Gothic fiction; Ireland -- History -- Rebellion of 1798 -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Romans à clef
“I wish Frances,” said Mrs. Seymour, “you would call people by their
right names. The young man you call Lord Glenarvon, has no claim to that
title; his grandfather was a traitor; his father was a poor miserable
exile, who was obliged to enter the Navy by way of gaining a livelihood;
his mother was a woman of very doubtful character (as she said this she
looked towards Lady Mandeville); and this young man, educated nobody knows
how, having passed his time in a foreign country, nobody knows where,
from whence he was driven it seems by his crimes, is now unfortunately
arrived here to pervert and mislead others, to disseminate his wicked
doctrines amongst an innocent but weak people, and to spread the flames
of rebellion, already kindled in other parts of the Island. Oh, he is a
dishonour to his sex; and it makes me mad to see how you all run after
him, and forget both dignity and modesty, to catch a glimpse of him.”
“What sort of looking man is he, dear aunt?” said Calantha.
“Frightful—mean,” said Mrs. Seymour. “His stature is small,” said Lady
Mandeville; “but his eye is keen and his voice is sweet and tunable.
Lady Avondale believe me, he is possessed of that persuasive language,
which never fails to gain upon its hearers. Take heed to your heart:
remember my words,—beware of the young Glenarvon.” Gondimar, after the
first salutation upon entering the room, joined in the conversation; but
he spoke with bitterness of the young Lord; and upon Lady Trelawney’s
attempting to say a few words in his favour, “Hear Sir Everard on this
subject,” said the Count—“only hear what he thinks of him.” “I fear,”
said Sophia, “that all these animadversions will prevent our going
to-morrow, as we proposed, to see the Priory.” “Nothing shall prevent
me,” replied Lady Augusta. “I only beg,” said Mrs. Seymour “that I may
not be of the party, as the tales of horror I have heard concerning the
inhabitants of St. Alvin Priory, from old Lord de Ruthven, at Belfont
Abbey, prevent my having the smallest wish or curiosity to enter its
gates.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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