



Produced by Suzanne Shell, eagkw and the Online Distributed
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Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: AS IT PASSED HIM HE THOUGHT HE HEARD IT SAY IN A
  FURIOUS WHISPER, "STILL ALIVE!" --Page 25. [_Frontispiece._]




  [Illustration]

  The Watcher
  And Other Weird Stories

  by
  J. Sheridan Le Fanu

  With Twenty-one Illustrations
  by
  Brinsley Sheridan Le Fanu

  [Illustration]

  LONDON
  DOWNEY & CO.
  12, York Street, Covent Garden




  LONDON:
  PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.,
  ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL, E.C. PREFACE. Most of the tales in this volume were written prior to the publication
of "Uncle Silas," which is, perhaps, the novel by which my father is
best known. All the stories, with the exception of "The Watcher," were
included in "The Purcell Papers," edited by Mr. Alfred Perceval Graves
after my father's death, and published by Messrs. Bentley. It may be of interest to point out that the central idea in the story
entitled "Passage in the Secret History of an Irish Countess" is
embodied in "Uncle Silas." When "The Purcell Papers" were appearing in _The Dublin University
Magazine_ my father supplied the following note, which was reproduced by
Mr. Graves in his edition of the book:--

  "The residuary legatee of the late Francis Purcell, who has the
  honour of selecting such of his lamented old friend's manuscripts as
  may appear fit for publication, in order that the lore which they
  contain may reach the world before scepticism and utility have
  robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, and scornfully
  kicked before them, or trampled into annihilation those harmless
  fragments of picturesque superstition which it is our object to
  preserve, has been subjected to the charge of dealing too largely
  in the marvellous; and it has been half insinuated that such is his
  love for _diablerie_, that he is content to wander a mile out of his
  way in order to meet a fiend or a goblin, and thus to sacrifice all
  regard for truth and accuracy to the idle hope of affrighting the
  imagination, and thus pandering to the bad taste of his reader. He
  begs leave, then, to take this opportunity of asserting his perfect
  innocence of all the crimes laid to his charge, and to assure his
  reader that he never pandered to his bad taste, nor went one inch
  out of his way to introduce witch, fairy, devil, ghost, or any other
  of the grim fraternity of the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones. His province touching these tales has been attended with no
  difficulty and little responsibility; indeed, he is accountable for
  nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons mentioned
  therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and for an occasional
  note, whenever he conceived it possible innocently to edge in a
  word. These tales have been _written down_ by the Rev. Francis
  Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh; and in all the instances, which are
  many, in which the present writer has had an opportunity of
  comparing the manuscript of his departed friend with the actual
  traditions current amongst the families whose fortunes they pretend
  to illustrate, he has uniformly found that whatever of supernatural
  occurred in the story, so far from being exaggerated by him, had
  been rather softened down, and, wherever it could be attempted,
  accounted for." BRINSLEY LE FANU. _London,
    November, 1894._




CONTENTS. PAGE
  THE WATCHER                                           1

  PASSAGE IN THE SECRET HISTORY OF AN IRISH COUNTESS   65

  STRANGE EVENT IN THE LIFE OF SCHALKEN THE PAINTER   126

  THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT ARDAGH                   169

  THE DREAM                                           185

  A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY         208




[Illustration]

The Watcher. 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 far; and the events which occasionally
disturb the polite monotony of its pleasant and heartless progress,
however stamped with the characters of misery and horror, scarcely
outlive the gossip of a season, and (except, perhaps, in the remembrance
of a few more directly interested in the consequences of the
catastrophe) are in a little time lost to the recollection of all. The
appetite for scandal, or for horror, has been sated; the incident can
yield no more of interest or novelty; curiosity, frustrated by
impenetrable mystery, gives over the pursuit in despair; the tale has
ceased to be new, grows stale and flat; and so, in a few years, inquiry
subsides into indifference. Somewhere about the year 1794, the younger brother of a certain baronet,
whom I shall call Sir James Barton, returned to Dublin. He had served in
the navy with some distinction, having commanded one of his Majesty's
frigates during the greater part of the American war. Captain Barton was
now apparently some two or three-and-forty years of age. He was an
intelligent and agreeable companion, when he chose it, though generally
reserved, and occasionally even moody. In society, however, he deported
himself as a man of the world and a gentleman. He had not contracted any
of the noisy brusqueness sometimes acquired at sea; on the contrary, his
manners were remarkably easy, quiet, and even polished. He was in person
about the middle size, and somewhat strongly formed; his countenance was
marked with the lines of thought, and on the whole wore an expression of
gravity and even of melancholy. Being, however, as we have said, a man
of perfect breeding, as well as of affluent circumstances and good
family, he had, of course, ready access to the best society of the
metropolis, without the necessity of any other credentials. In his
personal habits Captain Barton was economical. He occupied lodgings in
one of the then fashionable streets in the south side of the town, kept
but one horse and one servant, and though a reputed free-thinker, he
lived an orderly and moral life, indulging neither in gaming, drinking,
nor any other vicious pursuit, living very much to himself, without
forming any intimacies, or choosing any companions, and appearing to mix
in gay society rather for the sake of its bustle and distraction, than
for any opportunities which it offered of interchanging either thoughts
or feelings with its votaries. Barton was therefore pronounced a saving,
prudent, unsocial sort of a fellow, who bid fair to maintain his
celibacy alike against stratagem and assault, and was likely to live to
a good old age, die rich and leave his money to a hospital. It was soon apparent, however, that the nature of Captain Barton's plans
had been totally misconceived.