PLEASE HANDLE wrmcARE University of Connecticut Libraries 3 "11S3 DmbE737 S ^tiyc^^i::d to take him away from me. There was fi(, ' wUe cow-house but the child and myself. Tbe'.e . uS uniy one half-penny candle lighting, and that •^vas stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you — I wont belie my father, sir — he was a good father to me — I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the child. ' Is that you, father?' says I. He said nothing. ^ If that's you,' says I again, * for the love of them that's gone, let me catch your hand.' And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child's. He stayed about as long as you'd be going from this to the gate below at the end Of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn't to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains." CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE, 49' « But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, " it appears as if you are more indebted to your father than to the man re- commended to you by Shamous; or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among the good people, and that then your father " " I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, interrupting him; " but don't call them my enemies. ^Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. — Here's wishing you a good health and long life." "I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, "I meant no of- fence, Tom; but was it not as I say?" " I can't tell you that, sir," said Bourke; "I'm bound down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man 1 spoke of, and my father, and those they know, settled it between them." There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advan- tage to inquire of Tom, whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons, at the time of his son's illness — circumstances often mysteriously hinted at by Tom. "See that now," said he, returning to Mr. Martin, "how well she remembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I gave the mistress your mother, when the doctors ordered her goats' whey." Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued — " Why, then, I'll tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e'er a goat ever was, for a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father's. The morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off the church, down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir?" " Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin. 5 A 50 CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. "Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to cry. — ' Whisht, you fool!' says I: ^ 'tis all for the better.' 'Twas true for me. What do you think, ma'am; the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any body- knowing why, before Jack's face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road. ^Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you." " 'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr. Martin; " I wish you could give us some explanation of it." " I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's answer; "but I'm bound down. I can't tell but what I'm allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds." " I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son," said Mr. Martin. " So I had, sir," returned Bourke. "I had a trial of that man. But that's neither here nor there. I can't tell you any thing about that, sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?" " Oh! very much indeed," said Mr. Martin. " But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him the better through the story," added Mrs. Mar- tin. Tom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition. <' Well, 1 believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He was always a smart, active, 'cute boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother's wake. I was in great trouble, for 1 did not know where to bury her. Her peo- ple and my father's people — I mean their friends, sir, among the good people, had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose church- yard she'd be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neigh- bours wondered how long I was before I buried my mo- ther; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the li.^ CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOUBKE. 51 business, and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper church- yard with my father's people," "He was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. "But you were about to tell how he became so skilful." "Sol will, and welcome," replied Bourke. "Your health, ma'am. I am drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never tasted thelikeof it: itgoesdown one's throat like sweet oil. But what w^as 1 going to say? — Yes — well — Patrick, many a long year ago, was coming home from a berrin late in the evening, and walking b}^ the side of the river opposite the big inch,* near Ballyhefaan ford.f He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a lit- tle merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down the ri- ver, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people, laughing as if they'd break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a glass, and that's saying enough for him; so he whipped^ ofi'his shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He thought, sir, that he*d show them better dancing than any of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or treble with him. But pwah! — his dancing was no more to theirs than mine would be to the mistress there. They did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire * Inch — low meadow ground near a river. t A ford of the river Puncheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin. X i. e. " In the time of a crack of a whip," he took off his shoes and stockino-s. t 52 CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. them. Patrick was 'shamed witliin himself, for he thought he had not his fellow in all the country round; and was • going away when a little old man, that was looking at the company for some time bitterly as if he did not like what was going on, came up to him. * Patrick,' says he. Pa- trick started, for he did not think any body there knew him. ' Patrick,' says he, ^ you're discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you have a friend near you. Pm your friend, and your father's friend, and I think worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don't be afeard. 1 tell you the best of them did not do as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best dou- ble he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were able for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a feather^ although the people could hear the music answered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher ; and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better than him or any other man that never went the long jour- ney." « And what was the cause of his great success?" inquired Mr. Martin. " He could not help it, sir," replied Tom Bourke. " They that could make him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not per- suade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly out of his mouth, when he found himself ail alone, with nothing but a white cow grazing by his side." ■jll^ CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. 53 '^Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these ex- traordinary powers in the dance, Tom?" said Mr. Mar- tin. "I'll tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke, ^' when I come to it. When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to bed; and the next day they found he got the fever, or something like it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn't make out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave him over. But it's little they know what ailed him. When he was, as you may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going, one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballin- lacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can't tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick, he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along with him. And so there was surely, or he wouldn't be the man he is to-day. " I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill," said Mr. Martin. "You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke. "Darby told him his friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and though they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd bring him over it, and teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a dif- ferent faction; only the old man that spoke to him; he was a friend of Patrick's family, and it went again' his heart, you see, that the others were so light, and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear 'em boasting how they'd dance with any set in the whole country round. So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure it was only learning he was that time when he was wandering in his mind after the fever,"' 5' 54 CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. " I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Bally hefaan ford/' said Mr. Martin. " 'Tis a great place for the good people, isn't it, Tom?" " You may say that, sir," returned Bourke. " 1 could tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by moonlight, at th' other side of the river, looking at 'em playing goal as if they'd break their hearts over it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and v^^hite handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and red ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday in Mr. Sim- ming's big field. I saw 'em one night play till the moon set, without one party being able to take the ball from th' other. I'm sure they were going to fight, only, 'twas near morning. I'm told your grandfather, ma'am, used to see 'em, there, too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin. " So I have been told, Tom," replied Mrs. Martin. "But don't they say that the churchyard of Kilcrumper* is just as favourite a place with the good people as Bally- hefaan inch." " Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma'am, what happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard," said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin, added, " 'twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He was walk- ing home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a lit- tle merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not know a mother's soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin, till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about a piper, that come along with ''em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Uavy longed to be among 'em (for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever he ma}^ now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. ^ Davy,' says he, Uake out a * About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, nearly mid-way between Kil#ortii and Ferinoy. CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. 55 partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don't offer to kiss her.' 'That I won't,' says Davy, * although her lips were made of honey.' And with that he made his bow to the purtiest girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. 'Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th' admiration, do you see, of all that were there. ^Twas all very well till the jig was over; but just as they had done, Dav)^, for he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according to cus- tom. The smack was no sooner off his lips, you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought it; ^twas near morning when he came home; but they couldn't get a word out of him till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock." When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin,it became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too strong within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people. Tom seemed con- scious of this. — He muttered for a few minutes broken sen- tences concerning church-yards, river-sides, peprechans,and dina magh, which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to him- self, certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he would say, " I can talk no more;" stretched his arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair, walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to face his host and hostess; but after va- rious ineffectual attempts to bid them good night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom's wife, who knew well what sort of allurement detained him, when he remained out after a certain hour, was in atten- dance to conduct bis master home. I have no doubt that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know 56 FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES. that within the last month, he was, to use his own words, "As stout and hearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork." FAIRIES OR NO FiVIRIES. VIII. John Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur into the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody Farland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stifFer jug of punch than his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than he ought to have done — but that is nothing what- ever to the story I am going to tell. John believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly printed in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he used to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many believed his stories — many more did not believe them — but nobod}^ in process of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a pity to vex him. But he had a cou- ple of young neighbours who were just come down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the summer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Crom- vvellian, who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES. 57 too full of logic to let the old man have his own way un- disputed. Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was impossible — that it was merely old woman's gabble, and other such things. When he would insist that all his sto- ries were derived from the most credible sources — nay, that some of them had been told him by his own grandmo- ther, a very respectable old lady, but slightly affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own know- ledge — they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propen- sity to pulling a long bow. "But," said the}^, "Jack Mulligan did you ever see a fairy yourself?" " Never," was the reply. — " Never, as I am a man of honour and credit." "Well, then," they answered, "until you do, do not be bothering us with any more tales of my grandmother." Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an argument. This evening it was at their uncle's, an old crony of his, with whom he had dined — he had taken a large portion of his usual beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion, ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host's entreaties, galloped off, although he had intended to have slept there; declaring that he would not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies, who, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red- snouted, prating prigs, (" not," added he, " however, that I say a man may not be a good man and have a red nose,") they imagined they knew more than a man who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the world for five dozen years. He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie could powder away over the limestone. "Yes, indeed!" muttered he, "the brats had me in one thing — 1 never did see a fairy; and 1 would give up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of one — and by the powers! what is that?" Ob FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES. He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest ti- tle-deeds of the county, and they were at least five hun- dred years old, was called the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Words- worth, I should tell )^ou how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand different fragments — and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious flood, bathing every particu- lar leaf, and showing forth every particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling mo- tion. The company was large. Some spread out far be- yond the farthest boundary of the shadow of the oak's branches — some were seen glancing through the flashes of light shining through its leaves — some were barely visible, nestling under the trunk — some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They w^ere not three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and beyond num- ber numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse's neck, and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning over it, surveyed with infinite de- light, their diversified gambols. By looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior sta- ture, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out: "Bravo! little fellow," said he, " well kicked and strong." But the instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies vanished with the speed of lightning. " I wish," said Jack, "I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall just turn bridle about and go back to BallybegmuUinahone Castle, and beat the young Master FAIRIES OK NO FAIRIES. , 59 Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think themselves, out of the field clean." No sooner said than done: and Jack was back again as if upon the wings of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the two collegians. " Halloo !" said he, " young Flatcaps, come down, if you dare. Come down, if you dare, and I shall give you oc-oc- ocular demonstration of the truth of what I was saying. '^ Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, "Jack Mulligan, what brings you back so soon?" " The fairies," shouted Jack; " the fairies!" "1 am afraid," muttered the Lord of Bally begmullinahone, "the last glass you took was too little watered; but, no mat- ter — come in and cool yourself over a tumbler of punch." He came in and sat down again at table. In great spi- rits he told his story; — how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies dancing about the old oak of Ballinghassig; he described their beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats, glittering in the moon- beams; and the princely stature and demeanourof the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing and playing the most enchanting music; but this was merely imagina- tion. The young men laughed, but Jack held his ground. " Suppose," said one of the lads, " we join company with you on the road, and ride along to the place, where you saw that fine company of fairies?" "Done!" cried Jack; "but I will not promise that you will find them there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees, and heard their wings whizzing through the air." This, you know, was a bounce, for Jack had heard no such thing. OS rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oak- wood. They arrived at the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright as when Jack had passed. "Look there," he cried, exultingly: for the same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his horsewhip; "look, and deny if you can." "Why," said one of the lads, pausing, "true it is that we do see a company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I shall go among them;" and he dismounted to climb over the wall. 60 DAIRIES on NO FAIRIES. "Ah, Tom! Tom," cried Jack, "stop, man, stop! what are you doing? The fairies — the good people, I mean — hate to be meddled with. You will be pinched or blinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or — look! a wilful man will have his w^ay. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak — God help him! for he is past the help of man." By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. "Jack," said he, " keep your prayers to your- self. Your fairies are not bad at all. 1 believe they will make tolerably good catsup." " Catsup," said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly — "What do you mean by catsup?" " Nothing," replied Tom, " but that they are mush- rooms (as indeed they were:) and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball." Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, stag- gered back to his horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face the laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the people of the parish, ay, and five parishes round called him nothing but musharoon Jack, such being their pronun- ciation of mushroom. I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little dignity: but — " These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air — ^into thin air." The name Shepro, by which the foregoing section is distinguished^ literally signifies a fairy house or mansion, and is adopted as a ge- neral name for the Elves who are supposed to live in troops or com- munities, and were popularly supposed to have castles or mansions of their own. — See Stewart's Popular Superstitions of the High- lands, 1823, pp. 90, 91, (fcc. (S/a, sigh, sighe, sigheann, siabhra, siachaire, siogidh, are Irish words, evidently springing from a common Celtic root, used to ex- press a fairy or goblin, and even a hag or witch. Thus we have the compounds Leannan-sighe, a familiar, from Leannan, a pet, and Sioghdhraoidheachd, enchantment with or by spirits. Sigh gdoithe or siaheann-gdoithe, a whirlwind, is so termed because it is said to be raised by the fairies. The close of day is called Sia, because twilight, " That sweet hour, when day is almost closing," is the time when the fairies are most frequently seen. Again, Sigh is a hill or hillock, because the fairies are believed to dwell within, Sidhe, sidheadh, and sigh, are names for a blast or blight, because it is supposed to proceed from the fairies. The term Shoges, i. e. Sigh oges (young or little spirits,) Fai- ries, is used in a curious poem printed under the name of " The Irish Hudibras," 1689, pp. 23, and 81 ; a copy of which, entitled "The Fingallian Travesty," is among the Sloane MSS. No. 900. In the Third Part of O'Flaherty's Ogygia, it is related that St. Pa- trick and some of his followers, who were chanting matins beside a fountain, were taken for " Sidhe, or fairies," by some pagan ladies. *' The Irish," according to the Rev, James Hely's translation of O'Flaherty, "call these Sidhe, aerial spirits or phantoms, because they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the common people imagine they reside, which fictitious habitations are called by us Sidhe or Siodha.''^ For a similar extended use of the German word Alp, Elf, «Stc. see Introductory Essay to the Grimms' Irische Elfenmdrcheny pp. 55—6-2. 6 LEGENDS OF THE CLURICAUNE That sottish elf Who quaffs with swollen lips the ruby wine, Draining the cellar with as free a hand As if it were his purse which ne'er lacked coin; — And then, with feign'd contrition ruminates Upon his wasteful pranks, and revelry, In some secluded dell or lonely grove Tinsel'd by Twilight."— THE HAUNTED CELLAR. IX. There are few^ people who have not heard of the Mac Carthies — one of the real old Irish families, with the true Milesian blood running in their veins, as thick as butter- milk. Many were the clans of this family in the south; as the Mac Carthy-more — and the Mac Carthy-reagh — and the Mac Carthy of Muskerry; and all of them were noted for their hospitality to strangers, gentle and simple. But not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded Justin Mac Carthy, of Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to eat and drink upon his table; and there was a right hearty 64 THE HAUNTED CELLAR. welcome for every one who would share it with him. Many a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at Ballinacarthy was the proper pattern for one; larp;.e as that cellar was, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows of pipes, and hogsheads, and casks, that it would take more time to count than any sober man could spare in such a place, with plenty to drink about him, and a hearty wel- come to do so. There are many, no doubt, who will think that the but- ler would have little to complain of in such a house; and the whole countr}'' round would have agreed with them, if a man could be found to remain as Mr. Mac Carthy's butler for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not one who had been in his service gave him a bad word. "We have no fault,'' they would say, "to find with the master; and if he could but get any one to fetch his wine from the cellar, we might every one of us have grown gray in the house, and have lived quiet and contented enough in his service until the end of our days." "'Tis a queer thing that, surely," thought young Jack Leary, a lad who had been brought up from a mere child in the stables of Ballinacarthy to assist in taking care of the horses, and had occasionally lent a hand in the butler's pan- try: — "'tis a mighty queer thing, surely, that one man after another cannot content himself with the best place in the house of a good master, but that every one of them must quit, all through the means, as they say, of the wine-cellar. If the master, long life to him! would but make me his butler, I warrant never the word more would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the wine-cellar. Young Leary accordingly watched for what he conceived to be a favourable opportunity of presenting himself to the notice of his master. A few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his stabk-yard rather earlier than usual, and called loudly for the groom to saddle his horse, as he intended going out with the hounds. But there was no groom to answer, and young Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable. -<* VVhere is William?" inquired Mr. Mac Carth3^ ^*Sir?" said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the questiofL THE HAUNTED CELLAR. 65 "Is it William, please your honour?'' returned Jack; "why, then, to tell the truth, he had just one drop too much last night." "Where did he get it?" said Mr. Mac Carthy; "for since Thomas went away, the key of the wine-cellar has been in my pocket, and I have been obliged to fetch what was drank myself." ''Sorrow a know I know," said Leary, "unless the cook might have given him the least taste in life of whiskey. But," continued he, performing a low bow by seizing with his right hand a lock of hair, and pulling down his head by it, whilst his left leg which had been put forward, was scraped back against the ground, "may I make so bold as just to ask your honour one question?" '* Speak out. Jack," said Mr. Mac Carthy. "Why, then, does your honour want a butler?" "Can you recommend me one," returned his master, with a smile of good humour upon his countenance, "and one who will not be afraid of going to my wine-cellar?" "Is the wine-cellar all the matter?" said young Leary: "not a doubt have 1 of myself then for that." "So you mean to offer me your services in the capacity of butler?" said Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise. "Exactly so," answered Leary, now for the first time looking up from the ground. "Well, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no ob- jection to give you a trial." "Long may your honour reign over us, and the Lord spare you to us I" ejaculated Leary, with another national bow, as his master rode off; and he continued for some time to gaze after him with a vacant stare, which slowly and gradually assumed a look of importance. "Jack Leary," said he at length, "Jack — is it Jack?" in a tone of wonder; "faith, 'tis not Jack now, but Mr. John, the butler;" and with an air of becoming conse- quence he strided out of the stable-yard towards the kit- chen. It is of little purport to my story, although it may afford an instructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden transition of nobody into somebody. Jack's former stable companion, a poor superannuated hound named Bran, who 6* 06 THE HAUNTED CELLAR. had been accustomed to receive many an affectionate tap on the head, was spurned from him with a kick and an *« Out of the way, sirrah." Indeed, poor Jack's memory seemed sadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What established the point beyond all doubt was his almost forgetting the pretty face of Peggy, the kitchen wench, whose heart he had assailed but the preceding week by the offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth finger of her right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her lips. When Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent for Jack Leary — so he still continued to call his new but- ler. " Jack," said he, " I believe you are a trustworthy lad, and here are the keys of my cellar. I have asked the gentlemen with whom 1 hunted to-day to dine with me, and 1 hope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will wait on them at table; but, above all, let there be no want of wine after dinner." Mr. John having a tolerably quick eye for such things, and being naturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accord- ingly, laid his plates and knives and forks in the same manner he had seen his predecessors in office perform these mysteries, and really, for the first time, got through at- tendance on dinner very well. It must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the house of an Irish country squire, who was entertaining a company of booted and spurred fox-hunters, not very par- ticular about what are considered matters of infinite impor- tance under other circumstances and in other societies. For instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy's guests, (though all excellent and worthy men in their way,) cared much whether the punch produced after soup was made of Ja- maica or Antigua rum; some even would not have been inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish whis- key; and, with the exception of their liberal host himself, every one in company preferred the port which Mr. Mac Carthy put on his table to the less ardent flavour of claret, — a choice rather at variance with modern sentiment. It was waxing near midnight, when Mr. INIac Carlhy rang the bell three times. This was a signal for more wine; and Jack proceeded to the cellar to procure a fresh supply, but it must be confessed not without some little hesitation. THE HAUNTED CELLAR. 