a month! Mervyn, more remarked upon than he suspected, walked with them to the gate of the fair-green. Little Lilias, with her hand within his arm, wondered, as she glanced upward into that beloved face, what could have darkened it with a look so sad and anxious; and then her eyes also followed the retreating figure of that pale young man, with a sort of interest not quite unmixed with uneasiness.

If I stuck at a fib as little as some historians, I might easily tell you who won the prizes at this shooting on Palmerstown Green. But the truth is, I don't know; my granduncle could have told me, for he had a marvellous memory, but he died, a pleasant old gentleman of four-score and upwards, when I was a small urchin. I remember his lively old face, his powdered bald head and pigtail, his slight erect figure, and how merrily he used to play the fiddle for his juvenile posterity to dance to. But I was not of an age to comprehend the value of this thin, living volume of old lore, or to question the oracle.

Well, it can't be helped now, and the papers I've got are silent upon the point. There was a large and pleasant dinner-party, too, in the mess-room of the Royal Irish Artillery. Lord Castlemallard was there in the place of honour, next to jolly old General Chattesworth, and the worthy rector, Doctor Walsingham, and Father Roach, the dapper, florid little priest of the parish, with his silk waistcoat and well-placed paunch, and his keen relish for funny stories, side-dishes, and convivial glass; and Dan Loftus, that simple, meek, semi-barbarous young scholar, his head in a state of chronic dishevelment, his harmless little round light-blue eyes, pinkish from late night reading, generally betraying the absence of his vagrant thoughts, and I know not what of goodness, as well as queerness, in his homely features.

Good Dr. Walsingham, indeed, in his simple benevolence, had helped the strange, kindly creature through college, and had a high opinion of him, and a great delight in his company. They were both much given to books, and according to their lights zealous archaeologists. They had got hold of Chapelizod Castle, a good tough enigma.

It was a theme they never tired of. Loftus had already two folios of extracts copied from all the records to which Dr. Walsingham could procure him access. They could not have worked harder, indeed, if they were getting up evidence to prove their joint title to Lord Castlemallard's estates. Lord Castlemallard was accustomed to be listened to, and was not aware how confoundedly dull his talk sometimes was. It was measured, and dreamy, and every way slow. His lordship really believed his English property would drop to pieces if Dangerfield retired from its management, and he was vastly obliged to him inwardly, for retaining the agency even for a little time longer.

He was a bachelor, and his lordship averred would be a prodigious great match for some of our Irish ladies. Chapelizod would be his headquarters while in Ireland. But though he tired them prodigiously, he contrived to evoke before their minds' eyes a very gigantic, though somewhat hazy figure, and a good deal stimulated the interest with which a new arrival was commonly looked for in that pleasant suburban village. There is no knowing how long Lord Castlemallard might have prosed upon this theme, had he not been accidentally cut short, and himself laid fast asleep in his chair, without his or anybody else's intending it.

Walsingham his opinion upon the subject. Now, Dr. In the doctor's address and quotation there was so much about somnolency and narcotics, and lying dormant, and opiates, that my Lord Castlemallard's senses forsook him, and he lost, as you, my kind reader, must, all the latter portion of the doctor's lullaby. Between ourselves, Puddock was short and fat, very sentimental, and a little bit of a gourmet ; his desk stuffed with amorous sonnets and receipts for side-dishes; he, always in love, and often in the kitchen, where, under the rose, he loved to direct the cooking of critical little plats , very good-natured, rather literal, very courteous, a chevallier , indeed, sans reproche.

He had a profound faith in his genius for tragedy, but those who liked him best could not help thinking that his plump cheeks, round, little light eyes, his lisp, and a certain lack-a-daisical, though solemn expression of surprise, which Nature, in one of her jocular moods, seemed to have fixed upon his countenance, were against his shining in that walk of the drama. He was blessed, too, with a pleasant belief in his acceptance with the fair sex, but had a real one with his comrades, who knew his absurdities and his virtues, and laughed at and loved him.

