Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just;
And where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust.
This is a subject whereon I feel, and always have felt, strongly and seriously; and hence it is that I have been led into so long an exordium. I regard the belief in supernatural apparitions as inseparable from my Christian faith and my view of Divine Omnipotence; and however good and learned individuals may impugn my reasoning, I have the consolation of knowing that the bench of bishops, the Pope, the very best and wisest Doctors in Divinity and Masters of Arts; in fact, all the collegians and scholars in the universe, can possibly have no better or truer information upon the subject than myself; that I am as much in my senses as any of them; and that the Deity has made no sort of distinction between the intellectual capacity of a bishop and a judge; the secrets of Heaven being divulged to neither. The judge does justice to other people, and the bishop does justice to himself; but both are equally ignorant of the mysteries of futurity, and must alike wait until they pass the dim boundary of this world before they can gain any practical information as to the next. When a military captain is ordained a clergyman, (as is somewhat the fashion during the peace establishment,) does he become one atom wiser or more knowing as to futurity than when he was in the army?—probably, on the other hand, he thinks much less about the matter than when standing upon the field of battle.
I would not have the reader imagine that I should be found ready to receive any idle ghost story which might be told me.—So far contrary, I have always been of opinion that no incident or appearance, (and I have expressed as much before in this work,) however strange, should be considered as supernatural which could in any way be otherwise accounted for, or referred to natural or human agency.
I will proceed at once to the little narrative thus importantly prefaced. The circumstances will, I think, be admitted as of an extraordinary nature: they were not connected with the workings of imagination; depended not on the fancy of a single individual: the occurrence was, altogether, both in its character and in its possible application, far beyond the speculations of man. But let me endeavour to soften and prepare my mind for the strange recital by some more pleasing recollections connected with the principal subject of it.
Immediately after the rebellion of 1798, the Countess Dowager of Mayo discovered a man concealed under her bed, and was so terrified that she instantly fled from her country residence in the most beautiful part of County Wicklow: she departed for Dublin, whence she immediately sailed for England, and never after returned. Her ladyship directed her agent, Mr. Davis, immediately to dispose of her residence, demesne, and every thing within the house and on the grounds, for whatever they might bring. All property in the disturbed districts being then of small comparative value, and there having been a battle fought at Mount Kennedy, near her house, a short time previous, I purchased the whole estate, as it stood, at a very moderate price, and on the ensuing day was put into possession of my new mansion. I found a house not large, but very neat and in good order, with a considerable quantity of furniture, some excellent wines, &c. and the lands in full produce. The demesne was not extensive, but delightfully situated in a district which, I believe, for the union of rural beauties and mild uniformity of climate, few spots can excel.
I have already disclaimed all pretensions, as a writer, to the power of scenic description or imaginary landscape—though no person existing is more gratified than myself with the contemplation of splendid scenery. In saying this, however, I do not mean that savage sublimity of landscape—that majestic assemblage of stupendous mountain and roaring cataract—of colossal rocks and innumerable precipices—where Nature appears to designate to the bear and the eagle, to the boar or chamois—those trackless wilds which she originally created for their peculiar accommodation. To the enthusiastic sketcher and the high-wrought tourist I yield an exclusive right to those interesting regions, which are far too sublime for my ordinary pencil. I prefer that luxurious scenery where the art and industry of man go hand in hand with the embellishments of Nature, where beauty is unaccompanied by danger,—sublimity has no horrors; and Providence, smiling, combines her blessings with her beauties.
Were I asked to exemplify my ideas of rural, animated, cheering landscape, I should say—“My friend, travel!—visit that narrow region which we call the Golden Belt of Ireland;[[26]] explore every mile from the metropolis to the ‘meeting of the waters:’ journey which side you please, you will find the native myrtle and indigenous arbutus glowing throughout the severest winter, and forming the cottage fences, together with the waving cypress and the sweet acacia.”