67 The luxury of ice was then unknown in the south of Ireland; but the superiority of cool wine had been ac- knowledged by all men of sound judgment and true taste. The grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the mansion of Ballinacarthy upon the site of an old castle which had belonged to his ancestors, was fully aware of this important fact; and in the construction of his magnifi- cent wine-cellar had availed himself of a deep vault, exca- vated out of the solid rock in former times as a place of retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a flight of steep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall were narrow passages — I ought rather to call them crevices; and also certain projections which cast deep shadows, and looked very frightful when any one went down the cellar stairs with a single light: indeed, two lights did not much improve the matter, for though the breadth of the shadows became less, the narrow crevices remained as dark and darker than ever. Summoning up all his resolution, down went the new butler, bearing in his right hand a lantern and the key of the cellar, and in his left a basket, which he considered sufficiently capacious to contain an adequate stock for the remainder of the evenixig; he arrived at the door without any interruption whatever; but when he put the key, which was of an ancient and clumsy kind — for it was before the days of Bramah's patent, — and turned it in the lock, he thought he heard a strange kind of laughing within the cellar, to which some empty bottles that stood upon the floor outside vibrated so violently, that they struck against each other: in this he could not be mistaken, alth9ugh he may have been deceived in the laugh; for the bottles were just at his feet, and he saw them in motion. Leary paused for a moment, and looked about him with becoming caution. He then boldly seized the handle of the key, and turned it u-ith all his strength in the lock, as if he doubted his own power of doing so; and the door flew open with a most tremendous crash, that, if the house had not been built upon the solid rock, would have shook it from the foundation. To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossi- ble, for he seems not to know \ery clearly himself: but 68 THE HAUNTED CELLAR. what he told the cook the next morning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull, and that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went rocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought every one would have been staved in, and that he should have been drowned or smothered in wine. When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient for his return. ^ LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. 87 panions were, as may be supposed, of the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general, of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions to pleasure were therefore under still less restrictions, and in whose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very remarkable for the coolness and steadi- ness of its youth, was then one of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious exciseman, with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the ink-boitle ('black em.blem of the informer') dangling from his waist-coat-button — went not then from ale-house to ale- house, denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirit, who preferred selling whisky, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to elude them,) to retailing that poison- ous liquor, which derived its name from the British "par- liament," that compelled its circulation among a reluctant people. Or if the ganger — recording angel of the law — wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out forever! For, welcome to the tables of their hospfitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely shared; and thus the com- petition in the market between the smuggler, who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely with milk and honey, but with whisky and wine. In the enjoyments supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree, that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twen- tieth year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left scarcely a liope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look on at his ra- pid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with that still deeper misery which those only 88 LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. know who have striven hard to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the verge of eternity, without the leisure for, or the power of, repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with of- fended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into a state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay upon his back, with his hands stretched beside, quite motionless; and his distracted mo- ther, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symp- tom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were collect- ed before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in front, gathered round when the door opened. These were tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is something more, and which col- lects the lower ranks round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world. They saw the profes- sional man come out from the hall door and approach his horse, and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount, they clustered round him with inquiring LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. 89 and wishful looks. Not a word was spoken ; but their mean- ing could not be misunderstood; and the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was still holding the bridle, as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, "It's all over, James;" and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full, loud, continued and discordant but plaintive wailing^ above which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man's voice, sometimes in broken sobs, sometimes in more dis- tinct exclamations of sorrow. This was Charles's foster- brother, who moved about in the crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an aojon}^ of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles's playmate and compa- nion when a bo}^, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master, as much, at least, as he did his own life. When Mrs. Mae Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck, and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she conti- nued looking at her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duti-es which tlie custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now, crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to give directions for the ceremon}^ of waking, and for supplying the numerous visiters of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the family, w4io assisted her in the necessary arrangements, every thing was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no effort to check her sorrows, they 90 LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. never once suspended her attention, now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which, in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confu- sion. The night was pretty far advanced: the boisterous la- mentations which had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given place to a solemn and mourn- ful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart, notwith- standing her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber ad- joining that of her son: — suddenly her devotions were dis- turbed by an unusual noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First, there was a low murmur — then all was silent, as if the movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic — and then a loud cry of terror burst from all within: — the door of the chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy's room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her son's chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an unearthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its lips and barely uttered, ^'Mo- ther;" — but though the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her son, exclaimed, "Speak! in the name of God and his saints, speak! are you alive?" He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent difficulty, "Yes, my mother, alive, and But sit down and collect yourself; I have that to tell, which will astonish 3^ou still more than what you have seen." He leaned back on his pillow, and while his mother remained kneeling by the bed-side, holding one of his hands clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who dis- LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. 91 trusted all her senses, he proceeded: — "do not interrupt me until I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my illness 1 have only a confused recollection; but within the last twelve hours, I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare incredulously on me — 'tis as true as have been my crimes, and, as I trust, shall be my repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw, — I remember. It is fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth human language. What I can describe I ivill — I may speak it briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance and found wanting. The irrevocable sen- tence was upon the point of being pronounced; the eye of m)^ Almighty Judge, which had already glanced upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth my hands to him, and be- sought his intercession; I implored that one year, one month might be given to me on earth, to do penance and atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never— not if I should pass through ten thousand succes- sive states of being — never, for eternity, shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung suspended — when an instant was to decide whether torments unuttera- ble were to be my portion for endless ages? But Justice suspended its decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firm- ness, but mildness, ^Return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repent- ance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever.' — I heard no more; I saw no more, until I awoke to life, the moment before you en- tered." Charles's strength continued just long enough to finish these last worcfs, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite exhausted. His mother, though, as was be- 92 LEGENDS or THE BANSHEE. fore said, somewhat disposed to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon, which might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the influ- ence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events ne- cessary, and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed. After some hours' sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward gradually but steadily reco- vered. Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not soured by his reforma- tion; but he never joined in their excesses, and often en- deavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions suc- ceeded, I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded, that he was religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without a loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness. Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended, the story of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things. Charles's health from the temperance and regularity of his habits, became more ro- bust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demean- our, which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it. However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appear^ftice gave such promise of a long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large party to an enter- tainment at Spring House, to celebrate his birth-day. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which LEGENDS or THE BANSHEE. 93 attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the fol- lowing letters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near connexion and valued friend of hers, who lived in the county of Cork, at about fifty miles' dis- tance from Spring House. " To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry. Spring House, Tuesday morning, October 15th, 1752. "my dearest MARY, " I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two da)^s' journey at this season, over bad roads and through a trou- bled country, it will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, 1 have, or fancy 1 have, more than usual cause for wish- ing you near me. You know my son's story. I can't tell how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when the pre- diction of his dream or his vision will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which 1 cannot sup- press, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my son's ward,) and the bridal entertainment will take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed a day or two longer. Would to God — but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail upon your- self to leave your good man for one week, if his farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you; and come to us with the girls, as soon before Sunday as you can. "Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend, "Ann Mac Carthy." Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the messenger having travelled on foot, over bog and moor, by paths impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her do- mestic aflairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders 94 LEGENDS OP THE BANSHEE. of the gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is away,) that sh6 and her two younger daughters were unable to leave home until late on the morning; of Friday. The eldest daughter remained, to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ire- land,) and as the roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, it was their design to make two easy stages; to stop about mid-way the first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This arrange- ment was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of their departure, they could proceed, at the utmost, no further than twenty miles on the first day; and they there- fore purposed sleeping at the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that dis- tance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke's in safety, after rather a disagreeable drive. What befell them on their journey the next day to the Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully related in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister. "Spring House, Sunday evening, 20th October, 1752. "dear ELLEN, "As my mother's letter, which encloses this, will an- nounce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last two days. "The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly fif- teen miles distant from this place. The roads were exces- sively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke's brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone LEGENDS or THE BANSHEE. 