There stands about a mile and a half beyond Islington, unless it has come down within the last two years, a singular and grand old house. It belonged to the family of Arden, once distinguished in the Northumbrian counties. About fifty acres of ground, rich with noble clumps and masses of old timber, surround it; old-world fish-ponds, with swans sailing upon them, tall yew hedges, quincunxes, leaden fauns and goddesses, and other obsolete splendours surround it. It rises, tall, florid, built of Caen stone, with a palatial flight of steps, and something of the grace and dignity of the genius of Inigo Jones, to whom it is ascribed, with the shadows of ancestral trees and the stains of two centuries upon it, and a vague character of gloom and melancholy, not improved by some indications not actually of decay, but of something too like neglect.
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Though carefully educated in medicine and surgery, I have never
practised either. The study of each continues, nevertheless, to
interest me profoundly. Neither idleness nor caprice caused my
secession from the honourable calling which…
She had scarcely set down my heavy box, which she seemed to have
considerable difficulty in raising on the table, when the door of
the room in which I had seen the coffin, opened, and a sinister and
unexpected apparition entered.
It is now more than fifty years since the occurrences which I am
about to relate caused a strange sensation in the gay society of
Dublin. The fashionable world, however, is no recorder of
traditions; the memory of selfishness seldom reaches…