The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of James Hain Friswell-Ghost Stories and Phantom Fancies by James Hain Friswell

Author:James Hain Friswell [Friswell, James Hain]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857069030
Publisher: Leonaur
Published: 2016-01-03T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 2

The count felt for the loss of his wife. It pains me very much to do him even that justice, because I know that choleric noblemen have from time immemorial been drawn à la Saracen’s head, without a morsel of virtue in them; but it is certain that selfish men have hearts, and feel losses deeply enough; and also that a hot-tempered individual may be allowed to have the luxury of an affection, without doing thorough injustice to dame Nature—a lady who is frequently forgotten by the authorities we speak of.

His two daughters, who were the roses of Silesia, and who had numerous young barons devotedly attached to them, never filled in their father’s heart the place of their mother, who, he observed piously, rolling his eyes upwards, was (bung it!) “a saint in heaven.” The poor old heathen knew he should never get there himself, and would pitifully bewail his condition. He had (bung it!) contracted such bunged bad habits; he did not know how it was, he could not leave them; he was always (bung him!) a bad man;“But as for the countess, sir”—here he looked hard at the reverend Anastatius—“she was a saint in heaven!”

Let us accept, therefore, the count as we find him, and thank Providence for that curious belief which bad men have in others better than themselves. His Majesty King Nero, no doubt, loved someone early called away, whom he rewarded with a seat amongst the gods; and we too, after denying our victims peace on earth, comfort ourselves with awarding them a place in heaven; and very generous of us too,—only the award, after all, does not cost us much.

When the two young ladies had been sent to a fashionable school at Pesth, and were proceeding in attaining those accomplishments which were most fashionable in that period, to wit, knitting and crochet, velvet painting, hard pieces from Handel’s oratorios, and the most fashionable dances—the cellarius, the polka, valse à deux temps, and the redowa—their amiable father, to cure his fit of melancholy, determined to give a party. His little son, the future hope of the province, was christened with great pomp. The peasantry, in new plush continuations, and with braces fastened with a bar across their chests, calico shirts, and wide-awake hats, assembled early to sing a song; and the count, who was affected (bung it!) to tears (at which passion the faithful fellows were touched immensely, and shook their heads in couples; wiping their manly eyes on the backs of their hand)— the count, I say, made a neat little speech, in which he alluded to his “dear departed saint,” a “woman who was more like an angel,” he said, “than a woman, who was too good for this world (bung it!) and who therefore died!”

The Silesians here wept openly, and the count continued—“However, it would not do for a man not to be a man. He (bung it!) always made it a point to be a man! (cheers) whether in

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