Melpomene's the most jealous of the Muses. I tell you if you stand well in her gratheth, by Jove, Thir, you mutht give yourthelf up to her body and thoul. Two blessed hours a-day, regular practice, besides an odd half-hour, now and agin, for three mortial years, it took him to larn it, and dhrilled a dimple in his chin you could put a marrow-fat pay in. There's that wonderful little Mr. And so they talked stage-talk. Puddock lithping away, grand and garrulous; O'Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy word now and again.

I say, gentlemen, there are fine voices among you. Will some gentleman oblige the company with a song? Loftus was shy, simple, and grotesque, and looked like a man who could not sing a note. So when he opened his eyes, looked round, and blushed, there was a general knocking of glasses, and a very flattering clamour for Mr. Loftus's song. But when silence came, to the surprise of the company he submitted, though with manifest trepidation, and told them that he would sing as the company desired. It was a song from a good old writer upon fasting in Lent, and was, in fact, a reproof to all hypocrisy.

Hereupon there was a great ringing of glasses and a jolly round of laughter rose up in the cheer that welcomed the announcement. Father Roach looked queer and disconcerted, and shot a look of suspicion at Devereux, for poor Dan Loftus had, in truth, hit that divine strait in a very tender spot. The fact is, Father Roach was, as Irish priests were sometimes then, a bit of a sportsman.

He and Toole used occasionally to make mysterious excursions to the Dublin mountains. He had a couple of mighty good dogs, which he lent freely, being a good-natured fellow. He liked good living and jolly young fellows, and was popular among the officers, who used to pop in freely enough at his reverence's green hall-door whenever they wanted a loan of his dogs, or to take counsel of the ghostly father whose opinion was valued more highly even than Toole's upon the case of a sick dog or a lame nag.

It was at breakfast. His dinner was the meal of an anchorite, and who would have guessed that these confounded sparks would have bounced into his little refectory at that hour of the morning? There was no room for equivocation; he had been caught in the very act of criminal conversation with the hare-pie. He rose with a spring, like a Jack-in-a-box, as they entered, and knife and fork in hand, and with shining chops, stared at them with an angry, bothered, and alarmed countenance, which increased their laughter.

It was a good while before he obtained a hearing, such was the hilarity, so sustained the fire of ironical p. They made him narrate minutely every circumstance connected with the smuggling of the game, and the illicit distillation for the mess. They never passed so pleasant a morning. There certainly was a monologue to which he frequently afterwards treated the Aldermen of Skinner's Alley, and other convivial bodies, at supper, the doctor's gestures were made with knife and fork in hand, and it was spoken in a rich brogue and tones sometimes of thrilling pathos, anon of sharp and vehement indignation, and again of childlike endearment, amidst pounding and jingling of glasses, and screams of laughter from the company.

Shortly after this little surprise, I suppose by way of ratifying the secret treaty of silence, Father Roach gave the officers and Toole a grand Lent dinner of fish, with no less than nineteen different plats , baked, boiled, stewed, in fact, a very splendid feast; and Puddock talked of some of those dishes more than twenty years afterwards.

No wonder, then, if Father Roach, when Loftus, in the innocence of his heart, announced his song and its theme, was thoroughly uneasy, and would have given a good deal that he had not helped that simple youth into his difficulty.

The Rector's night-walk to his church

But things must now take their course. So amid a decorous silence, Dan Loftus lifted up his voice, and sang. That voice was a high small pipe, with a very nervous quaver in it. But to forbear from flesh, fowl, fish, And eat potatoes in a dish, Done o'er with amber, or a mess Of ringos in a Spanish dress Chorus of Officers. Done o'er with amber, or a mess Of ringos in a Spanish dress. Loftus, solo. Or to refrain from all high dishes, But feed our thoughts with wanton wishes, Making the soul, like a light wench, Wear patches of concupiscence.