95 clear and bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together, as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, whis- tled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary,' who drove the jaunting-car, how far we were from Mr. Bourke's. < 'Tis about ten spades from this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma'am.' ' Very well, Leary : turn up to Mr. Bourke's as soon as you reach the cross roads.' My mother had scarcely spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the right of our w^ay. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony. ' Heaven defend us!' exclaimed my niother. 'Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead^ while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the village near it.' ' Woman!' said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice trembled — 'that's no wo- man: the sooner we get on, ma'am, the better;' and he continued his efforts to quicken the horse's pace. We saw nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish^ and to issue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke's to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin woman, with uncovered headland longhair that float- 96 LEGENDS OP THE BANSHEE. ed round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an atti- tude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were closely wrapped around it. ' Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in God's name,' said my mother; ' whatever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer.' ' 'Tis the Banshee, ma'am,' said Leary; *and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I'm afraid there's something bad going forward, or she would not send us there.' So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o'clock last night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother's letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions wiiich took place here during the last week. "You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been mar- ried this day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter inviting us here, tlie whole of the company were walking about the grounds a little before dinner. It seems LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. 97 that an unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by- James Ryan, was seen prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody melancholy state for some days previous. He had separated from her for several months, and, they say, had pro* vided for her rather handsomely; but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her; and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with disappointment and jea- lousy, had disordered her intellects. During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday, she had been walking in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight around her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family. "Charles Mac Carthy, at the time 1 mentioned, was walking between James Ryan and another, at a little dis- tance from the rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party were thrown into the utmost consterna tion by the report of a pistol, fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery, which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell instantly, and it was found tliat he had been wounded in the leg. One of the party was a medical man; his assistance was immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, that it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a few days. * We shall know more by Sunday,' said Charles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave, that several of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apart- ment. "On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor girl 1 just mentioned. It was also mani- fest that she had aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing, and dancing and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after working convul- sively for some time, she sprung to the door, escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken until 9 98 LEGENDS OP THE BANSHEE. last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a little before our arrival. " Charles's wound was thought of such little consequence, that the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wed- ding entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill, that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about twelve o'clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after. The wound it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise in- judiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. But just as we entered, we were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, strug- gling furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing up stairs over the body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before described, who was attempting to gain access to Chjirles's room, to ^ get his forgiveness,' as she said, ^ before he went away to ac- cuse her for having killed him.' This wild idea was min- gled with another, which seemed to dispute with the for- mer possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James Ryan as the murderer both of Charles and her. At length she was torn away; and the last words 1 heard her scream were, ^ James Ryan, 'twas you killed him, and not I — 'twas you killed him, and not 1.' LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. 99 "Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother, wliose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal accident. She conducted us to Charles's room, who she said, had desired to see us the moment of our ar- rival, as he found his end approaching, and wished to de- vote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us. "Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy but I am just called away. There seems a slight stir in the family; perhaps " The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more than once alludes, told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have farther learned of this branch of the Mac Carthy family. Before the sun had gone down upon Charles's seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to render its last account to its Creator. " Banshee, correctly written she-fairiee or women fairies, credu- lously supposed, by the common people, to be so affected to certain families, that they are heard to sing mournful lamentations about their houses at night, whenever any of the family labours under a sickness which is to end in death. But no families which are not of an ancient and noble stock are believed to be honoured with this fairy privilege." — O'Brien's Irish Dictionary. For accounts of the appearance of the Irish Banshee, see " Per- sonal Sketches, &.c. by Sir Jonah Barrington;" Miss Lefanu's Me- moirs of her Grandmother, Mrs. Frances Sheridan (1824,) p. 32; *' The Memoirs of Lady Fanshaw " (quoted by Sir Walter Scott in a note on "the Lady of the Lake,") &c. Sir Walter Scott terms the belief in the appearance of the Ban- shee ♦• one of the most beautiful " of the leading superstitions of Europe. In his *' Letters on Demonology," he says that " several families of the Highlands of Scotland anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit, who performed the office of the Irish Banshee," and particularly refers to the supernatural cries and lamentations which foreboded the death of the gallant Mac Lean of Lochbuy. " The Welsh Gwrach y Rhibyn (or the hag of the Dribble) bears some resemblance to the Irish Banshee, being regarded as an omen of death. She is said to come after dusk and flap her leathern wings against the window where she warns of death, and in a broken, howling tone, to call on the one who is to quit mortality by his or her name several times, as thus, A -a-a-n-ni-i-i-il Anni." — MS. Communication from Dr. Owen Pughe. For some farther particulars, see, in " A Relation of Apparitions, &c, by the Rev. Edmund Jones," his account of the Kyhirraeth, " a doleful fore- boding noise before death;" and Howell's " Cambrian Superstitions," (Tipton, 1831,) p. 31. The reader will probably remember the White Lady of the House of Brandenburgh, and the fairy Melusine, who usually prognosticated the recurrence of mortality in some noble family of Poitou. Prince, in his " Worthies of Devon," records the appearance of a white bird performing the same office for the worshipful lineage of Oxen- ham. "In the Tyrol, too, they believe in a spirit which looks in at the window of the house in which a person is to die {Deutsche Sagen, No. 266;) the white woman with a veil over her head (267,) answers to the Banshee; but the tradition of the Klage-weib (mourning woman,) in the Li'mehurger Heath (Spiels Archiv. ii. 297,) re- sembles it still more closely. On stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the fleeting clouds, she stalks, of gigantic stature, with death-like aspect, and black hollow eyes, wrapt in grave-clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in the tempestu- ous darkness. Beneath the roof over which the Klage-weib has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the course of the month." — The Brothers Grimm, and MS, Communication from Dr. Wil- liam Grimm. LEGENDS OF THE PHOOKA " Ne let house-fires, nor lightnings' helpless harms, Ne let the Pouke, nor other evil spright, Ne let mischievous witches with their charms, Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not, Fray us with things that be not." Spenser. THE SPIRIT HORSE. XIV^. The history of Morty Sullivan ought to be a warning to all young men to stay at home, and to live decently and soberly if they can, and not to go roving about the world. Morty, when he had just turned of fourteen, ran away from his father and mother, who were a mighty respectable old couple, and many and many a tear they shed on his account. It is said they both died heart-broken for his loss: all they ever learned about him was that he went on board of a ship bound to America. Thirty years after the old couple had been laid peacefully 9^ 102 THE SPIRIT HORSE. ill their graves, there came a stranger to Beerhaven in- quiring after them — it was their son Morty; and, to speak the truth of him, his heart did seem full of sorrow when he heard that his parents were dead and gone; — but what else could he expect to hear? Repentance generally comes when it is too late. Morty Sullivan, however, as an atonement for his sins, was recommended to perform a pilgrimage to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate, which is in a wild place called Ballyvourney. ■ This he readily undertook: and willing to lose no time, commenced his journey the same afternoon. He had not proceeded many miles before the evening came on: there was no moon, and the star-light was obscured by a thick fog, which ascended from the valleys. His way was through a mountainous country, with many cross-paths and bj'-ways, so that it was difficult for a stranger like Morty to travel without a guide. He was anxious to reach his destination, and exerted himself to do so; but the fog grew thicker and thicker, and at last he became doubtful if the track he was in led to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate. But seeing a light which he imagined not to be far off, he went towards it, and when he thoughthimself close to it,the light suddenly seemed at a great distance, twinkling dimly through the fog. Thougli Morty felt some surprise at this, he was not disheartened, for he thought that it was a liglit sent by the holy Saint Gobnate to guide his feet through the mountains to her chapel. And thus did he travel for many a mile, continually, as he believed, approaching the light, which would suddenly start off to a great distance. At length he came so close as to perceive that the light came from a fire: seated beside which he plainly saw an old woman; — then, indeed, his faith was a little shaken, and much did he wonder that both the fire and the old woman should travel before him, so many weary miles, and over such uneven roads. " In the holy names of the pious Gobnate, and of her preceptor Saint Abban," said Morty, "how can that burn- ing fire move on so fast before me, and who can that old woman be sitting beside the moving fire?" These words had no sooner passed Morty 's lips than he THE SPIRIT HORSE. 103 found himself, without taking another step, close to this wonderful fire, beside which the old woman was sitting <9nunching her supper. With every wag of the old wo- man's jaw her eyes would roll fiercely upon Morty, as if she was angry at being disturbed; and he saw with more astonishment than ever that her eyes were neither black, nor blue, nor gray, nor hazel, like the human eye, but of a wild red colour, like the eye of a ferret. If before he wondered at the fire, much greater was his wonder at the old woman's appearance; and stout-hearted as he was, he could not but look upon her with fear — judging, and judg- ing rightly, that it was for no good purpose her supping in so unfrequented a place, and at so late an hour, for it was near midnight. She said not one word, but munched and munched away, while Morty looked at her in silence. — " What's your name?" at last demanded the old hag, a sulphureous puff coming out of her mouth, her nostrils dis- tending, and her eyes growing redder than ever, when she had finished her question. Plucking up all his courage, "Morty Sullivan," replied he "at your service;" meaning the latter words only in civility. " Ubbubbo!'' said the old woman, " we'll soon see that;" and the red fire of her eyes turned into a pale green colour. Bold and fearless as Mortv was, yet much did he tremble at hearing this dreadful exclamation: he would have fallen down on his knees and prayed to Saint Gobnate, or any other saint, for he was not particular; but he was so petri- fied with horror, that he could not move in the slightest way, much less go down on his knees. "Take hold of my hand, Morty," said the old woman: "I'll give you a horse to ride that will soon carry you to your journey's end." So saying, she led the way, the fire going before them; — it is be3'ond mortal knowledge to say how, but on it went, shooting out bright tongues of flame, and flickering fiercely. Presently they came to a natural cavern in the side of the mountain, and the old hag called aloud in a most dis- cordant voice for her horse! In a moment a jet-black steed started from its gloomy stable, the rocky floor whereof rung with a sepulchral echo to the clanging hoofs. 