The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne

The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne
A Highland Story
by
Ann Radcliffe
Ñ For justice bares the arm of God,
And the grasp'd vengeance only waits his nod.
CAWTHORN
eBooks@Adelaide
2004
First published, London: Thomas Hookham, 1789
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University of Adelaide
South Australia 5005

CHAPTER I
ON the north-east coast of Scotland, in the most romantic part of the
Highlands, stood the Castle of Athlin; an edifice built on the summit of
a rock whose base was in the sea. This pile was venerable from its
antiquity, and from its Gothic structure; but more venerable from the
virtues which it enclosed. It was the residence of the still beautiful
widow, and the children of the noble Earl of Athlin, who was slain by
the hand of Malcolm, a neighbouring chief, proud, oppressive,
revengeful; and still residing in all the pomp of feudal greatness, within
a few miles of the castle of Athlin. Encroachment on the domain of
Athlin, was the occasion of the animosity which subsisted between the
chiefs. Frequent broils had happened between their clans, in which that
of Athlin had generally been victorious. Malcolm, whose pride was
touched by the defeat of his people; whose ambition was curbed by the
authority, and whose greatness was rivalled by the power of the Earl,
conceived for him that deadly hatred which opposition to its favourite
passions naturally excites in a mind like his, haughty and
unaccustomed to controul; and he meditated his destruction. He
planned his purpose with all that address which so eminently marked
his character, and in a battle which was attended by the chiefs of each
party in person, he contrived, by a curious finesse, to entrap the Earl,
accompanied by a small detachment, in his wiles, and there slew him.
A general rout of his clan ensued, which was followed by a dreadful
slaughter; and a few only escaped to tell the horrid catastrophe to
Matilda. Overwhelmed by the news, and deprived of those numbers
which would make revenge successful, Matilda forbore to sacrifice the
lives of her few remaining people to a feeble attempt at retaliation, and
she was constrained to endure in silence her sorrows and her injuries.
Inconsolable for his death, Matilda had withdrawn from the public eye,
into this ancient seat of feudal government, and there, in the bosom of
her people and her family, had devoted herself to the education of her
children. One son and one daughter were all that survived to her care,
and their growing virtues promised to repay all her tenderness. Osbert

was in his nineteenth year: nature had given him a mind ardent and
susceptible, to which education had added refinement and expansion.
The visions of genius were bright in his imagination, and his heart,
unchilled by the touch of disappointment, glowed with all the warmth
of benevolence.
When first we enter on the theatre of the world, and begin to notice its
features, young imagination heightens every scene, and the warm heart
expands to all around it. The happy benevolence of our feelings
prompts us to believe that every body is good, and excites our wonder
why every body is not happy. We are fired with indignation at the
recital of an act of injustice, and at the unfeeling vices of which we are
told. At a tale of distress our tears flow a full tribute to pity: at a deed of
virtue our heart unfolds, our soul aspires, we bless the action, and feel
ourselves the doer. As we advance in life, imagination is compelled to
relinquish a part of her sweet delirium; we are led reluctantly to truth
through the paths of experience; and the objects of our fond attention
are viewed with a severer eye. Here an altered scene appears; Ñ frowns
where late were smiles; deep shades where late was sunshine: mean
passions, or disgusting apathy stain the features of the principal figures.
We turn indignant from a prospect so miserable, and court again the
sweet illusions of our early days; but ah! they are fled for ever!
Constrained, therefore, to behold objects in their more genuine hues,
their deformity is by degrees less painful to us. The fine touch of moral
susceptibility, by frequent irritation becomes callous; and too
frequently we mingle with the world, till we are added to the number of
its votaries.
Mary, who was just seventeen, had the accomplishments of riper years,
with the touching simplicity of youth. The graces of her person were
inferior only to those of her mind, which illumined her countenance