Chorus of Officers. Making the soul, like a light wench, Wear patches of concupiscence. This is not to keep Lent aright, But play the juggling hypocrite; For we must starve the inward man, And feed the outward too on bran. For we must starve the inward man, And feed the outward too on bran. I believe no song was ever received with heartier bursts of laughter and applause. Puddock indeed was grave, being a good deal interested in the dishes sung by the poet. So, for the sake of its moral point, was Dr. But honest Father Roach was confoundedly put out by the performance.

He sat with his blue double chin buried in his breast, his mouth pursed up tightly, a red scowl all over his face, his quick, little, angry, suspicious eyes peeping cornerwise, now this way, now that, not knowing how to take what seemed to him like a deliberate conspiracy to roast him for the entertainment of the company, who followed the concluding verse with a universal roaring chorus, which went off into a storm of laughter, in which Father Roach made an absurd attempt to join.

Loftus has, I think, a still better way. This rhapsody, delivered with the rapidity and emphasis of Puddock's earnest lisp, was accompanied with very general tokens of merriment from the company, and the priest, who half suspected him of having invented it, was on the point of falling foul of him, when Lord Castlemallard rose to take leave, and the general forthwith vacated the chair, and so the party broke up, fell into groups, and the greater part sauntered off to the Phoenix, where, in the club-room, they, with less restraint, and some new recruits, carried on the pleasures of the evening, which pleasures, as will sometimes happen, ended in something rather serious.

Loftus had by this time climbed to the savage lair of his garret, overstrewn with tattered papers and books; and Father Roach, in the sanctuary of his little parlour, was growling over the bones of a devilled-turkey, and about to soothe his fretted soul in a generous libation of hot whiskey punch. Indeed, he was of an appeasable nature, and on the whole a very good fellow. Toole, whom the young fellows found along with Nutter over the draught-board in the club-room, forsook his game to devour the story of Loftus's Lenten Hymn, and poor Father Roach's penance, rubbed his hands, and slapped his thigh, and crowed and shouted with ecstasy.

But O'Flaherty, after a short pause, seemed to forget Nutter, and returned to his celestial theme. Those who had heard the same story from the mischievous merry little doctor before, were I dare say, p. The fact was, that poor Magnolia's name came to her in no very gracious way. Macnamara's note, who wished to secure a peeress for her daughter's spiritual guardian, arrived. When Toole ended his little family anecdote, which, you may be sure, he took care to render as palatable to Magnolia's knight as possible, by not very scrupulous excisions and interpolations he wound all up, without allowing an instant for criticism or question, by saying briskly, though incoherently.

And now that I know the allusion which the pugnacious lieutenant apprehended, I cannot but admire the fatality with which, without the smallest design, a very serious misunderstanding was brought about. Little Nutter, though grave and generally taciturn, had a spirit of his own, and no notion whatever of knocking under to a bully. It is true, he had not the faintest notion why he was singled out for the young gentleman's impertinence; but neither did he mean to enquire.

His mahogany features darkened for a moment to logwood, and his eyes showed their whites fiercely. So O'Flaherty shook his hand, with another bow; bowed silently and loftily round the room, and disappeared, and a general buzz and a clack of tongues arose. And so Puddock's bow. For the moment an affair of this sort presented itself, all concerned therein became reserved and official, and the representatives merely of a ceremonious etiquette and a minutely-regulated ordeal of battle.

So, as I said, Puddock bowed grandly and sublimely to Nutter, and then magnificently to the company, and made his exit. There was a sort of a stun and a lull for several seconds. Something very decisive and serious had occurred. One or two countenances wore that stern and mysterious smile, which implies no hilarity, but a kind of reaction in presence of the astounding and the slightly horrible.

There was a silence; the gentlemen kept their attitudes too, for some moments, and all eyes were directed toward the door. Then some turned to Charles Nutter, and then the momentary spell dissolved itself. Nearly a dozen gentlemen broke out at once into voluble speech.

ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

Isn't there? He's no great things, to be sure; but what better can we get. I never saw so-mere a Teague; and the most cross-grained devil of a cat-a-mountain. In the open street, under the sly old moon, red little Dr. And he took up a handful of gravel, but not having got the range, he shied it all against old Tom Drought's bed-room window.

Toole and Devereux drew back a little into the shadow of the opposite buildings, for while they were waiting, a dusky apparition, supposed to be old Drought in his night-shirt, appeared at that gentleman's windows, saluting the ambassadors with mop and moe, in a very threatening and energetic way. But the young gentleman was not in the habit of denying himself innocent indulgences, and shaking himself loose of Toole, he walked down the dark side of the street in peals of laughter, making, ever and anon, little breathless remarks to himself, which his colleague could not hear, but which seemed to have the effect of setting him off again into new hemi-demi-semiquavers and roars of laughter, and left the doctor to himself, to conduct the negociation with Loftus.

Sir, if you could not keep grave for five minutes, you ought not to have come at all. But what need I care? It's Nutter's affair, not mine. Did you ever see such a fish? He'd have shot himself or Nutter, to a certainty. But there's a chance yet: we forgot the Nightingale Club; they're still in the Phoenix. D'ye see me? Macan, of Petticoat-lane. Devereux nodded.

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Docthur dear, he was the first of them down, and was carried out to his coach insensible jist when Mr. Crozier of p. And Devereux, followed by Toole, entered the front parlour again. But without their help, the matter was arranging itself, and a second, of whom they knew nothing, was about to emerge. When Dr. Toole grumbled at his disappointment, he was not at all aware how nearly his interview with Loftus had knocked the entire affair on the head. But Loftus remained under the glimpses of the moon in perturbation and sore perplexity.

It was so late he scarcely dared disturb Dr. Walsingham or General Chattesworth. So knocking stoutly at the window, he caused the melody to subside and the shutter to open. But Dan resisted, and told his tale in an earnest whisper in the hall. The priest made his mouth into a round queer little O, through which he sucked a long breath, elevating his brows, and rolling his eyes slowly about. A low whistle from his reverence.

I wish you saw them at an election time. An' you , av coorse, want to stop it? And so, av coorse, do I, my dear. But take it that a jewel is breaking down and coming to the ground of itself here a hugely cunning wink , in an aisy, natural, accommodating way, the only effect of intherfarence is to bolster it up, d'ye see, so just considher how things are, my dear. Lave it all to me, and mind my words, it can't take place without a second.

The officers have refused, so has Toole, you won't undertake it, and it's too late to go into town. I defy it to come to anything. Jest be said be me, Dan Loftus, and let sleeping dogs lie. Here I am, an old experienced observer, that's up to their tricks, with my eye upon them. I know I might, through ignorance, do a mischief. And so they bid a mutual good-night, and Loftus scaled his garret stair and snuffed his candle, and plunged again into the business of two thousand years ago.

Not that the worthy father avowed any such sentiment; on the contrary, his voice and his eyes, if not his hands, were always raised against the sanguinary practice; and scarce a duel occurred within a reasonable distance p. Mahony, standing up like a warrior, and laying the pipe of peace upon the chimney. Ask for Dr. Toole; and he's certainly there; and if he's not, for Mr. By this time they stood upon the door-steps; and Mr. Mahony had clapt on his hat with a pugnacious cock o' one side; and following, with a sporting and mischievous leer, the direction of the priest's hand, that indicated the open door of the Phoenix, through which a hospitable light was issuing.

Toole, and he'll remember you. An' mind , dear, it's to make it up you're goin'. Mahony was already under weigh, at a brisk stride, and with a keen relish for the business. When Mr. Pat Mahony saw occasion for playing the gentleman, he certainly did come out remarkably strong in the part. It was done in a noble, florid, glowing style, according to his private ideal of the complete fine gentleman.

