The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector. William Carleton

ungenerous to prejudge him; and this comes the more strange from you, my love, inasmuch as I never yet heard you express a prejudice almost against any person.”

      “Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an impression—prejudice—call it what you will—against any individual as I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without knowing why.”

      “Precisely so, my dear Alice,” replied her father, “precisely so; and, as you say, with-out knowing why. In that one phrase, my child, you have defined prejudice to the letter. Fie, Alice; have more sense, my dear; have more sense. Dismiss this foolish prejudice against a young man, who, from what he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at your hands.”

      “As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive to do so.”

      Alice Goodwin's person and character must, at this stage of our narrative, be made known to our readers. As to her person, it is only sufficient to say that she was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding grace and wonderful proportions. There was, however, a softness about her appearance of constitutional delicacy that seemed to be incompatible with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tenderness of her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she experienced at her death—a grief which had well-nigh become fatal to a girl of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, however, in her character was timidity and a terror of a hundred trifles, which, in the generality of her sex, would occasion only indifference or laughter. On that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to pusillanimity; indeed so much so, that on such occurrences she would bind her eyes, fly down stairs, and take refuge in the cellar until the I hurly-burly in the clouds was over. This, however, was not so much to be wondered at by those who live in our present and more enlightened days; as our readers will admit when they are told that the period of our narrative is in the reign of that truly religious monarch, Charles the Second, who, conscious of his inward and invisible grace, was known to exhaust himself so liberally of his virtue, when touching for the Evil, that there was very little of it left to regulate that of his own private life. In those days Ireland was a mass of social superstitions, and a vast number of cures in a variety of diseases were said to be performed by witches, wizards, fairy-men, fairy-women, and a thousand other impostors, who, supported by the gross ignorance of the people, carried that which was first commenced in fraud and cunning into a self-delusion, which, in process of time, led them to become dupes to their own impostures. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice Goodwin, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her existence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted mind was transparent as a sunbeam. Our readers are not to understand, however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed no power of moral resistance. So very far from that, her disposition, wherever she thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending, but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared, unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the hand and supported. It was, however, when mingling in society that her timidity and bashfulness were most observable; these, however, were accompanied with so much natural grace, and unaffected innocence of manner, that the general charm of her whole character was fascinating and irresistible; nay, her very weaknesses created an atmosphere of love and sympathy around her that nobody could breathe without feeling her influence. Her fear of ghosts and fairies, her dread of wizards and witches, of wise women and strolling conjurers, with the superstitious accounts of whom the country then abounded, were, in the eyes of her more strong-minded friends, only a source of that caressing and indulgent affection which made its artless and innocent object more dear to them. Every one knows with what natural affection and tenderness we love the object which clings to us for support under the apprehension of danger, even when we ourselves are satisfied that the apprehension is groundless. So was it with Alice Goodwin, whose harmless foibles and weaknesses, associated as they were with so much truth and purity, rendered her the darling of all who knew her.

      Woodward had not proceeded far on his way when he was overtaken by an equestrian, who came up to him at a smart pace, which, however, he checked on getting beside him.

      “A fine morning, sir, after an awful night,” observed the stranger.

      “It is, sir,” replied Woodward, “and a most awful night it assuredly was. Have you heard whether there has been destruction to life or property to any extent?”

      “Not so much to life,” replied his companion, “but seriously, I understand, to property. If you had ridden far you must have observed the number of dwelling-houses and out-offices that have been unroofed, and some of them altogether blown down.”

      “I have not ridden far,” said Woodward; “I was obliged to take shelter in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the trees.”

      “You were fortunate in finding shelter anywhere,” replied the stranger, “during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it.”

      As they proceeded along, indulging in similar chat, they observed that five or six countrymen, who had been walking at a smart pace, about a couple of hundred yards before them, came suddenly to a stand-still, and, after appearing to consult together, they darted off the road and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, behind the grassy ditch which ran along it.

      “What can these persons mean?” asked Woodward; “they seem to be concealing themselves.”

      “Unquestionably they do,” replied the stranger; “and yet there appears to be no pursuit after them. I certainly can give no guess as to their object.”

      While attempting, as they went along, to account for the conduct of the peasants, they were met by a female with a head of hair that was nearly blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, which were of the same color as the hair, were knit into a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost frightful by a squint that would have disfigured the features of a demon. Her coarse hair lay matted together in stiff, wiry waves! on each side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, she glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she seemed to meditate the murder of each, and yet there was mingled with its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly diabolical.

      “What a frightful hag!” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion; “I never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until now! Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshapen nether lip? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil.”

      “She may be a very harmless creature for all that,” replied the other; “we are not to judge by appearances. I know a man who had murder depicted in his countenance, if ever a man had, and yet there lived! not a kinder, more humane, or benevolent creature on earth. He was as simple, too, as a child, and the most affectionate father! and husband that ever breathed. These, however, may be exceptions; for most certainly I am of opinion that the countenance may be considered, in general, a very certain index to the character and disposition. But what is this?—here are the men returning from their journey, let us question them.”

      “Pray,” said Woodward, addressing them, “if it be not impertinent, may I inquire why you ran in such a hurry off the road just now, and hid yourselves behind the ditch?”

      “Certainly, sir, you may,” replied one of them; “we wor on our way to the fair of, Knockmore, and we didn't wish to meet Pugshy Roe.” (Red Peggy).

      “But