104 THE SPIRIT HORSE. "Mount, Morty, mount!" cried she, seizing him with supernatural strength, and forcing him upon the back of the horse. Morty finding human power of no avail, mut- tered, "O that I had spurs!" and tried to grasp the horse's mane; but he caught at a shadow; it nevertheless bore him up and bounded forward with him, now springing down a fearful precipice, now clearing the rugged bed of a torrent, and rushing like the dark midnight storm through the mountains. The following morning Morty Sullivan was discovered by some pilgrims (who came that way after taking their rounds at Gougane Barra) lying on the flat of his back, under a steep cliff, down which he had been flung by the Phooka. Morty was severely bruised by the fall, and he is said to have sworn on the spot, by the hand of O'Sullivan (and that is no small oath),* never again to take a full quart bottle of whisky with him on a pilgrimage. * ** Nulla manus. Tarn liberalis Atque generalis Atque universalis Q,uarn Sullivanis." 105 DANIEL O'ROURKE. XV. People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke, but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Phooka's tower! I knew the man well; he lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff. "I am often axed to lell it, sir," said he, " so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before Bonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor. The ould gentlemen were the gentlemen, after all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little, to be sure, and may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end; — and they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; — and there was no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord's boun- ty often and often in the year; — but now it's another thing: no matter for that, sir; for I'd better be telling you my story. "Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen — a lovely young couple they were, though the}^ are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost; for I can't remember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did leave it, that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, Pd just step to 106 ^ Molly Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenough, and was looking up at the stars and blessing myself — for why? it was Lady-day — I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. * Death alive!' thought I, ' I'll be drowned now!' However, I began swimming, swimming, swim- ming away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, some- how or other, but never the one of me can tell how, upon a dissolute island. "I Vv^andered and wandered about there, without know- ing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir, (with j^our pardon for mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and south, and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog; — I could never find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my herrin place. So I sat down upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ullagone — when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a- pounce, and looked at me full in the face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Kerry. "So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, < Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you, sir,' says I: 'I hope you're well;' won- dering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian, ' What brings you here, Dan ?' says he. 'Nothing at all, sir,' says I: 'only I wish I was safe home again.' ' Is it out of the Island you want to go, Dan ?' says he. ' 'Tis, sir,' says I: so 1 up and told him how I had taisen a drop too much and fell into the water; how I swam to the Island ; and how I got into the bog, and did not know my way out of it. ' Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, 'though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady- day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who 'tends mass well, and never flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the fields — my life for yours,' says he; 'so get up on my back, and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and DANIEL o'rOURKE. 107 I'll fly you out of the bog.' ^I am afraid,' says I, *your honour's makino; game of me; for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before? ''Pon the honour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast, «I am quite in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog — besides, I see that your weight is sink- ing the stone.' "It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance: — * I thank your honour,' says I, *for the loan of your civility; and I'll take your kind offer.' I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little 1 knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up — up — up — I know not how far up he flew. " 'Why, then,' said I to him, — thinking he did not know the right road home — very civilly, because why? — 1 was in his power entirely; — ' sir,' says I, * please your honour's glory, and with humble submission to your better judg- ment, if you'd fly down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could put down there, and many thanks to your worship.' "*.^rm/i, Dan,' said he, *do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked upoffof a cowld stone in a bog.' 'Bother you,' said 1 to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use. ' Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. ' Hold your tongue, Dan,' says he: 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people.' ' Faith, this is my business, 1 think,' says 1. 'Be quiet, Dan,' says he: so I said no more. "At last, where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can't see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way, (drawing the figure thus C"\ on the ground with the end of his stick.) Dan,' said the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; a i 108 DANIEL o'kOURKE. I had no notion 'twas so far.' < And my lord, sir,' said I, 'who in the world axed you to fly so far — was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?' * There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I'd fall off in a minute, and be kilt and split, and smashed all to bits: you are a vile deceiv^er, — so you are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' said he: ' you can catch fast hold of the reaping- hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill keep you up.' 'I won't, then,' said I. 'May be not,' said he, quite quiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to have come along with the likes of you;' and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what 1 said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the reaping hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that. " When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, ' Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he: 'I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year,' ('twas true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) 'and in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow.' " ' Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?' says I. 'You ugly unnatural baste, and is this the way you serve me at last? Bad luck to yourself, with 3^our hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard,' 'I'was all to no manner of use: he spread out his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like lightning. 1 bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this — sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of tlie moon,, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a b DANIEL o'nOURKE. 109 month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing 'em, and out there walks — who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by his bush. "'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke/ said he: ^How do you do?' great and small. Maurice was well fitted to be their king, if they wanted one that could make them dance; and he surely would drink, barring the salt water, with any fish of them all. When Maurice's mother saw him, with that unnatural thing in the form of a green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down together so lovingly to the water's edge through the thick of the fishes, she called out after him to stop and come back. "Oh then," says she, " as if I was not widow enough before, there he is going away from me to be married to that scaly woman. And who knows but 'tis grandmother I may be to a hake or a cod — Lord help and pity me, but 'tis a mighty unnatural thing! — and may be 'tis iDoiling and eating my own grandchild I'll be, with a bit of salt butter, and I not knowing it! — Oh Maurice, Maurice, if there's any love or nature left in you, come back to your own ould mother, who reared you like a de- cent Christian!" Then the poor woman began to cry and ullagoane so finely that it would do any one good to hear her. Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great thundering wave coming in towards hiia 153 THE WONDERFUL TUNE. ready to swallow him up alive; but as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who saw it plainly- through the big tears that were rolling down her cheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as ever mother's heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all the time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help it, for Maurice never stopped play- ing that wonderful tune of his. He only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother's voice, fearing it might put him out in his steps, and "all the answer he made back was — "Whisht with you, mother — sure I'm going to be king over the fishes down in the sea, and for a tolien of luck, and a sign that I am alive and well, I'll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of burned wood to Tra- fraska." Maurice had not the povver to say a word more, for the strange lady with the green hair, seeing the wave just upon them, covered him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a big hood to it, and the wave curling over twice as high as their heads, burst upon the strand, with a rush and a roar that might be heard as far as Cape Clear. That day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in Trafraska. It was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all the way from the bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would have been something like a present for his poor mother; but he had said it, and he kept his word. The bit of burned wood regularly came ashore on the appointed day for as good, ay, and better than a hundred years. The day is now forgotten, and may be that is the reason why people say how Maurice Connor has stopped sending the luck-token to his mother. Poor woman, she did not live to get as much as one of them; for what through the loss of Maurice, and the fear of eat- ing her own grandchildren, she died in three weeks after the dance — some say it was the fatigue that killed her, but whichever it was, Mrs. Connor was decently buried with her own people. Seafaring men have often heard off the coast of Kerry, on a still night, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have had good ears, could plainly THE WONDERFUL TUNE. 153 distinguish Maurice Connor's voice singing these words to his pipes: — Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand, Thy crystal water, and diamond sand; Never would I have parted from thee But for the sake of my fair ladie.* * This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the well-known song of Deardra. The Irish Merrow answers exactly to the English Mermaid. It is also used to express a sea-monster, like the Armorick and Cornish Morhuch, to which it evidently bears analogy. The romantic historians of Ireland describe the Suire as playing round the ships of the Milesians when on their passage to that Island. THE DULLABAN *' Then wonder not at headless folk. Since every day you greet 'em; Nor treat old stories as a joke, Wiien fools you daily meet 'em." — The Legendary. • Says the friar, 'tis strange headless horses should trot." Old Song. THE GOOD WOMAN. XXVI. In a pleasant and not unpicturesque valley of the White Knight's country, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, lived Larry Dodd and his wife Nancy. They rented a cabin and a few acres of land, which they cultivated with great care, and its crops rewarded their industry. They were independent and respected by their neighbours; they loved each other in a marriageable sort of way, and few couples had altogether more the appearance of comfort about them, Larry was a hard working, and, occasionally, a hard 156 THE GOOD WOMAN. drinking, Dutch-built, little man, with a fiddle head and a round stern; a steady-ij;oing straight-forward fellow, barring when he carried too much whisky, which, it must be con- fessed, might occasionally prevent his walking the chalked line with perfect philomathical accuracy. He had a moist, ruddy countenance, rather inclined to an expression of gravity, and particularly so in the morning; but, taken all together he was generally looked upon as a marvellously proper person, notwithstanding he had, every day in the year, a sort of unholy dew upon his face, even in the cold- est weather, which gave rise to a supposition (amongst cen- sorious persons, of course,) that Larry was apt to indulge in strong and frequent potations. However, all men of talents have their faults,— indeed, who is without them? — and as Larry, setting aside his domestic virtues and skill in farming, was decidedly the most distinguished breaker of horses for forty miles round, he must be in some degree excused, considering the inducements of «Mhe stirrup cup," and the fox-hunting society in which he mixed, if he had also been the greatest drunkard in the county: but, in truth, this was not the case. Larry was a man of mixed habits, as well in his mode of life and his drink, as in his costume. His dress accorded well with his character — a sort of half-and-half between farmer and horse-jockey. He wore a blue coat of coarse cloth, with short skirts, and a sland-up collar; his w^aistcoat was red, and his lower habiliments were made of leather, which in course of time had shrunk so much, that they fitted like a second skin; and long use had absorbed their moiSture to such a degree, that they made a strange sort of crackling noise as he walked along. A hat covered with oilskin; a cutting-whip, all worn and jagged at the end; a pair of second-hand, or, to speak more correctl)?-, second- footed, greasy top boots, that seemed never to have imbibed a refreshing draught of Warren's blacking of matchless lustre! — and one spur without a rowel, completed the every-day dress of Larry Dodd. Thus equipped was Larry returning from Cashel, mount- ed on a rough-coated and wall-eyed nag, though, notwith- standing these and a few other trifling blemishes, a well- built animal; having just purchased the said nag, with a THE GOOD WOMAN. 