Mahony, by jingo! Nutter seemed relieved, too, and advanced to be presented to the man who, instinct told him, was to be his friend. Cluffe, a man of fashion of the military school, eyed the elegant stranger with undisguised disgust and wonder, and Devereux with that sub-acid smile with which men will sometimes quietly relish absurdity. There , Mr. Mahony's periods were fluent and florid, and the words chosen occasionally rather for their grandeur and melody than for their exact connexion with the context or bearing upon his meaning.

The consequence was a certain gorgeous haziness and bewilderment, which made the task of translating his harangues rather troublesome and conjectural. I have been grossly insulted, he's not going to apologise, and nothing but a meeting will satisfy me. He's a mere murderer. I have not the faintest notion why he wants to kill me; but being reduced to this situation, I hold myself obliged, if I can, to rid the town of him finally.

When Puddock, having taken a short turn or two in the air, by way of tranquillising his mind, mounted his lodging stairs, he found Lieutenant O'Flaherty, not at all more sober than he had last seen him, in the front drawing-room, which apartment was richly perfumed with powerful exhalations of rum punch. Yes, Sorr! Is not it a hard thing, my darlin' Puddock, I can't find out. Do you hear me, Kokang Modate! They said, I'm tould, in Cork, I was quarrelsome; they lied; I'm not quarrelsome; I only want pace, and quiet, and justice; I hate a quarrelsome man.

I tell you, Puddock, if I only knew where to find a quarrelsome man, be the powers I'd go fifty miles out of my way to pull him be the nose. They lied, Puddock, my dear boy, an' I'd give twenty pounds this minute I had them on this flure, to tell them how damnably they lied!

Be gannies! Will I call him back and give him his desarts, will I, Puddock! Oh, ho, hone! It was he was the cause of my jewel with my cousin, Art Considine, and I wanting to be the very pink of politeness to him. I wrote him a note when he came to Athlone, afther two years in France, and jist out o' compliment to him, I unluckily put in a word of French: come an' dine, says I, and we'll have a dish of chat. I never knew the manin' of it for more than a month afther I shot poor Art through the two calves. An' he that fought two jewels before, all about cats, one of them with a Scotch gentleman that he gave the lie to, for saying that French cooks had a way of stewing cats you could not tell them from hares; and the other immadiately afther, with Lieutenant Rugge, of the Royal Navy, that got one stewed for fun, and afther my Cousin Art dined off it, like a man, showed him the tail and the claws.

It's well he did not die of it, and no wondher he resented my invitation, though upon my honour, as a soldier and a gentleman, may I be stewed alive myself in a pot, Puddock my dear, if I had the laste notion of offering him the smallest affront! By Jove, Thir, what a wig that man would make for Cato! It's he that dhresses my head every morning behind the bed-curtain there, with the door locked.

O'Flaherty made his grandest bow, quite forgetting the exposure at the top of his head; and Puddock stood rather shocked, with the candle in one hand and O'Flaherty's scalp in the other. As he moved his hand towards Puddock, he saw his scalp dangling between that gentleman's finger and thumb, and became suddenly mute.

He clapped his hand upon his bare skull, and made an agitated pluck at that article, but missed, and disappeared, with an imprecation in Irish, behind the bed curtains. Puddock understood it, and restored the treasure. The secret conference in the drawing-room was not tedious, nor indeed very secret, for anyone acquainted with the diplomatic slang in which such affairs were conducted might have learned in the lobby, or indeed in the hall, so mighty was the voice of the stranger, that there was no chance of any settlement without a meeting which was fixed to take place at twelve o'clock next day on the Fifteen Acres.

Sally, in her quiet way, was garrulous, and she had all sorts of old-world tales of wonder and adventure, to which Lilias often went pleasantly to sleep; for there was no danger while old Sally sat knitting there by the fire, and the sound of the rector's mounting upon his chairs, as was his wont, and taking down and putting up his books in the study beneath, though muffled and faint, gave evidence that that good and loving influence was awake and busy. Old Sally was telling her young mistress, who sometimes listened with a smile, and sometimes lost a good five minutes together of her gentle prattle, how the young gentleman, Mr.

