Lord Kilgobbin

Charles James Lever

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• Publié par: ornou
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 18
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

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LORD KILGOBBIN by Charles Lever The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lord Kilgobbin, by Charles Lever This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net Title: Lord Kilgobbin Author: Charles Lever Release Date: February 2, 2007 [EBook #8941] [First posted on August 14, 2004] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LORD KILGOBBIN *** Produced by Distributed Proofreaders. Illustrated HTML version by David Widger LORD KILGOBBIN by Charles Lever TO THE MEMORY OF ONE WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP MADE THE HAPPINESS OF A LONG LIFE, AND WHOSE LOSS HAS LEFT ME HELPLESS, I DEDICATE THIS WORK, WRITTEN IN BREAKING HEALTH AND BROKEN SPIRITS. THE TASK, THAT ONCE WAS MY JOY AND MY PRIDE, I HAVE LIVED TO FIND ASSOCIATED WITH MY SORROW: IT IS NOT, THEN, WITHOUT A CAUSE I SAY , I HOPE THIS EFFORT MAY BE MY LAST. CHARLES LEVER. TRIESTE, January 20, 1872 . BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 'Lord Kilgobbin' appeared originally as a serial, (illustrated by Luke Fildes) in 'The Cornhill Magazine,' commencing in the issue for October 1870, and ending in the issue for March 1872. It was first published in book form in three volumes in 1872, with the following title-page: LORD KILGOBBIN | A TALE OF IRELAND IN OUR OWN TIME | BY | CHARLES LEVER, LL.D. | AUTHOR OF | 'THE BRAMLEIGHS OF BISHOP'S FOLLY 'THAT BOY OF NORCOTT'S,' | ETC., ETC. | IN THREE ,' VOLUMES | [VOL. I.] | LONDON | SMITH, ELDER, AND CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE | 1872. | [THE RIGHT OF TRANSLATION IS RESERVED.] CONTENTS CHAPTER XLII CHAPTER XLIII CHAPTER XLIV CHAPTER XLV CHAPTER XLVI CHAPTER XLVII BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV CHAPTER XXV CHAPTER XXVI CHAPTER XLVIII CHAPTER XLIX CHAPTER L CHAPTER LI CHAPTER LII CHAPTER LIII CHAPTER LIV CHAPTER LV CHAPTER LVI CHAPTER LVII CHAPTER LVIII CHAPTER LIX CHAPTER LX CHAPTER LXI CHAPTER LXII CHAPTER LXIII CHAPTER LXIV CHAPTER LXV CHAPTER LXVI CHAPTER LXVII CHAPTER LXVIII CHAPTER LXIX CHAPTER LXX CHAPTER LXXI CHAPTER LXXII CHAPTER XXVII CHAPTER XXVIII CHAPTER XXIX CHAPTER XXX CHAPTER XXXI CHAPTER XXXII CHAPTER XXXIII CHAPTER XXXIV CHAPTER XXXV CHAPTER XXXVI CHAPTER XXXVII CHAPTER XXXVIII CHAPTER XXXIX CHAPTER XL CHAPTER XLI CHAPTER LXXIII CHAPTER LXXIV CHAPTER LXXV CHAPTER LXXVI CHAPTER LXXVII CHAPTER LXXVIII CHAPTER LXXIX CHAPTER LXXX CHAPTER LXXXI CHAPTER LXXXII CHAPTER LXXXIII CHAPTER LXXXIV CHAPTER LXXXV ILLUSTRATIONS She Suffered Her Hand to Remain 'What Lark Have You Been On, Master Joe?' 'One More Sitting I Must Have, Sir, for the Hair' 'How That Song Makes Me Wish We Were Back Again Where I Heard It First' He Entered and Nina Arose As he Came Forward. 'You Are Right, I See It All,' and Now he Seized Her Hand And Kissed It Kate, Still Dressed, Had Thrown Herself on the Bed, and Was Sound Asleep 'Is Not That As Fine As Your Boasted Campagna?' 'You Wear a Ring of Great Beauty—may I Look at It?' 'True, There is No Tender Light There,' Muttered He, Gazing At Her Eyes He Knelt Down on One Knee Before Her Nina Came Forward at That Moment Nina Kostalergi Was Busily Engaged in Pinning up the Skirt Of Her Dress The Balcony Creaked and Trembled, And at Last Gave Way 'Just Look at the Crowd That is Watching Us Already' 'I Should Like to Have Back My Letters' Walpole Looked Keenly at the Other's Face As he Read The Paper 'I Declare You Have Left a Tear Upon My Cheek,' Said Kate CHAPTER I KILGOBBIN CASTLE Some one has said that almost all that Ireland possesses of picturesque beauty is to be found on, or in the immediate neighbourhood of, the seaboard; and if we except some brief patches of river scenery on the Nore and the Blackwater, and a part of Lough Erne, the assertion is not devoid of truth. The dreary expanse called the Bog of Allen, which occupies a tableland in the centre of the island, stretches away for miles—flat, sad-coloured, and monotonous, fissured in every direction by channels of dark-tinted water, in which the very fish take the same sad colour. This tract is almost without trace of habitation, save where, at distant intervals, utter destitution has raised a mud-hovel, undistinguishable from the hillocks of turf around it. Fringing this broad waste, little patches of cultivation are to be seen: small potato-gardens, as they are called, or a few roods of oats, green even in the late autumn; but, strangely enough, with nothing to show where the humble tiller of the soil is living, nor, often, any visible road to these isolated spots of culture. Gradually, however—but very gradually—the prospect brightens. Fields with inclosures, and a cabin or two, are to be met with; a solitary tree, generally an ash, will be seen; some rude instrument of husbandry, or an ass-cart, will show that we are emerging from the region of complete destitution and approaching a land of at least struggling civilisation. At last, and by a transition that is not always easy to mark, the scene glides into those rich pasture-lands and well-tilled farms that form the wealth of the midland counties. Gentlemen's seats and waving plantations succeed, and we are in a country of comfort and abundance. On this border-land between fertility and destitution, and on a tract which had probably once been part of the Bog itself, there stood—there stands still—a short, square tower, battlemented at top, and surmounted with a pointed roof, which seems to grow out of a cluster of farm-buildings, so surrounded is its base by roofs of thatch and slates. Incongruous, vulgar, and ugly in every way, the old keep appears to look down on them —time-worn and battered as it is—as might a reduced gentleman regard the unworthy associates with which an altered fortune had linked him. This is all that remains of Kilgobbin Castle. In the guidebooks we read that it was once a place of strength and importance, and that Hugh de Lacy —the same bold knight 'who had won all Ireland for the English from the Shannon to the sea'—had taken this castle from a native chieftain called Neal O'Caharney, whose family he had slain, all save one; and then it adds: 'Sir Hugh came one day, with three Englishmen,