157 fancy that he could make his own money again of his bar- gain, and, may be, turn an odd penny more by it at the ensuing Kildorrery fair. Well pleased with himself, he trotted fair and easy along the road in the delicious and lingering twilight of a lovely June evening, thinking of nothing at all, only whistling, and wondering would horses always be so low. "If they go at this rate," said he to himself, "for half nothing, and that paid in butter buyer's notes, who would be the fool to walk?'^ This very thought, indeed, was passing in his mind, when his attention was roused by a woman pacing quickly by the side of his horse and hurrying on as if endeavouring to reach her destination before the night closed in. Her figure, con- sidering the long strides she took, appeared to be under the common size — rather of the dumpy order; but farther, as to whether the damsel was young or old, fair or brown, pretty or ugly, Larry could form no precise notion, from her wearing a large cloak (the usual garb of the female Irish peasant,) the hood of which was turned up, and com- pletely concealed every feature. Enveloped in this mass of dark and concealing drapery, the strange woman, without much exertion, contrived to keep up with Larry Dodd's steed for some time^ when his master very civilly offered her a lift behind him, as far as he was going her way. "Civility begets civility," they say; however he received no answer; and thinking that the lady's silence proceeded only from bashfulness, like a man of true gallantry, not a word more said Larry until he pulled up by the side of a gap, and then says he, ".Ma colleen beg,^ just jump up behind me, without a word more, though never a one have you spoke, and I'll take you safe and sound through the lonesome bit of road that is before us." She jumped at the offer, sure enough, and up with her on the back of the horse as light as a feather. In an in- stant there she was seated up behind Larry, with her hand and arm buckled round his waist holding on. "I hope you're comfortable there, my dear," said Larry, in his own good-humoured way; but there was no answerj * My little girl. 14 158 THE GOOD WOMAN. and on they went — trot, trot, trot — along the road; and all was so still and so quiet, that you might have heard the sound of the hoofs on the limestone a mile off; for that matter there was nothing else to hear except the moaning of a distant stream, that kept up a continued cronane,"^ like a nurse hushoing. Larry, who had a keen ear, did not, however, require so profound a silence to detect the click of one of the shoes. *' 'Tis only loose the shoe is," said he to his companion, as they were just entering on the lonesome bit of road of which he had before spoken. Some old trees, with huge trunks, all covered, and irregular branches festooned with ivy, grew over a dark pool of water, which had been formed as a drinking-place for cat- tle; and in the distance was seen the majestic head of Gaultee-more. Here the horse, as if in grateful recog- nition, made a dead halt; and Larry, not knowing what vicious tricks his new purchase might have, and unwilling that through any odd chance the young woman should get spilt in the water, dismounted, thinking to lead the horse quietly by the pool. "By the piper's luck, that always found what he want- ed," said Larry, recollecting himself, "I've a nail in my pocket: 'tis not the first time I've put on a shoe, and may be it won't be the last; for here is no want of paving- stones to make hammers in plenty." No sooner was Larry off, than off w^th a spring came the young woman just at hi^ side. Her feet touched the ground without making the least noise in life, and away she bounded like an ill-mannered wench, as she was, with- out saying, " by your leave," or no matter what else. She seemed to glide rather than run, not along the road, but across a field, up towards the old ivy-covered walls of Kilnaslattery church — and a pretty church it was. *« Not so fast, if you please, young woman — not so fast," cried Larry, calling after her: but away she ran, and Larry followed, his leathern garment, already described, crack, crick, crackling at every step he took. "Where's my wages?" said Larry: " Thorum pog, ma colleen oge^'f — sure * A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise. t Give me a kiss, my young girl. THE GOOD WOMAN. ^§^ I've earned a kiss from your pair of pretty lips — and I'll have it too!" But slie went on faster and faster, regard- less of these and other flattering speeches from her pur- suer; at last she came to the church-yard wall, and then over with her in an instant. " Well, she's a might}^ smart creature any how. To be sure, how neat she steps upon her pasterns! Did any one ever see the like of that before; — but I'll not be balked by any woman that ever wore a head, or any ditch either," exclaimed Larry, as with a desperate bound he vaulted, scrambled, and tumbled over the wall into the church- yard. Up he got from the elastic sod of a newly-made grave in which Tade Leary that morning was buried — - rest his soul! — and on went Larry, stumbling over head- stones, and foot-stones, over old graves and new graves, pieces of coffins, and the skulls and bones of dead men — the Lord save us! — that were scattered about there as plenty as paving-stones; floundering amidst great overgrown dock-leaves and brambles that, with their long prickly- arms, tangled round his limbs, and held him back with a fearful grasp. Mean time the merry wench in the cloak moved through all these obstructions as evenly and as gaily as if the church-yard, crowded up as it was with graves and grave-stones (for people came to be buried there from far and near,) had been the floor of a dancing-room. Round and round the walls of the old church she went. "I'll just wait," said Larry, seeing this, and thinking it all nothing but a trick to frighten him; "when she comes round again, if I don't take the kiss, I won't, that's all, — and here she is!" Larry Dodd sprang forward with open arms, and clasped in them — a vvonian, it is true — but a woman without any lips to kiss, by reason of her having no head. " Murder!" cried he. " Well, that accounts for her not speaking." Having uttered these words, Larry himself became dumb with fear and astonishment; his blood seemed turned to ice, and a dizziness came over him; and, stagger- ing like a drunken man, he rolled against the broken win dow of the ruin, horrified at the conviction that he had actually held a Dullahan in his embrace! When he recovered to something like a feeling of con- 160 THE GOOD WOMAN. sciousness, he slowly opened his eyes, and then, indeed, a scene of wonder burst upon him. In the midst of the ruin stood an old wheel of torture, ornamented with heads, like Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty Sullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. This was plainly visible in the strange light which spread itself around. It was fearful to behold, but Larry could not choose but look, for his limbs were powerless through the wonder and the fear. Useless as it was, he would have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and not one word could he say. In short, there was Larry, gazing through a shattered window of the old church, with eyes bleared and almost starting from their sockets; his breast resting on the thickness of the wall, over which, on one side, his head and outstretched neck projected, and on the other, although one toe touched the ground, it derived no support from thence: terror, as it were, kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears, until at last they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells, which kept up a con- tinued ding — ding — ding — ding: marrowless bones ratiled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell came booming on the night wind. 'Twas a spectre rung That bell when it swung — Swing-swang! And the chain it squeaked, And the pulley creaked, Swing-swang ! And with every roll Of the deep death toll Ding-dong! The hollow vault rang As the clapper went bang, Ding-dong! It was strange music to dance by; nevertheless, moving to it, round and round the wheel set with skulls, were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicantJ, and jockeys and Jennys, but all without their heads. Some poor skeletons, whose bleached bones were ill covered by moth-eaten palls, and who were THE GOOD WOMAN. 161 not admitted into the ring, amused themselves by bowling their brainless noddles at one another, which seemed to enjoy the sport beyond measure. Larry did not know what to think; his brains were all in a mist; and losing the balance which he had so long maintained, he fell head foremost into the midst of the company of Dullahans. "I'm done for and lost for ever," roared Larry, with his heels turned towards the stars, and souse down he came. " Welcome, Larry Dodd, welcome," cried every head, bobbing up and down in the air. "A drink for Larry Dodd," shouted they, as with one voice, that quavered like a shake on the b;igpipes. No sooner said than done, for a player at heads, catching his own as it was bowled at him, for fear of its going astray, jumped up, put the head, without a word, under his left arm, and, with the right stretched out, presented a brimming cup to Larry, who, to show his manners, drank it off like a man. "'Tis capital stuff," he would have said, which surely it was, but he got no farther than cap, when decapitated was he, and his head began dancing over his shoulders like those of the rest of the party. Larry, however, was not the first man who lost his head through the temptation of looking at the bottom of a brimming cup. Nothing more did he remember clearly, — for it seems body and head be- ing parted is not very favourable to thought — but a great hurry scurry with the noise of carriages and the cracking of whips. When his senses returned, his first act was to put up his hand to where his head formerly grew, and to his great joy there he found it still. He then shook it gently, but his head remained firm enough, and somewhat assured at this, he proceeded to open his eyes and look around him. It was broad daylight, and in the old church of Kilnaslat- tery he found himself lying, with that head, the loss of which he had anticipated, quietly resting, poor yo:ith, *' upon the lap of earth." Could it have been an ugly dream? "Oh no," said Larry, "a dream could never have brought me here, stretched on the flat of my back, with that death's liead and cross marrow bones forenenting me 14* 1 62 THE GOOD WOMAN. on the fine old tombstone there that was faced by Pat Kearney* of Kilcrea — but where is the horse?" He got up slowly, every joint aching with pain from the bruises he had received, ~and went to the pool of water, but no horse was there. " 'Tis home I must go," said Larry, with a rueful countenance; "but how will 1 face Nancy? — what will I tell her about the horse, and the seven I. 0. U.^s that he cost me? — 'Tis them Dullahans that have made their own of him from me — the horse-stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the gallows! — but what's gone is gone, that's a clear case!" — so saying, he turned his steps homewards, and arrived at his cabin about noon without encountering any farther adventures. There he found Nancy, who, as he expected, looked as black as a thundercloud at him for being out all night. She listened to the marvellous relation which he gave with exclamations of astonishment, and, when he had concluded, of grief, at the loss of the horse that he had paid for like an honest man with seven I. 0. U.'s, three of which she knew to be as good as gold. " But what took you up to the old church at all, out of the road, and at that time of the night, Larry?" inquired his wife. Larry looked like a criminal for whom there was no reprieve; he scratched his head for an excuse, but not one could he muster up, so he knew not what to say. «^0h! Larry, Larry," muttered Nancy, after waiting some time for his answer, her jealous fears during the pause rising like barm; "'tis the very same way with you as with any other man — you are all alike for that matter — I've no pity for you — but, confess the truth." Larry shuddered at the tempest which he perceived was about to break upon his devoted head. "Nancy," said he, "I do confess: — it was a young wo- man without any head that " His wife heard no more. "A woman I knew it was," cried she; " but a woman without a head, Larry! — well, it is long before Nancy Gollagher ever thought it -would come to that with her! — that she would be left dissolute and alone here by her baste of a husband, for a woman * Faced, so written by the Chantre}^ of Kilcrea, for ^^fecit,^^ THE GOOD WOMAN. 163 without a head! — father, father! and mother, mother! it is well you are low to-day! — that you don't see this affliction and disgrace to your daughter that you reared decent and tender. "0 Larry, you villain, you'll be the death of your law- ful wife going after such — — — " "Well," says Larry, putting his hands in his coat- pockets, "least said is soonest mended. Of the young woman I know no more than I do of Moll Flanders: but this I know, that a woman without a head may well be called a Good Woman, because she has no tongue!" How this remark operated on the matrimonial dispute history does not inform us. It is, however, reported that the lady had the last word. HANLON'S MILL. XXVIL One fine summer's evening Michael Noonan went over to Jack Brien's, the shoemaker, at Ballyduff, for the pair of brogues which Jack was mending for him. It was a pretty walk the way he took, but very lonesome; all along by the river-side, down under the oak-wood, till he came to Hanlon's mill, that used to be, but that had gone to ruin many a long year ago. Melancholy enough the walls of that same mill looked; the great old wheel, black with age, all covered over with moss and ferns, and the bushes all hanging down about it. There it stood silent and motionless; and a sad contrast it was to its former busy clack, with the stream which once gave it use rippling idly along. Old Hanlon was a man that had great knowledge of all sorts; there was not an herb that grew in the field but he could tell the name of it and its use, out of a big book he had written, every word of it in the real Irish karacter. He kept a school once, and could teach the Latin; that surely is a blessed tongue all over the wide world; and I hear tell 164 hanlon's mill. as how "the great Burke" went to school to him. Master Edmund lived up at the old house there, which was then in the family, and it was the Nagles that got it afterwards, but they sold it. But it was Michael Noonan's walk I was about speak- ing of. It was fairly between lights, the day was clean gone, and the moon was not yet up, when Mick was walk- ing smartly across the Inch. Well, he heard, coming down out of the wood, such blowing of horns and hallooing, and the cry of all the hounds in the world, and he thought they were coming after him; and the galloping of the horses, and the voice of the whipper-in, and he shouting out, just like the fine old song, "Hallo Piper, Lilly, agus Finder;" and the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back every word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see, and the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way till he got up to Jack Brien's door; and he was certain, too, he heard the clack of old Hanlon's mill going, through all the clatter. To be sure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never once looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out in quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come out of the noise of Hanlon's mill. Well, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and well pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack Brien's before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty decent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be travelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between Cork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour of Michael Noonan's. "Is it home you're going with the brogues this blessed night?" said Darby to him. " Where else would it be?" replied Mick; " but, by my word, 'tis not across the Inch back again I'm going, after all I heard coming Iiere; 'tis to no good that old Hanlon's mill is busy again." "True, for you/' said Darby; "and may be you'd take 165 the horse and car home for me, Mick, by way of company, as 'tis along the road you go. Pm waiting here to see a sister's son of mine that I expect from Kilcoleman." " That same I'll do," answered Mick, "with a thousand welcomes." So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor beast had come off a long journey; and Mick — God reward him for it — was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures. The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old; and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on her beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew on each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the horse's head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade. Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close along-side of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coach- man or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning round like hoddy- doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the regular step of his gossip Darby's horse, and the squeaking of the gud- geons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a little grease. Poor Mick's heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only looked on; and the black coach swept away 166 and was soon lost among some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any thing else. He got home just as the 'moon was going down beliind Mount Hilleiy — took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the field for the night, and got to his bed. Next morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all that had happened tlie night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was Mr. Wrixon's huntsman, coming on the master's best horse down the hill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick's mind instantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the very middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan's bridle when he came up. "Mick, dear — for the love of heaven! don't stop me," cried Dan. " Why, what's the hurry?" said Mick, "Oh, the master! — he's off, — he's off — he'll never cross a horse again till the day of judgment!" "Why, what would ail his honour?" said Mick; "sure it is no later than yesterday morning that I was .talking to him, and he stout and hearty; and says he to me, Mick, says he — " "Stout and hearty was he?" answered Madden; "and was he not out with me in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn't he come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his own hand, and tell me he'd ride the old General to-day; and sure," said Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, "who'd have thought that the first thing I'd see this morning was the mistress standing at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire for Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and " — poor Dan's grief choked his voice — "oh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run over yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife; she's a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the mas- ter, till I get the doctor." Dan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his newly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan's; but neither the doc- tor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next night's moon THE DEATH COACH. 167 saw Ballygibblin — and niore's the pity — a house of mourn- ing. THE DEATH COACH. XXVIII. 'Tis midnight! — how gloomy and dark! By Jupiter there's not a slar! — 'Tis fearful! — 'tis awful! — and hark! What sound is that comes from afar? Still rolling and rumbling, that sound Makes nearer and nearer approach; Do I tremble, or is it the ground? — Lord save us! — what is it? — a coach! — A coach!-— but that coach has no head; And the horses are headless as it: Of the driver the same may be said, And the passengers inside who sit. See the wheels! how they fly o'er the stones! And whirl, as the whip it goes crack: Their spokes are of dead men's thigh bones, And the pole is the spine of the back! The hammer-cloth, shabby display, Is a pall rather mildew'd by damps; 168 THE DEATH COACH. And to light this strange coach on its way, Two hollow skulls hang up for lamps! From the gloom of Rathcooney church-yard, They dash down the hill of Glanmire; Pass Lota in gallop as hard As if horses were never to tire! With people thus headless 'tis fun To drive in such furious career; Since headlong their horses can't run, Nor coachman be heady from beer. Very steep is the Tivoli lane, But up-hill to them is as down; Nor the charms of Woodhill can detain These Dullahans rushing to town. Could they feel as I've felt — in a song — A spell that forbade them depart; They'd a lingering visit prolong, And after their head lose their heart! No matter! — 'tis past twelve o'clock; Through the streets they sweep on like the wind. And, taking the road to Blackrock, Cork city is soon left behind. Should they hurry thus reckless along. To supper instead of to bed, The landlord will surely be wrong, If he charge it at so much a head ! Yet mine host may suppose them too poor To bring to his wealth an increase; As till now, all who drove to his door, Possess'd at least one crown a-piece. Up the Dead woman's hill they are roU'd; Boreenmannah is quite out of sight; Ballintemple they reach, and behold! At its church-yard they stop and alight. THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 169 "Who's there?" said a voice from the ground, "We've no room, for the place is quite full.'* "0! room must be speedily founcf, For we come from the parish of Skull. "Though Murphys and Crowleys appear On headstones of deep-letter'd pride; Though Scannels and Murieys lie here, Fitzgeralds and Toonies beside; " Yet here for the night we lie down, To-morrow we speed on the gale; For having no heads of our own, We seek the Old Head of Kinsale." THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. XXIX. " God speed you, and a safe journey this night to you, Charley," ejaculated the master of the little she.ebeen house at Ballyhooley after his old friend and good Custo- mer, Charley Culnane, who at length had turned his face homewards, with the prospect of as dreary a ride and as dark a night as ever fell upon the Blackwater, along the banks of which he was about to journey. Charley Culnane knew the country well, and, moreover, was as bold a rider as any Mallow-boy that ever rattled a four-year-old upon Drumrue race-course. He had gone to Fermoy in the morning, as well for the purpose of pur- 15 170 THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. chasing some ingredients required for the Christmas din- ner by his wife, as to gratify his own vanity by. having new reins fitted to his snaffle, in which he intended show- ing off the old mare at the approaching St. Stephen's day hunt. Charley did not get out of Fermoy until late; for al- though he was not one of your '^ nasty particular sort of fellows " in any thing that related to the common occur- rences of life, yet in all the appointments connected with hunting, riding, leaping, in short, in whatever was con- nected with the old mare, " Charley," the saddlers said, "was the devil to plase.'' An illustration of this fastidi- ousness was afforded by his going such a distance for his snaffle bridle. Mallow was full twelve miles nearer " Charley's farm " (which lay just three quarters of a mile below Carrick) than Fermoy; but Charley had quarrelled with all the Mallow saddlers, from hard-working and hard- drinking Tim Clance}", up to Mr. Ryan, who wrote him- self "Saddler to the Duhallow Hunt;" and no one could content him in all particulars but honest Michael Twomey of Fermoy, who used to assert — and who will doubt it — that he could stitch a saddle better than the lord-lieutenant, although they made him all as one as king over Ireland. This delay in the arrangement of the snaffle bridle did not allow Charley Culnane to pay so long a visit as he had at first intended to his old friend and gossip, Con Buckley, of the " Harp of Erin." Con, however, knew the value of time, and insisted upon Charley making good use of what he had to spare. "I won't bother you waiting for water, Charley, because I think you'll have enough of that same before you get home; so drink off your liquor, man. It's as good parliament as ever a gentleman tasted, ay, and holy church too, for it will bear ^x waierSi and carry the bead after that, may be." Charley, it must be confessed, nothing loath, drank suc- cess to Con, and success to the jolly "Harp of Erin," with its head of beauty and its strings of the hair of gold, and to their better acquaintance, and so on, from the bottom of his soul, until the bottom of the bottle reminded him that Carrick was at the bottom of the hill on the other THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 171 side of Castletown Roche, and that he had got no farther on his -journey than his gossip's at Ballyhooley, close to the big gate of Convamore. Catching hold of his oil-skin hat, therefore, whilst Con Buckley went to the cupboard for another bottle of the "real stuff," he regularly, as it is termed, bolted from his friend's hospitality, darted to the stable, tightened his girths, and put the old mare into a canter towards home. The road from Ballyhooley to Carrick follows pretty nearly the course of the Blackwater, occasionally diverg- ing from the river and passing through rather wild scenery, when contrasted with the beautiful seats that adorn its banks. Charley cantered gaily, regardless of the rain, which, as his friend Con had anticipated, fell in torrents: the good woman's currants and raisins were carefully packed between the folds of his yeomanry cloak, vvhich Charle}^, who was proud of showing that he belonged to the "Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers," always strapped to the saddle before him, and took care never to destroy the military effect of by putting it on. — Away he went singing like a thrush — " Sporting-, belleing, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows — (hiccvp!) — sinking, Ever raking — never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. " Spending faster than it conies, Beating — (hiccup, hie,) and duns, Duhallow's true-begotten sons. Live the rakes of Mallow." Notwithstanding that the visit to the jolly " Harp of Erin " had a little increased the natural complacency of his mind, the drenching of the new snaffle reins began to disturb him; and then followed a train of more anxious thoughts than even were occasioned by the dreaded defeat of the pride of his long-anticipated turn out on St. Ste- phen's day. Li an hour of good fellowship, when his lieart was warm, and his head not over cool, Charley had backed the old mare against Mr. Jephson's bay filly Desde- mona for a neat hundred, and he now felt sore misgivings 172 THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. as to the prudence of the match. In a less gay tone he continued — " Living short, but merry lives, Going where the devil drives, Keeping——" «' Keeping" he muttered, as the old mare had reduced her canter to a trot at the bottom of Kilcummer Hill. Charley's eye fell on the old walls that belonged, in former times, to the Templars: but the silent gloom of the ruin was broken only by the heavy rain which splashed and pattered on the gravestones. He then looked up at the sky, to see if there was, among the clouds, any hopes for mercy on his new snaffle reins; and no sooner were his eyes lowered, than his attention was arrested by an object so extraordinary as almost led him to doubt the evidence of his senses. The head, apparently, of a white horse, with short cropped ears, large open nostrils and immense eyes, seemed rapidly to follow him. No connexion with body, legs, or rider, could possibly be traced — the head advanced— Charley's old mare, too, was moved at this un- natural sight, and snorting violently, increased her trot up the hill. The head moved forward, and passed on: Char- ley, pursuing it with astonished gaze, and wondering by what means, and for what purpose, this detached head thus proceeded through the air, did not perceive the cor- responding body until he was suddenly startled by finding it close at his side. Charley turned to examine what was thus so sociably jogging on with him, when a most unex- ampled apparition presented itself to his view. A figure, whose height (judging as well as the obscurity of the night would permit him) he computed to be at least eight feet, was seated on the body and legs of a white horse full eighteen hands and a half high. In this measurement Charley could not be mistaken, for his own mare was ex- actly fifteen hands, and the body that thus jogged alongside he could at once determine, from his practice in horseflesh, was at least three hands and a half higher. After the first feeling of astonishment, which found THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 173 over, the attention of Charley, being a keen sportsman, was naturally directed to this extraordinary body; and having examined it with the eye of a connoisseur, he pro- ceeded to reconnoitre the figure so unusually mounted, who had hitherto remained perfectly mute. Wishing to see whether his companion's silence proceeded from bad tem- per, want of conversational powers, or from a distaste to water, and the fear that the opening of his mouth might subject him to have it filled by the rain, which was then drifting in violent gusts against them, Charley endeavoured to catch a sight of his companion's face, in order to form an opinion on that point. But his vision failed in carrying him farther than the top of the collar of the figure's coat, which was a scarlet single-breasted hunting frock, having a waist of a very old-fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining buttons at about a yard distance behind. *' I ought to see farther than this, too," thought Charley, "although he is mounted on his high horse, like my cousin Darby, who was made barony constable last week, unless 'tis Con's whiskey that has blinded me en- tirely." However, see ferther he could not, and after straining his eyes for a considerable time to no purpose, he