It stood by a lonely bend of the narrow road. Lilias had often looked upon the short, straight, grass-grown avenue with an awful curiosity at the old house which she had learned in childhood to fear as the abode of shadowy tenants and unearthly dangers. Mervyn; but if he be not, he must be very brave, or very good, indeed. Stir the fire, my old darling. So she told her how when the neighbours hired the orchard that ran up to the windows at the back of the house, the dogs they kept there used to howl so wildly and wolfishly all night among the trees, and prowl under the walls of the house so dejectedly, that they were fain to open the door and let them in at last; and, indeed, small need was there for dogs; for no one, young or old, dared go near the orchard after night-fall.

No, the burnished golden pippins that peeped through the leaves in the western rays of evening, and made the mouths of the Ballyfermot school-boys water, glowed undisturbed in the morning sunbeams, and secure in the mysterious tutelage of the night smiled coyly on their predatory longings. And this was no fanciful reserve and avoidance. Mick Daly, when he had the orchard, used to sleep in the loft over the kitchen; and he swore that within five or six weeks, while he lodged there, he twice saw the same thing, and that was a lady in a hood and a loose dress, her head drooping, and her finger on her lip, walking in silence among the crooked stems, with a little child by the hand, who ran smiling and skipping beside her.

And the Widow Cresswell once met them at night-fall, on the path through the orchard to the back-door, and she did not know what it was until she saw the men looking at one another as she told it. And old Dalton, don't you remember old Dalton, Miss Lily? See how well she remembers! Here old Sally's tale and her knitting ceased for a moment, as if she were listening to the wind outside the haunted precincts of the Tiled House; and she took up her parable again.

Old Oliver was bad with the rheumatiz. He could not see which way it went, up or down, but the house was never a happy one, or a quiet house after; and Dalton bangs the hall-door, and he took a sort of a turn and a thrembling, p. And so on, and on, and on flowed the stream of old Sally's narrative, while Lilias dropped into dreamless sleep, and then the story-teller stole away to her own tidy bed-room and innocent slumbers.

I'm sure she believed every word she related, for old Sally was veracious. Still it was not quite for nothing that the house was held to be haunted. Miss Rebecca Chattesworth, in a letter dated late in the autumn of , gives a minute and curious relation of occurrences in the Tiled House, which, it is plain, although at starting she protests against all such fooleries, she has heard with a peculiar sort of interest, and relates it certainly with an awful sort of particularity.

I was for printing the entire letter, which is really very singular as well as characteristic. But my publisher meets me with his veto ; and I believe he is right. The worthy old lady's letter is , perhaps, too long; and I must rest content with a few hungry notes of its tenor. That year, and somewhere about the 24th October, there broke out a strange dispute between Mr. This Alderman Harper had agreed for a lease of the house for his daughter, who was married to a gentleman named Prosser.

He furnished it, and put up hangings, and otherwise went to considerable expense. Prosser came there sometime in June, and after having parted with a good many servants in the interval, she made up her mind that she could not live in the house, and her father waited on Lord Castlemallard, and told him plainly that he would not take out the lease because the house was subjected to annoyances which he could not explain. In plain terms, he said it was haunted, and that no servants would live there more than a few weeks, and that after what his p.

Lord Castlemallard filed a bill in the Equity side of the Exchequer to compel Mr. Alderman Harper to perform his contract, by taking out the lease. But the Alderman drew an answer, supported by no less than seven long affidavits, copies of all which were furnished to his lordship, and with the desired effect; for rather than compel him to place them upon the file of the court, his lordship struck, and consented to release him.

I am sorry the cause did not proceed at least far enough to place upon the files of the court the very authentic and unaccountable story which Miss Rebecca relates. The annoyances described did not begin till the end of August, when, one evening, Mrs. Prosser, quite alone, was sitting in the twilight at the back parlour window, which was open, looking out into the orchard, and plainly saw a hand stealthily placed upon the stone window-sill outside, as if by some one beneath the window, at her right side, intending to climb up.

There was nothing but the hand, which was rather short but handsomely formed, and white and plump, laid on the edge of the window-sill; and it was not a very young hand, but one aged, somewhere about forty, as she conjectured. It was only a few weeks before that the horrible robbery at Clondalkin had taken place, and the lady fancied that the hand was that of one of the miscreants who was now about to scale the windows of the Tiled House. She uttered a loud scream and an ejaculation of terror, and at the same moment the hand was quietly withdrawn.

Search was made in the orchard, but no indications of any person's having been under the window, beneath which, ranged along the wall, stood a great column of flower-pots, which it seemed must have prevented any one's coming within reach of it. The same night there came a hasty tapping, every now and then, at the window of the kitchen. The women grew frightened, and the servant-man, taking firearms with him, opened the back-door, but discovered nothing.

After this, for a great many nights, there came at first a low, and afterwards an angry rapping, as it seemed with a set of clenched knuckles at the back-door. Return to Book Page. Preview — Bloodlust by Larissa Ione. Bloodlust by Larissa Ione Goodreads Author. Sometimes, you don't need romance… Sir Brynn of Lochland has a serious problem.

He's been captured by an evil vampire queen who wants to use him as her newest blood slave. But Brynn doesn't have a submissive bone in his body, and he intends to fight her every step of the way. Can Brynn's willpower remain intact when pitted against Sorla's superior vampire strength, seductive Sometimes, you don't need romance… Sir Brynn of Lochland has a serious problem.

Can Brynn's willpower remain intact when pitted against Sorla's superior vampire strength, seductive skills, and underhanded cruelty, or will she ultimately take possession of both his mind…and body? Get A Copy. Nook , 78 pages. Published February 4th by Larissa Ione, via Smashwords. More Details Original Title. Other Editions 1. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Bloodlust , please sign up. Lists with This Book. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details.

More filters. Sort order. May 12, Laura the Highland Hussy rated it it was ok. I should leave that as my review since that's how the short story left me. But I'm nice and I loves y'all, so If this short is the beginning to a new series anyone? But if this is a stand-alone, then I have to rate it as "it's okay.

And I liked her punishment of him when he wouldn't service her Then she realized he was her mate, and she made him her king. Then he defies her belief of him being a nice wittle puppy for her to screw play with, and he slams her against the wall, and drinks and fucks her at the same time.

And keeps drinking. Will she survive? But it's good to be king. No really. That was the ending. And I knew going in that this would be different If Larissa one of my favorite authors! But if that was really it? ETA: via twitter, I asked Larissa if she would leave us hanging or write more? She answered that she'd like to write more but she needs to find the time. Since she has her 4 Horsemen series releasing soon I'm sure she's busy.

But there is hope!! View all 4 comments. Shelves: bdsm-kink , smut-fix-smuttastic-fun , freebie-gift , captive-kidnapped-hostage-slave , quick-read-romance , horror-mystery-suspense-thrillers , reads , enemies-to-lovers-opposites-attract , format-ebook , author-larissa-ione. I just adore Larissa Ione! There's a very good reason that she's one of my top favorite authors But I also really admire the fact that she appreciates and gives back to her fans, and this free story available on her website is a great example of that.

The House by the Church-yard

View all 8 comments. Shelves: bdsm , ebook , erotica-romantica , novella , to-blog , fantasy. WTF is this book about?! Unlikable characters that never redeem themselves and bizarre scenes that had no purpose but to entice the reader's sex drive. It had a promising beginning, I give you that, but then everything went downhill and I didn't know what I was reading anymore. Then, to add insult to injury, the very abrupt ending came out of nowhere and left me hanging.