exclaimed, with pure vexation, *• By the big bridge of Mallow, it is no head at all he has!" "Look again, Charley Culnane," said a hoarse voice, that seemed to proceed from under the right arm of the figure. Charley did look again, and now in the proper place, for he clearly saw, under the aforesaid right arm, that head from which the voice had proceeded, and such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings; no speck of colour enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay stretched over the unearthly surface, almost like the parchment head of a drum. Two fiery eyes of pro- digious circumference, with a strange and irregular motion, flashed like meteors upon Charley, and to complete all, a mouth reached from either extremity of two ears, which peeped forth from under a profusion of matted locks of lustreless blackness. This head, which the figure had evi- 15* 174 THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. dent.ly hitherto concealed from Charley's eyes, now burst upon his view in all its hideousness. Charle}^, although a lad of proverbial courage in the county of Cork, yet could not but feel his nerves a little shaken by this unexpected visit from the headless horseman, whom he considered his fellow-traveller must be. The cropped-eared head of the gigantic horse moved steadily forward, always keeping from six to eight yards in advance. The horseman, un- aided by whip or spur, and disdaining the use of stirrups, which dangled uselessly from the saddle, followed at a trot by Charley's side, his hideous head now lost behind the lappet of his coat, now starting forth in all its horror, as the motion of the horse caused his arm to move to and fro. The ground shook under the weight of its super- natural burden, and the water in the pools became agitated into waves as he trotted by them. On they went — heads without bodies, and bodies with- out heads. — The deadly silence of night was broken only by the fearful clattering of hoofs, and the distant sound of thunder, which rumbled above the mystic hill of Cecaune a Mona Finnea. Charley, who was naturally a merry- hearted, and rather a talkative fellow, had hitherto felt tongue-tied by apprehension, but finding his companion showed no evil disposition towards him, and having be- come somewhat more reconciled to the Patagonian dimen- sions of the horseman and his headless steed, plucked up all his courage, and thus addressed the stranger: — " Why, then, your honour rides mighty well without the stirrups!" ''Humph," growled the head from under the horseman's right arm. " 'Tis not an over civil answer," thought Charley; "but no matter, he was taught in one of them riding-houses, may be, and thinks nothing at all about bumping his leather breeches at the rate of ten miles an hour. I'll try him on the other track. Ahem !" said Charley, clearing his throat, and feeling at the same time rather daunted at this second attempt to establish a conversation. " Ahem ! that's a mighty neat coat of your honour's, although 'tis a little too long in the waist for the present cut." THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 175 "Humph," growled again the head. This second humph was a terrible thump in the face to poor Charley, who was fairly bothered to know what sub- ject he could start that would prove more agreeable, «'Tis a sensible head," thought Charley, '^although an ugly one, for 'tis plain enough the man does not like flat- tery." A third attempt, however, Charley was determined to make, and having failed in his observations as to the riding and coat of his fellow4raveller, thought he would just drop a trifling allusion to the wonderful headless horse, that was jogging on so sociably beside his old mare; and as Charley was considered about Carrick to be very know- ing in horses, besides, being a full private in the Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers, which were every one of them mounted like real Hessians, he felt rather sanguine as to the result of his third attempt. " To be sure, that's a brave horse your honour rides," recommenced the persevering Charley. " You may say that, with your own ugly mouth," growled the head. Charley, though not much flattered by the compliment, nevertheless chuckled at his success in obtaining an answer, and thus continued: — **JVlay be your honour wouldn't be after riding him across the country?" « Will you try me, Charley?" said the head, with an inexpressible look of ghastly delight. " Faith, and that's what I'd do," responded Charley, "only I'm afraid, the night being so dark, of laming the old mare, and I've every halfpenny of a hundred" pounds on her heels." This was true enough; Charley's courage was nothing dashed at the headless horseman's proposal; and there never was a steeple-chase, nor a fox-chase, riding or leaping in the country, that Charley Culnane was not at it, and foremost in it. " Will you take my word," said the man who carried his head so snugly under his right arm, "for the safety of your mare?" "Done," said Charley; and away they started, heller 176 THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. skelter, over every thing, ditch and wall, pop, pop, the old mare never went in such style, even in broad daylight: and Charley had just the start of his companion, when the hoarse voice called out, " Charley Culnane, Charley, man, stop for your life, stop!" Charley pulled up hard. '* Ay," said he, *^you may beat me by the head, because it always goes so much be- fore you; but if the bet was neck-and-neck, and that's the go between the old mare and Desdemona, Pd win it hol- low!" It appeared as if the stranger was well aware of what was passing in Charley's mind, for he suddenly broke out quite loquacious. "Charley Culnane," says he, "you have a stout soul in you, and are every inch of you a good rider. I've tried 3^ou, and I ought to know; and that's the sort of man for my money. A hundred years it is since my horse and I broke our necks at the bottom of Kilcummer hill, and ever since I have been trying to get a man that dared to ride with me, and never found one before. Keep, as you have always done, at the tail of the hounds, never balk a ditch, nor turn away from a stone wall, and the headless horseman will never desert you nor the old mare." Charley, in amazement, looked towards the stranger's right arm, for the purpose of seeing in his face whether or not he was in earnest, but behold! the head was snugly lodged in the huge pocket of the horseman's scarlet hunt- ing-coat. The horse's head had ascended perpendicularly above them, and his extraordinary companion, rising quickly after his avant-coureur, vanished from the asto- nished gaze of Charley Culnane. Charley, as may be supposed, was lost in wonder, de- light, and perplexity; the pelting rain, the wife's pudding, the new snaffle — even the match against squire Jephson — all were forgotten; nothing could he think of, nothing could he talk of, but the headless horseman. He told it, directly that he got home, to Judy; he told it the following morning to all the neighbours; and he told it to the hunt on St. Stephen's day: but what provoked him after all the pains he took in describing the head, the horse, and the man, was that one and all attributed the creation of the THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. 177 headless horseman to his friend Con Buckley's " X water parliament." This, however, should be told, that Charley's old mare beat Mr. Jephson's bay filly, Desdemona, by Diamond, and Charley pocketed his cool hundred; and if he didn't win by means of the headless horseman, I am sure I don't know any other reason for his doing so. DuLLAHAN or DuLACHAN Signifies a dark sullen person. The word Durrachan or Dullahariy by which in some places the goblin is known, has the same signification. It comes from Dorr or Durr, anger, or Durrach, malicious, fierce, &c. — MS. communication from the late Mr. Edward O'Reilly. The correctness of this last etymology may be questioned, as black is evidently a component part of the word. The Death Coach, or Headless Coach and Horses, is called in Ireland " Coach a bower;** and its appearance is generally regarded as a sign of death, or an omen of some misfortune. The belief in the appearance of headless people and horses ap- pears to be, like most popular superstitions, widely extended. In England, see the Spectator (No. 110) for mention of a spirit that had appeared in the shape of a black horse without a head. In Wales, the apparition of " Fenyw heb un pen,''* the headless woman, and •' Ceffyl heb unpen,^* the headless horse, are generally accredited. — MS. communication from Miss Williams. " The Irish Dullahan puts me in mind of a spectre at Drumlanrig Castle, of no less a person than the Duchess of Queensberry, — " * Fair Kitty, blooming, young, and gay,' — who, instead of setting fire to the world in mamma's chariot, amuses herself with wheeling her own head in a wheel-barrow through the great gallery." — MS* communication from Sir Walter Scott. In Scotland, so recently as January, 1826, that veritable paper, the Glasgow Chronicle, records, upon the occasion of some silk- weavers being out of employment at Paisley, that " Visions have been seen of carts, caravans, and coaches, going up Gleniffer braes without horses, with horses without heads," &.c. Cervantes mentions tales of the " Caballo sin cabeqa among the cuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las dilatadas noches del invierno" &c. " The people of Basse Bretagne believe, that when the death of any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they call carriquet au nankon,) and covered with a white sheet, passes by the house where the sick person lies, and the creaking of the wheels may be plainly heard." — Journal des Sciences, 1826, com- municated by Dr. William Grimm. See also Thiele*s Danske Folkesagn, vol. iv. p. 66, &c. THE FIR DARRIG Whene'er such wanderers I meete, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greete, And call them on with me to roame Through woods, through lakes, Through bogs, through brakes; Or else, unseene, with them I go. All in the nicke, To play some tricke, And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho! — Old Song. DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER. XXX. One stormy night Patrick Burke was seated in the chimney corner smoking his pipe quite contentedly after his hard day's work; his two little boys were roasting pc- latoes in the ashes, while his rosy daughter held a splinter* * A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in tallow, is used as a candle. 180 DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER. to her mother, who, seated on a siesteen,* was mending a rent in Patrick's old coat; and Judy, the maid, was singing merrily to the sound of her wheel, that kept up a beautiful humming noise, just like the sweet drone of a bagpipe. Indeed they all seemed quite contented and happy; for the storm howled without, and they were warm and snug within, by the side of a blazing turf fire. " 1 was just thinking," said Patrick, taking the dudeen from his mouth and giving it a rap on his thumb-nail to shake out the ashes — "I was just thinking how thankful we ought to be to have a snug bit of a cabin this pelting night over our heads, for in all my born days I never heard the like of it." "And that's no lie for you, Pat," said his wife; *^ but, whisht! what noise is that I hard?^' and she dropped her work upon her knees, and looked fearfully towards the door. *' The Vargin herself defend us all !" cried Judy, at the same time rapidly making a pious sign on her forehead, «if 'tis not the banshee!" "Hold your tongue, you fool," said Patrick, "it's only the old gate swinging in the wind;" and he had scarcely- spoken, when the door was assailed by a violent knocking. Molly began to mumble her prayers, and Judy proceeded to mutter over the muster-roll of saints; the youngsters scampered off to hide themselves behind the settle-bed; the storm howled louder and more fiercely than ever, and the rapping was renewed with redoubled violence. " Whisht, whisht!" said Patrick — "what a noise ye're all making about nothing at all. Judy a-roon, can't you go and see who's at the door.'*" for, notwithstanding his assumed bravery, Pat Burke preferred that the maid should open the door. "Why, then, is it me you're speaking to?" said Judy in the tone of astonishment; "and is it cracked mad you are. Mister Burke; or is it, may be, that you want me to be rund away with, and made a horse of, like my grand- father was? — the sorrow a step will 1 stir to open the door, if you were as great a man again as you are, Pat Burke." "Bother you, then! and hold your tongue, and I'll go myself." So saying, up got Patrick, and made the best of * Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands firmly sewed or bound together. DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER. 181 his way to the door. "Who's there?" said he, and his voice trembled niiy;htily all the while. **In the name of Saint Patrick, who's there?'* " 'Tis 1, Pat," answered a voice which he immediately knew to be the young squire's. In a moment the door was opened, and in walked a young man, with a gun in his hand, and a brace of dogs at his heels. "Your honour's honour is quite welcome, entirely," said Patrick; who was a very civil sort of a fellow, espe- cially to his betters. " Your honour's honour is quite welcome; and if ye'll be so condescending as to demean yourself by taking off your wet jacket, Molly can give ye a bran new blanket, and ye can sit forenent the fire while the clothes are drying." "Thank you, Pat," said the squire, as he wrapt himself, like Mr. Weld, in the prof- fered bhinket* " But what made you keep me so long at the door?" " Why then, your honour, 'twas all along of Judy, there, being so much afraid of the good people; and a good right she has, after what happened to her grandfather — the Lord rest his soul!" "And what was that, Pat?" said the squire. "Why, then, your honour must know that Judy had a grandfather; and he was ould Diarmid Bawn, the piper, as personable a looking man as any in the five parishes he was; and he could play the pipes so sweetly, and make them spake to such perfection, that it did one's heart good to hear him. We never had any one, for that matter, in this side of the country like him, before or since, except James Gandsey, that is own piper to Lord Headley — his honour's lordship is the real good gentleman — and 'tis Mr. Gandsey's music that is the pride of Killarney lakes. Well, as I was saying, Diarmid was Judy's grandfather, and he rented a small mountainy farm; and he was walk- ing about the fields one moonlight night, quite melancholy- like in himself for want of the lobaccy; because why, the river was flooded, and he could not get across to buy any, and Diarmid would rather go to bed without his supper than a whiff of the dudeen. Well, your honour, just as he came to the old fort in the far field, what should he see? • See Weld's Killarney, 8vo cd. p. 228. 16 182 DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER. — but a large army of the good people, 'coutered for all the world just like the dragoons!