Me no likey! View all 9 comments. May 12, Tutti Dolci rated it liked it Shelves: historical , kindle , paranormal-fantasy. Larissa holds nothing back in this one. Blood play? Boy on boy? Hot as all get-out? I can definitely appreciate. Besides, it's a freebie from an author that I love! View 1 comment. Mar 23, Angie Mind Malfunction rated it it was amazing. Bloodlust is a short paranormal erotica by Larissa Ione. This one did not disappoint. It felt like this was a piece of a bigger story, in a good way. This story is about the vampire Queen Sorla and Sir Brynn of Lochland, a war captive sold into slavery.

The rest of the story takes place in the bedroom where the Queen tries to seduce Brynn into having sex with her. He holds out and the two begin a sexual battle of the minds. Brynn eventually gives in and Queen Sorla is so satisfied with him that she shares her blood with him, making him her King rather than her slave. The blood share gives Brynn great strength and power and he roughly makes love to the Queen.

View 2 comments. May 14, Sarah rated it liked it Shelves: read-in I'm a massive fan of Larissa Ione's Demonica series and enjoyed Bloodlust, a story about vampire Queen Sorla and Sir Brynn Blackheath of Lochland - a knight who was captured in battle and is now her sex slave. I have to say that this is very different to the Demonica series so if you don't enjoy Bloodlust don't let that put you off trying Pleasure Unbound, the first book in the Demonica series. Jan 27, Amber rated it it was ok. Er, this one really didn't do much for me. The writing is of the same quality, similar world-building.

But I never cared about either of the characters. A slave auction is my uber-favorite way to start a book, and yet I couldn't get into this one. It's definitely not a romance. It's maybe erotica, though I didn't find the sex hot or interesting. Although it's already short, I found myself skipping pages just to see if the ending redeemed this story This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers.

To view it, click here. Very short, it was okay but if I hadn't read it, I wouldn't have missed anything I wouldn't read it againt. I guess I am a sucker for a bit more romance than some vampire chick making damands of a slave. Jan 21, Leah rated it it was ok Shelves: happy-slapsgiving , 2-stars , ebooks-kindle , m-f , erotica. Okay, this was just weird. I don't even know what to say except that it was weird.


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  4. View all 5 comments. Feb 04, Ronda Tutt rated it really liked it Shelves: paranormal-romance , erotic. OMG this was too short, definitely a great teaser. I want more! I hope this is a beginning of a new series, I couldn't read these 11 pages fast enough. Great freebe. Nov 17, MommaBear rated it really liked it. Short, sexy, dark, and dirty.

    Right up my alley, but a bit darker than Larissa's usual naughtiness. Not for the faint of heart or squeamish. Loved the ending, and for once a short story felt complete to me. Free read on her website. Dec 29, The BookChick rated it it was ok Shelves: vampires , 2-star-read , never-read-again. Book Description: Sir Brynn of Lochland has a serious problem. My Thoughts : The few minutes that I spent reading this novella are precious moments of my life that I can never get back.

    This book was horrible. I have no idea if this was an intentional novella or a half finished novel. It's like Ms. Ione just stopped mid-story and decided she wasn't going to write anymore but passed the pages off to her publisher who decided to publish this foolishness anyway. Brynn is a knight that was captured in battle by the vampire queen Sorla. Short story even shorter Sorla wants to use Brynn for her blood and sex slave. He is displayed, degraded, and sexually violated by one of the other queens "pets" at her request Sorla gives Brynn the choice of having sex with her or having her "pet" have sex with him.

    Of course Brynn picks door number one and gives the vampire queen the ride of her life In the midst of their romp, Sorla makes the decision to make Brynn her king. She mixes her blood with his which causes him to grow stronger He realizes the change in himself and asks Sorla what she's done to him.

    She tells him that she has made him her king and then cautiously awaits his response. He grabs her by her neck, enters her, starts pounding her up against the wall and wonders if she will survive his sexually brutality. The last words of the story were "it's good to be the king. The mm content foretold in the blurb warning better be more than just the male servant washing him Oh sad, the mm content was just a very short and undeatailed Blowie. This was a quick mf erotica story not really my thing, but it was free and written well.